“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Real quick before I delve into new business there's a bit I left out of the wedding reception story.
This was just after Sham totally fucked up my plan for laying a savage burn on the newlyweds by dancing with a girl who's way too young for me and way out of my class. A girl who, while I had no intention of doing anything with, totally embodies my type of woman.

This is the current state of my love life. Even the ones I don't stand a chance with and would feel morally uncomfortable (HA!) about going after I still get ass-fucked by the bitch-goddess that is love.

Anyhow, the bridesmaid/groomsmen dance is done and I'm just kinda mingling and my friend Mike W is encouraging me to go out and dance.

I've never really talked about dancing here. In short, I don't do it. The last time I'd danced prior to this wedding was in 1998 at a bar in Morgantown. My favorite bar, in fact, The Nyabinghi Dancehall.

Don't bother looking for it, it's not there anymore. Well, it's there, but it's now a detestable hole called 123 Pleasants street. Alright, so I haven't actually been in there since they changed, but I hear the new people fixed all the holes in the walls, after tucking the bare wiring back into them, repaired the fire damage, hammered down the rusty nails, fixed the restroom plumbing and leveled out the floors where they'd removed a room and the one end of the main space just suddenly became three inches higher with no indication and you'd stumble by in the dark and slam your toes into it causing you to pitch violently forward into dangerous looking people spilling their drinks and damn near getting yourself curb-stomped.

You can see how it just wouldn't be the same place.

Where the hell was I? Oh yeah, last time I danced was there. With two girls at the same time. Two really, really hot girls. And I wasn't even drunk. Oh THEY were drunk as shit. Also horny, somewhat bisexual and they both woke up in my living room floor the next day.

I'm a gentleman, so I'll let you all draw your own conclusions.

Shut up Rich.

So Mike is encouraging me to get out there and dance. It's worth noting at this point that Mike has had a little bit of wine. It's also worth noting that Mike gets functionally shit-faced off two beers, so he's buzzing like a fucking beehive by this point. I explain to him that it wouldn't be appropriate for me to cut in on whoever was dancing with Wednesday and/or destroy anyone that stood in my way. I further explain that the elaborate setup that allowed me to do an end-run around my conscience thus allowing myself to attempt to dance with her in the first place was now gone and it wasn't coming back.

So Mike is trying to get me to dance with ANYONE. Around the time he's trying to get me to dance with my Mom, Andrea's Mom Kaye (who reads this blog all the time for reasons I cannot fathom and LIKES it) informs us all that someone or other has gone outside so it's ok for them to play 'the stroke song'.

Immediately I think of the Billy Squier song 'The Stroke' (because I'm old as hell) and wonder why anyone would object to it being played. The lyrics are as follows:

Now everybody have you heard
If you're in the game, then the stroke's the word
Don't take no rhythm, don't take no style
Got a thirst for killin', grab your vile...
You put your right hand out give a firm hand-shake
Talk to me about that one big break...
Spread your ear-pollution both far and wide...
Keep your contributions by your side and stroke me,
stroke me
Could be a winner boy, you move quite well...
You got your number down...
Say you're a winner but man you're just a sinner now
You put your left foot out keep it all in place...
Work your way right into my case
First you try to bed me you make my backbone slide
But when you found you bled me-- skip on by...
keep on---stroke me, stroke me
Give me the business all night long...
You're so together boy...
Say you're a winner but man you're just a sinner now
Better listen now (said) it ain't no joke
Let your conscience fail ya, just do the stroke
Don'tcha take no chances keep your eye on top
Do your fancy dances you can't stop you just stroke me,
stroke me


Alright, so it's lyrics are a little suggestive, but it's a classic. But no, that's not the song that was to be played. No, Instead we get the following:

Strokin'
By Clarence Carter


When I start makin´ love
I don´t just make love...
I be strokin´
That´s what I be doin´, huh
I be strokin´
I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best
I be strokin´
Let me ask you somethin´...
What time of the day do you like to make love
Have you ever made love just before breakfast
Have you ever made love while you watched the late, late show
Well, let me ask you this
Have you ever made love on a couch
Well, let me ask you this
Have you ever made love on the back seat of a car
I remember one time I made love on the back seat of a car
And the police came and shined his light on me, and I said:
´I´m strokin´, that´s what I´m doin´, I be strokin´´
I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best
I be strokin´
Let me ask you something...
How long has it been since you made love, huh?
Did you make love yesterday
Did you make love last week
Did you make love last year
Or maybe it might be that you plannin´ on makin´ love tonight
But just remember, when you start making love
You make it hard, long, soft, short
And be strokin´
I be strokin´
I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best, huh
I be strokin´
Now when I start making love to my woman
I don´t stop until I know she´s sas-ified
And I can always tell when she gets sas-ified
´Cause when she gets sas-fied she start calling my name
She´d say: ´Clarence Carter, Clarence Carter, Clarence Carter
Clarence Carter, ooooh shit, Clarence Carter´
The other night I was strokin´ my woman
And it got so good to her, you know what she told me
Let me tell you what she told me, she said:
´Stroke it Clarence Carter, but don´t stroke so fast
If my stuff ain´t tight enough, you can stick it up my...´ WOO!
I be strokin´ Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
I be strokin´
I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best, huh
I be strokin´
I be strokin´ Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
I be strokin´, Yeah!
I be strokin´
I stroke it to the north
I stroke it to the south
I stroke it everywhere
I even stroke it with my... WOO!
I be strokin´
I be strokin´ Ha! Ha!
I be strokin´


So while the Squier song was very suggestive this song was plainly about masturbation and here's Mike literally tugging my arm to get my to dance with my own mother to “I stroke it to the east, and I stroke it to the west and I stroke it to the woman that I love the best.”

My therapist almost fell out of her chair when I told her that one. I'm sure I'm quite the subject of conversation at psychologcal gatherings.

I probably would be even more so if she knew that I'd like to nail her. Of course, by this point she should know me well enough to know there's damn few women I wouldn't nail if given the opportunity.

I almost said “If given half a chance” there, but I realized that if you only have half a chance to have sex with someone and you go ahead then it's somewhat less than consentual and people will then lock you up with other people that will engage in non-consentual sex with you.

These are probably the kinds of thoughts that keep me unemployed.

Speaking of unemployed, that brings me to current topics.

I recently had my hearing with the disability people. Before that though I had my pre-hearing meeting with my lawyer. I'd also really like to nail my lawyer, which, as stated above, places her firmly in the top 98% of the world's female population. Anyhow, we're discussing my case and she's asking me the questions the judge will ask. Yeah, an actual judge. I was sworn in and the whole deal. An actual judge had to determine weather having no intestinal wall constituted a disability or not.

Thing was, my lawyer wasn't certain that a total lack of intestinal fortitude actually would make me disabled in the eyes of the law since I have a college degree and could therefore do a desk job. I countered with the fact that this town sucks and there are no desk jobs to be had and she counter-countered with the fact that that doesn't make me disabled it makes me unemployable.

Well fuck, I've always been unemployable.

This was going to be a tough sell.

But we went through the list of questions and that just seemed to agitate my attorney all the more and I left feeling rather defeated.

Two days later I go to the hearing. It's a teleconference in the federal building so I was sure to empty my pockets of anything resembling a weapon because I had metal detectors to go through.

Yes, even though my nowhere, shit-stain of a town has nothing worth putting on the other side of a metal detector we still have them because it's a federal building and the government is still all panicky over 9/11.

Interestingly enough, 9/11 happened about 4 months before I got sick. Think for a minute. How long ago does 9/11 seem? That's how long I've been dealing with this shit. Interesting when you consider that the good folks at Camden Clark Memorial Hospital told me I'd be all patched up in two months.

Fuckers.

So on the third pass around the building I find a parking space right in front. I was driving because I remembered too late that the inspection sticker on my car expired a little while back (June) and I couldn't make other arrangements. So there my beloved car sits in front of the federal building, right square in front of the doors, and only about a week before I got pulled over in it.

I saw the cop up ahead of me and immediately thought to myself “don't look at my sticker, don't look at my sticker, don't look at my sticker, don't look at my sticker, don't look at my sticker...” And he looked right straight at the goddamn thing. I look in my rear-view mirror and sure enough he was turning around. I had two options at that point. Get pulled over or make a quick break down a side street.

I decide to stop on account of the fact that my car isn't exactly incon-fucking-spicuous. 1975 Ford Mavericks with the word “HELLBILLY” across the back glass in six inch letters kinda stick out. So the lights go on and I pull over.

It's at this point that I employ the Jedi-mind-trick. Observe:

Officer: “License and registration please.”

Me: “Sure, let me see if I can find it.”

The concern in my voice is genuine as I'm really not sure if it's in there or not. Or if it's current.

Officer: “You know why I pulled you over?”

Me: “Uhh, no sir, I sure don't.”

This isn't a lie because I really don't know why he pulled me over. There's any number of things that I've done in traffic that he may be preparing to drag me from the car and beat the shit out of me for. To offer suggestions as to why he should do so isn't wise and makes the mind-trick that much harder to employ.

Officer: “Well your sticker is out of date. By six months.”

Me: “It is? I'm sorry sir, you know how it is with these old cars, I've just had it sitting in the garage for about that long. It figures that the one day I take it out to the garage to have some work done I'd get pulled over huh?”

Officer: “Well you be sure to get it inspected as soon as possible.”

Me: “Yes sir.”

And with that he let me go.

I'd like to thank the members of the academy...

But now my car was sitting in front of the building where they hold traffic court with the sticker still invalid as all hell. In fact it was worse as I got pulled over in November and my hearing was on December 1st.

The potential for calamity was high at this point.

Higher than usual even.

I, without thinking, had even worn my long black Columbine coat...

But my entrance goes unimpeded and I enter the courtroom, get sworn in, and the questioning begins. Now I'd like to state for the record that my lawyer never asked me to lie about anything. She wasn't thrilled by my declaration that I wasn't going to lie though. To a lawyer, not lying is fine as a theoretical model, but in practice it means you lose your case, and in this particular kind of case it means said lawyer doesn't get paid, so she probably wasn't too happy with the state of things.

So I'm in a court of law before an actual judge, half of my guts are sticking out through a hole in my gut and I may be denied disability because I'm not a retard.

I answered all the judges questions as thoroughly and honestly as I could, which was visibly pissing off my lawyer more and more which, interestingly, made me want to fuck her more and more. I'm not exactly sure why that is. Probably just that my brain figures that any woman I get involved with is going to be pissed at me sooner or later, might as well jump at one that's pissed at me for reasons I can understand.

Also, the judge knew things about my case and my body that I don't even know. I really wanted to ask him a bunch of questions, but I guess that's a breech of protocol. Anyhow, the judge tells the woman from the state employment board what the restrictions of my condition are and asks her if I can return to any of my former jobs in the shape I'm in.

She says no.

One hurdle leaped.

He asks the employment woman if, given the economic state of my area, there are any jobs that I could do in my current state.

She says no.

Two hurdles leaped.

The judge then declares me eligible for disability benefits. I'm so excited by this that, without thinking, I lean over in my chair to pick up my coat and folder full of papers off the floor and knock the breath out of myself. Took a few moments to collect myself. I guess if he hadn't already made up his mind that would have done it.

So somehow I went into a governmental situation, told the complete truth, and came out successful.

I was utterly shocked.

As was my attorney.

She then went on to tell me that I could expect to see a check in three to five months.
So I applied more than TWO YEARS AGO because I needed money real bad and they finally decide that, not only should I get money but I should have been getting it all along and now that it's been allotted to me I have to wait THREE TO FIVE FUCKING MONTHS.

Well it couldn't all go well.

My amazement continues as I walk past several uniformed police officers on my way to my very street-illegal car. Officers whom I'm sure are going to arrest me the moment I stick my key in the door...

I get in, fire her up and make it all the way home without incident.

The ordeal is almost over. Now I just have to get the hernia repaired. My next appointment with my surgeon is on February 22nd. It's been delayed because he's wanted me to lose some of the weight I've gained sitting around waiting to get surgery done.

Vicious circle anyone?

He really wanted me to get gastric bypass surgery, which I flatly refuse as I don't think it's safe, but I agreed to get Lap-Band surgery which does the same thing, but it's easier to fix if something goes wrong. With my luck I thought it's best to play it safe, you know? But my medical card doesn't cover either of those surgeries and back when I could afford to pay for the surgery out of pocket I didn't have a medical card because I had too much money, and without medical insurance to cover me if anything went wrong no hospital would approve me.

There's that fucking circle again.

But now I have the medical card...

AND I have a big fat government check coming...

I can get the weight-loss surgery done at the same time as the hernia surgery (I mean, they're going to have to gut me like a deer anyway) thus reducing hospital time and thereby cost and I'm fully covered in case I die again.

And on that subject, I think if you die from complications to your surgery it should be free. I mean yeah, I got better, but it's still something of an inconvenience for me.

I should at least get a discount.

The real kicker is that if I'd have gotten the money to cover the surgery months ago then I wouldn't have had to take the time to lose weight beforehand on accont of how much I'll lose from the weight-reduction surgery. Shit, if I had it right now they'd put me right into the schedule, but since the check isn't coming for three to five months then I have to wait for it to get here.

Well, I'm going to call the hospital to see if they can't work with me on getting in sooner, but I'm not going to hold my breath.

But yes, the end of the tunnel is near. Not only will all my vital organs be back where they belong, but I'll be rapidly dropping an assload (literally) of weight. Prepare yourselves for my new blog; “Conquests of a Stud-Monkey” coming sometime in 2007.

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