Medusa: the real story
Analogies are not meant to be taken literally. Neither are adages, idioms, proverbs, etc. When we talk about Medusa having snakes for hair, her hair is not actually snakes. Some chap saw her dreadlocks and compared them to snakes since this is the first ebony goddess he had ever encountered. With juicy hips, thighs, and buttocks she slithered when she walked, but not because her hindquarters were a serpent.
A gaze from her did not turn men to stone, rather it made one part of their body rock hard. They froze with mouth open as she went by, which further cloudied the true meaning of “turning to stone.” Her deep dark brown eyes with flecks of gold around the black pool of her iris; a hypnotic whirlpool coupled with those full glorious lips. Plump and wide, those lips. A light lavender dusting over them, like sugared fruit that anyone to look upon her, men and women both, just had to taste. That urge, utterly palpable. Legend of her beauty grew and doubters were likewise silenced with the frozen open mouth.
Where she walked, a wide wake of fantasies and ache followed. Perseus did not “cut off her head” in the way that you think. She and he were engaging in the ol’ “sword swallowing routine” and Perseus, a wise and intelligent chap who charmed her, persisted at his father’s request to bed her, so to prove which kind of man he was. The man he was, however, was a man interested in other men. Though Medusa’s eager and supple mouth felt good as Perseus’s eyes were closed, his mind flooded with fantasies of men from town. Being a decent man, he stopped the proceedings, ended the oral pleasure, “cut off her ‘head.’”
Perseus confessed his nature. They cried and held each other, and Medusa was disappointed, since he was the only male who had anything interesting to say instead of the stammering mouth-agape apes she was used to. Yet the friendship persisted and even flourished now that sex was no longer a complicating element. But wait, how did Perseus use Medusa’s head to slay the Kraken?
The “Kraken” was a nickname for a ruthless and corrupt seafarer and according to plan Medusa used her wiles and charms to get into his room. She disrobed, commenced with her oral talents. The Kraken, fully distracted and about to climax never heard Perseus as he stole in and stabbed the vicious slave trader. Medusa’s vengeance for her family was complete. Perseus was the assassin. But all these years later, Medusa is painted the villain with snake hair, Perseus the hetero hero, the Kraken an aquatic monster “turned to stone by Medusa’s head.”
Tales like these are steeped in nuance and one can endeavor to decipher the true meaning with a little ingenuity.
Worst
The Worst
I used to work for a restaurant some years back. Started out as a server, elevated to manager, and then promoted to general manager. The hours were long, but I felt that my loyalty and dedication had paid off, and I was secure with the company. There had been 19 manager turnovers in five years, which should have been a warning for whomever wanted to go grasping for the big prize.
The fateful day I was going to go to Kaiser with my wife after work to verify that indeed she was pregnant. During that shift, the restaurant owner came in, took me to the office and told me flat out they were letting me go. Not because I had done anything wrong , they were just “moving in another direction.” I felt all of my internal organs drop. This was a total blindside and I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to my staff with whom I had grown close. Mid shift, I merely disappeared out the back door, never knowing what their reaction was. Needless to say, it was an awkward doctor’s visit and what should’ve been a day of joy was turned into a day of uncertainty and pain. I will never forgive Michael Sternberg for that. To pour salt in the wound, I found out later five minutes after I left a manager from a different restaurant was moved into my position. Why? Because they didn’t have to pay him as much as they paid me. I discovered they were basically going to use the money of my salary to do renovations on another restaurant, a restaurant I am proud to say failed, seven months after opening. The reviews were brutal, people openly mocked the cheap stickers on the awning, covering up Harry’s Tap Room and saying Market Tavern, and I openly celebrated its closing. In this spirit, I wrote a song which I’ve not recorded yet. So try to imagine a scathing bluegrass ditty with maybe a Latin flare bridge for the following lyrics:
Fuck you, Michael Sternberg
Go and eat a burnt turd
Your name is like a dirt word in my ear
Hope you get punched in the solar plexus
Someone keys your Lexus
And your wife just leaves you sexless for a year
One thing you have mastered
Is being a cheap bastard
You replastered the awnings without care
You thought you were so clever
But your Market Tavern endeavor
Failed so hard it was like it was never even there
I’m going to force feed you some lukewarm afterbirth
For never paying your chefs what they’re worth
And all the managers you treated like gnats
Have all been issued fresh new baseball bats
We’re all taking bets as to what
Will be the first thing tumbling out of your gut
We’re so happy we got a….
Human piñata…..
Fuck you Michael Sternberg in the butt
Take a lover before you’re physically frail
Take a lover before you’re physically frail
However linear time may interfere
Send blood to the cheeks before permanently pale
Eventually bones, joints, and ligaments fail
Oh to bask in the sweet carnal veneer
Take a lover before you’re physically frail
The body’s a temple and then it’s a jail
A waterlogged vessel difficult to steer
Send blood to the cheeks before permanently pale
Don’t wait until the end of your tale
For smiles and temptations in nursing gear
Take a lover before you’re physically frail
As your coffin lies waiting for that final nail
Tortured missed chances year after year
Send blood to the cheeks before permanently pale
The blunderbuss is loaded and you are the quail
Life barely lived and this is the fear
Take a lover before you’re physically frail
Send blood to the cheeks before permanently pale
Dull knife for the bindings
Crash
the door splinters and we tumble in
robes we stole from the guards are an ill fit
she struggles on the altar
eyes pleading
tears wetting the bandana gag
the leader with the knife raised shocked at our arrival
a pop and he falls
another pop and another falls
were making popcorn with lives
you keep popping while I go to the frightened neighbor girl and try to cut her loose
its a dull knife for the bindings
i cover her in my stolen black robe
wrap her shaking form as you chase the rest down and pop them
free of this world
May not have much to be proud of
this moment is worth all
NYCYL8R
When I was in college, I visited New York City for the second time in my life. The first time was with an aunt, an uncle and a couple of cousins, and we did the tourist thing. (One of the dumbest things I ever did, was when we were coming down the elevator from the world trade center, I decided not to pop my ears to see what the experience would be like. When I got to the ground floor, the experience was painful, muffly sounding, and ultimately regrettable.) So this time around in the big apple I was an untethered college student of drinking age, but with no monetary surplus. I was there for a journalism conference; the 101 dalmatians live action remake. Disney was paying for everything so my broke ass survived on room service, the gift basket contents, and the mini bar. When I took a walk outside of the hotel, I went to FAO Schwarz, and then sat down outside of Radio City Music Hall. For a few minutes I watched hundreds of people go by and I became intensely sad. My soft pretzel lost all its flavor. Maybe it was my Midwestern Ohio sensibilities, perhaps it was because I was alone there, but I got the feeling that if I sat outside Radio City Music Hall every single day at the same time every day, I would never see the same person twice. And that depressed me to my core. I think everyone feels a kinship with New York City based on how many movies we’ve seen filmed there or stretching back further in our cellular DNA there’s still some recognition of taking that boat to Ellis island and trying to find one’s fortune and safety in the New World. For me, New York is a nice place to visit, but I don’t think I could ever live there. Millions of people, lonely as hell.
The Pledge
The pledge
Arnie walked back to the frat house with the girl he’d met at the bar. She was unsure and tipsy, hugging her arms against the brisk fall air. The leaves and acorns crunched under their shoes as he said again “Just a little further.”
He couldn’t remember if her name was was Kristie or Christine. It had been loud in the bar: raised voices and a shitty cover band had fought for auditory dominance. “There’s a party tonight,” Arnie had told her trying not to sound like the overeager freshman he was. “Better music, free beer and shots, whaddya say?” Kristie (or Christine?) doe-eyed and apologetic told him she was still waiting for her friends, who were super late. It took begging on his part to convince her. “I’m actually not part of the frat yet. I’m a pledge. If I don’t bring at least one beautiful girl to this party (that got a smirk out of her) then I won’t be considered for the house. You only have to stay for one drink. Please?”
They rounded the block and could hear male rabble, some nu metal blasting out of a top floor window. Arnie got to the front door emblazoned with Greek letters and she paused. “I don’t know,” she muttered.
“One drink,” Arnie said. “You’d be doing me such a solid. Please?” She hugged her arms to herself, looked down the wraparound porch.
“I pledge I won’t hurt you. Please come inside?” She looked in his eyes, set her jaw, licked her lips and exhaled. “Ok, lead the way.”
Arnie grinned wide but he felt a little like a sleazy lawyer. He pledged he wouldn’t hurt her but the seniors were expecting a little more than one drink. Especially since said drink had a little something added to it. Most of the seniors were in med school and had access to what they called “accelerators” which made a female agreeable and then unconscious and then forgetful. Kristie (steen?) was basically an offering.
Arnie was surprised there were no other girls there yet. The first one to bring a girl back would mean a pledge bonus and he’d have first dibs to opt out of one week of hazing. She was introduced to a flurry of the upper classmen in their lettered sweaters and they got her a cup of punch and watched her sip it over the edges of their own cups, leering like foxes.
A couple guys went to show her the trophy cases and Arnie was led away with congratulatory back slaps and headlocks. “I’ve gotta hit the head,” he said as he pushed his way to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. A turd spun a lazy circle on toilet paper bedding as the last flush failed to drop its contents into its sewer pipe purgatory. Arnie felt like that turd. The girl trusted him. He led her to certain unpleasantness. He thought about what his mother and aunts and grandmother and elementary school teachers and girl cousins would think of what he did. This was wrong. He felt sick. He wanted to rush out and take her back to the bar.
The noise outside was getting more rambunctious. The music got louder. Arnie thought he heard someone shout about dancing on the pool table and cheers went up all about the room. Hoots and animalistic bellows. Shouting. Screaming. Broken glass. Something thrown against the bathroom door. The music stopping suddenly. Silence.
Arnie slowly pushed the bathroom door open and saw there was a dead upper classman there, backwards baseball cap still on, throat torn out like an exploded pumpkin. All around the room, bodies. Blood pooling. The underside of the pool table lamp was dripping red. He saw the girl hunched down in the corner. He stepped over lifeless limbs and broken glass and she spun at the sound. The trophy room guy was also in the corner and his throat was torn out. Her mouth was smeared with gore, her eyes bleach white with a pinprick of pupil. In the gore he saw thin jagged teeth like sewing needles. She smiled, then leapt weightlessly across the room and pinned his arms to the floor.
“Thank you for inviting me in,” she hissed.
Though Arnie had pledged not to hurt her, she hurt him, at least those few seconds he was still alive.
Fingerbangs
I’ve got hair growing outta my fingers
It gets so long it hangs
I gave my fingers a haircut
I gave my fingers bangs
My girlfriend really likes it
She likes my fingerbangs
My girlfriend drinks apple cider
Drinks it all the time
She loves that apple cider
With a twist of lime
She loves cider and my finger bangs
Fingerbangs n’ cider
She loves cider and fingerbangs
fingerbangs n’ cider
My girlfriend eats pork butt
But not the lower piece
She only likes the upper part
She says it has less grease
She loves upper pork butt
And fingerbangs n’cider
Loves fingerbangs n’ cider and upper butt