Man-Size (man_size) wrote,
Man-Size
man_size

Harder than the hardest heart attack

LAST FRIDAY NIGHT [9/13]:

Spent the day struggling over penciling pp16 of TANGLED WEB #20. See, a teenage J. Jonah Jameson is at his prom and deals with a bunch of bozo's before tearing up the dance floor with his date (and soon to be wife), Joan. Lot's of visual info and banter to convey. Wrapped up that puzzle and hooked up with Mike & Marie, and Eric, for some late night Thai at Tuk-Tuk. Unfortunately, my gal Sarah had to do her monthly tour at the Park Slope Food Coop after a hellish day at work. Besides, she had the kids (her two daughters, 7 & 8) this Friday to take care of, so we weren't going to add another notch in the adventure belt for the Thug with the Velvet Mind and the Queen with the Whoopie Cushion Soul, any old way.

Satiated by some Pad Kee Mao and dumplings, cell phones buzzed alive on Smith street and our hasty group convened with Carroll street neighbor, Lena and her co-worker/pal, Sheri, over at Quench, where, depending on the night, can be uber-trendy or uber-Italian -- mafia-style. On off nights, it's chill and a-okay cool which is why this nickel-plated nigger returns. Tonite it was a nasty mix of rancid cigar smoke and corporate skirts. Barely made it past a whole Margarita before we all split (can't stand smoke ya'll) into Little Man (Mike's car) and drove to the end of Red Hook with my two bottles of Merlot, a cork-screw, and a metal cup. We all sat at the edge (where the Art Barge used to tip from side to side), stared at the Statue of Liberty, listened to the dingy ring its ominous bell, and passed the metal cup of wine. Wary of wharf rats and the slowly crumbling concrete deck, we walked over to Sonny's Bar and sat outside, while an old-time cowboy sang covers of Cash, Haggard, and Cline, by the front door. Got a buzz from my lovely, frazzled, and exhausted girlfriend on the Mac-a-celli, who was working late (catching up with extra work-load back at home on her lap-top). I gave her some good pep and wished her some sweet-nothings wishing I was there or she was here (but... the kids...ya know...). Not good with good night's, we blessed each other right nice, sweet dreams, and rang off. The group decided to make hay over at Lillies, the other swell saloon in Red Hook. Lillies is like something out of Twilite Zone by way of the Rat Pack. I swore I saw Ava Gardner playing honk the bobo in a corner with Sammy Davis Jr., while Dean Martin was inventing a new cocktail at the bar with a bunch of laughing locals. We ordered some drinks (I snagged a two dollar Pabst Blue Ribbon) and we made our way to the tiki lounge in the back yard where drunk hip-hopsters and horny girls get cozy yet coy. Kinda annoying. After trading sauce, Mike called it a night and took Lena home while Eric and Sheri and I debated the pros & cons of sex toys.

Intellectually, I'm no fan of plastic buzz-bots and rubber resolves. I can see it tickling the pink but -- HELLS HALF ACRE -- to anybody who gets an emotional kick out of such things. Don't make no damn sense. Admittedly, I don't have much to contrast my declaration with such limited experience with said blasphemous toys (well, except for that relationship I enjoyed with a certain Love Doll I had on celluloid eons ago, in a sophomore Larrondo film), but I'd bet dollars to donuts nothing truly beats a good pound of wet and willing flesh made agile by a tumescent rage-on and a thimble of sexual verve. Not to mention matters of the heart, which only always ever tantalizes the love-making bar. Hey, I'm no prude. I appreciate a hot and slutty fuck flick like the next clown, but that stays in the 2-dimensional realm whereas shivering vibrators and quivering pocket pussy's seem so awful and wrong. I'm still trying to embrace the old whore trick of letting a finger or three fondle the taint for maximum effect. Alas, that's as far as I will go, 21st Century Style. Y'all can have your bells and whistles. Give my prostrate a decade or two to rot and get stone cold before I call roro-rooter and stick a clucking chicken up my butt. Na'am sayin'?

Sheri was a veteran and champion of battery powered enhancements while Eric got a tad Switzerland about the whole thing. I dunno. Maybe I fear that technology is always in competition with nature and I'm doing my best to fight the good fight with my hips, lips, and balls. Maybe my ego gets far too in the way and I can't let any kind of electric fence pen-pal or rubber ducky pony ride take a modicum of credit that my own two-fisted moxie and resources should be getting. Heck, maybe I just don't get it 'cause of shit like the invention of Cable TV, MTV, Must See-TV, and the extra crap of heaping poo that they put on them there DVD's, where we're constantly seeking over-stimulation from anywhere and everywhere. Whatever happened to mystery and the magic of craft? Why the fuck do I care about an alternate ending or a deleted scene?

It doesn't take much to get seduced by the next cheap, trendy thing and get caught up in its whirl-wind domino effect. Maybe I'm too old for the market? Which is why I can comfortably state that I dig superhero and alternative comic books, making the good love, and shucking and jiving to 60s jazz, 70s reggae, 80s hip-hop/Prince, 90s Dancehall, and 00s Bjork/Beck. Keepin' it real since '67, yo.

Although, I do miss playing Asteroids, Star Castle, and Super-Nintendo's Donkey Kong Three. That shit was hype.
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