The F Button

I have never been cool. In fact, I've always been consistently one full giant step behind the hip.

I am so backstyle, that at 12, I would sit drive-in-like in the front seat of the my old man’s 1980 beige Volare, tossing cassettes into the audio-addendum cassette player that was wood-screwed and glued to the ashtray console, rocking out to Kenny’s Gambler and Manilow’s 1976 This One’s for You. DINK!!!

So, between beatings and tossed 1%'s at my head in the cafetorium, I tried to catch up to coolness; however, I only found myself choking on the dusty wakes of the "with-its", 2 full laps behind the Jordache crowd with cramps and a limp in both legs.

It was the Spring of '87 I go-atted my last attempt at coolness. My senior year of High School, I spun irony and Gale Garnett’s We’ll Sing in the Sunshine on a 45 from a D-cell powered record player out of my locker. I, truthfully, thought the irony would go noticed, storm up a gaggle of coed yucks.

Irony’s cool? No?

No, Richard from 3rd period Calculus, ironically, irony works on young nerds, college stoners and the aboves above them. Not hot-lunching Tears for Fearin’ surbanites. For them and their lacey-gloved, skinny-tied humor... I was just... more "wicked" retarded.

My brand of fun was as cool as it could have been while my gym uniform was under the rinse cycle of 12 group-shower spouts and the over-estimated penises of 8 gym class jocks. (Penises? Peni?)

From that moment, I silently vowed that my kids were going to be hip. My kids were going to be down with it. My kids were going to be catch-phrase kings and queens. My kids would be the eventual me, not the ‘as is’.

20 years later: There’s my Tiny, the 4.5 year old.

I try to throw down the stimuli to her with things that provoke thought for the both us. Real thought. Not this Baby Einstein, Mozart-in-the-Womb, starry-eyed, New Age-y, connect-on-the-level bullshit. This isn’t Nanny 9-goddamn-11. The kid’s got to relate to people in the real world. I never want her to beg for acceptance, especially mine. No way. Not because I was more concerned with her fucking lessons and activities. I want to be involved in her shit. Our shit.

Together.

One afternoon I took her to Newbury Comics. The kind of novelty, funky joint that has that uncomfortable feeling, but is safe. Yeah, man, there’s a bunch of shit in there that ain’t for 4.5 year old visual consumption, but that’s why I have hands that are bigger than her face and I can sometimes… use them as blindfolds… or pseudo-riding crops to tussle her away and past the inappropriates.

Like...

... the wall covered entirely in marijuana home goods. The canibis design molded into every imaginable home device. The weed ice-cube trays. The Mary Jane muffin tins. The toaster that burns the octafrond into your Wonder White. Does anyone really like getting THIS high?

My Tiny did not need the botany lesson. Not today. Not at 4-and-a-half.

My digited riding crops brushed her shoulders, moving her forward faster than the normal stroll.

I took one last look, "Pot leaf toast?"

Then from below I hear: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"

"What are you laughing at, baby?"

Oh, no… what IS she laughing at, baby?

"This! Look at this, Dad!"

So, I did.

Nice.

"Look, Dad, these are cat’s buttholes, but you can put your drinks on them!"

Cat Assole Drink Coasters.

Fancy.

"These are hysterical!"

Close-up photographs of Anus Felis molded into glass casings and price-tagged.

"If I can’t get these today, then I’m definitely getting them for my birthday."

"Perfect. It's on my list, baby... "

Now, eyes off the 10 Voo-doobie Dolls I just knocked on the floor.

"Does 'on your list' that mean 'yes'?"

No. It means you won't be wet-ringing your Capri Sun over the patched perineum of Mr. Whiskers and the collective sphinti of his pussy posse.

"It means: Move that way... Go, please."

Like towards the door. Like this retail outing was a definite mistake.

On the rush to the door, she stops, "Cooooooooooooooooool."

I can only imagine.

"Buttons..................."

She can barely read. We can do this. I'll edit as I go.

"What's that one say, Dad?"

"It says: I Have No Eyeballs."

Then it dawns on me. There are 5,000 buttons on the rotator rack. She's going to have me read all of them.

"And this one?"

"I'm An Animal."

"That one?"

"Pirates Rock!"

"No. The red one!"

"That was the red one."

"No, it wasn't!"

"That red one right there says: Pirates Rock!"

I've only done 3. The next 4,997 are going to make me take my shirt off and jump onto this thing back first.

"Can I get Pirates Rock?"

"No."

"What's that one say?"

"That one says a bad word."

"Which one?"

She knows which one. She call spell enough to make out the important words like: Cat, Dog, Mom, Shit, Ass and Fuck.

With all the life in my face as forgotten corpse at the city morgue, "The 'F' one."

"Can I say it?"

"No, you can't say."

"Yes, I can. You just don't want me to say it."

"Don't be a wiseguy."

Then she spits out an, "Aw, Hell!"

"HEY!"

"I didn't say the 'F' word, I said the 'H' one."

See. She knows how to spell ALL the good ones.

"I DON'T WANT YOU SAYING ANY OF THEM!"

Then, we eye each other down.

"Can I get it?"

"The 'F' word button?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"But wouldn't that be hysterical if I had on the 'F' word button and I'm just a little girl."

Yes.

"No."

"Yes, it would."

It totally would.

"No, it wouldn't," kept eke'ing from my lips.

The problem was: It would be funny. It would be HYSTERICAL. But more importantly, my 4 year old gets irony. I love it! Part of me wants to get the 'F' word button in support of her artistic irony. Play Gale Garnett from the rafters! WE'LL ALL SING IN THE SUNSHINE!!!

But...

"Sorry, babe, it wouldn't be very nice for a little girl to wear the 'F' word on her coat."

"Well, I think it would be funny."

Goddamn it, she's right.

"Get another button, baby."

She de-racks a Jack Skellington holding a pumpkin or some boring, unfunny business. Whilst behind me some Johnny Necktie has taken my place at the button rack with his two little fucking darlings. His perfectly pigtailed "things" are asking the same questions mine did, "What does that one say?"

He reads, "That one says: It's Lucky to be a Leprechaun!"

"It IS lucky to be a leprechaun, Daddy!"

Giggles abound.

Oh, goddamn! Where's the 'F' button?

Meanwhile...

Tiny held the Jack Skellington button up to me, "Put it on."

Sarcasm, "Nice manners."

"I mean, please."

I proceeded to put it on the lapel of her coat.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

"What?"

"Not there!"

"Where?"

Behind me I hear the Dr. Spock book club, "It says: I LOVE TATER TOTS! You do! You do love tator tots!"

Yay! Yay for goddamn everyone.

Tiny, "I want it on my shirt."

"No. You're way too squirmy for me to put this on your shirt under your winter coat."

"I want it on my shirt!"

"The button will open up and stick you!"

"I - DON'T - CARE!!!"

At the rack: "Some bunny loves you." Hee hee hee. Giggle-fucking-Disney-goddamn-snort!

"Here! Here! Do you want me to open the pin up NOW and just stick it into your skin so you know that it hurts and I can just put it on the coat where I want it to go in the first place."

"Go ahead!"

By the good Holy Love of the D.S.S., I wish I could.

"Here. Just put it on your goddamn shirt!"

"That's where I want it!"

Johnny "Weekend" Necktie and the Pigtails are staring at me in horror.

"I'm putting it on her shirt, not in her skin."

She screams.

"What?"

"Now I can't see it!"

Through my gritted teeth, "Where do you want this f'ing button?"

"On my sleeve where I can see it."

And there it ended up. On the sleeve where she could see it. Where Johnny and the Pigtails could see it... why... because they were still staring at us.

"Yes," I ask Necktie.

He, actually, had the balls to contribute, "I would have handle that differently, that's all."

"You would have?"

His head bobbed up and down like an arrogant bobblehead dangling from its self-assured spring.

"Good for you."

Then I reached for one of the buttons I passed on reciting to Tiny. I slid it off the rack and gingerly into his hand, "Here. My daughter got a kick out of this one. Have a good one. Thanks for the advice."

"You, too."

And as I walked through the glass doors I thought of the pin I just handed to him. In bold helvetica it simply read: PUSSY

Wear that on your sleeve!

Not Me, Not Myself and Not I

*names have been changed… you’ll see why…

Me and me old lady know each other pretty good-damn well. We’ve been giggling next to each other in our Queen sled bed together for the number of 15 years, so the secrets are hard to come by these days. But, once in a good while something will drop past my lips that I had wrapped and bowed somewhere in the back of my recent consciousness… so, it usually hasn't been sitting in there too long.

No. I’m not talking bumping balls into a bit o’strange. No bag of fries. No tub of cole slaw. Nothing on the side, if you’re catching me. I’m faithful. I loves me my ol’ lady.

No. Me? My untruths are usually inline with some retard act that I performed that was way dumb and I, personally, just as soon forget.

What could be so embarrassing? Oh, what? Oh, what the fuck did he do now?

This time, in the Lowe’s garden section, I pretended to be… not me.

The year was 2005. I had just been just laid off and was humbling my way home from a meeting with a placement agency and decided to pump around the garden section of Lowe’s to goose up the color in the front of my house. To cheer me up from the lay off. You know, chuck down a mum or astible or two.

So, before I continue with my bitty anecdote, let me itemize: I was unemployed and buying flowers.

Here I go -- !

I might have well been prancing, skipping, she-loves-me-notting all over the annuals, when betwixt the hosta was standing John White. John White from fucking Wilmington High School circa 1987.

Shit. The dink dropped a nickel in the bell of my sax at a Wildcat’s game. Then I got my mitten stuck, caught in the backsides of the valves trying to get it out. I was band-benched the week after for muffling the bass lines of Hot Stuff and Tuxedo Junction during half-time.

John White.

Right there between the hostas.

He was buying a digging shovel. TO DIG! OOMPH! I had my digits wrapped around a pot of Blackeyed Susans.

Then we made eye contact. GUARDS, SHUT DOWN THE CELLBLOCK!

Connection. THAT connection. That warm-gutted eyelocked connection that is unmistakenable: You’ve been… RECOGNIZED.

His mouth corners curled upward.

Shit! He really did recognize me. And, now, he’s moulding up a smile.

GODDAMMIT!

I pulled out my best maturity. My finest. Pure dignity: I looked right through the him and hawkeyed a bag of Scotts 3-in-One.

What am I going to do? Buy a $60 bag of 3-in-One so I don’t have to confront John White and his fucking dropped nickel? I can still hear that echoey, muffled vibration coming from bell during my solo intro to our marching band version of Devo’s Whip It.

“Rick?”

Is he calling me? No. Please.

“Rick? Rick Crowley.”

I don’t want to do this. If I don’t turn around, he’ll assume he’s made a mistake and move the Christ on.

“Rick freaking Crowley!”

Move on, Nickels.

Since I was pretending not to be me, I continued to NOT respond. Not even a little. “I’m a fucking sociopath” is what's going on here.

“I thought you moved to L.A.?”

How the Hell does he know THAT? I turned and gave him the “I don’t know you and you’re too loud” look.

“Rick Crowley…”

Stop saying my name!

“Holy wow. It’s been almost 20 years.”

Here I go.

“Nope.”

“Rick?”

“I’m sorry. Not him”

But I am. I so am.

“It’s me. John. John White. From High School?”

Yeah. I know you. I didn’t like you. You dropped a nickel in my saxophone.

“Melrose High School?”

“Wilmington. Class of 87.”

“Sorry. Melrose High here -”

Add a year. Make it real.

“88.”

“You’re Rick Crowley.”

“Sorry. Not him.”

But I am him! Still.

“Well, goddamn it if you don’t look just like Rick Crowley!!!”

“Sorry, buddy, can’t help you out?”

Buddy? That’s not even something the ‘real” Rick Crowley would say. I’m starting to believe that I’m really not me.

“Wow. Your whole face. It’s older, but it looks exactly the same.”

“This Rick guy must be a really good looking dude, huh? Heh-heh.”

Oh, shut up, Real Rick Crowley.

I was laughing, but, really, more thinking, “Damn, I’m still fucking goofy looking – and old!” Beautiful.

“Hey, good luck finding him – ?”

“John.”

“Right.”

Then I heaved a bag of 3-in-One that I had no intention of buying into my cart. I could've, really, gone for the faggy flowers since I wasn't really me and nothing could be reported back to the 20 year reunion committee.

“You totally ARE Rick Crowley.”

Oh, Johnny-boy, I’m having a real hard time keeping this ruse up.

“Larry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Me, too, because this is getting more devious than I intended, John White. I’ve just fake-named myself.

“Larry Depot.”

No! I didn’t. I couldn’t think of a last name quick enough and since I was at Lowe’s, I A.K.A’d the competition for my alias. Heir to the Home Depot fortune, I suppose. When I repeated it, I Frenched it up a bit so it didn’t seem so obvious.

“Larry DePot. Melrose High. Class of Nineteen-eighty-eight.”

He just nodded. I changed focus away from my new nome.

“John, how’s this 3-in-One? Ever use it? I was going to lime my yard first, but this stuff looked pretty cool –“

“Um… I would throw a bag of lime down first… ”

I exchanged the 3-in-One for a bag of lime.

“… you sure you’re not Rick Crowley?”

I’m in the zone now.

Humiliation chuckle. “Jesus, John, I’m relatively positive I know who I am.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Sorry to have harassed you like that.”

“No problem.”

Then the cashier rings me up, “$42.86”

I paid and walked out of the garden center.

“Good luck finding your friend.”

“Oh! We weren’t friends. It’s just kind of always cool to see someone from the past, you know? Thought I’d say Hi. That guy Rick was kind of a wierdo. He thought he was funny. Have a good one, Larry.”

“Yup.”

Then, as we walked apart, we shared a good laugh at that poor prick Rick’s expense. Fucking wierdo.

Truthfully, I couldn’t be offended really. Couldn’t cake-up any disagreement. John White has no idea how weird that poor prick Rick really is. That poor prick Rick just spent 15 minutes pretending he was Larry Depot, Class of ’88.

NICKEL FOR MY SAX, ANYONE?

… and $42.86 for the lime I just bought while unemployed.

WHIP IT! WHIP IT GOOD!!! OBLIQUE TO THE LEFT!!! BRAMP!!!
_________________________________________________
P.S. So, I told me old lady this story, in the Queen sleigh bed, almost 2 years after it happened. Ashamed and shaking her head, she begs, "After 15 years you can still amaze me with shit like this. Who ARE you?"

Without missing a beat I smiled and said, "I'm Larry Depot."

GOODNIGHT!!!!

Maylay in Chinatown

Comcast is The Beast. The All Holding Container of Unholy Leftovers.

Broadband.

DVR.

H.D.

My GOD, H.D.!!!

It must be stopped. Exorcised. THE POWER OF SONY COMPELLS YOU!!!

HD is the beginning of All that is Evil. All that is Temptation. With one stare, HD commands thyne eyes to watch anything in its High Def gaze. ANYTHING! ANYTHING IN ITS WONDEROUS 1080i VISION!!!

Comcast HD was the bite of the Apple, then it was all downhill from there.

The Beast presented to me a documentary on Malaysia just recently (and when I say “just recently”, it was last night at 3:30 in the AM… on a work night). She, The Beast, made me watch the Malay, tired, with sacks of redded mangoes ripening under my tired eyes. Her Beelzebubian hypnosis nuzzled me in the sights, the sounds, the smells of this Asian nation’s exotic cuisine funneling through the red, green and blue of my composite cables warming themselves in the heat of the plasma under that plate of glass.

Delish.

Some ricey design wrapped and steamed in a banana leaf package, eaten with a bamboo shard for flatware. Flatware. MMM.

I MUST MAKE THIS DISH MYSELF!

The Beast’s Broadband summoned me to Her Lap. Googling for the Malay cuisine. A simple recipe. Mango. Curry. Rice. Pandan Leaf. I have all of these ingredients or I can get all of them. Except for one.

Pandan Leaf? Also, known as Screwpine. I’ve never heard of it. It should be easy enough to obtain. I would have to go to an Asian market for this one. Then, tonight, we feast like the MALAY!!!!

I work in the city, so Chinatown is a convenient hop, skip and jump from my building. Plus, I don’t mind. I like Chinatown and all of its exotic Asian culture. The ducks with broken necks hanging in the shop window, red heat lamped and dripping with Chinese barbeque sauces. Mobiles of roasted pig snouts glistening from the ceilings of every butcher. Old World Asian men shooting snot directly onto the sidewalk and against the wind.

Magic.

I stopped in front of a sign that said: Asian Herbs.

CHING-A-LING-LING!!!

The bell on the door hinge let the tiny lady behind the counter know that I had arrived.

“Can I help you?”

She was suspicious. Do you blame her? What’s a racoon-eyed, Italian-Irishman, sporting a 38 year old McBelly want in an Hong Kongian Herbalist? I’m, clearly, not the picture of mystical healing and health.

“I’m looking for Pandan Leaf.”

“Pandan Leaf?”

“Screwpine?”

“Screwpine?”

“Yeah. I’m trying to make a recipe I saw on TV last. It’s a Malaysian dish –“

Then -

THUNDER.

LIGHTNING.

THE SNOUTS JUMPED FROM THEIR HOOKS.

THE DUCKS STRAIGHTENED OUT THEIR NECKS.

THE LITTLE WOMAN SQUEALED AN ABACUS ACROSS THE GLASS COUNTER

“Malaysian? Malaysian? Do I look Malaysian?”

“I never said you were Malaysian.”

“Why? What do I look like?”

What does she look like? Well, I was in Chinatown--

“You're Chine-nese?”

“Chinese?!?”

“Yes. Chinese.”

I smiled. She didn’t. Then she moved the abacus further to the side to get a good look at my fat face.

“Chinese?”

“Yes. Chinese. I think you're Chinese.”

“Malaysian?”

Back to Malaysian? I thought "Chinese" was a “gimme”. What the fuck. I just want Screwpine.

“Well, I’m not Malaysian. I’m Chinese.”

"That’s what I said!"

“So, you come into a Chinese shop looking for a Malaysian herb. What’s a matter? We all look the same to you?”

“Holy shit. I NEVER said you looked Malaysian. I said 'Chinese'.”

“We all look the same to you!”

“No. You don't.”

“Oh! So, now, you can tell the difference?”

“What? No. I never really think of it."

“You never think of it, huh?"

"Do you have Pandan leaf?” "

"You are a racist man.”

“What?!? I’m not a racist.”

“You never think of the Chinese people. You are racist.”

“Racist?!? How can I be racist? I’m embracing your culture by trying to cook your foods.”

“But you’re not cooking our foods. You're cooking Malaysian, not Chinese.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No. I’m not fucking kidding you. Get out of my store, you racist man. Fat man.”

As I turn to leave, I realize she never answered my actual question.

“But, do you have Pandan leaf?”

“Racist!”

Dejected and questioning my racial politics, I walked through the chicken-corpse-scented streets of Chinatown. Looking at the buckets of dried shrimp. The sacks of dried fishheads. The mounds of dried – is that a fucking seahorse? Do these people eat seahorses?!? MY GOD!!!

Pandan Leaf? I could only imagine what the fuck Pandan Leaf was. It’s probably not even a leaf. It’s probably the dried skin from a –

“Holy shit!!! I’m not eating freaking Pandan!!! Screwpine? Screw THAT!!!”

So, that night, when I got home, I had... soup.

Soup isn't racist? Is it?