Hold On A Sec

22 07 2008

Wait … did you just say ‘war’?  War?  What war?  Where?  No, man, that happened already, like—wow, must have been almost seventeen years ago now.  Hm?  No, jeez, yeah, I know it’s confusing in that region, what a fucking hellhole, but trust me, we got out of Iraq like almost two decades ago, so no need to—you really believe what you’re saying, don’t you.  Buddy, there was no reason to go to—okay, so you agree there was no cause to start a war with them, so how would—Huh?  They knew that and they declared war anyway? No, who would be that retarded?  Hah!  Okay, now I know for sure you’re talking about 1991—Bush hasn’t been president for a long time, you know.  Yeah, yeah, Saddam and all that.  I think you’re just a little mixed up, because lately Saddam hasn’t been doing anything, really.  You know that for a fact, do you?  How’s that? Dead?  Hm, first I’ve heard of it.  Ah, those dictators, always dying comfortably on their beds of old age. Hanged?  What the fuck, seriously?  When did that happen?  It’s on fucking YouTube?  That’s not funny, dude.  The troops are in Afghanistan, where the Taliban were based—hello, we’re trying to get the scumbags responsible for 9/11.  America thinks what?  Nobody is that stupid.  Well, maybe some people, but—god, put the pie charts away, I can’t look at those numbers.  You are goddamned sick.  This isn’t possible.  It would have been on the TV news.  President Clinton would have been impeached.  What?  He was??  For WHAT??  And he’s not even president anymore??!  What do you mean we live in a mostly benevolent but deeply fascist state???!! CAN A GOOSE GO OUT DRINKING FOR A COUPLE OF YEARS WITHOUT THE WORLD CRUMBLING DOWN AROUND HIM I MEAN FUCK

—Nero

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My Own Olympus

15 07 2008

Naturally, once Caligula found out Manhattan had an “Olympic Tower,” he simply had to have one of its converted condos on the 51st floor. Even the fact that a filthy Greek like Aristotle (and I was never one for scholastics, either) Onassis was one of the driving forces behind this behemoth’s construction could not stanch my gliterati greed for a perch in the opulent roost. That I could shit out my window onto St. Patrick’s cathedral was too much to pass up: feces-flavored icing on the anti-monotheistic fungus cake!

Worship in my ugly, modernist shadow, Christ-humping Irish scum!

Of course, I did have to suffer a shade of buyer’s remorse. For where in my unit was the vomitorium whereupon we purge between meal courses? Surely no hedonist’s home is complete without it. The landlord calmly explained that no such vomitorium as I described it ever really existed, not even when I was Caesar of Rome—the idea was nothing but pure misconception, he said. I took the opportunity of his open mouth to deliberately regurgitate a half-digested duck confit entree into his face to make a point, and bid him to clean up the resulting mess, for as Seneca writes: Cum ad cenandum discubuimus, alius sputa deterget, alius reliquias temulentorum [toro] subditus colligit — “When we recline at a banquet, one [slave] wipes up the spittle; another, situated beneath [the table], collects the leavings of the drunks.”

And though I did not drool, I was supremely hammered at the time, and most of my “leavings” did end up under a Mies van de Rohe glass coffee table. Luckily or not, my landlord happened to be a rare emetophiliac, which meant he found the whole barfing display erotic and arousing.

I can’t say I found the sight of duck goo and bile in his mustache quite as enticing, even after licking some off.

—Caligula





Blissed Connection

12 06 2008

Ever have one of those moments on the subway—after what turned out to be a bitch of a girlfriend dumped you for some seagull that never stops bragging about his trash pile on Coney Island—where you look up from the soggy lip of the crumpled brown bag concealing your bottle of triple sec  and see the most beautiful, supple-necked goose you’ve ever seen, with sparkling obsidian eyes and chest plumage so triumphantly gray that it promises the thunderstorms of the next thousand years, and for some unfathomable reason she is staring not at the lime-flavored drool escaping your beak, not at the bald patch in your left wing that can’t be combed over anymore these days, not at where your ballooning gut touches your cracked foot-webbing, but looks into your very soul for a full soft radiant world of time before the train stops at West 4th street and she hops off, leaving you forever with that untarnished aura of love and longing that melts into the vague memory of what it means to be happy?

“Well fuck that,” I said.  “I’m putting a Missed Connection ad on Craigslist.”

So far this guy is the only response I’ve gotten.

Just to be clear, the soulmate I was reaching out to is not

A) Human

B) A Mexican Wrestler

 

I might have more luck staying on the C train for the next six months.

—Nero

 

 





Memorialize This

22 05 2008

Memorial Day Weekend is more than just an opportunity for brain-dead and liquored up humans to cover the country with dirty blankets and discarded sporks as they chow down on bloody bovine and the less fortunate members of the avian community: it’s the beginning of three and a half months of said grotesque behavior.

I don’t get it, America—summer seems like prime time to sit in your homes, blast the A/C and look up celebrity sex videos on your new MacBooks.  Instead you’re inviting mosquitos into your ears and sweat into your asscracks.  If were up to me, of course, humans would never be allowed outside in the first place.  But I would think you’d get the hint that nature doesn’t want you running around playing frisbee golf in it. Or did you think knocking a squirrel out of a tree with a hard plastic disc was a fitting tribute to our fallen heroes?       

Celebrate those who gave their lives by          sacrificing the dignity of yours


 

 

 

—Nero

 





Public Disservice

20 05 2008

I woke up in the Fortieth Precinct’s drunk tank again this morning, and you know what that means: community service.  Judge said I could do it in the form of a public service announcement regarding belligerent geese. Thought that was real funny.  Originally I figured I’d just copy-paste eHow.com’s rules for surviving a goose attack, but most were way off the mark, so I’m gonna do you a solid and bust some myths along the way.  Let’s get this over with. 

  •  Pay attention to the actions of the male goose when you enter his territory. If he sounds a warning, that is your signal to leave the area.
It’s funny how many people take that sound to be friendly.  Sometimes it is!  In fact, think of all goose body language as an invitation to inspect our carefully hidden nests.     
  • Show no fear. Geese are particularly attuned to body language and a show of fear may increase the intensity of the attack.
Unless you’re Sir Ian McKellen or another knighted actor, we’re going to see right through this ploy.  You’d better just lay down and submit by leaving your face, stomach and genitals exposed. 
  • Maintain eye contact. Geese have excellent vision and interpret loss of eye contact as an act of fear.
Also, you have nothing better to look at.
  • Stay calm. Don’t yell or try to hit the male goose. The female may join the attack and then you will be in real trouble.
No kidding.  Note the dual attack points on a victim of husband-and-wife serial peckers Tawny and Flyde:
  • Keep your body facing directly toward the goose. Never turn your back on an attacking goose.
This is actually wise.  A glimpse of your backside will invite the equivalent goose reaction of “Oh-No-You-Di’int!”
  • Walk slowly backwards if the goose hisses at you or spreads its wings. Use your peripheral vision to avoid tripping over obstacles.
Really?  When trying to escape a threatening bird, you should not fall on your ass like it’s a 1920s silent film?  Thanks, Internet!
  • Continue facing the goose and back slowly away at a 90-degree angle from the goose if he flies up at your face.
The time it takes to figure out the geometry of this move will cost you at least one eyeball.
  • Make your escape and exit the area through a gate if possible. Geese rarely fly over a fence.
WHO THE FUCK TOLD YOU THAT
—Nero

 





Caligula’s Dreamlog #3: The Ritzy Underbelly

15 05 2008

How quaint! I dreamed I was a man of moderately less power and stature, which is to say, some obscenely wealthy and naïve fauxhemian metro with a Gucci axe to grind. It was an odyssey of Homeric—er, maybe Spielbergian—uh, small quirky Sundance film proportions. Who knew how perfectly ridiculous it was to see the world through the reductive psyche of the modern aristocrat wannabe?

The Dream:

Steve Forbes had lodged one too many hasty wagers at the Hampton Classic, and I grew altogether weary of his delinquency in tendering the final—and rightfully beloved—Fabergé egg. This was no slight tiff: my Segway had been sitting sans worthwhile hood ornament in my spare closet since I first finagled a prototype of the awkward thing, waiting patiently in a cocoon for the embellishment that would transform it from gauche scooter into chariot-fit-for-Apollo.

The price of Forbes’ weakness for long-odds horses

Setting out towards Steve’s on that gyroscopic claptrap, my valet Bernard driving, I gripping his pelvis for dear life, I was suddenly struck with a profound craving for vitals, i.e., bourbon, in some unfamiliar ghetto or other. A Xanadu of Oriental delights awaited: We wandered into an establishment staffed by the largest and most muscled women one could care to gaze upon, who, after plying us with saccharine libations and cuisine apparently fused in Asia, went about joshing and lightly embarrassing various patrons in the middle of their meals, occasionally bursting into inspired song. All this was executed with a wit so barbed and bawdy Oscar Wilde’s pallid cheeks would burn. I assumed these mercurial hosts had absorbed rumors that suggested this tastemaker’s penchant for entertainment of the decadent and bacchanalian sort until one turned to Bernard and inquired whether I was his boyfriend, sending my poor manservant into a dreadful stutter, which only served to magnify his discomfiture and mine. The rest of the ride to Steve’s and all the pelvic contact there entailed came bundled with a silent tension I won’t soon forget.

Analysis:

Apparently my nocturnal alter-ego had never been to a drag restaurant. Oh! The innocence of it all! Which reminds me, I haven’t been to Lucky Cheng’s in ages.





Firewater Fowl

2 05 2008

This time I really mean it. It’s a new month, new leaf, new lease on life. This goose is going sober. I know, I know, I said I’d stop drinking New Year’s Day, as a resolution, and then again on February 15th, after all the chocolate liqueur, and I definitely pledged some kinda sobriety after this little post-St. Patrick’s Day incident—

That’s me all the way to the left. We’re not dead, just extremely hungover. Damn if I remember where we drunkenly decided to fly—I was hanging out with some extreme enablers, as you can see—but these good old boys in the camo had the decency to humiliate rather than shoot us where we lay. The guy in the middle put the pic up on his MySpace.

And I’m thankful: it’s something I can keep as incentive to get back on the wagon. Which I’ll do. Right after Memorial Day Weekend. Or the Fourth of July.

Uh, after BBQ season.

—Nero