 MR. & MRS. BLOODY DIAPERS, BOB DYLAN AND THE UNBEARABLE GAYNESS OF SKIPPY
"People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed"
-"Things Have Changed"
Bob Dylan
I don't leave the house much. Since I don't have a job to go to or anything, there isn't much of a reason to. Actually, even when I did have a job, I spent most of my off time curled up in the crawl space in the fetal position, weeping.In the last six years, if I've left the house, it was because I left the country. I guess that I'm not much for doing things halfway. Accordingly, most of my friends gave up on me years ago. For me to do anything social is a major event in my circle.
I hadn't gone anywhere in about six weeks, when my good friend Dr. Reverend (aka Mr. Bloody Diapers) called me and interrupted my weeping. The Doctor knows how important my weeping time is to me and got directly to the point.
"skippy" he began, "are the mud people keeping you down still? I think you should drop everything on March 19th and go to see Bob Dylan with me and the missus.You're spending all that time alone is getting people talking. They're saying you might be some kind of fag."
"I'd love to see Dylan" I replied, "but you know I don't have a job. Christ, I barely afford the cigarettes and nitrous oxide that sustain me, let alone Dylan tickets at this point."
"Don't you worry your pretty head about money, skippy. It'll be your birthday present from Mrs. Bloody Diapers and I."
"Thanks. That's really sweet of you. Now, who's saying I'm gay?"
"The stink people of course. The mutter about you on the subway. Don't worry about that either. I've got plans for the stink people. I don't need to tell you that the time of purification is near. Now shut the fuck up and go read your fucking bible!"
Most of my conversations with the good Doctor work out that way.
As I've mentioned before, I've been sick and depressed this week, so getting out of the house was even more of a Triumph of the Will than it usually is. But I'm a great admirer f Bob Dylan's and if you've ever heard Dr. Reverend opine about how hard it is to make ends meet on $70,000 a year, you wouldn't want to miss that for the world. I wasn't sure which would be the better show.
So downtown I go. I met the Doctor at our preordained spot, a massive bookstore across the street from the building I used to work at. We offered each other salutations and I asked him how he was holding up in the struggle that is his life.
The Doctor's eyes grew wild as he started the tirade. "Im getting so fucking tired of my job. You wouldn't believe what I have to put up with for the measly 70 grand they give me. Christ, I'm living off of Kraft Dinner six days a week with these slave wages. Fuck them anyhow! I had a meeting with a headhunter this afternoon."
"Cool. It's about time.I don't know how you do it. Living off of that pittance and supporting a wife who shows her gratitude by punching you in the crotch as you sleep. You may be the strongest man I know. I think of you often and your inspiration lifts me up as I drink myself dizzy."
"Yeah, I know. I'm like Jesus. Everybody knows that. Anyway, the headhunter told me he can get me a job at the cable company where your brother-in-law works. I told them I won't get out of bed, let alone program for less than $200,000 a year in unmarked Swiss francs and a personal Chinese houseboy. Benefits are everything. But I don't need to tell you that, now do I?"
"Of course not. I guess we should go pick up your wife."
"Yeah, if I'm late, she'll hit me with a chair, right there in her office. In front of the staff. It's bad enough when that happens in the privacy of my own home."
So off we went to pick up Mrs. Bloody Diapers. From there they decided they needed to eat and I needed to drink. We sat in an off-campus college pub and discussed among other things, why John Kerry and Paul Martin are both doomed and the harrowing downfall of poor Kilgore Trout. The merits of various serial killers were debated. The happy couple are Bundy enthusiasts. I, being somewhat old school, feel Ed Gein can't be beat in purely stylistic sense. As you know, I live for vigourous discussion, particularly after being prostrate in the crawl space for six weeks.
Then it was time to take our leave and head to the Ricoh Coliseum to see the Great One. Dylan played a 17 song set, amazing show, even more so because he played piano throughout and spoke only once to introduce his band. The highlights of the show were the most beautiful version of "Just Like a Woman" (a song that reminds me of someone, but I won't tell you who) that I've ever heard, and the theme song of my life, "Things Have Changed". Verily, Bob Dylan may be God, should such a thing exist.
After the show, the three of us debated as to what we were going to do next. Dylan went on and finished early. He is, after all, 64 years old. Mrs. Bloody Diapers vetoed my idea of going out for a lap-dance which lead me to question whose birthday it was two and a half weeks ago anyway. At least she didn't hit me in the crotch when my head was turned. The simple mercies are always the ones you're most grateful for, I suppose.
The Doctor decided that he needed breakfast. After all, it was 10:30 PM. So we proceeded to a diner near Casa Bloody Diapers and I ordered more beer as the Doctor and his bride awaited their food. It was then that I noticed Ally.
Ally was on a high chair at the next table, no more than five feet from me. She was maybe 25 and pretty cute. And she started talking to me. I felt that this might hold some promise for the rest of my evening. I was very quickly disabused of this notion. Ally was talking to me because Ally was falling down drunk. She was also with someone who appeared to be her grandfather. But Ally was quickly fascinated by me. She asked if I had any Irish in me and I replied that I had more than enough to share, should she decide that she could use some herself.
It was then that Ally got very inquisitive.
"Well, you're gay, aren't you?"
Mrs. Bloody Diapers had a look of shock on her face, then broke out in a wide grin.
"No, no I'm not. Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Your hat. It's a gay man hat." I should note that I was wearing a black leather Kangol-style hat to protect my shaven skull from the harsh Canadian elements.
Ally then took the question to Mrs. Bloody Diapers. "He's not gay?"
She responded that I am, if anything painfully heterosexual. The memory of my telling her, not four hours ago, that I desperately wanted to re-enact the Starr Report with one of her co-workers was fresh.
Ally then staggered off to the restroom. Mrs. Bloody Diapers shared with me her opinion that Ally would be the perfect outlet for my baser, if frustrated, carnal desires. I declined for two reasons; Firstly, while she had a cute face and a tight little body, Ally had a tiresome voice and I felt that sex with her would be preferable with her voice box cut out. Secondly, Ally was very, very drunk. Women take a decidedly different view of drunken anonymous sex than do men. We view it as an adventure. In fact, if I had a nickel for every time I woke up next to someone I didn't remember sleeping with, Well.....I'd have a dime. Upon waking, men reflect on the wonder of life. Women in those circumstances don't do that. They do things like press criminal charges. I decided years ago that my experience with the Canadian judicial system was already more extensive than I'd have preferred and left it at that.
As Mr and Mrs Bloody diapers ate their late evening breakfast, Ally staggered back over to me and told me that she was there most nights. Who knows? Maybe I'll pop by one night. Early enough to find out if she's as annoying sober as she is drunk. Even if she is, I'm not sure it'll matter. It's been nearly two years and I'm desperate for some easy, yet felony free, coupling.
It was then that we paid our bill and I went home.
An evening with the Bloody Diapers' is always eventful. I should see them more often.
PermalinkLabels: I Hate Music, Life With skippy, Relationship Advice
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