The · Worst · and · the · Best

I had been advised by both my sponsor and my High-Fathers in the Society that because of my work-time demeanor, which stunk of self-pity, self-destructiveness, and sloe-gin, that I had to pay a visit to the Society’s own personal doctor, therapist, and holy man; Dr. M. Longpig. I had read a few of his articles but I have never met the man. He seldom showed at the company functions, nor was their any picture of his face adjourning the halls.

His office was tucked away on one of the greater floors of the Society’s offices and the elevator would only go to his floor upon invitation. The invite came within an ornate key carried within brown parchment with a time written clearly on it’s front. I arrived relatively late to said elevator and with a turn of a key and after a brief farting spell arrived at the “good” Doctor’s hall.

After my fist grew too sore and too tired I turned the knob of brass mounted upon the aged brown oak of Dr. Longpig’s door, his name clearly etched in gold at its center. I knew the room wasn’t unoccupied because I could hear the sound of a Django tune playing in the near distance even from the door’s closed state.

Upon entering I was taken aback by the vastity of the office itself. Its west wall’s windows let whatever mid-noon’s light ooze through its half opened shutters. The windows touch floor to ceiling and illuminated the thick cloud of smoke that lingered about. Various animal heads with hooves decorated the eastern wall along with countless bookshelves. The carpets looked, in my classless observation, oriental or at least more expensive then the cloth that ran beneath my feet at my own domicile. A large crescent desk covered in papers and numerous skulls of unrecognizable animals acted as paperweights, stood directly in the middle of the room. Most of these modest observations of the Doctor’s office were taken in after the fact that I noticed the large man face down at this very desk.

I walked slowly towards him. The top of his head was freckled with liver spots and wisps of thin white hair. His arms were sprawled across the desk and his hair-covered knuckles were colorless as they barely reached the edge. Once I reached the desk I could see his bulbous left eye peaking out at me, lifeless. His gray bearded mouth covered in drool, his lips frozen into a large “o”. I called his name to no avail. For some reason I felt a need to lift his lifeless body from atop his desk. The man was borderline obese and it took a great effort to slump him back into his leather chair. What I saw beneath his massive double-breasted gut almost put me beneath the ground as well.

The story goes is that Doctor Longpig, before my appointment, grew a hunger in his oversized belly for a good fill of fellatio from his favorite lady of the night. He had been seeing Gladys as long as the oldest members of the Society could remember. He was said to always refer to her as his “Sheila” and was visited quite often in his office by willing woman. She was a much older lady, not close to his near ancient status, but older just the same, and was cursed with frequent seizures if she didn’t take her proper medicine. This particular day called for the Doctor to have a quick mid-afternoon sucking before he treated my woes and aliments and dialed her up, Gladys knowing that the Doctor is not a man to be kept waiting, was not given enough tangible time to take her elixir. Beneath that great crescent desk, before the giving up of the ghost, Sheila had one of the worst seizures she ever had resulting in her jaw and teeth to do exactly what they were not meant to do in this given situation.

The sheer power of the act, and understandably so, caused the Doctor to be in so much pain that a lifetime of drink, fatty foods, and probably dirty women; punctuated by a near severed penis, were too much for his overgrown pig-like heart to bear. The heart attack was both sudden and violent. White anger and blinding hurt probably caused Dr. Longpig to both clutch at his chest with one hand and with the other to grab and push his poor Sheila into loins. Both parties suffered greatly from double aliments and after one of the most unusual struggles of all time, the Doctor lie dead from a failed heart and Gladys breathed her last breath into his member before she choked on what was ever left after the biting. It’s amazing what a coroner can decipher these days and for the first time in a long time I thanked the heavens for my tardiness.

Services are being held later in the week by the Society. The affair will be private and only for the Society members.

There has been an air of sadness in the upper levels and disgust on the lower levels lingering within the walls of headquarters. I never met the man before he died, in probably the most vile and horrible way ever, but I’m more than likely going to show at his wake. I’ve done a lot of reading about the man and his life and a lot of his papers illustrate exactly why the Society exists. This man lived and breathed in the only way he knew how to; as a Solid Man. Sure he died in a way that no man could even wrap his heads around, but he lived as a lot of wish we could. I think.

He was originally born to hardworking parents and was the middle child of three brothers. He came to America in his twenties pursuing higher education and even higher games of knees-up. Untold “professionals” always called his numerous PhD’s into question, but the Society never doubted the man’s expertise in the knowledge and affirmations he professed. He was founding member of the Gentleman Bastard Society and probably helped father numerous current and upcoming members of our Inglorious Society. He left many ex-wives behind and his deep coffers were donated to the Society as instructed by his will since his organs were very much useless to science. There are already whispers of a new Doctor moving into the deceased’s office.

There are also talks of honoring the Doctor in some way within the Society. Because of my presence on the day of his demise certain eyes are on me and I was actually questioned about this journal I keep online. Mr. Ross, one of the High-Fathers, actually approved of it and said my future is now coming into focus. Ross is heading a paper/mag., possibly bearing the name of our Doctor, that he’d like me to take part in. I would keep my current mailroom position on a probationary period of sorts while I wrote for the publication. I tried to thank him but I was quickly waved away while he saw to the funeral arrangements.  If the death of a near legendary physician and Gentleman Bastard Society means my rise within our brotherhood, then I raise a glass to his corpse.

Rest in peace Doctor Mocock Longpig.

Long live the Beast. Hail hail! Long live the Beast.

Regards,

FM

P.S.

Every man has a hole and a hunger. The hole was most likely dug a long, long time ago most likely by a woman and more than likely it’s square in the middle of your chest. It makes a deep hollow sound every time you put your head to a cold pillow and grows deeper and larger every time a light goes dark and the solitude sets in.

The hunger works in conjunction with the hole. The hunger is the sweats, the shakes, and the need to fill that hole. Maybe it’s a drive, maybe it’s a need, but it makes you sick and weak whenever you get too close to “the feed”. Rationale does not work with the hunger because if your hole’s deep enough, all you can hear is that sucking noise at the bottom. Don’t even think of planning for a hunger strike because eventually a swift kick in your stomach will remind you just how hungry you’ve gotten. Do you push forward, dance across the edge of the hole, and stay hungry until a new appetite rears itself a much prettier head? That’s usually impossible as a man’s balance is awful and that noise is quite deafening

With a borrowed automobile and a hole that’s deeper than ever, I got lost in the dark on a road that winds around an obelisk. On past reflection I look for some literary meaning in this action but I’m left with a hand full of straws.  Excuse me for my vagueness.

Freddie tried to build a bookshelf by breaking a table he’s spent much sweat and calendar dates on. He didn’t bother clearing off the papers, the glasses, the wine stains, or the ripped up pieces of fabric. He didn’t bother to smooth out the scratches and dents in the wood. He simply smashed and broke the table into pieces and constructed himself a place to put his books. After a fairly short amount of time, Freddie looked at his mess and his broken wood and came to dulling realization. Freddie didn’t have many books and he wasn’t a carpenter.

Freddie’s lucky he can still fix a drink, nonetheless his own life.

Salutations,

FM

P.S.

 

Let me tell you a story.

This story takes place in one of two places where any true Solid Man has an important event, a bar. I had gotten out of work a bit late and I missed my train. After a healthy cursing fit I made my way to the local drinkery and settled myself at a stool. Now this place is old school, Seger blasts from the jukebox, the bartender resembles William Dafoe in Wild at Heart, and every single guy or gal can be swapped with an O.T.B. patron with ease. It’s all mustaches, golf tans, scotch mouth, Pall Malls, race forms, wife jokes, and slags. I had exactly an hour and twenty minutes to waste so why not start it halfway through “Night Moves” spiced with sweaty mug of aged Bass.

Whenever you in a bar where you stick out like an erection at Grandma’s house, the best plan of action is to simply soak in the situation. You listen to what they have to say to the ones they halfway trust. You listen to the stories.

“From my nipples to my knees I’m fucking purple. And it fucking itches like crazy. You wouldn’t believe how flakey I am around my fucking navel. Doctor? Why the fuck should I do that?”

“This fucking horse. Marty says to me, he says Bobby, this fucking horse is a champ, I sees him. So I fucking let it fucking ride you know? That mother fucking horse’s entire colon falls out during the race, some type of fucked up comp-low-cations from some fucking steroid. The next time I see that prick Marty I’m gonna make his asshole fall out.”

“I had this dream the other night where I come from a double and my wife is banging my father, god rest his soul, he’s been dead since I was a kid. And I’m fucking naked, but instead of my junk, I got a raccoon head down there. What’s up with that?”

After quite a few more pints and a handful of shared buy back shots from Bobby Peru all of these conversations and various characters become a cacophony of a muddled monster, diseased, poor, wretched and stinking. Before it came to eat my innards, a single pale Irish woman put her hand on my forearm.

“Charlie, you’ve shaved your beard. It’s so funny cause I had a dream bout you the other night. How longs it been?

She was beyond forty and her red hair was turning a lighter shade every day that she spent time in this bar. Her eyes sunk down in the corners, reaching out for her cheeks. A thick coat of red shone off her permanetly puckered lips. I have never seen this woman in my life, but yes, I had just shaven my beard off. Also, I’ve always looked a bit older then what I really was but there was no way I could be mistaken for someone in her bracket. I couldn’t picture this lady taking a younger lover so she was either legally blind or completely whacked on life or drink.

For a second I thought of correcting her memory but I stumbled along with her. I told her I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her. She didn’t care, she was just so happy to see Charlie. I bought her a drink and she told me all about how her “baby” moved down to New Orleans last year but disappeared during the hurricane. She told me how she was engaged to a black man named Hoartio that she met on the Internet. I bought her a stronger drink.

When it was my turn to reveal anecdotes of my own I told her that I had been working in a dog biscuit factory after I got fired from being a high-school’s janitor. She in turn told me how she’s been working as a waitress at a diner in Coney Island, the late shift. I wasn’t surprised when she told that the late hours didn’t bother her.

I still didn’t know her name, I’ve missed at least two trains, and I was effin loaded when she asked me about the watch. She got so close to me I could smell the cheap perfume and menthol cigarettes oozing from her pours.

“Charlie, I remember how I used to put my nose into your beard and smell you. After a long day, you always smelled best. Like sweat and honey mixed with smoke. I could breathe you in forever. I remember when you used to come home to me even when you said you weren’t. That made me happy Charlie, when you’d come around even when I knew you weren’t.”

I got kind of embarrassed at this point; she was off the rails with her story, lost completely in her memory. But I let her talk and talk and talk. I let her spill her memory right on the bar right next to the dirty napkins and the swizzle straws.

“Oh Charlie, I loved you so much. But why’d you have to that to me. It was my daddy’s watch. He left it for me to give to my man when I was married. Why Charlie? And why her!?!?”

It was the weirdest thing; I watched this lady’s face for unrecorded amount of time. The sadness in her eyes, the want, the burnt out candles, it remained, until now. It’s like she pulled a mask off. She looked younger all of a sudden, less tired, not more alive, but less used up. And angry, her mouth twisted into something else that was the farthest thing from a pleasurable smile. When I hit the ground I didn’t even know women still carried black jacks. It felt like she dislocated my jaw.

“YOURASONOFABITCHCHARLIE!”

I responded.

“Lady I’m sorry my name’s not even Charlie! My names Benny! I’m a writer and I wrote something famous once! I just wanted to hear a story!”

I don’t know why I even said that, but the next thing I heard was the crunch of my own nose bone as she brought a heavy high heel down to my face. Right before I lost consciousness I heard her scream:

“It don’t matter who you are now Charlie.”

Someone helped me up and out and propped me up against the bar’s back fence. My face was caked with blood and I heard a clicking in my jaw as I sucked in for air. On touch alone since I lacked a mirror of any sort, my nose no longer resembled any type of nose that once took shape on my face.

As I tried to make my way back to my feet a couple of Chicanos waiting for work asked me for a cigarette in broken English. I didn’t bother responding, which was followed by a series of “putas”. I thought of going back home for a second but instead I just made my way back to the offices of the Society. It was pointless to go home. When I went to check my watch, all I saw was a naked wrist covered in scratches and bruises.

I had lied and paid for another man’s poor history.  I lied again and it got me nowhere. Somewhere there’s a lesson here and a strange twist of irony and mystical coincidences. But all I wanted to do was piss and fall asleep on a pile of unopened letters.

Fuck you Charlie, and whatever story you worked yourself into. And fuck me too.

Love,

FM

If I put my ear to my wall, I can sometimes hear someone crying, especially at night. Other times that soft sound resembles the sound of water going down a drain. Or an axe hitting a dying tree. Maybe the sounds of rocks falling against each other or strings from a guitar being plucked apart.

A friend of mine once said he heard horses coming from the trunk of his car every time he started his engine.

A girl I know complains constantly of being kept awake from the sexual meowing of cats coming from her backyard window.

My mother has suffered from poor sleeping habits for years because she can hear everyone breathing within her house.

If you listen very carefully when you are in my office’s bathroom you can hear an electric saw followed by a deep cough.

When we’re alone we all hear things. Sometimes it’s our own imagination, our inner voice, our paranoia, and sometimes, it’s our reality.

So what am I getting at? I’m not really sure but I’m starting to think that my life lacks any amount of silence. Very rarely have I ever been absorbed in absolute and consuming silence.

There was one time, high in the mountains of upstate New York drunk, with a cigarette in my mouth, I stood on fresh snowfall and listened to absolutely nothing. No wind, no breaking sticks, no voices within a cabin filled with people close to me.

I hated every second of it. Quiet didn’t bring me peace or calmness. Instead my mind raced to questions on why a certain girl won’t let me kiss her lips.

Give me noise any day or night. It keeps me distracted from thinking too much. It keeps me frightened and unaware of everything else.

Give me sound forever because I’d rather not hear what she’s not saying to me.

Never def,

F.M.

P.S.

   
    

P.P.S.
Listen more.

Nothing I say here will make any amount of difference.

No great awakening of the mind and spirit will occur while reading these  electric words on a poorly lit screen.

I will make a series of mistakes and enter many self-inflicted pitfalls of my ignorance that I will report, and very few will care.

I am not a voice a reason, nor do I resemble anything revolutionary or startling.

 A promise can be made, right here and right now that this very speaker is not operating at full capacity and will be honestly portrayed as just that.

 But I’ll be fucked if this is some fat girl’s pity party.

 And by fucked I mean severly upset. And by fat girl, I mean the proverbial kind, not an actual Princess Piggy.

 Somewhere in the middle of writing this thing I was distracted by a couple fighting outside my window.

 They were both seated in an old Chrysler while what sounded like Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” blasted from their speakers, preventing from whatever verbal friction that was occurring, from being properly identified.

It was the music that got my attention as I looked down at them from my kitchen window. The women was the dominator, screaming at the man, who’s reciding hairline shined in the distance from a thick layer of persperation. His knuckles bulged from his fists as he gripped his steering wheel. She laid into him both with her voice (which even overthrew Our Purple Royalty’s own from time to time) and physically; forcing her balled up fingers to crash into the noticeably fragile man’s frame. I watched this beautiful pair for a long time. I watched the woman’s unrelenting wrath reduce the “driver” into a very insignificant and nervous thing.

Was I feeling pity for someone of my own creed? Without knowing what this argument was about, did I feel sorry for him because he was another man? Or was he deserving of this punishment he was receiving from the opposite sex?

  I’ll reserve my own judgments for the moment, as they are not necessary. But I can say that I was surprised when the angry harpy seemed to have a heart attack. I was even more surprised to see her better half smile during the process. He smiled the whole time, even when the paramedics came.

 I called them, by the way.

 Cheers,

Mandick

P.S. She was pretty hot.

The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Probably started by that bird that let out “I think he’s dead”. But as you can read, I am not; I was merely resting my eyes, lungs, and muscles in a fetal state amidst the cigarette butts and spillage. Stupid bitch. And stop with the poking already. I’m up.

Where oh where have I been? Well, the mighty Society has been burying me in long hours of office work and hard pleasures in my exercises in becoming a full-fledged Bastard. On one of my excursions with my mentor Maguire, I was introduced to a brown-bodied dancer who has been occupying my bed space in the wee hours and the not so wee.

We stays busy, you know?

Remind me to tell you about Maguire sometime soon. Any man of his age (ancient) and health (filled with ancient and long forgotten diseases in his downstairs) that can still troll the campuses for trim deserves at least a few paragraphs and thought.

Things have gotten stranger in stranger in this young Mandick’s life. The nights have stretched and the days are just as lucid. There have been whispers in the upper offices of many of the less important employees (ahem.) being relocated to the Southern offices of the Society. I don’t see how I could survive in the Hot if they make me move. But then again, the winters are getting worse here.

Something is changing. Go outside, either at night or during the day, and fill your nostrils. You can smell it a mile away. Is it for the better or for the worse? Fuck if I know. With my luck I’m probably going to get my ass handed to me something fierce.

My father once told me a great life lesson that I quickly forgot. I learned quickly to never take advice from a man fucking your mother, no matter how infrequently.

The stink of tomorrow is making the bile rise up a bit. We’ll talk soon.

F.M.

I’ve been having a lot of dreams about cats. Big ones, little ones, striped ones, and solid ones.

Last night I dreamt that I’m playing pool (and I never play pool, I’m handicapped in that area of gaming) with this big dude who I can’t see his face from behind the low hanging green lamp. Instead of balls there’s all these different sized and shaped glasses of liquid set up on the table in no particular fashion.

Whatever the game is, the big dude is waiting for me to take my shot/turn/whaterver. I’m more then a little confused but I bend forward and aim my stick at the tip of one of the large glasses filled with a cloudy brown liquid. I give it a good hit and it tips forward, spilling its insides on the green felt. The now-empty glass rolls knocking over a shot glass, a tumbler, and a mug also allowing its contents to get familiar with the table.

All of a sudden all of these cats start running and pulling themselves out from the tables holes at break neck speed.

They knock over the glasses without a care. They make their cat noises, meowing and hissing, some start to fight, some start to fuck Others start licking up at the moist green pool table.

But they never stop coming out of the holes. Very soon there are hundred of them filling the room.

The big dude just stands there gripping his stick. I notice his hands are all hairy, like a paw. He says something but his voice too high pitched and girly to make it out. Plus I can’t hear him over the mob of cats. I start to taste hair in my mouth.

That’s all I can remember. I think the table collapsed under the unbearable weight of feline and overturned glasses.

Did I mention that I’m allergic to pussy?

Don’t get any ideas.  

It’s been awhile, I know. Let me start from the beginning. Hi, I’m Freddie and I work for the Gentleman Bastards Society in the mailroom. I’m struggling through trying to be a serious writer dude and dealing with probably the worst heartbreak of my life. I’m trying to move forward while trying to go a little higher on the professional ladder. Also…what the fuck am I doing?  Scroll down and just read what I wrote before; it shouldn’t take all that long. If you check the dates I’ve been absent from this here place for a bit.

 Let me apologize for my absence. Then again…I have no idea if I’m writing this as a way of screaming disgusts at a brick wall or that hungry eyes are devouring this shit up like a three piece with sides. I pretty much doubt that latter portion.

 Never the less, the gaps between when I do write these things grow longer and longer for things we tend to call “good excuses”. Some interesting things have happened though, relatively speaking. I don’t want to bore you in one sitting so I’ll split the happening into a few entries. That works in my benefit when the boredom of my life sets in and crushes me entries like:

 “ Masturbated while standing up today, almost three pointed my juices into the garbage can, hit the rug instead. Clean up was miserable. Thinking about renting Blade Runner”

 So enjoy it while you can.

Oh, Gogol Fucking Bordello.
 
As I said earlier (scratch that, try months ago) this is a near religious experience for me. I’ve been to every NY show for the last two or so years and I have never been disappointed. This is the purest example of what rock is all about; sweat, booze, sex, the movement of feet and hips, and the greatest of fuck-all attitudes.

Well I saw them a bit ago at the NY sponsored Gypsy Fest. The band came in after two acts. First was a belly dancer show, which caused cock-shaking-spasms as she balanced a large serving plate covered in candles. Next up was the Hungry March Band (This is Gypsy Fest after all).

Picture forty or so Eastern Block guys and gals dressed in a mix of gypsy and marching band gear playing all types of brass and drums’ dancing like they were sick in the bones. I must admit that I did get a little disgusted when a female umbrella twirler on stage turned around to reveal a dude’s face. Gross; but great fucking show they put on. It’s a real small venue so you’re basically in the thick of it.
 
Ok, just a little more background. The first time I saw Gogol, I was given a ticket by a fellow Bastard on the novelty of the name and the act. I had no desire to see or hear this band. They were intro-ed with a drawn out performance by a group of Mongolian “throat-singers”. (Picture a bunch of Genghis Khan’s moaning very loudly)
 
But the second Gogol hit the stage and the first note hit; I jumped straight up in the air. I didn’t stop moving the entire night and quite possibly had a heart attack.

Before you are beneath the Earth, see this band. At this particular show, it was pure apeshit, a friend blacked out while watching the show but stood on his feet. Hutz rode his drum on the crowd and showed why he is the Iggy Pop of my generation. God bless them. You leave with a massive high and probably hurt for quite a few days, but it’s worth every drop of sweat and every sore muscle. This is rock at its core. If you ask any Society member; Gentleman Bastards and Gogol Bordello are synonymous

 We want more.

By the by, they have a show next Friday 1/20 in NY, look em up)

Before I go, I set up a myspace account very much against my own pride and will. Check out my ugly mug.

www.myspace.com/freddiemandick