Son Of Kong

So, I’m revisiting things. Sue me. Just don’t blame me. You could always blame Bush. But really, blame King Kong. I come to bury Son of Kong, not to praise him. Or it. So, we all know that I love King Kong. Or I am fascinated by it in a more positive way, say as opposed to Honey Boo Boo. But as far as big gorillas go, Son of Kong gets no respect. It’s not right. King Kong has been remade a few times. He even pops up fighting Godzilla. Mighty Joe Young – the Edsel of big gorilla movies – even got remade. But poor Son of Kong, who appeared to be an orphan? Shit out of luck after one go round. And sure, it was a shitty movie. And who’s his mom? But lets look beyond the debacle, the shameless cash-in, and complete sham that was Son Of Kong, and lets pay respect to the majesty of Son Of Kong. It gave us….Son of (fill in the blank). When you want to let people know a film, TV show, comic book, rock band, or anything else is a lesser spun off version of a previous thing, it’s Son Of. It works only on crummy things. Frasier was a quality show, but if it had hung from a big fat prick, it would’ve been cancelled and labeled Son Of Cheers. George W Bush is Son of Bush. Put Son Of in front of anything, all expectations are lowered. I replaced a kitchen faucet once, and it was such a disaster that any venture into blind home repair gets dubbed Son of Kitchen Faucet. By me. In my head. Probably by my wife too. We never speak of it. But even with that, Son Of implies you’re around 50 to 90 years old. It’s an old timers cinematic homage to ridiculousness. Youngsters were treated to the equally compelling Breaking 2: Electric Boogaloo. A movie that actually outdid Son of Kong as a horrendously awful pointless sequel. So I guess since I wrote about King Kong, I will re-dub this Thinking of Kong 2: Electric Boogaloo. Fuck that. Son Of Kong. I can’t wait for Bride of Kong. You know they have the script written up for that somewhere.

The Things I Used To Do

Ageing for me has never been a gradual shift of opinion or perspective. There’s been no overwhelming concept of wisdom washing over me. Sure, I’ve learned things, but I think I’ve always had the good sense to recognize that while I have the ability to master complex areas of thought, that life is too short to chase a passing fancy down a rat hole. One can make a good living as a mechanic, surgeon or lab manager. I am not leaving this world as any of those. I gave up poking around under the hood of my car in my 20’s. Later than most, but good enough. I can change my oil, air filter, spark plugs and even tackle belts and hoses if the car is old and simple enough. Fairly early on I had the wisdom to pay people to do those things. I don’t know if I could reap any benefit from school anymore. Maybe. Not med school. Age has a more subtle way of letting me know that it’s made my acquaintance. It’s jarring to know adults who talk of 9/11 as a childhood event. Favorite teen songs are tripe from – oh, I don’t know – a couple of years ago. Or 15. Nowadays, I recall distantly moving my neck freely up and down and standing upright without a dull ache. I have learned over the last few years that age is a constant companion. A houseguest that slowly becomes annoying, and then just moves in. It’s here, and it’s too late to do anything about it. Because it’s getting late. Just yesterday it seems I could spend Sunday evening on the phone with Dad. He would ask how I was doing, and that part was important to him. You could hear that in his voice. The phone would be passed to my brother. Our deeper conversations happened via email or calls that weren’t for the whole lot. The Sunday call was catch up. Mom would ask of the kids, and none of us would talk about my other brother. If he were there he’d be in the background muttering. And after a while I would hang up, and think of when I could see them again. Scheduling is tough. I was cleaning the garage when my dad died. I had given permission to pull the plug on him the day before. The call had been both quick and too long to come, but it did. Both of my brother’s deaths had been via odd jarring phone calls. Mom is still here, but I’ve prepaid the funeral expenses. When I was younger I was never a huge athlete. I could run a decent clip before what – with age – would be revealed as asthma would shoot me down. I’ve put on a few pounds since dad died, as my jogging experiment triggered ankle and hip injuries. I hoped the doctor would find some easy therapy, but the repeated concept was to ease up and back into it. I’m not 25. I just think that way. I still want to travel, to wander far off places and not be thought of as an old guy or worse and on old guy who doesn’t think he’s old. I want to walk to the library, go fishing, push a shopping cart around the supermarket, go to a movie with my son. I want my son to be a boy maybe a tad longer than he’s going to be. I don’t want to sit in hospitals or funeral parlors. I don’t want to think my next car could be my last. But wanting is nice. The last few years have shown me that death does walk beside me. Age is already inside me.

In Defense of Sports - Pee Edition

I was asked to tell a story at a show, aptly titled In Defense of Sports. I am a sports fan, so I figured I could do something. Also, as it was people I like as funny people doing it, I was honored to be asked. And I was also a little confused. Not because there would be a bunch of Chicago Jack-offs up there. That can be insufferable. But the show is called In Defense of Sports. It’s hard to defend it a lot. Even the show promo card had the D and the picket fence – I can’t defend that. You see guys holding that up at a game and you know they are morons. Then there are the balls - sports balls, and right there in your face is the big soccer ball. Soccer? I went to a party in NYC a million years ago. A rave, people on ecstasy, I got a Schooly D record. Say I made a habit of that shit and I could have gone to one and smoked some weed that was dusted. I find myself on a chair, with Pele and Beckham on my lap, they’re naked, tonguing each other, Beckham’s giving Pele a hand job, and the chick who took her shirt off in the Olympics comes over and starts licking my left nipple, - I still wouldn’t give a fuck about Soccer. I’d watch. But fuck soccer. But that would never happen to me. It happens to them I am sure, but not with me and sports stars because no one ends up being in the same place as a sports star without paying. They don’t live in our world. I have never seen Joe Mauer at Home Depot; I have never run into Kevin Love at Rainbow. Never saw Kevin Garnett at Southdale. They have people like us do that stuff for them. Unless you’re a hot blonde, it is accidental. I was in a BK drive through and looked in the rear view to see in a gold Benz behind me – ML Carr. But he was retired, and it’s not the same. I have run into TV and movie people. I did meet and talk to Bruce Springsteen at a gig I did. Nice guy, short. Cool 64 Impala. I hate his music, but that was cool. But even he knows he’s no Thurman Munson. So here’s my special Sports story. It’s a boxing story. And it involves me, and not a star, but the reigning champ - and both of our dicks. I took a leak with Marvelous Marvin Hagler. It was in a hotel men’s room, not unlike the one at the BLB where the show was, but not nauseatingly filthy. It had three pissers. A guy was at one end, so I took the other, leaving the appropriate empty one between us. And he walks in – bald, and wearing sunglasses – and takes a leak right next to me. I know what you’re thinking, and NO – I did not look at his cock. Sure I wanted to. I pictured it then as now – massive, dark caramel colored shaft, purplish tinged mushroom head. All the while his forceful stream made the porcelain chime. I wanted to look but I got hold of my thoughts – He’s a boxer. A good one too. He beats the living shit out of people for a living. I just knew if I looked… It’s a sure bet I’d see he was pissing BLOOD. That would make me fucking sick. Blood out your ass? Fine: everyone has that. But, out your dick? Jesus, I would’ve keeled over. We did our biz, and the fucked up thing is a month or so later I’m walking down Boylston St, and who’s coming right at me in a Root Beer colored three-piece suit with a tall hot piece of action in an ankle length fur? SUGAR RAY LEONARD. That’s two champs in the flesh within weeks – didn’t cost me a fucking dime. No, I didn’t piss with him, so I can only imagine his mammoth prick, and bloody urine. They say these things come in threes, so its possible I played slots with Buster Douglas at Ho-Chunk and missed it. But still – two champs that I could’ve literally stuck out my hand and stabbed. So I keep it here in my heart – for a brief moment in time my cock did a synchronized whiz with Marvelous Marvin Hagler. And the other guy who probably remembers me as I do him – some asshole.