If a Tiger farts in the Woods...

Personally, I would think that Tiger cutting the cheese would help to lower the perception that golf is a stuffy game for old white guys. Apparently this isn't the first time Tiger has let one loose during a match. Good for him. Between him dropping air biscuits and John Daly going on drunken rampages at Hooters, I could learn to finally learn to appreciate the sport.

UPDATE: God knows I can't resist the peepee caca so I came across this here video of another groundbreaker in the golf farting zeitgeist:

But this next vid shows how far golf still has to go to catch up with America's pastime:

Monkey Knife Fight

So I've been a little pre-occupied lately. But here's some of the stuff I've been up to:

Got some more intestine removed. And my appendix. Fun times. Actually, I always knew I would eventually have to have additional surgery after the last time I 'spilled my guts' because the previous instance was an emergency situation (my intestine had perforated and was leaking into my abdomen.) They couldn't take out everything that was messed up because they just had to keep me from, y'know, uh, dying. But this time I had been receiving medical treatment for the previous six months which gave them time to reduce the inflammation and study the problem thoroughly before plunging in.

They removed the appendix as a bonus. They should have taken it out last time, but, y'know, the emergency thing and sometimes things get overlooked in an emergency. Was there anything wrong with my appendix? No. It was perfectly healthy. But, oddly enough, surgeons tend to be, as a group, pretty smart folks. Go figure. See - if they can avoid having to slice you from stem to stern on multiple occasions, they do so. But the appendix can kill you if it breaks and it doesn't really appear to do much in the body do they yank it out just to be safe. In my case, still having my appendix created problems for the doctors studying me because my Crohn's affects me primarily in my terminal ileum. Now your appendix hangs out where the small and large intestines meet. That's where my Crohn's presents itself. So having to differentiate between my disease and my appendix presents a problem. The doctor's can't always tell on the CT scan if it's my appendix that's inflamed or my intestine. So now - problem solved. I ain't got no appendix getting in the way no mo'. And I'll never suffer an appendicitis. Yay for me.

Since they had so much time to prepare for this one, they really did it right. Which has it's downside - I have a perfectly straight, neat little scar that will probably heal so well you won't be able to see it in a few years. That kinda sucks. I really dug my old raggedy scar. I wanted to be able to tell my kids about the 'monkey knife fight' I was in when I received it. I guess I'll just enjoy the scar while I can.

Initially after the surgery it looked like a giant earthworm stapled to my belly. Which was cool:

The shitty thing about the surgery happening when it did was that I missed my beautiful baby sister's wedding to some German guy. In Tuscany. Woulda been a dream vacation. Stupid rotten intestines . . .

She said she'd send pics but so far all I've gotten is one of her and her bridesmaids making poo faces. C'mon, Rob! You've already been married two weeks! Get it together! LA is old hat by now. Focus on entertaining your brother!

I got outta the hospital on June 17th and have been home recovering ever since. I wish I had exciting viking stories to tell you but I have basically just been watching videos, playing video games, writing and slowly but surely rehabbing myself. I now take walks that last for several hours and have gotten my stamina up pretty good. I'm down to 165lbs so I really need to find an extra 30 lbs or so, but progress is being made. Been watching all of Man vs. Wild and that has kept me motivated.

Also just saw Pineapple Express and that really got me fired up about my book. It's a little more over-the-top than my story, but the energy is the same. You should watch it.

Wish I had something exciting to report. The party foe Belgian National Day is this weekend and I'll be dancing with the Flems. So that's cool. Next week I'll being going to the wrong coast for a week of California shenanigans from Tijuana all the way up to San Fran. Donkey shows and Alcatraz! Just what the doctor ordered. If I don't come back with at least one good story of mayhem and hijinks I will be sorely disappointed.

The Butcher Block Spa & Resort, Part I

"It's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like."

- Jackie Mason

So it seems I got a little unplanned R&R at Elmhurst Hospital the last week of January. My intestines went and burst a seam again. I had been having some soreness in my lower abdomen and it was swollen and hard to the touch so I went and saw Dr. Agarwal in his apartment/doctor's office to get it checked out.  The pain I was experiencing was different than any I had ever had with Crohn's disease. I was kinda thinking it might be appendicitis. It was not. The kind doctor immediately diagnosed it as an infected abscess in my bowels and I should check myself into the hospital ASAP. I told him I'd think about it.

Thinking about it didn't actually take very long as I awoke the next morning with an EXTREME amount of pain and quickly hauled ass to the ER at Elmhurst Hospital, or as I like to call it, The Butcher Block Spa & Resort.

A Room with a View

It's a fairly liberating feeling to be the only person not shackled to one's bed, yet somehow I felt left out. The ER at Elmhurst is chock full of souls so full of joie de vivre that they must be handcuffed to their beds to make sure they don't burst into song and dance at the pure joy of being there. I guess they didn't feel I was all that happy to be there. I did get a great view, however. My bed was parked perpendicular to the bed of a 'man of the earth' shall we say. And his exposed backside seemed to be covered with some sort of mud wrap. He seemed quite relaxed. Matter of fact, were I not aware that I was in a spa I might think he was passed out drunk. As an orderly wheeled me away to get some 'radiation therapy' I made him promise to give me the same view when I returned. He laughed.

I think he laughed because he knew what was awaiting my return from 'radiation therapy'. Man, this place is popular! It completely filled up while I was away and rather than give me my old space he parked my bed in between two other gentlemen's. Room Upgrade, baby! The Honeymoon Suite! Those guys must have been super VIPs because they both had police escorts.

A nurse came in and pulled the curtains closed. I was getting the velvet rope treatment! I admit it felt good. I asked her why. She replied, "To give you some privacy." I looked around at the six guys inside the curtained-off area with me and nodded.   Yeah! VIP, baby! They didn't really acknowledge me. I guess those guys just take being VIPs for granted. The nurse pulled out a thermometer and told me she wanted to take my rectal temperature. I tried to play it cool like I was used to getting special treatment all the time, but my naivete may have shown through a little when I asked her if she was going to give me flowers first.

- No.

- Can you at least lie to me and tell me you love me?

- No.

Not wishing to feel any more the rube, I rolled over and dropped my britches. She took my temperature and I must say that after that experience I'm not so sure why people are so hot to get VIP access in clubs. Celebrities sure do some weird things.

It was time to check me into my room. As I was being wheeled off to the elevator I heard some guy scream out.

- Y'all don't understand! I gots blood coming out my dick! Now gimme a cuppa ice!

I had to chuckle to myself. If he were a VIP like me, he'd probably get all the ice he wanted...

Baby, Slow Down

    The temperature had dropped considerably as the frigid winds that had swept out of the northeast brought the first big blast of whitestuff for the year.  Visibility was hardly thirty feet, but Bobby Helms' "Jingle Bell Rock" was blaring from the speakers and Mick felt pretty damn fine.

    - Baby, slow down. It's too dangerous to be going this fast.

    Mick turned and looked at Loretta, who looked a little worried. She was bundled up warmly and had the heater blasting directly on her. She was also eight months pregnant and due right around Christmas. There had been much joking about an "Immaculate Conception".

    - I don't wanna scare you, darlin. Of course.

    THUNK!

    Loretta screamed as Mick jammed on the brakes and began to slide. He turned into it and came to a stop in the oncoming lane of traffic. He held the wheel and stared out into the howling storm.

    Jingle bell time is a swell time 

    To go gliding in a one-horse sleigh 

    He was still breathing a little heavy as he eased the car onto the shoulder. As best as he could determine where it was anyway. He put the car in park.

    - Baby, what'd we hit?

    - I don't know, Loretta. Lemme go check.

    Mick opened the door and an icy blast came tearing into the coupe. He moved quickly out of the car, slammed the door shut behind him and walked to the front of the vehicle. Standing in the headlights he could see a sizable dent on the passenger side of the front fender. Dammit, he thought. Mick really loved his Pontiac. He'd bought it while still in high school and had only completed the restoration this past summer. Ten years spent fixing everything that was wrong with this old girl to make her perfect and he'd now gone and fucked it up. With a new baby on the way, there wouldn't be money to replace the fender and on a line worker's salary he couldn't afford full-coverage insurance.

    Mick looked a little closer at the dent. What was that? Blood? Ah, crap. He'd hit an animal. But, what the hell was it? Had to have been a pretty good size to make a dent like that. Moose weren't unheard of in southern Pennsylvania, but that would have had to have been a fairly small moose for him not to have seen it. Maybe a calf?

    - Mick, what is it? Is it bad?

    Loretta had gotten out and was walking towards him.

    - Get back in the car. It's cold out here. I just crunched the fender a little.

    She came beside him and viewed the damage.

    - What did we hit?

    - Maybe a moose or deer calf I think.

    He began to walk back the way they had come.

    - You think it's okay?

    - I'm gonna check. Baby, get back in the car.

    - I hope he ain't hurt bad.

    She came up beside and walked with him. They could see nothing but empty road and swirling snow ahead of them. They stood still for a moment and Mick listened to the night. Nothing but the howling wind.

     - Is it okay, baby?

    - I probably just clipped it and it took off.  If it was laying out there, it'd be wailing up a storm. Now get back in the car. It's too nasty out here for you and the baby.

    - I told you not to drive so fast.

    - I know. I'm sorry. Get back in the car.

    Loretta walked back and crawled into the Pontiac. Mick walked a bit further down the road, looking for any sign of the animal. He thought he might have heard something about ten yards up.

    - Ahhhhhh! Help me!

    It was faint, but it was definitely human. Mick ran quickly, slipped a little on an icy patch, jumped into his car, threw it into drive and sped away.

The Bathroom Window

It certainly is a beautiful day, I think as I gaze out the window onto the Brooklyn street below. Just one of those impossible to believe temperate and clear autumn New York afternoons that somehow seem so incongruous with New York's reputation.

    I spy an old pick-up truck parked on the street below. It's a 1979 Ford F-150, rusty and beat up. The same make and model of the first car I ever owned. My dad had given it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Of course it was eleven years old by then and had over two hundred thousand miles, but I was happy as a pig in stink to finally have my own wheels.

    I knock off the daydreaming that comes so easily when staring out the window on a beautiful day. I still have a lot of cleaning to do.

    I try to open the window to let in some of the cool air and to ease some of the less-than-pleasant odor permeating the room. It sticks. It's one of those old cantilevered jobs that are ubiquitous to the brownstones in these parts. I check and see if there have been nails or screws inserted into the casing to prevent it being opened. Nope. I grab the base and give another pull. Nothing. I press my hands directly on the glass and heave with all my might. The rubber gloves I'm wearing certainly give me a firm traction, but the window remains decidedly shut. I suspect the hundred-some years of repeated paintings might be the culprit and abandon the task. 

    It strikes me as very odd that someone would have a bathroom window that doesn't open. It's not like anyone could crawl through the little thing. The former owner must have been lazy or just not very handy. Not my problem. I'm not gonna be here very long and I'm sure he no longer cares.

- Honey, I'm home!

      The wife. I hadn't expected her home so early and was really hoping to have everything finished up before she got here. Oh well. I guess that I'll just have to have her help me out. The work will go faster with two instead of one. I grunt a response and can hear her climbing the stairs to come up and join me.

    I know that in the grand scheme of things she may help me clean this mess a bit, but ultimately she's just gonna end up making a mess of her own. For some reason this doesn't bother me. It's a beautiful day and I really enjoy cleaning. It relaxes me.

    I hear her walking down the hall towards the bathroom and take another glance out the window and then down at the pieces of her husband in the tub.

Handful of Nothing

Luke: Anybody here? Hey, Old Man. You home tonight? Can You spare a minute. It's about time we had a little talk. I know I'm a pretty evil fellow... killed people in the war and got drunk... and chewed up municipal property and the like. I know I got no call to ask for much... but even so, You've got to admit You ain't dealt me no cards in a long time. It's beginning to look like You got things fixed so I can't never win out. Inside, outside, all of them... rules and regulations and bosses. You made me like I am. Now just where am I supposed to fit in? Old Man, I gotta tell You. I started out pretty strong and fast. But it's beginning to get to me. When does it end? What do You got in mind for me? What do I do now? Right. All right.

[Gets on knees, closes eyes and begins to pray]
Luke: . On my knees, asking.
[Peeks up with one eye, waits. Then opens eyes and crosses arms]
Luke: . Yeah, that's what I thought. I guess I'm pretty tough to deal with, huh? A hard case.
[Clicks tongue]
Luke: . Yeah. I guess I gotta find my own way.
[Headlights shine through windows, backs up]
Dragline: Luke?
Luke: [Shakes head and smiles] Is that Your answer, Old Man? I guess You're a hard case, too.

The Story of Loquesto

When I was working at MARKT I would write these horrible little short storied about my co-workers. I don't mean they were bad (matter of fact some of them were really very good), but I would write about terrible, terrible things happening to those guys. It was just a way to pass the time really. 

I showed one of them to the guy I had written it about and he really liked it and told me it was okay if I let others read about how he was secretly an insane football player's ball-soaper. Yes, I wrote a story about a waiter who privately longs to work for a professional football team washing the players genitals. 

I thought for a little bit. If this was gonna be my first "published" piece of fiction I needed a nice nom de plume. There was a jar of Newman's Own spaghetti sauce in my fridge. On the back label there was a story purporting to be the "true story" of how this particular sauce came into existance. And it was signed "P. Loquesto Newman". I promptly typed "by K. Loquesto Pierson" on the short story and printed up a bunch of copies for my fellow waiters to read. And thus the Loquesto you've all come to know was born. I did it as a tribute to a man I have always greatly admired.

Paul Newman was my biggest hero. Even bigger than Bruce Willis. Cool Hand Luke is my favorite movie of all time.  Almost all of Mr. Newman's movies are in my favorite list. But it was more than his movies. It was how he lived his life. The profits from that jar of spaghetti sauce in my refrigerator all went to charity. The man gave hundreds of millions of dollars to try and make the world a better place. Most specifically children with cancer and other terminal illnesses. If you get a chance you should read Shameless Exploitation in Pursuit of the Common Good by Mr. Newman and A.E. Hotchner. It tells the story of their founding of Newman's Own as well as the establishment of the Hole-in-the-Wall-Gang camps for kids.

He was also well-known as a racecar driver. Most people would be surprised to know that this is a hobby he didn't take up until he was in his forties. I think of that when I start to feel I am getting too old to try and do new things with my life.

He and Joann Woodward were married 50 years and are touted as a Hollywood success story when it comes to marriages. Admittedly they both left their spouses for one another, but whichever of you out there who can stay married half a century, give countless millions to benefit sick children and provide hours of joy to millions of people the world over can feel free to start hurling stones.

My greatest dream was to meet the man and hopefully work with him in some capacity. I'll add this to the ever-growing list of things that just ain't gonna come true. If you'll excuse me now - I gotta go cry a bit (and maybe eat a few hard-boiled eggs.)

Keeping a Cool Hand,

Kyle

Kismet, Karma and Coincidence

"How a person masters his fate is more important than what his fate is."

- Wilhelm von Humbolt

Do you believe in signs? Do you? Really? I mean - really? I'd like to think I don't but sometimes Life has a way of really testing my limits. Enough so that occasionally, whether I like to admit it or not, I do in fact believe that something larger than myself is nudging me towards some destination.

Not that I have no choice in the matter. I can ignore all the portents and remain stuck in the mud of my life if I so desire.  But sometimes the messages I think I'm getting are so strong is seems rather ludicrous not to follow them and see where they lead.

Case in point: I have been rather occupied as of late with my attempt to write my very first full length book. I dare not call it a 'novel' and I am really pretty queasy about saying I'm 'writing'. Too often my time is spent sitting and staring at a blank computer screen, knowing what I want to say but having no idea how to say it. I know the story I'm writing and have the whole thing outlined, but hunkering down and actually putting words to the damn thing has proven quite difficult.

A few months ago I received an invitation to join LinkedIn - from what I can tell it's like MySpace for business professionals. I think the person that sent it to me accidentally included my email in the group invite. I have no recollection of actually joining this thing. But, apparently, I did because last night, via a message from LinkedIn, I received the following email:

Kyle,

I decided to ping you after much contemplation. Interesting thing... surfing the net, saw some of your work on GTC and was quite amuzed, in a good way. Thought to see how life is treating you and hope all is decent. Maybe you'd be interested in catching up.

From your bud in Houston (Spring Oaks Jr / Spring Woods Sr)

- Elaine [last name redacted]
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx@hotmail.com

PS: I hope that you're still writing. You had some wicked stories in school.

Here is where the augery got really to be too much for me. See - in my book I have a chapter where my protagonist is reflecting back upon his life and one of the things he thinks of is his first girlfriend back in sixth grade.  Because I am much too lazy to think of anything original, I used a true story from my own childhood and didn't even bother to change the girl's name. I figure the book will never see the light of day and even if it does (1) The girl will probably never read it and (2) The anecdote paints me in a bad light not the girl. I have been having my doubts about whether or not to change it just to be safe since I would have no idea how to contact her to see if she minds being mentioned in a silly adventure story. 

Yes, yes it would be too unbelievable if as I was writing it I get contacted by the girl herself. That would just border on the downright psychic. Elaine was not my first girlfriend (Not that I would have minded. She was pretty cute.) She was my first girlfriend's BFF.

And the part that's really freaking me out is the P.S. In all honesty I have no recollection whatsoever of writing stories in junior high. I mean, it's entirely possible (and given her email, I guess I did.) I just don't remember ever writing any and showing them to people. It comes down to some self-realization I have just recently acquired. I am not a film-maker. I am not an actor. I am not a writer. I am a story-teller. I always have been. Film and theatre and putting pen to page have just been the various mediums I have used to get the stories out. I suppose I don't recall writing any stories back then because I thought 'only writers write stories'. And I sure as heck wasn't a writer.  I'd be curious to see if she remembers any of the stories. Maybe she can remind me of some gem I can recycle later.

Reading the tea leaves,

Kyle