The other day Marybec was talking to Arlina on the phone and MB asked her if she wanted anything from New York. Arlina had only one request, "Get me some knockoff purses".
See in a magical land called Chinatown you can buy just about anything pretty cheap. Everything from fishheads, chintzy Chinese crap, and weapons are all being hocked by folks straight from the boat (no Mogwais though, I checked). They learn the words important to their trade,"DVD!DVD!" or "Coach FENDI Rouis Viton" and they are good to go.
But the one most important item for sale in Chinatown is Knockoff designer purses. It is a cottage industry that the Chinese have a complete control over. These folks left their jobs working in a sweat shop in Beijing to employ young Hispanic women in sweat shops in Queens producing knock off Louis Vuiton and Prada bags.
Now most places in Chinatown have what MB described as, "Obvious fakes" in plain view. They look kind of like the real thing but on close examination the are clear forgeries. an Lp instead of an LV etc. This is totally legal as they are not technically violating copyright laws. These are bought up by tourists and nearsighted women. But there are better ones...
So we were walking along and a man gave the usual "Fendi, Prada, Rouis Vuiton" schpeel to Marybec and she says, let me see. So he lead her to the back of their store that sold I Heart NY t-shirts and Chinese tourist crap to the back. You moved through a small opening concealed by silk Chinese brocade dresses and you enter a back room filled with women and purses, REALLY believable purses. The woman who ran it asked me to wait outside. She was jumpy and agitated. She kept looking out through the "door" of dresses awaiting to close it at any moment. Marybec bought a bag for Arlina and we continued on.
A little further on a second woman approached Marybec and offered purses. MB thought that she would just be taken into another hidden room at the back of the store. Oh no.
The girl told us to follow her. This girl looked even more nervous, like a wounded high strung animal. She was communicating with someone in Chinese with her Nextel walky-talky. Our journey to wherever we were going was stopped when she said, "policeman" and pointed to a cop car parked in front of us. We waited for a few minutes and then she beckoned us to follow her. She led us through several streets and corners and finally into the inevitable dark alleyway. I figured she would take us to a van where they were selling them right out of there. On our way I saw just how many people were doing the same thing we were doing. We watched ladies coming out of backrooms and Chinese people on Nextel phones. This must be a multi-million dollar industry for these people. She opened a grated door on the back of shady looking building .. 5 and beckoned us inside.
Now a smart person would have left, but we were frankly curious about what was in that room. I figured a smoky warehouse full of Chinese gangsters smoking opium. No.
When we stepped through the doors and down some steps and we were greeted by a sight I was honestly not expecting.
A room, about the size of a basketball court, full of ping pong tables with dozens of people furiously playing ping pong. WHAT?!!
So the nervous girl led us to side room as we avoided flying ping pong balls. In this room were many different kinds of purses. Marybec picked the purse she wanted and asked the girl for the price. The girl looked really nervous. She wanted to get us out of there as quickly as possible. She would not even haggle with Marybec. So she paid the price and we took the bag and stepped out of this world of purses and ping pong.
Later, Marybec was examining the purses and came to a startling conclusion. These were not knockoffs...these were the real deal. They had all the packaging, tags, paperwork, numbered editions, linings, and labels of the real thing. We had not purchased knockoff purses...we had purchased stolen merchandise. The women's nervousness suddenly made perfect sense. They weren't maybe violating copyright laws, they were fencing stolen goods. "Fallen off the back of a truck" indeed.
So, the moral is Chinatown is a wacky land full of stolen shit, and the black market is not hard to find.
So Arlina, you are not getting knockoffs my dear. You are getting real designer purses.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Don't Puchkin me, 'cause I'm close to the edge
I was reading this book about duels.
I read this story about the Russian Poet Alexander Pushkin. He was a notorious womanizer and fought many a duel, in fact he was killed in one by the Spanish Ambassador's aide de camp because the Spanish guy was pluggin Pushkins wife.
Anywho, there was this other duel he fought with this guy who'se wife he, Pushkin, was plugging. The guy challenged him and Puchkin showed up with only a bag of cherries. Puchkin ate the cherries and spit them at the guy while the guy, pissed off kept shooting at him. After he had shot at Puchkin 5 times, Pushkin asked him, "are you satisfied?". the guy, humiliated and exhausted said yes. Puchkin spat one last cherrie pit and walked away into the Russian night.
That's balls. Big ones.
I'm not saying that people should fight duels today, though i know there are some folks I would want to stand toe to toe with. But now a days people can say and do whatever they want and there is little or no consequences. I think maybe you'd think twice before calling someone out. On the other hand Tom Cruise would have challenged Joey and I to a duel because I've called him a talentless midget with an ass face and Joey has called him Child-Eating crazy. Then again I could just slap him, put him in a paper bag and toss him off the Varrazano bridge into Sheephead bay.
I read this story about the Russian Poet Alexander Pushkin. He was a notorious womanizer and fought many a duel, in fact he was killed in one by the Spanish Ambassador's aide de camp because the Spanish guy was pluggin Pushkins wife.
Anywho, there was this other duel he fought with this guy who'se wife he, Pushkin, was plugging. The guy challenged him and Puchkin showed up with only a bag of cherries. Puchkin ate the cherries and spit them at the guy while the guy, pissed off kept shooting at him. After he had shot at Puchkin 5 times, Pushkin asked him, "are you satisfied?". the guy, humiliated and exhausted said yes. Puchkin spat one last cherrie pit and walked away into the Russian night.
That's balls. Big ones.
I'm not saying that people should fight duels today, though i know there are some folks I would want to stand toe to toe with. But now a days people can say and do whatever they want and there is little or no consequences. I think maybe you'd think twice before calling someone out. On the other hand Tom Cruise would have challenged Joey and I to a duel because I've called him a talentless midget with an ass face and Joey has called him Child-Eating crazy. Then again I could just slap him, put him in a paper bag and toss him off the Varrazano bridge into Sheephead bay.
Desi
When I was growing up there were only two Hispanics I ever saw on TV, Desi Arnaz and Speedy Gonzalez. Though Speedy was the fastest mouse in all of Mexico and showed that stupid gato what's what, Desi was the one that we all looked up too.
Think about the television landscape of the 1950's. White, suburban, boring ass suburbanites who did boring shit and were lame. Then came Desi and his crazy wife Lucy. The show was funny, no doubt. But think about the climate of the culture at the time. Not exactly open minded about Hispanics and "White folks" being married. And here was this show where this Cuban band leader and his wife lived their zany lives in New York city.
While the portrayal of Desi was a broad character it was by no means denigrating. though he did sometimes look like a buffoon, Lucy and Ethel looked much more foolish and no one would say the show was anti-Kracy Redhead. No, he was cool and elegant. Desi always looked sharp in his suits, tuxes, and smoking jackets. Hair in the brilliant quaff that would be rivalled only by Tony Curtis or Elvis. The way he walked, talked, and even smoked was pure cool. He was like a Cuban James Dean, except you could understand what he said and Desi could drive better.
He was also a gifted straightman. Lucy was brilliant, but a zany character is only as brilliant as their straightman. Vivian Vance and Desi were both amazing straightmen, working as a sounding board for Lucy. But Desi was funny on his own. A raising of his eyebrows and cursing in Spanish whenever Lucy would crash the show. Good stuff.
Not to mention his musical talent. His band was awesome. Have you ever listened to Babalu, Cuban Pete, or the Lady in Red outside the context of the show. His band was one of the great groups of the Cuban big band era. The mix of Latin rhythms and Desi's sexy voice was perfection. Download his songs and listen, or if not there are a few of his CD's on Amazon.
Desi was also a pioneer in his industry. He and Lucy founded Desilu studios as the first independent television production company working outside the studio system. He didn't want to be controlled by the networks, so he took his destiny in his own hands. He would produce the shows and sell them to the networks and local affiliates thereby inventing syndication. Besides I love Lucy, they also produced Mission: Impossible, Star Trek, the Untouchables, Dragnet and many more.
I know he had his problems. I know he cheated on Lucy. alot. I know he had a drinking problem too and could be a perfectionist. I'm not saying the guy is a saint.
What I do think is that Desi busted open the door for those that would come after. He isn't just an icon for Cubans, but for Latinos everywhere. He is one of our most enduring icons like Cantinflas, Zorro, or Celia Cruz. Desi was not a bandito, or an illiterate peasant like all other Hispanics were shown to be back then, just waiting around for John Wayne or Gary Cooper to shoot them in the face. He was an ultra-cool bandleader who only wanted a hot meal when he came home and for his wife not to have filled the living room up with chickens or whatever.
Also, Marybec says he is Muy Caliente. Aye! Aye!
Think about the television landscape of the 1950's. White, suburban, boring ass suburbanites who did boring shit and were lame. Then came Desi and his crazy wife Lucy. The show was funny, no doubt. But think about the climate of the culture at the time. Not exactly open minded about Hispanics and "White folks" being married. And here was this show where this Cuban band leader and his wife lived their zany lives in New York city.
While the portrayal of Desi was a broad character it was by no means denigrating. though he did sometimes look like a buffoon, Lucy and Ethel looked much more foolish and no one would say the show was anti-Kracy Redhead. No, he was cool and elegant. Desi always looked sharp in his suits, tuxes, and smoking jackets. Hair in the brilliant quaff that would be rivalled only by Tony Curtis or Elvis. The way he walked, talked, and even smoked was pure cool. He was like a Cuban James Dean, except you could understand what he said and Desi could drive better.
He was also a gifted straightman. Lucy was brilliant, but a zany character is only as brilliant as their straightman. Vivian Vance and Desi were both amazing straightmen, working as a sounding board for Lucy. But Desi was funny on his own. A raising of his eyebrows and cursing in Spanish whenever Lucy would crash the show. Good stuff.
Not to mention his musical talent. His band was awesome. Have you ever listened to Babalu, Cuban Pete, or the Lady in Red outside the context of the show. His band was one of the great groups of the Cuban big band era. The mix of Latin rhythms and Desi's sexy voice was perfection. Download his songs and listen, or if not there are a few of his CD's on Amazon.
Desi was also a pioneer in his industry. He and Lucy founded Desilu studios as the first independent television production company working outside the studio system. He didn't want to be controlled by the networks, so he took his destiny in his own hands. He would produce the shows and sell them to the networks and local affiliates thereby inventing syndication. Besides I love Lucy, they also produced Mission: Impossible, Star Trek, the Untouchables, Dragnet and many more.
I know he had his problems. I know he cheated on Lucy. alot. I know he had a drinking problem too and could be a perfectionist. I'm not saying the guy is a saint.
What I do think is that Desi busted open the door for those that would come after. He isn't just an icon for Cubans, but for Latinos everywhere. He is one of our most enduring icons like Cantinflas, Zorro, or Celia Cruz. Desi was not a bandito, or an illiterate peasant like all other Hispanics were shown to be back then, just waiting around for John Wayne or Gary Cooper to shoot them in the face. He was an ultra-cool bandleader who only wanted a hot meal when he came home and for his wife not to have filled the living room up with chickens or whatever.
Also, Marybec says he is Muy Caliente. Aye! Aye!
Alan Alda doesn't like Nathan Lane
Our friend Rebecca Childs is visiting us this week (yeah, friends!) so today we decided to drive out to see the Hamptons on Eastern Long island.
Now we had never been out that far and we were really excited about seeing this playground of the rich and famous. I know that its more of a summer place, but who knows. Maybe there was some December soiree at Diddys or something.
So first stop on our way there was Amityville to see the town where the Amityville horror thing supposedly went down. The address of the house is unlisted but we drove around in the area where the house would be and boy oh boy is it creepy. There is something inherently creepy about New England, which is why most horror movies are set here. This area of Long Island was founded in the 1640's so there is plenty of town for crazy shit to go down. Especially ax murders. The whole Western part of the town was underwater because of a rain storm the night before. This impeded our exploring some of the neighborhood...creepy shit.
So we got to Southampton and it wasn't what I expected. It didn't look like some swanky resort town, or even a beach community. It looked like a small New England town with a courthouse, churches, and small mom and pop shops. There were some chic boutiques and artisan cheese store where I saw with my own eyes a guy spend $500 on a small Sopresetta salami and half a wheel of artisan cheese. FUCK! But these shops were few and far between.
It suddenly struck me what this Hampton thing was all about. The hip celebs and rich fucks that live in New York travel out there to pretend they live a quiet small town life. Of course them being dumb celebs and rich fucks they bring their artisan cheeses,organic tofu, and cocaine with them. It was all kind of sad, this charade these people put on badly.
We stopped at a diner to have lunch. I was eating my gyro when I looked up and saw Alan Alda. The real Alan Alda. But he didn't look like Hawkeye Pierce or Ricky Roma. He looked like a haggard old man, too cold inside to take his jacket off. He was talking quite animatedly to the lady he was with about how "Fucking Nathan Lane" always beats him out of awards the Tony's, the golden globes. He looked upset about this, and "Fucking Nathan Lane".
it made me think, wow without his makeup and costumes he is just another insecure actor bitching about recognition in a town where they pretend to be just regular people with real problems. I know I am constantly being hampered in what I want to do by "Fucking Nathan Lane". The other day "Fucking Nathan Lane" made me late for class by pushing me down in the subway and hoping in the car ahead of me. Just yesterday "fucking nathan Lane" set a bag of dog shit on fire on my door step rang the doorbell and ran away. But don't you worry dear friends, I got his number. When "Fucking Nathan Lane" pours out his Cap'n Crunch cereal tomorrow, he is going to find that his crunch berries have been replaced by my cat Abigail's turds. then you will hear "FUCKING JACK TOMAS"! Echo through the great white way. And Alan Alda and I will laugh.
Now we had never been out that far and we were really excited about seeing this playground of the rich and famous. I know that its more of a summer place, but who knows. Maybe there was some December soiree at Diddys or something.
So first stop on our way there was Amityville to see the town where the Amityville horror thing supposedly went down. The address of the house is unlisted but we drove around in the area where the house would be and boy oh boy is it creepy. There is something inherently creepy about New England, which is why most horror movies are set here. This area of Long Island was founded in the 1640's so there is plenty of town for crazy shit to go down. Especially ax murders. The whole Western part of the town was underwater because of a rain storm the night before. This impeded our exploring some of the neighborhood...creepy shit.
So we got to Southampton and it wasn't what I expected. It didn't look like some swanky resort town, or even a beach community. It looked like a small New England town with a courthouse, churches, and small mom and pop shops. There were some chic boutiques and artisan cheese store where I saw with my own eyes a guy spend $500 on a small Sopresetta salami and half a wheel of artisan cheese. FUCK! But these shops were few and far between.
It suddenly struck me what this Hampton thing was all about. The hip celebs and rich fucks that live in New York travel out there to pretend they live a quiet small town life. Of course them being dumb celebs and rich fucks they bring their artisan cheeses,organic tofu, and cocaine with them. It was all kind of sad, this charade these people put on badly.
We stopped at a diner to have lunch. I was eating my gyro when I looked up and saw Alan Alda. The real Alan Alda. But he didn't look like Hawkeye Pierce or Ricky Roma. He looked like a haggard old man, too cold inside to take his jacket off. He was talking quite animatedly to the lady he was with about how "Fucking Nathan Lane" always beats him out of awards the Tony's, the golden globes. He looked upset about this, and "Fucking Nathan Lane".
it made me think, wow without his makeup and costumes he is just another insecure actor bitching about recognition in a town where they pretend to be just regular people with real problems. I know I am constantly being hampered in what I want to do by "Fucking Nathan Lane". The other day "Fucking Nathan Lane" made me late for class by pushing me down in the subway and hoping in the car ahead of me. Just yesterday "fucking nathan Lane" set a bag of dog shit on fire on my door step rang the doorbell and ran away. But don't you worry dear friends, I got his number. When "Fucking Nathan Lane" pours out his Cap'n Crunch cereal tomorrow, he is going to find that his crunch berries have been replaced by my cat Abigail's turds. then you will hear "FUCKING JACK TOMAS"! Echo through the great white way. And Alan Alda and I will laugh.
Scream Like an Asshole
The other night I went to McDonalds, because MB and I had no food in the house, and there was this 14 year old kid who would hide behind a parked car and would leap out in front of oncoming cars and scream at the top of his lungs "WATCH OUT!!". He thought this was very very funny. He was accompanied by his 8 year old brother seemed to be hoping that his brother would get hit by a car. He also had his older sister there who was too busy making out with her boyfriend to care too much. She would simply say,(Brooklyn accent) "You're fucking stupid!". When I say he yelled at the top of his lungs, I'm not kidding. I could hear his vocal chords tearing and it echoed throughout the street. He would also scream watch out at passing pedestrians. When I got closer he yelled it at me. When I ignored him and didn't react the way he wanted he yelled it again and again. So i got our food and was heading back and he again began to screech "Watch out at!!" at me. so I turned around and yelled back:
"Do you have some kind of disease that makes you scream like an asshole?"
He made a "oh that's so funny" dramatic movement which caused him to slip on the ice and bang his head on the parked car. The brother, sister, and her dumb boyfriend all laughed at him too. So did I. If I could have pee'd in his mouth I would have.
"Do you have some kind of disease that makes you scream like an asshole?"
He made a "oh that's so funny" dramatic movement which caused him to slip on the ice and bang his head on the parked car. The brother, sister, and her dumb boyfriend all laughed at him too. So did I. If I could have pee'd in his mouth I would have.
Cyborguesa con Queso
In my media theory classes we read this stuff that said that we humans, through our technology have become cyborgs. At first I thought, that's nuts...but think about it.
Now it's easy to see how someone like Sam Havens, our old Drama teacher is a cyborg, because he has an artificial hip and a pacemaker. There is an obvious parallel there as he clearly has machine parts. But we can extend it further. Take my mother who wears a hearing aid to help her fully understand the world. Is she not also a cyborg? Yes, i think you can clearly draw a line between her need for using the hearing aid and her ability to function in society.
So clearly we do have cyborgs living among us by the Six Million Dollar man definition of the word. But let's extend the metaphor further. What about the rest of us that don't have literal machine parts of our bodies but still are as dependent on technologies that they are, in a sense, a part of us.
Here in New York City people are as plugged into technology as anybody in the world could be. Everyone, barring the homeless, has a cell phone, ipod/cd player, personal computer, pda's, handheld games, digital cameras etc. On the subway you see everyone with headphones in the ear, doing shit on a pda-computer-cell phone. You have to carry everything on your person because you can't use your car like a portable storage device like you do in Houston or LA. A popular thing here are those tiny bluetooth headsets that go in your ear and have an external mic (these folks even look like cyborgs). The subway carries them where they need to go, replacing their feet as cars do in Houston and elsewhere.
I come home and plug in the computer, get my information on the TV, talk to joey on my cell phone etc.
You say, "yeah Jack, but I COULD live without all this stuff."
True, you could. But is it really feasible? You don't need the iPod, but a cell phone is damn near a necessity. Unless your some kind of hippie that only rides his bike and has a hemp powered lawn mower or whatever, you depend on technology everyday, and we are doing so more and more. Credit cards, purchasing on the Internet (hell, access to the Internet is a necessity!) etc is not a choice anymore. I registered for classes yesterday and I could not register on paper, only online.
I'm not one of those people that thinks robots will replace us or any of that crap. I know that we humans have lots of stuff a machine could never have mind, soul, creativity etc. But in a very real sense we are cyborgs. I've been obsessed with this idea for several weeks now. Marybec has taken to calling me a cyborguesa con queso. Umm...a hamburguesa con queso sounds good. See, a robot can't eat. I can because i'm just a metaphorical cyborg. Suck it Johnny 5.
Now it's easy to see how someone like Sam Havens, our old Drama teacher is a cyborg, because he has an artificial hip and a pacemaker. There is an obvious parallel there as he clearly has machine parts. But we can extend it further. Take my mother who wears a hearing aid to help her fully understand the world. Is she not also a cyborg? Yes, i think you can clearly draw a line between her need for using the hearing aid and her ability to function in society.
So clearly we do have cyborgs living among us by the Six Million Dollar man definition of the word. But let's extend the metaphor further. What about the rest of us that don't have literal machine parts of our bodies but still are as dependent on technologies that they are, in a sense, a part of us.
Here in New York City people are as plugged into technology as anybody in the world could be. Everyone, barring the homeless, has a cell phone, ipod/cd player, personal computer, pda's, handheld games, digital cameras etc. On the subway you see everyone with headphones in the ear, doing shit on a pda-computer-cell phone. You have to carry everything on your person because you can't use your car like a portable storage device like you do in Houston or LA. A popular thing here are those tiny bluetooth headsets that go in your ear and have an external mic (these folks even look like cyborgs). The subway carries them where they need to go, replacing their feet as cars do in Houston and elsewhere.
I come home and plug in the computer, get my information on the TV, talk to joey on my cell phone etc.
You say, "yeah Jack, but I COULD live without all this stuff."
True, you could. But is it really feasible? You don't need the iPod, but a cell phone is damn near a necessity. Unless your some kind of hippie that only rides his bike and has a hemp powered lawn mower or whatever, you depend on technology everyday, and we are doing so more and more. Credit cards, purchasing on the Internet (hell, access to the Internet is a necessity!) etc is not a choice anymore. I registered for classes yesterday and I could not register on paper, only online.
I'm not one of those people that thinks robots will replace us or any of that crap. I know that we humans have lots of stuff a machine could never have mind, soul, creativity etc. But in a very real sense we are cyborgs. I've been obsessed with this idea for several weeks now. Marybec has taken to calling me a cyborguesa con queso. Umm...a hamburguesa con queso sounds good. See, a robot can't eat. I can because i'm just a metaphorical cyborg. Suck it Johnny 5.
Asaulted Nuts
Another sordid tale from the life of Jack Tomas.
Once upon a time in a magical land called Pasadena, a young Jack Tomas convinced a girl to be his girlfriend. Now this is not the godlike comic genius and man about town that is the 28 year old Jack Tomas. Ney. (Yeah, I said Ney, deal with it! )This was a nerdy 15 year old awkward piece of soggy cheesecake that had never so much as kissed a girl and all of a sudden here was a girl who would let him touch her cake and ice cream.
This tale, was long before all that though. This was early on, when our hero was just feeling his way and trying to figure this thing called dating out for the first time. The girl was Christine, who you may know from other Jack Tomas tales such as "I'm being raped by a basset Hound!" and "That bitch ran me over with her car at Homecoming!".
So, it was the first week of summer and Christine came over to go swimming with me in my pool. Now this was DEFINITELY a new one on me. A real girl, not one in a porn, that was right there in a bathing suit. So, we swam all day together. We didn't do anything real sexy, a kiss or hug, whatever. However there was a fire in the hull if you know what I mean.
The guys will understand what I'm talking about. See, when you're 15 you have about as much control over your erections as you'd have over a baboon hopped up on Crystal Meth holding a baseball bat in a room full of bunnies, (Baboons and cute bunnies are natural enemies). Also back then I couldn't really control the old cannon from firing too early into Fort Fruit of the Looms. Today, I can control it like a Jedi master controls a lightsaber. So, needless to say having a half naked girl that close to me caused me to have a massive erection for like 5 hours, and I really couldn't hide it very well in my Hawaiian print swim trunks.
So, we got out of the pool and were sitting watching TV, when all of a sudden I had a strong, horrific, stabbing pain in my testicles. I mean it FUCKING HURT, like I had never had 'Ol Han and Chewie hurt. Now, I knew I was in trouble. A few years before my dog Bruno had tortioned his testicle and they had had to remove it. My mother, a pediatrician if you didn't know, had explained to me that if the teste dies (EEK!) it must be removed or else. So I had a decision to make:
1) Do I tell my mom about my inflamed extremely painful testicles and possibly save the nut
or
2) Do i risk it, save my dignity but lose my nut.
Would would you have done?
"Mooooom!" I cried.
So my mother examines my testicles, with a worried Christine in the next room. She said they were extremely swollen and clearly they hurt me. So she calls my uncle Raul, a urologist (For you St. Thomas people he is my cousin, Alaine Garcia's dad). Raul rushes over from his office and tells me to drop trow. He puts on his rubber gloves and kneads my balls like two hard boiled eggs in a tube sock. My mother is in the room, consulting this examination of my balls. Christine is in the next room, within earshot.
"Have you had an erection today Jackie?" Asked Raul.
"Umm...yeah...for a while." I said.
"Well...you have blue balls Jackie." Said Raul.
"What?" I said.
"See, when you have an erection the semen comes down the urethra to get ready to ejaculate. When that doesn't happen for a while and more sperm comes down it backs up into the seminal vesicles causing pain and swelling" Said Raul quoting from the Urologists guide to dumb teenage ball trouble.
"So...what do I do? It really hurts." I said.
"Well, take two Tylenol and go jerk off." Said Raul making a Jerking off motion.
He then hands the rubber gloves to my mom, walks out the door, gets on his Harley and rides away like a Urological Easy Rider.
So there I am with my mother and Christine knowing I have to go upstairs and High Five Yul Bryner. So I'm trying to be non-chalant, right, attempting to casually make my way upstairs. Then my mother says:
"Well you better go to the bathroom and..." She tugs on the index finger of the rubber glove like one might on a wiener.
I then began my walk of shame passed my mother and my new girlfriend to go upstairs and clean my clogged pipes.
The moral of the story:
Sometimes having a family full of doctors really sucks
and
I'm glad I don't have to deal with dating anymore.
Once upon a time in a magical land called Pasadena, a young Jack Tomas convinced a girl to be his girlfriend. Now this is not the godlike comic genius and man about town that is the 28 year old Jack Tomas. Ney. (Yeah, I said Ney, deal with it! )This was a nerdy 15 year old awkward piece of soggy cheesecake that had never so much as kissed a girl and all of a sudden here was a girl who would let him touch her cake and ice cream.
This tale, was long before all that though. This was early on, when our hero was just feeling his way and trying to figure this thing called dating out for the first time. The girl was Christine, who you may know from other Jack Tomas tales such as "I'm being raped by a basset Hound!" and "That bitch ran me over with her car at Homecoming!".
So, it was the first week of summer and Christine came over to go swimming with me in my pool. Now this was DEFINITELY a new one on me. A real girl, not one in a porn, that was right there in a bathing suit. So, we swam all day together. We didn't do anything real sexy, a kiss or hug, whatever. However there was a fire in the hull if you know what I mean.
The guys will understand what I'm talking about. See, when you're 15 you have about as much control over your erections as you'd have over a baboon hopped up on Crystal Meth holding a baseball bat in a room full of bunnies, (Baboons and cute bunnies are natural enemies). Also back then I couldn't really control the old cannon from firing too early into Fort Fruit of the Looms. Today, I can control it like a Jedi master controls a lightsaber. So, needless to say having a half naked girl that close to me caused me to have a massive erection for like 5 hours, and I really couldn't hide it very well in my Hawaiian print swim trunks.
So, we got out of the pool and were sitting watching TV, when all of a sudden I had a strong, horrific, stabbing pain in my testicles. I mean it FUCKING HURT, like I had never had 'Ol Han and Chewie hurt. Now, I knew I was in trouble. A few years before my dog Bruno had tortioned his testicle and they had had to remove it. My mother, a pediatrician if you didn't know, had explained to me that if the teste dies (EEK!) it must be removed or else. So I had a decision to make:
1) Do I tell my mom about my inflamed extremely painful testicles and possibly save the nut
or
2) Do i risk it, save my dignity but lose my nut.
Would would you have done?
"Mooooom!" I cried.
So my mother examines my testicles, with a worried Christine in the next room. She said they were extremely swollen and clearly they hurt me. So she calls my uncle Raul, a urologist (For you St. Thomas people he is my cousin, Alaine Garcia's dad). Raul rushes over from his office and tells me to drop trow. He puts on his rubber gloves and kneads my balls like two hard boiled eggs in a tube sock. My mother is in the room, consulting this examination of my balls. Christine is in the next room, within earshot.
"Have you had an erection today Jackie?" Asked Raul.
"Umm...yeah...for a while." I said.
"Well...you have blue balls Jackie." Said Raul.
"What?" I said.
"See, when you have an erection the semen comes down the urethra to get ready to ejaculate. When that doesn't happen for a while and more sperm comes down it backs up into the seminal vesicles causing pain and swelling" Said Raul quoting from the Urologists guide to dumb teenage ball trouble.
"So...what do I do? It really hurts." I said.
"Well, take two Tylenol and go jerk off." Said Raul making a Jerking off motion.
He then hands the rubber gloves to my mom, walks out the door, gets on his Harley and rides away like a Urological Easy Rider.
So there I am with my mother and Christine knowing I have to go upstairs and High Five Yul Bryner. So I'm trying to be non-chalant, right, attempting to casually make my way upstairs. Then my mother says:
"Well you better go to the bathroom and..." She tugs on the index finger of the rubber glove like one might on a wiener.
I then began my walk of shame passed my mother and my new girlfriend to go upstairs and clean my clogged pipes.
The moral of the story:
Sometimes having a family full of doctors really sucks
and
I'm glad I don't have to deal with dating anymore.
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