The Coastal Post - March, 1998

The Flood, The BJ That Got Away, Slick Willy And Slymack, The Worst Week Of Their Life

By Stephen Simac

The first week of February roared in like a tiger. The Chinese Year of the Tiger. Clawing, man-eating, creek-flooding, mud-sliding El Nio ripping away the curtain in front of the man.

Of course, the president had it worse than me, and we both had it better than people who died, or lost their homes and belongings. Really, neither of us have anything to whine about, unless it's to joke about it. The blessings of bad times come from laughing about them later. Much later, in our cases.

First the president, whose sex life enthralls the media but barely concerns the populace. As long as the economy is booming, we don't care about Bill's boners, maybe it's even up because he was.

And really, why should we care? Other than voyeuristic titillation, what business is it of ours? Right-wing media pundits despise our lack of morality because we don't demand the impeachment of a popularly elected president, based on gossip.

Even if it is true, it just shows how far you can go with big lips and presidential knee pads. The media has no morality, best they don't prescribe it for the rest of us.

I write for the Coastal Post because it's a brave little paper, yadayadaya, but mainly because nobody else will print me. I appreciate the paper, the good thing about it, it will piss you off now and then. Last month it got me.

Fear and loathing of editor

When I picked up the issue, I could see one of my stories got fuktup by the typesetter. Now that pisses me off. Typesetting like cleaning is a thankless and unrewarding job. That's why it's hard to keep 'em, but you gotta have 'em.

They don't get credit when they do well, but in this case, she could have signed on as co-author. She rewrote the first several paragraphs to excise some naughty words.

Nothing really obscene, oral sex isn't even real sex by executive order. Obscene is babies being bombed, kids killing kids, the rape of the planet, and the uncaring wealth and crushing poverty here.

Mainly she made bland what I wrote as spicy. Pulled out the chilies and put in dill. The real thing is on the internet.

The British are here

Anyway, I've had worse editors, like the English bloke on my junior college paper, The Phoenix. Couldn't write his way into a paper bag, but wanted to be a journalist. That meant he got made editor-typesetter. He was jealous of me and the column they let me write, a glamorous job I demanded. We didn't like each other, but he had the power of typesetting my words. After he mangled one column by sprinkling paragraphs around in no apparent order, our professor pulled him off the hot lead. I would have dipped him in it.

Unfortunately he ended up as an editor at The Alligator, the student newspaper of the University of Florida which I also wrote on. He did one rewrite I still cringe over. Nobody ever suspects the editor, when the words are fuktup.

His worse blow came when for some inexplicable reason, The Phoenix professor sent him a state award I had won to give to me. When I found this out on a visit home, I went back to Gainesville and confronted the bloke. He claimed to have lost it.

He could tell I was ready to become a violent American, and he scuttled away. I should have called immigration. Now he's an editor on the National Enquirer. Where's the justice?

No justice, no peace

We can understand that our personality can repel as well as attract. Accept enemies along with friends as the inevitable consequence of becoming ourselves. Honestly examine our soul and knows its flaws, those gleaming cracks in smoky crystal which make us uniquely human.

We seldom laugh until later, but it's like a ray of sunshine in a gray week of floods when we do.

Water, water everywhere

It was weird waking up hearing bottles clinking together, a sound you shouldn't hear unless you're sleeping on a boat. I woke up on a futon raft with a foot of gleaming black water around me. I pulled the covers over my head, must be a bad dream.

Then the electrical outlets started frying. The cats were yowling in the other room. I could hear waves crashing into houses a block away on the beach.

The ocean was rolling down the street and adding to the swollen creek which now was running through the apartment. It's not always that restful being close to nature.

Women are from Venus

I should never have asked her how she really felt about me. It always makes a man cringe, when she tells you she just wants to be friends. Mainly because what they mean is, you'd be useful to lift heavy objects, or open jars. Hearing her say that made me feel like the mud the flood left behind.

Why did I even ask? But I should never have asked why not just some recreational sex. Better with a friend, eh.

She had her reasons, of course. She said she only had casual sex with men she could see having a long-term relationship with, and she couldn't imagine bringing me home to meet her family.

I pointed out that you couldn't really call that casual sex. Her family lives in Cleveland, anyways. I had a stopover there once, I didn't even leave the airport.

I wasn't interested in her whole clan, just her. Besides if she thinks her family is special, I wouldn't even dream of letting her meet my family. Any girlfriend who ever met my family suddenly just wanted to be friends. Needless to say I didn't bring any home.

Which is why my family thought I was gay. That was still better than trying to convince the women that I was adopted, or left by the elves. The Keeblers.

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