True Story Archives - Magick Sandwich

This stuff really happened. There’s no need to lie when the truth is so strange.

My Busy Life

September 17, 2019

File this one under You Waited Over a Whole Year to Blog and You Did THIS? As a self-involved person—and, really, we all are unless we’re in a dissociative state—I thought, wow, my life is so interesting! Why don’t I share a window into my diseased psyche to show you all the muy importante things I’ve been doing instead of blogging. (ICE, if you’re reading this, the Spanish was just an affectation. You don’t need to come to my house.)

Last night, while watching Brian Williams interview Edward Snowden, I came to some conclusions about my life, but not what you might think. I had TiVoed it so I could pause Snowden’s frightening revelations about constant technological surveillance to mess around on the internet. I like to work against my self-awareness at times. Keeps it on its toes.

First up, I happened upon this tweet by Geraldo Rivera regarding Brett Kavanaugh’s playful indecent exposure as a Yale student. That’s a Class B misdemeanor in CT that’s punishable by up to a year in prison, by the way, but I’m guessing Geraldo would think I’m just being a prissy bitch. I’ll put it here, although I’ve never seen anyone pad a post with Twitter dross before. I’m a pioneer, I guess.

Say what you want about Twitter. (As if I could stop you.) It’s one of those egalitarian places where everyone’s opinion counts so no one’s counts. Of course, I had to put in my two cents. After midnight, it’s really only a ha’penny worth. (By the way, my Twitter handle is the name of the T-shirt company I started this year, which has made me ~~fabulously wealthy~~ tens of sales.)

Being a night owl neither wit nor wisdom confers. Today, on Instagram, I added details of the CT law mentioned above and recommended that Geraldo ponder whether having an unwelcome dick thrust in his face (or one of his daughter’s faces) might cause him upset. My God, don’t you wish you could hang out with me all the time? Surely my bon mots (French now, pulling out all the stops!) should be collected and preserved in the Smithsonian or in a time capsule so when aliens land to see the blasted hellscape of Earth, they’ll know the extinction of the human race was no big loss.

Anyway, à propos of nothing—note to self: great title for my memoir—I went on Amazon. (The MSNBC interview was over so I could get back to important things.) Someone identifying himself as Ben K. had taken umbrage at the use of fragrance in a natural deodorant. I’d seen his review before and had emailed the company to find out what ingredients fall under their rubric of fragrance.

The company’s answer? Okay stuff, with just a hint of obfuscation that lets me know there’s some minor thing in it that would be questionable to a real Cassandra who drinks alcohol, smokes pot, or just, you know, lives in the world but thinks perfume presents a clear and present danger.

The email also stated there is another, fragrance-free version for sale as well. So I copied the info and clicked on the review to paste it and leave a comment. But someone had beaten me to it. Ben K. had responded to that person that the version on the page is the fragrance-free version. I scanned the product page, ready to pounce on Ben K. for his damnable lie. Alas, I found that Ben K. was correct. So, ever forthright, I acknowledged that. But then, it got weird.

I’d classify this as an existential Amazon review or, perhaps, an Amazon review for depressives. It captures the absurdity of a search for meaning that elevates strangers’ opinions about drain cleaner, shampoo, and super glue to a position of staggering importance, signified by the amount of time I spend poring over them as if they contain the secrets of the universe. I’m not the only one, judging by the fact that “135 people found this review helpful.”

I’ve learned a valuable lesson, which justifies my time-wasting but possibly not the time you’ve wasted reading about it. (My apologies.) I should never tweet late at night and I should always write Amazon reviews late at night.

There was a third benefit, too. As I attempted to drift off to sleep, always difficult after the exhilaration of doing absolutely nothing of substance and having a great time not doing it, I had a flash of insight. I actually sat up and made a note of it on my phone so it wouldn’t be lost in the ether of fitful slumber. It is my new mantra.

Satisfied with the inspirational message served up by my helpful brain, I drifted off to happy sleep, then got up this morning and made it into a T-shirt.

Lighten up, We’re all gonna die.

You’re welcome.

Valentine to an Abusive Ex-Boyfriend

February 10, 2010

As anyone who’s ever gritted his or her teeth through this Hallmark holiday named for a Christian martyr knows, Valentine’s Day isn’t always a happy day.

It is with this in mind that I dredge up a ghost of valentines past. I wrote this piece in 2002 and posted it on my original website, Cruel but Just, which was a pre-Blogger attempt to warp hearts and minds on the Internet. I haven’t thought of this guy in years so don’t go all psychoanalytical on me. I’m just saying that there are worse things than being alone.

Hi W,

I just got home from the latest Rush concert and thought of you. All 235 hairy, girlfriend-beating loser pounds of you. Do you weigh even more now? It’s been a long time. I know I won’t find you on Classmates.com, since you’re a high school dropout. I guess you couldn’t take the pressure of Algebra.

I was remembering the first concert we went to, the Signals tour, 1983. Those were the days, huh? After you’d been arrested for tipping over gravestones but before you were banned from school property for giving booze to underage kids.

Nearly twenty years later, I’m at the Vapor Trails tour. Front row, right in front of Geddy, getting a smile and a wink as I sing along with him, not missing a lyric. I’m wearing my Signals tour shirt. You didn’t buy me that t-shirt—I had to get it last year on e-Bay. In fact, back then I had to pay for our tickets with money from my after-school cashier job. I couldn’t afford the first row back then—but you couldn’t afford the last.

Right before the encore, Working Man, (which you never were, by the way) Geddy points to me and has a roadie give me a special t-shirt, one of only a few printed to say it’s directly from him. My husband is psyched, gives Geddy the thumbs-up and tells me I’m hot. He’s happy to see me having a good time and tells me I’ve still got it.

I might not have lived to see this concert if I’d stayed with you. You might have killed me one day for talking to the mailman. You’d already choked me for pretending to rip a page out of a magazine and tried to throw me in front of a car for some reason I can’t remember, but which I’m pretty sure didn’t warrant that kind of reaction.

You were so frustrated when I got that scholarship, you told me you’d thrown a bottle of shampoo against the wall when your thumb covered the “n” in “collagen.” I was tempted to tell you that spelled COLLAGE, not COLLEGE. It would’ve almost been worth the beating I would have gotten.

You were so angry that I wouldn’t give up the scholarship and move in with you and your mom. You didn’t understand why I couldn’t be happy with that. And now you sit in your shitty little apartment on Main Street, maybe eating a little watered-down Dinty Moore. Remember how you used to add water and a bouillon cube to stretch it? Do you still return cans so you can buy another six-pack of generic beer?

I have to tell you, though, how much you helped me all those years ago. You scared me into running away from my hometown to New York City, where I met a wonderful man, married him and lived happily ever after (with all the bumps in the road a normal person would expect, but no tosses into traffic). Oh, and I got to sing with Geddy Lee. So, you see, you did me a real favor back then. But I’m not going to send you a thank you card.

Love,
K

Prelude to a Love Story

August 5, 2009

Tomorrow marks the twenty-first anniversary of my first date with my future husband and the fourteenth anniversary of our wedding. We got married on the seventh anniversary of our first date. Marrieds, all together now: awwww. Singletons, puke at will.

But today holds a special significance for me as well. Twenty-one years ago tonight, I was hanging out with my friend Christine near South Street Seaport, chatting excitedly about my upcoming date. We were in a little seating area in front of a bank on Fulton Street, and there were many other people enjoying the night air around us. Those seats are long gone. The topography of that street has changed many times over.

As was usual in the late 1980s, there were scads of yuppies getting drunk in the open air of the Fulton Fish Market. Two of them stumbled up the street and decided they would pick us up. I suppose we should have felt lucky that they chose us. One of the masters of the universe was red-faced and wavering as if the sidewalk were a balance beam. The other, slightly less soused, did the talking.

Christine and I were not in the mood for this interruption. I’m not sure how the conversation devolved to the point where I invited him to “whip it out,” but it did, and he generously acquiesced. Unfortunately for him, whiskey dick cuts across all social strata. His penis drooped between thumb and forefinger like a sad little mushroom cap.

This was too amusing not to share, so I turned to the others sitting there and said, “Look at this! This guy’s showing us his dick!”

I should mention now that Christine had the kind of throaty, bawdy laugh that made all heads turn. It ground activity to a halt in restaurants, blotted out the dialogue in movie theaters and made people fervently hope they were not the target of her mirth.

So at this particular moment, she let loose with a boomer that echoed off the surrounding buildings. This caused everyone around us to crack up as well. The poor guy had at least a dozen people laughing at his diminutive manhood. Wisely, he put it away.

At this point, I advised him that it wasn’t so bad because I was sure he wouldn’t remember any of this the next day at his cushy Wall Street job. He replied, “I’ll make a thousand dollars tomorrow.”

And then I uttered one of the best lines I have ever said: “Oh, yeah? A thousand dollars a day won’t make your penis bigger.”

Needless to say, the gentleman was none too pleased with my statement. He looked for a moment like he would lunge at me. I was trying to gauge his drunkenness. I knew I could easily knock down his friend, who continued to sway, smiling dumbly, apparently thinking things were going well.

Instead, the guy called me a f**king c**t. I find it thrilling to be called that. When a man (or woman) unleashes that word, I know I have hit my mark. My grin must have caught him off guard. After a little more salty language, he lurched away, pulling his friend by the arm. Neither one spilled a drop of the beer in their plastic to-go cups. A few minutes later, a cop walked by, too late to witness the tableau, too late for me to press charges. While carrying an open container of alcohol and flashing is illegal, being a bitch is not. I love this country.

Years later, I related this all to my mother-in-law, finishing with “…and that’s the last penis I saw before your son’s.” She laughed. True story.