First, a few words on origins–

Drink as “offering” has been a documented aspect of prayer ceremony from the dawn of history in both Pagan and Judeo-Christian traditions.

Quote: “An early Greek custom called for a pledge of three cups-one to Mercury, one to the Graces, and one to Zeus. In Rome, drinking to another’s health became so important, the Senate decreed that all diners must drink to Augustus at every meal. Fabius Maximus declared that no man should eat or drink before he had prayed for him and drank to his health.” -Paul Dickson. ⊕

The transition from “toasting” the Gods to toasting the Emperor (who was himself at various times considered a god) was a convenient bridge that eventually lead to the toasting of any socially important person, and finally to the toasting of any privately important person, living or dead. 

The physical action we are familiar with of standing amongst friends and lifting a glass, devoid of religious significance, evidently also dates back to ancient Greece. It seems that the poisoning of drinks was a wide-spread enough practice that a host would make a great show of standing, pouring out wine from a common pitcher, and drinking the first glass himself, as means of saying, “look at what a swell host I am, I am not poisoning any of you!” or to put it slightly more poetically- “to friendship!” At which point he’d raise his glass high as an invitation for his guests to do likewise.

The term “toast” itself is thought to have come from the Romans, who evidently found themselves drinking a lot of sub-par wine. They’d drop a piece of burnt bread into wine, the charcoal of which would reduce the drinks acidity, making it more palatable. This toast may have also been included with the wine as a token bit of nourishment. ⊕ The term stuck even after the practice of including the burnt bread died out. It mutated even further when, in the golden age of toasting, the act of drinking a toast to women admired but not present spawned the phrase “toast of the town.”

Meanwhile there is a connected custom, the clinking of glasses, to consider. There are three theories as to its origin. The first is attributed again to the Greeks’ proclivity for poison. It’s thought that the hearty thud of wine vessels against one another might facilitate an exchange of liquid from one vessel to another, thus ensuring any poison would be imbibed by all. A second theory attributes the clinking of glasses to the Christian era. It was thought that the bell-like clink of glasses would banish the Devil, who was thought to literally inhabit liquor (and be the cause of the ill behavior of the drunken), and who was repelled by the sound of bells. The third theory, which sounds entirely more modern to me, is that all five senses had to come into play to get the greatest pleasure from drink, the sight, the smell, the touch, the taste, and with the clink… the sound.

In truth the species of speach which we moderns refer to as “a toast,” meaning the one word salutations, often in a phonetically-sounded foreign tongue, the literal meaning of which we rarely know, is only the dimmest shadow of a once grand and formal tradition of dinner speaking. Today, for the average person not serving as an ambassador on distant soil, that tradition is relegated almost exclusively to the dreaded wedding toast, in which a bitter and terrified “best man” stumbles his way through those few words which represent the final hurdle in his race to the open bar.

In the heyday of toasting the whole affair was elaborate enough that scores of books were published to help people navigate the treacherous rules of etiquette involved for both toast-giver and audience, and no drink could be drunk without “a few words” of praise to someone. To drink without offering a toast was simply an affront to everyone in the room, and this imperative evidently protracted even casual occasions into 8 or 10 hour binges.

Today it would just be impossible. Imagine heading over to your local Tex-Mex place for a few 6 dollar Coronas after a crappy day in your shabby cubicle, only to realize you were a “best man,” in a room full of nothing but other “best men,” obliged to speak and listen before every… single… round; for 10 hours. Didn’t Sartre write a play about that?

In any case, as I said at the beginning, the “hour of the toast” is fast approaching, and though I don’t expect many of you will want to wax eloquent, at length, in iambic pentameter, about how much you love your mother, or country, or best mates, you may still wish to surprise everyone with something a bit more imaginative than the expected, “May you rock out with yer cock out and jam out with yer clam out! Down the hatch!”

With that in mind I am including below a small sampling of toasts (mostly culled from the 1927 volume, The Big Toast-Book, by Carleton B. Case, pictured above) so antiquated sounding that they might be just the thing to… oh, I don’t know… persuade your mightily disappointed and old-fashioned father that he ought not disown you just yet, or convince your significant other’s parents that you’re more than the coarse, dead-eyed, lout you appear to be, or induce premature nostril-vomiting in your rivals, or embarrass the hell out of your sweetheart. Who knows? Maybe they’ll just inspire you to come up with a decent toast yourself and revive in some small way the time honored tradition.

For the Romantics:

Here’s to the one and only one,
And may that one be she
Who loves but one and only one,
And may that one be me.
-
Here’s to love, The only fire against which there is no insurance.
-
God made women both beautiful and foolish–
Beautiful, that man might love her;
Foolish, that she might love him.
-
Here’s to everything old! Old friends, old times, old books, and old wine.
-
Flow wine, smile woman, and the universe is consoled. -Beranger

For the Bachelors:

Love is the wine of life
And marriage is the morning after.
-
I would advise a young man to pause
Before he takes a wife;
In fact I see no earthly cause
Why he should not pause for life.
-
Here’s to the woman! –ah that we could fall into her arms
Without falling into her hands! -Bierce
-
A pipe, a book, a fire, a friend,
A stein that’s always full,
Here’s to the joys of a bachelor’s life,
A life that’s never dull.

For the Married:

To Home! The place where you are treated best and grumble most.
-
He is not worthy of the honeycomb
That shuns the hive because the bees have stings. -Shakespeare
-
Let the man who does not wish to be idle, fall in love. -Ovid
-
Laugh and the world laughs with you; snore, and you sleep alone.

For the Naughty:

Here’s head first, to a foaming glass!
Here’s head first, to a lively lass!
Here’s head first, for a bit of kissing,
For the good don’t know the fun they are missing!
-
Here’s to the ships of our navy,
Here’s to the ladies of our land,
May the former be well rigged,
And the latter be well manned.
-
Here’s to the lasses we’ve loved, my lad,
Here’s to the lips we’ve pressed.
For of kisses and lasses,
Like liquor in glasses,
The last is always the best.

For the Bitter:

Here’s to the woman with face so fair,
Framed in a wreath of beautiful hair;
Pretty red lips as soft as a rose–
How many have kissed them God only Knows.
-
Here’s to the love that lies in a woman’s eyes,
And lies, and lies, and lies.

For the Old Sots:

Which is the properest day to drink–
Saturday, Sunday, Monday?
Each is the properest day I think,
Why should I name but one day?
-
Here’s to the heart that fills as the bottle empties.
-
Man being reasonable must get drunk;
The best of life is but intoxication;
Glory, the grape, love, gold– in these are sunk
The hopes of all men and of every nation. -Byron
-
God made man frail as a bubble;
God made love, love made trouble;
God made the vine– was it a sin
That man made wine to drown trouble in?
-
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!

For the Ladies:

If kissing were the only joy of bed,
One woman would another woman wed.
(followed by winking and giggling)
-
The more one sees of men the more one likes dogs.

For the Men:

You shall and you shan’t,
You will and you wont,
You’re condemned if you do,
And you’re damned if you don’t

For Parents:

Go back to bed!
I know it’s loud it’s grown-up time.
No you can’t have any of my grape juice,
Just go back to bed please.
Honey, you have to go back to bed
Because the monster is on his way
And he likes to eat children.
Yes he eats them
And chews up their bones.
He ate one of the neighbor kids last night.
Yes, he’s on his way here right now…
Wait, I think I hear him on the steps!
You better get to bed quick. RUN!

For All:

Yesterday’s yesterday while today’s here,
Today is today till tomorrow appear,
Tomorrow’s tomorrow until today’s past,
And kisses are kisses as long as they last.
-
May you live all the days of your life. -Swift
-
Weep and you are called a baby,
Laugh and you are called a fool,
Yield and you’re called a coward,
Stand and your called a mule,
Smile and they’ll call you silly,
Frown and they’ll call you gruff,
Put on a front like a millionaire,
And somebody calls your bluff.
-
May bad luck follow you all the days of your life,
And never overtake you.
-
At ten, a child; at twenty, wild;
At thirty tame, if ever;
At forty wise; at fifty, rich;
At sixty, good or never!
-
While we live, let’s live in clover,
For when we’re dead, we’re dead all over.

And finally, here’s one especially for me to make:

May the people who dance on your grave get cramps in their legs!


Lastly I would just like to mention how strikingly perfect the symbolism of holding up a full glass, especially on New Years Eve, seems to me. We hold it there, brimming, shining and untouched. So much optimism for everything which is to come, for the fun yet to be had, for the possibilities which await! We take that first delicious and refreshing sip with bright eyes. But of course, by the end of the night it’s a different story though isn’t it? The glass lays toppled, used-up, cracked, empty and we… we are nauseous, disheveled, most likely embarrassed and full of some vague regret, having yet again failed to learn anything from the previous time we held up a glass, confidently swearing that things would be different.


For more on the history and art of toasting see the following:
The History & Ritual of the Toast
Toastbook by Paul Dickson
Drinkingsongs.net which offers many toasts as well as a terrific bibliography
Wine, Women, and Song published 1884
In Praise of Ale published 1888
Toasts published 1895
The Banquet Book Published 1902
400 Laughs, or Fun without Vulgarity published 1902
Rare Bits of Humor published 1906
Irish Toasts published 1908
A Tankard of Ale, an Anthology of Drinking Songs published 1920
More Toasts published 1922

Hope you enjoyed.
Happy New Year all and sundry! 2008 will be different! I swear!

Case 123

Here we have a fetish which is wholly benign, strangely poetic, and really, to be envied.

“B., thirty years of age, apparently untainted, refined and sensitive; great lover of flowers; liked to kiss them, but without any sensual motive or sensual excitement; of a rather frigid nature; before twenty-one did not practice masturbation, and subsequently only for periods of time. At twenty-one he was introduced to a young lady who wore some large roses on her bosom. Since then large roses had dominated his sexual feelings. He incessantly bought roses; kissing them would produce erection. He took roses to bed with him, although he never touched his genitals with them. His pollutions, henceforth, were accompanied by dreams of roses. He dreamt of roses that had fairy-like beauty; when he inhaled their fragrance, he ejaculated.”

Ah yes. Imagine if it were all so simple… You could work at a flower shop, with the ultimate goal of one day gaining employment at some fine botanical gardens somewhere, and at night you could return home to do a little “tending” to your own prized rose bushes.

Case 88

Here we have a story full of pathos, sweaty gymnasiums, fetishistic desire, odd naiveté, brash artistic license, chance encounters, arrests, and ultimately, as with so many human dramas, failure. And all this encapsulated in one very dry, very short, clinical paragraph. 

“X., aged thirty four, teacher in the gymnasium. In childhood he suffered from convulsions. At age ten he began to masturbate, with lustful feelings, which were connected with very strange ideas. He was particularly partial to women’s eyes; but because he wished to imagine some form of coitus, and was absolutely innocent in sexual matters, he evolved the idea of making the nostrils the seat of the female sexual organs in order to avoid too great a separation from the eyes. His vivid sexual desires then revolved around this idea. He sketched drawings representing correct greek profiles of female heads, but the nostrils were so large that insertion of the penis would have been possible. One day, in an omnibus, he saw a girl in whom he thought he recognized his ideal. He followed her to her home and immediately proposed to her. Shown the door, he returned again and again, until arrested. X never had sexual intercourse.”

So tragic. Nose-craving, eye-adoring, virgin man, we feel your pain… As an afterward to this case the Richard Von Krafft-Ebing M.D. offers us this little nugget :

“Nose fetishism is seldom encountered. The following rare bit of poetry comes to me from England-

O sweet and pretty little nose, so charming unto me;
O were I but the sweetest rose, I’d give my scent to thee.
O make it full with honey sweet, that I may suck it all;
T’would be for me the greatest treat, a real festival.
How sweet and how nutritious your darling nose does seem.
It would be more delicious, than strawberries and cream.”

Uh… Yeah.

Case 98

Here we have a case which, by today’s standards, hardly seems deviant at all, more like a pilot script for a sitcom. It’s marital bliss… with a tiny catch!

“A lady told Dr. Gemy that on her wedding night and the night that followed, her husband contented himself with kissing her, and running his fingers through her wealth of tresses. He then fell asleep. On the third night, Mr. X. produced an immense wig, with abundant long hair, and begged his wife to put it on. As soon as she had done so, he richly compensated her for his neglected marital duties. In the morning he again showed extreme tenderness while he caressed the wig. When Mrs X. removed the wig, she at once lost all charm to her husband. Mrs X. recognized this as a hobby, and readily yielded to the wishes of her husband, whom she loved dearly, and whose libido depended upon the wearing of the wig. It was remarkable, however, that a particular wig had the desired effect for only a fortnight or three weeks time. It had to be made of thick, long hair, but its color was unimportant. The result of this marriage, after five years, was two children and a collection of seventy two wigs.”

Comming this fall to FOX. Wiggin’ Out! “Married life can be a hairy sittuation!” Filmed in front of a live studio audience.

Case 99

Here we have a variation on the theme of the previous case.

“X., aged twenty, inverted sexually. Only loved men with large bushy mustaches. One day he met a man who was his ideal. He invited him to his home, but was unspeakably disappointed when the man removed an artificial mustache. Only when the visitor returned the ornament to his upper lip did he exercise his charm over X. once more and restored X. to complete virility.”

Ah yes, those dreaded artificial mustaches! X. must have been quite disappointed. I mean what are the odds of a man with a mustache-fetish just happening to pick up a man with a fake mustache?! Of course, if an artificial stache was good enough to fool X’s “sexually inverted” senses, why didn’t he just carry a nice bushy one around in his pocket (b.y.o.m.)? Hell, why not buy an artificial mustache factory and get to work Tom Sellecking the world? Crazy bastards, we humans. 

Case 225

Here we have a case which falls under the “theft dependent on fetishism” heading. By way of lead in Krafft-Ebing offers the following- Pathological fetishism may become the cause of crimes. As such hair despoiling, robbery or theft of women’s linen, handkerchiefs, aprons, shoes, and silks are now recognized (as crimes). It cannot be doubted that such individuals are the subject of deep mental taint…

“P., laborer, aged twenty nine. Family heavily tainted. Emotional, irritable; had masturbated since childhood. At ten years old saw a boy masturbate into a woman’s handkerchief. This gave direction to P’s sex life. He stole handkerchiefs from pretty girls and masturbated into them. His mother tried every means to break him of this habit. She admonished him, took the stolen handkerchiefs away and bought him new ones, all in vain. He was caught by the police and punished for theft. He then went to Africa and served in the army with an excellent record. On his return to France he resumed his old practices. He was only potent if a prostitute held a white handkerchief in her hand during the act. He married in 1894 and sustained his virility by grasping a handkerchief during coitus.

The fetishistic crisis always came suddenly, like a paroxysm, especially at moments of laziness. He would feel out of sorts, psychically moody, sexually excited, and impelled to masturbate. Soon the fantasy image of a handkerchief would appear and take full possession of his thoughts and feelings. If he then caught sight of a woman’s handkerchief he would choke with fear, palpitation of the heart would set in, he would tremble, and profuse perspiration would break out all over his body. Although conscious of the risk involved, he was irresistibly forced to steal the handkerchief. He was arrested on one such occasion, but the examining physician declared him irresponsible. During the time of detention he was free of his obsession. He hoped to master his weakness in the future. He estimated that he had stolen one hundred handkerchiefs. He used each handkerchief only once, then threw it away.”

He used each handkerchief only once, then threw it away? Stingy uncaring bastard! Didn’t he realize there were men even worse off than he who could only attain potency when wrapping their members in stolen women’s handkerchiefs which had already been ejaculated into by loony ex-cons who’d served with the army in Africa and whose names began with the letter P?!

Case 116

Here we have a case filed under the “pathological erotic fetishism” heading-

“L, aged thirty seven, clerk, from a tainted family. At five years old, he had his first erection when he saw his bedfellow -an aged relative- put on his nightcap. The same thing occurred later when he saw an old servant put on her nightcap. Later, simply the idea of an old ugly woman’s head covered with a nightcap, was sufficient to cause an erection. The sight of a cap, or a naked woman or man alone made no impression, but the mere touch of a nightcap induced erection, and sometimes even ejaculation. L. was not a masturbator, and had never been sexually active until his thirty second year, when he married a young girl with whom he had fallen in love. On his wedding night he remained cold until, from necessity, he brought to his aid the memory-picture of an ugly woman’s head with a nightcap. Coitus was immediately successful. Thereafter it was always necessary for him to use this method. From childhood he had been subject to attacks of depression, with suicidal tendencies, and occasional frightful hallucinations at night. When looking out a window he became dizzy and anxious. He was a perverse, peculiar, and easily embarrassed man of bad mental constitution.

In this very peculiar case, the simultaneous coincidence of the first sexual reference and an absolutely heterogeneous impression seems to have determined association.

A related case of accidental associative fetishism which is quite peculiar, is that of a married man, aged thirty, who in other respects, was physically and mentally healthy, who is said to have suddenly lost his sexual power after moving into another house, and to have regained it as soon as the furniture of the bedroom had been arranged as before.”

I must say that the thought our sexual proclivities are so radically influenced by the random occurrences of early childhood is horrific. Perhaps it’s a good thing that the internet serves up every manner of sexual fodder to the youngsters. Better to see straight away that there is a whole universe of degradation and kink and perversity to explore, and grow bored of, than getting obsessively fixated on your grandma’s bunions or a playmate’s soiled diaper or whatever. Sheesh.

Case 95

Here we have a case in which a gentleman named Z struggles mightily with a very “particular” fetish.

“Z., gentleman, family tainted. Even in early childhood he always felt great sympathy with the lame and crippled. He used to limp about the room on two brooms in lieu of crutches or, when observed, go limping about the streets: at the same time, however, no sexual significance was coupled with the idea. Gradually, the thought supervened that he would like “as a pretty lame child” to meet a pretty girl who would express sympathy for his affliction. Sympathy from men he disdained. Z. was brought up in a rich man’s house by a private tutor, and claimed that up to his twentieth year he was unaware of the differences between sexes. His feelings were confined to the idea of being pitied by a pretty girl for being lame, or extending the same sympathy to a lame girl himself. Gradually, erotic emotions associated themselves with this fantasy and at the age of twenty he succumbed to temptation and masturbated for the first time. From then on he practiced this act often. Sexual neurasthenia supervened and an irritable weakness took hold of him, to such an extent that the very sight of a girl with a halting gait induced ejaculation.

When masturbating, or in his erotic dreams, the idea of the limping girls was always the controlling element. The personality of the limping girl was a matter of indifference to Z., his interest being solely centered on the limping foot. He never had coitus with a girl thus afflicted. He never had the inclination for it and did not think he could be potent under the circumstances. His perverse fantasies revolved only around masturbating against the foot of a lame female. At times he anchored his hope on the thought that he might succeed in winning and marrying a chaste lame girl; that, because of his love for her, she would take pity on him and free him of his crime by ‘transferring his love from the sole of her foot to the root of her soul.’ He sought deliverance in this thought. His present existence was one of untold misery.”

Happy story that. Though if you change a few of the words here and there sounds like it could be any average 21st century guy-

The personality of the girl was a matter of indifference to Z., his interest being solely centered on her [fill in blank].

See what I mean?

I must say also, in regards to this case, that the sentence “transferring his love from the sole of her foot to the root of her soul,” words which had surely never been laid down in exactly that order, in any language, before this book’s publication, is worth the price of admission all by itself.

(The thumbnail was adapted from an image on Susan Hagen’s wood carvings page.)

Case 96

Here we have a variation on the theme of the previous case.

“Mr. V., aged thirty, civil servant; parents neuropathic. From the age of seven he had, for many years, a lame girl of the same age as a playmate. At the age of twelve, nervously disposed and heterosexually inclined, the boy began to masturbate spontaneously. At that time puberty set in, and undoubtedly the first sexual emotions toward the other sex coincided with the sight of a lame girl. Subsequently only limping women excited him sexually. His fetish was a pretty lady who, like the companion of his childhood, limped with the left foot. Always heterosexual, but abnormally sensual, he promptly sought relations with the opposite sex, but was absolutely impotent with women who were not lame. Virility and gratification were most strongly elicited if the prostitute limped with the left foot, but he was also successful if the lameness was on the right foot. Due to his fetishism, the opportunities for coitus seldom occurred, so he resorted to masturbation, but found it a disgusting and miserable substitute. His sexual anomaly rendered him very unhappy, and he was often close to committing suicide, but regard for his parents prevented him. This moral affliction culminated in the desire for marriage with a sympathetic lame lady. Unfortunately, because he could not love the soul of such a wife, but only her defect of lameness, he considered such a union a profanation of matrimony and an unbearable, ignoble existence. On this account he had often thought of resignation and castration.”

I can’t help but be in awe of this sentence in particular- “Virility and gratification were most strongly elicited if the prostitute limped with the left foot, but he was also successful if the lameness was on the right foot.” The analytical and scientific thoroughness of our tortured and miserable Mr. V. for being thoughtful enough to test this particular hypothesis is brilliant. “Please try limping on your right foot now Ms. Prostitute… in the interest of science of course.”

As to the case in particular- Poor Mr. V., the silly bastard. Not too bright was he? Any self respecting man of the 19th Century would have married a nice perfectly “intact” girl and then paid a carriage driver to run over her foot just before they made it to the honeymoon suite. Castration? Uh, I think not.

-

So there you have it. A tiny porthole into the steamy underpants of the 19th century. Hope you enjoyed.

Evidently in 2006 Kino released a film which dramatizes many of the cases in Psychopathia Sexualis, though judging by the trailers they focussed on much of the darker material.

Note: This post was one in a series of reworkings of old posts which date from before the redesign of The Nonist. The text has been combined from 6 prior posts and reworked. The images are also updated. I will be periodically adding these reworkings into the flow of new content in an effort to eventually remove all the old pages from circulation.

It seemed very odd, my bulb not working, because honestly I liked this light. It’d been very reliable, illuminating the darkness for me hundreds of times… hundreds of thousands of times probably! Well, for as long as I can remember, let’s just put it that way. Since I was a kid… there was me, the darkness, and my light bulb. Simple as that. I’d be hanging around in some darkened, dim, dingy, drab, dull place, thinking about nothing or some synonym of nothing… and ZAP! the light bulb would go on, everything becoming perfectly and pleasantly clear. Good times… really good in retrospect. No more though.

I’m still here obviously, and so is the darkness. But the bulb? It just hangs there, dead and stubborn as all hell. 

I know what you’re going to ask and the answer is yes. I shook it… not even a hint of that musical “tinkerbell humping an ice chip” sound. The filament is fine. And yes, I checked the screw thread and the foot contact. I looked it over, wasn’t much else to do… I had to squint, obviously, but I looked, believe me. There was nothing wrong with that bulb, except for the whole “not working at all” thing.

Truth be told until today I had basically given up. I’d accepted that my light bulb wasn’t coming back. I’d sunk into reminiscences… all the good times we’d had… all the times we’d laughingly beat back the darkness, feeling clever and accomplished. I’d begun trying to conjure the bulb’s warm light in my mind. I ran down a list of all the things that made my bulb such a very great bulb. I did every pointless weepy god-damned thing a person does when faced with a feeling of inexplicable loss, and the bulb, like all dead things, didn’t notice or care. If it had had a gastrointestinal track (and wasn’t under vacuum) it might have farted a little.

Today though… today I looked at the bulb again.

I promised myself it’d be the last time, the casket viewing, because as much as I missed my light bulb I didn’t want to be one of those nuts who keeps a corpse in the house, all dressed up in an easy chair, with lipstick and a hat on, pretending the awful stink is potpourri. I had to let the thing go and accept my new seat in the shadows. So I approached the bulb (with a decorum befitting a one-person wake for an inanimate object)... picked it up gingerly, lovingly… I rolled it gently over my palm… and I squinted at it as hard as I could there in the dark. Which is of course when I noticed…

My light bulb was a HUGE dick.

Now don’t get all “uh-oh! I didn’t sign on for this!” I don’t mean that literally. I’m not trying to cleverly explain to you that I was standing there in the dark “gingerly and lovingly” rolling a huge penis over the palm of my hand. What I mean is that, standing there, squinting, I realized my light bulb was a HUGE dick… as in GIANT asshole… as in a schmuck, a creep, a real honest to goodness glass bastard.

Though it admittedly took me far too long, today, I finally noticed the not so subtle cues my light bulb had been offering me all along. Go ahead, take a look at the photo above and see for yourself. Can you believe the balls on that bulb?! Imagine me there in the dark, all sniveling… “oh light bulb, please don’t die, what good times we’ve had!  I can’t go on without you!” and the damned thing just sitting there, laughing at me the whole time… un-fucking-believable. 

Well I’ll tell you what, even without this prick light bulb I managed a little epiphany. It’s not exactly brilliant and shining, it hasn’t left me feeling “clever and accomplished,” but seeing as how it could very possibly be my last, squinting and in the dark as I am, I feel compelled to write it down-

Q: How many light bulbs does it take to screw a person?

A: Just one.

There is, it would seem, a solitary archetype by which we can (and do) judge all else. When we seek to make a comparison, be it in the human particulars of mental state, physical prowess, emotional weight, or indeed in the broader strokes of the metaphysical, we can, without fail, single out this entity and be sure that any comparison drawn will be understood by our audience as suitably pointed and dramatic. This archetype would seem to represent the extremes of anything and everything. It is, essentially, the purest, most extraordinary, most weighty point of comparison available in human discourse; the pinnacle, evidently, of all namable qualities: the Muthafucka.

The Muthafucka has many names- the Mother Fucker, the Mother Fucka, the Mothafucker, the Muthah Fucka, the mutha fuck, and even, to those well acquainted with this monolith, the casual- Mutha or Mother.

Time and time again, in the mouths of the man on the street, the Muthafucka’s name is bandied about and celebrated as the be all and end all of experience. The Muthafucka far outweighs pretenders to the throne like “the witches tit,” “balls,” “the bag of hammers,” “hell,” etc. Muthafucka outweighs these and the rest of what I call the “hopelessly specific” by a sizable margin.

In the verbal coin of the land the Muthafucka is king.

Q: Is it cold out? Ask yourself, “how cold is it?”
A: Why it’s “Colder than a Mother Fucker!!”
Of course.

Q: Was that person you met attractive? 
A: “She/he was hotter than a Muthafucka!” 
Obviously. It doesn’t get any hotter.

Q: I wonder, how did you feel about Firefly being cancelled?
A: “I was madder than a Muthah Fucka!”
I’m sure you were but you’ll get over it.

Q: Did that movie frighten you?
A: “It was scarier than a Muthafucka!”
Indeed it was. I almost shat myself.

Q: How affected were you by that marijuana cigarette?
A: “I was higher than a Muthafucka!”
Fo’ real?

Anyhow, you see where I’m going with this.

The basic formula is as follows:

(Comparative adjective) + than a Mutherfucka!

It seems to work every time, without losing a whiff of its power. As a matter of fact, and this is a true oddity, even incorrect grammar works well. I might go so far as to say, if pressed under threat of physical harm, that the more glaringly wrong the word choice the more effective the Muthafucka comparison is!

Example:

Q: How was that yak testicle sandwich?
A: “It was gooder than a Muthafucker!”
Oh word?

How this “mother fucker” character, who would seem to be the manifestation of one of humanity’s last remaining powerful taboos, came to be so well regarded as to qualify as a unassailable counterpoint to every exclamatory comparison is truly a mystery. Perhaps the greatest mystery of the modern age. But I, for my part, am not too proud to offer kudos where kudos are due.

Whatever this entity’s true proportions, to rise so meteorically, against such seemingly stiff odds, this “Muthafucka” must be… well…
badder than a Muthafucka!

With that I return. Not with a trumpet and throaty throng but quietly, as though by moonlight, avoiding the squeaky step.

“Is that you? (groggily) What time is it?”

“Go back to sleep honey.”

I’ve sprung the trap and survived, and escaped, and so here I am. Home again. The trap is obvious, and in plain sight, but I am forgetful. Each time I look at it I see the glint on the teeth but not the teeth themselves. The glint is bright and shiny and I am a dim, dumb animal.  Probability, or Nature, or Destiny, or whatever you’ve labeled the comically inadequate mason jar in which you hold this concept- things take their course.

What can I say?

You turn your head sometimes, as if hearing a coo or whisper, and looking toward the window, expecting to see some winged thing perched on your windowsill, you see instead your own reflection. You see your life and it startles you more than any winged thing would. It is not what you expected to see, but worse it’s not even what you’d expect a life to look like. Its proportions are all wrong, its color off, its shape odd; In truth it looks like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It looks foreign, and in as much, frightening. But it is your life still, and it’s as if in this unexpected moment you were glimpsing it for the first time.

Of course this is all Balderdash, or Poppycock, or Bullshit, or whatever you’ve labeled your most treasured mason jar- you’ve seen this ugly thing before.

I’m forgetful, as I’ve already mentioned. When I momentarily see past the well-tooled facade, past the fortification of amusements and distractions, over and beyond the ramparts of routine, I get spooked.

More often than not I react to this reoccurring revelation in a predictable way. I cycle through my mason jars, popping their lids in quick succession- Confusion, Annoyance, Anger, Regret, Longing, Sadness. Their smells waft through my rooms, swirling, blending into complex and potent combinations. What began as merely disturbing, through my panic, becomes overwhelming. Like the dim, dumb animal I am I seek a dark place, hidden from predatory eyes, where I can gather myself and think.

Q: “Ever wondered what turns straight-forward drama into melodrama?”

A: “It’s the attempt at spreading a small portion of honest pain over every banal nook and cranny of the proceedings, creating a thin smear, rather than letting it lay, as a thick dollop, just where it naturally landed. That and the bad metaphors of course!”

So where was I?

Oh yes, In my forgetfulness I’d sprung the trap.

There is an incorrect assumption I repeatedly make, which is that through sheer force of will, given enough time and space, I can understand, dismantle, and rebuild existence into something which more resembles the existence of my imagination. Because of this I abandon things in an attempt to carve out that space and create that time. I stop, turn off, take a step back, begin analyzing and over-analyzing. Like a cat with a ball of yarn I smack at my existence with my thumb-less paws and claws and unravel it, only to find finally that my ball is gone, I’m tangled in the yarn, and there is nothing at the center. This is folly but it’s not the trap I speak of, not really.

At the center of life is a terror, a mystery, a question, a void. It is huge, and it has a gravitational pull of sorts, and were you to face it and stare into it every day you would not be able to function. We build a barricade against it with whatever materials we can scrounge because were we faced with it continuously we would not be able to attain even the most paltry scrap of contentment. That’s what Happiness, or Peace, or whatever you label your half-full mason jar really is- moments of distraction strung successfully together. If you can string those moments together for an entire lifetime you are a genius, a giant, a lucky son of a bitch.

So the trap is simply this: forgetting the void. When you do that you are apt to start misinterpreting your own defenses against it as something holding you in rather than something keeping it out. Happiness is being successfully distracted from the void, by projects, jobs, entertainments, passions, dreams… the trap is forgetting the void exists.

I’ve spent many an hour in my life scrutinizing my defenses, becoming dissatisfied with their materials, and tearing them down, only to see the void rather than greener grass, and be reminded why I’d built them in the first place. I’ve spent many an hour rebuilding my defenses from the wreckage of older ones. A real time waster let me tell you.

So the lesson, which my forgetfulness forces me to re-learn continually, is this: defenses need only be judged by a single criteria- their effectiveness. No matter what they look like, no matter from what materials they are cobbled, no matter whether they are the shape and proportions you imagined them to be when you were a mere emotional zygote, they need only work. If they do, leave them alone and keep on keepin’ on.

With that I return. As a cobbler returns to his shop on a grey monday morning.

(The bell on the door jingles. In you step.)

“Hi there. What can I do for you?”

-

Related: Dissatisfaction, Dexterity Puzzle of the Mind.

See what fun we are missing with our humorless sloans?

Alright I take it back, we lost nothing, the invention of the toilet was a win-win.

For a bit more info on the “potty” check out:
Musings of a Privy Digger and 1earth’s page on chamber pots.

The lyrics are as follows:

————————————————-

Take take take take take it off…
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off, take take take take it off,
Take it off, take take take take it off,
Take it off,
Take it OFF!
Take that suede-front off
Take it OFF!
Take those contacts off
Take it OFF!
Take that horsemeat off
Take it OFF!
Take those shell-toes off
Take it OFF!
Take those track fleas off
Take it OFF!
Take that doo-rag off
Take it OFF!
Take that moth-rag off
Take it OFF!
Take those fat laces off
Take it OFF!
Take that bomber off
Take it OFF!
Take that BVD off
Take it OFF!
Take those Converse off
Take it OFF!
And those Gazelles too
Take it OFF!
Take that Kangol off
Take it OFF!
Take that Jordache off
Take it OFF!
Take that Afro off
Take it OFF!
Take that jheri curl off
Take it OFF!
Take that Le Tigre off
Take it OFF!
Take those acid-washed jeans, bell-bottomed, designed by your mama…
off? Please? Please…

————————————————-

So, where do these street-pariah’s stand today? To find the answer I tapped a fashion designer who, wishing to remain anonymous, we will call “Da Brat.”

Da Brat and I conversed briefly on the subject and the results are as follows…

Suede-Front
We were almost, but not totally, in agreement on this item. Da Brat said “I like a suede-front on a man” to which I would have to qualify, “a man over the age 60, with a shuffling walk, maybe.” The populous at large don’t wear them, which would seem to point to a ruling of whack, unless you are forward-thinking and assume that if no one is wearing something it’s cool, in which case the suede-front is pretty fly. Ya heard?

Contacts
Da Brat and I were in total agreement here: Even for fake-tanned, dyed-blonde asian girls who want to look like they are fresh from a crashing Malibu surf colored contacts are whack with a capital, Billy Joel style, ack. ack. ack. ack. 

Horsemeat
Horsemeat? Da Brat and I were similarly mystified by this one. “A Leather product of some kind? Pleather? Fur?” In so much as neither of us were up on our 1989 slang enough to positively identify this item we will have to say whack, if only because it sounds gross and we both like horses.

Shell-Toes
Da Brat had a definite opinion on this one which sprung forth without hesitation, “they are only cool on people who never stopped wearing them in the first place.” I myself recognize them as classics but also recognize that they have too much baggage to be fresh again any time soon. So we are gonna have to go with wic-wic-whack. 

Track Fleas
Track fleas? Again no clue. Da Brat and I decided to approach this one as though what they are referring to is a track suit of some kind and go from there. Under that assumption the consensus is that though you still catch a D-Train straggler wearing a pink velour Juicy Couture number the plain fact is they are whack. That being said, they sold a shit-load at least twice in the past 20 years so expect them to make a return before too long. Not that that return will nullify their whackness. 

Doo-Rag
The doo-rag is back in a big way with all kinds of loser celebrity-types rockin’ them in both the classic over-the-noggin style, as well as the Dexies Midnight Runners’ loose-around-the-neck style. Once Nicole Ritchie and other deadweight c-listers have been caught in the pages of In-Style magazine wearing something, well, word on the street has to be that that shit is WHACK!

Moth Rag
I had to seek a third and fourth opinion on this one but none of my sources were able to positively identify what exactly a “moth rag” was. The best guess we heard was possibly a wig or a weave. If that is correct then it is perfectly relevant to todays rampant celebrity fakery. Remember crack is whack, and so are weaves, wigs, and extensions. Da Brat’s final words: “Sounds pretty cool whatever it is.”

Fat Laces
The simple answer here is that unless you are a member of a japanese break dance crew or an aged b-boy being wheeled around a cardboard-floored nursing home then you have no business wearing fat laces. Just say no.

Bomber
Da Brat seems to think baggy oversized bombers are cool again. I haven’t seen one anywhere, not with an 8-ball on the back, not with top-gun style patches, not Bruce Sterling “pattern recognition” style, not even an embroidered Avirex (course, it is summer) so I’ll go ahead and agree that they must be dope again. 

BVD
Hmmm. This one has me somewhat mystified. Underwear? Giant white XXXXXL tee shirts that end somewhere below the knee? I don’t know. I have to beg off on this one. No clue. Da Brat concurs. 

Converse, Kangol, Jordache
I have decided to group these all together because they are all pretty much in the same boat of relative whackness. All these brands have been trying really hard at making a resurgence, to regain even a milligram of the coolness which once swirled around them like a swollen, money-bearing cloud. Problem is all three were so successful in their respective moments as to have become very nearly cliche. Converse and Kangol are perhaps a little better off in that they have been adopted by so many different subcultures of people that they are very nearly meaningless at this point, the first step toward injecting them with new life. Jordache, however… well, one word: wiz-ni-iz-nack! Especially, as Da Brat points out, with Elizabeth Hurley as their spokes-meat.

Gazelles
See the entries for both shell-toes and fat-laces. It’s just too soon. Why do we have to so mercilessly pummel the b-boy fashions? Can’t we let them be for a while? Go grab up some Kangaroos, K-Swiss, Diadoras, or hell even some Doug E Fresh style gucci loafers. Give the b-boy sneakers a rest… A’ight? 

Afro
Da Brat seemed irrationally exuberant in her approval for afros “on blonde girls.” I myself am almost completely ambivalent toward them. I think the afro is a style which needs to be taken on a head by head basis. ?uestlove’s fro for example: fresh. Yo mama’s fro: Whack.

Jheri Curl
I am convinced this one has hit the mat for good. The jheri curl has been so mercilessly lampooned by everyone under the sun for the past 15 years that I just can’t imagine anyone trying to rock it again. Unless it’s some ironic Williamsburger of course. I won’t put anything past them. Then again you’d think the same would be true for the mullet, and yet it lives on totally without irony. Da Brat’s take on jheri curl: “Only cool in a London nightclub.”

Le Tigre
See Jordache comments above. Not even that cool in the first place. Off-brand Izod wanna-be whack-attack now and forever. (Even if I do have a 7th grade class photo of myself wearing an turquoise Le Tigre polo shirt with a bangs and a black rope necklace. Aw shit!)

Acid-Washed Jeans, Bell-Bottomed, Designed By Your Mama
Clearly these are the freshest of the lot. Or the whackest, depending on your outlook.

So overall of the 16 our 2006 revised judgement breaks down to 11 still whack, and 5 fresh or indeterminate. Course, that’s only our take, your tally may come in very differently. Beyond that you can be sure that in redoubling the overall whackness of the Take It Off list nearly 20 years on there will be those who instantly regard its items as doubly cool. Such is the precariously subjective round-a-bout of fashion. Please feel free to enlighten us if you have any further insight into the matter. Pos, Dave, Maseo, and Paul included. And thanks to code-name: Da Brat for participating.

Signing off.

Recently something dawned on me. I came out of my office and turned south toward the N/R station. I happened to look up and saw the emptiness which terminated the pinpoint of a horizon, where, as it so happens, the towers used to be. It struck me, looking up casually and unthinking, that what I really wanted to see were those towers. It wasn’t a sad moment, I didn’t crash knee-down on the pavement and (damn them!) launch into a Heston-worthy soliloquy. I simply looked up and realized for the first time, that long after all the sadness and shock and directionless anger, after the promises and grand plans and presentations that what I would most fondly like to see were those two towers again. My opinion suddenly formed solidly on what should be       built on that ground.

A few months ago I had to go down to the court building to throw my name into the jury-duty hat, and afterward walking by the site of “ground zero” I was dismayed to see what, after nearly 5 years, all the glitzy competitions, heated debate, and ponderously heavy rhetoric had wrought… exactly nothing. “Ground zero,” suddenly a doubly fitting name, was ground that contained zero. It was a huge fucking hole in the ground; that’s it. I don’t know whether those of you living outside of the Tri-State area realize that. With all that has been said and all that has been done in the reverent name of 9/11, the actual site, the “holy ground” which evidently just radiates with meaning and power, is still, 5 years later, a dirt hole. It seems that in “this post 9/11 world” symbolism and rhetoric are all that can be built-up, with passionate gusto, tall and strong. 

When I say what I really want to see when looking south are those towers I mean it literally. You know what I don’t really want to see? A hideous fucking monstrosity, covered in prisms, couched in forgettable hackneyed concept, birthed from the piteous wombs of politics, greed, and compromise.

Message to George Pataki- You and your “Legacy” can suck cock. I can only take heart that your utter failure will impede your using our tragedy to bolster a presidential bid (like a certain Mayor, who everyone seems to forget was widely despised by those he governed before events allowed him to don the hero-mask… oh wait… it’s 2006… that’s a Presidential pedigree today isn’t it?)

Message to Larry A. Silverstein- Kill yourself. Seriously. You are a Scumbag. I’d rather tongue-kiss a lipless leper crack-addict than even look at you. 

Message to the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation- Fire yourselves.

Message to George W. Bush, his cabinet members, and the sycophantic House and Senate- Get the term “9/11” out of your filthy fucking mouths. I don’t want to hear another tangential argument given weight by your use of September 11th as ballast until the “ground zero” of those events is afforded the same weight, in physical reality, as it is in your “stirring” words.

You know that primary construction on the original Twin Towers only took about 5 years? That means that if our leaders were not so full-of-shit, if our business-men were not so totally devoid of social conscience, and our citizens were not so listless, that we New Yorkers could look south and see, if not this September then one very soon, two reassuringly familiar (albeit structurally improved) towers rising to fill the empty spaces? How “right” would that feel? As things stand symbolism is threatening to usurp reality completely. If the incompetence continues much longer the symbol itself might be threatened with transformation. Anyone who says “Think of 9-11” will be saying “Think of how utterly full-of-shit we are.”

This is another photograph I took years ago. For some reason this image of a classic (Milton Glaser designed) “I heart N Y” coffee cup substituted with the word “V O I D” had a vitality and meaning to me. I made the cup and shot a whole role of it. I think I even had a t-shirt. Today, if I’m being honest, I have no idea what it meant to me exactly, or why it resonated. But again, as with the “towers in heaven” image, it seems to have found a new relevance, resonating for more obvious reasons. It’s an accidental protest image I suppose and I would like to offer it to you.

If anyone out there finds themselves similarly dismayed and upset by the void which still occupies what is ostensibly one of our countries most important sites, one which seems to symbolically initial all manner of political blank-check, then take it and use it.

Here is another:

Fuck it. What else is there for me to say? I’m tired.