Bloody Hell! (A True Story)
I immediately joked, “Oh, look! A killer came to visit!” Then a darker thought struck: what if someone had broken in and harmed my pets? I rushed inside, heart pounding, but found my cats and dog peacefully napping, blissfully unaware of my panic. Relieved, I checked the floors and carpets for more blood. Nothing. The blood seemed to be confined to the outdoors.
Returning to the porch, I inspected the blood drops and noticed a massive splash on the white porch post above the handrail. It looked like someone had flung a blood-soaked sponge at the wall. This was no minor mess. Then, in the corner, I saw it: my wicker chair, its seat smeared with blood. It looked as though someone with very bloody pants had sat there for a while. Drops of blood pooled beneath the chair and splattered across the front window. My porch was starting to look alarmingly like a crime scene.
I tried to make sense of it. Could an injured animal have sought refuge on my porch? It would need to be something agile enough to perch on the handrail, but there were no bloody paw prints. Maybe it was a bird? But do birds even have that much blood? Perhaps two birds had an MMA-style showdown right on my porch. Still, there were no feathers, no tracks, no signs of a struggle. Just blood. Lots of blood.
Feeling increasingly uneasy, I decided to call the police. Maybe there’d been a nearby incident, and this could help them track the killer’s movements. Perhaps the culprit had considered knocking on my door to borrow some Lava soap and a Tide Stick but thought better of it. I’m no expert on how criminals think, sane or otherwise.
The dispatcher seemed moderately concerned, which I took as a good sign. I emphasized the blood in my explanation, wanting to sound credible and not like a neighborhood crackpot. Dispatchers are hard to impress, but I think I managed. She assured me an officer would be out soon.
Now I faced a dilemma. Should I wait inside or meet the officer outside? How would “a bloody porch” sound over the radio? Would they send two cars? Three? When the squad car finally appeared, I stepped onto the porch and waved him in.
In hindsight, there’s probably nothing more suspicious than a 6’5″ hairy man in a kilt standing on a bloody porch waving at the police. It’s likely the exact scenario they use in Police Academy training videos to demonstrate when it’s acceptable to fire without warning. The officer cautiously approached as I explained the situation, pointing out the blood pools and splatters. I even shared my amateur detective work: no bloody fingerprints on the doors or windows. I might have even used the word “perpetrator” a couple of times. Meanwhile, I cleared junk off the porch, making space for the mobile crime lab and its fancy equipment.
The officer didn’t seem impressed. If anything, he looked more exasperated than concerned. “It was probably some animal,” he said with a sigh that practically added, ‘you dumbass.’ “Maybe a fox or coyote dragged something up here.”
“Like what, a roadrunner?” I wanted to ask but held back. As his interest visibly waned, I started feeling sorry for the imaginary family who’d been gruesomely murdered the night before, their crime forever unsolved. I wondered which house they lived in and if their lawn looked better than mine.
That’s when it hit me: I’d just become this officer’s story at the station. “Did I tell you about the guy in the skirt who called in because a sparrow cut itself shaving on his porch?” he’d say, igniting uproarious laughter. “Maybe it was just ‘his time of the month!”’ Cue the holster-gripping belly laughs and cigarette tosses. Some might even Google my website for a visual to match the story. Police bullying at its finest.
Early this morning, I awoke with a phrase ringing in my head: “a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.” Quietly, I crept to the living room window overlooking the porch. There, on the stained wicker chair, sat a big orange cat, staring hungrily at the bird feeder. His eyes darted with every fat morsel that flitted by. He was clean. No blood. Perhaps he’d been unlucky in the hunt. I opened the door, and he bolted, pausing behind a tree to peek at me before disappearing into the dawn.
“Mystery solved,” I thought.
Then, in a flash, a hooded man leapt from the bushes and plunged a knife into my chest 37 times. Blood splattered across the porch, the walls, the windows, and the stupid wicker chair. My lifeless body collapsed as the man fled into the night.
Of course, that last part didn’t happen. But it’s the story I’m telling next time I call the police dispatcher.
Why I Cannot Wear A Dress
Late August of 1972, my entire family was brutally tortured, then slaughtered by a teal and beige casual sport dress. It was a thigh-length, sleeveless with round neckline and princess seams on the front and reverse. Authorities said the dress buttoned all the way down the back. To make matters worse, it was a size 8.
By all accounts, a very high-end, quality garment.
Before 1980, crimes by dresses were rarely reported in this country. Most victims of dress crimes were too embarrassed or intimidated to come forward. I had no choice. My entire family laid scattered throughout our modest ranch home in pools of their own blood, victims of outer-wear violence.
I alone was spared that brutal day. I had spent the summer at a special camp for children who couldn’t tan. Little did I know, before that summer was over, I would be orphaned, severely depressed, and gain an intense distrust of women’s clothing.
The investigation of the crime took almost three years but eventually the perpetrator was discovered on a rack at a consignment store in Shreveport. The dress was tried, convicted and given the death sentence.
In April of 1986, after serving almost ten years on death row, the dress was cut up into hand towels and various scraps. Even though I know justice was done in this case, you now know the reason why, to this day, I can not wear a dress.
I Love You, You Freak.
There’s a scene in the 1993 film Untamed Heart where Christian Slater’s character, Adam, casually admits to Marisa Tomei’s Caroline that he’s been sneaking into her bedroom to watch her sleep.
Pause a moment to picture wild-haired, socially-awkward Adam perched on her nightstand, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as sweet, vulnerable Marisa Tomei snoozes, blissfully unaware. Now try not to let your skin crawl completely off your skeleton.
For most of us, this behavior screams “restraining order,” but when Adam drops this creepy confession, Caroline reacts like she’s just been told she looks mighty cute in them jeans.
“You watch me sleep? Why?” she asks sheepishly, piano music tinkling softly in the background.
“You… have a peace. I don’t have peace,” Adam replies, gazing at her like a lovesick serial killer. Well, thank you, Mr. Bundy, for openly admitting you are, in fact, an unzipped nut bag.
One might expect Caroline to respond with pepper spray or a swift kick to the shins, but no. Instead, she looks intrigued. Charmed, even. Maybe a little turned on.
Adam goes on, revealing that his dreams are all suffocation and despair, and Caroline is his only source of peace. Tender tears well up in her eyes. She tenderly touches his tender, scarred chest and they immediately, and with tremendous tenderness, make out on the porch swing.
Now, before I go further, let me say this: I like this film. I own a copy of this film. I’ve watched it more than once, and I’ll watch it again. I’d kill for Christian Slater’s hair and overcoat and, given the chance, I’d happily sit for hours watching Marisa Tomei sleep. I wouldn’t even care if she drools. Seriously, Marisa, if you’re reading this, I’m quiet, I won’t touch your stuff, and I’ll let myself out around 3:30 a.m.. Maybe 4:00.
But that’s beside the point.
What really skarks my skivvies is Hollywood’s tradition of making creepy, dysfunctional leading men irresistibly romantic. These dudes pull off antics that would get the rest of us tasered.
Case in point: socially stunted weirdos with minimum-wage jobs, driving beat-up cars, somehow win over stunning women simply by quoting Pablo Neruda, finding Cassiopeia in the stars, and pissing their names in the snow in a quaint Edwardian Script, all set to a John Mayer soundtrack.
In reality, dorks like Will Ferrell or Jack Black would need a Lord of the Rings-level special effects budget to score women like Maggie Gyllenhaal or Kate Winslet. Yet in Hollyworld, no problem. John Cusack could roll up to Rachel McAdams slathered in hog bile, spouting halitosis, and still get her number before sundown. Even Forrest Gump got laid by Robin Wright, for crap’s sake.
I guess this grates on me because I desperately wanted to be one of those quirky, sensitive, outsider guys. I gave it my all. Left my hair unkempt for days, mismatched my Chuck Taylors, rode a bike around delivering roses to strangers, held boomboxes aloft outside bedroom windows. I even worked menial jobs where I pretty much kept to myself except when I saw a friendly Golden Retriever that I just seemed to understand on a level where language was unnecessary.
Not once did I attract a leading lady, prom queen, or girl-next-door sweetheart. The closest I came was when Hollywood legend Patricia Neal smiled at me once in JC Penney. I’m pretty sure it was just because she thought I was the person coming to take her to go pee pee.
So here I am: a single, outcast, artsy geek in a musty apartment with a thrift-store wardrobe and a dog who’s a little too friendly. I clearly have no idea what the hell women are looking for.
Anyone wanna buy a book of poetry and a ’79 Chevy Malibu? Cheap.