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12 july 2000
----- Had an interesting rise from bed this morning. I know I woke up on my back, although I hardly acknowledged consciousness until I began to roll over to my stomach. But then my stomach never touched the bed. "Pain" would be an inadequate word to describe the sensation as my entire body proceeded to rise above the bed, seemingly suspended an unspecified number of inches above the mattress, only to crash down unceremoniously, leaving me to mutter a half-asleep "OW" and wonder what, or more specifically, who, I was dreaming about. The object of my unconscious sexual desire never materialized in my mind, but the fact remains that I woke up harder than I can recall in years. I'm surprised I didn't poke a hole in my Select Comfort air mattress -- how on earth would I explain _that_ to the warranty people? I had a singular vision of my body, perfectly balanced on and supported by my sexual arousal, spinning around like a dreidel as I slept ... I'm thinking that it can't be possible ... there's no way my erect penis can support my body weight, is there? Would anyone in the medical profession like to answer? It sure as hell ain't gonna fly as a forum topic. Flashback to highschool ... the first band I was ever in. The last decent band I was in before Groaning Mona, and that says a lot. We called ourselves the BEMHO's. We played school functions, church functions, sweet-sixteen parties, corporate shindigs ... everyone loved us. We were to do a three-song set for the high-school Christmas assembly consisting of "Do They Know It's Christmas," "Jingle Bell Rock," and "Born to be Wild," and I remember the principal coming in during our soundcheck asking us what on earth the name "BEMHO's" means. No-one answered for a while. Finally, our drummer Reggie, a transfer student from EastSide High across the river in Paterson (remember that movie "Lean on Me" -- that's the high school), said "Sure boss, but it's kind of racy, y'know." "Oh, just tell me, ya won't get into trouble..." So Reggie replied "Big Early Morning Hang Overs." We all had a good laugh with that one, including the principal. He sardonically shook his head and left us to rehearse. Reggie was smarter than most people gave him credit for. And he saved our asses that day. A few months later, we were to headline an anti-drug benefit at Saint Catherine's Church. We pulled up in our caravan of moms' station wagons and unloaded the equipment a few hours before showtime. Out front on a ladder was Father Mario, hanging a handmade sign promoting the show "Tonight: 9pm, The BEMHO's." Father Mario was cool to all of us, even the scrawny little Jewish keyboard player with the hair hanging down to his ass. And yet everyone in the band was a bit freaked out that the Father had made this beautiful sign with our band name on it. Father Mario never asked what the name meant, and that's a good thing, because we probably would have told him the truth ... and that probably would not have been a good thing. As it was, the gig was our best ever -- the hall was packed with at least 300 screaming teenagers, and if I look really hard in a couple of weeks, I might even be able to find a cassette of that show somewhere in my parents' NJ basement. Those were fun times -- I was young, I had hair, a beautiful girlfriend, a Yamaha DX-7 and a load of friends. Of course I was stupid and naive and irresponsible, but I only remember that if I think too hard about it. Ugh ... back to the present. So, today I awoke with a Big Early Morning Hard On and nearly impaled myself on it. And the first thing I thought of was my band from high school. Bittersweet memories of a time when excessive horniness didn't really bother me in a cerebral sense. I had so many more outlets back then, so little to worry about. "Thirty years old" was so far away. Tonight at Vito, I perched myself at the bar for a quick vodka. "Are you twenty one?" asked the bartender. "No." A beat. "I'm _thirty_ one." He gave me another look, up and down, and then into my eyes, smiled, and began pouring. He didn't even ask to see the id. He must have just sensed the weariness. Thirty-one. That's fucking old, ain't it? It's also the amount of flavors they have at any given moment at Baskin Robbins. But you knew that already. When I reach the number of Heinz sauce varieties, I'm really gonna be worried. I bet I won't be levitating my morning self on my penis then...
In the forum: 12 july 1999: golden gated : Sitting in an airport bar, sipping a bloody mary for breakfast -- if I didn't know any better, I'd see myself as an alcoholic. 13 july 1998: stars : the night sky holds me in its grasp, and in my gaze i hold the night sky
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