A Urine Sno-Cone, Part II -- con't.

So, anyway, this whole growing up thing has been pretty weird. Having emerged from my Saturn return or late twenties panic (whatever you want to call it) and having accepted that I'll never be 21 again, that time is going by faster than I ever realized, that living a life of little responsibilty will not actually lead to independence, and that the revolution is not imminent (nor shall I be leading it, for that matter), I find myself watching in bemusement as the artifacts of my youth fall away.

Not only for this reason did I witness the death throes of said VCR with a certain pained ambivalence. Laziness and an addiction to shoes both figure large in the equation, as well.

But these things are only worth a passing frothy mention (although come to think of it shoes are certainly frothy-worthy material) in relation to the VCR's passing.

Whatever. This post aims to explore the seemingly unrelated connection between sexual economics, ancient appliances and urine sno-cones.

In essence, I was not wholly in psychological denial about the unavoidable reality that being in a six-year committed and monogamous relationship seriously curbs the possiblity of me ever begin involved in any sort of quasi-morally questionable sex bartering situation again. Or that now that I have chosen the medicated sober life that anyone would find me so incredibly mysterious and ethereal that they would be willing to throw cash and appliances at me simply to enjoy my company.

Clearly, acknowledging the death of the VCR would mean heaving another heavy hammer blow into issues weighty indeed.

And then last week at the Restaurant, my friend and co-worker, Damon presented me with a canvas bag saying "I'll be over to watch Eddie Izzard soon." Without warning, the hammer had fallen anyway. It was a new VCR. Nicole and Bruce had left town with a few things unsold and Damon had connected the dots.

I was surprised at how long I had been silently complict about the dysfunctional relationship I had entered into with the VCR. The cycle broken, I gleefully propped it in front of the Indian restaurant's back door.

The new one, though technologically challenging to set up, is young and unemcumbered and has a remote control.

Sam and I promptly ran out and rented Jackass the Movie.

I laughed, I cried, I winced, I laughed, I gagged, I screamed, I laughed. A lot.

The VCR is like a dream.

I know that I had a long bit of pretentious twaddle to post about why and how much I loved Jackass the Movie, but too many other doodies have slid down the porcelain pipe since then.
Memorable, memorable moments include:
The Party Guy g-string dancer loose in Tokyo,
Steve-O's ridiculous tattoos,
Steve-O snorting mutliple wasabi lines,
some other guy taking a crap in a a display toilet in a hardware store,
same guy taking a crap in his drawers in the car,
the cameraman throwing up from the stench,
Johnny Knoxville getting shot in the stomach at close range with a bean-bag bullet,
the roving clippers,
the fetid pond with floating dead cat,
so much gratuitous puking,
shooting off bottle rockets out of each other's asses,
one of the guys eating the afore-mentioned urine sno-cone,
papercuts between the toes... it just goes on and on.
I also really love the blatant homoeroticism, even though these guys are so straight it hurts.

I'm not sure what it means that these men are no doubt getting laid more often than any of us can ever dream of. Women love bad boys, I suppose is the easy answer.

* * *Please read this direct quote from Knoxville's bio:

He recalls several practical jokes his father played while he was growing up: Running a lukewarm hot dog through Johnny's lips while he was asleep (then pretending to zip his pants when his son awoke...)

This is unadulterated perversion at its unapologetic best.

I couldn't have known that the sights and sounds of Jackass would so soon be supplanted by my visit to Fountain Valley but that remains for another post.