It is much the same that I have always felt: Pigish.I don’t know what moment de crise drove poor Misha to feel that she needed to
unleash her elongated Yiddish trope on the world, but I certainly felt the drift of her bipolarity. I too have been about the world, seeking fame and fortune, and coming away with less of both than when I started out. That's typical of a journey, n'est ce pas?Preparing for my memoirs.
As a young stud, I played the field strategically rather than whimsically, using the role of victim rather than victor to claim my prize. As the years passed, however, my “getiton” was seized – like most of many multi-legged mates – by a staggering paroxysm of “getonwithit.” That was a painful time as mentors were few, jobs were scarce, and I had yet to discover the martini.
The thing is that unlike Misha, I have no reason to believe that a memoir, however, embellished could be better than the reality itself. I mean there is no possible way that traipsing around New England with a friendly wolf (which I did one summer) would match my youthful adventures. The was the Year of the Hunt, when the coppers threw down a pre-terrorist age dragnet on the boys for throwing rock solid snowballs at the cars from on top of High Street during winter storms – driving people into nervous breakdowns with children in the car and old people and God knows what imbeciles situated behind the wheel! It was outright felonious, but also a different age when snowballs rather than guns were the weapon for juveniles. Of course, those were also the days when you could simultaneously smoke a ciggy, drink a can of beer, and drive 40 mph down a side street in a Ford full of unbuckled juveniles and not worry about cops or the little fucking brats throwing snowballs (or potatoes--another story) at your windshield.
The advantage for me was that I owned track star legs and prehensile feet. I could run faster than anyone in the neighborhood, which made for a high rate of confidence in escaping thugs and cops (sometimes the same thing), but still guarantee the tremendous rush of excitement that made life worth living. Hear me, dear friend: not getting caught was the real goal – hitting the windshield was a freaking bonus. Sadly, my brothers (especially the midget and the moron) didn’t get their priorities well ordered in this regard.
Whatever else, you could dash a boring day to hell with a timely visit to visit “Aunt Adelaide” as we affectionately called our adult friend on Lake Street. A magical knock on her back door to enquire if she needed anything at the store was all it took. This act of kindness was not so kind really. It was mainly to see her arrive at the door bearing forth the biggest set of naked titties in the western hemisphere north of the Tropic of Cancer. She was nuts, but God did we love the unburdened three-foot long swaggering globes of pendulous flesh that shouted “stand back, boys, these are out of my direct control!” at our afeared faces. And did we ever – there was no knowing how they were plausibly attached to her torso or when they might fall off, and what a mess that would be.
Nonetheless or more, we ran all over town getting her groceries, “to go” meals, and hardware oddities for small change and a peek. She’d invite us in on occasion at which times she would close the door (for what purpose?), say “wait a minute boys...” and return having donned an ancient gauze bandage that she referred to as her “let me get my bathrobe” attire. LMGMB somehow made the whole thing a little dirty because one had to fall back on memory to fill in the gaps and suddenly it was clear that you were really the pervert in this scene. Adelaide was a very tall and large woman, not handsome, but with a certain presence that made her homely features irrelevant. Her mammaries were probably “oversize average” for her body mass ratio. But they were each bigger than my younger brother (the midget one), and that caused me to know at an early age that something pretty damn interesting was up for grabs in my future.
Ah Adelaide! If only I had known how to absorb that generous gift of outrageous memory you were giving us – at such a young and unable age (in human years between 11 and 14 ans). As a parochial school pig, I didn’t know if Adelaide was part cow, part human, or just a plain ole crazy lady. The truth came out later, but at the time I truly believed she was a different class of being – perhaps this is what a Minotaur’s wife might look like. It all made sense later when I met other Minotaurian figures – but by then I’d happily moved on to other amazements of the body.
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Now let me ask you, dear leader: were these memories really worth writing down as memoir? They’re neither particularly Jewish or even Pigish. These are just ordinary memories. As a body whose nature participates in both “personhood” and “animalhood,” I travel through life with one hand on my valise and one hoof on my lunch pail. You think people have it tough? Try being a pig for a day in a human world. My experience is that you won’t have to look very far to find a working model.
Indeed, take a look around yourself the next time you are out in public, and then remove yourself into a position of slow motion observer. When I do this, I find myself entering into an exotic stare from which I must quickly turn or risk being caught in flagrante – enjoying a moment of abstract pleasure in the ridiculous and the absurd. You too might try this, but remember: no absolution for those who get caught! – PC
