Before Time Square NYC became a huge Disney logo, I had the pleasure of living there.  It was a fertile place – teaming with all kinds of wild subculture. There were porn theatres and strip clubs and little diners with sprawling counter tops and greasy short order cooks. Coffee came in one size and one flavor: COFFEE. There was laughter and menace and every raw emotion in between. NYC is the original concrete jungle.

One thing that caught my eye regularly: young Latino men walking around with something lump-like in the back pocket of their low-hanging Levis. Like a golf ball or something, hard, round and sticking out.  It was always a rather jarring element to their silhouettes.

So I asked my neighbor Jose what the deal was with the pocket packers.  He told me they weren’t golf balls, but limes.  Fresh ones. Carried by virile young men, so that when they’re in bed with a woman, they can squeeze the juice on her genitals.

WTF? Right?

It’s so that if she recoils in any kind of pain they know she has open sores or an infection.

Let’s see your iPhone do that.

Remember: this was shortly before any PR awareness of STD’s and AIDS but I’m guessing this is some kind of VERY old knowledge.

My first reaction was—-Damn. Fucking animals.

My second reaction was—-Wait, these motherfuckers are smart…Law of the Jungle smart.

Don’t give me any shit about rubbers here. Remember.  This was pre AIDS and consenting adults with animalistic sexual attractions. Good shit.  The female knows her safe time of the month and the male no more wants to wear a rubber than Yo Yo Ma wants to wear mittens playing the cello.

Meanwhile, forty blocks downtown, some knuckle head with glasses and a briefcase is banging his secretary or picking up a hooker and then taking some serious jungle cooties back to his pampered wife in Connecticut. Stupid civilized asshole is not going to make it in the jungle.

Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were unquestionably the most successful comedy team in the world in the 1950’s. When they opened at the 500 club in Atlantic City, on the Jersey shore, only about five people showed up in a room that sat two hundred fifty.

The next day they went down to the beach where Jerry swam out into the water and screamed that he was drowning. Dean came running, dove into the surf and dragged Jerry up onto the sand. Dean proceeded with CPR until a big crowd gathered. Jerry then did a hilarious spit take and jumped up saying—1st show at 8:00, we’re at the 500 club. The club was packed that night.

They did this daytime routine three times a week on different parts of the beach to huge crowds. The rest is history. You can watch Jerry tell this story here.

I’m waiting to cross Hollywood Boulevard. Even though it’s a residential area cars are moving real fast. As I wait for the light to change, I position myself so that a telephone pole is between me and traffic. Bouncing off the hood of a Hummer like a rag doll is not how I want to make my Youtube debut.

The universe bends to my twisted will as I hear the loud screeching of tires on asphalt. A black Beamer skidding sideways comes to a halt right in front of me, right next to the pole. A girl jumps out of the car and runs towards me screaming—Do you have a cell phone!!? I need to use your cell phone!! Please…!!

I see a blur of high heels, miniskirt and a tight T-shirt. She’s hot – in a mindless pop culture sort of way. 

I stick to the script and ask:
Are you OK? What’s the matter?

She says:
Can I use your cell phone? Please. I lost my phone.

Sure. What happened?

I lost my cell phone. I need to call my cell phone. I think it’s in my car somewhere.

Right.

I hand her my phone. She dials, hands it back to me, then flings open the passenger door and frantically roots around under the seat. I’m now looking at, what is aesthetically, a very nice bare ass. I can see where her G-string widens tight around the contoured cleft that is her cunt. Yes, I believe that is the right word.

Breaking my spell she says:
Oh thank God. Here it is.
 
She holds up one of those Blackberry jobs so that I can also be relieved. …’cause you know I really thought we were all going to die. She then jumps back into her car and takes off.

Now that I have her phone number, what would be the most diabolical way to use it?

When I was eight years old my father took me to a neighborhood carnival. I immediately fixated on one of those huge inflatable structures that are filled with rubber balls and kids bouncing around like they’re walking on the moon. To my amazement, even then, my father reluctantly parted with a hard earned quarter and I was on my way to living a dream. This is my first recollection of REALLY wanting something.
 
Pre-puberty excitement doesn’t get any better than this as I crept on all fours up the inflatable ladder. I fought a strong gust of warm air as I parted the flapping tent-like doors and entered. There were kids everywhere screaming and laughing as they leaped high into the air.
 
I steadied myself and jumped up propelled by the bouncing surface. There was truly a feeling of weightlessness. I came down in slow motion and my knee connected with my chin which caused me to bite through my tongue. The whole room disappeared in a blinding white flash of excruciating pain as I slumped down into a crevice right near the entrance. Through a blurred haze of twisted carnival music I was vaguely aware of happy children stepping over me.
 
There’s no moral here people. All my life I’ve continued to fixate immediately on things that were interesting to me: jazz music, animation, good literature, vaginas etc. I’ve wounded myself many times along the way.
 
I’m writing this because as of last week I bit off what was left of my tongue.  Happy people don’t have time to understand me. What’s up with happy people anyway? I’ll tell you what’s up with happy people: they’re not living their dreams.
 
-Smigly