Eviction Notice

No one thinks it's funny or charming when someone gets kicked out of their home.

You try your best to find some place where you and your family can prosper, where you can flourish, where, at the very minimum, you can come home and hang up your hat after a tough day slogging away for The Man, flop down on the well-loved couch, and let your hostility and tension melt away into its cushions for a couple hours as your eyes float away in a sea of mindless television. Maybe you prefer those... singing contest shows. Or perhaps it's "America's Most Wanted" on a Saturday night for you. Maybe you spend a half-hour with Diane Sawyer (could be worse, eh?) after walking through the door at 6:30.

Whatever the program, whatever your program, these shows are all punctuated by advertising that seeks to mock eviction: the forcible, heartbreaking, violent expulsion of a family from their dwelling, tossing them into the cold, bleak unknown.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Maybe you recognize these newlyweds.

That's right. Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. They look happy enough, don't they? And they were, living inside of your chest cavity, very innocuous and comfortable-- even though there were no chair-rails or sconces or wall-to-wall Berber carpeting. But, for this quaint couple, it was home.

Home.

Sure, you coughed. You complained that you felt, oh-- what was it... tight? Whoa. You poor, poor baby. Not man enough to just suck it up and go to work and plod through the day feeling a tad under the weather, you decide to stay home and throw a little pity party for yourself. Of course, instead of pulling out the Stradivarius and playing yourself a maudlin little funeral dirge-- you know, because you're on your fucking death bed-- you go to the medicine chest and haul out the big guns. Mucinex-D.

And. You. Evicted. The. Mucus. Family.

No warning. No courtesy call from the sheriff's office. No warrant. No nothing. I mean-- what the fuck is that? Mrs. Mucus is vacuuming up your lungs-- trying to keep everything nice and tidy (it's not like you ever go clean in there) and you just break up their happy family and expectorate them out into... into what? A tissue? Jesus. They're a family. They're not cum, you know.

And now we come to Digger.

You know Digger, right? He lives in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. And he's, apparently, from Brooklyn. Just like, um, Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. What the fuck's up with that?

Well, I don't know. All I know is that he's going to be lookin' to take the Chinatown Bus back to that shit because you, apparently, don't want him living in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. No, I guess there's no room at the inn, right? Nope. Not leavin' the light on for ol' Digger, are ya? Well, that's hurtful. I mean, look at the guy. Do you think a community residential program or halfway house is going to be jumping up and down to accept him into their facility? Would you want to room with this guy-- even if you were a spazzed out, schizophrenic drug addict named Lester? Probably not. Where the hell else is Digger going to go, but, you know, unda ya nails?

Yes. Athlete's Foot is itchy. I get it. It's unpleasant. I had it. And I... used.... um... Lamisil.

Oh. Uh, oh, boy. This... this is awkward....

And while it is uncomfortable for me to admit that I, too, displaced Digger and/or some of his friends, relatives and classmates, it only underscores the point of this blog post: there is clearly an urgent need for caseworkers and social services to assist in the relocation and rehabilitation of displaced fungal and mucosal advertising icons. Because, let's face it-- you may think they're icky and gross and schnarsty or whatever you want to call them, but the fact remains that, unless these homeless (and that's what they are-- fucking homeless) disease emblems are found suitable housing, they are simply going to go out into society and find another host body inside of which to squat-- maybe permeating your body with fungus or phlegm, and then, you'll be phucked.

Hey, I'm Talking to Your Daughter About Menstruation

A while ago, my mother-in-law signed my wife up, most likely unsolicited, for a subscription to "Reader's Digest." I'm sure there are people out there who enjoy "Reader's Digest." I'm equally sure that most of them are over the age of 77. The first time, in fact, that I can ever recall seeing an issue of "Reader's Digest" was at my Bubba's apartment in Center City, and she owned a velour sofa, a television with a vacuum tube, and knee highs. She also cooked unrecognizably burnt liverwurst hamburgers that my sister and I delighted in flinging off her 18th story balcony.

I don't know your feelings on this subject, but, to me, giving someone a subscription to "Reader's Digest" is basically like giving them a year's worth of diarrhea, or a year's worth of fingernail clippings. A year's worth of, well, liverwurst hamburgers.

Mrs. Apron reads the "Reader's Digests" that she receives with what appears to be a mixture of apathy and interest, which admittedly is a tenuous combination. Her eyes, however, sparkled last night as she got to one particular advertisement.

"Here, Bobber," she said to me with a devilish grin, "this can be your blog topic for tomorrow."

Indeedy-doo.

It's a full-page advert, courtesy of your friends at "Always." A young-looking, improbably hot mom with long, chestnut hair draped lovingly over improbably pert 36-Bs sits Stage Right. She's lightly touching the chin of her slightly awkward-appearing daughter, with unfortunate bangs, who is gazing almost soulfully into her mother's eyes, as if said mother were in the process of dispensing some carefully-guarded pearls of MILF wisdom.

And she certainly is. She is talking to her daughter about menstruation and, by the same token, she is...

TALKING TO YOUR DAUGHTER ABOUT MENSTRUATION

"Although most girls get their first period around age 12," the ad copy states, "some start menstruating as early as age 8. That's why explaining what's ahead is so important."

* "The best appeoach is to start early and speak often. Don't wait for one 'big talk.' Provide age-appropriate information and let her know you're okay discussing it."

I don't know that I agree wholeheartedly with this first one. I'm a pretty ardent proponent of the "big talk." I would recommend renting out a boardroom of a local hospital or corporate entity-- the more formal the better-- perhaps with some austere oil paintings of stern-looking middle-aged or elderly men in tweed suits staring down over spectacles with one wily eyebrow raised. This will make your daughter aware of the importance of the information that you are about to reveal to her, and will enhance the gravitas of your presentation. Remember, don't be afraid to yell. Yelling drives home the important points.

* Talk about all the issues of puberty - physical changes, reproduction, menstruation, etc. There's a lot to cover."

Whoa, Always peeps-- we're supposed to have this marathon conversation with our eight-year-olds? Reproduction? Shit, man. You're damn right-- there IS a lot to cover. Renting this boardroom isn't coming cheap, you know. You might have to throw on a few extra hours, just to cover foreplay alone!

* "Let her know everyone's body is different and development comes at different times for every girl."

This is also known as the "It's okay that you're completely and utterly flat-chested" talk. Yeah... have fun with that.

* "Always put the discussion in apositive light. Explain that menstruation is a wonderful part of being a woman - without it, women couldn't become mothers!"

Right, because your eight-year-old daughter really gives a big honkin' shit about that. In other words-- lie through your goddamn teeth, leave out all the unpleasantness about that first horrifying drip on the floor during the 6th period math test, the cramps, the bloating, the misery, the scores of stupid, incompetent men who just don't get it and, at the high school prom, will suggest doing you "in the mud" as a viable alternative to vaginal intercourse while you're menstruating. Oh, and don't you love how they start this one off with the word "Always"? Just can't resist dropping that brand name, can you, bitches?

* "Have a book available if your daughter would like to look at it."

Great advice. Any particular one you have in mind? "To Kill a Mockingbird" maybe?

* "If your daughter doesn't bring up the subject, get the conversation started by asking her what she knows about puberty and what questions she has. Time this with a doctor's appointment and let her know that the doctor can help explain what's going on with her body."

I don't know, man. Getting the conversation started by "asking her what she knows about puberty" doesn't seem like a really creative icebreaker to me. I suggest trying something like this:

Spill some POM Wonderful juice on the white livingroom rug. Turn to your daughter and say, "Janice-- once a month, for a very long time, this is going to be your life. Now clean that shit up, goddamnit, and go to your room for five days. Mommy's going to go in the den and read 'Reader's Digest'."

Facebook's Unsure of My Sexuality

A little while back, I penned a blog post in defense of my heterosexuality. Sorry I'm too lazy to hook you up with the hyperlink, but I've been shoveling snow for a week straight and, right now, I'm just not that into you.

In that post, I talked at length about how I'm really not gay, though societal conventions would have you believe that I am decidely light in my loafers. Actually, I just bought my first pair of Doc Martens, which means I'm even more far gone than being a gay man, apparently I'm a lesbian from the late 1990's.

I also went on and on about the various aspects of my personality that might lead one to believe that I am a homosexual: my intense love for Gilbert & Sullivan operettas, my unmatched penchant for matching clothes, my ability to take an interest in my wife's crafting projects, and my predilection for tears.

Of course, we in the blogosphere and specifically the My Masonic Apron fold banded together to rally around my heterosexuality, disclaiming society's distasteful tendency to lump, stereotype, codify and categorize a person's sexuality based on a random collection of traits.

Plus, I freak out when my underwear seam rides up my butt, so you can imagine....

While my friends and my wife are convinced that I'm straight, Facebook, it seems, remains unconvinced. Last night, I uploaded some fun, wintry pictures of my wife and me outside, frollicking about in the 3-foot-high snowdrifts and, occasionally, shoveling when I noticed a peculiar ad on the upper right-hand corner of my screen, a spot which, according to advertising studies, is the spot on a screen or paper your eye goes to first.

The ad featured four or five jovial looking, bare-chested men of Adonis-like proportions, their sand-colored hair swept back serenely suggesting they were photographed in a, well, Caribbean situation. To support this notion, the text below the handsome lads read as follows:

"Sail the world's most beautiful ship with 2,800 gay men to the best of the Caribbean. Great deals available now. Join Atlantis today!"

I looked quizically at my wife. What could there possibly be on my Facebook page that would lead online advertisers to think I would be a prime target for a gay cruise to the Caribbean?

1.) I am not gay (I'm tired of saying it, too) and I am listed on Facebook as "married."

2.) I have never been on a cruise and have no desire to be on one, ever.

3.) I have never been to the Caribbean and have no desire to be there, ever.

4.) It's the pictures of me in G&S roles that made them think I'm gay, isn't it?

I never knew there was such a thing as a "gay cruise." Maybe I'm just so young and innocent, but I had always assumed that a cruise ship was basically a microcosm of the larger world: with paralyzed people and black people and affluent people and stupid people and people with b.o. and people who insist on walking around without bras even though they're forty and older, people who wear eye-patches and people who wear Panama hats, people with skin lesions and Herpes sores and knobbly knees and dental veneers, people who eat gefilte fish right out of the jar and people who perform necropsies on other peoples' deceased pets for a living.

You know, I kind of just assumed the gays mingled with the straights on cruise-ships. And, I guess, on some cruise ships, they do.

But I now know that, on some cruise ships, they don't.

I wondered, upon viewing the website, if enough wealthy homophobes could band their resources together and buy a ship to sail to St. Bart's or wherever on a "Straights Only Cruise" and how the A.C.L.U. would feel about that. I also wondered if the Captain and First Officer of the "Gays Only" ships were required to be gay, too, and how difficult it must be to find a gay Captain and First Officer with the experience to pilot one of these tremendous ships. I also wondered, too, if the lobsters served on-board had to be gay.

Like gay cruises, internet advertising fascinates me. Once I switched to G-mail from Yahoo, I started noticing startingly accurate banner ads. The first one that almost dropped my jaw to the floor was an ad for a theatre company in Palo Alto, producing "Gee & Ess: An Original One-Man Gilbert & Sullivan Show." Then there was an ad advertising EMT training. Whatever G-mail does in terms of I.P. snoopery is working, because their ads are consistently on the mark.

Speaking of targeted internet advertising, I now understand that I will be bombarded at every turn for ads about gay cruises, man-thongs, tussie-lubricant, and Toyota RAV-4s because I had the audacity to Google "gay cruises" to get to that website. And now that you've clicked on the hyperlink, you will be, too.

Facebook's ads, though, could use a little work. Why? Because the very next ad to pop up on my screen after the gay cruise ad was one from Proflora Flowers, Inc. It bore a picture of red roses on it and it gently advised me that...

"Your wife will love these."

Indeed. I'll have them sent to her from sunny St. Bart's.