A Book Review (Sort of)

If you're struggling with what to get me for Hanukkah (I suppose former follower 191 won't be getting me anything-- hmpf) I proffer, with great humility and anticipatory thanks, the Complete Series of "Homicide: Life on the Street."

$112.49 on Amazon-- free Super Saver shipping. Noice.

I watched "Homicide," the truly excellent series detailing the struggles, heartaches, frustrations, failings and transcendence of the Homicide detective's squad of the Baltimore City police department. A year out of college, I took the ferry with two friends to Fells Point, where much of Homicide was filmed. It's hard to forget grainy, handheld images of Richard Belzer and Andre Braugher tooling around the bumpy, pothole-stricken streets in their incongruous white Chevy Cavalier-- for some reason the auto of choice for B-more detectives in the 1980s-- beating down the doors and following the scents of some of the most disgusting, shameless and brutal murderers Baltimore had to offer.

And it doesn't get much better than an earthy, poignant, if somewhat challenging to understand monologue from Yaphet Kotto-- one of the acting titans who always looks just right with a badge pinned to his blazer pocket and a .38 on his hip. If I were killed, I'd probably rather Yaphet Kotto investigate my murder than any real detective.

It was only recently, though, whilst bumming around Borders actually looking at books, which is something I don't think people really do anymore (I used to go to Borders looking at/for women, but I'm married now, thank you) that I found the book that started it all: "Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets" by veteran reporter and writer David Simon, who went on to create "The Wire" which has officially been seen by everybody, including a 16-year-old student of mine with Aspergers, but me.

(You can buy that for me for Hanukkah next year.)

David Simon, for one year, was dubbed "Police Intern" and was given unfettered, unprecedented access to Baltimore's Homicide squad, to see, hear, record, and report on everything-- from its widow's peaks to its beer-bellies to its pimples. And there's many of each to go around. But, underneath the swearing, the frustrating, endless pursuits, the mindfucking that goes on in the interrogation room, the combativeness and competition between detectives, the personalities, there is the quiet diligence, the ruthlessness, the devotion to the job that shines through on each page. Detectives who will spend hours on their hands and knees, sifting through leaves in trash-strewn alleyways for a shell casing, who will zero in on a suspect and who will not yield until every investigative avenue, theory, story, possibility and improbability is pursued to the hilt.

Yes, sometimes, when it is 98 degrees in the squadroom, they take off their pants and lay down on top of other detectives who are passed out on the couch. They sexually harrass the elderly cleaning lady. They fuck with each other endlessly. The humor is almost all profane and morbid-- it is easy to joke over a dead body. A head wound is described on page one as "a slow leak." A nurse describes a deceased gentleman to a detective as "A-D-A-S-T-W."

"Arrived Dead And Stayed That Way."

What else can you do but laugh?

The suspects, in inner-city Baltimore, usually young, black men, are referred to as "yo's." Their girlfriends, yoettes. Easy cases are "dunkers." The detectives refer to each other as "bunk." A detectives purchases his supervisor an egg sandwich on a bagel. The supervisor asks what he owes the detective.

"That's okay, bunk. I'll get you next time."

An eleven-year-old girl is brutally sexually assaulted and murdered-- it's never solved. A young police officer gets shot twice in the head and is blinded for life. It's revealed through a barroom conversation with a young female juror after it's all said and done that it's only through a miracle that the jury deigns to find the shooter guilty and sentence him appropriately.

"It's Memorial Day weekend," she told the officers stunned coworkers after the trial, "everybody pretty much just wanted to go home."

After he was shot and was recovering from brain surgery in the hospital, Gene Cassidy, the young officer freshly blinded, wandered into another patient's room in the middle of the night. Lying in bed was a fourteen-year-old child recovering from a car accident. Cassidy, gowned and bandaged and blind, shuffled over to the kid and said, "You're under arrest." The child advised the officer to go back to bed. Cassidy said, "Okay," and wandered down the hallway.

Ghosts and apparitions weave in and out of "Homicide" and mix amongst the living-- bodies, stories, detectives, survivors, families, lawyers. Through it all, there is humility, humanity, and humor.

Edgerton and Pellegrini come up against two Dobermans.

"Go on, Tom," says Edgerton, laughing. "You can take 'em."

"No, that's all right."

"They're just animals. You're a man with a gun."

Pellegrini smiles.

"Go on. Show 'em your badge."

"I think we can wait," says Pellegrini, walking back to the car.

But they never wait long. In a world where "I didn't see nothin'" is the phrase these detectives are confronted with most frequently, they're always there, chasing down impossible leads and making sure some people know that they definitely saw something. Edgerton reminded a young uniformed officer of that one day when he singlehandedly chased a suspect and tossed him for information. The young officer expressed surprise that a homicide detective would go after someone alone like that.

"You only got six bullets," the uniform said.

"I don't even have that," Edgerton laughed. "I forgot my gun."

"YOU WHAT?"

"Yeah. I left my gun in my desk. This job is ninety precent attitude."

Well, Dress My Family in Denim &/Or Corduroy Underoos, It's... DEAR APRON!

It's the moment you've all been waiting for. No, not that royal faggot's wedding announcement, not the day when we can legalize tarring and feathering BP Executives, not Sarah Palin getting intimately acquainted with a Kodiak bear, no, it's not any of that. Unfortunately for you, it's just...

DEAR APRON:

My dear friend "Shelby" has been involved with a man for three years. "Mr. Secret Agent" is always on the go and can visit her only occasionally because of all of his international business travels. She told me he is from New Zealand and plans to return there when he retires in a few years.

Something about him just didn't feel right to me, so I did some Internet sleuthing and discovered that Shelby's "successful businessman" was born right here in the U.S.A. He has no passport, is using an assumed name, works as a janitor, has filed bankruptcy twice and actually lives in a trailer.

Shelby is overjoyed when he comes to visit her, but I am getting tired of hearing his lies. I know she'll be hurt, but don't you think she deserves to know the truth? I'm concerned he may extort money from her. What should I do? -- 2 GOOD 2 BE TRUE IN WASHINGTON STATE

DEAR 2 GOOD:

Wow! Isn't the "Internet" AMAZING!? Really, you can find out just about anything you want about a person via the "Internet." I love it when people capitalize "Internet" like it's some kind of brand-name. I'd be willing to bet that the only people who capitalize "Internet" are at least fifty years old. What do you think, 2 Good? Are you post-menopausal? Well, you don't have to answer-- I'll bet I can find out with some good ol' fashioned Internet sluething of my own...

(A few clicks and clacks later...)

Hmmm... seems that your real name is Ethel S. Merriweather, of 3521 Stanton Street, Beulaville, AL, 35004. You're 58 (ooh, maybe I'M 2 good 2 be true!), married to Dale, with three children: Jennifer, a 34-B paralegal with shoulder-length, chestnut hair (27), unemployed auto mechanic and part-time glue-sniffer tow-headed Roddy (31) and Tranh (7). Hey! Good for you guys for adopting!

According to the Google Earth image, you and Dale are the proud owners of one metallic green 1994 Ford Aerostar and a 1977 Plymouth Volare (oooh, choice) and it looks to me like you need to repaint that left 1st floor window shutter, Ethel. Maybe you can do that instead of spying on your friend's secret agent lover from New Zealand.

DEAR APRON:

I have a suggestion for people who are stuck for gift ideas. Several years ago, I asked my mom for a very special Christmas gift. I asked her to write down her life story -- things she had done as a child, the experience of hitchhiking from New Mexico to Tennessee during the Great Depression, and all the other experiences of her life. She did, and I printed it for her. That year she gave each child, grandchild and great-grandchild a copy. It was the best Christmas present ever and one that's still cherished by us all.

Both my parents are gone now, but we have Mom's wonderful stories to remember. Without her book, those memories would be lost forever. I encourage everyone to record their family history and memories for your loved ones to read. You'll never regret it, and it will be enjoyed for generations to come. -- ANDREW IN JOHNSON CITY, TENN.

DEAR ANDREW:

I'm confused-- where is the gift idea?

DEAR APRON:

I have been married to "Ben," a wonderful man, for seven years. We have three children. We get along well, but I have one complaint. It's about sex. I'm always in the mood but he isn't. We both work full-time jobs and take care of the kids and the house.

My best friend tells me I have the sex drive of a male and her husband wishes she was more like me. I am not a nymphomaniac, but I'd like to be intimate with my husband more than every other week. When we're together, I almost feel like it's a chore to him.

Is there something wrong with me? I have never cheated on Ben, nor have I considered it. I feel this is an issue in our marriage, but he thinks I am overreacting. -- WAITING FOR MORE

DEAR WAITING:

"Is there something wrong with me?"

God. I love it.

This is, hands-down, my favorite rhetorical question of all rhetorical questions. It ranks up there on the podium with "Am I being irrational?" and "Is this rash something to worry about?" I mean, really-- what do you want to know? What do you want from me? Do you want me to gently stroke your 34-Bs or your chestnut hair or your ego and say, "No, honey, there's nothing wrong with you-- it's the way everybody else looks at the world," or "No, it's not you, it's me,"? Honestly, you people really never cease to amaze and inflaccidate me.

Yes, there is something wrong with you. You have three children, so you've obviously done it at least three times. Give your husband a break-- the guy works for a living, you know. Jesus. Have you ever tried masturbation? It's a lot of fun for the first couple of years.

DEAR APRON:

I have already decorated my office for the winter holidays, but my co-worker says before Thanksgiving is too early to display a snowman. When do you decorate for the holiday season? -- FESTIVE SOUTHERN GIRL

DEAR FESTIVE:

Ah, a good question. You decorate for the holiday season immediately after staple-gunning paper cut-out Santas to your coworker's face and before calling for the ambulance.

Reading This Blog May Be Hazardous to Your Health

You've heard by now, no doubt, because you're a cultured, sensitive, informed individual that the feds are rolling out some new images to augment the existing Surgeon General's warnings, that have been plastered on cigarette packs since 1964.

The images include, in no particular order:

* A freshly-autopsied corpse

* An individual smoking a cigarette through his tracheotomy

* A withered, nasty-looking, shriveled up old fucker

* A pair of diseased lungs

* An artistic rendering of someone shoving a cigarette into his arm, a la heroin (clever)

* An artistic rendering of a mother blowing cigarette smoke into her newborn's mouth

* An artistic rendering of a smoker on puppet strings (presumably worked by big tobacco)

* Some nasty teeth and other nasty shit

I'm not going to go through and talk about all of them, because there are thirty-six of them, for Christ's sake, but I think you get the idea by now. Of course, one would have thought that smokers would have gotten the idea by now, but, evidently not, because, according to the American Council for Drug Education, there's 47 million cigarette smokers in the USA, officially making us the stupidest country in the universe.

Now, before you accuse me of being judgmental: fuck you.

Okay, moving on...

I am very much in favor of these new warning pictures, but not, perhaps for the more traditional reasons one might come to expect from traditional people. Do I think these pictures are going to stop people from smoking? No. I support the U.S. Food & Drug Administration's campaign because, let's face it, we're in a recession, and the jobless rate in this country stands at an unsettling 9.6%, and this is a great opportunity for advertising specialists, graphic artists, and models who get paid to lie on metal tables pretending they've just been autopsied to make some serious bucks.

I mean, Uncle Sam's no skinflint, and I'm sure the people at work creating these new warnings are being handsomely compensated-- and as well they should be. I am a bit curious, though, about one thing-- apparently, there are 36 new warnings, but I read that only nine are going to be chosen.

I mean, however are they going to choose between this one:

and this one:


Seriously? That's a tough call in my book. The more conservative part of me likes Ad 1 because the gentleman depicted there is in a shirt and tie, nice, traditional, 1980s era eyeglasses-- clearly meant to be an accountant or a local-level politician. I particularly like that they chose to have him wearing a wedding band so you look at it going, "Oh, no-- his poor, middle-aged wife!" I would be tempted, though, to vote against this particular ad because it seems like he can't quite make up his mind about whether he's having a heart attack, or a stroke, or a brain aneurysm, or all three. And it's like, dude, make up your fucking mind, you know?

Ad #2... well... what can I say? If smoking cigarettes means I'm going to have facial hair like that, then forget it.

The other reason, though, that I am staunchly in support of this new advertising campaign is that I am convinced that there is a significant portion of the population in this country that is illiterate. So, if you can't read, then the text-based Surgeon General's warnings are not going to be very effective for you.

I mean, look at this:

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate Pregnancy

Are you serious? "Emphysema"? "Complicate"? "Surgeon"? Be fair-- how many people do ride the Greyhound with who can understand, let alone pronounce 0r spell those words? If we have any shot in hell at defeating the tobacco companies, we've got to appeal to the fastest-growing majority in this country: illiterate dumbshits. McDonalds caught on years ago, with their implementation of picture and number-based menus.

God, I love me my Number 7.

Oh, and, by the way-- you should know that continual reading of My Masonic Apron is indeed hazardous to your health and could contribute to any number of fatal and/or socially undesirable diseases, and has been shown in clinical studies to cause Autism. (And you thought it was pregnant mothers eating sushi-- stupid.) For those of you, though, who cannot read (of course you're here-- where else would you be?) here's brief pictorial representation of what happens to people who read My Masonic Apron on a regular basis:




Remember: you've been warned.

My A Game

So, yesterday, you were treated to me decidedly being on My D- Game. I might as well have just typed out my shopping list-- most of which you wouldn't have understood, because my wife and I sometimes engage in this retarded lingo that only we can understand, because we are insular and do our best to eschew normal modes of communication.

Hence: the poop text.

Actually, I don't know-- maybe in this moment in the 21st century, the poop text is the norm. But, sometimes, when we're, um, pooping... we, uh, send each other... text..... messages.

My trusty old standby to send to her when I am engaged in the act is:

"It smells in here."

Fortunately, now that I have an almost-full keyboard, I can get more, how do you say, "jiggy with it" by expounding almost endlessly on the quality, consistency, and shape of my, er, leavings. Of course, poop texts do not always have to be about the poop or the poop experience itself. In fact, they often are about entirely irrelevant subjects. Like, reminding her to-- well, no, I guess they're pretty much always about poop.

That's why they're called "poop texts," moron.

Right. Got it.

Sometimes I get concerned for your emotional health. I feel I have to say that. I mean: look at yourself. You're sitting there in your moderately-enticing underwear (at least, I hope you are) clicking through all the sites in your routine, and you come to mine at some moment in your morning, afternoon, or evening's rituals. And what do you think to yourself when you read a post that starts out by guilting itself over yesterday's piss-poor (see what I did there?) only to turn into some less-than-sophomoric jag about poop. And texting.

I mean, yeah, it says some unpleasant things about me-- but, what about you? Don't you have better things to do whilst clothed only in moderately-enticing underwear?

And what about the hygeine issues surrounding poop texts? I mean-- I wash my hands a lot, but, can we just allow our minds to wander in that direction for just one moment? Isn't that fucking disturbing? I guess you'll never be asking to borrow my phone.

But, trust me, if you did-- you'd see lots of strange things in the text history. Pooperiffic things. Exchanges between a husband and a wife, a man whose degenerate behavior has definitely spread, like some sort of bacterial bowel ailment like C-Diff (if you're not in the healthcare field, look that one up, but DO NOT Google Image it) until the behavior has totally seeped into her brain and has made her act this way, too.

Poor child. She even reads my blog, too.

But not whilst pooping.

Here's a List, Because I'm Rushed:

Hi! If you were expecting something coherent, or substantive, or well-organized, or worth your time and energy, then I don't know what to tell you. You're an idiot. Why would you come here for that? Go watch "The View" or stick a shampoo bottle up your hiney-hole. Jesus. What am I-- 7-Eleven? Come on.

I've got about nine minutes for this here particular blogging adventure and, trust me, it's gonna be short, ugly, and tough to look at. And that, motherfuckers, is what. she. said.

Things that make me panic:

Being constipated

Having diarrhea

Having to spell "diarrhea"

Being late

Being early

Being on-time

Being spoken to.

Speaking in public.

Speaking to people one-on-one.

Speaking to people on the phone.

Making plans to socialize.

Canceling plans to socialize.

Socializing.

Checking out women.

Checking out library books.

Checking my windshield washer fluid.

Checking my bank balance.

Czeching the Republic.

Shopping.

Making dinner.

Making love.

Cleaning the house.

Cleaning the body.

Looking into my rearview mirror.

Being thought of mistakenly as a pervert.

Being thought of correctly as a pervert.

Tacchycardia.

Looking for my favorite pair of socks and not finding them.

Being asked to accomplish tasks.

When people have faith in me.

When people have no faith in me.

Knowing that it's time to go to sleep.

Thinking about death.

Doing the laundry.

Um... there are things I'm forgetting, but I'm panicking because I have to leave the house in two minutes.

Oh-- right: forgetting things.

Got it.

Please, Make Me Stop

I think I'm addicted to blogging.

And I know I'm addicted to coffee.

I don't like being an addict, and I suppose, having these two pesky little addictions, this is what I am.

Hi, I'm an addict and occasional asshole. Nice to meet you. Is there a 12-Step Program for me?

No, probably not.

I tried to give up coffee in graduate school, while I was taking (ha ha) an Intro to Addictions course in the psych department, because, as someone getting a MaEd, you are required to take one grad-level class outside of the education discipline. This class consisted of being lectured at by a very attractive professor, attending AA meetings in the community, and/or watching episodes of "Intervention."

Hi, welcome to my favorite grad school class. Nice to meet you. I am an addicthole.

Grad school was not the first or last time I tried to quit drinking coffee. I first tried in 2002, right after college. Fail. Then again, a couple years later. Fail. Then I tried to cut down to every other day. No. How about, just on the weekdays? Nuh-uh. Just on the weekends? Well... how about a couple packets of NO! Then, after a bout of heart-racing and several trips to the cardiologist's office (where every guy in their mid-twenties wants to be) I tried to do half decaff/half regular. Don't ask me why that didn't work-- probably because it was just too damn hard to always stock a bag of regular and a bag of decaffeinated grounds in the house, because, let's face it, that's way too hard for someone like me to do.

Plus, I didn't like saying, "half-caff" at Starbucks, because it made me sound like a retard who should be wearing a scarf, beret and an earring. I don't go like that. I'll say, "Please leave lots of room" but that's all I want to say to a barista. Anymore verbiage and I seriously start to hate myself.

Oh, and I also can't stop blogging. It's Friday as I write this now. The one for Saturday I pre-wrote an hour ago, and this one is auto-scheduled for 7:18am EST on Sunday, and I'm already thinking about what Monday's is going to be about and when I'm going to write it, since I have an orchestra rehearsal from 10am-1pm Saturday, then work from 3pm-11pm, and then work from 3pm-11pm again on Sunday. Sounds impossible, but there will be new content on Monday morning for you, just as sure is there will be coffee, sugared up and pissed off, surging through my veins and crashing against my temples when'er the sun doth rise.

God, I love being an addict.

And What's With This Masonic Shit Anyway?

I had a blog before this one, but I killed it, and it's dead. I cut its nuts off, and they rest, in a state of unsettling decomposition, inside a little velvet-lined gilded box on my nightstand.

This blog got bornded on Friday, March 13th, 2009, if you can believe that. We're just about at 611 posts or so, for those insufferable pedants who like to keep track of such things, and I'd like to say that "we've come a long way together" but, um, it's been largely a lot of the same around here. Fortunately, you probably hadn't noticed, until I was kind enough to point it out to you. I guess you won't be coming back here anymore. But, before you let the door hit your tight little ass on the way out, I think I at least owe you a post about the name of this here bloglette.

My Masonic Apron.

What the fuck is that about anyway?

Well, I don't know, really. Blogs need to be called something, don't they? Especially "anonymous" blogs. Because, if it wasn't anonymous, I could stick my name in the url and we'd be all gtg and shit, but, you know I can't do that. Because, in 2009, I worked with children. And, in 2010, I work with psychotic people. So, we're going to keep me in the shadows a little while longer, if that's okay with you. Because I don't want my nuts ending up inside some velvet-lined gilded box.

Anyway, when I was thinking about what to call this blog, one of my favorite Monty Python sketches of all time popped into my head. No, it's not the motherfucking dead goddamned parrot or the jesuschristing gay lumberfuckingjack.

Sorry. I just get so... you know.

It's the sketch that leads off Episode 17-- the Architect Sketch, which I first saw at age 12. In this sketch, John Cleese, a burgeoning, young and enthusiastic architect shows off his scale model of a block of apartment flats to two prospective investors, Terry Jones & Michael Palin. Unfortunately, Cleese is a bit manic and homicidal and the apartment building he is proposing is actually an abattoir, complete with "rotating knives" and "the last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled flesh slurps into these..."

Whereupon he is cut off, in the polite, goodnatured fashion that British people have cut other British people off in for centuries. Cleese leaves in rage-filled, frustrated embarrassment, also an English tradition, and in comes another architect, Eric Idle, to have a go with his model, which falls apart and spontaneously catches fire during his presentation. His proposal is unanimously accepted by Jones & Palin's characters, because Idle's architect character is, say it with me now: a Mason.

And they all do a super-cool, secret Masonic handshake that gets done again in a super-cool, secret, slow-motion BBC Action Replay.

Can you discern why I was not universally liked by other twelve-year-olds?

So, Masonic business was funny to me, because I learned about it from Monty Python. I mean, it is funny, just like the idea of the Church Police is funny, and just like men wearing women's clothes is funny. When I went to New York City with my long-defunct best friend to visit the grand lodge of the white knights of the masons or whatever the hell it was called, I was on the verge of cracking up the whole time we were there, because of Monty Python.

That sonofabitch.

Apparently, there is this great, vast mythology surrounding Masons that goes back a long way. George Washington was a Mason, and he was pretty cool, even though he looks like an elderly lady. My wife's uncle is a Mason, apparently. He is short, overweight, bald except for a Hershey's kiss swirl on top of his head, and his voice is a mixture of Pee-Wee Herman and Buddy Hackett. So, I don't know what's so cool about being a Mason, but it can't be that cool.

And I've further urinated on its real estate by defaming their most sacred symbol, the masonic apron, by making that the title of this here bloggery.

What kind of monster am I?

How many self-respecting masons have Googled "My masonic apron" in some misguided attempt to learn how to fold or wash or starch or embroider their own towelette and found their way to this blasphemous, pornographic, Jewish little blog? Many. I have no doubt. Masons Google themselves a lot. I read about that on the handmirror of a Korean prostitute somewhere.

Okay. Um... I don't know exactly what the hell this post was, but it's done now, I swear. I'm good. You can... you can go now.