I cracked the crack of my ass on the back of the chair I climbed to vacuum the ceiling fan in my living room last Friday. Shit still hurts. Doesn’t hurt to shit though, just to sit down.
We found the thing in the middle of a Manhattan binge one night three years ago, laquered in cigarette smoke and chewing gum. Carried it from bar to bar, then threw it in the trunk of the cab we bought back to Brooklyn.
Next afternoon it corrupted our apartment over coffee, not far from where it attacked me last week, so we stripped it, tore off its cushion, sanded its legs and cut the bottom off our curtains for upholstery. Grandma gave me her coffeetable when Dad said she couldn’t have it because she might trip, and with it, the polish to keep it like new. Now it's a clothing rack on its back in our bedroom, legs bound with scarves, hats and Nicole’s bras. The polish, however, we put to proper use on our new chair, one of many New York additions Grandma never knew. She died in April, in a bed in a home in Arizona that wasn’t hers. Born in Ambridge, she moved to Parma, then to Phoenix to be widowed, remarry, grow old and die. She was Sicilian, married to an Irishman and so am I, only English and Armanian, married to a Cherokee German Pole. Godbless our children. They’ll be beautiful, long as they have her hair, sunken eyes, heart, small teeth and smile. But they have to drink.
I hear it’s good to lace a teething baby’s bottle with Bourbon, helps numb the gums. Just the nipple though, unless they’re really wailing, then a little in the milk if it’s warm. Like I said, we adopted and mended the chair that cracked my ass on a bender. I climbed it sober. Next time, fuck the fan. I’ll use a broom.
We found the thing in the middle of a Manhattan binge one night three years ago, laquered in cigarette smoke and chewing gum. Carried it from bar to bar, then threw it in the trunk of the cab we bought back to Brooklyn.
Next afternoon it corrupted our apartment over coffee, not far from where it attacked me last week, so we stripped it, tore off its cushion, sanded its legs and cut the bottom off our curtains for upholstery. Grandma gave me her coffeetable when Dad said she couldn’t have it because she might trip, and with it, the polish to keep it like new. Now it's a clothing rack on its back in our bedroom, legs bound with scarves, hats and Nicole’s bras. The polish, however, we put to proper use on our new chair, one of many New York additions Grandma never knew. She died in April, in a bed in a home in Arizona that wasn’t hers. Born in Ambridge, she moved to Parma, then to Phoenix to be widowed, remarry, grow old and die. She was Sicilian, married to an Irishman and so am I, only English and Armanian, married to a Cherokee German Pole. Godbless our children. They’ll be beautiful, long as they have her hair, sunken eyes, heart, small teeth and smile. But they have to drink.
I hear it’s good to lace a teething baby’s bottle with Bourbon, helps numb the gums. Just the nipple though, unless they’re really wailing, then a little in the milk if it’s warm. Like I said, we adopted and mended the chair that cracked my ass on a bender. I climbed it sober. Next time, fuck the fan. I’ll use a broom.
