Too Disgusting to Contemplate, Too Compelling to Ignore

With Old Boy on ice, thoughts turned toward interment.

And when it comes to planting a family member, everyone has an opinion.

Which is why Lola informed me I would be accompanying her to the mortuary. “So’s I don’t deck one of them little bitches when they want to have fried rice or something at the visitation.”

All things being equal, I was pretty proud of Lola. She was cordial upon her arrival and took a seat between the daughters while dealing with the undertaker. Initial formalities — date of birth, parents’ names, social security number, etc. — went along smoothly and as I sat along the wall with Clark and Andrew, I felt real hope that this could actually go off without a hitch.

Anyone out there want to sell me a bridge?

The first problem reared its ugly head when it came to choosing the casket. Lola had her eye on a polished silver bullet number which was promptly pooh-poohed by the daughters.

“That’s not daddy,” Gong-Li announced.

Lola turned and looked at me. I could see from across the room that she was already biting the inside of her jaw.

Lola’s second choice was some wood looking thing which was again vetoed.

Cue purse swung over her right shoulder dangling from two fingers and left hand on her hip (also known as the “pre-beat down stance“).

“This is the one,” Kim Jong-Il Soon-Yun announced. “Dad’s favorite color was blue.”

Which wasn’t true. The old shit favored greens for some reason. But there was no denying the casket was blue — midnight blue exterior with a two-tone blue interior. Sleek, shiny, and tacky, it was the sports car of final resting places.

“What do you think, Lola?” Gong-Li asked.

“Oh — I didn’t realize my opinion mattered,” Lola muttered, marching back over to her chair and plopping down.

Strike one.

Next up was the matter of the obituary. In a stunningly gutsy move, the Amer-asian offspring tried to tag-team Lola and include Old Boy’s marriage to their mother in the write-up. Any guesses how that went over?

“Leave that shit out about his previous marriage,” Lola growled at the wide-eyed and obviously nervous undertaker, “if we start listing all his screw-ups I’ll need to buy a fucking full page in the paper…”

Cue deafening silence.

Strike two.

Finally the undertaker cleared his throat and broke the silence. “In regards to the services, did Old Boy have any favorite hymns or scriptures?”

As Lola screwed up her face trying to figure out what these “hims” and “scrip-shurs” were, Soon-Yun placed a tiny hand on my mother’s knee and leaned over. “Gong-Li and I will choose those, Lola. We know you never attended services with Dad.”

Oh. Hell. No. She. Did-ENT.

Strike three.

“No, I’m not a churchgoer. Even if I was, I was too busy taking care of your father since you girls never came around. Of course, I know you had it hard, too, what with taking care of your drunken mother on top of those broken arms that wouldn’t let either one of you pick up a phone or write a letter…”

The undertaker and I locked eyes. You’re closer to the door, his seemed to be saying, run — save yourself while there’s still time.

After an insane amount of excruciatingly uncomfortable silence, we moved on to the matter of flowers. In an effort to win whatever pissing contest was taking place, Lola announced that she would be buying a $300 spray of roses for the top of the casket. I don’t need to tell you there was some slow blinking going on from my corner of the room.

“We’re not familiar with the florists in the area,” Gong-Li told the undertaker. “Can we order them through you?”

He told them they could which was met by obvious relief by both daughters and their spouses.

“Soon-Yun?” Andrew leaned forward. “We probably need to order flowers for the boys, too…”

Soon-Yun nodded. “Yes, we’ll want to order some arrangements for our sons — they’ll be unable to attend.”

“I’ll be ordering some for my daughter as well,” Gong-Li piped up.

“Just add those to Lola’s bill and we’ll settle with her later,” Soon-Yun added.

I closed my eyes and wondered if there was any chance we could get a two-for-one deal.

Lola cocked her head to one side. “Better yet, since these two and their kids couldn’t find Old Boy’s house in the last 15 years, why don’t you just make three separate bills? That way they won’t get lost trying to find me and square up.”

The seven of us sat for what seemed an eternity listening to the pins drop.

Finally, the undertaker breathed a sigh of relief and mercifully announced that he had everything he needed.

With 48 hours until the funeral, I hoped things would remain semi-drama free.

And they did.

For about 36 hours.

That was when Lola found the will.

After 4 days on the ventilator it was pretty clear that Old Boy wasn’t going to rally and make much of a recovery. And since he couldn’t speak on his behalf, the decision whether or not to shut off the life support fell squarely on Lola.

And Lola being Lola, she gave the only answer she could:

“Call those damn daughters of his and tell them to get their asses here. Let them decide what to do — he’s their father and I don’t want to be blamed later for pulling the plug…”

And so I made the calls to Gong-Li (formerly known as Ruth, but who changed her name after the death of her hard drinking Korean mother) and Soon-Yun, the hard as nails accountant from Portland. Both asked that Lola not make any decision until they could assess their father’s condition.

Lola was fine with that.

“Let those little bitches sign the papers — his blood can be on their hands,” she replied, flipping through The National Enquirer. “Says here that Paul Newman is down to 90 pounds…”

Thursday morning Soon-Yun and her husband Andrew flew in, all crocodile tears and “oh, daddy”s even though she hadn’t seen or called the old fart in over 4 years. That night, Gong-Li and Clark drove in and put on a similar performance. Immediately following the floor show, the doctors came in and gave their prognosis which led to more theatrics and a unanimous decision to remove Old Boy from the ventilator.

Friday morning, the doctors offered their condolences and promptly turned off Old Boy’s blood pressure meds.

“He should go very quickly,” they said before excusing themselves.

When one of the doctors came back 45 minutes later, he seemed a bit baffled to find all of us sitting around the still breathing patient.

“Hmmmmmmm,” he said, looking at the various monitors, “I thought that would do it. I think what we’ll do is turn off the ventilator. That’s all that’s keeping him breathing, so once that is off he’ll go very quickly.”

An hour later, the same doctor returned with a look of pure bewilderment.

“Huh. I really would’ve thought he’d be gone by now…tell, you what — why don’t you folks step into the hallway while we remove his breathing tube? Once that’s out, it should be a matter of minutes…”

That was at 11:15am.

Old Boy held his own sans meds or machines for another seven hours and 5 minutes before shuffling off this mortal coil.

Shortly thereafter is when the real drama kicked in.

It started with a phone call.

“Dirk? Can you go over to the house and let the dog out? I’m at the nursing home and Old Boy turned blue after eating his chicken noodle soup so I suppose I’m going to have to go to the hospital with him to keep tongues from wagging…”

“Damn — blue. Is he going to be okay?”

“God only knows, but apparently I have nothing better to do than sit at the fucking hospital on a Saturday.”

“Is he coherent?”

“As much as the old shit ever is. We went to bingo and I played both our cards because he was coughing and I could barely hear the caller and that goddamn old Beverly Hollyoaks kept bitching because she wasn’t winning a fucking thing. Alzheimer’s my ass — she could remember she wasn’t winning. That old bitch is as lucid as I am. So after bingo, I went down to the cafeteria with him and he was going to get a tenderloin sandwich and I told him he could chew that fucking thing without his top plate in and got him chicken noodle soup instead. He ate about half the bowl and then said he wanted to go lay down. And son-of-a-bitch if he no more than said that and he didn’t start turning blue! So I called one of those useless goddamn nurses and she had the fucking nerve to ask me what I wanted to do. I told her let’s wait and see if he turns purple and then I can take him home ’cause he’ll match my fucking bedspread. Stupid bitch. So anyway the ambulance got here and those guys brought him around and hauled his ass off in the paddy wagon.”

“Did you want me to come to the hospital later?”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No…”

“I’ll go down and see how the old shit’s doing and if I need something to eat or my Amish book, I’ll call you.”

“Okay…”

Two hours later, Lola called to inform me the doctors had diagnosed him with pneumonia, kidney failure, and a staph infection and had put him on oxygen. Being the good pansy that I am, I went to check in on things.

Lola was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed eating Ruffles and looking out the window. Old Boy was laying in the bed, breathing hard and struggling to cough up the gunk in his lungs. Periodically he would struggle to reach out for something that seemed to be in front of him and mumble/moan, then pull at the mask covering his nose and mouth.

“Shove that table thing across the bed,” Lola told me. “It’ll distract him.”

I looked at her.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, it’s not poison, Dirk!” she sighed, getting up and rolling the tray table in front of him herself.

Almost immediately Old Boy stopped reaching and started playing with the drawer and rolling the table back and forth slightly.

“See?” she gloated. “He forgets right away. Look at him playing with that drawer — just like a 3 year old…”

“So basically he’s fine then.”

Cue the death glare from Lola followed by deafening silence.

We sat there like that for another hour before I found a reason to excuse myself and headed back home.

Sunday morning, Lola called to tell me they had moved him to intensive care placed him on a ventilator.

So it’s T minus 5 hours and counting until Old Boy’s funeral and Lola has just announced (over the remainder of her 12-pack) that she isn’t going.

Seems she’s more than a little pissed at Gong-Li and Soon-Yun. And Old Boy — let’s not forget his part in this.

What? Say ‘gain?

Oh yeah, you’re right — I probably should start at the beginning…

Lurch and Victor’s wedding comes off without a hitch. Yawn. Vicboria doesn’t pipe up — I knew the bitch didn’t have the balls to make good on her threat of voicing her opposition to Daddy dearest taking a child bride.

Nikki flips out 40 ways to Sunday over David’s request for a divorce. She refuses to let him leave the hotel room, begging him to get help. David is all “fuck this shit” and hauls ass to the airport. Nikki is beside herself that she has no one to call since they are all at her ex-husband’s wedding.

Despite Victor and Lurch’s request that guests NOT bring cameras, Lurch’s mama Zara not only brings one, but then calls a magazine editor and offers to sell them as exclusives to the highest bidder (you know, ’cause Wisconsin millionaire weddings are always hot news in the tabloids…whatever). Vicboria overhears and later steals the memory card from Zara’s camera.

Victor tells Michael he will be getting in touch with him regarding some changes to his will.

Kay tells Victor that Lurch has a glow about her. The sort of glow a pregnant woman exudes. Victor confirms her suspicions.

Victor and Neil join Jill on the “what the fuck are Adam and Heather doing together” bandwagon.

Paul learns that David has booked a flight to Las Vegas. He goes to Nikki and she tells him to stay out of her shit.

Victor and Lurch go to Paris where he hires a psychic masseuse. The woman takes one look at Lurch and says she can tell the sex of the child she is carrying. Victor passes on learning his latest spawn’s gender, but Lurch has the crazy bitch whisper it in her ear. Victor tells Lurch he’s purchased a home in France for them. The hot tranny mess seems very nervous about that.

Nikki snaps on Gloria’s ass when she goes to work the next day. Later she tells that insipid daughter of hers what’s up.

Lily turns 21. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Chloe overhears Devon and Colleen planning a surprise party. Later she swipes a pair of fugly sunglasses from a bag of advertiser swag and gives them to Lily as a gift (of course, Lily will be accused of stealing them later and a scandal will ensue).

Cane begins to worry about the age difference between Lily and him when Colleen asks how he handles it. He can barely handle a number two pencil, Colleen — don’t make the dumbass do math.

Chicken adobo Karen asks Adam for her old job back. Adam makes her jump through hoops, then agrees — but puts her in a probationary status. What a little dick.

Nikki tells Vicboria that David has left her. Before the end of the episode, he’s back asking for another chance. Dumbass Nikki gives in.

Jill torments new receptionist Gloria who catches her ex-husband kissing Jill. What she doesn’t realize is that he was kissing Jill good-bye after telling her he banged Gloria. Jill is livid.

Adam has Zara’s things packed up and buys her a first class ticket back to Europe. She is not pleased. Vicboria, however, makes happy in her panties.

With all the pressure in her life, Nikki opens a travel size bottle of liquor and nearly drinks it. What should have been a very dramatic moment was campy thanks to the lil bottle of hooch tempting the former stripper.

For some unknown reason, Devon’s crackhead mother Yolanda’s sister (his aunt) Tyra shows up at Lily’s party with her obnoxious acapella singing brat, Ana. Cane gives Lily a trip to Cancun.

Jill tells the Cryptkeeper that if she publishes her memoirs, she’ll publish a book of her own. I hope it’s not a book on hair care.

Jeffrey finally convinces Gloria he loves her and they kiss.

Neil and chicken adobo Karen fuck.

Cane pays for Tyra and Ana’s hotel room.

Jack is sad that the Abbott mansion renovation is about to begin.

Sales figures for RESTLESS STYLE suck hard. Wunderkind Sharon Collins Newman Abbott suggests they create an avatar on the webzine leading readers to the hard copy. The avatar’s model? Amber. Phyllis has a shit hemorrhage but is out-voted 3 to 1.  No pussy for you, Nick.

Gloria learns about David’s gambling addiction whilst eavesdropping on a call between him and Nikki.

Paul tells Michael that he has tracked down Michael’s father, Lowell. He is now going by the name River Baldwin and is wanted for murder after setting a bomb in a bank or some shit like that which resulted in the death of a bank janitor.

Ana needs to quit with the fucking singing and piano playing. NOW.

When Forreser Creations wants to use Lily again, Chloe sees this as her chance to get Cane in bed while “I’m a model, I’m not a model anymore, I’m a model again” is out of town.

Michael confronts Gloria about his father and she admits that she bailed him out of jail and then he lied to her and used her and then skipped town and left them alone and she did what she had to make sure they had a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs and she is done apologizing for all the bad choices she’s made in her life and it’s time Michael grew up and got over it, Gloria cries.

David has to go to Hollywood for the movie tie-in premiere and makes plans with Walter to stop in Vegas on the way. Oh Christ, folks — here come cheesy sets that in no way even suggest the grandeur of Vegas.

Renfield changes her fucking mind about the wedding once again. Kevin suggests they elope.

Adrian learns that Lurch was involved with an artist in Paris. Jack urges him to get the lowdown on that relationship.  Great — more fucking airtime for the hot tranny mess.

Jeffrey tells Gloria he’s leaving town. She goes to his hotel room to discover he has scattered money all over the room. Jeffrey asks Gloria to be his wife. She says yes. He tells her there is a jet waiting to take them to Vegas…

1. Do you believe anyone truly likes their job? If so, why? Yes — celebrities.  Who wouldn’t love getting fluffed for doing something totally fun and easy and that you get paid a gazillion dollars to do?
2. Do you 1) live to work or 2) work to live 3) not see a difference? I work to live.  I could oh-so-easily get accustomed to be a kept man.
3. How many hours do you work a week? 40 hours, but since I hate my job it feels like 240.
4. What was your safety item (i.e. blankie) from when you were little? I don’t think I ever had anything that made me feel safe.  I can’t think of one thing that I could ever go to and get comfort.
5. Have you ever used food during sex? Yes.  And I do NOT recommend it — it’s something that seems much more erotic in fantasy than in actual execution.

***Bonus (as in optional):What is your guilty food pleasure? Ice cream and fried chicken.  Seperately, not together.

***Double Bonus from our inquisitors (still optional): “We are looking for suggestions. . . If someone asked for your suggestions for a butt worshiping evening (an evening devoted to butt attention), what would you suggest? I’d recommend he have one hell of a furry ass to start (because God knows I love me a hairy man) and then I’d suggest a bottle of wine, a lot of lube, a box of raincoats, and a limber tongue.  I think you can take it from there…

For weekly TMI Tuesday questions, click here.

(see-nay kwah nahn)

Prep.

Latin for ‘without which it could not be,’ an indispensable action or condition.

Last week, as most of you know, was sort of an eye-opener for me in regards to this blog. While I have always known I had a pretty loyal and intensely opinionated readership, I really had no idea just how passionate some of you really are.

Which I found both flattering and a little intimidating.

Which led me to declare a “no Fella” zone on these here parts.

Which has led me to a fork in the road regarding the future of this blog.

While I would never be so stupid or obsessive as to make The Fella the center of my world, the truth is that in a very short time he has become a pretty big part of it and many of the things I could/would blog about would involve him whether it be directly or peripherally. And with a self imposed “No Fella Zone” it makes it just a wee bit hard to really write about anything with any degree of honesty. And without that, I can’t see any point in really putting forth the time and effort here. It would be a waste of time on both my part and yours.

This decision came back to back with both DuShawn discovering this blog (Dirk Mancuso friendly tip: when house-sitting, ALWAYS clear the history when using someone else’s computer to blog) and loads of drama on the Lola/Old Boy front. Add to that concoction one part new apartment stress, one part the return of Bruce, mix liberally and you’ve got the makings of a rockin’ awesome meltdown in the making.

And so here I sit, debating whether to continue the blog or pull the plug.

Or reinvent it in another form.

Or go private.

Or continue on without filters.

Two years ago it would’ve been an easy choice, today not so much. It’s not just stories on a blog any more, folks — it’s my life. And life is messy and ugly and hard and sometimes you just want to keep everything in to protect yourself the best you can. Other times having a venue to talk about things is the only thing that keeps you sane. Which is all so contradictory since I take great measures to keep everyone at arm’s length, never allowing anyone to get close enough to hurt me.

God, I really need to get my shit together in at least one aspect of my life.

So until I figure out what I’m doing, I’ll be here…with the fabulous new object of my affection, Mr. Ron Carlivarti who recently won an Emmy for his spectacular efforts over at ONE LIFE TO LIVE (recaps of which may just replace the Y&R ones if that show doesn’t get its shit together and fast). Watch his show — make it number one. That is an order.

Ron Carlivati

Name so perfect for haiku

Will you marry me?

*** Ron Carlivati is the Emmy award winning head writer of ONE LIFE TO LIVE. If you aren’t watching this stone cold fox’s story telling genius, shame on you.

What’s on my mind today? Let’s take a safe for all audiences look…

~ How in the fuck can this rancid piece of shit be coming to dvd and yet KNOTS LANDING Seasons 2 - 13 and HOMEFRONT Seasons 1 & 2 are nowhere to be seen?

~ I have already filled about 9 more Hefty bags with things I have no interest or intention of taking with me when I move. At this point, I could just about live in my car if it had a shower.

~ Ron Carlivati, you are a daytime scribing God and I am at the head of the flock that worships you and the rich multi-layered storytelling goodness that flows from the genius that is your head-writing mind. Have I mentioned I have a wicked huge crush on you? I haven’t? Well, I do. And perhaps I shall mention you and your show (ONE LIFE TO LIVE) every day until you agree to marry me…or your show is at the top of the ratings.

~ The back panel on my cell phone broke, so I used Scotch brand invisible tape to reattach it. How ghetto am I?

~ They could erase Peter and Mary Jane’s marriage as well as Harry Osborn’s death, but they couldn’t bring Gwen Stacy back into active continuity and ret-con that shit about her fucking Norman Osborn and having his twins? You suck, Marvel.

~ I really have no interest in blogging any more…and I think it shows.