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Published: August 15th 2008
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Unalloyed Genius
Words would only cheapen this. Days Three, Four, and Five: The Sickness This may be the world’s first travel blog in which there is no traveling. We remain in St. Louis. After her victorious tour of the Gateway Arch, Jessica was struck down by a bacterial infection. To be precise, Jessica has simply lost the latest round of our ongoing game of bacterial brinkmanship. Let me explain. About a month ago, I was swimming (naked) in a charming little man-made pond in Tennessee. Why, you ask? Well, Jessica’s grandfather apparently possesses a compromising videotape of some rich guy who lives outside Nashville (something to do with a Philippino plumber, a case of Chardonnay, and a corncob pipe). Every summer, said grandfather uses this videotape to blackmail said rich guy into letting his (the grandfather’s) extended family use his (the rich guy’s) manmade lake. So, last month, after enduring a winding car ride to an undisclosed location in the Nashville hills and then a DEA-style cavity search, we all got to play in the rich guy’s own trout pond. There were canoes and “ya-hoos!” and real Tennessee Bar-B-Q’s. Fun was had by all.
At one point, however, I decided to try and impress the assembled
grandparents by doing some kind of ill-conceived, running-flying-diving leap out of a moving canoe. I’ll spare you a detailed account of the physics involved (rise-over-run, launch angle, Bernoulli’s Principle, etc.). Suffice it to say that my split-second calculations were not equal to the task. I left the canoe in fine form—arching gracefully through the air, muscles glistening in the afternoon sun, Adonis body the envy of all around—but something went horribly awry with the trajectory. As I descended, my elongated body remained, inexplicably, perfectly parallel to the surface of the water. The result was that the full force of the impact was centered not on my arms, or shoulders, or chest, but on my quite unprepared testicles. In short, the majesty of the moment resolved itself into a wicked-bad shot in the balls.
You will perhaps understand, then, why when I hit the water I uttered a sort of gasp-scream in which I sucked down about a pint of pond. (In case you’re wondering, it tasted much like a purée of Gatorade and used Band-Aids, if that purée was sucked from the armpit of syphilitic trucker in a Motel 6 parking lot.) I didn’t think much of this incident
at the time—another in a long line of poor decisions involving gymnastics and small watercraft—but by the end of the evening I had a massive headache and the taste of Vaseline in my mouth. A few days later I was feverish, fatigued, and hacking my lungs out. Maybe there’s no causal connection, but I blame the pond.
Anyhoo, I beat the bug after a day or two but gave some version of it to Jessica. (Probably as a result of the marathon make-out session we had while watching
Stroker Ace.) She, in turn, dispensed with the bacteria in a day or two, but then apparently gave it back to me in some sort of super-evolved, Center-for-Disease-Control strain. After three days of horking lung cookies the size of silver dollars and sleeping for 16 hours at a stretch, I decided it was time for professional help. I delivered myself to the crack squad of physicians at IU Health Center. And, after shivering in the hallway for 45 minutes while the doctor traded golf scores with a Levitra salesman, I was told I had bronchitis. Fine. Two antibiotic regimens later, I had kicked it. But now Jessica has apparently got it
(“Ha ha! I see your bronchitis and I raise you an Ebola!”) and we are marooned in St. Louis until she gets the better of it. You needn’t worry, however. She is surrounded by the most assiduous of caregivers. As the opening video makes clear, I myself am always ready to hand.
What is more, the stopover in St. Louis has had the unexpected benefit of putting me on the trail of a mystery. Now, normally, I would let such photographs speak for themselves, but in this case a few words are in order. While Jessica sleeps, I’ve been prowling the neighborhood, throwing rocks at the local Episcopalians, keying hybrids, and planting my gang tag everywhere. The usual. But in the course of business, I ran across a most remarkable phenomenon: dog turds with flags. I want to be clear on this. Scattered around the neighborhood streets—in a two- or three-block radius—are a collection of relatively recent piles of dog crap… with American flags planted in them. I’m not really sure what else to say. I believe myself to be on the trail of an impressive new artistic talent. This elevates the genre of “found art” to an entirely
new level.
Naturally, some of you may be thinking that I’ve gone stir crazy and staged these flag-plantings for comic effect. Not so. For once, you can believe everything I’m telling you. Dog turds. With American flags.
The possible interpretations are as easy as they are incisive. But I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in imagining the person behind these installations. The man behind the curtain. Of dog turds. I take a great deal of pleasure in imagining this person: creeping about on all fours, perhaps; doggedly tracking the local dogs, maybe even feeding them oatmeal and lard; finally, discovering a new pile and then claiming it in the name of American empire and avant garde art. Absolute genius. What more can I say?
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Ming the Merciless
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Chad, Like Helmut Kohl, you lack seriousness in the face of pressing social issues. Let me explain. "Dog Turd with Flag #3" looks suspiciously like my hamster Bruiser, who was presumed dead in 1985. As you well know, I have been looking for him for ages and only recently abandoned the milk carton campaign. How those little legs took him from Nevada to Missouri is hard to understand, but the ensuing 23 years does help explain. I never should have injected him with a melange of steroids and Jeff Goldblum's DNA. Live and learn. In any case, I hope you provided an appropriate funeral. The flag is a nice touch, but it is not enough. I'm thinking a full orchestra covering Freddie Mercury songs. You know, something tasteful. Also, what in God's name has happened to Percy? She looks like a friend of Bill W.'s to me: you and Jessica have to accept the fact that Percy has a problem. If she hadn't passed out before you got to Missouri, I would suspect that her essence was being held in one of the soul cages, but the chronology isn't right. Trust me on this. I have watched countless episodes of both Quincy and CSI: Staten Island. You have to get on top of this, or you will never make it to the West Coast. Still, my best wishes are with you and yours. As ever, godspeed.