Archive for January, 2011

Year Two: The Pig Roast

Posted in Uncategorized on January 20, 2011 by dissectingthefetalpig

This post documents the second year of Dissecting The Fetal Pig. This past year was probably one of the worst years of my life. However, when you hit rock bottom, the only way is up. Unless of course you decide to sink six feet deeper. I’m not ready for my dirt nap. So with that said, I’d like to thank all of The Pig’s readers and subscribers.

This new year should provide to be more interesting as I set sail to live in Puerto Rico. I never thought I’d leave NYC. I love this city more than any human could. It has been like a friend, a lover, a bad habit and my get away car throughout my life. It has nurtured, fed and clothed me; as well as educated me academically and on a more street level. I cannot say this about many other cities. I don’t have much in the way of things tying me down these days. After some serious deliberation and the soul crushing experience of wanting to find an apartment I could call home, I’ve decided to move elsewhere. It makes no sense to work two jobs I really hate to live in a neighborhood I won’t feel comfortable in, living in an apartment that is no bigger than a closet. An opportunity for living opened up in Old San Juan. Fuck it! Why not? This city will always be here waiting for me with an icy embrace should I return.

And besides, if Puerto Rico was good enough for Hunter S. Thompson, it’s good enough for me!


Twenty-Four Hours Ago and One Lifetime Away

Posted in Deep Thoughts with tags , , , , , , , , on January 10, 2011 by dissectingthefetalpig

Shall we start from the beginning?

10am Sunday morning. My cell phone keeps ringing. I ponder who is calling me at this hour. Did God finally get my number and is summoning me to mass? I pry my face from my pillow to look and see who it is. My bottom lip is slightly adhered to said pillow with dried saliva. The evidence resembles a snail trail. More ringing. The persistent caller is one of my jobs. Can I work the 12am to 8am shift? So and So called out sick. I reply that I can but would rather not. Begrudgingly I accept the task. I need the money.

10:15am sunday. I curse the slight traces of over-indulgence from the night before. I was DJ’ing a bar the night before. It also coincided with a friend’s birthday. We need not go into details past the fact that said friend dumped two 20 bags of blow on his cake. It put a new meaning to “frosting”. My mouth is sour and dry. I reach for my trusty bottle of water on the night stand, take a good slug and pass out cold again.

1pm. Sunday afternoon. I get out of bed to relieve myself. I curse the sun which is now poking its way through my shitty curtains and make way for the water closet. The bright idea to brush my teeth dawns on me. The idea to shave the taste of last night of my tongue was probably the best idea I’ve had so far. I grab a handful of granola and wash it down with a slug of apple cider as I walk through the kitchen. It is by no means the breakfast of champions, but it makes do.

I realize that I probably get some more sleep as it is going to be sparse for me to get it the next day. I eat half an Advil PM and fall asleep with my headphones on.

6:30pm. Sunday evening. The sun has left the premises and it is dark out. I make the observation that everything feels colder in the dark. My room is filled with shadows courtesy of the street light on the block. It’s cold and creepy in my room. There probably is a Norwegian Black Metal song describing what my room looks and feels like at this moment. My blanket is playing the part of a cruel mistress and keeps tempting me with her embrace. Finally, I muster the courage to get out of bed and turn on the lights.

7pm Sunday evening. It has been decreed that a lovely Thai dinner will be had and that I will check out one of the movies I got in the mail care of netflix. The film is Once Upon A Time In The West. It’s a three hour classic directed by Sergio Leone and written by Dario Argento. I can’t help but wish my soon to be ex-wife were here. Fond memories of more pleasant times where I’d school her on spaghetti westerns and eat take out come flooding. For as much as I am mad at her, I still miss her.

I shake off these feelings and focus on Claudia Cardinale. They don’t make women like that anymore. If you’ve ever wondered what sort of a bad ass Charles Bronson was before he did those Death Wish movies, watch this film. I wish more films had such intense characters this movie does. I get to the part where Peter Fonda’s character says “Look at you. You’re wearing suspenders and a belt. How can I trust a man who can’t even trust his own pants!”. I have to agree. He goes on to shoot said untrustworthy person. My thoughts of my ex have faded.

11:57 sunday evening. I arrive at work little later than scheduled. I wanted to be there earlier. The guy I am relieving is on the phone with my boss. He has freaked out and was trying to rat me out for being late. I can’t blame him to a degree, but he is a little weasel of sorts, so it only irritates me more. There was a problem with the trains I inform my employer, which is true. Had there not been a delay in service I would have been there earlier. I tell my rodent like co-worker to kick rocks and begin my shift.

Working the overnight shift as a doorman is beyond mind numbing. There is very little if anything for you to do between the hours of 12am to 6am. Yet you cannot completely slack off, because the moment you do, something happens.

By 1:15am Monday morning I have gone through the craigslist casual encounters ads and shared a few with a friend in the hospital. One of which was a man seeking man ad to have someone fart in someone’s face. Who writes this shit. I kind of like reading the gay male ad titles for the following reasons:

They are usually real. Unlike the women seeking men ads which are usually spam robots or webcam lures. I should know about that, I used to over see these things.

Also, the ads in the m4m section show how fucked up the world can be. You will find some seriously disturbing ads there. Never mind people wanting to have a fart blasted in their face, but there are a slew of people in NYC alone that actually want to be HIV positive.

These things make me feel better about myself in a weird way. I may be fucked up, but I ain’t that fucked up.

I refrain from the women seeking women ads tonight. It’s kind of like amateur porn. Masturbating at work is sad. At least here it is. The bathroom is a cold dungeon. If I am going to rub one out on the job I’d prefer to do it in warmer temperatures and in a place that has hot water.

Its now 2:15 am Monday morning and I made a craigslist ad for jesus. It reads as follows:

“I am the son of god. It’s a rough life at times. I’ve been known to bear a cross and walk around moping, but heavy is the head that bears the crown of thorns. I am slender with eyes of coal. I have been rocking the long hair and beard look way before hipsters moved to bedford ave. I cannot take aspirin or eat m&m’s or any other sort of small candy due to a previous injury. However, I can turn water into wine. It makes me the life of every party. I also taught Rick Ocasic how to walk on water in that Cars video. I’m cool like that.

I am pretty open to all, but I do have a thing for slutty girls. So if you are the neighborhood whore, we might get along.

No romans please. It’s not a prejudice, it’s a personal preference. ”

By 2:30am I am depositing some money in the bank and getting something to drink. The cold wind cuts through my slacks. I curse the fact that my long johns are at home. I glance around the scenery. Everything is serene. Very little is moving at this hour. This city may never sleep, but it does take a nap here and again. The city at night is a guilty pleasure. My love for that will never change. I take in a good eyeful before going back to work. My days are limited here. I’ll be living somewhere else soon. I have to take in what I can, while I can.

It’s 3:15 am. I am starting to get squirrely. There is very little in the way of stimulation. The book I am reading is OK at best. This is the third so far I have read from this author. It seems to me, while I enjoy his work to a degree, that he is still working on putting together his one masterpiece. So far everything I have read by him has re-occurring themes or nuances. I decide to switch it up and lift weights in the workout room.

At 4:50am I have executed every possible thing I can get away with. I have left every smart ass reply I could on my friends facebook pages, much to their chagrin. I’ve mopped the downstairs area with a full reenactment of the broom dance from Breakin’ and I have googled every possible question I could think of for the day so far.

I try to take a nap. I have mastered the art of sleeping upright so that it doesn’t look like I am slacking off in the video monitors. Big Brother doesn’t like it when you sleep on the job. My mind wanders to what I have planned for the evening. I have promised to bring a game called Apples To Apples to the bar my friend is working at. It’ll be fun. My thoughts wander back to my ex and how she loved that game. I try my best to shake the image of us sitting in the outdoor part of a bar with our friends playing this game and having a wonderful time. I think our dog was running around too. God I miss him. I return to the weight room and exercise these demons. The past is gone. Move forward.

By 6am the first signs of life hit the building. The first human contact is with the girlfriend of a tenant. She is a very attractive young lady, a little skinny for my liking, but attractive none the less. Her hair is rather disheveled and it is obvious that this is her walk of shame. She has to run home and get ready for work. I give her a nod in a way that shows I am not passing judgment and make way for her egress. The building slowly becomes alive with nannies starting their shifts, bankers making way for work and joggers going for a morning run. The coffee carts have set up shop and the smell comes wafting through. I look outside and the morning hustle, or the daily hate if you will, begins. Groggy eyed pedestrians making way to and from work. Curses being cast under veiled breath for some reason or another. A typical NYC morning.

My relief comes at 8am. I hustle home. I have to be back at work at 4pm. Time is not my friend today.

At 8:25 am, monday morning I emerge from the subway. I look around to see what awaits me. I notice the cops have a kid pinned to a wall, he’s being searched. Across the street his classmates point and yell. Everyone loves a 3 ring circus provided you have the right acts. This is none of my concern and so I move one.

I figure I will get a light breakfast at my local coffee shop. A woman and her three children are there. She is having small talk as her two oldest are eating their breakfast. They are young, probably preschoolers. They youngest of this trio is an infant in a stroller. I think to myself that either this woman wasted no time in creating her tribe or she hates rubbers. Then again, what does this matter? It’s none of my concern.

Some of the school kids come in to stay warm. The proprietor of this tiny coffee shop insists that they either order something or leave. The three boys begrudgingly order 3 bagels with cream cheese and jelly. They are standing in the doorway hooting and hollering about their classmate’s run in with the cops. It’s a lovely 23 degrees out with a moderate breeze. I finally ask them to close the door and point out that there are kids in here. The draft will surely get the infant sick. The biggest of the boys sucks his teeth at me. I have to refrain from caving his face in. The owner silently thanks me. The mother says nothing. In a well played effort to get the teenage terrors out faster, the line cooks cranks their order out. My order comes up next and my coffee was on the house.

I make my way home and solemnly eat my meal. I observe that my roommate’s dog has yet again made himself comfortable on my bed. I grin. It’s cool. I decide that brushing my teeth will do me some good. As I pass back through the kitchen to my room I take a slug of apple cider. The combo between the fresh toothpaste and cider leaves an unpleasant taste. Why can’t they figure out how to make a toothpaste that won’t make drinking orange juice or apple juice taste like shit? If I was a scientist I’d have made this a priority. I imagine that I’d get the Nobel Peace Prize for it.

I look over at my clock, it’s 10 to 10am. Almost 24 hours from when this day started. I have to sleep. I’ve got to be at work again in a few short hours. My mind drifts to my moving away soon. I imagine that NYC’s own Mayor Bloomberg will roll up on his bike at the airport and congratulate me for leaving. My absence will dramatically decrease the rate of violent crimes in the city. I dream of palm trees and sand and fade off.

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