Archive | April, 2013

I Go Back in Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime

20 Apr

I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling. The popcorn ceiling. I’m topless. My milky white breasts show for all the world to see. All the world is a stage and here look at my tits bounce around on it.

I roll onto my side–my right side. There lay Roman Brown, brother of Max Brown, singer for my band, Savage and the Big Beat. This is Roman. 

“Roman,” I say, “You ever just–want to get away?”

Roman, who is also topless rolls onto his right side. I stare into his back, confused.

“Like how?” Roman asks, still not facing me.

“Roman,” I say. Roman seems startled, then rolls back onto his back then onto his left side and looks at me. Our faces are inches apart.

“Our faces,” Roman says, “are inches apart. We could kiss.”

The realization hits both of us like a ton of bricks. Are we gay? Are we two gay men in a room together? Neither of us speak for what feels like a long time.

“Roman,” I say. “Do you think we might be gay?”

“I don’t know, man,” Roman says. He is trembling. He looks as if he may cry.

“Let’s check.” We get up and walk to my room. Roman shuts the door. “Ready?” I ask.

Roman stretches his neck out and nods. “Ready.”

“Okay. Here we go,” I say. I open my laptop and open the internet to WebMD. I type in “gayness” to see if trembling or having black hair is a symptom. I also look to see if GoogleImage searching “Queen” at least once a week is also a symptom.

“It doesn’t even have it here,” I say, pointing at the screen. I punch the air.

“Then how will we ever know?!” Roman asks. He’s sitting at the edge of my bed, looking at his hands. He keeps dropping them, letting them go limp, then he kind of waves his limp-wristed hands around. “Does this look normal on me?” he asks. His voice is shaking. “Does this look like how my hands should always be?”

We go into the kitchen. Roman takes a seat at the kitchen table.

“Okay. How about this–” I begin, “What if we just pretended to make out with each other, just to, like, see how it feels–see if it feels weird or not.”

Roman nods.

“Okay, so stand up.”

He stands up.

“Now pretend to make out with me and I’ll pretend to make out with you. Let’s get a little space.” I take a few steps back and wrap my arms around an invisible Roman.

I start my makeout miming, then glance over at Roman. He’s practically doubled over, his lips pursed tightly, his face twisted as if in pain. He starts to kiss his invisible partner for a second, then recoils, wiping his mouth, pulling a hair off his tongue. Over and over and over again.

“Is that how you make out with someone?”

“What?” Roman seems startled, like he forgot I was in the room.

“Is that how you make out with someone, I said.”

“That’s how I make out with you.”


“Because you’re so…” he does this thing with his hand that signals that I am little to write home about. “And you have all these cats running around.” He gestures around him.

“There aren’t any cats in here! And anyway, we only have two. That’s less than one per person.”

“You’re also a small person.” He bends over really far and embraces an invisible me that looks to be around three feet tall.

“I am a normal-size person. You’re a fucking giant.”

“Oh I’m a giant? Rather be a giant than a hobbit.”

“Oh yeah?”


“Well why don’t we go ask them how they feel about it.”

“Who?!” Roman asks.

“Hobbits! Giants!” I respond.

“Looks like we’ve got quite a drive ahead of us.”

Roman and I both look at the camera. “Everytime” by Britney Spears starts. Roman shakes his head at the camera. The music stops. “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC starts. Roman nods, then turns his head to another camera I was unaware of. I try to turn to it but then Roman turns his head again back to the old camera. He makes a face at me, then rolls his eyes, then smiles smugly. I try to look into the camera to make a face like “Oh that rascal,” but Roman turns his head again, then gives the camera a thumbs up. All you can see is the back of my head and even from behind you can tell that I am profoundly sad.

Soon enough we find ourselves in my Civic. Roman puts his hand on my leg. I swat it away.

“Stop,” I say to him. “We’re not doing the gay thing anymore.” Roman nods like he understands, but I can see his hand start inching back to my leg. I glare at him.

“Okay, okay,” he mouths, then puts his hands in his lap.

I put in Permission to Land by The Darkness.

“Jesus, man. Can you change the station?” Roman bellows.

“Fuck you, man! You don’t like my music, get your own fuckin’ time machine.”

“I’ve had a–“

“I’ll pull over and kick your ass out, man!”

“I’ve had a rough night, and I hate the fuckin’ Darkness.”

I would have pulled over, but we were going though a worm hole in the space/time continuum and I couldn’t pull over without my molecules splitting into the infinite and my consciousness evaporating and vanishing as if it had never existed at all.

We arrive in the past. In the alternate past. In Middle Earth.

“I like it,” Roman says, stretching his massive frame as he exits the car, “but they have better restaurants in upper-middle earth.”

“And better schools.”

“Less riff raff.”

“Mail men are nicer.”

“Landscaping is better.”

“Less of them.

I stop.

“Less of who, Roman?”

Roman gets very red. He starts scanning Middle Earth for a distraction.

“Of who?”


“Less Gollums?”

Roman swallows hard.

Years later I would look back on this day as one that changed my friendship with Roman forever. It was a day that changed my life forever. Because it taught me that racism doesn’t always come from where you think. Racism doesn’t always come from underneath a Lynryrd Skynryd (God what a fucking stupid band name. How do you even fucking spell it? I hate Skinnerd) shirt. Racism doesn’t always throw bottles or insults, isn’t always so–obvious.

And maybe that’s the worst kind of racism, because it’s the racism that is so subtle that it can almost feel normal or accepted.

Roman never got over his racism, and took it to his grave. He never left Middle Earth, either. When it was time to go back to regular Earth, he bent down, picked up his little hobbit wife and said that he had all he could ever want in this tiny place. I smiled at him and told him I’d miss him and never forget him. I went to hug him. He doubled over and pursed his lips very tightly and tried to give me a make out. I pushed him away and said a cuss and that he ruined a really nice moment with his typical, horny Rome-Dog behavior. His wife seemed nonplussed by the whole thing.

Then Roman got down on all fours and crawled into his hobbit house. I never saw him again.

The End.

Savage Plays for Birds of Night

17 Apr

I get to the show at eight to load my gear in. It is dark when I get there and a man with a mustache that hugs his face asks for my ID.

“ID? haha.” I actually say “haha.” “Here’s my ID. I don’t know who you are, but I know who I am. And I’m…” I check my ID. “Robert Kyle Irion.”

I look at my ID for a second.


“Can I see your ID please, sir?” he asks me, now holding his hand out.

He checks my ID. He gives me an artist wrist band.

“I wave it in the air,” I say as I wave it in the air.

“Okay, that’s enough” the man says, trying to shoo me on.

“It wants it!” I scream. I swat his hand away. I turn and hold the wrist band close to my big sexy body, petting it. I then scurry to the bar.

Behind the bar is a pretty young thing that clocks in at a sober 6 but a drunk 9 so i decide to holler at her.

“Can this be love?” I ask. My voice is drowned out by house music. I look up at the speakers blaring Danzig or Stevie Wonder or Emmylou Harris. I can’t tell.

“What?” she responds, horny.

“Gimme a little bit of everything,” I say, twirling my finger toward the bar. Before she can protest, I lift my arm onto the bar and point to the artist wristband. “You know what this means?” I ask, this time making sure my voice is loud enough to be heard. “This means I’m a princess, understand? And princess always gets what she wants.” I smack the bar then turn away, leaving her to pour The Drink.

She hands me a double whiskey and coke in a plastic cup and I look at it and frown, anger and limitless grief taking hold of me. I had hoped to be handed a gallon jug of mixed booze–straight alcohol–but instead I am handed the drink of the commoner–the drink of the peasantry–the drink of…

“Did someone say Pageantry?” Roy Robertson of Pageantry asks. Suddenly he’s behind the bar. The female bartender seems surprised and then agitated and pushes Roy out. “I think I heard someone think the word Pageantry. Was that you?” He asks me in total falsetto.

“I thought the word ‘peasantry’.”

Roy levels his gaze at me and somewhere in those deep brown, vaguely ethnic eyes I see a glimpse of a human person who is as lost and scared and yet valiantly hopeful as I. Then he blinks, his eyes cloud and he hisses at me like a snake.

Startled, I spill a little of my drink on my hand. It’s cold.

“Haha, you gonna drink that?” Max Brown, singer of Savage and the Big Beat asks as he walks up. “Drink off yer hand?”

He’s about to collide with Roy and I call out to stop him but then Roy gets this very serene look on his face and whispers “New EP out this summer” and Max passes right through him. I shake my head, blink, and look all around me. Roy is nowhere to be found.

“Are you going to drink that, I asked,” Max says, bending down so to make sure that I can hear him. Then he points one gargantuan finger at my hand and laughs his ass off. He straightens his backpack on his back and continues on to the stage area. Ryan, our drummer, walks up and stands in the spot Max just vacated. He makes sure his feet are just where Max’s were, then looks up at me.

“What’s up with Max?” I ask.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s being sort of…” I do an elaborate, full-body gesture that signifies a person being a jerk.

“Oh, that,” Ryan says nodding. “I let him watch The Simpsons today. That’s my bad.”

We get our gear put up on the stage and people slowly start to arrive. So many young, happy faces I think I could vomit.

I hold my hands out to my side like Bruce Willis does in that one scene in Unbreakable. “Their youth,” I whisper. “It’s filling me up.” I pause. “And feeling me up.” I wink at the camera and glance over my shoulder, but there is no one there. My arms drop and suddenly I feel terribly, terribly, terribly alone.

Our set is loud and glorious and full of memories. And mammaries. Max’s breasts flop around wildly, like the fish drawn up into the floor of a boat, the nipples like the footprints of twin infants on their mother’s stomach. I’ve never seen such breasts in my life.

And I doubt I ever will again.

The End.

The Origins of MacGregor Eddie Mercury–My D&D Character

7 Apr

My friends and I started a campaign of Dungeons and Dragons this past Saturday. Dungeons and Dragons is like a live-action Choose Your Own Adventure Book. The Dungeon Master (in our case, Lanny,), sets up an adventure for the group (or ka-tet, as I so lovingly ripped off of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series) and presides over it as a sort of indifferent God. He narrates the action, gives us our options, lets us know of the consequences of our actions. There are also some dice involved, but now we’re getting into a sort of Wikipedia level of information depth and I’d rather just move along.

Each player has a character that they invent themselves. Last night, we had a mermaid, an orc, a monk that “Investigates the mysteries of the human body through his fists,” a magical seductress, and a bard.

Below is the bio I wrote up for my character, a ranger named MacGregor Eddie Mercury.

Born inside a hole in the dirt, MacGregor Eddie Mercury, or “Mr. Mercury” is a hunter and warrior and performer of the lethal arts. He also will also occasionally bust out a ribbon dance on you. Mac was the spawn of a boar hunter known only as “Locke.” He never met his father. Some say he died in a shipwreck in the great Orc War. Others say he just got boared. Either way, MacGregor was raised by Butterlips Hogan, a surly dairy farmer.

One dark night after playing King of the Castle (a game where you eat bugs while smacking cows on the rear and yelling “More cream in my coffee, you heifer!”), a band of dark cloaked raiders called The Oakland Raiders, ripped through the tiny farm, slaying Butterlips Hogan in the process.

“Oh gosh, we’re really sorry,” one of them said as they rode off with a cow in his satchel.

So these are the words that echoed in Mercury’s ears as his world fell apart. And they are the words that he promised himself he would whisper into the ears of the men he killed in his path to purge Areola of evil.

It was there, in that dew-wet field, lit only by the burning farm, that Butterlips told MacGregor the hard truth of his origins.

“I am your father,” he said.

“But I thought Locke was my father.”

“He is too. We. We. We are your two gay dads.”

MacGregor looked out into the distance.

“But so both of you were gay? Not like one of you was gay and the other was just looking for a nice place to store his d—”

And then the old dairy farmer let out a howl that pushed the birds from the trees and sent the cows bawling long into the night. He was dead.

Now MacGregor Eddie Mercury carries a knife made from the femur of his fallen, less cool gay dad. Through his travels, he visited a traveling circus. In the circus was a monkey that the local strongmen would pay a pence to wrestle and measure their strength against. The ape never lost a match.

MacGregor thought this was downright wrong, because of his liberal, two gay dad upbringing, and liberated the ape.

He now loves that ape more than anything in the whole world. He has lots of loveless sex and sings all the time, especially when he is thirsty for battle, because in the forest, a singing man is sure to draw attention to himself. His favorite anthem of bloodletting is:

Bring out the charge of the love brigade
There is spring in the air once again
Drink to the sound of the song parade
There is music and love ev’rywhere
Give a little love to me
Take a lotta love from me
I want to share it with you

Then he stabs them.

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