The Missing Penis

Everything erodes; people and creations decompose. Nothing lasts forever, and that is the way it should be, however an infrastructure as old and as vital as Italy’s has to be maintained. Buildings have to be remodeled and repurposed to keep up with the effects of time, increases in population and wartime destruction. The Fiorentini still cross the Arno on half a dozen reconstructed bridges. They shop in small botteghe and they meander through the ancient backstreets; they visit banks, museums and churches that have been modified and renovated.

Paintings and sculptures also degenerate. Over the past several centuries most of the great canvases have been repainted, or “restored”, by different artists and experts and that they continue to look as fresh and vivid as the day they were affixed to a wall in the Palazzo Vecchio, five hundred years ago. They are bright and crisp but they are no longer the individual efforts of Salviati or Carracci or Giotto. The artists had important patrons, the Catholic Church and Italian noble families championed them, and their paintings are hanging in all the museums of the world. They are a delight to behold and some can be life changing. But those paintings are now collaborations by committees of artists, curators, administrators and politicians.

The master’s underlying theme is intact, the drapery and backgrounds are reminiscent of the original intentions, but the colors are a bit too intense, the faces are too similar and the shading is not quite right. There is a notion that the masterpieces are too valuable to be left to the vagaries of age and weather. The degenerative processes of time and moisture and light must be stopped. So, the paintings and sculptures are restored and repaired on an ongoing basis. Some of the attempts at refurbishing have been devastating, but the art is also very popular and the museums know who puts the pesto on their pasta and they keep the valuable creations in a perfectly preserved, unnatural and artificial condition. Who the hell wants to travel all the way to the Uffizi and see a deteriorating Botticelli? Who would pay fourteen euros to see Venus without her magnificent beauty?

“Momma, where is that man’s penis?”

At least I think that’s what the kid said. My Italian is coming along, but they speak so fast. I was thinking the same thing, though.

Where have all the penises gone? There is evidence of missing anatomy and absent digits on all the statuary. Fingers, noses, heads, and penises. Anything that sticks out, up and away is liable to be broken off after a thousand years. Most noses are replaced; lean in close and you can see the hairline cracks where they’ve been mortared. Fingers are added in the same way. Heads? Yes, they are replenished. There is a statue in the Michelangelo room at the Uffizi that has had at least two and possibly three different heads. She looks OK though, reclining luxuriously in her diaphanous robes, at rest, with a thin dark strip around her neck that shows where the most recent noggin has been fastened. And why not? There are, apparently, plenty of heads and fingers and noses lying around.

Are they out of penises? Because penises are left the hell off. You lose your cock, you are right out of luck boyo. Don’t come begging at the back door of the Uffizi, the Bargello, the Opera della Duomo. No dick for you, Giuseppe. Why? What can anyone have against penises? Is there a malicious Catholic cult that has rejected the phallus?  Don’t we love penises? Nearly everyone loves a good penis, even an average one; men, women, children, old and young. It’s a nice, comical, mysterious part of the body that responds to stimulation whether real or imagined. But if it gets knocked off, broken, chipped away, eroded or hammered down? Get out of here. Nothing for you. If you lose your nose, fine, we fix that right up. Your finger’s absent? Well, how are you going to hold on to your panini, your wine, your penis? We have to repair that. And we have a crap-load of craniums waiting in the back room, no worries. But, oh my, you’ve gone and wrecked your wick? Ah, peccato, Pisano, no substitutes. We reject your request. One to a customer. We have standards that go back to antiquity and you can thank the Pope or the Council of Trent or the Victorians, Saint Jerome or Saint Theresa or Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. Some busybody agreed that we would no longer honor the missing member. As you wander through museums, admiring the extraordinary work of the masters, questioning the restorations and repairs, don’t dwell too long on the ambiguities of the absent knob. It’s another of the great Christian Mysteries like the Eucharist or Virgin Birth.

“Momma, where is that man’s penis?”

“Shut up. No one knows. Be good or that will happen to you.”

You have to love the Catholics.

Florence, Italy, January 2015

This week's photos. Waking up, screwing around, going out, coming home, settling down, learning to use the appliances.

Living Room in our apartment on Piazza Santo Spirito. An old convent/monastery attached to the basilica. It is rumored, and I hope this is true, that there was a morgue here and Michelangelo used to come here to study the cadavers. Fourteen foot ceilings.

 One of the weird paintings in the apartment. This child (boy/girl) stares at me, eyes following. I'm sure that as soon as he/she finished posing he/she strangled the dove. Dig the shoes, though.

 
Piazza Santo Spirito from living room window. Picturesque after a light rain, which drove the drunks inside. No problems though. Coffee shop right across the piazza for daily Italian lessons, friendly barista and cold, detached cashier girl.

The Duomo in the distance as seen from the Palazzo Pitti.

 
The mural on the inside of the Duomo. All the big names plus the condemned. Started by Vasari, finished by Zuccaro in 1579. Last year you couldn't get inside the church there were so many tourists. In January, we are almost alone and can take all the time we want. Nice.

 
The inlaid stone floor beneath the dome.

This man is taking measurements for a restoration of the Bronzino in SS. Annunziata. It's an important church, still very active, full of great art that has been overlooked. They are funding a restoration of frescoes and the great paintings. Bronzino is becoming this year's favorite.

Typical street in the Oltrarno, our neighborhood. Lots of graffiti (Gentrification is Class Warfare, Fuck Authority). I appreciate it and there is good food and coffee up there. I try not to post pix of food, but the tagliatelle and mussels had 27 mussels, fresh pasta and a buttery broth. I will do that again, thank you.

 
Everywhere in the world. Je Suis Charlie. This place sells cooking apparel.

 
For all the diabetics, alcoholics, junkies, addicts and people with sugar issues. Glad I'm not smoking ganga. Today. My goal weight is 300 lbs.

 
The first of many selfies. Be prepared. I call this one Polyphemus in Italy, Part I.  The fact that the camera matches my shirt was an accident, but it pulls the picture together nicely.

2014 Wrap-up and Psych-Eval

New Year’s Eve Unedited; stream of consciousness. Always a mistake. 2014 over, down and out. I am uneasy about traveling to Italy on Saturday. A problem that is also a gift. It’s a long trip with layovers in Chicago and Zurich and a lot of snow is predicted in both places and I am, naturally, convinced that we will be delayed, canceled, postponed, killed, arriving in Florence days late and half-dead. I am too old to sleep on an airport floor. Of course, I don’t know for sure about any of this, but it doesn’t look good. Nothing ever looks good, even when it is.

Cons? Delays and fatigue, possible air disaster, hijacking, lost luggage, turbulence and unhygienic passengers. Children.

Pros? Well, no matter how inconvenient and difficult the trip to Florence, eventually we’ll be in Italy for six weeks. Even if travel takes a few days of misery and suffering, we’ll still end up in Italy. Lucky me.

I couldn’t log into the United.com site when checking on my reservations so I called a woman on the motherfucking moon and in her unfathomable moon accent she tried to help. She could not figure out how to pronounce or write my last name and that is what my login is dependent upon. My confirmation number. Check. And my last name. Fail. Moonlady said she was having no problem at her terminal in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility so I cut and pasted my name from their site and, magic, it worked. Apparently the site is font-specific? Shit, I just want to be able to check my reservations from anywhere in the world where I may end up stranded and abused while on my way to the homeland. Thanks for nothing, Moonlady.

Hate to admit this but I’m worried that I’m going to die at any minute. One of the guilty effects of treating my body as a dumpster until 1994. I’ve become older than I dreamed I’d ever be. I almost embrace death. That way I won’t have to sweat flying in bad weather and waiting in bad airports. Man, I don’t know if I’m nuts or normally anxious. Some people just look at me like I’m stupid when I complain or express my concerns. Mike B validated me by saying, “Travel is always stressful.” That’s true. Even on trips that are supposed to be easy, Oakland to San Antonio, Reno to Albuquerque, I’ve had cancellations and cock-ups so I already know there is no absolute in travel. Everything is an expectation. Travel, sex, literature, family, health, dinner, automotive, dental, grocery shopping, electricity, weather. Everything.

It’s the last day of 2014 and I feel OK, complete, but I’m still behind in my tasks. There are books to get rid of, boxes to go through and items to dispose of. Weight loss has been pretty much abandoned since June. I need cataract operations, a nose job (breathing has become difficult thanks to my brothers, an errant baseball and years of cocaine use). I’m afraid I’m going to cease, end, die without finishing several planned writing projects and my extensive book lists. In fact, I am sure of that. I’m just afraid it’s going to happen in the next few days. Weeks. Months. I want another 15 years, but even that scares the shit out of me because it doesn’t seem very long at all.

Wow. Jesus. That’s my final post of 2014? Sounds kind of negative. I better list some of the better things from last year:

Reading George Orwell, Henry James, Virginia Woolf is the greatest pleasure.

My family amuses me.

Relief from belief in deities and fantasies gives me so much more peace.

I feel content most of the time.

I like my house. I love my wife.

I’m in good enough shape to hike, stack wood, workout.

There are some pretty good people out there. Somewhere.

French New Wave cinema is still cool as hell and inspiring.

Charlie and I have been playing exotica-lounge-surf music.

My writing is slightly better.

Coffee.

Fountain pens.

Hair.

And the best thing about 2014? My new ExOfficio underwear.

Arrivederci and good-bye, 2014. And really, thanks for the underwear.

Preventing World War III

Headline says, “Sony Hack Likely Costliest in US History.” Gosh. That’s simply awful. Right? First off, Fuck Sony. I don’t give one crap about them at all. A whole bunch of brainless racist and sexist emails got distributed to the press? Nice. It’s about time. A dopey buddy film is pulled from distribution? I can’t get worked up because 90 percent of all movies bite the big one anyway. Sony’s bloated executive’s salaries are posted for all to see?  http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/sonys-top-exec-salaries-allegedly-753170. Bunch of overpaid hacks with no respect for the public. Do. Not. Care.

About ten times a year some dipshit hacks into a database at Target, Home Depot, or The Post Office and I have to jump through hoops to get a new credit card. When I ask, “Why is this happening again,” I get typical bullshit doublespeak and absolutely no help from the help desk. Chelsea or Sandip tell me to “Have a good day” and they hang up quickly. I’m just a schmuck with a credit card and the companies apparently have so much money that they can replace any pilfered funds, blow me off and send me a shiny new card that will be hacked by next summer. I used my debit card at the airport in Frankfurt, Germany in June after a flight was cancelled (thanks Lufthansa) and I had to spend a night in a shitty German business hotel. I needed 24 hours-worth of Euros and when I got home the next day (thanks Lufthansa) some neo-Nazi had looted $1,400 from my savings. I asked the clown at the Bank of America Customer Service desk how this happened. Well, it’s complicated and they don’t really care because I'm only one dude and, shit, it was just $1,400 so relax and we’ll send you a new card. I’m not the only person that this happens to. I asked around.

But, oh my God, Sony, a big multinational corporation gets invaded and compromised and ripped off and they’ve been embarrassed and had to cancel Seth Rogen’s new movie and now, NOW, it’s a big deal.

And who’s responsible for this cyber-attack? North fucking Korea. Really. Kim Jong-un and his insane haircut. I have to laugh. A dicked up little dumpster of a country that can barely feed their citizens has created the costliest invasion of privacy in history. America is bamboozled. Reports indicate that Kim Jong-un has hijacked 1,800 computer science majors from the universities and is housing them in luxury with great food, cool clothing and lots of porn while they happily hack away at The Greatest Country in the World. This great country that cannot even keep my Target credit card information out of the hands of assholes.

America is boned and embarrassed and humiliated. Pundits and experts say that this may be the early stage of an international cyber war that has the potential of destroying the world as we know it. Meanwhile Sandip and Chelsea tell me that they will replace my dough and send me a new card next week, so don’t worry. Jesus kill me.

I have an idea. Hire some of our own computer wizards, pay them a truckload of bucks and put them to work. This is America for chrissake, birthplace of Steve Jobs and Neil deGrasse Tyson and Rick Perry and Oprah Winfrey, so let us not stand around with our knuckles in our noses. The Department of Homeland Security has a yearly budget of around 40 billion dollars. Billion. Hey guys, spend some of that cheddar on twenty-first century security and maybe stop World War III. Rip a few bucks from TSA’s budget; tell that dimbulb who is ogling teenage girls on the security scan that he’s no longer needed because he’s a worthless perv and we have bigger fish to fry. Like, America’s finances, military, and infrastructure are in heavy jeopardy so we’re going to shift some funding to where it will do some good. Wow. I sound crazy. But North Korea has owned the Sony-weasel and that’s a big deal. Fuck Sony. And Bank of America.

And fuck Sandip.

The Shock of Winter

Winter is cold. Let’s talk about the cold again and again. Ten degrees, 4 degrees, zero and below. Let’s comment on winter. And snow. It’s still coming down. It’s melting fast. Three inches, seven inches, 14 inches in an hour. Let’s forget that this conversation has been going on for a thousand or 10,000 years and we’re still goddamned astounded when it snows and the temperature drops and we have to light a fire or turn up the heat or close the windows. Millennia of surprised reactions to the perfectly predictable constantly changing seasons. Some are drier than others, sometimes it gets colder and windier and the snow is slightly deeper and there are icicles and frozen birdbaths, chapped lips and cold feet and you can see your breath. Someone will get hurt skiing, someone else will complain about shoveling snow. Cars won’t start. Visibility will be reduced.

We’re amazed by winter. We are shocked and baffled by the onset.

In six months it’s going to be warming up and we’ll have a whole new list of complaints and comments. About summer and the heat.

Now, it’s winter. Just like last year. And the 10,000 previous years.

Put on a sweater.

Thank you for voting

     Once more, it’s the day after Election Day. This time it went the other way. A lot of my friends are all pissy. They didn’t see this coming? They are looking for someone to blame; the non-voters, the tired, burned out citizens who simply cannot crawl to the polls, one more time, to be disappointed and lose their self respect. I’m a lifelong Dem and I’ll vote Democratic again because, so far, the alternatives are so blatantly abominable. Not the candidates, not even the Republican Party, but the on-going repression, racism, fear, disrespect, violence and fundamentalism that the candidate’s owners pay for, support and sustain.

     Why is everyone moaning so much, anyway? For the past month I’ve been seeing sanctimonious, self-congratulatory posts about how “I voted early”, “Please Vote”,  “You have to Vote”, “It’s your Civic Duty”, “Blame yourself”.

     Shut up. Didn’t they notice that we are still fighting at least three wars? That the minimum wage is so goddamn low that Americans who are fully employed, who work their asses off at hard jobs, cannot buy homes or clothes or afford decent food, schools, transportation? And how about that invasive surveillance? The armed and dangerous and out-of-control law enforcement agencies that are shooting first and then going to lunch? Women still only earn 78 cents for every dollar a worker with a penis is paid. Holy shit. Gender equality has been on the table for at least a century. Your party, whichever one, has done next to nothing since the last time we put them back behind their desks.

Starting today, again, there will be more tough talk and no action; the lobbyists and their favorite pets are moistening their lips, checking their zippers and filling their pockets with tissues. The money train is rolling and there are big smiles all around.

     We did our duty though. We cared, we argued, we scolded and we posted on Facebook. LOL. You are so cute. For our reward we get the Holiday Season. Gifts and lights and shopping and family and food and phones and blockbuster movies.

     Thanks for voting early.

The Halloween Conspiracy

It’s that time of year again. The Trifecta of Stupidity. 

Halloween

Daylight Savings

Election Day

Three big piles.

Halloween, which used to be a kid’s holiday of funny costumes and candy, has been stolen by narcissistic adults who have sexualized and monetized it.

All kinds of stuff is for sale: cardboard jack-o-lanterns, giant bags of Snickers, Halloween specials at Wal-Mart. Sleazy bars, Jean’s, Pier 23, The Gold Clown, where I used to be able to dodge the costumed kids and get wasted, are now sponsoring bullshit costume contests where a lot of lonely guys come dressed as gangsters and pimps, and marginally intelligent women get their hooker on. Nice. Don’t scare the children.

Yesterday, I heard someone in the Dentist’s office, as she was leaving, her lip numb and her mouth stuffed with cotton, say to the receptionist, “Have a happy Halloween.”

Is this a thing? I can’t get far enough away from holidays, and now they are legitimizing Halloween? Soon, I guess, they’ll be closing down the government for Halloween. Sorry, you can’t pay your ticket or meet with your public defender or file a building permit. It’s Halloween! Will we have to give presents? Fuck that.

Daylight Savings.

Now, you’ve been gorging on candy and alcohol and dreaming about sexy costumes and parties and watching horror films and celebrating the Day of the Dead and All Souls Day and All Saints Day and filling your head with every possible kind of reality-distorting fantasy that the next thing they do is change the lighting. Yep; you wake up confused, distracted and unstable. Everyone is late, they are jet-lagged and yawning and the sun isn’t coming up at the right time. You feel as if you’re in the wrong place every day. It starts to get dark around 3:00 p.m. and you’re hungry all the time. A destabilized population, hungover and tired.

A perfect time for the final Big Lie.

The perfect time to slip in... Election Day. God Bless America crashing from sugar and booze, washing off its makeup, tries to wipe the crusty buildup from its eyes and, hurry up, it's time to vote.  America has been shown Who’s The Boss. Our government. The venal, degenerate, unprincipled men and women we vote for. We have experienced their authority, their supremacy; with their mandated power, they can change the time the sunrises for Christ’s sake; they have fucked up our circadian rhythms. All-powerful liars, grabbing with both hands and failing over and over, cycle after cycle. What more can be said? Better people have commented on this waste of time. We are completely irrelevant, overlooked and disregarded until Election Day rolls around. Now, nightly come the robo-calls from local dipshits asking for the vote because they are going to (fill in the blank). Nah, no they’re not. They are going to be slurping at the trough and stuffing their pockets for as long as we let them. And don’t scold me. Do what you want, feel good about yourself, but don’t you dare berate me for not…being you, I suppose. I know, I know. All that crap about civic duty, constitution, can’t-complain-if-you-don’t-vote, our rights, patriotism, America fuck yeah. So go, do it, stand in line, chat with your fellow citizens, shit on the liberals or the conservatives. Do it. You’ll think you're better than me. And you probably are.

I can’t even get into the perfect timing of the World Series. Go Giants.