I’m An Old Fuck – December 22nd, 2002
by Bing Futch
On this day in 1979, I sat in Mann’s Chinese Theater number two with Eric Greene watching the opening day 5:00 pm showing of Walt Disney Productions’ “The Black Hole”. This was a big deal for me on two counts. One. It was the first PG-rated Disney film and I was ready for some shit. Rumors of language and violence had me frothing at the bit, when really – all it took was a Disney film to cause the Pavlovian tremors to awaken. Two: The Other Reason. That would be Eric. A guy whom I had spotted hanging out around a filming crew in Cheviott Hills Park, across the street from 20th Century Fox Studios in Los Angeles. I was probably 12 at the time, hanging out on a dad weekend or maybe took a bus down in an attempt to sneak onto the lot; languishing around the park in defeat. That’s when I spotted “Loki”. Eric played a kid with infra-red vision on a CBS television series called “Space Academy.” It also starred the late Johnathan Harris along with Saturday morning Asian hero Brian Tochi. It and the other CBS live-action series “Ark II” were some of the most ambitious Saturday morning fare to come along since Sid and Marty Krofft came along and started peddling their psychedelic wares over the everlovin’ airwaves. Eric was hanging around while his brother shot a UCLA student film with Donny Most. I got to be an extra, my first film job, and ended up with a famous friend in the interim. Such was life in L.A. One of the first things we did was head out to see “The Black Hole” for my birthday on December 22nd, 1979 – same day that “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” opened nationwide. My two good friends, Johnathan and Kenneth Scott, were froting Trekkies, so they poo-poohed our bold quest for something new and went to see Kirk and Crew. Man. I’m an Old Fuck.
This is evidenced by thinking.
And I think too much these days, gotta find some Zen, or create a hollow place, a sacred space. One that doesn’t beep or twinkle, moan, sob or heave; an utter stillness. Where the grass can be heard singing, each blade an instrument in a windy symphony. The crisp, solid, absorbent quiet of the mountainside, away from creeks and paths much traveled. Away from the common crowd. Bunch of infectious, oozing, disease-laden vermin are the tourists. Like cockroaches and sewer rats, bringing their non-indigenous filth to the once-clean shores of The Outskirts. I’m gonna let go here, just letting you know. I’ve been pacing the floor here, I’m letting go. We know about the cold, the flu, the mumps. The measels, the smallpox and herpes, commonly contagious things that are part of the national dialogue, but have you ever heard of Norwalk Virus before this year? It’s not something that pops up in the headlines so often that we’re familiar with its debilitating effects, yet all of a sudden, it’s become known as “Cruise Ship Disease”.
The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) are monitoring this recent outbreak that has impacted ships from Florida to Louisiana. The general response seems to be that the ships are the very source of the virus, which is mostly associated with a kind of food poisoning, especially when consuming seafood such as raw oysters.
Tourists are carriers of cooties just like seagulls. That’s why people usually get sick when traveling; not only is your immune system stressed out, but you’re surrounded by thousands of people, criss-crossing in hubs all around the world, coughing into their neighbors shoulders and not washing their hands after they use the restrooms. This recent epidemic of Norwalk Virus that’s blossoming in the southeast and making its way elsewhere, originated on land and then was brought to the cruise ships by people who had already carried it from somewhere else. It’s easy to monitor the number of nauseated people you’ve got on a ship – it’s a locked boat, with perhaps one infirmary. Now, how do you get an exit poll of sickened tourists leaving the area theme parks in central Florida? When they become sick, they don’t make any kind of connection with the cruise ships and it’s not designated as “The Norwalk Virus.” There are people falling down sick with the symptoms; severe nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, fever and abdominal pain, all around me. You never see them when they’re suffering from it because, forget about it, when it hits you – you are a victim and you don’t leave your house, unless it’s to the doctor. So when you hear about it, it’s just “yeah, I had this bug – man, it SUCKED!” But life goes on. It’s a 48-72 hour thing and from what I’d heard – I wanted no part of it, no way and no how.
Life gave it to me for my birthday this past Monday.
It might’ve been the oysters at High Tide Harry’s on South O.B.T. – or it could’ve been contacting someone narsty at the Magic Kingdom earlier in the day, I don’t know. What is certifiable is that I awoke several times in the early morning of Tuesday with severe stomach cramps, like I had eaten too much shrimp the previous evening at Ohana. But by morning, it had intensified, a great swelling of belly and a painful tenderness employed all about. I felt like complete and total hell, just outside of my skin, sketched badly. Luckily, Jae was in the living room, so I skipped into the bathroom and sat down quickly. Hershey’s syrup, I thought. Damn, what is up with that? After an interminably long period of time, I suddenly felt The Note in my throat. That quivering that starts somwhere low in the gullet that says “you thought life was kinda suckin’ right now, but now I think I may have to throw up.” And it twitched a bit, then began swelling up and threatening to be the very finger in my throat and I thought enough to wipe and flush so that I wouldn’t be face down in my own shit. FLUSH! goes the toilet and I’m thinking about turning around to pray, but I can feel the race of liquid beginning from my ruined stomach and up towards my clutched, tense and tightened esophogaus. Glancing down to my right, I spied my fiance’s never-used trash basket, one of those decorative jobbers that women never use? If you ever throw anything into it, it’s immediately removed and a look of reproach given. “It’s not a trash can.”
“Then what the hell is it doing down there on the ground? It’s not holding a toilet brush.”
“It just looks like a trash can.”
Well, it was looking like a vomitorium to me right then, and I guessed that it wouldn’t stay full for long.
The first two retches were downright painful, my throat resisted the flood of partially digested beef, pork, chicken, turkey and shrimp that had been consumed not more than ten hours earlier. When it finally came surging out, with the bulging of the eyes and the feeling as if my head would explode with each dramatic heave – I held back and hoped for the best, that it was done. But then, my gut would implode, another load of bumpy, sloppy mess the color of kidney beans came gurgling up and out of my mouth, not moving fast enough through that orifice, so also splashing out of my nose as well. Eight, nine, ten of these agonizing, body-convulsing, throat-wringing hurls until I set the non-trash can down with a 1/4 load of unwanted baggage. Mouth hanging open in passionate relief, I grabbed for a washcloth to wipe my face and listened as my fiancee’ called out, “are you okay?”
She was a sport, picking up my puke bucket and emptying it – helping me back to the bed, bringing me some water. Body slightly trembling, I hoped that it was over, that this was just a morning after thing and that it would only get better. None that suffer have less than sweeter stories to tell, so my story is sweeter then, for having endured the painful wretching sessions not once more, but twice more, to the point where I all that I could vomit up was warm water. At least it didn’t hurt my throat anymore. I felt damn clean, but the full-on dual blow-out of both ass and mouth had left me with a stomach that was bruised, angry and wracked with stabbing spasms. A visit to the doctor confirmed Norwalk Virus and I was prescribed belladonna for my pain.
“Oh great, a poison,” I said to my fiancee’, who had used the stuff herself on a fateful food outing once.
And with its own side-effects, including crazy pain in your kidneys and lower back area. If it wasn’t for the electronically kneading Shogun Shiatsu massager and “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation”, I would’ve never made it through those little potent sonsofbitches. Ask your doctor about belladonna.
A combination of taking it easy and sleeping a lot helped me get back to fighting shape by day four and I began to do some research on Norwalk Virus to find out what we know about it. For all we know, this particular outbreak could’ve been started by Hamas factions in the U.S. who wanted to show the American people that they are not immune to biological attacks. Something of this sort could easily spread its way throughout the continent and beyond if not defeated by simple common sense practices like washing your hands often and avoiding touching your face with your hands. If you see someone in a rest room about to go straight from the stall to the door, be sure to aim a hearty, “aren’t you gonna wash?” at them. It’s up to all of us to save all of us, don’t forget!
I’m a really old fuck. But I’m a happy old fuck. Hope you’re fucking happy too. Happy Christmas, War Is Over if you want it.
Pa gjensyn,
“bfsig”
