Working Blue

Today, I overheard a snide remark from an overloud conversation in the coffee shop. The person staring out the window was presumably on a phone, although I could see no device and cannot be certain there was anyone on the other end. At any rate, the thing that popped out was said with great certainty and derision. ‘Men don’t get ‘blue balls!’

And it shocked me.

I pulled back from my reading, shook my head and looked over. Mind you, this was a complete stranger. But I had a powerful urge to insert myself and warn all parties involved about the truth of this very real, dangerous and corrupting condition.

It’s important not to get lost in a debate about blood flow and whether or not the testicles actually turn “blue.” The word is a poor choice in describing the affliction. The fact is: the brain chemistry of the male, around or about the penultimate, is undeniably in an altered state. He is far beyond inarticulate. He cannot string words and barely registers information. He must not drive or operate heavy equipment and by law should wear an odd hat so that all others can avoid him. His brain lives in a supercritical state flashing between gelatinous goo and some sort of boiling gas. How long it persists is anyone’s guess but mix it with alcohol or other stimulants and you have on your hands a veritable shit train of tragedy, despair and perversion. The roads leading to and from “Gentleman’s Clubs” are perilous at any hour but after midnight one would have better odds of safe travel crawling through a gater-infested sewer.

Consider also, that not all Valentine’s Day celebrations end well, no matter how thoughtfully prepared. Angry, distraught and thoroughly distracted individuals are on the roads. The New Year’s crowd is far more predictable.

Even the eponymous saint of this day orders food delivered tonight.

Hazzard Pay

These old houses don’t give up anything easily. Demolition is a grueling sport and not for the faint of heart. Doing it for any length of time without getting hurt requires a Zen-like emotional intelligence that not many have and perhaps even fewer understand. One must overcome fear, summon anger, remain calm. There are times to forgive and forget and attack and retreat. And though this sounds like a war, it cannot be thought of as such because you are, after all, not just trying to destroy, but build something beautiful.

A 13-amp sawzall with a 12-inch blade is a formidable weapon and something of a magic wand. It is a good and sometimes best friend that you rely upon but don’t invite to dinner parties because you’re afraid it will offend someone, get drunk and start cutting off heads.

Wielding one in an old house is fraught with peril. The smallest surprise could end in a lost finger or severed artery. Even when used with care, there are so many thick fat nails per square inch that sparks fly constantly in a Black Sunday cloud of picobit debris. One worries the cloud could ignite, explode and spread the whole house into neighbor’s nostrils for blocks on end.

The dust is, after all, the biggest danger. Without a strict protocol, tiny bits coat the throat and end up in the lungs. The nose is clogged with a dangerous living goo that ultimately falls to the shower drain in the  common farmer blow. Routine exposure to this kind of attack requires modern tools and breathing apparatus.

At any rate, at the end of the day, my throat itches in an odd manner and the only thing that seems to clear it is a well-focused, hoppy beverage.
It has become a welcome remedy, and I do believe it is deductible; for it is now what has become healthcare in America for those without access to opioids.