Double Penetration

Just once I’d like to go somewhere and do something without having something done to me somewhere on or in my body. Admittedly, some amount of my accidents have occurred at my own hand, their causes ranging from impulsiveness to negligence to plain old stupidity.

After a lifetime of elevating injury to an art form, it’s no longer the pedestrian aspects like the physical pain and trauma of these events that get to me. Rather, my ire is of a mental nature as I cause myself nothing but perpetual strife in the wake of these calamities by contemplating what cosmic, karmic significance I have that continually permits the worst possible complications to emerge among even the most mundane of circumstances.

Anyone can lose their footing while hiking on a trail of rocks over a shallow, docile stream, but it takes a truly exceptional individual to slip ankle deep in to that same docile creek only to discover that it is downstream from a nearby sewage treatment plant and awake the next day playing host to a flesh-eating disease that slowly rots away his foot. Similarly, any poor schmo can be unfortunate enough to provoke the anger of the local neighborhood dog and have to flee as the animal gives chase. It’s only when you’re talented enough to invoke the wrath of the neighborhood peacock on an evening stroll that you really begin to appreciate your place in the universe… as its punch line.

Case in point: Lately I’ve been working on a movie set pulling 19 hour work days and as a result have found myself spending my nights in the production office, not even bothering to go home. It’s been a rewarding job and a simple enough arrangement as I’d made the necessary preparations: fresh clothes, cell phone charger, toothbrush. 

Now I can’t be sure if my frenetic state on one particular morning last week was due to stress, a lack of sleep, or just the natural atmosphere of any film set after a crew has been forging ahead long enough. Nonetheless, it was a multitasking morning for me as I distributed sides, assembled my PAs, and brushed my teeth all at the same time as well as tackling a list of other tasks that kept my head darting in every which direction. Inevitably, my coordination was compromised and I shoved my toothbrush in to my mouth at the wrong angle, the plastic hitting my teeth and bruising the roof of my mouth. While I’m sure many of you have experienced this clumsy, harmless hiccup in your daily routines at some point, I’m less confident that the rest of you banged your toothbrush against your jaw so hard that the brush head broke affording you the opportunity to swallow it. Yep.

So on my first (non-official) day off of that week, rather than sleeping or going out and having fun with Colleen I was living in the lap(arotomy) of luxury then spending my subsequent weekend off recovering from the experience.

Basically they shove a camera and a crane inside of you to play “One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong.”  Stick a quarter up my nose and it’s the new twist on one of those prize claw games, except with more exotic prizes... and mucosa. 

(Depending on the success of this venture there is talk of converting my esophagus into a ski ball lane.)

The last time I worked on a set with this group of people, I got the ear bud of my walkie-talkie wedged so far in my ear that it required hospital intervention as well… and a wire. 

Just once it’d be nice to make a movie where I don’t get penetrated.

Unchained Malady

I have always considered myself to be somewhat of a romantic. Though I often appear to be a walking picture of sardonic soullessness, all of this spite is directed at things existing in the bigger picture: god, society, nature, furniture. However, at the much simpler level of individual relationships I am a strong proponent of sweeping, sappy emotional gestures and glossy eyed stares. That being said, not all romantic overtures are intrinsically sweet and they can in fact go horribly wrong regardless of any flirtatious, innocent intent.

It’s important that people learn to understand this, as I was recently the “lucky” victim of someone’s “loving” attempts to connect with me. For the past few weeks, I have been a part of a production crew on a feature film and have become involved with one of the girls working on the film. We see each other on a daily basis and interact, but it’s usually in a work environment and up until recently we had spent very little personal time together. So when I approached her with the plan that we should break away from the set one day and go out to lunch, I was confident this would give our relationship some much needed momentum.

However, like most things in my life this statement would be realized in bittersweet irony. You see, whereas my idea of a nice afternoon break is taking a walk, going out to a restaurant, or even just talking and getting to know someone better, Colleen thinks a connection is best achieved through a shared bike ride.

No.

A shared bike ride is NOT the best way to go about doing that. Firstly, let me say to you what I said to Colleen when she suggested this. “I’m not really a bike person. I’ve never really been able to ride that well to begin with and I tend to get injured somehow every time I get on one.” Evidently, solemn rejection and matter of fact refusal are what pass for whimsical self-deprecation these days because she just thought I was exaggerating and kidding, “like how you pretend to be afraid of most things.” Not pretending, by the way. After almost a full week of badgering and her bringing a set of bikes to the set, I was forced to cave because of an unavoidable scientific concept.

So we’re riding down the street for a few moments. Colleen is smiling, wind whipping through her hair. I’m panting, lactic acid burning through my legs. Mission accomplished; this experience is totally bringing us closer to each other, and by that I mean further apart since she’s going much faster than I am. Eventually she tires of essentially riding alone and decides to slow down to a non-ridiculous speed so we can talk. Maybe she wanted to talk. She definitely wanted to communicate something. I know that much. Of course instead of speaking she chose the much more efficient method of conversing while in motion, on a bike, in the street... Physical contact.

In what she described as an effort to reach out and hold my hand (though I reasonably have my doubts) she veers in right next to me and from her bike extends her arm towards my bike. Then, thanks to another nifty scientific principle known as the transfer of momentum, Colleen pushed me off my bike on to the road in front of her and ran over my ankle.

Aww. She’s so sweet. 

That was the general consensus from the rest of the crew as I limped around set for the rest of the day because she was TRYING to hold my hand and regardless of the outcome it’s the thought that counts. I’m not going to deny that her intent was romantic and that her thoughtfulness is noteworthy, but an abundance of thoughtfulness shouldn’t exonerate an absence of thought.

I mean, come on.

The only place that kind of disregard for safety and the basic concepts surrounding a collision are okay is Tron, which she hasn’t seen by the way. It came up during the limp/walk back to the set while I was validating all of my initial objections to biking. It really was a terrible idea. There’s only one justifiable action for a couple to be engrossed in if they’re going to be putting that much effort in to moving around and getting sweaty… 

Okay, two things. That and a good game of charades are the best cardio I can get out of a girl, but it is true that given my lack of athleticism and accident-prone existence there should be some regulation over how I expend bodily fluid while involved with someone. Currently the distribution of my fluid exchange breaks down like this:

Notes: The origin is the point where no fluids are being exchanged at all and no one ever cries or boinks aka The Brady Household. Blood and sweat are on the same axis because while I have experienced both of these simultaneously, it only tends to occur when I’m alone and not on a date. As for simultaneous incidences of tears and semen… Yeah, that's also an alone time thing. 

At first I was going for a color coordination thing with the Blood, Sweat, and Tears and I could have cast a wider net to include the Semen but seeing a rare opportunity to affect the way people viewed my semen, I decided to make it fun. I mean how cool would it be if it actually worked that way? Instead of being all icky, it would just come out like confetti, and then if you impregnated someone instead of getting a tummy full of babies for 9 months they’d get pregnant with candy, piñata-style. 

Other than my obvious issue with the way in which everyone was so willing to dismiss the specifics of Colleen’s hand-holding, the thing that has me most incensed is the fact that the fates are apparently conspiring to turn my life into a Ben Stiller movie. (Hint: My life is supposed to be a Woody Allen movie.) 

Whilst attempting to explain the logistics of the accident to someone, they brought my attention to the following.

Even by romantic comedy standards that’s a stretch. “Gosh, I guess I should be more worried about your blossoming concussion since it’s blatantly my fault. But shucks, there’s that smile of yours again. Can’t take my eyes off that.” It is true that there have been numerous occasions in my life where the immediate response to injury has been an outpouring of passion, but I still don’t think that should be the norm for every situation. 

Plus, Ben Stiller? Really!? The man beats puppies and pleasures himself to pizza slices, for crying out loud. 

I mean, it’s not like I have a paranoid hatred of the animal kingdom or a borderline erotic relationship with Domino’s Pizza’s garlic crust. Kind of a harsh comparison, universe.

Aside from being really, really ridiculously good-looking I am nothing like that focker.