Smell My Finger

From my archives, this repeat is in response to a conversation I recently had with my friend Charlie (and a tribute to all men of a certain age).

 

So I went and had my annual physical a while back. No big deal. I’m a grown up. I’ve been going for several years now. It’s one of the few things my overpriced insurance gets right.

I’ve got a pretty good doctor. His name is B. G. Patel. He has no actual first name as far as I can tell, just B period, G period. Yeah, it’s a little weird, because I guess one initial is simply not mysterious enough. Anyway, as I’m being led through the usual poking, thumping, turning and coughing, good ‘ol BG informs me that due to my age there will be a new test added to my annual regimen. At this point he dons a rubber glove, grabs some lubricant and tells me to drop trou and bend over the examination table. 

Oh, the humanity.

Now I don’t really know what a prostate is, but I do know where it is located, and based upon BG’s latex-ed and lubed finger still motioning for me to spin around, well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he planned on taking the expressway to get there. And although it was crystal clear that someone was about to go spelunking while the other was about to be spelunked, and I really wasn’t interested in being on either side of that transaction, all I could focus on at that moment was the freakishly large fingers on my otherwise petite, Indian doctor.

Man, why hadn’t I noticed that before?

Okay, so I’m not a certified idiot. I knew this was coming eventually in my life, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. And since I’ve found that growing older is as much about losing all semblances of dignity and modesty as it is about gaining wisdom, I bent over and braced myself to take it like a man.

I’ll spare you most of the gory details, but suffice it to say, it was very uncomfortable. And perhaps if he wouldn’t have dimmed the lights and started humming Barry White the minute I turned around, I wouldn’t feel as violated now. But that wasn’t even the worst part.  That occurred when he was  apparently shoulder deep in my rectum (this is an estimate based upon the tapping I could feel on my molars) and said,

“Feel that?  That’s your prostate!” 

He said it with inappropriate enthusiasm, like he had just spotted our car in a crowded, holiday parking lot.  Since I honestly didn’t’ anticipate dialog during the exploration, I hoped it was a rhetorical question.  I didn’t possess the desire nor the ability to answer him.

I left my physical dazed, limping and in need of several hours of showering and/or counseling.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be the case.  Since I had scheduled the entire day off, I also had an afternoon appointment already set up to take my car in and get new snow tires and rims put on it.  And since it was automotive related, I pretty much got violated there, too.

All said and done, at least my diary entry was concise that evening:

“Dear Diary, today I got two rim jobs.”

m. karvinen
 

Someone Needs a Hug

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Over Compensating
Date:                    11-18-13
Official Location:       Sears Parking Lot
                         Troy, MI

Thank God a picture is worth a thousand a words, because I am speechless.

...and not in a good way.

I wouldn't have been able to take these pictures in direct sunlight, as my face would have probably melted like in Raiders of the Lost Ark.


m. karvinen

Nice shirt, Douchebag.

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  NoTown
Date:                    11-16-13
Official Location:       Detroit at Large

 

It cracks me up how people from the suburbs refer to themselves as Detroiters when they travel outside of Michigan. I've seen them in their clean, artificially distressed, "Made in Detroit" t-shirts, and I've heard them talking about their latest excursion to Lafayette Coney Island or a hockey game. I think to myself, "You are just like me; you are from the suburbs, and trust me, asshole, you are fooling no one."

 

I grew up in Troy. And I assure you, although it's only six miles up the road from the Motor City, it is a universe away. Troy is a candy-assed, white bread, strip mall breeding ground that doesn't inspire a lot of t-shirts. But I'm proud to be from there anyway. Good schools, decent taxes, lots of 7-Elevens, what's not to love? 

 

When I was a kid, the city motto was "Troy: The City of Tomorrow, Today." Aside from totally distorting my temporal perception, that motto always made me feel like I was growing up in some futuristic space colony, and I and my fellow Trojans would be the first to own flying cars, robot butlers and universal health care. Alas, it was just a motto, but it did give me hope.

 

I work in Detroit a lot now. And I don't work in the 500 or so polished, square feet surrounding each People Mover station or casino entrance that many suburbanite "Detroiters" visit when they are feeling frisky and want to buy a t-shirt either. No, lately, my job has taken me into vacant lots, back alleys, and the societal backwaters of a city that has completely gone to hell in a hand basket. 

 

Just in the last month alone, I've trudged through hobo villages in vacant lots. I've been approached by a bat swinging guy looking to kill the two kids that stole his television. I've chased off wild dogs with rocks and my pocket knife. And Thursday I even saw one of those same dogs get hit by a car on Michigan Avenue, and not one person stopped or otherwise gave a damn.  Sad thing is, it didn't really phase me either.  It's just one less wild dog I have to defend myself against later. 

 

I don't think kids in Detroit grow up dreaming of robot butlers and jetpacks much.  I can't imagine how kids in Detroit grow up with any hope at all.  That kind of environment changes you. 

 

And it changes you in ways a t-shirt never quite will.

 

  

 

m. karvinen

 

Stone(d) Mason

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Mason's Bar & Grill
Date:                    11-07-13
Official Location:       13490 Farmington Road

                         Livonia, MI

My Donkey Kong companion and satisfied Mason-ite, Jimbo

In the event that there are three people in metro Detroit that have not heard of Mason’s Bar & Grill, this entry is for you. For the rest, what are you doing reading this crappy blog? You obviously have some spare time. Get back to Mason’s. Go now. Don’t be stupid.

 

As for those aforementioned three, well, let me just say, “Mmmm, Mason’s.” How has this place operated under my radar for over fifty years? I can only assume that there has been a dedicated conspiracy to keep me from knowing about it. Perhaps I unwittingly offended the Polish community and hiding this joint has been their payback. If so, I’m so very, very sorry. I will never again question how many of you it may or may not take to screw in a light bulb.

So, how did the cat finally get released from the bag? Well, I was hangin’ in Livonia with my lovely sister-in-law, Reet the Beat, the other weekend, and she casually brings up this local bar she and her husband have been enjoying for years called Mason’s. And as if she’s speaking of something as mundane as the weather or actuarial tables, she casually tells me they make one of the best burgers in the world. That’s a mighty bold and provocative statement to say to a judgmental, food whore like me. Since she’s typically not prone to hyperbole, I truly wanted to believe her, but she may just as well have asked me to believe that George W was an intellectual president or that Santa Claus loves venison. Needless to say, I had my doubts. She was not exaggerating though, and now I am torn between wanting to treat her to a day at the spa for turning me on to the place or kicking her ass for keeping it from me for so long. Sisters!

Mason’s was everything I needed it to be after a long day swinging a sledge hammer (which suggests that I’m either in construction or I take my Donkey Kong way too seriously). To me, there’s just something so comforting about a working-class bar that has successfully fought the temptation to redecorate since The Brady Bunch originally aired. Needless to say, there are no pretensions there.  I don’t know if it’s the brown, wood-grained Formica bar, the red leatherette chairs, the wobbly tables, or the 50 plus years of bric-a-brac and private jokes hanging on the walls, but this place pretty much had me at, “Just sit anywhere, Hon.” Add a minimalist number of tap beers (the crappy domestic, the light version of that same crappy domestic, and the brown one that is kinda’ full-bodied but still, in essence, a crappy domestic) and a full complement of mid-shelf liquors, and this bar, to me, is like a giant hug from grandma (assuming grandma could hug your liver directly).

But as Reet the Beat promised, the real attraction here is the burgers. Mason’s makes a humble, simple bar burger by which all other bar burgers should be judged (and, yes, before you flame me on what you incorrectly perceive as my naiveté, I’ve been to Miller’s, The Red Coat, Duggan’s and dozens of other fine contenders.  I stand by my claim.) Mason’s burger comes in a classic, one-third pound version and a nearly obscene, two-thirds pound version, and I’ve tried both, because, well, I’m willing to sacrifice my arteries for you because I care.

 

The good stuff in a nutshell: 

• Fresh, hand selected and hand smashed beef from Eastern Market
• Steamed buns
• A tray of fresh fixins’ brought to your table (or in my case, barstool)
• A generous side of crinkle cut fries. 

The bad Stuff:

• Seriously, if you put a gun to my head, I guess I could say that the napkins are too small for wiping up after the super juicy, 2/3 pounder. But don’t let that deter you. Bring your own beach towel if it bothers you. 

Oh, and if you want the deluxe experience, add some bacon and grilled onions for a few pennies more, and then sit at the bar and watch the cooking magic unfold right before your very eyes. And when (not if) you go, play it safe and don't mention my name (and it would probably be best if you didn't mention light bulbs either).


m. karvinen

Consider Porn

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Gardner-White Wash
Date:                    11-02-13
Location:                Northbound I-75
                         near Great Lakes Crossing

 

Okay, so I think it's Gardner-White who overpaid on this one. I drive by this billboard regularly, and I can't for the life of me figure out the connection between the headline and the woman pictured. Granted, she's attractive, and that's always better than the alternative, but what's with the sassy, nudge-nudge-wink-wink expression. It's almost like she's mocking the headline and saying, "Don't overpay? Ha ha ha, (wink). Of course you are going to overpay. Don't you have any idea what kind of mark-ups are in the furniture business you dumb-ass, potential customer?"

 

I’ve bought things from Gardner-White, and I’ve been generally pleased with the value, so I don't think this is the message they want to project. If I were them, I'd be looking for a refund from their advertising agency. And speaking of that agency, what might their rationale be for using this graphic anyway? My guess is that either the creative director is related to the model on the billboard, or the creative director was trying to get in her pants. When in doubt, always guess sex or nepotism (and if this was Tennessee, well, I guess it could easily be both, but that’s a whole other issue).

 

Anyway, can you think of a better advertising pitch for this picture? If so, let me know in the comments section below.  Here's what I came up with...

 

 

 

m. karvinen