TowelBoy has more issues than a five-year subscription to the New York Times. Between (barely) working, cruising, and trying to mediate the madness in my crazy family, it is truly a wonder that I'm not in a padded room watching a continuous loop of Oprah while waiting for the Thorazine drip to make me socially acceptable. Did I mention that sometimes my cat Socks can't pee? Seriously, people. I'm obsessive-compulsive, anti-social, sexually insatiable, and I have an odd fixation with money guru Suze Orman. I'm also notoriously frugal, so paying a therapist $150 an hour to listen to me whine is not an option. In lieu of paying an actual therapist, I've decided to invent one: Dr. Beaumann. (Pronounced like notable Pittsburgh meteorologist “Bowman”, only without thirty years of donuts and regret.)
Dr. Beaumann, I must say, is the perfect specimen of ''man''. Beaumann sailed through Yale and Harvard. He graduated Summa Cum Laude. Twice. He was captain of both football teams. He played football, baseball, soccer, and chess, yet he still found time to volunteer as a Big Brother and make no-bake Christmas cookies for the homeless. He was voted the Ivy League's Most Eligible Bachelor. Twice. Now, he spends his weekends reading to orphans and finding homes for three-legged puppies with broken spirits. He laughs when strangers in restaurants mistake him for actor Paul Walker. He is an expert landscaper, carpenter, pastry chef, and mechanic. He makes seven figures but drives his grandfather's old Impala because he values family tradition and the integrity of the American worker. He refuses to live in Shadyside. He is a connoisseur of Walmart, Giant Eagle, and any store with “Dollar” in it's name. He can make a pair of thrift store jeans look like a Versace original. He likes to spend Sunday morning making love on the lanai as the sun rises over the horizon. Twice. And Beaumann is a pioneer in Fellatio Therapy.
During an intense session on a hot summer afternoon, Beaumann said he wanted me to share my dreams. I was nervous – I've always been plagued by strange dreams. But I can't say no to Beaumann, so I give in...
I have always been plagued by strange dreams. Some dreams are recurring, while others are one-time freak shows. I had a recurring dream as a child that bandits kidnapped my mother and sold her into white slavery. (Now I know better – they'd bring her right back.) As my parents were divorcing, I would constantly dream of their reunion. This wasn't the wishful thinking of a sad and lonely child; this, quite frankly, was the family's worst nightmare. Imagine the unholy union of Adolf Hilter and George W. Bush. (My mother is psychotic; my father is a neo-conservative Republican.) I frequently dream of being dehydrated or having an uncontrollable thirst, and I'll wake up at the bathroom sink. (Why isn't water from the bathroom sink as refreshing as water from the kitchen sink? Hmmm.) It's quite common for me to dream of celebrities. In high school I would dream that Keanu Reeves would offer to rescue me from my mundane little town and my freakish family. (Little Dude, these people are like...CRAZY.) I frequently dream of water skiing with Jennifer Aniston. (For some reason, I feel personally responsible that her attractive, respectable husband left her for Skankelina. May I suggest a condom, Brad?) I'm now having this recurring dream where I'm seduced by annoying “Will & Grace” star Eric McCormick. The dream is always exactly the same: He comes over to borrow my EasyBake Oven, and we end up having sex while his dessert is incinerated by a 60-watt bulb. I think my fixation with Eric McCormick is a manifestation of my obsession with BaDonkaDonk porn star prince Jeremy Hall. (Either my eyes are deceiving me or Jeremy is now a model for the Manhunt website. Why don't you call, Jeremy? Where's the love?) “There are two things you could take from that dream,” Beaumann says. “Either you're engrossed with making love to Jeremy Hall, or you desire a moist, delicious, cream-filled cupcake of your own.” The good doctor feels this one requires total commitment to self-exploration.
One dream in particular left the debonair doctor riveted. In the dream, I was a victim of a grad school performance review. University policy sodomizes Theatre Arts students with this hedonistic ritual at the end of each semester. (Since I haven't been a student since J-Lo was still Jenny from the Block, it's amazing this is still so vivid to me.) Eve Muson, then the director of performance, would lead these meetings between the student, his advisor, and various faculty. (“Eve Muson” is indeed her real name. I ain't changing anything to protect anyone. Sue me, bitch.) Essentially, the review is intended as an examination of work completed and a strategy session for the next semester's goals. Eve (Yep, that's her name alright. Imagine the mind of of a bipolar alcoholic minion of Satan in the body of a frumpy Janeane Garofalo. That's EVE MUSON. Go ahead – google her.) found me to be more repugnant than a twelve-step program, so my reviews were dominated by two themes: “The work you've done sucks,” and its less hopeful cousin, “You're not going to get any better.” Honestly, I was usually pretty embarrassed by the work I'd completed. I typically put more effort into getting to the bathhouses in Rhode Island than I did in Directing Workshop or Theater Literature III. And my future plan was to cruise down I-95 at an unlawful speed, blasting Alanis Morissette and giving Eve the finger until I hit the New Jersey turnpike. However, I did spend several years training as an actor, and I knew how my bread was buttered. So I would cry crocodile tears while declaring that I was a changed man, and the faculty would weep along with me and repeal their calls to kick my sorry ass back to Pittsburgh. During the hugs and handshakes, a disgruntled Eve would wander out of the room and presumably take the Orange Line to a seedy sailor bar in Jamaica Plain. (I'm not implying that Eve had a problem with men & booze. I'm telling you.) A pack of filterless Camels and a a whole lot of liquor later, she'd go back to hating me in silence. I endured no less than five of these New England Tragedies while I was a grad student. In my current dream it was if no time had passed at all. The whole gang was there. I aged, they didn't. Seven years had passed, but the theme remained the same: there's just no hope for a poor, delusional, talentless hack with a relentless sex drive and a striking resemblance to Calista Flockhart. Every faculty member in my dream accused me of throwing away the future. And chain-smoking Eve kept ranting, “Why do you insist on wasting opportunity?!?” Then something odd happened. My co-worker Punxy busts through the door. He starts caterwauling about how tired he is while he rummages his enormous Batman purse for an apple. “You SUCK,” he scowls. Then Eve hoists the apple out of his stunned hands and bludgeons the poor dear with his own snack. Just when I was about to crawl out of my skin, poor Socks let out a wail from the litter box and knocked me back to the conscious world.
Beaumann contemplated in silence for awhile, but as always, brilliance prevailed. “Well,” Bowman says, “Eve may be the bitch of American Theater for now, but you'll always be the Bitch of the Baths.” And those words of pure genius have given me the inspiration to continue down my own bitter path.
I then share something with Beaumann that is not a bad dream, unfortunately. Over the last several posts, I've been reaming you for your hook-up errors. Bad lighting, obnoxious noises, and little Sparky the Cockapoo growling at your gentleman caller. This past Monday, I made an error of my own, and I'd like to issue a dire warning. I woke up on Monday to discover the jet stream is in the wrong place. (Thanks a lot, Bowman!) Instead of pulling warm, humid air from the south, it's dragging dry Canadian air from the north. This has signaled the ragweed to pollinate a few weeks early. Poor TowelBoy was not prepared. I woke up with a killer case of hay fever. I took Claritin. I took Zyrtec. I took a couple shots of Jack Daniels. Nothing. I spent my convalescence cruising Manhunt, of course. And I meet this attractive gentleman who is visiting Pittsburgh from Dallas for one night only. Being a proper ambassador for the Steel City, I invited him to Carrick for a glass of raspberry iced tea and a rim job. But it is admittedly difficult to entertain a gentleman caller while in the throws of allergic rhinitis. I pondered my options, and I made a really, really bad choice: I took two Benadryl tablets before my Dallas dynamo arrived. Of course, he turns out to be incredibly handsome. He's a real cowboy with a nice smile and an amazing ass. But by the time I get to the bottom of my tea, I can swear that Miss Ellie is calling me for dinner. And before he even gets his pants off, I realize the only thing I'll be devouring is a nap. The opportunity to ride a real cowboy was completely lost. No Oil Barron's Ball for TowelBoy! The lesson here is that sedating antihistamines and conjugal companionship don't mix. It's better to sneeze through a fantastic blowjob than sleep through one. Now there's a certain Club Pittsburgh employee that gets a kick out of pushing Benadryl on unsuspecting members and co-workers with a nagging sneeze or an annoying tickle. (F.Y.I. -- booze just makes the sedating effects of Benadryl 100 times worse. And the aforementioned employee knows this first-hand.) Unless you want to mark your $33 visit to Club Pittsburgh with a six-hour bout of unconsciousness, I suggest you pass up his “kind” offer of the alluring pink pill.
So now is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about the #1 “911 Debauch”. For weeks, I've been talking about calling the police, the paramedics, and the Whoopie Squad. You've heard sordid tales of Fry With Pam, Tootie & Tootsie, and the Great Flood. After everything you've read, you're convinced that #1 is certainly incredible and legendary. Perhaps it involves a dead body. Maybe it was a spooky event that occurred on Friday the 13th. Possibly, it's a tale that intertwines the Allegheny County Medical Examiner, a bottle of premium poppers, and Walter on vacation.
But thanks to Beaumann, I've realized it was all probably just a dream.
More Trouble Than That Barnes Woman,
TowelBoy
The one thing that is definitely real is our Fabulous Foam Party. If you missed the party last month, you're getting another chance. Please join us on Saturday, August 16 for foam, frolic, and Fingerbang Punch. The fun starts @ 11pm on our roof deck. Even Beaumann would think you're crazy if you miss this one.
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