VERY RECENTLY, a doctor stuck his finger into my butt hole while chit-chatting about ancient poetry - Catullus, a Roman, an eroticist, an admirer of young boys, a lover of flesh and hot buns and pizza. It was probably the least medical of all medical visits I have ever had (a discussion of Grey's Anatomy at the gynecologist runs a close second), furthered by the fact that he then, after practicing the ancient Greek gift-giving art of xenia and offering me a paper towel with which to wipe the medical-grade lubricant off of my chicken nuggets, Classicist that he is, brought me into his study for a tour of many a Puerto Rican tribal figurine, ye olde leather-bound book, and a computer labtop designed for poor children. We fondled those smooth, worn spines of the Negro Spiritual; you might be familiar with its most common quotation: "The hip bone's connected to the thigh bone." I certainly never knew its origins, but now I know how to cite it in a paper and thus avoid accusations of plagiarism. The doctor and I reminisced about our days spent reciting ancient Greek, my doctor's cut short by his foray into the medical profession, mine by my complete lack of interest in both the language and anything that is remotely difficult. Here is some "verse" from Catullus:
A Rebuke: to Aurelius and Furius
I'll fuck you and bugger you,
Aurelius the pathic, and sodomite Furius,
who thought you knew me from my verses,
since they're erotic, not modest enough.
It suits the poet himself to be dutifully chaste,
his verses not necessarily so at all:
which, in short then, have wit and good taste
even if they're erotic, not modest enough,
and as for that can incite to lust,
I don't speak to boys, but to hairy ones
who can't move their stiff loins.
You, who read all these thousand kisses,
you think I'm less of a man?
I'll fuck you, and I'll bugger you.
THIS SHOULD not have come as a surprise. The doctor's decor, styled after the tomb of an eccentric urban pharoah, elicits immediate Scooby-Doo ears. Safari animal wallpaper in the examining room. A scale made in 1920, when the concept of body weight was still so pure and untarnished by celebrity. A tiny examining table, no bigger than an industrial cutting board, pushed to the side of the room as an afterthought. Manuscripts lay unfurled on his old mahogany desk, probably bought at auction, from a retired slave ship. Five pairs of glasses, for reading many books, ink and quill for writing many letters, and more honorary degrees than Bill Cosby. Aversion of eye contact. Unplaceable but probably either Boston or Southern accent. Embroidered wall-hangings of tender but creepy messages, olden day adages far outdated by the invention of eCards. Excessive quotation of pre-war (which one?) naval medicine. An unfriendly receptionist who either speaks Russian or has a terrible mumble. And as we shook hands to bid adieu, I whispered softly into his furry ear, "Doctor, do you have anything medical to tell me?" I assume he was slightly aroused because he turned around as if he hadn't heard me, and wandered into his office without so much as a peep.
BUTT THE story goes on. In a sad attempt to insert his finger into my rectum one more time, Doctor diagnosed me with Charcot-Leyden Crystals, which any naval fool knows indicate protozoan presence dating back to the English naval ships, in 80-85% of all cases, dealt with in isolation, with biscuits, with worms in them, scurvy. He was in the navy himself (country?), he said, and once, since you're interested in comedy, he said, here's a story of how, once, he proposed to his wife in a Catholic church, but there was a drunk, so they went to a Jewish synagogue where, surprise surprise, there was not a drunk, and then they got married. His wife is a wonderful woman, since you didn't ask, and she binds leather books, but his son, well he was a great student and took graduate school classes while he was still an undergraduate. This is what butt crystals look like:
They are in me, just like Leyden is a city in the Netherlands,
and also the name of a girl who went to Vassar College.
THIS HOLE story (pun intended) is just a lead-up the real reason for this post: when I was in 5th grade, I planned to enter the Science Fair at Franklin Elementary School with a project entitled "Sugar Krystals." I spent weeks hatching these krystals in my backyard to exact precision according to a children's playbook. Then, on the day of the science fair, when I was to win the blue ribbon and then get a cake to celebrate, my mom brought the krystals to the cafeteria, slipped on a parasite, and shattered our chances at buying a cake. Talk about ironic!
HOWEVER, just as you prayed this story would end, it goes on. My mom is a great woman. She is a hero, too, and plus she bakes. Naked. When I was little she told me that she loved her children so much that she would give them the shirt off her back. (I have called her out on this many times since, mainly at N*SYNC concerts.) Anyway, she came home, hatched out a sham of fake krystals (kubic zarcodius) in the breezy jiff of an hour, and I got some color ribbon that I don't even remember, heck maybe even blue, and if so my mom probably bribed the other mom who was playing judge. The point is that afterwards we probably dined at Hamburger Hamlet as celebration, then ate cake, licorice, cream cheese brownies, peppermint ice cream, hot dogs, and spaghetti for dessert, laughing about how brilliantly young we were and how ironic life was and still is to this very day, and we were doing it as a family. And at the end of the day, I don't think I'm crazy in saying "THAT'S WHAT COUNTS."
AMEN.
