No Quiero Ser Miércoles

To express how badly he wanted to sniff my chones, a security guard at an Oakland liquor store once grabbed my arm.

He ebonically growled, “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl, you look like WEDNESDAY ADDAMS!


I was not flattered.

Seeing her onscreen, I’d wonder how Cristina Ricci’s mushroom stump neck supported the weight of her bowling ball face. Between her grotesquely wide set eyes, I knew she must suffer a blind spot directly in front of her nose.

This defect happens to animals with eyes on the sides of their faces.

Two nights ago, before TJ performed The Artist Formerly Known as Trina, and between squirts of pre-show diarrhea coming from my culo (I get scorching sympathy nerves), I tamed my hole long enough to snap a self-portrait.

Don’t let the look of scholarly concentration fool you. This was shot on the toilet.

I strikes me that as I age, I do grow increasingly Addamsish.

Maternally so.

I am becoming Morticia Addams.

Which means I finally look like my mother.

This is a portrait of my mother. She was a huge Home Alone fan.

This is a recent candid of my mother. She is aging Lorena Bobbittly.

Also, I am not the only one having fun with my camera.

Ginger Jackie’s daughters have been watching me take pictures of everything-TJ, Bridget and Scott, the filmmakers creating the documentary about TJ’s life, which is of Bastard out of Carolina proportions, roly-polies, flies-and they asked me, “Why? Why are you taking so many pictures? Why are you taking pictures of sandwiches?”

They pointed at these sandwiches.

I explained, “Because someday, this picture of these sandwiches might mean something.”

Rather quickly, those sandwiches proved their worth. Those sandwiches are illustrating my life.

A picture of sandwiches coming to mean something intrigued the girls.

They asked, “Can we try?”

I handed three little girls my camera.

I told them, “Make it interesting.”

They started taking pictures of feet.

“If you’re gonna do that,” I told them. “We’re gonna have to engage in some personal grooming. Get the clippers.”

We made the middle child give us mani-pedis. I will not judge her work harshly. Ethnically, her calling is not the cuticle.

She turned my hirsute big toe into a crime scene.

“…the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.”


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