Compulsive

When ever I am about to travel, and trust me, I am about to travel, I go through all sorts of insane rituals. One of my least favorite is this need to clean everything that I will be coming home to. This means all laundry must be done, shirts and suits to the cleaners, the rest into the machine. I vacuum and scrub the wooden floors and just now, this is gross and if reading out loud to your children or stoner friends stop now, I scrubbed the toilet.

Toilet scrubbing is my least favorite thing, but there is nothing better than coming home from a long trip and saddling up to your own toilet and seeing is in pristine condition. Of course, the opposite is equally true, you come home from your travels, run to good old trusty toilet, which you forgot not only to clean but to flush, and it disgusts you in ways that only a diseased cheating lover can usually master.

I scrubbed the toilet. I was also cleaning out this wonderful ceramic piece of art that has lately been used as an ashtray and it really began to dawn on me. First of all, who has been using art as an ashtray in my bedroom? Second, what sort of person would do that? The nice thing about ceramic art being used as an ashtray is that it cleans up nice, but that did not help answer any questions. I made some phone calls, first to my attorney, she said that sometimes, when she is in the neighborhood, she might stop by, but lately she has not been smoking. I thought about it for a while. At some point I dated someone who smoked,but they smoked crack, and hardly ever here in my bedroom. I would have to get to the bottom of this.

When I was a young boy I had a burro named Taco. I would ride Taco sometimes, but ride really is not a fair description. I would sit on Taco and wait for him to move. Sometimes I would kick him, or hit him, slap and punching also had no affect. We did not have a healthy relationship. Basically Taco went where he wanted at whatever pace he was comfortable going. Taco was slow and lazy. I could read homework assignments while sitting on Taco. Unless, of course, Taco saw our neighbors goat, then Taco would run like the wind. Those days were few, but they were glorious. I loved to ride Taco when he chased the goat. A boy and his burro.

I have a friend who has some race horses and recently he invited me to his stable and allowed me to get onto one of these fine animals. A jockey weighs almost as much as one of my testicles, so I had to promise not to mess around, racing horses are not designed for pleasure rides for over weight elderly Jewish men, at least that was what I was told. I got on a large race winning horse named Sir something or other, I called him Window. I am not sure why, but he seemed to like it and Sir whatever the fuck silly name they gave him, did not seem to fit hi stature.

We walked around for a spell, me and Window, checking out the paddock and looking at other horses. In my estimation Window was the best looking of all the horses, although there were plenty around who looked to be in equally fine athletic shape. I am lucky sometimes, because every now and then I find myself in strange and wonderful positions. One day I ride a slow burro, one day a winning race horse. There was a time I rode Lance Armstrongs bicycle, it was very fast, even though it too was not designed for a short fat elderly jew.

There are moments in life when I think we are supposed to realize how lucky we are. Historically speaking, this is a great time to be alive. If you think about it, really, it was not that long ago where the option was farmer or dinosaur food, or something like that and historically that period ended about 35 years ago. Since then, we have cars and planes and the internet and internet porn and something else, but my mind stopped functioning with the advent of internet porn.

Which brings me back to Window and not riding very fast. See, metaphorically speaking, even when you are told to take it easy and slow down because you are doing something that you should probably not be doing, sometimes you have to test your limits. So I tightened my legs around Windows midsection and whispered something in his ear, like, "let's go fella" and then we were moving, briskly at first, and then, shockingly, Window shifted gears and we were going very fast, his ears back now, his head forward, me leaning forward too, holding on for dear life because falling did not seem like a wise option. At first I was intimidated and worried that maybe I did not really know how to ride a race horse, and then it all came back to me, because at one point in my life I lived on a farm and rode horses and chased cattle and swam in cold rivers on hot summer days. I whispered a little louder, "hey Window, open it up," and he did.

I'd imagine most people will never get to ride a race horse at full speed, mostly because they respect the wishes of the race horses owner, or something silly like that. For me, opportunity rose and I met the challenge, or something like that. Window stayed the course until my weight and the pace got to him and he began to gently slow. I think I speak for both of us, it was a brilliant ride, he did well and I did not fall. When we got back to the barn I slid off and Windows owner came over, a big smile on his face and said, "sure can move, can't he?" I think I smiled, a giant, broad smile that certainly indicated that I would never again get onto a horse with a wicked sense of humor.