The Life & Times of Conor J. Murphy

Oscar the Slouch

2012-01-12T22:28:00.001-05:00

When Andrew and I first moved in together, Andrew was making a weeklythree-hour commute to Chicago where he sang with the Chicago Symphony. I wouldoften go along with him for the ride, then sit in a coffee shop close to thesymphony and read while he was in rehearsal.

Having grown up in a small town, I loved these trips to the city. I would sitfor hours sipping my venti cappuccino and holding the latest book from the NewYork Times Best Sellers List, not really reading it, but pretending to be asophisticated urbanite who would read while sipping cappuccino. Betweenrepeatedly rereading the same sentence in my book, I would study my fellowcoffee drinkers and try to emulate their modish ways. I would make mental notesof props I would need to bring with me for my next trip. I would need a laptopto pound away on while flipping through an accounting textbook. Borrowing alaptop would be the easy part, but an accounting textbook would be hard to comeby since my friends majored in practical fields like English, history, andtheater. I would also need a flip phone to scream inane things into like,“Don’t ruin this deal for us, Dan! If you don’t fix this, those bastards overat PRG Corp. are going to pull the rug from underneath us! You hear me?”

While struggling with my gym bag that I made a mental note to bring with meon my previous trip, my attention was diverted to the barista screaming at aman wrapped in a blanket. He was wearing ripped and stained pants and astocking cap and holding several large sketchpads that he squeezed tightly tohis chest. “Sir, as I told you earlier tonight, you cannot beg in here! Nowleave before I call the police.”

The man, clearly embarrassed and defeated, practically disappeared inside hisblanket and shuffled through the door. I looked around at the people seated atthe other tables. No one noticed the argument. The petite Asian woman stillpounded away on her laptop while the middle-aged man in a suit continued toscream into his cell phone.

I returned to my book, still rereading the same sentence, determined to thistime at least make it on to the next sentence when I then decided to go outsideand smoke a cigarette. I walked through the revolving doors delighted in thefact that no one turned to watch me leave. I took this to mean that I hadsuccessfully passed for a native and did not appear to be out of place in theircompany.

Once outside, I inspected the area for no-smoking signs as I always do when inunfamiliar territory. After I was satisfied that there were no signsprohibiting me from smoking, I lighted my cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew asmooth stream of smoke into the crisp winter air.

“Hey Red, can I bum a smoke?”

I turned around annoyed to have been called Red, a name I hate nearly as muchas my hair color. Behind me sitting on the sidewalk was the homeless manwrapped so tightly in his blanket that he looked like a sausage in its casing.His eyes were red and raw from windburn and the snot dripping from his nose wasbeginning to freeze on his upper lip. I just stared at him unable to answer; Iwas busy debating with myself whether it was ironic or appropriate that a bumhad asked me to bum a cigarette. After careful deliberation, I decided that itwas indeed appropriate and silently congratulated him for being the firstperson to use the popular idiom quite literally. I fumbled in my pocket for mypack and pulled out three cigarettes and dropped them into his dirtyoutstretched palm. I squatted down while he placed one of the cigarettesbetween his chapped lips and I lit it for him.

“Thanks Red,” he said. “You must not be from around here; you’re a lot nicerthan the sons of bitches that live here.”

Annoyed that he was able to see through my charade as a sophisticated urbanite,I quickly changed the subject. “I see that you draw,” I said pointing to thesketchpads scattered haphazardly across the sidewalk next to him and wonderingwhy I felt obligated to carry on a conversation with him. If I were a real citydweller, I would have spat on him and kicked in the ribs. Unable to bringmyself to do either of these things, I simply smiled at him.

“I tell you what Red—“

“Conor.” I said cutting him off.

“I tell you what Conor, I’m going to sketch your portrait.”

“Here?” I asked looking around at the sidewalk.

“Sure,” he said. “I do it all the time.

Wondering just how many times he had sketched someone’s portrait, I imagined animprovised drawing room set up underneath a highway overpass where he sketchedthe likeness of his friends, Bag-lady Barbara and Box-car Bob.

“Why don’t we go inside,” I said, “and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

As soon as I had invited him for a cup of coffee, I questioned how it mightlook to the other patrons—me sitting with a homeless man, chatting over coffeewhile he drew my picture. I decided to embrace the situation in the likelihoodthat I would never again have the opportunity to have my portrait sketched by avagrant.

Once inside, I ordered us both a cup of coffee while the barista glared at meas if to say, now just what do you thinkyou are doing? I moved my gym bag filled with dirty clothes to the floorunderneath the table to make room for the homeless man who now identifiedhimself as Oscar. Imagining I was in the scene from Titanic where LeonardoDiCaprio draws Kate Winslet’s nude portrait, I rummaged around in my gym baglooking for something comparable to the necklace that Kate Winslet wears.Unable to take off my clothes or find anything remotely close to the necklace,I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my shirt and threw my scarf around myneck. I then tilted my head back and squinted at Oscar the way KatherineHepburn does in every movie with Cary Grant. I was ready. Oscar pulled outthree small chunks of what used to be charcoal pencils and began studying myface.

“Jesus is coming real soon, you know,” he said very matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” I said. “Did you get some sort of insider’s tip?”

He chuckled a little bit to himself then looked up and gave me a piercing gazeas if to say, you can disrespect anyonein the world, but don’t you dare speak ill of Jesus. Now slightlyuncomfortable and questioning my judgment on having my portrait sketched byOscar, I rearranged my scarf trying to avoid his stare.

“So, do you have any formal art training?” I asked, desperate to makeconversation.

“All my training comes from the Lord above,” he said pointing his charcoalstump toward the ceiling. “I bet you’re not very religious are you? Attractiveboys never are.”

I sat there staring at him confused. Was I being preached to or hit on? HavingOscar draw me now seemed like an even worse idea than I had originallyanticipated.

“Ever spent much time in Boy’s Town?” Oscar asked while studying the shape ofmy eyes. “If you haven’t you should go, lots of attractive men wondering aroundup there. Of course, they’re all going to hell.”

Although I was becoming increasing anxious, I still couldn’t help but tosomehow be fascinated by this evangelical homeless man with homosexualtendencies.

“Would you like a muffin?” I asked eager to change the topic. “I hear themuffins are delicious.”

“Nah, I’ll have a muffin when I’m done drawing you. You are awfully kind to apoor soul.”

“Oh, well it’s no problem,” I said nervous and shifting in my seat. I becameconscience of Oscar studying the shape of my mouth and was reluctant to take adrink of my coffee. Curious how my portrait was turning out, I tried to peekover the spiral of his drawing pad. He pulled the pad closer to his bodypreventing me from stealing a glance. I sunk back in my chair pressing myselfto say something, anything.

“So, do you have any kids?”

“Yes sir, I got myself two boys and three girls. One of my girls died last winter.She was into dope. You don’t smoke dope do you?”

“Oh, no,” I said.

“Good, you don’t want to get caught with a joint between your fingers whenJesus returns. I ‘spect the good Lord wouldn’t be too happy with that one.”

“Probably not,” I said looking around the room and wondering just howridiculous the two of us looked together.

I wondered what set of circumstances led Oscar to become homeless. After all,he did say that he had several children. Why wasn’t he staying with any ofthem? I was very curious to know the answer, but was unwilling to ask him wherehe was staying on the chance that he might think that I was extending aninvitation to come home with me. I sat in silence reading the poster for thenew flavored coffees being advertised on the poster behind Oscar’s head. Oscarwas hard at work. He turned the tablet, rubbed it a little, then held it awayfrom his face and squinted at it as if it were a very bright metallic objectthat he was holding.

“Almost finished, I just have to finish shading your hair.” He said looking upfrom his sketchpad at me. I smiled at him and continued to stare at theadvertisement.

“Hey Conor, what are you doing?”

I turned around to see Andrew standing over my shoulder. He was clearly uneasyand puzzled.

“Hi Andrew,” I said. “Andrew this Oscar, Oscar this is Andrew. Oscar is drawingmy portrait and he is almost finished so we can go home soon.”

I reveled in the fact that Andrew thought I was absolutely insane. In one grandswoop of his arm, Oscar ripped the page from his sketchpad and laid his workbefore me. The portrait was marvelous, although it didn’t look exactly like me.Don’t get me wrong; it did look like me, but more like a reflection of me in afun house mirror. My head and eyes were larger while my mouth and nose wereconsiderably smaller. It looked like a strange hybrid of Ron Howard as Opie, agrey alien, and me. I congratulated Oscar on his stunning work. He then askedme if he could have that muffin now.

I rolled up my portrait and walked with Oscar to the counter and told him topick out a muffin.

“May I have a muffin and some juice?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“ Well the thing is Mr. Conor, I’m awfully hungry—“

“Please, get whatever you want.” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, get whatever.”

“Okay then, I’ll have a blueberry muffin, one of those cinnamon scones, twoorange juices, a cheese Danish, oh I’ll need one of those sandwiches too—"

By the time Oscar had finished ordering, he was holding three bags full ofbaked goods and sandwiches. I had spent $35.00 on Oscar when it was all saidand done. A little perturbed that he took advantage of me, I squelched my angerby telling myself that he did draw my portrait and he probably hadn’t eaten in awhile. I shook Oscar’s dirty hand and thanked him for the portrait and Andrewand I bade him farewell. While I recounted the entire absurd course of eventsto an overwhelmed and stunned Andrew, Oscar ate his meal of baked goods underthe watchful glaring eye of an even more stunned barista.

Feed the Lazy

2006-08-13T08:53:00.000-04:00

This is Conor. Conor is a struggling writer with a dead-end job and thousands of dollars in student loans. For just $4.00 a day, the cost of an over-priced cup of coffee at Starbucks, you can sponsor a bum like Conor.

Now Conor’s story isn’t all that different from the others you’ve heard on Feed the Lazy. Conor’s parents cut him off after college believing he should be self-sufficient and capable of being gainfully employed. Now, just look at the debasing living conditions Conor is forced to endure—empty beer cans strewn everywhere, broken wineglasses, and cigarette butts littered across the rug. What if this were your child living in this squalor? If Conor were your child, wouldn’t you want to know that he is being provided for? Well he can be for just dollars a day.

Your $4.00 will buy Conor cold beer to drink and a fresh pack of smokes. We here at Feed the Lazy guarantee that every penny you send goes directly to a needy dead-beat just like Conor. What are you waiting for? Make the call today and help Conor buy that margarita set he has had his eye on at Bed, Bath, & Beyond.

Feed the Lazy is the oldest charitable organization of its kind with a nearly two-month history. When you call, you will receive a letter from Conor in an illegible hand most likely scribbled in an orange crayon and reeking of vodka. You’ll also receive a picture of Conor lying next to a pool of his own sick with his hand in a stripper’s g-string. You will be proud to show all of your friends and let them know that you sponsor Conor; and that’s something you can feel good about.

So call today and help Conor get his cable reinstated before The Real World marathon starts this Saturday. For just dollars a day, you can make a difference in a middle-class vagrant’s life.

CJM, signing off….

_______________

Author's Note

It has been brought to my attention that some who read this post may be led to believe that this is an actual plea for financial assistance or that this is an accurate portrayal of my current living conditions. Allow me to assure all who read this post that it is purely fiction and is meant to be a parody. It has also been suggested that I remove this post. For the record, this is my blog and bears my name. I will not now nor will I ever be swayed into self-censorship, nor will I ever permit any party to exercise editorial control over the content of this blog. I invite any reader who takes issue with something that I have written to use the comments section of this blog to engage me in a healthy and intelligent debate. With that said, please enjoy my blog.

Sunsets & Memories

2006-08-06T00:30:00.000-04:00

Hi, I'm Wilford Brimley, and I want to talk to you about retirement. It's something that we will all one day do, and shouldn't it be enjoyable?

Here at Sunsets & Memories Retirement Village, we have all of the amenities a person with your lifestyle desires. We want your stay with us to be both pleasurable and gratifying, and we know that only we can provide the facilities that you crave. That's why we at Sunsets & Memories are certain that we alone can provide you with the attention you deserve.

Sunsets & Memories is not your average retirement home; you won't find arts and crafts and boring games of Bingo in our activity room. Instead, we offer a tremendous variety of activities such as binding, spanking, and whipping that you can only find here at S&M.

Average retirement facilities believe that defecating oneself is a nuisance and a problem, but not at S&M. We encourage each and every one of our patients to shit their pants as to derive pleasure from the humiliation of sitting in one's own squishy feces. At other facilities, you may be bitch-slapped by an insubordinate medical assistant for crapping your pants, but at S&M we can ensure that you will receive a quality pummeling by both our staff and your peers.

Now we know what you're thinking. What if I break a hip during one of these beatings? Rest assured, we will be right by your side to celebrate every milestone, large and small, that you endure while staying here at S&M. There is nothing we love more than the sound of a shattering pelvis.

Now, we know this all sounds too amazing to possibly be true. Well, don't take my word for it, listen to George Stephenson, a five-year resident of S&M Retirement Home.

I moved to S&M back in the summer of 2000, and it was the best decision I've ever made. The first night I was here, they were holding their 17th annual strangulation orgy. Well, I throttled poor Hank over in 203 so hard he nearly lapsed into a coma. Ever since then, I knew this was the place for me. I looked at nearly a dozen other retirement homes, but none of them had the complimentary ball gags and handcuffs that S&M provides. Plus, S&M has a wonderful roommate pairing system that matches each sadist with a masochist. But, I gotta run. Sylvia and I are going to go get our chodes pierced in the salon.

If you're like George, you'll want to take complete advantage of our full-service salon, Slash & Burn. We offer a full range of services from nipple, labia and scrotum piercings to our exclusive hot oil treatments, during which one of our qualified technicians slowly pours boiling baby oil on a body part of your choice. And of course, all of these services come free of charge when you become a resident of Sunsets & Memories Retirement Village.

Now I want to get back to the roommate matching service that George mentioned earlier. Here at S&M, we force you (because we know that's what you like) to fill out a 30-page questionnaire detailing your turn-ons. We want to find out what really gets you hot. We then take your answers from the questionnaire, devised by our staff psychologist Dr. Peter Grim, and match you with a resident that shares your interests.

Let's take a moment to hear from one of our satisfied residents.

My name is Gert, and I was matched with Betty three years ago. I'm the bitch, and Betty wears the leather in our little family. Betty and I do everything together, from whipping to biting. One of my primary concerns after my husband died was that I no longer had anyone to bloody my lip. Betty has done a superb job. She's split my lip with everything from a broken beer bottle to a roll of quarters wrapped in a Depends. I've become completely reliant on the love I get from Betty. Thank you, S&M.

Wow, Gert, that's a beautiful story.

If you thought retirement would be the end of your days of sleep deprivation and suffering, you have options. You have Sunset & Memories Retirement Village.

Call the toll-free number you see at the bottom of your screen for a free video and brochure about all of the amenities S&M has to offer. In our 30-minute video, you'll see our whipping post, along with our happy residents being pricked with needles while locked in the stocks naked. You'll also see our luxurious state-of-the-art dungeon. Call today.

We know you have alternatives when choosing a retirement home, but we hope you choose Sunsets & Memories Retirement Village.

For S&M, I'm Wilford Brimley.

CJM, signing off....

Conor's Untrue Hollywood Story

2006-07-30T15:56:00.000-04:00

Many of you know Conor Murphy from his extensive work in both film and television. Conor is billed as one of the most prolific extras of our time. Who can forget Conor's riveting performance as "Scot No. 236" in 1995's Academy Award winning Braveheart? Conor also received critical acclaim for his portrayal as "Drowning Man on a Soggy 2X4" in 1997's Academy Award winning Titanic.

Although Conor's successful film career rocketed him into the public's conscience, many remember him as the famed Australian emu jockey known as the "Fowl Flyer." Conor rode his emu Doris six times to victory while competing in the Sydney Derby.

Surprisingly, Conor hasn't always known success. Conor was born in a small one-room shack on the outskirts of a Dollywood theme park in Pigeon Forge, TN. At eight-years-old, Conor's parents abandoned him at a Shell station to be the next contestants on the Price is Right. But, the big wheel would soon begin to spin in Conor's direction when he was adopted at the tender age of 10 by Japanese missionaries, Kimiko and Roshi Fujimoto. It was Conor's adopted parents that introduced him to the fine art of Kabuki that would one day launch his acting career.

Now with the Fujimotos, Conor thought he would never again know sorrow, but the familiar knock of heartache would rap once more on Conor's door. When Conor was 20, his adopted mother was struck down when she took too large of a bite of a spinach and cheese quiche. Conor was devastated, but he buried his grief in his love for cooking, and his efforts would soon pay off. In three short years, Conor developed the mini-quiche in honor of his late adopted mother. Conor vowed that no one would ever again suffer a mortal blow from a large bite of French pastry.

Today, Conor's mini-quiche business is thriving with offices in Detroit and Bali. He returned to his one-room shack near Dollywood where he lives with his two emus, Louise and Sadie.

CJM, signing off....

Just News, A Special Report

2006-07-23T11:47:00.000-04:00

Good evening, I'm Colin Jones filling in for Carol Goldstein.

In our top story this evening, Carol Goldstein is dead. Goldstein, a 15-year JUST NEWS correspondent and altogether ball-busting feminist liberal died after she was trampled to death in Houston, Texas.

Here with more on this story is JUST NEWS Reporter, Bridget Peterson.

"Thanks Colin. I'm here with my four beautiful kids in Houston, Texas where JUST NEWS correspondent Carol Goldstein was trampled to death under the foot of God. Waive to the camera darlings."

"Goldstein was sent on assignment here in God's country to report on the 5th annual Christ!, I Love Jesus Rally where I was here in attendance with my little angels Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Johanna."

"Now I also have here with me Pastor Joseph Mitchell of Armageddon Baptist Church in Albuquerque. He was apparently standing next to Goldstein when she became entangled in the cord of a 40-foot balloon depicting a pregnant Mary holding a sign that reads "Fetus Friendly." Pastor, can you tell me about what you saw?"

"Well, I was standing next to Ms. Goldstein when a bout of wind blew Mary down toward us. Well I guess the slack in the cord got caught under Ms. Goldsteins arm and before you could say Johova, she was flung a good 30-feet in air and dropped into the Missionary Mosh Pit."

"Sounds like a real Mutha, no pun intended. Now did you see what happened to her once she was dropped into the mosh pit?"

"I didn't, but a couple of kids from my youth group said that she was apparently mistaken for one of the many synthetic demons we put in the pit for the kids to stomp on."

"It sounds like a good time for the kids."

"Oh it is, we get the demons from Jerry Wilkinson, a member of my church. He used to operate a meth lab before he came to know the Lord, he's really great at mixing up chemicals and stuff like that."

"Now Pastor, tell me, do think that God exacted some sort of vengeance on Goldstein because her people killed Jesus, or perhaps because she was lesbian?"

"Well its hard telling. God may have wanted to snub her out for any number of reasons, but being a lesbian is as good as any other reason I could think of. God ain't too fond of the Berkenstocks, if you know what I mean."

"It appears that it is judgement day for Carol, reporting for JUST NEWS, I'm Bridget Peterson. Back to you Colin."

Thanks Bridget for that just and unbiased report. Goldstein leaves behind her partner of 14-years, Susan Fields, and her three cats that she pathetically called her children. Her funeral service will be held Saturday at her home in Brooklyn. A sea shell waiving dyke will preside over the service.

In other news, the numbers are back from last Thursday's JUST NEWS online poll when we asked our viewers Christ or Anti-Christ, whose side are you on? Overwhelmingly, 98 percent of you said that you want to be on the side of Christ.

When JUST NEWS returns, I'll have an exclusive interview with self- proclaimed liberal, Margaret Lewis. I'll ask her why the left sides with the devil on all sorts of political issues.

I'm Colin Jones, JUST NEWS, just and unbiased.

CJM, signing off....

Mac & Me

2006-07-09T19:18:00.000-04:00

I grew up watching reruns of Lassie on Nickelodeon. I longed to be just like Timmy and have an unbreakable bond with a dog all my own. I would imagine all the things my dog and I would do together. If I were trapped in a well, my dog would bark for help. If I had been bitten by a rattle snake, my dog would drag me safely home by the collar of my shirt. And, if my dog and I happened to be aboard a burning ship floating aimlessly in the turbulent sea after the crew had jumped overboard taking with them all the life vests, my dog would certainly know how to bark out an S.O.S. into the ship’s radio. My dog and I would be an extension of one another, just like Lassie and Timmy.

I was seven-years-old when my older brother Pat told me that we were getting a puppy. Pat burst into our shared bedroom where I was going over multiplication tables to a classroom of stuffed animals. He ripped the little chalkboard out of my hand and tossed it to the floor, barely missing Perry the Penguin. I started to scream for our mom, assuming that Pat was going to hold me down and fart on my face like usual. He cupped his hand over my mouth and wrapped his free arm over my torso and dragged me into our closet.

“I’ll take my hand off of your mouth and tell you a secret if you promise not to scream for mom,” he whispered, then blew a big breath in my face to let me know that he had just eaten peanut butter.

I shook my head up and down under his hand. He then took his hand off my mouth and slumped down so that he was eye level with me. “I heard mom on the phone,” he said in a barely audible whisper. “She’s getting us a dog.” I shrieked in sheer excitement and attempted to bolt for the closet door. He grabbed me and smacked me in the mouth bloodying both my upper and lower lips. In retaliation, I kneed him as hard as I could in the crotch and while he fell into our clothes hamper moaning, I was able to free myself from the closet and our bedroom.

“What in the hell happened to you?,” my mother asked running for the paper towels.

“The dog, dog...,” I said out of breath, blood running down my chin and covering my large gapped smile.

“We don’t have a dog,” she said holding a wet wad of paper towels to my mouth.

“But, we’re getting one,” I screamed in excitement through the soggy mess affixed to my lips.

Pulling the bloody glop away from my mouth, she laughed and shook her head up and down smiling while she examined the cuts on the insides of my lips.

A week later, my mom came home with a tiny curly golden retriever poking his nose out over the edge of the box that she was carrying. I loved him from the moment I saw him. I actually loved him from the moment that I knew we were getting a dog, but now that I saw him, I really loved him. I finally had my Lassie.

My parents debated for days over what to call him. My parents occasionally took into consideration the names that my brothers and I offered, but much to my consternation, they were not as sold on names from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as I was. I thought Shredder was a perfectly legitimate name for a dog, even if it was the name of the turtles’ arch nemesis. My parents finally decided to call him Mac. My dad believed that it was a fitting name for a dog who was obviously as Irish as the family he belonged to and who also had very large paws like the wheels of a Mac Truck. After Mac chewed his way through my baby blanket, an encyclopedia, and the arm of Rocky, my stuffed racoon, I felt that perhaps Shredder would have been a completely appropriate name. He clearly liked to clamp onto my mom’s ankle while she was cooking. A few times he drew blood, but he was only playing.

Mac and I would spend hours running and playing in the backyard. Well, I mostly ran and played. He spent the majority of his time chewing grass underneath a laundry basket that I had trapped him under so he wouldn’t get away. When I’d get tired, I would lay in the grass next to the laundry basket and poke my dirty index finger through the holes and stroke his snout. He especially like it when I poked dandelions through the holes for him to nibble on. I loved his sweet puppy breath and couldn’t wait for him to get bigger so that I could ride him to school.

He did get bigger, and unfortunately, so did I. I was never able to ride him to school, so I contented myself with dressing him in my clothes. I thought he looked especially dapper wearing my white briefs with his tail frantically wagging through the fly. He reminded me of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, the epitome of cool. I even put black sunglasses on him that I bobby-pinned to the fur on his ears to keep them from coming off. He was the younger brother that I never had. When I had made myself a bologna sandwich, I made him one too. When I got a haircut, I would come home and trim the long hair that hung from his legs. And when I came home from Sunday School, I would recount the entire lesson to Mac.

“In the beginning...,” I boomed, imitating the preacher at the Pentecostal church that my family attended, while Mac rested his head on my lap. “God created the heavens and the earth.”

“What are you doing?,” my mother asked poking her head inside my bedroom.

“Reading the Bible to Mac so he won’t go to H-E-L-L,” I replied, careful to spell-out “hell” so that I wouldn’t get in trouble for cussing.

“I don’t think you need to read the Bible to the dog,” my mother said snidely closing my bedroom door.

“Pagan,” I whispered under my breath so that only Mac could hear. He looked up at me to concur. Mac and I both knew if anyone was bound for H-E-L-L, it was my mother for screaming profanities from her bedroom every Sunday morning when she put yet another run in her pantyhose, only to tear them off and put on a new pair that she would ruin en route to her bedroom door. I knew that with each “Son of a Bitch!” emanating from her bedroom, I was allotted an extra five minutes to play with my hair.

My mom and I had to take Mac to the vet because he had an ear infection. Apparently, ear infections are fairly common among dogs with floppy ears. “What’s that?,” the vet asked pointing to the quarter-size bald spot on Mac’s right paw. My mother and I both shrugged.

“He licks it all the time,” my mom finally managed, afraid she might be deemed and unfit pet owner.

The vet determined that much like girls who play with their hair, or people who bite their nails (like myself), Mac had developed a nervous habit. I didn’t dare mention that he would lick it so loudly at night that my mom couldn’t sleep so she would give him a Benadryl to knock him out. When I once protested about drugging the dog, she claimed that the vet had once prescribed an antihistamine when Mac swallowed a bee. Weighing 120 pounds, he was the size of a grown adult, so at least she wasn’t administering him an overdose. The vet did also mention his weight and wondered how he had gotten so fat. I didn’t bring up the fact that I fed him bologna sandwiches or let him lick my ice cream bowls either. The vet put him on a diet and prescribed him a bad- tasting ointment so he wouldn’t lick his paw anymore.

“How did he develop a nervous habit?,” my dad asked once we got home. “He’s gay you know.”

“Mac is not gay,” I fired back.

“Sure he is, look at the way he squats when he pees instead of lifting his leg. He probably has a nervous habit because of the way you brush him, Conor.”

“Dogs like to be brushed,” I said with authority in my voice.

“They don’t like their fur brushed the wrong way,” my dad retorted.

“Big hair is in!,” I screamed running to my bedroom and slamming the door wondering how I could belong to such an unfashionable family. What did my dad know, he wore flannel shirts and had a beard. He looked like a lumberjack.

I didn’t care if Mac was gay, he was still my dog and I wanted him to know that it didn’t matter to me. I wondered what gay dogs looked like, then finally it dawned on me. That night, I waited for my parents to fall asleep and I snuck out of my room and into the bathroom with Mac on my heels. I locked both of us in the bathroom and plugged in my mom’s curling iron. I was going to give Mac a make-over. I curled the long hair that hung from his legs into tiny spirals and asked if he had any plans for the night. He looked at me as if to say, “I don’t care if you’re gay, you are still my master and it doesn’t matter to me.” When I had finished, I marveled at my work and knew that although my mom would be mad, she would also be impressed since she was a beautician.

When I entered high school, Mac and I didn’t spend as much time together. He was often busy licking his paw while I was going to movies or attending parties with friends. We did however find the time to catch up every night. I would tell him about the girls I liked or who got in trouble at school, he would lick his paw. He always had my back. Like when I was 17 and my mom found cigarettes in my book bag, he totally tried to tell her that they were his, but she was being completely heinous about the whole deal. I was grounded for a month, and it was just like old times with Mac and me, we spent the entire month together. By then, he was getting pretty old and had bad arthritis.

Although my mom swore she never liked him since he chewed a hole in her ankle while she was cooking, she gave him an aspirin everyday to help with his joints while I was away at college. By the time I was 20, he was in bad shape because of his arthritis and could barely walk. My mom and I took him to be put to sleep, to end his suffering. I said goodbye to my best friend for the last time. My mom and I rode home in silence for what seemed like an eternity. She finally said, “remember when you used to read the Bible to Mac, I think he’ll go to heaven.” I think he did go to heaven.

CJM, signing off....

Why I Write

2006-06-24T16:27:00.000-04:00

I often search for websites devoted to the craft of writing. I constatly seek out tips on style or key elements to consider in my work. I came across one site that offered up one important tip for writers, "Know why you write." The concept seemed simple enough, and so I asked myself. "Conor, why do you write?" "Gee, I don’t know," I replied, "I suppose it is because it is the one thing I have always been good at." I was quite unsatisfied with my own answer and really began to consider the rather weighty question.

I have a handful of people who care enough to take the time out of their busy days to read my blog, this blog. I am truly grateful to have them. After my last post, Soiled Carpet, I received a touching email from a friend. In her email, she explained how she grew up under similar circumstances and briefly recounted her experience growing up on a farm. My post had really touched her. It was then that I was reminded of my reason.

I don’t write because I am good at it or feel that it is something that has always come naturally. My writing is as much about me understating my experiences as it is the reader understanding his/her own. Often the idea of self-expression becomes synonymous with art. I think any artist will tell you, be it writer, singer, painter, dancer, or sculptor, art is as much about self-expression as it is about collective-expression. It is a method by which we humans can relate to one another. Most will argue that food, water, and shelter are the most basic and therefore most important human needs. I would like to add our need to relate to one another to that list. Our need to relate is perhaps the most basic and primal driving force behind everything that we as humans do.

I want to thank that dear reader for reminding me why I write.

CJM, signing off....

Anderson Stooper

2006-06-09T09:58:00.000-04:00

I have never been very impressed by celebrities, not that I am uninterested in them, but I have always held the philosophy that they are just like me but with better clothes and hair and make-up people. Of course, I can count on one hand the amount of celebrities I have seen in person. I once saw Rod Stewart driving a very small British car that could barely contain his massive hair. I saw Christina Applegate walking in Boston’s theater district surrounded by what I would assume to be hired muscle. I met David Sedaris at a book signing, and last night, I met Anderson Cooper.

Anderson Copper was giving a lecture at the Boston Public Library to promote his new book Dispatches from the Edge. I have always had a lot of respect for Anderson Cooper and I had been planning our conversation for weeks if by some chance I was able to meet him.

Three days ago, I bought his book on my lunch break. A book of this kind is not something I normally would buy or enjoy, but since I knew he was coming to Boston, I thought perhaps I could get him to sign it.

I read the book cover-to-cover just in case I was able to meet him and he asked what I thought of it or wondered what my favorite part was. I was determined to be astonishingly articulate and charismatic, I wanted to walk away and have him think to himself, “Now that’s a clever guy, I want to be his friend.” I wanted Anderson to like me so badly. I imagined he would say something like, “Gosh Conor, you should be on CNN, why don’t you be my co-host for 360?” I was convinced that if he just met me we would be friends for life.

Yesterday morning, I picked out my clothes for work based on what I thought Anderson would like. I paired my gray dress slacks with my favorite shirt, a white button-down with thin vertical blue stripes. I wore a very smart blue and white diagonal striped tie that I thought Anderson himself would wear. The weather yesterday morning was cold and drizzly so I completed my ensemble with a charming black sweater. My hair fell in all the right places, my skin was especially clear, and I just had a handsome glow. I imagined people would nudge one another on the street and whisper, “Is that a Ralph Lauren model?” I was ready to become Anderson’s best friend.

When I got to the library that evening, they were selling Anderson’s book in the lobby. I took this as a good sign that he would be signing his book and I wasn’t disappointed. Upon entering the lecture hall, I was greeted by a young woman who asked me if I wanted to get a book signed. I shook my head vigorously up and down unable to actually form the word “yes.” She handed me a card with a number on it that would designate my position in the book-signing queue. I heard the couple behind me grumble, “That asshole got the last card.” I beamed, I was the asshole that got the last card, which meant I was the last person he would talk to so it wouldn’t be awkward if he wanted to invite me for drinks afterward. There wouldn’t be hordes of people waiting behind me while we made our plans.

I grabbed a seat smack dab in the middle of the room; I reasoned that this would be the best seat for viewing no matter where he was on stage. I sat in my seat silent and waiting, my hands sweating and rehearsing my talking points in my head for when I met him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, I really admire your frankness when writing about your coverage of Bosnia.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, in your opinion, where did the federal government go awry when responding to Katrina?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, I found your book to be a riveting memoir about loss and survival. How did you find the courage to weave your own personal story of grief into the plot?”

Anderson gave a very brief lecture about his book. I was a little disappointed that he basically regurgitated excerpts from his book in speech form, but it really didn’t matter. The real magic would happen when I was able to meet him in person.

After the lecture, the woman handing out the cards began calling numbers by groups of 20. I waited anxiously, wondering what he would say to me. “Numbers 110 through 130,” the woman at the podium finally called. I was up. I was 130. I waited what I thought was a reasonable amount of time to join the line, wanting to be last. Unfortunately, a few others were even slower. Six or 7 people stood behind me in line, it didn’t matter, Anderson would surely still have the courage to invite me for drinks in front of a few people. I would then turn to them and smirk slyly as if to say, “He could have ask you, but he asked me bitches!”

The woman in front of me was now getting her book signed and I began shaking nervously. It was my turn and I handed him my copy turned to the title page with a trembling hand.

“What’s your name?” he said extending his right hand out to me.

I grabbed his hand and he gave a firm squeeze. “Caw Conor,” I said, still hanging on to his hand.

“That’s a cool name,” he said, “C-O-N…?”

“C-O-N-O-R,” I said, still hanging on to his hand.

“Are you from Boston, Conor?”

“N, no, I’m from Illinois. Orig, originally,” I said, becoming self-conscience and finally releasing his hand.

“Where in Illinois?”

“Between Chicago and Decatur, wait I’m from Decatur. St. Louis, no wait. Between Chicago and St., well if you draw a line. Central, I’m from central!” I said practically screaming. I wasn't prepared for the question, "Damn your ruthless interviewing tactics," I thought.

The blood drained from my face and I began giggling uncontrollably. The couple behind me earlier in the evening was right. I was an asshole. He handed my signed book back to me with a large smile on his face and said, “Thanks for coming out Conor.”

I let out an odd shriek reminiscent of Peter Brady going through puberty, a sort of “ea-a-ooo-a-ewww” in a decibel that I’m sure only dogs could hear. I finally composed myself and managed a deep and guttural “thank you man” and walked backwards out of the hall staring at him. I felt like I was out of my body, witnessing the entire painful exchange from the ceiling. It was like a conversation between Sandy and Flipper. Him, impish and good looking. Me, flailing my flippers about and squealing.

Needless to say, Anderson and I did not become fast friends, but just to make sure, I replayed the entire incident in my head over and over all night. I dreamed about it. Cool and charismatic I was not, but at least I got my book signed.

I imagine one day Anderson and I will sit in a swanky Manhattan bar and laugh about the whole episode.

CJM, signing off....

To Trixie, with Love

2006-06-02T14:13:00.000-04:00

Dear Trixie,

I want to take this opportunity to thank you for sending me at least eight emails a day inviting me to view your webcam. Now as you may already be aware, I am a very busy fellow. Please don’t take this personally; it is just very difficult for me to fit you in my life right now.

Now Trixie, I know what you are going to say, you and your hot and wild girlfriends have been waiting to hear from me all day. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate your commitment. Oh, and thanks for calling me a stud, you see, it has been a rather trying week at work and I have been rather down on myself lately. Please know that your compliments have not gone unappreciated.

Sweetest Trixie, the last thing I would want is for our relationship to be one-sided, but I can’t afford a webcam right now, and that just isn’t fair to you. I know that you have written me time and time again to tell me that your only desire is my pleasure, but eventually you’ll grow to resent me. You see, the last webcam gal I dated was all sweet in the beginning, she told me she was mine forever. Then, she started charging me $4.99 a minute, and even worse, I found out she wasn’t being faithful. I just couldn’t let that happen to us.

Don’t worry, you’ll find someone else. You are young and beautiful, and as you claim, barely legal. I am confident that you’ll find plenty of other guys out there looking for a raunchy, hard-core web session. Until then, you just go right ahead and enjoy those nude pillow fights you are so fond of with you girlfriends, Sapphire and Janice.

So this is goodbye, Trixie. I’ll think of you every time that little camera watches me withdraw money from the ATM.

Love Always,

Conor

P.S. I’m changing my email address.

CJM, signing off....

Why Bus Rides are a Drag

2006-05-31T15:17:00.000-04:00

I ride the bus home everyday after work. I dread the trip, the bus is usually packed and there is rarely a seat to be had. The thing that irritates me most of all is the fact that the trip home is so boring. I have been riding this same bus everyday for nearly two years and have every single stop memorized. I can even calculate with precision the time in between each stop.

I boarded the bus yesterday like I always have, dollar bill in hand, sore feet, and squished between two or three other people anxious to get on and get home. Once on, I noticed a cluster of empty seats toward the back of the bus. I squeezed my way through the other tired passengers clinging to the silver metal bars to keep from falling in the likely event that the bus will make a sudden stop and everyone would be thrust forward like human dominoes. As I wedged closer to the empty seats, I could hear two riders talking very loudly. Usually, those with the unfortunate luck to get stuck in the back of the bus have to speak at full volume in order to be heard over the clamor of the bus engine. As I neared the one remaining seat I could hear that these two were not trying to project over a noisy engine, there was aggression in their voices. Once I jammed myself into the seat next to the massive screaming woman, much to my consternation, I knew I should have just stood at the front of the bus.

"I grew up in the projects, Bitch!," she foamed to a young man sprawled against the blue bus seat while her seven inch tall curly hairy rocked on top of her head. A frail elderly woman turned around stunned and glared at me as if I had made the confession. I blushed and sheepishly looked up at the mass of quivering hair directly above the clinched jaw layered with a five-o'clock shadow as if to say "It was she."

The reclining man retorted, "I ain't got no problem with gay people, but you came up in here giving me the eye. Why you got to be like that? You a nasty bitch!" I felt somewhat relieved after he explained that it wasn't all gay people he was going to cut, just the bearded lady next to me. I tried to sink down into my seat optimistic that I would be unnoticed, which is pretty unlikely when one is sitting next to a six-foot tall fuming drag queen.

"East Berkeley Street," the automated voice called over the bus speakers. I became even more restless, only two more stops and I would be home.

"I'll call all the gay dudes I know and have them meet me up at Dudley Station to whoop your trick ass," the lounging man snarled.

"You call your fags baby," the drag queen shrieked. "All you and your fags gonna do is make Miss Eva wet!" I sat there appalled at not only her vulgar expletive, but the sheer biological impossibility of that occurring.

The drag queen then straightened her wig with her massive manicured hands, curled her lip, and cooed very sweetly, "I'll call my boys and my husband and they are gonna heat on you something fierce baby." I imagined two rival gangs of toned and coifed men, like in West Side Story, dancing threateningly toward one another. Just as I began to enjoy my little fantasy, "Worcester Square," chimed the automated voice. I gathered my things, took one last look at Miss Eva, and continued on my way home.

CJM, signing off....

Twenty-five

2006-05-28T22:01:00.000-04:00

On this Day in History, May 28th...
1923 The Attorney General declares it legal for women to wear trousers anywhere
1929 1st all-color talking picture "On With the Show" premieres in New York City
1937 The Golden Gate Bridge is opened to vehicular traffic
1961 Amnesty International is founded
1972 White House "plumbers" break into Democratic National Headquarters at Watergate
1981 Conor James Murphy is born
This Day in History taken from scopesys.com

When I was 7-years-old, my friend Laura and I would play a game we called "Adult." We would imagine that we were grown up and living on our own in the city. We didn’t know what city, just someplace far from the tree swing under her big oak tree that we would pretend was our penthouse. I was a famous actor/singer with a voice to rival Rick Astley and she was, well I’m not sure what she was but she had an amazing convertible and wore incredibly high heels. We had decided, to be completely truthful, she had decided that I was 25 and she was 28. She always wanted to be older; she had a desperate need to be superior to me. At 7-years-old, I imagined my life at 25 to be very different than it has turned out.

While swinging under the leafy boughs of that old knotted oak tree, I envisioned that I would be a gazillionaire, own two Siberian tigers, eat rainbow snow cones for breakfast, and have my own personal genie. While I’m not a gazillionaire, I am $30-thousand in debt with student loans, and am lucky to even grab a cup of coffee before heading off to work. Where did I go wrong between my 7th birthday and today? Self sufficiency is not something they teach you in college.

I was good at school, I understand school. You go to class, study for a test, and get an A. However, life isn’t multiple choice, there are no "all of the aboves," and most troubling of all, there is not only one right answer. No one says to you on your 18th birthday, "When you turn 25 you can; A. Make $500,000 a year and live in a luxury high rise, B. Live in a comfortable suburban home and play fetch with your golden retriever, or C. subsist on a block of Ramen a day and spend your rent money on Coors Light and Camel cigarettes." Instead, life is a story problem. As difficult as I found story problems in my college algebra class, I find them even more complicated in real life.

Jack leaves home at 18 and attends college at Purdue University. He majors in Business, graduates Magna Cum Lade and starts his own siding business. At 25, Jack marries Suzy and they have three kids, Mary, Roger, and Ken. At 30, Jack is caught nailing not only siding, but his secretary Diane as well. During divorce proceedings, Suzy is awarded one-half of Jack’s salary in alimony in addition to child support. How long will it take Jack to declare bankruptcy?

At 25, I am no where near where I thought I would be by now. At age seven, I thought I would be touring with my band and starring in major motion pictures opposite Brooke Shields. At 18, I thought I would be winning a Pulitzer for my in-depth coverage of World War III. So how do we make our ambitions catch up with our age?

In January 2005, Time Magazine published an article titled "Grow Up? Not So Fast." The article chronicled the lives of six 20-somethings dubbed "twixters." The author of the article, Lev Grossman, reported on an entire generation (my generation) who is putting off both career and family with the purpose of prolonging their adolescence. According to Grossman, I am no further behind than my peers, In fact, I am ahead of the game. Typically, "twixters" move back in with their parents after college, or at least have their financial backing. I on the other hand, have not received any financial contributions to support my campaign for an extended stay in Never Land. So while current cultural trends provide me with an extension for aimless career exploration, I must pay careful attention to my occupational clock.

Perhaps my real fear is not knowing what I want to do with my life, but figuring it out.

CJM, signing off....