Crab Caked: I Got a Bad Itch in My Basement; plus CD Reviews

Written by George Tabb on . Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts.



"Get
your hand out of your pants," Wendy yells at me for the umpteenth time
that day. I remove it, grab the clicker and change the channel. As Alex Trebek
starts the first round of questions, I start to slowly move my hand down the
inside front of my sweatpants. To my crotch.


"George!"
Wendy suddenly yells. "Don’t ignore me!"


I remove
my hand again, and try to explain to her that I have jock itch, as usual, and
it’s itchy.


"Then
scratch over your pants," she says as she glares at me.


I tell her
I don’t want to do that because it will make me look like some homeboy
on the street who is always adjusting his wangdoodle for optimum viewing by
chicks.


"Well,
it’s better then having your hand down your pants!" she exclaims.


"No
it’s not," I tell her. I explain that real men like to watch
television with their hands down their pants. That it’s normal. And that
what isn’t normal is her reaction.


"I
bet my friend Laurel’s husband doesn’t put his hands down his pants
when he’s watching television," Wendy shoots back at me.


"Yeah,"
I say, "he puts them down other people’s pants!"


"That’s
not funny," Wendy snaps at me.


"Neither
is this fucking jock itch," I tell her. And it wasn’t. I was so damn
itchy it was driving me nuts. I figured it was from just working out and sweating
too much. I scratched.


And scratched.


And scratched
some more.


"What
if we have children, and they see you with your hand down your pants?"
Wendy asks me.


"I’ll
tell them I have jock itch," I say.


"No
you won’t, because you won’t put your hand down your pants in front
of our children," she tells me.


I look at
her. Her eyes are on the brink of shedding tears.


"Okay,
okay," I give in. "I won’t do it in front of our kids!"


Wendy sighs
with relief as I start to scratch again. As I do, I feel little bumps around
the ends of my pubic hair. The end nearest the skin.


"I
think I have pimples on my crotch," I tell Wendy.


"Let’s
see," she says, and I show her.


There are
indeed pimples, but unlike the ones on my face, these are black.


"Looks
like blackheads," Wendy says, examining me like my urologist.


"They
itch like hell," I say. "I wonder if I could just pop them like zits!"


"Let’s
go into the bathroom where there’s more light," Wendy says, and drags
me in by my Oscar Mayer.


"Hmmm,"
she says as she looks at all the "pimples" near the ends of my now
graying pubic hair.


"Hmmm,
what?" I say to her.


"They
don’t look like pimples," she says. She takes out a pair of tweezers
and pinches one of the "blackheads." It comes off real easy and she
puts it on the sink counter to examine it. "Hmmm," she says as she
looks at it.


"Hmmm,
what?" I ask her again. She was about to answer me when suddenly the pimple
got up on a bunch of teeny-tiny legs and crawled away.


Instead
of answering me, she just screamed.



I guess
it all had started about two months earlier. When we were vacationing in Cancun.
We had been there a few times before and really liked it. The water was crystal
clear, the sand white and the food great. If it didn’t make you sick. And
best of all, it was cheap. Almost free by New York standards.


We got this
vacation deal where they’d fly us in and give us a choice of any hotel
we wanted, as long as it was in their "program." We had stayed at
the El Presidente before, and wanted to stay there again, but we’d heard
that it had gone downhill with new owners. Plus, the beach had washed away with
the last hurricane. We considered the Calinda, but it was too much of a party
hotel. We were there as a couple.


So we chose
the Sheraton. We’d seen it from the main strip many times, and it looked
swell. It had a great view of both the coral reef and the lagoon.


We got to
the hotel and checked in. We went up to the 10th floor and entered our highly
air-conditioned room. The cool air against our hot skin felt so good, the first
thing we decided to do was to take a nap. As Wendy turned down the sheets we
saw something that I should have thought about more.


A bug.


A teeny-tiny
bug.


It crawled
around pretty quickly, and upon closer examination, it looked like a piece of
sand with legs. And claws. "A sand lobster," I thought to myself,
as I told Wendy not to worry, that it was nothing.


And that
was the last I thought of it, then.




I also got
a sunburn in Mexico. And a bad case of hives all over my chest.  "You
need to go to a doctor," Wendy sternly told me.


"We
ain’t wasting no money on some damn Mexican doctor," I told her.


"Okay
Nick," Wendy said. She’d called me my stepdad’s name because
he was probably the only human being on Earth cheaper than myself. Except for
the money he gives us.


After a
really bad Big Mac in the Flamingo food court, we made our way to my favorite
local pharmacy and tried to explain what was going on.


"My
chest is itchy," I told the little local fellow behind the counter.


"Shest?"
he asks.


"Chest,"
I say.


"Oh,
what is shest?" he asks me.


Instead
of explaining it to him, I lift up the front of my white Ramones shirt, and
show him the hives.


"No
good," he says.


"I
know it is no good," I tell him. "It itches and hurts!"


"Ra-moan-aays"
he says back to me.


"Excuse
me?" I say.


"Ra-moan-aays,"
he says again as he points to my chest.


"No,"
I say, "my chest hurts. It itches. Help!"


Just as
I was about to yell at the mustached little man, Wendy said, "I think he’s
talking about your t-shirt!"


"Ramones!"
I say.


"Yes,"
he says, "Ra-moan-aays."


"Punk
rock!" I exclaim.


The guy
smiles and I smile back. I begin to like him.




"It’s
moving," Wendy screamed, as my pimple sprouted legs, crawled right past
the sink and made its way toward the toilet.


I, usually
the squeamish one, crushed the little bastard with my thumb.


"What
the hell is that?" Wendy asked, totally freaked out.


"I
have no clue," I told her. And I didn’t.


"Let’s
call Nick!" we both then said at the same time. I dialed Nick’s number
and explained the situation to him. He started laughing.


"What’s
so fucking funny?" I asked him as I started to scratch myself harder and
harder.


"You
have crabs!" he told me.


"Impossible,"
I told him.


"I
got them back in college," he explained, then went on to tell me this whole
story about some girl. Nick explained to me that I had to go to the drug store
and get some cream. He even knew the name of it.


"Same
stuff I had to use way back when," he told me.


"Great,"
I mumbled.


I hung up
the phone, ran to the drugstore, which was, thank God, still open, and got the
stuff. As I applied it to my crotch and surrounding area, I read about how the
crabs would come back in about a week because they’ll lay eggs on the pubic
hair, and the cream can’t kill those. The very thought of bug eggs on my
body freaked me out so much that I grabbed Wendy’s Lady Bic, and, well,
that was about the end of that. But for the next month, every time I went to
take a leak, I felt like I was molesting a 12-year-old. With a really big dick.




Speaking
of really big penises, Iron Cross just released a "best of" sort of
CD, with songs dating back to the early 1980s. The disc is called Live for
Now!
and it’s on GMM Records. Actually, "Live For Now" is
one of the best punk anthems ever written. I remember singing along with it
while I skanked and moshed with the best of ’em. This record also includes
"Psycho Skin," "New Breed" and even "Death or Glory."
Good strong skinhead stuff here, if you’re into that sort of thing.


In the "Wishing
They Had Big Penises" department comes the new Go-Go’s CD, God
Bless the Go-Go’s
, on Beyond Music. Actually, if it were titled Satan
Bless the Go-Go’s
I’d probably really like it. They could sing
about the Dark Prince, his phallic prong and their own deep, dark, hot and wet
caverns of fire. Alas, they sing songs called "Apology," "Insincere"
and "La La Land." Good stuff, but how can anyone take them seriously
after seeing them bash each other on Behind the Music? Release that infamous
blowjob video, I say!


Choking
Victim is a good punk rock band, and their new one, Squatta’s Paradise/Crack
Rock Steady
on Tent City Records, sounds so live that I swear I can smell
these guys when I listen to it. They have always been able to write really singalongable
songs, and nothing has changed. They are a lot like New York’s great Hammerbrain.
Only stinkier!


Dark Cloud
is the name of a new PlayStation 2 game made by Sony. It rules. You play as
this guy who looks an awful lot like Link from Nintendo’s Zelda series,
and you fight your way through dungeons, build towns and kill all sorts of bad
thingies. The kicker is the graphics are totally, totally beautiful, just amazing
to look at. This game is why the PS2 was made. Amazing.


Also amazing
is Red Faction, for the PS2, made by THQ. This game is a first-person shooter
ala Doom, Quake and Half-Life. Only this one features graphics that, again,
will blow you away. You can also blow away anyone or anything else. With a new
system called "Geo-Mod" your weapons allow you to blow holes in everything,
creating new doors and tunnels. The plot has to do with escaping from a mining
colony on Mars. While not as engrossing plot-wise as, let’s say, Syphon
Filter, this bad boy makes up for it in the "kick-ass" department.
This, currently, is my favorite PlayStation 2 game.


I also just
got Twisted Metal Black, by Sony, for the PlayStation 2. It’s a lot like
the original Twisted Metal and Twisted Metal 2, but nothing like Twisted Metal
3 or Twisted Metal 4, which both kinda blew dog dick. Once again you can play
as any one of many crazy drivers who go around blowing shit up and killing innocent
pedestrians. The graphics are superb, as are the sound and controls. And the
plotlines–dead babies, heads on fire, skulls with eyes, a serial murderer
chick and a redneck preacher dude who launches his "followers" at
other cars–fuckin’ punk rock!


Rebel
Music: The Bob Marley Story
is the title of some DVD I got from Palm Pictures.
I watched this as I torched up a spliff and kicked back my heels, mon. I dug
it. Good vibrations. Good interviews. Good music. Very interesting. This ganja
is good. Oh my God, I’m getting too high. Fuck. I’m tripping. Time
is flowing backwards. Help!


Weezer
is the title of the latest Weezer album. Why do bands choose to do that later
in their careers, instead of first? Like Metallica. What the fuck was up with
that? Kill ’Em All, Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets
and And Justice for All, never mind Garage Days, were all fucking
rockin’. Then they go and call their album Metallica. Pussies. Well,
thank God Weezer ain’t pussies. On this album, anyway. "Hash-Pipe"
fuckin’ rules, even if it is a total ripoff of the Munsters theme
and "Pipeline." Actually, the first two songs are really good as well.
These guys are like the Beatles with loud guitars.


Crazy Taxi
2 by Sega is a new game for the Sega Dreamcast, a machine that is now on life-support
and about to be unplugged. For what it’s worth, the game is totally cool.
This time, you drive a cab around New York City (well, it’s a pseudo-New
York City), and pick up passengers and make lots of money. Plus now you can
pick up more than one passenger at a time and not get busted by the TLC. Just
like in real life. My only gripe is you can’t seem to drive over to Ave.
A, where I really wanted to go, just to run over a few trendy fucks. Oh well.


Laurel Suspended
is the name of a band fronted by my friend Alexandra. They just self-released
a one-song disc called "Cemetery," and it’s really groovy, if
you are into that singer/songwriter type stuff. I saw these girls and guys recently
at Don Hill’s, and they blew me away. The music really reaches down and
touches your soul. Oh fuck! Did I just write that? I’m a pussy!


Finally,
from another old-time New York rocker comes an album called Blind Love
Sees Tears
. That CD, on 121st Records, is by none other than Mr. Bill Popp
and his band, the Tapes. Bill has been playing around CBGB and other places
for about as long as I can remember. One Christmas he even dressed as Santa
Claus (a drunk Santa Claus) and gave out presents from the Bleecker and Bowery
Stage. Anyway, Bill is a master songwriter, and his tunes are both catchy and
haunting. Just listen to cuts like "Closest Friend" and "Better
than Nothing" to hear what I mean. This guy rules. And of course, he’s
from New York and likes to hang around CBGB, so we all know what that means.
He’s got a huge penis! Yay!


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