I’ve received a few random comments and e-mails inquiring about the status of the wound on my forehead from when I had a small piece of skin cancer cut out a few weeks ago. [Strong content. View discretion is advised.]

I haven’t written about it because there’s no story. I had a cracker jack dermatologist who was a whiz kid with the needle and thread. A true star! People assured me that I’d be scared for life and that I should have had a plastic surgeon in the room to sew up the wound. I was further assured that I would need a skin graft to fix that mess. I got all worked up. People are such busy-bodies.

Well, as you can see, I have practically NOTHING to show for all that agony. (And, believe me, it was a horrific experience. Sewing the wound shut was a violent act!)

I have to confess (perhaps foolishly) that I am deeply disappointed. I wanted a big, prominent scar. I’ve spent my whole life looking like a goddamn actuary accountant. I wanted a scar in the hope that it would toughen-up my look a bit. Like I fought off ninja assassins or something.

I had to walk around the city with a thick bandage on my forehead for two weeks after the operation. When people asked what happened, I told them that I got it the night Voldemort murdered my parents. It was fun! Perhaps I’ll go back and insist that he reopen the wound and restitch it in a more careless, less professional manner.

I was commenting to Mrs. Wife that perhaps the scar won’t tan and that it would become more prominent in the summertime. She callously reminded me that too much sun is what got me into this mess in the first place and that, henceforth, I would be wearing a hat to the beach. What a killjoy.

We had a big-ass wind storm and it took down a huge pine tree in the neighbor’s yard. Here’s the view from our side.

It just happened to fall in the right direction (meaning, away from us). It wiped out his fence and fell against the garage. It’s currently resting along the length of his driveway.

The Daughters had to climb on and examine the damage. They thought it was “cool.” It wouldn’t have been so cool if it had fallen in the opposite direction. In that case, it would have crashed right into our dining room.

A branch raked a big hole into the wall of his garage. The gash looks like the hull of the Titanic, post iceberg.

The backstory is that less than six days prior to this, a construction company finished putting new siding on our house. It cost many x $1,000 and it really made me wonder about the science of chance and probability. All this tree had to do was fall in a different direction and we’d have had a major calamity on our hands.

Foot pain?

Snoring?

Impotence?

Would you like to know where to get the best treatment for these and a host of other maladies? Just hop on the uptown IRT subway to 42nd street.

I find the snoring ad particularly effective. It can kill you! is so melodramatic.

The subways are a chocked-full of useful information. Get healthier. Forge ahead in your career or start a new one. Find a divorce attorney. Do any of you ex-New Yorkers remember Dr. Zizmor? A local icon. “You can have beautiful, clear skin!”

Just look at this poor bastard.

I took this in the theater the other night. It’s the Worst. Comb-over. Ever. He worked that pathetic little thing over and over, getting it in just the right spot.

I don’t think women have any idea how much some men suffer for their hair loss. Mine is prematurely graying, but I don’t care if it turns purple. As long as it doesn’t fall out. If it did, I’d embrace it and go bald.

Of course, I went to law school and took a law degree
And counseled all my clients to plead insanity
Then worked in hair replacement, swindling the bald
Where very few are chosen and fewer still are called

Then on to Monte Carlo to play chemin de fer
I threw away the fortune I made transplanting hair
I put my last few francs down on a prostitute
Who took me up to her room to perform the flag salute

Mr. Bad Example
Warren Zevon

Man, I’ll never write that well. Not many will.

Did you guys know that Jimmy is back? I just found out!

Welcome home, you auld tarnished soul. It’s good to see you.

Many of you already know that Charles Bukowski was a pretty decent short story writer and poet. But were you also aware that he was an artist of little renown? It’s true! Writing. Painting. Drinking. Fighting with women. Working menial jobs. That guy stretched himself pretty thin throughout his long life. In my column on collecting rare books in the February issue of the Undie Press, I reveal more of my fucked-up past and somehow manage to tie it all into some paintings by Bukowski that I own.

For the record, my last act of rebellion prior to ignoring Facebook was waiting as long as I did to get married and have children.