On Childhood Juggling,Kid Working Out and Me and Eminem’s Mom

When I was a young boy there were not three like objects in my house. There were not three of the same balls  in my house. And my Mom was tight with finances for toys (she didn’t have any when she was a kid; her mother gruffly said “Whaddya need that for” when my mother as a kid heartbreakingly, she said,asked for some paper dolls). So as she went so did we go,toy deprived. I bet Em’s mom at least  bought his ass some Hot Wheels — come clean out my fucked up closet son.


But I was an avid,serious juggler in training doing 3 objects in the advanced Shower Style (I didn’t know better)

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Rather than in the meant for beginners Cascade Style

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I would juggle oranges and when the skin split I’d put electrical tape on them and put them back in the fridge and be yelled at steadily; what! wasting food glorious food and they were yiddishkeit racists so mommy (as we pathetically mistakenly called her) didn’t bother guilt tripping us on starving shvatza children in Africa.


I also loved working out and the 2+2=4 simplicity of achievement of it. You do it hard it rewards you hard no matter who you are what you do if you’re liked or not talented or not a good boy or not cool or not popular or not friendless.


As Dianne Wiest said of childhood ballet, I liked the “escape from uncertainty” of it.  


Of course I had no weights to lift
so I’d go into my sister’s room when she wasn’t there and in her full length mirror hanging on the door I would watch myself lifting, curling volumes of her World Book Encyclopedia set. Each night I would take a different volume to bed to read.


Shlemiel shlimazl blaring from the TV as my disconsonant soundtrack in the hellish 80s  I was Spartan despite it all holed up on 2 Ethel Court 11798 off of Bagatelle Road (get the  maps up boys) technically once Wyandanch but changed to the fake great manor born Wuthering, sorry, Wheatley, Heights.

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