Blood: Michael Jackson

The music at the plasma center ranges from heavy metal ballads to whatever the local top 40 morning show is doing to the soulful sounds of the Jackson family. Somebody brought in a mix CD and it was Michael, Janet, a little more Janet, still a little more Janet and finally more Michael. A lot of it was the vintage stuff, back when Michael was both alive and only considered a possible homosexual and Janet wasn't showing the goods on television.

The music was pumping and on the other end of the row, a middle-aged black man was holding court, explaining and apologizing for the foibles and personal failings of some of the entertainment glitterati of the African-American community. By his opinion, Tiger Woods should not be condemned for banging however many girls he banged, but celebrated for his alpha-maleness. We'd all be doing it if we could.

"It ain't entirely a man's fault when he sleeps around," he explained. "Women talk to each other and if one of them is getting it good, the others want to know how long and how much and how often."

How this applied to the Tiger Woods story, I wasn't entirely clear on.

"They talk to each other," he said. "And if one of them is getting it good, maybe they decide they want to go check it out for themselves."

Others disagreed with his take on the subject, specifically my next door neighbor, June --June, who lives in the house next door to mine. June's husband, a mechanic and preacher, has been out on medical leave since December. From what he tells me, he can't go back.

"I just can't lay on a rack any more," he said.

Nice people. June works in retail someplace and during the power outage last winter, sent over a tray of cookies and candies. They're good to my daughter and June's husband often shares jellybeans with her in the afternoons on her way back from walking the dog, while he's preparing his Sunday sermon.

Anyway, money is tight all around.

June was giving him hell, telling he wasn't making any sense and that Woods's behavior was reprehensible. Somehow, she thought this had something to do with his weak faith.

"You have to have your spiritual life in order and everything else falls into place."

June is, obviously, a Christian --probably, anyway, if her husband is a preacher. Woods is a Buddhist and I didn't want to point out that despite a heavy divorce settlement, Woods is still a millionaire, could return to near billionaire status in a few years while she and I are selling plasma at 20 bucks a pop. He may not have his spiritual life together, but that's hardly the problem.

The problem, it seems to me, is he likes to fuck. He likes to fuck a lot. In fact, I'd venture to say he probably likes it more than playing golf or being in commercials. It is his favorite thing in the world.

Anyway, they went back and forth for a couple of minutes before she left. June walked right past me, but didn't see me. I know because she pointedly tried not to see me. I returned the favor. It seemed easier, though I'm not really hiding any of this except vaguely to some of the people at work who might feel uncomfortable (i.e. the people who pay me). Some of my co-workers know (because I know you read this).

Of course, I'm not bragging about it exactly. I'm not ashamed of selling blood (mostly). It's gotta get done because I need the money and plus, I'm sort of having a good time --other than when I'm horribly creeped out or crushed by despair.

June left and the middle-aged black guy eventually hit the road, but not before moonwalking past a couple of the milkers to show off.

"Why did he have to do that?" One asked. "Why did he have to come back down here just to do that?"

"Fucking perverts," another said.