Magical Fruit: The Broadway Musical/ CANCELLED

I know it. Shit shouldn’t be discussed in polite company. By shit, I don’t mean the catch-all metaphorical type of shit in which our professional and emotional lives are inevitably mired. I mean shit-shit. I mean that which comes out of your ass at more or less regular intervals. Think about it: To broach that horrifyingly secret subject here in whitest, purest, most proper Puritan America? To post, for instance, the following as your Facebook status? Mike Magnuson took a goddam excellent shit this morning. He thanks all his friends and the City of Los Angeles for making this wonderful moment possible. The moment you do – especially if you keep the terminology simple and easy for anyone to understand – you are branding yourself as a hoohaa, a low-brow, someone with whom intellectual commerce is not possible. (Also, if you actually do post that as your Facebook status, several of your ‘friends’ will unfriend you quicker than you can mouth the words ‘explosive diarrhea.’) Of course, it’s perfectly okay in America to discuss, in pinpoint graphic terms, wars and murders and poverty and human hatred on scales hitherto unseen in human history. But mention taking a shit? Whoa, son. This is civilized society. We don’t talk about that here.

I know you agree with me. You just don’t want to come out and say it.

But hey, I’m a lifetime sufferer of Celiac Disease, and people like me, we measure the quality of our lives by the successful function of our gastric system. Fuckin-A. Maybe Celiac doesn’t make me special: Everybody measures the quality of their lives by their gastric systems. Still, Celiac sufferers need to go to certain unusual lengths to ensure success – that means no gluten, ever, for the rest of eternity.

Anyway, a week and half ago, as you may recall, I reached a low-point in my struggles with gluten intolerance. I mean, my shit was totally fucked up. And I knew why. I guess it’s funny but then again, it’s fairly horribly not funny. I can’t remember exactly when my parents decided I was cured of Celiac – must have been when I was ten and the nightmare of enforcing a regimented diet on a kid that age had gotten to be too much of a pain in the ass (pun most definitely intended) – but the deal with Celiac is you’re never cured. This means I have lived in misery – physically, mentally, and probably spiritually even though I could give a fuck about being spiritual – for at least thirty-six years. Every classic symptom of the Celiac has been present in me, on a daily basis, for all that time: gas, diarrhea, depression, dental problems, bone aches, muscular problems, and on and on. Fuck! I should be pissed. Doesn’t do any good to be pissed, though. Wisconsin’s state motto is Forward. I haven’t lived there for years, but a guy’s still gotta believe in the motto.

So let me get back to shit and why I’m so happy about it today. For the last week and half, because I finally decided enough goddam misery was enough, I’ve been gluten-free, and I’m absolutely feeling better, particularly in the waste-elimination department. But here’s even more exciting news: Last night, I totally chowed down two massive bowls of black bean chili, and I didn’t so much as fart afterwards, not even one tiny popcorn toot. And this morning, after a crisp Washington State apple and a cup of coffee? Ah! Isn’t that incredible?

All right. Collect yourselves. I know you’re weeping with joy for me. The cure may well be at hand.

My ass feels great now. Rain’s falling in Los Angeles today, but I’m suiting up and going outside for a bike ride.