Garden Grows

Step 1: Remove all rodents and prickly potatoes before planting bean sprouts and rutabagas.

Sounding Boards

The squeak in our floor became most vicious when we called it names.  This surprised us as we believed its anger peaked when we stepped on it directly.  Indeed, our surprise peaked when the squeak began to speak, flinging vitriol, invective, a whole litany of rotten phrases.  Words that the O.E.D. blushed at and refused to include for fear of visiting in-laws.  

The neighbors below heard the stream of foul language and, believing the filthy banter to be a party of neuvo-swingers engaging in pre-coital dirty talk, began jabbing the ceiling with broom handles.  The thumping from below meshed with the foul mess spewing at us to form a veritable club mix of offensive talk.  Neighbors to the right added clanging pots and pans and the salacious symphony had its cymbals.  

"Why have you brought this uncouth debacle upon us?!" she implored.

"I only wanted to call the squeak as I saw fit," I explained.  "If you do not call it a squeak early enough, it will grow into something much worse.  Like potatoes or child actors."

"Go step on it," she demanded, "and cover its damned mouth!"

I obliged stepping directly where I imagined that squeaks damned mouth to be.  And it squeaked.  The hurling words ceased.  The neighbors' noises faded.  I stepped again and another squeak came.  

I turned to her.  "Not so bad," I said, "and on its way to all better."

She shrugged.  I stepped a third time and a squeak sounded, kept sounding, sounded for far too long.  And then it stopped.  "Curious," I remarked.  "Let's to bed and let the squeak sleep.  It has certainly been the busiest of nights for it."

We traipsed off to bed to sleep and dream of squeakless worlds where words are scrubbed clean with ammonia and exfoliants.  Near that witching hour just between the third R.E.M. cycle and three twenty-two A.M., the squeak began screaming, this time unintelligibly.  The neighbors began their bangs and clangs of protestations almost immediately.  

"What the ticking tock?!" she screamed at me.  

"I could have sworn," I pled, "my stepping on its squeaking face would have cured what ailed it."  I pondered briefly, then proclaimed, "By Brian, I've got it!"

I slipped out of bed and tottered my tired way into the kitchen.  From the refrigerator I produced a jug of milk and returned to the site of the squeak.  As I uncapped the jug, she came from the bedroom and exclaimed, "What and the why would you why?!"

"You see, my love," I explained, "these are not just the cries of a lonely squeak in our floor.  No, no.  What we have here is a baby squeak."  With that I turned the jug over, spilling milk all over that cacophonous squeak, drowning its clamor in cream.  As the jug emptied, the squeak began to gurgle and, curiously enough, choke.  Soon the screaming ceased and a final gurgle expelled from the floor.  The neighbors' addition to the noise dwindled shortly thereafter.

"All better," I said.  I returned the remaining milk to its place in the refrigerator and returned myself to bed.  The next day I rose with pride in my step and a self-satisfied gleam in my smile.  I had solved all of our problems and with great aplomb.  As I made my morning trek across the living room, I stepped on our squeak.  No sound came.

"Odd," I said to the surrounding floor.  I stepped again, but still no squeak.  She walked in just then.

"What ever could be the matter?" she inquired.

It was then that I realized.  "Oh my," I said.  "I believe I killed the floor."

It was true, Good Gumby, I had killed it.  And wasted all of that milk to boot.

Richard the Ninth Sees His Shadow

Early one evening in the late part of March, Richard the Ninth awoke from a lengthy nap to find that the sun had shifted in the sky, thus confusing him and millions of others, undoubtedly. Richard the Ninth knew better, however, that the sun's movement was a grand conspiracy aimed solely at him and the other millions could go to rot for all the sun cared. He was well aware that the sun came not from nature but from a factory in an equatorial country.

Fashioned from gears, sprockets, spindles, and other assorted manufactured bits, the sun went into working order in the late part of the previous century. Before this people slept and woke by a giant candle that melted down to nothing every winter only to be replaced by another candle through a complex, ineffective pulley system most likely created by the Dutch.

The sun was a machine run by the hands of man and today it was toying with Richard the Ninth. Last he remembered, the sun had cast his shadow to the left, but now his shadow was to the right. Realizing the sun's game, Richard the Third decided to combat the shift by shifting himself three inches to the right. According to his abbreviated calculations and estimations, this would place his shadow just as it had been when sleep overtook him two hours prior. The shift proved ineffective, however, and Richard the Ninth cursed the sun machine beneath his breath.

This came as a surprise to Richard the Ninth as he had previously been in full control of his shadow and its multitudinous functions, ranging from useless to worthless and back again to feckless and ineffective. Realizing that his realization of the sun's game had been incorrect, Richard the Ninth retaliated with a shake of his fist and further mutterings beneath his breath. He had now deduced that the sun was attempting to inflict upon him the handicap of mirrordom. Thinking that his shadow had shifted from left to right, his brain would be duped into thinking that right was left and vice versa. Correct answers would be left. Departing friends would have just right. A best friend would be his left-hand man -- a moot point in the unamicable world of Richard the Ninth. Right is left and left is right and Richard the Ninth sat in the middle with a silent chuckle for he had deciphered the sun's scheme and lived to tell the tale.

An hour later, still dwelling in his silent gloat, Richard the Ninth found that his shadow had disappeared completely beneath the neighboring chaise. This angered Richard the Ninth to no end and led to various smackings of fist to palm and assorted creasings of his mouth and brow. With no alternative to wit, Richard the Ninth stepped outside and openly cursed the sun machine.

"Curses!" he exclaimed, with yet another wild pump of his fist to the sky. He picked up a rock and threw with all of his strength, sending the rock fifteen inches to the air and back down thirteen inches from his feet. He threw another rock and another and then a stick. A small pile of natural weapons amassed thirteen inches from Richard the Ninth's feet, but he felt the message was apparent. And soon he knew well that is was effective as the sun machine began to flee, going to hide behind the houses just past his own. He stopped throwing for many reasons, fatigue the most immediate, and watched in satisfaction as the sun machine set.

By the time the sky was dark and he no longer needed to fear the machinations and schemes of the sun and its controllers, Richard the Ninth had already wearied and fallen asleep in the road in front of his home. When he woke the next morning, the infernal machine had returned. Richard the Ninth bristled slightly, but could spare no further energy from the fatigue of throwing the previous day. He returned to his home and drew every shade, turned off every light, plugged every space that leaked the slightest bit of light.

Richard the Ninth created the grandest shadow he had ever known and dwelt in it for many days, knowing well that the sun machine watched and wretched at the ignominy of his actions. Victory through darkness and Richard the Ninth slept in the darkest world of all.

Saintly Sounds

In an effort to connect better to my neighbors, I have decided to knock on all of their doors at once.  This will surely lead to the opening of doors en masse, followed by curious glances around the buildings hallways, extended conversations about the miracle of St. Door Knocker, and a new beginning in the chapter of world peace.  No Thursday could be greater, especially today, which is Wednesday.  What delight will shine in the eyes of my neighbors as their lives are forever changed by a simple rapping upon their doors.  A percussive question drawing them out to be answered by the unbolting of locks and the glee of dozens.  Thrice a week I could do this to embolden the spirit of unity among we neighbors, becoming not several tenants, but rather one building.  We happy few.

As I imagine the hugs and lavish gifts my neighbors will force upon my person, my ears are drawn to the dissonant aria of the broken fire door just outside of my apartment.   I stand in the hallway looking about, hoping to find my future friends doing the same.  This could be the precursor to my miraculous knocks!  We could all be out there looking together.  Oh neighbors!  Let us move as one to alleviate this problem.  Let us silence the beast signaling no fire save the rage inside my head.  But if not for the terrible noise and me, the hallway remains empty.  We disgusted two.

Not wanting to be dissuaded from my mission, I will still attempt the wondrous knock of many doors.  They will see - they must!- that across twelve hallways on five floors, we are inextricably linked not only by our leases but by the physical laws of time and space.  We occupants occupy our places at exactly this moment.  We are one all in this together.  We - for the door knocking love of St. Jiminy Cracking Bottom!  Will someone stop that noise?!  Can no one hear it?  3C.  Why have you forsaken me?  4G.  Has it come to this?  1B.  You want adequate heat, but I want to sleep in silence.  Anyone at all?

No door will be knocked today.  Or tonight.  Or ever again.  Goodbye communion of tenancy.  Goodbye faceless neighbors who smell of fried dough.  Goodbye best friends who will never knows me.  Goodbye.

Someone passes in the hallway.  I look the other way and pretend the footsteps are not of a neighbor, but the thumping beat of an invisible heart.  The heart of St. Door Knocker.

As the Porter Likes It or O! Should I?

A place I fancy to visit on a weekly, often daily, occasionally hourly, basis is the jolly porter blog run by a gentleman who may very well be a scoundrel and has been known to eat cheese with many of a similar scoundrelessence. Previously, I have taken umbrage at his posting rate, noting that he sometimes goes for more than seven days without a post -- a criminal offense in several small towns to the south of San Jose, not including Tustin. At this time, however, my umbrage is even umbrager as I have noticed the headings on the right side of his blog, which now make use of the word "should." As in "You Should Listen to This" and "You Should Read These" and "You Should Name Your Children These Names." While only one of these phrases actually appears on the jolly porter's page, the message can be deciphered sans the aid of a handy compass: the jolly porter does not like the way you live your life. And that goes for me, too. The jolly porter is better than all of us and he has no qualms about telling us. Scoundrel indeed.

"I LIKE THESE SHOWS!" he proclaims without shame, caring little - nay - not at all for the shows we enjoy. "I RECOMMEND THIS MUSIC!" he proclaims with no regard for those of us who cannot whistle. "YOU'LL PROBABLY LIKE THESE MOVIES!" he assumes, knowing not our taste in movies whatsoever. This last statement proves the biggest offense as it not only assumes individual preference, but also affects an air of false modesty. We will "probably" like them. If we do not, though, then we are vagrant scum best left to chew on the rotting carcasses of road-bound varmits and spoiled berries. Twice the scoundrel, thrice the dastard.

Take heed gentle readers to be not swayed by this "jolly" porter who porters nothing but lies and gross insinuations. Latch your windows and bolt your doors. Feed your milk to canaries before the cat gets poisoned. Leash your children to the furniture lest they be taken in the brightest of daylight. The jolly porter is afoot and cares not whose opinions he decimates with the overpowering sibillance of his own imperious recommendations. His contemptous suggestions. His deceitful quest for power and superiority over us all.

And happy birthday to Thomas Jefferson, noted writer of letters who led a life of absolute beardlessness. And to sports card afficionado Samuel Beckett, who today would have celebrated one hundred three at his local Applebee's.

Neverending Haha

     She could not understand where the satire ended and the truth began. "Satire is truth!" he insisted. So she sat and watched without laughing as the comedy ensued. The comedy ceased and a commercial appeared, looking very similar to the comedy that had ceased, but with different faces and several dollar signs. A news program began with a laughing man and woman cracking wise about the misfortunes of others, worldwide despondency and puppies. The weather man joked about torrential rain that would leave hundreds homeless. Another commercial came with irony and facetious faces. "We need to laugh!" he proclaimed, "Especially in times like these!" She kept watching and chuckled once or twice, thankful that television programmers worked so hard to make her laugh.

     The next day, she asked him, "Can I be honest?" He girded himself knowing that she was going to bore him. "I don't like Manny," she confessed. "He makes me uncomfortable. And very time he opens his mouth I get insulted." Two seconds from tuning her out, he explained, "You just don't get his sense of humor." He unmuted the television and completed the tune-out. She sat by and witnessed him laughing uproariously at a report of a missing girl. Apparently she did not get it.

     Thinking that her lack of laughter denoted a lack of humor and an abundance of depression and malaise, she sought advice from a medical professional. The professional seemed to listen and never once laughed at her. An hour later, he passed her a lip of paper for some pills. "These will make you feel better," he concluded. Laughter is the best medicine, she thought, so these cannot be far behind.

     Well...

Chocolate Chip Meatloaf

        It took a bowl of mustard and applesauce to show me why gravy and ice cream will never work.  The body rejects it like pumpkin pie with a nice vinaigrette or skittles doused in hollandaise.  My reflexive mouth spat it all out with the eggplant caramels and fish sauce chocolate bars soon to follow.

       An unappealing woman leaned over, having watched this display and whispered, Take the salty with the sweet, baby, but watch them tummy turns.

       I shrugged.  Cracked open a can of cherry tuna cola.  Chased it with wasabi egg tea.  The flavor comes and the insides go.

Divine Chill of a Frosty Spring

Welcome to April!

Grab your snow hats and mittens, heavy overcoats and long underwears.  This April, we take snowmen to Spring Break.  With Summer in sight, let Spring be nothing like it.  Spring shall mean a chill to the spine and a chafe to the face.  Animals all gather together to breed, as nature compels them, beneath woolen blankets and layers and layers of warmth.  In the conscious escape of a deadly frost, snuggling make babies, not romping through green grass and sunshine.

Welcome to April!

Where Jack Frost lives in the spare room refusing to leave.  Snow elves sing their snow elf songs as the rest of us yearn for Jimmy Buffett.  My brain screams for barbecue, watermelon, and a glass of lemonade, but my body will only take soup.  Yesterday I saw the sun, but felt no warmth.  Who is doing this to me!  

Welcome to April!

Let May be not such a cruel mistress else I shall sell my calendar and shun the weathermen.  Or maybe move to France.