ZRZ: Space Pirate

Twins

2011-06-26T18:18:00.003-04:00

Minutes

2011-05-16T21:43:00.000-04:00

If you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll be done.

A minute passed and still nothing was finished. A year later some movement happened and everyone thought highly of that. They peeked over his shoulder and saw a blank slate. How disappointing, they thought.

Just give me a minute and I’ll be done.

Another minute passed and another year with it. He had concentration on his face, intensity in his eyes, and nails between his teeth. They admired how busy he looked and took a peek. The slate was still blank. This is just depressing, they agreed.

A minute – just a minute – is all I need and I'll be done.

A minute passed and a year and another year and by this time they lost track of the exact time and lost interest in him. He looked so busy, so intense, so focused, yet his slate was blank. They moved on without a word.

I’m done.

He finished sometime in the night, alone. Everybody was gone. He looked over his slate and liked what he saw. He set it aside and grabbed another slate. His brow furled, his jaw tightened, his teeth clenched down on nails as he began again.

Just give me a minute.

Jolly Porter

2011-04-29T23:20:00.002-04:00

Mine

2011-04-02T12:54:00.002-04:00

He kept his dreams to himself no matter how often they asked. Speaking about dreams did nothing to elucidate, rather it pushed them away, made them incoherent, destroyed the sensations. He knew that Candy Cat and the Batman People held no place in the tangible world of the waking. He preferred to remember them as they were, with bumblebee eyes and grand, shiny back-smiles. They would spend hours telling him all about their dreams, which he sometimes found dull but mostly licentious. Their dreams belonged to them as his did to him.

When finally forced to relent, he often used the pithiest descriptions available. "Good dreams last night," he would say. They pressed for more. "Oh, I went to the park," he offered, "and there was a puppy and then I woke up." After using the puppy dream a time or two, they began to worry that he was in suspended adolescence, he desperately needed companionship, his loneliness was overwhelming, he was a pedophile looking for romance. He loathed amateur analysts who wanted only fodder for gross interpretations of what he found simply to be great adventures of inanity. Eventually, he told them that he had stopped dreaming years ago. This disturbed them more. He went back to the puppy briefly, then used the old trope of falling from a great height. The analysis subsided.

He found his dreams began to linger when he woke. They stayed in his mind and back pocket through the day. Upon his next sleep, they left him. Occasionally he wished he had held on to them for one more day, remembered them as they were, and found why they lingered. Instead he reminded himself that he put no stock in dreams and kept his dreams from himself.

Jet Propulsion

2011-03-08T19:44:00.000-05:00

She sent me spinning, gave me dreams of centipedes and long, dizzy trips round red rocks, and threw me over clover cliffs. Symphonic oboes bleated cacophony from her little baby 'goodbyes.' Velvet bits of skies draped my eyes, rubbed blue, violet, and traffic cone orange across my horizon, mummified me, and twirled me topside over. Mysterious salty-sweet sensations slid along my lips. I craved water and she dangled it before me. Every time I reached she spun me round -- and reach and round and reach and round and reach. One last flip and flat on my backside I landed in a sit. She was gone. My head still spun though my body sat still. All around me flitted down velvet bits of a newly flipped sky.

Doodle Game #1

2011-03-07T22:30:00.003-05:00

Our souls feel awful sticky

Like bubble gummy icky

Clinging to the bottoms of our shoes

Found a quarter but it's a nickel

You're acting something fickle

For someone playing Candyland to lose.

Abbey Inn

2011-03-02T12:36:00.001-05:00

A pink petal fell from her fingers and drifted to the untended grass below. She eyed its descent thinking momentarily of reaching, but opting to not. She preferred peach to pink. Peter often challenged her discernment between the two, especially in petals. Those times she preferred Paul to Peter.

Red Tomato Rage

2011-02-22T23:12:00.001-05:00

His face showed flush amplified by the streak of ketchup across his cheek. She chuckled as she took a bite of the wicked weapon. He had been slapped with plenty of gloves, many belts, and the occasional haddock, but never with a french fry. She chewed defiantly in the face of his glare. The smell of the ketchup rose to his nose. He slowly wiped it away without breaking his stare. She broke first and turned to chat up some other sap. He glanced to his hand smeared red. Some tomato gave its life for this, he thought.

He looked back to her. Red permeated the air between them. Not anger, he thought, not rage; he knew those well. This dug down some deep new place. He could always slap her back with one of her own french fries, a slab of his steak, or a good handful of mustard. Insufficient options every one: he needed more.

He could drench her in sauces of all colors: reds, browns, yellows, the green stuff with the funny name. She would be sopped head to toe in savories and sweets. Her clothes stained all colors of the rainbow. Her hair dyed ten tones of gourmet accoutrements. Her eyes, her ears, her nose, her mouth all filled full with ketchup, salsa, mustard, hot sauce, syrup. He could empty the table of its complimentary condiments in the name of vengeance and leave her a sopping, sobbing mess.

He could do all that, but he wouldn't. In angry days vengeance was swift. This time, however, all he could do was look. She slapped his face with a french fry and paralyzed him. She could glow tomato red and grow potatoes from her head and he would only sit and stare. She made me useless, he thought, pointless and useless.

She looked back at him and recognized his immobility. Neither said a word. She arched her brow. He swore he saw her float for a second, just a second. She looked back to her plate of french fries and half-eaten chicken club. He took up his bill and walked to the register. He paid, left, and never ate french fries again.

Gluey Lips

2011-02-20T10:51:00.000-05:00

For all her effort and will, he would not open his mouth.

Speak to me, she pleaded. Just a word is all I need.

Neither teeth nor lips parted for her. He would not budge.

Is it peanut butter? she asked. Or glue? That has done this to you.

He gave no reply. His mouth stayed firmly shut.

I'll pry you open with my crowbar, she warned him. I will go sooooo far to get you to talk to me.

He said nothing. He sat and stared.

She ran circles around him shouting, TALK TALK TALK! Till she tired and slowed to a walk.

He was mute.

Do you have nothing to say? Just give me a nod, she told him. Please, God.

He looked at her and pushed out a tight little smile. He opened his mouth the tiniest bit and pushed out, Sorry. His mouth closed again.

She stared at him for a moment and then sat next to him. They stared off together. Neither one said a word.

Play Me Songs

2011-02-17T01:04:00.000-05:00

He plinked out notes on an upright piano.

Play me songs, she said. Songs I can sing to. Songs I know.

He played a brief melody that she thought she knew. Just as she caught it and began to hum along, he went right back to plinking.

I knew that one, she said. Play it again.

He played a new tune that she knew she knew. She caught it quick and hummed right in. Then he changed it. He changed keys. He made it minor. He smothered it with dissonance. She lost the tune and he went right back to plinking.

That was my favorite, she said. I want to sing to something. Play me something good.

He played a tune she never heard before. She sat and listened, imagining she knew it.

I don’t know this, she said.

He kept on. He repeated phrases. He came to the hook. She hummed the bits that stuck with her.

Who is this? she asked.

He made it to the bridge and paused. He plinked for a second.

That’s not a real song, she said. Is it?

He plinked a bit more and then into the bridge. She swayed. She hummed. He hit his crescendo. He resolved. He stopped. She stared.

Play me a real song, she said.

He looked at her. He looked at the piano. He plinked a note, then another and another, plinking note after note. She sighed.

Red Candy

2011-02-15T18:24:00.002-05:00

Rolling softly between her fingers a pair of Twizzlers waited to meet their destinies. She made them wait for nothing more than to glare at him standing just a ways away. Finally a nibble came and they felt no pain, no more than he standing just a ways a way. She never cared much for Twizzlers -- the feeling was mutual -- but she needed whatever she could find to roll soflty between those fingers and nibble just to make him wait, make him squirm, make him keep away just a ways away. She swallowed down that bit of Twizzle -- still feeling no pain -- and reached to bite again, when, he started towards her, moving in a bit of his own, closing in a bit too close. She stopped mid-gape, glanced to her Twizzled friends, whom she had never much cared for and the feeling was mutual, rolled them softly between her fingers, and looked back at him closing in a bit too close. She let her fingers fall lax and the partial pair of Twizzlers fell softly to the floor, feeling no pain, approaching their destinies. He closed in a bit more. She never once glanced at the floor. She never cared much for Twizzlers, and so they went and their destinies they met.

Richard the Ninth Dreams Big

2011-02-14T19:17:00.000-05:00

As a child, Richard the Ninth dug three holes to spend in his time in for the three whole days that he was grounded. The first hole was Richard the Ninth's least favorite until he spent time in the second hole, which then became his least favorite, though after spending time in the third hole, Richard the Ninth dubbed that his least favorite. He could not say what made every hole his least favorite, but knew right awway that he loathed worms more than any other legless creature found in nature, even more than the snake, the skank, and, yes, the crisp. On the fourth day, Richard the Ninth filled the holes and vowed never to speak to another worm again.

As an adult, Richard the Ninth built a home at the bottom of a valley from the belief that landslides and earthquakes affected only those who lived atop mountains. What Richard the Ninth failed to realize was that the valley was a public park and, also, located just beneath a flood plain. Fortunately, out of habit, Richard the Ninth waterproofed everything he touched. Unfortunately, out of fear, he had never learned to swim. Richard the Ninth spent many nights atop the roof of his valley home until one night he made a crucial decision and abandoned his abode. Learning as much as he could from this life lesson, Richard the Ninth built his next home on the edge of a desert cliff many miles from civilization.

Notes From the Journal of a Pensive Park Visitor

2011-02-14T01:30:00.003-05:00

They fed on self-satisfaction, applauded themselves till their hands revolted, dreamed of being low because they had brought themselves to such lofty elevations. We looked on in despair thinking that nothing could get so high as these on high telling us how on high they were. Then we stopped looking at them and saw the mountains, quiet and resolute in their peaks, formed over millennia, their apparent stillness belying their constant motion beneath. We found we preferred the mountains, if nothing else for the fact that they let us climb them, leaving gravity to be our only judges.

You’re awfully quiet for an auctioneer, she told him. When I got nothing to sell, he assured her, I got nothing to say. Say something fast, she implored, real fast like you mean to sell something. I ran out of words, he muttered, ran out so I couldn’t – he stopped. He really had run out of words and she wasn’t worth the sell.

Flowers aren’t all for giving. Some flowers are for taking. Some flowers are for eating. Some are even for grinding up and stuffing into pillows to make people think they’re sleeping in places other than they are. Spend an afternoon talking to a flower and before long you’re liable to think you are a flower. You won’t just be for giving, but for taking, for eating, for grinding up and living inside someone’s pillow, making them think they’re sleeping in a place other than they are. So much for talking up the flowers.

Two Lanes

2011-02-11T20:14:00.011-05:00

The drive down took forever, she thought. To him it was a good chance for time in the car, time moving, out of stillness. The music didn't hurt either, but neither was listening much to it. Several times he forgot to pick a new song and only the sound of the tires, the engine, the sparse traffic gave their drive a soundtrack. She wanted another song. He just wanted to keep moving. Something to kill the silence, she thought. So much noise in the bustle along, he noticed, never a moment of silence when we move so quickly.

They passed a sign promising plastic surgery without the scars. He laughed. She missed the sign, but heard him clear enough. No help that. She would have preferred some Coldplay or that other band that sounded a lot like Coldplay. She'd even settle for Styx at this point, anything to fill the dead air. He wondered what he'd look like with a scar on his chin.

He turned to stare out his window and began to hum. Still no help. She wanted to turn to her window, too, hum an indistinguishable tune, but she was stuck behind the wheel, their lives in her hands. With so much responsibility, so much angst, the least he could do was pick a song, a real song, a song that she knew and actually liked. She gripped the wheel to blanched knuckles hoping for a cow to smash into. He wished to himself that the drive would never end. Seventy miles to go and not a cow in sight.

Richard the Ninth Loves Some More

2010-11-06T15:06:00.000-04:00

Richard the Ninth trusted no one, especially himself. This led to serious conflagrations when he spent time alone and had things to say. His mouth stayed closed and his thoughts bottled up as he was always certain that the moment he spoke, the fool that was he would call him a liar and said fool, thinking himself shrewd, would think himself a liar. So the night would proceed until Richard the Ninth would fall asleep with great dissension between he and himself.

Richard the Ninth bought a pound of flour because he sought something beautiful in his life. This was another unwitting adventure for Richard the Ninth in the world of homonyms. Upon asking for flowers, he was directed by a willingly unhelpful store clerk to the baking supplies. The bag of flour was thrust upon him, which he purchased with some confusion, and then took home to place in a vase next to a print of Starry Knight, a fur air freshener, and a stuffed guerilla. He was mostly unimpressed with the flour, but thoroughly enjoyed his supper of stake and muscles.

Believing companionship to be the next vital step in his maturity Richard the Ninth stole a goldfish from a lady of smaller age and stature than he. He did not care much for the bowl in which she housed his new mate and promptly placed the goldfish in his pocket. Several days later, remembering how lonely he was, Richard the Ninth stole another goldfish from another tiny young person and, again, placed it in his pocket. Within a month, Richard the Ninth was lonelier than ever before and smelled distinctly of rotting fish.

Little Piggies

2010-10-29T02:59:00.001-04:00

She started by counting her toes hoping that toes, more than fingers, would ground her - unless she chose to walk on her hands, which was not entirely out of the question for these were peculiar times calling for peculiar modes of transporting oneself, especially to and from work, which had been more stressful than usual this last week – so much so that she had found herself counting her toes for grounding.

She reached ten and thought that normal enough in one’s toes, but she had to be sure, so she counted again, though not before consulting an encyclopedia – several encyclopedias, in fact, for, much to her chagrin, she did not find toes in the “t” volume or piggies under “p,” but finally found the proper number of toes under “a” for anatomy.

Again she counted ten and, though she had hoped this would ground her – in many ways besides the standing on of said toes: give her bearings in life, reaffirm her ability to compute and comprehend complex numbers, prove once and for all that birth defects sometimes happen thirty years after the fact – but it did not, in fact, ground her at all for still she was flighty and dodgy and terrible at math and rife, though still rife with birth defects newly formed some thirty years after the fact (or twenty-eight to those who knew no better).

Then it was that she began to dig and, having no yard, this meant digging straight into the floor, which brought forth choices – she had found choices more and more daunting and tonight was the night to approach the ever boding level of facile when it came to choices, especially those that would ground her – choices of where to begin this digging adventure: bathroom or living room, hardwood or linoleum, shovel or spoon, choices.

Of the three major choices, she opted for the latter, the former, and, lacking a shovel and money to buy said shovel and the propensity to visit such places that carried said shovels, the latter, and within minutes was digging down into faux wood in the desperate hope that somewhere beneath her feet, this floor, the foundation, the sewer lines, and the direct route to China, she would find the true secret to grounding herself.

If nothing else, she would get a good workout from this, tone her triceps, build up hunger, thus alleviating the guilt of eating, which had plagued her for some time now, whether exercising or not, though she found that one thinks very little of eating while digging – a bit of a surprise considering the presence of the spoon, her favorite utensil for eating.

She dug and dig and digged and digged and could not decide which fit properly into good grammar, but hoped that once she had grounded herself (or perhaps grund herself) she would epitomize proper speech, good sleeping habits, excellent nutrition, and delightful conversation at parties – this last hope formed despite her previous twenty-two party conversations ending with dropped food, stained blouses, profuse apologies, and quotations from great pop hits of the 1970s.

There on the newly damaged floor, spoon in hand, ten toes across two feet, she fell asleep and dreamed of digging in all forms: machines, dogs, grave-makers, groove-shakers, giant spoons, and even the occasional shovel, though even in dreaming these confused her for they appeared quite out of context – in the question “where exactly do shovels come from?” both of her consciouses, waking and sub, allied.

She awoke feeling thirsty, hungry, too, confused a bit, though less than any of these, grounded. The digging had done nothing but reduce her security deposit. She had not reached China, she still had ten toes, and life felt flighty, especially life lived in her body. She washed the spoon, put it back into the drawer, and sat in her bed. She began counting her toes again, thinking maybe one had run off in the night and digged its way to China.

Division

2010-10-24T01:03:00.002-04:00

The Union failed today when today the Union divided into two Unions – sub-Unions, they are now called, though half-Union and Union Junior were both bandied about for some time.

Sub-Union A fought a great deal for its title, deeming its former brethren, now foe, Sub-Union B. Sub-Union B would not stand as a secondary, hence lesser, Sub-Union and brought forth the proposition that they both be called Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A opposed the proposition on the grounds that letters, composed primarily of spiteful, bitter words, between the two Sub-Unions would become confusing and unclear were they both addressed and signed by the same Sub-Union, that of Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A, formerly Sub-Union B, then proposed that they be called Sub-Union A₁ and the other bastards call themselves Sub-Union A₂. This aroused more harsh words, debate, and the occasional tossed sausage to the eye.

Several hours later, the floor littered with sausages, it was discovered that a row over policy had caused a split in Sub-Union A₁, thus forming Sub-Union A_1A and Sub-Union A_1B.

Shortly thereafter, internal dissension arose in Sub-Union A_1B over the designation of the letter ‘B’ and whether it was lesser than ‘A’ or not. Further division of the Sub-Union was threatened until it was discovered that Sub-Union A_1B was comprised of one man, Mr. Artemis Dunday.

By day’s end, compromise had not been reached, angry words spouted continuously as the participants made their way to their cars, and several sausages were still reported missing.

Tomorrow’s agenda for the Sub-Unions includes possible further division of all Sub-Unions, a lengthy slide show, and a lunch of pulled pork. The day will conclude with a discussion of what it is exactly that the Union represents, currently designated TBA.

Mad Man of the Special Cookie, Part I

2010-10-15T09:16:00.000-04:00

Rather than pressing on about the cookies, she surrendered to the cake. Frosting rarely appeased her, but in this climate poor of sugar, she knew that any sweet was good sweet, even when the sweet lacked the sophistication she had previously encountered in those cookies. ‘What genius baked them?’ she wondered aloud, pink-shrouded, yellow morsels expelling from her mouth. A mad man, she continued in her head, opting for a closed mouth in sight of sweet-loss prevention. Surely not a mad woman, for no woman could understand what a woman needs anywhere near as shrewdly as the mad man of the special cookie. Only a man could hook a lady on a sweet treat and reel her back, hook her and reel her back, and on and on in a fishing metaphor that may have been apt, but only distracted from the need for sweets.

She finished the cake – a lackluster piece, if only by proxy – and yes, THE cake, not HER cake, she made special notice to call it for the duration of their time together – and still craved the cookie. What divine powers in a so minor a treat, she noted in her head, her mouth now gaping wide from want, from need, from utter lack of regard. Her eyes held on the plate of cookies settled comfortably beneath its domed, glass shelter. At the sixth minute of staring, the HR temp walked by and, without hesitation, lifted the glass. With great stealth, he snatched a cookie, replaced the glass, and was gone. The cookies screamed silently at the loss of brethren.

“Oh!” she expelled. What impudence he had. How jealous she was. Did he not appreciate the ethics of the clear glass lid? A trailblazer. Once the lid was lifted, then – and only then – could they take up cookies into hands. If only she subscribed to such blasé lifestyles as that damnable HR temp: moving from job-to-job with no regard for pension; taking cookies from whatever plate, no matter the indication of its covering. He passed and took another.

“Bastard!” she squeaked. We must regard the sanctity of the glass dome, she thought. Otherwise, there will be no cookies left when the dome is lifted. Already the plate looked lonelier, less and less inviting. She knew this to be an illusion, however. So many others around the office saw a plate diminishing in population as a plate diminishing in quality. She knew the opposite to be true. They would scramble for a plate teeming with cow pies for the mere fact that it was teeming. She still saw the plate for cow pies. Perhaps the HR temp was helping her in this regard. The more cookies he took, the less valuable the plate would be to others who had not tasted of said cookies, and the more cookies would be left for her. Perhaps, in a coup of resounding joy, she would be able to take one home. How splendid this Tuesday had become! How wonderfully life could change in the span of several minutes staring at a plate of spectacular cookies beneath a domed, glass lid!

Vapor Cries of the Steam-Powered Man

2010-10-08T02:05:00.000-04:00

The steam-powered man with those grand hands that spanned chasms
Found himself alone no chasms to span with those grand hands
He thought to cry did the steam-powered man but the only tears to come
Turned instead to steam and vapor all heat from inside him and made him
Only want to cry more though so futile he thought it eventually
For indeed though no tears would come still the steam-powered man
Had thoughts that overwhelmed him overwrought him overjoyed him
Steam-powered thoughts he thought them when the thoughts came
With little else to show them than the steam that came and powered his name.

Earbuds and Doodlebugs

2010-09-28T13:40:00.002-04:00

What she needed at this very moment could be found in the back of the closet just between her sixteenth pair of heels – these flatter than at least five of the others – and a plastic bin marked “Misc. Winter.” Between the two aforementioned once slipped a piece of paper marked by scribbles, doodles, a short to-do list for a short Saturday (which, if she were to recall, was made even shorter by a blot of late-morning rain), and, just at the bottom left of the paper, depending on which way she held it, was written the name and address of one Mister Maculmaney. She had never met Mister Maculmaney nor spoken with Mister Maculmaney by phone or other such correspondence, nor had she a notion of how Mister Maculmaney looked. She could not nor would not spot him by face had she the chance. For all she knew, she had passed Mister Maculmaney every morning for the last dozen mornings and paid him no heed whatsoever, pushing him into the impressionistic miasma of her morning commute – for this was her ritual and her right to focus on her music, on her book, on her cup of coffee, to let others have their mornings as they wanted while she focused on everything and nothing all at once; it was best that way for everyone.

Still, were she to be quizzed on the identity of Mister Maculmaney, she would probably be ignorant, certainly dumbfounded, possibly apathetic, and the address would confuse her most of all. What did she need with the address of a stranger? (And indeed, a stranger with a strange name: was it MACulmaney? MaCULmaney? MaculMAney? Beyond the stresses, what were the vowel sounds? Long or short? Was the name genuine? If not for apathy, she could ponder these for years.) It read as a home address, but could very well have been Mister Maculmaney’s business address; it could have been both for all she knew. Here she would have it, his address, and no notion why, had she found the paper which had slipped down into an unnoticed crevice in the closet.

She may have even found herself pleased to discover one of her own belongings that she never knew existed, particularly a direct to link to an unknown man. How serendipitous to know just where to find someone whom one does not know. If she so desired, she could go directly to Mister Maculmaney and question him: why would I know you; from where have we met; how do you say your name? Mister Maculmaney could prove to be most helpful, describing in detail the day, the moment, the swish of breeze that passed as she shook his hand, making him believe that she had a chill with in her that passed between their hands – an incorrect assumption, he would later learn, when she found him at his home many months later having uncovered his address in the remotest part of her closet and was composed mainly of warmth.

There was a need for her to seek him out, to know this man; a piece of information, a passage of music, a mutual friend seeing a future between the two of them. How that could be, though, she could not imagine, for she could not see herself allying romantically to a man who answered to ‘Mister’ anything; first names were mandatory, even in strangers. Mister made her think of elderly men, pretentious pomps, and past schoolteachers. Thus, Mister Maculmaney must be a man of considerable age, pomposity, or pretense – perhaps all three – and that is why the paper had slipped away, escaping preemptively to prevent her the inevitable displeasure of meeting Monsieur Maculmaney and his high throne of inaccessibility.

Still, she knew not the need for knowing him, nor did she remember him, nor did she know that her connection with him was lying in her closet – forgotten, forlorn, decaying – obscured by dust and winter clothes just useful enough to be called clothes, yet still packaged as miscellaneous. Eventually she would have to move and would find the piece of paper, taking a course of action (would it be garbage or recyclable?) and barely noticing Mister Maculmaney and his indeterminate address. She would not need him then in the midst of her move, it was only now that she may need him; this moment, this day, this peculiar phase of an altogether – in her view – uneventful life. What she needed right now was a mystery.

Boundless Horizons

2010-09-27T21:40:00.001-04:00

He thought – nay – knew – nay – believed that today began the day that began his new career – the Career of the Future! Here it was the present, yet he had stumbled upon it all on his own: the Career of the Future! No more would he worry for money or time or futile tasks; servitude to others in its many mangled forms, for he had uncovered the Career of the Future! Infinite bliss upon creative stimulation upon joyful sighs upon ending his day, every day, every minute, every sense stimulated and writhing in joy, bristling to return before even having left, all in rapture of this, his joy, his newfound love, his epiphany: the Career of the Future! The past no more dragging down his shoulders, bowing his back, pounding his head with endless tedium, mindless, numb, boring, grave; dull dull dull… the past faded as he slipped upward into the sharp, vibrant, saturated vivacity of the Career of the Future!

He picked up the phone and dialed quickly, as one is wont to do when pursuing the Career of the Future . A weary voice answered. He proclaimed his discovery of his one, his only, his brand new purpose to send him – nay – propel him – nay – rocket him into the brand new space orbiting the brand new world of newness in his brand new Career of the Future. He was met with silence until, finally, the weary voice replied, “The position has been filled.”

Dog's Life

2010-09-26T09:41:00.003-04:00

Dogs.
Dogs love to wander.
Dogs love to run.
Dogs love to push their heads between fence posts.
Dogs love to eat food.
Dogs love to eat non-food.
Dogs love to be loved.
Dogs are not allowed to be married to other dogs.
Dogs are not allowed to drive cars in Maine.
Dogs are not allowed to grow extra limbs.
Dogs are not allowed to own property.
Dogs are not allowed to write novels.
Dogs are not allowed to run Fortune 500 companies.
Dogs have food names after them.
Dogs have funny eyebrows.
Dogs have furry toes.
Dogs have places to be.
Dogs have no idea what they smell like.
Dogs have been reported to be people dressed in dog suits.
Dogs.

Shiny Bits

2010-06-16T07:45:00.000-04:00

Everyday we find more and more glass in the backyard. At a certain point we assumed that the glass would all be gone. But still, we find more glass. The larger pieces were the first to go, as they were the easiest to see, followed shortly by the slivers and bits clear down to the tiniest shards. Still, we find more glass.

All flat is the glass. No green, round, bottle glass here, but bits and slivers and shards of flat clear glass. A massive window smashed across the yard, we think, or a tabletop tossed and dropped. It may have been an unorthodox gardening practice tossing broken glass onto the begonias. We find so much glass.

We think of building a glass magnet to carry around the yard. Every bit of glass we pass would jump from the ground to the glass magnet and done we would be with them. Or a vacuum for glass to suck only glass, but leave the flowers and grass. A glass-sniffing dog. An electronic glass detector. A flute to make the glass stand up and dance! We would lead the glass off to the river to drown down below. If glass could drown.

We only found the glass when the snow went away. Perhaps it is snow glass. Or the snow’s window pane. Or the snow’s way of giving us gifts all year long. Some snow is city snow, otherwise known as jerk snow, not soft and lovely like country snow. Jerk snow kicks people off bikes and steals girlfriends. We think maybe jerk snow would break windows and glass tabletops and go to glass factories and rob them of their glass to leave in our backyard. Stupid jerk snow – we would melt it if it wouldn’t melt us back.

The glass will never end, we think. The glass came from underneath, we think. The glass fell from the sky to burden us, we think. One day the glass will stop, we hope. Good thing for the gloves, we know. And on and on. And we just stepped on more glass.

Life Rebounds

2010-05-16T08:38:00.001-04:00

This fish I know had just moved to the city. One day, he was out and about and got clipped by a bike messenger. It split him open pretty good sending some of his insides out where they don't belong. Fortunately for him, the paramedics got to him before the gulls descended. The doctor, a sporting enthusiast from a young age, performed a radical procedure on the fish, filling him with rubber to seal up all wounds. The fish lived on as a rubber fish. Life continued on for the rubber fish. He found a job, met a lady that became his fish wife, and enjoyed the many modern conveniences afforded all city dwellers, even rubber fish. His blissful life was interrupted one day by news from his doctor: the rubber he had used had a limited life and would erode the rubber fish from the inside out. The rubber fish told his fish wife and she replied, "That's okay. You always bounce back."

Tunnel Rats

2010-04-03T17:56:00.003-04:00

Rainbow Connection

2010-03-31T18:37:00.002-04:00

Cry Havoc

2010-03-29T01:25:00.002-04:00

On Teaching

2010-02-03T09:42:00.002-05:00

"What does 'scene' make you think of?"

"I don't know, like a... place, or like in a movie."

"Great! A movie. What's your favorite movie?"

"I don't know. I don't know what it's called... it's um... Oh yeah. District 9."

"What was your favorite scene?"

"I don't know."

"The guy turning into the alien? Something like that."

"NO!"

"Any scene then."

"Oh yeah. When the alien threw up."

"That's GREAT! Will you throw up for us?"

"No. I'm not gonna throw up."

"Why not?"

"It's gross."

"But it'll be great! Here, I'll throw up with you. On 3. 1... 2... 3."

8th Floor

2009-11-27T14:55:00.001-05:00

He stepped into the elevator, pressed “8” and waited. Before the doors closed, an older woman stepped in, looked at the buttons, and pressed nothing. A moment later, they came to floor 8. She turned to him and asked, “Is that you?” He responded affirmatively and stepped out. She stayed in, presumably to ride for the rest of the day.

Thursday morning

2009-11-19T12:09:00.000-05:00

She woke up decorating. And then we suddenly had a new home with a yard and the space for her to decorate. So goes the day.

Izzie Stringeater

2009-10-12T13:09:00.004-04:00

Dum Dums and Hipsters

2009-10-09T09:00:00.007-04:00

It could very well be that I am a sucker. For many things: girl singers, pancakes, inspirational sports moments. While I do not concede that I suck, I accept that perhaps I am a sucker. (What's the difference between a lollipop and a sucker? Give me five dollars and I'll tell you.)

Movies come along and people call them boring, twee, hipster bullcor disguised as profundity, but I, the sucker, become thoroughly entranced, engaged. That could be us, my wife and I whisper to each other. Neither of us wears a beard or owns an ironic t-shirt, so no hipsters are we. Where does the engagement come? The story, of course, and the characters and the beautifully photographed vistas and the intelligent writing that does not pander and the serious lack of car chases and the quest of a married couple wondering what the hell they're doing with their lives. Hey, that could be us.

"Are we fuck-ups?" Verona asks. This question crosses my mind EVERY SINGLE DAY, though admittedly it is not pluralized as my wife is in no single way a fuck-up, no matter how hard she tries and she does try. But really, am I a fuck-up? Time will tell as it so often does. We are all fuck-ps in our precious ways. The axiom "nobody's perfect" is nature's polite way of telling us we are fuck-ups. Thank you nature. And Osgood Fielding.

Now when people say that a movie like Away We Go is boring, pointless, and a waste of time, while I find it quietly enthralling, who is the sucker? Something felt so familiar about the journey of Verona and Burt. and their quest for home. And if I feel it, it should be true for me. The naysayers obviously have no connection, no feeling to the story or the material. Or maybe their quest for home is not one made up of philosophical questions punctuated by tender acoustic guitar. My thought is that most of the people who do not enjoy this movie have been cut off from the part of them that would allow them to enjoy it. They do not want to share a journey, they want to be catapulted full throttle into a world of adrenaline, pain, crunching metal, and kickassery. In their world, pain don't hurt. Thank you, Dalton.

Never wanting to dismiss someone's opinion -- unless it is really, really stupid -- I wonder then if some people are on a different path in life. They know exactly who they are and what they are doing, or even what they are and who they are doing, or even who they what and what they who. The gradual discovery of self does not interest them because they found it years ago with no questions, no sidetracks, no tender acoustic guitar. Maybe the world of the film bore no resemblance to their own. No overbearing career women with dowdy husbands; no spoiled, self-righteous hippies; no happy couples harboring deep-seeded pain; no absurd people at all in their lives -- except maybe Johnny "The Gooch" Mendoza who once banged out a pony keg of Coors solo while standing in the back of a Ford Ranger driving to Reno.

While enjoyment is experiential, the enjoyment does not need to be derived from a common experience. That is why comics who begin with "Do you ever notice" are not always funny. Yes we notice it, and what about it? People do not have to associate themselves with the characters in the movie to enjoy it, though it does help. Someone out there may have never met a spoiled, self-righteous hippie before seeing this movie and flipped at those evil peace mongers. What is it then?

It has to be the allegations of boredom. I was never bored. Someone was bored enough to describe Away We Go as boring, hence this post. Who is the sucker? Boredom is subjective -- duly noted. No car crashes or robots -- aforementioned. Are people, more specifically, people who watch movies cut off from beauty, self-reflection, absurdity of character? I usually rail against self-aware intellectuals and their dastardly bouts of cleverness, but here I could find none. I found honesty. Maybe honesty is boring. Has there ever been an honest explosion?

Understand that I do not proclaim this as the perfect film by any means. (That would be Casablanca or La Ronde or Rushmore.) It is very good, though, and when it is denounced by people, I truly wonder if I am just a sucker. Maybe so. Meanwhile, I have some magic beans to plant.

Sanity in Silence

2009-09-24T16:17:00.002-04:00

He knew well that hell was tinted in red and yellow, but it took the golden arches hovering above his head to realize the evil power of those colors. The eyes of dozens lit up a the sight of them, condemning themselves in complicity. They took from him what the devious ones had told him to do. He did not believe in his actions, but he knew well what should come next. He figured he should cure cancer since he was giving America diabetes. And heart disease. And future trash. All before 11 AM.

The partner assigned to him talked endlessly about anything and everything. Early on in the task, the partner proclaimed the absence of love in his life presently and possibly for the future. The morning crept more slowly the more the partner talked. Occasionally, he disappeared around the corner and the silence was golden, much like the arches hovering above his head.

The task was easiest when no word were necessary. A photo of a burger, coffee, fries, a knowing glance between two strangers and another step closer to a double bypass. The exchange had to happen five hundred times in four hours. Some needed convincing, however. Free fries and drink would do it most of the time. Other questioned the quality of the burger. He had nothing to say for it had never passed his lips. He nodded and smiled. Complicity in silence.

Done by 11 AM, he would be asleep by 11:30. The roars of traffic, rumbling construction, shouts of train riders, endless streams of words from the partner, all disappeared. He had probably dreamed of arches above his head, people reveling in the sight of a floating corporate logo, the distribution of disease in the form of a coupon. The rest of the day continued in silence, sanity returned.

The next morning he was back on the street with the red and yellow, golden arches above him. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. The partner told him his car had been towed and that he had anger issues and he managed a bar and grill and-

Soon silence soon.

Bright Side

2009-09-20T23:28:00.004-04:00

Hoping for any sign from the bright side, he comforted himself with the notion that the sun was always darkest before the dawn. It took him no time to realize that the sun was a giant ball of flame that burned perpetually millions of miles away, except in Britain where the metric system still reigned.

He walked home humming a tune that must have belonged to INXS because he had found it in the freezer thinking it was someone else's tune completely. On second thought, it may have been his own tune to hum found in a dream or on the moon. Maybe the moon was darkest before the dawn, but that made no sense because the moon had no power of persuasion in the first place let alone the capacity for dark, light, and dim.

In Japan, the sun always rose or so he heard or so the flag told him. It did nothing to get the INXS tune out of his head, which was fine for the moment or at least for the walk home. He looked off left and saw where the land ended and the lake began. That was about the time he realized he was walking the wrong way and the tune immediately escaped him. So much for the bright side or the sun or the moon or any damn thing really.

His knees did him no favors and clinched up three blocks from home. He leaned against a sign pole hoping that his shame and the cold metal would ease the pain or even unlock the binding agreements his knees had opted to take. The magical pole did neither and proved itself only to be a mostly normal pole of deadening streetlife persuasion. He cursed the pole and hobbled home stiff-legged and still ashamed.

The pie is always darkest before the dawn. Maybe, just maybe this would bring him salvation. Salvation of apple filling and crumble topping. His knees told him no and his fridge concurred. The bright side proffered him no pie tonight and no pie tomorrow and his heart thanked him for another clogless night.

He lumbered log-legged into bed and dreamed of falling asleep. The night stayed bright no thanks to the city lamps and cars and revel screams below. Sleep is always darkest before the dawn. No. Sheep are darkest before the lawn. Definitely not. Bright night tonight and nothing to show for it. He drifted off several minutes later with thoughts of black sheep eating pie on the moon and admiring the darkening sun.

2009-09-15T13:01:00.001-04:00

A man of great humility and work ethic. Speaking with Mara the other night, I realized I admire players like Mr. Stockton because they remind me of who I hope to be as a person more than as a player.

His opening statements were tremendous, congratulating the other inductees and asking, "What am I doing here? I played 30 years competitively... in all those years, not once, was I the best player on my team."

There is a love of basketball that is pure. It comes from the swish of a ball through a net, the squeak of sneakers on a hardwood floor, watching Hoosiers, listening to Bill Russell speak. No outlandish shoe ads, unnecessary energy drinks, indulgent tales of sexual conquests. This speech and the speaker himself brought me back to that purity.

Please. Enjoy.

Sung by a man on Chicago Avenue

2009-09-15T12:27:00.001-04:00

McDonalds is my favorite place

They feed you rattlesnakes

Put roaches in their shakes

They give me belly aches.

Day one

2009-09-13T09:55:00.001-04:00

His journey began with a stop at the 24-hour doughnut shop. The apple fritters tasted best at 4 AM and here it was nearing 3:58. He stepped in and saw no fritters and thought to wait. The gaunt master of doughnuts behind the counter told no fritters would be coming his way anytime soon. He settled on a plain buttermilk and maple old-fashioned and continued on his way.

By 5 o'clock he had passed from the city into the outer suburbs. The doughnuts were long gone, though glimpses of maple still appeared in his mouth. Here there were trees, fences, cars in driveways. He saw a man delivering newspapers from his car and wondered whatever happened to the Schwinn. He stopped in a park for a sip from the drinking fountain. The water tasted fine, but he could not help thinking of all the dirty suburban kids that had put their mouths on the spigot. Maybe a doughnut would kill the germs.

The suburbs began to dissipate around him, then finally ended altogether. A wall signaled their end, and starkly at that. People lived on one side, weeds grew on the other. He thought of stopping to take a last look, but kept on ahead. Best to think of some things instead of doing them. A person sees the suburbs and no last look is going to change a damn thing about them.

At midday he stopped and chewed on some jerky out of his pocket. He imagined a wolf or bear or even a deer coming up and fighting him for it. Nothing and no one came anywhere near him just then. Nor did they the rest of the day in fact. A lonely bit of travel that day was, especially for a man who had no idea where he was going.

He thought maybe that would be the best part of his journey, an existential trip for the ages. He was wrong. With no destination and no company to keep, he was just meandering lonely for lonely meandering sake. But the doughnuts tasted nice and god bless to be out of those suburbs.

Graduated from a state school

2009-09-09T13:15:00.002-04:00

Richard the Ninth and the First Rabbit War

2009-09-04T08:26:00.005-04:00

Richard the Ninth shopped for oranges one afternoon when suddenly he was struck with a carrot, struck in the face actually. He looked for the source of the carrot, but found he was alone in the market. A closer look revealed that he was not in the market at all, rather he had wandered into a library.

Libraries confused and angered Richard the Ninth and he wondered why he wandered there. Just as another carrot struck him in the ear he realized the library was where those jerk rabbits had been hoarding all of the town's oranges and, yes, carrots.

Richard the Ninth scanned the room, but nary a long-eared hooligan was to be found. Thinking quickly he very suddenly became very tired. He sat down for a nap when a carrot flew into the back of his head. He stood up again but could not see a single buck-toothed bastard anywhere.

Ignoring the longstanding law of silence, Richard the Ninth began making a ruckus and ran around the library shouting invective aimed squarely at the rabbits. This did nothing to help his cause but did tire him again. He fell to the ground and slept for several minutes.

When Richard the Ninth awoke he had forgotten where he was, why he was there, and even wondered who he was in the grand scheme of things. He did have the awful taste of carrots in his mouth which marred his slightly more pleasant hunger for oranges.

Richard the Ninth's memory was suddenly jogged as a rabbit hopped past. He stood and chased the rabbit through holistic medicines, agriculture, and LSAT study aids when he was stopped short by a diminutive librarian. Though meager in height, she was abundant in discipline.

The librarian removed Richard the Ninth from the premises, ignoring any and all proclamations of war against those furry feckers. She instituted a ban to begin immediately and last through until the next day. Richard the Ninth had lost the First Rabbit War. He headed for home knowing another war would follow, feeling uneasy at the way the librarian had touched him, and still craving oranges.

Sure Enough

2009-09-02T09:01:00.004-04:00

We found ourselves nearing a dead end so we kept going just to make sure and sure enough the dead end came and we were stuck with nowhere to go but right back where we came from.

So we turned around and started going back the way we came from but everything looked different since we had only come the one way and instead of realizing that everything looks different coming back the other way we thought it best to turn back around and make sure we were going the right way and sure enough we ran right back into the dead end.

We turned back around and started going back the way we came which was also now the way we left and things looked similar to the last time we turned back around and so we thought well maybe this is the right way now. Sure enough this ran right into a dead end too. Well how do you like that we thought.

We turned back around started towards what we just knew was a dead end but knew there was no place else to go and at least everything looked familiar by the time we hit the dead end again.

About the fifteenth time we hit the second dead end we thought to look left and sure enough we see a little door way where the walls didnt meet each other and so we turned down to the left. Then wondering what maybe if there was a door to the right too we went back from the way we came and turned right and everything started looking real familiar because it turns out sure enough we had just gone right back down to where that dead end was.

At this dead end though there was a way off to the right and so we turned right down it and we was walking a good long while when lo and behold sure enough there was our car just waiting right where we left it in the middle of the road and was people in other cars ever upset.

Well we told them all about all those dead ends and they could not for the life of them understand how we could be so unlucky to find the one place in this world that had two dead ends and a whole lot of confusion all for nothing.

When we got into the car and sure enough there was no key and we got to thinking about maybe if the key fell out of our pants when we were walking around all those dead ends but then we realized sure enough that there was no way we would ever have the key because sure enough this was not our car.

Cute

2009-08-31T08:57:00.002-04:00

A puppy was born today and the world rejoiced. They carried the cute creature across many lands and waters until he arrived at his new home, the Temple of the Rambunctious Cuteness. He opened his eyes that evening and through the haze of newborn confusion and religious fervor saw no teat from which to suckle. Many of the surrounding observers offered their own teats to the puppy (mostly men), but were denied access to His High Puppiness for fear their milk was poison (especially the men).

The ministers of the Temple of the Rambunctious Cuteness knew well the proper diet for the leader of all the Universe's Cuterrians and offered His High Puppiness a small plate of crickets and raw bulgar. When the puppy ate neither offering, the ministers collectively chuckled and explained to the observing masses that the puppy had never tried either one.

"Soon," they said, "His Puppiness' inexperience will be obliterated by an abundance of curiosity. Then His Puppiness will feast on this great Cuterrian feast. Shortly thereafter His Puppiness will offer us advice on how we, too, can be so cute."

Three hours later, His High Puppiness died. While the natural cause of death could be attributed to starvation or malnutrition, the ministers insisted it was the lack of surrounding cute within the Temple.

"But fear not, followers!" the ministers proclaimed, "For His High Deceased Cuteness was one of a litter of seven. Each one cuter than the last."

The recordkeeper of the Temple of Rambunctious Cuteness made a small note on the death certificate about His Puppiness' apparent lack of cuteness with relation to his litter. The note went on for several pages.

She Talks Sometimes For Days

2009-08-29T23:37:00.002-04:00

He understood her better with his eyes closed. She occasionally took to severe rambling which could last all night if the moment -- or many hours of moments -- took her there. He had learned that his eyes told too much and absorbed too little when she went on talking this way. He assured her that she looked just fine, very nice most of the time, but closing his eyes was the only way.

With closed eyes he made images of her words. Instead of her steadily rocking jaw or the pale white wall behind her, he now saw every last lettuce leaf from her lunch. Every patch, paw, and pee of the puppies she came upon. Every single syllable of her sojourns with her mother. He saw still-lifes, faces, moving images, floating words. Years of media inundation had gifted him with the ability to listen to his wife.

This practice went well -- splendidly he thought -- until two problems arose. First, he began falling asleep. It was so much easier to do with closed eyes, so comfortable. So painful when she would discover it and respond with scolding and a kick to the shin. Second, he began improving on her stories in his mind's eye. Embellishments came more easily as he listened with closed eyes. Her tales of walking from work to car became camel caravans across vast Ankharan deserts. She detailed a broken nail and he saw the first exploration of the earth's core. The chats with her mother now included dragons, always dragons. They made him chuckle. She never seemed the wiser of his practice until the chuckles came.

The chuckles were not the only telltale signs. Soon, he began remembering her life in a different order than she lived it. She had met foreign dignitaries and famous athletes, discovered rare birds and new rock forms, leaped across canyons and dimensions. Her conversations were rife with witty banter and (yes) extraordinary repartee. He loved her adventures as seen behind closed eyes. He dreaded the times when she asked him if he remembered such and such or so and so. Occasionally, she did just that. He would nod or feign confusion and lithely evade her inquisitions. Then, he would close his eyes again and make for her a life far better than the one she thought she lived.

New Eyes

2009-08-27T07:25:00.003-04:00

He looked at the world through new eyes; eyes he found at the Salvation Army beneath piles and piles of In Styles. The eyes looked large in his smallish hands, but once placed properly were dwarfed by his lollipop head and low, cro-magnon brow. Dainty eyes, he called them. Eyes to be tender by, or with, or to. With these eyes, he thought, I can begin the day with poetry and end with soft glances across candlelight.

By midday, that first day, the left one fell out and down into a sewer grate. He chased it, but was much too late. Goodbye left tender eye, and with one tender eye left, he went back to the Salvation Army looking for a replacement.

Amid the stacks and stacks of National Geographics he found a proper set, but already having a right he only took the left. Here's hoping it fits, he thought, as he popped it in its slot. Snugly this one fit, almost to popping. And off he went with a tiny tender right eye and bugged out left.

Through his new eyes the world looked soft and insane, lovely and stank, sighing and ow-wooooo-gah. A woman walked by on his right, a lady by all accounts, and smiled at him with his sweet little eye. He turned to look and the hideous left sent her straight into a run. His right eye wanted to cry and his left wanted a doughnut.

One night, as his right eye slept, his left stayed awake singing off-key about bottles of beer taken down from a wall. When the song ended, his left eye slapped the right awake, then pretended to be asleep. The right knew better, but thought better of retaliating.

All through breakfast the left eye smoked cigars and listened to sports news, guffawing at the perpetual biting commentaries. The right eye closed both from fatigue and ignominy. Soon the left eye would fall asleep on the couch and the right eye could listen to Debussy, read some Proust, admire the begonias.

He enjoyed his new eyes enough, despite the frightened looks of children, women, men, dogs, giraffes, and insects all. However, he eventually went back to his old eyes. He returned the new two to the Salvation Army, pretending to read an old SI as he popped out the left and an antiquated copy of the New Yorker as he gently slid out the right. They stayed among the piles and stacks of magazines there at the Salvation Army. Neither eye found its partner, former or new. Nobody ever adopted them as new eyes again because nobody wants an eye unless its part of a pair.

He looked at the world through his old eyes. And everything looked the same.

Away and Away Again

2009-07-20T20:39:00.003-04:00

Tonight they sing at 8PM, then on a plane by midnight. They wake up in New York and dash to the 6x10 room. Shortly after, they speed off to Rome. Good luck tracking them down. Feel free to email, call, or send up smoke signals. Some day they will stop and sit and you can find them then.

Couch Nap

2009-07-07T13:04:00.004-04:00

He once asked her if they could sell the bed and replace it with a couch. She refused, citing the cost of the bed, the comfort of the mattress, the arrangement of bedroom furnishings. He shared with her all of the comfortable naps he had had on couches -- the most comfortable, in fact. He had never heard of couch bugs, either. She still denied him. He surrendered to the eternal sleeping place: the bed.

This conversation came to mind as he stood at the top of the stairs and watched the movers toss his mattress down the stairs. The mattress did not tumble end over end as cartoons once taught him it would. Instead, it bounced slightly, then slid to a stop at the bottom. He had seen the residents of this building, stepped past their dropped coffee, scoffed at their spilled paint, wretched at the waft of dog urine (it was dog, wasn't it?). Even without a microscope, he had a good idea of what debris, fungi, and bacteria would latch onto the mattress.

Now he could make his case for a couch. No more filthy mattress, only cozy couch. His mind darted to gratitude at not having a couch to toss down with the mattress. His precious couch would have been made into a dirty stair sled. Bastards. The time of couch approached, he could feel it. Throw it all down the stairs, mover men! He cared not for the day of couch was nigh. The imagined promise of a couch so overwhelmed him that he fell asleep at the top of the stairs. No one thought to wake him, they were too busy destroying his possessions.

The Spider That Killed Thanksgiving

2009-07-04T14:21:00.002-04:00

Bright bright day

2009-06-23T19:28:00.002-04:00

So warm and sunny here, just as he imagines summer to be. Spend an hour by the pool, go for a jog, watch his hair lighten neath the summer sun. He knows the others he left behind sit at their windows watching the rain ruin their summer days, but he cannot feel bad because the summer sun is just too nice. He stretches out on the grass, watches Izzy chase a squirrel, wonders what to eat when the time comes to eat. Or maybe he will wait to eat until the sun goes down. Though that could be a while with so much sun to go around. Sorry, rainy friends, he thinks, I took my share of sun and yours, too. And yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours...

Crumbly bits away

2009-06-19T13:00:00.003-04:00

He stood still on a street that ran through the center of the town he once called home. His eye had caught something glimmer off of a storefront window, begging him to pause. He obliged and saw only his own reflection. He found very little to report at the sight of himself. A shave should come soon. And a jog. New pants someday, though no time soon. He looked whole. One being, one body, one whole person standing and staring at himself in the window of an old time photo shop. His head sat on his shoulders which led right down the torso and legs. He could hardly believe it all standing right there before him, under him, on him. Just him.

He took a last glance and moved on. As he walked the image of his whole dissipated. He could hardly remember how his neck curved out and met back up to some sort of bone and something else went down into a thing and then who knows what came after that. And his head could have been everywhere and nowhere for all he knew. It took a hefty anchor to plant that head down to a single spot. Arms, heart, legs: they all drifted their own ways. Left toe could well be gone, but he opted not to check. Every part of him went their own way.

He stopped halfway down the block and looked at the window of a shop filled with junk disguised as antiques. There again, he stood in the reflection. All of him. He held the sight of himself for a minute just to make sure it was no ruse of supernatural window-walkers. He moved on. And away it all went again.

Two blocks later and away from the stores, he found a bench just off of an expanse of grass. He sat and gazed off past the buildings, people, cars, and other assorted clutter. He wondered what glue had held him together long enough to see what he had seen in those windows. He realized he had travelled a long way to come back here. He had left bits along the way. To the south he had left knees, a hunchback, and some pride. To the east some fingers, toes, and tongue. From where he sat he remembered leaving, perhaps very near this bench he had left a shoulder and a thigh.

All corners had been left some heart. They could all keep their parts of heart he had left, he thought. Much as it pained him not to have that whole, he knew that leaving the pieces would always bring him back to the south, to the east, to the west. He stood up again and started away from the bench.

As he walked on, he felt it almost time to leave this place again. It had been home but he had other former homes and new one on the way. He had some little parts left to leave with others as he went, though he wondered how much was really left to leave. Very soon he could give all and fade away. He just had to wait and see. What a day that would be. Staring into the window of a candy shop, taffy being pulled as there he stood, just fading away.

Guideposts and Warnings

2009-06-18T01:57:00.003-04:00

A person who admires someone's "dominant submission" has no idea what they are saying and should be avoided at all costs.

River Deposit

2009-06-17T13:11:00.004-04:00

She packed up everything she owned and dumped it into the river thinking that it would free her from the onus of ownership. A world for her of zero belongings and ultimate freedom. Instead she just felt homeless and exhausted. Curious.

Last Few Steps

2009-06-17T09:04:00.002-04:00

He ran through the night hoping that peace would come with the new amber light across the horizon. His aching feet, weary back, and tangled mind drove him forward despite their fatigues and sufferings. When the end of this sprint comes, he thought, then rest with it. He labored on with no knowledge of time or distance. His only constant was the vague idea that when it was time to stop he would know. The sun would tell him.

He passed a dead squirrel on the roadside and thought for a moment of stopping. The creature should have a proper place to rest even after death, he thought. His body screamed an incoherent mess at him and he continued on. Any stop would be the only stop. To stop for this dead animal would signal his end. Soon the squirrel was miles behind him to be buried by some other straggler with more time and less pain.

The vultures had gathered above him several days prior, though it may have been a month... he had lost count in the dark, truth be told. They knew what he had steeled himself against in blunt denial: soon he would fall to rise no more. He ached to curse the birds, but his mouth had gone dry long ago. No words could escape. No vibrations through the throat. His cords may have fused together in all this time. Some days he welcomed the scavenging bastards as the only constant in his life. Others he dreamed of leaping on their backs, tearing their feathers, and biting from the flesh of their necks. Always, he continued on in spite of them.

A morning came, the sun peeked through, and he thought for sure that the time had come. He would stop. He would stand in place ready to collapse, look to his left and right, and see places of rest waiting for him on either side waiting only for him. The sun continued to rise sending first pastels across the juncture of sky and land, then rich vivid oranges, and soon the whole sky an endless blue. He longed to stop. His body convulsed. His head throbbed. He could not stop. No place of rest appeared either. Until he saw such a place he would find no rest and his body did not know how to rest on its own. So he continued on.

And he ran. And the vultures circled on. And his mangled mind screamed incoherently through the blue.

One Last Night in 5F

2009-06-14T22:10:00.004-04:00

Without curtains on the windows, the world becomes a whole lot nearer. The girls we spy on across the alley and down one floor see us staring plainly, rather than just a flitting of curtain as we dash away. A teenaged boy as big as a grown man sits on the fire escape, talks on the phone, and picks his toes: must be a lady on the other end of the line. The flicker of light across and up one says that someone is watching television. A luxury, we think, as we sold our television two days ago. Now their window is our television set. They entertain us until we need to change the channel and surf our eyes left, right, down.

Earlier today, a bird ran into the window and flapped away in a shock. Surprise Mssr. Pigeon! We took down the curtains just to ruin your day. He probably missed the air conditioner where he used to perch, but that went four days ago. Now the open window is our air conditioner.

That shape one up and to the left... is that a person? Or a bulbous something? Just a house plant silhouetted through windows, bars, and fire escape.

No faces have appeared at the windows yet, thank heavens. We can think of little worse than a face appearing, especially five stories up.

When it comes time for bed, no alarm needs be set. The sun rises when it rises and so we with it. This is our last night here with the giant windows, the squeaky floorboards, the perpetually streaming toilet, and the neighbor girls at their table with supper and laptops. We hope they (across the way) do not watch us while we sleep. If they must, at least let our faces be pleasant.

Goodnight.

Been a while

2009-06-09T16:18:00.004-04:00

The next time you see me the worry lines will be few, diminished by a string of long, restful nights. No more boxes half-packed waiting to be filled. The dishes gone with all of the furniture and excess shoes, and empty fridge to boot. The biggest day is only six away when the men come to load what is left onto the truck and stow it into a room -- our lives in sixty square feet. The next day and on a plane we go to the other side of the country. Family waits, and others. A new dog to meet. In among the clutter, a little glimpse comes through to the other side of the week. Then off into the summer and beyond.

Exhaustion could kill a man -- my dad says stress does, and too many women. This is not exhaustion, just fatigue and anxiety. Or anxiousness, rather, if it is indeed a word. It is long past time to go, but first there is waiting, an old friend. This waiting sinks in vicious hooks of nothingness as the rooms empty and the comfort disappears. The only cushion near is the bed, but spending the day there makes me feel ill. So then a long sit on the hard, wooden floor among the bags of freebies and boxes of keepers, my shoes, a power cord, and a lonely penny fallen from a basket of change. Let it be over and soon.

No more trips up and down the four flights of stairs. No more e-mails about pick-ups and discards and how tall things are exactly. No more blaring Reggaeton. No more spitting grandmas. No more Castro wandering the halls with a wafting trail of liquor. No more six-dollar peanut butter from Gristedes. No more honking gypsy cabs cruising for fares. No more hissing toilet. No more no mores.

We cannot move any more quickly than we are. Wait and wait and wait a little bit more. Try to sleep. Look ahead to the day when all is stowed and those few remaining needs are in a bag strapped to my back. The next time you see me I may need a nap, but the worry will go with it.

Sitting on a Bench in a Room Brimming with Boxes Waiting for People to Come and Take it All Away While the Days Lumber On and Rain Falls in June :(

2009-06-06T06:56:00.006-04:00

After the couch went so did the average level of comfort in his apartment. Trying to sit among the gaggle of boxes, empty shelves, and aged votive holders only made his back ache. So he stretched out on the hard wood floor thinking only of the shoes that had walked across it after walking across sidewalks soaked with dog urine. He sat up and shook off the urinary molecules, or rather attempted to shake them.

The computer chimed out as the e-mail slipped in: a response on the electronic finger stretcher. Perfect! Now he could make a swift five dollars on this electronic marvel that had cost him eighty-five only three months ago. He opened the e-mail and read: "Perfect! I've been looking for an electronic finger stretcher for months now! When can I pick it up?"

Any time today or tomorrow, he wrote, is there a time that works best for you? And send.

Another e-mail dinged its way in as somebody responded to the post about the high-density mixing bowl. "Du juu delivier diss?" the e-mailer inquired.

He had to think phonetically to communicate with this linguistic marvel. Maybe, he wrote, where are you located? And send.

The finger stretcher replied. "I can't come Monday."

Curious, he thought, Monday is four days from now. He read on. "Can you send more pictures of the finger stretcher? I don't know... will it fit on my fingers? You confused me now."

He took several more pictures of the finger stretcher from all angles and attached them to an e-mail. He wrote, the finger stretcher fits all finger sizes from gaunt to zaftig. And send.

A reply from the heavy bowl arrived. "E 256 and York. Cum 2mm.."

Um, he thought, um. This may work, he wrote, but I don't know what 2mm means. And send.

Finger stretcher seeker replied, "What year is it? Can you send me the specs on it and what you're giving me with it. Sorry to be a bother :) I am a college student. Maybe can you ship it to me or meet somewhere easier to get to? My fingers need stretching now. But I am confused because I am looking at another finger stretcher that looks cooler, but your price is better. I will still come to look. He he ;)"

Did this winking icon not even read the posting, he wondered as he retyped the technical specifications of the finger stretcher into the body of an e-mail. He wrote, shipping does not sound conducive to our situation as the finger stretcher is not very big. It was purchased six months ago, he continued, and if it's not cool enough, please tell me now so that I can offer it to someone else. And send.

Heavy bowl replied, "2mm.. Juu cm. Hau bigeg bul.."

This person may be trying to kill me, he thought.

Finger replied quickly, "Damn, that's old finger stretcher."

"I bought it six months ago!" he shouted at the innocent, by-standing computer monitor. He read on:

"Sorry to bother :0 ;) :P My finger stretched and not help. Ship it to my work and I will pick it up then. But I am confused if I want it. Mebbe just bring it to me. Ju delivier 2mm?"

Oh my, he thought, these two are the same person. He slowly reached for the keyboard.

Craig, he typed, is this Craig? And send.

He waited. No reply arrived, not that day or the next. He had unfurled the ouroboros and discerned between the mouth and head. He had exposed the madness by pinpointing the epicenter of the chaos. Craig did not want finger stretchers and heavy bowls. Rather, Craig started a list in order to drive the rest of the world into inanity and anarchy.

The computer chimed with the arrival of mail: someone inquiring about the gas-powered smoothie maker. "I like smoothies the most! How much gas does it take? ;()"

Goodbye Mr. Clark

2009-06-01T12:12:00.003-04:00

Rather.

Open Letter of Lament

2009-05-27T08:38:00.008-04:00

To: KING OF THE INTERWEBS
CC: jolly porter

Dear King of the Interwebs,

Breaking against his advice, I need to tell you that I miss the jolly porter. Announce it from high atop this fifth-floor walk-up just below the George Washington Bridge. THE JOLLY PORTER IS MISSED! I MISS YOU JOLLY PORTER!

I understand every reason the jolly porter put an end to his adventures -- now wait! The man behind the porter will have adventures on end, we will just not be reading and (often) re-reading them every couple of days or hours. I understand the reasons, but miss him all the same. He said his leaving was no one's fault but his own. I think that he saw TB and AG on the interwebs and the interwebs suddenly became passé. Also, I look fat in this and the porter only goes for phat.

In the spirit of further excruciatingly painful eulogizing, here for your enjoyment is a list.

WHAT I LOVED ABOUT THE JOLLY PORTER
by ZRZ: Space Pirate

1. Pictures of a bald man with a mustache.
2. Adventures in foreign lands that I have never been, complete with top hats and poet shirts.
3. Tales of an amazing family with more kids than I have ever met.
4. An inroad to the inspiring story of family and friends coming to aid a family in the face of great tragedy.
5. Pictures of a bald man with a beard.
6. The realization that a drama teacher in Utah leads a more exciting, jet-setting life than most everyone in the city that never sleeps.
7. The slightly perturbed look on the face of the porter at the size of the trunk perched on his shoulder.
8. Pictures of a bald man with a flower behind his ear.
9. Complaints about students disguised as essays on inclusion.
10. Lists of things to watch, read, see, and enjoy. Or else.
11. Pictures of a bald man who owns it!
12. Poetry for the sake of poetry.
13. Quick smiles on sour days.
14. Photo essays featuring a man with little to no hair and glasses that must be very good friends with the jolly porter.

And so it goes. Thank you, jolly porter. I... oh god, emotion. Let me just take a peek for old times' sake, and--

"PERMISSION DENIED
It doesn't look like you have been invited to read this blog. If you think this is a mistake, you might want to contact the blog author and request an invitation."

Just like that the locks are changed. The toothbrush removed. The stereo sold.

Then just goodbye. Goodbye.

Love eternal and creepy,

ZRZ: Space Pirate

P.S. Tell the bald man to give a call sometime. When he's not posing for photos.

Number 9

2009-05-24T10:55:00.006-04:00

The porter is gone and it took three days to find out.

Oh my.

Oh no....

The Following Five

2009-05-21T16:08:00.007-04:00

Circus and boats and enotecas and Marxes. Don't tell Devon. He's the only one that reads this.

Flawless Design

2009-05-18T22:48:00.003-04:00

I like your item very much. I want to buy your item and you will please take it off jimspost now. I am ok with the price but can only pay by postage stamps at this time b/c i am away from my wallet and visiting friends at the Lincoln, Nebraska, USA. I have sent you a money order and you will get it in 7days. Hello. Please give me your name, address, phone number, social security, shoe size, eight pennies, and pitchers of you with row of ducklings and my assistant will send you the payment. As per pick-up, I will make arrangement for pick-up it when you receive my payment. I will add several hundred dollars and a steak dinner for you holding it in my favor. It is my best item I have ever seen and you will take it off jimspost it is sold to me. I am hard of hearing b/c I can only send you money orders. Hello. Thank you. I love you. I am you. Hello.
Expecting to hear from you soon.
Regards.

2009-05-17T09:11:00.003-04:00

Yes.

Morning Calisthenics

2009-05-17T08:28:00.003-04:00

The sneaky girl thought she had the perfect heist in her hands. She believed that the afterthought of asking would cover her tracks. Her fatal flaw came from her own surprise as she noted the change of wallet. He turned quickly, anticipating the rush of sweet smugness, to tell her just how long the wallet had been changed. There she stood rifling through the bills in said wallet. He hesitated, the smugness crashed to the floor, and his left elbow jerked. He had never seen her looking in his wallet without first asking. His innocence smashed to the floor, mingling with the pool of freshly-dropped smug.

He inquired as to how dare she.

She claimed she had all intentions of asking.

He moved towards her.

She wanted to know what bills he had on hand before she asked for one so that she had no chance of being disappointed.

He told her that disappointment was a dish best served with lemon.

Just as he lunged for her, she threw the wallet into his chest, sending him into a tumbling reverse cartwheel. She made a dash, but he turned his tumble into an elegant sideways swan dive, landing just in front of the door, blocking her passage. He grabbed for her with both arms, surely one would land. She ducked and slid between his legs, leaving him hugging a great gulp of air. She stood and began a series of forward handsprings as he began darting keys from his ring at her. None met their mark, but their pinging against the living room wall startled her enough to run into the chaise. He seized the moment and dove for her ankle. Still dazed from the previous assault, she could not help but become his captive. He dragged her back toward the bedroom and swung her around like a lariat of long girlish hair and pajama pants. She cried for him to stop and he did, letting go at once. She flew through the air and landed upon the marshmallow bed.

They paused. Looked at each other.

She made an excuse.

He pushed aside the drying smug with his foot.

They ate scrambled eggs and toast.

The wallet sighed.

A panda bear wondered why he never learned Chinese.

The marshmallow bed hoped to one day become the perfect s'mores.

She asked him for the money. He complied. And the wallet. And the panda. And scrambie eggs. And the bed came one step closer to realizing its dream.

The Uneventful Middle of Richard the Ninth

2009-05-05T23:18:00.003-04:00

Eating lunch beneath gray skies on a foreign patio in a distant backyard, Richard the Ninth looked into his sandwich and noted that some areas of his deli-sliced ham were colored slightly different from other areas. He wondered if this affected the flavor of the ham, having pink portions next to faded pink next to pale pink next to white. The lettuce he had removed from his sandwich certainly tasted different and was an altogether different color from the ham. The same held true for the mustard he had carefully scraped off with a the sandwich's wrapper. If color dictated flavor, then surely the day's gray sky tasted much more bland than the bright blue sky on a sunny day. Gazing at the sky, Richard the Ninth took a bite of his sandwich and between bites decided he would prefer said bland taste of a gray sky.

Shortly after, he finished his sparsely-flavored sandwich of ham and white bread. He picked up the discarded ingredients and bits of wrapping. He took great care in removing every crumb from his area. He left the backyard as he had found it, ensuring that the residents of the house never knew their patio had been visited and dined upon by the infamous and altogether unknown Richard the Ninth. A day or so later, he found his way back to his own home and made a sandwich.

Time Tells

2009-05-04T10:29:00.003-04:00

The first thirty minutes of her day she spent lying in bed pondering the clock, questioning its honesty, convincing herself that it changed at its own whims rather than scientific certainty. When she finally made the roll over to confirm her conjecture she was relieved to find that this same battle of wills the previous morning had driven her to unplug the clock. It could not lie with no numbers on it face. But then, she thought, time continues on and the clock says nothing. Figuring that no better than lying, she quickly cursed the clock and rolled back over to shun it outright.

Twenty minutes later she wondered if the clock was sorry.

An hour later, she despised the clock and refused to ever look at it again. She nearly gave up on time altogether deciding that everyone and everything lied and any device that boasted to know the exact time at any point lied the most. This implicated time itself as a liar by association.

Two hours later she was hungry...

On a Monday Morning

2009-05-02T10:55:00.005-04:00

Lo! they will gather together in the square of kings to celebrate the sun emerging from yon forest. The gathered shall include, but not be limited to, the mastermind of Styx, the Speedwagon's maitre, multitudes of the eldest travelled forth from yon high school, we with the toast upon our fronts, a participant pair of the Great White Way, those who worship the past of androgyny and 1980s bacchanalia, and Colonel Sanders. They and we and the collected passersby shall gather with boards and signs and slogans and the shouting of woos to be transmitted across the country for one-twelfth of one day so that people may understand the true beauty of humanity. So they may finally understand all of the words to "I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore." So they may receive their free Kentucky grilled chicken. So they may listen and receive the full word of the woo! Woooo! WOO!

Opposite Snow

2009-05-02T08:01:00.002-04:00

In the warmer climes, during the warmest of months, dirt falls from above a filthy precipitation. Soot, ash, and the darkest of dust blanket the land and await the local children who run about in glee, shouting, "It's the opposite snow! The opposite snow!" Indeed, they must all keep their tongues in their mouths for these are the days of the opposite snow.

Garden Grows

2009-04-28T09:58:00.004-04:00

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

Sounding Boards

2009-04-23T07:46:00.008-04:00

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

2009-04-17T08:04:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-15T06:56:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-04-13T10:01:00.006-04:00

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

2009-04-12T08:35:00.006-04:00

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

2009-04-08T07:50:00.006-04:00

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

2009-04-08T07:38:00.005-04:00

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.

The First of Many Deaths for Richard the Ninth

2009-03-29T07:58:00.004-04:00

Richard the Ninth believed with every fiber of his being that he heard an airplane land in his bedroom last night. He awoke to find no airplane, no passengers, no signs of landing damage, and no complimentary pack of peanuts. The only bit of evidence which vouched on his behalf was an open window. Fearing that his beliefs amounted to little more than fantastical dreams, he set to fabricating a fallen airplane from the collected items in his bedroom. His pillows became fluffy wheels, his pants made up the seats, and his immense set of collectible figurines from the GoWallCo Company became the passengers of the illy landed plane. Richard the Ninth decided that he must act as the pilot. Posing as a pilot proved to be the greatest challenge for Richard the Ninth was never allowed to drive a golf ball let alone pilot an aircraft. He set to work teaching himself the controls of his homemade flight deck. Within the hour, he was taking off from the carpeted runway, maneuvering in and out of bed sheet clouds, and instructing the passengers to observe San Giacomo's Water Mine, the largest sanctified mine in all of Australia.
As he approached his final destination, Richard the Ninth realized his great error in never including the landing process in his self-made, self-taught course for new pilots. He turned to his co-pilot hoping for help, but found only a pair of tube socks with marked-on eyes. Richard the Ninth cursed his folly as his plane careened down to the ground nose first, landing in the Lapidian Sea fifteen miles from the Coast of Magonia. And there he spent his final rest, in the cockpit of his self-made plane with a host of dead passengers. No one ever found them. No one ever thought to look. Eventually, Richard the Ninth grew hungry, drifted from the destroyed remnant of plane, floated to the kitchen, and with the grace of a great spirit made a divine peanut butter sandwich.

Endangered Species

2009-03-28T13:29:00.009-04:00

The giant face-eating checkered chair monkey.

The natomian flame-topped hedgecat.

The tiny six-toed albino camerahog.

Freedom Rings

2009-03-21T08:17:00.004-04:00

People love free things. The price is low and the dividends are high. Hugs cost a person nothing but give them the soaring sensations of comfort and belonging. Complimentary hand soap gets high marks with people because it keeps them clean and healthy. Some people say there is no such thing as a free lunch. But can you imagine if someone gave you one? How cool would that be? Sitting in a restaurant or a train station or in a stranger's kitchenette and they give you your very own lunch, absolutely free, no strings attached. The sky should rain with kittens on such a day.

What people love more than free things are more free things. A free pack of peanuts would be lonely without a second pack of peanuts or a third. Or a free soda and a tee-shirt. And a car, give me the car, too. Now how am I going to carry all of this home? I definitely need a free backpack now. From that well of the one free item there must spring eternal a cornucopia of swag.

When people get those free things, it follows that the free things must be perfect. This shirt is a large, but I wear a medium, give me a medium. There is no medium, then give me another shirt. Or how about your shirt, give me your shirt. Wait, all of the free shirts are the same. This is discrimination. Give me another shirt. Do you have small? Yeah, I saw the free peanuts, but I had part of my stomach removed. I've been having problems paying my rent, so if you have any free... rent payments back there... do you?

And so it goes. Free is the best. One is never enough. This free thing had better be absolutely perfect because I paid good money for it. Now give me a shirt, your wallet, your keys, pictures of your family, your right eyeball, a free lunch, a box of them peanuts, this table, a lock of that girl's hair, and -- hey -- how about a hug? Do you have it in a small?

Crunchy Eyes

2009-03-20T11:30:00.000-04:00

I winked at her five times, adding a sixth for good graces. She yawned. Asked me to pass the granola. Passed over for rolled oats, waxy raisins, and indigestible flaxseeds, I ceased the winks, pointed my eyes down and away. The night lumbered on.

With sixty minutes between us and the winks, my eyes dry went for the blink. She mistook it a wink, yawned. Pass the granola. Another twenty past, the same eye down, yawn, granola gimme gimme. What Pavlovian eyes you have my dear.

She getting fattened on the crunch of hippie manna, I surrendered. Taped them both open for both our sakes. No need to pass the granola with the wink when never blinking can be seen. The scotch tape held too short, the gaff tape held too long. The duct tape help just right.

Funny looking face she told me I had. All to quickly my vanity took hold and anger filled up. She could never tell though because my face was frozen. Eyes open. Brow lifted. Surprised, shocked, slightly concerned were all I would ever be. For the sake of her and our granola.

And so we sat. Never blinking nor winking nor yawning nor eating until twelve days passed. On the twelfth day my eyes withered away. The tape remained. She saw my eyes gone first, stifled a laugh, yawned, asked me to pass the granola.

Family Portraits

2009-03-16T23:15:00.006-04:00

When using the latest imaging technology, I input my wife's name and this happened.

With the same process I input my name and this happened.

Following suit with the rest of the world, technology conspires against me.

Over Eggs This Morning

2009-03-14T10:45:00.004-04:00

Teamwork is for people who are not smart enough to do it themselves.

Collaboration is a genial way for people to steal your ideas.

Friendship makes it easier for your enemies to get your home address.

The Salvation Army is a cult aimed toward the expansion of the industrial military complex and the exultation of Santa Claus.

Flowers take away our air and kill bunnies.

Bunnies are responsible for overpopulation.

Marriage is a long way to get a free breakfast that you pay for a dozen times over.

Whence Conquistadors

2009-03-14T09:06:00.002-04:00

--From the New Rochelle Raconteur April 18, 2002--

   The rise of performance master and musical guru, P. Conifer MacIntosh has led many of us, not including me, to abandon all hope for a reunion of the once-popular song stylists, New Rochelle Conquistadors. Perhaps the world dictates where individuals go through biorhythms and control who they collaborate with via the weather. I attribute Mr. MacIntosh's lack of cooperation on his enormous talent and excessive hubris that should make us all proud. The rest of the Conquistadors wait in the wings, humming their harmony parts and dry-cleaning their chalecos.

   The true victims are the fans. This became most apparent during a concert in the latter part of the twentieth century. A highlight of the Conquistadors' shows has always been a twenty-five minute clogging section accompanied by only a pan flute and an occasional tambor. On this gruesome night one of the Conquistadors, who asked not to be named, clogged so aggressively that a portion of his heel shattered, blinding several observers in the front row. Rather than halting the show, the other Conquistadors clogged even harder to maintain their masculine sound. Soon, all of their poorly-crafted heels were decimated by the stomping, leaving three rows of sightless Conquistador fanatics.

   Perhaps Mr. McIntosh has outgrown the Conquistadors. Some say he has referred to all Spanish music as "salsa-fied dreck." He was once overheard denouncing all clog dancing "Spanish, Irish, or otherwise." Could this be self-loathing at the rise of a genre brought about by his own genius or an extended period of mourning for the dozens of punctured eyeballs from that fateful night? Either way, Mr. McIntosh refuses to budge. Until then, the New Rochelle Conquistadors remain a relic of the past that many of us, except for me, hope to see resurrected, buffed, and placed on the mantle of great, shiny music.

Except for Richard the Ninth

2009-03-14T08:34:00.002-04:00

The last time Richard the Ninth talked to a woman, she asked him to remove his trousers, scrutinized several parts of his body, and refused to prescribe him penicillin. Growing impatient, Richard the Ninth removed himself from her office and sat in the hallway for several hours. However, his trousers remained in the office. Due to a malfunctioning heating system, the propensity for cold in vinyl floor tiles, and a weak immune system, Richard the Ninth eventually found himself with a minor respiratory infection. He returned to the office to find another man under physical scrutiny and an even nicer pair of trousers than his own laying nearby. Richard the Ninth left the office shortly thereafter with a love note prescribing penicillin and another man’s trousers.

Watching Richard the Ninth swim is considered a felony in most states. So much embarrassment cannot and will not be tolerated. For those attempting to do so, permanent blinding can be expected as well as an immediate evacuation of ingested materials. Please do not misunderstand. As intolerable as it may be, it is not the physique of Richard the Ninth that leads to such discomfort, but rather his form as a swimmer. Such butchery of the sport should be placed in a bottle and immediately smashed.

Richard the Ninth loathes eating any food that could have belonged to someone else. He roams the aisles of stores, asking every item on the shelves whether they have been touched, eyed, prodded, groped, or price checked by any other curious shoppers. The food rarely responds. A dark day came for Richard the Ninth when he sought to outsmart the system by going into the fabled back of the store to ask for a box of his favorite cereal, a fibrous, flavorless concoction made in the Netherlands, only to find the store employees grabbing boxes and cartons and jugs and fruit from larger boxes and crates. His mind reeled at the realization that the food on the shelves of this market was touched, eyed, prodded, groped, and possibly price checked dozens of times before it ever reached his mouth. His illusion of virginal food shattered, Richard the Ninth immediately ran home. He thought maybe of fasting in protest. Instead, he opted for a more constructive route and began a small farm. He expects his first harvest in the next ten to fifteen weeks. The crop includes boxes of his favorite cereal and several jugs of Tang.

Feminine Ending

2009-03-11T10:15:00.004-04:00

Dear Kitchenette,

It has come to my attention that you have harbored ill feelings towards me for the last several years. You taunt me as I pass on the street with my friends, Fridge and Stove, whispering and snickering with your Hotplate and Cooler. You have emptied my cupboards at night while I sleep, leaving the mess for me to clean up. And for the longest time I could not understand why. Until today.

I am better than you, Kitchenette. The four little letters at the end of your name tell me so. You are smaller, less useful, and altogether cheaper than me. I bring value to a home, you belong in cheap hotels throughout the midwest. Families spend time with me everyday, they are forced to use you on road trips through Arizona. Scientists spend their every waking minutes making me better, while sociologists questions the necessity of you.

Deal with it, Kitchenette. You are inferior. You have a feminine ending. God created me first, a God named G.E. You are but a gimmick created in my image. Bow before me, Kitchenette, and quit dumping everything out of my cupboards or I will knock over your single barstool.

Firmly stated from on high,

Kitchen

The Nearer Side of Richard the Ninth

2009-03-10T22:31:00.005-04:00

Many believe that Richard the Ninth was not born, but exploded into the gentle grasp of a waiting obstetrician who still had his first baseman's mitt from his days playing with the Emerald Hills Mustangs. After a thorough cleansing and several slaps to the backside, the baby immediately soiled himself merely out of post-natal spite and pre-adolescent angst. This angst lasted through the next thirty years until a chance meeting with a woman of more than usual amounts of spunk, frivolity, and chinchilla pelts taught Richard the Ninth the meaning of the word “pragmatomaton” and left him with a crooked grin tattooed on his chest. She left without a word shortly thereafter. It took poor Richard the Ninth twelve ponderous years before he deduced that she had made the word up on the spot, taken his wallet, and never intended to get a tattoo of her own to compliment his. The angst returned, the tattoo remained.

One odd day of no significance, some time after his forty-third birthday, Richard the Ninth developed a strong attachment — some would say affection – for a pair of loafers. He found an entrancing beauty in them due to their lack of pennies, though later used this deficiency against them. He was heard proclaimed, to the groaning of millions, “They had no cents. They made no sense." From that day forward, Richard the Ninth went barefoot.

Richard the Ninth never held a throne or a crown, much less a position of authority in life. However, he did appropriate the number Nine as his own, trademarked it, and removed it from the public domain to be kept under his indefatigable control. Baseball players seethed, never again seeing an end to their games. School children bristled at never again earning above eighty-eight percent or correctly identifying the sum of four and five. Astronomers roared in disapproval for though they had already nullified Pluto, they could no longer name any celestial body after Neptune a planet -- not even Leptidion. Yoko Ono never sang again. And Tommy Tune stayed forever in his freakishly long bed. "Richard the Ninth will pay," he tapped between his sheets.

Richard the Ninth Goes On

2009-03-10T16:56:00.007-04:00

Richard the Ninth, a gem among pearls, had little sympathy for the lonely third guy. The one who stood perpendicular to his friend and the friend's girlfriend as they carried on with conversation and little consideration for the case of Lonely Third's observation, discomfort, and passive voyeurism. Richard the Ninth hoped never to be one of these Lonely Thirds and, so, avoided most all people, especially those with significant others. Furthermore, he observed very little, sought comfort everywhere, and became aggressively voyeuristic.

While the early days of Richard the Ninth brought great shame to his family, as his productive capacity amounted to no more than filthy onesies, sporadic slobber, and constant attacks of silent mewling, he had reached an age where he brought only limited amounts of shame to his family. However, on the occasion of his fifteenth birthday, he sought a model of a boat shaped like a blue whale -- in his estimation, the deadliest whaling vessel of all. Not finding his birthday wish requited, Richard the Ninth fell into a vicious row with his mother, which led to combative conversation and the threat of a return to the devious activities of his infant life. An hour or so later, his threats proved fruitless and the rebellion dwindled as Richard the Ninth found himself parched, constipated, and thoroughly incapable of pure infantilism. Still sour, he ran away from home for seventy-three minutes.

Richard the Ninth once wrestled a tiger into submission, hoping to find spiritual enlightenment. The battle lasted a quarter of an hour and brought great crowds from the world over. One man was heard to exclaim, "Not since the last time have I seen such a thing." A triumphant Richard the Ninth emerged some time later with his weakened arms raised to the heavens in exultation. Now, he thought through gasps of air, I will find an enlightenment of my spirit. It was not so. Instead, Richard the Ninth discovered a mouthful of synthetic fiber filling, faux fur in places unmentionable, and a lifetime ban from Coleman's Toy Shoppe. As an additional insult to his injuries, Mr. Coleman pinned a note to the pants of Richard the Ninth with strict instructions that the note was only to be removed by his mother. Richard the Ninth laughed knowing full well that his mother had not been able to reach his pants for several years.

Believing himself immortal, Richard the Ninth drank a whole gallon of skim milk without taking a single breath. This led to a tumble, copious spilled milk, and a mild concussion. Through the new crack in his head, Richard the Ninth's blood began to co-mingle with the spilled milk, creating a stream of pink liquid across the kitchen floor. Once he came to and observed this, Richard the Ninth deduced that he had pink blood, which explained little to him outside of his predilection for pink frosted donuts and his assumption that he was a superbeing placed on earth to frighten all other beings into submission. The latter idea was reinforced when Richard the Ninth passes out a second time and awoke in his own bed, proof positive that he had powers of unconscious teleportation.

The Earliest Days of Richard the Ninth

2009-03-10T00:24:00.003-04:00

Having an exceedingly tall mother, Richard the Ninth was not born, but rather dropped from a great height. He dangled for a time before a passerby noticed him, pointed, and proclaimed, "You've a baby 'tween your knees." As skeptical as she was vertical, his mother ignored the proclaimer and continued on her way. Later, while removing her shoes for bed, Richard the Ninth was discovered by his mother, cradled in a web of her shoelaces. She was doubly surprised. First, that she had been with child. Second, that she had not worn loafers. After a swift disentanglement, she named him Richard the Ninth and then set him in one of her shoes to sleep. He obliged.

Richard the Ninth found his early days an awful burden, terribly dull, and overwhelmingly tedious as his companions consisted mainly of crying babies. They had no sense but to cry when they were hungry, when they had spoilage, and when they craved attention, the latter being most common. Even as an infant, he found pride in never crying, screaming, whining, hollering, retching, cooing, or howling. Often he even went days without blinking for fear of the noise. Solitude and silence suited him best. Richard the Ninth was presumed dead one hundred forty-seven times before his first birthday.

Peanut Butter Ponderings

2009-03-08T15:20:00.005-04:00

Snowbelle Edition

Let's sell all of our belongings and move to a farm where we will grow boysenberries and make preserves. That is a hard life, the preserves-maker. The growing, the picking, the jars.

Or maybe we will run a general store. One day our son will take over. We will sell everything from bags of flour to bolts of fabric and horse feed. We could even have a soda fountain. Sell toys for the holidays, special toys.

I would make clothes with our daughters and the shop would sell hats. You would wear suspenders and have rolled-up sleeves.

We would have an apartment over the store for those nights when we are too overworked and too tired to go home. Our home is a mile out of town. A one story house with a barn behind it. We own three horses. What else do we own? Four cows - no we only need one. Just one for our milk. It's a lot to own your own general store and churn your own butter.

I'm spent.

Hallowed Halls (apologies to CM)

2009-03-07T08:20:00.006-05:00

How do they get under there. Creeping infestations under my skin reviling revolting shredding tissue and into my belly. It could be hunger but the pains come only when I see their faces. The faces and the click of tongue disappointment. Not living in to what they call the perfect. Scolding sight unseen. The long distance disappointment. Erring towards honesty makes it worse. They feed on positivity humility smell weakness and eat it. Hurts my back to think. Get away. Live alone in a room and get away.

She called them vampires. I liked that. Vampires with poisonous faces acid tongues infestations under my skin. Could live a whole life without knowing them but too late for that now. Give good God give good. Haven't eaten in a week without pain front back side. My arm. Oh my arm. I miss it. Give it back oh good God give it back. Poisonous ugly vampire faces peeking round to stomp and seethe and infect. Took my arm from me left me alone came back asked me where my arm went. They know how to get me back they leave me dead come back thats how they get me.

I could chew on them if I was quick. Quick and shrewd and hungry. I am hungry. Not hungry like them but hungry. Would not eat their arms for fear of infection. Look like them with poison faces acid tongue. Mouths hurt with poison tongues everything tastes like poison. No guff. Something to feed me. Stay away from them though do not feed on them they taste like poison arsenic laced with virus.

Makes no sense to chew off my arm ask for a hand come back chew off my leg tell me to run. Give a bit ask for more give more ask for most. Something still hurts. Got away something still not right. No guff. It hurts. If I could only get my arm back my feet my torso legs face. They feed on kindness honesty. Ask for it then feed on it. Cannot be gentle cannot be honest cannot be giving cannot be what they feed on. Walking meat to eat and infect.

Keep alone and keep away. Good morning all alone and goodnight all alone. Keep that way. It hurts.

Elegy for Sleeping Dogs

2009-03-04T08:51:00.003-05:00

Sugar we called her. Not because of sweetness. A black lab-collie-something-or-other mix, she had a lot of browns and blacks, with a single twinge of white on her back. A sprinkle of sugar. She could be sweet from time to time, often when we were not around. She was sweet enough to leave the house intact. Mostly, though Sugar was cold, remote, Ibsen.

Chasing did not always suit her, but occasionally Sugar could be seen dashing and leaping for novelty flying discs. We would push he bounds with her, tossing further and higher. This led to a defiant Sugar. Well aware of our schemes to send her past her comfort zone. Sugar scolded us with stillness and stares.

Where couches were concerned, Sugar was a champion of sitting. Taking umbrage at the plague of miniature lapdogs and their diminutive sits, she sat in bulk. She invaded space, kicked us aside, dominated cushions. She cared not for television or conversation. Sugar like to be scratched on her haunches. Occasionally on her sugary back. She fell asleep. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Always on the couch.

At that park, again with the flying disc. Toss, run, catch. Toss, run, catch. The rhythmic process of fun. Toss, run, catch. She jumped, she caught. We threw the disc, she returned it. And then a toss, she jumped, caught the disc between her teeth, and fell to the ground on her side. Still breathing, disc between her teeth, fast asleep. We did not know what to do, so we let her sleep. She woke up and looked at us blankly. We took her home.

We mulched together the dry with wet for her dinner. She set to, her tags clanging against the metal bowl. The pinging crunch-crunch clang cacophony of supper. We ate in the other room, having long adjusted and accepted the clanging of metal as our mealtime musak. White noise of pots and pans. Then the sound stopped. We stepped into the kitchen to find Sugar on her side, asleep in her meat mounds. We pulled her nose out of the bowl and wiped it clean. Let her get her sleep out. She woke up and denied the remainder of the meat meal.

We walked her, allowance to do her natural duty. A dog of pride, of privacy in all places, Sugar peeked around before assuming a most unladylike position. She pressed and squeezed, teetered on her toes, haunches tense. She fell over on her side, asleep, only half-finished excreting nature's call. We had a plastic bag to clean up the half-seen seen half, but what of the rest? Strangers walked past spying us with a dead, half-pooping dog. How could we explain that we have a narcoleptic dog? She does this! we could shout. But who would understand? We waited, but still she slept. So, we took the plastic bag and began cleaning up around Sugar's end side. She woke up just as we began. A scolding of silence ensued. No proud hound finds a person peering in the nether regions of puppy privacy. She never spoke of it and neither did we.

Our narcoleptic dog. In seconds, alert to a coma. Dragging her home from walks that Sugar dog. A canine somnambulist she was not. We dragged and carried and wiped food from her face. She fell on our toes, trapped our legs. Once she blocked the front door. Don't mind the dog. She's not dead. Just a narcoleptic. Always she awoke with a blank stare, scolding us for caring. Sugar. But not for sweetness.

Sleep of the Dogs

2009-03-04T08:00:00.004-05:00

My neighbor confided in me a problem that has plagued his family for the last several weeks, perhaps changing their lifestyle if proper measures are not taken. Always one to back slowly away from neighbors with problems, especially those who share them with such candor, I found myself in an escapable position wedged between the stairwell and the wall carrying nothing but my keys. At least with a bag of groceries or a fistful of barbells, I could find the excuse. If only I had learned to induce vomiting when the offer came so long ago... Instead, I was forced to listen and nod in a pantomime of interest.

It began last month when he took the family's dog, a spitfire lab-collie-beagle-terrier mix with all colors of the chocolate rainbow, to the park for an average, albeit aerobic, day of novelty flying disc fun. Toss after toss of the disc proved no challenge for this runny-jumpy dog, shaming the feeble lapdogs that infest so much of the city. Throw, run, jump, catch, throw, run, jump, catch. The further he threw, the further the dog ran. The higher the disc went, the higher the dog leapt. He felt cruel to throw the disc with such force, testing the physical limits of a dog who may have been mistaking the flying disc for bacon.

Finally, my neighbor made a colossal toss, one to spur envy in college quads across the land. He watched his dog run-run-run, jump... and the dog landed with a thud. My neighbor dashed over, terrified that his sadistic disc throws had finally done the poor creature in. He dropped to his knees and found the dog on her side, frisbee in mouth, asleep. "Can you believe she made the catch?!" he asked me, impressed. (I nodded as I peeked to the stairs behind him, imagining the number of bones I would break leaping from the third story window, and figuring that might be worth it.) He continued.

The following week, during a walk, the dog began doing its curbside business. Admitting defeat in the face of nature, my neighbor looked around in embarrassment as his dog rose up on her haunches and performed her balletic poo maneuver. Too busy apologizing for his animal's natural processes, my neighbor missed the moment when his dog fell over, mid-poo, completely asleep. Not wanting to deal with the half-excreted turd, he waited for her to wake up and finish. "It's so embarrassing, man! You know?" (I did know. Several other, smarter neighbors had walked by and the shame on my face could not be shrouded.) He continued.

A few days later, my neighbor tossed the dog's crunchy-moisty meat food together in her dish and set the dish down next to the water. She ran over and set to it, again mistaking the concoction for some form of bacon, her metal tags clanging against the metal bowl in a gluttonous cacophony. My neighbor moved to the living room to set to his dinner, which probably did include bacon, and left her in the kitchen. A few minutes later, while muting a commercial, my neighbor noticed a shocking silence. He called out his dog's name. She did not answer. ("Does it ever?" I thought to ask and would have had my jaw not been clenched shut long before.) He went into the kitchen to find his dog face down in her meat mash, asleep. "Like she was drugged, man!" (If only... ) He continued.

"So, dude," he said, undoubtedly one of the multiple Dudes in his life, "I took her to a vet and a dog psychologist and they're all telling me - dude, you ready for this?" (Yes, please, God.) "Dude... she's a narcoleptic. Amazing, right?" I nodded. It was amazing. Amazing that he could not have told me that right off and let me live the last ten minutes of my life. Amazing that canine narcolepsy exists. Amazing that my neighbor could pronounce narcoleptic. And most amazing that my neighbor watched as I fell to the ground, feigning sleep, the narcoleptic neighbor. He left me there in a heap in the hallway, one narcoleptic pup plenty for his little life.

Paper Slip Overalls

2009-03-03T07:14:00.006-05:00

A diminutive man in heavily-stained overalls handed me a tattered piece of paper with the following written on it: "Enter the awarity feeling open to completion." I thanked him and walked away, only to be chased down by the man who demanded his precious paper be returned. I obliged. He stood and stared.

"Enter the awarity feeling open to completion." Et vous aussi, mon ami.

Awarity is not a word. Agreed. How then must I enter it? Buy it dinner first? Ask nicely? Or perhaps the awarity itself must enter. Enter the awarity stage right. And so it has, now residing in my speech. Awarity abounds. Awarity all around. Awarity Jones and his Magnificent Monster Machine. As far as I can surmise, awarity means the abaility to achieve awareness. It must be a word that achieves itself in the very knowledge of itself. I know naivete means, that gets me off the hook. I know what awarity means, therefore I am it. I have entered the awarity. The awarity has entered.

Feeling open to completion. A range this could be, beginning with open and moving straight through to completion. The spectrum of feeling when a person resides in awarity. Today I feel open, tomorrow completion. Maybe a thousand tomorrows from now completion comes. Open all day and all night, the 7-11 of awarity. But no. Looking at it directly, feel open to completion. Allow the completion to come. Feel open. Be open. All day and all night. Namaste Master Big Gulp. Soon it will all be done. Thank you, Mr. Long Pants.

What sort of man wears overalls? This man. It would do a disservice to the cryptic keeper of the paper to objectify him, place him into the category of those sickly, overall-wearing mutants that emerge from their holes every nine years to deliver messages. Granted, categories can err towards the positive. Let us not forget the angelic overalls of Liliput, patron saint of farmers' daughters. Who am I to judge a man his choice of pants? Pants with built in shoulder straps, no belt required. We should all be so clever to avoid our belts without resorting to gluttony or twine. Overalls. Over all. All what? All who?

More disturbing than the overalls were the stains. What stains befall such a man? The stains of time. A hard-lived life. Lunch, perhaps. Bleachy splots mark mistakes and make me think that this little man has found his repentance passing notes to strangers on the street. Learn from him for he has lived the wrong and returned with nothing but lessons and pants. Overalls are the official pants of life's lessons. Bleach, paint, coffee, and other unmentionables mar the man's pants, announcing to everyone the slips of time's past, and he is doomed to wear them all because overalls are all-encompassing pants. The Pants Omnipresent, no belt required.

And I walked away. God is in the pants and I left him staring, standing in his stained overalls, and clutching his tattered scrap of paper, extolling truth to all who would receive it. Understand, though, awarity is not a word.

Late Entry

2009-03-02T08:30:00.002-05:00

Let us set the record straight. Since, after fifteen hours, this has become the biggest sensation since sight was invented in the late third century, let us set the record straight. Christopher Clark is eight years older than me. Mathematically, he was eight years old when I was born. Mathematically. He began his adventure four years ago. Four minus eight is four. This puts me four years ahead of him. Mathematically. You cannot make up statistics like these.

Do you enjoy math? In the last fifteen hours, I have posted twice. Mr. nearly-Dr. Clark has posted once in the last three days, or seventy-two hours. My ratio is once every seven-point-five hours. With this post, said ratio will be impossible to calculate with the ten percent of the brain available to most humans. Mssr. Clark's is once every seventy-two hours. Math, my friends, pure, unadulterated, never-failing, unconditionally loving math.

Let us dispute no more. No more. Mathematics. Yes.

The jolly porter is one of my favorite places to visit. Now I must destroy it. Or tell you to visit it every twenty minutes. So many thanks to Chrisopher Hermano Clark for supplanting enough envy in me to do this.

Please forgive this blog about blogs - as tedious as news reports about news reports, or car wrecks caused by car wrecks, or lawyers.

Christopher Clark can be found at http://thejollyporter.blogspot.com.

He Just Shit On You

2009-03-02T07:29:00.001-05:00

A MOVIE MIZ EXCLUSIVE

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were offered free tickets to a preview of the next major motion picture epic produced to control the behavior of females the world over. Jesse M. Patch warned me against attending, but upon seeing my devotion to the aforementioned wife asked that I write a review of the movie for him and him alone. I do not believe in selfish Patchantics. Enjoy, learn, watch for flying poo.

HE JUST SHIT ON YOU

In Kwapis’ He’s Just Not That Into You, our first peek at humanity shows a young boy repeatedly calling a young girl “poop.” In all forms to this boy, that girl is poop. Knowing nothing about the girl but that she hangs out in parks and looks confused as to why she is in the movie – a trend that follows for several of the performers – I could only assume that she did smell like poop and may well have been just that, poop. Instead of unveiling the mystery of whether or not this girl is indeed composed of excrement, the movie assures us that the boy only compares the girl to human waste because he likes her.

The movie’s second glimpse of humanity involves women of every walk of life comforting each other as they are “pooped” on by men. These walks of life include women at a club, Japanese women dressed like extras from the movie blade runner, and African women in the tidiest hut village this side of Santa Clarita speaking in American idioms. Welcome to the shit.

From here, Kwapis takes us on a magical journey of severely uninteresting people in Baltimore (no sign of Omar or Bubbles or Ray Lewis) pretending to be as real as you or me by flashing movie-star smiles and every five minutes or so grandstanding with soap-box speeches about how men and women relate to each other. The aforementioned magical journey, however, feels less like a journey than a gestalt of rom-com clichés butted against each other by people who believe that John Hughes was a prophet, infidelity can only be blamed on a woman’s “hotness” quotient, and that Harry and Sally were right about everything, dammit! The movie makes no qualms about its thefts, using clips of Hughes’ Some Kind of Wonderful and When Harry Met Sally’s talking head interstitials. Meanwhile, five different movies emerge from the neck of the beast to create the chick-flick hydra and the women are all treated like poop.

In one of the movie’s movies, Ben, played by Bradley Cooper, and Anna, played by Scarlett Johansson, have a meet cute involving bananas and a free cooler. Just when we see the spark of something between them, which we are later told to be a fallacy created by men, we find out that – UH-OH! – Ben is married. His wife, Janine, played by Jennifer Connelly, wants him to stop smoking, have kids with her, and be emotionally available. Instead, Ben spends most of the movie telling ScarJo how hot she is and how he does not have affairs. While sitting naked, post-coital in her bed, he tells her that he does not have affairs. And again, tells her that she is hot. Not only are the women treated like poop here, but also poop objects. Anna/ScarJo is nothing more than a device of sexual observation and participation for Ben leading her ample bosom to dominate many of their scenes together.

She's just not that into pants.

Another of the movies in this movie involves Beth, played by Jennifer Aniston, who cannot get her longtime boyfriend Neil, played by Ben Affleck, to marry her. (Ed. note: Ben Affleck is in this movie and has scenes with the character named Ben, which created a small wormhole at the screening I attended.) What is the hold-up? Neil does not believe in marriage. She leaves him, he lives on a boat, her grizzled father, played with extra whiskey by Kris Kristofferson, has a heart attack, and through a keen observation of other men, she realizes that Neil is more of a husband – in name, not in law – than any other real husband. Have no fear, though, he proposed by movie’s end and we get the rom-com movie-ending wedding. To be fair, Aniston fights a singular battle in her movie in this movie, bringing truth to her performance by appearing to actually care about the people and events around her.

In the only movie within the movie to actually invoke the movie’s title, a woman named Gigi, played by Ginnifer Goodwin (is anybody counting G’s here?), cannot for the life of her understand why men are not interested in her. No matter how overbearing she gets, calling dozens of times after a first date, stalking a man to his favorite bar, and being named Gigi, she just does not comprehend her repellence to the opposite sex. Fortunately, she meets somebody who has the opposite problem – THANK GOD FOR DIVINE COINCIDENCES LIKE THIS!! Alex, played by Justin Long, knows absolutely everything about men and women and, what is more, he is a serial dater, sleeping with whatever breasts come within ten feet, then shrugging them off as crazy women who don’t get that HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO THEM (poop anyone?). Gi x 2 and Alex carry on a platonic partnership as he guides her through her dating woes, but men and women cannot be friends. Hi, Harry. Hi, Sally. She of the multiple Gi's eventually tells Alex the truth about who he really is and why he will never be happy, causing both of them to become completely different characters in less than a week’s time. And the women think, maybe the Apple guy is in love with me. Poop on them.

Two other movies exist within the movie, but may have been trailers for other movies about movies based on books based on ideas from movies. One involves Drew Barrymore as a woman who meets men on MySpace and cannot get dates to return e-mails and voicemails and – OH TECHNOLOGY! Will we ever learn? She also hangs out with homosexuals, one of whom is played by Wilson Cruz (aka Ricky from My So-Called Life). He has a very funny line about his own aroused genitalia. The movie could have used more of him and his genitalia, mostly due to the sincerity of both.

The other non-movie movie has E. from Entourage playing E. from Entourage, but instead of being a husky-voiced manager who seems not to care he plays a raspy-voiced real estate agent who truly does not care. Through a new strategy, he begins selling strictly to homosexuals and wearing purple shirts. This one-note joke is not funny; nor are any of the one-note jokes about stereotypes. Poop on everyone, especially those in purple shirts.

Then Luis Guzman shows up. The married couple dealing with infidelity and smoking are remodeling their house with the help of “undocumented workers” led by Javier, played by poor, poor Guzman. In his only scene, he stares at Jennifer Connelly, responding with the same dissatisfaction and confusion as I experienced watching this jumbled, unfunny mess of a movie based on a book that somebody must have read once and mistaken for a different book, thinking that there was quality material to be mined for a feature-length motion picture to be enjoyed by rational, thinking people who had experienced life, talked to other people, and maybe even related to someone once on even a partially profound level. Guzman gives the best performance in this movie-based life form.

Along with the aforementioned crimes against humanity, everybody in this movie is connected in some way, sending Robert Altman into a graveyard spin, and the term “dry-hump” is spoken twice. To wit: “…with an ass that makes me want to dry-hump all day long.” “Did you say dry-hump?” Then the blonde proceeds to remove her clothes and jump into the pool naked because she believes that true love means a married man leaving his wife for her. I was embarrassed. I felt pooped on. If only I had a copy of the book to wipe myself with.

Fussy eater

2009-03-01T18:32:00.000-05:00

Last week, I stepped into a friend's home on the lower east end of the upper west side with unease coursing through me. Prickly pears in my blood stickled and tickled every organ, vein, tubule, and tapeworm -- especially Leonard, the youngest and most sensitive of my tapeworms. Finding little else to pacify myself, because conversation, interaction, and group high-fives would not soothe, I turned to the food.

Tortilla chips in hand, I scooped bean dip in abundance, pushing the first chip to its payload capacity. I eased the chip into my mouth with great care to preserve every ounce of spicy mushy bean spread. The spread - dip dip dip - worked. Satisfaction and ease sat where anxiety and resentment had so recently jigged the night away. I worked this precious treat around in my mouth, savoring the flavor, and after getting my fill, swallowed the bean dip and spat out the chip. The second chip followed the same course. Dip, careful into the mouth, enjoyment, bliss, euphoria, swallow the dip, spit the chip. And the third and fourth.

By my twelfth chip, the party's host, a bean dip genius in my estimation, saw the soiled chips littering her living room floor and asked what I was doing. Nothing out of the ordinary so far as I saw. The host's voice raised, so I shouted back and dashed away, diving beneath the couch. Much like my host, the couch did not approve and only allowed a portion of my head to enter its basement level. I stood again, yelled at everyone in the room, and made another dash for safety into the bedroom.

Alone in a strange room, I began to smell everything within nose's reach. Guests' coats, the bedspread, shoes, my own crotch. Nothing to feed me here, no bean dip pantyhose, no tortilla chip flip flops. I heard an intruder on my isolation and ducked beneath the bed, which proved to be far more compliant and, therefore, superior to that awful, awful couch. The host had little trouble finding me, my legs protruding from beneath her bed and asked what I was doing and, furthermore, what was wrong with me. Having no response, I emptied my bladder. She was not pleased.

My friend's actions confused me greatly. Why such dissension, disapproval, and rage at me? All of this was so bloody cute when the dog did it. It was little surprise then when she muzzled me, stuffed me into a burlap sack, and hurled me into the Hudson. So bloody cute.