I Rant So Far Away

11-year-old, Noah Fagalosi, talks to God.

2011-04-01T18:10:00.000-07:00

Hey God,

it’s me Noah Fagalosi.

I hope all is well with you, and you worked out that issue you were telling me about.

My mom tells me bacne is common among active men as they get older,

it really has nothing to do with cleanliness,

more with your gene pool,

and yours is divine,

so it is strange that your back is littered like a page of connect the dots.

I wouldn’t worry about pockmarks though,

you’ll probably heal as fast as Wolverine.

When I told my mom about your problem she said:

“Tell God to use benzoyl peroxide” then a bottle of it showed up on my bed.

She must be confused,

what’s your mailing address?

The other day I heard her shouting on the phone

“How in God’s name did I get herpes?”

Was she talking to you? How did she get your number?

She wont let me sleep in her bed anymore.

She said she had a “flare up” and didn’t want to pass it on.

I try not to be a jealous person but why would you give her something

and not me?

I decided to start taking the pills on her nightstand.

She said they’re only for her,

but I know that you left them there for both of us.

She was shouting your name really loudly the other day

when she brought

Doctor Solomon from temple

home after their date.

She calls him “Jackpot” and “Matzoh balls” to her friends.

I don’t like the way he twirls his long sideburns at our breakfast table.

Please get rid of him.

I know he’s not on your team anyhow.

Regardless, please look after that mongrel

Cranky Gene.

He was a good dog, but dumb as a bag of Protestants.

Let him sleep in your bed once in a while,

and forgive the stench of his drool.

Talk to you soon.

-Noah

11-year-old, Noah Fagalosi, questions God.

Hey God,

me again, Noah Fagalosi.

Thanks for getting rid of Solomon;

his curls still litter my bathtub and carpet though.

This new guy who she calls “My first black;”

he is ok.

But he makes mother scream your name so loud it wakes me up at night.

Please do something about that.

Are you both in there with her?

If so, wake me up.

You know I like fun things.

Next time I hear this, I’ll come in,

I know you wouldn’t exclude me.

Now to the issue at hand.

F-A-G.

Yes, you probably know what that means,

well I didn’t.

I had to look it up.

Google imaged it in fact.

How did you let this happen?

The kids at school have a nickname for me,

it’s really simple, can you guess it?

“Noah Fag.”

Again, I thought it was endearing

until I looked it up.

Excuse my French but:

Ta mere est une pute.

That’s right I bet you wish you hadn’t given Mom

money for French lessons now.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean that.

I know Mary is the furthest thing from a harlot.

But how could you?

Why would you give me a name like Fagalosi

knowing full right kids are cruel.

Timmy Peters called me FAG

while we were in the bathroom this morning.

He said I was watching him pee.

Cut his little dick off.

I know that’s horrible but I’m serious,

he needs to learn.

John Harrison asked me to play catch last night.

When I wasn’t looking he threw the baseball at my stomach.

I threw up, and as I did he called me FAG.

He also spit on me and told me I was going to hell.

God, please cut his little dick off.

How will he learn otherwise?

Am I really going to hell?

And finally, after soccer practice on Tuesday,

Tim Gunther thought he saw me looking at him in the shower.

He screamed “Noah the FAG is watching me shower,”

and everyone ran out of the locker room.

I was actually watching him scrub, but only out of curiosity,

I swear.

Please, please, please God.

Cut his larger than normal dick off.

After all he is a Born Again.

Thank you for hearing my prayers.

I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk about you this time,

but I’m all ears when you want to vent.

Seriously though, rethink my last name

or I might have to consider Scientology.

Thanks.

-Noah

P.S. Did the bacne clear up?

-655321

THE EBBS AND FLOWS OF ZIGGY SAWDUST AND THE TERMITES FROM URANUS

2011-02-24T16:14:00.000-08:00

Originally printed in the December 1998 issue of Rolling Stone Magazine.

It’s pit stain hot as it tends to be in Los Angeles on any given day, but as faded and fabled rocker Ziggy Sawdust pulls up to the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset just past Doheny and gets out of his 1987 MG convertible, his lanky stature blocks the sun. Coincidence? Or is the sun as afraid of this gangly, obtrusive, recluse as we are? He shuts the door as his rusty little car puffs exhaust like it’s an exact personification of Ziggy himself; he tells me later in the interview his “day car” is in the shop. He has the disheveled look of a man who was born on a bender, a man who’d drink gasoline if he couldn’t afford booze. His eyes are bright blue with distinct gray webs piercing through like the Copenhagen Chaw that fills his mouth thought it could escape through his iris. He walks with an unearned arrogant swagger and wears leather pants so tight his little rocker screams for air. This is the look of a could-be rocker; a would-have-been rocker; a just missed it kind of guy.

He puts himself in the category of “should-have-been U2” band; Shook Up! He says he is better then “almost-was Def Leppard” band; Anvil! And he says he’s inspired more bands with his 1970 debut album “Ruby Cats,” then XTC inspired in their whole career. He balks at the topic of David Bowie and wretches at the similarities between their stage creations. He cites foul play all the way. His graying mane of confused locks is offset with a red velvet headband. He walks over to me with a stuck snarl that spits at God and seems to say “Yea, I’m Ziggy Sawdust, now fuck off!” We head towards the back of the Hamlet and I let Sawdust chose the table. He dramatically pans the restaurant as if to avoid glances from his never-were and never-wanted-to-be fans, and sits at a table right in front of a wall sized poster of “Jailhouse Rock”- era Elvis Presley prancing about on his tip-top-tippy toes. The first thing he says in his Cockney accent is “Ya know I met Elvis once, daft prick he was, didn’t see what all tha’ fuss was ‘bout.”

The elusive Ziggy Sawdust, thank you for sitting down with me today. Before we dive into it full force I feel obliged to say I’m a fan; a part of your cult following. There is little written about your early life, and I’m sure the public as well as myself would love to hear about your origins.

Origins huh? Well I wasn’t bitten by a spider with Hep C or shot to earth in a crusty comet from Pluto; nothing that unique.

I was born in the rookery, aka the East End basically outside Middlesex, a nice place for prostitutes and criminals and a goldmine for Jane’s and John’s and the sorts. It definitely wasn’t the posh breeding ground for London’s elite, and I was under no presumptions as such. We was poor. There wasn’t even a shitter in my flat; I’d have to go to the communal down the hall where I learned about the ins and outs of intercourse on account of their being no god damned door on the stall. I’d stand there as some old bugger would shove his rusty knob into the quivering gash of some young twist. Seriously I’d be holding me bowels as I’d watch his ballbag slap back and forth on her diseased fanny, and all the while think, “well this is life.” That was the only upbringing I needed to figure out life had dealt me raw and I needed to use my talents to escape the filth I’d been birthed in.

Tell us a bit more about your formative years. Were there any influences or encounters at an early age that may have shaped who you’ve become?

Ahh I see, how subtle mate, you don’t want to hear about my upbringing in the Mid - you want to hear about good ol’ Davey and his life 15km south in peaceful Brixton. They all do; that’s what they want to hear. I suppose I’ll indulge you.

David Bowie and I met under artistic circumstances, both taking piano lessons from the same barmy arsehole. His lessons were directly after mine and we’d encounter each other on the regular. Yea, me and Bowie was a passing relationship, fueled by interest in the arts, and circumstance, and thievery. I’d share my drawings with him, drawings that eventually inspired both my and his future stage act and he’d play riffs for me on the pocket guitar he carried about like it was a golden nut sack. We had an understanding and an appreciation for a quarter of an hour every week.

As far as what I’ve read you two haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years, what are your feelings towards him?

He’s alright mate - just the sod responsible for me being in the gutter while he sucks sashimi off the indigenous nipples of black super models. A right twat for his thievery and a genius at the same time…if only I’d known our friendship was a ruse that would last me miserable life. Next question.

There has been hearsay, myth, and blatant lies floating around about the origins of your name ever since you emerged with accusations towards Bowie. What’s the real story?

Right, well, that’s a real simple and clear-cut case, mate. I was born Ziggy Martin Tommelson February 8th, 1947 just outside of Middlesex, as I stated before. I came screaming out of my mothers gash a slimy rock n’ roller from the start.

As a result of my mother’s indecent excursions with the opiates and my fathers pre-occupation with creating shit for shit men in his woodshed behind the shack we lived in, I wasn’t born in a hospital. I came sliding out onto his workbench, right into a fresh pile of sawdust to make for a soft landing and the like…guess we was out of blankets that day. I looked like a midget sandman, as I rolled around sticky afterbirth clinging wood chips to my naked body. The neighbors reported the screams I echoed were so evanescent, they wanted to get my little claws to sign a record deal right then and there. My parents stifled me though; they didn’t see my God-given talents and resorted to calling me “Sawdust,” as a result of the pile I was born in and the importance they placed upon my being, which is to say quite obviously, not much.

Growing up I couldn’t help but be obsessed with the nickname. It was shrouded in animosity and contempt because I was another lousy mouth to feed. It ate at me for years, but eventually grew to define me. If my parents saw me as sawdust, I would show the world that powdered wood was the mutt’s nuts. From that realization on the 13th year of my existence and forevermore, I went by Ziggy Sawdust. I would create characters and the like in my notebook of what I aspired to, and I’d sign them all glam and proper in my newly penned name. That bugger Bowie would sit amazed….little sparkles going off in his starman eyes as I’d create my new persona, and it was a right cock-up that I ever shared it with him. If I had known all these years later I would be the one fagging for him, then things would have gone differently, you can rely.

Tell us more about why you believe Bowie stole your image and just when the inception of this idea happened.

I just told ya, he’s a prat, stole it from me in our piano lessons. Are you daft mate? Anyway he is a smeg - no he’s less than a smeg. I showed him Sawdust in privacy, I thought he was one to be trusted, but instead he stole me from me right under my own nose. Is it a coincidence Ziggy Stardust is so close to Ziggy Sawdust, a man from Uranus sent back to help earth during it’s last few days of existence? Christ the names are nearly fucking identical….so Stardust is from another planet and dressed a bit more fruity pebbles than myself - he’s a thief. Uranus is fitting for me though, since it’s a commentary on the stinking hole I was hatched from. I haven’t seen ma and Pawdust in nearly 20 years and it’s been better than the 20 before. I don’t want you to get all analytical on me and start scrutinizing my past though. They’ve done that before; they’ve all done that before, and that would be the end of this here sit down.

Ziggy Sawdust- Spaceman

1972

Amongst the cult group of fans you have, you are known for your outrageous stage shows. There is a striking resemblance to Bowie’s stage shows in them. How do you explain this?

I see you’ve done exactly no research at all into my personal history mate….I appreciate you taking the time to waste mine. You’re just another Bowie historian looking to crush the myth and the man behind his successes.

Well how is this for striking resemblance? I debuted my stage show Ziggy Sawdust and the Termites from Uranus on January 9th, 1972 at the Tabernacle in London. That is almost a whole month to the day before Bowie pranced out on stage at the Toby Jug Pub in Tolworth appearing like a gothic lesbian hooker. Do the studying professor - look it up on microfiche at the Rock n’ Roll library, consult a paper or two. I was getting write-ups about my extravagant stage show days before his was blowing up across the nation.

As for specific similarities in our act, just look at the facts. I gave actual oral sex to my lead guitarist Ron Braxton on stage during our first show. What did Bowie do? He simulated oral sex with a guitar….save it for the cheap seats mate, go home if you ain’t got the yarbles. I stripped down nude and wrestled stacked females on stage; Bowie just put on some knickers and pretend-fought like one of those large asian wrestlers with their pants shoved in their crack. I threw wood into a chipper and blasted the audience with the dust my name was created from. Bowie spattered glitter around like a tired Johnson during sloppy seconds. You be the judge.

Tell us about your latest record “The Man Who Shaved the World,” - is this meant to mock Bowie, or is this a serious album?

It’s a good album. This is not a ruse ya twat. If Bowie can chase my career and create a life of candy corn for me as he swims in mars bars then I can surely answer back. “The Man Who Shaved the World” was an album I created while I was on the road literally shaving the world.

I wanted to do my part and give back to the world that rejected me; prove to them I’m not the selfish man they pegged me for. So I went to the worlds greatest third-world countries like Israel, and Africa, and that place with the leader who’s name sounds like dong, and I did my relief work. These people are poor - what’s one thing they can’t afford besides food and shelter? It’s fuckin’ steel blades, razors mate. So I went to these places and I shaved the Yahuda’s beards; I shaved the scraggly beards on those dark saronged forest folk; I shaved the thin hairs on the rice lovers chins….I shaved the worlds beards. Cleanliness is unparalleled and I was trying to do my part. You know the #1 breeding ground for insects, bacteria, and mites? It’s long, scraggly, stringy bloody beards and it’s a serious problem. So this album coincides with my journey with songs like: The Width of a Mustache, Growing Hair Blues, Naked Face Rock, and my personal favorite She Shook Me Bald. These are rock ballads about literally saving the world from it’s own putrid, diseased hair.

David Bowie recounts that you two did interact in the early 60’s but denies anything beyond an acquaintance. When was the last time you two encountered one another and what’s the full story?

Fuck, it’s been some years now. He avoids me like I’m a rat during that one plague. What’s it, Bubonic? Whatever, if I’m the damned rat, mate, then he’s the flea clinging to my hairs and spreading the disease.

That’s right, we was creative acquaintances sharing childhood dreams with one another. I never said we was friends or best mates - just that we knew each other and he stole and manifested my livelihood. Last time I saw the Thin White Crook was at my local church, Our Lady of Sorrow, when I was home for the holidays in December of 1980. He was there raising charity for some small organization or something; he wasn’t shaving beards though, that’s for sure, just raising money by appearing somewhere. A half assed ploy, if ya ask me.

After the sermon, Bowie hung around to speak with his local fans. I waited in line to confront the prick after all these years of trying to track him down, and when I got up to the front, he looked me up and down said “Nice getup, now here’s a true fan,” and then he preceded to ask me who he should make his John Hancock out to. I told him “It’s me, it’s fucking Ziggy, ya bloody faker, take your Hancock out and let’s measure.” So I whipped out my flaccid meat and placed it on the table. And he looked me up and down…I saw the recollection and fear in his eyes…and as his security locked arms and started to drag me away, I managed to blow a load of sawdust in his squinting eyes. There was little more seen of Ziggy Stardust after that incident. He went on to create other characters, and of course we all know the fame of his later career, but it appeared I had won. Though, people continued to look at me as a copy rather than the original. And I got a lot of shit for taking my pecker out in the Lords House, but nothing else got through to the dense celebrity he’d become. Everyone thought I was the fake…. they thought I was Andy Warhol, when I was really the fucking soup can.

What’s next for Ziggy Sawdust? And do you still have hope for you and your career? Why not try a different image at this point in the game?

Are you for real, ya suit? Are you really asking me this?

At this point in the interview Mr. Stardust becomes enraged and gets in my face. He lumbers over the table and stumbles towards me as if to swing. Instead, he swipes up his rocks glass, takes a small sip, and launches his Canadian Club at my face, cubes and all. He puts on that famous snarl, kicks over his chair, and storms out of the restaurant, but not before doing two things. On his way out he throws his empty glass at my back and shouts across the restaurant: “We are all copies of something…you’re just a writer, you’ll never be Hemingway.”

And I suppose he is right; I’ll never be Hemingway, and he’ll never be David Bowie - the most we can hope is that we are the most original versions of those we are overshadowed by. There’s one thing you can say about Mr. Sawdust; he is an angry rocker with unproven talents who may or may not be the inspiration for David Bowie’s, Ziggy Stardust. At the very least, he is a colorful character that skirts around the spectrum of pop culture. He so violently skirts around the skirt that is pop culture that we should all charge him with statutory rape for licking all of our innocence raw. Yet there’s something intriguing and dreadfully positive about a man who won’t quit. Perhaps he plays with all of our morbid curiosities, as we wonder just who in our lives we’ve encountered and inspired to greatness.

-655321

Peter and Tim

2011-02-01T15:20:00.000-08:00

Tim was 15 when he met the love of his life.

Peter was 33 when he met his.

They happened to be in the same tiny Huntsville diner, on the same gravel street, sitting at the same maple syrup covered table, both having an accidental conversation about the crispy, salty joys of bacon when love struck.

They didn’t arrive together, nor did either of them intend on sitting together. In fact the table that accommodated their fortuitous encounter was empty and unused for three whole days before they warmed its lonely seats. Table 11 at the local eatery was notoriously the worst table in the place; it was a staging slab for waiters to get their bearings before shuffling their piping hot dishes of pigs feet, or beef hash, or buttery grits to tables two, four, seven, nine, and everyone’s favorite: table five. 11 was a table with two wobbly leg and stains so thick they couldn’t be chiseled off with a razor blade. It was said to be made of layers upon layers of cheap impressionable balsa wood with only a thin pine top layer and a wax and shellac finish to disguise it’s shoddy craftsmanship. All the other tables were constructed from Ironwood taken from the most stubborn tree in the forest, the Ebony Tree. 11 was a table in desperate need of repair and a table only used on Sunday mornings after church when the influx of locals was at its most resplendent that it necessitated the use of a menial dining station. The waitresses would sometimes seat travelers and businessmen at the inferior table causing the locals to snicker amongst themselves because surely the wobbly, dirty, wood square promoted inferior conversation and an inferior meal as well. The table was so notorious at the diner in the bustling town that “table 11” became an expression, a local phrase slipped into everyday rambling which only the locals would understand. They would use it when talking business, such as: “hey don’t pull my leg and give me a number 11, when I am asking you the honest to God truth,” or “Charlie I ain’t going to the dance with you, why would I go with table 11 when I can go with the captain of the football team?” The table was an eyesore to say the least and surely not an appropriate place for such a serendipitous first encounter.

Tim happened upon the diner on that unseasonably warm fall day due to the intense post-football-practice-hunger of his inappropriately matched friends, Greg and Nicky Meadows - local star athletes, twin brothers, and class dunces. The boys matured much faster than Tim and often teased him about his lanky frame, soft cheeks, and flowing wheat colored hair. Tim didn’t mind though, he knew as other local teens knew, Greg and Nicky Meadows would stay in Huntsville their whole life, probably work on their fathers farm, have children much like themselves, and retire never having cared or lived up to their full potential. Alternatively, Tim would go to College and he would live in one of the big cities on the coast and he would continue to set goals for himself, constantly striving to be better as his potential would increase with his achievements. His ambition for himself was to mock the shelf life of a fine wine. Tim prided himself on his ability to focus and retain details others would overlook or simply find uninteresting. These were the precise skills he was currently using to excel into all AP classes at Grisson Virgil High School. This was a feat that Tim found particularly easy, and felt it could only bode well for his future endeavors. He never understood how he had maintained his friendship with the Meadows past their initial introduction at age two in the daycare center at Huntsville Memorial Hospital where their mothers worked the noon to midnight shift. As two year old Tim sat in a corner and put the finishing touches on a fire station built from outdated and worn Lincoln logs, the Meadow boys, in a roughhousing haze fueled by shot-gunning a 12-pack of Strawberry Kiwi Capri Sun’s, threw each other sidelong into Tim’s architecturally sound little building. To Tim’s chagrin they destroyed every log like oblivious, adrenaline fueled, toddler Godzillas. Tim was not one to hate or discriminate and the boys were no exception, he felt obliged to accept their sincerest apologies and indulge them as they insisted on using their Neanderthal-like little hands to re-construct that which they had obliterated.

 This was the start of a relationship that was fueled by juxtaposition; Tim would paint a canvas of a peaceful stream and the Meadows would drown bugs in his oil paints. Tim would rehabilitate crippled animals he would find in the wild; the boys and their pump action bb gun were responsible for putting them there. Tim tried out for theater; the boys fell into football. Tim had never had a girlfriend; the boys had gone through nearly half the school, including two teacher aids during their 7th period gym class after being provoked by their football coach Mr. Fresco. Tim helped out at the Cedar Creek Home for the Aged, and the Meadows drove a few lucky octogenarians to senility with calls of “Old Bag,” or “Old Fart,” or “You’re more rickety than table 11.” Though for better or worse the three boys were bonded. The Meadows looked out for Tim and Tim told others of their often hidden soft side. He assured teachers, mail men, the local preacher, even the boys parents that they weren’t quite as cruel as they seemed. It was a friendship fueled by outsiders misunderstanding; nobody quite perceived them for who they really were. And on that specific Tuesday the Meadows and Tim entered the diner high off of 100 meter dashes, Redbulls and high school theatre respectively. Greg gave Tim a gentle yet annoying shove as they entered and Tim called him a freakish oaf, this was their relationship. The boys nodded to the day hostess Jenny and took their normal seat at the clean, pristine, and lucky table number 7; this had been their usual table since grade school only to be left for table 9 on particularly popular Sundays.

Peter went to Bluegrass diner every Tuesday to work on his writing, (usually fan fiction for defunct tv show Northern Exposure that he managed to get published in the local paper), but on this particular Tuesday he was meant to meet a client who never showed. Usually Peter met his clients on Thursday afternoons, but this high profile customer, (the mayor!), had requested a Tuesday meeting to accommodate his already scheduled Thursday bowling league. Peter would write on Thursday this week, he was nothing if not agreeable. He preferred to meet his clients at table five since it was closest to the restroom and a sensitive bladder was one of the many faults his father’s line of genealogy had blessed him with. Table five also overlooked a small oak tree in the front of the diner and was off the well-treaded path of the main aisle. It was quiet enough to hear his clients discuss their W-2 and the misplaced receipts from the money they donated to charity, but noticeable enough that service was prompt. Peter had misplaced the mayor’s number and decided, knowing full well that the mayor had a tendency to make people wait, that he would hold his table for 45 minutes before dismissing the meeting as a wash. He ordered coffee from his normal Tuesday waitress Tammy and sat nervously tapping his foot, this was his third cup of coffee today. He looked like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop in a room full of barefoot people; antsy to say the least.

After a good thirty minutes of waiting Peter decided his guest wasn’t going to show. He took out his notebook, asked Tammy for a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon, and was then perplexed with the question of what to eat. He thought of the other gift his stoic and emotionless father had blessed him with: high cholesterol, and he weighed rocketing blood pressure against the thought of chewing on wilted lettuce and shreds of carrots much like a frail rabbit. He’d been waiting long, he’d had oatmeal for breakfast that day, he’d taken his medicine already, his wife wasn’t here to monitor him; what the heck. He asked for two flapjacks, a pad of butter, two eggs over easy, and three pieces of crispy country bacon. He sat and salivated at the thought. As he begin to jot down musings on the joys of southern life two rambunctious hulks followed by a lanky and reserved teen entered the restaurant. They were seated two tables down from him in what he overheard very clearly was their normal spot. As he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to get much work done with thing 1 and thing 2 shouting from their perch, he wondered if there was a record in the Guinness book for fastest consumption of bacon and eggs. Peter made brief eye contact with the quiet boy and when it was returned he looked away immediately; if Peter was annoyed by his friends he surely didn’t want it to be obvious. He looked up again and the boy gave him a sympathetic nod that read “please don’t blame me for my dogs behavior.” Peter smiled and looked back down at his notebook, he decided not to judge this young man by the company he kept.

Of course society frowned on the mere interaction let alone a romantic love between an adolescent boy and a mature man of no relation, but fate is fickle and works in devious ways. It didn’t happen like you’d think, there were no predatory advances from Peter. In fact Peter was a perfect gentleman. He was the town treasurer for four consecutive terms. Paul Bishop challenged him once in the fall of ’07 preparing himself for a long, heated, turbulent, debate only to be swept by an 85% margin. Peter was the kind of guy who would mow his neighbors lawn because he already had the Craftsman out. He was the kind of guy who would let you have the parking spot at the grocery store if both your cars happened upon it at the same time. He was not a pushover, just a generous kind man who didn’t see the point in rushing through life. This was exactly the sort of thing his wife Nancy had at first loved about him but eventually came to loathe over the course of their ten years together. She wondered why Peter never got around to painting the family room like his brother did for his wife. She wondered why he had worked for the same accountant firm since she’d met him and never even entertained the thought of going off on his own. She even wondered why their routine in bed had become so routine she was able to make full detailed mental lists as to where she wanted to send their three year old daughter to preschool. She couldn’t find particular fault with Peter; he was a good father, a good provider, and a generous man, but she had stopped respecting him. This one thought ate at Nancy all day long and the more Peter tried to correct himself, to be bolder or more brash, the less Nancy cared about making their relationship work. As the situation escalated Peter began to enjoy his time in the office, at the diner, or alone time with his daughter more and more. Nancy was someone he still loved but no longer understood. They had met at Ohio State their sophomore year of college and hit it off instantly. Coming from similar backgrounds and both having an interest in the arts, (a major they both switched out of their junior year), their attraction was undeniable. College was a time to reinvent oneself. Little did Peter know that back home in Indiana Nancy was known as the “Harlot of Hebron,” and little did Nancy know that back in Kentucky, Peter was known as “The Dork of Danville.” He was a quiet boy who floated through life with books as entertainment, a mother who was a mute, and a father that never took an interest in him. Peter only now started to question whether people could be right for one another for allotted amounts of time. Were there expiration dates on relationships? This was a thought he often tried to work through in his notebook during the long hours he spent away from his home. No conclusion had been reached yet.

Tim couldn’t help but feel sorry for the clean-cut, bookish, man that sat two tables away from him and the Meadows. He knew how off-putting their behavior often seemed, and he felt horrible every time they so obviously disturbed someone. He tried to send looks of apology his way, and received shy glances back that said this strange man understood he couldn’t leash his dining partners. It only occurred to Tim after he had ordered an orange soda and a turkey club, and after he and his buddies were munching on fried okra that the man who kept giving him sidelong glances was none other than Peter Tearney, the town treasurer. He’d seen him at town hall meetings when Professor Grant offered extra credit for his AP American History class to attend. He’d seen his face plastered on yard signs when he was up for re-election. One wouldn’t go so far as to call him a town celebrity, but he was slowly making his way up the D-list.

Peter couldn’t understand what was taking his food so long. All diners specialized in breakfast, he hadn’t asked for turkey potpie, or chicken Marsala, or even Blue Grass’s special Pineapple Spam burger. This was bacon, eggs, and pancakes, it was like warming up a pop tart for any short order cook. Nonetheless his stomach continued to grumble. The only thing distracting him from his hunger was the game of “look and look down” he was playing with the young man two tables from him. He felt as if they were on the same level, like if his two giant counterparts weren’t there they would be sharing an intellectual conversation about foreign policy. Sure their conversation may start casual with a simple how’s the weather but they would instantly share a rapport that would lead them to commenting on the immense cumulonimbus cloud structures that had struck their town as of recent. The same clouds that brought intense rain and thunder which threatened to flood through the streets wiping out the small community forcing them to start from scratch like a modern day Noah’s Ark in a town-wide deluge. But his hunger consumed him, so he decided, even though it wasn’t in his character, he would take action. He looked for Tammy’s familiar crooked smile and peroxide blonde pixie cut, he even tried to wave one of the newer waitresses over. No success. They must literally be strangling a fresh pig for him he playfully thought to himself. Only upon a thorough gander around the diner did he spot two lone plates sitting on the crooked staging slab that was table 11. He put on his glasses and stood up to get a better look. Sure enough a plate with two pancakes, crispy bacon, and two large farm fresh eggs stared back at him like two giant sunny nipples.

Where the hell was Tim’s food? The twins had already consumed their massive, bloody, bacon blue-cheese burgers and moved on to rhubarb pie, but he hadn’t even received his meal. He sat there patiently as the twins played bloody knuckles in between bites of fruit and cream. This had been going on for some time and Greg’s knuckle had already popped releasing a flap of thin skin that hung like the plastic peel on the top of a cup of yogurt. Nicky’s knuckles had already bled over and started to scab but they continued to pound at each other like there was a pot of gold in the center of both of their palms. Tim looked around the diner, hoping to get someone’s attention. He glanced over to the man he now recognized as the town treasurer but he was no longer there. His notebook and briefcase were still propped open on his table, but where was he? Tim stood up to try and track down their waitress; he had never waited this long for a sandwich before. He walked towards the kitchen and saw Peter sitting at table 11; nobody sits at that table. Across from his plate of eggs was a perfect, fresh looking turkey club next to a heaping pile of steak fries.

“Is this yours?” Peter inquisitively asked. If his food had been left in the trenches perhaps this young mans had as well.

“Yea, I think it is, just left here huh?” Tim picked up a fry and eagerly crunched on it.

“Guess they just forgot to run it, this tables practically invisible to them sometimes.” Peter added.

“Mind if I sit,” Tim forwardly asked “I don’t want to get blood in my food.” They both laughed as they looked at the twins smashing their fists together and wincing with pain. Tim sat, and Peter settled into the booth further.

“Name’s Tim,” he confidently pronounced.

“Pleasure, I’m Peter,” was the retort. But Tim knew, he’d seen his face plastered all over town throughout his childhood.

Perhaps they would discuss clouds today; maybe they’d discuss a foreign conflict. Who knows what fate had in store for a love between a 33 year old man and a 15 year old boy. Maybe theirs was a relationship with an expiration set at 30 minutes, or maybe it would never expire quite like the always-fresh Twinkie. Either way both men were happy to speak to someone with something to say, to sit with someone who wanted to learn, and to eat across from someone who wasn’t shouting obscenities and beef patty into their face. The connection between them was evident and maybe people stared, or maybe nobody looked at them at all. Perhaps their meal was held at a dining station that was quite like a black hole sucking the small towns dirty secrets into it. As Tim picked at the bacon in his sandwich and watched Peter pour ketchup on his eggs he felt obliged to say, “So this is table 11 huh? It’s not so bad.”

The Sleep Cycles of Green Tea

2010-11-30T17:43:00.000-08:00

The circadian rhythm of my body is off.

Watch the tea bag dangle and twirl about itself,
winter washed fingers twist the thin white thread.
Puddles circle outwards as the bag hits the water;
they hit the barrier reef.
Can it sense this joy?
A short lived half hour depending on the sips.
Like dipping your lower half into a
continuously draining jacuzzi.

My eyes droop,
I cant remember thoughts anymore.
My muscles feel weak,
I can’t support my own weight anymore.
Should I sleep?
Or dangle this tea
above the yellow water
and know it craves a bath.

It won’t submerge, for fear of getting its hair wet.
What’s so bad about the bottom of a cup?

Awfully cowardly for something that’s attached to a string.
How many times has it ever drowned?

A bag without a string, that I can understand.
I’d be more apprehensive about soaks if I didn’t have arms.

And the worst part? The ever-draining cup.
Just where does the water go when the mug tilts?

They come packaged, sealed tight.
They live in water, boiling hot.
They’re left alone, just soggy leaves when the water drains.
Like fall.
Then it’s warm for just one second.
Warmth like pissing oneself which then turns into
Just
A
Frigid
Odor.

What then of the short life of a bag of tea?
One bath and then a moist cold eternity of uselessness.
I rather stay in the warmth of the womb then.
Keep me in my packaging if that’s what life holds.

At least then I can sleep,
and dream,
and safely bathe without a string,
gently bobbing around with potential.
And when I’m ready,
perhaps I’ll grace you.
Or continue to bob around untested,
never leaving the warmth and security of
a tin of tea.

-655321

The Childish Endeavors of Emily Sue

2010-10-25T14:51:00.000-07:00

Little Emily Sue was only but two,
when off with her finger she decided to do.
It hung from her hand, vein and tendon unleashed,
after cauterizing the wound, the bleeding it ceased.

She looked at her palm happy pinky was gone,
with the pain dying out it was time to move on.
She sharpened her knife with childish glee,
after placing pinky on mantle for all to see.

Emily Sue with crayon and paper in hand,
sat down by candlelight and mapped out her plan.
With ease and great pleasure and taking good measure,
she walked up to her mother and eyed her next treasure.

The innocent child handed over her art,
it went up on the fridge, the parenting part.
“Can I help you with baking,” she asked of her mother,
“I'll be quick with my hands and won't be a bother."

Emily watched as her mom chopped an apple,
she giggled and laughed at the thought of the grapple.
She took a small knife and slid from the counter,
and down with her fell her mothers right pointer.

Her mother stood shocked and let out a scream,
with red leaking out and polluting whipped cream.
Emily looked pleased and grabbed at the finger,
off to the mantle with treasure don’t linger.

A devious smile spread from right to left ear,
as she went to the shed before father could hear.
Her father he worked alone in their shack,
tinkering at cars to get his youth back.

She slid up to poppa and said with a grin,
“Daddy may I watch, you won’t hear a pin?”
Her father agreed and grabbed at a wrench,
she looked at his hand and hopped on the bench.

He tightened a nut and worked at a screw,
the timing was right and Emily knew.
He reached for his cup for a sip of his drink,
and lost his ring finger before he could think.

He let out a yip and she ran from the scene,
back to the mantle she had cut it off clean.
Her mother and father so tense with fear,
shouted for Emily “Where the hell are you my dear?”

They stumbled about mad, like lumbering giants,
rags covering their wounds inflicted by the defiant.
Emily Sue went and hid with the job almost done,
not realizing the trouble, only reveling in fun.

She crept up the stairs as shouts echoed below,
tiptoed to her brothers room and up to young Joe.
She looked at his face peaceful and small,
then down at his fingers she wanted them all.

That isn't the plan, now lets not be greedy,
only take the one, save the rest for the needy.
She slid out her knife and hummed a light tune,
sharp blade through his finger and out of the room.

The blood it did spurt but only for a minute.
his little body was tough and able to fend it.
She held his middle finger and skipped down the stairs,
right into open arms and her wildest fears.

Her mother and father with knife in hand,
held her down hard and took a stand.
With a dull pocketknife they stabbed at their daughter,
not realizing how or what this taught her.

When she awoke on a red mound of carpet,
she felt a great pain and started to vomit.
She looked at her palms and saw they were round,
her fingers were amputated, the stubs whittled down.

She looked at the mantle and started to smile,
there sat 13 jars, they’d been there a while.
She examined them closely and hummed a light song
all their fingers there floating, her plan hadn’t gone wrong.

She went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner,
her family welcomed her in with smiles and vigor.
She looked at their wounds and looked at their faces,
no hard feelings revealed from the day; no traces.

She looked to the fridge and at the scribbles of crayon,
she had etched all the fingers, this had always been her plan.
As she got older she never missed these thirteen,
for they were on the mantle and always meant to be seen.

-655321

Victor and the Drain of Possibilities

2010-10-15T18:20:00.001-07:00

Victor squeezes a handful of Barbasol into his open palm, he rubs his thick calloused hands together and runs them over his clean bald head with precision, like icing a beige cake. He looks into the mirror staring past into the dark invading green surrounding his dilated pupils. He gets lost in the circular forest searching for answers as if the next step in his routine task has somehow deceived him. He glances at the taut skin covering his cheeks and nose, admiring how very few blemishes and imperfections he has at nearly 50 years old, and quickly wonders if in another life he could have been a model. Nothing extraordinary really, just magazines or a commercial or two, but could it have happened? Are we as in control of destiny as the self-help books collecting dust by his bedside let on?

Victor turns on the hot water and his gaze fixes as it goes from an erratic drip to a steady stream. Steam permeates from the tiny waterfall as droplets bounce off the silver plug exploding like little crystal meteors landing in a nearly invisible Pollock on the unpolluted porcelain. The drain is a wormhole, an expansive stretch in time he wishes he could jump down. As a child he remembers reading Alice In Wonderland and wishing there was a pill that could shrink him down much like the fictional girl allowing him to dance in and out of peoples lives unnoticed. As a young adult he went in search of such a pill but what he found never shrank his physical being, only his perception. As a man he’s given up hope that such an escape exists, yet whenever the water is on he takes out the drain and stares into the darkness. He still wonders if it holds possibilities. He thinks of his regrets. He wishes he had studied Physics in college, he wishes he had gone to college. He wonders if it’s too late to live a life much like Einstein, is there an age when the creative and mental possibilities cease? If he wrote a letter to Stephen Hawking, would he find a way to respond? Perhaps he’d send a well thought out Podcast through the mail.

He opens up the sterile medicine cabinet leaving an oily thumbprint on the bottom left corner of the mirror. Without looking at its contents his fingers navigate towards a shimmering silver straight razor resting on the bottom shelf. He grabs the razor by its sharpest edge with ease, and closes the cabinet. This is part of the routine. While setting the razor down on the perfect glossed white sink he notices the thumbprint, a dried disease on the pristine glass. The razor pokes his pointer finger as he reaches for a tissue to clean the smudge. He doesn’t wince or let out a noise, you could hear a pin made out of feathers drop on the carpeted floor of every room in his home. Never leave a trail- that rules been ingrained, nothing he needed to institute in his own home but an obsessive intricacy from work he’s somehow taken with him after hours like homework.

Staring at the small red bead rushing to the surface of his finger he watches as the blood spreads, now the size of a ladybug. He wants to tell this little lady to flutter her wings and fly away as fast as she can, if she knew what was good for her she’d leave and take solace underneath a flower petal in the park. He’s afraid she will wait too long and dry up, she’ll be stuck to him, stuck with him; its happened before. After all his hands were guilty of everything, they told the stories of a past he’d like to lose down the drain of possibilities. Their complexity reminded him of his own wrongdoings as well as the wrongdoings of an entire culture. He would often sit for hours staring at them, wondering if he’d miss them if tragedy struck in the form of a rusty machete. He’d seen TLC specials on phantom limbs, would he still try and clench a can of Coke even though his fingers were long severed and forgotten? Victor watches as the blood breaks from it’s perfect circle and follows the detailed patterns and life lines on his pointer; much like veins taking blood away from a failing heart, like ants following trails in a cheap plastic ant farm, like painting with watercolors on a sheet of brail. Victor concentrates on his finger too long. The blood dries up, and he looks uncomfortable like a man at a funeral for someone he’s pretending he didn’t know.

Victor recounts a tiny dark room; it’s long been abandoned. The only light illuminating the sparse dwelling is moonlight tearing through the roofs of two buildings across the way. He thinks it could be a room in a motel down the street from his childhood home, but he knows that isn’t true at all. There is a small twin bed in the far corner and a dusty Admiral turntable sitting on the nightstand separating the bed and the lone window. The record player is on but the needle loops around the outer rim continuously like it’s stuck in an unsolvable labyrinth. Victor wishes Johnny Cash was playing, he can almost hear Willy Nelson crooning something about Laredo but he doesn’t, it’s silent. He looks to the floor and sees his dark leather boots shuffling across the uneven rotting wooden floorboards. He gets down on the ground and sniffs an off-colored board. What is that? Victor recounts his face and sees a much younger man, still handsome, but twenty years more spry. He sniffs the spot again; his nose grazes the discoloration and takes away a sticky souvenir. He touches his nose and rubs the war paint, it’s not an unfamiliar color and texture. He knows this part of the memory; he’s been here before. The sparkle of something metallic catches his eye underneath the lone unkempt bed. Vic crawls closer as the dark red from the floor stains his torn blue jeans. His eyes start to tear up as he crawls closer and closer to a dark mass under the bed. He is on the battlefield of a great world war crawling towards screams and confusion, he’s waking from a dream where he’s fallen from a building and paramedics have scraped his lifeless body from shattered concrete. He remembered reading once if you died in your dream you’d never wake in life, yet he still sees something shimmer in the corner of his conscious eye. Victor starts to bang the floorboards and scream. The sparkling object is a shiny old watch attached to a limp wrist, attached to the body of a man: a dead man. Blood leaks from the back of the man's head like milk from a smashed coconut, it follows the grooves in the wood. Victor looks down at his hands with guilt, he doesn't remember picking up or firing the sticky dark pistol . He pulls the fragile man out from underneath the bed. His white t-shirt is stained with the rich innards of a wasted life. Victor performs CPR, he smacks the lifeless body around, his tears fall into the dead mans open mouth. If this was a fairy tale his salty tears of life would revitalize the body long expired. Victor would wake this Frankenstein and laugh about the inciting incident; but this is no fairy tale. He looks into the mans open mouth, where there was once possibilities there are now none. He wants to crawl into the hole and disappear, how can he make himself that small?

Victor buries this dark memory. He blinks uncontrollably in the mirror observing the speed of his reflexes. His breath is heavy and fast. He focuses on his blinking and his breathing. Blink twice, breathe once, blink twice, breath once; he is prone to these panic attacks and the key is to focus on something that demands your full attention. He counts down slowly from ten and erases the now distant yet detailed memory. He takes his hands off the sink and stands upright. Beads of sweat wander around his now pale skin. It's difficult to stand and his eyes deceive him focusing on blotches of light that don't exist. He begins to run the razor through the mass of shaving cream on his baldpate. The little silver lawn mower cuts through snow covered grass. He continues to focus on his breathing and his expressionless face in the mirror. After all the Barbasol has been cleaned from his dome, he bangs the razor on the sink dirtying the etch-a-sketch. He takes a towel, runs it under hot water and cleans the dried remnants of cream from his scalp. He still continues to focus on his breathing. He takes his now scabbed pointer finger and traces a large tattoo invading the skin over his heart. It is apparent Victor has done this many times before and this nervous tic relaxes him. He continues to trace the shape of the Swastika with his pointer and unplugs the drain with his free hand. He stares into the endless void. He continues to trace the big blue ink. He reaches for the straight razor with his free hand and looks at the haunting rhythmic movement of the other. He breathes. He stares into the dark hole of possibilities. Where have they gone?

-655321

His Shadowy Side

2010-09-23T14:40:00.000-07:00

Let’s just call this an adventure of the third person. Mostly.

You know his exterior. It’s a simple charm most find pleasant. You know his
character, his style, his nice eyes and smile. Oh, what a nice guy.

You don’t know his interior. It’s a complicated web most would find foul. You don’t
know his dark tangled core, a mess of emotions he can’t control anymore. Oh, what a
troubled soul.

The story you’ve heard is of Jekyll and Hyde, but that story is fiction, where this
is true life. You meet him, you know him. You see how he lives. What a life, what a
world, what you wouldn’t give.

In real life real people do real with their lives. He imagines great intentions but it
rarely survives. The black ghost, the black cloud, the black mist, the black shroud,
the black news, the black night the black howl the black spite. It defeats the real, the
good, the light. It’s a dark hidden secret he’s trying to fight.

A ‘how do you do’ while his thoughts of a knife plunge through salutations and take
a life…I’ve felt your blood before meeting you. I’ve seen your fear before eating you.
I’ve seen you dead while greeting you. I’ll tell you all this while I’m treating you…to a
nice dinner at my home. So lovely isn’t it? I’ve got paintings on the wall, records and
candles and knick-knacks and all. You’d trust me…even open your heart…Here, let
me help, I’ll break your sternum and ribs to start.

I like to date, but I’m not into long-term relations. I’d take you, for sure, on a long-
term vacation. Let’s have a drink, a date, a screw. I’m a good guy…when I have my
good eye on you.

C’mon I’m a sweetheart! Allow me to show! I just have a dark side…but, who doesn’t,
you know?

-Seven-Butter

A Letter to Lucious

2010-09-03T13:03:00.000-07:00

To my dear, dear, dear Lucious,
(I hope. Your mother and I have yet to settle on a name)

The day you were born was the day I died.

Sorry for the density of that statement but I find in difficult situations it is best to avoid the roundabout. Your mother will tell you that levity was never my strong suit. I would tell you that reticence was never hers. They will both be yours.

The reason for this letter is quite simple; it’s the symbolic changing of guards, the circle that is life, la note finale. It’s your compass in a world that can often be dark. Look to this letter for answers in those tough times that strike us all.

I want to tell you that your life had nothing to do with my death, to really reassure you of this so it never plagues you like I think it may if you’re anything like me. But how do I know for sure? Can anyone that doesn’t know the reason for life be sure of the reason for death? Be consoled in this though, it reveals the uncertainty that is life and guarantees there is no algorithm.

As for my cessation, should you ever feel guilt, take comfort in the fact that if there is a higher power, and we are made in his image, perhaps he was distracted. Do not blame though, to be distracted is the nature of man. Is it possible HE looked away for a second and there was a momentary rift in order? Like a typo in a report you hand in to the head of your company, maybe it was merely overlooked. One letter discounted in a document of words. To the higher power, one life’s tragic demise is that error you omit in a sea of pages expressing a larger thought. Will anybody really miss the letter “A” that should have been in the 11th sentence of the third paragraph on the 13th page?

“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with a psychologist would be beneficial.”

Vs.

“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with psychologist would be beneficial.”

I am sorry to bore you with the example, though it is an example taken from a report of your dearest departed’s, and I use it to prove to you that to err is human. True, it is hard to notice the difference, and as humans we tend to overlook these fine details. Maybe it’s the same for him, just a slip up on a canvas already containing too much color? Yaweh himself could have been watching over us as your mother went into labor, but struck with the curiosity only a creator could have for a “createe,” he got sidetracked. Perhaps two other men on a street in a city far below got into an altercation and used their steel-toed boots to launch their feet into each other’s reproductive organs. “That’s not what they’re for!” He’d surely want to shout. But that is what humanity sometimes is about son- we take for granted the gifts we were given and often feel like we got a raw deal or a kick in the genitals. Heed this warning and learn from it: there are no raw deals only raw men who don’t know how to deal.

Alternatively, maybe the MAN stumbled across a documentary about the human discovery of his only sons bones, and his mind reeled off on a philosophical tangent wondering just whose bones they really found. Am I missing a bone? He’d wonder later, a thought that’d stick with him for days, as he’d rub his ribs. But ultimately he would realize he didn’t have a son and he wasn’t made of bones (spoiler alert). One small glance away from the tiny burdens of love below and the grand scheme turns into anarchic mis-happenings.

You should know I would never blame you or anyone for my demise. And if others read this letter and for some reason these golden truths and theories are misunderstood, I want to be clear. I don’t mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the old me. Something like- a soon to be father says farewell to his partying, capricious, selfish ways and hello to the joys and responsibility of fatherhood. No I don’t mean this metaphorical paternal rebirth. I mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the only me; the end of physical life. A “swift, cold death” is what the doctors inform me I shall endure. Apparently the hospital where you were born, and where I will die, is not fond of levity either. Never be a doctor, Lucious.

I guess what I want to say is please try not to feel culpable. If there was only room for either you or me in this world then I’m glad for this glorious happening. And in times when you are down and your mother, or your grandparents, or your cousins, or my bowling partner from church tell you stories of me and shed tears that make you regret not knowing me, I want you to really think. If I am gone, and you are here, and there was only room for one of us in this world then surely no mistake was made. Get to know these people. Ted will show you how to throw a hook ball down the lane, and will inevitably admit you bowl like your old man….that is to say not well. You’re grandparents will tell you of my first encounter at the zoo, where I nearly lost my three year old finger up an enraged llama’s viscous nostril. And your mother will surely recount my last words over and over again to you hoping they weigh upon you both as the thought of soon saying them weighs upon me. Laugh with these cherished few; they will love you unconditionally and protect you always.

Forgive the long-winded nature of this letter, it’s the only time we have. Forgive the stains of tears that litter it with punctuation that will surely fade to yellow as this letter sets and waits for you to get on in years and interpret and analyze these last thoughts. The running trails of ink let you know I was a man of flesh and blood that felt for you and took the time to give you a piece of me. As I lay here in a hospital bed staring into your tiny squinty eyes, I notice they are a beautiful sea foam green just like my own. Your face tells me you were ready to be born, and your smile reveals a world of happiness and miracles are waiting. But my heart hurts, it hurts for you and it hurts for the physical ailment that will surely end me. As your breathing gets stronger mine gets shallower, as if we are synced in unison. “Stop writing,” the doctors say, “Get on with your final goodbyes.” Again, how crude, how daft, how frigid and uncaring; never be a doctor dear Lucious.

There is more to recount and more to relay, but time is short as is life. I hope these anecdotes, thoughts, and feelings give you a sense of me. I have already seen your future and it is a splendid one. All the clichés in the world could not express my love. On my way out as you’re on your way in, embrace it all.

A life of Love,
Daddy
Poppa
Dad
Pops
Emmet Whitmore
9/24/89

-655321

Twins

2010-09-02T12:19:00.001-07:00

There was a set of twins once. David and Daniel. David was good and Daniel was bad.

In kindergarten, Daniel and his friends would throw wooden blocks across the room at the other children. When the teacher reprimanded him, David would smirk from the shadows.

Serves him right.

In middle school, Daniel and his friends would sneak into the girls’ locker room and watch them change. When they were caught, David would smirk from the shadows.

Serves him right.

In high school, Daniel would stay out all night with his friends. When his parents would yell at him, David would smirk from the shadows.

Serves him right.

In college, Daniel would get drunk with his buddies. The next day when he suffered from a hangover, David would smirk from the shadows.

Serves him right.

His whole life, whenever he went to the beach, Daniel would refuse to where sunscreen. When he died of skin cancer, David smirked from the shadows.

Serves him right.

Then David was alone. No friends. No Lovers. No Fun. Just cold, pale, and alone.

Serves him right.

-Cornelius

The Printed Blog

2010-09-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

Hey there my little chickadees (can I call you that?),

Whats up my Blue Jays (is that one ok)? In a totally uncharacteristic move by yours truly I'm taking a break from story writing, and thus you from story reading to shed the spotlight on something new I'm getting involved in. Quit your chirping and calm down, more drama and obscurity to come after this brief plug.

Recently I have become aware of the printed blog:

It originally started as an online mag and has now evolved into a weekly print publication. Yea, so what? No, no, no, not so what. So what not? This publication voraciously hunts the internet in search of the best blogs and photography on a weekly basis and prints it up for your perusal. Imagine a "best of" mix cd but for the internet. Yea...it's that good and it even leaves out that track 12 Hall and Oates b-side that makes you think of your ex. The Printed Blog scours the internet for it's treasures like a bald eagle swooping in for carrion, (I'm really into birds this morning) and collects them all in one magazine. It's an unexpected and pleasant gift, like your cat bringing an expensive bottle of wine to your doormat rather then a dead mouse. So the real question is what not, what doesn't the printed blog showcase, what doesn't the printed blog expose? The answer: seemingly nothing. Any and all blogs can be featured. Who wouldn't want the best of the internet printed up in neat little packages to read on the train, the waiting room, during your sisters dance recital? Check out the printed blog and get your finger on the pulse: ThePrintedBlog.Com

Sign up for the publication at the site and check them out on twitter and facebook as well. For more info on exactly how "it all works," check out this awesome blog: info, or see your doctor....depending on what "it" is and why it doesn't work. In a totally related matter, I am trying to get my blog featured in the printed blog so keep checking back here and with the printed blog in heated, heated anticipation.

That's it for now,

-655321

oh yea......purple finch

Brief Thoughts on Danger

2010-08-16T10:36:00.000-07:00

The smell of danger is peanut butter frozen yogurt,
or chilled orient salad.

It's never dynamite, gun powder, rotting flesh, hospitals,
or sticky blood.

The smell of fear is that horrible twenty year old memory
of Uncle Albert
convulsing into his plate
of homemade spaghetti
in your mothers
freshly cleaned
home.

But also, and be cautious.
While laying at the bottom of your pool,
dare yourself to breathe in through your nose.
Can you smell and taste the chlorine?
Be weary as the bubbles brush and tickle
your nostrils and brain.
You are indeed suffocating your life.

Alternatively,
this is also you
signing off
with a belt around your neck
and trousers around your ankles.
what a horrible way
for death
to come.

What does this mean
when our bodies awareness confuses
danger with joy
and
joy with danger?
Do we trust our senses still?

-655321

Finger Guns and Finger Bullets

2010-08-02T17:58:00.000-07:00

Thomas made it a habit to stroke Petey’s beard.

Petey would sit there, his old eyes wandering off, perhaps replaying 55 years of would be first dates on the busted projector in his mind, but he would never flinch. At first Thomas stroked it out of curiosity. He had never seen a beard that long, thick, and well manicured. His hands navigated it like blades through a field of wheat; his fingers following the curls left and right like a school child’s maze. In his youth Petey could have been mistaken for Santa Claus’s younger more handsome brother, Hanz, but now the differences were quite obvious. Petey had wasted away, appearing more like a large thin spider shoved into the old saggy skin suit of a man, then the sibling of a cheery, plump, universal hero.

Thomas would leave for school promptly at 8am and walk through the dark living room where Petey sat seemingly melded to his ancient worn recliner. He would stroke the ever-growing beard and whisper into the closest old ear ,“don’t forget.” Thomas would let the smallest peak of light in through the front door as he’d leave and shut it so fast you’d think Petey was Nosferatu. That daily dose of Vitamin D was all Petey got, and it’s all he had seen in the last five years. He had moved so little in that time that the doorframe of light he was exposed to for such a minimal period on a daily basis had formed a sun burn of sorts striping his solemn face. The crack of light had left a narrow pole splitting his static mug in two.

Petey had fought in all the great wars; at least that’s what his mind would tell him. In reality he prepared pancakes for the troops in South Korea for three days until the third fateful morning standing too close to the window overlooking the Geum River, he was struck with a piece of shrapnel which promptly pierced through his apron covered belly, lodging itself in his spinal cord and splitting his anterior spinal artery. He stood in shock and listened as his stomach gurgled and unplugged like a cork from a bottle of Shiraz, dripping life all over the waxed floor. Petey wouldn’t walk again. He would barely hobble, and each year he would lose more feeling in the lower half of his body until 1965 when he was forced into the wheelchair that would confine him for the rest of his days.

About this time Petey would roll around the neighborhood on these, (oddly enough Korean) man-made wheels, losing all contact with the earth he once loved. He would sit his children on his numb knees and bounce them around with feeble arms. He would make up stories about his injury, playing up the fable as if he was the owner of a big blue ox. His family loved him but he lost touch with the world. Visits to the grocery store became less frequent; joining his wife in their marital bed became such a daunting feat for Petey he compared it to climbing a flight of never-ending stairs. The chair jailed him from the world he once thought he would rule. His ambitions of running for public office didn’t even succeed in his daydreams any longer. He missed the birth of his first grandchild because he was taught from an early age first impressions are everything. He didn’t want the small new born to see him as the caged monster he felt people perceived him as.

Eventually trips out of the house were avoided all together, and trips to the window became a vacation from the darkness of his chair. Petey would sit by the window for hours watching as the neighborhood children played war, none of them ever ending up as old quadrupeds rotting away. He thought about how glamorous war was to youth, and wondered how many children would have met their early demise if finger guns had finger bullets. Petey would watch the neighbors mow their lawns and he’d imagine a horribly misplaced sprinkler causing a cacophony of sound as an orgy of metal and shards rocket through his window and end his tortured life. These thoughts brought down the blinds and kept Petey away from the window.Finally sometime around 2001 close to the birth of his first great grandchild, Thomas, Petey stopped moving all together.

As Thomas matured he began to look at his great grandfather as one of the porcelain dogs in mid action he’d littler his mantle with. Great grampy was a fixture in the living room much like a plant you’d water and feed. The only thing that grew on Petey was his beard and his longing for a release. Thomas would prop himself up on Gramp’s knees to watch Spongebob. He would laugh and look at his great-grandfather hoping for some response or acknowledgment. How can he keep such a stern face when a talking starfish can’t find his pants Thomas would wonder. But Petey would stair off like some Jedi knight convinced he could make the television explode.

When Thomas would return from school around 3pm each afternoon he would crack the door, (adding to Petey’s obscure tan), and slip into the darkened room. He would slowly walk past his great grandfather and rake his hands through his luscious beard. He would whisper into the oldest and closest ear, “don’t forget, I love you.” Petey would try to smile, he would try and force his facial muscles into a Cheshire cat grin but the most he could muster was a small lip quiver and a groan. He loved his great grandson, and oddly saw some of himself in this young human being. The irony was not lost on Petey when Thomas learned to cook and exhibited an affinity for pancakes. He would never make Easy Mac, or PB &J, or cereal for an after school snack. Instead he would make a short stack, smother it in maple syrup, crack open the blinds a tad and turn on his favorite movie “The Bamboo Prison.” Thomas would sit, obliviously propped on Petey’s knees, ingesting his after school snack, as tears would stream down his great grandfathers face. The irony was not lost on Petey, as he would see the familiar war images on tv and hear the shallow battle calls of 5 year old fallen soldiers in the streets as finger guns brought them to their staged deaths.

-655321

Ice Cream

2010-07-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

I am walking down the street when I see a little boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He is a pleasant looking child, no more than 5 years old. He stands 4 feet 6 inches, with big, blue eyes and sandy colored hair. I find it odd that he is alone, and I smile to myself. Then he looks up at me. A blank expression.

As soon as our eyes meet, I stop walking. I cannot help but feel extremely uncomfortable. I can't pinpoint the feeling. Nausea? No. Nervousness? No. Do I know this kid from somewhere? No... It sort of reminds me of the feeling I got in my balls when I peered over the edge of the Grand Canyon last summer and saw my life flash before my eyes. Not pain. Just discomfort. Suddenly a feeling of sadness washes over me, flooding my body. I am literally staring at this kid. Standing over him and staring into him. Staring through him. I can't look away. Just as I begin weeping the feeling swerves off in another direction. The sadness turns to anger, then to hatred. Then to clarity. An answer. As if he shot the idea out of his eyes, and planted it directly into my forehead. Into my brain. I know what I must do.

I quickly stagger toward the boy and whip him in his stupid, little face with the back of my hand. The ice cream cone falls to the ground and the top scoop rolls off the sideway into a sewer drain. Of course he's crying. What a fucking loser. What has he ever fucking done with his sad, fucking life? Sit around and eat fucking ice cream? Ice Cream? Despicable. A sad excuse for a human being.

Now the sound of his sobbing is overwhelmingly offensive to my ears. Soul crushing. I hit him again. He starts to scream. A jackhammer next to my bed at 6 AM on a Sunday. That's exactly what it fucking sounds like.

I've had enough of this insignificant, little asshole's bull shit. I need to silence this kid.

I push him down and grab his ankles. His soft, little body is weightless. I hold him upside down by his legs, and whip him up behind the back of my head. I don't hesitate another moment. With all of my might, I pull him up and forward, over my head and forcefully slam him down into the sidewalk in front of me. There is a deafening crack when his skull shatters and the screaming stops. I continue to whip... Crack... his body... Crack... against the sidewalk... Crack... until his bones are nothing but dusty shards in the bottom of a human sack of bloody flesh... Thump... Now I'm finished.

I force the shitty, little bag of bones down the sewer drain. It gurgles and oozes with blood. The sound of flatulence. There is a wet slap when it hits the cement on the bottom of the man made precipice. It probably landed on that vanilla scoop. I laugh. I feel a sense of relief now. I'm going to have a great day. I continue to walk down the street.

-Cornelius

2010-03-19T10:06:00.001-07:00

We take a story break to share a fully sprouted new spring mix from Gator, please enjoy: BLOOM

The calendar year begins January 1st, but it doesn't really feel like a real new year until March 20th. The first day of spring is like a Boy Scout merit badge. You made it through winter, mostly unscathed, and as a reward you get a nice shiny new sunny day to pin to your belt. All that cold gross winter stuff was so last year. Now you're invigorated. This year will be different This year will have flip-flops and shorts. This year will have flowers and birds. This year will have tons of happy music. The kind of music you need to roll the windows down in the car in order to really appreciate. Music that makes you build a tree house or plant a garden. Music so hopeful it seems to inspire the sun to stay up longer and longer with each passing day. "Bloom" features all new songs that celebrate this new year. Though some of the songs may flirt with summer exuberance, make sure not to look too far ahead. You made it through winter and spring is your victory lap. Take some time to stop and hear the music.

Download Bloom here:

-Gator

A Brief Dream Thought

2010-03-10T10:37:00.000-08:00

A site through a window in
Valley Village.

Dismembered dismal daughter;
English Porter Father;
"Dance Please Gentleman" brother;
Untamed, irritable mother

the dog barks, a mimic of a bigger dogs bark.

They sit down for dinner in their
ironed
pressed
work clothes.

and you were there.

napkins folded and napped
silverware silvered with ware
plates plattered with Po-tatoes
Pour wine for a heritage twice removed
poor wine, a heritage lost and forgotten.

A silence unparalleled;
we both were there.

How was your day?
Nay (neigh?), your week, your month, your year, your horse?
Your profession, what is it?
A postman, poppa?
The garden, momma; blooming, fresh, fragrant?
Sister, how many years are you now? still leading cheer?

I remember now,
we are all here.

-655321

I and Like and You

2010-02-10T12:10:00.000-08:00

Love and a mix tape from our newest of contributors:

On last year’s I and Love and You The Avett Brothers mused upon those three words that became hard to say. This mix reflects long before that point, when it’s all unknown and exciting and the three hardest words to say are I and like and you. Luckily, Valentine’s Day comes around every year and Cupid gives those apprehensive ones a gentle push to revealing their true feelings.

Since there have been crushes, there’s been tools out there to report the crush. Flowers, cards, and chocolates have been staples for generations. But, since the birth of cassette tape, there’s been the mix tape and it’s trumped all sweets as the best way to capture one’s heart. Us mortals may not possess the skill set to verbalize eloquently just how far our passions reach, but luckily our favorite artists are our mediums that put into words what we feel. As fun as it is to give a mix to your crush, it’s doubly as exciting to get a mix from your crush. You become instantly transformed in to a crazy haired conspiracy theorist, dissecting each lyric, looking for any sort of sign that this song, this verse, is about you. When you do make that transcendent connection between lyrics, to truth, to you, it’s one of the more visceral musical moments. All of a sudden it’s no longer just a song, it’s a secret between you and your mix maker.

This mix has a bunch of new, sweet, fun and moving love songs (there’s also a lot of covers for some reason). Please send it to whomever your crush is, whether they know you like them or you’re a secret admirer. If there’s no one special in your life don’t fret, just listen to this mix over and over again until your confidence builds so much that when you do find someone, those three words will be easy to say: I and like and you.

Download | V-Day Mixtape | I and Like and You

-Gator

The Farmer's Son

2010-02-04T19:22:00.000-08:00

“Spffft,”

The plastic arrowhead water bottle eases back down to the brown stained wooden desk it’s come to marry over the years.

“qwwwa,” “qwaaaaa,”

Yellow and green viscous liquid dribbles down the thin plastic rim to meet its thick brown cousin. The smell of old moldy mint and rich leather fills the air of the tiny dimly lit room. A tarnished green antique lamp sits at the corner of the desk Leonard has so awkwardly deposited himself behind (visual: an elephant shoved into a horses stable). It has been in Leonard’s family for generations and it still serves its purpose well, shedding light on the 1998 IBM holding the Phillip’s fortunes . . .. and, unusually, quite a respectable amount of fetish porn (Animal Husbandry, only literal).

“Farming is business and business is farming,” or that was the closest thing to a motto the family abided by. It was carved into most of their doorposts, carved into all four desk legs, and muttered every dinner with prayer; it’s origins really a mystery. Leonard’s brother Jeb even went so far as to get it tattooed on his own hide; infection only lasted 3 days ending in an unexpected addition to the family plot and the farming business in Leo’s lap. Tattoos were out from then on, and like all dynasty’s Leonard was happy to be living his father’s life. Old family hearsay would explain that when this strangest of phrases first was challenged it was cause for a shouting match between Lee’s great great Grampy Ted and his partner at the time Ronald Pillsbury. Words were had, three shots were fired, blood was spilled and two bottles of scotch emptied before the men came to an agreement. The motto would stay and Ronald would try his luck in another occupation; something that put less stress on his small feminine hands and jealous soul, perhaps baking would work for the young food enthusiast.

“Spfft, spffft.”

More brown grainy fluid runs down the easy grip ridges of the sport bottle. Good Ol’ Leo picks the hardened tobacco from out between his thick fingernails and rubs the residue from his calloused hands.

“Alice, we got anymore mint grizzly!?”

“Nah Lee, you been goin’ through that stuff like its free beer day at the Limpton Fair.”

Leo adjusts the chew, feels the good burn and looks up from his computer to the open door.

“Sheeeee-itt, well how bout the Copenhagen Rodney got me for my birthday this year, we had two cases.”

Silence as Leo and his wife hold a beat; the most predicament of predicaments for sure. He looks around the office, studies it, as if answers to unasked questions lay within its walls and floors. And what an office it is; straight out of Farmer’s Office monthly. The blinds stained with layers of dust and something that looks like old Campbell’s tomato soup; the floor formerly covered in linoleum but now more closely resembling a human skin rug with a horrifying case of Vitiligo.

“Damn’t Lee, I’m trying to get my dress cleaned up for the meeting, you know this; been planning it for months, try the dresser next to Little Ray’s room, and for god’s sake put on your good overalls.”

Little Ray’s room, little Ray’s room? He couldn’t go near there, how could he approach such a foreboding reminder of the past, not today.

You see, it is true and can be attested to that Ray’s room is off limits; Lee’s wife Randy knew it, Lee knew it, even the dog knew it. It’s been off limits ever since Randy instituted the sanction on the rambunctious 5 year olds room two years ago after his bed was found empty and his window left open. The room was a reminder, a relic of sorts, owed to parental negligence. This room was an after school special hosted by Dean Cain and a trip to 6 months worth of couples therapy. But on second thought maybe today was the day to walk by Ray’s room, to turn on the lights, to dust off his old toys, to change the sheets on his bed and make his favorite meal. . . .a welcome home of sorts. This day shall further forth be deemed “Little Ray Day!!!” . . . . .Let’s not get carried away.

Leonard was a farmer, his father Harry a farmer, his father before that and before that and a century before that; all farmers. Leonard knew his calling; he would take walks with Ray and in a very paternal way explain that all of these acres of natures joy would someday be his own. Ray would listen attentively while sucking blackberries and studying his fathers face. Leo would mimic the Lion King in a very Jeff Foxworthy meets James Earl Jones sort of way claiming “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” Ray would smile like it was free cotton candy day at the Limpton fair, grabbing his father’s thick stained fingers while imagining himself a young farmer, with a wife, a golden named Sammie, and a fondness for the chew much like his father. Ray’s dreams were Leo’s dreams, were the dreams of a whole line of Phillips; the force was strong in these men. Ray already had responsibilities; he maintained the chicken coop, he brought the slop to the pigs, he rode a John Deer jr. right next to his father as they surveyed their golden corn in the late summer evenings. These were the same chickens that went unnoticed and began to reek of death when Ray disappeared, the pigs that slowly starved and began to decompose like the town’s memory for young Ray, and the little tractor that hadn’t moved an inch except to sink since Ray had gone missing.

The town had mourned, search parties had been sent out, dogs had been rewarded with treats for their hard work, but the trail was cold. Ray had seemingly vanished from the small Kentucky town that he had called home his short five years on earth. Overtime Leonard became complacent; he would lock himself in his office, again searching the walls and floors for answers to whispers of questions. He started to rot away quite literally and figuratively as chew became his diet and his teeth started to pull away from his skull. Randy mourned in a different way; bathing 10 times a day was her way of ignoring her impulses for a sweet final release. She would wash her hands manically and clean every inch of the home; but if her eye should ever spot a bit of filth she would scrub until her hands bled. The deep, sticky, red leading to more "filth," which she would then try to scrub again from her hands and floor only adding to the mess and obsession. Leo’s office was off limits to her and it remained one of the last signifiers of how cruel time had been to the Phillips. The soil, animals, and crops were dead and farming didn’t seem a hell of a lot like Leonard’s business any more.

But today, today is the day the grass starts growing again; today the Phillip’s wake from their dismal two-year slumber. A letter had come in the mail two months ago to the day, the writing was unfamiliar, the address was obscured, but the message was clear. For some reason or another, from some person or another Ray would return. What had been gained, why’d he been taken, where are the answers? None of that clear, but he would return to rule the kingdom and till the land like Phillips before and before. Randy believed; and Leo, well Leo had to believe or else his destruction would truly be complete. So today was a happy, joyous day. It was Randy and Leonard getting ready for church, it was family dinner at Denny’s, for god’s sake it was joyous like the Limpton Fair. It was a day for the best overalls, the best dress, pomade slathered hair, only one shower for Randy, and the promise that Leo would quit the chew that had quite unfortunately burned holes through his gums. This was the rebirth after the apocalypse for the Phillips.

So Leonard tentatively mounts the creaky wooden stairs in search of the Copenhagen; a last fix. One last wad and then spit it out for little Ray’s grand arrival; a trade even: his crutch for his sons loving embrace. With each stair a new weight seemingly falls from his body, with each stair a month of stress shed and a younger man revealed. He makes his way down the haunted hallways towards the room preserved in time and a small humming can be heard, a familiar song, yet not a song Leonard knew. A gust of wind dances down the hall as he gets closer to Ray’s room and the hum become’s audible. Around the corner, an open window, a cold gust of air shocks his senses as the curtains violently jerk about. Little Ray’s drawings and scribbles of short stories blow about the room as if to communicate. It looks like a proud parents refrigerator exploded. Leonard get’s closer to the window confused, did Randy open it up to air out the room? As he approaches he spots something nearly covered by the bookshelf, in the corner kneels a small, dirty, frail thing; the source of the sound. It teeters back and forth slowly with its chin resting on one knee, a switchblade in hand carving something into the old dry wood. With each breath Leonard creeps closer as the little unaware human brushes wood chips away from his messages. Leo sucks in his breath and holds it, approaching this young living definition of suspicion and notices the whole floor has been carved, every board covered in words. Could this be young Ray? After two years could he really be back like Leo and Randy had hoped and prayed? As he gets closer to this child he realizes that not only has he carved something into the wood, he has carved these words into his own skin over and over again. Blood leaks from his body finding its way through the literary maze of scabs covering his frame and culminating at the handle of the knife. As he carves his hand drips visceral cave drawings all over the floor. Leonard gets closer to this mystery child and notices a familiar birthmark on his right forearm. He reads the scratch that can be found virtually everywhere on this small child and within this small room: “Farming is business and business is Farming.”

-655321

Snowglobed

2010-01-27T23:09:00.000-08:00

It was the New Year by now, Jim imagined.

Time slows down in the cold, and when you lose track and can’t access the $75 a month clock/alarm that makes calls, but you don’t make any, and receives calls, but you don’t get any, time goes a lot slower. His eyes seemingly bugging out of his noggin, tears freezing down his cheek…luckily, a bubble, he remembered, would help him breathe.

He just went out for one more run before finalizing the décor of the party and joining his friends. A quick one, to pick up a little adrenaline he calls his ‘energy drink’. ‘Peace out’ to the pals he shouts and he’s gone. How quickly a wrong turn changes a night. You see, it all fell apart right here.

The type of friends Jim has? They’re great. Love to party. Best dudes. From college they never stopped the party, jumping from one reason to another to destroy what they’ve all saved up since college to call their homes. On rotation this New Year? Jim ‘Beam’ Bauman. As you presumably derived, Jim rocks the whiskey…and its what will save his life that night.

The unfortunate side affect of having friends whose M.O. it is to party (hardy), is that friendship comes second to ice luge, beirut, flip cup and pound the tequila. The last one they made up sophomore year of college. Ingenious really. You see the rules are; Pound the tequila till you throw up, and if you throw up in the bottle, your punishment is to bring the bottle to every party thereafter and take shots from it until the bottle is done. Torture, humiliation, hilarity.

It wasn’t until about 2am into the new year when Tom, the adult(erer) of the group, stumbling around his mouth with his tongue somehow managing to ask “Heyg…you guys…where’s Jims? He’s supposed to come overg right?! Where even is he, right??!

Jim’s legs stopped shaking by this point, the cold coming through his boots has started feeling warm. He thinks this is a good sign. When he breaks it all down, its really not likely anyone is going to come find him, so he waits. Could he access his phone, its not even likely he can tell anyone where he is. Not only has the cold started clouding his vision, but the whiskey he’s been nursing out of his trusty extra large flask has his tongue as stumbly as Tommy back at the top.

Tom the Adulterer, the eldest of the pals, got his name from trying aggressively to sleep with all the guy’s girlfriends throughout their relationships. He had a 46% success rate once the relationships ended, and a 2.33% (repeating, of course) success rate while they were still in full swing. Tom’s an asshole, but they keep him around. Why? He’s great, loves to party, best dude.

Marky, the benevolent drunk, reminds Tom that they are currently IN Jim’s condo, so yah, he was sort of supposed to make an appearance, and finishes his statement with ‘idiot’. They pour, they cheers, they shoot, they repeat. Marky, its important to know, still carries around his slightly discolored bottle of Cuervo gold from 2007. Its like a loan you can’t wait to pay back. Only six more payments! Only six more parties! At least that’s how many Marky thinks it’ll take to finally be through with his ‘pound the tequila’ punishment. Then he’ll retire (no he won’t).

Jim worries now. It feels like days! He’s exaggerating. Wondering if he should piss where he is or hold it till he can find somewhere less gross…which might not be for a while. He pisses. At least its warm. Knowing the type of guys he surrounds himself with, selfish, inconsiderate, unfaithful…he feels a sort of, well, DOOM. In his mind he’s envisioning a wild party back at his condo with one of his friends in their underwear, at least one, maybe two broken lamps, and empties strewn about the bathtub. This ritual, with likeness to the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, is called the beer pit. Yes, that man in his underwear will end up in the beer pit, and most likely come out with at least one bad cut and will proceed to ruin Jim’s white towels. Jim doesn’t see them noticing he’s gone, which means a search party won’t come, but at least he’s laughing at the events to be. They’re great. Love to party. Best dudes.

Back at the party, Brendo, in his underwear, is about to sit his fat ass in the beer pit. He will slip, glass will break, he will need to go to the hospital, the crowd will eat it up. Marky will ask, “was it worth it” and Brendo passing out from shock will say, “it was worth it”.

Jim hears sirens in the distance. He jams his empty flask into the roof above to break through and give whatever signal he can. “NO WAY, They fucking called a search party for me!” No they didn’t. Brendo is bleeding way too much for all of Jim’s white towels to handle so those are medics, and Jim is still fucked. As the sound fades he shouts, “One last run. One last run before the party and now I am going to die in an igloo. I’m a fucking figurine in a snow globe. Happy 2010…I’m getting new friends!”

As Jim rants, so far, he’s only heard the sound of his own voice echoing off the confined walls of his tomb. His voice trails off as he hears the sound of footsteps. Imaginary or not, his flask disappears revealing a blinding beam of light. Either God finally popped the cork and he’s on his way to heaven (somehow, rather than hell), or that’s the greedy hand of Bub, the freeloading borrower of things never to be returned, trying to skeef Jim’s flask. Bub shouts out, “this is Jim’s flask, but its empty. Greedy fucker leaves a clue, but no reward”.

The guys, after seeing Brendo into an ambulance safely, decided to go out on Jim’s ‘energy drink’ run to see if something might have gone wrong. Equipped with the proper tools and several one million candle power flashlights, they went into the night. Turns out, the flask reflected all one million candles perfectly back into Bubs eyes.

After digging Jim out and laughing at him for smelling like piss and whiskey, they share a round hugs, happy new years’ and shots of wild turkey they took from Jim’s liquor cabinet. As they make their way back to the condo. Tom announces to Jim he’s sorry. He put the moves on Jim’s girlfriend, but not to get mad at her, in her defense she was, and still is passed out in Jim’s bed. If Jim wasn’t so frozen solid, Tom would be joining Brendo in the E.R. In the time it takes to get back, it’ll blow over. Tom’s great, they love to party and together they are the best dudes.

To celebrate, they play a game of pound the tequila. Marky will lose. Poor guy.

- Seven-Butter

Roses are. . .

2009-09-09T21:11:00.000-07:00

Anna had a tendency towards red, like lips, cherry popsicles, rose petals, a brand new ferrari, even a fire hydrant in a perfect neighborhood. For her it was a red summer top, rouge cargo shorts, red checkered chuck taylors, Victorias secret “Body by Victoria” thong, tennis cut red nike socks; she had a whole closet, an arsenal of red. The literal Red riding hood of her time. “I just like it she’d say, I don’t know why,” and then her face would get rosy with embarrassment.

Red was also the color of blood; deep red, like rust went for a swim in a glass of ocean spray. Thick puddles of the sticky, salty, liquid would poison her thoughts; yet make her smile with what can only be described as a sense of relief. Doctors attributed this affliction and fascination with the vibrant hue to a day in Anna’s early life now referred to as her “rebirth.” “Rebirth,” because the experience, the very fierce awakening the young child was exposed to was like a damaged Phoenix springing from the fires of hell . She had only vague memories of that period in her life. She remembered the car mostly, the thick brown leather seats with claw marks from ginger’s feline rage. She remembered sleeping in mom’s lap as 50 states went by in 50 dreams. There was the diner in Kentucky, the Motel 6 in New Orleans, the library in Maine. There were friends for 3 days and new older men who mother would take for walks that would end in ice cream for Anna. Mom always had ice cream and her scent; always like the ripest of peaches on picking day in Georgia. Yes, Anna did remember some things, but only flashes like a coma took hold every month and wrapped her in a cocoon. And then darkness. . . .darkness. . . .darkness and finally

Red

It was truly a day that shook the small Arkansas town from its sleepy embrace. August 5, 1989, that was when Anna was found, when darkness turned to dirty rouge. The police report described it as a massacre of horrific proportions; in reality it was a wholesome little blonde girl crying in a massive puddle of human life surrounded by pieces of her rotting mother. It was soon reported in “The Little” daily paper that this mystery child had been sitting in a pile of viscera for 3 whole days until she was discovered by the Taylor kid. The coroners would say it was simple, her mother had been stabbed to death, 15 times in fact, yet there was no evidence on the scene, no id on the victim. Who was Anna and why was she here? Who was the victim? All unanswered questions. It was as if the devil himself had dropped in to slay an angel and shake up this small southern town. The authorities would try and talk to Anna, but all she would do is giggle to herself and stare. They would offer her ice cream and treats and dolls and games, anything to speak but her red red lips were shut. There was always ice cream but it never made her mouth move. Anna was stained that day in the most simple of terms.

One of the local school teachers and his wife decided that this young thing needed a home, needed love, an education, a family, and they took her into their life. It was a tough period for them; barely making it by financially in a town that gave sideways glances like they were a traveling freak show because of a daughter that wouldn’t speak. Gradually Anna got more and more comfortable with her family, her mother would take her shopping, her father would take her fishing. A new child entered their lives and Anna loved her brother more than her confused understanding of the value of human life would allow. 1 year after the accident she began to speak and proved to be very bright. Her thoughts flowed like an artist and “she was the most articulate in her class” her teachers would say. Then on her 9th birthday (perhaps because of regression, perhaps because of some subconscious indicator, or perhaps just because little girls are predisposed) it was a red elephant, a red skirt please, I want a red balloon, a red bike would be nice. Her parents were never suspicious they would just say Anna wouldn’t you like to try another color. But no Anna had a new religion, it was the worship of this morbid hue. Scientifically it was called Chromoluda but in the Luntz household it was “Anna’s stage,” “She just likes the color,” or “Girls will be girls.” But really it was quite odd.

On her 12th birthday she went as far as painting the walls and ceiling of her room the color of a radio flyer, getting paint all over her red shag rug. Her friends would avoid her room asking if they could play downstairs where the AC was on. Her parents were just happy that she was becoming a normal young woman, besides the obvious obsession with rose, rouge, rojo, red. They would never speak of where they found her and she would never ask about it. Though the older she got the more this color began to take over her life. There was the Christmas photo when the red contacts made their debut. Strangers would feel sorry for the family, citing their daughter as an unfortunate albino because of her beady mouse eyes.

Life was as normal as it really could be for a child with a past so mysterious and morose Charles Manson wouldn’t open her fan mail. Shortly after Easter on her 13th year of living Anna became a woman. Anna became a woman and lost herself for good on the same very day. It was a constant struggle with her, as if she was always chasing an image of her former self down a mouse hole or through a strange door quite like Alice; but on this day she was much too tired to keep running. Anna’s parents called and called and called, “Easter Dinner!! Anna ham!” her brother even tried “Anny Bananny, come sit next to me. . . .Anny.” When there was no response they went upstairs, knocked on the bathroom door, no response, her father busted it in grunting as it came down. There sat Anna in the middle of the cold tile floor like a marionette without a master bleeding and bleeding from between her legs. Who knew a teenage girl could bleed this much, in the most serious of explanations it was the period even science couldn’t explain. Anna wasn’t dead, she wasn’t alive, she was somewhere in between; and that was permanent. Anna sat there in this state staring at the white white walls with a small look of confusion on her pretty face; a look that was also permanent. Tears were inevitable, the family cried, their tears were clear and they watched as red came for its lost child.

-655321

Evening Run

2009-07-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

Jim left the house at 7 PM. The sun dipped below the horizon, replacing the orange hews with pale violet. Memories of the harsh day at the office faded in the first one hundred meters. He ran at a slow pace. He felt good. He always felt good on his evening runs. This evening the air felt particularly cool against his skin. Everything was still.

He turned on Bronson Canyon. As he ran, the houses and streetlamps gave way to dark groves of trees. A deepening of the breath, a quickening of the stride. He let his mind wander into familiar zones of uncertainty. He thought of his life. It was fine. He had always been some sort of successful. A good student. Always had a girl on his arm. Good at sports. Really good at running. All American in track. Great job. But there was something missing. A void. Something just wasn’t there. And with every step, it became clearer and clearer.
He had grown up on the outside.
He never got picked on.
He never acted in the school play.
He never had a “most embarrassing moment.”
He never got upset.
He never had anything to say at the party.
He was that guy. Oh yes, that guy. Wait, which guy? Oh yeah, I remember him. Never really knew him though. Did he talk? His life was dull.

Thoughts cranked through his head like celluloid through a projector. And then he saw it. Lights in the distance. A car? No, an SUV. It was close enough to see that now.

As the vehicle approached Jim contemplated suicide. He thought carefully about all the people he would hurt if he jumped in front of it. The list was shorter than he had predicted. He could almost read the headline, “Corporate Pawn Killed by SUV on Run.” Not too bad.

He wanted to cry, but he laughed instead. It was the most spontaneous thought he had ever had.

The SUV charged forward. It seemed to speed up the closer it got.
The last lap.
400 meters.
200 meters.
100 meters.
And as Jim started for the middle of the road, the unthinkable occurred.
The SUV swerved, and for a brief moment Jim saw something silhouetted in the headlights. A small animal. And before he could duck, it hit him like a water balloon. Literally, like a water balloon. He slowed to a stop.

A skunk had been running across the road, at the very moment of Jim’s attempted suicide. The SUV hit the skunk with such force, that one of the front tires, while applying over 2 tons of pressure to the abdomen, forcefully severed the bladder and propelled it through the air. It connected with Jim’s face and burst on contact. Like a water balloon.

The SUV continued on its course, and for a moment Jim wanted to call out. But he continued running. When he got home he couldn’t differentiate between the sweat and the skunk urine that soaked his clothes. He had quickly gotten used to what was at first an unbearable smell. After his shower it seemed ever less noticeable and when he woke the next day for work it seemed to be gone. Back to normal.

At work he was made fun of and became somewhat upset.
He had a story to tell at the party.
He had a “most embarrassing moment.”
A student adapted his story into a play at the local high school.
The skunk had not only saved his life, but it had improved the overall quality of his life. 1 year later Jim set out on his evening run. The air was cool and still. He turned down Bronson Canyon as he always had, when an SUV swerved out of control and hit him.
Jim was pronounced dead on the scene.

-Cornelius

U.N.D.E.R.G.R.O.U.N.D.

2009-06-30T16:55:00.000-07:00

With his eyes bushed and heavy, Bill parked his flipside on a dourly looking chair next to the fireplace. The heat from the nearby flames gently nuzzled his soul as he slowly elevated his feet to an equally dourly looking ottoman. As a babe-in-arms his mother and nana would take turns imparting the young Bill with yarns of his esteemed father in that same chair. Pictures though show the chair was much better for the wear in those days.

Fredrik, the mounted water buffalo purchased one inebriated night hung above the fireplace. Perhaps his biggest critic, Fredrik looked on with a smirk swathed over his visage. Bill had been here before, tuckered and stretched tight, wasted from another days work, but this felt different. Almost final even. Even Fredrik looked tired.

Nobody ever told him the life he chose would be an easy one, but that could quite possibly be because nobody had ever come up with such a peculiar walk through their days. A cowboy by day, a hip-hop recording artist by night. While not quite as stirring as a faceless vigilante valiantly struggling with the scum of sullied comic book conurbations, Bill would argue that his pseudo artistic persona, waxing poetic on such forces as ecological devastation, famine quandaries in various pitiable countries, and the insatiable voracity of crooked non-profit organizations was of greater consequence. I’m not sure just what Fredrik would have thought, but alas, he could not speak, so Bill would never know. Now, it should also be noted that at the time a British band who called themselves The Beatles had just played the Johnny Carson show so nobody even knew what the fuck hip hop was. Not even Bill.

So, how did Bill, with dirt in his finger nails and a love for rhymes, turn out to be one of the biggest musical inspirations of all time? Well, it was mostly all, if not entirely all, because 2,403 miles away in the concrete and glass playpen known as New York, the boss’s daughter had a pretty face.

************************************************

Lewis, the long-limbed greenhorn, probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the tape if it hadn’t just left the clutches of Jane’s right hand. Lewis studied the tape like a child, reading and re-reading the scribbled phrase “Lonesome Cowboy Bill” over and over again. Finally, after his vision blurred in an attempt to locate just one of Jane’s fingerprints he decided to give his ears a few minutes with it. Sad, weird, and terrible. Lewis couldn’t last more than a song before hitting eject and going on with the rest of his day (i.e. daydreaming about Jane’s naked body).

Unlike the tape, but much like the right hand that left it, Jane was rather perfect looking. A nubile nineteen year old, she was born and raised in The City, to which Lewis, an outsider via Freeport, always fantasized about. Being from New York and being from Freeport just weren’t the same thing, certainly not to Lewis. After meeting her in the elevator, he quickly memorized her bio in the new employee handbook and later that night, in the comfort of his bedchamber, tried on no fewer than sixteen different wardrobe mishmashes with the sole aspiration of getting her attention the next day.

Dauntless enough with his attire choice, Lewis, accompanied by dark eye liner, navy blue mascara, and his new shiny wardrobe, fingered his guitar and whispered a melody.

{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to see him in the rodeo)
{A#}{A#}{D#}{Dm} (When he's riddin', going too darn fast)
{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to here the people ...)
{A#}{D#}{A#}{D#} (Lonesome Cowboy Bill, he's a ...)
{A}{A} (Oh)

Those chords, those words, roused for whatever reason from that god awful tape, from a stranger 2, 403 miles away in Elko, Nevada (which wasn’t at all megalopolitan boomtown of New York, or even Freeport for that matter), would go on to change Lewis’s life forever. It even changed his name.

Soon after, he wrote a song for Jane, and not much longer after that Lewis traveled up and down the eastern seaboard playing shows in dingy clubs and making nice with famous artists. He named a band with a gent named John after a clothing texture, painted bananas with his friend Drella, and after that, released his own solo record, but not before changing his name to Lou, because quite simply, Lewis was a name unbecoming of someone who walked on the wild side. All of the New Sensations and perfect days to follow, as farfetched as they were, traced right back to that pretty girl’s right hand and the tape dropped from it.

By the time all of this had transpired though Bill had flown up past the clouds. By all accounts all that was left of the lonesome cowboy was a ramshackle hut atop his promontory ranch, still occupied by Fredrik, but whose smirk was replaced with a frown. His only company was a half drank bottle of poor man’s whisky, an empty pill box case, and the quiet solitude brought on by a wrangler’s dreams unrealized.

-mildredratched

Elsinore, The Living Lore

2009-05-07T11:55:00.000-07:00

"I programmed the universe with a used tube sock!?!"

Ehhhh, She used to say shit like this alllll the time. As a child I would react with a chuckle and a genuinely curious smile but over the years it just became more of me yelling. Things like "What the fuck Ellie?, What the shit fuck hell are you talking about? The Lord made you crazy and you keep trying to get crazier, you are literally bat shit fucking nuts."

Now I know this sounds hurtful but what do you say to a woman, yes a grown woman, who greets your friends with "I shit my tights, think about it, I literally shit my sexy black tights last night." Damn't her tights aren't even sexy, they are old and ratty, washed once every three months, and purchased twelve years ago, and fuck she's basically a slightly overweight woman wearing tights made for a large child. She was literally delusional and had that look in her eyes. You know the one or maybe you don't; like "Who's the Boss" is playing at the back of your skull on repeat, she would look right through you always chuckling at something Tony Danza was doing on your cranium screen. "How does he do it?" she would giggle. “Who damn't Ellie, damn it all to hell, how the hell does who do what?”

I used to shake her when she was little, thinking this would correct her, quite like an Etch a Sketch. No amount of knob turning ever seemed to reconstruct a functioning human being though. Mom and Dad used to quarrel on long car rides about the Sweeney's little ADHD nightmare next door. They would try to diagnose that child with some sort of life threatening social disease ignoring their own little mistakes in the back seat. This was the 60's though, poorly behaved kids were likened to devil spawn more then they were to minor genetic problems. Ellie would scream "Nipple Pie," "or "Pizza Worm," out the window, and we would think, geez how absurdly cute this odd little child is. Inappropriate things at inappropriate times that's what my sister was famous for, and it was adorable, it was her way of rebelling, it was "oh she doesn't even know what she's saying she’s so fucking rip-her-face-off cute.”

But as she matured her thoughts and behavior did not. "How adorable," soon turned into "Why God, why did you give us this little retard?" (it was the 60's, retards were still retards for the general public). That's when the excursions began. First there were trips to church, hours in confessional, "do you think an exorcism would work?" mom would continually ask. There was more shaking, this problem was going to be corrected quite the same way I would fix the tube as a child, hit it till the signal kicks back in. Ellie, smash, channel 3 please, kick, Howdy Doody is on, bang, what is wrong with you?

The priests would tell us she was a very "disturbed young woman," and mom would shake her head eating their bull shit "oh yes yes yes I know, she's been this way since she could speak." Next came the monthly trips to the doctors; Ellie's been eating crayons, she screams obscenity's at the Officer club dinners, she won't keep her clothes on at school, I'm going through 2 boxes of crayola a week is this normal? The doctor's would say in that wise old owl voice "Well she is a perfectly healthy young woman, this is just a stage." Well guess what? She grew into it ok, "Nipple Pie" and "Pizza Worm," turned into the rants of a boozy young teen. She would lie and disappear for days; we would worry since her mental capacity had stalled at the age of ten like a 1973 Volvo wagon (the kind commonly used to transport blow to the masses). I would still shake her every now and again to see if maybe just the right amount of contact would force a synapse into firing correctly. The shaking only seemed to entertain her though.

As she got older she would yell "I have hair on the field! Play ball!" or "I'm ovulating!" and Mom and Dad would leave her home staring at the "popcorn ceiling" or the "drippy drip machine" when we went for dinner, or to family reunions, or to gatherings of any sort. Ellie was always “out with her friends,” or “in a study group,” when people would ask; she was never snacking on burnt sienna or drinking a milkshake of forest green and hummus whilst locked in the pantry humming “Just the Two of Us” and dropping raw eggs on her toes.

Finally when I came back from college to try and figure out my life, my parents were starting to figure out theirs as well. They tearfully (gleefully and relieved-fully) revealed “We just can’t handle her anymore, spend some time with your sister, she loves you, you have a connection.” Why mom and dad? A connection? Because I don’t resent her, because when I realized shaking her solved nothing, I decided to try loving her unconditionally, because she is the burden I was born into? And ultimately they would shell out the convenient cash to get us both an apartment, a nice two bedroom in the trendy part of downtown Charleston. Two windows overlooking Main Street where Ellie was free to shout her stunning revelations and embarrassing accusations to potential friends and lovers as they approached our quaint “mind fuck” of a home.

Well that is where we have lived for the past five years, learning to accept one another and find a way to live without one of us ending up bloody in the floorboards. I even stop once in a while to watch “Who’s the Boss” with Ellie in the back of my friend Christian’s skull, when we can get him to stare at us long enough (I think I’m starting to see something). And you know screaming “Nipple Pie!” At strangers from the second floor can be more therapeutic than you would guess. In turn she has cut down on her crayon consumption and has learned how to dress and speak semi-appropriately for her age. The one thing that still gets me and it’s a doozy, is on Sunday afternoons when she sits out on our porch in the rocking chair with a pair of old black panties, and just that, as the setting sun shines down on her obvious and bare breasts. She sticks her belly out and sits like a 50 yr. old man at a strip club, legs spread displaying masses of the unimaginable and she ecstatically screams at the world “I live with a Pedophile, I’m 10 years old and my brothers a pedophile!” And I run to my room, lock the door, and shake my head quite like an Etch a Sketch, hoping I’ll wake up and this won’t be my reality. . . . . .

. . . . . then one night far down the road in December of 2012, when we were both in our early sixties, long after our parents were gone, and long after I had been married and we had moved to the shore, long after Ellie had accepted her life living with me and my new family, and long after my divorce and my kids had grown up and left; she ran into my room with a tube sock... she told me to put it on and hold her tight... I humored her as I always had.... and well to my shock or perhaps to my lack of shock after knowing Ellie all these years, the world ended, it just froze and imploded and we were teleported to a pueblo, a warm cozy home on a planet not too far from earth... SHE HAD PROGRAMMED THE UNIVERSE THROUGH A TUBESOCK! And apparently I was the only one that was worth saving. . .

-655321

The Weight of the World

2009-04-01T14:20:00.000-07:00

Pity me, Woe is me; How Fucked is I?
To carry the weight of the world.

1 billion obese souls and counting
with problems and issues and
and
and
outdated clothing;
they sit on my shoulders like hunched over children on bleachers
at your middle school little league game.

“Hey, pitcher pitcher pitcher,
Hummina hummina hummina.”

“Hey pitcher, pitcher. . . .Fuck You!”

“Fuck you? Fuck me? Hey, Fuck You!”
Harsh words from those that no longer inhabit a vessel.
Sit there dancing, prancing, and harassing.
Tormenting the confusion
Which grieves your face with anxiety,
Not unlike a hyperactive 3 year old
With a small bladder,
In the back seat,
Of a sedan,
On a trip,
Up the coast.

Let’s play chicken; let’s challenge the warden;
They say, and I guess that’s me.
Let’s consummate this after life, lascivious, love. . . . affair.
One geriatric, one pediatric; both dueling with switchblades
Gross!
The phantasmal, visceral, viscous, violates my younger than you cheek.

How vain am I?

With clouds in my coffee
To have mirrored ceilings,
A California King,
No crown, nor scepter
But 600 thread count.
In a room that only holds
A bed.
Off with all their heads
Leave mine intact please.

Well woe is me
Woooooooe is poor little old me
To carry the weight of a million starving children
On these poor shoulders.
How horrible is me to carry the weight
Of all the derelicts in Los Angeles who’ve shit on the side of
Spago, and Koi, and Katana, and others;
To then shit on the side of a
Convenience store
In Bloomfield, Kentuky and say:
“No, this isn’t for me.”

Ohhhh! To pontificate about that heavy feeling
But not
Give
A shit
Because the weight of me
Is weighing me down

"The weight of the world?"
She says
"You wish you were that important."

-655321

Edgar

2009-03-27T14:17:00.000-07:00

Edgar had always been alone. His first memory was waking up from a midday nap, prying his shuddering and heavy eyes open, lifting his head from the pillow on his bed and seeing no one there to welcome him back from slumber. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, adjusted himself to the light and walked, precariously, through the house in search for his mother. Edgar never knew, nor would he ever know, that at that time, his mother was in the garage having extramarital intercourse in her station wagon.

Edgar was four years old at this time, and lived with constant separation anxiety. His mother, Evelyn, birthed Edgar unintentionally. While she had no plans to today, or any other day, 15 years from now she would, in a fit of anger, tell Edgar he was a mistake. Edgar, after admittedly only a moments search for his mother, began to cry. Evelyn could not hear his cries. After a painstaking hour of trying to get him to sleep, she felt vindicated in engaging in this act unfettered, and her moans were a manifestation of that, more than the pleasure she received from her male suitor.

Unsure of what to do, Edgar did what most children would do, he sat on the couch, clutched at a pillow and wept. First loudly and hysterically with the hope that salvation was a mere earshot away, and then weakly, as if the way an injured and helpless dog cries after breaking a bone. In the garage, Evelyn relished in the moment of having responsibilities for no one: not for her burdensome and austere husband and not for her sensitive and fragile son.

After some time, a crow perched itself on the branch of a naked tree, just outside the window from where Edgar sat. It was not the first time Edgar had seen this type of bird, with its gleaming black feathers and penetrating eyes, but he was always accustomed to them flying. And now here it was, sitting next to him, with but a partition of glass separating the two. Edgar stared hopefully at the bird. He tapped on the window gently. The bird reacted and turned his head, with a subtle and curious tilt to see who or what it was making the noise.

Edgar, with tears dried to his crimson cheeks began to cool down. He waved at the bird and the bird nodded slightly yet unmistakably in return. He felt safe, almost instantly. The two sat for nearly fifteen minutes together before Edgar’s mother slipped in through the garage door. When he saw her, he didn’t feel the comfort he normally did, but fear that this was a woman who left him and may leave him again. Evelyn was mortified that Edgar sat there, within earshot of her screams. She was worried about herself first, and in some capacity, Edgar knew this: her hair in disarray, her button down blouse flung over her shoulder, and her shoes in one hand. The unknown scared Edgar and the prospect of the known scared Evelyn.

After adoring reassurance of her love and devotion, a pleasant movie put on and a surprise snack made for his enjoyment, Edgar felt a bit better, but in a way that was unnatural- It wasn’t the way he felt when the crow nodded and sat with him, in silence, and in company.

For the ensuing years, Edgar often encountered this crow in times of isolation. It would return, and perch outside the window, and the two would sit together as Edgar grew old enough to stay home alone, and as Evelyn felt comfortable leaving the house to pursue her interests. They sat while Edgar watched movies, while he read, and while he planned out his future. What was always constant, was the mutual recognition the two had and that the crow, in some capacity, knew he provided solace to Edgar, and perhaps Edgar to him.

And on the eve that he left for college, three months and seventeen days after Evelyn told Edgar that he was a mistake, he went outside in the yard and waited. He waited for an hour until the crow finally flew down. He didn’t perch on his shoulder, or come and eat off his hand, but he went back to the tree he’d always sat on, and stared at Edgar. Edgar knew, at that moment, that he would never return home again. And, content with that, he also knew that the crow would find him again, and sit outside his window.

-Stockton Borealis

Jenny

2009-03-10T12:51:00.000-07:00

About seventeen years ago Jenny Grigsby saw her first signs of puberty. She had been taking a bath when she noticed three little hairs sprouting from in between her thigh and pelvis. She was instantly filled with a bittersweet excitement. It felt strange to be on the brink of adulthood. She didn't fancy herself ready to leave the youthful stage in her life that she had recently become so accustomed to.

The following year proved even more difficult for Jenny. Her body had grown awkwardly and pimples had surfaced on her face. Her first uncomfortable experiences with menstruation, and the mood swings that resulted often lead to thoughts of suicide. Sometimes the thoughts were so violent and unbearable that she would lock herself in the attic after school and weep until it was time for bed.

On Sundays, while at church, she found it hard to concentrate on the sermon. Her eyes would often wander to rest on the handsome Thomas Jacobs, who at the age 17 was a whole five years her senior. He was dashingly handsome. Tall, with blue eyes and dark brown hair. On occasion their eyes would meet, causing a rush of warmth to consume her. The feeling would start in her cheeks, and work its way down through the rest of her body, until it became so powerful and so drastically pleasurable that she would have to tighten her abdominal muscles to suppress her excitement.

At home her fantastic thoughts of Thomas were thwarted when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Unlike most girls her age, who, for no reason at all, were less than satisfied with their physical appearance, Jenny was not attractive in the least.

While riding her bike home from school one sunny afternoon, her head swirling with thoughts of Thomas, Jenny hit a particularly rough patch of road that set the bicycle bouncing beneath her. Between the deep thoughts of Thomas and the heavy vibrations of the bicycle seat on her pubis she felt the all too familiar feeling of warmth become hot inside her. The feeling didn't start in her face this time, but rather in between her legs. The hot pressure built up and up until, like a volcano, she erupted with a tiny cry of pleasure, almost losing control of her bicycle.

From that day forth, Jenny smiled more often, her trips to the attic were no longer filled with tears, and she was somewhat able to maintain a level of calm around Thomas.

One evening in early spring, Jenny found herself face to face with Thomas at the county fair. In between pitches at the Dime Toss, Thomas had turned to Jenny for another ten cents. She obliged with a smile, barley able to contain her feelings. After he won, Thomas gave the small teddy bear prize to the beautiful girl standing next to him. They kissed briefly, and then disappeared into the far corner of the field where the lights from the fair couldn't reach.

Jenny didn't see Thomas after that. He wasn't in Church the following Sunday and soon it was known, throughout the town, the he had run away to enlist in the war. Jenny was heartbroken. The only man she had ever loved was gone from her life. Though she was now able to concentrate on the sermon, she longed for the chance to see those blue eyes staring back at her again.

It wasn't long before Jenny started noticing other boys – closer in age but still unattainable. One afternoon, behind the barn, Jenny and her friend Donald Harris, decided to kiss. Donald was a homely child, and Jenny didn't find him any more attractive than Thomas Jacobs had found her. But he had been nice to her in recent years, and Jenny figured it wouldn't be too bad, as long as she closed her eyes.

For the next few weeks Donald and Jenny met up every afternoon for kissing sessions. Every time they went a little further. Jenny had no reservations when Donald asked to see her newly developed breasts. She even let him touch them. When they started kissing again she couldn't ignore the intriguing lump that had formed in Donald's trousers.

"what is that?" she asked

"that's what happens," he replied, smiling sheepishly.

And as more clothes started falling to the floor the door opened suddenly. Jenny's mother stood there in shock. Everything was still for a moment, until Jenny's mother closed her mouth and turned from the door with a blank expression. Donald and Jenny exchanged glances of fear as they listened to the footsteps walk down the hallway. Moments later, Donald ran from the house as fast as he could, and Jenny threw her clothes back on. For the better part of the next hour she sat on her bed in silence, afraid to confront her mother about the situation that had just taken place.

In the car ride Jenny's mother did not speak. The Church was cold and dark when they arrived. And after ten Our Father's and ten Hail Mary’s they left in silence. Jenny did not speak with her mother for another month after that. Nor did she speak with any boys.

In the following years Jenny lead a life separate from the rest. She moved from the countryside to the big city and rented a one-room apartment. She made a handful of friends in college that she tried to relate to. They would stay up all night talking about the world and philosophical subjects, and she would humor them with her faux-intellectual banter. She never quite felt complete. She dated a few guys, but nothing ever stuck. All her relationships would end in frustration, or they would just fizzle out.

It was a full moon the night Jenny was raped. Fall was in the air. It was a cool, damp night that ended one of the last hot days of the Indian summer.

On her way home Jenny walked briskly through the park... She had always heard stories of people getting mugged. One of her friends was violently confronted one night and managed to get out of it by throwing a pocket of change in the mugger’s face and then running away. Jenny didn't have any change in her pocket this evening but she had never felt threatened walking through the park alone.

"Just puff up your chest, lift your shoulders, and tuck your hair back," one of her female friends had once said. "The more you look like a man the less trouble you'll get... the student handbook says it reduces your chances of being robbed by 70%."

That was nearly 10 years ago.

Most of her college friends had moved away, gotten married, and even had children that were in grade school by now. But Jenny? Jenny still lived in the same one-room apartment that she had begun renting her freshman year.

She was almost across the park. Her mind completely dwelling on the awful date she had left 30 minutes beforehand. Time to masturbate. The only form of sex she had ever experienced. The only thing she really ever needed in life... why settle for a shitty guy when she can do a perfect job herself…. And it's not like any guys even liked her. The only reason Robert took her out tonight was because she helped him with a project at work. He was mildly handsome, and she was interested, but it would surely never amount to anything. At 29 years old she was used to that.

And that's when it happened. Like a pillowcase filled with sand being shot out of a canon it hit her. He hit her. 200lbs of man.

The only contact she had had with a man until now was Donald, and that happened 15 years ago. She felt the strength of her attacker pushing her down onto the grass. She wanted to scream, she wanted to struggle, but she was so overwhelmed with the presence of a man that she could hardly breath, or even move. So, she lay there and let him take her. He ripped through her pants with ease – a brand new power suit she had bought for work – but she didn't care. He entered her forcefully but with precision. She could tell he was a man that knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it. Confidence.

She could feel his member fill the void inside her - a void that had loomed inside her since the first time she had laid eyes on Thomas Jacobs in church. She wanted to turn around and look her attacker in the face. But each hit kept her looking forward. Fists to the back of her head were like sensual kisses. Her heart beat faster now. She could feel the warmth build inside her with every thrust. A feeling she had only been able to create by herself until now. Now it was real. This is real. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth build to an unbearable heat inside her. She looked straight at the car headlights on the distant street – a cascading river shimmering in a sunset. The soft moonlight on the grass in front of her was the most beautiful, perfect shade of green. And as the heat reached her toes and fingertips she felt her attacker release his seed inside her. Working off his fully erect, fully pulsating shaft, she arched her back and pressed against him writhing up and down until the heat in her body exploded beyond all expectation. Simultaneous orgasms. Perfect. Beautiful. She let out a barely audible sigh of satisfaction and smiled.

The attacker was surprised. He had never felt a woman this wet after a rape before and it was a turnoff. He quickly stood up lifted his trousers and ran off.

Jenny watched him run from the scene, his muscular legs pounding the pavement, and then he was gone. The stars in the sky shown a little brighter. The air a little sweeter.

As she stood up, and adjusted herself for the rest of the walk home, she tripped slightly on something. In the moonlight she could see it was a wallet and bent down to pick it up.

Thomas Jacobs had raped her. Sweetly. He stood 6’ 3” with dark brown hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t as attractive as she remembered him but it was probably just a bad photo. Tomorrow she would call him and ask him to dinner.

For the first time in her life Jenny Grigsby felt complete.

-Cornelius

JULIAN PUDDLES: Thanks, I'm Already Bowing

2009-03-06T17:22:00.000-08:00

“Eloquent ramblings from a grotesquely underdeveloped ape.”

“Choice words and respectable inflections from a human washcloth.”

That was it . . .. that was the review casually posted in the bottom right corner of the “Arts and Leisure” section of the Sunday, March 22 2009 edition of the NY Times.

“Dissonant yet pertinent blabber from an amorphous blob of a man,” and “God’s little mistake literally rolls on stage in an inspired revival of Cat’s,” March 21st 2008, Seattle Arts Forum.

Then there’s my personal favorite: “Julian Puddles one man show: How I learned to Stand is literally half a man short and half a wit flat” and further “I found myself staring off during his intellectual ramblings on lunchmeat as symbolism for social and economic status, and getting lost in the numerous masses of skin gently laying across the freshly waxed stage like a giant human silly putty. Where is his jawline? Could he stick his own ear in his mouth? Are those his eyes or did someone spill marbles onto the stage that happened to land on . . . presumably. . . well I guess that’s his neck,” Broadway Magazine, November 21st 2007.

These were the reviews that poured in, as I would flex my dramaturgical muscles on stage. (Literally, my body isn’t capable of forming muscles; figuratively I’m the strongest fucking man you know). Yes it is true; I was born without a frame, without bones strong enough to support the flesh, blood, organs, and viscera that fuel every other living soul. With bones doctors estimate I’m about 6 feet tall 175lbs; in reality, in present state I’m about 1 foot tall, 150 lbs with a 3 ft. radius.

There it is, I said it, I have a damaging and irremediable disease listed in Stedman’s medical dictionary as Hemimelia. I have the most foregone, unfortunate, and untreatable version of this horrible, horrible affliction that doctors have resorted to calling it “Oh shit Hemimelia.” But people let’s get beyond that . . . you don’t need to hear how I used to get slept on during nap time in pre-school, or how my desk was a radio flyer in high school. You don’t want to hear how my least favorite food is pancakes and when I see Frisbees I get nauseous. For Christ sakes I went to Julliard, graduated top of my class, and have a voice that would make Bing Crosby sound like a Japanese Karaoke star. I have a masters in theater from NYFA, speak 4 languages fluently, and hold an honorary degree in Mythology and Folklore from Harvard (not Harvard extension.)

I’ll honor your inquisitions though; yes I look odd, and yes people stare. It is hard for me to make friends and get people to look past my exterior appearance. On a good day I look similar to what you may expect, like a somewhat handsome man smashed between two cartoon anvils, like the good ol’ Wyle-E-Coyote. I look vaguely and move exactly like “Brain” from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cartoons in the early 90’s. Or here try this: I’m Brad Pitt, “Legends of the Fall” era Brad Pitt. . . ok got the picture in your mind? Sexy, fit, chiseled. . . Alright, now remove the bones. . . . Take a picture that’s me.

For some; one look at me can change your world, make you find a religion, make you commit to that girl you’ve been dangling like my limp right forearm, make you reveal your secret family in Mexico. Good I guess. But then. . ..well then there’s the bad days when I look like leftover liposuction and a poor toupee. When I look like a mentally challenged 3rd graders clay concoction that was left in the kiln a little too long, (he named me Fred). I have these days on stage, and people sit there in horror, people sit there in fear, some people sit there and even laugh. And all I can do is what I was born to do, I project my voice, squirm to my mark and use my God given gift to make people transform me into John Hamm, or George Clooney, hell I’ll even take Lyle Lovett. The point is they will get past my appearance and appreciate my talent.

Life has been tough for me I admit, but please give respect where respect is due. While I’m delivering my monologue please don’t imagine what it would be like if I was a gigantic omelet (yes I realize I could feed many starving nations). Don’t ask me if I am capable of sex, if I’m real or CG, if I’ve thought about selling my life rights to McG so he can create the next great action buddy comedy “Tito and the Blob: An Eddie Murphy and Julian Puddles Shoot-Em-Up.” I am an actor, I am talented. . . . you know how many actors truly make it in this world? Not a lot. Look at me; despite my affliction, despite the odds, despite my appearance I’ve made it, I’m on page six. I’ve got pictures of Marissa Miller and Meaghan Fox kissing where my cheek should be. And look at you, you poor miserable shmuck. Keep taking your acting classes, keep working at the Geisha house, keep driving your ford pinto to your Dentyne Ice commercial auditions. I’m a mass of human amalgamation, a talented damn blob, if I can make it then what the hell is wrong with you? Listen. .. . I’m sorry, I just get angry sometimes, but hey if things get really tough, you know really bad, you could always remove your bones, take a class at UCB, and enroll in Julliard.

-655321

Batter of the Sexes

2009-01-22T17:51:00.000-08:00

"I want you to fill me up, stuff me like feta cheese into a big green cocktail olive,” Huh? What? How did I get here with this mascara moron shouting culinary indecencies into my furious dripping mug? I mean I love sex, who doesn’t? I used to love food too; I loved chicken potpie until she explained it was a metaphor for her voracious appetite for my holy “drumstick”. I loved strawberries until she told me where she lost one while experimenting as a young teen (4 days she couldn’t get it out, the doctor tried too, it was finally her uncle who dislodged the refreshingly fruity dam. . . . hmmmm?). Seriously look at me, I'm working; I'm at work, see that vein in the middle of my forehead, that’s my fornication vein, see my gritted teeth, in about ten more seconds the top two Chiclets are going to shatter, it's a defense mechanism, it means shut the fuck up. Blood will dribble from my mouth onto her soft skin and instead of scaring her she’ll compare it to something sweet like cherry syrup and keep telling me to “eat that peach!” like a demanding African American single mother of three.

"Oooh yea almost there almost there, now pass out the pigs in a blanket. . . don't overcook, don't overcook. . . ok, ok yes yes and toss that olive in the martini, annnnnnd done" Excuse me, 23 yr old hipster Julia Childs can you stop with the food references. I don't even like whip cream touching the surface of my palm while I watch skinemax, much less re-enacting the cream cheese scene from Caligula in my bedroom. The last thing I need is a sexual "partner" that can't stop shouting about meat made out of pig scraps as I reach climax. The whole session would go on like this, and I’m sorry I really am, but food and sex they just don’t mix.

“Appetizers, oooh baby fontina cheese on the quiche, sprinkle it, sprinkle it, little more, ok ok now put it in the oven, oooh its hot don’t burn yourself baby!” What!? Never compare the most important part of a man to a quiche, c’mon if its gotta be food give me the salami, or the popsicle, the banana or the. . . . fuck I don’t even care the carrot stick, but not a small round appetizer. And oven? I don’t want to hear your babymaker referred to as an oven under any circumstance. There will be no “bun in the oven,” “no roast in the heater,” “no pizza in the broiler,” nothing is going in that spot when the euphemism you choose, by nature, heats things up until they are edible. You don’t call it an oven and I won’t call it a babymaker, deal?

But no these food references didn’t stop, at first I thought wow this girl is perfect she comes over at 1am stays for an hour then I spread out like Henry the VIII in my California King as she heads off to the Guillotine or whatever Silverlake bar she sauntered out of. But, eventually food references became food. She’d say c’mon its just a little chocolate syrup, or hey its just a bit of honey, then it was ketchup, it was milk, it was fritos, cream of spinach, then chicken, briscuit (briscuit?), a full Easter dinner. Next thing I know she had moved the microwave to my nightstand; there were banana muffins cooling on my Fender and my bedroom smelled like a prison cafeteria after a 30 man riot and a sopping sodomy soiree. I began washing my sheets 3 times a week and thinking hey this is normal, women are weird. But the sex was just so good when we started, when the food references were at a minimum, and when she came to cum and left when it left me.

Soon she was staying overnight; she was reading “Barefoot Contessa,” and “Giada’s Kitchen” by nightlight and whispering, “3 Teaspoon’s of Cumin” in my ear. My room started to resemble a cross between Mike’s Pastries and Hustler; it was “Larry Flint presents: the Bakers Dozen,” I had my own Porn Cakery. She liked to call it the Sweaty Muffin shop; I liked to throw up in my mouth a little when I heard that.

And then it set in. At first for me, it was “No I’ll pass on breakfast”, then it was “wow I’m just really not hungry for lunch”, and then geez “I ate a huge dinner 3 days ago.” Eventually the sex came to a halt because my bed was a lasagna testing station, I stopped going to work because I was too weak and malnourished to leave home, I started to get dizzy spells because her steak supreme and garbanzo surprise made my thoughts dry heave. The very site of her retreated my appetite back into my quickly decaying body as it ate away at what nutrients it could find. And I guess I finally passed out or lost consciousness, or my body just couldn’t take it anymore and that’s when I ended up here, in this hospital bed, with food being forced into my mouth and nutrients pumped into my veins by a 40 yr. old ex boxer and 6 feet of plastic tubing. Apparently I was anorexic, but it was more than that too. I had “Comestible Depression” combined with “Anti-Gormandize Reproduction Syndrome.” This was grounds for not just a hospital stay but a year of rehabilitation as well; this was "what Charles needs to take back his former life."

But at night to my horror she would sneak into my room, drag a microwave from the cafeteria all the way down the hall and heat up leftover culinary concoction number 2,645. She would take off her clothes and mount my broken soul shouting, “I want you to fill me up!!” as a single tear would run down my chocolate chip cookie cheek.

-655321

Mildred's Party

2009-01-09T15:11:00.000-08:00

The Vulva Fête
Nelson Fucks Everybody – A battle of wits and a dick
Friday, January 9, 2009

An evening of gladdening, gratification, and grins.

Meet and Greet
9 - 9:30
Gander and gossip with the local hard-bodies, enjoy a cocktail of your choice, catch up on your fellow friends’ holiday moments, etc. Be advised this is definitely NOT the time to begin using your charm in hopes of landing a bedmate. Be a gentleman and a lady, after all, it’s still early.

OMG, like this is so Fun.com
9:30 – 10:15
Hop your bottom over to a seat and join in on a game with friends. This could be anything from board games, to billiards, to singing your heart out on the Wii. Yes, John, you can sing The Strokes. Ladies, now is an advisable time to run your hand along Ari’s arm, he’s a looker, and yes, he will go quickly. Most likely, very quickly. Amanda texts Rachel, “is it fun?”

“Nice Shoes”
10:15 – 11:00
Previous friendly follies over various rounds, matches, and competitions heats up. Turn up your agreeableness and witchery, compliment the minx next to you. Nate and Nelson discuss music. Amanda realizes she should have come.

Middle School Drunk
11:00 – 11:35
If you did not drink in middle school, fine, but you were still absolutely and undeniably a concupiscent hard-on. So, let’s play spin the bottle. The only difference is that we’ll know what we’re doing, a five second kiss won’t make you pre-cum, and our disposable cameras have now been replaced with sleek digital cameras so that we can erase the snapshots that make our chins look fat.

Finale
Post 11:35
Time to leave, grab the arm of the person you just slobbered on and head out for a night of reveling in your revelry at the local watering holes. Amanda joins.

-mildredratched-

An Opus of Nonentity: Nonsensical, Frivolous, Accusatory Drivel.

2008-09-24T18:17:00.000-07:00

I got nothing; Inspire me.
I blame turtles. . they're so slow and boring.
Do they even have a taste?
Taste is important.
Turtle soup is that a real thing?
They are green; as colors go. . . .that's good.
I blame Wal Mart, and Honda Civic's and college ruled notebook paper, and "not Heinz" Ketchup, and you, (see all boring things).
ok some imagery perhaps;
snakes. . .children. . .sidewalks.. . beard, boring.
Ahhh Shel Silverstein! shit no no no, peaches, cream
Peaches and Cream hand cream. . .cream. Uggh.

Ok focus.
Pen write.
Pen. . . . . . . write!
Pen, . .write? right?
Muse, put on something sexy; I'm "feeling" no inspiration, Muse?
I'm sorry page, or is it Page, little obnoxious blinking cursor.

Ok, there was a girl, a boy, no. . . .
There was a transgender w/ a puppy, named "Taylor,"
both named "Taylor," maybe.
(how ambiguous)
Good start, really solid I'd say.
Pen write!
Hands type?
Get a quill maybe, dip it in ink, Shakespeare in Love? The world is a stage. ok good.
A house on the upper east side
Wait! a studio in Brooklyn. . . .No.
A box on Skid Row.
Yes a transgender living in a box on Skid Row, the band. . . scratch that the place,
with a puppy named "Taylor," both named "Taylor."

I'm doing this for you,
I'm doing this for me? No.
I'm doing this for Bukowski.
Pen write.
Quill dip.
Ok now write Britishly, ok and now pinky up. . .
A typewriter? (cave drawings maybe), finger paint this perhaps.
The blue represents Taylor with balls, the red well that's "shim" with a vagina;
he/she is pre opp and pre-menstrual ok?

Taylor worked in finance, or . . .telemarketing;
I mean Taylor was a retired dancer, a ballerina perhaps.

The box on Skid Row was a social experiment, like pop rocks and parachute pants or Candy camera;
no camera.
Taylor had his whole life savings at Washington Mutual; quite "loaded" really
and a box, a shitty, brown, damp, smaller than a refrigerator
Box.

Fuck. . .fuckety fuck fuck fuck me.

Nothing here, write! write!

Taylor wore heels.

Lets call him "Bobby" now; oooh how androgenous.
Bobby wore leather flats; cute flats.
Taylor liked pudding; shit, we're calling him Bobby now.
Neither would "go gently into that good night."

this is blocked, this is a writer, meet. . .welcome.
Hello, this is writers block.

Kill Taylor!
Bobby is dead.
The box was in a twister, in NYC; yes a NYC twister.
Sorry for the "Howl."
Fuck, write.
Ink, type, pen.
Damn't you're boring,
Ehhh, perhaps something next week.

-655321

Snake Bites

2008-08-21T16:31:00.001-07:00

Winston had an inclination towards Snake Bites.

No, not the act of being bitten (stung, sucked, plowed, ie. orally demolished) by the ruthless beast kicked out of that sanctimonious garden they called Eden, but similar in side effects by traditional observational means. This was actually gum for adults aimed at children; morally innapropriate like cigarettes for senior citizens marketed towards toddlers (point of reference: Kool is not cool), or tight hot pants aimed at overweight transgenders (see: women should not have a bulge in their tights in your corporate handbook). This product was a highly caffeinated, performance enhancing, sugary taffy-like gum called "Snake Bite," and it tasted sort of like cherry pie with a currently undiscovered periodic element injected into its core. "A temptation for your mouth," the corporate entity would advertise. Yes it did induce the fear, shock, and the eventual high that any normal masochist with a flair for too much black and an obsession with sleeping in the ground may experience from an actual snake bite, but this was also a veritable fruit explosion; thus appropriately named "Snake Bite."

These were individually wrapped candies with colors and designs that shouted louder than your uncles golf pants, "INGEST ME." The commercials went something like "Tired of living below? Get to the top with a bite of that Snake!" (what does that even mean) or "Can't stay up to cram for that test, Bite the Snake and stay awake" or even "Heart hurts? Make it EXPLODE with a Snake Bite." This was creative advertising with irony.

"That's the only way to get the kids into it these days; it's code these kids understand code, you tell them sex= babies= responsibility, they think I need to buy a cherry slushy and a new cell phone." Winston's father was aware of all this, and he would make these claims in every board meeting he spearheaded. He knew how to sell to children, he was a child, he had a child, he was even a registered sex offender for a couple years but gave it up for lent when the neighbors started to frown (can’t beat the first hand research). These campaigns were his babies, his snake eggs waiting to hatch and feed. Cherry and some strange metal were just the beginning; he had ideas for Grape injected with a low dose of speed, Orange with B-12 and Red Bull, Peach Cobbler with Echinacea and Zoloft, Blue Rasberry mixed with Viagra and flax seed (that one didn't really make much sense; deemed pending research contigent). There was literally a Snake Bite for every occasion and every mental or physical ailment.

Poppa Winston was aware of his impact on the youth of the 2000's lets call them "Generation Indecisive." He knew snake bites were an easy way of, A.) getting the consumer addicted and, B.) advertising a tasty snack that could prove "beneficial" to the illiterate and ignorant buyer; i.e. your average consumer. Poppa would take these juicy mineral injected delicacies in the most FDA unapproved of test states home and give them to the local children for observation. “Why charge the company for a test group of apes when we live amongst the most evolved animals one can find,” is what he used to claim. Snake Bites during the test stage were reserved for Johnny Phillips, and Suzie Crenshall, and even Gindi Mahresh when his father would let him leave the yard; but never Winston Caldwell. Winston was Poppa's son and regardless of how much he would beg, Pops would not let him try the bites in their experimental stage. Everyone else's son "not my son," he would unfairly explain.

Winston was nearly 7 that fall and he had a habit of bringing the FDA untested Snake Bites to school. They helped with popularity (he was "black market cool" perhaps?), that and he had an addiction comparable to a 65 yr. old chain smoker as a result of his fathers lack of research and discretion in passing these candies out in their test stages. He was partial to Blue Rasberry, though the 24 hour erections and extra hormones were honestly a wasted if not hurtful side effect on poor Winston's rapidly deteriorating health and body. An orange bite before school, a grape one before lunch, a cherry bite for the walk home, originally it was just something to keep his mouth busy. His teachers said he was a 'talker," not in a good way, if you're chewing you aren't talking he figured. Poppa had no idea how deep his son was into this kiddie smack, Pops was bringing products home in such excess to study the neighborhood children that he would never notice 3 bites a day missing.

No, it's appropriate to say Winston's father was fully clueless, after all only Cherry Snake Bites were street legal, so to speak, and Winston's father had only tried the product when it first reached the market. “You'd have to be crazy to snuff your own glue right, blow your own coke, inject your own black tar, chomp on your own Big Mac,” he’d reason. So Poppa was far from an addict and Winston, well, he didn't know what his father did for a living as far as Poppa was concerned.

The worry or threat really didn't build up at all, it hit like a crash test dummy into a GM test wall. Pops had a forced realization on a cold April morning that following spring when Winston's body was wheeled into the coroner's office, pockets full of Blue Raspberry Snake Bites, odd mounds forming breasts on his chest and an inappropriate bulge in his pants. Winston resembled a homeless circus clown more than he did a 7 and a half yr. old boy from the suburbs of Maryland. Children all around town began to come down with these strange side effects. First it was little Dan Dungall with a hyper activity disorder never before exhibited in his 12 years, then Jenny Gurtin with a propensity for licking all things made of plastic and a tick that put the word "Tourettes" to shame, and finally Robert Teelan whos heart actually exploded on the jungle gym one sunny Friday afternoon in May. Who was to blame, what was this horrible epidemic effecting the town? The only clue; each child held a different flavor of their choice of pure, hard, untested "Snake Bite" gum when the coroners wheeled their bodies in front of their teary-eyed parents. Snake Bites equalled "kiddie cancer," first a surpise disease or sickness, then months later a small plot next to Great Granny at St. Joseph's. That's when Pop's realized children are a most unfortunate of control groups, that's when he realized how to lie to the press, how to bury your son and deal with the guilt, how to say goodbye to your family because you are the corporate Anti-christ, and that's when Pops began to snuff his own glue, that's when Pops began to fill his pockets with "Snake Bite" gum, "A temptation for your mouth!!!."

-655321

"Earthquake!!" Stop, Drop, and Roll

2008-08-01T13:09:00.000-07:00

I live in a location that is partial to earthquakes . . . . LA has earthquakes . . . I was in a quake that shook the earth under my cheap black office chair. Wow that's almost too hard to comprehend, who would think coming to grasps with something that average would be so difficult. Earthquake is defined by dictionary.com as “a series of vibrations induced in the earth's crust by the abrupt rupture and rebound of rocks in which elastic strain has been slowly accumulating,” or “something that is severely disruptive; upheaval.” Accurate . . . but who are we kidding; an earthquake is when the ground shakes like a blender trying to chop a set of cutlery, the vibrations shake your skull giving your brain a spanking worse than your dad’s iron palm, and shards of debris and falling earth pierce through your body like a knife through jello; thus you either get a shitty pina colada with brain damage and open wounds or a building in ruins with a mass death toll. It's hard to come to terms with but some even say LA is the future city of Atlantis. Something like Utah or Nevada is soon to be beachfront property (I don't know much about geography but you get the picture the mid west shall be the new west coast, wax up that surf board and get a medical marijuana prescription Farmer John).

I don't want to philosophize or complain or get all emotional and self exploratory like some would expect after an experience that could have gone much worse (5.8, 28 miles from LA not horrible); but let me run down the mundane and moronic thoughts that went through my head during this moment of "oh fuck." I'm sitting at said desk at said assistant job, tip tap typing away pissed that word documents don't read my mind like my google page as Mr. Executive and Mr. Executive Assistant saunter down the office hallway.

“Geez” I cogitate, said production backlot must have been made with the debris from the fat brittle bones of Old Hollywood executies; I can feel the ground shake as these men approach. “Criminy!” I lamely speculate, these guys are heavy its like they're driving a big rig towards me rather than casually slipping along in their business casuals. “By Golly” I deliberate, It must be the weight of Mr. Executive's sheer accomplishments and unadulterated power flowing through his body and culminating in a fantastical storm at his black “I kick ass” Feraggamo’s that's shaking this building as he walks. No. . . .. Scratch that . . . . . brain flat-lining . . . . .. You're an idiot. Seriously that is my pre-tragedy thought, "I'm a fucking idiot." You're in an earthquake and you thought Mr. Executive was Superman or some all-powerful god shaking the ground like a Mutant outcast as he approached your desk.

Next thought, "Earthquakes are real," that's right up until that point the fact that earthquakes were real somehow never crossed my mind. An epiphany of epic proportions in my little world was had at that moment: ”My brain only comprehends events that it has witnessed.” No I'm not trying to get all Descartes on you or Plato or Aquinas up in that asssssss, "I think therefore I exist," so what. My point is that according to my limited knowledge and the above stated observed theory earthquakes are now real and are officially validated in science books-- I have experienced an earthquake; they are real. Let’s put it this way: I have never been in a Tornado: thus tornadoes are a made up meteorological tragedy to try and save Helen Hunts career, never experienced a threesome (unless you count kindergarten in the "privacy tube"): therefore a threesome is a sexual nirvana your neighbors concocted at their key club, and I have never killed a man: thus killing is like eating three boxes of Thin mint cookies while a man with very large hands milks your prostate. Science doesn't matter, my observations are my reality.

Final thought/question: What does one do, and what does one think, and how does one act during an earthquake? Well I can tell you what I did, I sat and I made eye contact with everyone in my vicinity. I first glanced at said assistant sitting next to me and conversed and empathized through eye contact: “Wow these guys are heavy, shit that’s an earthquake; damn’t I grew up on the east coast and never received quake training, is it stop drop and roll? no that’s for a fire, search the brain. . . . ahh there it is, no that’s for when a “horribly misunderstood” child shoots up the school.” Then my eyes fleet towards Mr. Executive Assistant, he is calm and cool, his pulse: an even 60 bpm, no sweat on his starched blue button down. If necessary he knows he can carry two co-workers 150lbs or less on his shoulders for a half a mile, he has a pass to 24-hour fitness and has been training for such an occurrence, he has read “Earthquake Survival and You,” hell he got it signed by the fire marshal of the building. He scurries over to the doorframe and mounts it like 2 Chow’s in heat, this is a man that knows what he is doing. Finally my eyes pan over and fall on Mr. Executive himself. The blinds shake, the ground rumbles, my life does not flash, I don’t think much; I am locked on this man. I stare at his clear misunderstood blue eyes; they say, “Shit, I wanted to be a writer.” But who cares he eats dead writers as a pre-flight snack, (what does that mean? I dunno, I’m worried, me too hunny. . . me too). Well we lock eyes and we don’t flinch (well I kinda flinch, I’m kinda all flinch, I’m the opposite of Alex during the Ludivigo treatment in Clockwork Orange) I’m pure fear, maybe a bit of I wet myself and he’s all calm “what should I get for lunch today?” cool. Finally the earth quake lets up, I’m still in shock, my neck hurts and 2 hours later I’ll go blind for an hour and a half and walk around the office near tears (very true I’ll tell you bout it next week.) When it’s all over I say something like “Wow, I’ve never been in an earthquake before,” or maybe something less intelligent like “Wooooo, earthquake virgin!!!” as I wave my pointer finger in the air and address Mr. Executive and Mr. Executive assistant. But all Mr. Executive does is look at me and he opens his mouth, yet I have no recollection of the words that came out, all I know is that they were beautiful and they were something like “Blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah. . . . POWER!!!!”

-655321

What the hell’s wrong with Randy Newman? And Assless Chaps?

2008-07-18T13:34:00.001-07:00

“Textiles and maple syrup that’s why I’d leave LA, really that’s all it would take.” Not heard from the white powdered restrooms at Hyde, not heard from the quasi Euro Trash tempting each other with E in the shape of their family crest in a dark corner at Le Deux, and definitely not heard from the celebrities and new money spilling out of Kress. Me, yes I, and no not you; you’re too convinced otherwise. I would leave LA’s brainwashed streets and it’s piss stained walk of fame. I wouldn’t miss the tourists sporting that initial look of wonderment then the inevitable snarl after visiting the city that harbors their allergies worst nightmares and their brain and ego’s biggest let down. The other day I swore I saw a bum making a dirt igloo, It’s not impossible to find that much trash in Hollywood; seriously look behind a door, an alleyway, at your dirty white keds, (yes you, you post post hipster style guru you), and you can find enough shit to create a two story trash mansion elaborately furnished with central AC and a dishwasher dignified enough to light up the eyes of even the most regal of homeless royal blood.

Again textiles and maple syrups, a small store in the countryside maybe Pennsylvania, or Maryland, or Connecticut. Who doesn’t like maple syrup; and textiles well you’re wearing a shirt and pants aren’t you? If not how bout a t-shirt that says “Not!!!!” for 9.99 and some MC Hammer parachute pants circa 1989 for 7.99. Pants, t-shirts, scarves, hats, assless chaps, and maple syrup, that’s why I’d leave LA. I’m not even talking about that “Vermont” maple syrup; you know the kind that’s supposed to be amazing because it’s authentic but really ends up tasting like a sticky Molotov cocktail jammed into a glass maple leaf. I’m talking about the buttery sweet fake shit that makes you feel like McDonald’s wasn’t only a bad idea but you have no idea if you will be able to get your toilet as white and sterile as it once was after ingesting maple syrup.

“I love LA,” “I love LA?” come on Randy Newman specifically what do you like about this crotch sweat wasteland? “If your balls don’t stick to your leg, you’re not in LA”, that’s what mom always used to say. “Look at that mountain, look at that tree, there’s a bum over there down on his knees?” Excuse me, Mr Newman I can’t see the fucking mountain unless I go up to the Griffith observatory after a fresh rain and cross my fingers that a 3-day coughing fit haze won’t be yellowing my view. The trees are nice when they haven’t been herded behind some celebrity’s mansion so they can breathe fresher air then their “two-bit reality star neighbor.” And that bum on his knees well he’s praying to Allah because even he’s more religious then the devil worshippers that run this town.

I know what your all thinking “If you don’t like it that much then leave!!” Right, right the same shit they say to people when they bash America. Well I fucking love America so close your tight-pursed botox lips asshole. Ya know obviously I've been thinking maybe I should leave; textiles and maple syrup right? Well I exaggerate, and leaving would be too easy, I've always been a bit of a masochist and gosh if Newman doesn't have a pretty voice when he spews bullshit. I’m not leaving; this is my town; my new song: "I'm Secretly Ok with LA." You get the fuck out, the smell of hot piss and rotten sushi has grown on me, Miley Cyrus spottings give me half stock, and I like the excitement of that tuberculosis cough I get fighting my way to the ocean. “I’m trying to make it,” I live here, get used to it I like to complain, and you can take your vegetarian ass and sun kissed face out of my view so I can watch the slowly dying sun set. Besides I can’t sew textiles, obviously don’t understand the word and maple syrup will be around for another 3,000 years until the earth is swallowed by your neighbors giant cat after the nuclear war of 5008. Thanks Randy.

-655321

I think you're crazy, maybe

2008-07-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

My heart has been ripped out and squashed with a Louboutin high heel. It's black, pointy toed, and has a beautiful red sole. The heel and my heart.

-mildredratched-

"Motion Picture Soundtrack" - Radiohead

"Kadush," or Pudding Skin: Soundtrack to a French Neo-Noir Tragedy.

2008-07-11T12:55:00.000-07:00

"Kadush, kadush, kaaadush," God, she's got pointy fingers, "This fucking thing won't work, Luc."

Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up! Stop pressing the damn record button and shut the fuck up. Patience is a virtue, right; life lessons: like sex is a disease, religion is an empty wallet, knowledge is an anxiety disorder, eating is a release, and shitting being the opposite of eating must be a . . . fill? No, no, start again, this is backwards, we are off track. Damn't she does this to me, fills my mind with, well, if it's being filled then I guess shit.

"Ha, well baby maybe you better stop pushing it so hard, I just bought that thing." Aka I'll hit you so hard you're wearing steak over both lids if you break my new toy. God, isn't that just the metaphor for our whole relationship; she keeps pressing record and all we get is empty space and time . . . and steak, for some reason room service won't stop bringing steak. A release from my wife, originally that's all this weekend was, watching this 22 year old little hard body, well it's turned into button pushing. How did Thursday turn into Saturday and where are my pants? How'd I end up here in a hotel room in Vegas staring at this patch of bleached blonde pubis while she fiddles with my "Sony record your sex;" leaving me flaccid as a pedophile in a nursing home. She says the cameras is an eager, albeit perhaps desperate, attempt to satisfy her Auteur cinematic needs. I say it's a gift for a little girl whose dad died on Christmas.

Let's say I won her number in a raffle the winning ticket: D-E-L-T-A 1751. A flight attendant more interested in tending than flight. Today's in flight movie "How Chelsea gets man in 1D off while serving stale Cheez-It's." She was my prize and Vegas her foolish handler. She said she liked pudding, that's all she'd share really. Pudding was usually chocolate Snack-o-pack's with crushed up vitamins, that's vicodin, percocets, oxy, synthamesc, drencrome, Moloko-plus, anything artificial really. I asked her about school and history was tapioca to vanilla cream, remember the crust that used to form at the top; there's a word for that; no its not "pudding skin," though Urbandictionary.com does define pudding skin as "the first lick of a vagina during cunnilingus." God did she love pudding skin. Science was frozen pudding (she usually got confused here; no change in state of matter; both pudding and pudding pop are solids my dear). Reading was "Chocolate Pudding: a how to." Gym was; well gym was all the places you could rub pudding on the human body keeping your heart rate under 100 bpm's.

"Je suis un petite fille," I have never heard this more in my life. You tell a girl your family roots are French Canadian and she assumes you shit brie. She's young though so I mess with her head, there's still time for her to be a mature contributing member of society if she could only wipe the layer of "I'm not with stupid, I am stupid" off her face. So its touch me here, lick me there, hit me way too hard under here (all in French); and I. . . . well, I have no idea what she's talking about so I sit there staring, pretending like French is my first language, and I hit her because I feel like it, I lick her because my tongue is salivating and she smells like orange shasta, and I touch her because I'm afraid I can't feel. Nothing she says makes sense and nothing we do is ever recorded because she can't press buttons and we don't work.

Sunday morning I glance over and she smells like motor oil, like a car that's been driven too hard. I think of Marie, and the children she's growing and I think of this young girl. I remember "Je suis un petite fille," and I think, Jesus 22 isn't that young, I owned three hotels and an airline when I was 22. So I lick her again, and she tastes like burnt rubber, I touch her and realize I can't feel, and I slap her to check if either one of us is alive. I come to the conclusion that she might be, but I definitely am not, and if she wakes up she may want breakfast. So I leave her a credit card that doesn't work, and I write her a note in someone else's handwriting about the physics of suicide from the Bellagio roof. I clean up my clothes, take a bite of old Filet Mignon and a box of dark chocolate pudding as a souvenir and I head for the door. The camera turns on from the corner of the room and finally starts to record, its response to touch two days too late, a metaphor wholly wasted. I leave the room and let it record, people will want to see the nothingness that occurred, years from now they'll want to know neither of us were really there. Vegas was an illusion; Vegas has fully faded from my memory.

-655321

Sentiments v. Syllables (Japanese Bonus Track)

2008-07-07T11:44:00.000-07:00

Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory. As I serve two-dollar ginger ale to the Asian men in first class, the two virginal boys prancing in the aisles of Delta Flight 1751 only excite images of masculine knights and their tight fitting unitards. Provoking me with their mushroom tips, these men look happy with their lives, with their ginger ale, while I am left stung by the sour looks of their detestation.

It was a Thursday night when Luc told me I looked pretty, but maybe that was because we were in the hotel bar. He talked to me about France, prehistoric elephants of the Midwestern plains, doing magic, and, to a lesser extent, about his wife, Marie. He also talked about eating my pussy, which was something new, something risqué, convenient, and in a rather depressing admission, essential. In his room he taught me French words, wore tight jeans, and exhibited a steady hand. On Friday morning, I awoke to a note from those steady hands. He wrote in all caps and thanked me.

That morning I ordered blueberry pancakes, charged them to his room, and felt almost nothing. Nothing except that little hint of nostalgia for the very recent past. I’ve found the trick is to try and not think about anything. Try for nothing, look for nothing, because the church of the subgenious is an order of scoffers and blasphemers, dedicated to total slack, delving into mockery science, sadofuturistics, megaphysics, scatalography, schizophreniatrics, morealism, sarcastrophy, cynisacreligion, apocolyptionomy, ESPectorationalism, hypno-pediatrics, subliminalism, satyriology, disto-utopianity, sardonicology, facetiouism, ridiculophagy, and miscellaneous theology.

By the afternoon I had sold the memoirs of my love life to a publisher. They are going to make a board game out of it and most likely nobody will ever pass go, nor will anyone ever collect two hundred dollars. The abrogation of my trip found myself in the airport, snacking on two chocolate chip cookies to pass the time. Remember, dénouement. Other French words: inconvenient, nonessential, etc. In the end I don’t want flowers, or spaceships, I don’t really want anything. I feel cold, like the ghost of someone who used to exist, but someone much happier than I, maybe someone like Marie. Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory.

-mildredratched-

If it's not Christmas, Why the Hell am I Up?

2008-07-02T23:31:00.001-07:00

A topical rant on a topic you mustn't know:

Do you ever just wanna fall asleep and only wake up on Christmas Day? Just get rid of your problems, the flies constantly buzzing through your daydreams, your seemingly tragic plight and stuff it all in for a hibernation of 364 days. Get rid of your cell phone, get rid of your computer, no such thing as email, no such thing as meetings, no such thing as appointments, no nagging neighbors or bill collectors. Your life is that one day; and you better make it worth it.

What’s perfect about Christmas is it’s the one day a year where everyone is an actor. You don’t have to be Brad Pitt to put a smile on your face and pretend your wife hasn’t gained five pounds every year for the last 15 years (yes that’s 75 rolly polly greasy pounds extra for you to love), "why no honey squeeze into that size 4 and stick that gigantic cantankerous mass in my face." You don’t have to be Tom Hanks to carve the family turkey and tell your son that you love his new boyfriend and feel perfectly comfortable with them culminating their relationship in your marital bed. And you don’t have to be Reese Witherspoon to give your husband a hand job while you flip through your Vogue magazine reading about how much "power the female hand has over the dick" and pretend it’s better than that ring you've been eyeing at Michaels Jewelers.

Imagine how rested you would feel if you slept every single day of the year except that one day; Christmas day. If you were born on this earth and all you knew was that one day a year; a day where people pretend they like shitty cake to curb negative relationships, they get loaded off sugary concoctions to deal with assholes that happen to share blood with them, and smiles are pasted in cyberspace forever recorded as digital memories. 75 days of life tops probably, that's all you could really hope for or expect. 75 days of an illusion that it’s all ok, that your parents don’t disprove of your lifestyle, that without a raise you won't post a youtube video titled "Larry destroys his office with a Louisville Slugger because he is underpaid and under appreciated", that the angel of death will strike every house except your white picketed piece of paradise. 75 days of covering up that you hate meatloaf, that you never loved your wife, that dad goes to the strip club because boners aren’t free, and that you can't stand to look at yourself naked in the mirror anymore because your balls/tits (lets really open this up) have become passengers rather than drivers in that failing body of yours. Imagine that; every day is red and green jello shots, every day reeks of pine and dead bird, every day is Starbucks seasonal menu (Caramel Apple Cider ahhhhhhh), every day there’s a more advanced I-pod under the tree with Steve Jobs briefing you on advances expected for Christmas number 33.

I’ll tell you what you would think, you’d probably think that this world is pretty decent, and that people are good at keeping secrets, and that society is overall pretty friendly and righteous, and that you wish you could be awake for the other 364 days of the year that you miss. But you know what you’d be wrong, because the only day, the only single day a year when families are civil and life is moral and upholds the values we are taught to look for, (if not a fake personification of a societal norm),is the one day you are awake a year and it’s all F U C K I N G fake.

-655321

FAWDER'S DAY

2008-06-15T21:20:00.000-07:00

Or The Call:
"Ring ring ring," hmmm an unknown number, could be that offer to play point guard for the Celtics I've been waiting for or that call from Mastercard asking me if I approved the rental of “The Fuck It List” on my account. . . . or more than likely it’s the doctor calling to tell me I should really think about wearing condoms next time I go to Southeast, Asia. What the hell pick it up, live a little; the cookie you ate last night told you to take more chances. . . . . in bed!!! (haha, that game you know, fortune cookies, sex. . . humor is wasted on you).

“Hello,” nothing, "Helloo?” breathing, “Hello, Yellowwww. . . . yellow card," breathing “Holaa, como estas es esta una llamada de broma?” nothing “Hell hoe, hellooooo, elbow, hi, hiya there, goodentaug. . . . ok I’m going to hang up now.” And then a voice that sounds little older than a fetus, excited like mom just bought an ice cream cone for the whole soccer team, like its Sunday and we’re going to Chuck E Cheese; “Hewwo. . .. . .hi dis is Costa, Costa Smith, happy fawder's day” Hmmm how many kids have this number, besides the ones trapped in the basement I keep for creative inspiration?

“Hello there kid, thanks for the call, do I know you?” Is this some kind of miserable right wing charitable service call to encourage all those sperm bank fathers to keep better track of their seed? Is this just a nice little kid using the numbers from his chocolate stained sudoku book to call random’s with this happy sentiment?

“Yea dis is Costa. . . what are you doing?”, “No no this is Costa, Costa is my last name. . . who is this?” God this is getting creepy; here come the death threats and the grumblings of REDRUM from the back of his throat, please God don’t let this demon child have my address.

“I just got back from the park wid mommy and gramma, we took grampa for dinner and then to see Kung Fu Panda for fathers day.” “That sounds like a nice day, Costa, it’s Costa right? Your grandfather probably would have been happy with a bottle of scotch and a piss that didn’t interrupt him in the middle of the night, but a solid day I’d say. Why did you call me though, should I know you. . .are we related, like a little cousin I forgot about?” Maybe he’s harmless; he could be one of those invasive lonely conversationalists that shares too much. You know the woman or man who scrolls through the phone book to let you know that they tried suicide two days ago but their razor was dull; Or that they just bought a new Magic Bullet from QVC and the peanut butter shakes are amazing; kinda like mom when she felt the need to tell everyone about the divorce- the worst was when she made the Payless clerk cry.

“Well Mommy said for my 5th birfday, I could tawk to my daddy. . . so I waited for fawders day because my birfday is the 3rd of June and I got a new math game for the compuder and my daddy’s phone numba and a picture of him, and a whistle for swim pwactice and a cap gun, and thwee magic books, and the Back to da Future box set.” Damn, this kids cool, a little long winded and dillusional but surely a winner among the list of shithead kids polluting this world.

“That’s awesome Costa, great story, great gifts. . .great. . .just great, listen I have to go though, it was nice speaking; you should call that old man of yours and tell him all this.” Please just hang up, if I was 15 years younger I would invite you over to my birthday and you could invite me over to your house for a swim and tell me your mom likes it when you and your friends go swimming naked; and then we would take our bathing suits off and your mom could take pictures and ten years down the line get arrested for kiddie porn, and we could bond about it years later over beers after college graduation. But it's not in the cards and I gotta go.

“But that’s what I’m doing daddy, I’m calling my daddy on fawders day. Mommy said to say tequila, donkey show, Mexico and the day after pill that she didn’t take and you would remember. Happy Fawders Day.”

-655321

Bathroom Spy

2008-06-05T20:14:00.000-07:00

The Toilet Trenches:
It's 9 am on a Thursday morning and you stumble into your work bathroom for a post-coffee piss. You close your eyes and hum the Cure song stuck in your head as you listen to the faucet drip and attempt to control your urine stream to the beat of both; (not an unusual morning feat for you). Let it drip, stop, retract, drip, drip, retract, jiggle, drip, flush; "Boys Don't Cry" remember? Dress shoes shuffle against tile floor and you see two black wingtips disappear beneath a stall door. What was that creature? What is this unidentified cockroach penetrating my morning haze?

This is what we in the work world call a culprit, a victim of unspoken bathroom blackmail and bribery. It is not a crime to use the work bathroom to export goods on the no.2 train to Empty Stomach City, in fact we all must exercise this right from time to time. But be prepared for bathroom mutiny; if you are identified as the culprit you mine as well flush your respect down with that horrid turd.

Ever notice how that Gucci toed criminal will not, positively not come out of his stall of ambiguity until you have "5 second rule" left the bathroom? C'mon people; I know it destroys the office myth that you are indeed a superhero but we all know you shit. It is just one of those things in our society and especially in the workplace; admitting you shit is like admitting you can blow bubble gum with your asshole, or that you fantasize about slumber parties with 2nd grade spelling bee finalists. So what do we do instead? We pretend "hey I'm a janitor I'm fixing the toilet paper mechanism" jiggle jiggle "be out in a sec". . . see proof, and then as soon as the bathroom is exited we leap from our stall, (where we probably completed the hardest task we will attempt all day), and we walk on over to the sink, otherwise known as home base. From that point on if Tim from business affairs comes in we can say "Ahhh Tim, nice day, Lakers or Celtics huh? Ohh that smell I don't know just peeing, just peeing in here, that's all Im actually capable of, don't know if you know this but I was born with coloneferus.. . .. it basically means I am incapable of excreting feces, huh, yea it means I cant take a crap." Why the lie, why the embarrassment, oh terrified one?

I don't necessarily get it; why this balance of power changes when we know our colleagues take a mean one every now and again; but hey “shitstalking” is what gets some of us our first raise. "I saw you shit;” the strongest words ever uttered in the work place, you mine as well give that person your wife, house, kids, and car because they own you.

Here is what I ask you, yes you I saw you in there yesterday; brown Paul Smiths and the grey Calvin Klein dress pants humming the first two versus of "Walking on Sunshine": Why wait until someone else has left the restroom, we know you shit, we know your not in that stall researching satellite orbits for NASA. "Hi my name is Bob, I'm a shitter. . . .I shat last night I shat this morning, and I'm going to go shit again right now!" Is that so hard? Don’t let the man take the power from you.

So what do I suggest and what do I do when I notice fashion clad employee #1 resting on the throne, how do I handle this situation? Well first off I must admit in all honesty I don't shit, never. . . .never have, never will I'm like the guy with coloneferus. But my game "shitstalking;" I want to see you sweat, I stay in that bathroom as long as possible while someone is in that stall, I want to catch them on the job; I am the reason for your IBS. I am a bathroom spy trying to infiltrate your hidden identity. "I can see your shoes, and your pants, as soon as I go back to my desk I will identify you!!" I will know who the shitter is, the pooper, the plopper, the turd philanthropist. Perhaps you say I am interrupting your quiet time, I say your the cause of the skip in my morning piss track. A shuffle of feet and I'm on you, ready to barter for a raise. It is not nearly as unacceptable to know someone who pees; my sister pees, my mother pees, Jim from accounting pees big deal, I saw Mother Theresa pee. . . granted she did it while floating on a cloud of recycled bibles. But to know someone that sits on the thrown and embarks on that most holy of journey's that’s something else. Just once I want to go in there and have a guy come out and go "high five buddy, I just shat!" and then I'll say something like, "Yea let's wash our hands first.. . . . and I know you shat, I've been watching you."

-655321

Food it's TV You Eat

2008-05-29T23:43:00.000-07:00

Random/Revolutionary Thought:
If you are in "The Industry" (Entertainment that is, no porn doesn't count. . .yea I know it's entertainment, give me a break ok) the only television channel you should be watching in your spare time is the Food Network.

After a long day of being told you’re worthless, throwing out rotten strawberry Yoplait’s, getting paper cuts from horrible reality television show sheets, placing calls to people incapable of picking up their own phones, and sitting through the kind of traffic that makes you want to pull over your car and use your tail pipe as a pacifier; the only saving grace is a little thing called food TV.

Do you really want to watch the efforts of the people you work so closely with everyday, and the job you pour your 20,000 salary and failed dreams into, plastered on your television screen during the 4 hours, (if that), of free time you get a night? No, I’ve got that one for you, the answer is no. Do you really want to watch the half rate movie, with the failing star/waiter, and the straight to DVD distribution deal you worked on all winter expecting a career changing credit, on your “me time” weekend? No, the answer is no yet again.

When you get home from work and your trying to think about what you should do with those two hours after eating your microwaved dinner, after exercising your administrative soul with a four mile run, and after making those urgent phone calls to your dead end contacts to further your career, you should not turn on the tv or go to a movie that reminds you you’re nowhere near your goals. What you should do, what you should really do is turn on the Food Network.

You should watch the carefree chefs of the best channel in the world create the Chicken Parmigian recipe your mom used to make you after school on Wednesdays before karate. You should watch the eclectic talent on Have Fork Will Travel move around the globe sampling the finest cuisines from countries you can’t even draw a line to on a map. Sit back and relax as Ace of Cakes try and tackle mango flavored frosting in the shape of a palm tree on a desert island mirage cake. Flip on Diners, Drive-In’s and Dive’s and reminisce about that diner back home where Paulie used to fry eggs in the center of your pancakes, or where Chef Molly used to bake homemade Twinkies on Fridays after baseball practice.

The Food Network reminds us of what’s good in this world, it reminds us of where we came from and where we would eventually like to go back to. It reminds us of the white shingled suburbs, of the nooks of the city, of the beach and the mountains. It reminds us of little league, of the donut shop downtown, of skipping out to the crab shack during lunch in high school, of family get togethers, of movie nights with friends, of barbeques on the first warm day of spring, of summers at the beach, of hot cocoa at the homecoming game, of an ice cream treat after surviving your first trip to the doctors office; it reminds us of what truly is important in this world. The Food Network reminds us of a simpler time when we used to ask “Mom, what’s for dinner?” and it reminds us that there doesn’t have to be a point to everything we do. So go home, ignore the perils of life in your chosen career, and remember what once used to be important to you, and what can be important once again. Get back to your roots and your values and have a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheddar, or you know skip the cheddar . . . . .because pie and cheese don’t mix well.

-655321

The Mouth the City Lived in

2008-05-12T21:09:00.000-07:00

A journal entry from LA's finest Madame::
Hi, I'm from LA by way of New York, Chicago, Akron Ohio, Virginia Beach, Fredericksburg Texas, and Melbourne Florida but yes I'm from LA. Me I hitchhiked out here in 78, worked as a street vender specializing in body parts; ears, eyes, toes, lips. . . . .(yes both sets), whatever you're into. Bought a car and an apt in Korea Town where I ran my business. My mouth was open 24/7 and the back door was revolving. Businessmen poured in and out of this office. The front, well I left that locked for love unless I couldn't make rent that week.

“Ahhh Mr. H R Puff n' Stuff good to see you good to see you- do you have a job for a 20 something aspiri. . ahh. . oooh. . brrrrrb ooh sorry I didn't realize we weren’t going to talk this time, wow someone is an eager beaver. Can I take out my retainer first? Oooh yes you're right that’s me, right beaver funny it’s like a pun.”

They all used code names, as if it mattered, and I was the hottest, cleanest, most innocent bull’s-eye on the market. Girl next door looks, with Ivy League wit, but they wouldn't know since mouths weren't for speaking when you charge by the hour. An Ivy League Whore makes for a snappy business card. Hey I'm an entrepreneur- we are all good at one thing and me, I know how to run a business, Korea Town to Silver Lake, Silver Lake to WeHo, WeHo to Beverly Hills. This bumpkin moved up and over and out, I can do it all and done it all.

“Well hello mister DeLlama and Snorcese, how imaginative you both are, sure all at once lets give it a shot, and by the way you wouldn't happen to have a position at your companies for a smart, willing (obviously), attentive young, oh yes, uh huh I just got tested yesterday, yes for sure.” Who do you have to fuck to get ahead in this town. . . . I dunno but I'm sure I fucked them and I didn’t get a head, I gave a lot though. This is not a business you want to get old in. “You wouldn't happen to have a job for a 30 something, desperate, eager. . . . ahh the bed this time.” “Hello, good to see you again Mr. Brant, no no, sorry no ladies here that look like futbol players, you're in America, here take one that looks like Brad Pitt in Fight Club.” That’ll be in the trades tomorrow.

I can go to parties, I can hand out my card, I am a confident, intelligent entrepreneur I run a business that is a necessity. “Well hello, yes call me when she's out of town, let’s talk.” “You sir you wouldn’t happen to need a clean 50's something development girl with an ivy league education. . . .oh yes, I role play as well. What huh? You cant hire me because nobody in town wants to look me in the eyes. . . . contacts, numbers . . . well I know all their code names, did you know Christian Slater used to like to be called Officer Ballbearings, yea had something to do with really firm testicles. . . I have dirt on ‘em all.”

I am a business woman, I make the movies now, I give you the ideas when you're curled up in a ball telling me bout your daughters drug problems post coital, how bout a detective who can see the future, or a dog that can talk. But yes to answer your question I love it here it defines me, I am LA, I'm its tits, I AM THE TITS OF LA. Though I'm more like the silver lake these days, if ya know what I mean. . . . .grey pubes. LA defines me it is home, it is life, it is death . . . is that the right answer, please tell me I passed? I know this, this is my job, this is my town, if Yale taught me one thing it's don't bite off more than you can chew. . . .I know how much I can bite, and lord knows if you cause a problem with me. . . or my girls I sure as shit know how much I can chew.

-655321

All of you Please, Drink until you're Real

2008-05-07T00:11:00.000-07:00

“They’re not even drunk those girls.” We stare at each other through knowing eyes- maybe even a bit judgmental, as if that isn’t a factor here. But we know it is. Here's the thing about LA girls- about all these self-loathing transplants and LA people in general, If they aren’t drunk then it's “Oh I live in East Hollywood. . . .you know its on the line (what the fuck is East Hollywood), Brentwood is my home, yea Bel Air born and raised. . . . before that, well there was nothing.” None of these girls were “Born to Run.” New Jersey? No I took that trash out with the garbage last night. None of these girls were Knicks Fans, Cheese heads, part of the Big Apple, Georgia Peaches. . .. . ewww whats with all the food references, I heard you can get fat by reading about calories.

Regardless of whether they’re really from Dallas, Michigan, Seattle, East Boondocks Bumfuck Mississippi, etc. a sober Los Angelean is a native for life. Only when she’s drunk does her true Raleigh come out, only when she’s had a few too many whiskey sours does miss Evansville Indiana show her corn fed ways, only when she’s had a few Irish car bombs does Ms. Maine tell us about clam digging with pops in the summers. What does it mean that everyone in this city wants to be this city so much and that they desire to define its very essence so bad that they neglect their beginnings? How much alcohol does it take for you to tell me you aren’t really from LA.? It’s like a game, sort of like hungry hungry hippos, except the marbles are red headed sluts (the drink or the actual breed of female, you choose) and the winner gets their honesty and integrity back.

I may be a bit different I’ll gladly show you my khaki pants after one shot of Jaeger. Fuck it I’ll tell you where you can get a decent slice of pepperoni pizza on a random street in New Haven for half a shot of vodka. I’ll even let you know that I shoveled snow every winter to have a little spending money if you give me the remains of your tequila shot. You ask me and I’ll tell you all this without the liquid coaxing. Do we all really have to be that embarrassed of where we came from in this city? I grew up wearing collared shirts and fantasizing of Ivy League, I grew up with a year round white paste about me. Ghosts would laugh at me behind my back because they went surfing during the summers. How is it that this town has so much disdain for every other city? We have billboards, websites, books, magazines, television shows, movies all letting us know that you can “Disappear Here.” Everyone truly is so eager to belong to the cult that is LA. Please stop by the Scientology Center and donate your first months rent to the cause. It really is the first step if you’re looking for a sense of community.

“So no, these girls aren’t drunk,” that means they’ve lived off of Lemon Grove Avenue all their lives, or they’ve spent many a weekend in Palm Springs. Do tell, I’d love to hear the story. . . . in detail I might add. No, you’re not feeling well, let you have a drink first ok. How many shots until you can tell me about how hard your mom had to work as a single parent to raise you and your sister in rural Minnesota. How many vodka crans to raise that New York discourse from your Yankee blood? Please LA fill yourself with alcohol so each of us could have something a little bit more interesting to discuss over cocktails.

-655321

Analog

2008-05-06T23:08:00.000-07:00

I'm an Analog guy in a Digital World. Expect indecisive, unpredictable, ambiguity.

-655321

Pull the Cord

2008-04-22T21:54:00.000-07:00

So this will be the first entry to this blog that I may or may not keep up depending on time, work, states of mind, food intake, alcohol consumption, re-runs, depression, lack of depression, finances, movie theater listings, weather, dark green 98 Pontiac Bonneville's and their reliability , whats going on at Bronson, my thesis on lunch meat as a metaphor for economic status in middle America - really the list goes on and on.

The plan is to use this space to showcase my work as well as the work of others - work that revolves around LA and its culture (whether it be positive or negative). You may like this place, you may hate it, maybe you are impartial (lazy - make up your mind)... Regardless, surely it stirs up some feelings and creativity; regurgitate it here. As to be expected, ranting will happen from time to time, hence the oh so clever title.

Of course this is overly self serving, being that we are posting fiction and ranting, so feel free to comment and/or help out if need be - we want to hear your ideas and opinions. At any rate, this will be the purpose of this digital parking space. For now its back to watching re-runs of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and waiting for the "thought" to strike me. I'll leave you with a random quote because I feel like it. Think it over or think it under:

"And as things fell apart, nobody paid much attention"
Talking Heads

-655321