The Holidays

Eggnog is what I drink when conversation isn't part of the evening.

Natural Disaster

My feet shrink.

I worry about how I will get to the store.

If I take the bus, people will stare at me. Maybe they'll be too busy talking on their phones to notice.

No one will care about the size of my feet in the event of an earthquake.

Brief Opinions On Various Subjects

1. WHALES: I never saw a whale. I know they're really big, but I've never seen one, and I'd probably freak out if I had.

2. ALGEBRA: Fuck algebra. I mean, it's no geometry. Geometry is the branch of mathematics for the brave. Algebra is for losers and single women.

3. CHESS: Bishops don't move diagonally in real life. Why do they move that way in Chess? Although, I once knew a rabbi who could only walk sideways after a motor accident permanently twisted his ankles. We called him "The Crab".

4. PENNIES: Useless.

5. HATS: Some people look good in hats. I'm not one of those people. I hate them (the hats, not the people).

6. DINNER: Dinner is fantastic. It's particularly good for people who like lunch, but wish they could eat it when the moon is out.

7. BUDDHISM: I didn't know Santa Claus had his own sect.

8. GENOCIDE: Never on a first date.

9. THE NUMBER 10: Overrated.

11. BARNACLES: "I hate a barnacle as no man ever did before." -Charles Darwin. Indeed, old friend. Tis one of mine bugbears, as well.

I Can't Be Serious

4/17

I can't be serious anymore. I need to make people laugh. Being serious is for boring people with no souls. I'm going to start making jokes. Good jokes. Funny jokes. Jokes like, "How many frogs does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" Those kind of jokes. I'll start telling jokes tomorrow at work. Now's not a good time to start. I'm tired and all by myself. I'm going to bed.

4/18

I thought about telling a joke at work today, but I couldn't manage to get one out. I was in the break room with Jason, Serena, and Elliott. Jason's a really funny guy, and he was hogging all the spotlight. Rightfully so! He's extremely personable, too. He was telling us all about how he and his buddy went to this bar, and they met these two girls, and one of them looked really familiar, and then his buddy realized that she went to high school with him, and dated his brother briefly. Then she dished the dirt on his brother, and, well, I don't remember everything he said, but it was really funny, and everyone was hooked until break was over. So, I never got the chance to say anything. Aw, well...it's probably for the best. This gives me a little more time to hone my newfound comedic lifestyle.

4/19

Started today off in a sour mood. For one thing, it was raining. Rain puts me in a bad mood. Don't know why, but it does. But then, I checked my mailbox, and I finally got that hospital bill. My insurance only covered part of it, and now I owe $1164. That's not a good way to start your day. I know that my bill isn't a whole lot, but it's a lot to me. I guess I'm lucky, though. My cousin survived falling out of a window, but he didn't have any insurance at all, and the whole thing cost him something around $25,000. Maybe more. The important thing is that I'm okay. But still, $1164! All I could think about was how my day of work only pays for a marginal amount of my bill. I did the math. Sitting at my computer for one hour helps pay for approximately 1/100 of the entire bill. That's one hundred hours of work, wasted, all because of a little food poisoning.

I made some macaroni and cheese when I got home.

4/20

Well, today is Hitler's birthday. It's also the anniversary of the Columbine shootings. I think the shooters chose this day because it was Hitler's birthday. I wonder what day they would've chose if Hitler never existed. They only had a few months to go before they would've graduated, too. It's sad to think about. Life can get so terrible for some people, and yesterday I was in such a bad mood about the hospital bill, of all things. In twenty years, I'll have forgotten all about that stupid bill. But the kids who were at Columbine on that day will never forget that horrible day.

Alex called me, and she said she wanted to hang out this weekend. Her new boyfriend, David, is having a birthday party on Sunday. She told me to come, and to bring the chess set, because David plays chess, too.

4/22

I just got back from David's birthday party. He seems nice enough, but the only person I knew there was Alex, and she knew almost everybody there, so there were quite a few moments when I was sitting on the couch reading liner notes from albums in David's vinyl collection. I felt kind of dumb walking in the door with that chess set under my arm. For one thing, David had his own chess set -- duh! -- but also, everyone was drinking beer and the music was loud, and it really wasn't an atmosphere conducive to a chess match. Thankfully, Alex encouraged him to play a "quick game" with me before I left. He beat me in fourteen moves. I've never been beaten that quickly. As soon as he said "checkmate," he zipped right on over to the beer pong table while I sat there, going over the moves in my mind. I thanked Alex for inviting me, and left. I think I prefer hanging out with Alex one-on-one.

4/23

I don't know what I'm doing with my life. What is this job I'm working? Sometimes, I don't even know what I'm doing there. I feel like there's no end-product to the effort I put in. It makes me feel insignificant. I'm still young. Orson Welles made Citizen Kane when he was just twenty-five years old. That's about the age of The Beatles when they recorded The White Album. It's probably unfair of me to compare myself with people like that, but still, I think about it. Why aren't I doing something great like they did? What's holding me back? What am I not doing? Or, what am I doing wrong?

Alex called to apologize about last night. She didn't have to do that, but I'm glad she recognized my discomfort at the party.

4/26

I haven't felt like writing in the past couple of days. There's not much to report at the moment. Same old, same old.

5/13

Dad called me to say Coco died. She had a good long life, but I guess it was her time. I wish I could've been there for her final days. R.I.P. Coco.

8/5

Big news! Today was Jason's last day. We're all really going to miss him, but he's going on to bigger and better things. Good for Jason! Serena brought a cake for everyone. She also brought these chips. The flavor of the chips were "Spicy Thai". There was a quiet moment in the room, and something came to me. I picked up the bag of chips for all to see, and said, "Spicy Thai? That's the kind I pick every time I call an escort service." Everyone laughed! Jason was positively bug-eyed with laughter. He said he never expected something like that to come out of my mouth. But there I was -- I just said it. It felt good, too.

I think it's interesting that I made my first big joke on Jason's last day. It's like God offered Jason a new job so I could take over as the office clown. I'll miss Jason, but perhaps he's leaving at just the right time (for me!).

8/8

There's a new guy at work -- Leo. Everyone likes him except me. I can tell right off the bat that we're going to have problems with each other. Within his first couple hours, he told almost everybody that he's a stand-up comic, and that he was performing at an open-mic next week, and everyone should go. Open-mic? Yeah, right...I'm not going. Seriously, I spoke only two sentences with him before he dropped that bomb. Just because I work with him now, that doesn't mean he can right away ask me to come to a show. The right thing to do is be quiet, and let someone ask what he does outside of work for fun. Then he can spill his guts about his other "career". Instead, he chose the more jolting path towards breaking the ice. He's not that funny, either. Certainly not like Jason, or me.

In other news, Alex is moving in with that David guy. I don't know why. He's really not such a great person. He makes me feel uncomfortable. But I'm sure that Alex will realize soon enough that it's not going to work out. She always does.

I remember when Alex broke up with Tim, she didn't even cry. She told me she had been crying when she was alone, but when I showed up, she looked fine. Her face wasn't red, or flush. And she was baking that pie. She told me that even though she was smiling, she was still a little sad. The whole notion seemed incongruous to me. People don't bake pies when they're sad.

Many Boats

"Don't make me buy another boat, Eleanor," was the best thing Richard could say to keep his wife from coercing him into buying another boat. Like any good husband whose wife had nautical aspirations such as Eleanor's, he had been complacent in the past, letting his wife push him into buying more boats.

They already had eight boats. Now she wanted nine.

Eleanor's obsession began soon after they were married. They had their honeymoon in Italy, which included a ride on a cruise ship along the coastline. Lost in the romance, she bellowed from the gut of her mind, "Richard, let's get a boat!"

Three years later, upon the purchase of the fifth boat, Richard falsely believed that Eleanor's preoccupation with sea vessels would dwindle. He rationalized that growing up in the landlocked state of Colorado, Eleanor had a childhood devoid of rides on boats, dinghies, schooners, and motorboats -- she was just making up for lost sea time. Now that she lived near a marina, she was going through a phase. Surely five boats under her belt would be enough for his darling wife, right?

But she just kept going. While lobbying for the sixth boat, she told Richard that she had "a really good name for it," and "Oh, please can we?". They bought the sixth boat. She named it Gondolina.

The seventh boat was her thirtieth birthday present. Richard didn't ask her what she wanted, but she kept dropping hints like: "I can't believe I'm almost thirty years old and I only have six boats," or "Isn't seven a great number?"

Richard bought the eighth boat on his own without being prompted. Purchasing a boat had become as banal as paying the electric bill, and he didn't realize what he'd done until it was too late. He cringed at his mistake, but Eleanor was thrilled.

This whole business about Eleanor wanting a ninth boat, according to Richard, bordered on the insane. If he had known she was going to keep pushing for more boats after they married, he probably wouldn't have bought that house near the water. There was, after all, that lovely home in the mountains that was an hour and a half away from the coast. She may love her boats, he thought, but boy, oh boy, does she hate commuting.

But could he really dote on this issue? Was it worth his time to nit-pick? Was it really so bad to be known around town as 'Richard and Eleanor with the boats'? Sure, it packed a wallop on his bank account, but she'd always been such a sweet girl, and doesn't she deserve a good new boat every few months?

"Twelve boats," he thought to himself. "If she tries for any more than twelve boats, she can just forget it. That's where I'll draw the line."

Richard picked up a salt shaker from the kitchen counter. He examined it.

"Twelve boats. Twelve."

Your Sister's Ear

Dipping my finger in your sister's ear, I discover the moon is farther away than heaven on a hot afternoon.

My First Thought When I'm Given Risky Or Difficult Tasks To Accomplish

This could be easier.

Checking In On The Kid

I just checked in on the kid.  The kid is a baby squirrel who I don't want to name because he's probably dying.   

I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure the kid's in bad shape.  I found him stretched out helplessly in the middle of the road, baking in the sun.  Some crows circled near him as he was squealing, and that got my attention.  I thought if I played my ukulele, he would follow the sound of my strumming into the shade.  That didn't happen.

Normally, I'm not too interested in touching animals with my bare hands, not even domesticated animals.  Luckily for the kid, a Spanish-speaking father and son team passing by had no problem picking up the kid, and placing him underneath the shade of a tree in my front yard.

"Que necesita la fruta," says the father.  I run inside and bring back a small slice of apple.  "Y agua," he adds.  I run inside and bring back a cup of water and pour it into a paper plate.  I put the plate right in front of the kid's face.

He looks much more comfortable in the shade, but he's having some kind of trouble.  He has a piece of apple in his mouth.  He wants to eat it, but he can't.  It just rests in his mouth like a toothpick.  

I try feeding him water.  I finagle the paper plate underneath his chin, but he does not drink.  I lie down in the shade beside him with my ukulele in hand.  He is shaking and alternating between having his eyes opened and closed.  I want him to understand English so I can say, "Drink the water, kid.  You'll feel better."

"Beber el agua, muchacho.  Te sentirås mejor," I would say if he understood Spanish.  But, no.  He just lays his head on the end of that paper plate, shaking away.

I start singing the song "Days" by The Kinks.  This song incites an unusually animated reaction from a baby squirrel who is dying:  He raises his head.  The kid has good taste.  He especially likes the D chord.  I play the song on loop for his enjoyment.  Not only does he raise his head, but he also starts drinking the water.  "I've done it," I thought.  "I've nursed this squirrel back to life!"  

He drank a few more sips of water, and began crawling towards me slowly and diagonally.  I figure I've cured him of his ills, so I go inside, wash my hands, and make lunch.

I've just checked in on the kid again.  He doesn't look so good.  He hasn't moved far, and he's no longer resting under the shade of the tree because the sun has moved to its afternoon position.  His eyes are closed.  He's shaking.  I don't know what else I can do for him.

She Gave Me The Eye

She gave me the eye.  

I walked down Alexander Street to give a lecture on Women and Popular Music in Mongolia at the local brewhouse.  No one wanted to listen to me, but that was my fault, for I knew nothing about popular music in Mongolia.  Had I known what I was talking about, I'm sure the three guys watching the Sabres game at the end of the bar would have been absolutely riveted. 

In the opposite corner, eating a grilled cheese sandwich, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen that day.  Her hair blonde and thin, her posture formal and upright, her nose small and pointy.

She gave me the eye.

She watched me as I fiddled nervously with my index cards.  They were out of order.  If the overhead fan wasn't there to cool me off, I would've been a sweaty, sweaty man.  Usually, I don't give lectures.  What was I thinking?  But she was giving me the eye.  Why was she sitting alone in a bar at five thirty in the afternoon?  I was too intrigued not to try sleeping with her.

I began shifting the focus of my lecture.  I dropped the Mongolia jargon, and continued only about the women parts.  My oratory grew stronger as my confidence in my own knowledge of the subject became more apparent.  

"How much longer are you gonna be?" the bartender asked.  

"Until I'm finished, thank you!" I answered, rolling my eyes.

Stupid bartender.  I was on a roll.  I continued as best I could.  The woman was giggling.

She gave me the eye.

I wrapped up my lecture.  It wasn't very good anyway.  Besides, Miss-Grilled-Cheese-Sandwich-For-Dinner was down to her crusts.  I put down my index cards, and walked over to her.

"May I have this seat?" I asked, knowing full well she was going to let me sit there.

"No," she replied, dashing my dreams.

"But you've been giving me the eye this whole time."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do.  Come on."

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"..."

"No."

"..."

"..."

"Did you at least like my lecture?"

"It was okay, I guess.  I wasn't really paying attention."

"You were looking right at me.  You were giving me the eye."

"No, I wasn't.

"Come on."

"No."

***

Epilogue: 

I quit the lecture circuit after that day.  I later got hired as the president of Syracuse University.  After all this time, I'm still pretty sure that woman gave me the eye.

Wherever

Wherever you are, you're too far away.

The Bubble Diversion

I was born with a bubble in my mouth.  The doctors timed how long the bubble would last.  It kept going.  They took off their wristwatches before the birth, and needed to look back and forth between the clock on the wall and my mouth.

I knew what I was doing.  If they keep their focus on the bubble, I thought, they won't notice my slipping back inside the womb.  It worked until they noticed the bubble was gone.  

"Come back here, you," said the doctor sternly.

It might've worked if I wasn't a C-section baby.  

Los Angeles: A Month In Review

Just in case there's any hoopla to be had, let me say it now: palm trees are for the strong.  Like any ordinary kid growing up in the North East, where pea coats run the show and children parade past bunkers and airline hangars repeating the etherial mantra, "Lilah Tov, K'Tanim", here, I have become a complainer.  Up in the cornfields of New York, bodies upon bodies would huddle into bunches to keep the cold from licking off their feet.  Those were hard years for shoe salesmen.  But now, in my own self-imposed internment camp, I try to make the best of the unbearable constant sunshine.  Shielded only by dirt particles in the air, I grow browner with each drive to the supermarket.  The only time when I can take refuge is in the exhaust of the evening.  At night, I like to look at the star.  I pretend it shines for me.  I thank it for showing me the way.  I close one eye and block its light with my thumb -- There.  Now the women are tolerable to look at.

This is what I get for never doing my homework.

My Kingdom

"My kingdom for a horse!"

"You don't have a kingdom."

"I don't?"

"No.  But that's okay.  We don't have any horses, either."

"A stalemate!" 

Garage

The garage is his zen garden.  When my mother and I discreetly throw away empty boxes and broken chairs, it disturbs his chi. 

Briefcases For Equality

The briefcase rang my doorbell. Since my doorbell is made of bacon fat and Mediterranean chest hair, it took me a few minutes before I could hear it. Finally, in the split second's calm between two Irish military marches blaring from my radiator, I heard the soft ringing sound I'd grown all too familiar with. I got up from sorting through my colored golf ball collection and answered the door.

"Briefcases For Equality. Would you like to sign a petition?" asked the briefcase.

His leather coating was genuine, but something in the tone of his voice suggested there were other things on his mind. The quicker I respond, the more respect he'll offer me, I thought.

"What's a petition? I've heard the word before, but no one's ever specified it for me and I'm allergic to dictionaries," I responded smugly.

He went on to say a great many things about what petitions are -- things I must've been too bored to listen to. Suddenly he started leaking blood. I asked him if he was all right. He wasn't.

"It's hard to feel all right in a world as rough as this one. And if you think it's any easier being a briefcase than it is being a human, or whatever you are, then let me be the first to tell you that it's not. Do you know what it's like being handled day after day, opened, closed, stuffed with papers and files, being picked up, placed down, roughed around by people who don't remember the lock's combination number? It's 5-2-7! Is that so hard to remember?"

He had no idea about the blood. I figured he couldn't see the blood because he didn't have any eyes. But then how would this explain his ease finding my apartment, I wondered? He continued:

"Some people see me coming to their door saying 'This must be some sort of joke', but they just don't understand. And that's what this petition is all about: understanding."

There was that word again, 'petition'. What was it? What did it mean?

"Can you imagine a world without briefcases? A world where a backpack is your only option?"

Backpack! That's an interesting word. I never heard that one before. It made me laugh out loud. I snorted, too.

"You think this is funny? You think I'm here to play games?"

"I'm sorry, I was just laughing at that word you said -- backpack."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess that is a funny word."

We both laughed out loud. It was a tender moment. Blood was everywhere.

"Do you know that you're bleeding? A lot?"

"I'm too sad to take notice of such trivial things. If you'd just sign here, I won't take up any more of your time."

I signed my name. It was the least I could do. I went back inside and sorted through my golf balls. Upon my return, I discovered that I was missing a purple one.

Swindled again!

Jigsaw Puzzle

Communicating with you is like solving a jigsaw puzzle. In our case, every piece exists, but not all of them are in the box. You have taken a handful of pieces, and hid them around the house.

One puzzle piece is under your mattress. Another puzzle piece is in the drawer of your nightstand. Another puzzle piece is in the pocket of a blazer you never wear anymore, tucked away in the closet. Another puzzle piece is buried in your jar of loose change. Another puzzle piece is taped to the drain pipe underneath the bathroom sink.

Why would I look there?

Even you lost track of the last puzzle piece (it fell behind your dresser -- the one that's too heavy to move by yourself).

I'd give up if it weren't for the pretty picture on the box promising me a rural landscape with a barn and two ponies.

Basketball

In some ways, you are like a basketball.

Repudiation Of An Earlier Post/Wizard Poem

I skimmed over "Too Much Time", and found little good about it.  Rather than delete it from my canon of posts, I'll publicly disassociate it from myself and replace it with this:

The wizard flipping burgers detects that his robe has caught fire.

He will quell the damage by casting a water spell.

Nobody notices.

Rock/Paper/Scissors (Great Neck Rules '94)

In middle school, I made the age-old fist game, "Rock/Paper/Scissors", a little more interesting.  Bored with the standard vanilla-chocolate-strawberry-type options, I decided to add some new flavor to the game by adding some exciting new moves.  These moves were: Match, Lawnmower, Atomic Bomb, Worm, and Petrified Whale Turd.

Below are the defining characteristics of each move, their hand representation (in parentheses), what other moves they beat, gaming theory, etc.

ROCK (fist).  Beats: Scissors, Match, Lawnmower, Worm, Petrified Whale Turd

"Good old rock," says Bart Simpson.  Even with the news rules, Rock is still a safe bet, beating five out of seven possible opponents.  Watch out for the cunning Paper, and people who use Atomic Bomb all the time. 

SCISSORS (index and middle finger out).  Beats: Paper, Match, Worm, Lawnmower

A good move for those who like taking risks, but not big ones.

PAPER (a flat hand).  Beats: Rock, Worm, Petrified Whale Turd

It would appear that a move like Paper is at a disadvantage with these new rules, but consider this:  During the countdown (One! Two! Three! Shoot!), a player's hand is already in a fist.  If the player isn't already planning a strategy in those three seconds, s/he will most likely succumb to the natural instinct to throw out Rock.  On top of that, many a great player will want to throw out Rock anyway, thanks to Rock's winning odds.  Think of Paper as a dark horse.

MATCH (an erect "excuse me" index finger).  Beats: Paper, Worm

Much of the thrill behind Match is pretending that you're lighting something on fire (i.e. paper, a worm).  Other than that, this move is usually a dud.

LAWNMOWER (two fists together, pushing a "lawnmower"). Beats: Paper, Match, Worm

Better than Match.  Whoop-dee-doo.

ATOMIC BOMB (flat hand, fingers spread out). Beats: Rock, Paper, Scissors, Match, Lawnmower, Petrified Whale Turd

That's right, it beats everything except Worm.  Little known fact: In the event of a nuclear holocaust, worms will survive*.  Such is true for R/P/S.  While Atomic Bomb appears to be a fantastic move, players beware:  Using it too often instantly turns a player into an asshole.  It is recommended to avoid playing any sorts of games with Atomic Bomb fetishists.  Also worth noting: When both players play Atomic Bomb, it is not a draw; everyone loses.

WORM (curled index finger; like a pirate's hook, only softer).  Beats: Atomic Bomb

Strike when the irony's hot.  This move doesn't normally win, but it's a great defense against major-league assholes.

PETRIFIED WHALE TURD (all five stretched-out fingers, touching at the tips).  Beats: Scissors, Match, Lawnmower, Worm

Petrified Whale Turd is really just a poor man's Rock.  But in this economy, that might be all you can afford.

Wow.  I can't believe I wrote out the whole thing.  Enjoy!

*This may or may not actually be true.

Ten Short Poems About Parsnips

1.  Parsnips gave me eczema.

2.  I can fit this parsnip in my grocery bag.

3.  Are you ready for a lifetime of commitment and parsnips?

4.  Lo, I dreamt about the parsnip again.

5.  Steak and parsnips roast over a rolling fire.

6.  Can I have the rest of your parsnip?

7.  Two parsnips combined their efforts and startled that old woman.

8.  Didja hear the one about the parsnip?  

9.  Look.  A parsnip.

10.  The good lady felt her hand brazenly inching up the nightstand, attempting to quell the tension created by the council of unwelcome guests.  Then she ate a parsnip. 

List of U.S. States in Order of How Much I Like Them (as of 4/12/09)

1. Maine

2. Iowa

3. New York

4. Minnesota

5. North Carolina

6. Rhode Island

7. Vermont

8. Washington

9. Wisconsin

10. Virginia

11. Oregon

12. Montana

13. Nebraska

14. Hawaii

15. Colorado

16. New Mexico

17. Alaska

18. Louisiana

19. Illinois

20. Massachusetts

21. Pennsylvania

22. California

23. New Hampshire

24. Texas

25. Arkansas

26. Kansas

27. Utah

28. Oklahoma

29. Kentucky

30. Maryland

31. Tennessee

32. Wyoming

33. Georgia

34. Arizona

35. Indiana

36. Idaho

37. South Carolina

38. Missouri

39. Connecticut

40. Michigan

41. Mississippi

42. Delaware

43. South Dakota

44. Alabama

45. North Dakota

46. West Virginia

47. Ohio

48. Florida

49. New Jersey

50. Nevada

More Opening Lines to Earth-Shattering Works of Unwritten Fiction

Imagine an airplane shaped like a hot dog.  

The best advice I ever got was to stay away from the Colonel's wife.

Ten forks in the hands of the world's strongest men couldn't lift this meatball.

Training to become a prize-fighter in San Francisco is a lot like taming a lion commissioned to guard the post office.

"Evelyn, we're once again out of walnuts."

Too often, I've missed out on the gifts the traveling circus show has to offer -- a problem which I place blame upon my unique allergy to pretzels.

I jumped out of the bathroom window at the precise moment Roger failed to notice his wife's infidelity.

Claim, like a slug, your right to ooze across the garden path.

A fractured clavicle might have proved a major setback for most mathematicians-come-acrobats, but Wanda Brown has never been one to back down from a challenge.

Sometimes I get tired of one-upping everybody.

Too Much Time

Too much time to wash my socks.

Too much time to pick my locks.

Too much time to chop a tree.

Too much time to sip some tea.

Too much time to swat a fly.

Too much time to hit some guy.

Too much time to set up camp near an active volcano along the Pacific Rim, packing the essentials: a tent, pots, pans, canned food, trail mix, sleeping bags, weather-resistant jackets, hiking boots, lava repellent, Swiss Army knife, and gloves.

Too much time to phone ex-loves.

Not enough time to visit every star and planet that I can see from Earth.  Most of those places are impossible to visit anyway.

Too much time to draw a ghost.

Too much time to make a toast.

In The End, It Was All Worth It

   If I had told you that letting the crocodiles loose in the schoolyard was a great way to meet women, you would have laughed at me.

   If I had told you the fastest way to a girl's heart was through a business card buried at the bottom of her purse, you would have scoffed at me.

   If I had told you a great spot for a first date was in a cactus patch a few miles south of Elko, Nevada, you would have rolled your eyes at me.

   If I had told you that a hand full of mayonnaise can get anybody in the mood for a good make-out session, you would have shown me the door.

   If I had told you that swallowing a roll of quarters reserved for doing laundry was step one towards two people moving in together, you would have cocked your eyebrow at me.

   If I had told you that a carpet stained with the blood of an ex-convict-turned-genealogist would segue into a marriage proposal, you would have contemplated disregarding things I say for a while.

   If I had told you that three separate children would be conceived in the very same space shuttle that monitored the effects of gravity upon black bean dip and tuna casserole, you would have stared deeply into my eyes, seriously concerned for the state of my mental health.

  

  But look at you now.  You're smiling at me because you can't ignore the facts.  I smile back at you because stranger things have happened.

!!!

It feels like a new day!  

It feels like twenty-four hours have passed since twenty-four hours ago!

I can't eat enough oranges to prove how excited I am!

My mouth has never felt so big!

Only an epic disaster can bring me down!

Oh, no!  An epic disaster is approaching!

Shit!

Go away!

Stop being so epic!

Stop being a disaster!

Why don't epic disasters listen to me?!

I'm not going to feel good anymore!

Inevitability!

Quote

"Let's say you're an apple.  No, wait.  Let's say you're the president."

-Paolo Adega, famous architect

An Evening in the Canyon

The chords on the nylon string guitar move back and forth from A to G.

The people playing hand drums
The girls with big smiles
The guy who coerces sound out of the accordion
They all join the guitar player, singing:

"I am the Buddha of love and compassion."

Big smiles on every face. They are possibly high, and they believe what they are singing. They ARE the Buddhas of love and compassion.

I decline my 674th offer of wine. It's not just that I don't drink wine -- I also don't drink Kool-Aid.

-Los Angeles, CA, Jan. 2009

Woes

   I couldn't stop crying.  Day after day, I found myself binging on ice cream cake and molasses.  "What's it all about?!", I asked out loud.  And looking for answers, I could only turn to the kitchen table.  It did not speak, but its stone-faced rendition of 'John Brown's Body' still haunts me every time I think about it.

   A horse once asked me how I felt about the economy.  I told him, "In the event of a recession, I'm unemployed."  I explained to him that I invested my life savings in a cereal company many years ago, and I'm still waiting to eat my first bowl of Depressing Shreds of Wheat.

   If that weren't enough, it started raining shoes again last night, and they did a number on the windshield of my car.  The forecast for tonight isn't so great either: heavy showers of push pin with a slight chance of bowling ball.  Sometimes, I don't even know why I bother owning an umbrella.  

  

The Handsome Trio, Potential

The way I see it, 

Amos is at the top-right in Rochester,

Benny is at the top-middle in Chicago, 

and I'm at the top-left in Seattle.  

We can throw everything we have to offer off our balconies, falling like icicles, landing on and killing unsuspecting pedestrians in Miami, New Orleans and San Diego.

Band-Aid

I would offer you a band-aid,

but it looks like you need stitches.

Swooped/Shtupped

I swooped down like a vulture,

then shtupped like a tiger.

Taking Notes From The Marble Man

  "I think it crawled under the stove."

   I dropped down to the floor and lay on my stomach, pointing a flashlight at the spot where the small mouse might have ended up.  Olivia continued to eat her cheese sandwich.

  "Don't bother," she resumed.  "Once it's out of your sight, you have to wait until the next time you see it to see it.  He's hiding.  He's afraid of you.  He probably hates flashlights, too."

   I gave up.  Olivia had too many opinions on the matter, so I went back into my office and got back to work on my biography of Robert E. Lee.  I imagined the illustrious Confederate general, and how he might have dealt with a mouse problem.  I imagine he'd have invaded strategic points around the stove, stationing mouse traps in the nook between the stove and the cabinet, gain ground, make advances.  Lee wouldn't use a flashlight.

  General William T. Sherman, however, would probably light the entire kitchen on fire.  Olivia would disapprove.

  Lee, of course, chose the losing side.  He had his chance in 1861 when President Abraham Lincoln offered Lee the job of taking charge of the Union Army, but Lee's home state of Virginia was soon to be seceded into the Confederacy.  Lee declined.  It went something like this:

  Lincoln: "Robert E. Lee, how would you like to be in command of the Union Army?"

  Lee: "The whole Union Army?  Well, uh, the thing is Mr. President...I'm from Virginia."

  Lincoln:  "Oh, I see."

  Lee: "..."

  Lincoln: "..."

  Lee was born in Virginia's Westmoreland County, right near the Maryland border.  If Lee were born just a few miles north, he would've been willing and able to add his military leadership skills to the Union, and the Civil War might not have lasted as long.

  General Sherman of Lancaster, Ohio, on the other hand, got a lot of credit for helping to end the war with his strategic tactics, such as burning down the city of Atlanta.  Sherman's "Atlanta Campaign" could be to the Civil War what the Hiroshima/Nagasaki bombings were to World War II.  Luckily for everyone, trigger-happy, fire-loving General Sherman had no access to nuclear weapons.

  Lee, I believe, was thoughtful and empathetic toward others (even for a slave-owning, Confederate leader, his stance on slavery was pretty wishy-washy).  I decided to catch that mouse, humane, Lee-style.

  When I walked into the kitchen, I found the mouse lying motionless in the middle of the floor.  Olivia stood next to it, holding her sandwich in one hand and a frying pan in the other.  She looked at me, smiling, and said, "I think I killed it."