Stir

If I have to stay under this blanket for another day, I'm sticking stamps on my body and shipping myself to Brazil.

An Evening In Santa Fe

I probably shouldn't be trusted to communicate any thoughts after eating all that green chile, but in the twelve-hour nap that followed, I discovered the meaning of life, and maybe someone might want to hear about it. Naturally, I've forgotten the details, but it's hard to retain memory when you stay in a town where everyone lives in modestly upholstered sofas. After a good hearty walk, I'm tempted to sit down, when from underneath the cushion, a man yells at me to get off his roof. It smells like shop class. They must be carving "Beware of Dog" signs, which are both ubiquitous and unnecessary. In this part of the country, you should anticipate dog ownership at every sofa. Instead, the few without dogs need to hang signs that read, "No Dogs Here, Thank You". I think that a new sleep will help me remember the meaning of life. Instead, I dream about a xylophone with seven wooden bars. They are not quite in key with each other.

Blade's Ice Cream Parlor Doesn't Quite Cut It

The cheery facade of a blue-green awning and children's drawings hung in the windows of the new Blade's Ice Cream Parlor near the corner of Pico and Robertson is reminiscent of typical family-friendly food destinations from a time when children looked both ways before crossing the street. But step inside this grotesque mecca for frozen dessert, and you'll immediately see what it is they really want.

Blade's, named so arbitrarily after the Wesley Snipes franchise, opened to great fanfare in May, citing "homemade" concoctions and "the best" ingredients as an essential part of their menu. After ordering a Blade Sundae, you'll soon discover that the "home" in "homemade" was referring to a home for the criminally insane; a place where murderers and cannibals are asked to make treats flavored with strawberry, chocolate, and other flavors. Included among "the best" ingredients are fingernails or what you'll hope were chest hairs. To be sure, no one has yet to find any fingernails or hairs in their sundae, but you will sense the intent to wish it be true.

The surly old men behind the counter will not apologize to you after you make a scene decrying their far-below subpar ice cream establishment in front of the long lines of people spilling out the door waiting patiently for dessert. You won't get your money back, either. Avoid this place like your mother when she has strep throat.

Whoops/Poverty Poem

Workin' on that book again. Okay, okay. Here's a short poem about poverty:

She's keeping her coat closed with a safety pin.

I Would Like To Yield To The Senator From Bitmint, Eric Watson

"Good morning fellow members of congress. As you all know, we live in a great country. When our founding fathers came together in 1776, that year of years, they brought forth a new nation founded on the principles that we hold dear and true today.

"Recently, that same great nation admitted its newest state into the union: Bitmint. I know that there has been a lot of skepticism and speculation concerning this new state, especially from residents of New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts, but I can assure you that Bitmint will soon find its place among the other great fifty states.

"People out there are saying that Bitmint doesn't deserve to be a state. They say it is smaller than Rhode Island. It is. They say the population is smaller than that of Wyoming. That's true. They say that Bitmint has no basis for a state economy. And I ask, what about the Manatee Rescue Farms? Hmm?

"Ever since interim Bitmint Governor Quincy solicited state insignia suggestions from an out-of-work artist in Brooklyn, it's been clear that Bitmint, Land of Manatees, can find its footing operating the single largest manatee preservation in history. I've been working hard with Governor Quincy, fellow Senator Julie Watson -- my wife -- and the people of Bitmint, all ninety-three of them, to find and gather all the manatees and twenty-by-twenty foot above-ground swimming pools we can get our hands on. It's the Bitmint way.

"What we need is your help. No state got itself going without the help of the other states. When Georgia said, 'Hey, buy our peaches,' you bought them, right? When South Dakota said, 'We're gonna chisel this mountain until it looks like four presidents,' you all got their backs. And so today, I ask you all to put our differences aside, and help put Little Bitty on the map. Help us bring in those manatees. Thank you. God bless America."

Bitmint! (A Short Play.)

A cafe. X is reading a book and eating a muffin. Q is perusing through a phone. The year is 2010. It is the afternoon following the official secession of a new state called Bitmint, formed from small sections of New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. In 2010, theater is still relevant.

Q: Bitmint! I say!

X looks up, keeps reading.

Q: Bitmint! Simply amazing!

X: Excuse me, but I'm trying to read.

Q: They've done it! A new state! God bless Bitmint! I say, I say! Sorry to bother you, but are you unemployed?

X: Why do you want to know?

Q: I asked my question first.

X: But mine is less presumptuous.

Q: Very well. The fact is, you're sitting in a cafe on a Wednesday afternoon reading a book while many people are slaving away down at the office.

X: I might work for myself.

Q: Do you?

X: No. I'm unemployed.

Q: Marvelous!

X: And I like to spend my unemployed hours reading fiction, so...

Q: Sir, how would you react if I told you that I've been appointed interim Governor of Bitmint?

X: You have?

Q: Oh, yes. (Holds up his phone.) Just got the text.

X: You did?

Q: And I'd like to offer you a job.

X: You would?

Q: A job like no other: Cultural Ambassador of Bitmint!

X: But I don't live in Bitmint.

Q: Yet. You don't live in Bitmint yet. Don't worry. There's good state funding to go towards your pay check. Now, all you need to do is fill out my survey here and make some creative decisions about the state insignia.

X: Survey?

Q: Oh, come on. It will take two mintues.

X: If you say so...

Q--X: Postal code?--BT. State flower?--Forsythia. State bird?--Horned owl thrush. Tree?--Bonsai. Colors?--Vermillion and mocha. Nickname?--The Manatee State, Land of Manatees, Little Bitty. Motto?--"Venia, Veneratio, Manatees" ("Grace, Honor, Manatees"). And on the flag?--A checkered vermillion and mocha background, horned owl thrush with a forsythia in its mouth, sitting on the shoulder of a manatee in the foreground.

Q: Bitmint doesn't really have a sprawling manatee population, you know.

X: Does that mean I'm not getting paid?

Q: It's possible.

X: Can I ask you something? Why "Bitmint"?

Q: I thought there should be a state that begins with the letter "B".

The End

Tactlessly Saying What I'm Thinking Out Loud To An Old Man About His First Dabble In Watercolors

Amateur.

Ode To Black History Month

February can be so cold.

Palm Fronds

One advantage to living in New York again is that I no longer find myself saying the phrase 'palm fronds'.

Mourning Time

Grief. It comes in many forms. It can be a wilting dandelion on the dashboard of your car. It can be a blanket fallen off the side of the bed in winter time. It can be three kittens purring in harmony when their paws are super-glued to the floorboard of the patio and a storm is approaching.

Every new day is a taunt, and how frequent the turnover rate.

Metamorphosis - The Good Kind: A Remarkable Breakthrough Of Innovation

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Every once in a good century or so, innovation faces its own mortality and forces itself to evolve into something so wonderful, so magnificent, that it eliminates the possibility of ever reaching a demise. Like a hideous, disgusting caterpillar coming to terms with its ugly grossness, we've reached a new point where we can say, "I've had enough of this crap; it's butterfly time."

There was a time when everybody had to go through their caterpillar phase, but thanks to a certain someone (me), we don't have to. We won't have to waste half of our lives as larvae, and we sure as hell don't need to squeeze into any cocoons. If I wanted to squeeze into something that tight, I'd go scuba diving.

Now, I know what you're thinking, "But fair maven of ingenuity (me, again), I thought you weren't able to go scuba diving due to your collapsed lungs." To which I respond, "Where on earth did you hear such a stupidly untrue fact?" But honestly, I don't need to ask a question like that. I already know the answer: your imagination. Somewhere in your mind, synapses are abuzz with the notion that I, with my heavy-duty lung fragility issues, have no business going snorkeling through the deep shores off the coast of Maui. That's your instinct telling you that.

But what about attitude?

Do I have two collapsed lungs? Yes. Would a doctor tell me it's advisable for me to go scuba diving in deep water? Absolutely not. Have you ever met a doctor that wasn't a worrywart? I don't know, have you? Let me ask you a better question: Have I recently been snorkeling through the deep shores off the coast of Maui? I don't know, have I?

Some people think they need a physical device to solve their problems, but others (like me, for example) know that that's not the case. We don't need a cocoon to become a butterfly. What we need to do is look into the mirror and tell ourselves, "From now on, I am a butterfly. Capisce?" 'Capisce', by the way, is New Jersey lingo for 'understand?', and I bring that up because it's important that you understand because there's nothing understandable about not understanding. Capisce?

I'll level with you. Sometimes when I try to explain this concept, there are always a couple of slow Joes in the back row who stand up and ask for their money back. They're looking for an easy solution. What they don't know is that I'm giving them an easy solution. But they think it's too easy, so they get up, bother my assistant, Joan, for the $380, and they leave. They can forget about the application fee and nonrefundable deposit, though. Even the biggest skeptics know what 'nonrefundable' means. But where do they go after they leave? Do they go home? Do they get lunch somewhere? Do they take their $380 to an adult video store and buy pornography? I don't know, do they?

I'll tell you what they don't do: They don't learn. They don't see the light. They don't grab a hold of the opportunities staring them coldly in their eye asking to be embraced with warm, wide, open arms, telling those opportunities, "Where have you been all my life?" To put it another way, they don't capisce.

So, where does that leave you? You're all still glued to your seats finding out how a certain somebody (yeah, you know who) makes a healthy living showing people how to be themselves the way they want to be themselves. Well, I'm not here to tell you how to achieve a goal or live a dream. I'm here to tell you that you can. You all have wings. All you need to do is flap them. See how aerodynamic you can get. And if it costs you $380 plus fees for a guy with lungs no more durable than a slice of cheese to show you the way, then I say, "Amen". Then I say, "Give yourselves a great big hand. You can now go forth and be."

[After applause, take questions from audience to fill the rest of the half-hour.]

Memories Of Rochester (Early August 2010)

It'll take more than an actress in a bikini to get me going in the morning. Cop cars hide behind trees, taunting me to be their next victim, but I know better than that: I've been to Chicago. It's been ages since I wish I brought my jacket, and the drums I yearn for have been converted into bedroom furniture. I blame the cats. Only one of them is mean, but I know they work together. They have to work together to survive. Give them all the staircases they can scoot their asses on, and they'd still rather hate your guts. I tried to impress them with my dance moves, but the whole house had actually been a guitar storage facility the whole time. I couldn't walk one inch without knocking into the progeny of Les Paul and Leo Fender. That's why the rent was so low. That and the neighborhood. Two doors down, a woman with a red face and saggy skin watched us wind up the city with jazz chords and mirth. She wanted to be our biggest fan. If she was a hundred years old, she didn't age well. Oh, we all know the truth. She and her entourage of tapeworms stuck to their porch like barnacles, drinking unicorn pee all day and setting a bad example for children. If you don't plan on using those legs, you might as well donate them to someone in need. I'll tell you a little secret though: As much as I love a good Garbage Plate, I felt ready to put the sword back into the stone and give someone else a chance. After all, I need to clear up that skin rash somehow.

Two Months After The Divorce

This was a frog far too glamorous for the known world. Aja, in a sequined gown, long pearl necklace, and a feather boa wrapped over her neck, sashayed into the pond with a diva's determination and grace. She knew that Clark would be at the Gala with another woman -- perhaps a younger woman -- but Aja wasn't attending the event to be intimidated: she was attending to look good and have fun.

Time seemed to stop as Aja climbed down the rocks into the ballroom. Men who brought their wives as dates embarrassed themselves by staring too long at Aja's unimaginable beauty. The caterers had difficulty pouring wine completely into glasses. The sax player in the swing band got distracted and nearly ruined his solo. The rhythm section thought he was having a stroke until they caught their own glimpse of Aja, and their rendition of "Pennsylvania 6-5000" quickly fell apart to nothing. With the room suddenly silent, Aja embraced the full attention of every dinner guest in attendance gazing at her with the same awe they would reserve for a first meeting with God.

But where was Clark?

Aja took her time getting to the bottom of the rocks, soaking in the limelight, preparing for the unmitigated attention of drooling and bumbling men, when she heard footsteps from the top of the rocks behind her. As fixated as everyone was on Aja, people could not help but notice Clark entering the ballroom, locking arms with a young woman, almost a tadpole, wearing an outfit identical to Aja's. When Aja finally turned to see who was there, she made a silent gasp. Clark looked around, assuming he and his date were the cause of the room's stunned engrossment. He smiled, removed his sunglasses, and addressed the room with a confident smile. "Well, Helloooo, everybody."

The details of Aja and Clark's romantic demise was well-known in various social circles, and the moment after he noticed a beautiful woman dressed similarly to his date in the shadows near the bottom of the rocks, he heard the sound of someone booing. Other guests started booing as well, and what began as a spattering of disapproval quickly became a congregation of unanimous condemnation. How dare she compete with Aja, they thought, and how dare he show his face. Bewildered, Clark had no choice but to turn around and bolt, leaving behind his young date who followed after him.

After they were gone, the booing stopped. The band began a new song. Aja took the final step to the ground floor of the ballroom, to be greeted by an eager fellow in a white tuxedo who asked her if she'd like to dance. She told him, "Yes. Yes, I would."

There Was The Beach

There was the beach

There was night

There was me

And there was you

Only you weren't actually there.

But there was the beach

There was night

There was me

There was you

And there were my thoughts.

There was the beach

There was night

There was me

There was you, and

There was nobody else.

There were stars

There were waves

It was high tide or low tide: I had no reference.

There was sand, made into a bed so we could have our way with each other. But especially me because it was my idea.

There were dark houses with dark patios, just in case.

There was mist!

There were seashells

There was -- oh, shit -- there was some guy running across the shore, but there was also his own business which he would mind.

There was lust spilling all over the place

There was me

There was you

There were genuine hearts. Two of them.

There was the beach

There was night

There was me.

-Long Beach Island, NJ 7/9/10

Life Update/Something To Chew On

Dear Readers (Are there any? I don't really advertise this page. At all.),

I know it appears that I haven't written anything in two months. I'm just dropping in to say that's not true. I've begun working on a novel, and that has been taking up most of my writing time. I do not intend to post any of it onto Paperweight Of The World because it is a BIG BIG SECRET that I blab about all the time to anyone who will listen to me. I'll make a post here to let you all know when it's finished. Or maybe I'll call you individually because that would probably be quicker.

In the meanwhile, enjoy this bit of literary diversion that I tossed off while I was bored at work. I call it, "Danger From The Fourteenth Tower!":

We used to be partners at a detective agency. We were both private eyes, but we hit a professional snag when I wanted to become a public eye. I got tired of wrapping myself in eye lids and she dropped me from the agency. Later, she hired a new private, only he was a nose who couldn't shut his mouth to save his face. They solved no crimes.

Guided Tour Of My Arsenal

"This is where I keep my police baton," he told me. James was a proud man.

Initially a hobby, James collected weapons and stored them in a display case in his basement. He built it one summer by himself without anyone's help. He became increasingly paranoid as he neared middle age, worried that the government was taking away his rights as a citizen. At first, I asked what exactly he meant when he suggested the government was taking away his rights, but he would always respond with tangential rhetoric instead of giving me a straight answer. Eventually, I stopped bringing it up.

"Do you know how many nuclear bombs there are in the world?"

"How many?" I asked.

"Over 100,000. We only need about thirty to destroy the planet."

"The planet, or the people who live on it?"

"What's the difference?"

I don't know where he got the figures for that one.

"This is where I keep my grappling hook," he said, pointing.

The interesting thing about James, is that despite all his talk about the government and his rights, he keeps no guns. He keeps mostly the type of weapons that, save for a crossbow, don't require ammunition: axe, samurai sword, spear. He explained to me that guns run out of bullets, and then what do you do? I, of course, had no answer to that. With James, it's better to let him do the talking. Most curious of all, he keeps a lonely cannonball, perched in solitude at the bottom of the display case.

"Are you ever going to get a cannon for your cannonball?" I asked.

"Do you know where I can get one?"

"No."

"Well then I guess I have no idea."

And then he showed me the only item that actually worried me.

"This is where I keep my hand grenade. It works, in case you're wondering."

Of course I was wondering. It's a hand grenade.

"What happens," I asked, "if the grenade gets knocked over, and the pin falls out?"

"How would it get knocked over? It's in a secure case."

"Well, what if there was an earthquake?"

"An earthquake? In Maryland?"

"It's possible."

"No, see, that's where you're wrong. This grenade isn't going anywhere unless I move it, and personally remove the pin."

When I asked him if he had experience removing a pin from a grenade, he demurred. He had never fought in any war, and I watched him as the gears turned in his mind, trying to fabricate a story about where he learned how to use a grenade. His answer involved a trip to Germany where he befriended a military officer named Wilhelm, who was present when they tore down the Berlin Wall. Wilhelm, he told me, made the suggestion to use explosives to tear the Wall down quicker, and he offered his personal stash of grenades to all the East German people who were using slow, slow hammers and crowbars. After hearing Wilhelm's story, James asked if he had anymore grenades in his stash. He did, and the rest is history...

"In fact, he's the one who gave me this hammer," James told me, matter-of-factly.

As much as I'm able to share the excitement with him every time he shows me his collection, I can't help but worry that his slipping mind will one day get him into trouble. What if he sees a snake in the backyard, and tries to kill it with his scythe? Or his grenade? What will happen to the census worker that stops by his doorstep? What will happen to the guy who has to read his gas meter?

His beady blue eyes looked into mine before he turned to the final item in his arsenal and told me:

"This is where I keep my knife."

Leaning In (A Musing*)

Apparently, nothing can be done to save face after leaning in for a kiss when the other person is not interested. If I lean in to kiss a girl, and she backs away, I can't tell her that I saw a mosquito on her mouth, and I wanted to eat it. She would see right through that.

*According to my dictionary, the word "musing" isn't a noun anymore, only a verb. Once upon a time, though, it was a noun. I have used it as a noun. I hope nobody cares.

Victim Of Letters

***Entrenched and looking for love, I scour the Earth, breaking through my self-imposed guardrails without lifting my feet.***

Today, I look down from upon the highest peak I can reach without hopping a fence. I look, and I judge. I judge, and I yell. I yell, and I cry. I have been the victim of letters before. That is why I threw my mailbox off a cliff. Perhaps I have been forsaken?

If I am so wrong, then how did I get all the way up here? What did I do so right to earn the scorn of everyone, and still manage to maintain an edge?

My heart tells me I am standing in the wrong place. I take an elevator back down the hill -- more of a ski lift, really -- then hop a train out of town. The harsh reality is that my starting point is the most familiar place to me for many miles to come. I drink a can of apple juice, and take an afternoon nap.

They kick me off the train for talking too loud in my sleep, but the joke's on them: Short of one mile, I've reached my destination. I decide to walk the rest of the way. It's a good thing I travel light.

The sun decides to leave the sky for a little while, and the only things keeping me company are a few tumbleweeds and some galloping lizards. They aren't much fun, and they keep asking me if I know Judy. I don't.

I finish the mile and end up where I had meant to. The spot is barren except for a small, lonely cabin. I peek inside. There is a made bed with chocolates on a pillow, and a letter.

The letter is for me:

"Dearest One,

I'm glad you could make it, but it looks like I couldn't. Duty calls. Once again, I'm needed by those who depend on me. Also, I got bored of waiting around in the cabin. Let's meet up soon.

Love,

The Object of Your Desire"

I get tired of these letters.