Peep Fiction

For the last time, dammit.

2005-04-25T13:35:00.000-07:00

It’s not a mullet.

I have better things to do than to sit in your office as you make thinly-veiled inquiries about my grooming habits.

It’s just a little long this month. A little shaggy. But the banjo greatest hits tape on my desk and the Dukes of Hazzard cracks in our progress meetings are not just annoying. They’re incorrect.

Give me that. No, seriously! Hand it to me! Okay, put your finger here. Now show it to me.

See? Not even an inch, Jake!

I mean, have you and Carl ever been South of Detroit? I grew up in Georgia. BeLIEVE me. You don’t know from mullets. I’ll bring in my yearbook.

Besides, I think it's a jealousy thing. At least I can grow a mullet. Yeah, whatever. Well, I think you are, I don't buy that you're shaving your head because it looks good, buddy. White guys don't do that. Oh right, convenience.

I’m sorry. I’m not going to have this conversation with you again. I enjoy a good chuckle as much as the next guy. But you guys seem to have run out of material.

I can definitely take a joke! If it's about something that's actually true! Ask Peggy at reception, she doesn’t see it!

No, Jake. She’s not just being nice.

I'm expecting a client today, so if I'm not at my desk and you see them wandering around the offices, you'll have to point them in the direction of my cube. Because I'm not meeting them with that on my nameplate.

No, Sharpie marker does NOT just wipe off, you might want to note that for next time. Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll "pass that along" to the brain trust responsible.

(christ it's like working with children i cannot believe you have a fucking office -)

No, nothing, just talking to myself. I'll close your door.

(calling) That was an accident!

all true

2005-03-11T14:34:00.002-08:00

He was always thin. Sara had nagged him down to that weight, her son said. He loved her so much, he would have done anything for her. The baby fat that surrounded his face in their wedding picture was nowhere to be found in later photographs. He resembled Norman Rockwell, a sturdy, all-American-type man. The all-American-looking man born in Hungary.

Everything around the table was dark, but light. She couldn’t see into it, but it wasn’t a darkness. It was a color she had never seen before. And the dream lingered with her for a day or so, and then was forgotten. She was called over to a table by a man she had never met. Instantly she didn’t like him. He seemed smug, the things she spoke about he seemed to already know, as if he could figure her out in a heartbeat, but he was still a mystery, only revealing himself in coy, oblique ways. The way he smiled and answered her questions as if they were obvious perturbed her. The bemusement he seemed to feel at her frustration only enhanced it. She hated it when people assumed she was stupid.

But soon, her animosity was put aside. They talked. At great length. And bonded. About all sorts of things, both of them bathed in a color that didn’t exist.

After some time of pleasant conversation, he said he had to go. She told him she didn’t want him to leave. He said he had no choice, it was time to go back. When she offered to come with him, he told her she couldn’t come where he was going. Not yet.

She had never particularly believed in an afterlife. It was a nice idea, but many a night, she lay awake after her Grandmother had fallen asleep. They shared a bed, because her grandma always let her watch forbidden late-night tv. But mostly they would talk. Maybe it was because she grew up with a morbid fascination, or maybe because she would always contemplate how much time her grandmother had left, her questions would often turn towards death.

He asked her to pass along a message before he left. It was part of the dream she wouldn’t remember until much later. It was so vague at the time, and when she remember it later, she feared she’d invented it. She still fears it sometimes, that she willed his message true. But she suspects she didn’t invent it, it seems real. Well, she hopes.

“I don’t believe anything happens to you when you die,” her grandmother would say.

“Nothing? That nothing happens?”

“No. You just die.”

The girl contemplated this. And after her grandmother fell asleep, the most frightening thoughts would flood her head. What if nothing did happen to you after you died…but you realized it. You were CONSCIOUS of the nothing. An eternity spent lying in a box, feeling your body turn to dust, with nothing and nobody to keep you company but your thoughts.

She would make sure that she slept holding her grandmother. This way, she could hear her heartbeat. She didn’t know what was worse, not listening for the heartbeat, and risking losing her in the night, or listening for it and hearing it stop. It was a shocking thought.

But she would listen for it anyway, as long into the night as she could muster.

So when she was digging through the box of old photos, she came across one that she’d never seen before. It was a man, in a suit, outside a Brighton Beach brownstone. In the 30s, maybe the 40s. He was laughing, handsome.

She recognized the face, and studied it hard to figure out why. She'd seen him, but she didn’t remember where, or how. It must have been an uncle, someone who looked the same with age.

So when they told her it was Bernard, that was her grandfather, she burst into tears immediately. The message he said in the dream came to her suddenly.

He had leaned over and took her hand. He had told her that he had been waiting to meet her. And she begged him not to go yet, they still had a lot to talk about. She desperately tried to remember everything he’d said to her. None of it was coming back, and she was ashamed.

When he stood to leave the table and disappear into the dark-light color, she still didn’t know who he was. Until he said, “Tell Sara I love her, and that I’m waiting for her.”

Her mother held her, and Grandma was soon crying, too. All three of them, contemplating her dream, contemplating whether or not it could be true. Looking at the picture of Bernard, the grandfather who'd died before her birth. In fact, Dad was mourning Bernard's death when he first met Mom. It was the only photo they had of him at that weight. He was still losing the baby fat, his skinny face not yet visible. And smiling. Smiling broadly, bathed in Brooklyn light. He's captured in yellows, whites, blacks, greys. The day's actual colors are now lost to time.

It's the Fever Talking

2005-03-11T03:02:00.000-08:00

You know you worked yourself too hard this week. That Tuesday night callback put you over the edge, but you did get cast. However, now you have to pay for wearing yourself out. Of course, the weather change didn't help either, but we both know you've been doing too much and not resting enough. It's a good thing you stopped by CVS on your way to work on Thursday to pick up some generic Day-Quil. Otherwise you would have had to go after 2:00, after you were struck down. It's funny, when talking of insects parents have a tendency to say platitudes about how you're bigger than it is. "It's more afraid of you than you are of it." And yet, a microscopic organism can take out a grown man.

Around 2:00 PM on Thursday, as you sat on the makeshift "chair," more commonly known as a cardboard box, staring at the row of files in front of you. You realize something isn't right. You had a bit of a sinus headache, but this is different. It's as if all your energy has been sapped from your body. You finish what you're working on, interrupted occasionally by periods of spacing out. You have a fever and you know it. You get up and have a coworker touch your forehead, and then your arm above your wrist. "You should go home." You haven't even left your workspace before your germaphobe cubicle buddy starts spraying your desk with disinfectant.

Getting home is hell. You have no interest in being around people, yet the EL is packed. Finally home, you take your temperature. 100.2 degrees, yep just as you had feared. Some small "bug" got you. You were almost out of winter illness free, but not anymore. It's 4:00 PM, and you have to be at the theatre at 7:00 PM. You take some pills to break your fever, set your alarm for 6:00 PM, and try to sleep. You wake up at 5:30 PM sweating. Sweating is a good sign; it means the fever is going down. You check, and it's now between 99 and 100 degrees. You eat, and make yourself presentable to go to the show.

It's only a 75-minute show, so you should be able to make it through. You make it almost to the end when it happens. Suddenly, the voices of the other actors along with the music seem to move far away. It sounds as though you're listening to them through a cardboard tube. A wave of . . . something washes over you. You can't focus on the show, on the action, you're mind is focusing on one thing only, not passing out. You will yourself to stay on your feet, and in the back of your mind you know what's just happened. The fever is back. The faint feeling finally passes replaced by the chills. Now you finish the show trying not to visibly shake onstage. Finally, you can go home.

102 degrees is what your body's temperature shot to sometime between leaving home to go to the theatre and returning home from the theatre. No wonder you almost passed out. So, you take some more pills, pile every sheet, blanket, and comforter onto your bed, change into your sweats, and bury yourself determined to beat this fever.

3:00 AM you wake up coughing badly. Your chest is tight, it hurts to breathe. This is nothing new, you've had respiratory problems you're whole life. Tonight though your mind wanders as each painful cough loosens some phlegm. You see yourself in some distant future when you're body is weak and frail, an old man lying in his bed. His lungs begin to fill with fluid from his own body and he no longer has the strength to expel it. He, you drown lying there on your bed. It's funny how being ill makes us face our own mortality. 101 degrees, it looks like your white blood cells are doing their job. They've almost completely driven me from your body, but you should take some more medicine to help things along.

4:00 AM, 100 degrees and falling. You're sweating, that means our time is almost over. You can't sleep can you? But, that's partly because you're feeling better, and your fever is dropping. It seems like you've beaten me. Your body has gotten you through again. But, we'll meet again, you and I. And, one day somewhere in the future, I'll win. Well, provided you don't do anything stupid like getting hit by a bus. I can't stay any longer; your immune system is pushing me out the door. Have a good life my friend, because one day this "bug" will remove you from the world.

Tuesday Night on the Red Line

2005-02-08T20:32:00.000-08:00

I leave the theatre a little after 10:00. Fortunately, the Jarvis stop is across the street. I climb up the urine scented stairs to the platform. I look north toward Howard, but there is no sign of the next train. So, I resign myself to the wait. I continue to look up the platform towards Howard, and I notice the woman. She stands near the other set of stairs. She's talking to someone . . . no wait . . . she's not talking to anyone. She's just talking. I continue to look that direction, trying not to stare at the woman. But, she turns and looks my way. I can't make out what she's saying, but it looks as though she's directing whatever it is towards me. I don't move, hoping she'll realize I'm not looking at her, but towards Howard. She begins to walk towards me. I consider turning around, but decide against it. My logic being that if I do that then it might be proof in her mind that I was indeed looking at her. Finally, I begin to make out what she's saying. It's mostly swearing mixed with racial epithets, and the occasional mention of how the wealthy white people always get what they want. She stops ten to fifteen feet away from me, and to my relief no longer appears to be addressing me. I make sure I avoid eye contact just in case. I listen to her continue to have a conversation, yes it is an actual conversation with no one. A thought enters my head, perhaps because I just came from rehearsal, but it sounds like she may actually be reciting lines from a play.

I spend the next ten minutes trying to decide if she's an actor, crazy, or both. I also find it surreal in that her raving sounds like it could be part of a performance, if it is raving. Finally, the train arrives. She's not on my car. I go the three stops to Granville. I walk down the platform towards the stairs. I walk behind an older woman in a tattered coat who's shoulders are so hunched over that only a small tuft of hair is visible from her head. However, her coat has a fur lined hood that is down, and her hair blends in with this. It creates the illusion that she is in fact headless. I follow the headless woman to the stairs. She, however, takes the elevator. I decend the stairs, and walk home.

Declaration

2005-01-27T08:25:00.000-08:00

I would like to announce a new phase of phone etiquette.

If I don't recognize your phone number, I will still not pick up. But I would appreciate you leaving a message. Even if it's just to say "Sorry. Wrong number."

Thank you.

Derailment

2005-01-26T06:16:00.000-08:00

Apparently, there was a derailment at the end/beginning of the Brown Line (Kimball) this morning. I say apparently because I knew nothing about it until I was already on my way. Usually, we have one morning news program or the other on in the background of the shuffle of showers, ironing, and getting ready for the day. Today, however, my fiancée had an early meeting at school, so our usual semi-haste was fully-rushed – no time for TV.

As I rounded the corner from Wilson onto Rockwell, I hoped to see the barricades down over the street and sidewalks. That would mean I’d likely see the inbound train go past and know that the timing of my remaining 2 block walk would probably coincide nicely with the train behind. The barricades were up, though, and I started, as I often do when I haven’t seen an inbound train go past, evaluating and projecting points on the “Distance from Station” and “Percentage Balls Busted” field. The relationship is commonly known to be inversely proportional. “(step step step) Boy, it would suck if the train came now. (step step step) It would REALLY suck if the train came now. (step step step across bearable threshold) I’d better jog.” So I broke into a trot and made the station easily without hearing the bells of the lowering gate go off. Huh.

There were more people than I expected at the normally sparsely populated Rockwell stop this morning, but I could see a train approaching, so, no worries. Soon an announcement came over the outside station speakers about a “delay” at Kimball, but the train was pulling in, so I tuned it out and boarded. We coasted into the typically busy Western stop at full/normal speed, but it was the amount of the people on the outbound platform caught my eye – it was evening rush-hour-in-the-Loop crowded. Also, the doors on our side stayed open for maybe 5 seconds and nobody got on. Huh, again.

We proceeded slowly with frequent stops, and before we got to Montrose I realized I was going to be late for work. After accepting this fact and determining that I no longer cared enough about my job to call in “late,” my mind let go of the watch-glancing and timeline-figuring and I began to enjoy the ride – sensing other riders’ frustration, checking out the details of the passing houses, street scenes, and rooftops, listening, and letting my mind wander.

I caught glimpses into people’s homes – neat breakfast settings, messy desks full of bills, and junk stacked to the ceiling. I examined back porches, evaluating architectural stability as well as the aesthetic appeal (or lack thereof). Can you really leave a gas grill out in 15” of snow and sub-zero temperature like that? I wondered about rooftop garbage – thrown there to catch the commuter’s eye, or was that really the most convenient place to litter? I looked for streets with the highest and lowest concentrations of jag-neighbors marking parking spaces with cheap furniture and scrap wood.

At Montrose, one of the few people to get on knew one of the guys who had boarded with me at Rockwell. They began talking and I finally learned that the delay in fact stemmed from a derailment. Finally, it made sense – everyone was taking alternate routes, hence the empty stations. Their conversation was fantastic – conducted at a volume level that they might not be comfortable with in a normal, crowded, sleepy morning train. Their dialogue sounded like (bad) screenplay patter. They referred to stuff going on in “the neighborhood,” they talked vaguely about the Bulls, Cubs, and Sox. It was so authentic. I’d love to write those guys into a screenplay – only better.

As we approached Addison, the conductor came on and very clearly explained that there had been a derailment and that the delay before Belmont had to do with stacked Brown Line trains being re-integrated into the Red/Purple flow on the main line. We had 3 trains ahead of us, but once we passed Belmont, we’d be moving at a more normal pace. One of the guys commented on the clarity of the announcement and bemoaned the new automated messages, in particular, the one that ended “violators will be prosecuted.” “I hate hearing that 23 times on my way to work!”

During this stretch, I kept forgetting how far away we actually were from joining the main flow. “We’re almost there, then we’ll get going.”

“Oh, crap – Paulina.”

“Southport!!”

Finally, we pulled into Belmont. I overheard a station announcement regarding delays on Red and Purple lines as well. A few of my companions exited the train in a huff, hoping to catch the Red and make up lost time.

Here, I went into a wonderful daydream about warring factions within the CTA organization. It was sparked by the station loudspeaker announcing “Southbound Brown Line, please hold your doors for a ---“ Cut short by the closing doors and the quick exit from the station. The timing was perfect.

I smiled at the thought of feuding Brown Line, Red Line, and Big CTA Brass teams. Or was it Conductors, Station Managers, and Big CTA Brass? All scenarios involved Big CTA Brass. I imagined the standard plan for re-integrating the delayed trains set down by the Big CTA Brass and the teams in the field jockeying around the stated procedures to make themselves look good. I was fully behind my cowboy Brown Line conductor.

Finally, we were making some time past Wellington, Diversey, and Fullerton. I hope those folks who transferred at Belmont really needed to take the Red Line, because if they were just playing the “fastest route” game, they lost – I saw no sign of a Red Line by the time we exited Fullerton. Eventually, the seat next to me became occupied at Armitage, a fairly full station. Perhaps the word was getting out that the Brown Line was up again.

I’ve never taken the curves before the Sedgwick station, by Steppenwolf, at such a breakneck pace. Go ahead, Cowboy! I wondered to myself if the physics involving a full train mandated the usual slow pace, or if it was just overcautious Big CTA Brass. Cowboy got us through safely though. Whether he had been waiting for the opportunity to pull it off with a half-empty train or he knew in his heart of hearts that the Man was holding him back all along, I’ll never know.

At Chicago, I was looking out for the bench used in the “Can you spot the undercover police officer?” PSA ads I’ve seen on the trains. One thing that has bugged me about that ad was, they obviously had the “Chicago” sign in mind, and wanted to use a bench in the shot, but there is a billboard next to the bench that was captured in the photo. Recently, I haven’t been trying to spot the undercover cop, I’ve been irked at the fact that the 2 products on the billboard made it into this PSA shot and are getting free advertising inside the train! Why does this bug me? I have no idea. It somehow violates my sense of what’s “right.”

We pulled into Merchandise Mart, and I had to regroup into “getting to work” rat race mode. As I exited the train, I was surprised to find hundreds of people on the platform, presumably Purple Line commuters who needed to go the other direction around the Loop. They looked pretty grim as they packed the train. I decided not to fully slip back into rat race mode and took an easier pace as I descended onto Wells.

Soup "At Hand" My (At) Ass!

2005-01-23T00:49:00.000-08:00

To the makers of Campbell's "Soup at Hand"

Dear Sirs:

Holy shit. Are you kidding me?

I have seen your commercials presenting your product as an ideal choice for "Lunchers on the go." Construction workers and commuters alike are shown enjoying the easy portability of this sippable soup. While I'm rarely "on the go," and I own neither car nor backhoe, I was excited about trying your "Creamy Tomato" soup while at work today (I don't own a microwave either).

Turns out I could have used a backhoe. To deal with the huge pile of disappointment.

Following instructions, I carefully peeled the pull-ring metal top from the can. I swear to god I pulled slowly, evenly, and carefully. Only to have it spring off at the last minute, spraying half the soup in a creamy red volcano, drenching my person, the employee toaster, refrigerator and the coffee pot. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a million tiny dots of tomato soup out of a coffee pot? This is one insidious soup.

Undeterred, I ran a paper towel over my face and proceeded with your careful directions so as to "enjoy a hearty lunch (or at least half of one) in the palm of my hand!" I microwaved it for the suggested 60 seconds and prepared myself, knowing "soup would be very hot."

It wasn't. I stirred it as directed and re-inserted it as "if you wish for a hotter soup, microwave for an additional 15 seconds." I did indeed wish. I did indeed microwave for an additional 15 seconds. Hell, at this point I started suspecting you're all a bunch of filthy liars and I nuked it for 30 seconds.

Despite multiple attempts with varying cooking power and duration to get this fucking soup warmed to an acceptable level, I never achieved anything more than "slightly lukewarm." You suck.

Eventually I gave up, slapped the "convenient sipping lid" on the thing (spraying an additional quarter of the soup back into the coffee pot) and tried to enjoy my soup at hand.

The soup itself was not awful. I prefer creamier tomato soups, and while I found the flavor and consistency of yours identical to the sauce one finds in canned spaghettios, I didn't hate it. But as for convenience? Y'all are full of it. It took me a good 10 minutes to prepare (what should have been) 8oz of soup, not including the 20 minutes of clean up time. Your main selling point is that this is portable soup, easy to take anywhere. I don't know why I would need to take it anywhere because I drank the whole damn thing in less than a minute, standing in front of the microwave.

I really just can't follow the logic behind this one. Technically, yes, I could carry the can of soup around with me, it fits nicely in my grasp. But the amount of preparation required totally defeats the purpose of a lunch that you can allegedly "enjoy anywhere!"

Maybe if you had some sort of rip-cord on it. Pull a string, zzzziiiippp....And the can self-heats. That would be cool. And portable.

But as it is...I'm afraid you won't find Campbell's "Soup at Hand" in my hand anytime soon.

Christ, I'm still trying to get it out of my hair.

Sincerely,
Karla Pacheco

PS. You guys should really talk to the people who make Kraft's "On the Go! Deluxe Single Serve Creamy Cheese and Pasta." Holy shit is that good! Seriously, it's piping hot and perfect in one minute. For real. It's like the really good Velveeta Shells meals we could never afford when I was a kid (we only got the orange powder mix stuff) and it's fucking awesome. It's better than baby Jesus, America and a basket of kittens combined, covered in oozy, delicious cheese. In fact, that's just what it's like...like eating a kitten covered in hot, savory cheese. God, it is soooo good. You should try some. They're 2 for $3 at Walgreen's right now. And they kick the ass out of your fucking pansy soup.

Signals

2005-01-17T14:35:00.000-08:00

She was the sort of woman who demanded whimsy in her life. Her two-bedroom suburban ranch was adorned just so with Edward Gorey lithographs , kitty-cat-knick-knacks-with-pink-shoes, and throw pillows that boldly stated “The Queen is IN!” Saturday afternoons, on her trips to the library to pick up the next Sue Grafton, she would always wear her “Chick With Attitude” sweatshirt, the one with the bright yellow baby chick with sunglasses on it.

She would never stoop to join Marjorie in her Red Hat Club, though. Oh, those middle-aged matrons with their purple sweaters and gleefully girlish laughs that always interrupted her quiet time at the local Oberweiss. They thought they knew whimsy. They thought they were clever and witty and oh-so-brave with their garish costumes, their standard-issue-don’t-they-know-that-in-their-bold-declarations-they’re-just-like-all-the-other-red-hatted-women-of-the-world? She knew it was just a costume, a fake, a façade. She knew what real whimsy was.

The following should be spoken in a broken English accent:

2005-01-11T05:56:00.000-08:00

Did I miss this stage direction somewhere? What is it about classical English that prompts some actors to affect a modern British accent? Maybe it wouldn't bug me so much if it was a consistant accent, instead of a word here or there. Yes, there are "thee and thous" in the script, but none of us are English. Granted the play is written by an Irish playwright, but it is not set in the UK. It's set in the Middle East around 27 AD. I doubt anyone living in that time or place spoke English, much less had an English accent. Am I saying that we should adopt accents that would fit the setting? Um, no, I'm not. Just speak in YOUR voice. This isn't fucking Pride and Prejudice, people.

Geometry Pt. 1: Third Person Squared (Batter Up)

2005-01-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

“…She thinks she might like the boy in the middle. She took a motorbike ride with him once (wherein she squealed appreciatively in a charming manner). She’s had a couple of decent “We’ve got friends in common, we probably have other things in common” conversations with him. She’s battered her eyes at him. She has pretty eyes, she’s heard…”

“Wait a minute…Battered her eyes?”

The author was slightly drunk.

“That can’t be right. It’s not “battered,” for Christ’s sake.”

She was just past the buzzed stage, having had to pinch pennies at the bar tonight and come home early, alone. She’d spent the evening watching two musicians she’d previously slept with play a show (they’re in the same band), sitting behind a friend of theirs that she thinks she might like. When she came home, she decided it’d be a good story. She likes writing rambling little tales of woe she pretends aren’t about her (God, does she love third person), but at least the stories are better than the songs she used to write. She really can’t sing to save her life.

“She thinks she might like the boy in the middle…” Ooh, good beginning. She’d smiled and managed a sip from her plastic cup of cheap screw-top wine without extinguishing her dangling cigarette (she thinks she looks really romantic when she does this, by the way). The words flew out in a dazzling, piquantly drunken manner…Love, longing, self-hate, a piteous but subdued hope…It was all there. She wrapped up her tiny opus with a flip, slightly despondent sentence (her trademark) and brushed a fragment of cigarette ash off her chest. The warm glow of accomplishment and $5 Chablis spread through her as she leaned back to read.

“Battered? That’s not right. What the fuck?”

Sad to say, it took her a good five minutes to recall the proper term was “Batted.” Then she couldn’t decide if the correct present tense was “Batt” or “Bat.”

That night she had nightmares about people dipping their faces in a mixture of eggs, flour, and milk (salt and pepper to taste), followed by the deep frying of eyelashes.

The image is still kind of haunting her.

Geometry Pt. 2 : (Run On) Bermuda Triangle

2005-01-08T19:30:00.000-08:00

She thinks she might like the boy in the middle. She took a motorbike ride with him once (wherein she squealed appreciatively in a charming manner). She’s had a couple of decent “We’ve got friends in common, we probably have other things in common” conversations with him. She’s batted her eyes at him. She has pretty eyes, she’s heard.

The boy to the left, she slept with three times. She didn’t quite love him (as she was fond of saying) but she almost did. She’ll admit she came damn near to, though if she was at all honest with herself (which she isn’t, it’s one of the things she loves about herself), she would accept the fact that he made her feel the way she felt that one time. The time she loved this boy that used to love her. When she alternately felt like absolute gold and absolute shit every other minute and second of the day (it was the point where she first decided maybe the joy of love isn’t worth the pain, she still hasn’t decided for sure) but she loved that boy too late and eventually he couldn‘t love her anymore. Though in the case of the boy on the left, she loved too early, if she indeed did love. Anyway, she’s already used the term “love” too many times to describe the situation and you know that can’t be good.

The boy on the right she slept with twice. He’s best friends with the boy on the left. She nearly didn’t have sex with the boy on the right (that first time) because he knew that she liked the boy on the left, and (as he informed her in a moment where her heart actually cracked, just a little) he knew the boy on the left liked her. The boy on the right admitted in the same moment that he liked her too, just a little. And if the boy on the left had never been involved, she totally would have gone for the boy on the right. But at the time, the boy on the left was so very there (even though he wasn’t really there, for a million convoluted, fucked up reasons). So they left it at that, after a million, fucked up convoluted moments. Months later, after any possibility with the boy on the left (through no fault of her own, she’s pretty sure) was dead and gone…She slept with the boy on her right again. He had a girl on HIS left this time. A girl that was probably right for all the right reasons. And coincidentally, a girl that was good friends with the boy on the left. But for all of that…The boy on the right knew exactly what she wanted. Just like before, he did everything right, he was rough and brutal and un-asking…A talent for hurting in all the best ways. She still melts a little, when she thinks of it. She still has to fight to be (somewhat) good when he looks at her.

So now she sits, with a boy on each side. Guilt tints one memory. Self-hate colors the other. She feels better about the ‘guilty” one (in her mind, it’s a lesser evil), than the one she still (if she’d admit it to herself) aches for (it‘s probably not the one you think…or maybe it is). She tries to position her mind towards the boy in the middle. Like a compass. Baser urges and something else (that she can’t quite admit to) pull her in other directions. But she focuses. Batts her eyes. Asks insightful and practiced questions…The type that make the questioned feel like they’re the most important person in the world…She tries to make the boy in the middle feel like he’s amazing. She hopes he likes her.

She hopes she likes him.

Boy n' Girl

2005-01-05T12:22:00.000-08:00

Boy: So seriously
Girl: Yes?
Boy: I love you.
Girl: I love you too.
Boy: Like, like!
Girl: You… like me?
Boy: You know what I am saying… not just like…like like
Girl: You love me. You've said it before, you can't take it back now! She laughs maniacally
Boy: Stop it
Girl: What? Are you ashamed of our love? Actually, these days, I think "like like" has a stronger connotation than "love"
Boy: How’s that?
Girl: Because I love everyone.
Boy: Slut.
Girl: Saying "I like you" lets someone know there is interest. Saying "I like like you" means there is more than a passing interest.....
Boy: What?
Girl: Forget it. I can't have this conversation on the phone.
Boy: You are so confusing
Girl: You love me and I love you and we love each other. Okay?
Boy: No, I thought you “like liked” me? Which was better? Right?
Girl: No, you “like liked” me. I never said I “like liked” you
Boy: What? You don't “like like” me?
Girl: No, but I “love” you… Don't you see? We went from Like to Love and skipped Like Like, which is a beautiful thing. Because if you “like” and then “like like” and then “love”, well, that's like saying "I'm in love with you and want to have 10 million of your babies" But if you “like” and then move directly to “love”... that's like being an old married couple. Which we kind of are…and would totally be if we lived in the same city
Boy: So let me see if I get this, you want me to move so we can have children. Is that about the gist?
Girl: No, I don't want to have your children.
Boy: No. Oh sorry, I am confused
Girl: I want you to move to so we can not have children.
Boy: 2006 baby
Girl: That's when you're moving here?
Boy: Maybe…
Girl: Excellent!
Boy: Really?
Girl: We'll move into together and listen to jazz over coffee every Sunday morning…while you do the crossword puzzle…and I cook a fabulous omelet…sound good?
Boy: Actually…really good…and I just got a little sad
Girl: Why?
Boy: Cause we don't do that now
Girl: I know. Honestly? Every Sunday I wake up a little sad…because I want that.
Boy: Me too…and a dog
Girl: Sorry baby. No can do. I'm allergic.
Boy: Me too
Girl: How about a fish? A turtle?
Boy: Uhmm…No
Girl: A hedgehog?
Boy: Ooo. Maybe that would be fun.
Girl: Terrific. It’s agreed then. I'll see you in 2006. We have a date at a pet store.

Things I've said I'm gonna blog about (but probably won't)

2004-12-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

(Thanks to Dave, Abbie, George)

*That one girl at the Aragon who was totally rocking out, fist in the air, singing along amid a sea of nonplussed concert goers waiting for the opening band to end.

*"The lady at the container store totally blew my mind."

*Calendars and buffet until 2am!

*Macaroni salad

*The Algonquin Kid's Table (Okay, this one is just too good to resist...)

The cartoonist carefully traced it out...Lil' Dottie Parker with a martini glass of milk tossed off a bon mot about naptime, Jimmy Thurber colored with crayons and Bobby Benchly was tweaking the braids of a wee Edna Ferber. As the cartoonist leaned back to examine his handiwork, he smiled confidently. If "The Algonquin Kid's Table" didn't get him into The New Yorker, nothing would.

(Dave or George, I would like this cartoon. Please get on it. Thank You.)

Inexplicable items found in the office refrigerator

2004-12-22T23:48:00.000-08:00

Item: A single bell pepper

Item: Full jar of garlic-dill pickle spears, prominently labeled with co-worker's name in metallic pen (three spears later unrepentantly consumed by author)

Item: Two pound bag of very tiny limes (contents of fridge scoured for presence of something that would necessitate limes, i.e., gin, vodka, or similar to no avail.)

Item: 214 packets of Hellman's mayonnaise

Item: 5 bottles of pancake syrup

Item: Ziplock bag of diced tomatoes

Item: Two bunches of celery (per their sharpie scribbled initials, celery and tomatoes did not belong to the same co-worker, eliminating author's original theories of "salad making")

Item: One and one half juice bottles stripped of their original labels (and minus any other identifying marks), containing something "brown"

Item: One unopened jar cocktail olives (Author scours fridge for possible cocktails...Turns up nothing. Checks to see if olives are pimento stuffed. They aren't. Author eats entire damn bottle anyway.)

A Very Trivial (Pursuit) Dialogue 12-22-04

2004-12-22T23:30:00.000-08:00

(Or: Jokes so inside that they're almost outside!)

"Okay, here's a clue...He looks like Zim, but with Stinton's blackness."
"What?"
"Like Zim with Stinton's blackness."
"Uh...Wow. It's a TV actor?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. I have no idea, though the mental image is amusing me. Um...Christ, I don't fucking know...Bernie Mac?"
"How the hell did you come up with Bernie Mac???"
"You said Stinton's blackness.."
"I said Stinton's glasses. It was Drew Carey."
"You totally said 'blackness'."

"Wait a minute...Why do you think I look like Drew Carey?"

Bonus comment:

"Zim, you will so be the mack of WNEP if you tell everybody that you got to watch Abbie mount Karla."

The Last Meeting

2004-12-18T18:54:00.000-08:00

The ambient noise of the subway station became a steady roar in his ears. He’s used to it by now. He concentrates on her. Looking down the tracks, he sees her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. She’s thinking something, but as usual he has no idea what it is. She waits for him to look at her again then says,

“He thinks you moved here because of me.”

So, the conversation has moved back to her boyfriend. He’s tried to be friendly with the guy, but the boyfriend won’t have anything to do with him. “What? That’s silly. You did tell him that I decided to move here long before you did.” Which is true. Chicago was on his mind before he got emotionally involved with her, before he fell in love with her. Fate brought them to the same city at the same time, not that it makes any difference.

“Yes, but he stills thinks you moved here because of me. He thinks you still have feelings for me."

How perceptive of him. “Really . . .”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t like it when I spend time with you.”

A sudden rush of frustration races up his spine. He does not understand why she puts up with the guy. He can remember a time when she was as stubborn as he is, but now she’s been tamed. Tamed by someone who’s unwilling to even be at the same place at the same time with a perceived threat. At least she came this time, and without a curfew for once. “Do you two ever fight?”

“Of course we do.”

“Ok, it just seems like he likes to stay in control. I don’t know why he’s worried about me. I see you, what, once every six months?” Another pang of frustration hits his chest this time. Every time he thinks he's over her, he sees her dark hair and piercing green eyes, and feels everything all over again.

“I know, but he thinks you still have feelings for me.”

“ . . .” He looked away too quickly on that last comment. He’s pretty sure she caught it. He’s been very careful to keep the walls up. He decided a long time ago not to ever let her see what he really feels. He knows it would be better for all if she remains under the impression that he is over her. But, now he's worried he gave something away just then. The roar of the approaching train breaks his concentration. “Thank god.” He says masked by the noise.

Mr. Blackwell's Worst Decorated, 2004

2004-12-17T09:09:00.000-08:00

Well darlings, I’ve made my list and checked it twice, and I’ve found far more houses that were naughty than nice…Here is this year’s list of Christmust-nots!

2245 N. Sheffield is nothing more than an O’ holy nightmare! Poorly strung lights, giant illuminated teddy bears, and 5 Santas that bark carols…If this ho-ho-horror was MY only option, I would have slept in the stable, too.

Little drummer boring is all I have to say about the Anderson house on Western. A single strand of white lights around the window and a wilting wreath on the door? “Blah-Humbug!”

We go dashing throughh the “NO!” at the corner of Cornelia and Damen…This Jingle Hell left me cold with mismatched lights that barely went half way up the trees they were supposed to cover. Oh TannenBLECH! Either deck the halls to the wall or don’t bother.

These grinches have certainly confirmed that 2004 "'Tis the season to be tacky..."

And as for the Rosenbaums in Lakeview…All I can say is you’ve turned this Festival of Lights into a HanuKAN’T!

Unfuckingbelievable

2004-12-16T13:16:00.000-08:00

Jay couldn’t believe his luck. His friends couldn’t believe his luck.

“She’s really gonna go for it?” “Dude! How’d you set that up?”

Jay demurred with the modestly smug grin of a man who is suddenly the coffee room Alpha male. When pressed though, he had to admit he was just as surprised as the rest of them.

“Well, I really can’t even remember how it came up. I mean, I know I’ve always thought about it and shit…Who hasn’t? But when we started talking about it I remembered all that shit that they always tell you to say to a girl in that situation . You know, that shit in Maxim and stuff. Be all intrigued and curious and everything, but if you act too interested it’ll creep her out.

“Man. I can’t fucking believe this, dude. Unfuckingbelievable.”

“Right? I mean, I had no idea that that shit would actually work.”

“So who’s it gonna be?”

“Well in the magazines they always said you have to let the girl pick. So when it started looking like Becky was really gonna go for it, I kinda joked about whether she would rather have a friend in it or someone we don’t know. At first she thought someone new would be better, but eventually she decided that she wouldn’t be as comfortable. So she asked her friend Sandra. You know, the tall one with the really long hair.”

“God, Jay. This is the coolest thing ever. You’re the man, man. I mean, I can’t believe you got your girlfriend to agree to…"

What? What did Becky agree to? Choose your own ending from the following:

A) Ironic Twist Ending:

“…agree to buy a three person canoe and take a rafting trip down the Colorado river. That is sooooo sweet.”

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Why’d you say “agree to” twice?”

B) Cruelly Ironic Twist Ending:

“…agree to a threesome. That is sooooo sweet.”

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Why’d you say “agree to” twice?”

“I have a stutter.”

That night, Jay got off work early. He picked up some scented candles, a nice bottle of wine, and a new pair of boxer shorts. Becky and Sandra worked at the same downtown boutique, and had agreed to come straight home after their shift. When they arrived, there was a good deal of giggling and tentative flirting. Halfway through the bottle of wine, Sandra leaned over and kissed Jay. He looked up quickly, to check on Becky. She was smiling approvingly and stroking Sandra’s thigh.

They moved into the bedroom, and Jay mentally prepared himself for what was sure to be the most memorable night ever. He tried to freeze every moment into his brain for the story he’d have to tell for the rest of his life. The girls began slowly undressing. Jay reached for his belt buckle.

“What are you doing?” Sandra asked. “Well, I’m…” “Oh no, honey,” said Becky, “We don’t want you here.” “What?” “No, babe…we want you to leave. Go into the living room or something.”

Jay thought for a moment. “Are you a lesbian?”

“Of course not!” Becky laughed, “It’s just that neither Sandra nor I find you sexually attractive.” “Yeah,” piped Sandra, “From all accounts, you’re a great boyfriend and provider. But neither of us wants to fuck you.”

“Oh.” Jay stood for a moment, holding his hands awkwardly by his belt. “If that’s the way you want it…” The girls had already turned away from him, caught up in each other, passionately touching and kissing. He coughed nervously. “Can I at least watch?” Becky shot him a quick look of pity and disgust, her tongue rammed down Sandra‘s throat. “Okay, well. Um. I guess I’ll just…yeah.”

Jay returned to the living room and picked up the wine glasses. He rinsed them before carefully putting them away and returning to the couch. He spent the night watching a Green Acres” marathon on Nick-at-Nite.

(note: This was the original ending of the story before I realized it resembled a plot twist on “Friends.”)

C) Completely Un-Ironic Ending:

“…agree to a threesome. That is sooooo sweet.”

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Why’d you say …?” And at that, Jay pulled out a large machete and slashed his co-worker to death.

Upon returning home, he fucked the living hell out of two sweet ladies and their beautiful vaginas. It was the best night of his life.

Writing in third person means you can pretend it's not about you

2004-12-16T12:17:00.000-08:00

Liberation Day

“Thank you very much. You’re all set up. Have a nice day.”

With those words, she was finally free. The ATM card for the new account gripped firmly in hand (a “temporary” card, the official one would arrive in the mail in 6-10 days), she walked into the street a liberated woman.

The new bank was less than a block from her apartment. Her old bank was in the same building as her office, convenient, but not quite as handy as the new one would be. She proceeded briskly down the street, past the grocery store, the movie theater, the quaint and cozy coffee shop (for curling up with a sandwich, hot tea and a magazine) and the 24 hour corporate coffee place (all night high speed internet access!). She smiled regally at the performing arts center, the 24 hour Walgreen’s, two floral shops, the bar where the hot young 20somethings go (she qualifies as a hot young 20something for a few more years) and the quiet pub where she likes to grab a pint on a slow afternoon.

With this last step she had finally accomplished it. Living in one of the largest cities in the world, surrounded by myriad cultures and flavors, drowning in exotic restaurants, fantastic theaters, verdant parks and concert halls both rock and symphonic…She had finally managed to limit her entire world to a two-block stretch of city life. Everything she could possibly need or want…Right. There.

Sure, she’ll still have to go to work, but she moved to this neighborhood because she’s only a $5 cab ride away.

Other than that, she’ll never leave home again.

Here are some funny pictures

2004-12-15T19:13:00.000-08:00

Since my last post turned into an after school special, I have lost interest in continuing my story. So instead, here are some funny pictures. Enjoy!!!

and the high price of fame

2004-11-30T09:28:00.000-08:00

She is not what one would beautiful by any means. No matter what wattage of light she was placed under or at which angle the camera stood. And yet her assured posture and poise told all who gazed upon her that she believed she was a star.

She ought to wear more make-up, said one. She ought to wear less, said another.
I know a doctor who can fix that. Only a week to heal.

She wouldn’t listen, though. She didn’t need to.

On disdaining your audience: A study in disillusionment

2004-11-27T17:05:00.000-08:00

The EL is a bit creepy at 6 in the morning.

That's when I'm coming home from the overnight shift at the radio station. The train alternates completely empty cars (my ultimate prize) with seats full of the silent and vacant eyed. They're mostly hispanic immigrants or blacks, on their way home from third shift janitorial or security jobs. Or on their way to the early morning janitorial or security shift. I'm not being racist. I recognize the uniforms. And I recognize the quiet resignation of someone who does the job that nobody else wants.

Honest moment: I have frequently fought the urge to stand up in the middle of a car full of fellow hispanics and yell "I'm not like you. I'm a professional! I may look like you, I may work the same hours as you, but I have a job that people respect...I'm not like you." It's an ugly impulse.

This morning my early morning compatriots and I sat in our usual mute contemplations. Oblivious to everything except our own thoughts and private views of a darkened downtown Chicago. It's an almost oppressively hushed environment.

Except for the guy two seats over who's walkman was so loud that the music he was listening to escaped his headphones and echoed throughout the car.

I glanced sideways at the window I was staring out of (I wasn't really looking out the window, I was just watching my own face mirrored in the Plexiglas) to catch the reflection of this inconsiderate savage who dared violate our nearly contractual silence. Overweight white guy in his late 30s, bad goatee, bundled in a collection of flannel shirts and a jean jacket straight from 1989. The music was so loud that I was able to clearly make out the song.

Beastie Boys. Time to get Ill.

"Oh shit," I sighed "He's listening to Q101."

The station I had just left overflows with the Beastie Boys. At least once an hour I have to play a track and make it sound like I'm thrilled that they're coming up next. It's ridiculous. I don't know who decided that All-Beasties-All-The-Time was a great programming move, but it couldn't be more perfectly designed to annoy the fuck out of me. I mean, I like the Beastie Boys okay...Just not all the goddamn time.

I decide to sneak another peek at this cretin.

"Oh yeah, that's a classic Q101 listener for ya'," I thought "Jesus, what a fucking slob." I look down at my overlarge winter coat and congratulate myself on not wearing my station jacket. "I bet it'd fucking thrill the shit out of this guy to know he's sitting next to a real, live, Q101 DJ. He was probably listening to me earlier, he's probably like all the other fucks who call in and think I'd go out with them, or shit like that. What a 'tard."

The song ended, and I could clearly catch the "bullet" (the little sound effect thingy where pre-recorded guys with big ballsy voices tell you how cool the station you're listening to is) between songs.

He wasn't listening to Q101. In fact, he was listening to our major competitor.

I looked back out the window.

For once I wasn't watching my reflection, or even the shadowy buildings and streets whizzing by.

I was blind all the way to Sedgewick.

Adventures in Internet Conversations or How I Wasted My Saturday Night

2004-11-20T18:43:00.000-08:00

After much interspection, foreplanning, and a moment of blind financial terror I decide that it is best that I stay in this weekend. I have to save money for the holidays after all. I have presents to buy for my mother and her husband, and at this point I'm completely clueless. My brother on the other hand is a much easier mark. Atari is releasing a retro console with something like twenty of the old Atari classics preloaded on it. Since my brother's video game skills never progressed past the 2600, I have decided that it will be a welcome change to the usual DVD purchase. The last on the list is my niece. She's only five, so this won't be too hard. Anyway, the thought of all of this, and a glance at my budget has forced me to supress the urge to go to Town Hall tonight. I do, after all, have a new computer to play with.

I start playing Civilization III for the third time about 7:00. I've restarted again, because I was losing. If I can't rule the world, then I don't want to play to the end, goddammit! I eat my grilled fish, steamed green beans, and baked potato while pointing and clicking. Alas, the damn French are so much more advanced than my Greeks, and I haven't even come across any other civilizations yet. I'm not in the mood to lose tonight. I send all of my Greeks into oblivion by exiting without saving. Damn French.

I decide to try something I haven't attempted in a very long time. I'm going to a chat room. That'll pass the time. I'll just talk to some people. I start out in the 20's room. My screen name is quietguy, because I don't always talk. I am not in the room for a minute before a private message pops up.

"hi"

Should I use proper grammar here, does it matter? Just type something dumbass!

"hello."

"full load of fun in my head :) is it fun there?"

What the hell does that mean?

"not yet"

I suck at this.

"i'm so excited :) just agood day 2day. . let chat? :)"

What the hell am I doing?

"ok"

"well. . . 22/f/us here. . you?"

"26/m/chicago"

"yeah. . hmm. . wanna see me on webcam? now? you do not need a cam."

Dammit, this is an ad, isn't it?

"If this is an ad for a cam site, I'm not interested."

Looks like my grammar came back, damn education.

"Lets meet http://grin.dot7.org/members/cintia_ehuer"

I close the message window. Of course the entire time this conversation is occuring more private messages pop up with more links. At least these people don't waste my time pretending that they want to talk. I switch rooms hoping that I can find one with real people in it. But, everytime I hit the same experience. There are a few people actually chatting, but from what they are saying, it sounds like they're a lot younger than I am. Oh well, I tried. I suppose I can attempt to rule the world again.

High Scorer

2004-11-20T01:16:00.000-08:00

"I don't get it," She starts "I mean, I don't know why I'm never even considered."

They're at the tiny Mexican restaurant he likes (veggie burrito for him, 2 taco dinner for her, he'll finish her rice and beans later when she gets full), and she's finally broached one of the reasons she suggested dinner tonight. She needs his opinion. Or maybe just his validation.

"I'm attractive enough, I'm smart, I'm funny. And I'm totally cool. Like, I don't freak out like the other girls, I don't bitch when someone's too busy to see me...I don't act all needy and shit. And yet they never even think about me." She toys a dribble of salsa over some rice. "I feel like I'm the pinch hitter. Like, I'm a really great pinch hitter. I always knock it out of the park. But no one ever picks me to start a game."

"What exactly is it you're looking for?" He asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not saying I need to "play a whole game," but it'd be nice if someone would at least think about me playing a couple of innings. I don't understand why that's so inconceivable. Maybe it's just an ego thing. I don't necessarily want to play the whole game, but I want somebody to want me to."

They focus on their dinner for a while, discussing other things in their lives. Plans to join the Peace Corps or go to Europe, difficulties with her job, the girl from San Francisco that's coming to visit him over Thanksgiving.

As he finishes off her second taco and starts on the rice and beans (she wasn't as hungry as she thought), she returns to the subject.

"Is it me? What am I doing wrong?" She twists a thin paper napkin into a mangled clump.

"Well, it's like this...No one is going to draft you when they think you're gonna quit the team as soon as they make you an offer."

She sits quietly a moment. "That makes sense," she says. They begin collecting the detritus of their meal, loading it back onto the plastic tray to deposit in the bin by the door. They stroll silently into the cold autumn mist, and he walks her to the bus stop.

"Thanks," she says "That was nice." "Yeah, I'll see you on Thursday" (at the Thanksgiving party where she'll meet the girl who's coming to visit him). "Be careful," he says, as he hugs her goodbye.

The bus is nearly empty, and she sits unseeing, thinking about what he said. She feels like there's a decision to be made, but she doesn't know what it is. When the bus halts two stops before the one that would take her home, she gets off. She walks two blocks to the bar where they know her, where she spends most of her nights.

She sits alone at the bar, chatting occasionally with the bartender. Ignoring the guy that ignored her first. During her second gin and tonic, she smiles at a boy ordering a drink. "I like your tattoo," she says, running her finger down his bicep. She leans back and gives him a look that's as much a challenge as enticement. In a few hours she'll lie sleepless, staring at the boy's ceiling and wonder if she's made a decision or not.

Batter up.

Unsolicited Chicken Slogans for Frankel

2004-11-20T00:53:00.000-08:00

"The Chickening"

"Bride of Chicky"

"Dawn of the Drumette"

"The Rocky Horror Chicken Show"

"Army of Darkmeat"

"The Crunch-iestchickenstripseveroryourmoney-Back of Notre Dame"

"The Henhouse on Haunted Hill"

"Plan 9 (piece nugget meal) from Outer Space"

"Chicken of the Corn" alt "Children of the Corn-fed, farm fresh, organically raised Chicken"

"Sometimes They Come Back...For more delicious chicken strips!"

"White Meat on Elm Street"

"Bram Roaster's Dracuchicken"

More to come later, I'm sure. Whether I want to or not.

It was this, pt. II

2004-11-19T13:48:00.000-08:00

It wasn't the time he saw her come across a stray dog on her way home, a little thing rooting through garbage. Even though it was filthy, she allowed it to tackle her and kiss her face. She was protesting, but her body wracked with giggling and squeals. He thought that his heart would burst in that very moment.

It wasn't when, as jaded teenagers, their class went to see "Of Mice and Men" at the University theater. At the end, he could tell she'd been crying. The other students yelled and made fun of it, quoting lines in their best retarded-guy accents, after the curtain fell. But as all the house lights came up, her nose was red, her eyes puffy, as she looked down so no one would notice.

Before every field trip, he would find out where she would be sitting. He would anticipate seeing her outside of the drab gray school walls, seeing her as he imagined she must be in “the real world.” And try as he might to see something cruel or undesirable about her, so he may forget her, she just seemed to grow nicer and more wonderful with each appearance in his life.

He wanted nothing more than to hold her to warm her up. He'd always marveled at how she was the first one to get cold every year.

Shot Down

2004-11-14T00:18:00.000-08:00

I know the drill.
I even have a helmet.
However, for some reason I keep trying,
hoping,
that I will find that one diamond in the barren sand.

Yet again I find myself brooding over what might have been.
What signs did I miss?
Is my judgement just this bad?
Why can't I find what so many have?

The old cliche skips in my head:
"Hope springs eternal."
Yet I find myself at the bottom of the well.

Filling a Void

2004-11-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

No one has posted in awhile. So I'll pipe up and see if we can get this engine started again.

I am working on a chicken strips project here at work. We're coming up with fun and arresting chicken-oriented lines. You know, something unexpected and fun.

I want to use "Something Chicken This Way Comes."

I like it. Maybe not everyone would get it, but hey - we're trying to appeal to a hip and intelligent demographic, or something.

My only concern: we will be cursing the restaurant.

I am torn.

In other news, Wendy's "Unofficial" Spokesman has been canned. I guess the public showed some uncharacteristic taste and responded negatively to the ads, and Wendy's decided to pull the campaign. You won't have Mr. Wendy to kick around anymore after the end of the month.

Some notes:

1) The idea isn't so bad. The first couple commercials were kind of amusing.

2) The guy bobbed his head way too much when he talked. You have about three more weeks to notice this: the guy's like a twinkly-eyed, earnest Bobblehead.

3) The most recent commercials have been kind of excruciating, unfunny in a bizarre non-joke way. Like the one where he's talking to the kid about how he didn't have so many choices in his "kid's meal" growing up? He talks about how he didn't get to choose between fries and mandarin oranges, or between soda, milk, or apple juice. And the kid says something like, "Maybe they didn't trust you to make an informed decision." And Mr. Wendy bobbles his head with humility and says, "Point taken," and turns away, shamed. "Point taken"?? What point? Was this a dis? Mr. Wendy reacts as if he's just been dissed to within an inch of his life. The pieces of the joke-saw puzzle just don't quite fit.

4) You notice how the word "Unofficial" is always in quotes? The caption below his bobbling head says: Mr. Wendy, "Unofficial" Wendy's Spokesman. I can tell you why: the legal department shot back a memo that said, "We can't say he's an unofficial spokesman. He IS official." And the creative team shot back, "But that's the joke." Legal: "We can't imply that this is an honest customer testimonial." Creative: "But... But don't you get it? That's the joke is that he really likes Wendy's food, and he wants to tell people about it even though he's not on the payroll." Legal: "But he IS on the payroll." And so forth, until they finally settled on the quotation marks as a way to make both sides equally unhappy.

Because I really needed that candy corn at 10 in the morning

2004-10-29T08:55:00.000-07:00

Oh let us give thanks for this all Hallow’s eve
The night of the dead, for whom we still grieve

Give thanks to the goblins that roam o’r the streets
Like whom we dress up and say “trick or treat”

Oh thanks for the Twix and Three Musketeers
For Hershey and Snickers, hooray, three cheers!

Give thanks to the dead for scaring up snacks
That we, the living, do put in our sacks.

Whiskey

2004-10-28T21:03:00.000-07:00

Ah yes. Whiskey, whiskey, you consume me.

I think I've heard that before somewhere. But right here, right now, I'll continue to think I made it up. And be satisfied.

Note: Oh. I figured it out. It was Fratricide.

Please, pick me. Again. Please.

2004-10-27T16:28:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I'm going to wear a sign that says, "Please shit on me. If you're a bird."

Reverse psychology, that should do the trick.

Today, a bird shat on me. This was not the first time.

The first time, the shit resembled water, but a little thicker. More like Gatorade water. Active Water, or whatever it's called. With pieces of coconut in it. I've never liked Gatorade water, and for that matter, I've never really liked coconut.

The second time, it resembled a runny scab. In Gatorade Water.

The third time - today, I mean - the shit resembled flan. I've never liked flan. The color is too brown, and the texture is too . . . well . . . shitlike.

I've never liked shitlike.

The following words rhyme with "Don't talk to me like I'm a fucking idiot. How'd you like a nice boot up your ass?"

2004-10-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

Don't talk to me like I'm a fucking idiot. How'd you like a nice boot full of grass?

An excerpt of a story not yet written . . .

2004-10-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

"When I die," Paul said, "find out if I died by crashing into that tree. If I did, you'll know it wasn't an accident."

I took a moment before I passed the bowl to Ian in the backseat to let Paul's words register. I was high as a kite. "That's how you're gonna go?" I asked.

"That's not what I'm saying," Paul answered. "I'm just saying that if that tree's involved, you'll know it wasn't an accident."

Ian finally spoke up. "When I go, I want you guys to have a huge ass party and decorate my hearse with balloons and beer cans and a big ol' sign that says JUST DEAD."

I watched the tree grow smaller and smaller in the side mirror of Paul's car. "I'm not gonna die," I said. "I'm gonna live forever."

"Not me," he responded. "I don't know if I'll make it past thirty."

The following words rhyme with "rhyme."

2004-10-22T23:34:00.000-07:00

Time
Slime
Chime
Dime
Climb
Mime
Sublime
Crime
Grime
Prime
Lime
Florsheim

Bugged

2004-10-21T21:35:00.000-07:00

That fly over there - the one on the ceiling. He has not moved in four days, and I cannot look away. What's his problem?

Perhaps he is not a fly at all, but a camera, strategically placed there by those same sons of bitches that spray those chemtrails in the sky on a daily basis to genetically alter my human structure. They're always on my tail.

He can't be dead, right? If he were, wouldn't he fall? What's he doing? He's on my ceiling.

Is he watching me?

Will I ever sleep again?

Those bastards.

Billy and the Man

2004-10-20T21:17:00.000-07:00

"Stay or go stay or go stay or go," said the little man that lived inside Billy's mouth.

That little jerk would be the death of him. He'd already driven Billy insane. Ever since that last visit, he wouldn't leave. The rest of his family did but not him. Had it not been for his incessant mumbling, Billy might not have minded him so much. He was small enough that he never got in the way too much, and the tap-tap-tapping of his hands on Billy's teeth felt kind of cool in a weird sort of way. He could still close his mouth almost all of the way, and when he ate, the little man always moved out of the way.

But that mumbling. Oh, that mumbling. What was he saying? At first, Billy chose not to listen, but then he simply could not help himself. And then he realized that by not acknowledging that the little man was, in fact, talking to himself on a regular basis, or perhaps talking to Billy, Billy confused the little man's mumblings with his own personal thoughts, and he forgot to do simple, everyday things like brushing his teeth or putting on pants before he went to school. The only way for Billy to keep his sanity, he decided, was to listen intently to every word the little man said. The problem was that he only caught about twenty percent of them, and trying to figure out what they meant only made his situation worse.

Like today, for example. If only Billy could understand. Was the little man thinking of going home? Was his family planning another visit to Billy's backyard, and if so, when? Should Billy pull another all-nighter just in case? What did the little man mean? Should he stay or should he go where? If only he wouldn't scream and kick every time Billy spoke, Billy might be able to get some answers. All he could do, as much as he hated to admit it, was hope and listen. And listen some more. And try to keep his sanity.

To carry on his daily routine, Billy constantly reminded himself that his situation was only temporary. He was happy to house the little man - he really was - but he did, in all honesty, want his mouth back. He dared not complain. After all the little man's family had given Billy through the years, he figured this was the least he could do to return the favor. But still, he hoped his life would return to normal. And he hoped and prayed that the little man's mumblings these past thirty-six hours meant that it would very soon.

Billy knew in his heart of hearts that he and the little man would remain friends for life. They would stay in touch. What he did not know was that the little man planned to bring his mouth with him when he left. He would find that out soon, however. It would all become clear.

Settling the Score

2004-10-19T19:49:00.000-07:00

This one room studio apartment
I call my head
Has grown so cluttered
I cannot see the floor,
And something has got to give.
Inside my thoughts
I scramble to find the switch,
Tripping over my laundry
And swearing under my breath
As my keys take flight
And I bump my head on this piece of shit doorknob.
Today I am blind,
And this coffee stain on my brand new shirt from Value City
Will go completely unnoticed.
Or so it will seem.
Thoughts - 1,
Me - nothing.

Ice Cream Man

2004-10-18T19:42:00.000-07:00

Every so often
the crack in my brain
flares up
and I find myself
on top of a building,
machine gun in hand,
the ice cream truck song
repeating itself
over and over
inside my head.
Damn that song.
I'm sick of hearing it.

I Alone

2004-10-13T14:59:00.000-07:00

For I shall carry the burden alone
For I shall carry alone

If she be true alone to you
I’ll carry a heart of stone.

It was this, pt. I

2004-10-12T08:40:00.000-07:00

It wasn't the way his chest would feel like it would melt into his stomach everytime he would see her form approaching in the distance, down the block from the bus stop.

It wasn't that if he were sitting anywhere near her, he'd swear he could smell the scent of her shampoo. It would drive him crazy and he'd want to curl up in it to go back to sleep.

It wasn't that once, when she didn't think anyone was around, he saw her place half of her lunch next to a homeless woman sleeping in the low window cutout of a downtown skyscraper. The woman was asleep, salt staining her cheeks, huddled with a toddler. The class was downtown for a field trip to the museum, all of them looking at the buildings and taking pictures with their disposable cameras. When the girl realized that bundle was a child, she left her entire lunch there. While everyone else ate at the picnic tables, she said she'd forgotten her lunch at home.

Mother's Day

2004-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

I’m not so sure about this, she said to the cat.
Sure? Why would you not be sure? Why, it’s as sure as sure as sure as surely can be.

It’s awfully high, she said.
Why, it is not so awfully high, from here to the ground, from here to the sky.

But what if I get hurt, she said.
Hurt? It won’t hurt, the dirt is as soft as a cloud, little bird.

But death is so near, she said.
I am filled with fear that I will fail fail and fall.

Look, said the cat with a disinterested yawn
If you’re going to be a pussy about it, I’m going inside.

Goodbye, she said, as the cat leapt off the branch
And disappeared deep into the dark dark dark shadows of the house.

My Geography

2004-10-09T16:58:00.000-07:00

I like being naked

The tiny mesa of my belly swoops swiftly down, then up
like a swallow
To a jutting hipbone, hovers a moment
Before gliding down the narrow juncture of my thigh
Heavy handful of breast, sharp-dusk-nipple
hard against my palm
If I stand just straight enough, I love my lower back
Violin curving into the swell of my hips and buttocks

A hundred dark freckles map my skin
"mole" is an ugly word...Say freckles
Scattered constellations and connect-the-dot puzzles
A trio teeters in a precarious triangle on my collarbone
Two against the underside of my arm where the skin is soft
My favorite hides an inch below my left breast
If I push hard against it I can feel the springy vibrations of my ribcage
Cartilage straining fragile
And I'm reminded of the boy I loved whose chest was a valley
birdlike birdcage delicate
I'd lay my head between the hills of his breastbone and think
even though he's so much bigger than me
If I reach out just one hand
I could crush him

My peaks and slopes
Flesh alternating salt and silk
The dips and nooks and hidden surprises of my body
I like being naked

Warm Fall Evening

2004-10-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

The key fit in the lock like it was supposed to, like a key made to fit that lock. Which it was. He turned the knob, and entered his little sanctuary on the upper east side. For some reason he felt comfortable up here, high above the city. Like no-one could get him on the 25th floor. Who would bother? The elevator was broken, and the Mongol sherpa was taking the week off. He walked in and kicked off his shoes. Home. One of the reasons he took this place was the view. Walking to the window, he threw back the drapes and almost fell out onto 68th street. Someone felt it amusing to remove his window. No, wait, just the top half. The bottom half of his window was still there, like a three year old standing directly in front of him. Stuck to the outside of the window was Garfield, suckered on with suction cups. There was a note pinned to him. It read: TURN OFF YOUR FUCKING TV, ASSHOLE! NOONE CAN WATCH TV 24 HOURS A DAY!

Calmly, I removed the cat from the outside of my windo, took a pen out of my pocket, took the cap off, and wrote NOONE IS NOT A WORD underneath the note. Sticking the Garfield to my side of the window, facing out, I moved my tv 2 feet closer to the window, turned on the radio, and went to bed.

Co-Written poetry. Let's call it Co-etry.

2004-10-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

Dada poetree
by Noah Ginex and Bob Wilson

What does he know, Seasar?

8:10 PM

he knows more than he lets on.

Dormant. He rises when he is needed.

8:15 PM

Dormat. It rises when key is needed.

8:20 PM

Hairnet. Is key for Iris and Enid

8:25 PM

Harness whiskey for hire and eat it.

8:30 PM

Harass Trixie is dire sobe it

Her ass tricks Cletus' Dire-o-meter

8:40 PM

Herbal sticks deplete Dementors

8:45 PM

Her ball sticks, despite demon horns

8:50 PM

"Hair balls! Ick! " Desperate Doorman moans

Doorman. He rinses when he is needed.

9:00 PM

A Poor man senses whence the need is

9:05 PM

A Floridan tenses whence the wind is.

9:10 PM

Olf Oridan winches tents into the wind

Olf! horrid sandwiches! Ten tsintoth ewand!

Oh, florid Sand Witches? Ten cent Tooth Wands!

9:20 PM
"Oh,Flo?" "Rids AND wit." "Chester sent you." THWAND
Winter has fallen upon 1924 and food has come to New England. The mission must depart for points Living Room.

Shall we pick up where we leave off?

Now it's Cubas turn

The Luxury of Syrup

2004-10-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

Guy in a restaurant at a table, about to eat pancakes. Waitress approaches.

Waitress: Hey, how about some syrup on those pancakes?

Guy: Yeah, it’d be nice to have the luxury of syrup.

Waitress: I’m sorry?

Guy: I said it’d be nice to have a little extra to splurge on syrup.

Waitress: Oh, it doesn’t cost anything.

Guy: Lady, everything costs something.

Waitress: Not syrup for your pancakes.

Guy: I'm sorry. I don't mean to be offensive.

Waitress: I’ll go get you some if you like.

Guy: Sure, then the next thing you know you’ll be asking me if I want some coffee to go along with everything, and then before you know it I’ve got a smorgasbord on my table, and I’m washing dishes in the kitchen while you’re taking a break.

Waitress: O.k. But, actually, we have a dishwasher who would wash the dishes.

Guy: I’m not asking for a job. Did you think I was asking for a job? I wasn't asking for a job.

Waitress: Is there anything else I can get you?

Guy: You’re not going to ask me if I’d like powdered sugar?

Waitress: Would you like some?

Guy: It’s extra, right? No thanks. I’ll be fine without it.

Waitress: It’s not extra. It would be no problem for me to get you some.

Guy: No. You know what? Thinking about it, I’d probably get some on my shirt, or my sleeve, or worse yet, I’d get some on my hand, and then when I go back to work and get on the elevator, I’ll get some on one of the buttons, and then the next thing you know we’re evacuating the building because there’s white powder in the elevator and fire trucks are outside while I’m freezing my ass off on the street. I think I can go without powdered sugar on my pancakes. Save us all a lot of trouble.

Waitress: I don't follow.

Guy: Neither do I.

Waitress: Will there be anything else then?

Guy: Maybe a cup of coffee. Black. And I guess, yeah. Bring out the syrup, too.

Postcard to the Powers that Be

2004-10-05T14:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Sirs:

I HATE YOU YOU DICK YOUR A DICK!

(Note: The above was scrawled in a brownish substance, first believed to be blood. It was later determined to be pudding)

Throwing in the Towel

2004-10-02T02:07:00.000-07:00

"May blessings fill our home" "Make a joyful noise!"

Jeff was waiting for his microwave popcorn to finish popping. He pulled a couple of extra paper towels off the roll - he hated that feeling of greasy salt against his hands when he reached into the bag - while he patiently awaited the digital countdown.

"Friendship is our most precious gift, to Bestow and Receive"

He'd never paid any attention to the paper towels before. He assumed the receptionist ("Office Assistant," gotta remember to call them "Office Assistants." And NEVER "secretaries.") re-stocked them in the kitchen as needed. This week she'd supplied towels with inspirational sayings swirling across them in pastel ribbons.

"Feast from the banquet of Life!"

Jeff was eating microwave popcorn because, while at 80 cents it was the most expensive item in the vending machine, it was also the most filling. If he had a bag now, and another before heading home at 5:30, he'd be good for the night. He'd done this every day for the past two weeks.

"Rejoice in the Love surrounding You!"

He still hadn't figured out how to cook since Deb left. She always eschewed pre-packaged dinners and frozen pizzas. Jeff had no idea what to do with a kitchen full of porcini mushrooms and risotto. He wasn't even sure what risotto was, exactly. Sometimes he wondered if he'd known what risotto was (or did?), maybe she wouldn't have been so frustrated all the time...He knew she wasn't happy, but...Still. He'd tried.

Hadn't he?

"Life is an abundant Symphony!" "May our Hearts be always Full"

Lost in the fluttering sentiments of the Office Assistant's choice in paper products, Jeff didn't hear the microwave herald its triumphant "ding." His head jerked up as the scent of charred kernels reached his nostrils. He just stood there for a moment, swallowing hard.

Without looking, Jeff crumpled the wad of paper towels into the waiting trash can. Some previously lunching co-worker had left a pile of flimsy deli napkins on the table.

They would do.

Partisan haikus

2004-09-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

I look in his eyes
I cannot see my future
Just blind ambition

Could we be so dumb
To reelect him, give him
More lives to play with?

the television
tells us that he's ahead now
and I nearly choke

I look in his eyes
I begin to lose hope now
Surely he'll lose, right?

Please look in his eyes
Can you believe that he cares
For any of us?

Can't look anymore
without seeing how stupid
he looks to the world

(and remember folks
if we bring him back, the world
will see him as us)

fool us once, shame, shame
only a fool would ask him
to shame us again

Tomorrow

2004-09-28T09:25:00.000-07:00

She's been gone for 5 years already. Tomorrow is a big day. I hope I remember she'll be there, somehow.

Coffee Shop

2004-09-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

I watch her from my post behind the counter. She holds her book upright on the table with one hand and idly reaches for her coffee cup with the other. The cup has no idea how lucky it is.

Oops!

2004-09-24T09:36:00.000-07:00

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Your girlfriend's husband."

The Break-Up

2004-09-24T01:11:00.000-07:00

"I appreciate that I'm not the type of girl you would think to bring flowers to. And I understand that roses are boring, and tulips pedantic."

"But CARNATIONS???"

3 Sentence Story Contest!

2004-09-24T00:33:00.000-07:00

This week is 3 sentence story week at Peep Fiction!

No prizes will be awarded. No winners will be announced.

Second Letter to the Powers That Be

2004-09-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

Dear Sirs,

I see that you received my previous correspondence. And I appreciate the promptness of your reply.

It was quite the delightful first date...A perfect day at the zoo, followed by buffalo wings and conversation at a quaint neighborhood pub. The specimen you sent me was satisfactory in every way. Excellent condition - physically, mentally, and (seemingly) emotionally. There were no awkward pauses during the scintillating discussions of independent film, music, career ambition and travel. And I must say you really did your research this time! It couldn't have been easy to find another left-handed 27 year old who's previously worked as both a zoo keeper and a party promoter, who just moved out of the same city my brother currently lives in, and who can pick up things with his feet (just like me!). We certainly had a lot in common to talk about. Start to finish, I had a wonderful time with the subject you provided.

So what's the catch?

Huh? What's wrong with him? Is he still carrying a torch for a lost love (who may or may not show up at any moment)? He's a writer, was he researching some story about awful blind dates? Was this actually even a date? Maybe he just thought it was two people hanging out. Did you send me another gay one? Did you, you bastards? Is he gonna take that job he was talking about in Washington...It starts in a MONTH, you know...A fucking month!

Or...Cruelest of all...Are you letting me get all excited about a single perfect day at the zoo (with buffalo wings to follow), just to find out that this guy isn't into me at all?

Is he?

Jesus christ, you guys suck.

This isn't over, fuckers.
K-

Old Bill

2004-09-22T20:45:00.000-07:00

Like a flake of snow in summer
Or a patch of green in winter,
Old Bill was a stranger in a strange land
Who would vanish without a trace
In a five minute ray of sunshine -
A bastard cousin
At a family reunion
With a language all his own
That he expected the world to understand.
An unsightly mole
In an unspeakable spot that
When picked
Would leave a scar.
Old Bill was a speck of dirt
On a cracked windshield
That would disappear with tomorrow's rain.

the girl with the dress

2004-09-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

I am the girl with the dress,
a princess in a faded gown from 1962,
lacy and stale pink,
which portrays my prim and proper attitude
on the outside and covers
my pale, naked instincts.
My dress is cut in a unique fashion,
tight in the bodice, loose in other places,
and the hem line is like a good essay:
long enough to cover the subject,
but short enough to be interesting.
How feminine I feel in my apparrell,
so helpless and seductive,
as if the zipper and buttons
would attract wandering hands
that want to touch my pink skin,
tough, dirty hands that always seem
to tear open the seams
and leave the mark of past lovers
on my heart.

If You Do That One More Time I Shall Take Away That Hammer and Hit You in the Throat With It I'm Not Using Hyperbole Here That's Exactly What I'll Do

2004-09-20T17:13:00.000-07:00

I'm.

Not.

Kidding.

My autobiography

2004-09-19T21:14:00.000-07:00

I'm writing an autobiography. But I forgot I was writing it. Until I saw my notes. I don't think I'll let you read it. But maybe I'll let you read my screenplay.

People (Revisited)

2004-09-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

Hooray for people.
Today.
Especially Fred and Sarah.
And others.
Hooray for those people.
But fuck other people.
Some of them.
Mostly.
But hooray for today.
And for people.
Mostly.

People

2004-09-17T15:34:00.000-07:00

Fuck people.
People are bad.
Except some people.
Those people are good.
I like those people.
But mostly,
Fuck people.
Mostly.

The Search Is Over

2004-09-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

All of a sudden, there it was. The one for which I had searched the world, roamed the earth. All these years, the toil and trial, the night after endless night in sweat-soaked desperation. The pain, the sorrow, the road after road, the traveling. The traveling. All this time, and there it was, out of nowhere. Or had it been there the whole time? Or did it appear because I found it? Whatever the case, there it was, and it was clearly, unmistakably, most definitely the one. The one to end all others. The one to make all right. All better. There it was.

Oh, The patheticness of me!

2004-09-16T10:47:00.000-07:00

Would 'twer that I was someone else but me.

Or, barring that,

Would 'twer that I were me, only with cooler pants.

911

2004-09-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

Help! Help!
There's something small and round under my posterior!
I think it's going to hurt me!
You've got
to SeNd someone!
No, wait. It's just a peanut.
Whew! Removed.
And Tasty!

Spare Change

2004-09-16T09:06:00.000-07:00

Spotlight on bum sitting alone on an empty stage, center.

Bum: Excuse me, sir, can you spare a little change?

Spotlight down, up on someone else in a different area of the stage.

Someone else: Hey man, you got twenty cents? Fifteen.

Spotlight down, up on man in suit in a different area of the stage.

Man in suit: Excuse me, uh, this is embarrassing. I, uh, left my wallet back at the office, and I really, really need to catch this bus. Do you by any chance have a dollar?

Spotlight down, up on a guy in audience.

Guy in audience: Hey man, why don’t you get a fucking job.

Man in suit (as light goes up on him as well): I’ve got a job.

Someone else (as light goes up on him): Jobs are for suckers.

Bum (as light goes up on him): Nobody gonna hire a drunken old bum like me.

Guy in audience: I’m probably just as poor as you are, you just can’t tell because I clean myself up. Look at you, man, no wonder you can’t get a job.

Bum: No I can’t get a job because I’m a paranoid schizophrenic with post traumatic war syndrome, and on top of that, I’m a narcoleptic.

Guy in audience: Really.

Bum: That means I fall asleep out of nowhere, and I have no idea how I got wherever the fuck I am. Plus, I’m what some might call a "practicing alcoholic."

Guy in audience: Richard Pryor.

Someone else: What the fuck did you just say, mother fucker?

Guy in audience: That was Richard Pryor. Never mind.

Man in suit: Whatever. Anyway . . . back to this job thing . . .

Guy in audience: Yeah, well –

Bum: And you are not as poor as me, you little fuck, you’re not even close.

Guy in audience: Bullshit! I don’t have a cent to my name, man. I eat peanut butter and jelly for dinner. I don’t even have a place to live. I don’t even have a job!

Someone else: Why don’t you get a job, punk?

Guy in audience: I’m tryin!

Bum: You got family? You got any kind of family whatsoever? You got friends? You know people? You got any kind of possessions whatsoever?

Guy in audience: Yeah.

Bum: Then fuck off, prick. I’m an old man, but I ain’t got shit to lose.

Man in suit: You’re an old man, and you’re calling him sir.

Someone else: Yeah, you know?

Guy in audience: Look man, I’m sorry. Really. Listen, I really don’t have any money, but here, you can have the rest of my smokes. Walks down, gives smokes to bum.

Bum: God bless you.

Guy: Wait, lemme have one first. Takes smoke from bum, lights it. Sits next to him. So, what’s it like not having a roof over your head?

Bum: I thought you knew.

Guy: I'm staying with my friend.

Bum: Asshole.

Guy: So what's it like?

Man in suit (walking over): Man, it’s crazy, let me tell you.

Someone else (walks over): Hey, lemme get one of those smokes.

Bum: FUCK YOU!!

Guy (to Man in suit): Wait, I thought you –

Someone else: Yeah, I thought you –

Man in suit (to Someone Else): And what about you, mister attitude?

Bum (to Someone Else): Yeah, what about you?

Guy (stands): Hey, hey, hey – (to Someone else) tell you what man – take this shirt and tie. Takes off shirt and tie and gives them to Someone else – has an undershirt on underneath. And then you’ll be one step ahead of the game.

Someone else: Lemme get that belt too.

Guy: No, I’m going to keep my belt if that’s all right.

Someone else (steps back, pulls finger out like a gun, points it at him): No, it’s not all right, it’s not all right!

Guy, Bum, Man in suit all hit the deck in different directions.

Someone else: All right, fine! Drops "gun."

Everyone sits up.

Bum: Listen, I’ll get you a job.

Someone else (sits down): Yeah?

Guy: Yeah, and I’ll give you my belt if it’s that big of a deal. Gives him belt.

Man in suit: Well, gotta get to the hospital. Wife’s havin’ a baby.

Everyone: All right, congratulations.

Man in suit: ‘Less one of you would rather . . .

Guy: Nah, you better take this one yourself.

Man in suit: Yeah, I guess you’re right. See you tomorrow guys. Goes back to where he was, freezes as lights go off on him.

Someone else: I’m gonna go sell this shit. Goes back to where he was, lights go off on him as he freezes.

Guy (to Bum): And what’s on your agenda?

Bum: Who are you? Where am I? What do you want?

Guy (puts arm around bum): Yeah, I hear that brother. I hear that.

Blackout.

old man

2004-09-13T19:48:00.000-07:00

old man
hiding behind a beard
and a cloud of smoke
needs nourishment
and an ear
a listening ear
to live
love
face the world
with the face
he can't remember

Temporary Satan

2004-09-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

Look.

I saw it.

So you can cut it right out.

You don’t work as Assistant to the Executive Assistant for 15 years because you’re stupid, you know.

I saw you roll your eyes after that old lady turned the corner in front of you in the hallway.

I was by the fax machine, you didn’t notice me.

And I saw the incident with the pregnant lady trying to catch the elevator.

The lady that apparently didn’t move fast enough for you?

You thought I was listening to Marjorie talk about her Women’s Day recipe. But I saw you press the “close doors” button before that poor woman got close enough.

You tried to hide the move behind your file folder, but I saw it anyway. And the button was lit up afterwards.

Sloppy, Jaime. Verrrrry sloppy.

That’s why I moved to the front and shoved my purse in the door, shouting to the pregnant woman, “Take your time!”

And no one else saw the evil look you shot me then. I nearly missed it, even though I expected it. You’re so good at pretending to be Northeastern Frame Mender, LLC’s newest sweetheart. You smiled your lovely "angelic" smile, and even made small talk on the ride down with the mother-to-be. Fluff, like girl vs. boy, how you hope one day to have kids with your boyfriend (you know, the one you won't shut up about?)...

But don’t pull that nice shit with me, Missy.

I don’t care how many times Mr. Colby says you’re “the nicest temp we’ve ever had.”

And I could really give a hoot that you’re vegan.

You can fool the whole accounting department as far as I’m concerned.

But I’ve got your number.

Don’t forget that.

- Barb
Office #1504

P.S. Remember the last piece of birthday cake, the one that "disappeared?" The one you’d asked Roberta and I to save for you?

The taste of that piece of cake nearly changed my religion.

Waiting For A Train

2004-09-12T17:09:00.000-07:00

Person A waits for a train. Person B stands a short distance away.

A: Wow, aren’t you, uh . . . .

B: Y-yeah.

A: Hi.

B: Hi.

Pause.

A: Come here often?

B: L-look I’m kind of in a rush.

A: Yeah, aren’t we all.

Pause.

A: You know, just because you’re, whatever, it doesn’t mean –

B: You know, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve had a rough day.

A: Sorry.

B: Sorry.

A: Sorry.

B: Sorry.

A: All right, so, I hope it goes better.

B: Do you ever just want to strangle somebody?

A: ______?

B: Do you ever jus want to, you know, take a dull saw and hack away at someone’s neck, watching every inch of their life pass before your eyes?

A: Well, I –

B: I mean, who do they think they are? I mean, I’m a person too, right? I’M A PERSON TOO, RIGHT!! I’m not just some, whatever, you know? I mean, what makes me any different than you?

A: Nothing.

B: I mean, I’m not better than you.

A: I know.

B (moving uncomfortably close): So what’s your problem, huh? I mean, not yours per se, but – yeah, you know?

A (moving away): Uh, yeah, yeah – nice talking to you.

B: Hi, I’m –

A: Yeah. I know.

B: Sorry. . . . and you are?

A: L-look, I’m – kind of in a rush.

B: Well, Kind-of-in-a-rush, I fear it’s happening again.

A: What’s that?

B: What, are you better than me, is that it?

A: Yeah, I think maybe I am.

B: Thank you! Someone who’ll finally admit it!

A: Hey, I don’t know what your deal is, pal, but just take it easy, all right?

B: Sorry.

A: Yeah, you -

B: Sorry.

A: Said that. Now you get on this next train, and I’ll get on the one after that. I don’t care who the fuck you are, you say one more word and I’m beating the living shit out of you.

B lets out a shriek and grabs A by the throat with both hands. A is unaffected, pulls B’s hands off and drops them.

A: I’m gonna sue you for everything you’ve got, ass hole!

B: Go ahead, I lost it all!!

B turns away, plops on the ground with his head between his knees and bawls. A watches in disbelief.

A: Aw, man, take it easy. Moves closer. Listen, I’m not . . . . (Puts hand on B’s shoulder) I’m not gonna sue you, o.k.? I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I'm sorry. You’ve obviously had a rough day, but tomorrow’s another day, right?

B: Forget this, man. It’s over.

A: Oh, don’t say that, buddy.

B: You don’t understand. (Gets up and turns to A) I lost it all! I lost it all! Everything! I’m nothing! I’m nobody! I don’t have a cent to my fucking name! I might as well be a fucking busboy!

A: Well, you know, actually, I own a restaurant.

B: You offering me a job?

A: I don’t know. Yeah. You want one?

B: Well ain't that just a kick in the ass. What else am I gonna do? Sure, why not.

A: All right.

B: All right.

Pause.

B: I’m somebody.

A: What was your name again?

Blackout.

Cocktails for the New Millennium

2004-09-11T01:48:00.000-07:00

Note: The Management has been advised to include a disclaimer about the risks of drinking any alcoholic beverages (much less these ones). We're supposed to inform you that alcohol may cause liver disease, impair your ability to operate motor vehicles, and lead to birth defects. But frankly, we don't care about your health, you're already a bad driver, and we're pretty sure your children would be ugly. In all honesty, we loathe you. So please enjoy:

Cocktails for the New Millennium: The Next Millennium, not this one.

The Mali-Booyah!
* One jigger coconut rum
* One bottle NyQuil

Serve chilled if you have a temperature, warm for a cold. Either way, it's the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so-you-will-never-wake-up-again-and-realize-you're-gonna-die-alone medicine.

Planter's Punch
*2 jiggers Jamaica rum
*1 jigger lime juice
*1/2 jigger simple syrup
*One slave of the Negro persuasion

Why don't you have your slave mix you up a nice punch while you sit on the verandah, you cold-blooded bastard? My God! How do you sleep at night? You sicken me.

The Morning Perk
* One pot black coffee
* One handful Percocet

When you're trying really hard to wake up, only to find you have no reason to.

Slow, Slutty, Double Entendre
* One Sorority Pledge
* 6 pitchers of some sickenly sweet, pink alcoholic mixture (no less than 80 proof)
* One tiny paper parasol

Feed the pledge the pink stuff. Have sex with her.

What? The little umbrella? Just throw that away, dude. Those things are totally gay.

The Vic-ano
* One Liter Vodka
* 12oz Tabasco
* One refillable prescription for Vicodin

Drink the Vodka. Take a lot of Vicodin. Try to talk one of your friends into drinking the Tabasco. Tell him he's a fag if he doesn't. If he asks why you aren't drinking it then, if you're such a non-fag, tell him it's 'cause you're already too spicy, and his mom knows that's the truth, hell yeah, muthafucka, you know what I'm talkin' about. Aww, snap.

The Flaming Homo
* One pint Homogenized Milk
* One match

Light the milk on fire.

What do you mean, "How?" I don't know...fuckin' lighter fluid or something. Do I have to do everything around here? Jesus Christ, you're useless. Just useless.

Bloody Virgin Mary
* Ruphynol
* One 12 year old Catholic School girl

No, you didn't just read that. Move on.

Gin Rummy
* One bottle Gin
* One bottle Rum
* One deck Regulation Playing Cards

Get drunk. Play cards. Like you were gonna do anything useful today.

Why she hated Hallmark

2004-09-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

Her friend wrote her an email. Her well-spoken, very wise friend, whose words always held more import than most she heard all day.

"what's new in the Glorious
Liberation and Glorification of the Urban Chick
Agianst the Vile Lorenzo Opressor?"

She looked at the words, "Vile Lorenzo Opressor" and was a bit shocked to see her ex's name used in that light. She hadn't gotten used to it yet.

What to write back. Eventually, she typed:

"That spells GLAGOU-CA-VLO. Which you need to take with food."

Glib would have to do for now. Not ready for even the most eloquent advice.

Said Opressor had sent an email that morning with the subject line "Please talk to me...." She couldn't stand people who didn't know how many dots to use in an ellipse. It was bad enough he was begging, but he knew better than four dots, he was a voracious reader.

The rest of his email went like this:

If you could somehow find it in your heart to please talk to me, I would really love it. I feel like someone who was trying to cut a piece of wood, spazzed out and
cut off his arm. I'm feeling crazy right now and I need you. Please.

Crap, she thought. Whatever satisfaction felt at his begging was tempered by apprehension. Now she had to ignore this. He'd reunited her, four days ago, with the twisting, double-edged release of sobbing - actual sobbing. She hadn't felt it for 3 years.

He is evil, she thought, and I can't possibly be with someone who could say the things he said to me. But she knew she didn't have it in her to ignore helplessness. Intentionally neglecting someone seemed to cost too much in the short run, even when it was justified. She seemed to dole out forgiveness like penny candy, so inexpensive, too easy to give. Lorenzo cried, he clung, and could make her feel he was the most wretched, little lonely-hearted being ever unfortunate enough to be born.

Be strong, turn over a new leaf, she thought.

The worst part? It was almost Easter.

It was irrational, and she never dared to tell anyone. But even as she worked to move on, without emotion, she would be thwarted as every window depicted a fuzzy, cute, cartoon version of Lorenzo's pet name. An absurd little symbol with a cruel glee to it, seemingly.

One with a basket, in a vest. "I'm the sort of thing that would prompt a hand squeeze before! Don't you miss that?"

One pink one, skipping. "Don't you miss breaking down and getting gushy, playfully girly? Just like those happy, silly Trixies in blissfully oblivious couplehood. You despised it, then you perpetuated it." Hop, hop, hop.

One holding an egg of ostrich proportions. "Don't you want the bunny back?"

She'd look away and then turn a corner to see another decoration, on a two-flat's front door.

The bunny was teal, frighteningly giddy, like the rest. "All it takes is one word. Just open your door a little"

A few more steps, and another pink one. "Just a crack, and let me back into your life."

Of course, none of the bunnies in the windows were urban hipsters who didn't shower enough, wore nothing but thrift-store clothes, grumbled about what crap television was, and how hateful Wicker Park had become since Mtv raped it. She would always call Lorenzo "bunny" because it never really fit. He hid the fuzzy part except for glimpses here and there. Seeing it was like finding a ten-spot in your old jeans. But she'd see it, point it out and disarm him with praise. He didn't know that most of the time, she pictured crude rabbit ears sprouting from his prematurely-balding head. A cynically stone-faced, horn-rimmed-spectacled, ironic, indie guy with rabbit ears, drawn on, like an afterthought. The image always made her laugh.

Now sour reminders everywhere, bunnies around every corner, in ridiculous spots like dry cleaner windows and convenience stores run by Iranians. Sheesh. She would have preferred to see the crucifixion everywhere. She felt punished for her sins with ubiquitous bunnies.

Like when the guy from Dublin dumped her (in a manner even more cruel than Lorenzo), soon after Valentine's Day. She'd dodged the heart appliques everywhere (except for a few, neglected store windows), and was relieved. But then a month of St. Patrick's clovers made up for the torture completely. She locked herself away from the parade and willed the calendar forward.

She decided to ask her eloquent friend about Easter plans. A meal with happy newlyweds could be torture, but maybe food and good conversation would help. She knew they had no use for bunny decorations at their place.

Somehow, commercialized holidays always got the last laugh.

Emergency

2004-09-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

I need six pounds of butter, stat.
My cholesterol is dropping.
That should do the trick.

A New Light

2004-09-08T19:02:00.000-07:00

Every thirteen years the cicadas come out of the ground. Then they shed their shell, climb into the trees and sing. That sound you hear - that's them. That chirping - that's them. Pretty crazy, huh? I saw it all, the whole thing. I couldn't figure it out at first, and then I realized. He'd climbed up onto a gutter, and I'd bet my life that he'd been there for hours, and he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon - as long as no one interfered. And why would they? This little guy would sing them to sleep, even in the middle of the day. He hadn't seen light in thirteen years - at least. I'd want to sing too.

A Letter to the Powers That Be

2004-09-07T23:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Sirs,

I am hereby requesting an upgrade of my relationship status from "Placeholder" to "Standard." While recognizing that my previous experience with Standard Relationships has been sketchy at best, I feel confident that my tenure as a professional Placeholder has given me the valuable skills to move on.

I have successfully consoled the recently dumped, provided physical release to the indecisive, and prepared many an individual for a lifetime of love with other people. Case study 1: The last subject I "dated" (two years ago, I might add) was Mr. B. Anderson, who reconciled with his ex-wife only 6 weeks after our relationship began. He was happily returned to his former spouse and golden retriever in pristine condition.

Case Study 2: Mr. E. Legzdins, who fell in love with a girl he met in a bookstore just days after sexual contact with me. Naturally this is reminiscent of Mr. J. Leonard, who found his soul-mate exactly 24 hours after I gave him the first multiple orgasm of his life.

I have included affidavits from the 6 individuals who slept with me before discovering that they no longer wished to sleep with my gender. Likewise included is the synopsis of the 5 month period where I provided solace (both emotional and sexual) to Mr. R. Johnson during the traumatic dissolution of his previous relationship. I would like to point out that I was exceptionally understanding of his "need to be alone right now" up to and including the point where he found someone he really wanted to date.

As a Placeholder, I have proven my ability to open hearts and seminal passages for other people. A Standard Relationship upgrade is, I believe, not only well deserved, but long overdue.

Sincerely,
Karla M. Pacheco

P.S. I understand that if you are unable to fulfill my request at this time, you may be able to supply a Friend With Benefits. The BF4-E requisition form is attached.

Oba

2004-09-07T23:02:00.000-07:00

man on the street
writes poems
rambles
smiles

stands on the corner
with stack of paper
shakes hands
smiles

shares vision for the price
of a pack of gum
and a smile

stands on the corner
and smiles

Ice Cream (inspired by a true event)

2004-09-07T09:13:00.000-07:00

Ring ring ring!

Hey, ice cream! Ice cream! Heeeeeyyyyyy! Hey gorgeous!

Is he yelling at me?

Ring ring ring!

Oooh baby! I got some sugar for you right here!

He can’t be talking to me, can he?

Ring ring ring!

Baby, you’re making me melt!

Ok, there’s no one else around, so I think he’s talking to me.

Ring ring ring!

Get your sweet ice cream right here, honey!

Yeah, he’s talking to me all right. Shit. Like, I know I’m cute, but seriously. It’s 7:30pm and really dark, I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt and only a little bit of make-up because you never know when you might randomly run into a hot guy or your mortal enemy or that girl from high school who was a bitch to you, at the video store. But seriously! I mean, come on!

Ring ring ring!

Oooh honey! I got something sweet you can lick, baby. Come over,
sugar!

Dude. I just got cat-called by the Ice Cream Man. This is kinda sad.

Gas gnomes

2004-09-07T06:25:00.000-07:00

I miss the gas gnomes. It’s fairly unlikely that they miss me.

The gas gnomes are international, like the gypsies. At night they spill out their fuel-filled guts. Gasoline does not come from decayed dinosaur bones but from the living stomachs of restless world travelers. Sometimes, in places where there is little population and few gas stations, the gas gnomes are forced to spew into deep, deep, holes in the ground. That’s where the myth of oil wells comes from.

The government doesn’t want us to know about the gnomes. Gerald Ford outlawed the gremlin because the car’s name was too suggestive of the truth.

I know all this because I dated a gas gnome. His name was Tony. For his day job, he worked in payroll at a tire factory. I should point out that gas gnomes, unlike most gnomes, are of ordinary size and look like anyone else. They are able to blend into the normal population.

Tony was a decent boyfriend but he refused to acknowledge anniversaries or birthdays since gnomes don’t believe in time. In a gnome’s mind everything is happening right now.

Tony shaved with a straight razor and wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt almost everyday.

Tony would fly off the handle about little things strangers did.

Line cutting was a capital offense to him.

Inefficiency, a felony.

He got in a bar fight once over the proper way to pour a Guinness.

He was about 6 feet tall and had curly hair. We met at a Laundromat.

I like to hang out in Laundromats. I like the way they smell. I like being the only person in a room who wants to be there. I like watching the laundry go around. I didn’t have laundry to do, I was just hanging out.

Tony saw that another guy wasn’t sorting his clothes. Tony said, “You aren’t sorting your clothes by color.”

The other guy said “No shit”.

Tony said that any moron knows you have to sort your clothes.

The other guy suggested that Tony try and come over there and show him how to sort clothes.

Tony said “Alright.”

Gas gnomes don’t understand sarcasm.

Tony approached the other guy with the honest intention of giving him laundry lessons. The other guy pushed Tony. Tony pushed him back.

I yelled “Whoop!”

I yelled whoop over and over again. I’ve always thought there should be an occasion where it was fitting to whoop and having been presented with an extraordinarily new type of event I wanted to attach the whooping tradition to it. I wanted it to become just a matter of course that any time there is a fight in a Laundromat someone should be yelling whoop. True immortality comes with creating traditions.

Tony and the non-sorter were distracted from their fight by my behavior and sadly stopped before they really began and I was unable to get any really good whoops in.

They proceeded to launder as if nothing had happened but Tony kept glancing at me the whole rest of the time he was there so I followed him when he left.

I know now that the only reason he gave me his cell number that day was to prevent me from following him home and discovering the secret gas gnome tree town by the lake.

I called him the next day.

He answered “Hello.”

I said “Hi, I’m the woman you met at the Laundromat last night. I was just wondering if you would like to see a movie or something.”

He said “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been in a Laundromat.”

He hung up on me. I called him back.

He said “Hello”

I pretended to have a Southern accent “Congratulations, sir. You have been selected at random to receive a valuable prize.”

“A valuable prize you say.”

“I do say. In order to collect the prize you’ll need to come to the Starbuck’s at the corner of Adams and Wacker at 4 O’clock this afternoon.”

“Why do I have to come to Starbucks?”

“It’s a cross-promotion”.

He showed up at the Starbucks looking confused. He saw me and left, so I followed him.

He stopped and talked to me, once again probably to protect the tree city. But this time we clicked and he asked me to have dinner with him.

I agreed even though restaurants make me nervous. I wore a red dress and red shoes and dyed my hair red. I was smashing. Tony wore a black suit but did not dye his hair. We ate and then we danced despite the fact there was no dance floor. The waitress told us to stop and Tony set the napkins on fire. We left and we didn’t have to pay. We walked under the stars. Tony held my hand, which was a little weird on a first date. He told me that he wanted to see me again. I told him we should hang out in a gas station; he told me he didn’t like gas stations, but that he did like muffler shops.

I found out about his secret identity by accident. I like gas stations late at night. They remind me of the type of place I wasn’t supposed to be when I was in high school. I hang out in them for hours on end. Sometimes I’ll buy the nachos or the hot dog shaped hamburgers but mostly I just browse through the magazines.

That night I was just finishing up the latest issue of Maxim when I noticed Tony crouched down near one of the pumps. We’d only been on a couple dates at the time and I wondered if it would be an invasion of his privacy for me to approach him in what seemed to be such a delicate moment. I decided to be a Good Samaritan and went out to the pump.

But instead of throwing up on the ground he was spewing into a nozzle and the pump was reading backwards, 10.99, 10.98, 10.97 etc. I demanded an explanation and that’s when he told me. He was afraid I would break up with him, afraid I would not want half-human, half gas gnome children. I told him it wasn’t a problem; I didn’t want children of any species.

That night he took me to meet the king of the gas gnomes. He lives in a tree near Lake Shore Drive.

The king of the gas gnomes is named Albert. Albert rules with an iron fist but is just and the gas gnomes all love him. Albert’s queen is Gertrude. Gertrude is always eating leaves because she is trying to sooth her aching stomach.

Gertrude is half-human and half-gas gnome. Tony says that it’s not the healthiest combination.

Although Gertrude was very sad but she was lovely and felt deeply for all her people.

Albert told me that because I’d learned the gas gnome secret I’d have to sign a
confidentiality agreement promising that I would not tell anyone about the gas gnomes until at least three years from the day they left town. The agreement also contained a clause requiring me to drink nothing but coca-cola products for the next three years. It was a cross-promotion.

Tony liked poetry slams. We would attend them at least twice a week. Tony would watch with total attention. Sometimes he would cry, sometimes he would laugh, but there was never anyone else in the room for him other than him and the poet. I asked him why he didn’t try to write some poetry himself. He said “One of the curses of being a gnome is that you can never do or have anything you love. The blessing of being a gnome is that you can never do or have anything you hate either. “

Tony never loved me, but he never hated me. He paid attention to me. He liked to braid my hair. Sometimes he would walk my dog if I was out of town for a weekend. He really never learned to love my passions. He associated gas stations with being unwell and Laundromats with inefficiency. I tried to enjoy muffler shops as much as he did but I just felt awkward being in a place where cars go to die.

He liked to dance. He had taken a ballroom dancing class and often danced with the queen when she was lonely for human culture. I might have been jealous but she was too sad to inspire jealousy.

She sometimes couldn’t sleep for weeks. In her insomnia, she would make needlepoint creations even though she lived in a tree and had no walls on which to hang them. She would cross lake shore drive and put the needlepoint pieces in the water and watch them float away. I didn’t think that was very healthy but the gnomes had all grown accustomed to the queen’s sadness and didn’t think much of it.

Tony had one brother who he had last seen during the great American gnome divisions of 1978.

About every 300 years, each tribe of gnomes grows too large for any one ecosystem and must be split into two tribes. The division is made alphabetically by first name. Tony ended up in the beginning of the alphabet gnomes because his full first name is Anthony. His brother Zach ended up with the other tribe. Both of his parents died in childbirth.

Tony had one other magical ability other than spewing gasoline and having no passion. He could levitate a couple inches off the ground. It really wasn’t noticeable unless he pointed it out to you. Suddenly he would just be a little bit taller than he was.

He used to say that it was a lot more useful than it seems.

Tony would sometimes shop lift. Not because he was poor, since the government pays the gnomes a huge amount of money for the gasoline and to keep the whole thing a secret, but because he felt it kept him sharp for the upcoming gnome wars. He was convinced that someday the gnomes would be discovered by the public and people would want to imprison them for their gasoline. Gnomes can’t live in captivity. They’d be forced to defend themselves. Fight a guerilla war. Become urban soldiers. So he was in training. I think he just liked seeing what he could get away with.

I knew that the gnomes would be moving on soon when Gertrude died.

She had become increasingly sad and wandered off from the tree city one day. She tried to walk to Holland, Michigan. Gas gnomes like to die where they were born. She only made it as far as Gary before she collapsed. She was taken to a hospital but she was dead by the time she got there. The local news reported that a woman had been killed by being forced to drink gasoline. There was a murder investigation. People were outraged. People desperately wanted to know who the beautiful corpse was and why someone would do something like that to her. It was only a matter of time before the gnomes would have been discovered.

On our last day together, Tony and I went to the zoo. There was a monkey there who was stuck on a branch because his hair had tangled and knotted to it. The other monkeys seemed to be amused by the trapped monkey’s misfortune. Tony cried. He said
“The other monkeys are poets and the stuck monkey is a gas gnome who works in Payroll.”

Gas gnomes are not very subtle with metaphors. I took Tony’s had and kissed it. He smiled at that. I liked just looking at Tony. Not in a creepy obsessive way. Just he had a face that showed everything he was thinking and watching him was like mind reading.

He asked me if I wanted to go dancing. He missed dancing with the queen. We went to a swing dance place. I was surprised by how many gnomes where there. He didn’t dance with anyone else that night but me.

He gave me a needlepoint creation of a kitten playing with a ball of string that he had rescued from lake.

The next day I went to the tree town by the lake and it was deserted. Tony was gone along with the other gnomes. That was three years ago today. I knew it would happen some day but I thought maybe he’d tell me first. I guess only people with a concept of time need closure.

the disgruntled costume designer

2004-09-06T17:07:00.000-07:00

“I have itchy pants!” he screamed,
and danced around the dressing room,
scratching his thin thighs
and clawing at his knees
beneath the wool trousers
I’d given him.

“Be quiet!” I said to the actor
and told him
that if he kept complaining,
I’d make him wear burlap.

About Thee - magnet poetry written (or, more accurately, arranged) by me

2004-09-06T09:46:00.000-07:00

how course i through the world
mad as thine own tempest
and wherefore such heavenly sorrow
breaks on yonder new heart?
unto thine own kingdom be brave and true
when rotten flesh make food for art
nothing protest thy better breath
nor droppeth more reason in houses of less rhyme
like thy guilty kin
so beware.

Inner (child) Monologue

2004-09-04T00:50:00.000-07:00

Oh wow! Lookit...Over by the dumpster.

What? The box? Yeah, somebody must have gotten a new refrigerator.

Let's build a fort.

Excuse me?

Let's get the box and build a fort. You could totally fit in that thing.

I'm not building a cardboard fort. I'm 27 years old.

C'mon. It'll be fun. And whimsical. You like whimsy.

I think I can safely say that I have already fulfilled my whimsical obligations for the summer. I went to the zoo no less than five times, fed ducks at the pond, AND I built sandcastles at the beach last month.

You only did that because you were hoping some bohemian artist type would see you grubbing around in the dirt wearing a bikini, and fall in love with the "glow of child-like wonder" in your eyes.

Shut up!

Please. It wasn't even that great of a sandcastle.

It had a moat.

You didn't even do anything when those little kids stomped on it while their mother cheered them on.

What was I supposed to do? Yell at a 5 year old? Yeah, that'd be just great...The scary tattooed lady makes a pair of toddlers cry and slaps their mother for not teaching them to stay the fuck off other people's sand property. Whatever.

So you gonna grab that box, or what? I figure we start by cutting a few circular holes down one side...Upright, it's a spaceship. On its side, a submarine!

I'm not getting the box.

And we could run down to Walgreen's and buy some markers, make it look really sharp...

Listen, that box has been sitting in a pool of alley water and garbage juice for god-knows-how-long, it's dirty, it's damp, it's...

Or, or, check this out: We cut out the top so it looks like the turret of a castle, spend the day defending ourselves from the Gauls. Huh?

Listen. I CAN'T do this. I can't anymore. This cutesy-little-girl shit is killing me. I don't want to look at the world as something new and magical everyday. I don't want to be the breezy free spirit living on a different planet. I've got a lot of shit going on and all the fucking cardboard forts in the world aren't going to change that. I'm tired of being "delightfully eccentric." I want to be like everybody else. This is just...I can't anymore. It's just too hard.

Okay?

Okay?

It was a good box.

Yeah, it was. I know. I'm sorry.

So I didn't get the box.

I still wish I had.

Ode to a Suburban Red Lobster

2004-09-04T00:25:00.000-07:00

Don't worry Rebecca, as soon as I can fit -

24oz "Alotta Coladas"/ Going to Skokie even though the one downtown is closer because we wanna be kitschy/ Scampi juice/ A table of women dressed up for a night on the town that may or may not be sisters (they're all ugly in the same sort of way)/ Free half pound of crab legs/ A scenic view of The Olive Garden

- into one story, I'll get it to you.

Yeah, it'll be great.

Options

2004-09-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

Hank realized that he didn't have a lot of options since he only got a couple of channels. That was why, late at night, he would fall asleep to some pretty bad televison: Judge Hatchett, Mama Love, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which he actually liked except for the fact that every single incident - a vampire attack, something involving a demon, or whatever, took place at that school). But Hank didn't have a lot of options. It was that channel or the Japanese one. And he didn't speak Japanese. Sometimes he watched it, though, just for shits and giggles. But he often wondered, especially as he watched Judge Hatchett and Mama what’s-her-name, who watched this stuff? Really. Who were these people? This stuff was crap. And then he thought of himself. He watched it all the time. In fact, he was watching it that very minute, and he couldn’t look away. But he had an excuse. He only got a couple of channels. Maybe that was why these shows were on the air. People all across the country only got a couple of channels, just like Hank, and they were lying in bed right that very minute watching this crap and flipping to the Japanese channel every now and then, just like Hank. And because of that, Judge Hatchett, Mama Love and Buffy (which he didn't actually mind so much), had enough viewers to stay afloat. Sometimes he wondered – why not just read a book – and he would – but then he had to deal with the light, getting comfortable, and losing his place when he fell asleep. That sucked. Plus, sometimes he didn’t want to use his brain. He just wanted to watch crap. And actually, he didn't mind it so much.

Torn

2004-09-02T18:53:00.000-07:00

At once
I will be like the sole of a sneaker
With a freyed edge
And a hole near the toe,
Submerged in a puddle of slush -
By coincidence
But entirely planned.
I tempt fate
As I struggle toward the lake,
Regardless of the bitter cold
Which marks me with mark of the drunkard,
The sign of our times.

Eating And Driving At The Same Time

2004-09-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

Oh shit. Damn it.

Damn it.

Afternoon.

Yes sir, they're in my glove compartment.

Was I swerving?

Yeah, sorry.

Oh, no, nothing like that, I was,

Yeah.

I was eating.

I was eating. I know I shouldn't have been but I couldn't wait I was so hungry.

A hot dog. A 711 hot dog from 711. I was just right up. . . a chili, a chili dog.

That's how hungry I was.

Yeah, sorry about that.

O.k. Thank you sir.

Yeah, I hear ya. I'm gonna go get some real food. But it's the straight and narrow from here on out. No more chili dogs from 711, it's not worth it, right?

Oh, sorry.

Oh, I haven't been smoking anything. I always look like that. People think I'm stoned all the time, but that's just the way I am.

O.k., thanks again officer.

Have a nice day.

And stay away from those chili dogs.

reaching

2004-08-31T17:23:00.000-07:00

that guy
playing scrabble
cannot make word
save life
dumps letters
forfeits turn
little it be
he finds one
but he just can't get it out
so he waits
someone takes it
leaves him scrambling
make up lost time
invent word here
fabricate story there
grab here
cave there
if only one letter
just one more letter
edge he needed
to stay in the game
. . . .

I feel like that guy playing Scrabble who can't make a word to save his life. So he dumps in his letters and forfeits his turn. And, little as it may be, he finds one, but he just can't get it out. So he waits, until someone comes along and takes it away, leaving him scrambling to make up for lost time, inventing a word here, fabricating a story there, grabbing here and caving in there. If only he had one letter, just one more letter, he'd have the edge he needed to stay in the game.

This Song Is Sung

2004-08-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

"That’s it," he said.

"That’s it?" she said.

"That’s it," he said. "There is nothing more."

"There is nothing more," she said, "because there was nothing there in the first place."

"Nothing except for everything I’ve just said," he said.

"And what have you said?" she said.

"I just said!" he said.

"You’ve said nothing," she said.

"That’s it!" he said. "That’s it exactly. The song is sung."

"So that’s it?" she said.

"That’s it," he said. "There is nothing more."

Actual Names of People in Lyric Opera's Database System That Amuse Me and May Be Used as Character Names in the Future

2004-08-30T08:45:00.000-07:00

Basil Booton
John Boatright
Dolores McGuffin
Medwin Texor
Agatha Nicely
Edward Ex
Catherine Quill
Daisy Driss
Rocco Rotolo
Don Easter
Joe November
Donald Moon
Luana Sheets
Mr. Brian Clever
Mace C. Justice
Dr. Boone Brackett and Mrs. Bess Brackett
Ruth Suth
Lyman Leathers
Lee Greenhouse
Marvin Files
Dr. and Mrs. Craig T. January
Christopher M. Outwin
Ethna Beatrice Fox
Irving and Anne Rock

preacher bum

2004-08-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

mister dreadlock
grey beard
pants falling down
two coats
a smoke
and a cup of coffee
calls me sir
says jesus knows
says god is master
of up and down
but knows nothing about the devil

Ben

2004-08-28T09:39:00.000-07:00

Melody knows that Ben Affleck would totally fall in love with her.

Sure, there was J. Lo and Minnie Driver, and Gwyneth, but there was also that girl back in Boston...A sales rep, or something like that. Melody's read the articles about Ben's search for "a normal relationship." She knows he's worried about his celebrity scaring off regular girls. Melody knows she's perfect for Ben Affleck.

She hasn't quite figured out how they'll meet. Maybe he'd be in town shooting a movie (though what they could be shooting in Dayton, Ohio is a little unclear), and he'd stop by the coffee shop. She'd compliment his tattoos as she served up his half-caff mochachino, and show off the angel she has on her ankle. She wouldn't even act like he's Ben Affleck. She'd treat him just like any other guy in the shop. Maybe a little flirty, but still down to earth. He'd be a bit taken aback, then strangely relieved. He'd ask her what time she's getting off work and if she could show him around Dayton. She'd laugh, and say "Sure." Melody would be completely cool.

She'll take Ben out to feed ducks in the park and he'll be enthralled by her easy manner, her irreverent sense of humor, and that little glint she knows she gets in her eye when she smiles. They will share their first kiss under the stars, after Melody takes Ben to the overpass where her friends all go to drink beer on weekends. From that moment, Ben will refuse to let her out of his sight. He'll invite her to the Golden Globes and send his assistant to take her on a designer shopping spree to pick out a fabulous dress. Joan Rivers will ask her who she's wearing.

Or maybe she'd be visiting friends in L.A. (Melody doesn't have any friends in L.A., but Andrea is always talking about moving out there one day). Ben would spot her on the street, strike up a conversation...And the rest would be history. She just knows if Ben Affleck met her, he'd love her.

Ben will move Melody into his L.A. mansion, or maybe a nice brownstone in Boston. She's not really sure yet. Most of the time she'll be with Ben filming on location anyway.

In his directorial debut, Ben will cast Melody as his love interest, claiming he can no longer imagine making love to anyone else, onscreen or off. Critics will rave about Melody's "quirky charm," and "non-traditional beauty." Her first appearance on Letterman will break all previous ratings records.

At the Oscar after-party, immediately after she wins "Best Actress," Melody will break up with Ben Affleck. All she really wanted to do was date Edward Norton.

She's got it all figured out.

2004-08-26T09:18:00.000-07:00

This is a random sampling of things not to do if you're going to write a play. They are based on observations I have made about plot structures, themes, and stories found in plays produced by various off-Loop (Chicag0) and off-off-Broadway (NYC) theaters. If I like you and you write a play that includes any of the below, chances are I will still like you. But please, think twice before you stuff another one of these beauties down the throats of the theater-going public. Thank you.

Ok. Here we go:

1. Plays in which a character announces “I’m pregnant”

2. Wacky comedies about a twenty-something man who sleeps with a stripper/another woman and he and his best-buddy try desperately to conceal this fact from girlfriend/fiancée

3. Wacky comedies about a twenty-something men/man just trying to “get laid” or get a girlfriend

4. Family comedies involving cranky/crotchety but loveable and wise old people

5. Plays in which wise, earthy African Americans (or Native American, orHispanic Americans) teach white people an important lesson about life, family, or the earth

6. Anything that could be marketed as “edgy” or involving characters are described as or could be described as “edgy”. “Edgy” is so 1990’s. Get over it.
7. Plays in which people “come to terms” with things including cancer, the death of a child or parent, suppressed memories of child abuse or otherwise dysfunctional families. This covers a lot of plays, and in fact, I think it is possible to have a “coming to terms” moment or general theme in a play, but it really should not be the sole focus. Seriously. No one cares. Make your characters do something other than “come to terms” with something. Make the play about something else too. Like war or famine or even love or corruption or injustice. The worst thing you can do is bore your audience.

And by the way, in case you're wondering where I get off making these declarations, I admit to creating my fair share of these blunders myself. I was a young, young woman once and fortunately, while some of them were contest-winners, none ever made it to a full production. Thank god. And as a theater administrator and theater patron (and writer) I can tell you that first impressions are important. If an audience member isn't wowed by what you put up there on stage, they probably won't come back (unless they were suckered into buying a subscription).

True Love: Fragments from the Conversation

2004-08-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

"What do you mean, you've always dreamed about being a Navy Seal? I've always dreamed about being a Navy Seal!!!"

Two drinks later.

"Yeah, I think it's probably a lot harder to stab someone than it looks. And I worry that I wouldn't be able to really debilitate them with that first stab. The first stab is important."

Three drinks, half a pack of Newport Lights.

"Hey, I don't have bad self-esteem, I just really like cock."

Ten songs selected on jukebox. Another pack of Newport Lights

"Well, I mean...if the homeless don't want people dousing them with gasoline, they should stay in a shelter, right? Hey, are you done with that? Ya' wanna get outta here? Sweet."

And I'm not even starting this thing with something new...

2004-08-26T04:06:00.000-07:00

I am the Perfect Woman.

I’m fairly attractive, with a pleasing rack. You can tell your friends you’re sleeping with me and expect a thumbs up, rather than a disappointed shake of the head. However, I’m not so drop dead gorgeous that you’ll worry about me leaving you for a Gold Coast day trader, nor will I inspire bar fights. You will never get the shit kicked out of you at 2 in the morning because you feel obliged to defend my honor (and your masculinity) from the 200lb linebacker who grabbed my ass. No, because I am the perfect woman.

I don’t enjoy playing video games, but I love watching them. I’m really good at finding secret levels, too. Rest assured I can sit happily for hours watching you play Grand Theft Auto, and after you’re all x-boxed out I' probably give you a blow job while you watch a televised sporting event of your choice. In the absence of a good sporting event, we can watch the Three Stooges and I will actually understand why they’re funny. I’m that perfect.

I hate talking on the phone. I love beer. I can quote The Simpson’s for hours. I own 3 pairs of shoes. I refuse to patronize any club with a velvet rope and $40 cover charge but love drinking in dirty dive bars, where you will be allowed to ignore me completely while watching the last quarter of a football game. I buy all my own drinks.

I am educated enough to carry on conversations about politics, drama, philosophy and science, but I also know about 200 dick jokes. I don’t wear underwear, but I will wear lingerie upon request. That one thing that you thought was just an urban legend, even though your college roommate’s brother swore he knew a girl who tried it…I can do it.

I hate talking about my feelings.

I have an insatiable sexual appetite, but a horrible fear of commitment. If you want to keep seeing other women, I will most likely be relieved, and even encouraging. I will never call you out for looking at an attractive woman when we’re together. In fact, I will frequently point them out to you. You won’t have to hang out with my bitchy, emasculating girlfriends because I don’t have any. I can hold my own when we’re with your friends, but I won’t make them feel stupid. I am funny, but not funnier than you.

I orgasm easily.

I enjoy fishing and camping. I enjoy fine dining. I enjoy art films, I enjoy movies where lots of shit gets blown up. I watch porn. I know that men masturbate, I know that men cheat. I won’t freak out when you do either because I know it’s not really reflecting your feelings for me…It’s just your biological makeup. I won’t yell at you when you don’t call for 3 days. I’ll never give you the silent treatment, cold shoulder or withhold sex. I won’t say “I’m fine” in that horrible, chilling “nothing is fine, nor will it ever be” tone of voice. I won’t ask what you’re doing with your life or where you see yourself (or us) in 10 years.

I will never ask you “what are you thinking?”

I am the perfect woman. But I think it’s just because I act like a guy.

Just Checking

2004-08-26T02:27:00.000-07:00

Yep. It's a test.