The following story was published in Bricolage's Signature Series. Bricolage is a literary magazine run by the University of Washington.
My Mom and I have one thing in common: We both take a lot of pills. Vicodin, Percocet, Methadone, Oxycotin--these are names familiar to us both, brands that invoke the same questions in each of our minds: How many? How strong? How much? But instead of being a point of connection between the two of us (we share the same preferences, after all), these magical, multi-colored tablets will forever push us apart. I know this because my mom watches Oprah.
"Today this dad wanted to be the cool dad," my mom tells me. We're in the kitchen, which is where she usually recounts that day's episode. The way she says cool dad makes me think of a balding man wearing slacks and sunglasses. "So he starts giving his son some of his pain medication. At first he let's him take them for headaches, but before you know it, he starts letting his son throw parties. All because he wants to be the cool dad."
Mom sits at the kitchen table in her blue bathrobe. Her eyes are bloodshot and far away, and though she can't take a shower or put on a full outfit, she still insists on doing her hair; gel-stiff curls of brown and gray frame her face. As she tells me about Oprah, her mind abuzz with opiates, I try to envision what she must have imagined when she heard all this: Perhaps a rowdy, sixteen-year old boy waving a scepter, throwing blue, green, and orange pills in the air like confetti, which his friends nibble from the floor. All the while, the pathetic man who wanted nothing more than to be a cool dad watches nervously through the window, biting his nails to nubs as they steal first his alcohol, his keys, and finally, the car.
"And you know what happened?" mom asked, finishing the story. "That poor girl, their neighbor, got set on fire." She finishes and leans back, wearing the incredulous face she expects me to mirror.
I'm not so impressed. "Don't you think that girl would have been set on fire without the pills?" I ask.
Mom blinks a few times, considering this. "No," she says finally. "I think it was because of the pills."
Now I'm in a tough situation. I'm forced to either agree with my mom or express my true opinion. Normally, I would take the most nuetral route, but this is a sensitive issue between us, a long-running contest: She's just reopened the Great Pill Debate of 2005. The Debate has roots reaching back to 2003, when mom was a relatively healthy person with a herniated disk between vertebrae L4 and L5. She was prescribed a bottle of fat white pills for the pain, Vicodin, and I snuck one or two. They were fun, but mostly underwhelming for their mammoth size; this was before I knew Vicodin was loaded with Tylenol and contained very little actual narcotic. Fast forward to 2005, when mom has the artificial disk installed that will, years later, begin to force apart her spine. Now mom is dabbling in Oxycotin, which are smaller, but infinitely better. They weigh almost nothing, though one 10 mg tablet is enough to make me itch all over, talk-non stop, and have dreams when I'm not really sleeping. I am immediately a fan for life.
Followers of the debate should note that, at this time, I was a senior in high school, and despite my near-perfect grades, I was threatened with expulsion on a weekly basis. For the most part, it was the truancy they didn't like. To combat the classroom boredom, irritation, and restlessness from which I suffered, I used mom's pills. As far as I was concerned, I needed them to get through my day as much as she did.
Then, one rainy winter morning, the pills were gone. I went into the cupboard and that small orange bottle simply wasn't there. I took out everything else--old antibiotics, mystery pills with five-syllable names, even over-the-counter containers of Ibuprofen--but the Oxycotin was nowhere to be found. Late for school already, I had to choose something on the fly. I took the brand with the X in the name (it sounded the most narcotic), and pocketed a handful of pills before leaving to school.
The pills were called Flexoril, and I took them for almost a month before discovering they were muscle relaxants. No major accidents occurred: I fell asleep during class, dozed at friend's houses, and twice, I woke up at a green light with cars honking behind me. The episode ended when, after barely making it home and stumbling to bed one night, I left the remaining pills in my jeans and deposited them in the laundry basket the next morning. Checking for chapstick, pens, and other pocket-based laundry offenders, my mom found the pills, and everything was on the table.
The Great Pill Debate of 2005 lasted only two hours. We sat facing each other at our oak kitchen table, each of us with our own glass of iced water, like lawyers. Mom brought notes; I brought rage. Her main points of argument were that I was just like my father, I didn't love her, and I had a problem with substance abuse. She told me that I had taken too many withdrawals from the bank of trust, and that my account was overdrawn. My defense revolved around a single, two-part argument: I did not have a problem, and everything was fine (though I did point out that her bank-of-trust metaphor was absolute bullshit, and that she could go fuck herself).
And that was that.
Had there been any coverage on the debate, my mom might have made the following press release. "After much deliberation, we've concluded that prescription painkillers are beneficial for people sick in the body. People sick in the head, like my son, cannot be trusted with narcotics." This might not seem like new thinking now, but at the time, it was revolutionary: Pills were not good or bad; people were good or bad. Pills simply illuminated that difference.
The second conclusion, which none but the closest followers of the debate were privy too, was that I was personally unfit to deal in the realm of narcotics, that I would ultimately skew the discussion and make any reasonable conversation on the subject impossible. It was decided that I should move in with my father immediately.
The Great Pill Debate of 2005 was settled. That is, until the case was reopened this year, when mom, facing a third back surgery (the artificial disk between L4 and L5 now steadily pushing apart the surrounding vertebrae), asked if I could live with her for three months to help out. Major duties would include house-cleaning, cooking, assisting her to and from the bathroom, up and down the stairs, and lastly, picking up and doling out her medication. With this agreement came the silent understanding that the debate was once again in question: My ban from narcotics had been lifted.
This morning's conversation of Oprah was her way of reopening the floor.
I have the overwhelming desire to tell her I still use narcotics, that although I rarely buy them, I still enjoy the occasional pill that finds its way into my possession. I want to tell her that I've been okay for four years now, that I'm going to stay okay, even if it means I won't be perfect. I want to tell her that if she would let me chew up one 20 mg Oxycotin for ever 100 mg she takes, we might even spend some quality time together: I'd be feeling good enough to watch Oprah.
But I know I can't say that, and maybe she knows I want to. Maybe that's why she told me the story of the cool dad and the girl being lit on fire: It's a story that can't be argued against. Parents should not give their children prescription pills.
Mom is waiting for me to say something nasty about the father, that he was an idiot, that if he had any brains, he would know how to have a good time with his son without having house parties and nearly burning the neighborhood to a crisp. "I guess it wouldn't have happened without the pills," I say finally. "Some people just don't know when to stop."
And that's it: I have admitted my own defeat. I take mom's plate and put it in the sink. I scrape away the egg yolk that has hardened to the ceramic since we started talking. When I finish, I open the cupboard and take out her bottle of Oxycotin, tapping two 20 mg tablets into my palm. I set them on the tablecloth next to her glass of water.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Giant Woodpecker Living Beneath my House
It's been going on for weeks. Every morning I wake up thinking that the builders have finally returned to finish the house. It sounds just like hammering, like they're finally nailing down the shingles that keep blowing off, or securing the handrails that come loose when leaned on too heavily. So I lay in bed with my eyes closed, imagining that when I come downstairs I'll see three men--trustworthy in stained plaid shirts and three-day scruff--taking a much-needed break. I'll ask them if they would like some coffee. "Hell yes we'd like some coffee," they'll say, and I'll put on a pot and ask how the morning's task is coming along.
Of course, no one has come to finish the house. There's no money left for anything: I can't even afford to have the giant woodpecker taken care of. My sister tells me that I should do it myself, that I could flush it out with a hose, or scare it off by banging a couple pans together. But I'm not that kind of guy (plus, I wouldn't want to ruin my pans; they're the nicest things I own). So I put up with it. I'm at work for the better part of the day, anyway.
When I come home each night, the giant woodpecker is still at it. I figure that maybe he's only trying to keep warm, too. I imagine that smaller creatures, like dust mites and germs, are perhaps driven mad by the sound of my chattering teeth, or the fleshy grate of my palms rubbed together. I rationalize like this as I eat my Cup of Noodles, as I watch grainy NBA games, and finally, as I read the business section of yesterday's paper. But when I crawl into bed, I can't rationalize it any longer. It's my basement after all, unfinished as it may be, and it's not exactly fair for some giant woodpecker to move in without my permission. I lay with my hands clenched, swearing to myself that after just two more of those house-shaking knocks, I'm going to pound my fist on the wall until that giant woodpecker cools it. I could take a quiet tap-tapping--even a soft rap-rapping--but this heavy pounding is just too much. I decide that tonight, I'm going to do something about it.
I take deep breaths until my anger evaporates, until my heart beats in sync with the pecking. When I walk downstairs, I'm calm. I'm collected. I pull the string on the basement's single light bulb, and the room flickers to life. I focus my gaze on the pupil of the woodpecker, which is larger than my entire head. His eyes are empty and flat, but I can feel his stare: It's colder than the wind howling through the unfinished siding. I ask if he'd like some coffee, and he tells me that hell yes, he'd like some coffee. I ask how the pecking is coming along, and he says fine, fine, it's coming along just fine. Then I ask him when he's going to be leaving. He doesn't respond, so I follow up quickly: It's not that I mind, but how do I explain to guests that there's a giant woodpecker living beneath my house? He's quiet, considering this, and then he asks me how I would feel, instead, if I had to explain the unfinished house hanging above my head? That's why he keeps pecking, he says. He's too embarrassed to stop. I almost ask him why he doesn't leave, but that's a stupid question. I read the business section of the paper, I'm not a moron. So I nod, and I take a few steps back up the stairs. I turn to look at the woodpecker a last time before turning off the light, and again I see the enormous eye with my tiny, convex reflection frozen in its center.
Of course, no one has come to finish the house. There's no money left for anything: I can't even afford to have the giant woodpecker taken care of. My sister tells me that I should do it myself, that I could flush it out with a hose, or scare it off by banging a couple pans together. But I'm not that kind of guy (plus, I wouldn't want to ruin my pans; they're the nicest things I own). So I put up with it. I'm at work for the better part of the day, anyway.
When I come home each night, the giant woodpecker is still at it. I figure that maybe he's only trying to keep warm, too. I imagine that smaller creatures, like dust mites and germs, are perhaps driven mad by the sound of my chattering teeth, or the fleshy grate of my palms rubbed together. I rationalize like this as I eat my Cup of Noodles, as I watch grainy NBA games, and finally, as I read the business section of yesterday's paper. But when I crawl into bed, I can't rationalize it any longer. It's my basement after all, unfinished as it may be, and it's not exactly fair for some giant woodpecker to move in without my permission. I lay with my hands clenched, swearing to myself that after just two more of those house-shaking knocks, I'm going to pound my fist on the wall until that giant woodpecker cools it. I could take a quiet tap-tapping--even a soft rap-rapping--but this heavy pounding is just too much. I decide that tonight, I'm going to do something about it.
I take deep breaths until my anger evaporates, until my heart beats in sync with the pecking. When I walk downstairs, I'm calm. I'm collected. I pull the string on the basement's single light bulb, and the room flickers to life. I focus my gaze on the pupil of the woodpecker, which is larger than my entire head. His eyes are empty and flat, but I can feel his stare: It's colder than the wind howling through the unfinished siding. I ask if he'd like some coffee, and he tells me that hell yes, he'd like some coffee. I ask how the pecking is coming along, and he says fine, fine, it's coming along just fine. Then I ask him when he's going to be leaving. He doesn't respond, so I follow up quickly: It's not that I mind, but how do I explain to guests that there's a giant woodpecker living beneath my house? He's quiet, considering this, and then he asks me how I would feel, instead, if I had to explain the unfinished house hanging above my head? That's why he keeps pecking, he says. He's too embarrassed to stop. I almost ask him why he doesn't leave, but that's a stupid question. I read the business section of the paper, I'm not a moron. So I nod, and I take a few steps back up the stairs. I turn to look at the woodpecker a last time before turning off the light, and again I see the enormous eye with my tiny, convex reflection frozen in its center.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Yesterday, while I was jogging, it began to rain and I realized the reason I’ve been so angry is because I am not real.
I’m jealous of people
who grew up
in log cabins, or
foreign countries,
of people interested
in tree frogs.
I’m jealous of people
who get blowjobs
in the car,
only because
it would be nice
knowing someone
that well.
I’m jealous of people
who date ugly girls.
I imagine it is like owning
a handful of diamonds,
like visiting palaces
of refracted light.
If I were an ugly girl
for just one day,
the first thing I’d do
is masturbate.
Sometimes, I think that’s
about as real
as it gets.
who grew up
in log cabins, or
foreign countries,
of people interested
in tree frogs.
I’m jealous of people
who get blowjobs
in the car,
only because
it would be nice
knowing someone
that well.
I’m jealous of people
who date ugly girls.
I imagine it is like owning
a handful of diamonds,
like visiting palaces
of refracted light.
If I were an ugly girl
for just one day,
the first thing I’d do
is masturbate.
Sometimes, I think that’s
about as real
as it gets.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
"These People Hate You," a short story about band awesomeness.
When I saw the guitar player with designer sunglasses, a black tank top, and a silver cross hanging around his neck, I should have told someone we couldn’t play. My band just called and quit. My parents had been killed that very morning. Instead, I smoked a shit-ton of cigarettes. Sure, my voice doesn’t fare well when I constantly exchange still-burning butts for fresh ones, but chain-smoking at least kept me from having to make conversation with the front man for the other band: a blond-haired, purple-shaded weightlifter whose business card showed him cast in deep, melancholy shadow while wearing a cowboy hat. The card said, “STEELE,” and had a fax line in addition to a phone number. So I smoked, and I watched. I watched as The Johnny Steele band unloaded their $10,000’s worth of equipment; as a show coordinator pointed at the stack of cinder-blocks and said “stage;” as the hired photographer asked Johnny Steele if he could take a picture for his website; as Johnny Steele popped a squat in the driveway and stared inquisitively into the distance.
As Johnny repositioned himself for another photo, Kevin’s Volvo pulled onto the crunchy pebble driveway. Kevin is both tall and thin, two traits which support my observation that, out of the four of us, he is the backbone of the band. As a music education major, he plays saxophone, banjo, percussion, and guitar; he writes music, and copies down the music I can’t write out myself; and at shows, Kevin always works with the sound guy, making sure we get everything we need. The remaining three of us are by no means bad musicians, nor are we uncommitted to the band; it’s just that our relative lack of musical knowledge, in addition to our non-spine-like builds, make Kevin the key candidate for band backbone. So, when the backbone of my band pulled up with a face that was clearly upset, I felt another surge of doubt. I smiled and lit another cigarette.
Kevin moseyed to the top of the driveway while Seth and John, our other two members, were still unfolding themselves from the back seat. I tried to think of something positive to say. “You made it!” Is what I came up with.
“Yup,” Kevin said, jamming both hands into his pockets. “I thought you said this was a school for music?”
I turned and looked at the house, as if I hadn’t really had a chance to inspect it yet. It was, most definitely, a house. There were two stories, a garage, large, unclean windows—it even had cheap patio furniture on either side of the front door. The only thing that suggested there was anything musical about the home—that is, aside from the Johnny Steele band and the pile of cinder-blocks in the back yard—was a black banner that read, “Northridge Music School,” and included rates for half and hour-long piano lessons. I raised a shoulder toward the banner. “It’s a music school,” I reassured him. “Can you believe how much a half-hour lesson is though?”
But Kevin only shook his head. Don’t get me wrong—a show is a show, and we were glad to play—but while we had heard plenty about the Northridge Music School, there had been no mention of it being a house. While one could shrug and suggest a lapse in memory, I had a feeling my contact for the show had only fed me certain details. I knew Andy Millstone, a Steinway Artist and talented singer-songwriter, from a few years back, when I was taking voice lessons. When I ran into him and he offered me the show at his brand-new music facility, I was surprised to find he’d traded in his standard turtleneck for a fuzzy brown “Manager’s Jacket,” in addition to a cocaine-white smile. He told me about his new music facility, about a grand-opening show before an audience of 150-300 people. I heard him out, and by the time I told the band about the gig, I think I half-imagined the place to be thirty stories tall, complete with champagne fountains and a free instrument every time you visited. I most certainly hadn’t expected a house.
Seth and John, though, were another story. Seth wore his knee-length green trench coat, both blue eyes as fresh as always; John made mention of smoking a spliff. The house situation, it seemed, hadn’t phased either one of them. The downstairs was cleared out for a practice space, so the four of us unloaded Kevin’s Volvo and set up inside. A door flew open, and a whirlwind of brown coat sleeves entered the room, shaking hands with everyone in the band. Andy Millstone turned to me with his Colgate smile. “So you boys ready to set up?”
I nodded and gestured to the freshly-unpacked instruments. “Sure thing. We were going to run through a few tunes first. Show starts at seven-thirty?”
Andy shook his head, still beaming. “Nope. Six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty?”
But Andy was already half-way out the door, waving, smiling, bald head glistening like a jewel. I turned to the band, and before Kevin could say anything, I insisted that the email had definitely said seven. It didn’t matter. We repacked our gear and lugged it across the sopping lawn to the stage.
While its sides consisted of stacked cinder blocks, the stage surface itself was made of poured concrete, its rough face seven feet wide and five feet deep. It was a good space, or at least, it would have been, had a drum set not been occupying the entire back and middle area. The drummer for the Johnny Steele band, a heavy-set dude in his late thirties whose idea of fashion consisted of motorcycle t-shirts and fiery red bandannas, was tightening his cymbals when we asked if he was leaving his drums in the middle of the stage. “Don’t worry, bros,” he said. “I got ‘em pushed back.”
The band looked at me, but I was already safe behind my cigarette. I set my keyboard up on what still remained of the right corner of the stage. “He’s got his drums pushed back,” I said. “I think that’s pretty good.”
It took us maybe ten minutes to set up our instruments and amps. I plugged in my last cord and gazed out into the lawn. The backyard was spacious. A herd of plastic tables hunkered down on the grass, their black tablecloths billowing with each shift of the temperamental weather. Christmas lights were strung up around the house, and there was a second-story balcony that people could watch from, too. I looked over to Kevin, also taking a breath after unpacking, and his face suggested a similar, new-found satisfaction. The show was earlier than we had expected, but that meant we could go home earlier, maybe hit a bar. And, despite my developing impression that Andy Millstone had once sold used cars, he was still a good contact to know. Playing a show an hour earlier than expected wouldn’t go unnoticed, and if the rest of the evening went well enough, I figured that he might even lend us his brilliant smile to blind some club-owner into giving us a show.
“Where are you going?” Kevin asked me, as I stepped down from the stage, only just missing an open patch of mud.
“Getting a drink,” I said, pointing at the open window beneath the hand-drawn sign which read, in bright red marker,” LIBATION STATION.” “You going to be okay with everything up here?”
Kevin looked at his watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes, so I’m going to find the sound guy and get our mics set up. Grab me a beer?”
I held out a thumbs-up and crossed the lawn. I smelled my fingers before stepping up to the window. They smelled like cigarettes.
“What can I get for you?” asked the girl working the Libation Station. She had freckled shoulders and braces that should have been put on years ago.
“Two beers, please,” I said, dropping my only five-dollar bill into the “Donations” jar. She procured a Budweisers from a cooler at her feet, cracked their seals, and began pouring them into red plastic cups, putting just over half a beer in each one. I was reminded of flight attendants, who, when you ask for a Coke, give you a toy-sized cup containing ice and a thimble of cola. I was tempted to stop her mid-pour, say, “Oh, sorry, I meant the can. Please.” But, I didn’t. I took my two half-beers and returned to the stage.
“Did you drink some of this?” Kevin asked, when I handed him the cup. He had mic cables slung over both shoulders.
“No. The Libation Station attendant hates full beers. What’s the story on the sound?”
Kevin took a drink. “That guy,” he said, as he pointed to a skinny man fighting a tangle of wires near the fence. “He’s got us all taken care of.”
The sound guy looked like he was losing the fight. “You’re sure?” I asked.
“Oh, fo sho-sho,” said Seth. I turned around and saw him still wearing his trench coat, his acoustic bass guitar a decidedly odd addition to his outfit. “That mofo’s got us covered.”
Often, it only takes Seth’s mild reassurance of some mofo’s abilities for me to place total confidence in him as well. What might seem a shitty situation is really a moment of endless opportunity when you look at like Seth does. The guy drowning in quarter-inch cables was, in fact, our guardian angel. So, I relaxed, and decided to let the sound guy work out whatever magic he had tucked up his sleeves. I smoked a few more cigarettes, stood back as a couple more speakers joined the stage, as microphone cables started running back and forth like vines. Six-thirty came and went, but we didn’t worry about it. There weren’t a ton of people there, and I was convinced that Andy Millstone was the only person who thought the show was supposed to start at six-thirty anyways. Judging by the amount of equipment that now occupied the stage, I figured we’d be checking mics by five ‘til, and playing by seven. I was going to need another beer. Kevin asked if I could grab him a refill, too.
“Could I get two more beers please?”
The attendant was leaning on the counter, looking at her nails. “Sure,” she said, taking the two cups and filling them, again, only halfway.
I put on a nice fake smile, the kind where I don’t show my yellowed teeth or my under bite. I started to turn around, when she cleared her throat behind me.
“Aren’t you going to donate?”
I looked back. Her arms were crossed. She was looking from me to the jar with her mouth hanging open, and I felt inclined to suggest that she try breathing with her lips closed. Instead, I told her that I’d already donated.
“Most people donate each time they come up,” she said.
“It’s okay, actually, because I put in a five. That’s like, five donations, right?” I didn’t really want to pull out my “I’m a broke student” speech, so I was hoping to leave it at that. Besides, we were the band. I’m not positive on the law, but I’m pretty sure there’s a mandate somewhere that secures free beer for performing musicians. Really, I should have kept my five dollars and dropped in a note that read, “u owe me beer. -the band.” When she finally rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders, I told her I’d be back three more times to finish off that five.
“Technically,” she said, again as I was walking away, “It’s just one more trip. You’ve already taken four beers.”
I bit my lip, held up one of the half-full cups, and kept walking. “What took you so long?” Kevin asked. “Is this less beer than last time?”
“I was wrong about the Libation Station bitch hating full beers. Turns out she just hates me.”
“She must. Last time she was only an attendant.”
I waved away the conversation. “So are we about ready to check mics?”
Kevin shook his head. The sound guy was still by the fence. He’d defeated the tangle of cords, but was now inspecting a sound board as if it were an ancient Egyptian artifact. I drank half of my half-beer, and lit a cigarette. My pack was running low. John sat staring at the sky, probably thinking of the spliff he’d like to roll, of the spliff that all four of us not only wanted, but probably needed, to smoke at this point. Seth, as usual, was untouchable. He stood quietly by the colossal drums set, reciting his rap lyrics under his breath. I walked over, and tugged on his trench-coat sleeve.
“So tell me, Doctor Who—when do you think this show is going to start?”
He smiled. “Probably whenever we start playing.”
At seven, the sound guy unloaded another heap of equipment, and began asking us if we had extra cords he could use to rig everything up. We each had a few, but with as long as this set-up was taking, I was doubtful we’d be able to reclaim our equipment after playing. In the end, we gave him the cords, but it came with the bitter realization that we had just entangled ourselves until the end of the evening. As I finished my second beer, I caught a flash of brown out of the corner of my eye.
“So Robert,” Andy crooned, his voice as thick as shoe polish. “Everything going okay up here? We about ready to start?”
I pointed to the sound guy. Someone from the Johnny Steele band was talking to him now, as if pointing out what cord went where. “We’re just waiting on the sound. As soon as we do mic checks, we’re good.”
Andy turned toward the lawn, where married couples and their kids were taking seats. I noticed a batch of young teens had started popping up in dress shirts and slacks. They escorted old ladies to tables, and offered to fetch juice or soda from the Libation Station. One of them, Andy’s son, looked up to the stage, his face drawn into a serious scowl before looking back to his watch. The next moment, he was shaking hands with an arriving guest. I felt like the show was being taken over by the junior high mafia.
Finally, I said again, “As soon as the sound guy’s ready, we can play.”
“Great,” Andy said, slapping me on the shoulder. And then he was gone. Over the next half hour I watched his brown coat dart in between guests, scurry up to the cook, and disappear for brief intervals inside the house. Kevin and John started to look as droopy as I felt, and even Seth’s bright blue eyes hinted at weariness. At seven forty-five, it was dark and it was cold. I had worn shorts, unprepared for both an outdoor show and starting any later than seven-thirty. My fingertips were frozen, an ailment I attempted to remedy by smoking until I was down to my last two. Though I couldn’t see the audience over the blazing floodlights facing the stage, I could hear them chattering. They sounded bored, irritated. When Andy made an announcement for dinner from the balcony, I heard someone mutter, “Wasn’t there supposed to be music first?”
The situation on the stage, at that point, had gone from mostly hopeless to completely fucked. In addition to our every last cable, the Johnny Steele band had lent the sound guy most of their equipment as well. The stage was something out of a technophobe’s nightmare: there were more amps and speakers than could have been used by a band twice our size, and what had once been a concrete stage was now a writhing thatch of black rubber pythons. I figured that at any moment, one of three things was about to happen: the sound guy would suddenly figure out how to do his job; the crowd would rush up in an enraged mob; or, the floor of cables beneath our feet would suddenly burst into flames, reducing us to ashes in a single second. Expecting any one these scenarios, I decided to get my last beer.
“Still not playing yet, huh?” The girl at the window looked smug.
I almost told her that the sound guy said her braces were fucking with his equipment, but instead I said, “Nope.”
“I’m guessing you want your last beer?” She had all the charm of a prison warden.
“Yes,” I said, deciding to wage what little war I could. “But I’d like the can. The whole can.”
“I can’t give you the can. We need to make these beers last.”
“But I’m in the band,” I told her. “The band gets free beer. Everyone knows that.”
“I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this,” she huffed. “I mean, you guys haven’t even played yet.”
“It’s not our goddamn fault!” I said, and a couple people turned around to see why I was raising my voice. An overweight woman in a pink shirt shook her head disapprovingly.
“These people hate you,” the attendant hissed. She slammed a full can of beer on the sill of her window. I took the can and walked back, not saying a word.
“Dude, what is wrong with you?” Kevin asked as I came onstage. “What, are you starting fights with the drink bitch now? Everyone was looking at you. You should have seen Andy—he stopped smiling for a minute and everything.”
I fished a cigarette out of my pack. The last one.
“Fuck Andy,” I said.
I looked into the crowd and saw flickering candle-flames only. From the darkness, someone called, “Start!” Others joined in, and a chant began. I checked my phone. 8 p.m. I exhaled a long breath of smoke and savored how effortlessly it came from my mouth, that nothing could keep it from escaping upward, where it insisted it belonged. “Let’s just do it,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The band followed my cue, but before I could play, the sound of trumpets came blaring over the fence. The four of us stood frozen for a moment, listening carefully as the sound quickly revealed itself as a mariachi band. A fucking mariachi band had just started playing right next door. I heard more murmuring from the darkness, and looked to the only three faces I could see. My band shrugged, and I shrugged back. We were going to play. We took a collective breath, and as I pressed my fingers into the key for that first, sweet note, the noise that fell upon my ears was incredibly mediocre. The instruments sounded fine, but it was impossible to hear anyone’s voice. We pushed through the first song, and a light applause trickled from the crowd. I put my lips to the mic and made a joke about the mariachi band. No one laughed. I saw John’s head drop from where he was sitting, practically buried beneath the drum set. I played one of my tunes, and the sad, thoughtful choruses clashed awfully with the jolly horns next door. Less applause that time, and even less for the next two.
When we finished our fourth song, which was just halfway through our set, Andy appeared onstage, smiling and waving at the audience as he came close to my ear. “What do you say we get the next band on for a bit, and have you guys finish out in an hour?”
I pulled back and looked into Andy’s face, inspected each perfect, glowing tooth. As if I could’ve said no, in front of all the people I couldn’t see but I knew were there, fidgeting uncomfortably in their seats, beyond total disappointment with the band that stood around for an hour and a half. I could feel the attendant watching from her window, heard her crusty voice replaying itself in my mind: These people hate you. I doubted she was wrong. “That,” I said softy, “would be great.” I thanked the crowd, motioned to my band, and we stepped out of the lights and into blackness.
The mariachi music continued, but if the Johnny Steele band could hear it, they didn’t show. They did a quick rearrangement of the stage, rerouted a few wires, and hit it. Their sound came pouring forth with the bold precision of the radio. These were not originals, but covers of Steely Dan, Sublime—artists the audience didn’t only know, but loved. Heads started bobbing, feet started tapping, and Johnny Steele howled while smashing an expensive tambourine against his hip. I heard someone whisper to his wife, “See, now this is actually pretty good.”
Seth and Kevin were getting drinks—I had refused to go back to the Libation Station—so I stood with John by the fence, smoking one of the few remaining cigarettes he had left. We didn’t say anything for a long time. Like myself, John is a self-proclaimed asshole, and no verbal communication was necessary to convey the loathing for Johnny Steele we both shared. It wasn’t until he started singing “Sweet Home Alabama” that John said, “I fucking hate this band,” and walked away. Seth and Kevin arrived a minute later.
“Yo Roberto,” Seth said, “Kevin and I had to apologize before that girl with the braces would give us any beer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Isn’t she the worst?”
“I dunno,” Seth said, taking a drink. “She seemed pretty nice.” When Kevin nodded in agreement, I walked away, too. I found John sitting by the car, putting the finishing touches on a spliff he had just rolled up.
“Splife?” I asked.
“Splife for life,” he said, lighting the tip of the cone. He took a few pulls and passed it over. I held the smoke in my lungs, savoring it like a profound thought. As my mind relaxed, it settled on Johnny Steele, who had since begun singing the requested “Blackbird.” Steele didn’t write his own music, obviously, but he was what people wanted. Familiarity. These were the songs that people had listened to a thousand times, had been conditioned to love by mainstream music; his purple sunglasses and mane of gold hair were comfortable, understandable symbols. People recognize a musician in cut off jeans and a tight t-shirt; they panic when the bass player is wearing a trench-coat. Plus, I bet that smooth asshole put a donation in every time he got a drink.
“There is no way I’m finishing that set,” I said when I handed him the spliff. “These people hate us.”
“Not as much as I hate them,” John said, throwing the roach into the street.
I was thinking of how to tell Andy we couldn’t finish the set, wishing that, when I had first gotten there, I had used that line about my parents being killed. Suddenly, the street erupted in the harsh red-and-blue blare of police lights as three cruisers pulled up in front of the house. It turned out that Andy’s school of music had failed to check if neighbors would mind were they to host an outdoor show. I didn’t see Andy talk to the cops, but I could imagine him grinning widely, slipping out of a door as they tried to ask him something, guilty enough to be in question, but innocent enough to walk away smiling. When the cops finally left, the four of us took the stage, congratulated The Johnny Steele band on their set, and began gathering our cords from the tangle. The drummer complained about how they hadn’t been able to play their entire 22-song list. Then, Andy came on stage and put a paw on one of Johnny Steele’s bowling-ball shoulders. They shook hands awkwardly, the way people shake hands when one person is handing the other a folded check. I looked over, hoping my band hadn’t seen, but everyone shook their head in disgust. For us, the show hadn’t paid.
We didn’t talk as we packed the rest of our equipment. Everything was put in its proper place and carried to the car, some of the larger amps moved with the assistance of the junior high mafia. As we were getting ready to leave, the tallest teen, Andy’s kid, grabbed me by the shirt-sleeve. “Andy would like to speak with you,” he said, as if he were taking me to see the Don.
I followed him inside and upstairs, and saw Andy sitting in a plush, brown-leather chair, holding a glass of whiskey on ice as he stared wistfully into darkness. “Dad,” the teen said, and disappeared.
Andy stood up smiling. His breath was sharp with alcohol, but his grin didn’t sag a bit. “Great,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “Great show tonight. I love the cops, you know what I mean?”
I wanted to agree with him, but it was hard for me not to imagine him asking us off the stage without a police hat and baton himself. As far as I was concerned, our party had been crashed forty-five minutes ago. “We really appreciate the opportunity,” I said.
But Andy was already turned around, grabbing something from a tabletop, which he brought back over. “We’re having a little Octoberfest concert here—what do you say?”
I took the flyer between my fingertips, and looked up. I smiled as big and bright as Andy, and for a moment, it was like we had two spotlights shining into each others’ face. For the first time that evening, I curled my lips all the way up to expose my waxy-yellow teeth, the under-bite that can begin to look grotesque if I grin long enough, the way a word sounds funny if you say it too many times. I wanted Andy to see my teeth, the food caked in the gums around my canines. I wanted him to smell the fumes drifting out of my esophagus. He faltered slightly beneath my unrelenting demon’s grin, and I moved an inch closer, the hair on the back of my neck prickling as the mariachi music crept in through the open window. “Andy,” I said, so close I could smell my cigarette breath rolling right off of him. “We would love to.”
As Johnny repositioned himself for another photo, Kevin’s Volvo pulled onto the crunchy pebble driveway. Kevin is both tall and thin, two traits which support my observation that, out of the four of us, he is the backbone of the band. As a music education major, he plays saxophone, banjo, percussion, and guitar; he writes music, and copies down the music I can’t write out myself; and at shows, Kevin always works with the sound guy, making sure we get everything we need. The remaining three of us are by no means bad musicians, nor are we uncommitted to the band; it’s just that our relative lack of musical knowledge, in addition to our non-spine-like builds, make Kevin the key candidate for band backbone. So, when the backbone of my band pulled up with a face that was clearly upset, I felt another surge of doubt. I smiled and lit another cigarette.
Kevin moseyed to the top of the driveway while Seth and John, our other two members, were still unfolding themselves from the back seat. I tried to think of something positive to say. “You made it!” Is what I came up with.
“Yup,” Kevin said, jamming both hands into his pockets. “I thought you said this was a school for music?”
I turned and looked at the house, as if I hadn’t really had a chance to inspect it yet. It was, most definitely, a house. There were two stories, a garage, large, unclean windows—it even had cheap patio furniture on either side of the front door. The only thing that suggested there was anything musical about the home—that is, aside from the Johnny Steele band and the pile of cinder-blocks in the back yard—was a black banner that read, “Northridge Music School,” and included rates for half and hour-long piano lessons. I raised a shoulder toward the banner. “It’s a music school,” I reassured him. “Can you believe how much a half-hour lesson is though?”
But Kevin only shook his head. Don’t get me wrong—a show is a show, and we were glad to play—but while we had heard plenty about the Northridge Music School, there had been no mention of it being a house. While one could shrug and suggest a lapse in memory, I had a feeling my contact for the show had only fed me certain details. I knew Andy Millstone, a Steinway Artist and talented singer-songwriter, from a few years back, when I was taking voice lessons. When I ran into him and he offered me the show at his brand-new music facility, I was surprised to find he’d traded in his standard turtleneck for a fuzzy brown “Manager’s Jacket,” in addition to a cocaine-white smile. He told me about his new music facility, about a grand-opening show before an audience of 150-300 people. I heard him out, and by the time I told the band about the gig, I think I half-imagined the place to be thirty stories tall, complete with champagne fountains and a free instrument every time you visited. I most certainly hadn’t expected a house.
Seth and John, though, were another story. Seth wore his knee-length green trench coat, both blue eyes as fresh as always; John made mention of smoking a spliff. The house situation, it seemed, hadn’t phased either one of them. The downstairs was cleared out for a practice space, so the four of us unloaded Kevin’s Volvo and set up inside. A door flew open, and a whirlwind of brown coat sleeves entered the room, shaking hands with everyone in the band. Andy Millstone turned to me with his Colgate smile. “So you boys ready to set up?”
I nodded and gestured to the freshly-unpacked instruments. “Sure thing. We were going to run through a few tunes first. Show starts at seven-thirty?”
Andy shook his head, still beaming. “Nope. Six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty?”
But Andy was already half-way out the door, waving, smiling, bald head glistening like a jewel. I turned to the band, and before Kevin could say anything, I insisted that the email had definitely said seven. It didn’t matter. We repacked our gear and lugged it across the sopping lawn to the stage.
While its sides consisted of stacked cinder blocks, the stage surface itself was made of poured concrete, its rough face seven feet wide and five feet deep. It was a good space, or at least, it would have been, had a drum set not been occupying the entire back and middle area. The drummer for the Johnny Steele band, a heavy-set dude in his late thirties whose idea of fashion consisted of motorcycle t-shirts and fiery red bandannas, was tightening his cymbals when we asked if he was leaving his drums in the middle of the stage. “Don’t worry, bros,” he said. “I got ‘em pushed back.”
The band looked at me, but I was already safe behind my cigarette. I set my keyboard up on what still remained of the right corner of the stage. “He’s got his drums pushed back,” I said. “I think that’s pretty good.”
It took us maybe ten minutes to set up our instruments and amps. I plugged in my last cord and gazed out into the lawn. The backyard was spacious. A herd of plastic tables hunkered down on the grass, their black tablecloths billowing with each shift of the temperamental weather. Christmas lights were strung up around the house, and there was a second-story balcony that people could watch from, too. I looked over to Kevin, also taking a breath after unpacking, and his face suggested a similar, new-found satisfaction. The show was earlier than we had expected, but that meant we could go home earlier, maybe hit a bar. And, despite my developing impression that Andy Millstone had once sold used cars, he was still a good contact to know. Playing a show an hour earlier than expected wouldn’t go unnoticed, and if the rest of the evening went well enough, I figured that he might even lend us his brilliant smile to blind some club-owner into giving us a show.
“Where are you going?” Kevin asked me, as I stepped down from the stage, only just missing an open patch of mud.
“Getting a drink,” I said, pointing at the open window beneath the hand-drawn sign which read, in bright red marker,” LIBATION STATION.” “You going to be okay with everything up here?”
Kevin looked at his watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes, so I’m going to find the sound guy and get our mics set up. Grab me a beer?”
I held out a thumbs-up and crossed the lawn. I smelled my fingers before stepping up to the window. They smelled like cigarettes.
“What can I get for you?” asked the girl working the Libation Station. She had freckled shoulders and braces that should have been put on years ago.
“Two beers, please,” I said, dropping my only five-dollar bill into the “Donations” jar. She procured a Budweisers from a cooler at her feet, cracked their seals, and began pouring them into red plastic cups, putting just over half a beer in each one. I was reminded of flight attendants, who, when you ask for a Coke, give you a toy-sized cup containing ice and a thimble of cola. I was tempted to stop her mid-pour, say, “Oh, sorry, I meant the can. Please.” But, I didn’t. I took my two half-beers and returned to the stage.
“Did you drink some of this?” Kevin asked, when I handed him the cup. He had mic cables slung over both shoulders.
“No. The Libation Station attendant hates full beers. What’s the story on the sound?”
Kevin took a drink. “That guy,” he said, as he pointed to a skinny man fighting a tangle of wires near the fence. “He’s got us all taken care of.”
The sound guy looked like he was losing the fight. “You’re sure?” I asked.
“Oh, fo sho-sho,” said Seth. I turned around and saw him still wearing his trench coat, his acoustic bass guitar a decidedly odd addition to his outfit. “That mofo’s got us covered.”
Often, it only takes Seth’s mild reassurance of some mofo’s abilities for me to place total confidence in him as well. What might seem a shitty situation is really a moment of endless opportunity when you look at like Seth does. The guy drowning in quarter-inch cables was, in fact, our guardian angel. So, I relaxed, and decided to let the sound guy work out whatever magic he had tucked up his sleeves. I smoked a few more cigarettes, stood back as a couple more speakers joined the stage, as microphone cables started running back and forth like vines. Six-thirty came and went, but we didn’t worry about it. There weren’t a ton of people there, and I was convinced that Andy Millstone was the only person who thought the show was supposed to start at six-thirty anyways. Judging by the amount of equipment that now occupied the stage, I figured we’d be checking mics by five ‘til, and playing by seven. I was going to need another beer. Kevin asked if I could grab him a refill, too.
“Could I get two more beers please?”
The attendant was leaning on the counter, looking at her nails. “Sure,” she said, taking the two cups and filling them, again, only halfway.
I put on a nice fake smile, the kind where I don’t show my yellowed teeth or my under bite. I started to turn around, when she cleared her throat behind me.
“Aren’t you going to donate?”
I looked back. Her arms were crossed. She was looking from me to the jar with her mouth hanging open, and I felt inclined to suggest that she try breathing with her lips closed. Instead, I told her that I’d already donated.
“Most people donate each time they come up,” she said.
“It’s okay, actually, because I put in a five. That’s like, five donations, right?” I didn’t really want to pull out my “I’m a broke student” speech, so I was hoping to leave it at that. Besides, we were the band. I’m not positive on the law, but I’m pretty sure there’s a mandate somewhere that secures free beer for performing musicians. Really, I should have kept my five dollars and dropped in a note that read, “u owe me beer. -the band.” When she finally rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders, I told her I’d be back three more times to finish off that five.
“Technically,” she said, again as I was walking away, “It’s just one more trip. You’ve already taken four beers.”
I bit my lip, held up one of the half-full cups, and kept walking. “What took you so long?” Kevin asked. “Is this less beer than last time?”
“I was wrong about the Libation Station bitch hating full beers. Turns out she just hates me.”
“She must. Last time she was only an attendant.”
I waved away the conversation. “So are we about ready to check mics?”
Kevin shook his head. The sound guy was still by the fence. He’d defeated the tangle of cords, but was now inspecting a sound board as if it were an ancient Egyptian artifact. I drank half of my half-beer, and lit a cigarette. My pack was running low. John sat staring at the sky, probably thinking of the spliff he’d like to roll, of the spliff that all four of us not only wanted, but probably needed, to smoke at this point. Seth, as usual, was untouchable. He stood quietly by the colossal drums set, reciting his rap lyrics under his breath. I walked over, and tugged on his trench-coat sleeve.
“So tell me, Doctor Who—when do you think this show is going to start?”
He smiled. “Probably whenever we start playing.”
At seven, the sound guy unloaded another heap of equipment, and began asking us if we had extra cords he could use to rig everything up. We each had a few, but with as long as this set-up was taking, I was doubtful we’d be able to reclaim our equipment after playing. In the end, we gave him the cords, but it came with the bitter realization that we had just entangled ourselves until the end of the evening. As I finished my second beer, I caught a flash of brown out of the corner of my eye.
“So Robert,” Andy crooned, his voice as thick as shoe polish. “Everything going okay up here? We about ready to start?”
I pointed to the sound guy. Someone from the Johnny Steele band was talking to him now, as if pointing out what cord went where. “We’re just waiting on the sound. As soon as we do mic checks, we’re good.”
Andy turned toward the lawn, where married couples and their kids were taking seats. I noticed a batch of young teens had started popping up in dress shirts and slacks. They escorted old ladies to tables, and offered to fetch juice or soda from the Libation Station. One of them, Andy’s son, looked up to the stage, his face drawn into a serious scowl before looking back to his watch. The next moment, he was shaking hands with an arriving guest. I felt like the show was being taken over by the junior high mafia.
Finally, I said again, “As soon as the sound guy’s ready, we can play.”
“Great,” Andy said, slapping me on the shoulder. And then he was gone. Over the next half hour I watched his brown coat dart in between guests, scurry up to the cook, and disappear for brief intervals inside the house. Kevin and John started to look as droopy as I felt, and even Seth’s bright blue eyes hinted at weariness. At seven forty-five, it was dark and it was cold. I had worn shorts, unprepared for both an outdoor show and starting any later than seven-thirty. My fingertips were frozen, an ailment I attempted to remedy by smoking until I was down to my last two. Though I couldn’t see the audience over the blazing floodlights facing the stage, I could hear them chattering. They sounded bored, irritated. When Andy made an announcement for dinner from the balcony, I heard someone mutter, “Wasn’t there supposed to be music first?”
The situation on the stage, at that point, had gone from mostly hopeless to completely fucked. In addition to our every last cable, the Johnny Steele band had lent the sound guy most of their equipment as well. The stage was something out of a technophobe’s nightmare: there were more amps and speakers than could have been used by a band twice our size, and what had once been a concrete stage was now a writhing thatch of black rubber pythons. I figured that at any moment, one of three things was about to happen: the sound guy would suddenly figure out how to do his job; the crowd would rush up in an enraged mob; or, the floor of cables beneath our feet would suddenly burst into flames, reducing us to ashes in a single second. Expecting any one these scenarios, I decided to get my last beer.
“Still not playing yet, huh?” The girl at the window looked smug.
I almost told her that the sound guy said her braces were fucking with his equipment, but instead I said, “Nope.”
“I’m guessing you want your last beer?” She had all the charm of a prison warden.
“Yes,” I said, deciding to wage what little war I could. “But I’d like the can. The whole can.”
“I can’t give you the can. We need to make these beers last.”
“But I’m in the band,” I told her. “The band gets free beer. Everyone knows that.”
“I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this,” she huffed. “I mean, you guys haven’t even played yet.”
“It’s not our goddamn fault!” I said, and a couple people turned around to see why I was raising my voice. An overweight woman in a pink shirt shook her head disapprovingly.
“These people hate you,” the attendant hissed. She slammed a full can of beer on the sill of her window. I took the can and walked back, not saying a word.
“Dude, what is wrong with you?” Kevin asked as I came onstage. “What, are you starting fights with the drink bitch now? Everyone was looking at you. You should have seen Andy—he stopped smiling for a minute and everything.”
I fished a cigarette out of my pack. The last one.
“Fuck Andy,” I said.
I looked into the crowd and saw flickering candle-flames only. From the darkness, someone called, “Start!” Others joined in, and a chant began. I checked my phone. 8 p.m. I exhaled a long breath of smoke and savored how effortlessly it came from my mouth, that nothing could keep it from escaping upward, where it insisted it belonged. “Let’s just do it,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The band followed my cue, but before I could play, the sound of trumpets came blaring over the fence. The four of us stood frozen for a moment, listening carefully as the sound quickly revealed itself as a mariachi band. A fucking mariachi band had just started playing right next door. I heard more murmuring from the darkness, and looked to the only three faces I could see. My band shrugged, and I shrugged back. We were going to play. We took a collective breath, and as I pressed my fingers into the key for that first, sweet note, the noise that fell upon my ears was incredibly mediocre. The instruments sounded fine, but it was impossible to hear anyone’s voice. We pushed through the first song, and a light applause trickled from the crowd. I put my lips to the mic and made a joke about the mariachi band. No one laughed. I saw John’s head drop from where he was sitting, practically buried beneath the drum set. I played one of my tunes, and the sad, thoughtful choruses clashed awfully with the jolly horns next door. Less applause that time, and even less for the next two.
When we finished our fourth song, which was just halfway through our set, Andy appeared onstage, smiling and waving at the audience as he came close to my ear. “What do you say we get the next band on for a bit, and have you guys finish out in an hour?”
I pulled back and looked into Andy’s face, inspected each perfect, glowing tooth. As if I could’ve said no, in front of all the people I couldn’t see but I knew were there, fidgeting uncomfortably in their seats, beyond total disappointment with the band that stood around for an hour and a half. I could feel the attendant watching from her window, heard her crusty voice replaying itself in my mind: These people hate you. I doubted she was wrong. “That,” I said softy, “would be great.” I thanked the crowd, motioned to my band, and we stepped out of the lights and into blackness.
The mariachi music continued, but if the Johnny Steele band could hear it, they didn’t show. They did a quick rearrangement of the stage, rerouted a few wires, and hit it. Their sound came pouring forth with the bold precision of the radio. These were not originals, but covers of Steely Dan, Sublime—artists the audience didn’t only know, but loved. Heads started bobbing, feet started tapping, and Johnny Steele howled while smashing an expensive tambourine against his hip. I heard someone whisper to his wife, “See, now this is actually pretty good.”
Seth and Kevin were getting drinks—I had refused to go back to the Libation Station—so I stood with John by the fence, smoking one of the few remaining cigarettes he had left. We didn’t say anything for a long time. Like myself, John is a self-proclaimed asshole, and no verbal communication was necessary to convey the loathing for Johnny Steele we both shared. It wasn’t until he started singing “Sweet Home Alabama” that John said, “I fucking hate this band,” and walked away. Seth and Kevin arrived a minute later.
“Yo Roberto,” Seth said, “Kevin and I had to apologize before that girl with the braces would give us any beer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Isn’t she the worst?”
“I dunno,” Seth said, taking a drink. “She seemed pretty nice.” When Kevin nodded in agreement, I walked away, too. I found John sitting by the car, putting the finishing touches on a spliff he had just rolled up.
“Splife?” I asked.
“Splife for life,” he said, lighting the tip of the cone. He took a few pulls and passed it over. I held the smoke in my lungs, savoring it like a profound thought. As my mind relaxed, it settled on Johnny Steele, who had since begun singing the requested “Blackbird.” Steele didn’t write his own music, obviously, but he was what people wanted. Familiarity. These were the songs that people had listened to a thousand times, had been conditioned to love by mainstream music; his purple sunglasses and mane of gold hair were comfortable, understandable symbols. People recognize a musician in cut off jeans and a tight t-shirt; they panic when the bass player is wearing a trench-coat. Plus, I bet that smooth asshole put a donation in every time he got a drink.
“There is no way I’m finishing that set,” I said when I handed him the spliff. “These people hate us.”
“Not as much as I hate them,” John said, throwing the roach into the street.
I was thinking of how to tell Andy we couldn’t finish the set, wishing that, when I had first gotten there, I had used that line about my parents being killed. Suddenly, the street erupted in the harsh red-and-blue blare of police lights as three cruisers pulled up in front of the house. It turned out that Andy’s school of music had failed to check if neighbors would mind were they to host an outdoor show. I didn’t see Andy talk to the cops, but I could imagine him grinning widely, slipping out of a door as they tried to ask him something, guilty enough to be in question, but innocent enough to walk away smiling. When the cops finally left, the four of us took the stage, congratulated The Johnny Steele band on their set, and began gathering our cords from the tangle. The drummer complained about how they hadn’t been able to play their entire 22-song list. Then, Andy came on stage and put a paw on one of Johnny Steele’s bowling-ball shoulders. They shook hands awkwardly, the way people shake hands when one person is handing the other a folded check. I looked over, hoping my band hadn’t seen, but everyone shook their head in disgust. For us, the show hadn’t paid.
We didn’t talk as we packed the rest of our equipment. Everything was put in its proper place and carried to the car, some of the larger amps moved with the assistance of the junior high mafia. As we were getting ready to leave, the tallest teen, Andy’s kid, grabbed me by the shirt-sleeve. “Andy would like to speak with you,” he said, as if he were taking me to see the Don.
I followed him inside and upstairs, and saw Andy sitting in a plush, brown-leather chair, holding a glass of whiskey on ice as he stared wistfully into darkness. “Dad,” the teen said, and disappeared.
Andy stood up smiling. His breath was sharp with alcohol, but his grin didn’t sag a bit. “Great,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “Great show tonight. I love the cops, you know what I mean?”
I wanted to agree with him, but it was hard for me not to imagine him asking us off the stage without a police hat and baton himself. As far as I was concerned, our party had been crashed forty-five minutes ago. “We really appreciate the opportunity,” I said.
But Andy was already turned around, grabbing something from a tabletop, which he brought back over. “We’re having a little Octoberfest concert here—what do you say?”
I took the flyer between my fingertips, and looked up. I smiled as big and bright as Andy, and for a moment, it was like we had two spotlights shining into each others’ face. For the first time that evening, I curled my lips all the way up to expose my waxy-yellow teeth, the under-bite that can begin to look grotesque if I grin long enough, the way a word sounds funny if you say it too many times. I wanted Andy to see my teeth, the food caked in the gums around my canines. I wanted him to smell the fumes drifting out of my esophagus. He faltered slightly beneath my unrelenting demon’s grin, and I moved an inch closer, the hair on the back of my neck prickling as the mariachi music crept in through the open window. “Andy,” I said, so close I could smell my cigarette breath rolling right off of him. “We would love to.”
Friday, September 25, 2009
When I smoke a whole pack of cigarettes
It took a long time to unfold myself this morning, to wipe the crust from around my mouth and eyes. Getting up was like yanking the rip-cord four times before the engine howled and sputtered into life. Today is day five in Seattle.
King of the Cats, last night--wine, poems, and cigarettes--and music the night before. Tonight I'm getting lost in a small apartment this side of Capitol Hill. Small blue pills have been helping me through my days, but at night, my lungs harden into bricks. It's time to quit smoking, although the prospect of doing so today is fucked, because today is Friday.
Coffee helps. Small blue pills are better. Just kidding. My family reads this, so I'm only kidding.
Today I feel good. It took a little while, that crusty unfolding I told you about, but now that I've scooped the sleep out of my eyes and soaked my lungs in boiling-hot water, I can see clearly and breathe nearly as well. I inhale the swaying trees as Autumn clutches at the roots, peeling leaves away while inside the trunk, a cancerous tar sinks in.
King of the Cats, last night--wine, poems, and cigarettes--and music the night before. Tonight I'm getting lost in a small apartment this side of Capitol Hill. Small blue pills have been helping me through my days, but at night, my lungs harden into bricks. It's time to quit smoking, although the prospect of doing so today is fucked, because today is Friday.
Coffee helps. Small blue pills are better. Just kidding. My family reads this, so I'm only kidding.
Today I feel good. It took a little while, that crusty unfolding I told you about, but now that I've scooped the sleep out of my eyes and soaked my lungs in boiling-hot water, I can see clearly and breathe nearly as well. I inhale the swaying trees as Autumn clutches at the roots, peeling leaves away while inside the trunk, a cancerous tar sinks in.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
3 poems about love (kind of [but not really] sort of)
In an effort to pretend like I'm consistently creating content for this blog, here are three poems which were not specifically written for it. Crazy, right?
Paper Dolls
Held to the glass by a touch of scotch tape,
her snowflake stirs against the cold.
Its spires trace back to that point of explosive radiation,
the incision,
the idea.
When it came down a foot thick,
we climbed the hill that overlooked the city,
and you said you could see everything.
It was the first time you held your fingers to the veins in my wrist,
joining our cuffs like two in a string of paper dolls.
Inventory
Blue eyes, blue jeans,
and a little blue scowl
like a winter-bred flower:
all piled in your back seat,
all leaving in an hour.
It’s more than just books you’re taking,
forks, knives, and spoons;
it’s pancakes, it’s gardening,
it’s how to pick out fresh fruit.
I kept humor and insults—
the better part of our wit
now clutters my shelves.
Our vocab was yours though,
and my city-bus know-how
wouldn’t do much down south.
I can fry my own eggs
but I still fuck up the toast,
and while you won’t believe
in ghosts anymore,
you’ve still got blue,
and blue was always
my favorite color.
Ex-Sleazy-Nasties
The dashboard thermostat hits 101°,
and while this heat wave is nothing new,
lately it’s got people talking. For instance,
when I brush my teeth, my gums won’t stop bleeding;
syrup-thick swallows signal back to a 12-year-old
sex talk, when mom said AIDS came from sleeping
with someone who was sick:
see Ruthie; see Vicky; see Julie. 103°.
“How many people have there been?”
I wonder how many are still left to go -
sorry - I hope that doesn’t sound vain to you,
you, who’s wind I’m chasing already,
ashes upon the wake of empty freeway lanes.
But forget your ex, my ex, all names ending with an “E.”
Let’s take a cold shower. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Wet hair feels so good on nights like these.
Paper Dolls
Held to the glass by a touch of scotch tape,
her snowflake stirs against the cold.
Its spires trace back to that point of explosive radiation,
the incision,
the idea.
When it came down a foot thick,
we climbed the hill that overlooked the city,
and you said you could see everything.
It was the first time you held your fingers to the veins in my wrist,
joining our cuffs like two in a string of paper dolls.
Inventory
Blue eyes, blue jeans,
and a little blue scowl
like a winter-bred flower:
all piled in your back seat,
all leaving in an hour.
It’s more than just books you’re taking,
forks, knives, and spoons;
it’s pancakes, it’s gardening,
it’s how to pick out fresh fruit.
I kept humor and insults—
the better part of our wit
now clutters my shelves.
Our vocab was yours though,
and my city-bus know-how
wouldn’t do much down south.
I can fry my own eggs
but I still fuck up the toast,
and while you won’t believe
in ghosts anymore,
you’ve still got blue,
and blue was always
my favorite color.
Ex-Sleazy-Nasties
The dashboard thermostat hits 101°,
and while this heat wave is nothing new,
lately it’s got people talking. For instance,
when I brush my teeth, my gums won’t stop bleeding;
syrup-thick swallows signal back to a 12-year-old
sex talk, when mom said AIDS came from sleeping
with someone who was sick:
see Ruthie; see Vicky; see Julie. 103°.
“How many people have there been?”
I wonder how many are still left to go -
sorry - I hope that doesn’t sound vain to you,
you, who’s wind I’m chasing already,
ashes upon the wake of empty freeway lanes.
But forget your ex, my ex, all names ending with an “E.”
Let’s take a cold shower. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Wet hair feels so good on nights like these.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
"Failsafe," a short about what really happens in an astronauts shorts
It takes Astronaut Thirkill two hours to get out of bed. When he finally frees himself from his sheets, he drifts lazily from his bunk to the cabin, parting the small galaxies of food crumbs that float in his path. He wears only his underwear, standard-issue whitey-tighties. It has been 395 days since Astronaut Thirkill last wore pants.
This morning, the station is angled so that sunlight floods the porthole window, providing Thirkill an alternative source of Vitamin D to his daily pill. He sails to the observation chair and tells the Atomic Materializer, a plain metal box, to materialize him a beer. It whirs and dings. Thirkill cracks the seal and sends foam spraying upward, only then noticing Earth in view through the porthole window.
Thirkill sighs, stretches the muscles in his neck. His planet looks like a dirt clod. He imagines what it must have looked like in the days of Eden, wrapped in its green-and-blue cloak, its surface abundant with ferns and trees and fruit. He thinks specifically of apples, shiny-red and dripping juice, perfect the way materialized ones never are.
Then, something warm nudges against his leg, something he hasn’t felt in weeks: an erection. He peers beneath the waistband of his drawers in disbelief. He wonders how long it’s been since he tried touching himself.
The astronaut stares at his penis in the cabin’s sterile lighting, as if it were a long division problem he was trying to solve in his head. Finally, he clears his throat, rubs his face, and slides his underwear down to his ankles. He squeezes himself, but his hands are cold. Space cold. He shakes it off, starts moving his arm up and down, continues for a full minute before he’s stung by self-consciousness, a suspicion that something outside the window might suddenly catch him with his half-limp dick in hand. He pushes the thought out of his mind. He keeps his eyes open. He looks at what’s left of Earth.
He remembers that when it happened, he laughed. It was like laughing at a bad car accident, or a heart attack. He covered his mouth, stifling the escape of his macabre guffaw and his exclamation of, Good Lord! It was something about the soundlessness of the tiny mushroom clouds, each one popping up and settling into an itty-bitty ocean of dust. There was no laughter after the first shock, though—Thirkill watched the rest of the spectacle in horror. Once the flaring finally subsided, the entire earth fell quiet under its own soot.
During that first year, he avoided masturbating entirely, instead tending to his secondary duties. He preformed routine maintenance procedures. He exercised regularly. He continued to eat a balanced diet of space fruits and vegetables materialized by the ship’s Atomic Materializer.
Still, there was the mission: the ten-thousand ova, cryogenically frozen, each one awaiting the application of “genetically superior” human sperm.
Genetically superior. The term gave him the heebie-jeebies every time he considered it; it was one of the details he never told Marlene about before the launch. His wife—his sweet, picture-book wife—had been distressed enough facing the prospect of not seeing her husband for a decade while he manned a space station in solitude. Thirkill didn’t think she needed to know they chose him because of his perfect health, his perfect build, and his perfect sperm.
370 days after the blasts, the earth reemerged, pock-marked and gray, its oceans oozing like picked-over wounds. Thirkill bit hard on his lip, felt that his feelings for Earth were not unlike what he would have felt for the child he never had. He went to the lab, stripped down, and endeavored to complete his mission.
But he couldn’t do it, not that day, or the day after. That first week became a daily routine of disappointment and determination to try again. A small dossier of pornography had been included in the lab, but Thirkill couldn’t bring himself to look at it. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and thought about his wife, her face, how she always smelled of fresh apple pie, only to realize that now, on Earth, what remained of her was a speck of dust that had been her body on the pile of dust that had been their couch on the mound of dust that had been their home in the crater that had been… There just wasn’t anything there.
After the fourteenth failure, Thirkill began to despair. He stopped exercising. He used the Atomic Materializer to materialize beer. He got space drunk, had space hangovers. He entered what he now considers his long-term space depression. It has been 779 days since Astronaut Thirkill saw his home planet disappear under a nuclear rash; it has been 780 since his last orgasm.
Still seated in the observation chair, Thirkill presses his forehead against the glass. The station rotates away from the sun, and the exposed skin on his thighs feels cold, pricks up in goose-bumps. He’s still pumping his arm mechanically, looking now only into the vast emptiness of space. He knows that if he can bring himself to orgasm—just one, measly ejaculation—he can forge new life out of the dust of the old world.
But there’s just nothing there.
This morning, the station is angled so that sunlight floods the porthole window, providing Thirkill an alternative source of Vitamin D to his daily pill. He sails to the observation chair and tells the Atomic Materializer, a plain metal box, to materialize him a beer. It whirs and dings. Thirkill cracks the seal and sends foam spraying upward, only then noticing Earth in view through the porthole window.
Thirkill sighs, stretches the muscles in his neck. His planet looks like a dirt clod. He imagines what it must have looked like in the days of Eden, wrapped in its green-and-blue cloak, its surface abundant with ferns and trees and fruit. He thinks specifically of apples, shiny-red and dripping juice, perfect the way materialized ones never are.
Then, something warm nudges against his leg, something he hasn’t felt in weeks: an erection. He peers beneath the waistband of his drawers in disbelief. He wonders how long it’s been since he tried touching himself.
The astronaut stares at his penis in the cabin’s sterile lighting, as if it were a long division problem he was trying to solve in his head. Finally, he clears his throat, rubs his face, and slides his underwear down to his ankles. He squeezes himself, but his hands are cold. Space cold. He shakes it off, starts moving his arm up and down, continues for a full minute before he’s stung by self-consciousness, a suspicion that something outside the window might suddenly catch him with his half-limp dick in hand. He pushes the thought out of his mind. He keeps his eyes open. He looks at what’s left of Earth.
He remembers that when it happened, he laughed. It was like laughing at a bad car accident, or a heart attack. He covered his mouth, stifling the escape of his macabre guffaw and his exclamation of, Good Lord! It was something about the soundlessness of the tiny mushroom clouds, each one popping up and settling into an itty-bitty ocean of dust. There was no laughter after the first shock, though—Thirkill watched the rest of the spectacle in horror. Once the flaring finally subsided, the entire earth fell quiet under its own soot.
During that first year, he avoided masturbating entirely, instead tending to his secondary duties. He preformed routine maintenance procedures. He exercised regularly. He continued to eat a balanced diet of space fruits and vegetables materialized by the ship’s Atomic Materializer.
Still, there was the mission: the ten-thousand ova, cryogenically frozen, each one awaiting the application of “genetically superior” human sperm.
Genetically superior. The term gave him the heebie-jeebies every time he considered it; it was one of the details he never told Marlene about before the launch. His wife—his sweet, picture-book wife—had been distressed enough facing the prospect of not seeing her husband for a decade while he manned a space station in solitude. Thirkill didn’t think she needed to know they chose him because of his perfect health, his perfect build, and his perfect sperm.
370 days after the blasts, the earth reemerged, pock-marked and gray, its oceans oozing like picked-over wounds. Thirkill bit hard on his lip, felt that his feelings for Earth were not unlike what he would have felt for the child he never had. He went to the lab, stripped down, and endeavored to complete his mission.
But he couldn’t do it, not that day, or the day after. That first week became a daily routine of disappointment and determination to try again. A small dossier of pornography had been included in the lab, but Thirkill couldn’t bring himself to look at it. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and thought about his wife, her face, how she always smelled of fresh apple pie, only to realize that now, on Earth, what remained of her was a speck of dust that had been her body on the pile of dust that had been their couch on the mound of dust that had been their home in the crater that had been… There just wasn’t anything there.
After the fourteenth failure, Thirkill began to despair. He stopped exercising. He used the Atomic Materializer to materialize beer. He got space drunk, had space hangovers. He entered what he now considers his long-term space depression. It has been 779 days since Astronaut Thirkill saw his home planet disappear under a nuclear rash; it has been 780 since his last orgasm.
Still seated in the observation chair, Thirkill presses his forehead against the glass. The station rotates away from the sun, and the exposed skin on his thighs feels cold, pricks up in goose-bumps. He’s still pumping his arm mechanically, looking now only into the vast emptiness of space. He knows that if he can bring himself to orgasm—just one, measly ejaculation—he can forge new life out of the dust of the old world.
But there’s just nothing there.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
My Craigslist Obsession Yields Semi-Humorous Results
Have I mentioned my Craigslist obsession? No? Good--better not to. Just know that, at some random hour in the early, early morning, I found a young woman who needed a certified teacher, grade-school teacher, preferably, to answer a number of questions for a college-assignment she was working on. Now, although I'm not a teacher, I figured I might be able to help her out anyway. The following is copy-and-pasted from my email:
Robert Fitzgerald to pers-d4g88-135.
Still need help with that project?
Colleen to me
Yes please! :)
Robert Fitzgerald to Colleen
What do you need to know?
Colleen to me
Well, I have 5 questions, they require an explanation, so if you could please answer them? Also, I tend to ask a lot of questions and like to be very detailed, so if I have any questions about your answers, then may I ask them? (I have to write an essay on our interview). Oh! and just as a little background, what grade and subjects do you teach and for how long have you taught them?
1. What are some examples of typical, quick decisions teachers make on a daily basis?
2. What was the impact of those decisions on the classroom environment?
3. Were the decisions effective?
4. What steps do you take when making a difficult decision in the classroom?
5. Have you ever made a bad decision? If so, how did it turn out? Did you do anything to rectify it? If so, what did you do?
6. What were the 5 most difficult school-related decisions you made this week? What made them difficult?
Thank you sooooo much, your a superstar :)
Robert Fitzgerald to Colleen
1. What are some examples of typical, quick decisions teachers make on a daily basis?
Well, first things first: kids are crazy. And I mean crazy. I’ve been teaching primary school for sixteen years now, and I swear to God Almighty I’ve seen kids do unspeakable things, survive mortal danger, and say the darndest things (heh-I stole that one from Bill Cosby, if you didn’t notice). So you want to talk about quick decisions? How about, do you stop Tommy from swallowing the rest of the marbles he’s holding from his hand, or to you stop Suzie from taking out Beth’s eye with an umbrella? The quick decisions I make all involve collateral damage. I mean, the thing is that kids are going to get hurt—that’s just a given. You can’t have an entire demographic of people that do things like ride down the stairs in a laundry basket, or “play knights” with broomsticks and red flyer wagons and expect them to not get hurt. So, I try and make the big saves, stop the really irreversible stuff.
2. What was the impact of those decisions on the classroom environment?
I honestly believe that if a teacher’s decisions had any impact whatsoever on a classroom environment, less of my friends would have quit the district to work at the post office.
3. Were the decisions effective?
In the case I cited in question one, yes. My decision to prevent one student from gouging out another’s eye with an umbrella prevented the loss of that student’s eye. Sometimes you’re not so lucky, though, and that’s when you realize that’s all it is: luck. I mean, one kid has both his legs and plays football, another one only has murderball as a legitimate sporting activity. And have you seen murderball? It’s crazy, and it’s bad luck for anybody who has to play it.
4. What steps do you take when making a difficult decision in the classroom?
Well the most important thing is yelling really loud so that the kids will be quiet and I can think. When everything is good and silent, I like to sit down, because I find that my thoughts are less likely to wander off if I’m in a sitting position (I guess you could say I take no “steps” in decision making, huh?). And I mean, you have to think of the kids’ feelings too. You have to not yell too loud at the ones that cry easily.
5. Have you ever made a bad decision? If so, how did it turn out? Did you do anything to rectify it? If so, what did you do?
I don’t know that there is such a thing as a “bad” decision. Personally, I’m a believer in predestination—that’s John’s word. If God has ordained every action I’m to ever take, how can any of them be bad? It’s a logical fallacy that keeps people down, and will continue to until people learn to reimagine our relationship with time. Honestly—that’s what you kids should be learning about now, at whatever school you’re in. You should put this in your letter: That it doesn’t matter how much math, science, or whatever you feed these kids: if the general way we perceive our existence remains the same, there can be no spiritual growth.
6. What were the 5 most difficult school-related decisions you made this week? What made them difficult?
Well seeing as how these last five questions were all about school, and I just did them, technically, this week, I’m going to shave to say the five decisions I’ve just made in answering these questions.
Colleen to me
Thanks a bunch!
Okay so I realize its really late so feel free to answer these questions in the morning.
Q.5: I suppose what I should have asked is if any of the decisions you had made backfired or if you regretted making them, I understand what you mean about predestination and I do not mean to focus on the negative aspect of situations.
Q.6:I do realize that it is still summer vacation, so are you planning anything or deciding something for the upcoming year?
Robert Fitzgerald to Colleen
Q.5 I don't think God's plan "backfires," and thus, I don't regret anything that happens. Sometimes his plan can be cruel, or hurtful, but I only try and understand.
Q.6 See above.
Robert Fitzgerald to pers-d4g88-135.
Still need help with that project?
Colleen to me
Yes please! :)
Robert Fitzgerald to Colleen
What do you need to know?
Colleen to me
Well, I have 5 questions, they require an explanation, so if you could please answer them? Also, I tend to ask a lot of questions and like to be very detailed, so if I have any questions about your answers, then may I ask them? (I have to write an essay on our interview). Oh! and just as a little background, what grade and subjects do you teach and for how long have you taught them?
1. What are some examples of typical, quick decisions teachers make on a daily basis?
2. What was the impact of those decisions on the classroom environment?
3. Were the decisions effective?
4. What steps do you take when making a difficult decision in the classroom?
5. Have you ever made a bad decision? If so, how did it turn out? Did you do anything to rectify it? If so, what did you do?
6. What were the 5 most difficult school-related decisions you made this week? What made them difficult?
Thank you sooooo much, your a superstar :)
Robert Fitzgerald to Colleen
1. What are some examples of typical, quick decisions teachers make on a daily basis?
Well, first things first: kids are crazy. And I mean crazy. I’ve been teaching primary school for sixteen years now, and I swear to God Almighty I’ve seen kids do unspeakable things, survive mortal danger, and say the darndest things (heh-I stole that one from Bill Cosby, if you didn’t notice). So you want to talk about quick decisions? How about, do you stop Tommy from swallowing the rest of the marbles he’s holding from his hand, or to you stop Suzie from taking out Beth’s eye with an umbrella? The quick decisions I make all involve collateral damage. I mean, the thing is that kids are going to get hurt—that’s just a given. You can’t have an entire demographic of people that do things like ride down the stairs in a laundry basket, or “play knights” with broomsticks and red flyer wagons and expect them to not get hurt. So, I try and make the big saves, stop the really irreversible stuff.
2. What was the impact of those decisions on the classroom environment?
I honestly believe that if a teacher’s decisions had any impact whatsoever on a classroom environment, less of my friends would have quit the district to work at the post office.
3. Were the decisions effective?
In the case I cited in question one, yes. My decision to prevent one student from gouging out another’s eye with an umbrella prevented the loss of that student’s eye. Sometimes you’re not so lucky, though, and that’s when you realize that’s all it is: luck. I mean, one kid has both his legs and plays football, another one only has murderball as a legitimate sporting activity. And have you seen murderball? It’s crazy, and it’s bad luck for anybody who has to play it.
4. What steps do you take when making a difficult decision in the classroom?
Well the most important thing is yelling really loud so that the kids will be quiet and I can think. When everything is good and silent, I like to sit down, because I find that my thoughts are less likely to wander off if I’m in a sitting position (I guess you could say I take no “steps” in decision making, huh?). And I mean, you have to think of the kids’ feelings too. You have to not yell too loud at the ones that cry easily.
5. Have you ever made a bad decision? If so, how did it turn out? Did you do anything to rectify it? If so, what did you do?
I don’t know that there is such a thing as a “bad” decision. Personally, I’m a believer in predestination—that’s John’s word. If God has ordained every action I’m to ever take, how can any of them be bad? It’s a logical fallacy that keeps people down, and will continue to until people learn to reimagine our relationship with time. Honestly—that’s what you kids should be learning about now, at whatever school you’re in. You should put this in your letter: That it doesn’t matter how much math, science, or whatever you feed these kids: if the general way we perceive our existence remains the same, there can be no spiritual growth.
6. What were the 5 most difficult school-related decisions you made this week? What made them difficult?
Well seeing as how these last five questions were all about school, and I just did them, technically, this week, I’m going to shave to say the five decisions I’ve just made in answering these questions.
Colleen to me
Thanks a bunch!
Okay so I realize its really late so feel free to answer these questions in the morning.
Q.5: I suppose what I should have asked is if any of the decisions you had made backfired or if you regretted making them, I understand what you mean about predestination and I do not mean to focus on the negative aspect of situations.
Q.6:I do realize that it is still summer vacation, so are you planning anything or deciding something for the upcoming year?
Robert Fitzgerald to Colleen
Q.5 I don't think God's plan "backfires," and thus, I don't regret anything that happens. Sometimes his plan can be cruel, or hurtful, but I only try and understand.
Q.6 See above.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Thought sketches
Today, Tuesday. Woke up with same pain behind left eye. Made egg & potato scramble, but realized halfway through we were out of eggs. Ate potato scramble. 50 percent delicious.
Today, Tuesday. Finished college last week. Still dreaming about class. Reading "Watchmen," talking like Rorschach as a result. Sorry; will stop in near future.
Today, Tuesday. Now living with uncle and cousin. Uncle is a disabled pessimist with chronic knee pain and accompanying groans; cousin is a 13 year old smart-ass. Love them both, but having trouble adjusting. Lapdog is called Bobo; lower teeth jut out like a pirate's, but Uncle believes he's smiling. Best housemate is a nameless snake. A bit clingy, but warm. Calling him "Bob" for now.
Today, Tuesday. Pretending I'm batman. Waiting as long as possible to take a shower. Not writing. Not yet. Ideas for writing (look for the following this coming week):
*Comic Strip: Melville & Me
Comic strip features Herman Melville and myself sharing an apartment in the 1850s. I am an acclaimed romantic poet; Melville, of course, is failing miserably. Most jokes will consist of philosophical insights by Melville, and childish put-downs by myself.
*Short Story: Failsafe
This is a short story I wrote for a reading a while back, about an astronaut who has to masturbate to save humanity. I'm going to give it a look-over this week and put it up for y'all to enjoy ("y'all" being Me when I later read this blog).
*Other Assorted Bullshit
You know, poems, pieces of stories, pieces of a novel I might/might not be working on... It'll flow. It'll flow.
Today, Tuesday. Finished college last week. Still dreaming about class. Reading "Watchmen," talking like Rorschach as a result. Sorry; will stop in near future.
Today, Tuesday. Now living with uncle and cousin. Uncle is a disabled pessimist with chronic knee pain and accompanying groans; cousin is a 13 year old smart-ass. Love them both, but having trouble adjusting. Lapdog is called Bobo; lower teeth jut out like a pirate's, but Uncle believes he's smiling. Best housemate is a nameless snake. A bit clingy, but warm. Calling him "Bob" for now.
Today, Tuesday. Pretending I'm batman. Waiting as long as possible to take a shower. Not writing. Not yet. Ideas for writing (look for the following this coming week):
*Comic Strip: Melville & Me
Comic strip features Herman Melville and myself sharing an apartment in the 1850s. I am an acclaimed romantic poet; Melville, of course, is failing miserably. Most jokes will consist of philosophical insights by Melville, and childish put-downs by myself.
*Short Story: Failsafe
This is a short story I wrote for a reading a while back, about an astronaut who has to masturbate to save humanity. I'm going to give it a look-over this week and put it up for y'all to enjoy ("y'all" being Me when I later read this blog).
*Other Assorted Bullshit
You know, poems, pieces of stories, pieces of a novel I might/might not be working on... It'll flow. It'll flow.
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