Monday, October 02, 2006
In some ways,I went that way. But I realize that religion is a cheap, easy, and abused way to prove niceness. So, I just use the things I'm good at to help me along the way. Writing, for one, is easy. And I hope it makes me a better, trustable guy. And I'm also a musician [guitar], and I hope that helps too.
Now that I think of it, I've always been religious by being a punk rocker with morals.
The punk rock lifestyle lead me to my wife. And from my wife to zines. And from zines to writing in general.
Writing, like I said, is my way to gain trust. So I hope my writing doesn't make you sick and naseous.
[P.S. Is anybody actually following my story. If so, let me know, I'll finish trascribing it.]
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Later, in the kitchen, I sit down to a bowl of Choco Dynobites and a huge cup of coffee. The steam from the cup sways hypnotically in my peripheral vision as I read the latest Burgand book.
I pack my lunch, a turkey sandwich and orange. It's been the same lunch for the last two years. On my way out, I give the cat a quick, but attentive stroke and she arches her back in pleasure.
The drive to work is smooth. I'm half asleep which doesn't matter because I know exactly where all of th potholes are, and I know that you should always in front of the bus before it gets to Prospect otherwise I'll be stuck behind if for a good half mile.
I hit green lights all of the way and punch in at 6:58. I run on automatic , even when I'm sleeping. I should just sleep all of the time. I guess with a routine this dull it beats being awake.
[I plan on putting out smaller, easily-digestable parts like this one. I hope this will make it easier to digest...Blogs are cool because, even though it's a pretty lenghty story, I can seperate it into sections. And the sections flow continuously to make the story as I published it...
Speaking of publishing. I sorta miss reading shit on paper...Woops - I mean STUFF on paper... No, I don't examine my used toilet paper after pooping.]
Friday, September 15, 2006
"I'll give you a print when it's done," he said.
"That'd be great," I said.
I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Tobias was still in the living room with the block in his hand, shaking his head in dismay. He plunked it down carelessly, and looked at it for a few seconds. His fingers probed his cocktail glass for the olive. After pulling it out, fingers wet with gin, he popped it in his mouth and chewed it violently. He then turned off his desk lamp and hobbled back to the kitchen.
"You're right. You know, that thing about being a starving artist. I know that you have to throw yourself into it to be successful..."
"No," I said, "I was just messing with you. I'm sure there are plenty of artists that have never suffered." I could tell that my bid to make him feel a little better came too late.
The record ran out, and Tobias made no move to put a new one on. I could hear the repeating crackle of it, but he payed no heed.
"Christ, I'm hungry," he said with a change in his voice, trying to shake off his slump. "You want something to eat?"
"No, I gotta get going," I said.
I grabbed my windbreaker as Tobias heated up a can of beef stew on the stove. "Make sure you turn that thing off when you're done," I said, taking heed of his drunkeness. He grunted, head hanging, looking into the brown, chunky sludge. He looked tragically comic, with the wooden spoon in one hand, stirring,an inch and half of ash dangerously defying gravity.
"See ya tomorrow," I said, closing the door behind me.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
We sat in his well-decorated kitchen and listened to some soul. The open face cupboards were crammed with 50s-style appliances - half of which didn't work. And even it they did, he wouldn't know how to use them. Every object in his apartment serves an aesthetic purpose. It's all arranged strategically, with balance in mind. From the 1930's time clock to the nouveau bread box collection. It's tasteful, yes. And when I'm at his place I wish I had the energy to be as stylish as him.
As he bitched about his nympho girlfriend, I found myself particularly drawn to the art deco, metal popcorn popper. It almost seemed like a prop from an old sci-fi movie.
My gaze shifted toward the kitchen window. It was raining, and the gutter must've been clogged because a small stream of water drizzled down from above. The half-vacant parking lot below was spotty with oily, rainbow-colored puddles. It was an ugly, but welcome, reminder of spring.
"Man, I'm so glad winter's over," I said.
"I enjoy Wisconsin weather. I hate the heat," he said. "I'm more of a cold weather person."
"Yeah, but don't you ever get depressed," I responded. "I mean everything is sleeping - it feels like death. The sun sets at four o' clock. And half the time you don't even see because we're stuck in that fucking sweatshop most of the time."
"Now come on. I don't mind working there," he said.
I had had too many drinks to refrain my pessimism. "Did you get a degree to satisfy you aspirations to paint portraits of rich people?"
"Oh, come on, don't start with the whole starving artist bit. That's a cliché and you know it. Besides, I have bills to pay," he said.
"Do you still want to make a living off of your art?"
"Yes, of course. But I'm a realist."
"Have you worked on any of your prints lately?" I asked.
"As a matter of fact, I have," he said, going to the kitchen counter where the open bottle of gin sat. "Let me fix another drink, and I'll show you."
I took the opportunity and excused myself and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, as I pissed, I noticed the toiletries on the shelf in front of me: tortoise shell nail clippers, matching comb and brush, 1940's safety razor - all items he doesn't use. I flushed and washed my hands. On the sink ledge lay, in stark contrast, his functional items: Barbasol, pomade, toothbrush with ratty bristles, tube of toothpaste. I must've caught Tobias off guard because normally these items are hidden in the medicine cabinet.
I walked out to the living room, and the heat hit me. I took off my sweater. God, it was miserably hot. The heater sat in the middle of the living room. It was an industrial-sized piece of machinery. The air coming out of it must've bee 100 degrees, literally. "Man, Tobias you need to turn the heat off." He gave me a drunk grunt of indifference. I don't think Tobias knew how to operate the thermostat. He's afraid at what might happen. Most of the trinkets in his pad were purely aesthetic. Laden with knobs and dials that didn't work anymore. Tobias is just used to that , turning dials that just don't work anymore. Face with something functional, something linked to a chain of events with a conclusive purpose, he's at a loss. I just put up with the heat.
Tobias was kind of wobbly and had a hard time flipping the record. After finally getting it into position, he placed the needle down scratchingly. The music, Aretha Arrives, plays medium loud.
Pre-coma, I used to right prolifically. Writing is something I'm slowly approaching again.
It's not a story that's split into chapters. But, to make it easier to read online, I'll make small chapters out of it. I'll probably publish a chapter daily until the story's finished. ENJOY!
Sunday, September 10, 2006
When - or maybe I should say "if" - I get back on two wheels again, I'm definitely going to get one of these: Xtracycle. They call it the "Sport Utility Bicycle". And it's great because it shows that one can have alot of the benefits of an automobile on a bike.
Why do I have to be crippled!?! I'd love to try one.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
On the show today, they aired a poem written by Jason [age 10], Josh[age 8], and Jeremy [age 6].
It's a beautiful poem. It goes like this:
Whammys, whammys in the air
Those little varments are everywhere
Even in the ocean blue
We love you, the Great Whammu!
Monday, September 04, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Sure, one might be able to stop it now. But when that person dies, thier lies can be exposed.
Friday, August 11, 2006
I want to write a Salinger inspired story. But my story will be set in the ghetto. And, because it's set in the ghetto, I'll cram full of things like nonchallant crack smoking.
I could also make whitetrash characters that live in trailor parks. I'll load the stories with nonchallant smoking. And drinking good beer like "Busch Light".
Thursday, August 10, 2006
According to her own account and the accounts of others in the North Fork Campground who would later be questioned by the diocesan committee, by Father Collins of Saint Joseph's of North Fork, by the bishop's representative, and by reporter covering the purported apparitions - including tabloid journalist who treated the story like a visitation by martians or the birth of a two-headed infant- the girl left her camp before eight o'clock and walked alone in the woods.
Yes, that is only one sentence!
Thursday, August 03, 2006
In my vision of the future, science has progressed so much that we now have the ability to obliterate the entire planet with one touch of a button.
The Earth's end will come during a time of war. The only way to win this war is to mass annialate the "enemy". And, in doing so, we greatly damage the environment. And, because everything depends on the environment for survival, it has a huge effect.
I'm a big proponent of evolution. And one can say "survival of the fittest" will solve the problem. But, the change in the environment would be so drastic that gene mutation won't be able to keep up.
Now, I also know of ways to prevent this bleak future...
We must keep our educated. They should also be aware that every decision they make - no matter how small - has a role in the Earth's future.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Salinger has greatly inspired me. I absolutely love his writing. More specifically, I like the way he can make a sentence very long and crammed with information, but, still make it easily readable.
Here are some examples from a story entitled Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut:
"She explained to Mary Jane, who had come out to the driveway to meet her, that everything had been perfect that she remembered the way exactly, until she turned off the Merrick Parkway. Eloise said, "Merritt Parkway, baby," and reminded Mary Jane that she had found the house twice before, but ary Jane just wailed something ambiguous, something about her box of Kleenex, and rushed back to her convertable."
Just so you know, that's only two sentences!
I totatally want to write like that. Salinger's a huge inspiration to me.
Here's some Salinger links:
http://www.freeweb.hu/tchl/salinger/ (Uncollected writing)
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Hello Gentle Readers,
The biggest bicycle race, Tour De France, is going on right now. I'm lucky that I can watch on television. It makes me drool for cycling again.
Luckily, there's a very popular race here in Appleton [where I live] starting in the beginning of August. It's called Tour De Appleton.
It's not open to everybody, however. There are some prerequisites...
The first prerequisite is that you should’ve, at one time, been busted for drunk driving.
The second is that your driver’s license should’ve been revoked.
The third, is that you should ride a cheap ass bike…Preferably bought from a place like Walmart... Something like a Huffy or Next.
I’m definitely going to sign up for it when I get my tricycle. Hopefully they’ll let me in…
Monday, July 10, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
I'd like to attempt the same thing. But my brain damage doesn't work the same way. I remember things in my distant past just fine. However, I don't remember short term things very well. In other words, things that have happened since I was comatosed.
So, instead of having my wife's beautiful face tattooed, along with her name, on my arm. I'd probably have the phrase, "The Brewers lost against the Braves on August 12, 2006."
"I ate some awesome Mexican food at Conejitos last night." [That'll explain why I have some serious gas]
"Try out those walker-dance lessons"
"You can't ride a skateboard anymore. So don't try it."
"You used to be in an awesome elevator music band."
Friday, June 30, 2006
Now, "Who's Jaleel White?" I know your asking yourself.
Well, dork, you really should know that. Jaleel White is that famous actor who played that hunky Steve Urkel on the sitcom Family Matters.
Enjoy the websites, friends.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
I picked up an awesome Sci Fi book from the thrift store for 25 cents. It's called Shaggy Planet and it's by Ron Goulart.
It's, undeniably, a piece of pulp fiction. I'm greatly inspired by it though. Especially the beginning.
In the beginning there's a short entry... a sort of literary prelude...called Peluda. I thought
I'd share it with my reader's:
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
His death really struck me because I went through something very similar. But, obviously, unless I'm typing this from the great beyond, I didn't die.
I especially like his quote,“My citizenship is in Heaven.”
It's so true, if you think about it. Heaven is a place that we'll all end up some day. So really, we've all been citizens of heaven since birth...
...unless you're into death metal. Then It'd be nerdy to say that you're a citizen of Heaven. It'd be way cooler if you said, "My citizenship is in hell. And Satan is my president!"
Saturday, May 06, 2006
I don't know who won that one. But I totally think the guy dressed in orange did.
It's the 21st century jazz/poetry. I think I might try to come up with some of my own, too.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
More specifically, I view people who I once viewed as "pussies" or "wimps" as people who haven't had to deal with a lot of pain. Now I view them as "lucky".
I'm going to write a story about a person who has gone through life without experiencing any pain.
He ends up getting an office job because, of all the jobs he applied for [I'll have him apply for some strange, eccentric jobs too] he thinks, it's the easiest, pain-free one to deal with.
However, he stays late one day to finish a report that's due the next day.
While coallating it, he ends up getting a paper cut. He absolutely flips out, collapsing and writing on the floor in "pain". He ends up calling 911.
Unfortunately for him, it starts to bleed. Seeing this, he decides that he'd rather die by jumping from the high building than bleed to death.
So he jumps to his death.
All over a paper cut.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Here's what I came up with so far. I really like them. But I don't think they fit me:
*Pinkle [I have a soft spot for this one]
So, what do you think? Suggestions would be great!
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I'm going to use this blog in attempts to get my writing ability back. And, yes, I did have some writing ability.
My post-coma brain is totally obsessed with bad television. I find that, for some odd reason, I'm inspired by bad TV. So I'm going to try to write a story inspired by that awesome sitcom "Full House".
I'm lucky, since most people have seen this wonderful program, I can be short with my descriptions of the characters.
The Groovy Girls
One autumn day, Uncle Jesse's band, The Cool Guys, was practising in the basement.
Jesse's niece Stephanie and her friend Kimmy were stealing shots of booze in the kitchen. The music came through the shut basement door.
Holding a full shot glass, Stephanie crinkled her eyebrows and said, "Yeah they're pretty good. But you won't hear any Backstreet Boys songs coming from down there."
Stephanie's two year old sister, Michelle walked in, heard the music, and let off huge smile. "Cool," she said as she gave off a thumbs up, "Rock N' Row"
A loud knock comes from the front door. Stephanie answers it.
Two skanky-looking women are in the doorway.
"Uncle Jesse," Yells Stephanie, "Your groupies are here!"
To Be Continued...whether you like it or not.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
[You're right about that. However, I think it'll take a lot more time to get bicycles to come than it did for cars. It seems to me that Americans are deathly afraid of physical exursion [SP?].
Maybe there should be some sort of incentive. Maybe some sort of a tax break for those who use it?
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Our Vision of Two-Wheel Unity
Imagine a tree shaded path that cycle tourists, bike commuters, those out for a family ride, and people of all ages and nationalities can come together on to have their biking needs met; a network of bike roads and paths that all of these users can ride side by side on to get to wherever it is that they may need to travel. Car drivers already have such a network of arterials -- the interstate system. And yet while on the Greenway network we envision there is laughter, the smell of fresh cut grass or newly plowed earth, and the faint sound of gears clicking and birds chirping merrily away. On America's freeways, enclosed in their metal capsules, its users are pitted against one another and the planet itself. On their roads, as a result of the way they are designed, motorists only further implode this great sense of separation (not to mention the damage they are causing to one another and the earth itself) that they feel from the planet and from their fellow man.
[Great job contrasting how things are now, in our automobile-dependent culture, to how you envision to be without the auto.
However, when you write about how things are now, you use the phrase "on thier roads". I'm confused that you used the word "thier". Sure, you might not have a car, but you do use the thier roads. So, even though you don't want to admit it, they are your roads too. ]
More to come...
Friday, April 14, 2006
I view it as a human characteristic that God, if you believe in one, put into humans as way to prevent world overpopulation.
It also is a good thing for orphans. Since homos aren't able to create children with eachother, there's a good chance that they might adopt.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Here's a rap song I made up the other day:
My name is Joe
And I aint be lyin
I'm a really funny guy
I be makin you cryin' "
I'm so inspired by his comedic skills that I've written a couple of "Joey-inspired" jokes:
"I had a girl over for - wink wink - brake fast. I was going to make some french toast. But she told me that she doesn't eat foreign food.
"It was strange. I knew her from highschool. We were in the same homeroom. Our teacher was Mr. Druff. Mr. Dan Druff."
[unfortunately, there'll be more jokes later...]
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
I wonder what God, if you believe in one, was inspired by when he created Earth.
I believe there's a story in that.
My new brain works in very mysterious ways. I feel as though I once lived my life as somebody completely different from the person I am now.
Weird things pop in to my head. For example, I wonder if any readers have ever seen the movie "Booty Call".
I haven't. But I'm totally itchin to rent it.
And, as far as I know, I've always been a nerdy, white dude my whole life.
Monday, April 10, 2006
When I die, it'll be the end of my writing. I hope that my writing has affected people...other than making them barf.
Did I use the write "affect" ? Or should it be "effect"?
Sunday, April 09, 2006
If I were a woman with a very cool last name and my fiance had the last name Pinknolobula, I'd be totally horrified that, not only me, but, my future children will have that that as a last name.
If you've never heard of "Nanofiction" check the following site out: http://www.wunderland.com/WTS/Andy/Nanofiction.html
I was so inspired that I wrote my own nanostory. It's sci fi of course:
The space band played in a club on Saturn's ring.
There were three Saturnians in the band. Moolah Doolah was in charge of eminating sounds that kept rhythm. Contripity was in charge of the sounds that made melody, and Flappy sang.
The group replayed sounds collected from the far away planet Earth.
The "drummer" Moolah Doolah rhythmically replayed the amplified sound of a golf club hitting a golf ball. The sound was collected from Appleton's Butte Des Morts' Country Club's golf course.
Contripty played the amplified whistle of an Earthling named Cullen who was waiting in line an the Earthling grocery store to pay for a twelve pack of "Pabst Blue Ribbon".
Flappy Belted out the Saturnian tune:
The song moved the audience to tears.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I'm going write a journal with the idea that, one day in the future, I'll give it to her so she can get a better understanding of exactly what I was going through.
On a much different note, I was reading the latest issue of Punk Planet when I got a great idea. It struck me that, yes, there are many zines for indie book. But I don't know of any for indie books. Zines that treat books and authors like rock stars.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The article was entitle "Living A Vivid Dream". It was about the home/apartment-type things , called Habitat 67, built for the 1967 world's fair in Montreal.
My descriptions won't do it justice, so check out this website: Habitat 67.
On a different note, I sorta miss the awesomely funny sitcom, Perfect Strangers.
The hijinks of Balki and Cousin Larry were just so damn wacky. I'd find myself laughing so hard that I'd accidently barf and poop my pants.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Because of this, I thought I'd try short fiction. Same problem. Except I don't have to take a break from it to lose my place. It happens in just the short time it takes me to flip the page.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Because it's hard for my crippled body to grab far away things, she got me this awesome device called the EZ Reacher. Check it out: EZ Reacher.
However, one thing I've noticed is that, because its arm's so long, it's hard to drink a beer...
On a much different note, our friends, Ric and Stevie, just came over with thier adopted kid Marrissa.
She so cute. She's proof that it's not genes that make a family; it's love.
P.S. Just so you know they're not a gay couple. Stevie is, in fact, a woman. She uses the nickname "Stevie" in place of her real name, "Steven".
Friday, March 24, 2006
If you're curious about my musical tastes, I was listening to the new Bright Eyes album, Fevers And Mirrors.
And while listening to it, it dawned on me that I actually saw Bright Eyes live in Green Bay in some guy's basement.
This realization kind of depressed me a bit because it made me realize just how atrocious my memory is. I've seen tons and tons and tons of punk rock bands - I was a scenester, afterall - but I don't have a single memory of those shows.
I also saw the great emo band BOYS LIFE.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
We all have places in our lives that changed us forever. Maybe it was the place where your lifelong love asked your hand in marriage. Or maybe it's the bank you robbed and, afterwards, made you filthy rich.
The place that changed me was the intersection of Water Street and Brady Street near UW-Milwaukee. It changed me because that's where I was hit while riding my bike by a pickup truck. That's where I was comatosed.
Because that intersection changed my life, I plan on paying it a visit on April 1st [the day I was hit]. And I'll probably have a statement written telling the people gathered how I feel, how I'm doing, and my future goals.
I wonder if any of my readers have places in thier lives that changed them. Changed them for good or bad. If so, what are they?
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
This sounds strange, but, even though I feel guilty for being comatosed because I missed so much of my daughter's life; I believe that my coma has taught her tons.
It also made me totally positive that I picked a marvelous woman to wed. I feel much less guilty because she was there.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Appleton Public Library
The awe-inspiring architecture, I believe, was inspired by a cardboard box.
P.S. I hope you dig mind-expanding, writerly adjectives. I plan on writing a horribly dense post loaded with them in the near future.
Friday, March 10, 2006
I'll periodically post some jokes from the book.
The first hilarious joke [found in the "church humor" chapter]:
"Lord," came the prayer, "so far today, so good. I haven't sworn, stolen anything, gotten angry at anyone, or even had any evil thoughts.
"but now comes the test, and I implore your help. I have to get up and go to work"
Don't laugh too hard. There will be more jokes later...whether you like it or not.
I had the oh-so difficult job of putting two wrapped packages of six rolls of toilet paper into a larger bag marked "Charmin Deluxe Toilet Paper".
While doing this mindnumbing work the thought of some corporate asshole patting him/herself on the back for coming up with the brilliant idea of saving Charmin money by, instead of wasting money on machines, having "mentally challenged" people package thier sacred Charmin Deluxe Toilet Paper .
This thought kept running through my head, so I visibly quit working. The others around me gave me looked at me with perplexed looks. I explained that I was going on strike, and I urged them to do the same.
Unfortunately, a lot of these folks are perfectly content being "Charmin Slaves", and my strike didn't get far. It did, however, get me called into the office to get reprimanded for "causing a scene."
Like I said, I took the same bus as the Valley Packaging folks. It was a bus reknowned in my highschool, Appleton East, for being loaded with, what a lot of kids thought were, "crazy retards".
I find it strange that I've reached a point in my life where I could be viewed in the same light. I might not speak coherently, but at least I still have to write coherently. At least I hope I do...
Sunday, March 05, 2006
When evil/bad things happen. Examine your life, and see if there's anything you could change to prevent them from happening. I'm not saying that you should blame yourself. I'm just saying that all of humanity is linked. And things we do - no matter how minor - have far reaching consequences...
Saturday, March 04, 2006
There's a show I frequently watch on BET called "The Road Show".
The Road Show visits colleges. And hyper African-American students are gathered to watch The Road Show VJs [Viideo Jockeys] announce. It truly is a spectacle.
One thing The Road Show does is have a trivia contest between girls and boys. And this is where the hilarity ensues.
The trivia contest works like this: The VJs ask a question. And give the African-American student four choices to chose from.
It's apparent, from the list of choices, what the correct answer is.
For example, here's a question I made up:
Which actor played in the movie "Pulp Fiction"?
1. Pee Wee herman
2. Chuck Norris
3. Jane Fonda
4. Samuel L. Jackson [the only black choice]
Can you guess?
Which singer did the song "What's love gotta do with it?"?
2. Britney Spears
3. Courtney Love
4. Tina Turner
Friday, March 03, 2006
Here's a link to a blog written by one of the biggest homeschooling proponents, John Taylor Gatto: Gatto.
I plan on writing a sci fi story about unschooling. In it, there's a child who's fortunate enough to be unschooled.
He learns much diffent things than his friends in school. His friends and thier parents think that the kid is totally strange and out-of-date.
All of a sudden something happens that severely threatens the fate of Earth. And the kid uses his unschooled knowledge to save Earth.
He becomes a hero!
I know that there are a lot of people that think homeschooling is crazy. To these people I ask, "Before public, cumpulsory education was intacted, was EVERYBODY stupid? If not, why?"
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
When the priest starts talking, the sun turns black.
“Do you, Sofia, take Gabriel...”
The earth starts to shake. People are scattering like mad, running for cover. But the wedding party seems oblivious, we all wear the same empty smiles.
In a second, we’re up to our up our shins in locusts. It looks like we’ve been wading through a swamp of the things. I look over at Jess and his face is covered in them. He’s oblivious, smiling at my bride and me.
“Do you, Gabriel, take Sofia...”
And then a dark cloud moves directly above me. Like a dragon, it belches flames. I’m on fire, my skin’s peeling back, and the stink of burned muscle overcomes me. Everybody’s smiling. Even when the hail starts pummeling us, they keep smiling. The happy couple’s future looks bright, doesn’t it?
The hail hits hard for what seems like eternity. And then silence...
There’s a ring in my hand and Sofia’s bony finger is outstretched. As I begin to slip it on, I hear one last tremendous noise from the sky. I pause and look up and see a battalion of meteors--keyed in on me--crashing through the earth’s atmosphere. My empty smile begins to fill.
I’ve got a family somewhere. Please make it be real.
Monday, February 20, 2006
It’s going to be a bad day, I can feel it. The death scenes usually don’t kick in this early. I lay in bed for a few minutes and let my eyes come into focus...the cracks in my ceiling are the same as they always were...there is no fat guy pressing down on me, only a crippling sense of dread.
I’d been dreaming of Cleo and our last night together before the accident. I had this foolish notion that I could hear the kid’s heartbeat, she laughed and told me it wouldn’t work, but I insisted and put my ear against her stomach. All I heard were the creaks and gurgles of her gut. It was getting pretty firm, her stomach, not quite big, but tighter than before. She joked about how she was going to look like a blimp. I told her that for all I cared she could wear a goddam parachute for a dress. I loved her no matter what, I said, and ducked under the covers and kissed the arch of her foot. She laughed a sultry laugh as I kissed my way up to her mouth. She told me that her orgasms were more intense than before. Was it different for me? she asked. I told her that I was a little more cautious, more afraid of poking a hole in the kid’s head than anything else. That’s ridiculous, she said, laughing. And then I buried my face into the crook of her neck and kissed her ivory skin...
Her smell is still in my nostrils. I pat her side of the bed, half-expecting she’d be there.
It’s empty, as it has been every day for last two years. God, I’m pathetic.
I get up, slip and fall a bunch of times on my way to the bathroom, nothing bad just a few broken bones.
Even with my electric razor I still manage to nick my jugular.
The water in the shower had been tampered with, the plumbing connected to a vat full of hydrochloric acid--my skin slips off in messy sheets, and when I try to wash my hair, I wind up with a handful scalp. By the time I get out of the shower, I’m a chunk of bloody gristle.
As I put my ill-fitting tuxedo on, the phone rings. Fuck it. If it’s important they’ll leave a message.
“I can’t believe my son is getting married.”
It’s my mother, sobbing.
“Sorry your dad and I couldn’t make it...”
Their R.V.’s on the fritz and they don’t fly. Mom calls three times a day, incessantly apologizing.
“It’s not a big deal, mom,” I tell her every time she calls. “Trust me, it’s not big deal.”
The guilt, she says, is going to drive her to the grave.
“That’s the problem with guilt, so no use in feeling it,” I usually tell her.
By most people’s standards, it’s a pretty nice day. I sit down and attempt to enjoy a cup of coffee but the stinging brightness of the sun bouncing off my neighbor’s grill singes my eyes. I close the shades and the flat gets dark...
I sit in a chair in the living room, rub my temples, and do some yoga breathing.
Breath in for four. Hold for eight. Let out for sixteen. Breath in for four...
But this induces an asthma attack--I don’t have asthma--and, once again, I die.
I haven’t had death scenes this bad...ever.
Sweat collects on my forehead and my palms are clammy. The water from the tap doesn’t seem to get cold even though I let it run for a full minute.
Then a car horn resounds from my driveway. I go to the bathroom mirror and check myself out.
Run a comb through my hair.
The car keeps honking
“I’m fucking coming!” I yell.
My guts are churning and I splash some water on my face to remedy them, but it’s too late. It all comes up in the bathroom sink. I make a half-assed attempt to rinse it out, but the drain is clogged by chunks, and the bilious water keeps rising.
The car horn is incessant.
I grab my shoes and run out the front door in my stockinged feet. The damn sun pounds my tired eyes. While I stand on the porch rubbing my eyes, Jess yells something out the window. Something cutting about my pants, some cliche joke about waiting for a flood. I’m not in any mood to give a shit. The goddam sun. Jesus Christ.
“You couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day,” he says as I get in the passenger side.
“Would you take that fucking hat off. It’s giving me a headache,” I say.
“Raaaay-owww!” he says, ignoring my request and leaving the hat in place. I lean my forehead against the glass and stare at nothing as he drives me to my wedding.
“I knew this was going to happen. Like I said: pre wedding jitters. Full effect, man! Don’t worry, Gabe, I read up on this shit. Sofia was kind of scared that this’d happen so she gave me some articles she found in magazines and shit.”
I can’t ignore him--he just has a way of annoying you into listening. “Damn. This song is tight,” he interjects, cranking up the corporate R and B station.
“Anyway,” he yells over the song, a song sung by some woman about how she ain’t gonna get played no more, “Don’t worry, man, everybody has last minute doubts.” He says it mechanically like a child reciting a bible verse in catechism.
“Just remember the fundamental thing. You and Sofia love each other and...and...” he takes a split second break to sing along to the chorus and continues: “Where was I...oh yeah: you guys love each other and will be happy the rest of your lives and shit.”
“Are you fucking high?” Even his ridiculous glasses can’t hide his bloodshot eyes. “You are aren’t you? Jesus Christ, Jess, have some class for a change.”
“Aw. Come on man. I’m more nervous than you are. Give me a break. I have to stand up and recite some toast to you. Yeah, who cares if I toked up. I’m the one who has to take care of the ring, that’s a big responsi--Oh shit!” He starts frantically patting the breasts of the coat jacket. He pulls out the ring and says, “Phew.”
He keeps talking and talking. We have at least seven head-on collisions before we get to the church. They’re big ones, and I fly through the windshield every time.
After our arrival, I open the car door and put my shoes on. With my legs bent, the cuffs on my trousers go up to the top of my shins. My socks don’t match either. They’re both black, but the ribbing on my left is wider than the ribbing on my right.
Damn, these shoes hurt. My toes are scrunched into the pointed tips, leaving absolutely no wiggle room. I realize I didn’t try the goddam things on before taking them. By the time we get to the church steps, my feet are a mess. Just that short walk and they feel like fire. I sit down on the steps. Jess stands over me, and I think he senses that I want to be alone for a moment and says that he’ll go tell everyone that I’m here.
It’s a crushing feeling, I can’t explain it. My chest feels tight. I bury my head in my hands and I want to cry but I can’t. We were going to get married–-Cleo and I--eventually. But we weren’t going to let the kid force it on us. We probably would’ve gotten married but Cleo didn’t want to give people the impression that we were getting hitched for any other reason than love. I couldn’t argue with her...
I take a deep breath and go inside.
The bridesmaids are giggly like it’s some sort of junior high dance. Chrissy...or was it Pam--I don’t know, all of her lame friends seem the same to me--comes up and said, “She looks gorgeous.”
I force a smile, “I’m sure she does.”
Then Chrissy or Pam or whatever looks down at my pants and looks at me with a perplexed, furrowed brow.
“It’s the style,” I say and walk off.
People are buzzing around me. Mainly relatives, asking me questions, making jokes, giving me opinions, laughing. My brain’s fatigued but I still laugh and nod my head and act like I’m interested. This hollow smile seems to be working.
Jess pats my shoulder and says, “Hey man, it’s time.”
The ceremony is in the treeless green field behind the church. Jess and the priest and I stand in front waiting. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s going to explode. The air is dense bleeds sweat from my pores--I feel like a sponge in someone’s tight grip. I can barely breath. The organ starts and a hush comes over the crowd and then the bridesmaids walk down the carpeted isle, followed by my bride. She’s wearing a veil, and the sun makes me squint.
With the brightness behind, I see just her silhouette, but, I swear--I swear to God and all the saints--It’s Cleo. I rub my eyes, but she’s still there walking toward me with an effortless, lithe stride, the short train of her sleeveles dress gliding behind.
Even with the veil covering her face, she’s beautiful. As she gets closer, the details come into focus: the lovely, well-built swimmer’s shoulders, wisps of fine black hair brushing her neck...
Fuck em, Cleo. Let’s get married. Your belly isn’t that big yet, nobody’ll suspect a thing. We’ll get a house, maybe even a dog. I’ll be a total family man...
I’m getting impatient. Behind the veil are those piercing eyes and those lips that fit mine so well. I can’t wait to wrap my arms around her and tell her how dead I’ve felt these last few years. I’m going to kiss every inch of her skin and tell her I love her so much it hurts.
And she stops in front of me. We’re face to face.
When the bridesmaid lifts the veil, my heart collapses. These lips aren’t hers. And these blase eyes aren’t hers either. Her sturdy arms become fragile and stick-like. The striking black hair fades into a dull dirty-blonde.
I want to die.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Our tuxes are waiting for us and the pimply faced prepubescent teenager running the joint tells us that we should try them on before we leave. Jess goes first, and comes out and does a Marvin Gaye spin and sings--in a horrible falsetto--“Awwwww, sugah!” He grabes the lapels with both hand and says, “I’m gotta get me one of these things. High muthafuckin class. Damn!”
It’s my turn. In front of me is a large mirror. In the mirror is me in my underwear, my cock peeking out of the worn out fly. I tuck it back in. I thought I had muscles at one time. I can’t remember...
I put the tux on and it seems to fit just fine, but as I take the pants off, I notice a stain on the crotch of them. The sickening thought occurs that I’m probably the millionth sorry sack to have worn these things.
I give the pants back to the kid. “There’s a cum stain on these.”
He looks confused. “I’ll get another pair,” he says in a crackly voice. But comes back empty handed, explaining that the only pair they have is an inch shorter in the inseam.
A woman walks by the storefront pushing a small child in a stroller, her raven black hair catches my eye.
I throw the money at the pock-marked kid. “I don’t give a shit, I’ll take them,” I say, barreling out of the store. I walk briskly, following her, fighting the impulses to break out into a full-fledged sprint. In a few minutes I’m only five feet behind.
But then I stop dead in my tracks. What the hell am I doing? Even from behind, this woman doesn’t look anything like her. I feel hollow, like there hasn’t been any progress since the accident, like I’m stuck in purgatory.
I turn around and Jess is there holding our plastic-wrapped tuxedos. He gives me a confused look, but doesn’t say anything. I make no attempt to explain.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
I’m lost, I have no idea which way we came in, but I act self-assured and pick a direction and walk anyway...
Saturday, February 18, 2006
When you treat all of your friends like shit, only the worst, pathetic dregs stay with you. Through all this, Jess somehow became my best man. I use the term “best” loosely, as he’s my only man. Really, Jess should be my “okay” man, but even that would be pushing it.
“I don’t know...Harry Caray?” I say after Jess asks me to guess the inspiration for his new look
“Harry Caray? No, man, no. Run DMC,” he says
He’s got these monstrously huge glasses, bigger than the Buddy Holly glasses he wore a week ago, and a fur Gilligan hat. He’s always trying to be ahead of a trend, usually throwing himself full-force into it. He knows that for a month before the trend catches on he looks like an idiot, but once the trend catches on, he’s a bona fide genius, a veritable fashion prophet.
The strippers are being extra friendly to him, probably because they think he’s retarded. He folds a dollar bill lengthwise and tip his head backwards, over the bar on walkway, and sets the dollar bill on his nose. A small chested nymph comes from out of nowhere and bends over his face. She tries to cup her tiny dangling tits, but they’re too small, so it takes a little effort, but once she gets a handful she pushes them together, clamping the dollar bill, lifting it from Jess’s nose. Then she winks, snatches the bill from her non-existent cleavage, and walks away with a lusty gait.
“Her nipple brushed my cheek,” Jess informs me. I visualize myself doing the same move, my head bent backward, eyes closed, but when the girl bends over, something goes wrong and she falls on my head, breaking my neck, paralyzing me instantaneously.
I’m bored. Even watching Jess’s idiocy, which is usually quite entertaining, makes me yawn.
So, you getting the jitters yet?” he asks.
“No. Why should I?”
“It’s the end of your freedom, man!”
“That’s so fucking cliche, Jess, spare me. Please.”
“Hey, if you do get the jitters and you want out, let me know, dude. I’d love to rock that hot little body of hers.”
Nauseating flashes of Sofia getting it from behind by Harry Caray pollute my throbbing brain.
I’ve got a fucking headache,” I say aloud to nobody in particular.
Jess suggests we go out to the car and spark up. Once again, I have to explain that I don’t get high anymore.
He mimics me with a mocking nasally voice, “I don’t get high anymore. Gimme a break, man. You and Cleo used to get high all the time.”
He quickly realizes that he mentioned her name. “Sorry,” he says, bowing his head in an attempt to look solemn.
“Forget about it,” I say. And I say it nonchalantly like it’s so fucking easy: No sweat, forget about it. I have.
I’m such a liar.
I think about Cleo all the time. They’re sweet memories usually, but tonight, looking at all the vacant stares of the sorry men in this club, all I can think of is her body in that casket. At least it took death to make Cleo look like a corpse. These guys already have that look nailed down. They barely squeak into the definition of “living,” breathing in just enough oxygen to keep their cells alive, legs moving enough to get their fat asses plopped down on a barstool.
I wish they would’ve burned her. She looked fake, like a poorly sculpted figure from a wax museum. The make-up they used made her look garish and cheap. I think about her lips, about how I could see hints of the thick thread used to sew them shut. And when friends and relatives bent over and kissed her, it made me ill. That wasn’t her in there, I was sure of it. The real Cleo was somewhere waiting for me. And when I’d find her, she’d say something like, “what took you so long,” and we’d pick up where we left off.
I scan the club and see a few sad-faces of grown men jacking off with glasses of straight whiskey in hand, all alone. These seem like perfect suicide-candidates. Why couldn’t God take one of these losers instead? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, I’m sure they’re praying to be hit by lightening everyday.
Jess just walks off to get a lap dance for me. I take a long sip of my beer. In the corner of my eye I calmly notice a total stranger charging at me with a brick. Big deal. He smashes my head in, and I slump forward over the bar and let the blood-matted hair ooze off my skull and into the cocktail glass of shithead at the stool next to me.
The shithead looks at me. “This place sure has some beautiful women.”
Without saying a word, I look at him and yawn.
Friday, February 17, 2006
I was at the library, drunk and sulking, looking at a book of Francis Bacon’s paintings, the ones of the blurry faces screaming in pain. The paintings were ugly, but I couldn’t help but stare. Sofia sat across from me and immediately tried to strike up a conversation, complimenting me on my fine taste in art. I remember trying to ignore her, but she just kept on talking and talking. This girl was weird, I remember thinking. Look at how pathetic and wretched I look, and she treats it like some sort of aphrodisiac. She was the complete opposite of Cleo. Cleo would shake me, tell me that public drunkenness is tacky (it is.) Tell me that Francis Bacon was a goddam slob (he is.) Tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself (I should.)
But then Sofia took off her coat and introduced herself. There was a small spark of life in me when I noticed those firm breasts hidden underneath that tight black sweater of hers. I hadn’t had any in awhile, and I was feeling sex-starved. We ended up hooking up, and I was happy for a couple days, thinking I could maybe build a fire with that spark, thinking that maybe I could finally get on with my life.
But the fire died. It died fast like it never had a chance...
Does Sofia know she’s a barnacle on the hull of a sinking ship? That’s the thing about Sofia, she loves all of my hideous character traits, thinks they’re just eccentric quirks. All the things I try to do to get her to leave me alone--the petty insults, the grumpiness and shortness of temper--just seem to make her naive loyalty more suffocating. She clings, and I can’t shake her off no matter what I do. And, actually, it seems like the more I shake, the stronger her burrs grip. So I’ve given up trying to lose her and she sticks around like a slobbering dog.
But, like the idiot I am, I always find a way to fuck things up a thousand times worse than they already are. Like that time, six months ago, when we were at a nice restaurant and Sofia was crying and holding up her hand looking at a ring--an engagement ring--while I sat there asking myself if I actually did what I think I did. And then Sofia starts crying and going on about how this was the happiest day of her life, and my heart sank.
When she left me alone to go use the payphone to tell her mother the news, I sat there staring at the remnants of my chicken alfredo, wondering why I always order it even though it gives me a stinging, almost unbearable, gut-ache every time.
I’ve had the death scenes before, just small ones, ones involving tripping on cracks and minor shaving accidents and things of that nature. But after the engagement incident, they started hitting hard.
That night when we walked out of the restaurant, while Sofia was lost in thought about wedding dresses, a bus veered off course and hit me, throwing my mangled body through a storefront window. A shard of glass from the window ripped my intestines apart and I winced, but Sofia didn’t notice a thing...
Thursday, February 16, 2006
W hen the knife slips Sofia doesn’t notice a thing. Even when the blood gushes from my wrist onto the cutting board full of freshly cut oranges, she sits, totally oblivious, at the kitchen table immersed in those goddam wedding magazines.
And then I cringe, and in a second I’m perfectly alright. Her scratchy voice becomes audible again:
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
In my future, technology has progess so much that humanity has lost all of its value. I picture a future where people are put to death at a certain agebecause they're too old. And handicapped people with little intelligence are also put to death because they take more than they contribute to society. It's up to us to make sure this bleak future doesn't happen. We must spot seedlings of this future and try to eliminate it before it grows and becomes acceptedwithout question. Does anybody spot seedlings? And, if so, what are they?
- ► 2010 (10)
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- April 27, 2006 New name?
- April 25, 2006. My "Full House" inspired story.
- April 22 The way I feel sometimes...
- 4-18-06 Bicycle Greenways continued...
- 4-16-06 Bicycle Greenways
- Friday, April 14, 2005 Homosexuality
- Unfortunately, More Uncle Joey Jokes...
- Thursday, April 13, 2006. Uncle Joey
- Tuesday, April 11, 2006
- Monday, April 10, 2006
- 4-09-06 Last names and a Nanostory
- April 06, 2006 Journal
- April 03, 2006.
- 4-02-06 Reading
- March 30, 2006 EZ Reacher
- March 24, 2006 * Bright Eyes
- March 15, 2005 Raise your kids right
- March 12, 2006
- 3-10-06 The Ultimate Joke Book
- Library architecture and, my mother-in-law, Sue
- 3-10-06 More about Valley Packaging...MY ATTEMPTED...
- 3-10-06 Valley Packaging
- 3-05-2006 evilness
- Dear reader, There's a show I frequently watch on...
- 3-03-06 Unschooling