Kerfuffle!: August 2006

taxis

On the way to work, I look over at you, watch you readjust your skirt, because this is how I always imagine you, clothes and eyes disheveled, that or bound beneath my desk with velvet ropes, waiting for me upon a red satin pillow-mattress, but just try to tell me that THAT’S NOT ANOTHER STORY (though, really, it would only be for a day, and it’s a large office, hidden away from anyone else, and I keep the lights low and a bottle of Metaxa in my file drawer, and I would likely join you down there for most of the morning and otherwise be on conference calls in the afternoon daring you to throw my concentration), and say, ‘Look, by slowing me down, you're only slowing down the entire economy. You're really only hurting yourself.’

But at that moment, an oncoming car swerves into my lane, and then another, and I’m forced onto the shoulder, all because a dog is trotting along the side of the road, and I look up towards the heavens questioningly, but Darwin coyly replies, ‘NO COMMENT,” and I turn to you and say, “People would rather crash into perfect strangers than run over a feral animal with an 8-year life span.” But you’re not there to laugh at my sage, silly wisdom. You always disappear when things get too real.

And none of us actually think to stop our automobiles, because while we don’t mind being late, we would rather crash into perfectly good strangers than go slow. And there you are again, smiling, and buttoning up your blouse, because now I’ve reintroduced the sublime into my daily commute.

Pixies

Our glasses, still mostly full, empty a little each day.

"Where are you right now?" she asks.

I'm sitting on our bench, underneath the fig tree.

"I can never tell."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It makes you very curious to me. It's lonely."

Just promise me one thing.

She whispers in my ear.

I nod.

* * *

Our fig tree has always struck me as preternaturally quiet, not nearly as chatty as the native dogwoods, giving everything away like the Indian plums, abrasive like the filbert. If you're going to put on a show, put on a goddamned show, shouts the magnolia. I remember driving once through North Carolina, needing to roll up the windows how loud those soapy, cabbage-size flowers were in full bloom.

Figs are flowers, modestly hidden from the outside world, seen and understood by fig wasps alone. Enclosed inflorescence is how the fig tree keeps her secrets to herself. Fig wasps are how she shares her thoughts with others. A fig, like the soliloquy of a silent tree. Fig wasps, sobriquet for those thoughts we keep to ourselves.

* * *

"You cannot give a nickname to a place in time," she argues. And then she thinks a moment, and says, "Never mind."

"I'll remember this day as Little Symbiosis."

* * *

The figs I remember from my youth were covered in them, tiny wasps. They would be so determined, I would later discover, to crawl into those flowers that they would often lose their wings and legs at the ostiole. I never knew what great distances they covered, or how each was bound to a single species, old bonds formed when the world's glass was nearly full.

"We're connected like this," I say.

"We don't talk."

Fig wasps, I think.

* * *

The new tree is even more reticent. And I'm distressed as the summer wanes, its glass now nearly empty, that the figs are bare, unvisited by wasps. I learn that this particular cultivar is self-pollinating, mankind's great success in cutting loose the old ties. And so I come to find I've planted in my yard a tree whose secrets will live and die in this place and time alone. The fig wasps have no interest in these self-reliant creatures.

"Where are you right now?" she asks.

Some days, the glass empties faster than others.

TEQUILACONPACNW07 BAR (P)REVIEW

FLAPPERS ALWAYS PRECEDE A GREAT DEPRESSION, AKA 'I'M GROWING A BOB'*

Dear TequilaCon PACNW 07 ('This time it means business'...for Jenny) Committee,

I conducted my first field visit for potential TequilaConPACNW07 sites, saving the receipts so that I might deduct them from my taxes, and also so as to retrace my steps in search of personal effects left behind such as wallets, children and dignity.

I left the house smartly dressed in a white shirt that matches my blue jacket, veteran of every TequilaCon since 2004.

And then Portland decided it would be 98 degrees.

NOTE TO SELF: MAKE SURE PEOPLE DO NOT BRING THEIR JACKETS OR WEAR WHITE

The first locale on the itinerary was XV, and while I expected Roman cvisine, the closest item on the menv I covld find was something called KENTVCKY COOLER.

Not all was lost, however, becavse the other items I fovnd at XV were Sibyl! and Vahid, two of the fvnniest people I have ever met at XV. And they tavght me a secret handshake.

NOTE TO SELF: NOTHING SCREAMS INCLUSION LIKE SECRET HANDSHAKES. PLEASE INVENT A SECRET HANDSHAKE FOR TEQUILACON. BUT IT HAS TO BE COOL. I'M THINKING: GUY EXTENDS MIDDLE AND INDEX FINGER AND GIRL TAKES GUY'S FINGERS IN HER FISTS AND TUGS THEM FIVE TIMES TOWARDS HER COLLARBONE.

XV also has yam fries.

Totally random scoring chart for XV: 15

Ease of finding bathroom: IV
Bathroom lighting level for self portrait: III
Nvmber of people who walked into bathroom whilst preening: 0 (What the hell is the Roman Nvmeral for zero? Oh, wait, yov have to pvt a I in front of the nvmber to decrease that nvmber by one. So the Roman Nvmeral for zero is II. Dvh.)
Quality of teqvila: It was fine (III). Bvt they didn't have Cvervo (II).
Dark corners for groping: V

Svmmary: XV ain't gonna work. It's too small.

So, Sibyl!, Vahid and I left XV for Kell's Irish Pub, where we would eventually meet up with Jaymarie, but not until after we left for doughnuts and then returned. So this is only the FIRST PART of the Kell's review.

KELL'S PART ONE (NOTE FOR ALL YOU YOUNG WRITERS: GOOD STORIES ALWAYS COME IN MULTIPLE PARTS. BUILD THE SUSPENSE, PEOPLE!):

The first thing I should point out is that in addition to being funny, Sibyl! is everything to look at. And one of the benefits of walking with someone who is stunning is that perfect strangers just come right up to you and ask you all sorts of questions, because obviously they want to know your secret. Obviously.

/cue the ducks

PERFECT STRANGER WALKING UP TO ME: Hey, do you have any money?
ME, WALKING ALONGSIDE SIBYL!: THE GIRL IS MINE AND I’M NOT SHARING MY SECRET!
PERFECT STRANGER: What?
ME: I've got a tin of brand new mints?
PERFECT STRANGER: Sure.
ME /hands my as of yet unopened tin of Altoids to this perfect stranger, obviously jealous that I'm walking with Sibyl!: SUCKER

And this is where Vahid said, “If you give the waiter $1.50, he’ll throw it at the ceiling and it will stick.”

And Vahid never heard a grown man laugh so loudly as I did just then, but sure enough, no sooner had I finished my cackles with one loud hack, a decidedly non-Irish looking waiter appeared and threw Vahid’s buck-fitty to the ceiling, where it stuck. And by now it was Sunday, so I said a silent Hail Mary and it was, indeed, good.

SCORE: 100

Totally random scoring chart for Kell's PART I: 100

Number of mints lost: 100

After finishing our Boddington Ales, we left, me despondent because Jaymarie hadn’t arrived, and it seemed that once again I would invite a beautiful, charming girl out for booze and stumble away drunk before she had yet alerted the authorities that HE WON’T STOP CALLING.

And one bite into a donut, and one secret handshake later, Sibyl! and I returned to Kell’s.

Kell’s is one of those joints where you somehow get to meet someone you always wanted to meet. And Jaymarie is charming and sweet and a great conversationalist.

Totally random scoring chart for Kell's PART II:

Ease of finding bathroom: 4
Number of unbelievably attractive women who accompany you to bathroom: 1
Number of bagpipists (Bagpipers? No, that sounds dirty…) who elbow you in the forehead whilst trying to impress said beautiful girl: 4
Quality of tequila: What?
Tequila?: Whatever.

TOTAL KELL'S SCORE: 100+

Summary: Kell’s is in the lead, if only because many of the men there were wearing skirts, which improves my chances of being fondled.

Finally, after saying goodbye to Sibyl! (I’m sure she still has the claw marks where a crowd of onlookers pried me away from her to prove it), Jaymarie and her friends and I wandered down 3rd to Veritable Quandary, exactly one block from where I used to work (and drink during work) and we drank.

Unfortunately, by the time we got to Veritable Quandary, I was quite pleased with myself, because I had somehow convinced myself that I was not intequilacated. And then I heard these words flow from my mouth: I WOULD TOTALLY GET A BRAZILIAN.

Number of times it seemed like I said out loud, “I WOULD TOTALLY GET A BRAZILIAN.”**: 1 BILLION

TOTAL VERITABLE QUANDARY SCORE: MINUS 1 BILLION

* Alternate title: DAY 481, in affectionate tribute to this woman, who deserves a few reasons to smile.

** BE FOREWARNED. I WILL PROBABLY SAY THE EXACT SAME THING WHEN WE MEET.

surface

"How do you tell if you're not who you thought you were?"

A childhood image, a moment that stands out, that pulls you like gravity.

"I remember the first time camping, when she showed me the Big Dipper, and it was so easy to draw the lines, and I know that I could never again look at those stars without seeing the image."

Some days all I see is a random assortment of light.

She told me that the stars weren't really there. That those stars are only the light shed from years and years ago. That for how large the universe is, the light might as well pour like molasses. It frightens me, that light is simply the memory of movement. That the night sky is little more than a graveyard of ghostly reflection.

I'm scared that someone a light year away might look close enough, see under the telescope the light reflecting what I once was, pining away for you in a hotel room, even though you’re right here in my arms, at this very moment, talking to me in your sleep. Helping me through these issues with your eyes closed.

That they might see what I still can’t explain, how when no one was watching, we became children. In a very real sense, smaller than the world around, hidden from everyone's view, outside of the occasional homeless man. Distances more challenging because of our tiny statures, doors more difficult to open, the right words harder to come by.

Those future astronomers will see us cross-legged on the carpet, filling that space with rhymes and sing-song, sugar high, and soaring.

"No," I would have said. "I don't know how you can tell if you're not who you always thought you were."

Her face, darkened as the sun fades behind the apple orchards, her face like the last throes of a struggle. Her face and her hair and her tiny shaking hands.

She would have risen, smooth like vascular pressure, up from the cross-legged position, neither leaning forward nor using her hands. She would have walked to the nightstand and took the yellowed phone, its green buttons glowing more brightly now with the night that would have been approaching. This would have been a very long time ago.

"It's me."

She would have struggled.

"Because you gave up."

She would have lost her balance.

"No, we didn't. We never did. It never was."

She would have leaned forward.

"I’m hanging up now."

She would have dropped the phone into the receiver. She would have surprised those astronomers with her sudden change, how she would have advanced in age and demeanor. And they would have tapped the eyepiece, convinced that the light must have been pulled by the force of gravity, too near some rapidly falling body.

steel resolve

Nothing screams LOOK AT ME like carrying a bouquet of flowers across a college campus. Well, maybe telling airport security that your penis pump is in fact a bomb so that your mother (who is traveling with you to Turkey) doesn’t realize you are carrying a penis pump screams LOOK AT ME like carrying a bouquet of flowers. And maybe walking your dog wielding a pipe in a futile attempt to ward off MANCOONS screams LOOK AT ME like carrying a bouquet of flowers across a college campus. And maybe, just MAYBE, bearing the living fetus of your twin brother within your belly for 36 years SCREAMS HELP ME JESUS.

FEW things OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD scream LOOK AT ME like carrying a bouquet of flowers across a college campus.

/cue the ducks

I was just recovering from two failed marketing soundbites, one for our Custodial Engineer certificate program (“We take students from the classroom to the cleaners!”) and one for our Culinary Arts program (“Hard-boiled Eggs: Tasty, nutritious, incapable of withstanding the extreme heat of being left in your car all day.”), when I realized that with the stress of the last couple of weeks, I’ve been somewhat crabby around the house. So I picked up a bouquet at our Floral Design program.

And suddenly, a once empty campus was full of women.

And suddenly, my building faded from view like a forced perspective shot in a horror film.

And suddenly, I realized that women are incapable of seeing a man carrying flowers without thinking either A. I REMEMBER ROMANCE or B. WHAT DID HE DO?

And suddenly, I remembered that I am incapable of walking normally when I think that other people are looking at me.

And suddenly, I thought I needed to come up with some lines to use in response to the inevitable and forthcoming onslaught of giggles and awwws.

Here is what I said.

“HOPE THIS WORKS.”
and
“SIX WEEKS TO LIVE MY ASS.”

TANGENT

A while back, a co-worker once yelled at me. I KNOW! Me. She. Yelled. At. Me.

And ever since, I've carried around a brochure titled, “Hello, Co-Worker! Here are some appropriate things you can do to me!"

* Compliment my shoes.
* Go down on me in the supply closet.
* NOT YELL AT ME

And here are some things you cannot do to me:

* Yell at me.
* Give me herpes.

It’s a work in progress.

it's coming...

Jenny has sent out the official what's what. Mothers, lock up your babies. Ladies and gents, prepare to be groped. The TequilaConPACNW07 date has been announced:

March 10, 2007 - Portland, Oregon, City of (Stem the) Roses

Last year's event was the biggest EVER (in its two-year history) and had more groping (in its two-year history), more drinking (in its two-year history), and more awkward silences (in its two-year history) THAN EVER BEFORE.

Plus, TequilaConPACNW07 will officially be the first time that the three LADY members of the TequilaCon committee have actually met. (although, I'VE met them each, and my strategy has always been to keep them separated, since they are each so very attractive and there's only so much starry-eyed gazing that one man can progenerate before being interrupted with AHEMS and elbows)

However, if YOU come, I promise that I will spend most of the evening focused entirely enrapt with YOU.

And there will be photographic evidence.

So please come. And please tell me you're coming. And that you're bringing friendlies. AND SAY MY NAME, BITCH

TANGENT ALERT

Uh, if any of you know any bloggers from Victoria, BC, please let me know, because we will be spending a week there beginning September 11, and I want to know if the city permits alcoholism.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT

oh tom

I don’t believe they lied to us as children, not for one instant.

* * *

Henry Tillema was my political science teacher at MIZZOU. And I don't remember a single thing he taught me about politics except for an unrelated comment he made while we were taking our seats. He said that he was a descendant of Johnny Appleseed. And that Johnny Appleseed wasn't the man we thought he was.

“He was disturbed. Because he couldn’t work, he was given bags of seed to occupy his time. He walked barefoot around the countryside, firmly planting himself into American history.”

Who are the Johnny Appleseeds of today? Have we killed folklore?

* * *

I had always heard that polite little boys helped little old ladies across the street. And I distinctly remember standing at the corner of Main and Jefferson waiting for such a gray haired, cane bearing invalid, shakily looking this way and that for assistance. But all the old ladies I knew drove to the grocery store, even though it was less than two blocks away. And they all topped off the 8 ounces of leaded gasoline they burned up, just in case.

But just because I never saw it is no reason to believe it never happened.

* * *

Once, when I was around 7 or 8, I decided I would walk along the tracks until I reached my grandmother’s house. This was back in those days when smoking was healthy and child molesters had yet to be born, so I packed a handful of bologna and my grandfather’s WWII canteen that tasted metallic, and I started on my way. I knew it was far, and that the train tracks went one direction only, towards town, where the cast of That’s Incredible! had once passed, and I believe I didn’t like that show because Cathy Lee Crosby was seeing Joe Theismann, and Joe Theismann was no friend of the Dallas Cowboys.

And I must have walked for days, because it seemed dark when I got there, and though I had just passed my first test of manhood, my grandmother didn’t seem very surprised to see me, but instead just gave me a tamale and a glass of sweet tea. I went outside, crawled up into the pecan tree, because I always did. Then came down, sighed, and began my journey back home along the train tracks.

By the time I got home, even the lightning bugs had turned out for the night, and only Max was awake, wagging his tail. My mom and sister were asleep, so no one would listen to my great adventure. In all honesty, it was mostly just walking, but even then, I had a propensity for exaggeration, and could have made up something fine and magical.

* * *

The other day, I walked into the kitchen, and noticed that my daughter was watching an episode of Tom and Jerry. I sat down with her, always eager to reminisce, and that’s when Tom rolled himself a smoke and blew HOWDY for a buxom cat with red lipstick.

Alarmed, I ran to my computer, and then ran back to the living room, realizing I had forgotten my scotch and soda, and then ran back to the computer. I pulled up Yahoo!, clicked as fast as I could to Yahoo!Maps!, and typed in my grandmother’s street address.

And digging as deep as the memory would allow, I recalled the street where we once lived along the train tracks, the site of that first step of that first journey, that took days and days. I typed it in, and then waited patiently for Yahoo!Maps! to tell me how far that distance was that I covered, so many years ago, when smoking was healthy and child molesters had yet to be born.

1.3 miles.

* * *

Well somebody sure as hell lied to us.

Surprise

oratory

At the next table, we hear a shriek, and see the waitstaff in half-moon formation, serenading a young lady with ASCAP's most valued property, "Happy Birthday (to You)."

My OWN young lady looks at me intently and whispers, neither her lips nor her teeth moving from place, 'Don't you ever do that to me,' and meant it.

And for the first time all night I relax, because I do not like that sort of attention, either. I don't begrudge the couple at the table, though, the boyfriend smugly proud of the affectionate embarrassment, the girlfriend's pseudo-glare of smiling admonishment. This was, in fact, the only affection we knew growing up. We weren't a family, or should I say, we weren't a family of hugs and kisses. We tried, once, the both of us urged and impelled towards the living room, 'It'll make him feel nice, just do it,' she said, and we did, and he grimaced, tried to force a smile and said simply, 'No.' And meant it.

Instead, there were midnight frights, jumping out from a darkened hallway, dutch ovens and similar gastrointestinal delights, and insults. Not for us, mind you, but between her and him, the adult equivalent of yanking on pigtails. It was...charming in its own way. I suppose. Much.

And so I reach across the table, take her hand and try to mimic her speaking without moving, 'YOU TOO.'

Moments I'd Like to Forget

...

Tristan, surfing gamefaqs for Megaman 4 cheats: Dad, what’s a MILF?

Me, surfing enature for the Latin name of Devil’s Club: Uh, mothers I’d like to f…uh, fight. FIGHT, I SAID! I SAID FIGHT, YES I DID!

THANK GOD THE PROFANITY COMES AT THE END OF THE ACRONYM!

Tristan: Why would you want to fight mothers?

Brandon, single bead of grateful sweat rolling down my cheek: Well, not real fight. More like play fight. More like mothers I’d like to wrestle.

Tristan: Oh, play wrestling’s fun! I like to wrestle Spot!

Brandon, begins internal high five for quick recovery: Yeah, that’s super.

Tristan: So would that make Spot a DILF?

Brandon, internal high five misses, smashing instead through dormer window: Wha-whosit?

Tristan: You know, a Dog I’d Like to Fight? And my friend Cameron is a FILF! And Naya is a SILF! And… (prates on until he runs out of alphabet, ad nauseam).

Brandon: I think this is a moment I'd like to forget.

It’s gonna be awkward when he finds out the truth. For a lot of people.

God, I hope St. Peter doesn’t snicker when he points me in the other direction.

basic carpentry

I still cannot decide whether or not I would take carpentry instruction from a man missing the first two digits of his right hand.

I met that man today, in a meeting where everyone else had full and complete sets of limbs and one must assume toes by the confident manners of their gaits.

But not one of them could tell you the difference between a rabbet joint and a dado.

Still, I cannot decide if I should teach my children about love, because when I enter the classroom and they look at my sleeve, surely they will notice all the broken pieces. Confidence questioned is confidence lost.

I cannot tell if those lost fingers make him better for the teaching.

Broken, like hearts and love and passion and goddamn I bet they could teach me a thing or two. A dozen excuses, and, sadly, not more than one or two good reasons.

It’s just that it’s so easy to draw metaphors from fire and water and wind, and so unfortunate that we’re mostly surrounded by kitchen appliances, office supplies and billboards.

And I still cannot decide.

much is the new not

Can you help me with something?

I’m sort of busy.

I really need your help.

Fine, goddammit.

You know, you shouldn’t blaspheme. If I were a believer, I’d have to cut your head off.

Why? You don’t think God can stick up for Himself?
* * *
I don't snap when you interrupt my routine. Much.

I’m in the parking lot. Walking towards my car. There is a bottle of rum hidden underneath the seat.

For some reason, I imagine that you’ll be in the passenger side waiting. I slow down, practicing what I’ll say. All I can think of is, ‘How was your day?’

An SUV honks, reminds me that I’m in the middle of the road. You’re not there, but the liquor is.
* * *
I don't sit around imagining the life we might have lived. Much.

The human body, some indeterminate percentage of water, I read somewhere, but high, definitely high, and it’s no wonder then that memories occasionally float by like jetsam. Oh, I remember you, as I pick up a photo that’s washed upon the shore, the image one of my last year in New York. I knocked a girl over on her bike, mistake, she skinned her knee and that night I kissed her for the first time. I hadn’t thought of you in years.
* * *
I don't live in my head.

Two Candidates

I lied, once, in a job interview, and on an unrelated note, I made a promise to myself not to be cryptic, because these days even I don’t understand what the hell I’m talking about, and I find that I’m worshiping ambiguity if only because clarity burns. I lied about politics, telling a prospective employer that I love politics, when in fact, I only chewed on politics for awhile with a big, appreciative grin on my face, and when my parents weren’t looking, I spit out politics underneath the table so that my dog would eat it. The dog sniffed politics and turned away from it without so much as a bite, and THE DOG WAS WELL KNOWN TO EAT CAT SHIT DIRECT FROM THE LITTER BOX ON A REGULAR BASIS.

Sometimes I think I’m different, and other times I actually say it out loud. When people are around.

Nevertheless, these are the season of campaign. And my views are up for reelection.

Gun rights. In high school, I was a proud member of the N R of A. Enamored of the man, much more than the message. NRA had such a passion. You could tell there was conviction behind the conviction. He won in a landslide.

Sadly, the results were lousy.

/cue the ducks

Me: So, I think that we should be able to carry rocket launchers if we want, and here’s why…
Date: /Quietly gets up from the table and leaves.
Me: /Doesn’t get laid.

Gun Rights lost badly when he was up for reelection, not even getting past the primary.

Religion. I have fond memories of Catholicism. My altar boy robe was very likely the only new item of clothing I ever wore in 12 years of pre-adolescence. Until I was very old, I could not fall asleep unless I had gone through my litany of prayer. SALVATION REMAINED WITHIN MY GRASP.

Gah.

/cue the ducks

Me: So how come the priest ain’t taking Naya behind the altar like those other babies?
Alex: In our baptism ritual, only the boys are allowed past the altar.
Me: WHY DOES GOD HATE MY DAUGHTER?!?
Alex: I don’t know. Because she doesn’t have a penis? You’re not coming to Easter mass, are you?
Me: I’ll be at Hooters.

Religion struggled in the last election to unite its base.

International Relations. This guy really energized the constituency with some skillful rhetoric. I mean, my family is Mexican-American, and even I was lining up to add a few bricks to the wall.

/cue the ducks

Her: Look, all I’m saying is why should I feel more of an allegiance to the people of South Florida, which is 3500 miles away than I do to the people of Vancouver, which is only 150 miles away and whose residents don’t shoot me when I drive 2 miles under the speed limit?
Me: You’re really, really pretty.

And she was.

Digital Armifact

Digital armifact - NOUN: 1. That part of the hand or arm visible in a self-taken digital photo, typically unintentional: “Well, my photo software has a red-eye removal button, but what I really need is something to help me get rid of all this digital armifact.” “Why don’t you have a friend take your photos for you?” “All my friends are online.” “Why don’t you buy a tripod and use your camera’s auto-timer function?” “WHY DOESN’T PHOTOSHOP JUST CREATE A FRICKIN DIGITAL ARMIFACT REMOVAL BUTTON ALREADY?!?”

lost whimsy

euonymus slug

This, ALL THIS /points at URL, has destroyed my whimsy. USED TO BE I would amuse myself with haphazard thoughts during the day, during my drive, half-asleep, ~~lying naked upon the bosom of a Dane,~~ and then toss those words aside, like so many dandelion seeds blown into the breeze.

No more. Now each bon mot must be logged to MENTAL NOTES, as I rush to find pen and paper, or pen and cocktail napkin or BLOOD AND BARE SPACE ON ABDOMEN, just so that I might commit those words to the internest, SHARE SHARE SHARE.

/cue the ducks

THIS MORNING UPON FINDING AN ALTERNATE ROUTE TO WORK

WHILE STUCK BEHIND A LINE OF SLOW MOVING VEHICLES, SAYS OUT LOUD:

“The problem with the road less traveled is that it’s full of people asking for directions.”

NEARLY HITS THREE PEDESTRIANS WHILE FRANTICALLY SEARCHING GLOVE COMPARTMENT FOR SOMETHING TO WRITE WITH.

Remember that scene in Fountainhead where Wynand commissions a film only to destroy it once he’s watched it, (anyway, I hope that’s an actual scene, it’s been 20 years since I read the damn thing)? Well that’s how I used to adore my own words. There was never any intention of sharing my creations with others.

NOW, APPARENTLY, I’M A GODDAMNED PHILANTHROPIST.

/cue the ducks

I watch her as she adds yet one more assignment to his growing list of OTHER DUTIES AS ASSIGNED, and suddenly, my mind’s eye director cuts to a scene of a Jenga stack crashing down.

GETS UP AND LEAVES CONFERENCE ROOM

‘Where are you going?’

‘I need to go write something down.’

‘Again?’

Altering Orbits

All I really have is a jacket. It’s still a bit long, the symbolism of never measuring up not entirely lost. The irony that IT’S SUCH A NICE JACKET, that, too. Still, I occasionally wear it to work. You know those co-workers you have who walk around like they know what they’re doing, and not just their JOB DESCRIPTION, mind you, I mean really KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING, and occasionally you look at them and think, ‘He’s totally faking it.’

/POINTS BOTH THUMBS AT SELF

This jacket was bought 20 years ago in a department store that no longer exists. Cox’s, I think. In that summer, the best selling item at the hardware store were those lettered signs that read, ‘Private Property.’ Before, we could walk all throughout the Brazos River Valley with no concern. But in that year people became suspicious. Fences went up. Curtains closed. Folks became bound up in their own affairs.

Privacy mirrored the rise of VCR. Everyone wanted some. No one wanted to leave the house. The neighbors threw up a line of box hedges, and suddenly you wanted some, too.

All I wanted was the jacket. I discovered it in a cheap, wardrobe, fake wood paneling. I put it on wearing no shirt, the wool so irritating I swore I didn’t want it, but swearing you don’t want something that you really, truly want won’t fool the object of your desire into becoming less aggravating.

Last week, his granddaughter tried to commit suicide.

They don’t want you to respond to calls involving your relatives, but I wouldn’t have any problem. When I was on the department, I rarely thought about the patient. I had all the routines logged to rote memory, so I could spend my free time focusing on the distracting miscellany of those alien bedrooms. I see a shard of broken glass on the table and I remember some incident where they threw bottles at each other. I see a cigarette still burning in the ashtray, and I remember sticking my nose through the vent window of an old car.

I wondered today if I’ve suddenly become a pessimist. I was trying to think of my happiest memory, and when I found it, I said, to myself, fondly, ‘It can never be that good again.’ Until I then recalled a memory so unpleasant that I shook it from my head and said out loud, ‘Goddammit.’

No. Definitely an optimist.

Am I Really an 80s Fan?

(from a previous series, based on all the uncertainty recently regarding my support of the mullet)

There’s So Much in Life…

Sadly, each time I get into a pissing match over who’s the biggest 80s fan in Clear Lake, the final argument comes down to this:

Steve: Well, show me your mullet picture, dude.

Me: I, uhhh, I didn’t…*mumbles inaudibly*

Steve: Hmm? What was that? Could you speak up? You didn’t have a…? You didn’t have a what?

Me: *meekly* …a mullet.

Steve: YOU DIDN’T HAVE A MULLET! AND YOU DARE CLAIM YOURSELF AN 80S FAN?!? YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE THE RIGHT!

And, sadly, I know it’s true. I can’t really say I was an 80s fan, because I didn’t have a mullet. And, I’m sorry, but goth doesn’t count, because goth is way more popular now than it was in 1984. But the mullet WAS the 80s.

True, I might have lost my virginity to Sister Christian, holding the climax right up until Jack Blades’ ‘Motorin’ crescendo, but really, who hasn’t?

And with all this born again stuff, I can get my cherry back. But I can never return to the past for a mullet portrait.

At least, I didn’t think so. Until I watched with fondness my 6 year old son playing X-Box last night.

My son.

My progeny.

My image.

Me: Alex! Can I take Tristan in for a haircut tomorrow?

My Romanian Wife, Alex: Da. And peek up some rabbit haunches from market.

Me: Sure!

Okay, so am I wrong to want for my son what I could never have? He’ll get over it, won’t he? I mean, he’s 6, he’s not going to be scarred for life because of a mullet. Scarring doesn’t happen until puberty, right? I’ll take him into Super Cuts, ask for a mullet, run over to Olan Mills and have a couple of drop shadow shots done. Then we’ll run back over to Super Cuts, have them shave the whole thing off, and I’ll tell my wife the school had a lice alert.

And don’t think they won’t comply at Super Cuts. Every cosmetologist is at heart an 80s fan. Every cosmetologist secretly longs for her boyfriend to pick her up in his Camaro IROC for a night of Boone’s and 2nd base.

And every cosmetologist secretly longs for these words:

“Give me the mullet. “

So, I’m gonna do it. I’ve just gotta find that Night Ranger tape and my high school yearbook.

Tomorrow, we’re getting a mullet.

Together.

"You’ll be all right….tonight!!!"

* * *
later

well, i have a confession to make.

i didn't go through with the mullet for my son. as it turns out, apparently, i actually had already given him a mullet once. one time. i was intoxicated. i'm not proud of the fact.

ah, what the hell, who am i kidding? it was my proudest frickin' moment as a father!

of course, there was a little romanian hell to pay afterwards.

Alex: vut the hell deed you do to my child, you leetle bastard?!?

Me: IT'S OUR CHILD! AND I GAVE HIM A MULLET! YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND!

Alex: * striking me with the clippers * YOU TAKE MOOLIT AND SHOVE EET IN POOP-HOLE, BASTARD! SA-MI BAG PULA IN PISDE MA-TI, RAHAT DE AMERICAN!

well, clearly, i had won the moral argument. but i lost badly in both the physical and profanity categories.

so i fixed it.

hrrmmph.

i think we can all agree that clearly, the 'moolit' looks better on my son.

but if you ever, EVER, mention this to my wife, i will NOT back you up, man.

quarterly meltdown

imported my ass

2006 Somewhere over Western Washington
She finishes and we all applaud, and it’s a shame she won’t remember this moment, it’s not often in adulthood we receive such high praise, and by then it’s too late, leading to resentment from parties (friend and foe) elsewhere. She asks for candy, we willingly oblige, holding out the tin, from which she removes red and yellow gummi, replacing all that’s green.

2006 ibid.
Tossing up whatever remains on the palette, hoping what sticks might be inoffensive to the eye, this is how I write, of late, trying to be brief, but flexible, like bendy straws. But today, all I had left was a few drops of green on the brush, and green is displeasing to the children, like fruitcake aspic.

2006 ibid.
On the drive home, I tilt my head 90 degrees, and find that it makes ascertaining distance nearly impossible, as though there is some mystical fluid inside my head that controls equilibrium, but I know from head liquids that this mind’s-eye jelly, if it truly existed, would be green and viscous.

Viscosity is green and slow, like gummi bears.

2007 ???
It’s not the buzzards circling overhead that worry me, it’s the actuaries at the doorstep.

1982 (Don’t Fuck with) Texas
We ate the cake, not minding it so much, I learned very early on that not eating the presentation could be very painful, and always laughed when the stereotypical cartoon of bed without dinner made itself known. I would have loved that option.

2006 Bavaria
I’m tempted to bite down on the bruises to keep them from fading away.

2006 Blogosphere
I love the idea of putting a bell on me to alert others when I’m coming. So that the next time you hear a bell, you’ll think, he’s coming. Ring-a-ding-ding, here I come.

It will take some getting used to, I know. When I hear bells mostly I think of Pop Tart knock-offs in a toaster oven, or Monte Carlos pulling into the full-service station for leaded gas and a windshield wipe. And I don’t want to think of anybody coming in the back of a 1978 Chevrolet.

2006 Somewhere over Western Washington
We’ve reached the end of our time in training, and sadly, the graduation ceremony is lacking in pomp and especially circumstance. She walks across the stage, and though she is the graduate, she is the one who hands me a gift. It is a candy tin. I know without opening it that inside are a handful of green gummis.

Oregon Junco

Occasionally you come face to face with your worst fears, and the person on the other end of the line is speaking slowly, not making much sense, and the thought enters your head that perhaps this is a dream, and perhaps if you just wait it out it'll get better, even if incrementally so.

Occasionally I find that I am the crazy bird man I claim not to be. I ignore the evidence, the crowded feeders and houses, the mad dashes for my camera, the time I taught Tristan to cup his hands and coo like a mourning dove.

For five nights, I've slept at only 35% efficiency, the result of an endless string of nightmares, each differently themed, but all connected by one odd incident. At the end of each, a bird dies.

Last week, our neighbor, a woman in her 50s, asked me for financial aid advice for a friend. I told her everything I could think of, before she thanked me and asked me if I understood why she had yelled at my mother-in-law, which not only did I not understand, but being drunk, very quickly caused her to regret ever doing so, and she tried to explain about my dogs, and I asked her if she ever wondered why in 4 years I have never complained about her cats, in spite of the avian carnage they wreaked upon my backyard habitat, NO BIRD SANCTUARY THIS. She promised to clip their nails, and went on and on about how she loved birds AND USED TO WORK WITH THEM, to which I thought, USED TO?, WELL WHO'S DOING THE WORK NOW, SISTER? WHO'S BURYING THE MANY PRODUCTS OF YOUR INTENSE LABORS AS OF LATE?

The next morning, I noticed in the 5 AM light, a macabre pendant, hanging from the windmill I erected outside the kitchen window so that I could enjoy my coffee with nuthatches and Steller's Jays and spotted towhees and black-headed grosbeaks. It was the body of an Oregon Junco, trapped between the slats.

It'll get better.

Last night, the victim was my father's conure, left in my stead as they traveled far and wide. I saved it from being trapped underneath the door cage, but the stress was too much, and when I set it upon its perch, it fell backwards into its water trough, normally only a few inches, but now, suddenly so deep as to cover its entire body, and when I reached in to pull it from the water, I found that I had set the cage too high, and I had to jump to pull it down. I removed the bird from the water, and blew air into its nostrils, but to no effect and ineffective timing.

I sat down with the bird in my lap and made the decision to wait it out.

XP Myself

In my last job, I lived under the constant fear that my employer would find out the truth about my internet behavior, namely, that they were paying me a good deal of money to surf the web all day. And I was always indignant about this, like, ‘How dare they put me under this constant stress? I’m practically in tears every day trying to read through the McSweeney’s archives, and by the time I get to Maud Newton, I’m an utter mess. You got that report done? Pfft.’

Anyhoo, one morning I’m surfing the web instead of working, and all of a sudden the mouse cursor decides it doesn’t want to go where I tell it, so I start shaking the mouse violently and making a sound like a feral cat for good measure. But still, the gdamned cursor still just keeps going it’s own little happy direction, and then it closes my browser! Like really, goes to the top right and clicks the ‘x’ and I’m like, you little fuckling, I wasn’t done reading The Onion!

And then the cursor goes to windows explorer and it opens up a program and another and all of a sudden there are like 7 cascading programs like the kaleidoscope of digital hell, and I make my feral cat noise again and run to Kevin, our graphics guy, and in breathy desperation, gasp,

‘Is it possible for the IT department to remotely take over our computers?’

‘Oh yeah. That’s the beauty of XP.’

And I screamed.

I ran back to my office, hurdling over mid-manager and dodging administrative assistants, fully prepared to rip all the power cords from the wall, and half expecting that even without power they could still keep my machine on and open my browser history file.

But I get to my desk and there’s no movement on the computer screen. I poke at the mouse, as though it were a corpse about to spring to life and scream at me. All the programs were closed and it’s just my desktop wallpaper, a photo of my wife and two children, smiling back at me, but I can tell what they’re thinking, and what they are thinking, my friend is, ‘We know you won’t do something stupid like read Rocketpack all day and lose your job and have us fall into the public welfare,’ and I whisper quietly to the desktop photo, tears welling in my eyes, ‘I’m sorry, children!’

And it’s calm and quiet, like that scene of the lake in Deliverance, and as I imagine the lifeless hand about to surface I feel a hand upon my shoulder, and I pee myself a little, or a lot, it doesn’t matter.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘They know where I’ve been!’

‘But dude, they’ve always been able to track where you go.’

‘I know, but NOT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!’

‘Well, maybe you should do a little more work and a little less Modern Humorist.’

And following the obligatory second of sitcom silence, we both break out into laughter, and now the tears rolling from my eyes are sweet and precious. And now I take control of my mouse, and I open up a word file in one window and Fazed in the other, and the world is good again, and the next time IT takes over my computer again, I’ll be ready.

Emotionally.

window view

Conjunction #1
And in the middle of a meeting I noticed a girl across the hall staring outside the window, and I thought, I know this girl, and I know that look. Less than 5% of all people look like that.

Conjunction #2
And I wanted to get her attention and ask, "What do you call it when you love something and hate that very SAME something at very nearly the exact same time and place?" I don't know what she'd say. I know what I would say, but I'm always a little surprised to find that the people I think should have the very same answers to all the world's questions very often don't.

Occasionally, I find we eat the same things. Okra and Brussels sprouts, for instance. Baby bok choi. Not frappucino. Or that it always seems to rain, even when we visit the driest places.

"What do you call it when you love something but hate it at the same time?"

"Crack."

"You are so my crack."

Conjunction #3
And then I thought, "My organs must be in the wrong place. Parts are missing. Or incomplete. Is it the parts that make the whole? Or is it the other way around? The clothes that make the man?" Or the men that make the clothes?

I don't just mix my metaphors, I very often misplace them. "Is what I'd tell her, if only she'd stop looking out the goddamned window."

Conjunction #4
And the meeting ended, with me staring at a girl who was staring out the window.

Conjunction #5
And outside, a cottonwood seed floated by, very similar to one I just saw, drifting between us in my car at damn near 70 miles per hour, and she reached for it, and it sidestepped, and I reached for it, and felt its hairs tickle my wrist, and she reached for it and I wondered whence the bruises, and I caught it, opened my palm and let it go. It flew out the window, knowing its luck had been spent, no fertile ground in these climes, and if you could ever have understanding with our forested friends, it was this: both the cottonwood and I recognized at that moment the look of the compulsive buyer. Both of us with emotional outlays, too many financial commitments elsewhere and otherwise divided, unable to spend it all in one place. No tree will ever sprout between the two of us.