This is the advice I give to my son. In parentheses is the advice I was given by my various father figures. In Italics is the advice I am going to give Toby, the kid up the street who said my car sucked, after I marry his mom and become his step-father.
1. Do you know what girls like? They like it when you are kind, but only once they are convinced that you have it in you to be a raging madman. Don't just be kind ALL THE TIME. Throw a rock through a street lamp when you lose at four square, and then later on hold the door open for her. That's golden, son.
(What do girls like? They like it when you go to the fridge and bring me that bottle of ginger ale that smells like acetone. And then fuck off. They don't like your coughing.)
Do I know what girls like? NOT YOU. I'm sorry to break it to you. In fact, I even asked around. I asked Kristen, "Hey, do you like Toby, even though he peed all over the camper mattress when he fell asleep last weekend?" And then I asked Margo, "Hey, do you like Toby, even after seeing all of these photos of him bathing with his sister when he was 4?" I wish girls didn't think you sucked so bad, either.
2. There's no reason to fear a little hard work. Look, you help me with the weeding, and we can talk about getting a pair of DS Lites. And we will enjoy them more because we will have earned them. What? Yes, you're right, the weeds will grow back. Now that you make me think of it, moreover, weeds are artificial constructs created by the gardening industry in order to keep us from enjoying the abundant, local plants that use less water and attract native wildlife. Let's just go get those DS Lites right now, you clever little boy!
(After you're done folding my underwear, I have a little reward for you. You get to fold my socks.)
I'm sorry, Toby, but one coat of wax is insufficient because of all the pollen in the air. And when you're done, make sure you vacuum the mats on a solid surface in order to maximize the sucking action.
3. Yikes, yeah, that's quite a scrape. Good thing I de-thorned the blackberries, or it might even be bleeding. I know what will fix you right up, though: your own pellet gun!
(Well, I ain't got no goddamned bactine. Why would I pour my beer on it? It wasn't that rusty!)
As a former EMT, my medical advice for you Toby is to just suck it up.
4. Well, if you want to be healthy, you can't just play XBOX all day. So your mother and I have decided to buy you DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION!
(You better run.)
In boxing, we call that a sucker punch, Toby. You ready for some basketball?
5. Well, if you really want a puppy, it's not going to be easy, and you're going to have to listen very carefully to what I say. First of all, a puppy isn't a toy, it's a responsibility. You're going to need to read about the different breeds and find out the needs for each kind of dog. You're also going to need to show that you can maintain your grades while taking care of a pet. Plus, until you...oh, what the hell. Let's go get a puppy!
(You'll see your puppy in heaven. Sure.)
You're going to have to show me that you can take care of living creatures, Toby. Here. If this tomato plant is still alive next January, I will have the confidence in you to take care of a puppy. Make sure you pinch off the little buds in between the branches. They're called SUCKERS.
\ publicly supported angst
i keep wondering if it will work out, or linger along. alex got cited by our community association for running a stop sign, and we fought it for months and had a final appeal set for last sunday, with my mom agreeing to come over and baby sit, but my dad had made a remark along the lines of why don't we just pay it, and this is that barrier that i know will never be crossed, a trivial, petty, pointless chasm between people who have more than likely forced whatever outward affection is shown because of what? appearances? the will of god? i often wonder what goes on through their heads, their fierce dedication to church and helping others, so at odds with their actions. they have never believed us when we speak, hold on to such bizarre notions that we must be lying. and sometimes these surface in the most unusual ways.
i remember once, he took me hunting, and it was strange to go hunting with him because we did so little together. and although he did this as a child, hunting and fishing were MY own escapes, and throughout high school i was usually out in the woods, carrying my shotgun or tackle box. but this one time, he wanted to take me, and it seemed strange because he grew up out west, and in the open prairies, they would hunt mule deer by roaming through the hills, but in
i mentioned the other hunters, and didn't think anything of it for years, until not long ago, when he brought this story up and told me he knew that i had lied. that when he was a kid, when he saw his first deer, he froze. he was overcome by some sort of fear that is alien to me, and i think maybe he was hoping we could bond on this one point. oh good god.
now is when i'm freezing up, across from them at a party celebrating alex's mom on the occasion of her 60th odd birthday. i imagine that they know i have had it and we're putting the house up for sale and i'm going to look for a job a thousand thousand miles away. i am giving up on any family other than my own. i don't like this, it affects my run, now, i remember worthless details when things go poorly between us, and i am ready to let go. not to heal, just let go. i know it's not a healthy approach, but i also drink too much and oh-so-other-unmentionables, so at least i'm consistent, if anything. i am getting so much faster these days, it's scary. i might run right on through the appalachians and sink way out in the atlantic.
they are trying to get me to rejoin the fire department. i think they forget how we struggled there, how utterly humiliating it was to fight them in tax-supported buildings and tax-supported ambulances and tax-supported uniforms, and oh my god, could we possibly air all this out in public? oh wait, not only is this drama public, it is publicly supported with your tax dollars. we are being underwritten by the government to hash out our differences. ugh.
”well,” i say, “i just don't have the time anymore. i've got a couple of big projects, and whatever free time i have, i need to spend with the kids. if i start going on calls, it's just gonna be less time with them down at the lake.”
”i know. you're such a better parent than we ever were.”
”oh, god, you know that's not what i meant AT ALL.”
and it's not, but people don't just start believing in you after all these years.
they bought me some west point buttons, once, wanted me to carry on a family tradition, and i don't remember what i said to get out of it, but i admit i may have in fact been lying then. i've got to keep them on their toes, let them be right some of the time.
/ hooked
Dear {INSERT LONG LIST OF NAMES HERE},
Do you remember that time I told you that I would love you forever?
Apparently, scientists have just discovered that time doesn't exist.
Guess that means I'm off the hook!
Love Sincerely,
Brandon
Do you remember that time I told you that I would love you forever?
Apparently, scientists have just discovered that time doesn't exist.
Guess that means I'm off the hook!
Brandon
\ i do, i
This is the time of year when scientists predict the coming hurricanes. It's getting on time to name your storms, ready now to call out the winds that will blow you over, watch the moment get gone, then forgotten. I can hear a few drops of rain testing the fortitude of the windowsill, wonder how they will send their reports back on to Tempest HQ. This home looks ripe for inundation. Everyone's crying on the other side, doing half the work. An inside job, you could and should say.
Get ready to name your storms, at least 10 to be personified and deadly serious, and for the power to limp from the transfer station, just enough for an occasional flash of light, worse than an unbroken stream of darkness. Just as your eyes begin to adjust to the unlit room, there it is, a flash of hope whose only purpose is to blind all your previous work at adjusting to the dark. You cannot always, then, feel your way around, rely on your fingertips or charm. You can say sorry when you're not, and wait for someone else to say something first, then pause and consider how to react.
I understand my ancestors better than their descendants, who would offer tribute to the darkening skies, and hope that the weather would pass. These days you are taught you cannot prevent a storm, only clean up the aftermath. We've abandoned prevention because we cannot prove it works. We cannot prove it doesn't.
It always worked til today, and then, whoosh, blown over like katabatic winds, melted, too, all at once, and floored, and on my back waiting to see clear blue sky where once the roof sat undisturbed.
I was used to these atmospheric disturbances early on, and knew that a tornado meant piling into the bathtub, the earthquakes were match made for door jambs and heavy wooden desks, the flash floods frustrated with the dormer gambit, the forgotten restraining order confounded with a hasty jaunt into the neighbor's crape myrtle grove, the yelling countered with silence, the endless days of drought defeated with sere patience.
Laughter on the other side of a tropical depression is like the sun peeking through the clouds, even while all your belongings float among the flotsam in your front yard, you smile and release your grip on the topmost branches. No one would suggest you're in the eye of the storm, not if it would ruin the momentary joy. Relatively speaking, it's all momentary, anyway.
I'm not enjoying the calm as much as I would have expected.
Get ready to name your storms, at least 10 to be personified and deadly serious, and for the power to limp from the transfer station, just enough for an occasional flash of light, worse than an unbroken stream of darkness. Just as your eyes begin to adjust to the unlit room, there it is, a flash of hope whose only purpose is to blind all your previous work at adjusting to the dark. You cannot always, then, feel your way around, rely on your fingertips or charm. You can say sorry when you're not, and wait for someone else to say something first, then pause and consider how to react.
I understand my ancestors better than their descendants, who would offer tribute to the darkening skies, and hope that the weather would pass. These days you are taught you cannot prevent a storm, only clean up the aftermath. We've abandoned prevention because we cannot prove it works. We cannot prove it doesn't.
It always worked til today, and then, whoosh, blown over like katabatic winds, melted, too, all at once, and floored, and on my back waiting to see clear blue sky where once the roof sat undisturbed.
I was used to these atmospheric disturbances early on, and knew that a tornado meant piling into the bathtub, the earthquakes were match made for door jambs and heavy wooden desks, the flash floods frustrated with the dormer gambit, the forgotten restraining order confounded with a hasty jaunt into the neighbor's crape myrtle grove, the yelling countered with silence, the endless days of drought defeated with sere patience.
Laughter on the other side of a tropical depression is like the sun peeking through the clouds, even while all your belongings float among the flotsam in your front yard, you smile and release your grip on the topmost branches. No one would suggest you're in the eye of the storm, not if it would ruin the momentary joy. Relatively speaking, it's all momentary, anyway.
I'm not enjoying the calm as much as I would have expected.
/ 50 Bad Posts Day
1. Challenge
The challenge is a variation on a theme, to come up with the 50 worst posts possible.
This one counts.
2. Objective
The object, of course, is to get at least one commenter to say, "AND SURPRISINGLY, SOME OF THEM WERE ACTUALLY QUITE GOOD."
That's when you can drink. But only if they use the word 'QUITE.'
3. Pirates, Ninjas and Unicorns
The more something becomes insanely popular, the more I am loathe to admit I like it. Except pirates, ninjas and unicorns.
4. Sex
"I am going to take you to the bedroom and have sex with you all night."
"Oooh, sweet."
/later
"I'm going to stop at two."
5. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
Have you ever secretly unwrapped a gift before the big day?
6. Meeting
I told one of the VPs that I was going to do everything I could to get kicked off the committee. She said, "Good luck. I have lots of patience." To which I replied, "SO DID DR. KERVORKIAN."
No one LAUGHED.
7. Fast Food
I remember growing up we had these restaurants called What-a-Burger, and they used to run a commercial with Mel Tillis, and in spite of his debilitating stutter, he would always somehow manage to get his lines straight after noshing on a hamburger. I think it's remarkable when the healing properties of fast food can help us overcome our disabilities.
8. Shopping
I got in line with a six pack of beer behind a girl with a cart full of groceries. She asked me if I wanted to go ahead of her, I think because she was worried I only got behind her to check her out. I said, "NO THANKS. AIN'T IN NO HURRY."
She had the cutest mole on the back of her thigh above her right knee.
9. Meeting
"Radio interviews are tricky. You need someone who is quick witted."
"We should have Brandon do the radio spots."
"Good idea. Brandon, do you want to do the radio pieces?"
"I wouldn't know what to wear."
NO ONE LAUGHED.
10. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
What is your favorite way to relieve stress? 11. Terror
I think the one thing the terrorists still don't understand about Americans is that we love animals far more than we love people, even when those people are ninjas or pirates or unicorns. If any of you terrorists out there are looking for potential targets, here's one that is GUARANTEED TO MAKE 9/11 LOOK LIKE Y2K: Blow up an animal shelter.
Seriously, drive your mobile IED into the local humane society and just SEE if the donations don't double or triple what was raised for the folks from the World Trade Center. I bet even Dennis Kucinich would re-authorize the Patriot Act over that shit. I bet they'd call it the PETriot Act. Bunch of folks be up on CNN holding photos of their missing cats: KEEPS ME IN UR THOUGHTZ AND PRAYERZ
12. Acquired Tastes
Hey, what's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?
I'm not playing this game anymore with you.
Why not?
Because there can never be a winner in a game like this.
13. Robots
hey robot, what's the square root of 12,999,843
robot: ANSWER
hey, how many pounds of bread to the residents of vilnius eat per month? OOH, wait, how many KILOGRAMS?
robot: ANSWER
hey robot, innit funny how i'm YOUR master? innit?
14. America
i just ran 13 miles. You know what I had to drink before my run? TWO TUMBLERS OF CARLO ROSSI RHINE. What do you get when you combine extreme exercise, bulimic like vomiting and bloody nipples? AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL IS WHAT. NOW WHERE MY CROWN, BITCH?!
15. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
Have you ever played matchmaker? How did it go?
Son: what is the most important vein in the body?
Wife: it must be the main vein.
Me: the what?
Wife: the main vein. you know, the aorta.
Me: the what?
Wife: okay, what did i say now?
17. Up with People
People who like you A LOT sure let you get away with a lot more shit than the people who actually love you.
People who hate you don't let you get away with a lot of shit, either.
18. Shopping
I think beer bought from Wal-Mart is the best. You can really taste the low, low wages. Always.
19. Robot
me: hey robot, you know why I'M in charge?
robot: because...
me: BECAUSE I HAVE HUMANITY AND YOU NEVER CAN.
robot: humanity is defined as the state of being characterized by compassion, sympathy or consideration of others. but just last week you called your own mother a 'worthless ho-bag.'
me: your mother was a roomba.
20. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
What method do you use to prepare your coffee or tea?
I use the rhythm method. I switch to decaf on days 8 - 19. Only two failures so far!
21. Biology
son: why does a baby come out the front-hole? isn't the butt-hole bigger?
me: babies do come out the butt-hole.
son: ...really?
22. PBJ
you know, peanuts are really legumes.
you know, you tell me this every time i eat a pb & j.
sometimes i feel like a nut.
23. law
what would you like named after you? a bridge? a school?
how about a law?
probably not the choice I would go for...
24. sex
do you think there is anything we could give our enemies that would make them stop hating us?
ear ringing sex.
that would probably do it.
with syphilis so they'd forget.
25. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
If you were stranded on a desert island, what five people would you eat first?
26. like
me: my god, i am so sarcastic.
girl: it's okay. girls like sarcastic.
me: whatever.
27. big oil
what is the opposite of big oil?
low tar?
man, even my smokes are a political statement.
i only smoke organics. plus they smell like french fries!
28. kip
it is 7 am and i am eating kippered salmon in an attempt to get people at work to stop talking to me. and i'm flossing at my desk.
it's not working.
29. focus
i want to work on my focus and commitment. this week i have given up half my bad habits and i'm doing the remainder twice as much.
30. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
What's the most famous movie you've never seen?
31. YOU PLUS ME = YOUME
You make me want to be a better person.
Awww.
I'll start next week.
NO ONE LAUGHED.
32. these dreams
i dreamt last night that i was digging in my garden and i uncovered a plastic bag, and my first thought was "i bet it's buried porn and pot!" and even though there was like huge wads of money, i kept thinking, "FIND THE PORN AND POT I KNOW IT'S HERE."
finding someone else's buried porn isn't so appealing when i'm awake.
33. yes, i know
the truck in front of me today had the following bumper sticker:
BEFORE I FORMED YOU IN THE WOMB, I KNEW YOU - GOD
this is how i'm going to open every conversation i have with people i meet.
34. shopping
in the check out line i noticed that kelly clarkson looks like a cross between mandy moore and hilary duff. but not like a good cross. like one of those crosses that reinforces the notion that sometimes two beautiful people can occasionally make an ugly child.
35. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
Tell us about your first kiss. Who was it with? How old were you?
a euphemism is a gentle way of breaking bad news, i think. sort of like when you are drinking coke for years and years, and then you secretly switch to pepsi, but then you secretly switch to FANTA, and when pepsi asks you where you been, you say, ' nowhere, i just been FANTASIZING.'
"NO COMMENT EXCEPT FOR THAT COMMENT. SO I GUESS WHAT I'M SAYING IS 'ONE COMMENT.'"
"GODDAMN IF IT WASN'T WORTH SACRIFICING MY SHOT AT THE WHITE HOUSE. GOD DAMN."
and? so what.
Me: well, i suppose i also KINDA wanna know that i can still USE it.
Friend: hmmm...
Me: actuallyyyy, a TINY part of me is curious if i should have a doctor take a LOOK at it.
What's your middle name? Is there a story or history behind it?
you will always do it differently the second time, or at least say you will, nonetheless. that is the nature of hindsight.
i once tried to assume an alter ego who i named jude, so that i could send thinly veiled love notes to a pretty girl.
The challenge is a variation on a theme, to come up with the 50 worst posts possible.
This one counts.
2. Objective
The object, of course, is to get at least one commenter to say, "AND SURPRISINGLY, SOME OF THEM WERE ACTUALLY QUITE GOOD."
That's when you can drink. But only if they use the word 'QUITE.'
3. Pirates, Ninjas and Unicorns
The more something becomes insanely popular, the more I am loathe to admit I like it. Except pirates, ninjas and unicorns.
4. Sex
"I am going to take you to the bedroom and have sex with you all night."
"Oooh, sweet."
/later
"I'm going to stop at two."
5. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
Have you ever secretly unwrapped a gift before the big day?
This is an allusion to pre-marital sex, isn't it?
Well, duh.6. Meeting
I told one of the VPs that I was going to do everything I could to get kicked off the committee. She said, "Good luck. I have lots of patience." To which I replied, "SO DID DR. KERVORKIAN."
No one LAUGHED.
7. Fast Food
I remember growing up we had these restaurants called What-a-Burger, and they used to run a commercial with Mel Tillis, and in spite of his debilitating stutter, he would always somehow manage to get his lines straight after noshing on a hamburger. I think it's remarkable when the healing properties of fast food can help us overcome our disabilities.
8. Shopping
I got in line with a six pack of beer behind a girl with a cart full of groceries. She asked me if I wanted to go ahead of her, I think because she was worried I only got behind her to check her out. I said, "NO THANKS. AIN'T IN NO HURRY."
She had the cutest mole on the back of her thigh above her right knee.
9. Meeting
"Radio interviews are tricky. You need someone who is quick witted."
"We should have Brandon do the radio spots."
"Good idea. Brandon, do you want to do the radio pieces?"
"I wouldn't know what to wear."
NO ONE LAUGHED.
10. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
What is your favorite way to relieve stress?
I like to pretend that my stress is an imaginary squeeze ball, and then i press it and press it and press it until i believe that it is as tiny as a speck of coal with a miniature diamond inside. and then i bury all that stress deep into the pit of my stomach, and marvel at how much i must be worth.
or i down a can of steel reserve and throw rocks at street signs. whichever.
I think the one thing the terrorists still don't understand about Americans is that we love animals far more than we love people, even when those people are ninjas or pirates or unicorns. If any of you terrorists out there are looking for potential targets, here's one that is GUARANTEED TO MAKE 9/11 LOOK LIKE Y2K: Blow up an animal shelter.
Seriously, drive your mobile IED into the local humane society and just SEE if the donations don't double or triple what was raised for the folks from the World Trade Center. I bet even Dennis Kucinich would re-authorize the Patriot Act over that shit. I bet they'd call it the PETriot Act. Bunch of folks be up on CNN holding photos of their missing cats: KEEPS ME IN UR THOUGHTZ AND PRAYERZ
12. Acquired Tastes
Hey, what's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?
I'm not playing this game anymore with you.
Why not?
Because there can never be a winner in a game like this.
13. Robots
hey robot, what's the square root of 12,999,843
robot: ANSWER
hey, how many pounds of bread to the residents of vilnius eat per month? OOH, wait, how many KILOGRAMS?
robot: ANSWER
hey robot, innit funny how i'm YOUR master? innit?
14. America
i just ran 13 miles. You know what I had to drink before my run? TWO TUMBLERS OF CARLO ROSSI RHINE. What do you get when you combine extreme exercise, bulimic like vomiting and bloody nipples? AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL IS WHAT. NOW WHERE MY CROWN, BITCH?!
15. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
Have you ever played matchmaker? How did it go?
Yes. And I was able to give most of the puppies away to good homes.
16. Foreign WifeSon: what is the most important vein in the body?
Wife: it must be the main vein.
Me: the what?
Wife: the main vein. you know, the aorta.
Me: the what?
Wife: okay, what did i say now?
17. Up with People
People who like you A LOT sure let you get away with a lot more shit than the people who actually love you.
People who hate you don't let you get away with a lot of shit, either.
18. Shopping
I think beer bought from Wal-Mart is the best. You can really taste the low, low wages. Always.
19. Robot
me: hey robot, you know why I'M in charge?
robot: because...
me: BECAUSE I HAVE HUMANITY AND YOU NEVER CAN.
robot: humanity is defined as the state of being characterized by compassion, sympathy or consideration of others. but just last week you called your own mother a 'worthless ho-bag.'
me: your mother was a roomba.
20. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
What method do you use to prepare your coffee or tea?
I use the rhythm method. I switch to decaf on days 8 - 19. Only two failures so far!
21. Biology
son: why does a baby come out the front-hole? isn't the butt-hole bigger?
me: babies do come out the butt-hole.
son: ...really?
22. PBJ
you know, peanuts are really legumes.
you know, you tell me this every time i eat a pb & j.
sometimes i feel like a nut.
23. law
what would you like named after you? a bridge? a school?
how about a law?
probably not the choice I would go for...
24. sex
do you think there is anything we could give our enemies that would make them stop hating us?
ear ringing sex.
that would probably do it.
with syphilis so they'd forget.
25. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
If you were stranded on a desert island, what five people would you eat first?
I would eat Apple Martin, John Candy, Halle Berry, Vanilla Ice and Jack Lemmon.
Wait, you did say a DESSERT island?
I spent way too much time on this.26. like
me: my god, i am so sarcastic.
girl: it's okay. girls like sarcastic.
me: whatever.
27. big oil
what is the opposite of big oil?
low tar?
man, even my smokes are a political statement.
i only smoke organics. plus they smell like french fries!
28. kip
it is 7 am and i am eating kippered salmon in an attempt to get people at work to stop talking to me. and i'm flossing at my desk.
it's not working.
29. focus
i want to work on my focus and commitment. this week i have given up half my bad habits and i'm doing the remainder twice as much.
30. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
What's the most famous movie you've never seen?
Well, I've never seen the Greatest Story Ever Told.
Star Wars?
No, The Greatest Story Ever Told.
Breakfast Club?
THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD!!!
I give up. What is the greatest story ever told?
Leave me alone, Vox.31. YOU PLUS ME = YOUME
You make me want to be a better person.
Awww.
I'll start next week.
NO ONE LAUGHED.
32. these dreams
i dreamt last night that i was digging in my garden and i uncovered a plastic bag, and my first thought was "i bet it's buried porn and pot!" and even though there was like huge wads of money, i kept thinking, "FIND THE PORN AND POT I KNOW IT'S HERE."
finding someone else's buried porn isn't so appealing when i'm awake.
33. yes, i know
the truck in front of me today had the following bumper sticker:
BEFORE I FORMED YOU IN THE WOMB, I KNEW YOU - GOD
this is how i'm going to open every conversation i have with people i meet.
in the check out line i noticed that kelly clarkson looks like a cross between mandy moore and hilary duff. but not like a good cross. like one of those crosses that reinforces the notion that sometimes two beautiful people can occasionally make an ugly child.
35. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
Tell us about your first kiss. Who was it with? How old were you?
i kissed a girl. yes, i did! i did so! stop laughing! i choose 'Dare!' i choose 'Dare!'
36. euphemisma euphemism is a gentle way of breaking bad news, i think. sort of like when you are drinking coke for years and years, and then you secretly switch to pepsi, but then you secretly switch to FANTA, and when pepsi asks you where you been, you say, ' nowhere, i just been FANTASIZING.'
37. my space
keep getting these myspace requests for friendship, but it's clear they want to be more than simply friends (or is it less?) because their links invariably lead to nude shots of themselves and what I'm assuming are their REAL friends (a few of whom I recognize from previous friendship requests, proving it's not such a big world after all, that we're all interconnected and entwined, writhingly so).
38.electioneer
i write 'cause i'm purposefully trying to go insane. leave me alone, i can have my fad now that i can afford it. my company has employee assistance, you know. i want to see myself on the news one day being escorted out of a seedy hotel wrapped in a sheet rolling my eyes and mouthing one of the following phrases:
"NO COMMENT EXCEPT FOR THAT COMMENT. SO I GUESS WHAT I'M SAYING IS 'ONE COMMENT.'"
"GODDAMN IF IT WASN'T WORTH SACRIFICING MY SHOT AT THE WHITE HOUSE. GOD DAMN."
and? so what.
39. Fairytale Logic
A bone in the hand is worth two in the bush.
40. VOX QUESTION OF THE DAY
If you could write a book about anything, what would it be about?
How to explain sex to an 8 year old who won't stop asking about it. Without using euphemisms like 'wee-wee' and 'blossom.' Or alternately, how to get an 8 year old to stop asking and just learn about sex from wikipedia already LIKE I DID.
41. LIES
i thought I totally looked hot today, and if i were a girl i cannot imagine not seeing me pass in the hall and grasping onto my neck with your teeth, swearing not to let go until i promised to make you my love slave but then i got home and took a few pictures to CAPTURE THE MAGIC and suddenly i KNEW, the CAMERA TOTALLY LIES.
42. TAG
Me: i flirt 'cause still want to know that i GOT it.
Me: well, i suppose i also KINDA wanna know that i can still USE it.
Friend: hmmm...
Me: actuallyyyy, a TINY part of me is curious if i should have a doctor take a LOOK at it.
43. Meeting
she said: i'm anal retentive.
I said: i've got the anal part down, it's the retention that's such a pickle.
she said: AWKWARD SILENCE
NO ONE LAUGHED
44. PHILLY
TequilaCon08 is in Philly. Your job is to find us the perfect venue.
What's your middle name? Is there a story or history behind it?
Ha, great question, VOX! Funny story, actually. My middle name is actually my biological father's name, and as Elrond once said, "NEVER BEFORE HAS ANY VOICE UTTERED THE WORDS OF THAT TONGUE HERE IN IMLADRIS."
Yes. Great question, VOX. Thank you. For that.46. Recruiter
I think a good Army commercial for NPR would sound like this:
WHEN I'M NOT KILLING TERRORISTS YOU MIGHT FIND ME PLAYING ALONG WITH WEEKEND EDITION'S PUZZLE WITH WILL SHORTZ, OR ENJOYING THE SOMETIMES POIGNANT, SOMETIMES HILARIOUS, ALWAYS INSIGHTFUL THIS AMERICAN LIFE WITH IRA GLASS.
you will always do it differently the second time, or at least say you will, nonetheless. that is the nature of hindsight.
48. exercise
the cavemen never drove, and you don't hear about their famed longevity.
i once tried to assume an alter ego who i named jude, so that i could send thinly veiled love notes to a pretty girl.
i wrote:
later in the day jude realized that he likes his job, but wants to do something else, like accept literary prizes for a career. jude misses the days in short story class where he would assume that everyone wrote stories that were miserably unsuccessful veiled attempts to describe their experiences with drugs and sex. jude wrote a story about his noncustodial father begging for forgiveness. jude didn't relent.
jude likes the value of a good effort. this is why the notes in the sides of jude's spreadsheets indicate that he handchecked by solar powered calculator all of Excel's calculations, which he doesn't see as missing the point of computer software.
jude has unresolved issues with his mother.
jude doesn't see any of this behavior as ironic, likely because he is too close to his third person fictional persona. all he sees is iron. or maybe ron. he is so close, in fact, that all he sees is the vast empty white space that fills the letter o. he can recite pi to two decimal points.
What is your favorite children's movie?
I remember watching Where the Red Fern Grows in school and trying so hard not to cry that I still walk with a slight limp, and when I got home, I actually thanked my dog, Max, because I just KNEW he would protect me from all manner of mountain lions. And then about a month later, my mom remarried a guy who didn't like dogs, so they gave Max away and concocted some elaborate story how Max ran away and got run over by a train. I shit you not. A train.
What a great movie for children.\ you could call it an apple dare
i encourage her to do so, knowing she's been told not to, the oldest story in the bible. i wonder what this makes me, but i only wonder this years later, and only to make myself laugh all along the long drive home, tired of wasting my time imagining my own greatness. and then i remember how i in fact left her in worse shape than i found her, and wonder what this makes me. leave only footprints, take only photos, la la la la la. i still come across a picture here and there.
the bottle calls me. not even from close proximity, but through the cellular towers, through its brand newe phone/pda/camera. i want to say it would be a mistake to think that if you could only combine all the people you've loved into one person who included all their qualities you might find happiness instead of a bulky companion with too few buttons to push. i break down on the shore and have one. then another. we're suddenly on the waves of hood canal and the sensation of losing my hat is like finding photos of old rollercoaster rides. i have one more bottle and imagine the warning i would write onto the side. careful, do not open. contains empathies.
a rising economic sea lifts all boats. i find now these waters are too deep to drop our shrimp pots. one has drifted into an abyss, dragging the buoy down with it. or maybe it was stolen, or the line cut by an activist, freeing the little crustaceans to live out the rest of their days in a catfood filled prison. i pull the line hand over hand, like begging for food, really working for it, casting my net into the depths of galilee. there are three shrimp in the pot. PETA would roll its eyes.
she liked vocabulary, and always wielded a word per day. there's no harm, she said, in looking up new words and putting them to use. the worst can happen is people mistake your curiosity for pretension, and having people understand your true intentions is its own kind of hell, anyway. i add a new phrase now and again. the more the manier.
i drove up to my mom's house today. i walked the ten back acres looking for morels and garter snakes. she didn't show up, so i turned to leave. i had to go back, cause i forgot to tie up the dogs, and antagonize the geese. she showed up at that moment. i let her know just by standing there she doesn't have to wring her hands the loss of my affection. it's not everything she wants, but i bet i'll get softer in old age, when i have been forced to transfer the last of my memories to scrapbooks and photographs. la la la la la. i wonder what else i'll have forgotten by then.
the bottle calls me. not even from close proximity, but through the cellular towers, through its brand newe phone/pda/camera. i want to say it would be a mistake to think that if you could only combine all the people you've loved into one person who included all their qualities you might find happiness instead of a bulky companion with too few buttons to push. i break down on the shore and have one. then another. we're suddenly on the waves of hood canal and the sensation of losing my hat is like finding photos of old rollercoaster rides. i have one more bottle and imagine the warning i would write onto the side. careful, do not open. contains empathies.
a rising economic sea lifts all boats. i find now these waters are too deep to drop our shrimp pots. one has drifted into an abyss, dragging the buoy down with it. or maybe it was stolen, or the line cut by an activist, freeing the little crustaceans to live out the rest of their days in a catfood filled prison. i pull the line hand over hand, like begging for food, really working for it, casting my net into the depths of galilee. there are three shrimp in the pot. PETA would roll its eyes.
she liked vocabulary, and always wielded a word per day. there's no harm, she said, in looking up new words and putting them to use. the worst can happen is people mistake your curiosity for pretension, and having people understand your true intentions is its own kind of hell, anyway. i add a new phrase now and again. the more the manier.
i drove up to my mom's house today. i walked the ten back acres looking for morels and garter snakes. she didn't show up, so i turned to leave. i had to go back, cause i forgot to tie up the dogs, and antagonize the geese. she showed up at that moment. i let her know just by standing there she doesn't have to wring her hands the loss of my affection. it's not everything she wants, but i bet i'll get softer in old age, when i have been forced to transfer the last of my memories to scrapbooks and photographs. la la la la la. i wonder what else i'll have forgotten by then.
/ believe it lady
an elderly black man with a cane walks out of burlington coat factory with an unpaid comforter and i have a moment to ponder my own mortality as the cashier chases after him, but instead choose to review in my mind a series of film motifs:
- a wealthy man loses all his money and in his homelessness discovers his purpose. he re-amasses his wealth by helping others and now has everything.
- a robot created by the government to kill falls into the possession of a lonely young woman and learns how to love. he destroys his military creators in a suicidal effort to save the girl, who confesses her own unlikely affection.
- a beautiful molecular biologist phd is desperate to be recognized for her intelligence, but is forced to do a table dance for a group of swarthy terrorists so that her misogynistic partner can sneak into their laboratory and upload a virus into their computer holding plans for a nuclear bomb.
- a boy who falls in love with every girl he meets realizes that he only truly loves himself and blames his mother as she lay dying of cancer. she slaps him and he says, 'i hate you,' but realizes he loves her as she passes into unconsciousness.
- a family must abandon a stray dog that wanders into their yard as they are moving because the new community doesn't allow pets. the dog goes on an amazing journey, teaming up with various other animal species who teach him the meaning of friendship, culminating with a happy reunion with his new family, the one who abandoned him. the other animals break out into a song and dance number.
- a woman wakes up from a coma 500 years in the future aboard a utopian space ship that escaped the destruction of earth. although what she remembers of Earth wasn’t perfect, it’s better than this, she thinks, as she throws herself into the carbon matter recycler.
- a couple avoids several engagements with friends and family they dislike by saying that their sick dog has just died. the animal makes a miraculous full recovery and they are forced to hide their dog from the outside world in a series of increasingly absurd antics.
- a group of unlikely tourists is trapped in a jungle where they must overcome their differences to defeat a giant reptile.
- a man dedicated to his career curses out a gypsy woman who casts a spell on him that transforms him into a young boy again. he befriends his own son and realizes what a prick he is as a father.
\ east west box
I had nearly flown from the nest when my sister ran off, sending my parents into africanized bee activity, making me bow my head low whenever I crept downstairs to add more tap water to the ever fading bottles of amaretto and hennessy. Her departure made me feel like the lame boy from the pied piper days, the one i felt sorriest for, left to be the only child in a town full of bereaved cheapskates, adored even more for his incapable escape. I bet he eventually ran for mayor of hamelin, the only member of the youth ticket.
Never shortchange a tribute is the lesson i learned, that and not to focus too many of your energies on the last kid standing. The new no child left behind logo appears like three bloodied finger scratches scraped into the floor, as if dragged from his feet by some puritanical headmaster. Ain't you heard the music? Town's infested with rats (illiteracy? teen pregnancy?). Time to get on to the cave (abstinence education? creationism?). Bring all your books and assorted tinders. Cold in there, lord.
I am duly adored for all of 2 weeks before the regret gives way, as regret is wont to do, to more constructive emotions, like annoyance and separate beds. It was the best year of my life. The principal handed me my diploma and i felt the wing buds dry out in the sun, used my gift money for gasoline and flew from the last of the homes we appropriated from VA foreclosures and empty nests, the smell of christmas cedar still burnt into the carpet.
Before they boxed up my things, though, the new tenants arrived, reminding me of what it was like when we were the house wrens, assuming the living spaces of those evicted, dissassembling their constructive efforts. Piece by piece. The tinier species, bushtits, I think, would watch us much like a family of immigrants witnessing a conflagration in the middle of the night, too preoccupied with pets and photo albums and legal papers to allow themselves a moment to ask in some foreign language where they will go now. They watch us then as we pick up their old materials and with our beaks and feathers fashion together a home that looked very much like the one they just lost, reconstructed from the very same pieces.
We have liberated them, we say, and while they linger we wonder what's taking them so long to congratulate us for our efforts. We write to the congregation back home, being sure to point out how fortunate we are to be doing the good work, even in the face of such ingratitude.
House wrens are hawkish little birds.
Never shortchange a tribute is the lesson i learned, that and not to focus too many of your energies on the last kid standing. The new no child left behind logo appears like three bloodied finger scratches scraped into the floor, as if dragged from his feet by some puritanical headmaster. Ain't you heard the music? Town's infested with rats (illiteracy? teen pregnancy?). Time to get on to the cave (abstinence education? creationism?). Bring all your books and assorted tinders. Cold in there, lord.
I am duly adored for all of 2 weeks before the regret gives way, as regret is wont to do, to more constructive emotions, like annoyance and separate beds. It was the best year of my life. The principal handed me my diploma and i felt the wing buds dry out in the sun, used my gift money for gasoline and flew from the last of the homes we appropriated from VA foreclosures and empty nests, the smell of christmas cedar still burnt into the carpet.
Before they boxed up my things, though, the new tenants arrived, reminding me of what it was like when we were the house wrens, assuming the living spaces of those evicted, dissassembling their constructive efforts. Piece by piece. The tinier species, bushtits, I think, would watch us much like a family of immigrants witnessing a conflagration in the middle of the night, too preoccupied with pets and photo albums and legal papers to allow themselves a moment to ask in some foreign language where they will go now. They watch us then as we pick up their old materials and with our beaks and feathers fashion together a home that looked very much like the one they just lost, reconstructed from the very same pieces.
We have liberated them, we say, and while they linger we wonder what's taking them so long to congratulate us for our efforts. We write to the congregation back home, being sure to point out how fortunate we are to be doing the good work, even in the face of such ingratitude.
House wrens are hawkish little birds.
/ marathon sprint
i hit the wall at mile 12, which is apparently a humiliating turn of events, as most high endurance athletes (SEVERAL OF WHOM I RESEMBLE) typically run around the wall until mile 22 or so. but by mile 12 i had already pulled out my pda in order to search the web for HANDWALKING TECHNIQUES IN 5 EASY STEPS. (GET IT? STEPS? UGH.)
apparently, though, my training technique is to blame (IT WASN'T ME!!! YESSS!). for the past week i have been preparing for this run while combining it with my other goals, namely FINALLY reaching my target weight of 149 pounds and last namely BEING AS SAD AND DEPRESSED AS POSSIBLE WHILE PROJECTING AN AURA OF JUJU.
i won't bore you with my menu of the past week, other than it contained big quantities of vitamin and calorie rich pickles, as well as at least one pencil eraser apparently fastened to the pencil in whichever country it is where lemurs are legally allowed to work in pencil factories. I THINK THIS IS WHAT THEY MEAN BY NUMBER 2 PENCIL.
but i WILL bore you with my breakfast, because i do vaguely recall hearing that you should eat a calorie heavy meal 2-4 hours before a big run. and what has more calories than Carlo Rossi Rhine? and don't say scotch, because i looked and there weren't none.
and a menthol cigarette.
with this fortified breakfast, i warmed up for my run by crawling around in the mulch for a slug, because i am fresh out of body glide i think it symbolic of my belief in the power of irony that a gastropod is the inspiration for my running endeavors.
okay, fine, ONE shot of bourbon. jeez.
my gear included my iRiver music device (FOR THE LAST TIME IPOD, NO I WILL NOT CONTINUE TO ENABLE YOUR BREAKDOWNS. TAKE YOUR SHIT OUT OF YOUR DRAWER AND GO BACK TO BOSTON) and a pair of sunglasses, a ball cap, some heavy sweats to combat both the chill and my body's recent inability to produce adequate heat, a 16 ounce bottle of water, a pocket knife in case i ran into any terrorists (GET IT? RAN INTO?) and pasties, because OH MY GOD HAVING NIPPLES IS PAINFUL (more on that later).
i am proud to report i am now only 10 pounds off my target weight, and as long as i don't consume any liquids or opt for the low-cost prosthetics, i should be able to reach my fighting weight by Tuesday. and next week? that wall better watch out, 'cause me and my buck fifty are running right through that motherfucker.
apparently, though, my training technique is to blame (IT WASN'T ME!!! YESSS!). for the past week i have been preparing for this run while combining it with my other goals, namely FINALLY reaching my target weight of 149 pounds and last namely BEING AS SAD AND DEPRESSED AS POSSIBLE WHILE PROJECTING AN AURA OF JUJU.
i won't bore you with my menu of the past week, other than it contained big quantities of vitamin and calorie rich pickles, as well as at least one pencil eraser apparently fastened to the pencil in whichever country it is where lemurs are legally allowed to work in pencil factories. I THINK THIS IS WHAT THEY MEAN BY NUMBER 2 PENCIL.
but i WILL bore you with my breakfast, because i do vaguely recall hearing that you should eat a calorie heavy meal 2-4 hours before a big run. and what has more calories than Carlo Rossi Rhine? and don't say scotch, because i looked and there weren't none.
and a menthol cigarette.
with this fortified breakfast, i warmed up for my run by crawling around in the mulch for a slug, because i am fresh out of body glide i think it symbolic of my belief in the power of irony that a gastropod is the inspiration for my running endeavors.
okay, fine, ONE shot of bourbon. jeez.
my gear included my iRiver music device (FOR THE LAST TIME IPOD, NO I WILL NOT CONTINUE TO ENABLE YOUR BREAKDOWNS. TAKE YOUR SHIT OUT OF YOUR DRAWER AND GO BACK TO BOSTON) and a pair of sunglasses, a ball cap, some heavy sweats to combat both the chill and my body's recent inability to produce adequate heat, a 16 ounce bottle of water, a pocket knife in case i ran into any terrorists (GET IT? RAN INTO?) and pasties, because OH MY GOD HAVING NIPPLES IS PAINFUL (more on that later).
i am proud to report i am now only 10 pounds off my target weight, and as long as i don't consume any liquids or opt for the low-cost prosthetics, i should be able to reach my fighting weight by Tuesday. and next week? that wall better watch out, 'cause me and my buck fifty are running right through that motherfucker.
\ ode to my ushabti
I would fret over my grave goods, annoy my ushabti in the next life. I'm not afraid of work, I'd say. I didn't bring you here for menial labors, but labors of love, to steer the ships going bump in the night. Now that we have a few passes without the constriction of a safety harness, driving too fast and drunk along the interstate, swimming with our toes too close to the milfoil, so unprotected, not entirely infallible, but still. STILL. My God, how we want. I just want your ability to listen without speaking, your terra cotta mouth sealed in permanent nonjudgment. I swear not to drop you! I may turn you around on your pedestal, from time to time, in this place without time, in order to avoid your eyes, fired in the oven to ever watchfulness, decorated with your useless, painted eyelids, painted in such sorrowful shadow.
I have a job for you, nevertheless, not a yeoman's work, unless you think it such, but a task for cherubs, an arrow shot through the id of some girl I met back when I was alive, who then proceeded to put me off my path, until the only way back was to drink my way again up the hill, stumble into the passersby. I could hear her walking parallel in the understory, and occasionally I'd stumble, she'd be there so sweetly. I admit, I found the life of plenty so dreary, and yet. Still. Still.
I want you to push someone else into her brambles, fill her arms with someone new. I've never desired this for someone I love, to hitch to someone else's wagon filled with objects of affection, the self-preservation of forced requisition, love imposed upon someone else to free you up for your hobbies. You know how much I like to travel! I want us to be buried in an old pick up truck with a manual starter and a biodiesel engine, start a taxi service in Elysium and stick you to the dashboard like a bobblehead Jesus. And drive and drive and drive. I'll do all the talking, doll.
I have a job for you, nevertheless, not a yeoman's work, unless you think it such, but a task for cherubs, an arrow shot through the id of some girl I met back when I was alive, who then proceeded to put me off my path, until the only way back was to drink my way again up the hill, stumble into the passersby. I could hear her walking parallel in the understory, and occasionally I'd stumble, she'd be there so sweetly. I admit, I found the life of plenty so dreary, and yet. Still. Still.
I want you to push someone else into her brambles, fill her arms with someone new. I've never desired this for someone I love, to hitch to someone else's wagon filled with objects of affection, the self-preservation of forced requisition, love imposed upon someone else to free you up for your hobbies. You know how much I like to travel! I want us to be buried in an old pick up truck with a manual starter and a biodiesel engine, start a taxi service in Elysium and stick you to the dashboard like a bobblehead Jesus. And drive and drive and drive. I'll do all the talking, doll.
/ la terre
Do not let me order wine, because I swear the next time a sommelier presents me with a cork to an $18 bottle of ro-zay, I am going to bite the end, make sure it's real gold, stick a toothpick and paper winglets into it, toss it in the air. When offered the bottle I will spell out the name phonetically and wonder aloud why we can't get something new, check the bottom and note the lack of born on dating, maybe even stir the glass with a butter knife. It doesn't matter if the bouquet expands as it aerates, I refuse to learn, as I am a dog with my liquor, it goes down an open gullet, SWOOOOOSH. I am intent on the anaerobic properties of my booze, how it performs in the airless expanse of my gut, how fast it reaches my head. I don't have time to enjoy the many feet that went into the stamping of these grapes, I NEED TO BE FUNNY NOW. I will never return a bottle of wine, unless they start giving me bigger taste tests.
I am desperate for friends lately, and even tried a bit to socialize, but THAT'S A GODDAMNED LIBERAL CONCEPT, and the colleagues looked at me open eyed on the golf course as I consumed one tiny beverage (BEEFEATER) after another with no effect on my cart driving abilities. I am writing a new book for a private college, and bid them into the stratosphere so that they would say SORRY, TOO RICH FOR ME, but my bluff was called and at 40 cents per word I am consumed with the fear that EVERY CONTRACTION IS FOOD OUT OF MY BABIES' MOUTHS. Goddamn this life and the sad reality that we can all get closer to our families if we would just let go of work and consumerism and live out of the backs of non-working station wagons, make our own modern fairy tales.
I am desperate for friends lately, and even tried a bit to socialize, but THAT'S A GODDAMNED LIBERAL CONCEPT, and the colleagues looked at me open eyed on the golf course as I consumed one tiny beverage (BEEFEATER) after another with no effect on my cart driving abilities. I am writing a new book for a private college, and bid them into the stratosphere so that they would say SORRY, TOO RICH FOR ME, but my bluff was called and at 40 cents per word I am consumed with the fear that EVERY CONTRACTION IS FOOD OUT OF MY BABIES' MOUTHS. Goddamn this life and the sad reality that we can all get closer to our families if we would just let go of work and consumerism and live out of the backs of non-working station wagons, make our own modern fairy tales.
\ est bleue
The world is orange, like a midnight pumpkin,
and I am gathering dew from the fairy drops,
the tatters of my jeans soaking up the grassland monsoons.
The pinpricks of light occasionally wink, and fly off,
show themselves to be impostors of stars and planets,
forcing me to rename my constellations, restart my count.
I wish upon a firefly and sigh, oh, you always do it differently
the second time you try, or say so, nonetheless,
in the full light of day, years, years down the road you've chosen,
so many wishes upon a life ago, when the princesses seemed so brightly eyed
in their moments of truth,
as though those life changing decisions could only be made in the daisy hue of youth.
The carriage door catches against the rail,
and I turn to her and smile,
pull the batteries out of my watch,
the solutions always so simple in the tales we tee-to-tell.
There are 1,000 dances and I don't-do-a-one-a-two-or-three,
though I a-dore the tiny twirling shapes and names of figurines
frozen in hora portraits and tarantella lais,
the flowing skirts and slippery slippers,
the ogee shoulders and glassy sways,
endless rows of commas, unbroken by a need to ever stop.
The cobblestone gives way to brick,
the tack turns into steel.
I have stayed up this entire night, just waiting for the morning,
I will need when I NEED to need, and not a moment sooner.
Over a forest, over a moon, a valley and a river,
the world is orange, a midnight pumpkin
that I am tumbling after.
and I am gathering dew from the fairy drops,
the tatters of my jeans soaking up the grassland monsoons.
The pinpricks of light occasionally wink, and fly off,
show themselves to be impostors of stars and planets,
forcing me to rename my constellations, restart my count.
I wish upon a firefly and sigh, oh, you always do it differently
the second time you try, or say so, nonetheless,
in the full light of day, years, years down the road you've chosen,
so many wishes upon a life ago, when the princesses seemed so brightly eyed
in their moments of truth,
as though those life changing decisions could only be made in the daisy hue of youth.
The carriage door catches against the rail,
and I turn to her and smile,
pull the batteries out of my watch,
the solutions always so simple in the tales we tee-to-tell.
There are 1,000 dances and I don't-do-a-one-a-two-or-three,
though I a-dore the tiny twirling shapes and names of figurines
frozen in hora portraits and tarantella lais,
the flowing skirts and slippery slippers,
the ogee shoulders and glassy sways,
endless rows of commas, unbroken by a need to ever stop.
The cobblestone gives way to brick,
the tack turns into steel.
I have stayed up this entire night, just waiting for the morning,
I will need when I NEED to need, and not a moment sooner.
Over a forest, over a moon, a valley and a river,
the world is orange, a midnight pumpkin
that I am tumbling after.
/ d'est
I knew this guy named Willie who could have ANY GIRL HE WANTED, and even then, still he liked to do what us non-lays liked to do, like fishing and LSD. He took me under his wing and taught me EVERYTHING HE KNEW, and even then, still, he would sometimes show himself endearing, like the time he compared leaving the arms of his favorite girl with shaking the hand of your FAVORITE CELEBRITY CRUSH. 'AH will NEVER wash this hand again!' he'd say, 'Right?' I am hesitant to bathe in similar circumstances. Right away, anyhow. It's a matter of timing.
And so finally I understand the difference between my approach and his, it's a matter of timing, because at the time, nothing could be truer than what I am feeling now, though for her, what she was feeling then is beyond reproach, NOW. These simple differences in the continuum define our chasm. We're both being honest. We're simply operating in different dimensions. ME- I LOVE YOU NOW BACK THEN. YOU- YOU LOVED ME THEN AT THIS VERY MOMENT.
Quite simply, it's just complicated math, it's.
But Willie also told me, "Once my daddy told me that lightning was just God going bowling. And that rain was Him crying ‘cause of that time I rubbed my privates." He eventually realized this wasn't true when he took Earth Science in the 8th grade, got rubbed back the right way.
And so finally I understand the difference between my approach and his, it's a matter of timing, because at the time, nothing could be truer than what I am feeling now, though for her, what she was feeling then is beyond reproach, NOW. These simple differences in the continuum define our chasm. We're both being honest. We're simply operating in different dimensions. ME- I LOVE YOU NOW BACK THEN. YOU- YOU LOVED ME THEN AT THIS VERY MOMENT.
Quite simply, it's just complicated math, it's.
But Willie also told me, "Once my daddy told me that lightning was just God going bowling. And that rain was Him crying ‘cause of that time I rubbed my privates." He eventually realized this wasn't true when he took Earth Science in the 8th grade, got rubbed back the right way.
\ quo d'est
I like to spend a few moments each week reading about catastrophes and warnings that we are one bad penny from collapse, and that most folks have maybe 1 week's supply of food, and that's when we have to stop making cannibalism and bulimia jokes, 'cause when funny and reality collide, you surpass your recommended daily allowance of irony. Irony is a painful, dreadful experience, just worse than cliche and slightly better than heartbreak on the periodic table of acknowledgments.
Also amid this range are undefined elements, unnamed storms, described in barely legible notes on bar napkins, "If you think you are meant to be with someone, even if it's only for a day, the scary thing is you might be right."
"We are not invincible, but STILL we want a few free passes without wearing the safety harness, running around the interstate, swimming drunk through the milfoil, grappling unprotected. We are not infallible, but still, STILL, we want to love."
"The ugly inside me occasionally finds egress through a couple spots on my body, the sites look like road rash, and it's ugly, it is. If you call me pretty when I think about this ugliness, I will crumble, and think this makes me less a man, and couldn't care less. Call me pretty and I am your man. I am your bitch."
That last one's off the charts.
Also amid this range are undefined elements, unnamed storms, described in barely legible notes on bar napkins, "If you think you are meant to be with someone, even if it's only for a day, the scary thing is you might be right."
"We are not invincible, but STILL we want a few free passes without wearing the safety harness, running around the interstate, swimming drunk through the milfoil, grappling unprotected. We are not infallible, but still, STILL, we want to love."
"The ugly inside me occasionally finds egress through a couple spots on my body, the sites look like road rash, and it's ugly, it is. If you call me pretty when I think about this ugliness, I will crumble, and think this makes me less a man, and couldn't care less. Call me pretty and I am your man. I am your bitch."
That last one's off the charts.
/ Front Nine
Stop me if you've heard this one before, but my wife walks up to the (kitchen) bar and says to me, "BOY IS MY BOSS TIRED. IT WAS SO HEAVY HE COULDN'T GET IT UP." And it could be true, for all I care, even were she not referring to his weekend pulling crab traps, because some days I AM ALSO SO HEAVY I FEEL LIKE I CAN'T GET IT UP, NEITHER, even if I'm referring to the will to live, but OH MY GOD I think some days I wish I could be small enough to nestle deep inside the pewter walls of my golf trophy, along with my hopes and desires. It's not an urn. IT'S A YEARN.
But some days, I feel like I WANT to be everywhere and everything at once, obnoxious and inappropriate, very much like a human crab trap myself, except replace TRAP with ATTRACTION. Oh, and replace CRAB with STAR. Change HUMAN to SUPER, I suppose.
These days OF WHICH I SPEAK typically coincide with the Ides of July, the SAINT IDES of lore, when I pick up my balls and bag, head out to the forest and plant my flag in every hole that mother nature lays in my path. I call this tableau STILL LIFE, WITH GOLF (LIQUOR, TOMATO JUICE).
I won't say much about the actual competition, other than I looked really hot, what good it did me among 140 other men, and squealed like a Thai hooker when I bagged my first natural bird on #12. Seriously, I PRACTICALLY COMMITTED MALE FRAUD.
I might also add that this might be the only golf tournament in the world that comes with free massages, but after I dropped my pants I found out that massage has apparently matured as a profession since the days when I was in college and looked both ways MANY MANY TIMES before crossing the street to the parlor. The tenseness in my arms and shoulders made the final victory all the more sweeter, all the more appreciated and all the more legal.
Yes, that's right. I defended the honor of my school colors (ECRU and NUDE) and restored the trophy to its rightful, exalted place atop the mini-fridge in the staff break room.
What's that joke? If golf were my craft, it would be TITANIC.
As it stands, writing is my craft, and it is a sinking ship.
But some days, I feel like I WANT to be everywhere and everything at once, obnoxious and inappropriate, very much like a human crab trap myself, except replace TRAP with ATTRACTION. Oh, and replace CRAB with STAR. Change HUMAN to SUPER, I suppose.
These days OF WHICH I SPEAK typically coincide with the Ides of July, the SAINT IDES of lore, when I pick up my balls and bag, head out to the forest and plant my flag in every hole that mother nature lays in my path. I call this tableau STILL LIFE, WITH GOLF (LIQUOR, TOMATO JUICE).
I won't say much about the actual competition, other than I looked really hot, what good it did me among 140 other men, and squealed like a Thai hooker when I bagged my first natural bird on #12. Seriously, I PRACTICALLY COMMITTED MALE FRAUD.
I might also add that this might be the only golf tournament in the world that comes with free massages, but after I dropped my pants I found out that massage has apparently matured as a profession since the days when I was in college and looked both ways MANY MANY TIMES before crossing the street to the parlor. The tenseness in my arms and shoulders made the final victory all the more sweeter, all the more appreciated and all the more legal.
Yes, that's right. I defended the honor of my school colors (ECRU and NUDE) and restored the trophy to its rightful, exalted place atop the mini-fridge in the staff break room.
What's that joke? If golf were my craft, it would be TITANIC.
As it stands, writing is my craft, and it is a sinking ship.
\ Back Nine
On the 12th, I had honors, a term that means since you won the last hole, you shoot first this. But I had a message on my phone, and as I debated delaying my reply I felt a bit of urgency, thought better, and forfeited my honor. You guys go ahead, and I typed and typed and typed, measured in minutes per word more than likely and forgot everything about this hole, forgot about the distance, the wind, the placement of the cup, until I sent my response. I asked my playing partner what he hit, took the same club from my bag and teed up; my backswing nearly touches my knee, and I swing slow and fluid when I am relaxed, when my eyes are calm, and the face of the iron responds like the palm of my hand. I hardly felt the contact, and the shot soared high among the doug firs, briefly visible in the blue, and when it landed, it spun back another foot, 30 inches from the cup. The guys offered me high fives, fist pumps and appropriate profanities laced with flat out curse words of encouragement. Some days, I am so brimmed with happiness my chest looks like the fissures in the Teton Dam, I'm ready to skip to a new life along the streets of some foreign exotic city, like Baghdad, open a flower stand.
/ Medal is to metal
It has been decided that I should come with a medal. So that every girl who conquers me gets some sort of trophy. At the end of the conquest you will approach me, reflecting the full dignity of the ceremony, meaning no furtive glances followed by uncontrollable giggling. You will bow slightly, and I will place the medallion-bearing ribbon over your head and bosom. The award will bear a bronze image of my face, with the inscription, 'MT. BRANDON,' or maybe just 'MOUNT ME.'
"This? Uh, this is just a blouse I picked up at Nordstrom Rack. What? OH, THIS. THIS LITTLE OLD THING is just some medal I got. Didn't realize I still had it on when I left the house. Whadd'ya know. Do you want it? I HAVE SO MANY."
"This? Uh, this is just a blouse I picked up at Nordstrom Rack. What? OH, THIS. THIS LITTLE OLD THING is just some medal I got. Didn't realize I still had it on when I left the house. Whadd'ya know. Do you want it? I HAVE SO MANY."
\ As meddle is to mettle
Oh, oh, oh, how come when you got someone in your life who is indecipherable that you get overwhelmed with the urge to figure her out? How come you cain't just let the enigma stand? But I do, I think. I never have done psycho, or obsessed; rarely meddle in the affairs of others, much less my own. I get quiet, though occasionally fall into an endless loop of nervous tic unless you snap your fingers, say, 'Hey, you alright?' I am. I'm just strange. I'll say a few Hail Marys and a few goddamnits on the way home. I only occasionally get turned on my head when I run into someone I should have met a few pages back in the road atlas. I am solid. I should get a medal.
I compare it to long summer road trips when you'd see a car pass, some recognizably memorable car, maybe with a clever bumper sticker like, "I DO WHATEVER THE RICE KRISPIES TELL ME," or a station wagon with wood paneling, pulling a tin can trailer, and you'd stop at Little America for an ice cream cone and SEE THAT VERY SAME CAR, AND OH MY GOD, WHAT DO YOU DO, THE COINCIDENCE OF IT ALL. And you'd leave, and that VERY SAME CAR would pass you AGAIN, and WHAT? ARE WE FRIENDS NOW? DO WE HONK AND SPEED UP? FOLLOW THEM TO THE NEXT EXIT AND BOND? but your folks don't pay attention, because old people don't see magic. And then 4 hours later, when you had had it with driving, the SAME CAR WOULD PASS AGAIN, and you couldn't imagine that perhaps the driver of that car had simply stopped for gas or food or TO PEE GODDAMNIT, NOT EVERYONE IS SO CRUEL AS THOSE WHO LOVE AND PROTECT YOU, and you'd think instead, 'They must have driven super fast, went clear around the world.' Seeing someone so often that the magic strikes me, but not nearly enough, is how I feel now. I'm as old as my parents back then, maybe even older, but goddamn it, I still BELIEVE.
Belief is helpful when you cain't make sense of it all.
I compare it to long summer road trips when you'd see a car pass, some recognizably memorable car, maybe with a clever bumper sticker like, "I DO WHATEVER THE RICE KRISPIES TELL ME," or a station wagon with wood paneling, pulling a tin can trailer, and you'd stop at Little America for an ice cream cone and SEE THAT VERY SAME CAR, AND OH MY GOD, WHAT DO YOU DO, THE COINCIDENCE OF IT ALL. And you'd leave, and that VERY SAME CAR would pass you AGAIN, and WHAT? ARE WE FRIENDS NOW? DO WE HONK AND SPEED UP? FOLLOW THEM TO THE NEXT EXIT AND BOND? but your folks don't pay attention, because old people don't see magic. And then 4 hours later, when you had had it with driving, the SAME CAR WOULD PASS AGAIN, and you couldn't imagine that perhaps the driver of that car had simply stopped for gas or food or TO PEE GODDAMNIT, NOT EVERYONE IS SO CRUEL AS THOSE WHO LOVE AND PROTECT YOU, and you'd think instead, 'They must have driven super fast, went clear around the world.' Seeing someone so often that the magic strikes me, but not nearly enough, is how I feel now. I'm as old as my parents back then, maybe even older, but goddamn it, I still BELIEVE.
Belief is helpful when you cain't make sense of it all.
/ mend
I'm pretty sure I told Alex that I had slept with 4,000 women before choosing her. She told me she was proud to have conquered such a virulent male.
I think she meant virile!
*
Co-worker came in and said, 'I'm worried about you. You look like you're preoccupied.'
I said, 'Well, I'd be lying if I said my mind wasn't in other places.'
She said, 'mm hmm. mm hmm,' and nodded.
Then I said, But I'm an awful good liar. So there's that.'
She said, 'mm hmm. mm hmm.' But she didn't nod this time.
I think I'm getting through to her.
I think she meant virile!
*
Co-worker came in and said, 'I'm worried about you. You look like you're preoccupied.'
I said, 'Well, I'd be lying if I said my mind wasn't in other places.'
She said, 'mm hmm. mm hmm,' and nodded.
Then I said, But I'm an awful good liar. So there's that.'
She said, 'mm hmm. mm hmm.' But she didn't nod this time.
I think I'm getting through to her.
\ -aciloquence
I am indulgent in my daydreams, fueled by the reading of old letters and pen at the ready to write my own future in the stars, sharpen my sting. Gotta knock myself over with some underlying truth, remember what I was like a decade a-go, hopefully not angry. I like thinking about myself fresh-faced and curious, even reprimanded for walking the halls way past bed-time, would like to think I was precocious and more interesting than I was, but where would I be now were that really true?
Gotta think where I'm going from time-to-time, even if ah am not committed to it, not wedded to it, not death til parted from it, just because I can't establish a relationship with God. With no afterlife, I better good and well plan for the here and now. Keep driving, 4 years running, past an old man in the town of Roy, always stands along the side of the road, cause it's one of those towns where the general store porch got its foundation drilled right into the highway. He waves, and if you don't wave back, there is a very real chance that the next time you wet your whistle, un-parch your parch-ness in this old saloon, a couple of cowpokes will rustle you up a can of western cat fight. Or spit in yer griddle. Shoot some bitchy looks your way, the very least.
I left the wrong story sitting up on my desktop, goddamnit, got asked about it. "So the wild rice urn was a gift to cover some in-dis-cretion?" Eyebrow eyeing, lashes lashing, dashes dashed.
"It's an allegory."
It must be. I can't lie worth a damn.
Gotta think where I'm going from time-to-time, even if ah am not committed to it, not wedded to it, not death til parted from it, just because I can't establish a relationship with God. With no afterlife, I better good and well plan for the here and now. Keep driving, 4 years running, past an old man in the town of Roy, always stands along the side of the road, cause it's one of those towns where the general store porch got its foundation drilled right into the highway. He waves, and if you don't wave back, there is a very real chance that the next time you wet your whistle, un-parch your parch-ness in this old saloon, a couple of cowpokes will rustle you up a can of western cat fight. Or spit in yer griddle. Shoot some bitchy looks your way, the very least.
I left the wrong story sitting up on my desktop, goddamnit, got asked about it. "So the wild rice urn was a gift to cover some in-dis-cretion?" Eyebrow eyeing, lashes lashing, dashes dashed.
"It's an allegory."
It must be. I can't lie worth a damn.
/ I am FUNNY
I refuse to listen to environmental stories that open with the line, ‘THE FERRIES IN OUR STATE HAVE LEAKY HOLES,’ because I don’t know what that MEANS, and when I tell my office mates why this makes me laugh and laugh and laugh, they think ah am not taking our water quality issues serious as I should. I done had it with ‘em.
I keep telling them that I am funny, but no one believes me. So I been stirring the pot around the office, because if you are not going to laugh with me, you are going to cry on my shoulder, so help me.
Oh, please help me.
\ hear me LOL
I do not mind being a caricature, but I wish I could have been one of the better clichés, Mailroom clerk rises to the top, Boy down on his luck kicks over a genie bottle (wishes for a thousand wishes on his last turn), Didn’t know the one he loved was RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF HIM ALL THIS TIME WEARING LIBRARY GLASSES AND HELPING HIM SEDUCE THE PROM QUEEN.
I am: Grasshopper played all summer long taunting the ants and now he’s got nothing to eat.
I keep telling everyone how funny I am. They are starting to believe.
/ ugh
i just rolled into work and uncovered a terrible truth: THE IT FOLKS HERE IN CHARGE OF PROTECTING OUR FILES ARE DIRECT DESCENDANTS OF THE IT FOLKS IN CHARGE OF PROTECTING THE DEATH STAR PLANS.
\ somewhere over mid-america
I see her run her fingers along the fabric, and she disappears on the other side, a silhouette rising into the windbreak of Lombardy Poplars. I walk around, and she does the same, taking the opposite side whenever I approach.
I tell her about my senior trip. Our class had voted to take a trip to the amusement park. There was some new roller coaster in
The day of the trip, we roll up to the entrance and we all get day passes. Every one of us darts for the rollercoaster, and sure enough, there's a line a quarter mile long. We spend an hour just waiting to ride the goddamned roller coaster. Wasting all our time to get on a machine that nauseates and kills, or so it's heard. That's what they say, anyway.
I expected it would be powered by jet engines, so I'm disappointed to see the whole, rusty thing being pulled along by a chain. When it's my turn, the people getting off leave circles of sweat on the seats. None of them are throwing up or searching for lost loved ones. They simply walk away.
It's like any roller coaster. It has its exhilarating moments. And then it just gets tired, and all the thrill of having your stomach drop out beneath you is replaced by the tedium of having your stomach dropped out beneath you. The enthusiastic screams at the beginning are eventually replaced by utter quiet, as we're whipped around and around.
For some reason, we decide that because it's such a huge attraction, though, that we're going to stand in line and ride it again. But by the time we finish, we see that there's no line left at all. We can get right back on if we want, no waiting. We decide that the roller coaster is meant to be a short ride.
/ this is the funny one
We played the game again on Friday, after a week overcoming a bit of panic, a bit of threatened abandonment, a few heartfelt apologies brought on by the fear of, 'Okay, now what?' I don't honestly know how anyone breaks loose. I don't think it's possible. You tie the tiny string around your pinkies when you are so new and you loosen it just a bit when it turns red and you pull, like children at a tug-of-war, mama’s leftover thread, and no one wins, because when you look down, both your wee hands are cut through and through.
"I don't know. I just couldn't imagine."
"Yeah."
"I mean, seeing you later on, knowing how long we were together. So many years when I could just, you know."
"I know."
"I'm sure we'd just take off our clothes, for old times sake."
"I know! Who do you imagine I'd be with?"
"Someone smart. Someone who reads a lot."
"I'm not smart?"
"No, I meant it as an insult. Someone boring."
"Yeah. I'm boring?"
"Sometimes."
“It’s kind of true.”
Some days, I feel like I could fit through the head of a postage stamp, if I tried hard enough.
"I don't know. I just couldn't imagine."
"Yeah."
"I mean, seeing you later on, knowing how long we were together. So many years when I could just, you know."
"I know."
"I'm sure we'd just take off our clothes, for old times sake."
"I know! Who do you imagine I'd be with?"
"Someone smart. Someone who reads a lot."
"I'm not smart?"
"No, I meant it as an insult. Someone boring."
"Yeah. I'm boring?"
"Sometimes."
“It’s kind of true.”
Some days, I feel like I could fit through the head of a postage stamp, if I tried hard enough.
\ this is the other
Cleanest way to come is runner’s high, just as the refrain hits on So. Central Rain, you are so very sorry you can’t slow down, even passing the days old possum, little atlas of its existence, strewn along the road. There are three or four sticks, all round the former eyes. Some kids poke and some kids prod, I s’pose.
I told this story, and feel like I’m betraying a trust, but sometimes you talk to someone, tell the exact same story (ONLY DIFFERENT) and you get lost, even walking down to the end of the block, just to clear your head. It’s about being an early reader, asked to recite some passage, and you get to the part you shouldn’t read, and you do, anyway. There are so many threads that two separate maps of our lives, one placed upon the other, would be like crackle glass, and getting from point A to point B would require more than one crossing. Do you wave every time? I think you would. God, I hope.
You ever sit at a stop light at an intersection and think about someone so hard that you look to your right and she’s right there, risen right from the road like Indian Pipes? I live too far away from the world to experience this particular unearthly phenomenon, but I’ve heard of it, and occasionally I think I might know what that’s like, as though I have some sort of reserve, ready to spend it all, 50 meters from the tape. I don’t know if I am sentimental. I don’t know if I am blown over.
I am all crusty interior and heart of gold.
I told this story, and feel like I’m betraying a trust, but sometimes you talk to someone, tell the exact same story (ONLY DIFFERENT) and you get lost, even walking down to the end of the block, just to clear your head. It’s about being an early reader, asked to recite some passage, and you get to the part you shouldn’t read, and you do, anyway. There are so many threads that two separate maps of our lives, one placed upon the other, would be like crackle glass, and getting from point A to point B would require more than one crossing. Do you wave every time? I think you would. God, I hope.
You ever sit at a stop light at an intersection and think about someone so hard that you look to your right and she’s right there, risen right from the road like Indian Pipes? I live too far away from the world to experience this particular unearthly phenomenon, but I’ve heard of it, and occasionally I think I might know what that’s like, as though I have some sort of reserve, ready to spend it all, 50 meters from the tape. I don’t know if I am sentimental. I don’t know if I am blown over.
I am all crusty interior and heart of gold.
\ from every girl
I always preferred the snow angels in July, knocking down cat’s ears. Today I laid down in the cheatgrass and swung my arms overhead, imagined cattle egrets pecking at my toes.
God, faster, I think I could go. Used to drive a little tractor, foreman done equipped it with a governor, the beginning of my political apathy, I suppose, saw me and thought to himself, ‘This boy’s too fast. Burn the goddamn property down like a wildfire.’ He always looked at me askance as I was digging trenches, thought to himself, Jesus, what the hell are you doing here? You’re too smart for this. Finish your goddamned schooling and move on.’ But we’d ride around, me and this old farmhand, fixing fence posts, pushing up levees, dressing partridges, and still he’d think, ‘Goddamn. Get your head on straight.’ Didn’t understand why I listened so well, why my obedience stood higher on the chart than my ambition. I think I spent years with a shovel happier than I ever spent with a pen. Mightier my ass. Work ain’t ignorance, and it ain’t bliss.
We come across a restaurant once and he said he’d buy me lunch. I went right for the cheapest item on the menu, and he said, ‘Goddamn. You gonna eat what I eat. I’m gonna enjoy my meal in spite of you.’ Try to ruin his appetite, I would have. But sometimes when you are the guest, your only job is to ingratiate, and that’s the few times it’s good to live among these men and women who live for something more than they ever been. I let him order for me, and he bought us both the most expensive thing on the menu, and I don’t kid when I say his final bill was less then $15, and still it was priceless. He smiled with every bite, and thank god. There are still some good, simple folks walking these lands. I’ll never have a meal that good. I was making $4.25 an hour. Made the Dean’s list that semester no less, questioned my trajectory.
If he had been a girl I’d seduced, I would have driven him out past the hills of Fayette and pulled over to watch the fireflies, popped the flask and kissed her lower lip until she questioned her existence. Would have looked into her eyes so deep, through them even, like trying to find the pirate treasure in a stereogram, the shark and the broken ship and at the back of her brown eyes said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you were every girl I’d ever loved, come back to see if I took your advice, worked on my technique.’ And she would have said I kiss like every time’s the last, and I don’t mind. Long sleeves and bandages are in better supply than times like these, they are. Come back to me, and leave those memories behind. Make’em new again.
God, faster, I think I could go. Used to drive a little tractor, foreman done equipped it with a governor, the beginning of my political apathy, I suppose, saw me and thought to himself, ‘This boy’s too fast. Burn the goddamn property down like a wildfire.’ He always looked at me askance as I was digging trenches, thought to himself, Jesus, what the hell are you doing here? You’re too smart for this. Finish your goddamned schooling and move on.’ But we’d ride around, me and this old farmhand, fixing fence posts, pushing up levees, dressing partridges, and still he’d think, ‘Goddamn. Get your head on straight.’ Didn’t understand why I listened so well, why my obedience stood higher on the chart than my ambition. I think I spent years with a shovel happier than I ever spent with a pen. Mightier my ass. Work ain’t ignorance, and it ain’t bliss.
We come across a restaurant once and he said he’d buy me lunch. I went right for the cheapest item on the menu, and he said, ‘Goddamn. You gonna eat what I eat. I’m gonna enjoy my meal in spite of you.’ Try to ruin his appetite, I would have. But sometimes when you are the guest, your only job is to ingratiate, and that’s the few times it’s good to live among these men and women who live for something more than they ever been. I let him order for me, and he bought us both the most expensive thing on the menu, and I don’t kid when I say his final bill was less then $15, and still it was priceless. He smiled with every bite, and thank god. There are still some good, simple folks walking these lands. I’ll never have a meal that good. I was making $4.25 an hour. Made the Dean’s list that semester no less, questioned my trajectory.
If he had been a girl I’d seduced, I would have driven him out past the hills of Fayette and pulled over to watch the fireflies, popped the flask and kissed her lower lip until she questioned her existence. Would have looked into her eyes so deep, through them even, like trying to find the pirate treasure in a stereogram, the shark and the broken ship and at the back of her brown eyes said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you were every girl I’d ever loved, come back to see if I took your advice, worked on my technique.’ And she would have said I kiss like every time’s the last, and I don’t mind. Long sleeves and bandages are in better supply than times like these, they are. Come back to me, and leave those memories behind. Make’em new again.
/ Oregon Trail Mix
I enjoy few things more than exploring corporate lunchroom behavior and culture, but not when I'M the subject, not when I'M the victim. This week, I have pledged not to eat at all for the rest of the week, meaning today and tomorrow, but am foiled by the instincts of someone whose life was clearly changed by watching Bruce Springsteen pass the mic on to Kenny Loggins in 1984 FOR THE CHILDREN, BECAUSE WE ARE THE CHILDREN. Or was it Joe Cocker? I refuse to believe that Bryan Adams was old enough to have performed at Live Aid (or was it Band Aid?), and yet, every day that I show up to work determined ANEW not to stick anything into my mouth, a certain co-worker moseys by during the noontime hour (technically TWO hours where I work) and brings me food. She double-orders her favorite dish at the local noodle soup joint, and then puts half in a bowl for me, even when I assure her that I have already eaten, or am CURRENTLY eating or have come down with Columbia River dysentery, and I point this out by demonstrating my stages on the Bristol Stool Chart. That last part may not be true, as I might be confusing it with my first disastrous Oregon Trail wagon train campaign (I HAD LITTLE CASH, BUT WAS HIGHLY SKILLED IN CARING FOR MAH OXEN).
So why do I continue to eat the food that she gives me? Is it because I lacked in maternal affection and see this opportunity as the teat of a childhood lost? Is it because I have tangled her in my web of deceit? Is it because she is hot?
If I ever say no to a pretty face, may it send me on the Oregon Trail to hell.
So why do I continue to eat the food that she gives me? Is it because I lacked in maternal affection and see this opportunity as the teat of a childhood lost? Is it because I have tangled her in my web of deceit? Is it because she is hot?
If I ever say no to a pretty face, may it send me on the Oregon Trail to hell.
\ how to lead
let him fall head first
into running
until he is stretched tired between two points on a map,
exhausted chasing kite strings
through the fields of a lost holiday.
turn him gently onto his back,
unbutton his shirt and kiss his chest.
lay your head on that very spot and listen
for the quickened pace, until it steadies.
his eyes closed, guard over his sleep
with bared teeth and determination,
no one else, no matters welcome here
between your mutual space.
whisper promises he'll never hear.
say goodbye, but do not mean it.
into running
until he is stretched tired between two points on a map,
exhausted chasing kite strings
through the fields of a lost holiday.
turn him gently onto his back,
unbutton his shirt and kiss his chest.
lay your head on that very spot and listen
for the quickened pace, until it steadies.
his eyes closed, guard over his sleep
with bared teeth and determination,
no one else, no matters welcome here
between your mutual space.
whisper promises he'll never hear.
say goodbye, but do not mean it.
/ On 'SHEE-YIT'
Because I live in the country, I am occasionally called upon by my step-daddy to operate HEAVY EQUIPMENT, and that means MISUNDERSTANDINS.
“WHY DON’T YOU GET ON THERE IN THE BACKHOE.”
“SHEE-YIT! WHAT YOU CALL ME? I AIN’T GIT IN THE BACK FO’ NO ONE, FOOL!”
“SHEE-YIT!”
I tell this story to my son (WHO’S 9) because he’s reached that narrow age where foul language makes him laugh, but he’s not foolhardy enough to repeat it in front of the social worker, unlike his 4 year old sister, whose imitation ‘goo-damns’ and ‘mummy foo-foos’ do nothing but take the edge off the only weapon I have left in the War Against the War on Terror. But my boy is impervious to my ill-doings and may yet believe in the Baby Jesus. He is my moral compass, and I occasionally am forced to twist his arm behind his back, flick his earlobe, show him WHAT’S WHAT.
“When I was a kid in Texas,” I say, “we had a saying: “SHEE-YIT.”*”
* double quotes, ‘cause in Texas, “SHEE-YIT” is considered a complete sentence.
When he cuts with the giggles, I say, “IN FACT, MAH UNCLE STEVE COULD PRONOUNCE SHEE-YIT NO FEWER THAN 17 DIFFERN’T WAYS. HE WAS BORN WITH A SILVER TRASH CAN IN HIS MOUTH, HE WAS. HE COULD PRONOUNCE HESELF SOME SHEE-YIT, UNLIKE YOUR GRANDFATHER WITH THAT NEW ENGLAND PINKY FINGER POOP NONSENSE."
“I thought Granddad was from Idaho?”
“SHEE-YIT!”
Fortunately, SHEE-YIT is a conversation stopper more than a segue. You can’t argue SHEE-YIT. Except with another SHEE-YIT.
Of all my early memories, the ones that make me happiest involve my uncles cussing at me. No shit.
“WHY DON’T YOU GET ON THERE IN THE BACKHOE.”
“SHEE-YIT! WHAT YOU CALL ME? I AIN’T GIT IN THE BACK FO’ NO ONE, FOOL!”
“SHEE-YIT!”
I tell this story to my son (WHO’S 9) because he’s reached that narrow age where foul language makes him laugh, but he’s not foolhardy enough to repeat it in front of the social worker, unlike his 4 year old sister, whose imitation ‘goo-damns’ and ‘mummy foo-foos’ do nothing but take the edge off the only weapon I have left in the War Against the War on Terror. But my boy is impervious to my ill-doings and may yet believe in the Baby Jesus. He is my moral compass, and I occasionally am forced to twist his arm behind his back, flick his earlobe, show him WHAT’S WHAT.
“When I was a kid in Texas,” I say, “we had a saying: “SHEE-YIT.”*”
* double quotes, ‘cause in Texas, “SHEE-YIT” is considered a complete sentence.
When he cuts with the giggles, I say, “IN FACT, MAH UNCLE STEVE COULD PRONOUNCE SHEE-YIT NO FEWER THAN 17 DIFFERN’T WAYS. HE WAS BORN WITH A SILVER TRASH CAN IN HIS MOUTH, HE WAS. HE COULD PRONOUNCE HESELF SOME SHEE-YIT, UNLIKE YOUR GRANDFATHER WITH THAT NEW ENGLAND PINKY FINGER POOP NONSENSE."
“I thought Granddad was from Idaho?”
“SHEE-YIT!”
Fortunately, SHEE-YIT is a conversation stopper more than a segue. You can’t argue SHEE-YIT. Except with another SHEE-YIT.
Of all my early memories, the ones that make me happiest involve my uncles cussing at me. No shit.
/ the deepest cut
The one consolation in nearly slicing off my finger on our recent camping trip was that I would have a really cool scar, and if'n I was to find myself in a bar full of war amputees, I could join in the story gore.
'WELL LOOK AT THIS. AT LEAST THEY GAVE YOU ANAESTHETICS. I AIN'T GOT NO MEDAL. THAT SCAR'S ALL THE GLORY HALLELUJAH I NEED.'
All my male co-workers are vets, with one having served in Vietnam, one who keeps getting sent back and forth to Afghanistan and the other done a tour in South Carolina, which makes him the most unstable of them all. They all confirm my beliefs.
'YOU CAIN'T NOT HAVE NO SCARS.'
'YOU SHOULD SEE MY LIVER,' I say, before they walk away basking in their military superiority. They don't care about the wars I declare, 'cause I actually enjoy the surrender.
I was supposed to get a validating scar. But it doesn't look like a scar, all red and soft and swollen. It looks like herpes.
My wounds never come out right.
'WELL LOOK AT THIS. AT LEAST THEY GAVE YOU ANAESTHETICS. I AIN'T GOT NO MEDAL. THAT SCAR'S ALL THE GLORY HALLELUJAH I NEED.'
All my male co-workers are vets, with one having served in Vietnam, one who keeps getting sent back and forth to Afghanistan and the other done a tour in South Carolina, which makes him the most unstable of them all. They all confirm my beliefs.
'YOU CAIN'T NOT HAVE NO SCARS.'
'YOU SHOULD SEE MY LIVER,' I say, before they walk away basking in their military superiority. They don't care about the wars I declare, 'cause I actually enjoy the surrender.
I was supposed to get a validating scar. But it doesn't look like a scar, all red and soft and swollen. It looks like herpes.
My wounds never come out right.
\ we're not so native
"The cottonwood's redeemed in May," she says, and I agree along the drive, the air nearing white-out conditions, reminder of one more winter added to our rings. "The scotchbroom, too," I think, its yellow more intense than forsythia, though I know she'd disagree, blasphemy, a reminder of the natives displaced, brought here long ago by settlers longing for a glimpse of one more winter escaped from discontent, whose descendants would eventually leave the farm and become biologists and horticulturalists and engineer all manner of methods to eliminate this invasive weed. "We must protect the natives," they'd argue to their grandparents, with not a hint of irony, or the least recognition of their own roots. My favorite relatives are the oldest, who still remember how to roll their eyes. You won't want to know me if I get anywhere close to 80. I'm already crotchety and disapproving (stomp stomp).
I pass a woman, pulled over on the side of this long stretch, clearly wavering behind her oversized sunglasses, clearing a patch next to the road, but nowhere close to the nearest flowers, noxious purple weeds called Herb Robert. What can she be doing, I wonder, clipping at the overgrown grass, a growing pile of yellowing fescue at her feet. I realize it soon enough.
I wonder what color my redemption will be. A lonely old woman clearing a spot in the grass to lay a simple tribute? I know what she was doing now, some 10 miles down the road, after passing four or five makeshift crosses, carnation and lily bouquets for untimely passings in no passing zones. I wonder what she feared the most, losing a son or being abandoned? Either way, one less man in the house. How do you pick husband over son? Nightly warmth, I suppose. God bless the children, sometimes they handle all the decision making (hoo ray).
"You are growing like a weed, little boy," she tells my son, and she packs the kids away in the back seat, and off they drive. It's just hot enough to remember the burn of the vinyl on your bare legs, leaning forward over the backs of the passenger seat to feel the timid blow of the air conditioning. In the car he says, "I know why you pick us up every Friday. You're lonely." He doesn't mean to be cruel. Better him than me.
I'm getting desperate to pick up and move, settle somewhere else now. You can get just as far away by dreaming as by running, but with the dream you're on your own. I've gotten too used to the tiny voices connected to actual, living beings. They occasionally say things I wouldn't otherwise think or even dare. They make me happy (clap clap).
When I finally do it, when I pick up camp and douse the embers, load the wagon and salt the earth, I know I'll sit backwards in my seat until the new country drops below the angle of repose, all the grains fall into the bottom of the past. Take a few transplants with me back to the land of my ancestors' birth. Join the incomplete failures who found the huddled masses too huddled, the tired, hungry and poor too tired/hungry/poor, and jump ship, go back. Try and drop those old seeds back where they belonged once upon a time ago.
The descendants of those nostalgic settlers might be surprised to find how poorly the flower grows in its native soil.
I pass a woman, pulled over on the side of this long stretch, clearly wavering behind her oversized sunglasses, clearing a patch next to the road, but nowhere close to the nearest flowers, noxious purple weeds called Herb Robert. What can she be doing, I wonder, clipping at the overgrown grass, a growing pile of yellowing fescue at her feet. I realize it soon enough.
I wonder what color my redemption will be. A lonely old woman clearing a spot in the grass to lay a simple tribute? I know what she was doing now, some 10 miles down the road, after passing four or five makeshift crosses, carnation and lily bouquets for untimely passings in no passing zones. I wonder what she feared the most, losing a son or being abandoned? Either way, one less man in the house. How do you pick husband over son? Nightly warmth, I suppose. God bless the children, sometimes they handle all the decision making (hoo ray).
"You are growing like a weed, little boy," she tells my son, and she packs the kids away in the back seat, and off they drive. It's just hot enough to remember the burn of the vinyl on your bare legs, leaning forward over the backs of the passenger seat to feel the timid blow of the air conditioning. In the car he says, "I know why you pick us up every Friday. You're lonely." He doesn't mean to be cruel. Better him than me.
I'm getting desperate to pick up and move, settle somewhere else now. You can get just as far away by dreaming as by running, but with the dream you're on your own. I've gotten too used to the tiny voices connected to actual, living beings. They occasionally say things I wouldn't otherwise think or even dare. They make me happy (clap clap).
When I finally do it, when I pick up camp and douse the embers, load the wagon and salt the earth, I know I'll sit backwards in my seat until the new country drops below the angle of repose, all the grains fall into the bottom of the past. Take a few transplants with me back to the land of my ancestors' birth. Join the incomplete failures who found the huddled masses too huddled, the tired, hungry and poor too tired/hungry/poor, and jump ship, go back. Try and drop those old seeds back where they belonged once upon a time ago.
The descendants of those nostalgic settlers might be surprised to find how poorly the flower grows in its native soil.
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