Naked People In Headline News Clips

"Could you please make this brief?"

"What do you mean?"
















"I mean I haven't got all day and could you make this brief."

"What do you mean you haven't got all day?"

"Just what I said; I haven't got all day."

"I don't get it."

"You don't get what?"

"The part about you not having all day."

"What part of that is so hard for you to fathom?"

"I'm not saying that I am out of my depth on the topic as your choice of words might infer, I'm just saying that when you say you haven't got all day I don't believe you are being as honest as you would like to think you are."

"In what way?"

"Well of course you have all day, why wouldn't you? The only way you wouldn't have all day is if you were dead and then I suppose you would still have all day but you would have all day to be dead."

"I meant to say I haven't all day to sit here and consider your literary meanderings."

"Again I purport that you do have all day."

"I must object to your assumption and furthermore what gives you such empirical certainty to make such an outlandish claim?"
















"Would you like to know the basis of my reasoning? I'm sure if you hear me out then you might be brought too consider my argument not only valid but highly logical as well."

"Oh you do, do you?"

"Do I have your permission then to proceed?"

"If you must."

"I am only saying that of course you have all day, now whether you choose to spend your entire day with me is a wholly different debate. If you consider the fact that you are in control of your life and how you spend your time, then you will see that, if you so wanted to, you could spend 'all day' with me. Now of course there might be consequence to your making that choice but indeed you could make that choice if you so desired."

"Okay, okay, back down sparky, I get what you are doing."

"And what might that be?"

"You're filibustering."

"Who me?"

"Yes you smart ass. You only got me into this discussion so I would stick around."

"Now would I do that?"

"You think you're pretty sly don't you? Playing dumb with me so as to trick me into wasting my time here."

"Wasting your time, well I never."

"Don't play the the shocked groom on his bridal night. There isn't any blood on the sheets pal and I think you know exactly what you are doing here."

"And what would that be?"

"I'd explain it to you but I'm afraid it'd take all day."
















"That's okay, I have all the time in the world."

"I bet you do."

I'd Like To Think That

There was an ugliness in her head. It had taken root without even the slightest advance warning. It was vast and black and spread over her every thought and emotion. It was if her happiness were a scoop of ice cream dropped from the cone onto filthy asphalt before even one lick had been enjoyed.
















Her life had become a set piece, obvious and banal, stasis, no forward movement, and to her knowing there would be no way beyond it. The colors had all faded to shades of gray and even those were cruel and archly monochromatic in nature. She had once felt as if there were a rain cloud hanging over her head, only her head, following her, dogging her every movement, showering her in bad times and worse luck. In these days she would would lust after such activity so acute was the void she found herself in.

She had known joy once or thought she had, maybe even happiness, but now she only saw those times as a precursor, a set up to give perspective to the emptiness she now endured. It was if the cosmos had given her these memories so that she might have a comparison, a high point to give contrast to her current devastation. Had she never known pleasure then she might be mistaken in thinking that her life was not too altogether as miserable as it was.

Over and over in her mind she saw visions of concrete. She became obsessed with it and had trouble thinking of anything else. She would sit and watch at work sites for hours on end as the concrete tumbled out in thick waves and then was flattened and smoothed over. She wondered what it would be like to be under such a weight. At night as she went to sleep she saw the big mobile concrete mixers, the huge spinning drum in the rear, the spiral blade rotating, pushing the concrete deeper into the drum and then it shifting direction and the blade now expelling the concrete down the chute and out into the world.

She was past the point of expecting any relief from her state so mired was she in her absolute and profound disassociation from everything one might consider to be of normal consciousness. The grays, the weight, the spinning.
















One day as she sat in her car in a quiet neighborhood and watched as a driveway was being poured she felt a strange compulsion. It dawned on her that this was to be the day. She exited the car and in her head she knew it was time to make her life real. She would lie under that chute, she would feel the concrete engulf her and then be pressed hard to the earth, to become of something permanent. She would turn into the gray and for this she found some peace.

As she approached the site she stood and considered it for a moment. The workmen looked at her with momentary curiosity and then turned away and got back to their work managing the chute and the concrete that poured from it. Then abruptly the concrete chute stopped, the pouring had ended. She was frustrated once more. This only intensified her feelings that nothing in her life would ever succeed, to come to fruition, so was her curse. They had finished the job of pouring and now set about to smooth the surface. She went back to the car, and though the pouring had stopped, for the first time she watched as the laborers finished the job. They took long thin boards of wood and tapered and honed the concrete into a clean slab. It might have been hours but she didn't notice the time passing. Then as night crept in she saw the last of the workers pack up and leave for the day.

She once again exited the car and walked to the site. The concrete, ringed by tape attached to posts, was smooth and it's wetness reflected the last of day's light. She stood over it and imagined herself one with the concrete, in the gray, buried into that driveway. She knelt down and ran her hand over it's surface. She pressed down hard and then lifted her hand. She had left an imprint, a perfect replication of her hand print in the concrete. For no reason that she could ascertain she felt a weight lifting, she saw shades of gray in her hand print left in the concrete.
















As she drove away from the site she no longer felt the need to crawl beneath the chute, to be buried in the gray. There were shades of gray in that hand print. There were shades to her. It was if there were a cloud over her head raining on her, and her only.

Like Christmas It Comes But Once A Year

The waitress looked good in her black apron over a white dress shirt with tie and tight slacks. There was a warm ambiance in the Farfalla Trattoria on Hillhurst, candles flickered on tables set with slices of fresh cut bread and dipping bowls of olive oil and pesto. There was a jovial rumble amongst the patrons, family style if not a little upscale. The aroma of fine Italian cooking swirled through the room.
















"Have you decided yet?" the waitress asked.

"I'll have an ensalada misto and the sausage and polenta please." said Jerry Colson.

"And I'll enjoy the pizza margareta and the battibecco." said Jerry's best friend Paul.

The evening was not unlike any other save for the fact that it was the night of a holiday. Neither man had gone to work that day and after a weekend of backyard barbeque's both had just wanted a real meal having had enough hot dogs and burgers to hold them for the rest of the year.

They talked of sports and gossiped about the girls they wanted or didn't and then something struck Paul.

"Did you read in the paper how that Cindy Sheehan was quitting her protest of the war?"

"No I didn't see it," Jerry replied.

"Seems she's had enough. She said that the left had championed her as the right had attempted to destroy her. She said she only wanted to point out that her son's death in Iraq was a waste and that war was not the answer."

"She sure put Bush on the spot."

"Well the best she could but as with everything else that piece of shit didn't care what she thought but that wasn't her point. She said that as long as she was blasting at Bush she was the darling of the Democrats but as soon as she called the Democrats out for their support of the war that they turned their backs on her and began to attack her as did the right. She had had enough, she spent every penny she had and then some, lost her marriage and just got straight assed out. The Democrats went as far as calling her an attention whore. Can you believe it?"

"Sadly I do. This country has been slipping into darkness forever, fact is it never was what it purported to be in the first place. The image the world had of America came from the movies and specifically the movies of the old Hollywood that were made by Goldwyn and his cronies, Jews from Russia, America was actually a myth created in Hollywood."
















"True, did you see Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee last night?"

"No but the genocide of the Native Americans by the Christian, well American Christian government, is not the legacy that was pushed too hard in old Hollywood was it. Slave trade and Mormons I mean what is right about this country?"

"To tell the truth the only good things that come from America come from the immigrant populations, things that the so called good Americans hate. All the great art and free thinking that we supposedly had the corner on are things that have been attacked by the right since the beginning. Anyone with any spirit is marginalized."

"Did you see the new museum in South Carolina? The Creationist Museum of Science. Those nuts set about to prove that man was created six thousand years ago and that they have proof that dinosaurs and man coexisted."

"These are the same people who think that dying in Iraq is honorable. Hell I don't have much against the soldiers, I mean if you can believe that man and dinosaur could walk the earth together then thinking that you can gain peace through war isn't that big of a stretch. These poor fools get promised some school or believe the bag of lies that they are serving their country by being in the army, I don't get it. Those fools were conned."

"Do you think all war is bad?"

"Yes I really do. I mean it may seem necessary like stopping Hitler, that was indeed needed, but I still don't believe the rationale for America joining the war, it certainly wasn't for any altruistic concern for the Jews or Europe. More like a way to get out of a depression and create a military industrial complex that has been all but in total control of the world's largest economy ever since."

"The real sadness is that people die in these wars. I mean this is dead soldiers day."

"A five minute plug on the news and then back to the barbecue."

"Look at us. I mean really what are we doing but flapping our gums while enjoying an Italian meal."

"The irony is not lost on me, Italy, the axis, WWII."

"Maybe we should have eaten Iraqi tonight."

"Wonder what that cuisine is?"

"It might have served this country better had the people known before the war that there were actual people living in Iraq and that they might have had some cuisine that they found special, you know humanize the enemy, maybe then we wouldn't have been so quick to the slaughter?"

"Don't be a fool. As far as the so called Christians are concerned you are either good or bad and that these people are just bad."

"Kind of how they felt about the native Americans."

"The way they hate the Jews, and the Catholics and well anybody who isn't one of them."

Then they ate their food in silence. Somehow it just didn't taste as good as it should have. They remained quiet until the tiramisu and coffee came.

"You know Jerry I am overwhelmed by all we have been talking about tonight. You know, sure I feel sorry for all those soldiers, I mean the most are kids, well I hate that they are dying. But I also hate that Iraqis are dying and that there are insurgents who think killing is the way. The whole thing just stinks."

"I agree. Will it ever stop?"

"According to all these religions that day will come but first everyone has to either get on the same page or die."
















"Cindy Sheehan was rad."

"Still is. I wish I were more like her."

"Me too."

If It Were Really Morning Shouldn't The Sun Be Out

Todd was fighting hard to make it in the modern age. The current dating rituals might not have changed so much, a ballad was still a ballad whether sung under an open window by a troubadour or engraved on vinyl, the intent of that statement was secure, timeless, but the technologies that made those proclamations of purpose and desire real had changed on him. Todd was of the age where a mix tape was all you needed to woo the girl of your dreams.
















The mix tape process was an evolved one. The most important part being the selection of that first song, the mission statement. Once that first song had been considered, with the greatest of care given to finding just the right artist, the chorus and hook, the plea, the promise, the payoff, then the rest of the tape would easily follow. As that first song was being copied in real time from the vinyl to the tape Todd could take his time and well consider the next song in the mix. It was in this time as he listened to the song being committed to tape that his creative spark would ignite.

One song obviously led to the next, he could create the story of his intention through words and music with stops off to proclaim his aesthetic and sense of humor. After each song there was a process. The vinyl record had to be lifted from the turntable and replaced by the next. The needle had to be placed carefully on the correct groove for the next track, the tape needed to be removed from the deck to be hand rewound, just so much, for a perfect gapless mix. It was a time consuming process but a necessary one. The message was in the music but then again the medium in and of itself was also a message.

















Todd liked the convenience of the CD and MP3, how could he not, but he feared that some of the magic of the music had been usurped by the use of these conveyances. Although derided over time as cumbersome and lacking in quality there were attributes to the cassette itself, that in retrospect, were analogous to the times as well. The cassette a product of the seventies and eighties, the pre-digital age the analogue years. The cassette, two sided, long playing, there was not to be any skipping about, once started you went along for the whole ride, a captive audience. Please no interruptions while I'm preaching if you would. Hear my plea form start to finish. The digital age, give me what I want now, the shortcut, nothing but the meat. For Todd this all meant one thing, how could he make a mix CD.

He sat before his computer and looked at the songs listed before him. It struck him, this was to be a cerebral experience not the visceral energy of a mix tape. He had to hear the songs in his head and gauge the flow by memory. It was quick, into his music program, create a playlist and then collect the songs. There was little magic to the process and he felt the whole endeavor a shallow experience. In his time the collecting of music was an art. Hours spent hunkering over the stacks in the record store that no one else knew about, there was discovery and care given to the experience. In the current one never need leave the confines of their abode and still have as varied and obscure a collection as the most ardent audiophile of the past. Maybe it wasn't the mixtape that got to Todd but the modern world. The immediacy of everything. He was indeed a man out of time.
















Todd gave his girl the mix CD he created for her. She thought it the best she had ever heard. There were some things the modern world couldn't shortcut; passion.

If We Can Just Hold On Together For A Little While Longer

The smallest of things could make him feel special, to give reason to his day and set a smile upon his lips. On this day as he made his way up Commonwealth Street, past where the local social club (read gang), the Commonwealth Stoners , were posed about in all their dressed down peacockery, bored and with tricked bicycles chromed and spikey, he was struck by the perfect sense of it all.
















The cracking gray asphalt was littered with the purple panicles of the Jacaranda trees that bloomed in a rage overhead and it looked as if a carpet had been woven by some mad mistress and tossed loose onto the street. The 'Stoners' paid him no mind and he felt good enough to even toss them a wave and a small smile. This was met with no reaction at all. Like Cube said 'it was a good day in L.A.'.

He moved onto Clayton and as he ambled along he knew he would have no trouble with the Rosalia Rockers, a rival clique who lived on the next block over. He felt safe and became overwhelmed with a sense of connectedness and ease. He tried to give some thought to this sensation but he knew that with the way he was feeling any consideration of his current state might tend to interdict on the general simplicity of this moment and jettison him back to the grim horrors that on most days were so abundant and distracting. There was no need to question and so he just continued walking, one foot in front of the next and allowed his mind to wander without aim.

Earlier in the day he had been with his chum Robert Bobby and they had been in an animated discussion about the ills of the world. They were both in agreement that religion had a large part to play in the suffering that man was so visiting upon himself. Robert Bobby has been reading a book series, the Dummies anthology on major religions. It seemed, according to Robert Bobby and the books he had read, that Mohamed and Jesus had been contemporaries and that Jesus was well represented in the Koran as was Moses and that more over Mohamed had been the one that had clued Jesus in on his take on the world. He was somewhat surprised to hear that. How could Mohamed, whom he believed to have had been around a good six-hundred years after the fact and couldn't have known Jesus be the one to have taught Jesus the lessons that would later be the basis for so many religions? Robert Bobby told him that according to the Koran that there had actually been many Mohamed's and then switched subjects midstream and proclaimed that the movie One Flew Over Cuckoo's Nest, was actually a retelling of the story of Moses, Moses frees the people but never is freed himself. It wasn't so much what he and Robert Bobby talked about but the excitement each felt in their genial give and take of ideas. It was as if all these real miseries were but just fanciful ideas to be poked at and let go. They parted and each went off as if electrified and unburdened.

















Rosalia was quiet, The Rockers must have been on sabbatical or in hiding, it was a good day. Ice Cube would be proud. The cyclops helicopter whirred overhead but kept on going onto a crime in a neighborhood far across the city. Perhaps there would be a car chase on the evening news, this would only make the day that much better he thought. The L.A.P.D. were but clowns today riding the streets in their black and white zebra mobiles, ineffectual and irrelevant. There were roses blooming in the Francisco's garden and the scent jumped up and made it's way to the sidewalk as he passed.

There were a few people gathered at the counter of the Cap'n Cork. They laughed and all of the sudden he thought how the city felt more like a small town on this day. Why couldn't the whole world be like this he thought? It was if without any formal edict the whole city had taken it upon themselves to live up to higher ideal on this day. He walked out of the Cork and struck up a Lucky Strike. The hell with this he thought and then snubbed the butt and then went to the trashcan and threw the butt in, mustn't litter he thought then thought even better and tossed the pack in after the butt. What better day to stop, he thought.

It was an ideal day. As he watched the evening news he noticed that there was no real news. The alligator of Bell Gardens had been caught and was off to the zoo to live off county fat, the weather was warming, the cost of avocados was at a modern low. Then there was breaking news, a car chase. He watched as a white foreign compact made deft moves as it flew down the 101 through Hollywood. The police, ten cars strong followed in close pursuit, the every move of the procession beamed live from the news copter into his home. The chase was exciting and dangerous and it's end was likely be violent. The lights flashed and the cars on the freeway did their best to let the chase pass them. They were near the Vine exit when the car driven by the suspects pulled hard to the right and exited. The helicopter lost sight of the car as it traveled the busy city streets and then into the hills. The helicopter camera scanned the hills but could not locate the white car. The police spread out and raced up the windy hillside streets but the suspects were nowhere to be seen. They had vanished. For the first time a car had escaped a police pursuit on live television.

















That night as he went to sleep he said his prayers and then in a moment of quiet repose, an inner stillness took hold. There would be an end, he was mortal, he knew this. There would be no other heaven, no other heaven then the one he now lived in and he expressed a gratitude that he could only hope might be heard by the one who could claim responsibility.

The Smoke Screen By Demand

"Why don't you do something funny?"

"Just like that? You want me to be funny?"

















"You better do something because you've become just a little sensitive if you know what I mean."

"No I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, all this, umm, how can I put this politely, poofterliscious crap you seem to be blathering on about lately."

"Poofterliscious, well I'll be. I thought I was being insightful, you know shining a searing light on souls in conflict and all."

"Twee if you ask me."

"Jesus, twee, really?"

"Hate to say it."

"Hate to hear it."

"So makes with the funny why don't you."

"Like, say Blab make with the sireeen."

"Haven't we discussed previously that quoting an obscure cartoon of many years past does not constitute funny in today's modern media saturated world. You see in the modern world you have to be really sharp because if not, anyone paying any attention at all, and you know most people don't pay attention to the written word, will lose interest fast knowing that with one click they could be watching some talentless fool on Youtube driving a fork into his hand or some other such hilarity."

"Like I've said before I can't be funny on demand, sure I can free flow when the feeling strikes but I can't just turn it on and off like a faucet, if I could then don't you think I might have tried to make my way as a stand-up or writing witty satirical crap."

"I suppose you're right. So then what are you going to say for yourself?"

"I tell you, on nights like these sometimes the best I can do is to do nothing at all, just tread some water and hope that I don't sink."

"That may well be but you've got space to fill and so far you haven't done a very good job of filling it."

"What do you want me to say? That I feel like a bystander in my own life."

"Oh don't go getting confessional on me, this isn't the time nor the place for that kind of melancholy self absorption."

"Just thought I might leave you a little blood on the page for all the flesh I've helped myself to over the last little while. Just a little payback for all the closets I've emptied while leaving my own closed tight."

"I don't think I've ever seen you so unraveled before? What's up?"

"All I can say is that all is well and that the guy who lives here should never let a friend do for him what he should be doing himself."

"Are you trying to give me a hint or a clue to some riddle."

"If I say anymore I might give it all away."

"Spare me. Maybe it might be better if you just shut this one down here and now."

"Thanks for being so understanding. I promise that tomorrow I'll be back to throw some mud, betray some trusts and generally go back on every moral imperative I have ever professed to adhere to."

















"So business as usual."

"If you might be so kind."

If Its All The Same To You

He set down the receiver and then tried to make sense of what had just transpired. It wasn't supposed to have gone the way it went. He had hoped to explain himself clearly, if not altogether dispassionately, anyways, explain himself with enough deftness so as not to appear heartless for he wasn't; he hoped he wasn't. Maybe he was? It was getting harder to tell by the day. Maybe that was why he had said goodbye in the first place?














His friends had opined that perhaps he should just cool it for a day or two, there was a chance that he was just going through it and that maybe after some short time he might have a different view of the situation. He had heard their concerned words and had considered them but as far as he was concerned his hand had been forced. There was a small chance that he was deluded but in his innermost being he knew the end was an eventuality that he could not burden any longer.

He had ignored the first call and then the second. She was to have a day off her job the next day and what good would it serve anyone if he were to spoil it for her and then after his friend's prompting maybe he wasn't so sure if it were the right thing to do but the phone calls kept coming. It was well past midnight and the last call came in. He didn't answer. He would give it another day.

He awoke to the sound of the phone the next morning and he knew it was her and he had to answer.
















"Hello."

"Hi. How come you didn't answer my calls last night?"

"I couldn't."

"Your voice sounds funny."

'I don't know, I...I feel kinda funny."

"Are you sick?"

"No, that's not it."

"Why couldn't you answer the phone last night? Its my day off and I wanted you to come over and spend the night last night. I thought we could go out to breakfast and then..."

"I just couldn't. Look I don't know exactly how to say this but..."

"You're voice sounds really weird, scary."

"I don't mean it to be its just that I have something I need to tell you."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"I don't think this is something we should talk about on the telephone."

"You are. Oh my god, I can't believe it."

"Can I come over?"

"No. I can't believe this. Why? Why would you do this to me?"

"I never said I..."

"You don't have to say anything. What's wrong with me? How can you do this?"

"Listen, quiet down I only..."

"I'm not going to quiet down. I can't believe you would do this over the phone."

"But I..."

"What, I'm not good enough for you?"

"Its not that at all you're..."

"You said you loved me. How could you have said that to me?"

"I do love you but I..."

"How can you say that? You don't love me. You never did."

"That's not fair."

"Oh so now you're telling what is fair and what it isn't."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"I've got to go now."

"Don't go. I want to..."

"No. I have to go."

"Please, I only wanted..."

"I still can't believe you."

"I'm sorry..."















He set down the receiver and then tried to make sense of what had just transpired. It wasn't supposed to have gone the way it went.

Is The Five Plus Two A Sanctioned Rule

It had been a while since Uncle Tony had come for a visit and the kids were overamped and a load to handle in the early evening. Uncle Tony threw them about and wrestled with the boys, held the little girl in his lap and soaked up all the family he didn't himself possess. The kids loved him having known him their entire life but work had kept him on the road and his visits had become too rare as far as the squirts were concerned.
















It was just after dinner and the kids crowded around him at the table hanging on his every word, and with their father's provocation, spoke of his travels and adventures. Their mother excused herself saying...

"You'll all excuse me. In honor of Uncle Tony's visit I'm going to the kitchen to prepare his favorite dessert."

"Hot brownie sundaes?" Eric the oldest nearly screamed.

His mother threw her hands to the air playing dumb.

"You'll just have to wait and see. It shouldn't be too long."

Those left at the table all looked to each other with eyes full of expectation. As soon as their mother was gone Eric turned to his Uncle Tony.

"Uncle Tony, tell us a story."

"What would you like to hear? How about my trip to Berlin."

"No. Tell us one of the stories that mom doesn't want you to tell us." Eric said conspiratorially looking to his father for approval.

"Eric?"

"C'mom Pops."

His father could see the look in his son's eyes but knew the tale might be too much for his youngest.

"Suzie, why don't you help your mother in the kitchen."

"Ah dad. I'm old enough."

"You heard dad." Said Eric standing up and helping his sister out of the room.

"Ah that's not fair" said Suzie as she stomped her way into the kitchen.

Eric's father looked to Uncle Tony and motioned with his hands as if to say 'its on you pal'.

"You sure?" said Uncle Tony looking for a last out.

"Well if we are going to all this trouble you may as well make it a good one. How about the Mondrian with Frisky?" said Eric's father.

"Really?" Uncle Tony said surprised at the bold request.

"Fuck it. Let her rip Tony."

Eric and his younger brother sidled up on Uncle Tony their eyes as big as bowling balls.

"If you say so."

"Rad" said Eric.

"Okay here goes." Uncle Tony shifted his weight forward in his chair, a look of mischief taking hold of his face.

"Me and Frisky were holed up at the Mondrian Hotel up on Sunset. We had been there a few weeks and as usual we were up to no good. We had paid the maids off so they wouldn't come in and clean the room."

"Why would you do that Uncle Tony?" said Wilhem the younger brother.

"Well at this particular point in time me and Frisky were pretty bad. I had it in my mind that before I could do a shot I would have to draw some blood then squirt it over my head and then I would think that my blood would be primed and I could do the shot. Suffice it to say after a few weeks the walls were covered in blood and the room was a wreck. The only time I ever left that room was to meet the dealer and after a while I think the desk people in the lobby began to catch on. Frisky had the money so I was the one that had to run."

"The, I buy you fly rule" chimed in Eric proud of his knowledge of the code.

"Exactly. So the room is a catastrophe. Frisky was as bad or worse then me. So one night as I was coming back from meeting the man and I noticed the lobby folk noticing me and then I noticed that there were a few police in the lobby."

"Holy shit" cried Wilhem.

"Wilhem, language."

"Sorry dad. Go on Uncle Tony."

"Thanks Wilhem. So just as I get back to the room and get the key in the door I feel a hand on my shoulder and its the hotel manager. As I opened the door he pushed it all the way open and there was the war zone with Frisky sitting amidst the rubble a needle sticking out of his arm. The hotel manager started crying so upset was he that we had trashed his designer hotel room. The Mondrian was a five star swanky place and we had done thirty thousand dollars worth of damage."

"Wow that's a great story Uncle Tony" Eric said nearly satiated.

















"Eric, I wish that was the end of the story but sadly that was only the beginning. The next thing you know the police were up there and I was in cuffs. It seems I had some warrants. They let Frisky go."

"Wow" said Wilhem.

"We're just getting started. So the police have me in cuffs in the hallway and I turn and see a big video camera on me."

"Like Cops."

"It wasn't Cops but another show just like it and they were filming me. I start screaming at Frisky to get me out of jail and I'm naming all the people he should call, I said Uncle Beans, the other Uncle Tony, Uncle Perry, the whole lot and this is all being filmed. I told Frisky if he didn't get me out I would beat his ass. I wasn't very happy."

"See what happens boys."

"Sure do Pops" said Eric trying to control his excitement.

"It was a nightmare. The police drove me down to the West Hollywood Gay Pride parade and got me out of the car so the camera crew could get a dynamic image, they were walking me around and posing me in front of the car with the parade going on behind me. It was completely humiliating. Back in the car the crew were interviewing the cops and they were saying how they had apprehended a big fish, me a big fish, how crazy is that?"

"You're a big fish to us Uncle Tony."

"Thanks Wilhem."

"What happened next?" Eric said now unable to contain his zeal.

"Well Eric, this is where I caught what little break there was to catch. After processing at the West Hollywood Sheriff's station on San Vicente, I caught the early morning gray goose to County."

"Not County again. Remember the time you got beat up for getting that ass smoke from the black guy" said Eric.

"How could I forget. So, as you know, when you book into County they give you and I.D. number. So I book in and they don't send me upstairs. It was weird. I went straight to the kick out cell."

"Did you get beat up?" Wilhem said afraid that the answer might be yes.

"Almost, we were in this cell that should have held twenty guys only there were at least fifty of us in there. You could barely move the jail was so over crowded. At one point they brought us mystery meat sandwich's and since it was the kick out cell and everyone thought they were on their way to the street, the sandwich's got thrown right back at the Sheriffs. They didn't like that."

"You were about to get beat up" said Eric.

"Oh right, so after like ten hours a huge guy comes over to me and he's pissed. I mean guys were getting beat up all over the place, so this guy comes up to me and he starts yelling at me."

"Why?" said Wilhem, "What did he say?"

"Why, why not I guess. He came over to me and he says that he didn't like me because I had a skinny neck, that his wrist was bigger then my neck, and it was, and that he would have beat me up but I was an AIDS infected fag."

"What did you tell him?" said Eric.

"I said what you're supposed to say. I said that I did have AIDS and then I tried my best to hide behind another guy and it worked. Now this is the miracle of that day. There was a thing called the 'Lucky Seven'. I had heard about it but never believed it to be true."

"What was the 'Lucky Seven'?"

"It seems that because County was so overcrowded that they had to release some nonviolent prisoners and how they did this was decidedly simple. If your booking number ended in a seven then you walked."

"Was yours a seven Uncle Tony" Wilhem said hoping it was.

"That it was Wilhem. I had drawn the 'Lucky Seven', that's why I never had been sent upstairs."

"Wow. you were lucky Uncle Tony. Uncle Tony did your Cops show ever get on the teevee?"

"No we didn't sign the release."

"I sure would like to see that show" said Eric eager to know how this could happen.

"See what?" said Eric's mother as she set the beautiful brownie sundaes down on the table.

The men looked to the boys and they had a good laugh.
















"Okay, you boys be that way, but don't think that you've gotten anything past me. I bet Uncle Tony was telling you stories he shouldn't have.

Eric's mother came over and kissed the top of Uncle Tony's head.

"Its great having you hear Tony."

"Its great being here. Really, its great."

Coming On Strong But Don't Let That Beat You

I was younger. It had been a hot summer day and the night was warm and windy. The neighbor boy Randy, that sister of mine, and myself were playing with the OUIJA board. While asking questions and playing for some time a plan was hatched. We would wait until all the others were asleep and then we would sneak out and shower the hated Weber families’ house with toilet paper.















That night as the parents and others prepared for sleep I could not contain my excitement. I lay in my bed and as usual those nails on those hands of mine found the soft skin on the back of my calves and they began to scratch. The itching that felt as if it came from deep inside my legs was stronger than it was most nights. Skin was caked under those nails and a small amount of blood was spilled from where the soft skin of those calves had been self-violated. Then it came, a knock from outside my bedroom window. It was the neighbor boy Randy. He had requisitioned all the necessary supplies and as I crawled out my window I could see as how that sister of mine had already joined him.

Our course set, the three of us made our way barefoot into the breezy summer night. As we walked down the dark tree lined streets I saw where the Shadow People lived. It thrilled me to no end. Neighbor boy Randy, and that sister of mine raced off ahead of me, I could hear as their asinine giggling, their mindless laughter, took to the air and floated down the street. The Shadow People were not laughing.

In the wind and in the dark the Shadow People sang a song to me. I looked up into the trees and lights flashed. That head of mine was filled with the sound and fury of a massive chorus. It was a beautiful sound and I became mesmerized, intoxicated. Some time must have passed and then the chorus quieted and somehow I finally reached the Weber house. It was there that I saw the beautiful spectacle that is made when toilet paper is flung high through the air and then catches the limbs and branches of the trees. The wind picked at the toilet paper and the long flowing tendrils fluttered and danced and became alive. The song of the Shadow People once again intensified. I tried to join in but I was not laughing in the same way neighbor boy Randy and that sister of mine were. The two began to play a game of tag but it was not like the tag I was familiar with. There were no rules and they did not just tag each other, they were grabbing each other. At one point they embraced each other and then fell to the ground rolling around as one.

The Shadow People stopped their singing this time in earnest. Those ears of mine rang unnervingly with the sound of that neighbor boy Randy and that sister of mine rolling about on the leave covered ground. It was an awful sound I can assure you, and it really got to me. I began to get panicked and so I turned to run from these two. As I moved away, the sweet song of the Shadow People once again rained down from the trees replacing those sick sounds made by the neighbor boy Randy and that sister of mine.














Crossing the next yard and moving as fast as I possibly could that second toe on that one foot of mine found an exposed lawn sprinkler head. Then the world slowed down. That toe of mine was splayed open and the blood shown bright red under the streetlight. I knelt low and held that foot of mine. The blood flowed freely and covered those hands of mine and it felt wondrous. My sense of time being what it is I can not be too sure how long I had been sitting there but judging by the amount of blood that had accumulated it must have been some good time before the neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine reappeared. The two of them must have been tired from playing tag because they were covered in leaves and out of breath.

Above me they stood, looking down, staring slack jawed and wild eyed. Maybe they were wondering why I had not wanted to play with them. I returned their gaze unaffectedly and then the Shadow People told me to run, and so I did. The neighbor boy Randy and that sister of mine tried their damndest to follow me. For a while I could feel them yapping at my heels. I was laughing hysterically by now the Shadow People guiding my every step. Faster and faster I ran, free and powerful.

Things begin to blur here a bit but I can recall grabbing that sister of mine’s face and anointing her with the blood from my hands. I do not know why but this caused her to start crying as hysterically as I was laughing. Go figure. Sadly I have extremely vague memories about the rest of that warm and windy night. I do know that a brick went through a window because they told me so the next day. What I do remember is that the rest of that glorious dark night was spent running with my new friends, the Shadow People, and having the greatest time of my young life.















The next day I received some number of stitches to that toe of mine from Dr. Weber. The same Dr. Weber whose home we had so graciously decorated the night before.

Come On Bore Me Doll Face

I didn't ask you here so don't start getting fussy if I don't act in a way that is predictable and to your particular suiting. A guy like me doesn't like to make a lot of roundabout talk. I'm going to say what I have to say and if I may be square with you, not that I need your permission because I could really give hoot, you either listen patiently or you can blow. Got it. Thems are the rules. Period.
















I've been grinding down the shoe leather nonstop for longer then I need to cry about. Damn it, I'm tired and I'm tired of these jim-jims and hole burrowers that clog up my day, and to tell the truth I'm getting pretty darn sick of you good ones too. I'm the guy who complains a bit when he has to rough someone up. I'll shake you up sure, but that doesn't mean it gives me the giggles, fact is I'd rather be at home in a bath with the cat. All of you turning your noses up at the idea of a cat in the bath can shorten the leash, I'm in the bath the cat is elsewhere in Chateau Mine Not Yours. You think you're pretty cute don't you. I haven't the time for your hijinks. I got troubles I tell you, not much more then a bath would cure, but troubles none the less.

Today was just one those days that I would rather put in the fridge and reheat at another time. It wasn't that it was so good or so bad it was just that at some point just past lunch I was full of it and just wanted it to go away. Details, always with the damn details. I hate the details. The details are the things that make a good piece of work a job. You know when I close something up I want to move on, period. The Agency doesn't much prefer that business model. They want to sweat the details out of me and on paper no less. If I had wanted to be a writer I would have bought myself some eyeglasses and tried to convince myself that jazz was music. My friend Tree says it best, some cats are blowing a bunch a squawk and he says, good enough for jazz. God bless.

















So they make me type these reports. The usual, I did this, the idiot did that, then I did this and the idiot stopped moving. Fascinating reading to be sure. One time they assigned some Hollywood clown to tag along with me. He was supposedly some big shot movie writer, neurotic pain in the ass as far as I was concerned. I took him on the rounds. He watched me straighten out a few chumps lives and seemed to get a real kick out of it. So afterwards he wants to blow. That behavior was unacceptable as far as I was concerned. You watch the show then you have to stay and read the credits, its only polite. So I'm banging away on the Selectric and this guy is hawking over my shoulder. He starts telling me to spice up the report. I shook a guy, he says I braced him, I say the guys nose broke, he says I impacted it causing it to erupt jettisoning blood like a geyser in Yellowstone Park. The next day when I got to the office and saw him waiting for me I told the boss no deal. Hollywood creeps, that's all I need. The only problem is that now whenever I write a report a little piece of my brain starts searching for some of these flowery words, slows the whole boring machine down to a crawl.

Like I was saying I have some troubles, insert bath here, and I feel compelled to spill a little on them. I haven't mentioned Clarisse yet have I? You got me. Don't go getting smug on me so fast, just because I brace a guy here and there doesn't mean I'm some heartless lug. Some of you might have picked up on the cat from earlier. Yeah I got a soft spot so what? Clarisse isn't the cat, you can take your hand from off your back now, Clarisse is my lady friend. Clarisse doesn't like the cat. The cat doesn't much care for Clarisse much either so there's the rub. Clarisse lives a little ways away in a one room with her girlfriend, Marissa. I don't much care for Marissa. Marissa is keen to share the same sentiment with me. I mean if you want me to I can connect the dots for those of you who sat in the back row in school, but like I said before, if you can't follow along then see ya.

So its going on a week since I have had any alone time with Clarisse. The last time she was here I had to drop the cat off with the neighbor and the cat didn't much like that. The neighbor didn't much like what the cat did in the apartment either hence its been a week since Clarisse has stopped by. Clarisse is a good enough gal to be sure, hell she's not contrary to sleep overs and she has some look about her but the hoops I'm having to jump are giving me the troubles. I tried to convince her that the cat liked her but something about the claws and the snarling undermined my thesis.
















So there you have it. A job of diminishing returns, a cat and a girl who can't be in the same room, the girl's roommate who prays to see the dirt thrown on my coffin and a bunch of flowery words better used in a review of a jazz album floating around my head. The bath is just about run and the cat is lapping up the last of the chow. It was just another day today, not too bad and not too good, but those damn details, its always in the details.

They Took The Head And Left The Feet

Vermont was a street newly transitioned. It had recently been a block that was just a bit down on it's heels but now there were new shops and boutiques, restaurants and coffee shops, and most of them upscale. It was still a place not so sure of it's self, a street just a little uncomfortable, as if it were trying on a new pair a shoes and dealing with a blister on it's little toe.















They had spent a good fifteen minutes circling the neighborhood looking for a place to set the car to rest. They passed the same homeless guy a few times too many and their last time by drew his distinct attention. He peered into the car, his eyes set tight, scowling and leering as if to chide them for even attempting to come to his neighborhood. What fools must you be, he seemed to be saying as he motioned at their car, a sharp wave of his arm, dismissing them, as if banishing them to go away.

They finally made land fall and walked up the bustling street. It really wasn't much of a neighborhood, or as they liked to call them in Los Angeles, a village. It wasn't as long as Larchmont, or as entrenched as Silver Lake, it wasn't but a few blocks long and the heavy traffic on the street fought hard to allow it any sense of community. They passed the brand new Pink Berry, and the remodeled jeweler store, the same with fabric store, but not the Armenian Pharmacy, one of the last hold outs from the old Vermont. There was the old Los Feliz Three Cinema, known for its small screens and low prices. They were hungry and thought where they might eat. Palermo's was still there from the old days and even though it had passable Italian and free wine, if you needed to wait for a seat, they weren't in the mood to eat in a restaurant filled with the cops who made it their on duty hangout, so they decided to eat cheap Japanese at Mako.

Sitting at one of the two unsteady outside tables they tried to cool out. They each ordered the B Lunchtime Special, California Roll, Chicken Teriyaki with salad and Miso with cans of green tea to wash it down with. Their relationship was a bit like the neighborhood, they had been casual friends for a while but they were moving into new territory, upgrading possibly, but changing without doubt. They had covered all the usual gossip and trivial day to day things and now they were ready to try out the new, deeper waters.














"So really how are you doing?"

"I suspect I'm doing fine, but you know...it can be pretty hard to tell sometimes."

"How so?"

"Well, can you see it on me?"

"See what?"

"The sign I wear all the time that says I'm lonely."

"I see nothing of the sort."

"That's funny. I think that's all that people can see when they look at me."

"Are you lonely right now?"

"That's not fair."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sitting here with you and one would presume if I were in good company then I would have no need to feel lonely."

"I don't presume anything."

"Alright, truthfully, yeah, I feel lonely right now. I wake up lonely and I go to sleep lonely. I'm lonely in a crowd and when I'm with a few friends. Don't take offense or anything I'm just trying to tell you honestly how I feel."

"I'm not hurt by this, it seems you're the one who's hurting."

"I can't say as if I'm really hurting, its almost as if I've resigned myself to this state. It used to really upset me, you know, like what the fuck is wrong with me, why me, all that crap."

"That must really be awful."

"Don't you ever feel that way?"

"Not really. I get bummed sometimes but I never really feel lonely."

"Lucky you. I was lonely when I was married, hell, I was a lonely kid and I had a lot of friends."

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing really to be sorry about, its just what it is."

They sat in silence and ate their food. The chicken was overcooked and the California Roll was not especially good. It was cheap Japanese. At least the sesame dressing on the salad was incredible as usual. She looked over at her friend and thought she saw what he meant when he said he wore a sign of loneliness. She had never looked for it before but now that he had mentioned it she could not see anything but it. Now that she had thought to consider it his smile was reserved, and when they laughed he always seemed the first break it off. She knew he liked her but she wasn't sure if she could heft the burden of his lament. What was she to do? It had been her idea to really be honest with each other and now that he had opened up to her she almost wished he hadn't.

"So you think you'll always be lonely?"

"Perhaps. Like I said, its not like I'm tripped up over it anymore. I only told you about it, because...well, at some point in time if you think I'm being distant or weird then you should know that it isn't your fault. I would never want to hurt you with my loneliness."

"I can see that."

"Can you?"

And she could. Maybe this is what she had wanted? Maybe she had sensed this about him? Maybe this was what attracted her to him from the very beginning?

"I really think I can."

"Thanks."

They would spend the rest of the afternoon walking the neighborhood. Later as night fell they went to the Los Feliz Three and saw a bad movie. She felt light. She felt like he had given her a gift. Perhaps she could carry the burden of his lament, perhaps. Later that night after the traffic died down and the neighborhood quieted they walked back down the street to the car. The homeless guy was asleep on the bus bench outside the Christian Science Reading Room a smile curled upon his lips. He walked over and placed a five dollar bill in his pocket.














He rushed back over to her and grabbed her arm and moved her happily down the sidewalk.

"I know, that was a pretty dumb thing to do, but someone has to it."

It was a pretty dumb thing, she thought, but someone does have to do it. She looked up at him. Why not her?

Zicam A Week Two Late

"Chey bub."

"Bub?"
















"Churs."

"What is that, like short for bubba?"

"Ton't godot."

"Why are you talking so weird?"

"Tweird, jike twaht."

"Like, ton't and g'know."

"Ptaint tweird."

"The hell it aint, you're talking like some freak backwoods illiterate."

"Saysm pichoo?"

"Saysm me."

"Yould beed the one'rs feakling."

"Okay, no problem. You see I can play this game too."

"Twaht gamelp?"

"Biid sop gilsop fruple."

"Bud'huh?"















"What you didn't understand me? Imagine that."

"Pichoo tadn't splay anypring."

"Neither have you. What makes you're garbled bullshit better then mine?"

"Flarbled whoskrit?"

"Yeah you're flarbled damn whoskrit."

"Spline pliz'nt flarbled whoskirt. Spline pliz grundarspandabul. Flurz plizn't."

"So you think spline plizn't?"

"Spless ply splew."

"Okay. So I'm not as good at making up 'funny' dialects as you."

"Blunny flyaspecks?"

"That really is pretty good, blunny flyaspecks."

"Ply braint smying plu dree blunny."

"Get off it. You think you're fooking hilarious, don't you? Don't try and play senor modesty with me."

"Ply braint smying plu dree blunny. Ply shpot ugh spold."

"Holy shiite. Are you telling me that you're not trying to be bold on the Henny Youngman feel? Oh that's rare, really it is."

"Grear?"

"I am to believe that all this is because you have a cold?"

"Pliz grub ugh ploof."















"Well if aint heard it all."

"Achoooooooooo!!!!!"

You Give A Monkey A Typewriter

'What the hell you gonna do?' he thought as he bent down and felt the pain spring from his right knee. What the hell was right. It wouldn't be until later in the day when he would meet with Dr. Kerlan and find out the full extent of the damage but he really didn't need Kerlan and all his medical prognostications and examinations to tell him what he already knew; he was fucked.














It had been a swell ride up to this point, the god damn American dream as far as anyone could tell. I mean really, Pee-Wee All Stars, High School City Champs, two years collegiate All American, a short walk through the minors and boom, the payday; the bigs. All this without once having to wear the label jock. He was an iconoclast, the new breed, the smart player, well read, artistic, and with a fast ball and slider to match; unhittable.

As much as he fought it he was still defined by his talent. Sure he was a good guy, good friend, honorable and forthright but more then that he was the guy who could pitch lights out. He never showed fear, he was invincible on the mound and off. He played the game with a self assured calm and elan that made those around him rally and play above their station. He was a catalyst for excellence and received plaudits from all corners. He was a man at the top of his field and was paid accordingly. He was golden and then he heard the pop.

This wasn't to be part of the story. This was something that happened to the unlucky second tier players, people. His story was to be of broken records, championships, adoration and fame. The day had been like any other. He had followed his usual routine, ate the same meal he always ate on game days, got to the park early and then it happened. It was an innocuous moment, the car next to his parked too close and he had need to squeeze sideways out the door lest he scratch the paint, he twisted his body out the door and then he stepped on a bottle. First the ankle twisted and then as he stepped off to relieve the strain the knee twisted and then the pop, the pain.

As he lay upon the ground he laughed a little against the pain, this was to be just a minor injury wasn't it? Really how stupid, getting out of the car, how bad could it be? But when he went to stand the full impact of the situation smacked down upon him with a force and vengeance that he was ill prepared to handle. He couldn't put any weight on the leg, he couldn't walk, he had to sit there on the blacktop between the two cars and call for assistance.














After a cursory look see in the clubhouse the trainer decided that an MRI was needed so he was transported to the hospital nearest the stadium. On the drive over the radio talk shows were already on the story, he heard a full recounting of what had happened and all the sports pundits weighed in on the severity of his as yet undiagnosed injury. He heard how this injury might be career ending and he scoffed at the the audacity of this premature dismissal of his future.

He would pitch again, there was to be no doubt in his mind, but there was. This was who he was. He had always walked with his head held high, if not cocked slightly in a knowing way to the side. He was the one who could look any man straight in the eye so assured was he of his destiny. He was golden. He had seen his share of washed up players, guys who had spent years enduring grueling rehabs only to be bombed in their returns and then never heard from again. He pitied these people, these unlucky losers. He would never have to face this fate, his was locked solid, straight to the top and he planned, once there, to go out while still in his prime.

He straightened up and gingerly moved to a chair and sat down. Dr. Kerlan would straighten things out. Sure he might see the knife but his comeback would be the stuff of legends. He was golden. He was on top. He wasn't one of them. He couldn't be. The house was eerily silent. There was no one there and there wouldn't be until the driver would come to take him to see the good doctor. The good doctor would fix him, he had to.

In the silence he looked deep inside and saw an image of himself. Wasn't it a shame what had happened to that poor boy? He had had it all until his knee went, such a shame. There he goes, you know who he used to be? Getting out of a car, poor schmuck. He had it all and now look at him. Loser. Just another ex-ballplayer. Just another promise unfulfilled.














The doctor would fix him up. Sure he would. He had to. Didn't he?

A Rare Daytime Sighting

Cuts around the fingers, not deep, just cracking skin, surface abrasions and raw cuticles. It had been hard work clearing the back forty, back breaking labor and the job was not nearly at end. There was still fence to be posted and then the clearing would begin anew. The seasons might change but the labor would continue one phase to the next.














They hadn't chosen this lot, it had been passed to them, almost forced upon them. They had a sense of duty to continue on this road, family land, family history and whatever inner thoughts to the contrary they may have possessed, these ideas were held private and borne alone, quietly.

The sun had made it's still remove and the gold caste skies imbued everything with a false serenity. The land, wide and flat looked endless, as if there could be no end to it's reach. This gave him little comfort. More land more work and for what? At best the crops might come in, at best. At best there would be enough food on the table during the barren times, at best. He new at best had little hope and that at worst they might go hungry. The days labor should have fueled an incredible appetite within him but it served to do the opposite. His stomach was tied in knots and his back ached to where he could not position his body in any manner to gain ease.

In truth he had no quarrel with the work. Although cruel and painful he found comfort in a day spent under the yoke. His mind consumed with the simple tasks at hand he could operate like a machine and could focus his mind, focus it on anything but the reality of his situation. He didn't mind taking orders he in fact preferred it, anything but to unleash his thoughts. The days would often race by, the dawn and then the first sweat on his brow, the chores, the midday sun blinding him, the afternoon breeze and then the review of all they had accomplished. This was well and good with him.

It was in those times when his mind would drift from the moment that destroyed him. In these times he would rail against the education he received. He would curse every book he may have read and every fantasy sparked by those printed words. Tales of sea going barges, intrigue, Paris nights, skulls and daggers, grand wars and African safaris. The endless flat lands and the soul dulling labor needed to mete out existence. He would pine for escape, anything but to be where he was. He had read of family obligation and honor but thought these only fictitious notions. Oh Tom Sawyer and the color of the Mississippi. The Heart of Darkness and the Congo. Tortilla Flats and Chandler's Los Angeles. Moby Dick and Gatsby's sad jazz age.














One day he would leave all this. He would sail seas and drink in dank bars with mysterious men. He would break hearts and talk tough. He would speed across the vast American expanse with only adventure as a guide. He would fish in the Gulf Coast and toy with shotguns. It wasn't enough to work this land, it wasn't what he felt deep inside. He never made mention of these notions but there was a look in his eyes, a faraway look. The others mistook his quiet for stoicism, strength. He was alone with his dreams and felt the need to conceal his true nature lest he derail the family's plans. One day, he prayed, one day he would find his escape.

The night came quick and the darkness now closed in upon him. Where once the land seemed endless it was now as if he were marooned on an island so black was the moonless evening. He moved about his small bed and tried to find some comfort. His brain was more agitated then usual and he presumed he might go mad. He thought to put his shoes back on and run, just run across the dark fields, run until he could go no further. Run to someplace, anyplace but here. He sat up in his bed and felt the pain return to his back. He was alone here in the dark of the night, far from everything, isolated. He reached over and turned the bedside lamp on and then with almost a greater sense of fear then he had ever known picked up a bound volume and opened it...














'He lay flat on the brown, pine needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees. The mountainside sloped gently where he lay; but below it was steep and he could see the dark of the oiled road winding through the pass. There was a stream alongside the road and far down the pass he saw a mill beside the stream and the falling water of the dam, white in the summer sunlight...'

I Was Born With A Plastic Spoon In My Mouth

It was a large wooden door, he might have called it oak had he known anything about woods, and it loomed just before him. Should he knock and ask permission to enter or just barge in? He was expected and was told to enter but still would it be the right thing to do, to just let himself in? What if there were things going on behind that door, that oak door, that he mightn't be privy to see? He would have just as soon turned on his heels and gone away but this option wasn't one he was in any position to exercise.














He rapped with little enthusiasm and then stood and waited; nothing. He moved to leave, reconnoitered, then smacked his knuckles on the oak, this time he put forth a little more effort...

"You needn't knock the blast thing down, come in already" came a booming voice from the other side of the oak door.

He pushed the heavy door aside and strode in the room. It was a classic office, walls glazed brown under a century of cigar smoke, overstuffed chairs, stodgy wooden furniture and a grey haired walrus mired behind a desk large enough for an entire grade school. The walrus barked out loud, it's head attached square to it's torso as if forgoing any real need for a neck.

"So sit Firsten, sit down, and let's us finish up this mess, what do you say?"

"Yes sir."

He sat directly across from the walrus man and saw where there was accumulated on his moustache the detritus of what must have been the walrus' earlier feeding. It turned his stomach inside out.

"So Firsten before we go into some ribald song and dance why don't you just proffer whatever ill conceived excuse you choose to hitch your cart to and we'll be on with this affair."

"Ill conceived excuse sir, really I..."

"Oh Firsten, my dear boy. Do you know how long I have sat in this seat and have been subjected to the likes of your type, and in so, the myriad of half truths and bold faced reinventions of fact that are represented before me to curry undeserved favor and leniency."

"Sir I couldn't accurately say as much but I assure you that I am unlike the others you feel wont to set me in with."

"All for the better. Now if you please on with the song and dance."

"As for my under performance of late I would only offer that I have been distressed by an illness that has dulled my capabilities."

"Congratulations Firsten. You are the first to come before me with such a wild tale such as this. An illness you say?"

"Yes sir."

"And how long have you been taken by this condition?"

"Sir it is hard to say."

"Hard to say is it?"

"Why yes sir it is."

"Oh do go on. Entertain me."














"Sir?"

"If you must waste my time please at least use some modicum of creativity."

"Well sir, it is my belief that one does not just become ill."

"So you say."

"Yes. There is a period leading up to the illness when one is not acutely aware that he is in the grips of the sickness only that things begin to become more difficult and only when the real sickness presents itself does one look back in retrospect to see that the time previous to the illness was also inclusive in the malady."

"So you are purporting that even before you became ill that you were ill."

"Yes sir. In a sense I believe that logic to hold truth."

"And how far back do you wish to claim as being prejudiced by your malady?"

"Sir I can not to my best estimation be certain but if you will I believe that my illness, finally manifested in the common cold, was in reality a byproduct of a failed interpersonal relationship."

"Bravo Firsten. You say that your common cold was mitigated by, let me guess, affairs of the heart?"

"Fantastical as it may sound to you sir, there is well more then a nugget of truth to that statement."

"You astound Firsten. Please do elucidate."

"If you so desire. My belief is simple and I will not belabor you with too much unwanted effluvium."

"Proceed then."

"When affairs of the heart sour, even in the most imperceptible ways, then the balance of the whole is thrown off kilter. Sleep patterns shift as do eating habits and scientific study does indicate that emotional strife wreaks havoc on one's immune system. So when you ask me when this illness began I would be well challenged to divine a precise moment."

"It seems you have given this some considerable deliberation Firsten."

"I have sir."

"So you can not say with any resolute certainty when this illness began it's snails crawl to the cold from which you now claim to suffer?"

"Sir, as I said it would be more then difficult to exact a precise moment but if I were forced to do so I might remark that it was a night three weeks past."

"Three weeks past you say? And if forced you might venture which moment, precise or otherwise, that you might attribute all this to?"

"Sir, it was the look in her eyes. She needn't have moved her lips nor spoke one word. I knew."

"That's it Firsten?"

"Yes sir. That is it."

"Well Firsten I must say that your creativity is unquestioned as far as my regard."

"Sir?"

"Please do recover with the utmost dispatch from this, common cold, this malady predicated by a look in one's eyes."

"I will try sir."

"Firsten you may leave this office, and young man, please, no more. Your poor efforts of late have not gone unnoticed. Cold or not we expect better of you."

"Yes sir."














As he walked away from the office he could not clear the image of the walrus' moustache from his mind. His nose dripped and his ears felt plugged as the cold enveloped his being. He would try harder. He would get better. He would have to forget that look in her eyes. He would have to try harder. He would get better.

In Fever Comes The Smallest Of Things

On bended knee, with heart well exposed and tears ran from within did she make her dear plea. So many stumbles and fits and now the best she could command was this, her soft plea. She could feel the grit of gravel as her weight fell down on that knee and the pain only reiterated the state she had come to. The pain, that mysterious element unavailable to description but real only so much in the present for memory never serves to truly reveal it's depths.













There had been the many and the followers for the years as she could remember them. Some held steadfast as others evaporated or moved slowly on. The phantoms, ghosts, the mirages of her life swirled and danced and throughout she, possum-like, heeded none of the warnings. She could surround herself in life but she could never, as much as an afterthought it was, remove herself from it. It was there and now her protestations and maneuvering came to no real avail.

She had considered every option, every out or escape and the none of it could gift to her what it was that she actually relished. She went and looked and saw the paintings on the walls and then heard the beauty of the voices in choir yet they too could not deliver to her what it was she thirsted for. She had looked in his eyes and when she saw it wasn't there searched out other eyes too and though there she may have seen glimpses her desire was never sated.













In all of this the days and years built steadily about her. Event after event, experience compounded on experience, but to no lasting result. She took from every source and held her bounty to the light only to see the transparency of her rewards. There was no place left to go go, no mine left to excavate, no sight left to see. Gold lusterless and dulled gems fooled her no longer. There was only one place left to go and so then she succumbed.

A complete refutation of her own perceptions. It was for her to look to the one place she needn't have ventured to find. So backed into the corner and with vacated ideals she crept to that place and then on the knee she knelt.

You only wish you had days. Years. You only wish that forever. That there was forever for you to wish for. Wish for the days and the years. Wish forever. The day is the forever you wished for.













With heart well exposed and tears ran from within did she make her dear plea.

Sick And Getting Sicker

'I am the god of hell fire and I bring you:

Fire, I'll take you to burn.
Fire, I'll take you to learn.
I'll see you burn!'














'You fought hard and you saved and learned,
but all of it's going to burn.
And your mind, your tiny mind,
you know you've really been so blind.'
















'Now 's your time burn your mind.
You're falling far too far behind.
Oh no, oh no, oh no, you gonna burn!'



















'Fire, to destroy all you've done.
Fire, to end all you've become.'
















'I'll feel you burn!
You've been living like a little girl,
in the middle of your little world.
And your mind, your tiny mind,
you know you've really been so blind.'
















'Now 's your time burn your mind.'

In The Offing Sitting Right Next To You

"I've got been getting these horrible smells lately."

"What do you mean you've been getting horrible smells? How can you get a smell, you mean you stink or something?"














"I suppose I meant to say that I have been smelling these atrocious scents as of late."

"I see, you have had opportunity to whiff on some very unrighteous fragrances."

"Precisely."

"Well are you going to leave it at that or are you in the mood to expand on the theme, maybe some case examples?"

"If it pleases you. So the other night I go to the fancy pants soiree at the Hank Fonda. A big deal money raiser thing."

"They let you in?"

"Very funny. I happen to be one of the co-founders of the organization that the money was being raised for."

"Who knew, you a co-founder of something, much less a charitable organization. If that don't beat all?"

"Its no big deal I assure you just a music school for kids."

"No shit."

"I shat you not. So you want to hear about the smells thing or not?"

"I guess so but I'm still reeling from all that benevolence you shower on the kids."

"I said I was a co-founder; I'm not involved anymore."

"Quitter."

"I didn't quit, I left on my own accord after the school was up and running."

"Probably got fired."

"Did not."

"How can you hold your head up in polite company after abandoning those poor kids."

"I didn't abandon anyone and the kids are fine thank you very much."

"That's what you say."

"Jesus already! The kids are fine, the school is fine, they raised a bundle of scratch and the only thing about the whole night that was off was that I went backstage and though there was no one smoking it the place smelled as if crack were being smoked."

"The kids were smoking crack?"














"No, no one was smoking crack that's my point."

"Maybe if you hadn't been fired the kids wouldn't be smoking crack?"

"I wasn't fired and the kids weren't smoking crack."

"Maybe before you got there."

"There was no crack being smoked at any time. I only mentioned it because I was trying to tell you of the weird smells I have been having, I mean smelling, I mean that I think I smell."

"Don't try and change the subject although I don't blame you. Smoking crack with kids who trusted you to get them music lessons and then you get them hooked on the drugs, I'd want to change the subject too."

"Forget it okay. Forget I ever mentioned anything."

"I bet you'd like me to forget it."

"Right now I smell burning plastic."

"You probably didn't unwrap your crack."

"THERE IS NO CRACK."

"Geeze you don't have to yell."

"I"M NOT YELLING GOD DAMMIT!"

"Sorry. So the kids weren't smelling crack and there was a plastic burning and you didn't get fired. Is that better?"

"I don't know why I even mentioned it you."

"You mentioned it to me because you tell me everything."

"So I smell weird things, I've got a cold, and that's all I'm going to say."














"You're not going to apologize for getting the kids strung out on crack?"

"No. But if it makes you happy I will apologize for getting them hooked on the dope."

"Good for you."

"You're welcome."

If I Need to Apologize For Anything

He thought it odd. Dad had asked him to gather wood for a fire before, in fact many times before, but never in the late spring or early summer. His father had asked with a strange solemnity in his voice, as if there were a serious issue to be broached. He knew his father's stern yet gentle way of asking things of him before they might have a talk. He had heard this tone when Grandpa got sick and Mom had to go away for awhile but in those instances his father's used that tone only ask him to sit down or come in the next room asking for fire wood with this air seemed a strange thing to him.














He went behind the house and back into the woods and began to gather suitable woods, tiny twigs for kindling, small branches to help start the fire and after he brought those back to the yard he went out for some meatier logs that would serve as fuel. He was in no large hurry in fact he dawdled a bit being somewhat fearful of what the talk might be of. It would probably be some bad news that only a father could impart to a son and he was in no rush to hear what bad news his father might bestow upon him.

As he came back to the yard he saw where his father had already made a crude fire ring of stones and broken bits of concrete blocks and started in to blowing on the lit kindling. He stood near his father just watching unnoticed until the starter branches were placed by his father like a tent over the blazing kindling. He could hear the fire snap and pop to life as his father bent over it blowing with all his might. He dropped the logs hard to the ground and his father turned at the sound to seen him standing there.

"Bring those over here son" his father said motioning to the logs.

He picked the logs back up and brought them to his father. It was strange for them to a have fire ring in the backyard, he could never remember there ever having been one before. His father with expert precision placed a log on the fire and it soon caught fire and the both of them were caste in it's glow.

"Come sit here next to me son" said his father the tone of his voice warmer now and not so portentous of bad tidings. He sat next to his father and they both sat there in silence for a while watching the flames lap at the wood in the fire ring.

"I will never tire of the beauty of a well built fire son."

"I hope I never do as well Dad."

"You're getting a little older now and I think its time we had a talk."

"Alright Dad."

"Good" said his father who then went back to studying the fire. It was if his father was searching for a starting point, he could almost see ideas forming in his father's eyes as the flames danced and spirited around inside the fire ring.

"Soon you are going to be a man, hell you're just about one now aren't you?"

"I guess so Dad."

"As you become a man you are going to be faced with new feelings, feelings about other people, feelings about girls."

Once again his father considered the fire.

"Son you are going to have to figure most of these things out for yourself but as your father I just want to let you know how it is for me. I'm not saying this is how it is going to work out for you but maybe if I tell you how I feel then...well let me just tell you how I feel and we can leave it at that."













"Okay Dad, I you think so."

"This may come as a bit of a surprise to you but I loved other women before I met your mother. There were a few and they were good girls, truly fine people, well most of them anyways, but what I'm trying to say is that there is more then one woman out there for you. This first girl I loved, well, and I thought she would be the last too. The sun rose and set with her and we were very much in love. We were young son, oh we were young, not much older then you and I thought we would grow old together but then one day her father died and her mother moved her off to Topeka. We wrote back and forth for a year but then the letters stopped coming, I was heartbroken son. I thought my life was over, I couldn't see how I could live without her, but I did son, it hurt and for a good long while but I didn't die from it."

"What was her name Dad?"

"Natalie Doyle. It took a while son, but I got over it. Then there was another and I loved her too, not as much as Natalie but I loved her. We didn't make it and for years after there came a girl every now and then and we would fall in love but nothing would ever come of it. I loved them all but not like I had loved Natalie. For many years I thought that I could never love another like I did Natalie until I met your mother."

"Do you love Mom as much as you loved Natalie, Dad?"

"I love her more son because she gave me you."

The wind shifted a little and the smoke form the fire blew into his father's eyes and caused them to tear. His father wiped at his eyes but never stopped starting at the flames.

"Son I guess I'm trying to say is that there is girl out there for you just as there was one for me."

"Mom?"

"Yes, eventually your mother. So don't be afraid to love son and don't be afraid to give your all to any girl. Its like this fire son. We build the fire and we watch the flames in amazement but the fire will eventually go out but that doesn't stop us from building another fire and the next fire, though maybe not exactly the same as this one, will still be beautiful in it's own way."

"I think I see what you mean Dad."

"That's good son."













So they sat there in silence and watched as the fire burnt down to embers. He thought about what his father had told him. It wasn't as sad as Grandpa getting sick or Mom going away but there was something about what his father had said that shook him up even more. He wasn't afraid to love, and he'd try just as hard as his Dad did, but how would he know who the real one would be. He loved his father but he didn't ever want to have a broken heart. He decided right there, as the light of the fire died out for good, that he would never have a broken heart. Love sounded sad to him and he didn't want to be sad. He never wanted to be sad again.

For The Know Ones

Sometimes you just need to say it aloud. Stand up to all those who may doubt the sincerity of your intention and speak clearly with concise words in a calm timbre.

To leave the irony and subterfuge alone for a moment and soberly make your reason known.
















You are my reason.

There is no other reason.

That is reason enough.

For there is no reason.

There simply is.



So sleep Sufferwords, may you blanket yourself in arms devoid of reason and simply be.

So What Were You Expecting A Call

'Given the chance
I'll die like a baby
On some faraway beach
When the season's over.

Unlikely I'll be remembered
As the tide brushes sand in my eyes
I'll drift away.'













"Nice Brian Eno quote."

"Thanks. I was kind of worried that people would think I wrote it."

"You needn't have worried, you could never write anything that beautiful."

"Thanks for the support."

"I'm just saying."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm just saying that sometimes you traverse similar territory but with a certain lack of brevity."

"You think I belabor the point too much?"

"That could be said. I mean how many times are we going to hear about the streetlight and the ocean, c'mon already."

"Oh that hurts."

"Sorry but maybe it needs to be said."

"And you're the one to say it?"

"If not me then who?"

"I don't think anyone else seems to mind."

"Maybe they are just being polite."

"You have a point there."

"So perhaps you can seek out some fresh metaphor."

"That's the point they aren't metaphors, they are real experiences."

"Sure they are."

"Well hyper-realized anyways."

"Just like I thought."













"And another thing. How do you know that Eno doesn't have ream after ream of pages with the same thing written over and over in various permutations? You see I just put out a lot so for those paying attention I might touch on certain themes quite a bit but maybe those themes are important to me. I'm sure Eno covers a lot of the same ground over and over but we never hear or see it."

"Could be."

"So there."

"Pretty analytical aren't you?"

"Actually I try not to be. Hell, if I really considered everything I set down then I would reject fifty percent of it and then where would I be?"

"You'd probably have a stronger body of work."

"So that's what you call it, a body of work huh?"

"For lack of a better way to describe it."

"I don't know if I agree with the term, work."

"Okay so its not work, fine."

"Don't get pissy."

"I'm not its just that you can be a real contrarian."

"Contrarian? Is that even a word?"

"See there you go. I take it back, let's just say you show signs of contrariety."

"Nice pull."

"Damn, just be a little more thoughtful with your prose okay."

"Prose huh, so that's what you call it."

"That's it. I've had enough of you. Goodnight."

"So be it. See you tomorrow."

"And why wouldn't you?"













"You're right. I guess I'll never learn."

"Here's hoping."

I Come To You Hat In Hand

It was way past late, in fact it was nearly early but he refused to acknowledge the time of day. The door slammed behind him like a thousand doors of a thousand rooms had slammed in the past. He reached for the wall switch and the overhead light came on. He hated the glare of overhead light but he hadn't found the occasion to procure a lamp, floor standing or table, so he just cursed the harsh light and went on.














He kicked his shoes to a corner of the room and sat on the edge of the single bed. That was another thing he meant to do; get a bigger bed. The mattress sunk under him though he weighed none too much. Cheap fucking mattress, he thought. He laid back and even the pillows offered little comfort, the sheets were coarse and the experience of being prone and alone brought him little relief.

He reached in his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. He opened it up and saw where there no new calls, finally something to be thankful for. It had been just another day. Laughing Boy was dead, the ex was on her way to happy camp, Max's old lady was on a run and he was taking care of the girls, said it had been weeks, Max was no sure bet himself truth be told. On and on, people with lives going south.

The rest of the day had been a steady stream of missed opportunities, overcharges, bad news and worse food. He had a pain, maybe his liver, or was it his kidney, perhaps it was the bad food or that last cup of coffee? All he really knew was that he was sore somewhere on the deep insides and whatever it was, the way his luck was going, hospitalization was not out of the question.

He set the phone down and lay back closing his eyes. The overhead burnt through his eyelids and again he cursed it's existence. He raised himself off the bed and pulled his shirt over his head and in doing so caught a whiff of his underarms. I must be sick, he thought so foul was the smell. He dropped his pants and stepped out of them leaving them right where they lay.

He walked over to the wall and flicked the overhead off. The room was tar dark, thick blackness. As he attempted to make his way back to the single mattress he tripped a bit on his pants and scolded himself for being such a slob. What difference did it make?, he thought, If I were to have put those pants away I might have hit my head on the shelf, maybe I'm getting off light here?.














He threw himself bodily onto the single mattress then rolled onto his back. He pulled the thin cover over him and knew that he was in dire need of rest and so closed his eyes and invited the sleep to overtake him. He lay there and just waited. There wasn't anything on his mind and he tried, really tried, to fall under. Little specks of light danced under his eye lids and he just watched them. Damn, he thought, that last cup of coffee fucked me. As soon as he realized the sleep he so wanted would not be coming anytime soon his mind took it upon itself to wake back up as well.

What a shame about Laughing Boy. Crazy how he would laugh that laugh at anything anybody ever said as if he had Tourette's, and the ex-wife, she just won't give up the ghost, girl was a lush back then and all these years later she's just as bad off or worse. I gotta start eating better, and that pain, hell just what I need cirrhosis or kidney stones or cancer or some obscure syndrome, I need to call the phone company and that fucking parking ticket is due tomorrow.

It went on and on. Before he knew it he was bemoaning the fact that he had never gone to school much less higher education and that his right shoulder was torn up and that he would never be able to toss a baseball like he had as a youth. Somewhere in all of this a thought came over him. It was time to put an end to this. It was time to send his mind to bed like one would a child and like a child he needed a lullaby for that unruly thing that lived within his cranium. He needed something to put his mind to ease, to fool it and keep it occupied long enough for it to follow his weary body into slumber.

He started to breathe deep measured breaths. Then he thought of the ocean, he watched as the tide brought the waves to shore. Then he thought of her, lying on her stomach and he could see her watching him, watching him as he swam in the waves. He could hear the crashing of the water on the beach and feel the undulation under him. His head began to swim as well. He could see the sun glisten off her tan body, her hair still wet and the blinding light of the midday sun. The rocking of the ocean, her wet hair falling down the side of her neck...the waves...the sun...the sand...her...














The alarm rang loudly, angrily and he acquiesced and rose from the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down and saw his pants on the the floor right where he had left them. Perhaps today would be better...perhaps.

Blazing And Infinite Could Be

A coin flip, Rochambeau, a draw of lots, would this be the deciding factor? Highway 11 looked on in horror. To the left the hills, barren and foreboding, to the right the city, the pale and ugly city. There was a choice however arbitrary it may have seemed but there was a definite choice to be made.













The Mustang cooled it's heels waiting for some direction, for somebody to take control of the situation. As if to protest the quandary the Mustang took to coughing, sputtering just a little to add an air of immediacy and desperation. That was all they needed, for if the Mustang were to quit on them now, well whatever options that they might have had would vanish.

This was a turning point, literally and figuratively, and they both knew it. They were on the run and no matter the outcome of their decision they would still be in flight and with both options laid bare they had to weigh the chances that each presented. Clara was tired, so tired, and Silva knew it, hell he was tired but he would never let her know it. It was her choice, in fact it was her actions that had precipitated their predicament. A hundred and ten pounds strung over a tall frame with dusty blond hair and the palest of green eyes, Clara was twice the man that Silva could ever hope to be and they both knew it. Silva, laconic strong, resolute and mean when pushed. His was a life lived through others and Clara was the other now but the continuation of living through her was in jeopardy as was living itself.

There was something over the hills, another mystery, another chance and another chance to fail. Silva looked to the hills and saw where the road dissected it, winding high through large rock formations to the top where thunderheads threatened. The Mustang would make it, the Mustang had taken them this far and even with it's small protestations there was nothing to indicate it couldn't lift them from the valley floor. Silva thought that maybe whatever lay in the hills was better then a city. In the city he knew what he would get, he would get goned by Clara. He didn't fault her for it but he knew that she was the strong one and would do anything to keep going. Sure she cared for him, they were tight, she had even cried in his arms, but the city was the place she had met him and in the city he knew there were others that might take his place.

Clara's eyes surveyed the landscape. The hills called to her as well but there was a pull to that city down below them. It didn't seem to be much of a city but neither was Gallup or Tonopah for that matter. A city was a city and if given half the chance she could make any city her own. Silva was good for her and she knew it but at what point had what was good for her been any source of clear or righteous guidance. Clara was tired and in need of rest but neither the city nor the hills offered anything remotely akin to the kind of rest she needed. She had been running since she could remember and she knew even if she ditched Silva she would only have to replace him with someone else even if it was someone she didn't actually care for.













"So what do you think babe?"

"I'm so tired Silva."

"I know you are babe. Why don't we go get you a room in the city."

"Is that what you want? To go to the city. You're always taking what I say and turning it around. I didn't say I wanted to go to the city I just said I was tired."

"I just said we could get you a room."

"Okay, so you just said we could get a room. What's in those hills Silva? What's over that mountain?"

"You know I can't say for sure."

"Give me something Silva, just give me something."

Silva knew what she was doing, she was covering herself. She had done it before. She wanted him to take a stand then if she were to agree or even disagree, no matter what might happen she could take the upper hand, bend him, and ultimately get her way.

"Alright, I say we go over that mountain."

"You think the Mustang will make it?"

"I didn't say that. I just said that we go over the mountain. I can't say for certain that the Mustang will make it but if its the mountain or the city the Mustang has to go somewhere and I think the mountain is the way to go."

"Damn I'm tired."

"What do you say?"

Clara looked up at the mountain. A hawk drafted the air currents in loping circles upward. She rubbed at her tired pale eyes. Silva had said what she wanted to hear. The city looked like a tomb to her and seeing the hawk seemed to be an omen of sorts. She thought about what the city might bring and for a moment she became easy with the fact that if she were to go to the city that she would lose Silva.

"Hey babe."

Silva came and put his arm around her.

"Look if you think the mountain is a bad idea I'll understand."

Clara looked at the city and then to the mountain. She felt Silva's strength on her. She was so tired. She leaned into Silva and closed her eyes. Silva wrapped her up and she felt herself start to drift. Summoning whatever strength she had left she whispered up to Silva.

"The Mustang will make it over the mountain, won't it?"

"Sure babe. The Mustang will get us out of here."













The Mustang rumbled upward toward the top of the mountain, toward the hawk, toward the mystery, away from the city. A coin flip, Rochambeau, a draw of lots, would this be the deciding factor?