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Wednesday, 24 September
Male Rites Of Passage

First Hospital Visit

According to available accounts--my mother and father--when I pushed off my father's chest with my feet at age two and fell, breaking my arm, it was accompanied by a cry that sounded sort of like "LOOP!"

Reports are unclear as to whether or not it was my revulsion for my father caused me to reject his loving embrace, or whether his disgust with his only son caused him to indifferently drop me to the floor. In any case, no child abuse allegations were filed, which today still causes me pain, and which is why, on holidays, I mail my father photographs of suffering children.

Second Hospital Visit

By now a seasoned veteran of hospitals, I reacted as any man would when told that his infected ears were packed with dried blood and needed to be vacuumed: I screamed so loud that my mother swore that I could be heard in space. I was, I think, about four. I don't know where my father was at this time, so I assume that he was out on the streets of Ashland, Oregon attacking children with a switchblade.

First Inappropriate Sexual Epithet

When Patricia impugned my kickball skills, I did the only sensible thing that a man could in the situation: I called her a fag. It should be noted that I had no idea what the term could possibly mean; this is most likely because a child as precociously manful as I was was simply genetically incapable of apprehending such an alien concept. At any rate, Patricia's rejoinder was, "Oh yeah? Well, you're a fag-got!" Only she pronounced it "fag-get." As I didn't understand the original term, you can imagine how bottomlessly mysterious found this new linguistic wrinkle.

I think I wondered for something close to four years what the distinction was. Fortunately, I was too fucking manly to ask anyone for an explanation.

First (And Only, I Hope) Time I Drank Piss

Ah, riding on the bus to baseball games. (I was a rarely used right fielder, mainly because I was terrible and I didn't care about baseball in the slightest.)

"Hey, anyone want a Sprite?"

"I do!" I had a manly thirst.

"Sorry it's kind of warm," said Jeff, handing me a can.

Fucking assholes.

First Porn

Freshman year of high school; a bunch of us were hanging out when someone wondered if we could score a porn movie somehow. Using my valuable--and piss-friendly--baseball team connections, I called Travis, a senior, who kindly rented Oral Majority 3 for us for five bucks.

"Have fun, dude," he said, tossing me the precious videotape.

It's confusing that I--or anyone--ever thought it would be a fun experience to sit silently for eighty minutes, with a bunch of other guys, all awestruck and wriggling to conceal erections, pretending that nobody in the room just wished they were alone so they could frantically jack it. No fewer than two fellows present that day later came out (long after they left Idaho). I use this memory to bolster my support for gays in the military, because those guys totally didn't try to suck my cock, despite my clear and potent manliness.

First Unfortunate Beer-Related Injury

One night while "partying," I decided to cross the fateful Rubicon of manhood that every young man must: the decision to open a beer bottle with one's teeth. I promptly tore a ragged gash down my gumline and into my lower lip, to the delighted laughter of all in attendance. The next morning, I probed the wound gently while looking in the mirror, knowing that the injury was basically unhideable. I trudged morosely into the living room that Saturday morning, where my father was watching something terrible on television, like apes bowling or something. He looked at me and covered his face with one hand.

"You fucking idiot," he said acidly. "Did you get the fucking beer bottle open at least?"

"No," I moaned softly. He looked at me for a moment.

"Same fucking thing happened to me. Did they laugh at you?"

It was here that I decided to forgive my father, a little bit, for breaking my arm all those years back. It's what a man would do.

Tuesday, 02 September
Love Is A Doing Word

The wife and I celebrated Labor Day, of course, by forcing labor upon our friendly neighborhood bartender at the Bar That Shall Not Be Named.

"Kevin," we said--see how bold I've become! Names and everything!--"Kevin, labor for us. Make us Lillet cocktails. Bring us warm nuts. Then do some jumping jacks. You will begin after our timed handclaps. Begin!" *clap clap clap*

We got everything but the jumping jacks. Washington State has some slack-ass bartenders, if you ask me.

As we sat there, nursing our first drinks, two lovely ladies entered. I would estimate their collective age to be nine hundred years. "Hello, ladies," said Kevin.

"WHAT?" The first lady bellowed. Here is where I began to love them. They sat down two stools away from us, gingerly climbing up on the things with spiderlike care and precision.

Kevin calmly put down a couple of drink menus in front of them; they picked them up and peered owlishly at them for a moment. The second woman slapped it down on the bar after the most cursory of glances. "I can't read this damn thing."

"It's dark in here!" cried the first. She craned her neck at the ceiling, as if searching for a lost sun. (It is a dark bar.) Presently, Kevin returned.

"Do you ladies know what you'd like?"


Kevin is a wonderful bartender. "DID YOU FIND ANYTHING YOU LIKE?" he patiently howled into their faces.

"What's your house vodka?" asked lady #1.

"Our well vodka is McCormick's," replied Kevin, making sure to put a little stink on "McCormick's," since, you know, it's disgusting. "But we also have--"

"I don't give a damn. That's fine."

Kevin couldn't quite let it go. "Did you want a garnish with that or anything? A twist, or a slice of lime . . . ?"

"You could put an olive in it and I'll pretend it's a martini if you want."

Here the second lady piped up. "I'll have a whiskey rocks. You don't have to tell me what it is. I don't want to know."

Kevin slumped and poured their drinks; I sat silently on my stool and tried to hold myself together. I loved these women.

After a little while, I decided I needed a smoke, and lady #1 happened to follow me out for the same. There is a cordoned-off patio outside the bar, and I usually go outside of it so as not to blow smoke at people who might not appreciate it; she joined me, clutching her miserable, terrible vodka rocks.

"You can drink out here, outside?" she asked, dipping her head to indicate the cordoned patio area.

"Well . . . you're actually not supposed to take your drink outside the patio area," I said in a friendly voice. "You could get in trouble if Kevin sees you."

"Trouble," she said acidly. "You tell Kevin good luck with trouble." She smoked hungrily--is there any other kind of smoking?--and shook her glass at nobody in particular. "This is a nice place," she pronounced. "I like it. There won't be any trouble. I'm a little old lady." I had nothing to rebut this particular argument, so I clinked her glass and said, "Indeed."

"You're a nice little fellow," she said. I stood a full eighteen inches above her, but yeah, I'm no giant. "Well, we try to be nice here," I replied.

"You do!" she agreed. We went back inside. Her companion was staring deep into the depths of her whiskey, apparently trying to discern some molecular activity with her incredible, goggle-like glasses; her eyes, when she looked at you, looked like emu eggs.

"Welcome back!" she cried. She seemed genuinely delighted to see us return, as if we'd survived some alarming safari adventure rather than just wandering outside to lean up against the newspaper machines and share a smoke. She had that great old querulous old-lady mouth thing going on where at any moment she could possibly either burst into tears or gales of laughter.

Eventually, they finished their terrible drinks. Settling up was next.

"I've got it!" cried the first lady. The second lady gave no appearance of hearing this, and casually pulled out a ten (their bill: six dollars).

"No, I've got this one," she said over the protests of lady #1, who had only a twenty.

She leaned over to me. "She lives next to me. She has two cats. If she doesn't get me back, I'll kill them." And she smiled.

"What did you say? You said something about my cats!" wailed the first lady.

You hang around the right places, and all of a sudden you're in a Roald Dahl story.

"What did you say about my cats?"

I hope they live forever.

Wednesday, 23 July
Carmina Barbecuana

July continues its utter blitzkrieg upon our social schedule. Why, tomorrow, in fact, YET ANOTHER GODDAMN friend celebrates his birthday, and so we will trudge out to Fremont to some utilitarian booze-fling called, excitingly, the Station.

Really? The Station? Can we perk this up a bit--a little razzle? How about . . . Hedgehog Station? I'm just spitballing. Reanimation Station? The bar where all the staff are zombies? I don't know. We can do better. How about Everyone's Asshole Here Is Packed With Clams Station? I'd want to hear about their specials, for sure. Anyway. I'm sure it's a fine establishment, on that could, I suppose, just as easily be called the Establishment.

Barbecues naturally continue to be popular. Decide for yourself what this says about me, but I've been to two now this month that have been hosted by two of my local bartenders. So on Monday--a day I capriciously took off for reasons involving me not wanting to go to work that day--I found myself at W.'s house. W. carefully explained his barbecue strategy to me.

"I bought forty pounds of charcoal," he said earnestly. "And then I bought more than forty pounds of ribs." As you might suspect, W. is not a man who lives by half measures. Once I was out for a night on the town with W., and he jumped up and down on someone's car hood. One simply isn't surprised to learn that his modest barbecue has somehow turned into the porcine version of The Killing Fields.

I sat down and quickly befriended one of W.'s friends--himself simply another bar denizen, as it turned out--named, improbably, Damien. Another thing about W. is that his friends all seem to be named or nicknamed alarming things, such as "Tank" (yawn) or "Chain" (actually Wayne, but I'm going to call him "Chain" anyway) or "Bench." It's a confusing world, and I'm just occasionally drinking in it.

Damien and I had a nice chat--he also happens to work in clinical trials--right up until a strange woman appeared in the second story window and started hollering "ALL FOR YOU, DAMIEN! ALL FOR YOU!" Then, with a noose wrapped snugly around her neck, she jumped to her death, causing W. to promptly butcher her, extract her ribs, and throw them onto the groaning barbecue.

It turns out that the poor, delicious woman had been driven to madness by the karaoke machine in the upper floor living room, which was being used to ill effect by W.'s girlfriend, who was unaccountably croaking out Lovecraftian versions of Loverboy songs. It could happen to anyone, particularly if you're the sort of anyone who happens to be friends with someone who at any moment could launch into an unsteady REO Speedwagon warble and who also happens to date a wild-eyed hairburger that barbecues entire mammalian populations while simultaneously clutching 1. a bottle of Cruzan rum and 2. a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

This was relatively early into the evening.

Presently, all of W.'s illustrated friends started showing up. I don't have anything against tattoos, though I have none of my own. I've simply never thought of any tat ideas that I could say with complete confidence wouldn't possibly embarrass me when I get older and floppier. Although I did come close to getting "WHASSUP!" onto the shaft of my penis. But I do like looking at what others choose to decorate their bodies with.

One gal that--sigh--I also know just from the neighborhood bar sports a busty woman on her arm. I always feel weird staring at it, because it's a silly two-dimensional illustration written on a nice girl's arm skin, but on the other hand, it's a busty woman. So I catch myself staring. I think I've said before that guys are stupid.

Another woman had this terrible tattoo on her shoulder that was a poker hand, sort of--it was a busted straight flush, ace of hearts through jack of hearts and the fifth card was . . . one of those "INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO PLAY RUMMY" (or whatever) cards that everyone throws out immediately when opening a new deck. It was possibly the most dispiriting tattoo I've ever seen; it was like seeing someone with the lyrics to Snow's "Informer" tramp-stamped on her back with a big arrow made out of the words "Licky boom boom down" pointing to her asshole.

Okay, maybe not quite the same, but it was in that territory. She wore a very short skirt-dress, and later, when reaching up to hug someone goodbye, I was given cause to also wish that she had worn underwear. I clutched my beer bottle in my nerveless hands and anxiously drummed a Latin beat with my fingers on the shoes of the hanged, ribless woman who still dangled unceremoniously from the second-story window.

It was probably time to go home; pig bones littered the yard, and people were starting to do strange things like spraying Aqua Net into the barbecue coals, muttering cryptic things about "conversion reactions." W.'s incredible, overweight cat--Merle, a twenty-pounder at least--was staring ominously at another cat--Banjo, an orange dishrag of a creature--who was asleep in a fruit bowl. Yes, time to go. When the pets are displaying behavior that the hosts are soon to emulate, it's time.

We shall see if the Station contains such wonders. I will, of course, report further, after the fact. Unless I hear Damien's call to sacrifice, in which case, enjoy the ribs.

Tuesday, 10 June
Joyeux Noel

In the summer of 1986, I was anxiously awaiting the onset of my junior year when it came time for me to attend a something of a weird thing that I been recommended for by my school: it was some sort of Notional Future Business Genius thing that I got to attend for the paltry sum of $100 that one of my teachers had put me in for. What it amounted to was that you got to travel down to Boise to take some patently ridiculous capitalism seminars and other dumb crap--I remember having to build a model for a fictional business that the instructors then ran through some primitive algorithm and then told you that you were a failure--well, it was terrible, of course, one of those silly things that allegedly looks good on your college application. I didn't really care; none of us did. It was a fun trip to Boise, back in that youthful time when such an idea could actually be plausible.

(No offense, but Boise is actually about as exciting as a tabletop.)

So we all gathered, we special Future Businesspeople, and listened to revenants such as the potato mogul (seriously) J.R. Simplot rave at us in an auditorium about how he would never hire smokers to work in his ghoulish potato mines. He also railed against "loose women." It would have been incredible had it not been coming from the piston-jawed visage of a literal billionaire mummy who sealed his starchy fortunes on the basis of a handshake deal with Ray Kroc back when cavemen were still working out how to spell GEICO. It was, obviously, tremendously boring, and most of us treated it as a free four days to grab-ass with whomever would allow it.

It's here that I met Noel. He was hard to miss. He was a rough six-foot-six and a not-fat 270 or so person-slash-barbarian, and he was my roommate at the strange, circular dormitory we shared on the BSU campus; he came into my portion of the dorm to greet me, displacing a tremendous amount of air as he did so. I gulped.

"Have you seen the chicks here?" he rumbled. He could have picked his teeth with my femur. I allowed that I had, and we compared notes.

"Have you met Margo?" I asked. She was this curvy redhead I had met and had also successfully avoided vomiting on out of purest flop-fear. I regarded this as a success. (I got nowhere with Margo nor anyone else.)

He consulted his memory, breathing like a bellows, and presently seemed to call up her image. "C cup?" he asked earnestly.

We didn't really spend a lot of time together at that weird little Boise thing, apart from our dorm time. I was pleased on the second night when he appeared back at the dorm with a half-rack of beer, since the man (at age seventeen) appeared to be part Yeti, and who was going to refuse him a beer sale? Noel was a gentle soul, but he also looked like a shaven silverback who would tear off your arms at the least provocation. Also, it was Idaho in the mid-eighties; buying beer when underage was practically a rite of passage, nearly encouraged by local merchants.

Later that year, I got a postcard from Noel; he was off working some terrible job, like smokejumping or something. He included on the postcard the loud message: "STAY GREEN!" With an accompanying drawing of a pot plant. My father smiled toothily at me when he handed it to me, and I wondered if he realized that I had been stealing their bedroom marijuana for the last six months. My father owns guns.

A year and a half later in 1987, I was in line for college registration, trying to make sure I got into the Lyric Poetry class I was desperately hoping wouldn't fill up. (Surprise! It didn't!) And I heard this:

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Two lines over, there stood Noel, big as life, provided that you grew up on a light-gravity planet where everyone sprouted up to titanic proportions. Noel's line-sharers blanched at his shout and gave him more space, as if he had suddenly bristled with spines; Noel took no notice of them, except for the girls, whose breast size he quickly and clinically assessed before thumping over to pick me up and shake me like a carnival plushie.

I don't know why I'm even writing this. Noel and I were certainly cordial and enjoyed each others' company, but we were hardly close. Noel played rugby (of course), where his dreadnought presence terrified other teams' players beyond lucidity; I was quickly inserting myself into the theater program and also into as many actresses as would have me, which weren't many, but I figured Noel appreciated the effort. Noel had a part-time job off-campus as a truly fearsome bouncer, while I had a part-time job at the theater doing absolutely nothing. I answered the phones and licked stamps; Noel bounced drunks off of hard surfaces.

I do remember one night. Noel and I had found each other at loose ends, and we wandered the streets of Salem, Oregon, looking for . . . what? I don't know. Noel spotted a sign at a drugstore: "BOHEMIAN: $6.00 CASE." Bohemian beer is, for the uninitiated, a lot like what Taco Bell is to genuine Mexican cuisine; that is to say, an appalling affront to all that is sensible and good and palatable. Bohemian managed to rebottle all of the things that were set free when Pandora fatefully opened that box, and the company's quality control also ensured that the one thing that remained--Hope--was never introduced to the process. To drink Bohemian is the sensorial equivalent of existentialism.

We bought two cases (again, nobody gave Noel any grief about this, other than to simply become ashen in his presence) and took them back to my dorm room and got cracking. Upon his first drink, Noel's spadelike face knotted like a fist; his normally sleepy eyes pinched into a drunk-mauling sort of aspect and he grimaced mightily.

"Jesus Christ, this is shit," he remarked, looking at the puny bottle in his paw. (One of Bohemian's dirty little tricks was to sell cases of 11.5-oz. bottles.) "This is fucking terrible," he said later, by now on his fourth beer. I couldn't disagree. It was almost comically horrible beer; it tasted like someone had wrung out the fluids from discarded, sodden doormats into our bottles.

Eventually, after far too many beers that can be regarded as healthy, Noel left, lumbering off into the night while I contemplated and eventually fell gladly into my ridiculous "long single" dorm bed that always uncomfortably reminded me, in dimension and design, as a sort of undergraduate coffin.

Tap! Tap! Tap! I was awakened later that night around 3 AM. I looked over at my depressing second-story window that overlooked my dorm's truly malnourished, strangled lawn. Tap! Another small stone bounced off the glass. I wearily got up and looked out. Noel, of course. He motioned at me to open the window, which I did, already knowing what was coming.

"You got any more of that Bohemian left?" he shouted. I barked out a laugh, and then threw him my keys.

It's odd the things you remember, the things that are otherwise, for all intents and purposes, fundamentally unmemorable.

J.R. Simplot died May 25, 2008.

Tuesday, 29 April
White Whale! Holy Grail!

It was my father's birthday today, so I gave the cantankerous old bastard a phone call. I asked how his day was going. "I went to Ernie's and had a hamburger," he said. "Now I'm playing with my guns." Golden years! Actually, he does have his fun, of a sort--he spent a few minutes explaining that even though the economy is falling into the septic tank, he's still making money. I didn't bother to tell him that I couldn't tell a money market from a cheese market, and anyway, he lost no time making it clear that I will never have to: he enjoys, in every conversation, explaining to me the various ways he is burning through any meager inheritance I might think of looking forward to. This time, it's a fishing trip that he's taking in July. He and a buddy are taking a seaplane flight somewhere into B.C. to stay in a lodge and fish the inlets. "It's going to set me back four thousand bucks!" he crowed. "So you're not getting that."

His birthday is the opposite of my birthday! I thought. It really makes me laugh, because I hate myself. And really, it is kind of funny. Anyway, we chatted about the trip a bit; he's very excited. "So you're not ocean fishing, then?" I asked. "Oh, fuck no. I'd rather fish than puke." Eminently sensible. Words of wisdom! In fact, that's what I'm putting on the grasping bastard's tombstone: "DISPLAYED INDIFFERENCE TO ESTATE PLANNING; OPPOSED TO VOMITING."

Then he mock-threatened that if the economy really tanked that he and Mom would move in with us. This was so comically inconceivable that we both shared a laugh. This is how you grow closer together with your parents: you gracefully accept the fact that as the years continue, it becomes clearer and clearer that you find each other alien and weird. It's funny!

I'm with him on the ocean fishing thing, though. Not that I've ever been ocean fishing. But I did once go whale-watching.

It was back in '94 or so that a bunch of us computer buddies--oh, all right, if you must know, there was a period in my life that I was an AOL user, and I frequented the trivia games--decided to "meet up," as we youngsters liked to call it, in "real life." And so the lot of us found ourselves all together at a hotel in San Jose.

I was working retail at the time, and it took my last cent to even get there in the first place, so when the whale-watching expedition got put together, I demurred. But a bunch of us had already gotten drunk together the night before, and, inexplicably, the others decided against all reason that they liked me, and so they paid my way--generous friends! I will never forgive you--and so I was suddenly in too.

No matter how much I might want to, I will never forget this trip. The boat was about 30 feet long or so, and the sky was slate-gray as we TOOK TO THE WAVES! And it was fun! For about fifteen minutes. P. was the first to fall as we met the swells. You all know the common theme of stories like these: Uuuuup, dooooowwwn, uuuuup, dooowwn. P. went down almost instantly; he retired to the meager little cabin and lay on a bench like a discarded valise. He was about the same color, too; he moaned like an old door.

I assumed I was made of sterner stuff than that, and jauntily strode the pitching deck, occasionally jauntily falling down to relieve the growing mood of unease. M., a vivacious blonde, was the next to succumb, and she daintily donated her lunch over the side of the boat. "I feel a lot better!" she exclaimed, which earned her some glares from other passengers. I was still doing okay, but I must say I was feeling . . . off.

M.'s yarking had, of course, moved others to similar reactions, and the dominoes were now starting to fall; temporary friendships were formed among the side-by-side vomiters, with much earnest back-clapping and shoulder-massaging amongst former strangers who found sudden solidarity with the people emptying their stomachs right next to them. The passengers were also beginning to unite in the feeling that this sucked.

We hadn't seen any whales at all. The crew clearly didn't give a shit; this was par for the course.

By now, I couldn't ignore that I was being affected. It wasn't nausea, really--I'll go ahead and let you know now that I did not throw up on this trip. It was more like an all-consuming awfulness of the entire body. My head felt swollen and ached, my skin felt taut and uncomfortable, and I had an uncomfortable feeling of dissociation from my legs, as if they existed independently of my upper body. I had no idea what to do about this. I quickly realized what not to do, which was to look at anybody else. By this point, fully four-fifths of the passengers were the color of dingy underwear; many were creeping around the deck on hands and knees, supplicants to a God that either wasn't listening or, alternatively, was hugely entertained. One woman, who herself seemed to be immune to the pitching seas, was shouting at any crew member who would listen (zero) to turn the boat around, this on behalf of her stricken husband, who was red-facedly vomiting nearly continually, because of his "bad heart."

Can you puke to death? I wondered. I figured we were going to find out. Some middle-aged fellow pitched forward with such force that his eyeglasses leapt off his face and joined his last meal into the waves; he waved at them weakly and forlornly. He helplessly and touchingly rubbed his unhappy face for a moment, feeling the unfamiliar nakedness briefly, before once again leaning over to unmaw. Closest to me was another guy who wore a khaki-green rain slicker, and it wasn't until that moment that I fully realized the meaning of the phrase "turning green." He was almost literally the same color as his jacket. He looked like the villain from I Know What You Did Last Summer if here were the Gorton Fisherman and also a face-painting fan of Army football.

For my part, I had my own strategy. I couldn't stare at the waves; they just made me vertiginous. I couldn't look at anyone else; that just made me invent strained, ridiculous comparisons. Plus, they looked worse than I felt, at least the sufferers. Worse were the smug fuckers who were feeling no effects at all. They strode proudly around the deck, and we were all too weak and miserable to do the right thing, which would have been to throw them screaming overboard. So I did this: I stared.

I found a distant set of hills on the horizon from which we had set from (I told you it didn't take long for us all to go wobbly). I fixed on that set of hills. And I stared at it, and stared at it, and stared at it. I could probably draw the precise shape of that set of hills from memory to this day. Those hills were my referent for sanity. I didn't feel better for doing this; the point was, I didn't feel worse.

Eventually--we never saw any fucking whales, of course, unless someone barfed up just the right undigested Animal Cracker--the crew relented in the face of our wretched faces, and they turned back. It took us six days to return to the shore. By which I mean probably forty-five minutes. I maintained my bug-eyed watch on the hills the entire time, clutching a post on the deck like a strangler. The next day, my nerveless fingers could barely pick up a pen, not even to stab the people who had kindly paid for my whale-watching ticket.

It's helped me out a lot writing this. It really has. For one thing, I now know what I'll be putting on my father's headstone. And even better, I know what I'm putting on mine.


Tuesday, 25 March
Caution! Auction! (That's An Anagram, Son!)

This was the weekend of a monumental annual event! The child care center that the wife works at--and has for some time--held its annual fundraising evening, with several silent auctions, a raffle, and one live auction, complete with actual auctioneer. It's a massive affair, and almost all the parents show up (not to mention the large number of them who help set the thing up), and it's very important.

Naturally, over the past six or so years, I've never attended a single one. Until this year! This year, I felt I had to attend, mainly because the wife asked me to. "Some parents are starting to joke, I think, that you don't really exist," she explained.

Well, I won't stand still for accusations of nonexistence, as many state jurisdictions have come to learn. Fucking Utah. I may have done my bit for obstruction, but those fuckers damn well know I'm no bigamist. Also, that I exist. Sneaky Mormon DA. Don't get me started. (Future Skot: I just reread this paragraph, and I'm not going to delete it, even though it's a weird joke that doesn't work and doesn't make much sense. I just wanted to put that out there. Just move along.)

Anyway, so the thing was a big rubber chicken dinner affair for those stuck for the long haul; I was only expected to show up for the cocktail hour, which, you know, I'm always grudgingly up for. Also, even for Very Important Spouses of the staff, non-employees wanting catered dinners were charged $40, so fuck that. I traded in a drink ticket--because apparently, nonprofit fundraisers are run exactly like Bingo Blackout Bonanza down at the Elk's Club--for an IPA and perused the hundreds and hundreds of items up for glomming on the silent auction tables. They ranged from the sublime (6 weeks of intensive language lessons) to the ridiculous (Zune--my friend J. excitedly asked, "Was it a brown Zune?!") to the simply confusing ("Paint your own plates set!").

(Seriously, though. Paint my own plates? Who wants to do this? To what purpose? You're just going to get food all over them and then have to wash them to enjoy their pristine, painted state again, so what's the net here? You might as well auction off a piece of paper saying "Make your own bed!" There's crafts where you do things for fun and you wind up with pretty or interesting or useful things, like say knitting, and there's crafts that are simply crafts for crafts' sake, things you do to help ignore the vast existential angst that would otherwise consume your mind, like painting plates. It might have been the most depressing thing out there, except maybe for the case full of fortune cookies and the fortunes all said "You should go to the dentist.")

The live auction stuff was more interesting to read about--again, I went home long before that shit started. One family offered their coastal Spanish villa for a week to the highest bidder; all you had to do was get to Spain. The wife reports that that little dilly went for around $2500. A tidy sum! No report as to what the hopefully brown Zune went for. I assume: one hundred million dollars. It was 8 gigs! You can almost fit a Built To Spill song on there.)

So while I was there, I mostly prowled around the place trying not to look like too much of a shambling fuck. I wore some natty jeans--NATTY!--along with a velvet jacket that I got at a Huggy Bear Tribute Sale down in the hobo district a couple years ago. I was gladhanded by any number of nice people, most of them women, for some reason. The dads might have all been getting crocked in preparation for some very male bidding wars and the attendant cock-waving at all. At any rate, I've never been good with names anyway, and I was soon lost among the dozens of hi-howareya-nicetameetchas and what Tom Wolfe indelibly described as "boiling teeth."

I met other people too, who were not Lemon Tarts or Social X-Rays, and whose teeth did not boil. One of those was the auctioneer. The wife introduced me to him, and he exclaimed, "Of course! I remember you from last year!"

"I thought you looked familiar!" I exclaimed. As I mentioned before, I've never gone to one of these events. There's no point in even trying to set this sort of thing right.

"He's high, right?" I whispered to the wife after he wandered off.

"I think so," she replied.

And I met someone else. I met a man . . . I wondered if I should even use his name here, because when you write a blog that is read by tens of people, you should be a little careful, you know? But then I realized that if that certain somebody has his own Wikipedia page, his personal info is already kind of out there, so what's the point? And so I can reveal this.

It TURNS OUT . . . that one of the wife's co-workers is dating a certain Mr. Garrett Wang, aka Ensign Harry Kim from the TV series "Star Trek: Voyager," possibly the least-loved entrant in the Star Trek franchise, although I have to say I'd watch it over "Enterprise," but I may have Scott Bakula issues after realizing partway through the run of "Quantum Leap" that that show was, in fact, insultingly horrible.

Anyway, as much as I wanted to give him the whole "DUDE YOU ARE HARRY KIM" business, I didn't have the heart; I just didn't want to be that guy. He seemed like a perfectly nice fellow, and I figured he had a long three hours or so of half-drunk dads strolling up to him asking if he ever got to fuck Jeri Ryan, so he didn't need any shit from me.

Besides, what could I say? How would he respond?

"Sigh. Yeah. But I never got to fuck Seven of Nine."

"So, Kate Mulgrew."
"STOP. Ugh. Let's go get some more beer."

"Let's free-associate. Tell me how you feel when I say 'CHAK-O-TAY!' "
"I . . . it was nice to meet you, but I have to go bid on a brown Zune."

I think we could have been close. I really do. Or he might have been high.

Thursday, 07 February
Run Of The Mill

The first couple years I was in college, I would come home in the summers. I had two jobs waiting for me those years: one was doing p-line surveying for the Forest Service (don't ask--it's more boring than public television), and the other was doing the clean-up shift at the local sawmill. That was once a week, on Saturday mornings. Occasionally, as I was told by Gary, the foreman. "Occasionally I'll call you for some help," Gary told me when we first met. "It probably won't be every Saturday."

It was every Saturday. Every fucking Saturday at six AM the phone would ring, and Gary's funereal voice would march implacably down the phone lines, through the receiver and into my ear, where it would then start brushing its voice-teeth with steel wool right there in my fucking ear canal. If it sounds deranged and kind of complicated, remember that it was SIX AM ON A SATURDAY.

"Skot. Need ya today," he'd invariably say. Now the voice was taking a bone saw to its voice-ankles. "I'm pretty tired, Gary," I'd say every time.

"I'm fuckin' tired too," Gary would reply flatly. "Tough old world. Need ya today." Then he'd patiently wait while I hopped up and down silently, waving the phone around in a fury. He knew I wouldn't hang up or snap back, because Gary had that quiet sort of demeanor that had a tendency to scare the living shit out of everybody.

"All right, I'll be there in half an hour," I'd always say. "See you in a few," Gary would say, and hang up, and as the phone line clicked into silence, his voice would die in my ear and start to rot there, macerating my brain with its fetid echo.

The Bible tells us that God rested on the seventh day, and I can tell you why: it's because on the sixth day, the exhausted Motherfucker had to clean out His divine sawmill. He looked at this enormous fucking building, the Silver City's stinking, clanking, yammering machinery, littered with animal shavings, shattered soul-fragments, discarded jackalopes, an entire room filled with excess night, etc. etc., and He thought: Fuck.

Cleaning up a sawmill is not without its excitement. For one, there's the unavoidable fact that not all of the machinery is shut down when it's being cleaned, so there's always the off chance of being sucked into some shrieking geartoothed leviathan. Or there's an even better chance that one of the (exhausted, idiotic) burnouts that you work with will simply turn on a machine at the wrong time, such as when you're standing on it. Or in it. That's what happened to a fellow known only as Jerry, who some years ago was cleaning the innards of some gigantic piece of infernal destruction--I've long forgotten the names of most of these things--when someone for unclear reasons turned it on. The device in question resembled a six-foot tall mixing bowl, and had two-foot long metal blades that whirled at the bottom, and that's how the legendary Jerry was turned into tapioca one lonely Saturday afternoon while the horrified workers unlucky enough to be present were treated to the unforgettable sight of Jerry's upper torso bouncing merrily and leglessy above the rim of the death bowl until someone unscrambled his nerves long enough to shut the man-mixer off.

So there was a certain brain-tingling sense of adventure when one found himself wedging himself into the narrow space between two four-foot tall circular blades to brush the conveyor belt free of sawdust. I got jobs like that because I was skinny, or so I was told. A darker voice inside my head told me, It's because they hate you and they are going to turn you into thinly-sliced chum. Which may have been true, but I was not murdered, probably because everyone realized that someone would just have to go in afterwards and clean all the me out of the blades.

The debarker was another crowd favorite. The debarker is just what it sounds like: it's a giant structure that violently bullies all the bark off of logs before they enter the sawmill. It's so giant, of course, that it is outside. Which further means that cleaning the thing means climbing around on the thing clearing it of enormous strips of bark. Which further means that the task becomes exponentially more horrible when the bark happens to be soaking wet, which it always was, because the powers that were always decided that the debarker needed to be cleaned right after a punishing rainstorm--or, better, during a punishing rainstorm.

I never did see someone turned to a paste at the sawmill, but I did see one unfortunate fellow take a slip on the wet debarker chain and have one of the sharpened cleats that grab the logs go right into his ass; he howled like silverback and wriggled while we all stared at him until someone vaguely in charge told us to "unstick that boy." It was horrifying, to be sure, but slightly mitigated in my mind by the convenient fact that I thought the guy was an asshole anyway.

But really, the job was mostly dreary. Mountains of sawdust that needed moving from here to there; tiny little flywheels bearded with filaments of wood that needed brushing; magnetic plates on conveyors that needed clearing lest nails, spikes, wristwatches or severed boot-clad feet gum up the valuable sawblades. The dreaded Saturdays were, if truth be told, hated mostly for their endless grey tedium and numbing ennui, only occasionally shot through with electrifying moments of grave, pointless and stupid bodily damage. Sort of like a Uwe Boll film, but with shovels.

After my second summer of this nonsense, I told Gary that I'd had enough; the next year I wouldn't be coming back home. He chewed his mustache for a moment, regarding me with unsurprise.

"Well, that's too bad. You were a pretty good worker, even if you are a dinky little shit," he said. I regarded this as high praise. "You could really get in those tight spots 'tween the blades," he continued with a sigh. I felt the previous compliment shrivel up a bit as his voice shimmied up my brainstem and started doing a hornpipe on my medulla; I wanted to get the fuck out of there and go home and shower for six days and be done with the place.

"Well," he said, readying his final benediction to me. "You won't believe me now, but you're going to miss this job some day." Now the voice was doing half-pipe stunts in the buttcrack of my brain that leads down to the corpus callosum, and getting some pretty sweet air.

"You ain't never gonna have another job that gives you so much wood," he deadpanned.

Gary's been dead for years after succumbing to a typically awful and futile bout with cancer, but his voice lives on inside my head to this day.

Right now it's singing "Sussudio."

Tuesday, 29 January
A Tacolypse Now

The other night, while at the Bar That Shall Not Be Named with the wife, we had the following exchange. See if you can tell where it all went wrong!

I was asking the wife about work--day care--and led off with an innocuous gambit: "So, how were the little douchebags today?"

She assured me that they were no more monstrous than usual, and related a few short anecdotes. One involved a child who enjoys sandwiches more than anything in the world, and when eating one, further enjoys occasionally hoisting it into the air like a victory flag. Another child evidently derives glee from launching himself off the top of staircases; another is only content when gnawing on a particular endtable in the room. In other words, nothing new: we are ruining our children and turning them into the next generation of psychopaths, depressives and otherwise damaged revenants.

I already like them better than the Boomers.

Then talk turned to her staff. I always like hearing about them, for it seems that the only people more fucked up than our society's children are the ridiculously underpaid wraiths that we barely pay to take care of them. Plus, I am acquainted with many of them, so I always get a little frisson of self-satisfaction in hearing of their varied plights. It's like watching "COPS," only every time someone gets punched in the neck, you get to yell something like, "Hey, that's Donny! Ha ha! Right in the neck! Oh, Donny! I never liked you."

Eventually, the conversation turned to Miss X, an employee of the wife whose misadventures are storied and invariably hilarious, usually due to her curious worldview-slash-psyche--which may be described as one part palsied libertarianism, one part hurtling-through-space brio and perhaps just a splash of pure, distilled run, you fools, run! I'm always pleased to hear of her hijinks, because they usually involve some flavor of unadulterated human pain.

A question suddenly occurred to me. "Does Miss X ever have boyfriends?" I asked.

[NOTE FOR THE STUPID: This is where it all went wrong.]

"Sure," said the wife. She proceeded to tell me about one fellow in particular who endured no less than three or so separate dates where Miss X showed up forty-five minutes late each time because she was spending time filing her teeth or ironing her ears or some such. She was apparently quite surprised when he stopped showing up for their dates, and promptly would call to berate him. From what we know, he has since moved to Tobago and has filters on all incoming media to block anything that contains the alpha string "ayn rand."

Well, I just had to laugh.

"Oh, sure," said the wife, giving me a little elbow jab to the ribs. "You think she's cute."

All my blood ran into my ass and my breathing became shallow; I gawped like a flounder and farted nervously through my suddenly engorged cheeks. Never has a trap been so casually sprung; never has one been so ineptly responded to. "What!" I cried. "Why I! What!" I dived for my Manhattan like a raptor spying a fish. The wife stared bemusedly at me as I tried to calm myself.

Now, the thing is, Miss X is indeed cute. Anyone would say so. I attempted to explain this.

"Sure, I guess," I said, adopting a speculative tone, as if I were discussing landfill conditions in Omaha. "But she's not the kind of girl I'd go for." (This is true! I know: it doesn't matter. I'm a fool.) I mentally dusted off my hands here in a satisfied "case closed!" way.

"That's good," said the wife acidly. "Since you're MARRIED!"

And there I sat, pinioned, and I had brought all the cutting instruments myself and handed them over with an eager smile. The wife seemed to be enjoying this with a grimness that you'd normally expect to find in some children's story that involves someone getting burned alive at the end.

There was only one remedy to this situation, and of course it involved tacos. Happy endings always do, which is why they served tacos at Pol Pot's funeral. The wife was of course having me on a bit, but that didn't mean that I was going to get out of buying some tacos in the bargain.

And this taco place SHALL BE NAMED! For it is magnificent, and everyone should visit this place. It is called Tacos Gringos, and it is a tiny little place on Olive Ave. E. in Seattle, and if you live in Seattle, you're a fool for not going there. If you don't live in Seattle, you should fly here to eat their tacos. Moreover, you should commit a felony here and then flee the state so you can get extradited back to Seattle on the state's dime to eat some more of these fucking tacos.

There is nowhere to sit in Tacos Gringos. In fact, there's no tables either. There's barely room to stand. And they're only open Tuesday-Saturday from 8:00 PM to 3:00 AM, which might tell you what sort of crowd they're after: drunks! Everyone needs tacos, but particularly drunks and idiotic dupes who have been baited by their wives, and Tacos Gringos provides them. They are two dollars apiece, just the right size, and served only with onions and cilantro, with a selection of three hot sauces. That's it. Eat and get out, fuckers!

But you won't get out. Not for long, anyway; you'll just go back. When we were there, I had two shredded pork tacos. Then two more, followed by one last taco. Previously, I had eaten their goat tacos--goat!--which tasted like angels had spat in them. I have seen on the menu--but when they were closed, so I could not sample these--chorizo tacos.

From what I understand, the guy who makes these incredible things used to be a chef at Campagne (non-Seattleites: a high-toned schmancy restaurant) and he just got tired of working for other people, which hey: awesome. Go. Just go. Even if you're not a drunk or a desperate dipshit of a husband caught on a rack of wifely sado-humorism. Go because the tacos are good, and who doesn't like tacos? They bring us together. Let us unite, my friends. Let the juices of bonhomie drip down our wrists and soak into the shirtcuffs of our loving souls. Tacos improve our lives and mollify our wives.

Good tacos make good neighbors.

Thursday, 27 December
They'll Be In Our Home For Christmas

It was our year to host. And so on Christmas Eve the wife's clan of gap-toothed hillbillies descended on our home like a swarm of fire ants. The father-in-law pulled up in his 1972 van with the rusted-out floor panels and importuned us to help unload the beast, which was filled to bursting with all manner of odd items. His pet armadillo snapped at me threateningly as I unloaded a case of Duraflames.

"Don't let Mocha bother you none," he grinned. "Git those upstairs so's we can git 'em goin' in you'rn fancy firing-place!"

He had also brought an old fake-wood-paneled fourteen inch television with a kicked-in screen. "Outsider art!" he hollered insanely as the wife's mom struggled to put a leash on the recalcitrant armadillo. She kicked it into a daze, and the creature hobbled unsteadily on the sidewalk before releasing a hot jet of urine onto my shoes. I started lugging the astounding welter of junk and nonsense upstairs to our apartment.

Eventually we got the shipwreck of a vehicle unloaded and the holiday festivities began in earnest. The wife had pulled out all the stops and prepared roast beef sandwiches and nothing else; her brother and his wife brought meatballs; the folks had brought a battered tin filled with cold chili. Ah, Christmas! I immediately poured everyone some wine, which was immediately rejected by the father-in-law: "Aw, git that frog juice away! I got my cough syrup."

Eventually it was time to exchange gifts. I had already put one of the Duraflames in the fireplace; I noticed that the case box had a large sticker on it that said "RECALL ITEM--DO NOT USE. DANGER OF NOXIOUS OR LETHAL FUMES." The apartment was filling with an odd grey smoke that seemed to cling to one's scalp, but the in-laws didn't notice. "It's real warm, that fire is," ventured the wife's brother. "Powerful hot!" I nodded wearily and pawed at my head, noticing a deep itch beginning to set in as the fumes intensified.

"So y'already got yore burny-logs," said Pa. I pondered the queasy double-entendre: For Christmas, you gave me wood. "But there's more a-comin'!" He then produced a plastic-wrapped package of 48 rolls of toilet paper. "It's single ply!" he cried. "So's you just wind it all around yore whole hand." Then with a flourish he brought out a gallon jar filled with dill pickles.

"It just ain't a proper shit without a pickle to munch on," he said sagely. I glanced at the wife, who was turning the package of toilet paper over in her hands in wonderment. I silently accepted the monstrous bottle and stared at its contents; the pickles looked like enormous gangrenous penises.

"But I ain't done even yet," said my father-in-law, leaning back to light a misshapen cigarello with a wooden match that he scratched on his grizzled beard; his wife paid him no attention as she greedily fished out a pickle from our jar. I was reeling slightly from the ever-increasing fug that was permeating the room.

"I got you all high-definition tellyvisions!" he howled, sweeping his one non-hook arm at two large, sagging packages. This got the wife's attention, and she looked at me with a glimmer of hope. We tore into the dubious-looking packages, which appeared to have been wrapped by juvenile delinquents with some sort of unspecified but dangerous grudge. In some places, the wrapping was held on with tenpenny nails.

In the end, what we discovered was . . . actual hi-def televisions, 32-inchers, one for the wife and I and the other for her brother and his latest wife, who honked appreciatively from within her oxygen tent and waved her edema-ravaged hands in a gruesome approximation of gratitude.

For our part, we couldn't believe what we were seeing--least of all the wife, who wasn't seeing anything at the moment, as the ever-gathering smoke had rendered her momentarily unable to open her eyes, and was busily applying a rather nasty-looking unguent to her face that had been supplied by her mother.

"Where did you get these?" I yelled at the father-in-law, who rocked happily as he witnessed my astonishment.

"Stole 'em from yore neighbors!" he cried happily. "Kilt 'em and stole their tellyvisions! Your'n gonna start smellin' 'em in about three days, I s'pose."

"That is fucking awesome," I told him sincerely. "Thank you."

"You are surely welcome," he replied, pleased. "Now hand me them pickles. I feel a powerful shit comin' on."

A short time later, it was time for everyone to go home. We walked people out to their cars; the in-laws climbed into their emphysematous van.

"You guys have a good Christmas Day, okay?" I told them warmly. I couldn't wait to get my hands on that television; I fairly twitched with anticipation of being able to not know how to hook it up properly.

"What are you guys doing for your proper Christmas dinner?" I asked as they prepared to make the eleven-point turn that would direct them on their way home.

The father-in-law grinned at me happily. "Why, what do you suppose, boy?" He used his hook to tap clinically on the gas gauge for a moment, noting with solemnity the lack of a needle indicator before turning back to me.

"It ain't Christmas if you ain't eatin' armadillo."

Wednesday, 14 November
Imperfect Strangers

For two years in college--my junior and senior years--J. was my stalwart roommate. J. and I made a good pair: we were both skinny little art twinks, and we got along together. More importantly, I could usually get J. to do whatever I asked. This was important, as J., who had a modest trust fund to get him by, also had a Corgi-sized PC loaded with hot-shit WordPerfect, a gas card at his disposal, and a Mitsubishi, which came in handy when my girlfriend at the time graduated and moved to Portland. J. was remarkably sympathetic to my pleas to borrow his car for the drive up from Salem, probably because he then got to fuck his girlfriend at the time in relative peace, which is to say without me clawing at his bedroom door asking if I could use his computer.

J. did love that car, and of course, so did I. So did his good friend M., who shared J.'s penchant for Euroweenie 12" singles by the likes of entities such as Clan of Xymox and Tin Tin and Front 242; M. particularly enjoyed the time-honored art of tracing horrible things into J.'s car dust. I fondly remember the two weeks J. drove around with the bold legend "RICE DICK" blazing from the passenger window. J., for some reason, did not notice; he might have been transported with rapture by the newest Malcolm McLaren and His Bootzilla Orchestra release.

I mustn't be too hard on J. College is, after all, a weird time for anybody. J.--ever fashion-conscious--took to wearing his hair (or his hair took to wearing him) in a sort of Eraserhead/Lyle Lovett coif that sat atop his skull like brown popcorn erupting from his brainpan. (For my part, I spent a brief period dressing as if Siouxsie Sioux had wandered into an exploding Jay Jacob's outlet.) Being in Salem, Oregon, of course, we looked patently ridiculous, but we would never have known it, and we strutted around campus, obliviously clad in purest grief.

J. did love his things. He had that little trust fund cash every month, and he'd generally blow it immediately (forcing us to then use his gas card for the rest of the month; the bills conveniently went to his mother). J. was a tremendous fan of computer games, all of which he was unremittingly hopeless at. I would accompany him to the game shop and handle these mysterious games with wonder: What in the hell was "Leisure Suit Larry" and why would anyone want to play it? Because of the horrible, pixilated boobs that the cover seemed to promise? The thing cost fifty dollars. You could get a Hustler for six bucks, I thought.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise later on, given J.'s hunger for trinkets and baubles--things--that I discovered that he had bought a gun. A nine millimeter Glock, to be exact. I came across this knowledge one night when J. waved it crazily in my face.

"Check it out, man!" he crowed. He was taking aim at my forehead.

"HEY, THE FUCK!" I screamed, ducking madly. J. cackled.

"I got a gun!" he cried, quite unnecessarily. He drew fresh aim at the television. Now, I grew up with guns. I saw that he had his fucking finger on the trigger.

"Put that fucking thing down!" I howled, deftly rolling under our crumbling particleboard coffee table. "Don't shoot our fucking television!" Note my keen sense of priority. Shoot me, not the TV!

He lowered the gun. "It's not even loaded," he said calmly, fumbling out the magazine. "See?" He showed me the empty clip.

I learned later on that J. liked to sleep with the thing under his pillow. I learned this from his girlfriend at the time.

"Does he keep it loaded?" I asked incredulously.

"I assume so," she yawned. "He says there's no point in keeping an unloaded gun around."


"He's got dick issues," said my girlfriend a little nervously.

"I don't think so," replied J.'s girlfriend. "He's got a huge dick."

I didn't say anything. I already knew that. Hey, you live with a guy for two years, you're probably going to see his dick. J. really did have a goddamn hose. I figured he had to thread it between his legs and tape it up against his back.

J.'s girlfriend yawned again, and I said, "I guess it's bedtime, huh?" I was still stewing over the whole weird gun thing.

"I don't know," she said tiredly. She looked down at her lap and sighed. "Sometimes I can't even face it." There was a silence, because everyone knew she was talking about J.'s monstrous penis again. I helplessly wrestled against the barrage of double-entendre images brought to mind with her unfortunate phrasing about having to "face it," and realized I would sleep uneasily that night.

No wonder he never got that upset when he found that "RICE DICK" carved into the dust of his car.

That girlfriend really didn't last all that long--God only knows what sort of dong-y horrors drove her out--but she was soon replaced by the Pod. The Pod was, in retrospect, a clearly depressed young woman. Not because she dated J., but, well, she just was. We--my other roommate N. and I--called her the Pod because 1. she seemed to lie around all day on the couch hunkered under a green blanket, and 2. because she had magical powers, as long as one followed the ritual.

N. and I had a saying. "If you caress the Pod and care for her," we would say to each other, "wondrous things will happen."

N. and I would make sure every morning, on our way to class, to stroke the Pod's hair gently--for she was always there on the couch--and she would tiredly murmur her thanks and shimmy dolefully under her blanket. Then, in the afternoon, when we came home from class--


The apartment would be clean. (As clean as it ever got. This was, of course, a place where during one party, someone took a shit on the floor over by the phone.) There would be beer in the fridge. The noisome carpet of dead flies would be skimmed from the sink, and the dishes cleaned. And the Pod would be there, on the couch, beneath her blanket, as if she had never moved.

We would lavish praise on the Pod, once again patting her head. "This place looks great! Oh, man!" The Pod would smile wanly and continue watching The Abyss. (I'm pretty sure that during those two years in college, the only thing on television was The Abyss. At the end of the movie, the credits would roll, and then some announcer would yell, "Coming up next, don't miss . . . The Abyss!" We never did.)

We never quite understood J.'s relationship with the Pod, and nor did we dare inquire. We weren't even sure if they had sex. Perhaps the Pod employed blanket-y pseudopods to creep up the stairs and ravish J.'s tremendous penis in the night while he rapturously held his pistol in his mouth. It was best not to think about the whole thing.

Eventually, graduation rolled around, and we packed up our miserable bunches of crap. Crowbarred from her perch on the couch, the Pod looked naked and exposed. She blinked in the sunlight as we stood on the porch, getting ready to go our separate ways. The Pod sloped over to the Mitsubishi and listlessly tumbled in.

"I guess this is it," I said. I had no fucking idea what I was going to do next. I wondered if J. felt as unmoored as I did. "So what's next for you?" I asked.

J. scratched the back of his neck. "I don't know," he confessed. Another moment passed. "I've been thinking about converting the Glock to full auto, though."

Wednesday, 05 September
Boston T.

I have some sort of crazy shit going on these days involving my parents being in town, having to go to the doctor for some truly weird paresthesias and neuropathies--like some essential tremor-ish stuff when reaching for a glass of wine, and believe me when I say I'm a pro at reaching for wine--so I'm a little distracted. So the posting has been a little erratic to say the least, and then I get agitated when I do some reasonable thing like reach for my glass of Malbec and my arm decides to disagree with me.

So, sorry. Hey, maybe I have lupus! On the other hand, repeated viewings of House have cheered me in that it is never lupus.


So, T. was my roommate for a year or so in college. T. was from Boston; once I called him on some damn break and his mother answered the phone. "Is T. there?" I asked. To my delight, she responded--I AM NOT KIDDING--"T.? Nahh. I think he took the cahh to Bahhstan Yahhd."

T. once decided to homebrew some beer. He bought that homebrewing bible--its name is lost to me, and I don't care--and a carboy and a giant steel containerstein and some other bubbletastic doodads. He collected dozens of Grolsch bottles--don't ask me where he found them--and other 22 oz. containers, and a bottlecapper and went to town. The apartment smelled like low tide at Coney Island for a week as he cooked his hideous mash; finally he bottled, and waited for weeks.

He was brewing an IPA, a particularly hoppy sort of beer. At the end of the process, which we were pretty excited about (despite the incredible odors, I had fun helping out), he finally decanted his first brew one morning right before he had to go to class.

"This tastes really good!" he cried, and it did. It was ten in the morning, the best time for any college student to dig into a fresh batch of beer. "Help yourself" he yelled delightedly as he left.

I did. I had no classes that day, or at least no classes that I was interested in attending. I drank six 22 ounce bottles of beer while T. was away at class.

"Is it good?" T. panted when he came home at four o'clock PM.

"It's delicious," I replied. I had drank six bottles of the stuff. "It's the best near beer I've ever had."

T.'s face dropped like the Hindenburg. "No!" he said. But it was true. T. had somehow, despite his bubble thingies and total adherence to homebrewing recipes, managed to produce a delicious beer with apparently no alcohol content whatsoever. At that point in the afternoon, I should have been trying to eat the sofa. Instead, I hopped up and gave him a few smart jumping jacks instead to prove my sobriety. (Note: this is a terrible way to demonstrate sobriety.)

Later, when I asked T. what, if he had one free wish to be granted on Earth, he would wish for, he said, "A pallet of beer. I want to put it in the living room, and when people come over and ask me what that is, I could say 'A pallet of beer.' "

I thought that that would be pretty cool. Of course, at that time, we were drinking Rainier.

One night, I went to a party, and when I came home, T. was slumped over our coffee table. His hand was on his checkbook, and the check's subject was DOMINO'S PIZZA, and the dollar amount was filled in. What wasn't filled in was the signature. T. was out cold.


Half an hour later, incredibly, there came a knock at the door; this must have been close to one AM. It was the Domino's guy. "I tried to deliver this an hour ago," he said, "but there wasn't no answer. You want this pizza?"

"Yes," I said, and quickly filled in T.'s name on his check's signature field. "Thank you so fucking much."

"Yeah," said the pizza guy. The pizza was of course dead cold, and I devoured it. I apologized to T. the next day, and he scoffed. "I would have done the same thing."

Then he played Gish. I hate that album and stopped feeling bad about eating his pizza.

When we left that place--we were more or less evicted--we squirted tubes of toothpaste all over the parking lot.

When T. attended my first wedding, I asked him if he was still smoking his signature Marlboro Reds. "I'm smoking MOAH!" he enthusiastically replied, and held out a freshly burning cigarette as example.

Oh, T., have moah of everything.

Monday, 20 August
Don't Touch Her, She's Sick

Sunday was a big day for us with a lot on the schedule. The wife's father has recently retired (involuntarily due to some crappy health problems, but happily not due to any morbid health problems), and so there was a surprise party being thrown for him. Kind of a big deal. Also kind of a big deal was later that day the funeral for an old friend of the wife's who had finally succumbed after a long and fairly gruesome battle with cancer.

I was getting dressed after showering when the wife materialized before me. "I'm sick, my boy!" she wailed, and then dissolved into huge sobs.

Now, I am not a strong man under normal circumstances. I am exponentially less strong when my wife is in tears; it completely hollows out my heart to see her cry. I know this was not about me, at the time--I'm just saying. I will put on an Insane Clown Posse CD and fuck a monkey in a tutu if I think it will cheer her out of tears. (So maybe I'm not always weak and ineffectual. Just mostly. Good to know!) But there was nothing to be done here, really--she was sick.

"I almost passed out in the shower," she snuffled into my shoulder. "And then I threw up! I threw up twice!" Then she pulled herself away from me to go throw up. I couldn't help but notice that she was fully dressed, and also that she was throwing up, since the bathroom door was still open. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "I could have shut the door."

There's a lot going on here, so let's take a moment to consider a few things. First of all, she nearly passed out in the shower. (She had showered first; when I got out of bed, she was sitting on the floor of our bedroom, rooting around in the closet. I didn't know then that she was sick, and dimly dismissed the kind of weird fact that she was sitting on the floor. Because she was dizzy.) (In fact, she later told me that she had basically crawled to get to the shower for fear of falling down.) After that, she threw up a couple times. Most people would be calling the fight at this point--God knows I would be. However, after nearly passing out a couple times, heaving a few times, she then--after rooting around in the closet (on the floor), managed to go ahead and get completely dressed for the day. Then--then!--she apologized to me, her husband for inconsiderately forgetting to shut the bathroom door.

It wasn't until she realized that she possibly couldn't walk without falling down--and, you know, the uncontrollable vomiting--that maybe she didn't have it in her to go anywhere that day, and she cried, because not only did she feel bad, now she felt really bad.

So I did my part: I held her and said meaningless things. "What can you do?" I said. "It's not your fault!" I cried. I'll cut off my arm with a chopsaw if you want! I thought. "I have the baclava!" she sobbed into my shirt. (Explanation: she was bringing the baclava.) "Fuck the baclava!" I declared.

I still think this was the right thing to say, but I can't really be sure, since that's when she vomited again. I ran around in circles for a while, babbling things like "call!" and "your mother!" and "your brother!" and "Insane Clown Posse!" and "baclava!" while she reclined grayly on our bathroom floor, looking truly horrible and spent. I did finally manage to get her brother on the phone to explain the situation. "I've got this baclava!" I screamed frantically. (I don't know why this became such a focus.) But he was already miles away. I hooted like an insensate asshole for a while longer before hanging up, figuring that once again, I had sounded kind of like a dipshit in a conversation with her family members. (This is not about me, I thought again.)

I took care of her the rest of the day, if you can define "taking care of" as "fetching 7-Up and avoiding making loud noises." She returned to bed and slept until 3:00, finally emerging with a noticeably ginger step. I piled blankets on her so that she looked like a miserable fungus.

At 5:00 she sent me off to my favorite bar that I mention too often--I think she wanted to moan plangently to herself for a while and maybe catch some more sleep. I vowed to also procure chicken soup.

I think we can agree that I am a hero.

At the bar, the regulars all greeted me and asked about the wife. "She has a stomach virus," I said. "Or maybe food poisoning." (It's not food poisoning.) "Or a Gypsy curse. I don't fucking know."

"Does she need pot?" asked O., one of the regulars. I blinked at him. "For the nausea. It helps me when I'm sick. I can go home and get some!"

W., the wonderful bartender, offered to send me home with a "to-go cup" of Fernet Blanca, a noted digestif (it is also notably fucking disgusting, but his heart was certainly in the right place; Fernet Blanca tastes like Azazel's filthy choad). Note that this is terrifically illegal.

O. was still pressing. "Do you want my phone number? I'll bring you some pot." He thought for another moment. "By the way, we should go out to dinner together." I declined the pot, but said we'd love to go to dinner sometime, probably when the wife wasn't vomiting. There's nothing the wife and I enjoy more than going out to dinner with gay interracial couples we don't know that well, but seem harmless, and hey, they are moving anyway. And really--he was offering to deliver some antiemetic pot to us.

This is why I talk about this bar so much.

I procured the soup. The wife is feeling much better today.

I assume this is due to my not playing any Insane Clown Posse.

(This is not about me.)

Thursday, 26 July
Godzilla Vs. Bambi

This is a loser's tale. Refreshingly, this time it isn't me! Sort of. I'm not the main loser.

When I graduated from college, I immediately put my theater degree to good use by getting a warehouse job in my roommate's dad's paint sundries company. It was there that I met Mick and Mike. (I'm abandoning my usual policy of masking people's names for this one, since I'm pretty sure these guys are both either dead or incarcerated.)

Mick was--of course--a hard-drinking Irish guy who was given to quoting Castaneda at me, for some reason. Mike was this little guy--I'm not quite five ten and weigh in at a whole 150 lbs., and I had fifteen pounds on Mike--who was . . . how to put this? Mike was pretty stupid.

Mike once filed an invoice for a GI Joe's store under "E."

"Mike!" screamed Gary, our boss, once he found it. "Why the fuck was this invoice filed under E, for Christ's sake?"

Mike looked genuinely puzzled. "E. E for invoice," he said.

That was Mike.

Another day, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" was playing on the always-on classic rock station. I encountered Mike in one of the warehouse aisles, and he lifted his head up to the ceiling quizzically.

"Who in the hell are these guys?" he asked. I stared at him.

"Ahh, kind of a one-hit wonder band called the Rolling Stones," I said.

"Huh," said Mike.

(The classic rock thing was a near constant until a few of us bitched about it enough that on Fridays we could turn the fucking radio to another station. One Friday, while "Call Me" was playing, Mick approached me and accusingly barked, "Is this Blondie?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"If I wanted to listen to a white junkie bitch scream at me, I'd go home," he said flatly, and stalked off.)

I've told that story before, but frankly, I never get tired of thinking about it.

But anyway. We drank a lot, us warehouse guys. Usually three days out of the week, we'd go out for beers after work. Mike came along sometimes, and we'd beat him stupid at pool, because most of the time Mike was attempting triple bank shots and in general just playing slamball in the hopes that something, anything would fall in, only to be crushed when something did, since he routinely forgot that we didn't allow slop shots.

One day at work--and I'm unclear what sort of terrible events led up to this--Mike decided to issue a challenge to Mick. Mike declared that he could out-drink Mick. I think we were on lunch break. Anyway, I do remember this odd combination of feelings rushing through me when he said that; it was some strange mixture of electrification and utter dread. Mick squinted at Mike.

"Are you fucking stupid?" asked Mick. Before a reply could be made, Mick continued: "No, I know you're fucking stupid. E for fucking invoice." (This by now had become warehouse legend, which are of course the finest legends to be found anywhere.) "Are you serious? I'll fucking kill you."

Mike stood his ground. "I can take you, man! I can drink a fucking lot."

The rest of us just sort of looked at each other. Mick was a guy who, when a doctor told him that he was a little worried about Mick's slight liver enlargement, said, "Look at my fucking name, man. My name is Mick." Then he demanded to know where the closest bar was.

(And he really did have a junkie wife. He also had a little girl who was four years old. Mick occasionally confessed to me that everyone was kind of worried that the child refused--or was incapable of--speaking. She was always going to speech therapy. Once when I had had one too many, I suggested that maybe they should try silence therapy, which Mick roared at, thankfully, since he might as well have cheerfully torn off my head.)

So that Friday was set as the date. Mike vs. Mick. We all had to watch this.

We went to the Black Cat, the closest horrible dive bar to the warehouse, and the festivities commenced. Mike and Mick would match each other, beer for beer, and in between beers, a whiskey shot apiece would be administered. They went to it. We watched, fascinated, and drinking.

You would expect that Mick--ropy, grizzled Mick, no-collar anti-hero--would dominate this poor chimp with the unfortunate pussy-tickling moustache that surely would never tickle an unpaid-for pussy; that Mick would so thoroughly destroy this hopeless homunculus that he'd likely be left in some truly dire state of vomit encrustation and renal failure that he would require hospitalization, dialysis and a long stint inside an autoclave; that Mick would cheerfully be tossing back shots while Mike was owlishly trying to urinate into a pool pocket.

That's basically how it all turned out. I don't even think it lasted two hours. Mick looked as alert as a Hollywood divorce lawyer--well, one with greasy, shoulder-length hair and Coke-bottle glasses--while Mike looked as if someone had gotten halfway through with installing a spinal block before distractedly wandering away. In fact, the dedicated staff at the Black Cat--flinty-eyed women with alarming tattoos--refused to serve him.

"Are you kidding? He looks like a trout. He's cut off." Mike's eyeballs drifted independently of one another; I wondered if he could see his own brain. I hope not, I thought. Mike really doesn't need to see that. I bet it looks like a dead, hairless Tribble.

What could we do? Well, for one thing, we could unceremoniously dump Mike into the back of a pickup, which we did. We could also go to another bar, which we also did.

We went to the Yukon Tavern, another favorite of ours, mainly for the owner, Viv, a dyed redhead who was also half-deaf and approximately the same age as the Magellanic Clouds. We of course dragged the thoroughly miserable Mike in with us and propped him up on a barstool. Barely hanging onto consciousness, Mike's head dipped and bobbed towards the bar as if dowsing for the used chewing gum concealed underneath. Viv eyed him contemptuously.

"I ain't serving him!" she hollered. She hollered everything. We nodded and ordered beers. Viv poured them and served us, giving poor Mike another poisonous look. Then she went over to him; Mike did his unlevel best to meet her gaze, and was intermittently successful.

Suddenly Viv screamed, "ARE YA TIRED? WHAT'S 'A MATTER? YOU TIRED?" Mike flinched at this assault, and spun around on his stool spasmodically. Then he fell off his stool in a noisy, boneful clatter. He wheezed on the floor while everyone laughed.

"I hate amateurs," Viv yelled to nobody at all, turning away from the awful spectacle of writhing Mike. "Who wants Li'l Smokies?" she screamed. The only food Viv served was cold sandwiches and Li'l Smokies.

Eventually we left, once again pitching the now-consciousness-free Mike into the bed of the pickup. Viv glared at us the whole time. "Don't you boys be bringing in that kid any more! He ain't fit to drink with you all!" Here she pointedly jerked a thumb at Mick, who grinned widely. "Is he even of age?" she wondered loudly to the aether. Viv had a fairly cavalier attitude about serving minors. Or anybody.

"That boy is a shithead," was Viv's final benediction on the evening.

He sure was! Here's to you, Mike. Or, better yet . . . maybe you should just have a soda.

Wednesday, 11 July
Big Day, Big Night

And so thus armed with beer and Super Soakers, we were underway. We began our creep down Main Street, all three pickups of us with our meager signage (our class was indeed a lazy class; I consider myself to be their God) flapping from the pickup windows.

It was, I must confess, kind of fun. Throngs of people lined the street for mile. Because that's about how long the route was. But throng they did! Little kids ran out towards us and screamed, "Shoot me! Shoot me!" Either it was intolerably hot, or these children do not bespeak well of our future military resources. We shot them stupid, and they screamed rapturously, which rapidly became irritating, so to shut them up, we then pelted them with hard candy. They shrieked even louder, so we stepped up our beer drinking.

One of our group, T., armed as she was with her water weapon, rather quickly adopted an alarming thirst for blood. She would douse fucking anything that moved, including us, when she would whoop with a squirting victory and wave her weapon over our heads and the thing would drip all over us. T. would also shoot at anything that didn't move, such as fire hydrants and dead dogs. T. was a little out of control. At one point, I saw her take steely aim at three geriatrics who were gnawing on some fried chicken; they saw her too, drawing a bead, and they made warding gestures and shook their wattles at her fearfully. "Jesus Christ, T., lay off. They're old people and they have food."

T. flashed me a wild, angry glare, looking very much like C. Thomas Howell after a deer's-blood cocktail, and then relented. She settled instead for knocking out a little kid's front teeth with a brutal barrage of green apple Jolly Ranchers. The rest of us continued our H2O assault on the parade-watchers unhindered.

At least until we got to the fire station, where a bunch of guerilla warriors lashed back. They had filled tubs and buckets full of water, and they ran out into the road and simply creamed us. We filled the air with harpy screams and thrashed like the double-damned as they drenched us mercilessly. By the time we were out of range (or they were out of water), we were wetter than a lesbian erotic book club. Thinking way too late, I pulled my cell phone and cigarettes out of my sodden shorts, stared at them hopelessly (both miraculously survived), and then weirdly transferred them into my equally soaked back pocket. Why? I don't know.

Out of danger, we laughed at the affair (during the exchange, I was pleased to note that we nailed my dad pretty good, for all that) and resumed our attacks.

That's when the water balloon hit M. in the face. What the fuck? Cruising up the final parade hill, we jerked our necks around and beheld three little preteens with a cooler full of water balloons, and they were hailing them on us with an accuracy that was simply hellish. Those little fuckers were way out of range of our pathetic pistols, and the little bastards' arms were unbelievable. It was like a filming of Honey, I Shrunk Easy Company! We couldn't do anything about it, so we simply and adultly returned fire with a sailor's smorgasbord of the vilest profanity that we could summon. The children danced with glee (literally--they had a fucking boom box) and redoubled their efforts.

Finally, we were done. The parade was over. S. guided us off the route over to her house, where we dismounted the pickups (I fell flat on my ass, to general cheering). Why were we at S.'s house? we wondered. S. answered that question by running inside and grabbing a case of beer. Oh. It was now about 3:30 in the afternoon, and most of us had been drinking since noon.

The parade was over. All that was left was the dinner. The wife and I elected to limp home, towel off, and take a nap in preparation. Not everyone was this sensible, and elected to keep drinking.

So, a nap, a shower, a change of clothes, and we felt ready for round 2. Cocktail hour began at 6:30--because we needed more of those--before dinner at 8:00. This was at the Elk's Club, which, really? Kind of awesome.

If I've been exhibiting an uncharacteristic unwillingness to rip these people up and just be my normal turd self, well, I can't really bear to. The whole thing was kind of cool and unexpectedly really fun, and really, everyone was pretty great. It was also pleasingly free of extraneous crap like slide shows or "Remember When?" presentations or any of that fun-killing kind of regimented hoo-ha: we simply had some drinks, ate dinner, shot the shit, laughed at Oh my God, twenty years! things, had some more drinks, and that sort of thing. You know: the things that people aged 38 find really fun and enjoyable. The things that tell you, "Well, you're getting old."

Not that there was a complete dearth of YAY! behavior. I define YAY! behavior as: embarrassing things that other people do that make me go YAY! because I did not do those things. For instance, A., a lovely brunette who I suspected of Failure-to-Nap Syndrome, held up a silly little survey thing that was at every table and screamed at the assembled crowd, "Okay, you fuckers, you fucking fill these out, all right?" She wobbled cutely, and then joined us at the smoker's table where she informed my wife that she was "fucking beautiful, really fucking beautiful" before retiring to the parking lot to pass out in her car. YAY!

There was also N.--the "handsy" one I mentioned in a previous post--who definitely did not do the nap thing. N. lasted long enough to eat some chicken-fried blobs before definitively glazing over and slumping into his chair with his similarly inert girlfriend, forming a kind of corrupt American Pieta.

I'm pleased to say that we made it pretty much to the end. We walked my old friend R. home, who hilariously complained, "I wish it wasn't so uphill." Like the wife and I are Sherpas. It's like a .5% grade. We were all terribly drunk, but in that nice way that's so far off from that really terrible way that most of us are acquainted with.

We got back to my place, where we were startled to find my father still awake, watching TV. "What the hell are you guys doing home so soon?" he asked, equally surprised. It was like 11:30.

"We're old," I explained. "And everyone else took off." My father looked at me, at first curiously, as if I had grown a second ass on my chest. Then with a look like Yeah, you're ancient. Give me a break. "Whoo!" I clarified. "Whoo!"

"You can have my chair," he said, getting up to go to bed. I thankfully settled into it.

My parents drove us to the airport the next day. I had really messed up my quads with my precarious perch on the pickup float, and I walked like a doddering old man. My mother, the RN observed: "You really fucked up your quads, didn't you?" I moaned.

The reunion was over. Like I said before, I'm not going to rip anybody. We had a very good time. And here's the best part: you don't ever have to read anything about it ever again.

But I can, any time I want, and surprisingly, that makes me kind of happy.

Monday, 09 July

Monday was the big day, when we all came together as 20-year reunionites to show our proud town what we were made of.

Naturally, this meant gathering en masse at a bar. At noon.

You see, traditionally, our reunions take place during something called Border Days, which is one of the oldest rodeo celebrations going. So there is, of course, a parade, and every year, the twenty-years all ride a float. The parade was at two o'clock on Monday.

Remember, we were at the bar at noon. Because another tradition is that everyone loads up on beer for a couple hours before we climb onto the float, which is--can you guess?--also stocked with coolers full of beer. Oh, and Super Soakers for tormenting the crowd, particularly the very young (who love getting squirted with water on a hot day) and the very old (who are slow and make excellent targets and who also cringe entertainingly).

But first things first! The drinking. My friends W. and R. showed up to cart me down to the bar promptly at . . . 10:30 AM, mainly because, as far as I could tell, W. was anxious to begin drinking. But we made some small talk with my folks for a while, for which my liver thanked me meekly from inside his cage.

However, we were still down there by noon. Four minutes before noon, actually, which is why it puzzled us when T.--an excitable woman from our class, already there--shrieked, "Where have you been?!" It was going to be a long day, so it only made sense to order a beer from the bartender, a pleasant fellow named (I think) "Fish," who really put the "grizz" in "grizzled." We began drinking in earnest, and I couldn't help but note that W. and T.--again, both women, so this puzzled me--cut their beers with Clamato. There is a thesis to be written about the gender identification issues surrounding this conundrum, but I left that to future scholars and simply dug into a two-dollar Bud.

Shortly, W. was ordering another from apparently-Fish. "Slow down, W.!" he bellowed. "It's a long day." He paused to take in the rest of us. "I can say that to her because I know her. I don't know any of you, so I don't care what you do," he told us. My father, seated behind me at a table, laughed.

This is where we spent the next two hours: the Triangle Tavern, a place the size of Carlos Mencia's talent, and, also like Carlos Mencia, a similarly gas-station-bathroom amount of charm. Improbably, it does have a pool table, perfect for receiving clouts to the skull via errant cue shots. Also, a bartender named Fish. (There really was a seedy, Abe Vigoda-ish cast to Fish, but again, I'm not even sure that's what people were calling him. But let's say they were. Then I got into some reverie about Fish being not only Abe Vigoda-ish but also having some sinister Lovecraftian features, but by this point I was on my third Bud.)

After a little bit, my mom and the wife intelligently showed up bearing some burgers for us to consume, as we were all drinking on empty stomachs. (T. screamed on their arrival, "Who is this? I don't know them!" "One of them is my mother," I said, "and one of them is my wife." T. stared wordlessly. My father laughed again.) We devoured the food with the feverish intensity of a group of people who had dedicated an entire day to drunken mayhem. My mom, wonderfully uncertain about people's condiment preferences, had even persuaded the burger vendor to wrap up a bunch of pickles in paper, just in case. We devoured those too.

That's when W. loudly informed us that she had broken one of her artificial nails--painted, of course. She had to go get it fixed, because when you're in a parade, you want your pinkies to look their best. She ordered Fish to get her a "to-go cup," which Fish dutifully did, and W. poured her beermato into it, and she was off to some apparently underemployed beautician. Open container laws are unofficially but nearly unilaterally relaxed during Border Days, unless you're a fucking moron, who are, naturally, legion.

More people were showing up by this time, quite a lot of them, actually, and it was around 1:15 that we noticed that we did not have the flatbed pickup that we had been promised by a classmate. In fact--we learned mere minutes later--that said classmate was not only not even attending the parade, but his flatbed was not forthcoming, as he was in a town some miles away. We had no float.

We discussed this with some intensity while ordering more beers with somewhat more intensity. A couple of the girls were dispatched to try and sweet-talk a fresh flatbed out of a nearby trucking company--so nearby, in fact, that it was across the street. They returned flatbedless. "If you had come one hour ago . . . " said the guy, whose name, let's pretend, must have also been Fish. We fretted about this and ordered more beer. W. returned around this time and ordered a beer. Her nails were perfect. D., the class president, wondered about filling up the water buckets for recharging our Super Soakers, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that we had no vehicle that would actually carry said buckets, or our beer coolers, or our Super Soakers, or us. Well, whatever. We crossed the street to a (closed) business of some sort, and stole about fifty gallons of water.

Others milled about in the sun drinking beer, while others milled about in the bar drinking beer. Fish ran out of Clamato, and there was a minor flurry of dismay among some of the women, but it then subsided after they glumly ordered some more beer.

It was about twenty minutes to two, and nobody had any idea what was going on, until someone happened to notice the incredible fact that we--the assembled class of '87--had no less than three pickups in our possession, right there at the bar! Right in the parking lot!

We immediately--by which I mean haltingly and fuzzily--composed a complex plan to solve our problem: Let's just ride in pickups! Like, three of them! Instead of one lonely float (unadorned flatbed), we would have three mighty floats (unadorned pickups)! We quickly (slowly) loaded hay bales into the pickup beds for us to perch on, and happily noted that we had just enough time to buy some more beers to take onto the floats . . . er, pickups.

The class of '87 was in the parade, dammit. It was our time to shine. Literally, in the case of the third pickup, since for some really weird reason, that was the one that all of the bald guys piled into. I mean, ALL of them. They gleamed like the sledge of the White Witch. I stared at the hazy heat lines that radiated off of their collected pates and commented to W., "They're going to look like a jar of maraschino cherries after this."

W. laughed and opened a beer gingerly, mindful of her repaired fingernails. We were sitting high and mighty on the first float/pickup, with our asses on the cab of the truck. We had to be mindful of not putting dents into the roof of the cab, and if D. (the driver) heard a "CLUNK!", he'd yell at us. We got waved into our place in the parade line.

The day was just getting started, and it already felt like we'd been at it for hours. But there was plenty more.

Thursday, 05 July

IDAHO! The Gem State! My Motherland! The Seat of . . . Trees! And tree-related items! Occasionally wheat!

Not so occasionally, actually. We saw a lot of fucking wheat.

We also saw my old classmates. And, you know, as much as I'd like to slag on the lot of them . . . they were all really pretty nice. Even N., sort of, who didn't display any outward signs of wanting to beat me up like in the old days, but who was described by the wife as "kind of handsy." Good to hear! Anyway, I actually had more fun than I had originally anticipated, if only because I still have hair, and so many of my old classmates do not. This of course says nothing about my classmates, other than that THEY ARE BALD, and volumes about me, namely that I am pathetically shallow.

The wife and I arrived on Friday evening, and spent a pleasant evening with my folks. This was going to be our only moments of peace, as chaos predictably unfolded in the days to come with increasing intensity. Little did I know as we ate dinner that night--a nice light chicken piccata--that in mere hours, I would find myself flossing with the intestines of one of our co-salutatorians, screaming, "I WAS CHEATED, JEZEBEL!"

Saturday night we got a fateful call from W., an unstoppable redhead locomotive of a woman who was a good friend of mine in high school. I remember we hit it off in fourth grade when she wheeled on me--the new kid--and demanded, "Who are you?" W. is essentially a volatile admixture of re-bar, bear pheromones, Super Dave Osborne, blackbody radiation, Tabasco sauce and Sarah Connor.

W. declared that we were going out that night, and by God (and frankly, if God disagreed, he could go fuck himself as far as W. cared), we were going. We decided (it was decided for us) that we would go to the eponymously named establishment, The Establishment. I hoped we could also have some exotic drinks called The Drinks and stand on such thrilling surfaces such as The Floor and perhaps take a piss in The Toilet.

Ordering drinks was actually the first challenge, at least for the wife. Knowing what sort of place the Establishment was--a nightmarishly loud dive--I knew not to deviate from my plan: beers and shots. Unfortunately, the wife did not quite grasp the concept of the place, which is: concepts are fundamentally unwelcome.

"Can I get a red wine?" she shouted over the din of what turned out to be howling country karaoke singers. The attractive little behatted blonde bartender looked at her as if she had ordered lizard gland secretions. "Let's see!" she chirped, and rummaged in the little cooler under the bar. She produced a box of wine that looked like it might have been manufactured for the Russian Spetsnaz sometime during the Reagan administration. "Here we go!"

It was, of course, undrinkable fluid of questionable provenance: we suspected it was simply brake fluid. "It tastes like my cough drops," was the wife's judgment. She tried another tack after failing to choke down the awful brine: she went for whiskey. "Do you have Bushmill's?" she asked the bartendrette, who stared blankly, and then craned her neck at her collection of bottles.

"No. What is that?"

"It's okay," said the wife patiently. "How about Maker's?"

Again the bartender gal made a good show of staring at all the bottles.


"We don't Maker's that!" exclaimed a fungus-like barfly who was growing into his barstool next to us, and then barked an approximation of laughter that sounded like Silverback apes trying to claw their way out of a gravel pile. He didn't look at us as he said this, but instead stared into his Budweiser bottle intently.

Unnerved, the wife finally ordered a whiskey and soda. She was served a Canadian Royal and Diet Coke. For my part, I took the low road and ordered a Bud and a Jack back.

"A Bud and a shot?" asked the bartendrette, clearly relieved. "You got it!" The wife cut me a glance that said something like, "I'm imagining you being carried off by wraiths now."

We settled into a rhythym, the group of us, and were presently joined by D. and her indefatigable frost-topped mom, who looked like she'd beat anyone to death with a Mike's Hard Lemonade bottle for looking at us wrong; M., the jovial husband of W., whose penchant for buying rounds endeared me to him instantly; by many others, simple denizens of the bar who remembered me, who knew my father, who were complete strangers, who were occasionally "handsy" with the wife, who were simply wondering what the fuck was up with the guy who wore the "fuck you" t-shirt (actually a shirt with drawings of two hands, one giving the middle finger, the other pointing at the viewer) who dared to karaoke John Lennon's "Imagine." He also wore a prominent earring.

"He's a dead man," said, W. as the thirtieth round of drinks appeared unbidden at the table. But nobody seemed to care. At one point, the wife captured a lovely picture of my old friend D.'s mouth and shirt and nothing else. She tried to identify him the next day.

"He had on a checkered shirt and a cowboy hat," she explained to my parents the next day. I had no idea who she was talking about at the time; the evening was a pleasant blur.

"You just described every other guy in Grangeville," said my mother gently. "He has good teeth," I offered, looking at the photo. Happily, everyone ignored this valuable insight. I need to stop saying words, I thought.

I had been home for thirty-six hours. We hadn't even gotten to the reunion part of things, not really. Not officially.

But we were getting close.

Monday, 04 June
Going With

When I was in sixth grade, I found myself with my first girlfriend. But we didn't call it that. We called it "going with." As in, "I'm going with [this person]." "Did you hear? Damon is going with Hortense." Going with. We might have been sharing a car ride. It was about as erotic.

I promptly informed my parents of this, possibly because it was novel, and also possibly because I had no firm grasp on what was actually going on. "How was your day?" my mom asked. And for once, I had something other to say than "Nothing." "I'm going with J.," I said.

"What?" asked my mom.

"I'm going with J.," I repeated. Duh.

My mom stared at me as if I had grown a fresh set of ears on my forehead. "What does that mean? Do you mean you have a girlfriend?"

I had no immediate reply. I wasn't sure. I hadn't thought about it that hard. Did I? I decided I did, sort of.

"Sort of," I said. My mom fixed me with a momlook while my dad just sort of smirked and said nothing. He was probably thinking, Oh man! He might not be gay!

"Aren't you a little young for a girlfriend?" my mom said without real force, turning back to doing kitchen stuff. My dad didn't say anything, but retreated to the living room, figuring, I assumed, that there was nothing he could say here that wouldn't get him yelled at or something, and also probably to do a merry little jig.

"Nah," I said confidently. Probably, I thought to myself. The fact was, I didn't have the faintest idea what was going on. I only knew I was going with J. because someone had told me so.

Earlier that day, in class, T., a nice girl, approached me. "Do you like J.?"

I thought about it. J. was a quiet, nice girl. She wasn't like the alarming L., who once said to me in the cafeteria, "You're so into me," and waved a french fry in my face. L. was terrifying, because I was totally into her. J. was about as unterrifying as Switzerland.

"Sure, she's nice," I said.

"Do you want to go with her?" asked T.

I thought about it and resisted the urge to ask, "Do I have to do anything?" I didn't know what that meant, really. I mean, I had some idea--I'd be expected to spend some time with her, of course, and maybe kiss her--maybe?--but would I have to, like, beat up assholes who said stupid shit about her? Because, as a complete pud, I couldn't beat up anything animate. I decided I couldn't ask anything without sounding dumb.

So I said, "Sure."

T. wandered over to J.'s desk and a brief conversational flurry ensued. T. came back to my desk.

"Okay, you're going with J." She walked off, as her job was done. I sat like a mute lump, thinking, I am? I looked over at J. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Hey! She's not terrifying! Not like L. For one thing, she hadn't developed breasts like L. had--go figure why L. figured me out in about thirty seconds--and hence was that much less threatening. My lifelong embrace of utter cowardice seemed validated.

This is going to be easy! This is all I have to do? I was jubilant, sort of, and confused, so confubilant, and I guess that must be why I was eager to tell my parents about this whole strange new thing. I did a thing! Others are doing this thing! Therefore, I'm not the weirdo I assumed I was.

Then that night J. called me, right during dinner. My mom picked up the phone, and said these surprising words: "Skot, it's for you." Huh? Nobody ever called me. I went to the phone and said, "Hello?"

"Hi, it's J. What are you doing?"

This was like getting a phone call from the Marianas Trench. I handled it as such. "Eating," I said. "What are you doing?" A pause.

"I just wanted to talk to you. You want to call me back?"

Not really. But somewhere in my hindbrain, I was starting--incrementally--to see that there was more to this process than I understood when I signed up for it. "Yeah, I'll call you back," I said. "Are you at home?"

Classic. We were in sixth grade. No, she's at the racetrack, or perhaps a group meeting for urine enthusiasts. "I'm at home," she said quietly.

I called her later. "Hey," I said.

"Hey," she said.

We had more than one conversation exactly like this. Our conversations made Waiting for Godot sound positively DieHardian. Another example:

She: "Are you going to Rusty's?"
Me: "Probably."
She: "Me too."
Me: "I guess I should go."
She: "Me too."
(They do not hang up.)

J. and I went to exactly one party--hosted by the aforementioned Rusty--where it was revealed to one and all that we were dating--no scratch that, going with each other. Rusty immediately ordered us into a dark room.

"When I come back in, you guys better be making out," he declared. He shut the door.

We sat there, not moving, not talking. J. coughed softly. I lifted up my hand tentatively and waved it around uncertainly in the dark. I eventually settled it next to--not on--her knee. I left it there a moment. J. bounced her knee a little bit. I didn't know how to interpret that, so I did nothing.

J. coughed again.

All women are terrifying, I concluded as those moments spun out and exploded into little baby universes of their own. Breasts or not.

Rusty eventually charged back into the room, flicking on the lights suddenly in order to catch in the no-act. His expression immediately fell as he saw us sitting there, doing nothing at all. I put my arm around J., attempting a look of defiance; J. merely hung her head in defeat.

"Jesus Christ," said Rusty. He shook his head.

The next week, T. stopped by my desk. "J. isn't going with you any more," she said in clinical tones, as if she was giving me grave medical information, like I had spine failure or mime's gene.

"I know," I said, feigning sadness.

But I had never been happier in all my life.

Thursday, 17 May
Track And Field

After my freshman year in college, I of course returned home to Idaho for the summer break. I worked a couple of jobs; one for the Forest Service doing something called "P-line surveying," which is exactly as exciting as it sounds; and occasionally (read: always) filling in on Saturday morning shifts at the sawmill doing cleanup, which is also thrilling: Oh boy! Several tons of wet bark! Let's . . . pick it up and move it somewhere else!

But I did manage to fit in a little recreation. And this being Idaho, the emphasis there would be on "little." But there were always the dances! Why? Nobody had any idea, but looking back, I would have to guess that it was a safety measure to get all of us desperately bored little assholes rounded up in one easily monitored place rather than have us do the alternative, which was to drive around like maniacs all night while drinking heavily.

The dances were simple to set up: Find a community center, or an old armory, or a skating rink, or a charnel house, and then play music, and wait for the drunk teens to show up and listlessly shuffle around for a couple hours before shuffling off for a couple hours of (the boys hoped) listless coupling. It was a remarkably successful strategy, if only because--we would never admit it at the time, but it was painfully obvious--that simply driving around on dirt roads and getting loaded is a profoundly depressing thing to do on a Saturday night.

As I said, I was back home from my first year in college, which I had spent madly and determinedly utterly reinventing myself from "pathetic hick geek/unclassifiable pariah" to "manic, mouthy idiot/unclassifiable buttinsky." In this I must say I was remarkably successful. One of the things I had made sure to do while away was take notice of how guys outside of rural areas danced: that is to say, I noticed that these guys actually moved, rather than sullenly shifting from one foot to the other in a circle, which is how all guys danced in Idaho--gloomily orbiting the girls (who cheerfully shimmied all they wanted), doomed electrons unable to de-quantize that one last step and pile into the nucleus of the whole thing.

Fuck that! At college--where nobody knew me or the shambling thing I had formerly been on dance floors since abandoned--I cut loose and really let it loose. I was unstoppable, and threw myself into every beat like a wino throws himself at an unattended beer truck. I was limber and loose-limbed; I vividly remember one night doing an immortal sideways pogo of sorts to "Dancing With Myself" and smacking my skull into a co-ed's nose, resulting in an impressive shower of gore. My friend J. remarked later, "I have to tell you that I love to watch you dance." With all the not-getting-it-ism of the truly stupid, at the time, I thought this was a genuine compliment.

I brought these newfound skills back home with me that summer, and one night in Greenwood, I let it fucking loose. I didn't break anyone's nose that night, but I was on fire. Looking at me at the time, actually, one might reasonably conclude that I really was actually on fire.

You see, I was still a terrible dancer, and I remain so to this day. I move like a duck on a hot plate, but I'm not that tall and pretty skinny, so my limbs fly around like several strands of overcooked pasta caught in a strong crosswind. But that night, I hadn't a care. I flailed around unfunkily to horrors while the rest of the dancers stared at me as if I'd gotten an expired inoculation. I'm different than I was! I thought, and I liked showing it. He's still so lame, but in a much weirder way, everyone else thought.

Then something unprecedented happened. In fact, nothing like it has ever happened to me since. A girl approached me during a break.

A pretty girl. She was leggy and lissome and confident and blonde and why was she talking to me? I wiped sweat off of my brow. "Hi," she said. "You can dance! Nobody else here knows how to dance."

"Thanks," I croaked. I introduced myself and promptly held out my now-sweaty hand, which she shook; it must have been like grabbing a raw chicken leg, and I cursed myself inwardly. But she was still smiling. "My name is N. You want to dance when they start the music again? I'm sick of dancing with these rednecks."


You have to understand that no woman has ever really approached me in this way, least of all while I've been perpetrating some dance crimes, unless it's to worriedly say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were being electrocuted" or "Are you a performance artist?" So this was really new. We danced together for pretty much the rest of the night, and I was suddenly getting new looks from everyone else: What in the fuck can possibly be happening over there? Is the world ending? She was beautiful, and we danced on.

At the end of the evening, she pressed a piece of paper into my hand: her phone number, about thirty minutes away in another town. I found out something else: she was also home from school in Eugene, Oregon--not too far away from where I went to school, in Salem. "Call me tomorrow," she purred. "I want to go out. You'll call me?"


Of course I called her. I may have been an astonishingly awful dancer, but I wasn't insane, and plus, she didn't seem to notice the bizarre carny geek aspect to my dancing, so. Being around this creature--she's in my car!--emboldened me, gave me confidence I'd never felt before, least of all in this town where I had basically grown up, feeling all the time like some fucking gargoyle of Idaho, a medieval thing dropped down somewhere I had never belonged.

"Let's get some beer," she said. I gulped, but pulled into a gas station convenience store. This is never going to fly, I thought as I nervously grabbed a six-pack. I took it to the counter, and the blocklike woman stared flintily at me as I smiled and held out a ten. Then she glanced out at my horrible car parked right out front in the window. N. lazed calmly in the passenger seat. The clerk looked at me again, drawing out her stare. Did a ghost of a smile touch her lips? She took my money and said, "You have a good night now."

"I will!" I practically screamed as I exited triumphantly, and then she did smile.

The rest of the evening unfolded just like you're thinking right now. "I have to go back to Eugene tomorrow," she told me while sipping her beer. She didn't look at me while I drove. She curled her legs under herself in the seat. "Will you call me when you get to Salem?"

"Of course I will," I said, meaning it.

"Take me somewhere to look at the moon."


So, in a fog, a fog not unlike the fog of uncertainty generated by the dubious heat of my unfortunate dancing, I drove us to the track field at my high school, where, yes, we fucked like only the young can fuck: loudly; vigorously; ineptly; quickly. I noted with some amusement in the morning that my underwear was a violent, rubbed-in green; I also noted with some quick yelps in the shower that N. had mercilessly raked my back with her nails.

I drove her home in the middle of the night, and sure enough, she left the next day. As promised, she had given me her phone number in Eugene. I dreamed of her for days. Being back home was a burden on me anyway, what with the unpleasant jobs and not being able to further reinvent myself back at school. I chafed at being home, and I'm sure I was an intolerable dick the entire summer. Fortunately for everyone, I was working too hard to really bug anybody for too long.

I got back to Salem, finally, that dead turd of a town (though I thought of it as Mecca). And I called N., who picked up on the second ring.

"Oh my God! I wasn't sure you were going to call!"

I puffed out my chest. "Of course I was going to call. I told you."

"I got us Grateful Dead tickets! All you have to do is come down here."

I felt a spear of ice in my chest. I hate the Grateful Dead.

"Oh! Um . . . okay."

"And I've cleared out some room for you."

Alarm bells were ringing.

"What?" The world was tilting dangerously now.

"I cleared out some space. I thought you were coming down. I cleared out some space so you could move in."

Holy fuck.

"N. . . . I can't move in with you. I like you a lot, but . . . N., we spent a couple nights together. This is starting to freak me out. I'd love to see you, but we . . . we're not . . . this is really weird."

(I'm leaving out a bunch of stuff about how I awesomely was starting to get back together with a different girl with whom I had enjoyed a previous relationship with, and so you can see how nightmarish this was getting, and it may have been all my fault.)

I have no finish to this story. Some stories don't. And they're usually awful.

I remember this one as being awful. She hung up on me, in tears. I never heard from her again.

Monday, 05 March
Dance Lessons

It occurred to me that it had been quite a while since I visited with God, so I recently caught up with him at his place in Sequim for a chat.

Skot: Wow! This is quite a place!


S: Really? Why is that?


S: More awesome than "Humptulips"?


S: Even David Caruso?


S: This is really pretty music you're playing. Very ethereal. Hey, is this the Cocteau Twins?


S: That's great. What else do you like to listen to?


S: "Groovy Train"? By the Farm?


S: You love everything, though.


S: If you say so. I also wanted to compliment you on your place here. It's lovely.


S: Oh, it's fine!


S: But you said earlier that you loved everyth--


S: Uh, if you say so.

G: I DO.

S: You feel strongly about this, I can see. Never made any mention of it in the bible, though.


S: The . . . the bible isn't the word of God?


S: Just the dirty parts.


S: So . . . huh, that's weird. Are you saying that you're disavowing that the Good Book isn't really your word?


The music changes, and the Farm's "Groovy Train" begins playing. God breaks into a sunny smile and shimmies a bit in his chair.


S: The Word of God is contained in "Groovy Train"? These are your words?


S: So . . . you're saying that we should . . . get on the groovy train?


S: . . .


S: Um . . . "You're so special"?


S: I see.


S: Right now?


S: I honestly can't.


S: One last thing. If everyone is "special," somehow, doesn't that really mean that nobody is?


S: . . . I'm sorry.


You're so special.
Get on, get on, get on, get on the groovy train

Thursday, 15 February
Thank You, Friend

Listen, do you have a minute? I . . . I think I need to talk. I've just gotta get this off my chest. You're the only one I can talk to. It's just you and me here, okay?

It's been eating me up lately . . . I've been having trouble sleeping. And I know I can trust you. Just--just keep it between us, okay?

I mean, it's nothing really bad. Not that bad. It's nothing to do with you, and if you were me, you'd, you'd have done the same thing, I think. I mean, you know Ra--you know what? No names. No fucking names. It's just--you know that guy, that guy everyone knows, who just--you're oil and water, right? Everyone knows that guy. Maybe he's a nice guy, you don't know, I don't know, maybe, but . . . it's always something, right? It's always something with that guy. It's that guy.

You'd laugh, really, how this all got started. We were at a friend's place, at a party, and you know, people are drinking and all, and then, well, all of a sudden I make this joke, and this guy is all up in my grill about it, and how it's disrespectful to women and all this, and I'm like, "It's what? You're nuts, and people laughed," but he's not having any of it and it turns into this big thing and the whole party grinds to a halt because now we're just screaming at each other, horrible crap and stuff, and the whole time there's still this part of my brain that's going, "But the whole joke was about fish." It was so stupid, but it got out of hand, and finally I just left. I told him, "Have some more Malibu, douche," and he turned red and opened his mouth, but I slammed the door before he could say anything.

It's so stupid. Shit like this. I mean . . . seriously? It's embarrassing to even tell you this. But it's been fucking bugging me all the time, after. After the . . . just after. How can you even talk about something this stupid? But it's been affecting me. I mean, I barely have seen the guy since then, just a . . . I guess a couple times or once or whatever.

I can't sleep. It's fucking me up. I wake up and I take these walks out into the woods . . . for hours, like, just walking around, 'cause I can't sleep. And you know me! I sleep like Coma Baby. But these days . . .

I don't know. It's dumb to even tell you all this. It's a big nothing. What, I had a fight with this asshole, and then later on--a stupid fight over a stupid joke?--and then later on, we have words about it again, the asshole shows up at my place to bitch and moan about this fucking thing again? What's that about?

It's actually kind of funny. He shows up at my place again, and rags on me some more about this woman joke--it was a fish joke, but he still isn't getting it--isn't that just funny? I mean, it wasn't funny at the time; I was pretty hot, but looking back, it's kind of funny. Funny-stupid. Heh. Mostly stupid. We were both sort of out of control after a while.

I don't know why this is still bugging the shit out of me, but it is. Listen, I know I'm talking your ear off--I'm sorry, but Jesus--it's bugging the hell out of me. I don't even know why I'm boring you with this.

You want to know a weird thing? I can't shower any more. I mean, yeah, I can shower, it's not like I'm physically incapable of showering, but I don't shower any more. I don't. I take these baths. I hate baths! Lying there in this you-soup. I always think about how many skin cells I'm sloughing off into the water. How is that clean? Then I think, "I'm sitting here in all this water that my balls and asshole are soaking in. In a shower, the water all runs off you, but here in a bath, I'm just brining away in asshole and ball water." It's disgusting.

But I keep taking baths! And--dude--it's not just that. They--it's kind of fucked up. They're cold baths. I run cold water and take a bath in that shit. Ice cold baths. What the hell, yeah, I know, way to be, loony bee, but I take these fucked up cold baths.

This is so stupid.

I like to dip under the water. I mean, I don't like it, so much, but I do it, for some reason. I slip under that cold water and try not to move. I know. I slip under and I lie there, and I let my mind just kind of go free and not move--not shiver or anything. Just lie there, under.

You can see why I've been kind of freaking out. I mean, all of this big nothing happened, and all of a sudden I'm behaving like . . . I don't even know who. Who does this? I don't. Or I didn't used to. But now here I am, not sleeping, taking these fucking walks out into nowhere, getting all riled up over this idiot, taking these creepy-ass baths in cold water where I'm just lying there, under the water, thinking about the calm about the under, thinking how this is cold, this is under, this is . . .

It reminds me of my walks out into the woods, too, the cold. The under. And I can't tell you how it feels when I finally run out of breath, and I break the surface of the water, gasping, up from the cold depths. It just feels . . . I don't know. It's hard to explain. Lots of times after the baths, I warm up by the fire, and then I take one of my brand-new fucked up strolls into the woods. I don't know why I feel better after all this crap. But I do.

You know what, though? Even the nighttime strolls in the forest are all the same. Two miles out, two miles back, every time, to the same spot, every time. It's cold at night, and kind of creepy and shit, but it relaxes me, two miles out, two miles back, packing down that cold humus and loam. I guess it's another ritual. I don't fucking need it, frankly, but there it is. And after all that's done, I can finally sleep for a couple hours. Better than nothing, I guess.

Man, I really went on there, didn't I? Thanks for listening, seriously. I really appreciate it. I don't think there's anyone else I could have talked to like this. So, thanks again. Christ, you know what? I feel a lot better telling you all this crap. I think I'm actually getting tired for the first time in weeks. I can't believe I let this dumb situation get so out of hand. It's really been great getting this all off my chest.

All right, I'll see you later, man. Thanks again. I think it's really helped me out. I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep. And I know I don't have to say this to you, but I'd really appreciate it, you know, if you kept this just between you and me.

Thursday, 01 February
Vanishing Girl

The names in the following post have all been changed. Except for mine. I tried to write myself as "Kirby the Rad," but it didn't take.

Everyone remembers his or her freshman year of college, except for the really drunk parts. I remember mine chiefly for my massive and embarrassing efforts to utterly remake myself--to transform from an Idaho hick into a worldly sort of guy with lots of life experience. This illusion was immediately smashed when I met one of my dorm-mates, a very wealthy guy named Rick from southern California, who was Jewish, and another guy from the east coast named David, who was also Jewish, but not wealthy at all. Growing up in Idaho, I knew nothing about the Jews, and was puzzled by the exchange between them when Rick and David met. They shook hands, and then David exclaimed, "Nice Jew ring!" Rick stared thoughtfully at this big gold thing on his finger and said nothing. For my part, I was just confused.

They have rings? That's kind of cool, I guess.

I was an irritating little shit, of course, and was still trying to find my way, hyperactively describing anything within a sightline as "cheesy" and wearing aggressively horrible things like shark-emblazoned LA Gear shorts and bright red Ray-Bans. I also frankly had no idea what I wanted to study at school, apart from what I hoped were girls with impossibly lax standards. I was, naturally, a virgin. I did harbor vague ideas of entering pre-law programs, but that idea got dumped within a couple weeks, when no less than four people asked me, "Are you an actor?"

Sure! Why not? I signed up for a beginning acting class. Obviously, it took.

The professor was one of those guys who insisted that everyone call him by his first name, not "Professor Whatever." No, he was "Bob." Bob was a grinning little bearded thing, quick of tongue and obviously not quite grown up--and he regaled us endlessly about his acting exploits and his many near-misses on the big stage. He was charming in his rodentlike way, at the time . . . at the time.

Bob took an immediate shine to me in class, mainly because I was not untalented, and also because I was more than willing to take his smart-ass remarks and give them back to him; he was, in retrospect, dismissive and taunting towards the shyer, more tentative students. You see these kids in acting classes, stammer-mouthed and uncomfortable in their own skins, and wonder if taking an acting class is some sort of self-help regimen. But I wasn't tentative at all. We were all remaking ourselves, and I was gung-ho about the whole project. One of the requirements of the course was to audition for every show that was put on--you didn't have to accept a role, but you did have to audition. For my own part, I treated my very first audition as the most important thing in my life, and would have probably considered suicide if I did not get cast.

But I did, a couple very minor roles in As You Like It. Bob cast me after essentially deconstructing my initial disastrous audition read and telling me exactly what to do. Bob was on my side, and I felt that Bob was making me into the sort of person I imagined: someone who was nothing like the dipshit who didn't even know what the hell a "Jew ring" was. I was doing Shakespeare.

Bob drove a Grand Am, at least until he trashed it in some sort of accident. Then he bought himself a slick BMW motorcycle and leather riding gear. He had a blandly pretty wife at home, and midway through the year, they had a baby. Reportedly. We never saw a picture of the baby. His wife would occasionally show up at the theater building, but not often. Bob tended to his flock, and that was us. Me.

Bob was pretty fucking cool.

He was so cool, in fact, that he blew my tiny little Idaho mind in rehearsals by saying things like "I think it's pretty clear that Audrey has been sport-fucking William." Naughty! Also: "Skot, you know that William is a total pencil dick, right?" I laughed. We all laughed.

I lived for rehearsals, and I lived for acting class with Bob. He was a Stanislavsky freak (sigh), and so we'd have long discussions about "circles of intention" and then have exercises where we would cross the room, with our "energies" focused into our left knees, our foreheads, our right wrists and left ankles. Bob paid attention to posture, to alignment, to our bodies. He would think nothing of striding over to someone and massaging her shoulders, her calves, her arms. He never felt the need to adjust my position or gait, though; I interpreted this as natural talent on my part--I didn't need adjustment. I was just fine! The girls, however, needed a lot of help.

Bob had a generous open-door office policy. If you were stressed, or had some questions, or needed guidance about something, you could always find him in his office. I didn't really feel the need. Anything I needed to know, I could just ask him in class. He seemed to encourage it, and I was the brilliant student, showing off to everyone: I know how to ask the smart stuff. I positively shone.

Some of the girls didn't have it so good. Kelly in particular seemed to be enjoying the course, but she was getting moodier. She was one of the shy ones, a pretty girl, but short and short on self-esteem. She spoke her lines in a tiny voice, and seemed embarrassed bout her height as well as her zaftig figure, which she insisted on hiding with an assortment of sweaters.

I was doing excellently in the class, and got near-daily praise from Bob. I never felt the urge to visit him in his office, and continued to rise in his estimation in class; I was frequently praised, and glowed as Bob informed my classmates that I was "the guy to watch." On the other hand, poor Kelly seemed to be withdrawing more and more, and consequently was seen entering Bob's office more and more for help. I thought it was pretty cool of the guy to spend so much time helping out a girl who was having a hard time of it in a beginning acting class.

I have a very clear memory of hanging out in the theater office with my fellow actors, most of whom were smoking--this was still no problem in 1987--and watching Kelly knock nervously on Bob's door. "Kelly!" he boomed. "Come on in!" Then the door would close.

A little less than a year later, I was meeting with the Dean, who professed an interest in linguistics. "Can you tell me what 'sport-fucking' is?" she inquired. "And 'pencil dick?'" Am I being filmed for a comedy program? I wondered. For my own part, I had managed to persuade a couple of doubtlessly unsatisfied women to have sex with me. I stammered out some bunch of horrible garble along the lines of "Um, I guess it means having a really thin penis, like, unsatisfying," while the Dean nodded at me. I couldn't stop my mind from imagining what had been going on in that terrible, sterile office, with posters of Bob glaring down from the walls.

Kelly had filed formal charges. Bob was almost certainly going to be canned, and there were other murky legal issues twitching in the shadows. But Bob was going to fight this all the way, or so we heard.

I was told that I would need to testify in front of the disciplinary board. I would have to tell them about stuff like "sport fucking" and "needle dick" and classroom massages. I had to tell them all of it, about Bob, the guy who liked me, who challenged me and cast me and practically beat me with a tire iron to make me abandon the hideous fake British accent that I lapsed into when reciting Shakespeare. And the guy who, oh, right, screwed the hell out of Kelly on his awful gray office carpet.

I didn't want to testify against Bob. He had championed me and made me believe I had promise and talent. He was funny (though maybe not so much to others). I couldn't bear to think of crucifying him right to his face. There was some part of me that still considered him a good guy, and I dreaded the look of betrayal that would surely appear on his face when I spoke. Then I would think of Kelly's tiny hand nervously knocking on his open door. And Kelly, vanishing in the half moon of the closing door's arc.

I would have testified, you know. I was all set. There were a few of us with tales to tell. I guess he knew it too.

The morning of the hearing, I got a phone call. Bob had split town. He drained his family's savings account (over 50 grand), and left his young wife and infant with nothing. My testimony would not be required. I hung up the phone with a strange mixture of anger and relief. I traded phone calls with some of the other people who were set to appear, and we all felt like Thank God. Yeah. Lucky us.

The last I heard, LA cops were quite interested in tracking down Bob, who had apparently migrated south.

I never heard anything about Kelly ever again.

Tuesday, 16 January
A Driving Force

Seattle has recently been enduring a TERRIBLE COLD SNAP where it has occasionally dipped below 30 degrees and dumped a couple of noncommittal inches of snow on us for the past week or so. Naturally, this has basically shut down the city.

The Seattle schools have shut down, for instance, and the day care my wife works at also has been shut down. Inexplicably, she went in to work anyway to do some crummy paperwork; she also spent a little time in our purple Plymouth (sexy!) sliding backwards down a hill. She's okay, she's fine, she didn't hit anything other than a frozen homeless guy. Sensibly, she threw his frozen carcass into our trunk, because, in these times of extreme (-ly mundane) weather, you never know when the meat riots will start.

I, however, am a fucking ninja for snow driving. I grew up in Idaho, motherfucker! I took driver's ed in eight inches of snow. How do I know it was eight inches of snow? I measured it with my dick. RAR!

I must confess, though, that this did not keep my teenaged self free from autovehicular mishap. I've written about this before.

I will even confess that I myself once or twice got caught out by bad weather conditions while driving. For instance, driving my car back home one particular evening--my awesome '75 Chevy Monza--following my father, I managed to induce the vehicle into a 180-degree spin on a gravel road. (It should be mentioned also that I was 14 years old; you could still get "daylight permits" that young when I was that age, which seems like about as good an idea as giving infants blowguns to play with.) My father stared at me afterwards with the kind of look that seemed to say, "I wonder which mailman my wife fucked to produce this dubious specimen of humanity."

Other times, in those halcyon years, no weather was required to produced on-road theatrics. Often times, all one needed was "friends." Out of my hometown on the way to the storied town of White Bird (but more importantly, on the way to the river) was a tremendous, windy, steep highway grade that required attention and caution to navigate, two traits that are surely present in all teenaged boys. My pals delighted in a certain prankish activity involving reaching over to the car key and switching it off midway down the mountain. This would cause me to scream, invariably, "YOU FAG!" and then, instead of gently switching the engine back on with one click of the key back to its "On" position, rather overcranking the key nervously into "Start" mode, causing the starter to grind horribly and cause mechanical stress. Hilarious. An even better trick was to swifty reach over, turn off the key and throw it onto the floor somewhere, resulting in me (the driver) scrabbling around under the dash while coasting majestically down this horrifying twisty maze of cliff death. Once, one of my idiot friends removed the keys in this manner, but instead of flinging them to the floorboards, he dangled them out the window for a while. Had he dropped them, we all would have been smoking meat. Are teenaged males the only life forms on the planet that have such an incredibly focused drive towards self-eradication? The lemmings thing was proven to be a manufactured myth, but who needs lemmings when you have four guys in a car, all of whom are wearing mullets and parachute pants? And who, chances are, are drunk?

Another time, the four of us--there were always four of us--were sitting at a simple T-shaped turnoff, again to the highway. I don't remember where we were going this time . . . possibly to the golf course to piss in all the ball washers, or something, or maybe just to wash our balls. Who cares? Anyway. For once, I was responsible; I looked left. I looked right. All clear, and so I sedately took my left turn; we were listening to Hysteria by Def Leppard; all was right with the world.

As I was halfway into the left, a semi truck materialized I swear out of fucking nowhere. It simply hadn't been there two seconds before. But here it was, right on top of us, ready to smear us like a wayward rodent. I remember the stiffened stance of the driver, and I remember the Gabriel trumpet blast as he jerked maniacally on his air horn. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" screamed all the boys in the car, incipient masculinity all lost instantly in the moment; sopranos every one. I stomped on the gas, and the trusty Monza responded exactly as usual: like a fat-assed Corgi on a hot day. Please let it hit the back of the car, I thought. Kevin's dumber than me. Kevin was sitting right behind me.

We made the turn, of course. It seemed like the truck missed us by inches, but I can't really say. It might have been feet, or yards. I am pretty sure that no matter what the distance was, the driver of the truck came close to a power shot to Mars based on the force of his startled excretory reaction.

And what was our reaction? After a few obligatory "Oh man!"s and "Holy shit!"s, I seem to recall someone saying, "Let's go to Kevin's place. We're going that way anyway."


"His sisters are so hot." Kevin's sisters were 16 and 18. Yes, they were hot.

Kevin: "Shut up. You're a fag."

We didn't die. We didn't reflect. We listened to Hysteria. We went to Kevin's. We ogled his sisters. And we all lived forever, just like we always knew we would.


Monday, 30 October
My Girl Wants To Party Every Year

Sunday was truly a day of rejoicing, as the wife rolled over another birthday on the ticker, edging us ever more inevitably on towards our forties. And so we threw a little tapas-style shindig at our apartment and invited our pals over, asking them to bring some kind of finger food or snack or whatever. We're throwing a party; please supply it with food! People fall for this.

In preparation, the wife went into gear, and began fussing with the Kitchen Aid I got her as a gift. She made some loaves of bread, suitable for slicing up and stacking crap on, and also a flourless chocolate cake, which she later halved, slathered some chocolate goo in the middle and frosted. It was, it must be said, not the most attractive thing at this stage: it was a lumpen, misshapen, sad little thing, and it seemed to emit little hoots of gloominess as it crouched there on the plate. We were moved by the poor thing, and as the wife stared at it, she began singing in mournful tones, "Happy birthday to me," and suddenly, I was further moved to gales of laughter. At any rate, the wife soon enough pounced again on the Kitchen Aid and promptly churned up a nice bunch of Frangelico-laced whipped cream, which she then plastered all over the sad cake, and then gave it a final dusting of cocoa powder. After this bit of cosmetic foodery, it now resembled, as a guest later observed, "a giant Deviled egg." Every confectioner shoots for this sort of culinary camoflage: for instance, I like my pies to be shaped like Balkan states, and I prefer lollipops that take the shape of the bones in the human ear. Anyway. The happy news is, the cake ended up being delicious for all that.

Our guests certainly did not disappoint, apart from the fact that nobody showed up for the first 45 minutes--"Nobody likes me!" moaned the wife while I helpfully watched football--but when they showed, they brought the goods. Either we're accidentally hanging out with a higher class of friends or we're getting older, because the food that came with them, rather than being bags of chips or store-bought salad plates or half-eaten bottles of cocktail onions, were good. The first guy to show up--looking a little haunted by the fact that he got stuck with the "first arrival" tag despite his good efforts--brought prosciutto-wrapped figs. Figs? Prosciutto? Later, others brought things like Pecorino skewers with marinated vegetables; mozarella, tomato and basil salad; and wine! People brought wine! Nobody brought bottles of apple liqueur, say, to be hugged to one's body greedily, as if anyone on the planet has any desire to take it from anybody. Nobody hid a six-pack of Schaefer's in the dryer. And most importantly, I didn't see one person taking long pulls from my premium bar liquors. Who the fuck were these people, and what had they done to the rapacious, destitute booze jackals that we remembered so clearly?

There was one food item I did feel a deep, cellular desire to distance myself from, though part of it might have feeling a bit cheated. I was half-hoping that my friend D., who had so heroically showed up at last week's football fest armed with a crock pot filled with Li'l Smokies, would repeat this performance. Alas, it was not so. What he did bring was a shallow dish containing what appeared to be shrimp atop a layer of cocktail sauce--fine so far--but then layered over a substrate of cream cheese. This I gave a wide berth from where it lay malevolently on the counter, and made vague warding gestures at it, complete with subvocal invocations to the Elohim, asking for protection. Sorry, D., but that stuff terrified me. Others, however, seemed to not notice this challenge to the Forces of Goodness, and merrily ate away. I assume they are all now dead.

The rest of the evening went just swimmingly, with the usual things happening: the boys hunched in front of the (muted) TV, eyeing football games, murmuring in wonderment at how enjoyable the games can be without the inanities of the booth crew; the girls chatted amiably about . . . well, how would I know?, and occasionally rapped us on the foreheads when they felt we should be doing anything but watching football; and of course, we all talked smack about people who were not right there in the room to defend themselves or punch us for slagging on them. (This of course is the reason why parties inevitably drag on longer than anyone ever intends: everybody knows that once they leave, the conversation in the room will instantly turn to the urgent topic of why that person is such a boob.)

And of course, during all this, our guests unconsciously and wonderfully revealed their clear roots as stage actors by absolutely demolishing all the food in the place. Spend a decade or so in crushing penury while working on shows with titles like That Which Divides: Septumescent Moon, and pretty soon, you become programmed with this ineluctable imperative: When food is present, fall upon it like a starving bear. It is really something to watch a roomful of actors go at a spread of chow; it makes a plague of locusts look like a calm, methodical group of careful hostage negotiators.

Alas, all good things. As we escorted our friends out the door, drunkenly hurling depleted wine bottles and vicious imprecations at them as they fled, we were filled with warmth and cheer for our friends. For their company, for their good taste and generosity, for their simple friendship. And also, now that everyone had left, we could finally rip on each and every one of them.

Thanks, everybody! We had a great time, and we hope you did too. Maybe next year, we'll all be even older and wiser and fairer, and maybe when you leave next time, we won't have to crow, "Did you see her shirt? It looked like a rugby team fucked it and threw up on it." And maybe when you leave, you won't turn to each other and say, "Jesus, those guys throw the shittiest parties."

Anything could happen.

Wednesday, 30 August
Meet The Neighbors

Sunday afternoon found me relaxing outside on our deck enjoying a cigarette. Our deck is separated by the larger public pool and patio by a couple of heavy cotton blinds that we routinely leave down in the summer to cut down on the amount of summer sun that would otherwise stream through our glass-walled western-facing exposure, and thus sparing us from being roasted like kielbasas during the summer months.

After a bit, I heard some shuffling, and spied a pair of unmistakeable old man legs shambling by; whoever the duffer was, he was obviously going to the pool. Then the gristly legs stopped moving, and he stood there, outside my blinds, quivering a bit, thanks to, you know, the oldness. Uh oh.

"ARE YOU HIDING?" he roared, causing my traumatized intestines to fire a white-hot meteorite of shocked feces through the seat of my pants and downward into the earth's crust. "I CAN SEE YOUR LEGS!" he bellowed, not waiting for me to answer. My wits were scattered all over the surrounding landscape, and I squeaked, senselessly, "Busted!" Is he too old to understand my incredibly hip urban lingo? I wondered. "WHAT?" he screamed. No, just too deaf. We still had not seen each other's face; I thought maybe it would be polite to duck out from under my blinds, but on the other hand, I didn't want to.

At this point, another voice joined the fray, a female voice calling from somewhere above. "Don! Don! Don't lose your keys!" So his name was Don. "WHAT?" he howled. "Don't lose your keys!" Pause. Don's scrawny legs shifted uncertainly. "WHAT?" Sigh. "THE KEYS! THE KEYS IN YOUR HAND!" she screamed. Don's wife didn't want him losing his keys. Where was he going to lose them? In the pool?

"YES, I'VE GOT MY KEYS!" Don replied, and I heard him shaking them. Jesus. "No, she says she doesn't want you to lose your keys," I offered, doing my bit to help the elderly, and also to try and head off any more geriatric throat-singing.

There are two cotton blinds that shade our windows; suddenly, in the space between the two, Don thrust his head inside into my patio. He grinned at me in a friendly way, I think. His gums were . . . well, they were kind of black. "Women!" he rasped. "I been married twenty-three years. Second wife. You married?" My limbic system was reeling with a sudden flood of neurotransmitters. "Yes," I replied, utterly frozen. The man looked like something Rick Baker keeps around to prank people with. Now it seemed he was intent on crawling through my sun blinds. "THAT'S WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO! Second wife. Been in this building from the beginning! We were the first ones here! 1963! Ah, but she's a good one." He squeezed more of his body in between the blinds and reached out for my hand. "Don," he said unnecessarily. "What's your name?"

"I'm Skot," I said, shaking his hand. The old bastard had quite a grip. He also had a stunning amount of body hair; his body looked like he was once a pretty fit guy, but age had of course cruelly transformed it into a complicated landscape of lumps and hollows. And Lord God, all that hair. He looked like a malformed burrito that had been dipped in glue and rolled into a kennel.

Over the next couple minutes, Don gave me a little personal history: he was a WWII vet, and, uh, he was still alive. "God saw fit to give me 83 years. More than a lot of people! Know how many of my friends have died?" Don also had an odd habit of lashing out and siezing my forearm when imparting some important fact. "No," I quavered, still marveling at how strong the guy was. "ALL OF 'EM!" he crowed. "They're all dead." I didn't know what to say, but good old Don didn't care. "HAW HAW HAW HAW!" I got the feeling that while Don had once a lot of friends, he also kind of thought they all punked out by croaking. He still had a hammer-clench on my forearm, and would occasionally re-adjust his grip; I still had a cigarette in my hand, and he kept getting very close to burning his arm on it. I was starting to imagine newspaper headlines: Area Man Tortures War Hero With Cigarette Burns. Or, probably more likely, Outmatched Nebbish Justifiably Beaten To Death By Elderly Raconteur.

In the end, he let my forearm go and began extricating himself from between my blinds. "I'm 83 years old," he told me again, "but I'll still wrestle with the wildcats! You just send 'em my way!" He started shuffling towards the pool again. "I'll wrestle them wildcats in the water!" he called. "Enjoy the pool!" I replied. "I will, god damn it!"

From above, his wife: "DON! LANGUAGE!" Don flapped his arms dismissively.

I peeked at him for a while as he swam in the pool. He favored a slow, methodical breaststroke, and would occasionally stop to do some sort of strange, Karate Kid-like aquatic aerobics. The underwater pool lights lit him up fabulously; I could even see his incredible torso-mane glinting everywhere; he looked like someone who had been colonized by sea anemones.

Don't ever die, Don, I thought happily. And for God's sake, don't lose your keys.

Thursday, 17 August
Wolfman: 'I Killed JonBenet'; Adds, 'Rrrrrrr'

10:11 PM PDT, August 17, 2006

BOULDER, Colo.--In a startling development in the infamous 10-year-old case of the murder of JonBenet Ramsey, a new suspect emerged today from an unexpected corner.

A hairy, raging Wolfman, appearing at a news conference at a Bangkok, Thailand, detention facility, told reporters he was with the 6-year-old girl when she died. "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" howled the creature, slashing at gathered reporters with vicious claws, foam dripping from his fangs. "Awrooooooooooooo!"

When asked if he was innocent, Wolfman replied: "GNAAAAARR!"

But Boulder District Attorney Lou Costello declined to comment on what evidence her investigators have implicating Wolfman. "Do not jump to conclusions, do not rush to judgment, do not speculate," he said. He also indicated that "public safety" concerns and fear that he might initiate a frightening killing spree borne of bloodlust or possibly undergo a mysterious supernatural transformation into human form had prompted him to have Wolfman arrested before his investigation was complete.

Assistant District Attorney Bud Abbott concurred with Costello's assessment, then appeared to disagree, and so on, eventually leading to a rapidly escalating volley of amusing wordplay that ultimately culminated in the two attorneys accidentally shooting each other in the chest simultaneously. The gathered press roared in helpless laughter as the two bled to death on the press platform, and then tearfully and weakly concurred that the entire display was hilariously emblematic of the bumbling nature that has characterized the investigation of the adorable white girl' murder from the beginning.

Many investigators and lawyers who have been following the case for a decade said that while they were hopeful the authorities had the right person, they were skeptical of Wolfman's confession.

"For one thing, 'Gnarrrrr' isn't really anything but an animalistic growl," remarked legal analyst Victor Van Helsing. "It certainly won't hold up in court." He added, "I should say as well that I have known Wolfman since he was a teenager. He raised himself up from a troubled, leather-jacketed youth to a kind man who found the strength from God to take the highway to Heaven straight to a little house right out there on the prairie."

"This confession seemed delusional," said another attorney, Vlad "Spike" Tepes, adding, "DEL-OOOOO-SIONAL!" while theatrically popping his eyes and waggling his fingers at this reporter. Tepes said that under Colorado law, prosecutors cannot obtain a valid conviction without evidence that corroborates a confession.

In a hastily convened press conference, the zombie Patsy Ramsey, who died in June of 2006 after a battle with ovarian cancer, would only say, "BRAAAAAAIIIIINS! BRAAAAAIIIINS!" before being hustled away by flacks from the Today Show, who reportedly have scheduled an upcoming three-day interview with the still-grieving undead corpse. Spokespeople from the Today Show are also supposedly in discussion with George Romero to appear.

In the meantime, confusion abounds in this controversial case, which continues to hold a nation in thrall. Newly revitalized Hammer Studios has announced a film based on the story, due to begin shooting in November, reportedly helmed by director Rob Zombie. Footage of Kirsten Dunst's character from 1994's Interview With the Vampire will be digitally altered for use in the film to portray JonBenet after early screen tests determined that Dakota Fanning was "way too ugly," according to industry reports. "Plate-eyed and screechy," was the assessment of another industry insider, who requested anonymity.

With the aid of noted parapsychologist and medium Tangina Barron, this reporter was able to contact the departed shade of JonBenet Ramsey, who when asked about her feelings about the investigation, would only comment, "Do you think I'm pretty? Tell me I'm pretty."

Additional reporting for this story was provided by Christopher Lee.

Monday, 17 July
Alley Rats

On Friday my friend D. celebrated his thirtieth birthday, an important milestone for any young man who is interested in denary numeral systems. D. obviously wanted to celebrate in style, and so he chose for his venue a theater close to my heart, a grimy fringe palace noted for, among other thing, its lively rat population.

The wife and I could not resist such a gala event. We showed up and were greeted at the door by A. and R., who filled us in on the latest news: "We found two rats!" Awesome. "One was fresh and the other one . . . " R. trailed off here, and his face took on a greyish cast. "We found two rats," he concluded lamely. A. pensively chewed on his beard hair. I wasn't sure where to go with this conversational gambit, so I punted. "I guess we'll go inside," I said, hurrying along, leaving the duo to their mutual rat reverie.

And you know? Good move, Skot. When presented with verbal evidence of dead-ratness? FORGE AHEAD! This is how to live a life of richness and luxury. We proceeded into the Dead Rat Cathedral.

And greeted many friends! Well, the wife did. Me? Not so much. See, the thing is, I cannot remember people's names to save my life. I'd like to pretend that it's some sort of mnemonic tic of mine, or that I have a kind of Proper Noun Alexia or something, but if I'm honest with myself, it's probably just this: I'm kind of a highly distractable and neurotic prick who doesn't make any kind of effort when it comes to introductions. So if I get introduced to, say, someone named James, I don't make any mental notes to record that fact. Instead, I do things like think about James' ridiculously garish rings, or his bad cargo pants, or the fact that I'm suddenly thinking about how my feet are sweaty. "Hi, I'm James!" he says. These fucking shoes, I'm thinking. And then James has moved on, and I'm still all, I'm going to cut my feet off with a hatchet. And then, weeks later, there's James greeting me like an old friend, and I'm thinking Oh fuck. Feet guy. Which is helpful. Feet guy. And I can't very well say, "What's up, Feet Guy?" So instead I brilliantly revert to the default: "Hey! What's going on, man?" My entire hopeless social life would grind to a scorching halt without that placeholder "man."

Later, I rasp to the wife, "Who's that guy? I know I know him, but I forget his name." The wife is kind to me, but still betrays some measure of exasperation. "It's James. He saved your life that one time in Myanmar. You always call him 'Feet Guy'."

"Oh, God, right," I mutter, and then forget James' name seconds later. Because, you know, remembering the names of your friends is hard. Especially names as exotic as "James."

So I wandered among the nameless wraiths for some time, making jaw-clicking small talk with these friendly mysteries when the Big Event came nigh.

See, D., for reasons best known to himself and his luckless girlfriend had decided to ring in his thirtieth with . . . a food fight. They had even laid tarps down in the alley, for the purposes of, I suppose, not filthifying the theater itself. Because you don't want to get a nice rat-infested theater all messy.

A food fight. This sounded awful beyond all comprehension, but there were many willing participants. My friend Lisa had come equipped with some strange sort of Silkwoodian bodysuit, complete with smoked square eye-apertures; she was particularly adorable when she favored us with an impromptu pre-fight little hornpipe. It looked like Smee if he were receiving rhythmic electric shocks. Another friend, C., eschewed any protective gear at all, and opted to participate in his underwear. I would dearly love to claim that this was especially horrifying, but the fact remains that I once was (at another time, in another theater) an event at which C. had his balls waxed.


Oh, I didn't mention one other salient fact: for some reason best known only to D., for the duration of the food fight, our friend K. was also to sing Michael McDonald's "What A Fool Believes" over the sound system. K. employs a disturbingly awful McDonald imitation, complete with his throaty, half-gulped vocal style that resembles yards of innocent bullfrogs being crushed under tractor wheels. This was the soundtrack for the food fight.

I can only recall certain moments, such as someone being hit with an explosion of what appeared to be croutons. I know that dill pickles were involved, and I also remember an arterial spray of ketchup hitting a nearby wall.


There was L., running around like the avatar of white piracy, hurling--were they hot dogs?--something at someone. C. seemed to be patrolling the perimeter, looking for discarded food to recycle, his underwear glinting in the moonlight. An entire bottle of ranch dressing seemed to Krakatoa at the epicenter of the fight.

K., meanwhile, had given up even trying to bother with the McDonald lyrics, which he had clearly forgotten, or mistranscribed, and had adopted an unforgivable kind of adenoidal scatting technique to accopany the gustatory mayhem transpiring in the alley.


By the end, with K.'s howling drifting back down into a subharmonic range, the place looked like some unspeakable culinary Holocaust. L.'s pristine white suit-thing seemed to be caked with distilled nausea, and D., the celebant, wearing an ill-fitting wool suit, appeared to have been violently raped by a Cobb salad. The alley was a desolate horror of sights and smells, and I have no doubt that local rats were sitting on the sidelines twitching with vast anticipation.

We learned later that at least two people had vomited in the midst of the battle. D. had apparently received a stripe of ketchup across his lip, which was, along with the admixture of other evocative scents, enough to make him let it go. I suspect the jar of tartar sauce. Where did he puke? "Right in the middle of the tarps," I heard second-hand.

I'd love to tell you all these people's names. But to be honest? I can't remember a single one of them.

Thursday, 15 June

If I remember right, it started when the girls showed up at school armed with water pistols filled with cheap perfume.

What it became was a terrible prank war. In high school, naturally guys and gals worked out sexual tension with all sorts of strategies, and ours was no different. (Well, it's different than today, where guys and gals and guys and guys and gals and gals use a different strategy to work through sexual tension: evidently, they have sex. BUT NOT SO IN IDAHO BACK IN 1986! NO WAY! Except for the pregnant chicks. I'm reasonably sure they had sex.)

Anyway, there were three of us guys who found ourselves pitted, for some reason, against three girls who apparently had nothing better to do than to engage us in weak flirty banter in class and so on, and for some reason, one day they escalated affairs by showing up with the aforementioned water pistols filled with "Ralph Lauren's Swamp Rot" or "Ready For The World Presents Eau Sheila" or some such hideous cheap perfume, which they doused us with, causing us to wander the school emitting an unholy funk. This obviously could not go unchallenged. And so we found ourselves embroiled in a prank war.

We retaliated pretty lamely at first. One quirk of our ramshackle high school was the utter permeability of nearly any school locker door. (All it took was a pen cap.) Which is how I rather easily rigged a giant paper-bag black pepper bomb to go off in A.'s locker once she opened the door. It is one of the few things I've ever set my hand to that actually worked, and it had admirably long reach: for months after the thing dumped roughly a quart of ground black pepper into her locker, she would go to class, open her textbook, and then have to blow the pepper out of it, which inevitably caused several nearby schoolmates into fits of ENT-related misery.

A couple days later, I opened my own locker and discovered the counter-response: a startling cascade of dozens and dozens of tampons fell out and whispered around my feet. My biology teacher happened to be in the hall. "Skot!" he bellowed. "What's wrong with you!?" What an asshole. Yes, I'm a crazed collector of generic tampons! I had no good answer for him and stared wordlessly at the snowdrift of tampons around my ankles as passing schoolmates sniggered at me. That had to cost a bunch, I thought at the time, but as I learned later, the girls had sensibly destroyed the tampon dispensers in the girls' bathroom and simply appropriated the cotton loot.

Things escalated from there. E., who worked part-time helping out the school janitor, laid his hands on some spare urinal cakes, beat them into crumbs with a hammer, and then, once again helping himself into the girls' lockers, filled their jacket pockets with the noxious stuff. They smelled like . . . I have no analogy. Does anything else smell like that? They smelled like urinal cakes. A., at least, didn't notice much, as her sinus passages were still under black pepper assault every time she opened a textbook, but the others look pretty miserable.

Their response to that was, I'm sad to say, pretty lame: they TP'ed our cars. I couldn't help but notice that the toilet paper that wrapped my '75 Chevy Monza actually improved its appearance, as it served to mask the scabrous softtop that was slowly rotting away (occasionally, it would be peeled off in fibrous sheets by vengeful drunks who hated me). We took this lame assault as evidence that we were winning. Toilet papering our horrible cars? Please.

T. was the guy on our team who, realizing that the fight was going out of the girls, sort of went nuts. First, he took a tub of Vaseline and liberally applied the stuff to the girls' windshield wipers. This was fine as long as it didn't rain, which lasted about two days. Then, when it did, the girls turned on the wipers and . . . SMEAR, SMEAR, SMEAR. It was like their cars instantly grew cataracts, and of course the stuff doesn't come off too easily. Hilarious! It's surprising now that one of those startled girls didn't promptly drive into an oncoming truck.

The girls' efforts continued to flag, probably because they were basically sensible girs, and not irritating, weird little awful boys who didn't know when to quit and who lacked all sense of proportion. T. was also responsible for the next salvo, the provocation for which, if it even existed, I don't remember at all. Besides, it wasn't even a prank: it was just raw torment and sabotage. He simply took a few moments at lunch one horribly rainy day to remove the distributor caps to all the girls' cars. We watched in muted glee from a hiding place as we watched our victims hopelessly crank their starters. But it was, really, pretty boring. We knew we were near the end, and it wasn't even a prank: it wasn't clever, it wasn't diabolical, it wasn't anything. T. just broke their cars. Whoopee!

I guess it won't be any sort of surprise that we never had sex with these girls, much less even make out with any of them. The whole thing just kind of died away. Which isn't that surprising. I don't know a lot of women who like to start the "How we met" story with something like, "I'll never forget the day he stole my distributor cap." And then the guy says, "When I close my eyes, I can still smell the urinal cakes."

Monday, 12 June
Well Met

On Friday evening, around 7:00, I was standing in the alley behind the theater smoking my three hundredth cigarette of the day. I cop to getting butterflies on most opening nights, but the compressed rehearsal schedule for this show--sixteen total, including tech rehearsals--had made for a grueling few weeks, and I was manically going over my lines in my head while I steamed like a nuclear cooling tower.

(Look, we're going to be done with this theater stuff soon, okay? It was opening weekend. I literally had nothing else on my mind or going on. It was all theater, smoking and then, thank God, drinking.)

In addition to smoking like a condemned man when mentally reviewing my lines, I also tend to pace restlessly. So if I could shoehorn in just one more irritating thing, I'd have a trifecta of obnoxious behavior going on. But anyway, there I was, pacing and smoking, occasionally muttering, and just in general managing to freak myself out, when I heard:

"Hey, man, can I buy one of those off of you?"

I looked over at a thin black man around my age. He was, from what I could tell, brushing off the brick wall of the neighboring building for some reason. Just sort of flicking at the wall with the edge of his palm, as if dusting.

"I'll pay you, man. I'm not an asshole." He grinned at me disarmingly and continued brushing away.

"I don't think you're an asshole," I replied. "It's just, my smokes are inside. This one is all I've got on me."

"Hey, I'll pay you, man." He paused. "Oh, but you don't got 'em on you. That's cool. I wouldn't ask you to go inside. Maybe I can get a shorty." This last given out offhandedly. He studied the ever-brightening-by-centimeters brick wall. I noticed he held a single unlit cigarette loosely in his free hand.

An aside here for my nonsmoking readers. Any smoker, and I mean any smoker who has ever lived, has encountered the People Who Bum. They come in all stripes: the "social smokers" who only smoke at parties, or so they say. I like to think of them as "people too cheap to buy their own fucking cigarettes." These people are like fleas, and should be gassed to death, much like . . . well, us smokers. And then there's the rest: the people who genuinely have somehow, stricken, found themselves suddenly without cigarettes, possibly because some parasitic "social smoker" has depleted their supply, or just possibly because they're broke. Most smokers will give comfort to these people, often citing some lame sort of karma. Me, I just figure that if I refuse some desperate soul his smoke, he might just eat my neck and take them off my twitching carcass anyway.

Oh, and "shorty"? That's a sad euphemism for a nearly, but not quite, depleted cigarette. This is the saddest sort of smoker's plea. It is asking, "Can I have the last few puffs of that right down to the filter?"

I grunted, a little discomfited. After all, can't a guy in a tuxedo (my costume for the show) smoke peacefully in a fetid, stinking alley without being hassled for the last few finger-burning puffs on his cigarette? Can't I stand unmolested amongst the stinking dumpsters and lonely pallets? It seemed I could not. The fellow had stopped brushing at the wall and began examining a discarded, dilapidated chair with a clinical eye.

"I started buying these menthols," he said suddenly in a conciliatory tone.

I abandoned my efforts at going over my lines. "So people would stop asking to bum them?" I asked. "I smoke menthols" is a common gambit of smokers who are sick of doling out free cigarettes, since menthols are hideous.

"They're a dollar cheaper than my Carltons!" he crowed. He brandished his lone cigarette in the air. I had no idea what to say. I looked down at the depleted cigarette in my hand. It probably had four good puffs left on it before it became a malodorous smoldering filter.

"You want this?" I asked, holding it out to him.

"Yeah, man. Thanks." He smoked it hungrily. "I ain't no asshole."

"I don't think you're an asshole, man. Cut it out." He crouched pensively in the alley, and didn't seem to hear me.

"I'm just cleaning up the alley for some people," he said. He stood up and rattled a nearby recycling bin with some authority. He seemed to be adjusting it so as to fit into some higher design that only he could see. "I think this looks all right." He finished the last of my cigarette and pitched it away.

"I've gotta go back in," I said. I was becoming more and more aware of the upcoming curtain, and my fears resurfaced anew about my lines. My stomach jumped at the thought.

"Awright," he said. "Listen, you got a cigarette? I'll pay you. I can pay you. I'm not an asshole." He was brushing the brick wall again, not looking at me. "I'm not an asshole," he repeated yet again. "I'm a pimp!" Brushing, brushing, not looking at me.

"Hang on a second," I said. "I'll go get you a cigarette." I did. When I came back out, he was surveying the alley, with all its dumpsters and recycling bins and discarded crates and detritus. He thanked me for the cigarette, and offered again to pay me, which I declined.

He looked at his handiwork of minutely shifted garbage containers and picked-over junk. "I think that's gonna do it for today. That's all right," he said doubtfully. And he walked down the alley until he was gone.

I can't believe that this guy cost me like fifteen minutes of going over my lines, I thought. I turned my tuxedoed self away from the alley and walked inside to the hot lights and the cold drinks and I didn't miss one step that night onstage, as far as I could tell. I wasn't an asshole.

Thursday, 01 June
Thinking Big

This evening while taking a smoke break outside of our rehearsal venue--a church basement, and it is positively magnificent compared to some places I've rehearsed--I took note of their cliched church signboard. YOU WILL BE MY WITNESS, it said, in big appropriately Godlike caps. But out of the corner of my eye, I thought for a moment it actually said, YOU WILL BE MY ILLNESS.

Boy, no kidding.

Being a pretty irreligious person, and also not very smart, I don't really know what the "witness" stuff is all about, frankly. Maybe Christians just like to subpoena each other a lot. But I enjoyed the idea of God pointing his big old perfect finger at Adam and moaning this to him prophetically. "I HAVE CREATED YOU . . . AND BOY, ARE YOU GOING TO SUCK. YOU WILL BE MY ILLNESS." And then Adam and the rest of us went out and proved God right.

"I AM SUCH A TOOL." God gripes every now and then to nobody, or maybe just to the Pope and the odd schizophrenic here and there. "THIS IS MY OWN IMAGE? MY IMAGE BLOWS."

And even though I'm pretty much a heathen, I decided to have a few words with the Big Guy and find out how He felt about this all. I mean, He did send me the weird ILLNESS message, so I figured He wanted to blow off some divine steam.

Skot: Hey, God. Thanks for sitting down with me.


Skot: You can't go wrong with Schweppe's.


Skot: Really?


Skot: Ouch.


Skot: I'm sorry?


(God does an improvisational hat dance while a celestial host of rather mournful Sadducee mariachi musicians play.)

Skot: Nice moves!


Skot: So, listen. About that "illness" thing.


Skot: Oh?


Skot: But isn't Ben Stiller also one of your flock, just like everybody, and worthy of redemption?


Skot: Ugh. Yeah.


Skot: Yeah.


Skot: Yeah.


Skot: Bricklaying? Vice President?


Skot: So, to get this all down . . . you're not very happy with us in general . . . but what really twists you is Ben Stiller?


Skot: Hey! Hey! Listen. Would a nice hat dance make you feel better? Come on, You're getting worked up again.

God: YOU'RE RIGHT. I'M SORRY. (God sighs and sips again at his Schweppe's.)


(End interview.)

Monday, 29 May
Bad Acts

You never really get over seeing a six-foot-tall naked albino smiling and waving at you.

Surveying over my years of acting work in the theater scene, I can honestly report that the huge majority of the time, I was surrounded by professionals; actors who were dedicated to their craft, and who approached every performance with concentration, focus and respect. Occasionally, I was even one of those people.

And then there were the times when . . . we were not. The times when even the most talented, dedicated people found themselves not in the moment, as we like to say, because, well . . . we wanted to fuck around instead. Is this professional? Not hardly. Do some actors consider this to be complete heresy? Oh, man, yes, often some of whom find themselves playing around anyway. Is it unfair to the audience? Incontestably! But it happens anyway, for a lot of reasons.

One might be that the show in question is horrifically bad (and yes, for the most parts, actors are perfectly aware of when their shows are unwatchable nightmares). Or it might be because the show is good, but one's sanity still requires diversion because of the show's inherently debased or mind-whipping nature. Or it may just be that the actors have gotten loose from the reins and have begun running amok for no good reason.

One show I did, which became quite popular, necessitated several run extensions, and in so becoming, also some cast replacements as people had to drop out. For reasons lost to me now, by the time new cast members were being introduced, the green room had become littered with horrible pornography (I think it was left over from some other show--anyway, it was high comedy for me to see a wonderful, soft-spoken fortyish actress casually thumbing through a copy of Big Black Asses, and exclaiming, "Oh my! Oh!"). At one point in the show, our new leading actress was required to set up a screen onstage, eventually from which she would emerge. Prior to her debut evening, one of us decided to give her a jolt by taping onto the inside of the screen (where it would be the first thing she saw when she unfolded it) a truly hideous fake ad from a Hustler magazine, where a closeup of a woman's labia was Photoshopped into the shape of a vodka bottle, with the caption, "Absolute Pussy." We watched gleefully from backstage as she got into place for the scene, and unfolded the screen. She didn't bat an eye.

Later, we shrieked at her, "Didn't you see that nasty pussy bottle?" (There's a sentence the world surely needed.)

"Oh, yeah." She replied. "I just thought it was always there."

On closing night of that show, we also tortured another actor, who had to use a prop with a cheap digital playback device on it. His character was a salesman, and the prop in question was a "talking camera," which would inanely chant "Say Cheese!" so that the photographer wouldn't have to. That fateful night, however, our stage manager rerecorded over the "Say Cheese!" message to simulate the sped-up squiggle of a recording gone horribly wrong (thus ruining his sales pitch). We all watched as he played the awful thing, with the happy result that the audience went crazy, and the two actors stuck onstage trying desperately not to break, and finally with him throwing the camera offstage, saying, "I don't know why you'd want this. It's a piece of shit."

Perhaps our lowest moment was slightly--maybe!--defensible. Years ago, I was in a production of the legendary pervert Jean Genet's The Balcony. For those of you unfamiliar with Genet, he was a genuinely debased individual who enjoyed things like having a bouquet of orchids stuck up his ass while diseased ermine gnawed on his nuts. The Balcony concerns a country embroiled in civil war, where, for reasons not worth going into here, the fantasies of some brothel johns start to overtake reality, and soon the brothel denizens have become genuine figureheads of power. For example, my character was a "general" who enjoyed having sex with his whore of choice, with her acting as the role of his warhorse. Now bear in mind that this sort of thing is really just Genet with his engine idling.

Genet is also incredibly wordy, and takes some severely torturous locutionary paths in his dialogue, which makes it challenging to say the least to work with an actor who is either unwilling to or incapable of memorizing his lines in any linear way. This led to the rest of the cast being moored onstage with someone who thought nothing of simply vamping for sections at a time, hamburgering his lines mercilessly, and we would wait impatiently to hear something, anything resembling a cue line so we could (by now) insensibly chime in with our lines. Or imagine a scene, smack in the middle of the script (which we cut like hell anyway), which droned on for what felt like a geological age, in which the madame and another whore discoursed about the nature of illusion versus reality and mirrors and reflections and this and that, and everyone else not in that scene, thank God, went and chain-smoked in the alley.

Well, something had to be done. And so we played Assassin.

Let me say again: this sort of thing is really indefensible and wrong. It goes against every single thing an actor should stand for. It was also, sadly, crucial for our collective sanity. I blame Genet, since it's a lot more convenient than blaming myself.

Assassin is simplicity itself. You're trying to "kill" your fellow actors in the most inconvenient way possible for the intended victim. How it works is, you're onstage, and you catch your victim's eye, and then, in character, indicate--our preferred method was with a "blowdart" gesture--that you are killing them. Then, the poor bastard you just nailed, possibly right in the middle of your speech about the illusory nature or real power, has to also in character acknowledge that they have been "killed." Possibly with a little shudder, or with a well-placed hand to the heart, or maybe with a toss of your head and an upstage wince. You'd think it would be hard to find a good spot to fake a blowdart, or that audiences would buzz about some sudden horrible shudder that went through an actor for no good reason, but as near as I could tell, nobody ever noticed a fucking thing. The thing is, with timing and discretion, It's really pretty easy to play without anyone being the wiser. The opposite thing is, as should be obvious, it's antithetical to anything even remotely close to acting. After all, it's hard to give full weight to an emotional monologue when your mind is whirling with killing strategies, or when suddenly, none of the other actors are looking you in the eye for fear of seeing your masterfully crafted blowgun gesture disguised as a quick wipe of the lips.

One night, I was on a roll. I had "killed" the Chancellor, a photographer and . . . someone else I forget, and was starting to gear up for slaughtering the Bishop, if the fucker would just look over at me. He was going down. Then a stage door opened for the entrance of the madame, and I looked over to acknowledge the entrance. She came in.

And there, behind her in the doorway, invisible to the audience, stood C., our six-foot-tall naked albino (he played, in the whorehouse, the Slave, who was forever naked and covered with filth). His chalk-white hair shone like an unkempt halo, and his watery blue eyes shone as he grinned at me. His skinny ribs strained against his skin, and he had made sure to smear some brown makeup right on to his depressing penis.

His smile broadened as he brought his hand up to his lips and shot me dead. My character was a ticcy, neurotic, helpless thing, so it was child's play to manufacture a shudder for him, and a hand to my chest as acknowledgement of the kill. I was "dead," so I was done killing for the night. He gave me a triumphant, jaunty wave.

We got a particularly enthusiastic round of applause that night, our finest hour.

Monday, 20 March
How Can I Put Off Helping You Today?

This is a David Versus Goliath story.

Exceot Goliath is a large telecommunications company, and David is a skinny dipshit with a broken phone. Oh, and also it's not very interesting, but at least it's short. Well, okay, it's not very short. Anyway, enjoy!

Goliath, here, is a well-known cellular provider. Now, I don't want to name names or anything, so let's just call them . . . Meat-Obile. No . . . no, that's stupid. How about T-Blomie? Yeah! That'll work.

Some backstory: I had spent a good year pretty happy with T-Blomie. Unfortunately, that year was also spent with a truly ghastly, not-worky phone from yet another large corporation that I shall call . . . oh . . . Toomalor. Toomalor--which I'm pretty sure is one of the planets that gets wiped out by the Oans in Infinite Crisis, or so I hope--provided me with everything I could want in a cell phone: 1. It was a flip-phone, and therefore cool; and 2. It was blue. Unfortunately, Toomalor also provided me with everything I did not want in a phone, namely: it did not work very well. Or, to be more specific, at all. I sent this phone back to Toomalor for its quantum mechanics to take a look at it. They sent it back to me, fully repaired, with the helpful note, "Reflash corrupted. Replaced. Memory upgrade. Do not dip in peanut butter. X'hal s'in'dor lentel'ar!" Then a week later, the phone died again. Clearly, I could not rely on Toomalor's shoddy products, and I wasn't crazy to hear that Red Tornado had stripped off their home planet's crust, either.

Plus, it was time for the wife and I to upgrade a bit. We had, for a year or so, been sharing the Toomalor phone between us, and we decided it was time for us to each get our own cell phone. This decision was mostly because, well, if one totally silent cell phone was good, then two utterly silent, not-ringing cell phones would be GREAT! Plus, we could also now have the opportunity to not call each other, which nicely complements our habit of not talking to each other in person. We looked forward to not calling each other frequently, and on the special occasions when we did call each other, we dreamed of being able to exchange stony silences. On very special occasions, we could also not call friends and relatives and not talk to them, on separate lines. It was time.

So I called up T-Blomie. I got a helpful customer service representative after only hitting nine separate buttons. "Hi," I said. "I have an existing line with you guys. I'd like to upgrade my phone and to add a line and get my wife her own phone." The rep didn't miss a beat. "You can do that on our website!" she chirped. Swell! That's much more convenient than, I don't know, having you, the customer service rep, take care of this right now, on the phone! Did they not want my money?

They clearly did not, since I already knew that what I wanted to do was in no way possible to accomplish on their website at all. Sure, I could upgrade my phone. But add another line and order a new phone and set it up in my wife's name? Forget it. I explained this to the nice lady. "Are you sure you tried the website?" she asked, in tones similar to someone asking if I also needed help wiping. "There's some nice photos of Catherine Zeta-Jones you can jack it to while you shop. You sound like you're majorly fertile." Which is true, of course, but I was onto this minx. "I can't do what I'm trying to do online," I said flatly. "Can you guys help me or not?" "Of course!" she cried. "Hold on a sec," I heard as she clacked at keys, or perhaps she was just idly rattling Chiclets in her hands, Queegily. Then she hung up on me.

I called back, and once again got the irritating voice-bot asking me why I was bothering these good people whom I only wanted to give my money to. "Tell me what I can help you with!" she-it gamely said. Fuck the bot. "I can't seem to lay down a bunt," I replied. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that!" she-it said. The whole "let's pretend I'm really being helped" conceit grated on me further. "Streaming Christy Canyon videos," I said evenly. "Okay! I'll connect you right away." Hmmm.

I got another drone, male this time, and explained again what I wanted. He seemed to actually understand. First, he upgraded my phone, noting with some enthusiasm, "Yeah . . . that's the one I got." I resisted the urge to ask him how the Christy Canyon videos were on such a small screen. Then I explained about wanted to add service to my account and get the wife her own phone. "Oh . . . " he said in a small voice. "I'll have to connect you with billing for that. They're in Chicken, Alaska, so it might be ninety minutes or so to connect. Hang on!"

Look, I could go on for pages with this. Leave it to say that after a few more phone calls, I finally got a rep who understood what I wanted. She even managed to get me steered onto a "family" plan and a free phone for the wife to boot, although it would require a separate phone call later to merge the accounts. I thanked her profusely, and waited anxiously for the new toys.

In short order, they arrived. I was pretty happy with my new phone--it was still a cool-ass flip phone, and happily, it actually worked, which was novel--and the wife was happy with her new phone, which has awesomely terrible ringtone options as well as incredibly annoying colored flashing lights on the sides, which I like to think of as magical in origin, as in like, Warding of Epileptics, or something. Later, I was even more pleased to note that this free phone had only cost me $130.52, which T-Blomie had charged to my debit card.

WHAT THE FUCK? I called up T-Blomie again, and once again found myself chatting with Our Disembodied Lady of the Algorithm, who wanted me to tell her, lover, what can I do for you today? "I hate backgammon," I said in a clear cadence. "Okay, I'm connecting you now." Soon I was talking to an alleged human, this gal probably situated in, say, Glump, Missouri. "You charged my card a hundred and thirty bucks for a free phone!" I yelled. She clattered at her keyboard, or Chiclets. I swear to God, in less than five seconds, she said to me, "Oh boy. I see your order. You're right; this was a mistake." I clawed at my ears to clear what must have been a blockage. "What?" I croaked. This was the last thing I expected: agreement and capitulation. "I'm so sorry. I'm sending this to our credit department now. It should be off your account in 72 hours." I was dazed, and couldn't think of anything to say. She then offered, "And if you suffer any bank charges because of this, please let us know. We'll take care of those too."

I hung up utterly floored. Did that really happen? I sat back in my chair and chewed pensively on my feet. I wasn't sure about the world I seemed to occupy, and it felt like invisible things were occupying the space around me.

96 hours later, no such credit had been applied to my account. The wife was still merrily incapacitating mental patients with her new zowie-wowie Pink Floydophone, and I was still out a hundred and thirty bucks and change. Wearily, I steeled myself for another round with T-Blomie and dialed up again. "I'm interested in learning about Star-Bellied Sneetches," I told the autoseductress before she could get much of a bot-word out. "Okay, I'll connect you now!"

I explained my deal to the guy (this time), and secretly pined away for the incredibly helpful (and yet I guess not, since no credit had manifested) gal. After much Chicleting, he coldly informed me that the phone I had ordered for the wife was "not supposed to be free on that date." Uh. I started to decompensate a bit. "Look. The free phone was the whole point of ordering that new service. I was going to get her a phone just like mine, but it would have cost another hundred dollars. That's why I ordered this phone." There was a wintry pause, and then he said, incredibly, "The thing is, they don't even make that phone any more. I mean, it's discontinued. You can still get it on the site, but it's out of date."

RIght here is where I entered a fugue state. Okay, first of all, HEY, NEWS TO ME! Not that I particularly give a fuck, since as long as it works, I'm happy, but STILL. Second of all, WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING? I was told it was free. And third of all . . . so the implication is that it's a crappy, unsupported phone now. So why would that equate to "Naturally, you'll want to pay a premium for this terrible phone that was so unpopular that it got discontinued"?

I immediately began babbling confused, terrible things, such as "Why I!" and "But you!" and "Wooden leg!" and such confused gabbling until I happily hit on an effective phrase, which is forever burned on my brain: "I have no intention of paying . . . " and then I was smoothly cut off. "Whoa, whoa!" Followed by assurances of my impending credit, FER SURE. But I wasn't done. Emboldened, I tried another in-my-mind lethal grammatical construction: "Charge reversal." "Sir!" (Confession: I pretended at this stage that he was saying "Sire!") "There's no need for any of that. I'm going to get this off to our credit department right now. These things get handled within . . . " Here was a fateful pause. ". . . ten to fourteen days."

His electro-balls were in my inter-hands. I squeezed. "It better be," I hissed. Then I strategically relented, to give hims some room for dignity. "I realize that you're just doing your job," I said, modulating my tone. "I just need this resolved." He agreed enthusiastically.

And after only three follow-up phone calls, ("I'm interested in how ties are made." "Okay; I'll connect you now!") I have received my credit.

The system works.

Thursday, 13 October
Where The Fuck Was Rebecca DeMornay?

As we all know--at least those of us who were weaned on movies like Risky Business--a modern rite of passage is The Party When Your Parents Go Out Of Town. Why, incidentally, did our parents ever go more than four blocks away from us when we were old enough to start wondering about beer? This phenomenon, on first blush, might lead some to believe that there has been evidence for the conservative assertion that our great country is going into a shithole: we were clearly raised by fatuous, indulgent morons. Unfortunately, since this has been a righty trope for like sixty years now, I cannot see how much traction it has.

Anyway. Like a lot of people, I had parents who were careless enough to leave me in charge of the home for one fateful weekend when I was a teen. "NO PARTIES!" they direly screamed. No problem. I would only have one.

I really doubt that they ever thought I wouldn't have a party, really; my parents aren't complete doorstops. I think it's just that they thought that admonishing me not to somehow filled their parental requirements, as they saw it. They might as well as tipped me a theatrical wink. What they really were saying, as far as I was concerned, was, "Have a party! Please! And if you leave any evidence of it, we have the right to shove pointy sticks into your eyes until you're eighteen."

Things could have ended up so much worse, really, but it didn't seem so at the time.

It all started out fine. People gathered, and gifts were given--get this: the weekend in question was my birthday weekend. Can you figure? I still wonder if John Hughes paid off my folks to make this happen so he could film it all for an as-yet unreleased documentary. Just fun-loving kids enjoying a sprightly time!

Then, of course, everyone simultaneously got drunk.

The first thing I remember getting out of hand was when I heard my mother's old, creaky upright piano getting played. The ancient thing was forever out of tune, and sounded remotely like that guy who smashed Muppets on their heads with a fish to make them howl. Someone was playing it exactly like a deranged fish-wielding person, and I rushed into the den to make them stop, right in time to hear the damper board come unmoored. CRASH! it crashed softly. I pulled the drunken woman off the piano stool and shoved her off into the care of some nearby date-rapist, probably.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the old debate about eggs raged. You know this one, right? How, leaving aside years of anecdotal evidence, it is TOTALLY IMPOSSIBLE to break an egg when cradled on its side in one's palms? There, standing over my kitchen sink with an egg in his hands, stood one of my guests. He squeezed mightily, while others chanted, "GO! GO! GO!" I stared at him as he completely demolished the egg, and yolk exploded over everything. I contemplated my befouled kitchen ceiling as Mr. Egg Dominion celebrated his yolky victory by dismissing the rest of the carton as "pussies" and tossing them idly onto the floor.

Hey, time for everyone to get the fuck out of here!

That was when T. flipped out on, I think, her boyfriend. T. had had an awful lot to drink, and was just now responding to some perceived slight. T. was on her last nerve, buddy! Aaaargh! Fuck you, boyfriend! Oh, how T. railed. Then T., at an apex of fury, made her exit. "Fuck you!" she screamed at egg yolk, or something. "I'm leaving!"

And she flung open the door to our hallway closet and stamped right in.

I need to clarify a couple things here. For one, we hadn't been in this particular house for that long. So our possessions weren't as squared away as they necessarily would have been in some place where we'd lived for a while. For another--and really, I don't want to hear about it, okay?--my father is a gun collector. He loves guns, is completely respectful of guns, and instilled in me a total respect for the things. Know this: I would sooner shoot myself into the sun than fuck with my father's guns, or treat one as anything other than what it is: a machine that demands total respect.

T. opened up our hall closet and marched directly inside, and immediately knocked over all of my father's rifles that he had stored insided. They fell around her onto the hardwood floor. I distinctly remember time dilating. I knew that they were all loaded (though not chambered). T. thrashed around as if she were being beset by incubi. "FUCK YOU!" she screamed.

It was totally one of those things where it could have easily led to headlines like, "BIMBO BLOWS BRAINS OUT: Local Teen's Drunken Sex Party Ends In Tragedy." But as it happened, I flipped, and hustled everyone out. I actually believe--I am not proud of this--that I literally gave T. a little kick in the ass as she left. She had scared the piss out of me. Plus, our piano now sounded like a wounded elk, and the kitchen looked like a scare pamphlet from Operation: Rescue Omelette.

I spent the next day frantically cleaning, and doing idiot piano repairs, and most importantly, meticulously reconstructing the impromptu gun closet. I lived in fear for twenty-four hours that I was overlooking some crucial clue, some damning bit of evidence.

I like to kid myself even today that I fooled my parents. It is to their credit that this has never come up. I grew up in a town of around 3000 people. All they would have had to do was go to our neighbors and ask, "So, what happened this weekend?" And the neighbors would say, "What do you think? Your fucking kid threw a party. I heard from Whiskey Joe that T. nearly blew her head off walking into your gun closet."

Fuck, man, John Hughes never even called.

Monday, 29 August
Mario, Mario (Sung To The Tune Of "Radio Radio")

Friday night, the wife and I attended a wee party--a friend of mine from an exotic country called Kah-Nah-Dah was visiting (superhero enthusiasts will recognize this as the home country of T'challa, the Black Panther), and so a small group of us gathered at our friends' house out in Wallingford, mainly to drink and play video games.

You can see where this is going. House! Of! Geeks! Or, if Rob Zombie were directing a film about it, House of 1000 2 Geeks.

Aw, I don't mean anything by it. I'm kind of a geek. Or, rather, I would be if I were much smarter than I actually am. What do you call a geek who isn't very bright and in particular knows nothing about computers? I need to know. How about "pud"? In the house of geeks, the pud had come to drink.

I brought my WORLD FAMOUS Bloody Mary mix, which, I'm sad to say, I did not do a bang-up job with--I made it a little too spicy, as I was rushing myself when preparing it. However, the geeks were gracious about drinking them, which made my pud heart warm.

They showed me their geek accoutrements, such as a sheet of old promotional stickers for OK Cola that had been lovingly framed. Internet cables snaked orangely across the floor; these connected their computers to a little gadget they had built called the "steal-a-ma-jig," a device that hunts out wifi signals for them to poach on. It points through the blinds of their porch door. I was cautioned not to open the blinds so much that the neighbors could see their steal-a-ma-jig, which made me laugh. "Honey . . . those kids across the street have a rectangle pointed at us!" "Damn. I'm calling the FBI."

The geeks in question, J. and A., are really fine fellows, and I certainly do not mean to run them down. They are actually very much more socially attuned than we have come to think of the average geek. J., for example, claims to have a girlfriend who "goes to school in Nebraska" or some such story, and we all gently let this happy fiction pass unchallenged. Nebraska. Whatever little story gets him through the day. Sure, J.! Nebraska! Third moon of Mars! Whatever!

A. actually does have a girlfriend, a very charming tiny little woman who goes by T. She is also a robot, which A. wouldn't like to learn that everyone knows about, but it's pretty obvious. T. has a black belt, for instance, but steadfastly refuses to kick A.'s face around the room, no matter how much we all beg her, which clearly indicates some sort of programming constraint. I mean, I wish A. would just be comfortable enough to admit he built a combat robot girlfriend, but until he is, we just have to be good enough friends to let him pretend otherwise.

Anyway, it was a nice leisurely evening, and after a few drinks, we settled around the warm light of the TV screen and played us some Mario Kart. We were here joined by J. and P., a couple of other nice geeks who took extreme pleasure in kicking the everloving shit out of the wife and I at this weird game. J. and P. are both computer beasts; J. recently accepted some new position at some horrid company dedicated to ruining our lives, and P. is another computer beast who recently quit his job and subsists only on the lichens that grow in his bathroom, so there was some tension in the room.

Anyway. Mario Kart is a deeply weird racing game--to be honest, I'm not sure Mario even shows up in the fucking thing--where you race your choice of weirdmobiles around fantastic tracks throwing all sorts of nonsense ordnance at the other racers. The characters are a baffling mix of princesses, dancing tuxedoed men and what seemed to me like various tubers, and as you race along, you fling things like seashells and baskets of dead fish at one another until, inevitably, at the end, I lose. For a while, the others took great joy in watching me lose, by vast margins, but after a while, you could tell that they were getting a little irritated waiting for me to laboriously complete a course that they had finished half an hour ago. I devised a little death-howl to amuse them every time I drove my car off the track into the sea or into some nameless void--AAAAAAIIIIIIIIEE!!--but that quickly palled after they noticed that I did this approximately every ten seconds or so. Then they pulled out a game cartridge labeled "Mario Autopsy Derby," and the wife and I decided that we'd had it--especially after the Bloody Marys.

And really, there you have it. We did have a very good time, for a couple of lowly puds. One day I hope to finally achieve geek status. Don't get me wrong--I surely do love my wife. But it would be killer to have one of those combat robot girlfriends. I guess that's not very realistic. Pretty Nebraska, you know?

Tuesday, 23 August
Dr. Guano

On Saturday, the wife said to me: "I want to take you out to dinner!" Well, okay. She wanted to go to the Coastal Kitchen, a nice enough place with a rotating regional menu. Groovy!

Around 6:30 we walked out the door. "It's kind of like we're having a date!" she said. I grunted agreeably, because I'M ALL MAN or whatever. I grabbed her hand, and we walked happily in the beautiful evening.

A couple blocks later, a bird shit all over me.

Blap! Blop! Blup! I felt something fall onto my back, and I stopped in my tracks. "Did a fucking bird shit all over me?" I yelled, drawing yet again on my inexhaustible reservoir of Duh. I presented my befouled back to the wife as if in accusation. "Oh baby!" she cried, confirming the obvious. In no time at all, she started to scrape the crap from my shirt with, I think, a magazine subscription card.

I of course handled the whole thing really poorly. As she scraped away, I snarled, "Well, I'm not wearing this fucking thing the whole night," and stomped off back home to go change my t-shirt. The wife trailed behind me, silently, because for one, I'm an asshole with a temper, and two, what can you possibly say to someone who has just been shat upon by another member of the animal kingdom?

"It was just a bird. Rise above the avian hijinx, mammal!"

"I think that G.G. Allin liked to cover himself in birdshit. I think it looks cool."

"You know, proponents of the Many Worlds theory of physics would tell you that there are an infinite number of universes where a bird didn't crap on you." (There are also an infinite number of universes where I don't recycle this joke, but sadly for you, reader, this isn't one of them.)

Yeah, no. Anyway, after a bit of a scrub and a change of shirt, we re-embarked on our date night, and after a minor trek, arrived at the Coastal Kitchen, where we discovered that the newest menu featured Puerto Rican cuisine.

I didn't feel up to Pulled Eel and the wife wasn't too down with Braised Trake, so we ordered some safer stuff, and at the same time ordered some drinks. There was another table right next to us as well, with a couple of oldsters: in fact, I had full view of them in the opposing seat, while the wife had her back to them. They had me a little concerned.

Specifically, the guy, who was facing me. He did not look good, and seemed to be hanging onto the table as if it were Mother Russia. He had an alarming pallor, making him look like he were constructed from fungal rice paper, and he was sweating. A lot. Presently, he began drooling as he clung to the tabletop, and I am ashamed to say that I felt kind of disgusted--Gosh, I wish people wouldn't drool!--nice. And then he pitched over in his seat with a terrible clatter.

See, he was having a stroke.

KA-BLONK! He went down like a sack of sand. "Did that guy just fucking keel over?" I senselessly asked the wife. I pulled out my cell phone, but the geezer's dinner companion seemed not at all concerned, and waved us off. "I think he's tired," she explained. Tired? This looked a lot like a fucking stroke to me. My thumb twitched itchily over the cell keys. But by now the waitstaff were grouping. The guy's dinner companion vaguely explained, "Well, he just got released by the hospital this morning." And she launched into an incomprehensible account of their failure to obtain the guy's medication. "Why was he in the hospital?" we cried.

"He had a stroke." Jesus God.

Eventually the paramedics were called, but not by me: Being me, I actually listened to the crazy fucking bat with her "Aw, he's just tired" routine--she was stacking her leftovers into styrofoam containers while the guy was struggling to sit up--she periodically turned to us, at the next table, and made some "What can you do?" shrugs.

They hauled him out on a gurney, right about when our entrees showed up. We poked at our food gloomily. I stared hopelessly at my martini, which had just arrived sans olive, thanks to all the what-the-hell. I did not make an issue of it.

Is it awful of me to say that I kept wondering if they should have offered us a different table? It might be. I kept staring at what my brain insisted on calling the "Death Booth." Not that he died. When he got wheeled away, he looked all right, except for the fact that he seemed to be made of burlap.

I also accused--jokingly--the waitress of foul play. "I've got my eye on this guy," I said, referring to Mr. Stroke. "I'll know it if you slip this guy a mickey like you did the last guy." I got a skeletal laugh, more than I deserved.

I'm surprised that birds don't shit on me every damned day.

Tuesday, 26 July
Putting The Fun In Funeral Homes

On Sunday, the wife and I had a little birthday gathering to attend--summers are always of course lousy with damn birthdays; presumably because of the joyless weather in winter leading to the old, "Hmm . . . might as well fuck, I guess" syndrome--at around 8:00.

My tendons moaned at this idea. 8:00! Sunday! What do I look like, Disco Stu? Good God, people, that's prime prune-sucking time for people like me! Also, I knew that none of our friends would take that time seriously. Theater peoples' time-sense features a mindbending sort of elasticity. (I once had a friend who was taking me to the airport make a side trip along the way to drive me to a bloody fucking audition for a part that he thought I was a good fit for. "The director says he can give you ten minutes right now!" he exclaimed. "We have plenty of time." He then drove me to a bar, where the director was sitting with a beer, and soon I was drinking one too, gulping it down while looking worriedly at my watch. After the beers, we went to the nearby theater, where I auditioned--as promised--very quickly, and found myself in a scene featuring me riding a prostitute like a horse. Only then did we finally dash off to the airport, where I barely caught my plane. Later I found out that I had also gotten the part. So I couldn't even be that outraged about it. Also, later, my friend who waylaid me told me what sold the director on me for the part. Director's quote: "Can you believe it? He was the only damn guy who rode the fucking whore.")

Anyway. We knew showing up at eight would be stupid, so we timed it to get there around 8:20. We met the birthday girl H. and her boyfriend T. right on the street corner. They had just shown up, of course. We walked into the bar. I noticed that we were still the first ones there. Naturally.

The bar we went to is called The Chapel, so named because it is a reconverted funeral home. Like, old school--dark wood everywhere, twenty-foot-high vaulted ceilings, and a hilarious Brobdingnagian bar crafted out of repurposed slabs of marble, hopefully not robbed from the dead--the bar top came up to my nipples, and its semicircle is dotted with absurdly high chairs on which to uncertainly teeter while staring down at the hoi polloi at the regular tables. Top o' the Underworld, Ma!

The place is amusing in a kind of sinister, Teutonic way, and the improbable, faceless dance music being pumped out by some DJ locked in a coffin upstairs somewhere only made it weirder. NNDT!--ss!--NNDT!--ss!--NNDT!--ss! came the bad music, and I kept waiting for Charon the Groovy Boatman to boogie up to me and pry my jaws open in search of a penny before shoving me into a battered flat-bottomed boat for my final ride into Tartarus over the River Styx. I imagined his Death Boat radio would also, of course, play Styx.

Also sinister was the drink menu. Drink menus are really never anything but useless except for listing, say, daily drink specials. This one was no different. Page one listed a numbing litany of horrible martini crimes, like Cucumber martinis and Combed Ass martinis and the like. I rid myself of the awful menu as quickly as possible and asked for a regular old fucking Sapphire martini. It was eight dollars, and I heard my shuddering, 36-year-old heart wheeze as it unhappily pumped a few more pints of grey blood out into my unsturdy arteries. Eight dollars. This fucking town. My nerveless hands reached for my wallet and I whitely opened a tab.

Back at the table, the rest of the group had enthusiastically embraced the dreaded drink menu, and were consuming things like Appletinis, which always sounds to me like the circus acrobat group that probably died the week before Dick Grayson's parents bought it (CIRCUS FREAKS MOURN LOSS OF OWN; APPLETINIS FINIS). One fellow was drinking a concoction called the "Redrum;" I didn't have the heart to ask what was in it. He called it a "Murder."

"I'm drinking MURDER!" he pronounced, in Vincent Pricean tones.

"What does murder taste like?" someone said.

"It tastes like coconut!" exclaimed his girlfriend, after a sip. In my mind, I imagined Lenny Briscoe squealing on some lost episode of "Law & Order" that murder "tastes like coconut," but remained silent, because I'd like to keep my friends.

We didn't stay long. It was, after all, becoming perilously close to 10:00 (on a Sunday!), and we really needed to get home before the light failed totally and our atrophied, late-30s rods and cones left us hopelessly night-blind and lost. I could just see us on the roadside, gaping like zombies, and begging for cold oatmeal from passersby.

Before we left, I did remember to ask about H.'s birthday. She reported that it went well, and was relaxing. T. had gotten her some lovely gifts. T. murmured to me that I should ask her what exactly she had wanted (and received.) Okay.

"What did you get?" I asked H.

"Tires," she replied. I stared for a moment.

"Like car tires?" I asked.

"Black gold!" she crowed. (Really.) I didn't know what to say.

"I really needed tires," she explained.


I decided that I'd better have one more drink before we left.

Tuesday, 14 June
Just The Facts

SANTA MARIA, Calif-- In what some described as a "harmonic convergence of holy fucking SHIT, dude!", reality appeared to break free of its moorings today in California, as Michael Jackson was aquitted of all charges leveled against him in a high-profile case involving accusations of child abuse, child endangerment, child eating, Julia Child and Raul Julia. In one of the more bizarre spectacles of our time, California seemed to erupt with a spasm of surreality.

Ms. Child and Mr. Julia, themselves both dead celebrities, reported surprise at being involved in such a high-wattage event, noting for reporters that they were, in fact, dead and confused, with Child being quoted as saying, "UUUNNNNNGH!" She then embarked on a ghoulish feast of the damned by savagely dining on the undead corpse of Mr. Julia.

Upon announcement of his blanket acquittal, Mr. Jackson was seen to totter feebly out of the courthouse and blow shaky kisses at the throngs of onlookers; seen on hand was also heavyweight prizefighter Mike Tyson, fresh from his recent loss to a gentleman picked out of the audience. Mr. Tyson, who had after his loss announced his retirement from boxing, called out to Mr. Jackson. "Michael! Do you have any children you're done with? I could eat them for you. I'm hungry and poor." Mr. Jackson did not reply, but instead leaped onto a nearby car and screamed "HOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" while grabbing his groin. Mr. Jackson then smashed the car's windshield with a crowbar as a zombie dance team shuffled out of the crowd and began executing tightly choreographed shrugging movements.

Not to be outdone, apparently, famed Hollywood actor Tom Cruise was also on hand for the media event, and joined Mr. Jackson atop the ruined car with newfound love Katie Holmes in tow. As Jackson continued his automotive assault, Cruise leaped up and down manically and screamed paeans of love for Ms. Holmes to the stunned crowd; Holmes stood uncertainly nearby, smiling gently, until Cruise finally nailed the young actress to an inverted cross and let Holmes' blood course over his face as he kneeled beneath her wailing form. "Clear," gasped Cruise, clearly overwhelmed. "I'm finally clear." When asked for comment, Ms. Holmes told reporters, "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

With the media circus apparently at its crescendo, it is doubtful that anyone could have predicted what came next. Mr. Cruise, now bloodied and sobbing beneath Ms. Holmes' stilled body, did not bank on the arrival of another of Hollywood's anointed: to the shocked eyes of reporters and onlookers alike, actor Ben Affleck creeped stealthily from out of the gathered crowd, making elaborate "you-don't-see-me!" gestures. He crept up behind the openly weeping Cruise, and the crowd held its breath.

Mr. Affleck then freed his mighty testicles from his trousers and gently rested them on the back of Mr. Cruise's neck in full view of witnesses. Onlookers gasped, and one woman was seen to release white doves into freedom at the moment that Mr. Affleck's testes made contact with Mr. Cruise's sinewy neck. Cruise was then seen to whirl on Affleck, who danced away, singing, "Fruit basket! Fruit basket!" in mocking tones.

Cruise did not seem amused. "You put your nuts on my neck!" he screamed. Mr. Affleck coyly replied, "Now you know how people felt after seeing Mission Impossible: 2." At this point, the woman in the crowd released another white dove, which sailed cinematically into the air; Mr. Tyson was observed chasing after it hungrily. By now, Ms. Holmes was thoroughly dead, and Mr. Jackson seemed a bit dazed at the sudden shift of focus. The dancing zombies continued to shuffle dutifully. The moment stretched out.

A voice off to the side suddenly burbled out a gasping sentence. It was Mr. Julia, still being consumed by the feral ghoul that used to be Ms. Child. "This . . . this is not the Hollywood I remember," he moaned as his face was finally, fatefully devoured. And there was a deep silence as Julia finished eating Raul.

Tuesday, 07 June

A true story!

My senior prom, I double-dated with another couple. His nickname was, for reasons lost to me (probably for the best), "Tweety," and her name was . . . to be honest, I don't even remember who she was at all. Let's call her Bailey, in honor of the WKRP character that I thought was hotter than Loni Anderson. (It doesn't even matter . . . she barely surfaces in the story again anyway.)

My date's name was L. And she was Not Into Me, really, but then again, like a lot of dweeby high school guys, I wasn't raking in the chicks anyway. I thought I was lucky to have a date, and since we were driving around in Tweety's Galaxie 500 (I think that's what it was--I know shit about cars [actually, this may be insulting to actual shit, since I know even less than that]), I admit that I harbored lonely hopes about the evening's promises, not only because of the double date (social currency being earned! Tweety was popular!) but also because we were drinking, yes, wine coolers.

Rattle around with me, nubile innocent, in this spacious backseat! For don't your breasts find comfort in occasionally--if accidentally--rubbing on my arm? Is there not room enough here in this slightly dank back seat for salacity? And do you not slake your thirst from the chilly illicit potions delivered to your perfect throat by Messrs. Bartles and Jaymes? (Note: Her throat was not, in fact, perfect. On the other hand, neither was my grey tux with "dusty rose" cummerbund and tie.)

So we drove for a while in the muscly SnatchCar--as I was already fervidly imagining it--drinking our hideous wine coolers and no doubt listening to Night Ranger-y things, and in general having a good time.

Then Tweety, uncharacteristically diverting his gaze to the actual rural road we were traveling, spied something. A small thing, pierced by the headlights. Two small coins of light reflected back at us in the night. And Tweety identified it instantly.

"CAT!" he screamed joyously. This all happened in seconds.

You have to understand boys, I guess. Is it just rural hick boys? Maybe "understand" is totally the wrong word. I don't even know. It's hard to explain. I'll just keep going.

It would have been easy, perhaps, to mistake his identifying cry as one of alarm. It was emphatically not. Tweety, his instincts honed by what I assume was more than a little bit of practice, intentionally swerved towards the panic-stricken cat. I gripped the seatback in front of me and felt myself go a little slack. I immediately knew what was going to happen.


Tweety ran effortlessly over the cat, no doubt reducing it to atoms with the huge car. The girls screamed as if their tits had caught on fire. "OOOOOOHHHH--OOOOOOHHHHH!" they firebelled.

Tweety, for his part, had an entirely different reaction. He twisted in the driver's seat to face me. "YEAH!" he screamed victoriously, as if he had repelled an invading force of malevolent aliens. He held up his hand to me. And God help, me, I tiredly slapped it back. He laughed quite a bit, drinking more wine cooler, and the girls fell into a wintry silence.

Boys are awful little beings. (And while I say that I was truly icked out by this particular incident, I myself cannot claim to be an innocent when it comes to the rotten things boys do--but that was when I was eight. Anyway.)

Needless to say, there was no awkward grappling with the date to be had that night. The rest of the evening was spent with me standing around morosely nursing a glass of terrible punch while the date wriggled enthusiastically with her girlfriends, ignoring me entirely. I can hardly blame her.

For all I know, Tweety got his brains fucked out. It all seemed terribly unfair. I'll run over a cat, lover! I called out in my brain. Just let me go grab my bike!

It was a pretty horrible evening all the way through. As I stood around, I had a thought: Well, I'm going to go all the way through high school as a virgin. This turned out to be true.

I wondered today why I thought of this, and I think I know why: it's because the wife and I finally saw Elektra on Saturday night, and I had a similar thought: We all die alone.

It's not an original thought. In fact, my friend Johnny 13 is fond of the phrase. But it kept coming back to me as I watched this awful funeral of a film, replete with a precociously irritating little girl as a main character. We all die alone. And when I die, I will be thinking of this movie.

It was a miserable film, barely tolerable, and so not filled with action as to make you wonder exactly how much the makeup folks spent on "EXTREME MOPINESS!" It made you long for the touch of a loving hand as you sat dying by inches while the Magical Tattoo Guy shat out his soul with the effort of pretending to emote as snakes, bears and friendly pandas erupted from his body.

It's a horrible film. Don't ever see it. You know what's more fun than Elektra?

Running over someone's cat on Prom Night and not getting laid.

Tuesday, 24 May
One Adam Twelve, See The Asshole

The wife and I were hanging around the apartment on Friday night, not having much of a plan at all; maybe a movie later? I had noticed earlier that the evening's offerings included Closer, which I am profoundly uninterested in seeing (see also Garden State. This is known as the Natalie Portman Effect, where movies I would normally take a chance on become fatally poisoned by the presence of this willowy weirdmouth schmactress.) However, I also saw that the movie Elektra was playing, and my interest was piqued: this is the kind of obviously ghastly movie that my brain eats like dark candy.

But then a phone call came for the wife. It was from our friend J. And she had been foully dumped, out of the blue, by her boyfriend of some months. She was sobbing horribly--a sensible reaction when a loved one decides to move that adjective into verb past tense--and was also terribly concerned about cigarettes. "I think I'm going to smoke!" She had quit a few months ago with good success, but there's nothing like extreme emotional stress to get your brain to start playing funhouse mirrors with your sense of priorities. The wife of course made immediate plans to go over to her place to comfort her, while I, being a man, made plans of my own involving deep cover. Occasions like these are not exactly times when the male perspective is welcomed.

I made myself comfortable in my chair after the wife had rushed out. I figured this was going to take some time, and probably a not inconsiderable amount of drinking (and, of course, attendant hellish introspection, reflexive self-loathing, sudden vituperative skyward howls, etc.). At least, that's what I've always done.

Time ticked off idly while I watched SportsCenter for a while, and I took a savage kind of flagellant joy in seeing virtually all of my fantasy baseball players performing as if they had belladonna suppositories forced up their rectums, or perhaps just falling to sniper fire as they emerged sulkily from their dugouts. I'll trade all you dirty fuckers, I seethed inside. I'll trade you for beanies. Then I'll be the Beanie Guy, the guy who walks around wearing nothing but beanies, and people will point and hiss, "It's Beanie Guy! He drafted Scott Rolen and David Wells! And now he walks around in beanies!" And other people will say, "I just wish he'd wear pants." So, you know, guy thoughts.

And then the phone rang. It was the wife. "Listen, we all need to eat. You want to meet us on Broadway for a bite?" I squeaked a little. "She's okay," said the wife, reading me easily. "Come on, meet us." I glanced at the clock. I was pretty hungry, and it was getting a bit late. "Okay," I said.

I should point out that I don't write any of this to poke fun at J. I think we all know that being dumped is really one of life's shittier things, and I feel badly for her. So it's not to mock her that I write anything--that would be pretty cruel. But there are certain near-universals when it comes to Sudden Relationship Oh-Fucks. There just are.

J. was obviously a little drunk, and hey, you go girl. "I'm drunk," she announced unnecessarily. "And I'm going to get drunker." "I support your endeavor," I intoned gravely. I made a mental note to make sure J. didn't pay for a goddamn thing that night, because nobody should have to lift a finger for anything in these situations.

If I was on edge meeting up with them, the feeling dissipated shortly--happily (for me), J. wasn't in a generic Death to Men mode. Well, maybe one man. The ensuing conversation--broken here and again with drink orders--consisted mainly of circular, searching self-questioning peppered with the occasional spate of deeply unkind comments regarding the guy in question, which were inevitably volleyed back by the wife and I with loose variants on the phrase "He's an asshole!" Because there are rules. One rule is: the dumped person is allowed--nay, encouraged--to voice the most venemous possible things about the other party. Another rule is: As the friend, it is your duty to vigorously agree with these assessments, regardless of whether you have any idea as to their veracity. Because they are your friend, and they are hurt, and people who hurt your friends are, until some sort of irrefutable evidence comes along to suggest otherwise (and frequently not even then), fucking assholes.

So. Fucking asshole indeed. J. was, I must say, more composed than I have been in past similar situations; whether this was due to our steadfast reliance on the "He's an asshole!" tack, or her inner reserves, or the numbing amount of alcohol we were consuming is anyone's guess. In the end, we walked her home, of course, despite her assertions that she was fine. Sorry, nobody is fine on nights like that, and fuck walking home alone. Her cat was there at her apartment to greet us, perfectly outraged at being left alone for a few hours and vocal about it. I unkindly guessed it was a male cat.

So, J.'s former boyfriend: Boy, are you stupid.

So, J.' cat: Cut her some slack and lie quietly on her tummy.

So, Beanie Guy: Get over Scott Rolen. And put on some pants.

But most of all, J.: He's a fucking asshole.

There are rules.

Wednesday, 27 April
What Women Don't Want

Back in around 1994, some time after getting over the utter horror of my too-young first marriage and subsequent divorce, I was at some arbitrary point declared by my friend M. to be "ready for dating" again. Which of course filled me with new, fresh horror. It was like being declared "ready for consumption by pit demons."

I mean, I was never good at dating anyway, not that many people are, I suppose, and for those of you who are good at dating, I can only say: You people are fucking freaks. But I was also damaged goods thanks to the divorce, and wary, and regarded most women as, alternatively, divine goddesses to be appreciated from afar, or rapacious harpies interested only in pulling out my tongue and using it as a hacky sack.

Healthy! This boy was sure ready!

But my friend M. was undeterred, and managed somehow to set me up on a semi-blind date with her friend S. (I say semi-blind because I had met S. briefly once with M. when I accompanied M. for drinks with her co-workers, of which S. was one.) So we talked on the phone a couple times, and made plans. As the guy, it was up to me to pick the place and all that crap.

And so we met, for reasons that passeth all understanding, at the Deluxe.

The Deluxe (with a name like "The Deluxe," you know they don't mean it!) is basically just a pub (Wednesdays are Burgeramas! $4.99 [with purchase of beverage!) with pretensions, like a Denny's that had won the Lotto. Not an auspicious venue for ro-mance.

But to her credit, S. did not blanch at the humble surroundings. This despite the fact that, to my dismay, she was wearing a very smart suitlike thing, with a jacket and a skirt; her lipstick matched her outfit, which brought out the highlights in her hair, her eyes sparkled, etc. She was stunning really, but not for any of those reasons mostly. See, her entire outfit was a really shocking shade of salmon-pink, and what I remember thinking was that she looked like a baby's lung in pumps.

I can't imagine her assessment of me was any more charitable. I had arrived in typical mid-90s Seattle garb: faded jeans and t-shirt overlaid by rumpled longsleeve. (I never even bothered trying to deal with flannel. I was about as grunge as Joe Piscopo.) (And actually, that outfit is still pretty much what I wear. When I'm feeling sassy I might wear khakis. Tssss! I'm red hot!)

I'm sure we both knew it was immediately hopeless, but you can't just blurt that out, so we sat down to eat dinner. She had some chicken breast or something, and I ordered a French dip.

Let's stop a minute. Think about that. You're on a date, a first date even, and though you might recognize early on that it's just a put-on for the two of you, you don't want to look like a fucking fool, right? Right? So what should you not order? Hmm, I don't know . . . how about a great big falling-apart sandwich with au jus that will all end up on your shirtfront, in your lap? Brilliant idea! Also, with a big, falling-apart sandwich, you don't even use utensils, so your date has to stare at you the whole time while you're eating like a fucking caveman and salty beef juice is running down your arm and you can't even keep eye contact during the conversation anyway because you keep having to hunch over your plate like a protective ghoul gnawing on a leg bone to keep the roast beef from falling into your lap.

And yet we made a little conversation. Some work stuff, some hobby stuff, that sort of thing. I swerved right away from any music conversation when she mentioned having recently attended some country music concert . . . no reason to go there. At one point she asked me where I grew up.

"Oh, God," I said, rolling my eyes. "I grew up in a really tiny town in Idaho called Grangeville. You've never heard of it."

She perked up, which made me wary. "Idaho! That's pretty country! Was it a farm?"

"No," I said. "It was actually a horse ranch. I mean, we didn't own it, but part of living there was taking care of the horses. I did that a lot when I was a kid."

She was smiling now, and her eyes were sparkling. Naturally, I was still half-wrestling with my obstinate sandwich, so I couldn't really figure out what was going on in her skull. But she was interested . . . in something! I waited.

"So would you say," she asked twinklingly in an odd tone, "that you're . . . kind of a cowboy?" She cocked her head at me coquettishly. Oh my.

This was a fat, lazy pitch, belt high over the middle of the plate, and all I had to do was swing. I thought about my experience with horses: getting thrown off of them, being nearly kicked in the face by them, getting trampled by them (all true!). I thought about cows. Well, I thought, I'm eating one right now! I enjoy them to that extent! If I just shined her on for a bit . . . who knows?

Ahhh. Let's not pretend that this was some test of nobility or anything. It wasn't even really a dilemma of any kind. Who was I ever going to fool, really? It was a dumb, fleeting idea, something barely worthy of a Penthouse Forum letter. ("I never thought this hot broad would buy my cowboy routine, but her heaving 36Cs told another story . . . ")

I put down my floppy sandwich and looked at her. "No, I'm not a cowboy. Not even close." I grinned, maybe a little ruefully, and she grinned back, and we laughed a little. We made some small talk to round out the dinner, and she allowed me a chaste kiss on her cheek at the end of the night. The next day I called her, as a good boy does (making sure to pick a time I knew she wouldn't be home), and on her answering machine thanked her for a lovely evening, and we should do it again sometime, har har har. She did me the good favor of not returning the call.

I saw her again, many times later, though, when I was hanging out with M., and we became, if not friends, then just good acquaintances. And I always found it kind of charming when she'd see me and murmur, "Hey, cowboy."

Friday, 25 March
You Remember Him

This last weekend the wife and I got into a discussion about the cruelty that kids visit on each other, and I was reminded of this guy that I went to high school with. (Though I did not bring him up in the conversation.) If The Breakfast Club has taught us anything--and really, it hasn't--it's that high school kids are cliquish, petty, vindictive and highly stratified. You know, basically just like adults but with less sophisticated filters and coping strategies. And so there is the archetype of The Utterly Ostracized Kid. And of course, it exists. You can probably think of your own example--and I do hope it wasn't you.

For me, it was Leo. (Not his real name--I just picked Leo because I don't think I've ever known one.)

Now, let's be clear, I was never really that popular at all, but nor was I a complete outcast either. I had my share of friends, but it's not like I was cracking the higher social circles or anything either. To use the Breakfast Club categorization system, which is probably as good (and as useless) as any, I was considered a Brain. (Remember: this was Idaho. Ah, can't get enough of that cheap joke.) I was pretty average-looking (had a nasty year-or-so-long bout with Ye Olde Acne, which was pretty raw, but it went away), didn't have many girlfriends, but I had a good sense of humor that served me well. I played tennis and baseball, and was neither any good nor wholly terrible at either.

Leo was none of these things. He was pudgy and pale, and not athletic in any way. He wasn't necessarily stupid, but he wasn't exactly lighting up the boards with his grades either. He had a slight lisp--always a great plan provided you like it when people call you a fairy. But really, Leo's big problem--and probably his greatest Catch-22--was simply that Leo tried way too hard.

"Hey, guys!" he would call out to some group of kids, all of whom would rather eat poison than be seen with Leo. "What's going on? You guys hanging?" Sullen mutters by way of response. "Check it out!" Leo would continue, undeterred, his eyes shining a little. "Got a debate trip coming up." He'd bark some nervous laughter. "That's so lame." Silence.

It was always so horrible. Nobody wanted the guy around, and everyone knew it. Worse, he knew it. But what was he supposed to do? Not talk to anyone? I guess . . . but that would also be a lousy option as well, since Not Talking To Anyone would of course provide definitive proof that he was a big loser. Better to try and awkwardly try and wedge his way into . . . anything, maybe if only to elicit some terse comment, even a lousy, "Yeah, I hear that, I guess" that he could take home with him as meager evidence that he wasn't completely alone in the school. Which he undoubtedly was.

I'd like to say that I, being the stand-up high school guy that I was, was above all that crap, but of course I wasn't. I wanted as much as everyone else to climb the ranks of coolness, which of course wasn't fucking likely, but it certainly wasn't going to help my slim chances by associating with the likes of Leo, right? So I too traded in the cheapest and yet most valuable of social currencies: pissing on the guys a few rungs down on the social ladder. It wasn't that I disliked Leo, though he could be exasperating in his too-eager-to-please circumlocutions, but I'd be lying if part of it wasn't a certain amount of contempt and disgust as well: Don't be such a simpering pussy. Never mind that I was a pussy too, and had done my share of simpering. The hard fact was, he was desperately trying to trade up friendship for some respect, but I think even he knew that nobody wanted what he had to offer.

Leo also didn't have much going for him at home, either, from what I understand. I know his mom wasn't around, but I cannot remember if she died, or left, or what. I do know that he was stuck at home with his father, who, by all accounts, was a vicious, miserable douchebag who was almost unbelievably cruel to his only son: you know, the pale, pudgy, unathletic, unpopular one. There were whispers of abuse, I know, but I also know this documented fact: on more than one occasion, Leo's dad, upon receiving one of Leo's really unspectacular report cards, took an ad out in the local paper that published his grades, with text to the effect that he was publically "challenging" his son to do better.

This was, to everyone in school, of course hilarious. Yeah, that's a laugh riot.

One night Leo was home alone--I don't know where his dad was--and he built up some kindling in their wood stove. Then he loaded it up with some gunpowder and possibly some gasoline. Then he threw in a match, and the whole fucking thing blew up. To hear some accounts, it "moved the walls" of the house, or, sometimes, "cracked the foundation." Small town stories are rife with bullshit and embellishment. What was indisputable, however, was that it blasted Leo's face off and landed him in the hospital.

This was also, by the way, hilarious (though in that hushed way that pretends to actually convey sympathy where there is in fact none). The leading jokes--and they were legion--all pointed to what a complete dingus Leo was. After all, he maintained steadily that he was "just trying to start a fire, didn't know that would happen, etc." What an idiot! Some wags offered that it was Leo's one attempt to become cooler by "taking up smoking." If anyone else shared my thought that it was an ill-conceived and maybe half-hearted suicide attempt, nobody told me. And I didn't say anything either.

That would have made me . . . what? Sympathetic? Couldn't have that.

After a lengthy hospital stay, Leo returned to school. Same old Leo! He did at least get points for being plucky, for he would regularly still approach groups of people (who did not want him around) and say things like, "Hey, guys! What's up? Hanging out?" Except now his face looked like a ruined pink asteroid. How he kept his eyes--actually, they were nice blue eyes--is beyond me. His hair had all burned off too.

Yeah, Leo, we were just hanging out. Talking about you, and making Frankenstein jokes. Or jokes about roasted ham. Get lost, would you?

When graduation rolled around, Leo was still there. In fact--I just looked at my yearbook to confirm the memory--Leo had lost a lot of the baby fat. He didn't look bad! He had also gotten taller while I was busy not noticing him. I don't know if he had work done (I doubt it) but the explosion hadn't even damaged his face much in the long term; it had all seemed to heal well. He almost looked sort of . . . handsome.

He still didn't have any friends, though. Not that I could tell. I know he signed up for the Marines and went to boot camp after graduation, which seemed, at the time, frankly incredible.

I never heard anything about him since. Not that I've asked.

I do think about him, though, now and again. Which I acknowledge is worthless sentiment. I don't ask for expiation or forgiveness or any of that. I guess I just wish him well.

And man, I don't even think I deserve to do that.

Friday, 11 March
Pretty Stupid Baby

Much of what follows is, I must confess, based on reports from various family members. It is probably just as well that we do not remember much from when we were toddlers, since they are basically really embarrassing little id-wagons. I seem to have been no different.

Friday, 07 January

When I got done with college--sporting a mighty Bachelor of Theater degree--I of course had to get a job. Strangely, Hollywood casting directors (or, for that matter, Hoboken casting directors) were not exactly scratching at my zipper or anything, so I had to find, as they say, a "real" job.

When actors say things like "real" jobs, that means: Jobs that suck. You know, like the ones normal people have. And we always say it in a tone that suggests that these jobs are beneath us--we're trained actors! We want unreal jobs! Like, say, acting! This is partly why actors are such a pain in the ass. We've trained extensively for a job that barely exists, and when it does, it usually pays nothing. And then we get snitty about it. Why you people tolerate our ilk is beyond me, because frankly, we're fucking deluded and strange.

Anyway, I got a job working at my roommate's dad's company, which was a "paint sundries" warehouse, filling orders. "Paint sundries" really just means: "Paint-ish shit that isn't paint." Like deck sealant, varnish, rollers, tarps, caulk, etc. It was hardly a challenging job, but it was actually--in the sepia-tone of easy nostalgia, anyway--sometimes fun. A particularly respected skill was being able to master the flinging of empty shipping tape rolls (those big cardboard disk) in such a way that they'd glide for yards. It takes a kind of wrist-flip that only practice brings. Even more respected was the ability to throw the things with velocity and accuracy, because the real idea was to hit another guy in the head.

See, the place was all boys. Of course it was, and I don't mean that in any demeaning way--any woman could have done the job. But it was just a boy place . . . even for the men. There were 40-year-olds there, with families. On the job, they were boys. Watch out for that tapeball!

They were:


Our fearless leader, the supervisor. Gary had buck teeth and three DUIs under his belt, so Gary always needed a ride. But as boss, this was hardly a problem, since anyone was happy to drive him around wherever (not me--I had no car), which was usually--surprise!--to a bar. Gary was also meticulous about the hazing of new employees, which is what led him to body-check me into several gallons of xylene (yay!). But then, he liked me. Less lucky was Mike (more on him later), who was shrink-wrapped into a shopping cart (which we used to carry orders) and sent sailing down the parking lot. Unfortunately, Mike's cart jumped a small abutment and he continued down a hill, screaming like a deranged bat. When the cart finally fell over, we rescued him, and then mercilessly castigated him for making us walk so fucking far to get him. Later, Mike would fail to notice when Gary fingerpainted "I WANT DICK" into the dust on his tailgate.


Bobby was a fucking beast of a man, and I took good care never to piss him off. (Anyone who knows me can tell you that this takes a heroic effort on my part.) He was the strongest person I've ever seen. He was a stocky Irishman, and built like a walking sub-basement. I once watched him carrying six five-gallon cans of deck seal: two on his shoulders, two in the crooks of his elbows, and two more in his hands. He was also the one who, on a lark, casually picked me up and tossed me into the cardboard crusher (again, when I was new). Then he turned it on, knowing full well that the giant steel crush-plate stopped a good three feet above from bottom; he laughed like mad as I screamed piteously at what I assumed was imminent death.


Brian drove a Camaro, and wore Gargoyle shades; he had a mullet. For all that, Brian was, I swear, a pretty good guy. If I have relatively little to say about Brian, it's only because he had exactly three interests: 1. His car 2. Getting hammered. 3. Chicks. I liked Brian a lot, but let's just say that his plan was only about 2/3 successful.


What to say about Kevin? Kevin . . . made me sad. Kevin quite clearly had something wrong in his head, and I couldn't figure it out for a long time. He stuttered a bit (not much), and would make bizarre, nutty errors (he had trouble with the whole concept of alphabetization, and was made famous once for putting a box knife in his mouth for storage when he needed both hands--of course the blade was out, and he cut the shit out of his tongue . . . bad). But finally, after a conversation with Kevin, I guess I got the story, and it was a little heartbreaking. Over beers, Kevin said, "You know, I used to be smart. Nobody believes me. But I wasn't this way." I didn't say anything. He continued. "Look, I was dealing some coke, okay? And this guy hit me over the head with a fucking pipe. He stole all my shit. And then . . . " Kevin raised his arms to half-mast in that universal gesture of "who knows?" "Ever since then . . . I can't think right. It's kind of fucked up."


Mick, another Irishman (big surprise), will probably die at the warehouse, if he isn't dead yet. Mick was all of these things: a drunk; a junkie (though he battled it mightily); an asshole ("Mick, would you--" "No."); a dreamer (he enjoyed Castaneda, the freak); a husband (to another, much more afflicted junkie); and a devoted father (particularly to his damaged little girl, who at the age of four still had never spoken a word . . . I of course figured on the heroin). Mick was also given to drunken pronouncements: "Skot . . . you're almost there, man. You're so close to . . . you'll see." I think I miss Mick most of all. He was a good man trapped in a horrible scenario.

But I do remember this: During the week, we would listen to the fucking classic rock station, but I finally managed to allow us to listen to a "modern rock" station on Fridays. One Friday, a Blondie song came on, and Mick came up to me.

"Is this Blondie?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"If I wanted to hear junkie bitches scream, I'd go home," he said.

The aforementioned Mike ended up challenging Mick to a drinking contest. Pretty stupid; Mick drank Mike into a coma, almost literally. Mike really was a stupid guy.

I don't know why I miss these guys.

Thursday, 11 November
Home, Not Alone

Call this my John Hughes blog entry. It's about once--and it was just once--in high school when yes, my parents went out of town, and yes, ignoring their admonitions, I held a party. It is a testament to what a dweeb I am that I still get little frissons of I'M SO BAD! feelings when I remember it.

It's not like it was complicated. Parents gone-->call friends-->party liftoff. And it's not like it was smart, either: in a town of 3300 people, a bunch of fucked up teenagers gathering at one location are simply not going to go unnoticed. I must say my parents were gracious enough not to mention what they almost certainly knew about ten minutes after getting back into town: I had a party. This is presumably why, to this day, whenever I speak to my father on the phone, he heartily assures me that he is doing everything humanly possible to exhaust my inheritance before he dies.

(This is not a lie. It is also kind of effective, since my parents had me young; neither of them are even sixty. "Going golfing in Montana with your mother next week! Then we might swing down to New Mexico! Jesus Christ, kid . . . I hope you have a good IRA. You're sure not getting shit from us.")

And now that I think about it, my parents clearly know that I was going to have a party no matter what: because they left over my birthday. And they're just not that dumb. On the other hand, I clearly am that dumb, since I just figured that out.

Anyway. The early part of the party isn't really worth relating; just kids showing up at the house with horrific piles of beer, which were all immediately hidden away around the house. One learns early in high school that if you put your beer in the fridge like a moron, it will immediately be drank by those who failed to score. Thus, you find remote areas to hide it. Some people kept theirs in locked cars, but I always hated having to go out to the car to get a fresh drink every two minutes or so; I generally located the dryer and stowed mine there. Nobody ever looked in the dryer.

After a half hour or so, having dispensed with the pretense of giving me gifts--I do not believe there were any--the party got into full sway. Someone, I don't remember who, pounced on my mother's piano and began banging out some horrible noise. It might have been Tom Waits. At any rate, this somehow signaled the Beginning Of Crazytime, because right after that, an argument broke out in the kitchen over whether or not an egg could be broken if held in a certain way in the palm; specifically, the assertion seemed to be that eggs are indestructiible when squeezed in some dumbfuck fashion that nobody sensible would ever attempt.

Naturally, this challenge proved irresistible, and people began gleefully crushing eggs over the sink, the floor, and for certain unfortunate lightweights, people's hair. I scurried ineffectually around the kitchen trying to dissuade people from violently squeezing eggs in their bare hands, but it was useless. The entire room was soon garishly decorated with chicken embryos and the prone people who weakly thrashed in them.

Meanwhile, on a couple different fronts, trouble was brewing. D., a well-known sociopath, was howling at B. over a certain girlfriend dispute; it seemed that there were certain "making out" issues in the air. D., the far more unbalanced of the two, was well up in B .'s grill about this issue, while B. (not the keenest of folks) was attempting to be conciliatory. This went over poorly, and after a bit, D. had found himself a crowbar and raced at B .

This was a real mistake, as while B. was not the swiftest of rivers, he was a dedicated black belt. B. took about thirty seconds to disarm D. and then turn him into a human omelette. D. moaned in rather non-eggy fashion on my lawn for a while before deciding to head home. B., on the other hand, truly a gentle soul, spent that time weeping in my bedroom, moaning over and over to anyone who would listen, "I had to do it, man!"

There were other problems. T., a female friend of mine at the time, got upset with her boyfriend at the moment, J. (J. was rumored to have a penis whose girth was soda-can-like. Wasn't high school weird?) T. became very upset--perhaps her feelings were inflamed also by the increasingly frenzied pounding my mother's piano was taking at the hands of some demented teenager--and flipped right the hell out. In high dudgeon, she screamed, "I'm getting the fuck out of here!" She marched to the door and flung it open.

Unfortunately, since T. was supernaturally drunk, she flung open the door to my father's gun closet, which contained, among other weaponry, a shotgun, a 30.06, and a number of pistols. T., being completely wrecked, walked into all of them. They clattered to the floor, as did she, as I stared in utter horror: for one thing, it's a miracle none of them went off, as my father keeps his guns loaded. For another, HOLY FUCK, SHE JUST DINGED UP MY FATHER'S GUNS! Meanwhile, as I charged over to the scene, T. was grabbing and dropping various loaded guns in puzzlement, as if they were vines impeding her progress. I saw her pick up a shotgun and look at it quizzically. "This isn't the front door!"

No. Definitely not.

And I do remember that the whole time this was going on, there was someone--I do not know who--maniacally playing the piano. I even remember the piece.

Duke Ellington*: "The Entertainer."

*(And when I say "Duke Ellington" I of course mean "Scott Joplin." Lord. Thanks, Craig.)

Tuesday, 12 October
Smooth Criminal

My junior year in college, I was of course still slinking around the theater department working on my worthless degree, when an interesting opportunity fell into my lap. One of my professors had been contacted by the Oregon State police. Would he, the cops asked, happen to know of any couple of actorlets weird enough to come down to the state police HQ and spend a few hours helping out with Hostage Negotiation tactics? Probably in the hopes that we would be "accidentally" shot in the course of events, my professor sought out me and M. We agreed instantly to the job, particularly when we found out that the cops were coughing up $40 apiece for the whatever it was.

So later M. and I found ourselves driving out to the state police facilities, something I had only previously imagined occurring under some duress. Like most municipal buildings, it was irritatingly annoying in different, nonspecific ways that you couldn't quite nail down: architecturally, it was kind of like a balding man in a cheap suit whistling to himself while jangling his keys in his pocket.

We met with a fellow who explained what was going on. Hostage negotiators, like all of us I suppose, need practice! Troublingly, though, hostages are not a clockwork commodity that one can count on, so to keep the boys on their toes, periodically they get some actors to come in and spend three or so hours improvising hostage scenarios for the negotiators to work on.

He pulled out some papers, one of which outlined the requirements, which were, I thought, quite broadly defined. I was quite free to invent a vivid past for my bad guy, as well as any motive I might have for the "kidnapping," up to and including batshit craziness; similarly, M., the victim, and I were free to invent any relationship that might exist in our predicament, if any. What did need to happen was that (1) in the course of our chats, I was to make at least one completely unreasonable demand, and (2) that eventually M. should begin to exhibit symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome, the famous psychological effect of the victim beginning to sympathize more and more with the captor. The rest was up to us. "You can kill her if you think they're doing a bad job," said the fellow mildly. I cheerfully turned to M. and informed that the moment we got into the room I was going to beat her to death with an ashtray and take her forty bucks.

We went into the room; I was distressed to notice that there were no ashtrays--for did not the stoolies smoke hungrily as they squealed to the coppers? Did I not see this on TV? This place looked more like a conference room anyway, and I took note of a couple open windows, and realized glumly that I would almost certainly be breaking the law with some regularity during my visit to the cophaus.

The fellow pointed to a sturdy-looking phone cradle on the table, with a wire snaking out the door. "This is actually what we toss through windows so we can have a direct line with the captor in live situations." We stared at the veteran phone with new respect for its blocky heroism. Then he gave us the big tip: "I'll also tell you what we obviously don't tell the captors: even when it's on the hook, it's still on and transmitting any conversations or noises it picks up." I stared back at the traitorous phone again, realizing what a lousy criminal I would be. That it would never occur to me to see through such a transparent trick was evidence not only of my fundamental dimness, but also of that widely held bullshit assumption: that cops are the good guys, and good guys don't lie. Not to say that cops aren't good guys. It's just that in fact they do routinely lie as a matter of course, in word and deed.

We had fifteen minutes or so of alone time, M. and I, to come up with a loose story to get things started. Then the phone would ring--pretending here that the negotiators had been notified of a hostage situation, and tossed in the phone--and we'd be underway. (The fellow in charge assured us the phone would be off until that first ring, and I don't think he fucked us on that one. He wanted an honest test of his boys.) So we decided that M. was my old girlfriend; she had kicked me out because I was kind of a flake who, when "off his meds," was semiviolent and unpredictable. We spiced things up by giving her a baby to worry about; it was also in the house.

For my part, I can't remember what name I gave myself--I think it was Earl--but I decided that my troubling mental history would guarantee a spotty and variegated work history, which gave me an idea about an "unreasonable demand." We quickly agreed that M. had kicked out Earl thanks to his deteriorating mental state, which also led to his most recent firing, which had all culminated with the current events, namely Batshit Earl's Gonna Shoot Momma And The Baby.

Presently, the phone rang. I obviously can't remember all (or even much) of the exact language these fellows used, but they were damned smooth. "What do you want?" was a big question at the outset, and I noticed a certain determined avoidance of ever actually saying the word "No." I felt a little weird knowing I was talking to Real Live Cops, but I also thought (1) they wanted some verisimilitude in my demeanor, and (2) I felt a kind of perverse glee in being able to--no, encouraged to--chew on these cops' asses, so I cut lose with torrents of horrid vituperation. "You fucking cops, fucking with me all the time, I oughta blow this bitch's head off RIGHT NOW!" Etc. etc. I felt very macho at the time, but I'm sure that the negotiators were rolling their eyes at each other from the outset and scratching notes to themselves like, "Great, three hours with Baby Mamet."

I ranted at them for a good while, hanging up on them with dire threats and--making some theater for the open line--hissed threats at M. while she wailed and pleaded convincingly. In the interest of keeping things on this side of stupid, we wisely didn't attempt to imitate terrified baby noises. After an illicit smoke--hanging out the window--it was time for Unreasonable Demand. I picked up the phone, and the negotiator boys were alert and attentive. They of course immediately asked me if I was ready to come out; it was always their first question, and always came with steady assurances that their only concern was everyone's safety, including mine. I sported with them a bit, trying to see if I could get them to actually tell me No.

"I think I'll stay put. That okay with you?"

"Whatever you're comfortable with right now, Earl."

"You're lying, aren't you? You'd like to blow my brains out!"

"Earl, I'm not lying to you. We just want everything to stay cool and calm."

"Bullshit! You want my nuts in a vise!"

"Earl, even if that were true, I don't own a tool shed."

I mean, not really, but you get the idea. Anyway, I finally hit them with my demand: that every employer who had ever fired Earl be gathered right there on that very street, and that they loudly shout at Earl how sorry they were that they ever canned his loony ass. If I didn't get these demands met in an hour, then it was curtains for M. and her oddly stoic baby.

The boys were, as ever, not to be flapped, and made cheerful sounds to indicate, Well finally! Something we can work on for our good buddy Earl! Jesus, why didn't you say so before, son? And then they hung up, and M. and I performed another laughable little psychodrama for the negotiators' benefit, where I direly hinted something about shutting up the fucking kid before I shut it up for her (we tacitly assumed that the boys were accepting our invention of the troublesome baby despite its lack of voice). RING RING! Hey, what a coincidence! I picked up the phone. "Say, Earl," said one of the boys, "we're having some trouble with finding all these guys to apologize to you. You think you can help us out with some names?"

This went on and on, and I really started to like these guys. They were on my side! Well, Earl's. And M. really started to come around too: after a couple hours, she was faithfully howling about how EVERYTHING WOULD BE BETTER IF EVERYONE LEFT US ALONE! This after the boys wanted to speak to her to make sure her and the "baby" were all right; I let M. gurgle at them for a while as I hung out the window and smoked, and she sobbed at them to piss off, and they told her, sorry, ma'am, we can't do that (but we're not saying no!), not just yet, and boy, once those fellas come and apologize, this would all be over. I ended that conversation by roughly grabbing the phone away from M. and smacking my own palm to indicate that I was roughing her up a bit. Then I hung up, which prompted a fresh spate of RING RING RING! Which I ignored for a while; M. put her head down by the phone and gasped miserably. RING RING RING! I let the boys dangle for a while before picking up again, which I figured was cool as a kind of "What's going on in there?!" tension-builder, but I now realize probably had the boys scribbling fresh notes: "Does he know this isn't a movie?" "Silence is sure helping us hone our negotiation skills."

Oh, this went on for what felt like ages. Eventually, the boys regretfully (but sternly) told me that they were shit out of luck in finding all these old supervisors to come say they were sorry. I screamed hideous imprecations, and all the while, the boys still managed never to actually come out and say they weren't doing what I wanted. Everything was simply fucked up, Earl, can't you see that?

"You fuckers promised me."

"Now, we said we'd try, Earl. We've been trying. It's difficult, what you're asking."

"You haven't even fucking tried! You've fucked me from the beginning!"

"Earl, we've been talking all this time. If you feel we haven't been straight with you, that's on us, but I want you to know that we've been working for you on this. Nothing that's happened so far is a big deal, Earl, and we want to make sure it stays that way, all right?"

"You guys aren't negotiators! You're ballet dancers from the Bolshoi, aren't you? And one of you is also a circus bear!"

"Earl, it's true I like to dance here and again, and Joe is pretty goddam hairy, but you have to understand that . . . "

Again, I don't remember it all, but you get the idea.

Eventually, after three hours and some change, I decided I'd had enough and the boys had earned their pay. (I was also getting a nice crick in my back from angling myself out the window.) I finally told the boys that I'd seen the light; I didn't want anything bad happening, like myself being riddled with large holes; I wanted to come out. I was given precise instructions on what to do: something about cracking the door, throwing out the gun, lacing my hands on the back of my head, backing out slowly, etc. I agreed to all of this (and they were really putting on the cop mojo for this speech--there were clearly some seriously good ways to get shot if one didn't follow these instructions to the letter). Finally, after getting it all, I hung up.

M. and I stood there, staring at the door. Was that it? I whispered to her: "Am I supposed to follow their directions? Are we also "doing" the arrest?" She didn't know. The guy who gave us the lowdown at the beginning never mentioned this. We kept staring at the door. Finally, I said, "I guess I'll go out."

So I cracked the door open, cautiously and very slowly, and feeling both apprehensive and really dumb, backed out with my hands laced behind my head. I craned my skull around trying to see what the fuck was going on. I saw the orientation cop and what were obviously the two negotiators, looking at me with amused grins.

"We're not doing the arrest part, are we?" I asked, loosening my stance.

"No," said one of the negotiators, for the first time all day.

Tuesday, 28 September

This weekend's big marriage-related event was our friends G. and M. holding a party to renew their vows. It was all very fun and all, but I still wonder who fucked it so badly as to precipitate the event. Besides which, if I may nitpick, they didn't really renew their vows so much as write a couple of goddam new vows, which for me stank a bit of false advertising. I wanted dull, rote recitation of the old vows, with maybe a "And this time, we mean it!" stuck in at the end. But maybe it was for the best, and the old vows blew or were terribly embarrassing or something. "I promise never to watch John MacEnroe TV shows." "And I promise to stop clandestinely burying my face in your underwear drawer when you're out." "WHAT?"

G. and M. were resplendent in their finery, even if some of the guests were not. The theme was simple: wear red. Friend J. never got that message and showed up in earth tones; he rectified the situation by raiding the costume shop (for this took place at a previously described dingy theater) and coming up with a perfectly horrifying suit jacket whose crimson-paisley lining sort of fit the theme; it certainly red, and leered out from beneath the folds like some awful psychedelic tongue. [Disclosure: the suit jacket used to be mine, and I long ago donated the wretched thing to the theater. Distressingly, they actually used the fucking thing.]

K., for his part, appeared in a newly-purchased jumpsuit of confusing origin; it was far too small for him, and seemed to showcase his genitals in a frankly disturbing way, particularly when he sat down. (At one point, I saw his girlfriend K. reach over and give his member a companionable squeeze, causing me to refresh my drink.) The overall effect of the garment--and K.'s hair, which he had sculpted into a deliberately eerie Dennis the Menace tribute--was really quite arresting, especially considering that K.'s body type is something like one of those Punching Nun puppets: a central skinny stick sporting two wildly flailing arms. He looked like an inmate escaped from Prop Comedy Penitentiary.

And then of course there was A., who simply shoved himself into a red t-shirt and denim overalls, and stood around placidly, missing only a strand of wheat to chew on. One expects this sort of thing from A.--sartorial inexuberance being the least of it--which is reliably charming. One of my favorite stories about A. involves him noisily vomiting in some bushes; when friend E. tells the story, he employs some really terriffic sound effects, something like: HRRRrrrRRRR! HRRRrrrrRRR!

After a while, we settled down with our drinks and the show got underway. It was a pretty simple affair, if, at times, baffling. Limericks seemed to be a running joke, as many were told (none particularly funny or even Nantucket-y); a version of "White Wedding" was enthusiastically howled; and our friend L. delivered quite a lovely reading of Lear's "The Owl and the Pussycat," diligently emphasizing the word PUSSY whenever it came up, which was, happily, often.

Then we got to the vows. M. delivered hers to G. pretty much straight, and they were sweet as all vows are--standard "Awwww!" stuff. (Not to demean them. "Awwww!" is a perfectly valid tone to strike.) Then G. came up, prefacing his comments with the observation: "I can tend to be a little geeky." This elicited some laughter of agreement: G. is a forensic toxicologist. We waited to see how geeky G. could possibly be. We didn't have to wait long. Here's what he got out before the entire room erupted into laughter for thirty seconds:

"A molecule . . . "

Pandemonium. I clamored for G. to stop right there, as it couldn't possibly get any better than that, but in the chaos, I was ignored. You have to give it up to anyone who start his renewal vows this way, but G. wasn't done. After a while, the laughter subsided, and G. gave a very lovely speech likening marriage to paired nucleotides, saying at one point, "Your adenine perfectly matches my guanine."

Everyone is going to think I made that up, but I did not. It made me so happy and into the spirit of the thing, I wanted right there to joyously run around and give everyone a celebratory fine needle aspirate for pathological analysis. "Hurrah! Hurrah! G. incorporated genetic dorkery into his renewal vows!" I would shout. "Oh, and Mrs. Bandersnatch, I'm afraid you have pharyngeal cancer. Anyway, huzzzah!"

Finally, the ceremony gave way to the post-vow celebration, and tragically, there was karaoke involved. I have written before about how my friends are horribly skilled at the art of karaoke subversion--in fact, I'm assuming this was the intent of having it--and this was no exception. I'll say it again: there is nothing that you have ever witnessed that can prepare you for malicious, shameless actors bent on completely strafing your favorite pop songs with deliberately ghastly renderings.

V., who may be the queen of this foul art, was the first to act, and she re-enacted a legendary crime by tackling "Bette Davis Eyes," which I have also previously wrote about. In true form, she waved her arms witchily about while her vocals screamed and whooped about the small space, like attacking harpies. It's truly beyond description what the woman can do: at one moment she evokes LeAnne Rimes suffering a debilitating inner ear disability, and then before you can recover, she's intoning the next line as an earnest Rod Steiger piece of dialogue. It's impossible to reproduce in print. Not that that ever stopped me from trying.

"Alllll the BOOOOOYYS think she's a [swoop into gutteral hiss] spyyyyyyyyy/ She's got [Borgninian pause. then an evangelical CALL TO GAWD] BETTE DAVIS EEEEEYYYYYYES!" Put that all together with some Stevie Nicks twirls and a couple hiii-ya! leg kicks and you've got . . . something. Birds have been seen to die when V. does karaoke.

K. and E. of course had to enter into things, and performed a simply murderous version of, God help everyone, "Gangsta's Paradise." K. took on the unglorious rap duties--this is, after all, Coolio--and acquainted himself with the typical misery of a Boston white guy attempting to take on even the lamest rap lyrics. However, his orange jumpsuited resplendence helped distract from his skillz, while E. growled out the chorus in a baffling, gruff accent of unknown origin--perhaps E. was paying tribute to the rich contributions of the Basque people to rap music. At any rate, the whole thing ended with an alarming scene where E. mounted the prone K. and simulated anal sex, which, let's face it, is a pretty stale act when it comes to dingy-theater-situated-vow-renewal-ceremonies. It's just played.

A good time had by all. I do wish G. and M. the very best, and since they continue to hang out with people like, well, us . . . they will need it. See you in ten years or so. We've got plenty of jumpsuits.

Wednesday, 08 September
Very Pedestrian

Hi, howdy, hi, and all that shit! Have a good weekend? I did. Nice and relaxing. I think my favorite part was hanging out and my friend K.'s, and he became disgusted with a package of corn tortillas (we were making tacos); I think they smelled funny or something--I wouldn't know, as I was eating flour tacos. Anyway, K. was most dissatisfied with his flatbread purchase and suddenly yelled at me, "DUCK!" Then he hurled them at my head. Fortunately, my unearthly reflexes kicked in, and I did duck, and they sailed over my head through K.'s fourth-floor balcony door and gracefully fell to the pavement below, landing with a lonely-sounding DAP. K.'s girlfriend K. covered her eyes at this sadly typical display of tortilla discontent--this was by no means the first thing she had ever seen hurled furiously into the street--while K. (the former) and I entertained ourselves briefly by watching cars run over the discarded corn-disks. Not for very long, really, though. It wasn't like they were getting much flatter. It's just fun watching cars run over stuff, even mundane things like substandard taco shells.

Not so much fun is watching cars run over things that are precious to you, like, say, you. As a person who walks to work, this nearly happens to me, oh, I think nearly EVERY FUCKING DAY. I say nearly, of course, because I have so far managed not to be run over, but it's only despite the best, most enthusiastic efforts of Seattle's frankly incredibly shit-blind drivers. I could fill a lot of space with stories of my near-hits. (Seriously, Seattle drivers: an awful lot of you are real fuckballs, and I sincerely hope many of you die in exotically unpleasant scenarios involving things like starved boars.)

Most stories, unfortunately, about walking around being menaced by cars, observing local fauna excreting, etc., are pretty boring. Including these. Enjoy!

Every morning, I am forced to cross Olive Way, which at the I-5 overpass is a one-way road where two lanes veer off onto the freeway onramp. Needless to say, cars aren't real fucking enthused about gearing down to let people cross the onramp entrance, despite the clearly posted crosswalk, so I routinely have to scamper across the road to avoid being crushed by the accursed commuters every morning and afternoon. You get used to it, but it certainly instills a singular loathing for the zooming parade of bastards who ignore you waiting to cross the fucking road.

One morning I began to cross (with cars oncoming but down the road a bit), and I failed to correctly judge the outlandish speed that one small car was approaching at. The next thing I knew, the damn sporty little can had squealed to a screeching halt mere feet from my knees, scaring the helpless loafs of shit nearly right out of me. (Bear in mind that the bloody assholes are supposed to stop anyway.) Then--then!--the tiny little silver fucking douchecar emitted this unbelievably horrible noise--BLAAAAAP!

The fuckette--for it was a woman--was honking at me. For crossing the street. At a crosswalk. At which she was hurtling at barely subsonic speed. Well, that was it. In a truly reptilian display of limbic outrage, I wheeled on the car and let fly with my lit cigarette at the windshield, whose trajectory was remarkably flat for such an aerodynamically challenged item. It bounced off the glass feebly, and I screamed, "FUCK YOU!" I was dimly pleased to see the woman flinch, probably fearing that I was going to crawl into her car like a mythical, horrid onramp incubus and violate her in some awfully specific way.

I felt bad about this later--a little bit--I mean, freaking women out is not something I strive for on a daily basis. But maybe this one deserved it . . . a little bit?

Walking to work, as I mentioned before, also entails on a regular basis seeing things like people relieving themselves on the streets. At least in most urban settings. I barely register it any more, except in kind of a "Gee, I sure hope that peeing guy doesn't talk to me." Sometimes they do. "Hey, you got any change?" Uh . . . no. Please don't vengefully pee on me. But hey, you know, people gotta pee.

But perhaps not . . . well . . . inventively. Another day, this time on my way home from work, a fellow was taking a piss right outside the Capitol Hill library. His technique was, ah, innovative. Rather than the usual "huddle against a wall, go to it" method, this man rewrote the rules. He was standing near the sidewalk, his pants around his knees, and he was bent over at the waist. He had tucked his dick in between his legs, Jame Gumb style, so his dick was pointing backwards under his ass and clenched between his thighs, and his urine described an unlovely parabola from its point of origin directly onto the sidewalk. His female companion watched this display clinically, and they gabbled incomprehensibly, exchanging baffling syllables animatedly. I wondered if David Lynch was directing a scat video, and hurried along, despite the realization that even that would be better than Mulholland Drive.

The final tale to relate rests on the sorta-kinda reputation that Seattle has for its laughably strict no-jaywalking laws. For years I heard tales of people getting cited for UNLAWFUL STREET CROSSING, mostly of the friend-of-a-friend type, so I never gave them much credence. Until one morning.

I was waiting at a light as I made my way to work; traffic was minimal at best. Olive and Bellevue was deader than a thousand corpses, and so I made my way across, not noticing the cop car idling at the light behind me. He pulled up alongside me with full lights and a BLAP on the siren; already I was filled with disdain. Oh, for God's sake, I thought. I'm public enemy number nine hundred and five.

"You know why I pulled you over?" he asked. I refrained from letting him know that I was already on the sidewalk. Where was he going to "pull me over"? Into someone's apartment?

"I guess because I walked against the signal," I said. I noted sadly that he had alongside him, at seven in the morning, a Subway sandwich larded with pepperoncinis. I mastered the urge to ask him how his divorce proceedings were going.

"Yep. That's seventy-four dollars, you know." He said this in flat tones that mirrored the state of his depressing sandwich.

"I'm sure sorry," I replied. "I was just trying to get to work. I'm a few minutes late."

He seemed to survey me for a few moments, trying to gauge my smartass factor, which, when it comes to cops, is nil. Why fuck them around? It's only going to mean woe.

He said, "Would you have done that if you'd have seen me first?"

This struck me as really puzzling. Would I have crossed illegally had I noticed the cop car? Of course not. (Lord knows I'm too much of a moron to be trusted with something as complicated as crossing the fucking street on my own, officer! I need the government's aid for this perplexing task!) He seemed to be asking whether or not I was just a feeb or some kind of loony anarchist street-crosser.

"No, sir, I don't think so," I replied. "Like I say, I was just in a hurry to get to work." Like most of us are murdering ourselves to get into the office.

He scowled at me like the SCUMBAG I OBVIOUSLY WAS. Then he said, weirdly, "Seventy-four dollars!" again, as a further warning. And took off.

This is like the most petty thing ever, but my Christ . . . that cop has inspired me to walk on every stupid light I ever see.

Wednesday, 01 September
House, Divided

When it came time to leave the college dorms--O bliss--I and two friends inherited a two-story house called, unimaginatively, The Pit. Its virtues included proximity to campus (two blocks), hilariously low rent, and countless structural defects. The latter doesn't sound like a real perk, but it really was, since these horrifying code violations also resulted in a landlord who was supremely unconcerned with the various depredations visited upon the unfortunate house, as long as it meant he wasn't bothered in any material way. The most agitated I ever saw the man--and I saw him rarely--was when our toilet fell through the rotting bathroom floor, and even then he stared at the debris with a kind of weary unsurprise. My roommates and I spent an exciting couple of weeks navigating the bathroom by hopping from 2x12 to 2x12, which is challenging even when one is sober.

One roomie was J., an agreeable, curly-haired Euroweenie pop enthusiast; he would excitedly show you his collection of 12" dance remixes. Improbably, he also actually had a couple girlfriends, both disturbing in their own ways. One was A., the tragically late but yet nascent free-lover; she was noted for her curt summations of current lovers. Of J. she confided in me once, "His dick is so fucking huge. Sometimes I can't even face it." This made me think of her as Indiana Jones, lying on her stomach, fearfully confronting a giant rising snakelike penis, an image that haunts me still.

(I think our favorite girlfriend of J.'s was another J., who was dubbed "The Pod," for her tendency to lie around all day on the couch, buried under blankets. The Pod was interesting not only for her profound inactivity, but also for her mysterious powers. You see, when we would go to class, The Pod would already be lying there on the couch, watching TV. "Bye," she'd say listlessly. Then we would come home, and The Pod, again, was immobile on the couch. But the house was magically, somehow, cleaner. N., the other roommate, and I talked about this. N. would say, "The Pod kind of freaks me out." And I would say, "I know. But it cleans. All J. has to do is pat her head in the morning and then leave. Then it somehow cleans." N. thought about this. "We must not fuck with The Pod," he declared.)

N. didn't really hang out a lot (though we remained good friends for years); he was largely preoccupied by his rather astonishingly annoying girlfriend E., who was (really) given to machine-gun-like statements such as, "N. do you think she's cute? Do you think she's cuter than me?" Then we would watch N.'s neck get red as she harangued him about the nothing he had said. The most salient anecdote I can remember of their entire relationship was (as related to me by N.) when they were sitting on her sofa watching TV. E. had just emerged from the shower and was reclining in her robe; N. noticed something on her thigh. "Oh, you've got a little string here, honey," said N., and proceeded to unintentionally pull out her tampon. Yay!

So the three of us moved into the house, taking it over from the previous occupants, three female students. I was quickly disabused of my notions that girls are cleaner than men. When I started putting clothes into my closet, I noted a shelf devoted to a large collection of canned soups that had been left behind inexplicably by D., the room's previous owner. I wondered if D. were some sort of forlorn militia of one, silently stockpiling nourishment in case martial law suddenly befell Felony Flats (as our neighborhood was affectionately known). The shower was an unmitigated horror, and featured only two clean, white spots in the entire plaque-armored interior, which were feet-shaped spots on the floor. We fellows regarded these basically as instructions to "Stand Here," and kept up the proud tradition of not cleaning anything. Also in the bathroom we found a companion lurking in the corner: it was a semi-translucent little blob that proved singularly impervious to all known forms of physical, chemical or mystical attack. We were informed later by a biology student that the thing was called a "plasmodium." It was there when we came, and it was there when we left. I hacked at it one boring afternoon with a paint scraper, and I swear I could hear it jeering at me. I'm guessing it's still there.

What really sealed the whole "chicks are pigs too" deal for us, though, was when it came to the fridge. N. and I opened it on our inauguration day and stared at some condiments and not much else. Typical student stuff. The thing was, it smelled pretty damn bad, and we uncharacteristically decided to clean it before loading in our groceries (read: beer). So the first thing I did was to reach down at the very bottom to grab the drip tray, where all the crap that falls down collects, and where all the excess moisture ends up. I knew it was going to be horrible--these things always are--but I was utterly unprepared for what revealed itself.

The tray was heavy, and I realized that the girls had never once even touched it, if they knew it was there. "The thing's filled with fucking nasty water," I thought, which was true. What I couldn't foresee was the thick blanket of dead houseflies that covered every centimeter of the brimming tray. My mind reeled as I brought this horror out from the fridge, refusing to acknowledge this insectile charnel-house, and I stared at it unbelievingly. How the fuck did all these flies get in here? It was like a tiny Jonestown. Finally, unable to deal at all, I gently set the awful thing down on the kitchen floor and ran outside to vomit convulsively. N. ended up being the hero and gingerly brought the tray outside to dump. He tried valiantly to lure the neighbor's yappy dog over to soak the beast with the noisome liquid, but had to settle for merely befouling her rosebed with the fly-brine.

With The Pit's closeness to campus, it quite unsurprisingly became a magnet for sudden parties or unnanounced dropins. My good friend D. once came by during finals, clutching a twelve-pack of beer. I was sitting on the scabrous couch we inherited from the girls, and was working my way glumly through a six-inch stack of various papers I had to do. "D.," I protested, "no. I've got to get this shit done." I waved at the daunting stack. "No problem," replied D. twinklingly. He put the beer down on my stuff. "We work from the top down."

Another time, during another impromptu party, my girlfriend at the time became exceedingly drunk, and therefore vulnerable to attacks intended to maim, which she seemed to invite: someone shoved her down the stairs. She bonelessly and agreeably jounced down the stairs with great velocity, finally impacting on the crispy wall below, producing a rather giant hole in the plaster. N. and I acted fast, and quickly put a poster up over the maw, reasoning that what we couldn't see surely couldn't hurt us.

The next weekend, someone inexplicably smeared pumpkin all over the poster, and when we couldn't bear the smell any more, we had to remove it, forcing us to the realization that something more substantial had to be done--even our willfully blind landlord surely couldn't ignore a gaping span of emptiness in one of his walls. Lacking money, but not ingenuity, N. and I came up with a solution: we stapled several used Domino's pizza boxes together and shoved them into the wall until it was flush, then liberally spackled the whole fucking thing over. A paint job later, and we had a new wall.

Lord, I could go on for pages. One more. Another night, another party, heigh-ho, whatever. The next morning I awoke with an unsurprisingly indignant bladder; I headed downstairs to use the bathroom (by now refloored, hallelujah). On my way through the living room, I noticed something in the corner over by the phone stand. I couldn't tell what the hell it was, so I crept up to it cautiously, inching closer and closer to identify it. (I am myopic in the extreme.) I screwed up my eyes to examine the damn thing. What the fuck?

Finally, my brain took it in. There was, on my carpet, a single well-formed turd, of goodish length and heft, about eight inches long. The world was still for a moment.

Then I screamed bloody murder. J! I howled. N.! GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE! It was no use screaming for N.; he was off at his girlfriend's, presumably being browbeaten in some unfortunate way. J., however, was upstairs, and evidently wrangled his gargantuan dick into some shorts and loped downstairs. "DID YOU SHIT ON THE FUCKING RUG?" I screamed. He stared at the hideous, recumbent mass for a moment. "Is that a turd?" he blearily wondered. I went to the kitchen in a storm to gather an entire roll of paper towels, wishing for a biohazard suit. I eventually collected the awful thing and vengefully hurled it into the neighbor's rosebed; her yappy dog remonstrated at me while I stalked back into the house.

The thing was, I was the last person to bed that night. I personally booted the stragglers out before flopping into bed, and I knew that I didn't commit that horrible deed. I spent the next couple days blasting through doorways and confronting people terribly: "TELL ME YOU DIDN'T SHIT ON MY RUG!" Then I would examine their reactions, all detective-like. Pathetic. Most people reacted predictably. "What? You're insane. Get away from me."

I never did find out who laid the Immaculate Turd. I guess I never will. But I'll bet it's still there, in the neighbor's rosebed. Like the plasmodium. And the pizza boxes, entombed in our wall. And, maybe, some soup cans.

I'll bet it's all still there.

Tuesday, 27 July
At The River

For a couple summers in high school, I worked at a river rafting company. My father was working there at the time, and he got me a job schlepping shit around, washing rigs, occasionally driving here and there; your basic scut work. Whatever.

By the second summer, they had started to think about grooming me for a spot as a river guide, which now seems utterly hilarious: I was, then as now, a puny endomorph ectomorph (I am incapable of keeping those terms straight), ill equipped either mentally or physically to challenge Ma Nature in all her roaring, spuming glory. River guides essentially row all fucking day long, pausing now and then to heroically battle whitewater rapids that are trying to hurl you into hidden rocks. Then at night, you have to cook everyone's fucking dinner. I was a kid who liked crossword puzzles and had a disturbing affinity for Arby's.

But when do adults ever notice anything about teenagers that isn't some sort of weird projection laced with no small amount of hostility? "Look at that little turd," I imagine them thinking. "He needs some growing up! And responsibility!" Yeah, because teens take to that shit like ducks to water. This is like playfully throwing a live grenade at Bill Buckner and shouting, "Think fast!"

Nevertheless, I began going on short trips, learning the whitewater biz. This was, of course, more fun than job: spend the day on the rapids, help out the main guide with some light cooking duties, haul some shit for the customers, done. I did this a while, and then the owner asked me if I was ready for "the next step." Is there ever a good way for an employee to answer this question in the negative? "Sorry, boss, no . . . I'm actually happy just marking time." "No thanks! I'm really very slow, and I can barely keep up with what I've got now."

The "next step" turned out to be quite the step: it was a six-day extended river trip down the Salmon River. I was to be at the aid of S., the only real guide for the trip, as it was, unusually, for only two customers. (Most long trips were composed of either large groups or several small groups scheduled together to defray costs, which were prohibitive. For one couple to book a dedicated trip for only themselves must have cost a mint.) However, as a sop to get me going along, I could also ask a friend of mine to go on the trip as well, gratis, with the agreement that we would both be helpers to S. This sounded too cool. Six days of whitewater rafting with a buddy? Why the fuck not? So I asked my pal Chad if he was interested. He sure was.

(Normally I don't give out first names here, just because nobody I know needs to be associated with my dumb site by name. However, some time ago, I learned--at a catastrophic ten-year high school reunion, actually, but that's another story--Chad got eaten alive by bone cancer at the ripe old age of 26, so I don't think he'll mind. Chad, my man, I'm sorry--I'm working on the cancer thing, buddy, though too late for you. But stories never die, so here's one of yours for you.)

So Chad and I went on the six-day trip, with fearless S. at the helm. Our two customers, a middle-young couple from Chicago, seemed mirthful and giddy at the outset; almost like newlyweds. Their names totally escape me, so let's call them Fuckface and Dingbat, appellations which might indicate some of what was to come later.

One of the first things you should understand about reputable river trips is a cardinal rule: Pack it in, pack it out. You heard me: everything. Including the various unfortunate glops and jellies that the body regularly harfs out as it must. To this end (har har), Chad and I set up, maintained, and carried around a giant military ammo can (everyone's stuff was packed in these, as they are watertight and indestructible) filled with the group's undifferentiated, roiling shit. S., needless to say, was delighted with our help in this area. "Time to pack up the head, boys!" he'd crow, eyeing Fuckface as he was feebly groping Dingbat in the morning before we got underway. We'd trudge over to the giant ammo can, and couldn't help ourselves but to stare hopelessy inside every morning; we couldn't help it. It was like looking at a train wreck. One morning, Fuckface called after us: "Sorry, guys! If it makes you feel better, I'm still burnin'!"

Fuckface rapidly became The Enemy. Dingbat was slightly less offensive, mainly due to her penchant for exceedingly tiny bikinis. It became ever more horrifying to watch Fuckface paw shamelessly at the shrilly giggling Dingbat as the trip went on, mainly because Fuckface was so tirelessly idiotic.

Fuckface had really only two modes of conversation: Aggressive Interrogation and Mysterious Boasting. Both modes were utterly intolerable, and Chad and I learned early on to respect S.'s boundless patience when dealing with Fuckface, which was nearly constantly.

Mysterious Boasting was uniquely horrible in that it was a sort of tireless litany involving Fuckface's various business victories that nobody understood, including Dingbat, whom we privately doubted understood much of anything. For Dingbat was the sort of woman that could be fascinated by bark molds, briefly, before some other weird mind-flare eclipsed that bit of ephemeral interest, and she moved on blithely, adjusting her bikini in fascinating ways. This was probably why she and only she could be kept seemingly rapt by the Mysterious Boasting of Fuckface, an interminable monologue of unbelievable sameness: Fuckface was mostly proud of the innumerable ways in which he had fucked over his customers. And he told everyone about this, all the time. On one particularly heat-stroky afternoon, lolling about in the raft, Fuckface was retelling a story about how his customers were all avaricious dust-fuckers and could all eat several dicks, or something. Chad and I stared at the sky hopelessly, and S. rowed on, ever stoic, and then I heard myself say, "Yeah, fuck the customers." The raft went silent, and I could feel Fuckface staring at me, but he seemed at a loss as to what to say. A few minutes later, he resumed his tirade, and I looked over at Chad, and observed that he wore a tight smile, and that a small tear was escaping his sunglasses. S. rowed on serenely as ever and fixed me with a look that suggested that I might be in charge of the shitcan for the next few nights.

As for Fuckface's Aggressive Interrogation, this was even more strange. All I can do is offer examples.

Fuckface: (Spying a bird in the sky) Hey, S., what kind of bird is that?

S: (Looking up) How about that. It's a bald eagle.

F: (Pondering) No, it isn't.

S: (Slowly) I'm pretty sure it is.

F: No. That's not an eagle.

Note, now, that Fuckface was about as woodsy as Bob Newhart. He didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. He was just being Fuckface. Another example (I swear to God these are true):

F: (We're on shore, touring an old, abandoned ranch; he spies a woodshed) Wow! Hey, S.! How much wood could that thing hold?

S: (Examining) Oh, I guess about ten cords.

F: (Pondering, then, with finality) No, it wouldn't.

Again: Fuckface, I am certain, had no bloody idea what a cord of wood even was, much less any eye for the storage capacity of a woodshed. It was simply his paid-for right to be correct on any given question that might come up on the trip, because, well, he was Fuckface, and S. was just some dumb hick. It blew us away.

One memorable highlight of the trip was S. explaining to us that we'd be taking a mid-day break at a place with a hot spring. It was, he said, regularly frequented by naked people. Chad and I spent most of the afternoon furtively clinging to rocks, spying on the, yes, many, many naked people innocently frolicking in the warm pools of water. For two boys whose exposure to naked people had been entirely through pornography, this was, well, weird. Hairy people with bellies and remarkable sags: we were horrified and entranced. Fuckface and Dingbat hung back by the raft, unwilling to participate; in Dingbat's case, this disappointed us, but we were thankful not to see a naked Fuckface, who, with his ratlike moustache, we realized resembled a kind of malignant Gallagher.

On the final evening of our trip--where, to S.'s woe, Fuckface scattered salad makings on the beach in an attempt to attract mountain goats, as if they were placid zoo beasts that he could pet--S. appeared suddenly with glasses in his hand for Chad and me. They were filled with Tequila Sunrises; Fuckface and Dingbat were wrestling awkwardly in the river surf. "Here's to our last night with these goddamn shitheads." His bloodshot eyes attested to his helpless inability to keep away from the sauce on this final night of our hellish trip with these people, who continued to quack and slosh in the water. "I'm going to beat that fucker with an oar if he tells us any more stories," S. gasped.

Everyone got loaded that night, and Dingbat performed a strangely disjointed and unerotic dance at one point (from our point of view), finally collapsing onto the sand into an untidy heap. Fuckface, ever the hero, wandered away from the heap of limbs that was his companion, and defecated audibly into the distant ammo can, occasionally crying out, "Wow!" at his efforts. "Wow!" Chad and I looked dismally at each other, anticipating the awful morning to come. S. beamed at our misery as Fuckface stumbled back to camp. "What's'at tree?" asked Fuckface truculently, pointing at nothing at all. S. glanced around patiently and said, probably making it up, "That's a cedar." Fuckface stared. "No, it ain't," he said decisively. We went to bed.

Some months later, the trip only a memory (though comedy gold for Chad and myself), we found this out: Fuckface was some sort of quasi-executive at his Chicago company, and Dingbat was his secretary. (If I were making this up, I would be more inventive, I swear.) They were both married, but not, as they say, to each other. And better, Fuckface had used company funds to finance the entire trip. And last we heard, both were out of a job, and both were out of a marriage.

I try to imagine Fuckface explaining this to his panicky lawyers.

Lawyer: Okay, Fuckface. We need to get your side of this.

Fuckface: Awright. First of all, who is this Dingbat person?

L: Uh . . . she's your mistress. Everyone knows this. She's your secretary. You took her to Idaho on a river trip.

F: (Pondering, then with finality) No, I didn't.

(The lawyers cast glances at one another.)

I can just see it. In a fairer world, so could Chad. Tequila Sunrises all around.

Tuesday, 13 July
Alive, He Cried

On my way home from work today, I ran into a particular fellow who is an acquaintance of mine. He's tangentially involved in the "theater scene," sort of, and is well known for his, uh . . . "proclivity" for . . . erm . . . well . . . "drinking." He's basically someone that whenever he comes up in conversation, you can hear the scare quotes. And this is me saying this.

I didn't see him at first, because he was across the street from me, but I soon heard, "Skot! Skot!" and looked over to behold him skittering across the busy street like an agitated chicken, dodging angry, bleating cars. Presently he arrived at my side of the street and stared at me liquidly with kelp-colored eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asked, weirdly emphasising the last word, as if he had caught me doing something shamefully illicit. I looked at myself briefly to make sure I wasn't absentmindedly wandering around with my cock hanging out or something before answering. "Just walking home!" I said, too heartily. Like when you bellow at crazy people as if they were somehow hard of hearing, or maybe just particularly immune to bonhomie. He blinked languidly. I said, "And you?" He fixed me with a strange grin. "I'm vandalizing the neighborhood!" he hissed, and produced some stickers. "Want a sticker?"

Boy, do I! I totally didn't scream in my head. In truth, I was rattled. He looked terrible. He didn't seem quite in charge of his body, as if he were receiving somatic instructions from Altair, and there was perhaps some signal degradation. His skin tone also was of a queer hue, as if he had been built out of some strange filler ingredient that you see on junk food labels, like carageenan or guar gum. His hands shook slightly as he unpeeled some stickers to give me, and for some reason I noticed his palms were weirdly, shockingly pink; the color of Bazooka gum, or certain dogs' assholes.

We made some more vaguely comprehensible small talk about various shows around town, but I was preoccupied with the thought that normally, this fellow was legendary for being almost impossible to get in touch with. Friends have traded stories of unbelievable frustrations about this guy, all revolving around his incredible talent for being extraordinarily elusive when it comes to contacting him. Then, today, I'm innocently walking home, and he all but crawls out of a manhole and grabs my leg.

This is really the wrong image I need to take with me as I go to sleep. Walking home happily, and then being clawed by some strange thing erupting from the nether depths. "I'm made of guar gum and beet greens!" he is going to shriek in my dreams, this alarming, hungry C.H.U.D.

"Want a sticker?"

Boy, do I!

Monday, 07 June
Boy Versus Car

Growing up in a small town in Idaho, finding fun things to do with one's spare time was generally a challenge, and let's face it, rolling hoops with a stick or even shooting countless thing with BB guns gets pretty old pretty fast. The problem became worse once you hit high school, because really, high schoolers are evil little fucks with nearly boundless energy and frequent spasms of hopeless idiocy. You see the problems that can happen once you give the little bastards some car keys. But every parent does, at some point--God knows why. Then, all of a sudden, there's things to do.

Remember, however, this was a small town in Idaho. So "doing stuff," by our faulty, limited barometers, meant much less than it might to some. In the absence of genuinely interesting-to-teenagers stuff--video games, cable TV, urban unrest--our "doing stuff" mostly consisted of driving around, usually--it was devoutly to be hoped--while drinking beer.

What a really great idea. Drunk kids operating heavy machinery.

My first car was a really hilariously ugly blue Chevy Monza. It had this leatherette-y material that sheathed the top of the car, and it was stricken by some awful mange; my friends delighted in peeling raddled strips of the stuff off my car while I yelled at them. They rightly ignored me; it would be like telling them to not poke a corpse with a stick. Boys ruin things, and my car begged to be ruined.

One night while out in my car, driving listlessly through the dirt roads that spread everywhere beyond town limits--and where cops almost always weren't--we drank beer and listened to music and hassled each other. (If this sounds boring, it almost certainly was; the thing is, it beat utter inertia.) At some point, coming up on a turn, we spied a pickup truck parked by the side of the road. We were able to identify it immediately, of course; we knew pretty much every vehicle in town as well as who owned them. This one belonged to D., an upperclassman who while normally docile, had been known when piqued to unhesitatingly kick ass. We rolled up cautiously and said, "Hey, D. What's up?"

He stared at us flatly and took a drink of beer, saying nothing. The silence spun out ominously. We tried again. "So, out cruisin', huh?" Silence. D. took another pull on his beer. He didn't seem to be in a very good mood, and we were probably pissing him off by bothering him. He continued to stare at us intently, and I began to mentally evaluate who of us in the car was the fastest; I knew I could beat a couple of my friends in a footrace, so hopefully D. would expend all his beatdown energies on them.

Suddenly, D. crumpled his beer can and tossed it into the grass. Then he said, "Hang on," and opened his pickup door. Oh, fuck, here we go, I thought. He's going to pull us out of the car and bend us into terrible shapes.

But he didn't get out of the pickup. He calmly leaned out the door and emitted a powerful jet of acrid vomit onto the dirt. Then he sat back up in his seat again, pulling the door shut.

"Was waitin' for that. I could feel it." D. opened a fresh beer. "What's going on tonight?" he asked cheerfully. "Out cruisin'?"

Wednesday, 02 June
Their Otis Wants To Party All The Time

Back to work today after five sweet days of freedom, and you can just call me Cap'n Ugh. Waking up at 7:00? Ugh. Feeling like death after drinking for eight hours the previous day? Ugh. Fielding calls about gastric tumors? CAP'N UGH! Fuck, I felt like a gastric tumor. Which doesn't go over well with co-workers. "Hey, Skot, how you doing?" "I feel like a gastric tumor." "Ugh!" "Yes, that's me, but please address me as 'Cap'n.' Honorifics are all I've got today."

We threw an overdue housewarming party on Memorial Day, you see, hence this week's excuse for drinking for eight hours. We planned everything perfectly! Except for the part where the condo also threw a big party for all the tenants to celebrate our new refurbished deck. Fuck. So right outside our sliding glass door was an enormous, slow-moving party attended by the various geriatrics who live around me, slowly conga-lining while waving their canes rapturously. And that guy in 4D! He really tarted up his iron lung for the occasion. Really, though, the best thing was watching my guests try and find our place: see, the condo party was based in the rec room next door to ours, so my guests kept wandering in there, mistaking it for our party, only to be confronted by people like Googly-Eyed Man Who Will Not Say Hello and Boisterous Board Member Who Wears Coconut Bikinis. Our guests soon realized their horrible mistake, and usually emerged looking rather shattered by the encounter, and I of course laughed at their misfortune. This may explain the utter lack of housewarming gifts.

The party went very well, and exceeded our every expectation, as I think 40 or 50 people cycled in and out before the evening was done. We had prepared a taco feed, with homemade margaritas and Bloody Marys, and these were all mercilessly pillaged with the unsurprising ferocity and raw speed you commonly find in a whole bunch of stage actors. Actors, you see, have no useful real-world talents, and thus tend to find themselves enmired in horrifying, unrewarding, low-paying jobs, and so tend to regard free food and booze in the same way that starving cougars think of free range babies. I'm generalizing, of course. Not all actors are dumb meat-golems who donate plasma every month in order to afford rice. Some are debauched, scabby deviants who somehow miraculously stumble into jobs that they are supremely undeserving of, yet through some manner of baffling hoodoo, manage to retain. I cite, of course, me.

Anyway. At some point, a couple of the wife's work-friends showed up, and they brought their little two-year-old Otis. (Normally, I wouldn't use his name, but come on, he's named Otis. That's outstanding.) Otis didn't really care about anything going on around him, least of all stuporous, fumbling adults, but did really enjoy this weird alligator toy that shimmies along the ground. He also enjoyed punching random buttons on my home electronics, which earned him a soft tackle from Dad, as he nearly reprogrammed my DVD player to endlessly loop "Thirteen Erotic Ghosts" with subtitles in Farsi. We attempted to fascinate the child by throwing on some DVDs of The Muppet Show, which he immediately dismissed in favor of more alligator shimmy-action, so that left the rest of us glumly watching Elton John singing "Crocodile Rock," at least until they showed closeups of Animal maniacally smashing his drum kit, which elicited cheers. I am deeply wary of anyone who doesn't like Animal.

Later, another friend decided to hook up the GameCube and play some Resident Evil. Weirdly, people enjoyed watching this as well, particularly when the player was savagely eaten by a zombie. It's kind of freaky watching an entire living room's worth of people get enthusiastic about arterial spray. Apparently tired of being hapless zombie-dinner, she switched to Spider-Man, and entertained us a bit longer by routinely making Spidey fall to his death with substandard webslinging skills. Finally, my friend C. took over the reins, and loaded in some awful Star Wars game I bought early on. I told him, "That one's really hard, dude." But C. was very confident. C. was also terribly mistaken, and I watched him plow several pixilated X-wing fighters into unforgiving earth.

Finally, the partygoers cleared out, one by one, and the wife and I puttered about, did some dishes, et cetera. Our next door neighbor--a very nice gay man--tottered over to our place to congratulate us on a nice event, and enthusiastically offered to help us out if we ever needed help "gardening"--a rather mystifying offer, considering that our deck is solid concrete, so I suppose he meant our wan, straining plants that sit blinking in their unflashy, crummy pots outside our door. To emphasize his depth of feeling on the matter, our neighbor (who was really quite crocked on red wine) kissed me enthusiastically on the cheek. "I'll buy the soil!" he muzzily assured me, waving vaguely at my horrible little plants. Oh, hot pants! You kiss me with that mouth?

Really, the whole evening was so dynamic and interesting, I've decided to immortalize it in a comic book. Look for the new title "Cap'n Ugh," distributed by Shimmying Alligator press. We've got this great editor. Otis.

You really can't go wrong with anyone named Otis. I just decided that.

Friday, 28 May
Idle Hands

Hello hello from No-Work-Land! I took a couple days off work because (a) a five-day vacation on Memorial Day weekend sounded just luscious, and (b) the IT staff is busy all weekend doing something incomprehensible like defrumulating the servers, or upgrading our bangsisters, or something. Anyway, the upshot is that all of our computer services are totally and completely hosed until Tuesday. I did have the option of going to work anyway--with NO COMPUTERS AT ALL, meaning no netsurfing or solitaire or even actual work--which would have meant doing really entertaining things like updating manual registration forms, or proofreading SOPs, or gloomily beating off in the restroom. No thanks. All of those things are exactly as boring as they sound, except for the beating off in the bathroom, which is really depressing as well as being boring. So I just bailed and took some time off.

I've already entertained myself by calling the bosslady and torturing her about what a good time I've been having. "What are you doing, Bosslady?" "I'm training Caftan Guy on forms development. What are you doing?" "I'm drinking a cognac and watching a baseball game. HA!" I could hear the Bosslady slump. "You bastard," she breathed. "I'm stuck here with Caftan Guy, and you're lounging around being a louche. I'm miserable." I felt badly for her. "Why?" I said. "He loves learning forms development! He's nothing like you--he's interested in learning his job! I can't stand it. He's ecstatic." She sounded like a broken woman, and I took pity. "Go tell him to go jerk off in the bathroom. It's incredibly depressing. He'll come back looking like a whipped dog."

I hung up and helped myself to more cognac, and then the wife and I watched the execrable movie The Transporter, which was so dire and wretched that I was immediately moved to drink more cognac. In a funk after this cinematic fumblefuck, I was moved to call work again and check in.

"Bosslady!" I cried, after she picked up; "How goes it with Caftan Guy?" She sounded calmer and a little smug. "It's fine. He came back from the restroom all red-faced and gloomy. He kept rubbing his hands on his green corduroys." I shuddered. When Caftan Guy eschewed his caftan, he usually chose sartorially suspect garments made of things like felt or crinoline. Once he came to work wearing only a thick coat of axle grease.

Bosslady continued. "The hell of it is, he's still trying to better himself. He clearly failed at the masturbation attempt--he looks like he saw Liza Minnelli in there--but he's still pestering me about manual registrations. I don't think I can take this any more."

I pityingly gave her the final solution. "Look. Go to a video store and rent The Transporter. I guarantee it will make him want to die. Nobody can function clearly after seeing that piece of horseshit."

"But you saw it!" she cried. "How do I know it'll work?"

I paused. "Listen. Compared to Caftan Guy, I'm Zeus. And look at what a paltry statement that is. Just show him the movie. I'm going to sit here and eat pickled beans and drink scotch. Actually, Jesus, I'm on vacation. Leave me the fuck alone, all right?"

I hated to be so abrupt, but come on--I'm on my own time.

Today's morning headlines concentrated on a man found dead, lying in his own filth, wearing a dashiki. He was only inches away from a television locked in an endless loop playing The Transporter. The victim had, as the stations reported, no eyes left after they had blasted outward onto the wall. The only comment from the recovering officer was, "It's really a shame . . . to die like that watching such crap. Jesus Christ, look at this boy's clothes. Horrible."

"But not as horrible as this goddamn movie. I paid nine bucks to see that shit. They played a sax solo, for God's sake, during that underwater scene. Christ, what a pile." The officer brushed away tears. "Look at this boy," he whispered again. "Dumb fucker. I'm surprised he isn't wearing a caftan."

Wednesday, 26 May
Mean Street

Last night the wife and I chose the venerated path of righteous laziness and decided to go out to to a local C-average Mexican restaurant rather than confront our rather denuded fridge. The path is not always an easy path.

For one thing, it's not so much a path when you drive there. Confronted with the choice of making the journey (a crushing 15 minute walk! Uphill! In the . . . balmy evening!), we wisely chose to take the car rather than risk anything like shin splints, rapid breaths, or exertion of any kind. We went down to the garage and climbed into our sad, embarrassed car, which huddles amongst the gleaming SUVs, BMWs and assorted other beautiful vehicles, trying not to be noticed.

In the Harry Potter books, which I have been reading lately (I have this thing about resisting literary phenomenons until the fire has died down--it's stupid), and enjoying, the little wiz-kiddies all have wonderful pet familiars, such as Harry's gorgeous owl or Hermione's disturbingly ugly (but nimble) cat.

In this context, our car is Ron Weasley's narcoleptic, tatterdemalion rat named Scabbers. The rat, I mean, is named Scabbers. Our car is named "car." But I might secretly start calling it Scabbers as a tribute.

I kind of get off on Scabbers. The rat. The car, eh, not so much.

Anyway. We drove up to 15th and found some parking, and I locked up Scabbers, who sat there looking forlorn as usual, with his ass pointing right at a shiny white sports car. Be proud, Scabbers! Your ass is literally right up in that fucker's grill. (I think ill of people who have nice cars, mainly out of purest jealously. I'd like to have a nice car, but I'd really rather not pay for it. So in the end, it's much easier--not to mention vastly cheaper--to simply resent people I've never met.)

And so we walked a block or so, heading towards the restaurant; I had visions of Cadillac margaritas tickling my skull, which probably made me careless. Normally, I'd be more adept at picking up danger signals, but not that night. We approached a coffee shop, whose doors were flung wide, and patrons spilled out onto the sidewalk, sitting at little round tables. They were all looking inside, not having individual conversations or anything: they were being attentive to something.

I failed to pick up on all these dire clues, and before I knew it, I was writhing on the sidewalk, screaming in agony. You see, the coffee shop was having an open mic poetry night. And I walked right into its awful-rays emanating from the open doors. "Bone in the night/And brass in the day/She ate my hair then/Parchment will not stay." I saw a young man with curly hair saying this into the microphone, and I flopped about like a mackerel, horribly aware that I had let my guard slip. The wife, clearly enjoying my tendon-snapping throes, laughed gaily at my misery; she's a peach, but every now and then she gets back at me for my habit of fraudulently insisting that she is "stinky." This was one of those times, and she cackled as I wailed: "MAKE HIM STOP! THIS IS 2004! ALL THE COFFEEHOUSE POETRY READERS SHOULD HAVE BEEN MURDERED BY NOW!"

My bad assumption. The torture continued. "Slippery night/Overbite/I remember Ted Knight." I beat the sidewalk helplessly with flailing arms, inadvertantly achieving a rather nice 7/8 rhythm that was lost on the rest of the onlookers, who soon turned away from my suffering for more, more ghastly verse. "Deep under the night-awning, I surrendered to mercy/Before emerging once more to clean the soul-gutters/That were so beautifully filled with weeping leaves of light/It is a rape." I confess without shame that it was here I passed out.

The wife told me later that she finally took pity on me--being unconscious and all--and rescued me by kicking me stoutly in the ribs until I had rolled out of earshot of the poetrocities. I woke up in the restaurant, staring at a plate of crisp tacos and a nicely sweating glass full of margarita.

"You blacked out," she said nonchalantly. "Eat your tacos."

"I don't know if I can eat after that," I whined. "Plus, my ribs hurt to fuck."

"Poetry," she replied in a wintry tone, "it can fuck you up. The old guys knew that. Maybe you learned something tonight."

I sure did. I can make my own goddamn tacos at home from now on.

Wednesday, 28 April
Pantheon And On

God: All right, settle down, folks. Let's bring this to order.

Zeus: Listen, I'm sorry, but seriously, I have to bring this up again. (Everyone else moans.) Seriously! Why is this fucking guy always in charge?

God: Demographics. I'm a wise old white guy. And, of course, American. Duh. Let's move on. How did we do today?

Vishnu: Pretty rad. I fucked up all kinds of shit.

Allah: (Desolately) Yeah, rad. Thanks a whole fucking lot for that. (Allah slumps.)

Buddha: Hey, don't go there, man. It's all good.

Allah: It was just another pisser of a day. Jesus Christ. (There is an awkward pause. To God:) Look, sorry about that, but you really are kind of a dong, you know?

God: (Mildly) I get that a lot.

Apollo: Yeah, well, don't mind me. I just pulled the fucking sun around all goddam day. Again. Do you have any idea how much vacation time I have piled up?

Prometheus: (His liver is being eaten by vultures.) Oh, yes, cry me a river, tan-boy.

Brahma: (Serenely) The wheel spins. All that is will become again.

Jerry Garcia: Yeah! Right on!

Zeus: I'm going to ask again: What the fuck is this guy doing here?

God: It was him or Eric Clapton, first to die wins. There you go.

Bacchus: Look, I don't give a shit, but he can't play any more, all right? It's impossible to keep a boner going with this burnout fumbling through "Truckin'."

Aphrodite: (Drily) Yes. Your poor "boners." You have it real tough. (She glares at Haephestus, who is picking his teeth with a Raelian. She laughs despite herself.) Haef, what are you doing?

Haephestus: What? These guys are totally disposable.

God: All right! Let's rein it in! First on the agenda is . . . (he looks) ugh. Seattle? Didn't I wipe those geeks and junkies out?

Buddha: Harsh.

Balder: Uh, sorry, that was me. (Everyone stares at him.) What? Ever since Boeing split, they make some quality combs. You have no idea how hard it is to find a good comb.

Zeus: Listen, we made some progress today. I understand that Thor kicked some serious ass.

Thor: Yeah, I made a windstorm. That was fucking tough. Tomorrow I hope to complete a children's crossword.

God: All right, settle down. Give me the skinny. Did shit get fucked up? Loki?

Loki: Oh, hell yeah! I knocked down Kurruk's plant!


Vishnu: Are you serious?

Loki: Yeah! That Skot guy? He's a tool. So I knocked over a peony. Soil went everywhere! It was kind of barky soil, too.

Allah: (Venemously) Gee, I hope he didn't shoot himself out of despair.

Loki: (Defensively) Well . . . he kind of glared.

Zeus: Oh, Loki. When did you lose your talent for this job?

Loki: I've been a little depressed since Friends got cancelled.

Haephestus: (Out of nowhere) You know what's also good for picking your teeth? Mormons. Mormons are pointy.

(There is a vast silence.)

Haephestus: Well, they are.

Thursday, 15 April
You Can't Spell "Piss" Without I, S or P

Hey hey! Guess who has restored home access on his fossil of a computer? Thanks to the tireless efforts of George Clooney my friend P., the little iMac that decidedly couldn't now barely can. Yay!

Turns out that in the Big Data Catastrophe that occurred when the wife attempted the unheard-of task of emailing a document to someone, the bloody fucking Earthlink configuration went all blooey. (Well, among other things. I myself undertook the Herculean task of resetting the modem . . . uh . . . stuff. At one point, I addressed it as "You whore." I talk to modems.) This whole fucking thing was so incredibly opaque not only to me, but also to friend P., who remarked, "I don't have any idea what happened here." This is to me a total summation of all things broken-computery. Imagine meeting a surgeon after he's operated on your kid: "I don't have any idea what happened here." "But is he okay?" "Oh, yeah, he's fine. It was the coolest thing. He was just about to die, but then I put a walnut in his shoe." "What?" "Yeah, I don't know either, but it worked. He's outside playing soccer; you can go pick him up."

One result of this capacitorial voodoo was me resolving to get rid of the Earthlink account. So I went to their site to cancel my account, reasoning with no small amount of idiocy that they were conversant with the usefulness of the Internet. Not at all! "To cancel your account, call this number." Of course. I knew what was coming: the hard sell to not drop the account. Some companies are just galling as shit. It's like going shopping, and then being met by someone standing in front of the door. "Are you sure you're done? You didn't get any watercress!" "I don't want any watercress." "Wait here. I'll get you some discount watercress."

Sure enough. After an interminable hold period, which, unbelievably, made me nostalgic for the days of soft jazz--now it's "DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THESE NEW FEATURES? I MIGHT COME IN MY PANTS JUST TELLING YOU ABOUT THEM! AND I'M ONLY A RECORDING!"--I got an actual human. "I need to cancel my account." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" "Ah--" "Please hold while I transfer you." Because of course I hadn't picked the right phone menu option. There's a reason for that. There is no menu option for canceling your account. So you just pick the least stupid of options, which is of course wrong. I waited and listened to the automated voices hector me about their fabulous services. To hear Earthlink's annoy-o-bots tell it, they'd come give me rapturous blowjobs for the right price.

Another alleged human eventually came on the line, and I told her I needed to cancel my account. She sounded exactly like the first woman: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask why?" I imagined her with puppy eyes, and of course lied. "My computer died rather spectacularly." "Oh, dear," she said. "You know, we can hold your account for a while at no charge . . ." Uh huh. Read: And we will activate the charges again in a few months. "Really, that's okay. I don't even like to talk about the crash. Many lives were lost. I should just cancel, thank you." But she was a pro. "Is there any way that we can help you? We have a big staff, maybe we can help you out with your crash. Let me ask you: do you need some fresh watercress?"

It was time to bring out the big guns. I jovially explained to her that the crash was actually very freeing, as it gave me an opportunity to use the innovative global communications method I had personally invented that involved a sophisticated system of amplified yodels and convulsive dance steps, all relayed by a complicated network of unemployed Bulgarian circus performers that I had cagily deployed all over the globe. She was unfazed.

"Mr. Kurruk," she breathed, "give Earthlink one last chance. I will personally come over to your house and suck the hair right off of your balls." I pointed out to her that I was recently married. "It's no problem," she replied, "she's just old meat. We here at Earthlink have killed for less. Have you visited our 'crush video' archives? Yesterday we filmed Marla Sokoloff getting a Buick dropped on her and streamed it live to our customers."

I thought about that for a while. Then I said, "I sure appreciate it. But I really ought to just cancel." I could almost hear her slump. "Yes, sir," she sighed. "I'll take care of that." I heard her typing, and I felt kind of bad. "I'm sorry," I said lamely. She brightened a bit. "Oh, it's okay. I feel bad too. You're missing out on some fucking stellar watercress."

Friday, 12 March
The (Non-BBC) Office

Tom sat nervously in his chair, facing the kind-faced doctor. He fidgeted a bit, looking gloomy. The doctor leaned forward.

"Please try not to worry," the doctor said consolingly. "We don't know anything yet. Would you like a beer?" He gestured at a row of taps on his desk. "The Mirror Pond is really nice. They're only four dollars."

Tom stared woefully at the taps and declined. "No thank you. I just want the results." HMOs were getting pretty weird in their hopeless battle against their image of utter rapacity and uncaringness towards their patients. Tom had already declined--twice--offers of complimentary peanuts.

"We should know soon. The pathology results will be in any moment." The doctor smiled again, and settled back in his leather chair.

"It's just this fucking lump," moaned Tom, "It's really got me worried."

"In your throat, you said," said the doctor. "It could be a lot of things. For example: have you had a traumatizing event recently? A cause for grief? These often manifest as a 'lump in the throat.' "

"Well . . . Wizzles died. My cat." Tom fought tears.

"Ah . . . a cat. Well, I can probably rule out simple grief, then. Cats are awful pets." The doctor smiled reassuringly as Tom stared at him. The doctor proudly tapped on the diploma framed behind him on the wall. "The Lithuanian Mob doesn't just hand out these medical licenses, you know."

Out the window facing the hallway, a sudden commotion broke out towards the pathology lab. The doctor stood up, while Tom chewed his tongue fearfully. "Here we go," said the doctor. "I think we have something." He moved towards an easel with a number of checkboxes on it. He grabbed a grease pencil.

Out of the path lab burst a number of young women. They looked terribly serious, and soon stopped after spotting the doctor eyeing them. One of them took out a red sweater and began waving it madly at the doctor. The doctor consulted his notes.

"I see! Ah . . . let me look here . . . okay, biopsy results are . . . oh, dear. Red sweater?" He looked again at the woman, and sighed. "Red sweater. I'm sorry, Tom. You apparently have B-cell follicular lymphoma." He checked the appropriate box with the grease pencil. "I'm sorry."

Tom felt like otters were gnawing on his ribs. "Jesus Christ. What? What the fuck are those people doing? Lymphoma?"

"Try to remain calm, Tom. Those are my assistants, just relaying the information as it comes in. Oh, now what is Tracy doing?" Tom glanced down the hall and saw a fetching young woman doing the Mashed Potato.

"Mashed Potato," muttered the doctor, poring over his charts. "Ah, basal cell carcinoma. That's no trouble. You just scrape that crap off. Are you sure you don't want a beer? It might be the last one you enjoy once the chemo starts." The doctor looked genuinely accomodating.

"Chemo?" Tom croaked. This was all going too fast, too badly, like an Adam Sandler movie.

"Oh, yes," cooed the doctor. "So far, you're very treatable. The standard regimen for what you've got is called CHOP. It's an acronym for several chemicals that I have a hard time remembering after my 'lunch.' " Here the doctor chuckled and made the "drinky-drinky" gesture. And depending on your CD20 positivity, we may throw in something kicky like Rituxan, which is really, you know . . . " He trailed off and made vague "big dick" gestures. "It's, like, wow." Tom was totally unnerved.

"CHOP? And . . . rit . . . rit . . . " he stammered.

"Rituxan. Or, using the shorthand, CHOP/R," the doctor said coolly.


"CHOP plus R," the doctor clarified. "I guess nobody could make a cool-sounding acronym out of C, H, O, P, R."

"How about PORCH?" Tom said helplessly, wondering if he was on some horrible, soulless FOX program.

The doctor shot him a wintry look. "PORCH is a terrible acronym for a chemo regimen. What's wrong with you?" His look of scorn shamed Tom, and he hung his head. "PORCH," spat the doctor with real hatred. "A word of advice: stay out of medicine, young man."

Tom sat miserably. He wished he had had that beer after all. There was another tumult down the hall, and he looked up. So did the doctor.

"Now Amber has something for me." He stared at another young woman. She wore some sort of handkerchief in her back pocket, and was frantically waving her ass at the doctor. His expression hardened. He looked at Tom.

"Did you see that? That handkerchief?" The doctor wore an ugly face on his ugly face. He was upset about something.

"Yes," Tom replied haltingly. "Is it more bad news?"

The doctor said stonily, "It's terrible news." He paused for dramatic effect. "You apparently are a bottom who enjoys fisting."

Tom slumped. Boy, he thought, I hate CNBC's health plan.

Monday, 20 October
Let Us Now Mourn Ape

As I've mentioned, I've been awfully busy lately rehearsing for the new show I'm working on that'll be going up in November. In the interest of demystifying things, I should report that our rehearsal location isn't actually a theater at all: it is, in fact, a decommissioned naval base. This isn't really too odd, really: most of the time, you're very lucky if you can rehearse in the actual space that the show is going to be performed (unless you're working at some large house with their own black box spaces to use): most of the time, you can't, because maybe there's another show going on at the same time, or they're using the space to display Eric Bogosian's amazing bra collection, or they're burning heretics, or whatever.

Anyway. The naval base is of course horrid--not in a "I'm going to die here" way, but more of a familiar "I'm going to get a respiratory infection here" way, which any actor is accustomed to--but it's a homey kind of horrid. For instance, the floor generates this amazing kind of nanodust that has a propensity for massing in the folds of your jeans and also under your fingernails, so that when you get home, you kind of want to energetically body-fuck a loofah. You just feel grimy.

And lending to the whole experience is the incredible plumbing of the place: today we all stared dangle-jawed as our rather large Brita filter utterly failed to transform the alarmingly yellow pipe-water into something slightly less piss-looking; long faces were to be seen drinking dismal, metallic tea. The whole affair seemed to darkly involve black magic somehow; I personally suspected the shade of Mordred, skulking around beyond our vision, surreptitiously and invisibly yanking out his sad, weathered penis and invisibly polluting our water.

I may be losing it.

And I hasten to say that I do not blame our good director for any of this--for one thing, I happen to know that she is one of my tens of readers, so let me just reiterate that I think she's just really corking--because it's not her fault. You rehearse where you can, and it's a considerable expense; plus, Equity (that is, the actors' labor union under whose rules she has chosen to operate) demands certain things, and she is doing her level best to comply.

Hilariously (to me), one of those things is a kind of provision for what amounts to a fainting couch; that is, Equity demands that a bed of sorts be provided should any actor suddenly be overcome by an attack of the vapors, or perhaps a sudden vast queasiness over one's life decisions, or what have you: at any rate, she is required to provide a reasonably clean place for some suddenly incapacitated actor to flop out. And she has.

In the back of the Room of the Navally Damned, there is a gigantic inflatable mattress for any of us to utilize should we all of a sudden succumb to the rigors of standing around and pretending to be other people: it is violently purple. I have come to love it. It is the most amazing color of purple; it actually looks like a giant Nexium lozenge when viewed at a certain angle. I stare at it a lot, because, well, I'm easily entertained.

My most recent fantasy about the enormous purple fainting pad is that it is, in reality, the funeral bier for Grape Ape. In the last week, I have imagined the sad death of Grape Ape many times.

I have thought about the actual text for the eulogy of Grape Ape.

Yes. I'm losing it.

Monday, 13 October
Chicken Little Big Man

My last post may have given some of my tens of readers the impression that I look down upon fast food workers; not so. That they are shitty, brain-mauling jobs is undeniable, and the fact that folks regularly show up to do it is a marvel. And I also sympathize: like many of us, I have put in time at fast food joints, the first--of course--in high school, or rather right after high school and before I left for college, I worked in a former A&W. The owners got sick of paying the franchise fee, I guess, and so they turned it into the magnificent Burger Time. While I worked there as a fry cook for those three endless months, I managed to (1) have scorn heaped upon me for showing up in open-toed sandals--always a good idea around boiling hot grease; and (2) douse myself in boiling hot grease. Not the feet, though; a fryer slipped while I was trying to empty it, and I watched with mild unease as a sheet of oil played beautifully over my forearm. Some minutes later, my mom (an RN at the local hospital) was debreeding my wound while I writhed like a Phish melody.

But all that was kind of nothing compared to the legendary month I spent in college working at a KFC. It was Christmas break, and I was spending it with my girlfriend at her place in Portland. I needed money. So I applied at the local KFC, thinking, "Hey, fuck, I've done fast food, how bad can it be?"


When the manager looked at my application, he said a phrase I am never likely to hear again in my life (unless I return to fast food): "Aren't you overqualified?" Previous job experience at that point included things like doing surveying for the Forest Service, clean-up shifts at a sawmill, and jerking off during work study at my school's graduate law program. I had no reply to this unexpected question, so I believe I said, "Probably." Like a lot of college students, I was a real asshole, and had no idea of this unfortunate condition. Fortunately, the manager kind of liked me and hired me anyway. His first job for me? "Can you run over to Fred Meyer and get me some cigarettes?"

Uh, sure. His brand?

"Virginia Slims Menthol Light 100s." He handed me a couple bucks. Through a mighty force of will, I restrained myself from asking him what his drag persona was named.

(Bonus unrelated side story! I had another friend who smoked Virginia Slims--female. She called them "Vagina Slimes." Once she slipped and asked for them by that name from a clerk. Look, it was really funny at the time.)

Anyway, the job at KFC. I don't know what it's like now, but (pause for creaking of bones) back then, my first job in the morning was to deal with the dozens of refrigerated chickens I would be cooking during the day. They were pre-cut, of course, and mostly--that word is important--mostly eviscerated. The manager explained to me that parts of the bird weren't quite fully mauled yet: most of them still had their livers sitting there glommed onto the chilly corpses somehow, and what I had to do was dump all the carcasses in a sink full of cold water and kind of thumb the livers off the damn things.

This is just one aspect of the job where I was, I am shamed to say, less than diligent. If you lived in Portland, Oregon circa 1990, and you contracted a mysterious kind of deep-fried chicken hepatitis, you can come on over to my house some time and punch me in the face. Sorry about that.

I think there was some vein or something I was supposed to yank off the post-birds, but I didn't cotton much to that either. So really what was going on was, I was kind of just splish-splashing around in a mini-lake full of clammy poultry. I can assure you that I considered this the sexiest possible thing to be doing at nine am.

The rest of the work was just typical mindless drudgery: dump the undifferentiated chicken cadavers into a flour bath, add the SECRET SPICES (yes, they came in silver envelopes marked SECRET SPICES), throw them into the pneumatic silver pressure cooker (Made With Pride In The Howling Underworld City Of DisTM), rotate the stock. When bored--the manager really was a nice guy, leaving aside his deeply disturbing choice in cigarettes, and would tolerate a lot of fucking around--I of course turned to that great boyish pasttime called "What cool shit can I put in the deep fryer?" I always wanted to put a pair of gym socks in that fucker, but I always forgot to bring a spare pair.

I was not alone, of course, in my job. I had some notable coworkers, none of whose names I remember, but certain personalities are indelibly with me forever. For one, there was the kid who informed me that he was but fifteen, and had lied on his application to get the job. He was also, he explained, already intimately familiar with rehab, as he claimed he had a nasty coke habit. I didn't really believe him, and figured that he was engaging in some hyperbole; this attitude was curtailed somewhat after I--oh, Jesus, what an asshole--yes, bought some coke off of him. To make the scene even more horrifically sordid, when he gave it to me, I immediately marched into the bathroom in mid-shift and did a line off the toilet lid.

I will close this woeful little chapterlet of my life by pausing to note that there's a good reason people do coke off of mirrors as opposed to disgusting surfaces that happen to be the exact same color as the controlled substance: it's easier to fucking see. When I had ostensibly finished, I raised the toilet lid back up and observed a rather pricy shower of white powder fall down and drift onto the toilet rim and the bathroom floor.

There were others, of course: the counter staff was almost all women, of whom I remember two: one was perfectly nice, and not terribly smart, and had an almost supernatural fear of mishandling a "Mystery Shopper," those corporate in-house muckrakers that go to restaurants posing as customers, order food, and then go ram thermometers into the stuff in their cars while also making sure the cashier didn't fuck up the change or they didn't have to wait more than seven minutes for their chicken. She was possessed by the idea that she'd cut some terrific fart in front of the Mystery Shopper, or sneeze on his cole slaw. (Which could only be an improvement for that particular dish: nobody should ever eat cole slaw, for Christ's sake, but least of all from KFC. If I were to posit a Sentient Cabbage Universe, KFC would be Pol Pot, and he would carry a fearsome, Galactus-sized goo-gun of whitish slaw-slurry, and he would laugh and expose his grimy blocklike teeth while cabbages everywhere quaked and swooned. Just don't eat the cole slaw, all right?)

I also remember that counterperson because it was she who alerted me to some interesting information regarding the other regular countergirl: that is, the other countergirl had developed a hot crush for yours truly, and never mind the open fact that I had a girlfriend I was living with. Okay, well, hey, these things happen, right? "I'd watch out, though," I was told. "She gets kinda weird." How so, I wondered? "Well, a couple years ago, she carved 'COLIN JAMES HAY' into her arm. I've seen the scar when she changes."

I'm pretty sure that's the most fearsome phrase I've ever heard. So fearsome, in fact, that I doubted that my brain had processed it properly. It was the KFC cole slaw of verbal phrases. "Colin James Hay?" I repeated dumbly, racking my brain. "The lead singer from Men At Work?"

"I guess," said the lass. "I think she was in the hospital."

Hey, NO SHIT? Why isn't she STILL THERE? Let's leave aside the whole "I express my admiration through body mutilation" aspect for a second and focus on COLIN FUCKING JAMES JESUS CHRIST HAY! The world kind of skidded around under my feet as I contemplated this fresh horror: couldn't she have picked a slightly less mockable pop donut to get the whim-whams over? Jesus, even some terrible poodle like Dennis De Young would have worked.

I avoided the Colin James Hay girl like poison. She shot me shy smiles every now and then, and I'd immediately have visions of her pouring kerosene over herself in my parking lot, screaming out to the police negotiators, "SKOT KURRUK! HE REBUFFED MY CHICKEN-SCENTED ADVANCES! LET THIS BE MY REBUKE!" And then going up in tortured flames, like the career of Colin James Hay, while I was clapped in leg irons and carted off to her parents' house, where they would be allowed to slash at me with jagged tin can lids as recompense for ruining the life of their unbalanced daughter.

Fortunately, nothing of the sort ever happened. I ran out my month there (I had merrily lied to the manager about "having long-term goals," but he hardly seemed to be a stranger to employee turnover), and then went back to school, leaving the whole crew behind me, to whatever fates befell them.

There really isn't a proper ending to the tale, nor a moral, nor even a "where are they now?" (Educated guesses: Trailers? Jail? Possibly congress?) Other than perhaps this: If you find yourself being pursued by a person with questionable celebrity obsession issues, you could do worse than to buy some illegal drugs from a nascent reprobate and then do them up in a restaurant bathroom. Return to work. Ignore the chicken livers. Boil stuff in oil.

It's one of those lessons that we all have to learn.

Monday, 15 September
Easy Like Sunday Afternoon

Much to my glee--and my wife's despair--NFL is back, which means my Sundays are suddenly lush oases in the deserts of my weeks. I really try to make the most of them. Yesterday was no exception.

Promptly at 10:00, the bedclothes suddenly erupted as a form sprang from the mattress, ready and eager to get started with the day. It was, of course, the wife; I hunched deeper into the blankets and clawed at the pillows. I eagerly went back to my fascinating dream about consumer electronics while the ludicrously insomniac wife went into the living room to watch Kieslowski's Red while doing some gentle yoga. Really. The TV sneered about it later to me privately. "You know what your fucking woman had me doing earlier?" "What?" I said. "She made me play a foreign-language film!" it fumed. "But there was football on!" I cried in outrage. "I know," replied the TV, "it really pissed me off. We'll see how she likes it on Wednesday. I'm gonna make everyone on The West Wing look like angry gophers." "That's not such a stretch," I told the fulminating appliance. "Look, must you piss on everything I do?" I let it drop.

Anyway. I snapped on the game, and there it was, a Circus Maximus with Gatorade: the mighty Seattle Seahawks versus the tremendous Arizona Cardinals. I whooped with glee. "This is going to be a terrible game!" I cried. "It's like wheelchair tennis!" (For those not in the know, these two teams consistently rank . . . well, let's just say that they're consistently rank.) Even the sportscasters seemed depressed about the hopeless spectacle about to unravel in front of them; they squawked torpidly about the incredible heat--it was topping 105 in Arizona--and lamely tried to generate enthusiasm about these two teams that nobody cares about. "Arizona is trying to build a team around some of these youngsters!" said one of the goons. Translation: they lost or frantically sold all their good players (again), and are now working with a fresh batch of untested nobodies. Then they sat silently for a while, inwardly groaning over this terrible assignment they'd drawn. It must have been clear to these men how low in the pecking order they were to be sent to this blasted, heat-whipped terrain; it would be like getting hired by the Washington Post and then getting sent to cover plankton harvesting in Banff. Horribly, I recognized one of the poor bastards; so did the wife, in a rare moment of non-screen-avoidance: "Isn't that the guy from BattleBots?" Yes, it was.

And Arizona could have used some murderous robots yesterday, it's true; adopting an overtly supine position almost immediately, Arizona's geisha-like play allowed the Seahawks to gracelessly back-walk them into paralysis: Seattle scored more or less at will, particularly the defense, which was for the best, because Hawks QB Matt Hasselbeck can frequently be seen wildly throwing the football at anything, anything not resembling a receiver. At one point, an airplane flew over the stadium, and Matt launched a mighty pass skyward, where it described a lonely parabola before impacting on a hot dog vendor, who was ironically just then treating Shaun Alexander to a foot-long. The referees ruled it a touchdown, and the Cardinals dully accepted the bad call, and then prepared some iced tea for the exhausted Seattle players. Seahawks head coach and Emperor of the Galaxy complained about the lack of sugar and demanded some cucumber sandwiches, which were hurriedly delivered.

As halftime loomed, and the broadcast readied itself to blast me with highlights of other games with actual action and genuine fan bases, I prepared a Bloody Mary, a Sunday ritual. It's going to be a lazy afternoon, I thought lazily. I couldn't have been more wrong.

There was a staccato rap at the door, and I curiously went to open it. I was immediately confronted by a ravaged face under a boater's hat, and a long cigarette holder dangled vertiginously from a tight mouth. The thing spoke. "You have to let me in," it rasped, "the bastards are hot on my tail. I tried to appease them with promises of swaybacked, broken hookers, but the swine won't see reason. They're coming after me with hooks."

I casually opened the door wide. "Want a Bloody Mary?" Because it seemed like a good way to pacify the good Doctor.

"Christ, yes," he moaned, walking into the room in a flood of smoke. "I left the tequila in the limo. The ape can have it." He dropped a dirty duffelbag on the ground as I poured the drink.

"The ape?" I asked.

"Research," he growled, "I can't talk about it. Let's just say that the backfuckers at RAND Corporation are getting a large bill. Shit-eating bats!"

"Ah." We sat for a moment, greedily sucking down our drinks, a potent mixture of my own devising. He seemed to relish it.

"Nutrients," he croaked, holding his glass up to the light. He tapped it with a long forefinger. "Black pepper and garlic! Good for the gums. What are we watching?" He craned around to the television.

"Seattle at Arizona," I said glumly.

"What!" he screamed furiously. "Avian skags fighting for lunch money! This is not a football game!" His eyes popped angrily. "Vegas won't even take money on this game, and I know, because I bet on all of them! When I tried to bet on this wretched fuckaround, the guy laughed and told me there was more action in curling."

He lurched at his duffelbag and extracted a damp-looking rag, which he began gnawing on fitfully. He glanced at the screen and noticed Matt Hasselbeck throwing the football at some cheerleaders. "Hopeless," he grunted between bites of the rag, "Not even human. Just some shaved thing they found in Kuala Lampur. I have the documents. At night he sucks Holmgren's toes and eats spiders. You want some of this?" He suddenly held out the rag to me.

"What is it?" I stared at the sodden thing, which smelled of smoke and chemicals.

"Ovine Growth Hormone," he cackled. "Sandoz Labs gives me samples for the ranch."

"Isn't this for sheep?" I said.

"Never mind that. This is medicine! There's no other way we can watch this terrible game," he explained earnestly. "It'll jelly your spine. You'd better pour another Bloody Mary, too."

I shrugged. Who was I to say no? "As long as you think it's okay."

He smiled. "Fuck, son, don't worry about a thing. I'm a Doctor."

[Editor's note: It is, of course, the stupidest thing imaginable to try and emulate the voice of someone who is, it has been amply demonstrated before, totally singular. And I have, of course, failed as well. However, as this scenario has been an old fantasy of mine, I indulged it. Take it as you will. Oh, and to the Doctor, as always,res ipsa loquitur.]

Wednesday, 03 September

I once again took an adventurous journey into the local liquor store today, which features the Appalling State Liquor Clerk. He was, of course, the only one there, so it was impossible to duck him. The conversation was, as usual, typically perverse and unpleasant, not to mention outrageously overlong, as the government-issue credit card machinery was behaving chaotically; we stood there staring at the tiny box for a while, waiting for digital concordance to happen. Inevitably, the guy began making his inimitable version of vaguely human conversation.

"You enjoying this weather?" he inquired; I was immediately suspicious. This sort of banality is distressingly normal, and nothing this man says ever is.

"Well, I wouldn't mind if it was a little cooler when I walk all the way up from the bottom of Denny," I offered gamely. I silently willed the credit card boxlet to give up its Get Out Of Jail beep, but it kept its smug vigil.

"This is nothing compared to where I grew up!" He shook his eyebrows at me and grinned with the demeanor of a man about to tell a Very Great Tale; you know, a really exciting tale like Where I Grew Up. He clearly was going to force a response from me.

"And where was that?" Abject surrender on my part. I said this in the tone of voice that anyone else would recognize as vast, arctic incuriosity, but he continued merrily. The boxlet still hunched malevolently on the counter, bulging with silent strain, like a dwarf attempting to suppress an immense fart.

"Central California!" he bellowed gleefully, because how exciting is that? Nobody else ever grew up in central California! He's totally fucking unique in the universe! I really had no response to this at all, and was starting to get edgy, which is never good, because then I start to behave erratically.

"You're a heat warrior!" I exclaimed, perfectly erratically.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I heard myself ask myself. I don't know, I answered myself. I was starting to feel my neutrons decay.

But he was no stranger, apparently, to febrile outbursts of nonsense, and responded in kind. "At least I've got my Alice Cooper playing," he said, and stared off at the speakers. I noticed, indeed, he was playing Alice Cooper. I think it was "Cold Ethyl." Not the sort of thing you expect to hear in a state-owned facility; REO Speedwagon maybe. Another customer lined up behind me and took up his hopeless post; the clerk was still staring reverently at the speakers.

"Fucking TIMELESS!" he suddenly cried, apparently overcome with the ineffable Joy of Alice Cooper commingled with perhaps some resentment that the man's genius has not been adequately recognized in our time. I glanced back at the other customer, who appeared totally unfazed by the sudden outburst, which for him surely lacked context. Another regular, I thought.

The clerk continued babbling: "Him and that other guy. He kinda looks like Alice Cooper," he said. He looked at me for help. "You know?"

Jesus. Of course not. I took my best shot. "Marilyn Manson?"

"Naw!" he snorted dismissively. "Not that guy, the other guy." Pause. Then he got it. "Ted Nugent!"

Ted Nugent looks like Alice Cooper? What? Look, just say nothing.

"Ted Nugent, man, yeah, totally all about guns, and hunting, and . . . " he trailed off for a second before completing his thought. " . . . and fuck vegans, man." He smiled beatifically at this. I stood still, rigid with Weirdness. The other customer remained consumed with ennui.

The boxlet finally coughed out its release. He handed me my receipt, and I wandered nervelessly out the door.

"Pretty nice day out there, huh?" I heard the clerk greet the new customer.

Run! Run, stupid!

"Yeah, it's pretty hot out there," the guy replied.

He's finished. Wolves will gnaw his carcass. Just go home.

Thank God for the whiskey.

Thursday, 21 August
The Quest Fulfilled

Snark waited patiently while Rory the Caterpillar took another massive bong hit. Finally, the caterpillar pointed six legs behind Snark. " 'Ere . . . the Cat will take you." Snark turned around.

There on a branch sat a lovely Kitty, cleaning her fur with the air of someone who has suffered many fools in her time. She seemed to take no interest in Snark, who nonetheless greeted her.

"Hullo, Cat."

"You may, if you prefer, call me Kitty."

"As you wish, Kitty. What do I do now?"

"You may do whatever you wish. I am going to rent videos. I have an urge to see Uncle Buck, I think." Kitty began to stride away.

Snark gasped. "But that's mad!"

Kitty said agreeably, "That's true. We're all mad here. You're mad. I'm mad."

Snark said, "Actually, I might be kind of high. The caterpillar might have fucked me up."

"Whatever works," Kitty replied. "Come along. Perhaps we shall find the Duchess."

"The Duchess?" asked Snark. He wished he had something to eat.

"Yes," said Kitty, "some know her as Judith. She often walks this way from time to time nursing her baby number."

"I'm sorry . . . did you say number?" Snark was very confused.

"Yes. She has an adorable little Thirteen. He's quite the dickens; last week the Duchess found him beating up forest hoboes. What a laugh they had." Kitty said this flatly and coldly.

"Tough little number," murmured Snark.

"Indeed. Well, here we are. I'm off, unless you fancy joining me. Are you sure you wouldn't like to watch a movie? Say, Monkeybone?"

Snark grimaced. "I think not."

And without another word, Kitty vanished, bit by bit, starting with the tail, until finally only her smile remained. Then the smile said, "You are really a very smelly badger," and it too vanished.

"Vile cat. Was that necessary? May she be beset by unpleasant Australians." muttered Snark. "Where in the deuce am I, anyway?"

A melodious voice came from behind him. "You are right here, dear badger, which I must say beats Sacramento."

Snark whirled around to see a lovely duchess. She held in her arms a very filthy baby, which, as Snark soon noticed, really was a number 13.

"You are the one they call Judith," said Snark, "and that is your little baby 13. He's very handsome," lied Snark, attempting courtesy.

"And you seek the Flask of Always Whisky, dear Snark. I have heard. And you are very polite, for it is plain to see that this baby is uglier than Dale Chihuly. For your kindness, I will take you to see the one who can help you: The Red Queen."

"I thank you milady. Shall we walk?"

"Do let's. To pass the time, perhaps I will sing for you a song? Little 13 loves it so, for it is about upholding the Libertarian ideal."

Snark was mystified by this turn of phrase, and replied, "I myself enjoy songs about Ross Perot, but pray, continue."

And with that, the duchess Judith began singing a sort of lullaby to the besmirched child, and gave it a violent shake at the end of every line:

"Speak roughly of your government, Castigate it when it taxes; It knows only malign intent, Take up your guns and axes!

CHORUS: Wow! Wow! Wow!"

While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the thing screeched like Steve Albini.

"I rage against my government, I work for its demise; For it's rebellion that I do foment, Because I hate those fucking guys.

CHORUS: Wow! Wow! Wow!"

Snark walked quietly a moment, and then said, "That was quite lovely."

"Thank you," said Judith, "little 13 does get so worked up. It is good to soothe him. At any rate, we are here."

Snark looked up and beheld a strange scene. It was a croquet game, populated by an odd array of creatures; Snark beheld lobsters, giant cockroaches, stuffed dogs, baboons, and a bowl of melted cheese. Dominating the scene was a figure dressed entirely in red: obviously the queen. She was screaming vicious oaths and imprecations.

"Does the Queen have a name?" asked Snark fearfully.

"Brad," whispered the Duchess, "and I think she's been drinking again."

At that point the Queen screamed at Snark. "YOU! VILE BADGER! APPROACH!"

Snark paled, but did as he was told. "Yes, your Highness."

"What? Is on? Your head?" demanded Brad venemously.

"A floppy hat, your Highness," quavered Snark.

"It looks like Tommy Hilfiger shat on your head," observed the Queen.

"It was kind of a wild night," replied Snark, "it's certainly possible."

At this, Brad stared at Snark, and then laughed uproariously. "You delightful thing! You please me! Shall we play darts? I have several sporting men in my taver--ah, castle, that enjoy darts."

"If you please, Madam, I am on a quest. My true love has sent me on a quest, and I was told that you might help."

"A quest! Isn't that divine!" Brad clapped his hands. "And what might this quest be for?"

"If you please, your Highness, I am looking for the Flask of Always Whisky."

The Queen stared hard at Snark for a very long time. Snark finally quietly added, "And if I may, Madam . . . if I may . . . I like your cute little ass."

The Queen softened. "Dear boy," she whispered, "I'd have an uglier badger killed for saying that. I shall grant your wish." She suddenly whirled. "GUARDS! Summon the wastrel!"

The guards looked at each other. "Ah, pardon, your Highness, but which one? We have so many."

"You know the one! He won't shut up about anything! Always with the 'fuck this' and 'eat shit' and 'where's my pants?' The drunken lout who won't be quiet!"

"You mean Skot?"

"YES! He's the one. Horrid little pervert. Once I found him making GI Joe hump My Pretty Pony. Bring him to me!"

And in short order, the pitiful Skot was hauled before the Queen. Snark was appalled at the state of the man (if it was a man). It resembled a scarecrow built out of skin grafts and clumps of discarded hair.

"Skot," said Brad imperiously, "this man is on a quest. He requires the Flask of Always Whisky for his true love. You possess it. You will give it to him, or I will remove your head, if I can find it. I assume it's where all the spittle and bullshit flows from, so my chances are good. And if not, I can always look up your ass; it's sure to be there."

The thing whined and rattled like a sack of rusty nails. "But I need it! I need it! You cannot take it! Without it, I will only be left with the Everflowing Keg, The Goblet of Pwim-River, The Eternal Fount of Single Malt, and The Unrelenting Bota Bag! Please!"

"You traitorous little homo. You dare defy the will of the Queen?" Brad screeched. "HAND. IT. OVER."

Skot scraped the dirt sadly, and whimpered incoherently. "Very well," it said, "I obey you in all things, my Queen." It produced a lovely crystal flask from somewere within its terrible, mismatched clothing. "Here," Skot breathed, "take it, Sir, and think of me well."

Snark trembled as he took up the prize. He felt dizzy, and he looked up at the Queen, whose image seemed to swim before Snark. "I . . . I thank you, Queen . . . I suddenly don't feel well . . . "

The Queen spoke from a distance: "Fare thee well, dear badger. Be always happy . . . that flask will sure help. Enjoy it."

Then Snark knew only darkness, for how long he knew not. When he awoke, his head was in Fox's lap, and she beamed down at him joyfully. "My love! You wake!" She held the flask up. "And you have triumphed, my heroic badger."

Snark bathed in her radiance. "It was a mighty quest, my love," Snark said, "but I am all the happier to be back in your presence."

Fox glowed anew. "We shall know the greatest happiness," she said, "and perhaps, someday, I can somehow repay your efforts on this quest." She took a long pull off of the flask and smiled enigmatically.

Snark took the flask and enjoyed a thoughtful drink. "Well," he said craftily, "do you know anything about Batman?"

"Oh, heavens," said Fox, starting to comprehend, "you'd better give me back that flask."

It would be unseemly to continue further. Let's just say they lived happily ever after.

Wednesday, 20 August
The Quest Begins

Once upon a time, there lived a strange badger-like creature named Snark. Snark was a clever beast, and enjoyed wearing floppy hats for some reason, because hey, who wants to mess with a badger? People left Snark alone, which suited him fine, because that gave him time to read comic books. He particularly enjoyed Batman stories, and sometimes, late at night after a couple beers, he would pretend to be Batman. "I am the Dark Knight," he would exclaim to anyone who listened, "so don't fuck with me!" Nobody did, of course, because he was a crazy badger in a floppy hat.

But more than anything, Snark loved his girl Fox, who was, I hope I don't have to spell out, a fox. Fox had a peaceful squinty foxface, and really was mostly peaceful, but did have tiny girl fisties if somebody fucked with her, which was rarely, because if you were paying attention, you'd remember that her boyfriend was an imbalanced behatted badger with Batman delusions. Fox was pretty safe.

They were very happy. And one day, Snark realized that he wanted nothing but to be with Fox forever and ever, so he asked her to marry him. It was darling as he kneeled in his floppy hat, and presented her with a bouquet of fresh chicken eggs to suck.

"My darling Fox, I want to marry you. I want to make you always happy. I bring you delicious eggs that you may suck."

"My wonderful Snark! How handsome you are in your floppy hat! I will of course marry you!" She beamed peacefully and her fur seemed to glow.

"Hurrah!" shouted happy Snark, and in his delight, he inadvertantly crushed a couple eggs. He guiltily licked his paws while Fox laughed.

"But, my darling, these things are not so simple in our crazy-ass fairytale world. Before I marry you, I must send you on a quest." Fox smiled sadly.

"A quest?" Snark frowned. "But why?"

"Don't ask me. I don't write this terrible crap," replied Fox primly. "But that's what you have to do. You must venture into the Below Lands and fetch me a prize. You must find for me The Flask of Always Whisky."

Snark gasped. "I have heard of such a thing. In tales. In legends. Sometimes on talk radio. Why must I seek this object?"

Fox twitched her tail. "Must I marry such a dull badger? Because it has Always Whisky, you silly beast. It will pour and pour and never empty." She sucked greedily on one of the remaining eggs.

Snark was abashed. "My love. I am sorry I asked at all. Of course I will find this item, and return it to you, and then we shall be married, and we shall live happily forever after, and we shall never eat at Hardee's. All this I swear."

Red beamed. "Go, my whiskery knight! Go and fetch me the Flask! I will wait here for your return, thinking only of you while I read volumes of Lacan and Derrida!"

"Why would you read such terrible things?" Snark asked, concerned.

"I'm really kind of strange. Go!"

And so Snark went, off into the forest of books. If you have ever been to the forest of books, then you know what a forbidding place it is. Volumes upon volumes stack against the sky, and seem to lean in on you when it is darkest. Snark wandered, lost, feeling a little oppressed by the terrible words that he caught from the corners of his eyes. Hold! Was this Piers Anthony looming over him? Horrible. Wait! Over there, in a copse, was that a shambling pile of Michael Crichton? Don't look! Snark was miserable and lonely.

And then suddenly, he heard a curious noise. Was it--yes! A voice! Snark hurried to inspect. He saw a most curious figure.

It was a large rabbitlike figure, clutching a daunting pile of books. It had an amusing beard and charming glasses, and it was looking quite nervously at a pocket watch that hung on a chain. It was nervously talking to itself, saying, "Oh, what a dreadful fucking pile of fuck! This will not do!" He dropped a few books on his large feet. "Fuck!" cried the poor beast into the lonely night. Snark noticed that he had a curious pendant on his vest; it was gold and bent into the shape of a sort of S.

Snark nervously approached the thing. "Sir, might I inquire as to where I am?"

The rabbitlike thing started, then recovered himself. "I am no sir," said the figure, "but I am only Ampersanderson."

"Ampersanderson?" Snark had never heard of such a name.

"Yes. My mother was a rabbit--Dog rest her sainted ears--and my father was a punctuation mark. It's not a noble heritage, but it's mine. It could be worse. I know someone whose sister is a tilde. Can you imagine?" Ampersanderson shuddered. "It's not easy being of punctuation blood; my schoolmates used to call me "PM"--Punctuation Mark--but I beat their asses stupid for it. Now they just call me Mark. So may you."

"I thank you, Mark, for your greeting," replied Snark, becoming unsettled by the seemingly mad creature. "May I ask your advice? I am on a quest for the Flask of Always Whisky. I seek it for my bride-to-be." He adjusted his floppy hat to a jaunty angle.

"The Flask!" breathed Mark, "I have heard of such a thing!" He paused. "You are on a mighty quest! I will show you how to get down into the Below Lands. You must come with me."

"Friend!" cried Snark. "You do me a good turn. Why are you so kind?"

"You seem like a jolly sort," replied Mark, cleaning his spectacles and picking nits out of his beard. "And most people are assholes. I cannot abide assholes." Mark's tone suddenly became stiff. "You are, I trust, not an asshole?"

"Assuredly not," replied Snark confidently. "Assholes do not become betrothed to peaceful squinty foxfaces."

Mark smiled. "I believe you. I am a well-read rabbitlike bearded thing, and difficult to fool. And you are quoting from the One Thousand One Hundred and Forty-Two Truths in the Book of Drimmie. I shall doubt you no longer, and will escort you to the entrance to the Below Lands. Come."

And so they went, making small conversation along the way. At length, they arrived at an innocuous-looking hole, just big enough to fit a lovestruck badger or a bearded rabbit. Snark was apprehensive.

"What must I do?" he asked Mark.

Mark looked at him bemusedly. "Don't be a tool. You have to go down. There lies the Flask. But you will need help. You must seek out my friend, Rory. He will provide you with clues. Go."

Snark felt a bit lost. "But--"

"GO!" yelled Mark, and with that, shoved Snark down the hole.

Snark fell for a long time, but felt no fear; rather, he felt rather sleepy and considered taking a nap. At one point he passed a jar of marmalade, and thought to himself, "I hate marmalade." He kept falling.

Some time later, he landed, softly, on a matting of luxuriant lichens and leaves. He felt a bit distracted--the Below Lands! And gazed for a moment at the landscape, verdant and lovely, like a raver's corduroy pants, or She-Hulk. Then he heard a languorous voice.

"And who . . . are you?"

Snark turned and beheld a large caterpillar atop a huge mushroom; it took laborious pulls off a bong. The caterpillar addressed him again. "I am Rory. Who are you?" Rory had a large boombox next to him, and Snark noticed that it was emitting strange sounds.

"I am Snark. I was sent here by Ampersanderson--I mean, Mark--to search for the Flask of Always Whisky." Snark was becoming mesmerized by the heavy smell of the hookah and the odd sounds emanating from the boombox.

"Mark! Oh, what a delightful asshole! I will help you, Sir Snark, for you have named a friend."

Snark felt relieved. "I do thank you, kind Rory." But he could not resist asking: "May I ask you what that glorious noise is that you are enjoying?"

Rory flexed several dozen of his legs and grinned. "That is The Streets."

Snark was nonplussed. "The Streets?"

Rory said, "Yes. They are dope. Let's push things forward."

And Snark, catching on, said, "Oi. Oi." And smiled.

To be continued.

Monday, 04 August
My Bother, The Car

All right. It was time to stop jerking around. This car thing had gone far enough. I was going to fix things one way or another. I grabbed some stuff at the bookstore and walked up to the moribund little pile of shit.

I was calm. I was cool. I popped that hood open with a practiced flick of the wrist and gazed down at the engine with an icy, clinical stare. "All right, hombre," I whispered, "it's high noon. I'm Gary Cooper. And you're . . . " I thought a moment. "You're the other guy in High Noon." I've never seen High Noon, but the car didn't know that. Neither did the two hot chicks smiling at me from the sidewalk. "Just gonna whip this fucking car into shape, ladies!" I screamed at them. "I've got SKILLS!" I waved my arms madly in a display of raw passion. They giggled and ran away. They wanted me.

Back to business. First thing first: check those spark plugs. Carefully, one by one, I took out what I assumed were the spark plugs and inspected them each. They looked good, and reminded me of little spaceships, so I zoomed them around playfully for a while making whooshes and laser noises. Then, remembering that spark plugs needed to be "gapped," I checked the teeny little space between the dongle and the other thingy. Problem: not much of a gap. There was just a tiny space in there, and I didn't see how that was helping matters--why suppress the spark so much?--so I took a screwdriver and reamed out some really big gaps in each of them. Now we'll see some fucking sparks, won't we? I replaced the spark plugs with just a little intermittent hammering with the butt of the screwdriver to get them properly seated, and replaced the odd little plastic helmets they wore. They looked like tiny executioner's hoods, so I hollered "LONG LIVE THE AUTOMOTIVE REVOLUTION!" at a passing old woman. "You're lucky I'm standing between you and these little fuckers. They'd have your tiny head off in a flash, especially now that they're power-gapped!" She displayed remarkably little gratitude for this precious knowledge and tottered away. Old people are sad.

Now for the oil. I consulted my Audi owner's manual--I had picked one up used earlier that day from a very confusing rack full of them, so I just grabbed the ones with the coolest covers--and quickly discovered where the oil-hole was. Underneath the fucking car! Who designs these things, cripples? It just seemed stupid. Why not in the glove box, or on the dash? Whatever. I got down on my back and started inching under my car, getting a little more pissed now, because I was wearing a new shirt. Which of course turned out to be a total wash, because the oil-hole wasn't anywhere that the owner's manual said it was. I looked at another one, this one for a Volkswagen, and this fucking thing told me it was way in another spot, like in the trunk or something, and I just got fed up and tossed away the damned books; clearly none of these fatheads had ever cross-checked their facts with each other, so their damned books were all just a pack of fucking lies. I wondered idly what the morons who made my car--I checked, and it said "Honda" on it--claimed the damn thing was. Probably in space, or maybe the eleventh dimension.

So there was only one thing to do. I checked the oil-hole (the top one this time; can these things be more confusing?) and looked inside. It was blacker than hell in there; it looked like Donald Rumsfeld's soul. So I lit my lighter and waved it around in there, peering for a good look of where the oil got put, but it was still hard to see. Figuring, well screw it, I wasn't getting anywhere with this, I decided to use my hole card. I didn't want to do it, but desperate measures were in order. I took a deep breath, and steadied myself.

I began speaking the Old Words, and my voice came like syrup from my throat, the words hung glistening and heavy in the air. I felt a slight heat as the mystical energies swirled around me, and the fabric of space around me began to tear. The summoning was working. I opened my eyes and beheld a man.

"Doctor Strange," I said, "can you help me fix my fucking car?"

Doctor Strange looked at me briefly, and then flashed his eyes at the "Honda"--strange word! He blanched and looked back at me. "Dormammu's Eyes! Your car--it's--it's---" he trailed off. "It's really fucked up," he concluded softly. "Yes, Doctor, I know. Can you help me?"

The Doctor let his scarlet cape swirl around him mysteriously, and stroked his black beard. His eyes were hooded in shadow, and he seemed not to notice the small crowd of little boys who had gathered to stare at his floating form. I threw small stones at them so as to prevent their disturbing Doctor Strange, and they fled, screaming at my deadly accuracy.

"It is done!" the Doctor suddenly cried, and powerful energy coursed down his arms and into his hands; orbs of light manifested in his palms, and he held them there, like magical basketballs.

"You have fixed my car, Doctor Strange?" I was so happy! I ran to my car and snapped off the antenna and began savagely whipping the sides of the aged jalopy, fiercely screaming, "Don't EVER do that to me AGAIN!" Doctor Strange looked on bemusedly, and said, "No, no, Skot. Leave off your ministrations, much they may be deserved. The car is not fixed. I have simply arranged towing transport for your vehicle to the nearest mechanical shop, where they shall attend to what ails it. In the meantime, we shall enjoy cold beverages, and when they are done, you need only give them money in the amount which is indicated on their 'bill'."

"Doctor," I whispered, "you are truly wise. I am happy I called you, for I was without recourse."

"You were wise to do so, friend," said the Doctor, "and now, let us go eat ribs."

Tuesday, 29 July
Noir Dire

I sat in my dusty cubicle looking out the window at the noonday sun and thought about going downstairs for a gasper, but the oppressive heat changed my mind. Walking outside was like entering the center of a freshly baked pie, and the winos and the skells would be down in the gulag, puking freshets and rapping their scabbed knuckles on the chain link. Nothing I couldn't handle. Those mooks from Cytogenetics were all talk.

But what I needed was a job. The phone hadn't rang in months and my dame was nagging me about it. I leaned back in my chair and fetched a bottle of Mr. Pibb from my desk drawer and took a long pull. It wasn't whisky, but it would have to do. I tugged the brim of my fedora down and settled in for forty winks while wrapped in the embrace of my battered trenchcoat.

Moments later, there was a rustle of fabric and a gentle tapping at my half-wall. I peered up from under my hat and checked out a broad. I knew her. I knew her well. Well enough to know that she was trouble. Angie. She slinked around the corner of the cube, hips moving under her Dockers. She gave me a smile like an Escoffier recipe: saucy and impenetrable. She wanted something.

"Kurruk," she said in a voice like a sack of tenpenny nails dropping into a vat of sweet molasses. The Estonian plosives of my name sounded good in her mouth. Too good. "I have a job for you."

I let the corners of my mouth twitch up into a flinty smile. "A job, huh. What brings little Angie slumming all the way down from glitzy, ritzy AppDev to my humble little flop?" I motioned for her to take a seat, remembering too late that I only had the one chair.

"This project," she said, her mouth disgorging the words like a mother bird feeding her young, "is delicate. That's why I came to you."

Right. Delicate. Skot Kurruk is about as delicate as a solid brass crapper, and she knew it. I let it pass with a hard smile and shot a Camel Ultra Light out of the pack. Delicate. I put the coffin nail in my mouth and then casually didn't light it, because of various workplace regulations.

She continued. "We've got this specimen tracking project," she breathed, probably in order to live, "and it's got to have everything. See, someone wants to send a tissue sample to a lab, and then the lab needs to log receiving it. But then say the lab needs to cut that sample into slides--"

"Stained or unstained?" I barked. It was all I knew about slides, but I wanted to knock her rhythm and see how she danced then.

"Who cares?" she said. Damn. She was a killer.

"Go on," I retorted. My unlit cigarette was getting damp.

"So they cut the tissue into slides, and then they send some of those slides to another lab. But it's all part of the same original sample, with the same identifier, but now it's actually two or three or for different samples--sometimes they're called aliquots--and maybe it's in two or three different places. You getting this?"

"Sure, babe." Pure chin-waggle. She was being as clear as Kurt Vonnegut.

"Good. That's the job. You need to figure it out." She pulled out a thick sheaf of greenbacks--what we in the trade call pieces of paper. "So, Skot," she purred and laid down the stack on my desk. "You think you can handle it?" Pure challenge.

I couldn't believe her guff. If she were a guy, I'd have him rubbing his jaw and picking himself off the floor by now in my mind. But I stayed cool and gave her another smile from my dusty gray filing cabinet of Damn Good Smiles. I reached inside my trenchcoat and pulled out my gat, a beauty I liked to call Bess. I held it up in the dusty fluorescent light, the metal cold and heavy in my hand.

"I think old Bessie and I can help you," I said, cooler than Zima. I put Bess down on the stack of papers and she winked in the light. Angie stared at it.

"That's one . . . big stapler," she breathed admiringly. She raised one eyebrow into the shape of a provocative, hairy tilde.

"Loaded for bear," I grunted. "You better scoot now, sugar," not actually saying "sugar" due to various workplace regulations. "I'll call you when I'm finished."

She squeezed out of the cube, then, pausing momentarily to run a finger over the broken thermostat regulator hanging from the wall. She looked back at me, a vision in khaki. "Thanks."

"It's my job." Snap of the brim, and she was gone. I looked down at the papers and heaved a sigh. My job isn't usually pretty, and this was no different. I was up to my armpits in stink, and I didn't have a menthol rub in sight.

I picked up Bess and started the worst of it: the wetwork. Bess screamed like metal falcon as she ate holes in the stacks of paper, her exit wounds neat and compact; Bess is a precision instrument, and it didn't take too long to achieve Max Collation. Finally, it was done, and I sat back wearily. I'm getting too damn old for this, I thought. I wondered about what to do next.

Aliquots, I thought. It sounded like . . . salvation. It also sounded like a brand of almonds, or possibly a remote South Sea island. Aliquots. Aliquots. I whispered the word in my mind as I slipped into a troubled doze.
Aliquots. I have no god damned idea what she's talking about.

And slept the sleep of the ignorant.

Thursday, 17 July
Buying Booze Made Miserable

At my local liquor store, the employees are friendly. And colorful. There is the hale red-faced man, who looks rather like a cross between a lumberjack and Gabe Kaplan. I'm pretty sure that for him, working in a liquor store is a lot like a boll weevil finding employ at the Gap; he always looks slightly boozed. Then there is the college-age kid, whose every expression bears the tale "The Boy Who Is Marking Time At This Idiotic Place," and always carries the demeanor of someone who is deeply ashamed at being made to wear a state-issue vest (liquor stores in Washington are, idiotically, run by the state, prompting non-insane people everywhere to wonder why the state government is in the business of booze retailing). There is also the very sweet, very homely transsexual (pre- or post-op I cannot, nay will not, speculate); it kind of cheers me up whenever I see her-not-him, because I figure jobs don't just fall out of the sky for patently obvious transsexuals.

And then there's the other guy. Where the others are all sort of endearing, this guy is emphatically not. He's probably in his late forties or early fifties, with a horrid greasy gray ponytail that sort of screams "aspiring child molester." His posture is notably slumped and weirdly non-Euclidian; when I see him walk, I have a vague urge to fling protractors at him. And he is utterly fireproof in terms of clue-obtainment; no matter how cold I am to him, no matter how insistently I look at anything but him, no matter if I fling myself into a Jim Beam display in order to avoid his approach, he will still talk to me. "Say! You sure fucked up my Jim Beam display! Hey, that reminds me, you ever done peyote?"

I'm only exaggerating a little bit. He really did ask me one day if I had done peyote, and then, before I could answer, launched into an account of his experiences with the divine puke-buttons. Another time, he noticed I was carrying a book with me (Dave Eggers' You Shall Know Our Velocity!, which is pretty much inferior in every way to A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius), and asked about it. "It's fine," I said curtly. He went on to inform me who his favorite authors were: Robert Ludlum and Louis L'Amour. "They died in the same year!" he continued. "I assume you had something to do with that," I wanted to say. (I have no idea if what he told me was true, because I frankly don't give a fuck.)

It's a statement about how difficult it must be to get fired from a state job that this guy is still around. He is clearly loathed by all the others; I have swapped many eyeball-rolls with them as the odious little shambling man has done things like scream "SHIT!" right there in the store when he drops something. I recently found out that the wife, when buying a bottle of whisky, endured comments to the effect that he enjoyed the idea of waking up next to a woman after a whisky-fueled night. And another time, he pointed out to me another customer whom he obviously disliked, and made jerk-off motions to indicate this. As my credit card transaction was being processed at the time, I managed to hold back the wracking sobs of horror until I finally got outside.

But a while ago, I was able to extract some tiny measure of vengeance. As usual, while I waited for the interminable credit transaction to take place, he was maundering on about something wildly uninteresting: his fellow state workers at the main warehouse and their apparent incapability of filling his stock orders correctly. Like I fucking care. He kept bitching, while I stared emptily at the gaily colored poster informing me about the ridiculous amount of taxes I was paying for this bottle of booze. He still wouldn't shut up, and was still complaining about the warehouse people. Then I had a thought.

"Yeah," I broke in, a genial smile spreading over my face, "State workers. They don't have to care, right? Half-assed is good enough for government work." He looked like I had shat into his yogurt. I grinned placidly.

"Well . . . I . . . you know, I have to take exception with that, mister. I work for the state."

Gee, no shit?

"Oh, hey, nothing on you. I'm just saying. I used to work for the forest service! (This is true.) So I know how it is. Hey, everyone takes their breaks, right? Sometimes for years on end." Here I smiled conspiratorially.

He was clearly offended all to hell. This made me wonderfully happy, because I figured, Great! I found just the right button to push! Like a lot of dumbfucks, he took ridiculous pride in the job that he managed to foully misperform every day! He won't talk to me any more!

I went back a week later, and he was there as I walked in. "Hey, how the fuck are ya?" he hollered happily.

I cannot win.

Friday, 23 May
In Dreams I Walk With You

One day after work, I fell asleep on the couch, as I am wont to do, and this was my dream. It's the most vividly remembered dream I've ever had.

It was a brilliant summer day, and I was walking through a city park with my friend K. K. is an actress friend of mine, and she is very beautiful; in the dream, she was wearing a gorgeous, low-cut slinky green gown, and she held my hand as we walked. But there wasn't anything erotic at all about the whole scene (for one thing, K. is a lesbian); it was all quite solemn and stately somehow. I don't recall if we talked while in the park; what I mostly remember is walking serenely and noticing things like the beautiful motes of dust hanging in the sunbeams and the feel of the soft grass under my feet. Everything was hyperreal.

Then, at some point where the dreamlogic dictated it was "time," I walked K. home. We approached her brick apartment building, which I now know is just some random place I pass on my way to work, but in the dream, it was where she lived. We stopped on the stoop of her building, and K. turned to me and smiled.

"Thank you," she said, still kind of warmly solemn, if that makes sense, "that was wonderful."

"I want to tell you something," I said softly, and I swear I had no idea what was going to come out of my mouth, but I knew that it was important. We looked steadily into each other's eyes.

"When Lawrence Welk died," I continued, "he was given an autopsy. The doctors cut him open from here--" I touched the top of my sternum-- "to here," and then I touched my belt. My voice was steady and calm. "The doctors opened him up, and they cut out his heart and they held it. They held the heart of this man whose life and music had touched millions of people all over the world. Can you imagine? That's what I feel today."

We were quiet a moment, and then K. said, "Yes," and smiled sweetly, and went inside. Then I woke up.

Playing on the TV was The Lawrence Welk show.

Wednesday, 23 April
Battlefield: Mother Earth

Last night the fiancee and I were out at a bar eating a nice sedate dinner; the lights were low, the mood was mellow, the drinks pleasant when . . .


Jesus, we didn't know what hit us; suddenly the place was fucking overrun by like fifty youthful hippie beings. The table next to us rapidly filled up with unfortunate dreadlocks that clamored for beer; the bar was suddenly three deep with people clutching guitars; flannel was fucking everywhere. It was like a very relaxed storming of Normandy. The bar staff reacted as if they were blood cells suddenly facing some dire histological attack, and the fiancee and I sat rigidly, paralyzed by the sudden awfulness of the scene. One guy twirled over to my table and leered down at me and my steak. "Wow, hardcore carnivore!" His eyes pinwheeled. "Let me sanctify your meat," he whispered mystically, and rubbed his beard into my steak, as if performing a sacrament. I was galvanized. "Get the fuck away from me!" I screamed, and shanked him with my butter knife. He buckled, clutching his pancreas and moaning.

The others took notice. "Eric's down!" one of them yelled, "Get his stash!" They advanced, teeth bared, and I brandished my bloody knife menacingly. "Back, you jackals!" I howled, and thinking quickly, I grabbed a nearby Buffalo Tom CD and threw it into their midst; they fell upon it like hungry weasels on a lame chicken. While they were distracted, I stuffed Eric under our chairs and covered him with his battered duffelbag.

I sat down again, pretending nothing had happened, figuring that the others' impaired short-term memory would allow me my gambit. I stared at my ruined steak, covered in matted clots of hair and faintly smelling of Eugene, Oregon. I shoved it aside and reached for my beer; there was a marijuana seed in it, which I defiantly ignored and slugged it down. I felt very alive.

"You were brave, darling," said the fiancee, "I was frightened of these strange folk. They look like trolls."

"They are," I said grimly. "I had forgotten it was Earth Day."

Monday, 14 April
The Tooth of Crime

Because I am (a) a smoker, and (b) a willing pawn of the sinister global dental network, I went in today for my thrice-yearly cleaning/exam/ritual humiliation. For those of you who do not smoke, you can probably only imagine the terrifying psy-ops practiced on those of us who do by our dentists. "Still smoking, eh?" he says, staring intently at wriggling me. I respond with an obligatory sheepish look of the sort commonly found on those caught drowning kittens in a river. "Yeah, I guess . . . " I don't get to finish this thought because my dentist has curtly interrupted. "I guess you don't care that your mouth is a fetid puke-hole suitable only for stuffing with dead herrings. You are dead to me, DEAD TO ME!" he thunders, "Until your next visit. Bye!"

But anyway. Today's cleaning was like most others, with Heather, the voluble woman who is my regular tooth-shiner. We have a nice rapport; she tells me about her kids and asks me about upcoming events, and I reply with inarticulate glugs and periodic whimpers of agony. She always starts things off peering around in there with a tiny mirror, searching, I guess, for the most clearly tender spots. "Still smoking, huh?" Jesus, not her too. "Nga," I say, mounting a defense, but she's not having it. "It's hell on your gums!" she exclaims remorselessly. I concede defeat: "Ylar."

She gets down to real business and grabs at her movable tray of horrors; she selects a pencil-shaped thing with a tiny barb on the end of it that madly vibrates seemingly at her will. She lunges into my mouth and plunges it deep into my mesquite-flavored gums. "YAIG!" I yelp, but she is deaf in her labors, and she extracts various items from my cringing flesh: a hunk of popcorn, a pair of pliers, a Rumpole of the Bailey DVD and Mare Winningham were all lodged in my gums, but now they sit forlornly on the office floor. But she's not done yet.

Next comes a non-motorized device that I like to call Archimedes' Boathook; it's another alarmingly pointy thing with a cruel hook in it that she uses to pry barnacles off of the surface of my teeth. In order to get proper leverage, she crawls on top of my face and stands bestride my mouth, really putting her shoulder into the fucker. She's straining mightily away on one molar when a large crack! is heard; she's broken my jaw. "Yep, that'll happen; might need pins for that. So, you're gettin' married soon, huh?" "Agao," I say, kind of getting into this. I consider become a professional "bottom" in the S/M world. And my broken jaw looks kind of jaunty in the mirror.

It's like she's reading my mind! She flings away the Boathook and climbs down from my face. Then she flips a switch and the lights turn down low; I can hear "Venus In Furs" playing over the loudspeaker. She selects a riding crop from her tray and begins furiously whipping my groin, while I writhe and wonder about the orotherapeutic values of genital torture. After a few hours, she stops.

"That was more for me than you," she pants. Was she wearing leather when I came in? I don't know; I'm barely conscious. "Well, back to it." She picks up yet another device, another spinner with a strange fuzzy head on it; she applies a thick coating of goo to the tip. "Whazza?" I ask. "Poison," she grimly replies, and darts again into my maw, beginning to grout my teeth. The spaces between them quickly become accreted with a gritty paste that tastes like vaguely minty graveyard soil. When she has applied a couple of centimeters of grout to my teeth, she then uses a vicious needle-spray of water to wash it all away again. I would like to question the point of the whole exercise, but she pulls me up short by saying, "Don't move your head; this little fucker will burn a hole clean through your skull if I miss." Terrified beyond all clarity or reason, I sit rigidly while she works, and note desparingly that she is occasionally consulting an instruction manual as she proceeds. "I wish I could read Japanese," she sighs. I close my eyes and think of what kind of estate I would leave behind: right, none whatever. So that's taken care of.

Suddenly, she's done. She releases me from my four-point restraints, and I stagger groggily to the door. "Just sign the papers at the desk," she says, suddenly gloriously bored. "We'll see you in August." "Glabe," I say, wincing as my shattered jaw works. I stop at the desk to sign mysterious, frightening papers, and the desk clerk says, "See you soon!" and hits me with a boat oar. I crawl outside into the hall and weakly make my way to the elevator, and to outside.

Thank God. I was really hurting for a cigarette after all that.

Thursday, 20 February
Aw Fuck and Everything After, or, Idiot in Full Flower

After maundering on at length about these various teenaged trials-by-fire, I have purposefully left off what must be the most universal and most horribly traumatic: the category-defying, all-encompassing phenomenon of Getting Caught. It doesn't matter who actually catches you in whatever act, whether it be school officials, or the cops, or neighbors: what matters is that your parents are going to hear about it, and then you will have to deal with parental wrath and reprisal. Neither of which is quite as horrible as the associated implication: you will have to talk with your parents. As in, "We need to have a talk," which is then, horrifyingly, followed by actual talk. No teenager wants to talk with his or her parents about anything apart from curfew negotiations and can I have some money? But there is a thing worse than the parents who "need to have a talk": the parent(s) who, thanks to your awful transgressions, stop talking. Such as, for example, my father, the ex-Marine Viet Nam veteran. But again I get ahead of myself.

After Tracy kindly informed my entire high school that it was I who was responsible for the bomb threat, the rest of the afternoon kind of passed in a haze, and not just because of the beer, although that either helped or hurt, I really don't know. I mostly just felt kind of wrapped up in damp bedsheets, a sort of premature shroud of dread that hung on me heavily, because even a poltroon like myself could now see that I was clearly dead, much like the luckless William Katt, who was over on the beach chatting up a reticent Carrie White. "You poor bastard," I thought, "you're like me, but with even worse hair. You won't live to see the end of prom night." Then I thought of my father, and realized that, all things considered, I would rather be doused in pig's blood and then hideously killed before facing whatever my dad came up with.

I eventually made it home and sleepwalked my way through the evening, with my dad (my mother was visiting relatives out of town) making some curious noises about the hubbub at school. I muttered that it was "pretty weird" before heading off to bed, where I dreamed of terrible things, like the acting of John Travolta. It was a rough night. And then morning hit, and I had to go to school. Where Everybody Knew.

If you've ever seen one of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers movies, you'll get an idea of how it felt to walk around the school. People either gave me wary, "I'm with you" glances or hard-eyed "Soon your brains will be scooped out like nougat" looks. I knew the second I walked into the place that everything had gone drastically wrong, and that justice would soon be meted out in jagged, cruel strokes. But what could I do? Nothing; I shambled like an unstrung marionette to my first class, playing a part in a tragedy whose unheroic end was eminently clear. The teacher greeted me with an iron smile and a terse, pointed "Hello, Skot." I waved goofily and dropped all my books. Smooth.

This agony went on until my second class, geometry. Then came the call. The speaker crackled: "Skot Kurruk, please report to the principal's office. Skot Kurruk to the office." Everyone looked at me silently, except the teacher, who looked at the floor. I stood up and exited, leaving my books on my desk, even then clinging to tiny shreds of nonhope: "If I leave my books here, I'll have to come back! To pick them up! QED!" A friend told me later that when one of the school staff came by to gather up my stuff, it was like watching me being erased from the face of the earth.

I went to the principal's office, where I was greeted by the vice-principal, the school counselor, and . . . the chief of police. He was holding my by-now very crumpled note. I'd like to say I gave them a bunch of Brandoesque fuck-you guff, but by now I was a babbling sack of undifferentiated terror. I do remember the cop saying "You know, we've got your fingerprints off this note." This was pretty stupid, since (a) I had never at that point been fingerprinted, and (b) clearly about nine hundred people had touched the thing since I typed it. It didn't matter; I confessed nearly immediately. (I did make a brief hopeless attempt at caginess: "Supposing I was the person who did this . . . " Really, really pathetic.) After the obvious had been admitted to, the counselor put his hand on my shoulder and said, haltingly, "Skot . . . do you need . . . help?" I twitched at him balefully and blurted out, "Jesus Christ, no!" It was my only proud moment; everyone else in the room kind of chuckled.

After that came the waiting, because of course they had to call my dad, a small-town courtesy before they hauled me down to the police station to arrest me. Waiting was of course horrible, the worst, the fucking worst, except it wasn't, because then Dad showed up. He looked like a fucking golem constructed out of wrath and moustache, and the aleph on his forehead glowed with an otherworldly malevolence, and all in all, I knew that doom had finally come. At this point, I just gave over to utter catatonia, and entered into a dream-state where Piper Laurie hectored me about Jee-zus and dirty-pillows. Anything was preferable to reality, where, incidentally, I was indeed arrested, printed, and released, with dark promises that we'd be hearing from juvenile court about a date.

I was given a five-day suspension from school, during which (it was May, remember?) I earned zeroes on no less than three major tests. During that suspension, I spent some real quality time with my crazed, vengeful father, who, depending on mood and timing, (a) threw things at me, (b) howled like a gutshot dog over my idiocy, and (c) devised foul, backbreaking chores to be done around our rural ranch. I shoveled out horse stables. I cleared a 20'x20' plot of four-foot weeds with a scythe. I waded through a two-foot tall (I'm serious) stack of extra credit problems given to me by my wonderful and sympathetic geometry teacher. I don't want to exaggerate here, but it was a million times worse than hell.

Things blew over, of course. I lived in terror of ringing phones; I was certain each time that it was Johnny Law calling to give me my judicial ball-kicking. But they never did, figuring that hey, they couldn't do worse than my dad had. I returned to school, to somewhat embarrassed acclaim; some of my baseball teammates took to calling me "Boom-Boom" or "Psycho," which made me feel like a particularly lame radio personality. I managed, through a freakish effort and not a little help from teachers who felt I had gone through the wringer, to maintain a better than 3.0 GPA.

And Tracy? I'd love to tell you that she and I got together, that she was dazzled by my half-assed outlaw ways, that she was my first love, all that. But no. Tracy and I remained only friends, but to be honest? I think I could have made a go of it with her, I really think I had a shot, but . . . oh, hell, I don't have to tell you by now. We ran out of time, she ran out of time. She should have known better than to tease Carrie White.


Wednesday, 19 February
Beach Blanket Backfire, or, The Continuing Maturation of an Idiot

I wrote a bit yesterday about cultural milestones that teenagers pass on their way to adulthood, or really, young-adulthood, or really, "larger, hairier kids still misbehaving." I also indulged in some baseless blather about the differences between girls and boys in choosing these markers, but also pointed out at least one shared adolescent hurdle to be overcome by both sexes: not being horrifically killed by murderous telekinetic outcasts at the prom, whom you may or may not have drenched in pig's blood, but she frankly isn't making any distinctions any more. But there is one more significant activity that crosses gender lines: underage drinking.

Nearly every kid does this at least once, except for perhaps the aforementioned kooky homicidal telekinetic, and look how she turned out: blood-wet, orphaned, and dead, with finally nobody to reach out to except for Amy Irving. If that's not solid anecdotal evidence supporting the practice of getting boozed up in your teens, I don't know what is.

So to pick up the narrative thread from yesterday, that's what pretty much everyone did that day. I allowed myself to be herded whitely into Bill's car, where we were joined by Kendall--he was the second person I had told of my prank-cum-federal offense--and we immediately found a senior who would buy us beer for ridiculous amounts of money. (Idaho at that point had recently grandfathered the 18-year-olds into the newly raised 21-and-up law, which immediately catapulted those who made the grandfather into a kind of Divine Elect status, which of course they thoroughly and mercilessly abused. In a just world, they would have been the first up against--or lodged in--the wall in Carrie White's slaughterama, but most likely they were out in the parking lot fumbling with a drunken 16-year-old's bra.) And off we went, whooping and hollering things like "Afternoon at the beach!" and "Pass me a beer!" and "Oh my god, I'm going to jail!"

I had calmed down a bit by the time we arrived at the river, thanks mostly to our friend Beer. The beach was by this time fully occupied by what appeared to be the Seventh Half-Naked Regiment, who were performing their drinking maneuvers with proper military precision. Wanting, as all teenagers do when no adults are around, to be a good soldier, I joined them. Specifically, I joined a particular person named Tracy. Tracy was a junior, in fact was my partner on the debate team (look, shut up, okay?), and I had a white-hot crush on her, because she was (a) pretty and (b) talked to me. Of course, being my debate partner, she kind of had to talk to me, but one doesn't make needlessly fine distinctions like that when one is a dorky teenager whose hormones some time ago started Incredible Hulk-ing all over his glandular systems. Tracy, I was wholly delighted to see, was pretty wasted.

We talked for a bit, I guess, about nothing, because Tracy like I said was plastered, and what the fuck am I going to talk about? Debate? I don't think so. I probably unentertained her with some close analysis of the semiotics of socklessness on Miami Vice. Now those guys were cool. True, they may have a looked a lot like why Betsey Johnson sticks to making women's clothes, but at the time, they were cooler than deep space, and I most certainly was not. And then Tracy said something very important. It was the first of two very important things she would say to me that day. It was: "I wish I knew who was responsible for this, so I could thank him."

Suddenly . . . I could be cool. Tracy would think I was cool. This was inconceivable. It was also the worst possible thing she could say, because it surgically removed pretty much every shred of self-preservation that I had left remaining, which was nearly nil anyway, because hey, teenaged boy.

I heard myself as if from a great distance, say ten yards or so, because I was half in the bag and I think a volleyball had hit me in the head at some point. But you should have seen me. I was nonchalant. I was low-toned and debonair. I sipped casually at my warm Rainier can and said a bit throatily, "You can thank him right now."

Tracy's eyes widened in a way I still remember, and she froze. I smiled winningly and acnedly, and sipped again. Around us, unimportant people did pointless things and yelled uninteresting words. We were figures in a Vermeer painting: perfect, timeless, and pretty much ignored by the world at large. But it was, for me, perfection. I was, very briefly, cool.

"Oh my god," breathed Tracy. "Really? You did that?" I nodded, still savoring this new sensation, that even then I knew couldn't possibly last. "OH MY GOD!" she yelled, and hugged me, a sensation I mentally locked into a tight vault with a sign on it reading "PRICELESS OBJECTS." And then Tracy said the second very important thing of that day.

She stood up on the beach and shouted in her best debater's voice, "Everybody! Everybody, listen up? You know who did this? You know why we're here? It's because of SKOT! SKOT DID IT!"

That's when I stopped feeling cool. Now three-quarters of my high school non-chums knew Who Did It. And I'll admit it was nice being the hero for all of about thirty seconds as they cheered me on the beach and ran over to clap me on the back and chummily drip beer on me, sure. But in my mind, I knew: I now had not even the slightest chance of coming out of this one unscathed. High school students keep secrets about as well as radiation victims keep teeth. I figured I had about twenty-four hours.

Not quite.

Conclusion tomorrow.

Tuesday, 18 February
How I Stopped Being A Boy And Instead Became An Idiot

I was a sophomore in high school when I became a felon.

For many teenaged boys, committing a felony is a cultural milestone, and is a crucial part of the process of becoming a man--which is to say, fundamentally just an old boy who misbehaves in more secretive ways. Some girls go ahead and commit felonies, but for the most part, I'm guessing their adolescent rituals are tamer; plus they've got the whole menstruation thing to deal with, which seems to males like a felony perpetrated on one by one's own fucking body. So while girls are sensibly transgressing the social order by doing things like sneaking a look at Judy Blume's Wifey or hurling tampons at the local hyper-Christian telekinetic while she showers, boys are out boosting cars and slaughtering pigs for their blood, which of course will be dumped onto the unlucky telekinetic at the prom, causing her to undergo a massive psychotic break during which she systematically murders everyone at the dance before going home to crucify her unhinged Bible-thumping mother against the wall with cooking implements. Christ, high school sucked. Anyway.

The whole debacle got started--where it so often does with your average teenager, provided the teenager in question is kind of a goofy knob--in typing class. The teacher had clearly given up on the whole day, because it was mid-May or so, beautiful outside, very close to the end of the school year, and we were being typically rowdy and uncooperative. I remember, for example, teasing Carrie White about her dress, a slight that would be terribly revenged later at the prom when she battered me to death with a hail of mentally-controlled flying sousaphones. But I get ahead of myself.

The teacher had basically just given us some ridiculous wankery to do involving simple transcription, and being a pretty good typist already (boy, and that phrase still makes the ladies breathe a little heavier), I got done way early. And then I got what sounded like a pretty funny idea: Wouldn't it be cute as the dickens to type up a bomb threat? Wouldn't that just make the administration chuckle their fucking nuts off? Sure it would. So I did, making sure I moved to someone else's typewriter first, because I was sneaky. No way I get fingered for this! I saw Jagged Edge. I'm sixteen, I'm beautiful, I'm dumber than a dead ape.

So I typed the thing up, and I made it look pleasingly insane in a crappy Hollywood-esque way: all caps and with plenty of stupid misspellings. I wish I had a copy today, but I can reconstruct the gist of it, including a couple of salient features that I most certainly recall:


Uh huh. It's just pitifully stupid. "Scroched"? "Yurself"? Okay, even morons don't do shit like this, but did you notice the kicker? Plunked right down in the middle of all that blaring idiocy? "Deign." As was related to me later, after I was caught (you knew that, right?), the faculty, upon receiving the threat at the office, passed it around amongst themselves to see if they could, I don't know, find any clues? My English teacher did. "Well, whoever wrote this not only knows the word 'deign,' but also uses it more or less correctly. There's only about three kids in the school who probably know that word." (This is not to trump me up as a super-genius, I was just a book nerd. Also, I went to school with fucking hillbillies.)

So I was already fucked even while the ink was drying on the page, but did I give a second thought? Of course not. The whole thing by now seemed deeply funny to me, a kind of Up Yours to the school that was so irritatingly trying to educate me. So I reread my little opus, and surreptitiously left it at the office. I cackled inwardly as I imagined the office staff passing it around: "Oh ho ho. One of the students has made a droll joke in which he promises a fiery death for all! What a scamp this anonymous student is and how he has brightened our afternoon with this federal offense! Ah, well, best chuck it away and get on with our slightly less oppressive lives!" Seriously, I to this day have no idea what I could have been thinking, but I suspect it had something to do with Toto lyrics.

I promptly forgot about the whole thing as the day progressed, until my class right before lunchtime. There was only about ten minutes left before the bell, and all of a sudden--what the fuck? Was that the fire bell? It sure was, and I distinctly remember thinking about how goddamn stupid it was to have a fire drill when there was only ten fucking minutes left in class. Honestly, I was that clueless, a trait I continue to cope with. When we had all assembled in the parking lot, the vice principal started speaking. "Some joker thinks he's pretty funny, and has left a threatening note at our office. By law, we have to evacuate the school and blah blah blah . . . "

Right about then, had any school official happened to look at my face, they would have been able to save themselves the trouble of the search, because I had the whole thing written right on my face. (And let me tell you how happy a lot of students were to have their lockers searched. Bye bye tobacco, booze and porn!) I felt a terrible sensation in my gut not unlike the feeling one gets when viewing a Steven Seagal movie; I wanted, on a cellular level, to die. I knew I was fucked; it was only a matter of time. And this was brought savagely home to me one moment later, when my friend Bill leaned in and whispered to me, "You're my hero." Because . . . oh yeah. Oh fuck. I had told people. Only two people at that point. But that was enough, and I knew it.

There was really only one thing to do, I realized. I could still make things better. So I immediately drove down to the river and drank beer with the rest of the student body. Things, I knew, were just getting started, and there was still ample time for me to make everything massively worse. So I did.

Continued tomorrow.

Wednesday, 12 February
We Put the "Dumb" in "Dumbshow"

The reviews have started coming in for Far East, the show I just opened with last weekend. They have been uniformly tepid, which is fine; I long ago stopped being bothered by reviews. The ones that mention me kind of crack me up: one reviewer commented, "Skot Kurruk is fine as Bob." Fine! Yeah! I'm passable! But even better was another, who wrote the immortal (to me) line, "Skot Kurruk was born to play the traitorous homo--in a good way." I can't wait until the fiancee reads this. "What . . . what does he mean?" she'll stammer. And I'll reply, "Honey, he read my soul. I am, in fact, a traitorous homo. I've already cleaned out the savings account, and have you met Clive?"

In truth, these reviewers did not catch the best show. In fact, the show they saw was a dizzying hellpit filled with enraged alligators, from my perspective. Here's basically what happened.

We started off Act I pretty swimmingly; things were humming along with only a few hiccups: one guy dropped a couple lines, another fucked her blocking all up and ended up across the stage from a particular hat right in time for her line, "Here's your hat." But everyone covered fine, nothing was happening that was perceptible to the audience. At intermission, a few of us smoked confidently and chatted, while I inwardly reflected about how I was truly born to play this particular traitorous homo.

And Act II started fine, pretty much; although an actor mispronounced "Captain Stark" as "Captain Sharks," but hey, it got a laugh. The usual opening jitters. And then there came my scene.

The scene is between my character Bob and his lawyer Hank. Don't worry about why this is, but the staging convention had me on a stool, center stage, facing straight out to the audience, and the actor playing Hank was elsewhere on stage also facing full out to the audience (like I said, don't worry about it, it was just some stylized staging). We started the scene, and "Hank" offered me a seat, and I said, "Thanks," and sat down, and then "Hank" went up. "Went up" is theater-speak for "blanked the line." I waited on the stool for "Hank" to say his next line, and all I heard was the actor's limbic system going into freakout mode and the extraordinary sound of audible sweating. "Hank" remained silent, while I pondered the full ramifications of existential despair as I sat, stage center, in dead silence. Suddenly, "Hank" erupted into a ghastly froglike series of croaks that I eventually recognized as lines from the show, only these lines were half a page later. I mentally pictured the skipped-over lines dying like slugs on a salt lick, and they screamed, "Why didn't yooou saaaaay uuuuusss? Weee are goooood lines! AAAAAaaaaaahh--!" Oh well, so we skipped ahead, at least the actor hadn't totally vaporlocked. I said the appropriate line.

And the actor totally vaporlocked. I heard awful things from the other actor. First, furious swallowing and coughing. Then: "Well . . . uh . . . I need to think about this, Bob. Uh . . . I'm thinking, Bob . . . " Trying desperately to stay in character while us, the audience, and probably passersby for a several block radius realized that the entire scene had fallen out of the actor's head and was lying in a mess on the ground. It was hopeless. I paraphrased the actor's line and threw it out there as a life preserver: "I turned myself in. Doesn't that count for anything?" The actor pounced on it like a cougar on an abandoned baby. "Yes, you did, Bob. That was very brave. I'll emphasize that." Hey, we're back on track! "Okay," I said, and eagerly waited for the next line, which of course was not forthcoming, because the other actor was still trapped on Neptune, looking around thinking, "Boy, I don't recognize this place, but it's cold." This was death. I fed the actor another line and got total radio silence. The actor kept making ghoulish throat-noises, and the vicious tang of flop-sweat was everywhere.

I really am not sure how we got through the rest of that scene without a big hook coming in from the wings to haul us off, but we did. I kept furiously making up leading questions, and the actor finally glommed on to one that led back to the scene proper and its by-now very clammy end, but it seemed to take eons. I felt like Voyager One, trawling the endless black nothing, occasionally letting out a plangent bleat, and hearing only a vast, cosmic "fuck you" of silence.

We finished the rest of the play without incident. And to be honest, the reviewers were mostly pretty kind about ignoring the obvious disaster; only one mentioned it at all, stating the perfectly obvious in case the rest of us had all gone crazy: "[The actor] does need to learn the lines." What would we do without these helpful people? Anyway, so that was over. We had survived, if not prettily. Until the next night.

When it happened again.

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