Well, Rod. I'm not really sure where to start.
How about with your snide little remark about how the morning sun really shows my age? Well, asshole, that's the thing about us cougars. We're older. And you want to know something? I'm fine with my age, and up until now I thought you were, too, but apparently not. Well, don't worry. You won't be seeing my wrinkled old ass anymore because I'm going to let you in on a little secret. You're a lot more replaceable than I am.
Speaking of which, what was that comment about you feeling like you're being used? Hey, jackass, let me clear up the uncertainty for you: YES, OK? Yes, you were being used. It's amazing to me how you can be so sensitive and so clueless at the same time. Yes, of freaking course you were being used. By me. Jesus, I thought that aspect of our relationship was kind of understood and we didn't need to taint it any further by talking about it explicitly, but I guess you disabused me of that idea. But one more time, just in case there's still any doubt, yes, I was using you. For sex. And (at least I thought) you were using me, too.
But maybe not. Suddenly you're talking about love, and to be honest, it's kind of scaring the bejesus out of me. Part of why I went for you in the first place was because I figured it would be purely physical--a nice fling to get us both through the summer. And I'll admit it was nice at first. But then you had to go and start throwing the L word around. "My love you didn't need to coax"? What the fuck is that anyway? Talking like Yoda when the fuck did you start?
Oh, and another thing: I lured you away from home? Hey, ass-eyes: You were home from college for the summer, and we went to my beach house a few weekends to bone. You make it sound like I took you against your will. Which, by the way, ain't exactly how you characterized it when you were talking to your friends on the phone. "Dude, she's a total milf." Yes, I heard you. I'm not that old and deaf, you know.
I'm sorry if I broke your heart, but you're young. You'll get over it. Go on now. Run along. Run on back to school. As you said, it's late September. Go back and chase all those college girls. They're more your speed anyway.
Oh, Jesus H. Christ, are you crying? Are you seriously crying? God, another one with mother issues. Is that it? I'm supposed to mother you on top of everything else? Screw that. Ain't happening. Go back to school, Rod. Go learn something, you freaking drama queen.
And tell that brother of yours to give old Maggie a call if he's going to be around this fall.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
May 30 - Tonight
Woman, I hope you brought your toilet paper, because I intend to fuck the shit out of you tonight. I'm not even kidding either.
Did that come out nasty? If so, I apologize but I can't help it because I mean, damn, woman. You look good. You look so good I truly don't know whether to lay you down right here and now and make loud, nasty love to you, or just look at you and fill all my weren't-doing-nothing-important-anyhow brain cells with every element of you standing here before me so I will have a lifetime's worth of masturbatory fodder.
Seriously, girl.
Waiting time is over. It is time for us to do it. Girl, the dirtiest minds in the porn industry couldn't begin to imagine all the lurid things we're going to do tonight. In fact, if said minds were to see a video recording of the sexual acrobatics we are mere moments away from commencing, they would surely say to themselves, "Damn! And I thought we were the sexperts, but we're not. They are. My God, look at them go." By which they would be referring to us.
Yes, woman. We will be inventive tonight. Know that. We will use ladders, a swing set, roofing shingles, and a compost heap in the course of our lovemaking. A compost heap? Yes. God, yes.
The aforementioned props probably have you thinking that we will be doing it in the backyard, perhaps in or near the tool shed. How right you are, my intuitive little fuck bunny. But our sessions will not be limited to that part of our property. Oh, no. We will also do it indoors. In fact, we will do it in every room of my parents' house: All three bedrooms, all two and a half baths, and every other room in between, including the laundry room. It is here that I will wrap you up in Bounce dryer sheets and treat you like my own private sex mummy. And during this role play, I will ask you, "Who's your daddy?" And this will be especially clever because of the whole mummy/daddy thing.
But of course, there also exists the possibility that such a question will cross a line and ruin the moment, so we will have to play that one by ear.
Moving on, another place we will do it is in the basement, my lurid, steamy love dungeon. Girl, when we get there, I hope you still have some toilet paper left over because that place is going to make you shit yourself. Although it is not finished being remodeled yet, it definitely looks better than it did the last time you were there. For example, I vacuumed. However, don't think for a moment that that will stop us from getting it all dirty again (from us doing it), because we will totally do it all over the sectional sofa.
Maybe I should call it the sexional sofa! Yeah, dog!
We are also going to do it on my weight bench, as well as my abdominizer, assuming we can figure out a safe way to do so. If you are not too freaked out by it, I would also like to do it in front of an audience of my old Star Wars figures that I have stored in the basement.
Actually, now that I say that one out loud, I have to admit that it sounded better in my head. We will also play that one by ear.
But whether or not we end up doing that, tonight we are going to have the kind of sex that porn stars aspire to. We are going to do it until the breaka breaka dawn. Then, as the sun is dawning on a new day, we will do it again, assuming we are not too tired.
In summary: Sex. Tonight. You and me. And I promise I'll be better than last time.
Did that come out nasty? If so, I apologize but I can't help it because I mean, damn, woman. You look good. You look so good I truly don't know whether to lay you down right here and now and make loud, nasty love to you, or just look at you and fill all my weren't-doing-nothing-important-anyhow brain cells with every element of you standing here before me so I will have a lifetime's worth of masturbatory fodder.
Seriously, girl.
Waiting time is over. It is time for us to do it. Girl, the dirtiest minds in the porn industry couldn't begin to imagine all the lurid things we're going to do tonight. In fact, if said minds were to see a video recording of the sexual acrobatics we are mere moments away from commencing, they would surely say to themselves, "Damn! And I thought we were the sexperts, but we're not. They are. My God, look at them go." By which they would be referring to us.
Yes, woman. We will be inventive tonight. Know that. We will use ladders, a swing set, roofing shingles, and a compost heap in the course of our lovemaking. A compost heap? Yes. God, yes.
The aforementioned props probably have you thinking that we will be doing it in the backyard, perhaps in or near the tool shed. How right you are, my intuitive little fuck bunny. But our sessions will not be limited to that part of our property. Oh, no. We will also do it indoors. In fact, we will do it in every room of my parents' house: All three bedrooms, all two and a half baths, and every other room in between, including the laundry room. It is here that I will wrap you up in Bounce dryer sheets and treat you like my own private sex mummy. And during this role play, I will ask you, "Who's your daddy?" And this will be especially clever because of the whole mummy/daddy thing.
But of course, there also exists the possibility that such a question will cross a line and ruin the moment, so we will have to play that one by ear.
Moving on, another place we will do it is in the basement, my lurid, steamy love dungeon. Girl, when we get there, I hope you still have some toilet paper left over because that place is going to make you shit yourself. Although it is not finished being remodeled yet, it definitely looks better than it did the last time you were there. For example, I vacuumed. However, don't think for a moment that that will stop us from getting it all dirty again (from us doing it), because we will totally do it all over the sectional sofa.
Maybe I should call it the sexional sofa! Yeah, dog!
We are also going to do it on my weight bench, as well as my abdominizer, assuming we can figure out a safe way to do so. If you are not too freaked out by it, I would also like to do it in front of an audience of my old Star Wars figures that I have stored in the basement.
Actually, now that I say that one out loud, I have to admit that it sounded better in my head. We will also play that one by ear.
But whether or not we end up doing that, tonight we are going to have the kind of sex that porn stars aspire to. We are going to do it until the breaka breaka dawn. Then, as the sun is dawning on a new day, we will do it again, assuming we are not too tired.
In summary: Sex. Tonight. You and me. And I promise I'll be better than last time.
Friday, May 28, 2010
May 29 - The Running of the Bachelorettes
For as long as I could remember, every summer my mom would always take me downtown to see the Running of the Bachelorettes, where all the unmarried women who had turned 18 in the previous year would put on a wedding dress and heels and run through the streets of our town in the hopes of landing themselves a groom.
What a sight they were! As beautiful and fit as you could hope for, running, giggling, blushing, and sweating.
Every year my mom would tell me that one day I would be there, too, running through the streets in the wedding dress she had chosen for me, racing to find a husband.
"But mom," I would always tell her. "I'm a boy."
"Don't' be silly," she would reply. "You're a girl. Someday you'll see."
And again and again, she would try to make me what she wanted me to be. Dolls, play kitchens, and princess tiaras when I was in kindergarten. Pony camp, flute lessons, and Barbies when I was in elementary school. Makeup, bras, and feminine hygiene products when I was in high school. All designed to mold me into her little princess. All designed to groom me for the Running of the Bachelorettes when I too turned 18.
Ever since my dad died, I was all she had. And just as she had won him during her year's Running, so too she had dreamt of me claiming a husband in my 18th year. My entire upbringing has been in preparation of the event.
High school wasn't easy. Nor were middle school or elementary school. You know how cruel kids can be to anyone different. There I'd be walking the halls in a mini skirt and makeup. I guess my mom thought looking like a hussy was the way to go. And it did get me a lot of attention, but I could never figure out how I felt about it. It was all so confusing. The only times when anything made any sense was during each year's Running of the Bachelorettes. Seeing those hundreds of exuberant young women racing through town in their gorgeous dresses as the whole town cheered them on, I could understand why my mom wanted that for me.
But then after a few weeks, the memory would fade and there I'd be, just another freak trying to survive high school.
Well, I turned 18 three months ago, which means I'm eligible for this year's Running. It starts tomorrow at noon.
I've long since decided I'm going to run. How could I not? And of course I've already tried on the dress for my mom. She wants to make sure it is as form fitting as it is flexible. Her friends all agree I look beautiful in it, but I don't know. I think it makes me look fat.
When I'm out there tomorrow, I'm sure some people will laugh at me, and some people will be supportive of me, but most people probably won't care one way or the other. As far as the outcome goes, I think it's safe to say I'm not going to be walking away with any husband offers. Either way, by this time tomorrow it will all finally be over, and my mom will get off my back. At least until I go away to college and she tries to get me to rush her old sorority.
What a sight they were! As beautiful and fit as you could hope for, running, giggling, blushing, and sweating.
Every year my mom would tell me that one day I would be there, too, running through the streets in the wedding dress she had chosen for me, racing to find a husband.
"But mom," I would always tell her. "I'm a boy."
"Don't' be silly," she would reply. "You're a girl. Someday you'll see."
And again and again, she would try to make me what she wanted me to be. Dolls, play kitchens, and princess tiaras when I was in kindergarten. Pony camp, flute lessons, and Barbies when I was in elementary school. Makeup, bras, and feminine hygiene products when I was in high school. All designed to mold me into her little princess. All designed to groom me for the Running of the Bachelorettes when I too turned 18.
Ever since my dad died, I was all she had. And just as she had won him during her year's Running, so too she had dreamt of me claiming a husband in my 18th year. My entire upbringing has been in preparation of the event.
High school wasn't easy. Nor were middle school or elementary school. You know how cruel kids can be to anyone different. There I'd be walking the halls in a mini skirt and makeup. I guess my mom thought looking like a hussy was the way to go. And it did get me a lot of attention, but I could never figure out how I felt about it. It was all so confusing. The only times when anything made any sense was during each year's Running of the Bachelorettes. Seeing those hundreds of exuberant young women racing through town in their gorgeous dresses as the whole town cheered them on, I could understand why my mom wanted that for me.
But then after a few weeks, the memory would fade and there I'd be, just another freak trying to survive high school.
Well, I turned 18 three months ago, which means I'm eligible for this year's Running. It starts tomorrow at noon.
I've long since decided I'm going to run. How could I not? And of course I've already tried on the dress for my mom. She wants to make sure it is as form fitting as it is flexible. Her friends all agree I look beautiful in it, but I don't know. I think it makes me look fat.
When I'm out there tomorrow, I'm sure some people will laugh at me, and some people will be supportive of me, but most people probably won't care one way or the other. As far as the outcome goes, I think it's safe to say I'm not going to be walking away with any husband offers. Either way, by this time tomorrow it will all finally be over, and my mom will get off my back. At least until I go away to college and she tries to get me to rush her old sorority.
May 28 - Clown Bar
You know what I'm going to do? Open a clown bar. It'll be just like any other bar, except I'm only going to serve clowns.
On second thought, maybe I'd better serve liquor, too! HA HA HA HA HA!!!!! Get it? Like anybody would actually come to a bar and order a clown! HA HA! See, those are the kinds of shenanigans people will come to expect at my clown bar.
Clowns from all over town will come to my clown bar to unwind after a long day of getting out of crowded cars, sweeping up spotlights, and receiving pies in the face. Whenever a new table is seated, I'll go up to them and say, "What do you clowns want?" And whenever a customer has had too much to drink and I have to kick him out, I'll say to the bouncer, "Get that clown out of here!" And if somebody is being rude, I'll be like, "Listen here, Bozo."
But of course that will only work if his name is Bozo.
My clown bar is going to be so much fun! I'm not going to cater to any of those mopey ass crying on the inside clowns. Screw that. My place is going to be for good times, and good times only! There will be fun house mirrors everywhere, lots of fun little horns, and one of those things you hit with a sledgehammer to show how strong you are. Tons of balloons. Also, I'll keep a big bottle of seltzer water behind the bar, and every once in a while I'll break it out and be like, "Don't make me use this!" And everybody will laugh.
I can't wait to open my clown bar!
I'm serious.
On second thought, maybe I'd better serve liquor, too! HA HA HA HA HA!!!!! Get it? Like anybody would actually come to a bar and order a clown! HA HA! See, those are the kinds of shenanigans people will come to expect at my clown bar.
Clowns from all over town will come to my clown bar to unwind after a long day of getting out of crowded cars, sweeping up spotlights, and receiving pies in the face. Whenever a new table is seated, I'll go up to them and say, "What do you clowns want?" And whenever a customer has had too much to drink and I have to kick him out, I'll say to the bouncer, "Get that clown out of here!" And if somebody is being rude, I'll be like, "Listen here, Bozo."
But of course that will only work if his name is Bozo.
My clown bar is going to be so much fun! I'm not going to cater to any of those mopey ass crying on the inside clowns. Screw that. My place is going to be for good times, and good times only! There will be fun house mirrors everywhere, lots of fun little horns, and one of those things you hit with a sledgehammer to show how strong you are. Tons of balloons. Also, I'll keep a big bottle of seltzer water behind the bar, and every once in a while I'll break it out and be like, "Don't make me use this!" And everybody will laugh.
I can't wait to open my clown bar!
I'm serious.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
May 27 - 123 out of 124
Have you ever had that dream where you're back in college and it's the end of the year and you suddenly realize that there's this one class that you haven't been to all semester long, and now it's time for finals, and there's no freaking way you're going to pass?
That actually happened to me in real life. Well, kind of.
It was my senior year and I was taking this one credit badminton class, pass/fail, and the grade was determined by attendance and attendance alone. Suckily for me, this class was every Wednesday morning at 8 o clock. And what can I tell you? I blew it off. What, I'm going to drag my ass out of bed that early for fucking badminton? In the spring semester of my senior year? Hell no.
You had to attend 70% of the classes to get a passing score, and I didn't make it, and the teacher wouldn't cut me any slack. What can I tell you? The woman had standards. The fucking badminton teacher had standards. And because of this, come graduation day I was one credit shy.
They let me walk anyway. And during the ceremony they don't give you the actual diploma anyway, so it wasn't like I had to tell my folks about it that day. My plan was to sign up for something during summer school, do just enough work to pass and get that extra credit, and then graduate and maybe tell my parents about it.
Only I didn't do that, which was stupid because I was totally around. It wasn't even like I was working. I was just hanging out and shit. I just never actually got around to registering for anything. First summer session came and went, and then second summer session came and went. And then all of a sudden it was fall, and I was like, shit, now what.
Meanwhile, my parents kept bugging me to see the diploma, so they could have it framed. And I kept on having to come up with excuses about what had happened to it. It was lost in the mail, getting shuffled around in the registrar's office, sent to my old address, etc. My dad kept threatening to go down to the school and throw his weight around, but somehow he didn't, thank God.
After a while, they both kind of just stopped asking about it, and we moved on.
When it came time to start looking for jobs, I basically lied about it on my resume. I just put the date that I was supposed to graduate on there and that was that. Actually, that's what I've been doing for almost 20 years now, and so far it hasn't been a problem.
I mean, it does get in the way sometimes. I basically can't apply for any job where they ask for college transcripts. And grad school is out of the question, of course. But then again, it you can't be bothered to go to a pass/fail badminton class enough times to graduate, you probably shouldn't be thinking about grad school anyway.
I eventually got a fake diploma and had it framed. It totally looks like the real thing. Old English font and all that. The first time I showed it to my parents, I was shitting bunnies. I mean I was convinced that they were going to notice it was a fake, but they didn't. Of course. I mean, why would they suspect anything?
For the first year or so, I really stressed about it a lot, but that faded pretty fast. Now I almost never think about it, and when I do, it's mostly to question my memories of what happened. Like, did I really not graduate? No, that's ridiculous. There's no way I came that close and then just didn't follow through. I'm sure I took a summer class. I was around that summer, I remember that. I totally took that one business class pass/fail and finished out my diploma. I can picture myself in the classroom in the mornings, and then hanging out with the girls downtown in the afternoons. Seriously, did I really not graduate? Some days, I'm honestly not sure.
That actually happened to me in real life. Well, kind of.
It was my senior year and I was taking this one credit badminton class, pass/fail, and the grade was determined by attendance and attendance alone. Suckily for me, this class was every Wednesday morning at 8 o clock. And what can I tell you? I blew it off. What, I'm going to drag my ass out of bed that early for fucking badminton? In the spring semester of my senior year? Hell no.
You had to attend 70% of the classes to get a passing score, and I didn't make it, and the teacher wouldn't cut me any slack. What can I tell you? The woman had standards. The fucking badminton teacher had standards. And because of this, come graduation day I was one credit shy.
They let me walk anyway. And during the ceremony they don't give you the actual diploma anyway, so it wasn't like I had to tell my folks about it that day. My plan was to sign up for something during summer school, do just enough work to pass and get that extra credit, and then graduate and maybe tell my parents about it.
Only I didn't do that, which was stupid because I was totally around. It wasn't even like I was working. I was just hanging out and shit. I just never actually got around to registering for anything. First summer session came and went, and then second summer session came and went. And then all of a sudden it was fall, and I was like, shit, now what.
Meanwhile, my parents kept bugging me to see the diploma, so they could have it framed. And I kept on having to come up with excuses about what had happened to it. It was lost in the mail, getting shuffled around in the registrar's office, sent to my old address, etc. My dad kept threatening to go down to the school and throw his weight around, but somehow he didn't, thank God.
After a while, they both kind of just stopped asking about it, and we moved on.
When it came time to start looking for jobs, I basically lied about it on my resume. I just put the date that I was supposed to graduate on there and that was that. Actually, that's what I've been doing for almost 20 years now, and so far it hasn't been a problem.
I mean, it does get in the way sometimes. I basically can't apply for any job where they ask for college transcripts. And grad school is out of the question, of course. But then again, it you can't be bothered to go to a pass/fail badminton class enough times to graduate, you probably shouldn't be thinking about grad school anyway.
I eventually got a fake diploma and had it framed. It totally looks like the real thing. Old English font and all that. The first time I showed it to my parents, I was shitting bunnies. I mean I was convinced that they were going to notice it was a fake, but they didn't. Of course. I mean, why would they suspect anything?
For the first year or so, I really stressed about it a lot, but that faded pretty fast. Now I almost never think about it, and when I do, it's mostly to question my memories of what happened. Like, did I really not graduate? No, that's ridiculous. There's no way I came that close and then just didn't follow through. I'm sure I took a summer class. I was around that summer, I remember that. I totally took that one business class pass/fail and finished out my diploma. I can picture myself in the classroom in the mornings, and then hanging out with the girls downtown in the afternoons. Seriously, did I really not graduate? Some days, I'm honestly not sure.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
May 26 - Margaret's Story
For all intents and purposes, Margaret's only contact with the outside world was with Louise, the day nurse who had been taking care of her for the past several months.
It was a lonely job. There were never any visitors. Margaret had never married, and didn't have any children. Her youngest brother had died in a tractor accident when he was 10, her older brother had died in the war, and her younger sister had died of lung cancer more than 20 years ago. Even most of her friends had passed away.
She always looked forward to talking with Louise, but her speech had been so hard to understand since the stroke that she usually let Louise do most of the talking. She would tell her about her nieces and nephews, and about Spartacus, her Jack Russell terrier. And almost every day, Margaret's main contribution to the conversation would be to ask Louise when she was going to find herself a nice man and get married.
Margaret didn't want to nag her, but she didn't have family of her own. Who else was she going to nag? Besides, she had the benefit of hindsight. Getting to talk to Louise was like getting to talk to her 30-year-old self and give her advice--advice from somebody who knew how it was probably going to end if things didn't change.
She could see that Louise was a romantic, just like she'd been at her age, waiting for love at first sight like in the movies. All through her childhood and on into adulthood, she'd been looking forward to the ray of sunlight that would one day shine on The One who'd been chosen especially for her.
Only The One never came along. There had been plenty of others who could have made her happy, but she'd never let herself give any of them a real shot. She was too busy pining for The One to realize that He didn't exist, not really. It was a fairy tale. In real life, at some point you just realized you were with somebody good. And maybe he wasn't The One, but you would decide you were ready anyway, and he would decide he was ready, and you would take a chance. You would shape him, and he would shape you, and together you would become The One. She got that now. Hell, she'd gotten that years ago, but by then it was too late.
But maybe not for Louise. And so every day she would ask her when she was going to find someone and get married and settle down, and every day Louise would just laugh and tell her she didn't know and then change the subject.
It was a lonely job. There were never any visitors. Margaret had never married, and didn't have any children. Her youngest brother had died in a tractor accident when he was 10, her older brother had died in the war, and her younger sister had died of lung cancer more than 20 years ago. Even most of her friends had passed away.
She always looked forward to talking with Louise, but her speech had been so hard to understand since the stroke that she usually let Louise do most of the talking. She would tell her about her nieces and nephews, and about Spartacus, her Jack Russell terrier. And almost every day, Margaret's main contribution to the conversation would be to ask Louise when she was going to find herself a nice man and get married.
Margaret didn't want to nag her, but she didn't have family of her own. Who else was she going to nag? Besides, she had the benefit of hindsight. Getting to talk to Louise was like getting to talk to her 30-year-old self and give her advice--advice from somebody who knew how it was probably going to end if things didn't change.
She could see that Louise was a romantic, just like she'd been at her age, waiting for love at first sight like in the movies. All through her childhood and on into adulthood, she'd been looking forward to the ray of sunlight that would one day shine on The One who'd been chosen especially for her.
Only The One never came along. There had been plenty of others who could have made her happy, but she'd never let herself give any of them a real shot. She was too busy pining for The One to realize that He didn't exist, not really. It was a fairy tale. In real life, at some point you just realized you were with somebody good. And maybe he wasn't The One, but you would decide you were ready anyway, and he would decide he was ready, and you would take a chance. You would shape him, and he would shape you, and together you would become The One. She got that now. Hell, she'd gotten that years ago, but by then it was too late.
But maybe not for Louise. And so every day she would ask her when she was going to find someone and get married and settle down, and every day Louise would just laugh and tell her she didn't know and then change the subject.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
May 25 - Conversation Between the Models on the Posters on Two Cigarette Vending Machines in Tokyo
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Monday, May 24, 2010
May 24 - The Punishment
I'm writing this because as part of my sentence I have to write about what I did, and about my punishment, and about if I think my punishment will have an effect on my behavior in the future. Anyway, here I go.
Basically what happened was I got caught shoplifting. It was late and I had to buy some milk for my baby, but I didn't have no money with me so I basically just took it and got caught. And at that point, the stupid 7-11 woman had a choice. She could just make me put the milk back and then kick me out of the store, or she could choose to be a total bitch about it and call the cops. Well, she must have had a stick up her butt on account of having to work late, because she called the cops, and the cops came and arrested me, and I had to go before the judge just on account of trying to take a few things I needed without paying for them, including milk for my baby. I guess that bitch must have thought 7-11 needed the milk more than my baby did because she couldn't wait to call the cops on me.
Anyway, the judge in my case was trying out something new for misdemeanors like mine. Basically, my punishment was I had to stand in front of the 7-11 all day and wear this dumb ass sign that said, "I stole from this store" and have people walk by and look at me and judge me and all that shit. That's it. No fine, no nothing else. Just stand there with this sign.
At first, I felt like a total loser. Everybody was looking at me. Most people didn't really do anything but look, but every once in a while, somebody would laugh at me, and it fucking sucked, but I wasn't allowed to say or do anything about it or they would make me stay there an extra day. And there was a supervising officer from the court who was there watching me who made sure I didn't do anything. I wanted to beat the shit out of those assholes, but all I could do was give them dirty looks, and then after a while I got sick of doing that and I basically just stood there.
Later on in the day, a few people tried talking to me, like asking me what I stole and shit. And when I told them I was there because I was trying to get some milk for my baby they were all on my side and that felt pretty good.
But after the first hour, I started getting really bored. And then I started getting pissed off. It was such a stupid waste of my time. I had to spend the whole day basically just standing there because some judge must have thought it would make me think about my crime and make me ashamed of myself and shit like that. And like I would realize that shoplifting is bad and I would change as a person or something. And I know I should be writing about how much this experience changed me so everybody will be happy and feel like they made a difference and shit, but I basically don't care. This punishment was totally stupid. One of the things I have to write about is if this experience will have an effect on my future behavior, and actually I can tell you right now that the answer to that one is yes. This experience will definitely change my behavior. Next time I go shoplifting, I won't get caught.
Basically what happened was I got caught shoplifting. It was late and I had to buy some milk for my baby, but I didn't have no money with me so I basically just took it and got caught. And at that point, the stupid 7-11 woman had a choice. She could just make me put the milk back and then kick me out of the store, or she could choose to be a total bitch about it and call the cops. Well, she must have had a stick up her butt on account of having to work late, because she called the cops, and the cops came and arrested me, and I had to go before the judge just on account of trying to take a few things I needed without paying for them, including milk for my baby. I guess that bitch must have thought 7-11 needed the milk more than my baby did because she couldn't wait to call the cops on me.
Anyway, the judge in my case was trying out something new for misdemeanors like mine. Basically, my punishment was I had to stand in front of the 7-11 all day and wear this dumb ass sign that said, "I stole from this store" and have people walk by and look at me and judge me and all that shit. That's it. No fine, no nothing else. Just stand there with this sign.
At first, I felt like a total loser. Everybody was looking at me. Most people didn't really do anything but look, but every once in a while, somebody would laugh at me, and it fucking sucked, but I wasn't allowed to say or do anything about it or they would make me stay there an extra day. And there was a supervising officer from the court who was there watching me who made sure I didn't do anything. I wanted to beat the shit out of those assholes, but all I could do was give them dirty looks, and then after a while I got sick of doing that and I basically just stood there.
Later on in the day, a few people tried talking to me, like asking me what I stole and shit. And when I told them I was there because I was trying to get some milk for my baby they were all on my side and that felt pretty good.
But after the first hour, I started getting really bored. And then I started getting pissed off. It was such a stupid waste of my time. I had to spend the whole day basically just standing there because some judge must have thought it would make me think about my crime and make me ashamed of myself and shit like that. And like I would realize that shoplifting is bad and I would change as a person or something. And I know I should be writing about how much this experience changed me so everybody will be happy and feel like they made a difference and shit, but I basically don't care. This punishment was totally stupid. One of the things I have to write about is if this experience will have an effect on my future behavior, and actually I can tell you right now that the answer to that one is yes. This experience will definitely change my behavior. Next time I go shoplifting, I won't get caught.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
May 23 - The Good Deed
He was about to cross the street when he saw the girl's bicycle topple over into the one next to it, setting off a domino effect that resulted in nine toppled bicycles. Everybody else walked by, pretending not to see her, and he was on a tight schedule himself, but he ran over to her, and helped her pick up the bikes one by one.
This good deed caused him to miss the walk signal, which caused him to miss his bus, which caused him to be late for his interview, which caused him to feel flustered, which caused him to blow the interview, which caused him to not get the job, which caused a big argument with his girlfriend, which caused her to dump him and kick him out of her apartment, which led to where he was now, which was jobless, homeless, and reluctantly single--all because he'd helped that girl pick up those bicycles. What was that saying? No good deed goes unpunished? No kidding.
But a few months passed and he got back on his feet. He found a new job (with better pay than the one he'd missed out on when he blew the interview), moved into a new place (more spacious than his last one, and with a better view), and found that single life wasn't all bad.
And a few more weeks down the road, he saw in the paper that the company he'd failed to get the job with was being investigated for tax fraud. The DA was handing out indictments like they were party favors, and he almost certainly would've gotten one, too, if he'd gotten that middle management job.
And that girlfriend who dumped him? Turned out she was a meth addict. Cleaned her new live-in boyfriend out after getting him hooked as well, and they were both evicted from the apartment after falling behind on the rent. Not that it mattered too much. The whole building was condemned and shut down when it was discovered that it had been built on top of an old toxic waste dump. Several former residents were sick.
But not him. He'd gotten out just in time, and the more he thought about it, the more he was able to see that it was all because he'd helped that girl with the bicycles. If he had ignored her like everyone else and made the light and caught the bus and arrived on time to the interview and aced it and got the job and stayed in that building with his (meth head) girlfriend, things would have turned out a lot different. Maybe punishment wasn't what he'd gotten from that good deed after all.
This good deed caused him to miss the walk signal, which caused him to miss his bus, which caused him to be late for his interview, which caused him to feel flustered, which caused him to blow the interview, which caused him to not get the job, which caused a big argument with his girlfriend, which caused her to dump him and kick him out of her apartment, which led to where he was now, which was jobless, homeless, and reluctantly single--all because he'd helped that girl pick up those bicycles. What was that saying? No good deed goes unpunished? No kidding.
But a few months passed and he got back on his feet. He found a new job (with better pay than the one he'd missed out on when he blew the interview), moved into a new place (more spacious than his last one, and with a better view), and found that single life wasn't all bad.
And a few more weeks down the road, he saw in the paper that the company he'd failed to get the job with was being investigated for tax fraud. The DA was handing out indictments like they were party favors, and he almost certainly would've gotten one, too, if he'd gotten that middle management job.
And that girlfriend who dumped him? Turned out she was a meth addict. Cleaned her new live-in boyfriend out after getting him hooked as well, and they were both evicted from the apartment after falling behind on the rent. Not that it mattered too much. The whole building was condemned and shut down when it was discovered that it had been built on top of an old toxic waste dump. Several former residents were sick.
But not him. He'd gotten out just in time, and the more he thought about it, the more he was able to see that it was all because he'd helped that girl with the bicycles. If he had ignored her like everyone else and made the light and caught the bus and arrived on time to the interview and aced it and got the job and stayed in that building with his (meth head) girlfriend, things would have turned out a lot different. Maybe punishment wasn't what he'd gotten from that good deed after all.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
May 22 - The Old Woman
The old woman was asleep on his recliner when he got home. Probably in her 80s to look at her. She was frail, the skin on her arms baggy and loose, and her thin hair clung to her head, looking like it hadn't been washed in days.
When he gently woke her up, her eyes darted around the room like a frightened animal.
"Hi," he said. Unsure what to say next, he settled on, "Can I help you? Are you lost?"
She answered him in a raspy language he couldn't understand, but that sounded to him like Spanish.
"Um, sorry. Do you speak English?"
She replied in her language, seeming neither to have understood his question nor to recognize that he couldn't understand her. There was a quiet insistence to her voice, like she was telling him something important.
"Is everything OK? You," he said, pointing at her. "OK?"
She talked more, keeping her voice quiet and punctuating the end of each sentence with an extra dose of urgency like it was whispered in ALL CAPS.
He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but his Spanish wasn't up to the task. He nodded as she spoke, giving her the impression that he understood her. But all the while, he was trying to figure out who she was and how she'd gotten there.
How she'd actually gotten into his house wasn't a complete mystery, though. Like just about everyone else in his town, he never locked his doors because there was no crime there. Other than the occasional illegal border crossings from Mexico (who always steered clear of any trouble or attention anyway), things were quiet.
As for the woman, it was certainly possible that she herself was an illegal, but beyond that, who she was and why she was in his place was beyond him.
He noticed that she was wearing what looked like a hospital wristband around her bony, liver spotted left wrist. He touched it gently and asked, "Did you come here from a hospital?" He read the writing: ID# 1086276. There was also a phone number.
Her fingers dug into the armrests of the recliner and she looked around the room. More talking. He couldn't understand any of it.
"OK, I'm going to call this number." He used his hand like a phone. "Telephone call. OK?"
He dialed the number, and a woman answered after the second ring. "Intake and processing."
"Uh, hi. Um, I'm not sure who I need to talk to but, um. This is probably going to sound weird, but I got home from work a few minutes ago, and there was an old lady in my house?" Suddenly he wondered why he hadn't called the police instead. "And, I can't really understand a word she's saying. I think she's speaking Spanish, but she's got a wristband with your phone number on it, so . . . " He didn't know what to say next. Are you missing an old lady?
"Is there an ID number on the band?"
"Yes."
"Could you tell me the number please?"
He did.
"Please hold."
A few seconds later, a different woman was on the line. "Supervisor's office."
"Yeah, hi. Um, sorry. Who am I talking to?"
"This is the supervisor."
"OK, um. The supervisor of what, exactly?"
"Research and development."
"Of?"
"Sir, I understand one of our clinical trial volunteers found her way into your house somehow?"
"Yes, but--"
"Sir, we do apologize, but we've had some changes in personnel here in the last few days, and some of our volunteers were not given the proper post trial debriefings before being processed and released. We apologize for any inconveniences this may have caused."
"No, that's fine. I just--sorry, what am I--what--Who are you?"
"This is the Solarex Medical Group, research and development division."
"OK, but--"
"You're at 57 La Jolla?"
"How did you--"
"Caller ID, Mr. Daniels. We'll send someone over right away."
The woman hung up, and a few second later so did Mr. Daniels. By then, the older woman was sitting upright. He'd nearly forgotten about her.
"Wait, sorry. Um. Just a minute. Momento, por favor. Can I get you some water? Agua?"
A moment later he came back from the kitchen and held out a glass of water for her. She took it, but didn't take a drink. She set it on the table and tried to stand.
"Please, sit."
She was talking to herself, fidgeting. He wanted to calm her down, but the phone conversation had left him feeling uneasy. He'd heard of Solarex before, but he couldn't remember where.
"Um. What's your name? Como se llama?"
Urgent Spanish was her response. She tried again to stand up, but she couldn't, seeming to lack the strength. For the next few minutes, he tried to engage her in conversation, but the only words he understood were Solarex, doctor, Mexico, illegal, examination, and what sounded like immigration.
Just before the knock on his door, he remembered where he'd heard the name Solarex before. It had been on the news. Something about medical research and a break in by some group, but what were they called? Emancipation Now? There were controversies about unethical testing or something.
There was another knock. He looked out the window expecting to see black vans and men in suits, but instead he saw an ambulance. Once again, the woman tried to stand.
"Wait here," he told her as he got up and opened the door. Two heavyset men in white uniforms and a middle-aged Hispanic woman were standing outside.
"Mr. Daniels?"
"Yes."
"Hi, I'm Maria Rodriguez, and this is James Harris and Eddie Hernandez from Solarex. I understand you called about one of our volunteers?"
"Yes, she's--"
Maria looked over his shoulder and saw the woman. "Oh, Gloria. Thank God! Sorry, is it OK if we come in?"
"Of course," he said as he opened the door wider, and they came in. As soon as she saw them, the woman started yelling and squirming in her seat. Maria spoke Spanish to her while Eddie gave her a shot and James checked her vitals.
"You're sure she's OK?"
"Yes, she's fine, Mr. Daniels. Just a bit agitated," said Eddie.
"She seems really upset."
A few seconds after the shot, she calmed down, and they continued attending to her. They seemed to forget Mr. Daniels was in the room.
After a few more minutes, he asked, "Is she OK?"
"Yes, she's fine," said James. "Just a little dehydrated, that's all."
"So," said Maria. "You just came home and she was in your house?"
"Um, yeah."
"No idea how she got here?"
"No. Like I told the woman on the phone, I don't lock my doors, so yeah. She just let herself in, I guess."
James stood up. "Mr. Daniels, does the name Liberation Front mean anything to you?"
"I don't think so. Should it?"
Maria and James glanced at each other so quickly and subtly he wasn't even sure he'd seen it.
"No, Mr. Daniels," said Maria. "Sorry. Inside joke."
He looked at James. James looked back at him and smiled. Nobody said anything for a few seconds.
"Well," said Maria. "Thank you so much for your help. And we apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you."
James and Eddie had the old woman up on her feet and they guided her out and helped her into the ambulance. Eddie sat in the back with her, James got in the driver's seat, and Maria got into the passenger seat and lowered the window.
"She's going to be OK, right?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Daniels," said Maria as James started the ambulance. "We'll take good care of her."
And then they drove away.
When he gently woke her up, her eyes darted around the room like a frightened animal.
"Hi," he said. Unsure what to say next, he settled on, "Can I help you? Are you lost?"
She answered him in a raspy language he couldn't understand, but that sounded to him like Spanish.
"Um, sorry. Do you speak English?"
She replied in her language, seeming neither to have understood his question nor to recognize that he couldn't understand her. There was a quiet insistence to her voice, like she was telling him something important.
"Is everything OK? You," he said, pointing at her. "OK?"
She talked more, keeping her voice quiet and punctuating the end of each sentence with an extra dose of urgency like it was whispered in ALL CAPS.
He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but his Spanish wasn't up to the task. He nodded as she spoke, giving her the impression that he understood her. But all the while, he was trying to figure out who she was and how she'd gotten there.
How she'd actually gotten into his house wasn't a complete mystery, though. Like just about everyone else in his town, he never locked his doors because there was no crime there. Other than the occasional illegal border crossings from Mexico (who always steered clear of any trouble or attention anyway), things were quiet.
As for the woman, it was certainly possible that she herself was an illegal, but beyond that, who she was and why she was in his place was beyond him.
He noticed that she was wearing what looked like a hospital wristband around her bony, liver spotted left wrist. He touched it gently and asked, "Did you come here from a hospital?" He read the writing: ID# 1086276. There was also a phone number.
Her fingers dug into the armrests of the recliner and she looked around the room. More talking. He couldn't understand any of it.
"OK, I'm going to call this number." He used his hand like a phone. "Telephone call. OK?"
He dialed the number, and a woman answered after the second ring. "Intake and processing."
"Uh, hi. Um, I'm not sure who I need to talk to but, um. This is probably going to sound weird, but I got home from work a few minutes ago, and there was an old lady in my house?" Suddenly he wondered why he hadn't called the police instead. "And, I can't really understand a word she's saying. I think she's speaking Spanish, but she's got a wristband with your phone number on it, so . . . " He didn't know what to say next. Are you missing an old lady?
"Is there an ID number on the band?"
"Yes."
"Could you tell me the number please?"
He did.
"Please hold."
A few seconds later, a different woman was on the line. "Supervisor's office."
"Yeah, hi. Um, sorry. Who am I talking to?"
"This is the supervisor."
"OK, um. The supervisor of what, exactly?"
"Research and development."
"Of?"
"Sir, I understand one of our clinical trial volunteers found her way into your house somehow?"
"Yes, but--"
"Sir, we do apologize, but we've had some changes in personnel here in the last few days, and some of our volunteers were not given the proper post trial debriefings before being processed and released. We apologize for any inconveniences this may have caused."
"No, that's fine. I just--sorry, what am I--what--Who are you?"
"This is the Solarex Medical Group, research and development division."
"OK, but--"
"You're at 57 La Jolla?"
"How did you--"
"Caller ID, Mr. Daniels. We'll send someone over right away."
The woman hung up, and a few second later so did Mr. Daniels. By then, the older woman was sitting upright. He'd nearly forgotten about her.
"Wait, sorry. Um. Just a minute. Momento, por favor. Can I get you some water? Agua?"
A moment later he came back from the kitchen and held out a glass of water for her. She took it, but didn't take a drink. She set it on the table and tried to stand.
"Please, sit."
She was talking to herself, fidgeting. He wanted to calm her down, but the phone conversation had left him feeling uneasy. He'd heard of Solarex before, but he couldn't remember where.
"Um. What's your name? Como se llama?"
Urgent Spanish was her response. She tried again to stand up, but she couldn't, seeming to lack the strength. For the next few minutes, he tried to engage her in conversation, but the only words he understood were Solarex, doctor, Mexico, illegal, examination, and what sounded like immigration.
Just before the knock on his door, he remembered where he'd heard the name Solarex before. It had been on the news. Something about medical research and a break in by some group, but what were they called? Emancipation Now? There were controversies about unethical testing or something.
There was another knock. He looked out the window expecting to see black vans and men in suits, but instead he saw an ambulance. Once again, the woman tried to stand.
"Wait here," he told her as he got up and opened the door. Two heavyset men in white uniforms and a middle-aged Hispanic woman were standing outside.
"Mr. Daniels?"
"Yes."
"Hi, I'm Maria Rodriguez, and this is James Harris and Eddie Hernandez from Solarex. I understand you called about one of our volunteers?"
"Yes, she's--"
Maria looked over his shoulder and saw the woman. "Oh, Gloria. Thank God! Sorry, is it OK if we come in?"
"Of course," he said as he opened the door wider, and they came in. As soon as she saw them, the woman started yelling and squirming in her seat. Maria spoke Spanish to her while Eddie gave her a shot and James checked her vitals.
"You're sure she's OK?"
"Yes, she's fine, Mr. Daniels. Just a bit agitated," said Eddie.
"She seems really upset."
A few seconds after the shot, she calmed down, and they continued attending to her. They seemed to forget Mr. Daniels was in the room.
After a few more minutes, he asked, "Is she OK?"
"Yes, she's fine," said James. "Just a little dehydrated, that's all."
"So," said Maria. "You just came home and she was in your house?"
"Um, yeah."
"No idea how she got here?"
"No. Like I told the woman on the phone, I don't lock my doors, so yeah. She just let herself in, I guess."
James stood up. "Mr. Daniels, does the name Liberation Front mean anything to you?"
"I don't think so. Should it?"
Maria and James glanced at each other so quickly and subtly he wasn't even sure he'd seen it.
"No, Mr. Daniels," said Maria. "Sorry. Inside joke."
He looked at James. James looked back at him and smiled. Nobody said anything for a few seconds.
"Well," said Maria. "Thank you so much for your help. And we apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you."
James and Eddie had the old woman up on her feet and they guided her out and helped her into the ambulance. Eddie sat in the back with her, James got in the driver's seat, and Maria got into the passenger seat and lowered the window.
"She's going to be OK, right?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Daniels," said Maria as James started the ambulance. "We'll take good care of her."
And then they drove away.
Friday, May 21, 2010
May 21 - The Jinx
He was the man many considered responsible for the deaths of Tupac Shakur, Layne Staley (Alice in Chains), Kurt Cobain, Jerry Garcia, John Lee Hooker, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, among others.
The long and short of it was this: Any time someone offered him a ticket to see a concert, and he refused or cancelled or somehow didn't go, that singer would be dead within six months.
It took him a while to make the connection and even longer to let himself believe it. But once he did, it was nearly impossible to refute. He raked through his memories of declined invitations and found that without exception every one of them was followed by that singer's death within six months.
Understandably, this realization caused him to stop declining concert invitations. Whenever any friend so much as implied an invite to a show, he did everything in his power to go. Even if someone just mentioned a show, he figured a mention was an implicit invite, and since he wasn't sure what the exact rules of his apparent power were, he thought it prudent to err on the side of caution and just go.
One consequence of this was that he became known among his friends as someone who was always up for a gig, and so he got a lot of invites--and accepted every one of them. Mostly, he was cool with it. It gave him a chance to see a lot of music and, as a bonus, he also got to feel like he was doing The Right Thing.
Even still, it was a lot of pressure. He didn't want anyone to die just because he felt like staying home and watching Breaking Bad or turning in early because he had a big day at work the next day. So he didn't. He went to every show he was invited to. Some weeks he went to shows every night. As a result, it was impossible for him to catch up with his sleep. On top of that, it was hell on his bank account. Plus he couldn't focus at work. Before long, live music was no longer a joy, but something to endure.
After a couple of months, he started telling his friends about his theory and showing them the facts that proved it. Their reactions varied. Most of them figured he was kidding and kept right on inviting him to shows. Some, even though they didn't believe him, took mercy on him and stopped throwing invites his way. A couple considered inviting him to movies instead but they weren't sure if he believed his powers extended to movie stars, too, so they invited him to play hoops instead. A few, however, started buying tickets to out of town shows they knew he couldn't go to by artists they couldn't stand in the hopes that in doing so they might rid the world of the Jonas Brothers and Celine Dion. But even though he wasn't a huge fan of those artists either, he didn't want to see them dead. He found a way to go.
Eventually, it got to be too much to sustain and he tried to find a way out.
He made up a story about becoming a born again Christian in a sect that shunned the devil's music, thinking it might make his friends stop inviting him to shows. But nobody believed him.
When that didn't work, he stopped answering his phone and reading his email, but then his friends just started using his work number and email address instead.
Finally, he quit his job and moved to a small town in rural Utah, figuring he would be safe from live music if he placed himself deep in the heart of Mormon country. However, less than a year after moving there, Donnie and Marie Osmond opened an auditorium nearby where they gave concerts all the time. His new neighbors and co-workers knew he liked music, so they invited him to go almost every weekend.
The long and short of it was this: Any time someone offered him a ticket to see a concert, and he refused or cancelled or somehow didn't go, that singer would be dead within six months.
It took him a while to make the connection and even longer to let himself believe it. But once he did, it was nearly impossible to refute. He raked through his memories of declined invitations and found that without exception every one of them was followed by that singer's death within six months.
Understandably, this realization caused him to stop declining concert invitations. Whenever any friend so much as implied an invite to a show, he did everything in his power to go. Even if someone just mentioned a show, he figured a mention was an implicit invite, and since he wasn't sure what the exact rules of his apparent power were, he thought it prudent to err on the side of caution and just go.
One consequence of this was that he became known among his friends as someone who was always up for a gig, and so he got a lot of invites--and accepted every one of them. Mostly, he was cool with it. It gave him a chance to see a lot of music and, as a bonus, he also got to feel like he was doing The Right Thing.
Even still, it was a lot of pressure. He didn't want anyone to die just because he felt like staying home and watching Breaking Bad or turning in early because he had a big day at work the next day. So he didn't. He went to every show he was invited to. Some weeks he went to shows every night. As a result, it was impossible for him to catch up with his sleep. On top of that, it was hell on his bank account. Plus he couldn't focus at work. Before long, live music was no longer a joy, but something to endure.
After a couple of months, he started telling his friends about his theory and showing them the facts that proved it. Their reactions varied. Most of them figured he was kidding and kept right on inviting him to shows. Some, even though they didn't believe him, took mercy on him and stopped throwing invites his way. A couple considered inviting him to movies instead but they weren't sure if he believed his powers extended to movie stars, too, so they invited him to play hoops instead. A few, however, started buying tickets to out of town shows they knew he couldn't go to by artists they couldn't stand in the hopes that in doing so they might rid the world of the Jonas Brothers and Celine Dion. But even though he wasn't a huge fan of those artists either, he didn't want to see them dead. He found a way to go.
Eventually, it got to be too much to sustain and he tried to find a way out.
He made up a story about becoming a born again Christian in a sect that shunned the devil's music, thinking it might make his friends stop inviting him to shows. But nobody believed him.
When that didn't work, he stopped answering his phone and reading his email, but then his friends just started using his work number and email address instead.
Finally, he quit his job and moved to a small town in rural Utah, figuring he would be safe from live music if he placed himself deep in the heart of Mormon country. However, less than a year after moving there, Donnie and Marie Osmond opened an auditorium nearby where they gave concerts all the time. His new neighbors and co-workers knew he liked music, so they invited him to go almost every weekend.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
May 20 - Nightmare
The setting varied. Sometimes he would be out for a run. Other times he would be relaxing in the park. And other times he would be out playing volleyball with friends. But the content of the dream was always the same. He would be out and about, doing his thing, and enjoying himself, and then all of a sudden he would look down and realize he was completely dressed. Somehow he'd managed to leave his house that morning wearing a full set of clothes.
Apparently it's a pretty common dream among nudists.
Apparently it's a pretty common dream among nudists.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
May 19 - The Man With the Bad Hearing and the Million Dollar Ideas
The guy's hearing wasn't so good, but what he thought he heard--what he misheard--almost always ended up evolving into a gold-plated business opportunity. He was the man with the bad hearing and the million dollar ideas.
For instance: This one time when somebody said 'summarizer' what he heard was samuraizer. Less than an hour later, he'd come up with the recipe for the samuraizer, the trendiest drink of the summer: a spoonful of wasabi chased by a shot of Yamazaki whiskey dropped in a snifter full of cheap sake--all of which is done while being berated by your superiors.
Another Japan-centric example: When he first arrived in Tokyo on a business trip, everyone was talking non-stop about the salaryman, but what he heard was celeryman. I'll bet you'd been wondering where that cartoon character made out of celery who's always reminding your kids to eat their veggies came from, right? Well, now you know.
One not related to Japan: A misheard reference to Pirates of the Caribbean eventually led to an online store specializing in Caribbean parrots. It also led to the unionization of the same islands' people who made their living flying planes.
Another: A passerby's mentioning of the Pulitzer Prize that he didn't quite catch because he was talking to someone else on his cell phone eventually morphed into the Pew Lit Surprise, those positively sinful candies you sometimes find taped to the back of church bibles.
And finally: When someone he knew mentioned a visit to a clinic for urinalysis, she probably couldn't have guessed that she'd inadvertently given him the slogan for Alice's Pancake House: "If you're digging the hell out of your pancakes, you're in Alice's." A lot of people balked at that idea, saying the slogan would cause people to associate her restaurant with, well, urinalysis, but he insisted it would work, even though he knew it would blow up in her face. And the reason why he did this was because he was an asshole.
For instance: This one time when somebody said 'summarizer' what he heard was samuraizer. Less than an hour later, he'd come up with the recipe for the samuraizer, the trendiest drink of the summer: a spoonful of wasabi chased by a shot of Yamazaki whiskey dropped in a snifter full of cheap sake--all of which is done while being berated by your superiors.
Another Japan-centric example: When he first arrived in Tokyo on a business trip, everyone was talking non-stop about the salaryman, but what he heard was celeryman. I'll bet you'd been wondering where that cartoon character made out of celery who's always reminding your kids to eat their veggies came from, right? Well, now you know.
One not related to Japan: A misheard reference to Pirates of the Caribbean eventually led to an online store specializing in Caribbean parrots. It also led to the unionization of the same islands' people who made their living flying planes.
Another: A passerby's mentioning of the Pulitzer Prize that he didn't quite catch because he was talking to someone else on his cell phone eventually morphed into the Pew Lit Surprise, those positively sinful candies you sometimes find taped to the back of church bibles.
And finally: When someone he knew mentioned a visit to a clinic for urinalysis, she probably couldn't have guessed that she'd inadvertently given him the slogan for Alice's Pancake House: "If you're digging the hell out of your pancakes, you're in Alice's." A lot of people balked at that idea, saying the slogan would cause people to associate her restaurant with, well, urinalysis, but he insisted it would work, even though he knew it would blow up in her face. And the reason why he did this was because he was an asshole.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
May 18 - Mr. Curious
He had curiosity and recklessness in equal measure. No matter how ill-advised the prospective undertaking was, he wanted to see what would happen, never mind the consequences.
Among his most memorable experiments:
Q: What will happen if I drink eight large cups of bubble milk tea and then do wind sprints?
A: You will yack up the weirdest looking puke the world has ever seen.
Q: Everybody knows that if you laugh while you're drinking milk, the milk will go up your nose. But what about if you're eating something? Will that go up your nose, too?
A: Yes.
Q: Is it possible to literally shop till you drop?
A: Yes, but it takes a really long time and entails spending a lot of time in convenience stores because you have to keep going all night.
Q: Is shooting fish in a barrel really that easy?
A: Pretty much, but make sure your barrel is outside. Fun fact: Bullets will pass through the bottom/side of a barrel (and into your floor) almost as easily as they will a fish.
After getting evicted from the apartment where he confirmed that one, he found a new place on the other side of town. It was on the 8th floor and it was accessible by elevator and exterior stairway.
He was never even remotely a depressed person, but the more times he went up those stairs, the more he couldn't help wondering where the line of demarcation was between the height of a survivable fall from his building's exterior stairway and an unsurvivable fall. Where was the cutoff? Jumping from the stairway on his floor would obviously mean certain death, just as a jump from the 2nd floor would probably be no big deal. But somewhere between the two there had to be the precise point above which would mean death and below which would mean survival. Just as there was the straw that would break the camel's back, there had to be the step that would end the jumper's life.
A gruesome thought, yes. But he was curious. He wanted to find that spot. But how?
It was idiotic to try it out, even for him. There was no reason for him to risk his life for an experiment like that. Not when he was as healthy as he was.
But what about if he had a terminal illness? That might change things.
He went to the doctor and got a full battery of tests, hoping for the worst. But the bad news was that it was good news. He was fine.
Fine, but not ready to give up. He decided that if he wasn't terminally ill now, maybe he could help move himself in that direction.
He became a heavy smoker, hoping to give himself lung cancer; a heavy drinker, hoping to give himself cirrhosis of the liver; an adherent of the unhealthiest of diets, hoping to give himself diabetes or heart disease.
But nothing worked. He continued to get clean bills of health every time he went in for a physical. After two years of this, he started seriously considering the possibility that he was invincible. In which case, it was high time he got on with the experiment. The next morning he woke up to a beautiful, sunny day. The perfect day for an experiment.
He decided not to waste his time with the 2nd floor, and went straight to the 3rd. But when he got there, he decided it was really high after all, so he went back down to the landing between the 2nd and the 3rd, and after two false starts, he launched himself out away from the landing and plummeted to the ground.
At first, he was hesitant to move and he lay still for almost a minute. But once he realized he was fine, it was exhilarating. He was fine after a jump from two and a half stories! He tore up the stairs and jumped from the 3rd floor without hesitating.
This time his ankles paid a heavy price and he was seriously shaken up, but overall he felt OK.
The 4th floor was next.
He broke both legs in multiple places.
Undeterred, a year later, he tried again from the 4th floor plus one step, breaking his legs again and adding a collarbone and hip to the injury list.
A year after that, he jumped from the 4th floor plus two steps. Seven broken ribs, breaks in both arms and both knees, and a concussion were the result.
The next year he returned to the 4th floor and added four more steps. He swung one leg over the rail and looked down. Then, holding onto the rail, he swung his other leg over. Cars hissed by on the nearby freeway. A breeze blew through his hair. The sun shone through the trees, making him squint. And somehow he knew. This was the height. If he jumped from here, he would die. If he slid down a few inches and jumped, he would survive. He had no idea how he knew, but he knew.
He sat on the rail and took in the view. Then he swung his legs back over the rail and walked up the rest of the stairs to his apartment and thought about what his next experiment would be.
Among his most memorable experiments:
Q: What will happen if I drink eight large cups of bubble milk tea and then do wind sprints?
A: You will yack up the weirdest looking puke the world has ever seen.
Q: Everybody knows that if you laugh while you're drinking milk, the milk will go up your nose. But what about if you're eating something? Will that go up your nose, too?
A: Yes.
Q: Is it possible to literally shop till you drop?
A: Yes, but it takes a really long time and entails spending a lot of time in convenience stores because you have to keep going all night.
Q: Is shooting fish in a barrel really that easy?
A: Pretty much, but make sure your barrel is outside. Fun fact: Bullets will pass through the bottom/side of a barrel (and into your floor) almost as easily as they will a fish.
After getting evicted from the apartment where he confirmed that one, he found a new place on the other side of town. It was on the 8th floor and it was accessible by elevator and exterior stairway.
He was never even remotely a depressed person, but the more times he went up those stairs, the more he couldn't help wondering where the line of demarcation was between the height of a survivable fall from his building's exterior stairway and an unsurvivable fall. Where was the cutoff? Jumping from the stairway on his floor would obviously mean certain death, just as a jump from the 2nd floor would probably be no big deal. But somewhere between the two there had to be the precise point above which would mean death and below which would mean survival. Just as there was the straw that would break the camel's back, there had to be the step that would end the jumper's life.
A gruesome thought, yes. But he was curious. He wanted to find that spot. But how?
It was idiotic to try it out, even for him. There was no reason for him to risk his life for an experiment like that. Not when he was as healthy as he was.
But what about if he had a terminal illness? That might change things.
He went to the doctor and got a full battery of tests, hoping for the worst. But the bad news was that it was good news. He was fine.
Fine, but not ready to give up. He decided that if he wasn't terminally ill now, maybe he could help move himself in that direction.
He became a heavy smoker, hoping to give himself lung cancer; a heavy drinker, hoping to give himself cirrhosis of the liver; an adherent of the unhealthiest of diets, hoping to give himself diabetes or heart disease.
But nothing worked. He continued to get clean bills of health every time he went in for a physical. After two years of this, he started seriously considering the possibility that he was invincible. In which case, it was high time he got on with the experiment. The next morning he woke up to a beautiful, sunny day. The perfect day for an experiment.
He decided not to waste his time with the 2nd floor, and went straight to the 3rd. But when he got there, he decided it was really high after all, so he went back down to the landing between the 2nd and the 3rd, and after two false starts, he launched himself out away from the landing and plummeted to the ground.
At first, he was hesitant to move and he lay still for almost a minute. But once he realized he was fine, it was exhilarating. He was fine after a jump from two and a half stories! He tore up the stairs and jumped from the 3rd floor without hesitating.
This time his ankles paid a heavy price and he was seriously shaken up, but overall he felt OK.
The 4th floor was next.
He broke both legs in multiple places.
Undeterred, a year later, he tried again from the 4th floor plus one step, breaking his legs again and adding a collarbone and hip to the injury list.
A year after that, he jumped from the 4th floor plus two steps. Seven broken ribs, breaks in both arms and both knees, and a concussion were the result.
The next year he returned to the 4th floor and added four more steps. He swung one leg over the rail and looked down. Then, holding onto the rail, he swung his other leg over. Cars hissed by on the nearby freeway. A breeze blew through his hair. The sun shone through the trees, making him squint. And somehow he knew. This was the height. If he jumped from here, he would die. If he slid down a few inches and jumped, he would survive. He had no idea how he knew, but he knew.
He sat on the rail and took in the view. Then he swung his legs back over the rail and walked up the rest of the stairs to his apartment and thought about what his next experiment would be.
Monday, May 17, 2010
May 17 - After Hours
Kenta wakes up in the subway station alone, groggy, and uneasy. He is still wearing his business suit from last night, and his drunkenness is quickly surrendering to a hangover.
He looks around himself and gradually becomes aware of the situation: It's 1:30 am. The station won't open again until 4:45 am. The massive steel security shutters are down and locked. He's in for the night.
As he's coming to grips with this, he sees a large floor tile down the hall shake a bit and then get pushed aside from underneath. A moment later, three bearded dwarfs emerge from the opening wearing miner's helmets, jumpsuits, and boots, and carrying ropes, equipment bags, and tool belts.
They look at him and then at each other. Then one of them approaches him and asks him in heavily accented Japanese, "Drunk?"
Kenta says nothing, just stares at the dwarf.
The dwarf rolls his eyes, and then rubs them wearily before adding, "You are drunk. Yes?" He has to concentrate to produce each sentence. "This place. Very dangerous. Don't staying here."
Kenta still doesn't answer.
"Here," says the dwarf, holding out a flashlight for him to take. "Taking this."
Kenta doesn't move.
The dwarf turns around and addresses the others in their guttural dwarf language. "Fucking big people, man. They're all so slow. Every Goddamn one of them. What the hell?"
"It's weird when we're the first thing they see when they wake up," answers one of them.
"Apparently, but still. Get over it. I'm trying to help this idiot." Then he returns to Kenta and switches back to Japanese. "Standing up." He helps Kenta to his feet and tries handing him the flashlight again. This time Kenta accepts it.
"Following me," says the dwarf as he climbs back through the opening in the floor. Before ducking under, he turns to the other dwarfs. "You guys go ahead," he tells them in their language. "I'll catch up."
The tunnel underneath the tiles is almost short enough for the dwarf to walk through without ducking. Kenta, however, has to bend over at a right angle, and even then he hits his head enough times to switch to his knees. And then to a crab walk. Finally, he sits down and scoots along on his butt.
"It's OK," says the dwarf, turning around. "Not far. What's your name?"
Kenta just looks at him, and then the dwarf opens his eyes extra wide as if to say, 'Seriously.'
"Kenta."
"I'm Felix," he says. "Don't worrying. Almost arrived."
Soon the tunnel opens up into a room that's big enough for Kenta to stand up in. Once Felix screws in a loose light bulb, Kenta can see that the room is filled with small pieces of furniture, cooking utensils, packaged foods, bed mats, and as he looks more closely, briefcases, purses, and boxes of cell phones, iPods, watches, wallets, and sunglasses.
"OK," says Felix. "You staying here." And he turns around to leave.
"Wait. Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Out where?"
And then Felix tells him: The dwarfs have the whole subway system tunneled, and they're able to surface through loose tiles in every shop and kiosk in just about every station in the city. In these shops, they have big people contacts they work with on the sly--an underground economy, as it were. The dwarfs take away expired perishable foods that are still edible, and help themselves to damaged/unsellable items and slow moving overflow stock that their contacts set aside for them. The dwarfs compensate their contacts with the cash, dropped watches, lost cell phones, misplaced iPods, and other items they find on their nightly runs through the empty stations.
"I want to go with you."
"Bad idea."
"Why?"
"You're too big. You make us go slow. Very dangerous."
"What's dangerous?"
Felix shakes his head, losing patience. "Other group. They hunt. Attack. If they see you, they attack you. Especially if they see you sleep. They attack. Steal everything. Not like us. We gather. Not attack. You are lucky we find you, not them. We gather. They hunt."
"Are they your size?"
"Yes, but very dangerous. You don't know the subway. We do. If you join, we are too slow. So please, staying here."
"Wait. Who are you guys?"
"No more questions. You already make me late. Just staying here." Felix hands him a couple of iPods. "Please listening to music if you become boring."
"Bored."
"Whatever. See you later."
And Felix turns on his headlamp and leaves through the tunnel. When he surfaces again, he sees that Kenta is with him. He mutters something in his language, and watches as Kenta hoists himself out of the tunnel.
"OK, fine. Following me," he says, removing a panel from the wall and ducking through it. When Kenta sticks his head through, Felix pinches the back of his neck, and he collapses. Then he calls to the other two dwarfs to help him move Kenta back to the bench where they'd originally found him before they continue on their way.
And it is on this bench that Kenta wakes up at 5 am, missing his wallet, keys, cell phone, and briefcase. As he rubs his eyes and looks around himself, he has vague memories of a strange dream about dwarfs.
He looks around himself and gradually becomes aware of the situation: It's 1:30 am. The station won't open again until 4:45 am. The massive steel security shutters are down and locked. He's in for the night.
As he's coming to grips with this, he sees a large floor tile down the hall shake a bit and then get pushed aside from underneath. A moment later, three bearded dwarfs emerge from the opening wearing miner's helmets, jumpsuits, and boots, and carrying ropes, equipment bags, and tool belts.
They look at him and then at each other. Then one of them approaches him and asks him in heavily accented Japanese, "Drunk?"
Kenta says nothing, just stares at the dwarf.
The dwarf rolls his eyes, and then rubs them wearily before adding, "You are drunk. Yes?" He has to concentrate to produce each sentence. "This place. Very dangerous. Don't staying here."
Kenta still doesn't answer.
"Here," says the dwarf, holding out a flashlight for him to take. "Taking this."
Kenta doesn't move.
The dwarf turns around and addresses the others in their guttural dwarf language. "Fucking big people, man. They're all so slow. Every Goddamn one of them. What the hell?"
"It's weird when we're the first thing they see when they wake up," answers one of them.
"Apparently, but still. Get over it. I'm trying to help this idiot." Then he returns to Kenta and switches back to Japanese. "Standing up." He helps Kenta to his feet and tries handing him the flashlight again. This time Kenta accepts it.
"Following me," says the dwarf as he climbs back through the opening in the floor. Before ducking under, he turns to the other dwarfs. "You guys go ahead," he tells them in their language. "I'll catch up."
The tunnel underneath the tiles is almost short enough for the dwarf to walk through without ducking. Kenta, however, has to bend over at a right angle, and even then he hits his head enough times to switch to his knees. And then to a crab walk. Finally, he sits down and scoots along on his butt.
"It's OK," says the dwarf, turning around. "Not far. What's your name?"
Kenta just looks at him, and then the dwarf opens his eyes extra wide as if to say, 'Seriously.'
"Kenta."
"I'm Felix," he says. "Don't worrying. Almost arrived."
Soon the tunnel opens up into a room that's big enough for Kenta to stand up in. Once Felix screws in a loose light bulb, Kenta can see that the room is filled with small pieces of furniture, cooking utensils, packaged foods, bed mats, and as he looks more closely, briefcases, purses, and boxes of cell phones, iPods, watches, wallets, and sunglasses.
"OK," says Felix. "You staying here." And he turns around to leave.
"Wait. Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Out where?"
And then Felix tells him: The dwarfs have the whole subway system tunneled, and they're able to surface through loose tiles in every shop and kiosk in just about every station in the city. In these shops, they have big people contacts they work with on the sly--an underground economy, as it were. The dwarfs take away expired perishable foods that are still edible, and help themselves to damaged/unsellable items and slow moving overflow stock that their contacts set aside for them. The dwarfs compensate their contacts with the cash, dropped watches, lost cell phones, misplaced iPods, and other items they find on their nightly runs through the empty stations.
"I want to go with you."
"Bad idea."
"Why?"
"You're too big. You make us go slow. Very dangerous."
"What's dangerous?"
Felix shakes his head, losing patience. "Other group. They hunt. Attack. If they see you, they attack you. Especially if they see you sleep. They attack. Steal everything. Not like us. We gather. Not attack. You are lucky we find you, not them. We gather. They hunt."
"Are they your size?"
"Yes, but very dangerous. You don't know the subway. We do. If you join, we are too slow. So please, staying here."
"Wait. Who are you guys?"
"No more questions. You already make me late. Just staying here." Felix hands him a couple of iPods. "Please listening to music if you become boring."
"Bored."
"Whatever. See you later."
And Felix turns on his headlamp and leaves through the tunnel. When he surfaces again, he sees that Kenta is with him. He mutters something in his language, and watches as Kenta hoists himself out of the tunnel.
"OK, fine. Following me," he says, removing a panel from the wall and ducking through it. When Kenta sticks his head through, Felix pinches the back of his neck, and he collapses. Then he calls to the other two dwarfs to help him move Kenta back to the bench where they'd originally found him before they continue on their way.
And it is on this bench that Kenta wakes up at 5 am, missing his wallet, keys, cell phone, and briefcase. As he rubs his eyes and looks around himself, he has vague memories of a strange dream about dwarfs.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
May 16 - Crab Arms
Have you ever tried to explain to your teenage daughter that the reason she woke up with giant crab claws instead of arms is because of a gypsy curse you brought about? It's not easy.
For starters, she's hysterical, and, you know, fair enough. I mean this is not something she could have seen coming. But still, if you can come to grips--sorry, bad choice of words. If you can accept that you've got the (working!) claws of a crustacean where you used to have arms, is it really that much of a cognitive leap to allow yourself to believe that your current claws-for-arms situation is the result of a curse? I mean, it had to be caused by something, right? Why not a curse? Especially when your own mom is trying (patiently!) to explain how it all came about. Speaking of which . . .
It was a busy night at the Crab Shack, and a couple of waitresses had called in sick, so I was having to pull down triple duty--managing, waiting, and dish washing because Harold still hasn't managed to find us a replacement for Raoul, and it's like, how freaking hard can it be to find someone to wash dishes in a beach town? Ain't like it's skilled labor.
But anyway, I'm busier than all get up, and in walks an eight top of gypsies who are in town with the carnival. And by the way, no, it's not racist to call them gypsies. That's what they call themselves. Anyway, in they come, and they proceed to order up a big ass tab. Pitcher after pitcher, entree after entree, all sorts of sides and appetizers, the whole bit. About half of them get the all you can eat crab feast and then proceed to share it with the other half that didn't order it, but I'm too busy doing a million other things to monitor it more closely even though I know what's going on.
Anyway, when it comes time to pay, they're playing dumb and questioning all the charges and saying they're not going to pay, and it all escalates, and finally I call the cops.
Fast forward about 15, 20 minutes and the cops arrive. And right away, their grandma or whoever it is is spitting on the cops and cursing, and causing a big old scene. So naturally, she gets arrested and--surprise, surprise--it turns out she's here illegally, and they're going to deport her now, and how could you be so cruel, and on and on and on. And as they're dragging her off, she's screaming and hollering at me, and one of the younger ones is like, "She's cursing you and your family." And I'm like, "Oh yeah? Well this oughtta be good. Tell me all about it." And she's like, "Your firstborn child will carry the burden of this travesty throughout her days" or something like that. And I'm like, "Oooookay? Can you be a little more specific?" And then the grandma shouts a bunch more and grabs a crab claw off the table, and she must've grabbed it really hard because it pricked her skin deep enough to draw blood. So the blood's running down her hand and she's yelling and hollering at me, and then finally she throws the claw at me really hard and it hits me in the face. Damn near hit me in the eye.
Well by now, the police have had enough and they finally haul her out of there, kicking and screaming the whole way--the grandma, that is. Not the cops, although some of them were using their outside voices, too.
Anyway, the police finally get the rest of the gypsies to pay the bill after arguing with them for another 30 minutes or so. But after that they leave, and eventually things calm down, and we call it a night and go home, and then the next day Susie wakes up, and, well, you know the rest.
She refused to go to school. Wouldn't even leave the house. The good news is that other than her claws, everything else about her was normal, but Harold and I had to help her do, well, everything: brush her teeth, comb her hair, eat, drink, um, go to the bathroom. Poor thing was humiliated and confused and scared, and I can't say that I blame her.
We wanted to help her any way we could, but we didn't know who to call. A doctor? A priest? A marine biologist? We tried Googling her particular affliction, but we didn't find much that helped us. Most of the sites we checked out told us we had to reverse the curse, and it's like, yeah, you think?
We decided to try to find the woman's family and see if there wasn't some way we could work it all out. And I'm not usually one for negotiating with terrorists, but that might be because I've never been in this kind of situation before. Things take on a whole new light when it's someone in your family instead of some hypothetical person you've never met.
Anyway, we tracked the rest of her family down, and they were a lot more reasonable than I was expecting. I think they felt bad for Susie.
Speaking of Susie, after a couple of weeks of sitting around the house, she decided to suck it up and go back to school, and I'll be impressed with her for the rest of my days for her decision. Ultimately, she was just, like, I'll tell the truth. Which actually kind of worked, because as crazy as the story was, it was true and she had the claws to prove it.
God bless the students and teachers at her school. They were all really supportive of her and didn't give her a hard time. She's still figuring out how to write, though, which is hard. But one good thing is that she's finally stopped sending so many text messages on her cell phone. So, there's that.
But anyway, the curse. In order to reverse it, we have to sort it out with the woman who invoked it in the first place, which will mean a trip to Romania. We'll have to wait until June when Susie's on summer vacation. And I hate the thought of leaving the Crab Shack during high season, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
But it shouldn't be too bad. We're going to tack on a few extra days and visit Germany while we're over there. Harold's got relatives there.
For starters, she's hysterical, and, you know, fair enough. I mean this is not something she could have seen coming. But still, if you can come to grips--sorry, bad choice of words. If you can accept that you've got the (working!) claws of a crustacean where you used to have arms, is it really that much of a cognitive leap to allow yourself to believe that your current claws-for-arms situation is the result of a curse? I mean, it had to be caused by something, right? Why not a curse? Especially when your own mom is trying (patiently!) to explain how it all came about. Speaking of which . . .
It was a busy night at the Crab Shack, and a couple of waitresses had called in sick, so I was having to pull down triple duty--managing, waiting, and dish washing because Harold still hasn't managed to find us a replacement for Raoul, and it's like, how freaking hard can it be to find someone to wash dishes in a beach town? Ain't like it's skilled labor.
But anyway, I'm busier than all get up, and in walks an eight top of gypsies who are in town with the carnival. And by the way, no, it's not racist to call them gypsies. That's what they call themselves. Anyway, in they come, and they proceed to order up a big ass tab. Pitcher after pitcher, entree after entree, all sorts of sides and appetizers, the whole bit. About half of them get the all you can eat crab feast and then proceed to share it with the other half that didn't order it, but I'm too busy doing a million other things to monitor it more closely even though I know what's going on.
Anyway, when it comes time to pay, they're playing dumb and questioning all the charges and saying they're not going to pay, and it all escalates, and finally I call the cops.
Fast forward about 15, 20 minutes and the cops arrive. And right away, their grandma or whoever it is is spitting on the cops and cursing, and causing a big old scene. So naturally, she gets arrested and--surprise, surprise--it turns out she's here illegally, and they're going to deport her now, and how could you be so cruel, and on and on and on. And as they're dragging her off, she's screaming and hollering at me, and one of the younger ones is like, "She's cursing you and your family." And I'm like, "Oh yeah? Well this oughtta be good. Tell me all about it." And she's like, "Your firstborn child will carry the burden of this travesty throughout her days" or something like that. And I'm like, "Oooookay? Can you be a little more specific?" And then the grandma shouts a bunch more and grabs a crab claw off the table, and she must've grabbed it really hard because it pricked her skin deep enough to draw blood. So the blood's running down her hand and she's yelling and hollering at me, and then finally she throws the claw at me really hard and it hits me in the face. Damn near hit me in the eye.
Well by now, the police have had enough and they finally haul her out of there, kicking and screaming the whole way--the grandma, that is. Not the cops, although some of them were using their outside voices, too.
Anyway, the police finally get the rest of the gypsies to pay the bill after arguing with them for another 30 minutes or so. But after that they leave, and eventually things calm down, and we call it a night and go home, and then the next day Susie wakes up, and, well, you know the rest.
She refused to go to school. Wouldn't even leave the house. The good news is that other than her claws, everything else about her was normal, but Harold and I had to help her do, well, everything: brush her teeth, comb her hair, eat, drink, um, go to the bathroom. Poor thing was humiliated and confused and scared, and I can't say that I blame her.
We wanted to help her any way we could, but we didn't know who to call. A doctor? A priest? A marine biologist? We tried Googling her particular affliction, but we didn't find much that helped us. Most of the sites we checked out told us we had to reverse the curse, and it's like, yeah, you think?
We decided to try to find the woman's family and see if there wasn't some way we could work it all out. And I'm not usually one for negotiating with terrorists, but that might be because I've never been in this kind of situation before. Things take on a whole new light when it's someone in your family instead of some hypothetical person you've never met.
Anyway, we tracked the rest of her family down, and they were a lot more reasonable than I was expecting. I think they felt bad for Susie.
Speaking of Susie, after a couple of weeks of sitting around the house, she decided to suck it up and go back to school, and I'll be impressed with her for the rest of my days for her decision. Ultimately, she was just, like, I'll tell the truth. Which actually kind of worked, because as crazy as the story was, it was true and she had the claws to prove it.
God bless the students and teachers at her school. They were all really supportive of her and didn't give her a hard time. She's still figuring out how to write, though, which is hard. But one good thing is that she's finally stopped sending so many text messages on her cell phone. So, there's that.
But anyway, the curse. In order to reverse it, we have to sort it out with the woman who invoked it in the first place, which will mean a trip to Romania. We'll have to wait until June when Susie's on summer vacation. And I hate the thought of leaving the Crab Shack during high season, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
But it shouldn't be too bad. We're going to tack on a few extra days and visit Germany while we're over there. Harold's got relatives there.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
May 15 - Woman, I Love You
Woman, let me be blunt. I love you. I love everything about you. I love your eyes, your hair, your smile, your laugh, your teeth, and your gums. Yes, you heard me right, baby. I love your gums. An angel must have been bucking for a promotion when he/she made your gums, for they are so very, very fine.
I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I love you so much it makes me breathless, but it also makes me gassy, which is a weird combination if you think about it. No, wait. Let me take that back. If you think about it, it is not a weird combination at all, because only beautiful, enchanting, amazing thoughts pass through your beautiful, beautiful mind. By the way, that movie--A Beautiful Mind--should have been about you and starring you instead of that hot tempered Russell Crowe jerk face. If that movie were starring you, I would definitely buy it again, this time on Blu Ray. But it is not. It is starring that mean bastard from Robin Hood. And that is what holds me back from buying it on Blu Ray, even though Ed Harris was really good in it.
But of course he's always good.
Oh, look at me, would you? There I've gone and gotten myself sidetracked by A Beautiful Mind again. Where was I? Oh yes, of course. I was talking about loving you. And how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. One, two, three . . . gazillion squared!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!
Sorry, baby. Please don't let my jokes detract from the integrity of my message, which, to reiterate, is that I love you and that I think about you all the time. Every time we're together--which though it is often, it is not often enough--I want to freeze time and preserve the moment. I want to be with you always. So much so that sleep has become my enemy, for how can I enjoy my time with you if I am sleeping? Damn that sleep. Damn it to hell! You've perhaps noticed that I'm drinking more and more coffee these days. Now you know the reason. It is to stay awake so that I can be with you longer each day. Girl, I miss you when I sleep. Hell, I miss you when I blink. But I must blink, for if I don't my eyes will dry out. And that would eventually result in my not being able to see you, which is something I cannot abide. Therefore, I blink, but I do so reluctantly.
Returning to the subject of sleep for a moment if I may, there are times when I dream of you. And those nights are magical. The reason why is because in dreams we are unbound by the rules of the physical world. It is like The Matrix, and we are heroic, futuristic, leather clad S & M messiahs making love, no gravity style. And in these dreams we are the only people in the world, except for the people of Zion who spy on us from behind the curtains. But we do not mind because we are unashamed and beautiful. And also because it is a dream, so it doesn't really count.
My goal is to create an elixer of some sort that will enable me to gain more control over my dreams and will myself to dream only of you. If I am able to do that, I will dread sleep no longer. I will even reduce my coffee intake, for I will know that I will be able to be with you at all times. But until that time comes, I will savor every moment with you the same way a flower savors its time in the sunshine.
Now give me another look at those gums of yours, won't you?
I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I love you so much it makes me breathless, but it also makes me gassy, which is a weird combination if you think about it. No, wait. Let me take that back. If you think about it, it is not a weird combination at all, because only beautiful, enchanting, amazing thoughts pass through your beautiful, beautiful mind. By the way, that movie--A Beautiful Mind--should have been about you and starring you instead of that hot tempered Russell Crowe jerk face. If that movie were starring you, I would definitely buy it again, this time on Blu Ray. But it is not. It is starring that mean bastard from Robin Hood. And that is what holds me back from buying it on Blu Ray, even though Ed Harris was really good in it.
But of course he's always good.
Oh, look at me, would you? There I've gone and gotten myself sidetracked by A Beautiful Mind again. Where was I? Oh yes, of course. I was talking about loving you. And how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. One, two, three . . . gazillion squared!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!
Sorry, baby. Please don't let my jokes detract from the integrity of my message, which, to reiterate, is that I love you and that I think about you all the time. Every time we're together--which though it is often, it is not often enough--I want to freeze time and preserve the moment. I want to be with you always. So much so that sleep has become my enemy, for how can I enjoy my time with you if I am sleeping? Damn that sleep. Damn it to hell! You've perhaps noticed that I'm drinking more and more coffee these days. Now you know the reason. It is to stay awake so that I can be with you longer each day. Girl, I miss you when I sleep. Hell, I miss you when I blink. But I must blink, for if I don't my eyes will dry out. And that would eventually result in my not being able to see you, which is something I cannot abide. Therefore, I blink, but I do so reluctantly.
Returning to the subject of sleep for a moment if I may, there are times when I dream of you. And those nights are magical. The reason why is because in dreams we are unbound by the rules of the physical world. It is like The Matrix, and we are heroic, futuristic, leather clad S & M messiahs making love, no gravity style. And in these dreams we are the only people in the world, except for the people of Zion who spy on us from behind the curtains. But we do not mind because we are unashamed and beautiful. And also because it is a dream, so it doesn't really count.
My goal is to create an elixer of some sort that will enable me to gain more control over my dreams and will myself to dream only of you. If I am able to do that, I will dread sleep no longer. I will even reduce my coffee intake, for I will know that I will be able to be with you at all times. But until that time comes, I will savor every moment with you the same way a flower savors its time in the sunshine.
Now give me another look at those gums of yours, won't you?
Friday, May 14, 2010
May 14 - Do You Like Disco?
"If you were going to be jogging in a few hours, what's the last thing on this menu you'd want to eat?"
"That would be a very difficult question, sir. But I would have to say the chicken masala."
"Great, give me that, a nan, and a Kingfisher."
"Very good, sir."
I'm at a curry house in Akihabara, Tokyo. Just downstairs is Club Goodman, a live house where very soon I will be seeing a concert featuring four different line-ups of Acid Mothers Temple, Japan's premier psychedelic noise freakout collective. I jogged here from my apartment about five or six kilometers away. After it is finished, I will jog home. I've now added jogging as a mode of transportation, and why not? It's faster than walking, great exercise, and running through the streets of Tokyo never fails to make me love this city more than I already do.
And the run here tonight was great. Unseasonably cool for May, weaving in and out of salarymen, school uniforms, and sidewalk cyclists to end up in Akihabara, where I added otaku and maids to the role call of Tokyoites I had to juke my way through to get here. And I look forward to doing it again on the way home.
But first, Acid Mothers Temple. When I get to the club, the chick in front of me is wearing nothing but a black leather bikini. This can only be a good sign.
By the way, I've come here alone (Not that I'm foreshadowing me hitting on the bikini chick, because I'm not, OK? OK?). My girlfriend isn't into Acid Mothers Temple, and I didn't put the hard sell on her or any of my friends because--how do I say this without sounding like a dick?--they're not for everyone. They're loud, like jackhammer having angry make-up sex with your ear loud. And they're hard and they're dark, and their music is churning and out there and sludgy and coarse and demonic. And they're almost impossibly prolific, having released more than 40 albums in the last 10 years. And they rock.
Tonight's show is billed as four separate acts--Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Cosmic Blues Band, Acid Mothers Temple and the Cosmic Inferno, Acid Mothers Temple SWR, and Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso UFO--but it's really one group. Throughout the night, different members of the AMT collective--a jumbled Manson family-esque hodge podge of outlaws and freaks--rotate on and off the stage, and the music never stops. Muddy psychedelic blooze segues into droning kraut rock that builds to a deafening assault of white noise before giving way to a single, dreamy, beatific acoustic guitar solo that gradually leads into a searing noise rock odyssey to the outer reaches of the stratosphere. It goes on like this for three and a half hours straight.
And when it's over, after head Mother Kawabata Makoto has destroyed his guitar and the rest of the group have left the stage and guitarist Tsuyama Atsushi has come back on to sing auld lang sayne in Japanese before saying goodnight, after all that, the applause is kind of muted, but it's not because the audience is disappointed. I've been to a lot of shows. And the audience dug this one. They're light on applause because they're exhausted. It's been a monster of a show.
I go back upstairs and out onto the streets and run home. I hope the chicken masala doesn't turn out to have been a bad decision.
"That would be a very difficult question, sir. But I would have to say the chicken masala."
"Great, give me that, a nan, and a Kingfisher."
"Very good, sir."
I'm at a curry house in Akihabara, Tokyo. Just downstairs is Club Goodman, a live house where very soon I will be seeing a concert featuring four different line-ups of Acid Mothers Temple, Japan's premier psychedelic noise freakout collective. I jogged here from my apartment about five or six kilometers away. After it is finished, I will jog home. I've now added jogging as a mode of transportation, and why not? It's faster than walking, great exercise, and running through the streets of Tokyo never fails to make me love this city more than I already do.
And the run here tonight was great. Unseasonably cool for May, weaving in and out of salarymen, school uniforms, and sidewalk cyclists to end up in Akihabara, where I added otaku and maids to the role call of Tokyoites I had to juke my way through to get here. And I look forward to doing it again on the way home.
But first, Acid Mothers Temple. When I get to the club, the chick in front of me is wearing nothing but a black leather bikini. This can only be a good sign.
By the way, I've come here alone (Not that I'm foreshadowing me hitting on the bikini chick, because I'm not, OK? OK?). My girlfriend isn't into Acid Mothers Temple, and I didn't put the hard sell on her or any of my friends because--how do I say this without sounding like a dick?--they're not for everyone. They're loud, like jackhammer having angry make-up sex with your ear loud. And they're hard and they're dark, and their music is churning and out there and sludgy and coarse and demonic. And they're almost impossibly prolific, having released more than 40 albums in the last 10 years. And they rock.
Tonight's show is billed as four separate acts--Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Cosmic Blues Band, Acid Mothers Temple and the Cosmic Inferno, Acid Mothers Temple SWR, and Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso UFO--but it's really one group. Throughout the night, different members of the AMT collective--a jumbled Manson family-esque hodge podge of outlaws and freaks--rotate on and off the stage, and the music never stops. Muddy psychedelic blooze segues into droning kraut rock that builds to a deafening assault of white noise before giving way to a single, dreamy, beatific acoustic guitar solo that gradually leads into a searing noise rock odyssey to the outer reaches of the stratosphere. It goes on like this for three and a half hours straight.
And when it's over, after head Mother Kawabata Makoto has destroyed his guitar and the rest of the group have left the stage and guitarist Tsuyama Atsushi has come back on to sing auld lang sayne in Japanese before saying goodnight, after all that, the applause is kind of muted, but it's not because the audience is disappointed. I've been to a lot of shows. And the audience dug this one. They're light on applause because they're exhausted. It's been a monster of a show.
I go back upstairs and out onto the streets and run home. I hope the chicken masala doesn't turn out to have been a bad decision.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
May 13 - Baseball Dads
How about you? You play any sports back in high school?
Yeah, baseball.
Baseball, huh? Were you any good?
Decent, yeah. Made all-state in my senior year.
Easy there, Glory Days.
What's that?
I said, 'Easy there, Glory Days.' You know, like the song?
OK?
You know, Springsteen?
Yeah, I know it. So?
Yeah, so high school was a long time ago. You should move on. Everybody else has.
You asked me if I was any good, and I answered you.
Yeah, I asked you if you were any good. Didn't ask you to rattle off your greatest achievement from, what, 20 years ago? Seriously, slugger. Nobody cared then, and nobody cares now.
Who--what?
Ah, I'm just screwing around.
Oh . . . OK.
(about a minute later)
So, what do you do?
Me? I'm in finance.
No kidding. Like, banking, investments, shit like that?
Yes. Shit like that.
Must be doing pretty all right for yourself, huh?
Well, you know. We're comfortable.
Well, put your hands together for Mr. Gekko. OK, I get it. You're rich. Don't mean your shit don't stink.
Dude, you asked me how I was doing and I said I'm comfortable. What's the--
Hey, don't get defensive, Wall Street. We're just talking here.
Look, I--
Come on, I'm just messing with you.
Fine, whatever.
(another minute later)
What about you?
What about me, what?
Did you play any sports back in high school?
No.
So, what'd you do? You work? Were you in any activities?
I was on the yearbook staff.
Seriously?
Yeah. Why?
No, it's just that I was on yearbook at my high school, too.
Really? Well, whoopity fucking do. Baseball AND yearbook. Freaking fascinating. Tell me: Would you rather I suck your dick right now, or should I wait until after the game so our sons can watch?
All right, that's it.
Ooh, am I making you uncomfortable? Come on, man. Don't walk away. I think we're really starting to hit it off.
(another minute later)
Hey, honey. Who was that?
One of the other parents.
Oh. Was he nice?
Nah. Total asshole. Wouldn't stop talking about himself and his Wall Street job and how great a baseball player he was back in high school. Total loser.
Oh, that's too bad.
Yeah. Oh well, screw him. How was your day?
Great.
Great? Yeah, what happened?
Oh, I don't want to brag.
Come on, tell me.
Well, I got a couple of calls about the Waterstone property.
Ooh. Way to go, Trump.
What?
I said, that's great.
Yeah, baseball.
Baseball, huh? Were you any good?
Decent, yeah. Made all-state in my senior year.
Easy there, Glory Days.
What's that?
I said, 'Easy there, Glory Days.' You know, like the song?
OK?
You know, Springsteen?
Yeah, I know it. So?
Yeah, so high school was a long time ago. You should move on. Everybody else has.
You asked me if I was any good, and I answered you.
Yeah, I asked you if you were any good. Didn't ask you to rattle off your greatest achievement from, what, 20 years ago? Seriously, slugger. Nobody cared then, and nobody cares now.
Who--what?
Ah, I'm just screwing around.
Oh . . . OK.
(about a minute later)
So, what do you do?
Me? I'm in finance.
No kidding. Like, banking, investments, shit like that?
Yes. Shit like that.
Must be doing pretty all right for yourself, huh?
Well, you know. We're comfortable.
Well, put your hands together for Mr. Gekko. OK, I get it. You're rich. Don't mean your shit don't stink.
Dude, you asked me how I was doing and I said I'm comfortable. What's the--
Hey, don't get defensive, Wall Street. We're just talking here.
Look, I--
Come on, I'm just messing with you.
Fine, whatever.
(another minute later)
What about you?
What about me, what?
Did you play any sports back in high school?
No.
So, what'd you do? You work? Were you in any activities?
I was on the yearbook staff.
Seriously?
Yeah. Why?
No, it's just that I was on yearbook at my high school, too.
Really? Well, whoopity fucking do. Baseball AND yearbook. Freaking fascinating. Tell me: Would you rather I suck your dick right now, or should I wait until after the game so our sons can watch?
All right, that's it.
Ooh, am I making you uncomfortable? Come on, man. Don't walk away. I think we're really starting to hit it off.
(another minute later)
Hey, honey. Who was that?
One of the other parents.
Oh. Was he nice?
Nah. Total asshole. Wouldn't stop talking about himself and his Wall Street job and how great a baseball player he was back in high school. Total loser.
Oh, that's too bad.
Yeah. Oh well, screw him. How was your day?
Great.
Great? Yeah, what happened?
Oh, I don't want to brag.
Come on, tell me.
Well, I got a couple of calls about the Waterstone property.
Ooh. Way to go, Trump.
What?
I said, that's great.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
May 12 - Packrat
He got it from his father, who'd gotten it from his father, who'd gotten it from the Great Depression: the inability to throw anything away, the feeling that you never knew when you were going to need those old newspapers or that broken bicycle pump or that set of encyclopedias from the early 70s that was missing seven or eight volumes, so you held on to it. And the more stuff you held on to, and the longer you held on to it, the harder it became to let yourself throw anything away.
So he didn't.
His house was filled: Boxes upon boxes of old electric, gas, water, and phone bills, videotapes, loose photographs, shopping bags, empty shampoo bottles, garbage bags filled with crushed aluminum cans, stacks of flower pots, broken TVs, stereo components, bundles of magazines bound with twine, an RCA Videodisc Player.
The hallways were tighter than crawlspaces, with encroaching heaps of junk closing off the passable space like cholesterol closing off arteries.
The basement was a network of tunnels through decades of broken furniture, piping, scrap metal, lumber, bicycle parts, auto parts, and railroad ties. Slot machines, carousel horses, signs for businesses that had been bankrupt since before he was born.
No garbage ever went out. He had one stack for egg cartons, one for tin cans, another for milk cartons, junk mail, light bulbs, orange peels, coffee grounds, toilet paper rolls, cereal boxes, olive pits, bread crumbs, aerosol cans, dryer lint, saltine cracker sleeves, paint cans.
The fire destroyed all of it.
He was at work when it happened. By the time they got in touch with him, it was too late for it to matter.
It burned for days. When it was finished everything was gone.
Faulty wiring, they said.
He moved in to a hotel. Compared to his old bedroom, the hotel room was so wide open it was like sleeping in the middle of a football field.
On the first morning after the fire was completely extinguished, he got a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the hotel lobby. After he finished it, he held on to the cup, thinking he might use it again later.
So he didn't.
His house was filled: Boxes upon boxes of old electric, gas, water, and phone bills, videotapes, loose photographs, shopping bags, empty shampoo bottles, garbage bags filled with crushed aluminum cans, stacks of flower pots, broken TVs, stereo components, bundles of magazines bound with twine, an RCA Videodisc Player.
The hallways were tighter than crawlspaces, with encroaching heaps of junk closing off the passable space like cholesterol closing off arteries.
The basement was a network of tunnels through decades of broken furniture, piping, scrap metal, lumber, bicycle parts, auto parts, and railroad ties. Slot machines, carousel horses, signs for businesses that had been bankrupt since before he was born.
No garbage ever went out. He had one stack for egg cartons, one for tin cans, another for milk cartons, junk mail, light bulbs, orange peels, coffee grounds, toilet paper rolls, cereal boxes, olive pits, bread crumbs, aerosol cans, dryer lint, saltine cracker sleeves, paint cans.
The fire destroyed all of it.
He was at work when it happened. By the time they got in touch with him, it was too late for it to matter.
It burned for days. When it was finished everything was gone.
Faulty wiring, they said.
He moved in to a hotel. Compared to his old bedroom, the hotel room was so wide open it was like sleeping in the middle of a football field.
On the first morning after the fire was completely extinguished, he got a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the hotel lobby. After he finished it, he held on to the cup, thinking he might use it again later.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
May 11 - The Email
New Office Regulations
From: George Peterson (Gpeterson@lipman.com)
Sent: Tues 5/11/10 1:49 AM
To: All employees
In an effort to boost worker morale, management has decided to institute the following changes in workplace regulations, effective immediately:
1. The 40-hour work week shall be phased out gradually over the coming month and replaced with a two-day work week. Actually, screw that. From now on, the work week will start on Tuesday and end on Wednesday. Of course, management realizes you have already worked Monday of this week, so go ahead and take this Wednesday off and we'll start the new schedule next Tuesday, which means today (Tuesday) is like Friday, but only this week. Does that make sense? Great, great.
2. Beginning next week, we're having casual Wednesdays every week. Wait. Should I capitalize Casual Wednesdays? Who cares? Point is, let's really push the boundaries on this, OK? None of this namby pamby "office casual" Dockers and oxfords bum fuckery. No. Let's really let it all hang out. I'm talking shorts, t-shirts, flops, halter tops, the whole works. (P.S. I'm just kidding on the halter tops.)
(P.P.S. But not really.)
3. After lunch, consider this office a booze friendly environment! Seriously, gang. You're here 16 hours a week. Take a load off, for God's sake. Life's too short.
4. Enough of this smooth jazz bullshit. Effective immediately, management is tuning the office's radio in to 94.1 WYSP, Philly's Home of Classic Rock.
And then we're breaking the knob off the fucking radio.
Also, if anybody gets them to play Slow Ride during the all-request lunch hour, that person gets the rest of the day off. Seriously.
5. We've talked about this long enough and I'm tired of excuses: I want Baggo set up in the parking lot today.
6. Four words: Hawaiian Shirt Gonzo Wednesday.
7. Say goodbye to weekly staff meetings. Say hello to youtube and Krispy Kreme. My office. Every Tuesday.
8. The last Wednesday of the month will be "Bring Your (whatever) to Work Day." I'll take your suggestions for future themes, but this month's is going to be, "Bring Your Ex-wife to Work Day." (I'm looking at you, Henderson from accounting.)
9. Middle-management no longer needs to CC me on every Goddamn interoffice email. Seriously.
10. Pets in the work place? I say: Why the fuck not?
George out!
Re: New Office Regulations
From: George Peterson (Gpeterson@lipman.com)
Sent: Tues 5/11/10 9:05 AM
To: All employees
Please disregard the email I sent last night outlining new office regulations. I regret any confusion or personal offense it caused anyone, especially Henderson from accounting.
Sincerely,
George Peterson
From: George Peterson (Gpeterson@lipman.com)
Sent: Tues 5/11/10 1:49 AM
To: All employees
In an effort to boost worker morale, management has decided to institute the following changes in workplace regulations, effective immediately:
1. The 40-hour work week shall be phased out gradually over the coming month and replaced with a two-day work week. Actually, screw that. From now on, the work week will start on Tuesday and end on Wednesday. Of course, management realizes you have already worked Monday of this week, so go ahead and take this Wednesday off and we'll start the new schedule next Tuesday, which means today (Tuesday) is like Friday, but only this week. Does that make sense? Great, great.
2. Beginning next week, we're having casual Wednesdays every week. Wait. Should I capitalize Casual Wednesdays? Who cares? Point is, let's really push the boundaries on this, OK? None of this namby pamby "office casual" Dockers and oxfords bum fuckery. No. Let's really let it all hang out. I'm talking shorts, t-shirts, flops, halter tops, the whole works. (P.S. I'm just kidding on the halter tops.)
(P.P.S. But not really.)
3. After lunch, consider this office a booze friendly environment! Seriously, gang. You're here 16 hours a week. Take a load off, for God's sake. Life's too short.
4. Enough of this smooth jazz bullshit. Effective immediately, management is tuning the office's radio in to 94.1 WYSP, Philly's Home of Classic Rock.
And then we're breaking the knob off the fucking radio.
Also, if anybody gets them to play Slow Ride during the all-request lunch hour, that person gets the rest of the day off. Seriously.
5. We've talked about this long enough and I'm tired of excuses: I want Baggo set up in the parking lot today.
6. Four words: Hawaiian Shirt Gonzo Wednesday.
7. Say goodbye to weekly staff meetings. Say hello to youtube and Krispy Kreme. My office. Every Tuesday.
8. The last Wednesday of the month will be "Bring Your (whatever) to Work Day." I'll take your suggestions for future themes, but this month's is going to be, "Bring Your Ex-wife to Work Day." (I'm looking at you, Henderson from accounting.)
9. Middle-management no longer needs to CC me on every Goddamn interoffice email. Seriously.
10. Pets in the work place? I say: Why the fuck not?
George out!
Re: New Office Regulations
From: George Peterson (Gpeterson@lipman.com)
Sent: Tues 5/11/10 9:05 AM
To: All employees
Please disregard the email I sent last night outlining new office regulations. I regret any confusion or personal offense it caused anyone, especially Henderson from accounting.
Sincerely,
George Peterson
Monday, May 10, 2010
May 10 - The Seer
He was old.
Nobody knew for sure how old, but for as long as anyone could remember, he'd been close enough to death for it to reach out and ruffle his few remaining hairs. And yet--there's no other way to put it--he kept on not dying.
It was beyond his caretakers' comprehension.
He didn't eat--no teeth. He was fed intravenously.
Never left his bed.
Never talked. He'd lost his larynx to throat cancer years ago.
Every day was the same. He lay in bed. Unless there were visitors, the only sounds came from the medical equipment and old Chinese music that played at a low volume.
His eyes were cloudy and grey, and usually clenched shut. He was legally blind.
His skin stretched over his face so tightly that it looked translucent over his cheekbones.
His torso was so emaciated you could almost see his organs. Sallow skin clung to his ribcage and wispy white hairs protruded from his droopy brown nipples. Both his legs had been amputated several years ago, bit by bit. First the toes, then the feet, shins, above the knees, etc. All that was left were rumors of two bony nubs coming out of his waist. His right arm had gone in similar piecemeal fashion. Only the pointer finger remained on his left hand.
He took visitors, mostly from the Chinese immigrant population that comprised the bulk of his neighborhood. Whenever anyone came in, he or she would ask his caretakers--his three great nieces and a day nurse--if he was sleeping or awake.
"Neither," they would say sometimes.
"Both," they would say the rest of the time.
Visitors would ask him questions about the past, the future, and unseen things happening back in China.
As they told their stories, he lay in bed, eyes clenched shut--no movement except his jaw, which moved rigorously even though his mouth was closed.
Minutes would pass after they'd told their stories: no sound except the medical equipment and the Chinese music if they'd forgotten to turn it down. Then suddenly, his one remaining finger would tap out a brief Morse code response to the question. Very often the response was cryptic, but there were no follow-up questions.
Most people made their inquiries in Chinese, but sometimes second or third generation kids used English. He responded to their questions, even though he'd never learned English.
Most of his family had either passed away or gone back to China. Of the ones who were still around, nobody had known about his gift until after his health went bad.
Nobody kept track of how accurate his responses were, but there was never more than a day that went by when he didn't have a visitor.
Nobody knew for sure how old, but for as long as anyone could remember, he'd been close enough to death for it to reach out and ruffle his few remaining hairs. And yet--there's no other way to put it--he kept on not dying.
It was beyond his caretakers' comprehension.
He didn't eat--no teeth. He was fed intravenously.
Never left his bed.
Never talked. He'd lost his larynx to throat cancer years ago.
Every day was the same. He lay in bed. Unless there were visitors, the only sounds came from the medical equipment and old Chinese music that played at a low volume.
His eyes were cloudy and grey, and usually clenched shut. He was legally blind.
His skin stretched over his face so tightly that it looked translucent over his cheekbones.
His torso was so emaciated you could almost see his organs. Sallow skin clung to his ribcage and wispy white hairs protruded from his droopy brown nipples. Both his legs had been amputated several years ago, bit by bit. First the toes, then the feet, shins, above the knees, etc. All that was left were rumors of two bony nubs coming out of his waist. His right arm had gone in similar piecemeal fashion. Only the pointer finger remained on his left hand.
He took visitors, mostly from the Chinese immigrant population that comprised the bulk of his neighborhood. Whenever anyone came in, he or she would ask his caretakers--his three great nieces and a day nurse--if he was sleeping or awake.
"Neither," they would say sometimes.
"Both," they would say the rest of the time.
Visitors would ask him questions about the past, the future, and unseen things happening back in China.
As they told their stories, he lay in bed, eyes clenched shut--no movement except his jaw, which moved rigorously even though his mouth was closed.
Minutes would pass after they'd told their stories: no sound except the medical equipment and the Chinese music if they'd forgotten to turn it down. Then suddenly, his one remaining finger would tap out a brief Morse code response to the question. Very often the response was cryptic, but there were no follow-up questions.
Most people made their inquiries in Chinese, but sometimes second or third generation kids used English. He responded to their questions, even though he'd never learned English.
Most of his family had either passed away or gone back to China. Of the ones who were still around, nobody had known about his gift until after his health went bad.
Nobody kept track of how accurate his responses were, but there was never more than a day that went by when he didn't have a visitor.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
May 9 - (Not Necessarily Autobiographical) Thoughts on Mother's Day at Different Ages in a Son's Life
Every year for Mother's Day, his father asked him to make a list of things he loved about his mother.
This is what he wrote when he was five: I love my Momy because: She makes Chocklit Chip Cookys and blows on my nee if I fall off my bisikkel and tuks me in at niht.
When he was 11 years old, this is what he put on his list: I love my Mom because she always stops at 7-11 after soccer practice and buys us Gatorade. I also love my Mom because she helps me with my homework and lets me stay up later and watch PG-13 movies.
When he was 16: A really cool thing about my mom is that she doesn't make me clean my room anymore, or at least not that often. I also like that she lets me pick the music in the car, and she actually knows some of it, so, she's actually paying attention to it. She's also cool about letting me stay out late, as long as I call. I also like it that both she and my dad come to all my games. And they cheer and everything, but they're not embarrassing about it like some of the other parents are. I also like it that she makes me do my homework, and I know that sounds weird, but deep down inside I know I need to get good grades, even though I don't always act like it. And it's good that she nags me about it. There, I said it.
When he was 23: One thing I really appreciate about my mom is that she doesn't make me feel guilty about living far away and probably not calling as often as I should. And when I do call or email or visit, she's actually interested in what I'm up to, even though it's nothing glamorous. And this last one is totally going to sound dorky, but whatever: She makes me feel good about myself, even though most of my friends have been kicking the ass of this whole life thing a little harder than I have since college. I'm usually too cool to let on how much I appreciate it, but it's nice to have that encouragement.
When he was 35: Now that I'm a parent of my own, I'm starting to get a real appreciation for everything my mom did for me for, well, for all my life. I mean, I guess I'd always been kind of aware of those kinds of things, but now that I'm going through parenthood myself? Wow.
But what I like about her now--like, not in retrospect, but now--is the advice and insight she gives me when I ask for it--and that she doesn't give to me when I don't. I like that she's known me all my life and remembers stuff about me. Sometimes her memory is a little selective and revisionist, but I don't mind, because it's good to hear nice things about myself every once in a while. Mostly, though, I like how she's a constant. The world's always changing, and people are always coming and going, and I might live here this year and someplace else next year, but no matter what else happens, I know she's my mom. And I like that.
This is what he wrote when he was five: I love my Momy because: She makes Chocklit Chip Cookys and blows on my nee if I fall off my bisikkel and tuks me in at niht.
When he was 11 years old, this is what he put on his list: I love my Mom because she always stops at 7-11 after soccer practice and buys us Gatorade. I also love my Mom because she helps me with my homework and lets me stay up later and watch PG-13 movies.
When he was 16: A really cool thing about my mom is that she doesn't make me clean my room anymore, or at least not that often. I also like that she lets me pick the music in the car, and she actually knows some of it, so, she's actually paying attention to it. She's also cool about letting me stay out late, as long as I call. I also like it that both she and my dad come to all my games. And they cheer and everything, but they're not embarrassing about it like some of the other parents are. I also like it that she makes me do my homework, and I know that sounds weird, but deep down inside I know I need to get good grades, even though I don't always act like it. And it's good that she nags me about it. There, I said it.
When he was 23: One thing I really appreciate about my mom is that she doesn't make me feel guilty about living far away and probably not calling as often as I should. And when I do call or email or visit, she's actually interested in what I'm up to, even though it's nothing glamorous. And this last one is totally going to sound dorky, but whatever: She makes me feel good about myself, even though most of my friends have been kicking the ass of this whole life thing a little harder than I have since college. I'm usually too cool to let on how much I appreciate it, but it's nice to have that encouragement.
When he was 35: Now that I'm a parent of my own, I'm starting to get a real appreciation for everything my mom did for me for, well, for all my life. I mean, I guess I'd always been kind of aware of those kinds of things, but now that I'm going through parenthood myself? Wow.
But what I like about her now--like, not in retrospect, but now--is the advice and insight she gives me when I ask for it--and that she doesn't give to me when I don't. I like that she's known me all my life and remembers stuff about me. Sometimes her memory is a little selective and revisionist, but I don't mind, because it's good to hear nice things about myself every once in a while. Mostly, though, I like how she's a constant. The world's always changing, and people are always coming and going, and I might live here this year and someplace else next year, but no matter what else happens, I know she's my mom. And I like that.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
May 8 - Single Ladies
The worst part about the girl's music bleeding out of her earbuds was that he recognized the song and couldn't not sing along with it in his head: All the single ladies, all the single ladies. And the worst part about that was that it was such a catchy song--the kind that drills through your ear and burrows into the snuggest, most secure part of your brain and sets up camp there and starts a family--that he knew he'd be singing it for days, weeks.
Everybody else on the bus was quiet. Everybody except the girl he was sitting next to. Her and her iPod and her nose ring and her spiky black hair. Her mascara and jeans skirt and black bra strap peaking out from under her tank top. He tried to focus on his book, but it was no use.
He glanced over her way briefly in the hopes that she would see him looking at her and immediately understand why he was looking at her and offer to turn down her music and then apologize to him and introduce herself to him and tell him that she was only listening to the song ironically and that the rest of the music on her iPod was much more in tune (ha ha) with his musical tastes, and what are we doing wasting our time on this bus when we could be having hot, wet sex in that skanky dive hotel right over there, yes, that one, and grab his hand and off they'd go.
And that's what it came down to: Yes her tinny, trebbly music was annoying as hell, but the bottom line was that she was hot. Actually doing anything to make her turn her music down--giving her an annoyed face and pointing at her earbuds, miming the act of turning a volume knob down, or just asking her--would only result in her turning him down as well. So he did nothing and said nothing, and sat there feigning aloofness as he read the same sentence yet again and tried to convince himself that that was the best shot he had with her. Play it cool.
The old lady on the other side of the girl tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to please turn her music down.
After the girl gave the old lady a half smile and dialed the volume down, he gave the girl a Can you believe that old crow? look and rolled his eyes, but she didn't notice him. He looked around the bus and glanced back at her a few more times and then went back to his book.
At least it was quiet.
Everybody else on the bus was quiet. Everybody except the girl he was sitting next to. Her and her iPod and her nose ring and her spiky black hair. Her mascara and jeans skirt and black bra strap peaking out from under her tank top. He tried to focus on his book, but it was no use.
He glanced over her way briefly in the hopes that she would see him looking at her and immediately understand why he was looking at her and offer to turn down her music and then apologize to him and introduce herself to him and tell him that she was only listening to the song ironically and that the rest of the music on her iPod was much more in tune (ha ha) with his musical tastes, and what are we doing wasting our time on this bus when we could be having hot, wet sex in that skanky dive hotel right over there, yes, that one, and grab his hand and off they'd go.
And that's what it came down to: Yes her tinny, trebbly music was annoying as hell, but the bottom line was that she was hot. Actually doing anything to make her turn her music down--giving her an annoyed face and pointing at her earbuds, miming the act of turning a volume knob down, or just asking her--would only result in her turning him down as well. So he did nothing and said nothing, and sat there feigning aloofness as he read the same sentence yet again and tried to convince himself that that was the best shot he had with her. Play it cool.
The old lady on the other side of the girl tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to please turn her music down.
After the girl gave the old lady a half smile and dialed the volume down, he gave the girl a Can you believe that old crow? look and rolled his eyes, but she didn't notice him. He looked around the bus and glanced back at her a few more times and then went back to his book.
At least it was quiet.
Friday, May 7, 2010
May 7 - The Kinshasa Sessions
Was it hot?
Imagine zipping yourself into the heaviest clothes and winter coat you own, stepping into a sauna, and wrapping yourself in a wool blanket. Now be thankful that I didn't ask you to imagine being on the boat John Mitchell was on that day because it made the situation I just described seem pleasant by comparison.
John tried to take his mind off the heat and the flies and the cigarette smoke and the smell of diesel fuel and rotting fish by re-reading the information he had on his target, Aman Umoja--Aman--the visionary musical prophet of Africa. Not that he needed to. As an archivist for Polydor Records--but more importantly, as a lifelong music lover--he was very familiar with Aman's story. It was the stuff of legend.
Aman was born sometime in the late 1940s in Kindu, in the Democratic Republic of Congo (then the Republic of Congo) to a prostitute, who died while giving birth. His father was unknown, but was believed to have been a soldier or musician (or both).
In a sense, though, Aman was a child of many parents. He grew up in the brothel where his mother had worked, and was raised by the women she had worked with. They were the ones who named him Aman, which means trust or safety in Arabic, in the hopes that he would enjoy both throughout his life. Aman was also an appropriate name for him because of his unusually large size as a child--He was the size of a man.
Aman didn't have any formal education. He learned everything he knew about the world by helping out the women--he called them all his mothers--in the house. When he wasn't doing whatever needed doing, he was learning piano, guitar, violin, and various percussion and wind instruments--as well as many different musical styles--from the musicians who frequented the brothel. It was because of his masterful ability to bring together all musical instruments and styles that his mothers gave him the surname of Umoja, meaning unity in Swahili.
John Mitchell slapped at flies the size of hummingbirds as his boat puttered along the river. He was making his way to the village of Kilanja, a distant tributary of the Congo. It was here that he hoped to find the master tapes of the Kinshasa Sessions, the legendary recordings Aman had made in the early 1970s. Part librarian, part obsessive/compulsive detective, and part musicological Indiana Jones, John had spent the better part of the past three years making phone calls, writing letters, combing the Internet, chasing ghosts, pursuing every imaginable lead, and coming up empty handed every time in his quest for the Kinshasa tapes.
But this was it. He'd finally traced the tapes to a record company's vault in Kilanja. And now a journey that had started in New York City and seen John pass through Frankfurt, Nairobi, Kinshasa, and onto a rusted out fishing boat on the Congo, was quickly reaching its conclusion. He took a drink from a hot bottle of Coca Cola that mocked his thirst rather than quenching it, and returned to his file on Aman.
When he was 16 years old, Aman moved to London where he secured a scholarship at London's prestigious Conservatory of the Arts. Bored, Aman dropped out after a semester, choosing instead to play music on street corners and the occasional club. When the weather turned cold, he stowed away on various freight trains and cargo ships and made his way to Calcutta, where he spent the next 12 years jamming with local musicians and helping to create Afro-hindu, Ghunjaba, Shank, and other hybrids of African and Subcontinental music.
In the 1960s he converted to Islam and returned to Africa. Much of his musical output from the mid to late 1960s was marked by Middle Eastern and North African instrumentation and phrasings. His masterwork of this period was the double-album Allahu Akbar, an intense, psychedelic, musical interpretation of the Koran, which many musicologists describe as a Muslim Love Supreme.
After arriving at the docks of Kilanja, John's bus ride into the town's center was an outstretched middle finger to the idea of safety and restraint, but he made it, and he (eventually) found his way to the offices of the ironically if not ambitiously named Skyscraper Records. (Two Story Records would have been a more apt name.) There he met Thierry Diawara, the professorial archivist with whom he'd exchanged several snail mail letters over the last several months. After pleasantries and tea, they went together to the vault.
The vault was more of a shed, a shack of cinder blocks with a rusty iron door sitting in the middle of a small walled-in courtyard behind Skyscraper Records' offices. Thierry fumbled with the keys, and John felt the build up of three plus years of anticipation, hope and fear coursing through every nerve ending in his body. This was it. The Kinshasa Sessions' master tapes were behind that door. Just before getting to see them, getting to hear them, John's mind raced through the back story of the Kinshasa Sessions one final time.
Aman left Islam in 1971 and went back to recording secular music. This was when he traveled to Kinshasa, and for six weeks during that sweltering summer he recorded almost around the clock. These sessions, the Kinshasa Sessions, were the missing link in Aman's career, the transitional recordings between the spiritual music of his Muslim years and the otherworldly transcendent funk of his stratospheric pan-African superstar years, the music that precipitated his ascendancy to the realm of prophet. Music that quite possibly no one had heard since it was recorded. Music that got lost and shuffled around and recovered and lost again and found and hidden under a rock and now here it was again. It was like if Bob Marley had a missing album that he'd recorded just before Exodus, or Nirvana just before Nevermind, or Dylan just before Blood on the Tracks, or the Beatles just before Abbey Road, or Prince just before Purple Rain, or Miles Davis just before Bitches Brew, or Sly just before There's a Riot Goin' On, or any other legendary artist just before an iconic, genre defining album. The Kinshasa Sessions had the potential to be all those things and more.
Thierry opened the door. The tapes were ruined.
Nobody had gone into the vault for years, but the roof had leaked, and rats had infested the place. The room was a mess of melted, chewed-through cardboard and reels of unspooled tape. Nothing was salvageable. This was it, the end of the trail. The Kinshasa Sessions were no longer. Their music exists only in our imagination.
Imagine zipping yourself into the heaviest clothes and winter coat you own, stepping into a sauna, and wrapping yourself in a wool blanket. Now be thankful that I didn't ask you to imagine being on the boat John Mitchell was on that day because it made the situation I just described seem pleasant by comparison.
John tried to take his mind off the heat and the flies and the cigarette smoke and the smell of diesel fuel and rotting fish by re-reading the information he had on his target, Aman Umoja--Aman--the visionary musical prophet of Africa. Not that he needed to. As an archivist for Polydor Records--but more importantly, as a lifelong music lover--he was very familiar with Aman's story. It was the stuff of legend.
Aman was born sometime in the late 1940s in Kindu, in the Democratic Republic of Congo (then the Republic of Congo) to a prostitute, who died while giving birth. His father was unknown, but was believed to have been a soldier or musician (or both).
In a sense, though, Aman was a child of many parents. He grew up in the brothel where his mother had worked, and was raised by the women she had worked with. They were the ones who named him Aman, which means trust or safety in Arabic, in the hopes that he would enjoy both throughout his life. Aman was also an appropriate name for him because of his unusually large size as a child--He was the size of a man.
Aman didn't have any formal education. He learned everything he knew about the world by helping out the women--he called them all his mothers--in the house. When he wasn't doing whatever needed doing, he was learning piano, guitar, violin, and various percussion and wind instruments--as well as many different musical styles--from the musicians who frequented the brothel. It was because of his masterful ability to bring together all musical instruments and styles that his mothers gave him the surname of Umoja, meaning unity in Swahili.
John Mitchell slapped at flies the size of hummingbirds as his boat puttered along the river. He was making his way to the village of Kilanja, a distant tributary of the Congo. It was here that he hoped to find the master tapes of the Kinshasa Sessions, the legendary recordings Aman had made in the early 1970s. Part librarian, part obsessive/compulsive detective, and part musicological Indiana Jones, John had spent the better part of the past three years making phone calls, writing letters, combing the Internet, chasing ghosts, pursuing every imaginable lead, and coming up empty handed every time in his quest for the Kinshasa tapes.
But this was it. He'd finally traced the tapes to a record company's vault in Kilanja. And now a journey that had started in New York City and seen John pass through Frankfurt, Nairobi, Kinshasa, and onto a rusted out fishing boat on the Congo, was quickly reaching its conclusion. He took a drink from a hot bottle of Coca Cola that mocked his thirst rather than quenching it, and returned to his file on Aman.
When he was 16 years old, Aman moved to London where he secured a scholarship at London's prestigious Conservatory of the Arts. Bored, Aman dropped out after a semester, choosing instead to play music on street corners and the occasional club. When the weather turned cold, he stowed away on various freight trains and cargo ships and made his way to Calcutta, where he spent the next 12 years jamming with local musicians and helping to create Afro-hindu, Ghunjaba, Shank, and other hybrids of African and Subcontinental music.
In the 1960s he converted to Islam and returned to Africa. Much of his musical output from the mid to late 1960s was marked by Middle Eastern and North African instrumentation and phrasings. His masterwork of this period was the double-album Allahu Akbar, an intense, psychedelic, musical interpretation of the Koran, which many musicologists describe as a Muslim Love Supreme.
After arriving at the docks of Kilanja, John's bus ride into the town's center was an outstretched middle finger to the idea of safety and restraint, but he made it, and he (eventually) found his way to the offices of the ironically if not ambitiously named Skyscraper Records. (Two Story Records would have been a more apt name.) There he met Thierry Diawara, the professorial archivist with whom he'd exchanged several snail mail letters over the last several months. After pleasantries and tea, they went together to the vault.
The vault was more of a shed, a shack of cinder blocks with a rusty iron door sitting in the middle of a small walled-in courtyard behind Skyscraper Records' offices. Thierry fumbled with the keys, and John felt the build up of three plus years of anticipation, hope and fear coursing through every nerve ending in his body. This was it. The Kinshasa Sessions' master tapes were behind that door. Just before getting to see them, getting to hear them, John's mind raced through the back story of the Kinshasa Sessions one final time.
Aman left Islam in 1971 and went back to recording secular music. This was when he traveled to Kinshasa, and for six weeks during that sweltering summer he recorded almost around the clock. These sessions, the Kinshasa Sessions, were the missing link in Aman's career, the transitional recordings between the spiritual music of his Muslim years and the otherworldly transcendent funk of his stratospheric pan-African superstar years, the music that precipitated his ascendancy to the realm of prophet. Music that quite possibly no one had heard since it was recorded. Music that got lost and shuffled around and recovered and lost again and found and hidden under a rock and now here it was again. It was like if Bob Marley had a missing album that he'd recorded just before Exodus, or Nirvana just before Nevermind, or Dylan just before Blood on the Tracks, or the Beatles just before Abbey Road, or Prince just before Purple Rain, or Miles Davis just before Bitches Brew, or Sly just before There's a Riot Goin' On, or any other legendary artist just before an iconic, genre defining album. The Kinshasa Sessions had the potential to be all those things and more.
Thierry opened the door. The tapes were ruined.
Nobody had gone into the vault for years, but the roof had leaked, and rats had infested the place. The room was a mess of melted, chewed-through cardboard and reels of unspooled tape. Nothing was salvageable. This was it, the end of the trail. The Kinshasa Sessions were no longer. Their music exists only in our imagination.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
May 6 - The Hero
The last two soldiers were pinned down by enemy fire, terribly outnumbered. The situation was hopeless . . .
And then a man in a huge, shiny suit of yellow and red armor burst in. The soldiers cheered his arrival.
"Yeah, motherfuckers!" yelled one of the soldiers. "You better run away as fast as you can! Iron Man lives again!" Part of him felt really stupid as soon as he said it, but then he figured, Screw it. Iron Man!
Only, why was he cowering behind the bunker? Why wasn't he flying around and shooting bad guys and deflecting bullets and fearlessly kicking untold amounts of ass?
The man in the yellow and red armor ran through the firefight and joined the soldiers in the other bunker. They stared at him as he took off his helmet. Despite the grave danger they were all in, eventually awkwardness got the better of him.
"What?"
"No offense, but we were expecting you to be considerably more, you know, badass," said the first soldier.
"Yeah, we figured your armor would be iron instead of--what the fuck is this?--cardboard? We thought you were bulletproof and could fly, and shit like that," said the second.
"Oh right," said the man in the armor. "Sorry. I get that a lot. You're thinking of Iron Man."
"Right. Ain't that you?"
"Ha ha. No, I wish. No, I'm not Iron Man. I'm Irony Man."
"Wow, we totally weren't expecting you," said the first soldier.
"Yeah, we absolutely did not see that coming," added the second.
"Yeah," said Irony Man. "Pretty cool twist, huh?"
"No, not really," said the first soldier.
"Totally," said the second. "This whole shitty situation is like rain on your wedding day."
And then they laughed. The three of them laughed. They laughed and laughed and laughed. And when they stopped laughing, all the bad guys were gone. Which was kind of ironic.
Don't you think?
And then a man in a huge, shiny suit of yellow and red armor burst in. The soldiers cheered his arrival.
"Yeah, motherfuckers!" yelled one of the soldiers. "You better run away as fast as you can! Iron Man lives again!" Part of him felt really stupid as soon as he said it, but then he figured, Screw it. Iron Man!
Only, why was he cowering behind the bunker? Why wasn't he flying around and shooting bad guys and deflecting bullets and fearlessly kicking untold amounts of ass?
The man in the yellow and red armor ran through the firefight and joined the soldiers in the other bunker. They stared at him as he took off his helmet. Despite the grave danger they were all in, eventually awkwardness got the better of him.
"What?"
"No offense, but we were expecting you to be considerably more, you know, badass," said the first soldier.
"Yeah, we figured your armor would be iron instead of--what the fuck is this?--cardboard? We thought you were bulletproof and could fly, and shit like that," said the second.
"Oh right," said the man in the armor. "Sorry. I get that a lot. You're thinking of Iron Man."
"Right. Ain't that you?"
"Ha ha. No, I wish. No, I'm not Iron Man. I'm Irony Man."
"Wow, we totally weren't expecting you," said the first soldier.
"Yeah, we absolutely did not see that coming," added the second.
"Yeah," said Irony Man. "Pretty cool twist, huh?"
"No, not really," said the first soldier.
"Totally," said the second. "This whole shitty situation is like rain on your wedding day."
And then they laughed. The three of them laughed. They laughed and laughed and laughed. And when they stopped laughing, all the bad guys were gone. Which was kind of ironic.
Don't you think?
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
May 5 - The Bridge
Although the cliff top villages of Mijiland and Xeronovia were practically adjacent, it would have been impossible for someone to walk from one of the villages to the other. At their closest point, they were about 200 feet apart, and there was no bridge connecting them.
Several hundred feet below the villages, a raging sea surged and crashed on a strip of rocks and boulders that formed a sort of land bridge between the cliffs upon which the villages were built; however, the land bridge was inaccessible from both villages. The cliffs were too high and sheer to climb down, and even if you survived the descent, it would have been impossible to climb back up.
Although Mijiland and Xeronovia were literally a stone's throw away from each other, they didn't interact at all. Hundreds of years ago, the peoples of the two villages had traded with each other by throwing goods across the divide, but those trades had long since collapsed over mutual allegations of violating the other tribe's trust. Since then, there had been no contact between the two villages. They may have been right next to each other, but they may as well have been worlds apart.
One day, upon reaching his 20th birthday, brave and stoic Mijilander Altus Begenchovatt went through the series of coming of age rituals that all Mijilanders went through when they reached the Mijilander age of adulthood. He completed--and aced--the oral exam given by the Mijilander elders. He performed the Mijilander Hot Foot, a ceremonial dance performed on hot coals. And he hunted, killed, butchered, and cooked a wild boar.
One task remained: to drink a flagon of fermented kamonichaida juice and ritualistically connect himself with the sea below by urinating into it from the highest cliff in Mijiland without getting so much as a drop on the rocks below. Every bit of it had to land in the ocean.
He drank the juice, climbed to his spot, and readied himself. This was it.
But just before he began, a huge gust of wind knocked him off the cliff and he plummeted into the angry waters below.
Miraculously, he survived the fall and swam to the land bridge that connected the cliffs upon which Mijilander and Xeronovia were built. He was safe but stuck. There was no way for him to climb back up, so he survived on food thrown to him by the Mijilanders, and at night he slept on pillows and cushions they dropped to him.
At about the same time in Xeronovia, wise and resourceful Mergendaya Shinihatoot also reached her 20th birthday and set about completing the rituals that marked Xeronovians' coming of age. She passed the oral exam of her tribe's history and culture administered by the Xeronovian Senior Council. She harvested the fruit of an entire jombwala tree. And she domesticated a full-sized razor toad using only her bare hands.
One task remained: to pick a Xeronovian Iris from the cliff side and transplant it in front of her chosen new home.
She spotted the one she wanted, took a deep breath, and stretched out to pick it up; however, just as she was stretched out as far as she could go, the rock she was holding onto crumbled and she plummeted to the sea.
Incredibly, she survived and swam to the land bridge where she was helped out of the water by Altus. It was the first time a Xeronovian and a Mijilander had ever met face to face.
As they couldn't understand each other's language, getting properly acquainted took some time; however, time was the one thing they had plenty of. Neither tribe had the technology or know how to attempt a rescue, and everyone involved--Altus and Mergendaya and everyone in their respective tribes--resigned themselves to the fact that the two young adults were stuck on the land bridge and would likely spend the rest of their lives there together.
The days turned into weeks and then months, and Altus and Mergendaya developed their own pidgin language, a hybrid of Mijilander and Xeronovian. They survived on the foods and drinks their tribes dropped to them, and combined them together in ways that were sometimes inedible and sometimes transcendent.
They also got to know each other, and their respective tribes, better. They counted on each other, developed a mutual trust, and quickly found that they enjoyed each other's company immensely.
Because of daily food and supply drops from both sides of the divide, the Xeronovians and Mijilanders on top of the cliffs got used to seeing each other, and as time went on both tribes began following the cooperative lead of Altus and Mergendaya. Trade resumed between the Xeronovians and Mijilanders, tentatively at first, but soon more robustly. Commerce and other relations between the two tribes were helped along by a sign language involving colored flags that Altus and Mergendaya had created so that they could communicate with their families above.
Months passed.
Altus and Mergendaya had their first child almost exactly two years after their falls. Their second came just 18 months later.
Relations between the tribes continued apace. Work soon began on a suspension bridge connecting the two villages, and it was completed by the time Altus and Mergendaya had their third child. The bridge brought the two villages together not only physically, but also socially and culturally.
Meanwhile, as their children grew older, Altus and Mergendaya decided that they wanted them to have a life beyond that which was afforded by their land bridge. It was decided that the same technology that led to the suspension bridge would be adapted to create a pulley ladder for transporting people up and down the cliffs.
And so several months later, the five of them went up the cliffs, Altus and Mergendaya for the first time in several years, their children for the first time ever. While it was a tremendous change for all of them, it wasn't completely and shockingly new. There had been communication among all of them since their falls--so much so that Altus and Mergendaya both felt that they already knew their in-laws. They integrated into life on the cliff tops very smoothly, as did their children.
They split their time between Xeronovia and Mijiland, and founded a language school where they taught Xeronovian, Mijilander, and Mijinovian, the hybrid language they'd created at the base of the cliffs. And when their children were old enough to run it on their own, Altus and Mergendaya retired from teaching.
Although they still spent a lot of time in Xeronovia and Mijiland, they spent most of their golden years together on the land bridge they'd made their home all those years ago.
Several hundred feet below the villages, a raging sea surged and crashed on a strip of rocks and boulders that formed a sort of land bridge between the cliffs upon which the villages were built; however, the land bridge was inaccessible from both villages. The cliffs were too high and sheer to climb down, and even if you survived the descent, it would have been impossible to climb back up.
Although Mijiland and Xeronovia were literally a stone's throw away from each other, they didn't interact at all. Hundreds of years ago, the peoples of the two villages had traded with each other by throwing goods across the divide, but those trades had long since collapsed over mutual allegations of violating the other tribe's trust. Since then, there had been no contact between the two villages. They may have been right next to each other, but they may as well have been worlds apart.
One day, upon reaching his 20th birthday, brave and stoic Mijilander Altus Begenchovatt went through the series of coming of age rituals that all Mijilanders went through when they reached the Mijilander age of adulthood. He completed--and aced--the oral exam given by the Mijilander elders. He performed the Mijilander Hot Foot, a ceremonial dance performed on hot coals. And he hunted, killed, butchered, and cooked a wild boar.
One task remained: to drink a flagon of fermented kamonichaida juice and ritualistically connect himself with the sea below by urinating into it from the highest cliff in Mijiland without getting so much as a drop on the rocks below. Every bit of it had to land in the ocean.
He drank the juice, climbed to his spot, and readied himself. This was it.
But just before he began, a huge gust of wind knocked him off the cliff and he plummeted into the angry waters below.
Miraculously, he survived the fall and swam to the land bridge that connected the cliffs upon which Mijilander and Xeronovia were built. He was safe but stuck. There was no way for him to climb back up, so he survived on food thrown to him by the Mijilanders, and at night he slept on pillows and cushions they dropped to him.
At about the same time in Xeronovia, wise and resourceful Mergendaya Shinihatoot also reached her 20th birthday and set about completing the rituals that marked Xeronovians' coming of age. She passed the oral exam of her tribe's history and culture administered by the Xeronovian Senior Council. She harvested the fruit of an entire jombwala tree. And she domesticated a full-sized razor toad using only her bare hands.
One task remained: to pick a Xeronovian Iris from the cliff side and transplant it in front of her chosen new home.
She spotted the one she wanted, took a deep breath, and stretched out to pick it up; however, just as she was stretched out as far as she could go, the rock she was holding onto crumbled and she plummeted to the sea.
Incredibly, she survived and swam to the land bridge where she was helped out of the water by Altus. It was the first time a Xeronovian and a Mijilander had ever met face to face.
As they couldn't understand each other's language, getting properly acquainted took some time; however, time was the one thing they had plenty of. Neither tribe had the technology or know how to attempt a rescue, and everyone involved--Altus and Mergendaya and everyone in their respective tribes--resigned themselves to the fact that the two young adults were stuck on the land bridge and would likely spend the rest of their lives there together.
The days turned into weeks and then months, and Altus and Mergendaya developed their own pidgin language, a hybrid of Mijilander and Xeronovian. They survived on the foods and drinks their tribes dropped to them, and combined them together in ways that were sometimes inedible and sometimes transcendent.
They also got to know each other, and their respective tribes, better. They counted on each other, developed a mutual trust, and quickly found that they enjoyed each other's company immensely.
Because of daily food and supply drops from both sides of the divide, the Xeronovians and Mijilanders on top of the cliffs got used to seeing each other, and as time went on both tribes began following the cooperative lead of Altus and Mergendaya. Trade resumed between the Xeronovians and Mijilanders, tentatively at first, but soon more robustly. Commerce and other relations between the two tribes were helped along by a sign language involving colored flags that Altus and Mergendaya had created so that they could communicate with their families above.
Months passed.
Altus and Mergendaya had their first child almost exactly two years after their falls. Their second came just 18 months later.
Relations between the tribes continued apace. Work soon began on a suspension bridge connecting the two villages, and it was completed by the time Altus and Mergendaya had their third child. The bridge brought the two villages together not only physically, but also socially and culturally.
Meanwhile, as their children grew older, Altus and Mergendaya decided that they wanted them to have a life beyond that which was afforded by their land bridge. It was decided that the same technology that led to the suspension bridge would be adapted to create a pulley ladder for transporting people up and down the cliffs.
And so several months later, the five of them went up the cliffs, Altus and Mergendaya for the first time in several years, their children for the first time ever. While it was a tremendous change for all of them, it wasn't completely and shockingly new. There had been communication among all of them since their falls--so much so that Altus and Mergendaya both felt that they already knew their in-laws. They integrated into life on the cliff tops very smoothly, as did their children.
They split their time between Xeronovia and Mijiland, and founded a language school where they taught Xeronovian, Mijilander, and Mijinovian, the hybrid language they'd created at the base of the cliffs. And when their children were old enough to run it on their own, Altus and Mergendaya retired from teaching.
Although they still spent a lot of time in Xeronovia and Mijiland, they spent most of their golden years together on the land bridge they'd made their home all those years ago.
Monday, May 3, 2010
May 4 - Meeting for Lunch
When she arrived at the park, he was already there, sitting on a park bench waiting for her.
He was sitting cross-legged, and his pant leg was hiking up his shin so she could see his white shin where his socks weren't high enough. Standing back so that he couldn't see her, she watched him check his cell for messages: nothing.
From where she was standing, it looked to her like he was having some sort of inner monologue or dialogue with himself because occasionally he would tilt his head or change his expression slightly, as if in response to a point that only he was privy to.
Who is this guy? she thought to herself, and not for the first time. How is it that he is the one I'm meeting? She looked at his shins and tube socks socks and tennis shoes, and then at his growing pot belly that he always made jokes about--as if acknowledging it was enough, as if self-deprecating humor about it was his way of telling her he knew it was there and he was going to do something about it, only he never did. 'I swear I'm starting my diet tomorrow. Seriously,' he'd laugh as he polished off another donut. Minutes later, there would still be powdered sugar on his upper lip. She used to laugh along with him. Then she just smiled. Then she didn't even look up from the paper anymore.
'I'm up for whatever,' he would always say, convinced that that was the answer to her prayers, as if she would be delighted to have finally found a man who was flexible and willing to do whatever she wanted to do. And she had to admit that at first it had been nice to make decisions and have someone be there with her. But the longer they stayed together, the harder it became to ignore the suspicion that he wasn't really open-minded. He just didn't have any ideas of his own.
It was the same with work, and the way he would wax philosophical and share his ideas about the dangers of working too much. There's more to life than just work, he would say. You gotta take the time to enjoy yourself. Only, what did he ever do?
It wasn't like they'd started out this way. If they had, they never would have gotten anywhere. If it had been this way from the beginning, she would never have gotten that involved with him.
But it wasn't that way, it was gradual, subliminal. It wasn't one big thing, it was a million minuscule ones, microscopic compromises that only really added up to something unignorable once years had passed and it was too late to change.
An older couple walked by walking a poodle. A group of kids ran by kicking a soccer ball. And she walked up and kissed him hello, and they went to lunch.
He was sitting cross-legged, and his pant leg was hiking up his shin so she could see his white shin where his socks weren't high enough. Standing back so that he couldn't see her, she watched him check his cell for messages: nothing.
From where she was standing, it looked to her like he was having some sort of inner monologue or dialogue with himself because occasionally he would tilt his head or change his expression slightly, as if in response to a point that only he was privy to.
Who is this guy? she thought to herself, and not for the first time. How is it that he is the one I'm meeting? She looked at his shins and tube socks socks and tennis shoes, and then at his growing pot belly that he always made jokes about--as if acknowledging it was enough, as if self-deprecating humor about it was his way of telling her he knew it was there and he was going to do something about it, only he never did. 'I swear I'm starting my diet tomorrow. Seriously,' he'd laugh as he polished off another donut. Minutes later, there would still be powdered sugar on his upper lip. She used to laugh along with him. Then she just smiled. Then she didn't even look up from the paper anymore.
'I'm up for whatever,' he would always say, convinced that that was the answer to her prayers, as if she would be delighted to have finally found a man who was flexible and willing to do whatever she wanted to do. And she had to admit that at first it had been nice to make decisions and have someone be there with her. But the longer they stayed together, the harder it became to ignore the suspicion that he wasn't really open-minded. He just didn't have any ideas of his own.
It was the same with work, and the way he would wax philosophical and share his ideas about the dangers of working too much. There's more to life than just work, he would say. You gotta take the time to enjoy yourself. Only, what did he ever do?
It wasn't like they'd started out this way. If they had, they never would have gotten anywhere. If it had been this way from the beginning, she would never have gotten that involved with him.
But it wasn't that way, it was gradual, subliminal. It wasn't one big thing, it was a million minuscule ones, microscopic compromises that only really added up to something unignorable once years had passed and it was too late to change.
An older couple walked by walking a poodle. A group of kids ran by kicking a soccer ball. And she walked up and kissed him hello, and they went to lunch.
May 3 - Writer's Block Party
Whenever she couldn't think of any new ideas (usually about once a week), Lucinda would announce a Writer's Block Party and invite the other writers from her apartment complex over to her place, where they would drink and talk about their latest projects and try to get their ideas flowing. But mostly they would just drink and hang out. There was Lucinda who wrote erotic horror screenplays, Maggie who wrote children's books, Fatima who wrote detective novels, and Rebecca who did inspirational writing.
Their gatherings had started out as more serious weekly meetings they'd called Write Club (The first rule of Write Club was you did not talk about Write Club.). Their intention was to do serious critiques of each other's work and offer each other feedback, but they had all individually come to the unspoken conclusion that none of them really had the heart/nerve/courage/whatever to give anyone else anything other than praise and encouragement for a piece they shared or a kind and understanding ear when they shared frustrations about rejection letters and the like. And so Write Club quickly (d)evolved from weekly meetings to weekly Writer's Block Parties.
Lucinda had just finished cleaning up after one Writer's Block Party. She was still hungry and there was nothing in her apartment besides spaghetti (no sauce), flour, canned yams, and a container of cottage cheese that had already expired but not so long ago that she felt she had to throw it away just yet, so she left it in the fridge and went down to the 7-11.
The cashier, whom she must have seen a hundred times in the last month, didn't register any recognition of her as he beeped her Combos and chili dogs. She was putting her change in her purse when she dropped a few coins. Bending over to pick them up, she saw a pen on the floor and grabbed it, too. She thought about asking the cashier if it was his, but then figured, Screw him. Guy doesn't want to recognize me, he won't get his pen back. And this made her feel pretty pleased with herself, and then she felt embarrassed that she was so pleased with herself, and by the time she got back to her apartment, she'd forgotten all about it. She poured herself another coffee mug full of wine to accompany her food, got in her favorite chair, and turned on the TV.
When she woke up (late) the next morning, it felt like God has used her head as a stress ball. It wasn't until after coffee, water, a couple of Advil, a shower, and a breakfast burrito that she found her journal on her bedside table along with the pen she'd found at 7-11. As she picked it up, she realized that she'd done some writing at some point last night. As it always was after she'd had a few drinks, her penmanship was erratic but legible.
Her drunken writing was occasionally amusing, but almost always worthless; however, this time around she was at first incredulous, then impressed, and then blown away with what she'd come up with: finally, the outline for an ending to Blood Lust. She'd been unable for weeks to finish her lesbian vampire screenplay sober, but apparently last night a drunken Lucinda had knocked out of the park.
Over the next couple of days, she fleshed it out (so to speak) and submitted it to her agent, who was very happy with it.
And the same thing happened after the following two Writer's Block Parties. She finished off the evening with Combos, chili dogs, and red wine, and then woke up the next morning with a debilitating hangover and a solid outline for whatever scene she'd been laboring to finish.
Like a superstitious baseball player going through a hot streak, she was obsessive about not doing anything to jinx it. Every week she followed the same habits religiously: Writer's Block Party, Combos, chili dogs, red wine, sleep. Yet she was also curious, as well as generous. And so about a month later, after several mugs of red wine, she tentatively shared her experiences with the rest of the group and divulged her theory that somehow--as ridiculous as this sounds and I would never say this sober--the pen was behind it.
Predictably, the others teased her about it, but they were also--after a few more bottles of wine--curious.
Maggie was the first to volunteer to take the pen home and try it out, but only after Lucinda made her swear on everything she held dear that she wouldn't lose it. She held her hand up with mock seriousness and swore. She also followed every word of Lucinda's instructions down to the pre-sleep menu of red wine, Combos, and chili dogs.
The next morning, Maggie woke up with two things: a soul crushing hangover, and a sloppily rendered yet masterfully imagined ending for Chicken Scratch, a children's book she'd been struggling to finish about DJ Feathers, a shy but but talented chicken who learns to believe in himself through the power of hip-hop.
The next week, Fatima took the pen home. And though--like the other women--she didn't have any memory of doing so, she apparently used it that night to come up with an ending for Dial M for Masala, the latest in her Raja Pradesh series about a retired Bombay police detective turned curry chef who is constantly called upon by his former colleagues to help them solve murder cases that always seem to revolve around food.
Rebecca was the next to try the pen, but she was leery. A devout Christian, she specialized in writing modern updates of Biblical parables for www.dailydevotion.com, a website dedicated to the retelling of the Bible's greatest stories in a more contemporary setting.
Over the last several months, she'd been struggling to find some--she didn't want to say inspiration--new ideas for her stories and according to everyone else in their group, the pen seemed to have all the answers. But she was hesitant about using it. For one thing, she thought the whole thing was ridiculous. But at the same time she was actually kind of afraid of the pen. She felt it was unholy, a manifestation of the devil (either literally or as a metaphor) tempting her with the easy way out.
Even still, she reluctantly took it home with her. Per Lucinda's instructions, she had a couple of chili dogs, some Combos, and a glass of red, and set it on the notebook on her bedside table. Then she tried to will herself to fall asleep, but she couldn't. The pen was too much of a distraction. After a second and then a third glass of wine, she threw it out the window and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning her notebook was empty, but in her miraculously hangover-free head, she had an idea for a(n admittedly autobiographical) story about not giving in to temptation. She wrote it up that morning and it was very well received on dailydevotion.
The rest of the group wasn't nearly as impressed with Rebecca's story as her readers were. In fact, it took them quite some time before they forgave her for throwing out the pen, but the process of forgiving was helped along by the continued inspiration the pen gave them in its absence:
Maggie wrote a spin-off of Chicken Scratch about DJ Feathers' friend Sasha, a young pony who learns to stand on his own feet and win the big race without depending on a supposedly magical set of horseshoes to help him along.
Fatima came up with an outline for a novel called Keema Karma which took Raja Pradesh in a very different, magical realism inflected direction. It roughly echoed the plot of Maggie's horseshoe story, substituting an enchanted curry recipe for the horseshoes and a cooking contest for the horse race, but the underlying message of believing in yourself was the same.
Lucinda changed the names and a few of the details of their experiences with the pen, and rewrote them as a screenplay for The Devil's Quill, an erotic thriller that debuted on Cinemax a few months later.
As for the pen, it landed intact on the sidewalk below Rebecca's apartment the night she threw it out the window. It's still somewhere on that street or down the block, waiting to be picked up again.
Their gatherings had started out as more serious weekly meetings they'd called Write Club (The first rule of Write Club was you did not talk about Write Club.). Their intention was to do serious critiques of each other's work and offer each other feedback, but they had all individually come to the unspoken conclusion that none of them really had the heart/nerve/courage/whatever to give anyone else anything other than praise and encouragement for a piece they shared or a kind and understanding ear when they shared frustrations about rejection letters and the like. And so Write Club quickly (d)evolved from weekly meetings to weekly Writer's Block Parties.
Lucinda had just finished cleaning up after one Writer's Block Party. She was still hungry and there was nothing in her apartment besides spaghetti (no sauce), flour, canned yams, and a container of cottage cheese that had already expired but not so long ago that she felt she had to throw it away just yet, so she left it in the fridge and went down to the 7-11.
The cashier, whom she must have seen a hundred times in the last month, didn't register any recognition of her as he beeped her Combos and chili dogs. She was putting her change in her purse when she dropped a few coins. Bending over to pick them up, she saw a pen on the floor and grabbed it, too. She thought about asking the cashier if it was his, but then figured, Screw him. Guy doesn't want to recognize me, he won't get his pen back. And this made her feel pretty pleased with herself, and then she felt embarrassed that she was so pleased with herself, and by the time she got back to her apartment, she'd forgotten all about it. She poured herself another coffee mug full of wine to accompany her food, got in her favorite chair, and turned on the TV.
When she woke up (late) the next morning, it felt like God has used her head as a stress ball. It wasn't until after coffee, water, a couple of Advil, a shower, and a breakfast burrito that she found her journal on her bedside table along with the pen she'd found at 7-11. As she picked it up, she realized that she'd done some writing at some point last night. As it always was after she'd had a few drinks, her penmanship was erratic but legible.
Her drunken writing was occasionally amusing, but almost always worthless; however, this time around she was at first incredulous, then impressed, and then blown away with what she'd come up with: finally, the outline for an ending to Blood Lust. She'd been unable for weeks to finish her lesbian vampire screenplay sober, but apparently last night a drunken Lucinda had knocked out of the park.
Over the next couple of days, she fleshed it out (so to speak) and submitted it to her agent, who was very happy with it.
And the same thing happened after the following two Writer's Block Parties. She finished off the evening with Combos, chili dogs, and red wine, and then woke up the next morning with a debilitating hangover and a solid outline for whatever scene she'd been laboring to finish.
Like a superstitious baseball player going through a hot streak, she was obsessive about not doing anything to jinx it. Every week she followed the same habits religiously: Writer's Block Party, Combos, chili dogs, red wine, sleep. Yet she was also curious, as well as generous. And so about a month later, after several mugs of red wine, she tentatively shared her experiences with the rest of the group and divulged her theory that somehow--as ridiculous as this sounds and I would never say this sober--the pen was behind it.
Predictably, the others teased her about it, but they were also--after a few more bottles of wine--curious.
Maggie was the first to volunteer to take the pen home and try it out, but only after Lucinda made her swear on everything she held dear that she wouldn't lose it. She held her hand up with mock seriousness and swore. She also followed every word of Lucinda's instructions down to the pre-sleep menu of red wine, Combos, and chili dogs.
The next morning, Maggie woke up with two things: a soul crushing hangover, and a sloppily rendered yet masterfully imagined ending for Chicken Scratch, a children's book she'd been struggling to finish about DJ Feathers, a shy but but talented chicken who learns to believe in himself through the power of hip-hop.
The next week, Fatima took the pen home. And though--like the other women--she didn't have any memory of doing so, she apparently used it that night to come up with an ending for Dial M for Masala, the latest in her Raja Pradesh series about a retired Bombay police detective turned curry chef who is constantly called upon by his former colleagues to help them solve murder cases that always seem to revolve around food.
Rebecca was the next to try the pen, but she was leery. A devout Christian, she specialized in writing modern updates of Biblical parables for www.dailydevotion.com, a website dedicated to the retelling of the Bible's greatest stories in a more contemporary setting.
Over the last several months, she'd been struggling to find some--she didn't want to say inspiration--new ideas for her stories and according to everyone else in their group, the pen seemed to have all the answers. But she was hesitant about using it. For one thing, she thought the whole thing was ridiculous. But at the same time she was actually kind of afraid of the pen. She felt it was unholy, a manifestation of the devil (either literally or as a metaphor) tempting her with the easy way out.
Even still, she reluctantly took it home with her. Per Lucinda's instructions, she had a couple of chili dogs, some Combos, and a glass of red, and set it on the notebook on her bedside table. Then she tried to will herself to fall asleep, but she couldn't. The pen was too much of a distraction. After a second and then a third glass of wine, she threw it out the window and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning her notebook was empty, but in her miraculously hangover-free head, she had an idea for a(n admittedly autobiographical) story about not giving in to temptation. She wrote it up that morning and it was very well received on dailydevotion.
The rest of the group wasn't nearly as impressed with Rebecca's story as her readers were. In fact, it took them quite some time before they forgave her for throwing out the pen, but the process of forgiving was helped along by the continued inspiration the pen gave them in its absence:
Maggie wrote a spin-off of Chicken Scratch about DJ Feathers' friend Sasha, a young pony who learns to stand on his own feet and win the big race without depending on a supposedly magical set of horseshoes to help him along.
Fatima came up with an outline for a novel called Keema Karma which took Raja Pradesh in a very different, magical realism inflected direction. It roughly echoed the plot of Maggie's horseshoe story, substituting an enchanted curry recipe for the horseshoes and a cooking contest for the horse race, but the underlying message of believing in yourself was the same.
Lucinda changed the names and a few of the details of their experiences with the pen, and rewrote them as a screenplay for The Devil's Quill, an erotic thriller that debuted on Cinemax a few months later.
As for the pen, it landed intact on the sidewalk below Rebecca's apartment the night she threw it out the window. It's still somewhere on that street or down the block, waiting to be picked up again.
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