FireVaney

I walked right past Ma and handed the gift to StepDude. “Happy Father’s Day,” I said. He almost opened it. No one else in the room found it funny, save for me. Ma corrected my error, of course, and I said, “Oops.” I snatched the wrapped box from StepDude and delivered it to Ma. “Thank you for bringing me into the world,” I lied. After that, I drove them, along with Pop and Betty, out to La Grange for lunch with everybody else in the semi-immediate fam. That whole day anybody who didn’t know Betty wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. She certainly looks like somebody’s mother. It didn’t affect her, not outwardly, but nothing ever does. Everything is always A-okay with Betty; she doesn’t question and she doesn’t correct. It wouldn’t be in her nature to reply to “Happy Mother’s Day,” with, “Thank you, but I’m barren.” I spent much of the meal teasing little Keira. I would, for example, say that some random thing on the table was mine—a fork, a salt shaker, a bread stick—and she would promptly...

Ah. Low blood sugar. Or what feels like low blood sugar might feel like. Where were we? Ah: Contraction. Detachment. People fear such notions. But this was how the Chuckster got down to business. He fled the city, fled the noise, the distractions. That’s when he really got down to business. How he focused. That is, if memory serves. I should have it somewhere, that story. But I don’t feel like giving it up – rather, I don’t feel like DIGGING it up. The trick is to count my blessings. That’s one trick. To continue to count my blessings whenever the pangs of error strike. Exempli gratia, I have a roof over my head. I am healthy. I’ve sufficient funding and savings. And my credit? Pristine. Plus, I have one – perhaps two – good friends. I have peace and quiet – relatively speaking. No addictions – save for caffeine. And sugar. And TV. My stresses and worries, for the moment, the precious moment, the precarious moment, are few and far between. But I’ve covered all of this, previously, have...

I waited. I was early. The staff stared at me. I walked through the place. That is, I walked through the place before I waited. In other words, I didn’t wait first, although I suppose I could’ve waited outside. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t recall that I did, but I might’ve. The staff offered to “help” me. I explained the situation. I don’t recall how they [the staff] replied, but they left me alone. I couldn’t tell you how many [staffers] there were. Perhaps “they” only amounted to one. Regardless, they left me alone. I went back upstairs and stood by the revolving door. I tried to read through more of the book, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell you its title or who wrote it. I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. Was it even written in English? I don’t know. I looked at the time on my cell phone several times a minute. And waited. People revolved in and out. Somebody said that downstairs used to be a nightclub. There is a bar down there. Ten minutes crawl by. I think of ...

Two hours after banana pancakes and chicken links and fresh squeezed orange juice at Flapjackistan’s Famous Flapjacks with Pop and Betty, I’m eating clams and onion rings and fried zucchini and salami pizza at Poppa Pandemonium’s Pizza in a Pan with Spiffy and Rah-Rah. I was surprised that Rah-Rah was surprised that I didn’t have a girlfriend. Naturally, this made Rah-Rah even more attractive. Rah-Rah sat there and looked at me and thought I’d fit in with the male models you’d find in an Eddie Bauer catalogue. She told me this—after I’d asked—because she had a friend who wasn’t looking for the kind of guy I apparently am. Said friend falls for the kind of guy you’d find in an Abercrombie catalogue. And as for Spiffy, he belonged in an H&M catalogue, according to Rah-Rah.  28 May 2007

Pop (and I) sat in a crowded waiting room for an hour and a half before he could see the doctor who’d charge an arm and a leg to scrape the wax out of his ears. That was yesterday. Sometime overnight, Pop’s right ear started to bleed. Dried spots and dribbles of blood have ruined a silken pillow case. But hey, Jackson Pollock might’ve called it art. I called Pop’s internist. He wasn’t available, but the one who was didn’t seem terribly concerned. Doctor Substitute advised me to call Doctor Ears, Nose, and Throat when his office opened, for eardrops. Here’s hoping we don’t have to spend another hour and a half in Dr. E.N.T.’s office waiting for eardrops, if nothing else. Pop keeps asking why it happened; why at night and not when Dr. E.N.T. scraped out Pop’s ears. The ear that bled? Pop’s right ear? It all but quit on him years ago. Sure, it detects sound, but his brain processes the sound as an audible equivalent of mush. Any working hearing aid turns the mush into louder mush. All th...

If I’m late, I’m late because I’m wrapping up something else. Used to be that I’d start out doing this. My “warm up,” this was it. But it drained the muse instead of jump-starting the muse so I switched up the routine. Now, this is my “cool down.” But after this, I’m might go back to the other thing because I’m only three pages away from finishing it up. If I’m smart, I’ll save it for tomorrow, but I’m an idiot and I’m impatient. But I’m also drained, so, I’ll probably save it for tomorrow. And I’ve got the reading yet to do. And when the next baked bean jumps over the hill surprising its mother, I swear to God, I will shoot the motherfucker. Whoa. Hey, hey, hey. Come on now. Relax. It’s just/only/merely a baked bean. It’s not like it’ll give a hoot don’t pollute. And the next time you want my point of view step into my shoes but clean your feet first. I can’t filthy feet mucking up my point of view. And if opportunity affords, please insert a “have” betwixt “can’t” and “filthy” in the...

“Deal, No Deal,” Pop calls it. He’s too cheap to spring for the “or.” When Betty’s with us on the weekends, she’ll watch it with him, but she’d never watch it on her own. So they were watching it this one time, and I happened to be in the kitchen, and there’s like a faux window between the kitchen and the TV room (because the TV room was an addition to the house), and Pop says to Betty, “She’s not wearing any lipstick. I don’t understand that.” Betty doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Whether Pop meant the contestant or one of the briefcase models, I didn’t ask. Now, let me be clear, Howie Mandel is very talented—and I get it, work is work and money is money—but this show is truly idiotic. Pop, along with every other dirty old man, enjoys watching it because it’s got money and it’s got models. Big surprise, Pop also watches all the beauty pageants, too. But that’s where Betty draws the line. Whenever Pop tunes into a Miss Whatever pageant, Betty leaves the room. Pop’ll keep watchi...

I’ll go and I’ll see her and I’ll feel all that anguish all over again and for weeks thereafter. So much anguish over someone I know all wrong. She’ll be there—at some point she’ll be there—and she’ll go wild and I won’t be able to wait to want to leave. But because she’s far away, and busy, maybe she’ll be late. And if she’s late, it won’t be so bad for me to leave. I’d feel bad if I had to leave early. Like Bio-Dud often liked to say, “Firey, you need to suffer more,” unless it was, “Firey, you haven’t suffered enough.” So I do my best. I do the best a “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” as Step-Dude likes to say, can do. And it’s true, as a confirmed “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” I do do a lousy job of suffering. If I really, really, really, wanted to suffer, I’d join the military and fight in Afghanistan—and not only because “war is hell.” Setting aside the war, Afghanistan is hot, and I can’t take the heat. Anyway, everything is too late. Why can’t I ever be on time for anything? I don’t mean...

Yesterday, Mister Wisecracker * sent around a text message with a photo of his cocker spaniel in a costume. Said cocker spaniel was looking up at the camera, and the message below it read, “Dinka says, ‘Happy Easter. Now get the damn ears off me.’” Like most fringy theatre folks I know, Mister Wisecracker doesn’t take care of himself. He stays out too late, gets up too early, drinks too much, eats too much, and smokes packs and packs and packs. I don’t do any of that, but I am a yo-yo dieter. That said, I exercise pretty hard, so I figure I’ve got a better chance at a longer life—not that I want a longer life. Who can afford to live? Even if I could (afford to live), I’ve no interest in outliving Mister Wisecracker and his company of assorted misfits. Odds are, though, I will. I’d bet they’ll pretty much all have strokes or get cancer before hitting sixty. Inside of twenty years, I’d bet, half of everybody I know will be dead.  9 April 2007 * Formally and foolishly referred to a...