FireVaney's

A wealthy man, his wife, and all of his children die in a plane crash. Eighty other passengers die with them, along with the entire flight crew. Very tragic. It’s why I don’t fly. If planes were made of rubber and could bounce off the ground, like a balloon or a beach ball (but not like a tennis ball or a basketball), perhaps I’d modify my position. But they aren’t, so I won’t. Regardless, roughly three and a half weeks after the aforementioned plane crash, an attorney knocks on the door of the wealthy man’s next of kin. Said attorney claims to represent the illegitimate children of the man in question. He (said attorney) offers a deal to protect the dead man’s reputation (from disgrace). Naturally, the legitimate next of kin is/are doubtful. Ah, but the attorney came prepared. He supplies them (the legitimate next of kin) with birth certificates and photos of the dead man with his mistress and illegitimate children. Said attorney offers to arrange a meeting with said mistress and/or s

My specialty? Delicious morsels of vomit. I bake them in my grandmother’s oven. The oven doesn’t exactly work. You turn the dial and it smells gassy. It smells gassy even though the pilot light is on. I should call somebody to fix it, but I’m too cheap. And lazy. Or busy. Yes, “I’m busier than a one-toothed man in a corn-on-the-cob eating contest.” What am I busy with? Stuff. Things. None of your cotton-pickin’ bus-wax. Just now, I’ve looked up that word: “bus-wax.” I wanted to see if it qualified for legitimacy. I’ve not thought of the word “bus-wax” for many years. In sooth, it’s not: “bus-wax,” but: “beeswax.” The dictionary I’m looking at (when I’m not looking at this, or at anything else) offers two definitions. The first defines “beeswax” as “the wax secreted by bees to make honeycombs and used to make wood polishes and candles…” I didn’t know about the “wood polishes and candles” part. We’re really gonna miss those bees when they all buzz off into oblivion. The second definitio

And Manager Mick asked,  “Wanna see pictures of my cat?”  And somebody said, “Sure.” *   I was at the other end of the room,  too busy to look up from counting  down my drawer,  which was short  —because it’s always short.  And Mick said,  “This is the pose I want her to be in  when she’s taxidermied.” [Sic.]  And whoever he told this to said,  “But you cat’s not dead yet.”  “No,” replied Mick,  “but she will be soon.  And you need to have pictures  or what you get back  looks nothing  like your cat.”  “Uh-huh.”  And Mick continued,  “I’m going to have her body  hollowed out  and her neck  hinged  so I can lift her head  and put stuff in.  No one would think  of looking  for anything  in a stuffed cat.”  12 February 2001  * [Strange how I cannot now declare with absolute certainty who this somebody was. That back room / stockroom / dishwashing room was about the length and width of a stretch limo (and in no other way anything like a stretch limo). These days, instead of a coffee shop,

People look at my face and say, “Are you growing a beard?” And I don’t reply: Is that cause for alarm? Or: What’s it to you? Or: Aren’t you observant. Rather, I tell them I’m taking a break from shaving. Which is true. I miss Cindi. I miss both of us clinging to each other, naked, in the dark of her apartment. I miss sucking her bumpy tits. What I really need, right now, is some caffeine. Yes, that’s right, Cindi’s tits were (and, presumably, remain) bumpy all around the nipples. I suppose they’re officially known as “areolas.” So: bumpy areolas. And I miss them. But she was a smoker and a bit of a racist and somewhat out of shape and not terribly bright. All that, and she liked to lick the clouds, too. Time and again I admonished her for taking advantage of her height and sullying the troposphere with her taste buds. She accused me of harboring an inferiority complex just because I can fold myself neatly inside a Pringles potato chip canister. An empty one. (Are they called canist

She’s a cute, slightly waifish dirty blonde. I don’t know her name. Let’s call her… “Veronica.” She used to work at the Dominick’s Finer Foods over on Chicago Avenue. Maybe she still does. Maybe she avoids me whenever I shop there. It’s a big store and I’m usually zeroed in on all the shelved comestibles for sale. Welp, turns out Veronica’s a neighbor of mine. Couldn’t tell you which floor. (There are twelve.) Gimmie a break, I’ve met less than half the people who live on my floor, let alone whoever lives in the rest of the building. And those few I do kinda-sorta know, I don’t know any of them by name. Either way, most don’t smile or say hello. Maybe it’s me. The way I look. Maybe it’s my deodorant—or lack thereof. Could be it’s my natural musk. You know, like I have repellant pheromones or something. Even mosquitos avoid me. I dunno. Should I ask? I could ask, sure. But then all the expressionless folk who tend to look straight through me as they pass on the sidewalk, or on the sta

Denial will be our undoing.

Changing my “Love@AOL” ad to display the headline: “F R E A K” seems to’ve made all the difference. Nearly all the women who’ve contacted me since the change have remarked that I’m a “cutie.” They say I look like Jim Carrey. But more importantly, Dominick’s has stopped stocking my favorite flavor of coffee creamer.  2 January 2001

Start: So I unplugged the beastly bitch and twenty-four hours later her touch pad is working again. Go frakking figure. So maybe? Here on? I’ll just leave her unplugged when I’m done with her. And yet keeping her plugged should NOT be the cause of her touch pad’s misbehavior. What’s more, I’ve got her jacked into an expensive surge protector. Whatever. And that lamp in Pop’s room? The one bedside near the window? Its bulb crackles. I screwed in one of those compact florescent “energy saving” bulbs and it started crackling after I hooked up the new digital TV tuner converter box. There isn’t any legitimate relationship between the converter box and the lamp. Ok, ok, they kinda-sorta share the same electrical outlet—but that’s all. Actually, the box is plugged into a power strip with the TV but the lamp is plugged directly into the wall. What’s more, the treadmill fraks up the digital signal. Whenever I slide a lever on the treadmill—whether to up the incline or increase the speed—the di

Sean runs a checkout lane at the Dominick’s down the street. Sure, he’s got some issues, but he’s bright enough to scan and bag and make change. Sean cracks jokes, too. Here’s one he told me: “Your change is seven eleven… but don’t go there! Get it?” It took me a moment (I’ve got issues of my own), but then, with a smile and a nod, I told him I got it. If you make Sean laugh he’ll start to drool. If you excite him, his motor functions will speed up and he’ll drop your change without realizing it. Beyond that, Sean is a model checkout clerk. Other shoppers try to trip him up all the time, though. They look at him and, automatically, they don’t trust him. But maybe I trust him too much. Or maybe I just don’t give a damn about the penny, nickel, or dime I’m occasionally shorted. Sean probably needs it more than I do.  22 January 2001