FireVaney

This vertigo, it’s been going on since last Wednesday. It was at its worst last Thursday, when I went to the hospital. The doctors and nurses set me up with an IV drip, they set me up with a CAT scan, they set me up with an MRI, they also set me up with a bottle of meclizine. And, yes, the entire ordeal warranted the use of three comma splices. And the doctors, they let me go home when they couldn’t find a tumor. Instead, the doctors, they think I’ve got an “inner ear virus.” That, or there’s a “stone” in there... that’s too small to see, I guess. And if in the next few days it doesn’t go away or roll out on its own? The follow-up internist says I’ll have to go back for another MRI. All of this might make one wonder: Is the practice of medicine simply the practice of educated guesswork? I’m allowed to take the meclizine “2 or 3 times a day as needed,” but I’m avoiding it. I’m worried about constipation; I’m worried about fattening up. I haven’t been to the gym since last Wednesday. Dri...

It is important to remind one of the purpose. The purpose if not to get it straight is not to end with the prologue to the séance. No: Lie not in the forest with the naked bears every morning. No: So this time you won’t want to bite down on the necks of the precious needles. No! I want to state the purpose. But I follow with right might the happening of every mistake. So, I, thus, avoid getting to the point. The purpose is to get the brain to ignite. When this is going well, thine brains tingle. And by thine I mean mine. Mine brains tingle when this is going well. My brains tinkle. Brain tinkle. This is a good thing. How could it be a bad thing? The faster I write the more mine brain tingles. And/or tinkles. This is true. So when the next boob takes his turn at the babe she’ll shut up at the dock. Why? I would want to not eat. No! I DO NOT want to use the words “eat” “tomato” “dog” “cat” “tree.” No more of eating! No more of food! No more of the plant-life, of the vegetables, of the ve...

When it came to things —you know, things you buy, things you build, things that require expertise to install or repair—his biological farter used a gentle touch. Like, with knobs, with handles, with levers on kitchen and bathroom faucets; or like with knobs, levers, and buttons on stereo systems; and especially like with knobs, levers, and buttons on automobile dashboards and control panels. You name it, didn’t matter, always, always, always: a gentle touch. Make no mistake, his biological farter was NOT a gentle man. He was a cheap jerk who farted a lot but more importantly didn’t want to replace anything. And the best way to avoid replacing anything, in his biological farter’s opinion, was to be gentle. That, or to avoid using it, the thing , altogether. Yup, that ole bio-farter, he’d carp if, in his opinion, you opened the refrigerator door once too often; he’d carp if, in his opinion, you spread too much peanut butter on a slice of bread; and he carp if, in his opinion, you...

Ma won’t even eat half a chicken sandwich. She wants a chicken wrap — which, while advertised, is not sold. (Presumably, they ran out of wraps.) Ma feels that the sandwiches purveyed at this particular concession stand have too much bread. She’d eat the chicken alone — which, to my tastebuds, is tender and juicy — but she’d rather eat a hotdog. That, and instead of buying her own carton of fries, she’d rather mooch off everybody else’s. Not that she’s cheap, she just doesn’t want to eat an entire carton of fries. “Together,” says Ma, “a hot dog and its bun add up to two hundred and twenty-five calories.” To my thinking, this was possibly true of hotdogs and their buns back in the 1950s. “You can have a hot dog, its bun, and a cookie — and keep the whole meal close to three hundred calories,” she says. “Or you can have two hot dogs, minus their buns, and maybe two cookies. Or a cookie and a half.” This was one way to control one’s weight back in the 1950s. These days, the hotdogs I bu...

Q: Hold down a job?  A: Check.  Q: Pay bills (on time)?  A: Check.  Q: Save money?  A: Check.  Q: Obey the Rules of the Road?  A: Check.  Or, mostly check.  Or, rather: Check -ish .  Q: Recycle?  A: Check.  Q: Observe common courtesy? (Exempli gratia, holding doors open for those who follow behind, allowing others to lead the way onto or off of an elevator, giving up a train seat to those who are less steady or heavily burdened, et cetera.)  A: Check. Q: Charitable?  A: Check.  Q: Keep in shape? A: Check.  Q: Avoid junk food?  A: Check.  Q: Find someone to love you back? A: ... Q: Find someone to love you back? A : Pass.  Q: Find someone—  A: Shut up. There’s always a rub. Exempli gratia: You’ll have love, but you won’t have money. Love, but your lover’s unfaithful. Love, but you’ll be sick with AIDS, MS, or cancer. Or, they’ll be sick with fill–in–the–blank. You’ll have love, but you’l...

Betty says she has fibromyalgia.  Also,  Betty suffers from cold feet.  It's genetic,  her cold feet.  Nothing can warm them.  Even so,  the warmer the house,  the better for Betty.  Even in August.  Even when the temperature outside  hits the high nineties.  In winter,  a hot house is  not so much an issue,  not for me.  I'll go around in a loose T-shirt,  thin shorts,  and bare feet.  And,  when I'm in my room,  I'll throw open a window.  But that’s in winter.  In summer,  by the time the outdoor air heats up to eighty,  I  NEED AC.  But Betty will complain.  Pop’ll complain, too;  not because he's cold,  but because the AC costs  money  to run.  Not that times are tight.  Pop knows when the AC  condenser's running.  It blows the backyard bushes.  Using the furnace costs money,  too.  Only Pop...

 “We get a lot of letters from kids  who say they want to be DJs  when they grow up.  I always tell them they can’t do both.”  – Larry Lee Blankenburg,  aka, Larry Lujack

When you don’t want any bananas but there are nothing but bananas what do you want to do with the time of the next after simple joy of living in the mountains by the sea in the while I meant to write white sunshine of the darn I meant to write dark days of noon in the sun I meant to write sun why are you not eating that sugar cookie? How come the apples don’t want to sing in the while I meant to write white sunshine of your life? Is this going to be another one of your brilliant disguises? No? Why or why not? No? Why are the trees not eating the mixed berries? Are they all rotten? I think that they are all rotten. I think Theatre needs a new lease on life. Oh, are you going to eat that seaweed? Because it’s supposed to be good for apples. Yes, apples are good from tomatoes. And when the child in the box is not ready to dine in the basement why not set him up at the table upstairs? I won’t taste that pie. I will taste that cake. My mother smooshed – that’s a word. I could’ve sworn that ...

You would never characterize Betty as an irritable woman. Never in a million years. If anything, she’s too cheerful, she’s too polite. That said, when she settles into bed every night, if she isn’t greeted with absolute silence, then she’ll have to take a pill. * She won’t sleep in the same room with Pop because he snores. She’s taped the vents in the guest room over with cut-out rectangles from paper grocery bags. She doesn’t like “the blowing,” she says. It’s not so much the feel of “the blowing,” but more the sound of “the blowing” that keeps her awake. Even if it’s the middle of winter, and what’s blowing is heat, she’ll want the vents taped over. Never mind her interminably “cold” feet. What’s also interminable is the ringing in her ears. Does she prefer absolute silence to hear the ringing better? At the senior village, where Betty spends most of her time, a neighbor of hers plays loud music and owns a dog that barks too much. So Betty complained. The music stopped and the d...