FireVaney's

Well, I guess I couldn't fool any of you...

The decision to invade and occupy Iraq was foolish. Or, if nothing else, it was foolishly carried out. Abandoning Iraq now would be just as foolish—if not more foolish. So, bring home a kid, a father, or a mother; hand me a gun; I’ll go fight your damned war. I’ll take responsibility for your blunder. I’ll clean up your mess. Or, at least, I’ll try. I’ve got nothing better to do. Better my head’s blown off than your father’s, or your mother’s, or your son’s, or your daughter’s. I’ve got nine months to join before I hit the maximum age requirement. If, by July, I am still where I am now, I have either failed the physical, or I have failed to follow through. And if I have failed to follow through, then I am a true coward, and I do not deserve to be a citizen of a free country.

The goatee, or whatever you call it, makes me look less the sap… I hope. Only it’s a bitch to maintain an equal width of trimmed hair on either side of the lips. I’ll spend thirty minutes a morning, staring at the mirror. I’ve had to use a Goddamn tape-measure…

He said to me— point-blank —he said it: That he’s giving up on hoping to try.

Shortly upon entering the house, or, shortly upon exiting the house, I’ll return to the door to check the lock two, maybe three times. Used to do this all the time when I lived in Chicago. Same with the car’s locks—I’ll go back to yank on the handles two, maybe three times. Have I mentioned this before? I feel that I have… My mind is rarely where it is. And I’ve only left a door unlocked, or a window unrolled two, maybe three times. Lately, when I feel the pressure to re-check a lock (this is the emotional, self-doubting equivalent to the pressure of needing badly to pee) what I’ve been doing is, I’ve been saying to myself, “It’s locked, I know it’s locked.” I’ll say it over and over.

…The two of us sat in the large, insufficiently lit room, alone… It was the room behind Donny’s Skybox’s stage… …We sat side by side, faces forward… …This was during this past Saturday’s ten-minute break… …My eyes, pushed to their right-most corners, watched her as she listened to my throat gulp down the watery remnants of the hours old, Coffee-Light Frappuccino… …I know she heard the rippled, liquid-flush of fluid gravitate down my throat because the room was otherwise silent… …Embarrassed by my disgusting sound, I apologized, but not before confirming my fears by asking if she had heard…(which, as mentioned before, she had)…

My finger-knuckles stink of the “sweet and tangy” honey-mustard squeezed across a recently microwaved and currently bunned hotdog. There’s relish spread and ketchup squeezed across it, too. But, my finger-knuckles only stink of the honey-mustard…

David Mamet once pegged the government as an imaginary friend. The current residents of New Orleans would likely agree. Watching the news, the question running through my mind is: “How, hundreds of miles away, sheltered, fed, clothed, safe, does one process all of this?” How does one digest the fact that It Is God Awful . At least, God Awful , according to the news. I want to go there. And do… what? What does one do? There is already enough money. There is already enough manpower; already enough expertise. Only it all went missing when New Orleans needed it most. The other thought running through my mind is: “This doesn’t surprise me.” Why does it not surprise me? Time and again, those in power fail to act until such power is threatened. For countless examples, consult history. It’s all happened before. It’ll all happen again. At best, ours is a country run by optimists. At worst, we are a nation steeped in obliviousness. Bob Saget hosted the wrong show. He should’ve hosted COPS. You’

She lit the cigarette simply to have something to hide behind. Namely, smoke.