FireVaney's

I’ve crammed myself into a corner. (Story of my life.) Somehow, I feel even more alone than I did at Complex Cosmo. Could be, maybe, that Wayne’s is too bright for a late Friday night.  Everybody here is in clear, or clearer, groups — albeit groups grouped in very close proximity to one another. In a way, it’s reminiscent of high school cliques at lunch hour — minus the beer. Or maybe I’m just too sober to be out and about at this hour.  The group I walked in with has scattered. Nico is busy making or renewing acquaintances. Zen and Lass disappear around a distant corner. Larr is over by the Bongster and the Bongster’s bro. The three of them lean against the bar. A little while later, they relocate to the other side and lean on it over there.  Along with all the others not engaged in chit-chat or lip-locks, I’m gawking at the couples who shuffle-step out on the honky-tonk platter. I’m seeing myself as one such shuffle-stepper. Videlicet, that guy too ugly to be swaying with that gal t

The dog is in pain tonight because he can’t find his pink slippers that he buried in the pond next to the weeping willow tree. The weeping willow tree likes to play practical jokes on all of the creatures in the forest. The creatures in the forest like to gather and bitch and moan about all of the weeping willow’s dastardly pranks. One day, an apple fell from the apple tree and hit the weeping willow in its eye. “ Ouch !” cried the weeping willow. The dog overheard this exclamation of pain and organized an emergency meeting of all the forest creatures. He said to them, “My fellow creatures— ” But the dog was cut off by a chorus of chipmunks. The chipmunks chanted, “ YOU’RE not a proper creature. YOU’RE a pet!” The dog sighed. He wanted to address that point, but he didn’t want to lose sight of his main point. So he pressed on. “My fellow creatures — wild and domesticated alike — ” Again, the dog was cut off. The chipmunks chanted, “ YOU are the only domesticated creature here!” The

We never first met.  Never, really.  Never in any formal,  “Hello, my name is…”  “Nice to meet you, I’m…”  sense.  The recital, that was my first sight of you.  You never saw me enter, you couldn’t have seen me sit, you didn’t see me applaud, you shouldn’t of seen me depart. Okay, maybe you saw me applaud, but there were hundreds of patrons applauding, so, it isn’t likely. You were onstage, behind that big stretch of Steinway. Everybody else? They sat in the dark. My seat was at the back of the mezzanine. Neither was I, somehow, conspicuously dressed. So, no way did you see me — me , in particular.  But the second time we crossed paths, years later, you knew me. You treated me like an old friend. It made no sense. Or had I forgotten some intervening encounter? Regardless, I was too flattered and too flummoxed to ask.  But, no. Having reflected long and hard, it is undeniable: We never first met. Not formally.  Had you seen me perform? That’s doubtful. My performances are rarely memor

CJ says the Village of Schammmbourg ain’t exactly sweet on him. He’s got the impression that it (the village) or some faction of it, some faction of its community theatre community, is out to “ get ” him. “ Get ” him or “get rid of” him. Maybe get him and then get rid of him. Either way, seems they don’t dig him, “oh but for sure” they’ll bury him, if they catch him. “With pleasure ,” he says, they will.  Could be CJ’s just having bad luck in Schammmmbourg.  So check this out: Two nights ago he gets outta rehearsal for The Music Man . (Community theatre, that’s where he meets his chicks, where he cocks his doodle-doos.) He’s driving south on Randy Ave, spots something in the middle of the road, steers clear of it. Tells me, later, it’s a “body.” That’s what I’m telling you. Calls it a “ small body.” And there he saw it, there lying face down across the stretch of double yellows. And to CJ, it looks human.  Does he stop? Hell no. Don’t exactly make him a coward, though. Just lemme fi