FireVaney's

With apologies to Mister Cash—who will, no doubt, spin in his grave—I intend to belt out “Folsom Prison Blues” for the singing portion of my audition tomorrow night.  As for the monologue, I shall perform a few paragraphs from Mister DeLillo’s White Noise . It is a very good thing that the author will not be in attendance. (Not that he is expected.) You see, I am preparing to deliver the piece as Mister Skilling might. You know Mister Skilling. No, not the one who is currently incarcerated over the Enron scandal. The Skilling to which I refer is the legendary meteorologist of “ Chicago’s Very Own ” TV news.  There is indeed a reason, albeit semi-logical, for the choice of wielding my world-famous and fiercely disputed (as being world-famous) Skilling impression by way of DeLillo’s written words. (I can’t speak for his spoken words. For starters, I’ve never heard him speak.) Nay, there are, in fact, several semi-logical reasons. (Several at minimum.) But then, there are several semi-lo

Here’s the sink that once drained so well.  Like the toilet beside and the tile below, this sink, you might call it celery green. Its faucet’s silvery domed knobs are polished to mirror your fun house reflection. Two tubes of hydrocortisone (for the master’s ever-itchy ass) are tucked behind the cold water knob. (That’s the one closest to the toilet). One of the tubes is nearly squeezed flat.  When the house was built, way back in the era of the curly telephone cord, back before Beatlemania, back when color TV was a luxury, they probably called this first floor “half bath” the “powder room.” It’s a smidge bigger than a porta-potty. Beyond it, and throughout this humble abode ( humble by today’s standards), the color greed prevails. (Tee-hee.) The wallpaper and the carpet upstairs and downstairs and over the stairs are all the color of money. But then, before he retired, the master was an accountant by trade.  At present, black-gray bubbles fill the celery green sink’s basin. This is n

And this guy, a grown man, a wife-and-kids type, he’s munching a cookie he hasn’t paid for; he’s munching it at the back of the store. Where he’s munching it, that’s right in front of the dairy section. While he’s at it, the munching, maybe he’s scheming to steal a swig of milk.  And this guy, let’s be clear, he’s no bum; he’s a suited businessman just stepped off the Metra. Where I’m at is parked in my Daewoo in the lot. And my eyes are on him through this windshield and through that White Hen Pantry’s floor-to-ceiling glass window. My eyes are on him munching that unpaid-for cookie, as my mouth munches a cookie of my own.  The difference?  It’s a paid-for cookie I’m munching.  Then, the guy—cookie crumbs freshly clinging to his suit, his shirt, his tie—he spots me. And there we are, squinting each other, slowly munching our respective cookies into oblivion.  3 March 2005  

Yesterday morning, your new scale’s digital display read 133.  Yesterday evening—after the brats, the burgers, the chips, all that beer, the brownies, the cookies, and the cupcakes at the BBQ; then after the Krispy Kreme doughnuts and the Bresler's chocolate malt at the O'Hare Oasis—after all that, the scale’s display read 138.  Whilst standing at one of the oasis’s two walls of glass—tall and wide enough to frame a Boeing 747, nose to tail * —you slurp your shake and watch the various city and suburban bursts and showers of fireworks. And, sappy you, what you couldn’t get out of your head was: Which display was she standing beneath? And you wished she wondered which one you stood beneath. But you’re fairly certain she wasn’t thinking of you at all. You’re fairly certain you couldn’t be further from her mind. †   The O'Hare Oasis stretches over the Tri-State Tollway. ‡ Think of it as an enclosed pedestrian bridge with a food court. § Giant panes of glass fit together to

For the record: I do not own a dog, nor a cat; nor do I grow tomatoes. My neighbors do not grow tomatoes, either. The neighbor to the east owns a very small dog, but I only see it when it is being walked. I do not have a special interest in tomatoes – although I do enjoy ketchup on my burgers and fries and such. And I do enjoy tomato sauce on my pizza and such. I just wanted to be clear here. At least for once. At least, for a handful of sentences. I really need to purchase a new desk lamp because the one I’ve had for years is falling apart. But I like it because it has a little rotating thingy that hold pens and paperclips and such. I haven’t been able to find a lamp like this anywhere. The problem with this lamp is that the metallic inner shell that surrounds the top half of the bulb has detached from its plastic outer shell. If that makes any sense. I don’t have the time to try to make much if any sense here. This isn’t about making sense. It is about making bananas for my strawberr