FireVaney's

Wherever I was, it was hilly and rural and green. Maybe it was Scotland. I’ve never been to Scotland, but I’ve seen Highlander and Braveheart more than twice. And I do have Scottish blood, according to my mother. Wherever it was, I’d driven there in a car reminiscent of the “ General Lee ” from the “Dukes of Hazard.” Presumably, the muscle car, true to form, leapt from the continent (presumably the North American one) to the island (presumably the British one), since I don’t believe in airplanes, and since I’ve no recollection of how I found myself behind the wheel of said vehicle. The car belonged to my father. Or that’s what he’d led me to believe. Unless it’s what I’d led myself to believe. I stood (and presumably parked) outside of a massive, red bricked citadel atop a wide, curving ridge. The stronghold’s impossibly tall walls weaved over the length of the ridge like a colossal brick snake. My father rang my cell phone. If I took the call, I didn’t mention the car. Had I “borrowe

Pissing off the fourth floor balcony. That image left my head upon waking this morning. I couldn’t tell you why. Logic never figures into my dreams. Or when it does, it means I’ve gone lucid, and the dream shortly thereafter escapes me. But in the shower, “Pissing Off The Fourth Floor Balcony” seemed a worthy title for a stage play. I want my sort of theatre—my “brand” of theater—to shock. At least, I do right now. And you’ve got to be tasteless if you want to shock these days. Howard Stern shows us the way…  *  A spider’s spun another web between the ironwork that holds up the balcony’s railing. The gusty winds and torrential rains must’ve blown away the web it spun yesterday. Wont the sun show once over Stratford? Christ, writing about dreary weather is itself dreary.  *  Dust Blood —that’s the new title… of something.  *  You don’t see a lot of older couples loving each other. At least, I don’t. And by “loving,” I mean hugging and caressing in public, as younger lovers do. Not that

We were flying to Canada. Pop was on the aisle. I sat in the middle. A young woman had the window seat. We didn’t know her. She was Israeli. Her English wasn’t perfect; my Hebrew was non-existent. We still managed to hold a decent conversation, she and I. She had an odd name—well, it was odd to me. It meant “tongue,” in Hebrew, I think. That’s what she told me, anyway. Why had her parents named her after an organ of the mouth? She was a babbling baby, or so she was told. Two younger girls from her group, perhaps sisters or cousins, were seated across the aisle, across from Pop. They spoke very little English. Aside from “Coke,” all they could say, apparently, was “You like her?” And, “You love her?” After repeating these question several times I confirmed that, yeah, sure why not? I liked this “Tongue.” She was polite and, seemingly, not nearly as chatty as she was as an infant. Surely she’d have more to say if I understood Hebrew. It’s a fair bet that I did most of the babbling. I wa

He headed for the wall of glass doors, beyond which lay the night-shrouded parking lot, and he caught himself reaching for the Ray-Bans tucked into the collar of his shirt. Concurrently, and entirely coincidently, his companion asked, "Do you ever feel like you don't know what you're doing?"

Dragging yourself out of bed way too early in the morning, on a daily basis, has an effect. The effect is forceful and cumulative and makes you sleepy earlier and earlier in the day. Or maybe that’s just me. They say the rain is moving out and the heat and the humidity is moving in. Oh, and now they’re calling the forecast a “futurecast.” And that tells you right there that they’re probably pulling it out of their arses anyway. They’re constantly introducing (or inventing) new, complicated meteorological-sounding terms that make them seem credible. Anyone who hides behind highfalutin jargon is either deeply insecure or an outright fraud. Who checks up on the accuracy of meteorologists? Who has the time? There’s always more weather on the way. It’s already sticky. I hate it. I don’t live here for the summers, I live here for the winters. When the cat ate the dog he didn’t consider the predictable indigestion and heart burn. The cat went to the drug store for some of the “pink stuff,” bu