FireVaney's

You people who whistle—I mean while strolling down grocery store aisles, while changing your clothes in gym locker rooms, or just generally whistling around perfect strangers—what the fuck is up with you people? I’d like to know if anyone ever says to you people, “Oh, what a lovely whistle, please continue.” And why are you whistlers always middle age or elderly men? Fifty years ago, did everybody whistle wherever they went every time they left the house? Is this the cultural effect of Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs? And why always men? Have you ever heard a women randomly whistle in public? Does some law forbid it? I’m not talking about whistling at beauty. That seems to’ve fallen out of fashion in most civilized communities. But whistling for the simple enjoyment of it, you’ll still hear it every now and again. I’m sorry, but there is too much noise pollution in the world as it is—what with sirens, car horns, stereo speakers, jackhammers, cicadas, cell phone chatter, barking dogs, etc.

That was your coat—your only coat—or rather the only coat I’ve ever seen you wear—or rather a coat just like yours—and that was me assuming that that was you (wearing it)— whooshing by on the Wilson stop platform. Rather, that was me whooshing by—rather, the L-train was. I was simply sitting in it, trying and failing but trying to read a corny book. * My hope was that that was indeed you—and you saw me, too—and you’d cross all the cars linked together to get to me, sitting in the first car. † But you didn’t. In fairness, I didn’t cross into any of the other cars to look for you. When I stepped off my stop, I looked for you, but the train hurled itself away from the platform too quickly for me to distinguish any of the faces contained within. Assuming that that was indeed you, were you on your way to love? That’s what I feared, and still fear now.  26 April 2005  * [I cannot fathom how all of you read fiction at the beach or in a park or in a café or aboard public transit. For t

If it takes more than two globs of goo to mold my hair into place, that means it’s past time for a cut. “Normally,” I shouldn’t need more than one glob. And you may ask: Dude, why did you put the word “normally” in quotes? And I may answer: You haven’t seen my hair. You haven’t seen my body. I’m a beer-gut with moobs and toothpick-thin arms and legs. The head is an afterthought. My LIFE is an afterthought. But this isn’t about my body. Or my life. This isn’t about my hair. Scratch that. This IS about my hair. Continuing: I also know it’s time for a cut when the bathroom mirror shows me spiraling wild sideburns. I don’t allow them to creep DOWN my face, those sideburns, but they do grow OUT without much rhyme or reason. Anyway, anyway: The barbers, they never smear the goo on the way I like it smeared on. I always, always, want my hair gooed BACK (pretty please), but they all always, always goo it down flat or straight forward. It’s a conspiracy! Well, maybe not. But conspiracies give l

Dude, just. Knock it off. Would’ja? Just. Please. It’s really stupid. Really, it is. Why continue to beat around the bush? Why not come straight out with it? Yes, yes. I know. Who doesn’t? That’s right: You’re very accomplished, dare I say extremely accomplished, at beating around the bush. Aren’t you? Yes, you are. Admit it. You are. Admit it! You. You. Beater Around The Bush, you. Why is this? What has made you this way? I would remind you to tell your mother that she sat on the bench near the bush when she was pregnant with you. But I daresay she recalls the experience. You claim to remember it as if it happened yesterday. But it didn’t happen yesterday, did it? No. If it happened at all, it happened nearly thirty-six years ago! Me? Pshaw! I remember nothing. I do my best to forget everything. In so doing, I can’t be hurt. I can’t be touched. (Not by the law, anyway.) I can plead ignorance. Because it is, in fact, true: that saying, you know, about: ignorance and bliss. Why, af