FireVaney's

And Manager Mick asked,  “Wanna see pictures of my cat?”  And somebody said, “Sure.” *   I was at the other end of the room,  too busy to look up from counting  down my drawer,  which was short  —because it’s always short.  And Mick said,  “This is the pose I want her to be in  when she’s taxidermied.” [Sic.]  And whoever he told this to said,  “But you cat’s not dead yet.”  “No,” replied Mick,  “but she will be soon.  And you need to have pictures  or what you get back  looks nothing  like your cat.”  “Uh-huh.”  And Mick continued,  “I’m going to have her body  hollowed out  and her neck  hinged  so I can lift her head  and put stuff in.  No one would think  of looking  for anything  in a stuffed cat.”  12 February 2001  * [Strange how I cannot now declare with absolute certainty who this somebody was. That back room / stockroom / dishwashing room was about the length and width of a stretch limo (and in no other way anything like a stretch limo). These days, instead of a coffee shop,

People look at my face and say, “Are you growing a beard?” And I don’t reply: Is that cause for alarm? Or: What’s it to you? Or: Aren’t you observant. Rather, I tell them I’m taking a break from shaving. Which is true. I miss Cindi. I miss both of us clinging to each other, naked, in the dark of her apartment. I miss sucking her bumpy tits. What I really need, right now, is some caffeine. Yes, that’s right, Cindi’s tits were (and, presumably, remain) bumpy all around the nipples. I suppose they’re officially known as “areolas.” So: bumpy areolas. And I miss them. But she was a smoker and a bit of a racist and somewhat out of shape and not terribly bright. All that, and she liked to lick the clouds, too. Time and again I admonished her for taking advantage of her height and sullying the troposphere with her taste buds. She accused me of harboring an inferiority complex just because I can fold myself neatly inside a Pringles potato chip canister. An empty one. (Are they called canist

She’s a cute, slightly waifish dirty blonde. I don’t know her name. Let’s call her… “Veronica.” She used to work at the Dominick’s Finer Foods over on Chicago Avenue. Maybe she still does. Maybe she avoids me whenever I shop there. It’s a big store and I’m usually zeroed in on all the shelved comestibles for sale. Welp, turns out Veronica’s a neighbor of mine. Couldn’t tell you which floor. (There are twelve.) Gimmie a break, I’ve met less than half the people who live on my floor, let alone whoever lives in the rest of the building. And those few I do kinda-sorta know, I don’t know any of them by name. Either way, most don’t smile or say hello. Maybe it’s me. The way I look. Maybe it’s my deodorant—or lack thereof. Could be it’s my natural musk. You know, like I have repellant pheromones or something. Even mosquitos avoid me. I dunno. Should I ask? I could ask, sure. But then all the expressionless folk who tend to look straight through me as they pass on the sidewalk, or on the sta

Denial will be our undoing.

Changing my “Love@AOL” ad to display the headline: “F R E A K” seems to’ve made all the difference. Nearly all the women who’ve contacted me since the change have remarked that I’m a “cutie.” They say I look like Jim Carrey. But more importantly, Dominick’s has stopped stocking my favorite flavor of coffee creamer.  2 January 2001

Start: So I unplugged the beastly bitch and twenty-four hours later her touch pad is working again. Go frakking figure. So maybe? Here on? I’ll just leave her unplugged when I’m done with her. And yet keeping her plugged should NOT be the cause of her touch pad’s misbehavior. What’s more, I’ve got her jacked into an expensive surge protector. Whatever. And that lamp in Pop’s room? The one bedside near the window? Its bulb crackles. I screwed in one of those compact florescent “energy saving” bulbs and it started crackling after I hooked up the new digital TV tuner converter box. There isn’t any legitimate relationship between the converter box and the lamp. Ok, ok, they kinda-sorta share the same electrical outlet—but that’s all. Actually, the box is plugged into a power strip with the TV but the lamp is plugged directly into the wall. What’s more, the treadmill fraks up the digital signal. Whenever I slide a lever on the treadmill—whether to up the incline or increase the speed—the di