FireVaney's

Ma, Stepdude, and I drove up to Lake Geneva, WI for Mother’s Day.  Before we got there we stopped in Antioch, where Ma and Stepdude mused over the possible purchase of a lot in one of those Redacted Homes developments. Turns out there were too many hidden costs. That, and Ma brings home the bacon these days. Stepdude? He brings home the bupkis. And besides, Antioch is too far from where Ma works. Upon reaching picturesque Lake Geneva, we stopped for a bite at—of all places—Subway. After that, it rained. But the rain passed quickly. We wandered around the old business district, which was very much alive with tourists.  The Copper Mountain Toy Co. & Train Land Of Lake Geneva * sells, among a great many other trinkets, historical action figures of Jesus, of Moses, and of Shakespeare “with Removable Quill Pen & Book!” They also had an action figure of a coffee barista. On impulse, I purchased the three remaining Shakespeares: one as a future gift to one of my many theatri...

The names of places—of restaurants and places—if I only visit them once, their names almost always escape me. This is also true of people I’ve only met once. Typically, it takes two or three visits for a name to stick. (And to think of the piss-poor shape my memory’ll be in when I’m twice my current age!) Point is, we went to a place for carnivores for what’s-his-name’s bachelor party. (Lori is a vegan, by the by.) Along with a fork, knife, plate, napkin, and water glass, each diner gets their own circular cardboard card. * One side of the card is red and the other side is green. Somebody explains how it all works and then the servers surround you with various forms of cooked meat. They’ll keep carving it up and heaping it onto your plate until you flip the green side of your card over to its red side. After all that—which is to say, after scarfing down way, way, way too much meat—we drove over to a flashy bowling alley in Streeterville where they charge you five bucks for a BOTTLE of...

Forgot to mention that the sewer backed up into Pop’s basement last week. I’d gone down with a load of laundry and was met with a swamp of filth. I spent the day—ankle-deep in piss and shit and used Charmin squares—cleaning and salvaging and trashing. When the plumber finally showed up, he was only in the house for about five minutes. He spent the most of the afternoon in the front yard, rodding out the pipes from there. While it didn’t look like an easy task for him, at least he was out in the fresh air. I spent the better half of yesterday bagging up anything else that seemed unsalvageable. Today, I’ll have a better idea of just how many bags the garbage truck will have to haul away. No idea how much extra it’ll cost. Tonight, at The Goodman: a staged reading of an early draft of Mamet’s American Buffalo . Mr. Mamet himself will be in the house. *   10 April 2006  * [If memory serves, Mr. Mamet remarked, onstage, just prior to the reading, that he wasn’t a fan of festivals t...

If you drop a notepad and it hits the ground, it’s not going to break. And you don’t need to recharge a notebook – that is, a paper-filled notebook. And unless you’re famous (or infamous), nobody’s going to want to steal your paper notepad or your paper notebook, either. Not that it matters. Forgive me, I am in mourning, for a Constant in my life has now faded into oblivion: The Chandler’s Assignment Notebook. In these parts, in the past, they’d go on sale around the beginning of August. But as I feared with last year’s edition, all was not well in Chandlersland. In years past, there’d be some famous, inspirational quote printed on the upper lefthand corner of every page. But for the 2007-2008 edition, there were no such quotes. That space on that side of every page was left blank.  Yesterday, whilst stockers stocked the shelves with Back-To-School supplies at the local SavYah, I asked a manager when they might expect their annual shipment of Chandler’s Assignment Notebooks. It had...

We attended the same high school, she and I, but we never spoke to each other. And now, thirteen years later, we both burn carbs and pump iron at the same gym. And still, although we frequently make eye contact, we’ve never exchange words.  Two days ago, whilst huffing and puffing on the treadmill, she walked by and stuck her tongue out at me. It seemed a playful gesture. In return, I offered a raised eyebrow and a slightly perplexed grin. She stepped onto a treadmill next to the one next to me (id est, leaving one in between).  Yesterday, whilst pumping up my gluteus maximus, she passed by, twice; and so I stuck my tongue out at her, twice. She didn’t notice. Two OTHER people, however, DID, and apparently they thought I was directing my tongue at THEM. They, in return, both offered perplexed stares.  Mayhap, the other day, whilst I huffed and puffed on the treadmill, she was actually thrusting her tongue out at somebody else—perhaps at the huffer and puffer behind me. 6 ...

A café.  AMY and BRANDI, sitting. Nearby, sits FIREVANEY, eavesdropping.  AMY  He kisses me too much.  BRANDI (slow nod, raised eyebrows) Mmm. You don’t like him anymore.  AMY  No —  BRANDI  Or you’re liking him less.  AMY  That isn’t —  BRANDI  There’s somebody new?  AMY  No! He just… too many kisses.  BRANDI (nods)  There are worse things.  AMY  He won’t let me speak.  BRANDI  Well, not with his tongue down your throat —  AMY  Exactly.  BRANDI  Is he a … substandard kisser?  AMY  No. He’s a fine kisser. That’s not what I’m —  BRANDI  Too much of a good thing.  AMY Exac— Yes. Sort of.  BRANDI (pushes her latte away)  Brandi? Sometimes? You make me sick. AMY  No, you don’t understa—  BRANDI  Nor could I ever. Nor could I ever.  (she stands and shoves in her chair)  I’m late.  (She exits.)  FIREVANE...

The concern for whether or not you’ve shut the refrigerator door completely, or whether you’ve completely shut the refrigerator door, always, always, always strikes once you’ve completed your climb up the stairs. So, then, you do what you’ve always, always, always done: You descend and you return to the kitchen and you press a hand against the refrigerator door. Sometimes, yes, it’s still a bit open by a little bit; sometimes it isn’t. No, MOST TIMES it isn’t. Most times, it’s shut. Really, if you really cared, you’d draw up a chart to chart the validity of this recurrent concern. But if you really, really, really cared THAT much, then your madness would be confirmed. Hencethus, you won’t be drawing up a chart for the aforementioned porpoise. Rather, PURPOSE. Why can’t you simply confirm the ceiling—rather, the SEALING—of the refrigerator door whilst (still) in the kitchen? Exactly what exactly prevents you? Why is it so difficult? What makes it such a challenge? But soft! Perhaps you ...

God only knows. Only God knows. That’s, assuming God is playing attention. Or, rather, PAYING attention. And why would He? ’Tis all foolishness. Perhaps ’tis all for His amusement. That’s what methinks anyway. We’re toys. Playthings. That’s what methinks. Makes sense. ’Tis all so so so SO so so SO so S-O-S so-so foolish. Meaningless. Insane. Stupid. Why? Well, were it meaningful, why such silliness just to find the right cow to milk? Apologies, this is not working out the way I’d hoped. What does? Nothing does. Hencethus, I want to stop hoping. I want to stop nighttime shenanigans. No, not really. I want to PARTICIPATE in nighttime shenanigans. Yes, that’s it. Why not? Well, for starters, I’m too hairy. What’s more? A tad short. And to top it off: “orange” haired. That’s what “they” say, anyway. “They” call it, “orange.” Bottom line: These physical characteristics are NOT in demand – that is, if you’re endeavoring to attract a heterosexual female Homo sapiens of reasonable beauty. But ...

Pop likes to tell stories. They usually fall into one of three categories: childhood adventures, investment triumphs (or blunders), and brushes with the Chicago “Outfit.”  Sometimes, shortly after launching into a tale, he'll stop to ask if you've heard it before. Your answer is of no consequence; he's going to repeat the story even if you've heard it a hundred times. This isn't out of spite. Pop can't help himself. Once the memory is recalled, it must be played out. Even if you help him finish the story, even if you beat him to the punch, or offer a summary, Pop will continue his spiel. It makes no difference how many times you interrupt with, "Yes, yes, I know. I've heard this one before.” What's nice is that Pop never tells a story the same way twice. He always adds a new detail, or shuffles the chronology of events. But he never lies—or, rather, he never intends to lie. Since the stroke, his memory still, occasionally, plays tricks on him. And ...

You walk into a bar and spot your crush. She spots you back and waves and squeals your name. Anyone else who notices, they smile—a few even go so far as to turn and smile—but they keep their waves and squeals to themselves. Not that you’re undeserving of waves and squeals, but, don’t fool yourself, you’re a bit player in a large cast of characters. She saw you first because her booth seat faced the door. You didn’t think she’d be at this bar. You figured she’d be at the other bar, the louder bar, in the neighborhood. It’s younger, hipper, trendier. You feel relief and frustration. Let’s unpack that: You feel relief because, here, you can keep an eye on her. And, perhaps, when the time comes, she’ll ask you, in some roundabout way, for a lift home. And then, who knows, maybe she’ll even invite you in. You feel frustration because, here, you can watch her flirt with all the boys and girls who are much cuter than you are. But, dude, you gotta quit kidding yourself. Let’s be realistic....

Rare is the natural-born chick magnet. Or, rather, rare in MY experience—which is, admittedly, severely limited—and, further, limited to Northern Flapjackistan. Regardless, my (admittedly) unsolicited advice? Young man: Take FULL advantage. Just my “two cents.” Just in case you aren’t already. This presumes that you are not a religious man. Presuming my aforementioned presumption is none too presumptuous, then, by all means, you absolutely MUST look upon this gift of yours as a biological FORCE of life—a FORCE you are, no less, of course, IMBUED with. YOU, sir, have a responsibility. Feel no guilt. But DO use protection. Please, by all means, SPREAD the “wealth” —and ONLY the “wealth,” if you catch my drift. * As for me, I’ll be up in the “stands,” so to speak, rooting you on. Best I can do. (MOST I can do, really, as I would not want to interfere.) But if I am lucky, perhaps some of your pheromonal magic will, in due course, rub off on me. Mayhap, just by hanging around you long enou...

Be careful, more careful, with your declarations. Why? Because you’ll always find a way to rebel against them. For example, you’ll state, for the record, that you listen to one thing, and then, shortly thereafter, you’ll stop listening to it altogether. You’ll say you write one way, today, and then, tomorrow, you’ll write in a completely different way. In this way, by making such declarations, you’ll embarrass yourself. Ergo, unless you have something to gain from the act of sharing, don’t share—ANYTHING—until it is absolutely necessary. Don’t set yourself up for failure by making declarations. Or promises. Lead, instead, by example. (How trite. How hackneyed. Well, you ARE a bit hungry.) You always overdo it: the declaration thing. You give too much away. Nobody wants that. They want mystery. They want to be teased. Stop giving away so much. Or, stop giving so much away. This over-zealousness must cease. It embarrasses you; it scares everybody away. Nobody buys it. I ask you: When has...

His yellow toenails jag as if bitten off by some terrible two-year old. His skin flakes white specks under his five o’clock shadow. His wifey’s tremulous fingers clutch a cigarette between two fingers. You want to ask about her caveman’s painting of the sun tattooed to her calf, but you never will. Both hubby and wifey drink cheap wine out of what’s clean—coffee mugs. You’ve heard that hubby’s got a hernia. You won’t ask about that, either—though you’d like to. What’s he gonna say anyway? “Yeah, I got a hernia.” What with their fried burgers every summer night, both hubby and wifey, they’ll be lucky if they make it into their mid-fifties. Not that you’re a happier, or a healthier, or in any way a better person. Ho, no. You’ve told them that your former wingman was a con-artist. Really, though, he was just a bit of a hustler. But given his uncompromisingly spiffy aesthetic, he didn’t have much choice. *  15 July 2005  * [“I've wasted a greater part of my life looking for money ...

Today is Uncle Redacted’s birthday.  How old he is EXACTLY, I'm not sure.  He's over fifty, I know that .  I got him a card, but I don't know what to write in it.  It already says, "Have a Happy Birthday."  The front of the card shows someone's hand just barely pressing a long, presumably sharp, needle to a large, red balloon. The inside of the card reads: "Have a Happy Birthday, or the balloon gets it!"  Under that, I don't know what to write other than, "Love, Pop, Betty, and Howie."  Pop and Betty don't yet know that I've purchased a card. I'm pretty sure they don't even know that it’s Uncle R.’s birthday. Pop can barely recall his own daughters’ birthdays, let alone those of his three sons-in-law. Yes, he’s old—older than most—but, to be clear, he’s not mentally diminished. Remembering birthdays and mailing cards was always Grandma’s job.  Uncle R. lives one suburb to the south, so I'll just drive over and slip t...

We regret to report that we’ve replaced your newish Timex digital alarm clock (id est, the one with the recorded water and forest sounds) with your grandmother’s ancient Westclox (id est, the one with the slowly sweeping second hand and orange sherbet-colored “Dialite”). This ought to serve as an vitally important reminder: Whilst the complication— any complication—makes money for the capitalist, one often finds comfort in the simplest of things. (exempli gratia, a crisp apple.) This is not to suggest that simple things are perfect. No, no. Set the aforementioned Westclox to buzz its buzz at five o’clock and it will buzz its buzz at four-fifty. But perhaps this “bug” or “feature” wasn’t always so. Whoever wasn’t the early-bird (whether Grandma or Grandpop), they’d left the aforementioned Westclox in the basement to collect dust, mold, rust, and/or other forms of rot. But then it’s entirely possible that it wound up in the basement thanks to its overzealous alarm setting. We’ll never kn...

This morning, for breakfast: a “Home Made Daily” ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria in the basement. My first question: In whose home was this sandwich made? My second question: What’s the deal with the white writing on the orange dot sticker stuck to the sandwich’s cellophane sleeve? It says, “SAT.” Below that, it says, “SABADO.” Today is Sunday. (Pop’s spending his worst birthday in ninety-three years up in room 4132.) So has my sandwich expired? Or is this orange dot telling me that it was made yesterday? (Not the dot, the sandwich .) I didn’t notice the dot until I finished eating the sandwich. Yesterday, and the day before, for breakfast: doughnuts and roast beef sandwiches and coffee. The doughnuts at the hospital are much tastier than the doughnuts from the Dunkin’ Donuts up the street. But then, as far as hospitals go, this one’s a bit ritzy.  July 2005

Happy birthday, Hemingway! You’re one in a million. No, you’re one in a billion. No, you’re one in a trillion. No. You’re one. Yes. You’re one. Well, you WERE one. And, you’ve won! A brand–new toaster–oven. You like toast, don’t you? Who doesn’t like toast? My grandfather only likes toast in the morning. After that, he refuses anything that is or could be toasted. He thinks that toast, later in the day, will be too hard on his teeth. For the record, I do not burn his toast. The toast I toast for him is always lightly toasted. So I don’t know what he’s talking about. But he is beginning to act his age. Or, rather, more and more, he’s beginning to act his age—you might say he’s “running on automatic pilot,” that is, so to speak, more and more. He can’t process most new data. He’s content to recycle all of the old data—rather, what’s left of all the old data. But he does like crackers. He’ll eat crackers any time of the day. He doesn’t crush the crackers into his soup. Rather, he’ll sl...

Pop got up early today. I was awake early, too, but I didn't get out of bed until I heard him lumbering down the stairs.  Usually, I'm downstairs at least an hour before Pop wraps up his morning routine—id est, brushing his teeth, making his bed, dressing, a bit of weight lifting, and a ten-minute walk on his bedroom treadmill. Normally, while he's upstairs doing that, I'm in the kitchen organizing the day's regimen of pills, slicing the banana he takes with his meds (he needs a little banana to help stretch his "smaller-than-average" esophagus), sweeping and/or mopping the kitchen and living room floors, fetching the paper from the driveway, and straightening up his "piles" of letters and financial statements.  Most days, after Pop’s through with the Trib, he spends his waking hours reading financial and business periodicals.  Sometimes, for a change of scenery, I drive him over to the library. There, he reads different financial and business pe...

What are your answers? The answers you provide are few and far between. Worse, your answers bleed ambiguities. That’s right, your answers are the mutilated corpses of an at-large serial killer. In other words, your answers, they have no life. They suck the life force out of every question posed, your answers do. Worse still, your answers embarrass my questions. More oft than not, when you’re around, my questions run for cover! To answer my questions—as to what your answers are—they are deadly, and, thusly, they are worthless. Indeed, worthless. I cannot overstate just how worthless your answers are , but I will try. Your answers have less worth than a single atom in a grain of sand. And you may ask, “How many atoms in a grain of sand?” And I may answer (correctly), “Quintillions.” And I will have you know, sir, that there are more atoms in a single grain of sand than there are grains of sand on all of the beaches on the entire planet! But, sir, your answers provide no hope. Your an...

“I leaned over the edge of the bed and saw the shine of metal biting off pieces of gum I knew by heart.“ — Ken Kesey , One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest 

This vertigo, it’s been going on since last Wednesday. It was at its worst last Thursday, when I went to the hospital. The doctors and nurses set me up with an IV drip, they set me up with a CAT scan, they set me up with an MRI, they also set me up with a bottle of meclizine. And, yes, the entire ordeal warranted the use of three comma splices. And the doctors, they let me go home when they couldn’t find a tumor. Instead, the doctors, they think I’ve got an “inner ear virus.” That, or there’s a “stone” in there... that’s too small to see, I guess. And if in the next few days it doesn’t go away or roll out on its own? The follow-up internist says I’ll have to go back for another MRI. All of this might make one wonder: Is the practice of medicine simply the practice of educated guesswork? I’m allowed to take the meclizine “2 or 3 times a day as needed,” but I’m avoiding it. I’m worried about constipation; I’m worried about fattening up. I haven’t been to the gym since last Wednesday. Dri...

It is important to remind one of the purpose. The purpose if not to get it straight is not to end with the prologue to the séance. No: Lie not in the forest with the naked bears every morning. No: So this time you won’t want to bite down on the necks of the precious needles. No! I want to state the purpose. But I follow with right might the happening of every mistake. So, I, thus, avoid getting to the point. The purpose is to get the brain to ignite. When this is going well, thine brains tingle. And by thine I mean mine. Mine brains tingle when this is going well. My brains tinkle. Brain tinkle. This is a good thing. How could it be a bad thing? The faster I write the more mine brain tingles. And/or tinkles. This is true. So when the next boob takes his turn at the babe she’ll shut up at the dock. Why? I would want to not eat. No! I DO NOT want to use the words “eat” “tomato” “dog” “cat” “tree.” No more of eating! No more of food! No more of the plant-life, of the vegetables, of the ve...

When it came to things —you know, things you buy, things you build, things that require expertise to install or repair—his biological farter used a gentle touch. Like, with knobs, with handles, with levers on kitchen and bathroom faucets; or like with knobs, levers, and buttons on stereo systems; and especially like with knobs, levers, and buttons on automobile dashboards and control panels. You name it, didn’t matter, always, always, always: a gentle touch. Make no mistake, his biological farter was NOT a gentle man. He was a cheap jerk who farted a lot but more importantly didn’t want to replace anything. And the best way to avoid replacing anything, in his biological farter’s opinion, was to be gentle. That, or to avoid using it, the thing , altogether. Yup, that ole bio-farter, he’d carp if, in his opinion, you opened the refrigerator door once too often; he’d carp if, in his opinion, you spread too much peanut butter on a slice of bread; and he carp if, in his opinion, you...

Ma won’t even eat half a chicken sandwich. She wants a chicken wrap — which, while advertised, is not sold. (Presumably, they ran out of wraps.) Ma feels that the sandwiches purveyed at this particular concession stand have too much bread. She’d eat the chicken alone — which, to my tastebuds, is tender and juicy — but she’d rather eat a hotdog. That, and instead of buying her own carton of fries, she’d rather mooch off everybody else’s. Not that she’s cheap, she just doesn’t want to eat an entire carton of fries. “Together,” says Ma, “a hot dog and its bun add up to two hundred and twenty-five calories.” To my thinking, this was possibly true of hotdogs and their buns back in the 1950s. “You can have a hot dog, its bun, and a cookie — and keep the whole meal close to three hundred calories,” she says. “Or you can have two hot dogs, minus their buns, and maybe two cookies. Or a cookie and a half.” This was one way to control one’s weight back in the 1950s. These days, the hotdogs I bu...

Q: Hold down a job?  A: Check.  Q: Pay bills (on time)?  A: Check.  Q: Save money?  A: Check.  Q: Obey the Rules of the Road?  A: Check.  Or, mostly check.  Or, rather: Check -ish .  Q: Recycle?  A: Check.  Q: Observe common courtesy? (Exempli gratia, holding doors open for those who follow behind, allowing others to lead the way onto or off of an elevator, giving up a train seat to those who are less steady or heavily burdened, et cetera.)  A: Check. Q: Charitable?  A: Check.  Q: Keep in shape? A: Check.  Q: Avoid junk food?  A: Check.  Q: Find someone to love you back? A: ... Q: Find someone to love you back? A : Pass.  Q: Find someone—  A: Shut up. There’s always a rub. Exempli gratia: You’ll have love, but you won’t have money. Love, but your lover’s unfaithful. Love, but you’ll be sick with AIDS, MS, or cancer. Or, they’ll be sick with fill–in–the–blank. You’ll have love, but you’l...

Betty says she has fibromyalgia.  Also,  Betty suffers from cold feet.  It's genetic,  her cold feet.  Nothing can warm them.  Even so,  the warmer the house,  the better for Betty.  Even in August.  Even when the temperature outside  hits the high nineties.  In winter,  a hot house is  not so much an issue,  not for me.  I'll go around in a loose T-shirt,  thin shorts,  and bare feet.  And,  when I'm in my room,  I'll throw open a window.  But that’s in winter.  In summer,  by the time the outdoor air heats up to eighty,  I  NEED AC.  But Betty will complain.  Pop’ll complain, too;  not because he's cold,  but because the AC costs  money  to run.  Not that times are tight.  Pop knows when the AC  condenser's running.  It blows the backyard bushes.  Using the furnace costs money,  too.  Only Pop...

 “We get a lot of letters from kids  who say they want to be DJs  when they grow up.  I always tell them they can’t do both.”  – Larry Lee Blankenburg,  aka, Larry Lujack

When you don’t want any bananas but there are nothing but bananas what do you want to do with the time of the next after simple joy of living in the mountains by the sea in the while I meant to write white sunshine of the darn I meant to write dark days of noon in the sun I meant to write sun why are you not eating that sugar cookie? How come the apples don’t want to sing in the while I meant to write white sunshine of your life? Is this going to be another one of your brilliant disguises? No? Why or why not? No? Why are the trees not eating the mixed berries? Are they all rotten? I think that they are all rotten. I think Theatre needs a new lease on life. Oh, are you going to eat that seaweed? Because it’s supposed to be good for apples. Yes, apples are good from tomatoes. And when the child in the box is not ready to dine in the basement why not set him up at the table upstairs? I won’t taste that pie. I will taste that cake. My mother smooshed – that’s a word. I could’ve sworn that ...

You would never characterize Betty as an irritable woman. Never in a million years. If anything, she’s too cheerful, she’s too polite. That said, when she settles into bed every night, if she isn’t greeted with absolute silence, then she’ll have to take a pill. * She won’t sleep in the same room with Pop because he snores. She’s taped the vents in the guest room over with cut-out rectangles from paper grocery bags. She doesn’t like “the blowing,” she says. It’s not so much the feel of “the blowing,” but more the sound of “the blowing” that keeps her awake. Even if it’s the middle of winter, and what’s blowing is heat, she’ll want the vents taped over. Never mind her interminably “cold” feet. What’s also interminable is the ringing in her ears. Does she prefer absolute silence to hear the ringing better? At the senior village, where Betty spends most of her time, a neighbor of hers plays loud music and owns a dog that barks too much. So Betty complained. The music stopped and the d...

When nearly nobody else goes, THAT’S when I go to the gym. I don’t like to wait for other members to wrap up their sets on any particular machine or finish their use of any particular free weights; and I hate it when other members wait for me to wrap up my sets. When other members ask to “work in” between my sets, I hate that, too, but not as much. As you might’ve guessed, I tend avoid crowds. I’ll make certain exceptions for sporting, musical, and theatrical venues—which I infrequently patronize. Otherwise, in most public settings, I’d rather not be in close proximity with people I don’t know. This is particularly true at the gym. In a perfect world, the gym would be filled with me and, at most, five other members. There’d be a guy who’s clearly stronger than me, a guy who’s clearly weaker than me, and three beautiful young women. And when it comes to “personal space,” please give me at least twice—no, three times—no, five times—the recommended distance, even if you’re a beautiful you...

Today I chauffeured Pop to the 2004 CEO Presentation and Annual Meeting of Redacted Bank Shareholders. My expectations of a grand assembly hall with hundreds of shareholders, bank executives, and lavish catering were not met. Instead, the meeting was held in a simple conference room in the basement of the Lincoln Square Redacted Bank branch. The catering consisted only of coffee, orange juice, and Danishes. Fewer than fifty shareholders showed up.  Pop, who hadn't attended an annual meeting of shareholders in two years, re-introduced himself to Jose Randolfstineberg, the bank's founder. Mr. Randolfstineberg, eighty-nine years young, was stuck in a wheelchair following a stroke he’d suffered two years earlier. Incidentally, Pop had also suffered a stroke right around the same time. Pop, though, he’d clearly fared better. [Also incidentally: Pop loved making use of the word, “incidentally,” that is, whether or not it was the appropriate word to wield when making a transition betw...

The paddles do not eat the peas or the cornbread in the wind when you chase the girl with the pink ribbons in her hair. Why you don’t want to eat the juice when it’s frozen is beyond me. Then again, the dogs whimper when you lick their joint accounts that have been liquidated by thieves. But why should I care when you haven’t bothered to eat cheese with the monkeys in the desert with the blue blob from Detroit. The Blue Blob is NOT from Detroit. He lies. I mean he lies about where he hails from, although, yes, he does lie on the ground and he does make sand-angels in the desert sand – until he’s bitten by a scorpion. That’ll be the end of that in the eatery that doesn’t end anything of the sort. I want cheese fries. I want cheese fried with tomato juice. I don’t want that silly man over there telling how I should live my life with tomato sauce eating the pop tarts and the pipe dream. I don’t eat pipe dreams because they’re bad for my teeth. They’re HARD, like my cock. No, apologies: Th...

The wallpaper as you go up the stairs was fraying, so Pop called up Martin to pull it all off. Pop wanted new wallpaper, but he didn’t want to choose, so he told Martin to paint all the wallpaper-less walls “buff.” Martin and his wife did the job over two Saturdays. On these two days, unless you were Martin or Martin’s wife, you weren’t going up or down the stairs. The planked apparatus that Martin had rigged up made it possible to reach the highest parts of the walls that flank the staircase. Martin propped open the front door, which is several feet from the bottom of the stairs; he also opened the window several feet from the top of the stairs. He’d done it to let out the paint flumes. [Indeed, the flumes, if any, but especially the fumes .] But doing it also let in the horseflies. Or maybe they were only houseflies. Whichever sort they were, they were eager to pester me, all of these flies were. But just me. Martin painted nearly every room on the second floor of the house, save for...

“Arthur makes coffee by putting eggshells and cinnamon sticks and an old nylon stocking into the coffee pot. His coffee tastes like a very spicy old foot.”  – From Nora Ephron's Heartburn

You love her face because her face belongs to a cartoon. Her expressions belong to a cartoon. Her voice, though? It belongs to a motorcycle gang. And her body? It belongs to Victoria’s Secret. She throws up a Great Wall of China between anyone and what she really feels, or what she really thinks. At least, that’s what you suspect. And before a single try, you’ve given up trying. At least you got the hug she gave you. Better to leave little enough alone. You watched all the cartoons (when you were a kid) because they never got better (or rarely ever did), but you knew they couldn’t get any worse. And though you’re convinced that motorcycles are insane—rather, those who operate them are —you think you’re ready for one yourself. ‘Cause Kassi, she’d find it cool. She’d want to go for a ride and, in so doing, hug herself to you for dear life. You love her because her face belongs to everyone but you.  31 May 2005 

ME: You're right, Nate. *  NATE: I've been right before.  ---  DICK: What do ya know, Howie? †  ME: Not much. You?  DICK: Less.  ---  Pop hoists himself out of my car and into the February night.  He proclaims, "It's cold out here."  I nod.  Pop shuffles over to the house, unlocks the door, and enters.  He proclaims, "It's warm in here."  I nod. ---  BETTY: Howie, what do you put in the trashcan to make it smell so good?  ME: Trash. I put in trash.  BETTY: But it smells so good.  ME: Perhaps you should move next to a landfill, Betty.  ---  Whilst strolling the trail…  POP: The sun is hot today.  ME: We'd be in trouble were it not.  ---  Whenever Pop says he's going up to "wash" his teeth, he means he's going to brush them.  Late 2003, Early 2004  * [Nate was Pop’s youngest brother.]  † [Dick was a semi-retired CPA in Pop’s old accounting firm.] 

He lies there – on the bed or on the sofa – with one hand to his forehead as if in deep contemplation of some serious matter, or as if suffering a painful migraine. Or both. He’ll lie in this way even when he’s asleep. Thing is, he’s not a deep thinker. He doesn’t suffer from migraines, either. Rarely does he complain of having a headache. He is troubled, however. He’s troubled by things beyond his control. For some reason he felt that he had control over such things years ago – although I don’t see how. Very few (if any) law-abiding investors have control over the ups and downs of the stock market. And, likewise, with one’s own health, one can do little to guard against a stroke. You can exercise and diet and dope, but, ultimately, it’s out of your hands. So why dwell on it? Why waste the time and energy? All you can ever really do is enjoy those things you are able to enjoy. (And, believe me, the simpler those pleasures, the better.) But he doesn’t know what he enjoys. He hasn’t (and...

His small talk skills were so small that his coworkers called him, “The Interrogator.” If he didn’t know you, he’d assault you with a barrage of questions — basic questions, harmless questions, questions that led nowhere. [INSERT EXAMPLES HERE.] If the answers were satisfactory, he’d start in with a more probing line of queries. [“SATISFACTORY”? “PROBING”? UNPACK / ELABORATE / EXEMPLFY.] The more answers you volunteered, the more intimate and/or bizarre the questions became. [“INTIMATE”? “BIZARRE”? UNPACK / ELABORATE / EXEMPLFY.] From beginning to end, this was how he’d make “friends”… and then lose them. From beginning to end… the span of which could be an hour or less… “friendships” forged and shattered. It takes him quite a while to learn his lesson — several decades, in fact. That is, the lesson of keeping your damn trap shut. Having learned it (the hard way * ), he isn’t, as he once was, spurned quite so frequently. No, now, instead of annoying, he’s merely boring.  30 May 200...

Never mind that the faucets for both the bathroom sink and the tub trickle no matter how tightly I twist the knobs to the right. On the bright side, the drains don’t clog. Even brighter, I don’t pay the water bill. And never mind that I hear every step made by the neighbor above. (And I don’t mean God.) He likes to drop things. I’m not talking about little thumps and bumps or creaks, but rather MAJOR NOISE just about whenever anyone moves around up there. And never mind the blindingly bright porch light next door. It’s left on all night and it’s aimed directly at my window. (Deliberately, of course.) And never mind that the lovely young lass next door doesn’t care who can hear her having sex. And I can’t say I’m a huge fan of so many uninvited guests—viz., the ants, the silverfish, the cockroaches, and the millipedes. I believe I’ve been quite tolerant of all the noisy human slobs who are, unfortunately, my neighbors. But surely they’re worse off than I am. Why else would they be livin...