FireVaney's

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...

So, maybe, probably, mayhap, I’ll be living several seemingly short blocks from my ex-girlfriend (who hates my guts), my loony great-aunt (who nobody speaks to), and the man who runs the theatre company I might’ve been kicked out of (jury’s still out on that one). That said, life might become more interesting with my probable move back to Edgewater. I’ll miss the energy of Lakeview, but I can’t say I’ve taken much advantage of it. I hate moving. I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT. If I move, I won’t be moving until July. And yet already I can feel the pangs of stress that accompany the act of hauling all of one’s own crap to a new location. I’m reminded of the warning Ole Palahniuk offers in his Fight Club : “Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.”  17 April 2001

A few years back, Betty moved from her condo in Old Mobville to a fancy senior village out on the edge of New Knottydart. One of her brothers had talked her into it. He already lives there. He’s got his own “cottage.” But before Betty made the decision, Pop invited her to live with him. "I can take care of you,” she told him, “but who's going to take care of me?" *   Betty very much enjoys playing “the nurse.” She even worked as one for about a year, many moons ago. When she's here, at Pop’s house, I pretty much stay hidden away in my bedroom. Pop doesn't need two nurses. He isn't an invalid—at least, not anymore. He’s just old, is all.  Travelling back and forth between the senior village and Pop's house, Betty likens herself to a gypsy. She spends nearly every weekend with us. When we pick her up, Pop climbs into the backseat to sit with her. If he didn’t, in addition to playing “the chauffeur,” I’d have to play “the human hearing aid.”  And you might as...

You missed the party. Well, you always miss the party. Well, you always miss. Well, you, well… and then you want to eat the potato chips at night. The medication is not recommended by everybody. Well, what’s the difference? Well, I soberly asked for the dip and she poured it all over my head. Maybe she was drunk. I don’t know. I did not attempt to sniff her breath. Maybe I should have. Had I tried, I would’ve tried to kiss her. And then, and then, Lord knows. That’s the one thing we know, don’t we? That the Lord knows. If He’s there, he KNOWS. And if he’s not there, who knows? Somebody has got to know, right? Somebody has to have all the keys to all of the doors. Right? Lord knows. Bo knows, too. Right? Or did he stop knowing once they stopped running those commercials? I don’t understand why they don’t recycle some of those old commercials. I don’t understand why they don’t use jingles much anymore. I’m so much more likely to remember a jingle than anything else advertisers throw my w...

The Playboy woman, whose old fogy folks don’t want her to rent the apartment to a cat owner, keeps calling Eryk. She keeps telling him how much she likes us (or likes him —although I get the sense that she’s not into guys—or perhaps she assumes he and I are a couple, this being “Boystown” after all). But Eryk will not part with that darn cat. * Although the Playboy woman pulled the “For Rent” sign from the building’s front door four days ago, she told Eryk that she’s showing the apartment “to a few more people.” Are we her fallback prospects? Either way, she is very friendly. But then personability is key when your job involves coaxing young women to disrobe and pose for a globally circulated publication. Then again, the place has been on the market for three months. So… she’s picky? Well, you gotta be a picky if you’re the one auditioning Playboy Playmates. Amirite?  18 April 2001  After being strung along for another week and a half, the Playboy woman told Eryk that her m...

                      

“In our society, those who have the best knowledge of what is happening are also those who are furthest from seeing the world as it is. In general, the greater the understanding, the greater the delusion: the more intelligent, the less sane.”  “Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one.”  “Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip.”

You’re not gonna believe this. So, Eryk Eiríkr and I looked at a smallish two bedroom-ish apartment just five doors east of my current address. The woman who showed us the place (on behalf of her parents) works for Playboy magazine—for real! She has the arduous job of auditioning models—yes, that’s right, in the flesh. If we took the place, she told us she’d throw in a couple of Playboy T-shirts. The major drawback to living there, if we choose to do so (we’ll know tonight, after we look at several more potential bachelor pads), is that the one bath room is only accessible through one of the bedrooms. Meaning: One of us would have to sacrifice some privacy. 12 April 2001 Yeah, so, Eryk owns a high-maintenance feline named, Queenie. * I’ll explain. One may only pet this cat around her neck, under her chin, on most parts of her head, and up to halfway down her back. Touch her anywhere else and without warning she’ll bite you. She’ll also bite you once she’s had her fill of being pett...

Pop likes to ask, "If God's in charge of everything, who appointed God?" He's asked rabbis and he's asked priests. He's being honest, too. You see, Pop was an accountant by trade; out of habit, he's got to account for everything and everyone.  Pop belongs to two temples (the reasons are somewhat complicated); he goes to one or the other every Friday evening. Since he doesn't like to drive at night, I chauffeur him and his "companion," Betty, to and from whichever temple. Thanks to his two lousy hearing aids, he can't even hear the service. He goes all the same. Afterward, Betty, with her shaky memory, does her best to sum up the rabbi’s “drasha” on the car ride home.  Back when Grandma was alive, Pop rarely went to temple at all. Sure, like everybody else, they’d attend a service or two during the High Holy Days—Pop would even serve as an usher. But after many years of this, Grandma finally asked, "Why are we paying dues to two templ...