FireVaney's

My Timex reads four o’clock ante meridiem. Instead of sleeping, I’m shivering. My nose is stuffed. In my head, Eva Cassidy’s take on “Over the Rainbow” is stuck on repeat. Last night and earlier this morning Clive Churner * insisted that we read (aloud) the rather unique letter (a creative hodge-podge of thought) that he’d sent me (months ago) and critique it, section by section. Said readings and critiques have been preserved for posterity on a series of microcassette recordings, titled: “Is It On?” (The aforementioned query refers to the status of my microcassette recorder.) Clive’s letter is roughly thirty pages long, if not longer. At the risk of being overly reductive, he’s taken the people we’ve both known and events we’ve both experienced and spun them wildly out of control in silly little yarms—I mean yams—I mean yarns. Please note that I’ve sat here coughing and gagging after—and, at times, straight through—every one of the aforementioned sentences, along with this one, and v...

Pop,  God love him,  has an aversion to using flatware  —but especially knives.  He prefers to push food  onto his fork  with the side of his index finger.  He'll grab a slice of  butter–and–syrup smothered  French toast  right off the plate  with both hands and  shove it down his gullet.  Pop never puts his napkin on his lap.  No matter its condition,  he’ll leave it  bunched and  smudged  beside his plate.  He prefers to drink his liquids  only after having consumed all of his solids.  That's my Pop.  For starters. *  April 8, 2004  * [Two decades ago, The FireVaney refused to limit himself to one blog. Blogging was—and, for him, remains to this day—an excellent way to avoid writing anything worth publishing, staging, or filming “IRL.” One of the half-dozen or more blogs he maintained back in 2004 was called, The Braeside . With apologies, Dear Reader, he will not al...

The nest is in the tree where it belongs. That is not code. That is a nest. A simple, run-of-the-mill nest. A bird’s nest, to be exact. And I had meant to write something else, something – a word – that wasn’t “nest.” Only, now, I cannot recall what that word was. I started to write it, and… oh, here, the word I intended was: “next,” but, as is evident, I wrote, “nest,” instead. And I ran with it. Rather, I tried to. But I didn’t really, did I? No. Because I stopped myself and tried to explain my original choice. My typing of “nest” was an accident. My finger hit the “s” key instead of the “x” key. And there you have it. Aren’t you pleased to have the explanation? Doesn’t it make you whole? No? I didn’t think so. But, if, by chance, it did , then how lucky for you. I really ought to run with it, though. Go with the accident. The nest is not in need of repair. It is a dandy nest. It is next to the other next. (I meant to write “nest,” of course!) An eagle’s next is next to the nest I ...