FireVaney

I waited. I was early. The staff stared at me. I walked through the place. That is, I walked through the place before I waited. In other words, I didn’t wait first, although I suppose I could’ve waited outside. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t recall that I did, but I might’ve. The staff offered to “help” me. I explained the situation. I don’t recall how they [the staff] replied, but they left me alone. I couldn’t tell you how many [staffers] there were. Perhaps “they” only amounted to one. Regardless, they left me alone. I went back upstairs and stood by the revolving door. I tried to read through more of the book, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell you its title or who wrote it. I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. Was it even written in English? I don’t know. I looked at the time on my cell phone several times a minute. And waited. People revolved in and out. Somebody said that downstairs used to be a nightclub. There is a bar down there. Ten minutes crawl by. I think of ...

Two hours after banana pancakes and chicken links and fresh squeezed orange juice at Flapjackistan’s Famous Flapjacks with Pop and Betty, I’m eating clams and onion rings and fried zucchini and salami pizza at Poppa Pandemonium’s Pizza in a Pan with Spiffy and Rah-Rah. I was surprised that Rah-Rah was surprised that I didn’t have a girlfriend. Naturally, this made Rah-Rah even more attractive. Rah-Rah sat there and looked at me and thought I’d fit in with the male models you’d find in an Eddie Bauer catalogue. She told me this—after I’d asked—because she had a friend who wasn’t looking for the kind of guy I apparently am. Said friend falls for the kind of guy you’d find in an Abercrombie catalogue. And as for Spiffy, he belonged in an H&M catalogue, according to Rah-Rah.  28 May 2007

Pop (and I) sat in a crowded waiting room for an hour and a half before he could see the doctor who’d charge an arm and a leg to scrape the wax out of his ears. That was yesterday. Sometime overnight, Pop’s right ear started to bleed. Dried spots and dribbles of blood have ruined a silken pillow case. But hey, Jackson Pollock might’ve called it art. I called Pop’s internist. He wasn’t available, but the one who was didn’t seem terribly concerned. Doctor Substitute advised me to call Doctor Ears, Nose, and Throat when his office opened, for eardrops. Here’s hoping we don’t have to spend another hour and a half in Dr. E.N.T.’s office waiting for eardrops, if nothing else. Pop keeps asking why it happened; why at night and not when Dr. E.N.T. scraped out Pop’s ears. The ear that bled? Pop’s right ear? It all but quit on him years ago. Sure, it detects sound, but his brain processes the sound as an audible equivalent of mush. Any working hearing aid turns the mush into louder mush. All th...

If I’m late, I’m late because I’m wrapping up something else. Used to be that I’d start out doing this. My “warm up,” this was it. But it drained the muse instead of jump-starting the muse so I switched up the routine. Now, this is my “cool down.” But after this, I’m might go back to the other thing because I’m only three pages away from finishing it up. If I’m smart, I’ll save it for tomorrow, but I’m an idiot and I’m impatient. But I’m also drained, so, I’ll probably save it for tomorrow. And I’ve got the reading yet to do. And when the next baked bean jumps over the hill surprising its mother, I swear to God, I will shoot the motherfucker. Whoa. Hey, hey, hey. Come on now. Relax. It’s just/only/merely a baked bean. It’s not like it’ll give a hoot don’t pollute. And the next time you want my point of view step into my shoes but clean your feet first. I can’t filthy feet mucking up my point of view. And if opportunity affords, please insert a “have” betwixt “can’t” and “filthy” in the...

“Deal, No Deal,” Pop calls it. He’s too cheap to spring for the “or.” When Betty’s with us on the weekends, she’ll watch it with him, but she’d never watch it on her own. So they were watching it this one time, and I happened to be in the kitchen, and there’s like a faux window between the kitchen and the TV room (because the TV room was an addition to the house), and Pop says to Betty, “She’s not wearing any lipstick. I don’t understand that.” Betty doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Whether Pop meant the contestant or one of the briefcase models, I didn’t ask. Now, let me be clear, Howie Mandel is very talented—and I get it, work is work and money is money—but this show is truly idiotic. Pop, along with every other dirty old man, enjoys watching it because it’s got money and it’s got models. Big surprise, Pop also watches all the beauty pageants, too. But that’s where Betty draws the line. Whenever Pop tunes into a Miss Whatever pageant, Betty leaves the room. Pop’ll keep watchi...