FireVaney

I’ll go and I’ll see her and I’ll feel all that anguish all over again and for weeks thereafter. So much anguish over someone I know all wrong. She’ll be there—at some point she’ll be there—and she’ll go wild and I won’t be able to wait to want to leave. But because she’s far away, and busy, maybe she’ll be late. And if she’s late, it won’t be so bad for me to leave. I’d feel bad if I had to leave early. Like Bio-Dud often liked to say, “Firey, you need to suffer more,” unless it was, “Firey, you haven’t suffered enough.” So I do my best. I do the best a “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” as Step-Dude likes to say, can do. And it’s true, as a confirmed “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” I do do a lousy job of suffering. If I really, really, really, wanted to suffer, I’d join the military and fight in Afghanistan—and not only because “war is hell.” Setting aside the war, Afghanistan is hot, and I can’t take the heat. Anyway, everything is too late. Why can’t I ever be on time for anything? I don’t mean...

Yesterday, Mister Wisecracker * sent around a text message with a photo of his cocker spaniel in a costume. Said cocker spaniel was looking up at the camera, and the message below it read, “Dinka says, ‘Happy Easter. Now get the damn ears off me.’” Like most fringy theatre folks I know, Mister Wisecracker doesn’t take care of himself. He stays out too late, gets up too early, drinks too much, eats too much, and smokes packs and packs and packs. I don’t do any of that, but I am a yo-yo dieter. That said, I exercise pretty hard, so I figure I’ve got a better chance at a longer life—not that I want a longer life. Who can afford to live? Even if I could (afford to live), I’ve no interest in outliving Mister Wisecracker and his company of assorted misfits. Odds are, though, I will. I’d bet they’ll pretty much all have strokes or get cancer before hitting sixty. Inside of twenty years, I’d bet, half of everybody I know will be dead.  9 April 2007 * Formally and foolishly referred to a...

Nearly every weekend, Betty says to me, “Firey, don’t get old.” She means it in both a funny and an honest way. She tells me she was perfectly healthy before the radiation treated her breast cancer, some twenty years ago, when she was sixty-something. The cancer is all gone now, but arthritic aches and pains affect her daily. She can easily recall her phone number and her home address and also the game show that’s on Channel 7 every day at 6:30 post meridiem. She has no problem naming the show’s host and co-host. Monday through Thursday, over the phone, she’ll say to Pop, “Time to watch Vanna.” She means it, too. Ever the accountant, Pop will dryly confess that he “likes to look at figures.” Betty never forgets to call Pop first thing in the morning and last thing at night. But ask Betty to ask her pharmacist three little questions? Forget it. Ask her to repeat those three questions right after you’ve stated them, and she’ll get them all wrong. Poor Betty, she’ll fumble all the words i...

Spiffy likened his lovers to meals. Like his relationship with Trussy? That was a solid meat and potatoes sort of meal—only without much in the way of dessert. His relationship with Kandi was all dessert— too much dessert. Imagine being trapped in a Twinkie factory for a year, that was Spiffy’s relationship with Kandi. His relationship with Nummy was harder to match because he rarely ever gave her an orgasm. That said, she told him he’d given her the first she’d ever had. As for me, I wasn’t terribly interested in likening my lovers to meals. I’ve had so few (lovers) and most of those were basically “appetizers.” So then Spiffy asked, “If you were any sort of restaurant, what sort would you be?” Easy. I’d be one of those early-to-mid Twentieth Century roadside diners—the sort that had a long lunch counter and a line of booths with a clear view of the highway and the cornfields. I’d be open 24hrs. I’d be comfortable—clean and comfortable—and never too busy. And if I had to be a chaine...

Pop spent his 96th birthday in hospital room 4132, recovering from the removal of his gallbladder. His dinner tray came with a frosted cupcake he couldn’t eat. Why? Well, he’s lactose intolerant. That aside, in honor of his birthday, the doctors cancelled the liquid-only diet he’s been on since last Wednesday. Pop’s birthday was yesterday (Sunday). Today is Monday (duh) and I really hope he’ll get to go home. By the way, I learned a new word a few days ago: “sundowning.” According to one of the nurses, this happens when an elderly patient forgets where they are and hallucinates that they are anywhere else. As you might’ve guessed, it often occurs around sunset. Nobody really knows for sure, but it might have something to do with “circadian rhythms.” Supposedly, thanks to “sundowning,” all new hospital rooms are required to have a window. * Last night, in room 4132, Pop kept asking me for the time. Repeatedly, he wanted to know how much “this house cost to rent.” Again and again, he’d ...

His helplessness makes me mad. Where they operated, where they removed his gallbladder, it hurts like nothing else, it hurts like it’s the end. All that morphine they gave him, and it still hurts. Just this morning he was bragging about all his childhood fighting, bragging about all those bones he broke. Tell him he’ll get through all this pain, too, and he’ll reply at you by wincing more pain. Ever the accountant, he’ll tell you his estate is in order. Tell him the market went up today and he’ll try a smile, but then his body jerks in more pain. He tells you he’s wiped out, he tells you he’s got no energy left—and then he tells you he’s got to get out of bed. Because he feels like vomiting and urinating and shitting all at once. But, thank God, none of that actually happens.  10 August 2005

At first I thought it was the shoe, but now I think it’s the foot. My foot. My right foot. The bottom of my right foot. Because the shoe was new. One of a pair, of course. But then I bought yet another new pair and the same sensation occurred—that is, on the bottom of my right foot. No issue with the left. To be clear, I feel it—on the bottom of my right foot—whilst running. It feels like the sock has bunched up—right under the ball of my right foot. But often the feeling runs halfway down the middle of said foot. The feeling starts at the ball. “Ball,” isn’t that what you call it? Should it be plural? Balls? Balls of my foot? Balls of my toes? But only whilst running. That isn’t to say one ought to refer them as “balls” whilst running. Rather, I’m referring to the feeling, the sensation. Whilst running. Or walking quickly. Said sensation occurs exclusively whilst upon the treadmill— any treadmill—and only whilst said treadmill is in motion. O, how I wish the word “whilst” would c...

BOB Does it matter that a guy goes his whole life thinking he’s “the shit” when he’s not—and he’ll never have a clue that he’s not?  JOE Why should it matter?  BOB Cuz he’s a loser. He’s never gonna get anywhere staying on the track he’s always been on. JOE So long as he thinks he’s “the shit,” doesn’t matter. It’s been said before, many, many times, but it’s true: Life? Perception. ‘S all about perception.    BOB But if you’re fooling yourself—  JOE Doesn’t matter. People told Hemingway he was the greatest American writer—and he still blew his brains out. Obviously he didn’t think he was “the shit.” Even though he WAS, he didn’t believe he was. Well. Maybe.  BOB I’ve never read any Hemingway.  JOE Me neither. Not the point.   13 August 2002

See, I keep knocking things into the wastebasket betwixt the matching wood desk and dresser in my Aunt Redacted’s childhood bedroom. These knocked over things, they’re my things—the pens, the keys, the stapler, the bibelots and baubles that tend to clutter one’s desk. The wastebasket, too, that’s my wastebasket—a metal Chicago Bears wastebasket. Other than being cluttered, it’s kinda neat, this desk. It literally fits into the corner of the room. It would neatly fit into a 90 degree corner of any ordinary bedroom. Suffice it to say, this desk, my Aunt Redacted’s childhood desk, now my desk (for all intents and purposes), its surface is more triangular than rectangular. To be clear, it’s a small room, but still, in and of itself, fairly rectangular. Regardless, things keep falling through the space betwixt the desk and the matching wood dresser, falling into the wastebasket, or rather landing in the wastebasket, because I keep knocking them over into it. So what do I do? I move the ...

What do you believe? Why trust yourself when, time and again, you’ve led yourself astray? Astray, astray. Ashtray. If only leading oneself astray were a lucrative career path. And as for faith: Faith in what? Faith in what you know? Alright. Or, all right. You have faith in knowing what you know is wrong. Or, at best, what you know is riddled with wrongs. Go? BOLDLY go? Where? Spend? How much? Write? How much? Spend it all? Go everywhere? Write until the ink runs out? Write until the paper runs out? Type until the fingers ache? Ah, but recall Mister Rather’s sage advice. * What do you want? What, REALLY ? Self-reliance? Ah, but you get soooooooooooooooooo lonesome, don’t you? Lonesome and loathsome. You suffer soooooooooooooooooo much doubt, no? You want a lover. You want a companion. You want to “go free” with a lover-companion. And you don’t want a boss. Well, who DOES ? Well, frankly? Many do. All too many seek to be led. But you? No. As the Bio-Farter oft said, “You can’t take ...

She’s drunk and she presses your face into her cleavage—twice—and you tell her you think of her as a sister. And but so now, after that, you’re not so sure. You tell her it’s hard not to stare at her breasts and she tells you go ahead, stare. After that, you babble on about the painful crush you have on her best friend. She sits there beside you and she’s very understanding. At one point, for Paparazzo Pete, she bends over and aims her face at your crotch. It’s all for fun and she’s drunk and so are you—a little bit. And but so now, writing this, you’re thinking maybe you should pursue something with her. And you’re completely sober now. It would be a sober relationship. You want a companion and you want sex but you don’t want to break her heart if she falls in love with you.  8 March 2007

I waved, few noticed, I left. Out on the street I mumbled to myself, “What a terrific waste of time.” I couldn’t tell you what my “scene” is, but it sure ain’t the “bar scene.” One light beer made me drunk, so I had to wait for it to wear off. So many conversations… I couldn’t follow a single one. So I watched others laugh and flirt. Damn near every time anybody spoke to me, I  shouted back, “WHAT?” They’d have to shout whatever they wanted to share or ask several times, until I’d give up with a smile and a nod. All of that secondhand smoke still clouds my head a day later. Damn near ever wall was full of muted TVs tuned to one sport or another. Birds of a feather self-segregated in the several available corners. Ms. J. Redacted drank straight from a pitcher of beer. Ms. D. Redacted hugged everybody in the cast—except for me. But then I wasn’t easy to reach (story of my life) and she barely knows me. I did, however, hear what Ms. L. Redacted shouted at me on her first try: “WHY ARE...

You could, if you wanted to, live here, where I live, in this community, blissfully ignorant of what goes on anywhere else. One of my high school history teachers compared the Village of Knotydart to a cocoon. That same history teacher wore leather boots, blue jeans, and a jean jacket to class nearly every day of the week. He tossed the word “groovy” around quite a bit. When we studied the Roman Empire, he rolled a TV with a VCR into the classroom and showed us Jesus Christ Superstar. That was his first year, when he did all of that. He’d moved back to Knotydart from Tinseltown. He’d given up on the pipe dream of becoming the next Frances Ford Coppola. (Incidentally, he studied screenwriting with StepDude at Tinseltown College, but that was many moons ago.) After Mister Argh’s first year of teaching at Knotydart High, he started wearing khaki pants and a professor’s elbow-padded wool sport jacket, a button down shirt, and a tie. He traded his boots for brown oxfords. He shaved off his...

Pop didn’t want a big party for his 90th birthday, but he got one anyway. He had a good time, too. Now his eldest daughter is planning another big bash for his 95th birthday, three months from now. She doesn’t intend for it to be a surprise party, but she’s reluctant to mention it to him. “Hold off until the end of the month,” I told her. By then, he’ll have healed from his fall. He fell yesterday, too, but it wasn’t a serious fall. The man’s always been in too much of a hurry to get wherever he’s headed. Back when I was a kid, and grandma was still alive, and we three went out to eat, Pop was always in a hurry to get from the car to the restaurant, and then, afterward, from the restaurant back to the car. Like it was a race. Grandma, though, she always took her time. If there was ever any need to hurry, I wasn’t aware of it. That said, back then, I was largely oblivious to everything, and obliviousness is more blissful than ignorance. Anyway, if Pop’s sick or hurting now, he won’t be ...

Among Nikki’s fears: Heights, trains, butterflies, and birds—in particular, pigeons and crows. Heights and trains because whenever she’s confronted with either, she contemplates suicide. Trains, too, because she dreams of them oncoming. Butterflies, because she was once engulfed by a swarm of them. Birds, because her mother was once attacked by a crow. Somehow, it had trapped itself in the drying machine. Said crow flapped up into the kitchen and proceeded to attack a red velvet cake. Had you walked into the kitchen (post crow), and nobody told you about the cake (or the crow), you might’ve wondered why the walls, floor, ceiling, and surfaces were all seemingly splattered with chunks of bloody flesh and black feathers. In the end, a neighbor smacked the life out of that crow with a tennis racquet. The kicker? Just the day before, Nikki had sat through all of Hitchcock’s The Birds .  31 March 2006

She’s somewhere around ninety-five, my Great Aunt Hattie. Her three younger brothers couldn’t say for sure when she was born. Hattie can barely walk now. She’s fallen a few too many times. Her hips couldn’t take the punishment. Even with hearing aids, she can hear about as well as she can walk. Pop, Betty, and I pay her a visit nearly once a week. Toward the end of a recent visit, I overheard Hattie telling Betty that every week she expected to die. She choked back tears when she told Betty this. Betty, with her ever-sunny disposition, did her best to raise Hattie’s spirits. As I see it, Hattie couldn’t ask for much more out of her ninety-something years of life, save for a little less death. When I kiss her goodbye, I usually kiss the air near her face. She doesn’t stink or anything. It’s MY hang-up. Well, this last time when I did it, Hattie chuckled and said, “You give cold kisses.” So I went ahead and pecked her cheek. She said it again, “You give cold kisses,” but at least she kep...

There you are, a grown man nearing middle age, rehearsing a silly play in somebody’s cold, dank basement. You’ve got a bit part, so you spend a lot of time waiting on the cold radiator wishing it would warm up. You’re wondering what you’re doing there anyway. Q: What have you to gain from this experience? A: Only the thrill of performing—that is all. Theatre on the fringe is a hassle and a thrill and nobody understands or appreciates that fact, unless they’ve done it themselves. But you want more. You want sex with the young beauty in the cast. You want some lasting [positive] consequence. You’re getting too old to rehearse in cold basements with poor lighting and spider webs and mold. You always get bit parts and you’re always the most dedicated and yet nobody ever takes you seriously. True, it doesn’t help that you’re an inveterate ham.  21 March 2007

Kerri, of all people, sought advice from me, of all people, on you’ll never guess what. I drove her home after last night’s rehearsal, and along the way she asked if she could ask a “personal question.” That is, with regard to writing. She asked, “Have you ever written a sex scene?” Since I’d recently started two “X-rated” blogs, my answer was, “Yes.” As Chucky P. would’ve told her, I told her to “unpack the details” of the scene. I advised her to consider each character’s point of view and each character’s past experiences. “How comfortable are they with their own bodies?” I asked. Also, “How well do they know each other?” And, “How hot are they for each other?” Stuff like that. I suggested an exploration of exactly how they wound up in the sack together. “How easy or awkward was it?” I asked. I also recommended envisioning the scene from beginning to end… although I never do.*  17 March 2007  *Due to a dearth of personal experience to draw from and, perhaps, a weak imaginati...

To celebrate his new gig, Spiffy sprang for crab legs at Queequeg Jr.’s World Famous Crab House. We waited in a large, noisy, crowded room for two hours before a table opened up. Ate my first “soft shell” crab; drank my first glass of guava juice. Tasty? Tasty. Following the meal, Spiffy drove us over to the big, new Knottydart Hotel & Conference Center. We had no business being there, but looking inconspicuous has its perks. Then again, Spiffy’s always spiffier than most. I’m the inconspicuous one—and maybe that’s why Spiffy keeps me around. Some brat was celebrating his bar mitzvah in one of the ballrooms. The theme was The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson . Kinda odd, given that this newly minted man was likely born a few years after Carson retired. It makes you wonder how much this brat’s dad missed “Carnac the Magnificent.” There was an open bar, so I picked up a Guinness and followed Spiffy, who’d picked up a Canada Dry, out into an elevator. We wandered into the spacious...

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...