FireVaney

Wherever I was, it was hilly and rural and green. Maybe it was Scotland. I’ve never been to Scotland, but I’ve seen Highlander and Braveheart more than twice. And I do have Scottish blood, according to my mother. Wherever it was, I’d driven there in a car reminiscent of the “ General Lee ” from the “Dukes of Hazard.” Presumably, the muscle car, true to form, leapt from the continent (presumably the North American one) to the island (presumably the British one), since I don’t believe in airplanes, and since I’ve no recollection of how I found myself behind the wheel of said vehicle. The car belonged to my father. Or that’s what he’d led me to believe. Unless it’s what I’d led myself to believe. I stood (and presumably parked) outside of a massive, red bricked citadel atop a wide, curving ridge. The stronghold’s impossibly tall walls weaved over the length of the ridge like a colossal brick snake. My father rang my cell phone. If I took the call, I didn’t mention the car. Had I “borrowe...

Dragging yourself out of bed way too early in the morning, on a daily basis, has an effect. The effect is forceful and cumulative and makes you sleepy earlier and earlier in the day. Or maybe that’s just me. They say the rain is moving out and the heat and the humidity is moving in. Oh, and now they’re calling the forecast a “futurecast.” And that tells you right there that they’re probably pulling it out of their arses anyway. They’re constantly introducing (or inventing) new, complicated meteorological-sounding terms that make them seem credible. Anyone who hides behind highfalutin jargon is either deeply insecure or an outright fraud. Who checks up on the accuracy of meteorologists? Who has the time? There’s always more weather on the way. It’s already sticky. I hate it. I don’t live here for the summers, I live here for the winters. When the cat ate the dog he didn’t consider the predictable indigestion and heart burn. The cat went to the drug store for some of the “pink stuff,” bu...

Mine eyes scrutinize the packaged, pre-washed greens; mine fingers leaf through the spinach packs, seeking out a Use By or Best By date that’ll satisfy my strict standard of fresh.  And this woman,  a fellow shopper  (although not a fellow fellow),  likely ten years my senior,  double-takes me.  “Nick?” she says.  Now,  what should’ve come out?  “Yes! How are you?”  Instead, my mouth goes,  “Huh?”  (As in, “You talkin’ to me ?”)  She says,  “Are you…  Is your name:  Nick?”  And my stupid mouth it  does it again with,  “No.”  But it’s a “No”  with a smile.  Not embarrassed,  at least not overtly,  she says,  “You look like my son’s teacher.”  My stupid head nods;  my stupider mouth spits out,  “Oh.”  She’s a suburban,  middle-aged  soccer-mom kind of beauty. *   No,  she wouldn’t meet central casting’s criteria,  but ...

[ PART I ] The object of this exercise—this one you’re currently running your eyes across—the object is this: relevance. Rather, “relevance” is the preferred object. “Pertinence to the matter at hand,” as the American Heritage Dictionary will tell you. The “matter at hand” being: my life.  And yet, it is entirely possible that, generally speaking, I’ve nary an inkling. Inkling deficiencies notwithstanding, I take some pleasure in wielding the words “nary” and “inkling” and “wielding,” and “notwithstanding,” even if misapplied. And, nae, there’s nary a thing you can do about it. You can’t un read it. Can you? At most, you can hope to forget it. This raises a question: Do people with regret-filled lives at long last find peace and happiness once dementia takes them?  Cut me some slick, Mick, Rick, Dick, Nick, Vic, I’ve been up nearly twenty-four hours.  So he called his “pal” yesterday. (Note the illeism.) This is the same “pal” he hadn’t heard from since [INSERT DAY MON...

[ PART II ]  We regret to inform you that the stimulative effects of the 10:00 PM Venti Mocha Frappuccino, two glazed doughnuts, and half a butterscotch pecan scone are, at this time, wearing off.  Time to brew a fresh pot…  Mister Coffee’s brewed Breakfast Blend will, with any luck, motivate the digestive tract to shit out much of last night’s consumed fat. Maybe that’s not how it works, but a fatso can dream.  Try going to the gym today, after staying up for so long, and you’ll likely give yourself a stroke. Not the worst thing that could happen, no, so long as said stroke wipes-out the memory of ever having met a few too-deeply-imprinted individuals…  The game plan, now, it’s to remain conscious long enough to fix Pop breakfast.  John Ottman’s score for X2 just ended. Mozart’s trio 5 in E Major, Op. 542 just began. It’ll be followed by Mozart’s trio 7 in G major, KV 564; followed by his trio 4 in B flat KV 502.  But is any of this relevant?  1...

 [ PART III ]  Time flies when you revise a single stupid sentence twenty-seven times. I’m kidding. I don’t keep track of how many times I revise a single sentence, whether stupid or smart. Talk about true madness! If I ever get to that point, swear you’ll have me committed. Pinky swear. But if you happen upon a clean and tastefully padded room, with a clear view of a nudists beach, I might be up for that.  People I know woke up forty-five minutes ago for work. Some of these people, I’d like to know better, but doubt I ever will, seeing that I avoid them now. Which brings us back to fear.  And by now, the coffee’s likely cooled off. Which means I won’t have to pour in too much “French” vanilla creamer. For what little it’s worth (which is very likely less than a tenth of a penny) I simply cannot stand the taste of “French” fat- free creamer. No, I’ve got to use the “French” fat- full creamer…  Damn, just poured in too much damn creamer…  That the sun’...

[ PART IV ]  I’ll go look out the window for the paper. If it’s there, at the mouth of the driveway—‘cause if it’s there, that’s always where you’ll find it—I’ll go grab it.  I’ll slip the plastic sleeve off and lay the paper on the sofa. If I don’t put it on the sofa, or on the coffee table in front of the sofa, Pop’ll never find it. But then where else would I put it? He spends most of his waking hours sitting or lying on the sofa.  Pop’ll spend several hours looking at the paper. He never mentions a thing about what he’s read. Perhaps it’s his impression that I don’t follow the news. Untrue. What’s true is that I’ve never cared for the feel of newsprint. But what is the point of reading the newspaper? Is it to pass judgement on the state of things? Most newsworthy things occur elsewhere. Those who make the news rarely have time to read it. A weather forecast is useful, but more so from any other medium. A newspaper is but a morbid and unfulfilling sort of entertainmen...

[ PART V ]  The coffee’s finished,  and I wanna take a dump.  So that’s going to happen…   …and so it did.  Do you sniff what you wipe?  Howard Stern once proclaimed,  “on the air,”  that he did ,  which is why  I don’t  listen  to him  anymore.  All those stupid  ideas  he seeded my brain with…  Good.  Sky’s looking less cloudy already.  Damn.  There it goes,  graying up again…  Perhaps the quest for relevance is an exercise  in futility.  Does it matter?  Matter only matters to matter.  And what’s the matter with that?  15 June 2005 

…in Chicago? Is an empty lot. * Ma takes a photo of it anyway. Then she takes several. She aims her camera at the overgrown grass, zooms in on the empty beer bottles, focuses on the heap of bald tires, too. She snaps at all the fenced in trash. Maybe she’ll paint a picture of it.  There’s also a faded sign facing the sidewalk. It says: “NO DUMPING.” That’s the picture I take. Eighty-odd years ago, the bungalow that stood here housed Pop, his five siblings, and his parents. This is near Humboldt Park, where yuppie gentrification has yet to push out the natives. Pop wanted to go. Return. See what’s left. But of the old neighborhood, he only recognizes Humboldt Park’s park.  We get there, and he walks right past the lot—ignores it entirely—and points to the three story building at 9*6 N. Mozart. It’s clearly less that eighty or even fifty years old. He turns around and hustles over to the much older bungalow at 9*2 Mozart. Pop scratches his head and paces back and forth between...

FireVaney’s gonna write. He’s gonna write and write and write. And write. He’s gonna write until all the money runs out. He’s gonna write until he goes blind. He’s gonna write until his fingers give out. Write, until he has to take Pop somewhere. Or feed him. Or administer medication. FireVaney, he’s gonna write until they pull the plug. Write, until he blacks out. Write, until the carpal tunnel says, “Enough.” To be clear, he’s not TOTALLY bonkers. No, he’s still gonna shower. He’s still gonna eat his Wheaties. He’s still gonna run his daily mile (and then some). He’s still gonna catch a summer blockbuster or two. Or three. And he’s still got a list of authors to read before the year is through. So, there’s all that. So, no, he won’t be writing every second of every day. He’s still gotta vacuum and mop the floor and do the laundry and water the lawn. So, sure, you betcha, he’s gonna meet his obligations. And he ain’t gonna neglect his few good friends, neither. But the rest of it? All...

With apologies to Mister Cash—who will, no doubt, spin in his grave—I intend to belt out “Folsom Prison Blues” for the singing portion of my audition tomorrow night.  As for the monologue, I shall perform a few paragraphs from Mister DeLillo’s White Noise . It is a very good thing that the author will not be in attendance. (Not that he is expected.) You see, I am preparing to deliver the piece as Mister Skilling might. You know Mister Skilling. No, not the one who is currently incarcerated over the Enron scandal. The Skilling to which I refer is the legendary meteorologist of “ Chicago’s Very Own ” TV news.  There is indeed a reason, albeit semi-logical, for the choice of wielding my world-famous and fiercely disputed (as being world-famous) Skilling impression by way of DeLillo’s written words. (I can’t speak for his spoken words. For starters, I’ve never heard him speak.) Nay, there are, in fact, several semi-logical reasons. (Several at minimum.) But then, there are severa...

Here’s the sink that once drained so well.  Like the toilet beside and the tile below, this sink, you might call it celery green. Its faucet’s silvery domed knobs are polished to mirror your fun house reflection. Two tubes of hydrocortisone (for the master’s ever-itchy ass) are tucked behind the cold water knob. (That’s the one closest to the toilet). One of the tubes is nearly squeezed flat.  When the house was built, way back in the era of the curly telephone cord, back before Beatlemania, back when color TV was a luxury, they probably called this first floor “half bath” the “powder room.” It’s a smidge bigger than a porta-potty. Beyond it, and throughout this humble abode ( humble by today’s standards), the color greed prevails. (Tee-hee.) The wallpaper and the carpet upstairs and downstairs and over the stairs are all the color of money. But then, before he retired, the master was an accountant by trade.  At present, black-gray bubbles fill the celery green sink’s ba...

Today’s become a pigging-out kinda day: four Eggo blueberry waffles, five Eggo cinnamon French toast slices, two big Hershey bars smeared over with Skippy peanut butter. Kraft Mac & Cheese. Fifteen Fig Newtons. Oh, and a few too many low-carb bars, too. All that? Dinner. *   Today is a private-little-meltdown kinda day. Today is a what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-life kinda day. Today is a why-am-I-working-out-for-no-fucking-reason and with-few-fucking-results kinda day. All that fucking sweat and morning soreness for what? Swear To God, my body does not produce enough testosterone. If you want big biceps / triceps, you’ll need two fully functional nuts down there in that sack.  Working out and writing? It’s really the same thing. Sweat, sweat, sweat; scribble, scribble, scribble and NOTHIN’ TO SHOW FOR IT. Thin is not enough; pages and pages of half-baked fiction is not enough. And thin for what? I’m fucking terrified of every fucking girl I’m attracted to.  Aw, fuck...

Would you do me a favor?  It won’t cost a thing. I promise.  Humor me.  Just humor me.  Please?  Pretty please?  With sugar on top?  And a cherry, too?  A maraschino cherry?  An entire jarful?  Of maraschino cherries? How about that?  Hm?  Eh?  I have a curious problem and I am desperate for a second opinion.  I am going to smile — this is totally not a bit, I swear, I pinky swear — and I would like you to observe my smile. Just, please, allow my smile to wash over you. Okay? Oh — and this is important — I am going to smile three different smiles.  First, I will attempt a closed mouth smile. Following the closed mouth smile, I will undertake two open mouth smiles.  So: The closed mouth smile first, then an open mouth smile with teeth showing; then, finally, a totally open mouth smile — where, if your vision is strong enough, you should be able to see that thing that hangs down at the back of my mouth. Wh...

PART I   He scoots over one stool, next to her, says, “Would you mind it very much if I… not literally , at least, not yet … but in the way most men, I am certain, do ... would you mind it terribly if I: came onto you?” She’s in the middle of sipping a beer. And she laughs — a bursting-out laugh — so hard, beer foam shoots out both nostrils.  Howie nods and deadpans, “Works every time.”  PART II   ANONYMOUS BLOG COMMENT:  “As Howie silently congratulates himself for being so suave, so debonair, he does not realize that the lady's laughter was manufactured solely to draw attention from her (perfectly manicured) hand that reaches into her knockoff Prada bag and grasps the can of pepper spray that her over-cautious ex-roommate gave her (upon her abrupt and unaccepted-sapphic-overture-fueled exit from their inexplicably cheap loft apartment cohabitation experience). Howie never knew what hit him. And moments later he did. It was the floor.”  So, yes, he lost th...

The “backroom” of the Chicago Coffee Cadre (store #7). FireVaney washes dishes. Clayton enters and hangs up his jacket.  FireVaney   You two have a good time?  Clayton   We get along great.  FireVaney   I mean,  [ slowly ]  did you two have a good time?  [ Brief pause. ]  Clayton   Is that any of your business?  FireVaney   ‘Course not.  [ Brief pause .]  She a screamer?  Clayton   What?   FireVaney  Does she scream?  Clayton   No.  She’s quiet.  FireVaney   Maybe you don’t satisfy her.  Clayton   No. She once said she can see colors.  FireVaney   She color blind?   Clayton   No.  FireVaney   What colors?  Clayton   She didn’t say.  FireVaney   She didn’t say?  You didn’t ask?  Clayton  She said she saw colors.  So I said I saw spots.  FireVaney Cute. Next time ask what colors.  I...

10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...

Stu is home. He was not home before he sat down to type this. But he is home now. Stu is sleepy. Notice that he writes in the present tense and in the third person. Does he succeed? Observe how he avoids the use of contractions. Does he fail? Know that his real name is not “Stu.” Does it matter? Although Stu tends to stew he is never up this late or this early. And yet, and so, or nevertheless, apart from typing this , Stu finds the energy to stand on a chair and smear the north wall of his bedroom with the guts of some many legged bug. Yes, some many legged bug had the audacity to crawl up his wall. And now it is smeared: the bug, its guts, the wall. Well, smeared not ALL over his wall. Most bugs, in this day and age, are not so large. (Compared to walls.) Add to the lengthy list yet another completely valid reason for why Stu should have the walls of his room repainted. But he waffles. Why? Because waffles are tasty. No, he waffles because he does not want to lose his privacy to a pa...

Hello.  [Wave.]  Question for you:  Are you happy with your hair?  Really happy?  Perfectly happy?  [Assuming silence, replies of “No,” or boos:]  Ah.  So you hate  your hair?  You  loathe,  detest,  or at least  disagree,  vehemently,  with it?  [Assuming applause and/or cheers:]  Well, in that case,  perhaps we’ll bond  over this next bit…  [ ALT. I: Assuming cheers, replies of “Yes,” and/or applause:]  So you’re happy  — completely happy — with your hair, huh? Mm? Eh?  What do you love  most  about  your hair?  [Repeat answer(s).]  Ah. Yes, I can see that.  [Lean in.]  Just between the two of us,  I envy your hair.  May I borrow it?  [Assuming “No.”]  Smart choice.  I might not give it back.  Would you please stand,  so that  everybody can  marvel  at your  exceptional...