FireVaney

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

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...

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...

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 ...

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...

Thirteen degrees below zero didn’t stop us from joyriding through suburbia last night. We ate pie at Poppin Fresh Pies for dinner. Huddled in our booth, I bitched about the warped logic of rooting for the “home team,” given that most players rarely hail from the “home town” in which they play. Seinfeld likes to call it rooting for laundry. Those who don such laundry (in my worthless opinion), they’re basically athletic mercenaries. Did Spiffy give a shit? Nope. He’s always all about what’s all the rage, but only superficially so. He watches the Super Bowl (exempli gratia) for the commercials. And Flabjack? He won’t take sides. He keeps his beefs and passions, if he has any, to himself. I admire that. So it’s not like I’m preaching to the choir. It’s more like I’m preaching to an empty church.  Spiffy didn’t follow my train of thought. (When he does, he usually seeks to derail it.) Instead, he expressed his desire to send flowers to his ex. Nummy dumped him after three years, exactl...