FireVaney

"...but it is in despair that the most burning pleasures occur, especially when one is all too highly conscious of the hopelessness of one's position." ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky , Notes From Underground

Imagine a long, bare stage with an ornate proscenium arch. This is a 1920s era palace theatre. Rot pervades, vandalism abounds. On stage, TWO MEN are hit with a white-hot spotlight. A fog of dust wafts through the beam. One of the MEN, dressed to the nines, stands center stage; beside him, the other, clad in rags, is down on all fours. Both remain stock-still until the MAN on his hands and knees turns and sniffs the STANDING MAN’S right leg. The STANDING MAN commences to tremble and perspire; a stream of urine darkens his trousers, dampens his socks, and pools on the stage around his loafers. Sensing (and smelling) the fear, the DOG MAN growls and abruptly bites the STANDING MAN’S leg. The STANDING MAN bursts into a fit of laughter. The DOG MAN looks up at the STANDING MAN with an inquisitive double take; then, as if seeking assistance, he looks out over the empty, ripped up seats of the auditorium. Finally, he tugs at the STANDING MAN’S trousers. The STANDING MAN continues...

Initially, I was aiming for irony and penitence with this post. I had titled it: “Goodbye.” It was five hundred words typed and revised and revised and revised across the past three days and it still amounted to crap. I wrote about guilt, about not saying goodbye, about leaving “things” dangling; and then I tried rationalizing it all. But it was crap; it was bullshit. I tried to clean it up, but the only way to clean up bullshit… Well, to tell the truth, I’ve never dealt with bullshit, so I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with it. I imagine a big shovel is involved. So let’s say it wasn’t bullshit; let’s say it was just common, run-of-the-mill human shit. Or dog shit. Whichever kind of shit you like (save for the aforementioned bullshit). And the only way to deal with shit is to bag and trash it, or flush it down the toilet. We all know this. I don’t know why I feel the need to state the obvious. It’s something old folks do and I’m neck-deep in old folks. Oh, yes, that...

"But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name." ~ Jay McInerney , Bright Lights, Big City (p.127)

All that snow I almost had a heart-attack shoveling out of the way, it's all gone, melted away. And the backyard, it's a tiny islet of grass in a vast sea of mud.

Within the same week two different people at two different times have asked me the same exact question: "Has your iPod changed your life?"

Why did I open the refrigerator to look for a replacement light bulb?

It ain't M ea t L oa f at his tastiest, but it is M ea t L oa f .

The Accidental Atwood (Or Not) Once a year (sometimes twice a year) Pop is struck with the sudden urge to make the rounds of all his doctors. At least once a year this is a valid urge; within a two-month span he'll want to set appointments with his internist, his dentist, his dermatologist, his optometrist, his proctologist, his ears-nose-and-throat specialist, along with the others that don't readily come to mind. The thing is, were he to visit every single one on The List, he'd have enough appointments to fill up every single day of the work-weeks for an entire month—or so it seems. Here's the point: When this happens (our Tour De Medico), a LOT of time is spent in waiting rooms. And then more time is spent waiting in examination rooms. Indeed, two weeks ago, during an impromptu visit to the internist, the waiting lasted forty-five minutes in an examination room the size of two public toilet stalls. These examination rooms are strung together by a labyrinth of narrow ...

In particular, track 12: "Baby Hold On"