FireVaney

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...

Germs don’t hate at night when you’re dreaming about Jesus basking on the beach under a sunny, cloudless sky, with a joint and a bottle of Guinness. And you want to tell Mr. Christ that Guinness from the tap is much better than the bottled variety. But, you know, he’s the Son of God and all, so he’s probably got the right idea. He’s probably got the best bottled Guinness that’s ever been bottled. I wouldn’t know. I’m sure if I asked he’d – excuse me He’d – be more than happy to share. But I’d be WAY, WAY too intimidated to approach him – if “intimidated” is the right word. Then again, why would the Big Guy be basking on a beach with a beer where / when there’s so much to be done? Probably, he’s an imposter. But you don’t want to take the chance that he’s not. And you don’t want to take the chance that he’s snot. (Because, when read aloud, “he’s not” sounds a lot like “he’s snot.”) It may very well be all part of His Plan. But it’s a dream. Or it’s a possible dream. It’s something I’v...

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...

Outside, it’s hotter than a lightly toasted Pop Tart. Well, ok, maybe not that hot. It’s hot enough for a lightly toasted Pop Tart to burn the tip of your tongue. Well, ok, maybe burn it just a little, but not enough to burn it to the point where the burned bit bugs you all day. No, that’s probably still too hot for how hot it really is outside.  My Daewoo’s dashboard display tells me it’s 84 degrees. Well, ok, it’s not really a Daewoo. Let’s say I’m too embarrassed to tell you what I really drive. We’ll go with that. Ok, Chuck?  So it’s been 84 degrees toasty, if not toastier, all day; and that’s how toasty it was this afternoon when I pulled into Pop’s driveway, way down in the southern ‘burbs.  But by the feel inside of Pop’s house, you’d have thought all of Death Valley had dropped in for a quick visit. Well, ok, not all of Death Valley, but as much of its climate that’ll fit into a modest, two story brick abode of the Midwest.  If you’d been there today, you...

In addition to Richard Lindberg’s Return Again To The Scene Of The Crime: A Guide To Even More Infamous Places In Chicago , and the September 1961 and October 1964 issues of “ Modern Man: The Adult Picture Magazine,” and the October 1956 issue of “ Cabaret : The Adult Entertainment Magazine,” and the April 1962 issue of “ Ace : The Magazine For Men Of Distinction,” and also the June 1959 issue of “ 21 ,” I picked up a copy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies. If you’d been there, you’d have found all this, and more, at Manager Mick’s annual yard sale in Wicker Park.  Long before Mick managed a coffee shop, he made anatomically correct Ken dolls. He also did things to Barbie dolls Mattel probably wouldn’t approve of. To his credit, his collection was featured on an episode of “ Wild Chicago.”  Mick used to pay the bills by performing as a stripper. He sold drugs, too. But he also found work as an interior designer. Like so many real-world things and folks, TV seems to g...

There I am, not far from Niagara Falls, sitting on a park bench in a small Canadian town. A shallow pool with a spout of water is within leaping distance. As I am but a tourist here, I dare not leap.   The small birds of southern Canada — not all of them, but enough to take note of — flock around me, my two slices of fudge, and my mocha. None of these birds have a taste for the several crumbles of fudge I’ve flicked their way. That doesn’t stop them from homing in on my position. Admittedly, I am not entirely sure that I’ve enjoyed my fudge myself. This comes as something of a surprise.  (One slice, if you must know, is peanut butter chocolate fudge; the other’s cookies and cream fudge. Please don’t get me wrong, I love old-fashioned chocolate fudge, but at my age I’ve had more than my fair share of it. Nowadays I seek to add to my fudgy / fudge-ly / fudge-able palate and broaden my fudgy / fudge-ly / fudge-able horizons. And, please, my personal and very slight displeasure fo...

Burping is not an efficacious means of transmitting herpes. But don’t take Howie’s word for it. Don’t take Howie’s word for anything. Howie don’t know diddlysquat. Then again, neither do I. That’s what Howie and I have in common: an extensive knowledge of diddlysquat. We don’t eat pizza in the summer because it makes us phat. No, it makes us fat. When we eat pizza in the winter it makes us phat. God, what is my problem? “YOUR PROBLEM, MY CHILD, IS THE LACK OF VITAMIN Q-BERT IN THE ATMOSPHERE. SEE AL GORE.” Golly. Gee-whiz. Thanks, God. I’ll see Mr. Gore right away. I’m sure he’ll be more than pleased to see me. No doubt he’ll let me walk right through his front door. Especially if I drop Your Name.  They call it “Southern Hospitality,” I believe. And although I’ve never heard of Vitamin Q-BERT, no doubt Mr. Gore has. And I’m sure, while we’re sipping wine, or mint juleps, on his veranda he’ll snap his fingers and say, “By God, that’s it!!! Vitamin Q-BERT!!!” He’ll slap the heel o...

SOURCE MEDIA   SONY “CLEAR VOICE PLUS”  MICROCASSETTE-CORDER M-450 /  TDK MC60 MICROCASSETTE /  TWO “UNKNOWN” PATRONS  (IDENTIFIED  AS “A” AND “B”)  OF CHICAGO COFFEE CADRE  (STORE #7)  BEGIN PLAYBACK  PATRON A   So many times…  So many times…  So many  mother effin’ times…  the “For Rent” sign?  Yeah.  Or the ad?  It’ll tell ya: call .  Call …  for the rental rate.  Call?  PATRON B   Mm-hm.  PATRON A   Why?  Why waste your time?  Why waste my time?  Why?  PATRON B   Hm.  PATRON A Is it ever really negotiable? If you wanna rent the place, you’ve gotta pay what the slumlord wants you to pay. Right? Anyways, it’s usually the goddamn janitor who shows you the dump; and it’s not like this dope has the power to negotiate anything. And here’s a guy, the goddamn janitor guy, who, nowadays, he’s always got a title more, more, what? Polit...

RESUME PLAYBACK  PATRON B   They probably just want —  PATRON A   I’ll tell you want they want. They want to “show off” the place — all the “amenities.”  PATRON B   Yeah, well —  PATRON A They throw up a ceiling fan; call it, “Completely Rehabbed.”   PATRON B  I’d like a ceiling f —  PATRON A   Buddy, buddy, buddy: We’re talkin’ a moldy, paper-thin walled, “studio” apartment, barely big enough to pull a futon half way out. My ass it’s “completely rehabbed.”  PATRON B   Yeah, I dunno. Completely? I wouldn’t —  PATRON A   And on the rare occasion it’s a “rental agent” who’s there to greet you, it’s always somebody who failed, or could only fail, at selling used cars. [ Alters voice: ] “Oooh, yes, note the Casablanca ‘Stealth’ High Performance ceiling fan. That there’s brushed nickel. With platinum blades. And a hundred-watt Halogen bulb.  Just... look at it…  whirl …  with such…  youthful…...