FireVaney

I’ve crammed myself into a corner. (Story of my life.) Somehow, I feel even more alone than I did at Complex Cosmo. Could be, maybe, that Wayne’s is too bright for a late Friday night.  Everybody here is in clear, or clearer, groups — albeit groups grouped in very close proximity to one another. In a way, it’s reminiscent of high school cliques at lunch hour — minus the beer. Or maybe I’m just too sober to be out and about at this hour.  The group I walked in with has scattered. Nico is busy making or renewing acquaintances. Zen and Lass disappear around a distant corner. Larr is over by the Bongster and the Bongster’s bro. The three of them lean against the bar. A little while later, they relocate to the other side and lean on it over there.  Along with all the others not engaged in chit-chat or lip-locks, I’m gawking at the couples who shuffle-step out on the honky-tonk platter. I’m seeing myself as one such shuffle-stepper. Videlicet, that guy too ugly to be swaying w...

The dog is in pain tonight because he can’t find his pink slippers that he buried in the pond next to the weeping willow tree. The weeping willow tree likes to play practical jokes on all of the creatures in the forest. The creatures in the forest like to gather and bitch and moan about all of the weeping willow’s dastardly pranks. One day, an apple fell from the apple tree and hit the weeping willow in its eye. “ Ouch !” cried the weeping willow. The dog overheard this exclamation of pain and organized an emergency meeting of all the forest creatures. He said to them, “My fellow creatures— ” But the dog was cut off by a chorus of chipmunks. The chipmunks chanted, “ YOU’RE not a proper creature. YOU’RE a pet!” The dog sighed. He wanted to address that point, but he didn’t want to lose sight of his main point. So he pressed on. “My fellow creatures — wild and domesticated alike — ” Again, the dog was cut off. The chipmunks chanted, “ YOU are the only domesticated creature here!” The ...

We never first met.  Never, really.  Never in any formal,  “Hello, my name is…”  “Nice to meet you, I’m…”  sense.  The recital, that was my first sight of you.  You never saw me enter, you couldn’t have seen me sit, you didn’t see me applaud, you shouldn’t of seen me depart. Okay, maybe you saw me applaud, but there were hundreds of patrons applauding, so, it isn’t likely. You were onstage, behind that big stretch of Steinway. Everybody else? They sat in the dark. My seat was at the back of the mezzanine. Neither was I, somehow, conspicuously dressed. So, no way did you see me — me , in particular.  But the second time we crossed paths, years later, you knew me. You treated me like an old friend. It made no sense. Or had I forgotten some intervening encounter? Regardless, I was too flattered and too flummoxed to ask.  But, no. Having reflected long and hard, it is undeniable: We never first met. Not formally.  Had you seen me perform? ...

CJ says the Village of Schammmbourg ain’t exactly sweet on him. He’s got the impression that it (the village) or some faction of it, some faction of its community theatre community, is out to “ get ” him. “ Get ” him or “get rid of” him. Maybe get him and then get rid of him. Either way, seems they don’t dig him, “oh but for sure” they’ll bury him, if they catch him. “With pleasure ,” he says, they will.  Could be CJ’s just having bad luck in Schammmmbourg.  So check this out: Two nights ago he gets outta rehearsal for The Music Man . (Community theatre, that’s where he meets his chicks, where he cocks his doodle-doos.) He’s driving south on Randy Ave, spots something in the middle of the road, steers clear of it. Tells me, later, it’s a “body.” That’s what I’m telling you. Calls it a “ small body.” And there he saw it, there lying face down across the stretch of double yellows. And to CJ, it looks human.  Does he stop? Hell no. Don’t exactly make him a coward, though....

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...