FireVaney

PRELUDE This night? It’s for the Bongster’s birthday. I don’t know his age. I know his dog’s age, but I don’t know the Bongster’s . Maybe that’s why they call me the Whizz-Bang. And if you don’t know the Bongster, well, he’s a genius. And a bongster.  At least I’ve sense enough to bring ear plugs. So cut me some slick. I find a spot to leave my Daewoo on Southpaw Ave, near Peeling Park Road. That’s something like a mile from where I want to be, though. And it’s raining. But my Daewoo has umbrellas. It’s got bottled water and protein bars, too. Also: gum, a flashlight, tools, a bottle of windshield fluid, a spare tire, spare change, towels, camping chairs, condoms, maps, and The Club. Mine Daewoo goes everywhere always prepared.  @ COSMO (Part I)  I beat everyone to Cosmo. By “everyone” I don’t mean everyone in the world. I mean “everyone” who’s currently anyone, or at least someone, to me: the Bongster, the Bongster’s bro, Zen, Lass, Nico, & Larr. If you wanna drink ...

Up in the balcony, two, tall, Carrie-Anne Moss Matrix-esque babes lean against the rail next to me. Pretty sure they were there first. (Everything’s a little hazy from this distance.) One of these shiny, skin-tightly black-clad damsels has her hair flamed supernatural red. What I really wanna say is: “You two look so cool.” But my mouth stays shut. This is their turf, not mine. My getup is way too old school square for this scene.  Save for the fog machine and the gee-whiz robotic motion lights, Cosmo hasn’t changed a bit since my last visit — three jobs, one girlfriend, two U.S. presidents, and four apartments ago. There’s still a long bar off the “orchestra” section (though I’m pretty sure no orchestra has played this venue since the Eisenhower administration) and another one upstairs, in the center of the balcony.  The first band BLARES the last song of its set when Nico surprise-hugs me from behind. Zen’s with her, too.  What’s new? Nico and Zen want to know. Besid...

Apart from the stage lights, this place is lit only by the glowing ends of cigarettes. That must be why nobody (except for me) spots the stray length of ass wipe somebody tracked in. It tangos with a Nike, then rumbas with an Reebok. It finds itself in a ménage à trios with two Dr. Martens, then plays the dominatrix to a pair of Skechers. From stranger to stranger it travels, not unlike a virus.  Nico makes new friends wherever she goes. Often, they’re new guy friends. (Get this: She once hosted a party where she was the only girl present.) Such a flirt. Drives me a little nuts. Not that it should. Not that I have any business being driven a little nuts by it. Not that I really care anymore. But is it possible that she wants to drive me a little nuts?  As for Larr, I don’t know if he’s diggin’ this Cosmo scene or not. Maybe he’s indifferent. Maybe he’s goovin’ in his own private way. Maybe, he’s completely and utterly absorbed. And maybe, in the first place, there never was...

@ Shrewd Bar  Ask Zen. Or Nico. Gimme the right music, the right lighting (or too little of it), enough space, and I’m out on the groove-platter like a madman. (Apologies to Holden Caulfield.)  Nico wants me to follow her lead, but I’m doin’ my own thang — ain’t nuthin’ gonna change that. Zen’s tryin’ to match me, but my bod’s doin’ too many different directions at once. Only, what I’m wearin’? It’s no good for movement. Ten (very) odd minutes in, I’m all sweat. Still, it’s been years since I’ve Kenny Loggins cut-loose, footloose like this. (Apologies to Mr. Loggins.)  For everybody chillin’ around Shrewd Bar’s House-jammin’ groove-platter, I’m giving them their money’s worth. Some dude (yes, unfortunately a dude) even compliments me (‘least I think it was a compliment) on my madman moves. Even Zen hangs back to marvel at freaky me.  The groove-platter spins us dizzy (that being its purpose * ) and we stagger back, behind the DJ, to the tabled and chaired shadows. Ha...

We’re on our way to Wayne’s Honky-Tonk in my Daewoo. Out of Zen’s mouth slip several nuggets of scandalous family history. And since she reads this, and since I’m already in trouble for my brief mention of it, you’ll have to ask her about it yourself.  The crowd that haunts Cosmo & Shrewd Bar rarely, if ever, mixes with the crowd that haunts Wayne’s Honky-Tonk. But this is only a guess; one based purely on appearances and conflicting musical tastes. But surely you’re allowed to get shitfaced at both haunts.  Whereas Complex Cosmo is all BLARE, Wayne’s is all TWANG.  We’re somewhere between late October 1st and early October 2nd. Either way, tonight is still all about bashing the Bongster’s birthday. Don’t ask me if it was yesterday, or if it is today. Have I even wished him a happy one? It beats the hell outta me if I’ve said anything other than, “Hey, Man!” at him.  So, just in case,  Happy birthday, Bongster!  (He reads this, too.)  There’s a l...

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...