FireVaney

Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too muc...

Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our re...

Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular l...

Somebody left a bowl with a spoon upstairs on the toilet’s tank-top. The guilty party presumably finished their breakfast in the bathroom, and the bowl and the spoon were left there all day, or for several days, or for many. Had the culprit spooned up their Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms or Cinnamon Toast Crunch or some combination of the aforementioned whilst perched on the toilet, id est, whilst making a deposit? I didn’t ask.  And what of the piles of Sunday newspaper advertisements that bury the ledge just inside of their front door? We’re talking several years of Sunday ads, or so it seems. Don’t the coupons contained therein expire?  And let’s not forget the balloons that hover above the low-hanging streamers from a party they hosted two weeks ago.  Clutter dominates every room.  And by the way, dog hair and dog slobber coat the interior of their car.  Ah, but life is mussy. And the two who call this place home, they are far happier than I. They have jobs, th...

When you said, “Canada,” I immediately thought of the river. That garden where you left me. And then I thought of Tom Patterson Island. I thought of the time we stood on the bridge that stretched between Tom Patterson Island and the rest of Stratford, Ontario. We watched the swans and the couples in their paddle boats. We talked about the awful production of Romeo & Juliet we’d just seen. It was the second production of Romeo & Juliet I had seen at the festival inside of ten years, and both were simply dreadful. But they did know how to pull off Chekhov. Their mounting of Uncle Vanya was superb in every way imaginable. The performers truly brought out the play’s dark humor. It was cathartic. Also, their production of The Two Gentlemen of Verona : cathartic, first rate. You cried. I held you. It was wonderful. On that bridge, we kissed. That was where we first kissed. And then you said you were late for work at the Tango Cafe. Do you remember that lavish room upstairs at the M...

Ma bought me a futon. It’s twice as wide as the bed I’ve been sleeping on most of my life. So now I need to get rid of that old twin bed. But it’s a spare surface. For stuff. For piles of stuff. Yes, technically, the floor is a surface, too. So, what I mean is, the bed is a good raised surface. For stuff. For piles of stuff. Not that I have much stuff or many piles of it. But piles tend to multiply like gremlins  in water. Just ask StepDude. Three rooms of the house he shares with Ma are crammed with pillars of magazines and manuscripts and thick newspapers.  My new futon, like many futons, folds into a sofa. But I’ll have to take all the sheets off when I have company. Well, I guess I don’t have to, but it would be the hygienic thing to do. Or, maybe I just won’t have company. Should I change the pants I’ve worn all day before sitting on it? Nah. It’s not like I spend my days seated upon filthy surfaces. [Assuming I don’t venture onto a CTA bus or "L" train.] Rather, I sp...

Ma and Stepdude traded in their new SUV for a newer SUV. Ma swears this one will be the last one. But that’s what she said about the last one and the one before that. Seems like Ma and Stepdude jones for a new SUV every time the Earth tilts. Doesn’t help that they’re both hooked on TV, that the TV’s always on, and that Stepdude’s a lifetime subscriber to Car & Driver magazine. It’s a game they play, dreaming up the rationale to trade in whatever new car they own. The last one gave Ma a rash. (Supposedly.)  Ma goes, Dust mites.  I go, That what the doctor said?  Ma goes, He’d say, “Don’t bug me about dust mites.”  So I go, Second opinion?  Ma waves me off. Then scratches her leg.  So I go, You fix the Electrolux?  And Stepdude, he goes, I think we tossed it.  Ok. So. How ‘bout a new one?  A new car ?  A new Electrolux . Or a Hoover.  Pshaw! Maybe when we pay off the Hummer.  (Ok, maybe not “ Pshaw! ” But that was the in...

Cindi finds Mac whimpering under her desk. No, Mac isn’t a co-worker. He’s not some random dude, either. He’s Cindi’s boss’s golden retriever puppy.  (Later, when Cindi shares this news with me, she adds that her boss moonlights as an analyst for the NSA. The extra moolah supposedly supports his cocaine habit.)  Cindi captures her boss’s attention long enough to point out that something purple protrudes from Mac’s butthole.  Cindi’s boss calls from his office. “Here, Mac!” He whistles in that shrill, staccato way some dog owners do. “Here, boy!”  The hapless pooch waddles in. Every few feet he stops to squat. He doesn’t squeeze anything out. He can’t. Cindi’s boss crouches for a closer look at the purply wad. He follows Mac around the office on his hands and knees.  Finally, he says, “I know what this is.”  He reaches out and pinches the purple lump. Then he pulls at it. The puppy’s whimper swells. The purple thingy stretches. Cindi bunches her fingers and ...

The time has come for all men to eat their cookies after dipping them in milk. This must happen at the same time. All men must do this at the exact same time. We shall define a man as any male having had at least one wet dream. That should do it. Scientists have recently discovered that a build-up of testosterone – combined with the consumption and absorption of milk and cookies (chocolate chip cookies) – will result in a physical and chemical reaction that will, ultimately, decrease global warming. Regrettably, the latest research also shows that when women come together to consume milk and cookies their collective estrogen level has the reverse effect – indeed, global warming increases . Thus, scientists have theorized that the best way to fight global warming is not to attempt to reduce so-called “green-house” gasses, but to round up men and get them to stuff their faces with milk and cookies. Yes. Milk and cookies. How wonderful. Nobody is going to believe it, though; hence, we are...

After all of the bars in Champaign closed, Cindi and her roommate stripped and made a mad dash for their apartment building. [Whose idea was this? How often did they do it? Would they streak home in the dead of winter, or only on warm, summer nights? Oh, and, just how far was their building from the nightlife? Alas, if I asked these questions, I’ve long since forgotten the answers.]  Then, during a party in their apartment, somebody came up with the wacky idea of group streaking. All twenty revelers shed their clothes and stampeded out to a nearby park. There, they frolicked. Many wound up muddy.  Upon their return, they discovered that no one had the means with which to enter the apartment building. So here we had twenty naked twenty-somethings standing outside of a building in the dead of night, buzzing buzzers with the collective hope of being let in.  What would you do if some stranger buzzed your door in the middle of the night, begging to be let in? And what if yo...