Mister Termineus

Late Night, College Town

2010-04-02T09:29:00.005-04:00

3:35 A.M. At work.
The cigarette packs are counted,
the trash is in the dumpster,
the mop water is waiting
for me to get on with it.

But, hell,
I decide to let the water cool
for a minute
and walk outside to smoke a
cigarette.

I open the doors,
step into a cool, calm
March 31st morning and light up.
The streets are quiet
and I spy a few deer across the
road in the mall parking lot,
chowing down
on the flowers and shrubbery.
Occasionally their eyes catch fire
in the streetlights and twitch at me.

It’s my favorite time of night.
And it’s one of the few reasons
I keep this low-paying
dead-end
third-shift job:
I love the calm.

Then,
as I take a second drag from
my cigarette,
a small red car speeds past.
I don’t think much of it at first.
I figure it’s just another late-nighter
on his way home from the bars.

As I take a third drag
from my cigarette,
the red car SLAMS
into the concrete divider
between the lanes
in the street.

The left front tire goes
like a stick of dynamite
and the sound of it echoes
off of every building
in the neighborhood.
The car straddles the divider
and rides it on down the street.
The grinding of metal against
concrete is unbelievable,
piercing.
The shower of sparks
that erupts is so great that I
can barely even see the car.

I twist up my face, pained,
and wait for the racket to end.

Then at last,
when the car reaches a gap
in the divider, the driver heaves
the whole shrieking mess
back into the lane.

It isn’t much of an improvement.
The wheel of the flat tire
digs into the asphalt and keeps on
puking a fresh geyser of sparks into the air.

I hear the passenger shout in desperation:
“Just fuckin’ go, man! Keep goin'!”

That’s when I know for certain
they’re heading home from the bar.

The driver takes his friend’s advice
and the car lurches onward
like a maimed braying jackass,
the bad tire and wheel
flupping and flopping and sawing
against the street.

One block down, they make a left turn
and I listen to that mortally wounded
red car as it clambers uphill
toward its end.
Its death throes
echoing
rolling
slamming
hellish
against my ears.

Finally, the noise fades away
into the distance.
I shake my head and take
a fourth drag from
my cigarette.

I’ve never been much of a
believer in gods or divinity
or fate or destiny.
But now and then I can’t help
but wonder if someone, something, somewhere
watching me
doesn’t decide that I deserve a laugh.

I sit down on the sidewalk
and, coughing through cigarette smoke,
I have a good one.
It’s the first genuine laugh
I’ve enjoyed all day.

After all, I’m human.
And what’s more human
than to throw a party
over the misfortunes of others?

Sometimes
an interruption in the calm
can be good.
　
___

Me, the Muthafucka

2010-03-15T02:21:00.005-04:00

It’s Monday night and I’m on my way to work. I’ve been off for the weekend, so I am of course thrilled--indeed, nearly salivating!--at the prospect of returning to the workplace. The easy freedom of two days off is just too much. Laying about, reading books, watching movies, smoking leisurely cigars, sleeping, it’s been just terrible. I long for activity, duty, responsibility, and…oh please, every flavor of horseshit. This isn’t even passable sarcasm.

Let’s get to it. I step off the bus at my usual strip-mall stop, light my last cigarette of freedom for the next eight hours, and start walking. I pass the Little Caesar’s pizza place that just opened last week, taking notice of the two bored, dark-haired young men leaning against the countertop and staring past me into a dead infinity. I walk past the Tropical Sun tanning salon, glancing wistfully at the plump little asses of the young coeds wandering around within. I pass the newly opened Bloom Zum Dance Studio and, being a sane human being, I find myself pondering the question: What in hell is a Bloom Zum?

And then I see him, directly ahead. Cowboy Black. Cowboy Black is a middle-aged homeless black guy who hangs around the bus station a lot. (If you prefer to tongue-wrestle with more syllables, call him a middle-aged homeless African-American guy. Don’t get me started on how sillyass it is to obsess over politically correct niche-labeling.) To my knowledge, no one else actually calls the guy “Cowboy Black.” I’ve just come to think of him this way, because he wears a denim coat, denim pants, and brown cowboy boots. And because he has a tendency to call other men “cowboy.” His story, as best I can tell? He seems to enjoy punishing unsuspecting souls with stories of how he used to own a ranch in Texas, how he used to break and train Arabian stallions, herd thousands of cattle, and live the Large American Dream. And maybe he did, I dunno. But whatever he used to be, he’s now in the little hamlet of Bloomington, Indiana, panhandling for spare change and cigarettes. He’s loud, obnoxious, overbearing, phony, and I don’t believe a word he says. He’s not getting anything silver or green out of me. I works for my monies, and you gots to be trippin’ if’n you think I be gettin’ off any o’ this here. Feel me?

God.

As I walk toward him, Cowboy Black is harassing some poor Chinese girl who’s standing outside of, ayuh, a Chinese restaurant. I think this might be my opening. If I move fast, walk along the edge of the sidewalk, maybe I can sprint past him before the Chinese girl finally has enough and tells him to fuck off? Is that too much to hope for?

Of course it is. As I get maybe twenty feet away, the Chinese girl ducks back into the restaurant, and Cowboy Black, disgruntled and emptyhanded, readjusts his backpack and starts walking toward me.

Seeing me, he slaps on a bullshit smile. “How ya doin’, cowboy?”

A fool I may be, but not for this guy. I don’t say anything, just give him a smirk and a quick nod. And I walk right past him without missing a step. I don’t want to hear a word from this guy.

But I hear some anyway. From behind me, his enraged voice rises up: “Fine! Don’t talk to a muthafucka, muthafucka! Yeah, just ignore the old nigga! He ain’t nothin’! Just a no-good homeless goddamn--”

He keeps going on, but I can’t make out much of it. I’m definitely accused of being a bitch at least once. But I’m not interested. I only pay attention to the sound of his voice to make sure it’s getting farther away behind me. And his voice is still carrying into the night, senselessly, pointlessly, when I turn the corner at the end of the strip mall and disappear from his sight.

I don’t have a lot of luck getting along with homeless black men. Last summer I was sitting on a bench at the downtown bus station, reading a book, not bothering a soul on this entire misbegotten planet. I was into the book, concentrating with all of the very limited IQ at my disposal, when a loud voice suddenly broke into my world: “How ya doin’ this evenin’, sir?”

Standing to my right was a middle-aged black man with a large travel bag slung over his shoulder. He was of average height, mostly bald, moustached. His face was lean and sharp, with deep creases around the mouth and eyes. Clearly, he’d endured some hard miles.

“I’m all right, I guess.” I said this in the most uninterested tone I’m capable of. Which is pretty damned uninterested.

He nodded mechanically at my answer. “Yeah? That’s good, that’s real good.” He sighed and scratched his cheek. “Y’know, I sure could use somethin’ to eat. Don’t suppose you’ve got a dollar or two you could spare, huh?”

Remember the good old days when bums just asked for spare change from your pocket? Now they expect you to dip into your wallet.

I shook my head, trying to look regretful. “Sorry, man. I’m not exactly prosperous myself. I just kinda scrape by, you know?”

His eyes turned hard and he scoffed at me. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I hear ya.” He wrinkled his mouth into a contemptuous shape and jabbed his finger, pointing at me. “Y’know somethin’? You muthafuckas made this world the way it is. You muthafuckas is responsible for everythin’ that’s wrong!”

I frowned curiously at the guy. Muthafuckas like me? Hmm. I guess he was talking about third-shift convenience store clerks who read Samuel Beckett while waiting for the bus?

Saying nothing, I met the man’s stare and waited to see what came next. He worked his lips some more and then spit this out: “I did two years,” he informed me, holding up two fingers to make sure I understood the concept of 2. “Two muthafuckin’ years, and it wasn’t nothin’ but bullshit! Shit, I didn’t do it! They didn’t have no proof! Bullshit! I wasn’t nothin’ but a fall guy, y’unnerstand? Now I’m out and they ain’t nothin’ for me out here. Shit, I’m owed somethin’ for that!”

I felt like telling him that that was a lot of shits and bullshits in one short statement. But all I said was, “I don’t owe you anything, man.”

The son of a bitch glared at me, obviously wanting to kill me, as my bus pulled up to the curb. I closed my book and stood up from the bench, still holding his eyes. These situations make me sick to my stomach. All I’ve ever wanted was to be left in peace, ignored and unmolested. But I will make a stand if I have to.

“Anything else?” I asked him.

He wrinkled his face one more time, and I’ve rarely seen a more vivid picture of hatred. “It’s your fault, muthafucka,” he said with calm rage.

I wasn’t going to respond to such crap. White people have made a lot of bad management decisions throughout history, I’ll admit that. But I can’t remember the last time the U.S. president phoned and asked for my input. If I missed a couple of paychecks, I’d be out on the street myself. So for this old black asshole to assume I’m a member of the White Ruling Class? Irritating. And stupid, besides. Big Shot white boys don’t sit around waiting for the fucking city bus.

We stared each other down for another few seconds, and then he broke it off and started walking away. I let out a weary breath and stepped over to my bus, probably mumbling something to myself about how much I hate people. I can’t recall for certain, but it’s a solid bet.

But before I could climb aboard, Old Black Asshole spun around and hit me with this one: “And you know what else!” he shouted. “Fuck IU!”

Umm, I thought, okay. IU, for those who don’t know, is Indiana University. It’s located here in Bloomington, where I currently live. And I think I’ve actually set foot on its campus twice in my thirty-six years.

“That’s right!” he yelled. “Fuck IU! All you muthafuckas!”

Just like that, my anger was gone, and I let out a good laugh. “Buddy,” I said, “you can fuck IU as much as you want to. I’m not married to it.”

Not the most clever of comebacks, I know. Cut me some slack. Every off-the-cuff retort can’t be a gem.

He whirled back around and stomped away. I could practically see heat waves of hatred rising off his body as he disappeared into the crowd.

I sighed, feeling both amused and annoyed as I climbed onto the bus. I fed a wrinkled dollar into the machine, plopped down onto one of the hard seats, and stared out the window. The rent was due that week. I needed to buy cigarettes. And there wasn’t much to eat in the fridge.

___

Sniffle. Clear Throat.

2010-03-03T10:27:00.004-05:00

I think if I spend one more year in this town, I’ll be able to write a whole book dedicated to the topic of riding the bus to work. Honest. Nowhere else can you encounter such a grim variety of humanity’s shortcomings. Only on public transportation can you interact with such a cavalcade of freaks, geeks, misfits, rejects, retards, and gone-wrongs. And it only costs a dollar! Shit. Once in a while it’s amusing to me. Other times I just want to curl up into a ball and lick my own asshole until the world goes away. Of course, I usually feel like doing that anyway. But.

Last Thursday a tall, lanky, scruffy, Hitler-blue-eyed blond guy was sitting across the aisle from me on the bus. He had the very fashionable Beatles-length mop that so many young guys wear these days, along with the cuffed skinny blue jeans and Chuck Taylor sneakers. Worse, he was wearing one of those knit wool caps with the little flaps and tassels that hang down over your ears. (Only cute young girls can get away with wearing these, men. Take a fucking note, willya?) He was reading and sending text messages on his cell phone, which is pretty much what everyone does on the bus. And he constantly--goddamn constantly--would sniffle…and then clear his throat. This fucker had the rhythm of a giant industrial press. Sniffle, clear throat. Sniffle, clear throat. Sniffle, clear throat…

Sitting there, trying to concentrate on my old-fashioned paper book, I was suddenly seized by the urge to jump up, shove this guy’s phone straight up his pisshole, kick him in his liberal art school nuts, and smash his imitation John Lennon head through the safety window. I wanted to go completely B.A. Baracus on this idiot: “SHUT UP, FOOL! SHUT UP!”

But I just turned a page in my book and cursed the gods for making me human. I don’t actually believe in gods, but they make convenient scapegoats when you don’t want to go to jail for assault.

About a month ago, I stepped off the bus and began walking to work. I always get off the bus a couple of blocks away from the workplace, at a nearby strip mall. This gives me time for one last smoke before I walk in and punch the clock. It always feels like a small victory, that cigarette. I take whatever battles I can win.

As I walked along, sucking delicious death into my lungs, I saw two policemen on the sidewalk ahead of me. One male, one female. Their hands were on their hips and they were looking down at the sidewalk. Wearily. That’s because there was a crusty old white man sitting on the sidewalk. He had long gray hair and a beard, disintegrating clothing, and--worth noting, I think--his pants were down around his ankles. Luckily, I guess, he was wearing the most stained and savaged pair of boxer shorts I’ve ever seen.

As I walked closer, giving the whole scene a wide berth, the old guy began scooting along on his ass, like a dog with worms. “I was in Knoxville!” he declared, slurring drunkenly but sounding rather proud to have visited the great state of Tennessee.

“Get UP, sir,” the female law officer demanded. She was standing near a large blue duffel bag, stuffed to bursting with the old man’s possessions. I noticed a scuffed-up hairbrush laying near the bag, looking forsaken and lonely.

The old man kept dragging his ass down the sidewalk, the two police officers following slowly and tiredly behind. “Get UP, sir,” the woman repeated, beginning to sound truly angry. Her oily dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, tight against her skull, and she had a thick hambone jaw that any prize fighter would be happy to have. I imagined she would enjoy kicking the shit out of an old homeless drunk. And probably had, at some point.

“Louisville!” the old man shouted happily. “That’s right, I was in Louisville!”

Wow, I thought. It’s the one fucking guy who was ever glad to visit Louisville, Kentucky. I felt like asking for his autograph.

The old man kept dragging his ass along, and the cops kept looking more and more pissed. “Spain!” the old man howled, shredding his boxer shorts against the concrete sidewalk. “I was in Spain!”

At this point I began to doubt the old bum’s sincerity. I watched the male cop--a big hunk of ex-fraternity beef if ever I’ve seen one--reach down and yank the man to his feet. As this happened, the female cop shot a deadly gaze at me. Move along, her eyes said.

She could’ve spanked my ass. I moved along. As I did so, I heard the old bum exclaim, “I was in Vietnam!”

“I’m happy for ya,” the male cop growled. “Gimme your hands. Gimme your hands, I said!”

I flipped my butt--that is, my cigarette--into the gutter. And I talked myself into showing up for work.

___
　

The Good Samaritan

2009-07-29T02:14:00.012-04:00

So I woke for work at 8:00 PM, stood in the shower for a minute, pulled on some clothes, and walked to the downtown bus station. It takes me seven to eight minutes to walk to the station, depending on how long I have to wait at crosswalks. I’ve timed this, obviously. I try to get there about one minute before my bus leaves, so I don’t have to hang around and tolerate the loudmouthed brain-damaged cigarette-mooching panhandlers who have taken up permanent residence there. I have a heart, but I don’t have much money. And a lot of these supposedly homeless men look like they eat better meals than I do.

As I walked up to the station, my bus was in the process of spilling its human load onto the sidewalk. But there was a minor disturbance in progress. A small group of bus drivers had gathered on board my bus, forming a tight huddle around a young black man. The black man was still seated on the bus and I saw that he was arguing with the drivers, waving his hands around and shouting incoherently. I leaned against the wall of the bus station, wearily, and lit a cigarette. I’d witnessed scenes like this before, and they can take some time to resolve. The police were almost certainly en route already.

Surprisingly, however, the Black Male Causing a Disturbance stood up a moment later and made his way to the door. As he stepped off the bus he nearly fell into the street, but managed to catch himself before he could take a header onto the sidewalk. Drunk, drunk. He teetered around, making animalistic noises, and called all of us “a buncha motherfuckers.” (No points for originality.) Following that declaration, he wobbled off down the sidewalk, occasionally pausing to regain his equilibrium and have an angry conversation with himself.

As we watched him go, one of the bus drivers got on the radio. “Base?” he said into the mike. “This is Three East. Our situation has been resolved. Police involvement won’t be necessary, over. Situation is under control.”

Fuckin’ Christ, I thought. This guy watches too much Law & Order.

“Okay, folks,” the driver told us. “You can get on now. Sorry for the holdup.”

Not much of a holdup--my cigarette was only half gone. I tossed it onto the ground and squished it with the toe of my shoe. As a group of us climbed onto the bus, I overheard the driver having a conversation with one of my fellow passengers, a nosy middle-aged woman: “He’s drunk almost every day,” the driver sighed, sounding both sad and angry. “I dunno what makes a guy do that to himself.”

Our bus driver, I decided, had not been paying attention to life. Walking to my seat, I looked at the depressed, irritated, tired faces of my fellow passengers. I could’ve used a drink right then.

We rolled down the street, the bus creaking, popping and groaning the way cheap city buses do. I watched the darkened scenery scroll past my window, not really seeing any of it. There were seven or eight other people on the bus, and none of us had anything to say to each other. Apparently.

There was a rather cute chubby blonde girl in front of me. She was sitting on one of those sideways benches in front of the bus, the fold-up seats that you’re supposed to surrender for the elderly or disabled. She looked like a nice enough girl--as if you can tell by looking--and I stole little glances at her as we rode along.

When you’re riding the bus, someone’s cell phone has to ring. It’s a rule of sorts: You aren’t allowed to ride the bus without listening to one half of a phone conversation. And as the bus rolled past the IU campus, it was Cute Chubby Girl’s phone that rang. Well, it didn’t ring. It played Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” For fucksake.

I wished death on Michael Jackson about twenty-five years ago. My voodoo is slow, but it works.

I sighed and looked out the window again. Outside, a longhaired kid in a tie-dyed shirt was attempting some kind of dynamic skateboard stunt. It didn’t turn out so well, and he nearly landed on his forty-years-outta-date scrawny ass.

I was trying to decide whether to laugh or not, when suddenly the Cute Chubby Girl exclaimed into her phone: “DADDY?!? Are you serious?”

Her tone was, to say the very least, distressed. All of us on the bus looked at her. And this girl proceeded to melt down right in front of us. Sobs, tears, the whole thing. She mumbled some more words into her phone, clicked off, and then put her face in her hands and let the grief happen.

We--that is, all the rest of us on the bus--looked at each other. And we looked at her. And none of us had a goddamned thing to say to her. We dropped our eyes, pretended nothing was happening whatsoever, and prayed for the bus to hurry along.

I wondered what in hell was wrong with us. What happened to the human species somewhere along the way? Why does it feel so impossible to reach out to someone in need, someone in pain who could use a comforting arm around her shoulder or a few shallow words of consolation? Where did we go wrong?

I didn’t have an answer. So I sat there, staring at the grimy floor of the bus, listening to the girl cry, and wishing I’d brought my iPod.

Cute Chubby Girl kept on sobbing until my stop finally arrived. Feeling grateful, I galloped off the bus, along with a skinny little Goth Girl. Goth Girl walked on down the sidewalk as I paused to light a cigarette and shake the bad feelings out of my skull. As if.

After a few moments, I started walking. Then I stopped. About twenty feet in front of me, the Goth Girl had stopped and bent down to inspect something on the sidewalk. I walked a little closer and saw that it was a small pile of bright yellow flowers that someone had discarded. (Don’t ask me to identify flowers, please.) The flowers had obviously been stepped on a few times. Flattened, smeared, ignored. But Goth Girl pulled one from the mess that was relatively unscathed. She stood up, and I watched her coax its petals back into something like a natural flower shape. She held it up to her nose, inhaled, and smiled softly. The fluorescent lights overhead made her silver nose ring glimmer.

She held the flower in her hand, seeming oddly childlike, and started walking again. I moved over to the pile of crushed flowers and stared at them. In the center, I spotted one that had suffered minimal damage. I bent down, pulled it from the paste of its fellows, and stared at it. It was very pretty, a vibrant yellow with long petals and black dots that looked like freckles. I’ve always like freckles.

I started walking again, cigarette dangling from my lips, flower in my hands. I played with the petals a little bit, arranging them into what seemed, to me, like a proper flower shape. And I must admit, it was soothing. There was something very comforting about prolonging the afterlife of that bright yellow flower. I felt as if I’d done something valuable.

Then my mind wandered back to the Cute Chubby Girl again. Sigh.

Flowers we can put back together. Human beings, I guess, are on their own.

____

Slasher Movies and Spiritual Enlightenment

2009-02-26T22:39:00.005-05:00

On Friday, February 13th, Jason was back. And I was so there, dudes. I mean, sort of. I didn’t make it to the theater until Saturday, February 14th. But I’m slow like that.

It’s a tradition that began when I was a pissed and dejected teenager, and it’s one that continues today in my weary and dejected thirtysomethings: Whenever a new Friday the 13th movie is released, I line up and buy my ticket. Eagerly. Since 1986, with the release of Part VI: Jason Lives, my unholy cinematic ritual has been interrupted only once. When Jason X came out in theaters, I was serving home detention for one of my numerous drunken misdemeanors. And my case officer felt that my desire to see a slasher movie was not a valid reason to let me out of the house. Of course, I didn’t really expect him to. But I made my request to him anyway, in a distinctly half-joking tone.

“It’s Jason in outer space,” I whined. “I can’t miss that! C’mon and go with me. I’ll even buy your ticket.”

My case officer studied me, quite rightly, as if I were an imbecile. “Don’t piss me off.”

Well. It made the DVD release that much sweeter, I suppose.

According to the Associated Press, the new Friday the 13th movie “nailed” (groan) the #1 box office spot for its opening weekend, pulling in an astounding $42.2 million. Pretty impressive for a thirty-year-old fright franchise. It pleases me that horror’s hardest-working homicidal maniac has butchered his way to the top of the mountain once again. And the new F13 is, in my opinion, one of the best.

It isn’t the sort of thing you mention when you introduce yourself to someone: “Hi, my name’s Milo, and I’m a Friday the 13th fan.” Matter of fact, it isn’t something I mention to people very much at all. Sometimes when I’m watching a F13 movie and realize how much I’m enjoying it, I feel like I should walk outside and apologize to a total stranger. My rational adult mind tells me I’m too intelligent to enjoy such brainless nonsense. But deep inside of me, there’s still a little boy who used to dismember G.I. Joe action figures with firecrackers. And that little boy looks on Jason’s works and calls them good.

The term “guilty pleasure” was practically invented for Friday the 13th and other films of its kind. Made on the cheap, devoid of substantial plot, filled with atrocious acting, and often downright incoherent, the never-ending saga of Jason Voorhees is almost totally free of redeeming qualities. It’s one of pop culture’s purest junk foods. So when I say the newest Jason flick is one of the best, I suppose that’s like congratulating a homeless guy for not stinking too much. But the film is good black fun, a mean-spirited thrill ride that knows what it is and suffers no pretensions of being anything more. Once in a while, it’s exhilarating to surrender to something so unapologetically stupid.

After my regrettable absence during Jason X’s theatrical run, I would not be denied the new F13 reboot. (Don't get me started on Freddy vs. Jason. Just don't.) I went to the theater nice and early so I could claim a good seat. There were fifteen minutes to waste before the movie began and only a handful of people were in the theater as I walked in. An oldies station was playing over the cinema’s sound system. I heard the Beatles caterwauling in prime nasal harmony: "All you need is love!" they demanded.

As a person sitting down to watch a Friday the 13th movie, the incongruity of this song was not lost on me.

Stranger still: It may sound unbelievable, but this particular fan of Jason Voorhees often carries a pocket-size version of Dhammapada: The Sayings of the Buddha. I am not a practicing Buddhist--or a practicing anything, for that matter--but I do enjoy reading the Buddha’s teachings. They have a calming effect on the out-of-control whirligig that is my psyche. Even if the effect is momentary and illusory, I’ll take what relief I can get.

I flipped open the Dhammapada and squinted my eyes in the dim light of the theater. The oldies station was playing Tom Jones now. “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone,” Tom declared.

Better than a thousand hollow verses
Is one verse that brings peace.

Some bored teenagers across the aisle were throwing popcorn and M&M’s at each other. One boy called another boy a “Fuckin’ pussy.” “Bring it, faggot!” was the reply.

It is better to conquer yourself
Than to win a thousand battles.

A few minutes passed this way. Then a very tall young man sat down directly in front of me. It was immediately obvious that I would be staring at the back of his head throughout the movie. Sigh. I stood up and moved to a different seat, grumbling profanities to myself.

Set your heart on doing good.
Do it over and over again,
And you will be filled with joy.

Finally, the lights went down and the previews began. First up was a glimpse of the forthcoming adaptation of Alan Moore’s brilliant Watchmen comic. The loud, flashy preview did nothing to sway my cynical opinion that this movie is a terrible idea fueled by simple greed. There is zero chance that a two-hour movie will be able to capture the depth that Moore layered into his original story. As the preview ended, I made up my mind to skip the movie entirely.

As the rich merchant with few servants
Shuns a dangerous road
And the man who loves life shuns poison,
Beware the dangers of folly and mischief.

The next preview was for a Disney movie starring Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. In this film, the Rock is teamed with a pair of excessively cute kids who (I guess) also happen to be aliens. The preview featured a lot of family-friendly explosions and wisecracking. I think the movie’s title had something to do with a Magic Mountain? Or was it Space Mountain? I could look it up, of course. But why would I?

Do not be reckless.
Meditate constantly.
Or you will swallow fire
And cry out: “No more!”

After that was a sneak peek at Confessions of a Shopaholic. I was going to make some snide comments about this preview as well, but I just…don’t want to talk about it. My capacity for cinematic horror has its limit.

At last, the New Line Cinema logo appeared onscreen, appropriately drenched in crimson red. (Cue the music: Ki-ki-ki, ma-ma-ma…) And it didn’t take long for matters to take shape, as a group of horny teens entered the Crystal Lake woods in search of a marijuana crop. As darkness fell, they set up camp and were soon engaged in the usual behavior of getting drunk, getting stoned, and fucking like beasts. They had heard the legend of Jason Voorhees, but didn’t believe it was true. Of course.

But bad men move unseen
Like arrows in the night.

Soon, a beautiful, naked brunette was tied up inside of her sleeping bag and roasted alive over a roaring campfire.

But the fool in his mischief forgets
And he lights the fire
Wherein one day he must burn.

The flame-broiled girl’s boyfriend returned to the scene, screamed in terror, and then stepped into a bear trap that Jason had carefully placed nearby. The boyfriend gaped in shock at the mangled red meat of his ankle. And, understandably, he screamed some more. But not for long.

All beings tremble before violence.
All fear death.
All love life.

And so it went. Arrow through the skull. Machete to the head. Screwdriver to the throat. I settled into my seat and let out a contented sigh. For me, watching Jason ply his trade was like slipping on that old pair of jeans with the ripped knees and frayed pockets. Familiar and comforting. Most of the people in the audience were teenagers, and I watched with amusement as many of them yelped, howled and cheered at all the proper moments. But, for me, the best moment was Jason’s discovery of his trademark hockey mask. After slipping it on for the first time, he stepped in front of a mirror and took a long look at himself in the dust-covered glass.

When the world dissolves
Everything becomes clear.

I offered a loud “YEAH!” and several others in the audience echoed my sentiment.

Satisfied with his new look, Jason picked up his machete and went back to work. Audience approval would not have mattered to him. He is beyond such concerns. Faceless, voiceless, calm, focused. It occurred to me that if Jason could only get rid of that one nagging earthly desire to kill all human beings, he would be very Zen indeed.

I pondered this notion briefly, until I watched Jason impale a big-breasted blonde onto the antlers of a very large deer trophy. And I decided that nirvana might be too much to expect of Jason Voorhees. But, like the rest of us in the theater that night, he’s only human.

___

A Special Place in Hell

2008-10-28T23:38:00.004-04:00

Saturday, a man came into the auto parts store and gave me an important news update. He informed me that the earth is only six thousand years old.

I stared at him and pondered the obvious dilemma: Was it worthwhile to argue against such a dumbass statement? But before I could make up my mind, the man laid this declaration on me: A cornerstone of King Solomon’s castle was recently found, and this proves conclusively that Solomon was a true historical figure. Thus, it follows that everything written in the Holy Bible is fact.

The man kept a deadly serious face as he told me all of this. He arched one eyebrow, nodding his head slowly and knowingly. He was obese, sweaty, unshaven, and puffing on a cheap cigarette. His dark hair was in the process of graying, and it fell lank and greasy over his ears, clinging with apparent desperation to his neck. I was not comfortable sharing this planet with him.

I didn't respond quickly enough to suit the man, so he offered me another piece of very Christian sentiment: “Everyone who’s living in sin, man, they’re gonna regret it on Judgment Day. And y’know what? It’s gonna feel good to look at ‘em and say ‘Told ya so.’”

He laughed, puffing his cigarette, and (again) waited for me to respond.

I was repulsed, but I tried my best not to show it. The man had begun this topic of conversation earlier, with another customer in the parts store. But after a few minutes, the other customer had done the only sane thing and fled the store. Unsatisfied with this outcome, Mr. Unwashed Christian had directed the remainder of his sermon at me. I was not allowed to run away. I had to stand at my computer terminal and suffer, because it was my job to sell some brake pads to this stinky wacko.

“What do you think about it, man?” he asked.

“Does your car have drum brakes or disc brakes on the back?” I replied. “It makes a difference on which front pads you need.”

He opened his mouth to respond…and then twisted his lips into a puzzled knot. “I’m, uh, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have discs on the back.”

During the course of an average work day, I will hear the two words pretty sure from at least ten different customers. And those two words, when spoken together, always constitute a half-assed lie. How can you be pretty sure your car doesn’t have rear disc brakes? Questions concerning the design of an automobile are not invitations to philosophical discussion: You either know the answer or you don’t. This man didn’t know, but he was unwilling to confess his ignorance. It’s a peculiar pride that affects many American men. Some years ago, it was decided by persons unknown that American men are supposed to be born with an instinctive ability to repair cars. Most of us realize this is nonsense, but only a few of us will admit it.

“So you don’t know whether it has discs on the back,” I said. I didn’t phrase it as a question this time.

“Naw, naw, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” he said, without a trace of confidence. “Seems like it has drum brakes back there. Yeah.”

I grunted in a tone that I hoped was ambiguous, and studied my computer catalog screen.

“You got an ashtray, man?” Mr. Christian asked me.

I set an ashtray on the countertop in front of him. If it surprises you that smoking is allowed inside an auto parts store, remember that this story takes place in small town Indiana. Indiana. If people want to kill themselves in order to escape, I sympathize and I’m here to help.

The man smeared out his cigarette in the ashtray. “So, you go to church?”

“Looks like we have your brake pads in stock,” I told him. “I’ll get them for you.”

I walked to the stockroom and pulled the proper box of brake pads from a shelf. As I carried them back to the front of the store, I paused and farted on the box. A petty and ineffectual gesture, but it gave me a small feeling of satisfaction. Like the burning of an effigy.

Returning to the sales counter, I placed the brake pads in front of the man. “That’s a weird looking tattoo you got,” he said, pointing at my right forearm. “Whatta those symbols mean?”

For the record, my tattoo doesn’t mean much of anything. It’s a squiggly little symbol comprised of a stylized P and F. Pink Floyd used it to promote their Division Bell album and tour in 1994, and to my knowledge the symbol contains no deeper meaning than that. It looks kind of cool and mysterious, but it’s really just a corporate logo for a bunch of filthy rich English rock stars.

“It’s Taiwanese,” I deadpanned. “It says Made in Argentina.”

The man blinked a couple of times, frowning at me. You’re fucking with me, right? his eyes asked. He opened his mouth to respond…

…and I asked him, “Cash or charge?”

He pulled out his wallet and began rifling through its contents. “I notice you dodged my question about going to church, man. So howbout it?”

“I can’t tell a mosque from a kiosk,” I admitted. “I’m really not interested in any of it.”

He shook his head gravely. “You should give that some thought, brother. I’m serious.”

Brother? I tapped some buttons on my computer keyboard. And just like that, the price of this dickhead’s brake pads increased by 35%.

“The pads are $56.39,” I said, smiling proudly.

“Man!” he exclaimed. “I’m tellin’ ya, everything I buy for this car is outrageous on price.”

I filled my face with bullshit sympathy before replying. “Yeah, I know. But it’s the price of metals these days. Supply and demand, global economic crisis, all that stuff.”

“OH!” he roared. “OH, don’t even get me started on the Wall Streeters, man. Just don’t. There’s gonna be a special place in hell for those guys, and you better believe it. Trust me.”

I grunted again and processed his debit card. I wondered how this guy could know in advance who would be assigned to what district in hell? Had he sent off for a travel plan, some kind of package with an informative brochure?

The guy signed the credit card receipt and I handed his copy to him. Wheezing, he scooped up his brake pads. Then he pointed at me and winked. “First Church of Christ, brother. You know where it is?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. It was a lie, but I didn’t want him to give me directions to the place. It would only extend our conversation and delay his exit.

“I’ll see you there,” he assured me. He nodded his head affirmatively, trying his best to appear sagelike.

“Thanks for your business,” I said. Unconvincingly.

He lumbered out the door, sucking and blowing wind. Ten minutes after he was gone, I could still smell him.

After that, I sold two quarts of oil to an underfed, underwashed thirtysomething woman. She paid me with nickels, dimes, and quarters. Mostly nickels. As I counted her change, the woman asked me if Dairy Queen accepted food stamp cards. I told her yes.

Then I walked to the back of the store and lit a cigarette. I was in Indiana.

_

Scatterations

2008-09-23T22:15:00.010-04:00

I am unmotivated of late. Inspiration is difficult to come by. Sure, I have a list of potential writing topics--ideas that are waiting to be sculpted (or bludgeoned) into short stories. But I am looking at them now, and they’re barely more appealing than the Republican Party. I feel like playing with words, but not in a truly constructive way. So I’ll do what I usually do in this circumstance. I’ll let the bullshit flow wherever it wants to go.

As I type this, I am listening to Metallica’s new album Death Magnetic. I am also watching a Looney Tunes DVD with the sound turned off. This combination is more compelling than you might imagine. Check out some lyrics from “Broken, Beat and Scarred”:

Cutting your feet on the hard earth running
Show your scars
Spilling your blood in the hot sun’s glory
Show your scars
You rise, you fall
You’re down, then you rise again
What don’t kill ya make ya more strong

I feel confident that someone will create a Wile E. Coyote montage to go along with this song. Coming soon to YouTube. If it isn’t there already.

Death Magnetic is a surprisingly focused and intense album. It’s easily Metallica’s strongest effort since …And Justice for All, and it’s certainly better than 2003’s St. Anger. Of course, a band that typically takes FIVE YEARS to record new material should deliver a glittering holy masterpiece for the ages. Every album should be The Grapes of Wrath, Star Wars, chocolate chip cookies and cold beer made into heavy metal. Death Magnetic is not quite that. But it’s pretty good.

If the reviews and message boards I’ve read are indicative, then Metallica seem to be regaining some credibility with their longtime fans. Of course, there will always be those who condemn Metallica as a bunch of arrogant greedy corporate assholes. To these charges, I have only one reply: DUH. Metallica are rock stars. And hating a rock star for being an asshole is like hating an elephant for having a big nose. It’s simply the nature of the animal. If I threw out all of my music, books and movies that were created by assholes, I would be sitting in a nearly empty room right now.

() () ()

On the subject of music, I have been reading Eye Mind: The Saga of Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators, the Pioneers of Psychedelic Sound. (I’m reading it because I can’t resist a clean, concise book title.) Roky Erickson has long been one of my favorite songwriters, and I’m happy that he’s finally getting some mainstream recognition--and long overdue royalty checks--for his work.

Roky’s interviews are nearly as entertaining as his music. I love this excerpt from the book:

Roky: I was arrested for marijuana…when the policeman said he found the vial. I think I was set up for that.

Q: How?

Roky: Well, it doesn’t seem right that I would throw out a vial of grass into the weeds and a policeman would stop and set his flashlight on it and get it.

Q: Are you saying he planted it?

Roky: That sounds real good.

But my favorite quote from Roky Erickson is a question: “Who is Pink Floyd, anyway? Is he some kinda party clown or somethin’?”

() () ()

And with that clumsy segue, I must offer a tiny tribute to the recently deceased Richard Wright. He was, in my opinion, one of the most underrated forces in popular music. In Pink Floyd, he was the quietest member of a mostly faceless band, and consequently he was often forgotten in the background. Worse still, some dismissed him as little more than hired help. But he was an excellent musician and songwriter. “Us and Them.” “Echoes.” “The Great Gig in the Sky.” “Shine on You Crazy Diamond.” Richard’s contribution to the signature Pink Floyd Sound is inestimable. And his 1996 solo album, Broken China, is proof that he didn’t have to lean on the other Floyds to create powerful original music.

It’s hard to remember a time when his ghostly keyboards and soft, rasping vocals weren’t playing in the background of my life. Those must have been lousy days.

Shine on.

Odd Turns

2008-07-31T22:20:00.007-04:00

Monday morning I was sitting outside my favorite record store, waiting for it to open. Because I have no life, that’s why. And because I’m an old-fashioned geek who still enjoys buying CDs, that’s why. Don’t gimme no grief about it.

As I sat there, enjoying the mid-morning sunshine and minding my own business, the local Bag Lady came walking by. The Bag Lady is something of a celebrity around town. She’s been here for at least the past twenty years, forever wandering the streets with her old shopping carts full of…bags. I have no idea who she truly is or what her name is. She is simply the Bag Lady. And she has the stereotype down perfectly: She’s short and thick-looking, always wrapped in a heavy coat, wearing a rain-wrinkled hat and a pair of deceased tennis shoes. At a moment’s notice, she could walk onto the set of Law & Order and be ready for her cameo appearance. There's something surreal about that. It's hard to believe that a real-life bag lady can look so much like a bag lady.

The record store had a faded copy of David Bowie’s Young Americans LP on display in the front window. I was staring at it when the Bag Lady came to a halt in front of me. She panted a little and wiped some sweat from her sunpeeled face. She looked up at the mostly clear blue sky and it seemed to confirm something for her.

“Gonna be a hot one today, young man," the Bag Lady said. She smiled at me with some very unpleasant teeth.

I was surprised by her words. I’d passed the Bag Lady on the sidewalk quite a few times over the years, but I’d never heard her speak before. “Well, yeah,” I said, examining the sky for myself. “But, y’know, it is July.”

She laughed and pointed her index finger at me, as if to tell me what a wise little rascal I was. After that, her smile turned into a curious frown. “You look sad,” she declared, sounding strangely cheerful about the topic.

“You think so?” I looked at my reflection in the record store's darkened window. I looked like me.

The Bag Lady made an affirmative noise in her throat and grabbed hold of her shopping carts again. “It’s okay,” she said happily.

“I suppose,” I said, still examining my face. I sensed that the old lady and I were having two separate conversations together. But that isn’t unusual for me.

“Gonna be a hot one today,” she said. Again. And then she looked at the sky. Again.

I nodded my head and smiled.

And that was the end of our conversation. Pushing one cart and dragging the other, the Bag Lady marched onward. She went to the end of the block and crossed the street. I watched her go until she was out of sight. Then I stared at my reflection in the window for a while. My lined face and thinning hair mocked me. No one should live to be thirty-four. It’s ridiculous.

Shortly afterward, the record store opened. Over time, I’ve become familiar with the store owner and we usually make conversation as I browse for music. He’s an interesting guy, and his knowledge of music history always impresses me. He also possesses an eerily precise memory of what his customers have purchased in the recent past.

I picked out two CDs, John Mellencamp’s Life Death Love and Freedom and Juliana Hatfield’s Beautiful Creature. As I handed them to the store owner, he shook his head in amused bewilderment. “Y’know, man, you are just all over the map.”

“Uh?” I asked, eloquently.

He waved the CDs around in the air, as if he were shooing a persistent fly. “Well, last time you bought a Slayer album. And the time before that, you bought the Flaming Lips. I mean, I think it’s cool, but you take some odd turns.”

I shrugged it off. “I like to have something for every mood, I guess.”

With a sardonic grin, he held up the Juliana Hatfield CD. “So let’s see, some guy broke your heart…” then he held up the Mellencamp CD, “and you’re probably not gonna vote for John McCain?”

I laughed and sighed at the same time. “Prick. You want my money or what?”

He did. I paid him, we said goodbye until next time, and I walked out.

I went to the bus stop and had a seat. I pulled out a cigarette, stared at it for a moment, and then put it back in the box. Before I could put the cigs back in my pocket, a chubby goth girl walked over to me and asked if she could have one. I would describe her, but why bother? She was a chubby goth girl. Everyone’s seen one.

I handed the girl a cigarette and she lit up. She inhaled deeply, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked at the cigarette. Peering out from behind her sweaty mascara, she said, “You should smoke full-flavored.”

I stared at her. “You’re welcome.”

Her nose wrinkled. Again. “Yeah, well, yeah. Thanks.”

With a huff, she turned her big ungrateful ass around and walked back over to her boyfriend. He was a large guy with a shaved head and a long goatee. He was wearing an ankle-length leather coat, decorated with various chrome spikes and buckles. Sweat was dribbling down his bald head as the late morning heat climbed toward ninety degrees. He was obviously suffering, but nonetheless determined to make his fashion statement. He looked like a leather-wrapped microwave burrito.

After a few minutes my bus showed up. I climbed on, with my sad face and odd turns and wimpy cigarettes. I felt normal.

-

No-Touch

2008-07-13T23:07:00.005-04:00

I was in the restroom at the mall Monday. And before I go any further, I have to brag on the restroom in my local mall. It’s newly constructed, and everything within is motion-sensitive. You walk away from the urinal and it flushes itself. You hold your hands under the faucet and the water flows. You walk in front of the paper towel dispenser and it spits out paper automatically--or you can opt for the air dryer. There is no door, so you don’t have to grab hold of a door handle and wonder if the last guy washed his hands. And on your way out, you can pause at the water fountain and it will offer a drink without the slightest touch. When you use this restroom, the only thing you have to touch is your own thing. It is a high-class high-tech Twenty-First Century shit house. I appreciate that.

Right. So. Having taken care of my business, I finished drying my hands and tossed my paper towel into the trash. I paused to admire my exquisitely handsome face in the mirror, and then I turned to leave.

A man was standing there. He was probably in his early sixties, short and potbellied, with long stringy wisps of gray hair. His eyeglasses were crooked and his blue polo shirt was too small. He was wearing green cargo shorts, but they were hilariously oversized, stopping just above his ankles. When I see a teenage boy wearing shorts like this, I don’t give it much thought. But on a sixty year old man, it’s a less than flattering look. On a sixty year old man it says, What in hell ever happened to me, anyway?

I make special note of this man’s cargo shorts, because he was fumbling with the belt on them. It was clear to me that he was preparing to drop his pants right there on the floor. And here is an important detail: The restroom is divided in two. One room contains toilets and urinals, one room has sinks and mirrors. We were in the room with sinks and mirrors.

I believe in an unspoken law of restroom etiquette: If you are not in the vicinity of an appliance which has been designated for bodily waste disposal, then you keep your damned pants on.

Clearly this man was oblivious to concepts of etiquette, because he continued to fumble with his belt right there in front of me. But since I was on my way out, I decided to let this old guy do what he wanted. If he wants to have a party with himself, fine. I’m gone.

Staying close to the wall, I slowly and quietly began to walk past the old man. Almost out, I told myself, almost safe from the sexagenarian exhibitionist….

The old man whirled around to face me. His eyes were bright with alarm and his face was filmed with sweat. He stretched the waistline of his gigantic shorts toward me with both hands, shaking the shorts up and down. He looked like a mentally handicapped matador, one who’d forgotten his red flag at home and had to make do.

“Do you know how to work these kinds of belts?!?” he asked me, his voice whiny and pleading. And he shook his pants up and down again, for emphasis.

I stared into this old man’s eyes for a moment, speechless, and I realized he was totally serious. He honestly expected me to just reach out and undo his belt for him. And while it’s hard to be sure, he didn’t seem like a sleazy restroom pervert or anything of the sort. No, I sensed that he was just a confused and senile old man who couldn’t grasp the mechanics of the young-dude cargo shorts he’d purchased.

After thirty-four years, these incidents really shouldn’t surprise me. As I’ve explained before, there is something about my personal aura that calls out to every freak, tweak, wacko and lunatic who currently lives on this planet. Somehow these people sense that I will be sympathetic and tolerant toward them. And I confess, that’s often true. But there is a limit, fergodsake.

So I stared at this poor befuddled old guy and shook my head. I pitied him, but not enough to undo his fucking belt. “How did you get the pants on to begin with?” I asked.

“Oh, well, they’re too big, y’see?” And he shook the waistline of his shorts yet again. “They’re too big. They were like this when I bought ‘em, so I just pulled ‘em on without undoing the belt.”

I’m sure I frowned at him. “Sooo…can’t you just pull them off without undoing the belt?”

The flash of realization in his eyes was both comical and pathetic. “Oh! You’re right! Thank you, sir!”

He spun around and sprinted into the other room, where the toilets and urinals awaited. And I got the hell out of there.

As I went, I heard his voice again, echoing off the glossy new tile and stone of the restroom: “THANK YOU!”

Yeah. God bless me.

-

Monday Night War Zone

2008-07-08T00:16:00.011-04:00

It was 1997 and I was mostly drunk most of the time. Drugged too, but mostly I was drunk and mostly I did it alone. But not always. There was Herman, after all.

Herman had moved to town a few months previous, having taken a truck driving job for a local hauling contractor. I met him when he came into the auto parts store, and we hit it off immediately. If you were fond of laughing, you could only like Herman. He was one of the funniest people I’d ever met, and humor was something I desperately needed in my life at that time. I was fucked up, half-starved, and very Generation X. That is, I was morose, lazy, and disgusted with everything you could put on a list. Suicide was like a thirsty mosquito buzzing in my ear, and I was tired of constantly shooing it away.

So it was good to have Herman around. He possessed an infinite supply of ridiculous, hilarious stories that he’d accumulated from his varied travels in life. Whether these stories were truthful or not didn’t rank as a matter of importance to me. Herman made me laugh, and hanging around with him was good for my soul. He was also, like me, an enthusiastic alcoholic with a particular taste for vodka. After I helped Herman acquire an apartment next door to my own, the local package store frequently ran out of 100 Proof Smirnoff. Hanging with Herman may have been good for my soul, but it didn’t do any favors for my liver.

Herman was, I think, fifty-nine years old at the time--although he confessed that he was unsure of his own birth date. He was tall, lanky and black. Really black. In point of fact, Herman was one of only two black people in the entire town. In small-town southern Indiana, that made him about as black as humanly possible. Predictably, the very white local townspeople hadn’t welcomed him with open arms and offers of friendship. I never heard Herman complain of any outright hostility directed toward him--his large physical stature probably discouraged all of that. But I saw the dark frowns on people’s faces when his back was turned. And I heard the growls and murmurings, which usually went something like this: “Fuckin’ Mexicans were bad enough, now we got niggers movin’ in.”

Well. I’d never liked the locals much anyway.

Even if the local racists had summoned the courage to curse Herman to his face, the odds are that they couldn’t have gotten a word in with him. This was a man who existed to communicate with others, and he was unwaveringly dedicated to his calling. As much as I adored the crazy bastard, his stream-of-consciousness jabbering did tend to wear me out after a few hours. If Herman had been a painting, he would have talked. If he’d been a stone or a bedpost he would have talked. Silence played no role in Herman’s life. Indeed, I don’t think he’d ever heard of the concept.

I am a quiet creature by nature, so I did a lot of listening. This was fine in the early evening, when Herman was sharing funny anecdotes and feeling mellow. But as the night wore on and the two of us consumed greater amounts of liquor, things would usually get more serious. Herman would begin complaining about all of his troubles in life, and he kept a long checklist of them in his head. First, he would usually complain about his lousy no-future job, which was a topic I could easily relate to. Likewise, I could sympathize with his complaints concerning money, and his general lack of it. But then he would move on to the world of his five ex-wives (!) and the large assortment of estranged children he had scattered across the Midwest. This was all foreign territory to me, the far-fetched stuff of movies and novels. I pretended to listen, nodded my head agreeably, and drank more vodka. Herman would go on an on, describing his many fuckups and regrets, and I would feel a little better about myself and my life. Friends should do that for each other.

Herman called me “Tricky” most of the time. It was my nickname. Everyone who lived in Herman’s world received a nickname.

“Tricky,” he would often say to me, “you a helluva man. Fo’ real. You always here whenever I need someone to talk to. Boy, I appreciate it.”

“Anything left to smoke?” I would ask.

Herman’s oldest son worked in a UPS distribution center somewhere. Every now and then, a nondescript brown box would land on Herman’s doorstep, and it would be stuffed full of green goodness. And these weren’t small boxes. Sometimes the kid even sent rolling papers in his care packages. I never asked Herman if his son, shall we say, supplemented his UPS salary with additional income.

Our friendship only became truly strained when the TV was on. Herman loved television, practically worshipped it. At that point in my life, I could hardly stand to watch it. I enjoyed movies and cartoons sometimes, but most of the programming on TV made me feel nauseous. I didn’t like sports, sitcoms, the news, or dramas about doctors, lawyers and policemen. I detested Letterman, Leno, Stern, Tom Brokaw, David Duchovny, OJ Simpson, Cindy Crawford, Michael Jordan, Bill and Hillary, and especially all those maddening dumbass commercials. When I watched TV, I felt as if the screen were assaulting me. Television was selling a bogus product, a bullshit vision of the American lifestyle, and I didn’t like the way it manipulated my emotions. My emotions were muddled enough already.

But it was important to Herman that we do our male bonding while watching TV, so I went along with it. It was normally a low-key affair, the two of us drunk and stoned and staring at the magic entertainment box. Sometimes I wondered how my life had come to such a state, but then I would take another drink and say to hell with it. And if that didn’t work, I would take yet another drink and say fuck it.

One Monday evening, this vegetative scenario was violently interrupted. We were watching professional wrestling. And let me tell you, watching pro wrestling with Herman was entertaining. He got into it, stomping and howling and cursing and cheering. When we watched wrestling, the whole neighborhood knew about it. And if Hulk Hogan was wrestling? Forget about it. Herman would be on his feet for the entire match, punching and jabbing and shaking his ass like a high school cheerleader. The Hulkster was his man, his hero. The "Real American," the Superman of wrestling.

But on this particular night, Hulk Hogan was different. He came to the ring wearing black clothing instead of his trademark yellow and red. His familiar Fu Manchu moustache was now set off with black beard stubble. The audience was booing him, and Hogan sneered arrogantly at them.

Herman looked at me, frowning and bewildered. “Tricky, what the hell…?”

I shrugged in my ignorance, having no idea what was going on. Clearly, we had missed last week’s episode. Or more likely, we had been too fucked up to remember it.

Herman was aghast as Hulk Hogan, the archetypal wrestling good guy, grabbed a microphone and informed everyone watching that we were looking at the new Hulk Hogan. “Hollywood” Hogan had arrived. Hogan told us that he and his gang, the New World Order, would rule wrestling forever. “And to all you fans out there,” he declared, “you can stick it!” Presumably, up our asses.

I laughed, and I laughed hard. Much like Anakin Skywalker, the Hulkster had succumbed to the Dark Side. Hollywood Hogan. This was funny shit.

Herman did not laugh. On the contrary, his drunken bloodshot eyes blazed with a fury that was frightening. I had seen Herman angry before, but this was something different. This was betrayal. Fully enraged, he leaped forward and shouted, “YOU NO-GOOD SORRY SON OF A BITCH!!!”

My poor old second-hand television never had a prayer. Herman kicked the screen dead center with his steel-toed work boot. The TV bounced off the wall, hit the floor, and belched out a quick, wretched death. A long jagged crack had formed across the darkened screen. In a matter of seconds, my apartment was filled with that distinctive fried-electronics odor. The stench lingered for a couple of days afterward.

Had I been sober, I probably would have leaped to my feet in alarm or outrage, something along those lines. But sober I was not, so I just stared down at my demolished television and thought about what an unusual evening this was turning out to be. I’d never seen anyone attack a television set before. Except, y’know, on TV.

Herman stood in the center of my living room for a time, staring at the wall, trembling and seething. I heard him mumble something to the effect of, “Even you, Hulk Hogan.” And I’m sure I heard a “motherfucker” and another “son of a bitch” in there somewhere.

I think my friend Herman had abandonment issues. Just a hunch.

Eventually, he cooled off and looked at me. The rage was gone, and now there was sadness and regret in his eyes. He looked down at my savaged television as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Aw no! Aw shit. Tricky, I’m sorry, boy. Damn, I’m sorry.”

“Herman,” I said, somewhat shell-shocked, “you just drop-kicked my fuckin’ TV. What the hell, man?”

He plopped onto the couch again, bent over and put his head in his hands. “C’mon Lord, I can’t believe I done that. I’m sorry, Tricky. Oh, I’m sorry. It just, I dunno, I dunno. Lord, my sorry ass, shit!”

It went something like that. And it went on for a minute or two. The whole display was so pitiful that I felt guilty for even mentioning that he’d destroyed my television. I felt guilty, if that makes any sense.

“It’s all right, Herman,” I finally said. “Don’t worry about it, man. It was an old TV anyway. No big deal.”

Sitting up straight and slowly shaking his head, Herman looked at me again. The grief in his face was, in my opinion, quite out of proportion to the circumstances at hand. But I also realized that, under the surface, we were no longer just dealing with Hulk Hogan’s new black tights and a broken television set. There was something bigger and nastier than that in the room with us. Neither of us was going to look it in the eye, but it was there.

“I’ll buy you a new one, Tricky,” Herman sighed, his voice gravelly with emotion. “I got to. Okay?”

I knew that would never actually happen, so I let it go. “Okay.”

I reached over and clicked on the radio, and then we drank some more. Sometime later that night, one of us unplugged the TV and set it on the front porch. I don’t remember doing it myself, but I may have. And soon after, I found another cheap used TV. Herman didn’t offer to pay for it, and I wouldn’t have accepted his money in any case.

Less than two years later Herman quietly skipped town, leaving behind a considerable number of angry bill collectors. The last time I saw him was around Christmas 1998. I was doing a stint in court-ordered drug and alcohol rehab, living in a halfway house and wondering how in hell anyone could withstand sobriety. Herman came to visit me one weekend. He greeted me with a huge smile and a crushing hug. It was damned good to see him.

Herman danced around, squeezing the air from my lungs and slapping my back affectionately. “Tricky!”

I laughed and savored the smell of liquor on his breath. “How ya been, Hollywood?”

_

M-A-U-D-L-I-N

2008-07-01T23:04:00.012-04:00

"Yesterday is twice removed / Tomorrow’s close behind"
-- The Screaming Trees

True story time. Again.

About twelve years ago, I showed up for work at the auto parts store and discovered a dead cat in front of the building. The poor beast had been struck by a car, and it had apparently staggered a short distance from the street before dying. A splattering of blood had dried on the side of the cat’s face and neck. It was a warm spring that year, and the gnats were already hard at work. Well, you can't judge them. It's what they do.

It was--or had been--a short-haired black cat with a few odd tufts of white in its coat. Sudden death aside, it was a scrawny, mangy-looking feline. Most likely a stray, unfed and unloved. Too bad.

One of my coworkers suggested scooping up the cat with a snow shovel and tossing it into the dumpster. And, in the interest of truth, I must confess that I considered the idea. But I couldn’t make myself do it. Instead, I walked to the back of the store and scrounged up an empty cardboard box. (If memory serves, it was a Gunk Engine Degreaser box.) I put on a pair of jersey gloves, picked up the cat and gently placed it inside. As I handled the cat, I noticed that its body hadn’t stiffened yet. I couldn’t decide if that was preferable or not.

My rented house was a short walk from the parts store. I left work--having clocked in only five minutes earlier--and carried the cat to my place. I dug a shallow hole in the back yard and placed the little cardboard casket down in the earth. After covering the hole over with dirt again, I stared at the ground for a while. Much longer than I should have, for a cat that wasn’t even mine. Or anyone else’s.

I think that last part is what bothered me most.

Finally, I turned away. I don't know whether I felt like a saint or an idiot. It’s a fine line.

I went into my house and chased some vodka with Listerine. Then I walked back to work.

+ ! +

This morning I showed up at the parts store and discovered a dead moth near the back door. It was a big fat specimen, genuinely beautiful. All those shades of orange and brown, swirling together on its large wings. One of its wings, tragically, was mangled. I wondered what had killed the moth--a cat, perhaps?--but I didn’t wonder about it for long. It made me sad to see such a magnificent little creature dead, but it was time to clock in for work. I walked inside and put the moth out of my mind.

A few hours later, I walked out the back door with an armload of boxes to burn. It’s true, we should recycle our cardboard. But burning boxes is a good excuse to go outside and goof off for a few minutes. So I am quick to volunteer. If it comes down to a decision between saving the earth or avoiding the auto-parts-buying public, well, the earth will have to send me a bill.

I stuffed some boxes into the burning barrel and fired them up. As the boxes turned to ash and stank up the entire town, I kicked rocks around and daydreamed about nothing in particular.

Then I saw the moth again. But this time, unfortunately, it wasn’t dead. Its legs were twitching, and its one functional wing was slowly fanning back and forth in an attempt at flight. It was an act of pure instinct, and completely hopeless. It was pitiful to behold. Almost heartbreaking.

I watched the moth for a few moments, deeply saddened by its wretched state. Then I stepped on its head and ended its misery. The pop it made was sharp and nauseating.

Sigh. I fetched a paper towel from inside the store and wrapped the moth in it. Then I carried it over to the burning barrel and tossed it into the flames. The trash dumpster was nearby, but I felt that cremation was a better sendoff for such a lovely creature. Perhaps the moth would turn to ash and swirl up into the air one last time. It seemed a more dignified fate than riding to the landfill in a garbage truck.

As I thought about all this, I heard the moth sizzle loudly in the flames. And then it popped again. Loudly. It sounded like ham steak being overcooked in a microwave oven.

Dignity. Like everything else, it's relative.

-

Or Was it Half Empty?

2008-06-29T21:50:00.008-04:00

During a rare peaceful moment at work yesterday, I stepped outside to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. Morning rains had made for a humid day, but I didn’t mind. It was good to be outside, beneath a crisp blue sky, away from ringing telephones and nagging crybaby customers. I lit a cigarette, hated myself for it, and inhaled deeply anyway. I felt empty-headed, dull, disgusted, violated, and deathly bored. It was a day at work.

I watched the traffic go past on the highway. The coming and going, stopping and slowing, honking and cursing. I have spent an inordinate amount of my life watching people in traffic. There is an oddly comforting aspect to it, as if I am resting in the calm center of a whirling mechanical maelstrom. So many people rushing toward home, work, shopping, weddings, adultery, funerals, parties, dinners, crucifixions and whatnot. All those people on their little missions in life, but as I watch them I am still and unmoving: a rock fixed in the midst of the great rushing stream. Very Zen. All deep and shit, y’know.

Several minutes passed, and then that dreary moment arrived when I could no longer ignore my duties. As I turned to walk back inside, I noticed a discarded beer can in the parking lot. Being a civic-minded sorta fella, I decided to carry the can inside the store and dispose of it in our aluminum can recycling bin. Live green, save the earth, protect our planet. Shake well before serving, may cause birth defects, figures sold separately.

I picked up the beer can and made an appalling discovery. It was nearly half full, for Gawd’s sake! What kind of lackadaisical drunks are being bred these days?

I am what the Twelve Steppers like to call a “recovering alcoholic,” and thus I no longer drink. But as a longtime devoted boozehound, this orphaned half-can of beer made my soul weep. I poured the sweet golden liquid out on the ground, shaking my head with grave sadness. Such waste was unconscionable. It offended me, I tell you.

After emptying the can, I held it under my nose and inhaled. Ah, darling. There are no words for how wonderful and dangerous that can smelled to me. A dozen naked porn starlets forcing themselves on me could not have been more stimulating. And yes, I am aware of just how pathetic that is.

Sigh. I carried the empty inside and dropped it into the recycling bin. Surrounded by Diet Coke and Red Bull labels, that Miller Lite can seemed conspicuous and untrustworthy. Like a grown man eating alone at Chuck E. Cheese.

I stared at the can for a minute or so. I wasn’t really thinking about the can, but instead what it symbolized: the painful, regrettable and unchangeable past. For me, this is a serious project that requires a lot of time, because there’s a lot of ground to cover. It’s pointless and unproductive, but at least once a day I find myself spaced out, rehashing my personal history and hoping for the ending to be different this time. This, of course, does not make me special. I suspect that most of my fellow thirtysomethings around the world keep me company in this routine.

Then the front door buzzer, uh, buzzed, so I walked up front.

A rather hairy and unwashed man with rotten teeth was waiting for me at the sales counter. He was wearing a tattered Harley Davidson t-shirt and a grease-stained skullcap. He was, and I must be honest, one of the dumbest-looking humans I’ve ever seen. And yeah boy, I've seen some.

I didn’t mind. The man had interrupted my little self-pitying reverie and I felt glad for it. I sold him some Fix-a-Flat and a U-joint for his pickup truck. He commented about the high price of auto parts these days--which is true enough--but he was a good sport about it. As we finished our business, he smiled with his dreadful teeth and thanked me. We wished each other a good day and he walked out.

Sometimes it's easy. For a minute or two.

_

One For the Old Days

2008-06-22T22:36:00.013-04:00

During my junior year in high school, way back and gone in 1990, I took a job working in a gas station. Not a convenience store, but an actual old-fashioned service station, complete with working garage and full service gas pumps. Even in 1990 such a gas station was a freak of the natural business order, a true anachronism. Self-service gas pumps had long since become the industry standard, enticing consumers to get their own hands dirty in exchange for slightly cheaper gas. On top of that, department stores like K-Mart and Wal-Mart had expanded into automotive maintenance, siphoning away much of the business that had long been the bread n’ butter of service stations. But owing to a loyal and sizable-enough clientele, this particular service station had survived.

I didn’t know anything about working in a gas station. And four years later, when I gave notice that I was quitting, I still wasn’t very good at it. No one seemed to mind. I took the paychecks with a shrug and didn’t concern myself with such details as job efficiency.

I’ve never been able to decide if my memories of working there are fond to me. Stupid is the word that most often comes to mind when I recall my time there. Stupid, of course, is a natural occurrence when you have a group of males working together in a close environment. There was a lot of discussion concerning fast cars, professional sports, cold beer, female genitalia. Country music on the radio, swimsuit calendars on the walls, filthy restrooms, dirty grease rags. It was a place of dead ends and disconnected dreams. The mechanics who worked there were, I think, unhappy with their status in life. But it’s that kind of life, and they had resigned themselves to it. It was an early and valuable lesson for me: You have to laugh at the pain and get through the days. Working at the service station was like living inside one of those early-Nineties independent films that had no plot, just a cast of slacker characters who stumbled aimlessly through life.

(That's a lesson I perhaps learned too well.)

And characters, yes. Those we had. One mechanic who worked there bore a passing resemblance to Frank Zappa, but with short hair. He had a vicious sense of humor and an obsession with fireworks--an ominous combination any way you view it. “Frank” would wait until one of us walked around back to use the restroom, and then shoot bottle rockets underneath the restroom door. As an early and accomplished alcoholic, I believed I’d already had some wild adventures involving toilets. How little I knew.

Frank's hobby led to some trouble one day. Believing that one of our coworkers was using the restroom, a group of us gathered around to watch the usual fireworks display. But after Frank fired one of his bottle rockets into the restroom, a gibbering and panicked old man came wailing out into the sunlight. His pants were around his knees and shit was splattered on his ass and legs. The poor old guy staggered to his car in the parking lot, yanking up his pants as he went. Before driving away, he called us “sonofabitches” or something to that effect. We couldn’t hear him clearly because we were all laughing too hard.

Memories like that make me uncomfortable with the concept of karma.

Another mechanic used to spend his lunch hour with a woman who worked for FedEx. They often fucked in the back of her delivery van. This was yet another opportunity for Frank and his bottle rockets.

One day a kid who worked at the station fell off the roof and broke his arm. Was he on the roof doing repairs of some kind? Nope. He had gone up there to dump a bucket of cold water on one of our coworkers. A little bit o’ hell was paid for that one.

Another time, a different after-school kid was told to drive a car out of the garage and park it outside. The kid decided to be cool and stomp the accelerator as he backed the car out. He lost control of the car and crashed it through a block wall across the street. The kid was unscathed but the car was a total loss.

Best part: The wrecked car belonged to the owner’s son-in-law. Some words were said about that incident as well.

These are only a few highlights that come to my lazy mind. In all seriousness, I could write a book. And someday I may do just that.

About two months ago, Jim, the station’s manager, died suddenly. It left me with mixed emotions. He was a difficult, sometimes impossible, man to please. And many days he was simply a grouchy old prick. But just when I’d decided that the man was an irredeemable asshole, I would witness him showing true sympathy and generosity toward someone. And a few times that someone was me.

A mercurial man. Small wonder that we had trouble getting along. We were too much alike, I think.

Without Jim, the old service station floundered. And two weeks ago, very quietly, the owner closed the garage. Oh, if you drive up to the gas pumps, a man will still walk outside and fill ‘er up for you. But those big garage doors are locked and dark.

Working at the station, I could never guess what might happen next--I only knew it would be loud, irreverent and illogical. So it seems a shame that the last thing to happen there was so damned sensible and predictable.

-

Average Crazy Person Encounter

2008-06-17T23:05:00.014-04:00

On my way home from work today, I stop at my local convenience store. I am standing in line. I am waiting to be waited on, after a long day of waiting on others who waited for me to wait on them. I am tired, I am sad, I am acutely aware of my humanity. And I’m thinking: I could have been born a housefly. Would that be so bad? You eat a lot, fuck nonstop, fly around and spread some diseases. And after two to four weeks, you lay down and call it a life. That’s not such a raw deal, I think.

Unless, of course, you get swatted.

Then I realize a man is grabbing my hand and shaking it. Vigorously. He’s a short, middle-aged guy with a wiry gray beard. He has bad teeth and a pot belly. The tank top he’s wearing is much too small, and it’s long overdue for the dust rag bin. He grins at me with what’s left of his teeth, and I notice he does not smell of fresh daisies.

“Hey!” he says, in a high-pitched whine. “How ya doin’, buddy?!?”

Slowly, as if retreating from an angered cobra, I pull my hand away from his. I have no idea who this happy lunatic is. “Uhhh…not bad?” I offer.

He seems to find that very amusing. “God damn, man, I heard a while back that ya got married! Congratulations!”

Uh?

I hesitate, considering my options. Which is the quickest, simplest path to ending this conversation? “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say.

The happy man suddenly snaps his head back, eyes wide, staring at me in a stunned way. “Well, goddamned if I don’t! I thought you was somebody else! Sorry about that.”

I smile weakly for him. “It’s all right.”

He cackles with laughter and pats my arm again. “Yeah, shit, I’m sorry. Well, hell, you married?”

“No,” I reply. And I take a small step away from him.

“Yeah?” he says. “Well, congratulations on not bein’ married! Only fuckin’ dumbasses get married, anyway! Like me!”

I blink at him.

“No, I mean it!” he howls. “You want a wife? Take mine! Fuckin’ bitch is right out there in the car! Hell, take the car too if ya want it!”

I keep smiling as best I can. “Thanks anyway.”

The man throws up his hands in defeat. “Alright, then. Well, if I can’t get rid o’ my wife, I guess I’ll just have a fuckin’ Mountain Dew instead. Y’know what I mean?”

I keep wearing my pathetic attempt at a smile. My crazy new friend walks toward the cooler section, mumbling something and scratching his neck irritably.

I pay for my root beer and walk out the door. And I don't bother to hurry, to avoid talking with the guy again. Because this I know from experience: Running from this one will only rush me toward the next one.

The insane, the deranged, they have always adored me. They are drawn to my presence. I can't explain it, I don't understand it. But it is so. Yesterday in the grocery store, an elderly man stood behind me in line singing Frank Sinatra's "My Way" and telling me how he wished for aliens to kidnap Hillary Clinton. I don't even have to make up this crap. It just happens.

The Bible tells us of the star of Bethlehem and how it guided the Wise Men to the birthplace of Jesus. Similarly, there seems to be a signal high above me somewhere in the firmament, and it beckons all of earth's Dumb Motherfuckers directly to me.

I am the Anti-Christ.

-

Groan, Gripe, Whine, Boo Hoo, Waahh

2008-06-07T23:53:00.014-04:00

T.V. Casualty, Part Two: What is it about the post-9/11 world that has made the news media so obsessed with cells? Once upon a time, terrorists worked together in groups or organizations. After the 9/11 attacks, terrorists suddenly came packaged in cells. And to be truthful, I gave it little thought at the time. Cells? Awright, why not?

Now, while watching the local weather forecast last night, I noticed that the weatherman continually referred to an incoming storm as a "cell." Over and over again, this guy. The front of the cell, the center of the cell, the edge of the cell, the worst of the cell, the hemorrhoids of the cell. I always thought storms came in fronts? When did storm fronts cease to be? Why wasn't I told about this? WHERE IN THE HELL AM I?

I know, I know. Put it on a fuckin' t-shirt, Andy Rooney.

It was another long week. Want a taste of it? Wednesday, one of my coworkers--a die hard, chrome-steeled Republican Catholic--was perusing the newspaper. As he read about the Democratic Primary results from Tuesday, he offered his assessment of the outcome: "So the nigger beat the bitch. Big deal."

I did not tell him that I voted for Obama. Nor did I tell this devout (?) Catholic that Jesus himself was almost certainly a "nigger." Why would I bother? You cannot debate with his breed. Denial is their greatest defense; vitriol their favorite weapon. If I were to explain to this man my full and uncensored view of the human species, he would probably attempt to shove a wooden stake through my heart. And that would make my workplace even more unpleasant.

So I let these things go. For the sake of a quiet life. It took more than thirty years, but I have finally learned the value of grudging tolerance. Now I just have to figure out how to tolerate my own tolerant self.

Another of my coworkers was a registered and devoted Democrat. Personally, I don't see that as significantly better--blind dedication has never appealed to me in any form--but he and I certainly had more in common. I say we had more in common because I visited his lifeless body at the funeral home today. I shall miss him. In spite of his unquestioning loyalty to a hopelessly corrupt political party, I otherwise found him to be a man of sharp intellect and quick wit. These are rare qualities to find in a person. Especially in Indiana. (That last line was too easy and obvious, but I couldn't pass on it.)

Eerie Von supposedly lives somewhere in Indiana. Which seems wrong, somehow. But I like to think it's true. If I were still a drunk, I'm sure it would be fun to have a few with Eerie. Although he'd probably get angry and beat my wise little ass. Still! Dude! He was, like, totally the bass player in Danzig when I was a kid.

The Reverend Jim Jones was from Indiana. So was John Dillinger. And Michael Jackson. And Jimmy Hoffa. Charles Manson served juvenile time here, in Terre Haute. Timothy McVeigh was executed here.

Our state history is rich. Visit anytime. Armaments are optional, but recommended.

-

T.V. Casualty

2008-06-05T22:21:00.004-04:00

This morning I watched a few minutes of CNN’s Headline News channel. I tell myself that I watch the news because I’m interested in what’s happening in the world. I tell myself that I don’t want to be one of those ignorant, uncaring Americans who never looks past the fence in his own yard. And I sincerely don't want to be that kind of person. But somehow after I click off the TV, I can never remember what’s happening in the world. The whole entire bloody geopolitical mess just slops together in my mind and I can’t make myself give a damn.

No, when I watch the news, what’s forefront in my mind is this: CNN’s Robin Meade is fine beyond belief. Tit Cam! For those of us who can’t tolerate Motley Crue concerts, Headline News is an acceptable substitute.

Clearly, I have gone too long without.

Still and all, and nevertheless. Today as my darling Robin went to a commercial break, CNN played a piece of some Morrissey song.

Yes, you read that correctly and it’s true: CNN is using Morrissey for theme music.

After that, I couldn’t stay with CNN. Not even for Robin Meade, love her as I do. I switched over to the Cartoon Network and watched Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends.

Which is just as well. I think Foster’s Home has more to say about us--and to us--than CNN does. The basic moral lesson of the show is this: In spite of all our differences in appearance, customs, and beliefs, everyone must learn to get along and help each other get through this life. What a beautiful, simple truth! That’s the key to a pleasant and peaceful world, packaged right there in a kiddie cartoon. CNN, as best I can tell, is only interested in highlighting our differences and prejudices. And reminding us that we are DOOMED DOOMED goddamn DOOMED.

So, all right then. Given CNN’s apocalyptic point of view, I suppose Morrissey is deadly appropriate soundtrack music.

Here’s the funniest bit of news I’ve seen recently: Taliban mortar fire interrupted a Toby Keith concert in Afghanistan. Now honestly, can you fault the Taliban for that? Talk about terrorism! If Toby Keith tried to sing in my backyard, I’d start shooting. Either him or myself. I may long for a world where we all coexist peacefully, but there is a limit.

If the Taliban had snuffed out Toby Keith, I would’ve bought them a canned ham for Christmas.

Hello to you, the person working for Homeland Security. Thanks for reading.

-

Blood! Breasts! Heavy Metal! Aristotle!

2008-06-02T22:23:00.007-04:00

The countdown is on: Less than two weeks until The Incredible Hulk opens! My wood is petrified solid. Few things are more arousing to me than the concept of an indestructible, musclebound monster who exists only to smash the shit out of civilization. And he wears purple pants! Not just anyone can wear purple pants while knocking down buildings and annihilating army regiments. That commands respect.

Also on the subject of trash culture: Last night I rented DVDs. In my wisdom, I selected The Darjeeling Limited and the new Rambo. An odd pairing, perhaps. But I feel better about myself if I rent at least one legitimate “film” to balance out the guilty pleasure “movies” that I really want to watch. (You know, the flicks that contain copious amounts of bad jokes, bloodletting and boobies.) Renting The Darjeeling Limited was like buying Newsweek and Scientific American to sandwich my copy of Hustler.

Denial assumes many forms.

Anyways. Rambo (wasn’t that the title of the second movie in the series?) left me goggle-eyed and gob-smacked. I can’t remember the last time--if ever--I’ve seen so much bloody carnage crammed into ninety minutes of movie. Headshots, gutshots, stabbings, ripped-out throats, disembowelments, decapitations, disintegrations. Rambo contains just about every combat-oriented death that can be experienced at this point in history. I challenge anyone to accurately count the dead bodies in this movie. I don’t think it’s even possible. As John Rambo left the country of Burma he should have paused at the border to put up a CLOSED FOR BUSINESS sign. Seriously. No one was left.

Now I feel ashamed and have to prove I’m all intellectual and stuff. So I’ll tell you that I have been reading The Story of Psychology by Morton Hunt. My favorite historical fact so far: Aristotle believed that our memories functioned best when the brain was moist. I really want to make a recovering-alcoholic type of joke about that, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It seems too easy.

Today I sold auto parts to a man who was wearing a brand new Motley Crue Theatre of Pain T-shirt. I know it was brand new because he mentioned this to me. And he informed me that he was going to see Motley Crue in concert this summer. I smiled and told him that sounded like a really good time, even though it didn’t sound like a good time at all. The man assured me it would be badass. He said Motley Crue would be bringing along a device called the Tit Cam. He said the Tit Cam alone was worth the price of admission.

I think I can figure out what a Tit Cam is. And while I am an ardent supporter of naked breasts, there aren’t enough of them on planet earth to make me suffer a Motley Crue concert.

The Eighties revival must be nearly out of gas. The best we could get this year? Indiana Jones, John Rambo, and Motley Crue.

He-Man and She-Ra, where are you?

I'm going now. To watch The Darjeeling Limited. Honest. Unless a Death Wish movie is on.

-

With Marshmallows

2008-05-18T23:18:00.005-04:00

By the wailing winds of Watoomb and the dangling dingleberries of Dormammu, can it be? More than a month has passed since my last entry, yet I can think of no occurrence that is worth sharing with you, my three regular readers. My existence is a boiling viscous brew of utter boredom. And no-bake cookies. I like them things.

Thus. Due to an overall lack of worthwhile, y’know, living, I will simply type some kinda-sensical thoughts that have been butt-slamming each other inside my skull.

I feel confident in proclaiming this: Testament’s The Formation of Damnation is the best 1989 metal album to be released in 2008. While I am no longer the metalhead I once was, it’s great fun to hear one of my favorite bands reunited and playing some good old-fashioned thrash metal. And the first song on the CD is called “More Than Meets the Eye.” You can not go wrong with that.

It has been a long and tiresome week of selling auto parts. I feel the urge to go off on a long railing, raving, sputtering soapbox tirade about the human species and how goddamned obnoxious and infuriating we are. But I imagine you’ve noticed that anyway. Fortunately, I saw my therapist this past week and she reminded me that murder is still illegal. Even in Indiana.

I miss Quisp cereal. Do they still make that stuff? It was more gooder than other cereals. That freaky alien creature pictured on the box made all the difference. Funny how that works, right? Just as Willie Nelson’s music only sounds good if I’m drunk and depressed, cereal only tastes good if there’s a cool and colorful mascot pictured on the box. Marketing matters. Don’t ever delude yourself otherwise. Honestly, how good would Lucky Charms taste if we couldn’t watch that sissy little Leprechaun get mugged by a bunch of bastard kids in every commercial?

Lucky Charms sends an inspiring message to America’s children: Take whatever you want, even if it doesn’t belong to you.

And since I’m on this ridiculous topic, I must also mention Trix cereal commercials, which basically endorse racism and prejudice. Seriously, why can’t the guy with long ears and whiskers have a fucking bowl of cereal? The kids in those commercials should be wearing Swastika armbands.

Breakfast food was not supposed to be the centerpiece of this entry. But I actually have little control here. Whatever stutters out of these fingertips as they tap the keys, that’s what it’s gonna be. I’m too lazy to edit this.

I haven’t read a Conan the Barbarian comic book since I was a kid, but now and then I hear myself saying “Crom!” during stressful moments. (People give me looks, yeah.) Conan swore to his god Crom a lot, and yet I only remember Crom appearing in one comic. He was violet-colored, had a bodybuilder’s physique, and wore long hair with a beard. He lived atop the world’s tallest mountain and he absolutely didn’t give a shit about any mortal soul. He sneered arrogantly at the misfortunes of all who prayed to him.

Crom cereal would taste good.

-

Silence, Miserable Flesh Creatures!

2008-04-13T23:17:00.016-04:00

It’s been a while since I last typed anything here, but be assured that I have been occupied with matters most serious. Last month I purchased a gigantic 15-DVD box set--imported from China, wicked oppressor of the Tibetan people--that contains every Transformers cartoon produced in the 1980s. And I immediately made it my mission to watch every single episode in sequential order. Yet this mission has exacted a toll on me: As I was watching episode #79, “Nightmare Planet,” I felt a sharp pop inside my skull. Life has been colored in distinctly vague tones since then. While endorsing my paycheck last Friday, I nearly signed my name as “Thundercracker.”

[Fart joke goes here]

The DVD set came in a large metal tin, and it included a thick stack of beautiful postcards, a lavish color book that holds all of the discs, an Optimus Prime calendar, and a free rubber keychain with the Autobot symbol on it. All this for only $69.95 in the Amazon Marketplace. Deluxe nostalgia at an affordable price! And you want me to grow up? Hell.

The blockbuster Michael Bay-directed Transformers movie was fun, but watching these old cartoons has been a special treat for me. Back in the mid-Eighties I used to set my alarm clock for 6:30 AM on Saturday mornings so I would be awake to watch Transformers at 7:00. It annoyed me greatly that my local NBC affiliate aired the show so early in the morning. But as I look back, that actually makes my memories of watching the show even sweeter. My parents and sister would sleep in on Saturday, so I would be the only person in the house awake. I would munch a huge bowl of sugar-coated cereal in front of the TV, completely enthralled by the ongoing adventures of the Autobots and Decepticons. And when my parents finally purchased a VCR, I could even tape the show and watch it over and over again! Technological progress is our friend.

For two years, 1984 to 1986, the Transformers dominated my life. I collected the toys with obsessive single-mindedness. I read the monthly Marvel comics series as if it were scripture. I drew the characters all over my school notebooks, I memorized the character profiles for each toy. And I never forgot to set my alarm for Saturday morning.

Then came puberty, and other interests like rock n’ roll, cigarettes, cars, and getting shitfaced as often as possible. Girls were the most interesting of all things, but my instincts told me they were highly dangerous. (Eventually, I ignored my instincts. And I learned this lesson: Trust your instincts.)

My twentysomething years were a long disastrous journey, and my life at that time was solely devoted to substance abuse. (Alcohol was my favorite, followed by LSD. But anything you had to offer was just fine, thank you.) The Transformers were a fond childhood memory, but I assumed they had been consigned to toy oblivion, gone forever and remember by only a few diehards like myself. Yet one Saturday morning around 1997, while having my usual breakfast of Smirnoff and Marlboros, I sort of realized I was watching TV. Some cartoon called Beast Wars was playing out in front of me. The show featured Transformers that changed into animals, dinosaurs, birds, insects, and so on. I watched the cartoon and decided it was fucked up. I kind of liked it, but it was fucked up nonetheless. Robots that could turn into organic animals? What?

Later, I dismissed the show as a strange chemical-induced dream--which was usually a safe assumption for me in those days. So I was rather surprised a few weeks later when I saw a display of Beast Wars toys in my local Wal-Mart. Howbout that? Who needs dreams when life itself is so odd?

I’ve since collected Beast Wars and its follow-up, Beast Machines, on DVD. I enjoyed both shows tremendously. They have the fun spirit of the original series, but with superior scripting and animation. I also sampled a few episodes of the Japanese-created Transformers Energon and Transformers Cybertron. Those shows, well, they convinced me that the Japanese should let us handle these things. Case in point: The new Transformers Animated on Cartoon Network is a clever and good-humored update of the original series. I watch it with my nephews on Saturday morning and I feel envious of them as they experience these classic characters for the first time.

The new series comes on at 10:30 in the morning, so my nephews don’t have to set their alarms to see the show. Somehow I feel the boys are being cheated of a rich experience, the very stuff that warm memories are made of. I’m sure they’d disagree.

Occasionally I wonder if my emotional growth is stunted. Is it natural for a thirty-four-year old man to enjoy the very same things he obsessed over as a ten-year-old? Is it okay for me to have a Starscream action figure perched atop my television? The questions nag. Yet I'm hardly alone. Many men of my generation share my interests. Could it be that modern adult life is so miserable and emasculating for men that we must retreat back to childhood as a means of coping with it?

Could be. After all, the most popular "adult" interests in this country involve grown men who play with inflatable balls or race cars around and around in circles. So I can't help but feel I'm all right. Compared to the immature antics of professional athletes, a fictional civil war fought by giant shape-shifting robots seems like serious stuff indeed.

The Curious People You Meet While Buying Razor Blades

2008-03-03T00:43:00.006-05:00

Monday was my only day off work last week. Which stinks, but that's irrelevant to this particular weblog entry. Thankfully I had only one necessary errand to perform on my one day off: I needed razor blades. And just for the record, I use a Schick Quattro these days. Because I believe you can never have too many razor blades simultaneously sliding against your flesh. If that titillates you, please do not tell me about it.

So. I went out early into the damp cold gray morning to procure my face-shaving necessities. I knew Wal-Mart would be cheapest, but I opted for Target: the choice of the discerning and snooty megastore shopper. While I was there, I wandered over to browse the DVDs. I picked up a copy of American Gangster and read the description on the back. (I think it was the Super Bygod Duper 3-Disc Ten-Pounds Special Deluxe Director’s Cut Boxed Edition that comes with genuine Denzel Washington nail clippings.) I studied the ridiculously long list of special features, knowing perfectly well that I was not going to buy the movie. But it doesn’t take a lot to entertain me at nine o’clock in the morning.

I stopped reading when I became aware of the blond young man standing beside me. He was quite close to me. And by close, I mean uncomfortably and unpleasantly close. Violating-my-private-space close. In fact, he was breathing-on-the-side-of-my-face close.

My tongue coiled, my lips twisted, and together they began to form this question: What the goddamned fuck, man?!?

Thankfully, my question never got airborne. Because, just in time, I noticed the large drop of drool dangling from the young man’s bottom lip. His bright blue eyes were staring, beacon-like, at my face. They had that certain glint to them: a sparkle that only a complete lack of guile can provide.

To put it simply, the guy was mentally challenged. Or should I say that he was a person with special needs? Or perhaps cognitively disabled? Of diminished capacity? Whatever the politically correct term is this month, I don’t know anymore. When I was young, the condition was called retarded. But I think using the word retarded in 2008 earns you a year’s probation and thirty hours of community service. Unless you’re just insulting someone who isn’t actually retarded. Then it’s okay. For some reason.

“HI!” the young man shouted. He frowned with curious innocence as he studied my face.

I smiled weakly, trying not to stare at the single drop of drool suspended from his lip. “Hi there,” I replied. “How you doing, buddy?”

My question did not register. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” he demanded.

“Armand,” I told him. Which is not my name, I just wish it were. I have an inexplicable desire to be the first white man on earth named Armand.

“ARMAND,” he echoed, continuing to stare at my face. Not at my eyes, really, but somehow at my entire face. “I’M DANNY.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, smiling like a phony asshole. I placed American Gangster back on the shelf in preparation for my swift-but-graceless escape. "It’s nice to meet you, Danny.”

At this point, a short and irritable-looking fortysomething woman came walking up to us. “Danny,” she said patiently, “how many times have I asked you not to wander off on your own?”

Danny did not stop staring at me. “THIS IS ARMAND!” he declared.

The woman looked at me and smiled apologetically. She did not seem to be impressed that my name was Armand. “That’s nice, Danny. But look, I think Armand’s kind of busy right now. Maybe we should leave him alone. Howbout it?”

Still staring into the depths of my drowsy soul, Danny made this declaration: “I WANT A DUKES OF HAZZARD DVD! DO THEY HAVE THOSE HERE?”

It would be too easy and too cruel to make a joke about people of diminished capacity watching The Dukes of Hazzard.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure if Target stocked Bo and Luke on DVD. And I started to tell Danny this, but quite suddenly he ran away from me. He had spotted a Target employee: some sleepy college slob with that very appropriate bull’s-eye logo on his red shirt. Danny rampaged toward the guy with purpose.

About three seconds before Danny reached him, the Target employee looked up and saw the furious storm coming his way. I think he decided, at that very moment, what kind of day he was about to have.

“EXCUSE ME SIR!” Danny said. “DO YOU HAVE DUKES OF HAZZARD DVDS?”

“Uhhh,” the Target employee said.

The nameless woman trudged wearily toward Danny and his new friend. I recognized this as my opening, and ducked around the corner and made my escape. And I did it fuckin’ quickly.

As I slinked away in the shadows, I heard Danny again: “I DON'T WANT THE SAME DUKES OF HAZZARD DVD I HAVE AT HOME, OKAY?"

“Uhhh,” the Target employee said.

“He doesn’t know which one you have at home, Danny,” the woman explained, sounding so awfully tired. Not early-morning groggy. Just damned tired.

Their voices faded away behind me as I walked directly to the cash register. A cute chubby brunette took my money, handed me change, thanked me, and she did it without even once looking at my face. I understood.

As I neared the exit, the enticing aroma of fresh coffee snagged my nostrils. There was a Starbucks squatting near the exit door. While I am not a great fan of Starbucks, neither do I view the company as some kind of bloated white devil rising up to consume our consumer souls. It was a cold crappy Monday morning and four minutes earlier a mentally challenged man had been shouting in my ear. I needed some coffee.

At such an early hour, there was only one person ahead of me in line: a cheerful, mousy middle-aged woman in a knit cap and a parka. I stood behind her and studied the rack of baked sweets that were on display next to the cash register. After a short wait, the man working behind the counter turned and handed the mousy woman a foam-topped drink of some sort. She thanked him in a sing-song voice and skipped away. I wanted to be her. She was high on something.

The man working behind the counter looked at me. Then he looked me up and down. Then he met my gaze. And he smiled. The smile.

I thought this: God damn it. Then I sighed and stepped up to the register.

“Can I help you sir?” Mister Starbucks asked me, enlarging his smile.

“I’ll just have a medium black coffee, please,” I said.

“Sure thing,” he grinned. “You want cream?”

I blinked. “Uh, no. Thanks anyway.”

“Sure thing.” As he selected the cup that would be mine, Mister Starbucks offered this insightful observation: “You look like you could use some caffeine this morning.”

I grunted my agreement and pretended to do something necessary with the money in my wallet. Take the hint and shut up, pal.

“So what are you out doing today?”

A real fuckin’ cab driver, this guy. “Nothing, really. Just goofing off.”

“What, on a Monday?” he asked, sounding almost offended. “You’re not on your way to work today?”

Sighing inwardly, I reminded myself that the guy’s attraction should be taken as a compliment. “No, I’m off work on Monday.”

“Oh yeah?” The smile was back. “So what do you do?”

“Same thing you’re doing right now. I take people’s money and hand them things for it.”

“I see,” he said with a laugh. Mister Starbucks moved around a lot, tinkering with a variety of devices behind the counter. It would be hard to convince me that a simple cup of black coffee would require so much movement or so many coffee-related machines.

“So tell me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as he continued to calibrate his coffee equipment, “are you the kind of guy who has to do something constructive with his day off? I mean, do you feel guilty if you just lay around all day and do nothing?”

Understand something: I come from a long line of alcoholic white trash. Sitting on my ass and accomplishing nothing is hard-wired into my DNA.

“I work two jobs, six days a week,” I said, aware of how distant and exhausted my voice sounded. “I think I’ve earned some laziness today.”

Smiling, and eyeing me intently, he set my coffee in front of me. “I think you’ve got a point. Your total is one ninety-six.”

I handed him a pair of singles, wishing I had just stayed in bed this morning and started growing a beard.

Mister Starbucks handed me four pennies. Then he asked, “So, what do you do for fun?”

As I reached for my coffee, I gave that Starbucks employee the most truthful answer I’ve ever given any question in my entire thirty-four years of being alive. I said, “I don’t even know anymore. I gave up booze, I gave up drugs, I gave up cigarettes. I don’t know how to have fun anymore. I’m just outta my fuckin’ mind most of the time.”

It’s a funny thing with me: I explode with honesty to the most unlikely people at the most inappropriate moments. I need to work on that.

The Starbucks guy raised his eyebrows at my response. I picked up my coffee and shrugged. “Sorry,” I said.

He smiled again. A sadder smile than before. “Well, you still have caffeine.”

I grunted in agreement and tipped up my coffee. It was good and strong. As I walked away, I tossed him a salute. He was a nice guy, I think. If I could get in touch with my inner homosexual, I’d go back and ask him out. But I fear it's not to be. I'm not worth a damn with the ladies--they all tell me so--but there's no substitute for them.

Except books, of course. Once outside Target, I decided to go into the small used book store across the street. There were no other customers in there, and the old lady behind the cash register only nodded hello as I walked in. She was reading a paperback and completely uninterested in me.

I stayed a while.

-

Public Servant, Grateful Son, Real Fuckin' Asshole

2008-02-17T22:20:00.010-05:00

While I was working in the gas station yesterday, a house at the end of the block erupted into flames. Many fire trucks promptly arrived, blocking the street in front of the gas station and detouring traffic. Large hairy men jumped out of fire trucks, pointed their fingers, flapped their arms, and shouted instructions at each other.

Most of the firemen were fortysomething and overweight. Distressingly so. Nonetheless, they squeezed their great big asses into their rubber boots and coats. Then they dragged their long white water hoses through the street. Wheezing profanities as they lumbered along.

(I watched one of the firemen flip a burning cigarette onto someone’s lawn. At this, I could only shake my head. Do these guys get paid a percentage or something?)

So look, it was the scene of a fire. There was the reek of smoke, the screaming sirens. And of course, the houses opened up and the rubberneckers clogged the street. Scratching their asses, sipping their beers, pointing and yelling, picking their noses, adjusting their dicks and boobs, laughing all the while. Being underfoot and generally behaving like a bunch of selfish jackasses. It looked like a town festival was going on. Truly, the sun shines brightest while someone else’s life is turning to shit.

Then the gas station’s telephone began to ring. Again and again. People wanted to know what was happening. I told them a house was on fire. But whose house? they asked. I told them I didn’t know. Which was true. But my ignorance made some of them irritable.

“Ya don’t know whose house is on fire?” one caller asked me. His voice was incredulous.

“No,” I said, putting on my most bored and bland tone of voice. “Why, do you have some family or a friend living on this street?"

“Well, nooo," he said, sounding guilty. "I was just, y’know, just wonderin’ whose house it was.”

Whose house it is, I thought to myself. You dumb country fuckwallow.

“So ya don't know whose house is burnin’?” Apparently, the man felt that rephrasing his question might help me find an answer.

“I’m inside the gas station,” I growled. “I can’t see up the street.”

The man let out a huge, exasperated breath. “But you could walk outside and look up the street, couldn'tcha?”

I felt a dark, dark smile grow on my face. “Yeah, I probably could.”

I left it at that. There was silence

“You’re not gonna look, are ya?” the man asked, growing angrier.

“Nope,” I said, spitting out the “p.”

“You’re a real fuckin’ asshole, ya know that?”

I started to tell him that I wasn’t the one getting thrills from someone else’s misfortune. But he hung up on me.

The phone rang again. It was my father. “I heard the house next door to the gas station is goin’ up in flames! Is it???”

“No, dad,” I said, staring out the window and trying not to think. “It’s a house down the street.”

“Ohhh,” he said, sounding somehow deflated. “Well, look, if the flames get close, you get outta there!”

Before replying, I held the phone in front of me and frowned at it. It was a moment from the movies, when someone on the other end of the line has said something totally unbelievable. I am thirty-four years old and my father has just advised me not to hang around flaming buildings. Where would I be without such priceless guidance?

Eventually, I held the phone to my ear again. “I’ve gotta go, dad. I have a customer waiting.”

I turned off the phone. Then I turned it back on and tossed it aside. The sound of the dial tone was soothing in the empty gas station.

According to the clock, I had been at work for less than two hours.

I stared at the rack of cigarettes in front of me and ached with longing. And I had this thought: I would trade both testicles for a set of indestructible lungs. I did not smile at the idea. I was not in a joking mood.

The house that burned belongs to one of my regular customers. His day kind of sucked too.

-

This Would Have Been a Good Place to Write Something Worthwhile

2008-02-12T23:47:00.015-05:00

Last week I sold a set of windshield wiper blades to Jonathan Connor. And I sold a pack of cigarettes to Matthew Perry. These experiences did not have a notable impact on my life. It's just fun to type those sentences and know they are true.

The last vestiges of a head cold are punishing me. My nose continues to dribble in a yellow-green fashion, and the hearing in my left ear...isn't. As I type this, the Flaming Lips are making some gloriously goofy noises in my headphones, but I can't really appreciate the stereo effect. Well, overcoming adversity makes one stronger. And the Sudafed buzz I'm experiencing right now makes up for the loss of aural enjoyment.

Today marks my four-week anniversary as an ex-smoker. I am filled with disgust and contempt for all things living, dead, or simply inanimate. I spend my nights squatting naked in a dark closet, reading Maxim by flashlight, and shouting profanities in ancient forgotten tongues. So the nicotine withdrawal seems to be over and I am basically back to normal.

The cheapest of jokes. I am struggling here. Empty laughter. The death rattle of Mountain Dew cans on cracked Wyoming asphalt. Green stench sounds of prairie winds. What am I talking about?

In four weeks I have chewed my way through five large boxes of toothpicks. I challenge anyone to prove his tongue contains more splinters than mine. Yeah, you bring it. And bring some chocolate bars with you. Reese’s Cups are good.

-

Good Question

2008-02-03T23:02:00.002-05:00

This week I returned, on a part-time basis, to working in an auto parts store. I promised myself I would never do it again, but for reasons which are too boring to expound on, here I am. There’s hardly anything noteworthy about being an auto parts salesman, of course. It’s typically mindless low-wage donkey slog, the kind of work I’ve been doing since I was in high school. Way the fuck back when.

Still, being in a parts store brought back a lot of old memories. More bad memories than good, but the workaday grind of retail sales is like that. Anyway, I have decided to share with you my favorite memory of working in an auto parts store. Because you deserve it.

Summer, 1996. I was alone at the sales counter, smoking a cigarette and suffering from my daily life-threatening hangover. It was one of those rare moments when God or Fate or Lady Luck had smiled upon me and granted me some peace and quiet. The store was empty, the sun was shining through the windows, and humanity was ignoring me completely. These are the precious moments in life, and they should be savored. They are as rare as they are sweet.

And they are so very finite.

The front door creaked open and a man entered the store. He was middle-aged gray, not very tall, but wide at the middle. Actually, the man was so obese that he waddled into the store. Greasy and unshaven, a stained yellow knit cap pressed down onto his frazzled head. He was wearing tattered denim overalls that might have been the correct size many years and meals ago, but now they strained to contain his unwashed girth. I remember the black rubber boots he was wearing. They squawked against the white tile flooring as he entered the store.

It was the man’s eyes that grabbed my attention, made me take notice of him. They were a shade of pale, faint blue that barely existed at all. The tiny black dots of his pupils seemed like pinholes into a vast nothingness inside of him, as if all impurities had been completely purged from his mind. Fascinating, those eyes, and I was astounded by the fact that this man had them. How could something so attractive be placed inside such a repugnant framework? Was there a reason for this? Just one of Mother Nature’s little jokes?

Whatever the case. The man waddled to the center of the store and stopped. He blinked his translucent eyes a few times, scratched his scraggly chins, swiveled his head to inspect the environment. He continued to do this for a while, but he never once looked directly at me. Either I was not yet worthy of his attention, or I simply was not a recognizable component of his personal universe.

I really didn't care. I smoked and waited.

Eventually, the man exhaled a great fumy breath. His face, godforsaken accumulation that it was, wrinkled in a black frown. And as if he were crying out to the gods, begging for an answer to his terrible plight, he opened his mouth and bellowed a question:

“WHERE IN THE HELL AM I???”

Now it was my turn to blink and look befuddled. I informed the man that he was standing in a parts store. He still didn’t look at me, but my words seemed to aggravate him. “A PARTS store?!?” he roared. “You mean, parts for CARS?!?”

I assured him this was so, and a look of greater distress grew on his face. One hand slipped inside his overalls and began digging. A low groaning bubbled from his throat as he rearranged the contents of his crotch. Once satisfied with this, the hand drifted up to his ear and began digging in a lackadaisical way. His clear insane beautiful eyes roamed over the store once again. It seemed to me that he was still attempting to comprehend his surroundings.

The man mumbled, his lips twitching into random shapes, as his eyes moved onto me and finally recognized my presence. “NAW!” he shouted at me, spittle arching from his mouth. “NAW, I DON’T NEED NOTHIN’ FROM NO PARTS STORE!”

Turning on his squeaky rubber heel, the man waddled back outside. I watched him trudge past the large windows at the front of the store, scratching at his stubbly chins. He paused in the parking lot, flapping his blubbery arms to shoo away some insects. Then he walked across the street and out of sight.

I don’t know what else to say about it. I’ve never understood holy men.

-

Clunk

2008-01-26T10:38:00.001-05:00

My dream should be mentioned, the recurring dream I have. All good haunted souls have a recurring dream, do they not? I’m no different.

The dream is simple. I see a dirt-stained man in disheveled clothing, marching up a hill. He looks somewhat like me, or perhaps the way I will look someday. I seem to be bodiless in the dream, like a spirit, but somehow I am there. And I watch the man as he tries to struggle up the steep, slick, grassy hillside. There is a giant cast-iron bell strapped to his back with gray tape. The bell is more than half the man’s size and easily much heavier than he is. But he lugs it onward and upward, sucking anxious breaths, dripping sweat from his untrimmed reddish beard.

In his hands, the Bell Man holds a large sledgehammer. And every so often he grips the hammer and swings it over the top of his own head, striking the bell with it as hard as he can.

The bell doesn’t ring, only makes a dull clunk of sound. It’s strapped too tightly to his back, it can’t vibrate.

But the Bell Man keeps trying as he staggers uphill. And every time he swings the hammer and clunks the bell, he cries out: “RING, GOD DAMN YOU! RING!”

I dream of optimists.

-

Much Typed About Nothing

2008-01-22T23:42:00.001-05:00

Today a girl tried to sell me salt from the Dead Sea.

Now. My original idea was to simply leave that sentence hanging there, unexplained. It looks good up there by itself. Very what-the-fuck? But I cannot resist my expositional urges. Also, my life is dull beyond mortal reckoning and I have nothing else to write about.

So, look. I was walking through the local shopping mall today, dazzled by the veritable cornucopia of commerce which surrounded me. And suddenly, a young woman of the Middle Eastern variety stepped into my path. She smiled with her lovely white teeth, and she asked me a question. The question was this: “Sir, can I ask you a question?”

I’m sure I sighed. Normally, I am intelligent enough to evade this sort of sales pitch. But I have felt lonely of late, and this young lady had a pretty face and nice big boobies. Moreover, she was possessed of an ass so firm-looking that I could probably have hammered horseshoes on it. (This was not the first activity involving her ass that sprang into my thoughts. But I keep an open mind.)

So, in exchange for unspoken permission to ogle her, I allowed the girl to have one minute of my life. She asked her question, which I cannot remember because I was, you know, ogling her. And then she led me to her vendor’s stand and picked up a glossy white jar that was roughly the size of a Jell-O pudding cup. She opened the jar and allowed me to peer within at its precious contents. What I saw in the jar looked like nothing more than rock salt for melting icy sidewalks in winter. No no no, she said, it was genuine salt from the great Dead Sea, shipped all the way to these shores for the cosmetic needs of Americans.

In short, the girl suggested that I buy a jar of this salt, take it home, and scrub my hands with it. She said it would remove all the dirt, toxins, and dead skin cells that had accumulated on my grubby mitts. She promised it would refresh, renew and revitalize my skin. Basically. She didn’t use those exact words, but that was the thrust of her sales pitch.

I asked her how much this exotic luxury would cost me. I knew full well that her answer would horrify me. And it did. And I told her so.

Desperate to keep the fish on the hook, the girl offered to wash my hands for me in a bowl. She said that once I’d witnessed the skin-rejuvenating powers of the Dead Sea, I would be sold. Her offer was vaguely arousing, but no. I was already making my escape, saying thank you anyway. I took a last mental snapshot of her body and walked away.

She was, I would guess, in her early twenties. I am not. I felt old.

I left the mall and walked to the bus stop. I sat on a bench, chewed a toothpick, and daydreamed about cigarettes. I watched the traffic go past, and evaluated the faces: Anger. Disgust. Annoyance. Impatience. Boredom. Defeat. You know.

I saw a large man in a pickup truck who was picking his nose with one hand and holding his cell phone with the other. This baffled me momentarily, until I saw that he was managing the steering wheel with his rotund stomach. Good for him, I say. Multi-tasking is a valuable skill in today’s fast-paced world.

A cute young blonde jogged past me, the wires of her iPod flapping up and down. She smiled sweetly at me, which warmed my heart a little. She bounced around the corner and vanished. Watching her go saddened me, but it was that kind of day.

The bus was late. I watched the traffic some more, disinterested, but resigned to my destiny.

In less than twenty minutes, I counted three women who had small dogs with them in their cars.

I think it is stranger to take a dog for a car ride than it is to wash your hands with salt from the Dead Sea.

-

I Can't Find My Other Sock

2008-01-18T00:34:00.001-05:00

Make haste and chime the flapjack piñata, for my soul’s ascendancy to VHS format is imminent. Behold, for someone has sewn the sandals of a Chinese girl to my eyelids. And me without a foot fetish.

Last night I dreamed of flaming snails. They were in a small apartment in Florida, watching Porky’s on Blu-Ray while listening to Burl Ives on vinyl. Synchronization was discovered. A wormhole opened. The architecture of Stockholm trembled. Three billion gonad sacks rippled in discomfiture. And then Leona Helmsley appeared through the space-time rift and offered me the rippling flesh of her hand. Together we walked to a place of calm cool twilight and acid jazz. I cursed Christopher Columbus and dozed in a field of rhinestone cornstalks.

I woke in my room, on my tired futon, and my first thoughts were of Snorks. For weeks now, I cannot stop thinking of Snorks. What did they call those straw-like appendages jutting from their skulls? Were Snorks born or were they hatched? Were they truly nothing more than underwater Smurfs?

I am certain these answers are easily obtained right here on the Internet. But here me well as I declare this: A pox on cyberspace for removing so much mystery from our lives. Some questions deserve no answers. Some questions are only amusing if they have no answers.

And. I was going to use that build-up to make a big point of some kind. But I can't remember what the point was.

Damn. I mean, danm.

-

Ned Lagug

2008-01-12T00:47:00.001-05:00

By the very hairs sprouting from my big toe knuckle, I am returned from where I went after I left where I was, which is right here. Until I went. But now I am un-went. So here I am.

Life has a tendency for the circular. Would that it were not so, but so it is, so there you are. Again.

ADVERTISEMENT: I would like to form a bluegrass Beastie Boys tribute band. Skilled xylophone player needed. Must be able to play extended solos while I am offstage receiving blow jobs and planning my solo career. Call now.

Yesterday my three-year-old nephew called me a “big dweeb.” (Such wholly accurate insight is rare in one so young.) I had not heard the term “dweeb” for quite a few years, and I’m happy to find that it is still in circulation. Is it too much to hope that “dork” will make a comeback as well?

It hardly matters. The winds of appellation may shift, but there will always be dorks.

On the topic of insults: This morning I was reading a Fantastic Four comic book and discovered a nice one: “Decerebrate.” I have determined to use this word at the earliest opportunity. And since I will be going to work at 1:30 today, I will probably encounter a decerebrate by no later than 1:32. In all likelihood, he will be wearing a Confederate flag somewhere on his body. He will ask me to sell him a can of Skoal. And I will do so as quickly as possible, because his bodily aroma will profane the air I breathe and I will be desperate for him to pay me and leave. Sadly, I will see him numerous times before my work day is done, and he will have a different name and face for each occasion.

In the American Heartland, life is…expected.

Noose, please.

-

This Be An Entry Right Here

2007-08-16T12:10:00.001-04:00

No word scramble or ancient dialects for an entry title this time. I’m getting on my own nerves.

[Here I will type a semi-facetious remark about how typical that is.]

It is the 30th anniversary of Elvis Presley’s undignified demise. I will toast his memory with a vat of hot buttered mashed potatoes and a side order of Dilaudid. At work today, whenever I toss a soiled white cleaning towel into the rag bin, I will imagine it is soaked with my sweat and that thousands of squealing fat women are fighting over it. And I would perhaps finish this day of remembrance by masturbating to pictures of Lisa Marie, but, well, no. Michael Jackson touched her.

Whimsical as it may be, I enjoy the notion that Elvis faked his own death and disappeared into obscurity. Contrarily, I prefer to believe that Jim Morrison died fat and egotistical in his bathtub.

Elvis dead on the toilet, Morrison in the tub. I admire any rock star who can still summon the courage to enter a bathroom. Small wonder that Ozzy Osbourne is prone to defecating in elevators and urinating on national monuments.

I intended to write an ode to the stuff between my toes, but now I can’t remember how it goes. Perhaps instead I should write some prose about my nose? I’ve been trying all day long, but the words still come out wrong. Together in song they do not belong. I would ask for help from my friend King Kong, but he is gone to Hong Kong playing ping pong with his ding dong.

Go ahead and sneer. That’s better than anything I’ve heard from Daughtry, and he has the year’s best-selling CD.

[Here I will type a semi-facetious remark about locking Daughtry in a bathroom.]

A few days ago I met a man named Davey Jones. And he was dripping wet. I am still amused.

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Nihil Verum Nisi Mors

2007-08-09T23:47:00.000-04:00

Rising sideways, the cathedral of my notions will shatter the butterscotch sky that condemns me with dandelion feces. The steeple of my cathedral shall be a thrumbling porno needle. It shall never find itself in the vicinity of flaccidity. Furthermore, it will maintain a disdain for Great Danes for so long as it remains.

Righteous I shall not never perhaps be. Or not. Regardless, the hair on my legs is in need of braiding.

I have foreseen the coming of the gone. Do not fear, for those who leave will be allowed to stay.

I pray the cathode rays from my cigarette will serve to ward off the Sasquatch in my medicine cabinet. But I will play it safe and continue to leave him sacrificial offerings of acne and hardback book covers.

Yesterday I mailed my payment to the electric company. I used a postage stamp featuring the Marvel Comics character Elektra. Somehow I feel certain that whoever opens the envelope will not notice my terrible joke. Or that if they do, they will actually find it amusing.

Which is worse?

Likl Me Lal

2007-08-02T10:10:00.000-04:00

Yesterday a man entered the gas station where I work. He was mostly bald, somewhere in his late fifties, wearing khaki shorts and an orange polo shirt. He smiled sheepishly at me, and I immediately took notice of the roadmap clutched in his hand.

There is an absolute lack of mystery in this scenario. I have lived this moment many times, and what happens next is more predictable than an episode of Scooby-Doo.

“I think maybe I’m lost,” the man informed me. Smiling.

People, especially men, are rarely willing to declare themselves fully and legitimately lost. Most people only suspect they might be lost. Apparently it is less frightening--and perhaps less embarrassing--than being certain you are lost.

I once met a woman who referred to herself as “possibly misplaced.” It's always interesting to meet learned folks.

All that aside, the man was very polite and appreciative of the assistance I gave him. He thanked me several times and shook my hand in gratitude, continuously smiling his smile. And afterward, when he used the restroom, he did not piss on the floor.

Of customers, I can ask no more than that.

As I stumbled on through the rest of my work day, I realized how pleasant it had been to meet that man. It was pleasant because he was pleasant. He seemed genuinely nice. What a refreshing experience! Many people are un-nice. Many people, in fact, are ingrate bastards. And rude pricks. And snotty bitches. And I don’t like them because they force me to not like them. They make me behave like a rude prick. They make me one of their own. And when I realize this, I hate them. And then I’m even more like them.

When I was younger, I didn‘t like nice people. I thought they were fools. There’s an expression that goes, “Nice gets you nothing.” That isn’t exactly true. Nice usually gets you something: shit upon. It takes courage to be nice in this society. Many people don’t know how to deal with kindness. I am often still guilty of this. When I meet someone who is polite and friendly, I immediately wonder what his or her angle is. What is your scheme? What are you after? How are you planning to fuck me over, ya smooth-talkin' phony?

It stinks to say that. And it stinks to say this: I still believe that nice people--genuinely nice people--are big dummies. But I like them now. I thank them for trying to bring a little decency and grace to everyday life. Someone should make the attempt. And I don't have what it takes. Not yet.

Progress is the slowest process. Maybe in another thirty-three years.

Worspars, Grahlomso

2007-07-26T23:30:00.000-04:00

I like people who lisp. When you’re talking to a person who lisps, you’re each speaking a different language, yet you understand each other’s words. It’s as if you have one of those Babel Fish from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy jammed into your ear.

I also enjoy people who, for whatever reason, can’t pronounce “are” and “el” sounds. One of these entertaining souls lives just a few blocks away from me. Today I heard him say this: “Thez a spawoh in the twee ova theh.” (The Babel Fish translates: “There’s a sparrow in the tree over there.”)

However politically correct you may be, you will laugh to yourself when you hear an adult human being speak this way. You will perhaps hate yourself for it, but you will laugh.

My television is on as I type this. TBS. Under Siege. I just heard Steven Seagal ask a woman, “What kind of babbling bullshit is this?”

Bullshit? Basic cable has come a long way.

When did TBS cease to be the SUPERstation, anyway? Those were the days.

Tch.

I have been thinking about the Bizarro World that appears in Superman comic books. In the Bizarro World, black is white, up is down, north is south, left is right, pretty is ugly. Very well. But in my pitifully sex-starved mind, these facts beg the question: What does an orgasm feel like if you live there? The answer is obvious, I would think. So what's the motivation for gettin' it on and doin' some procreating? Simply put, the Bizarro World should no longer be populated.

Of course, if bad is good, then pain is probably pleasure? But if that pain is inherently the opposite of pleasure, can it make the circle all the way back around to being pleasure again?

Maybe the Bizarro people just like it like that?

Some other lonely sick bastard has probably written a long thesis on this topic. I hope he lives to be two hundred and eight years old. But in all likelihood, he will someday be paid many thousands of dollars to give university lectures on the subject. And he will flick boogers at me, my paltry existence. And I will be too senile to notice. Digging mysterious blue matter from my navel.

It will seem like any other day.

Regat Das Timpoticis Stefa

2007-07-26T01:20:00.000-04:00

I feel like rampaging through the woods in nothing but a pair of Casper the Friendly Ghost boxer shorts. It strikes me as a satisfying idea. Unfortunately, I am stymied by the fact that I don’t own any Casper boxer shorts. I do have some Pink Floyd pajama pants . . . but no, I don’t think I should go outside wearing those. That would be odd.

Seven plus six equals thirteen, and there is no disputing that. Basic math annoys me with its refusal of possibilities.

According to Entertainment Weekly, a Spice Girls reunion is underway. Finally, my fan letters mean something.

I read Entertainment Weekly while waiting. In a waiting room. I was waiting in a waiting room to see my therapist. She gives me helpful advice on how to deal with depression. I need such advice because I am sometimes depressed, which is to say that I lack a reasonable level of good cheer and it makes me feel unhappy. This has been a very logical paragraph.

Still, there is much amusement to found in our world. Most of it comes at the expense of others, but I am not in a position to be choosy.

Example: Religious people cheer me up sometimes. Two weeks ago I was sitting on a bench in the local mall, reading a book, when a man approached me. He was young, clean cut, dark-haired, and wearing a pink shirt with dark slacks. He introduced himself with his name, which I immediately forgot, and he said that God had told him to come over and speak with me. I kept a straight face and said, “Okay.” The young man told me he was spreading the word of his church, that Jesus loved me, and that he (the young man) wanted to say a prayer with me. I told him I was a policeman from the planet Eternia and that I had reliable intelligence that Skeletor's evil minions were about to attack Dick's Sporting Goods.

Surprisingly, the young man smiled his understanding. He thanked me for my time and wandered away. Compared to most religious word-spreaders, he was a good sport. A short time later, I saw him pestering some sexy high school girls near the Old Navy store.

Three winters ago, while I was waiting for a bus to take me to a job interview, a middle-aged woman came strolling along on the sidewalk. As she walked past me, she quite suddenly turned and laid her hand on my shoulder. She said God had told her to come over and talk to me. She said God had told her I was on my way to something wonderful, that great things were about to happen to me. She congratulated me and told me she loved me.

I told her thank you. And, insane as the woman seemed to be, and insane as the moment certainly was, it made me feel good.

About an hour later, I was hired to work the graveyard shift at Target. A few weeks later, I became engaged to the woman I was living with. Seven months later, I had quit both of them and was waiting for another bus. It dropped me off several hundred miles from the ex-job, the ex-fiancée, and whatever wonderful, great things supposedly came next.

Still, the Spice Girls are back together. Maybe that’s what the woman was talking about.

Tboua Chseep

2007-07-21T00:29:00.000-04:00

There is a man who walks into the store every day and the first thing he always says is “Shoo!” Invariably, he says it. Every time. It is the sort of exclamation a person might make when the weather is excessively hot. Strangely, however, this man says “Shoo!” regardless of what the temperature outside may be. Winter, summer, spring, autumn, no matter: “Shoo!”

I find this curious. Is this man perhaps a schizophrenic who is attempting to brush away imaginary insects? Are monstrous phantom moths, born from the murk of his diseased brain, pursuing him? Or could it be that he has some longstanding difficulty with his footwear?

The truth, I suspect, is mundane: It’s simply an annoying habit the man has developed. But I allow myself to contemplate the possibilities of “Shoo!” Time, after all, demands to be passed in some fashion. And there is no rule against doing so tediously.

Fortunate.

Today I heard a woman say, “Holy cow!” Also, I heard a man say, “Doggone.”

I feel somewhat queasy when I hear expressions like these actually being spoken in conversation. I fear I have stepped through some manner of reality-wormhole and entered a TV Land rerun. Worse fates are difficult to imagine.

I once lived next door to an old man who was fond of the expression “Golly Doc!” Ten years later, I remain at a loss to comprehend that one.

I miss that old man. He was a champion shrub-trimmer and lawn lunatic. I used to sit on my front porch and watch him as he worked outside. His yard was plagued with bee nests, and he would often disturb them with his lawnmower. The bees would chase him around as he cursed and howled. And he would shout, “Shoo!”

Details dovetail.

Gaztnus Si Oodg

2007-07-20T00:38:00.000-04:00

Wretched miserable unending days of putrescence and strife. My life, soul and love molested and violated by the species of which I am regretfully a member. Nevertheless, I enjoy microwaved hot dogs.

The ice man made a delivery at work today. Whenever he walks into the store I very loudly say, “Ice man! Ice man! Bring me up ten cents worth of ice and make it snappy!” This is a line from one of my favorite Three Stooges films, and reciting it is fun for me.

I’ve never bothered to explain this ritual to the ice delivery man. He gives me looks.

I wish I had entertaining neighbors. Some goofy white people who spend too much time mowing the grass, grooming the shrubbery, shining the stainless steel gas grill. Calm, meticulous middle-class lunatics. I like those kinds of neighbors, with their pristine and polished appearances. It’s fun to imagine them behind the closed curtains: Smoking weed while watching Easy Rider on DVD. Whipping each other with riding crops during sex. Whispering breathy death-curses at their ingrate children. Hating each other and their lives but too terrified of the potential consequences to admit it.

Next door to me now: a large group of drunken Mexicans. And they are entertaining in their own way. But I will always prefer quiet Caucasian American damnation. In some matters, foreign substitutes are simply no substitute.

Two-legged stools make for difficult sitting. Corduroy dick socks make for itching. My DiGiorno flatulence will be the death sentence of my sofa cover. All Japanese Anime characters have cum-splashed hairstyles.

Some incontrovertible facts to end the evening.

Ssenippah, Paehc

2007-07-19T12:23:00.000-04:00

Last night I scrubbed my flip-flops clean while watching Johnny Bravo cartoons. Happiness happens in the small moments.

Two weeks ago, the dried carcass of a small animal somehow appeared in my yard. I believe it was once an opossum. Helpful yard-tending advice: A 3.5 horsepower Briggs and Stratton lawnmower engine is insufficient for chopping up leathery animal remains.

A pit of endless perdition awaits me for that. And other things. But I will bring cheese nachos and a Sweet Pickles storybook to stave off the boredom.

Speaking of reading material. On my way to work, I will stop at the store and buy a tattoo magazine. They have bad girls with multicolored thingies in there.

Sometimes happiness happens for $6.95. Plus tax.

Ain Elohim

2007-07-19T00:11:00.000-04:00

I must do that which I have determined to do, within the time I have allotted in which to do it. It is crucial, all-important. Success is everything. Failure is unthinkable.

Still, if I can't manage the trick, I suppose I'll just drink another root beer and smoke a cheap cigar.

On my TV screen, an animated hunk of raw meat is crying . . . and a box of talking french fries is attempting to console it. This is a scene from a top-rated program that recently spawned a theatrical film. The fact that this show makes a kind of sense to me should probably be cause for alarm.

Behind my house, the train is rolling past, blowing its whistle. It is unquiet, but I have (more or less) grown used to its screeching clattering wailing diesel cacophony. I sometimes throw things at it, just for fun. But tonight I won't, because I am sitting inside. Naked.

Sometimes, too, I pee on the railroad tracks just before the train rolls through. I am amused by the thought that traces of my urine will be carried many miles away by train wheels.

No one wants to know these things. I don't want to know these things. But I have a role to play in my own existence and thus I find it impossible to avoid knowledge concerning myself. Hard luck.

I have been reading about UFOs. I have accepted the reality that our moon is in fact a hollowed-out space station that was piloted into a position of orbit around the Earth. Before I go to sleep tonight, I will walk outside to wave goodnight to the aliens who live inside the moon.

Hopefully I will remember to put on pants before I do it.

27.

2007-07-15T09:58:00.000-04:00

After what can only be described as mild deliberation, I have decided to write something of meaning here. Just in case.

I was sitting in a parking lot one night with another man. He was faceless; I can barely recall him. But I do remember we were passing a bottle back and forth between us. The bottle was even wrapped in a brown sack, if that can be believed! A nice touch of theater, real Great Depression ambience. The night was intolerably cold, but the man did a great deal of talking anyway. My memory has, in its thin wisdom, chosen to discard all of his words.

My own voice was long gone, of course, so I just pretended to listen to the man as I shared his whiskey. Cars and trucks were passing by on the street and I watched them with a vacuous stare. Occasionally, a policeman would cruise past and one of us would hide the whiskey bottle inside his coat. Sly, we were.

At length, I watched a man ride up the street on a red Harley Davidson motorcycle. He was homely, beefy, hairy, leathery. The standard look. He with his image, us with our brown-wrapped bottle. It was a night for stereotype.

Going no faster than ten miles per hour, the man rode past the parking lot we were sitting in. He glared at us, revved his engine—and then both he and his motorcycle simply flopped over. There was a casual grace to the fall, a slow certainty that was attractive to watch. The motorcycle went clunk on the pavement, pinning its rider to the street with its weight. There was a wild thrashing of arms and face underneath it, as if the rider were fending off an attack from his iron steed. After some seconds, he pulled himself to a sitting position on the street and yelled: “WHAT HAPPENED!?!”

The man I was sitting with passed the bottle to me and began talking again. The man underneath the motorcycle shouted his pain and embarrassment. I had another drink.

So it seemingly goes.