A Dialogue With God

I was walking through a yellow field one cloudy, summer day when I was approached by a man claiming to be god. He didn’t look like god, for he lacked a big white beard and robes or any resemblance to Morgan Freeman. He looked more like a hobo. The traditional train-living variety complete with hunched back, a big coat, torn beanie, and red handkerchief tied around a stick to hold his belongings.
He addressed me, “Could you spare some change?”
“Sorry, I don’t have any,” I answered before walking past him.
“Well, that’s a lie.”
I was a little peeved that he would assume I’d simply refused him any charity so I turned around and asked, “Now how can you be sure of that?”
“Because I’m god.”
“Oh, really? Well, that’s a lie.”
“No, it’s not. I know because I’m god,” the hobo retorted with a six-toothed grin.
Never having been a fan of circular logic, and having nothing else planned for the day, I decided to debate this surprisingly intelligible homeless man, “So you’re saying you’re god because you know you’re god?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s to stop me from saying I am god?”
“Because you know you’re not. And so do I. On account of being god, you know.”
“I got that. So if you know everything, why did you even ask me for change? Wouldn’t you know that I wouldn’t give you any?”
“Yes, I knew. I also know that you actually have thirty-seven cents in change.”
“Then why would you ask for it? Besides I have...” I fished through my pockets and counted through the coins, “Sixty-four cents in change.”
“See, you were lying.”
“Yes, I’ll admit that. But you we’re wrong.”
“Not really. I purposefully told you a wrong number, knowing that you’d try to prove me wrong. May I have it?”
“Why would god need money?”
“Because I want to get by while still blending in with society.”
“Then why not make your own?”
“That’d be counterfeiting. I’d rather not break the law.”
That baffled me, “You follow the laws of man? As god, wouldn’t your law be ultimate?”
“It would, but I haven’t made any laws.”
“What do you mean? What about the ten commandments?”
“Those are from an ancient storybook written by men. The ten commandments are man’s laws.”
“Then what about the physical laws of the universe. Gravity and light and whatnot?”
“Those things came about on their own.”
I paused to try and formulate my next question but was interrupted by the stranger, “You want to know just what it is I do?”
“Um, yes. I suppose,” I said while ignoring my suspicion that he knew what I was going to ask.
“I don’t do much of anything, really. I have the ability to, but I choose not to.”
“Wh-”
“Why? Because despite popular belief, I didn’t make this universe. It made me. And I don’t feel comfortable messing around with it.”
“Please don’t answer me before I ask the question. It’s rude. I think...”
“Not a problem. Most people aren’t comfortable with it.”
“Yeah, thanks. So apparently you’re all-knowing?”
“Yes and no.”
“Then why are you afraid to change the universe? Wouldn’t you know how it’d turn out?”
“That’s where the ‘no’ applies.”
“... um, explain.”
“It’s a long answer. You’re going to be tired of standing in a few moments, so you should sit down now.”
I somewhat reluctantly took a seat on a wide tree stump.
He began, “Let’s start with time. Most beings believe time is linear because that is how they perceive it,” he used his stick to draw an arrow in a patch of dirt.
“So time’s not linear?”
“Once again, yes and no. Time is, as you have heard various smart people claim, curved. So curved in fact, that it winds back in on it self, making a circle. But it only circles one way. ”
Next to the arrow, he drew a circle that didn’t quite close, with an arrow pointing back to the beginning of the line, “You see, time is linear in that in travels in one direction. But since it comes back in on itself, it’s constantly repeating itself. There is essentially no beginning and no end to time. It’s simply rounds in on itself over and over again.”
Intrigued, I asked “Is there a reason behind this?”
“Of course. You’re familiar with the big bang theory?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that theory is correct. It’s just a bit unfinished. All the matter of the universe was compacted into one incredibly small ball that exploded under the pressure, creating the very spread out universe we have about us today. For simplicities sake, we’ll refer to the big bang as the beginning, even though there is no beginning or end. But this of course leaves the question of where the compacted universe ball came from.
“This is where gravity comes into play. Gravity is the force that gives objects a pull on other objects in direct proportion to the object’s size and it’s proximity to other objects. Gravitational pull is never reduced to nothing; it just becomes inconsequential when objects are spaced far enough apart that another force pushing on said object overrides the pull of gravity. Like how a spaceship escapes the force of earth’s gravitational pull by having more force from the push from the rockets.”
“So the universe really is run by the force?” I joked, “I guess Uncle Ben was right.”
The man smirked, “I can do without the Star Wars references.”
“Okay, sorry. Go on.”
“As I was saying, gravitational pull never dies, it just becomes too weak to notice it. Keep that in mind as I go back to the big bang. When the bang occurred it pushed everything out with a massive blast of energy. So massive, in fact, that everything in the universe is still being pushed away from the area of the blast, despite that gravity want to pull it all in on itself. The popular belief is that this latent energy will continue pushing all the matter in the universe until everything is so dispersed that nothing can form and the universe, as a whole, will die. This is true. The universe will die. But, it will be reborn.”
“Like your son.”
“If you choose to believe that fairy tale, then yes.”
“I do.”
“I’ve noticed a lot of people have. Anyway, the nothingness that the mass and energy of the universe has dispersed through is not only infinite but round. As you know, the vast majority of space is empty. The universe is merely our name for the all the matter that has spread its way through this nothingness. So long after everything has dispersed and died, it will begin to come back in on itself again as it rounds through the nothingness.”
“But if the nothingness is infinite, wouldn’t it take an infinite amount of time for everything to round it?”
“Yeah. What’s your point?”
“Well, that means it’s never gonna happen. There is no rebirth.”
“Ah, but you misunderstand infinity.”
I’d found a flaw in his theory, “No, I don’t. Infinity means endless, unreachable. If something is infinitely big, you’d need an infinite amount of time to traverse it.”
He pointed at his circle in the dirt and retorted, “But we do have an infinite amount of time. And as we close in on infinity, all the mass from before is near each other again, pulling into each other because of the force of gravity. And just as the infinite circle of time comes back to where it started, the universe is once again pulled into on incredibly small fist of mass and energy. Before too long, it explodes in the big bang, in exactly the same way it did before, causing everything to happen the same way it did during the last eternity; successfully repeating time. I was created during the big bang and when the ball is formed yet again, the mass and energy that I’m made up of will be reabsorbed and I’ll be re-birthed with the rest of the universe. So yes, I do know everything but only because I’ve been around to witness everything. I don’t know what will happen if I alter the cycle in any way. So I go about each eternity just as I did the one before.”
“So you’re saying that eternity as we perceive it is merely one cycle of time?”
“Yes.”
I took off my cap and scratched my head before getting up from the stump and conceding, “I suppose it makes just as much sense as anything. Um, here. You can have the change,” I held out my handful of recycled mass to him.
“Thank you,” he said as he clenched the change into a fist and shoved it into a pocket.
As he turned and started to walk away, I called out to him, “So we’ve had this conversation before? And you knew we would and you knew exactly how it would go?”
Without turning around, he answered, “Yes. I actually look forward to this conversation, too. It’s one of the few times I get to explain myself to someone. Most beings won’t listen to a person ramble on about being god,” he laughed as he hoisted his stick and red handkerchief over his shoulder.
There was no final goodbye as I watched him walk out of sight. It didn’t seem necessary, knowing that we’d see each other again in one eternity.

Limited Albums: Billion Dollar Babies

The sick and dead
raped sweet Mary Ann.
The landslide
elected Mr. Guy,
Mr. Dollar
raped the freezin’ babies.
No more generation:
Mary
elected
unfinished things.

Limited Albums: Live Wire/Blues Power [Live]

Please, stomp me out, love.
Please, love me
at night.
Please, power me.
At sunrise,
stomp out.

Skin Flicks

Joe Somebody walks to the grimy part of town to take care of some grimy business. Namely, the sort of business one takes care of at a porno theatre, since that’s where he’s going. Keeping a low profile in a grey coat and baseball cap, he purchases his ticket at the counter and walks into the lobby, avoiding eye-contact with all and any employees or fellow patrons. He pushes through the double-doors of screening room number two. The header above the door reads, “Loose Lucy.”
The film hasn’t begun yet but the room is dark and the credits from the last showing are rolling. Some human shaped silhouettes are getting up and leaving but most of the couple dozen stay put; no other plans for the day. Joe finds a seat situated by itself, as has everyone else. A few more tailing silhouettes take seats of their own, making sure not to sit in those just vacated. Nobody says a word, nobody turns their gaze from the screen, nobody dare even cough or sneeze. The credits end and shuffling can be herd from the projection room as the reel is started. Three, two, one.
The room isn’t so dark anymore as celluloid is projected onto the screen, displaying the title of the film in curvy, white lettering over the opening shot of a man and woman drinking at a bar. They’re the only two there and are animatedly showing their inebriation by way of slurring their words and balancing precariously on their barstools. The woman, Loose Lucy one would presume, has wavy, blond hair and an ample chest made known to the audience by the cleavage exposed behind her white blouse. The man is inconsequential. After a conversation no one listens to and a few laughs that display Lucy’s bright smile, she stumbles off her stool and towards the bathroom.
The scene cuts to Lucy washing her hands and looking up at the mirror to see the man behind her with, wearing a devilish grin. He moves in close and gropes her from behind. Despite her protests, she hardly fights back beyond a playful manner. What ensues is an act of intercourse that is surprisingly able-bodied on both sides despite the two of them appearing to be fall-down drunk just a few moments ago. The scene ends as one would expect, with most of the audience having done what one would expect.
Shortly after the screen goes dark, Joe walks out to the scarcely lit lobby. He pushes through a door into a room lined with grimy tile, concrete, peeling wallpaper, and graffiti over all of it. He walks past a row of sinks, then urinals, before opening the first of four stalls and making use of it. Just before he reaches for the toilet paper, he hears the restroom door slam open and the voices of four or so people.
“Stop struggling!”
“Just keep movin’!”
Something slams against the side of the stalls, causing Joe’s walls to shudder. That same something is then shoved into the corner, just outside the last stall. Joe listens to a man’s pleading.
“Please stop. I promise I won’t come here again.”
The voice is answered by the slapping, cracking sound of a heavy fist laying into a cheek and the toppling of a tall man onto the floor. Joe can hear the others shuffling so as to surround him.
“Please let me go.”
“Boy, there’s nothing I’d like more than to let you go, but first you gotta stop lying to us,” said a voice brimming with superiority.
“I’m not lying--”
A few more landed blows can be heard before the same voice continues, “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Lies. I can’t stand them. So why don’t you tell us the truth and I’ll let you go. Why don’t you tell us that you were watching that nice, white woman get raped in that movie? Why don’t you tell us how you watched it, imagining yourself doing the same thing? Raping white women; that’s what gets you niggers off. Isn’t it, boy? Just say yes and I’ll let you be.”
The defeated man mumbles something.
“I couldn’t hear you, boy.”
There’s a short pause before he repeats himself loudly and clearly, “Yes.”
“Good,” Joe could hear the brute patting the man’s bloodied face.
“You heard him boys, this nigger likes to rape white women. He’s probably thinking of raping you’re wives, mothers, and sisters. Now I’m gonna leave because I’m a man of my word and I promised to let him go. But I can tell the rest of you aren’t done with him yet.”
“Ay, boss.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” the leader of this mini mob says before he can be heard washing his hands, pulling paper towels, and letting the restroom door close behind himself.
The two or three men left behind turn to the cornered man and pummel him until he stops struggling and calling for help; Joe figures the man must be unconscious. He hears three zippers followed by the sound of streaming liquid hitting tile and cloth before he hears the zippers again. The men wash their hands and leave. Joe hears the door shut but stays seated. Before Joe can figure out what to do, the man in the corner gets up and walks up to the door of Joe’s stall.
“Why didn’t you help?”
Joe doesn’t answer.
“So you’re just gonna keep pretending you aren’t there? Not take any responsibility for what just happened to me? You gonna try and forget this ever happened?”
Joe just sits there.
“You know you won’t forget. You’re going to remember this for the rest of your life. You’re gonna remember this day, when you hid like a coward while a hate crime was committed just fifteen feet from where you were taking a shit.”
Still nothing from Joe.
“Well I hope you’re a racist, sir. I hope you’re happy that I got beaten for watching the same movie you and all your white friends watched. I hope that’s what you wanted. Because I can go home and change out of these piss-ridden clothes. I can take a shower and clean the blood from my body. I can simply wait, and my wounds will heal. But you can’t do anything to change what you did here today, so I pray to god that you wanted it to happen.”
The man’s uneven footsteps bring him to the sink. The water runs for a long time before he pulls some paper towels and leaves the room. Joe waits a good fifteen minutes before opening his stall door. In the corner is a puddle of blood and piss slowly spilling towards a drain at the center of the floor. There are dark-red splatters on the wall and the where the man was slammed into the stalls. A trail of watery-red shoe prints from the corner lead to a dirty sink before heading out the door. Joe washes his hands at a different sink before leaving the bathroom and walking back into screening room number two; taking his former seat in time for the next showing.

Limited Albums: Elegant Gypsy

Highway over Rome:
gypsy devil.
On Mediterranean flight,
midnight tango with Spanish lady.
Elegant sister of Rio with
elegant, sister suite.

Limited Albums: Honkin' on Bobo

I’m ready,
to move back
to the Jesus grind.
Jesus, please shame the
temperature blind.
I’m ready,
to shame the girl
on-line.
I’m ready,
to move eyesight,
to the main runner
on the road to baby-girl.

Limited Albums: Toys in the Attic

Uncle Adam’s big,
round, sweet, apple.
In the attic,
crying ‘round
the big record round,
emotion and
toys inch this way.
Walk no more.
No crying, no more.

Limited Albums: Aerosmith

One street,
one mama,
one dream:
Walkin’ the
dog on the
street. Movin’ out, the
kin write the
dog a letter.

“Limited Albums: For Those About to Rock We Salute You”

Spellbound knives inject the finger of you.
We salute the venom
it put to you.
Those long, snowballed rules
get up
to rock you.
Evil walks
the spellbound night,
breaking the venom
on you.

Shade: Chapter 3

Chapter Three
George drives his empty pickup to city hall after dropping Myla off at the local K-12. She was still as quiet as when he picked her up from his sister’s place, but George figured she’d start feeling better once she made some friends. Kate even packed lunch for her after making breakfast. George had forgotten what it was like to have someone around to help take care of things.
“Just wish she didn’t have to be so pretty. Talking to her on the phone I figured she was a bit older,” George thinks to himself as he pulls in front of city hall.
The modest brick structure isn’t nearly as cheery as the photo George remembers seeing in the town’s brochure, “But it is a dreary day in general,” he tells himself.
Two stories high with the ever expected central dome, the city hall in Shade is a miniature to those in big cities like San Francisco. Out front is a rose garden from which rises a flag pole just a foot or two higher than the hall. The roses have yet to recover from their annual beheading and the flags hang limp and rumpled on this windless day. George stops just in front of the pole to read the adjoining plaque. Raised up from the brass are the words:
“LIVE IN FEAR SO YOU MAY DIE IN PEACE.”
-Stan Lucas, FOUNDER
“Must have been a religious man,” thinks George while walking up the stone steps and through the open door.
He follows the directory to get to the mayor’s office on the second floor. Just as he’s about to knock a gruff voice calls out, “Come in. The door’s open.”
George walks in to find a man sitting behind the desk who resembles an oversized beet, both in shape and color, that squeezed into an old, brown suit. His hair consists of a few wisps of white combed over his large head. At his unkept mahogany desk sits a crystal decanter half full with brandy, a box of cigars, a pen holder that reads Mayor McBoyle, and a rumpled stack of ink, coffee, and brandy stained papers. From the large window behind him, the church bell tower seems to loom as high over town as the icy peaks in the distance. The window is bordered by two flags; the nation’s on the left and the state’s on the right. On the right wall are framed photos from the man’s campaigns and inaugurations, along with a framed degree in something or other. Against the left wall is a bookcase filled with leather bound law books, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and a bible or two.
“Please take a seat,” McBoyle implores of George while donning his half moon spectacles and shuffling through his paperwork.
George lowers himself into the wooden chair in front of him, causing it to creak. McBoyle takes a second to drink from his mug before he pulls out a crumpled sheet and smoothes it out against the desk before sliding it to George.
“I’ve filled out the form for you,” McBoyle informs as he removes his glasses, “just sign at the bottom.”
“That’s it?”
“Legally that’s all it takes here. I don’t see a need for any pomp and circumstance if you don’t.”
“No, it’s fine. Just thought I was gonna end up being here all day,” as he grabs a fountain pen and autographs the form.
“Nope, you are now the sheriff of Shade,” McBoyle puts the form away and pulls out two lowball glasses.
Just as he’s about to pour the second glass, the new sheriff interrupts him, “I’m afraid I can’t join you. I’m, uh, I’m an alcoholic.”
“How long you’ve been off the sauce for?”
“Two months, nine days.”
“Then heres to your two months dry,” he declares before raising his glass and downing the amber liquid.
He puts the glasses back in the desk and gets up from his chair, “Let’s go to lunch, sheriff. My treat.”

******************************************************************************
“What’ll you have, sheriff?” the waitress asks George in her two-pack a day voice.
“Um, the bacon cheeseburger. With home fries.”
“How do you want that?”
“Well done.”
“To drink?”
“Just the water.”
She turns to the mayor, “And you’ll have the usual?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. One bacon and cheese with spuds and one mayor’s special.”
She collects their menus and the two watch her walk behind the counter and pin their orders on the string above the kitchen window. The diner is of the typical pastel colors, with donuts under glass at the counter and pies on display near the front. A red gumball machine sits just inside the entrance. They sit at a booth with a steel-rimmed table; blue, plastic veneer. Salt and pepper in glass shakers. The condiments are also in clear glass; next to the bear of honey, and the packets of saltines, sweeteners, and preserves. George flips through these while the mayor goes over his new job.
“There’s not too much for you to do here. Your position is mostly a cautionary one. As you know, you’ll be replacing our retiring sheriff, Clem. He got by being the only cop in town so we expect that you’ll be fine. Hell, Clem didn’t even have prior training.”
George simply nods his understanding.
“In the unheard of event that you need assistance, you are permitted to hire on other officers. Just bring it up with the treasury first so we can see how it’ll fit into the budget. But on a busy night you won’t do much more than answer a noise complaint, or bust minors for drinking and smoking. In fact, you’ll probably get bored,” McBoyle chuckles.
George fails to provide any sort of response.
“What made you wanna come out here, anyway?” McBoyle presses for conversation.
George pauses for a second before answering, “I figured living in a quiet town with a quiet job would give me more time with my daughter. Things... haven’t been the same between us since her mom died. Although they weren’t that great to begin with. I was always so involved with work that we barely spent any time together. I spent most of the drive up here trying to figure out how old she was without tipping her off. Of course, the drinking never helped our bond either... I’m hoping we can get a fresh start here.”
“Well, I hope you get that,” McBoyle answers as the waitress brings their lunch.
The mayor’s special consists of a club sandwich, a mound of potato salad, and a mug of coffee. Seems pretty standard until the waitress pulls a flask out of her apron pocket and tops off the mug.
“Thank you, dear,” McBoyle says with a smile.
She smiles back and turns away.
Before he can even pick up a fry, George finds himself asking, “Do you always drink so much?”
McBoyle takes a sip before answering, “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it. Why’d you drink?”
George doesn’t say anything for a minute. He squirts some ketchup on his burger and takes a sip of water before admitting, “I didn’t want to live. But I was too afraid to kill myself. So I drank and prayed for death to come.”
“So what made you stop? What made you wanna live?”
“My daughter deserves better than that. I was crushed after her mom died but I realized I could still save Myla. I could still give her a good life and maybe find some happiness with her.”
“I’m sure you will,” McBoyle raises his mug to George.
George notices the mayor’s eyes are the same ultra-light blue as Kate’s as he clinks his glass to the ceramic coffee cup. They drink to his new life and consume their meal.

******************************************************************************
The sheriff’s station / jailhouse is downtown, in the same building as the post office. A cement structure that’s almost comforting in its resemblance to Andy Griffith’s place of work. The only things missing are the unlocked gun rack, the town drunk sleeping one off, and little, iron barred windows in the well-furnished cells. Instead there’s a locked armory in the back, small but plenty for one sheriff, and empty cells with steel toilets and solid, cement walls. George is shaking hands with an old, gray man who’s been hard of hearing and site for the last decade or so. He’s dressed in his uniform for the last time, as he’s technically retired at this point.
“I’ll come in tomorrow to check on how your doing and collect some of my things,” Clem warbles to George as he tours him through the workplace.
“Okay then. What are your hours here?” responds George; the mayor is at a window, waving to passing townsfolk and occasionally taking a sip from his silver hip flask.
Clem assures, “Whenever feels right to be honest. Just make sure you always let someone know where you are in case someone needs you for something. And obviously you’ll have to stay the night if you’ve locked someone up.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Good. You already have your uniform at home?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Here’s the key to the front door and my desk drawer. Your gun, badge, other keys, and whatever else you need will be locked away in there when you come in tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” George takes two jumbo, skeleton keys from Clem’s hands and wonders just how old the locks are.
Clem looks George in the eyes, “Good luck. Remember, I’ll be checking in on you.”

******************************************************************************
“How was school?” George asks Myla as she tosses her pink backpack into the truck and hops into the passenger seat.
“It was okay,” she mumbles with a click of her seatbelt.
“Did you make any friends?” George pulled the truck out of the lot and started to make for Kate’s.
“No....”
“No? Why not? Didn’t you play with them at recess or something?
“They wouldn’t let me. Every time I tried to talk to someone or play with them, they’d walk away.”
“Just walk away? They didn’t even say anything?”
“Yes,” she crosses her arms and pouts, “I wanna go home.”
“We’re going home right now--”
“That place isn’t my home! I hate it here!” she flails her arms and pulls her blue hood up before crossing them again.
“Myla, calm down. I no you miss home right now but you’ll make friends soon. Just keep trying,” he optimistically ensures while making a mental note to talk to her teacher.
“I wanna go back to aunt Mary’s. Why did you bring me here?”
George stops the car so he can look at his daughter while he speaks, “Because you’re my daughter. It’s my job to take care of you and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you for the last few months. That never should have happened. But I promise I won’t do it again. I love you, Myla. So until you’re an adult, you go where I go and I keep you safe. Got that?”
Myla grumbles something.
“Got that?” George repeats.
“Yes,” Myla responds in the sternest voice a ten or eleven year old is capable of.
George takes his foot of the brake. As they pull up to the house, Kate waves at them from the open front door and George allows himself a smile and a wave back, while Myla purposefully glowers.

Prayer for Nothing

Retreat to the corner,
find reprieve in insanity.
Eat mollusks from the garden,
flee for European beaches.

But fate tugs on our leashes
and harrowing days will follow.
Be it at home or abroad,
the things we know bind us
to Nothing.

Sweet Nothing; innocent, delicate,
blank, and serene.
Sweet Nothing, bring release to me.
Find me mid-dream
and this crowded world we’ll leave.

Limited Song Titles

Don’t nod to no don, Dot.
Cry,
sister, rest. Sis sets sires’ tires. Tiers rise.

Swlabr saw war, slaw, laws, labs, abs, bars, bras. Lars was slab raw.

Cross orcs or rocs. SOS.
Roads or rad soda ads. Sod soars.

I
need Ned.
You. Yo,

joker. Joke or jerk Joe
and Dan.
The
thief hit. Heft it,

working king. Work kin or wring gin. Orin rowing now. Won no ink nor wig,
man. An ma

crazy. Cry, racy
mama.

Break bare bark. Baker, bake bear-beak
on
through our hot, rough, tough hour. Thor got hog gut
to
the
other Thor. He tore the hot
side. Die,

tales set at east LA. Steal ales lest Seal eats set sea-salt
of
brave bear. Be rave. Bar
Ulysses. Yes, use Sue’s

strange, great sage. Gents get set. Sea rats sent
brew. Be

Caroline near care? Nora can loan an ear or rice

behind
blue lube.
Eyes see

vernal veal navel. Earn an
equinox ox.

No
quarter near. Eat true

celebration boar. Cater antler bone at
day.

Here

for
those she shot. The hoes set
about a boat; out
to
rock orc.
We
salute teal lutes. Let’s seat
you.

Rain in air.
Song so

white, we wet the
room.

A
horse shoe or her
with wit. Hi,
no-
name. Man,

the
song. No son
remains in Maine. Names snare
the
same men.

Call
me, Em.
The
breeze be

sand. Dan and sad
man

pin pi in
ball.
Wizard,

rock
and
roll.

Limited Vocabulary

Dar rad aardvark ark dark.

As bass abs ass.
Lo-cal, calico, coal. Coca-cola co coil oil. Col ail CA.
Dear, read dar red ear. Dare are rad.

Earn are ran era, near an ear.

Flour for our four or lo foul flu.
Gauge age gag. Aug egg gage.
He heed dee hedge edge, Gee.

Log oil lo igloo goo.

Joe-joker joke or roe ore.
Oar on an okra ark or Nora ran rank nor Koran.
Lea flea la ale leaf.
Mirror rim or mir.
Jan, an inn jinn in nan. Nina ninja.

Rod door or do rood odor.

Mop Poe pom mope poem.
Quilt lit, it quit.
Hoar-orc arc, or car arch, oar roach.
Seer see sen. Screen seen ere.
Hot Troy-port try pry thy toy trophy or rot pot.

Cue nu clue, Uncle Lune.

Mac cam vacuum cum.
Write ire wit. Ret rite, wet, tire. Tie writ wire.
Ay, Ray. Xray ax?
Young guy, you nog yon nu gun. Goy gnu!
Ay, any nay an zany.

Vegas

A barren mess
without caress.
The maids scuttle about
while the masters shout.
More ale for the ailing
more ail for the failing.
Bailing from burning wrecks
chasing voided checks.
Fall to the ground running
the rest are coming.
Fears left for dead
stuffed under the bed.
Dice tumblers mumble
drunks merely bumble.
Everywhere is light
yet in the dark they fight.
Old mothers bawl
their children crawl.
Girls sell their nights
steal what’s in site.
Thinkers of odds
beaten with rods.
Come back, lucky
win back your money.

Jump

Sitting on the brim,
looking in.
Darkness below. I jump.

Down and down and down,
violently pushing through the frigid air--
sploosh. Water, but no light only dark.
Dive. Deep and deeper.
Cold and colder. I get old and older.
Skin prunes, vision blurs, hairs gray and leave.
Suddenly I fall out the bottom
and land on the brim,
young again.

Sitting on the brim,
looking in.
Darkness below. I jump.

Shade: Chapter 2

Chapter Two
Your typical mountain town, Shade has all the expected comforts of Main Street America, surrounded by the natural beauty of snowcapped, pine-filled, mountains. The day’s cloud cover keeps the shops somberly lit as the townsfolk cheerily go about their business. They stop and wave to the newcomers as their overladen truck rolls down said Main Street. The father can’t help but smile to himself and wave back to the onlookers. He can’t remember the last time a stranger waved to him.
“You can meet people later,” he thinks to himself, “Myla’s still sick.”
They take a right at the flower shop before arriving at their new home, in the middle of the block. An unnamed boarding house two stories high and pocked with windows sided by navy blue, wooden shutters. The rest of the building is painted the brown shade of wet lumber. Two stone chimneys on opposite ends of the steeply sloped roof. Firewood stacked against the right side of the home, next to the padlocked, basement entrance.
The father helps his daughter down from the truck and holds her hand as they walk up the wooden stairs to the door. He taps the big, brass knocker once, before the door is abruptly opened; startling them both. Myla is startled by how quickly the woman responded to the knock. The man is startled by the woman.
She wears her jet-black hair like a prohibition-era flapper. Her blue eyes so pale they border on the level of white her skin has everywhere except her cold-blushed cheeks. She stands at his height in her dark boots and tight fitting blue-jeans. Her charcoal colored flannel is unbuttoned just far enough to display her impressive cleavage. She’s a little older than the thirty-five year old father but she looks a little younger.
She speaks in an unexpected, and frankly uncalled for, comforting, Texas drawl, “Howdy, Mr. Spooner! Or should I say Sheriff Spooner?” she asks as she eagerly shakes his hand.
“George is fine. I assume you’re Miss Ashton,” he inquires almost shyly.
“Oh, shush,” she giggles, “Call me Kate. And this must be Myla--oh, she doesn’t look so good. Sugar, did you get carsick?”
Myla stares at Kate’s feet while George regains his composure, “Um, yes. Strange, she’s normally fine on car trips.”
“It’s these darned windy roads. Always gets to children worse--less weight to keep them balanced and all. Come inside and we’ll get you both comfortable. I have cocoa on the stove if y’all want some.”
Myla’s face perks up a little, to George’s notice.
“That sounds great. Why don’t you go inside with Kate and I’ll unpack our things?” he asks Myla.
Myla nods and Kate takes her hand before giving George a quick smile, “Tenants’ rooms are upstairs. There ain’t no other tenants so go ‘head and pick your rooms.”

******************************************************************************
The three residents of the home sit in the living room after dinner. The stone fireplace in the side of the room has a flame just big enough to keep things warm. The wallpaper displays a blue on lighter blue pattern sporadically interrupted by the windows, with shutters closed to keep out the night air, and landscape paintings of similar high altitude environments. An old, antennae television and a vacuum tube radio sit between the windows, neither one on. Myla sits next to a bookshelf in the corner; reading a hardcover old enough to have been pulled from a forgotten box in a public school library. She had barely touched the baked mac and cheese Kate had made and could only get down a meager serving of ice cream. George keeps an eye on her from the small couch Kate and he are squeezed into.
“Cozy enough for you, sugar?” Kate asks George.
“Oh, yes, very cozy. Just worried about Myla is all. Carsickness doesn’t last this long,” George tells her under his breath before burning his tongue with a slurp of coffee, “I’m taking her to the doctor tomorrow.”
“She’s just settlin’ in. From what you’ve told me, that child’s been through enough already. No point piling a visit to the doctor on top of it,” Kate calmly assures between delicate sips from her mug.
“I suppose you’re right,” George agrees before instinctively glancing at the blank television.
“Sorry ‘bout the signals being down. The snowstorms took out the phone and power lines again this year and they won’t fix ‘em till spring. Least the generator puts out enough juice to power the houselights.”
“It’s not like it’s your fault. Besides, I watch too much T.V. and Myla prefers to read. I wish the phones were up though seeing as cell coverage doesn’t reach up here. I promised Janice, my sister, that I’d keep in touch.”
“You can always write her. The mail goes out everyday here, same as anywhere else.”
“Suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” George says with a happy smirk.
“Well, there you go, sugar. Anyway, it’s almost ten which is curfew in my house. Stay up as late as you want but the fire’s goin’ out and the lights are goin’ off till morning,” Kate warns as she gets up from the couch.
“Hmm, well I’m still up from the drive. I’ll just put Myla to bed and put out the fire whe--”
Kate switches off the gas and begins staunching the coals, “Sorry sugar, but them’s the rules. You may be the new law in town but I’ve always been the law in this house. Get to bed. I’ll have breakfast on the table by seven. How do you and Myla like your eggs?”
“Um, scrambled,” George answers in mild confusion to the sudden enforcement.
“Good, cause thats how I make ‘em. Good night, Myla. Good night, George,” she finishes as she heads upstairs.
George can’t help but admire her figure as she ascends the steps, “Um, yeah. We’ll see you in the morning, Kate.”
Myla mumbles something of the sort.

Shade: Chapter 1

Shade

Chapter One
A man and his young daughter drive silently down an empty country highway in an aging Toyota; their earthly belongings piled in the truck-bed. News radio was playing earlier but there hasn’t been a signal for the last hour. The father has short-cropped brown hair and his irises appear almost black. He wears an untucked, red, flannel shirt, worker’s denim, and cheap tennis shoes. Every few minutes he glances over at his daughter. Long, lemon-colored hair, kid jeans, and a Disneyland sweater; she faces the window.
“Ten or eleven?” he thinks to himself, searching his brain for her birthday.
Passing through empty fields of grass, the road eventually brings them into the mountains. It’s a narrow two-lane but there are no other cars on the asphalt today. The once-blue truck sways gently around the turns, pushing rubble beneath the guardrail and into the pine forest below. On a particularly sharp turn, his daughter turns from the window to reveal her turtle-colored face before puking on the dash.
“Oh, shi--shoot!” he censors himself as he slowed to a stop.
As he wiped up the mess and his daughter changed into a clean sweater, he implored, “You’ve never been carsick before. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” but her face still had a twinge of green to it.
“Hmm, okay. I’ll drive slow.”
She still seemed to feel ill as the town came into sight. The snow-topped welcome sign was painted in white letters:
SHADE
A Place To Rest

Friday Night

*This is the more in depth and slightly fictionalized version of an entry named "Tonight". I'm still think it could be better though so constructive criticism is welcomed.*
Some Friday nights are better than others. Sometimes you just watch T.V. and go to bed. Sometimes you get drunk with friends. Sometimes you go to a stranger’s house party. Sometimes you find a new restaurant. Sometimes you play games. Sometimes you make new friends. Sometimes you watch a movie you haven’t seen yet. And sometimes you do all of these things and still have time to commit petty theft.
My roommate and I sat in our living room, a series of sounds and lights being projected at us from the corner. The Venetian blinds were pulled halfway up the window; allowing only a glimpse of the outside that was slowly falling into night. The walls blank except for his Shawshank Redemption poster. Easily his favorite movie. Occasionally we interrupted the light clicking of our plastic phones to relay messages to each other.
“What’s Cujo doing tonight?” I asked.
“I’ll ask him.”
“Cool. It’s weird we haven’t hung out with him this year.”
“Yeah.”
He tapped at his iPhone and we waited a short while. I had been texting my girlfriend and continued to do so. She was at her parent’s for the weekend and we’d been having the usual “Whats up” and “What r u doin tonite?” conversation.
“We mite go to cujos. u”
“That sounds fun. Prob just gonna watch movie with the fam”
“Cool”
Will, the aforementioned roommate, read a text and started to get up.
“Cujo says to come over.”
“Sweet. I’ll grab a jacket.”
“He lives pretty far away now.”
“Oh yeah, he moved. How far?”
“A couple of miles.”
“Well, I don’t think either of us are going to want to drive tonight. I don’t mind walking and I’m sure he’ll let us crash there if we need to,” I reasoned as I got up from the futon.
“Sounds good.”
I walked down our narrow white hallway till it ended at my room. I put on my beanie, a coat, and stuck my harmonica in the chest pocket. For a moment I thought about putting in my contacts. When I wear my glasses with the beanie it presses them into the side of my head and starts to hurt after a while. But there was always the chance I’d pass out; leaving me to deal with a feeling like potato chips on my eyeballs and the possibility of scratched retinas. Having gone unconscious while drinking with Cujo before, I opted to wear glasses. On our way out we said bye to Bill, our non-partying roommate, leaving him to raid in a mystical world while eating Hot Pockets and drinking Mountain Dew. He barely glanced at us.
The walk there was expectantly uneventful. We made our way across the bridge a couple of blocks from our complex, meandered a few blocks of residential and food service area, cut across the college campus, passed the dorms and the high school, and finally reached Cujo’s place after another handful of residential blocks. The stream under the bridge was getting shallow, the trees that lined the roads were profusely shedding their Thanksgiving colors, the campus was empty, and by the time we got to our friend’s it was dark out. Meaning it was soon to be very loud out. First by rhythmic bass and well-metered swears, second by drunken screams and cheers, and lastly by the herds of freshmen being milled out of frat houses by the silent red and blue gleam across frosted kegs of cheap beer and scattered red cups.
Cujos’s new apartment was on a dark street a couple of blocks from the train tracks. In front of us lay a driveway, then a big parking lot, and then three or four house sized buildings. Will called Cujo to make sure it was his place and to ask which building was his.
“Cujo said Kenny is going to come outside,” he told me as he put his iPhone away.
“How will we know it’s him?”
“I know him from my graphic design class.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Soon a small figure emerged at the edge of the lot. A silhouette against the lighting from behind him, with a glow around his short, blond hair. We walked to him, made the usual greetings, Will made the usual introductions, and Kenny guided us through the light to the building at the back.
We entered the living room to be immediately greeted by familiar items from Cujo’s last place of residence and a decor typical of the intellectually liberal yet somewhat redneck college crowd. A large, cloth, Jim Bean banner hung on the wall; red and gold text against white backing, a poster for the Clint Eastwood film “The Outlaw Josey Wales,” a seven by seven foot piece of work Cody had made of squids and a giant woman attacking a city, and some works by Ralph Steadman, among other student approved wall art; like a poster that read “America the Beautiful” above a grid of decidedly ugly photos from across the country. Mostly obese, white people and natural occurrences, such as cacti and rocks, that looked a lot like male genitalia. There was a normal sized black television with electronic equipment and movies stacked around it. The same two-thirds circle couch that was synonymous with Cujo’s previous abode. Low to the ground and blue with a floral design. It seemed like something taken from a 1970s hotel lobby in Hawaii. It encompassed a round coffee table covered in bottles, cans, and a large, multicolored, glass bong that served as a centerpiece. I could see through to the kitchen and dining area; very basic except for the thirty or so flattened six-pack cases stapled to the three walls around the table, lined up in one row and just below the ceiling. Each case was from a different brew. In the corner of the living room was a staircase. I tried to wrap my head around this by questioning Kenny about it.
“This is a two story apartment? I mean, like, you and your roommates get two stories?”
“Yeah,” he answered with a twinge of pride.
The three of us immediately made our way upstairs and followed the sound of Cujo’s voice to his room. Him and his other roommate, Ted, were playing a new video game called “Borderlands.” Will and I watched them play while we talked with them for a bit and caught up with Cujo. There wasn’t much more in his room than the mattress we sat on and the stuff to play games. After a few minutes it became apparent that they weren’t going to finish anytime soon so Will and I headed back down to the living room where Kenny was watching Stripes. The three of us soon realized there was a definite lack of alcohol pummeling our nervous systems into a numb stupor. Being at Cujo’s on a Friday night, this seemed wrong.
Kenny had enough for himself but Will and I would need our own. It was agreed that the three of us would venture to the nearest liquor store so Kenny could buy us some Mickey’s. Two forties for Will and two for me. Eighty ounces to each of us. Something like eight beers a piece. Kenny finished his dinner of reheated pasta and a bottle of Fat Tire Ale before we left.
We walked a few blocks through the dimly lit residential area and across the train tracks at the crossing next to campus. On the other side of the tracks was an apartment building, on our right, and two houses that would seem to be occupied by white trash, on our left. I’d never seen the people who lived in these homes but they had the makings of white trash residencies. The lawns and what was visible of the backyards were entirely unkept, about 90% dirt and more weeds than grass. The houses themselves were in such disrepair that one might believe they were vacant.
The one nearest to the tracks was a small, one story painted in a shade of blue that was either very light or had faded over time. What really made it though is that some past resident, maybe even the original builders, had apparently decided to make it look like some sort of fairy tale castle. They did this by way of affixing white, plastic stones to the outside wall to create that old-timey masonry look. They also had a couple of lawn gnomes to glare at passersby from the mock porch. Gnomes are already a little creepy but it’s not helped when the house appears to be an abandoned twentieth century castle, save for the surprisingly well kept 1970s and / or 80s era boat, truck, and muscle car in the driveway and backyard.
The neighbors had an ordinary one story home, of an ordinary off-white paint color, and in an ordinary state of decay. What set this home apart from others in town was a backyard that contained an empty above ground pool and a sizable pile of bicycle frames; weeds growing through the spokes and cobwebs all over. Certainly not the largest pile of never-to-be-used bicycle frames I’ve seen, but still about a dozen more than I’ve seen at the home of someone I actually knew. The front lawn had only one decoration but it served as the cherry on top: A rusting weight bench, with equally decrepit barbell and weights, and nearly all the stuffing torn out of the cushion. Just keeping up with the Jones’s I suppose.
Just past these homes was the town’s highway; where strip malls containing many food conveyers, a supermarket, and of course a liquor store, all stood under bright lighting. After we crossed the highway, Kenny confirmed our order and went into the small liquor store. Just adjacent was a privately operated restaurant. It had one large window, that would’ve looked in had it not been covered in photos of Chinese dishes, and a sign above that read “Chang-Hing House: Chinese Food” in a font meant to simulate Mandarin characters. I hadn’t had dinner yet.
“I’m gonna get something to eat,” I informed Will while gesturing to the establishment.
“Maybe I should eat, too,” and Will followed me inside.
The inside walls were a drab yellow to match the drab yellow of the outside walls. There were some additional, glossed over photos of food taped to them along with a calender and some posters of what I assume were Asian celebrities. To the side of the room was a table. Small and round. Steel with two steel chairs. In the windowsill were stacks of real-estate guides, newsletters, and periodicals written in Asian dialects. Just next to this was one of those candy dispensing machines where you put in a quarter and turn a knob. Four half full compartments of colorful off brand confections. About four yards across the room from the window was the counter, directly beyond which was a kitchen crowded with appliances. Below the counter was another window; this one obscured by a wall of stacked jasmine and green tea boxes. Above the counter was a large, black, menu board with removable letters. It was difficult to understand due to its lack of organization and abundance of misspellings but we managed to decipher it as being a good deal. At my approaching of the counter, a middle-aged Asian man noticed me from the corner of the kitchen and came up to take my order.
“Um, a rice bowl with sweet and sour pork. To go.”
“Rice bowl?” he asked in an accent thick enough to make it clear he spoke little English.
“Yes.”
He briskly wrote down my order and I moved out of the way so Will could order as the man looked up at him with an almost annoyed expectance.
“I’ll have an orange chicken combo plate. To go, as well.”
He wrote down Will’s order and went to work, making our dinners. He was the only visible employee there.
“Why don’t you go outside and let Kenny know we’re in here,” I told Will.
“Okay,” he said as he walked out the door, the little bell ringing as he opened it.
I spotted them talking through an opening in the window before sitting down. As I had a short text conversation with my girlfriend, I listened to the sound of igniting flame, clashes of metal, and steaming liquids.
“Whats up”
“We’re watchin hitch”
“Wgain? U’ve seen it like 20 times”
“its good lol. Hows cujos?
“Its good. Were gettin chinese food n forties rite now”
“Sounds good”
The smell of greasy, hastily prepared food wafted over the counter.
“Should b. Whatd u have for dinner?’
“We went to pf changs”
“Cool”
Will came in about a minute before our orders came up. He paid in credit, I payed in cash, and we promptly left with our meals. Kenny was outside and shivering visibly. I mentioned earlier that he was sleight of frame and it seemed he wasn’t as comfortable as Will and I in the late fall weather despite that he was wearing the thickest coat out of all of us. Will took both bags of refrigerated malt liquor from him to so he wouldn’t be as cold (I carried Will’s dinner with mine) and once we started walking back, Kenny had stopped shivering.
I remarked, “I liked that place. I hope the food turns out to be good.”
“Really? I thought the guy there was kind of rude.”
“I felt like it was more of a language barrier. He just came across as kind of rude because he didn’t know much English.”
“But he went off on me weird about paying in credit. He was all like, next time you pay in cash. This time, okay. But next time you pay in cash,” Will quoted while waving his pointer finger and taking on a bossier tone.
“That was odd. Maybe he prefers cash because then he doesn’t have to pay taxes on all of it.”
“Then there should be a sign or something. What right does he have to be annoyed if he doesn’t let me know beforehand.”
We saw red and blue lights from behind us and went into a panicky quiet as the cop car drove by. There’s little to no chance they would have stopped us unless we had open containers, but there’s no point in drawing attention.
“He could have just not served you. He probably only did because he had already made it. And personally I don’t really care about the service as long as the food is good.”
“Well, I do.”
Upon arriving back, we continued watching “Stripes,” Will and I eating our surprisingly good takeout and breaking into our forties.
“That was good. We need to go there again sometime,” I remarked.
“Eh, maybe. I mean it was good but I prefer Panda.”
“The service thing?”
“Well, yeah.”
After reimbursing Kenny for the alcohol, him and Will started going on about stuff in their graphic design class. I mostly tuned it out since I didn’t really know what they were talking about but I soon found myself upstairs them, looking at some work that Kenny had done on his black Dell. Will and I, about halfway through our first bottles, sat on his bed as he clicked through images. It was neat but I certainly wasn’t as interested in shading and reflections as Will was. As they prattled on about technical terms I looked over at his large book / DVD stand. I noticed he had two copies of Superbad, so I tried to nudge him towards giving me the extra.
“Why do you have two copies of Superbad?” I asked during a break in his conversation with Will.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s probably my favorite Seth Rogen movie.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” he agreed with me before going back into discussion with Will.
And that was the end of that attempt at free stuff. I thought he would have tried to sell it to me at the least, or maybe even offer to lend it to me, but he was completely oblivious to the fact that I wanted it. I suppose I expected him to react as I would expect Cujo to.
Eventually he just started showing us weird stuff he had found online. A lot of funny de-motivational posters and whatnot, but also a small amount of things that were just disturbing. You know, the internet. I didn’t know how much Kenny had to drink that night but by this point he was doing the occasional massive rip out of his rasta colored bong. In between our collective sips, hits, laughs, and gasps of terror, Will finished his first forty.
“I’m going downstairs to get my second,” he indicated his empty, “You want yours?”
“Sure.”
He was back up with them in about a minute but as he broke into his, Kenny told him, “You should make a brass monkey out of that.”
“What’s that?” I asked, knowing that Will wouldn’t know either.
“It’s when you drink a Mickey’s down to here,” he instructed while pointing to where the forty stops being a cone and starts being a cylinder, “and then you fill that space with orange juice.”
“Really? Orange juice?” I was feeling buzzed and felt a need for clarification.
“Yeah, it tastes like a Creamsicle.”
“Do you have orange juice we can use?”
“Yeah, middle shelf. But if you do it, make sure to pour it over the sink because it will fizz over.”
“I’ll try it,” Will remarked before chugging his way down to the desired point and heading back down.
“Does it have to be malt liquor or can you, um--” I began to enquire after Will left.
“No. Beer doesn’t work for a brass monkey.”
“Okay. It doesn’t fizz enough?”
“Yeah. That’s probably why.”
About a minute later Will was back up with his forty near full and frothy.
“How do you like it?” Kenny asked.
“It’s really good.”
“Let me try it,” I said as I reached for it.
Kenny was absolutely right. Oddly enough, the malt liquor had taken on a creamy flavor in addition to orange. I finished my first bottle and made the proper preparations to my second as quickly as I could (not very quick at all) before heading downstairs. I also brought my empty down for recycling but couldn’t find a bin so I just left it on the tiled kitchen counter. The orange gallon-jug sat in the fridge, next to a depleted six pack of Fat Tire Ale. I wanted to make sure I didn’t drop my forty or the jug, so I placed the former in the sink and carefully poured from the latter. To my delight it fizzed over, the college equivalent of a baking soda and vinegar volcano, and I went back upstairs quite excited. Upon rejoining my inebriated brethren with my resupply of munitions, we got right back into the internet. Introducing each other to amusing videos that at least one of the others hadn’t seen. Amidst this my girlfriend texted me:
“Whats up”
“were drink brass monkeys n wathin stuf online”
“Whats that?”
I took a moment to laugh at a douchebag contest on Youtube before responding:
“Its a mickeys wit sum oj in it. Rly good. U’d like it”
“Lol k. Well i’m goin to bed. gnite. i love u”
“Love u 2 sleepy”
Half a brass monkey later, Cujo and Ted finished up their game and asked the three of us if we wanted to go to a party. We all wholeheartedly agreed but I had the dilemma of my remaining alcohol. Will quickly finished the last of his and took a bit out of mine to lessen the load, but I was still unable to finish it before everyone was ready to go. I figured I’d take it outside with me and finish what I could before we reached the parking lot dumpster.
Upon our party of five opening the front door, we were greeted with the epic greatness that was twelve guys viciously flailing at each other with foam lacrosse nets. We stopped to watch for a bit. Kenny and Will both had a cigarette, Will only smokes when he’s drunk, and I sipped more of my brass monkey whenever it seemed my stomach had made some room.
“These guys need some fight music,” Cujo pronounced excitedly.
“Well, my room is right above us,” suggested Kenny, “I’m not going back in but someone else could do it.”
“I will,” I hurriedly offered.
Kenny suggested a song I pretended to know and I ran up to his room, the green-glass forty still in hand. It took me a minute to figure out his computer but I eventually found the song and pumped it out of his speakers just a couple of notches below their loudest setting. I quickly ran back down, the ceiling above me visibly quaking, and opened the front door only to find that the melee had ended.
I asked one of the guys still out there, “Are you gonna start up again anytime soon?”
“Maybe in a while,” he figured while picking up a broken net.
“Cool,” I said before going back inside to turn the music off.
Cody led the way, since he knew where we were going, but we were a small enough group that we walked in a huddle. As we left the parking lot, I still hadn’t finished the drink. It was taking an incredibly long time but I just wasn’t done yet. It was very dark and uncrowded this side of the train tracks so I bypassed the dumpster and kept the bottle under my coat, taking it out when I felt I could handle a sip. After every drink I passed it around to anyone who wanted some.
We approached a tree growing outside an apartment complex, shedding its brown leaves, and it entranced me. They fluttered down at a slow but constant rate, illuminated by the street lamp just above it.
“You’re probably gonna wanna finish that bottle, Lenny,” Cujo had broken my trance. “The bulge under your coat is gonna be really noticeable once we get into the light,” he warned as we came up on the tracks.
“Yeah. Definitely get rid of it,” agreed Will.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Well, we can’t drink anymore. Just chug it.”
I nodded and trailed back a bit to try and empty the bottle before we got to the well-lighted strip malls. I still had a bit left though so I screwed the cap on as tight as I could and placed it on top of a bush; in front of the apartment buildings across the street from the white-trash homes. I caught up with the group, claiming I had finished it. After we stumbled through the light and into the darker residential streets, I pulled out my harmonica and started messing with it. I didn’t really know how to play, but it was still entertaining.
“Is that a harmonica? Oh, hell yeah!” Cujo exclaimed after a couple of minutes.
“You wanna play it?” I implored, “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I admitted as I handed it off to him.
It soon became apparent that none of us knew what we were doing. The tiny instrument made its way around but it never produced a credible tune.
We got to the housing complex a few blocks later, finding the party in the back row of homes. It was a simple, blue, two-story house. Identical to every other house there save for the two games of beer pong (one in the garage and one in the driveway), a keg, and about fifty to seventy-five drunk college kids wandering about with red cups. Feeling sociably buzzed, I started to talk to a stranger while watching the outside game before Will nudged me with his plastic cup to remind me there was a keg. Songs that I didn’t care about muddled the surrounding conversations as I bent under the table and withdrew a cup from the bag there.
The keg sat in the garage. Luckily there was no line. Just a girl doing a keg stand, which is entertaining enough that one doesn’t typically mind the wait.
“Eight! Nine! Ten!” shouted those aware of the event, including myself, “Eleven! Twe--” as she dropped the hose and spluttered the last bit of beer she had taken in.
She ran off into the house, once the four guys holding her up put her back down, and I filled my cup. The first sip was disappointing as I was drinking Mickey’s and brass monkeys earlier; not bilge water that had been fermented into Keystone Light. Accepting what I had, I went back outside and took my place on a stool so as to view the pong games comfortably. Cujo and Ted began a game on the garage table but it was crowded and there was no seating. So I stayed on my stool, watching the driveway game with Will and Kenny; occasionally peering into the garage to see how our party members were doing. Will and Kenny were having a conversation I wasn’t listening to.
“Lenny,” Will blurted to get my attention, “me and Kenny are going a couple houses down to see Jordan.”
“Do I know him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. I think I’ll stay here and try to get a game.”
“Cool.”
I refocused my attention on the game at hand. The white ball whizzed, arched, and bounced through the night air. Clunking off the plastic, white, folding table. Rustling the constantly altering clusters of red cups on contact, occasionally causing one to hydroplane away on a pool of spilt beer and water. The ball would either miss entirely, deflect off the lip of a cup in a haphazard direction (often bouncing and rolling on the ground around the table before someone finally got a hold of it) or it would land in a cup with a kerplop, sending a few drops of beer over the mouth and into the accumulating puddle around it.
After a few minutes of this I could see Kenny and Will walking back. Apparently they didn’t see me because they walked right by and straight into the garage to watch the end of Cujo and Ted’s game. It didn’t look like I was gonna get to play any time soon so I figured I’d join them. Upon getting off my stool however, I found that my bladder was full. So I went through the front door and looked for the downstairs bathroom, taking my half a beer with me.
I found a door where I expected there would be a bathroom and opened it. It was a bathroom, but there was already a guy sitting on the toilet. I made a quick apology as I closed the door, he seemed more confused than anything, and I walked away so I wouldn’t have to bump into him when he came out.
Standing next to the front door, the girl I saw do the keg stand earlier came up to me and asked, “Have you seen my friends?”
“I don’t know. I saw some guy in the bathroom. Could that have been him?”
“I don’t know,” she laughed before inexplicably changing the subject, “There’s a dog upstairs. Do you want to see him?”
“Sure,” I said while ignoring my bladder.
I followed her upstairs and she opened a door to a bedroom where a guy and a girl were sitting together on the bed. They promptly broke apart from each other.
“Um, nothing happened,” the guy said jokingly and we all kind of chuckled.
The dog was in there too so I put my cup on a bookshelf and kneeled down to give him a quick hug and start petting him.
“What’s his name?”
“Warner,” the guy answered me.
“Neat. I’m Lenny by the way.”
“Lenny?”
“Yep.”
“Cool. I’m Rob, this is Stacy,” he gestured to the girl on the bed, “and I guess you already know Alice,” he gestured to the girl who brought me up there.
“Um, yeah, but I didn’t know her name yet.”
“Well, that worked out then,” he noted as we all chuckled.
“So what breed is Warner?” I asked while the yellow-orange dog tried to lick my face.
“He’s a golden retriever.”
“So he’s a puppy then?”
“Yeah, he’s only about half as big as he will be.”
“Lenny was helping me look for you guys. Didn’t you have to go to the bathroom?” Alice directed the statement at them and the question at me.
“Yes, actually. When I went, there was already someone there.”
“There’s one up here, too.”
“Cool. Where is it?”
“I’ll show you. I have to go, too.”
“Cool.”
I stood up, picked up my beer, and followed Alice into the hallway, closing the door behind me. The bathroom was only a couple of doors down and she stepped aside to let me go first.
“Thanks,” I told her as I stepped inside and locked the door. The toilet was at the back left corner, just beyond the marble counter jutting out of the left wall. I placed my cup on top of the tank, lifted the seat, and took a piss. Shortly after, I noticed a lack of toilet paper on the roll. I thought how lucky I was that I only had to pee and reminded myself to check for more paper under the sink. Knowing that whats-her-name was just behind me, I dropped the seat back down with a loud clunk. After washing up, I went back to the toilet to grab my beer before opening the door.
“Thanks for putting the seat down.”
“Oh, no problem. Um, you heard it?”
“Yeah,” she replied as she walked in and started to close the door.
“Oh, wait,” I said while grabbing the door, “There’s no toilet paper on the thing. I meant to check under the sink.”
“Oh, okay,” she laughed as I noticed she was a giggly drunk, though she may have just been a giggly person.
I walked in and opened the cabinets under the sink but couldn’t find anything.
“Maybe we could check somewhere else,” I assured her.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I just have to pee.”
“Okay then,” I said in place of a goodbye as I walked out and closed the door; I didn’t hear it lock.
“Why don’t people at this party remember to lock the doors,” I thought.

Deciding to leave the couple with the dog alone, I walked past their door and turned to go downstairs. As I descended I noticed there were a few less people at the party than previously.
I suddenly found myself with the people I came with, huddled at the bottom of the stairs.
“There you are,” Cujo said.
“The keg is tapped,” informed Will.
“So we’re leaving?” I asked, making sure there wasn’t another keg coming along.
“Yeah,” Will said as we all walked out the door.
I didn’t want the rest of my beer but I didn’t want to waste it either, so I offered it to Will, “You want the rest of this?”
“Sure,” and he quickly gulped it down and handed it back to me.
Having nowhere in particular to put it before we left, I got up on my toes and placed it on top of the open garage door. Will saw it up there and felt the need to share it.
“Cujo. Look where Lenny put the cup.”
“Nice,” he commented in all sincerity.
As we abandoned the dying party, Will asked me, “Are we going back to Cujo’s or do you wanna go home?”
“Either way.”
“Huh, well Cujo was wondering... Cujo! If you can carry me piggyback for ten-seconds, we’ll come back to your place.”
“Okay,” responded Cujo despite that Will was probably fifty pounds heavier than he was.
Will jumped up on his back and we all counted as Cujo ran forward, “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” after which Cujo immediately dropped Will back to his feet.
I’d carried my roommate on my back before so I told Will, “Hop up on my back. I wanna try to beat his time.”
“Okay.”
He got behind me and jumped on my back, my arms catching him under his leg-pits. I immediately broke into a stumbling run, the sudden top-heaviness quickly working to topple me forward.
“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! T--” the count was interrupted as I fell forward, bringing Will down with me in a drunken but uninjured pile.
“Nine and a half!” someone declared.
“Let me try,” said Kenny as Will pulled me up from the pavement.
“Okay,” Will said while wiping off his clothes.
Will hopped up on Kenny’s back, almost hiding Kenny from view.
“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve!” we shouted in amazement as the smallest person there went the longest before setting Will down just outside the gates.
No one tried to carry Will after that. I pulled out the harmonica for anyone who wanted to play. A few did with that drunken earnestness that rarely produces anything good. Once again, nobody knew what they were doing and it wasn’t long before the metal rectangle found its way back to my coat pocket.
As we came up on the strip malls, a collection began for a bottle of vodka. I wasn’t sure if I wanted any but I figured I’d contribute in case I changed my mind. I opened up my brown leather wallet to find a twenty and a one. I handed Cujo the one and all the change in my pocket just as we came in view of the gas station at the edge of the strip malls.
“I’m gonna get something to eat,” I alerted Cujo and Will while gesturing to the Blue Oval gas station, “I’ll catch up.”
They nodded and mumbled something in the positive as I turned to the convenience store entrance. I thought about how uncreative the Blue Oval was since it seemed to be named directly after its logo; a blue oval. The bell rang as I opened the glass door and saw the ice cream cooler to my left. After about thirty-seconds of staring through the frosted glass, I decided on a Tollhouse ice cream sandwich in a yellow wrapper. One of those ones made with chocolate chip cookies and a layer of chocolate chips covering the exposed ring of vanilla ice cream. I was excited as a little kid as I brought it up to the counter. Surprisingly, the guy working the nightshift wasn’t a middle aged man of Asian or Middle-Eastern heritage who owned the business. Instead it was a white guy in his twenties who was thoroughly dressed in punk.
“Is that all?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. That’ll be two thirty-seven,” he read as I handed him the twenty.
“Out of twenty,” he said to himself in the way cashiers do when they have to make change for the bill you hand them.
“Yep,” I mumbled mostly to myself.
“Having a good night?” he asked while he counted out my change.
“Yeah. You?”
“Not really. I’m stuck here working while my friends are throwing a party.”
“That’s rough. Me and my friends were just walking back from a party.”
“Why didn’t you invite me?” he asked in a surprisingly accusatory tone as he handed me my change.
“Um, I don’t know you,” I said while cramming the paper in my wallet and dropping the coins in my pocket.
“Good point,” he admitted as I grabbed my sandwich and walked to the door.
That thing out of the wrapper before I was outside and finished before I had to cross the street. It was everything I had hoped it would be. Stuffing the wrapper in my pocket, I thought I heard Will and Cujo yelling my name. I couldn’t see them anywhere though so I figured they must be walking out of the liquor store, too deep into the bright light to see. I cut across the grocery store parking lot so I could catch up without having to slow them down. As I got onto the street that crossed the tracks, they yelled my name from the other sidewalk. I waved back, quickly checked for cars, and ran across to join them. Since they were gonna have to cross anyway, they decided to do it right then, so that we were still on opposite sides of the street. After realizing what had happened I ran back across to join in on the laughter.
“Fuck you guys,” I said in mock anger.
“You won, Lenny,” Cujo said after slapping my back.
No knowing what he meant, I nodded. We were coming up on the bush I had stashed the rest of my brass monkey in, so I drifted to the back of the group and found it exactly where I’d remembered putting it, just on top of a the plant. I had to go by feel since the green of the bottle camouflaged well with the bush in the dark of night. I chugged down the couple of inches left in it, trailing behind the others, and tossed it to the side as we crossed the tracks, the bouncing of glass on gravel a bit louder than expected. No one seem to notice though and shortly after we appeared outside the apartments.
Just outside Cujo’s place were a few of the foam lacrosse warriors from earlier. Now it was our turn.
“Hey, you’re back,” one of them commented, “Do you guys wanna play?”
“Yeah! What about you guys?” I asked my group earnestly, figuring the more people playing, the more wondrously chaotic.
I was answered by a clamor of yells, indiscernible but clearly in the positive.
“I guess all of us are playing,” I informed the lacrosse neighbor.
“Cool. We’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”
“Who wants to take a shot, then?” Cujo addressed the four of us in response.
Three of the four of us answered in the positive. Feeling good already, I decided to sit this one out. I also don’t like vodka since it burns like rubbing alcohol. I was assured that it wouldn’t be any better this time because we had Takaa, one of those super cheap vodkas that comes in a plastic, rather than glass, bottle. Once the shot glasses were found, we all assembled around the living room table.
“You sure you don’t want some, Lenny?” Cujo asked.
“Maybe the next round.”
“Okay then.”
The four shots of rubbing alcohol clinked together before diving down four different throats, causing gags of disgust all around. Just watching them, I could feel my trachea burn. Once they’d all composed themselves, we headed back outside to find three neighbors armed with nets and five more in a pile on the lawn. Each had a purple, plastic handle and a bright yellow, foam frame around a foot of netting. Without a word, the five of us armed ourselves and Ted went to the other side to even out the teams.
“Ready?” someone asked.
No one said they weren’t.
“Go!” burst the same someone.
I flung myself forward and immediately foam-smacked one of the opposing in the side of the head.
“What the hell?!” he commented in confused laughter as I continued taking swings while he ducked behind his net and occasionally swung back.
Behind him I could see Will trouncing his opponent, who simply said, “I don’t even have the ball.”
“Score! Stop! Stop!” one of them yelled.
I lowered my weapon and asked, “Why? Is someone hurt or something.”
“No, but we scored so we have to set up again.”
“There’s scoring? How?”
“We got the ball to the other side of the lawn.”
It simultaneously dawned on Cujo, Kenny, Ted, Will, and me that they were actually playing a bastardized version of lacrosse earlier. None of us had seen a ball so we had perceived it to be a flail-fest with the same objectives as the average pillow fight: hit people, with a soft object, as hard as you could, while they tried to do the same to you. We all voiced some sort of realization to the existence of the game and apologized to whoever we had been pummeling. Except for Kenny and Ted, who had been pummeling each other.
Playing by the rules mostly consisted of drunkenly failing to pass or catch the ball. This was followed by everyone drunkenly searching in the dark until someone found the ball, managed to scoop it up, and ran it to the opposing goal. We were still hitting each other a lot though, causing the game to dwindle to a close as all the nets eventually broke. When someone’s net broke they resorted to simply attacking the other team with what was left of the foam frame, until no one was with a lacrosse net that could be used for its intended purpose. None of us could agree on the score so the game was called a tie. The neighbors went back to their place and we reconvened in the living room.
Kenny put in Stripes and started it from the beginning. As I laughed at what I’d just seen a few hours ago, I realized my roommate wasn’t on the couch with us. The moment I noticed this I heard him talking to me from near the door. He must have been sitting on the ground because I couldn’t see him over the couch.
“Lenny?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you ready to head back?”
“I’m ready when you are.”
“Okay.”
I saw the door open but didn’t see anyone walk through it. Figuring he must have crawled outside, I went out to check on him. I still couldn’t see him but I could hear him throwing up in the dark.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Do you want some water?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Stay where you are and I’ll go get it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I went back inside and heard Cujo ask, “Is he okay?”
“He got sick. I’m gonna get him some water.”
“Oh, okay then.”
As I handed the glass to Will he thanked me again and quickly drank it. I could see him again as he handed it back to me.
I helped him up and asked, “Did you wanna crash here?”
“No. Let’s go back.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I feel a lot better now.”
I nodded and we walked in to say good night to everyone before we headed out. As we made our farewell, Kenny got up and went out the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Getting sick seemed to be catching on.
The walk home was short enough to be nonexistent, as it often is when one is too drunk to realize how long they’ve been walking. Will really did seem to feel a lot better and by the time we walked by campus he was springy and talkative. About five blocks from our apartments, we spotted a traffic cone in the street.
“Hey, look,” said Will.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“What’s it doing out here?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of just standing there. There hasn’t been any construction or anything going on around here.”
“I’m thinking about taking it,” he said in a tone that said he’d already made up his mind.
“Really? Well, let’s try and figure out why it’s here first. If a government worker put it here then taking it might be a serious legal offense.”
Will turned it over in his hands, “It has PG&E stamped on it. Fuck them--I’m taking this.”
PG&E stood for plumbing, gas, and energy. They were a privately owned company hired by local governments to provide utilities. They were also a really shoddy company that one could rely on to overcharge for mediocre service. They’d been trying to get more money from us than we owed and the power had gone out, for the entire day, a few times this year.
“Yeah,” I had to agree, “go ahead and take that.”
Before we’d made it a couple of blocks we came across a house with a rapidly deteriorating white picket-fence. So in disrepair was it, that a chunk of it, probably six feet across, had fallen over. It had rotted out at the bottom, causing it to break under its own weight, and the paint was worn and dirty. The sharp ends of metal nails stuck out the ends.
“Will, look at this fence. It looks great,” I exclaimed as the termites crawled out the ancient wood.
“Yeah,” he agreed wholeheartedly.
“Should I take it?”
“It’s up to you.”
“Nah. It’s too big to bear.”
Before we were halfway down the block I questioned my decision. Another few steps and I turned back around.
“Fuck it--I’m takin’ it. We only have a few more blocks,” I told Will and myself.
“Cool.”
It was big. Heaver than I thought, but I got my hands under the upper beam and started carrying it at my side. Just a few inches above the ground, the ends dipped and scraped the pavement every few seconds.
“Do you wanna trade?” Will offered.
“No thanks. I got this,” I answered while lifting the barrier a bit higher off the ground.
As we crossed the bridge, Will in front and swinging the florescent cone by the little hole at the tip, and me just behind, with a burden as long as I was tall, we saw headlights coming from behind us. Will just kept walking but I panicked and leaned the wood up against the bridge railing before taking out my phone and pretending to text. The car drove by; it wasn’t cops.
“I think that might be Mel and Lisa and all the other girls who went out tonight,” Will ventured as the vehicle made the turn into our apartment complex; they lived there, too.
“They went out tonight?” I asked as I picked up my fence, “Where to?”
“Bryan’s house.”
“And they didn’t invite us?” I mockingly exclaimed.
“I guess so,” Will laughed.
Only about a block from our apartments, the sidewalk ended and we had no choice but to parade our loot down the street. I noticed that some guys playing beer pong on their front lawn, were yelling at me.
“Dee!”
I had no idea what they were trying to say.
“Dee!” they shouted again after a few seconds.
I suddenly understood what they were doing and struggled to lift my finding a little higher up before answering, “Fence!”
They and Will laughed approvingly before we continued. We non-verbally decided to enter the apartments at the first entrance and almost immediately came across the vehicle that had pulled in earlier. Basically all the girls we knew in the apartments piled out of the car and quickly noticed the two figures carrying a traffic cone and a fence.
Mel, my girlfriend’s roommate, asked in a drunkenly excited tone, “Is that a fence!?”
I was about to answer before she cut me off.
“Oh my god! It’s Lenny!” she somewhat squealed while laughing, “What’s Tal gonna say about this?!” Tal being my girlfriend.
I just shrugged as the others made general exclamations about Will’s and mine sanity. Before we all disbanded to our homes, someone took a picture of me with my fence.
“New Facebook profile pic,” I immediately thought.
Everyone was tired so we said our good nights and departed each other’s company. Will and I dropped the spoils of the night on the lawn outside our place.
“We’ll wash them off in the morning,” I said.
Will nodded agreement before we went inside. He went straight to bed.
“Goodnight, dude,” he said as he walked to his room, “This was a fun night.”
“Definitely,” I agreed as I collapsed on the living room couch.
I watched Titan A.E. on HBO before pulling myself off the couch and going to my room. We never washed off the night’s souvenirs, choosing to use them as outdoor decoration. About a week later, the apartment manger told us we had to throw them away. A nail dug into my palm when we lifted the fence into the dumpster. It wasn’t rusty so I didn’t worry about tetanus beyond cleaning out the wound and it healed after a few days. The photo of me and the fence was my profile pic for a month or so before I replaced it. That night slowly faded from everyday conversation and thought, but neither Will nor I can hear mention of Cujo, Kenny, Takaa, cones, or fences without remembering it.

Human Civilization is Subconsciously Suicidal

We live in a dying world. People don't like to think about it but we are. If people seriously thought about it, most of them wouldn't be able to go about their lives. Most would collapse in a heap out of devastation. Fortunately some react by trying to save us from utter destruction, and I certainly hope they can but I find it hard to believe. It seems more and more certain that humans are destined to destroy themselves. Maybe there's some comfort in that though. Rather than eventually being destroyed by something completely out of our control (asteroid, rogue black hole, exploding sun, unstoppable disease, etc.) we instead have the ability to end it ourselves, and have ever since the onset of nuclear weapons. And at least that would be a relatively quick way to go. But as our species does, we've of course made the situation worse. Rather than simply blowing ourselves out of the sky, we are now on the path to starvation and / or destroying our ozone layer and / or creating technology that realizes it doesn't need us. Delightful.

Heroic Couplets

Never again will I rehearse my death,
spread out on floors and drawing ragged breath.

Without a god we pray among the dead,
alive despite our lamentations said.

Alight on feet that carry little weight,
The carcass left behind in wooden crate.

My tomb will hold a haunting spirit slime,
decaying self the mark of what is mine.

Walking

I haven’t made an entry in a while now and I really should be because I think it has been helping me retain my sanity. My only excuses are that I’ve been spending all my writing time working on a story and my existential angst has been a little more spirited than usual. These things may or may not be related. And by the way, the story I’m working on is a sober and hopefully much better written rewrite of a past entry titled “Tonight.”
I always stay up late. But last night I simply didn’t go to bed. After lying around for a few hours, watching T.V., playing video games, and surfing the net as usual, I was feeling a little depressed so I decided to go for a walk. At 5:30 AM I picked myself off the couch, did not grab my jacket and headed out the door with the intent of finding a place to watch the sunrise.
I headed east; walking away from the black and into the blue. I never found a good place to watch the sun but instead observed homes I had driven past but never noticed. Something about walking about alone helps allow me to truly appreciate the simple beauty of the world around me. After coming across a very large, white house I had never seen before, I spotted a silhouette of a man coming down the sidewalk towards me. I couldn’t see any of his features but I could feel that it was a man. His limping but steady gait and ragged outline frightened me so I turned left in front of the white house. Looking behind me I could see that he had made the same turn so I quickened my speed till I had gotten across a large highway on my way back to my apartment and I hadn’t seen him behind me for a couple of blocks. That was the only person I saw on foot. Less than a dozen moving cars. The solitude of my walk was wonderful but it only made the approaching stranger more terrifying. It was as if he had invaded a desolate world that was solely for me to wander.
Something about walking this early felt really euphoric. I realized it was the smells. The smells of the neighborhood were more vivid than usual. I think it might be because nothing had been disturbed yet. People hadn’t started to mask the scents around me with car exhaust, the sun hadn’t started drying the sinuses, and with every step and motion I took I was breaking the hours long build-up of the smell of semi-rural suburbia. It felt as if my nose had been plugged and then instantly cleared.
On the way back I could still see the moon and I paused within site of my complex to ponder how I was between days; the sun and the moon both out. I whispered to myself that another day was here. The world had managed to survive another rotation and so had I. Shortly after this a cab zoomed towards and past me with a sense that I can only call aggression. I normally enjoy aggression but this time it just bothered me.
After getting back to my place I grabbed a chair and my laptop, seated myself outside and wrote this. I think I’m ready to go back inside now. Maybe I’ll even get a couple hours sleep before class.

Stuff That Happened on April 21st

Yesterday was my birthday so I looked up some other neat stuff that happened on April 21st.

Births
1729 Catherine the Great, Russian Royalty
1816 Charlotte Bronte, novelist, Jane Eyre
1838 John Muir, naturalist / discoverer
1926 Queen Elizabeth II, English Royalty
1930 Don Tyson, founder of Tyson Foods
1947 Iggy Pop, Zombie Birdhouse
1951 Tony Danza, actor, “Taxi”
1951 Aleksandr Ivanovich Laveykin, Russian cosmonaut
1959 Jerry Only, bassist, The Misfits
1959 Robert Smith, guitar and vocals, The Cure
1962 Sergei Viktorovich Zalyotin, Russian cosmonaut
1971 Samantha Druce, youngest woman to swim English Channel

Deaths
1910 Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens), author, Huckleberry Finn
1918 Red Baron (Manfred von Richtofen), German aviator in WWI
1946 John Maynard Keynes, English economist
1977 Gummo “Milton” Marx, comic, Marx Brothers
1996 Jimmy “The Greek” Snyder, oddsmaker / sportscaster

Events
753 BC Founding of Rome
1509 Henry VIII becomes King of England
1689 William III and Mary Stuart become king and queen of England
1789 John Adams sworn in as first U.S. Vice President
1828 Noah Webster publishes first American dictionary
1862 Congress establishes U.S. Mint in Denver, CO
1865 Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train leaves Washington
1898 Spanish-American War begins
1898 Phillies’ pitcher, Bill Duggleby, hits a grand slam on first at bat
1904 Ty Cobb makes his pro debut for Augusta (South Atlantic League)
1913 Gideon Sundback patents the zipper
1941 Greece surrenders to Nazis
1956 Elvis Presley’s first hit record, “Heartbreak Hotel,” becomes #1
1959 Alf Dean sets record for largest fish caught on a rod and reel, 2,664 lb great white shark
1963 Beatles meet Rolling Stones for first time
1967 Josef Stalin’s daughter (Svetlana Alliluyeva) defects in New York City
1972 John Young and Charles Duke explore the Moon, Apollo 16
1980 Howard Stern begins broadcasting on WWWW Detroit, MI
1982 Dr. Michael E. Bakey performs first successful heart transplant
1989 Thousands of Chinese crowd Beijing’s Tiananmen Square to cheer students demanding greater political freedom

Iambic Tetrameter Section of "Stairway to Heaven"

A while ago I noticed the lyrics on my Led Zeppelin poster had a clearly iambic meter. I've been trying to figure out the rest of the song's meter but I figured I'd just put this up for now. I'm having trouble making this post with the unaccented and accented symbols so I just separated the feet and assumed people understand how iambs work.

And as | we wind | on down | the road


Our sha|dows tall|er than | our soul


There walks | a la|dy we | all know


Who shines | white light | and wants | to show


How eve|ry thing | still turns | to gold


And if | you li|sten ve|ry hard


The truth | will come | to you | at last


When all | are one | and one | is all


To be | a rock | and not | to roll

New Grilled Cheese

Tonight I made a variation on the classic that is the grilled cheese. The other day I made one using some boxing cheddar my dad gave me. It's a white cheddar that's stronger and dryer than normal; with a mildly sweet undertone. Being so dry, it doesn't melt too easy. So the first time I made it I had trouble finding the darkened sandwich in the pan. Upon finding and eating it I was disappointed in the lack of melt in the cheese but as I predicted the flavors were a good match.
So tonight was take two. I started by using less cheese. It's strong enough that I don't need much and I wanted to make sure it melted. I also only have wheat bread, which is fine, but sourdough would have been optimum. I began melting butter in the pan at a low temperature and just before I dropped in the sandwich I decided I needed a little heat to balance the cheese. So I pulled out my trusty bottle of Frank's Red Hot Wing Sauce. I poured in just enough to make the flavor noticeable and the melted butter a bright orange color. With the temperature still low I let the sandwich sit in the pan a little on each side so as to absorb the hot sauce and butter. As soon as the tops of the slices had become slightly soggy and very orange, I turned the heat up to medium-high until the cheese was melted. As soon as the cheese was as I wanted, I upped the temperature to almost as high as it goes so as to dry out the slices and give the bread that porous, crunchy texture that makes grilled cheese so delicious.
The end result was satisfying but I think it needs some veggie in it. So next time, along with the use of sourdough rather than wheat, I'm thinking of throwing in either onion, carrot, or maybe even celery.

Rambling Sentances

As god watches I undergo plastic surgery from a monkey who spent his afternoon being fucked by a psychiatrist with dog sized monkey wrench for a penis. Houses of marshmallow melt into the pavement during a freak snowstorm of Snickers bars and blood. Underground the birds fly through turquoise flavored pudding. A dragon skipped breakfast because he's running late for work at the mousetrap factory. Never again will the feathered prostitute find nickels in her child's teeth when she comes home from battle. Fire erupts from manholes and children dive into them with their ice cream money clenched between her toes. Televisions are assaulted by clones of Elvis impersonators with sniper rifles made of cocaine filled eclairs. A bearded hobo applies for a job as a porn star on Mars because oxygen is a thing of the past. Big bells are trapped in cages made of the screenplays of mice hungry for pussycats. The snow globe is tipped forward onto its sullen face of virgin mushroom clouds. Clouds devour light bulbs and spit mayonnaise into the ears of ants. Fifty and a half midget hairs are being held up on the C train by an AK-47 wielding cans of beans.

Mid-mid-life Crisis

I wonder what it is I want to do with myself. Before this month is over I will be 20 years old. Chances are I'm about a quarter through my life. I think I now understand when people go through a mid-life crisis. I used to think, if these people are freaking out about being old, why don't they use what time they still have left to accomplish something with their lives. Make a lasting impression upon the world. But even if one gets over the crippling realization that no one or no thing will be remembered forever and that the entire concept of Earth could be wiped away at any moment in one big mushroom cloud, there still lies the fact that in the grand scheme of the universe, nothing that anyone ever does will matter. Even if someone tears this dimension to nothing and the mere idea that anything existed ceases to exist, the universe certainly won't care. I could discover immortality or kill all life and what would it matter either way.
So if I'm not going to spend my life trying to be something significant then I think all I want from life is job satisfaction. But before I can do that I need to figure out what the hell kind of job would satisfy me that I have some sort of chance of getting. I'd love to spend my time sitting around and writing short stories but so do a lot of other people and the world will only pay so many people to live like that. A couple of weeks ago I emailed the Travel Channel to pitch an idea for a show. I'm thinking of sending one to the Food Network, too. I enjoy college to a point but I feel like I need to start making as many attempts at finding a way to get through my life, that won't drive me insane, as I possibly can. I'm starting to get desperate.

Materialism

A while ago I decided I wasn’t going to waste my time and money on keeping trendy. I had seen too many people so obsessed with whatever new gadget or thing was out that it was sadly comical. After a while of going along with this materialistic, sorrow circus I realized that the effort was rarely worth the payoff. New toys are fun but they’re expensive. And it seems no matter how much you buy there’s always going to be that next or better thing that you desire. It’s not as if I don’t want things anymore. I’ve simply done what I can to keep it from being the focus of my life. But with the death of any problem there rises at least one more to take its place. Now that material gain isn’t my focus in life, I’m not sure what is.

Ghetto Commandments: A Shakespearean Sonnet

These rules are those of ghetto life and times,
commandments passed on down from gangstas dead.
Followers live but those with ghetto crimes
about to lose their motherfucking head.

To be a bitch is not to breathe the air
or weed you will puff twice then pass to me.
No snitching, dog, and even hoes most fair,
you won't betroth; and hustle will be free.

The real will recognize the other real
and only models, bottles pop on to.
One can't have fun without friends in the deal
and neighbors' bitches you come not on to.

These ghetto laws have every life-lease.
Commandment number ten: fuck the police.

My Grandpa's Obituary

I found this obituary online when I Googled my mom's dad. It made me a lot sadder than I thought it would. It made me stop for a second when I read my name listed under grandchildren. Sort of a grim reminder that someone is going to write an obituary about me someday. Probably doesn't help that I was named after him.

Lawrence Struwe, 77

FALLBROOK —— Lawrence "Scottie" Struwe, 77, died at home Thursday, Oct. 20, 2005.

Born May 2, 1928, in Albany, N.Y., he was a resident of Fallbrook for 32 years. He retired in 1976 as a Chief Warrant Officer after serving 27 years in the U.S. Marine Corps. He was a member of St. Peter's Catholic Church. He was an avid golfer.

Mr. Struwe was preceded in death by his wife, Jane Struwe, in 2001. He is survived by his son and daughter-in-law Tim and Jana Struwe of Lake Elsinore; daughters and sons-in-law Yvette and Larry Johnson of Citrus Heights and Candace and Chris Pocino of Long Beach; sister Arlette Bradford of Arkansas; grandchildren Danielle, Jessica, Christina, Jennifer, Sara, Katie, Lawrence and Natalie; and great-grandson Michael.

There will be a memorial service at 11 a.m. Oct. 29, at Berry-Bell & Hall Mortuary, 333 N. Vine St., Fallbrook.

Memorial donations are suggested to the National Foundation for Cancer Research, 4600 East West Highway Suite 525, Bethesda, MD 20814.

Berry-Bell & Hall Fallbrook Mortuary is handling arrangements.