2006 COMES TO AN END...

And 2007 waits in the wings.

I believe it was the ancient Greeks who maintained that human beings walked backwards to the Future. It seems quite logical to me. We don't know what the future holds, but we are intimately aware of both our Present and our Past. We see all that has unfolded in the seconds and minutes and days and weeks and months and years that have led us on this journey to the Present, but the Future is ambiguous, yet to be broken open from its plastic wrapping and entered. What will it bring, we wonder. Whatever it brings, it is brought upon a clean slate, and it is our will that determines what markings shall be made.

This is no truer than when one year shifts seemlessly to the next. The Past is the Past, the Present is fleeting and the Future is ours for the making. I have no resolutions for the new year, though. I'm, at this point in my life, compartmentalizing each day as a single unit. Just for today and one day at a time and easy does it and just fucking do it are all catch-phrases to which I subscribe, at this point in my life. I'm going to have to get on the Life is Beautiful soapbox again--sorry--because it is truer than an arrow. Things are beautiful and things happens for a reason. Sure, life throws curveballs--sometimes nasty curveballs which break from 12 o'clock to 6 o'clock and pass across the plate for a called third strike, leaving the batter (me) weak-kneed and cursing--but, that, my friends, is life. Life, though often beautiful, does not shine through rose-colored glasses at all times. But, as Stewart Smalley was wont to lisp, "That's...okay."

[he preaches to the choir and they roll their eyes]

So, anyway.

Enjoy the transition and be safe. Happy New Year. Peace on earth. And goodwill to hookers. :-)

FROM THE SPIDER HOLE TO THE GALLOWS

I can't believe that I actually looked at my webpage yesterday and said to myself, "Oh, me. Oh, my. Whatever shall I write about?" And then I continued to look at the blank white page, thinking about starting the writing with a little quotation from Ernest Hemingway about a blank white sheet of paper being one of the most daunting enemies one will ever face--a la writer's block. Amazing. The biggest news to come down the 'pike in a coon's age is staring me right in the face and I was prepared to write a post about the...what was I talking about, again? Something. About. A. Block. In. My. Muse's. Digestive. Tract?

Fuck it. I'll start off with a quotation from Papa Bear, anyway: "The world is a fine place and worth fighting for." For Whom the Bell Tolls--1940.

The despot was executed yesterday. Saddam Hussein. (As an ancillary question, does this count as the third corner in the Celebrity Triangle of Death? Will Saddam be forever linked with Gerald Ford and James Brown? Or does the death have to be a natural one? I'm not really up on all the rules of the Death Trifecta board game. Fuck it. Saddam Hussein?! Come on down! You're the next contestant on the Triangle of Death!

Said the Devil.)

It warms my heart to see a man so-deservedly reap what he had sown. It truly does. Call me barbaric: I fully support capital punishment, in some instances. Saddam is the poster child for the justice of capital punishment. The son-of-a-bitch actually deserved to die thousands of times, but the laws of anatomical physics strictly forbid killing someone more than once. It's bullshit, but it's a law that we have to get behind: Once you're dead, you're dead. (Please don't ask Rasputin that; he would probably beg to differ.)

(I wonder if it would have been considered barbaric if they had brought Saddam to the edge of death umpteen times before finally extinguishing the fat spider's life. Probably, but ask the Kurds, and also ask the relatives of the men, women and children that Saddam had had killed during his career as an insanely violent dick. Er, dictator. They might have differing views on the situation.)

Remember the good old times, when Saddam was pulled from his "spider hole," the despot dirty and unshaven and twitchy with fear and anxiety? I do. That was the last time I felt anything akin to support for this infernal war. But I musn't get off-topic, here. (Too much material, not enough time. Plus, that Patriot Act has me biting my tongue in some instances. Patriot Act. Huh. Unintended irony, brought to you by the chimpanzee, Curious George. Now back to your previously-scheduled broadcast.)

Saddam took his execution ostensibly as a man. He refused the death-shroud and clutched a holy book before he was offed. The fucking gall of the man. When had he been devout? When had he been religious? Had it been when he gassed the Kurds? Had he been religious when he'd had his two sons-in-laws killed after promising them quarter if and when they came back to Iraq? Were his gaudy palaces his way of showing his devotion to his Lord? Living a jet-set lifestyle as his countrymen suffered greatly under the U.N. sanctions to which he refused to bow?

The man called himself a martyr before he was hung by the neck until dead. What a snake. What a fucking snake. Good riddance and all of that. With this boon to the war effort, we Americans should be out of that hellhole by 2029, at the absolute latest. Nothing like racheting up the timetable, eh?

By the way, Middle Easterners have a problem with feet. It's something like the height of insult to show a man the bottom of one's foot. With that in mind, Saddam? That foot at the top of the page is brought to you, with undying love. Non-peace, sir.

Saddam, rest in horror, dude. May the road rise up to grind you into meat and may the wind always be razor-sharp and bludgeoning at your back.

VIOLENCE--ONTO FEROCITY...

I'm a firm believer in getting thoughts/emotions out onto paper, or, in this case, out onto the computer screen.

I think it's because I worked out with some free weights half an hour ago--maybe it's a flood of testosterone and endorphins--but, for whatever reason, I'm feeling pretty fucking violent at the moment. So, I'll write. Why not? This is my weblog, after all. (But I'll limit myself to no more than 10 paragraphs.)

-----

The first shot took Rudolpho in the gut, doubling him over with terrific pain. The second shot sheared off half of his head, rendering the creme wall behind him an abstract painting of red blood and gray matter. He was dead before he hit the ground. Toodles let out a triumphant yowl. "Bring it, motherfuckers!" he screamed. "Bring it!"

Toodles double-clutched his sawed-off and cut down another of the "soldiers" as he ran for the door, all pride and honor forgotten. Toodles reached for more shells and, to his dismay, realized that he had used the last of them. He pawed at his pantleg and found his backup .22 to be gone, as well. He blended to the wall and sidled down the hallway, thankful that the enemies he faced were as dumb as a sack of rocks. In the dark, his right hand found a doorway and he slid into the room. It was the kitchen. He tip-toed comically to the island-counter and selected an 8-inch butcher's knife, its blade razor-sharp.

He crouched behind the counter and waited, his heart beating evenly in his chest. He heard approaching footsteps and suddenly the kitchen was bathed in light. "I gonna check in da kitchen," intoned Guido to his compatriot. "He gotta be 'roun' here, somewheres." As Guido shuffled, apelike, around the right side of the counter, Toodles crept along the left side, always keeping behind the centerpiece of the kitchen. As Guido turned to leave the kitchen, Toodles felt the bloodlust rise in his veins again and he sprang at Guido's retreating back, burying the blade to its hilt, through the man's back and into his right lung, rendering a scream impossible. Guido gasped for breath as Toodles pulled the blade free with a rocking/sawing motion. Guido collapsed to the floor, onto his back, blood oozing from his mouth, and Toodles rose above him, his blue eyes wild, the butcher knife clasped with a death-grip between both hands and he drove it down, with a ninja's strength, through Guido's skull, just above the dazed eyes and smack-dab between the tweezed black eyebrows. The knife broke off in Guido's cranium and Toodles shrugged. He tossed the handle into the corner, where it clattered up against the wall and was then still. He'd been trained well when he had been in Special Ops--he could make a weapon out of a piece of gum.

He settled on a Bic pen.

Rick Rattazoni had heard the commotion, apparently, and he burst into the kitchen. His gaze took in the big man Guido, dead on the floor, the fat end of the blade visible still through the seeping sluggish dark red blood, and his eyes widened. With a silent scream, Toodles swung the Bic pen in a tight arc, his aim uncanny as usual. Rattazoni staggered backward, feebly clutching at the pen that was now buried through his left eye and into his brain, and he collapsed to the floor. He twitched twice and was still. As Toodles crept past the dying man, he paused long enough to kick him in the crotch. Three times. With increasing ferocity. The man's moans fell upon uninterested ears.

Toodles walked through the drughouse, preternaturally alert to any and all sounds. His highly-toned senses told him that he was alone...but not for long. Reinforcements would be arriving sooner than he would have liked. He had to get out of there. Prudence was the better part of valor, or some shit like that. He could never remember the saying.

As he walked out the back door, into the moonlit yard, again a free man, the pit bull watchdog growled. Chained to a tree, the dog was no threat to Toodles. But he had qualms about leaving a living soul alive after what they had done to him...and his wife. His innocent wife, for God's sake. They all had to pay, and canines were no exception.

Acting contrary to all of his instincts and training, Toodles paused and looked for a weapon. The dog growled again and lunged at him, snapping a foot short, teeth flashing white in the moonlight. Toodles' internal clock was blinking red. He had to go. There was no time to find a weapon. He shrugged and advanced on the dog whose only purpose in its heretofore-uneventful life had been to protect the house and its inhabitants. It could hardly be faulted for failing to protect them tonight, though, seeing as how it had been chained to a tree throughout the festivities. No quarter, thought Toodles. No fucking quarter.

His kick caught the dog square in the snout and it yelped with pain. As the dog reeled backwards, Toodles followed its movement and secured its strong neck in the crook of his beefy right arm. The dog tried fruitlessly to snap at Toodles; he held it in a firm grip. He flexed and twisted and heard the satisfying crack and the dog went limp in his arms. He allowed it to slide to the ground, covered in its own filth.

"Sorry, Charlie. You are who you hang with." With that, Toodles disappeared like a ghost into the night.

-----

Ah.... Much better. Who needs anger management classes? Just write them out and watch the emotions disappear into the night sky, as gossamer as spiderwebs.

TWO-THIRDS OF THE TRIANGLE

We're 66.666666666667% there. First the Godfather of Soul and now the Godfather of the Pratfall, President Ford. Who will complete the Celebrity Triangle of Death? Who's sick out there? I wait with bated breath.

Rest in peace, Gerald. You seemed like you had been an earnest, albeit comic, man.

[a feeling of deja vu washes over the 'blogger. he hopes he did not piss off the spirits.]

OHHHH...SO I HAVE TODAY OFF TOO, EH?

I did it again. I went in to work when I was not scheduled to go in to work. I cut a date short, one in which I was having a good time, to go in to work and have them smile and laugh good-naturedly at me. This is like the third or fourth time I have done this. Seriously, I looked at my schedule and it said that I had to work today. I guess the reason I had today off is because Christmas Eve fell on a weekend day. Per union dogma, if that is the case, a person who has one of the weekend days off during a two-day holiday, the next day that they have scheduled to work, they have that day off, too. (Grammatically abysmal, but I think you can understand what I'm trying to say--you, Dear Reader, are smart like that.)

So I've done this three or four times, yet each time I do it, it is like a gift. It sucks to drive in there, but when you hear that you have the day off, your feet feel lighter than air and a smile touches your lips.

I got to work today at two
Ready to work with flammable gas
"You don't have to work, so buh-bye to you"
I exit stage-left feeling just like an ass

(I think I like limericks better.)

I got to work today at two
Ready to make more money new
My boss looked at me and stifled a grin
and said "Dude, why'd you even come in?"
I stammered a something and looked at my shoe and as I left his smile grew

(I am completely brain-dead today. I don't even think I wrote that in the right rhyming pattern. Shit, I haven't eaten enough today. Well, I can't fuck up a haiku, can I?"

man goes in to work
sees that he is scheduled off
leaves; wipes egg off face

There. Maybe I'll take Louie for a walk or to the tennis courts so that he can get some much-needed exercise. Happy Tuesday to everyone.

BEGIN THE TRIANGLE

James Brown is the first one. Who's next? Celebrity deaths always seem to come in threes, don't they? Who else is sick? Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? Beuller? Anyway, rest in peace, Godfather.

-----

On to a more uplifting topic: It is Christmas Day. Believe me, I didn't stay up all night, waiting to see if I could hear the jingle of bells and/or see the dark shape of a flying sleigh inking across the early-morning sky. Nope, I just woke up early, for no apparent reason.

I love Christmas mornings. Always have. Back in the day, it was because I was guaranteed to get gifts and, to me, getting gifts was what it was all about. Sure, I'd gone to a Catholic grade school and so I was well-versed in the real Reason for the Season, but that, to me, was somewhat secondary. I'd bought in to the maelstrom of exchanging of gifts and the materialistic Yuletide Yearnings. I have changed a bit, since I was 12 and 13. (Thank God! If I still had the same mentality, things would be--shall we say?--a little wrong, a little off.)

Now I see it as a time to get together with family whom I don't see nearly enough and a time to basically just spend with each other. The gifts are secondary to me, now. Actually, the gifts are now bumped down to number three on my list, after Family and Jesus. It is what it is. I have had a bit of a spiritual re-awakening, recently, and I have, without reserve and quite willingly, welcomed Jesus and the Lord into my heart. And I feel good about that. I feel no shame nor do I feel less-than to admit that fact.

[Emotional Blatherings Alert]

How could I feel shame over the acceptance? I am in the process of receiving the greatest gift I could ever receive: A new outlook on life. That doesn't come 'round every day. I believe that things most-definitely happen for a reason and I believe that God and/or Jesus work through people and/or events to gently mold a human being's life into the shape in which it had been meant. I believe this, too: A couple/three weeks ago, I was reaching the end of my rope. I had been treading water in the same vat of quicksand for the last ten years and I was getting tired--physically, mentally and, without a doubt, spiritually. One night I was sitting at my computer desk, doing the same fucking thing I had done for the previous indeterminate days, and I remember looking to my left and seeing the picture of Jesus that my mom had painted 30+ years ago, the picture in which it seems His eyes follow me to all corners of the room and the picture in which His emotional makeup always seemed to mirror mine to a T. My eyes filled with tears of shame and frustration. I'd said aloud to the picture something like, "Jesus, I can't do this shit anymore. I'm just getting so fucking sick and tired of this life. It's pointless. My left arm ain't working like it should, I've been perilously close to arrest, my job performance is suffering and my supervisors seem to be getting tired of my shenanigans. I need help, Jesus."

This is not to say that there had been a bright flash of life and I had miraculously leapt to my feet and clicked my heels together and skipped whistling into the sunset. No. But I will say this: I think that I, with the help of a Higher Power (sorry, but it seems to be true), had planted a seed in my mind, a seed which would bear fruit a few days later when I voluntarily checked myself in to a place in which they deal specifically with dependencies. Thus starting myself on the path to a life with far more beauty and far less internally-generated suffering.

So on this Christmas Day, I may not get the train set that I'd wanted, nor the remote control car upon which I had had my eyes. I may not get any clothes and I may not get any gift certificates. Hell, I'm good with that. Give me a box of Ramen noodles and I'd still be good with that. I've gotten the greatest gift for which I could even have hoped to ask: A loving family and a genuine foot in the right direction towards the Utopia of Sobriety.

Is Sobriety a Utopia? Oftentimes, not at all. Is the alternative the virtual antithesis of Utopia? Without a doubt.

So, that's that. I awoke early today and I saw neither reindeer in the sky nor fat ageless elves zipping down chimneys. It doesn't matter to me; I believe that I've gotten my gift already....

I think my sister is going to get me some Ramen noodles. Rock on!

MERRY CHRISTMAS! HO-HOE-WHORE!

AN ODE TO LOUIE--BELATED

Best boy ever. Lou-dog turned three years old yesterday. What a Christmas gift he was three years ago yesterday.

Months earlier, my roommate's pedigree Boxer, Roxy, had had her innocence taken by the mostly-pit bull from the other side of the fence. I remember how it was that morning when my roommate Pablo looked out the back door and said, "Oh shit!" He'd torn open the sliding glass back door and I could hear him shouting, "Get outta here! Go!" Hungover and tired, I'd risen wearily from the kitchen table, chewing my tasteless Raisin Bran, and had gone to the door to see what was going on.

Roxy and another dog were facing away from each other yet were still entwined, if you can dig it. I guess Roxy had liked what she'd been getting--her love fist had clamped down. Hard. Pablo'd ended up spraying the steaming junction with cold hose water and that eventually did the trick. Seperated, his duty done, the interloper had bolted across the backyard and had cleared the fence back to his home. His leap o'er the fence seemed, to me, to have had a satiated quality to it, like he was lighter than air.

Thus was Lou conceived, along with three brothers and four sisters.

In the three years since, I have been blessed with a companion, a clown, a constant friend.

I know that everyone feels that his or her dog is the bestest dog ever. I get that. It's called Love. But I have something to say, and, sure, it may be greeted with skepticism or outright derision, but I'll say it anyway, because I believe, in my heart of hearts [sob] that I'm as right as rain: LOU IS THE BEST DOG EVER. BAR NONE. NO DOG CAN EVEN COME CLOSE TO MY LOU-DOG.

There. If you have any feedback or any moping "No he's not"s, you are pleasantly directed to the comments section. I'll read over your drivel and dismiss it as madness, but, uh, go ahead and get your pointless fallacies off your chest. If it'll make you feel any better.

Happy happy birthday, Lou! I'm lucky to have you, dude!

IMAGES OF THE LI'L MONOPOLY MAN

I'm not good at finances. I'm really really not. Math is not my strong suit. Add to that the fact that I'm lazy when it comes to balancing my checkbook and I have often balanced said checkbook whilst intoxicated and the possibility (the likelihood) of error is raised exponentially.

I dragged my sick sniffling ass to my checkbook earlier this morning and cracked my knuckles, ready to wallow--just in time for the Yuletide celebrations--in the despair of a negative balance. Yes, that happens, sometimes. And, seeing as how I'd been "out of action" for ten days, I figured it was a given that I'd be in the red. Now that I think about it, though, ten days away from my money seems that it would have had the opposite effect.

I went to work on my checkbook, crossing off all the paid checks and circling all the outstanding checks. (Yes, this is Balancing Checkbook 101--pay attention, please.) As the end result became clearer, my wondering eyes took in what at first seemed to be a hallucination. That thought was dispatched rather quickly when the creature slapped his cane against my shin, causing me to slowly close my eyes with pain. I opened my peepers and he/it/the creature was still there in my kitchen, as real as day, staring up at me.

I looked down at him, my eyes wide, a line of spittle dangling from my quivering lower lip.

'Twas the Monopoly Man.

Replete in an ill-fitting suit and a dingy top hat, the Monopoly Man--let's call him Melvin--removed his monocle and polished it on his pantleg. He popped the monocle back over his left eye and cleared his little throat before he said, "Bank error in your favor, asshole."

I goggled at the little man, surely no taller than three-and-a-half-feet tall.

"What'd I grow tits, dickhead?" he rasped. "Close your mouth; you're drawing flies." He slapped his cane against my other shin and the burst of pain caused my mouth to shut with a snap; I clipped the end of my tongue with my teeth.

As the taste of warm blood seeped into my maw, the little bald man continued. "Consider yourself lucky, moron. You had no freaking idea in what state your finances were yet you came out rosy. You have an extra $238 in your account. Now you can be the Santa you want to be instead of the Grinch you thought you'd had to be. Shower up, numbnuts, and get your ass in gear. There's shopping to do."

Cognizance began to filter back into my shocked brain. I opened my mouth to speak and, as I struggled for words, the Monopoly Man winked out of existence with an audible pop. I gawked; he was gone. The only evidence that the creature had been in my kitchen at all was the pain radiating throughout my shins and a small pile of--for lack of a better word--droppings where Melvin had stood. Yes. Droppings. The Monopoly Man had left me with my own little Christmas present--he'd taken a quick shit on my kitchen floor. (And I'd never even noticed him dropping his pants!)

Similar in shape and size to rabbit droppings, that was where the similarities ended. The stench was unbearable and the size of the shit belied its density and its weight. The small pile had to weigh at least 20 pounds. I scooped it up in a doubled-up paper towel and carried it to the bathroom. My dog, Lou, shied away as I approached and I can say, with all honesty, that I did not blame him one bit. I set the prize gently in the toilet bowl and flushed. (Try flushing 20 pounds of ectoplasmic excrement down a normal toilet; it doesn't work. But that's a story for another day.)

I have shopping to do. Thanks, Melvin! :-)

MELISSA, I BLAME YOU

All that talk about having a cold and I think I sympathetically garnered one, just for you. *smile*

Colds suck. And this weather isn't helping any. Fucking rain and lowered temperatures. Here's an assignment, class: Pretend that you are playing an imaginary violin and aim it in my general direction. (I live near Detroit, so aim accordingly.) After you play a few imaginary chords, ask, aloud, to your computer monitor, "Adam? Would you like some cheese with your whine?" If you're at work and you think you would feel a little self-conscious doing that, go the ASL website and learn how to sign it in my general direction.

Hi, my name is Adam, and I'm a pussy. "Hi, Pussy!"

I'm really really really truly not a fan of being sick. It makes smoking ciggies that much more difficult. Want some unintended irony? Other names for cigarettes include "straights" and "faggots." Is it just me, or that ironic as hell?

I have three days to kick this cold to the kerb. I can do it. (And, yes, this is *all* about me. It's a weblog, for crissakes!)

Okay. Time to go to a meeting. Peace.

RANDOM THOUGHTS AT FOUR-AYE-EM

When something catchs fire easily is the correct word "flammable" or inflammable?" Or are they one in the same?

Is "insomnia" the most evil-looking word in the English language. Or does "cunt" hold that crown?

Were the Victorians the first to come up with the idea of underwear? And was it made of inpenetrable metals?

Why couldn't we just take a cue from the Native Americans and use tobacco only as a ritualistic drug?

Which came first the egg or the chicken?

And why did the chicken cross the road?

What the fuck was so damned important about the other side?

Are there legitimate mediums or are they just greenback-vacuums of suckas?

Why is it so blissful to walk around an apartment nekked as a jaybird?

And why are jaybirds singled out for being nekked?

And what the fuck is a jaybird? A blue jay? A marijuana-happy avian?

Why does it seem--every year--that money becomes transparent and disappears every holiday season?

Were the creators of those Phonics books trying to pull a fast one on the American public by naming the kid "Dick?"

And wasn't the cat named "Muff?"

And the dog named "Hard-on?"

Yeah. Those Phonics dudes thought they were slick, I'll bet.

Why is going back to work after a long layoff such a nerve-wracking event?

Is a "baker's dozen" equivalent to seven?

Why would scientists ever have come up with the malady of trans fats? Fuck shelf-life; these are people's arteries that we're talking about!

Is AA in the Guinness Book of World Records for "The Most Blatant Abuser of Cliches?"

Have you ever let go and let God?

How about taken it one day at a time?

Have you ever faked it till you made it?

Have you ever lived by the slogan, the axiom, "Just for Today?"

Have you ever wondered what tomorrow would bring?

Who was the first person to practice skatology and what the hell happened to him or her in his or her formative years?

Do we even want to go there?

Have you ever lived on reds, vitamin Cs and cocaine?

Were you aware that "Grateful Dead" and "Led Zeppelin" are both plays on words?

Were you aware that Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix all died at the age of 27 and all three names have four syllables and all begin with the letter "J?"

Did a goose just walk over your grave?

Will I be able to get the fuck back to sleep?

Yes.

"HI, MY NAME IS ADAM...

...And I'm a coffee-aholic."

"Hi, Adam!"

This is ridiculous. I went without caffeine for ten days and, once I'm sprung from my benevolent prison, I go nuts with the coffee. It all started when I was getting a ride home from a friend from the clinic and we stopped at a Caribou Coffee to garner some joe. I got something called a Turtle Chino, or some shit like that, and--bam!--it was off to the races. This is ridiculous and this is amazing.

I do believe that I would be better off to simply install a coffee IV into my veins. It would be quicker, that way. Cigarettes and coffee: Sustinence of champions.

I've drank so much fucking coffe during the last two-three days, I've had the equivalent of three or four good solid coffee enemas. "Solid" might be a misnomer. Believe me, it's nothing for which one would hope. On the plus side, if there were any toxins left in my body, they're long-gone, now! Buh-bye.

I wonder if caffeine would be classified as a "mood-altering" drug. At the 'Grove, the techs told us that we--the patients--would never be able to injest a mood-altering drug safely for the rest of our natural-born lives. I'm, uh, starting to see what they meant.

Too, does the computer count as a mood-alterant? This is what I have done for the last two-three days, in order of frequency: Smoked, drank coffee, banged on the computer keyboard, eaten oh-so-sporadically and gone to Anonymous meetings.

I am so damn Jacked-up on caffeine right now, I'm halfway up the fucking beanstalk. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Thanks.

Have you ever seen, Dear Reader, that "Seinfeld" episode in which Kramer settles a lawsuit with a coffee place out of court for a lifetime's worth of expressos? "WhatamItalkingfast? Idon'tthinkI'mtalkingfast. Maybealittle." And then he speedwalks down the sidewalk and the studio audience chortles with laughter?

Well, it's funnier on the boobtube.

My poor assaulted stomach is looking up my esophagus and wincing. "Get ready, large intestine," it says, "we've got MIGs at 12 o'clock." And then both the stomach and the large intestine pop open fruitless Wile E. Coyote cartoon umbrellas and brace for the worst. A waterfall of java cascades down the chute and drenches them both. "Reinforcements! Reinforcements!" screams the stomach. The small intestine clambers to their sides and offers its help. "Piss off, kid," says the large intestine, "you're too little."

Anyhoo.

Have you ever drank so much caffeine that your eyes begin to come unfocused? It's kind of trippy, in a way.

Fuck this. I'm gonna switch to decaf.

THE JOY OF PETS

They smell good, don't they? They're loyal. They're sounding boards. They're
lifejackets during stressful times. They're comic relief. They're a lot of other things, but I'm running out of time, here.

Lou is three days shy of his third birthday--December 23rd. According to doggy dynamics, his third birthday should equal about approximately around 21 human years. So. I'd been planning to take him out to some bars in downtown Royal Oak and get his ass all fucked up on shots and beer, but, sadly, that plan will not be consumated. I was looking forward to it, too. I've never seen the kid drunk. I've seen him buzzed a couple of times, but that doesn't really count because he was at home, in the apartment, and it was an ostensibly safe environment. I was actually looking forward to seeing how King Lou interacted with the bitches after he'd had a few too many. I was wondering if it was going to be a like-father-like-son-type-of-thing. Not that I interact with bitches, you see. I interact with women and ladies, but Lou is a canine and so he interacts with bitches although, sadly, not much goes on down there for him, seeing as how he was snipped at an early age. Poor kid.

So, yeah. Pets are cool. I'm going to make this an interactive weblog posting. Does anybody out there in Cyberland have any interesting anecdotes to share about their beloved pets? Come on. Don't be shy. Step right up to the microphone and let loose. Without talking, emotions get bottled up. Talking/typing is very cathartic.

The floor is yours....

WRITE SOMETHING FUNNY, DAMMIT!

Damn. I put myself on the spot! Uh.... Uh....

My dog is lying on his back right now, with his feet stuck up in the air! Hahahahaha!

Uh.... Uh....

Wouldn't it be funny if Goofy and Maramaduke and Scooby Doo roomed together and tried to raise a human baby girl on their own, without a bitch? We could call it "Three Cartoon Dogs and a Real-Live Baby." I'm sure it would be a box office sensation. Sensation, I say!

To your right, you will see a ladder. See? ------------------------------------->

Sadly, ladders aren't all that funny. They're pretty utilitarian, if you ask me. Besides, how often have you seen a ladder doing stand-up at the Laff Factory? If you say that you've seen a ladder doing stand-up at the Laff Factory, you're either lying through your teeth or you're on some good gosh-damned psychedelic drugs. Yeah. That, or you're quite mad. Welcome to the meeting; welcome to the table; pull up a chair and enjoy yourself.

Have you ever heard the one about the priest, the rabbi, the hooker, the toaster-oven, the welcome mat, the baseball bat, the dildo, the diaphragm and the sparrow? Yeah. Me either. But I'm sure it'd be pretty funny. But only if a good joke-teller told it. Other than that, the joke would fall flat on its metaphorical face. Seriously. Splat.

This is what is called diarrhea of the fingertips. Nothing of substance is emitted; it's all cloudy and nebulous. (Damn. I think I just grossed myself out. "Cloudy" and "nebulous?" Gag.)

Time to wipe. Peace.

EUPHORIA, ET CETERA

I'm out. Ten days in a rehabilitation center which, at times, was as surreal as anything I have ever experienced. People hear the word "addict" and an unsavory image probably swims to their forebrain. Let me tell you this: I was in there from the 8th until today, the 18th, and I can say with certainty that I have never met a group of people, with such varying socioeconomic backgrounds, who pulled for each other as much as this group at Maplegrove did. We had solidarity. Which, to me, is obvious, because we all face the same problem: Addiction. Be it alcohol or crack or powder or smack, we all bend to the weight of the King Kongs on our backs.

During the ten days, with six to seven hours of lecture and meetings per day, I began to feel the weight of the massive gorilla lessen on my back and I began to be able to walk more upright, with my shoulders square to face the world and whatever it had to throw at me. I'm not going to lie. I still have a monkey on my back; I still have a problem and will ALWAYS have a problem with mood-altering drugs. But I was given the tools to combat the Beast, the tools to chip away at its knees. And I feel damn good about that. All the cliches in the world were spoken at Maplegrove. You've heard them, I'm sure. But it all boils down to this: One day at a time. And that's as true as an arrow.

It was the best decision I've ever made. Life may not be rosy all the time--in fact, it often sucks ass--but to face it with a clear head and to be sober is paramount in my life, right now.

Anyway, I had a lot of time on my hands when I was in there and I fell into writing poetry. Some poems are dark and some are uplifting. Some are comical--naw. I wasn't exactly in a joking mood, in regards to literature. Here are a few poems, for the most part chronologically-posted, for your perusal:

"Maplegrove" Tuesday 3:16AM

give us your swillers
your poppers your
strung-out injectors
your inhalers
your rollers your
huddled *missed* slackers

with patience tough
love and learn-ed
receptors
the lame may turn
strong (and but
eye-rolling didactors)

o' but one sacred *Life*
is given to all; with patience
and work
we will *all* become factors

***
"Alive" Tuesday 6:16AM

alive. bipedal arm-swinging
humanoids, carbon-based
life-forms capable of both
great Love and great Malice
--God, Yaweh, Buddha, Mohammed--
a brilliant sunrise, a sobering sunset
all give and give us bipedal
arm-swingers Free Will and
the wrapped, bowed gift of
*Choice*. alive

***
"As Hard as I Can" Tuesday 9:20PM

as hard as i can i
slam my fist into the
off-colored Wall of Denial and
my fist shatters
chrystalline like glass and
the wall follows suit
fist and wall flutter to floor
so-slowly
in a puff of
dis-newal

where my hand had been is
now just a bloodless
stump--cauterized
and it seeks to fill the void

pushing sliding ever-so
gently
it smooths into the void and
encounters the Abyss

what is behind this blank portal
of Amputation?
one way to go. forward

***
"The Sobering Reality" Tuesday 10:00PM

reality comes in many forms
some are just more
skewed
than others

in a clinic in the hoity-toits
of the hand-state a man
was admitted wearing the green of Hospital...
his movements were jerky and
his thoughts were
zoomingfromonetopictothenextwithoutahint
of Reason
his liver was frazzled and
sizzled like bacon
cirrhosis of the liver

and i wondered if an end-game
scenario like that could
lead like a shepherd the sheep
of Madness

could the toxins that the liver failed
to metabolize cause one to go insane?
i didn't want to know but I
sure as Hell was not going to shun him

***
"The Sleeping Beast"

a sense of melancholy
pervades my soul
yet a distant hopeful flare
lights the night-day sky

i feel as though i am
on the verge of losing a
very dear friend, one of whom
has been with me throughout
thin and thick over many years

though i grieve for my dear friend
i also silently, surreptitiously,
do somersaults and cartwheels

a wise doctor once said,
"one must tread quietly past
the sleeping Beast;
for one wants It to remain as It is"

***
"Self-Loathing" Wednesday 8:50AM

tell me what you think of this:
a man checks himself in to a clinic
for drinking, of all things,
innocuous Beer
looks in the mirror, sees
bald fat ugly fucker
staring back at him
fuck creativity and fuck
empathy
let the bitch have it with
...both barrels
a piece-of-shit motherfucking
slice-nutted man
checks himself in to a clinic
for drinking, of all things
innocuous Beer
looks in the mirror, sees
bald fat ugly fucker
with dead eyes
(puffy)
and little to no strength
---the end---
.the fuck.

***
"Check-Out Time" Wednesday 11:35PM

where does it all begin?
and when will it all end?
what shape will the Beast take
when the end-game draws nigh?

are there spheres of Distant
interspersed throughout our planes of Sense?
are we one with ourselves or
are we fighting until the end?
is that shadow a Being?
is that light-shaft a Portal?

can we walk into the Light
and zip ourselves up tight
pillowed against the destruction
of latching on to Energy?
should we even bother?

my throat--tight--tells me no
my mind--renewed--is again my enemy
when did it all begin?
and where will it end?
salud. adios. buh-bye. i'm checking out.

***
"Not-So Comfortably Numb" Wednesday 11:58PM

all of these negative fucking emotions
tumble back into my
band-box of a brain and
Rage says hello to Anxiety and
Depression slaps Fear on the back
like a good long-lost buddy
(it's party-time)

talk is of Fellowship and that
talk is just grand but
how does one join a blasted Fellowship
when one has isolated oneself
for so-very long?

i prefer Numbness to Angst
i'd rather bid farewell to Dash's years
than to slog through the taffy of Suffering

call me crazy--i don't like pain

better to die a loner's death
than to parry and proffer and get
shot down in flames...

this is about the fear of Rejection.
there. i made it easy for you.

***
"The Coyotes"

i stand calm, smoking
from woods two coyotes shine
vanish in moonlight

***
"The Gray Haze Descends" Friday 1:16AM

the gray haze descends and i watch
with heavy-lidded lizard's eyes
i watch as a thin sheen of
Beauty
buffers me from the Dark's forces

all worries slide silently away
as i watch the gray haze descend

chaos and catastrophies lose their solidity
they turn dark-gray and then blend
into the sheen
and then they are as ghosts
transparent, easy to fold up
and put in my pocket

i'll carry the Chaos with me always,
crinkled and creased with the
dust of many Years, wary
always, of its ability to unfold
--unfurl--
and replace gray haze with the Red carpet of Hell

***
"Every Day Daily" Saturday 11:55PM

smack-forward to Present
busted lives, forgotten Love
to see suffering is to remember
--every day daily--
for the rest of the natural life
the power of and the wounds from the Beast

every day daily we need to tear apart
the scabbed dermis and probe
fingers through cavity
of blood
and tissue

to forget is to die and
to remember is to daily-live
throughout heartaches and loss and
throughout Light-filled times

our Darkness must be omnipresent
we must hold it close to our breast
as tenderly as a baby bird,
careful not to crush it yet strong
enough to keep it caged

every day daily

next to our heart. where it belongs

***
"Foxholes" Sunday 9:15PM

you make fast friends in foxholes
thrown together by varying circumstances
relationships borne of strife
cemented with a common goal
a flashing neon sign in the temporal lobe:
"good-health-sobriety-lifted-spirit"

you make fast friends in foxholes
with the rockets booming overhead
and the grenades of Addiction
--tearing apart--
showering dirty souls slow-motion-up
into the air and
back down with a
breathless sob

forged with a common goal
broken souls--bleeding--regenerate
and Light begins to filter
back into Darkened lives

the Beast of Burden caterwauls
and dissolves but slowly

but, that's fine:
we have Time on our sides

I'M GOING TO REHAB--TOMORROW

And the tears continue to fall.

WE WANDER

we wander from street corner to street corner

always

looking Above.

Life is more than a series of

weakened left hands and

arms.

and alcohol.

Life is Beautiful--Life is God--

remind me tomorrow, please.

tanks

sed Patton.

smilehitchweep.

:-)(

AN AYE-TO-ZEE POST ABOUT ZEBRAS

As I looked out the bedroom window, the sky continued to darken. Best not to look too long--I'd read somewhere that staring at Nothingness could be hazardous to one's health. Come on--really?

Did I stutter?

Every day, I think about my zebra. Fastidious. Gallant. He is a physical specimen, he is my Zorro.

I gathered my smooth head back from the pane of glass and I looked at my dog, Lou, who looked back at me, unflinchingly. "Just gimme a second, dude," I said.

Kudos to Lou--he gave me a second and many more.

Listen: I live in Clawson, Michigan, and I know, on one level, that zebras are not common fauna. My Zorro is real, and if you backtalk, we'll have to have a palaver. Naw, yes, naw, yes.

Open your mind, if you will, and accept the possibility of a zebra in a northern United States state. Personally, I look at my Zorro and I see nothing--not a gosh-damned thing--amiss. Queer, isn't it, how one man's internal skill set differs from another's? Really, I'm preaching to the choir, here.

*Sighs.*

Today, nobody bothered me about my zebra, for which I am eternally grateful. Understand that I never wanted Zorro as a pet.

Vicious, isn't it, the depths to which one will sink to maintain the wool over one's eyes? "Wow," I said to my reflection.

Xerox this into your brain, Dear-Reader: Life is what you make of it.

Yes.

Zorro approved and Jesus wept and then we all ran around the mulberry bush, panting throughout.

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART

It's 9:30 AM, here, in Michigan. I have today off of work. (And tomorrow, too, but who the hell asked?)

I have W.A. Mozart blaring through my computer's speakers. If there were ever a "musical Prozac," this dude, Wolfgang, would corner the market.

It is difficult to put into words the feelings I get when I listen to Wolfie. It's kinda like this: There is no way in the heavens that such TALENT should exist. The rise and fall of the melody, the cut/scratches of the violins, the blissful rise of the horn section, the meandering cellos....

It IS musical Prozac. Whoever "coined" that phrase needs a raise.

[He throws his two cents into the fountain, shrugs, slams his hands in his pockets, and walks down the road.]

FIELD OF POPPIES, CONCLUDED...

[READ THE POST BELOW, FIRST, PLEASE, IF YOU MAY. THANKS]

The gasman gazed down the dark stairwell, completely cognizant, on one level, of what the princess had told him. He was not to go down these stairs. On another, wholly untethered, level of his brain, he knew that he must go down these stairs. The answer to the unasked mystery lay at the bottom of the out-of-kilter stone steps.

He started down the stairwell and, as soon as he took his first step, the warm fuzzy feeling of floating deserted him and every step he took was like that of the mermaid of Anderssen lore. Every step was a razor blade in the bottom of his booted feet. His work boots did nothing to quell the psychic pain. He counted the steps as he descended into the gloom.

At step number sixty-six, he reached the bottom. Though he could not see his hand in front of his face, he sensed, he knew, that the forbidden door was before him. This door was the antithesis to the radiant welcoming door to the front of the castle. Whereas that door had virtually burst forth with warmth and good feelings, this door acted almost as a vacuum, sucking the life and love and vigor and verve from the gasman.

With trembling fingers, he pushed forward and the door swung open easily on well-oiled hinges.

After the gloom of the stairwell, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the red-orange glare of the stinking cavernous room. Although it could hardly be called a room. Defying all rules of perspective and space, the walls were a thousand miles away and the ceiling was a vague blur in the heavens. But, as the gasman saw, this was not heaven, this was hell.

Men, in all getup of bondage sweated and strained to move boulders that fell back into place and strove to stoke fires that roared when they approached. The gasman noticed, above all, the insectile whine of the laborers. They had lost the ability to speak; they were now simple pawns at the command of the scantily-clad women. The gasman noticed the princess and tried, unobtrusively, to reach her--to perhaps have her help him.

As he slunk along the wall, he was grabbed from behind, by an insanely-strong woman and bum-rushed to the princess's side. The princess looked down at the gasman with nary a glint of pity and her lips curled into an evil smile.

"I specifically forbade you to use those stairs, gasman. You disobeyed my order and now you will pay. With your soul."

As the gasman watched with horror, the princess's face began to melt, losing her beauty, transforming her, in mere moments, into one the unspeakables that had haunted the gasman in his dreams.

As he opened his mouth to shriek, a hand clambered from behind him, up his leg, and gripped, in a vise-grip, his manhood. Reins were slammed into his mouth and he fainted to the floor.

--THE END

Why did I write this story? Well, believe it or not, this was based on actual events. Okay, "based" is probably the wrong word. Let's just say that I was inspired by real-life events to write this rather grim fairy tale. And, yes, it all comes back to what I do for a living.

Last night at about six at night, I went to a woman's house to turn on her gas. She was extremely flirtatious and quite good-looking, too. She'd asked if I could light the pilots, too. I said sure and followed her into the kitchen, wherewithin she opened a closet door and said, they're here, right? "They" were the furnace and the water heater and, yes, they were there.

She bent down, in her tight black--accentuating--pants and took the bottom door off the furnace. No, I told her, that door needs to stay on, so that it presses against the switch that will allow electricity to flow to the automatic spark ignition.

She shrugged and said, "See? I'm a girl. I don't know any of this stuff!"

I answered, "Well, I'm a guy and I don't know a damn thing about fixing cars. It's all individual knowledge, not women knowing some things and men knowing other things."

She moved closer to me and I could smell her perfume. Our arms were almost touching. Damn, I thought, this could get interesting. It did. I got the furnace ostensibly going--it was an auto-ignition furnace; there wasn't anything I needed to do, and I told her to have a good night and I started towards the door.

She hugged me from behind, pressing her breasts against my back. That got a rise out of me...in a good way, though. I turned and smiled and I asked her for her number. She laughed and said sure and that she'd never done this before. I said, me either, Karen. We exchanged numbers, and I got paged for a damn gas leak. I told her that I has to go and she smiled and moved closer. "Gimme a hug, Adam," she said.

Why the hell not, I thought, so I moved in for a hug. We embraced and she told me that I was adorable and she moved her lips towards mine. God knows I wanted to, but something seemed pretty fucking wrong about kissing a customer, so I turned my head at the last minute and she ended up kissing my cheek. She reiterated that I was adorable and we set up maybe something for the next day. I walked to my van with a hard-on pressing against my jeans and praising God.

On the way to the leak, she called me on my cell and told me that her furnace had still not kicked on. I told her that it had been off for ten days and that the air needed to be worked out of the lines. As I drove to the leak, she filled me in on her greatest assests--her pencil-stub nipples and relayed to me that, besides the hair on her head, she was totally hairless. She asked me if that was a problem. Hell no, I said, as I drove with my dick. I told her I had a question for her. I asked her if she liked bald guys. She almost squealed. Oh my God, she said, I was just going to ask you that! I love bald guys...their smooth heads. I love to kiss their smooth heads.

Speaking of heads, I was thinking with the wrong one, apparently.

She called me twice today, saying that her furnace was out again. I repeated what I had said 32 times the night before: The bottom door has to be snug against the electrical shut-off button. I told her that when I came over later, I would take a look at it. But it's freezing here, she said. Then call the 800-number, I told her. Tell them that you have no gas coming to your furnace. I was actually trying to hook her up, seeing as how I knew that there was gas coming in and I pretty knew what the problem was. She called again later, saying that the furnace was out again. Did she want me to come over? I asked her, see if I could fix whatever ailed the furnace, reminding her, again, that I was not trained to repair furnaces. We went around the rosemary bush again (did I mention that she is as shaved as a baby seal?) and eventually I told her that I would call her at four, to set something up for tonight.

Meanwhile, I went and washed my car and vacuumed the inside and slathered Armor-All around the interior. On the way back to my apartment, I picked up a small box of Whitman's chocolates--just eight pieces, don't worry--and then I paced around my apartment until 4:00 came. (Yes, I'm a nervous loon.) For the first time in the three times that I had called her, the call went to voice-mail. I left a message saying, "Hi, Karen, this is Adam...uh, just give me a call when you can. Peace. Bye."

The ball was in her court.

I erased all the incoming and outcoming logs on my telephone and burned the two pieces of paper that had had her number written on them. Though I'm on the wagon, I didn't want the possibility of getting drunk one day down the line and drunk calling the fine upstanding woman who I met while on the job.

Maybe it was a mistake, I told myself. Maybe she was out doing grocery shopping or something like that. But I had told her 4:00, and she'd repeated 4:00.

At this point in time, as I type this comma, I'm thinking it a con job. How fucking low can you go? And I'm not talking about that dance where you kinda shuffle along on the tips of your feet under a pole.

How low can you possibly go?

--THE END END

Postscript--Yes, I had a feeling that it was too good to be true. But. I'll tell you this: If I ever get that address on Warwick Sreet again--and, yes, I remember the address as clear as day; I'm a loser--I'll head towards it and then, oops, somehow, it must have gotten deleted. Wow! The damndest things happen, sometimes, in this line of work! Oh well, she'll call back, and have to suffer through all the phonepad navigations. Wah-fucking-wah.

P.T. Barnum is reported to have once quipped, "A sucker is born every minute." I'll add to that, P.T., if I may: If a sucker is horny as hell and a pretty woman shows him some attention and talks all sexy-like, a sucker is born every five seconds. And that sucker goes home with blue-balls betwixt his legs.

Anyone want some chocolates?

*sigh*

Post-postscript--In her defense, though, she was good at what she did. She certainly had me going! :-)

THE LAND OF POPPIES

Once upon a time, in the Land of Poppies, a gas serviceman fell through a hole in the ground that he, obviously, had not seen. He fell, flailing and cursing, down through the deepening darkening depths--for what seemed like forever--until he finally landed, clumsily, at the foot of a moat surrounding a beautiful castle. He picked himself up and absently dusted his posterior as he gazed with wide wondah at the shimmering facade before him.

His boots clacked and clunked as he crossed the wooden bridge. From beneath the bridge a gravelly voice intoned: "He whoever should cross this bridge, Shall cast away hope and all will to live." The gasman nervously eyed the sparkling blue water and noticed an innocuous turtle on a rock. The.turtle.blinked.slowly.and.withdrew.its.head. The gasman shrugged and continued across the bridge, not noticing the turtle transform into a silently gibbering demon. When the gasman set his second boot on the dry grass surrounding the castle, the bridge behind him ceased to exist, as did the demon. The gasman spun around and his previous wonder became a festering sense of dread. But, no way back, time to go forward.

The gasman walked through the fields of poppies and a short trip became surprisingly long. Finally, after a fortnight, he reached the castle's doors. He was exhausted and terribly hungry and as dehydrated as a grain of sand. He managed enough strength to feebly bump the clapper on the huge wooden doors.

They immediately opened and a brilliant light radiated from within. The gasman shielded his eyes and spoke to the light: "Could you, uh, help me, please? I'm lost and I'm thristy, and I haven't eaten in about two weeks."

"Come," said a voice from the light. A beautiful female voice, tinkling with bells and warming energies.

The gasman felt invigorated. He came.

As he crossed the threshold, he noticed a brilliant white orb inexorably floating down and around the spiral staircase. As it grew nearer, he saw features begin to form. A beautiful princess emerged from the light.

"Are...are you God?" he asked.

A tinkle of bells. "No, silly. I am not God. Come, though," she breathed into his ear.

The gasman felt even more invigorated. He came.

"I am Kassandra," the beautiful princess breathed. "You are welcome to all that we have to offer. We will get you back to your home and to your loved ones. But there is one condition."

The gasman waited, entranced by her beauty.

When she knew that she had hie rapt "attention," the princess continued. "You are welcome to all we have to offer but you must not, under any circumstances, descend the stairs to the basement. Do you understand, dear gasman?"

The gasman nodded his assent, mouth agape, hypnotized by her beauty. A thin strand of spittle hung from his lower lip and an unseen gnarled hand flashed from the shadows and snatched it from his lip. The sound of a struggle and obscene smacking noises went unheeded by the transfixed gasman.

"I will show you to your room," spoke the princess.

The next (how long? who knows?) passed in a pleasurable blur for the gasman. Extravagent meals were served by scantily-clad nymphos and there was a seemingly-endless supply of mead.

The gasman grew fat with both desire and sloth.

One night, he jerked awake from a nightmare, his body slick with sweat and a scream trapped behind his teeth. His body shivered with fear.

In the dream, he had seen himself, running through taffy fields of poppies, casting anguished glances over his shoulder. Behind him, tracking him, hunting him, had been scores of goblins and monsters and unspeakables. The beings were put together wrong; that's all his dreaming mind would allow the gasman to understand. The beings were put together wrong. As they gained, he tore himself from his dreaming mind and gasped breath to the cathedral ceiling.

You must not, under any circumstances, descend the stairs to the basement, echoed the princess's voice.

The gasman rose unsteadily to his feet and, as if drawn by a powerful magnet, started towards the basement stairs. Though the way to the basement stairs was fraught with many uneven cobblestones and his knees ached in response, the gasman felt that he was being drawn gently, floating, in fact, to the forbidden zone. In three blinks of an eye, he was at the yawning precipice of the forbidden stairwell.

***to be continued***

("Sit Ubu, sit. Good dog.")

INSOMNIA....

Cue the dramatic music, please...thanks.

The word itself looks kind of malevolent, kind of fucked-up. It looks like Creeping Death (Thanks, Metallica! :-)) Like you open the fridge for a late-late-late night snack and, when the door swings silently shut, there is Insomnia, sildling from the shadows like an inky ink...blob. And Insomnia does silently bwhahahaha as it props open one's eyelids with toothpicks. (Thanks, Stanley Kubrick! :-))

It brings chills to my sleeping body. Wait, that's right. I'm wide-ass awake. (<--"Wide-ass" awake? Not a pretty picture, to say the least.)

From what I've heard and read, when one suffers from insomnia, one should not lie in one's bed and toss and turn and wait for the god Narcos to get his pickled ass in gear. Rather, one should rise from one's bed, where the bugs seem to be crawling (Thanks, Louie! :-)) and do something, anything, rather than focus on the elusively-prancing, devilish Shut-eye.

Like pop a sleeping pill. Nytol. I did. But, counteracting said "Night-All" are the four cups of java that I injested after the hour of 11:00PM. I've read somewhere that one cup of joe is equal, in caffeine, to six cups of cola. Lemme do the math. Shit, I only have twenty fingers and toes. I throw my earlobes and my testicles in there, too, then. Yep, the math all...uh...adds up: 24 cups of soda pop after 11:00PM.

Goofy says to a stupider animated character--like Britney Spears, say--"Wah, wah that doan seem to make too much sense-like. Wah."

Goofy? We're in agreeance. (Thanks, Fred Durst! :-))

Is their anything more painful than waiting for a sleeping pill to counteract an ergregious amount of late-night coffee? (Don't answer that, Mister Dahmer. *Please* don't answer that!)

*Yawn*

Sike! Gotcha!

Louie has no such problems. Here. I'll take his picture, real quick-like...it's at the top of the page. I'll wait whilst you scroll up.

[tapsfootimpatiently]

Back? Good. What were we talking about? Oh. Oh yeah. The dark and shadowed beast the size of a mountain with the head the size of an apple: Insomnia. Maybe if I write the word enough times, in varying styles and schemes, I'll bore *myself* to sleep. Here goes:

Insomnia insomniad, "Insomnia! Insomnia insomniating insomnia's insomnia!"

Yes. I am, indeed, quite mad. Meet my roommates (besides the flea-riddled Lou-dog): the Mad Hatter, Tweedle-Dee, his brother Tweedle-Dum, Woody Woodpecker, Marmaduke, Bugs Bunny, Donald Duck Daffy Duck and Scrooge McDuck, Alvin and Simon and Theodore and the non-talkative chipmunks from Walt Disney (?), the buzzards who just keep asking each other "I dunno, whut di ye wunt ti do?", that pompous tiger Prince from Disney's "Robin Hood," and Roger Rabbit.

And, of course, Ren and Stimpy. Shit.

*You* try getting to sleep with all that going on!

Nyt All. *Snore*

BUNNIES! PAY ATTENTION! THANKS--a poem

allow me to spit out a silioquy
it begins like this.

Life is a series of choices
Life is a jig-jag of missed
opportunities and seized
trundling box-cars and the
feet
do fly
in a whipping motion as we cling for dear-fear
that we don't fall
off
and
tumble to the dusty iron tracks
and watch as the Train of Life clips us off
bloodlessly
at the knees.

Life is a series of changes
brought about by choice.

take the fork less-traveled advised some fuck named
Frost.
take this, Frost...i mean, nice idea, kind sir

Life is beautiful and Life sucks
air from our lungs; we turn blue and bluer and wonder
whence we can garner some oxygen

Life is fine and Life is coarse
ugly
strangers who huddle in shadows and toss pitchforks at our feet and push
us as we walk the tightrope between
Success and Loathing
and Failure and Happiness.

mish-mash
is what it is.
watch our strings!
jerk!
as we lift our legs
throw our hands
to the heavens...who is in control?

Being good bores the
Hell out me.
Being bad puts it right back in
where it belongs.

take a chainsaw to the number thirteen and take a
chainsaw to the Devil in us all...

meet an appealing woman
ask her for a date tomorrow
buy her a chardonnay
silently seethingly suck a diet coke, which is
as appealing as sucking a flea off a dog's
"hind leg"

look on the bright side, says the caring family
what fucking bright side, says the coke-swallower
you have a spring in your step, say they, and the sky is blue
spring this...i mean, yeah, you know? you're right!

The Devil in the Bottle

You know those Michelob Ultra commercials in which an attractive man and pretty woman compete in an athletic activity--swimming, rollerblading, running a flight of stairs, playing marbles and jacks--and then afterwards they share a couple of beers together and make goo-goo eyes at each other and the dangling preposition is that there may be some hanky-panky going on later between the attractive man and pretty woman? Have you seen them? If not, watch a sporting event. You'll be sure to catch them. And if not? Never you worry, dear reader--you'll be innundated with scores of other beer commercials spreading basically the same message: Consumers, drinking is cool and hip and you may get lucky if you try our product! So, give 'er a try!

[cricketschirp]

The flip-side of that equation, of course, is that one may get hooked on the stuff and gradually injest more and more until a twelve-pack is a night's-worth of beverages and, if one does go out on the town, one has absolutely no fucking chance of garnering a girlie because one is an obtuse asshole because one crossed the "8-Beer Line of Demarcation," before which one is witty and charming and after which one is a bumbling manic fool, with one thing on the mind: More beer!

Not that I'd know, or anything.

[cricketsrolleyes]

Alcohol abuse/Heavy drinking/alcoholism--whatever you want to call the situation--affects every strata of one's life. It affects one physically, mentally, spiritually, socially, legally, and financially.

I'm on the wagon again. The drinking of beer--I know, I know, such an innocuous beverage, far down on the malevolence list from, say, Jack Daniels or Absolut--has affected me in all of the ways that I listed above. And more, I'm sure.

Then why, after just four days of abstinence, am I drinking coffe and wishing it were a 40-ouncer of Colt 45? Do I want to be Billy Dee Williams? Do I like the taste of malt liquor? In a way, but not particularly. Why do I miss something that has caused me so much pain and suffering?

Gimme a "A"! Gimme a "D"! Gimme another "D"! Gimme an "I"! Gimme a "C"! Gimme a "T"! What's that spell?!

"ADDICT!" Gooo-ooooooh "ADDICT!"

But it's true. I've gone on the wagon before--many times, in fact--and it's always been the same: I miss the big ole gorilla on my back. I miss the time that he fills. I miss the buzz that he provides and I miss the hiatus from everyday life that he provides. I miss the 10-foot-tall and bulletproof me. When he's gone, it's like a tooth fell out and I keep poking my tongue around in my mouth, poking at the hole.

This is the time-frame of the wagon-ride: The first two or three days suck ass. I'm jittery as all hell and my brain chemistry works double-time to provide the happy chemicals that the gorilla had falsely provided. They fail miserably the first 48-72 hours and my sleep sucks and clouds of anxiety and depression hang over my head. The next seven days are great--I have a bounce back in my step and every day feels like a gift. The next two weeks fall into a daily routine of everyday life. The itch starts in about the fourth or fifth week and I feel my resolve begin to weaken. I can almost taste the beer on my tongue and I flip from beer commercials to, say, an infomercial on Tupperware--anything that won't tempt me. I give in to my internal-clamourings in the fifth or sixth week and I purchase a six-pack of good beer like Guiness or Serria Nevada Pale Ale or Blue Moon. Sometimes I only have three and stop. More often I have all six and crave a 40-ounce-chaser. And then, it's right back on the merry-go-round. Shooting like a rocket from six to 12 to more than 12 a night. Whee!

I've tried AA. Slightly. I'm not a fan of compartmentalized zealotry. I've taken a pill that will make me violently ill if I drink alcohol while taking said pill. That only works if I stay on it. I've tried outpatient and that works swimmingly while I'm doing it. I will not try inpatient--rehab--because even when I'm done with it, I'll be back in the same boat that I was in before--free will to imbibe or not. They won't tell me a damn thing that I don't know or haven't thought about or haven't heard about or haven't read about. So...no. No rehab assignments for yours truly. So....

So that's that. That's my Beer Story. That's my story of the Devil in the Bottle. I could go into much more graphic detail, but I shan't. Some things are not for Internet ears.

Look out the window. Do you see it? Do you see that dark massive shape, heavy throughout the shoulders and chest with a fearsome gargantuan maw atop? That's Gary the Gorilla. He's my friend...and my enemy. He's really not well-trained at all, yet he waits like a loyal pet patiently outside my window. Like a vampire, like a ghost, he waits patiently; he's in no rush. He knows that saddle is still on my back and the reins are still betwixt my teeth and the stirrups dangle still from my sides.

Happy holidays, everyone! Peace on Earth! Bring home the boys! One day at a time! Let go, let God! Um....

[cricketshandgorillabananatellhimtokeepquiet]

WELCOME TO PLEASANTVILLE...

Actually, I live in Clawson, Michigan, in an apartment. But, just recently, I have had second thoughts about my criss-cross placement in the Universe.

I ate a Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, a day later than most. While I was there, I snuck shots out of an Absolut Citron fifth in my car, rendering said fifth a near-carcass.

That ain't Pleasantville. Listen:

I went home after gorging myself with stuffing and belated-turkey and yams and potatoes and blah blah.

On the way back to my apartment, I picked up another fifth of Citron. And some O.J. (But not the murdering O.J.)

Here it is, Internet: I ended up drinking two fifths of Absolut Citron yesterday. And I feel fine today.

But. But that still ain't Pleasantville.

Before I get to Pleasantville, let me please let you in on a little secret: I have King-Kong on my back. Whew! There! Done. But there are varying manifestations of the Beast. One manifestation is Beer-All-Day. The other manifestation is Hard Liquor. Like vodka.

But, still, not Pleasantville.

Here is Pleasantville:

When I drink hard liquor, especially two fifths of said slop, I tend to get forgetful. I woke up this morning wondering to where my cell phone had wandered. "Ah, it'll turn up," I told my run-down self. And I took my boy Outside to poop.

On our way back into the apartment, I glanced to my right. I saw, in front of my sliding door wall, a glass of orange juice--slathered with vodka, obviously--and my telephone. My cellular telephone. And? Nestled up against it was my month-old digital camera, a $300 purchase. And they had been there ALL NIGHT.

Welcome to Pleasantville. May I recommend the downtown shopping district?

A cell phone and a digital camera, on a table, Outside, all night long. And the next day they're still there. Amazing.

But. But, it gets better. It truly does. Earler this afternoon, I scrounged around my apartment, looking for my wallet. "It must be in the car," I said to Lou. Lou blinked at me and licked his nether-regions. "Thanks for your help, dude."

I walked outside and started towards my car, a 2002 Ford Focus hatchback. My gaze took in the grass and the parking curbs and I noticed something familiar on the ground: 'Twas my wallet. On the ground. Out in the open. With $82 poking out.

I live in Pleasantville. May I recommend the downtown shopping district? And if you need to eat, go to "Curley's Diner." The man is a mean cook.

To summarize: In my drunken obliviousness, I left my cellular telephone, my $300 digital camera, AND my wallet with $82 sniffing the grass, Outside.

And NOBODY TOOK ANYTHING. (Nor would I have, but....)

But. welcome to Pleasantville. May I recommend the lobster bisque?

KING'S "THE BODY"/MOONLIGHT

I've seen a conjecture of letters, recently. Something like "NaPoBlWomb." Something like that. The "acronym" advocates a weblogger to post one weblog per day. Is that tough? No. Here's my acronym: "Bl24." Translate? Okay.

Translated, "Bl24" means to post a 'blog every hour that one can, during a 24-hour stretch. I know, I know, work gets in the way. Fuck work. This 'bloggin' shit esta muy importante! For one's creatively muscle-bound brain. So.

On with it.

I walked to 7-11 tonight--20 minutes ago, in fact--and I took my boy Lou. He was a perfect gentleman; he neither lunged nor sprang ahead at phantom squirrels. He heeled and I loved him for it. We walked south on Crooks Road for about a quarter-mile and then we angled to the brightly-lit 7-11. I was in need of a pack of smokes and Lou was in need of a good shit-session--both of our dreams were answered.

In 7-11, I said hello to a police ossifer and shot the shit with the cashier--Peg--who has lost 160 pounds during the last two years. The transformation has been amazing and, though she is in her 40s and has four children, the oldest being 23, I sometimes get a chub-dog talking with her. Her eyes are brilliant-blue and she runs five miles a day and I've also seen the before and after pictures. Anyway.

So I said hello to the cop that made his nightly stop and I asked him if my dog was still tethered to the telephone pole.

Meg/Peg said, "Uh, yeah. You just heard him bark."

The cop, a short-statured stout fellow with a thick moustache (no way!), motioned towards the dude that was walking in to 7-11 at the same time as the cop. Said dude had a shaved head, many piercings, a goatee, and he was wearing cut-off camo shorts with big black boots.

The cop said, "Yeah, he was barking at him."

I said, "Yeah, him or you--one of the two."

The cop mumbled something as he walked down the coffee isle.

Huh, I asked.

Peg/Meg said, "He said that he barks back."

The cop said, "I bark back."

With that nugget of useless information, I bid Peg/Meg a good night and walked outside to collect my dog. We walked home, and he was brilliant, heeling and sitting when ordered to do so. Along the way, I began to think about Stephen King's short story, "The Body," for some reason.

First published in the collection of four short stories entitled "Different Seasons," "The Body" was a good yarn about four pubescent males walking the backwoods of Maine to see for themselves a real-live dead body. A kid got hit by a train whilst picking blueberries--I think his name was Ray.

(By the way? How anyone gets hit by a train whilst picking blueberries is out of my current grasp of knowledge. One can pick blueberries, by all means. Sure! Whee! Blueberries! But when one gets splattered by a train whilst picking blueberries, I do believe that the blame falls squarely on one's crushed shoulders. Just my opinion. Get EARS, motherfucker!)

Why the thought of this particular novella occured to me as I walked the quarter-mile from 7-11, I don't know. I truly don't. Was I on an adventure? Was my going to the store at 3:45 for smokes an adventure? I hardly think so. In fact, I see it more clearly as a mismanagement of slumber. A man's got to sleep sometime; 3 hours just doesn't cut it.

I'm 10 hours from eating a deliscious Thanksgiving meal. Yes, my fam dambly is celebrating the Day a day later. I have to awaken in 6 or 7 hours and cut up a bunch of fruit and slather them with vanilla yogurt and I also need to remember to pick up a big container of cider. The cider may be forgotten--it's already been forgotten once. Hopefully I remember the cider.

Remember the cider.

Remember the cider.

Back to King's "The Body" and moonlight:

Narrated by the erstwhile Dick Dreyfuss, "The Body" was made into a movie, directed by Rob Reiner, called "Stand By Me." It was the first movie my family ever rented for our brand-new VCR and it's a damn good movie. A lot of young actors who made it big were in it, and one of them died of a heroin overdose outside of a New York nightclub when he was in his 20s. Big loss. Sad fucking loss. River Pheonix. "Vern" turned out to be a dude who dates supermodels and "Teddy" turned out to be "one of the Coreys." Corey Feldman. "Gordie" acted after "S.B.M," most notably in the Star Trek juggernaut. He wore tight pant-suits--nice career-choice, dude.

Why, though, did "Stand By Me" strike me as I walked the moonlit walk from 7-11 to my apartment? I'm still trying to figure why I had a sudden urge to write about a well-written novella and moonlit streets.

Was it because I was on a journey? Not bloody likely. I was walking a quarter of a mile with my boy Lou. Is that a journey? No. Was it because I was on my way to see the body of a boy who'd died whilst walking the train tracks after picking blueberries? Assuredly not. Then WHAT?!

Why am I asking you, dear reader--and, also, why did I just raise my text-voice? I dunno.

Here it is; I'll make something up. The hour groweth late; it's near 5:00AM. I'll make something up. And it'll make perfect sense. Serious-like.

I thought of moonlight because I saw moonlight. That part is easy. I thought of "The Body"....

I thought of "The Body" because...I'm guttering, here. I thought of "The Body" because...what? journey? my own body? Am I Ray-Ray in the ditch near the side of the railroad tracks. No, thank you very much. Then WHAT?!

What is nothing and Nothing is what. Sometimes a human brain will seize upon something and criss-cross and bow to it when It is not even a full idea/thought. Here in the hospital, we call that Obsessive. Oh. And also Compulsive. Occasionally, here in the Ward, we throw the two words together, seperated by a hyphen and we slap the word "Disorder" on the ass side of the Vocab Train. We, here in the hospital, Room 313, MANUFACTURE a word and we are proud. The word that we create is actually more of a phrase, or a slim-slam of many syllables:

"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder."

We are proud but--oh, but, then--but then the nurse, Miss Rachet, the bitch who made Billy so self-loathing that he offed himself in the "Cuckoo's Nest," walks down the hall, in her silent sensibly-white nurse's shoes and shovels more meds down our throats. Not all of us can be Jack. Most of us take the pills like the sheep we are.

To break away from my hospital delusion. This, dear reader, is called Creative Writing, written by a dude, at 5:00 in the morning, after having had 15+ beers and 3+ cups of java. I'm not really crazy. Unless the definition of "crazy" is pulling an unwarranted all-nighter the day before a belated Thanksgiving Day celebration. And, if that's the case?

Call me the Hatter.

--peace--

A HOLY-DAY POEM

beginning the holiday season always seems to suck
i'm me--and as always--i'm short a buck

thanksgiving day come first
and i, like many, expand my girth

here's where the poem stops rhyming
it all--seriously--comes back to timing

***

thanksgiving day is a day in which we give thanks
i give thanks for my family
and for the fact that i'm not in iraq or affie

thanksgiving day is a day in which we give thanks
i give thanks for a wonderful family and a cool dog
and i thank god that i'm not in the middle east

thanksgiving is a day...
no shit...
i give thanks for my relative health and
for my relative's health

sometimes a Day of Remembrance is all it takes
to get me teary-eyed

let's go back to the Beginning of this Day

i screamed silently fourdayweekend and
i got my ass out of bed
at 12:00
and began to clean my sloppy apartment, vacuuming and wiping flakes
from the range-top to
to the floor

i swept and i washed clothes and i jammed dishes into the 'washer

Time stalled
i was done
the place looked
mildly better

i took lou for a walk, no
i didn't, lou has scanned my countenance
all-the-live-long-day
sorry charlie--Lou

my apartment sparkles except for
the monkey-droppings that i have piled beside the
kitchen table.

I'll get to them. Eventually.

smile-grin-hitch-weep

thanksgiving day...time to eat Big Bird and gorge on his stuffings

thanksgiving day...a time to reflect upon the origin of this great country...

does Murder make a good meal-time discussion?
does Plunder make you think, at all?
Thanks be to God--sure--but,
why are we, the bold flying flag, always the aggressors?
espescially when we--our antecedents--came o'er here from a Brutal Land?

i'm not one to speak up and ripple the
wave-pool, but, i feel that this holiday is as
stark
as Columbus Day.

for what are we thankful?
are we americans thankful for our military might?
are we thankful for our own precious cocoon in which we traverse?
are we thankful that We have the Bombs and others are scrambling to catch up?
--which they will, assuredly, if they've not already--

back it up, please.
let's back it up, please.
let's go back to the Time of bows and arrows and misfiring muskets...

Please.

Back it up, God Damn It!

a musketball ain't a thermonuclear device that can be hidden with a briefcase
a musketball ain't a dude or a woman believing that the Jihad is the way to heaven
a musketball ain't zealots taking flying lessons to learn to cause Deathmultiplied
a musketball ain't genocide nor is it
warring nations in africa, splitting heads with blunt clubs and slicing
with machetes

a musketball was a spherical object that was used from the 16th- to the 18th-century
it was fired from a "smoothbore shoulder gun" and, i expect
it was a painstakingly slow weapon to re-equip--good
good.

Good.

i am thankful that i live in this great country, warts and all, but
i am not thankful that Humanity has upped the ante, so
to speak
we live in a Dangerous world

and i fail to see how a chimpanzee can lead us out of danger and into a
Democratic World
i have no faith in the simian

i have no faith in the simian; i have no faith in the simian--i have no faith
in the simian

for what am i thankful?
my fingers
my brain
my God
my family
my job "security"

for what am i thankful?
the smells
the sensations
the Freedom
the love
the lust

for what am i thankful?
my boy Lou
my smooth-track to work
my income
my benefits
myMymy

My, my--my....

Thanksgiving should not be of Oneself.
Instead, it should be of Another.
Money in a troubled soul's pocket.
A free meal for an indigent.

This is the Country of Wealth, right?

Then let's do something about it.
Give a bum a twenty...
If he/she uses it for alcohol or drugs,
So fucking what?
We--with computers--are the Haves

Let us help the Have-Nots.

And, THEN, we can give thanks.

[twocentsdeposited]

La Dia Del Muerto

As I type this, fifteen in, it is the day after Thanksgiving, the 24th of November, "La Dia Del Muerto." It is 1:40 in the morn as I type this period. It is the Day of the Dead.

Sales, sales, sales. The zombies walk through the streets, they arrive at sparkling "malls" to hand over their greenbacks. It's a mob-mentality. I've heard and read of people getting into fistfights, in previous years, over Tickle-Me Elmo dolls. (Tickle him. He laughs.)

Is everybody a fucking lemming, I wonder. I wonder that, if someone in authority said that the sale would end in five minutes, would we witness a mash of women and men jostling and shoving to get their "Dear One's" present?

Do people actually do, as commercials have suggested, camp out in front of a store, waiting for the doors to open? And, if so, why? Money is one thing. Sure. But I have the feeling that a lot of the lemmings make a secondary holiday out of the "Day After Thanksgiving."

They wake early and do some pre-game stretches. Triceps for reaching and biceps for punching and hamstrings for scooting throughout the big-box stores. A five-AM high-protein breakfast is eaten and much java is guzzled. For....

For...what, exactly?

To shell greens out for the latest fad? To be one with the Crush of Mob? To get Sally a My Little Pony set? To get Bobby a G.I. Joe doll? Fuck it.

Do what I do. Get your loved one's something that they need. A box of noodles, say, or a shovel.

And for those of you with kids--or step-kids--out there? Don't give in to their fucking caterwaulings. Do what's right. Give them absolutely-fucking nothing if they whine and babble. Here's a "great" Christmas gift: Teach 'em that the world isn't always fun and gum-balls and cotton candy. Teach them that life sucks, sometimes, and teach them to deal with it.

Buy them, for Christmas, a package of Ramen noodles. Beef-flavored is the best.

I've allowed Ebenezer into my soul so the least I could do would be to let Mister Ebenezer sign his name to my words.

Bah! Signed,
Ebenezer Scrooge

The Aye-Bee-Sees of 'Bloggin

[Here's how it will work. The weblog itself will have but 26 sentences, and each sentence shall start with the letter of the alphabet, starting with "A" and ending with "Z." 26 sentences, no more, no less. (BUT PUNCTUATION SHALL BE LIBERALLY--MOST-LIBERALLY-USED.) Since I just saw the Detroit Lions lose yet again, this post shall be dedicated to them, my "beloved" gridiron heroes in Blue and Silver. Without any further ado, I give you:

A LIONS RANT--A-TO-Z:]

Actually, I had thought that were going to win this one, at home, on Thanksgiving Day, versus the Miami Dolphins, led by ex-Lion great Joe Harrington. But, before I go on, please let me remind you that these are the Detroit Lions that we're talking about--rather, me writing about, you perhaps reading about.

Can I now get a round of applause, please, for the "ex-Lion great," Joe Harrington? Dude played great, as I thought he probably would, once he got his ass out the maelstrom that is Detroit Lions football. Everyone here in town was down on the guy saying things like he'll never be a winner and he might be gay and he tinkles the piano keys and he dances in the pocket like a scared little bitch. Forgive me, but isn't this the "professional" organization that drafted not one, not two, but THREE wide receivers in consectutive first rounds in the NFL draft, totally foregoing any thought of an offensive line to protect their young quarterback? Gimme a fucking break--I wouldn't even do that in X-Box football.

Here's the situation: The Detroit Lions are led by a moronic general manager, Matt Millen, and a too-loyal owner, Mr. William Clay Ford, yes, a descendant of that Ford.

I watched the game unfold and felt a brief moment of hope and hubris when the boys in Blue jumped to early lead over the fish from Miami. Just as I had gotten to the point where I was admitting to myself that this could, in fact, be a happy Thanksgiving Day game, the Lions went...well...the Lions went Lions:

Killed themselves with turnovers. Lost sure tackles and allowed a guy named Sammie Morris to run through their defense as though it were made out of Swiss cheese. Many more occurences than I care to reflect upon at this point in time, though, seriously, whom am I kidding? No one knows the emotion of Apathy better than a Lions fan.

"One of these days!" we shout, forgetting that, in the last 50+ years, the Lions have made the playoffs only once or twice, the latest being in 1990-something, a game in which they were thoroughly smoked by the Philadelphia Eagles by a score of, something like, 52-21.

Puh-lease...you know what the Lions are? Quarry, plain and simple and they should really change the name of their team from the "Lions," the kings of the jungle, to the "Mourning Doves"--it would be much more salient.

Recognize, please, dear reader, that I am still a fan and I love my Mourni--my Detroit Lions, I do, seriously, till death do we part, which will be the earliest that they make the Superbowl.

So...I watched the game in which they had led early and had soon relinquished said lead and I did the thing that many more Lions faithful need to do. There is one elixer to crappy football and I used that panacea: I turned off the TV.

Utiliatarian justice: No second-thoughts, just, click. Verily, I felt much better and I noticed my dog, Lou, huddled in my ratty armchair, searching me with wounded doggy eyes.

"What up, Lou," I asked as I skirted the distance from my couch to "his" chair in three loping steps. "Xylophones would be more intersting to watch than the Lions, dude, did you know that?"

Yes, his eyes, his scarred eyes, answered: Yes, I believe that, Master, now may I please go Outside?

"Zippity-doo-dah," I answered his silent question, "off we go!"

IT'S THE MOST BUSIEST TIME OF THE YEAR

Doo-doo-doo-DOO-doo/ Doo-doo-doo-DOO-doo.

Why do I have Alvin and the Chipmunks squeaking throughout my head?

Ah, forget it. Just substitute "It's the most wonderful time of the year," for the grammatically-incorrect title and you'll get my tack. Upon further recollection, there may have once been a cartoon in which Alvin and Simon and Theodore sang that song in their beautifully-squeaking chipmunk falsettos. ALVIN!!!

[Side-note: Alvin was the rockstar-cool chipmunk and Simon was the brainy one...was Theodore kind of like a brother-chipmunk that A. and S. would grudgingly say--if asked; ONLY if asked--"Yeah, yeah, this is my brother Theodore." T. didn't seem like he "had it all goin' on." Anyway, I digress.]

The busiest time of the year could refer to shopping and baking and cooking and flying to meet loved ones and driving to meet friends and gorging on turkey and braving long lines...but, no. I'm far-too myopic to write about that. Instead, I go day-to-day.

DID YOU KNOW? Did you know that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving has vaulted to the top of the "Busiest Bar Nights" list? It's true. I heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend's girlfriend who heard it from her second-cousin's uncle. So! It MUST be true!

What follows is a sob-story:

Break out the Kleenex:

What follows is a sob-story:

Break out the Kleenex:

What follows is a--

Crap story....

***

The taxicab pulled in front of the dark house on Reginald Street and stopped with a squeal of brakes. "We're here, bud," said the cabbie to his fare.

The man, tall and angular and shoulder-slumped, stepped out of the cab and walked around the back of it to give the driver a folded twenty. "Keep the change," he said.

The driver grinned, all swarthy facial hair and gigantic teeth. "Thanks, man!" he said. "Hey, listen! Have a great Thanksgiving, man!"

The man, tall and angular and shoulder-slumped, nodded. "You betcha." He shifted his briefcase into his left hand and flashed the peace-sign to the cabbie with his right. "Happy Thanksgiving to you, too."

The cabbie drove off, and soon the yellow can merged with the night and was gone.

Brian Shammy looked up at the silent house and a shuddered sigh escaped him. He trudged up the eleven steps--he'd once counted--and unlocked the door and went inside.

By habit, he flicked on the 48-inch plasma television immediately upon entering. From blackness grew a commercial advocating changing the oil in one's automobile every three months or three-thousand miles, thus counteracting the accumulation of engine oil sludge. He barely heard the commercial and the movements on the screen barely registered in his mind.

"Loo-cee! I'm home!" he shouted to the empty soulless house. His echo bounced around and was gone.

Shammy flicked the lightswitch. His tract-lighting sprang to life and attempted to eat the gloomy Darkness of the house. It mildly succeeded. He took off his thousand-dollar horsehair overcoat and threw it--slip-shod--onto the black leather sofa. He removed his Italian silk suit jacket and let it dangle from his fingers before he dropped it to the floor. He removed his tie, his button-up shirt and cast them over his head, where they landed, tangled, in the foyer. He slumped onto the couch, in his undershirt and his silk pants and fine leather shoes, and he buried his head in his hands.

"Lucy. I'm home," he muttered. And he sat up straight and flicked the TV volume to nothing and he looked at his hands and he thought.

***

Where is it? he wondered. Where has it gone? The frivolity, the reckless laughter, the silly games friends play with one another?

"Where the fuck is it?" he asked the empty room.

***

Brian Shammy, in his twenties, was a vibrant shadow to Brian Shammy, in his forties. As the wealth had accumulated, it seemed that the Joy of Life had corresspondingly diminished. Good times and fun women had faded as responsibility and Schedule had grown stronger. Friends had faded like sepia-toned photographs and 20-page reports had taken their places.

He leaned back, against the luxorious smoothness of the sofa and closed his eyes. A small smile touched his lips and his breathing became more rythmic and deeper. He had fallen asleep.

***

"Beeeeee-Essssssss! What's up, dude?!" His friend Brody swam to his face. "All the hot chee-kas are here, tonight, man!"

The younger Brian grinned and took in the place. It was packed. "People-as-Sardeenz" the sign had read. And Brian saw this to be true. Young men and women grappled and groped and fought for the bar and stood staring at stars. In their own minds, of course. There were no stars in McFadden's that night. There were only the weakly-illuminated planetary systems on the ceiling--but those didn't count.

"Whatcha drinkin', man?" Brody swept his arm at the bar. "I can get to the bar lickety-split. I'm good, that way." He tried to snap his fingers and failed and laughed.

"Vodka-tonic," said Brian.

"Right back, sir." And Brody was gone. He disappeared like a ghost.

Brian took in the early-80s landscape: Flesh as far as the eyes could see. He smiled and sat down. And stared ahead.

His friend Brody sat across the table from him, pointing at a glass of clear liquid. "Your drink, dude."

"How? That--that quick?"

Brody grinned and his teeth were a taximan's. "B.S. You're in Our World, now. If I wanted to, I could turn turkey into lunchmeat."

Brian goggled. The idea had never crossed his mind.

"So, tell me, Brian," said Brody, "and I can see into Future, so don't lie. Tell me, Brian, are you going to forget all of us?" Again, he swept his arm, this time in the direction of the dance floor and then, quite improbably (was he double-jointed?) right back over his head and towards the twenty-something Shammy.

Brian goggled.

"Because, you should know," continued Brody, as his face started to melt, "money ain't everything, man, and you should really get a pet."

***

Brian Shammy jerked awake, then. He'd pulled into a fetal position as he'd slept-dreamed. Now, he uncrossed his curled body and sat straight on the couch.

"Loo-cee?! I'm home!" he grinned to the empty walls and thus decided to buy a chinchilla the very next da--well--the day after Thanksgiving.

***

Problem solved, he lurched to the freezer and poured himself four fingers of Absolut Citron with a twist of an orange slice. (To protect against scurvy.)