Thursday, November 30, 2006

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!


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.


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. 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....


Saturday, November 25, 2006


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?

Friday, November 24, 2006


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.



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
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.


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
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...


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


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

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.


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

Thursday, November 23, 2006

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:


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. 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!"


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.)

Wednesday, November 22, 2006


I'm going to try to make this as boring as I possibly can. But I shan't erase, nor shall I edit. Let's see how long I can hold out...

Thanksgiving is coming up. I talked with my mom today and she suggested that I bring something to the feast.

"What should I bring?" I asked her.

There was a pause on the other end of my cellular telephone. My mom then said, "Adam, how about you bring some fruit salad?"

"Okay. Mom."

"And, Adam?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Would it be too much to ask for you to bring cider, too? A *big* container of cider?"

"No, Mom, that's no problem, at all," I answered.

Static silence.

My mother said, "Adam? Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, Mom," I answered, "I'm doing just fine."

"Okay, well, good," she said, and then we exchanged pleasantries and we both disconnected the telephone call.

Thanksgiving. Wow. Wow. Talk about a *feast*! You have the big bird (turkey) and you also have the stuffing and the sweet potatoes and tossed salads and fruit salads and cider and coffee and gravy and the like. Wow. What a feast.

I've been led to believe that this particular holiday celebration hearkens back to the days of the pioneers and Native Americans. Apparently, the Native Americans took the slightly-paler interlopers under their proverbial wings and taught them to grow maize (that's "corn") and potatoes (that's "potatoes"). The pioneers/Mayflower madmen were quite grateful to their pleasantly-browned guests, but, secretly? Inside? They thought them "savages."

--Okay. Hold on a second. I'm losing my Boring thread. Which is easy to do--it's thin, ya see.--

After I disconnected the telephone call from my mother, I thought, goodness, I'll need to go and buy some fruit...and also some vanilla yogurt. Oh my.

I was sitting in my work van, waiting for, well, work. The radio squawked. "Three-Five-Nine?"

"Three-Five-Nine," I immediately answered.

"Got a gas leak for you in Bloomfield."

"Okay. Send it," I said. *Okay. Send it*, I thought.

As I waited for the gas leak order to be sent to my computer, I thought, again, of Thanksgiving. *Won't it be joyous*? I thought. *All the family together and good food upon the table. Why, it'll simply be *joyous*! I felt a small smile touch my lips, then, and I felt at peace with the world....



A terrible dream in which a turkey had come back to life. My sister--as a ritual, perhaps?--always eats the turkey's neck. In my dream, Thomas the Turkmeister was having none of it.

"Gimme back my fucking neck!" a disembodied voice rose from the golden-brown of the carcass. "Gimme back. My. Fucking. Neck. You gosh-damned Carnivore!"

The reaction was instantaneous. My father, in my dream, had leapt up, from his chair, and his thighs had collided heavily with the underside of the lengthened dining room table. Boiling gravy had spilled from its delicate china house and had slid across the table, and over, into the lap of my sister. She screamed with rage and pain.

"I WANTED that gravy!" she curdled.

Her husband rose to her defense but was soon rendered powerless by the flying baked potatoes. One after another hit him, square in the forehead--like a cartoon! whee!--until he finally sagged to his knees.

I was watching all this happen like I was no longer present at the Table of Feast. I could have stepped in...but I chose not to.

My mother sprang from her seat and rushed over to where my father was lying on the floor, under the Dessert Table, clutching his left knee and howling in pain.

"Rob! Rob! Are you all right?!" she screamed.

The air had turned foggy. The golden-brown carcass now danced on the

"Ladies and gentlemen," the disembodied voice...wafted, "you are privy to the First Annual Turkey Revolution. May I ask that you file to the living room and lie on the floor with your hands locked behind your head, please?"

My grandmother began to spring into a fighting song and was cold-cocked with a drumstick. She sank back against her seat, out cold.

"I NEEDED that," spat the carcass. "Yam! Help me!" A yam sprang at its name. It butted and spun the drumstick to near where the carcass "stood" and, somehow, trampolined the appendage back to the beast.

"Good. Tank ya, Yam."--the Yam nodded, recognized--"Now, people! To the living room, gosh-damn you!"

I was still, I thought, in the Cloud of Dream.

"You, too, Ghost-Boy!" screamed the carcass, stuffing flying out of its.... But?

But, I still didn't believe it. "This must be a dream," I said.

The carcass spun to the sound of my voice. "Dream? Think whatever you want, Baldy."

"Hey, fuck you, chicken. That's out of line!"

The turkey's carcass flew through the air, then, much like the protagonist from "The Matrix" had. It landed greasily in front of my placemat. "CHICKEN! CHICKEN?! Little boy? You have MUCH to learn!"

And then it, I assume, cold-cocked me with its full breast.


I awoke to see a honey-brown turkey carcass above me. On my chest, in fact. I tried to move my arms, but they were pinned to the floor, like bugs under glass, by scores of yams, sweet potatoes and, well, *regular* potatoes. The carcass had somehow attached a large cleaver to its little itty-bitty golden-brown wing. (Its drumstick hung by threads of sinew.) It raised the cleaver high over the point where its head should have been.

"This is for my father Tom and this is for my grandfather Tom and this is for my Uncle Tom and for my great-uncle Tom! This is for my sister Henny!" With that, the bird-corpse swung the guilotine's blade, this time, instead, a meat cleaver from K-Mart.

I saw it fall, and I saw it fall, and I saw it fall, but my stomach didn't waver. I knew it was crazy dream-shit, so I let the hammer/cleaver fall. As my eyes crossed to take in the slow-motion fall of the cleaver, I heard, distantly, threefivenine.... Three-Five-Nine? Adam, where're ya at? Gotta a gas leak for you....


I awoke to the sound of my radio. Spittle had dried on my chin and my baseball cap had been raked at an obtuse angle. I'd fallen asleep in my van. Clouds floated before my gummy eyes and my back felt as though it had been broken nineteen times. My right arm snaked out to my microphone.

"359?" I managed.

""Adam, gotta gas leak for you."

"Send it," I said, and collapsed back against the window.

I got the gas leak and drove down Opdyke Road to investigate a leak near the range.

I used my windshield wiper fluid to get rid of the grease-smear on the glass.



Tuesday, November 21, 2006


So I learned today that one of my favorite comic actors, Michael Richards, lost his top while doing stand-up at a place called the "Laugh Factory." I watched the scene unfold on my computer I kind of felt sick to my stomach.

Richards, who played "Kramer" on "Seinfeld," lit into a couple of hecklers, who were black, weaving both profanity and also many racial slurs into his tasteless tiradical taperstry.

To me, he sounded like he may have had a couple drinks too many.

Hecklers are part of the business, when one is a stand-up comedian. There are ways--better ways--to deal with them. First, ignore. If that doesn't work, spotlight them verbally, but with taste. Third, don't say a word. Exercise Tai Chi, let the heckler be the water that flows around and over you, the rock, until it dissapates.

I saw him, Richards, tonight on the "Letterman Show." Jerry Seinfeld was a guest and Richards got patched in on a satellite feed from Hollywood. He explained himself--for the most part--saying that his "rage" had gotten the better of him. He explained that his genre of comedy is more of like a "free association" type of stagesmanship. I get that. I really do.

But I also saw the tape.

No one wants to be heckled. Of course, but, listen:

The N-word is bad enough. Especially when repeated more than ten times times to the groans and "oh my god"s of audience members. But I took the most offense to his opening parry to the two hecklers. It went something like this: Fifty years ago, you'd be upside-down and we'd be shoving nickles into your ass. Nigga! I can't quote exactly, so I won't. But, Jesus, Richards. What the fuck?

He seemed very very conciliatory when I saw him tonight. And sad. And shocked, as he most-definitely watches his career fly, like a sparrow, into a glass building. He should feel bad, of course.

But I worry about his mental health. (Not too much, as I don't know him--I've just seen him on the boob-tube--but, yeah.) I worry about his mental health. He is known for playing "Kramer," not for anything else. Every other movie or TV show that I've seen him in has sucked ass. Anyone remember that lawyer-movie that he once did? I do vaguely, but I can't recall the name.

I should have entitled this post "The Pitfalls of an Ancillary Actor's Success." He was an actor before "Seinfeld." Of course. But, as the saying goes, it is far better to remain in theatrical semi-obscurity and make a living than to be catapaulted to wild success and become accustomed to the honey pot. And, if that ain't a saying? It is now.

"Pushing the envelope" is one thing. What I saw made me think of one word, after reflection: Frustration. Dude seems frustrated beyond measure. He doesn't have the slick showmanship of a Seinfeld. Nor does he, it seems, have the cerebral shtick of a Carlin. He doesn't even have the carefully-delivered vitriol of a Kinison. He's got the--and, yes, I only saw one bit of one show--the melancholy frustration of a cultural icon who blew his wad in one series.

And he lost his head. Once. But, in the Hollywood-world, I think once is all it takes.

Saturday, November 18, 2006


Naw. I keed. I jiz-oak.

This DDS-encrusted individual obviously fucked up my "Happy Mouth." (!!!)

I went through a four-stage procedure two years ago. They scoured the excuse for a molar that I had had and then lit in to my root. I was quelled a bit, but it still hurt. Tooth gone, Mills scrippy-scraped out the root.


A small-boned woman straddled my then-spry hips...and sucked the moisture out of my mouth.


The point(s) is/are that I wanted my "bad" tooth to be remedied. The other point? Is that I had wanted Miss Pixie Body to straddle Me and never leave.


The water/spit was washed/vacuumed away and I sat there, under the Light of the Dentist-Big-Light.

The assistant stood in the corner, with her so-fine posterior pressed firmly against Wall. With her eyes wide.

Doctor Mills dug in, with his whining--SO-FUCKING-WHINY-- medical instruments.

My jaw hurt. I said to the Light

Friday, November 17, 2006



I haven't seen the "Borat" movie yet, but I certainly want to. Sascha Baron Cohen (spelling?) is one funny dude.


I wonder, sometimes, about the way events unfold, unfurl, undulate. I wonder about whether there is a Plan out there for all of us--is there Fate?--or if everything is just total chaos--Step up to the bar and spin the Wheel. Do things happen for a reason? Is there a Creator up/down/around/over/under/betwixt...there? Is He or She or It *actually* watching us human ants as we scurry from here to there--in our metal beetles--as we worry about mortgages and lost loves and found loves and celebrate baby ants and mourn an ant's passing? Does the Creator--if there is One--actually give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut?

I believe this: The Universe was created with a "Big Bang." The matter that "banged" was placed/created/jerry-rigged by The Creator.

But I'm also a HUGE advocate of the so-called "chaos-theory." Any small event can trigger a bigger event, which in turn, will trigger a bigger event, and so on and so on, exponentially, until...the last domino falls.

(So...maybe The Creator...created the bangable material and then went to sleep? Naw. I don't believe that.)

A hypothetical scenario follows. And this, to me, is why I even bother to question the Fate versus Chaos conumdrum: Hypothetically, say a man spent a minute longer in the bathroom, in the morning, than he usually did. His teeth, even after a good brushing, still felt like a caterpillar had taken a dump on said chiclets. So he brushed again...Ah! Smooth ivory! On his way to work, he witnessed an 18-wheeler, brakes gone bad, pulverize a Mazda Miata, thus pulverizing the couple inside. Assuming, besides the secondary tooth-brushing, all of the man's early-morning rituals had gone business-as-usual, the pulverized, the "jacked-up," would have been the man in the Ford instead of the couple in the Mazda.

My question to you, faithful crickets who chirp, that Fate or is that just blind luck, Chaos?

Or are Fate and Chaos like the two-faced Roman God, Janus? Are they one and the same? Spinning like a top?

[crickets chirp]
[crickets ask, what's a top? isn't that, like, some kind of 1940s black-and-white toy? we have ps3, now]
[crickets resume their chirp]


My dog shit in the apartment. Again. Again! Second day in a row, and more days in the last three weeks than I care to fucking count.

I am so very tempted to bring the cage out of retirement/storage [it leans, folded, against a bedroom wall] and train his cute and dumb and brindled ass all over again. Where there is shit, there is piss. Shit is much easier to find, but it smells far worse. Piss is transparent, after time, and it soaks into the parquet floor of the apartment, and you only find it when your sliding sock comes up short, throwing you off balance, throwing you to the floor, not that I'd know.

I think "security deposit," and I say: Lou-dog? Meet your, I, meet your holding, I mean...uh, meet your *lovely* oasis in which you will spend nine *hap-whee!* hours whilst I am at work! Whee! Whee. If you don't clean up your fucking act, you fucking...lovely little puppy.

See? I'm conflicted.

(On the other hand--head--to get all Janus-like--I'm a sloppy son-of-a-bitch, too. I haven't shit (yet) on the floor, but I have left my cigarettes burning, unsupervised, far too many times. Carpet, wood floor, bathroom sink-counter. So, yeah, like father like son. To a certain--a *very* certain--degree.)



Back to Fate, for a brief moment. I live in Michigan. For a long time, Bo was the football coach at the University of Michigan. After he gave way to the next generation of coaches, he stayed in the public eye, working for the Tigers for a spell and always...just being Bo.

Bo died today, of a heart attack. I don't know his age, exactly, but he had to have been in his mid- to upper-70s.

He died on the eve of the biggest college football game in a while. Ohio State and Michigan have long-been heated rivals--tomorrow (today, Saturday) they'll meet, both undefeated, to determine which program is on the fast track to this year's "National Championship."

Here is my Fate question/comment, vice versa: The timing is eerie, no? Also--and I know this as sure as I know that my skin is white and freckled--if Michigan wins tomorrow, some announcer will say something like, "And we all know that Bo is looking down on this and smiling." I'm not good with odds--I don't gamble; I just drink and smoke--but I would put the odds at 5-4 (what does that even *mean*?) and the percentage (this I can figure out easily enough) at 98.9%.

"Somewhere, Bo is looking down on this Michigan victory and he's smiling."

Conversely, I'd shell ten dollars out of my own stinking wallet to hear an announcer say, if Michigan loses, "Bo is wherever he is right now, snarling at the players, saying, 'I friggin' *died* and this is the best you can do?! Haven't you numbnuts ever heard of "Win one for the Gipper?!"' Rest in peace, Bo, there's always next year."

Sure, the guy would lose his job and have to deliver pizzas to sustain his OxyContin habit, but it would be...something else.


Something else about the "Chaos Theory" that bugs me: There was a movie made that kind of alluded to said theory: "The Butterfly Effect." And it starred...Demi Moore's husband. Now, listen, listen: He's a lovable boob--he was funny on "3rd Rock" or whatever sitcom ("That '70s Show") that he was on--but he just doesn't do it for me, as an actor. DeNiro and Pacino and Walken are up HERE and little Ashton Cut-up ))

[He *does* have, though, an older-generation MILF for a wife. Kudos for *that* land-grab!]


So. So. So....

In conclusion:

There is always Chaotic Fate spinning us ants through maelstromic vortexes and the God, the Creator, the He or the She, who lives in the Blue and in a shoe and inside of You, capers with glee and ignores and is bored as we, the she, the he, the thee, flock to "Borat" movies and pick up a lesser-animal's droppings, all the while wondering, "What in the name of God is Demi doing being married to that tool?!"

"Must've been a "Big, Bigger, Biggest Bang," chirped the cricket, shouldering the Raven the Hell out of the way.


My door is locked; it is at Sunnybrooke. My door's number is 313. You'll have to sign visit.

Sunday, November 12, 2006


This sucks. I enjoyed watching him be the reporter. Edward:

Rest in peace, Sir. Rest in peace.


In which nothing bad ever happened. There once was a world in which smell was always coconut and feel was always Pleasure.

There once was a world in which there were no "minorities" and everyone simply saw each other as Human.

There once was a world in which trivialistic human angst was known as "science fiction."

There once was a world in which Pain was a malady and one could pop an avacado to bypass the Ill.

No one died, was hurt, was physically or emotionally bereft. There once was a world in which all human beans were paragons of health; they clenched and flexed to their hearts' delight.

There once was a world which was filmed in black-and-white, choppy, cinematography.

And then someone--I ain't sayin' whom--took a bite of an avacado, and color began to filter into everyday existence.

Color started off small, "greening" the avacado, but, eventually, it had its fingers in every phase of Life.

Eventually, apples were "red" and bananas were "yellow." Teeth which had once been seen as "white" were now seen as "mother-of-pearl." Cigarette smoke, which had been seen as gossamer "white" now became to be seen as grayish-yellowish-bluish. And it was determined that smoke was Bad.

Beer turned "yellow-orangish." Crack rocks stayed "white."

After awhile, I'd had enough. I walked outside my apartment and I took in the "yellowing" sky. I took in the acrimony that color had instilled. (I threw my avacado to the street where a half-"blue"-half-dark automobile subsequently crushed it.) I looked at my companion, my boy Lou. He was sheathed in shadows, though, as I watched, his formerly dark fur took on a lovely brindled pattern of "gold," "brown" and "black."

I thought to myself: "Color might not be such a bad thing."

Louie's "pink" tongue unfurled like a banner. He grinned.

And--shit--and then I turned on the turntable: I'd been listening to Beethoven before "The Change." On some level I had felt a connection, but, now? Now I heard his Ninth as he had heard it his mind when he had cobbled it together:

"Blue" and "red" and "green" coexisting to form a beautiful harmony of "bliss." I sat, slack-jawed, as the Beauty washed over me.

There once was a world without color. It is all of ours duty to color with our paintbrushes: Be they actual paintbrushes, or words on a piece of white paper, or beautiful lyrics, or beautiful music....

We are here for a reason. We may not know what that reason is, at this point in time, but I'll tell you this:

As an ancient Chinese proverb once said: "The longest journey begins with a single step."

Saturday, November 11, 2006


I just watched a 30-minute made-for-crying local TV documentary. It spoke of soldiers in the War to End All Wars and the Great War and Vietnam and Iraq, II.

I wrote an earlier post in which I said that I wouldn't write about the current Administration's ineptitude. After viewing that made-for-TV-thirty-minutes, I do not know how I couldn't.

I'll keep this succinct and well-phrased, hoping all the while that I don't wake up in the morning in Guantanamo Bay:

George "Dubya" Bush is a complete moron. I knew that the first time I saw him campaigning, in 2000.


But, he got elected, somehow. More power to the fool.

Then 9-11 happened.

Then we went to war with Afghanistan. And then Iraq.

And Dubya is still as cocky as ever. Standing up there on his bullet-proof knoll of mediocrity. "We'll win this war," he Texan-drawls. "We just need to keep the faith."

Well, Jorge? My God is laughing at your chimpanzee machinations. My Lord is saying that you should have served in 'Nam, experienced 'Nam, before you deemed it fit to wage a pre-emptive war on a despot. (You're not quite in Sad's league, G, but you're well on your way, hypocrite.)

[Gestapo. Shit! If I am silenced? Go to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. They may have answers.]

God bless. The red, white and blue. (The home of the Free, *because* of the Brave.)

And, George? Ya little monkey? I'd like to see you after class. Everyone else? Dismissed!


Known in Canada as Remembrance Day. I say we should all remember the soldiers with a moment of silence today; just some moment today during which we bow our heads, close our eyes, and reflect upon the sacrifices many have given to this--and other--great countries.

Forget politics, for a moment, and forget current events. The reason behind this day is to remember the soldiers who have given their time, their health and--far too often--their lives for their country. Sometimes they have been drafted into the service and sometimes they have signed up, either through patriotism or jingoism or because of the belief that joining the service was an opportunity for a better life.

Soldiers, here and gone, and veterans: Thank you. You are far braver than I.


So, today--like too-many other days in the too-recent past--I came home from work, and there was trash on my apartment floor.

"Looooooo-Eeeeeeee! 'Chu gots a lotta splain' to do, Looooo-Eeeeee!" I'd whispered.

Lou was in his--no, he wasn't. He was *not* in his usual place of on-the-couch-who's-there-at-the-door? lounge-about. Rather, I'd opened the door to my apartment and his wet black nose was the first thing I'd seen.

Great, I'd thought. What had he done now? Garbage, from my kitchen trash, I'd surmised correctly. And, then, that smell assaulted my nostrils. The left-inside-to-bake smell of dog feces. I looked to his favorite spot, right under the Tiki table upon which I have balanced my "boombox." Yep. Right there. A nice pile of time-blackened dogshit.

I swallowed my pride, I swallowed any thought of retaliation--I've read dog-books: Catch 'em in the act or don't catch 'em at all.

I put my purchases in the 'fridge and I walked back out into the front room, the parquet floors upon which, Lou-kid-dog had shat unmercifully during the last two weeks. To...reminesce: Lou, in all of his two-and-a-half years had pooped inside three times, two of which had been when he'd been under 10 months old. Tallified, most recently? Lou has pooped four times, inside, during the last two-and-a-half weeks. One of those times, I had screwed up. The other three? I'd taken him out and he had shat before I had left for work. And then I'd come shit. So, those are on him.

Each time he has Shat-The-Inside, I have picked up his poop calmly, put it in the trash, sprayed some stuff called Ultra-Zyme--which is supposed to dissuade puppies from pooping in the same place, on the cartoon-rings of Skank--and I've calmly with love taken the kid Outside, whereupon he has done nothing but lunge at squirrels and squirt some urine out, almost like an afterthought.

Today was different. It had been a long day at work, the eight hours seemed to have been melted with molasses. And then I got home and saw trash on the floor--again--and saw poop on the floor--again--and I have to admit that I was severely--most--nonplussed. I started to quietly pick up the strewn trash, as I'd done before, and then I angled back to the blackened poop. I'm no medical examiner, but the shit looked oxidized. Like it had been there for a few hours, at least. (Not, like, Dad's working late again, oh shit. Oh, I just did. )

And a red-hazed Fury came over me. I know, I know: Catch them in the act or don't do any kind of regulation. Regulate this. I dragged him over, by the scruff of his neck--he whelped--and I lowered his nose to the pile of shit inside my apartment, on my front room floor. I lowered just enough for him to be within licking distance. Then I let him up. His ears went back and he had a pouty expression on his mug. I wasn't buying any of it.

I've had a couple of people tell me that kenneling animals in inhumane. I happen to agree. I don't *want* to have to. But if the kid is going to terrorize my place when I'm gone? Strewing kitchen grabage and shitting an inch from the place he last shat? Yeah. I'm definitely considering it. (The Cage...I'll have to get it out of storage.)

On the other hand, he is a blissful boy, my greatest admirer, and a friend for life. I feel bad enough about leaving him with no contact, in the apartment, during an 8-hour-workday. To leave him in a cage--at almost three years old--for 9 hours? I don't think that I can do that. I truly do not.

I used to rent a room from a buddy. His dog, Roxie, had had her innocence taken by the dog from the other side of the fence. Roxy had eight, I kept one--Louie--and my sister bought two others--Pete and Willy.

Renting a room from a friend is always a dicey situation, espescially when said friend is not much one to compromise. So, House Rules, at 9, 10, 11, 12 and 13-months, Lou slept in a cage, in the basement, while I was at work. I'd exclaim, But he hasn't *done* anything! Why can't he sleep in the room I rent?! He's pooped, before, in the house, my friend had intoned. You getcha own house, you can make the rools.

All that to say that Lou was brought up right and trained moderately-well to respect the sanctity of the Indoors. And I've never had a problem except for, like, the last two-three weeks.

So. I blame myself. I sleep too late, I don't give the kid enough attention...but, I ask this: Lack of attention or not, in the past, Lou-dog has shit before I've gone to work and has not shit during the interim of my workday. Why now?

Cage the fool! I just might, though it would feel wrong, in a way.

Thursday, November 09, 2006


"I was in the hospital. I've been diagnosed with a pre-cirrhotic liver."

Joking, darkly. (Practicing, maybe.)

An impromptu haiku:

precarious Life
tired of being tired
please take my booze, sir

Then again, it is what it is. The only person who can help a person is oneself.

DISCLAIMER--This is *not* a cry for help. (I don't cry. Well, sometimes I do.) :-))

Tuesday, November 07, 2006


i remember her theatrically witch-snarling
"fee fie foe fum"
i remember her howling "damnation of Faust!"
when she got a bad hand in cards.

i remember her playing table tennis, at age 75, and doing a good job
her on the floor, pulling her leg almost-even with her ear, at age 76
her at the alley, bowling in the high-150's, at age 81

i remember her watching the lions the tigers the pistons on the television

it's been a rapid descent
i see her now, shuffled with walker and four helping hands
to ease her into a car seat
and it tears my fucking heart out
i see her now, picking at food, at age 88
i see her now, picking at Life, at age 88
and it tears my heart out

i remember her at the beach, with her lover, my grandfather
she wore a bathing cap, if memory serves
i remember her swiming the breast-stroke in the calm blue waters
her head high above the ripples of Pleasure

i remember her off-the-bone-tender hams at holiday and
her old rickety stools in her kitchen

i remember her standing tall and standing easily

I see her now, bent and standing trepidatiously

love peace never-a-bad-word optimistic singing sweet sweeter the sweetest Belle

i see her now, having to leave her home of 50 years because
even with much familial love and help
she can't do it on her own anymore
i see her having to move into an assisted care center, where many are sick or morose,
waiting for Him

and God! i wish her cheer could just.come.back
i tell you it would bounce off the walls, it would

i see her in the center, a nice place, sure, but i see her also
caged, a prisoner in her own body
in her own mind

she can't walk by herself, anymore
and it tears my fucking heart out to see that
she has problems using her hands and eating
and it truly tears my heart out

"fee fie foe fum"
come on back, please. Please

love, nothing but unadulterated fierce love, gramma

-- wet-eyed adam

Monday, November 06, 2006


I was walking through my kitchen--just moments ago (as I write this...period.)--and I started to shuffle to the strains of The Rolling Stones's "19th Nervous Breakdown" which was, in fact, issuing forth from my computer.

[It's a cool screen-saver, one in which your photos and your digitized music enter screen-right after, say, five minutes have passed. Okay, I'm preaching to the choir. Anyone who reads this is probably like, "No shit, dude. That's five-year-old technology." Whatever. It's new to me and I find it cool.]

But it struck me, then, as I was doing whatever ill-advised, should-have-been-aborted shuffle that I do every time I dance, "Why in the name of God's green earth do men try to dance?!" Why?! Please! Heavens! Open up and spill some manna of knowledge that will answer this query! I'll beatcha to it, Your Godliness: sex. or maniacism.

There are three types of dances that I have done:


One: The "first dance." Ever. With a girl!

It was a Catholic school's version of what? some kind of retreat/camp? And one night they held a dance. I was an eighth-grader and terrified of girls. (I took--and still sometimes take--Shy to a whole other level.) I always felt that I acted stupid around them. (Which I assuredly did.) But, anyway, the camp's dance.

I shambled over to Anne Kosta (names have been changed here, kids), on panic-stricken legs and asked if she like wanna maybe if she wanted to like dance with me.

She smiled warily. "I'm dancing with Anthony, next song, but sure, after that I'll dance with you."

I stammered some sort of Okay-Good-I'll-wander-over-by-the-soda-pop-table-with-my-hands-in-my-pockets-and-wait-for-you-to-finish-dancing-with-the-cool-kid reply. She nodded but she must have sensed the panic in my eyes, because her face took on a guarded expression.

I shuffled aimlessly around the "soda pop table" and snuck glances at Anne and Anthony dancing maniacally and laughing to that oft-repeated and oft-beloved lyric (which was censored, somehow, by the powers that be): "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fiah! We don't need no water, let the *********** burn!" (All the black guys sang "motherfucker" with narcissistic vitriol, as if those who'd recorded the song intoned "motherfucker" for their ears only. Hell, it was only eighth grade. Kids are kids.)

The song ended and my heart began to hammer. Anne walked over to me, her face flush with energized excitement. "You still wanna dance?" she asked. I nodded and took her palm with my clammy deathgrip. "Ouch," she said. I muttered an apology.

Now, listen: I was cool with jumping around and laughing with the music. In fact, that was what I had hoped for. No such fucking luck. Instead, it was a--cover your eyes, kids!--a SLOW SONG. Sung by whom, I can't even remember, anymore. But I *do* remember that it was slow. And that I was dancing with my crushiest crush, Anne Kosta, a Chaldean beauty who had matured before the rest of her compatriots. (A fact that Anthony had also noticed, in-class-sneaking quick gropes up from his seat-behind her. Now, I say, more power to the kid! But then? I was red-jealous.)

"You, uh, still wanna dance?" I managed.

She smiled sweetly. She knew--even as an eighth-grader--that I was smitten with her. (Word travels at light-speed in junior high school--whatever is not nailed down, will mumble.) "Sure, Adam. Let's go."

So we danced to that Slow.Song. Four minutes of Hell and four minutes of Heaven, intertwined with a sappy beat.

My heartbeat wasn't sappy, though. My heartbeat was rocketing. My sweat pores opened. My voice cracked. My hands trembled as I "led" her throughout the dance. I bumped into her breasts, and the sweat became a shower.

"Hot in here, isn't it?" she smiled.

I stammered some sort of inane answer as the sweat continued to pour down from my--even then--high forehead.

We rocked back and forth for a couple minutes (YEARS!), my sweat continuing to drip embarrassingly, exponentially, and, like time-elapsed photography, her formerly-ebullient grin receded, receded further, became a tight death-scowl.

Ah, but the sensations! I felt, with my hands, the musculature of her tiny waist, sheathed with a slick material. The smell of her perfume. The taste of my sweat, ringing my eighth-grade maw. The sight of her breasts, just inches from my then-concave chest. It was Heaven and it was also Hell.

The song ended, she thanked me for the dance, and she scurried--quick-like, rabbit-like--back to her friends, KaTee, Shelly, Kathy and, my other "crushiest crush," Susan Loobenski.

I staggered back to my home-boys, on slightly-off-kilter legs. The sweat from my brow continued to flow for another five minutes but, by then, the counsellors were closing up the dance. So it didn't really fucking matter. Any thought of hey-wait-for-the-sweat-to-stop-and-then-ask-her-again had faded. Like the lights in the barn.

Two. Drunken Wedding Dancing.

At weddings, I get drunk and dance stupidly. I feel ten-feet-tall but I'm actually a sweaty mess. Next!

Three. By-Yourself Jubilant Dancing.

Drunk, sober, whatever. People--women and men--dance. Human beings dance to express joy. They dance to express disdain for their fallen enemies. People, throughout history, have ritualistically danced to mourn a beloved's passing. Dance. Dance. Dance.

I wrote of two dances that I have done. The third? I've done it. Jubilant dancing. I've done the "Tax Returns A-Coming" shuffle-shuffle-step. I've also done the "She Likes Me, Really (She Likes Me)" two-step. I've done the "Life Is Beautiful" goose-step mimickry. I've done the "My Team is the Best" double-fist-pump dance. All jubilance. All.

I'll add a fourth dance, here, because EYE AM THE 'BLOGMASTER AND EYE CAN DO JUST THAT! I dance to the guardian angels that surround us, always. Without them, many of us would have been living an altered life. I dance to the fact that, while life is not always the best, it is what it is: a gift.


I worked late tonight. I got caught on a gas leak in--huzzah!--Pontiac, a gas leak in which a gas main had somehow broken underground (60-year-old steel pipes tend to do just that) and the natural gas had subsequently begun to collect in the sewar systems. Always a dicey situation!

But, hell, I wrote enough about work yesterday. This is about the drive home from work.

It was 12:48 in the morning. The weekend had just gone to bed and people working normal hours had done the same. So it was just me on the highway, good ole I-75 South. Across the median, I saw a few or ten semis hurtling past in the other direction. Where were they going? What were they hauling? Did they have any good stories?

It struck me then: Why would anyone want to be a trucker? You work un-Godly hours, you're always by yourself, oftentimes there is no one else on the road....

Oftentimes there is no one else on the road....

Maybe I'm kind of an introvert and maybe it manifests itself in this manner, but: I LOVE the empty open dark road. The open lonely road. No one but you and your God, flyin' a balls-to-the-metal 80MPH. (Or 90, but don't quote me.)

It's meditative, I think. Actually, I know it is. I wouldn't be writing this, otherwise. You turn on the radio, crack a window (even if it's 40 degrees) and you just let your mind...wander. There is nothing to think of (with no asshole drivers veering in and out of traffic, no turn signals to remember). There is nothing to think of, so that's exactly what you do.

Images and memories and snatches of conversations and song lyrics just kind of drift through your semi-consciousness. That is not to say that you're falling asleep at the wheel or that you are drunk...that is just to say that your body has taken over the wheel--you're on auto-pilot--and your mind is left to do what it does. Think and chew things over without, really, even thinking at all.

Thoughts are nebulous, but, in an odd way, more permanent.

It's almost a disappointment, sometimes, when the journey comes to an end. I may be going somewhere fun, like to one of my superb sister's home, or maybe other assorted family members, but sometimes? Sometimes I just wish the drive could continue.

[("Drive West, young man, and don't stop driving until you're driving onto the white sands of the Pacific."--Horace Greely?)

Okay. I have a term, now: Wanderlust.]

When I pull onto an exit ramp and cycle the gears down to a moderate 35MPH, it is almost as if Life rear-ends me. One can only flee for so long...eventually, Life catches up.

That's not to say that I have a bad life. It could be better, in many areas--as could anyone's life--but I am also blessed with an amazing family and pretty good health.

It's just that, while on the empty open dark road, doing nothing but steering and thinking, there is a sense of Freedom that is lost when one has to brake down to Earth-speed.

[picture me as a 7-year-old] "I wanna be a trucker!"

Plus, and don't bring this up in a court of Law: Some of dem truck-stop hootchies is hawt!

Sunday, November 05, 2006


Yes, thus, I am a gas-man. Now, before your "100x-faster-than-any-computer" human brain goes through its internal microfiche Roladex and conjures an image of a slovenly-looking man with a hanging beer-gut and dirty blue jeans that hang low on his hips, exposing his ass-crack, let me interject.

Okay. I agree. That's the picture I came up with, too, before I started working for the gas company. The gas-man was the twin brother of the plumber...a whole lotta crack goin' on.

I saw meter readers (and their asses and guts don't a *chance* to get fat) walking their routes and I thought to myself, "Wow. What a mundane job. A chimpanzee could do the same." I found out, when I started--with a college degree--as a meter reader that, yes, a chimpanzee probably *could* be trained to do that job. And probably a really really smart rat, as well. Walk, read meter, input, walk, read meter, input, walk, read meter, get the point.

But multiply that "walk, read meter, input" by 600, on a slow day. I was walking, at a minimum, 8 miles a day. At the end of the day, I would come home, heavy-lidded, and nap for an hour. It was physical fucking work. (And my legs never looked better. Muscle atop o' muscle. When I got out of the shower and looked at my musculature, my *own* knees got weak.) Anyway....

You may be asking, "College degree? Doing that work?" Listen: Yes, I was definitely underemployed. But I look at it this way: An honest day's work makes an honest man. I don't mind getting my hands dirty. And I saw the entry-level position as a means to an end. Get into a utilities company and you probably won't have to worry about lay-offs, plus, if you have a college degree (yes, even English) you may be that much more attractive if you desire to move up in the company. And, sad to say--and I don't agree with this shit--meter readers probably make as much as fifth-year English teachers. Besides, 'twas never my passion to teach. Hell, no. I get flustered talking in front of THREE people. No, my passion is writing. AS AN ASIDE, DID YOU KNOW THAT STEPHEN KING PUBLISHED HIS FIRST BOOK, "CARRIE," WHEN HE WAS WORKING AT A LAUNDROMAT TO SUPPLEMENT HIS TEACHING JOB? Sorry. Asides aren't usually so blaring. But, it's true. He did. And I could. (I have stories I could tell you, children....)

So, anyway, seniority rules in union jobs, and I moved up. Pipe-fitting, service turn-ons, meter removals, meter installations, Cleopatrionizing the Umbidulls...just waking you up. Yes. Boring fucking work. To this day, it is still boring. My brain is in danger of atrophying. Which gives me pause because who, in his right mind, wants his brain to atrophy? No one, is who.

Gas leaks. Natural gas, a flammable substance, leaking. If the lower explosive level gets between 4% and 15% gas-to-air saturation, people could find themselves flying through the air, next to Fido, and landing on their couch, relatively unharmed, 90 feet from their now-scalped house. Natural gas is safer than liquid propane, and I'll tell you why. (I've bored you this far, why not go for a complete sweep?) Natural gas is safer because it is lighter than air. Liquid propane is heavier than air. So, while a natural gas leak from, say, the furnace in the basement, would rise and rise and rise throughout the house until basically the whole damn homestead was filled--and people aware--before exploding, liquid propane, heavier than air, would collect, in the basement, on the floor, gaining higher and higher power and vitriol...before exploding. Gas explosions usually blow the roof off. Propane explosions blow the house clean the fuck up.

So. Dangerous job. And we "gas-men/women" get paid accordingly.

But the really cool thing, for an English major, for a people-watcher, is the interaction with every strata of socio-economics. Poor people need gas; rick people need gas. Crazy people need heat; "normal" people need heat. Slobs need hot water and anal retentives need hot water. I meet all kinds. That axiom is never more true than while "chasing gas leaks."

People with more wealth tend to overreact to "a gas smell" more than do people with less wealth. Women--and this is true as an arrow--tend to smell gas better than men. It's almost as if women's noses are more sensitized to Danger. And men just think, "Shit. It's nuthin'. Don't go all worrying, Mrytle." Mrytle's nose is right more often than it's wrong. And then there are people who call in gas leaks when their meter is shut off for non-payment, perhaps thinking that, if a serviceman is out there for a gas leak call, well, he'll surely turn the gas back on when all is found to be good. There's not really a name for those people, but there is a phrase: "Back to the end of the line. Sorry." They'll have to wait until their order comes up. In due time, Hezbollah, in due time.

I actually went out on a gas leak call, once, where there was, in fact, not even a meter on the house. It had been removed and the fuel line capped. It made me more sad than angry, though:

Pontiac, Michigan. It's not a nice place to live. It's socioeconomically down a rung on the Success Ladder. Minorities, mainly, live there. Better--poor people live there. It's almost like a sister to its southern neighbor, Detroit. Trash is on the streets and often one will see homeless people, and people with psychological issues and prostitutes. (More on that at a later date.)

So, I drove up to this gas leak call, which my computer had informed me that the caller had called in a: "gas smell throughout.multiple rooms.levels.basement.heer gas blowing.evacuate."

I pull up into the driveway and get out of the van. There is an older woman there, outside the house, near rickety-looking steps, standing next to a wheelchair. She plops in and wheels herself out from under the dingy laundry hanging on the clothesline. [If I were to get into the conversation, with all the punctuation and side-notes, I'd be here all night. (And it's already two in the morn, here in Michigan.) So, I'll go with the abridged version.]

She told me that her son had smelled gas and had heard a hissing noise. She said this, intermittently. See, she had a pacemaker, and talking made it tougher to breathe. I told her to take her time; I wasn't going anywhere. (And I didn't want her to kick it, right there in the driveway.) So she reiterated that the smell was in the basement and this had been her home--on South Paddock--but, just recently, she'd been living "a couple streets over. South Marshall." I told her that I would go in and investigate and--did I happen to mention that she was eating a Meals-on-Wheels excuse for SUBSTINENCE?--and I went inside.

The door opened easily enough but, when I looked to my left, there was a big-assed glass cabinet, with all but one of its panes broken, blocking access--except for the wee, which is me--up the stairs to the kitchen. I went past it and surveyed the kitchen. There are some times, on this job, where one will say to himself, "NO ONE lives here. No fucking WAY does someone live here." This was one of those times. I walked into the kitchen with my impotent gas detector--remember? no gas meter, NO gas!--and my writer's mind took in the shambles. Cereal boxes on the floor, two time-blinking microwaves entangled in a lovers' leap-frog, an armchair halfway in the doorway to the hallway...periodicals piled, a Christmas tree stand in the corner, next to a broom that had seen more spider than sawdust...overall, it was a foreboding kitchen. And most kitchens are cheery! I sidled past the big-assed glass cabinet and made my way down in to the basement. (660 South Paddock! For those of you scoring at home! I don't know why I remember that address, and I could be off a numeral, but I think it's a pretty gosh-damn close approximation!)

Downstairs? ...Was hell. You've heard of shut-ins, right? Where newspapers do pile up and STUFF does pile up, and the "shut-in" makes paths from the "bedroom" to the "bathroom" to the "kitchen?" (Where Colonel Mustard did it with a pipe wrench?) This was more of a Trash-In. Shit was piled...EVERYWHERE. I began to become worried about vermin. I could "see" them in my mind's eye: beady red eyes, slick fattened bodies, pinkish curled tails. Rabies.

"What the FUCK am I doing here?" I wondered.

(As an aside. My compatriots at the gas company--90%, at least--would not have gotten past that Cabinet Loom. They would have entered, in their free-form comments "house unsanitry. no gas mtr. no lk.")

Anyway, I'm a Golden Boy. I fucking *care*. Listen:

There was no access to any gas-powered appliance. Ay every turn, garbage--damaged furniture, shoes, plastic kids' toys, FURNITURE--reared its head. My flashlight sputtered but, before it did, I THOUGHT I saw a shadowy furnace. And, a gas-powered water heater. In the distance, mind you...far past the piles of shit.

"WHAT the fuck am I doing here?"

I clambered back up the stairs, believing cat-sized rats and fleas the size of eggs were hot on my trail.

I walked nonchalantly back through the squeaking side door and met the woman in the wheelchair, in the fading sunlight, next to the rickety stairs and underneath the clotheslines. It was 6:30.

"Ma'am," I said, "There is no gas leak. There is no meter. There is no gas. My detector isn't picking up anything. So, your son heard gas hissing and smelled gas?"

"Yes, he did." She paused for a great whooping breath. "He should be coming anytime, soon. Do you see a man on a bicycle on the road?"

I scanned the road. I saw a few people walking aimlessly--it seemed--but I saw no "man on a bicycle."

"He should be coming anytime, soon," she murmered, as she ate the rest of what looked like a "chicken" dinner. Mashed peas or potatoes, who could be sure?

I looked at my boots. $200, a year ago and--still!--in great shape.

"I've lived in this house thirty years," she said suddenly, whoopingly. "Just the last 10 months're so, I lived over on South Marshall. I just want to get back to my home, here," she added.

I'd grown weary. A gas leak? No. Her sons--one on a bike, the other shadowy--had torn her house to shreds. Left garbage mildewing and fleas festering. God knows what else. "Your son's coming?"

"Do you see him on the road? He'll be on a bicycle."

I made a show of looking down the road. "I don't see him," I said. I thought: THAT FILTHY MOTHERFUCKING CRACKHEAD. DESTROYING HIS MOTHER'S HOUSE AND, AND.... "I don't see him," I said.

"Well, I need a meter so that I can get back into my HOME."

I tried to get logical with her. I looked down on her gumming her chicken and said, "What about South Marshall? You've lived there for awhile. Can you go back?"

"I just need a meter."

I held up a silencing palm. I went back to my van and got one of the pink "Sorry I Missed You" tags. I brought it back to her--she was standing now, but stiffly--and I pointed out to her the 800-number. "Call them and tell them that you need a meter set."

"Can you write down what I need to say?"

I did so. All the time hoping her crackhead son wouldn't show up on his bicycle. I didn't rightly expect him to, but, one never knows.

"Thank you, son," she said as she plopped back into her wheelchair, her Meals-on-Wheels dinner tray lying, forgotten, next to her right wheel. "What's your name again?"

"Uh, Adam."

Her face brightened immediately. "Adam! First man! Adam and Eve! Did I tell you that my daughter died of Cirrhosis?"

After a few exchanges I determined that her daughter had died, not of cirrhosis, but of Muscular Dystrophy. That sucked, I determined. Her daughter had died and the old woman--I've forgotten her name--had been left in the oh-so-incapable hands of her two crackhead sons, one 38 and the other 43. The 43-year-old was the one who was supposed to have ridden down the trash-swept streets, on his bike, like an overgrown Id.

"Is he coming?" she asked.

I looked, scoured, the streets for him. Seriously, I did. I didn't want to leave this woman here. I actually wanted to see the dude; I wanted to try to be Doctor Phil. I saw nobody. "No," I said, "I don't see him."

"So I call this number and tell them what you wrote and I'll be able to live in this house again?"

"Yes," I said, and I got paged for another--legitimate, this time--gas leak.

The sun had another hour.

"Adam and Eve," she said, whoopingly.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm Adam."

Friday, November 03, 2006


How is it that a dog nearing his 3rd birthday (December 23rd) forgets things that he learned as a puppy? As in, one, don't chew stuff up and, two, don't poop in the apartment? I guess I'm not a very good 'blogger, because this post should have a lot of musings and theories here, but I think I have the answer: I, as his proud papa, just am not giving the kid enough attention. I wake up late, hurry him outside to pee and poop, and then dash off to work for eight hours. From the time I'm gone to the time I get back, it's probably closer to nine-and-a-half hours.

In the meantime, what? Lou is left to his own devices. This shit--no pun intended never happened when I was working a more-normal 8:00-4:30. But when I shifted to 2:00-10:30, the shit hit the fan. Metaphorically-speaking, of course. I have no fan.

Added to the I-gotta-poop-here's-a-good-place mentality is the occurence of the "Death of the Pillow." I came home from work recently and Lou was laying on the couch with his tail wagging. It quickly sagged between his legs when I noticed that, no, it hadn't snowed while I was at work and, no, a Colombian druglord had not broken in and left his stash of primo coke on the front room's floor. No, nope, neither. Rather, what had happened was that Lou had torn my brown throw pillow to pieces. (I was kinda fond of it. I'd put it behind my head when I was laying on my back on the couch, and that made it easier to see the TV, which I hardly watch.

"Jesus Christ, Lou! What the fuck, man?!" I'd exclaimed.

"What the fuck" was that he'd been bored and alone and left to his own devices.

I used to cage the kid while I was gone. And, today, I considered doing that again, while I was taking him out after I got home from work. But then I came to my senses. No way in hell am I going to cage him ever again, the only exception being if a serviceworker for some company has to do some work in my place.

No, what I have to do is treat the kid with more respect. Respect meaning, I need to treat him more as a living, breathing being that get bored and that gets lonely. He's a generally quiet, well-behaved dog, so maybe that's why I've come to take him for granted, as in poop and pee on command, Lou and don't miss or get bored when I'm gone. (Oh, and also do my laundry and clean the baffroom, mmmkay?) No. That's not right. he's quiet, sure, but if I'd wanted a quiet, non-destroying dog, I could have gone to Toys-R-Us and bought a stuffed animal. Not only is he a highly-intelligent dog (or so it seems to me) but he's also a Pit Bull-Boxer mix and, ask anyone who has one, those dogs are highly-energetic, as well.

So, I'll get started on that "more-attention stuff" tomorrow. Just kidding. When I'm done typing this, the kid's gonna get at least a walk around the block. And, Jesus, Adam! Stop waking up right before you have to go to work! Get a life, dude!

Anyone have any interesting "Destroyer Dog" stories? I'd love to hear them....

(By the way, the smell of a cigarette burning down to its filter is surprisingly-like that of unwanted dog shit. Just noticed.)

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Have you ever looked in a mirror and said to your reflection, "Fuck off. Go away. I hate you and I no longer want to have your babies." Have ya?

Nor have I, with that baby thing. Other than that, yes. Of course. Of course I've cursed. My reflection. Who hasn't? Even the prettiest and most-handsome of this 21st-Century lot have looked in a mirror and hated waht they saw.

Bypass physicality. That ain't the point, here. We all have an extra 20 or a bald head or saggy tits or a six-pack from the Devil. What I'm talking about, here, is looking in the mirror, looking into our blue green hazel brown black red opaque eyes and not liking the ESP-mind-fuck that comes back. No one knows one better than one knows onself. And when one looks into a mirro? Unless one is blind, the skeltons in the closet do rule.

So. Whadda we do? Do we AVOID mirrors? Do we spoon our eyes out and walk around blindly? Or do we take in our reflective countance, and thank the Most High and Powerful Heebie-Jeebie for our time on this spinning rock? Short, long or bypassed, we gotta give it up to the Bearded White Man in the Sky.

Every damn day is a gift. Never you forget it, three readers. Every day is a wrapped-in-a-bow gift. Sent to us--however--by THE-most dedicated toy-maker, evah!

Milton Bradley. Yes.

I jest.

The gift of life, the gift of always being behind on bills, the gift of a smooth lover, the gift of chocolate when you're sugar-rushin'...that gift is from God. Other nation-states have the same idea.... There is a Creator, and He (or She) created us.

So. Anyway. Where was I? Okay. Here:

So the next time that you look in the mirror and cat-hiss at the results, just remember: We're all beautiful in God's eyes but six-inxh stilettos seal the deal.

Happy All Saints Day!

Peace be with you.

("And also with you!")