Wednesday, January 31, 2007


Have you ever seen the cartoon? I've seen snippets of it. Brought to us by the Cartoon Network, it features a talking milkshake and a box of fries, I think. And a meatball, I've gathered. From what I saw, it was a well-done and pretty funny and irreverent cartoon. I recommend it.

I read that there was an arrest made in connection with the "hoax" perpetrated in Boston at area bridges and highways, at which more than five and less than 50 electronic devices were left, one of which was seen to display the finger! Lock 'em up and throw away the key! Teach 'em a lesson, gosh dammit! I'm being facetious, but....

I have a question: How was it determined to be a hoax? If officials are saying that the reason it is a hoax is because the people who left the devices had intended to make the public and officials believe that the offerings were I.E.D.s--improvised explosive devices--then, sure, it was a hoax. And a pretty ignorant one at that. I have trouble believing that anyone would try to make the public believe that terrorists/insurgents/freedom fighters/terrorists were trying to wreak havoc anew. No one's that stupid, are they? And if that is what they had intended, then, sure, some penalties are in order.

The thing is, I don't really know the whole story and so I probably should not be commenting. In fact, I'm completely out in left field, here, with regards to "knowing the facts," but I will tell you one thing: This post-9/11 world can suck my crank.

Somewhere, the kidney-blasted motherfucker Osama is laughing and rubbing his hands together and saying to his pet goat, "See? This has worked better than we had ever even hoped to dream! We've got the infidels so far up their own asses, they're chasing cartoons around! Hati woofaso mul karraba!"

[The goat snickers and eats a piece of cardboard.]

Mel Brooks said it best, up on the marquee: "It's a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad world."

Now, excuse me...I have some Cartoon Network to go watch.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007


What to write about?

Work called me yesterday morning at around 9:15, leaving a message on my cell phone, offering the chance to come in early for some overtime. Time-and-a-half for nearly a couple hours of meter turn-ons and shit like that. I thought to myself, well, why not? I can always use extra caish. So I took King Louie Outside and, on the way back in, I stopped by my car and fired it up. The time was around 9:45, so, at that point, by the time I got in, I would have garnered around an hour of OT, give or take a few minutes.

I settled in front of the computer and perused some 'blogs while I waited for the car to warm up. I read some 'blogs--check out "Grossly Unimaginative" if you want to laugh--and I commented on a few, as well. I uploaded some pictures onto Flickr and also explored a bit on the site, again, leaving some comments. I got up to find a lighter (I've already misplaced my leg lighter) and as I walked back from the kitchen, I glanced over at the clock. Holy shit! It was 10:42! I reckoned that I wouldn't be going in early for some overtime. Then it struck me: While I had been jerking off on the computer, my little four-door silver Ford Focus hatchback had been running the entire time. With the doors unlocked. My noodle is hanging in tatters, methinks. My brain just isn't what it used to be. On the plus side, no one stole the car (I did mention that it is a four-door Ford Focus, right? enough said) and the aforementioned car was as toasty as a witch's hootalia during Walpurgis.

So. Anyway. I guess my point here is that I'm getting forgetful in my old age. Is 33 old? No, not really, but tell that to my body in the morning, the day after playing basketball. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Forgetfulness. At work I have left my leak detector and my tool bag at job sites and I've left two of my bar-probes (for checking underground for gas leaks) someplace in the Void. I need to write down lists for going to the grocery store--even for a few simple items--so that I don't forget. I call my dog Luigi sometimes and think that that is perfectly okey-dokey. Sometimes I can't remember if I'm an only child or not. For that matter, sometimes I wonder if I have a family at all. (Okay, that last part was bullshit, put in there just for effect.) The point is, my noodle is hanging in tatters. Did I say that already? I plumb forgot.

There is medical science saying, recently, that drinking toxic beverages to excess does not have the brain-cell-killing qualities that was formerly thought. In fact, say scientists, brain cells do not actually die off; they can and do regenerate. I don't know if this is fact or not but I do know that my memory ain't what it used to be. At all. Is it agism or is it from my full-on assault on my bwane? I'm only 33, for God's sake (rice wine)! I'm still a virtual baby! Tell that to my aching knees after a night of basketball. Did I say that already? I guess I'm getting old. I've been dropping things, too, lately. Actually, this worries me, a bit, seeing as how my grandfather died of ALS and my Dad has Parkinson's disease. (My family tree is very neurologically unfriendly towards the males.)

So. What's my point? I don't really have one besides the fact that I feel Age creeping around the corner, resplendant in Ben Gay patches and super-strong eyeglass perscriptions and a flowing dark robe of Black and I feel that I am not in the place in my life that I want to be nor expected to be when I was a child. When I was 13, 33 seemed like it was an age with a foot in the proverbial grave. I know, I know: Perspective. But, still. When I was 13, I figured that at 33 I would be an architect with a beautiful wife and I'd have two or three little Adams running around. ("Look at Billy's grades! Good boy, Billy! Suzie? You have some work to do, child.") I would have money in the bank and I would live in a nice house to which, in the summer months, I would invite Earl and Becky over for a barbeque and we'd shoot the shit and eat greasy ribs whilst downing cold glasses of suds.

I'm going to quote an Aerosmith song, here, God help me: "Life is a journey, not a destination." I'll also quote an ancient Chinese proverb: "The longest journey begins with but a single step." Combine the two and add this: "Every day is a blank slate, yours for which to do as you will." Meaning? Fuck the Past and fuck preconceived notions--from a child's eye, no less--of where you should be in Life. You are where you are because of choices and happenstances and circumstances and self-will. That is all. But, here's the joyous thing: Every day is a new day and every day can be nudged into the direction in which you want to go.

Here's another quotation, from an insanely-successful athletic shoe company, founded in Washington state in the late '70s: "Just do it."

But my knees hurt and my muscles are sore and what, again?

Monday, January 29, 2007


Do you ever notice, in the express line, what the other customers are purchasing? Do you ever play that game of trying to tie every item together? For instance, if someone buys pastrami and bread, easy, they'll probably make a sandwich out of it. But then, sometimes, the items are eclectic as hell and it is a real struggle to make a story up. For instance, what if someone buys Vaseline and a fish--salmon, say? How does one tie those two products together? Perhaps she slathers Vaseline on the side of salmon before popping it into the oven? Maybe he mixes dill weed and mayonnaise with the petroleum jelly and throws a couple of egg whites and diced pickles into the disaster and calls it tartar sauce?

My skin is dry--it's wintertime. And I drink too much coffee. And so last night I went to the local 24-hour superstore and I bought some Imodium A-D and some Jergen's lotion. (I also bought "Kill Bill," but that is neither here nor there.) Unbidden, a story/reason swam to my forebrain. It went like this: Because I drink so much coffee, my stomach is often in distress, causing many trips to the bathroom which, in turn, throws the whole waste management hardware out of whack. Thus, Imodium A-D. What's the Jergen's for? I'll--for once in my weblogging life--keep it clean, here. The Jergen's is for my dry skin.

Have I learned my lesson? Have I cut down on the Brown Devil? No! I haven't. What do I have? A death-wish? I still (Cliche-alert!) drink coffee like it's going out of style. I am taking steps, though, to make my life more manageable. I popped an Ammodium, this morning, with the rest of my vitamins. So...that's something. I swear, I visted the bathroom four times before ten o'clock on Saturday morning. That ain't good. It got to the point where the idea of ricin-poisoning flashed across my mind. In case you don't know what ricin is, it is a bean from a plant that is used, I believe, to make castor oil. The bad guys out there are said to have the poison and are looking to introduce it into our food and/or water supply. The death from ricin is not very pleasant. At all. Basically, what happens, is that it liquifies the affected's insides and the person ends up shitting him- or herself to death. Yes. That crossed my mind.

But then I had to say to myself, "Adam? You drink exorbitant amounts of java. Perhaps that is the root cause of your maladic pooping."

[Sometimes? Sometimes it is better to write nothing than to write whatever crosses one's mind. Exhibit A? This post.]

Postscript--As I went back to this to edit the spelling of Imodium A-D, I realized that this was my 69th post. I'm going to have to call in to work and try to take the day off in celebration of that oh-so magical number.

Saturday, January 27, 2007


I did something today that I should have done a long long time ago: I went to a place called House of Optical and I set the wheels in motion to get myself a new pair of glasses. Actually, make that two pairs.

(A not-so-quick tangential aside: Why do people feel compelled, when speaking of dual eyeglasses, to say "Two pair of glasses?" Would it not be "two pairs of glasses?" I mean, if one has spectacles, they have a "pair" of spectacles; if they have two pairs of specta--okay, whatever, you get the point. It's really not worth it to explain. Oh shit, I can't stop. You don't say two pair of pants, do you? No, you say two pairs of pants. Now that I've bludgeoned that equine to death, I'll, uh, carry on. No I won't. Sorry. I used to work at a pizza place called Hungry Howie's. My manager, a MILF named Darlene, took it to the next damned level: When she wanted two trays of, say, medium dough, she would ask me to, you guessed it, bring her "two tray of medium." I don't even know where to start with that one. But...I let her slide. She was cute.)

So, anyway, with the recent boon of my tax returns and the money I've saved by not drinking toxic liquids to excess, I have slowly but surely began accumulating more wealth. I've gotten some things that I really don't need, but one thing that I most definitely needed was a pair of glasses. So I paid a visit to the optometrist.

The ones I have now--note the snapshot--are well beyond repair. They're bent to shit, the lenses are scratched like a mofo and the perscription, as I found out today, is hopelessly out of date. In fact, by occasionally wearing them whilst I drive at night, I probably fucked my eyes up more than they had been. I've always had a pretty good-sized astigmatism in my right eye; I found out, with glee, today, that now my left eye is astigmatic. Huzzah.

Here's my perscription, if you give a hoot: 20/40 in my left eye and 20/70 in my right eye. Not horrible, sure, but the astigmatisms definitely accentuate the problema.

Have I mentioned that I'm pretty fucking vain? Sadly, I am. That's one of the reasons I've never really jumped on the glasses-wearing bandwagon full-bore. I've felt, in the past, that adding eyeglasses to a bald head makes me completely uncool rather than sort of uncool. So, I guess the question is: Would I rather be blind and not-so-cool or would I rather be sighted and...perfectly fine? I'll choose the latter, Alex, for six-hundred.

Here's where medical insurance rears is beautiful head. With co-pays and all that nonsense, I ended up spending $161.00 on two pairs of glasses. Without said insurance, I would have had to fork over $491.00 for the same two pairs. How the hell do people manage without insurance? I'm asking you, President Chimpanzee.

Life is good...and now I'll be able to see it. =)

Friday, January 26, 2007


This may already be in the works, due to my unbridled love for everything Bee Gee, but what I say next may put it over the top and lead to the permanent revocation of my Man-Card: I don't want to work today. It is too snowy and too cold and I'll probably get stuck changing a rusted regulator to a archaic gas meter whilst snow swirls about my face and hands. Homey don't play dat. Or, rather, Homey plays that because Homey wants to get paid, but Homey does it with a pained expression on his face and curses held loosely behind his lips.

Take my Man-Card! Take it! I was hardly using it anyway! And, if you take it and you also have to take my testicles, go ahead! Everything comes with a cost! Mama told me that there are no free lunches! Fine! Just don't throw me in that there briar patch!

Sorry for shouting.

Ah...fuggit. Time to go to work.

[slouches off to his icicle car]


I'm not going to write about my Lou-dog's regressions. I'm not going to write about how he feels the exquisite peace o' mind to defecate and urinate in my apartment. I'm not going to write about how, every time he leaves this room o' computation, I cringe and listen for A, a plopping noise or, B, a tinkling noise.

I'm not going to write about how I have to put the garbage up on the stove, now, whenever I leave the homestead, for fear that I will come home to Trash Strewn. Nor am I going to write about how I automatically start itching whenever Louie clambers onto my Bed o' Love to share my slumber. I'm not going to write about how Louie lunges at people and squirrels as if he wants to tear them apart, as if he longs to digest their faces.

I'm not going to write about my boy's regressions and the way in which he growls low deep in his throat whenever anyone has the gall, the audacity, to either walk past my door or walk on the sidewalk outside my apartment. I'm also not going to write about how sometimes Lou feels it his duty to FUCKING HOWL from a previously-prone position, thus scaring the shit out of me and blasting my blood pressure to 240/198. (Zero to Howl in 4.7 seconds. Let's see a Mustang do that.)

I'm not going to write about his dog hairs and his endlessly-morose mug. I'm not going to write about how, when I go to give him a loving pat on the head, he cringes as if I have a fistful of Ginsu blades spinning like helicopter slices from my fingertips.


I'm not going to write anything like that. But I will write this:

Lou-dog is my boy; Lou-dog is my compatriot; Lou-dog is my responsibility; and Lou-dog is angelic.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007


I blame it on the snow.

This is the second time this week that I have left things that I need to do my duties at a job site. Two days ago, it was my tool bag. Today, it was my $1500 leak detector. (Ouch!) I left the leak detector in the garage of a leak call that I had. No problem, right? Just go back and get it, right? Wrong. The guy doesn't even live at that house. It had belonged to his now-deceased mother and so he is rarely there. Okay, so call him and have him meet me back at the house, right? I mean, I noticed that I didn't have the detector about five minutes after he'd left the residence, so a call would be in order, right? Wrong. It was a leak call without a telephone number. Uh-oh.

I went back to the house and tried to open a garage door, but the door was blocked by a big-assed shelf and so I couldn't get back in. Shit, I even tried the front door. I was prepared to go through the empty house to get my device. No go. It was locked. So I don't know how I'm going to get it.

I think I may have to get ahold of the call center and see if they have the number from which he called on file. Lawd, I hope. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I have no doubts that I'll get it back eventually (I left two Sorry I Missed You tags at the house, my phone number written on them, imploring the elderly gentleman to call me.).

I just feel like a scatter-brained fool, forgetting shit like this--twice in one week, no less. The thing that the jobs had in common was that they had both been late leak calls, and they had come at the end of my shift. I reckon I was just geeked to get the hell out of there and get home. Mayhaps I need to slow down. Or mayhaps I need to start drinking again. I mean, shit, I never forgot shit like this when I was buzzed. Ironically enough. (That was a little dark humor. I won't start drinking again. God willing.) But shit like this pisses me off.

Two other theories why today felt a One, my mind was filled with thoughts of Maria. I'm planning to meat her at the airport and I'll make sure that the terminal floor is covered with rose petals. It'll be my own little *American Beauty* homage. (Yes, even though she's Russian.)

Two, I felt fidgety all day and when I got home and changed out of my work clothes, I noticed that I had put my boxer-briefs on backwards this morning. No wonder they were riding all day. I don't know how women can wear about irritating! On the other hand, I do love it when women wear thongs, so, uh, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. And keep doin' what you doin'. ;-)

That's all.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007


I was sitting in my easy chair after eating my $5.00 pizza from Little Caesar's and I was flipping through the channels, trying to find some sports on the tube, when I had to stop and pick up my jaw from the floor. It had dropped, you see. I knew why. The answer came in the form of a lanky blonde 19-year-old Russian tennis player named Maria Sharapova. After picking up my jaw from the floor and reattaching it to my skull (I got it off the floor before the 5-second rule expired--no worries!) I began to plan our lives together. She's in Australia right now, competing in the aptly-named Australian Open, but, never fear, I'll wait for her. All she's got to do is give me a jingle on my cell. I'll wait for her.

I will wait for her.

Now, before You Who Read start getting all gasp-y and oh no-y and "He's a stalker"-y, let me disabuse ye of that thought process-y. I'm not a stalker. No, not me. I simply know what is meant to be and I am a strong believer in the proverb, "Let nothing stand in the way of your dreams." Maria is my dream and I dream of Maria. They are tame dreams, never you worry. They are dreams in which Maria and I take Louie on walks through fields of daffidols and poppies and they are dreams in which I smooch her softly on her smooth tanned cheeks and tell her how much I care for her before I spread the picnic blanket and pull out the weiners and put them in the buns. They are sweet dreams in which rabbits are ubiquitous and eggs seem to always flit from the periphery. These are tame dreams, I assure you. Why will you not believe me?

("Listen not to the beating of the hideous heart! Dissemble no more!")

These are tame dreams.

In no dreams did I forcibly take her; in no dreams did I cover her in hot fudge and take my time, savoring the chocolate. I tell you this: In no dreams did I play strip tennis with her and lose on purpose. (Because, you know, I could beat her in tennis, if I really tried. The only way she could beat me is if my bad shoulder started acting up and, then, she'd barely beat me.) In no dreams--none, I say!--did I train my tongue to speak the fluent Russian language of love: "Perostroika! Borscht! Glasnost! Da!"

These were tame dreams and I will wait for her. And that's my story, and that's the bottom line; and I'm sticking to both.

I'm sure that she dreams of me, as well. Well, why wouldn't she? We are virtual soul-mates. We were meant to be together. Forget age. So what that I have 14 years on her? Age is a number, doggone it!

And, again, take this not as a misguided fantasy of a sickened mind. Take this not as megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur. I believe it when I say it: I will marry Maria. She will be happy and content and will bear me three children, two boys and a girl, and Louie will grow old and fat and content with us, his favourite place on the floor underneath our love-crossed legs. Please allow me to break down...wait, I didn't finish!

Please allow me to break down why She is for me and Me equals We:

1. She's athletic and I'm athletic.

2. She's 6'2" and I'm 5'8". Add the numbers up. She equals 8 and I equal 13. 8 is double-infinity and 13 is a feared number. People fear infinity because their minds cannot wrap around it--it is too vast an idea. Thus we share fear. And the double is just a throw-in. I mean, Jesus, there are two of us, for God's sake!

3. She grunts on every forehand, and I've been known to do the same--just a different sport, you see.

4. I'm athletic and she's athletic.

5. We both come from countries that, in the past, have been referred to as "Super Powers."

Need I continue? Or don't you see why Maria and I are a match made in Heaven? If you don't see it, you're blind. Irregardlessly, I'll give you a couple more reasons.

6. She has three vowels in her first name and I have two. That corresponds intimately with the difference in our height. You know?

7. (Lucky number 7.) I heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from a cousin's girlfriend who heard it from her aunt's hairstylist that Maria's uncle's brother's sister heard it from an acquaintance that Maria had a crush on me. And, seriously, who could blame her?

I'll send you all tickets when we establish a date to wed. I'll keep you posted, okay?

Saturday, January 20, 2007


But, apparently, not enough of a magnet for some people. Some people apparently want to be attached at the hip for 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And that, physically, is impossible, Lucy. ;-)

I also appear to be a magnet for bad relationships, and I'm seriously considering becoming a monk. My head is already shaved. I'm halfway there. I beseech all that is holy to give me the will to remain celibate and to spurn the pleasures and wiles of unbalanced women. (And, no, I'm not talking about tightrope-walking women, here. I'm talking the other kind of unbalanced. You know, the fun kind of unbalanced in which the woman is clingy and needy and stubborn and is a supremely spoiled fucking brat. The fun kind.)

Here is the latest tribulation of my besmirched dating life. I have no qualms whoatsoever about writing about this tripe on the Internet. I'm pissed and bemused and boggled...and, sad to say, a little trepidatious. Who knows what people will do, sometimes? Naw. Fuck that. She's nuts, but not that nuts.

I just--five minutes ago--got done giving the girl who I've been seeing damned near every day for the last three weeks her clothes and her leftover food from the dinner we enjoyed together yesterday.

She was pissed and she wore gargantuan sunglasses and her face was frozen in a tight expression, her formerly-supple lips pinched tight with...dare I say?...malevolence. I headed to the fridge to get her her leftovers and I said, You wanna tell me what the hell happened? Just get the food, she'd said. I asked again. She repeated, just get the food. I gave her the food and told her, well, good luck. She went pshw and said, "Whatever," and walked out, leaving the door open. I held back Lou and slammed the door and muttered, "Whatever? Fucking psycho bitch."

'Twas really amazing the shift in her mood in 24 hours. Here's the story:

Yesterday, we had gone to the Detroit Auto Show and then, afterwards, we had dined at a place called Southern Fires, a restaurant in the D that specializes in soul food. The food was good and the conversation seemed good, as well. We went home and she diddled on the computer for a spell, writing her MySpace pals and checking her email. I lay on the bed and looked at a book. At 8:00, I told her that I had to go; I was going to go bowling with my friend--the one that I had pretty-much ditched a couple of weeks ago to spend time with Her Highness.

She'd adopted her annoying little girl voice and asked me, "You're kicking me out again? To go on your date with your friend?" I'd grown quite fucking weary of this "kicking me out" line. It had gotten old. In fact, the first time that she had said it, I'd figured that she'd been joking. Boy! Was I wrong! ;-) "Yeah," I said, "I'm kicking you out, hon." So, she left. And I thought all was good. And I got off the eggshells upon which I had been walking and I breathed deeply.

[As I type this, after sending her a retaliatory text message to one of her acidic texts, telling her to take care and seek professional help for her megalomania, and peace, my cell phone is buzzing with rapid-fire texts, the first of which informs me that she doesn't have a problem and doesn't need help, what she needs is a man with an average-sized dick who can keep it up and who knows how to use it. She seems to forget the three nights when I did keep it up, well enough to fuck her twice each night. Classy! My question is, besides the pretty face, who the hell wants to fuck some paunchy overweight little bitch who orders--yes, orders--one to get on one's back so that she can straddle and is all me-me-me and me-me-me? And, oh, me-me-me. The brain is the greatest aphrodisiac. That is as true as an arrow. And her personality is fucking ugly. That, too, is as true as an arrow. Anyway, back to the story. And, believe it or not, this is the truth.]

My friend and I went bowling and she sent me a text after I'd been there for about an hour. To paraphrase, the text said that she apologized for being persistent and wanting to spend so much time with me but she really enjoys my company and, you see, she is lonely and it's hard to be away from her family but she'd give me my space (something we'd talked about) and she said that she would call me next week and to have fun bowling. I answered with something like Don't be ridiculous, hon, call whenever you want. She answered that, no, that was what she was going to do, that she'd call me on Monday. I'd texted, okay, that's fine. Take care and peace.

Later, she texted that she'd meant the Monday before April 8th, the day in which I'd said that might accompany her to Las Vegas for her mother's wedding, a gaffe that I have come to regret. [Hey! I said maybe! Which she'd then taken as gospel and had expressed irritation when I'd had second thoughts about going with a woman--a bitch on top of it--halfway across the country for her mother's wedding after knowing her for a total--in April--of four months. I am not making this shit up. Seriously.] So, anyway, she texted Monday, before April 8th, and I, at this point, threw my proverbial hands in the air, buh-bye, and had told my friend that this chick was nutzo, to which he readily agreed. Later, she sent another text saying that she was too young and too pretty to be sitting home alone and that she had a dinner date and good night. I'd thought, good fucking riddance and I'd turned my cell off. Two missed calls later, she'd texted me, at 1:35AM, that she needed to come to my home and collect her belongings. Her "belongings" consisted of her leftover food from Southern Fires and a hair scarf and some flannel sleeping shorts. God.

I've addressed already the scene in which she'd collected her belongings and the dick-smack text that she'd--safely tucked away in her Nissan Altima--later leveled at me. While I've been typing this, she has sent no less than 7 text messages--I've heard my phone buzzing. You, Dear Reader, know about as much as I do regarding the content of these latest texts, but I'm sure that they're not filled with butterflies and rainbows and good thoughts. Shall we investigate? Sure. Why not? Turn that frown upside-down and come on, kids. =)

To summarize: She has called me an idiot who doesn't realize that he has lost the best thing that will ever happen to him, she will miss my dog but not me, that I can go to Yahoo Personals and send emails to a million other people who aren't interested in me, that she hopes I am satisfied (which I indeed am :P), that I am a faggot with a tiny weak dick, that I myself am weak, that I need to read books on how to fuck, that I am an unattractive pessimist who drowns himself in his failures, who is himself, in fact, a failure...wait, there's more. "The real reason why I broke it off was because you have a tiny dick, you don't know how to use it, you are cheap, sheltered and a pessimist.... I wasn't worried about you spending time with me because I have plenty of men to fill that position."

[I have a quick aside, here: If I'm all that (and a bag of chips) why was she ever even with me?]

Whew! That's quite a laundry list, eh? You want to know why I feel that she "broke it off," an event to which I get down on my knees and thank the Good Lord in the sky? I think she broke it off because she sensed yesterday that I was thisclose to ending it myself. I think that, in her mind, she is still that obese smart-girl from elementary school and high school who never felt like she fit in and thus had to strive for a materialistic existence to prove her worth. (And, Jesus Christ, is she ever materialistic!) And I think that her massive ego can't take rejection. I can see that as plain as day. She talks about her ex who is still emailing her and texting her every day (which I tend to disbelieve). I've seen pictures of the guy--he can't be that much of a hapless tool, can he be? Is she making up the fact that she has "plenty of men to fill that position [of future husband]?" Magic Eight-Ball says "yes." Who the fuck would be able to tolerate her for more than a week? I'm the type of guy who bends over backwards for people and tries to keep everything on an even keel, oftentimes at the expense of my own happiness--I wish I weren't.

I feel sorry for the cunt, in a way. She'll never be happy and she'll never be content. I bristle at her glossing me "cheap," though. She didn't pay for a God damned thing. Ever. I didn't buy her a laptop and/or a wide-screen TV and a PS3 but, then again, I'm not a fucking idiot who feels that the way to love is by lavishing another with gifts and flowers and expensive meals. And, I'll reiterate, I truly feel sorry for any sap who falls into her sticky web.

So, anyway. After all of this, you know what I'll reply via text message to her? It's right below:

Did you get it? Do you think that's a wise response? I do. I do. I want nothing more to do with her. Fucking nut.

I'll reply here, instead, in twenty words or less:

"Bitch? Buh-bye. Take your egotistical, megalomaniacal fat ass and get the fuck out of my life. Forever. Thanks. =)"

She probably thinks that her vitriolic texts (fucking pussy can't even talk to me face-to-face) are going to make me sad and depressed and feel like a worthless slug. No. Nope. Nothing could be further from the truth. I recognize the angry words that she used to be the defense mechanisms that they are. She is, indeed, the one with the problem. They bounce off of me and fall harmlessly to the floor. So, am I sad? Hell no. As I write this, I am beaming from ear to ear. Dear Alicia gave me the best gift I could ever receive: She fucking left.


Your Mind is NC-17 Rated
You're mind is so filthy... you should should be washing every part of you out with soap.If your thoughts can go dirty, they do. Almost everything is NC-17 to you!

This is disappointing. I took a quiz from Underachievingmommy's web site and all I ended up with was a NC-17 mind. I beg to differ and I demand a recount.

That is all.


What follows is a brief summary of what happened with Matthew and Cassius and innocent bystanders at TipeRover Lanes. I do this only because my story died on the operating table of my bri-zain and I have absolutely no flipping desire to try to revive it. It has a DNR order; I must honour it.


Matthew and Cassius played three games. Their scores were as follows: Matthew bowled a 152 the first game, a 139 the second and a 95 the third, after which the shit had hit the fan. Cassius bowled a 253 the first game, a 287 the third and a perfect 300 for the third game. Suzie Tomlin continued to gape at our fearless bowlers and, eventually, having been raised a devout Catholic, came to the conclusion that Cassius was the Devil himself. So she did what any sane person would do: She called her brother, Rudolph, who happend to be a Roman Catholic priest. Rudy showed up half an hour later--he'd been busy counselling a troubled 11-year-old boy--and right away he knew that he was dealing with the epitome of Evil.

What followed was an extremely uneducated attempt at an impromptu exorcism. It ended badly. (Rudy's head ended up being used as a makeshift bowling left a 7-10 split; unfortunately, it was deadeye straight on the one-pin.)

Yes, it ended badly. Suzie Tomlin dialled 911 and the cops had shown up 12 minutes later. Big and beefy and unprepared, the two cops were no match for the blindingly-quick Cassius. Their eviscerated and mutilated corpses littered lanes 16 and 25.

A total of 14 people (16, including the pigs) had been privy to Matthew and Cassius's first and last bowling excursion. Only one person, Suzie Tomlin, had survived the massacre to relay the events to another human ear. She had been cowering behind the counter, hiding behond the shoe rack, when the Pair of Evil had passed. Cassius had paused, sniffed the air and turned directly to face Suzie.

He removed his sunglasses and Suzie saw what he'd been hiding: The red rheumy eyes of an almost half a millennium old being. She had felt her bladder let loose in a sickenly-warm flood. "Pl-please don't hurt me," she'd said.

Cassius laughed softly and removed his baseball hat and ran a long-fingered palm over his hairless head. It rasped like centuries-old sandpaper. "Young mith," he said. "Do not fear me. I have been walking this curthed planet for 500 yearth. I grow weary of the animalth that populate this watheland. I kill now only to to feed; but I mutht, you underthtand, kill to protect mythelf and my thubject?"

Suzie nodded, eyes squinched tightly.

"I came here becauth it getth very very boring living my life in the prithon of the houth." Cassius sighed and snugged his hat tight against his cue-ball cranium. "I needed thtimulation. And thith ith what I got...more of your weak human rathe trying to cage me. I leave you alive for one reathon and one reathon only, young mith: You will tell of the Great Cathiuth. Athurredly you will be greeted with thcorn and derithon, but tell my thtory you will. Tell of my great power and tell of my incredible conqueth. Tell of theth happeningth or die an unmerthiful death. Capicthe?"

Suzie nodded slowly, whimpering, and Cassius gestured towards the door. "Matthew. We go."

The pair strode, cocksure, into the blinding night of bowling alley suburbia.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007


Things seemed a Suzie Tomlin from the outset. The moment the two men walked through the door of the bowling alley, her heart skipped a beat and all the spit in her mouth dried up. There wasn't really anything overtly different about the pair--save for the fact that tall shambling beanpole was wearing all black and sunglasses at night, who was that again that sang that?--but, regardless, Suzie stepped back a bit from the counter as the men approached.

"Hey, fellas," she said, forcing cheeriness into her voice. "How's it going tonight?" Up close, her disquiet deepened. The tall guy just really really rubbed her the wrong way. He had to be at least six-and-a-half feet tall and his long skinny hands, she noticed, were as white as sheets of paper. And the sunglasses that he wore, shielding his eyes, made her even more nervous. She was relieved, then, when the shorter, scraggly-looking man spoke.

"Evening, ma'am," he said politely. "We're thinking of bowling a couple of games. My friend here has never bowled and so I figured I'd take him out for a little slice of Americana. Bowling. Apple pie. Mothers. What's more American, y'know?"

Suzie thought of a half-dozen things, right off the top of her head that were more American than bowling and apple pie and mothers, but she kept her tongue and simply nodded. "So, two games each, hon?"

The short guy nodded. The beanpole stood silently, staring straight ahead, Suzie figured, directly at her. Her skin felt like bugs were crawling busily to and fro and she rubbed her arms briskly and stepped away from the counter. "Do you guys need shoes?" she asked.

The short guy nodded and Suzie angled off towards the shoe rack. "What size, hon?"


Five minutes later, Matthew Yoosip and Cassius were on Lane 25, right against the wall. The bowling alley was mostly empty, which suited Yoosip just fine. He slipped on his alley rentals and sat down at the computer to enter the names. "Do you want to go first, Master?" he asked over his shoulder.

"What kind of ethablthment ith thith?" asked Cassius. Yoosip swung around on the chair and looked down at Cassius's stockinged feet. Cassisus's shielded eyes bored into Matthew. "They don't even have thoe'th that fit." He gestured at his feet; no shoes had fit his huge feet and so he, Cassius, four-hundred-and-fifty year-old Cassius--had to bowl in his socks.

"I apologize again, Master," said Yoosip. "I did not foresee this problem."

Cassius dismissed him with a slight wave of the hand and plucked his ball, like a feather, from the rack. "I'll go firtht."


From behind the counter, Suzie watched the two bowl. Her disbelief grew with each passing moment and she began to wonder if there were a hidden camera, somewhere. The little guy wasn't anything special; bowlers like him were a dime a dozen, here, at TipeRover Lanes. A strike here, a spare there, inconsistency and a bad temperment were all marked facets of his game.

The beanpole, though? The beanpole was a different story. His first throw had been a gutter ball and his reaction had been, at first comic, and then rather troubling. From her safe place, Suzie watched as the man had first stomped his stockinged foot and then seemed to stretch a couple inches higher and a few inches wider. Tricks of the lights, she told herself and she watched as the little man strode quickly to his side and animatedly conferred with him. The tall man seemed to shrink a bit and he fixed the smaller man with what could only be a glare from behind his Oakley sunglasses. He waited for the ball to return and then readied himself for his second throw.

The second throw was as bad, if not worse, than the first. Or so it had seemed. Starting out at a sharp angle toward the right gutter, the ball's only logical destination, as far as Suzie could discern, had been straight to Goose-egg Land. But then something strange had happened. Maybe it had been another trick of the light, she'd reasoned, but it had seemed to her that a black shadow had followed above the ball for about three-quarters of the alley and the ball had somehow corrected its own course--without the virtue of a spin--and had dead-eyed right into the pocket. The seven pin had stood a moment longer than the rest but then, as if blown over by a breeze, had toppled over. She looked back at the tall man, who seemed, momentarily, not as there.

"Tricks of the light," she murmured and turned to take care of a lovestruck couple who were settling their bill.



I feel fucking fantastic. Things seem to be falling into place for me. I've met someone whom I like, I have more money in my pocket, my job is going well (I got a better shift than I had had), I'm blessed with a great family and a thuper dog and I just feel fucking great. Superlatives lose their meaning when overused, but I just can't seem to stop using them.

I refuse to think or dwell upon the superstition that when things are going well, misfortune is right around the corner and the axiom that pride goeth before a fall. Why do that? Why not just enjoy the ride?

One thing that I have been missing, lately, is my urge to create, my urge to flash the fingers upon the keyboard. I think--and this has been true in the past--that I do better, creatively, when my life isn't going all that well. It seems that if things are shitty, I have more of an urge--more of a compulsion--to write. It makes sense, in a way. You see, when things aren't going well, the simple act of getting things out on paper (or on monitor) clears up some of the fog in the noodle and allows me to jettison some of the grief. When things are good, perhaps maybe I want to, on some subconscious level, keep the Good close to my heart. Who knows. Maybe I'm just overthinking the whole matter. Then again, it is what I do.

Here in Michigan, we recently had a spat of rain and then the temperatures dropped percipitously the next day. I always love it when that happens. Sure, the roads suck ass, but there is a phenomenon that I never tire of seeing: The ice that forms on the skeletal tree branches. It is, simply put, beautiful. It's as if God is showing Himself to us, if we care to stop and take the time to open ourselves to the sight. It is dazzling and it is brilliant; it hurts the eyes, almost, to look at an iced tree on a sunny day. One must not look directly into the Light. One more thing about the ice that forms on the trees: Taking pictures of it doesn't do it justice. (See Exhibit A: the picture at the top of the page.)


Friday, January 12, 2007


Let's talk about you and me; duh-duh-duh-duh-DAH-duh-duh-duh-DUH. Er, or something like that. My boy, Lou, whom you may have read about once or twice on this here weblog amazes me, sometimes.

A little background information: A couple of months ago, Lou was regressing back into puppyhood. He was declining to poop when asked, opting instead to shit in the luxury of the apartment whilst I was off at work. He and I had a couple of scrapes over that, lemme tell ya. Added to the inside defecation, Lou also found it behooved him to dig in the trash when I was gone at work (see a theme, here?) and strew said trash all over the kitchen floor. If he got lucky and found a plastic OJ bottle in the trash, well, then, he'd found an afternoon of delight.

In the past, Lou has also found women's underwear (thongs, particularly) to be perfectly acceptable playthings.

Here is what Lou did to amaze me. Last night, I took Lou Outside at about 11:45, at which time he squatted and dropped a load. Good boy, I told him and led him back into the warmth of the apartment. Today at 10:00, when I had a meeting to go to, I took him outside and he declined to poop. (I think he was playing the conscientious objector card. Who knows?) Anyway, I went to the meeting and ran a couple of errands afterwards and got home around 1:00. I had half an hour before I had to leave for work, so I made the most of my time--I read my emails and I scanned the Flickr sites and sat down to start on a 'blog. After staring blankly at the screen for about 28.7 minutes, I looked up at the Superman alarm clock and saw that it was nigh time to leave.

"Louie!" I rasped, "time to go Outside!"

Plastic poop bag in hand, I ventured Outside with leash'd Lou. Whereupon he hemmed and he hawed and he, again, declined to poop. (He made a few feeble attempts at the Dance of Squat, but then turned to me, each time, his ears back and his eyes wide, as if to say, "I would if I could, Dad, but I can't so please don't shoot me." I ended up not shooting him...but it was close.) I knew what this meant: It meant that I would go to work and then come home to the earthy aroma of Shit Inside.

"Damn you, Lou!" I screeched at my apartment door as I drove off. "Damn you to Hell!" A hand-in-hand couple blanched at me from the sidewalk and gave my silver four-door 2002 Ford Focus hatchback a wide and wider berth. "What're you looking at?!" I shrieked at them. "You ever have to clean up oxidized dog shit from a parquet floor?! Dante's got nothin' on me, baby!" (Hands clasped, they turned and took to their heels, eyes wide. The woman slipped on a patch of mud and fell awkwardly to a knee, skinning it badly. As I drove past them, north on Crooks, I glanced over and saw the tears rolling down her face. Her face beet-red and her eyes squinched tight, she looked like the world's biggest, chestiest baby.)


I went to work and, while I was there, doing my duties, I made peace with the fact that I would have to go home and pick up dog shit. Let go, let God, I reminded myself countless times during the shift.

"Thy will be done," I said to the cashier at the gas station. He looked at me sideways and slowly scanned my pack of gum. "Uh...nothing," I mumbled.

I ended up working late. I was given a meter installation at 9:30, an hour before I was scheduled off. By the time I got to the site, it was 10:00. The job had a more than a few snags to it, so I ended up getting back to the headquarters at 11:15. Forty-five minutes at time-and-a-half is always a good thing, but, thinking back to Lou and the apartment, I knew that my goose was cooked.

By the time I got back home, it was 11:45. To endow this snapshot of Time with the gloss of relativity, Lou had ostensibly gone 24 hours without dropping a yellowish-brown slip-log. I have trouble doing that, and I'm somewhat-domesticated, not an unintelligent beast like Lou-dog. (He's smart, I know, I just did that for effect. Affected?)

I threw open my apartment door and slowly tip-toed inside. I was careful to look where I was walking so that I wouldn't squelch on Interloper Brown. And but what to my wondering eyes should appear? Not a damn drop of shit and Lou's grin splitting ear. I whooped with joy (not really) and I threw my arms around Lou (not really) and I kissed him on his snout and said that he was a good good good boy (really).

Outside we went and Lou led the way, purposefully walking--as only bully breeds can--to his favorite Dropping Zone. Dropped he did and I reiterated that he was a good good good boy and then we went back inside and I should have given him a damn Scooby Snack. Shit. My bad.

Next time he goes 24-Poopless, I will.

Monday, January 08, 2007


What to write about? I have today off of work, so I'm sitting here, in front of my computer, pleading to my Muse for some inspiration. I wrote out a bunch of words yesterday with which I'm thinking of spinning a yarn, but not today. What I need is one of those Blogging For Dummies books that helpfully suggests blogging topics. Write about your favorite pet! Write about a childhood friend! Write about your favorite vacation! Write about the deluded mind of 19th-century serial killer Jack the Ripper! And how he got his nickname! Won't that be gleeful?! Yeah, those books are quite helpful.

Write about your favorite pet, which you bought on your favorite vacation, which then became your best childhood friend and whom you glossed Jack the Ripper! Whee! There's a blog idea.

So I "celebrated" 30 days of sobriety yesterday. It's been an eventful 30 days, but I've only had urges to pick up a couple days out of the 30 and so I feel pretty good about that. Physically and mentally and spiritually I feel fucking fantastic. Financially, I'm still behind the eight-ball, but, generally, that is the last of life's stratas to come around, as it were. There's a slight delay, is all's I'm saying. That's fine, though. If things continue in the manner in which they have been going, that area of life shall balance out soon enough.

I haven't felt this good in a long long long motherfucking time. 30 days isn't really shit. I can do that standing on my head, and I have, in the past. The thing that is different this time is the fact that I have wholly and unabashedly bought into the AA program. I've gone to a meeting every day since getting out of the clinic, missing only Christmas Day. (But I made up for it by going to two meetings on New Years Eve, so I'm still on track for the "suggested" 90 meetings in 90 days.) Why wouldn't I go to 90 in 90? I'm not foolish. I know that I need all the support that I can scoop up, absorb.

Some people get out of rehabilitation kliniks and say to themselves, "Well, that's it. I'm cured. Buh-bye, monkey." How? How in Hell are they cured? One is never cured from this shit. It just goes into, for lack of a better word, remission. Or hibernation. Whichever. Oftentimes, people with that pretty-flawed mode of thinking relapse. Oftentimes? Try 90% of the time, as a slightly-conservative estimate. When we're tooling around, feeling like King Shit, our addiction is in the basement, like Clubber Lane, from "Rocky 2," hitting the weights and seething with impotent rage. If and when it gets the chance, it will storm back with a vengeance. Happy thought, eh?

So, anyway, 30 days. I got a coin today. It's up there in the corner. It's red. And feels like it's made out of thrice-folded tin foil. You know what, though? It could be made out of bran flakes, for all I care. It's the representation of the coin, if you can dig it, that gets me all hot and bothered. The representation of taking control of my life and attempting to live right. And giving it up to the Creator. And giving thanks. And feeling secure in myself. And looking forward to the next day. And embracing all my quirks and idosynchrasies as a part of myself.

Okay. Enough New-Age psycho-babble. Every day that we are on Earth is a blessing. Every day that we wake to the birds singing and the sun shining is a blessing. Time is short; live well.

Sunday, January 07, 2007




Okay. Why? Why did I do this? I don't know, but as I was doing this list, an idea came to me to write a yarn using these randomly-thought words, in order. It'll get easier towards the end, I think, because a lot of the words seem to have a sexual tack to them--not like it's ever tough to wring sex from any damn word, but you get my point.

This should be fun.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007



Matthew Yoosip drove safely yet speedily through the backroads of Thornton, Wyoming. Though he had done this bait-and-snatch six times in six different states for his Master, his anxiety levels and his nerves were always dialed way up during the getaway. He trusted in the Dark Lord, sure, but he could not help feeling his still-human emotions. He was well-aware that calls to the local officials had been placed and that they would be looking for--they'd have an APB out on--a pale blue ice cream truck with the tune of "Camptown Races" blaring through the megaphone positioned just over the windshield. And that sort of vehicle doesn't exactly blend into the woodwork.

From the back of the truck, there were no more cries and no more wails. The children had been silent for the last five minutes and, for that, Yoosip was grateful. He saw the children as no more than feeding fish, truth be told, but, still, when they'd had their caterwauling cranked up to a fever pitch, some of the Matthew Richard Yoosip that was still left in the carrying case felt some pain, some shame.

He passed out of the city limits and merged onto the freeway. It would be just a quick jaunt down I-187 and he would be at his destination. Eleven units...he grimaced. Just eleven units. The Master might have a cross thing or two to say to him. Yoosip was prepared for that yet he was still a bit trepidatious. Master was known for his evil temper, don'tcha know.


Yoosip pulled gently to the wrought iron gate and shifted into "Park." He glanced uneasily up the ascending curving driveway and shuddered slightly as he unrolled his window to key in the code to the gate. No matter how many times he returned to the roost, he still couldn't do it lightheartedly. Some places have an almost palpable aura of evil and, no matter where the Master had resided, his homes had taken on such an aura. And rather quickly, too.

The numbers keyed, the gates creaked slowly open and Yoosip drove up the driveway.


"Matthew." A statement.

Yoosip shuddered, arms in goosebumps, as he entered the dark room. In the corner, seated in the overstuffed armchair, backlit by a solitary black candle, he could barely make out the shadowy form of his Dark Lord, Cassius. Black billowy clothes and obscenely-long white fingers. A drawn-out skull, hairless. And, of course, the deeply-pitted glowing red eyes. "Yes, Master. I brought you children, Master."

"I know that, Matthew. I can sthmell them. They sthmell delithcious."

Yoosip swallowed and forced himself to add, "I only got eleven, Master." He shifted uneasily on his feet and waited for the storm of vitriol. He was surprised when none was forthcoming.

"Bring one to me."


In the garage, next to the impeccable 1964 black Mercedes sedan, Yoosip unbolted the back doors of the ice cream truck and swung them open. Eleven pairs of wide white eyes greeted him. He was not supernatural like his Master--yet--but he believed that even he could smell the fear baking from the bodies of the "stolen" children. He began to feel a wave of pity, but he quashed it efficiently.

He'd learned how to distance himself, over the years. He'd simply begun to think of the countless children as being less-than and he'd focused on his ultimate prize--eternal life granted to him via the blood of his Master.

He reached in and grabbed, at random, the closest one to him. It was Tommy, the nose-jabber. Tommy yelped and latched on to Yoosips forearm with his sharp little baby-teeth. Yoosip grimaced and backhanded the boy, momentarily stunning him. This act of overt violence brought cries and screams to the other ten children's lips and Yoosip, Tommy slung easily under his right arm, slammed and bolted the doors.

Tommy regained his senses as Yoosip slowly climbed the circular staircase to the second floor. "Mommy," he breathed.

"Shh-shh," said Yoosip with absolutely no emotion. "You'll see your Mommy in just a little bit, son. Your Mommy would want you to be strong, wouldn't she? Doesn't she want you to be a strong little boy?"

Tommy nodded slightly, from his position under the man's arm. Snot dribbled from his nose and he wiped it absently away. "Yeah. Mommy. Want...Mommy."


At the top of the stairs, Yoosip paused and drew a deep breath. He had seen this--or heard this--scenario many times, but it had never gotten any easier. A part of him, though buried deep, was still human and had human emotions. Above all, he felt the emotion of pity. And there was also shame. But overriding any sensible emotion was the feeling of arrogance and the overwhelming addiction to power. The boy had just chosen the wrong day to accept ice cream, he reasoned, rather bizarrely. The little brat hadn't even paid for it. Damn-near stole it. He would thus get what he had coming. Yoosip, guilt assuaged, strode forward and pushed through the heavy door.


"Nithe," murmured Cassius. "Very, very nithe. Bring him to me, Matthew."

Yoosip obeyed readily and left the little boy at the feet of his Master. Tommy stood, wide-eyed, before the seated beast. His chest hitched once, twice, and he began to wail.

"Husth, child," spoke Cassius. He rose from the chair and stood at his full height of six-and-a-half feet, his arms dangling nearly to his knees. With his long dextrous fingers, he made a 1878 silver dollar dance. Tommy's tears waned and then stopped and he popped a thumb into his mouth as he stared, transfixed, at the floating coin.

In the direction of Yoosip, Cassius said, "Leave uth."

He walked from the room and closed the heavy door behind him. From within the room, he could hear the Dark Lord say, "Come to me, child." And, though he plugged his ears, he could hear still the wet pop of a carotid artery and the deep sucking sounds.

And then nothing. And then nothing. He slowly pulled his fingers from his ears. Direct to his being, in the center of his mind, Cassius spoke. Bring me more, thimple man. Bring me more. Bring me thix, bring me theven. Bring me them all. Your Mathter ith hungry to-night.


And so then there were two. Ricky Kludowski and Melinda Barret. Shoved to the back of the truck, up against the doors, was the puppy that had been promised: a thread-bare stuffed beagle. It had been dead and stuffed, it seemed, for decades. Its mottled fur smelled of dust and its blank black glass eyes stared permanently at the heavens.

Ricky shook uncontrollably. Melinda had sunk into a semi-catatonic state. Though children, they knew now that their days--hours--were numbered. Nine children, from two to six-and-a-half, had been taken and nine children had not returned. The remaining two knew, assuredly, that the others had not been spirited off to Chucky Cheese's for pizza and soda pop and video games. As much as their young brains could reason, they knew that the others had been killed and, like mice in a snake's cage, they too were doomed.

Outside the truck, the sound of shuffling footsteps arose. Ricky's trembling worsened as the footsteps grew near. And then, suddenly, he was as calm as a lake on a windless day. Within his five-year-old body, his heart swelled and the will to live burst through his mouth in the form of a scream.

Something thumped against the outside of the door. Ricky drew a breath to whoop even louder and was stunned to silence when a foreign voice hissed, "Quiet, kid. Just...quiet. Okay?"

Ricky scrambled on his hands and knees to the dark doors. He queasily slid the beagle aside, shuddering involuntarily at the wooden feel of its long-dead body. Through the small slit between the doors, he could see the shape of a man in the dim light of the garage. "Help us," he said.

"How many of you in there?" the man whispered.

"Just two. Me and Melinda. But Melinda's kinda tired. The rest of them--" he hitched a tear "--the rest of them got took."

"Shit," said the man. "I mean, shoot. Shoot. I knew these two guys wasn't right. Damn it. Took where?"

"Are you a policeman?" asked Ricky, daring to hope.

"Naw," said the man. "I'm just a guy who's been livin' off the land for awhile. I seen that ice cream truck come back today and then I seen that scraggly-lookin' dude walkin' back and forth all night, carryin' shi--stuff. I never really seen the other guy, but I heard him yellin' a couple times. Guy talks like a faggot. Sorry, kid. I shouldn'ta said that."

Ricky had no idea what the man was talking about, but he sensed that the time was growing short. "Mister? Can you get us out of here?"

"Yeah. Hold on," the man said, and Ricky breathed Hope.

Ricky heard fumbling at the doors and the man said, "It's locked, kid. Got a big-ass Yale paddie on here."

The small boy smacked his forehead in frustration, a move he had picked up by watching old black-and-white shows like the "Three Stooges" and that one with the fat man and the skinny man. He was dealing with an idiot; his savior was a maroon. "I know, Mister," he said. "Isn't there something out there that can, like, break the lock?" He doubled-crossed his fingers and tried valiantly to cross his toes.

"Hold on," the man said. "Lemme look around."

"Hurry," whispered Ricky. At his back, Melinda groaned softly. "Hurry!"

The footsteps moved away--the Doplee Affeck--and he faintly heard the man rummaging around at the far reaches of the garage.

Oh, hurry, thought Ricky.

"I got sumpin' here, kid," said the man. "Big ole crowbar. This should wor--" The man's voice was cut off abruptly and Ricky heard a wet thump just before the doors, followed by a heavier slide-thump.

"Mister?" whispered Ricky. "Mister? Are you al--"

"My sthweet child. My stho sthweet child," came a hiss from the other side of the doors. Through the slit, he could make out an impossibly-large shape, nebulous black and cod-belly white.

Ricky's stomach flip-flopped and he was dimly aware of wetness on the front of his Toughskins. Behind him, Melinda was wide awake and shrieking.

Ricky heard himself telling the girl to just be quiet, shut up, they're gonna hear, and then the doors opened and the light spilled in and Ricky was dimly aware that he, too, was screaming as the bogeyman reached in with shovel-sized hands and spatula-like fingernails. The last thing that Ricky thought was His nails are black; stuff's movin' underneath them and then, mercifully, he knew no more.


At dawn, the modified 1964 black Mercedes sedan crept slowly, like a snake, out of the driveway of the house on the hill and headed for the Interstate. Cassius slumbered, satiated, in the blackness of the polarized back seat and Matthew Richard Yoosip drove within the rules of the road, heading West, always heading West. A butterfly flitted, through the black diesel exhaust of the Mercedes, and dropped to the ground, motionless.


Monday, January 01, 2007


Paddington Bear smiles. The Sun casts its benevolent rays across the landscape, sending all shadows scurrying home to their bad places. My Little Pony trots, unbridled, in her corral and Strawberry Shortcake beams beatifically at Scrappy Doo as she serves him a bone. He licks his jowls and smiles.

The ice cream man is coming. The ice cream man is coming. The ice cream man is coming!

And all the cute children and toddlers wobble from their mommy and daddy's homez and totter to the sidewalk.

In the distance, just beyond the breast of hill, the darling children hear the delicate chiming of the bells, arranged to sound like "Camptown Races." As the music swells, little Ricky turns to his towheaded neighbor, Tommy, and says, "My Mommy told me that's the Doplee Affeck." Tommy, all of two years old and just learning to walk, looks at him blankly. "Ya know? When the music gets loud when it gets close?" Tommy looks at him blankly, and sways on his feet in a baby-wind, and then jabs a finger in his nose. Ricky sighs.

Melinda is the first of the sweet children to see the pale blue truck as it appears over the hill. "The ice kweem man!" she shrieks. It is like a domino effect rippling through the glut of children. "Ice kweem!" "Yay!" "Popsicks!" "We want ice kweem! We want ice kweem!" The children's parents look out their front windows at their pride-and-joys and smile lovingly at each other. In the Kludowski home, arms around each other's shoulder, little Ricky's father takes the opportunity of warm parental pride to sneak a lingering grope of his wife's breast. She smiles reassuringly at him and pats his posterior. They sigh in unison and look, through the gauze of the curtain, back out the window.


The pale blue ice cream truck pulls smoothly to the corner and the driver turns off the engine. "Camptown Races" is amputated and the only sounds are those of the blessed children sniffling and jostling for position and the soulful sighing of the wind through the nearby grove of willows. With an unoiled squeak, the driver of the truck, Matthew Yoosip, opens the sliding glass window and proclaims gleefully, "Huzzah! Open for business, kids!"

The crowd of adorable toddlers cheer collectively and surge forward.

Yoosip laughs genially. "Now, now, children. One at a time, don'tcha know. One at a time."

Little Ricky is the first in line and he selects a strawberry shortcake ice cream delight. When he attempts to pay with the crinkled dollar that he had secreted away in his tight front pocket, the ice cream man laughs softly and shakes his head. "Your money is no good, here, young Master Ricky," he says. "This one is on the house." Ricky beams and tears open the treat and digs in, his sharp little incisors flashing.

That scenario plays out with the rest of the darling children--no money, no, no money, not today--until they have all been served.

Little Ricky Kludowski is the only one of the children to possess both the wits and the courage to ask the benevolent ice cream man why the ice cream had been free today.

Yoosip props his elbows on the counter and lays a finger against the side of his nose. He appears to be deep in thought, staring wistfully out the sliding service window to the white-capped mountains in the distance. He looks slowly back down at Ricky. "Young Master Ricky, sometimes adults have to do certain things to make themselves super to children. Do you understand that?"

Ricky nods. "Yeah. My Mommy says super is an adjockteeve."

Yoosip laughs softly. "Yes, yes. An 'adjockteeve,' Ricky. Sometimes, adults just want to be super. Kids?" he asks the group, who seem to be swaying more pronouncedly now. The sun slinks behind a dark cloud. "Kids, I have puppies in the back of the truck! Do you want to see some puppies?!" As one, the children let loose a volley of whoops and laughter and they stagger/stumble to the back of the truck, where Yoosip had cracked the double doors. The interior of the truck seems to be as dark as a grave.

"The puppies are in here, kids," he says, opening the doors wider. "Come on in. They're here," he points. "Towards the back."

One after another the children climb the short ramp into the back of the ice cream truck, the smaller children being helped along by the more-developed idiots. Eventually, they are all in--everybody is in--and Yoosip hops gracelessly out of the back of the truck and slams the doors shut. "Eleven units," he mutters to himself, and his unconscious snarl reveals two offset sharp and pointed teeth. "Not too bad, but Master is going to be angry with me again." He scoots along the driver's side of the pale blue truck and hops in and fires up the engine. "Camptown Races" blares to life.

As the first of the parents burst out of their homes, Yoosip throws the transmission into "Drive" and screeches off, his ice cream truck showing now the power that it had been hiding. From the back of the truck, wails of children go unanswered. The souped-up 350 engine has the creaky truck cruising at 50 miles per hour within a minute and by the time the first of the parents reaches the curb, the ice cream truck is disappearing around the corner, its tires leaving stinking black rubber on the glossy new pavement.

The first parent on the scene, Hiram Kludowski, Ricky's father, looks helplessly down the street and yowls back to the house for his wife to call 911. He looks around, shell-shocked, at his neighbors. They too have a look of disbelief tattooed on their countenances.

As they wait for the impotent boys in blue to arrive, the ability to communicate begins to slowly filter back and they bemoan their gullibilty and their trustingness.

A butterfly flits over the group and rises in the sky, rendering the huddled masses miniature dolls below.


*&^#% and %$!@# and *^%!@

I tend to make liberal use of the F-word. I use it as a noun, a verb, an adjective and, sometimes, as an adverb. I've read over some of my previous posts and noticed that phenomenon and today, when I asked her what she had thought of my writing, I had one of my family members--I'm not going to say whom (Mom)--ask me why I felt the need to curse so fucking much. (Whoops.) I don't really know. It is a part of me. When I am angry, I tend to go overboard a bit. Even when I'm not angry, I use it liberally. I realize that and I accept that.

There is a thought process out there, in the Land of the Readers, that putting one's life out on the Internet is a dangerous balancing act in the first place, let alone when one uses curse words with impunity. The thought process is that the curse words are not being used with impunity. The thought is that, when overused, as I have done, the consequences will be that whoever reads my weblog will come away from the reading session with the impression that I am cold and hard and that I have built walls around myself to keep myself safe. That I'm unapproachable. And that, basically, I'm a dick.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I am actually quite caring and empathetic, so if you believe me to be an unintelligent jerk, please let me disabuse you of that notion straightaway.

On the flip side of the metal money piece, I have to say, with all honesty, that I couldn't give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut if people are offended by my use of curse words and dark subject matter. This is my journal, these are my thoughts; I write in it and I paste it to the forebrains of the Internet wanderers. I will not bow, I will not censor myself, I will not curtail myself to the whims/suggestions of any who read this drivel.

I'm not including my beloved family member in that group. She had an opinion and she voiced it. More power to her. It just is what it is.

But, I have taken it under advisement. Perhaps I will cut back a bit on the F-bombs. What could it hurt? And my next post shall be about puppies and ice cream cones and butterflies. Oh. And smiles.


Well, for the first time in awhile (save for one year when I went to my parents' house) I saw in the new year as sober as a rock. I went with a friend named W____ to an Alano Club in Waterford. An Alano club is a place in which people who struggle with addictions can go to celebrate holidays or, during a normal day, just go and relax.

There was a spread of food on the table, but I didn't eat any. (Gotta watch my girlish figure, don'tcha know.) There was neverending coffee of which I took great advantage. They had pool tables but I didn't play because there was a tournament going on at all three tables.

There was karaoke and I sang "Alabama Song," by the Doors. You know the one: "Oh show me the way to the next whiskey bar/ Oh show me the way to the next whiskey bar/ Oh don't ask why/ Oh don't ask why." That could have been what some in the business call a "trigger," but, fuck it. If my singing "Alabama Song" horrendously makes someone "go out" again, that's on his or her shoulders, not mine.


There were also meetings downstairs at the top of every hour. W____ and I went to two. The first sucked because I couldn't hear a damn thing about half of the people were saying. I have an idea, folks--If you're going to share with the group, make sure that you speak above a whisper, raise your head so that you're not speaking to your chest and don't talk as if a room 20 feet by 30 feet is a room 10 feet by 4 feet. Vocalize or don't share. Thanks. The second meeting was better.

So, the new year was rung in, noisemakers were utilized, hands were shaken and hugs were given. We left shortly after midnight, but the festivities were scheduled to go on all night until 12 noon on the 1st. It's called an Alcothon, and it's utilized during "trigger holidays."

I dropped W____ off at her house and then I took off down the rainswept streets for home. I saw cops sitting on the side of the road, in the darkness, like the poaching spiders that they are. I flashed my brights at them whenever possible, and tried to point them out with my turn signals, so that if anyone had had a few too many and was driving behind me, they would hopefully see the pigs, thus eliminating the element of surprise. I saw a cop, flashers cycling, who had pulled a Honda Civic over and I made sure to shine my brights at him. It was tough to focus the lights on him, but I swerved a bit and made it work. Hell, they do it to us when they pull us over. How do you like it, pigs, when you have a bright light in your eyes, you pompous fucks?

I wanted one of them to pull me over. "Have you been drinking tonight?" "Uh, no ossifer, why?" "Well, you were driving erratically." "Can you even spell the word, ossifer?" "Excuse me?" "I asked you if you could even spell 'erratically,' or is that beyond your comprehension?" "Step out of the car, sir, and we're going to have you blow into this." "Okay, ossifer; if you want to look silly, that's your call." "Hands on the car." "Fuck you."

Okay, it probably would not have gone like that. That's a little extreme. But I'd be damn sure to rub their faces in the fact that I was as sober as a six-year-old. Better luck next time, dicks. I'd be damn sure to make them cognizant of that fact and I would, with every word I uttered, be thinking, fuck you fuck you fuck you. Pig.

On the way home, I stopped at a 7-11 to get some smokes. 90% of the clientele had alcoholic beverages. I walked out of there with some Lysol and a pack of American Spirits. And a pen.

Do I seem bitter? Why ever would you say that? It's nice to be able to wake up with a hangover-free head. It truly is. And the meetings, the portions of which I could actually hear, made that point abundantly clear. Health is good and addiction is bad. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, however, I struggled a bit tonight.

In the program, they speak of the first couple or three weeks (whatever) as being a "pink cloud." Why it's pink, I have no idea. But the basic premise is that, early in recovery, people feel almost beatific and grand; they feel as though they are just floating on a cloud and they are loving life. Eventually, though, clouds dissapate and people come back to earth.

Get out the landing gear, Adam, you're coming down.

You know what combats those feelings of bitterness and anger and self-pity? Support and meetings. It's a roller coaster.

One more thing and it's pretty ironic. I've been bereft of cravings since I started this A.B.. ("After Beer.") Tonight, at and on the way home from the Alano club, I had my first real cravings. I could almost smell the beer. Pretty ironic that a place that designed to be a virtual refuge for alcoholics and druggies can actually, too, be a trigger. But, then, I've always been kinda contrarian. Marijuana jazzed me up, as did beer, and I can drink coffee nonstop up until bedtime and then sleep like a baby. (A tired baby.)

So, that's it. Happy New Year. May 2007 (wow!) be a good year for all.

Peace. (But not to pigs.)