Before we can start anew, it's important to say a proper goodbye to those things that are ending. So, to do that, this month's 30 DOW will start with the end. Write the last paragraph of your novel or short story. If the last paragraph is only one sentence (very dramatic, I like), then include the paragraph before it, as well. Also, I'm just going to go ahead and tell all of you that I peed in front of the police station last night. Starting fresh!
Chris Farmington opened the blinds and stared out at the world that he'd made. His sister's car sat still in the driveway. Engine running. Lacking either driver or passenger. He realized that at some point, he would have to go outside and turn the car's engine off, but the stereo was on and he liked the song playing. So he just stood there and looked out the window and listened.
they say to love is to bury
those demons from which we all hide
but tonight by this river, neath this willow tree
becoming one of earth and sky
Margot Timmons' voice floated out into the soundless night and insinuated itself into every breeze like a soft exhalation. And airily it moved, gliding out across the empty street. The hollow houses stood as witness. Faceless window panes taking evidence and account, testifying of the world that was to the world that would be. And for the first time in almost two decades, the sound of the splintered voices had left his head and Chris Farmington found himself completely and utterly alone. There was not a single human animal left in all of the world except for him. And his heart grew lighter. And he smiled. And something smiled back.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Monday, January 2, 2012
For Esme Barrera 1982-2012
I feel a desperate immediate need to say something. To say the right words. To say the thing that will make me realize that this is all going to be alright. After all, that is what I claim to be good at. Words. I’ve used them for most of my life. Picking the right ones for this occasion should be no problem, right?
But those words... The right words... They don’t exist. They never have. Words will fail every time. And only time will make us all feel better about this. Slowly. A little bit tomorrow. A little bit next week. There will be set backs, for sure. For me it will be the start of the next Alternative Softball League season. For some it’ll be the next SXSW. Or the next Fun Fun Fun Fest. Or next New Years Eve... But everyday will make things just a little bit better.
Two nights ago, our friend Esme Barrera was taken from us in the most senseless way possible. And there really is no other word to describe it. There is no sense to be made from what happened that night. There was no reason. I really don’t want to rehash details, since they’re out there to be read on the Internet and the picture they form is so woefully incomplete that I’d hate to add any conjecture to the situation. But the blunt truth of that matter is that an unknown assailant murdered my friend in her house after she came home from a New Years Eve show only two blocks away from where she lived. Anything I might add after those facts would simply be the repetition of things heard in conversation, and I have no desire to do that.
It feels strange calling her my friend. Not because she wasn’t. She most definitely was friend to anyone who ever met her. You were powerless. Simply no choice in the matter. There was a magnetic thread to her personality that defined her and shaped everything she did. If you weren’t her friend, it’s just because you never got the chance to meet her. So, she was most definitely my friend. No, the reason it feels weird is because I wasn’t closer to her. Survivors guilt, being what it is, makes you look back on every missed opportunity or blown off party. It makes you second guess the choices you made that kept you from spending more time with people. Esme and I were never close enough to hang out together. We were in the same social circles, and saw each other often. But every time I saw her out, and every time I had a conversation with her, I always made a mental note to try and get to know her better. She made you want to be her friend.
I don’t remember the exact day I met her, but I know for goddamn sure it had to be at a softball game. As a former Waterloo Records Employee (as well as a former member of the team), I dutifully trotted out to watch the exploits of my former coworkers on a regular basis, braving the vagaries of the Texas weather and the cruelty of the morning hangover (the softball league does encourage its drinking, doesn’t it). For a while, it seemed (and sometimes actually was) that I was the only fan in attendance. But as the weeks went by, and the team slowly got its rhythm, more and more people started to come out. I started seeing old familiar faces from my days in the store, as well as a few new people who went to work at Waterloo after my time. And that’s how Esme Barrera entered my life. It’d be nice to recall what she was wearing, or the first conversation we ever had, but my memory just doesn’t work that way. As far as my Remember Machine is concerned, one day she was just there. But once she was there, she was there to stay.
She was small. Like almost CHILD small. Slight and slender enough to almost seem fragile, but just as up to the task of standing up front at a rock show. Sometimes she reminded me of a trouble making kid, hanging out behind the mall parking lot, just waiting for the security guards to leave so she could tag a wall. But instead of just throwing up a tag, she’d be more likely to spray paint a Jawbreaker lyric. At least the Esme of my imagination would. That’s how I saw her.
We bonded over both being border kids. She from El Paso. I from Del Rio. We were both Brown. It might seem superficial to some people, but in this lovely homogeneous scene of ours, people of color (no matter how light the shade) tend to look out for each other. We look for common ground, whether it be familial experiences or High School stories or fluency (or lack thereof) in a native language. In a lot of ways, I felt like I could have known her growing up. I probably did. Well, at least someone a lot like her. She felt a little like, if not a sister, at least a cousin. One that I ran into on a regular basis. A solid stand up person in every way.
As the softball season went on, she started coming out to as many games as I did. Cheering runs and screaming out admonitions at questionable calls. Usually holding a tall-boy that seemed just as big as she was. Volunteering to run the stereo that played out each batters’ intro music. Yelling out her opinion on why a certain song was all wrong for a batter and offering to bring a better selection the next time. There were a few die-hards out there with us. Sometimes the team did so badly that we felt like those lone fans in the bleachers in the movie MAJOR LEAGUE... And sometimes they made magic. David Blaine, street magic. Not David Copperfield, make a jet disappear magic. but magic nonetheless. And Esme was right there along for the ride. She could get a little annoying. Like the time during World Cup season when she started bring her Vuvuzela to the games. That got old quickly. But what I wouldn’t give to have her annoying me with that fucking thing one more time.
Eventually, the team did the statistically impossible and managed to luck it’s way into the league finals. I say this with all the love in the world, but following the Waterloo Softball team is bit like following the Bad News Bears. Some days they got it. And some days it all goes a bit pear shaped. And much like the Bears, (spoiler alert) Waterloo came up short and lost the finals. But Esme was right there with me, cheering every second.
When the league awards were given out at the end of the season, I went to the party. Esme was there too. Aside from the actual championship trophy, and the usual stat based awards (best pitcher, most home runs, etc) there were also some others given. I think Waterloo’s come from behind performance earned them the “We Can’t Believe They Made it To The Finals” Award, or something like that. And at some point in the night, they announced an award for Best League Fans. Waterloo won. I remember being pulled along toward the front to accept the award with some of the other Super Fans, but the whole time I felt like it was all Esme’s. Even when we were losing 20-5, she made every inning feel like this could be the one. This could be the start of the biggest comeback in league history. It all seemed so very possible.
The Super Fans got team jerseys at the beginning of this last season. Hers read “Esmiracle” with a number 7 emblazoned on the back. As the season went on, I didn’t see her so much. She was busy. She didn’t make it to as many games. She missed out the last game of the year where the team pretty much got beat in the first inning, but had to keep playing for another eight... I gave her a hard time about it, the next time I saw her. Questioned her loyalty to this rag tag band of lovable Waterlosers. Told her I didn’t want to hear her excuses. It was playful teasing. But sometimes I’m afraid I might have really made her feel bad. But probably not. That kind of shit just bounced off her like Nerf.
I have a few other stories about her, that mostly involve hanging out on the benches outside of the Liberty bar, but I’m certain I’m not the only one with stories like those. But being one of the Waterloo Super Fans, that’s something that I shared with only a handful of other people. And I’m glad Esme was one of them. She made every game seem like it was the only place to be at that moment in time.
In the last few days, as I’ve read recollections from other people about this amazingly beautiful soul, I’ve learned or been reminded of so many things about her. She was a teacher. The single most unappreciated profession in this country of ours. She was a mentor at Girls Rock Camp Austin, where she taught fledgling young riot grrls the merits of being more Chrissie Hynde than Courtney Love. She was one of the biggest music fans in a town bursting at the seams with music fans. She was the genuine article in a scene often accused of being loaded with artifice.
Even as I write this, it still seems so very impossible that she isn’t here anymore. That she’s been gone for almost two days. And that number will just grow. And it will never stop. But neither will the outpouring of love from everyone who knew her. I was oh, so very lucky to have never have had to deal with losing a friend in this manner until now. I’ve lost friends before. But never like this. And the sudden, gratuitous nature of the crime puts everything else in a brutal new perspective. Just like that, anything that seemed like the most pressing worry you could possibly have gets examined in a cold harsh light and you find that it really isn’t the be all end all that you made it out to be. There really are worse things in this world.
And so people are reexamining their lives. Taking stocks as we so often do in times of tragedy. Though it really is a damn shame that it takes something like this. We talk about how we want to be better people. We want to do more with our lives. We want to help others. We want to love unconditionally and be loved in return. We want to be more like Esme.
That’s not a bad goal to strive for at all...
Watch this girl do what she did best: Being a goddamn rock star.
Here's some more people who felt the same way
http://esmeandyou.tumblr.com/
http://vitagraphamerican.blogspot.com/2012/01/esme.html
http://feministmusicgeek.com/2012/01/02/a-tribute-to-esme/
http://www.cantstopthebleeding.com/you-dont-know-what-to-with-the-hurt-and-neither-do-i
http://summeranne.tumblr.com/post/15188405224/for-esme-bee
Please help her family with their upcoming expenses
http://forouresmeb.blogspot.com/2012/01/blog-post.html
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Gone for good.
Congratulations. You just testified in court against the biggest crime family in all of Texas. Now, to keep your ass from being dead, the FBI is putting you and your family in the Witness Protection Program. Write about the first day of your new life as Chris Farmington in Poughkeepsie, NY.
(this was the best i could do in a day. BTW, formatting on Blogger fucking sucks!!!)
Chris Farmington was a small man. A petty man. A bitter man. He hated the world with equal bile and enthusiasm. It wasn't that the world owed him anything. That would have meant that he would have had to except something from the world as payment. He simply didn't want anything to do with anyone else and went out of his way to make sure this state of affairs didn't change.
A regular Boo Radley, Chris was never seen outdoors by any of his neighbors. He had begun to acquire the sort of reputation usually reserved for the Jeffrey Dahmers and Norman Bates of the world. There were rumors. He had killed innocent civilians in the first Gulf War and was dishonorably discharged. He had once exposed himself to a passing mail carrier from his open window. He ate cat. If you snuck up to his window, you could spy him masturbating compulsively at least eight or nine times a day. Someone had once seen him standing in his backyard, naked and staring at the sky at 3 in the morning, crying like a child that had just been slapped. He lived off a settlement check that the city paid him because he had been castrated at the age of ten in a freak accident involving an off duty Utility Company employee and a defective voltage meter.
Only one of those things was completely true.
Not that anyone cared. The world needed boogeymen, and Chris Farmington was the boogeyman of 1312 Harmony Circle, Poughkeepsie, New York. Chris wasn't aware of this reputation, but it would never have surprised him. If anything, he would have considered doing more to foster it. Except that would have meant interaction, even on a basic level, for the benefit of other people. That was literally the last thing he wanted.
The 21st century was a great time to be a suburban hermit, and Chris Farmington took full advantage of the resources available to him. His high speed Internet connection insured that anything he needed for survival was a mouse click away, with only a minimum of social interaction. Groceries and assorted basic toiletries were delivered every other week. His bills were paid online. The inheritance assured that he wouldn't have to work for at least another ten years, so there was no need to deposit any checks in a bank. Even the parts for the machine that he had spent the last two years building had come to his door, courtesy of an overseas distributor and the United Parcel Service.
The only person who still had any regular contact with him was his sister. He resented even her. She knew this. Still, she did her familial duty and made sure he was looking after himself. To her credit, she never once tried to get him to change his behavior. She didn't judge his choices. Carolyn knew why he was here and why he wouldn't leave the house. She also knew that there was nothing she could say to change his mind, so there was no point in trying. Mostly, she visited for about an hour, one Saturday afternoon a month, making the drive from Long Island in her busted Hyundai. Occasionally, she had papers that needed his signature. More often, she came because she missed him. Their parents were gone, and even though she had a husband now, Carolyn knew that Chris was the last of her "real" family. Even if he wouldn't make the effort, she would never stop visiting. She felt sorry for him. She never thought he might be mentally ill. Stubborn and ill tempered, maybe, but never crazy. If She had known about the box in the basement, she might have felt differently.
Carolyn pulled into the drive way at Harmony Circle and killed the engine of her car. She sat behind the wheel for a minute, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She did this every time she visited. It was her cleansing ritual. The Hyundai had such lousy insulation that she had to turn the radio up high to hear the radio over the noise of the I-87 pouring in through her windows for most of the two hour drive. Her ears usually rang for a while, even after she reached the 218 Hwy, but by the time she crossed the Mid Hudson Bridge the ringing was mostly gone. She sat behind the wheel of the car with her eyes closed until she could clearly hear the sound of the street outside. That's when she knew it was time to go in.
Except this time. This time, it was the quiet that was deafening. She realized that the usual sound of shouting kids was gone. No kids. No cars. No dogs. She opened her eyes and looked out of the driver's side window. The block seemed deserted. The passenger's side view was no different. Usually, on a Saturday like this, the block would be a tableau of suburban excitement. Lawns were mowed. Cars were washed. Bikes were ridden. But today, nothing. Not a soul. As she got out of her car, Carolyn was suddenly struck with the notion that she was the last person on earth. Somehow, she'd driven through some kind of reality hole and had emerged in a world where she was the only one left. Chris would have been happy here, but she was becoming a little afraid. She just starting to wrap her head around this reality when the distant sound of traffic on Rochdale Road killed this theory. She laughed at herself, closed the car door and headed up the sidewalk toward the front door of her brother's house.
Chris watched his sister approach the front porch from his upstairs bedroom window and fought back a slight surge of nausea. He had been dreading Carolyn's visit for weeks. Her visits always made him anxious, but this one more so. This one marked the deadline.
(this was the best i could do in a day. BTW, formatting on Blogger fucking sucks!!!)
Chris Farmington was a small man. A petty man. A bitter man. He hated the world with equal bile and enthusiasm. It wasn't that the world owed him anything. That would have meant that he would have had to except something from the world as payment. He simply didn't want anything to do with anyone else and went out of his way to make sure this state of affairs didn't change.
A regular Boo Radley, Chris was never seen outdoors by any of his neighbors. He had begun to acquire the sort of reputation usually reserved for the Jeffrey Dahmers and Norman Bates of the world. There were rumors. He had killed innocent civilians in the first Gulf War and was dishonorably discharged. He had once exposed himself to a passing mail carrier from his open window. He ate cat. If you snuck up to his window, you could spy him masturbating compulsively at least eight or nine times a day. Someone had once seen him standing in his backyard, naked and staring at the sky at 3 in the morning, crying like a child that had just been slapped. He lived off a settlement check that the city paid him because he had been castrated at the age of ten in a freak accident involving an off duty Utility Company employee and a defective voltage meter.
Only one of those things was completely true.
Not that anyone cared. The world needed boogeymen, and Chris Farmington was the boogeyman of 1312 Harmony Circle, Poughkeepsie, New York. Chris wasn't aware of this reputation, but it would never have surprised him. If anything, he would have considered doing more to foster it. Except that would have meant interaction, even on a basic level, for the benefit of other people. That was literally the last thing he wanted.
The 21st century was a great time to be a suburban hermit, and Chris Farmington took full advantage of the resources available to him. His high speed Internet connection insured that anything he needed for survival was a mouse click away, with only a minimum of social interaction. Groceries and assorted basic toiletries were delivered every other week. His bills were paid online. The inheritance assured that he wouldn't have to work for at least another ten years, so there was no need to deposit any checks in a bank. Even the parts for the machine that he had spent the last two years building had come to his door, courtesy of an overseas distributor and the United Parcel Service.
The only person who still had any regular contact with him was his sister. He resented even her. She knew this. Still, she did her familial duty and made sure he was looking after himself. To her credit, she never once tried to get him to change his behavior. She didn't judge his choices. Carolyn knew why he was here and why he wouldn't leave the house. She also knew that there was nothing she could say to change his mind, so there was no point in trying. Mostly, she visited for about an hour, one Saturday afternoon a month, making the drive from Long Island in her busted Hyundai. Occasionally, she had papers that needed his signature. More often, she came because she missed him. Their parents were gone, and even though she had a husband now, Carolyn knew that Chris was the last of her "real" family. Even if he wouldn't make the effort, she would never stop visiting. She felt sorry for him. She never thought he might be mentally ill. Stubborn and ill tempered, maybe, but never crazy. If She had known about the box in the basement, she might have felt differently.
Carolyn pulled into the drive way at Harmony Circle and killed the engine of her car. She sat behind the wheel for a minute, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She did this every time she visited. It was her cleansing ritual. The Hyundai had such lousy insulation that she had to turn the radio up high to hear the radio over the noise of the I-87 pouring in through her windows for most of the two hour drive. Her ears usually rang for a while, even after she reached the 218 Hwy, but by the time she crossed the Mid Hudson Bridge the ringing was mostly gone. She sat behind the wheel of the car with her eyes closed until she could clearly hear the sound of the street outside. That's when she knew it was time to go in.
Except this time. This time, it was the quiet that was deafening. She realized that the usual sound of shouting kids was gone. No kids. No cars. No dogs. She opened her eyes and looked out of the driver's side window. The block seemed deserted. The passenger's side view was no different. Usually, on a Saturday like this, the block would be a tableau of suburban excitement. Lawns were mowed. Cars were washed. Bikes were ridden. But today, nothing. Not a soul. As she got out of her car, Carolyn was suddenly struck with the notion that she was the last person on earth. Somehow, she'd driven through some kind of reality hole and had emerged in a world where she was the only one left. Chris would have been happy here, but she was becoming a little afraid. She just starting to wrap her head around this reality when the distant sound of traffic on Rochdale Road killed this theory. She laughed at herself, closed the car door and headed up the sidewalk toward the front door of her brother's house.
Chris watched his sister approach the front porch from his upstairs bedroom window and fought back a slight surge of nausea. He had been dreading Carolyn's visit for weeks. Her visits always made him anxious, but this one more so. This one marked the deadline.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
I Can't Feel My Hand Any More, It's Alright, Sleep Tight
Is it true that women have a higher threshold for pain than men do? We do have to give birth, after all…Write (very graphically) about a sensation of pain that you have had or that your character is having...
Wanna know how stupid I can get?
Surgery hurts. Tumor. Gall Bladder. Wisdom Teeth. Very painful. don't let anyone tell you different. That's why they give you these little pills afterwords. They get you really high. It feels good. But really, that's only if you have insurance, or are brave and foolhardy enough to mortgage your future by having the nerve to demand medical care even when you don't have insurance. the nerve of some people. Without insurance, there's no limit to the amount of pain you're willing to live with.
It was back in my starving student days. All I wanted was a pizza. Not a real pizza mind you, but a sad , pathetic, put me in my place and remind me how poor I am, welfare Pizza. A slice of white bread, some spaghetti sauce, a few peperoni slices and cheese. Throw that beast in a toaster oven, and I was good to go.
It was an inexact science. It's not like I was reading directions out of Julia Child or anything. You just stand there and look through the glass window and hope you can tell when the damn thing is about to dry out and start burning. But, like the proverbial watched pot, that shit takes forever to feel like it's going anywhere. So I stood there bored and restless. Everyone else was watching television, but I was stuck watching the heat rod and the bottom of the toaster oven turn red.
Finally, after a few minutes, it looked about ready. I looked around, and found a battered old oven mitt that looked like it had put in a fair amount of time on the job. I guess I figured that anything that looked that old was probably still around because it worked. If it was crap at doing what it was supposed to do, then it would have been thrown away by now, right? On such unimpeachable logic, are empires built.
I put that bad boy on my right hand and opened up the little glass door. You wouldn't think that such a little box could generate such intense heat (that's what she said.) Right off, I realized that I had misjudges how how hot the oven needed to be. Even if the pizza hadn't started to burn yet, it was still gonna be crunchy. At this point, a stupid panic took over. I suppose I thought that every second was counting, as if I could pull that pizza back from the point of inedibility, if only I got there in time. What I failed to factor in was that it was only a welfare pizza, but then again, if i was eating welfare pizzas, then I probably couldn't afford to let one go to waste.
In my blind panic, I thrust my gloved right hand into the oven and grabbed the tin plate that the pizza lay on. Apparently, my battered oven mitt theory had been way off base. The heat from the plate seared through the glove. It was so damn hot, I wasn't thinking straight. It felt like a cluster on jagged needles were slowly pushing their way through the glove and into my hand. I looked around for a place to put the pan, but the kitchen was such a mess, there was no counter space. I briefly considered putting it back into the oven, but apparently my frugality would not allow the possibility that the pizza might burn and I would have to make another one. All of this, the pain, the panic, the pandemonium, happened over the course of seconds. My mind was racing with the flood of adrenalin from the burning sensation that was coming from my right hand. I just needed to put the tray down so I could get a second to breathe and consider my options. I did the thing that seemed most logical at that instant. I switched the tray over to my left hand. Again, I wasn't thinking straight.
John Hughes (yes, that John Hughes) used to be a pretty competent comedic director. I mean, aside from writing the high school pictures. He knew slapstick very well, and when he held his impulses in check, he could be very funny. When he didn't, it could be "Home Alone". Regardless, the guy knew his way around some pretty clever visual devices. Most of it was in the editing. Case in point, the inserted color card. It's a simple trick. You see it in "Uncle Buck" a couple of times. It goes like this. When Buck gets hit, the sequence is composed of four basic shots. The set up shot establishes Buck's position. The second shot is usually a first person point of view, wherein you see the object of force coming toward the camera, whether it be a fist or a bowling ball. The third shot is actually an inserted color card held for no more than two or three frames, indicating moment of impact. The third is the reaction shot, where more often than not, Buck, or the Wet Bandits or someone rolls their eyes and collapses unconscious. The idea is that the card conveys the amount of pain that the character will experience from the impact they have experienced. The more intense the shade of red, the more pain. Comedy Gold.
White. For one brief second, my entire field of perception went white. There was a very sharp ringing in my ears and everything turned to light gray shadow as the ringing increased intensity. Suddenly, I was brought back to the here and now by the sound of the tin plate hitting the ground. I remember thinking that I was now going to have to start all over, because my pizza was face down on the floor, which was what I'd been trying to avoid in the first place. That was about the last clear thought I had that night. From that point on it all just turned into "ow ow ow ow ow!!!!" and 'holy shit, holy shit, holy shit that hurts, Oh god, dear sweet baby jesus, make it stop!!!!"
Looking at the left hand, the first thing you would have noticed were the large and obvious blisters. Just like that. In an instant. They weren't there. And now they were. One fluid filled line stretching diagonally across my middle and index fingers, and one bulbous lump on the padding of my thumb. I think if the contact had been brief, it wouldn't have been so bad. but apparently, I held onto the plate for a few seconds. I don't remember that, what with the gray ghosts and high pitched tones and all. But apparently, I held onto it a full second. A full second is more than enough time for a searing piece of metal to start to cook your flesh.
You remember back when people used to say that you should put butter on a burn? That was circa right about when this story took place. The sad part was that I don't think I even had butter. Maybe I was saving up for it. I don't know. I think I used ice cubes in a fruitless attempt to get the swelling down. It didn't work. I don't remember very much else about it since it's been almost twenty years. I do remember that I didn't see a doctor because I had no insurance. I had to make do with Tylenol. Tylenol doesn't do shit. People wonder why I stockpile painkillers whenever I get a prescription. The easy, funny answer is so that I can take them later, when I can actually enjoy them. Closer to the truth might be that I never want to get caught short again if I ever need pain medication on the spot. Some of you might laugh, but some of you might have actually already taken advantage of my foresight whenever you tore a muscle or threw out you back.
I couldn't play guitar for a month or so. Oddly enough, the scar was gone after a year or so.
Múm - I Can't Feel My Hand Any More, It's Alright, Sleep Tight
Wanna know how stupid I can get?
Surgery hurts. Tumor. Gall Bladder. Wisdom Teeth. Very painful. don't let anyone tell you different. That's why they give you these little pills afterwords. They get you really high. It feels good. But really, that's only if you have insurance, or are brave and foolhardy enough to mortgage your future by having the nerve to demand medical care even when you don't have insurance. the nerve of some people. Without insurance, there's no limit to the amount of pain you're willing to live with.
It was back in my starving student days. All I wanted was a pizza. Not a real pizza mind you, but a sad , pathetic, put me in my place and remind me how poor I am, welfare Pizza. A slice of white bread, some spaghetti sauce, a few peperoni slices and cheese. Throw that beast in a toaster oven, and I was good to go.
It was an inexact science. It's not like I was reading directions out of Julia Child or anything. You just stand there and look through the glass window and hope you can tell when the damn thing is about to dry out and start burning. But, like the proverbial watched pot, that shit takes forever to feel like it's going anywhere. So I stood there bored and restless. Everyone else was watching television, but I was stuck watching the heat rod and the bottom of the toaster oven turn red.
Finally, after a few minutes, it looked about ready. I looked around, and found a battered old oven mitt that looked like it had put in a fair amount of time on the job. I guess I figured that anything that looked that old was probably still around because it worked. If it was crap at doing what it was supposed to do, then it would have been thrown away by now, right? On such unimpeachable logic, are empires built.
I put that bad boy on my right hand and opened up the little glass door. You wouldn't think that such a little box could generate such intense heat (that's what she said.) Right off, I realized that I had misjudges how how hot the oven needed to be. Even if the pizza hadn't started to burn yet, it was still gonna be crunchy. At this point, a stupid panic took over. I suppose I thought that every second was counting, as if I could pull that pizza back from the point of inedibility, if only I got there in time. What I failed to factor in was that it was only a welfare pizza, but then again, if i was eating welfare pizzas, then I probably couldn't afford to let one go to waste.
In my blind panic, I thrust my gloved right hand into the oven and grabbed the tin plate that the pizza lay on. Apparently, my battered oven mitt theory had been way off base. The heat from the plate seared through the glove. It was so damn hot, I wasn't thinking straight. It felt like a cluster on jagged needles were slowly pushing their way through the glove and into my hand. I looked around for a place to put the pan, but the kitchen was such a mess, there was no counter space. I briefly considered putting it back into the oven, but apparently my frugality would not allow the possibility that the pizza might burn and I would have to make another one. All of this, the pain, the panic, the pandemonium, happened over the course of seconds. My mind was racing with the flood of adrenalin from the burning sensation that was coming from my right hand. I just needed to put the tray down so I could get a second to breathe and consider my options. I did the thing that seemed most logical at that instant. I switched the tray over to my left hand. Again, I wasn't thinking straight.
John Hughes (yes, that John Hughes) used to be a pretty competent comedic director. I mean, aside from writing the high school pictures. He knew slapstick very well, and when he held his impulses in check, he could be very funny. When he didn't, it could be "Home Alone". Regardless, the guy knew his way around some pretty clever visual devices. Most of it was in the editing. Case in point, the inserted color card. It's a simple trick. You see it in "Uncle Buck" a couple of times. It goes like this. When Buck gets hit, the sequence is composed of four basic shots. The set up shot establishes Buck's position. The second shot is usually a first person point of view, wherein you see the object of force coming toward the camera, whether it be a fist or a bowling ball. The third shot is actually an inserted color card held for no more than two or three frames, indicating moment of impact. The third is the reaction shot, where more often than not, Buck, or the Wet Bandits or someone rolls their eyes and collapses unconscious. The idea is that the card conveys the amount of pain that the character will experience from the impact they have experienced. The more intense the shade of red, the more pain. Comedy Gold.
White. For one brief second, my entire field of perception went white. There was a very sharp ringing in my ears and everything turned to light gray shadow as the ringing increased intensity. Suddenly, I was brought back to the here and now by the sound of the tin plate hitting the ground. I remember thinking that I was now going to have to start all over, because my pizza was face down on the floor, which was what I'd been trying to avoid in the first place. That was about the last clear thought I had that night. From that point on it all just turned into "ow ow ow ow ow!!!!" and 'holy shit, holy shit, holy shit that hurts, Oh god, dear sweet baby jesus, make it stop!!!!"
Looking at the left hand, the first thing you would have noticed were the large and obvious blisters. Just like that. In an instant. They weren't there. And now they were. One fluid filled line stretching diagonally across my middle and index fingers, and one bulbous lump on the padding of my thumb. I think if the contact had been brief, it wouldn't have been so bad. but apparently, I held onto the plate for a few seconds. I don't remember that, what with the gray ghosts and high pitched tones and all. But apparently, I held onto it a full second. A full second is more than enough time for a searing piece of metal to start to cook your flesh.
You remember back when people used to say that you should put butter on a burn? That was circa right about when this story took place. The sad part was that I don't think I even had butter. Maybe I was saving up for it. I don't know. I think I used ice cubes in a fruitless attempt to get the swelling down. It didn't work. I don't remember very much else about it since it's been almost twenty years. I do remember that I didn't see a doctor because I had no insurance. I had to make do with Tylenol. Tylenol doesn't do shit. People wonder why I stockpile painkillers whenever I get a prescription. The easy, funny answer is so that I can take them later, when I can actually enjoy them. Closer to the truth might be that I never want to get caught short again if I ever need pain medication on the spot. Some of you might laugh, but some of you might have actually already taken advantage of my foresight whenever you tore a muscle or threw out you back.
I couldn't play guitar for a month or so. Oddly enough, the scar was gone after a year or so.
Múm - I Can't Feel My Hand Any More, It's Alright, Sleep Tight
Sunday, February 1, 2009
3 Crucieros
Fiction-good stuff). So today, research the topics below, and incorporate 5 of the 10 into a short story. -nubilous (definition) -laissez-faire -middle eastern cuisine -the commonalities of the Fireside Poets -Bossa Nova -blue-green algae -Che Guevara -gestation crates -the aye-aye -postmodernism Have fun. And please don't hate me.
note:
This one took me a few days to put together. It started as a story, but in the end became more of a character sketch than anything else. Though I did manage to satisfy five of the research requirements, most of the time was consumed by additional research outside of the perameters.
The definition of NUBILOUS is utilized from the outset.
Along with providing the inspiration for the characters name, several references to Che Guevara appear throughout, along with references to some of his favorite poets.
The film Orfeu Negro (Black Orpheus) was considered a starting point for the Bossa Nova movement as it marked the first collaboration between Antonio Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes, who would go on to become to of the most renowned songwriters of the genre.
Addtionally, Vinicius de Moraes was also considered one of the founders of the Brazilian post-modern poetry movement, but this was purely coincidental and therefore not technically a fulfillment of the writing requirement.
The description of the overcrowding in the Favela was taken from the description of the gestation crates.
The reference to Longfellow was used to contrast what was considered proper poetry to some of the more romantic and radical work that was being done by other writers.
Additional research included the neighborhoods and Favelas (slums) of Rio de Janeiro, monetary conversion rates as adjusted for inflation (a very rough approximation at best as the Cruciero was replaced by the Real as the official monetary unit of Brazil a few years after the setting of the story), a biography of Breno Mello (the star of Orfeu Negro), and most importantly, translations of various words and phrases into Portuguese. The meaning of most of these words can be gleaned from context, but here is a translation of the two portions of verse included in the above piece:
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix
from "HOWL" by Allen Ginsberg
I'm having formatting problems, but i gotta go to bed now so I'll fix em later.
g'night
Antonio Carlos Jobim - A Felicidade (Happiness)
Fuser sat in the darkened theater, mesmerized by the flicker, the persistence of vision searing the floating images into the back of his head. The audience sat in a nubilous haze, transfixed as Orfeu Negro played to a full house. The melody of Luiz Bonfá's "Manhã de Carnaval" lulled the crowd into a state of contentment even as the tragedy of the street car conductor and his doomed love affair played out on the screen. It had taken Fuser more than two weeks to save up the 3 Crucieros to pay for the admission price. He and his cousin, Tomfeio, had worked for Senhor Belasco, delivering groceries to some of the better off families that lived on the outskirts of Rio. The deliveries allowed him the few opportunities he ever had to actually leave the favela on Morro daProvidênci.
Even standing at the door step of some of the houses, he felt envious that there were people who lived less than a mile from his own house, that didn't worry about things like having to heat up the water they washed in, or even having to get their water from outside their house in the first place. They had proper roofs that didn't leak because theirs weren't made from scavenged road signs and sheet metal. Their electricity didn't come from an extension cord that came in through their window, stolen from a municipal power box that had to be re pried open every month or so after someone from the city would come out to do maintainance. They didn't live packed together in cramped boxes fighting for space, dying from stress and lack of proper medical care. And these weren't even the houses located in the Zona Sul, in neighborhoods like Ipanema or São Conrado. Fuser couldn't imagine what sort of royalty qualified to live in these palaces. There were even houses directly on the beach in Copacabana. Presidential housing, it must have been. Who else could live there? Maybe movie stars, even.
Fuser wondered if Breno Mello lived in the Zona Sul. Mello had been futebol player with Fluminense F.C. (Fuser and his friends called the team Fluzão and sometimes O Máquina Tricolor) and before that, he had played with Grêmio Foot-Ball Porto Alegrense. Now, there he was larger than life on the movie screen playing the title role. Tomfeio had told Fuser that he'd read that Breno Mello had been discovered by a famous director while he had been running on the beach in Porto Alegrense. Ever since, Fuser had been trying to convice Tomfeio and his sister Zélia to go with him to the Praia do Pepino in São Conrado. He imagined that he too would be noticed on the beach and given the lead role in a musical, like Breno Mello.
"You're too rechonchudo," Zélia would tease him. Looking down at his belly, Fuser knew she was probably right. Breno Mello was handsome and athletic. Fuser wasn't really gordo, but he wasn't the type to get noticed on the beach either. Firstly, the glasses he wore were had been his father's. Fuser's family couldn't afford new glasses for him, so he just wore his father's old pairs. The prescription was close enough, but as his eyed inevitably worsened, he simply traded up to the next subsequent pair that his father had discarded on his own way to eventual blindness. This trade up created the added disadvantage that Fuser's frames were always woefully outdated. Quite simply, he always wore old man glasses. He looked like an aposentado on his way to collect his retirement check.
His second problem was that his arms were too skinny for his body, but his legs were, by contrast, rather thick. This created a subtle disproportion that was difficult to put a finger on at first, but impossible to ignore later. And it was all the more obvious when he wore his swim trunks on the beach. Added to these distinctions were his flat arches that made him flap his feet like divers flippers when he ran. But still, he would always return to the fantasy, even in later years when he had grown less rechonchudo and more gordo. It helped pass the time.
Now, watching Orfeu Negro, he laughed quietly as he allowed himself one conceit. He may never be discovered by a movie producer, but if he was, he might certainly do a better job acting than Breno Mello. But at least Breno Mello could sing well.
He had recently come to fancy himself as somewhat of an expert on poetry. He had been fond of Olavo Bilac for a few years, especially his poem DELÍRIO, as well as Menotti Del Picchia, the father of Modernismo. He had also tried to expand his tastes somewhat by attempting to read a book of poetry by Federico García Lorca in the original Spanish, but he had to admit that it lost something in the translation. Pablo Neruda was also another great source of inspiration and Fuser saw in him a kindred romantic. On the insistence of one of his instructors at school, he had tried to read a translation of a book of American poetry by Henry Longfellow and some of his contemporaries. Senhor Lutz had spoken effusively about the inspirational spirit of the verses, but Fuser couldn't make sense of them. All the poems seemed so self-aggrandizing and pompous with stanzas about shipwrecks and fallen patriots and quaint families. In short, it all seemed so damn American. Fuser returned the book, half finished, convinced he'd never read anything translated from English again.
His friends had jokingly nicknamed him after after Che Guevara's nickname, on the afternoon that he had expressed interest in the subject of Fidel Castro's Cuban revolution. The name had been meant to tease and denigrate, but Fuser suprised them all by embracing it. He imagined himself in the mold of Lord Byron or Arthur Rimbaud, poets turned warriors. That Rimbaud deserted the Dutch Colonial Army soon after enlisting did not faze Fuser in the least. That Fuser himself had never written a single verse mattered even less. In his mind, both of his callings were simply waiting for the inspiration that would set them in motion. In no time, he would become a combination of Vinicius de Moraes and Simón Bolívar. Provided that no one discovered him running on the beach and put him in the movies.
.................Even standing at the door step of some of the houses, he felt envious that there were people who lived less than a mile from his own house, that didn't worry about things like having to heat up the water they washed in, or even having to get their water from outside their house in the first place. They had proper roofs that didn't leak because theirs weren't made from scavenged road signs and sheet metal. Their electricity didn't come from an extension cord that came in through their window, stolen from a municipal power box that had to be re pried open every month or so after someone from the city would come out to do maintainance. They didn't live packed together in cramped boxes fighting for space, dying from stress and lack of proper medical care. And these weren't even the houses located in the Zona Sul, in neighborhoods like Ipanema or São Conrado. Fuser couldn't imagine what sort of royalty qualified to live in these palaces. There were even houses directly on the beach in Copacabana. Presidential housing, it must have been. Who else could live there? Maybe movie stars, even.
Fuser wondered if Breno Mello lived in the Zona Sul. Mello had been futebol player with Fluminense F.C. (Fuser and his friends called the team Fluzão and sometimes O Máquina Tricolor) and before that, he had played with Grêmio Foot-Ball Porto Alegrense. Now, there he was larger than life on the movie screen playing the title role. Tomfeio had told Fuser that he'd read that Breno Mello had been discovered by a famous director while he had been running on the beach in Porto Alegrense. Ever since, Fuser had been trying to convice Tomfeio and his sister Zélia to go with him to the Praia do Pepino in São Conrado. He imagined that he too would be noticed on the beach and given the lead role in a musical, like Breno Mello.
"You're too rechonchudo," Zélia would tease him. Looking down at his belly, Fuser knew she was probably right. Breno Mello was handsome and athletic. Fuser wasn't really gordo, but he wasn't the type to get noticed on the beach either. Firstly, the glasses he wore were had been his father's. Fuser's family couldn't afford new glasses for him, so he just wore his father's old pairs. The prescription was close enough, but as his eyed inevitably worsened, he simply traded up to the next subsequent pair that his father had discarded on his own way to eventual blindness. This trade up created the added disadvantage that Fuser's frames were always woefully outdated. Quite simply, he always wore old man glasses. He looked like an aposentado on his way to collect his retirement check.
His second problem was that his arms were too skinny for his body, but his legs were, by contrast, rather thick. This created a subtle disproportion that was difficult to put a finger on at first, but impossible to ignore later. And it was all the more obvious when he wore his swim trunks on the beach. Added to these distinctions were his flat arches that made him flap his feet like divers flippers when he ran. But still, he would always return to the fantasy, even in later years when he had grown less rechonchudo and more gordo. It helped pass the time.
Now, watching Orfeu Negro, he laughed quietly as he allowed himself one conceit. He may never be discovered by a movie producer, but if he was, he might certainly do a better job acting than Breno Mello. But at least Breno Mello could sing well.
A felicidade é como a gota
De orvalho numa pétala de flor
Brilha tranquila
Depois de leve oscila
E cai como uma lágrima de amor Fuser had to content himself with the thought that even if he couldn't sing that well, not all leading men sang in musicals. He saw himself as more of the Romantic type. If he couldn't sing those lyrics, he could always recite them with the same sincerity as any poet.He had recently come to fancy himself as somewhat of an expert on poetry. He had been fond of Olavo Bilac for a few years, especially his poem DELÍRIO, as well as Menotti Del Picchia, the father of Modernismo. He had also tried to expand his tastes somewhat by attempting to read a book of poetry by Federico García Lorca in the original Spanish, but he had to admit that it lost something in the translation. Pablo Neruda was also another great source of inspiration and Fuser saw in him a kindred romantic. On the insistence of one of his instructors at school, he had tried to read a translation of a book of American poetry by Henry Longfellow and some of his contemporaries. Senhor Lutz had spoken effusively about the inspirational spirit of the verses, but Fuser couldn't make sense of them. All the poems seemed so self-aggrandizing and pompous with stanzas about shipwrecks and fallen patriots and quaint families. In short, it all seemed so damn American. Fuser returned the book, half finished, convinced he'd never read anything translated from English again.
On the other hand, he had heard about a new group of American poets who were supposed to be creating exiting work. Work that was being banned by the American government. If anything could raise the hackles of a country that prided itself on it's supposed freedom of speech, Fuser wanted to read it. His classsmate Alceu had received a letter from his older brother who lived in San Francisco, California. His brother Rogério had included his translation of the first lines of a poem by Allen Ginsberg:
Eu vi as mais melhores mentes de minha geração destruída pela loucura,
morrendo de fome, histérico, despido,
arrastando-se através das ruas do negro no alvorecer que procura um reparo irritado
Rogério had promised to try to translate more of the poem but it would take a while because it was over 400 lines long. Fuser couldn't wait. The words filled him with a sense of immediacy and excitement. Even the title, "Howl", conveyed an energy that those staid austere "Caseiros" like Longfellow could never match. "Howl" meant uivo in English. A cry of pain and anger and protest. There was little of any of those things in Fuser's life. The words were like a Clarion Call to action. "Starving, hysterical, naked" these words had power. The only problem was that Fuser had no direction to take. His restlessness was aimless.
Eu vi as mais melhores mentes de minha geração destruída pela loucura,
morrendo de fome, histérico, despido,
arrastando-se através das ruas do negro no alvorecer que procura um reparo irritado
Rogério had promised to try to translate more of the poem but it would take a while because it was over 400 lines long. Fuser couldn't wait. The words filled him with a sense of immediacy and excitement. Even the title, "Howl", conveyed an energy that those staid austere "Caseiros" like Longfellow could never match. "Howl" meant uivo in English. A cry of pain and anger and protest. There was little of any of those things in Fuser's life. The words were like a Clarion Call to action. "Starving, hysterical, naked" these words had power. The only problem was that Fuser had no direction to take. His restlessness was aimless.
His friends had jokingly nicknamed him after after Che Guevara's nickname, on the afternoon that he had expressed interest in the subject of Fidel Castro's Cuban revolution. The name had been meant to tease and denigrate, but Fuser suprised them all by embracing it. He imagined himself in the mold of Lord Byron or Arthur Rimbaud, poets turned warriors. That Rimbaud deserted the Dutch Colonial Army soon after enlisting did not faze Fuser in the least. That Fuser himself had never written a single verse mattered even less. In his mind, both of his callings were simply waiting for the inspiration that would set them in motion. In no time, he would become a combination of Vinicius de Moraes and Simón Bolívar. Provided that no one discovered him running on the beach and put him in the movies.
note:
This one took me a few days to put together. It started as a story, but in the end became more of a character sketch than anything else. Though I did manage to satisfy five of the research requirements, most of the time was consumed by additional research outside of the perameters.
The definition of NUBILOUS is utilized from the outset.
Along with providing the inspiration for the characters name, several references to Che Guevara appear throughout, along with references to some of his favorite poets.
The film Orfeu Negro (Black Orpheus) was considered a starting point for the Bossa Nova movement as it marked the first collaboration between Antonio Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes, who would go on to become to of the most renowned songwriters of the genre.
Addtionally, Vinicius de Moraes was also considered one of the founders of the Brazilian post-modern poetry movement, but this was purely coincidental and therefore not technically a fulfillment of the writing requirement.
The description of the overcrowding in the Favela was taken from the description of the gestation crates.
The reference to Longfellow was used to contrast what was considered proper poetry to some of the more romantic and radical work that was being done by other writers.
Additional research included the neighborhoods and Favelas (slums) of Rio de Janeiro, monetary conversion rates as adjusted for inflation (a very rough approximation at best as the Cruciero was replaced by the Real as the official monetary unit of Brazil a few years after the setting of the story), a biography of Breno Mello (the star of Orfeu Negro), and most importantly, translations of various words and phrases into Portuguese. The meaning of most of these words can be gleaned from context, but here is a translation of the two portions of verse included in the above piece:
Happiness is like a drop
Of dew on a flower's petal
It shines peacefully then swings lightly
And falls like a tear of love
from "A Felicidade (Happiness)" by Jobim and de Moraes
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed bymadness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix
from "HOWL" by Allen Ginsberg
I'm having formatting problems, but i gotta go to bed now so I'll fix em later.
g'night
Antonio Carlos Jobim - A Felicidade (Happiness)
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Fancy...
OK, so I really want to keep up, to some degree, with some sort of collaborative writing. I find it fun. Today, pick someone in the blog group (look in the followers section) whom you know very little about. Based solely on their blogspot pic and the name of their blog (not their writing), write a one-paragraph bio of them. The only person who is a follower who is not participating is Salena (the pic with the smiling couple). If you end up writing this late, check on other peoples' pages to see who hasn't been written about yet so that we can try to get everyone covered.
Raised in the Virginia Highlands on a rubber tree plantation, Fancy lived a life of spoiled opulence. Fast, furious and fierce, Fancy burned brightly and left her mark on the world. Whether maneuvering on the Indiana dunes in her converted Subaru ATV or hunting celebs with her trusty Helga hanging from round her neck, she grabbed the world with both hands and shook it til it puked. Known as much for her well publicized rehab for Red Bull addiction as for her short lived stint on days Of Our Lives, she was also a well traveled raconteur that was equally at home at the bar as she was in front of the television. She will be missed.
Jackie Mittoo - Fancy Pants
Raised in the Virginia Highlands on a rubber tree plantation, Fancy lived a life of spoiled opulence. Fast, furious and fierce, Fancy burned brightly and left her mark on the world. Whether maneuvering on the Indiana dunes in her converted Subaru ATV or hunting celebs with her trusty Helga hanging from round her neck, she grabbed the world with both hands and shook it til it puked. Known as much for her well publicized rehab for Red Bull addiction as for her short lived stint on days Of Our Lives, she was also a well traveled raconteur that was equally at home at the bar as she was in front of the television. She will be missed.
Jackie Mittoo - Fancy Pants
In the words of Twain
To whom it may concern:
Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I'll live for now. And I get to keep the leg too.
Thank you for the well wishes.
And now back to our regularly scheduled bullshit.
Bob
Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I'll live for now. And I get to keep the leg too.
Thank you for the well wishes.
And now back to our regularly scheduled bullshit.
Bob
Friday, January 23, 2009
Dead Rising 2
As a big fan of horror, particularly zombie movies, I have typically always had a plan in my head. A zombie escape plan. You know, for if the day ever comes. I had a great one for my old house with Bob that involved walking over roofs and utilizing trees, but that plan is no longer. I have no new plan.So, give us your zombie escape plan. Or your plan for when the apocalypse comes. Or your vampire/serial killer/Frankenstein's monster escape plan.
I once asked my friend Dylan why it seems that I gravitate toward post-apocalyptic entertainment. I love the Road Warrior movies, Damnation Alley, even the one two sucker punch of Kevin Costner's Waterworld and the Postman. I just finished reading "Eternity Road", about a group of survivors, centuries in the future who have lost all sense of history, except for a tattered copy of "Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court". And don't even get me started on the amount of time I've lost recently playing FallOut 3 aka, "the greatest game since GTAIV".
But I digress. i asked Dylan why i seem to gravitate toward this stuff. He looks me in the eye and replies "Because secretly, deep down inside, you want the shit to hit the fan. You want chaos, you want road warriors, you want zombies, but most importantly, you wanna survive, so you can be around to see it."
Well, those might not have been his exact words, but that was his exact sentiment. Can't say he's too off the mark. I mean, it would suck to lose the advantages of all the modern conveniences that I'm addicted to. And okay, all that destruction and loss of innocent life would be BAD. I'm not arguing in favor of Armageddon. Plus, we might lose our best chance for total annihilation after inauguration day. (Does anybody get the feeling that Bush is watching the shit hit the fan in the MidEast right now, wishing he had a chance to get in on some of THAT action)
All I'm saying is IF the Zombies come, I'm ready. At the very least, more ready that the average bear. Most people move into a place and wonder where the couch will go. I think about Zombies. Most people picture the wall fixtures, I picture Zombies. Bedroom sets. Zombies. My last apartment was absolutely Zombie proof. it had bars on the back windows and door and there was really only one weak spot in the front living room window, but upending a couch and pushing it against the window would help fortify it. It was perfect protection against Zombies, thieves, hoodlums and damn fools. Flood waters were something else altogether, but I guess when the fan is covered in shit, you can't choose how you go out. You just have to be ready.
My new apartment is flood ready. The third floor will keep the water away for a while. The Zombie proofing needs work. Not that I haven't contemplated it.
Firstly, the complex itself is fairly well suited for fortification. It's gated for one thing, and has minimal foot access. You need to type in a code to drive in or use a key to get in through a walk in gate. Now this is by no means perfect. The gate opens automatically as you drive out, thereby allowing shambling Zombies to come in as you attempt to leave, but I'm thinking in the long term. Eventually, after the panic, the runners will have fled, and those that have chosen to stay and fight can get to the business of securing the homestead.
Living on the third floor gives me the advantage of a slight head start. Zombies, or at least classic Zombies don't climb stairs too fast. If it's a plague of those new post modern running Zombies, then we probably won't make it. But, if the new dawn of the undead shuffles and crawls and shambles as God and George Romero (I know, redundant) intended them to, then I should be able to fortify my abode until such time as I am able to mount an offensive. But I can't do it alone.
The top floor of my building is arranged in such a way that there are four units per floor, with two units in symmetrical opposition to the others on each side. Each end has it's own staircase that serves the units at that end. The problem presents itself at the top floor. Rather than merely ending at a front porch landing in front of the top floor units, a common walkway extends across the front of the building and connects both sides. So, every unit above the bottom floor becomes accessible from two different entry points, making fortification more difficult.
But, this same weakness can be exploited to an advantage.
Assuming that I have enough of a head start to begin fortification, the first order of business is open my front door and push my couch onto the stairwell. Zombies tend to not be particularly coordinated and don't possess the necessary agility to easily maneuver over large obstacles. Depending on time, additional furniture can be stacked as needed. The next step is the key to the entire defense.
The walkway that extends in front of the building, and passes before the front windows of the adjoining apartments is made of good old fashioned wood. Beginning as far over on the other side as possible, I use a cordless power saw to cut the boards at each end point, enabling the removal of the board for possible alter use. As I work my way backwards toward my own apartment, the rift not only grows wider, thereby preventing zombies from walking across (they're crap at jumping) but beginning the gap as close to the other side as possible eliminates the need for my neighbor or myself to fortify the front window since they will no longer be immediately accessible.
After this, it is simply a matter of playing for time. After the first 24 hours, most of the initial panic will have begun to subside and the situation can be reappraised. At this point it becomes a matter of head counting. Since the vast majority of the legions of dead will head for areas of high population, having the University of Texas at he center of town is advantageous. Still, there should be a fair number of Zombies meandering throughout the apartment complex. These will have to be dealt with, in a series of fast hit and run attacks. The idea is to deal with them quickly, without getting bogged down with any ONE zombie. Repeat after me. ALWAYS GET 'EM IN THE HEAD!!! My biggest disadvantage is that i don't own any guns. You don't need guns to kill people and you don't need guns to kill Zombies. Bats. Hammers. Knives. Canes. Scissors. Any of these things can be used. The idea is to thin the herd as much as possible. Hopefully, by this time, other resourceful neighbors can assist. If everyone does their part, the Zombie count in the complex can be brought down to zero by the end of the third day with only a minimum of lives lost in the process.
Now this plan of action should be effective for an outbreak lasting no more than a week. Ideally, by that time, the military should be well on it's way toward dealing with this problem. Having an Army base in Kileen assures a fairly quick response time. If, however, the Army proves incapable of dealing with the situation, then this initial plan of defense becomes less than ideal. However, if that's the case, then the odds of humanity in general surviving are fairly slim, so perhaps a strong rope, a razor blade or a fistful of Vicodin and Vodka might be the way to go.
Fela Kuti - Zombie
The top floor of my building is arranged in such a way that there are four units per floor, with two units in symmetrical opposition to the others on each side. Each end has it's own staircase that serves the units at that end. The problem presents itself at the top floor. Rather than merely ending at a front porch landing in front of the top floor units, a common walkway extends across the front of the building and connects both sides. So, every unit above the bottom floor becomes accessible from two different entry points, making fortification more difficult.
But, this same weakness can be exploited to an advantage.
Assuming that I have enough of a head start to begin fortification, the first order of business is open my front door and push my couch onto the stairwell. Zombies tend to not be particularly coordinated and don't possess the necessary agility to easily maneuver over large obstacles. Depending on time, additional furniture can be stacked as needed. The next step is the key to the entire defense.
The walkway that extends in front of the building, and passes before the front windows of the adjoining apartments is made of good old fashioned wood. Beginning as far over on the other side as possible, I use a cordless power saw to cut the boards at each end point, enabling the removal of the board for possible alter use. As I work my way backwards toward my own apartment, the rift not only grows wider, thereby preventing zombies from walking across (they're crap at jumping) but beginning the gap as close to the other side as possible eliminates the need for my neighbor or myself to fortify the front window since they will no longer be immediately accessible.
After this, it is simply a matter of playing for time. After the first 24 hours, most of the initial panic will have begun to subside and the situation can be reappraised. At this point it becomes a matter of head counting. Since the vast majority of the legions of dead will head for areas of high population, having the University of Texas at he center of town is advantageous. Still, there should be a fair number of Zombies meandering throughout the apartment complex. These will have to be dealt with, in a series of fast hit and run attacks. The idea is to deal with them quickly, without getting bogged down with any ONE zombie. Repeat after me. ALWAYS GET 'EM IN THE HEAD!!! My biggest disadvantage is that i don't own any guns. You don't need guns to kill people and you don't need guns to kill Zombies. Bats. Hammers. Knives. Canes. Scissors. Any of these things can be used. The idea is to thin the herd as much as possible. Hopefully, by this time, other resourceful neighbors can assist. If everyone does their part, the Zombie count in the complex can be brought down to zero by the end of the third day with only a minimum of lives lost in the process.
Now this plan of action should be effective for an outbreak lasting no more than a week. Ideally, by that time, the military should be well on it's way toward dealing with this problem. Having an Army base in Kileen assures a fairly quick response time. If, however, the Army proves incapable of dealing with the situation, then this initial plan of defense becomes less than ideal. However, if that's the case, then the odds of humanity in general surviving are fairly slim, so perhaps a strong rope, a razor blade or a fistful of Vicodin and Vodka might be the way to go.
Fela Kuti - Zombie
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Not dead yet...
My apologies for being away. I've got some shit going on and it's been distracting me more than I want. i just want it known that i haven't given up on this blog and I'll try to catch up with the missing posts. i think i got a decent excuse though.
For those who don't/didn't know...
A little more than 15 years ago, I came home from a nice leisurely bike ride from the near the Lake outside of Del Rio. As I threw my leg off the bike to dismount, I felt a sudden painful tear in the hip of the leg that was supporting my weight. The worst part wasn't the pain, but the sound. I heard the muscle rip. I collapsed to the ground and pulled the bike down on top of me. I floundered under the weight of the bicycle for a few minutes before I was able to crawl out from beneath it and attempt to stand up. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as dramatic as I make it out to be, but I pretty much felt like the only person on earth at that moment.
I limped inside and called my mommy. There was a doctor. There was an XRay. Diagnosis: A torn muscle, the result of strenuous exercise. I was told that it would heal in a short time and that I shouldn't worry too much about it. My limp would recede as the leg got better.
More than a year and a half later, I still had the limp. What's worse was that the tears continued. Never as drastic as the first one, they happened anytime that I experienced any unexpected weight shift that I wasn't braced for. Even something as seemingly harmless as not realizing that there was one more step left on the stairs was enough to pull muscle. Of course, I didn't realize what was happening at the time. I knew I was broken but, initially, lack of health insurance kept me in the dark about my condition. Eventually, you just learn to live with pain and discomfort. It was never severe enough to worry me. I just had a slight pimp limp. That suited me just fine. During Thanksgiving, my Grandfather commented that even HE didn't limp that badly and he was over 70. I laughed.
The final straw came on a Saturday in late '94. I went bowling for the first time. You can already see where this is going. It's basic physics, really. Tork. Redistribution of weight. A weak stress point. Another loud tear. First frame. First ball. Down I went again. I soldiered on in spite of the pain and managed to lead for the first five frames and even managed a couple of awkwardly rolled strikes. I went home, mindful that I had the following day off to rest my leg. By the following Monday, I still had great difficulty putting weight on my leg. I bit the bullet and went to the emergency room.
I was there for hours. Since I wasn't leaking any fluids, I wasn't high on the triage list. (As an aside, I do have to say that the people at South Austin Hospital run a decent ship. I would return there in 2000 for what would turn out to be emergency gall bladder removal. A nice man stuck his finger in my anal cavity while I was there. they run a decent ship.) Eventually I was admitted and X-Rayed. Reviewing the photo, the doctor used words like tumor and bone loss. I don't recall if he ever used the "C" word, but he may as well have. He did, however, admit that it was all beyond his expertise and said he would call for a consultation. He left me alone with my paranoia and made some calls. He returned in minutes and said that I needed to go immediately to the medical mall located across the street. There was a specialist there that needed to see me right away. He handed me the X-Ray, gave me a pair of crutches and told me I had to go see the specialist NOW.
This was the moment that stayed with me. This was when I knew I had Cancer and that I was going to die. I had the entire duration of the walk across the parking lot and the drive next door to contemplate my finite mortality and I came to the conclusion that I had lived a good life. I'd made some mistakes and failed to live up to certain expectations that I'd had for myself, but otherwise, I was happy. I could accept whatever came next.
I worry too much.
The reason the time rush was much simpler than a terminal diagnosis. As soon as I arrived, they rushed me to an exam room and told me to wait. The doctor came in almost immediately and apologized for the rush. He was actually in town from San Marcos and was late getting back. He agreed to see me on no notice because otherwise, I wouldn't be able to see him for another week. that was the good news. The bad news was that even he didn't really have a grasp on what the hell was wrong with me. He knew I had a tumor. But he didn't know what flavor. There's actually a variety. Time for another specialist.
This one was in San Antonio. Dr. Ronald Williams at the UTSA medical center. I've since been informed that if you have to get a tumor removed by anyone in Texas, he's the one to do it. Lucky me. I was diagnosed with a giant cell tumor. Not as scary as it sounds, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.
January 10th 1995 I was admitted into the UTSA medical center. 24 hours later, I had a 20 inch scar and a metal plate in my leg. They initially underestimated the area believed to be affected by the tumor. The projected incision of 10 inches was revised once the surgery was underway and they realized that the tumor was bigger than they thought. They hollowed out the femur, hence the metal plate.
I was off my feet for a month and used a crutch or cane for another two months. It was a fairly dark period. There was much brooding and introspection. Mostly, I just stayed on the couch and watched life pass me by. And eventually, I healed.
Late last year, I began feeling a slight discomfort in the hip socket of the same leg that was affected by the tumor. I was given a fistful of vicodin and a referal to a new specialist. A new set of X-rays showed slight abnormality that was possibly related with post operative healing, but without a set of interim X-rays to compare, it was near impossible to determine if the abnormality was recent or not. I was told to give it a week or two and if it got worse, then we would go from there. The discomfort has now meandered into the realm of pain and I'm back to using a cane for now. I look cool.
Because of the metal plate, I was told that I could have an MRI (not true according to the good people at Austin radiological), so I had a CTScan this past Tuesday. Horrible little procedure that involves the injection of contact dye into the blood stream. Stings like hell and burns your throat when it flows by there. As I walked around the exam area in my hospital pants, with an IV hanging from my arm, I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of Deja Vu. Kind of like when Jack Torrance arrives at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining.
I have a follow up on Tuesday and I suppose I find out one way or another what is to become of me.
This isn't a confessional post or even a biograpical post, really. I just wanted to explain my absence and provide some back story for when someone sees me with a cane and asks, "What'd you do to your leg?", like it's somehow my fault.
What can I say? It's complicated.
Anyway, I gotta go write about some Zombies.
Missy Elliott - Bring The Pain
For those who don't/didn't know...
A little more than 15 years ago, I came home from a nice leisurely bike ride from the near the Lake outside of Del Rio. As I threw my leg off the bike to dismount, I felt a sudden painful tear in the hip of the leg that was supporting my weight. The worst part wasn't the pain, but the sound. I heard the muscle rip. I collapsed to the ground and pulled the bike down on top of me. I floundered under the weight of the bicycle for a few minutes before I was able to crawl out from beneath it and attempt to stand up. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as dramatic as I make it out to be, but I pretty much felt like the only person on earth at that moment.
I limped inside and called my mommy. There was a doctor. There was an XRay. Diagnosis: A torn muscle, the result of strenuous exercise. I was told that it would heal in a short time and that I shouldn't worry too much about it. My limp would recede as the leg got better.
More than a year and a half later, I still had the limp. What's worse was that the tears continued. Never as drastic as the first one, they happened anytime that I experienced any unexpected weight shift that I wasn't braced for. Even something as seemingly harmless as not realizing that there was one more step left on the stairs was enough to pull muscle. Of course, I didn't realize what was happening at the time. I knew I was broken but, initially, lack of health insurance kept me in the dark about my condition. Eventually, you just learn to live with pain and discomfort. It was never severe enough to worry me. I just had a slight pimp limp. That suited me just fine. During Thanksgiving, my Grandfather commented that even HE didn't limp that badly and he was over 70. I laughed.
The final straw came on a Saturday in late '94. I went bowling for the first time. You can already see where this is going. It's basic physics, really. Tork. Redistribution of weight. A weak stress point. Another loud tear. First frame. First ball. Down I went again. I soldiered on in spite of the pain and managed to lead for the first five frames and even managed a couple of awkwardly rolled strikes. I went home, mindful that I had the following day off to rest my leg. By the following Monday, I still had great difficulty putting weight on my leg. I bit the bullet and went to the emergency room.
I was there for hours. Since I wasn't leaking any fluids, I wasn't high on the triage list. (As an aside, I do have to say that the people at South Austin Hospital run a decent ship. I would return there in 2000 for what would turn out to be emergency gall bladder removal. A nice man stuck his finger in my anal cavity while I was there. they run a decent ship.) Eventually I was admitted and X-Rayed. Reviewing the photo, the doctor used words like tumor and bone loss. I don't recall if he ever used the "C" word, but he may as well have. He did, however, admit that it was all beyond his expertise and said he would call for a consultation. He left me alone with my paranoia and made some calls. He returned in minutes and said that I needed to go immediately to the medical mall located across the street. There was a specialist there that needed to see me right away. He handed me the X-Ray, gave me a pair of crutches and told me I had to go see the specialist NOW.
This was the moment that stayed with me. This was when I knew I had Cancer and that I was going to die. I had the entire duration of the walk across the parking lot and the drive next door to contemplate my finite mortality and I came to the conclusion that I had lived a good life. I'd made some mistakes and failed to live up to certain expectations that I'd had for myself, but otherwise, I was happy. I could accept whatever came next.
I worry too much.
The reason the time rush was much simpler than a terminal diagnosis. As soon as I arrived, they rushed me to an exam room and told me to wait. The doctor came in almost immediately and apologized for the rush. He was actually in town from San Marcos and was late getting back. He agreed to see me on no notice because otherwise, I wouldn't be able to see him for another week. that was the good news. The bad news was that even he didn't really have a grasp on what the hell was wrong with me. He knew I had a tumor. But he didn't know what flavor. There's actually a variety. Time for another specialist.
This one was in San Antonio. Dr. Ronald Williams at the UTSA medical center. I've since been informed that if you have to get a tumor removed by anyone in Texas, he's the one to do it. Lucky me. I was diagnosed with a giant cell tumor. Not as scary as it sounds, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.
January 10th 1995 I was admitted into the UTSA medical center. 24 hours later, I had a 20 inch scar and a metal plate in my leg. They initially underestimated the area believed to be affected by the tumor. The projected incision of 10 inches was revised once the surgery was underway and they realized that the tumor was bigger than they thought. They hollowed out the femur, hence the metal plate.
I was off my feet for a month and used a crutch or cane for another two months. It was a fairly dark period. There was much brooding and introspection. Mostly, I just stayed on the couch and watched life pass me by. And eventually, I healed.
Late last year, I began feeling a slight discomfort in the hip socket of the same leg that was affected by the tumor. I was given a fistful of vicodin and a referal to a new specialist. A new set of X-rays showed slight abnormality that was possibly related with post operative healing, but without a set of interim X-rays to compare, it was near impossible to determine if the abnormality was recent or not. I was told to give it a week or two and if it got worse, then we would go from there. The discomfort has now meandered into the realm of pain and I'm back to using a cane for now. I look cool.
Because of the metal plate, I was told that I could have an MRI (not true according to the good people at Austin radiological), so I had a CTScan this past Tuesday. Horrible little procedure that involves the injection of contact dye into the blood stream. Stings like hell and burns your throat when it flows by there. As I walked around the exam area in my hospital pants, with an IV hanging from my arm, I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of Deja Vu. Kind of like when Jack Torrance arrives at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining.
I have a follow up on Tuesday and I suppose I find out one way or another what is to become of me.
This isn't a confessional post or even a biograpical post, really. I just wanted to explain my absence and provide some back story for when someone sees me with a cane and asks, "What'd you do to your leg?", like it's somehow my fault.
What can I say? It's complicated.
Anyway, I gotta go write about some Zombies.
Missy Elliott - Bring The Pain
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Always Chasing Windmills
(today's assignment is less about the 'writing' part, more about the 'creative' part)Your fictional town has just won the rights to a sports franchise. Decide on what this team will look like: what sport it is, the name/mascot, team colors, star players, etc. How does the town react to the new team? Are they elated? Is there some sort of controversy?
Sport: It's a college team, so the name carries to all sports
Team name: The Quixotics
Team macsot: A thin frail Knight in ill fitting armor...obviously. And a fat squatty sidekick.
Colors: gray and light gray
Logo: A broken windmill
The average season starts with unrealistic dreams of playoff victories that end pretty much halfway through the first game of the season. Always finishing last. There are no star players, but the games are almost always sold out. Mostly, people don't come to cheer. They come to heckle and laugh and pour scorn and abuse on our woefully inadequate team. By seasons end, everyone quits, only to start again next year.
Journey - Don't Stop Believin'
Sport: It's a college team, so the name carries to all sports
Team name: The Quixotics
Team macsot: A thin frail Knight in ill fitting armor...obviously. And a fat squatty sidekick.
Colors: gray and light gray
Logo: A broken windmill
The average season starts with unrealistic dreams of playoff victories that end pretty much halfway through the first game of the season. Always finishing last. There are no star players, but the games are almost always sold out. Mostly, people don't come to cheer. They come to heckle and laugh and pour scorn and abuse on our woefully inadequate team. By seasons end, everyone quits, only to start again next year.
Journey - Don't Stop Believin'
What's in a name
OK, so I got chastised today for the topics being harder this round. Between that and my being so exhausted that I didn't go out tonight and am about to go to bed at 12:30, here's a doozy for you:
Write one of those dumb name poems. You know the ones, from second grade. Yeah, use your name. Let's make it challenging by making you use first and last. And while you're at it, write one about your favorite animal or what you wanted to be when you grew up.
Old school fa reals.
(p.s. I know these dumb poems have a name, but i want to go to bed. feel free to bitch or show me up in the comments section)
Actually
Remembered
That
Thoughts of
Hollywood
Indiefilm
Eventually
Failed to materialize
yeah, not as cool an anagram as Noone Ever Really Dies, but there it is.
Concrete Blonde - Still In Hollywood
Write one of those dumb name poems. You know the ones, from second grade. Yeah, use your name. Let's make it challenging by making you use first and last. And while you're at it, write one about your favorite animal or what you wanted to be when you grew up.
Old school fa reals.
(p.s. I know these dumb poems have a name, but i want to go to bed. feel free to bitch or show me up in the comments section)
Actually
Remembered
That
Thoughts of
Hollywood
Indiefilm
Eventually
Failed to materialize
yeah, not as cool an anagram as Noone Ever Really Dies, but there it is.
Concrete Blonde - Still In Hollywood
Cop Out
OK, so I am a little behind on my writing, so I am giving myself a freebie on this one (you should be so lucky that i would give you one-haha!) So, one thing you may not know about me is that I actually get paid to write horoscopes once a week. Sounds fun, right? It's actually a bit harder than it sounds. But why tell you that, when I can make you experience it? Write a horoscope for 3-5 zodiac signs for this weekend. Check out cafeastrology.com (or find something on your own) to learn more about signs and monthly horoscopes for each one. I often consider what is going on in my life and my interactions with my friends when I am writing (Cancers and Pisces are the easiest, lol), so that might be a place to start.
Hey Leo, stop being such a jerk.
Cancer, get over yourself you big pussy!
Pisces...You're Dead Sexy. Don't change.
Leon Russell - Pisces Apple Lady
Friday, January 9, 2009
Like Bookends...
Today, I am inspired by Susanna and the clever title of her blog. So tell me, what exactly would happen if a squid and a monkey walked into a store? Or what would happen if a bull and a flamingo skip into a china shop? Or maybe a turtle and a gorilla mosey into a saloon? Go ape shit :)
Phillip scanned the menu. Burgers, salads, steaks, vegetable platter...
- How bout a Turkey O'Toole?
Barry stared back across the table at him. This was one of the reasons they rarely hung out anymore.
- Phillip...Look at me! I'm a friggin' Penguin. Do I look like a bloody cannibal. Seriously?
- Well, I dunno. I mean, it's Turkey. Turkey O'Toole. Not Penguin O'Toole. Fer fuck sake.
- You don't see me asking you if you wanna try the monkey bread.
- How is that even a comeback? First of all, it's not like monkey bread is even made out of monkeys. And B, it's not even that same animal. Apes and monkeys are about as different as whales and fish.
- Well, seeing as how I occupy the slot right between them on the food chain, I concede that point. But, I won't eat anything else on the same rung.
- Hawks and eagles do it all the time.
- Well, hawks and eagles can just go fuck themselves, can't they.
They sat in silence for a while. It always went back to this. Ever since Barry started seeing Valerie. Phillip could be civil for the first hour or two, but eventually, the frost settled in and the bickering started. But, they'd known each other for too long to just walk away. They were the bad habit they couldn't break.
- What are you thinking of getting, Barry asked.
- Veg plate. Maybe the fruit platter. I can't decide.
- Yeah. Me neither. I could go with the shrimp cocktail, but I sick of shrimp. I'm sick of fish.
- I guess the chicken's out as well, Phillip said with a crooked smile.
Barry chuckled.
-Yeah. No chicken...Sorry I got upset.
-No. My fault. I don't think sometimes. You know something funny though. You know how you said about monkeybread?
- Yeah.
- I heard somewhere, that Chimps'll eat monkeys.
- What?
- Yeah. Snatch 'em out of the trees and just club 'em or rip them apart with their hands and just eat them right there.
Barry sat open beaked.
- Why the hell do you wanna say something like that before we eat?
- I just though it was funny, how you make a monkeybread comment since I'm an ape and everything, but it turns out that there really is another ape that WOULD eat monkeybread. I mean if it were made with real monkeys...
- What the hell is the matter with you?
- Everyone assumes that we're vegetarians. I mean, gorillas don't really hunt or anything, but we do eat bugs sometimes.
- Do I know you?
- What?
- Phillips! Why can't we have a normal conversation anymore? Did you see that movie? have you heard that song? How's Valerie? You know. Normal shit.
- I don't go to the movies. I don't own a radio. And frankly, I could give a shit about Valerie.
- Here we go.
- No. Yeah. Here we go. You don't wanna hear it, but it's gotta be said.
- You should stop before you even start.
- You're no fun anymore.
- STOP
-She dresses you like an asshole now.
- TALKING
- She's the reason why Justin stopped hanging out with us.
- NOW!
- If you want to settle for for less that's your business, but someone has to say it to you.
- I'm going.
- No one says you have to marry the first girl you lay.
- Phillip. Since you're in the mood for honesty, let me fill you in on something. The reason Justin stopped hanging out with us, is that he couldn't take your incessant complaining. Having a sad gorilla face is no excuse. You bitch all the time and it was bumming him out. It bums me out too, frankly, but I just felt too sorry for you to walk away. I dreaded the thought of leaving you alone in the world, but at this point, I just don't bloody care anymore. You've alienated every friend you have in the world and if you don't do something about it, you. will. die. ALONE!
Barry shuddered with nervous energy. He'd held that rant in reserve for months and had practiced every word in his head. He never thought he'd ever have occasion to wield it, but now that it was out there, he felt a great pressure off his chest. It needed to be said.
Phillip just sat there with his sad gorilla face.
- Aren't you going to say anything?
Phillips was silent. Barry stared back at him and for a moment felt like he'd just made a mistake. For a moment he felt like he'd like to take back every word he'd just said. But he knew that not only was it far too late for that, but it really should have been done sooner. He knew that his life with Valerie was the most important thing he's ever had in his life and that he would do everything in his power to insure that it stayed that way. If that meant severing ties with his oldest friend, then he was okay with that. Phillip would never learn.
- I'm going, Barry said.
Phillip was silent. Barry hopped down off the booth seat and shuffled across the dining area of the Bennigan's. About half way across, he turned and looked back. Phillip still hadn't moved. He just sat there with his sad gorilla face. Barry turned away and shuffled out the front door. Eventually, a waitress came to his table.
- How's it goin'? May name's Brianna. I'll be your server. Can I start you off with a drink order?
Bill Withers - For My Friend
Phillip scanned the menu. Burgers, salads, steaks, vegetable platter...
- How bout a Turkey O'Toole?
Barry stared back across the table at him. This was one of the reasons they rarely hung out anymore.
- Phillip...Look at me! I'm a friggin' Penguin. Do I look like a bloody cannibal. Seriously?
- Well, I dunno. I mean, it's Turkey. Turkey O'Toole. Not Penguin O'Toole. Fer fuck sake.
- You don't see me asking you if you wanna try the monkey bread.
- How is that even a comeback? First of all, it's not like monkey bread is even made out of monkeys. And B, it's not even that same animal. Apes and monkeys are about as different as whales and fish.
- Well, seeing as how I occupy the slot right between them on the food chain, I concede that point. But, I won't eat anything else on the same rung.
- Hawks and eagles do it all the time.
- Well, hawks and eagles can just go fuck themselves, can't they.
They sat in silence for a while. It always went back to this. Ever since Barry started seeing Valerie. Phillip could be civil for the first hour or two, but eventually, the frost settled in and the bickering started. But, they'd known each other for too long to just walk away. They were the bad habit they couldn't break.
- What are you thinking of getting, Barry asked.
- Veg plate. Maybe the fruit platter. I can't decide.
- Yeah. Me neither. I could go with the shrimp cocktail, but I sick of shrimp. I'm sick of fish.
- I guess the chicken's out as well, Phillip said with a crooked smile.
Barry chuckled.
-Yeah. No chicken...Sorry I got upset.
-No. My fault. I don't think sometimes. You know something funny though. You know how you said about monkeybread?
- Yeah.
- I heard somewhere, that Chimps'll eat monkeys.
- What?
- Yeah. Snatch 'em out of the trees and just club 'em or rip them apart with their hands and just eat them right there.
Barry sat open beaked.
- Why the hell do you wanna say something like that before we eat?
- I just though it was funny, how you make a monkeybread comment since I'm an ape and everything, but it turns out that there really is another ape that WOULD eat monkeybread. I mean if it were made with real monkeys...
- What the hell is the matter with you?
- Everyone assumes that we're vegetarians. I mean, gorillas don't really hunt or anything, but we do eat bugs sometimes.
- Do I know you?
- What?
- Phillips! Why can't we have a normal conversation anymore? Did you see that movie? have you heard that song? How's Valerie? You know. Normal shit.
- I don't go to the movies. I don't own a radio. And frankly, I could give a shit about Valerie.
- Here we go.
- No. Yeah. Here we go. You don't wanna hear it, but it's gotta be said.
- You should stop before you even start.
- You're no fun anymore.
- STOP
-She dresses you like an asshole now.
- TALKING
- She's the reason why Justin stopped hanging out with us.
- NOW!
- If you want to settle for for less that's your business, but someone has to say it to you.
- I'm going.
- No one says you have to marry the first girl you lay.
- Phillip. Since you're in the mood for honesty, let me fill you in on something. The reason Justin stopped hanging out with us, is that he couldn't take your incessant complaining. Having a sad gorilla face is no excuse. You bitch all the time and it was bumming him out. It bums me out too, frankly, but I just felt too sorry for you to walk away. I dreaded the thought of leaving you alone in the world, but at this point, I just don't bloody care anymore. You've alienated every friend you have in the world and if you don't do something about it, you. will. die. ALONE!
Barry shuddered with nervous energy. He'd held that rant in reserve for months and had practiced every word in his head. He never thought he'd ever have occasion to wield it, but now that it was out there, he felt a great pressure off his chest. It needed to be said.
Phillip just sat there with his sad gorilla face.
- Aren't you going to say anything?
Phillips was silent. Barry stared back at him and for a moment felt like he'd just made a mistake. For a moment he felt like he'd like to take back every word he'd just said. But he knew that not only was it far too late for that, but it really should have been done sooner. He knew that his life with Valerie was the most important thing he's ever had in his life and that he would do everything in his power to insure that it stayed that way. If that meant severing ties with his oldest friend, then he was okay with that. Phillip would never learn.
- I'm going, Barry said.
Phillip was silent. Barry hopped down off the booth seat and shuffled across the dining area of the Bennigan's. About half way across, he turned and looked back. Phillip still hadn't moved. He just sat there with his sad gorilla face. Barry turned away and shuffled out the front door. Eventually, a waitress came to his table.
- How's it goin'? May name's Brianna. I'll be your server. Can I start you off with a drink order?
Bill Withers - For My Friend
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Rinse. Repeat
Routines are a part of our daily lives, something that many of us cannot live without. They can be monotonous or comforting, but without routines, most of us will never get our teeth brushed. Write a descriptive about one of your daily routines.
I don't know that I have any routines. I have habits, which aren't really the same. Odd shit. Like the fact that I always eat the outside of a sandwich first, andslowly make my way to the delicious middle. But I suppose that falls more in the category of neurosis or eating disorder. Along with my habit of eating my least favorite thing on a plate first.
At work, the first thing I try to do is check the stacks of paperbacks to make sure that nothing needs to go out on the floor immediately. But even that gets stymied by the fact that our schedules are fluid and I'm just as likely to start the day on register. Hell, I'm also just as likely to go in at 2:30 or 3:00. It varies from week to week. As does my lunch hour.
I sometimes wake up and turn on my computer first thing in the morning. After that, all bets are off. I might check my mail first. or I might check MySpace or Facebook. Or Digg.com. Or Goodreads. Or I might troll the music blogs for any thing I didn't know I needed more than anything in the world until I saw it for the first time today.
I say I sometimes wake up and do that, because lately, I wake up and switch the XBOX on. Playing a new game will do that to you.
I used to have a routine for making mixtapes that involved sitting in the middle of a room with large piles of CD's surrounding me as I sat there and made it up on the fly, letting the tape form as my mood suited me. It the mixTAPE era, you had the duration of the current song being recorded to decide what would come next. CD burners and itunes kinda killed that.
About the only routine I have is stopping at the Texan Mart before work and buying an RC Cola. Sometimes I get String Cheese. Sometimes a cookie or a handful of Jolly Ranchers. Green Apple.
Oh well. Consistency and Hobgoblins and all.
The Staple Singers - Lets Do It Again
I don't know that I have any routines. I have habits, which aren't really the same. Odd shit. Like the fact that I always eat the outside of a sandwich first, andslowly make my way to the delicious middle. But I suppose that falls more in the category of neurosis or eating disorder. Along with my habit of eating my least favorite thing on a plate first.
At work, the first thing I try to do is check the stacks of paperbacks to make sure that nothing needs to go out on the floor immediately. But even that gets stymied by the fact that our schedules are fluid and I'm just as likely to start the day on register. Hell, I'm also just as likely to go in at 2:30 or 3:00. It varies from week to week. As does my lunch hour.
I sometimes wake up and turn on my computer first thing in the morning. After that, all bets are off. I might check my mail first. or I might check MySpace or Facebook. Or Digg.com. Or Goodreads. Or I might troll the music blogs for any thing I didn't know I needed more than anything in the world until I saw it for the first time today.
I say I sometimes wake up and do that, because lately, I wake up and switch the XBOX on. Playing a new game will do that to you.
I used to have a routine for making mixtapes that involved sitting in the middle of a room with large piles of CD's surrounding me as I sat there and made it up on the fly, letting the tape form as my mood suited me. It the mixTAPE era, you had the duration of the current song being recorded to decide what would come next. CD burners and itunes kinda killed that.
About the only routine I have is stopping at the Texan Mart before work and buying an RC Cola. Sometimes I get String Cheese. Sometimes a cookie or a handful of Jolly Ranchers. Green Apple.
Oh well. Consistency and Hobgoblins and all.
The Staple Singers - Lets Do It Again
I got a propostion for you.
Anthony Bourdain gets to gallivant around the world indulging in a culinary map of marvels as we suckers sit home, salivating over some rare delicacy, or dry heaving over an even rarer delicacy. If you could go anywhere in the world with Mr. Bourdain, chef and booze-hound extraordinaire, where would you go, and which foods would you absolutely have to try? Pretend that this is a pitch to get him to pick you out of thousands of people, and really sell your idea. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, get out from under your rock, and go to travelchannel.com.
Alright dude. Here's the deal. You have been quite vociferous in your opinion of vegetarians. And that's cool. I don't begrudge you. You coast by on a seemingly endless bank of cool points that others with similar opinions (Nugent, Leary, et. al.) simply don't have. And frankly, after reading over some of the comments on the matter, I find most of my fellow vegetarians to be reactionary humorless morons who simply cannot take a joke. Well, actually, I feel that way about the majority of my fellow Liberals. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to be in their company. I'd switch parties, but I'm not a racist homophobic misogynist.
But I digress.
My point is, it may seem that we have a great chasm between us, but that's what they said about Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin. And if those guys could bring peace to the Middle East, then anything is possible. Here is my proposal.
Quid Pro Quo. Tit for Tat. Something for something else. Catch my drift? I've been a vegetarian for almost ten years. But I will put it on pause if only to let you see that we are not the enemy (well, most of us. I can't speak for the crazy ones, but then again, you can't speak for the nuts on your side either.)
Now, I know this seems a bit one-sided. After all, on a hypothetical level, you don't limit yourself to a purely carnivorous diet, while I, though not vegan, subsist otherwise. You always have the vegetarian option, you simply choose to not exercise it. But, have you ever really surrendered to a truly vegetarian meal. I don't mean something that has no meat, but rather, something that was prepared with just as much culinary care and consideration for palette any of your items on the menu at Le Halles. Your fondness for Indian cuisine has been noted, so I know you're willing.
It would make for brilliant television. Each episode, we would stop in an exotic city and you would sample the local vegetarian cuisine. And in exchange, for the duration of the season, I would forego my diet and subject myself to whatever you placed in front of me. Anything. The meaties would tune in to watch me squirm and the veg's would get a laugh out of watching you grumble and bitch about the food you're missing out on. And maybe, when it's all said and done, you might be willing to admit that there are Veg items that can stand firmly with some of the other recipes in your life. Sure, it's not marrow on toast with sea salt, but I suppose few things are. I just want this acrimony to stop. I'll take one for the team as it were. Then you can stop baiting Veg's and they can stop bitching. And honestly, it's not so much your baiting as their bitching that gets under my skin.
But, before we go forward, I do have to admit something in the interest of full disclosure. I'm Mexican. While this may seem to be a matter of little importance, I should point out that I grew up eating the parts of animals that most people throw away. Stomach. Cheek. Tongue. Tripe. Pancreas. All par for the course. Additionally, I'm one of the few vegetarians that will admit that yes, meat DOES taste good. I just choose to not eat it.
And as to the general image of vegetarians as 90-pound weaklings, I stand testament to the contrary. I've gained 20 pounds since I STOPPED eating meat.
C'mon. It'll be fun. And when we're not filming, we can go drink each other under the table at the hotel bar. We'll be the two coolest guys in the room. The Frenchman and the Mexican. It even sounds like a cool movie. Like a Spaghetti Western that takes place in Texas after the Civil War. We can even stay in touch afterwards. Exchange Christmas cards. Message each other on Facebook. Totally BFF's
Uh, did I mention that I developed a man crush on you last year? Yeah. After I read Kitchen Confidential. Even went out and bought my first heavy Chef's knife like you suggested in the book. Best purchase I ever made. Granted, I use it to slice peppers and onions instead of shanks and loins, but you get the idea. Anyway, think it over.
Seriously.
The Swallows - It Ain't The Meat
Alright dude. Here's the deal. You have been quite vociferous in your opinion of vegetarians. And that's cool. I don't begrudge you. You coast by on a seemingly endless bank of cool points that others with similar opinions (Nugent, Leary, et. al.) simply don't have. And frankly, after reading over some of the comments on the matter, I find most of my fellow vegetarians to be reactionary humorless morons who simply cannot take a joke. Well, actually, I feel that way about the majority of my fellow Liberals. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to be in their company. I'd switch parties, but I'm not a racist homophobic misogynist.
But I digress.
My point is, it may seem that we have a great chasm between us, but that's what they said about Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin. And if those guys could bring peace to the Middle East, then anything is possible. Here is my proposal.
Quid Pro Quo. Tit for Tat. Something for something else. Catch my drift? I've been a vegetarian for almost ten years. But I will put it on pause if only to let you see that we are not the enemy (well, most of us. I can't speak for the crazy ones, but then again, you can't speak for the nuts on your side either.)
Now, I know this seems a bit one-sided. After all, on a hypothetical level, you don't limit yourself to a purely carnivorous diet, while I, though not vegan, subsist otherwise. You always have the vegetarian option, you simply choose to not exercise it. But, have you ever really surrendered to a truly vegetarian meal. I don't mean something that has no meat, but rather, something that was prepared with just as much culinary care and consideration for palette any of your items on the menu at Le Halles. Your fondness for Indian cuisine has been noted, so I know you're willing.
It would make for brilliant television. Each episode, we would stop in an exotic city and you would sample the local vegetarian cuisine. And in exchange, for the duration of the season, I would forego my diet and subject myself to whatever you placed in front of me. Anything. The meaties would tune in to watch me squirm and the veg's would get a laugh out of watching you grumble and bitch about the food you're missing out on. And maybe, when it's all said and done, you might be willing to admit that there are Veg items that can stand firmly with some of the other recipes in your life. Sure, it's not marrow on toast with sea salt, but I suppose few things are. I just want this acrimony to stop. I'll take one for the team as it were. Then you can stop baiting Veg's and they can stop bitching. And honestly, it's not so much your baiting as their bitching that gets under my skin.
But, before we go forward, I do have to admit something in the interest of full disclosure. I'm Mexican. While this may seem to be a matter of little importance, I should point out that I grew up eating the parts of animals that most people throw away. Stomach. Cheek. Tongue. Tripe. Pancreas. All par for the course. Additionally, I'm one of the few vegetarians that will admit that yes, meat DOES taste good. I just choose to not eat it.
And as to the general image of vegetarians as 90-pound weaklings, I stand testament to the contrary. I've gained 20 pounds since I STOPPED eating meat.
C'mon. It'll be fun. And when we're not filming, we can go drink each other under the table at the hotel bar. We'll be the two coolest guys in the room. The Frenchman and the Mexican. It even sounds like a cool movie. Like a Spaghetti Western that takes place in Texas after the Civil War. We can even stay in touch afterwards. Exchange Christmas cards. Message each other on Facebook. Totally BFF's
Uh, did I mention that I developed a man crush on you last year? Yeah. After I read Kitchen Confidential. Even went out and bought my first heavy Chef's knife like you suggested in the book. Best purchase I ever made. Granted, I use it to slice peppers and onions instead of shanks and loins, but you get the idea. Anyway, think it over.
Seriously.
The Swallows - It Ain't The Meat
Man Crush Material!!!
Hello, it's me.
So it's 1:20am on Sunday, and I was just pondering which topic to do for tomorrow when I got this email from Carol, one of our 30dow compadres. It was effin' perfect:(Carol's note): This blog called "Dear Old Love" is a really fun way to waste a few hours. Similar to postsecret- people mail in their notes anonymously to their exes. The blog owner comes up with the title.Some are sweet, some are sad and some are..vengeful. Write a note to an ex. And don't be shy.
We have to stop running into each other like this. Seriously. I have best friends that I don't randomly bump into as often as I see you. Mind you, it's only been , what five times, in the last twenty years, but still. Considering we started out at opposite ends of the state, the mind boggles. But, this is the biggest small town in the world.
I thought that last goodbye was the last goodbye back in '89. Odd that I should run into you on a school shuttle bus two years later. I left town for a year or two and returned in '93. How was I suppose to know that you were working in the kiosk at the mall directly in front of my store. Or that you would be working at that coffee shop I walked into a few years later. I wasn't dating at the time and actually thought about asking you out again, when you threw me for a loop and showed me the ring on your finger. Boy, that was awkward.
It was the last time that really caught me off gaurd. Last I heard, you were moving out of state, your future husband being a big attourney and all. Your dad told me when he came to my grandfather's funeral. That meant a lot. So, imagine. The last place I expected to see you at was Target. Cute kid. Although I imagine he looks more like his dad. I wonder how old he'll be when I run into you again.
Anyway, i just wanted to say hi. And I wanted you to know that we did good. Sure, we said a lot of things. And I imagine we meant them at the time, too. But, they did just seem like the things you're supposed to say. When you're young and in love as the cliche goes. Or what passes for love at that age. I have nothing but great memories. You hold the distinction of being the only person that I never broke up with and who never broke up with me. Like I said, we just lived at the opposite ends of the biggest state in the world. if this had been Rhode Island, maybe the story would have ended differently. I'm not saying we'd still be together, I just think it'd made for an uglier conclusion. But as it was, shit just ended. And we are the better for it.
Any way, I just wanted to say hi. That's all. I hope all is well. I'm great. I hope you are too. I'll see you when I see you.
The Incredible String Band - First Girl I Loved
Eaten out of house and home
When studying a foreign language, one of the most perplexing, yet amusing forms of speech to master is the idiom. It's one of those things where the literal interpretation usually ends up to be hilarious, offensive, or outright jibberish. Choose an American idiom and use its literal meaning as the basis for a story.
First course, the carpet. With firm fiber and course filament it nourishes the belly and pleases the tongue. Then the walls. Or rather, the wall paper. It tastes not of marigolds and orchids, but sour paste. It is remarkably hard to wash down as it sticks to the roof of the pallet. And when the last panel is stripped bare, the light fixtures go next. The crush of each bulb between my teeth is satisfying. My jaws grind away until I'm left with a fine powder like a bland spoonful of saccharine.
I do this alone. The wife has left. Took the furniture. The children have moved on. There is no one to disturb me today or tomorrow, however long this takes. Looking at the empty remains of what used to be my life, I know this is right.
Feeling brave, I move on to the porcelain. I use a hammer to smash it down to managable bits. I lack confidence in the strength of my teeth, so I avoid mishap by swallowing each piece whole like a bitter pill. I suppose most would have left this unpleasantness to the last, but I prefer to save the good stuff for the end. Best to just get the shit out of the way, up front. The cast iron tub and the fixtures present their own problem, so I decide to declare the victory symbolic and move to the kitchen.
Off come the cabinets. I whittle away slivers at first, but decide that this slows my progress, so I bear down and gnaw away with enthusiasm. For the first time in days, I can feel my face flush with enjoyment. I allow myself a smile and a small laugh before continuing. I don't know how long this has taken, but the sky tells me that it's been the better part of a day. Without interior light, I blindly grasp at chucks of wood. I'm lost in the delerium of deliberate action. I almost don't hear the knock at the door.
Brushing myself off, I answer with the chain on the hook.
- Sylvia. Good to see you.
- Mr. Barley. Is everything alright?
- Yes. Fine. And you?
- Mr. Barley, could you open the door?
- No, I'm afraid I don't want to spread what I've caught. I was trying to sleep. Doctor's orders.
- Mr. Barley, we can hear noises from in there. Is that blood in your mouth?
- Must be the next house. Sorry, can't talk.
- Mr. Barley, if this keeps up we'll have to...
I shut the door.
My eyes are adjusted to the lack of light and I make my way back to the tool box. I use a box cutter to dig a hole in the sheet rock just large enough to fit the point of a small hand saw. As quietly as I can, I start cutting away. If Sylvia Goode has a mind to call the authorities, I know I won't have much time left. Still, the slow mindful sawing keeps me from getting so determined that I don't watch the wiring. The last thing I need is to die of electrocution.
At last, I lay out stacks of square chalk cakes before me and return to my task. By the time I've finished the last one, I've almost run out of bottled water. I have to conserve what remains. Surveying the house from room to room, I grab whatever small objects I'd missed earlier and toss them in my mouth like candy store treasures. A stray drawer knob and the occaisional loose screw. There was even a set of keys that I'd though lost long ago. And as I walked around, I remembered the other things I'd lost and never see again. Mostly days and events and memories. A wife. Children. Parents. It was good, what I was doing. It was the only way.
As dawn broke, I knew that I had come to the last. I would not be able to avoid Sylvia Goode much longer. She would have the police here in no time once I started. I knew that this is how it would end, but I didn't mean I looked forward to it. And by this, I mean the Authorities. No, as to the house, this was the part that I'd been saving room for all along. this would be the dessert.
Walking into what used to be my living room, I stood before the picture window and watched the street outside come to life. The first if the neighborhood children had begun to play in the neat well manicured lawns up and down the block. The last of the sprinklers were shutting off. Across the street, Sylvia Goode watched me from her front porch. She had the face of woman who had met dissapointment at every turn in her life. She didn't know what real dissappointment was.
I cocked back my arm and punched through the glass. A jagged shard tore open a gaping lacertion in my forearm. It was worth it just to see her expression. I could see her run inside, surely on her way to a phone. There was a madman across the street, and goddamn it if she wasn't going to see that something was done about it.
As the blood began to pour from my arm, I picked up glass panel from the floor and put it to my mouth. I wept with anticipation of the taste.
Sparks - Eaten By The Monster Of Love
First course, the carpet. With firm fiber and course filament it nourishes the belly and pleases the tongue. Then the walls. Or rather, the wall paper. It tastes not of marigolds and orchids, but sour paste. It is remarkably hard to wash down as it sticks to the roof of the pallet. And when the last panel is stripped bare, the light fixtures go next. The crush of each bulb between my teeth is satisfying. My jaws grind away until I'm left with a fine powder like a bland spoonful of saccharine.
I do this alone. The wife has left. Took the furniture. The children have moved on. There is no one to disturb me today or tomorrow, however long this takes. Looking at the empty remains of what used to be my life, I know this is right.
Feeling brave, I move on to the porcelain. I use a hammer to smash it down to managable bits. I lack confidence in the strength of my teeth, so I avoid mishap by swallowing each piece whole like a bitter pill. I suppose most would have left this unpleasantness to the last, but I prefer to save the good stuff for the end. Best to just get the shit out of the way, up front. The cast iron tub and the fixtures present their own problem, so I decide to declare the victory symbolic and move to the kitchen.
Off come the cabinets. I whittle away slivers at first, but decide that this slows my progress, so I bear down and gnaw away with enthusiasm. For the first time in days, I can feel my face flush with enjoyment. I allow myself a smile and a small laugh before continuing. I don't know how long this has taken, but the sky tells me that it's been the better part of a day. Without interior light, I blindly grasp at chucks of wood. I'm lost in the delerium of deliberate action. I almost don't hear the knock at the door.
Brushing myself off, I answer with the chain on the hook.
- Sylvia. Good to see you.
- Mr. Barley. Is everything alright?
- Yes. Fine. And you?
- Mr. Barley, could you open the door?
- No, I'm afraid I don't want to spread what I've caught. I was trying to sleep. Doctor's orders.
- Mr. Barley, we can hear noises from in there. Is that blood in your mouth?
- Must be the next house. Sorry, can't talk.
- Mr. Barley, if this keeps up we'll have to...
I shut the door.
My eyes are adjusted to the lack of light and I make my way back to the tool box. I use a box cutter to dig a hole in the sheet rock just large enough to fit the point of a small hand saw. As quietly as I can, I start cutting away. If Sylvia Goode has a mind to call the authorities, I know I won't have much time left. Still, the slow mindful sawing keeps me from getting so determined that I don't watch the wiring. The last thing I need is to die of electrocution.
At last, I lay out stacks of square chalk cakes before me and return to my task. By the time I've finished the last one, I've almost run out of bottled water. I have to conserve what remains. Surveying the house from room to room, I grab whatever small objects I'd missed earlier and toss them in my mouth like candy store treasures. A stray drawer knob and the occaisional loose screw. There was even a set of keys that I'd though lost long ago. And as I walked around, I remembered the other things I'd lost and never see again. Mostly days and events and memories. A wife. Children. Parents. It was good, what I was doing. It was the only way.
As dawn broke, I knew that I had come to the last. I would not be able to avoid Sylvia Goode much longer. She would have the police here in no time once I started. I knew that this is how it would end, but I didn't mean I looked forward to it. And by this, I mean the Authorities. No, as to the house, this was the part that I'd been saving room for all along. this would be the dessert.
Walking into what used to be my living room, I stood before the picture window and watched the street outside come to life. The first if the neighborhood children had begun to play in the neat well manicured lawns up and down the block. The last of the sprinklers were shutting off. Across the street, Sylvia Goode watched me from her front porch. She had the face of woman who had met dissapointment at every turn in her life. She didn't know what real dissappointment was.
I cocked back my arm and punched through the glass. A jagged shard tore open a gaping lacertion in my forearm. It was worth it just to see her expression. I could see her run inside, surely on her way to a phone. There was a madman across the street, and goddamn it if she wasn't going to see that something was done about it.
As the blood began to pour from my arm, I picked up glass panel from the floor and put it to my mouth. I wept with anticipation of the taste.
Sparks - Eaten By The Monster Of Love
Sunday, January 4, 2009
In A Paper Cup
So, I was going to do something else today, but since I was so drunk last night (and my computer shut down), I didn't get it in.
This morning (noon counts as morning, right?), I woke up from a dream about being in a town where a small volcano exploded. My brain took lots of strange things and put them together to create the reality of this experience, which ended up involving dinosaurs, antique stores, and banana cream pie milkshakes.
Natural disasters are something that almost all of us will deal with in our lifetime. Earthquakes, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, tsunamis. They are also great elements in literature, for if it there were no tornadoes, how would Dorothy have made it to Oz?
Today, write about a natural disaster. Either write about your experience with one, or write about a fictional event from a character's first person point of view.
Looking out across the rushing water, a judgement come from on high, I held back the weeping that threatened to suffocate me. Bottlenecked at my throat like some grand crush of sorrow, the cry that had built up all day would hold for now, lest I be the first broken straw in what would surely be the beginning of the collapse of my family. I would remain stoic. For my dear Rosette. and for Emily. Like stone figures, we sat perched upon the roof and watched as God cleaned the slate once again. Reaching down with the hand of flood, He wiped away this minor abhorance. My Father believed this valley was cursed. But you cannot curse what is already damned.
My child can never unsee the the things that have happened today, and for that more than anything, I suspect the permanence of my piety. For if days like this shape us, they can also misshape us. Leave us broken. Leave us unwhole. Gazing down at Rosette, I wonder what part of her will be missing after today.
It started with rain. We awoke to flat loveless thunderclaps. Short sharp bursts that resembled the sound of magnificent boards slapping together. There was no rolling echo, just lightning making its firm declaration of intent. Through the window, the pregnant sky extended beyond the visible horizon, a thick violaceous blanket readying to smother all that lay before it. The first drops hit with weight and authority, slapping against the shingled roof like a swarm of locust. Emily rose from the bed and gathered her robe about her, lured away by the sound of Rosette stirring in the room across the hall.
I stood ground at the glass pane, the opacity of the sky growing more inpenetrable with each passing minute. Across the street, I made out the thin frail shape of Miguel Sanchez. It was the first time in ten years that I'd seen him without his Mahogany cane. He resembled nothing less than a shadow in search of a body as he tried in vain to maneuver a wheelchair across his rain slick sidewalk. Without purchase, the tires slid in haphazardly with each thrust until a slight nudge to the right forced him over and left him rutted in the muddy grass. I watched him struggle for a while, then went to the closet and dressed for the rain.
Bob Dylan & The Band - Crash On The Levee (Down In The Flood)
This morning (noon counts as morning, right?), I woke up from a dream about being in a town where a small volcano exploded. My brain took lots of strange things and put them together to create the reality of this experience, which ended up involving dinosaurs, antique stores, and banana cream pie milkshakes.
Natural disasters are something that almost all of us will deal with in our lifetime. Earthquakes, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, tsunamis. They are also great elements in literature, for if it there were no tornadoes, how would Dorothy have made it to Oz?
Today, write about a natural disaster. Either write about your experience with one, or write about a fictional event from a character's first person point of view.
Looking out across the rushing water, a judgement come from on high, I held back the weeping that threatened to suffocate me. Bottlenecked at my throat like some grand crush of sorrow, the cry that had built up all day would hold for now, lest I be the first broken straw in what would surely be the beginning of the collapse of my family. I would remain stoic. For my dear Rosette. and for Emily. Like stone figures, we sat perched upon the roof and watched as God cleaned the slate once again. Reaching down with the hand of flood, He wiped away this minor abhorance. My Father believed this valley was cursed. But you cannot curse what is already damned.
My child can never unsee the the things that have happened today, and for that more than anything, I suspect the permanence of my piety. For if days like this shape us, they can also misshape us. Leave us broken. Leave us unwhole. Gazing down at Rosette, I wonder what part of her will be missing after today.
It started with rain. We awoke to flat loveless thunderclaps. Short sharp bursts that resembled the sound of magnificent boards slapping together. There was no rolling echo, just lightning making its firm declaration of intent. Through the window, the pregnant sky extended beyond the visible horizon, a thick violaceous blanket readying to smother all that lay before it. The first drops hit with weight and authority, slapping against the shingled roof like a swarm of locust. Emily rose from the bed and gathered her robe about her, lured away by the sound of Rosette stirring in the room across the hall.
I stood ground at the glass pane, the opacity of the sky growing more inpenetrable with each passing minute. Across the street, I made out the thin frail shape of Miguel Sanchez. It was the first time in ten years that I'd seen him without his Mahogany cane. He resembled nothing less than a shadow in search of a body as he tried in vain to maneuver a wheelchair across his rain slick sidewalk. Without purchase, the tires slid in haphazardly with each thrust until a slight nudge to the right forced him over and left him rutted in the muddy grass. I watched him struggle for a while, then went to the closet and dressed for the rain.
Bob Dylan & The Band - Crash On The Levee (Down In The Flood)
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