Tinfoil Viking Science

Second Splash

2011-09-17T06:22:00.002-05:00

Today, I'd like to begin describing this fantasy season using the human life cycle as my applied metaphor.

In week 1, fetal Hot Mustard Snack was almost stillborn. Despite his mother drinking and smoking during the pregnancy, with the threat of a bloody miscarriage looming, baby Mustard was born no worse than a bit premature.

Despite a couple fits of crying and wailing, my infant team weathered the difficult matchup and finally arrived safely at momma's tit, happily suckling breast milk and growing strong. (by this, I mean that I won over the Hoffster's Kingview team and now I'm ready for week 2.)

So why the picture of the baby with the poopy diaper? Well, if you weren't paying attention in the draft chat, Hot Mustard Snack does not refer to pre-flavored pretzels, Hot Pockets, or German takeout.

Mustard Snack refers to explosively crapping oneself. Shitting your pants, especially when your feces is sloppy diarrhea, is just disgusting. However, this activity (if you'd call it that) can actually have far more horrible connotations.

It can be applied to sexual perversion as well, if you're willing to apply the most vile and depraved abilities of your imagination. Think fecal foreplay. Horny scat munching. Brown corn chowder chomping.

Fucking awful, am I right?

The commissioner encouraged dirty, terrible team names at the season's outset. I chose this name for three reasons:

1. To please the commissioner by honoring his request.
2. If I win and continue to win, I will be metaphorically above you all, and therefore, shitting on my competition. If not, I'm just shitting my own pants.
3. This is King Of The Hill. Everybody knows the expression "the shit always rolls downhill." Even wet shit can do that, I imagine.

Don't worry, I'm almost done offending your delicate sensibilities. Butt now it's time for me to talk shit. (all puns intended)

Week 2 is here, and infant Mustard is fast approaching toddler status. It's time to empty the loaded diaper on Claymation Yukon's head.

Get your shampoo ready, pal.

BEG FOR MERCY

2011-08-31T21:20:00.002-05:00

Emperor Zod's Draft Review

It ain't easy being a megolomaniacal Kryptonian general. I should know. I spent ages imprisoned in the Phantom Zone, a harsh sentence issued by my former friend, Jor-El. Upon escaping and discovering Krypton had been reduced to interstellar rubble, only one avenue of vengeance remained to me.

Along with my former cellmates, Ursa and Non, I set course for Earth, the new home of the last son of Krypton. Kal-El, better known to you tiny ants as Superman, was my target. His blood had to be spilled to satisfy my desire for revenge. Sadly, my infinite greatness faltered, and with underhanded cowardly trickery, my henchmen and I were bested.

And now, years later, a further indignity has been visited upon me. Last week, I drew the final pick in a sixteen team PPR snake draft. As an evil mastermind, however, such a minor disadvantage could not be allowed to stop my plans to burn my enemies with lasers from my eyes, restore my dominance, and ultimately complete my ascendance from General to Emperor.

This is how a deity drafts. I present to you: The Art Of (Draft) War.

A casual perusal of our scoring system reveals a few interesting facts. Let's review them before we begin.

1. Quarterback touchdowns score 6 points, with bonuses for deep bombs, and a substantial 5 point bonus upon reaching 300 accumulated passing yards. Combine the high QB scoring with the scarcity caused by 16 teams requiring one, and I expect to see an early QB run. They are at a premium.

2. The running backs and wide receivers also have bonuses for long scoring plays, but when one factors in the point per reception, the wide receivers are weighted slightly more heavily. I expect those who have read the rules to opt for a wide receiver when all else is equal.

3. I've read numerous articles on myriad fantasy websites about the perils of drafting on past performance. Often these articles cheerfully display the percentage of QBs, WRs, and RBs who repeat as top 10 players at their positions from year to year. Inevitably, the conclusions show that QBs have somewhere around a 70% repeat rate, WRs 50%, and RBs 35%. These figures are approximate and drawn from memory, and may not be exactly accurate, (hatred for Superman clouds my recollections) but the point stands that the safest way to guarantee production from early picks is to err towards QBs and WRs.

In this league, all things considered, doing so is obvious. The question becomes, are my league mates paying attention?

Under the looming threat of a glorious hurricane, the draft began.

Round 1
10 of the first 16 picks are running backs. This bodes well for the mighty Zod. The only quarterbacks selected among the first 15 are Aaron Rodgers at 5, Tom Brady at 11, and Michael Vick at 12. The top remaining options are Brees and Rivers. Emperor Zod, with the final pick of round one, gleefully selects Drew Brees. (16)

Round 2
The board is mine. With my quarterback slot filled, it is time to own a top end receiver. The finest available are Larry Fitzgerald, Vincent Jackson, Greg Jennings, Hakeem Nicks, and Mike Wallace. None will make it back through the next thirty picks. Zod chooses Larry Fitzgerald. Zod chooses... wisely. (17)

I notably passed over Philip Rivers and Vincent Jackson. This was not premeditated, nor was it related to any negative outlook I have on the Chargers' offense this year. I expect greatness from both. I just felt the other two options were a slight notch above.

Round 3 and 4
My third pick is the 48th overall. My leaguemates have eschewed the wisdom of safer surefires, ignored the intricacies of our scoring system, and have proceeded to deplete running backs to a staggering degree. If I do not choose one now, the field will be utterly barren upon my next two picks. However, I cannot bring myself to take, with my 3rd and 4th picks, the likes of DeAngelo Williams, Beanie Wells, Mark Ingram, Fred Jackson, or Tim Hightower. Not when the value at WR and TE are still so supple and strong. Last year I struck gold with late round selections of Peyton Hillis and Arian Foster. I will attempt to do the same here, and use that top 10 RB high turnover rate to my advantage.

Emperor Zod selects Mike Williams (48) and Jason Witten. (49)

After four rounds I appear as such:

QB: Drew Brees
RB:
RB:
WR: Larry Fitzgerald
WR: Mike Williams
TE: Jason Witten
RB/WR:

Round 5/6
It is now time for picks 80 and 81. I was sad to miss Marshawn Lynch by two picks. All that remains at RB are goal line TD vultures, handcuff backups, and various other gambler's options. Being an extended draft, training camp has not progressed to the point where these facts are widely known: Reggie Bush will start in Miami, Brandon Jacobs is outshining Ahmad Bradshaw, and Ryan Grant may not be the starter. As a result, I didn't know it may be wise to take a chance on James Starks. I knew Daniel Thomas has been iffy, but was still considered the starer. I first fill my flex spot with Danny Amendola (60) and then deign to finally grab a running back, Daniel Thomas. (61) In retrospect: It's only a matter of time until Reggie Bush goes down with injury, right?

Rounds 7-12
Here I began raking up lottery ticket RBs. Aside from an auxillary WR in round 9, Antonio Brown (144), I netted the following: Jonathan Stewart (112), Michael Bush (113), Bernard Scott (145), Isaac Redman (176), Montario Hardesty (177).

Will J-Stew gets his 35% of Carolina's carries? Wil DeAngelo stay healthy? I know Stew is talented. Same situation for Michael Bush, almost exactly. At the time, Cedric Benson looked likely to go to jail and/or face a suspension, hence the Bernard Scott pick. There's a deep and rich history of Super Bowl running backs breaking down in the subsequent year, and this year that is Mendenhall, hence my choice of Isaac Redman. Finally, Hardesty, because well, why not?

Round 13/14
The backup quarterbacks were almost gone. I grudgingly decided I want one for Drew's bye week, and took Jason Campbell. (209) I wanted a sleeper TE to use as a trading chip, and to fill the bye week, so I took Lance Kendricks as well. (208) His bye week, it turns out, is the same as Witten's. This is what I get for drafting a backup tight end.

Emperor Zod will not discuss his kicker and defense. Such talk is below Emperor Zod.

Despite the glaring weakness at running back, which I believe can be overcome in-season via aggressive roster management, I believe I have a better than average shot to win this from the bottom of the draft pile.

I am coming to your planet. I will rule without mercy.

KNEEL BEFORE ZOD!

Screwing The Pooch

2010-08-26T15:57:00.003-05:00

Today, I proudly present a nasty little gem from guest blogger Jesus Canterbury.

I answered the door. It was my friend Johnny, with a plastic Target bag in tow. He was bug eyed and frazzled, like he just saw his mom sucking off his dad. His light grey sweater was speckled with either wine or blood. He barged in, knocking me out of his way, sending me tumbling over the nearest couch.

"What the fuck, dick smooch?" was all I could muster in retaliation.

"Sorry, buddy. Shit. Fuck. I don't know what to do. I'm freaking out." His erratic behavior and speech pattern reminded me of the 2 AM crack heads on Fremont Street in Las Vegas.

"Okay guy. Slow down. Start at the beginning."

"Well...I get home from work, open the front door, and I was thinking about how I should have peed before I left. All of a sudden, that fricken dog started biting and barking and pissing and shitting and I started kicking it."

In a matter of thirty seconds, he'd gone from erratic crackhead to a sobbing, crying drunkard.

"First off, shut the fuck up," I told him.

"Sorry, sir," Johnny replied. He flopped the Target bag onto my coffee table. In it lay the bloody carcass of a miniature poodle.

"Second off, who knows about this?"

"Just you and me, man. I fucked up. Michelle's gonna kill me, or at least break up with me. It just attacked, I didn't know. I kicked it a lot. Now it's not breathing. I can't feel its heart beat neither."

"SHUT the fuck up! Now sit the fuck down, and listen to everything I am about to tell you."

He proceeded to shut the fuck up and listen.

"First, you are going to call your girlfriend and tell her you opened the front door, and the dog took off. Then, you will play it off like a runaway dog. You will be playing the part of a good, supportive boyfriend. You and Michelle will go drive around your neighborhood and those nearby. When finding nothing after a few days, you will put up some missing posters and call Animal Control.

Johnny's mouth hung open.

"In a couple months, you will come home with a little puppy. Try a shih tzu next time."

I handed Johnny my phone and told him it was time to call his girl.

I grabbed the Target bag and nonchalantly tossed it in the dumpster.

Petty Docudrama

2010-08-25T18:50:00.007-05:00

file under: not proud of this

When I say "I don't wanna get caught up in the system again," you won't hear the same vehemence in my voice that you'd hear from say, a car thief, or a stickup artist. My tone would echo those stating opinions like "you should avoid gas station bathrooms" or "eating at White Castle can result in future agony."

I know it's borderline retarded to drive around without car insurance. (Am I being too generous?) That said, poverty is unforgiving, and sometimes you just gotta walk the edge. (I'm so dangerous.)

Three weeks ago, one of my headlights went out, and I didn't notice it. A cop sure did. I got a warning for the headlight and a ticket for operating a motor vehicle without proof of insurance. The cop kindly instructed me not to waste the court's time if I was actually covered. She told me to go the clerk and show proof. Unfortunately for me, I was far, far from home, out in the boondocks of Illinois, where Democrats like me generally fear to tread. Rectifying this mess would take a special trip.

Step one was purchasing actual insurance. Upon choosing cheap liability coverage, I received my documents and looked them over. I was hoping they would only show month/year timeframes, but alas, specific dates were present, and furthermore, the PDF was locked. I couldn't doctor it digitally.

I used the old 'print it, alter it, fax it to myself' trick. I went far enough to figure out the two dates were printed in Arial Narrow size 9, and were spaced 17 blank characters apart. With some scotch tape and a pair of fax machines reprogrammed to self-identify as my chosen insurance company, I set about laundering my proof of insurance.

My forgery was competent, given my limitations. Still, I have to admit, I was nervous. What if, upon presentation, I was questioned about my crappy fax copy? What if they called to verify my coverage? Would my provider simply affirm my policy's validity, or opt to provide detail? Would I have to concoct feeble lies about email attachment size limits? I had a vision of a blue haired old lady with bifocals, hateful of the public, scrutinizing my sad fax copy and looking up at me with suspicion, eager to ruin my day in any way possible.

I entered the provincial courthouse and strode up to the clerk's counter. Before me was a chubby twentysomething woman. Her skin was that sickly orange color that results from excessive spray tan. Her hairdo may have been a drowned muskrat.

I mentally reminded myself to say as little as possible. Liars often give themselves away, after all. She took my ticket and fax. I saw her lean down to look over the tiny numbers, comparing my coverage date range to the date of the ticket. She gave a quick nod, disappeared briefly to make a photocopy of my forgery, told me I didn't need to appear for the scheduled court date, and sent me on my way. Simple, easy, microwaveable, repeat as necessary.

In my life, I have now successful employed forgery and bribery in my battle to stay clear of the system. My bona fides as a traditional Chicagoan are solid.

Later this week, I promise: A guest post about a murdered dog

Co-Pilots (Three's A Crowd)

2010-05-13T17:45:00.008-05:00

I treat my friends poorly. I ignore their phone calls. I flake on long standing plans. I drink all their beer. I offer advice unasked for, often on subjects I know little about. As a result, my social pool is now very shallow. I'm down to a few stalwarts: hearty, stubborn folk who insist on tolerating me.

There are drawbacks: I occasionally experience bouts of loneliness. This is equal to isolation, which I treasure, but on those rare days I actually want to socialize, my isolation gains a negative quality and morphs into loneliness. This generally passes quickly.

There's upside: I see my people once every six weeks or so, and in between, blessed silence. I rarely have to mingle, tell new people about myself, discuss my career, elaborate upon my taste in automobiles, or recite lists of my favorite musical acts. It's just my familiars, all inside jokes and hangovers.

This has all changed since I moved out of Chicago. After getting bent over and roughly fucked by Barrington Lakes (What do you mean I can't get that studio apartment even with a co-signer? Fuck you!) I found myself with nowhere to call home. Since then, I've been riding the couches and recliners of friends and relatives. I romanticize this by telling myself I am experiencing a modern nomadic lifestyle. I can pay long outstanding debts. I can save that rent expenditure. These aspects are fantastic.

Important Tangent!

My grandmother died several years ago. She was cremated. When my father died, the funeral home was given her ashes and instructed to place them with Dad's remains in his casket. They forgot. They kept her on a basement shelf. I never knew. Then, Uncle Richard died. He was cremated. When the funeral home called to inform my sister Anita that his remains were ready to be picked up, they casually mentioned that Grandmother was still there. Anita was upset. She claimed possession of both Grandma and Richard. We kept them in the closet in our apartment. I agreed to take them before we moved out.

End Important Tangent!

On moving day, I rented a storage locker and carefully stacked my worldly possessions (mostly chess sets and horror novels) within it. Everything was stored away except the remains of my grandmother and uncle. I couldn't bear to put them in a storage locker. That was one indignity too many.

Ever since then, I've had two corpses riding shotgun in my Nissan. We go everywhere together. Technically, I'm still alone most of the time, but now I have people to talk to anytime I feel lonely. Grandmother could best be described as a stern school teacher / grammar nazi. Every year at Christmas she gifted me classic literature. Off the top of my head, I know I got volumes of Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway, and O.Henry from her. My uncle was a gay mailman. No elaboration necessary, I trust.

If I'm hungry, I have a Lunchtime Decisions Council. Truth be told, their suggestions are fairly useless. Grandma is always suggesting non-drive thru fare like roast duck, quail, rabbit fricassée, and root vegetables I've never heard of. (and I know my produce, folks) Uncle Richard suggests salad. Every time.

When traveling for work, I bring them into my motel room. When I complain that it's difficult to masturbate to weight loss infomercials at three in the morning, they don't say anything. Maybe they never had that problem.

I've been trying to get them to sing along with me during long drives, but we simply don't share any taste in music. They appreciate the occasional Mozart or Beethoven, but Tchaikovsky is too bombastic. Uncle Richard will occasionally throw in a cannon boom on 1812 Overture, but that's about it. Grandma insists on opera, and I just can't go there. The rock and pop are met with stony silence. Rap leads them to rattle their urns in protest. Fortunately, the urns are tightly packaged, wrapped in paper and foam within sturdy cardboard boxes, so the only sound is a light swishing.

Sometimes I want to brag about all this, because I think it's both cool and interesting, but it seems wrong to do so out loud. Maybe a little weird. Instead, I wrote this blog.

One day, I hope to give them their proper due, either burial or mausoleum. Right now, that's an expenditure beyond my means. Until then, I'll never leave my windows down or my doors unlocked, and they're just going to have to get used to techno and gyro sauce.

Fat Girls and Crossword Puzzles

2010-04-10T02:09:00.010-05:00

Setting: Albany Park, Chicago, a few years ago...

When they all started to giggle and look sideways at me, my daydream faded. I awoke to reality. Once again I was was back in the restaurant, seated at the employee table in the corner, surrounded by fellow barmen and waitresses. I suddenly realized I'd become the center of attention.

"What?"

"Is it true? Scotty said you picked up a fat girl at Grealy's last night. He said you just disappeared for two hours. So?"

"Wow. Didn't expect that to be public knowledge. Um..."

The giggles intensified.

"Fine. Yes I did. So what?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just..."

More laughter. At first, I felt a tingle of shame. Then, indignation.

"You wanna know what happened? Fine. I'll tell you. I went to meet Scotty and Brian at a bar near their flat in Albany Park last night. It's an anonymous little faux Irish joint called Grealy's.

"I sat at the end of the bar, and as the place filled up and began to crowd, this girl named Anna walked in. Yes, she's a big girl. She sat next to me. I was focused on working over the Sun-Times crossword, waiting for my friends. When I got stuck, I began calling out questions to nobody in particular, you know, just out loud to my general vicinity.

"'Nine letter word for historical French fracture, fifth letter is P. Anybody?' The answer came from the stool beside me.

"'Bonaparte.'"

I halted my reminisce to take stock of my audience. The group assembled before me stood, blinking, antsy. I was beginning to lose them. They wanted to hear about me fucking a fat girl. Time to get to the point.

"Right, so anyways, we talked for a few minutes until she blushed and blurted out 'Wanna see my apartment? It's one block away.' I said yes. We left. Fucking happened. So there you go."

They all started talking at once.

"Was it good?"
"Was it gross?"
"Are you mad at Brian and Scotty for telling everyone?"
"That's nasty."
"Nice one, chubby chaser!"

I cut them off.

"Quiet! Jesus! Okay listen. I enjoyed myself a lot, thank you very much, and so did she, I like to think. For the record, I found her very attractive, so no, it wasn't gross, and no, I'm not embarrassed. Ever heard the old proverb 'There's no such thing as an ugly woman?' How about 'Every woman has her charm?' Because both are true. There's something to like about each and every one, tall ones, skinny ones, short ones, fat ones. I don't care what conventional wisdom says about it. I'm not afraid to be attracted to someone because society says I shouldn't. Fat chicks can be hot, too.

"Yeah, I said that. Got a problem with it? Didn't think so. Fuck your shame. When I say I got lucky last night, I mean it."

They had stopped babbling.

"You wanna know what I think is the most attractive quality in a woman?"

They stood, rapt and riveted, silent, awaiting my answer.

"That she wants to have sex with ME."

Protracted Bildungsroman

2010-04-03T06:43:00.009-05:00

She turned me down.

I laid it all out there tonight. I rang her bell at 2am. Invited inside, I witnessed her friends snorting coke and fucking one another indiscriminately. Casual orgies polluted my peripheral vision, but I remained focused on her. She and I ignored the drug/fuck fiends.

She had more important issues on her mind. She was depressed. (She always is.) I praised her virtues, tried to give practical advice, or inspiration, or whatever qualifies for those categories. I tried to be good for her.

They all left.

She put on magnificent stockings and pranced around, working her Swedish ancestry for all it was worth. Great legs. We talked for hours. I know everything she won't tell anyone else. I know her better than anyone. Maybe we're too honest with one another. Entirely possible. So I told her the truth. She looked at me sideways.

I chased her before, a year ago. She said no. I should've stopped there.

After that, I wanted to give her the cold shoulder to protect myself, but every time she rang my bell, I opened my door.

Eventually she chased me back, half-heartedly. Things happened, but I was just an intermission. I got attached. She cut that off. I was naive, baffled. I sequestered myself.

One day, she showed up, ready, hands on. I was skeptical. Skittish. I said no. (I wouldn't accept her all drugged up and desperate and emotionally bare, no matter how much I wanted her) I wouldn't fuck her cheaply, even if it was her birthday.

Tonight was the last chance. We really connected. (in my pathetic mind) I'll be moving away at the end of the month. Time to put up or shut up. So I said it. All of it. She had this look on her face, like she'd just shit her pants. Not what I was hoping for. Turns out I'm just an also ran, no matter how much (I think) we connect.

Fuck.

Okay. Bye. I've always stood alone before, so it's no big departure now. I'm not gonna bleed. I know better than that.

I'll miss her. Maybe one day we'll cross paths again, but I hope not.

During the short walk home I saw Klieg* lights behind a neighbor's front yard fence. Two Colombia College students had a blue tarp covering the little front yard. Upon interrogation, I learned they were filming a student project, a short film about a frustrated granddaughter and her Alzheimer's stricken granddad. I exclaimed jealously, wishing I had a role in their early AM activity, but alas, I did not. I continued down the last twenty steps of the sidewalk until I reached home, alone, primed for one last whiskey.

Here I am, one man, a keyboard, and a penchant for confession.

I'm bewildered. I think I'll just never get it.

When I left, she looked heartbroken to see me walk away. I just don't understand anything.

<*Klieg is an exaggeration>

Human Physiology Lecture Bank

2010-03-12T16:13:00.002-06:00

Gary Taubes, Stevens Institute Of Technology, 2/6/08
Macronutriets and Metabolism

Christopher Gardner, Stanford University, 1/17/08
Atkins vs. Zone vs Govt vs. Ornish

Robert H. Lustig, MD 7/30/09, UC SF
Glucose vs. Fructose vs Ethanol

I Scrub My Brain With Smart

2010-03-10T17:11:00.010-06:00

The word "brainwashing" has negative connotations, but I embrace it as a method of DIY reprogramming that can be used for good or ill. In my case, for good. For me, it's the power of positive thinking portrayed with sarcastic cynicism. It's an effective aid to habit swapping when used in a voluntary fashion upon oneself.

I used to be the kind of person who felt betrayed by life. Thinking I deserved endless joy and constant satisfaction, I was content to sit around and await their arrival. I invested no effort, and was surprised by the lack of dividends.

When my habitual over consumption left me overweight, unable to breathe, constantly ill, and frequently depressed, I piled on. More tobacco. More alcohol. More cocaine. More weed. More food. More sleep. None of these provided anything but fleeting respite.

For a long, embarrassing decade, I was bewildered. Why was I such a shitsack? I deserved the good life! A bounty of riches! Respect! Attractiveness! Happiness!

Then, of course, I quit smoking, altered my diet, began exercising, and miraculously, felt a whole lot better physically and mentally.

I like to think I left my former self behind completely, but that's not completely true. That sorry, whiny, complacent caricature still surfaces. I consider his porcine mindset to be my evil alter ego; the proverbial devil on my shoulder. I still frequently fall sway to his dulcet harp despite the resultant consequences.

Last Saturday I bought a pack of cigarettes and a pizza. The cigarettes provided no satisfaction, serving only to raise my body temperature, artificially accelerate my heart rate, and coat me inside and out with a fine layer of yellow tar filth. My complexion shaded gray. They were suppose to be an indulgence, an alternate to alcohol as a way to relax, basically, a reward for good behavior. Instead of enjoying them, I was left with naught but counterproductive nostalgia and shame. The pizza was supposed to be a joy wallop of verboten foods, wonderful tasting, no effort, calorie dense/nutrient sparse garbage. The taste was underwhelming, despite ordering from Pizza Metro, one of my former favorites. I gorged and fell asleep sweating.

This led to a Sunday of leftover pizza, cigarettes, and sluggish deadness. I farted a lot. I was glad to empty the ashtray and throw out that pizza box at the end of the night. My rewards had become punishments to be endured, not indulgences to be savored.

On Monday I didn't want to move. I didn't crave a cigarette, amazingly. I guess addiction is no longer my default state. My fruit/vegetable/meat diet didn't recharge me back to energetic vibrancy until halfway through Tuesday, when I finally had the willpower to restart my push-ups and sprints.

Why are the weekends such a danger zone for me? How come I keep fooling myself into thinking that a temporary reversion to my old self will somehow be fun? I keep doing it, like slamming my finger in a door because it'll feel nice to stop.

I suppose this is progress. Instead of blithely embracing pollution, I now feel exactly how sludgy true gluttony feels. Instead of comfort, these poisons give honest accounts of themselves to my body chemistry. I morph into a slump shouldered foot dragging old man for 48 hours after this crap. I much prefer the energetic healthy guy I am during the weekdays, the one with massive lungs.

Really, this means I need a new hobby. I can't hibernate two days a week with fuckloads of spare energy to burn. This restlessness without an outlet leads me backwards. I need an activity.

For the first time in ten years, I actually want to go outside. As a bonus, springtime is dawning. I am thrilled by this development. I never was before. I even used to tell people that winter was my favorite season. Fuck that, am I right? Yep, my spring has arrived.

Lucky me.

Dancing Lung Puppets

2010-03-02T18:15:00.005-06:00

I've decided to go with a paleolithic diet. The general philosophy is this: Man's evolution has progressed over millions of years; the agricultural revolution began somewhere between 5000 and 10000 years ago, therefore, we have not genetically adapted to grains & sugars. Occasional sugars from fruit are okay; cavemen had them when they were in season. The idea is go from a glucose based metabolism to a fat based one. Higher insulin sensitivity, fewer blood sugar spikes/valleys, greater satiety from food eaten resulting in fewer calories consumed, no food with high caloric/low nutrient ratios, you know, basic physiology hacks. How did I get here?

Since I quit smoking and knew I'd be eating like a hog, I chose fruits and vegetables. I now eat a lot of them, probably 75% of my daily food intake. No joke. My poo breaks the toilet's water line three times a day, and that's in bulk piles, not sturdy links standing up. (I eat plants for hours straight upon arriving to work) These provide all of my carbohydrates, albeit in limited numbers.

I began to exercise. Push-ups, sit-ups, bicycle crunches, shit like that. I looked into structured home exercise programs, and also solicited advice from trusted friends regarding frequency, stretching, and common rookie pitfalls. I learned new exercises previously unknown to me, such as lunges, squats, crossovers, and burpees.

My own online research led me to realize what I was doing was fairly close to a regimen of high intensity, short duration bodyweight workouts espoused by numerous anti-cardio paleo gurus. These I could do from home, which appealed to me, as I felt a gym membership was A) too expensive B) socially offputting C) required me to be somewhere specific D) the enemy of spontaneity.

The most accessible was the Primal Blueprint, Mark Sisson's plan. All of it was free online in blog form at marksdailyapple.com, so I read a few years worth of entries. Without consciously deciding to follow it his lifestyle plan, I began to shy away from Diet Coke and rice. I cut back on the citrus fruits and carved up celery and carrots instead. Now, I guess, I'm buying into it formally. Apart from some beer and a small bit of hamburger bun over the weekend, I've been grain & sugar free for about 10 days.

So here I am, following a defined formal structure, something I generally count myself as allergic to. (ended in a preposition, crap) I just added sprinting to my regimen last Friday. I do this in the long freight hallway at work, late at night, once the other staff and cleaning crews are long departed.

Holy shit. I knew my lungs were damaged, but I didn't realize how badly until this. I suppose I wasn't really scraping my alveoli with the bodyweight workouts. While running hard, I generate a foamy lather in my lungs and throat after a few good lengths down the freight hall. It feels like I squirted detergent into my mouth, swallowed it into the wrong tube, and started the steam cycle. Running has given me the puke reflex, too, but fortunately the splashouts have all had a pulmonary source; the ejectus: lung butter; not my precious vegetable matter. In the ejected murk I can taste those old cigarettes, even faint traces of menthol from way back when. I've been carrying this wet scum around for a decade plus, basting on new layers of grimy lacquer with every carton. Quitting was so long overdue. It feels gross to wring out my lungs with violent gasping, but I believe this process to be necessary cleansing.

They say it takes 1 year of healing for every 2 years of smoking before you get back to a normal breathing state. I hope my aggressive, youthful approach can reduce that significantly.

I'm about to go run a few. It's either that or heave a station wagon over the building. I'm fucking charged.

Cotto No No

2010-02-26T15:38:00.010-06:00

I was having trouble sleeping last night and decided two slices of cotto salami might do the trick. After eating fresh meat and rabbit chow* for two weeks, processed lunchmeat tasted like a fistful of motherfuck. The sweaty lard glistened. The ligament chunks were like little bulges of old pimple. The peppercorns were soft and soggy. My tongue was coated in semi-rancid meat slime. I imagine tongueing out a fat person's creases would taste that way.

Recently, I loved this stuff. I was buying 12 oz packages (16 slices) for $1.25 a pop. This is the cheap stuff, so I'd have to peel the edge rings, which were plastic, I think. But I'd accomplish that with my teeth and place 4 slices of this stuff between two slices of either seeded rye or pumpernickel, generally accompanied by a processed american slice manufactured by whatever off brand my supermarket pimps out.

I still have more of this shit left. Maybe I'll poison it and give to annoying dogs that bark all night long.

*rabbit chow = produce
**right now? fennel, sweet yellow bell pepper, jicama, spinach, and pea shoots (all raw joy)

Excrement Measuring Cup

2010-02-24T17:11:00.014-06:00

When I started this blog,...

No. Wait.

When I founded this institution, I wrote in it like a diary for the the first year. After I started experimenting with fiction and memoir, I got a bit self-important (founded! institution!) and stopped writing simply to gratify myself. I implemented quality control. I took into consideration my (mostly imaginary) audience. After a couple years of hot and heavy writing, I lost steam, became overly critical of my output, and finally trickled to a near halt. (trickled to a near halt? Jesus that's awful)

No more. If I am to resume frequent writing, I must pick and peck away with nary a whit of self-consciousness; no consideration given to any litmus of quality. In fact, this garbage likely won't be very entertaining. It's my blog, and I can ramble on about mundane nonsense all day long if it pleases me. Call this Operation Plummeting Standards.

It's just a damn diary, who cares if I don't lock it and hide it under my bed like every other self-respecting 4th grade girl?

Uh...

So. Writing stuff down. Not like riding a bicycle. Forgetting happens. Style, grace, eloquence, depth? Eh. Linear? Pshaw.

Nope. Just grocery lists and workout stats here. Maybe even some bitching about everyday annoyances. I'm like your mother in law, except with a penis and fewer menopause references.

On January 9th I quit smoking cigarettes. It was a Saturday. I had a Marlboro Medium at 11am. It tasted like dry rape. I was recovering from a pre-pneumonia upper respiratory infection, throughout the course of which I was my usual chimney-like self. I put that cigarette out and thought, "I guess that's enough."

Unlike previous attempts, there was no momentous decision. There was no quit day, or last pack, or planning of any sort. I just went cold turkey late one morning, casually.

As a result, my infrequent pot smoking ceased. I can't smoke a bowl without a post-bowl cigarette. I can now pass a drug test with confidence for the first time in over a decade. (never taken one, never needed to) I drink infrequently. The two times since I quit that I've gotten good and loaded, both times I smoked a cigarette(s), and as a result, felt like shit and had trouble breathing for two days afterwards. I'm glad that I didn't use those few drunk cigarettes as an excuse to cancel my quitting, like I would've in the past. I just went right back to not smoking.

I'm not good a moderating my alcohol intake, anyways, and I haven't really enjoyed being drunk since I stopped using cocaine and ephedrine, so I'm thinking of quitting alcohol altogether. No concrete pledge right now.

So I'm a clean person these days. I never envisioned this version of myself. It's strange. I've decided I like it. I feel fantastic.

I knew I'd eat more. I gave myself a week to eat whatever I could could shove in my greasy face. The next couple weeks, I transitioned from candy bars to oranges as my primary snack. Soon, carrots and celery replaced pizza and gyros as my afternoon repast. I stopped buying ice cream and soda pop altogether. Research ensued.

I listened to some Michael Pollan lectures on youtube. "Eat real food. Not too much. Mostly plants." I stopped patronizing fast food places and began spending time in the produce section. I stopped shopping the aisles and stuck to the periphery of the grocery store. Meat, dairy, produce. No processed, refined, man-made pseudo-food. Goodbye Little Debbie, you whore. Fuck off, Chef Boyardee. I discovered that I love things like persimmon, tindora, jicama, daikon, and edamame. I also learned to avoid parsnips and turnips.

Now I'm a pro at steaming brussels sprouts for exactly 7:15. I know I like asparagus with plain butter, not hollandaise sauce. My mom gave me a crock pot, and I use it at least once a week to prepare curried vegetables or chili for consumption at work. I've become a big fan of tupperware containers. I've put myself on a 90% paleolithic diet, so no bread, pasta, refined sugars, starches, or grains, but all the bacon and corned beef I can stand. Eggs too.

I read fitness blogs for new and interesting bodyweight workouts. I bought a nice 3'x8' exercise mat, an 8 lb. medicine ball, some 15 lb. dumbbells, and a jump rope. I spend about 5-10 intense minutes a day with them, which is enough to make me sore. I'll step it up as my body adjusts. (I've been a lazy shit for a long time, so my body can't take much before my knees and shoulder threaten to sever, and my lungs are still very confused and angry.)

I feel pretty damn good. My life is less about what I'm not doing (smoking) and more about what I am. (practicing healthy activity) Give me a few months and you may see me as a testimonial on a late night infomercial.

Oh, and my bowel movements are legendary.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

2009-12-26T19:06:00.011-06:00

There's really nobody to blame but me.

Be a man, be a player, show confidence, leave a trail of gaping vaginas in your wake. That's the ideal. Look good, exude virility, be confident, notch your bedpost, and stack up those female trophies on your proverbial mantle. It's all over the television. Success is congratulated, failure is scorned. Looks. Social status. Sex sex sex.

One could blame external factors. But that's weak shit. Am I right? Nobody to blame. But...

When I was in third grade I had my first schoolboy crush. A girl named Lisa Drabicki. I told my best friend, Michael Suchy. (Names have not been changed to protect the innocent.) He waited until the entire class was sitting in a circle in gym class, silent, before giving in to temptation and blurting out my secret at the top of his lungs. My face went red. I looked at Lisa, who appeared shocked, and then I looked down at the floor. I didn't look anyone in the face for weeks. For some reason, I was ashamed.

I remember a day in junior high when a friend dared me to ask a girl, any girl, to be my girlfriend. I was in seventh grade and still years away from puberty. But I loved a good dare. I asked Leslie Foss, the blonde who sat next to me in geography. I was shocked when she said yes. What next, I wondered? We hung out at her house one day. Her dad insisted her bedroom door stay open, and that no kissing take place. "Never!" I exclaimed. And I meant it! I broke up with her a week later in an elegant manner. I separated our desks, which had been pushed together, and refused to speak a word to her. She called me an asshole.

I graduated to high school. I told my parents about girl I liked at Thanksgiving dinner freshman year. They teased me. "Ooohhh! Little Stevie's got a crush! How cute! You gonna kiss her? You gonna make out?" To me, this felt like the inquisition. I learned that any admission of attraction to the opposite sex was something to inspire shame and derision, and therefore required secrecy. I never again spoke to either of them about girls. Ever. Before he died, my dad confided to one of my sisters that he was afraid I may have been molested sometime during my childhood and was somehow damaged. I forgive him for that.

(these white russians are giving me the hiccups already on my third pint? fuck, must keep writing this, before I lose my courage)

I almost lost my virginity when I was sixteen. I was drunk, feeling great, speaking my mind about whatever I liked at a small party, and I looked and felt like a guy in charge of the universe. Everything was perfect. Before I knew it, I was sucking face with a girl named Megan Smith. "Stay," she said. All my friends were walking out the front door to leave. I was in. But I freaked. I jumped up and left and sprinted out before the car got away.

Why?

Insecurity. When I was little kid, two or three maybe, I climbed the medicine cabinet and ate everything in it. My folks had to take me to the hospital to have my guts pumped and to have them empty my bladder by slicing through my scrotum. Or something like that. My mom tried to tell me once, but I didn't want to hear it. For all I know it was just a good old-fashioned undescended testicle. I should probably ask Mom sometime. Yeah right.

With Megan, All I knew is that my nuts hung unevenly and my scrote was all scarred up. I felt like a freak. That, and I was afraid my penis was too small, and that I was too whiskeyed up to get hard. Basically, I was just a horribly insecure chickenshit, and I fled. Megan always made fun of me for leaving after that, although very subtly. I certainly offended her, though I didn't mean to.

By the time I was twenty-three I was the only virgin I knew. I'd finally moved out from my folks and lived with a roommate, Pat Randall. I was somewhat desperate but completely unequipped to do anything about it. I went to a Halloween party in Schaumburg and saw a girl I recognized from elementary school, Melanie Shwartz. She looked fantastic and could hold up her end of a conversation. I really liked her. I asked her out and got her number.

We went for breakfast one morning and I asked her back to my place to watch a movie. We sat on the couch. I put my arm around her, but it ended up stuck between her back and and the couch, numb, as she sat there uncomfortably, miserable, arm jammed into her spine. I sat beside her, awkward, miserable, silent, and utterly incapable of anything suave. For two hours. It was awful. No, I was awful. The epitome of dork. Bad. Very bad. When the credits rolled, she fled. Fast. She never spoke to me again, justifiably.

A few weeks later, still a virgin, consumed with my own pathetic energy, I finally lost my virginity on a technicality. My little sister's best friend, Lisa, was having her 21st birthday party at Exit, a punk bar on North Avenue in Chicago. I went. Lisa obviously had a crush on me for a while. Was in love with me, I think. She said so. I lied, telling her I always wanted her too, even though I didn't mean it at all. We made out on the third floor, in the darkest corner of a dark bar, until I finally asked her home with me. She ditched her own party, and neither of us told my sister where we were going.

We groped one another the whole drunken ride home, giggling and making eyes. When we got there I dumped my carcass on the bed and waited while she disrobed in the bathroom. She shyly came into the bedroom and joined me. We were both disgustingly shitfaced. I was half-hard, she was barely wet, but we took out turns giving one another head with no joy. We mutually decided to try to fuck. I proceeded to pop in and thrust away. I kept slipping out. Doggedly determined I kept at it for ten minutes until I heard her snoring. I backed away. She was splayed out spread eagle, asleep, leaving me no room on my own bed. Any dignity I had was far, far gone. I left my room and slept on the couch, satisfied that I was not a virgin and didn't have to put so much pressure on myself any longer.

When I was twenty-seven the doubt bubbled back to the surface. I was lonely, but I was so ill-equipped to tackle anything remotely close to intimacy. But then, amazingly, someone began to pursue me. Somebody wanted me, liked me, accepted me. It felt really good. We spent some time together. Thick as thieves. Went to a bachelor party, where I got shitfaced and ended up owing a stripper money I didn't have. She got mad and tried to have me bounced, but I got it covered by someone else, luckily. Me and my partner went back home and made out a bit, but it was weird for me, so I called a stop.

The next time I saw him, he sucked my dick. I stopped him halfway through. Sure, I was drunk and whisky-dicked, but I knew it wasn't my thing. I told him to stop, told him sorry. I connected with him mentally, but physically, it just wasn't right for me. So that answered that. I wasn't gay after all. We still get on okay. He was worried the fag shit might sour me on him, but no, we're cool.

Finally, last week, a girl I've known for over a decade came by at midnight to smoke a bowl and have a cocktail, and brought one of her friends along. (I'll call my longtime friend Ella and her friend Ally, because I'm definitely protecting the innocent now) We're shitfaced, etc., and after a few I'm dazed and out of it when, suddenly, I look up, and they're making out on my couch! YES! I stare. They pause for a moment, and Ella says, "Ignore him, he's not paying any attention." To which I reply, "How could I not?" They look up, slightly surprised by my reply, and beckon me to them.

There I stood, inexperienced, terrified, asking myself: Am I a man at all? This is what we're all supposed to want, right? A threesome? Step up or castrate myself, simple as that. So I step up.

I ripped off Ella's pants and ate her pussy like a starving man. Not much skill, but shit tons of enthusiasm, and I could tell she enjoyed it. Ally felt left out, so she removed my pants and went to work on my junk.

But.

But.

Whiskey.

I had to tell a woman to let go of my dick. A week later, and still it haunts me.

Why? Because it wouldn't. Fucking. Work. Wouldn't stand to attention. There she was, kneeling, looking up at me, ready to put her mouth to work, with an expression on her face that said... that spoke... of such deep disappointment. A disappointment that defines the entirety of my sex life.

I did the only thing I could. I went back to eating pussy. Until I couldn't breathe. At which point Ella said "Fuck me! Fuck me fuck me fuck me!"

I said "No." Because I couldn't. Fucking whiskey.

So here I am, the day after Christmas, sitting alone, totally tossed on white russians. I haven't written anything worth a shit since my dad's eulogy. I figured this one was a long time coming, no pun intended. Or fuck you, pun absolutely intended. I guess I'm just happy to be typing, my one true love.

I hope you had a laugh or two. Maybe feel better about your life. I feel better. A weight has been lifted. Confession is good for the soul.

Now playing: The Band - When I Paint My Masterpiece

Asshole Practice

2009-05-21T17:49:00.003-05:00

Alcohol Abuse Counseling Group: Level 2 Significant Risk - Session 3

I sat out in the car until 9:57 AM, electing to wait until the last possible moment to enter. I went inside early last time, and after several hours of sitting in a room full of uncomfortable strangers discussing confessional topics thick with shame and reproach, I'd fled with urgent haste. This time, I intended to minimize the time I spent in group therapy.

This was an error. With only twelve chairs and ten victims present, I was left with two seating choices: wedged between a fat guy in a Daytona 500 shirt and a hippy clad in visibly moist sandals, or on the end next to the narcoleptic woman with bulging eyes and a constant wheeze.

I chose the end. I chose the old lady.

I detoured to the refreshment table and poured some gutter coffee into a tiny styrofoam cup, dusted creamer and sugar into it, and reluctantly sat beside the terrifying crone.

Ten minutes into the session, I saw people snickering in my general direction. Turning my head to absorb this curious and disconcerting phenomenon, I spied the old lady's head, nay, her whole body, tilting towards me. A distant observer might say she was about to take a nap on my shoulder, but I deemed it more likely she'd fall completely off her chair and shatter her osteoporosis-riddled frame directly upon me.

Our session leader, Dr. Victor, witnessed this slow motion catastrophe in progress and saved me from the need to act.

"Nancy! Earth to Nancy!"

She snapped back to vertical posture, albeit slouched, and blinked rapidly, slowly gaining awareness of her surroundings.

"Sorry... it's my... anemia... the medication... it..." She trailed off, mentally vacating to visit the dual hospital/carnival minstrel show playing 24/7 in her feeble mind.

"Stay with us, Nancy." Victor continued his monologue on the medical effects of cirrhosis.

Five minutes later, the giggling began anew. I looked, knowing I'd see Nancy's dishwater blond hair descending once again upon me. There she was.

"Nancy! Please, Nancy, have some coffee!"

Thanks again, Dr.Victor. Two saves in a row.

I spoke up. "Doc, do you have any folding chairs with seatbelts?"

"Okay, okay, be nice, Steve."

Dr. Victor was already cautious with me. At the first session, he'd remarked that Alcoholics Anonymous has grown exponentially in recent years. He illustrated this by showing the 2003 AA chapter book and then the 2009 edition. The recent one was easily seven times the thickness of the earlier book. I made a crack about churches using AA to lure sadsack addicts into Christian indoctrination. This caused the session to stray into a heated half hour long theological debate.

So Dr.Victor encouraged participation from everyone but me. He'd be perfectly happy if I stayed quiet. I think everyone there shared an unspoken agreement that keeping the Steve hush hush was to the benefit of all.

Having me speak up to belittle the medically afflicted woman could only be a precursor to me fucking everything up again.

To tell the truth, I couldn't imagine why this woman was there. These alcohol classes are mainly for people trying to regain their driver's licenses. Everyone there was a recent DUI bust. This woman can't even maintain consciousness, and she wants to drive?

I kept silent.

I'm trying to imagine her drunk. It's not working.

Back in reality, Dr. Victor passed out maps displaying how many meth labs were busted in each of the fifty states during the year 2005.

"Doctor, excuse me for interrupting, but what relevance does methlab density have to drinking and driving?"

"This is about addiction of all types, and the damage done to individuals and society as a result, Steve. If I may continue?"

I harrumphed.

An hour later, my seventh cup of coffee swill had me jumpy and anxious. I desperately wanted to tap my toes or crack my knuckles, but I didn't need to stack another method of annoying people onto my already impressive resume.

Dr. Victor put on an old VHS tape of hospital patients mumbling depressing testimonials. Everyone's attention was fixed forward, and as a result, there was nobody there to catch Nancy when she finally fell.

Except my shoulder.

I Love My Office

2009-04-01T18:38:00.004-05:00

4/1/09 4:03 PM CDT

"Take all your guns home, Nick. They're making Brian uncomfortable."

"What? Come on, Len. This is an April Fools joke, right?"

"No."

"But... but... I've had guns here on and off for a year. It's my hobby. Yours too! We go shooting all the time. You love my Springfield nine! We're supposed to go to GAT on Monday. Is that canceled, too?"

"No, of course not. We'll still hit the range. Relax. It's not me that's upset. It's Brian. The M1 Garand was one thing. It's an antique. The two 9mms were fine because we were visiting the range in the afternoon. But then you got that AR-15 last week. That's a pretty fucking scary assault rifle. You know that."

"I'm not gonna shoot anybody! And I took the damn thing home!"

"I know you're not. The very idea is ridiculous. But you know he's uncomfortable with all this militia stuff. You should've known better than to brag about the explosives yesterday. Seriously, Nick. You paraded around the office showing off canisters of ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder, blabbing about getting tracer rounds to set them off. It was the last straw for Brian. He doesn't wanna see any more of your toys around here."

"But they're legal until you mix them together!"

"Look, I know. But Brian is a delicate flower."

"This is bullshit. The only things I keep at the office are spare rounds. As decorations. It's not like I keep my armory here. The explosives are for the barn we're burning down next week. Perfectly legally, I might add. Everyone else loves my toys, except him. I'm just showing my stuff off. The majority of the staff here appreciate it. Then I take the weapon of the week straight home. I see no problem."

"Well, now Brian complained to my wife, and there's nothing I can do. I can't have him threatening legal shit. Keep it out of the office. Okay? When we're going to the range, bring the sweet ass nines, but keep them in the trunk."

"Okay, I guess."

"Thanks."

"Hey Len! Can I attack Brian with water pistols tomorrow?"

"..."

"Admit it, it'll be funny."

Generosity Of Spirit

2009-03-24T18:44:00.004-05:00

7/07/07
2:45 PM

The phone rang.

"Steve here, start talking."

"Hey, it's Ken. I need help. Say yes."

"I'm listening."

"I'm really fucking horny. I'm bursting here. I can't stand it!"

"And you're calling me... Why are you calling me? Go jack off."

"No, no, see, I need you to give me a ride. I've been looking up escorts on my iPhone. You know, Craigslist, shit like that. There's some pretty good ones on there. There's this one petite blond, goes by Kelli. I emailed her and she'll take me tonight. $300 for an outcall. I need to get to the Extended Stay America in Schaumburg, but my car broke down last week."

"If I heard you correctly, you have a busted car and several hundred dollars. Am I missing something here, or are you?"

"The car's gonna cost a grand, man. It'll keep. I can walk to work. It's a fucking print shop, I can show up sweaty and nasty. I need to get off. Come on."

"What's in it for me, Ken? I don't want to sit in a hotel parking lot for an hour, looking suspicious, while you're inside catching crabs. Take a cab, whoremonger. Obviously you can afford one."

"Not if I have to keep the meter running for an hour! That'll probably cost more than the hooker!"

8:48 PM

"Alright, we're here. Now go fuck. And you owe me."

I sat in the car smoking cigarettes, reading a John Irving novel by the dim interior lights. Ken had been inside for forty five minutes when the hotel's fire alarm went off.

I considered the pile of smoldering cigarette butts on the pavement beside my car. I'd been chain smoking, but it looked like I'd been there for hours. I thought about the fire trucks and police soon to be crowding the lot. Potentially blocking me in. I thought about fire marshals, questions, and outstanding warrants for my arrest.

Time to go. Sorry, Ken.

As I drove across the lot, threading my way to the exit, evacuating guests began streaming into the lot. They milled about, confused, swapping information, looking around and up at the windows, trying to find an actual fire. I was almost out of the lot when I heard Ken shout.

"STEVE! WAIT!"

There he was, wearing naught but his socks and boxer shorts, dripping with sweat, coated in glitter, sprinting towards my car. I halted and unlocked the passenger side. He hopped in, hyperventilating, eyes wide, his wallet clenched tightly in one fist.

"I thought strippers wore glitter. Hookers too?"

He ignored the question.

"GO GO GO!"

I wasn't about to peel out. Whether I'm guilty or not, I know better than to look like it. Calmly, I continued away, leaving the Extended Stay and a parking lot full of bewildered folks behind. Most were watching, entertained by the nearly naked man running and shouting.

Ken kept craning his head to gaze through the rear window, trying to see if Kelli had made it out yet.

"Why do you keep looking back there? I mean, you paid, right? You have to pay up front. Don't they make you?"

"Well, yes and no. You put the cash on the dresser."

"So what's the 'no' part?"

"Well... When the fire alarm went off, I kept fucking, but she said to stop, so I did. I pulled out and started getting dressed. I was wondering how this was gonna work, cause I only got to come during the blow job, and I paid to come twice, once in her mouth, once in her pussy. I mean the condom. But anyways, when she reached for the dresser, I pushed her away and snagged it, but I was all energized and shit and I pushed too hard. She flew back and fell off the bed, hit her head on the other nightstand, and started screaming shit about her pimp castrating me. Or killing me. Something bad. I don't know. Her face was bleeding. When she went for her purse, I figured she had mace, or a tazer, or something. So I bolted."

"I thought you were a bad person before, Ken. But not a very bad one. You know? Jesus. I want this fucking glitter out of my car; you're sweating it all over the seat. You're paying for an entire wash."

"I'm a bad person? No way man! I didn't even get to finish!"

"You still have the $300 then, right?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna get an eightball?"

Hero Worship (An Obituary)

2009-03-21T04:19:00.011-05:00

One day my father said this: "I wish you were never born." We were enemies, you see.

His father, Albert, never took much active interest in him. So when my dad, Tyler, joined the Boy Scouts, he went to meetings and campouts with his best friend and his father. As a result, when I was born, he promised himself he'd make a better father.

He enrolled me in Tiger Cubs and then Cub Scouts. He not only participated, he was the Packmaster. My mom was a den mother. I earned every activity badge in Webelos, the last stage before graduating to Boy Scouts. I loved it. As a Boy Scout, he was there beside me at every campout. He was an awesome dad.

When I became a teenager, my interest in scouting waned and I gravitated towards teenage things like girls, drugs, and popularity. (my lack of those, specifically, though I got pretty good at acquiring and using drugs) It wasn't cool to be best friends with Dad anymore. He wanted me to make Eagle Scout far more than I did. He kept dragging me to meetings. I only wanted to camp. I began to resist and resent, and found ways not to be home when it was time to go to Troop 493 meetings at Dirksen Elementary. It wasn't long before Dad and I stopped being best friends.

We still got along. He taught me to play chess, a family tradition. He never gave an inch. I always lost, but I loved it, and never gave up. We played for years and years, even after we grew to hate one another. He taught me about computers in the eighties and early nineties, long before the days of graphic interfaces. Everything was hexadecimal and text entry. (I hated it when Windows became an operating system, with point and click, because it let idiots into the wonderful world of computers, which I felt was the private playground of the intelligent.) We still had things in common. But we weren't best friends anymore.

He was changing, too. My mother got a hysterectomy after my folks' fourth child, Andrew, was born in 1983. Her sex drive departed with her fertility, and as my parents' intimacy evaporated, my father found a substitute in bourbon. None of that registered with me as a youngster, but by the time I was 13 or so, my parents rarely spoke to one another, and when they did, it was curt and snide. Mom slept in the bedroom. Dad slept on the living room couch or the floor. He drank a fifth of Ten High every night; Wild Turkey if he was feeling extravagant.

Home from work in the evenings, he'd sit on the couch, the TV usually off, staring into space, chain smoking Bensen & Hedges De Luxe Ultra Lights 100s. Near the end of the night, shitfaced, he'd remove his pants and button down shirt, leaving him sitting there in black dress socks, white briefs, and threadbare white undershirts. Sometimes all his clothes came off. Often he passed out face up on the floor, drooling, snoring loudly, or both. He was never a violent drunk, just a distant, melancholy one.

Such behavior severely undermined a father trying to maintain authority and impose discipline. None of us four kids took him seriously when he yelled at us for misbehavior, or grounded us. How could we take him seriously? When he ate lunchmeat late at night and left it on the coffee table, Anita and I would sometimes unpeel the remaining slices and layer his naked, prone body with them, giggling all the while, secretly masking our helpless distress. I made fun of him to my friends, pretending none of it bothered me.

My mother is a quiet, sweet woman. And a very soft touch. She never yelled at any of us, never disciplined us. She simply nurtured and supported. As a result, when I rebelled against my dad and quit high school midway through sophomore year, there was nobody who could successfully punish me or force me to go back. I chose instead to stay home and play on the computer, or, when Dad's angry tirades annoyed me enough, I'd stay at friends' homes for weeks on end, supporting an exciting drug habit with money from a fast food job. I always ended up back home, though, a disappointment to my father, a smart but angry teenager wasting his potential and destroying his future.

I hated the man. Daily he committed the worst sin, in my view, which was hypocrisy. I heard lots of "Do as I say, not as I do" and "Because I said so." One of many screaming matches ended with him saying "I wish you were never born." That one made me cry. I guess I did care what he thought, as much as I told myself otherwise.

I didn't learn to drive until I was 22. When I finally had my license, Dad tried to kick me out for the fifth time. (His previous attempts failed when I told Mom and she allowed me to ignore him.) This time, instead of running to Mom, I simply packed up and left. I was afraid I'd never amount to anything in life, and living with my folks wasn't cool for a 22 year old. My peers had graduated high school 4 years before (I never have to this day) and most had left for college. I knew my evolution to adulthood was long overdue.

I wasn't a total deadbeat during those years from 18-22. I had a good work ethic and was working for both Hewlett Packard and Enron, but I'd never paid a bill in my life. My income was disposable and I had lots of fun with it, to my father's chagrin. As a result, striking out on my own was a huge deal.

Having finally flown the nest, I learned that life was one hell of a struggle when you have to provide for yourself. I gained a measure of appreciation for old Tyler, realizing he'd supported a family of six for almost two decades despite being desperately unhappy. He kept the family boat from sinking while basically estranged from not only his wife, but his entire family, who treated him with hatred. Some of that hate was his fault. He was certainly the catalyst, but I fueled it, too, in my arrogant teenage way, using diplomacy and persuasion to frame the battle as us vs. him, with everyone on my side. I was extremely successful at that, which I still regret.

Two years after leaving home, I was between jobs, broke, and had a falling out with my roommate. I swallowed my pride and went back to my folks' house. By this time my hatred for my dad had evaporated. Absense makes the heart grow fonder, they say. I had a newfound awareness of financial struggle, resulting in a begruding respect for the old man. I was ready to mend our relationship.

I came home expecting derision, lectures, and fifty varieties of "I told you so!" and "tough out there, huh?" I expected a difficult and painful reconciliation.

What I arrived to find was a sad, broken man, still a slave to bourbon, now without hope. And so, so lonely. His industry, electrical engineering sales representation, had evaporated with the twin advents of direct sales and outsourcing. His savings had dwindled to perilous levels, then nothing. His stabs at new careers like insurance sales and Amway had failed, and with all his kids reaching their early twenties and moving on, my mother, Kristine, finally felt she could divorce him without feeling like she was disappointing or abandoning her children. Papers were filed. Dad was almost broke and on the verge of losing not only his home, but also his family, whom he loved deeply, despite his ineptitude at displaying it.

Enter me, his oldest son, and biggest enemy. I could almost see the resignation on his face when, on my second night back, I grabbed his Ten High, poured myself a couple fingers on the rocks with a splash, (same as him) and sat down beside him. I say almost because his face was already beaten with resignation, and the words he expected to hear from me were just going to be frosting on his cake of doom.

Instead, he got a surprise. I spoke.

"Dad, I'm sorry. Sorry I never listened to you. Sorry I disappointed you. Sorry I hated you. I was young, arrogant, and ignorant. I couldn't fathom the sacrifices you made for me, for the entire family. I couldn't understand that you wanted the best for me, which is why you always tried to direct my life in positive directions. I have some good things going for me now, I think, but on balance, I'm more failure and missed opportunity than success. But that's okay, I'm still young; I'm learning every day. I could blame you for where I went I wrong, but that wouldn't help either of us. So I'm done with that.

"I used to blame you for your weaknesses; for alienating me. A lot of choices I made before, when I was younger, were born of anger. I wanted to spite you. Not anymore. I take responsibility for my life and my actions now.

"Dad, I love you. You're my father. I'm not absolving you completely. In many ways, you failed me. You tried to push me in directions you thought were good for me, but I couldn't listen because I just didn't trust you, and that's your fault.

"You gave up on your wife and love too easily. You gave into self-pity and addiction instead of being a patient and loving husband. I know about Mom's hysterectomy, Dad. I know her passion burned out. But you weren't strong enough to wait, or find a new way to love Mom. You failed each other, and as a result, failed your children.

"Despite that, though, you kept the family together and provided for us. Even when we had no respect for you. Even when we hated you. You were surrounded by your family but completely alone. I see that now. Your strength.

"Now everybody is splitting up. I know you're terrified we're all going to move on with life and forget about you now that we don't need you for money anymore. I know you're bitter as hell about the way everything is turning out. But that's wrong, that isn't true. You are not alone. You are not unloved. Now you need us. I've talked to Anita, Carolyn, and Andrew. We don't hate you. We love you. Very much. Mom still loves you too, she just can't be with you anymore.

"I love you, Dad. You taught me so many great things. You made me, for good and ill. I don't want to be enemies anymore. So no more of that bullshit silliness. I'm here Dad. I'm proud as hell to be your son. I look up to you more than you can know."

We hugged. We cried. We played chess. We drank bourbon. My relationship with my father was reborn and blossomed during what was otherwise the worst summer of my life. I beat him at chess, finally, for the first time ever, then beat him again. I gave him all my money to help pay the overhead. I was merely prolonging the inevitable. We were evicted. The family scattered to the winds. Anita was married. Andy and I went with friends. Carolyn and Mom got a place together. Dad was alone.

He rented rooms in crowded flophouses full of divorced men and parolees. He delivered pizza and auto parts. He mourned for himself and longed for the past. He bought dirt cheap Indian reservation cigarettes via mail order, switched from bourbon to handles of cheapshit Skol vodka (less detectable on his breath than bourbon) and soldiered on, drunk, depressed, and lonely.

Interventions failed. Everything we tried failed.

He descended further. He stopped renting rooms in crammed houses full of other bitter men and slept instead in his minivan, all his possesions in the back. When winter came, he went to shelters. He hung out with junkies, losers, drunks, and priests. My father, who made six figures one year. My father, who had a degree in electrical engineering from the University Of Colorado at Denver. Tyler, proud father of four, was now just another broken hobo drinking himself to death. He had given up and accepted an ugly end long before his children tried to save his soul, and no effort we made could change the outcome.

One night, he called me asking for money for rent, telling me he spent the cash he'd set aside for it on an emergency car repair. I didn't have it. At that point I had finally gotten an apartment of my own, without roommates. I treasured my solitude and privacy. On the phone with him, something itched inside me. I said no to his request for money, but I asked him to come live with me. Maybe it wasn't too late to save him. He arrived in his van, the remainder of his wordly possesions stuffed within it. A little over a month later our cohabitation ended badly.

The last time I saw him was at Christmastime 2007. I'd heard, from my litter sister Carolyn, that he was in bad health. I called him on Christmas Eve and asked him to spend it with me. He was hesitant. I knew he was afraid of missing final check-in at the shelter. I told him he could stay overnight. I told him to bring his vodka and a fresh change of clothes for the next day. He agreed and I gave him directions.

We talked for hours, smoking cigarettes, reminiscing. We told stories from the past, glorifying the good times, laughing at the ugly ones. When he started to reach that slackjawed heavy drunk mode, I interrupted him and demanded his full attention. I had serious words to impart.

"Dad... I know you're never going to stop drinking. Even if you're capable of it, you just don't want to. You won't. You're gonna die. You're gonna fucking die! Not sometime in the future, but any fucking day now!"

I was crying. I was squeezing his shoulders, shaking him.

"I love you so much. You're my hero. You're my idol. I'm like you in so many ways. I'm my father's son. I am you. Watching you like this, it rips me apart, Dad. So... I just... fuck. I guess... I'm saying goodbye to you now, Dad. I might see you after this, I might not. You're beaten. You're broken. You're dying. I'm fucking furious that you're leaving us like this. You fucking asshole. You fucking shit. I love you, godamnit. Fuck!

"Just know. Just know that... you're my hero. Even like this. Even as a shell. Even... even... Fuck! I'm gonna miss you Dad."

He looked at me, glasy eyed, so wobbly he couldn't even sit up without bobbing left and right, and said, slurring, "I know, son. I know. I'm sorry. Sorry."

He coughed, long and deep.

"I love you. I'm proud of you. You're a good son. Thank you for that."

He paused for moment, looked away, then turned back to me and said, "I'm so scared."

We sobbed until we ran out of energy. We sat silently smoking cigarettes, side by side, looking at the wall, until he was just too drunk for consciousness. He knocked over the ashtray and his vodka, and almost fell from the couch to the floor. I pushed and prodded him into a position that was more likely to keep him from falling off the couch. I went to bed, heartbroken.

I saw him the next day, on Christmas, but there was nothing left to say. When he left Mom's (our holiday gathering place) to head for the shelter, we hugged fiercely.

June 15th, 2008 was Father's Day. I was working a double shift as a bar server at Buffalo Wild Wings in Hoffman Estates. The general manager, Jay McDonald, knew a bit about my family history from conversation.

"Hey Steve. Talk to your dad today?"

"No. I don't think I will. I'm kinda angry at him."

"You should call him. Things happen, you know? You might not get another chance."

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe I will."

I resolved to call him after work. Fast forward three hours.

My big sister Anita called me during the dinner rush.

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

"It's Dad. He had a heart attack. He died."

"..."

I broke down. Lost it completely.

-----

I miss you, Dad. You bastard shithead. You angel. You wonderful, wonderful man. I have so much left to do in my life, so much I wanted you to see. To be proud of me. But you won't. You're gone.

I love you, Dad. Hope you're okay.

-----

R.I.P.
Tyler William Giles
10/7/49 - 6/15/08

Raindrops Keep Fallin On My Head

2009-03-18T19:32:00.005-05:00

"Red, crying's not for me,
Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain
By complainin,
Because I'm free,
Nothing's worryin me."
-"Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head," BJ Thomas

By the time you read this, I'll be dead. I just wanted to have the last say.

Once upon a time, everybody was sympathetic. People were nice to me, and I got lots of attention, lots of people curious about my accident, and what it was like.

I always answered as best I could, but after what I'm planning to do today, I expect this goodbye note will become famous. Instead of being the guy who survived a lightning strike, I'll be the guy who went on a campus rampage with two pistols and bad aim.

It started with the lightning, obviously. I was golfing. (Yes, I used to golf, which proves I was an asshole even before all this.) I was finishing the back nine just ahead of a fast approaching thunderstorm. I didn't know lightning could strike without rain. Before rain, I mean. Why should I even have considered that? I still think it's fucking ridiculous.

I was in a fully extended backswing when it struck. My senses were overloaded. The sharp, sudden noise, the all-enveloping hotness, the feeling that every last cell in my body was popping like grease in a hot pan. Then I was out, gone. If my partners hadn't sought medical help, I probably would've died. I wish I had.

Okay, okay. Might as well be honest on this day, my last. That was all bullshit. I always told people that because it sounded more interesting, but I wasn't golfing. (I have no opinion on golf itself, but I do think all golfers are useless assholes.) I wasn't even outside. I was taking a shower. During a thunderstorm. I'd never heard about the danger, never even thought about it. (which kind of fits with my lightning before rain fiction.) It was actually my girlfriend who saved me. All the power in the house went out and I fell out of the shower at the same time, wet and crispy all at once, like that cereal. She heard the thud and came running, yelling my name. My arm broke when I landed. So that's the actual truth. Anyways.

There were permanent effects, of course, both physical and mental. At first, it seemed like only my body was damaged. I lost all hearing in my left ear and half of it in my right. Due to this I frequently turned my head when people spoke to me, facing my right ear towards them. Needless to say, people found this very off-putting, and those who didn't know about the strike found it rude. The hearing problems also affected my equilibrium. I became clumsy and prone to toppling over without realizing it until I was halfway to the ground. Let's see, what else? I broke my arm. Mentioned that already. Ummm... oh yeah. My nose. Ever since I woke up in the hospital, I always smelled semen. Constantly, without interruption. It was very strange to smell other, normal, everyday things, except mixed with spunk. Spunk flowers. Pearly pizza. Jizz chocolate chip cookies. Sperm blacktop.

There were mental effects, too. These destroyed my social life; my ability to play well with others. I became afraid of water, particularly showering and bathing. Sometimes, just the sight of a running tap would drop an uncomfortable rock in the pit of my stomach, the dread and memory making me sweat with a familiar but imagined pain.

My girlfriend left me once she realized she couldn't convince me to overcome my water problem. My friends stopped answering my calls after giving me ultimatums. When I went out in public, anywhere really, people looked at me with disgust. Gave me a wide berth. Those who got close enough to smell me often made rude comments. You can imagine.

People cited statistics. Explained my irrationality. Pleaded with me to clean myself up. Some said these things with pity while standing upwind of me. Some said them with disgust. They said I had to accept logic. Who knows, maybe that part of my brain was fried. My emotional response to water trumped any logical sense. I lost all my so-called friends.

I did try, once, to shower. I think it caused a nervous breakdown. I was standing under the water for two minutes, frightened as hell, and finally I broke, jumped out, and frantically toweled myself off. I laid on the carpet hyperventilating, trying to calm down. I wasn't in there long enough to get anywhere near clean. All I managed to do was wet the scum on me before I smeared it around with the towel.

I did wash my clothes (drop-off service) and sure, I tried deodorants and colognes. They sort of worked for a while, but eventually, you just can't cover it up anymore.

The lightning strike was a year ago today. I've gotten used to my smell. Sometimes having my skin and hair all oily bothers me, or makes me feel itchy. For a while I told myself I was living the rustic life, dirty ass pioneer style. In more ways that one. Afraid of the toilet, I dug a ditch in the back yard to be my latrine. When it was raining, I shat in a paper bag and waited for sunshine before I went out back to dispose of the mess.

Enough details. Enough colorful anecdotes. Time to get to the point.

I've been alone for a while now, caught between my fear of water and my hatred for everyone. The way I'm treated... my experiences in public... things like: people in movie theatres getting up to move away from me; grocery clerks holding their breath... The last time I was out of the house, my professor ordered me out of the lecture hall after every student I sat near got up and squeezed into the opposite side of the room, many muttering and glaring, a few outright insulting me. He said I was a disruption and a disgrace.

So I isolated myself. I grew alienated from everyone. I became angry. I am angry.

I go back and forth from rage and hatred to depression and defeat. By now, you know where this led me. To all you fuckers who just don't get it.

And I have guns.

James Wesley Dobbs Jr.

Monty Python's Flying Chicago

2009-03-17T03:35:00.005-05:00

2/7/09

Hey Mom?

I got arrested again. I didn't do anything wrong this time. Well, sort of. Let me explain.

You remember the DUI. March 07. You remember I was sentenced to $1500 in fees, $700 in alcohol education classes, six months of social services counseling, and 1 victim impact panel.

So I did some of it. Then I missed a social services visit. I called Curtis, my counselor, three weeks later.

"Oh... so... sorry about that. What next, Curtis?"

"Well, officially, you now have a bench warrant issued for your arrest. Finish your classes and fines, and come to the courthouse and request to stand before a judge, and hope for the best. I can't schedule your next visit without notifying the court for the purpose of your arrest."

Nice guy, Curtis. Did me a solid there, sort of. As it happens, no warrant was issued. Yet.

Just before I offically got evicted from Palatine, the repo man showed up. (You remember my financial situation after getting canned.) I bribed the repo man for the total of his commission, $300, and took off the very next day to move in with The Captain, who'd just come back from Florida after ten years. He brought that godawful Melissa with him. I told you about her. Anyways, The Captain and Melissa took me in and let me mope for a couple months while I scraped by on Buffalo Wild Wings tips. This was October 07.

Because I was hiding my location, I never got the letter from the Circuit Court of Cook County at Rolling Meadows informing me I had a court date set in February 08. Assuming, as I did, that I was already a fugitive from justice, I never inquired with Curtis or the court, wondering how the hell I could afford the fees and so forth. I felt doomed.

Well, as of February 08, upon missing that court date, there actually was a warrant issued in my name. They caught up with me just days after Anita and I moved out of the Captain's and into our own place. It only took them a year.

I had just spent $200 on groceries and Obamabilia at the Dominick's in Hoffman Estates. Yeah, Hoffman. Of all places. Motherfucker. (Sorry Mom, I realize I shouldn't write like that in front of you.) Fortunately it was exactly zero degrees out so none of my consumables spoiled.

Believe it or not, the cops were super cool. Really!

Officer Zaba didn't charge me for driving without insurance, or any other bullshit he certainly could have. He didn't search my car, choosing instead to believe me when I told him there was nothing illicit present. (true!) And that I was stone cold sober. (also true!) He didn't make me stand outside in Siberian weather, instead waiting until everything was ready before removing me from my vehicle, cuffing me, and placing me in the back seat of his squad.

I said nice things. (I admire what you do, etc.) We had a nice conversation about Humboldt Park. For an arrester/arrestee conversation, it was downright cordial. That led to something bizarre.

Officer Mueller was at the police station when I arrived. He didn't remember me, apparently. Good. While Officer Zaba was collecting my possessions and conducting his inventory (this was before the fingerprinting, which was high tech and cool as fuck) Mueller strolled in and began to speak to me.

"We have to do this three times a year, randomly, be it an arrest, a complaint, or whatever. Would you mind answering a few questions for a survey?"

"Uh, okay, sure."

"How would you rate your experience with the Hoffman Estates Police Department?"

I was dumbfounded. Nonetheless, I attempted an answer.

"I... it was... what do you mean? Like, on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the highest? Or between unsatisfactory, somewhat unsatisfactory, satisfactory, somewhat good, or extremely good?"

He just looked at me. I tried again.

"Well, I guess it was as good as possible, considering the circumstances."

He exhaled heavily, simultaneously exasperated and amused. He wrote something brief upon the sheet of paper.

"How would you rate Officer Zaba's conduct?"

I answered. "Randomly? Really?"

He answered. "Well..." He tilted his head slightly, indicating the possibility of sympathetic selection.

"Okay, Okay. Zaba was courteous, polite, and answered my questions to my satisfaction. I would go so far as to say he was gracious."

Mueller scribbled some shit on his sheet and continued.

"Do you have any recommendations on how Hoffman Esates can improve its municipal services?" He arched his eyebrows and desperately tried to supress an amused grin.

I paused for moment, watching him. Finally, failing to generate something clever, I answered "You don't really want me to try answering that, do you?" He looked around, then back at me. "Mark it no." I started giggling.

"Okay, last one. Come on, stop laughing. Please? Okay. Now. Would you be interested in joining the Hoffman Estates Neighborhood Watch program?"

Mom, I wasn't in cuffs anymore, but Jesus. When I managed to cease my full fledged laughter, I stuttered out "I just work in this town, so no."

"Thank you Stephen." Officer Mueller smiled at me. Zaba, finishing my inventory, just grinned halfway and shook his head.

That's when I found out I would be spending a month in County unless somebody showed up with 10% of $20,000. Holy shit, right?

Good thing I told my boss this would happen eventually, back when the old company that canned me hunted me down and rehired me. I love them. Good thing I don't burn bridges.

So yeah. Thought you might get a chuckle outta that whole scenario. Sorry about that phone call, by the way. Love you Mom.

-Steve

If The River Was Whiskey

2009-03-17T02:01:00.005-05:00

2/5/09

Dear Captain,

By now you know I moved out. My sister and I both did. It was time. I know leaving you a letter in an empty house with a fuckload of unpaid bills was a shitty way to do it. Shame on us.

A year ago in January you went crazy again. Between chucking knives into the wall, smashing bottles, and peeing yourself during drunken slumbers, I began to fear your eventual breakdown. All that talk of boatjacking on the Mississippi and death by cop were amusing until I realized you meant it.

Moving away from that suburban hellhole in Elk Grove to Chicago seemed to help, for a while. While we had the money, going out and getting wasted seemed like a wonderful pastime. You stopped treating me like your live-in psychologist. No more of that "I'm a bad person" fishing for compliments I got so sick of. No drunken pleadings for affirmation of your human value. The angry empty black hole went silent, and like the old days, we were buddies.

When my sister moved in, you reverted. I warned her that she was joining a bachelor pad. That we were slobs. Noisy. Crude. I made it clear that we weren't going to change much.

I appreciate your willingness to help her out when she needed somewhere to go. I still do. That you went and decided to develop an inferiority complex was not her fault. So you hate yourself. Your family. Women. Coworkers. But most of all yourself. I get it. You blamed her for representing everything you're not, but secretely wish you were. I get it. I dealt with it. I played referee.

I accepted you as an unrepentant hopeless drunk fifteen years ago. Call me codependent, fine. I've seen you behave like a bile tsunami many times in the past. Mostly you were pathetic and idiotic, but until those Elk Grove episodes in January last year, never frightening.

I always agreed when you said "We're best friends. Brothers. Right? I'm the Captain, you're the XO. We're gonna storm this fuckin' city. Right?" I always answered affirmative. Maybe I was hedging. Maybe I was lying. Maybe I was dumb dog loyal, and wanted our bond to be true, but somewhere in my evolved recesses, I knew I didn't mean it when I answered "yes." Maybe I was just waiting for an excuse to ditch.

You sure as hell provided them.

You were shitfaced, so you may not remember these incidents with any clarity.

You threw a Polish sausage in the oven, set it to 400, and passed out. Anita got home ten minutes before me, threw open the windows to let smoke out, yanked the battery from the smoke alarm, and opened the oven to let the billowing black clouds stench their way through the apartment and out to the sky. She woke you up, understandably furious. You proceeded to berate her for not buying oven cleaner and scrubbing the oven, claiming you'd merely been preheating the oven and that the old scum in it was burning, not the sausage you half-assedly plopped on a pizza pan and chucked in there. You then went to the kitchen to butter fry a greyish maroon spoiled steak on the stove-top, mindless of the horrid gusts rising from the oven, sooting up your face like a chimney sweep. I got home and received a verbal lashing after my vociferous scolding of you. You claimed I was being an unreasonable asshole, expecting contrition for a simple honest mishap.

Anita decided to take immediate action to depart, and began scheduling apartment showings.

I didn't hop on board with her right away. Not until I heard what you did during the last week of January this year. Is January your appointed month for bulge-eyed murderous psychopathy?

I was at work. You two were home. You got mad about the bill sharing arrangements we all mutually agreed upon. You got drunk (Jack Daniels and PBR, plenty of each by noon) and went to her room to wake her up and scream at her, looming over her while she was barely awake, making vague threats like "Don't fuck with me, don't you dare fucking try to cross me, you have no idea what I'm capable of, no idea what I've done in the past. Watch the fuck out, you fucking bitch."

She went to shower and leave. She wanted to get as far away from you as possible. You played something by Eminem at full blast, with lyrics something like "Shut up when I'm talkin bitch, I'll fucking kill you." Then you turned it down to call one of your weird skeevy little gangster coworkers. You said, drunk and oblivious to your volume, "Remember what we talked about? It's on. Now. Get over here. NOW!" You know what that sounds like, right? Anita left without finishing her makeup or hair curling, essentially fleeing for her safety. She recounted the events the next morning when I took her to get her car back from a tow.

Normally I would've brought this up with you. I always did that so we could talk out our dispute and put it behind us. I had no intention of forgiving this one, so I stayed silent until a week ago. You begged me to drink with you, claiming I'd stopped acting like your friend. True. So we drank. And I spilled.

When you learned she was afraid of you, you got even angrier. Our conversation ended uncomfortably. I went to bed around 5:00 AM. Shortly afterwards, Anita got up and got in the shower. You stayed awake, staring holes in the wall, stewing a fresh cauldron of ugliness. Finally, with a full head of steam, you burst into the bathroom.

Screaming at her. She, naked, showering, threatened, vulnerable, nothing but a plastic curtain between her and a drunken Tasmanian fuckhead.

I wasn't asleep yet. I got up quickly, interceded, and provided her safe passage from the apartment. You invited us to get the fuck out of your house.

Guess what? I accept.

You haven't seen her since, you may have noticed. Maybe once or twice, when I was home to provide cover. So she could pack. And surprise! I packed too. We both left.

That money I supposedly owe you? I'm not paying February rent. I left on the 3rd. I'd love to fulfill my obligations from other bills I accrued, but I have a new apartment, security deposit, and moving expenses to consider.

So go ahead and get mad. You put us all here.

I hope you do get your shit together. I hope you do find something to live for, a purpose, an order in chaos. Hell, maybe we can still be friends sometime down the road. In the meantime, grow up. Stop blaming your parents. Your shitty childhood. The world around you. Look to yourself. Look in the mirror. If you can't accept responsibility for your own life, you'll continue to drive away your friends. You'll finally succeed with some form of suicide.

Don't. Choose to change. Choose to live.

Greener pastures, man.

Seduction Of The Ancients

2008-08-21T03:41:00.008-05:00

It ain't easy landing a bartending gig in this town. I've been sulking through dimly lit tap rooms all over Chicago, from dives to trendy hipster joints, downtown to Bucktown. I never expected this to be easy, and it isn't. My paltry experience does me little credit, but even were I a master, the only way to get behind the rail is networking. Schmoozing is a requirement, and, let's face it, a talent needed to be a top mixologist in the big city.

I discovered Marie's Rip Tide Lounge the very week I moved to Bucktown. I was instantly charmed by the canned Pabst, the Christmas lights in June, the 4am closing time, the ancient jukebox, and Marie, the 86 year old owner. Marie came in every night around 1AM and drank Jagermeister, which she chased with warm Pepsi. She constantly surveyed her youthful patrons, her sharply gleaming eyes darting back and forth with suspicion and disdain. I often heard her snap at her bartenders in her dry lizardlike croak, accusing them of undercharging for drinks to pocket the difference. Their reactions ranged from exasperation to amusement. I was somewhat intimidated and gave her a wide berth.

The day my father died, on Father's Day, I went there stunned and grieving. I stared at the Christmas lights for a while, aggressively consuming Pabst and Jim Beam. When I began to cry, Marie noticed despite the throngs of merry hipsters jamming the place from stem to stern. She elbowed her way across the lounge and evicted the dude on the stool beside me, claiming it for herself. She signaled her bartender, Leo, indicated that he should set her up with Jager and Pepsi, and me with another round of my choosing.

She asked what my trouble was. I had a hard time hearing her warbling raspy voice over the cacophony of voices and Patsy Cline, but her query was obvious nonetheless. I spilled. Marie hugged me, held my hand, and offered wisdom she'd gathered over her long days on this earth. I drank free for the remainder of the evening.

As weeks progressed, I frequented the Rip Tide more and more. It felt like home. I often sat with Marie, sometimes silent, sometimes placating her when she was cranky and accusatory towards her staff. Friendship blossomed. I began to wonder whether there might be a place for me among the staff, but I was afraid to ask. It may be presumptuous, perhaps offensive. Asking would certainly inspire hostility among the very protective current staff, if they knew. Even so, I constantly updated Marie on my bartending career in the suburbs.

Marie is old. No, she's fucking ancient. She's not senile, and she's no dummy. She certainly perceived my hopes and intentions. One night she put her hand on my leg and asked me about my availability. (for work, not for love, or so I thought) I tried to say yes delicately, unsure if I had heard a job offer, or just weird mumbly croaking from an elderly woman. I was underestimating Marie severely.

"Last call!"

I had very little time to cement this. Here, the time between last call and get the fuck out is a couple minutes.

I looked her square in the eyes, desperately trying to discern what exactly was happening. Once again: Marie is 86 years old, rail thin, decorated with plentiful liver spots, sunken cheeks, wrinkled skin, and dry colorless thin little lips, which she frequently moistened by licking them. Her hand moved up my leg toward my crotch. She leaned in towards me and closed her eyes. My eyes widened in shock and horror. I was about to be kissed.

What game was this? Was she offering a trade of employment for sex? Did she know my motives, and was trying to test my character? Attempting to freak me out? If so, she'd succeeded.

In that moment, I imagined fucking a woman that old. The vaginal dryness. Accidentally tearing her thin white hair out as I ran my fingers through it in the throes of passion. Heavily salted beef jerky. Romantic breakfasts in bed comprised of Jello and Metamucil. An accidental broken hip via osteoporosis and forceful thrusting.

As my mind hurtled through this bizarre and frightening scenario, Marie's face met mine, and suddenly, I was being kissed by the driest tongue I'd ever tasted. (flavored by Jagermeister and Pepsi, a little bit, but mostly by Marlboro Menthol Ultra Lights)

As her shaky geriatric hand grabbed at my junk but was unable to manipulate my zipper, the bartender yelled out.

"Time's up! Chug 'em or drop 'em, but get out now! Adios! Goodnight! Much love, now fuck off home!"

Thank fucking Christ. I gave Marie a quick platonic peck on her wrinkly spotted old cheek, stood up, and bolted.

I haven't been back since.

Seeping Hairy Meatquake

2008-05-20T14:14:00.002-05:00

She came from Florida to make a fresh start. Palm trees, cockroaches, ocean air and black bean soup had burned her out. When her parents caught her fucking on the front porch swing and kicked her out, Florida no longer offered her a single thing worth keeping. Melissa left for Chicago a month before her 21st birthday.

She almost made it. Melissa fell short, landing in Elk Grove Village, a sleepy middle class suburb ten miles outside the city. Here in Elk Grove, the restaurants and liquor stores all close by nine. Here, the police pull you over for driving three miles over the limit. Every neighborhood has several places of worship to choose from, all of them one denomination of Christianity or another. Here in Elk Grove, nothing ever happens apart from the occasional fistfight outside the strip club at the edge of the industrial park.

Melissa came for the chance to build a life: friends, education, career. Identity. Independence. Adulthood.

She failed.

Melissa was my roommate for six months. When we first met, she was excited by fresh surroundings, new faces, and her upcoming birthday. She'd always say "When I'm 21, watch out. It's on. I'm gonna fuck this town up!"

Her birthday came and went with no celebration. Strangely, she refused to go out drinking the night of her birthday, offering weak excuses, electing instead to barricade herself in her bedroom with an XBOX and some week old leftover mushroom pizza. A horde of revelers and the thrill of celebration awaited her, and she wanted to stay home? What the hell was wrong with this girl?

From that day forward Melissa was changed. She quietly withdrew to her room any time she came home, refusing social interaction, even the banal thoughtless television watching variety. Despite my frequent and gentle inquiries regarding her frame of mind, she wouldn't explain her sudden moroseness. Melissa had cocooned herself away.

As the weeks passed, the impact of Melissa's self-imposed isolation began to show. The symptoms of her seclusion evidenced themselves as miracles of unsanitary filth.

In a small trash bucket in the bathroom, she began throwing her used maxipads. No longer did she wrap each heavily in toilet paper and tie it off in a grocery bag. No longer did she empty the bucket. A maroon puddle grew beneath the stack of soaked pads and the bucket gave off the stench of copper and rot.

She began shopping exclusively at 7-11. Apart from her job, at Staples, 7-11 became one of the few places she went besides her filthy little bedroom. Trash accumulated. Wrappers from Cheetos and Twinkies and Mountain Dew. Empty pizza boxes with stray chunks of cheese and mushroom clinging to them. Ashtrays were emptied into empty McDonalds bags. When she wasn't greedily gnawing at junk food, she was swearing at her video games, or at other people through XBOX Live. War games, all of them. Games like Gears Of War and Call Of Duty.

Melissa quit showering. The army of beauty products crammed above and below the bathroom sink grew neglected. The horrible smells of body odor, rotting food, and old ashes engulfed her, following her around like Pigpen's cloud.

But worst of all, by far, was her hair. She shed like a sweating Yeti. She wouldn't brush her massive mess of hair, choosing instead to let it get all sweaty and knotty. When frustrated by failure while playing video games, she'd reach up and yank a slimy wad from her head, screaming in pain while follicles were ripped from her scalp. Then she'd toss the wad aside weakly, letting it drift down to mingle with all the trash surrounding her. Every time she trudged out of her room to pee, poop, or throw a maxi at the wall to see if it would stick like good spaghetti, she tracked hair out into the rest of the apartment. It got everywhere. I found it in my freshly laundered boxer shorts, under the couch, on ceiling fan blades, in my car, and even inside the refrigerator.

Naturally, she grew obese. Grossly obese. Over such a short time, too, maybe three months. In the rare instances that I stole a glance at the elusive wildebeast, I was struck by the notion that I witnessing an ever-expanding sack of potatoes impersonating the movement of a human woman.

I began to clean up after her. It was that or suffer a bout of involuntary surprise vomit every time I walked through my front door.

I began to hate her. I tried to confront her. Mute silence. Slammed door. Frustration. Disgust.

Then she disappeared.

One day last week I came home from work and her bedroom door was open. The garbage was all gone. Almost everything. All that remained was a bare mattress covered in stains.

What the hell?

Better Than Cancer

2008-02-05T15:07:00.000-06:00

I miss the days when my skin was whole and my blood stayed inside, warm, circulating, living. Now I have holes all over, steady leaks moistening my garments, sucking cloth to little wet circles that itch like bug bites.

Which they are. I'll get to that.

People have begun to notice. The crimson gaps reached my face last Sunday. One little one under my left sideburn, about the side of a tackhead, and a large ugly one, big as a quarter, folded over my right jawline. They dried, roughly scabbed over, but they're not healing. No fresh pink babyskin for me. None of them heal anymore, my entire body over. Wearing a belt is especially uncomfortable.

It was two months ago that I woke up naked and discovered skin missing from my right hip, two inches wide, vaguely shaped like Tennessee. I touched it, massaging it gently, concerned and annoyed. It was slick and spongy, like spoiled meat, and my untrimmed fingernail sunk right in with no resistance. Nerve endings woke up in a great goddamn hurry and sent my brain an urgent message: STOP THAT NOW.

Days would pass without fresh night bites. (That's what I called them, mentally, for they only appeared while I slept.) I didn't know yet that I'd accidentally identified them correctly, for bites they were. Not little love nips, though. No. They were great gory gouges from gluttonous cockroaches that would mow away entire patches of me. I had become a grazing pasture.

When, after days without incident, I woke with fresh scraps sheared away, I would spend all day prodding my wounds, pondering, searching my bed and blankets for clues.

Nothing revealed itself. No cause, no answers. At least they were healing, sealing, leaving. Sure, purple discolorations marked me for memory, but skin was skin, and I was happy to have it back. Every time. When the healing process eventually quit, I became harried, frantic, and terrified of slumber. Exhaustion always won, but I never could sleep peacefully, or for long.

The gaps in my skin kept blossoming, relentlessly. Black circles framed my eyes to match the red circles proliferating across my flesh. I grew raw.

I finally identified the pattern yesterday while plucking at my fresh face holes. I finally figured out the difference between the safe clean nights and those I awoke from molested and bleeding.

Masturbation won't grow hair on your palms. Grandma was dead wrong. However, if you live in a poorly maintained apartment infested with roaches and frequently work your jockage with olive oil, pausing only to snort cocaine and slug Pabst Blue Ribbon, eventually you'll crash out, naked and slicked with oil and semen.

And those little bastards love that stuff.

And they'll love you. Deeply.

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

2007-09-15T01:12:00.000-05:00

I drank, I drove, I got busted. You already know this. Among the numerous brainwashing sessions incumbent upon me, the victim impact panel has been the worst.

Deep in the churning bowels of the Cook County Courthouse at Rolling Meadows (across the street from the horse racing track) lies a horrible subterranean room with an impossibly low ceiling and tiny little bucket chairs arranged in tightly compacted rows. Buzzing florescent lights flicker, poorly amplified microphones buzz and pop, clogged outdated ventilation wheezes and clanks but fails to circulate oxygen in any meaningful way. Guilty folk such as myself are squeezed into the dirty rows of old cracked chairs, elbow to elbow, to breathe upon one another, to jostle, to squirm, and to wallow in collective guilt.

The municipality, in conjunction with the local Alliance Against Drunk Driving, conducts two hour seminars twice monthly. Damaged people stand before us, offering tearful heartfelt testimonials, recounting the deaths of loved ones, the permanent paralyzing of children, the infinite tragedy brought about by the thoughtlessness and negligence of alcohol addled motorists. Like me.

I arrived with my heart cast in stone, my mind sheathed in cynicism, utterly and totally cold to the plight of these pious fucks who wished to baptize me in fear and regret.

They drew their arrows of tragedy and let fly.

I was spared the guy whose mother, aunt, and stepfather were killed by a drunk. He would've been wheeled in, neck leaning, drooling, pathetically quadriplegic in his wheelchair, for the lot of us to ogle in horror and disgust. He was absent due to the fact that he was away at law school, simultaneously studying for the bar exam while having a nurse insert a catheter into his numb dick to allow for clean urination.

Instead, they played a slideshow of his family photo album, before and after the crash, set to a multiple copyright violation soundtrack of the Beatles' "Help" and several current horrible pop punk songs by bands like Good Charlotte. I got the point, but it was belabored and tastelessly done, inducing exasperation and even hatred on my part.

I didn't give a blue fuck that his life was destroyed. Sue me. I'm a suburbanite, and I don't give a shit about anybody but myself. I'm an American.

The next guy I liked a bit better. His daughter and three of her friends were killed one morning in Naperville in October 1997. His speech was eloquent and heartfelt, but most importantly to me, skillfully told, with foreshadowing and suspense, despite the inevitable outcome, given the topic at hand.

That is, for the first half. The story portion. After that, he spent another half hour recounting the girl's social activity, academic activity, and utter specialness. I wondered: why is everyone whose story is shared here middle to upper class, white, and shining examples of suburban bliss?

How come I haven't seen such outpourings of sympathy and grief for victims of gang violence, poverty? Blacks, Hispanics? Where's the outrage over the War in Iraq, the injustices and violence perpetrated upon both American soldiers and the little brown people we're vaporizing daily? Because it didn't hit us at home. It doesn't matter until it happens to us, personally. We're selfish people. All humans are. As I realized this, the little tentacles of compassion worming their way up my gut evaporated.

Hear no evil, see no evil, everything is fine until the blood spills on OUR porches. The American Way. I'm not so cruel, I'm only typical.

The outrage and tragedy I'm presented with here is myopic. This man's daughter died ten years ago. He's manipulating me, yanking at my heartstrings like a low budget soap opera. He may be trying to do a good thing, and maybe he is, but he's wallowing in a horror from a decade past, refusing to move on, and enjoying his sadness in public atop his weeping soapbox. He loves jerking at tear ducts.

This is perverse, I realize. This is sickening, and not for the reasons he presents.

Maybe I'm a shit. A bastard. However, I learned a long time ago that life ain't fair. I'm not going to have a guilt orgy to satiate these speakers' appetites.

I'm sorry, but tough shit. Shit happens, too bad. People die all the time. Fact. One day something ugly and evil will happen to me, and I won't expect the world to drop to its' knees and weep for me. I'm a stoic.

Stow that utopian "it didn't have to happen" bullshit away. Keep it private. Have some dignity.

Call me an asshole. Fine. The reason I won't drink and drive anymore is because I don't want to die. And because it's financially expensive. I'm pragmatic. I don't care about your well being or your misfortunes. That's mutual, even if your little baby girl is gone now. You still don't care about me at all. Not a bit.

Buy some body armor for troops. Buy some books for poor schools. Your tunnel vision focusing on this statistically minor problem is perverted and self indulgent. Keep your slimy hands off my emotions.

I know you wouldn't give a shit if I got hit by a bus tomorrow. Your sincerity is so insincere, you fucking filthy victims.

Bounce Nigga Bounce

2007-08-23T01:58:00.000-05:00

"I'm only gonna say this once. Look at the catalog, order some shoes, and we'll deduct the cost from your paycheck."

That was the venerable GM of the wing joint, imploring us employees to purchase non-skid shoes. Fuck non-skid shoes, that's what I said. (mentally, to myself) I only buy shoes when my current pair look like fucked out gerbils.

On Monday night my silent bluster was revealed as ignorance.

I slipped and fell right next to a wet floor sign as I led customers to a table. I fell backwards, of course. I'm a fast walker, so my hungry parade was not near enough behind to rescue me mid-fall. Likely they would have, had the opportunity existed. Doubtless. I hit the tiles ass first, head second. Only my head bounced. The world wobbled.

Simultaneously horrified and concerned, the oldest of the three women bleated, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?"

"Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph I think I broke my ass!" Then I made some horrible pained noisegroan.

I hauled myself up spring quick, swayed slightly, and plastered my high wattage half sane customer service face back on.

"I don't know about you folks, but I feel like chicken tonight!"

Confused, their heads tilted, like undomesticated animals sensing danger.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Quite fine. Nothing like a rap on the old noggin to sharpen the senses. Yeah? Keen. I'm fantastic. I'll be fine. Let's get you three tabled."

I blinked rapidly, smiled, bulged out my eyes like they were trying to escape their sockets, spun around, and strode off to our mutual destination.

They followed, whispering and clucking.

Tuesday I was fine. Wednesday, however, the massive bruising bloomed. I felt like the Jolly Green Giant had used my entire self as a butt plug. And he clenched a lot.

This is only the most recent humiliation I've suffered while waiting tables.

I enjoy each and every one.

Incompetence & Flagellation

2007-08-14T17:15:00.000-05:00

I got fired.

I'm an honest kid, mostly. So here it is: I was doing a bad job. They weren't asking much from me, simply that I order some crap and package it up for technicians. The ugly truth is that I'm lazier than elderly bowels, and frequently waited for the last minute to pull the shit together. This resulted in wasted money in various ways too boring to elaborate upon. Let's just say I deserved it and move on.

I reacted just as any worthless, self-indulgent, addictive fuckpuddle would: I went on a bender. I slugged beer like a divorced man, stuffed my nose with powder like it was a musket rifle, and burned enough weed to give the entire DEA a Twinkie addiction.

After two weeks of this, I remembered food. I resuscitated myself with four trays of napolean flan, two loaves of dark rye, one pound of muenster, and three pounds of pastrami. Over two days. On the third, I shat a freight train. On the fourth, I rested. In diapers.

Then I started another bender that hasn't truly ended yet, although by now it's flitting away like a sluggish butterfly. (bad analogy, but I'm keeping it, fuck you)

I have prospects for gainful employment looming, but I intend to procrastinate. I'm receiving unemployment benefits. (I convinced my former employer not to contest my claim, and they still love me on a personal level, so that was an easy finagle.)

I kept a tight grip on my night job as a waiter at the buffalo joint, though I usually arrived appearing raped and pillaged. One Saturday morning I showed up, my hair askew, raccoon luggage beneath my eyes, stinking of Anchor Steam.

The GM was holding a pre-shift meeting when I staggered in, bewildered, disheveled, and damn ugly.

"Steve, you okay?"

"Mm? Oh yeah, o'course I am. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed."

"You look like hell. Sleep much?"

(keep in mind I have an assembled audience of the entire working staff)

"Well, no. See, last night I was feeling kind of lonely, so I figured, you know, I'd find some company, shoot the shit, pour my heart out and get a few things off my chest. Catharsis was my order of the night. But nobody answered my calls."

"Okay..."

"Well, nobody answered, so I went to Best Buy to look for a movie, or a game, or some such distracting nonsense. I was browsing when I saw something called The Baby Simulator. It's an awful product prospective parents put on their PCs to prepare them for parenthood."

"I'm not getting you, Steve. Is this going somewhere?"

"You install it and let it run all night, right? And see, this thing will randomly start crying and wake your silly ass up. There's buttons like burp, feed milk, feed Gerber's, rock baby, sing lullaby, and a couple more I can't think of right now. You pick one and click it repeatedly for ten minutes and hope like hell you picked the right button. If you're lucky, you get to go back to sleep for another half hour. What it needed was an 'I don't fucking know' button."

(people are sniggering and giving each other raised eyebrows)

I continued: "It's supposed to be just like have having an infant in a crib. It was a vile and horrible experience. I don't recommend children for anyone. Fuck propagation of the species, quite frankly. If my baby wasn't fake I would've strangled the little virtual fucker."

(Now they're all outright laughing at me. Even the GM. I'm his longstanding unique comedy snowflake, or he'd have cut me off by this time.)

"So yeah, I'm exhausted and exasperated and downright miserable. I need a new hobby. So far, I've got two ideas on my list. The first is drinking heavily. That works. Trust me, I know. The other is microwaving things that aren't supposed to microwaved, and I'm starting with my goddamn computer hard drive. Then I'm going to drink until I render myself imbecilic. How are you?"

"Are you fucking with me, Steve?"

"Yeah. That was all complete bullshit. I was drinking heavily last night. Got a mint?"

The Great Exxon Gerber Spill (Prescient)

2007-07-11T03:32:00.000-05:00

My first flat out fiction, circa May 2005. As I'm inert currently, this is appropriate for reposting.

My new chair in my new home. They poke me with needles to make it okay.

What happened to me, you ask? Sit down, relax. I'll tell you. I've needed to tell somebody for a long, long time. I'm going to do it today. Now. Before it's too late. Before they get me.

Last October I decided to get involved in politics. It was already late in the election season, but I decided it was my patriotic duty to inform myself. I wanted to know what values each candidate represented. I live in Illinois, and as a dedicated blue state, no presidential candidates would waste any time here. Indiana is red, so no luck there either.

Wisconsin was tipping back and forth. They garnered plenty of attention nationally. I hadn't been to a political rally in Wisconsin since 2000, when I went to see Ralph Nader call Governor Tommy Thompson "A blight on the landscape, a destroyer of families, a corporate demon destroying the livelihood of the family farmer." Or something similar. Actually I just made that up, but it's correct in spirit. I love Ralph Nader.

I discovered that "Swingin" Dick Cheney was coming to Waukesha on October 28th, mere days before the final tally. I didn't want to get beat up for being a skeptical liberal, so I wore a Cornhuskers sweater I got for Christmas from my Nebraska relatives a few years ago. Red would wear well in this crowd. I left my granola in the cupboard and bought a pound of black pepper beef jerky on the way there. Nibbling meats would chew well in this crowd. Finally, I left my cigarettes on the nightstand. As one last extreme measure to fit in, I bought some minty Kodiak chewin chaw so I could spit and drool like a real rural type.

I got there and signed my loyalty oath and listened to Dick's muttering monotone. He was introduced by Republican Representative Jim Sensenbrenner. They used hearty words and satisfied chuckles to give each other verbal reacharounds.

Sensenbrenner with groupies.

I was bored and the cool weather was making me sleepy, so I scratched and tugged at my testicles. I grunted. Better. I looked around. Other fellas were reseating their hats on their dirty unkempt hairy heads and cracking their necks with enthusiam. I tried the same and gave myself a slight case of whiplash.

I decided to leave. Dick didn't tell me much about himself or George. He was talking about John Kerry, and all I really wanted to know was how many foreign nationals could be liquefied by the latest radioactive diarrhea missiles, or whatever the hell they use to kill little brown people these days.

I've been against the war since before it began, but I'm not above a good sick joke. If Cheney would've smiled like a serial rapist and made a joke about using a turban as a cum rag, I would've laughed. In this crowd I'd probably slap my knee to show everybody else how funny Dick is.

But he didn't, so I ambled away. The hoots and hollers and stomps and squirts faded into the background as the throng of yokels receded behind me.

At that moment my life changed. I heard something strange. A woman screaming. It was almost dark, but I saw a violent movement behind a few trees next to the idle motorcade. I walked up the lane, passing several black stretch limosines along the way.

I was tiptoeing towards the sound when silence abruptly interrupted. I stopped. In silhouette I saw a secret serviceman with his hand clamped over some poor woman's mouth. The curly cord that ran from his earpiece jiggled as he violently wrenched her head, snapping her neck.

What had I just witnessed? I wanted to slink away. Nobody can take on the government and win. Nobody. I'm no hero. I made the smart decision and crept away, quiet as can be.

When I heard a baby begin to cry, I paused. I couldn't help myself, and I turned to look back. I spied a dual stroller with two infants nestled inside. The woman's children. Twins? It stood alone. Where had the agent with the dead mother gone?

I was frozen. I knew I was in mortal danger, but I wanted to save those poor little ruddycheeked bundles of joy. I thought hard. What could I do? Maybe he would head for the forest to dispose of the former mother, and meanwhile I could steal the infants and bring them to a church or an orphanage or somewhere.

Footsteps. Two agents now. I could barely see them in the darkness. I crept closer. Stupid.

I saw the agents casually heave the victim into the lead limo's trunk. One grabbed the children, one in each arm. He was rough with them. The other folded the stroller and jammed it into the trunk, struggling to squeeze it into the same space as the fresh corpse. He slammed the trunk and went to the rear limo door. He opened it. I was crawling on my knees at this point, peeking from behind a large treetrunk. I was sweating, shaky, and desperate for a cigarette. A woman swung her legs out and leaned forward to reach for the babies.

"My sweet little darlings, aren't you just adorable! I can't wait to get you to my kitchen."

The interior lights backlit the woman. I recognized her easily. Lynne Cheney. She stroked their soft skin with her sharp fingernails, eyeing them greedily. She even licked her lips. She swung herself back into the car. An agent closed it, muttered into his tiny microphone, and got into the front passenger side. The other looked around briefly, and, satisfied that they had not been witnessed, slid into the driver seat. The vehicle rumbled away, leaving the rest of the motorcade to wait for the end of Dick Cheney's droning stump lullaby.

I followed them away. Curiosity got the better of me again. I'll never be the same.

When they turned onto an unmarked gravel path I kept to the main road. I stopped at a local pub a few miles down. I needed a drink. Badly. Neon Lienenkugel's signs flickered. Waves of vomit and urine wafted out the doorway in thick aggressive gusts. Slouched figures donning ragged flannels sat on stools, slumped with bad posture and lazy defeat. They gnawed on soggy cigarette filters and fingernails. The television played muted sitcoms while an old Garth Brooks CD skipped through songs on the jukebox. Dim light and dim sadness hung throughout like humid suicide.

I sat on a rickety stool and grabbed the bar's edge. Without a grip, my shaking hands would attract attention. I made a conscious effort to breathe slowly. When I ordered three shots of Jim Beam, the tired old waitress stopped her gum smacking mid-chew. Mouth half-open, she eyed me, sizing me up. Chewing again, she went for the bottle and sighed. She expected trouble from me. I don't blame her. My eyes were peeled open, my muscles were tensed all over and I looked like an electrocution victim with a tooth-grinding problem.

I downed the amber poison to calm my nerves. One, clack, two clack, three clack. I surprised her by leaving. She was already reaching for the Beam again, but I was ready to go learn some ugly truths about the leadership of my beautiful country.

I left my car behind.

Three miles of strewn gravel and fleeing squirrels later, I came to a large clearing in the trees. The grass lay chewed and dead, and up from the forlorn ground stood an old chemical refinery, long abandoned. Rust and foraging mammals fought for conrol of the weathered edifice. Parked and poking out from behind the aging structure I saw the tail of a black stretch limo. It was turned off and all was quiet but for grasshoppers.

I went inside the imposing monument of decay. Moonlight snuck in between pipes and wheels. Deep within the spooky old factory an ancient retired device shuddered into action, gears turning for the first time in decades. Following the racket, I came before a door. I put my hand on it and felt the slightest tremor, physical evidence of the ominous sound. The vibration of angry machinery lured me on. I opened it.

Enter a new hell.

Before me lay an awesome sight. Both above and below me, tier after tier of catwalks lined a great courtyard sunken deep into the ground. The moon shone upon the arena below, an iron floor the size of a football field. The tiers gave the immense expanse the feel of a stadium or a prison. The iron courtyard was fraught with hazardous protrusions: chains, hooks, tools, and punctured barrels. All dormant. These former metal behemoths now rust and rot without purpose, forlorn heaps of gizmos, gears, and scattered gaskets, anchors left to sink the factory in the ground inch by foot, decade by century.

As the scene stretched out before me, I saw false light flickering below, peeking out from the farthest corner. Electric torches and kerosene lamps swung about, carried by the busy activity of the small party camped down there. I heard hoarse cackling laughter join the rumbling beastly machinery that creaked away for some unknown sinister purpose.

I drew my gaze back to close range. Moonlight glistened on the wet slick rungs of a mossy ladder before me. Down it led, descending all five levels to the bottom floor. I went down three levels and gingerly tested the catwalk. It seemed sturdy and quiet enough. I chose to remain two stories above the murderous agents and the witch woman.

I allowed myself to feel slightly safer by looming above them. I began creeping closer to their light, ever so silently. I was nearly above them when Lynne Cheney threw a match onto a mound of stale crumbling rubber, igniting it into a fierce blaze that scalded the air. Insects fled. The light showed me the violent pair of secret service agents, now wearing red togas, standing back from the fire. They stood twirling empty gasoline cans, looking bored. Lynne stood before the fire, arms upraised, jaw clenched, eyes closed. Her lips moved but no sound emitted. She prayed silently to a foul beast beyond my reckoning.

I heard noise from above and behind. I froze. Lynne's eyes snapped open and trained on the ladder I'd used mere moments before. I concealed myself behind a sort of metal trellis and waited. More suited secret service agents came down the ladder a hundred yards behind me. They were not so stealthy as I, and I saw them pass my elevation and continue down to the floor level. Seven of them crossed the ugly ground to Lynne.

One pulled a lever. The rumble got louder. The secret machine revealed its purpose. A rope let out slowly into the sky, where it slung over a series of pulleys, and down came a corpulent man. It was him: the Vice President Of The Unites States. He made a careful descent to the eager group. He was slung in a hammock and appeared to be relaxed. When he landed, he strode up to Lynn, kissed her passionately, and she led him by the hand to a makeshift pavillion a few yards from the fire.

After this things began to get hazy for me. Some of my memory is raw and patchy from the shock of what I witnessed. Some of the damage may be a chemical side effect from the thick black smoke that drifted off the rubber fire up to my lookout perch. I must also admit that I may have blacked out some of the details as a means of self-defense, a frightened denial to help me sustain my sanity and lucidity. Some things cannot be erased no matter how badly I want to forget them, and it is these fragments that I sadly and dutifully remit to you for judgement.

The seven late arriving agents stipped bare and their suits went into the fire. They walked like robots single file into the pavillion, and they emerged wearing the same blood red togas Lynne's murdering crew already wore. They brought from the pavillion several sturdy wooden tables and a few wire mesh bags filled with sharp metal implements. The shiny bundles scraped together with menacing shrill whispers as they swayed under the heavy hands of the expressionless men.

Last from under the pavillion came the motherless stolen twins, now doomed to a gruesome fate I could not turn away from. Then the hammock was lowered again, and this time it contained nine more squirming, mewling children, all bound in pink twine. The party now totalled twenty two, eleven adults and eleven infants.

Dick and Lynne hugged and watched as the toga men carried the bound children to the wood. They tied them down with thicker ropes, each child separate from the rest. The men stood back. The mesh bags were opened and heaps of polished kitchen tools were carelessly strewn upon a plastic tarp.

Chanting ensued. The feast began. The children screamed with high-pitched clear tones that rang into the night sky. It was the worst sound I'd ever heard until the blood began to bubble in their little throats. That then became was the worst sound I'd ever heard, their pure siren screams slowly diluted by bubbling, gurgling blood.

I began to fade at this point, unable to move and help them. Intervening would just end my life, and it was already too late to help. I had to tell the world. I had to share the secret. I had to survive. Unable to gaze upon the profane slaughter any longer, I crawled away from sight and cried silenty.

Snatches of dialogue clawed into my ears as I lay on the catwalk in fetal position, rocking back and forth, pulling at my hair. I was at a cocktail party in hell.

Eventually I slept, and when I woke, nothing remained but a stray charred little ribcage that had been kicked to the base of a corroded pile of sheet metal.

These are the ghastly words that haunt me:

"Too bad George isn't here tonight. He's great with the meat tenderizer."

"Lynne, honey, let's get the grill going. You know I love to grill the feet, just like Anton showed me last month at the pheasant farm. Those little toes are juicy with zebra crosshatch grillmarks."

"Now Dick, where are my little plastic martini swords? I've got fresh eyes here. I can't enjoy my drink and pop the 'olives' without my swords."

"The lard of an infant is divine, translucent as a pearl, unsullied by the pollution of life that stains it yellow. Adult fat is chewy clumpy corn kernels."

"Peel that skull open like a sardine can. Give me that potato skinner. Here, like this. Yyyyeeesssssss. Put your finger in there. Feel that."

"Kidneys are great thin and fried. Get the meat slicer, some olive oil, and the frypan. Oh, and some Triscuits for serving."

"This one is green, no longer fresh. I think it died before we began. Be a good fellow, Langley, and throw it on the bonfire. Do take care to keep our sport fresh, or I'll reassign you to mine-crawling duty in Fallujah."

"No, save that! We can make back scratchers, candle holders, and hemmoroid cream from that."

"Lynne saves the gums. She puts them on her eyes at night to keep her laugh lines subtle."

"Don't worry, we'll ban abortion soon enough. I figure the more orphans and desperate mothers we have, the easier this will get. The children are our future! How do you think Jesse Helms lived for so long? Marrow shakes. I made them myself sometimes. It takes more than oil connections to seize this kind of power."

"There's no such thing as an unwanted child."

Aggressively Unhealthy

2007-06-13T17:54:00.000-05:00

5/25/2007

"Not good. Real fuckin bad, actually."

"You sayin you wanna go home?"

"Badly."

"Okay Steve. Get gone. You look like someone brushed you down with mayonnaise."

It was Friday at noon and somebody'd cranked up the sterno stove under my skull. It was hot upstairs, the simmer was on, and when I moved my head, my brain slammed against the hot plates bracketing my bubble gum thinkmeat. I hurt.

Over the course of the weekend I sweat soaked my pillows, blankets, skivvies, and in one unfortunate incident, my living room carpet. The fever was on. My appetite left for Albuquerque. I began my prolonged involuntary weight loss program.

I stumbled, weak and wan, though a week of ineffective labor. When the next weekend arrived, the fevers had not yet subsided. I gave in. I acquiesced. I went to the fucking doctor. I wanted a shit ton of antibiotics.

6/1/2007

"Nothing in the blood count, kiddo. No bacterial infection. You've got a virus or something. You'll just have to stick it out. Take ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Drink plenty of fluids. Good luck."

"A virus or something? That's it? That's all?"

"Uh... yeah."

"Shit."

I was in no condition to party like a frat fuck, but decided it might cheer me up anyways. With jittery hands I stacked my bottom shelf with beer. I gobbled some ephedrine, swigged Budweiser, and sang crap pop music until sleep enshrouded me.

6/5/2007

I was weak but functional for four days. After receiving a guilty verdict and a stern lecture from the judge on Tuesday the 5th, I went home and ate three sandwiches, my first meal of greater stature than morsel in over a week. Midnight struck and all that corned beef and seeded rye turned to stone. Oof.

I pulled my usual routine in this circumstance: recreational self-induced vomiting. It had been four hours since the third sandwich, and it was already too late. After seven or eight attempts, all I could splash out was a less than compelling slime of brown cottage cheese looking stuff. The meat, the weight, the bulk? Well, it had already migrated south to my intestinal tract, where it would rest and rot for many days, implacable. My regularity was cancelled.

6/6/07

On Wednesday I woke hitching for air. Oxygen was elusive and... I could not swallow. Well, I could, but it took great effort and hurt like throat rape. (speaking from conjecture, not experience) Oh hell. I called in sick, sounding like a chortling halfwit with throat muscles of jello.

6/7/2007

In this second stage of disease, I had less willpower to resist medicking and quickly agreed to a hospital visit. I got a real doctor this time around the track. That ace fucker shined a light in my mouth, poked me in the spleen, strangled me gently, swiped some blood, and promptly diagnosed me with vicious accuracy. He announced my affliction with a big old smile and a cheerful voice:

"Steve! Guess what? You have infectuous mononucleosis!"

He beamed at me, extremely satisfied.

"Well fuck."

"Now now. That's not necessary."

"Sorry doc. So now what?"

"Drugs!"

He sent me off with a weak pain prescription of hydrocodone and bade me to eat popsicles. Modern medicine in action, assholes.

6/9/2007

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I had consumed all my narcotics, and nothing had improved. So I went back. I could not swallow at all by then. I demanded something hardcore. I almost cried. But I didn't. His brutish nurse slammed an IV of steroids, saline, and painkillers into my elbow crook and told me to stop my whining. I floated in and out of consciousness.

My mommy sat beside me, looking aggrieved. She's the awesomest. (yes, I'm 28. I still need Mommy sometimes.)

The doc warned me: No sports or heavy lifting. My spleen would be delicate for a long time to come, and undue pressure would cause its rupture.

"You mean it'll explode like a mouse's heart when it gets too scared?"

"No Steve. Not like that. Just take it easy. Can you do that?"

"Oh yeah. You bet. Sure. No physical stress. I'll be at home watching silly British mysteries on PBS. Listening to classical music. No risk to my spleen. All good in the hood, Doc."

This time my lab coat hero sent me off with two scrips, one for more hydrocodone, one for a short course of steroids to reduce my throat swelling. Prednisone? Yeah, something like that.

Now it's Wednesday the 13th. Today was my second day back at work. They're treating me like a leper, but a leper they're really proud of. I feel very Special Olympics. I am writing this delirious entry from home, bathed in sweat and diseased idiocy, once again jacked on ephedrine, beer, and hope for tomorrow.

Checkerboard

2007-05-17T15:09:00.000-05:00

“I was up above it.
Now I’m down in it.”
-Nine Inch Nails, “Down In It”

3/29/07 1:37 A.M.

“Take off your shoes.”

“Why?”

“Suicide. The laces. Belt has to come off, too. C’mon.”

“Alright.”

I step into the holding room. A small table is bolted to the wall; two chairs are bolted to the floor. The plastic bucket chairs remind me of high school. The obnoxiously bright flourescent lights remind me of office jobs, the buzzing white light washing out my sweaty, drunken complexion.

I was pulled over for speeding. 63 in a 45 at 1:00 in the morning, late last March. I was honest (sort of) in admitting to imbibing, but I claimed two drinks, not the dozen or so I’d actually downed. I wasn’t drunk, (no double vision) but heavily buzzed, and I failed the field sobriety and breathalyzer tests. Point One Four.

I am a big, wet, hairy, wheezing asshole. I am the sort of shithead who selfishly does as he pleases, putting the general driving populace at risk of random death by drunk driver attack. I am deeply ashamed.

I am the lowest of the low. I’ve heard people say they’re in favor of the death penalty for drunk drivers, but not rapists and murderers. Because drunk drivers are worse. That’s extreme, but some people truly believe me to be worse than a pedophile. I disagree. I’m not excusing my behavior by questioning this wild comparison- I know my action was wrong, but I certainly didn’t leave that pub with a premeditated intention to destroy somebody. My crime was one of casual blitheness, not of bloodthirsty hatred or sexual psychosis. If I’m not a good person, I am at least decent.

I’ve been in here for an hour. I have to pee so badly. Will I be fired from my jobs for this? Will I be judged, found unworthy of friendship by my peers, and scorned? Will those who previously loved and respected me now sneer and brush me away, a leper with a contagious rotting disease?

Don’t cry. You’ll get through this, Just keep tapping the table, keep fisting your toes, keep cracking your neck. Stay busy, pass the time, do anything but think about this.

Not gonna work. I’m sweating. My feet itch. My feet… Yes. My feet can help here. I may not have access to my pocket knife, by my fingernails are long. Attack the callouses. Yes. A worthy distraction.

Off come my socks. I smell them. Not bad. (I showered, dressed, and departed home, already beer buzzed, a mere three hours ago.) My feet are clean apart from a few patches of dead skin and some old flattened blisters.

This impromptu pedicure is certainly good, mindless busy work. I’ve been clawing at my soles and toes for over an hour now, and I’m running out of dead flesh. Feeling drunker. Swaying in my chair. Still gotta pee. Bladder screaming. Must peel more.

Hey, I felt that. I’m not supposed to feel the dead parts. Not pain, anyways. And now, red. Strong red blood, welling at a breach on my right pinky toe. Pull off the flap. Whoops. I ripped off a layer too many. Sorry dermis. A shocking little squirt. Fuck it, back to the other foot.

Twenty minutes more have passed, and both my feet are bleeding now, from six different toes. I stop picking and peeling, opting instead to pace across this little white room. Back and forth over and over again, clapping, sighing, farting, humming.

My footprints are all over the holding room, some fresh, some drying, darkening to maroon.

Now I’m scabbing up. Back on go my socks. I lick my fingers clean, taking care to nibble out anything stuck under my fingernails.

“What the fuck happened in here?”

“I’m, uh… I was…”

“Nevermind, just siddown, okay? I gotta read these waivers out loud to you.”

The brash rookie cop who arrested me is eyeing the gore on the floor. He goosesteps around my messier spots, takes the second chair, and threatens me. In summary? If you don’t sign this and take another breathalyzer, you face a mandatory six month driver’s license suspension and at least $2500 in fines.

“Please sign here to indicate you understand what I’ve read you, and sign here to indicate your consent to administer the second breathalyzer.”

I sign, and after one more disgusted glance at the tile floor, the officer leads me to the basement. I exhale, I press my inky fingers, I turn my head for the camera. Booked.

“Everyone's got to face down the demons
Maybe today
We can put the past away
I wish you would step back from that ledge, my friend
You could cut ties with all the lies
That you've been living in”
-Third Eye Blind, “Jumper”

5/14/07 5:43 P.M.

Okay, Stevie-boy, recess is over, the party’s cancelled, your grace period is ended. Your case is still unresolved, your expensive lawyer is haggling with the state, seeking loopholes, doing his best. In the meantime, you can’t drive anywhere for a while. Call in all your favors, stretch those patience ropes tight, and prepare for penance.

Yeah, not only do I talk to myself, I write to myself sometimes, too.

By the time my automatic suspension began last Monday, I was depressed. I was broke, I hadn’t hung out with friends for a while, I felt unlovable and useless to everyone, and I was miserable. I doubted my virtues and wallowed in my faults. I stared at the ceiling. I drank alone. Loneliness and loathing and despair. I spent all weekend staring in the mirror. I hated myself.

I walk off my problems. Miles in the heat, clad in thin stringy socks, dirty old sneakers, and a blanket of masochism. This might work again, just like the old days.

On Monday evening, I got dropped off at the intersection of Barrington and Palatine Roads. I walked east, five miles against traffic, sweating and chewing on pine needles. (they taste like floor cleanser, which is wonderful, but like the chemicals, they irritate the throat, necessitating frequent water gulps) There are no sidewalks around there, just dense foliage, so I walked on the street, cars screaming by me at a foot’s distance going 50mph. Let me take you back there.

As I tire out and burn in the sun, I usually slough off any mental baggage and emerge scoured of all my troubles. Today I’ve been going for two miles and I’m still as depressed as I was at the outset. I’m also out of shape, doughy and lethargic from a winter of indulgence. This isn't working right. Fuck! It's all I have left!

I give in to temptation, snake my hand into a cargo pocket low on my pants, and fish out a card full of ephedrine pills. 1, 2,3. Hmm… not enough. 4, 5, 6. That’s more like it. Down the hatch. An hour passes, heel to toe to heel to toe.

Almost home. The trucker speed is jolting me. (six times the recommended dosage, my darlings) Ears ringing. Heavy sweating. Hyperventilating. Heart like a hummingbird. Every breeze feels like a silk loofah. My nerve endings are jumping and buzzing as waves of serotonin euphoria wash up and down them. I can feel every hair shift in its follicle when each lovely breeze strokes me. I’m pounded with orgasmic tide after tide until I reach the corner liquor store. I giggle and pant my way to the beer cooler.

Finally, home. Nice and cool, which actually feels cold to my hyper-sensitive skin. Off come the shoes and socks. My pocket knife is right there on the kitchen table. I haven’t damaged my feet since the arrest. I could slice them up beautifully right now, make a magnificent mess on the carpet, Rorschact fractals leaking from knife carved foot fissures.

I do it. The skin is soft and pliable by way of sweat and toil. The dull dirty blade meets no fight, and reaches right into my foot, opening any holes I desire. Soon I have streams, then puddles, later to be stains. I neglect patching and bandaging, electing instead to let the crimson trickles tickle my tender soles. I get horny. I sigh through the delicious mixture of pleasure and pain.

It dries. Mostly. I rise and trudge to the fridge, careful not to slip.

I crack an Old Style, crank up some acoustic guitar songs, and lay half on the bed, half on the floor, discombobulated, eyes studying the ceiling, like Dad would.

I’m smiling and I feel great, but it’s hard to drink beer while lying on my back. I don’t mind the sudsy splashes that miss my mouth and land at the nape of my neck, mingling with my salty sweat, staining my shirt.

I am flying so high right now. I’m in the clouds. I’m okay now. Everything will be fine. I’m okay.

“I'm a wheel
I will
Turn on you
I'm gonna turn on you, turn on you
Turn on turn on you, turn on you”
-Wilco, “I’m A Wheel”

Cold Fuzz Getaway

2007-05-01T16:22:00.000-05:00

“Are you coming or not, Steve? I’m not gonna fuck this girl for you! I already got Sky.”

”Billy, listen. I appreciate this and all, I just don’t think-"

“Shut up. Just zip it. Hurry the fuck up. She’s getting green.”

I’ve been hanging out with Billy for a couple weeks. He’s my new local drinking buddy. He complains about his girlfriend, I complain about my lack of one, and we both direct snide comments at drunk rich kids, trying to get a rise out of ‘em. Sharing mutual hatred is always a good basis for friendship.

On this early April night, the clock has struck three. I’ve just escaped my night job at the bar and grill. I smell like buffalo sauce, my forehead is shiny with grease, and my asscrack feels moist with sweat. What better time to make a first impression?

I arrive and try to beeline for the bathroom, desperate to scrub my face and wipe dry my nethers. Before I can reach the commode, Billy sees me, launches from his table, violently snags my collar, and drags me to his table.

“Sit. Steve, this is Kareen. Kareen, Steve. Go ahead and make out.”

I stare across the table. “Hi. Um. Nice to meet you?”

Billy and his girlfriend, Skylar, are giggling and making gestures suggestive of sucking and fucking. I try to block these out. My dignity is hanging by a frayed thread.

Kareen is eyeing me from across the table. I try to determine if she’s attracted to me. After a few moments, I realize she’s so drunk she can’t focus. Her eyes are clouded over, her mouth is hanging open, and drool is welling at the corners of her mouth. She’s swaying left and right. Yikes. So that’s what Billy meant by green.

“So… Kareen? Was there a mistake on your birth certificate, or were your parents creative free spirit types aiming for originality?”

One minute into our meeting and I’ve already insulted her and her parents. Very suave. Billy slaps me.

“Outside. Cigarette. Now.”

I comply.

“Dude, I know it’s been a while since you’ve seen any action. I’m trying to do something nice for you. I’m trying to help a brotha out. Play nice, kay?”

“Billy. She’s very cute. Hot in fact. But she left her brain in the bottom of a martini glass. She’s fuckin wasted, she’s not home, out to lunch, completely shitfaced. Do you think she can stand up? I don’t. Gravity is her enemy right now. Even if I wanted a piece of her, and was predatory enough to try, which I’m not, she’s likely to puke in my mouth. Or on my dick. No way, man. I appreciate the gesture and all…”

“You’re weak. Fine. You can’t say I didn’t try. Fuck it, let’s drink.”

One hour, three whiskeys, two carbombs, and one pitcher of cheap beer later, last call is announced. Time to go home. It’s four in the morning and I must rise at eight. Time to pack it in.

Billy, Skylar, and I walk out the front door.

“Where’s Kareen?”

Uh-oh.

Skylar goes to find her, and three minutes later, leads her out front. Kareen falls over, taking Sky down to the concrete with her. Kareen starts crying.

Two guys rush over and try to help the girls up, knocking Billy and I out of the way. One of them, a pale blond asshole, tells us he knew Kareen in high school. Now he’s trying to pick up Kareen in more ways than one.

When he coos “Kareen, baby, it’s okay, I got you, come with me, I’ll take care of you” Billy looks over at me, his eyes hardening. I guess it’s okay if one of his friends takes advantage of this girl, but not okay if a stranger tries it. Billy is drunk and becoming angry with the scene before him. Meanwhile, Kareen is clutching the ground, refusing to get up for anyone.

“Sky, get her out of here.”

Sky manages to peel Kareen up and drags her off down the sidewalk towards her nearby condo.

Blondie boy is pissed.

“What’s your fucking problem? Cockblocking assfuck.”

Blondie shoves Billy. His squat, hairy friend stands beside him, scowling, clenching and reclenching his fists, obviously spoiling for violence. Billy, unprepared for the push, falls backwards to the cold hard ground.

The pussy vultures pounce upon Billy. Upon tearing them off and standing Billy up, I engage my voice of sensible reason, complete with gentle velvet soothing action. The seething fury wilts before the calming hypnotic power of my diplomacy.

(This was a month ago, but I recall using a two-pronged attack- 1. Hey, we’re in this together, let’s not fight! Total nonsense, but fine for using on drunkards. 2. She’s not worth this man, trust me, one word: teeth. You don’t wants scrapes and divots, do you? Hell, in her state tonight she might bite you clean off.)

Billy and I saunter away, leaving the two shitheads confused and unsure where to direct their simmering testosterone. I would later learn they found a new target.

We're halfway to Sky’s condo before we decide acquiring more beer is paramount.

My house keys are in my car, back at the bar. There's more beer at my house. So we run back to the bar. I grab my keys from the car and we begin our sprint back whence we came, desperate to scoop the beer from my home then zip back and slam Sky's doorbell before she conks out and leaves us abandoned outdoors.

A bright light blinds me and a voice rings out:

“Halt! Stop! Hands in the air!”

Aw fuck.

“I was just getting my keys, I’m not driving anywhere!”

(I got a DUI the week before, my first and last. Until then, I’d suffered no police action in ten years. Now I was about to be arrested for the second time in a week.)

I reach for my keys. I wish to dangle them before the officer. He pulls his gun, trains it upon me, and screams.

“I SAID HANDS IN THE AIR ASSHOLE DON’T MOVE!”

Holy shit. What is this? My hands give the gospel truth and reach for the heavens.

“WHY WERE YOU RUNNING? WHERE’S THE KNIFE?”

“Knife?”

At this point, I brace myself for a nasty tackle. That cop is coming up fast, and he’s not slowing down, nor is that raging pitbull expression distorting his features softening up.

From the periphery, a voice:

“Officer! Over here! I’m the one who called! That’s not him, that’s not the guy who attacked us. That guy actually got attacked by the same guys who attacked me, just a minute before!”

Finally, the cop slows down, holsters his cannon, and sternly commands me.

“You stay fucking put. I got questions for you.”

I watch a scene straight from the COPS TV show. The frantic cop caller is pointing at a black car pulling out of the bar lot. The cursing cop mutters into his walkie and three nearby squad cars block the bar lot exit, surround the black muscle car, and haul guys out through the open windows, ignoring the civilized option of the opening the doors first. The mob of cops grabass the suspects, trying to find their grail, the evidence, that knife.

A knife that stayed pocketed during my brief encounter with the fuckheads. Lucky Billy, lucky me. Blondie stabbed someone else instead. After we left. Hah hah.

The cops are busy. None are paying me any mind. I’m thirsty. Billy says “let’s go.” We turn around and walk. We get our beer from my joint, head for Sky’s condo, and finally, relax on a luxurious couch sipping Bud Select while Sky and Kareen take turns puking into the toilet.

Sinking Ships

2007-04-04T13:22:00.000-05:00

"I hope that you like it in your little motel
And I hope that the suite sleeps and suits you well
Well I can see it as time and a sight through smell and
Thats why its nice to be by yourself

Cause thats what I'm waiting for
That's what I'm waiting for
That's what I'm waiting for, aren't I?"
-Modest Mouse, "Little Motel"

“I’m losing my room on Saturday. I spent eleven months homeless last year, and now I’m going that way again.”

My father is a proud man laid low. Once upon a time, he supported a family of six, earned six figures a year, and wallowed in middle class luxury, free to indulge his penchant for bourbon with nary a concern for the future. He coasted along, slowly self-destructing, expecting unimpeded comfort as he soaked and pickled.

That was before his industry collapsed, his employment options evaporated, and his savings dwindled away during a couple years of rent checks, car payments, wedding expenses, cartons of Bensen & Hedges De Luxe Ultra Lights 100’s, and nightly fifths of his holy amber poison. Now he rents rooms in boarding houses full of divorcees and parolees. He makes deliveries for an auto parts store. They pay him a pittance.

“Again? Jesus, Dad. What happened?”

My myopic sub-ambitious version of the American Dream was simple: all I desired was a walled residence inhabited solely by me: a place to eat, shit, sleep, masturbate, and consume illegal narcotics uninhibited by the obtrusive presence of other lifeforms.

I basked in that for one glorious month.

“Oh, a bunch of shit. I had to fix my car again and didn’t have the rent money. That’s the main thing.”

I used to loathe the old man. From my 14^th to 22^nd years, he was my chief tormentor, my nemesis, the bane of my existence. My hatred was deep and all-consuming. Sometime after I left the nest and began facing the sacrifices and hardships of adult life, I began to understand and appreciate the man. I learned to respect him despite his selfishness and addiction. We reconciled. I came back to live under his roof for six months while I was between jobs. That ended with fleas and eviction. The family scattered like dandelion wisps in the breeze. Four years ago.

“You can crash at my apartment for a little while for free, Dad. This way you can gather some money and get back on your feet. I guess it’s my turn to help you out.”

As soon as I hung up the phone I thought about what I’d just offered. While it might have been the nice thing to do, it sure as hell was going to ruin my fun.

This man has been kicked out of multiple shared residences for getting drunk and falling asleep naked in the hallways. This is a man who frequently confuses the refrigerator and the toilet. (No, he doesn’t eat from the toilet, but he does piss in the fridge.) This is a man whose internal organs are so seared and soaked that he clutches his belly and howls while he sleeps. (When he isn’t snoring louder than a helicopter.) And like most classic drunks, he knocks over lamps, stumbles into furniture, and unknowingly bleeds from the foot for several hours without realizing it.

When he came to visit and pick up keys, I sat him down for a good old fashioned son to father talk.

“I’m going to continue to live like I’m alone here. I’ll try to be considerate, but… I like loud music. You like Wheel of Fortune. My choices will come first. I work 80 hours a week for this place. You like to chat and chat and chat. I often want solitude. So I will send you to your room. Frequently. Try not to be offended by that. I’m glad I can help you out, but the fact that I’m losing my privacy and space is something I resent. Be prepared to deal with hostility from me. It’ll happen. Clean up after yourself, and leave my goddamn toothbrush alone. You can eat whatever’s in the fridge, but don’t pee in there.”

I thought for a minute.

“I’m not putting a time limit on how long you can stay here, but the purpose of this arrangement is to allow you some rent-free time to accumulate money and move on. This is not a permanent arrangement. I expect you to aggressively save cash. That means no upgrading to expensive booze, premium cigarettes, and fast food meals. You’ve been cooking at home and buying your vices from the bottom shelf for two years. I’m not doing this so you can be indulgent. Like I said, I work eighty hours for this place, and for you to get all lazy and casual will piss me off. Resist that temptation. I know I sound harsh, but I think it’s best that I’m upfront so we have no confusion. Okay?”

He blinked a few times, speechless. Lectured by his own child. Told he might be sent to his room without dinner, grounded, his allowance taken away. His pride took some serious hits over the past few years, but this was on another level entirely. Still, we’re good friends, and he knew I was not gleeful or malicious with my stern lecture.

Besides, his only other option was sleeping in his van at the highway oasis.

He thanked me and left to go get possessions from his last residence, which he had two more days to occupy.

Almost a week has passed since then. My landlord lives above me. Dad has managed to piss him off twice, and that would be three if he’d been seen drunk and stumbling, pissing out in front of the building because I was in the bathroom. He’s embarrassing me.

This is going to get ugly.

Fast.

No good deed goes unpunished.

In Lieu

2007-02-27T17:18:00.000-06:00

I just moved to Palatine. Left my furniture behind. Very Spartan. No shower curtain, just baths now. No money, no toilet paper, so lots of baths. (and one ruined t-shirt) No microwave, oven and stovetop out of operation, so all food is cold. Very Spartan. Not much to say, really, although I expect to be composing words with frequency again soon.

I had this picture mounted on red paperboard in the bathroom at the ballet loft the whole year I was there. It's by Junko Mizuno. She's one of my favorite artists. It drew a few comments, but fewer than I expected. Sadly.

I found it online today after searching and failing to find it for over four years. This thrills me.

Menstrual Dreams:

A Late Valentine

2007-02-06T15:04:00.000-06:00

I remember that cold winter day you walked up to me in the bookstore and asked what I was reading. When I saw you (your red hair, your green eyes, those freckles) smirking at me, it took me a moment to regain my composure and stutter out the title. (A Prayer For Owen Meany, by John Irving) Of course I bought it. I still have that copy. It’s one book I’ll never give away. Not now. Not after you.

When I think about those first few coffee dates, the two of us sparring verbally, (upon the merits and flaws of formal education, isolationist foreign policy, mixed drink recipes) I feel hollow now, knowing that there will be no more brilliant conversation.

The first time we made love, you were so happy that I went down on you first. You said most men couldn’t or wouldn’t at all. I remember laughing right into your babymaker when you screamed “GGGGREAT!” like a feminine Tony The Tiger. You clamped your thighs on my ears and told me to stop laughing and get back to work. (all the while laughing yourself)

Towards the end of that beautiful lust fucking, when you were exhausted, the only sounds you could make were breathy little moans. I loved those. After we came, we laid there together, our eyes locked, me listening to you taking those deep, slow breaths, reveling in the afterglow, you stroking my hair and giving me little kisses, making our noses bump together. (I knew I was falling for you then, just like that)

I lived for those moments.

Maybe it was too perfect. I remember walking the corridors of the mall with you, feeling like the king of the world, the luckiest man, knowing you felt like royalty, too, when I had my arm wrapped around your waist. You in your scarves and gloves and goofy leggings all the time… you were so bright, so vivid, so blindingly beautiful in your own loud garish way. Sometimes so beautiful it hurt. That was a good hurt. (today I know only the bad)

Even your parents liked me, despite my dim future prospects and haphazard ways with money. They trusted your judgement, without question, knowing that if you’d chosen me, I must be good. Like you. You were so damn good.

I loved you even more for your frailties. You were convinced that you were bloating out, getting fat, going mondo porkwhale on me. I never thought that. I even liked the little bit of chubbiness on your belly. (which was nowhere approaching fat, trust me) I knew you’d work it off when winter ended, (with your strange love for jogging) but you were so obsessive about dieting, so concerned about looking good for me. I loved you for that. I even ate tofu and salads with you for a month, just to humor you.

I would eat tofu for the rest of my life to have you back. Hell, I would eat nothing at all if that’s what it took.

There was that night the thermostat broke and we couldn’t turn the heat off. It made us loopy, delirious, maybe a little deranged. When we had sex on the couch and you started screaming about burning calories and fucking faster and harder, until finally you started reciting the food you’d eaten that day and shouting “burning it off, burning it all off, oh yeah, burn burn feel the BURN!” I started laughing. You always made me laugh during sex. You made everything more fun.

I wish I could go back in time and tell you to watch out for that patch of ice. I wish I could tell you to drive more slowly, more carefully. I wish I could just ask you to leave work five minutes earlier, or later, and maybe your car would never have ended up underneath that truck. (did I lose you to bad luck, for no reason at all, or is there such a thing as fate?)

Now I’m all alone. Again. Everything the way it was, empty and pointless. Now though, it’s somehow worse. What’s the saying? Oh yeah. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. (that’s the one)

I never got to ask you. I was summoning up the courage, bracing my nerve, orchestrating the best possible moment and situation to spring the question. I wanted fairy tale perfection. (now I know I waited too long)

Now it’s just me and this ring. Now it’s just me and my tears.

I wish you could find a way back to me. I need you so, so much right now.

Proof

2007-01-16T11:08:00.000-06:00

“Where’s the bottle?”

“I brought it out. Set it on the bar. You don’t have it?”

“No! I saw you set it down, but by the time I came over to that end of the bar to move it to the mirror, it was gone. Somebody must’ve stolen it.”

“Ah shit. I’ll go check the cameras.”

I missed that conversation between the manager and bartender at the bar & grill where I work nights, but I heard the recap a few minutes later. My manager was looking at the closed circuit monitor, scratching his head, wondering how in the hell to use the thing without a keyboard or mouse.

I stepped into the office. “That’s my day job. Cameras, registers, digital video recorders, and so forth. I should be able to figure this thing out. If I can’t, I oughtta quit my day job. Let me at it.”

The DVR was up on a high shelf, so I stood up on a padded swivel chair, and after carefully adjusting my balance to prevent any unexpected falling injuries, I starting pressing buttons and making guesses. My manager stood on a chair next to me, his eyes darting back and forth as I rifled through several baffling menus.

I eventually determined how to assign a single camera to take up the entire display, and then I discovered playback mode. Bingo.

The culprit: male, mid-twenties, short spiked blond hair, black Fox Racing hoodie. The thief was likely some local faux-rural fuckstain who came in after taking in the motocross event at the arena across the street. He was definitely too old to be stealing cheap booze and dashing away, giggling and proud of his misdemeanor. (Like I did as a teenager. It’s okay for teenagers to steal booze from the grocery store. Hell, it should even be encouraged. Adults? Not so much.)

My manager took this positive identification back to the bar and asked his staff questions about the douchebag, eventually learning the moron asked for directions to our competitor, Chili’s, just down the street.

Cops were called. An attractive, cheerful policewoman came in the watch the video, take a report, and finally, dispatch units to Chili’s to secure the miscreants and the pilfered alcohol.

The Hoffman Estates cops nailed all four of the scumsucking bottom dwellers. I heard everything through the police radio.

The policewoman, my manager, and me were all yelling, cheering, and high-fiving. Congratulating each other.

It was nice to be on the right side of the law for 1 day out of 365.That’s my quota for the year.

A Thousand Icicle Knives

2007-01-11T15:51:00.000-06:00

I’m watching titties jiggle up here in old Melrose Park. I’m inside a small private club, a brick rectangle with no windows and single occupancy washrooms. The stage has two poles, two spotlights, one disco ball, and about fifty drinking men surrounding it, the lot of them shifting uncomfortably in cheap plastic chairs.

I’m standing up at the periphery of the horny crowd. The decent seats are taken, and I don’t mind. I paid forty bucks to get in, and I intend to drink at least that much in cheap beer at the open bar. Small plastic cups won’t deter me. I’ll just stay on my feet halfway between the stage and the bar. Get myself an eyeful and a bellyful simultaneously.

Besides, there’s a mirror covering the wall behind the bar, and I can ogle the tap girl’s naked ass while she fills my cups. Hey, I’m nearsighted.

Hey, look at that! The chubby Japanese stripper just pinched that guy’s nose shut with her crotch. So tight his blushing cheeks are stretching towards the center of his ruddy face. That’s good entertainment right there! This is not as impressive as the time I saw a stripper launch a dildo ten feet away with a crotch clench, but no matter how underwhelming the feat, vaginal aerobics are always a joy to behold.

It’s an hour later and the DJ is making announcements. The main stage shows are nearly done. Now, he breathlessly intones, is time for the private dances. Get the up close and personal attention our girls have lathered on the bachelor all night!

Wallets are scoured. Middle-aged men with receding hairlines, expanding waistlines, and yellow teeth are calculating how many minutes can be bought- minutes of naked female youth writhing upon their laps, contorting and moaning and playacting. Images and moments to be saved, stored in the imagination for the following month’s morning soapoffs.

Not me. I’m better than that. I’m not married, middle-aged, or dishonest enough with myself to properly enjoy a lap dance. I can’t get past the fact that the attention is false, that the beautiful woman simulating orgasm before me is only pretending. Most guys can ignore the big picture, can forget that the woman has no interest in him. To a stripper, you’re just a wallet. The last time I had a lap dance, I couldn’t enjoy it. A ringing indictment looped in my thoughts: “She’s lying to me. This is pretend.”

When I leave a strip joint, I’m all loneliness and blue balls. I feel cheap and cheated and less than human. Apparently, I’m the only one. People say I think too much. They say I take things too seriously, that I'm uptight, or worse, a hypocrite.

All true, I know.

Still.

No lap dances for me tonight. Even if I could freeze my mental anguish and enjoy it, panting and dumb, $20 a song is farther out than I can swim.

Ten drinks later and a stripper is grabbing me by the hand, leading me into a corner. I shouldn’t follow her. I know better.

More Altrusim

2007-01-03T12:57:00.000-06:00

12/21/06

“Karaoke’s over. Finished. Kaput. It’s ten to four. Get the fuck out.”

The surly bouncer grabbed the half full beer from my clammy grasp and pointed at the door. The man obviously derived glee from hostility. He was short, fat, and wore a t-shirt with a motorcycle on the front. Or, in one word: douchebag.

With mere hours before dawn, it was time for my group to filter out to vehicles, time for us to fumble with keys, to gnaw upon handfuls of mints, and to close one eye and weave homeward.

I hadn’t arrived until three, and since I was nearly sober and perfectly capable of navigation, I decided to deliver one extremely wasted soul to his front door. No driving for him. No way, no how, not gonna happen, pass the potatoes, please and thank you.

He didn’t know where to find his home. He just moved there. We got lost in the woods of South Barrington, the dark twists of Penny Road smashing my mental compass.

“You need me to pull over? You gonna splash out?”

“Nuh-nnooooo…. I neeeeevvver puke. I haven’t puked in six years. Oh man I’m so drunk. Thanks for taking me… taking me...ulg.

He rolled down the window. Icy sharp air flooded the car, slapping me in the face.

He broke his six year puke-free streak with a barrage of tepid beer and chicken wings, which streaked the side of the silver G6 I was driving.

“Iz… iss all outside your car. I dint get any in.”

He kept rolling the window up and down, effectively squeezing his regurgitation down where the window slots into the door. I saw chicken shred and potato chunks inside the car. His accuracy and reportage were not be trusted.

After we finally found his abode I inspected the car. Puke painted the exterior all the way to the back bumper. Bile trickles dripped from the ceiling onto the passenger seat.

Fuck it, that’s what rentals are for, right?

Aprons For Slaves

2006-12-27T19:50:00.000-06:00

I was running food out to table 331 last night; about seven or eight shitsmear teenagers sat there; decked out in their new Christmas gift clothes.

One girl in particular decided to test my patience. To see if she could make me lose my temper. To see if she could crack my veneer of professionalism, my ironclad cheer.

"You know what? This looks gross. I don't want any cheese."

It was a basket of potato wedges. To be fair, once the cheddar cools and sets, it looks like a slimy orange blanket of nasty. I could sympathize. I checked with Eric.

"No, she said cheese."

I believed him, but I went and got a basket plain for her anyways. I dropped it off.

"Can I have another Diet Coke?"

Why the hell not? Eric was busy at another table, and it would take a mere moment or two for me to refill her. I did.

"Can I have another ranch?"

I got the ranch.

"Actually, I want some blue cheese."

Jesus Christ on fire. I went and nabbed a cup of queso azul from the order staging station.

"You know what, I need some water, too."

As I placed the water before her, she stared at me, playfully, searching my expression for impatience, for a frown, for pure raging hatred. I displayed none. My perfunctory impersonal polite smile stayed firmly in place. I showed no sign of weakness. I would not be broken by this irritating C student.

"Can I get you anything else?"

She looked around her table, desperate to give me another slave chore. I waited, smiling. She had nothing. She looked back up to me, her smile fading, her mouth a tight unhappy little line.

"No."

Until that moment, I was seething inside, a vast cauldron of boiling hatred. When I saw her mischievous grin evaporate, knowing I had won, that hatred disappeared. I realized she's doomed to spend the rest of her life seeking happiness through manipulation and subterfuge. I felt sorry for the sad little bitch. For a second. One flickering second.

I marched off.

Shortly before close, I entered the men's washroom to mop. I saw that some guy had lined the toilet with paper to keep his ass clean and free of microbes. You know, the old makeshift teepee ass gasket maneuver. Perfectly normal.

Problem was, he didn't lay the toilet seat down first. He was so drunk he created his sanitary butt buffer on the toilet rim. The paper was soaked stuck to it. So I guess he got a piss halo on his caboose anyways. Poor drunk bastard.

Snow Burn

2006-12-14T17:10:00.000-06:00

Spark

“I’ll take a gyros with no tomatoes, well done, to go.”

“$4.94, please.”

I paid for the awful beast and settled in to wait for my food. A short Mexican with slicked back rockabilly hair, dirty fingernails, and blood red eyes walked out of the bathroom. He’d washed his hands after using the commode, but to dry them, he used his apron, which was encrusted with tzatziki sauce. He was trading shit smears for the crust of dried yogurt cucumber sauce.

His face looked familiar. Was it Jose, the screaming burger chef I worked alongside at Zippy’s ten years previous? Those pulsing facial veins drew the same map, just with deeper potholes. Jose had become even more frightening to gaze upon. The kind of man that causes children to clutch mommy’s leg and hide behind her.

“Jose?” I asked quietly, afraid I was wrong. No answer. He sat down near the sticker vending machines. So he was taking his afternoon break. I was glad somebody else was preparing my food. Despite his lack of response, I had to be sure. I paced over, faking impatience for my greasy pita sandwich. I stole another glance. Definitely him.

“Gallo Negro? Is that you, The Black Rooster?”

“Ees George, yah. You…” He wagged his finger, trying to pin a name on me. He remembered my face, at least.

“It’s me, Steve! From Zippy’s!”

He broke out in a smile. We chatted about the past; about kitchen crew that had moved on to bigger and better things; a few who got deported. The conversation eventually turned to our old business.

“Eeyou steel like-a the cocaine?”

“Fuck yeah!” My eyes lit up, my head nodded vigorously.

“I sell you some next week. I no like selling the heroin, sheet ees no good man. Fucking crazies. I try sell more yay.”

“I’m your man.”

We traded digits. I did not ask how his name switched from Jose to George. None of my business.

Fuse

My brother came to town recently.

“Me and Ricky hung out with Victor last night.”

“It’s ‘Ricky and I,’ not ‘me and Ricky.’” Wait, what? Victor?”

Victor was in jail, last I heard. I’d used him as my primary hookup for two years. He was my favorite coke dealer, a Latin King with the highest grade blow in town. When he disappeared, I was too spoiled by his product to buy the heavily cut speedy garbage sold by the silk-shirted shiny-shoed Euro fucks from the nightclubs. As a result, I dropped the hobby altogether for almost a year. If what my brother said was true, it was great news for me.

“He’s out already? I thought you said that was his third strike last year.”

“Yeah, but he has good lawyers. He still has to go back soon. I don’t know exactly.”

“Must be his sentencing coming up, or some legal technicality. I hope he gets off scott free. Can you reach him? Is he still up to the same old shit?”

“Yep, he’s dealing.”

“Hook it up, bro!”

Detonate

After two weeks testing my new diet of high grade keen, canned Pabst, and the occasional chicken wing, I’ve lost ten pounds, my nose squirts blood at random intervals, I pee out my butt, and my hearing comes and goes. Although using lots of cocaine eventually becomes vaguely unfulfilling, kind of like masturbating to exercise videos, right now I’m the happiest I’ve been in years.

Fast Alone

2006-12-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

Your Halo Is In The Mail

“Young man, I’m lost.”

It was nearly midnight last Monday when she tottered into the restaurant. I was hunched over the counter, my eyes vacant, my mind leagues away. Upon her plaintive statement, I snapped back to reality and took in the owner of the delicate old voice.

Doris looked 75. She had red hair under a shawl and massive prescription glasses.

I walked around the counter and approached her.

“Where are you trying to go?”

“Naperville. I go there everyday; it’s home. Somehow I got turned around today, and I don’t know where I am!”

She was nearly in Elgin, many miles north and west of her destination.

“I can help.”

I led her to a booth, grabbed paper and a marker, and told her the way home. My instructions were too complicated and Byzantine for the flustered old bird, so I offered to draw a map and write detailed directions. I’m a superb improvisational cartographer, and my handwriting is impeccable. Ten minutes later Doris was confident and keen to hit the road, armed with my magnificent instructions.

“You’re an angel, young man. My angel. Your halo is growing brightly tonight.”

Doris waved goodbye.

Grape Nuts

“Kiss my testicles? It’s crude enough to be from you, Steve, but something doesn’t fit.”

“Damn right it doesn’t fit. I didn’t post these little notes inside the garbage cans for all you waiters to find. Not my style at all. And if I did, my message would be further off kilter than that. Mine would say ‘Kiss my middle testicle, Love Steve.’”

“You have three testicles?”

“Man, I got a whole cluster of grapes. You’d need a flashlight and a spanner to find my middle nut.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m going to investigate this. These were written on numbered tickets, I see. Time for me to start collecting examples from each of you. Whoever has the pad numbered between 482650 and 482700 is the guilty prankster.”

“You pissed off?”

“Not at all! This is brilliant. I’ll shake the perpetrator’s hand and congratulate him before I brew up my own suitably childish retribution. Today’s Thursday. By tomorrow night I’ll have acquired my target. No doubt in my mind.”

Slip Slide Smash

I’m eastbound. Thursday night’s shift has ended, and now it’s 1:15 AM on Friday morning. The snow is no longer falling in gentle flakes. Instead, it’s shooting down like sharp darts of frozen hatred.

I crack my window and light a cigarette. In seconds, my cheeks and left eye are stabbed by precipitation. I flick the smoke through the window and roll it back up. I must concentrate.

God this is slow. I wish I could go faster, but I dare not. Even the professional truck drivers are having a hell of time keeping their semis in a single lane. They should pullover and wait. They can sleep in their cabs. I must go on.

Oh shit, that guy is moving fast. Too fast. He’s coming up along side me. He’s swerving. This is bad. Maybe if I just veer into the breakdown lane a little, he can pass me without sideswiping me. Oh shit. I’m not in the snow ruts anymore. I’m in the thick stuff. I’m sliding towards the median! Brakes! Come on! Brakes! Repond! Brakes! Fuck!

KA-THOOM!

Karma Makes A Comeback

I’m running down the breakdown lane through slush. The ice darts from the sky are stabbing my hands and face. I keep slipping. Careful now. One wrong step and I’m going to splash out face first in an icy puddle.

After I collided with the sand pylon, my car spun around and halted, safely out of the traveling lanes, half in the breakdown lane, half in a construction pit. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to collect my insurance papers and some cigarettes before abandoning my new car.

If only I hadn’t left my cell phone at work. No way to get help. Even if I had my phone, the police and tow services are sure to be busy tonight. Long waits. I decided not wait in the car, choosing instead to sprint for the toll booth.

Here I am, jogging through grey slush. This could be a brutal voyage.

Two miles later, somebody is slowing down and pulling over. I can’t see inside the ancient Oldsmobile, but it’s obvious to me the car is paused alongside me to offer help. I jump in the rusty old bucket.

“Hey thanks! You’re a lifesaver. I have no phone, I crashed, and I…”

I stop to catch my breath. He stares blankly. He’s Mexican and understands nothing more than my tone, which is panicked excitement.

“What’s your name, man? I’m Steve.”

“Aurelio.”

I thank him profusely and ask him to leave me at Cumberland Station. I ask for his contact info so I can send him money and Christmas cards. He declines. Helping a loco gringo is a good deed, but inviting him to be an honorary family member? No. Aurelio doesn’t want gratitude or rewards. We part.

Cold Alone Downtown Baby

I disembark the blue line train at the Clark and Lake station to transfer to the Orange Line. I know the transit system fairly well, and if all goes according to plan, I'll be home in twenty minutes. The Orange line stops two blocks from home. This isn’t going so poorly after all.

I switch platforms. I wait. No train. I go to the info desk. The woman behind the bulletproof glass has a toothache. She's gulping Aleve pills and coffee.

“Yeah, whachoo want?”

“Orange line to Midway, I’ve been waiting for a while. Still running?”

“Naw.”

“Shit. How about the Blue line to 54/Cermak?”

“Naw. Just the Blue to Forest Park.”

A quick round of mental calculations tells me I can get as close to home as Damen & Harrison, right next to the United Center, where the circus and the Bulls games frequently clog up traffic.

That leaves only 31 blocks to trudge through the sleet and hail. With a hole in one shoe.

I Drink To Forget

On Friday afternoon I drank heavily and spent long periods of time on the telephone with the state police, a towing company, my insurance carrier, and Enterprise Rent-A-Car. By the time Enterprise arrived to scoop me up, I was buzzed.

The pick-up guy was an obese black guy who ignored my feeble attempts at small talk. He pretended I was not riding shotgun, electing instead to bob his head to “Too Hot” by Kool & The Gang, which he had blasting from 95.5 WNUA. It was cold and wet outside.

Drunk and wearing my pajamas, I drove a rented Pontiac G6 back home through the evening rush hour. I did not get into an accident. (but it was a short drive)

Zoological Gynecology

“No. No way. It’ll take too long. I gotta get ready to go.”

“Where to?”

“I’m going to see my girl. I haven’t seen her since Wednesday, and not for weeks before that. I’ve been looking forward to this Saturday all week.”

“This’ll only take a half hour, forty-five minutes at most.”

“Hmm. Okay, I guess.”

My roommate is teaching himself the art of stage makeup and mask making. He sits me down, opens a massive container of Vaseline, and coats my entire head from the neck up with globs of lube.

“This keeps the latex and plaster from getting stuck in your hair. Looks like you need more on your sideburns.”

Plop.

Next, he uses a paintbrush to apply boiling latex paste to my head. It doesn’t burn too much with the Vaseline protecting my skin.

“This feels disgusting. Why do I get the feeling you’re going to ram me up an elephant’s vagina?”

“You’re not supposed to know about that. Just think about unicorns and rainbows. Everything will be fine. Relax. No facial movement. Not even a sniffle. Don’t fuck this up. Okay?”

An hour later, I’m getting impatient. He’s only getting started.

“Okay, now for the plaster strips. Time to mummify you.”

Two hours later, and it’s almost time to remove my cranial exoskeleton. I take a break from my serene stillness to check my email. With no phone, it’s my only way to communicate with my date. She’s mad. I blew her off. And not for just any date. She was going to cook me dinner at her place. I am such a fool. She’s right to be angry. I apologize.

Upon removal of my mummy mask, I head for the shower with a bag of Pillsbury baking flour in hand. It absorbs grease. I lather my greasy head with flour and rinse. Repeat. Seven times. I still have latex and oily flour clumps in a few places. I give up.

I check my email again. She’s not just mad, she’s furious. We’re finished, she says.

I drink. I wonder if Doris made it home okay on Monday.

Happy Holocaust

2006-11-27T13:30:00.000-06:00

Saturday, November 25, 2006

6:38 PM

It's been two weeks. The unfinished burritos and dried out linguini have decomposed from hardened encrustations into wet, glistening stews of sentient rot. The sinks are unapproachable. I've relegated myself to purchasing canned soda. Water is stricken from my diet by proxy of unavailability.

The fruit flies are still breeding. Their population grows exponentially every day. My kitchen is overrun, enswarmed. I have to clench my mouth shut and pinch my nose just to approach the fridge. The alternative is to eat or inhale several of the insects, even during a brief five second visit to the kitchen.

I can't take this anymore. Tomorrow, I'll deal with it. Right now, I'm going to my sanctuary, my bedroom. Oh God. There's a few in here, too. They must've found the ventilation system. Fuck.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

11:07 AM

I have two choices. Blame somebody and start a fight, or correct this problem. There's nobody else home right now for me to blame. Yelling won't fix this anyways. It was so long ago that the kitchen was serviceable that I can't remember who made these dishes. I work so much that I rarely eat at home anymore. I drink here though, and some of these open bottles are certainly my responsibility. The soup pan was probably me. It looks ancient. The linguini? The burritos? The hot peppers? Somebody else. I'm not going to blame anyone. I'm not going to get angry. I'm going to get chemicals.

11:46 AM

I'm back from the grocery store. I have ammonia, surgical masks, latex gloves, garbage bags, fly tape, paper plates, paper towels, disinfectant spray, and diet grapefruit soda. I'm ready for this. I hope we have a lot of empty garbage cans outside.

12:10 PM

The garbage cans are full, and I haven't even touched the kitchen yet. I removed seven bags of filthy garbage that lay piled by the fire escape door for a month. The fruit flies were having a party here until I moved their breeding trenches. Still, they swarm. Fumes might help. Yeah. I'll splash ammonia around and choke the little fuckers.

12:15 PM

There's even more fruit flies in the kitchen. Hundreds. Thousands? I'm not doing the dishes in this. Even with my mask, they'll still get into my eyes. Under my eyelids. On my tear ducts. Maybe even in my ear canals. No. Not a fucking chance. Extreme measures must be taken. My roommates may be furious when they discover what I've done.

I don't care. They had their chances. They've had hours and days and weeks. I've been working two jobs this whole time, barely home, and even then just to sleep. They left things this way. If they hate my solution, tough shit. Their chances have expired, just like this food.

Pots and pans. Plates and forks. Cheese graters, Foreman grills, teacups, and spatulas. Into the garbage bags. Crash bang boom, porcelain and china, glass and silver. Goodbye. My divine black plastic (with easy cinching action!) swallows them all up.

Down I go, from the fire escape, to the sidewalk, and finally, to the overfilled trash bins and dumpsters. I wedge the bags wherever I can, and after that, I stack them. Bags and bags. Most of the swarm follows.

12:38 PM

The kitchen is empty but for the shallow grey green water in the sinks and the slime on the countertops. I'm protected by my latex hand condoms, so I reach into the sinks and probe out the muck preventing the water from draining. I finger out the unidentifiable obstructions. Wiggle wiggle squidge smush. It's time for sanitizers and paper towels.

1:08 PM

The kitchen is almost beautiful. The last of the flies, the stubborn holdouts, are perched on the cabinet doors, waiting for a new nest to appear in the sinks below. I spray them. They fall. A few escape, which is unfortunate. They'll die soon. Fruit flies primarly breed in ripe fruit and fermenting liquid. Those no longer exist here. However, research has informed me that any film of moisture can be used for egg laying. Even water! I coat the clean sinks with strong chemicals. A bold deterrent! Try to fuck in that! Lay your eggs in my caustic deathpuddles, insectile vermin!

1:17 PM

I'm walking around the ballroom, the living room, and the kitchen, seeking hot spots where the flies can hide and multiply. The nauseating little fuckers must be stamped out. I must eradicate them. They're still in the air, so my job is not yet done. Are they just lost, now that I've razed their homes? Will they soon die with no sustenance?

1:20 PM

Aha! There! They're converging on one place, their evil little insect fallout shelter. The ferret cage. The ferret has been dead for six months. The cage has stood there in the corner, all this time, full of feces. The cats began shitting in there even when the ferret was still alive, usually when the litterbox overflowed. For six months, a blend of animal shit has been molding in that cage. Finally, my emotions flare. I open the fire escape door, pick up the rather large cage by the legs, and throw it over the rail. It crashes to the concrete, where it explodes. Wood chips, ferret toys, two types of animal shit, a water bottle, shredded newspaper, and a blanket or two scatter with the impact.

Fuck it.

I leave it there.

Monday, November 27th, 2006

10:02 AM
I just got to work. My phone rang like crazy during the drive here. A roommate. I rarely answer while I'm driving. Too distracting, especially in traffic. He's stopped calling. It's the roommate who owned most of the dishes and the ferret cage. I wonder what he's upset about?

Side Order #3

2006-11-14T11:56:00.000-06:00

“Hey, nice tits!”

“Ugh! Pigs.”

Two drunken louts, buffalo sauce smeared across theirs chins and encrusted beneath their fingernails, decided last night that greasy chicken and greasy pussy were the top items on their grocery lists.

Undeterred by the rebuff, they conversed between themselves, loudly.

“I could pull either one of those. Betcha five bucks I rail the blonde tonight. Easy pussy.”

The woman in question had won a contest. She won free food, free beer, a limo ride, and access to recliners smack dab in the middle of the bar for her and four friends. These recliners left her seated lower than the bar tables. Combine the blonde’s low cut top with her sunken elevation, and she’d inadvertently encouraged the nearby male patrons to stare right down her blouse. Unfortunately for her, the rudest, dumbest, most classless turds in the joint had landed seats right next to hers.

She complained. One of our managers, a former college football player, hulked his way over to allay her complaints.

“Those two assholes keep saying nasty shit to me. Calling me a slut, shit like that.”

“I apologize for our guests’ rude behavior. I’ll take care of it.”

The manager turned around to address the slobs.

“Guys. I realize those ladies are attractive. Okay? But please, please keep the pickup lines and comments to yourselves. They’re not interested in you and now they’ve complained. Let’s all have a good time and keep it classy, okay?”

One of the louts beckoned my manager close with a curled finger. The manager leaned in to listen.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a fat fuck?”

My manager’s eyes grew wide. He leaned in. “Did anyone tell you that I fucked your wife?”

“Fuck you, man. You’re just a chumpshit restaurant manager. My wife wouldn’t let you fuck her even if you stole my dick.”

Mr. Manager regained his composure. “Pay up. Get out. Now.”

“Fine, fuck you and this place. We’re outta here.”

They tried to leave without paying. The manager intervened again, this time in the parking lot.

“Hey guys! You owe $67.40. Pay up. Cops are already on their way!”

They argued more. The cops came. The drunk fucks kept spewing bile, even with the law present to witness.

One cop said: “You keep this up and I’ll let this guy beat the shit out of you before I arrest you. Happily. What’s it gonna be?”

They paid and skittered away meekly.

No doubt, once safely ensconced within their vehicle, they said things like:

“I coulda took him down, easy, but he wasn’t worth the effort.”

“That blonde cunt wanted me. I could see it in her eyes, even if she didn’t want to admit it.”

I’ll bet those were the same assholes that put eight AC/DC songs on the jukebox.

...

2006-11-13T15:50:00.000-06:00

Side Order #2

2006-11-03T12:50:00.000-06:00

It began raining in the ballroom at eight this morning. I was the cloud.

Rather, my dick was the cloud. For the first time in my life, I went sleepwalk pissing. I've always made fun of my dad for peeing in refrigerator bins, on the kitchen floor, or in the entryway closet. Now I've gone and done it.

Unlike him, I wasn't blind stinking drunk, so full of bourbon I could be wrung out like a wet rag. I was just exhausted. After two or three hours of sleep a night for five days straight, I was beginning to crack, my brain liquefying and running from my ears like magma.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

It was one of my roommates yelling at me. Moments before, I had left my room, walked to the balcony, whipped out my junk, and let an arc of bold yellow descend to the first floor, right into a potted plant. Dirt became mud and splashed out onto the wooden flooring. Misty drizzle speckled the wall and the breakfast counter next to the plant.

When my roommate heard this and came out of his room, he yelled at me. I came to, waking up with my dick in my hand. Embarassment flooded my mind. Mild worried confusion washed over me.

This physical weariness is tearing my body apart. I'm so exhausted my brain is crossing wires, short-circuiting, and shutting down in horrifyingly spectacular ways.

I'm a fucking wreck.

Side Order #1

2006-10-27T17:04:00.000-05:00

I strolled into my new night job at the bar & grill. It was day three after the grand opening. The youngsters at the host station were smiling and energetic.

“Hey Steve! What’s up?”

“I’m drunk!”

They laughed. That crazy Steve, telling another wacky joke. He’s not serious.

After all, who would show up at a brand new job so drunk his breath could strip paint? Nobody. Well, except for me. I’d been coerced into waxing a bottle of Bacardi 151 at my day job, not to mention the six bottles of Oktoberfest I’d used as chasers.

When I left the alcoholics at my first job behind, I chewed some cinnamon gum, squeezed one eye shut, and drove a mile west to the night gig.

I repeated the same answer when the general manager clamped his meaty hand on my shoulder and asked my mood.

“Drunk as a skunk, sir! Ready to sling fried snacks and radiate sunshine!”

He grinned back at me.

“You all see this guy? We need more like him!"

"Anything to keep America happy and full of greasy food, sir."

"You’re a smartass, but I like that. We need energetic people like you. Gimme a high five!”

I even scored a raise that day for superior customer service and for mentoring my less adept coworkers in the nuances of touchscreen register usage.

If I start doing coke again, I could be a manager.

I'm gonna do some short takes for a while. I don't have the time or energy for anthing more involved these days, so I'm taking the lazy route and dropping my material unpolished in small, half thought out pieces like the above.

The Perfect Kiss

2006-10-17T16:45:00.000-05:00

“Steve!”

“Yessir!”

“Somebody got sick in the men’s washroom. Will you go take care of it?”

During last week’s extensive training battery, one team leader offered this gem:

“We sell spicy food. We sell alcohol. Accidents happen. People eat too much, drink too much, and sometimes, they vomit. Most people make it to the toilet, fortunately. But sometimes, they don’t. Everybody is gonna get a turn cleaning up some puke. I know it’s gross. I know it’s disgusting. But it has to be done. If a customer tells you about a mess, don’t try to pass it off to somebody else. Don’t whine and complain that it’s icky. We all get a turn. Just do it. Go clean it up. It’s not pleasant, I know, but if you want to be part of the team, you gotta take the good with bad. Alright?”

In this case, it wasn’t a customer, but rather, a manager who gently informed me of the steaming puddle in the men’s john. He watched me carefully for a reaction, his eyes hard, the gin blossoms on his nose blooming like roses.

“Sure!” I was almost too cheerful, probably because I suspected this was both a joke and a test. See how I'd react. See if I'd equivocate, if I'd protest. I half expected, upon accepting the chore, that my manager would break out in big silly grin, pat me on the shoulder, and say. “Forget it, there’s no puke, I was just testing your team spirit. Good attitude, youngster!”

That didn’t happen, so I trotted to the mop sink, filled a bucket with lemon sanitizer, and wheeled my janitorial weapons to the men’s commode.

In the rearmost stall, a puddle of barely digested chicken wings and warm foamy Sam Adams Lager lay splashed out across the toilet rim and the surrounding floor. I could smell the tangy aromas of buffalo sauce and gastric acid intermingled with the dull bitterness of beer, but these freshly ejected smells were all overpowered by the ripe waves of urine stink that drifted throughout the entire cramped washroom.

Before spreading this muck all about with the mop, I deemed it smart to use paper towels to centralize the swarm of meaty chunks into one pile. I figured this would allow me to scoop it up, plop the wad into the toilet, and flush it away, leaving nothing but murky fluids to be spread thin and ammoniated.

I didn’t realize how drastically my work hours had affected my pursuit of alcoholism. As I knelt before the ejectus, the twin smells of beer and buffalo sauce triggered a deep longing within my digestive system. The dirty swirl of pre-digested gulash cried out to me, begging me to quit my depressing new job, to go spend money I can’t afford on cheap beer, to sit like a dumb thirsty stump quaffing beers in succession, quickly, until I could no longer think or walk.

Being a mature adult, I resisted these childish impulses, deciding instead to stick it out, to deal with the mess and go on with my punishing labor schedule. 16 hours every weekday is quite a lot, but I consider myself a hardy masochist, one who faces this self-inflicted mental and physical damage with a baffling reserve of enthusiasm. Yes. I would resist these urges, maintain my discipline, and get the job done.

As I brought my paper towel wad down upon the edge of the swamp, preparing to huddle it up, a lone tear squeezed from my eye. Deep inside, I was hurting. I was sad. I missed my beer. I missed the freedom afforded by a mere 40 hours of work a week, the freedom to gorge on too much food, the freedom to render myself blind stinking drunk, frequently, for no reason whatsoever.

The puddle of vomit was calling to me.

“I am everything you want from life, and you’re just going to squidge me up with your towels and flush me away? You’re only hurting yourself. You love me. You are me.”

The vomit was right. I began to cry heavily, sobbing, feeling terribly and painfully sober.

I gave in. Instead of putting the paper towels to the mess, I bowed my head to it until my forehead was an inch from the floor. The tip of my nose dipped into the bubbly froth. As a wave of joy engulfed me, I inhaled deeply. The sharp intake of air dragged slime strings of gastro gumbo into my nose. My dick hardened.

I moaned a little bit. The smell was so good! I needed more. Slowly, tentatively, I flicked my tongue out, like a snake. I licked the brownish wetness, tasting the divine mesh of flavors, a mélange of rancid syrups cavorting upon my taste buds like dancing clowns.

I lost all control and began to lap the puke up like a greedy dog at an undiscovered crime scene. When my tongue slid between the tiles and found the spicier flavors embedded within the grout, I ejaculated, creating another puddle, this time in my pants.

As it turns out, I didn’t need the mop bucket or the ammonia.

I love this new job.

Drowning Dignity Like An Unwanted Kitten

2006-10-11T12:31:00.000-05:00

A brand new car was ushered before my greedy eyes, accompanied by trumpeted fanfare and glittering sunlight. My flash new ride was painted in cherry red, adorned with a ridiculous spoiler, and cranked up with an obnoxiously powerful sound system.

I enjoyed the little car for two weeks. On a Tuesday morning, I parked it in the back lot at work. The edge of the lot borders a small dirty creek lined with dense unkempt foliage. On that overcast morning, one of the trees, long dead and weakened by dry rot, cracked and fell. The main trunk landed on the gold 94 Saturn parked next to me. A thick protruding branch assaulted the rear end of my new car, removing the spoiler, the bumper, and part of the trunk lid.

Shit.

It took two weeks for the insurance and repair process, a long two weeks I spent in the suburbs under my mother’s wing. She drove me around, fed me, and provided unlimited access to her cable TV subscription. I watched Countdown, The Daily Show, and The Colbert Report every night. I ate cold Chef Boyardee from the can. I stayed sober. I felt sorry for myself as frequently as possible.

With the financial deficits incurred by the insurance deductible and the previous month’s impound fiasco, the hard truth that I needed a second job arrived like an ulcer for Christmas.

A needed a tip job. Easy money, I figured, and mostly under the table. I applied at twelve restaurants, citing my lack of experience and limited availability as key selling points. Surprisingly, I failed to attract any enthusiasm from the mustachioed managers. I was shot down time after time. I became concerned.

Two weeks ago, right before I regained my wheels, I spied a series of trailers in the middle of a parking lot, surrounded by buildings under construction. I had Mommy pull in and let me out. One of the trailers was staffed by two mildly hostile grunts wielding the authority to hire new employees for a fast growing grill and bar chain. I applied.

“No experience as a waiter? Since this is a new restaurant, we need people who’ve been servers before. You can start as a cashier and work your way up, though.”

“Hmm. Okay.” I was desperate. Maybe I should’ve lied. One week later, I was decked out in a tacky uniform, ready to smile and eat shit.

So here I am. The place opens on Sunday. I’ve spent all week being taught degrading and menial things like mopping techniques, suggestive selling, and grooming habits. Yes, my dignity has been tested. Most of the others training for cashier are high school students. Kids. I’m 27. The next oldest below me is 22, a guy named John with a chip on his shoulder. He’s five years younger than me, and even he thinks the position is below him. He’s moped through the entire education, mumbling and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. I hate him.

The training courses are brisk and dense, leaving very little time to poo or smoke. I haven’t had any overwhelming cigarette cravings, which surprises me. Still, when given a break, I don’t hesitate. I go for my smokes. As befitting of this day and age, smokers are relegated to the dumpster enclosure to indulge our addiction. Last night, as I stood there smoking, a jittery guy with a bad haircut started a conversation with me.

“So, you must be a bartender. I didn’t see you in our server group. I want to bartend. Got any advice for moving up?”

“Actually, I’m a cashier.”

“No shit! You look a little bit old for that.”

“I am. I have a regular job, you see, so this is my night work. Being a new place and all, they wouldn’t let me be a server with no past experience. So I have to work my way up. I’m gonna pester the management relentlessly until they promote me. I’m here for the good money, the tip money, not for minimum wage grunt slave pay. I don’t suppose you have any advice for me?”

“No, I uh… wow. I work over at Uno’s right now, it sucks. I want to… I need to be a bartender. Bartenders have all the power, right? I’m not saying to be an asshole to the customers or anything, but you gotta put people in their place sometimes. When you control the booze, you get to do that. And there’s other perks. Not that I want to get drunk at work, that’s not what I mean. Shit. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. This is weird. But yeah, this place should be better than Uno’s. Good luck getting to server, man.”

“Good luck to you too.”

Are they all crazy like him? Are their thought patterns all that scattered and frantic? Do these people abuse drugs while working? Further research is required.

The crack training teams have been teaching us menu items and procedures with stunningly simple brainwashing methods. A trainer will yell out a menu item and have the crowd yell it back. Louder, louder, louder, they implore, scream it like you mean it! Show us how much you love this place with every shout!

It’s an uphill battle for them. They’re coaching a crowd of nervous, unsure people who are all surrounded by strangers. Timidity is their enemy. They need to transform us from ignorant rubes to expert purveyors of joyous sunshine. Not easy. To yank trainees from their nervous shells, from their anemic whispered responses to easy questions, and from their stage fright, these leaders must behave like sugar addled performers on children’s shows. This can be quite a horrifying spectacle.

More on this later.

Will this website become a boring, subpar service industry whine page, bereft of its charm, its uniqueness subsumed as the writer’s life descends into misanthropy? Will it be jammed full of mundane, obvious complaints and trite caterwauling? Should I even bother?

I don’t know. What I can say is this: the disconnect between the Mexican kitchen staff and the caucasian floor staff is pretty damn interesting and worthy of dissection. I may even get a few chuckles out of my perceptions of it. I intend to befriend each of the Mexicans. Hopefully, this will result in free food and a cocaine connection.

Until then, sorry for this sucky report.

Anti Rape Spree (Three)

2006-09-26T15:31:00.000-05:00

“Steve, we got a problem.”

I was still hallucinating. Although my peak was over and the overwhelming orgasmic body buzz had settled from earthquakes to tremors, the colors were still far too bright. Wet looking trails of light slithered across my sight like neon caterpillars from an old arcade game.

Four years between acid trips didn’t cause me any problems. Using high grade mind altering substances has proven to be like riding a bicycle: once you have the skill, you keep it. Some people wig out, lose their grip on reality, and become mental vegetables. Others, like myself, react positively and love the stuff. I consider dosing to be a condensed vacation. I always emerge feeling clean and refreshed, my accumulated stresses incinerated.

Still, this was no time for me to engage in crisis management. Unfortunately, I was the go-to guy.

“Okay Steve, listen up. I know you’re fucked up but I need your attention now. Some guy is a grabbing girls by the lakeside campsites. The campground security guys already know, but since this is my party, they’ve deferred to me. I can’t leave the front here, so I need you to go sort it out. Marv’s guys are watching him, and they’re waiting for you there.”

A steroid case decked out in a buzzcut, a wifebeater, and chinos was surrounded by the campground guys. The meathead seemed confused, unsure why several biker types were standing around asking “You gonna be cool or what, man?” over and over. In his mind, he’d done nothing wrong. He kept trying to leave the circle, but couldn’t get through the bikers. His captors were taking no action to remove him, just keeping him in one place, waiting for me to get there. His confusion and hostility were rising rapidly.

I jumped in, deciding a personal approach might yield better results than looming intimidation. The bikers allowed me access, trading smirks and glances with each other that said “This oughtta be good. How long until the punches fly, you think?”

“What’s your name, man?”

“Matt. What the fuck is with these guys?”

“I’m Steve. We’ve had complaints that you grabbed somebody. Some girl.”

“Naw man, I just, I mean, I’m…”

“Yeah?”

“I got here late, okay? All my friends are sleeping right now. I can’t…”

He seemed more lost and confused than dangerous to me, though I kept mindful of his cannon arms. He could break my jaw easily, and to forget that would be very, very dumb.

I turned to the guards and whispered to one. “Keep an eye on us, but I’m gonna take him to the main stage, see if he calms down and enjoys the music. I don’t think he’ll be a problem if we just let him cool off.”

“Your call man.”

A half hour later Matt and I were near the main stage, talking about parties, smoking a joint. I asked him about drugs, and he confessed to taking ecstasy.

“So you’re rolling?”

“Yeah, it’s crazy. I’ve never taken ex before. It’s like… I don’t know.”

“Wanna hit this joint?”

“Okay. Never smoked weed before, either.”

“Really? How old are you?”

“Twenty-five, why?”

“Just curious. I’m twenty-seven. So what happened with your friends?”

“They got here yesterday. They’re all asleep, and I bought these pills for us but they wouldn’t wake up, so I took them all.”

A rookie to drug use tossed back several pills at once? A guy with a testosterone problem? No wonder he'd been flipping out. A girl walked by. Matt stared at her, then jogged up behind her. I followed, hoping like hell he knew her and wasn't just dogging after strangers.

“Hi, who are you?”

“Uh, Cheryl. You?”

Matt just stared at her. This made me nervous. I introduced him. “Cheryl, this is Matt.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

One of the security guys tapped me on the shoulder. “Make up your mind, man, we’re not following this guy around all night.”

“He seems okay. See?” The biker looked at the joint I was holding. I pinched it out and pocketed it before repeating myself. “See?” We turned around to look. Matt was now dancing in the main stage crowd, punching around like he was in a mosh pit. People gave him a wide berth.

“You sure? I think he’s gonna be trouble.”

I thought about this, watching Matt's violent lunging dancing, seeing him pause occasionally to yell into one girl or another’s ear.

“You’re right. Let’s get him out of here.”

The security bikers converged on the crowd, but between the darkness, the flashing neon colored strobes, and the sweaty mass of ravers, we lost him.

“Where is he, man?”

I answered. "I... I don’t see him.”

The security bikers waited with arms crossed, stern expressions, and impatience. I searched around the stage area until I finally found Matt standing by the entrance to the women’s showers. Just as I approached, he grabbed a pretty brunette by the arm as she exited the showers and tried to walk off.

“Hey, what the fuck! Let go!”

“What’s up, baby?”

“Let fucking go of me!”

“I’m just trying to make new friends. No need to be a bitch.”

I interceded. “Matt, what’s up man? I lost you.”

“Look man, I don’t wanna be your fucking friend, okay? Fuck off.” He shoved me away.

Our exchange gave the brunette an opportunity to slink away, which thankfully she did. I left Matt at the shower entrance and raced back to my biker mob.

“Guys, he’s over by the women’s showers harassing women. Take him out.”

We all ran back there. Once again, he was gone. We all stood around looking stupid, listening for women’s screams from inside the showers or off in the forest. All the bikers kept looking to me, angry, yelling “Where?” over the loud music. Finally, I saw him. He was up the main stage mosh dancing, dangerously close to bumping the turntables. The DJ looked pissed off and scared and was looking around for help.

“Guys, there he is, up there!” I pointed.

The bikers asked him nicely to get off the stage. He complied.

“We’re gonna have to ask you to leave.” They quickly and deftly pulled Matt’s arms behind his back and locked their elbows in his, one biker on each side of him. Backed by several others, they marched him a mile to the main gate, a golf cart following, illuminating the whole sorry march. I trudged behind Matt but in front of the cart, terrified that Matt would look back, see me, and silently decide to sneak back later to torque my head off my neck.

Ravers stared at my parade, gawking, smoking their cigarettes. I kept my head held high, letting my security lanyard sway across my chest. I was safe. So was the party. I did good.

With the bright glare of headlights backlighting our expelling squad, my acid trip began to breathe back to life. Bizarre squares of light and dark blinked in and out of existence, superimposing crossword puzzle grids atop everything I saw. I felt dizzy and desperate for a few swigs of alcohol to settle my nerves. A confiscated bottle of Johnny Walker Black was stashed at the front desk. I thought about it, visualizing it, my carrot on a string.

Finally, we reached the edge of the property. Sheriffs were waiting for us. I excused myself and left the dirtiest of work to the professionals.

No more undercover peacemaking bullshit next time. On that future day, I’ll simply say “get him out of here” and go about my merry way.

I went back to the front gate, grabbed the scotch, and shared my mediocre story.

Beer For The Ruthless (Two)

2006-09-18T13:09:00.000-05:00

When I volunteered to direct parking in the muddy field, Lydia gave me additional instructions:

“Search everybody as soon as they park, especially their coolers. No glass bottles. Confiscate them and, um, I don’t know, bring them up to will call. Yeah. We’ll stash them in the fridge until we hand them over to the campground staff. Just take them away so we don’t get fined.”

“I’m not searching people. I have no legal right. I can ask them, but I can’t really make them do anything.”

“Look, just keep you eyes open, okay? Jesus. So much bullshit.”

I arched my eyebrows and remained silent. Lydia had been working for 24 hours straight and had no rest coming anytime soon. As one of only three main organizers at the massive event, she was stretched paper thin. She was exhausted and her temper was shot. I didn’t want to contribute to Lydia’s skyrocketing stress level nor did I want to be her target for verbal catharsis. Hence, my silence.

As she stalked off to her next organizational duty, I sheathed my flashlight, staked a pair of tiki torches into the ground, lit a cigarette, and waited for the next wave of mentally scorched ravers to motor up to me.

In order to stand upon my tender feet in the hot sun for eight hours straight, I decided a steady regimen of cheap beer would be a prudent idea. I dragged a cooler to the front gate (all beer in cans, of course, being a bottle sipping hypocrite would be tantamount to urinating through ravers’ tent windows) and cracked open a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Cars arrived in waves. I sipped, I pointed, I welcomed. Occasionally I even warned them about glass containers. Not once did I confiscate a single bottle.

Hours after dusk, when my volunteer shift ended, I stumbled away to find friends who were scattered throughout the campground. With five sound stages and acres of dark woods before me, my prospects for success were bleak.

I did find Chris. We wandered around drinking and laughing, happy to be shitfaced in the wilderness. When we ran out of beer, despair began to lurk, and our drunken giggles became murmurs of desperation. Thirst set in, and we stalked up and down the trails, eagle eyed as drunks in the night can possibly be, our alcohol radars sweeping at maximum range.

A golf cart nearly ran us over. Upon it was Cassie, a short, slim, cute Winona Ryder lookalike that helped out with parking earlier that day. She'd given me a beer then, a gesture of camaraderie, and now I hoped she had more generosity in her heart.

Before I could beg or plead, she yelled for me.

“Steve! Come here!”

“I am here! Right here! I think! Hello!”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything, Cassie, name it.”

“These guys over at the main stage have been calling us on the walkies for two hours asking for beer. Will you bring these to them?”

“Um, okay. Who?”

She was drunk too. “I don’t know, whoever is complaining.” Not very helpful, but I decided this vagueness might contribute to my plausible deniability later on.

“How many go to them and how many do I keep for myself?”

“All of them go the main stage. ALL OF THEM. Got it?”

“Why yes, most certainly, I’ll locate your plaintiffs and deliver them beer presently.” (Yes, I actually talk like that when I’m plastered. Punch me in the face next time you see me.)

She gave me a sweet smile, handed over seven lukewarm cans of PBR, and said “Thank you sweetie!”

“The pleasure is all mine. Really.”

Chris looked at me like I’d just birthed from a whale’s vagina. I stood there, stuffing cans in the pouch of my hoodie and into my pockets. As soon as Cassie and her cadre of fucked up golf cart hippies motored a safe distance away, I began jumping up and down, hollering, having a general spastic freak out. I was raving in the traditional way.

“Holy shit Steve! Was that fucking real?”

I gibbered something back and passed Chris a beer before cracking one open for myself.

An hour later the seven beers had nearly been killed, and as we sat on the country stage, which wasn’t in use that night, a girl named Christa from Minneapolis (no, not Duluth, I wish) snuck up behind us and nearly scared us right off the two story drop at the front edge of the stage.

Upon regaining my wits (a meager portion of them, at least) we introduced ourselves and spoke of raves and DJs and traveling the interstates. I gave her the final PBR, and a short time later, she invited us to her campsite for further refreshment.

She offered beer from her well-iced cooler… bottled beer. A no-no. I let this egregious violation pass and happily indulged in the golden ambrosia. By this time I didn’t mind that it was Miller Lite, as I was drunk enough that any beer would suffice. (Who am I kidding, I would’ve drank it sober, too, but with a grimace)

Two of her friends arrived a short time later, an effeminate wisp of a boy named Dylan and a hairy Jew named Jacob. (pronounced Yakkob, he was serious about his ancestry) Jacob, studying to be an anthropologist, began to explain the aboriginal history of the digeridoo, an Australian “instrument” that produces guttural moans akin to elephant mating calls when one blows through it. He demonstrated, and the sound was truly awful, sending waves through my guts, unseating a lifetime of swallowed bubblegum from the walls of my intestines.

Two unnaturally skinny blond girls wandered by, somehow attracted by the soul damaging bellow of the digeridoo, and the lot of us made introductions. The girls were from Wisconsin. The trading of names led to a pair of uncomfortable moments.

When the tall blond told me her first name, Sierra, I asked if her parents were environmentalists or if they played computer games in the eighties. Shockingly, she understood neither reference, and I was forced to explain my horribly geeky childhood playing Sierra quest games. No response from her. Next reference, then. When I told her about the Sierra Club, which preserves bears and trees and honeysuckle, or some such shit, a flicker of recognition passed across her eyes for the briefest of moments. “My parents were hippies, a long time ago, I think.”

I can’t remember the other girl’s first name. Sarah, maybe? Her last name was Rommel. As in Nazi General Rommel, he of the Panzer tanks. I had to ask.

“Yep, he was my grandfather!”

Jacob stared, speechless. I spoke up.

“Wow, I wonder if your grandfather rounded up Jacob’s grandfather and put him in a concentration camp!” Drunk, I laughed at my own tasteful wit. Chris laughed, too, but nobody else around the fire did. They all just stared at me like I’d just been puked out by a walrus. God, I was great. More humor! “So Sarah, how much room have you got in the ashtray?”

"Fuck you."

I made a mental note: Holocaust humor is never, ever funny, and is frowned upon among persons of a serious demeanor, persons who hold certain things sacred.

Our welcome worn out, Chris and I left, promising to return later in the weekend for more good times.

“Dude, I can’t believe you said that shit. Her fucking ashtray. Jesus! Are you drunk?”

“Drunk? Me? No! Never! Let’s get more beer!”

“How?”

“I have no idea, but things’ve worked out splendidly so far. How could we probably, uh, I mean, how could we possibly fucking fail?”

I was still wearing my security badge and my walkie-talkie was still secured to my belt. As Chris and I walked towards the will-call, the unofficial gathering spot for all our friends, Lydia’s voice sqwauked over the walkie. “I got bottles in the parking lot. I’m confiscating them.”

I looked at Chris. “Run!”

We met Lydia in the lot and took the twelve pack of Goose Island 312 away so she could continue to park vehicles. She admonished me to stash them at will call, as the campers who brought them wished to pick them up upon departure.

“No prob, Lydia, anything else I can help with?”

“No, not now. Thanks, Steve.”

I ditched the cardboard. Chris and I stuffed five bottles each in our pockets and opened the remaining two, which we heartily enjoyed as we walked the trails.

An hour later, at nearly four in the morning, I tipped my third Goose Island to my lips as I walked past a mass of twenty people.

A girl pointed directly at me, outraged, and yelled “That’s my fucking beer!”

Chris and I kept walking.

Ten minutes later, my walkie buzzed. It was Lydia.

“STEVE AND CHRIS, REPORT TO WILL CALL RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”

Oh shit. Busted.

Kill All Hippies! (One)

2006-09-12T14:37:00.000-05:00

“This shit is bunk. That pudgy little fuck ripped us off. Seventy bucks, down the drain. Fuck.”

“Nothing? Not even a vibe?”

“Nothing. Seven cubes of nothing but sugar. No acid at all. I’m a fucking staff member here. This shit will not stand. I’m gonna go find him. Who’s with me? Steve? Will you help?”

“You bet.” I flicked a cigarette away. “Let’s go.”

The rave scene of the nineties had an unofficial motto of “peace, love, unity, and respect,” or for short, PLUR. It was essentially a regurgitation of the hippy ethic with the activist politics removed. Still intact, however, was the empty-headed hedonism. There were also musical differences between the ravers and hippies, but I need not elaborate upon those, right?

Now the rave scene is eviscerated, the majority of the participants having moved on to adulthood, clubbing, or both. Six years ago, in Chicago, legislation enabled law enforcers to crack down on promoters and DJs, holding them liable for any and all disasters. The rave scene evaporated, with most of the organizers electing instead to host legal events in establishments with liquor licenses, dress codes, and fire marshal imposed attendance capacities. Despite this, the hobbled rave scene stumbled forward on the outskirts of dance culture, continuing to provide teenagers a venue to purchase and consume hard controlled substances. Parties moved from the city proper out to backwoods farms and suburban warehouses. I had nothing to do with this.

Even among those mid-nineties crowds of MDMA-lathered gentle sheep children, wolves prowled the farms, selling fake drugs. The kids would share intelligence, trading names and descriptions of the non-PLUR drug dealers who bunked them. Ecstasy was the king drug, leading to spikes in sales of medical masks and Vicks Vaporub. Acid and mescaline ran a close second, with weird combinations of speed, ketamine, and crack bringing up the rear in the popularity race.

Back to the present.

During Labor Day weekend, I cavorted about a campground in central Wisconsin known for hosting country music festivals and adult lifestyle gatherings. Upon arriving, Marv, the owner, greeted me and handed me a flyer for an event next year called Spank. He bragged to me about the previous month’s event, during which he chained a 23 year old girl to the tractor in his barn and had a dominatrix whip her. I wasn’t sure whether I was envious or appalled.

As the weekend of hypnotic dance music progressed, I found myself in several strange situations, though none rivaled Marv’s tractor kink. One of these involved a drug dealer bearing the unfortunate name of Stanley.

Stan was selling ecstasy and acid. Several of my event security cohorts procured sugarcubes from him, each purported to be doused with three drops each of LSD.

When Hector ate one and failed to even twitch after an hour of waiting, murmurs of dissatisfaction simmered. Although Hector had abused his body with at least eight other substances during the previous two days, we figured his immunity couldn’t build up that fast, enough to nullify a three drop cube. When another hour passed, it was decided that repercussions must be aggressively pursued.

John and I commandeered a golf cart and sped along the forest trails, forcing surprised ravers to leap from the gravel into roadside mud pits lest they be knocked senseless by the front grille. If we’d had the bullhorn, I’m sure we would’ve screamed messages of Satanism and intolerance with the goal of unhinging the delicate chemical-addled minds of the colorful little chipmunk ravers. John was angry about getting ripped off. I was just pretending, riding the emotional bandwagon, glad to be enjoined to a noble cause. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned in my lifetime, vicarious hatred is always a good idea at a rave.

We found fat Stan deep in the forest, cowering on the edge of the campground property. His big dumb eyes shifted, seeking escape routes as John and I disembarked the golf cart and hulked menacingly up to him. Stan sat in a little collapsable chair, a bottle of Corona Light clenched in a death grip. I started the little talk.

“Stan. You know there’s no bottles allowed, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

Stan was fat, short, and soft. John and I were tall, angry, and well-practiced at looming. This accounted for Stan’s nervousness and stammering.

“No lime, either? Tsk tsk. For shame.”

“Uh, sorry?”

“So you’re the guy with the fake cubes, huh?”

“Not fake, no! I sold thirty already, all my friends and tripping hard, man. Shit’s good.”

John took over.

“Well, you sold me seven. I took mine two hours ago. Look at my pupils, Stan. Look deep. See any dilated pupils? Cause I don’t feel a motherfuckin thing.”

“Give em more time, man, I promise, they’re good, they really are. Did you eat food right before… I mean… Did you?”

“Not a damn nibble, Stanny. Just the sugar.”

I knew John hadn’t eaten any cubes, only Hector had. John still had a handful of them in his pocket. Was I part of something dishonest and sinister? No backing out now. I might even develop a taste for extortion. I might even be good at it.

“Well, I don’t know what to say, I mean…”

“I want my money back for all seven. Now. See this? It says Security with a capital S. That’s my badge. You ripped off the wrong guy this time. I’m no fucking friendly hippy that’s just gonna feel dumb for getting bunked. I’m the kinda guy to do something about it.”

“I…”

“Pick now, Stan. I’ll forcibly eject you from this party, right here and now, and I ain’t gonna be gentle about it. Pay up.”

I cracked my knuckles and narrowed my eyes, giving my best intimidating stare. People who know me would laugh at this charade, but poor Stan just saw a tall, bloodthirsty son of a bitch with an axe to grind. He never stood a chance. He capitulated. John and I hopped back on the cart, him $70 richer, me feeling a burning ball of power deep in my intestines.

Later that day, I asked for a sugarcube. John flipped it to me, and I ate it. I felt a weak vibe, but nothing approaching an acid trip. Perhaps we’d been right.

I was with one of the three main organizers, Rand, who’d invited me to join his staff and wield his authority throughout the event while he was trapped at the entrance collecting money and slapping on wristbands. We were on a green golf cart, cruising aimlessly, when we ran into Stan, whose eyes grew large as I approached.

“Rand, hold up. I gotta talk to this guy."

"'Kay."

"Hey Stan. How’s it going?”

“I saw your fucking friend tripping, man, what the fuck?”

“I dunno man, he said they were bunk and I believed him. If we ripped you off, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Assholes.”

Somebody walked up and bought a gumdrop from Stan. Now his “acid” was on candy instead of sugarcubes.

“Well, Stan, sell me one of those gumdrops. I’ll pay you. No fuckery, I promise.”

I’d forgotten about Rand standing behind me. Stan handed me the candy, warily, awaiting his cash.

“Hey Rand, let me get ten bucks, I left my money back at camp, I’ll reimburse you.”

Rand walked up and gave me a look of pure hate. He didn’t like being seen consorting with drug dealers at his own event. Still, he decided to make the best of it, and turning from me to Stan, he busted out with some half-baked stolen-from-TV mafioso bullshit.

“You’re in my world, Stan. You wanna make money at my event? Then you gotta pay your fucking dues. I brought these people here. I saw your fat cash wad. You got four grand there at least. Pay your fucking rent. $150, now, and you’re getting off cheap. NOW.”

Stan paid, again, and glared at me with burning hatred as Rand and I left. Twice I set him up. But what could he do, call the cops? Rand promised me a cut off his extortion bank, which he said would be separate from the main party bank, but nary a penny ever materialized.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

I found other opportunities to lie, cheat and steal that weekend. I’ll confess soon.

Oh, and the acid gumdrop? Real. Very, very real. My brain bubbled softly like spaghetti sauce gone thick from simmering too long on the stove.

European Pumpyfunk

2006-09-06T11:17:00.000-05:00

I've got stories from the forest rave to share, but no time to write them until later this week. This is a reworked combination of two previous entries from 2004. I fixed this up to submit to an online Chicago zine. They rejected it. Since the earlier versions were posted here before I had visitors to this site, let's pretend this is new.

I’m an alcoholic shut-in with a penchant for pouring drinks over my head and howling like a wolf, so it shocks me every time my nightclubbing friends seize me by the scruff and drag me out of the house. I’m unfit for the public eye. A first impression of me might yield the following: wrinkled clothing, tousled hair, bloodshot eyes, hostile sneer, lazy posture, and a bad attitude. In short, I belong among washed up old drunks in dive bars, not among the young, shiny, successful types that squeeze into downtown nightclubs, all glitter and spice and everything nice.

To be fair, I took the nightclub lifestyle out for test drive a few years ago, but the experiment failed. My personality type clashed with the scene, like death metal against pastel. Due to this brutal disconnect, I rejected the culture in favor of one more fitting for me, one of cynicism, self-destructive substance abuse, grating misanthropy, and indie rock.

My friends did not follow my lead, and to this day, they reserve Saturday night for dance music, strobe lights, overpriced drinks, and the occasional designer drug. Every week, usually around dinnertime on Saturday, I am gently coaxed, then laughingly teased, and finally aggressively recruited to join the clubbers’ cadre. Very rarely do I accept.

On a recent Saturday evening, these friends of mine managed to lure me from the safety of home by choosing a slightly different nightclub destination. I was intrigued to learn the establishment bills itself a nightclub cafe. Located on the outskirts of Chicago, in River Grove, Totu serves coffee and Polish cuisine and segues from a casual coffeehouse atmosphere to a full-blown dance club as the night progresses. Could this unusual fusion provide me a comfortable venue for my exacting brand of social catastrophe?

I arrived early, at eight, and entered a wooden barn-like room dimly lit in red lights. I took a corner seat and fished a menu from underneath a pile of scattered karaoke flyers. I couldn't read a word on the menu or the flyers, as both were printed in Polish.

Some examples from the drink specials placard:

Westchnienie ulgi bizona powracajacego z za krzaka
Bieg rozsazalalego Shamana na golasa ku rzece
Sep zdechly z nudow
Skowyt Czejena dzgnietego wlocznia w posladek

I was the only customer present. In the world of nightclubs, eight might as well be noon. There were two waitresses sitting at the bar. One was gorgeous, a svelte brunette in tight shiny leather. The other was hideous, apparently maimed by some unfortunate mishap. Her eyeball hung loose from its socket, a pendulum listing back and forth across her rosy cheek when she turned her head too quickly. The two conversed in Polish with the chef, who wore chef's whites and accented his booming speech with grandiose hand gestures.

The pretty waitress strode up to me and spoke words I couldn’t comprehend. I looked up at her, blinking and dumb. Realizing my quandary, she grabbed a translated version of the menu from another table. I scanned the selections. They served borscht, Hungarian meatballs, and fried vegetables, so I ordered coffee.

I began calling friends, my voice booming over background trance mix playing quietly from the overhead speakers. The staff trio were alarmed at the English words and shot me sidelong glances. They saw me looking about and heard me describing the decor and atmosphere. I think they were trying to discern whether I was a policeman, a fire marshal, a newspaper reporter, or simply a bedraggled reprobate scouting hot spots for friends.

I love listening to foreign languages, especially a room full of them murmuring, babbling, exclaiming, and rebuking. Despite this, I was desperate for conversation of my own, and after an hour of sitting alone, fifteen Poles had wandered in, most of them propping up the bar, ordering Okocim beer. Finally, the first of my friends arrived. Patrick had been practicing his house set for a few years, and was now accepting unpaid DJ gigs wherever promoters would take him. I’m not sure how he hooked up with the Polish crowd, but somehow he landed an hour at Totu. Finally, I had someone to talk to.

When Polish Tom arrived, Patrick’s gig made sudden sense. He plopped down beside me and the pretty waitress returned. They exchanged a few frantic words in Polish. I added a coffee to his order. My fourth cup of coffee was much stronger, came in a smaller cup, and contained muddy silt at the bottom. They'd been serving me domestic swill instead of their native brew. I was glad to be served their homeland mudcup. It packed a punch, though it was nowhere near as dirty or offensive as the Turkish or Armenian equivalents, both of which I hold in high esteem and affection.

By the time Patrick was slated to begin his house music assault, I was surrounded by ten friends. We drank European beer and prepared for the performance. Patrick decided to wear a costume that night. He wore a sport coat, tie, blue jeans, fake afro wig, and giant yellow sunglasses. I witnessed as my friend, a strange American boy, played giddy house music, acted like a cartoon, and made devil horns with his fingers before a crowd of sixty bewildered Polacks who couldn't decide whether to dance, kill him, or leave. I was impressed.

As the night wore on I spent plenty of time talking to a multitude of people, all of them English speakers. We formed a cadre of eleven, planted in the middle of a Polish nightclub, cheerful, the lot of us symbolically waving the colonial flag and representing our country amidst an enclave of European stubbornness.

Patrick finished his set and dashed off to the washroom. He’d been squeezing it in for a while. As he left the bathroom, he was accosted. A few Poles lurking near the exit grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around to face them.

"Hey, Mr. DJ! We DJs too, we play the music!"

One grabbed his tie, tightened it, (a little too much, according to him) and adjusted his collar. Patrick, feeling nervous, smiled, nodded, and scurried away as quickly as possible.

I had a distinctly weirder experience during my bathroom visit about twenty minutes later. I walked into the bathroom expecting to void my bladder in silence and comfort. I entered the washroom to a peculiar sight: One hyperventilating mouthbreather was standing near the sinks. He began coughing, clearing his throat, and stamping his foot as soon as I entered. I noticed another fellow who appeared to be drinking from the middle urinal. I was not distressed by this unsanitary behavior. The drinker quickly hawked up some buttery loogies and loudly spit them into the urinal. He then craned his head to peek at me before shooting more gobs into the porcelain, concerned that I might be watching him.

It was plain to me they'd been taking turns snorting rails from the top of a urinal. I had no desire to cause either of them consternation, but I had to pee. They were using the middle of three urinals, so I walked past the loogie hawker and stood before the rightmost porcelain. I was enjoying a leisurely piss when a hand clamped upon my left shoulder. A face hovered within inches of my ear, breathing raggedly and yelling in Polish. I mumbled incoherently, unable to speak any sense. I kept pissing.

He said something else. It was time for me to respond. "I no speak-a the Polish." I hoped that would suffice. It did not. Was he looking down at my tinkling genitals? I flexed my shoulder and craned my head. He backed up. Thankfully.

The two of them began glancing at each other, mumbling and wringing their fists, searching for the right words. Finally the snorter's eyes lit up and he pointed at me. He exclaimed "Security! Security?"

”No, no.” I was finished draining. I shook, tucked, and zipped. They laughed uproariously and patted me on the back. I smiled and said, "Yes! The fun." I quickly rinsed my hands and returned to my table. Patrick was still talking about the weird tie straightening incident. I trumped the hell out of him, regaling the table with my tale of the mouthbreathing cokeheads.

I had fun, but there’s no chance of my friends dragging me out in public next Saturday. I’m staying in.

Brains/Grits

2006-08-29T10:33:00.000-05:00

Family Reunion Rave Party

Break time for a little while. I'm heading up to northern Wisconsin for several days. My fate there will probably include dysentary, bleeding orifices, delerium, and execution by gunshot to the back of the head. I wish to be cremated. I want banjo music at the funeral and cheap bourbon to be served.

If, by chance, I return, you may hear from me next week.

Wrist Opening Day

2006-08-23T20:23:00.000-05:00

When I rolled off my mattress into a graveyard of empty beer cans, pop bottles, and two overflowing ashtrays, I realized my life is long overdue for an aggressive regimen of simplification. I need stark purity. I need streamlining. I need masochistic discipline. Time to clean absolutely everything until it shines to blindness.

The symptoms are overwhelming. Every payday eve I rue the frivolous purchase of energy drinks in the morning, the harmful inhalations of thirty cigarettes a day, the frequent ten dollar hot lunches from purveyors of exotic cuisine. Then there's the 100 cheap beers a week, all in the evenings.

That's just the financial aspect. There's my health and happiness to consider, too. Aside from the tobacco, all this sludgy fuckery has made me slow. I've suffered two weeklong illnesses so far this month, and it's only the 23rd. One was fevers and aches, the current one, brochitis. Besides the illnesses, my general state of being leaves a great deal to be desired. I'm so lethargic and morose that I've lost my appetites for friendship, creativity, sex, conversation, and tomorrow. I'm coasting on autopilot. I'm a sad shut-in. I'm fucking appalled with myself.

My recourse: removal. Erase all my habits. Subtract my entire lifestyle.

I'll eat less. I eat all the time when I'm not hungry. Usually, this is just a salve for boredom. Exercise will make a spectacular substitute. The mild beergut will melt off, my muscles will define themselves, and my step will spring once again.

I'll change my diet. Fruits, vegetables, brown bag lunches. I'll get all those wonderful vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, and save some cash in the process. No more italian beefs and chesseburgers and hefty plates of Pad Thai and Curry Beef. Pizza can fuck off. Not only will my temple thrive, my step will spring once again.

I'll quit smoking. Last time I did this, I lasted four months. I became a high-strung asshole. My inner tension led me to lash out in all directions, snapping derisive verbal jabs at people I like. I grew holier than thou. Not about smoking, but in other ways. (I will never, ever be able to chide someone for smoking cigarettes.) Playing a song I hated was grounds for me to burn down a friend's entire span of cultural interests in one hateful rant. The slightest criticism of me was grounds for me to shred the merits of that friend's deepest hopes and dreams. I was a nasty fuck. This will probably happen again. But, I figure, it's part of this whole simplification process. This will not help my step spring. Not a bit. I'll be lucky not to kick dogs and chew people's ears off.

Alcohol. If I quit smoking, the booze has to go, too. If you take the shithead I just described above and give him a couple drinks, he becomes five times worse, loses his clothing, and urinates in inappropriate places. See my archives from January to April 2005 for examples. No smokes? No booze. Clean Steve, all the way, and damn the withdrawals.

So what will I do to fill these voids? Easy.

I'll wander around like a crackhead, wondering at the sunrays, gaping at babies in strollers, a simpleton with no brain activity, wandering lost and bereft. I've always liked walking, and there's so many places to stroll. I may get bored from time to time, but it'll be for my own good. This will also separate me from my friends, keeping all my potential victims strangers.

I'll read books at bus stops, in grassy parks, on el station platforms. I'll be a city idiot, purposeless and aimless, a rube among sophisticates. Oh yeah, I'll stumble through libraries, too!

Without all the greasy fast food, poisonous cigarettes, and sloppy libations, basically, all the crappy things I use as substitues for living like a real human being, I'll be some sort of serene Zen fuckface with a santimonious expression but not a word of judgement to offer.

I will be empty, clean, and ready to write my mind anew.

Or, I'll be hopelessly adrift, disconnected from myself, and deeply depressed.

It might be a new leaf for me. More likely, though, upon success, I'll be celebrating Wrist Opening Day.

Warpaint And Gratitude

2006-08-23T12:41:00.000-05:00

Here's the third of five columns I wrote a few months ago for the alcoholics' website.

Never once did I consider the notion that my very best friends would do something like this to me. Not even in my ugliest moment of paranoia did I believe they would look at my prone, drunken, snoring body and think to themselves, "I should vandalize him."

I remember a party about two years ago. My friend invited thirty people to his house, drank a fifth of vodka and several beers, and by midnight, hobbled off to his room to sleep it off. Most of his guests weren’t even there yet.

I kept an eye on the scene. I made sure nobody kicked over his television, threw his potted plants out the windows, ate his cats, or urinated in his refrigerator. I played the stern yet benevolent host while my buddy farted, wheezed, and snored the night away in bed.

At three in the morning I saw two girls rummaging through the junk drawer. I eyed them suspiciously and approached them with stealth from behind. When they seized the thick black permanent marker, held it aloft, giggled, and then bolted down the hallway, I knew trouble was brewing. I followed them.

I stopped them just in time. If it wasn’t for my diligence, my friend would’ve awoken with dicks drawn on his cheeks, FAGGOT written on his forehead, and mayonnaise all over the crotch of his pants. I prevented a disaster for him, and I almost needed violence to stop those girls. They recruited others, prankster friends with makeup kits and art supplies, and together they tried to storm his room. It ended with this:

"For the last time, NO! I already said no several times. Back the fuck off or I WILL HURT YOU. I will punch a man wearing glasses, and I will punch a girl. If you make me. Don’t make me. Now: OUT! Get the fuck out of this room."

That did it. Little did I know that not only would my protection go unappreciated, but the very friend I saved would one day splash my passed out face with zombie makeup. Yes, he knew I saved him that night. Plenty of folks, including me, told him all about it. That’s why I was so shocked to wake up like this last Sunday morning:

(rubbing my face) "Ohhhh... fuck. I need some water."

(noticing the slippery slickness on my face) "What the…"

(looking at my hands, seeing red, black, and white, comprehension dawning slowly) "Why is this…"

I sat up and looked around. Two of my buddies, including the one I saved, were smiling ear to ear and looking guilty.

I stood up. They backed up. "Who did this? You?"

"Yeah, sorry dude, but it was funny."

He began walking away. I wasn’t letting him off with a weak bullshit apology like that. Oh no. I was furious. No apologies would satisfy me. Real consequences were necessary. I would not tolerate such humiliation. Ever.

I stomped up behind him, grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and planted my fist square on his jaw. He went down. Who else? I looked around. There was the accomplice.

"You too? Did you help?"

"Not really."

"That means a little. You fucking fuck."

I tried to punch him in the face, too, but my aim was a little off. I punched him in the neck. He grabbed a stool and prepared to swing it. I charged.

"Whatcha gonna do with that? Huh? Show me? Come on! Try me. Please, please try me."

He set it down and raised his hands.

"Nothing, man. Maybe I deserved that." His neck was red for hours.

"In my own house. Goddamn you assholes. If this ever happens again, I fucking promise your fingers will be broken. I’ll kick your fucking ribs in until they puncture your vital organs. Do you understand?"

"I’m sorry. Really."

"Me too."

"Fuck both of you. I don’t need your sorries, cause I already took ‘em out of your fucking faces. Do you understand my warning? I will employ brutal violence. Are we clear?"

In silence, they nodded.

Tailspin Tiki Tickle

2006-08-21T11:37:00.000-05:00

This is the first of the aforementioned columns.

"I’m turning 21 at midnight! You gotta come drink with me!"

"Sure, absolutely! You’re finally getting your juice card! This is great! Where at?"

"There’s a little tiki bar on River Road. Lots of fruity drinks full of yummy goodness. I’m gonna try to keep my composure and not get too trashed. Plus I’ll have my girlfriends there to protect me from all the sleazy guys trying to take the drunk chick home for a one night stand."

"They can’t protect you from me. I’ll ply you with vodka and rough kisses until you submit."

"You can try!"

"You know that place is practically in my backyard, right? I mean, I can walk out my front door, walk around the side, go up River Road about 100 yards, and I’m at the bamboo door. No driving necessary."

"Really."

"Yep. We won’t have to flee very far. Assuming, that is, that you’re still capable of standing upright."

"That’s a big maybe. I’ve never been much of a drinker."

"Well, don’t worry, I’ll hold your hair away from your face when you’re spraying puke at the hanging sea urchin decorations."

"You’re all class."

"Momma raised me right. I’m a gentleman, the genuine article."

"I hope not."

I arrived just past midnight, decked out in ragged blue jeans, boat slippers, and collared silk. I felt like a bohemian software designer who got lost on the way to a coffee shop. I swaggered in, looking for the girl who looked a tad young to be drinking anywhere but in her parents’ basement, or maybe a forest preserve. There she was, all dolled up, eyes big and bright and a little bit scared. She looked like a rookie.

I joined her and her friends, who were all giggling over the menu.

"Happy Birthday, darlin! May I have the honor of being your first?"

"WHAT?"

"I’d like to be the first guy to buy you a drink. Why so shocked and appalled?”

"But you said-"

"I know, I know. I thought you liked innuendo. You’re not so brazen with your girlfriends present. I forgive you, peach. Does a Queen Kalama sound good? Pineapple and rum?"

"Will I get an umbrella with that?"

"You certainly shall. Just look around you. With all these pineapples, palm leaves, shark teeth, seashells, and bamboo, I think it would be criminal neglect by the staff to serve even a single drink without a tiny umbrella. I’ll bet they could get fired for forgetting one."

"Well, good."

"You look jittery. Nervous? I know just the thing to loosen you up. Alcohol. Shitloads of alcohol. So much alcohol that gravity gets drunk, too. Whaddaya say?"

Her two friends shot me looks. One reproachful, indicating she thought I should take a less hearty, less destructive approach. The other friend’s look was encouraging, full of conspiring mischief. Good. She would be my ally. She wanted to help get my young sweetheart rip roaring wasted. Excellent.

"Yes! Hello. I’d like to order one Ku Tiki, a Mai Kai No, a Boomerang, and one of those evil Japanese gin martinis for me. Oh, and a round of shots, too. We’re serious tonight. What’s your pleasure, sweetie?"

"Blackhaus!"

"Schnapps? Really? Well, it’s your birthday. I will warn you, though, schnapps is rocket fuel for your vomit muscle. Fair warning. Okay, enough negative talk. Let’s get our drink on!"

The girl was tougher than she looked. Maybe I wasn’t used to all that fruity sugary shit, being a gin, bourbon, or beer type fellow, but I started to feel queasy after two hours of slugging syrupy booze sludge. I refused to show any signs of weakness, however, and I bravely soldiered on, waving over the waitress for the umpteenth time.

"Yes! Hallo! More umbrella-ey thing-a-ma-bobbers! We be thirsty landlubbers!"

"One more and it’s cutoff, young man. You’re all looking a bit green."

How right she was. Luckily, I held my stomach. My dear birthday girl finally reached her limit halfway through her Dr. Funk Of Tahiti, a disgusting licorice flavored drink.

I never got to hold her hair while she vomited, because there was no warning. No belly clutching, no mad dash to the ladies room, no miserable groaning. Nope, it all happened very suddenly.

From directly across the table, she belched, surprised to be doing so, and then threw up a Caribbean tidal wave, extinguishing the candle, darkening my silk shirt, and speckling the bottom half of my face. The girl really put a lot of distance on it.

"Urk. Ulgh. I’m so sorry. Ohhh…."

"That’s okay. Happy Birthday, sweetie."

Teriyaki Pemmican Menopause

2006-08-17T21:16:00.000-05:00

I wrote columns a few months ago for an alcoholics' website. The place died a miserable death, sadly. I hate losing my precious writing, and since my output has dwindled to the occasional fart lately, I'm gonna re-publish all five of those columns here this week to ensure their eternal existence. To start, here's the fourth one.

"Steve, this place sucks. Why are we here?"

"I dunno. It's Tuesday night, who cares where we are?"

"Come on. There's gotta be a place with women under forty somewhere around here."

"That one's not a day over thirty-nine."

"Keep pointing like that and you'll have that old leatherface molesting you in no time. It'd be worth coming here to see you tongue wrestle with that beef jerky. I got a camera phone, you know. I'll put 'em up on the internet. I can see it now: 'Steve's new piece.'"

"Sounds like a delightful web page. You're on. I'm gonna go hit on her."

"Okay, then go."

"Well, not right away. After several shots. Then I'll go."

"Seriously man, this place is dark, smelly, and somebody put Wings on the jukebox. Let's go somewhere else. Anywhere."

"This is the Chili Pub. They didn't bother to think of a name. They had a crappy recipe and a thirst for beer and figured they'd share those with the world. Whoever 'they' are. And so the Chili Pub was born. This is the only place in the county that sells takeout booze past two in the morning. Only by the six pack, but hey. I've always wanted to visit."

"You're fucking weird."

"HEY!"

John and I turned to the irate bartender. She looked like a Sunday school teacher. Grey curly hair, bifocals, sweater vest, cloying floral perfume, the whole package. This woman was a card carrying member of the AARP, and she looked pissed.

"Yes?"

"WE DO NOT ALLOW PROFANITY IN HERE. NO MORE WARNINGS. IF I HEAR ANY MORE GUTTER TALK YOU'RE OUT. GOT IT?"

"Yes, I understand. Please stop shouting."

"Fine then. What can I get for you young men this evening?"

"Two Buds and one bowl of chili. Unless. John, you hungry? Want a bowl too?"

"Uh, just the beer, thanks."

Marge or Ethel or Edna or whatever her name was served me a bowl of brown swamp. I expect chili to be reddish brown, but this muck was dark brown. I chalked this up to dim lighting and set to sprinkling cheese atop the steaming bowl.

John lowered his voice. "Steve, you're killing me. A bunch of old bats, no swearing, a jukebox full of honkeytonk garbage and adult easy listening. This is just too much. And why do they have knight's armor standing everywhere?"

"First of all, you don't call it 'knight's armor.' That betrays your ignorance of medieval terminology. The proper designation is 'coat of arms.' Second, I like Jackson Browne. This is a good song. Finally, dusty chicks are easy."

"Oh gross."

"Think about it, man. You could spend tons of money buying slick new clothes and metrosexual facial hair trimming accessories and cologne, then even more money liquoring up some pretty young thing, and you're stretching your brain telling lies to impress her, and you finally get her home and she won't even blow you first. These ladies are desperate, my friend. Their husbands are home watching hockey and spilling spaghetti sauce on their recliners. I swear to God, I could invite any one of these into the bathroom right now and have my way. Even with chili breath, uncombed hair, and mild B.O. To them, I'm golden. I'm under thirty. I could be sporting a third eyeball and missing an ear and they'd still gobble me up like ice cream and soap operas."

"You talk an awful lot, but I ain't buyin' it. You're putting me on. Please, please, let's go somewhere decent."

"Alright, alright! I give. Let me eat this chili first."

I dipped my spoon into the thick, pudding-like meat bucket. The so-called chili showed no sign of beans, onions, or tomatoes. It was just ground beef and thick brown something. I tried to smell it before I tried it, but the floating secondhand Misty and Capri smoke wheezed out by the scattered members of the divorcee club overpowered any enticing food aroma the ugly paste could generate. I shrugged and shoveled.

It was bad. Painfully bad. I spit that runny diarrhea all over the tappers.

"OH JESUS FUCK! THIS IS CHILI?"

"OUT! I WARNED YOU! GET OUT OR I'M CALLING THE COPS, YOU FILTHY MOUTHED LITTLE UPSTART!"

"I'm leaving. But first I gotta ask. HEY LADIES! WHO WANTS TO FUCK? Come on out to the parking lot, there'll be two young studs waiting there to give you what your husbands can't!"

I ran out, giggling. John followed, blushing and angry.

"I'm picking the next bar. You asshole."

Scofflaw Skullfuck

2006-08-11T20:04:00.000-05:00

I deserve everything I get.

Midway Airport was flooded, but it was the only place I could go. A year and half ago the City Of Chicago decided to crack down on airport parking lot violations, and both at Midway and O'Hare, bureaucratic minions began greedily humping quotas, writing tickets with glee, hungry to reach violation thresholds. Upon climax, they call out the boot squad, lock the car in place, and crouch at the periphery of the lot.

These pathetic bespectacled emotional vampires wait, fondling themselves, waiting, horny to watch the cursing and despair exhibited by jet setters returning to immobile vehicles. The City, in its divine benevolence, deigned to shoehorn a 24 hour Revenue depot deep within the bowels of the airport, allowing these ordinance abusers to fork over cash for access to their cars without having to wait for the dawn's bitter break.

Searching the City Of Chicago website, the Chicago Police website, and various other satellite sites provides not a hint of the existence of this 24 hour payment location. If you look online, the best you'll find are several locations with bank hours. This provides the populace a small window of time each day to get square with the gov't, the very same hours 99% of them work.

Get it? This process is not meant to be smooth. This is meant to be painful. You didn't pay your parking tickets? Say goodbye to a day's pay, your sanity, and your firstborn. You'll keep your soul if you're lucky, fuckface.

Thanks, Chicago.

I found about about the airport location by spending a long time on hold with 311, before finally gaining the opportunity to pester a grumpy state employee, with whom I persistenly redirected our conversation in new directions until the reluctant telephone drone finally imparted an extended set of options to me.

I'd already visited the City websites, and having seen naught of the secret airport location, I decided to run a Google search for the Revenue spot. The only mention was a local news story about the airport lot crackdowns. You stay classy, Chicago.

I got booted on Wednesday. Thursday, they towed my rust bucket to the Stony Island impound lot. Woe. Despair. Bureaucracy.

Upon booting my Intrepid, they gave me one day to come up with the full overdue balance and remit it in person. What a sick joke.

Day 1. "Hey, we locked your car down! Ha ha!"
Day 2. "Hey we towed the fucking thing away today! What a gas!"
Day 3. "We're charging you separate fees for the boot and the tow! Pretty clever, eh? You gotta laugh! C'mon, loosen up, this is great!"

As I mentioned, Midway suffered minor flooding last night, but the water was enough to slow traffic to a turtle's pace, and it took an hour to reach the arrivals terminal. Upon reaching it, I directed my chauffeur, one of my best friends, to skirt the arrival lanes and detour into lanes strictly reserved for taxis, limos, and busses. Despite his hesitation, he followed my navigation, and soon enough we found ourselves in an obscure lot where taxi drivers park for break times, mandatory anti-terrorism trunk searches, and prepaid tax stamps required for all airport fares.

I was made to wait for nearly two hours, supposedly, due to computer malfunctions. I stood there, dumb. A steady stream of liverymen walked up to the revenue department window and bought fare tax stamps. I spoke to many. I met drivers from Zimbabwe, Azerbaijan, Lithuania, and Pakistan, to name a few. All were stressed and hurried, but mostly friendly.

For a while, I waited outside in the lot. I saw intricate rugs on the concrete, laid out in a small space blocked off by conrete barriers. I speculated to my friend that they were drying out after puke had been washed from them. A gentleman of Middle Eastern origin told me "No, not for taxi, I use for pray!" He got down on his knees, faced Mecca, put his head upon the ground, and muttered glory to Allah. I gave him space, privacy, and respect. Nice guy.

At midight, when the clerk told me the computer access would free up, I went back in. I forked over nearly a thousand dollars in borrowed money to the clerks, two women more intent upon telephone gossip than government business. Finally, at 12:15 am, I received my impound release form.

My friend and I went home. Friday morning would bring further trials of my patience, more byzantine bureaucracy, more hardships and fees invisible to me until I arrived in person. Fees sprung like traps, like tiny financial assassinations intended to bankrupt my soul.

I got my car back, eventually.

I deserved everything I got.

Tincture Quaffer

2006-08-10T14:24:00.000-05:00

Dateline: Monday, July 31st, 2006, 7:13am CDT

Dear Diary,

I woke up this morning feeling terrible. My head is throbbing like a theremin conducted by a spastic. My body is greased from head to toe by nasty buckets of fever sweat. My guts are locked solid, seized by frozen molasses.

What the fuck, Chuck?

I can’t account for this filthy state of sensation. I have not paraded through throngs of diseased people, imbibed any spirits or substances, eaten any food of dubious freshness, or suffered prolonged exposure to extreme outdoor elements. Perplexing.

Have I been injected with experimental serums again? Did those Hungarian freaks come back? Maybe they did. Maybe my memory is affected, too.

Okay, Diary. I’m in the bathroom now. I’ve cranked the shower knob to high scorch. I need to fix myself up. I’m gonna curl myself into fetal position, huddle in the tub, and hopefully this blight will evaporate.

It didn’t work. Goddamnit, Diary. You’re supposed to heal me, absolve me, forgive me, and make me feel like a worthwhile human being. You’re my Jesus substitute, and you’re failing spectacularly. The shower didn’t fucking work.

Okay, soup. Soup always works, right? I’m stocked. I have six flavors of ramen, ten of Campbell’s, and some stranger ones, like oyster chowder and Dominique’s U.S. Senate Bean Soup. I’m a soup freak. I’ve decided, my dear Diary. I’ll go with the Senate beans. If it’s good enough for them… Yeah. If this shit can assuage a Senator's moral corruption, why not my bodily corruption?

You were supposed to knock on my cranium and ask if anybody was home, McFly. Beans on top of a gastrointestinal blockage? Never smart. You should’ve stood up and screamed for thin broth and a sprinkle of parsley. But no, you sat before me, silently mocking, enjoying my accumulating decay. Monday is fucked. Damn you, Diary, damn you. You blew it up. Damn you all to hell.

Tuesday night. Time for another bright idea. This one always works, Diary, even if you disapprove. For some reason I always save it, reserve it as a final drastic remedy. Good old fashioned Kentucky Bourbon. Amber fire, the scourge of mysterious viral infections everywhere. Bottle procured, commence.

First shot. Swish like mouthwash. Mouth numb.

Second shot. Tickles throat, warms belly.

Third shot. Tummy gurgles. Head widens.

Fourth shot. Feeling wobbly, sweating profusely. Internal warfare commenced.

Fifth shot. Pant, mumble, a bloom of happiness creeping up, smothering the headache. Oh yes.

Sixth shot. Equilibrium damage, playful gravity, thick tongue.

Seventh shot. Help. Mommy. So dizzy.

Eight shot. I think it is working. I am feeling very little. This is an improvement.

Ninth shot. Medicine of the Old West. Yes. I am in the Old West! Hosannah! Chaps, spurs, carriages, whores, laudanum. I like it here. Hooves splash in mud. Wearing a cravat. More whiskey.

Tenth shot. I am lost. Those are stairs. Up the stairs, hands and knees. Note to self (not to you, you worthless fucking Diary) Must spread medicine over a larger span of time. Ten shots in twenty minutes is bad. Bad.

Bed. Snore. Fart bean steam. Scratch crotch. Scratch face. Scratch neck. Tug ears. Utter gutterally. Talk to silence. Remember diary. Cackle at diary.

It worked. I was nothing but dehydrated come Wednesday afternoon. Healed by the barrel.

Outcast Inebriate

2006-08-03T16:14:00.000-05:00

I've been sick. Ugly sick, nasty fevers, hallucinations. I'm coherent again, mostly. So, a post!

“There’s a party downstairs. Come check it out.”

“Here? In our building?”

“Yeah, Hard to believe, eh? We’re not the resident troublemakers. For once.”

It was Saturday night and I’d already consumed far beyond my fair share of Pabst and Crown Royal. Back and forth I drank, as one with no familiarity with the rules of alcohol and brain damage. How does that go? Liquor before beer, never fear… or was it… I can’t remember. Alcohol and caution do not mix anyhow.

I had already shed my shoes, socks, and pants by this point. I was stumbling around in my boxers and a t-shirt, belching, peeing every five minutes. (Yes, in the toilet.) When the invitation filtered upstairs, I decided I would brave the spiral staircase to the ground floor dungeon apartments to see what all the hullabaloo concerned.

A quiet European chap encumbered with the unfortunate name of Flavio was hosting a party that felt like a miniature version of my roommate’s. He had turntables and DJs, but the music area was just a corner blocked off by folding tables. His speakers were modest, and conversations could be heard over the gentle volume.

I strode into the center of the room, blinking, wide-eyed, shocked to be invited into the apartment of a building mate. I was convinced they hated us obnoxious loft-dwellers.

All around me people talked and laughed. I pivoted, eyeing one cluster of revelers after another, trying to imagine a smooth word or two to shoehorn myself into social engagement. Usually, when buzzed, I am quite gregarious. Not then. I just felt tired and lost. I sighed, peered into my nearly empty beer, and finished it. It was at this moment I saw a chubby girl looking at me with disgust and puzzlement. Not looking at me, but rather, towards my groin. I followed her gaze.

Oh. Right. No pants. I left, added pants, and returned again, satisfied to be once again among the clothed and civilized. I talked to a few people, but nothing spoken keyed any particular spark of interest, and soon I found myself wallflowering again.

I considered returning to the sanctity of home, where my playlist reigns supreme, where clothing is optional. When I saw another girl eyeing me with suspicion, again south of the beltline, I began to wonder just what in the hell was going on. Is this a fashion party? Is denim verboten?

Oh. Right. No socks or shoes. My ped nerves awoke. I could feel dirt accumulating with every step. My feet landed in tiny puddles of beer spittle, thousands of tracked-in flecks of mud, and the smear of both combined. All of this grime was adhering to my heels, and I was the only attending guest lacking footwear.

This proved to be the camel’s back broken for me. I could not hang.

I slunk back up the spiral staircase. I poured another shot of Crown, chugged a beer, sat on the kitchen counter, dipped my feet in the sink, and ran water over them until pink and white returned. One more shot, one more beer, and I fell asleep under an open window, with all my clothes on.

Redemption Colombia Style

2006-07-28T11:55:00.000-05:00

I can hear the sharpening knives again. Ssshhhk ssshhhk ssshhhk… My brakes are failing, and this time, I’m not going to get them fixed. I’ll let the rotors grind to dust. You see, I make the final loan payment in a week, and upon reception of the title I’m gonna march into a car dealership armed with poor credit and a winning smile and trade that death trap for something with halfway decent gas mileage. I figure if I zero in upon a dealership with flagging sales, desperate salesmen in plaid sport coats, and an inventory afflicted with widespread hail damage, I’ll have a shot of convincing them I can pay the monthlies. Otherwise, I’ve be enjoying several long train rides everyday. Not to mention the seven mile walk between the nearest depot and work.

It’s not just the brakes. The transmission is clunking again, the fuel injectors are clogged and encrusted, the radiator is smeared with patch goop, and several dents from my angry foot are all competing to make my car the noisiest, ugliest vehicle on the highways.

I was despairing for my driving safety a few evenings ago when I exited 290 at the UIC medical district. As I sat at the Roosevelt traffic light, deeply immersed in my self-pity party, I heard a shout from the sidewalk. I killed the radio and sought the source of the holler.

A young black man in stylish duds and a pink golf hat stood propped up on an elderly walker. He was looking at me.

“Hey!” he shouted.

“Hey!” I shouted back.

“He loves you, man!”

I did not answer this. I suspected Christ. I was right.

“He loves us all! He blesses us all! He loves you, man!”

He pumped his fist in the air like Kirk Gibson, except he obviously wasn’t running around the bases after hitting a World Series home run. (though he could have fucked up knees like Kirk did, who knows with that geriatric body propper)

The poor fucker was exalted by Christ’s divine lightbulb of joy. Jesus was burning in his skull like a big happy bonfire, immolating any doubts and pains that should’ve racked him like a concentrated earthquake. He was so joyous that he decided I would make a good convert. Using his crutch device, he hobbled towards my vehicle as I ‘prayed’ for the light to turn green. His deity won, and soon his head was looming in my open window.

“Have you accepted Him as your lord and savior, young sir?”

The light went green. To accelerate would be murder. My window frame would decapitate him.

“Go away.”

“Take this young man, save yourself.”

A pamphlet. Okay. Nothing could top the green Jews for Jesus pamphlet I got downtown last month that used talking vegetable comics as religious allegory, but maybe there’d be chuckle or two within. I took it.

“Bye now. Jesus may be great, but Pepto-Bismol is what I need right now.”

“Please, for your eternal soul, accept him in your heart! Avoid the lake of fire!”

Uh-oh. He’s a fire and brimstone type. My sympathy evaporated, my heart went cold, and I resented his interruption of my voyage. I wanted him to get away from my car so I could continue without risking manslaughter charges.

“Look. Pal. If Jesus gave a tin shit on a hot roof about you, he’d be down here fixing your gout or whatever the fuck is wrong with you. He’s probably up there in heaven, eating popcorn, watching you on Heaven TV, giggling at you gimping around in traffic. I can almost hear him: ‘Look at this one Dad! He can barely walk and he’s wobbling in front of cars. All for my sake!’ Keep your brainwashing horseshit pamphlet. Go babble about judgement day to someone else. Go molest people at bus stops. They don’t have massive steel cars to run over your empty fucking head.”

He backed off, and on my merry sinner way I went.

The crippled missionary must’ve had a drastic downturn of faith during the following days. I’m not sure if my harsh denunciation contributed to his relapse, but I saw him on the news last night.

He was shot in the head, dead. What I never knew from our brief encounter was this: the proselytizer was a crackhead. When we met, he wasn’t shaking, drooling, or sweating. He even spoke in mostly complete sentences. I never would’ve guessed.

But in the two days since, his weakness overtook his Christlove, and back he went to the tiny metal dick. Maybe the whole sermon was a sham and he was trying to get my car antenna so he could load it with steel wool to burn some rocks.

He couldn’t carry his crack in his hands and grasp his walker at the same time, so when he went to score, he used his mouth as a shopping cart. Pockets? Hello!

He was found gunned down with a mouth full of unsmoked crack. Poor bastard. Finally, I felt remorseful. There's no need to be nasty to crazies, even when they bother me. Next time I'll just answer yes to the lord and savior question.

I hope Jesus was watching. If not, I’m sure he can catch it in reruns or syndication.

The Chicago Sun-Times Article

Dignity and Diligence

2006-07-24T16:13:00.000-05:00

I get nervous when I learn that lots of people are due to descend upon my spacious residence for purposes of consumption and revelry. Although my roommate’s parties have been smashing mega-successes, they always seem to end sourly, little catastrophes piling up before the dawn’s light, when the police arrive and the guests flee. Upon these ugly endings, we usually have neighbors pounding on the walls, the landlord threatening eviction, an overdose victim dying on the kitchen floor, and me running around tearing my hair out, wondering how everything went to hell so fast.

This time, I hoped, I would face no angry paramedics or brandished flashlights. With a daytime barbeque, the loud racket would occur during daylight hours. With all the fire-seared food, the guests would be sluggish and drunk instead of coked up, delirious on ecstasy, and aggressively psychotic.

On Friday night, I formulated a plan to mold myself into a gracious host, one who would last all twelve hours of the party. I consider myself the level-headed, prudent, buck stops here type. I would rely on nobody else to thwart potential disasters.

My plan involved lots of cleaning on Friday night. There was sweeping, mopping, organizing, dishes, and more chorish slog necessitating thorough completion before any judgmental eyes would gaze upon our kingdom of filth. I ingested a heavy dosage of trucker speed and cleaned like a cokehead for three hours. My roommates all pitched in, heaving bags of garbage, breaking down cardboard boxes, scrubbing toilets, and arranging furniture. A true group effort, a bonding experience. I drank so much beer during the course of the mass cleansing that I woke groggy late on Saturday morning, my brain thick and dumb.

Exactly as I planned. As I brushed my pasty fuzzy tongue with mint baking soda toothpaste, I vowed not to drink any alcohol until sunset, my first sip concurrent with the approach of the waning hours of the party. I’m a binge drinker, and if I were to crack my first beverage early in the day, I’d end up blotto retardo by six, embarrassing myself before plenty of longtime friends and scores of strangers, leaving an awful impression. This time, I’m not losing my pants or dancing in potted plants. Composure required. My calculated binge on Friday night ensured my appetite for silly potions wouldn’t start barking for a long time.

Although I did begin drinking far earlier than six, I realized my buzz level was skyrocketing after a doubleshot of vodka around four. I switched to water, which I drank just as greedily as booze, and stuck with it until past seven. I never returned to full sobriety, but I didn’t become a blithering idiot, and that’s success in my book.

One of the DJs failed to arrive, and I was drafted to man the decks during primetime, just as the light faded and the guests’ drunk level led them them to clamor for whiskey. With four years, at least, between DJ sets, I was worse than rusty. I grabbed as many beers as I could wrap my arms around and carried them to the orchestra balcony, which doubles as a DJ booth. I scattered the chilled cans upon the floor and kicked them around as I started my haphazard audio assault.

I played wildly disparate genres of music, anything from Johnny Cash to European happy hardcore, from deep trance to banjo honkeytonk. My record collection is all over the map, and I gave my sloshed victims a world tour. I admit I enjoyed the hell out of it.

I can’t remember the end of the night. I did eventually become shitfaced, but not until the majority were departing. I woke on Sunday in my bed, the right place, and so far, nobody has said anything like “Do you know what you did last night?”

Quote of the night: “I love that we chop up animals and eat their body parts.”

Casual Entropy

2006-07-19T17:52:00.000-05:00

My friend Dave is here from Vegas. He’s berating me for not writing anything. Problem is, I’ve been having difficulties with words lately. None are good enough. Every attempt at composition comes out flat. This is damaging my sense of arrogant superiority. When he capped his tirade with “Go fuck yourself,” I knew I needed to get down to business and restart my keyboard molestation regimen. This entry is going to be pathetic and will likely involve lots of poop talk. You just make me think about excretion, Dave. This is your fault, not mine.

Last Saturday night I ventured into Chinatown. The foreigners weren’t sweating a visible drop, as if their bodies considered this punishing environment gentle and soothing compared to the climates of their genetic memory, memory that whispers to them of jungle steam, massive caterpillars, and dysentery. In order to emulate this dermal fortitude, I undertook an osmosis project. This entailed eating caustic stir fry and walking in sandals.

Lao Sze Chuan is Chicago’s most revered purveyor of Western Chinese cuisine. The food is dangerously spicy, inviting men of my pallor to gasp, sweat, and blush in culinary shock.

Mexican restaurants provide chips and salsa. Italian restaurants, bread. Here, in fiery schezuan fashion, I was provided a small plate of crunchy cabbage strips doused in pepper oil. This alone drove me through two tall glasses of ice water.

I ordered Chef Tony’s Dry Chili Chicken, a sauceless dish composed of dark meat chicken and several handfuls of red chili peppers. Sparse sprinklings of ginger chips and scallions wandered lonely within the acerbic concoction. In addition to providing my taste buds the tastiest, most wonderful Chinese (food) I’d ever eaten, it burned seventeen gaps in my formerly leather tough stomach lining, creating sprinkler holes for my gastrointestinal bile to tinkle out among my internal organs, reducing my guts to pickled weeping mush. On Sunday, I crapped out half my spleen and several spinal chips. My assring was dyed orange. I can’t wait to go back. I still have an appendix I don’t need.

Upon finishing the meal, I reintroduced myself to the outdoor floating bayou. In contrast to my meal, the ugly weather now seemed gentle. With my insides under inferno, my outside was nonplussed. What previously had been a punishing thick blanket of wet hot heat was now a serene caress.

I didn’t stop my assault upon my critical organs with that one meal. I devised a sequel last night by visiting Buffalo Wild Wings, a fine chain establishment that sells drums and wings at 35 cents a pop on Tuesdays. Their hottest level of chicken gutfuck baste is calling Blazin’. This glowing orange sauce is a progeny of pulped habaneros, and it lives up to its billing. This sauce made me feel like the red chili pepper damage was child’s play, an infantile gurgle compared to a sonorous protracted belch.

I ate two dozen of the greasy little nuclear hazards. Tiny droplets of sauce escaped into the air rush of my labored inhalations, peppering my lungs with little pinpoints of raging heat. All that Marlboro mucus dissolved, its liquid remains fleeing my lungs to coat my esophagus with a protective layer of wet tar booger paste.

All day today, my asshole has ruptured repeatedly, a punctured soup can leaking in spasm under the greedy lips of a homeless man. With the homeless guy being the toilet, of course. Okay, bad analogy, but I’m keeping it.

Tonight, I suppose, I should return to my regular evening diet of trucker speed and cheap beer. If I don’t, the orange leakage may spread down my legs like cheap tanning lotion.

An Anchovy's Cunt

2006-07-10T18:58:00.000-05:00

I hate fishing. It’s pathological.

It all dates back to my days as an attention-starved youth. Every year on my birthday, I sat alone in the cold lobby of an ice skating rink in Dundee, Illinois, feeling sorry for myself, begging quarters for the pinball machines. (You can start crying now.) My sisters and my brother had been conned by my malevolent parents into taking up figure skating.

My siblings all learned to do horrible sounding acts like salkows and toe loops. Since the date of the annual ice recital fell in late April every year, I grew to resent ice skating for stealing my own personal holiday away from me. It wasn’t just my birthdays, though. I had to sit there for hours twice a week for months leading up to April, as they practiced and practiced, perfecting their little half foot stutter jumps and backwards turning. I fucking hated all of it.

I would never be an ice skater. Instead, being the stubborn contrarian, I elected to take up boyish things like archery, lumberjacking, tree-climbing, and urinating in my clothing. This frequently left me wandering the forest alone with sharp objects and wet pants. Although my dad would take me camping occasionally, the rate of parental participation in my interests was much lower than that of the other three children. (As I perceived it.) When I couldn’t escape to go play unsupervised, it was generally on those goddamn ice skating days. Somebody had to keep tabs on me, so I got hauled away to the dreaded Polardome. Not only was ice skating stealing my birthdays, it was stealing my capacity to destroy nature.

This wasn’t the only activity my parents engaged in with my three siblings. The other was fishing. As a Cub Scout, I participated in a fishing derby or two, but I never really took to it, and by the time I was ten, I had no desire to catch bluegill and catfish in the neighborhood pond. My brother and even my sisters just loved impaling worms on hooks, casting their lines, reeling in stinky wet flopping tumorfish, and throwing them back only to begin anew. My parents loved it, too. Fucking idiots.

Somewhere along the line my loathing of the two activities merged, causing my white hot hatred of skating to inflame my hatred for fishing. To this day, I cannot tolerate either.

Adults, I’ve learned, have different motives for fishing. As far as I can tell, it’s like tanning, but for men. There are striking similarities between fishing and tanning. Both involve prolonged exposure to sunlight. Both require little or no physical exertion. Both are horribly boring if you’re awake. For those with a glimmer of intelligence swimming through their sunstroked brains, alcohol is consumed to wash away the excruciating dullness of either activity.

I have friends who take it personally that I won’t join their little excursions. They think I no longer enjoy their company, or that I’ve become arrogant and look down upon them. It’s not them. I sneer upon their rural choice of recreation. I still like the guys.

I may be lazy, but I am not idle. If I’m not smoking a cigarette, folding an origami swan, typing a sentence, playing with my penis, tipping a can, or picking my nose, my hands start finding other ways to remain entertained. They’ll scratch where no itch is present. They’ll tap, tap, tap, annoying the shit out of everybody. They’ll invent gang signs. They’ll stir coins in my pockets. My hands cannot remain still for long. I can’t even stand still when waiting in line. I rock left and right, so it’s not just my hands. It’s me. I am brimming with nervous energy all the time. I fidget.

If I went fishing, I’d end up brainfucked. I'd smoke eight thousand cigarettes, scratch half my skin away, drink seven cases of beer, learn to juggle live fish, and still be completely restless and desperate to get the fuck away from the water after an hour.

I don’t even like to eat fish until all traces of their natural flavor has been fried away, leaving nothing but hot oil and breading. Even then I need a gallon of lemon juice for topping.

I’m just not cut out for this activity. Sorry fellas. I hope you understand and appreciate my point of view now. And under no circumstances will I wear one of those preposterous hook hats. I don’t wear hats. Do you store your self-respect somewhere so it doesn’t get damaged while you’re wearing that?

Let the yokels relax that way. I don’t mind. When they run out of tires to burn, the corn isn’t ripe yet, and the cows have been stricken with the madness, they at least have an excuse for doing this. They’re hungry. But you? Aren’t you city boys? Can’t we go spraypaint something, or shank somebody? Anything?

I guess it’s noble to fish out the Chicago River and save those fish for poor immigrants. They always take them.

But isn’t your generosity a double-edged sword? That place you’re fishing? Gross. I’ve walked the riverside trail around the Sun-Times building. I’ve seen the massive trash barges idling by, dripping bacterial sludge which frosts the murky undercurrent of toxic grade barrel waste. Yes, I saw floating barrels. Well, only two. But in addition to the unidentified poisons, I’m sure those fish have eaten unwanted babies that teenage mothers have heaved away, and now you’re giving those same abortion doctor fish to Catholics.

Hey, that’s actually pretty cool. Finally, one point scored for fishing. I’ve been trying to find an upside, I really have.

Still, I’m staying home where the video screens and accessible toilets hang out. Where the beer cans aren’t dancing with lukewarm chicken livers and nightcrawlers in a styrofoam disco. Where there aren’t any jogger/rapists. Let me know next time you’re going squirrel hunting with darts. I’ll wear flannel, drink beer, and burn my skin off for that in a heartbeat.

Imaginary Helmet Science

2006-07-06T13:13:00.000-05:00

About two months ago, in Lafayette, Indiana...

“Here’s a few very simple suggestions: Never go faster than you’re comfortable with, always slow down before making a sharp turn or before a blind spot, and if you get lost, stay put and wait for one of us to come find you. Think you can handle it, Steve?”

“Yeah, come on, let’s go!”

It seemed like forever since I’d been invited somewhere. Well, that’s not true. I get invited to campouts, vacations, road trips, and waterslide parks with baffling frequency. I generally brush off such invitations, for any number of reasons, the most common being financial. I’m a monetary disaster, cycling between payday advance scams, floating checks at the grocery store, and borrowing from my employers. I can’t accept an invitation to go downstate and barbecue steaks and burn old tires when I have seventeen cents to contribute. That’s embarrassing and pathetic. So I excuse myself, claiming severe incontinence, or bleeding toenails, or whatever. My roommates have taken to labeling me agoraphobic. I shouldn’t have taught them that word.

This time was different. The summer was just beginning, I was feeling restless, and I had a few bones to burn. This rare confluence of personal elements was rare, like an eclipse. Additionally, I wouldn’t have to drive my deathtrap automobile any significant distance, and finally, I would get to ride a four wheeler around a forest. Cool. I Accepted.

I had never driven an all-terrain vehicle before. Ever since a frightening motorcycle ride when I was six, I’ve been leery of motorized vehicles whose passengers are unenclosed. I’ve always imagined myself crashing, my flailing body ejecting skyward, eventually descending to meet the pavement where it bounces, not once, but over and over, and at each bounce I leave another piece of myself behind, so that a casual pedestrian following my trail would first see a smear of bloody skin, then some scalp, then a foot, then an intestine, meters apart, one red clump after another. I would spread out like wet taffy.

After twenty years of this appetizing scene visiting my brain every time a motorcycle passed, I welcomed the chance to erase my preconceptions. Sure, ATVs are slower, there’s little or no traffic in the forest, and the risks are more manageable than that of, say, a neon green Kawasaki rocketing down the highway at ninety miles per hour, but I allowed myself the illusion that I was conquering my fears, standing true, being a man. Yeah.

No.

Before mounting the vehicle, one last gem of wisdom was imparted to me:

“Oh yeah! Most important rule. Put your safety before the four wheeler’s. If you’re gonna crash, bail the fuck out. Do not hesitate. Get off the fucking thing. This activity can be dangerous and you can die. So be prepared to jump if it becomes necessary. Okay?”

“Okay.”

There were three other riders and two vehicles, so we went out in pairs. Each riding partner took me on progressively tougher trails. The first time out, we stuck to pastures and wide trails. The second time out, tight trails with low hanging tree branches, steep inclines, and tight turns. All went well. On my last ride out, my partner put me on a steep learning curve. He zoomed far beyond me, daring me to keep up the pace. I was flying about, faster and faster, taking turns tightly, engaging in risky maneuvers. I began crossing creek beds. Six foot nearly vertical drops sheathed shallow rocky streams. It was like driving down and up the letter V. I got to enjoying the splashes and lack of traction.

I got too giddy. Racing fast to close the gap between the other rider and myself, I sped up as I approached a deep culvert. This particular wet ditch had a concrete pipe running down the center, and it wasn’t until I got very near that I saw it and realized my peril. I knew that if I hit that concrete racing at this speed, my ATV’s front end would buckle as the back end rose, and the heavy monster would flip and land atop me, mangling my fragile flesh, pulverizing my brittle bones. I panicked. I pushed the brakes. Unfortunately, in my muscle-clench freakout, I also squeezed the throttle. The net result:

I sped up to nearly 40 mph. Full speed.

I was wrong about what would happen when I hit the pipe. No flip, no pancake crush. Instead, the ATV launched into the sky, striking a massive tree aside the trail. I, sensibly enough, bailed off before the impact. I flew fifteen feet in the air before landing. I didn’t bounce, as my imagination had indicated. Instead I rolled, picking up wood chips and gravel like I was covered in adhesive. My left knee shouted bloody murder and my skin fled my legs, leaving patriotic stripes.

But I was okay. The other rider did not see the impact, but he heard a gut-curdling scream that caused him to look back. All he saw was this: me, airborne, eyes as big as baseballs, arms cartwheeling, mouth open. The ATV, spinning in mid-air, above me, then in front of me, then bouncing away sideways. He said I looked funny in midair.

We walked back and looked at the tree. There was a big chunk of bark missing, which we later found embedded in the wheel. I was lucky, as that bark could’ve been jammed up my nose if I hadn’t leapt for luck.

My heart was pounding, adrenaline was burning up my nerves, and new pores were birthing upon my skin. I felt alive. Bloody, damaged, and elated. My hosts limped me back to our campsite, where they fed me beer and told me about their magnificent lawyers. I promised them I’m not the lawsuit type. I even offered to pay for the repair, hoping desperately they wouldn’t actually want the money. Two months later, they still haven’t assessed the damage cost, but when they do, I’ll find a way to pay.

Maybe I learned something on that Saturday. Maybe I supported my theory that open-air velocity is a fearsome and foolish activity, that bad things happen when hesitant people pilot fast and fickle machinery. No. What I learned was this: Danger is fun! Injury is thrilling! What’s the fucking phone number for that fucking bungee/skydive outfit?

I’m thinking about a stealing a motorcycle now.

Impounded

2006-06-29T13:59:00.000-05:00

“Let me get this straight: you played chicken with pedestrians because they weren’t using the crosswalk, and you nearly clipped one of them when you swerved around them at the last second. The police witnessed this bizarre scene, arrested you for reckless endangerment, and impounded your car, all the while treating you like an escapee from the nuthatch. That sum it up?”

“Well…”

“Don’t explain. I’ve ridden shotgun with you behind the wheel enough times that I can envision the whole thing with perfect clarity. It takes a lot of effort to get arrested in Boystown. Even the cops there are gay. Were your victims queers, drunken Cubs fans, or both?”

“Dude…”

“And you just got that car a week ago!”

“Yeah, I know, I just…”

“I don’t get it, man. You spend two hours getting ready to go somewhere, gathering up your notebooks and CDs and laptops and pencils and guitars. As if you have all the time in the world, which, I suppose, you do. But once that engine is fired up, you change. Gone is that nonchalant, unhurried, lackadaisical spirit. Suddenly you’re overcome with urgency, a burning haste, like me when I need to splash and can’t find a commode. You race and zoom between tight gaps, ride so far up other drivers’ asses their tailpipes squeal with anticipation, and wait to use your brakes until the last possible moment. You go psycho. Now you’ve gotten so bad you can’t even wait for a couple of harmless poofs wobbly from slamming back too many cosmos to cross the street. What can I say? I told you so. At least it wasn’t a fatal crunchbang.”

“Stop!”

“Okay, alright. So where’s your car?”

“Impound, 701 N. Sacramento. My sister says to take Milwaukee to Chicago Avenue then…”

“No. Those directions suck. She’s wrong. We live on the south side. I know where to go. Got all your papers? Yeah? Come on.”

“Fine. Thank you. Now please shut the fuck up.”

---

The impound lot was a swathe of dirt littered with cars of wildly varying income brackets. Hummers and rusted out 70’s model Chevys were parked side by side. A series of elevated trailers connected by catwalks stood erected at the entrance of the lot. All of this was enclosed by high fences frosted with barbed wire.

Inside the first trailer, notices, rules, and stipulations were stapled to the fake wood paneling, paneling that had recently been painted over in an ugly maroon color. The rulesheets were all laminated, and a spotlight was angled to shine directly upon them, creating a glare so harsh that only tall people who could position themselves between the light and the wall had any hope of reading them.

A siren speaker was mounted in one ceiling corner. I presume this speaker was installed as a precautionary measure, a method to melt brains with the casual flick of a switch. I admired its potential for hands free efficient pain infliction. If any vatos locos tried to garrote the sadistic impound officials, that siren would reduce the attacker to using sign language for the rest of his natural born life. With gang signs abundant, sign language would be disastrous for any thug.

We waited in line for an hour. A long hour.

Once my friend finished trading paperwork with Paco, the surly counter attendant, we moseyed over to Oscar, the lot attendant. He was amazingly fat. And happy. How refreshing.

We finally left under cover of darkness, and a block away, I let my friend (whose license is suspended over a pollution emission dispute) take his car back.

Zha Jiang Mian

2006-06-22T14:56:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting at my cluttered desk, just having returned to work from my lunch break. My stomach feels like I swallowed a bowling ball, my skin is tingling, and I think my blood has ceased its perpetual circulation.

I went to the Golden Chopstick for lunch. I’d never been there before, but I was growing tired of pizza. I figured a nice Sesame Chicken would be just the ticket.

When I sat down, I was handed a menu with entrée choices printed upon it in black ink. First in English, then in intricate Chinese calligraphy. Near the bottom, in ballpoint blue ink, an addition was scrawled in sloppy lettering:

Home Made Peking Noodles $7.45

To the right of that, in thick red marker, all in capital letters, was one happy word:

TRY!

Well, okay, I thought. I might regret this, but I’m adventurous. So I ordered the damn thing. The waitress, a middle-aged Chinese woman, repeated my order back.

"Peking Noodle? You try before?"

"No, never."

"Oooo-kaaaay!"

Ten minutes later a massive steaming bowl of something was placed before me.

Thick spaghetti-like wheat noodles, dark yellow in color, filled the bowl nearly to the brim. I think there were three pounds of them. Atop the noodles was a massive pile of brown black mud. The mud was made from black bean paste and chopped sauteed onions that stuck out from the sludge like translucent soggy teeth.

I mixed up the sludge with the noodles until I had a bowl of motor oil soaked tapeworms. I started slurping it up. I can’t describe the surprisingly mild taste, which was neither good or bad, just extremely different. After a while, I began adding black pepper, then soy sauce, then cayenne powder.

I managed to order the only dish on the menu that had never undergone any Americanization. No radical metamorphosis had transformed the recipe into something albino America could consume with comfort and recognition. No, this was real Chinese food, the stuff they serve back in Peking. I felt worldly and sophisticated for moment, until I realized I'm a rube. I wondered how my farts would smell tonight. Very mild and deferential, I decided.

The incident reminded me of the time I ordered beef ball soup at The Hong Kong Café and got a broth with scallions and testicles floating in it. I didn’t eat that one.

My blood is moving again. I feel healthy all of the sudden. I’m getting a cheeseburger on the way home tonight. To equalize myself.

Blue And Green

2006-06-21T16:36:00.000-05:00

I was drinking four dollar pitchers of MGD at the local watering hole last night. I found one patron's anecdote especially funny, so I've stolen it and worked it into a first person confessional narrative, my preferred method of written communication.

I was walking up Milwaukee Avenue when a squad car pulled up to the curb right beside me. I kept moving, nonchalantly, hoping the cops had any business other than me.

Two cops sprung from the car, guns drawn, pointed at me.

“On the ground, now, slowly!”

Guns are scary. I didn’t ask questions. I obeyed. I laid down among the litter and old chewing gum, face down, my limbs splayed, making me an X on the sidewalk. I risked a look at the cops. They started shouting questions.

“You armed?”

“N-n-no!”

“Empty your pockets onto the sidewalk. Slowly!”

I pulled out my wallet, cigarettes, lighter, fare card, and a quarter ounce of low grade marijuana.

“What’s this?”

“Weed, sir.”

One scooped my wallet from the sidewalk and opened it. He read my name and license number to the other cop, who ran it through his dashboard computer. My name came back with two outstanding felony warrants. One was a DUI in Lake County, and the other was for failure to appear in court for the same violation. They’d impounded the Mustang I was driving that day, which I’d stolen, but the theft had gone unreported. Apparently the owner still hadn’t called the cops about it, because they'd never have let me walk on grand theft auto.

“You shoot a guy up at Foster then ditch the gun? Five minutes ago? Did you?”

“No!”

He looked at the other cop and asked “You wanna bring this guy in?”

“On that DUI bullshit? No. Waste of fucking time.” He looked down at the bag of weed in his hands, which he’d picked up, then at me. “You got anything more than this weed? Any coke?”

“No, sir.”

“Jesus shit. Come on, let’s go. Get the fuck out of here, kid.”

I was still lying on my stomach, my head craned up uncomfortably to watch the police. The cop with the weed threw it at me. The baggie bounced off my forehead. I felt dumb.

I asked, “What do I do with that?”

He laughed. “Smoke it, you fucking hippie.” They left.

That’s the fifth time Chicago cops have thrown my weed at me.

Marinara Geyser

2006-06-20T17:01:00.000-05:00

Less than a mile northeast of Cook County Jail, in what Chicago restaurant guides call “the near west side,” lies a cozy neighborhood that stretches across a few blocks of Oakley Avenue. This small residential area is hidden by the tall mangy storefronts on Western Avenue. Out there, you’ll see liquor stores, fried fish shacks, graffiti, groaning CTA busses, and litter lined gutters.

Mere yards east, at Oakley, the complexion abruptly shifts, the urban acne dissolving, giving way to boldly colored facades, actual plant life, red brick sidewalks, and shitloads of Italian people.

This wholesome block is a concealed secret, a gem encrusted by coal. The farting hordes strolling and motoring up and down the surrounding thoroughfares never glean the existence of this picturesque pocket, reasonably assuming that only squalor and grime could exist within such environs.

Yet there it is.

I had a taste for pasta last week, so I went to Italian Village, aka Little Italy. I walked down Taylor Street, reading menus posted on the doors of trendy, overpriced restaurants. Peering through their windows, I saw tables crammed full of tourists and yuppies. I finally settled upon one, only to be told the kitchen was closing. At ten? On a Friday night?

I shared my disdain and disappointment with a friend. He proceeded to scold me for my attempt, citing the very criticisms I just leveled, before imploring me to eat at a real Italian restaurant, you know, the ones run by the children of washed up former mobsters. Restaurants operated by legit rapsheet-free Italians who learned more about the mafia from The Sopranos than from their old cousin Eddie who won’t talk about his years before the clink.

"They still got the recipes, even if they don’t got the concrete shoes no more", my friend added. "It ain’t Little Italy, they call it... shit, what was it... oh yeah! Heart of Italy. Tiny little neighborhood, hidden away. Go there."

Come along, I asked. He did, and we went last night. I took the wrong road at the California/Western split, and found myself taking a detour around the penitentiary. Across the street from the big house, I saw squalid, longrow townhomes. My buddy played tour guide.

“That’s a shitty neighborhood, man. Latin Kings, almost all of it. They beat up the black gangbangers when they get released, cause they know they’re rivals. They chase ‘em and try to beat ‘em to death. For fun. The Kings hate everybody.”

“Charming.Violence is a better wake up than coffee anyways, so those guys got it right.”

“Shut up, you ass.”

“Right. So you’re telling me that right around the corner we’re gonna find a charming little Italian villa with wrinkly faced matrons, olive trees, chuckleheads riding scooters, and gorgeous curly-haired perfect-skinned goddesses?”

“No, just pasta. The best.”

“Okay.”

I parked on Oakley and before I walked two steps, an idle mid-thirties Italian man stepped away from his place on the red brick sidewalk and strode up to me. I felt cornered, although I could’ve fled in any direction, or even dove back into my car.

What was this? An inquisition? Did I need proof of Italian heritage to set foot here? A local reference, perhaps a membership card of some sort?

Surely all the residents here must actively participate in keeping out the hordes of dangerous folk from the surrounding neighborhoods, violent, gun-toting, booty bass-pounding thugs who drive around at night in rusted out Cadillacs firing automatic weapons at each other. Maintaining quiet and safety must be high on the priority list here. I braced myself for suspicion, hatred, and possibly even assault.

Then I remembered: I’m white!

“What year is that?” he asked, pointing to my dirty Intrepid.

“95, 3.5 ES model.”

“Transmission trouble?”

“Yeah.” I explained the long and shameful history of my car. I told him never to buy a Dodge.

He looked around for a moment, maybe making a secret eye contact signal to the local meaty bruno, indicating that I didn’t need to hauled away. He didn’t thank me, just said “Alright” and stepped back to his favorite spot on the sidewalk. I was relieved and thankful that I wouldn’t be expelled without a taste of tomatoes.

I ate at a good, inexpensive joint called Bacchanalia, a word which refers to an orgiastic gluttony of food and wine. I loved it. I didn’t get shot when I left the area, but then again, I took a different route, bypassing the county jail.

I Hate Television (1-1-3)

2006-06-14T15:52:00.000-05:00

I Hate Television - Previous Entries!
Scene One
Scene Two

[Season 1, Episode 1, Scene 3 - Setting: Outside the Vibrant Inc dock doors, four people are smoking cigarettes: Jake, Rita, Jimmy, and Steve.]

Jake: Here’s another concept we’re recycling for the new show: We want to install dashboard cameras in your cars. They’re unobtrusive little gadgets that clip right onto your air vents. The idea is just like on MTV’s Real World. On that show they intercut interviews with cast members in between the main scenes. The best ones always involve shit talking and petty grudges. Our twist’ll be that you’re talking while driving home from work. You’ll be watching the road ahead, not the camera, giving the footage an intimate, reflective feel. It’ll be your opportunity to voice those thoughts you felt uncomfortable sharing with your co-workers around. A confessional of sorts. A place for your own honest take. Pretty nice, right?

Steve: I’m glad you have the decency to restrict your minicams to our vehicles. The thought of one of those clipped to my showerhead would haunt my dreams for eternity. Although I'm sure you'd get my honest take every morning, at least.

Jake: I don’t know what you’re implying this time, but I’m definitely implying that you need to get laid more. The cash advance we’re offering ought to buy you a few escorts. Think about it, tough guy.

Jimmy: Ha ha! Hey Steve, I know where to get you a good hooker!

Steve: No doubt you do, Jimmy, but I’ll pass. I still haven’t exterminated the crab colony left by the last crack whore I fucked. I chopped her up into little pieces as a public service. She’s still in my freezer. My crotch still feels like a pinball machine. The government should give me a grant before my research goes limp.

Rita: You think you’re funny, but you’re not. Jake’s right. Why can’t you just shut up, anyways?

Steve: I am, by nature, a quiet kind of guy. Every once in a while somebody comes along and jabs me with a pointy stick. I yelp. Can’t help my reflexes. They’re programmed by genetics.

Rita: Yeah, but when a doctor taps my knee with his little hammer I don’t fly all over doing roundhouse kicks to the face. My leg just jumps a tiny bit. You, on the other hand, spaz all out, like Chuck Norris.

Steve: No, Norris is more of a ‘Hi-yah’ and ‘cuff him’ type guy. I’m more like Charles Bronson. He’ll call somebody a scumbag before popping a massive fucking bullet dead center between his victim’s eyebrows. I can identify with that.

Jake: You’re too loony to leave off this show. I’ll convince you yet, man.

Jimmy: Yeah dude, this is gonna be great! Think of all the easy pussy you’ll get just from being on a TV show! Free booze, too! You’ll have tons of people who want to be your friend just cause you’re cool enough to be on TV, man! (Jimmy flicks his cigarette butt over Rita’s head, out towards the street)

Steve: Friends? Oh, you mean leeches. That does sound pretty hot, but uh… no, no thanks.

Rita: Maybe Steve wants easy dick instead and just won’t admit it.

Steve: You’re the height of wit, Rita. You should write that one down.

Jake: I thought it was pretty good, Rita. But I’ll tell you, there’s no need to insult the man. He makes himself look pretty far out without any help. And Steve, you WILL be on the show, one way of the other. We have ways.

Steve: Think again, scumbag. (Steve aims his index finger like a pistol and shoots Jake)

Charlie Don't Surf

2006-06-12T15:59:00.000-05:00

“Steve, you there? Steve, answer!”

My Nextel was chirping. It was one of my roommates. Did I feel like answering? Surely this would be a scolding for dishes unwashed, a plea for toilet paper, or perhaps news that the whole place burned to the ground after an accident during a fart lighting contest. I answered anyways, leery, and braced for peskyness.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“I just got a pool for the ballroom.”

“Why do you need a tool? A screwdriver? A hammer? Nothing is broken. Right?”

“Not a tool, a pool! You know, splish splash?”

“A pool.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t even want an explanation for that one. I’ll be home around ten.”

I arrived to a bizarre scene in the ballroom of my residence. Dead center on the wooden floor, a shallow inflatable pool was set up. Sealed beer cans floated to and fro, bobbing like fishing lures. Two of my roommates sat on chairs along the rim, letting their gnarly feet soak and prune in the icy wetness. I spoke to the gentlemen inhabiting the surreal scene.

“Wow. A pool. Really. I’m stunned.”

“I bought it at Target this afternoon. Tom bought the air pump, and we got it blown up. Here we are! All I gotta do is trim and feed my palm trees, stand them at the corners of this bad boy, invite over a few girls, with bikinis of course, and we’re all set. Awesome, right?”

“Awesome is a weak word. Try outstanding. Or maybe spectacular. Or maybe retarded. I need to think about this. Where’s the hose? How did you get 1000 pounds of water into the middle of the ballroom?”

“Buckets. Lots of buckets. Took two hours.”

“You realize this water will only last a day, and that it’ll take four hours to empty and refill this fucker every time you want to ‘swim,’ right?”

“The water will be fine for a few days. Don’t flip about that. You’re such a pessimist.”

“There’s no chlorine, there’s enough cat hair floating in the air to weave an afghan, and our feet aren’t exactly prisitine, guys. The only way the water could get dirty faster is if we start baptizing hobos in it.”

“Cat hair won’t get in there. The cats are terrified of water. You see how Figaro reacts when I pick up the spray bottle.”

“I’m not talking about the hair still on the cats. I’m talking about the lazy sheddings that actually float through our atmosphere. I can see them when we have strong sunbeams. We are breathing cat. It is killing us slowly. That's beside the point. That hair will make this water murky and diseased. I better have a soak now while it’s still safe.”

“Well all right then. Enough of your daily shit talk. Let’s have a beer, bullshit a bit, and figure out this leukemia scam.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Two nights later I got home near midnight. All the lights in the loft were turned off, and only the dim moonlight and my muscle memory led me through my home without accidentally castrating myself or stubbing my toe on a piece of furniture. I found a light switch, sat down on the couch, and read the first few chapters of a novel about clowns, baking, and fate.

When I smelled wet dog, I knew something was wrong. We have no dogs. Just two cats and a ferret, all three of whom I consider filthy nuisances. This odor wasn't the usual ammoniated scorch that wafts from the infrequently tended litter box, but instead, it was a heavier, more humid stink. It had a long reach. I hadn’t noticed its overpowering penetration of the air upon entering due to the protective cloud of cigarette smoke that follows me around. Eventually the weak tobacco aura collapsed under the relentless assault of the new smell.

I did what any sane person would’ve done. I opened as many doors and windows as possible, cranked up a couple fans, and never thought once about discovering the origin of the stench. I strode to the bathroom to start the second chapter of my paperback and to work up a special smell of my own.

When I came out, I saw one of my roommates, Tom. He had just arrived. He was calling for me, quietly but insistently. He sounded very serious.

“Steve, look.”

“I’m coming, hold your herd.”

He was peering into the pool. I followed his eyes and saw a few beers still bobbing about. Then I walked over to his spot and looked again from his wider vantage point. There was something dead and furry floating in the corner. The ferret.

“Well, shit. So who gets to go wake him up and tell him the bad news?”

I didn't want to bear the bad news. I was hoping Tom would volunteer. He said nothing in response. Instead, he retrieved the corpse and stood there trying to imagine where he could set the soggy thing down. It was too big to flush. He looked around before asking me a question.

“Where’s a grocery bag?”

“I’ll get a shoebox. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do, put it in a shoebox and bury it. Right?”

“Just get it.”

I grabbed the old red Reebok box with the Union Jack on it and Tom plopped the dead weasel inside it. He wrapped the box in a grocery bag and set it out on the fire escape. I went and told the other roommate that one of his pets drowned in the pool.

Four days later, the pool water has not been changed, nobody has gone near that swamp, and the ferret is still on the fire escape, decomposing in a shoebox. We grilled shish kebabs out there yesterday, right next to the dead thing. I think that’s kind of weird.

Over The Radar

2006-06-05T21:49:00.000-05:00

"I'm leaving, on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again..." -Peter, Paul, & Mary

You can't run away from your problems. Everybody knows that.

Sometimes, though... I want to drop everything and evaporate, carried away by the interstate. I wanna sink into the clean empty air that sweeps over corn fields, far away from urban streetlights and smothering exhaust.

But that's not true, either. As much as I enjoy visiting the quiet places in between, the places that comprise the majority of America, I sure as hell don't belong in any of them.

I'm twenty seven years old, I'm unhappy, and I'm afraid of what'll happen the day I turn thirty. On that birthday, I'll realize I've just spent fifteen years miserable, never having really tried to shoot the moon, never tried to live a dream, never taken a real risk. I'll have spent the so called best years of my life scraping by, keeping my head down, just living. Getting by. That's all.

That's not good enough for me.

My generation? We were all raised to think we could grow up and be rock stars, that we 're special, that we deserve something flashier and more glamorous. We all think we deserve to be famous. We're a bunch of spoiled little cunts, all of us crashing brutally into the ugly median of mediocre banality, doomed to be unsatisfied and angry about the stifling normalcy of our lives, our bathroom mirrors mocking us each and every morning.

I know how quixotic it is to think I could duck my Chicago world, dive under, and surface again in Los Angeles. Today I entertained the notion of leaving my every last family, friend, and posession behind, silenty, and take a bus. Away.

Just like an idiot teenager.

Having the life experience of paying bills, stuggling to get by, etc., I know I'd be stone cold broke within a month. I know I'd burn every bridge back home. My co-workers, many of whom I consider good friends, would look upon me with contempt. My family would be hurt and confused, unable to comprehend my ability to let them think I was dead. My roommates would never let me live down leaving them hanging with the rent, and they'd be loathe to consider extending the hand of friendship to me ever again.

That part about my family ain't true. I couldn't go without telling them, especially me mum. I love them.

It would be an ugly thing to be alone and zeroed in Los Angeles. It would test my mettle, break me down, crush me into rubble, and maybe even kill me. It would be a fire. But for once, I'd have made my stand. I'd have put myself in a position where everything mattered. Survival. My comfort zone would be a distant memory, obliterated. I would test myself, and I'd thrive or perish. I would find out if I'm worth a damn. My life would have meaning. I would truly be alive. For once.

That appeals to me. I have an itch to jump from my cliff and try to fly. Regret is an ugly horrible beast, and that motherfucker is sitting behing me, tickling my back, biding his time before he peels my skin away and chews through my guts.

The clock ticks.

I feel so tired today.

I'd better go buy and read a copy of Into The Wild and try to measure my heart before I go pulling any dumbfuckery.

"Picture me rollin'..." -Tupac Shakur