Friday, June 15, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
exercise*
Astronaut, 77, Dies in Space
After 39 consecutive years in space, Cmdr. Baskins leaves lasting legacy.
HOUSTON - A new chapter in human history was written today, when the first human died in space. Commander James Baskins, 77, expired at 0433 hours, EST, apparently of natural causes, aboard the Gore CO2 Monitoring Platform.
Christopher Huffins, a spokesman for NASA, said the administration plans to send a recovery shuttle for the remains. The late Cmdr. Baskins is set to receive full honors at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. following the return on May 6.
Cmdr. Baskins set a new record for longest continuous duration of time in orbit—39 years, 123 days. After serving on maintenance crews aboard the Space Shuttle Discovery for work on the then-new Gore CO2 Monitoring Platform from 2023 to 2029, he accepted a full-time position aboard the space station in 2030.
It is well documented that a relationship blossomed between Cmdr. Baskins and Science Officer Wahilda Robin during the mid 30’s, when the concern over CO2 levels in the atmosphere grew to epidemic proportions and the monitoring platform crew worked around-the-clock to save the last remaining shards of glacier left at the poles. Baskins himself received a simultaneous barrage of criticism and acclaim for staying awake 135 straight hours as the last of the ice caps faded into the sea on August 12, 2038.
Baskins’ video of the last ice caps is still included in almost all middle school science curricula. It is also widely known, though the incident was initially concealed by NASA, that Cmdr. Baskins fell out of communication with Mission Control in Houston for 15 weeks following the melting of the ice caps. Years later, Baskins attributed the communication lapse to “the tremendous atmosphere of failure” that permeated the crew.
By the end of 2038, NASA finalized plans to reduce the role of the monitoring platform and sought to reduce its crew from seven to two. The Gore Platform would be re-commissioned as a hurricane tracking station. The silence was broken on December 5, 2038, when the crew received word from Houston that they were to be replaced by a two-person crew. During this communication, Baskins startled Mission Control and the world by announcing that he and S.O. Robin had conceived the first child in space. While the notion of a birth in space was appealing to the scientific community, both Mission Control and the parents deemed it smarter to have the delivery on Earth, as the crew lacked an established obstetrician.
Dual aeronautical tragedies struck in the early months of 2039. On January 12, Space Shuttle Endeavor, bearing five astronauts, exploded over the Atlantic Ocean shortly after takeoff. The flight was commissioned as the first of two missions to taxi the platform’s crew back to Earth. As the loss of the Endeavor crew was mourned by multitudes around the globe and seven above it, NASA frenetically attempted to assemble another recovery mission for the astronauts on the platform. The timetable waned for S.O. Robin’s safe return.
By March, a successful launch of Space Shuttle Discovery assuaged any fears of a space birth. On March 8, six members of the Gore Platform, including S.O. Robin—then eight months pregnant—boarded Discovery as it shuttled them back to Earth. Cmdr. Baskins remained the only astronaut aboard the space station, as chief commanding officer, and thusly, the only crew member capable of operating all systems.
Upon re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere, space shuttle Discovery inexplicably came apart, ending the lives of all 11 on board. NASA later attributed the disaster to faulty heat shield cells that were overlooked in the expedited planning stages. As the incident was the second disaster in less than three months, all flights were suspended until the administration could find the root of the failures. A five-year intensive investigation followed of all NASA systems. During this time, Cmdr. Baskins was left marooned aboard the platform. He kept regular communication with Mission Control over this span.
The investigation did not uncover a specific technological or organizational failure. Rather, it deemed that the equipment utilized to send astronauts into space—mainly the fifty-plus-year-old orbiter—was well beyond its prime. NASA had originally planned to phase out the space shuttle in 2010, but due to budget constraints, was left to implement the aging system well beyond its effectiveness.
In 2044, following the investigation, NASA sought to replace the shuttle system with an updated model, the deep space explorer, Journeyman. However, the timetable for testing and eventual completion of this program was set at 10 years at the earliest. An offer was extended to Cmdr. Baskins for one last shuttle mission to retrieve him, but he refused, citing “the immense miscalculation of risking five lives for one.” Instead, Baskins requested a permanent position aboard the Gore Platform.
While many in the mass media and science community questioned Cmdr. Baskins’ decision to be left in space, both he and NASA remained tight-lipped as to their motives.
Over the next 15 years, he performed the duties of the meteorological crew that had never made it aboard, and monitored the increase in destructive weather patterns as a result of global warming. During this span, Baskins also petitioned, albeit remotely, for the U.S. government to update its environmental policy. His voice represented an impassioned plea from the scientific community, a voice with which many on Earth empathize. Through Baskins, much of the innovative environmental policy was popularized and eventually accepted by governments around the world.
In 2062, NASA released to the public a series of video journals compiled by Baskins during his time alone in space. During one confessional, he articulated the crew’s feelings after the ice caps melted in 2038:
“I felt like this space station was built as a band-aid, some way for those in power around the world to say ‘At least we tried to stop global warming.’ But it was too late. By the time we finished construction of Gore, the problem was out of control. It was out of control before we even started construction. Who knows, it may have been too late long before that.
“I’ve come to accept that I’m not personally responsible for the failure of our mission, which was always ambiguous, but one I viewed as ‘stop the ice caps from melting.’ Of course, we didn’t stop that from happening. Didn’t even come close. But the crew wasn’t at fault, as much as we tried to convince ourselves otherwise. Rather, we felt the failure of humanity at large. We couldn’t help but feel like we let the Earth down. That we, somehow, were representatives of humanity. And that we had failed in our cause.”
In a later excerpt, Baskins speaks of the loss of the two shuttle crews in 2039 and his decision to stay aboard the platform:
“To be up here, and see firsthand the tragedies of those missions, to know personally everyone who lost his or her life, it was enough to make me want to stay here. No sense in risking more lives to get me home. I didn’t want to go back. Most of the time, afterwards, I spent thinking and thinking and regretting that I hadn’t told Houston sooner about [S.O. Robin’s pregnancy]. Maybe it would have changed things. Given them more time to plan. Maybe it wouldn’t. It’s hard to say. But I’ve stopped worrying about it. 20 years was enough. I’ve chosen to stay here and live with my mistakes, just as those on Earth have to live with theirs—and the mistakes of so many generations before them. But you have to learn from that—you have to—and make the changes necessary and move on.”
Throughout his 39-year tenure aboard the Gore Platform, Cmdr. Baskins paved a new legacy for the space program. No longer exists the unbridled optimism of scientific exploration, but rather the knowledge that shortcomings cannot be conditioned into strengths, that failures in space translate into terrestrial failings as well.
Despite the somber air of Cmdr. Baskins life above the Earth, his remains are to receive a hero’s welcome by NASA. A permanent exhibit is being finalized at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.
Said Huffins, “This is the Welcome Home Celebration that he never received—a reception that this administration views as necessary. Cmdr. James Baskins was a man who taught the world at large the implications of our actions. He acted on his beliefs, and was willing to dedicate his life to promoting the greater good.”
Friday, May 3, 2069
----------------
*This exercise was provided by Bigler of Drifting Imagination: Begin with the line "A new chapter in human history was written today, when the first human died in space."
After 39 consecutive years in space, Cmdr. Baskins leaves lasting legacy.
HOUSTON - A new chapter in human history was written today, when the first human died in space. Commander James Baskins, 77, expired at 0433 hours, EST, apparently of natural causes, aboard the Gore CO2 Monitoring Platform.
Christopher Huffins, a spokesman for NASA, said the administration plans to send a recovery shuttle for the remains. The late Cmdr. Baskins is set to receive full honors at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. following the return on May 6.
Cmdr. Baskins set a new record for longest continuous duration of time in orbit—39 years, 123 days. After serving on maintenance crews aboard the Space Shuttle Discovery for work on the then-new Gore CO2 Monitoring Platform from 2023 to 2029, he accepted a full-time position aboard the space station in 2030.
It is well documented that a relationship blossomed between Cmdr. Baskins and Science Officer Wahilda Robin during the mid 30’s, when the concern over CO2 levels in the atmosphere grew to epidemic proportions and the monitoring platform crew worked around-the-clock to save the last remaining shards of glacier left at the poles. Baskins himself received a simultaneous barrage of criticism and acclaim for staying awake 135 straight hours as the last of the ice caps faded into the sea on August 12, 2038.
Baskins’ video of the last ice caps is still included in almost all middle school science curricula. It is also widely known, though the incident was initially concealed by NASA, that Cmdr. Baskins fell out of communication with Mission Control in Houston for 15 weeks following the melting of the ice caps. Years later, Baskins attributed the communication lapse to “the tremendous atmosphere of failure” that permeated the crew.
By the end of 2038, NASA finalized plans to reduce the role of the monitoring platform and sought to reduce its crew from seven to two. The Gore Platform would be re-commissioned as a hurricane tracking station. The silence was broken on December 5, 2038, when the crew received word from Houston that they were to be replaced by a two-person crew. During this communication, Baskins startled Mission Control and the world by announcing that he and S.O. Robin had conceived the first child in space. While the notion of a birth in space was appealing to the scientific community, both Mission Control and the parents deemed it smarter to have the delivery on Earth, as the crew lacked an established obstetrician.
Dual aeronautical tragedies struck in the early months of 2039. On January 12, Space Shuttle Endeavor, bearing five astronauts, exploded over the Atlantic Ocean shortly after takeoff. The flight was commissioned as the first of two missions to taxi the platform’s crew back to Earth. As the loss of the Endeavor crew was mourned by multitudes around the globe and seven above it, NASA frenetically attempted to assemble another recovery mission for the astronauts on the platform. The timetable waned for S.O. Robin’s safe return.
By March, a successful launch of Space Shuttle Discovery assuaged any fears of a space birth. On March 8, six members of the Gore Platform, including S.O. Robin—then eight months pregnant—boarded Discovery as it shuttled them back to Earth. Cmdr. Baskins remained the only astronaut aboard the space station, as chief commanding officer, and thusly, the only crew member capable of operating all systems.
Upon re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere, space shuttle Discovery inexplicably came apart, ending the lives of all 11 on board. NASA later attributed the disaster to faulty heat shield cells that were overlooked in the expedited planning stages. As the incident was the second disaster in less than three months, all flights were suspended until the administration could find the root of the failures. A five-year intensive investigation followed of all NASA systems. During this time, Cmdr. Baskins was left marooned aboard the platform. He kept regular communication with Mission Control over this span.
The investigation did not uncover a specific technological or organizational failure. Rather, it deemed that the equipment utilized to send astronauts into space—mainly the fifty-plus-year-old orbiter—was well beyond its prime. NASA had originally planned to phase out the space shuttle in 2010, but due to budget constraints, was left to implement the aging system well beyond its effectiveness.
In 2044, following the investigation, NASA sought to replace the shuttle system with an updated model, the deep space explorer, Journeyman. However, the timetable for testing and eventual completion of this program was set at 10 years at the earliest. An offer was extended to Cmdr. Baskins for one last shuttle mission to retrieve him, but he refused, citing “the immense miscalculation of risking five lives for one.” Instead, Baskins requested a permanent position aboard the Gore Platform.
While many in the mass media and science community questioned Cmdr. Baskins’ decision to be left in space, both he and NASA remained tight-lipped as to their motives.
Over the next 15 years, he performed the duties of the meteorological crew that had never made it aboard, and monitored the increase in destructive weather patterns as a result of global warming. During this span, Baskins also petitioned, albeit remotely, for the U.S. government to update its environmental policy. His voice represented an impassioned plea from the scientific community, a voice with which many on Earth empathize. Through Baskins, much of the innovative environmental policy was popularized and eventually accepted by governments around the world.
In 2062, NASA released to the public a series of video journals compiled by Baskins during his time alone in space. During one confessional, he articulated the crew’s feelings after the ice caps melted in 2038:
“I felt like this space station was built as a band-aid, some way for those in power around the world to say ‘At least we tried to stop global warming.’ But it was too late. By the time we finished construction of Gore, the problem was out of control. It was out of control before we even started construction. Who knows, it may have been too late long before that.
“I’ve come to accept that I’m not personally responsible for the failure of our mission, which was always ambiguous, but one I viewed as ‘stop the ice caps from melting.’ Of course, we didn’t stop that from happening. Didn’t even come close. But the crew wasn’t at fault, as much as we tried to convince ourselves otherwise. Rather, we felt the failure of humanity at large. We couldn’t help but feel like we let the Earth down. That we, somehow, were representatives of humanity. And that we had failed in our cause.”
In a later excerpt, Baskins speaks of the loss of the two shuttle crews in 2039 and his decision to stay aboard the platform:
“To be up here, and see firsthand the tragedies of those missions, to know personally everyone who lost his or her life, it was enough to make me want to stay here. No sense in risking more lives to get me home. I didn’t want to go back. Most of the time, afterwards, I spent thinking and thinking and regretting that I hadn’t told Houston sooner about [S.O. Robin’s pregnancy]. Maybe it would have changed things. Given them more time to plan. Maybe it wouldn’t. It’s hard to say. But I’ve stopped worrying about it. 20 years was enough. I’ve chosen to stay here and live with my mistakes, just as those on Earth have to live with theirs—and the mistakes of so many generations before them. But you have to learn from that—you have to—and make the changes necessary and move on.”
Throughout his 39-year tenure aboard the Gore Platform, Cmdr. Baskins paved a new legacy for the space program. No longer exists the unbridled optimism of scientific exploration, but rather the knowledge that shortcomings cannot be conditioned into strengths, that failures in space translate into terrestrial failings as well.
Despite the somber air of Cmdr. Baskins life above the Earth, his remains are to receive a hero’s welcome by NASA. A permanent exhibit is being finalized at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.
Said Huffins, “This is the Welcome Home Celebration that he never received—a reception that this administration views as necessary. Cmdr. James Baskins was a man who taught the world at large the implications of our actions. He acted on his beliefs, and was willing to dedicate his life to promoting the greater good.”
Friday, May 3, 2069
----------------
*This exercise was provided by Bigler of Drifting Imagination: Begin with the line "A new chapter in human history was written today, when the first human died in space."
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Edge Hill
Charlie and I made our way to Little Italy via an oft-neglected path that snakes its way down Edge Hill. Concealed within a patch of woods below the Innovation Center of Case Western University, an archaic series of stone steps winds back and forth along the slope. A good many of the stairs are cracked and sunken, making the descent quite treacherous. The brickwork of the landings is a minefield of exposed roots and rutty mud patches. The path terminates above a five-foot tall stonewall beside Edgehill Rd. We jumped down, essentially falling into the heart of Little Italy.
“That’s some path,” Charlie said. “How did you find it?”
“One time last winter, I was going through some emotional problems,” I explained, “so I decided to go for a walk. I stumbled on the path and followed it down here. At the time, it was covered in snow.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t break your neck.”
“That’s just the thing--you can never break your neck when you want to.”
---------------
Inspired by a post, "Real Life Snippet," from Tumor Rumors.
“That’s some path,” Charlie said. “How did you find it?”
“One time last winter, I was going through some emotional problems,” I explained, “so I decided to go for a walk. I stumbled on the path and followed it down here. At the time, it was covered in snow.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t break your neck.”
“That’s just the thing--you can never break your neck when you want to.”
---------------
Inspired by a post, "Real Life Snippet," from Tumor Rumors.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Imaginary Friends
Justin and I conjured some phony friends in an effort to wax poetic on the rambunctious fraternalis style of partying that we so came to detest after three years in college. Our wholly imaginary cohorts epitomized the popped-collar lifestyle. There were four or five of them (it’s hard to remember exactly how many, because we were so fucking blackout wasted every time we hung out with them).
The main man (not our main man; the main man) was Doogie. He was in charge. Always bought the Bud Light, which, consequently, was what we were there for.
“I’m just here for the Bud Light,” Justin or I would say. In fact, we pretty much started that phrase. The commercials copied us. Seriously, dude.
There was Scooter. No, his name wasn’t Scott. No, he didn’t ride a scooter. He just wanted a nickname that sounded kinda like Doogie. Scootie (his preferred moniker) really liked Doogie. It got awkward at times.
T-Bone was the token black guy. He could be the center of attention or leave whenever the hell he wanted. Pretty babies loved da Bone. He hated it when Justin and I would say that.
It was easy to forget about Kevin. He was completely unremarkable in every way. He was always there, though, and usually brought the Bud Light. Kevin was the transportation, since Doogie got a Dewey driving his girlfriend back to her dorm after a homecoming party.
And my personal favorite, hands down, was Lazy Man. He’s not to be confused with the chair. Chairs were for boys, and Lazy was a man. He was always laying down, always catching some z’s. Dude had a whole couch specifically for himself. Super Bowls, lacrosse parties, mudwrestling, Lazy kept snoozing. He was a rock. Managed to bang more girls than the whole house combined, Justin and me included. Chicks seem to go for the dudes who just don’t give no shits.
These were our bras, our dudes, our servants and our served. The six or seven of us (it’s hard to remember how many, exactly) had what the kids like to call ‘times.’ Can’t seem to recall most of them, come to think about it, but they were there.
It should be mentioned, once more, that these people were imaginary.
As is what often happens with imaginary friends, they slowly faded into obscurity. Justin fell deeper and deeper into his career as a drummer. Before I knew it, he was a member of close to 15 bands. I increased my immersion in student media, juggling roles as popular arts correspondent for the paper, college radio DJ, co-moderator of a creative writing forum, and all-around indie socialite. It became harder and harder to hang with Doogie, Scooter, T-Bone, and Lazy Man. Oh, and Kevin. Always forget about him.
Last fall, Justin came to me with a request. Claiming to be in great appreciation of my writing, he asked me to construct an artist bio for him. This profile would be utilized in the pursuit of sponsorships from drum companies. I graciously accepted this request, thanking Justin for thinking so highly of me.
I sat on the project for a few weeks but couldn’t find the motivation to produce a professional biography for one of my best friends. Justin prodded me for results. I had none to display. He grew angry and threatened to have his sister write the thing. I respectfully asked for another week. Justin allowed it.
Then, inexplicably, on a bus to Chicago, I found inspiration, channeling the long dormant voice of our party friends, our dudes, our bras. In particular, the voice of Scooter seemed to cry out from deep within me. I popped my collar, reached into my satchel, removed my Moleskine notepad, clicked my pen, and began to write while scenic Indiana whisked past.
The letter, the bio, the result, compliments of Scooter:
Dear Drum Peeps:
Justin Housemann, that guy’s a hot shot. I mean, his dick’s huge. And his car is totally sweet. It’s this black civic with a kick ass muffler and a stick. He fucking flies around town in that shit, blasting the turbos. He’d blast the stereo if it had one. But he’s so sweet, he doesn’t need music. He is music. His dick is huge. If his dick was a drum, it’d be, like, a gong or some shit. That’s funny, a dong-gong. Funny shit.
Yeah, he’s a drummer, if you couldn’t tell. Dumb ass. God, what the fuck else would that guy do? Fuck his girlfriend, that’s what. Dude, she is hot. Fucking smoking. Doogie and me were talking about how we want to run a train on her. Justin can join in too, I don’t give no shits. Shit, I’d fuck him. And I only fuck chicks. But I’d fuck him. Justin wouldn’t fuck me, though. He’s too sweet. You know what? If a dude tried to fuck him, Justin would kick the shit out of him. Then he’d fuck his girlfriend in front of that dude, then he’d play drums for 17 hours on his face. Justin Housemann is drums. It’s, like, in his blood or, like, in his dick. That thing’s huge. That means he’s a huge drummer.
Why am I telling you this? Shut up, don’t ask questions, pussy. I’ll tell you why. Because you’re giving him your money. Sponsor him or some shit or whatever. Either way, bra needs money. Else he’s coming down there and making a drum out of your face with his dick. Huge. That thing’s huge.
All I’m gonna say, dude. Justin gets pissed when you talk about him too much. Shit, he’s gonna play drums on my face. Give him your fucking money, d-bag. Peace, dawg.
Much love and peace and respect or whatever,
--Gavin “Scooter” Pierson
Scooter’s voice quickly fled after this outburst. Afterwards, I never could bring myself (though I tried) to write a serious account of Justin’s drumming career. It had something to do with the completeness of Scooter’s account. What more is there to say, really? As an aside, I believe Justin’s sister ultimately wrote his professional bio. I blamed my failure on our party friends. Neither Justin nor I came in contact with this group of friends ever again. That’s one of the benefits of imaginary friends—they’re there when you need them, but not offended when you don’t. Farewell, bras.
The main man (not our main man; the main man) was Doogie. He was in charge. Always bought the Bud Light, which, consequently, was what we were there for.
“I’m just here for the Bud Light,” Justin or I would say. In fact, we pretty much started that phrase. The commercials copied us. Seriously, dude.
There was Scooter. No, his name wasn’t Scott. No, he didn’t ride a scooter. He just wanted a nickname that sounded kinda like Doogie. Scootie (his preferred moniker) really liked Doogie. It got awkward at times.
T-Bone was the token black guy. He could be the center of attention or leave whenever the hell he wanted. Pretty babies loved da Bone. He hated it when Justin and I would say that.
It was easy to forget about Kevin. He was completely unremarkable in every way. He was always there, though, and usually brought the Bud Light. Kevin was the transportation, since Doogie got a Dewey driving his girlfriend back to her dorm after a homecoming party.
And my personal favorite, hands down, was Lazy Man. He’s not to be confused with the chair. Chairs were for boys, and Lazy was a man. He was always laying down, always catching some z’s. Dude had a whole couch specifically for himself. Super Bowls, lacrosse parties, mudwrestling, Lazy kept snoozing. He was a rock. Managed to bang more girls than the whole house combined, Justin and me included. Chicks seem to go for the dudes who just don’t give no shits.
These were our bras, our dudes, our servants and our served. The six or seven of us (it’s hard to remember how many, exactly) had what the kids like to call ‘times.’ Can’t seem to recall most of them, come to think about it, but they were there.
It should be mentioned, once more, that these people were imaginary.
As is what often happens with imaginary friends, they slowly faded into obscurity. Justin fell deeper and deeper into his career as a drummer. Before I knew it, he was a member of close to 15 bands. I increased my immersion in student media, juggling roles as popular arts correspondent for the paper, college radio DJ, co-moderator of a creative writing forum, and all-around indie socialite. It became harder and harder to hang with Doogie, Scooter, T-Bone, and Lazy Man. Oh, and Kevin. Always forget about him.
Last fall, Justin came to me with a request. Claiming to be in great appreciation of my writing, he asked me to construct an artist bio for him. This profile would be utilized in the pursuit of sponsorships from drum companies. I graciously accepted this request, thanking Justin for thinking so highly of me.
I sat on the project for a few weeks but couldn’t find the motivation to produce a professional biography for one of my best friends. Justin prodded me for results. I had none to display. He grew angry and threatened to have his sister write the thing. I respectfully asked for another week. Justin allowed it.
Then, inexplicably, on a bus to Chicago, I found inspiration, channeling the long dormant voice of our party friends, our dudes, our bras. In particular, the voice of Scooter seemed to cry out from deep within me. I popped my collar, reached into my satchel, removed my Moleskine notepad, clicked my pen, and began to write while scenic Indiana whisked past.
The letter, the bio, the result, compliments of Scooter:
Dear Drum Peeps:
Justin Housemann, that guy’s a hot shot. I mean, his dick’s huge. And his car is totally sweet. It’s this black civic with a kick ass muffler and a stick. He fucking flies around town in that shit, blasting the turbos. He’d blast the stereo if it had one. But he’s so sweet, he doesn’t need music. He is music. His dick is huge. If his dick was a drum, it’d be, like, a gong or some shit. That’s funny, a dong-gong. Funny shit.
Yeah, he’s a drummer, if you couldn’t tell. Dumb ass. God, what the fuck else would that guy do? Fuck his girlfriend, that’s what. Dude, she is hot. Fucking smoking. Doogie and me were talking about how we want to run a train on her. Justin can join in too, I don’t give no shits. Shit, I’d fuck him. And I only fuck chicks. But I’d fuck him. Justin wouldn’t fuck me, though. He’s too sweet. You know what? If a dude tried to fuck him, Justin would kick the shit out of him. Then he’d fuck his girlfriend in front of that dude, then he’d play drums for 17 hours on his face. Justin Housemann is drums. It’s, like, in his blood or, like, in his dick. That thing’s huge. That means he’s a huge drummer.
Why am I telling you this? Shut up, don’t ask questions, pussy. I’ll tell you why. Because you’re giving him your money. Sponsor him or some shit or whatever. Either way, bra needs money. Else he’s coming down there and making a drum out of your face with his dick. Huge. That thing’s huge.
All I’m gonna say, dude. Justin gets pissed when you talk about him too much. Shit, he’s gonna play drums on my face. Give him your fucking money, d-bag. Peace, dawg.
Much love and peace and respect or whatever,
--Gavin “Scooter” Pierson
Scooter’s voice quickly fled after this outburst. Afterwards, I never could bring myself (though I tried) to write a serious account of Justin’s drumming career. It had something to do with the completeness of Scooter’s account. What more is there to say, really? As an aside, I believe Justin’s sister ultimately wrote his professional bio. I blamed my failure on our party friends. Neither Justin nor I came in contact with this group of friends ever again. That’s one of the benefits of imaginary friends—they’re there when you need them, but not offended when you don’t. Farewell, bras.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Repair work
I awoke with a great revelation.
“Bike.”
Despite my hang-over and the steady throb of a rather poor evening, I felt optimistic. My bike was back. I had spent the previous day shaving off the rust, oiling the chain, patching holes in the inner tube. Over the course of last winter, the bike sat neglected below a Kent balcony, slowly rusting away. I rescued it and, following a recent slew of sunny days, garnered the motivation to fix the thing, once and for all.
Following my repair work, I took it for a ride around the block. That was enough to make me winded. My legs were rubbery and I felt, briefly, like the shit had been kicked out of me. But riding a bike is like, well, riding a bike, and it will only be a matter of time before it whips me back into shape. Then the world will be at my disposal. I’ll feel the wind whipping past my face, as my mobility and independence increase exponentially.
All this ran through my splitting head as I rolled out of bed and made my way into the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee. Last night’s failures came flooding forth. Too much beer. Too many damned excuses. Every word slurring into the next. I would have chalked the night up as a loss, but reconsidered. I had accomplished at least one thing that weekend.
“Bike.”
“Bike.”
Despite my hang-over and the steady throb of a rather poor evening, I felt optimistic. My bike was back. I had spent the previous day shaving off the rust, oiling the chain, patching holes in the inner tube. Over the course of last winter, the bike sat neglected below a Kent balcony, slowly rusting away. I rescued it and, following a recent slew of sunny days, garnered the motivation to fix the thing, once and for all.
Following my repair work, I took it for a ride around the block. That was enough to make me winded. My legs were rubbery and I felt, briefly, like the shit had been kicked out of me. But riding a bike is like, well, riding a bike, and it will only be a matter of time before it whips me back into shape. Then the world will be at my disposal. I’ll feel the wind whipping past my face, as my mobility and independence increase exponentially.
All this ran through my splitting head as I rolled out of bed and made my way into the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee. Last night’s failures came flooding forth. Too much beer. Too many damned excuses. Every word slurring into the next. I would have chalked the night up as a loss, but reconsidered. I had accomplished at least one thing that weekend.
“Bike.”
Thursday, May 24, 2007
exercise*
‘Sonofabitch.’
I say it out loud. Don’t know why so much. Just had to say it out loud. Staring at some bocce court, just outside the clubhouse. If it wasn’t the billiard inside during the chilly winter months, when the palm trees would rustle and bend a bit, it was the bocce court in the spring. Always out in this thing, chucking little clay balls at each other, like shot-put upside down.
The court is gravel, grey, and full of divots. There is one obstruction, a pile of pebbles hardened together, that always made him cuss and chomp down on the cigar. I bend down and pick up a few stray hedge leaves from the nearest end board. Kick at a mangled plastic black & mild mouthpiece. Little teeth marks, speckles of dirt, over and over again as it rolls near the center line.
Glance over at the pool. It’s covered. Water pilates won’t start for a few months, once the snow birds come back.
Rick Dino is in the Jacuzzi. He always asks me to join him. 'C’mon Phyliss, you old bird,' he says, 'Drop that old housecoat and jump in.'
I’d tell him he’s out of line, that he’s too fresh for me. Then he’ll say something about the bubbles being good for his angina. I know when they stop, when the soup stops simmering, that I’ll see his little sausage swimming below the surface. It’s no secret. Trunks sit by the step. The water smells like undershirts after too much Chlorox, and I’ll always see, though I’ve never seen, that little finger bobbing up and down. I can climb in with him now, I know, but it’s chilly here in the Winter.
The park is quiet these days, and the trailer lights, set on security timers, burn dim after the sky fades from pink to purple to navy. And black. Right now it’s deep dusk and those poolside lights, burnt orange lamps, they are inviting. The Dino-saur is not, so much, but I think about it. Fondle the top button on my paisley print housecoat. Reconsider. If I drop the thing at tub’s edge, it’ll get covered in all these little leaves. End up looking like the nine hole mini-putt next to the shuffle board courts.
It’ll feel like me, all dirty and used and trampled on. Dried veins clinging to faded fabric. And then there’s Dino’s little package, a surprise over one of the jets. Can’t do it, not yet.
Sofie zips by on her electric Cart-boy.
‘Hi Phyliss, enjoying the night air?’
I put my hand up to wave, but she’s already around the corner, buzzing over the wooden bridge that crosses the pond. No fisherman this late in the season. Or is early in the season? Doesn’t matter either way. The Arbor Oaks Residents’ Committee hasn’t stocked that pond for three years. Never mattered to me. Never mattered to those dumb sonsabitches that stood out there, day in and day out, with fishing poles and limp lines and no bites. Never any biting.
I’ve had enough of this night. A Dino-saur arm comes out of his broth, a hairy trunk making semicircles in the air.
'C’mon over, Phyl-bird.'
Not tonight. I’m heading back to my trailer. Kick another cigar mouthpiece in the middle of the sidewalk. It dribbles into a mossy joint between the cement. Settles after rocking back and forth a few times.
‘Sonofabitch.’
-------------------
*This was a prompt provided by Charles Parsons of Let's Work With Orphans. "Describe a landscape seen through the eyes of an old woman whose detestable husband has just died. Mention neither the husband nor the death." Give yourself twenty minutes.
I say it out loud. Don’t know why so much. Just had to say it out loud. Staring at some bocce court, just outside the clubhouse. If it wasn’t the billiard inside during the chilly winter months, when the palm trees would rustle and bend a bit, it was the bocce court in the spring. Always out in this thing, chucking little clay balls at each other, like shot-put upside down.
The court is gravel, grey, and full of divots. There is one obstruction, a pile of pebbles hardened together, that always made him cuss and chomp down on the cigar. I bend down and pick up a few stray hedge leaves from the nearest end board. Kick at a mangled plastic black & mild mouthpiece. Little teeth marks, speckles of dirt, over and over again as it rolls near the center line.
Glance over at the pool. It’s covered. Water pilates won’t start for a few months, once the snow birds come back.
Rick Dino is in the Jacuzzi. He always asks me to join him. 'C’mon Phyliss, you old bird,' he says, 'Drop that old housecoat and jump in.'
I’d tell him he’s out of line, that he’s too fresh for me. Then he’ll say something about the bubbles being good for his angina. I know when they stop, when the soup stops simmering, that I’ll see his little sausage swimming below the surface. It’s no secret. Trunks sit by the step. The water smells like undershirts after too much Chlorox, and I’ll always see, though I’ve never seen, that little finger bobbing up and down. I can climb in with him now, I know, but it’s chilly here in the Winter.
The park is quiet these days, and the trailer lights, set on security timers, burn dim after the sky fades from pink to purple to navy. And black. Right now it’s deep dusk and those poolside lights, burnt orange lamps, they are inviting. The Dino-saur is not, so much, but I think about it. Fondle the top button on my paisley print housecoat. Reconsider. If I drop the thing at tub’s edge, it’ll get covered in all these little leaves. End up looking like the nine hole mini-putt next to the shuffle board courts.
It’ll feel like me, all dirty and used and trampled on. Dried veins clinging to faded fabric. And then there’s Dino’s little package, a surprise over one of the jets. Can’t do it, not yet.
Sofie zips by on her electric Cart-boy.
‘Hi Phyliss, enjoying the night air?’
I put my hand up to wave, but she’s already around the corner, buzzing over the wooden bridge that crosses the pond. No fisherman this late in the season. Or is early in the season? Doesn’t matter either way. The Arbor Oaks Residents’ Committee hasn’t stocked that pond for three years. Never mattered to me. Never mattered to those dumb sonsabitches that stood out there, day in and day out, with fishing poles and limp lines and no bites. Never any biting.
I’ve had enough of this night. A Dino-saur arm comes out of his broth, a hairy trunk making semicircles in the air.
'C’mon over, Phyl-bird.'
Not tonight. I’m heading back to my trailer. Kick another cigar mouthpiece in the middle of the sidewalk. It dribbles into a mossy joint between the cement. Settles after rocking back and forth a few times.
‘Sonofabitch.’
-------------------
*This was a prompt provided by Charles Parsons of Let's Work With Orphans. "Describe a landscape seen through the eyes of an old woman whose detestable husband has just died. Mention neither the husband nor the death." Give yourself twenty minutes.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Smorgasbord
I realize it has been a long time since last posting to NOMENCLATURE. For that, I apologize. As opposed to posting something of substance, I decided it best to gitchyall caught up on my life, of late.
- Right now, at this very second, I am compiling one of those iTunes’ "Soundtrack to Your Life" playlists. You shuffle your library and the resultant list (supposedly) tells the story of your life. I caught wind of this via Let’s Work With Orphans, which, in turn, caught wind of it via Kent media mogul William Techmeyer. As opposed to listing the tracks here and now, I’ll instead refer you to the comment I posted on the LWWO site. As a pretentious audiophile, I’ve already mapped my life out via the mixtape, and can say, quite honestly, that I would have chosen differently most of the time. But this list did make me laugh on occasion.
- Speaking of mixtapes, I’ve been working diligently at my ‘Phenomenology of the Mixtape’ project. The essay will build upon the framework provided by Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, in terms of the correct way to construct a mix and its social properties. Over the years, I’ve made many a mix, and have come to view myself (what with my tenure as a college radio DJ and hopeless romantic) as a preeminent critic of mixology. Stay tuned to rockitecture.
these next few weeks for developments.
Feist’s new album, The Reminder, is pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to me. This optimistic LP is perfect for the warm weather months.My favorite track is "I Feel it All." Keeping in the mixtape spirit, the song fits neatly between Arrah and the Ferns’ “Skylark” and Jose Gonzalez’s “Crosses” on a mix.
I’ve been working on some short fiction projects at the request of people who are far more creative than me, and thusly, have more control over my work than, say, I do. The fiction pieces may end up on here, but that will come at the behest of my publisher, whomever he or she may be, as these people have very rigid rules as to who may or may not read their publishee’s work. In all actuality, these short stories could propel me into a new tax bracket. NOMECLATURE may very well become a subscription site—THESE STORIES AND MORE FOR ONLY TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS AN HOUR! - Don’t worry, I’ll prorate it for you.
The guys at Algebra Teahouse on Murray Hill Road just gave me a free falafel sandwich. This place keeps getting better and better. If you’ve never been, Algebra is an independent coffee shop in the Little Italy neighborhood of Cleveland Heights. It’s replaced the Lee Road Library as my bastion of creativity. And for one reason: milkshakes. - Seriously though, the place is really nurturing. The bohemian décor and avant-garde clientèle make it quite the conducive writing space. My heart and soul throb with inspiration. It often feels like indigestion, but a good sort of indigestion, like you know you’ll feel so much better once it’s out of you. There’s something about freeform wood furniture that lights a fire inside me, you know?
The contingent of artists that run the place are assembling a creative writing ‘zine called the Cleveland Reader. The free bi-monthly publication is accepti ng submissions for poetry, prose, photos, and graphic novels. If any writers or artists out there are interested, talk to someone from Algebra; they’d be more than happy to help. I proposed a concept for a Cleveland-based live action comic book. Under the working title “The Adventures of NOMENCLATOR,” the project will deal with finding creativity in a shrinking post-industrial city. Here is an early production panel:
Just bought a bag of Reese’s Pieces from a girl that wandered into Algebra. She said it’s for her sister’s new uniform at Charles Dickens. I know who Charles Dickens is, but have no idea what or where. I’m assuming it’s a place, or, maybe, a state of mind. . . - I do know that I like Reese’s Pieces.
I performed at Carrie Callahan's Chucklef*ck Comedy Show a few weeks ago. No, I am not trying to break into stand-up comedy, though I did read a “humourous” essay on the theft of my car. - I’m hoping to perform, with the help of burgeoning urban designer/architectural critic, Theodore Ferringer, a new piece on the re-re-branding of Cleveland. We plan to satirize the Cleveland 2.0 project. This should be ready to launch in two to three weeks.
- Chucklef*ck: where comedy, urban design, and shoegaze come to hang out and do whatever.
- Kidding, of course.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
The Man in the Quarry
One warm afternoon in early June, Amy and I decided to go for a bike ride. She called off work, I called off work, and that was that. The day was ours. We stood in her kitchen and drank iced coffee to prepare for the excursion. Planning went no further. We would go where our cycles took us, hell to all.
Amy and I departed with the hope of stumbling onto a paved trail that led west along the Mighty Cuyahoga, toward Stow. Instead we found ourselves ineffectually navigating the back roads of West Kent. Amy couldn’t quite remember how to reach the trail, so we let our adventurers’ spirits run wild. We crossed a dilapidated bridge that had been blocked with 3’ tall dirt mounds at each side to impede the progress of intrepid journeymen like ourselves. Passage was not that difficult. We were able step over the far edge of the mound where the dirt was not piled as high. Then Amy handed me the bikes. The bridge spanned a series of railroad tracks below. We stopped in the middle, hoping to see a train rattle past.
Our attention wavered when a guy on a motorcycle jumped the mound at our left. He had his girlfriend step off the back of his cycle before he did it. He executed the task with aplomb, as the front tire came down with a squeal upon the wooden surface of the bridge. Then he accelerated again and catapulted himself over the second jump. His girlfriend ran after him and became a bit tripped up when confronted with the dirt mounds. She gave us a breathy and uncomfortable “Hi,” as if to say: “He does this all the time.” We wondered how far she would have to run that day.
After about 15 minutes, Amy and I decided to abandon the train idea, and crossed the bridge. Immediately to our right was a tree-lined dirt road that led down a ravine. It screamed for cyclists, so I signaled with my right hand and turned inside. We made sure to casually ignore the ‘NO TRESPASSING: THIS MEANS YOU!’ and ‘HOURS OF OPERATION: [blank]’ signs that lined both sides of the road. I assumed that the signs were geared more towards solicitors than a pair of benign bikers. The road dipped in front of us and we rode down a steep hill and across some railroad tracks. An attractive McMansion sat at the bottom of the ravine. The house butted against a man-made pond. A dozen or so geese relaxed along the water’s edge and I used my momentum down the hill to scatter their ranks.
“Whoa!” I yelled, kicking my legs as if I were out of control.
Amy laughed.
We found a road that led behind the house and began a climb above what appeared to be a rock quarry. To our left, up a bit higher, ran the railroad tracks we had crossed. A few hundred feet to the right, on the other side of the quarry, a red pickup truck sped back toward the house. The dust trail lingered long after the truck had gone. I began to worry about the signs that marked the entrance to this place.
We stopped before the road turned us back toward the entrance. Just beyond the turn, a diesel tractor hacked at high grass in a sloped field. Amy and I hoped to find a path at the tree line bordering the pasture. Very much wanting out of the place, we rode, as best as we could manage, through the high grass. We made it about halfway before the drone of the mower ceased.
“Hey!”
I turned and saw Amy drifting over to the man on the tractor.
“How did you two get in here?” he asked, removing his Caterpillar cap and mopping the sweat off his bald scalp.
Amy pointed vaguely in the direction we had come. As she was a woman (and he, an older man; lest a heavy-set older man; lest a lonely, bald, heavy-set older man on a tractor), Amy was better suited to do the talking. “Do you know how we can get out of here?” she asked.
“The way you come in,” he said, irritated at our lack of direction.
“Okay,” Amy began speaking rapidly, as she had a habit of doing. “We just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a path back here that we could take.”
“Uh-uh,” the guy grumbled, “only one way out. I’m surprised the owner didn’t see you. He was just through here in his truck. He doesn’t take kindly to visitors. I’m working. Only reason I’m here.”
“Well, we’ll just be on our way then.” Amy climbed back on the pedals. “So, that way?”
“Yeah, and I’d hurry if I was you. He’ll run you right outta’ here.”
We began to retrace our tracks. Luckily, the terrain allowed us a down slope so we could pick up some speed before passing the house. There would still be that steep climb to get back onto the main road. It could cause a problem if the mysterious owner attempted pursuit. But we’d climb that hill when we came to it. Our dust trails rose higher and higher as we began to pick up speed.
I looked over at Amy.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.
“Full steam ahead, I guess.”
A train whistle sounded in the distance. The flight began. The shifters clicked. The chains shuddered into high gears.
We hit a straightaway that put us in a direct line-of-sight with the house and the red pickup truck that had come to rest beside it. We were exposed for about a minute-and-a-half as we pedaled as fast as we could down the hill. To reduce drag, I tucked my body low to the frame. Amy and I flew past the house and had reached a healthy speed to carry us most of the way up the hill. The problem was that a passing train had cut off our intended exit vector.
The road forked at the crossing: turning right would run us into the train, turning left, though potentially dangerous, would afford us some more distance from the house. Instead of waiting for the train to pass, we continued our burn past the crossing and along another dirt road, which continued to leave us exposed to the man in the truck. We were still making good progress, but had begun another climb. Our momentum waned. We were in uncharted territory. My legs burned and I turned back to see how Amy was faring.
The red truck, right behind her, spat dust trails at it approached. The cab bobbed up and down in a frenzied rage. I stopped. It pulled alongside Amy, nearly knocking her over. We had been caught. The old man in the truck wasted no time.
“What the fuck you doin’ here?” he belted at us. “Can’t you read or you just ig’nant?”
Amy was a woman—he, an old man. I thought it best for her to field this one. She shrugged jokingly. “Eh. . .”
He wasn’t laughing. I glanced inside his truck. It was covered in dust: caked across the dashboard and steering wheel, the inside and outside of the windshield, obscuring the mirrors, over the visor of his John Deere hat. I imagined a permanent layer smeared against the walls of his nasal cavity and lungs and innards.
“Well, we got lost in the woods,” she lied breathily. The recent exertion had caused her to speak even faster. “We found a path that came out over there.” She gestured vaguely in the direction from whence we came.
“Where?”
“Over there, by the guy on the tractor. He told us to come this way.”
“Didn’t fucking think to go back, or you just stupid? You from ‘round here?”
“We go to the University. We didn’t know—“
“You fucking kids think you can go wherever the fuck you want. Just do whatever. So fucking free and easy. I’m just some fucking asshole who lives down here. Don’t give no shits about nothing. Never—“
Amy cut to the quick. “Sir, how do we get out of here?” She said this quickly.
“Fuck you.”
“So, straight then?”
He gestured in a way that could be vaguely considered a nod. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“We were leaving anyway,” Amy said. “So, this way?” She pointed more directly.
“Get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out.”
The old man in the quarry faded into the distance, as we spit our own dust trails back at him. A hundred feet later, we reached a locked gate that led onto the main road. I bent low and crawled beneath the rusty arm. Amy slid the bikes to me.
“Another hundred feet and we would have made it,” I said.
“Yeah, fuck that guy,” Amy said after she slid out.
Our bikes had become covered in dust that dried out our chains, gears, and bearings. Our throats were dry; our zeal was dry. The dust had inundated every facet of our beings. It had settled into our innards. Amy and I squeaked and groaned the whole way back to her house. We sat on her front porch, drank iced coffee, dusted each other off, and reflected on living life free and easy.
Amy and I departed with the hope of stumbling onto a paved trail that led west along the Mighty Cuyahoga, toward Stow. Instead we found ourselves ineffectually navigating the back roads of West Kent. Amy couldn’t quite remember how to reach the trail, so we let our adventurers’ spirits run wild. We crossed a dilapidated bridge that had been blocked with 3’ tall dirt mounds at each side to impede the progress of intrepid journeymen like ourselves. Passage was not that difficult. We were able step over the far edge of the mound where the dirt was not piled as high. Then Amy handed me the bikes. The bridge spanned a series of railroad tracks below. We stopped in the middle, hoping to see a train rattle past.
Our attention wavered when a guy on a motorcycle jumped the mound at our left. He had his girlfriend step off the back of his cycle before he did it. He executed the task with aplomb, as the front tire came down with a squeal upon the wooden surface of the bridge. Then he accelerated again and catapulted himself over the second jump. His girlfriend ran after him and became a bit tripped up when confronted with the dirt mounds. She gave us a breathy and uncomfortable “Hi,” as if to say: “He does this all the time.” We wondered how far she would have to run that day.
After about 15 minutes, Amy and I decided to abandon the train idea, and crossed the bridge. Immediately to our right was a tree-lined dirt road that led down a ravine. It screamed for cyclists, so I signaled with my right hand and turned inside. We made sure to casually ignore the ‘NO TRESPASSING: THIS MEANS YOU!’ and ‘HOURS OF OPERATION: [blank]’ signs that lined both sides of the road. I assumed that the signs were geared more towards solicitors than a pair of benign bikers. The road dipped in front of us and we rode down a steep hill and across some railroad tracks. An attractive McMansion sat at the bottom of the ravine. The house butted against a man-made pond. A dozen or so geese relaxed along the water’s edge and I used my momentum down the hill to scatter their ranks.
“Whoa!” I yelled, kicking my legs as if I were out of control.
Amy laughed.
We found a road that led behind the house and began a climb above what appeared to be a rock quarry. To our left, up a bit higher, ran the railroad tracks we had crossed. A few hundred feet to the right, on the other side of the quarry, a red pickup truck sped back toward the house. The dust trail lingered long after the truck had gone. I began to worry about the signs that marked the entrance to this place.
We stopped before the road turned us back toward the entrance. Just beyond the turn, a diesel tractor hacked at high grass in a sloped field. Amy and I hoped to find a path at the tree line bordering the pasture. Very much wanting out of the place, we rode, as best as we could manage, through the high grass. We made it about halfway before the drone of the mower ceased.
“Hey!”
I turned and saw Amy drifting over to the man on the tractor.
“How did you two get in here?” he asked, removing his Caterpillar cap and mopping the sweat off his bald scalp.
Amy pointed vaguely in the direction we had come. As she was a woman (and he, an older man; lest a heavy-set older man; lest a lonely, bald, heavy-set older man on a tractor), Amy was better suited to do the talking. “Do you know how we can get out of here?” she asked.
“The way you come in,” he said, irritated at our lack of direction.
“Okay,” Amy began speaking rapidly, as she had a habit of doing. “We just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a path back here that we could take.”
“Uh-uh,” the guy grumbled, “only one way out. I’m surprised the owner didn’t see you. He was just through here in his truck. He doesn’t take kindly to visitors. I’m working. Only reason I’m here.”
“Well, we’ll just be on our way then.” Amy climbed back on the pedals. “So, that way?”
“Yeah, and I’d hurry if I was you. He’ll run you right outta’ here.”
We began to retrace our tracks. Luckily, the terrain allowed us a down slope so we could pick up some speed before passing the house. There would still be that steep climb to get back onto the main road. It could cause a problem if the mysterious owner attempted pursuit. But we’d climb that hill when we came to it. Our dust trails rose higher and higher as we began to pick up speed.
I looked over at Amy.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.
“Full steam ahead, I guess.”
A train whistle sounded in the distance. The flight began. The shifters clicked. The chains shuddered into high gears.
We hit a straightaway that put us in a direct line-of-sight with the house and the red pickup truck that had come to rest beside it. We were exposed for about a minute-and-a-half as we pedaled as fast as we could down the hill. To reduce drag, I tucked my body low to the frame. Amy and I flew past the house and had reached a healthy speed to carry us most of the way up the hill. The problem was that a passing train had cut off our intended exit vector.
The road forked at the crossing: turning right would run us into the train, turning left, though potentially dangerous, would afford us some more distance from the house. Instead of waiting for the train to pass, we continued our burn past the crossing and along another dirt road, which continued to leave us exposed to the man in the truck. We were still making good progress, but had begun another climb. Our momentum waned. We were in uncharted territory. My legs burned and I turned back to see how Amy was faring.
The red truck, right behind her, spat dust trails at it approached. The cab bobbed up and down in a frenzied rage. I stopped. It pulled alongside Amy, nearly knocking her over. We had been caught. The old man in the truck wasted no time.
“What the fuck you doin’ here?” he belted at us. “Can’t you read or you just ig’nant?”
Amy was a woman—he, an old man. I thought it best for her to field this one. She shrugged jokingly. “Eh. . .”
He wasn’t laughing. I glanced inside his truck. It was covered in dust: caked across the dashboard and steering wheel, the inside and outside of the windshield, obscuring the mirrors, over the visor of his John Deere hat. I imagined a permanent layer smeared against the walls of his nasal cavity and lungs and innards.
“Well, we got lost in the woods,” she lied breathily. The recent exertion had caused her to speak even faster. “We found a path that came out over there.” She gestured vaguely in the direction from whence we came.
“Where?”
“Over there, by the guy on the tractor. He told us to come this way.”
“Didn’t fucking think to go back, or you just stupid? You from ‘round here?”
“We go to the University. We didn’t know—“
“You fucking kids think you can go wherever the fuck you want. Just do whatever. So fucking free and easy. I’m just some fucking asshole who lives down here. Don’t give no shits about nothing. Never—“
Amy cut to the quick. “Sir, how do we get out of here?” She said this quickly.
“Fuck you.”
“So, straight then?”
He gestured in a way that could be vaguely considered a nod. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“We were leaving anyway,” Amy said. “So, this way?” She pointed more directly.
“Get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out.”
The old man in the quarry faded into the distance, as we spit our own dust trails back at him. A hundred feet later, we reached a locked gate that led onto the main road. I bent low and crawled beneath the rusty arm. Amy slid the bikes to me.
“Another hundred feet and we would have made it,” I said.
“Yeah, fuck that guy,” Amy said after she slid out.
Our bikes had become covered in dust that dried out our chains, gears, and bearings. Our throats were dry; our zeal was dry. The dust had inundated every facet of our beings. It had settled into our innards. Amy and I squeaked and groaned the whole way back to her house. We sat on her front porch, drank iced coffee, dusted each other off, and reflected on living life free and easy.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
excerpt from my memoirs, Bocced Up: My Life Interpreted Through the Great Sport of Bocce Ball
25 April 2007:
Seeking Cinque
I had fallen into a rut. Cleveland celebrated the opening of spring by spitting snow everywhere. Any inspiration provided by the equinox froze beneath ice sheets. My blog sat barren and neglected—the month of April afforded little hope, as my internal calendar flipped for the 23rd annual time. I strolled into my mid-twenties rather sheepishly, as if I were searching out a seat on the RTA and wished to sit equidistant from all the other travelers.
But last weekend, the weather broke. Spring punched me in the face. The smell of fresh clippings wafted along the swelling sidewalks. The spectators had rushed the field. I spent my day job slinging mango smoothies and hummos/pita at young urban professionals and undergrads brave enough venture beyond the hermetically sealed bubble of their private university down the road.
I stumbled home from work late that Saturday night. The electricity of the first true spring evening vibrated inside my lungs. Transcendence tapped me on the shoulder. It was time. My roommates greeted me enthusiastically. They had big news.
“dB,” Jdubbs said, “me, you, and Thed are entering a bocce tournament in Little Italy.”
“We found a flyer down there,” Thed said, a grin-shaped crater on his face. “Our team is called cinque piu uno.”
“It means five plus one,” Jdubbs explained. He presented me with an Italian magazine, the cover of which featured five penguins walking to the right; a sixth stared stoically back at the reader.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly, “what does this have to do with bocce?”
“Each team has five members,” Thed said. “So ours would be you, me, Jdubbs, Chuck, and someone else. We haven’t figured out who yet.”
“Then who’s the plus one?” I asked.
"I dunno," Jdubbs said, "our merch girl." It seemed they had envisioned a hot, impassioned voice from the bench. We only needed a fifth, our cinque.
Thed and Jdubbs went on to describe the uniforms they had designed: track shorts and skimpy tees: purple, purchased from American Apparel; they planned to blazon the shirts with sponsors and the 5+1 penguins logo; also, aviator sunglasses; and, of course, (ironic) mustaches. I requested tube socks and matching purple Sambas. The ensemble was complete, at least in concept.
We slid headfirst into spring. This bocce tournament was to be truly transcendent. We planned practices on the grass medium separating the lanes of Euclid Heights Blvd. We considered hiring a documentary crew to chart our progress. We considered actually buying a bocce ball set.
And still, we needed a fifth, the final keystone to be set into place, the one person who could tie it all together. The foundation had been set. Bocce was going to solve all our problems, and a world of opportunity was opened to us. Thed, Jdubbs, and I—friends by chance, roommates by choice—left for a party that night feeling inspired beyond even our wildest expectations. The three of us were rolling headlong toward our destination, and would collide with it in due time. What mattered was that we were on the right trajectory to make contact.
Bocced Up archive
Seeking Cinque
I had fallen into a rut. Cleveland celebrated the opening of spring by spitting snow everywhere. Any inspiration provided by the equinox froze beneath ice sheets. My blog sat barren and neglected—the month of April afforded little hope, as my internal calendar flipped for the 23rd annual time. I strolled into my mid-twenties rather sheepishly, as if I were searching out a seat on the RTA and wished to sit equidistant from all the other travelers.
But last weekend, the weather broke. Spring punched me in the face. The smell of fresh clippings wafted along the swelling sidewalks. The spectators had rushed the field. I spent my day job slinging mango smoothies and hummos/pita at young urban professionals and undergrads brave enough venture beyond the hermetically sealed bubble of their private university down the road.
I stumbled home from work late that Saturday night. The electricity of the first true spring evening vibrated inside my lungs. Transcendence tapped me on the shoulder. It was time. My roommates greeted me enthusiastically. They had big news.
“dB,” Jdubbs said, “me, you, and Thed are entering a bocce tournament in Little Italy.”
“We found a flyer down there,” Thed said, a grin-shaped crater on his face. “Our team is called cinque piu uno.”
“It means five plus one,” Jdubbs explained. He presented me with an Italian magazine, the cover of which featured five penguins walking to the right; a sixth stared stoically back at the reader.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly, “what does this have to do with bocce?”
“Each team has five members,” Thed said. “So ours would be you, me, Jdubbs, Chuck, and someone else. We haven’t figured out who yet.”
“Then who’s the plus one?” I asked.
"I dunno," Jdubbs said, "our merch girl." It seemed they had envisioned a hot, impassioned voice from the bench. We only needed a fifth, our cinque.
Thed and Jdubbs went on to describe the uniforms they had designed: track shorts and skimpy tees: purple, purchased from American Apparel; they planned to blazon the shirts with sponsors and the 5+1 penguins logo; also, aviator sunglasses; and, of course, (ironic) mustaches. I requested tube socks and matching purple Sambas. The ensemble was complete, at least in concept.
We slid headfirst into spring. This bocce tournament was to be truly transcendent. We planned practices on the grass medium separating the lanes of Euclid Heights Blvd. We considered hiring a documentary crew to chart our progress. We considered actually buying a bocce ball set.
And still, we needed a fifth, the final keystone to be set into place, the one person who could tie it all together. The foundation had been set. Bocce was going to solve all our problems, and a world of opportunity was opened to us. Thed, Jdubbs, and I—friends by chance, roommates by choice—left for a party that night feeling inspired beyond even our wildest expectations. The three of us were rolling headlong toward our destination, and would collide with it in due time. What mattered was that we were on the right trajectory to make contact.
Bocced Up archive
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
media
Thanks are extended to the Luna Negra staff for their inclusion of my humble work of short (creative non-)fiction, "Late Fights." These Kent State students have really put together a sharp publication this semester.
A podcast of the magazine's recorded stories should be floating around the Net Waves sometime soon, so keep posted to their site.
In the meantime, listen to "Late Fights" as an mp3.
Size: 2.3 MB
Length: 2:30
Mp3 post courtesy of box.net.
A podcast of the magazine's recorded stories should be floating around the Net Waves sometime soon, so keep posted to their site.
In the meantime, listen to "Late Fights" as an mp3.
Size: 2.3 MB
Length: 2:30
Mp3 post courtesy of box.net.
Monday, April 16, 2007
On 23
There’s something incredibly mundane about turning 23. I write from experience, because yesterday was my birthday. Anyone who was with me was reminded of this ad nauseum, because any request afforded me was responded with “It’s my birthday.”
Last January, my roommate Ted hit the big 2-3. My friends and I celebrated by taking him to Applebee’s: the Neighborhood Grill and Bar. This venue seemed somehow appropriate, as its pseudo-personality of framed portraits of pop culture stand-bys like Frank Sinatra and Michael Jordan are juxtaposed by contemporaries like Dale Earnhardt, Jr. and Carrie Underwood. Despite the down-your-throat attitude of the suburban American-style eatery, my dining experience was one of anonymity, for I was just another face in the crowd celebrating another meaningless milestone.
I accosted a co-worker to cover my shift that day, citing for the first time the soon-to-be familiar excuse: “It’s my birthday.” She accepted without much dissent.
“Well, if it’s your birthday. . .”
Then, of course, came the obligatory inquiry as to my age, which was to be followed by the equally obligatory: “23? Wow, you’re getting old.”
It’s all downhill from here. Every previous birthday served a sort of potentiality. 18 was, of course, significant because of the potential to buy cigarettes and porn. 19 invested all its hopes in a trip (which never panned out) to Canada for alcohol and gambling. 20 came and went without much potential; it’s more of a state-imposed hiatus until 21, which opens one up to the world of (legal) bar hopping and the inherent dating scene. Before you know it, you’re 22 and used to the bar scene—maybe even a bit jaded by it.
Personally, I enjoyed 22. The perpetual slew of slurred speech and blurred liaisons reached a steady rhythm and made it easier to pace myself, both in terms of intake and interactions. I fell into a niche and was neither a youngster nor an oldhead. My age could still be categorized as ‘early twenties:’ youthful and alive.
But what of 23? Following Ted’s lead, some friends and I went to our favorite birthday hangout, Applebee’s. We sat below a 5’ tall portrait of Jessica Simpson. Our server, an enthusiastic ‘early twenty-something’ go-getter, asked how I was doing.
“It’s my birthday.”
This information was greeted with a complimentary sundae, a rather anonymous dessert item. A person selects a sundae from a menu just as one would select a pair of socks from a bin at Wal-Mart. Don’t get me wrong--I’m not for sundaes; I’m not against them. I just found that it equated with the limited amount of gratuity bestowed upon a humble agester turning 23.
One day removed, I’m bracing myself for the questions about aging: “So, how does it feel to be old?”
I suppose it’s no different than being 22. I would assume it’s no different than being 24 or 27. And that’s just the point of entering the mid twenties. Time accelerates and it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate one interval from the next. Birthdays can be grouped within 3-to-5-year blocks. That is, until you turn 30, when all bets are off. Intervals jump to 10-year spans. But that’s so far down the line, I won’t focus on it.
I sat in silence and enjoyed my anonymous sundae in the anonymous suburban restaurant. My mood that day did not suggest mild depression or even light cynicism. If it does now, I assure you, humble reader, that it is not intended. There is just a certain blankness that accompanies the 23rd year, and I felt it should be expressed. But at the same time, we all search for reasons to celebrate, and, much like birthdays, we tend to lose that sort of enthusiasm as time goes on.
But, at least we can reside our hopes in that one selfish day when we can say:
“It’s my birthday.”
Last January, my roommate Ted hit the big 2-3. My friends and I celebrated by taking him to Applebee’s: the Neighborhood Grill and Bar. This venue seemed somehow appropriate, as its pseudo-personality of framed portraits of pop culture stand-bys like Frank Sinatra and Michael Jordan are juxtaposed by contemporaries like Dale Earnhardt, Jr. and Carrie Underwood. Despite the down-your-throat attitude of the suburban American-style eatery, my dining experience was one of anonymity, for I was just another face in the crowd celebrating another meaningless milestone.
I accosted a co-worker to cover my shift that day, citing for the first time the soon-to-be familiar excuse: “It’s my birthday.” She accepted without much dissent.
“Well, if it’s your birthday. . .”
Then, of course, came the obligatory inquiry as to my age, which was to be followed by the equally obligatory: “23? Wow, you’re getting old.”
It’s all downhill from here. Every previous birthday served a sort of potentiality. 18 was, of course, significant because of the potential to buy cigarettes and porn. 19 invested all its hopes in a trip (which never panned out) to Canada for alcohol and gambling. 20 came and went without much potential; it’s more of a state-imposed hiatus until 21, which opens one up to the world of (legal) bar hopping and the inherent dating scene. Before you know it, you’re 22 and used to the bar scene—maybe even a bit jaded by it.
Personally, I enjoyed 22. The perpetual slew of slurred speech and blurred liaisons reached a steady rhythm and made it easier to pace myself, both in terms of intake and interactions. I fell into a niche and was neither a youngster nor an oldhead. My age could still be categorized as ‘early twenties:’ youthful and alive.
But what of 23? Following Ted’s lead, some friends and I went to our favorite birthday hangout, Applebee’s. We sat below a 5’ tall portrait of Jessica Simpson. Our server, an enthusiastic ‘early twenty-something’ go-getter, asked how I was doing.
“It’s my birthday.”
This information was greeted with a complimentary sundae, a rather anonymous dessert item. A person selects a sundae from a menu just as one would select a pair of socks from a bin at Wal-Mart. Don’t get me wrong--I’m not for sundaes; I’m not against them. I just found that it equated with the limited amount of gratuity bestowed upon a humble agester turning 23.
One day removed, I’m bracing myself for the questions about aging: “So, how does it feel to be old?”
I suppose it’s no different than being 22. I would assume it’s no different than being 24 or 27. And that’s just the point of entering the mid twenties. Time accelerates and it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate one interval from the next. Birthdays can be grouped within 3-to-5-year blocks. That is, until you turn 30, when all bets are off. Intervals jump to 10-year spans. But that’s so far down the line, I won’t focus on it.
I sat in silence and enjoyed my anonymous sundae in the anonymous suburban restaurant. My mood that day did not suggest mild depression or even light cynicism. If it does now, I assure you, humble reader, that it is not intended. There is just a certain blankness that accompanies the 23rd year, and I felt it should be expressed. But at the same time, we all search for reasons to celebrate, and, much like birthdays, we tend to lose that sort of enthusiasm as time goes on.
But, at least we can reside our hopes in that one selfish day when we can say:
“It’s my birthday.”
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The opening for my yet-to-be-titled novel redux
At the end of the first week of our last semester of college, Calvin and I sat on the roof of my apartment on Main Street, smoking victory cigars.
“We won,” we said, in between catcalling the ladies and gentlemen who passed below on the sidewalk. Headlights zipped past all night. Cars without mufflers rattled our beer bottles. We toasted to victory. We had won.
Early September tickled more than it pinched and, Cal and I, our lungs often strained from all the giddy chuckles of self-righteousness and accomplishment. The culmination of our undergrad years flashed before us. August had been a frolic through a meadow of poppies, as the oyster of summer slid down our gullets and came to rest in the digestive soup around the time of the last midterm; the last knee-jerk; the last failure; withdrawal.
But all that was to come. For those initial weeks in late August and early September, we remained unfazed, for the future was a great big bulbous nest egg vibrating beneath us, certain to hatch in four months, its contents flinging us in grand fashion toward the horizon. I had my sights on New York (or Chicago). Cal spun the wheel towards any damned place but Kent, OH.
He drained the last of his Molson and lofted it gently into the middle of the sidewalk. No animals or scantily clad freshmen were harmed.
Cal drew on his cigar. Smoke billowed out of his nose and mouth and ears and eyes. His head was a jack-o-lantern, a pumpkin raw and gutted, completely empty of any slop and seeds. Raw. Gutted.
“We won.”
Working title: Victory Cigars
“We won,” we said, in between catcalling the ladies and gentlemen who passed below on the sidewalk. Headlights zipped past all night. Cars without mufflers rattled our beer bottles. We toasted to victory. We had won.
Early September tickled more than it pinched and, Cal and I, our lungs often strained from all the giddy chuckles of self-righteousness and accomplishment. The culmination of our undergrad years flashed before us. August had been a frolic through a meadow of poppies, as the oyster of summer slid down our gullets and came to rest in the digestive soup around the time of the last midterm; the last knee-jerk; the last failure; withdrawal.
But all that was to come. For those initial weeks in late August and early September, we remained unfazed, for the future was a great big bulbous nest egg vibrating beneath us, certain to hatch in four months, its contents flinging us in grand fashion toward the horizon. I had my sights on New York (or Chicago). Cal spun the wheel towards any damned place but Kent, OH.
He drained the last of his Molson and lofted it gently into the middle of the sidewalk. No animals or scantily clad freshmen were harmed.
Cal drew on his cigar. Smoke billowed out of his nose and mouth and ears and eyes. His head was a jack-o-lantern, a pumpkin raw and gutted, completely empty of any slop and seeds. Raw. Gutted.
“We won.”
Working title: Victory Cigars
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Much Good for Me
Neighbors. Never trusted them. Thanks to Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood, I grew up with an unrealistic view of the benevolent neighbor, anxious to help out. You help me, I’ll help you. Here’s some brownies, use my weedwacker. I’ll lend my goods and services in return for your goods and services. Bullshit. Never happened like that.
My neighborly distrust began with my first neighbor, Mrs. McAllister, an ageless raisin in the sun with severe arthritis. From my bedroom, I could look down on her in-ground pool as the membrane of algae grew to bright verdant hues while she, clad in a paisley housecoat, attempted to skim the water.
One summer, she asked me, at the age of ten, to cut her fairway-sized lawn and offered the use of her forward propulsion mower—one of those contraptions that yanks you around while threatening to chop your feet off.
“It’ll be fun!” she said, pinching my cheek with all five fingers. “The thing does all the work for you.”
The handle of said mower sat just below my chin, and after being dragged from one end of her yard to the other for 6 or 7 hours, I knocked on her front door and demanded payment for my services.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I was a bit disappointed when her claw hammer hand presented me with a measly $10, divvied in five $2 bill increments. Since then, $2 bills have always proved to be bad luck for me. Vowing to never again be exploited for less than $2 an hour, I locked the front door and spent the rest of that summer watching Cartoon Network from the comfort of my unfinished basement. For the next few months, the answering machine surged with messages from Mrs. McAllister, gingerly asking me to come back and cut her grass.
“It’s almost up to my waist now, honey,” said the answering machine.
I rationalized that, because Mrs. McAllister stood at an elfin 4’10, her definition of ‘waist-high’ would really only be considered ‘knee-high’ by normal standards and thus, nothing really to fuss about.
Summer bore way to fall and her grass eventually stopped its growth at a healthy 3 feet. Her calls waned and eventually ceased, with the last few entreating me to come over and help with the unclogging of her commode, as her pincers were unable to gain the necessary torque on the handle of the plunger and send the blockage to its intended destination. I hunkered down in the basement for a long winter.
I approached each subsequent neighbor with an air of aloofness. Still, a neighborly relationship arose inevitably when I moved into my last college apartment, a two unit converted house on Main Street. I first came across Chung while sifting through mail in our communal bin. Multiple correspondences from the Aviation Students of America sat awaiting their reception from a ‘Chung Kao Yu.’ I had never met this ‘Chung,’ though I assumed he was Asian, if not for the namesake, but also the Mandarin exclamations audible from the hallway we shared. On multiple occasions, I considered breaking the silence to ask Chung for a cigarette, as the stench of stale tobacco constantly wafted under my door. But, like I said before, aloof.
One morning, a week or two after moving in, the windows of my car were smashed by an unknown assailant or assailants. I found the offending rock sitting on the front seat. I had never thought my car a target for vandalism—the ’87 Chevy sedan held no distinguishing marks, apart from the various rust holes and one ‘Go Pittsburgh’ magnetic decal left on the trunk by the previous owner. Said decal must have been the catalyst that drove the agitators to uncontrollable rage. I pictured a bunch of drunken Charlie Frye fans, bladders full of Natural Ice, taking a shortcut through my parking lot and finding this lone vestige of Pittsburgh spirit. They became possessed with that familiar Cleveland rage and were thusly capable of chucking thousands of bottles at NFL referees or a single rock at an unassuming late model sedan. It was like beating up an old lady with no purse. They might as well have punched Mrs. McAllister in the face. At least she had $2 bills.
Later that day, I returned to sweep away the millions of granules of broken glass and hang a reward sign which read: I Don’t Like to Use the Word ‘Heinous’ very often, but this __________ act of violence has left me no other choice. If you have any information about this broken glass incident, don’t hesitate to speak up. REWARD: one case of Natural Ice to whomever steps forward.
Behind me, I heard, “Can’t believe what happen to your car, man. I hear crash, look out window, see them run away.”
I knew him immediately: “Let me guess, you’re Chung?”
“Yeah, but most people call me Mike.”
“Why?”
“It’s my American name. Most people have trouble with Chung.”
“Are you kidding, man? ‘Everybody Wang Chung Tonight,’ come on!”
Chung let out a chuckle, “Yeah man, you know.”
I don’t mean to come off as bigoted or stereotypical, but Chung looked exactly like I thought he would: roughly 5 and a half feet tall, shaved head, air force bomber jacket, shoulders preeminently slouched forward and hands thrust in the pockets of his Dockers.
“So wait, uh, Chung,” I said. “You said you saw the people do this? When did it happen?”
“Yeah. Probably happen around 8:30. They stood out in the street.” He gestured toward the sidewalk roughly 100 feet behind my car. “I could not see them though.”
“8:30?” I asked. “It would have still been light out. You’re saying they did this in broad daylight from all the way in the street?”
Chung shrugged. “’S what I heard. Bad kids in neighborhood. Fuck with my mirror.”
I looked at Chung’s Toyota. The sideview mirror bore a jagged gash, as if it had lost a knife fight.
“Does this sort of thing happen often here?” I asked.
“Nah. But don’t park your car so close to building. I can’t watch your car when so close. Move over. Your car does no good for me here.”
I assumed this meant Chung had nothing better to do during the day than keep watch over the parking lot. Looking up at his bedroom window, I could see how the line of sight could be obscured from this position.
“Okay, Chung,” I said. “I’ll move the car, so long as it does some good for you.”
The next day, upon leaving for work, I saw that Chung had moved his car into the spot I had previously vacated, the one closest to the building. Huh, I thought, I guess that does more good for him.
My last semester began, and Chung appeared randomly in my Fundamental English Grammar class. I tried my best not to question his judgment in taking an upper division English class, but, I mean, come on, the guy was an aviation major. My concerns disappeared when Chung sat down beside me with the $150 Grammar text required for class. I had yet to purchase the expensive book. Suddenly, the benefits of being neighborly were realized. During that first class, Chung announced that he was from Taiwan, that Mandarin was his native tongue, and that he very much like to fly.
I accosted Chung after class, “Hey, Chung, can I borrow that book when you’re not using it?”
“Sure, man, just help me pass the class.”
As the tests were all take-home, I said I’d have no problem letting him copy off me if he would save me the money on a book.
He reiterated that he just wanted to pass the class.
Four weeks later, my fist, clenching the first Grammar test, resounded against the door to apartment #1. Chung had been absent from class the last week, and I visited with the veiled intention of seeing if he was all right. Really, I needed to use that book. The thumping bass to Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” reverberated against our common wall, as it had all semester long, usually between the hours of 3 and 5:30 in the morning. Shirtless, Chung answered the door. It appeared I had awoken him.
“Chung, you haven’t been in class all week, is everything okay?” I asked with as much concern as I could muster.
“Yeah, I fine. Have aviation test need study. Very much reading. Right now, I taking nap.”
“That’s cool. You know, we have a Grammar test that’s due tomorrow. I was wondering if I could borrow your book.”
“Oh, yeah, book.” He began laughing and rubbing his neck uncomfortably. “I lose book. I drop the class.”
“Wait, Chung? Drop the class? We had a deal. I need to use that book! Exchange, Chung, for goods and services! Haven’t you heard of capitalism? Aren’t you neighborly? When you can’t deliver the goods, the whole system crumbles!”
Now was probably not the time to engage in a socioeconomic discussion with a communist. Taiwan’s communist, right? I suppose it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah, I realize I don’t need class anyway,” Chung explained. “Does no good for me. Take easy one instead. I go back to nap. Good luck with grammar.” He laughed again.
“Goods and services!” I yelled, as Chung shut the door in my face.
That night, I stumbled through the exam and possessed neither the time nor the money to procure a new Grammar text. Instead, I was left to realize the sins of the dangling modifier on my own. I vowed never to speak with Chung again. He does no good for me.
For the rest of the semester, I stayed true to my vow and cringed each time I heard ‘SexyBack’ or caught a whiff Marlboros in the hallway. Does no good for me, Chung.
The semester came to an end, I graduated from college, every appliance in my apartment broke at once, and I began to pack my things for the big move from Kent to Cleveland. To help with the move, I enlisted my special lady friend to sort through my clothes with me. An hour or so into the job, the only clothes we had managed to sort were each others’, which sat in sporadic piles around the room. Chung’s gracious musical choice of ‘SexyBack’ one wall over provided a romantic ambience. We just couldn’t help ourselves. That is, until, I heard a cautious ‘Hallooo!’ from out in the kitchen.
The sound frightened my special lady, and she curled up underneath the comforter. Pulling up my jeans, I told her to hold tight and I would see about the commotion. I strolled into the kitchen with clumsiness of interrupted intimacy, or as I liked to call it, Quality Time. My maintenance guy, Big Dave, stood in the doorway to my bathroom. Inside, crouching with a plunger over the shower drain, was a plumber. I discerned his title—and I’m not trying to come off as bigoted or stereotypical here—by the gratuitous length of protruding ass crack.
Big Dave saw me and said, “Hey, we knocked for like five minutes but no one answered so we just came in.”
I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably, “Yeah, I was taking nap.”
“Well, this shower’s been clogged for a while, so I just thought we’d take care of it,” Dave said.
The drain emitted a digestive gurgle and spewed close to four gallons of matted, swampy hair clumps.
“Guess that’s the clog,” said Plumber.
“Jeez,” Big Dave said, “have you been shaving in the shower? That’s a lot of hair.”
I denied it vehemently, citing the trauma of a sink clog in my youth.
“Well, you and Mike share a drain,” Big Dave said, “maybe this is his fault.”
“Who the hell is Mike?” I asked. “Oh, you mean Chung, yeah. It could be his, I mean, I don’t know what type of bizarre bathing rituals those East Asians have, you know?”
“He’s a pilot, you know,” Big Dave said.
Does no good for me. “Just don’t ask him to borrow a Fundamental English Grammar book,” I said.
“Why would you do that?” Big Dave asked, “He’s from China.”
“It’s Taiwan and you’re absolutely right. Congratulations on the clog.”
I turned and went back to my room to continue with the sorting.
About an hour later, my lady friend and I were interrupted with another ‘Hallooo!’ I yelled an impassioned expletive and again replaced the comforter over her. She was a headstrong lady, but some things made her anxious.
The front door hung wide open with keys dangling from the knob. Hunched over the kitchen sink, my landlord, Chris Smiles, attempted to tighten the knobs on the faucet. The thing seemed to drip agelessly, and considering that I had seen Smiles a grand total of twice since I had moved in five months ago, I found his timing impeccable, given the circumstances.
“Is that you, Chris?” I asked, stumbling against the kitchen doorway.
Chris looked startled, “Oh, hi. I, uh, I knocked but no one answered so I just came in.”
“Yeah,” I said, a bit more irritated. “I was taking nap.”
“Huh. Well, I got a $300 water bill from this building last month. I thought it might be the faucet, but I don’t think this drip would cost that much. Have you heard water running?”
I thought back to that previous December, when, for three straight weeks, I could hear water perpetually running behind the wall in Chung’s apartment. Assuming it was some type of makeshift Chinese Zen ritual, White Noise, Feng Shui, I left well enough alone. But coupled with the recent hair clog, I wondered if Chung had embarked on a three-week cleansing/body shaving ritual, to commemorate (I don’t know) the ensuing Chinese New Year. What other holidays do they celebrate over there? And I’m not trying to come off as bigoted or stereotypical or anything.
I looked my landlord in the eyes, “No, can’t really think of anything like that.”
“Well, if you do, let me know," Smiles said. "In the meantime, try not to use your toilet too much. Let’s try to keep this bill down from now on.”
Regardless of my feelings for Chung, I wasn’t about to sell him out in favor of this tightwad.
As Smiles was leaving, Chung, Marlboro dangling from his mouth, stepped out of his apartment and casually into mine. He narrow eyes lit with surprise.
“You still live here? Wow, place look lot different.” He took the liberty of navigating between the boxes and milk crates I had stacked in the kitchen and walked into the living room. “Yeah. Haven’t seen you all semester. Can’t believe you leaving. I miss you.”
“Chung, I have to say, I’m going to miss you too. You’re almost done with school, right?”
“Yeah, one more semester. Then I go back to China. Become corporate pilot.”
“Why do you want to go back to China?” I asked. “Don’t you want to stay in the U.S.?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I get no respect here. Will never have power.” He thumped his chest, “I want to go place where I have power.”
I understood and maybe smiled a bit at the irony of going to China to achieve freedom. But, I guessed it would do much good for him. I wished him luck.
“Beside,” he said, “I make more money there than here. And I want most return for my work.”
“Goods and services,” I said.
“Yes, does much good for me.”
“Me too,” I nodded.
Chung, still pulling on his cigarette, turned and walked, as if he owned the place, into my bedroom. I couldn’t stop him.
“Yeah, place look lot different.” He startled, “Oh! You have naked girl in bed!” As if driven by habit, Chung dropped his Dockers and stood in plaid boxers.
“How much for service?”
He shut the door.
“Chung!” I yelled. “Goods and services! Goods and services! That’s not what I meant!”
Neighbors always try to take more than they give.
This essay was originally presented as a spoken-word performance piece for Chucklef*ck, Monday Night's Leading Alternative Comedy Show. For more info on the show, contact series organizer Carrie Callahan.
My neighborly distrust began with my first neighbor, Mrs. McAllister, an ageless raisin in the sun with severe arthritis. From my bedroom, I could look down on her in-ground pool as the membrane of algae grew to bright verdant hues while she, clad in a paisley housecoat, attempted to skim the water.
One summer, she asked me, at the age of ten, to cut her fairway-sized lawn and offered the use of her forward propulsion mower—one of those contraptions that yanks you around while threatening to chop your feet off.
“It’ll be fun!” she said, pinching my cheek with all five fingers. “The thing does all the work for you.”
The handle of said mower sat just below my chin, and after being dragged from one end of her yard to the other for 6 or 7 hours, I knocked on her front door and demanded payment for my services.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I was a bit disappointed when her claw hammer hand presented me with a measly $10, divvied in five $2 bill increments. Since then, $2 bills have always proved to be bad luck for me. Vowing to never again be exploited for less than $2 an hour, I locked the front door and spent the rest of that summer watching Cartoon Network from the comfort of my unfinished basement. For the next few months, the answering machine surged with messages from Mrs. McAllister, gingerly asking me to come back and cut her grass.
“It’s almost up to my waist now, honey,” said the answering machine.
I rationalized that, because Mrs. McAllister stood at an elfin 4’10, her definition of ‘waist-high’ would really only be considered ‘knee-high’ by normal standards and thus, nothing really to fuss about.
Summer bore way to fall and her grass eventually stopped its growth at a healthy 3 feet. Her calls waned and eventually ceased, with the last few entreating me to come over and help with the unclogging of her commode, as her pincers were unable to gain the necessary torque on the handle of the plunger and send the blockage to its intended destination. I hunkered down in the basement for a long winter.
I approached each subsequent neighbor with an air of aloofness. Still, a neighborly relationship arose inevitably when I moved into my last college apartment, a two unit converted house on Main Street. I first came across Chung while sifting through mail in our communal bin. Multiple correspondences from the Aviation Students of America sat awaiting their reception from a ‘Chung Kao Yu.’ I had never met this ‘Chung,’ though I assumed he was Asian, if not for the namesake, but also the Mandarin exclamations audible from the hallway we shared. On multiple occasions, I considered breaking the silence to ask Chung for a cigarette, as the stench of stale tobacco constantly wafted under my door. But, like I said before, aloof.
One morning, a week or two after moving in, the windows of my car were smashed by an unknown assailant or assailants. I found the offending rock sitting on the front seat. I had never thought my car a target for vandalism—the ’87 Chevy sedan held no distinguishing marks, apart from the various rust holes and one ‘Go Pittsburgh’ magnetic decal left on the trunk by the previous owner. Said decal must have been the catalyst that drove the agitators to uncontrollable rage. I pictured a bunch of drunken Charlie Frye fans, bladders full of Natural Ice, taking a shortcut through my parking lot and finding this lone vestige of Pittsburgh spirit. They became possessed with that familiar Cleveland rage and were thusly capable of chucking thousands of bottles at NFL referees or a single rock at an unassuming late model sedan. It was like beating up an old lady with no purse. They might as well have punched Mrs. McAllister in the face. At least she had $2 bills.
Later that day, I returned to sweep away the millions of granules of broken glass and hang a reward sign which read: I Don’t Like to Use the Word ‘Heinous’ very often, but this __________ act of violence has left me no other choice. If you have any information about this broken glass incident, don’t hesitate to speak up. REWARD: one case of Natural Ice to whomever steps forward.
Behind me, I heard, “Can’t believe what happen to your car, man. I hear crash, look out window, see them run away.”
I knew him immediately: “Let me guess, you’re Chung?”
“Yeah, but most people call me Mike.”
“Why?”
“It’s my American name. Most people have trouble with Chung.”
“Are you kidding, man? ‘Everybody Wang Chung Tonight,’ come on!”
Chung let out a chuckle, “Yeah man, you know.”
I don’t mean to come off as bigoted or stereotypical, but Chung looked exactly like I thought he would: roughly 5 and a half feet tall, shaved head, air force bomber jacket, shoulders preeminently slouched forward and hands thrust in the pockets of his Dockers.
“So wait, uh, Chung,” I said. “You said you saw the people do this? When did it happen?”
“Yeah. Probably happen around 8:30. They stood out in the street.” He gestured toward the sidewalk roughly 100 feet behind my car. “I could not see them though.”
“8:30?” I asked. “It would have still been light out. You’re saying they did this in broad daylight from all the way in the street?”
Chung shrugged. “’S what I heard. Bad kids in neighborhood. Fuck with my mirror.”
I looked at Chung’s Toyota. The sideview mirror bore a jagged gash, as if it had lost a knife fight.
“Does this sort of thing happen often here?” I asked.
“Nah. But don’t park your car so close to building. I can’t watch your car when so close. Move over. Your car does no good for me here.”
I assumed this meant Chung had nothing better to do during the day than keep watch over the parking lot. Looking up at his bedroom window, I could see how the line of sight could be obscured from this position.
“Okay, Chung,” I said. “I’ll move the car, so long as it does some good for you.”
The next day, upon leaving for work, I saw that Chung had moved his car into the spot I had previously vacated, the one closest to the building. Huh, I thought, I guess that does more good for him.
My last semester began, and Chung appeared randomly in my Fundamental English Grammar class. I tried my best not to question his judgment in taking an upper division English class, but, I mean, come on, the guy was an aviation major. My concerns disappeared when Chung sat down beside me with the $150 Grammar text required for class. I had yet to purchase the expensive book. Suddenly, the benefits of being neighborly were realized. During that first class, Chung announced that he was from Taiwan, that Mandarin was his native tongue, and that he very much like to fly.
I accosted Chung after class, “Hey, Chung, can I borrow that book when you’re not using it?”
“Sure, man, just help me pass the class.”
As the tests were all take-home, I said I’d have no problem letting him copy off me if he would save me the money on a book.
He reiterated that he just wanted to pass the class.
Four weeks later, my fist, clenching the first Grammar test, resounded against the door to apartment #1. Chung had been absent from class the last week, and I visited with the veiled intention of seeing if he was all right. Really, I needed to use that book. The thumping bass to Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” reverberated against our common wall, as it had all semester long, usually between the hours of 3 and 5:30 in the morning. Shirtless, Chung answered the door. It appeared I had awoken him.
“Chung, you haven’t been in class all week, is everything okay?” I asked with as much concern as I could muster.
“Yeah, I fine. Have aviation test need study. Very much reading. Right now, I taking nap.”
“That’s cool. You know, we have a Grammar test that’s due tomorrow. I was wondering if I could borrow your book.”
“Oh, yeah, book.” He began laughing and rubbing his neck uncomfortably. “I lose book. I drop the class.”
“Wait, Chung? Drop the class? We had a deal. I need to use that book! Exchange, Chung, for goods and services! Haven’t you heard of capitalism? Aren’t you neighborly? When you can’t deliver the goods, the whole system crumbles!”
Now was probably not the time to engage in a socioeconomic discussion with a communist. Taiwan’s communist, right? I suppose it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah, I realize I don’t need class anyway,” Chung explained. “Does no good for me. Take easy one instead. I go back to nap. Good luck with grammar.” He laughed again.
“Goods and services!” I yelled, as Chung shut the door in my face.
That night, I stumbled through the exam and possessed neither the time nor the money to procure a new Grammar text. Instead, I was left to realize the sins of the dangling modifier on my own. I vowed never to speak with Chung again. He does no good for me.
For the rest of the semester, I stayed true to my vow and cringed each time I heard ‘SexyBack’ or caught a whiff Marlboros in the hallway. Does no good for me, Chung.
The semester came to an end, I graduated from college, every appliance in my apartment broke at once, and I began to pack my things for the big move from Kent to Cleveland. To help with the move, I enlisted my special lady friend to sort through my clothes with me. An hour or so into the job, the only clothes we had managed to sort were each others’, which sat in sporadic piles around the room. Chung’s gracious musical choice of ‘SexyBack’ one wall over provided a romantic ambience. We just couldn’t help ourselves. That is, until, I heard a cautious ‘Hallooo!’ from out in the kitchen.
The sound frightened my special lady, and she curled up underneath the comforter. Pulling up my jeans, I told her to hold tight and I would see about the commotion. I strolled into the kitchen with clumsiness of interrupted intimacy, or as I liked to call it, Quality Time. My maintenance guy, Big Dave, stood in the doorway to my bathroom. Inside, crouching with a plunger over the shower drain, was a plumber. I discerned his title—and I’m not trying to come off as bigoted or stereotypical here—by the gratuitous length of protruding ass crack.
Big Dave saw me and said, “Hey, we knocked for like five minutes but no one answered so we just came in.”
I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably, “Yeah, I was taking nap.”
“Well, this shower’s been clogged for a while, so I just thought we’d take care of it,” Dave said.
The drain emitted a digestive gurgle and spewed close to four gallons of matted, swampy hair clumps.
“Guess that’s the clog,” said Plumber.
“Jeez,” Big Dave said, “have you been shaving in the shower? That’s a lot of hair.”
I denied it vehemently, citing the trauma of a sink clog in my youth.
“Well, you and Mike share a drain,” Big Dave said, “maybe this is his fault.”
“Who the hell is Mike?” I asked. “Oh, you mean Chung, yeah. It could be his, I mean, I don’t know what type of bizarre bathing rituals those East Asians have, you know?”
“He’s a pilot, you know,” Big Dave said.
Does no good for me. “Just don’t ask him to borrow a Fundamental English Grammar book,” I said.
“Why would you do that?” Big Dave asked, “He’s from China.”
“It’s Taiwan and you’re absolutely right. Congratulations on the clog.”
I turned and went back to my room to continue with the sorting.
About an hour later, my lady friend and I were interrupted with another ‘Hallooo!’ I yelled an impassioned expletive and again replaced the comforter over her. She was a headstrong lady, but some things made her anxious.
The front door hung wide open with keys dangling from the knob. Hunched over the kitchen sink, my landlord, Chris Smiles, attempted to tighten the knobs on the faucet. The thing seemed to drip agelessly, and considering that I had seen Smiles a grand total of twice since I had moved in five months ago, I found his timing impeccable, given the circumstances.
“Is that you, Chris?” I asked, stumbling against the kitchen doorway.
Chris looked startled, “Oh, hi. I, uh, I knocked but no one answered so I just came in.”
“Yeah,” I said, a bit more irritated. “I was taking nap.”
“Huh. Well, I got a $300 water bill from this building last month. I thought it might be the faucet, but I don’t think this drip would cost that much. Have you heard water running?”
I thought back to that previous December, when, for three straight weeks, I could hear water perpetually running behind the wall in Chung’s apartment. Assuming it was some type of makeshift Chinese Zen ritual, White Noise, Feng Shui, I left well enough alone. But coupled with the recent hair clog, I wondered if Chung had embarked on a three-week cleansing/body shaving ritual, to commemorate (I don’t know) the ensuing Chinese New Year. What other holidays do they celebrate over there? And I’m not trying to come off as bigoted or stereotypical or anything.
I looked my landlord in the eyes, “No, can’t really think of anything like that.”
“Well, if you do, let me know," Smiles said. "In the meantime, try not to use your toilet too much. Let’s try to keep this bill down from now on.”
Regardless of my feelings for Chung, I wasn’t about to sell him out in favor of this tightwad.
As Smiles was leaving, Chung, Marlboro dangling from his mouth, stepped out of his apartment and casually into mine. He narrow eyes lit with surprise.
“You still live here? Wow, place look lot different.” He took the liberty of navigating between the boxes and milk crates I had stacked in the kitchen and walked into the living room. “Yeah. Haven’t seen you all semester. Can’t believe you leaving. I miss you.”
“Chung, I have to say, I’m going to miss you too. You’re almost done with school, right?”
“Yeah, one more semester. Then I go back to China. Become corporate pilot.”
“Why do you want to go back to China?” I asked. “Don’t you want to stay in the U.S.?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I get no respect here. Will never have power.” He thumped his chest, “I want to go place where I have power.”
I understood and maybe smiled a bit at the irony of going to China to achieve freedom. But, I guessed it would do much good for him. I wished him luck.
“Beside,” he said, “I make more money there than here. And I want most return for my work.”
“Goods and services,” I said.
“Yes, does much good for me.”
“Me too,” I nodded.
Chung, still pulling on his cigarette, turned and walked, as if he owned the place, into my bedroom. I couldn’t stop him.
“Yeah, place look lot different.” He startled, “Oh! You have naked girl in bed!” As if driven by habit, Chung dropped his Dockers and stood in plaid boxers.
“How much for service?”
He shut the door.
“Chung!” I yelled. “Goods and services! Goods and services! That’s not what I meant!”
Neighbors always try to take more than they give.
This essay was originally presented as a spoken-word performance piece for Chucklef*ck, Monday Night's Leading Alternative Comedy Show. For more info on the show, contact series organizer Carrie Callahan.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sleeping Spiders
Some time in the afternoon, my roommate Geoff awoke from a dead sleep and stumbled into the living room, where I was hopelessly engaged in NHL 2K5.
“Leggs is gone,” he imparted.
“Oh no. Leggy?” I sighed, “No. . .”
A few days prior, Geoff had found a spider taking up residence in the corner of his bedroom. Decorated rather sparsely, the room was the work of a hyper-minimalist architect, and we all felt, upon spying the daddy long-legger while he slept, that the spidery presence livened at least one corner. And it seemed that Geoff had enjoyed the company. He’d even taken to bed an hour earlier, as to not disturb his guest. He was really playing host.
“I’d like to think he’s moved on to a better place,” Geoff said, becoming rather choked up. A sinewy tendril tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed and the sensation died forever. A unsettling reality shook Geoff’s foundation. “Dude,” he uttered, “I think I ate Leggs.”
“Leggy?” I whimpered, then yelled, “Where the f*ck are my wingers?” My attention had drawn back into the hockey game. “Sorry man, I gotta go.”
I considered the statistic that any given sleeping person swallows an average of eight spiders per year. A recent sinus infection had rendered Geoff as one of those disgusting agape-mouthed sleepers. Their slack-jawed gasps have been known to drive roommates to insomnia. I know this because Geoff frequently chided me for keeping him up all night with my snoring. I blamed allergies.
Apparently, Leggy had become possessed by whatever primordial mechanism drives spiders into a sleeping person’s mouth. That one last thrust at Geoff’s throat was Leggs’ realization of his fatal folly.
That evening, I found a tree spider casually sipping water from my bathroom faucet. I watched his right front paw come down and draw water into his mouth or fore pincers or whatever. He seemed a lot less docile than Leggy, and, as I was feeling intolerant toward freeloaders, I decided that he had to go. Despite my better judgment, I gave him a name, Butch, and covered him with a tissue. Offering a reprieve, I unmasked Butch on the outside windowsill and shut the screen. No harm, no foul, I thought
A few days later, I sat on my bed and folded laundry. Butch crawled out from the crevice between mattress and wall and came to rest next me. His beady eyes sparkled with affection—or rage, I couldn't really tell. Either way, I scooped him into a sock and deposited him off the balcony.
Now, I tolerate spiders to the best of my ability; in their presence, I an not paralyzed with fear, nor driven to violence against them. I am happy to say that I have never drowned a spider. I try my best to appreciate their gifts to humanity (what with the insect-eating and all) and live in harmony. Still, upon seeing Butch nestled comfortably in my bed, I factored in my tendency to sleep with ‘bass mouth’ and Geoff’s gruesome spider-eating statistic. I deemed it mutually beneficial for Butch and me to never see each other again. If I had to take his little life, then so be it, as an exception that proves the rule. Something told me I had already reached my spider-eating quota that year.
“Leggs is gone,” he imparted.
“Oh no. Leggy?” I sighed, “No. . .”
A few days prior, Geoff had found a spider taking up residence in the corner of his bedroom. Decorated rather sparsely, the room was the work of a hyper-minimalist architect, and we all felt, upon spying the daddy long-legger while he slept, that the spidery presence livened at least one corner. And it seemed that Geoff had enjoyed the company. He’d even taken to bed an hour earlier, as to not disturb his guest. He was really playing host.
“I’d like to think he’s moved on to a better place,” Geoff said, becoming rather choked up. A sinewy tendril tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed and the sensation died forever. A unsettling reality shook Geoff’s foundation. “Dude,” he uttered, “I think I ate Leggs.”
“Leggy?” I whimpered, then yelled, “Where the f*ck are my wingers?” My attention had drawn back into the hockey game. “Sorry man, I gotta go.”
I considered the statistic that any given sleeping person swallows an average of eight spiders per year. A recent sinus infection had rendered Geoff as one of those disgusting agape-mouthed sleepers. Their slack-jawed gasps have been known to drive roommates to insomnia. I know this because Geoff frequently chided me for keeping him up all night with my snoring. I blamed allergies.
Apparently, Leggy had become possessed by whatever primordial mechanism drives spiders into a sleeping person’s mouth. That one last thrust at Geoff’s throat was Leggs’ realization of his fatal folly.
That evening, I found a tree spider casually sipping water from my bathroom faucet. I watched his right front paw come down and draw water into his mouth or fore pincers or whatever. He seemed a lot less docile than Leggy, and, as I was feeling intolerant toward freeloaders, I decided that he had to go. Despite my better judgment, I gave him a name, Butch, and covered him with a tissue. Offering a reprieve, I unmasked Butch on the outside windowsill and shut the screen. No harm, no foul, I thought
A few days later, I sat on my bed and folded laundry. Butch crawled out from the crevice between mattress and wall and came to rest next me. His beady eyes sparkled with affection—or rage, I couldn't really tell. Either way, I scooped him into a sock and deposited him off the balcony.
Now, I tolerate spiders to the best of my ability; in their presence, I an not paralyzed with fear, nor driven to violence against them. I am happy to say that I have never drowned a spider. I try my best to appreciate their gifts to humanity (what with the insect-eating and all) and live in harmony. Still, upon seeing Butch nestled comfortably in my bed, I factored in my tendency to sleep with ‘bass mouth’ and Geoff’s gruesome spider-eating statistic. I deemed it mutually beneficial for Butch and me to never see each other again. If I had to take his little life, then so be it, as an exception that proves the rule. Something told me I had already reached my spider-eating quota that year.
Friday, March 23, 2007
(Certain to Be Unfulfilled) Goals for Spring Break
Yes, I realize I am no longer in school, and thusly, have no Spring Break (or as I like to call it, Spring Brake). Still, we all need some leisure now and then. And it's like Peppermint always says, "Nay, what is life for but a list of certain to be unfulfilled goals?"
1. Go to Florida
2. a) Begin short story: "Untitled"
b) Begin novel: Love in the Time of Facebook
3. Work on The Postmodern Experience: Season II
(By the way, I'm doing that for you, Parsons.)
4. Go drinking with mum
5. Come into ownership of 1983 Buick LeSabre
6. Drive Jitney back to Ohio
7. Have Parsons wire me gas money in North Carolina
(As compensation for my work on The Postmodern Experience.)
8. Arrive 13 days late to Cleveland
9. Find that Shelia-5 has once again disappeared, this time for good
10. Discover that the problem really did take care of itself
11. Begin new life driving around with, you know, my home boys
12. Do taxes
13. Get married and start a wonderful family
One of the benefits of being out of school is the potential for an infinite Spring Break. Now it's off to bed for me; I've got work at 10:30 tomorrow morning.
(Unfulfilled) Goals Archive
1. Go to Florida
2. a) Begin short story: "Untitled"
b) Begin novel: Love in the Time of Facebook
3. Work on The Postmodern Experience: Season II
(By the way, I'm doing that for you, Parsons.)
4. Go drinking with mum
5. Come into ownership of 1983 Buick LeSabre
6. Drive Jitney back to Ohio
7. Have Parsons wire me gas money in North Carolina
(As compensation for my work on The Postmodern Experience.)
8. Arrive 13 days late to Cleveland
9. Find that Shelia-5 has once again disappeared, this time for good
10. Discover that the problem really did take care of itself
11. Begin new life driving around with, you know, my home boys
12. Do taxes
13. Get married and start a wonderful family
One of the benefits of being out of school is the potential for an infinite Spring Break. Now it's off to bed for me; I've got work at 10:30 tomorrow morning.
(Unfulfilled) Goals Archive
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Journal Excerpt
9/28/06
I am 22.
I am only 22 once.
I am irresponsible.
I am artistic.
I am goal-oriented.
I am a baby.
I am messy.
I tend to forget things.
I tend to forget people.
I ignore problems until they go away.
I have confrontational issues.
I am working on it.
It is one of my goals.
I love making radio.
I have been distracted lately.
She is beautiful though.
I need to focus.
This will come.
I am also becoming better at lying.
To myself and others.
--Done, in part, as a response to a poem by Charles Parsons.
I am 22.
I am only 22 once.
I am irresponsible.
I am artistic.
I am goal-oriented.
I am a baby.
I am messy.
I tend to forget things.
I tend to forget people.
I ignore problems until they go away.
I have confrontational issues.
I am working on it.
It is one of my goals.
I love making radio.
I have been distracted lately.
She is beautiful though.
I need to focus.
This will come.
I am also becoming better at lying.
To myself and others.
--Done, in part, as a response to a poem by Charles Parsons.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Shelia-5: RETURNED
She's back in my life again, sans body work, sans oil change, (still) sans muffler, sans gas. . .
At 3 in the morning on Monday, I received a phone call from an Officer Hatrick of the CHPD. He informed me that my car had been found at a place called The Boneyard in Mayfield Heights, roughly 10 miles away. Assuming that he meant the car had been found in an actual boneyard, I could not contain my glee at essentially having my car troubles worked out for me. O. Hatrick was quick to explain that The Boneyard is actually an entertainment venue much in the same vein of Dave & Busters. These car thieves really were on a joy ride. He then recited a laundry list of damage to the car. Somewhere near the bottom, he reached the affectations done by the assailant(s).
"They punched the passenger door lock and stripped your steering column," said Hatrick.
"Huh," I yawned, "sounds like a lot of work."
"Not really. Late model American cars are very easy to steal."
"Well go figure."
The intrepid police officer gave me directions to the Mayfield Heights PD and the impound lot where Shelia had been secured. I needed to procure the vehicle's title in order to receive a release form to give to the impound.
The next day, my roommate Ted graciously provided me a ride to the Mayfield Heights PD, where I informed the officer behind the desk that said title lay in the glove box of said stolen car.
She, in turn, informed me that, "Keeping the title in the car is basically writing a blank check for the thing."
I replied, "Maybe, subconsciously, that was the point."
She smiled and phoned the impound lot to see if the title could be located in the vehicle. It was, and following a gracious fax of the document in question, Ted and I made our way to the impound lot. The vehicle release form told a narrative of the status of my car. My eyes collected on verbiage like 'poor' (as in, 'condition') and 'no' (as in, 'muffler').
Before leaving the police office, I asked the officer what would have happened had I neither reported the car stolen nor came back to claim it. She said that the vehicle would be filed as abandoned and after a few months, I would have been sent an invoice for towing/storage fees as well as criminal charges for having abandoned my vehicle. It seems the system is built as a preventative measure against easy disposal of your car. All this time, I had no idea.
Ted and I reached the impound lot and after some failed negotiations, I provided $100 in full to have my car released. It felt like I was bailing Shelia out of the clink. She hadn't been driven in five weeks, and during that span, she had behaved magnificently. Maybe I had trusted her a bit too much, for as soon as I turned my back, she was off gallivanting with a bunch of dirty crooks and owing money all over town. Who is left to pick up the pieces? Me.
Someone from the impound lot showed me how to start the car, as the column had been stripped and the key no longer worked.
"Just finger the little latch on the left hand side," the guy said, "and she starts right up."
"To think, the last thing I had replaced on this thing was the starter," I said. "Do you know of any junk yards between here and Cleveland Heights?"
He did, but they were a bit out of the way, so Ted and I decided to head home directly. After we put some gas in Shelia, she started like a dream. The AM/FM radio was tuned to a rap station. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and empty cans of Colt 45 and Icehouse. Something told me Shelia had had the time of her life.
Later, I called my mom to inform her of the car's condition. She seemed taken aback when I told her the police had no suspects in the case.
-Do you guys have any promising leads on this thing?
--Leads, yeah. We just added three guys last week. They got us working in shifts. Haha! Leads!?
I was a bit disappointed at the lack of vagrancy left behind. Shelia has returned to her spot on the street. I have placed a CLUB (which, ironically, was under the front seat this whole time) across her steering wheel, to act as a deterrent in case the thieves should return and decide to do it all over again.
The albatross is back and she's squawking loudly. Does anyone know of a junk yard around here?
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Enjoy
On Friday, March 9, the weather broke. The sooty, aggressive snow piles were seeping slowly toward clogged sewer drains. The relics of a Long Winter were slipping back toward the earth. The sun shone upon me as I walked home from work.
Shortly before leaving, I caught my coworker Angela staring out the front door as families and young couples frolicked along the sidewalk.
“It is so nice today,” I said. “It’s about time. I can’t wait to go out and enjoy it.”
“I know,” Angela beamed. I wanted to launch into my spiel of feeling more alive on wonderful electric days like that Friday, how I would take a long walk around the neighborhood, maybe find myself in the window of a Little Italy bistro while furiously filling pages of my comp. book. This was walking weather. This was writing weather.
“I love days like today,” Angela said. “This is the kind of day that just makes me want to drive around. You know, all the windows down, listening to your favorite music, not really going anywhere. Not really doing anything.”
“Yeah,” I said, “driving. Or walking.”
“I just love driving,” Angela said. “It makes me happy.”
Enjoy every single second of days like these.
Shortly before leaving, I caught my coworker Angela staring out the front door as families and young couples frolicked along the sidewalk.
“It is so nice today,” I said. “It’s about time. I can’t wait to go out and enjoy it.”
“I know,” Angela beamed. I wanted to launch into my spiel of feeling more alive on wonderful electric days like that Friday, how I would take a long walk around the neighborhood, maybe find myself in the window of a Little Italy bistro while furiously filling pages of my comp. book. This was walking weather. This was writing weather.
“I love days like today,” Angela said. “This is the kind of day that just makes me want to drive around. You know, all the windows down, listening to your favorite music, not really going anywhere. Not really doing anything.”
“Yeah,” I said, “driving. Or walking.”
“I just love driving,” Angela said. “It makes me happy.”
Enjoy every single second of days like these.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
The Shelia-5: MIA
As I walked to work yesterday and passed the spot where my car normally sits, I noticed an odd vacancy. Someone had stolen my oft broken-down and underappreciated late '80s sedan. Shelia stuck out like a sore thumb in the more elitist realms of Cleveland Heights, and I think she may have been the target of a kidnapping. Or some kids decided to go on a joy ride and knew that an old Chevy would be easier to break into than the dozens of Passats that line the street.
Either way, she's gone. Immediately, I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders. With increasing frequency, Shelia has been described as an albatross. Over the year that she's been in my possession, she's been out of commission longer than she's been running. Oh well.
Shelia will be missed. . .but I'm sure she felt gratified to have been stolen.
Finally, someone appreciates me!
I was lighthearted with the cop who took my report. She said stolen vehicles usually turn up in parking lots with an empty tank of gas. I said I'd be surprised if it made it a full tank without breaking down. I also told her to keep an ear out, as the car's lack of muffler resulted in a very abrasive engine drone. She asked me if there was anything of value in the car.
--Uh, tape deck, some tapes, Credence tapes, uh, my briefcase.
-And what was in the briefcase?
--Papers, business papers, my business papers.
-And what business are you in, Mr. deBiase?
--I'm unemployed.
I'd like to think that Shelia, regardless of her situation, is in a better place. Maybe her new owners are cleaning her up, patching up those rust holes, replacing the muffler, vacuuming the velour, changing the oil. I only hope they leave the NPR presets on the AM/FM radio.
R.I.P
The Shelia-5
1987 - 2007
The albatross flies high once more.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Ode to Wife
Wifey, oh wifey,
you are my tuna casserole,
my chicken parm.
A bottle of Bud Select,
rolling closer and closer
to the roof's edge.
our terrace
our house
our wine
our cheese
Utopian vision,
this marriage.
Your bedroom
and mine.
Separate,
but together.
The way a marriage should be.
you are my tuna casserole,
my chicken parm.
A bottle of Bud Select,
rolling closer and closer
to the roof's edge.
our terrace
our house
our wine
our cheese
Utopian vision,
this marriage.
Your bedroom
and mine.
Separate,
but together.
The way a marriage should be.
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