weekender

Everything is changing. I blink as another weekend passes, then four, then ten. Soon it will be Thanksgiving. Soon it will be later than that.

The piles upon piles of leaves I raked this autumn have been decimated by the wind. I fluttered away with them. Just another leaf in the breeze, I mingled with snowflakes as they broke open the virginal fall sky.

The weight of the leaf piles approached infinity before forward momentum took over and sent them aflight. They were too cumbersome for their own good, pressing with so much force upon the Earth.

'Enough is enough,' said Earth, flexing and shrugging off the unweildy masses clinging to its back.

I was with those leaves for a while, first buried, then flapping through the air.

Then I stood on solid ground again. The tremendous weight of fall swirled around me like a vortex. I could reach out and pull each individual leaf from the sky. I could examine its veiny structure while it decomposed before my eyes. There were leaves everywhere, but I could handle the job. It was almost easier that way.

Soon the snowflakes will outnumber the leaves. Soon fall will decompose. Soon I will be cold. Or soon I will be warm. Soon.

What It Took To Look Away

1. A room full of poems

2. The luminary staccato of flashbulb

3. A 99 cent comp book that won’t shut up

4. A truncated brown tail to gnaw

5. The wrought iron chain link contents of a letter yet to be written

6. December and uncertainty

7. A scarf that lacked blue and gold pattern

8. Four-day stubble, or the lack thereof, on one quadrant of my cheek

9. Desiring for the sake of being desired, that that was a recent realization

10. A habit of leaving halfway

--After Ariana-Sophia M. Kartsonis’ poem of the same name

Not to worry.

Forehead rests in the crook of my thumb and forefinger. I am slouched over the desk, hair pulled at obtuse angles from my scalp. Creases orbit my eyelids. It has been a rough night. I breathe thickly, and my chest vibrates at odd time signatures. I am heavy with regret and sorrow and apologies and gratitude. I lose myself when I begin to worry.

I'm sorry.

Androidgyny: Act II

[Act I archive]

II.

I continued to run into Sam in the break room, a little nook near the slop sink housing a table and a few crates to sit on. She smoked like a freight train, though only at intervals of half-cigarettes. I came to realize the significance of the semi-smoked Turkish blends that dangled from ash trays in the back. After sitting back there with her a few times, I became accustomed to the awkwardness of watching her light half a cigarette.

She was amazed to find out I was an English major. Her eyes lit and she flashed me that expansive smile of hers.

“You’re an English major? Wow, you must read a lot of books.”

I provided her with my manufactured response for everything that was either a lie or something I was ashamed of.

“I’ve been known to partake from time to time.”

She laughed, and we came to bask in the commonality that we were both immersed in On the Road. Kerouac had been my nightly partner on those nights when I was still sober enough to read for five minutes before passing out. This happened on and off for the last two months. She admitted reading the book for four months. I liked that she was taking twice as long as I in reading a 260 page first-person novel.

As with any conversation about a novel both participants have yet to finish, the next five minutes were spent talking about what to expect and what was enjoyed, where the novel was going and when we expected to finish it.

“I’m going home tonight and finishing it,” I said. “Are you in? You and me and Kerouac, tonight.” This was the pull, the rub, if you will, to get her to my place to fool around. I had to admit I wasn’t overly attracted to her, not even moderately attracted to her, but the prospect of laying the mack on a server, at long last, served as my motivation.

The way our break room conversations had been going those last days convinced me her answer would be an astounding “yea,” though her reaction led me differently. Her smile plummeted, and her eyes sank to the half Camel as she snuffed it gingerly out and placed it in one of the cigarette nooks of the ashtray.

“I can’t,” she said, eyes coming back up to meet mine, “I told Leroy I would go to Doug’s party tonight. I’d rather read with you, though.”

Instantly, Kerouac fell away in my mind. “Did you say party? How did I not know about this?” Images of girls wearing only lampshades on their heads and myself with a decanter of cognac flashed through my mind. I pulled again on the square I had bummed from her. “I can’t believe Leroy didn’t mention this.”

“Well, it’s a work party. Doug is throwing it for the employees. I think Leroy said he mentioned it to you. Said he mentioned it when he dropped off that bottle of wine to your apartment.”

I lapsed back to a few nights ago, when I had spilled a quarter bottle of Pisano on my work shirt, and in the frenetic scrubbing that ensued, I had dumped the remainder of the jug on the carpet. I was too embarrassed and too incapacitated to make my way back to the Clark Station. I knew Leroy was coming over that night to get me high, so I hit him up and asked him to make a stop. The rest of the evening was a blur.

“He may have mentioned a party, come to think of it,” I said.

“You can come, too. It’ll be fun—you, me, and Leroy,” she said.

“Yeah, that sounds like a blast. I’d, uh,”—

In a moment of unprecedented silence from the dish tank, I heard the sound of dentist’s drill, accelerated, and an abrupt tapping on metal. Then one of my fellow bussers deposited a tub on the dish tank counter and the cacophony recommenced.

She looked at me blankly.

“Um, I’d love to go. Is it BYOB or should I bring my own cup?”

Her empty gaze continued, “I’m sorry, BYOB, that’s unfamiliar to me.”

“BYOB? Come on, you’re joking.”

“Bee-Yob? That term is unfamiliar.”

“Jeez you’re silly,” I said. Her scientific tone made me a bit uneasy, but I figured she was poking fun at the English major propensity toward dry humor in the face of looking like a fool. My cigarette cherry began to lick the latex of my hand.

I startled, flicking the butt into the slop sink, “BYOB, bring your own beer. You mean you’ve never heard that before?”

“I like to learn things. I like it when you teach me, Andy.”

I was about to lay down the skills again, to say something like, ‘I can teach you a bunch, baby. Like how to go back and take them clothes off,’ but the loudspeaker emitted a glass shattering shriek.

“Sam, you have a table. Sam, table four please.”

“I have to go,” Sam said to me, neither looking excited nor disappointed, and rounded the corner back to the front. Such was the way our break chats usually fared, me about to make a move, and she methodically going back to work at the sound of the hostess’s PA.

At least I had invited myself along tonight, which was promising. I could see us stumbling up the steps to my apartment and collapsing in a big sexy heap on my twin size air mattress on the floor. Nice.

I decided to tack an additional seven minutes onto my fifteen minute break. With no other servers to shoot me down, I fingered through that morning’s papers, stained and cigarette burned. The first five or six pages were usually illegible due to the amount of coffee spillage and burn holes, so I habitually flipped to page eight. The top of the Sciences page provided an interesting picture of a slick-looking Asian inventor dude standing beside a naked, shining, convoluted exoskeleton. The headline read: “Amazing Advancements in Cybernetics.” I reached for my coffee mug, but in the process overturned one of the seventeen other mugs littering the break table, effectively spilling three day old sludge all over the paper. As I reached across the table for napkins, a shiny ribbon caught my eye.

No longer than a pencil and about the width of a swatch of Scotch tape, the ribbon looked to be made of stainless steel or some other metal. Embossed lengthwise was a series of numbers, something like 11001010101011100. It looked like some computer printout. I ran my rubber-gloved finger along the raised numbers, smudging some sausage gravy in the crevices.

Another five or six bus tubs sounded against the steel counter. My bussing partner had had enough of my break.

“Andy, you fucking fat ass, get back to work! Take care of these fucking mush pans.”

Another day, another dollar. I put the sliver in my pocket and went back to work.

* * *

Jacket of Leaves

You wear Autumn over your shoulders,
your leaf jacket glows like hot coals
until the falling foliage becomes falling snow.
The setting sun fades to brown,
disintegrates in the wind,
leaving only stems and thread.

Sitting on Cement Steps in a Corridor of Kent, Ohio

I gaze at your mouth, the way humming halogens
pool at the space above lips that sit like a shelf
holding up your Slovak/Abruzzi face.
I tell you, this alley is our blanket, its shadows
a sheath inside which we hold hands
and ambitions aloft, as if flashing both
would leave the passing sidewalk blind.
Above, a flat roof on Main Street
gingerly juggles fluorescence and dark.
Lurid signs buzz against faces with askew eyebrows.
Crooked smiles contort with optimism.
They look upon trailing exhausts
spitting sparks against the asphalt.
Everyone I know is going on to great things.

--After James Wright’s “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota”

Beckwith

We set off via bikes somewhere near the Crain Street Bridge
where some imposing factories clad in tan aluminum
yield a smooth trail along the railroad tracks.
We cross a pond, tires cutting a swath in murky low water,
heading for the orchard with promise of cider
and half a peck to shoulder for the trip back.

I keep to a low gear, for her, the novice cyclist, to stay close
as we pass snapdragons and wildflower. She diligently points this out.
I notice the lonely brick smoke stack labeled Gougler,
how it rises above the trees, like a tattooed finger making some point
that no longer matters.

I take her back to the water tower, covered in graffiti, chipped, and bruised,
like me falling over a bump in the path. With palms raw and face red,
I let her know these things happen when I’m excited and on a bike.
We don’t climb it, only look up and reflect on a time when the tower
may have had some use. A time when it was not broken glass,
charred pit. Time before a tribal drum pled people to throw railroad ties
into the fire, though they didn’t burn the whole way through.

We decide that water towers and railroad ties and fire pits are not apples.
We began for apples and apples it is to be, so we leave that place.

We bear East toward Ravenna, beside tracks that allow rocks
like crab apples to spill to the side and cause us to bob up and down.

On our seats we list back and forth, as if about to fall,
But I am careful not to do so again. I am not meant for cider.
I tell her to brace on the pedals to absorb the shock a bit.
She does and the ride goes smoother, though the rocks increase,
pile upon pile. We reach the orchard, where a gravel lot greets us
before approaching the wood store, whitewashed and sharp.

A boy sells chocolate bars at the elbow of a wraparound porch.
His face puckered by a day’s worth of retail, sales, and barter,
I ask him his favorite and his eyes glaze. They scan Kit-Kat, Twix, Reese’s,
then he looks at me. He says, “Kit-Kat,” determinately, as if
he’d been asked that by all his customers. I see her toss back her hair
in his great big round glasses and tell him we’ll be back.

Inside the Beckwith store, we browse piles of fragrant apples, some red,
some green, some both. I inquire as to the best for making pies,
keeping in mind I like my apples tart. “McIntosh,” was the answer
according to the sign and the woman behind the counter.
“Good for baking, great for eating.” To hell with that.
I try a Devine, spindled skinless from some apple-shearing contraption.

With freshly sticky hands, I paw through the bin of McIntoshes,
trying to look like I know how to select a half peck of apples.
Really, I have no idea, and rest my hand on one, arbitrarily,
scooping it up, and carrying toward her for approval.

At the cash register, I habitually call out, “cider,” a necessary fluid of Fall.
It is a half gallon of crisp air and decay but mainly of sweetness;
that tenuous point between ripe and rotten.

She and I step outside and buy that Kit-Kat, supporting the kid
and his Catholic school. We sit on the wooden steps outside,
pulling on the cider, content to save the half peck and the chocolate.

Bricks

“DiBiase.”

From my seat atop the bleachers, I felt four dozen sets of eyes glare up at me. In some versions of this story, I was reading a book (War & Peace, presumably), yet in this telling, I was merely lost in thought. I could hear their sharp gasps and exclamations of “What!?,” whiny protest being a staple of any sixth grade injustice. I myself may have uttered a few words of contempt at my own ill fortune. An apparent rift ran through the crowd of aspiring athletes. Well, “athlete” may not have been the correct term; to describe myself as athletic now would be a stretch (no pun intended), to do so then was an outright travesty. That having been said, my current position did wield some disconcertion.

At age eleven, one’s decision making is oft glazed over like morning frost on a January windshield. When I heard my name called, I was day dreaming about playing NHL ’95 on Sega Genesis or watching Speed Racer. The air hung low, cool, dank in the middle school gymnasium. The winter air of Pennsylvania inspired me to further progress into my cold weather lethargy. I had been led astray by my nerdy counterparts who decided joining the intramural basketball team was the way to go. We were all bound together by the hope of not being the last player picked to a team. Coach Kalina’s raspy (and incorrect, I might add) pronunciation of my name once more reverberated off the cinderblock walls of the ancient gym.

“DiBiase!”

For some reason, I had been named captain of a basketball team. I’m sure no legitimate reason existed for the promotion, save maybe Coach Kalina’s enjoyment. The ugly bald guy always did have a way of singling me out, above and beyond other authority figures of that time. The redundant sound of cement blocks hitting rim bounded about my head. Humiliated and a tad shocked, I descended from my perch atop the bleachers. I had no basketball skills whatsoever, what the hell was I doing here? Alienation tapped me on the shoulder; it was laughing as well. I had not signed up to be a captain. I am not a leader. I didn’t even want to play. I cursed the friends who talked me into it.

“Kill me,” I mouthed to them in passing. I saw my eyebrows canted at sharp angles in their big round wire rimmed glasses.

I stepped onto the ageless hardwood floor where so many other prepubescent boys before me had fought valiantly and died. I viewed the draft pool. Then it was the loathing process of systematically selecting team members, captain’s prerogative.

So many useless choices, I thought. They smirked and grinned back, as if they knew a secret I did not. It was no secret my lack of qualifications for the job. Of the six captains in the first round, I would pick last. This could make or break my team. As I watched the popular athletic (read: husky) guys join their respective teams, I focused upon my selection, my shining star.

I recited my first pick, “Tim Mitchell.”

A series of loud cackles went up from the ranks. They resounded against terra-cotta tile and steel rafter. Now, Tim was good, arguably the best of my group of friends. However, compared to the median level of 6^th grade talent, he was far below the norm. I had obviously made a mistake beyond repair. Even Kalina surrendered a smirk and obligatory head shake.

Fully assured of my lot in life, my middle school caste, I plowed through the rest of the draft. By round eight, I had burned through my group of friends and was already, by far, the worst intramural basketball captain in history of Westinghouse Middle School. I scanned the remaining talent pool, each free agent careful not to make eye contact for fear of being chosen next.

Then I saw him, my shooting star, my big winner. On the third row of bleachers, clutching a Globetrotters ball, sat Rickie Jones. My intentions became painfully apparent once we met eyes. Rickie flinched, possessed by fear, humiliation, rage.

“Rickie,” I said stoically, pointing at him from my hip. He made no attempt to hide his disgust, chucking his ball off the ground while mumbling something about wanting to be on a good team this year. It was at this moment in life that Rick took a downward turn. He’d been socially climbing his whole academic life up to this point. But all collapsed at my recitation of his name. By freshman year of high school, he had developed several drug addictions and stood, once more, at the bottom rung of the social ladder.

I held no sympathy; blame Kalina, I’m obviously not captain material. Plus, Rick’s investment in an NBA career seemed a bit shortsighted even by eleven year-old standards. Ruining lives was inevitable given my position.

After about five or six more rounds, the team was complete. I recall sitting Indian-style on the glossy hardwood floor, as the other more formidable teams had their jollies pointing and laughing. The humiliation departed at that moment. In its wake sat a noticeable numbness. I had done it; I had constructed the worst team in the history of organized sport. The title was cumbersome but I would gladly shoulder the weight.

Practice commenced shortly thereafter.

I wish I could say that we impressed everyone, that we were the sleeper team that intramural season. That there was some type of team bonding experience involving NBA players and a kid in a wheelchair that could slam dunk. None of this happened; we were just your average, run-of-the-mill, utterly pathetic basketball team. No lives were ruined in the fray (except Rickie’s) and by March, the event was completely forgotten by the general populous.

Yet, every drama at age eleven seems terminal and for that reason deserves a place in history. I’m still amazed at how a devastating occurrence in youth eventually turns into a petty entry in one’s autobiography; another brick in a lifetime of missed shots, combined with some mortar to form something more tangible, complete.

Whimsy

4/14/07

I see you strolling down the sidewalk along Prospect Park in Brooklyn. It is still a bit chilly, but this mid-April Saturday is sunny and electric. You are wearing your olive green pea coat, with a camera bag around your shoulders and an overnight suitcase hanging from one arm. You look a bit weary, though determined, from the trips into JFK and Brooklyn. Your hair, a few shades darker now, uncoils and coils in the breeze.

I smile, watching every man you pass turn back to capture one last fleeting glance.

“You are beautiful,” I mouth. “You know that?”

You lift your sunglasses and smile. The world suddenly abandons everything that is wrong. Blushing, you look down and across. Creases appear at the far edges of your eyes.

I move to meet you, shifting the weight of the messenger bag on my right shoulder. As we come closer, I am consumed by the way sunlight rides the waves of your eyelashes.

We reach one another. I say, “Your eyes swallow me whole.” Lips briefly stretch and relax. They part, whimsical. You lift your chin and I lower mine.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be twenty-three. It is early Spring in New York City. You have finally come to visit. I have spent the last three and a half months missing you. I love life in this city. I am glad you are here. It has been far too long.

Androidgyny: Act I

When I turned 20, I realized my life wasn't really going anywhere. Sure I was enjoying the relaxation new life as an English major afforded me: reading books, writing essays, playing video game hockey. But by the beginning of summer my bank account was drained, the landlady was leaving me threatening notes on a daily basis, and I was sleeping 15 hours a day [10 hours at night + 2 2.5 hour naps through the day]. I had put on weight and began hearing "sloth" from random passers-by on daily walks to the Clark Station for scratch-off lottery tickets.

And since shifting to the English program, I had ceased getting any. I couldn't even remember the last time I had sexual relations [a lie: it was over Christmas break, with some high school chick that had a crush on me three years ago. Really awkward--she was fat and I was approaching fat. Now I'm just fat], and my libido had been really waning of late. It was like a valve had been shut off in my testicles, my genitals appearing flaccid and unused. It was really depressing.

So I said to myself, "Andy, you need a job. Then you can pay the rent. Then you can make Landlady Gladys happy. Then you can find a girl. Wine 'em. Dine 'em. 69 'em." It was a brilliant plan. It sounded like a George Thoroughood song, too, but I didn't dwell on that. Old George seemed to have his act together.

One bourbon
One Scotch
One Beer
And so on
And so forth
et. al.

I drilled some of my contacts for information: job openings, recommendations, bridges to live under. Fortunately, my drummer friend Leroy also had a day job as a grill cook. I couldn't cook, but I did need a job. Turns out his place of business, a diner unflatteringly called “Coffee and Water,” needed some people to clean off the tables. I also wasn't much of a sanitary person, but wiping off tables fell into a realm a bit closer to my qualifications.

"Dude, talk to my manager," Leroy said. "Ask for Doug, he's cool. Totally like us."

Within five business days, my arms were plunged elbow deep into greasy, viscous, dish soak water. I accumulated innumerable cuts from knives hiding at the bottom of the basin. Said cuts were promptly infected by the teeming soak sink. I learned how to judge the trajectory of sausage gravy as it deflected from the inside of a dirty ladle by the tank spray hose. These amorphous projectiles would usually strike the surface of my eye, mysteriously arching over my unspeckled glasses.

I hit the busser life hard. I'd bike home, reeking of summer pits and grease, to sit in my apartment, which stunk similarly. Each night, I would absorb two and a half jugs of Clark Station Pisano ["The Wino Wine," I called it], only to bike back drunk the next morning, puking at intervals of down stroke.

Despite my jaundice-evoking lifestyle, I was looking a bit fitter. My flabby flanks were starting to appear meaty and my turkey neck had flown the coup. I became an expert with the pun, and dropped a nauseating amount of innuendo [sexual and otherwise] around the female servers. They flirted back casually, out of politeness, but never seemed too keen on any type of physical contact. It could have been my monstrously thick eyebrows or my lack of a car that caused their disinterest; such is the mystery of women.

One unusually slow Sunday morning, as I wiped clean a recently deserted table, a rather formless server sauntered over to me. I watched as she emerged through the stainless-yet-stained steel kitchen doors, looking indeterminate in direction. She came to stand at the end of the four-top, hands resting together at the small of her back.

I slid my eyes up from her narrow waist and hips to her flat tummy to her flat chest to her jagged chin, pursed lips, sharp nose, and wide set, inquisitive green eyes. Her shoulder-length red hair was tied in a pony tail, as was the standard server style. She miraculously lacked any scent; she obviously opted out of drenching herself in an asphyxiating amount of lilac spray from Bath & Body Works like the other servers, but managed to avoid gleaning the stench of grease and stale defeat as I and the other bussers had.

Upon making eye contact, her tight lips spread into a smile that exposed an array of slightly off-true teeth. At first glance, her smile didn’t appear crooked, though it seemed a different angle could tell another story. I tried not to notice her physical shortcomings.

I bent back to a better posture and stuffed my wash rag into my apron strap, patted my wine gut.

“Hi, I’m Andy,” I said, extending my rubber gloved hand. “Andy Stool.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Sam,” she said. Her eyes sparked upon learning my name. “You know Leroy, right? I like him.”

“Yeah, he’s a good friend of mine,” I said. “But I mostly work mornings and he works nights. I don’t see him a whole lot.”

Her smile vanished. “That’s too bad.”

“Ah well,” I said, “I don’t really like him anyway.”

Her eyes contorted into confusion. I smiled and she quickly followed suit.

“Yeah,” she laughed: a high-pitched, quick emission, “I don’t really like him either.”

A pause followed, not one I’d necessarily describe as awkward, though if it had lingered it could have quickly gone that route.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Andy Stool. I’ll talk to you later.” She turned and went back toward the kitchen.

“Most definitely,” I said.

She turned back to me and smiled that big asymmetrical smile. She turned her head back just in time to slam into the kitchen doors.

* * *

Shameless Plug for PoMo-X

Remember that creative writing radio show on Black Squirrel Radio last semester?

No?
well. . .

IT'S BACK

Be sure to tune in for The Postmodern Experience [PoMo-X] on BS Radio.

The new season starts in September. Stay posted to this site and the PME blog for more info.

Kent's future niche bar

With the opening of a hookah bar in Kent, it has been proven that niche businesses can succeed in the downtown area. Anything other than beer and pizza is considered growth in my book. As such, I'm going to let my idea for a niche business out of the bag.

Concept: Cereal bar
Name: Cerealism

Yes, it's a cereal bar. Classy, huh? Upon hearing the idea, my roommate Ted came up with the idea of asking our artsy friends to conjure us some surrealist art to display on the walls, things like cereal bowls melting off cliffs, bent spoons, that sort of thing. I'm picturing bins full of different trappings of cereal lore: bran flakes, corn flakes, oats, marshmellows, etc., etc. A customer can add his or her choice of fresh fruit. There will also be a selection of organic milks on hand.

My friend Amy also came up with the name of our main dish: the Cereal Killer. That one's going to put us on the map.

"Why does this bowl of cereal have razor blades in it?"
"Duh, because it's the Cereal Killer."

The floorplan will be designed with lounging in mind, with couches, breakfast nooks, and the like. Comfort is paramount in dealing with grains.

Recently the idea has been tossed around for joining my Cerealism with a milk bar. Hmm. Cereal bar and milk bar conjoined? Seems like it would be a natural birth to me.

With the pending revitalization of downtown Kent, I feel that a store such as mine would thrive. Some day, Kent, some day.

Currently Spinning. . .

For some reason, I've been absolutely obsessed with Bloc Party of late. Not even their B-sides or remixes, it's the album I've had for like a year now. Kinda wrote it off as boring at first, now I love it. Does that mean I'm becoming more boring and thus the CD is more exciting as a result?

My mind is totally blown, man!

But seriously, Bloc Party: friggin' awesome.

Post-Scientology Manifesto

What is the Church of Post-Scientology, you may ask? We can't tell you. That is, we can't tell you unless you give us ten dollars. Then it will only be a matter of the introductory pamphlet to be distributed at any of the following three convenient [but not too convenient] Kent locations:

1.) The U.S. Postal Service mailbox at the corner of E. School and Willow Ext.
2.) The Fed-ex deposit box behind Michael Schwartz Center
3.) Any UPS Store countywide

PLEASE NOTE: Post-scientology is in no way affiliated with parcel delivery. In fact, the church views any type of drop-off/delivery as an assertion of ignorance to the inner-collective-self-psyche [the creeeetian, as we call it]. But that is all classified information, privy only to Church members who have achieved ICSP ratings of 45897458 or higher.

In fact, by reading this, you owe us five dollars.

Please send five dollar incidental information charge to:
DHL drop-off box
120 S. Water
Kent, OH 44240

These five dollars do not secure entry into the Church of Post-Scientology. This will only be the first of many many many monetary donations. For the path to enlightenment is paved by affluence. Except our path is not paved. It is not even a path. It is a cannon, called Earth Defender 9, extending from the center of the Earth to well beyond our moon. This cannon will prevent the Evil Forces from once again taking over the Earth. But Earth Defender 9 will not be an easy undertaking. It needs your help. And money. Mainly just money. Send us your money to any of the four locations listed above.

Hurry! There are over 240 trillion years of history to catch up on! But we've already said too much. This was at least like twenty-five bucks worth of info here. Hook us up. The eventual fate of Earth is at stake.

And you can't lie about this stuff.

[Certain to be unfulfilled] goals for this Spring Break

If I am afforded any type of break, like this weeklong Spring Recess [by the way: it's snowing right now. Ah, the Rites of Spring in NE Ohio], I inevitably accumulate some infallible wall of objectives. This one is no different:

1.) Change oil in car
2.) Register long-expired car
2.) Get bikes in working order
3.) Walk to Sheetz [hope this weather breaks]
4.) Finish Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay [pg 58/636]
5.) Read one of David Sedaris' books
6.) Interview above author and Clap Your Hands for DKS
7.) Finish episode of PME
8.) Go to Pittsburgh
9.) " " Youngstown
10.) Start dance synth band based on teachings of post-Scientology
11.) Tour Central America with said band
12.) Transcribe travel journal from said tour into best-selling memoirs
13.) Do Spanish midterm

With nine days to go, I stare at the horizon, rife with potential. All this free time.

I'm gonna take a nap.

This week on the Postmodern Experience

Episode #3: "Famous People"

How many of us have seen or met someone famous, some celebrity? It seems like everyone has had some brush with fame. This episode features some funny celebrity stories. For, just by seeing a famous person, one feels just a bit closer to "making it" in this topsy-turvy world.

Act One: "Famous people interviews" No, these are not interviews with actual famous people. I hit the bricks and conducted interviews with regular people who have met famous people.
Amy Mathews: "The FUSE internship"
Ted Ferringer: "Farmer Brown Meets Jim Kelly"
My mom: "That time we saw Michael Keaton"

Act Two: Nicholas DiSabatino reads a personal essay of his, "The Human Voice." Nicholas's pliable voice is distinctly his own, and can range from the country alto of Johnny Cash to the wavery lilt of Katherine Hepburn.

Act Three: "McAffleck"--a relationship so brief in the careers of Ben Affleck and PME contributor Molly McAllen as to pass under the radar of the mass media. Okay, that's melodramatic. When she was 14, Molly met pre-Bennifer Affleck, and antics ensued.

Act Four: Danny Volk works in a Washington Art Gallery and meets his first famous person--Dr. Ruth--amongst still life paintings and expended audio tour tapes.

Act Five: In "One degree of Kevin Bacon," Rachel Aslaksen tries her damnest to avoid being a link in the popular Kevin Bacon equation, but it proves to be fruitless. Kevin Bacon finds you, you don't find Kevin Bacon.

Act Six: PME producer Elizabeth Tussey tells the story of the time her young father waved to Nikita Khrushchev at the old Greater Pittsburgh airport in the mid-fifties. "What was the Soviet premier doing in Pittsburgh?" one may ask. We're not sure. Though an even greater question would be, "How did Liz manage to meet Krushchev's son, decades later, and how did said son remember her dad?" A tale of generations being linked and linked again.

Tune in this Monday at 4:00 on Black Squirrel Radio, as always.

GUS RETURNS!

As I spent the entirety of last weekend in front of my computer monitor, I was really looking forward to spending some quality time with my third roommate, Gus, the Asian Ladybeetle. I hadn't seen him since the last post that I made [as I probably scared him away. GUS: that guy wrote a post about me? Creepy. . .], but I thought my desklamp being lit through the night would draw him out of hiding.

Alas, no Gus. . .

But today, today! I found him snoozing in my bookshelf [by bookshelf, I mean stacked milk crates containing books]. And what book do you think he was chillin' on? Only my all-time fav, All the Pretty Horses. Despite being from opposite sides of the globe, Gus and I have so much in common. If only I could get him to pick up his share of the rent. Lazy bastard.

This week on the Postmodern Experience

Vacations, or, Getting Away: Stories of escape from the mundane, from the familiar, from reality.

Act One: Danny Volk reads his short story "Born to Be Wild," in which a man sets out for an adventure of Steppenwolf proportions but ends up in the video gameland of the Mushroom Kingdom.

Act Two: Eli Cohen heads to the Great Lakes Medieval Fair and becomes Quinn Cromcaden, a toiling peasant more adept with the pen than the sword.

Act Three: Amelia Corrigan visits Paris--the Louvre, specifically--and finds that her minimal knowledge of the French language does not compare to her unbridled ignorance of High Art.

Act Four: PME producer Charles Parsons hits the road for Pittsburgh, armed with a copy of The English Patient and the wrong map.

Tune in this Monday at 4:00 on Black Squirrel Radio.

Imagine this as my profile pic

because I can't figure out how to get it on there right now. . .

Listen Up, Y'all

In my overzealous progression of all things postmodern, I have created [with the much appreciated help of Elizabeth Tussey] a creative writing radio show.

The Postmodern Experience

is set to air this Monday at 4:oo

on Kent State's student-run internet radio station,

Black Squirrel Radio

My show will basically emulate "This American Life," in that we are featuring stories on a general theme that ties into a broader social issue. Whether the show can actually acheive this end is questionable, but it will be a fun process.

We are trying to podcast the show, so one can download it at his or her leisure.

But I still recommend listening to the live broadcast, Monday at 4. Simply click Listen Live! and follow the instructions for streaming audio. It's roughly as simple as making brownies.

Hope to have some listeners!

Also, if anyone is interested in joining our mailing list, or would like to submit some stories, e-mail us at postmodern.experience@gmail.com.

Good times. Good radio. Good stuff.