I met Patricia Howard last year around this time. She was teaching Sunday School at the Nazarene church when I asked the pastor to introduce her to me. He was hesitant to comply because he felt that I would be a bad influence on her. He took me into his office for a private conference in which he asked me what my intentions were with Patricia, who, he said, was like a daughter to him.
"I'm glad you asked", I responded. "That's a sure sign of a minister doing his job when he's so concerned with his congregation." I didn't say this to mock or belittle him, though it might have looked that way to a casual observer.
"Truth be told", I continued, "I just like a girl with short hair, glasses and a pretty face." Which was the honest-to-God truth. Ms. Howard met all the criteria, I informed the preacher, and I was anxious to find out if there was a tiger in her tank. I suspected there was.
The pastor coughed, straightened up his tie and told me, looking straight in my eye, "She's a good girl, Jimbo. Don't do her no wrong!"
"That's the furthest thing from my mind, sir. I don't know what in the world could have given you the impression that I meant to do her harm. I just think she's one sexy mamma-jamma who might want to rock and roll all night with me. And who knows? If she can hang with me on that, maybe we can party every day! What do ya say?"
He cleared his throat. Fact is he had every reason to think my contact with her might be harmful. Not harmful like a serial killer is harmful. Not even harmful like a deranged pervert could be harmful. It's just that he knew how cruel I could be. He knew all about my sordid past, as I had confessed it all to him throughout the years. He knew the real reason I kicked my first wife out of the house. He knew about all the toad frogs I killed when I was a kid. Most of all, he knew how I liked to manipulate the minds of pretty young women and degrade them with verbal abuse. I'd tried to convince him that all that was in the past, I was a changed man, I wouldn't hurt a flea. Whether he believed me or not was anybody's guess, but he was willing to give me one more chance because he did introduce me to Patricia.
I took her to dinner that night and she seemed rather shy and reserved. She spoke very little. At first I thought she was just uncomfortable in my company, as she had every right to be since the reverend had told her what a bastard I was. But I thought, "no...she's been warned. She knows I'm an asshole. It must be something else".
I ordered another bottle of wine, poured her a glass, and decided to break the ice.
"Is there something on your mind?", I asked her. "Don't you like the restaurant?"
"Oh, I suppose it's alright", she replied, but I could tell she was not digging the scene. I mean, four bottles of wine between the two of us and she still had that "I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here" look on her face.
I was willing to do anything to put a smile back on that pretty face. What had started out being a mild fascination with a Sunday School teacher whom I found quite attractive had grown into the desire to make her my own, to give her a ring, to give up my nights of rocking and rolling, to forsake my daily partying, to spend the rest of my days in her arms, just as I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with countless other girls I'd met throughout the years.
"Is there somewhere else you'd like to go?"...I was more than willing to oblige. "Just tell me."
"Actually..."...a pause..."there is..."...another pause, this one pregnant.
"Yes? Yes?"
"What I really want", she said with a serious look on her face, "is to go out back to the alley, befriend a couple of winos, burn a fire in a trash can, roll around on the ground with you just long enough to soil our clothes, barter with a junkie for some used needles and shoot up some crystal meth. Then you can take me home and we'll call it a night."
I was stunned.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, there was only one wino in the alley and he wasn't inclined to be friendly. There wasn't a trash can in sight so we had to be content with lighting a couple of old newspapers in a gutter. We were, however, able to get our clothes soiled and we did obtain some used needles. I don't think the guy we got them from was a junkie, though. But he was willing to trade us two nasty syringes for all the jewelry Patricia was wearing (he also got away with my wallet and my grandfather's timepiece, but that's another story).
Of course, the highlight of the evening was filling those suckers up with the dope and sticking 'em in each others' arms. What a feeling that was! So much better than the date I had planned out. And you know what? As good-looking as I thought she was the first time I laid eyes on her during that evening worship service, she was positively stunning when seen through the haze of a good narcotic buzz.
I took her home much later that night...in fact, it might have been the next morning, as time had lost it's value by that point. She had won my heart. I made a promise to myself that I would never degrade her, nor would I ever abuse her, physically or mentally, no matter how much I might want to. Most importantly I decided I would ask for her hand in marriage the next time I saw her.
But I never saw her again.
I fear she may have wound up in the ground.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Junk Days
Hey, Charlie! Come look at this picture. That's me, shooting up a nice score of heroin. I'll never forget it. 1993 and the gettin' was good. I was livin' in Seminole, which is only about 15 miles from Wewoka (a small town known in some circles as "Little Chicago"). If it was controlled substances you wanted, Wewoka was the place to find 'em. Hell, I remember one time when I stopped to put some gas in the tank and this total stranger just walked up to me and asked if I wanted to buy some hash. I'd never had that happen to me before. It wasn't very good hash, but it was cheap.
My roommate and I knew at least 6 connections for smack in Little Chicago. We kept them well-fed and put clothes on their backs with the amounts of horse we purchased from them. I do believe that a few of them were under the impression that we were selling. But no, it was all for personal use. Shit, man, we were sticking needles into our veins at least 4 or 5 times a day. It wasn't too long before all of 'em were tapped out and we had to poke the needles straight into our eyes. That, my friend, will REALLY get you high.
Eventually one of our sources introduced us to his main man, a fat, cigar chomping mobster from the local Mafia union. He was pushing some serious kilos and asked us if we wanted a part of that action. It was a peachy deal. We'd have to buy in more bulk than we were used to, but the savings would surely compensate for that. Besides, the needle in the eye trick was working like a charm. We only used one eye, because, hell, a man has to SEE what he's doing. The particular eye that I used was caved in, a mass of blood and gore, eyeball long since torn to shreds...but that didn't matter. The location was so close to the brain that the need for veins was eradicated. It didn't even hurt too much...it got to be fairly numb after two or three months of excrutiating pain.
So, long story short, we hooked up with this big guy and he supplied us with enough China White to not only keep ourselves in horse heaven for years, but to give some to our luckier friends, on special occassions, as well. I was hooked like a fish on a line for a long time, but I'm happy to say that those days are all behind me now. They are the stuff of dreams.
Every once in a while, as I'm walking down the sidewalks of Little Chicago, I will lift up my patch and frighten young children with the gruesome spectacle of the heroin ravaged carnage that was once my left eye. Young children, grown men and women, the elderly...they all seem to get a fright out of the sight. Personally, I can't see what's so scary about it...
My roommate and I knew at least 6 connections for smack in Little Chicago. We kept them well-fed and put clothes on their backs with the amounts of horse we purchased from them. I do believe that a few of them were under the impression that we were selling. But no, it was all for personal use. Shit, man, we were sticking needles into our veins at least 4 or 5 times a day. It wasn't too long before all of 'em were tapped out and we had to poke the needles straight into our eyes. That, my friend, will REALLY get you high.
Eventually one of our sources introduced us to his main man, a fat, cigar chomping mobster from the local Mafia union. He was pushing some serious kilos and asked us if we wanted a part of that action. It was a peachy deal. We'd have to buy in more bulk than we were used to, but the savings would surely compensate for that. Besides, the needle in the eye trick was working like a charm. We only used one eye, because, hell, a man has to SEE what he's doing. The particular eye that I used was caved in, a mass of blood and gore, eyeball long since torn to shreds...but that didn't matter. The location was so close to the brain that the need for veins was eradicated. It didn't even hurt too much...it got to be fairly numb after two or three months of excrutiating pain.
So, long story short, we hooked up with this big guy and he supplied us with enough China White to not only keep ourselves in horse heaven for years, but to give some to our luckier friends, on special occassions, as well. I was hooked like a fish on a line for a long time, but I'm happy to say that those days are all behind me now. They are the stuff of dreams.
Every once in a while, as I'm walking down the sidewalks of Little Chicago, I will lift up my patch and frighten young children with the gruesome spectacle of the heroin ravaged carnage that was once my left eye. Young children, grown men and women, the elderly...they all seem to get a fright out of the sight. Personally, I can't see what's so scary about it...
Shuteye
Crash and burn these brain cells gasping for another moment...Burned out and born again. He listens to Iarla O Lionaird and thanks God he doesn't understand the language, for comprehension would spoil the moment, and the tears have just begun to fall.
They don't hang around for very long, do they?
He thinks his grasp on sanity is weakening, the architecture of his mind proven defective, constructed with shoddy workmanship. He's blunted his emotions in so many ways over the years that some of it was bound to work. Wanna be stupid, wanna play dumb.
Next morning finds him him sitting behind the wheel, thinking that a good chunk of his life has been wasted commandeering an automobile to and from countless shitty jobs with no future, the stereo's volume extracting even more of his precious hearing than he can afford to lose, what with the other irreversible nerve damage.
A man gets used to the ringing. What choice does he have? Can't stop it. Adjust or go insane. Liable to go insane anyway, so you may as well put it off till then.
Cruising at 80 down the endless Interstate, enveloped in the sound world he's chosen for the day...on this particular day it's a Sigur Ros album, Takk. With 85% of his concentration on the music and the other 15% on driving it's a wonder he doesn't have an accident. He is immersed in the sounds, he closes his eyes.
A nice straight stretch of highway, so his steady hand keeps him moving as he tilts his head back and decides not to open his eyes.
The straightness of the highway gives way to a sharp curve, but his steering hand remains stable, no plans to move it.
The car clips another vehicle, an old Econoline van, which barely escapes rolling. His eyes squeezed shut with effort, he collides, in the cab of his Ford Taurus with "Glosolia" swirling in the air, with a gas pump, then careens into the store, glass windows smashing and crashing all over the place and a loud explosion directly behind where the gas pumps had caught fire and blown up with the force of a bomb.
When rescue crews finally located him, his eyes were open. But his body was broken beyond healing and his heart had stopped beating.
The last one starved.
They don't hang around for very long, do they?
He thinks his grasp on sanity is weakening, the architecture of his mind proven defective, constructed with shoddy workmanship. He's blunted his emotions in so many ways over the years that some of it was bound to work. Wanna be stupid, wanna play dumb.
Next morning finds him him sitting behind the wheel, thinking that a good chunk of his life has been wasted commandeering an automobile to and from countless shitty jobs with no future, the stereo's volume extracting even more of his precious hearing than he can afford to lose, what with the other irreversible nerve damage.
A man gets used to the ringing. What choice does he have? Can't stop it. Adjust or go insane. Liable to go insane anyway, so you may as well put it off till then.
Cruising at 80 down the endless Interstate, enveloped in the sound world he's chosen for the day...on this particular day it's a Sigur Ros album, Takk. With 85% of his concentration on the music and the other 15% on driving it's a wonder he doesn't have an accident. He is immersed in the sounds, he closes his eyes.
A nice straight stretch of highway, so his steady hand keeps him moving as he tilts his head back and decides not to open his eyes.
The straightness of the highway gives way to a sharp curve, but his steering hand remains stable, no plans to move it.
The car clips another vehicle, an old Econoline van, which barely escapes rolling. His eyes squeezed shut with effort, he collides, in the cab of his Ford Taurus with "Glosolia" swirling in the air, with a gas pump, then careens into the store, glass windows smashing and crashing all over the place and a loud explosion directly behind where the gas pumps had caught fire and blown up with the force of a bomb.
When rescue crews finally located him, his eyes were open. But his body was broken beyond healing and his heart had stopped beating.
The last one starved.
Toni in the Rain
Tami.
No, I think her name was Toni, though it's a wonder I remember anything at all about the quiet, mousy little girl in our high school band.
Never once did I see her with a friend, and I never heard her utter a single word. Not even when she was spoken to. The teacher would ask her a question and she, like a deaf-mute, refused to answer him.
It's a wonder any one of us even knew her name. And it was a marvel how her name suited the person we saw, uncommon in our small-town confines.
She sat in the "third clarinet" section, holding her instrument, gazing at the sheet music in front of her. What she saw there must have transcended the notes and staffs printed on the brittle, yellowing paper. The sounds she made with the school-owned, fourth hand clarinet were barely audible above the racket we made. But I could hear the songs she played. They bore little or no resemblance to what the composer had written.
It still amazes me how vividly I can conjure up the memory of her. How aloof she was from everyone...I was no different---she never spoke to me, either. That was just as well, as far as I was concerned. She never even once looked at me.
But now that I think about it, I believe she DID look at me once. She gazed into my eyes and cast her spirit into mine, tortured and ecstatic. The transaction shook me to my foundations, even though I felt nothing at the time.
She planted her seed of alienation into my life.
Not love.
Not lust.
Not even a better understanding of why she was the way she was.
Those seeds took many years to sprout and blossom. but bloom they did.
I confess. I could have cared less about Toni. As hardened to her plight as the rest of my classmates were, I dismissed her strangeness as possibly drug related.
Maybe we were all right. Maybe she WAS a fifteen year old junkie floating out on the mainline. Who knows but that she'd dropped so much acid that it became impossible for her to relate to other people. So she'd crawled into her shell with her pills, needles and powders.
For some reason I could not bring myself to accept the "drugged-up" theories, the nasty rumors that floated around the entire school about Toni...weird, shy Toni.
Today, running it all through my mind again, I am even more confident that it was not drugs, that it was something else. Now the seed that she sowed is ripe for harvest. The alienation she planted within the virgin soil of my heart has become manifest in countless ways...
The most vivid memory I have of Toni is probably the ONLY thing my classmates remember of about her.
It was early morning and our marching band practice had been cancelled due to the rain that had begun to fall. The entire band was crowded together in the rehearsal room, creating havoc and generally having a good time.
Our attention was diverted when one of the guys, laughing, pointing out the window, called out, "Hey! Come and look at this!"
There, in the center of the practice field, stood Toni, soaked and dripping, her arms raised to the sky like she was praying to some Rain God. She seemed so naturally in place out there, alone in the downpour. It was the first time I'd ever seen her smile.
A sight so bizarre that it frightened me. To this day the recollection gives me goosebumps.
I think it was the smile.
The other kids laughed, mocked her, called her names, yelled scornful taunts at her through the window.
That was the day people started saying she was legitimately crazy.
That was also the last anyone ever saw of her. It was as if she'd vanished from the face of the earth. Her disappearance was mysterious, especially to us children who had spent so much time in her silent company.
It was not so mysterious, however, to the policemen who drove her away to a place we had no conception of. A place where noone, not even Toni, could feel at home.
Toni, if you were here with me right now, oh, how I'd like to talk to you. You wouldn't have to talk back...talking was never your style, anyway, was it? Just listen to me, because I've got so much to tell you now. So much I've learned in the thirteen years since I last saw you (a statue of wet flesh in the rain, praising the emptiness of sky that you called your own).
Maybe...just maybe, if I could treat you now with the dignity and respect you were denied all those years ago...you might speak to me, tell me all the thoughts trapped within your mind, be they mundane or twisted like the tunnels of time. You might share your understanding of the universe.
The secret of YOUR universe.
That would be enough for me.
No, I think her name was Toni, though it's a wonder I remember anything at all about the quiet, mousy little girl in our high school band.
Never once did I see her with a friend, and I never heard her utter a single word. Not even when she was spoken to. The teacher would ask her a question and she, like a deaf-mute, refused to answer him.
It's a wonder any one of us even knew her name. And it was a marvel how her name suited the person we saw, uncommon in our small-town confines.
She sat in the "third clarinet" section, holding her instrument, gazing at the sheet music in front of her. What she saw there must have transcended the notes and staffs printed on the brittle, yellowing paper. The sounds she made with the school-owned, fourth hand clarinet were barely audible above the racket we made. But I could hear the songs she played. They bore little or no resemblance to what the composer had written.
It still amazes me how vividly I can conjure up the memory of her. How aloof she was from everyone...I was no different---she never spoke to me, either. That was just as well, as far as I was concerned. She never even once looked at me.
But now that I think about it, I believe she DID look at me once. She gazed into my eyes and cast her spirit into mine, tortured and ecstatic. The transaction shook me to my foundations, even though I felt nothing at the time.
She planted her seed of alienation into my life.
Not love.
Not lust.
Not even a better understanding of why she was the way she was.
Those seeds took many years to sprout and blossom. but bloom they did.
I confess. I could have cared less about Toni. As hardened to her plight as the rest of my classmates were, I dismissed her strangeness as possibly drug related.
Maybe we were all right. Maybe she WAS a fifteen year old junkie floating out on the mainline. Who knows but that she'd dropped so much acid that it became impossible for her to relate to other people. So she'd crawled into her shell with her pills, needles and powders.
For some reason I could not bring myself to accept the "drugged-up" theories, the nasty rumors that floated around the entire school about Toni...weird, shy Toni.
Today, running it all through my mind again, I am even more confident that it was not drugs, that it was something else. Now the seed that she sowed is ripe for harvest. The alienation she planted within the virgin soil of my heart has become manifest in countless ways...
The most vivid memory I have of Toni is probably the ONLY thing my classmates remember of about her.
It was early morning and our marching band practice had been cancelled due to the rain that had begun to fall. The entire band was crowded together in the rehearsal room, creating havoc and generally having a good time.
Our attention was diverted when one of the guys, laughing, pointing out the window, called out, "Hey! Come and look at this!"
There, in the center of the practice field, stood Toni, soaked and dripping, her arms raised to the sky like she was praying to some Rain God. She seemed so naturally in place out there, alone in the downpour. It was the first time I'd ever seen her smile.
A sight so bizarre that it frightened me. To this day the recollection gives me goosebumps.
I think it was the smile.
The other kids laughed, mocked her, called her names, yelled scornful taunts at her through the window.
That was the day people started saying she was legitimately crazy.
That was also the last anyone ever saw of her. It was as if she'd vanished from the face of the earth. Her disappearance was mysterious, especially to us children who had spent so much time in her silent company.
It was not so mysterious, however, to the policemen who drove her away to a place we had no conception of. A place where noone, not even Toni, could feel at home.
Toni, if you were here with me right now, oh, how I'd like to talk to you. You wouldn't have to talk back...talking was never your style, anyway, was it? Just listen to me, because I've got so much to tell you now. So much I've learned in the thirteen years since I last saw you (a statue of wet flesh in the rain, praising the emptiness of sky that you called your own).
Maybe...just maybe, if I could treat you now with the dignity and respect you were denied all those years ago...you might speak to me, tell me all the thoughts trapped within your mind, be they mundane or twisted like the tunnels of time. You might share your understanding of the universe.
The secret of YOUR universe.
That would be enough for me.
Inside the Soldier's Mind
We walk in circles, feet shuffling rhythm in the cold, sterile breeze. Staring directly ahead in a straight line, five columns of four, spaced out in divisions of nine beneath a series of seven moving fluently parallel to spirit brigades of nineteen. This mathematical precision is mind-numbing but they tell me it's necessary.
Necessary for what, I wonder?
"You must get used to the noise," says a wobbly man in a hand-me-down black leather pilot's jacket, ragged patches signifying some sort of rank. "Thus patience is instilled."
I remain unconvinced. The light is hurting my eyes...I'm not accustomed to being outdoors and the sun is a brutal bastard. I miss my cell already.
"It won't be long now," barks the flyboy in charge.
Do I even have to tell you I'm clueless?
Behind me I can hear the sound of heavy breathing laced with emphysema, a pre-death rattle from the throat of one who will not complete the drill. At any moment I expect to hear the sound of his burden dropping with a thud to the tarmac. Could be any second now he'll be out of the game, down for the count.
...And I will not turn around...
...And I will march on...
...And I know, as surely as I know my own name, that I could be next.
I swallow hard. My head aches, the pounding of kick drums getting louder and louder in my cerebrum, a precise tattoo inherited from some savage native residue.
What am I doing here? How did I get here? Such a heartless taskmaster who cracks the whip and keeps the procession in perpetual motion. I am ordered. The entire population is disordered. Or is it the other way around? I've stopped wondering if it even matters anymore. My slate is almost clean. Soon understanding will replace confusion. Soon chaos will metamorphosis into a sharp, mystical precision.
On the other side lies the prize of perfection. The mythical resolution to the infinite mystery. This is the abyss the poets dream of plunging into. It is the bottomless ocean of cabalistic oxygen, glimpsed rarely in dreams and visions but too pure to hope for in this incarnation. Mountains here are easily moved, but it is understood by all that mountains are just as they should be in the space the occupy. Therefore no one would think of moving them.
Here, to the left, all is pure. To the right there is nothing that is not immaculate. Behind no past, ahead no future...the moment is everything you need it to be, and the moment is never-ending...
...On the other side.
But the jet-lagged professor of patience wonders if even his most qualified grunts can tough out what seems to them like an endless waiting game. He knows that they have no conception of the goal he drives them toward.
I wonder if he realizes that I do?
But do I? The shimmer of enlightenment I was blessed with on the day before my father died was but a syringe-full of the ideal, and as it wore off I knew, even then, that a transfusion, such as the Messiah offered, wouldn't be enough to last until infinity caught up with itself (at which point the eternal explodes into another "big bang", resulting in a billion new uninverses).
Oh yes, I know, but only as a child knows the meaning of life.
I know, but only as one who has been teased with a foretaste of euphoria, told by the one who held me under the water that the best was yet to come (and I wondered how it could get any better than this...Until I comprehended that on the other side it may not get any better, but that it never gets any worse, and this understanding was the conception of hope within me).
So what, then, if the man in the dirty leather jacket thinks I'm just another one of his sheep? What do I care if he knows that I know that he knows? It doesn't really matter, does it? Let him go on believing that I play this game for his amusement. I have more patience than he has ever dreamed of possessing himself. What's more, I have no doubt that I understand our destination much more thoroughly than he ever could.
I suspect this because I have seen his badge. It is silver with 6 numerals engraved near the bottom, directly beneath a holographic image of a beast with seven heads and ten horns.
Signifying nothing, mind you.
Necessary for what, I wonder?
"You must get used to the noise," says a wobbly man in a hand-me-down black leather pilot's jacket, ragged patches signifying some sort of rank. "Thus patience is instilled."
I remain unconvinced. The light is hurting my eyes...I'm not accustomed to being outdoors and the sun is a brutal bastard. I miss my cell already.
"It won't be long now," barks the flyboy in charge.
Do I even have to tell you I'm clueless?
Behind me I can hear the sound of heavy breathing laced with emphysema, a pre-death rattle from the throat of one who will not complete the drill. At any moment I expect to hear the sound of his burden dropping with a thud to the tarmac. Could be any second now he'll be out of the game, down for the count.
...And I will not turn around...
...And I will march on...
...And I know, as surely as I know my own name, that I could be next.
I swallow hard. My head aches, the pounding of kick drums getting louder and louder in my cerebrum, a precise tattoo inherited from some savage native residue.
What am I doing here? How did I get here? Such a heartless taskmaster who cracks the whip and keeps the procession in perpetual motion. I am ordered. The entire population is disordered. Or is it the other way around? I've stopped wondering if it even matters anymore. My slate is almost clean. Soon understanding will replace confusion. Soon chaos will metamorphosis into a sharp, mystical precision.
On the other side lies the prize of perfection. The mythical resolution to the infinite mystery. This is the abyss the poets dream of plunging into. It is the bottomless ocean of cabalistic oxygen, glimpsed rarely in dreams and visions but too pure to hope for in this incarnation. Mountains here are easily moved, but it is understood by all that mountains are just as they should be in the space the occupy. Therefore no one would think of moving them.
Here, to the left, all is pure. To the right there is nothing that is not immaculate. Behind no past, ahead no future...the moment is everything you need it to be, and the moment is never-ending...
...On the other side.
But the jet-lagged professor of patience wonders if even his most qualified grunts can tough out what seems to them like an endless waiting game. He knows that they have no conception of the goal he drives them toward.
I wonder if he realizes that I do?
But do I? The shimmer of enlightenment I was blessed with on the day before my father died was but a syringe-full of the ideal, and as it wore off I knew, even then, that a transfusion, such as the Messiah offered, wouldn't be enough to last until infinity caught up with itself (at which point the eternal explodes into another "big bang", resulting in a billion new uninverses).
Oh yes, I know, but only as a child knows the meaning of life.
I know, but only as one who has been teased with a foretaste of euphoria, told by the one who held me under the water that the best was yet to come (and I wondered how it could get any better than this...Until I comprehended that on the other side it may not get any better, but that it never gets any worse, and this understanding was the conception of hope within me).
So what, then, if the man in the dirty leather jacket thinks I'm just another one of his sheep? What do I care if he knows that I know that he knows? It doesn't really matter, does it? Let him go on believing that I play this game for his amusement. I have more patience than he has ever dreamed of possessing himself. What's more, I have no doubt that I understand our destination much more thoroughly than he ever could.
I suspect this because I have seen his badge. It is silver with 6 numerals engraved near the bottom, directly beneath a holographic image of a beast with seven heads and ten horns.
Signifying nothing, mind you.
Take the Lead, Kimo Sabi
He didn't know what else to do. It seemed to be the only course of action. He was perfectly willing to do whatever he deemed necessary. His sweet-tooth was callin' the shots, though, so what HE deemed necessary was inordinately influenced by the munchies.
So, this being the case, he hoisted himself from the couch and put his shirt back on. It was a cool shirt, at least he thought so. Swan Song label, man! Zeppelin, eh? Yeah, cool as fuck.
He grabbed his car keys after slipping into his worn-out flip flops. With no small degree of swagger he strolled out to the ratty 1990 Toyota Celica he called his own. The ignition fired up on the first try…the Celica may have looked like it barely survived a nuclear war, but it was reliable…damned reliable.
His destination was not far from home. Walking distance, actually. It probably would have turned out better for him if he had. Only two blocks to his favorite grocery store, which also doubled as a psychedelic Utopian oasis when his head was in a good place.
Al & James Grocery. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. He knew that store like it was his own grub-filled mansion. Every aisle memorized. As you walk in the store, he would have told you, look to the left and you’ll see the produce section. Lettuce, broccoli, cucumbers, a vegetarian’s dream. Fruits, too. Enough fruit to make a man sick of fruits in general.
“To your right”, he would continue, “is the soda pop aisle. I love this aisle. I drink it all, perty much, except for that nasty diet shit. Pepsi, Coke, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all the same to me. Motherfucking Sprite, that’s some refreshing swill. Hell, if I’m broke I’ll substitute one of the other “doctors” (you know, the cheap-ass store brand) for the king of soft drinks, Dr. Pepper. Dr. Thunder, Dr. Shasta, Dr, This and Dr, That. None of ‘em tasting much like the Pepper. But hey, if you've only got 50 cents they’ll do and you betcha.”
Aisles, aisles, long aisles, crowded aisles. Aisles that smelled like spices. Aisles that smelled like coffee, a delicious, familiar flavor. Aisles, chilly from the frozen food showcases on either side. Aisles, clumsily stocked by the graveyard shift, already fucked up before the day’s half over.
Miles of aisles to choose from, but on this sunny Oklahoma afternoon the man in the patchouli-stinking Led Zeppelin shirt had only one aisle on his mind.
"Ice cream, baby. This is what it’s all about”, he says, talking to an investigative reporter sent by the “In Your Corner” team of do-gooders from the channel 4 news crew. "This is the serious fuckin’ shit! You think I couldn't eat me 3 or 4 gallons at a time? Just watch me. I do it up every which way but loose…I’m gonna get me a belly-full of Rocky-fucking Road. Make me a hot fudge sundae. That be a good idea.”
The reporter’s camera crew had shut down and moved on, but Terry, who was also the main anchorwoman at KFOR , hung around in an attempt to introduce herself to this ice cream connoisseur on a less-professional level.
“That was a beautiful soliloquy you gave about those bomb pops. Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Sylvester Stallone in profile?”
“No”, he answered, a certain gleam in his eyes, “But it has often been remarked by those who know me that I bear an uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere”.
“So what’s your name?”
“Richard Gere.”
She giggled…”I would never have placed you…you look more like a white Morgan Freeman; I could never have mistaken you for Gere.”
“Okay”, he conceded. “My name…no, my REAL name…uhh…that would be…”
“Yes…surely you've not forgotten it?”
“Timothy. That’s it…no, really. It’s Timmy Carver. You can call me Jim, if you want to. If I can call you Terry…”
Terry replied, “Oh, I would not have it any other way”.
“Has anyone ever told you, Terry, that your beauty shames the Venus de Milo? That your smile is as hypnotizing as the Mona Lisa? That your elfish eyes seem stolen from a really high quality sculpture of Helen of Troy? That the very scent of you makes me swoon and stagger?”
“Yes”, Terry said. “I've heard all of that before… A couple of guys used the Mona Lisa line on me, one right after the other…but somehow it seems like when YOU say it…well that makes all the difference in the world. Now, Mr. Ice Cream Expert, what have you to say about the Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches?”
He smiled. “By God, you've made my mind up for me. What have I to say about ‘em? I say they are the shit. I say that they are on my top-20 list of favorite ice cream confections. Yes, ma’am, I've got a lot to say about them, but truth be told, I also got Willie Nelson on the TV at home right now, and this grocery store visit has already lasted 3 times longer than I wanted it to. I've probably already missed ‘Whiskey River’…and that was the only reason I was even watching. So unless you’re wanting to come home with me, where we can enjoy what’s left of Willie’s show in private, I'll politely request that you move your bulk and girth., I really need to get these ice cream sandwiches paid for and skee-daddle before they melt on me. I hate that...”
“Oh, but yeah…I should have known you’d go for the sandwiches. And I would have thought that, had you found me half as attractive as I find you, you would have already asked me to come with you,”...her lips moist and red, pouting… “…and I’d go. Yes, indeed I would take your grubby hand and go with you. Baby., you take me away to a world I never knew…what else can I say? I wanna go with you”.
She knew those were her own thoughts. But she hadn't realized she'd actually spoken them out loud. She caught herself, but it was too late.
She looked away, and he watched her awkwardness. “If that’s how you feel, Terry…” he said, “well consider yourself invited, but I’m warning you…my house is a wreck. Now grab another box of Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.”
“Take the lead, Kimo Sabbi.”
…and he led her down a path of murder, sabotage, prostitution and perversion. A shadow land of jealousy, envy, pride…His strange desires held sway, and she knew there was no way back now that she was in so deep. Her years were wasted, tossed away like empty beer bottles thrown through the windows of a speeding car. He took the lead, alright. He led her straight down his own long and winding road to hell…
…But that’s not what happened…sorry.
What DID happen was this:
They got to the car and embarked upon the short journey. They spoke to each other in the tentative tones of people falling in love. They locked eyes once or twice, and saw hope there...he saw it was strong in her as it was in him. A smattering of laughter and even though hers was an intoxicating sound, he was surprised to find that some of it was his. They went on and on and on…and they would have gone on a little further if Timmy had not realized that he was completely lost. Two measly blocks from departure to destination and he is hopelessly lost.
Terry laughed it off…in fact she found it quite endearing, much in the same way his passion for ice cream sandwiches made here WANT to love him. “Here I am,” she managed to keep this thought to herself: “prepared and willing to offer my body and soul to a man who can’t even find his way back less than 2 miles from his own house…What the hell am I doing here?"
She led him back to Al & James, His mind had cleared up a little bit. He figured his short term memory would kick back in and the way home would become clear.
It was with a great degree of sadness when, after finally arriving at the right address, they found Willie Nelson’s “Austin City Limits” performance had given way to an installment of Nova, in which the phenomenon of black holes was being discussed by a panel of astronauts, rocket scientists, astronomers, movie critics, Satanists and carnys.
“Oh well”, he apologized. “I was really hopin’ to munch on them Blue Bells to the rhythm of ‘Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground’ or maybe ‘Always on My Mind’…something real smooth to get you in the mood to pitch a little woo.”
“Yeah, it’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Somehow he found Terry’s usage of such course language very sexy. “But hey, I like black holes. I think black holes are fascinating. Just think…a portal to another dimension. Or the entrance to transcendence. What does it feed on? Is it an intelligent life form? Does it prefer French fries to tater tots? Does the fact that it’s a ‘black’ hole signify that it’s white on the other side? Naw, dog, K-momma can hang with the black holes!”
“Okay…I’ll grab us some sandwiches. I always eat two or three, so how about you?”
“I’ll take two.”
“Good girl…that’s a good girl. What was that name again?”
“Terry.” She replied. “But you can call me Terry.”
++++++++++++++++++++
THINGS THAT TIMMY HOPES TERRY NEVER FINDS OUT, part one.
Timmy oftentimes wondered if he was a pervert of the meanest stripe because he downloaded porn movies and saved them to disc. His collection ranked in the hundreds of free 20 minute movies he found on the internet. His personal favorites included: "twoforher”, “poolside threesome” and “dirty old man”.
He often felt consumed with guilt about this. His collection of short porn movies, that is. But the shame, forceful as it was, did not deter him from downloading more. And he never regretted burnin’ ‘em to disc, either.
It would shatter his already frail psyche if Terry ever discovered his personal stash…If she were to watch even one from start-to-finish…well, hell…he wouldn't be able to live with himself.
Maybe…is it too much to even hope for?...Terry likes that shit??? Who knows, She might have her own collection of pornographic films.
Still…it’s better not to take the chance. So he thought as he found a new place to hide the seven discs of smut. Terry’s got a wild streak in her…hell, it’s one of the things he loves about her…But he doubts she’d appreciate the collection very much.
For now the discs are his own secret, and one that he’ll most likely keep with him to the grave.
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH
Timmy and Terry were snuggled together on the love seat. “Nova” was wrapping up, the consensus being that the Satanists’ theory of black holes was the most plausible one. “It,” they say.” is the work of the devil”. The movie critics also chimed in, making obligatory references to many of the classic motion pictures of yesteryear. The critics’ idea of a black hole, however, was markedly at odds with that of the rocket scientists, astronomers and the astronauts. Not only that, but furthermore, it was roundly denounced by not only the Satanists but the carnys as well (indeed they had the most bizarre black hole theory of them all).
…None of it mattered, of course, because the couple we have already come to know and adore, Terry and Timmy, were too busy pitching woo to notice that the program had even ended. Their kisses tasted like chocolate and vanilla, cool as ice cream. Even their hands were sticky from it.
When it was all over they were covered in a light sprinkling of gooey sugar. Terry didn't waste any time getting out of the bed. You’d have thought it would be the man, the insensitive schmuck, who would bolt first. But Terry had good reason for making such a hasty exit. Scheduled to anchor the morning news show in about 6 hours she figured she’d be lucky to get 30 minutes of sleep. She hated having the make-up crew put through so much trouble so early in the morning.
“No, baby, no…” he said, rising from his seat. He hastily threw on some clothes…it looked as if he was going to be wearing that Swan Song shirt for a second day straight…”Don’t go just yet. One more hour, please? Who needs sleep?”
“I do.”
He rightfully ascertained that these two words signified the end of the discussion, period. It would be utter foolishness to describe them as anything less than authoritative. He did not try. He just lay there and admired her lithe figure as she put her clothes back on, bending down to pull each garment from the pile she'd made the night before. Then without so much as a "see you later alligator" she walked out the door.
It was enough. He closed his eyes and ran the memories through his brain for a few minutes while they were still fresh in his head. He freed his freshly woken mind to fly away into fantasy, let go of the grip he'd been losing on the waking world, and he fell back to sleep. The big sleep. The big fuckin’ sleep. Deep down swimming in shimmering pools of sleep.
And lo, did he dream.
He dreamed of gods and men, of warriors and priests. His unconscious mind conjured many characters, both spectacular and lame. Heroes and villains. Nightmares of decay, disease and death. Black horses and invisible riders.
But the one he remembered for the rest of his life, the dream he claimed had changed his life in such a dramatic way, was the very one that spawned two characters that have come to be known in literary circles as…
Eddie and the Jolly Rancher.
THE DREAMS OF EDDIE & THE JOLLY RANCHER
An opera by George Frederic Handel was playing softly in the background. Seemed out of place, such regal, uppity music in a rundown trailer house 7 miles north of Tecumseh.
Lying side-by-side, spooning, as it were, the snoring bodies of Eddie Tubbs and his long time girlfriend the Jolly Rancher occupied the greater portion of a ratty queen size mattress. Beer bottles littered the floor around the makeshift bed and their clothes were piled up on both sides.
I don’t think either the cultured Mr. Tubbs or the Jolly Rancher even liked opera. The Rancher enjoyed jazz and heavy metal while Ed leaned more to classic rock and some of that new country shit that people make fun of.. So it was somewhat unusual to hear “Xerxes” jamming the airwaves in that trailer house. Jamming in vain, it would seem, seeing as how the couple were both sound asleep. The sound of the arias, the tenors and altos – vibrating like an electric razor on a pane of glass – they fell upon ears closed to anything outside of their dreams.
Somehow their biological clocks were perfectly synchronized to the point where they woke up together at the same time every morning. 8:30 am.
And so 8:30 am did arrive and with the crowing of the cock their collective eyes opened, all 4 of them.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Rancher. Did you sleep well?”
“I guess I slept about as well as can be expected under the circumstances. How about you?”
“Well,” he said, “I guess I got just about as much sleep as any man plagued with nightmares and visions is gonna get.”
He shuddered and blinked hard his eyes a couple of times, then continued:
“They were awful. Every one of them was about looking into the sky and seeing these airplanes. There were a couple of guys who were going to bungee jump from ropes tethered to the wings.”
“Foolish idea.” An obvious point.
“Yeah, maybe, but I’m looking up into the sky and you can't miss 'em, They seem to be higher than I should really be able to see.
“They jump out of the plane and everything looks fine until BOTH bungee ropes break and they fall to the earth to die horrible deaths. I watched them coming down, falling to the ground, one hitting so close to us that you could hear the body’s harsh “thump” when it met the tarmac.”
The Rancher watched him intently, admiring him, thinking of how cool it was to have someone who tells you his dreams and nightmares every morning. It had become a ritual between the two of them, this daily sharing of dreams. They were fresh and still real, untainted by forgetfulness, immensely enjoyable and sometimes enlightening.
“I don’t know why it frightens me so,” he went on. “Witnessing a tragic accident…I don’t know…I guess…maybe it’s just the idea of seeing someone die, witnessing a stranger’s last moments of life…being one of the last to ever see him alive.”
“I think I understand,” said the Jolly Rancher.
“Oh you do, do ya?” he thought to himself. “Well that makes one of us, because I don’t personally see why such a thing could be so horrifying, so mind-bending.”
A moments tense silence, then JR broke it by telling her own dream.
“It’s like the 3rd day of school, 9th grade, maybe 10th. I’m walking down the hall when I realize I’m lost, that I have no idea which room I’m supposed to be in. The principle has given me a schedule with class hours and room numbers. But for whatever reason I still can’t seem to locate the damn rooms.
“I read my locker number, 405, and I go to look for it. I see a 404. I also see a 406. But no 405. It freaked me out, like ‘what the hell happened to my locker?’
“Im still hopelessly lost…and then I hear…the BELL.
“Which is the exact moment in which I realize that I’m wearing only my bra and panties…nothing else…butt naked 'cept for bra and panties. I am consumed by embarrassment…it just seemed so real.”
“Oh, I can tell you what that means,” Eddie broke in. “You know I've read several books about dream interpretation and I think I've got a pretty good handle on it.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I wouldn't shit a shitter,” he joked.
“You’re so original”
“Maybe so…but that dream you had this morning, it ain’t all that difficult to understand.”
”Okay,” said the Rancher. Silently she screamed, “Fill me in! I’m interested in knowing!
“Basically, the fact that the dream takes place in a school hallway tells me that you stand in need of a spanking. You’re lost, stumbling through the halls, like a blind man whose had his cane stolen. Of course, you’re lost. You’ve left a home and a family thinking all you'd ever need to find was a man who could dominate you. The missing locker just tells me that I could damn well be that man. It could sure enough be me doing all the spanking.”
“Oh, really?" Asked JR, incredulously.
“Yes indeedy. And when you realize you’re unclothed, it is at that moment you submit…all your desires have become invested in me and you will willingly be my virtual sex-slave . That dream of yours means you need a good fuckin'. It means you will achieve orgasm a total of four times before I've even mounted ye.”
“Ha! You know what the funny thing is?” The Jolly Rancher giggled…”That’s the exact same meaning you gave for the last few dreams you've “interpreted” for me."
"I'm damn good, ain't I?"
The second act of Handel’s “Xerxes” moved on to the third without either Eddie Tubbs or the Jolly Rancher even noticing. The beautiful music had become, to them, little more than a mantra chanted over a helicopter whirlwind---the sound of a ceiling fan rattling on it’s highest setting, blowing warm wind in a vain attempt at cooling their perspiration-soaked bodies.
A television sits directly in front of them. Next to the TV, a dusty old guitar, it’s pick guard scuffed by years of strumming by countless players (talented and otherwise). The strings have seen better days, they've gone from bright and shiny to dull and rusty.
Yep, a change of strings would have done that old guitar a world o’ good. A pretty good piece of wood. Not the best but probably as good as Eddie deserved, and he wasn't half bad. He'd played in countless dive bar bands throughout his life. He was pretty good by the time he decided to throw caution to the wind and serenade the Jolly Rancher.
Oh, but that was a night to remember…who could forget the sight of him bowing to her and asking, “My dear, I would be much obliged if you would allow me to play you a song. May I?”
The Jolly Rancher was in the mood for music. “Sure. Pick it and grin a little!”
“Yes, ma’am.
“Oh Suzi Q…O Suzy Q
O Suzi Q baby I love you
Suzi Q”
For whatever reason, he could never remember the other verses, but it didn't matter. The Rancher, by that time, had already fallen deep in love with a raving maniac named Eddie Tubbs.
Yes. THE Ernie Tubbs. You may have heard of him.
More likely you haven’t.
THINGS THAT TERRY HOPES TIMMY NEVER FINDS OUT, part 1
(also known as Thought Directory)
You are not the most supportive husband that you could be.
You often tell wicked lies.
I hate it when people whistle.
Something about it just grates on my nerves.
You are a cruel human being.
What the hell are you waiting for?
I’m not moving so long as I know that you’re just gonna do those silly neopets
Grammar checked 9/21/14
So, this being the case, he hoisted himself from the couch and put his shirt back on. It was a cool shirt, at least he thought so. Swan Song label, man! Zeppelin, eh? Yeah, cool as fuck.
He grabbed his car keys after slipping into his worn-out flip flops. With no small degree of swagger he strolled out to the ratty 1990 Toyota Celica he called his own. The ignition fired up on the first try…the Celica may have looked like it barely survived a nuclear war, but it was reliable…damned reliable.
His destination was not far from home. Walking distance, actually. It probably would have turned out better for him if he had. Only two blocks to his favorite grocery store, which also doubled as a psychedelic Utopian oasis when his head was in a good place.
Al & James Grocery. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. He knew that store like it was his own grub-filled mansion. Every aisle memorized. As you walk in the store, he would have told you, look to the left and you’ll see the produce section. Lettuce, broccoli, cucumbers, a vegetarian’s dream. Fruits, too. Enough fruit to make a man sick of fruits in general.
“To your right”, he would continue, “is the soda pop aisle. I love this aisle. I drink it all, perty much, except for that nasty diet shit. Pepsi, Coke, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all the same to me. Motherfucking Sprite, that’s some refreshing swill. Hell, if I’m broke I’ll substitute one of the other “doctors” (you know, the cheap-ass store brand) for the king of soft drinks, Dr. Pepper. Dr. Thunder, Dr. Shasta, Dr, This and Dr, That. None of ‘em tasting much like the Pepper. But hey, if you've only got 50 cents they’ll do and you betcha.”
Aisles, aisles, long aisles, crowded aisles. Aisles that smelled like spices. Aisles that smelled like coffee, a delicious, familiar flavor. Aisles, chilly from the frozen food showcases on either side. Aisles, clumsily stocked by the graveyard shift, already fucked up before the day’s half over.
Miles of aisles to choose from, but on this sunny Oklahoma afternoon the man in the patchouli-stinking Led Zeppelin shirt had only one aisle on his mind.
"Ice cream, baby. This is what it’s all about”, he says, talking to an investigative reporter sent by the “In Your Corner” team of do-gooders from the channel 4 news crew. "This is the serious fuckin’ shit! You think I couldn't eat me 3 or 4 gallons at a time? Just watch me. I do it up every which way but loose…I’m gonna get me a belly-full of Rocky-fucking Road. Make me a hot fudge sundae. That be a good idea.”
The reporter’s camera crew had shut down and moved on, but Terry, who was also the main anchorwoman at KFOR , hung around in an attempt to introduce herself to this ice cream connoisseur on a less-professional level.
“That was a beautiful soliloquy you gave about those bomb pops. Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Sylvester Stallone in profile?”
“No”, he answered, a certain gleam in his eyes, “But it has often been remarked by those who know me that I bear an uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere”.
“So what’s your name?”
“Richard Gere.”
She giggled…”I would never have placed you…you look more like a white Morgan Freeman; I could never have mistaken you for Gere.”
“Okay”, he conceded. “My name…no, my REAL name…uhh…that would be…”
“Yes…surely you've not forgotten it?”
“Timothy. That’s it…no, really. It’s Timmy Carver. You can call me Jim, if you want to. If I can call you Terry…”
Terry replied, “Oh, I would not have it any other way”.
“Has anyone ever told you, Terry, that your beauty shames the Venus de Milo? That your smile is as hypnotizing as the Mona Lisa? That your elfish eyes seem stolen from a really high quality sculpture of Helen of Troy? That the very scent of you makes me swoon and stagger?”
“Yes”, Terry said. “I've heard all of that before… A couple of guys used the Mona Lisa line on me, one right after the other…but somehow it seems like when YOU say it…well that makes all the difference in the world. Now, Mr. Ice Cream Expert, what have you to say about the Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches?”
He smiled. “By God, you've made my mind up for me. What have I to say about ‘em? I say they are the shit. I say that they are on my top-20 list of favorite ice cream confections. Yes, ma’am, I've got a lot to say about them, but truth be told, I also got Willie Nelson on the TV at home right now, and this grocery store visit has already lasted 3 times longer than I wanted it to. I've probably already missed ‘Whiskey River’…and that was the only reason I was even watching. So unless you’re wanting to come home with me, where we can enjoy what’s left of Willie’s show in private, I'll politely request that you move your bulk and girth., I really need to get these ice cream sandwiches paid for and skee-daddle before they melt on me. I hate that...”
“Oh, but yeah…I should have known you’d go for the sandwiches. And I would have thought that, had you found me half as attractive as I find you, you would have already asked me to come with you,”...her lips moist and red, pouting… “…and I’d go. Yes, indeed I would take your grubby hand and go with you. Baby., you take me away to a world I never knew…what else can I say? I wanna go with you”.
She knew those were her own thoughts. But she hadn't realized she'd actually spoken them out loud. She caught herself, but it was too late.
She looked away, and he watched her awkwardness. “If that’s how you feel, Terry…” he said, “well consider yourself invited, but I’m warning you…my house is a wreck. Now grab another box of Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.”
“Take the lead, Kimo Sabbi.”
…and he led her down a path of murder, sabotage, prostitution and perversion. A shadow land of jealousy, envy, pride…His strange desires held sway, and she knew there was no way back now that she was in so deep. Her years were wasted, tossed away like empty beer bottles thrown through the windows of a speeding car. He took the lead, alright. He led her straight down his own long and winding road to hell…
…But that’s not what happened…sorry.
What DID happen was this:
They got to the car and embarked upon the short journey. They spoke to each other in the tentative tones of people falling in love. They locked eyes once or twice, and saw hope there...he saw it was strong in her as it was in him. A smattering of laughter and even though hers was an intoxicating sound, he was surprised to find that some of it was his. They went on and on and on…and they would have gone on a little further if Timmy had not realized that he was completely lost. Two measly blocks from departure to destination and he is hopelessly lost.
Terry laughed it off…in fact she found it quite endearing, much in the same way his passion for ice cream sandwiches made here WANT to love him. “Here I am,” she managed to keep this thought to herself: “prepared and willing to offer my body and soul to a man who can’t even find his way back less than 2 miles from his own house…What the hell am I doing here?"
She led him back to Al & James, His mind had cleared up a little bit. He figured his short term memory would kick back in and the way home would become clear.
It was with a great degree of sadness when, after finally arriving at the right address, they found Willie Nelson’s “Austin City Limits” performance had given way to an installment of Nova, in which the phenomenon of black holes was being discussed by a panel of astronauts, rocket scientists, astronomers, movie critics, Satanists and carnys.
“Oh well”, he apologized. “I was really hopin’ to munch on them Blue Bells to the rhythm of ‘Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground’ or maybe ‘Always on My Mind’…something real smooth to get you in the mood to pitch a little woo.”
“Yeah, it’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Somehow he found Terry’s usage of such course language very sexy. “But hey, I like black holes. I think black holes are fascinating. Just think…a portal to another dimension. Or the entrance to transcendence. What does it feed on? Is it an intelligent life form? Does it prefer French fries to tater tots? Does the fact that it’s a ‘black’ hole signify that it’s white on the other side? Naw, dog, K-momma can hang with the black holes!”
“Okay…I’ll grab us some sandwiches. I always eat two or three, so how about you?”
“I’ll take two.”
“Good girl…that’s a good girl. What was that name again?”
“Terry.” She replied. “But you can call me Terry.”
++++++++++++++++++++
THINGS THAT TIMMY HOPES TERRY NEVER FINDS OUT, part one.
Timmy oftentimes wondered if he was a pervert of the meanest stripe because he downloaded porn movies and saved them to disc. His collection ranked in the hundreds of free 20 minute movies he found on the internet. His personal favorites included: "twoforher”, “poolside threesome” and “dirty old man”.
He often felt consumed with guilt about this. His collection of short porn movies, that is. But the shame, forceful as it was, did not deter him from downloading more. And he never regretted burnin’ ‘em to disc, either.
It would shatter his already frail psyche if Terry ever discovered his personal stash…If she were to watch even one from start-to-finish…well, hell…he wouldn't be able to live with himself.
Maybe…is it too much to even hope for?...Terry likes that shit??? Who knows, She might have her own collection of pornographic films.
Still…it’s better not to take the chance. So he thought as he found a new place to hide the seven discs of smut. Terry’s got a wild streak in her…hell, it’s one of the things he loves about her…But he doubts she’d appreciate the collection very much.
For now the discs are his own secret, and one that he’ll most likely keep with him to the grave.
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH
Timmy and Terry were snuggled together on the love seat. “Nova” was wrapping up, the consensus being that the Satanists’ theory of black holes was the most plausible one. “It,” they say.” is the work of the devil”. The movie critics also chimed in, making obligatory references to many of the classic motion pictures of yesteryear. The critics’ idea of a black hole, however, was markedly at odds with that of the rocket scientists, astronomers and the astronauts. Not only that, but furthermore, it was roundly denounced by not only the Satanists but the carnys as well (indeed they had the most bizarre black hole theory of them all).
…None of it mattered, of course, because the couple we have already come to know and adore, Terry and Timmy, were too busy pitching woo to notice that the program had even ended. Their kisses tasted like chocolate and vanilla, cool as ice cream. Even their hands were sticky from it.
When it was all over they were covered in a light sprinkling of gooey sugar. Terry didn't waste any time getting out of the bed. You’d have thought it would be the man, the insensitive schmuck, who would bolt first. But Terry had good reason for making such a hasty exit. Scheduled to anchor the morning news show in about 6 hours she figured she’d be lucky to get 30 minutes of sleep. She hated having the make-up crew put through so much trouble so early in the morning.
“No, baby, no…” he said, rising from his seat. He hastily threw on some clothes…it looked as if he was going to be wearing that Swan Song shirt for a second day straight…”Don’t go just yet. One more hour, please? Who needs sleep?”
“I do.”
He rightfully ascertained that these two words signified the end of the discussion, period. It would be utter foolishness to describe them as anything less than authoritative. He did not try. He just lay there and admired her lithe figure as she put her clothes back on, bending down to pull each garment from the pile she'd made the night before. Then without so much as a "see you later alligator" she walked out the door.
It was enough. He closed his eyes and ran the memories through his brain for a few minutes while they were still fresh in his head. He freed his freshly woken mind to fly away into fantasy, let go of the grip he'd been losing on the waking world, and he fell back to sleep. The big sleep. The big fuckin’ sleep. Deep down swimming in shimmering pools of sleep.
And lo, did he dream.
He dreamed of gods and men, of warriors and priests. His unconscious mind conjured many characters, both spectacular and lame. Heroes and villains. Nightmares of decay, disease and death. Black horses and invisible riders.
But the one he remembered for the rest of his life, the dream he claimed had changed his life in such a dramatic way, was the very one that spawned two characters that have come to be known in literary circles as…
Eddie and the Jolly Rancher.
THE DREAMS OF EDDIE & THE JOLLY RANCHER
An opera by George Frederic Handel was playing softly in the background. Seemed out of place, such regal, uppity music in a rundown trailer house 7 miles north of Tecumseh.
Lying side-by-side, spooning, as it were, the snoring bodies of Eddie Tubbs and his long time girlfriend the Jolly Rancher occupied the greater portion of a ratty queen size mattress. Beer bottles littered the floor around the makeshift bed and their clothes were piled up on both sides.
I don’t think either the cultured Mr. Tubbs or the Jolly Rancher even liked opera. The Rancher enjoyed jazz and heavy metal while Ed leaned more to classic rock and some of that new country shit that people make fun of.. So it was somewhat unusual to hear “Xerxes” jamming the airwaves in that trailer house. Jamming in vain, it would seem, seeing as how the couple were both sound asleep. The sound of the arias, the tenors and altos – vibrating like an electric razor on a pane of glass – they fell upon ears closed to anything outside of their dreams.
Somehow their biological clocks were perfectly synchronized to the point where they woke up together at the same time every morning. 8:30 am.
And so 8:30 am did arrive and with the crowing of the cock their collective eyes opened, all 4 of them.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Rancher. Did you sleep well?”
“I guess I slept about as well as can be expected under the circumstances. How about you?”
“Well,” he said, “I guess I got just about as much sleep as any man plagued with nightmares and visions is gonna get.”
He shuddered and blinked hard his eyes a couple of times, then continued:
“They were awful. Every one of them was about looking into the sky and seeing these airplanes. There were a couple of guys who were going to bungee jump from ropes tethered to the wings.”
“Foolish idea.” An obvious point.
“Yeah, maybe, but I’m looking up into the sky and you can't miss 'em, They seem to be higher than I should really be able to see.
“They jump out of the plane and everything looks fine until BOTH bungee ropes break and they fall to the earth to die horrible deaths. I watched them coming down, falling to the ground, one hitting so close to us that you could hear the body’s harsh “thump” when it met the tarmac.”
The Rancher watched him intently, admiring him, thinking of how cool it was to have someone who tells you his dreams and nightmares every morning. It had become a ritual between the two of them, this daily sharing of dreams. They were fresh and still real, untainted by forgetfulness, immensely enjoyable and sometimes enlightening.
“I don’t know why it frightens me so,” he went on. “Witnessing a tragic accident…I don’t know…I guess…maybe it’s just the idea of seeing someone die, witnessing a stranger’s last moments of life…being one of the last to ever see him alive.”
“I think I understand,” said the Jolly Rancher.
“Oh you do, do ya?” he thought to himself. “Well that makes one of us, because I don’t personally see why such a thing could be so horrifying, so mind-bending.”
A moments tense silence, then JR broke it by telling her own dream.
“It’s like the 3rd day of school, 9th grade, maybe 10th. I’m walking down the hall when I realize I’m lost, that I have no idea which room I’m supposed to be in. The principle has given me a schedule with class hours and room numbers. But for whatever reason I still can’t seem to locate the damn rooms.
“I read my locker number, 405, and I go to look for it. I see a 404. I also see a 406. But no 405. It freaked me out, like ‘what the hell happened to my locker?’
“Im still hopelessly lost…and then I hear…the BELL.
“Which is the exact moment in which I realize that I’m wearing only my bra and panties…nothing else…butt naked 'cept for bra and panties. I am consumed by embarrassment…it just seemed so real.”
“Oh, I can tell you what that means,” Eddie broke in. “You know I've read several books about dream interpretation and I think I've got a pretty good handle on it.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I wouldn't shit a shitter,” he joked.
“You’re so original”
“Maybe so…but that dream you had this morning, it ain’t all that difficult to understand.”
”Okay,” said the Rancher. Silently she screamed, “Fill me in! I’m interested in knowing!
“Basically, the fact that the dream takes place in a school hallway tells me that you stand in need of a spanking. You’re lost, stumbling through the halls, like a blind man whose had his cane stolen. Of course, you’re lost. You’ve left a home and a family thinking all you'd ever need to find was a man who could dominate you. The missing locker just tells me that I could damn well be that man. It could sure enough be me doing all the spanking.”
“Oh, really?" Asked JR, incredulously.
“Yes indeedy. And when you realize you’re unclothed, it is at that moment you submit…all your desires have become invested in me and you will willingly be my virtual sex-slave . That dream of yours means you need a good fuckin'. It means you will achieve orgasm a total of four times before I've even mounted ye.”
“Ha! You know what the funny thing is?” The Jolly Rancher giggled…”That’s the exact same meaning you gave for the last few dreams you've “interpreted” for me."
"I'm damn good, ain't I?"
The second act of Handel’s “Xerxes” moved on to the third without either Eddie Tubbs or the Jolly Rancher even noticing. The beautiful music had become, to them, little more than a mantra chanted over a helicopter whirlwind---the sound of a ceiling fan rattling on it’s highest setting, blowing warm wind in a vain attempt at cooling their perspiration-soaked bodies.
A television sits directly in front of them. Next to the TV, a dusty old guitar, it’s pick guard scuffed by years of strumming by countless players (talented and otherwise). The strings have seen better days, they've gone from bright and shiny to dull and rusty.
Yep, a change of strings would have done that old guitar a world o’ good. A pretty good piece of wood. Not the best but probably as good as Eddie deserved, and he wasn't half bad. He'd played in countless dive bar bands throughout his life. He was pretty good by the time he decided to throw caution to the wind and serenade the Jolly Rancher.
Oh, but that was a night to remember…who could forget the sight of him bowing to her and asking, “My dear, I would be much obliged if you would allow me to play you a song. May I?”
The Jolly Rancher was in the mood for music. “Sure. Pick it and grin a little!”
“Yes, ma’am.
“Oh Suzi Q…O Suzy Q
O Suzi Q baby I love you
Suzi Q”
For whatever reason, he could never remember the other verses, but it didn't matter. The Rancher, by that time, had already fallen deep in love with a raving maniac named Eddie Tubbs.
Yes. THE Ernie Tubbs. You may have heard of him.
More likely you haven’t.
THINGS THAT TERRY HOPES TIMMY NEVER FINDS OUT, part 1
(also known as Thought Directory)
You are not the most supportive husband that you could be.
You often tell wicked lies.
I hate it when people whistle.
Something about it just grates on my nerves.
You are a cruel human being.
What the hell are you waiting for?
I’m not moving so long as I know that you’re just gonna do those silly neopets
Grammar checked 9/21/14
Meanwhile Back at the Ranch
Timmy dreamed a lot of dreams that night. He had the kind of dreams that could convince a lesser man that he belonged in the nut patch. The kind of dreams that can get you stoned and driven out of town. Nightmares that could chill you to the marrow in yer bone. Visions of worms turning, flaming wheels revolving in the sky. Blind eyes opened to their first sight of blood, of murder, of transgression. So very deep, deep in sleep. He never would have owned up to these feelings…these revelations…in his waking moments. They were enough to drive a man off the brink of sanity.
He wakes to the grating alarm he’s set in “snooze” mode. Two or three times he’s already used that function, but it’s always the one after the third that’s the real charm.
Terry lay next to him, and it looked like she had just come back from her own dream world…the only difference being that she had to work early that morning. He was just going to sit around the house trying to find new ways of doing nothing. She thought it was a weird fuckin’ thing for him to even bother setting the alarm for, let alone jack around with the Snooze and all…
He rummaged through a pile of clothes that where in a hamper next to the toilet. From said hamper he produced a garment that has already played a relatively significant role in this drama. (Author's note: "Back at the Ranch" was originally written as a chapter in a novel...but, as you might guess, that project was scrapped and put on the shelf along with the other 7365 projects I started but never finished)
It’s not as if the shirt were absolutely so dirty that he couldn’t stand it. The Led Zeppelin shirt. Swan Song label, bro! Fuckin’ tasty, no? Is that Icarus I see between those big monster Swan wings? Fire up that jay, baybay!
It was never, “Yo! Swan Song label, dude! BAD FUCKING COMPANY! Rat on!”
No, no, no. If it’s Swan Song label it’s ALWAYS Led fuckin’ Zeppelin. No questions asked. Leddy Zepper. Led Leppard, sweet young thing. Ted Zeppelin. Dread Zeppelin. Fed Zucking Zeppelino. Do not even try to put Bad suck ass Company in the same league.
But for some reason Terry didn't like it very much.
“Will you take that fuckin’ shirt off and find another one? I am sick and bloody tired of seeing that thing on you. You do realize that it’s about two sizes too small?”
“So that’s the way it’s going to be, eh, sweet mother of love?” he protested. “You spend a single night with me and you think you can tell me what I can and cannot wear? I’m pimping Zeppelin here, can’t you see that?”
“Well that just may be, but you’re also pimping some serious body odor, of which I highly suspect the shirt as being the root cause.”
The conclusion she came to was a logical one. The white armpits were stained with a color similar to the hue of urine. By Timmy’s own admission the thing hadn’t been washed in a week. It would appear that during said week, at one point or another, he had feasted upon a pasta dish or two, as well as some greasy fried food. The t-shirt, no matter how cool the Swan Song label might be, was stained, smelly, and worn out. Why he bothered keeping it at all was an enigma.
“What, baby? You not down wit da Zep? “
“Oh, I’m down with the Led, but I sho nuff ain’t down wit da funk.”
He eventually conceded Terry’s point concerning the usefulness of the ruined t-shirt. He took it off, threw it in the trash can ("Jimmy Page, can you ever forgive me for what I’ve just done? Mr. Plant, surely you recognize that the shirt has long outlasted it’s usefulness? Johnny Paul, I’m sorry, man. I know how valuable the Swan Song merchandise has become. If it hadn’t been worn to death I don’t doubt that it could have pulled $500 on e-Bay, easy. Mr. John “Bonzo” Bonham, may you rest in eternal peace...this is not something I WANT to do"). He reached into the second drawer from the bottom of the chest in his bedroom...
…Chester drawers?...
…and chose from a stack of folded t-shirts, each one a loving advertisement for the classic rock bands he'd seen in concert. On top, neatly, if not properly, folded, was his prized Rush jersey, with it's logo that he thought had something to do with the occult. Beneath that lay a wild, trippy long sleeve baseball shirt emblazoned with the unforgettable skull and roses motif popularized by the Grateful Dead. Further down in the pile he could have chosen the Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top, bought fresh at the last show of the “Gimme Back My Bullets” tour. Or one of the shirts he bought at the three Rolling Stones concerts he had attended, each one sporting the signature “Licking Tongue” logo, which had been strategically placed in surroundings compatible with the name of their most recent tour.
So many to choose from…he closed his eyes and picked one out, much in the same way that a man reaches into a jar for a bingo ball or a pickled egg. He came up with a seldom worn Steely Dan tank top. It was a gift from his mother. She liked Steely Dan a lot more than he did, but he thought they were okay. He’d wear their shirts.
There were many bands whose shirts he would not wear.. It was a matter of principle as well as taste. And there were MANY more bands who didn’t cut the mustard than did. Some were dismissed because he didn’t think they were on the same level as the ones he championed with the t-shirts, although they may well have been some of his favorite bands. Just not in a league worthy of wearing their tour shirt. He would become repulsed at the mere thought of wearing shirt from one of those bullshit crack-smokin’ groups like Smash Mouth…Limp Bizkit…Maroon 5….Hooba-fucking-Stank to high heaven…"No sir. No way I’m wearing those shirts." Even so, he actually liked some of that music. It was a guilty pleasure.
Just before Terry turned to the door she bent down and gave Timmy a kiss, soft against his forehead.
“Are you coming back tonight?” he asked, groggy.
“It all depends…can I bring some furniture, my CDs, books and my entire wardrobe with me? Are you going to feed me? Are you going to please me? Are you just going to tease me? Can you make me feel like a natural woman? Are you gonna give me some R-E-S-P-E-C-T? Cause, bitch, that’s what I needs, git out my grill!”
She freaked him out with this ultimatum. You could tell by the look on his face. But he covered it well by pretending she was really serious. He kept his cool and said “Terry, baby, you know I be at your beck and call. Bring it on. Do you hear me? I said YOU bring it on, BITCH!" With fire in his eyes he barked orders to her. “Terry, I command you to drop yo shit and kick it with me. Scoot it up here, pussy willow, and lets try out the effects of yo magic over the long term. Your gonna let me drive your car, you miserable slut...I'm gonna fuck up the transmission in your little red corvette and change the oil in your pink Cadillac. ”
A small teardrop found it’s way down a path from Terry's eyes, down to her lips where she could taste it’s saltiness. She cried not for the harsh manner in which he had spoken to her. Her tears were not shed on account of the many cruel demands he made…some of them delivered in a most heinous manner and in a debasing fashion. No, those lonely teardrops were squeezed from her dye eyes by love for a good man. And thank ye gods for it, as well. Praise ye lord that her weeping was not for such trivialities as pain or despair. Those wells were emptied of their liquid treasure by a tingle she always felt upon first seeing him enter a room. A tingle that tangled. A tingle that Sasquatchiman tribal chiefs have identified as “Ukunkabunka ”…yes, real and true love. Sounds like something we’ve all heard before, don’t it?
TERRY IS RELATIVELY GOOD AT HER JOB
She sits behind a desk with the words “Newschannel 4, KFOR” painted on top of a spiffy logo attached to the front. The make-up guys in the studio were understanding and didn’t seem to mind the extra work she put them through. They always did a good job. Each one of them were of the same opinion: Terry was one helluva good looker with badonkidonk to die for.
But, beautiful as she was, the task of covering up the bags in her eyes was a difficult chore. They asked her about it and she was not ashamed to say she'd been crying non stop since she met Timmy. They didn't believe her when she said they were tears of joy and delight. They thought he was beating her or something. She tried to explain that tears are tears, they're gonna mess with your eyes one way or the other.
Even so, when the make-up guys finished their work Terry was transformed into a goddess. Nothing more and nothing less. Easily the hottest bitch working the local news. When she first went on, it was within weeks, Channel 4’s ratings began to rise.
She knew it would happen that way. She knew she was ratings gold. She didn't need to have sex with the station manager to get her job (she'd done that because she'd wanted to).
Intermission. And a word from the author.
In an attempt to provide some context for the last few paragraphs on this story, may I present to you...
OKLAHOMA NEWS ANCHORS AND REPORTERS
A round-up of the most well known personalities in the news broadcasting business. Channel 5 will have no representation here because the author and narrator never watch the Channel 5 news. No real reason. It looks like a decent enough set, with attractive anchors (though none as earth-shatteringly beautiful as Terry). Channel 9 will have slightly more representin’ done. There are times when I don't mind the 9th channel, with it's swank sets and even swankier anchor gals. The 10 o'clock edition, you know? Leading up to Letterman. Right before we go to bed. While we fuckin’ kickin' that shit back, waiting for Dave.
The real deal, I've found, is Terry’s own crew.
~~~Linda Cavanaugh. She’s Terry’s closest rival at NewsChannel 4. Thing look good though, with all the “30 years of Linda Cavanaugh” segments they've recently aired. No doubt the sweet thing has plans for retirement in the very near future. Regardless, when Terry Gaydawn came along the days of the Cavanaugh dynasty were already rapidly approaching their end.
~~~Kevin Ogle. A more self-obsessed fake the likes of which you’ll not often come in contact with. I’d like to meet that big phony in a back alley somewhere. I would stab him in the gut with a bowie knife. I’d listen to him grunt, hear the blood gurgle up into and then out of his mouth.. I’d feel his body jerk and spasm to the rhythms of my thrusting knife. I’d smell the sweat oozing out his pores as surely as fear oozes back in. This Ogle brother will be first to go. The House of Ogle, by trinity bonded, in one fell swoop, reduced to only two. But then again, I don't know. The man is a behemoth. I mean to say he is a GIANT who could work the carnival side shows if he ever lost his news anchoring job. He could probably squash me like a bug.
Uhhmmm…sorry ‘bout that. I guess I let that one get away from me. Love ALL of the Ogle boys. Just joshin’ you, fellers.
~~~Meg Alexander. The general verdict on the level of professionalism displayed by the corn-fed, cotton bread talking head Meg Alexander can be delivered in no more lofty terms than these: Adequate. Never rising to the peaks yet never plunging to the depths.
~~~Lance West. This one’s a mess. Honestly and truthfully West may well be the goofiest motherfucker in all of Oklahoma broadcast news. He earns that accolade on the strength of his outlandish hairstyle alone.
~~~Kent Ogle. For my money, Kent is the real deal, and clearly the heir apparent to Jack Ogle’s legacy. Then again, I am probably in the minority on this one. I imagine most folks would buy into the lie and choose Kevin or Kelly. Kent was, is and always will be King Ogle.
~~~Ed Doney, Ally Myers, Bobbie Miller, Ernie Paulson. These and a few other “weekend anchors” are often more affable and a good deal more professional than their seniors. Some are “rising stars” (Myers), some content to be second-tier (Miller, who is a fine anchorwoman) and at least one who went from being head anchorwoman on Channel 5 to second level reporting and part-time anchoring at the NewsChannel (Cherokee Ballard).
The list at hand does not, at this time, include weathermen, as they will be counted on a completely different list. The sports guys are gonna have to wait, too. That’s sports and weather, bro…we talkin’ news.
And in Channel 9’s corral we find…
~~~Kelly Ogle. Why do I get the feeling that Kelly Ogle firmly believes that he is the superior newscaster of the Ogle Triumvirate? He has somehow convinced the news department to let him do up a short editorial. He calls it “Kelly Ogle’s Two Cents”. Well, he could have saved a lot of money trying to give it to me. I’d rather die a broke man than to have to take chump change from K.O. Two cents more than it's worth.
~~~Lots of kick-ass hot chicks whose names I cannot, for some reason, remember. They are yummy, they are easy on the old peepers. But none of them, fine as they are, hold a candle to Timmy Carver’s newfound love, Terry Gaydawn.
He wakes to the grating alarm he’s set in “snooze” mode. Two or three times he’s already used that function, but it’s always the one after the third that’s the real charm.
Terry lay next to him, and it looked like she had just come back from her own dream world…the only difference being that she had to work early that morning. He was just going to sit around the house trying to find new ways of doing nothing. She thought it was a weird fuckin’ thing for him to even bother setting the alarm for, let alone jack around with the Snooze and all…
He rummaged through a pile of clothes that where in a hamper next to the toilet. From said hamper he produced a garment that has already played a relatively significant role in this drama. (Author's note: "Back at the Ranch" was originally written as a chapter in a novel...but, as you might guess, that project was scrapped and put on the shelf along with the other 7365 projects I started but never finished)
It’s not as if the shirt were absolutely so dirty that he couldn’t stand it. The Led Zeppelin shirt. Swan Song label, bro! Fuckin’ tasty, no? Is that Icarus I see between those big monster Swan wings? Fire up that jay, baybay!
It was never, “Yo! Swan Song label, dude! BAD FUCKING COMPANY! Rat on!”
No, no, no. If it’s Swan Song label it’s ALWAYS Led fuckin’ Zeppelin. No questions asked. Leddy Zepper. Led Leppard, sweet young thing. Ted Zeppelin. Dread Zeppelin. Fed Zucking Zeppelino. Do not even try to put Bad suck ass Company in the same league.
But for some reason Terry didn't like it very much.
“Will you take that fuckin’ shirt off and find another one? I am sick and bloody tired of seeing that thing on you. You do realize that it’s about two sizes too small?”
“So that’s the way it’s going to be, eh, sweet mother of love?” he protested. “You spend a single night with me and you think you can tell me what I can and cannot wear? I’m pimping Zeppelin here, can’t you see that?”
“Well that just may be, but you’re also pimping some serious body odor, of which I highly suspect the shirt as being the root cause.”
The conclusion she came to was a logical one. The white armpits were stained with a color similar to the hue of urine. By Timmy’s own admission the thing hadn’t been washed in a week. It would appear that during said week, at one point or another, he had feasted upon a pasta dish or two, as well as some greasy fried food. The t-shirt, no matter how cool the Swan Song label might be, was stained, smelly, and worn out. Why he bothered keeping it at all was an enigma.
“What, baby? You not down wit da Zep? “
“Oh, I’m down with the Led, but I sho nuff ain’t down wit da funk.”
He eventually conceded Terry’s point concerning the usefulness of the ruined t-shirt. He took it off, threw it in the trash can ("Jimmy Page, can you ever forgive me for what I’ve just done? Mr. Plant, surely you recognize that the shirt has long outlasted it’s usefulness? Johnny Paul, I’m sorry, man. I know how valuable the Swan Song merchandise has become. If it hadn’t been worn to death I don’t doubt that it could have pulled $500 on e-Bay, easy. Mr. John “Bonzo” Bonham, may you rest in eternal peace...this is not something I WANT to do"). He reached into the second drawer from the bottom of the chest in his bedroom...
…Chester drawers?...
…and chose from a stack of folded t-shirts, each one a loving advertisement for the classic rock bands he'd seen in concert. On top, neatly, if not properly, folded, was his prized Rush jersey, with it's logo that he thought had something to do with the occult. Beneath that lay a wild, trippy long sleeve baseball shirt emblazoned with the unforgettable skull and roses motif popularized by the Grateful Dead. Further down in the pile he could have chosen the Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top, bought fresh at the last show of the “Gimme Back My Bullets” tour. Or one of the shirts he bought at the three Rolling Stones concerts he had attended, each one sporting the signature “Licking Tongue” logo, which had been strategically placed in surroundings compatible with the name of their most recent tour.
So many to choose from…he closed his eyes and picked one out, much in the same way that a man reaches into a jar for a bingo ball or a pickled egg. He came up with a seldom worn Steely Dan tank top. It was a gift from his mother. She liked Steely Dan a lot more than he did, but he thought they were okay. He’d wear their shirts.
There were many bands whose shirts he would not wear.. It was a matter of principle as well as taste. And there were MANY more bands who didn’t cut the mustard than did. Some were dismissed because he didn’t think they were on the same level as the ones he championed with the t-shirts, although they may well have been some of his favorite bands. Just not in a league worthy of wearing their tour shirt. He would become repulsed at the mere thought of wearing shirt from one of those bullshit crack-smokin’ groups like Smash Mouth…Limp Bizkit…Maroon 5….Hooba-fucking-Stank to high heaven…"No sir. No way I’m wearing those shirts." Even so, he actually liked some of that music. It was a guilty pleasure.
Just before Terry turned to the door she bent down and gave Timmy a kiss, soft against his forehead.
“Are you coming back tonight?” he asked, groggy.
“It all depends…can I bring some furniture, my CDs, books and my entire wardrobe with me? Are you going to feed me? Are you going to please me? Are you just going to tease me? Can you make me feel like a natural woman? Are you gonna give me some R-E-S-P-E-C-T? Cause, bitch, that’s what I needs, git out my grill!”
She freaked him out with this ultimatum. You could tell by the look on his face. But he covered it well by pretending she was really serious. He kept his cool and said “Terry, baby, you know I be at your beck and call. Bring it on. Do you hear me? I said YOU bring it on, BITCH!" With fire in his eyes he barked orders to her. “Terry, I command you to drop yo shit and kick it with me. Scoot it up here, pussy willow, and lets try out the effects of yo magic over the long term. Your gonna let me drive your car, you miserable slut...I'm gonna fuck up the transmission in your little red corvette and change the oil in your pink Cadillac. ”
A small teardrop found it’s way down a path from Terry's eyes, down to her lips where she could taste it’s saltiness. She cried not for the harsh manner in which he had spoken to her. Her tears were not shed on account of the many cruel demands he made…some of them delivered in a most heinous manner and in a debasing fashion. No, those lonely teardrops were squeezed from her dye eyes by love for a good man. And thank ye gods for it, as well. Praise ye lord that her weeping was not for such trivialities as pain or despair. Those wells were emptied of their liquid treasure by a tingle she always felt upon first seeing him enter a room. A tingle that tangled. A tingle that Sasquatchiman tribal chiefs have identified as “Ukunkabunka ”…yes, real and true love. Sounds like something we’ve all heard before, don’t it?
TERRY IS RELATIVELY GOOD AT HER JOB
She sits behind a desk with the words “Newschannel 4, KFOR” painted on top of a spiffy logo attached to the front. The make-up guys in the studio were understanding and didn’t seem to mind the extra work she put them through. They always did a good job. Each one of them were of the same opinion: Terry was one helluva good looker with badonkidonk to die for.
But, beautiful as she was, the task of covering up the bags in her eyes was a difficult chore. They asked her about it and she was not ashamed to say she'd been crying non stop since she met Timmy. They didn't believe her when she said they were tears of joy and delight. They thought he was beating her or something. She tried to explain that tears are tears, they're gonna mess with your eyes one way or the other.
Even so, when the make-up guys finished their work Terry was transformed into a goddess. Nothing more and nothing less. Easily the hottest bitch working the local news. When she first went on, it was within weeks, Channel 4’s ratings began to rise.
She knew it would happen that way. She knew she was ratings gold. She didn't need to have sex with the station manager to get her job (she'd done that because she'd wanted to).
Intermission. And a word from the author.
In an attempt to provide some context for the last few paragraphs on this story, may I present to you...
OKLAHOMA NEWS ANCHORS AND REPORTERS
A round-up of the most well known personalities in the news broadcasting business. Channel 5 will have no representation here because the author and narrator never watch the Channel 5 news. No real reason. It looks like a decent enough set, with attractive anchors (though none as earth-shatteringly beautiful as Terry). Channel 9 will have slightly more representin’ done. There are times when I don't mind the 9th channel, with it's swank sets and even swankier anchor gals. The 10 o'clock edition, you know? Leading up to Letterman. Right before we go to bed. While we fuckin’ kickin' that shit back, waiting for Dave.
The real deal, I've found, is Terry’s own crew.
~~~Linda Cavanaugh. She’s Terry’s closest rival at NewsChannel 4. Thing look good though, with all the “30 years of Linda Cavanaugh” segments they've recently aired. No doubt the sweet thing has plans for retirement in the very near future. Regardless, when Terry Gaydawn came along the days of the Cavanaugh dynasty were already rapidly approaching their end.
~~~Kevin Ogle. A more self-obsessed fake the likes of which you’ll not often come in contact with. I’d like to meet that big phony in a back alley somewhere. I would stab him in the gut with a bowie knife. I’d listen to him grunt, hear the blood gurgle up into and then out of his mouth.. I’d feel his body jerk and spasm to the rhythms of my thrusting knife. I’d smell the sweat oozing out his pores as surely as fear oozes back in. This Ogle brother will be first to go. The House of Ogle, by trinity bonded, in one fell swoop, reduced to only two. But then again, I don't know. The man is a behemoth. I mean to say he is a GIANT who could work the carnival side shows if he ever lost his news anchoring job. He could probably squash me like a bug.
Uhhmmm…sorry ‘bout that. I guess I let that one get away from me. Love ALL of the Ogle boys. Just joshin’ you, fellers.
~~~Meg Alexander. The general verdict on the level of professionalism displayed by the corn-fed, cotton bread talking head Meg Alexander can be delivered in no more lofty terms than these: Adequate. Never rising to the peaks yet never plunging to the depths.
~~~Lance West. This one’s a mess. Honestly and truthfully West may well be the goofiest motherfucker in all of Oklahoma broadcast news. He earns that accolade on the strength of his outlandish hairstyle alone.
~~~Kent Ogle. For my money, Kent is the real deal, and clearly the heir apparent to Jack Ogle’s legacy. Then again, I am probably in the minority on this one. I imagine most folks would buy into the lie and choose Kevin or Kelly. Kent was, is and always will be King Ogle.
~~~Ed Doney, Ally Myers, Bobbie Miller, Ernie Paulson. These and a few other “weekend anchors” are often more affable and a good deal more professional than their seniors. Some are “rising stars” (Myers), some content to be second-tier (Miller, who is a fine anchorwoman) and at least one who went from being head anchorwoman on Channel 5 to second level reporting and part-time anchoring at the NewsChannel (Cherokee Ballard).
The list at hand does not, at this time, include weathermen, as they will be counted on a completely different list. The sports guys are gonna have to wait, too. That’s sports and weather, bro…we talkin’ news.
And in Channel 9’s corral we find…
~~~Kelly Ogle. Why do I get the feeling that Kelly Ogle firmly believes that he is the superior newscaster of the Ogle Triumvirate? He has somehow convinced the news department to let him do up a short editorial. He calls it “Kelly Ogle’s Two Cents”. Well, he could have saved a lot of money trying to give it to me. I’d rather die a broke man than to have to take chump change from K.O. Two cents more than it's worth.
~~~Lots of kick-ass hot chicks whose names I cannot, for some reason, remember. They are yummy, they are easy on the old peepers. But none of them, fine as they are, hold a candle to Timmy Carver’s newfound love, Terry Gaydawn.
12 Step Apocalypse
1.)
It’s a little known fact but the streets of London are absolutely clogged with shadows. These aren’t typical shadows. These shadows have voices. And holes where their eyes should be.
2)
About 5 miles into our trip to Heaven I asked my partner, Teddy, what his favorite song was.
“Why, that would be ‘She Believes in Me’ by Kenny Rogers….of course,” he said. “Isn’t that EVERYONE’S favorite song?”
3)
One more mile to heaven.
“Do you believe in magic?” It was his turn to ask a stupid question.
“Man, that is a stupid question,” I said. “What kind of magic? White magic? Black magic? Stage magic? Be more specific.”
“You know…MAGIC. The stuff in a young girl’s eye. The kind that makes a man believe in love.
“Oh, I see now.” I finally grasped his mediocre point. “If you‘re referring to that SPECIAL magic betwixt two young lovers on a shopping spree, I’d have to say, I don’t know. I never really thought about it, to be honest. Pass that bottle over here.”
4)
Upon consumption of several lager brews Teddy begins to make more sense than he usually does. I think it’s because when he’s drunk he forgets all of that astrological mumbo-jumbo he’s come to accept as gospel truth. His semi-occultic religion loses all importance to him when he’s intoxicated, and he frequently forgets he’s a Virgo, not a Leo.
Leo the Lion. A cruel, inhumane feline motherfucker. Oh, I could count all the times I’d like to take a hard rock and crush the mighty Kin’s skull into a bloody pulp. Silly lion, believes no one loves him, so he takes Jungle Law into his own paws and creates wildlife mayhem of mammoth proportions. All of this, of course, symbolic of the Astrological mumbo-jumbo Teddy’s grown to believe is the God’s honest truth.
5)
Heaven was just across the horizon, and lemme tell ya, the line at the gate was one long son-of-a-bitch. Me and Teddy figured we had plenty of time to kill, so we took a seat behind a sad looking, effeminate young man who kept belching and complaining:
“Damn it! Every time I belch I taste that bitter-acidic bile that comes back from my stomach! Not just every once in a while…EVERY TIME! I think I’d rather die than have to taste that stuff again!”
Teddy whispered in my ear, “That, my friend, is one unreasonable chap.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “:But the fact is, he’s an innocent man.”
“Oh, yes. Without a doubt about that,” said Ted. “If there WERE any doubt about it, well my cronie, I think I would gladly give up my place AND yours in this line to a priest who deserves it more.”
Bigmouth strikes again.
Wouldn't you know it? Father Joel, of the Stocksdale parish, walks up to us and says, “No one is innocent. Nay, not a one.”
“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” said Teddy, as we both dropped through a trap door and fell, spiraling uncontrollably, down to the fiery pits of hell.
“You and your big mouth!” I got that much out just before the plunge, when I realized that I was destined to be a 21st century Dante,
6)
When we hit the ground, the hard unyielding tarmac of Hades, we walked around for a while and checked out some of the oddities.
In one area there were legions of Peter, Paul & Mary impersonators, all of them singing “Blowing in the Wind”. One of the Mary Travers look-alikes said, “Is there anything you condemned folks would like to hear?”
Teddy, in his unmistakable imbecilic fashion, said, “’Puff the Magic Dragon”.
At the mere utterance of those four dreadful words the whole joint started jumping and all the folk singers fell into the soup, screaming and praying to Bob Dylan for forgiveness.
7)
Bon Scott, late of Australian supergroup AC/DC, once said “Hell Ain’t a Bad Place to Be.” But I swear to God he wasn’t there that day when the giant holographic image of Zimmerman appeared in the flaming red sky just a-itchin' to judge all the people who had ever covered any of his songs. Roger McGuinn was sweatin’ bullets. Joan Baez fainted and could not be revived by any means.
Fortunately for everyone concerned, Man with the Golden Croak just happened to be enjoying a pleasant state of mind. His mood had only recently been leavened by a pitcher of Coors Light. Judgement Day turned into one hell of a party in Hades.
8)
The greatest rock and roll band ever assembled took the stage in front of a pyrotechnic light show that dazzled and amazed every damned soul in the joint. The crowd cheered and, in an obvious attempt to mollify Big Bob, launched into a killer rendition of “Like a Rolling Stone”.
Jim Morrison never sounded better. He was glowing with pride, having beaten Elvis Presley for the lead singer slot when the auditions were held the weekend before.
As you can imagine, Jimi’s solo before the bridge was a smash, but the real insanity came when the Captain and Tennille dropped in to sing the line about giving the bums a dime in your prime.
Everyone in the band was quite pissed off because Cappy and his bombshell old lady WEREN’T DEAD YET. It was a common understanding amongst the members of Hell’s Union that LIVING musicians were not qualified to work in the fiery pits under any circumstances.
Jim Morrison saved the day, though, as he belted out a stream of profanity aimed directly at Toni Tennille. Laced with sexual innuendo, this outburst had the desired effect of sending the “LIVES OF THE PARTY” screaming and skee-daddling north bound.
9)
The band wrapped the concert up with what may well have been the best version of “Sympathy for the Devil” ever performed. All it lacked was the original singer to put it over the top (“Ah, dontcha worry, mates,” Brian Jones quipped. “He won’t be long.”).
It was then that things began to get REALLY wild. The cocaine flowed like a big white powder river up everyone’s noses. Teddy decided that an orgy was in the offing so we walked due north about 300 yards.
“YOU’RE IN HELL!!!” a demon shouted at us.
The specter’s observation got me to thinking…Hell, hell, hell, hell. So many conceptions of what hell is supposed to be. All those fire and brimstone preachers trying to scare their flocks with visions of an ever-lasting flame…could that be the way it really is? Indescribable pain and having to suffer forever? That’s some hardcore punishment there, bro.
But lemme tell ya…being condemned to listen to the Grateful Dead for eternity may be a hard way to go but it surely isn’t as awful as the hell those Charismatic folks believe in. So let’s load up the van, pack a sack and truck on to the show, right?
10)
“Old man!” I shouted. “Is there someplace I could get a Reuben sandwich or maybe some spinach casserole?”
11)
All of this happened last night, you know. Teddy’s been dead now for the last three years. Three years is a lifetime when it’s cold out, but it’s a fucking oven out there today so I’ll stop feeling sorry for myself.
Yeah, I know. Easier said than done. Don’t I know the truth of that statement. What good does it so me, though? I still have to take the pills every night.
12)
Everyone’s crying in my beer. It’s been going on for so long that there’s no beer in my stein to cry in. All that’s left is maybe a pint of hazy tear-water.
They come from all over the globe to tell me their stories, trying to make me feel sorry for them. But I’ve got problems of my own. I am no counselor. Not a licensed one, anyways...
But seriously, my mind is being ravaged by a severe thunderstorm. It has nothing whatsoever to do with love. It’s a REAL STORM, my friends, with hail, high winds and a stunning array of thunder and lightning.
All that banging around up there has taken me back in time to the first time ever I saw your face, kissed your lips, lay with you and all that other heebee-jeebee nonsense that leads to a vulgar display of mammoth proportions. And all it does is get me hot and bothered. I lay in bed writhing, like I’m in hell again. It lingers and lingers and refuses to go away until a silly love song comes on the radio.
It’s okay, though, because I’m listening to the Adult Contemporary station and they play nothing but stale love songs 25 hours a day. I’ll never feel lust again.
It’s a little known fact but the streets of London are absolutely clogged with shadows. These aren’t typical shadows. These shadows have voices. And holes where their eyes should be.
2)
About 5 miles into our trip to Heaven I asked my partner, Teddy, what his favorite song was.
“Why, that would be ‘She Believes in Me’ by Kenny Rogers….of course,” he said. “Isn’t that EVERYONE’S favorite song?”
3)
One more mile to heaven.
“Do you believe in magic?” It was his turn to ask a stupid question.
“Man, that is a stupid question,” I said. “What kind of magic? White magic? Black magic? Stage magic? Be more specific.”
“You know…MAGIC. The stuff in a young girl’s eye. The kind that makes a man believe in love.
“Oh, I see now.” I finally grasped his mediocre point. “If you‘re referring to that SPECIAL magic betwixt two young lovers on a shopping spree, I’d have to say, I don’t know. I never really thought about it, to be honest. Pass that bottle over here.”
4)
Upon consumption of several lager brews Teddy begins to make more sense than he usually does. I think it’s because when he’s drunk he forgets all of that astrological mumbo-jumbo he’s come to accept as gospel truth. His semi-occultic religion loses all importance to him when he’s intoxicated, and he frequently forgets he’s a Virgo, not a Leo.
Leo the Lion. A cruel, inhumane feline motherfucker. Oh, I could count all the times I’d like to take a hard rock and crush the mighty Kin’s skull into a bloody pulp. Silly lion, believes no one loves him, so he takes Jungle Law into his own paws and creates wildlife mayhem of mammoth proportions. All of this, of course, symbolic of the Astrological mumbo-jumbo Teddy’s grown to believe is the God’s honest truth.
5)
Heaven was just across the horizon, and lemme tell ya, the line at the gate was one long son-of-a-bitch. Me and Teddy figured we had plenty of time to kill, so we took a seat behind a sad looking, effeminate young man who kept belching and complaining:
“Damn it! Every time I belch I taste that bitter-acidic bile that comes back from my stomach! Not just every once in a while…EVERY TIME! I think I’d rather die than have to taste that stuff again!”
Teddy whispered in my ear, “That, my friend, is one unreasonable chap.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “:But the fact is, he’s an innocent man.”
“Oh, yes. Without a doubt about that,” said Ted. “If there WERE any doubt about it, well my cronie, I think I would gladly give up my place AND yours in this line to a priest who deserves it more.”
Bigmouth strikes again.
Wouldn't you know it? Father Joel, of the Stocksdale parish, walks up to us and says, “No one is innocent. Nay, not a one.”
“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” said Teddy, as we both dropped through a trap door and fell, spiraling uncontrollably, down to the fiery pits of hell.
“You and your big mouth!” I got that much out just before the plunge, when I realized that I was destined to be a 21st century Dante,
6)
When we hit the ground, the hard unyielding tarmac of Hades, we walked around for a while and checked out some of the oddities.
In one area there were legions of Peter, Paul & Mary impersonators, all of them singing “Blowing in the Wind”. One of the Mary Travers look-alikes said, “Is there anything you condemned folks would like to hear?”
Teddy, in his unmistakable imbecilic fashion, said, “’Puff the Magic Dragon”.
At the mere utterance of those four dreadful words the whole joint started jumping and all the folk singers fell into the soup, screaming and praying to Bob Dylan for forgiveness.
7)
Bon Scott, late of Australian supergroup AC/DC, once said “Hell Ain’t a Bad Place to Be.” But I swear to God he wasn’t there that day when the giant holographic image of Zimmerman appeared in the flaming red sky just a-itchin' to judge all the people who had ever covered any of his songs. Roger McGuinn was sweatin’ bullets. Joan Baez fainted and could not be revived by any means.
Fortunately for everyone concerned, Man with the Golden Croak just happened to be enjoying a pleasant state of mind. His mood had only recently been leavened by a pitcher of Coors Light. Judgement Day turned into one hell of a party in Hades.
8)
The greatest rock and roll band ever assembled took the stage in front of a pyrotechnic light show that dazzled and amazed every damned soul in the joint. The crowd cheered and, in an obvious attempt to mollify Big Bob, launched into a killer rendition of “Like a Rolling Stone”.
Jim Morrison never sounded better. He was glowing with pride, having beaten Elvis Presley for the lead singer slot when the auditions were held the weekend before.
As you can imagine, Jimi’s solo before the bridge was a smash, but the real insanity came when the Captain and Tennille dropped in to sing the line about giving the bums a dime in your prime.
Everyone in the band was quite pissed off because Cappy and his bombshell old lady WEREN’T DEAD YET. It was a common understanding amongst the members of Hell’s Union that LIVING musicians were not qualified to work in the fiery pits under any circumstances.
Jim Morrison saved the day, though, as he belted out a stream of profanity aimed directly at Toni Tennille. Laced with sexual innuendo, this outburst had the desired effect of sending the “LIVES OF THE PARTY” screaming and skee-daddling north bound.
9)
The band wrapped the concert up with what may well have been the best version of “Sympathy for the Devil” ever performed. All it lacked was the original singer to put it over the top (“Ah, dontcha worry, mates,” Brian Jones quipped. “He won’t be long.”).
It was then that things began to get REALLY wild. The cocaine flowed like a big white powder river up everyone’s noses. Teddy decided that an orgy was in the offing so we walked due north about 300 yards.
“YOU’RE IN HELL!!!” a demon shouted at us.
The specter’s observation got me to thinking…Hell, hell, hell, hell. So many conceptions of what hell is supposed to be. All those fire and brimstone preachers trying to scare their flocks with visions of an ever-lasting flame…could that be the way it really is? Indescribable pain and having to suffer forever? That’s some hardcore punishment there, bro.
But lemme tell ya…being condemned to listen to the Grateful Dead for eternity may be a hard way to go but it surely isn’t as awful as the hell those Charismatic folks believe in. So let’s load up the van, pack a sack and truck on to the show, right?
10)
“Old man!” I shouted. “Is there someplace I could get a Reuben sandwich or maybe some spinach casserole?”
11)
All of this happened last night, you know. Teddy’s been dead now for the last three years. Three years is a lifetime when it’s cold out, but it’s a fucking oven out there today so I’ll stop feeling sorry for myself.
Yeah, I know. Easier said than done. Don’t I know the truth of that statement. What good does it so me, though? I still have to take the pills every night.
12)
Everyone’s crying in my beer. It’s been going on for so long that there’s no beer in my stein to cry in. All that’s left is maybe a pint of hazy tear-water.
They come from all over the globe to tell me their stories, trying to make me feel sorry for them. But I’ve got problems of my own. I am no counselor. Not a licensed one, anyways...
But seriously, my mind is being ravaged by a severe thunderstorm. It has nothing whatsoever to do with love. It’s a REAL STORM, my friends, with hail, high winds and a stunning array of thunder and lightning.
All that banging around up there has taken me back in time to the first time ever I saw your face, kissed your lips, lay with you and all that other heebee-jeebee nonsense that leads to a vulgar display of mammoth proportions. And all it does is get me hot and bothered. I lay in bed writhing, like I’m in hell again. It lingers and lingers and refuses to go away until a silly love song comes on the radio.
It’s okay, though, because I’m listening to the Adult Contemporary station and they play nothing but stale love songs 25 hours a day. I’ll never feel lust again.
Fever Dream 2004
The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.
A murder of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.
Signifying nothing.
The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.
These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.
The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.
And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.
The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."
These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of Sigur Ros, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.
A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an orgy, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
They kill the whale, and so we mourn.
They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...
They incite aggression, so we back off.
They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.
They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and discord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.
They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a straight, mornings woke and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed amongst individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.
And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to slice the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, digesting it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.
This music is a hand reaching out and over the chasm of being to grab and pull you into another reality for a few moments. For a few moments you will experience the world from the viewpoint of Jonsi. It is an exhilarating sensation, coveted by all.
This music is the voice of Thor, the cries of Aphrodite, the sins of Baal, the dreams of Pontius Pilate, the sound of coyotes cuddled in a cave, wailing at the moon. This music is the war of the worlds. It's release. Orgasm. A little death. Afterglow then off to sleep. Waking to Philip Glass, inspired to listen to him by Sigur Ros.
The needle is yanked from the record and silence and stillness return to claim their divinity.
A murder of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.
Signifying nothing.
The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.
These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.
The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.
And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.
The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."
These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of Sigur Ros, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.
A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an orgy, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
They kill the whale, and so we mourn.
They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...
They incite aggression, so we back off.
They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.
They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and discord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.
They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a straight, mornings woke and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed amongst individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.
And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to slice the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, digesting it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.
This music is a hand reaching out and over the chasm of being to grab and pull you into another reality for a few moments. For a few moments you will experience the world from the viewpoint of Jonsi. It is an exhilarating sensation, coveted by all.
This music is the voice of Thor, the cries of Aphrodite, the sins of Baal, the dreams of Pontius Pilate, the sound of coyotes cuddled in a cave, wailing at the moon. This music is the war of the worlds. It's release. Orgasm. A little death. Afterglow then off to sleep. Waking to Philip Glass, inspired to listen to him by Sigur Ros.
The needle is yanked from the record and silence and stillness return to claim their divinity.
All We Were Was a Long Way From Home
All we were was a long way from home. Too young to be so far from the loving arms of our fathers and mothers. They would not have wanted us to do these things. They would not have wanted us to think these thoughts. But they could not stop us, for we were out of their reach…this time in space, not simply victims of some generation gap of which we had no conception.
The ones we were told to trust tore the innocence from our psyches, ripped like wishbones, tossed into dustbins, and they had the nerve to laugh about it over tea and crumpets. What did they care? They’d lost theirs many years ago, forgotten, left only to extract sadistic pleasure in ruining our lives.
They told us we were wrong…
…and yet they could not tell us what was right.
So we became afraid to take comfort in red letter pages. Our hope, chiseled and scooped out, glossy oyster slick. Complicated beyond deconstruction. Would we ever laugh again?
Rained down, pain ground into fine powder we took to the brain. Despair the wind that blew back our hair, a hot steam vapor in our face to wipe away the smiles. Smiles we didn’t deserve, they told us, and we listened. It had to be better than what we’d left behind, right?
Where was the joy in an open hand to the face, forced, fast and furious? How long had it been since we gave up on love and sank down so low we dared not look above?
And I thought I had forgotten it all. I thought I had blunted every single memory from my mind of that wretched week. Seven days to erase away from my chalkboard vacant memory banks.
First day: Calliope crashed to the ground. I’ll never forget that Godawful sound.
Second day: Janie Jones all dressed in black. Rude boy’s gone and he ain’t coming back.
Third day: A lecture on the resurrection from a down-and-out agnostic. He had us convinced with his impeccable logic.
Fourth day: I ventured a kiss, you turned away. Must be that demon life that had me in it’s sway.
Fifth day: The sound of cars crashing just outside our door. The rattling rats that scurry underneath our floorboard.
Sixth day: Your father coaled. He said he was sorry for all the things he had done. Could I please give you the message?
Seventh day: No rest for the wicked, you left and stayed away. The sun turned to crimson in a sky shaded grey.
One week in the month of strange coincidences.
One month in the year of the Cat.
One year in the decade of dream-defying dogma.
One decade of six that he was given, and of that six I shared almost four.
Of those I gave you two.
From those two you took your time in tearing me down. And from the rubble, after more time had passed, I recovered this haystack needle recollection. As clear as the first ray of moonlight cutting through the breaking fog. A tattered photograph carried in a worn out wallet.
A picture of me in my Sunday best. My old man to my right and you to my left. An aura of fiery orange shimmer from the overexposed film that shined around our heads, melting halos of flame. Proving somehow that we, all three, were blessed.
Despite or because of all that’s been said, I still search for Truth in the letters in red.
----January 7, 2003
The ones we were told to trust tore the innocence from our psyches, ripped like wishbones, tossed into dustbins, and they had the nerve to laugh about it over tea and crumpets. What did they care? They’d lost theirs many years ago, forgotten, left only to extract sadistic pleasure in ruining our lives.
They told us we were wrong…
…and yet they could not tell us what was right.
So we became afraid to take comfort in red letter pages. Our hope, chiseled and scooped out, glossy oyster slick. Complicated beyond deconstruction. Would we ever laugh again?
Rained down, pain ground into fine powder we took to the brain. Despair the wind that blew back our hair, a hot steam vapor in our face to wipe away the smiles. Smiles we didn’t deserve, they told us, and we listened. It had to be better than what we’d left behind, right?
Where was the joy in an open hand to the face, forced, fast and furious? How long had it been since we gave up on love and sank down so low we dared not look above?
And I thought I had forgotten it all. I thought I had blunted every single memory from my mind of that wretched week. Seven days to erase away from my chalkboard vacant memory banks.
First day: Calliope crashed to the ground. I’ll never forget that Godawful sound.
Second day: Janie Jones all dressed in black. Rude boy’s gone and he ain’t coming back.
Third day: A lecture on the resurrection from a down-and-out agnostic. He had us convinced with his impeccable logic.
Fourth day: I ventured a kiss, you turned away. Must be that demon life that had me in it’s sway.
Fifth day: The sound of cars crashing just outside our door. The rattling rats that scurry underneath our floorboard.
Sixth day: Your father coaled. He said he was sorry for all the things he had done. Could I please give you the message?
Seventh day: No rest for the wicked, you left and stayed away. The sun turned to crimson in a sky shaded grey.
One week in the month of strange coincidences.
One month in the year of the Cat.
One year in the decade of dream-defying dogma.
One decade of six that he was given, and of that six I shared almost four.
Of those I gave you two.
From those two you took your time in tearing me down. And from the rubble, after more time had passed, I recovered this haystack needle recollection. As clear as the first ray of moonlight cutting through the breaking fog. A tattered photograph carried in a worn out wallet.
A picture of me in my Sunday best. My old man to my right and you to my left. An aura of fiery orange shimmer from the overexposed film that shined around our heads, melting halos of flame. Proving somehow that we, all three, were blessed.
Despite or because of all that’s been said, I still search for Truth in the letters in red.
----January 7, 2003
Brother Tom's Flock (excerpt)
sHe waited until right before the morning service began and then he locked himself into a stall in the men’s room. He needed privacy, and this was about as good as he was going to get. Even so, there were still two or three stragglers, washing their hands and talking amongst each other. Small talk, as it were, but it distracted Billy from his task at hand.
“Hell of a golf game yesterday morning, don’t you think, Dan?”, said a man with a burly voice.
“You’re damn right it was, Chet, “replied the man referred to as Dan. “I never thought Frank Orbeth had it in him to swing a club so motherfuckin’ hard.”
“That guy will surprise you. He’s a hard man, no doubt. But it would appear that some of the gals in the church Ladies Society find such a quality endearing.”
“And just how, pray tell, would you know about all that?” said Dan, pulling a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser.
“My wife can’t keep a secret from me,” replied Chet. “Oh, she can keep a secret all right. She knows better than to gossip about the stuff we do together, but she’ll tell me anything she finds out before I can ask her to.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure is. For instance, we’ve been seeing a sex therapist for 2 years now, and this doctor’s idea of therapy is a weekend on a ranch with 15 other couples who share the same issues that we do. She’s never said a word about it to anyone. We all get naked and sit around a fire at night. Everyone shares their issues with each other. And then the husbands share their wives”
“Oh, really? That sounds like some awesome holistic treatment, brother.”
“You better believe it is, my friend,” Chet said, trying to dry a small wet spot on his trousers where a drop of water had fallen from his hand. “My Marie says she thinks we should maybe do it two days a week instead of just the once. There’s this well-built feller there who she’s got it bad for. The guy is hung like a horse, I tell you. I feel like all I’ve got is a Vienna sausage when I’m near that guy. Marie says he’s got the knack, that he really knows how to put it to a girl. I don’t think he knows anything in particular. In fact, I think he’s a lousy lover. But all it takes is one gander at that gargantuan schlong of his and ¾ of the work is already done.”
“Wow, that’s interesting,” Dan said. “Now I wish I was married so I could get some of that action.”
“It might just be worth it, Dan. It might just be worth it, indeed. And you know what else?”
“I don’t know nuthin’, partner. Your secret is safe with me.”
“But there IS something else you might want to know. That Bloom gal…you know, the one with the fabulous tits she likes to show off with those low-cut blouses?”
“Of course I know her. She’s been attending this church longer than I have. She’s that Sunday School teacher’s wife, isn’t she?”
“You know her well, I presume?”
“Apparently not as well as I thought I did, if you’re about to say what I think you’re about to say.”
“It’s true!”, Chet said, “Oh, dear God, it is true! I could tell you a great deal about all the marital issues that she has with Greg. But how boring is that? I’d rather tell you how she winds up with me at least twice a month. How she is a powerhouse when it comes to a good old fashioned screw. I really want to tell you how she slaps the fuck out of guys who try to mount her missionary style. She likes it wild. I’d bet that Greg is wild, too, but in a gentle way. Lisa is sick of gentle, at least when it comes to rolling in the hay.”
Dan was incredulous. He threw the paper towel into the basket and picked up his bible, lingering only long enough to catch Chet’s last words before leaving. “I never would have thought of Lisa Bloom as such a slut.”
The expression on Chet’s face betrayed a righteous anger at these words. “Don’t you EVER call her a ‘slut’. Not now, not EVER, do you understand, you well-heeled spoiled bastard?”
“Sure, Chet, sure…I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I just…no, that’s not what I mean to say, I…well…when I think of wild women who despise the missionary position the first thing that comes to my head is, ‘She must be a real slut.” Dan was backpedaling how, and he knew it. “But you gotta understand…’slut’ has never been a bad thing in my book. Never. In fact, ‘slut’ is a high compliment, as I see it. I can’t tolerate a whore, because she’s only in it for the money. It’s just a way for her to make a livin’. But a SLUT, on the other hand…now there’s a woman who knows what she likes and ain’t afraid to get out there and TAKE it. I respect that. If I get married, I assure you I will marry a slut. A slut who knows she’s a slut. A slut who is proud to be a slut. A slut who would be like a wild tornado blowing through one of your therapeutic wife-swapping sessions. A slut who would burn her sexual prowess into the brains of every man lucky enough to have her. I guarantee you that each and every one of those men would never forget her. They will find themselves lying on their death beds with dreams of her free spirited ways. The only thing they won’t remember is her name.”
The mean look of Chet’s face softened somewhat. “I’m sorry, Dan, old boy,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m so defensive about Lisa Bloom anyway. Maybe I’ve grown too close to her as a result of Greg’s generosity. I should probably play the field a little more. I mean, there are lots of hot women at these things…almost as many good-lookin’ gals as there are beasts…I need to test out some of the other merchandise.”
“There you go. Problem solved, eh?”
“I suppose, but this is between you and me, you got it. You’d better be able to keep a secret as good as my old lady does, or I sweat to Almighty God I will have your legs broken. You got that?”
“I got it, Chet. I’ll keep your secret”.
Having completed their toilette they checked themselves out in the mirror one last time, then sauntered into the sanctuary.
Neither one of them had heard the slap of fist on flesh that pounded with astonishing speed in the locked stall on the far end. There was no way they could have known that the easy banter between them was adding fuel to a fire of desire that coursed through Billy Newman’s body as he sat, hunched over, perched atop a dirty toilet stool. They would have been amused at the look on his face when Chet spoke of Lisa’s “swinging lifestyle” and Dan called her a slut. He could not fathom her as such an uninhibited, sex-charged dynamo. It crossed his mind that he could have become privy to this forbidden knowledge, had she not rejected him so heartlessly a couple of weeks before. The thought was a bitter pill to swallow, and it intruded upon the mental imagery of her exposing her ample breasts to a bunch of dirty, smelly, beer-swilling hooligans. It was a fine fantasy, and it was doing the job just fine until those guys upped the ante.
“Hell of a golf game yesterday morning, don’t you think, Dan?”, said a man with a burly voice.
“You’re damn right it was, Chet, “replied the man referred to as Dan. “I never thought Frank Orbeth had it in him to swing a club so motherfuckin’ hard.”
“That guy will surprise you. He’s a hard man, no doubt. But it would appear that some of the gals in the church Ladies Society find such a quality endearing.”
“And just how, pray tell, would you know about all that?” said Dan, pulling a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser.
“My wife can’t keep a secret from me,” replied Chet. “Oh, she can keep a secret all right. She knows better than to gossip about the stuff we do together, but she’ll tell me anything she finds out before I can ask her to.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure is. For instance, we’ve been seeing a sex therapist for 2 years now, and this doctor’s idea of therapy is a weekend on a ranch with 15 other couples who share the same issues that we do. She’s never said a word about it to anyone. We all get naked and sit around a fire at night. Everyone shares their issues with each other. And then the husbands share their wives”
“Oh, really? That sounds like some awesome holistic treatment, brother.”
“You better believe it is, my friend,” Chet said, trying to dry a small wet spot on his trousers where a drop of water had fallen from his hand. “My Marie says she thinks we should maybe do it two days a week instead of just the once. There’s this well-built feller there who she’s got it bad for. The guy is hung like a horse, I tell you. I feel like all I’ve got is a Vienna sausage when I’m near that guy. Marie says he’s got the knack, that he really knows how to put it to a girl. I don’t think he knows anything in particular. In fact, I think he’s a lousy lover. But all it takes is one gander at that gargantuan schlong of his and ¾ of the work is already done.”
“Wow, that’s interesting,” Dan said. “Now I wish I was married so I could get some of that action.”
“It might just be worth it, Dan. It might just be worth it, indeed. And you know what else?”
“I don’t know nuthin’, partner. Your secret is safe with me.”
“But there IS something else you might want to know. That Bloom gal…you know, the one with the fabulous tits she likes to show off with those low-cut blouses?”
“Of course I know her. She’s been attending this church longer than I have. She’s that Sunday School teacher’s wife, isn’t she?”
“You know her well, I presume?”
“Apparently not as well as I thought I did, if you’re about to say what I think you’re about to say.”
“It’s true!”, Chet said, “Oh, dear God, it is true! I could tell you a great deal about all the marital issues that she has with Greg. But how boring is that? I’d rather tell you how she winds up with me at least twice a month. How she is a powerhouse when it comes to a good old fashioned screw. I really want to tell you how she slaps the fuck out of guys who try to mount her missionary style. She likes it wild. I’d bet that Greg is wild, too, but in a gentle way. Lisa is sick of gentle, at least when it comes to rolling in the hay.”
Dan was incredulous. He threw the paper towel into the basket and picked up his bible, lingering only long enough to catch Chet’s last words before leaving. “I never would have thought of Lisa Bloom as such a slut.”
The expression on Chet’s face betrayed a righteous anger at these words. “Don’t you EVER call her a ‘slut’. Not now, not EVER, do you understand, you well-heeled spoiled bastard?”
“Sure, Chet, sure…I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I just…no, that’s not what I mean to say, I…well…when I think of wild women who despise the missionary position the first thing that comes to my head is, ‘She must be a real slut.” Dan was backpedaling how, and he knew it. “But you gotta understand…’slut’ has never been a bad thing in my book. Never. In fact, ‘slut’ is a high compliment, as I see it. I can’t tolerate a whore, because she’s only in it for the money. It’s just a way for her to make a livin’. But a SLUT, on the other hand…now there’s a woman who knows what she likes and ain’t afraid to get out there and TAKE it. I respect that. If I get married, I assure you I will marry a slut. A slut who knows she’s a slut. A slut who is proud to be a slut. A slut who would be like a wild tornado blowing through one of your therapeutic wife-swapping sessions. A slut who would burn her sexual prowess into the brains of every man lucky enough to have her. I guarantee you that each and every one of those men would never forget her. They will find themselves lying on their death beds with dreams of her free spirited ways. The only thing they won’t remember is her name.”
The mean look of Chet’s face softened somewhat. “I’m sorry, Dan, old boy,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m so defensive about Lisa Bloom anyway. Maybe I’ve grown too close to her as a result of Greg’s generosity. I should probably play the field a little more. I mean, there are lots of hot women at these things…almost as many good-lookin’ gals as there are beasts…I need to test out some of the other merchandise.”
“There you go. Problem solved, eh?”
“I suppose, but this is between you and me, you got it. You’d better be able to keep a secret as good as my old lady does, or I sweat to Almighty God I will have your legs broken. You got that?”
“I got it, Chet. I’ll keep your secret”.
Having completed their toilette they checked themselves out in the mirror one last time, then sauntered into the sanctuary.
Neither one of them had heard the slap of fist on flesh that pounded with astonishing speed in the locked stall on the far end. There was no way they could have known that the easy banter between them was adding fuel to a fire of desire that coursed through Billy Newman’s body as he sat, hunched over, perched atop a dirty toilet stool. They would have been amused at the look on his face when Chet spoke of Lisa’s “swinging lifestyle” and Dan called her a slut. He could not fathom her as such an uninhibited, sex-charged dynamo. It crossed his mind that he could have become privy to this forbidden knowledge, had she not rejected him so heartlessly a couple of weeks before. The thought was a bitter pill to swallow, and it intruded upon the mental imagery of her exposing her ample breasts to a bunch of dirty, smelly, beer-swilling hooligans. It was a fine fantasy, and it was doing the job just fine until those guys upped the ante.
To Dance With Mary
Without going into any damning details, I must confess that I spent most of yesterday with Mary. I do well without her most of the time. I don't feel like I need her. Certainly not the way I needed her before. She doesn't have me wrapped around her finger anymore. I've come to a place in my life where I can just take her or leave her, and it's all my doing this time around. I won't be her slave.
And yet, when I see her...when I just happen to run into her...I can't help myself. Those old feelings rise within me. I can't help but say "yes" when she asks if I want to dance. Nothing in the world, that I know of, is as blissful as the way Mary dances when she's in the mood. No. she's not always in that mood. But even then she dances like an angel.
All the talk of freedom and independence from Mary's grasp, but yesterday I made it a point to run into her. I arranged it, as I knew exactly where she would be. She always waits for me there and I think she's happy to see me every 3-4 weeks. That's about how long I can make it without her. That might sound like she still holds some sway in my life, but the difference is that I'M the one calling the shots now.
I called 'em at about 2:30 pm. She was hesitant, probably a little upset that my visits have been less frequent lately. I was not worried. She was just as glad to see me as I was her. Maybe even more so. She offered me her hand as the music began to play soft, low and psychedelic.
Her dance had begun.
All the clutter in my mind melted away like snow in the sunlight. The stuffing in my brain plucked like tiny wads of cotton candy in a child's hand. She loaned me the key to my soul's cell door and let me frolic outside for a couple of hours in the fresh, sweet, herb-scented air. She saw me in ecstasy. She watched my inhibitions shed as if they were an old, dirty coat. She saw me running towards a cliff, too wasted to see it coming, and she caught hold of me. She saved my life.
Then she reminded me of how many times she'd saved my life in our days together. Of course, I could not argue with that. She'd pulled me up from abysmal depths of despair so many times I wouldn't want to try and count them. She'd opened a window to the world that proved to me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that my understanding of reality was flawed and without purpose.
I owed her a lot, it's true.
But it took me a long time to see the truth. Her love was depraved. Behind every beautiful experience we had together she was sucking the life out of me. She was turning a knife that she'd stuck into my heart. I didn't even know it was there. She was borrowing my thoughts, taking them out of my head, fucking with them, then cramming them back in. I didn't mind, but the morning after was a haze of exhaustion and headaches.
Her love was selfish. In the end, after all the flattery's euphoria dwindled to an ember, she simply did not give a shit about me. It wasn't even about dominance or submission. She needed nothing of me. Her gifts, as well as her curses, were bestowed upon me without the slightest regard for any power they might give her. She didn't care about power. She didn't seem to care about anything at all. That didn't stop her, though, from giving away a mixture of pain and pleasure, a strange alchemy she was proficient with.
All that. All that and more. And there we were, dancing again, in a smoke filled room on a warm April afternoon. All those life-changing memories...Every slice of enlightenment...The curve of her body nestled in mine, arms entwined, holding on to each other for dear life...Her musky perfume intoxicating me...Her eyes a window not to her's, but to my own soul...
Twisting the knife, sucking the life, she asked, "More?"
I wanted to say "no". I NEEDED to say "no".
But it was no good. I knew I would never refuse her completely.
"Someday," I replied.
"Soon?"
"Maybe. Probably." I said, with a slight bit of resignation. "I don't think I'll ever be able to avoid you for long."
She grinned, an impish grin. "So it is, my darling. So it has been and so it shall be. Until the day you have no more left to give. Until the day you will be unable to take any more from me. A long time from today, though. So tell me you love me. Don't let me see you walking out the door, or I'll follow. I won't be able to help myself."
"I do, darling Maria. I do love you. Turn away now. Turn away."
This morning I woke up feeling like someone had bludgeoned me with steel pipes the night before.
And yet, when I see her...when I just happen to run into her...I can't help myself. Those old feelings rise within me. I can't help but say "yes" when she asks if I want to dance. Nothing in the world, that I know of, is as blissful as the way Mary dances when she's in the mood. No. she's not always in that mood. But even then she dances like an angel.
All the talk of freedom and independence from Mary's grasp, but yesterday I made it a point to run into her. I arranged it, as I knew exactly where she would be. She always waits for me there and I think she's happy to see me every 3-4 weeks. That's about how long I can make it without her. That might sound like she still holds some sway in my life, but the difference is that I'M the one calling the shots now.
I called 'em at about 2:30 pm. She was hesitant, probably a little upset that my visits have been less frequent lately. I was not worried. She was just as glad to see me as I was her. Maybe even more so. She offered me her hand as the music began to play soft, low and psychedelic.
Her dance had begun.
All the clutter in my mind melted away like snow in the sunlight. The stuffing in my brain plucked like tiny wads of cotton candy in a child's hand. She loaned me the key to my soul's cell door and let me frolic outside for a couple of hours in the fresh, sweet, herb-scented air. She saw me in ecstasy. She watched my inhibitions shed as if they were an old, dirty coat. She saw me running towards a cliff, too wasted to see it coming, and she caught hold of me. She saved my life.
Then she reminded me of how many times she'd saved my life in our days together. Of course, I could not argue with that. She'd pulled me up from abysmal depths of despair so many times I wouldn't want to try and count them. She'd opened a window to the world that proved to me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that my understanding of reality was flawed and without purpose.
I owed her a lot, it's true.
But it took me a long time to see the truth. Her love was depraved. Behind every beautiful experience we had together she was sucking the life out of me. She was turning a knife that she'd stuck into my heart. I didn't even know it was there. She was borrowing my thoughts, taking them out of my head, fucking with them, then cramming them back in. I didn't mind, but the morning after was a haze of exhaustion and headaches.
Her love was selfish. In the end, after all the flattery's euphoria dwindled to an ember, she simply did not give a shit about me. It wasn't even about dominance or submission. She needed nothing of me. Her gifts, as well as her curses, were bestowed upon me without the slightest regard for any power they might give her. She didn't care about power. She didn't seem to care about anything at all. That didn't stop her, though, from giving away a mixture of pain and pleasure, a strange alchemy she was proficient with.
All that. All that and more. And there we were, dancing again, in a smoke filled room on a warm April afternoon. All those life-changing memories...Every slice of enlightenment...The curve of her body nestled in mine, arms entwined, holding on to each other for dear life...Her musky perfume intoxicating me...Her eyes a window not to her's, but to my own soul...
Twisting the knife, sucking the life, she asked, "More?"
I wanted to say "no". I NEEDED to say "no".
But it was no good. I knew I would never refuse her completely.
"Someday," I replied.
"Soon?"
"Maybe. Probably." I said, with a slight bit of resignation. "I don't think I'll ever be able to avoid you for long."
She grinned, an impish grin. "So it is, my darling. So it has been and so it shall be. Until the day you have no more left to give. Until the day you will be unable to take any more from me. A long time from today, though. So tell me you love me. Don't let me see you walking out the door, or I'll follow. I won't be able to help myself."
"I do, darling Maria. I do love you. Turn away now. Turn away."
This morning I woke up feeling like someone had bludgeoned me with steel pipes the night before.
Livin' Thing (1-7)
1.
I’m told it’s a “living thing”, a given thing and, moreover, is a terrible thing to lose. ‘Nuff said, ‘kay?
2.
What was she doing at the reception? Why was she so envious of his riches? How many drinks under her belt since she started on that glass of wine she‘s holding in her hand right now? So possessive.
I always seem to run into her at the drug store. I wonder what kind of medication she takes. Some incredibly strange desire to know this floats through my ghost. Some generic anti- depressant or maybe something stronger, along the lines of thorazine or haldol. A bizarre sense of arousal consumes me as I fantasize about popping those pills with her. I don’t care what kind they are…if they cure what ails her then they’ll probably take care of what’s wrong with me.
I remember…it was just a week or two ago. Once again I bumped into her at the drug store. She was looking good. Real good. The prospect of reading the labels on her medicine bottles was overpowering, finally knowing the names of the many prescriptions she had filled once every month.
My plan was thwarted, however, when she ordered a soda. I never did find out those drug names, but I learned something which I felt could very possibly change the odds of she and I hooking up. And that is this: her favorite flavor is cherry red.
I don’t think she has a boyfriend, but there is this guy who is always coming around for no real reason. He seems to think that he’s her old man. I often pretend that I believe it as well. One night the three of us went to a karaoke bar. I got just drunk enough not to care if I made a fool of myself having fun. The other two in our party had no problem nominating me for the opening act.
I walked behind the booth and introduced myself to the DJ.
“Yo, yo,” he said, after I told him my name and shook his hand. “I’m DJ Crackhead. Steady chillin’ and ill feelin’, I got the wax and the tracks if you got the crack, Jack. Now get off my back ‘less you got somethin’ you want to karaoke to.”
“Actually, I do have a request. Do you see that hot little red head in the Hooters tank top? The one sitting next to the pimply faced weasel? Well, I’m wantin’ that dame for my own and I need to lose him. I need to shout out respect to my bitch and be dissing this dweeb at the same time. Can you play some Stones? I’m thinking ‘Satisfaction’ or maybe ‘Get Off Of My Cloud’?”
“Gee, G! I can float them joints easier than the pope be funny dressed. ‘Get Off Of My Cloud’, baby?”
“Only seems fitting. Let’s do this, Rider!”
As the short, sharp beats of the song bring down the house, to thunderous applause I strutted to the microphone. “People!!! All 6 of you! That’s not counting the bar tender or the wait staff, so we can’t really count this as the largest crowd we’ve ever had attend one of our shows. But I’m gonna tear the rood off this sucka’ with a brutal Rolling Stones tune I’m gonna send out to my gal’s old man, Jimmy!”
I wailed the hell out of that song. Jagger would have been proud of me, that’s for sure. He would have invited me back to the limo to maybe mainline a little smack with him. Everyone in that place was getting into it, but not Jimmy. Oh no, not Mister Jimmy. You could tell he was getting into the song itself, but not the singer.
As the song faded out I returned to our table, sweat dripping off of me like raindrops that fell into her wine glass. Wiping myself with a napkin, I turned to her and asked, “Did you like that one, babe? Did that spectacle turn you on?”
She replied, “O God, yeah! Yeah on both counts!” She leaned towards me and whispered in my ear, “You know, if we could ditch Jimmy I would sure be up for some kink-a-dee-kink. All the time you sang about “not hanging around” and how “two’s a crowd” on your cloud, I could only think of this leach. You’ve got to help me, sweetheart, you’ve just GOTTA!”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said quietly, then turned to Jimmy. “ Well Ol’ Jimmy, Ol’ Jimmy “ Boy, what did you think?”
He looked me square in the eye. I knew he meant business. You could tell by the squint in his eyes. He blinked once and said one word…”Dead”.
3.
Did we really count to one hundred? Why were we counting and perhaps even more important, WHAT were we counting? Why did the object being counted need to be counted to? Was 100 the exact count? Could we count further than 100? Did we have to keep counting even if there are only 79 units in total? Can you explain? I can’t.
4.
You got a big mouth. You know that’s an undisputed fact. When it comes to informing the town about the fine details of my alcohol problem…well that‘s where I draw the line. You are one hypocritical, self-serving, self-righteous biddy who doesn’t know when to shut up.
Everyone knows I’ve been drinking and foolin’ around. The Lord knows I’m sinning and God knows sinning ain’t right. But we’re gonna chat it up tonight, and if you want to see a change of attitude and tone, well I suggest that you stick a sock in it.
5.
Chewing on a piece of grass.
Walking down the road.
Wishing on a falling star.
Waiting on the early train.
Aging with time
Alligator lizards in the air…
Interlude.
All is quiet, save the ringing in the ears. The darkness envelopes me completely, I’m lying in it’s arms. Insatiable demands we’ll make against the wisdom of the Overlords. Who see it through those eyes that criticize all they don’t understand. They don’t understand me or you. You or me.
6.
Sometimes I just like to sit back and take in a good nostril or two of pungeant skunk stank. Years have come and years have gone but one thing has remained…I ain’t a-offended o’ the smell o’ Pepe LePew.
I don’t know but that my opinion might change if one o’ them little rascals were to saunter up to me and spray his stench on my leg. The buck will probably stop there.
But anymore that stuff just reminds me of the killer bud.
7.
The wolves ain’t the only critters howlin’ at the moon tonight.
That’s what she told me as inspiration swirled down the drainage ditch into the vat of apathy.
“Jump in, Jim, let’s go for a swim.”
She took off her clothes and I couldn’t help but stare.
I’m told it’s a “living thing”, a given thing and, moreover, is a terrible thing to lose. ‘Nuff said, ‘kay?
2.
What was she doing at the reception? Why was she so envious of his riches? How many drinks under her belt since she started on that glass of wine she‘s holding in her hand right now? So possessive.
I always seem to run into her at the drug store. I wonder what kind of medication she takes. Some incredibly strange desire to know this floats through my ghost. Some generic anti- depressant or maybe something stronger, along the lines of thorazine or haldol. A bizarre sense of arousal consumes me as I fantasize about popping those pills with her. I don’t care what kind they are…if they cure what ails her then they’ll probably take care of what’s wrong with me.
I remember…it was just a week or two ago. Once again I bumped into her at the drug store. She was looking good. Real good. The prospect of reading the labels on her medicine bottles was overpowering, finally knowing the names of the many prescriptions she had filled once every month.
My plan was thwarted, however, when she ordered a soda. I never did find out those drug names, but I learned something which I felt could very possibly change the odds of she and I hooking up. And that is this: her favorite flavor is cherry red.
I don’t think she has a boyfriend, but there is this guy who is always coming around for no real reason. He seems to think that he’s her old man. I often pretend that I believe it as well. One night the three of us went to a karaoke bar. I got just drunk enough not to care if I made a fool of myself having fun. The other two in our party had no problem nominating me for the opening act.
I walked behind the booth and introduced myself to the DJ.
“Yo, yo,” he said, after I told him my name and shook his hand. “I’m DJ Crackhead. Steady chillin’ and ill feelin’, I got the wax and the tracks if you got the crack, Jack. Now get off my back ‘less you got somethin’ you want to karaoke to.”
“Actually, I do have a request. Do you see that hot little red head in the Hooters tank top? The one sitting next to the pimply faced weasel? Well, I’m wantin’ that dame for my own and I need to lose him. I need to shout out respect to my bitch and be dissing this dweeb at the same time. Can you play some Stones? I’m thinking ‘Satisfaction’ or maybe ‘Get Off Of My Cloud’?”
“Gee, G! I can float them joints easier than the pope be funny dressed. ‘Get Off Of My Cloud’, baby?”
“Only seems fitting. Let’s do this, Rider!”
As the short, sharp beats of the song bring down the house, to thunderous applause I strutted to the microphone. “People!!! All 6 of you! That’s not counting the bar tender or the wait staff, so we can’t really count this as the largest crowd we’ve ever had attend one of our shows. But I’m gonna tear the rood off this sucka’ with a brutal Rolling Stones tune I’m gonna send out to my gal’s old man, Jimmy!”
I wailed the hell out of that song. Jagger would have been proud of me, that’s for sure. He would have invited me back to the limo to maybe mainline a little smack with him. Everyone in that place was getting into it, but not Jimmy. Oh no, not Mister Jimmy. You could tell he was getting into the song itself, but not the singer.
As the song faded out I returned to our table, sweat dripping off of me like raindrops that fell into her wine glass. Wiping myself with a napkin, I turned to her and asked, “Did you like that one, babe? Did that spectacle turn you on?”
She replied, “O God, yeah! Yeah on both counts!” She leaned towards me and whispered in my ear, “You know, if we could ditch Jimmy I would sure be up for some kink-a-dee-kink. All the time you sang about “not hanging around” and how “two’s a crowd” on your cloud, I could only think of this leach. You’ve got to help me, sweetheart, you’ve just GOTTA!”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said quietly, then turned to Jimmy. “ Well Ol’ Jimmy, Ol’ Jimmy “ Boy, what did you think?”
He looked me square in the eye. I knew he meant business. You could tell by the squint in his eyes. He blinked once and said one word…”Dead”.
3.
Did we really count to one hundred? Why were we counting and perhaps even more important, WHAT were we counting? Why did the object being counted need to be counted to? Was 100 the exact count? Could we count further than 100? Did we have to keep counting even if there are only 79 units in total? Can you explain? I can’t.
4.
You got a big mouth. You know that’s an undisputed fact. When it comes to informing the town about the fine details of my alcohol problem…well that‘s where I draw the line. You are one hypocritical, self-serving, self-righteous biddy who doesn’t know when to shut up.
Everyone knows I’ve been drinking and foolin’ around. The Lord knows I’m sinning and God knows sinning ain’t right. But we’re gonna chat it up tonight, and if you want to see a change of attitude and tone, well I suggest that you stick a sock in it.
5.
Chewing on a piece of grass.
Walking down the road.
Wishing on a falling star.
Waiting on the early train.
Aging with time
Alligator lizards in the air…
Interlude.
All is quiet, save the ringing in the ears. The darkness envelopes me completely, I’m lying in it’s arms. Insatiable demands we’ll make against the wisdom of the Overlords. Who see it through those eyes that criticize all they don’t understand. They don’t understand me or you. You or me.
6.
Sometimes I just like to sit back and take in a good nostril or two of pungeant skunk stank. Years have come and years have gone but one thing has remained…I ain’t a-offended o’ the smell o’ Pepe LePew.
I don’t know but that my opinion might change if one o’ them little rascals were to saunter up to me and spray his stench on my leg. The buck will probably stop there.
But anymore that stuff just reminds me of the killer bud.
7.
The wolves ain’t the only critters howlin’ at the moon tonight.
That’s what she told me as inspiration swirled down the drainage ditch into the vat of apathy.
“Jump in, Jim, let’s go for a swim.”
She took off her clothes and I couldn’t help but stare.
Joker Awakens
Joker’s peaceful sleep is over. His thoughts come slow and groggy. Yet he thinks:
Like a dead slug I lay in the bed this morning, tired of snoring, sucked out of the last dream that had me in its thrall. Contemplating the hard work of opening my eyes, I realize that sleep has once again deserted me. What a tease.
With the strength of Hercules I pry them open, seeing nothing but a fuzz-hazed screen that temporarily hides my pillow. When they re-adjust to the morning’s light I will be able to see, with great clarity, the Harry Potter designs that illustrate the pillow case. This used to make me smile, when the idea was fresh and new. The idea, like most, has come and gone, with it the novelty.
There’s nothing that I have to do this morning, after I muster the will to rise. Brew up a batch of coffee. The morning constitutional. The hard chore of turning the computer on. Making sure everything is where it was when I went to bed last night. Turning on some music, a safety net to keep the reality of emptiness from consuming me. Or maybe it’s the emptiness of reality that shoots me down. Either way, Jon Thor can sew together the spider web coil that buffers and saves. I’ll want to go back to sleep.
But she’s gone, gone, lost in the exchange for wakefulness and life. Gone for a chance to make more memories that seem so integral and seem so important but are forgotten as surely as the strange faces that have marched before me all my days. Gone to seduce someone else, leaving only a note telling me she’ll back tomorrow night. “Enjoy your day.”
Eyes now open, sleepy crusted corners, I swim through the chaos and illusion until I find my mind. Your mind. Our mind. THE mind. I know what I am nothing more than an infinitesimally small conduit of this holy ghost mind. The only power I have is the ability to hunt it down and find it every morning. I take it back by force, but I do take it back. I make myself forget that it’s not mine for a little while. Yeah, it slips away sometimes. But I’m usually able to retrieve it before anyone notices. If there’s no one there to see, I’m content to let it roam.
My breath must reek. My mouth is dry and it tastes like something took a shit in there last night. Not that I would know what shit tastes like, but you get the general idea. The contributors to this ungodly stench: the Black and Mild “Wine” flavored pipe tobacco cigar I smoked before I went to bed. The detritus of pepperoni that cleaved to my gums after devouring an entire package, coated with mustard, before retiring (too lazy to brush my teeth) . And then there was the foul odor of the good, long hit of weed that helped me fall asleep. All in all, it added up to a smell that conjured the deep cesspools of the ninth circle of hell, guano and scum floating on it’s surface.
And yet, I debate whether or not I’m going to brush my teeth this morning. Another aspect of the morning routine I’ve abandoned of late, having developed a taste for the sickening flavor that coats the inside of my mouth. Maybe I’ll go all day without brushing, see just how many variations I can make on the original by the addition of various foodstuffs.
Foodstuffs…that reminds me. My belly is stuffed to the gills with a potpourri of vittles that I gorged myself on earlier in the evening. I was in the tight grip of a serious case of the “munchies” before Thor banged his mallet on my cranium. Can I even remember all the shit I ate? Flamin’ Hot Cheetos…Barbecue flavor Wavy Lays…Orange sherbet…Sunflower seeds…practically an entire Supreme pizza…so much food that I feared, even as I ate it, that I might very well vomit it all back out. Even as this notion threatened to manifest itself into reality I took another bite…I wondered what else was in the house I could eat.
So it was, I fell on the bed. I felt like a beached whale about 8 hours ago. Surely I gained 10 pounds. 10 pounds worth of calories I sure as hell didn’t work off in the middle of the night. So this morning, as I wake, I’m still that beached whale, smashing his sunk impression into the mattress.
And so it is, I lie here, still breathing. Another chance to do something worth remembering tomorrow. So much time to do it between the horns of the day. Inspiration to be found in all that I am, in all that we experience together. Choices to be made. Worlds of consciousness to explore and map out. Intoxicating words I can use to describe them. Concepts not yet discovered by mankind, ideas that could usher the world into a new age.
And so I lie here, still breathing. Wondering if ANYTHING is worth remembering tomorrow, still grasping at the moment before me. Time changes it’s tune with regularity, and right now he moves with the speed and precision of a NASCAR driver. It moves along, passes inspiration right by, careless of experience past, present or future. Any choices to be made, I realize, are so trivial, so inconsequential, they barely pull at the fabric. I’ve bombarded my consciousness with atomic bongs, I’ve given up trying to describe it all. I know, deep in my being, that I have nothing whatsoever to offer the world, nothing even to offer myself.
New age? Ha. Same old shit. Another generation begging someone to pull the plug and make way for the whippersnappers.
So Joker turns over, tries to find sleep again.
Fails.
Like a dead slug I lay in the bed this morning, tired of snoring, sucked out of the last dream that had me in its thrall. Contemplating the hard work of opening my eyes, I realize that sleep has once again deserted me. What a tease.
With the strength of Hercules I pry them open, seeing nothing but a fuzz-hazed screen that temporarily hides my pillow. When they re-adjust to the morning’s light I will be able to see, with great clarity, the Harry Potter designs that illustrate the pillow case. This used to make me smile, when the idea was fresh and new. The idea, like most, has come and gone, with it the novelty.
There’s nothing that I have to do this morning, after I muster the will to rise. Brew up a batch of coffee. The morning constitutional. The hard chore of turning the computer on. Making sure everything is where it was when I went to bed last night. Turning on some music, a safety net to keep the reality of emptiness from consuming me. Or maybe it’s the emptiness of reality that shoots me down. Either way, Jon Thor can sew together the spider web coil that buffers and saves. I’ll want to go back to sleep.
But she’s gone, gone, lost in the exchange for wakefulness and life. Gone for a chance to make more memories that seem so integral and seem so important but are forgotten as surely as the strange faces that have marched before me all my days. Gone to seduce someone else, leaving only a note telling me she’ll back tomorrow night. “Enjoy your day.”
Eyes now open, sleepy crusted corners, I swim through the chaos and illusion until I find my mind. Your mind. Our mind. THE mind. I know what I am nothing more than an infinitesimally small conduit of this holy ghost mind. The only power I have is the ability to hunt it down and find it every morning. I take it back by force, but I do take it back. I make myself forget that it’s not mine for a little while. Yeah, it slips away sometimes. But I’m usually able to retrieve it before anyone notices. If there’s no one there to see, I’m content to let it roam.
My breath must reek. My mouth is dry and it tastes like something took a shit in there last night. Not that I would know what shit tastes like, but you get the general idea. The contributors to this ungodly stench: the Black and Mild “Wine” flavored pipe tobacco cigar I smoked before I went to bed. The detritus of pepperoni that cleaved to my gums after devouring an entire package, coated with mustard, before retiring (too lazy to brush my teeth) . And then there was the foul odor of the good, long hit of weed that helped me fall asleep. All in all, it added up to a smell that conjured the deep cesspools of the ninth circle of hell, guano and scum floating on it’s surface.
And yet, I debate whether or not I’m going to brush my teeth this morning. Another aspect of the morning routine I’ve abandoned of late, having developed a taste for the sickening flavor that coats the inside of my mouth. Maybe I’ll go all day without brushing, see just how many variations I can make on the original by the addition of various foodstuffs.
Foodstuffs…that reminds me. My belly is stuffed to the gills with a potpourri of vittles that I gorged myself on earlier in the evening. I was in the tight grip of a serious case of the “munchies” before Thor banged his mallet on my cranium. Can I even remember all the shit I ate? Flamin’ Hot Cheetos…Barbecue flavor Wavy Lays…Orange sherbet…Sunflower seeds…practically an entire Supreme pizza…so much food that I feared, even as I ate it, that I might very well vomit it all back out. Even as this notion threatened to manifest itself into reality I took another bite…I wondered what else was in the house I could eat.
So it was, I fell on the bed. I felt like a beached whale about 8 hours ago. Surely I gained 10 pounds. 10 pounds worth of calories I sure as hell didn’t work off in the middle of the night. So this morning, as I wake, I’m still that beached whale, smashing his sunk impression into the mattress.
And so it is, I lie here, still breathing. Another chance to do something worth remembering tomorrow. So much time to do it between the horns of the day. Inspiration to be found in all that I am, in all that we experience together. Choices to be made. Worlds of consciousness to explore and map out. Intoxicating words I can use to describe them. Concepts not yet discovered by mankind, ideas that could usher the world into a new age.
And so I lie here, still breathing. Wondering if ANYTHING is worth remembering tomorrow, still grasping at the moment before me. Time changes it’s tune with regularity, and right now he moves with the speed and precision of a NASCAR driver. It moves along, passes inspiration right by, careless of experience past, present or future. Any choices to be made, I realize, are so trivial, so inconsequential, they barely pull at the fabric. I’ve bombarded my consciousness with atomic bongs, I’ve given up trying to describe it all. I know, deep in my being, that I have nothing whatsoever to offer the world, nothing even to offer myself.
New age? Ha. Same old shit. Another generation begging someone to pull the plug and make way for the whippersnappers.
So Joker turns over, tries to find sleep again.
Fails.
Livin' Thing (8-9)
8.
I need to know something. I don’t know if you want to tell me or not, but I really don’t care. You’re gonna tell me or you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m already pissed and it won’t take much to push me over the edge into dangerously angry territory.
No, fuck it. Never mind. I’m ALREADY in “dangerously angry territory”. No, it wasn’t your fault. I was already close enough I could see the other side of reason before you came along.
But it would still be nice to know, if you’re willing to tell me. I mean, I’m not going to force it from you. That was the plan just a moment ago, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided that my bitterness is not your fault. I won’t make you pay for it.
Yet I do feel as if it would do me a world of good to know.
Where were you when I was falling in love?
Were you sitting in a back seat of a crowded subway train with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” in the other, holding it in front of your face as if it’s pages were a fascinating mirror? Was there an old man sitting near who turned to look at you every so often to the point where it creeped you out? Maybe you eventually said something to him, like “Excuse me, but is there something you wanted to say to me?"
“Why would you get that idea?” he would ask, as if he were totally oblivious to his invasive nature.
“I don’t know…you just keep looking at me and I wondered if there were a reason for it.”
“Nope. Not that I can think of.”
Did you smack him real good right then? Did you draw blood? I hope you did. I hope the driver had to stop the train to come back and drag you off of him. It would have been a real drag if the police had to be summoned, but on the other hand, wow, how erotic the thought of you resisting arrest.
Or did you cower into your corner, turn a page in your book and let the lecherous bastard carry on? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the kind of girl you are. I think you’re a firecracker.
And I think that wherever you were when I was falling in love is not where I wanted you to be. Not where you should have been.
Because I fell in love with a robot. Who knows why I fell in love with an ottoman? I didn’t know she was one at the time. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall in love with a machine? No, she was flesh and bones when I met her. She seemed normal, like all the other women I’ve ever seen or known.
But then she started smoking cigarettes. She carried them around in a little soft leather pouch that could be mistaken for nothing else but a case for holding the little fuckers.
God I hate cigarettes. I hate the smell of them, whether they’re lit or not. I hate the dark tan color of their filters with the little white dots speckled randomly. I hate the cotton that stuffs their filters. I hate the white paper with the almost imperceptible stripes banding around their length. I hate how the brand is stamped close to the base of the filter. I hate the packages that they come in and the cellophane that wraps them. I hate how stray flecks of tobacco gather in the bottom of the boxes and the wrappers, too. I hate how they make a person’s breath stink. I hate how they make a person’s clothes reek. I hate the way they look in a shirt pocket. I hate the way they look between people’s fingers and in their mouths. I hate the way they burn down to the nub and the ash that they leave behind. I hate pitch black nicotine stains on hardcore smokers’ hands. I hate the way some people put one between their ear and noggin and actually think it makes them look cool. I hate how smokers seem to have some code of sharing, how it’s always “Hey, can I bum a smoke from you?” and 99 times out of 100 the answer is “sure”. It’s never, “Okay, but you gotta pay me back.” Oh no, Smoker’s Karma is at work here. I hate the way too many people call ‘em “smokes”. “I’m off to get a pack of smokes.” Good God, I think that’s lame. “Smokes”. Ha. I hate the way smokers bitch about laws that prohibit them from smoking in public and how so many of them have absolutely no regard for non-smokers who not only can’t stand the smell of the bastards but would just as soon not chance even the most remote possibility of getting lung cancer caused by second hand smoke. I hate how smokers would tell that person, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. The chances of that happening are one in a million.” So what? Fuck you. Fuck you with your nasty cancer sticks and fuck your tar-lined wheezing lungs, too. Fuck the death bed you will lie on when emphysema steals your last breath. Fuck the oxygen tanks that cost almost as much as all the cartons of cigarettes you have wasted your money on during the last who-knows-how-many years of your life. Fuck all your attempts to quit. Fuck the feeling of disappointment that overwhelms when you fail once again, as Mighty God Tobacco hugs you, strokes your wet hair, wipes the sweat from your forehead and the tears from your eyes. Sweet summer sweat. The tears of a clown.
You know what? She never smoked before. I never would have thought she would pick up that disgusting habit, but she sure as hell did. Picked it up like it was a twenty dollar bill someone lost that she found on the side of the road as she walked to the smoke shop to buy another pack of Marlboro Lights.
There’s another thing I hate about cigarettes. “Smoke Shops”. Where the value-minded smokers purchase their wares. Not “Cigarette Store”. Not “Tobacco Warehouse"…oh, no. It’s a SMOKE SHOP. You’re going to buy some smoke, brother Jim. You’re gonna spend too much money at the 7-11 and it’s all gonna go up in smoke, but by the grace of God you are gonna save a couple of bucks by purchasing them at the “Smoke Shop” instead of the convenience store. You complain until you’re blue in the face about how ridiculously high the ciggy prices are at normal retail outlets, but when you run out of ‘em and the God-blessed “Smoke Shop” is closed ‘cuz it’s Sunday you’ll drive like a madman to Love’s and blow ten bucks because there’s a “Buy Two Get One Free” special going on. What a god damn good deal that is, eh, mister?
Furthermore…CIGGYS??? I hate how people call ‘em “ciggys”. But not nearly as much as I hate the word “cigarette”. I cannot stand to speak the word. I hate the way it rolls of my tongue. I hate the way the word sounds like it means “little cigars”.
I hate the way some smokers empty out their car ashtrays in the parking lot. I hate the way all the butts look lying there in a heap, a pile of paper soaked with the spittle of a hundred different mouths. And yet the nicotine python grips some desperate smokers so tightly that they will pick them up and try to smoke the last tiny flecks of tobacco from their crushed and blackened ends. I’ve even seen people extract the remaining weed from several discarded butts, roll it all up in a Zig Zag paper and smoke it. Don’t these people even know what Zig Zag papers are for? They sure ain't for tobacco, Charter.
“Butts”. There’s another word in the smokers lexicon that just sounds silly. “Smoke ‘er down to the butt, Jack, we’ve got more!” “I don’t have an ash tray, Terry, so just put your BUTTS in that half empty soda can over there on the table”…never thinking that there might be someone else at the party who could very likely mistake that particular pop can for his own and take a mighty swig from it. Oh my God, the thought, it gags me. How nauseating it would be to feel one of those wretched things fall against your lips and…Egad…the flavor…and yet the cruel smoker will laugh at such misfortune.
Fuck.
God help me.
She was not a robot when I met her. Oh, no, she was a beautiful, exciting, passionate loving woman with a heart of gold and a desire that was practically insatiable. Here…take a look, I have a photograph in my wallet. See what I mean? That’s right, daddy-O, she was a real dreamboat. I used to carry this picture with me wherever I went…I guess I still do, huh? But I don’t know why. I don’t know why I torture myself looking at it, remembering what was, all we had, our bright and glorious future wrecked and deserted by her newfound proclivity for smoking cigarettes. Yeah, my friend, she was a real keeper. But you know what? Fuck her now, y’know? Just turn her over and fuck her.
But hey…perhaps I’ve been too harsh on the smoker in general (if not to her…no, not to her). Perhaps I have exaggerated a bit. After all, some of my best friends smoke. It’s their business, not mine. Never has been mine. I know that. If they knew how I felt about the whole thing, whose to say they wouldn’t tell me to bugger off and never come back? Then again, if they are so shallow as to take any of this as a personal insult, then maybe, just maybe they aren’t my friends after all. I doubt the robot would want anything more to do with me if she knew what a stalwart anti-smoker I am. But I thought she felt the same. She DID feel the same. She told me as much. Before she lost her soul. Before she started smoking cigarettes. Before she started bumming ciggys.
I got no time for changes in her life so now I ask you again…where were you when I was falling in love?
Were you sitting in a Pentecostal Holiness church on a hard pew early Sunday morning before the service began, thumbing through the hymnal, looking for one that best expressed your feelings of devotion at that point in your spiritual journey? And what would that hymn have been? “Onward Christian Soldiers”? “Peace in the Valley”? “In the Garden”? “Smoke on the Water”? “Hotel California”? Maybe some obscure Black Sabbath song tucked in at the end of the book, next to the Doxology?
Did your hair shimmer, reflected in the light that poured through the stained glass window directly behind you? Did you feel it’s heat on your neck? Did it draw out beads of perspiration there, glistening? Would you have let me lick them and taste their saltiness even in the sanctuary of the church building? Probably not. But I don’t think the idea would repulse you like it would some other bonnet headed midi-skirt wearing holy rollin’ bitch.
Maybe I would have asked you outside so that you might feel a little more comfortable with what I’d had in mind.
And maybe you would have told me “no”. I couldn’t blame you for that. No, I wouldn’t. It’s only natural for a real woman to guard her integrity in situations such as this one. I could not hold that against you.
Is that where you were? I need to know. Where the hell were you when I was falling in love?
9.
How could this have happened? She lay on her bed with a steady stream of dark, smelly blood dripping from her ears. The pain in her head was debilitating. It consumed her and dumbed down all thoughts except for one:
“Is it possible to love a man who takes out his frustrations in the bed?”
She didn’t know the answer to that one, though she’d had several occasions upon which to ponder the question when the inspiration for it was still fresh and painful.
Maybe she just didn’t know what love was. She needed someone to show her, perhaps. Her old man sure enough hadn’t. She wouldn’t accept that he was a cruel taskmaster whose compassion was corrupt. In reality he had served up a huge helping of abuse and told her to take it or leave it. Until now she had chosen to keep it.
This morning she wasn’t so sure.
“It’s been my understanding,” she told a friend on the phone later that afternoon, “that life is seldom fair.” She said this with conviction. As if she were the only one who cared.
But by the time “Must See Thursday” had come around to “E.R.” he was back. Sprawled out on the genuine leather La-Z-Boy her father had given them as a wedding present 3 years ago.
“Goddamit girl, I needs me another can o‘ Coors. What the hell are you doin’ in there? Turn off that damn stereo. You know how much I hate R.E.M. What are you doin’ listenin’ to that shit anyway?”
She was going to do what he told her to do, that was certain. She knew that. She knew better than to do anything else. But not until that last verse of “Everybody Hurts” played out.
And so the night dragged on. From one can o’ Coors to the next can o’ Coors until there were no more cans o’ Coors left and it didn’t matter because he was knocked out flat until 3 or 4 in the morning. At which point he would wake up and feel like having a little fun. Havin’ a little bit o’ HIS brand of fun, he’d tell you.
She woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar room. At least that’s how it seemed. She tried to sort out the fiction from the truth but it wasn’t easy because that pain in her head was back. There were broken bottles on the floor, scattered from the bed to the bathroom…
And there was a body beside her.
She said a little prayer, grabbed her clothes and hit the door.
And that’s how it went down.
I need to know something. I don’t know if you want to tell me or not, but I really don’t care. You’re gonna tell me or you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m already pissed and it won’t take much to push me over the edge into dangerously angry territory.
No, fuck it. Never mind. I’m ALREADY in “dangerously angry territory”. No, it wasn’t your fault. I was already close enough I could see the other side of reason before you came along.
But it would still be nice to know, if you’re willing to tell me. I mean, I’m not going to force it from you. That was the plan just a moment ago, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided that my bitterness is not your fault. I won’t make you pay for it.
Yet I do feel as if it would do me a world of good to know.
Where were you when I was falling in love?
Were you sitting in a back seat of a crowded subway train with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” in the other, holding it in front of your face as if it’s pages were a fascinating mirror? Was there an old man sitting near who turned to look at you every so often to the point where it creeped you out? Maybe you eventually said something to him, like “Excuse me, but is there something you wanted to say to me?"
“Why would you get that idea?” he would ask, as if he were totally oblivious to his invasive nature.
“I don’t know…you just keep looking at me and I wondered if there were a reason for it.”
“Nope. Not that I can think of.”
Did you smack him real good right then? Did you draw blood? I hope you did. I hope the driver had to stop the train to come back and drag you off of him. It would have been a real drag if the police had to be summoned, but on the other hand, wow, how erotic the thought of you resisting arrest.
Or did you cower into your corner, turn a page in your book and let the lecherous bastard carry on? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the kind of girl you are. I think you’re a firecracker.
And I think that wherever you were when I was falling in love is not where I wanted you to be. Not where you should have been.
Because I fell in love with a robot. Who knows why I fell in love with an ottoman? I didn’t know she was one at the time. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall in love with a machine? No, she was flesh and bones when I met her. She seemed normal, like all the other women I’ve ever seen or known.
But then she started smoking cigarettes. She carried them around in a little soft leather pouch that could be mistaken for nothing else but a case for holding the little fuckers.
God I hate cigarettes. I hate the smell of them, whether they’re lit or not. I hate the dark tan color of their filters with the little white dots speckled randomly. I hate the cotton that stuffs their filters. I hate the white paper with the almost imperceptible stripes banding around their length. I hate how the brand is stamped close to the base of the filter. I hate the packages that they come in and the cellophane that wraps them. I hate how stray flecks of tobacco gather in the bottom of the boxes and the wrappers, too. I hate how they make a person’s breath stink. I hate how they make a person’s clothes reek. I hate the way they look in a shirt pocket. I hate the way they look between people’s fingers and in their mouths. I hate the way they burn down to the nub and the ash that they leave behind. I hate pitch black nicotine stains on hardcore smokers’ hands. I hate the way some people put one between their ear and noggin and actually think it makes them look cool. I hate how smokers seem to have some code of sharing, how it’s always “Hey, can I bum a smoke from you?” and 99 times out of 100 the answer is “sure”. It’s never, “Okay, but you gotta pay me back.” Oh no, Smoker’s Karma is at work here. I hate the way too many people call ‘em “smokes”. “I’m off to get a pack of smokes.” Good God, I think that’s lame. “Smokes”. Ha. I hate the way smokers bitch about laws that prohibit them from smoking in public and how so many of them have absolutely no regard for non-smokers who not only can’t stand the smell of the bastards but would just as soon not chance even the most remote possibility of getting lung cancer caused by second hand smoke. I hate how smokers would tell that person, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. The chances of that happening are one in a million.” So what? Fuck you. Fuck you with your nasty cancer sticks and fuck your tar-lined wheezing lungs, too. Fuck the death bed you will lie on when emphysema steals your last breath. Fuck the oxygen tanks that cost almost as much as all the cartons of cigarettes you have wasted your money on during the last who-knows-how-many years of your life. Fuck all your attempts to quit. Fuck the feeling of disappointment that overwhelms when you fail once again, as Mighty God Tobacco hugs you, strokes your wet hair, wipes the sweat from your forehead and the tears from your eyes. Sweet summer sweat. The tears of a clown.
You know what? She never smoked before. I never would have thought she would pick up that disgusting habit, but she sure as hell did. Picked it up like it was a twenty dollar bill someone lost that she found on the side of the road as she walked to the smoke shop to buy another pack of Marlboro Lights.
There’s another thing I hate about cigarettes. “Smoke Shops”. Where the value-minded smokers purchase their wares. Not “Cigarette Store”. Not “Tobacco Warehouse"…oh, no. It’s a SMOKE SHOP. You’re going to buy some smoke, brother Jim. You’re gonna spend too much money at the 7-11 and it’s all gonna go up in smoke, but by the grace of God you are gonna save a couple of bucks by purchasing them at the “Smoke Shop” instead of the convenience store. You complain until you’re blue in the face about how ridiculously high the ciggy prices are at normal retail outlets, but when you run out of ‘em and the God-blessed “Smoke Shop” is closed ‘cuz it’s Sunday you’ll drive like a madman to Love’s and blow ten bucks because there’s a “Buy Two Get One Free” special going on. What a god damn good deal that is, eh, mister?
Furthermore…CIGGYS??? I hate how people call ‘em “ciggys”. But not nearly as much as I hate the word “cigarette”. I cannot stand to speak the word. I hate the way it rolls of my tongue. I hate the way the word sounds like it means “little cigars”.
I hate the way some smokers empty out their car ashtrays in the parking lot. I hate the way all the butts look lying there in a heap, a pile of paper soaked with the spittle of a hundred different mouths. And yet the nicotine python grips some desperate smokers so tightly that they will pick them up and try to smoke the last tiny flecks of tobacco from their crushed and blackened ends. I’ve even seen people extract the remaining weed from several discarded butts, roll it all up in a Zig Zag paper and smoke it. Don’t these people even know what Zig Zag papers are for? They sure ain't for tobacco, Charter.
“Butts”. There’s another word in the smokers lexicon that just sounds silly. “Smoke ‘er down to the butt, Jack, we’ve got more!” “I don’t have an ash tray, Terry, so just put your BUTTS in that half empty soda can over there on the table”…never thinking that there might be someone else at the party who could very likely mistake that particular pop can for his own and take a mighty swig from it. Oh my God, the thought, it gags me. How nauseating it would be to feel one of those wretched things fall against your lips and…Egad…the flavor…and yet the cruel smoker will laugh at such misfortune.
Fuck.
God help me.
She was not a robot when I met her. Oh, no, she was a beautiful, exciting, passionate loving woman with a heart of gold and a desire that was practically insatiable. Here…take a look, I have a photograph in my wallet. See what I mean? That’s right, daddy-O, she was a real dreamboat. I used to carry this picture with me wherever I went…I guess I still do, huh? But I don’t know why. I don’t know why I torture myself looking at it, remembering what was, all we had, our bright and glorious future wrecked and deserted by her newfound proclivity for smoking cigarettes. Yeah, my friend, she was a real keeper. But you know what? Fuck her now, y’know? Just turn her over and fuck her.
But hey…perhaps I’ve been too harsh on the smoker in general (if not to her…no, not to her). Perhaps I have exaggerated a bit. After all, some of my best friends smoke. It’s their business, not mine. Never has been mine. I know that. If they knew how I felt about the whole thing, whose to say they wouldn’t tell me to bugger off and never come back? Then again, if they are so shallow as to take any of this as a personal insult, then maybe, just maybe they aren’t my friends after all. I doubt the robot would want anything more to do with me if she knew what a stalwart anti-smoker I am. But I thought she felt the same. She DID feel the same. She told me as much. Before she lost her soul. Before she started smoking cigarettes. Before she started bumming ciggys.
I got no time for changes in her life so now I ask you again…where were you when I was falling in love?
Were you sitting in a Pentecostal Holiness church on a hard pew early Sunday morning before the service began, thumbing through the hymnal, looking for one that best expressed your feelings of devotion at that point in your spiritual journey? And what would that hymn have been? “Onward Christian Soldiers”? “Peace in the Valley”? “In the Garden”? “Smoke on the Water”? “Hotel California”? Maybe some obscure Black Sabbath song tucked in at the end of the book, next to the Doxology?
Did your hair shimmer, reflected in the light that poured through the stained glass window directly behind you? Did you feel it’s heat on your neck? Did it draw out beads of perspiration there, glistening? Would you have let me lick them and taste their saltiness even in the sanctuary of the church building? Probably not. But I don’t think the idea would repulse you like it would some other bonnet headed midi-skirt wearing holy rollin’ bitch.
Maybe I would have asked you outside so that you might feel a little more comfortable with what I’d had in mind.
And maybe you would have told me “no”. I couldn’t blame you for that. No, I wouldn’t. It’s only natural for a real woman to guard her integrity in situations such as this one. I could not hold that against you.
Is that where you were? I need to know. Where the hell were you when I was falling in love?
9.
How could this have happened? She lay on her bed with a steady stream of dark, smelly blood dripping from her ears. The pain in her head was debilitating. It consumed her and dumbed down all thoughts except for one:
“Is it possible to love a man who takes out his frustrations in the bed?”
She didn’t know the answer to that one, though she’d had several occasions upon which to ponder the question when the inspiration for it was still fresh and painful.
Maybe she just didn’t know what love was. She needed someone to show her, perhaps. Her old man sure enough hadn’t. She wouldn’t accept that he was a cruel taskmaster whose compassion was corrupt. In reality he had served up a huge helping of abuse and told her to take it or leave it. Until now she had chosen to keep it.
This morning she wasn’t so sure.
“It’s been my understanding,” she told a friend on the phone later that afternoon, “that life is seldom fair.” She said this with conviction. As if she were the only one who cared.
But by the time “Must See Thursday” had come around to “E.R.” he was back. Sprawled out on the genuine leather La-Z-Boy her father had given them as a wedding present 3 years ago.
“Goddamit girl, I needs me another can o‘ Coors. What the hell are you doin’ in there? Turn off that damn stereo. You know how much I hate R.E.M. What are you doin’ listenin’ to that shit anyway?”
She was going to do what he told her to do, that was certain. She knew that. She knew better than to do anything else. But not until that last verse of “Everybody Hurts” played out.
And so the night dragged on. From one can o’ Coors to the next can o’ Coors until there were no more cans o’ Coors left and it didn’t matter because he was knocked out flat until 3 or 4 in the morning. At which point he would wake up and feel like having a little fun. Havin’ a little bit o’ HIS brand of fun, he’d tell you.
She woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar room. At least that’s how it seemed. She tried to sort out the fiction from the truth but it wasn’t easy because that pain in her head was back. There were broken bottles on the floor, scattered from the bed to the bathroom…
And there was a body beside her.
She said a little prayer, grabbed her clothes and hit the door.
And that’s how it went down.
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