YOU HAVE ENTERED HEAVEN, PREPARE TO SCREAM

"The Monster That Looked Like a Booger" (CHAPTERS 1-4)

2010-01-23T22:16:00.002-06:00

CHAPTER 1: “THE MONSTER”

The monster that looked like a booger was sitting in a closet, balancing on the edge of a box full of toys, looking very much like a booger.

It was after midnight and the room was dark, except for one dim lamp that shined its light on the face of a kid picking his nose in his sleep. The kid was dreaming of a farm.

In his dream, the trees didn’t grow giant apples or oranges or cherries.

No.

The trees in his dream grew giant boogers.

And the ponds in his dream were not full of water.

The ponds in his dream were full of snot.

A little bit of drool slipped out of the kid’s mouth and slid down his chin.

It was a wonderful dream.

The little greenish glob of a monster sat on the box, watching the kid shove his finger so far up his nose that it looked as if the kid’s nose was eating his finger.

As it stared at the dreaming kid, the monster thought about its own life.

The monster had been living in this bedroom for almost a month. It had spent every night sitting on the edge of a box in a closet that was so full of toys that its door wouldn’t close. Every night, the monster stared at this same ten-year old kid. And every night, the monster tried to work up the desire to scare this sleeping, salivating nose-digger.

But each and every night, the monster failed to find the urge to scare him.

It just seemed so pointless to the monster – this whole “child-scaring” business. It had been trying to scare kids for longer than it could remember, and the whole thing was never much fun in the first place. Every day had become exactly the same as the day before. There was no variation in life. Everything was just one big repetition.

Plus, life isn’t very easy if you’re a monster that looks like a booger.

When you look like a booger, kids don’t think you look very scary.

They think you look delicious.

And they never try to run out of the room screaming and yelling.

They try to eat you.

And the monster that looked like a booger was sick of kids trying to eat it.

It was leading a sad and lonely little monster life. The monster needed excitement. It needed change. It needed to do something else with its life.

“Booogerrr…” said the kid, now dreaming about a booger cake topped with booger icing.

The monster watched the kid shove a finger from his other hand up into his other nostril, so that both of his nostrils now had a finger digging around them. The monster knew that this was one talented booger-eating kid. It knew that if this kid got a chance, he would definitely try to roll the monster up into a little booger-shaped ball and eat it.

The monster did want to ever be eaten again. It had been eaten three times in its life, and each time it was quite a challenge to escape the eater’s stomach.

So the monster decided to make a decision.

It was time for a new life.

It was time for a change!

It decided it was not going to try to scare this little booger-eating kid. In fact, the monster decided to quit the whole child-scaring business altogether!

It knew that there had to be more to life than scaring kids, and this monster was going to find out what that was! It was time to leave this house, to go out into the world and find out what was out there!

The monster poked two tiny arms and legs out from of its little green blob of a body, stood up on the edge of the box, and jumped down to the floor.

Unfortunately, the monster did not succeed in landing on the floor.

Instead, it landed on a little trigger that was attached to a toy gun.

The monster landed on the trigger with just enough force to push the trigger down. The gun made a loud electronic firing sound, which made the kid wake up. The monster froze as it watched the kid pull his fingers out of his nose, sit up, and pull on the string that turned on the overhead light.

The monster sat still, hoping the kid wouldn’t see it (and then try to eat it).

But this kid was special.

This kid was no normal booger-eating kid.

This kid took booger-eating to a whole new level!

He wasn’t just ANY booger eater.

He was THE booger eater!

Boogers were his specialty!

It took no time at all for the kid to locate the monster. And what the kid saw sitting on his little toy gun made his mouth salivate and his nose tremble like never before.

Sitting on the trigger of his toy gun was the greenest, slimiest, most disgusting-looking booger the kid had ever seen in his entire booger-eating life! Never before had he seen such a perfect booger!

“Mmmmrrrrmmmm,” said the booger eater.

The monster saw the look on the booger eater’s face. The monster could tell the kid had spotted it, and it knew what the kid was about to do.

The kid was about to eat it.

So the monster that looked like a booger did the only thing it knew to do in this situation.

The monster that looked like a booger ran!

CHAPTER 2: “THE BOOGER EATER”

The booger eater loved boogers.

He loved slimy boogers, dry boogers, big boogers, small boogers, green boogers, brown boogers – boogers of all shapes and sizes. He loved kid boogers, adult boogers, boy boogers, girl boogers, dog boogers, cat boogers, cow boogers, and grandma boogers. It didn’t matter whose booger it was or where he had found it, the booger eater would eat it. He was not a picky booger eater.

But, until this moment, he had never seen a booger as beautiful and perfect as the booger that was stuck to his little toy gun.

The glands in his mouth immediately began salivating.

“Mmmmmrrrrmmm,” said the booger eater.

However, the booger eater did not expect the booger to run. In all of his ten years of eating boogers, he’d never seen a booger run – and he’d eaten a lot of boogers!

Any normal kid would have frozen in shock at the sight of a booger that could run.

But not this kid.

This kid was no ordinary booger eater.

This kid was the booger eater.

This kid had skills.

The booger yelled his battle cry — “BOOGERRR!” — jumped out of bed, and started to chase after the booger.

The little perfect booger ran towards the bedroom door, which was cracked open, with the kid hot on its trail. Just as the booger was almost out the door, the kid took a flying leap through the air. His body sailed parallel to the floor below him, his hands reaching out for the booger like a football player diving for a fumble.

But this booger was fast.

Why was it so fast?

Because it wasn’t really a booger.

It was a monster.

A fast monster.

And it was skilled at getting away from booger eaters.

Just as the booger eater was about to land on the ground, just as his hands were about to grab what he thought was a booger, the monster jumped in the air, stretched out a little arm, grabbed onto the edge of the door, and swung the door closed as it ran out of the room. The booger eater landed on his stomach, slid across the floor, and didn’t stop until his forehead banged against the door.

The booger eater shook his head clear, then stood up so fast that he nearly came out his Spiderman pajamas. He grabbed the handle, opened the door, looked down the hallway, and saw the booger running towards the bathroom.

The booger eater reached into the pocket of his pajamas, pulled out the bouncy ball he always slept with, and threw it at the booger.

“Gotcha!” yelled the booger eater as he watched the ball hit the booger, hoping it would stop the booger in its tracks. But instead, the booger stuck to the super bouncy ball, which then bounced off a wall, ricocheted off the ceiling, the spun back towards the booger eater.

The booger eater reached up and tried to catch the ball, but just swatted it sideways, causing the ball to bounce rapidly between the two hallway walls.

The booger eater tried to catch the ball every time it passed him, but the ball was out of control. He took a desperate lung for it, but missed, and slammed into a picture that was hanging from the wall. The picture of his mom, his dad, and his two-year-old little sister fell off the wall and crashed down on the floor, glass shattering everywhere.

The booger eater spun around quickly, just in time for the ball to hit him right between his eyes, which sent the ball bouncing down the hallway in the other direction.

“Booooger!” yelled the booger eater, and once again chased after the ball with the booger attached to it.

He was so focused on the monster (that he thought was a booger) that he didn’t notice his parent’s bedroom door swing open. He didn’t notice his dad step out into the hallway, directly in front of the booger eater’s path.

The booger eater slammed into his dad, and they both went toppling down the hallway, end-over-end, legs and arms flailing. They slammed into a display case that held some his mom’s favorite little glass sculptures — sculptures of fairies and princesses and goblins.

Everything shattered and splintered around them as they rolled to a stop.

And that’s when they heard the voice from above.

“I guess I can’t own anything nice,” said the booger eater’s mom. “Not when there’s men in the world that try to ruin everything, right? Not when there’s boogers to be eaten, am I correct?”

“BEWGUH!” yelled the two-year-old girl sitting in the mom’s arms.

“But it-” said the desperate booger eater. “It could RUN! And- and- and- it was GREEN! My favorite kind! And- and- and-”

His mom shut him up with just one look and said, “I guess you don’t want to go on our little trip tomorrow, do you, little man?”

“I do wanna go!” said the booger eater. “Pleeeeease!” The booger eater had been excited about this trip for weeks. They were going to a place where there were supposedly lots of rocks and caves and goblins, all of which the booger eater loved.

“Then you better control your booger fits, you hear me?!”

And with that, his mother walked back into her room and slammed the door.

The booger eater’s dad looked at him. “You keep getting me in trouble.”

“Sorry,” said the booger eater, just as he felt the ball roll up to his head and stop, where it rested against the side of his ear. He picked up the bouncy ball and turned it around in his hands, searching for his prize. But there was nothing there.

The booger was gone.

CHAPTER 3: “ON THE ROAD”

The monster was riding a horse.

It was not a real horse.

It was small and silver, made out of metal, and was attached to the hood of a car.

The car was called a Mustang.

And the Mustang was driving down the interstate.

If the driver of the Mustang had noticed the monster on the little silver horse, the driver probably would have thought some dumb kid had smeared a booger on it.

But the driver didn’t notice the monster.

The monster rode free and happy on the metal horse. The sun was rising and the wind was blowing against its little green booger-shaped face. Just three hours ago, the monster was living in a closet in a box.

But now it was TRAVELING!

It had gotten away from the booger eater by hiding in the dad’s office. It had jumped up on the dad’s desk, pulled its arms and legs back into its body (until it was nothing but a little green booger-shaped ball) and rolled under a pad of paper. As it waited for the family to go back to bed, the monster had nearly driven itself crazy trying to think of where it would go. It had never done anything but live in closets, trying (and failing) to scare kids. But now it could go ANYWHERE. It could do ANYTHING.

Finally, when everything was quiet and hall light was turned off, the monster rolled out from under the pad of paper, poked two arms and two legs out of its body, and stood up.

The moonlight was shining through the window onto the desk.

The monster looked at the pad of paper, and saw two words that would change its life forever.

It was the name of a city.

But it wasn’t just any city.

It was a special city.

A city made out of rocks!

The monster stared at the pad of paper, at the words written on it, getting more and more excited as it read the name of the city over and over.

Rock City!

The monster tried to imagine what this city might be like. An entire city made of out rocks! All the buildings, the cars, the roads, the chairs, pencils – all of it made out of ROCKS! The toilets and toys and tissues and tires! Everything! Made out of rocks!

Awesome.

Who wouldn’t want to go to a city made out of rocks?

The monster had found its destination.

It would go to Rock City!

Luckily for the monster, written on the pad were directions for how to get there. The monster read the directions a few times and memorized them.

It was about to jump off the desk and leave the booger eater’s house, when another great thing happened.

It saw a red can.

On the can were the letters C and O and K and E.

The monster had never had a single drop of liquid in its life. (It’s a little known fact that monsters don’t need to eat or drink to live.) The monster remembered watching how happy it made kids to drink from those red cans. It wanted to know what was so special about the liquid inside them. So it poked out a few extra arms, lifted the can up, stretched out its mouth really wide, tilted the can back, and let some of the sugary liquid drain into its body.

The monster’s mouth filled with bubbly delight! It had never known anything could taste so wonderful!!

It was a happy monster.

The monster took a few more sips before it walked out of the house, straight into its new life.

It went to the street and waited. The monster flung itself at a jeep as it was passing, and its slimy sticky body stuck to the back window. The monster road the jeep until it was about to take a road that wasn’t going to Rock City. So the monster jumped off and hitched a ride on the hubcap of a silver car that was going the right direction. When that car was about to drive past the interstate the monster needed to take, the monster hopped off, ran up the entrance ramp to the interstate, and waited for a car to pass. That car turned out to be a Mustang.

And now the monster was on the back of a little silver horse going 70 miles-per-hour towards Rock City!

As the sun came up on the world, life was suddenly looking good.

That is, until the monster felt a sensation deep inside its body, something it had never felt before.

First, it felt kind of tingly.

Then, it got tickly.

Eventually, the sensation began to hurt.

The monster was trying to figure where this pain was coming from and what had caused it, when it remembered the red can of liquid — the C and the O and the K and the E. And the monster that looked like a booger knew what was happening. It knew what it had to do.

The monster had to pee.

CHAPTER 4: “NO BOOGER EATING!”

The mom, the dad, and the booger eater’s little sister were all piling into their station wagon. The booger eater stood in the driveway, his finger up his nose, digging around for a prize.

“Quit picking your nose!” said the booger eater’s mom.

“I’m not,” said the booger eater.

“Your finger’s shoved so far up your nose you’re practically touching your brain!”

The booger eater pulled his finger out and looked at it, but he saw nothing. His nose was empty. He’d already eaten all his morning boogers. It was not a good feeling. He climbed in the car empty-handed, thinking about the booger it had chased the night before.

It was so perfect!!

And he had ALMOST had it!!

He imagined rolling that perfect booger around with his fingertips, popping it in mouth, squishing it between his teeth, swallowing that little green glob of tasty perfection.

“Do you want to go to Rock City?” asked the mom.

“Yes!” yelled the booger eater.

“Then promise not to run off looking for any boogers!” yelled the mom.

“I won’t!” said the booger eater as he buckled himself in. “I promise! I hate boogers! They’re disgusting!”

“BEWGUH!” yelled the booger eater’s little sister.

“I won’t even think about them!” said the booger eater.

“You better not,” said the mom.

As they pulled out of their driveway, the booger eater looked out the window, imagining a world where boogers fell from the sky like rain. A world where the food at restaurants was all made out of boogers. A world where attached to every wall and under every desk were boogers of all shapes and sizes. Green and purple and brown! Slimy and crusty!

What a beautiful world that would be!

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

(NOTE: This book is completed. It desires a publisher.)

Chapters 1-4

2010-01-23T22:05:00.004-06:00

CHAPTER 1: "THE MONSTER"

The monster that looked like a booger was sitting in a closet, balancing on the edge of a box full of toys, looking very much like a booger.

It was after midnight and the room was dark, except for one dim lamp that shined its light on the face of a kid picking his nose in his sleep. The kid was dreaming of a farm.

In his dream, the trees didn’t grow giant apples or oranges or cherries.

No.

The trees in his dream grew giant boogers.

And the ponds in his dream were not full of water.

The ponds in his dream were full of snot.

A little bit of drool slipped out of the kid’s mouth and slid down his chin.

It was a wonderful dream.

The little greenish glob of a monster sat on the box, watching the kid shove his finger so far up his nose that it looked as if the kid’s nose was eating his finger.

As it stared at the dreaming kid, the monster thought about its own life.

But each and every night, the monster failed to find the urge to scare him.

Plus, life isn’t very easy if you’re a monster that looks like a booger.

When you look like a booger, kids don’t think you look very scary.

They think you look delicious.

And they never try to run out of the room screaming and yelling.

They try to eat you.

And the monster that looked like a booger was sick of kids trying to eat it.

It was leading a sad and lonely little monster life. The monster needed excitement. It needed change. It needed to do something else with its life.

“Booogerrr…” said the kid, now dreaming about a booger cake topped with booger icing.

The monster did want to ever be eaten again. It had been eaten three times in its life, and each time it was quite a challenge to escape the eater’s stomach.

So the monster decided to make a decision.

It was time for a new life.

It was time for a change!

It decided it was not going to try to scare this little booger-eating kid. In fact, the monster decided to quit the whole child-scaring business altogether!

The monster poked two tiny arms and legs out from of its little green blob of a body, stood up on the edge of the box, and jumped down to the floor.

Unfortunately, the monster did not succeed in landing on the floor.

Instead, it landed on a little trigger that was attached to a toy gun.

The monster sat still, hoping the kid wouldn’t see it (and then try to eat it).

But this kid was special.

This kid was no normal booger-eating kid.

This kid took booger-eating to a whole new level!

He wasn’t just ANY booger eater.

He was THE booger eater!

Boogers were his specialty!

It took no time at all for the kid to locate the monster. And what the kid saw sitting on his little toy gun made his mouth salivate and his nose tremble like never before.

“Mmmmrrrrmmmm,” said the booger eater.

The monster saw the look on the booger eater’s face. The monster could tell the kid had spotted it, and it knew what the kid was about to do.

The kid was about to eat it.

So the monster that looked like a booger did the only thing it knew to do in this situation.

The monster that looked like a booger ran!

CHAPTER 2: “THE BOOGER EATER”

The booger eater loved boogers.

But, until this moment, he had never seen a booger as beautiful and perfect as the booger that was stuck to his little toy gun.

The glands in his mouth immediately began salivating.

“Mmmmmrrrrmmm,” said the booger eater.

However, the booger eater did not expect the booger to run. In all of his ten years of eating boogers, he’d never seen a booger run – and he’d eaten a lot of boogers!

Any normal kid would have frozen in shock at the sight of a booger that could run.

But not this kid.

This kid was no ordinary booger eater.

This kid was the booger eater.

This kid had skills.

The booger yelled his battle cry — “BOOGERRR!” — jumped out of bed, and started to chase after the booger.

But this booger was fast.

Why was it so fast?

Because it wasn’t really a booger.

It was a monster.

A fast monster.

And it was skilled at getting away from booger eaters.

The booger eater reached into the pocket of his pajamas, pulled out the bouncy ball he always slept with, and threw it at the booger.

The booger eater reached up and tried to catch the ball, but just swatted it sideways, causing the ball to bounce rapidly between the two hallway walls.

The booger eater spun around quickly, just in time for the ball to hit him right between his eyes, which sent the ball bouncing down the hallway in the other direction.

“Booooger!” yelled the booger eater, and once again chased after the ball with the booger attached to it.

Everything shattered and splintered around them as they rolled to a stop.

And that’s when they heard the voice from above.

“BEWGUH!” yelled the two-year-old girl sitting in the mom’s arms.

“But it-” said the desperate booger eater. “It could RUN! And- and- and- it was GREEN! My favorite kind! And- and- and-”

His mom shut him up with just one look and said, “I guess you don’t want to go on our little trip tomorrow, do you, little man?”

“Then you better control your booger fits, you hear me?!”

And with that, his mother walked back into her room and slammed the door.

The booger eater’s dad looked at him. “You keep getting me in trouble.”

The booger was gone.

CHAPTER 3: “ON THE ROAD”

The monster was riding a horse.

It was not a real horse.

It was small and silver, made out of metal, and was attached to the hood of a car.

The car was called a Mustang.

And the Mustang was driving down the interstate.

If the driver of the Mustang had noticed the monster on the little silver horse, the driver probably would have thought some dumb kid had smeared a booger on it.

But the driver didn’t notice the monster.

But now it was TRAVELING!

Finally, when everything was quiet and hall light was turned off, the monster rolled out from under the pad of paper, poked two arms and two legs out of its body, and stood up.

The moonlight was shining through the window onto the desk.

The monster looked at the pad of paper, and saw two words that would change its life forever.

It was the name of a city.

But it wasn’t just any city.

It was a special city.

A city made out of rocks!

The monster stared at the pad of paper, at the words written on it, getting more and more excited as it read the name of the city over and over.

Rock City!

Awesome.

Who wouldn’t want to go to a city made out of rocks?

The monster had found its destination.

It would go to Rock City!

Luckily for the monster, written on the pad were directions for how to get there. The monster read the directions a few times and memorized them.

It was about to jump off the desk and leave the booger eater’s house, when another great thing happened.

It saw a red can.

On the can were the letters C and O and K and E.

The monster’s mouth filled with bubbly delight! It had never known anything could taste so wonderful!!

It was a happy monster.

The monster took a few more sips before it walked out of the house, straight into its new life.

And now the monster was on the back of a little silver horse going 70 miles-per-hour towards Rock City!

As the sun came up on the world, life was suddenly looking good.

That is, until the monster felt a sensation deep inside its body, something it had never felt before.

First, it felt kind of tingly.

Then, it got tickly.

Eventually, the sensation began to hurt.

The monster had to pee.

CHAPTER 4: “NO BOOGER EATING!”

The mom, the dad, and the booger eater’s little sister were all piling into their station wagon. The booger eater stood in the driveway, his finger up his nose, digging around for a prize.

“Quit picking your nose!” said the booger eater’s mom.

“I’m not,” said the booger eater.

“Your finger’s shoved so far up your nose you’re practically touching your brain!”

It was so perfect!!

And he had ALMOST had it!!

He imagined rolling that perfect booger around with his fingertips, popping it in mouth, squishing it between his teeth, swallowing that little green glob of tasty perfection.

“Do you want to go to Rock City?” asked the mom.

“Yes!” yelled the booger eater.

“Then promise not to run off looking for any boogers!” yelled the mom.

“I won’t!” said the booger eater as he buckled himself in. “I promise! I hate boogers! They’re disgusting!”

“BEWGUH!” yelled the booger eater’s little sister.

“I won’t even think about them!” said the booger eater.

“You better not,” said the mom.

What a beautiful world that would be!

(TO BE CONTINUED…)

"The Monster That Looked Like A Booger" (Chapter 1)

2009-05-07T17:01:00.007-06:00

The monster that looked like a booger was sitting in a closet, balancing on the edge of a box full of toys, looking very much like a booger.

It was after midnight and the room was dark, except for one dim lamp that shined its light on the face of a kid that was picking his nose in his sleep. The kid was dreaming of a farm with trees that, instead of growing apples, grew giant boogers – a farm where the ponds, instead of being full of water, were full of snot.

A little bit of drool slipped out of the kid’s mouth and slid down his chin.

The little greenish glob of a monster watched the kid shove his finger so far up his nose that it looked like his nose was eating his finger.

As it stared at the dreaming kid, the monster thought about its life.

The monster had been living in this house for almost a month. It had spent every night sitting on the edge of this same box, in this same closet that was so full of toys that its door wouldn’t close. Every night, the monster stared at this same ten-year old kid. And every night, the monster tried to work up the desire to scare this sleeping, salivating nose-digger.

But each and every night, the monster failed to find the urge to scare him.

Plus, life isn’t very easy if you’re a monster that looks like a booger.

Kids just never think you look very scary.

Instead, they think you look delicious.

And they never try to run out of the room screaming and yelling.

Instead, they try to eat you.

And the monster that looked like a booger was sick of kids trying to eat it.

It was a sad and lonely little monster. The monster needed excitement. It needed change. It needed to do something else with its little monster life.

The monster heard the kid mumble “booooogerrrr” in his sleep. The monster watched the kid shove another finger from his other hand up into his other nostril, so that both of his nostrils now had a finger digging around them. The monster knew that this was one talented booger-eating kid, and that if this kid got a chance, he would definitely try to roll the monster up into a little booger-shaped ball and eat it.

The monster did not want to ever be eaten again.

So the monster decided to make a decision.

It was time for a new life.

It was time for a change!

The monster decided it would not try to scare this little booger-eating kid. It decided to quit the whole child-scaring business altogether!

The monster decided that NOW was the time to change its life.

To venture out into the world.

To find out what else is out there.

It knew that there had to be more to life than scaring kids, and this monster was going to find out what that was!

The monster poked out two little arms and legs from of its little green blob of a body, stood up on the edge of the box, and jumped down to the floor.

Unfortunately, the monster did not succeed in landing on the floor.

Instead, it landed on a little trigger that was attached to a little toy gun.

The monster landed on the trigger with just enough force to push the trigger down, which caused the gun to make a loud firing sound, which caused the to kid to wake up, sit up in his bed, and pull on a string that turned on his overhead light.

The monster sat still, hoping the kid wouldn’t see it — and, thus, try to eat it.

But this kid was special.

This kid was no normal booger-eating kid.

This kid took booger-eating to a whole new level!

He wasn’t just ANY booger eater.

He was THE booger eater!

Boogers were his specialty!

And what he saw sitting on his little toy gun made his mouth salivate and his nose tremble like never before.

Sitting on the trigger of his toy gun was the greenest, slimiest, most disgusting-looking booger he had ever seen in his entire booger-eating life! Never before had he seen such a perfect booger!

The monster saw the look on the kid’s face. The monster could tell the kid had spotted it, and it knew what the kid was about to do.

The kid was about to eat it.

So the monster that looked like a booger did the only thing that it knew to do in this situation.

The monster that looked like a booger ran!

(Thus concludes the first chapter of The Monster That Looked Like a Booger, a 25,000 word comedy for middle readers -- you know, like, KIDS. )

"Examples of The Way Things Go"

2009-04-02T14:48:00.003-06:00

IT’LL ALL WORK OUT IN THE END

Jimmy likes to go to graveyards.
They give him hope.

WOOPS

Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall.
Stupid motherfucker.

LIFE IS AWESOME

And then you’re born.
What a gyp.

DEEP IN THE HUNDRED ACRE WOOD

Eeyore got tired of looking for his tail.
So, he sat down,
smoked a doob,
and humped a rock.

DEAR LIFE,

Please stop doing that.
It’s fucking annoying.

THE BIG FIGHT

They stood toe-to-toe next to the lockers.
The football player and the swimmer.
I had no idea who to root for.
They were both dicks.

WHERE IT ALL WENT WRONG

Jimmy’s Mom told him to always follow his heart.
So he took her advice.
What a fuckup.

GETTIN’ OVER IT, part 1

They say to focus on the good things about life.
Cocky bastards.

A METAPHORICAL REFLECTION

Dooky eyes and a TP mouth.
Big corn zits on a yellow chin.
A forehead shaped like porcelain.

JIMMY PONDERS...

Mmmm.
This banana is good.
And so is this coffee.
I wish people would stop trying to fist-bump me.
Is that ham?
What a stupid fucking world we live in.

GETTING’ OVER IT, part 2

They say the key is to love yourself.
I’m totally fucked.

IF I WAS CIGARETTE

I’d let you stick your lips to my asshole,
light my fingers and my toes and my nose,
and smoke me until all that was left
was you throwing my butt out the window.

“The Last Days of a Piece of Lint”

2009-03-13T15:35:00.002-06:00

The piece of lint held on tight to the coat, anticipating the moment it would break free to roam the outside world, to travel the airwaves, to see the sights. But when the owner of the coat opened the door to walk out of the house that the owner of the coat owned, that bastard winter wind blew through, grabbed hold of the piece of lint, tore it from the coat it was clinging to, whipped it across the room, and flung it against a wall, where it skidded for several feet until it bounced off a picture frame, ricocheted off a clock, shot back into the middle of the room, and twirled around in a dizzying fashion until the door finally closed, killing the wind, dropping the lint on top of the owner of the coat’s TV.

Day after day, the piece of lint sat there.

Week after week, it would watch the door open time after time, watch the asshole wind sweep through, watch the dust and other airborne molecules get tossed about, watch everything twirl and spin in the air above the TV that the piece of lint sat on, until the door would finally close and everything in the air, every piece of waste in the piece of lint’s little world, would succumb to gravity, would gently fall, until the lint would be smothered, until it would be just another part of the grime, until it could hear nothing but its own thoughts, until it could see nothing but the fat asses of all the dust sitting on top of it.

It fucking sucked.

The piece of lint sat there, hour upon hour, week upon week, knowing the moment would come when it would be wiped away with a rag and thrown into the trash with all of the world’s other pieces of shit.

"The Boy with The Magical Imagination"

2009-03-10T14:31:00.004-06:00

The boy with the magical imagination lives in a world full of corners. A world full of blind turns. Of monsters. He stops at every corner, at every turn, and peeks to see what is ninety degrees away, always wondering what he’s about to walk into, what chaos awaits. The boy with the magical imagination tries to make it all disappear, to destroy all corners and blind turns with his mind. To make the world safe.

He opens his notebook, uncaps his pen with his teeth, and writes of a world where everything is a straight line, where there are no surprises and there’s nothing to be scared of. On paper, he destroys all blind spots, flattens all hills, fills in every hole, makes everything transparent. He makes it so there’s nowhere for the bastards to hide.

The boy with the magical imagination grabs each of the bastards with the tip of his pen and writes them into nonexistence.

"The Plight of a Pile of Poo"

2009-02-13T15:42:00.011-06:00

The city sidewalk was full of assholes.
And one pile of poo.

The pile of poo contemplated its life.

It tried to remember its moment of birth,
when it left the cozy warm comforts of its host,
when it plopped on the sidewalk,
when it entered the buckling coldness of winter
in this waste of a world,
when it felt its warmth being sucked from its soul,
when it watched an instant stream of stinky steam
shoot to the sky
and it succumbed to the smoldering smothering smog
of this shitty city it sat in.

But the pile of poo could not recall
its fall.

And the poo,
upon failing to remember its moment of birth,
realized it existed before it could ever realize it existed,
that its future was already being shaped
before it ever knew it had a future to shape.

It was depressing.

The poo tried to do something about it.
But it couldn’t.
It tried to improve its life,
but the pile of poo could not move.
There was nothing the poo could do.

So it gave into its plight,
accepted its fate,
and waited for the next shoe to fall.

It didn’t take long.

It withered some more under the weight of a shoe
that stomped on half of the poo,
heard a “Fuck!” and a “Shit!”
as the shoe lifted up,
then the poo watched the shoe walk away,
leaving a sole-shaped trail of brown tracks on the sidewalk
that faded with each new step.

"Lights Out"

2008-12-04T12:47:00.012-06:00

She tells me to get the fuck out. Her words are sloppy, full of snot and tears. I look at her from my side of the couch. She’s balled up in a little cocoon of misery, an arm wrapped around her stomach, a hand on top of her head, her face between her knees. I look at the coffee table. One of Kyle’s X-Men stands on top of it, lasers for eyes, looking right at me. I know I should stay.

I stand up, grab my coat, put it on. I go to the door and open it. The rain screams. I look at all the little wet bullets shooting up our house. I turn around, see her all crumpled in the corner of the couch, keeping her eyes away from me, not wanting to see the person that’s me, the person that’s exactly the same as when she met him, the person that’s so good at walking out.

Her voice comes at me soft, pleading.

“Just go.”

I walk out the door and close it. I look at the waterfall coming down off the edge of our roof, falling over the gutters still full of autumn’s dead leaves. The waterfall digs into the mulch in front of our porch, making a miniature trench for miniature men. I think of those green plastic army figures I had when I was a kid, back when my dad fucked me up, and I realize who I’ve become. I step through the waterfall and into the rain.

I get in my car, start the engine. The windshield looks like it’s covered by a thin clear skin. I turn a knob and watch the wipers scrape away the watery epidermis. I call Reid and tell him what’s up, that I’m coming over. He tells me to pick up some beer. I don’t object. “And get some fucking snacks.” I say okay. I hang up, look at our front door and think about Miranda on the couch, her sobs coming out violent, because of me, because of us. I put the car in reverse and get the fuck out.

The radio talks to me, NPR telling me another story of how our world is falling apart. I turn off the radio and listen to the rain on the roof as I drive. Lightning explodes all around me, trying to figure out which car is mine.

I pull into the parking lot right in the middle of rush hour. I find the closest empty spot, which isn’t close at all. I park, turn off the car. The skin on the windshield grows back. I get out, shut the door, aim my body towards the entrance and let my feet do the walking. There’s people lined up on the sidewalk with their carts full of food, waiting for the rain to die down, fooling themselves into thinking that’ll happen. I walk past them, through the sliding doors, into the lobby.

Some greeter woman smiles at me, says, “It sure is wet out there.” I say yep. “You should get an umbrella while you’re here.” I say thanks for the advice. She offers me a cart, which I decline. She says, “Have a good day.” I tell her it’s too goddamn late for that. I watch my comment make her smile disappear. I watch her face get lit up by quick flashes of yellow light as the world detonates. I hear a collective gasp and turn around to look at more lightning assault the far side of the parking lot. I watch a transformer turn into fireworks.

Everything in the store goes black.

The lights stop humming.

The cash registers stop talking.

The sliding doors stop sliding.

Everyone is quiet for a second, an entire store of five o’clock shoppers shocked into silence. Everyone waits for the lights to turn back on. When that doesn’t happen, they all start to banter. They chatter. They talk about what just happened ten seconds ago. I look at the greeter woman, who looks back at me, her face barely lit by the last remnants of daylight coming through the windows of the lobby. I smile at her. I turn around and step through the second set of sliding doors that’s stopped halfway between open and closed.

I walk past the produce section, little islands of vegetables and fruit disappearing into darkness the deeper I get. I take cautionary half-steps, trying not to bash into some bystander. Some manager-type person yells loudly for everyone to please remain calm, that he’s not sure why the backup generators haven’t kicked in, but that they’re working on it, if everyone could just remain still. People’s voices get louder around me. A kid cries. I think of my kids at home, crying in their bedrooms as their mom and dad yell things at each other, things a kid should never have to hear. I think of my wife on the couch. I think of my dad. I think of myself.

I think of alcohol.

I bump into someone’s cart. The corner of it hits me in the nuts. The cart’s temporary owner tells me to watch where I’m going. I tell him to fuck off.

I keep heading north, slow, my arms out in front of me, like the living dead. Everything is black. My arms find the end of an aisle, my hands knocking a couple of boxes onto the floor. I face west and keep walking. I lower my arms so that I’m holding them out at stomach-level instead of boob-level. I find the next aisle, more boxes, but smaller, and manage to not knock any off. My hand brushes along the boxes until I’m back out in the open sea between aisles. Some woman’s voice comes out of nowhere, right in front of me, asking whoever she’s with why the lights haven’t come back on yet. I swoop out to my left, calculate the distance it’ll take to get past her, then curve back around and find my way to the end of the next aisle. I’m relieved when I feel cold glass, my destination of choice, my runway to relief. I find the far corner and take a right turn. I walk north, keeping my right hand on the glass, feeling the doors of the coolers with my fingertips. I bump into another person, who apologizes, as if he’s the asshole and not me.

I start to whistle as I walk, a warning to anyone I might be close to bashing into. The song is a soundtrack to all the things going through my head. I pretend it comes out in a droll, cracked baritone, full of dread and remorse. Silent symbols crash with each fuckup my brain makes me recall. My selfishness. My arrogance. All the shit I take for granted. A woman who deserves more than being hurt by the same man over and over.

The glass doors finally end, giving way to shelves, to open-faced coolers stocked full of beer. I feel the cardboard boxes of twelve-packs, the cheap stuff, the American crap, and keep moving. I know this section by heart. I start to feel the exteriors of cans, groups of six bundled together with all those plastic rings that can choke animals. I keep moving, whistling my sad little song, my dirge. I go to the end, where they keep the imports. My fingers slide into a cardboard handle and lift six bottles off a shelf. They clink against my thigh as I keep heading north.

The beer aisle ends and I’m out in the middle of nowhere again, walking north towards the back wall. Nearby, someone tells someone else he wishes that idiot would stop whistling. I whistle louder.

My foot kicks something metal, so I stop, reach forward, and touch a carcass wrapped in plastic, the meat section that lines the back wall. I turn west and keep walking, my right hand brushing over all that dead animal.

My hand finds a door.

I stop whistling, push on the door, and walk into the bathroom. The air is Lysol and piss. I listen for any possible masturbators. I ask if anyone’s in here. No one answers. I walk along the edge, feeling the creases of the tiled walls as they lead me towards the stall. The beer and my forehead bump into a metal door. I grab the top of it, push it forward, and step in. I slide the bolt over, locking myself into my little temporary cell. I use my feet to find the toilet and sit down, not caring about any piss that might have been splattered on the seat by some dick with bad aim. I put the beer on the floor next to the toilet and pull one out.

I sit still for a second.

I try to stop thinking.

It doesn’t work.

I twist the cap on the bottle. Nothing happens. I twist harder. Jagged metal edges scrape my palm and fingers. I use my rain-soaked shirt to get a better grip. The cap doesn’t budge. I’ve failed to grab a twist-off, yet another fuckup in a day full of them.

I feel along the wall for the metal box that dispenses the toilet paper and place the bottom edge of the bottle cap against the top edge of the metal contraption. I hold the bottle there with one hand, firm, and use my other hand to slam down on top of the bottle. It works. The bottle cap pops off, along with a good chunk of the bottle, which causes broken glass to sink into the thick flesh of my palm just below my thumb. I throw the bottle against the metal door. It shatters. Beer and shards of glass bounce off the walls of the stall, my face, my already-soaked body.

I sit there for a while.

I breathe.

I try to get control of my rage.

It doesn’t work.

I unravel a bunch of toilet paper and wrap it around my hand.

I grab the remaining five beers by their cardboard handle and stand up. My right foot slips on the floor, on the shattered glass and splattered beer. My ass-bone bashes onto the front edge of the toilet. My sliced-up free hand goes behind me, attempting to stop the fall, but instead grabs a handful of toilet water. I yank my hand out of the toilet and flick it around, causing drops of toilet water and, quite possibly, someone else’s piss to splash across my face and into my eyes.

I sit there on the edge of the toilet. My assbone and the wound on my hand throb. I peel the toilet paper off my hand and make a newer, dryer, less piss-soaked bandage.

Muffled thunder comes through the ceiling. I stare at the darkness in front of me, inside of me. I think of it all, my whole life, Miranda’s life, our kids, of what’s in store for me, of what I need to do if I want to make everything right. I try to figure out if I actually want to make everything right. I think of my dad, of all the shit he did to help make me who I am.

I start to cry.

I use my toilet paper bandage to wipe the snot off my upper lip.

Then I hear something. More crying. Someone else’s. Quiet, coming through the wall separating me from the rest of the store. A kid. Some scared kid terrified of the tricks the world is playing. My heart goes crazy. It punches me in the head, desperate, needy, fills me with panic.

I stand up, making sure not to fall this time, the five remaining beers secure in my hand. I unlock the stall, open it, and quickly work my way toward the bathroom door. I pull it towards me and step back out into the store. The kid is loud, close, screaming, sounding just like Kyle, just like Amber.

I let my ears guide me. I don’t touch the exterior of anything, I don’t whistle, I’m not careful. I move fast through the darkness, towards the screaming kid. I body slam some helpless person standing alone in the dark, knocking me off-balance, spinning me to the side. A display of glass jars tackles me, takes me to the ground as glass shatters all around me, again. Sharp edges poke up through my clothes. Big sausage-like things push up against my stomach, a hundred penises trying to molest me. And then I smell it. Pickle juice. My toilet paper bandage soaks it up as the sting of the juice works its way into the cut in palm.

I push myself up onto my knees. A piece of glass forces itself through my pants and into my skin, into the flesh below my kneecap. I ignore the pain. I listen for the crying kid. I hear him, or her, whichever. But the cries have dissipated, have turned into the soft whimpers of a child sucking up snot through its nose. And I hear something else, a man’s voice, soft, soothing.

“Shh…it’s okay, I’m right here, it’s okay, I’m right here. It’s me…I’m right here…Shhh…Shhh…Everything’s okay now...Everything’s okay…Here, hold my hand, okay? You got it? Hold it tight, okay? Nice and tight, so we can protect each other. Okay?...You got it?...You do?...See? Everything’s fine. Everything’s okay.”

I listen to the father and the kid, to the father making everything okay.

I think of myself, my wife, my kids.

The lights go on.

The entire store flickers back into existence.

Everyone cheers.

Everyone’s so happy to see the light.

I look to my left. A woman is staring at me, staring at this guy kneeling in the middle of broken glass and pickles, at some pathetic bastard crying over all the lives he’s fucked up, crying about becoming the person he never wanted to be.

I stand up.

I walk down an aisle, fast, past all those fucking beers, scooting between and around people. I start to run. I fly past all those vegetables and fruit. I slow down for the first set of doors to slide open, then rush through the lobby towards the other set of sliding doors, towards all that rain and the world it’s devouring. The old woman, the greeter, she tries to grab my arm as I pass. “Sir! Sir! You can’t-…!” I don’t stop, I don’t let her finish her sentence. I’m out the door, running towards my car at the end of the parking lot, the rain drenching me yet again, washing away the beer and blood and piss and pickle juice. I get to my car, start to reach for my keys, and I realize I’ve managed to hold onto the cardboard beer container, three beers still in it. I realize why the greeter was trying to stop me.

I get in my car, turn it on, put it in reverse and get the fuck out of there.

I head straight for home.

I will make everything okay.

I pull into the driveway and see my father-in-law’s red Volvo in the driveway, but not Miranda’s Accord.

I pull up beside the Volvo, turn off my car, and get out, my entire body shaking. I walk over to the driver’s side of the Volvo, the rain coming down harder than ever. Frank turns on his interior light, rolls down his window a few inches. I lean down and look at Frank, then notice the plastic bags full of bathroom products riding shotgun next to him, the two suitcases on the backseat.

We stare at each other. He half-smiles at me. I nod. He says, “Whelp.” I nod again. He says, “The power’s out in there.” I stare at him. He says, “You take care of yourself, Jim.” I tell him I’ll try.

He puts his car in reverse and gets the fuck out. I stand there in the rain. I watch his taillights take a left out of our street.

I force myself to move.

I go to my car, open the door, grab the stolen beers. I walk down the sidewalk and step through the waterfall coming off our roof, past the trench it’s making in the mulch. I open the front door and close it behind me. I put my hand on the wall, let it escort me into the living room. I turn left. My hand brushes across our bookshelf. My leg hits the recliner. I step around it. My foot kicks some toy on the floor. My hand reaches out in front of me as I move, my house nothing but one big shadow. I find the top of the buffet. I walk into the kitchen and take a right turn. My hand slides across the counter, guiding me. My fingers make contact with the cold metal of the sink.

I put the stolen beer on the counter, reach down to my left, and open a drawer. I use the tips of my fingers to locate a bottle opener.

"Turning Into A Turtle"

2008-11-20T13:33:00.004-06:00

NOTE: This is a monologue from a collection of one-act plays called "Love, Sex, and All That Other Crap", which was produced in February, 2001, at After Hours Theater in Nashville, TN.

Enjoy...

(A thirty-something ex-fratboy walks into the living room of his wannabe yuppy apartment. He drinks a beer. He looks fucking miserable.)

(He talks to a guest.)

Thanks for coming over, man. Seriously. Thanks. I mean it. I hope you weren’t busy…

Oh. Sorry, dude...

(He finishes his beer, grabs another from the mini-fridge next to his Lazy Boy.)

Want one?…

Why the fuck not?…

That’s a fucking lame excuse for not drinking, dude…

What the fuck ever…

(He takes a big swig, responds to something his buddy says.)

What?...

What do you mean, “How’m I doin?” What the fuck do you think, how’m I doin’? Goddamn situation’s fucked me in the ass with a forty-inch dick is how I’m doin!...

I don’t know, dude. I’m just-

I don’t really wanna talk about it. I just wanted company, you know? I mean it. I don’t wanna think about it, I don’t wanna talk about it, the last thing I want to do is think and talk about

WHAT A FUCKING BITCH SHE IS!

Goddamnit!

(He paces around for a few silent moments.)

I know…

You don’t have to fuckin’ tell ME that…

That’s the thing, man, this kinda shit doesn’t happen to me, you know? No, you don’t know, ‘cause you don’t know what the fuck happened.

Here it is. Check this out.

So I’m over at her place and we’re having a mid-afternoon snack, right? Her on top, snackin’ away. And you know, we always had really good sex – that’s just the way it is when you’re getting’ boned by a dude like me, right? Right? But this time, for what seemed like the first time in my life, I wasn’t having JUST sex. We weren’t grinding it out, we weren’t doing the deed, we weren’t getting our loads off. We were- We were-

(He tries to think of something…but fails.)

Dude, what’s that term people use when they’re having more than just sex, but with emotion?...

Making love!! Right! I was making love. I was doing it with emotion! I had all these feelings going on!

It was weird.

At one point, get this, at one point I even opened my eyes to look at her. I looked at her…

No. Not just her tits. Her EYES!...

Yeah, I’m fucking serious! I looked in her eyes! Which I don’t normally do ‘cause it’s harder to concentrate on my dick, right?

But when I did that, when I opened my eyes and reeeeally looked at her...my insides got all full and shaky, my legs got tingly, and I felt warm, man, warm, all over. And I had this feeling, this weird feeling just, like, CONSUME me, man, just fucking consume me, and...and right then...I knew I loved her...Yeah, man, love. And...and I knew I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life…

Yeah. “Wow” is right.

So I’m looking at her and we’re still moving and I have all these things to say, emotional shit to say, right? So I open my mouth, ready to let it all spew out, ready to open my fucking heart to her, when she looks me straight in the eyes, mid-thrust, and says,

“By the way, I’ve been fucking an associate of mine for the last twelve and a half weeks. I thought you should know.”…

Yeah, I'm fuckin' serious...

What happened? You really wanna know what happened?

My dick shriveled up right there inside of her, that’s what fucking happened! Like a little turtle’s head creeping back into it shell!

And what’s up with that half-week shit? Like twelve wasn’t bad enough, she had to tack on an extra half just for the fucking effect!?!

Never date an accountant.

(Sits, leans back, looking up, head drooping over the back of the chair.)

It gets worse….

Yeah…

So there I am. My world’s just crashed, I’m laying under her, looking up at her beautiful face, her hair falling over her shoulders, her red bangs framing those eyes of hers, those gorgeous fucking eyes are sucking me in, staring at me, waiting for me to say something, but I can’t say anything, because, as I’m looking in those eyes, I suddenly realize that I’m able to see through them, that I can see through her eyes, that I can see inside her skull – I can see her mind! Which I’d never done before! Seen a woman’s mind! I’ve always been more into tits than minds, right?But when I did that, when I looked through her eyes into her skull and saw her miiiiind? I knew then I missed out on something special.

Something really…fucking…special.

(His sadness overwhelms.)

Fuck.

(Takes a big swig.)

It was awful. I could still feel her nipples pressing into me. My hands were still grabbing her ass. Great ass! And in feeling the weight of her body, pressing on me, holding me down, my little turtle’s head still barely in her, holding on for its life, I knew… that this…was going to be the last time I would ever be with her.

And my heart fucking fell out of me. Just fell out. Right there. Like a big…………turd.

Finally, I push her hips up off’a me, I pull my little turtle’s head out’a her, and I stand up, my blue balls about to explode, and I immediately feel like a big fucking idiot. She’s telling me, “It was nothing. It was just sex. Come on, you guys do this shit all the time!” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “I shoulda known. I shoulda fucking known. I set myself up for this. I set myself up. I fucking looked at her!”

Never open your eyes, man. Don’t do it! Keep your eyes closed.

‘Cause it’s like God’s up there, watching you, his little fucking beady eyes, his asshole angels at his side, and the moment he watches you open your eyes to see the beauty of everything, of life, when he sees you fall in love or anything else that makes you fucking happy, he jumps out of his throne all excited and pointing his magical guns and shit at you because he knows now, NOW he can really fuck you up good.

Asshole.

(Opens another beer.)

(He gets a determined look about him.)

But I’ve learned something. Big time…

Yeah, I mean it! I’ve learned something! You think I’m a fucking animal, that I can’t learn shit? Can’t learn a lesson or two in life? We’re all growing, man, we’re all evolving and learning and becoming better people, constantly, whether you know it or not. It’s just up to YOU to recognize it, to realize what you’ve learned. To face yourself. You’ve gotta fucking face the truth about yourself if you want to grow as a person…

I know that’s fucking deep! Of course it is! I’m a fucking deep dude!

And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve evolved, I’ve grown from this, I’ve learrrrned. You know? And what I’ve learned is that I can use this experience to make myself a better person.

To make myself better.

To better…myself.

I learned I don’t need emotion. Fuck that. I don’t need it. You know what I need?

(Leans in.)

Titties.

Big. Emotionless. Titties!

That’s what I need.

Titties.

(He sits back in silence, drinking and thinking.)

(He takes a couple more swigs, breathes deep.)

Fuck…I’m hungry. You hungry?...

Where you wanna go?...

I don’t know. Hooters?…

Cool.

(Stands to leave.)

Yeah, man. I’ve learned a lot from this.

A lot.

(BLACKOUT.)

“Bill Hicks Is Wiping Happy Sterile Bullets Off The Belly of His Own Dead Corpse”

2008-11-05T16:59:00.010-06:00

He’s happy the Elephant is dead.
Again.
He’s thrilled a black dude has taken out the faghaters.
He’s hoping America stops sucking.
He’s kickin’ at his coffin,
yellin' for a cigarette--
he gave them up years ago,
before his innards revolted and killed his ass,
before he left this fuckin' world
and deprived us of his words.
But now,
finally,
he’s found a reason for another.

So, here you go, Bill,
take one of mine.
Have a puff,
give us a cackle
and show us your yellow-teethed grin,
then yell once more,
like you did back then,
Thank Christ! The Elephant is Dead!!

(11/05/08)

"An Ode to Poo"

2008-10-29T15:07:00.000-06:00

With this load I thee dump.
Oh splash splash
sayeth thy heart to thy stool,
Oh worthy bloodstained excrement,
fall not from me in vain,
but with aplomb,
with thy memory sweetened
by the rub-a-dub-dub
of these hands made delicate
by the sweet smell
of softened loggage
that protrudes with pride,
always,
forever,
from the hole of
this brown-stained bum.

"I Open the Door"

2008-09-19T16:56:00.029-06:00

(This is Chapter One of the young adult novel I am currently writing...28,000 words and counting, as of this posting.)

---------------------------------

CHAPTER ONE: 'FAMILY'

I open the door, shut it behind me, lock it. I walk into the living room. The lights are off, candles burn. Mom sits on the couch, her hand on his thigh, his hand on hers. She looks at me, lets go of his hand, puts her hands on her lap, smiles at me.

I stand there. I look at the candles, the flames.

He rubs his hand through his mustache, pulls at his thick black hairs, clears his throat.

She stands, straightens her dress, says she has some good news. She says she knows this will come as a surprise. She forces another smile, rubs her palms together, wipes them on her dress, opens her mouth, closes it.

He steps towards me, tells me what she’s trying to say is they’re getting married. Him and her. She looks at him sideways, her smile slips, reappears. She claps her hands. She says yay.

He smiles, puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes, pulls me in a little. His beer belly pushes against me.

He asks me how it feels.

I look at the wall, at a picture. My Dad. He smiles at the camera.

I look at Mom, at Danny.

He removes his hand.

She smiles, asks me if there’s anything I want to say.

…

I walk down the hall to my room. I hear Maggie’s voice through her door. I turn the handle, open her door, stick my head in. She stops talking into the phone, looks up at me from where she sits on the floor. She slides something under her bed, fast. It catches the phone cord, yanks the receiver out of her hand. She yells at me to shut the door. She asks if I ever knock, if I’m retarded.

I go to my room, shut the door. I get on my bed, lie on my back. I stare at the ceiling, at the white.

I keep my eyes open.

I breathe.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

I focus on my breath.

Everything begins to hum.

Everything stops.

Everything disappears.

I become nothing.

…

A sound brings me back.

The front door closes.

I hear Vic’s voice. Mom’s. Danny’s. I hear Vic ask them if they’re fucking kidding him. Mom yells at him to not act like that. Vic asks her how the fuck he’s supposed to act. His voice gets louder, says here we go a-fucking-gain. He yells more stuff at Mom that makes Mom yell more stuff back. I hear Danny tell Vic he shouldn’t talk to his mother like that.

Vic’s voice explodes.

Mom’s voice matches it.

All the voices jumble together, the three of them, lots of words.

Vic yells at them both to fuck off. His combat boots pound down the hall.

He opens our bedroom door, walks in, slams it shut, locks it. He walks to his bed, stares at it.

He paces, eyes on the floor, his face all fisted up. He tries to figure out what to do with himself. He puts in a CD. Bauhaus. 80s goth. He’s sick of The Cure. He chews his nails. Little strips of black nail polish come off in his mouth, spits them out. He looks at me. He doesn’t smile.

He says motherfucker.

He says this is unfuckingbelievable.

He digs at his thumb, his cuticle.

The vein in his neck swells.

He says we apparently get no say in this bullshit, do we. That what we think doesn’t really matter, does it. That the last asshole wasn’t enough, was he.

I tell him maybe Danny’s not an asshole.

He tells me they’re all assholes. A bunch of redneck dickwads, every man she picks, guaranteed, I don’t even need to think about it.

I tell him Dad wasn’t an asshole.

He asks me how would I know. He says that people lie about the dead, that a person changes after they die, who they were changes, their whole history. He says that of course all those fucking people aren’t going to say that our dad was an asshole. He says that people are too nice, or too scared, or too fucking guilty to say what they really think. He says no one ever says what they think, so how could we know, how could we ever know what our dad was like. He says we can’t. We never will.

He goes to the door. He puts a towel against the bottom of the door, covers the gap. He stuffs some socks in the gap at the top. He pulls a cigarette pack out of his pocket, opens it, takes out a joint, a lighter. He sits on his bed, leans against the wall. He opens the window, flicks the lighter, puts the flame to the tip of the joint. The tip burns for a second. Vic stares at it. He blows out the flame. Smoke gushes up in one big trail. He sucks on the joint, holds it in. He blows smoke from his lungs out the window. I spray some stuff around, strawberry scented.

I notice his cheek. Red. A little swollen. I ask what happened.

He says that some jock-fuck at a party tried to fuck his shit up. I ask him why the jock-fuck wanted to fuck his shit up. He says the jock-fuck did it for the same reason jock-fucks do everything, because they’re stupid. Vic says it was just another brain-dead jock-fuck that took a particular interest in Vic’s apparent freakishness. Vic, with his long black hair, his black trench coat, his black combat boots, his homemade t-shirt, his black nails and black eyeliner, the chain on his black wallet, the chains around his wrists, his ear rings. Vic says that the jock-fuck’s little inferior mind was probably feeling insecure, that it needed to make up for its lack of brain-power by attempting to pummel someone, someone outside the jock-fuck’s normal circle. Vic says that the jock-fuck probably saw him standing there drinking and talking to some girl the jock-fuck was probably hoping to fuck, that the jock-fuck had probably already fantasized about kicking his ass once or twice before in the halls at school, and now, drunk and stupid and surrounded by other jock-fuck friends, the jock-fuck decided to try to live out that fantasy.

Vic looks at me. He smiles, says the jock-fuck clearly underestimated who he was fucking with.

Vic leans his head against the wall, takes another hit, smokes his joint for a while, listens to Bauhaus.

His face changes, a thought enters his brain.

He becomes nothing but words.

He talks about Mom, about Dad, about The Dickhead our mom married after Dad, about Danny, about Maggie. He talks about this fucking world we live in. He talks about having to start school again, tomorrow, another fucking year of school, about how much he can’t wait to be around a bunch of elitist assholes for eight hours a day. He tells me that everyone at that fucking school is a bunch of rich fucking cockwads, tells me it’s gonna be a bitch of a culture shock for me. He tells me I’m probably gonna hate it. He says we got fucked being zoned for out there. He says we got fucked that our old school doesn’t have a high school. He says he doesn’t want to scare me, that he’s only speaking from experience, that he just wants me to be prepared, to be mentally prepared for the multiple of piles shit I’ll be encountering tomorrow, my first day of high school.

He talks forever.

…

The outside lights goes on.

We turn off our light, move to the window. They lean against his truck. We watch them hug, look at them kiss.

Vic’s lips are tight, they squeeze together. He tries to take another hit, puts the joint to his mouth, sucks on it. Nothing happens. The joint is dead. He grabs his lighter, flicks it with his thumb. Nothing. Shakes it. Flicks it again. Nothing. He throws the lighter against the wall, yells the word fuck. Mom and Danny look over at our window.

I go back to my bed.

I lie down.

I stare at the ceiling.

I breathe.

I become nothing.

…

A knock on my door brings me back.

Her voice is soft. She asks if we can come out. She waits. She says please. I look at Vic. He looks at me. The door handle jiggles. Locked. She says to please come out, she wants to talk, it won’t take long.

Vic touches his cheek where it’s red, swollen. He says we’re busy. She says to just come out, now. Vic tells her to hold on, to let him finish something, Jesus Christ. He sits still, does nothing.

She tells him she’s getting mad, to come out now, she’s sick and tired of his shit.

He yells at her to wait a second.

He sits some more. I wait for him. He looks at me. I look at him.

He lets out a groan, stands up.

I follow him out.

Mom’s in the living room. Maggie sits on the couch. Her face hangs from her head.

We all sit.

Mom says she knows what we’re thinking.

Vic breathes out his nose, a retort.

Mom tells him not to do that, to use words if he wants to be a little shit.

Maggie opens her mouth, asks Mom how she can love someone when she barely even knows him. Mom looks at Maggie, tells Maggie that you never really know a person anyway, so when it comes down to it, she probably knows him as well as she can know anybody anyway. Maggie tells her that didn’t make any sense at all.

Vic asks Mom if she’s pregnant. Mom gives Vic a look. Vic tells her he’s only asking being there’s a precedent, that he knows he’s the reason her and Dad got married, it’s simple fucking math. Mom says that she’s not pregnant, that’s not why she’s getting married. She tells us she just needs us to be supportive of her. She says we’ll like him, that she needs this. She says she loves him as much as she can love any man. She asks us to try to love him as much as we can, to make him welcome, to not be little shits.

Everything goes quiet.

Vic’s breathes loud. I stare at a mole on my arm. Maggie picks at the couch, pulls stuffing out of a hole.

No one says anything for a while.

Maggie looks up. She asks Mom when all this is happening. Mom’s off in her own in her own world, doesn’t hear her. Maggie yells hey, asks Mom again when all this is happening. Mom asks her what she’s talking about. Maggie yells the wedding. Mom tells her to keep her voice down. Maggie pulls more stuffing out. Mom yells at her to stop.

Mom tells us she’s not exactly sure when the wedding is going to be, but that it’ll probably be soon. Vic smiles, says that’s fucking awesome.

We sit there in silence. Lots of things aren’t said.

Maggie asks if we’re done.

Mom says yes, we’re done.

Vic stands, says this was an awesome fucking meeting.

Vic and Maggie walk down the hall.

Mom puts her hand on my arm, stops me. She smiles. She tells me I’ll like him. She promises. She says he’s excited to get to know me, that he’s always wanted a son.

She looks at me.

I don’t say anything.

Her face changes. Her face tells me how ungrateful I am. She tells me that there’s no one for her to talk to in this house, did I ever think about that. Did I ever think that maybe she needs someone to talk to also, that me and Vic and Maggie have each other, but who does she have.

She waits for an answer, for me to tell her who she has.

Her eyes get wet.

She turns around.

She walks away.

----------------------

(Next Chapter: 'Freshman')

Joe is a Wanker

2008-09-15T17:03:00.002-06:00

NOTE: This is a posting from Brother Dom's blog. I like it. I like my Brother Dom. I like his blog. I like this one especially, because it's about me. I thought I'd share the blog, just in case you're not a Myspace Buddy of Brother Dom. Much of it probably won't make sense to you, but that's, like, life, you know?

09/14/08 6:23AM

Joe Is A Wanker

Joe is quite nice..
at times.
Joe drinks smoothies..
made from his kitchen.
Joe thinks your an asshole..
And I quite agree.
Joe makes exceptions..
I'm guilty too.
Joe finds jams passe..
Endless drinking..
Weak.
Cigarettes tweak Joe..
A fag in one hand..
Sensless scribbles on pages..
Fart on book.
Komeda on headphones..
4AM..
Joe not happy.
Joe is the grumpy Uncle..
Morning.. Noon and Night.
Joe is funny..
Joe poops..
Joe is quite the athlete when shooting hoops.
Joe dislikes the word "quite."
I find it quite nice.
Brother Joe..
I swore I'd punch that guy in the nose.
Twenty years late..
Better than never oh Joe.
Joe drinks coffee..
Sometimes at night..
Never around us.
Nero sang songs..
Mr. Vox times 2.
Microphone on echo..
(((Reverb..)))
Christmas Eve in Tennessee.
Oh it's lovely.
No tree.
Gassed up Joe left early..
Brother says: "Fuck This!"
Other Brother: "Lena loves you Joe! Only a fool could be so blind!"
The dog liked Joe better when he smoked..
We all did.
Joe Joe Joe.

Joe is still single and loves the ladies..
Girls line up.
Joe needs no pimp..
Joe is Joe.
Joe likes watching depressing movies on holiday..
Your "quite" the host Joe.
We wouldn't trade it for money.

And since Joe's the only one who reads this hand grenade..
It's all about you.

Thanks a Lot

2008-08-20T15:34:00.011-06:00

Mom gives off a disgusted hrumph. “You really did it this time, didn’t you?” She shakes her head. “What did I do?” she says to the nonexistent person that she wishes could feel her pain. “What did I do to deserve this?”

The two trails of torn-away grass travel through several yards, heading straight for a telephone pole. I imagine the brown dirt hitting the telephone pole, splattering red and blue and black, disintegrating, an escape.

But the brown takes a right turn, just before the pole. A mangled water meter or something is on the ground, a corpse.

“Great,” Mom says. “I bet the city makes us pay for that. Just great. Thanks, Joe. Thanks a lot.”

My sister takes this opportunity to mock me. “Wow.” She looks at me, smiles. “Nice job. Looks like you finally know how to do something right."

Mom yells at us to shut up, the both of us.

Just beyond the dead water meter, there’s a drop-off, a short hill that descends onto a driveway, the next yard. The driveway is injured. It’s been lacerated. The concrete is coming through white where a large metal object of a certain car-shaped size landed after its flight over the drop-off, where it crushed the ground, scraped away the driveway, and left white wounds.

Mom slows down, pulls up to the curb, stops in front of the house with the cut-up driveway. She puts the car in park. We all look at the tree in the center of the yard, a trail of torn up dirt leading to it, presenting it. An enormous tree, one of the Oak variety. A nemesis of any car.

The mangled tracks stop at the tree, the end of the ride.

My brain plays the sound of a car smashing to a stop, ass-end first, as sudden as a stop can be. I picture the glass from the windows exploding into tiny little bits.

Glass.

My mom tells me to get out, to grab the paper bags.

“We really don’t have to do this,” I say, already defeated.

She looks at me.

My sister looks at me.

Everyone hates me.

We get out of the car, step into the cold gray gloom of another Thanksgiving morning and start crawling around the grass on our hands and knees.

* * *

Jason stops sketching, puts down his charcoal, looks at me. “You’re fucking kidding me.” He laughs. He shakes his head. He knows I’m not.

*

The grass is thick. Rich people’s grass. You can’t see the glass. You have to feel for it. Run your hands through the grass, to the dirt, using your fingertips. Like feeling for ticks on the Earth’s scalp. And there’s lots of ticks.

We put the little bits of shattered glass in a brown paper grocery bag. Me, Mom, my sister. We all get our own bag. America.

We’ve been at it for maybe ten minutes when I see, through the dining room window, a woman, middle-aged. She pulls on the end of a table, extending it. She puts a slab of wood in the space created.

She looks up.

I look down.

I drop a piece of glass in the bag, listen to the soft thwack of it hitting the paper on the bottom. Soon, there will be no thwack, but a tink, the bag filling up.

I’m by the tree. I glance at the window. She’s still there, looking at us, at three people crawling around her yard, picking shit out of it.

She moves away from the window.

I go back to the glass.

Their front door opens.

She walks out. She smiles.

Mom sees her, stands, smiles back. “Hi, there!” Mom says, everything normal. “Happy Thanksgiving!” she says, just another holiday.

“You really don’t have to do this,” the woman says, the same thing I said.

“Oh, nooooo,” Mom says, smiling, so friendly, waving her off. “We’ll take care of this, don’t you worry.”

“Insurance will handle it,” the woman says. “Really.” She’s giving us an out. Being logical.

“Oh, no, no, it’s our mess, we’ll get it.”

“They have special vacuums, they’ll suck it right out of the yard in no time.”

“No need!” My mom smiles. A good Samaritan.

The woman looks over at me, on my knees, my hand in my bag. She smiles. It makes it worse.

“Well…” says the woman, something on her mind. “We have family that will start arriving soon…” She smiles at my mom. “So…”

“Don’t worry,” Mom says. “We won’t bother them.” She doesn’t get the hint. Or refuses to. “Just pretend we’re not here!”

A good idea. I try it. It doesn’t work. We’re definitely here.

The woman goes back inside.

Forty-five minutes or thirty or an hour later, a family pulls into the driveway. Your standard four-part variety with perfect teeth. The woman’s daughter or son, her grandkids.

They get out.

I try not to look as they stare.

My mom smiles. Waves. “Hi, there!”

The dad smiles back, slowly.

Their son says in a tiny voice, “What are they doing?”

“We’re just cleaning up a little mess!” Mom says, normal.

They glance at the scars on the driveway. They walk down the sidewalk, try to ignore my mom's small talk, and go in the house. I imagine the conversation they’re probably having. My stomach turns.

My mom mumbles, she complains about her life, how us, her kids, aren’t helping at all, not at all. It’s a general statement, referring to everything.

Little scenes from last night—this morning—crash around in my skull. I look across the street, at the house on the other side off the road. I wonder if she’s looking at me.

Allison.

“Now, let me get this straight,” Mom says for the hundredth time in the last nine hours. “Why were you two out driving?” she asks, again. “Because I just don’t see why you’d—MARY KRISTIN!” She snaps at my sister. “Why have you stopped?! What are you looking at! Get busy! Do you want to be here all day? Do you want to come back tomorrow? We’ll come back tomorrow if we have to! Don’t test me! We’ll be here as long as it takes!”

Mary looks at me.

She hates me.

It’s not her fault.

It’s mine.

* * *

I was spending the night at Robbie’s. He was in town at his mom’s. I like his mom. Not in that way. I don’t think. She’s just real nice, in a real way, not in that annoying way that other people are nice to me, where I can tell they’re not really being nice, they’re just pitying me.

Robbie’s my only cool friend. He wasn’t always cool. Before he moved in with his dad, up in Kentucky, he was a dork, like me. He came back a jock.

It was late. After midnight. Thanksgiving. He wanted cigarettes. So we drove my car—my mom’s. The ’79 Oldsmobile station wagon. The white one. With the Jesus license plate on the front.

His mom in bed, we sneak out.

We go to a gas station.

On the way back, nearly to his house, there’s a curve. Lights from an oncoming car. An adjustment, a misjudgment, and we’re off-roading.

Everything’s bumpy, flying by. Suburbia. Grass and trees and bushes are illuminated by headlights, until there’s a telephone pole dead ahead. Dead.

I turn the wheel. Avoid death. It passes by on the left, says hi. The pole smacks us—or vice versa—on my side, between the doors, re-shaping the car. It spins us around.

Next, there’s a drop-off. An embankment. A ramp. We fly through the air and drop with a crunch on a driveway, grinding, sliding.

Next, more grass, this time backwards.

Until there’s a tree, the car filled up by the indescribable sound of suddenly stopping, the end of our ride.

Oh.

And glass.

An explosion of glass.

* * *

“Fuck me,” Jason says.

* * *

I look at Robbie.

He looks at me.

The streetlight makes us gold.

His eyes have never been so huge. He’s not wearing his seatbelt. He’s alive, unhurt. The telephone pole, head-on, so close.

I know the car’s a goner. And so am I. I punch the roof.

We get out, wobbly. We walk down the street as house lights flip on around us. We wake his mom, she calls mine, and it’s all set in motion.

We get back to the car, greeted by spinning lights, blue and red.

Robbie’s mom takes me to the cops. The woman. The questions begin. Everything is awful.

My mom arrives with my sister. I want to die.

I look across the street at a big white house. Their lights are on. Allison. From youth group. I picture her face. Of all the places I could crash. I know they’re looking out at me from their house, Allison and her family, her dad, these people I know from church, my God friends. My crush.

I imagine her coming out, putting her arms around me.

My mom keeps telling me how much I’ve messed things up for everybody.

As far as I can tell, she’s not relieved I’m alive.

Neither am I.

* * *

The toilet’s coming along nicely. I’m not as good an artist as Jason, but I’m all right. I can draw a huge toilet.

I’ve drawn a Girl Scout in front of the toilet, her back to me, looking up at it. I’ve decided to go ahead and make it a museum piece, a huge toilet in a museum.

“That’s fucking weird,” Jason says, accidentally dragging his charcoal over his drawing, a mistake that I’d have a hard time covering, but Jason won’t. “You were IN their yard…PICKING GLASS out of it…AS they were eating their fucking turkey and peas and shit?”

He shakes his head. He laughs.

* * *

My fingers are raw.

We’ve been here for hours.

I look at my sister. She’s sitting on her knees, looking at her hands, blank, despondent.

I look at Mom. She winces, her bad back. She crawls around, fingers in grass, dropping glass in her bag, vigorous. Every now and then, she blurts out things she can’t believe.

She can’t believe she’s…
She can’t believe I…
She can’t believe the world…
She can’t believe the damn…

They’re inside now, the whole family, all their guests, eating. Thanksgiving. It must be mid-afternoon. They have the curtains open, we can see them, sitting at their big table. I keep staring. Mom keeps yelling. They can see us. It’s weird.

Eventually, the woman stands, goes to the window, pulls on the string, closing the curtains, smiling at me with the right side of her mouth, an apology for something that’s not her fault.

It pisses me off.

I look across the street at Allison’s house, all the cars in her driveway.

I imagine her coming out, asking me to join them, me sitting next to her, at her table, her whole family. Maybe she holds my hand. Maybe she-

“Joe!” Mom yells at me. “Get goddamn busy! You want to be here all day?!”

“We already have been,” I say.

My sister laughs.

My mom tells us all the things about us that she’s sick and tired of.

Allison doesn’t come out.

* * *

“Motherfucker!” goes Jason. He knows about Allison. “Right across the street!?”

“Jason!” Mrs. Whitlock says. He goes back to his Beowulf-inspired charcoal sketch. His fingertips are black.

Next to the huge toilet, I’m drawing a famous painting that hangs in the museum. It’s an Andrew Wyeth. My favorite painting. In the foreground, a woman in a dress sits on her side in a field, out in the country, her legs sprawled out beside her. She leans on her arms, holding herself up. Everything is golden. She has her back to the viewer, the artist—to me. Her face is hidden, looking away from me, up the hill, into the distance, at a house, a barn. Her brunette hair is pulled back. The wind blows loose strands around.

It’s another ten years before I learn the woman is crippled.

“Whelp,” Jason says, working on a crude representation of Grendel’s severed head, which bears a resemblance to Mrs. Whitlock. “Consider Allison gone. You’ve lost your chance now.”

I stare at the woman in the Andrew Wyeth painting that I’m recreating next to the huge toilet, imagine her turning around, looking me in the eyes, smiling.

She doesn’t.

* * *

I’m on my ass by a bush near their mailbox, working on a grassless patch of ground, all dirt. It’s easier to see the glass.

I notice something stuck in the fat of the bush, wedged in it.

I lean forward on my hands and knees, grab it, pull it out of the bush.

It’s a white mangled license plate. Bent all to hell.

There’s a word on the license plate. One word—JESUS—all caps.

Mom sees it, waxes all symbolic, tells me it’s a lesson, a message from the big man.

Inside, I’m laughing.

I can’t wait to show my brothers what I did to Jesus.

* * *

A kid peaks out from the curtain, a tiny face.

I can see they’ve finished eating.

I feel my stomach.

My fingers have a thousand cuts in them and my knees are raw from crawling on glass.

Everything feels hazy, like the edges of my life have blurred.

Their garage door opens.

The woman and her husband walk out, pulling a Shop-Vac behind them by its hose. They offer it to us. There’s an extension cord.

My mom refuses. They insist. She gives in.

My sister, cold, the true victim here, goes and sits in the car. Normally, we hate each other, or at least act like it. But right now, I feel responsible, bad, like I did when I pulled her arm out of her socket, back when she was five.

The woman and her husband go back inside.

Me and Mom walk around a stranger’s yard vacuuming up glass during the waning daylight of Thanksgiving.

* * *

One day, this will all end.

* * *

Dusk arrives.

Finally.

I watch the gray sky turn black. The football games are probably over. In all this bliss, I forgot about football. I look at my mom. She says, “What?!” I role up the cord, push the vacuum back into their garage.

The woman and her husband come out, talk to Mom. They smile. They say thank you, it really wasn’t necessary, but thank you, that was very nice of us. We didn’t have to do this.

My mom waves the comment away. We clean up our messes in this family!

The husband takes our brown paper grocery bags. He folds the tops of them closed. They rattle in his hands. He throws them in the garbage. All our hard work.

Pleasantries are exchanged. Final words. Laughter, the fake kind.

The woman, she gives me another half-smile. I find myself hating her.

We get in the car.

My mom turns the key.

Nothing happens.

* * *

“No!” Jason yells.

Mrs. Whitlock looks at us. She tells us that’s the last time.

I’m giving the toilet color. I’ve decided this will be a yellow toilet. Golden.

Jason laughs. “Unfuckingbelievable.” He likes my stories. They’re good stories.

* * *

The man and the woman don’t have jumper cables.

Mom knocks on Allison’s door.

I pace, look at my feet.

Allison’s dad tries to jump us. Allison stays inside.

I look at my mom. She’s pacing, talking, mostly to herself.

One car, wrecked. The other, a piece of shit.

A tow truck.

It carries the piece of shit away until it disappears into darkness. Twice in one day. This house. A Giordano car murder machine.

Our neighbors pick us up. Mom’s friend and her daughter. Sue, two years older than me, smiles knowingly, nudges me, anticipating the story to come, which I’ll tell her tomorrow.

Barbara drives us home. Mom’s friend. She’s so nice. Asks my mom how she’s doing. Tells my mom she’s a good woman, she’s had it so hard, don’t worry, things will work out for her soon, her luck has to change. My mom shakes her head, says she doesn’t know why these things keep happening, what she did to deserve this, she just doesn’t know.

I sit in the middle of the back seat, cold, all day long.

My sister looks out the window, away from me, like the woman in the painting, like Allison.

* * *

As soon as I walk in the door, my brothers all congratulate me, mock me. They call me Bo and call Robbie Luke, they sing the Duke’s theme song. There’s laughter, the real kind.

I show them the Jesus license plate. They go crazy over it. My mom says not to say what we’re saying.

Me, my brothers, my sister, all five of us, we listen to Mom in the kitchen, banging shit around, cooking Thanksgiving dinner, telling us all to pipe down, her nerves, what a day she’s had, Jesus Goddamnit on the Cross, where’s the colander?

Finally, we load up our plates with Thanksgiving food and sit down in the living room, on the floor, the couch. Me, my three older brothers, my younger sister, and my mom, we all dig in.

Bob turns on the TV.

Johnny Carson is just finishing his monologue.

* * *

Jason laughs. Shakes his head.

"Time"

2008-07-13T11:18:00.000-06:00

The candle wondered
with each shrinking second
When will this withering end?

The flame bit down
and clawed at the candle
until there was nothing left.

The Monster That Looked Like a Booger (Chapters 1-3)

2008-06-23T14:17:00.002-06:00

(NOTE: This is an excerpt from the final draft of my children's chapter book, "The Monster That Looked Like a Booger". The previous version posted was an early draft. Enjoy!)

Chapter 1

THE MONSTER

The monster that looked like a booger was jumping up and down on top of a Coke can. The Coke can was on top of a counter, and the counter was in a gas station. It was one of those gas stations out in the middle of nowhere. One of those gas stations that people only stop at when they're on their way to somewhere else. Which was where the monster was heading. The monster was on its way to another city.

But it wasn’t just any city.

It was a special city.

You see, inside the state called Tennessee there’s a city called Chattanooga, and in this city called Chattanooga there’s another city.

A city made out of rocks!

The monster that looked like a booger was a big fan of rocks.

Rocks were to the monster what coffee was to adults, what candy was to kids.

So imagine this little monster’s excitement when it learned of an entire city made out of rocks. A whole city!

There was no other option.

The monster HAD to see it.

The monster had to go to Rock City to see it with its own eyes, with every single one of its glossy-green yellow-specked eyes.

It needed some excitement. Every day had become the same as the day before, a repetition of a repetition. Some people lose themselves in repetition, in the calming pattern—not the monster.

It needed change.

It was time to do something else with its little monster life.

So it took off to see Rock City.

It had been on the road for several hours, hitchhiking, jumping from car to truck to motorcycle, when it felt a certain liquid problem developing inside of its body. It was this “liquid problem” that brought the monster to the gas station, the reason why it was jumping up and down on top of a Coke can that sat on a counter in a part of the world that people only pass through to get to somewhere else.

It was this “liquid problem” that was causing the monster to yell at the cashier behind the counter.

The monster didn’t like to yell, but it had to yell, because it was no bigger than a booger. Its voice did not boom.

In order to heard, the monster had to yell.

“WHERE-?!” the little monster yelled as it reached the highest point of its jump, waving several of its arms, trying to get the cashier’s attention.

"IS YOUR-?!" the monster yelled at the top of its next jump.

"BATHROOM?!!"

The monster screamed as loud as it could with its tiny voice, getting more and more frustrated, but the cashier still couldn’t hear it. The cashier was zoned out, a goofy grin plastered on his face as he swayed to a song that was playing in his brain.

The monster yelled one last time—“HEEEEEEYYYYY!”—and became so annoyed that it nearly exploded into a hundred tiny little booger-like bits.

It wasn’t always an easy life for the little monster that looked like a booger.

Chapter 2

THE CASHIER

The cashier was in his early twenties and had a look about him. It was an “alternative” look. One of those looks that doesn’t work if you shower a lot, or are scared of getting holes poked in your body. The kind of look that’s designed to make it obvious to other people that you have superior taste in music. That you’re in a band. (Or want to be in a band.) That you’re cool.

It was an “indie-rocker” look.

And though he couldn’t quite pull the look off, it made the tall, goofy-looking cashier feel good, anyway.

Older adults, those the age of his parents, hated this look. This look made it seem to many of these adults that he was wasting his life by not growing up.

Kids, however, liked the cashier’s look. They liked his dirty longish hair, his piercings, his painted nails, his dazed look, his “distinctive” nose, his goofy grin.

The cashier’s parents thought he was wasting his life, that he was unfocused, immature. That he needed to think about his future. They thought he should be in college.

He wasn't in college.

He had gone for a while, but dropped out after one and a half semesters. He didn’t like it, didn’t fit in, and couldn’t concentrate. A greater calling had taken over him. He would start a band! A band that would take over the world! A band that would put good music back on the radio! A band that would make him lots of money! Allow him to travel! And make it so he'd never have to shave again!

So he dropped out of college.

He got a job.

He shaved.

One and a half years later, he was still working on forming that band.

All he had left to do was find a drummer. And a singer. And a bass player. And someone to write the songs.

Other than that, the band was in place!

Plus, he talked the manager of the gas station into letting him keep at least a little patch of hair on his chin.

He liked to think that things were looking up.

The truth, though, if he was forced to admit it, is that the cashier wasn’t happy. He felt stuck in this job in this nowhere town that barely even counted as a city. Everything had become repetitive and boring. People came into his life so fast and then left. It felt like life was passing him by.

Life was just not rocking enough.

The cashier was in a stupid, annoying, nail-biting rut.

His depression was in crisis mode.

He wanted to climb of his rut, but he didn’t know how.

So, until he could figure out how to get out of his rut, the cashier would be stuck standing behind this stupid counter in this stupid gas station out in the middle of nowhere, a counter upon which a Coke can rested, a can that was currently being used as a launching pad for a tiny little monster that looked liked a booger, a monster that was trying desperately to get the cashier’s attention.

A monster that had to pee.

Chapter 3

THE MONSTER IS NOT A BURGER

The cashier heard a tiny little noise.

Then another.

It was a noise that sounded like it came out of a box full of stuffed animals in a dark closet in the middle of the night.

It wasn’t a noise made by a person. It couldn’t have been. There was no one in the gas station but himself. And it didn’t sound like an animal, a squirrel or a rat, scratching around—it wasn’t that kind of noise. And the radio was broken.

So where did the noise come from?

The cashier was a little freaked out. It wasn’t hard to freak out this cashier. He was one jumpy dude, this cashier, and something weird was going on.

The nervous cashier started to play with his big black nose ring, but then stopped himself. His last girlfriend broke up with him because he played with his nose ring too much. She said she didn't want a boyfriend who looked like he was always picking his boogers. Instead, he ran his fingers through the little puffy patch of hair that was growing out of the end of his chin, his goatee, trying to figure out where that little noise was coming from.

"DOWN HERE!!!" yelled the monster one last time before it plopped down on its back on top of the Coke can, trying hard to ignore the pressure building inside its body.

The cashier scratched the hair on his chin and looked down at the counter. He saw nothing unusual, just a cup of pennies, a pen, a debit card punch-pad, lots of dirt and dust, and his can of Coke.

The cashier picked up the can. He lifted it to his mouth to take a sip, but stopped when he saw something on top of the can.

A little green booger.

The cashier held up the can, got a better look, and discovered this booger, quite possibly, might be the most perfect booger the cashier had ever seen!

Never before had he seen such a perfectly shaped glob of dirt and mucus. It must have fallen out of my nose the last time I took a sip. He was amazed that his body could emit something so perfect. He had never felt so proud.

The cashier stared at the booger on the can and thought about eating it, but stopped himself. No matter how much he wanted to, he knew he was too old to be eating boogers.

He grabbed a roll of paper towels, ripped one off, said “Sorry, dude,” and moved to wipe the booger off the lip of the can. However, just as the cashier swiped the paper towel across the top of the can, the booger jumped in the air, hurdled the paper towel as it passed underneath it, and landed once again on top of the Coke can.

"Huhn,” the cashier said outloud to himself, because that’s what anyone would say after seeing a booger jump in the air.

The cashier tried to wipe the booger off again, but the same thing happened.

“Dude!” said the cashier, blown away by this freaky occurrence. Suddenly, everything was feeling supernatural. He wondered if he had developed a superpower—the power to spew magic boogers out of his nose!

The cashier needed to further investigate this booger. He picked up a pen and jammed the tip of it into the center of the magic booger.

The monster grabbed onto the tip of the pen.

The cashier lifted the pen up from the can, held the pen up close to his eyes, and saw the booger stuck on the end of it. It was even more perfect up close!

Now that the monster was so close to the cashier’s face and ears, it took this opportunity to once again ask the cashier a particular question:

“WHERE IS YOUR BATHROOM?!”

The cashier’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open—a little bit of drool slid out.

The monster had seen this exact expression on the face of every human being that had ever heard it talk. The expression was always the same. It was the kind of expression that could only have one thought behind it:

Holy crap! A TALKING BOOGER!!

"I'm not a booger!" yelled the monster to the cashier, who couldn’t believe his ears. "I know that's what you think! That I’m a booger! But I'm not!”

"You look like booger," said the dumbfounded cashier.

"It's because I'm small and green and I'm always changing shape, like when you play with a booger! But I'm not a booger! I’m sick of people always thinking I’m a booger, always trying to play with me, to roll me around in their fingertips into a ball, always trying to eat me! It’s annoying!"

"So you’re saying you’re not a booger?" asked the cashier, whose brain was having a hard time sorting through what was going on. "Because I'm pretty sure that you, yes, YOU, are a booger. I've seen a lot of boogers in my life, yes I have. I'm proud to say that this dude has been picking boogers for over twenty-two years. I think I’d know a booger when I saw one. And right now, three inches in front of my eyeballs, I see a booger. And it’s talking!"

The monster had had enough.

It made a tiny little angry face, took a giant leap off the end of the pen, soared through the air, and landed on the cashier’s nose ring, where it opened its little monster mouth and bit down on the cashier's nose as hard as it could.

"Yep," said the cashier. "You're definitely a booger. You jumped right for my nose."

The monster bit even harder!

But the cashier couldn't feel it—the bite caused no pain.

The monster couldn't hurt anything or anyone, not even when trying to. There was something about monsters that made it impossible for them to hurt people.

Not that it wasn’t a strong monster, because it WAS strong. It was very strong. Stronger than anyone you know, you can be sure of that.

The monster finally gave up and stopped trying to bite the cashier. It didn't really want to hurt the cashier, anyway. It just wanted to use the bathroom!

The monster had to pee so bad it hurt. It was a new sensation for the monster, a sensation that wasn’t particularly pleasant. It was like a thousand little fingers were pinching the monster from the inside.

“I just want to use the bathroom!” the little monster yelled to the cashier.

“Why?” said the cashier to the little monster that was clinging onto his nose ring.

“Because I have to pee!”

“You have to pee?”

“Yes!”

“Boogers don’t pee.”

“I’m not a booger!”

“You’re not a booger?”

“No!”

“And you have to pee?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Because there’s pee in me!”

“Where?”

“Inside of me! Where do you think? What’s wrong with you? What’s so hard to understand about this?!”

Everything about this was hard to understand for the cashier. He was still stuck on the idea that the monster was a booger. And now this “booger” was saying it had to pee, which meant that-

The cashier had a sudden thought. A realization.

The cashier suddenly realized: If THIS booger pees, then that means OTHER boogers probably ALSO pee! Which means that there could be HUNDREDS of tiny little boogers peeing inside my nose! RIGHT NOW!

The cashier was freaked out. “Are there hundreds of tiny little boogers peeing in my nose?”

The monster did not answer. Instead, it looked at the cashier as if he was stupid.

“While you’re there, you know, on the end of my nose,” said the cashier, “would you mind climbing in? Maybe look around? Do some nasal caving—some spelunking up the old nasal cavity? See if any of your little friends, your fellow boogers, are peeing? And if they are, could you maybe ask your little booger buddies to stop?”

“No!” screamed the monster. “Just tell me where your bathroom is!”

The cashier reached under the counter, grabbed a key hanging from a hook, and put it on the counter. A chain linked the key to the sawed-off end of a wooden broomstick handle.

"The bathroom is outside, around the corner,” said the cashier. “It’s locked. You’ll need the key to get in."

The monster jumped off the cashier's nose ring, landed on the broomstick handle, rolled down the side of the broomstick, and plopped onto its feet. It crawled underneath the broomstick handle, which was thousands of times larger and heavier than its own body, picked it up, and walked toward the edge of the counter. The monster did not have any trouble doing this, because, as you know, this monster was very strong. Stronger than you or me or anyone else you know.

The monster threw the broomstick handle and the key it was attached to off the counter onto the ground. The monster jumped off the counter, landed on the floor, picked up the broomstick, and carried it to the front door, the key rattling across the cracks in the tiles. The tiny monster started to push its way out the door, but stopped when it heard the annoying cashier’s voice.

"Boogers don't have pee inside them!” said the cashier, mainly just trying to reassure himself, for his own peace of mind. “They have dirt and grime and goo, and sometimes a nose hair. But not pee. Boogers are just gooey globs of fun. Why would a booger have to pee?"

"I'm not a booger!" yelled the monster, dropping the broomstick.

"What?" said the cashier. He couldn't hear the monster's tiny voice. It was too far away.

"I'M NOT A BOOGER!" repeated the monster, louder.

"Of course you're not a BURGER!" said the cashier, misunderstanding the monster.

"NO! BOOGER! NOT ‘BURGER!’ BOOOOO-GEERRRR! BOOGER BOOGER BOOGER BOOGER BOOGER!!"

"Are you calling me a booger?"

“No!” yelled the monster. Then, in one huge leap, it jumped through the air and landed back on the cashier’s nose ring, where it repeated itself one last time. “Listen to the words. Let them sink into that dim brain of yours! I’m. Not. A. Booger.”

"Oh,” said the cashier. He thought it over. He rolled it around in his brain. “Then what are you?"

"I'm a monster!"

"A monster.”

"Yes!” yelled the monster. “A monster that’s on its way to see Rock City!”

"Oh…right…a monster," said the cashier as the monster jumped back to the broomstick handle, picked it up, and started to walk out the door. "But you look like a booger."

Review for "Religion and Rubber Ducks"

2008-06-14T10:59:00.003-06:00

AN AWARD:

The Nashville Scene's BEST OF 2008 edition:

Best Original Plays
Joseph Giordano
Religion and Rubber Ducks, Giordano's collection of short works, received a surprisingly lively production at the atmospheric new Ovvio Arte gallery space. Good performances and snappy direction by Lauren Shouse brought to life the author's quirky insights into relationships and religious doctrine, his plays crafted with humor and exhibiting a marked maturity. —MARTIN BRADY

A REVIEW

"THE NASHVILLE SCENE"

Theater Review

June 11, 2008

Not So Obvious Art

by Martin Brady

Religion and Rubber Ducks—a recently concluded bill of three short plays hosted with stylish enthusiasm by painter/designer Veta Cicolello and her husband, musician Theo Antoniadis, at their converted auto-garage art space Ovvio Arte, at 425 Chestnut Street—marked an auspicious return to the Nashville theater scene by writer Joseph Giordano.

Giordano used to mount his angular and/or fanciful playlets and one-man shows with some regularity at Ken Bernstein’s Bongo After Hours Theatre, though recently the author, whose upbeat exterior masks decidedly sardonic thoughts, had been noticeably absent from the scene. Giordano’s recent chance meeting with Tennessee Rep associate Lauren Shouse—who says hanging out in bars is wasted time?—spawned this felicitous collaboration. The newer Giordano works, while still rooted in his characteristic sketch-comedy mode, exhibit marked maturity, and director Shouse staged them with both energy and a keen eye for the specifics that maximize textual impact.

The opener, “Simply the Best,” featuring Sarah Looney and Eric Williams, is a wry if repetitive concept piece. “The Day the Duck Came Back,” with fine performances by Jon Royal and Kahle Reardon, offers marvelous commentary on both the glory and futility of the notion of romantic permanence. The capper, “The Plan,” enacted by Royal, Andrew Kanies and Reardon (as a recorder-playing Holy Spirit), is what might be termed classic Giordano, as God himself cagily outlines for a skeptical Christ the Son the rationale for the whole, you know, redemption thing.

Antoniadis handled the technical aspects of the production, and all lighting and sound cues worked efficiently in what is a charmingly alternative venue that aims for multipurpose artistic use. (And pay no attention to the noise from passing freight trains or the fireworks from Greer Stadium. Ambient sound can be exciting, if you allow it to be.)

OPENING SOON!!

2008-05-20T15:11:00.006-06:00

May 29 marks the opening night for a new set of Joe Gio-penned One-Act plays. Rehearsals are going great, and I expect it to be two weekends of intense and immense laughter for every demented person out there!

Our Director and Leader: Lauren Shouse! (Give her a hand! She deserves it!)

Our Production Designer and Artist Extraordinaire: Vita Cicolello!

Our absolutely hilarious cast that will soon be destroying your soul with their mad acting skills include:

Jon Royal!

Andrew Kanes!

Kahle Reardon!

Sarah Looney!

Eric Williams!

Please join us!

May 29-31, June 5-7
8:30 pm
10$
@ OVVIO Arte
425 Chestnut Street

Here's a little description of the comedies you will soon be viewing:

RELIGION AND RUBBER DUCKS

Three plays about the desperate need to love and be loved.

“SIMPLY THE BEST”

Ted and Tally have the best most perfectest relationship in the whole world! Well, except for their desperate delusion, annoying rituals, and morphing walls. The tragic collapse of Ted and Tally as told through a series of successive mornings.

“THE DAY THE DUCK CAME BACK”

Man and Woman go out on a date. The specials for the day are mass confusion, mistaken identity, and a psychiatric restaurant. Can Man and Woman find out who they are in time to figure out what they want to be? Or will they forever be what they don’t know?

“THE PLAN”

God has a plan. Another plan. He swears, though, that this one will work. Guaranteed! He means it this time! He just needs a little help from his son. It’ll take some convincing, it’s not an easy sale, but if he can just find an angle, a hook, something to peak his son’s interest, he knows he can get the kid on board. And this plan? It’s a doozy.

Thanks a Lot

2008-05-04T10:46:00.013-06:00

Jason asks me a question.

“How was your fuckin’ holiday?”

I’m in art class on Monday morning, the only class worth a crap in this crap of a high school.

I look at him from the edge of my right eye, go back to what I’m working on.

I’m drawing a big toilet. I think the big toilet’s gonna be on display in a museum, but I’m not sure. So far it’s just a big toilet. It’s symbolic of something, I’m not sure of what, but I know it is.

The year I’m drawing this toilet is 1990. We’re Juniors, making this year slightly better than last, which isn’t saying much.

Jason is one of two-and-half friends I have here, my only real friend outside church, outside my God friends. He keeps his eye on Mrs. Whitlock as he puts a tube of Titanium White in his pocket. “Does it crack your top five shit list?”

I look at the hundreds of tiny cuts on my fingertips. A Thanksgiving montage plays in my brain. My silence is my answer.

Jason laughs. “Oh, man.” He shakes his head, smiles. He likes my stories.

I pull a shard out from under my fingernail. I look at it closely, hold it up to the light. The shard gives off no color, just a bland reminder of another holiday gone down the shitter. And I realize what the big toilet’s symbolic of.

Jason wonders what I’m doing. “What the fuck is that?”

“A piece of glass.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“Inside me.”

Jason doesn’t say anything. My weirdness causes a lot of pauses.

“This is evidence,” I say.

“Of what?”

“The joys of the holidays.”

Jason laughs. “Oh, man.” He shakes his head, smiles. My stories amuse him. I gotta admit, they’re good stories. And I enjoy telling them. Most of them. It helps.

He pounds the table with his fist, getting mine and Mrs. Whitlock’s attention, goes back to his sketchpad, says, “Story me up, bitch.”

So I tell him.

* * *

I’m woken by Mom, banging on my door, opening it.

“Get up!”

I roll over on my back, look up at the rotating fan.

“And I am not playing around this morning!”

Like she ever is.

I barely slept last night. None of us did. I’m not looking forward to whatever she has planned for me. I would like to sleep through the whole day, the whole week, maybe the year, on into the next, and the next, straight until college. After that, I’ll take it from there.

She opens the door, it’s momentum jerked to a stop by a shoe in the middle of a pile of clothes. Her knee bangs on the door. “Son of a-” She yells at me about cleaning up this shit-pile of a room, loses track of what she was saying, rambles on about some other things she’s sick and tired of, then gets back to her original agenda.

“Move it! Up up up up up! Now!”

“What are we-”

“Hurry up. Let’s go!”

“Where?”

“Where? Where? Where do you think?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I-”

“To clean up the mess you made.” Uh-oh. This is not going to be good. “Get dressed and get the paper grocery bags out from under the sink.”

“Why?”

“Just do it! Look at this room, it’s a G.D. wreck!” She doesn’t say the actual word. She’s trying to restrain, to do what the Jesus would. “Put on your shoes and get Mike- Dom-Bo…MARY!” Lately she’s had to drive circles around our names to find the right one. “Don’t! Fight with her! The last thing I need is to hear you two fighting. The last thing I need.” She turns and walks out the door, forgetting to please Jesus. “Where’s my goddamn keys?!”

I listen to her bang her way through the house, tossing shit around, looking for her keys. I hope she finds a bomb.

I sit up, stare at the fan turning in place, around and around. The last eight hours of my life, over and over.

Ten minutes later, she’s back in my room, screaming at me.

There’s no doubt about it—today, the seventeenth Thanksgiving of my life, is going to suck. Even more than the previous sixteen.

* * *

We’re driving down the road in a big blue piece of shit. The clock in the car says it’s 3:27 PM. It’s a liar. It’s not even nine in the morning.

Some preacher on the radio is talking about all the things to be thankful for. What an asshole.

My mom says nothing. She drives with both hands on top of the steering wheel, leaning forward, her back not even touching the seat. She breathes deep through her nose every fifteen or twenty seconds. She makes little noises, reactions to some random thoughts skittering around her brain waves.

My sister, twelve, sitting in the front seat next to Mom, turns around and looks at me. She hates me, especially today. “This is all your fault.”

My mom snaps. “The both of you shut up!”

I tell her I didn’t say anything.

“Well, now you did!”

She grips the steering wheel tight, turns into a neighborhood. The tires squeal around the corner. It makes me flinch.

* * *

We’re driving around a curve.

I don’t want to be here.

I try not to look, but I can’t help it.

I see tire tracks in a yard, kicking off at the curb. They run parallel to the road, across the yard, into the next, then the next. My eyes follow the brown where the grass has been torn away.

I start feeling sick, but not really, more like my brain is sick.

“Unbelievable,” Mom says, driving slow, looking at what I’m looking at, what my sister’s looking at. All three of us, looking. “You really did it this time, didn’t you?” She shakes her head. “What did I do?” she says to the nonexistent person she wishes could feel her pain. “What did I do to deserve this?”

The two trails of torn-away grass travel through several yards, heading straight for a telephone pole. I imagine the brown dirt hitting the telephone pole, splattering red and blue and black, disintegrating, an escape.

But the brown takes a right turn, just before the pole. A mangled water meter or something is on the ground, a corpse.

“Great,” Mom says. “I bet the city makes us pay for that. Just great. Thanks, Joe. Thanks a lot.”

My sister looks out the window, to her right, over-dramatic. “Wow.” She looks at me, smiles. “Nice job.”

Mom yells at us to shut up, the both of us.

Just beyond the dead water meter, there’s a drop-off, a short hill that descends into the next yard, a driveway. The driveway is injured. It’s been lacerated, the concrete coming through white where a large metal object of a certain car-shaped size landed after its flight over the drop-off, crushing the ground, scraping away the driveway, leaving wounds.

My mom slows down, pulls up to the curb, stops in front of the house with the cut-up driveway. Puts the car in park. We all look at the tree in the center of the yard, a trail of torn up dirt leading to it, presenting it. An enormous tree, one of the Oak variety. A nemesis of any car.

The mangled tracks stop at the tree, the end of the ride.

My brain plays the sound of a car smashing to a stop, ass-end first, as sudden as a stop can be. I picture the glass from the windows exploding into tiny little bits.

Glass.

My mom tells me to get out, to grab the paper bags.

“We really don’t have to do this,” I say, already defeated.

She looks at me.

My sister looks at me.

Everyone hates me.

We get out of the car, step into the cold gray gloom of Thanksgiving morning and start crawling around the grass on our hands and knees.

* * *

Jason stops sketching, puts down his charcoal, looks at me. “You’re fucking kidding me.” He laughs. He shakes his head. He knows I’m not.

*

The grass is thick. Rich people’s grass. You can’t see the glass. You have to feel for it. Run your hands through the grass, to the dirt, using your fingertips. Like feeling for ticks on the Earth’s scalp. And there’s lots of ticks.

We put the little bits of shattered glass in a brown paper grocery bag. Me, Mom, my sister. We all get our own bag. America.

We’ve been at it for maybe ten minutes when I see, through the dining room window, a woman, middle-aged. She pulls on the end of a table, extending it. She puts a slab of wood in the space created.

She looks up.

I look down.

I drop a piece of glass in the bag. Listen to the soft thwack of it hitting the paper on the bottom. Soon, there will be no thwack, but a tink, the bag filling up.

I’m by the tree. I glance at the window. She’s still there, looking at us, at three people crawling around her yard, picking shit out of it.

She moves away from the window.

I go back to the glass.

Their front door opens.

She walks out. She smiles.

Mom sees her, stands, smiles back. “Hi, there!” Mom says, everything normal. “Happy Thanksgiving!” she says, just another holiday.

“You really don’t have to do this,” the woman says, the same thing I said.

“Oh, nooooo,” Mom says, smiling, so friendly, waving her off. “We’ll take care of this, don’t you worry.”

“Insurance will handle it,” the woman says. “Really.” She’s giving us an out. Being logical.

“Oh, no, no, it’s our mess, we’ll get it.”

“They have special vacuums, they’ll suck it right out of the yard in no time.”

“No need!” My mom smiles. A good Samaritan.

The woman looks over at me, on my knees, my hand in my bag. She smiles. It makes it worse.

“Well…” says the woman, something on her mind. “We have family that will start arriving soon…” She smiles at my mom. “So…”

“Don’t worry,” Mom says. “We won’t bother them.” She doesn’t get the hint. Or refuses to. “Just pretend we’re not here!”

A good idea. I try it. It doesn’t work. We’re definitely here.

The woman goes back inside.

Forty-five minutes or thirty or an hour later, a family pulls into the driveway. Your standard four-part variety with perfect teeth. The woman’s daughter or son, her grandkids.

They get out.

I try not to look as they stare.

My mom smiles. Waves. “Hi, there!”

The dad smiles back, slowly.

Their son says in a tiny voice, “What are they doing?”

“We’re just cleaning up a little mess!” Mom says, normal.

They glance at the scars on the driveway. Walk down the sidewalk. Go in the house. Hug their mom, grandma, whatever. I imagine the conversation they’re probably having. My stomach turns.

My mom mumbles, she complains about her life, how us, her kids, aren’t helping at all, not at all. It’s a general statement, referring to everything.

Little scenes from last night—this morning—crash in my brain. I look across the street, at the house on the other side off the road. I wonder if she’s looking at me.

Allison.

“Now, let me get this straight,” Mom says for the hundredth time in the last nine hours. “Why were you two out driving?” she asks, again. “Because I just don’t see why you’d—MARY KRISTIN!” She snaps at my sister. “Why have you stopped?! What are you looking at! Get busy! Do you want to be here all day? Do you want to come back tomorrow? We’ll come back tomorrow if we have to! Don’t test me! We’ll be here as long as it takes!”

Mary looks at me.

She hates me.

It’s not her fault.

It’s mine.

* * *

I was spending the night at Robbie’s. He was in town at his mom’s. I like his mom. Not in that way. I don’t think. She’s just real nice. Lots of people are nice to me, like they’re trying to make up for something.

Robbie’s my only cool friend. He wasn’t always cool. Before he moved in with his dad, up in Kentucky, he was a dork, like me. He came back a jock.

It was late. After midnight. Thanksgiving. He wanted cigarettes. So we drove my car—my mom’s. The ’79 Oldsmobile station wagon. The white one. With the Jesus license plate on the front.

His mom in bed, we sneak out.

We go to a gas station.

On the way back, nearly to his house, there’s a curve. Lights from an oncoming car. An adjustment, a misjudgment, and we’re off-roading.

Everything’s bumpy, flying by. Suburbia. Grass and trees and bushes are illuminated by headlights, until there’s a telephone pole dead ahead. Dead.

I turn the wheel. Avoid death. It passes by on the left, says hi. The pole smacks us—or vice versa—on my side, between the doors, re-shaping the car. It spins us around.

Next, there’s a drop-off. An embankment. A ramp. We fly through the air, drop with a crunch on a driveway, grinding, sliding.

Next, more grass, this time backwards.

Until there’s a tree, the car filled up by the indescribable sound of suddenly stopping, the end of our ride.

Oh.

And glass.

An explosion of glass.

* * *

“Fuck me,” Jason says.

* * *

I look at Robbie.

He looks at me.

The streetlight makes us gold.

His eyes have never been so huge. He’s not wearing his seatbelt. He’s alive, unhurt. The telephone pole, head-on, so close.

I know the car’s a goner. And so am I. I punch the roof.

We get out, wobbly. We walk down the street as house lights flip on around us. We wake his mom, she calls mine, and it’s all set in motion.

We get back to the car, greeted by spinning lights, blue and red.

Robbie’s mom takes me to the cops. The woman. The questions begin. It’s a blur. All a blur. An awful blur.

My mom arrives with my sister. I want to die.

I look across the street at a big white house. Their lights are on. Allison. From youth group. I picture her face, again. Of all the places I could crash. I know they’re looking out at me, Allison and her family, her dad, these people I know from church, my God friends. My crush.

I imagine her coming out, putting her arms around me.

My mom keeps telling me how much I’ve messed things up for everybody.

As far as I can tell, she’s not relieved I’m alive.

Neither am I.

* * *

The toilet’s coming along nicely. I’m not as good an artist as Jason, but I’m all right. I can draw a huge toilet.

I’ve drawn a Girl Scout in front of the toilet, her back to me, looking up at it. I’ve decided to go ahead and make it a museum piece, a huge toilet in a museum.

“That’s fucking weird,” Jason says, accidentally dragging his charcoal over his drawing, a mistake I’d have a hard time covering, but Jason won’t. “You were IN their yard…PICKING GLASS out of it…AS they were eating their fucking turkey and peas and shit?”

He shakes his head. He laughs.

* * *

My fingers are raw.

We’ve been here for hours.

I look at my sister. She’s sitting on her knees, looking at her hands, blank, despondent.

I look at Mom. She winces, her bad back. She crawls around, fingers in grass, dropping glass in her bag, vigorous. Every now and then, she blurts out things she can’t believe.

She can’t believe she’s…
She can’t believe I…
She can’t believe the world…
She can’t believe the damn…

They’re all inside now, eating. Thanksgiving. It must be mid-afternoon. They have the curtains open, we can see them, sitting at their big table. I keep staring. Mom keeps yelling. They can see us. It’s weird.

Eventually, the woman stands, goes to the window, pulls on the string, closing the curtains, smiling at me with the right side of her mouth, an apology for something that’s not her fault.

It pisses me off.

I look across the street at Allison’s house, all the cars in her driveway.

I imagine her coming out, asking me to join them, sitting next to her, at her table, her whole family. Maybe she holds my hand. Maybe she-

“Joe!” Mom yells at me. “Get goddamn busy! You want to be here all day?!”

“We already have been,” I say.

My sister laughs.

My mom tells us all the things about us that she’s sick and tired of.

Allison doesn’t come out.

* * *

“Motherfucker!” goes Jason. He knows about Allison. “Right across the street!?”

“Jason!” Mrs. Whitlock says. He goes back to his Beowulf-inspired charcoal sketch. His fingertips are black.

I’m drawing a famous painting that hangs in the museum next to the huge toilet. It’s an Andrew Wyeth. My favorite. In the foreground, a woman in a dress sits on her side in a field, out in the country, her legs sprawled out beside her. She leans on her arms, holding herself up. Everything is golden. She has her back to the viewer, the artist—to me. Her face is hidden, looking away from me, up the hill, into the distance, at a house, a barn. Her brunette hair is pulled back. The wind blows loose strands around.

It’s another ten years before I learn the woman is crippled.

“Whelp,” Jason says, working on a crude representation of Grendel’s severed head, which bears a resemblance to Mrs. Whitlock. “Consider her gone. You’ve lost your chance now.”

I stare at the woman in the Andrew Wyeth painting that I’m recreating next to the huge toilet, imagine her turning around, looking me in the eyes, smiling.

She doesn’t.

* * *

I’m on my ass by a bush near their mailbox, working on a grassless patch of ground, all dirt. It’s easier to see the glass.

I notice something stuck in the fat of the bush, wedged in it.

I lean forward on my hands and knees, grab it, pull it out of the bush.

It’s a white mangled license plate. Bent all to hell.

There’s a word on the license plate. One word—JESUS—all caps.

My mom sees it, waxes all symbolic, tells me it’s a lesson, a message from the big man.

Inside, I’m laughing.

I can’t wait to show my brothers what I did to Jesus.

* * *

A kid peaks out from the curtain, a tiny face.

I can see they’ve finished eating.

I feel my stomach.

My fingers have a thousand cuts in them and my knees are raw from crawling on glass.

Their garage door opens.

Everything has gone hazy, the edges of my life have blurred.

The woman and her husband walk out, pulling a Shop-Vac behind them by its hose. They offer it to us. There’s an extension cord.

My mom refuses. They insist. She gives in.

My sister, cold, the true victim here, goes and sits in the car. Normally, we hate each other, or at least act like it. But right now, I feel responsible, bad, like I did when I pulled her arm out of her socket, back when she was five.

Me and Mom walk around a stranger’s yard vacuuming up glass during the waning daylight of Thanksgiving.

* * *

One day, this will all end.

* * *

Dusk arrives.

Finally.

I watch the gray sky turn black. The football games are probably over. In all this bliss, I forgot about football. I look at my mom. She says, “What?!” I role up the cord, push the vacuum back into their garage.

The woman and her husband come out, talk to Mom. They smile. They say thank you, it really wasn’t necessary, but thank you, that was very nice of us. We didn’t have to do this.

My mom waves the comment away. We clean up our messes in this family!

The husband takes our brown paper grocery bags. He folds the tops of them closed. They rattle in his hands. He throws them in the garbage. All our hard work.

Pleasantries are exchanged. Final words. Laughter, the fake kind.

The woman, she gives me another half-smile. I find myself hating her.

We get in the car.

My mom turns the key.

Nothing happens.

* * *

“No!” Jason yells.

Mrs. Whitlock looks at us. She tells us that’s the last time.

I’m giving the toilet color. I’ve decided this will be a yellow toilet. Golden.

Jason laughs. “Unfuckingbelievable.” He likes my stories. They’re good stories.

* * *

The man and the woman don’t have jumper cables.

Mom knocks on Allison’s door.

I pace, look at my feet.

Allison’s dad tries to jump us. Allison stays inside.

I look at my mom. She’s pacing, talking, mostly to herself.

One car, wrecked. The other, a piece of shit.

A tow truck.

It carries the piece of shit away until it disappears into darkness. Twice in one day. This house. A Giordano car murder machine.

Our neighbors pick us up. Mom’s friend and her daughter. Sue, two years older than me, smiles knowingly, nudges me, anticipating the story to come, which I’ll tell her tomorrow.

Barbara drives us home. Mom’s friend. She’s so nice. Asks my mom how she’s doing. Tells my mom she’s a good woman, she’s had it so hard, don’t worry, things will work out for her soon, her luck has to change. My mom shakes her head, says she doesn’t know why these things keep happening, what she did to deserve this, she just doesn’t know.

I sit in the middle of the back seat, cold, all day long.

My sister looks out the window, away from me, like the woman in the painting, like Allison.

* * *

As soon as I walk in the door, my brothers all congratulate me, mock me. They call me Bo, Robbie Luke, sing the Duke’s theme song. There’s laughter, the real kind.

I show them the Jesus license plate. They go crazy over it. My mom says not to say what we’re saying.

Me, my brothers, my sister, all five of us, we listen to Mom in the kitchen, banging shit around, cooking Thanksgiving dinner, telling us all to pipe down, her nerves, what a day she’s had, Jesus Goddamnit on the Cross, where’s the colander?

Finally, we load up our plates with Thanksgiving food and sit down in the living room, on the floor, the couch. Me, my three older brothers, my younger sister, and my mom, we all dig in.

Bob turns on the TV.

Johnny Carson is just finishing his monologue.

* * *

Jason laughs. Shakes his head.

The Subtext of Everything

2008-04-27T09:41:00.000-06:00

everything sucks
everything blows
everything’s crap
everyone knows

the mashing of words

2008-04-19T11:17:00.003-06:00

they’ve stopped working
lost weight
depth
validity
they’re half-empty
they express nothing
no one reads them
they fill no void

they’re a cute miniature white bunny rabbit with red eyes
crossing the road
trying to get where it needs to get
to say what it needs to say
but the only sound the white bunny makes
is a squeak

a grinding of teeth

as the treads of a semi
mash its face into asphalt

"Out of Ideas"

2008-04-12T19:07:00.008-06:00

It’s Saturday night.
Feeling desperate.
Need something to write.
But where, oh where,
to go from here?
(Preferably WITHOUT using more cheap rhymes.)

Hmmmmmm.

Look around, see some people.
Write about them?
Imagine their thinkings?
No, that’s lame.
It’s not even a word.
There’s nothing there.
Just one dude studying,
two on computers,
another reading a paper.
Whatever I'd come up with would be a big lie.
And, let’s face it, probably boring.

How ‘bout the music crankin’ out the speakers?
Maybe I should write about that.
But the problem with that is then I’d be writing about
Ryan Freakin’ Adams.
That cock’s already got a big enough ego.

I could write about coffee.
This shit tastes great, it’s fucking perfect,
Portland Brew’s brewed it perfect tonight.
I’m gonna take another sip…

That was out of sight.
I love coffee.
Too bad it can’t love me back.

I could write about how today
I killed people.
Several of them.
Multiple times.
With paintballs.
And how Arafat,
that fucker,
shot me in the head,
which hurt,
but didn’t kill me.
Headshots don’t count.
But that’s okay.
Arafat can relax.
My brain can kill itself on its own.

I could write of a girl.
A crippling slow burn, right there.
I could talk about some silly dream
my brain cranked out last night.
(That’s twice I’ve used “crank”
as the root of a word in this ditty.
It’s not my night.)
I could write about anything concerning this world
and the jillians of things fucked up about it.
The stuff that pisses me off.
I could write of the people
in my life that are dead.
That’s always fun.
People love dead dads.

There’s a shitload of shit
to write about.

Fuck, Joe, just pick.

"Turning Into A Turtle"

2008-03-28T15:55:00.005-06:00

______________________________________

This is a short play in the form of a MONOLOGUE.

(Lights up.)

(A thirty-something ex-fratboy walks into his wannabe yuppy apartment.)

(The ex-fratboy drinks from a beer. He looks fucking miserable.)

(He talks.)

Thanks for coming over, man. Seriously. Thanks. I mean it. I hope you weren’t busy…

Oh. Sorry...

(He finishes his beer, grabs another from the mini-fridge next to his Lazy Boy.)

Want one?…

Why the fuck not?…

That’s a fucking lame excuse for not drinking, dude…

What do you mean, “How’m I doin?” What the fuck do you think, how’m I doin’? Goddamn situation’s fucked me in the ass with a forty-inch dick is how I’m doin!...

I don’t know, dude. I’m just-

I don’t really wanna talk about it. I just wanted company, you know? I mean it. I don’t wanna think about it, I don’t wanna talk about it, the last thing I want to do is think and talk about

WHAT A FUCKING BITCH SHE IS!

Goddamnit!

(He paces around for a few silent moments.)

I know…

You don’t have to fuckin’ tell ME that…

That’s the thing, man, this kinda shit doesn’t happen to me, you know? No, you don’t know, ‘cause you don’t know what the fuck happened.

Here it is. Check this out.

So I’m over at her place and we’re having a mid-afternoon snack, right? Her on top, snackin’ away. And you know, we always had really good sex – that’s just the way it is when you’re getting’ boned by a dude like me, right? Right? But this time, for what seemed like the first time in my life, I wasn’t having JUST sex. We weren’t grinding it out, we weren’t doing the deed, we weren’t getting our loads off. We were- We were-

(He tries to think of something…but fails.)

Dude, what’s that term people use when they’re having more than just sex, but with emotion?...

Making love!! Right! I was making love. I was doing it with emotion! I had all these feelings going on!

It was weird.

At one point, get this, at one point I even opened my eyes to look at her. I looked at her…

No. Not just her tits. Her EYES!...

Yeah, I’m fucking serious! I looked in her eyes! Which I don’t normally do ‘cause it’s harder to concentrate on my dick, right?

But when I did that, when I opened my eyes and reeeeally looked at her? My insides got all full and shaky, my legs got tingly, and I felt warm, man, warm, all over. And I had this feeling, this thought, and right then I knew then that I loved her. Yeah, man, love. And I knew then I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life…

Yeah. “Wow” is right.

So I’m looking at her and we’re still moving and I have all these things to say, emotional shit to say, right? So I open my mouth, ready to let it all spew out, ready to open my fucking heart to her, when she looks me straight in the eyes, mid-thrust, and says,

“By the way, I’ve been fucking an associate of mine for the last twelve and a half weeks. I thought you should know.”…

What happened? You wanna know what happened?

My dick shriveled up right there inside of her, that’s what fucking happened! Like a little turtle’s head creeping back into it shell!

And what’s up with that half-week shit? Like twelve wasn’t bad enough, she had to tack on an extra half just for the fucking effect!?!

Never date a mathematician.

(Sits, leans back, looking up, head dropped over the back of the chair.)

It gets worse….

Yeah…

So there I am. My world’s just crashed, I’m laying under her, looking up at her beautiful face, her hair falling over her shoulders, her red bangs framing those eyes of hers, those gorgeous fucking eyes are sucking me in, staring at me, waiting for me to say something, but I can’t say anything, because, as I’m looking in those eyes, I suddenly realize that I’m able to see through them, through her eyes, and I can see inside her skull – I can see her mind! Which I’d never done before! Seen a woman’s mind! I’ve always been more a tits guy than a mind guy. But when I did that, when I looked through her eyes into her skull and saw her miiiiind? I knew then I missed out on something special.

Something really…fucking…special.

(His sadness overwhelms.)

Fuck.

(Takes a big swig.)

It was awful. I could still feel her nipples pressing into me. My hands were still grabbing her ass. Great ass! And in feeling the weight of her body, pressing on me, holding me down, my little turtle’s head still barely in her, holding on for its life, I knew… that this…was going to be the last time I would ever be with her.

And my heart fucking fell out of me. Just fell out. Right there. Like a big…………turd.

Finally, I push her hips up off’a me, I pull my little turtle’s head out’a her, and I stand up, my blue balls about to explode, and I immediately feel like a big fucking idiot. She’s telling me, “It was nothing. It was just sex. Come on, you guys do this shit all the time!” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “I shoulda known. I shoulda fucking known. I set myself up for this. I set myself up. I fucking looked at her!”

Never open your eyes, man. Don’t do it! Keep your eyes closed.

‘Cause it’s like God’s up there, watching you, his little fucking beady eyes, his asshole angels at his side, and the moment he watches you open your eyes to see the beauty of everything, of life, when he sees you fall in love or anything else that makes you fucking happy, he jumps out of his throne all excited and pointing his magical guns and shit at you because he knows now, NOW he can really fuck you up good.

Asshole.

(Opens another beer.)

(He gets a determined look about him.)

But I’ve learned something. Big time…

Yeah, I mean it! I’ve learned something! You think I’m a fucking animal, that I can’t learn shit? Can’t learn a lesson or two in life? We’re all growing, we’re all evolving and learning and becoming better people, constantly, whether you know it or not. It’s just up to YOU to recognize it, to realize what you’ve learned. To face yourself. You’ve gotta fucking face the truth about yourself if you want to grow as a person…

I know that’s fucking deep! Of course it is! I’m a fucking deep dude!

And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve evolved, I’ve grown from this, I’ve learrrrned. And what I’ve learned is that I can use this experience to make myself a better person.

To make myself better.

To better…myself.

I learned I don’t need emotion. Fuck that. I don’t need it. You know what I need?

(Leans in.)

Titties.

Big. Emotionless. Titties!

That’s what I need.

Titties.

(He sits back in silence, drinking and thinking.)

(He takes a couple more swigs, breathes deep.)

Fuck…I’m hungry. You hungry?...

Where you wanna go?...

I don’t know. Hooters?…

Cool.

(Stands to leave.)

Yeah, man. I’ve learned a lot from this.

A lot.

(BLACKOUT.)

"EASTER MORNING, 2008"

2008-03-25T17:39:00.002-06:00

I get up.
It’s Easter.
Jesus ain’t dead.

I make an egg.
It was not-so-hidden in the fridge.
One egg, fried it.
Not enough.
Shoulda made a sandwich out of it.
Idiot.

I sit on the couch.
TV.
Bill Richardson talks about Obama.
The governor of Pennsylvania is bald
and would like to fuck Hillary.
Turn it off.

Everything seems pretty insignificant.

I load a one-hitter.
Pace.
Almost shower.
Turn on some music.
Think about the other JC.
Johnny Cash.
He knows about Sunday mornings.

I guess I should go to Kroger.

While they’re all still in church.

I pack another.
Light it.
I sit back on the couch,
wonder what time it is,
turn on the TV.

"The Center of the Universe"

2008-03-09T11:20:00.009-06:00

This is the first 9ish pages of a full-length play. It's a play-within-a-play about a little rag-tag independent theater group putting up an original play in some scrappy crappy theater. The action of Act 1 takes place during the hour before the play opens, from the moment they arrive until the call for "Places" . The action for Act 2 takes place the next night, before their second and final scheduled performance of their original play, "The Center of the Universe".

The Characters:

MILES, director

EMMA, actress

T-ROD, playwright

PATRICK, actor

DANIEL, actor

DARWIN, actress

KATHY, set designer

CHIP, sound and lights

Lets hit it...

(Lights up on an empty stage in a crappy, small theater.)

(MILES and EMMA enter. Early thirties.)

(Miles has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder as he carries a fold-up card table.)

(He is hounded by Emma.)

MILES
No, I’m not, because I didn’t say six!

EMMA
I’m telling you, you're late!

MILES
I know what you’re telling me, it just happens to be wrong!

EMMA
I've been waiting outside for 45 fucking minutes.

MILES
Call wasn't til 6:45.

EMMA
You said 6, I wrote it down.

MILES
So you wrote it down wrong, no big deal.

EMMA
I wrote what you said.

MILES
You wrote what you thought I said.

EMMA
You repeated it! Call is at SIX, people! You hear me? Six! O’clock! What time? And then everyone repeated it after you, six o’clock! And then you said, Right! Six o’clock! And then Patrick repeated it again, ‘cause he’s a fucking idiot.

MILES
We couldn't use the theater til 6:45, it was being used, there was a yoga class, there’s no way I said 6.

EMMA
I left my near dead dying grandma at the hospital to come to this theater and wait for 45 minutes-

MILES
I'm sorry.

EMMA
-for a bunch of theatrically trained idiots.

MILES
I'm sorry, okay? What else can I say?!

(T-ROD enters with a kid’s horsey rocker under one arm and a burrito in his other hand, chomping away.)

T-ROD
Where’s the horsey go?

MILES
Just put it down.

T-ROD
Where?

MILES
Anywhere.

T-ROD
Where’s it go?

MILES
The playroom is Stage Right, just like in every rehearsal we've had, so how ‘bout there?

T-ROD
Upstage or down?

EMMA (To T-Rod.)

What time was call?

T-ROD
For what?

EMMA
Call.

T-ROD
Was I supposed to call you?

EMMA
Call!

T-ROD
I will, I'm sorry! I don't even have your number.

EMMA
Call time for the play! Did you hear 6 or 6:45?

T-ROD
Oh... 6:30. I guess I’m late.

MILES
You're not late!

T-ROD (To Emma.)
How's your grandma?

EMMA
Still dying.

MILES (To Emma.)
Can you help with the prop boxes from my truck?

EMMA
Yay! I'd love to lug boxes around as a machine keeps my grandma's lungs from collapsing and billions of tubes shoot up her mouth nose ears and asshole. I’d love to.

(PATRICK enters. He’s got that college sports swagger - but without the actual talent for sports. He’s reading from a script, mumbling to himself. He passes by Emma.)

PATRICK
Emma! What's up, baby?

EMMA
Die.

(Emma exits.)

PATRICK
Sorry I'm late.

MILES
You're right on time.

PATRICK
But it's 6:45.

MILES
Which is right on time.

PATRICK
Call was at 6:15. You had us repeat it.

MILES
It was 6:45!

PATRICK
Oh. Wow. That’s cool. That means I must be operating on instinct. That's good as an actor, right? That’s what you’ve been talking about, what I’ve been missing, instinct?! Well it’s working now! I’m instinctin’ it up tonight! (Sees T-Rod.) T-Rod, baby, what's hanging?

T-ROD
I brought the horsey.

PATRICK
And a fine steed it is. (Slaps his script.) Been working on it all day. I think I got it! I mean it this time, really!

MILES
Great, great.

PATRICK
I got it!

T-ROD
You're gonna be just FAB tonight, I can feel it!

PATRICK
I know. Check it out- (Runs through his lines.) "I'm Richard." - Someone else talks - "I love you too." - Blah blah blah, stuff happens - "You wanna go outside and PLAY?"

See! I got that part down!

MILES
Great. Can you help with the props from my truck?

T-ROD

(To Patrick.)

That was beautiful.

PATRICK
They're your words, man, you should be proud.

MILES

(To Patrick.)

Patrick! Props from the truck. We have less than an hour to get set up.

PATRICK
Yeah, baby, I’m on it, love boxes, love carrying them.

(Patrick exits.)

MILES
(To T-Rod.)
Can you help him?

T-ROD
I wanted to go over some script changes with you.

MILES
The show's in an hour!

T-ROD
They'll add texture.

(DANIEL enters. He's muscular and brooding. Headphones around his neck, MP3 player in his pocket.)

MILES
No script changes!

T-ROD
They’ll accentuate Robert’s addiction!

MILES
While confusing the actors.

T-ROD
And it'll help clarify Rachel's motivation.

MILES
No line changes!

T-ROD
If you were a writer you'd understand.

MILES
I'd also have no grip on reality.

(To Daniel, fishing for info.)
Daniel, you all right today? You doing okay?

DANIEL
We're all dying.

MILES
Oh. Good.

DANIEL
I'm late, but that probably doesn't matter either.

MILES
You're not late.

DANIEL
Which also doesn't matter.

MILES
That’s too bad.

DANIEL
We’re all just wandering around trying to keep the truth about ourselves from being found out, so fuck it.

MILES
Okay! Well! Can you help unload the set?

DANIEL
Yes, I can, but will I? Go ahead, ask me, I dare you.

MILES
Will you?

DANIEL
Yes.

(Daniel walks toward the exit. T-Rod starts following him.)

T-ROD
Daniel, I have a line change I'd like you to-

MILES
T-Rod.

(T-Rod stops, Daniel exits.)

T-ROD
But it's really good.

MILES
Noooooooooo.

(Emma enters with a box, drops it hard on the ground.)

MILES
Little careful there, please.

EMMA
(Pulls something out of the box.)
What, am I gonna fucking break a stuffed bear by dropping it?
(Drops it.)
WOOPS!
(Picks it up.)
Shew. It didn’t break. Who’d’a guessed!

T-ROD
(To Emma.)
Emma, I’d, uh- I’d like to talk to you about-

MILES
No script changes!

T-ROD
I’m not!

(To Emma.)
At some point I'd like to talk about a script idea I have. I’m writing it with you in mind.

EMMA
Wow. I’m really excited. A script for me from the king of over-cooked melodrama.

T-ROD
(Smiles.)
Thanks.

MILES
Come on, people, there's more boxes in the truck.

EMMA
So walk your corpse out there and grab one.

(Patrick enters, drops a box hard on the ground - something breaks.)

PATRICK
Woops. Sorry.

MILES
It's all right.

EMMA
So it's okay if HE drops it.

T-ROD
Patrick, I have a line change I'd like you to look at.

MILES
(Overlapping "I'd like...")
T-Rod! Come on!

T-ROD
But they work! They’re good changes!

EMMA
The last thing Patty needs is more lines.

PATRICK
What's that supposed to mean?

MILES
Guys, we have to get ready, okay?

(Daniel enters with a box, drops it.)

MILES (CONT’D)
Does anyone know how to bend their knees?

PATRICK
(To Emma, defensive.)
It's memorized! All of it. (Taps his head.) I got it all up here, so you can practice laying off a little, now!

(Daniel walks by Patrick. Patrick slaps Daniel on the ass.)

PATRICK
What’s up, baby?
(Daniel glares him.)

Sorry.

(DARWIN enters. She’s in a “sorority-chick-trying-to-seem-hippy” dress. She happens to be quite hot.)

(She stops just inside the door, sees the other actors.)

DARWIN
You're all early!

MILES
Actually, you're a little-

DARWIN
I was hoping no one would be here so I could warm up alone.

MILES
You're a couple minutes late now.

EMMA
You mean 47 minutes.

PATRICK
Call was at 6:15.

EMMA
Six.

DANIEL
6:30.

DARWIN
I thought it was 7.

MILES
It doesn't matter now.

DANIEL
Doesn't matter!

(...)

"The Master of Fuck Off"

2008-02-19T15:06:00.000-06:00

The Master of Fuck Off decided to fuck off,
so he looked for some place to fuck off in.
But he fucked off too long
to find that somewhere,
so he decided, Fuck it,
I’ll fuck off right here.

"Those With None"

2008-02-16T09:27:00.022-06:00

Balloons filling up. Mackin' on the ceiling.
Red, pink, purple, white.
Messages attached, little words of friendship and thanks,
love,
shit like that.

On the floors,
people wait.

They read their notes,

they watch,
they observe,

they totally check out their neighbors' cubes.

Hundreds of brains jot down mental notes,

count balloons.
Who got how many?

Who is more loved?

Who got snubbed?

In the cubicles with none,

computers glare and workers work.

"A Poem About A Story"

2008-02-13T16:16:00.007-06:00

On marbleized paper
with fake purple blood
I write a story.
The story is of her.
I finish and fold it.
With a flick of the wrist
it flies through the air,
climbs some stairs,
takes a turn,
finds her lair,
lands on her hand,
and - with a slight “ahem” -
calls her attention.

The story reads itself to her.

The words spin.
They nudge.
When the words have finished
she opens her chest,
removes her heart,
cuts a tiny sliver.
She stuffs in the story,
sews up the sliver,
places it back in her chest.

Shortly thereafter,
amidst the droning,
my cells, they break,
they blend with the air
‘till they completely disappear.

Next thing I know,
I’m standing in Piazza San Marco.
The pigeons are yapping.
They fight for bread.

“I brought you here,”
she says to me,
“To tell you I liked your story.”
Then, with that,
our hands connect
and we walk through a city that’s sinking.

"In Memoriam"

2008-02-07T12:01:00.008-06:00

She said
there’s no time for crying.

She said
this is not sad, she’s had a great life.

She said
keep’em laughing.

She practiced what she preached.

Wednesday, Nov. 6, 20008, my Aunt Joanie took off outta this world.

She didn’t really get into God and all that jazz.

She believed in laughter.

So, in honor of Joan, here’s a joke. It's silly and stupid.

But it’s a joke. And it makes me laugh. So here it is…

What do you call an Italian with a war medal?

A thief!

Joan would have laughed.

Thanks, Joan.

"You're Gonna Work!"

2008-02-05T16:39:00.010-06:00

VrrrrrrrrrrBOOM!

VrrrrrrrrrrBOOM!

VrrrrrrrrrrBOOM!

It’s 7:30 on a Saturday morning and I’m not gonna sleep. I’m gonna work.

I pull my Star Wars pillow over my head, squish the Millennium Falcon around my face. I squeeze the pillows into my stomach, curl up in a ball, all the way under the blanket, a lump.

VrrrrrrrrrrBOOM!

The noise is getting louder, making its way down the hall, rattling the walls every couple seconds.

I think of all the cartoons I’ll be missing. All the basketball games I won’t be watching. Again.

VrrrrrrrrrBOOM!

The noise is outside my room now. The vrrrrrrrrrrBOOM. The vacuum. Sucking up all the dirt. Sucking up my Saturday morning. Sucking.

The vrrrrrrrrrr gets louder. The boom gets boomier. Then, the vrrrrrrrrrr gets all high-pitched, squealing as the vacuum is rested upright, its handle unhandled, motor left on. Outside my door. I know what’s next.

My door opens.

The noise goes,

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

“Get up!” she yells. Instead of good morning.

“You’re not gonna sleep!” My saturday morning ritual. Here it comes.

“You’re gonna WORK!”

Uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhg.

She waits for me to move. She won’t leave till I sit up.

I sit up.

“Put some clothes on, clothes you can dirty. Not nice clothes. And shoes. Wear your shoes that aren’t nice. Don’t mess up your nice shoes.” That’s an order. “Hurry up. Why are you still sitting there? Quit sitting there. Don’t sit there like that. Move.”

I throw off my Smurf-covered blanket. Jokey does not find this funny.

“Hurry up,” she yells.

The vacuum shrieks outside my door. I smell burning rubber.

I hear noises outside. Things falling onto the driveway. A whole pile of things.

KRR-PLUNK-K-K-POK-BONK-D’BONK-POK-POK-POK!

Bricks. Stupid bricks. More stupid dumb bricks.

“Don’t just sit there,” she says. “Move. Move it! I said move! Why aren’t you moving? Don't you know the word move? What are they teaching you in school? Moooove!”

Bricks. More bricks. Bricks for the yard. My Saturday. Bricks. Again. Wheel barrels and bricks. My mom's signature landscape. She's been bricking off the yard for several years now. She started on the edge, working her way to the middle, as if she has the grass surrounded, getting ready for the day she'll finally wrap her hands around it and choke it. "Who's going to mow all that grass when you grow up and leave me?" she likes to say. "You won't do it, so who's going to do it, you won't come by, don't say you will, because you won't, I can't pay someone every week to come by and do it. So who? Huhn? Who?" Hello, bricks. See ya later, fun.

I stand up. I close my eyes. I rub them. I make a wish. I open my eyes. It didn’t work. She’s still there.

Vrrrrrrrrr!

“Not your nice shoes, I said! Why are you wearing your nice shoes?!”

“But I-” I start to say. I wore them to bed. My Roos. I try to tell her. I was gonna take them off. "I was gonna-!"

“I told you not nice shoes! Shoes you can dirty! Wear shoes you can dirty!”

VRRRRRRRRR!

Burning rubber.
“Shit!” she says.
Shit! I say in my brain.
“Hurry!” she says.
Hurry and leave! I say in my brain.

She walks out. She leaves my door open. My door. She goes back to the vacuum. Back to banging it against the walls, down the hallway, room-to-room. Back to the boom.

VrrrrrrrrrrBOOM!

I put on my Ocean Pacific shirt. The blue one. The not nice one. The one that was my brother’s, before it became not nice. Like all my clothes.

I undo the velcro on my ‘Roos, kick them off through the air across the room, one hits the side of the hamper, one goes in, two points. I throw on a pair of Jams. Instead of my Roos, I put on my Kmarts. I tie the ten foot long shoelaces. I grab my walkman and stuff a Pop Tart in my mouth - The Pop Tarts I stole, that I hid in my closet, behind my baseball cards. My Pop Tarts.

I think of cartoons and basketball games, and wonder why they call work days "work days" if you still have to work on the days that aren't work days. I think of all those Bricks. I breathe deep. I whisper quietly to myself.

Fuuuck.

I smile. I've started saying that to myself lately. For some reason, it helps.

Fucking bricks.

"The Monster That Looked Like A Booger"

2008-02-02T10:53:00.000-06:00

(This is an excerpt from the first draft of a children's book I am writing. A final draft is underway.)

CHAPTER 1: "The Cashier"

The monster that looked like a booger was jumping up and down on top of a Coke can. The Coke can was on top of a counter, and the counter was in a gas station. It was one of those gas stations out in the middle of nowhere. One of those gas stations that people only stop at when they're on their way to somewhere else. Which was where the monster was heading. The Monster was on its way to another city.

But it wasn’t just any city.

It was a special city.

You see, there’s this state called Tennessee. And in this state is a city called Chattanooga. And in this city called Chattanooga there’s another city.

A city made out of rocks!

The monster that looked like a booger loved rocks. The only thing the little monster loved more than rocks was itself. The monster loved itself a lot! The little monster learned early in life that it’s important to love yourself. So that’s what it did. And it’s helped the little monster out in some pretty dark times.

But the thing – or things – it loved second most of all, second only to itself, was rocks. There’s not much the little monster wouldn’t do for a rock! It’d skip for a rock. It’d sing for a rock. It’d poke itself in its eyeball for a rock. It’d poke itself in ALL its eyeballs for a rock! It just loved rocks that much!

So imagine this little monster’s excitement when it learned about a city made out of rocks. A whole city! A COMPLETE ENTIRE CITY MADE OUT OF NOTHING BUT ROCKS!

There was no other option.

The monster HAD to see it.

The monster wanted to go to Rock City and see it with its own eyes. With all of them! With all of its glossy-green yellow-specked eyes.

It had to see Rock City!

It needed some excitement!

It was time to do something else with its little monster life.

So it took off to see Rock City.

And this town the monster had stopped in – this gas station – it was on the way to Rock City. And the monster stopped here because it had a little problem. A liquid problem. Which is why the monster was jumping up and down on top of a Coke can that sat on a counter in a gas station in a part of the world that people only pass through to get to somewhere else.

But the tiny little monster wasn’t just jumping.

It was also yelling.

What was the little monster yelling at?

It was yelling at a cashier.

The monster didn’t like to yell, but it had to yell. It had to yell because, well, this monster was no bigger than a booger. And if you're no bigger than a booger, it only makes sense that you would not have a very loud voice.

So the monster was jumping up and down on top of a Coke can on a counter, yelling at a cashier.

“WHERE-?!” the little monster yelled as it reached the highest point of its jump, right before gravity made it fall back down to the can.

"IS YOUR-?!" the monster yelled at the top of its next jump.

"BATHROOM?!!"

The tiny little monster screamed as loud as it could with its tiny little voice, but the cashier still couldn’t hear it. The cashier was zoned out, dancing to an imaginary song in his brain.

The monster yelled one last time - “HEEEEEEYYYYY!” – and became so annoyed that it nearly exploded into a hundred tiny little booger-like bits.

It’s wasn’t always an easy life for the little monster that looked like a booger.

- - - - - - - -

The cashier was in his early twenties and had a look about him. It was an “alternative” look. One of those looks that doesn’t work if you bathe a lot. Or are scared of getting pierced. The kind of look that’s designed to make it known to other people that you have superior taste in music. That you’re in a band. (Or want to be in a band.) That you’re cool.

It was an “indie-rocker” look. And it made the tall, goofy-looking cashier feel good.

To adults, this “look” made it seem like he was wasting his life by not growing up. To kids, this “look” made it seem like he was enjoying his life by not growing up. Kids liked the cashier’s look. They liked his dirty longish hair, his piercings, his painted nails, his dazed look, his goofy grin.

His parents were two of the adults that thought he was wasting his life. They thought he should be in college. His parents’ friends also thought he should be in college! The cashier was sick of people telling him he should be in college.

He wasn't in college.

He had gone for a while, but he dropped out two years earlier in order to start a band. A band that would take over the world! A band that would put good music back on the radio! A band that would make him lots of money! Allow him to travel! And make it so he'd never have to shave again!

So he dropped out of college.

He got a job.

He shaved.

He was still working on forming the band.

All he had left to do was find a drummer. And a singer. And a bass player. And someone to write the songs. But other than that, the band was in place!

He liked to think that things were looking up.

Plus, he talked the manager of the gas station into letting him keep at least a little patch of hair on his chin.

The truth, though - if he was forced to admit it - is that the cashier wasn’t happy. He felt stuck in this job in this nowhere town. He was stuck in this nowhere place that barely even counted as a city. So, to other people - and sometimes to himself - he was JUST a cashier.

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t JUST a cashier.

No cashier is JUST a cashier.

Deep down, he knew he was more than that. He knew he could do more. He was just having trouble actually DOING more.

The truth is that the cashier was depressed.

He had been depressed for a while.

Sometimes, people get in ruts, and it’s hard to climb out of them. This cashier was having trouble climbing out of his.

So, until the cashier could climb out of his rut - until he could form his band that would try to put good music on the radio and make lots of money and travel and stop shaving - until then, the cashier found himself stuck. He was stuck working in a gas station where people only stop at when they’re on their way to somewhere else.

And, as you know, in this gas station there was a counter. And on this counter sat a Coke can. And on this Coke can there was a little monster, no bigger than a booger, jumping up and down. It was yelling at the cashier, desperate to find out the answer to the following question:

WHERE IS YOUR BATHROOM?!

Finally, the cashier heard the tiniest noise.

It had a particular sound, this noise. It sounded like it came from a box full of stuffed animals in a dark closet in the middle of the night.

The cashier looked around, trying to locate the source of this noise. He KNEW he’d heard something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Or where it came from. It wasn’t a noise made by a person. It couldn’t have been. There was no one in the gas station except for himself. And he didn’t see any animals. And the radio was broken.

So where did that noise come from?

The cashier got nervous. He was an easily freaked out cashier. And something weird was going on!

The cashier started to play with his big black nose ring, but then stopped himself. (His last girlfriend broke up with him because he played with his nose ring too much. She said she didn't want a boyfriend who looked like he was always picking his boogers.) Instead, he ran his fingers through the little puffy patch of hair that was growing out of the end of his chin, trying to figure out where that little noise was coming from.

"DOWN HERE!!!" yelled the monster.

He heard it again!

The cashier whipped his head around, looking everywhere! But he saw nothing. He started to worry that he was going crazy. He just couldn’t figure out where that tiny little noise was coming from!

The monster tried to jump up and yell just one more time, but was now too worn out.

Instead, the monster plopped down on its back on top of the Coke can, closed its many eyes, and concentrated on re-energizing itself.

The cashier scratched the hair on his chin and looked down at the counter. He saw nothing. Just a cup of pennies, a pen, a debit card punch-pad, lots of dirt, and his can of Coke.

The cashier picked up the can. He moved it to his mouth to take a sip, but stopped. He saw something on top of the can.

He saw what looked to be like a little green booger.

He tried to remember the last time he picked his nose. (He tried not to pick his nose, or play with his nose ring, but it was hard. The nose is such a fun thing to pick!) He seemed to recall picking it maybe twenty minutes ago. He seemed to recall reading his horoscope. It told him to take a wild ride today. The cashier remembered getting excited about doing something wild today. And when the cashier got excited, he picked things. So he assumed he’d probably done some picking, and what he picked was probably his nose.

Dude! thought the cashier to himself. I GOTTA start watching where I flick my boogers!

The booger was right at the lip of the can. The cashier didn’t want to drink his own boogers. He grabbed a roll of paper towels, ripped one off, and started to wipe the lip of can, when the booger seemed to jump in the air.

"Huhn,” the cashier said out-loud to himself, because that’s what anyone would say after seeing a booger jump in the air.

The cashier picked up a pen that the customers used to sign their receipts. He pointed the tip of the pen down and jammed it into the booger.

The monster grabbed onto the tip of the pen.

The cashier lifted the pen up from the can, held the pen up close to his eyes, and saw the booger stuck on the end of it.

And what an amazing booger it was!

The cashier was in awe. It was the most perfect looking booger than the cashier had ever seen in his entire life. And the cashier had seen A LOT of boogers!

The monster took this opportunity to ask the cashier once more the answer to a question. “WHERE IS YOUR BATHROOM?!”

As the cashier heard the monster’s little voice, the monster saw the cashier make a familiar expression.

The monster had seen this same expression before.

It had seen this expression in the eyes of every human that ever heard it talk.

The expression was always exactly the same.

It was the kind of expression that could only have one thought behind it:

Holy crap! A TALKING BOOGER!!

"I'm not a booger!" yelled the monster to the cashier. "I know that's what you think! That I’m a booger! But I'm not!”

"You look like booger," said the cashier.

"It's because I'm small and green and I'm always changing shape, like when you play with a booger! But I'm not a booger! I'm sick of people thinking I'm a booger! How would YOU like to be called a booger?! You wouldn't! And neither do I! Because I'm not a booger!"

"You're not?" asked the cashier.

"No!" yelled the monster.

"You sure?" asked the cashier. "I'm pretty sure that you, yes, YOU, are a talking booger. Yep, DEFINITELY a talking booger. I've seen a lot of boogers in my life, yes I have. I'm proud to say that this dude has been picking boogers for over TWENTY-TWO YEARS! I think I’d know a booger when I saw one. And right now, three inches in front of my eyeballs, I see a booger. And it's talking. Which, I gotta say, is pretty stinkin’ cool!"

The monster made a tiny little angry face.

The monster took a giant leap off the end of the pen.

The monster soared through the air and landed on the cashier’s nose.

The monster grabbed hold of the cashier's nose ring and held on. It opened its little monster mouth and bit down on the cashier's nose as hard as it could.

"Yep," said the cashier. "You're definitely a booger. You jumped right for my nose."

The monster bit even harder!

But the cashier couldn't feel it.

The monster couldn't hurt anything, not even when trying to. There was something about monsters that made it impossible for them to hurt people. Not that it wasn’t a strong monster. Because it WAS strong. Very strong. Big time strong. It was stronger than a lot of things! It was stronger than the thickest rope. It was stronger than the wildest wind. It was stronger than algebra. Stronger than great ideas. It was even stronger than a billion muscles stuffed inside a billion more muscles stuffed inside a watermelon.

It was THAT strong!

So, yes, it was small. And it couldn’t hurt anyone. But it wasn’t weak. If you think that all small things (including people) are weak and easy to make fun of, then you’re probably going to get beat up a lot during your life – just not by a monster.

Finally, the monster gave up and stopped trying to bite the cashier. It realized it didn't really want to hurt the cashier. The monster was just in a bad mood. It was in a bad mood because it had to pee.

It had to pee so bad it hurt!

It was like the monster’s pee had grown little fingers and was pinching the monster from the inside.

THAT’S how bad it hurt.

Which is why the monster was asking the cashier where the bathroom was. Because, unfortunately, this little monster had manners. It wouldn’t use the bathroom just anywhere.

“I just want to use the bathroom!” the little monster yelled to the cashier.

“Why?” said the cashier to the little monster that was clinging onto his nose-ring.

“To pee!” yelled the monster.

“OH! To pee! Of course!” said the cashier, as if all this made sense. But, of course, it didn’t make sense. First, here was a booger, holding onto his nose ring, TALKING TO HIM. And now, NOW the booger was saying it had to pee. To pee!

A booger that pees!

Finally, the cashier realized none of this made any sense.

“Uhh…You have to pee?” said the cashier.

“Yes! I have to pee!” yelled the monster.

“Why?”

“Because there’s pee in me!”

“Where?”

“Inside of me! Where do you think!”

“Oh,” said the cashier, even more confused. He just didn’t think that boogers would have to pee!

But if they DID pee…

The cashier had a thought. A realization.

The cashier suddenly realized, If THIS booger pees, then that means OTHER boogers probably ALSO pee! Which means that there could be HUNDREDS of tiny little boogers peeing inside my nose! RIGHT NOW!

The cashier was freaked out. “Are there boogers peeing in my nose?”

The monster did not answer. It instead looked at the cashier as if the cashier was stupid.

“While you’re there, you know, on the end of my nose,” said the cashier, “Would you mind climbing in? Look around? Do some nasal caving – some spelunking? See if any of your little friends, your fellow boogers, are peeing? Ask the little boogers to stop if they are?”

“No!” screamed the monster. “I just want to use the bathroom!”

The cashier reached under the counter, grabbed a key hanging from a hook, and put it on the counter. A chain linked the key to the sawed-off end of a wooden broomstick handle.

"The bathroom is outside,” said the cashier. “It’s locked. You’ll need the key to get in."

The monster jumped off the cashier's nose-ring and landed on the broomstick handle. It rolled down the side of the broomstick and plopped onto its feet. It was quite an impressive move.

The cashier looked down at his nose, causing him to go cross-eyed. He tapped his nostrils, knocking on them. " Hey! WHY DON’T ALL OF YOU GO OUTSIDE TO USE THE BATHROOM?! OKAY?!! PLEASE STOP PEEING IN MY NOSE? OKAY? NO MORE NOSE PEEING!! I DON’T WANT YOU BOOGERS PEEING IN MY NOSE!!"

The tiny little monster, no bigger than a booger, crawled underneath the sawed-off end of the broomstick handle that the key was attached to. It picked up the broomstick and walked toward the edge of the counter. Looking at it from above, it looked like the stick was moving on its own. But it wasn’t moving on its own. The monster was under it, holding it up, getting ready to throw it off the counter. The monster did not have any trouble doing this, because, as you know, this monster was very strong. Stronger than you or me or anyone else you know.

The monster threw the broomstick handle and the key off the counter. It jumped off the counter and landed on the ground. It picked up the broomstick and carried it to the front door of the gas station, the key rattling across the floor.

The tiny monster started to push its way out the door, but stopped when it heard the annoying cashier’s voice.

"Boogers don't have pee inside them!” said the cashier, mostly just trying to reassure himself. “They have dirt and grime and goo, and sometimes a nose hair. But not pee. Boogers are just little globs of fun. Why would a booger have to pee?"

"I'm not a booger!" yelled the monster, dropping the broomstick.

"What?" said the cashier. He couldn't hear the monster's tiny voice. It was too far away.

"I'M NOT A BOOGER!" repeated the monster, louder.

"Of course you're not a BURGER!" said the cashier, misunderstanding the monster.

"NO! BOOGER! NOT ‘BURGER!’ BOOOOO-GEERRRR!” screamed the monster with all its might! “BOOGER BOOGER BOOGER BOOGER BOOGER!!"

"Are you calling me a booger?" asked the cashier.

“I’M! NOT! A! BOOGER!” yelled the monster one last time.

"Oh,” said the cashier, finally starting to get it. “Then what are you?"

"I'm a monster!"

"Oh," said the cashier. “A monster.”

"Yes!” yelled the monster. “A monster that’s on its way to see Rock City!”

"Oh…right…a monster," said the cashier, as the monster picked up the broomstick and started to walk out the door. "But you look like a booger."

"Stan"

2008-01-27T09:59:00.003-06:00

(NOTE: These are the opening pages [for now] of the novel I will be writing as soon as I'm finished with the novel I'm currently writing. It's a dark comedy about a dude, Stan, whose own personal atheistic world is destroyed when a depressed, lonely, and highly nostalgic God contacts him in an attempt to rekindle an old friendship. Not a good day for a dude who's been happy believing in nothing.)

CHAPTER ONE: "STAN GRUMBLES"

It’s 2:30 a.m. I’ve turned over for the thousandth fucking time and it’s obvious sleep is gonna be one elusive turd tonight. My legs won’t stop kicking, my eyelids are polar opposites beating the fuck out of each other, and it feels like there’s a little extra gravity right around my head, shoving it abnormally hard into my seventeen year-old mattress that’s never been able to kick its dust habit. I’m an unwelcome guest in a bed run by mites.

I get up.

I pour some OJ.

I flip on the TV.

Some white-haired televangelist has his hands out, palms up, ready to catch little droplets of God should they fall from the sky. He’s smiling, sweating, praying to his God, straight into the camera. He’s asking God to-

I turn it off. I fucking hate TV. I don’t know why I have one. I guess it’s good for occasionally reminding me that there’s a world out there to avoid.

I sit on the couch for a while. I do some thinking. I don’t like to think, but I can’t help it, because I have a brain and I don’t want it to be stupid. But tonight, it’s not thinking smart, helpful stuff. It’s not thinking things that will induce my brain into evolving into a more complete and productive unit. Nope. Tonight, it’s all about the past.

My past is a popular topic with my brain. One thing about my brain is that it has a hard time getting over shit. Especially bad shit. It doesn’t like bad shit. Bad shit is rather sad if you stop and think about it, which my brain often does. I feel bad for my brain. It has a rough life sometimes.

Tonight, the brain focuses in on a certain object. It’s a The Nightmare Before Christmas watch I got from Burger King all those years ago before it was uncool to not like The Nightmare Before Christmas. The watch is strapped onto my wrist. In this memory, there is a woman smiling, a woman who I had never met, who’s voice I had never heard. She’s on the other side of the counter that my arm is resting on. She looks at the watch. Her fingers are on my wrist, our first touch. She has hazel eyes that I can tell, once they look directly into mine, will offer an electric display of orange and brown and green, all of which will leave me in a trapped, mesmerized mess.

She looks at my watch.

She sees Jack Skellington on it.

She stares at it, smiling.

She looks up at me.

I’m mesmerized. Trapped.

And then, she really blows me away. With just two words.

“What’s this?”

You’d have to have seen and loved the movie to really understand why this blows me away. It would help if you knew the song these two words come from, a song full of wonder and possibility, a song that exhibits the joy of suddenly finding yourself in a new world where life is seemingly brighter and happier. It would also help if you were a total dorkwad and had an obsession with cartoon musicals. Then you might know why those two words coming out of her mouth so rocked my seemingly settled world.

Staring at the blank TV, I feel something wet form in my left eye.

Goddamnit.

I make a call. I wait for Dean to answer.

This is not like me. I’m not a middle-of-the-night phone call person. This is not a good sign.

I hear someone pick up, followed by an angry mixture of ten different garbled expletives.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” I say into the phone. “Why don’t you try clearing your throat first?”

Dean does not like being woken up, which makes him just like every other human being on earth, which makes me a dick for waking him up. He also does not mask what he thinks. “Why don’t you try not fucking calling at 3:30 in the goddamn morning, how bout trying that?” His voice is deep with irritation. “Yeah? You think might like to try that, starting, oh, I don’t know, thirty fucking seconds ago? You think you might wanna try that?”

I retort. “You should try working on your customer-service skills by answering my phone call with a smile. You should try THAT thirty seconds ago.” It’s not a very good retort, but I’m not at my best right now.

Dean's retorting skills, however, are in top form. “Sure. Okay. I will try that thirty seconds ago. Hold on, let me get in my time-travel machine so I can go back and try that. Hold on, I’m opening the door, it’s opening, it’s opening, okay, it’s opened, and now I’m stepping in, I’m stepping in, I’m stepping in – Holy fuck! Guess what’s in my time-traveling machine?! YOU! It’s you, from the future, 10 minutes from now, and guess what? Your fucking face is punched the fuck in from my fucking fist, motherfucker.”

Dean hangs up.

I call back.

I can tell he’s already given up. One of the things that annoys Dean about himself is that his heart is bigger than he really wants it to be.

“What do you want?” says the defeated piece of shit.

What do I want?

The question makes me sad. I know what I want. But what I want is not attainable. So I say my second option.

“To sleep.”

“So sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Bed mites.”

“Bed huh?”

“Mites. Do you realize how many bed mites are on your bed, in your pillows, crawling around, eating, using your house as it’s own personal restaurant, building little homes in your sheets and mattress? Fucking crawling in your ears and nose and belly button, crawling in your earhole, up your asshole and down your dickhole? Millions of little fuckers crawling around on you every goddamn night! Now, I ask you, how the fuck is it I’m supposed to sleep knowing all that shit is going on?”

I hear a lot of silence.

“Dean?”

More silence.

“Dean?”

I hear him breathing.

“Dean.”

“Thanks a fucking lot, dickwad. Now how the fuck am I supposed to get to goddamn sleep?”

I am a sucky person. “Sorry, dude.”

Dean sighs. It’s stereotypical, this sigh, but still effective in expressing his current disdain for me. “You want me to come over? It’s totally fucking gay for me to come over to your house in the middle of the night and help you because you’re sad and shit, but I’ll do it anyway, because I’m a good guy.”

“And because you’re a gay guy.”

“Just have a fucking joint rolled when I get there, or else this gay guy’ll be kicking your ass.”

“It’s always kicking and fucking when it comes to you and asses, isn’t it?”

“Do you want me to come over or do you just want to keep proving what a huge fucking homophobe you are?”

“Can’t we do both?”

Dean hangs up.

He’s a good friend.

I, however, am not...

"Oh, Crunchy Hearts of Salty Flavor"

2008-01-20T10:30:00.001-06:00

(NOTE: This is the fist poem I ever wrote, circa 1994.
I fear I blew my load in this little ditty.
My poetic ejaculations have failed in comparison ever since.)

(Here it is:)

(Ahem..)

Chips.

Chips, chips, chips.

I stare at a bowl of tater chips on the table.
I stare and I stare and I wait for response.
They seem to be asking me to devour them
with my clenching jaw and chomping teeth,
but it’s so hard to tell with chips these days.

Oh, Crunchy Hearts of Salty Flavor.

So my mind in my skull begins to think
without using the brain my head pretends to contain.
It wonders why those chips are so sickly dry
and cause my mouth to pucker and spatter.

Chips should be moist.
Chips should be chewy.
Chips should be tasty and smelly and funny and clever
and smart and full of onomatopoeia!

Oh, Crunchy Hearts of Salty Flavor!

I once had a friend who was a chip,
and he often had me over to eat with his family.
It was bizarre talking and laughing with chips,
and now it’s affected me in a strange sort of way.

That strange way is now I’m in love with a chip!
Not any ol’ chip, but one of crispy delight.
But my love goes unreturned in this cruel world of hate,
for that chip loves another of greater spud quality.

Oh, Crunchy Hearts of Salty Flavor!!

Why, oh, why can’t that chip love me for who I am?
I go out of my way to show it I care.
Is it because I’m human,
because I have lips and have tits?
Is it because we're so different?
Is it my zits and my shits?

What would I do for that chip? Oh, anything, I promise!
I’d bath it, I’d salt it, I’d bake it, I’d broil it,
I’d dip it, spank it, I’d crush it, I’d pet it.
I’d go to Kroger and hang out with Doritos
and picket the inhumane mass production of potatoes!

But it’s too late now, you bastard of a chip!!
Take your salty crunch to someone else’s heart!
For all I care now, you might as well be mashed potato!!
Die, chip!! Die-die-die-die-die-die-DIIIIIIIE!!!!!!

If only you were a Pringle…

"Ug Learns a Lesson About Life and Theater"

2008-01-12T10:39:00.001-06:00

(Lights up on UG and ARG.)

(Ug talks to the audience, way too goddamn chipper-like.)

UG
Hi, hi, hello, all of you, welcome. I’m Ug, I’m a character in this play, and this is Arg, and I’d like to say that what you’ve got here, what you’ll be watching tonight, is something completely new, totally different, an original experience. I’m envious of you - ENVIOUS, I say! - that I’m IN it and not out there where you are, watching it, you buncha lucky fuckers, you.

ARG
How?

UG
Huh?

ARG
What’s so fucking different about what we’re doing right now?

UG
That’s not your line.

ARG
Back that shit up! Come on, now! What’s so goddamn different about this?!

UG
Well, it’s, er- Eee- Aaaayyy-

ARG
What’s different?!

UG
Fine! I’ll tell them!
(Turns to the audience, brain working hard.)
How is it different, he asks. Right. I’ll tell you how it’s different. This theater, THIS work of art you are VIEWING, these worrrrrds...are diffffferent....because you...will...be................ seeing............ purple...balls....floating....

ARG
You don’t have an end to that sentence, do you?

UG
It’s coming to me.

ARG
There’s nothing different about what we’re doing, is there?

UG
I’m thinking!

ARG
It’s been done. Thinking’s been done. Mamet. That one play of his. Remember? Yes? Yes? No? Yes? Remember? Yes? Thinking's been done! There is nothing goddamn original about thinking!

UG
Hey! Back off, okay? Fuck! Please, just back the fuck off.

ARG
Fine, I'll back off, but I want you to be aware that it’s not a ground-breaking action and by no means separates us from anything that’s been done before.

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...There’s no grunting.

ARG
Lots of plays don’t grunt! What else?

UG
There’s no story.

ARG
And you’re bragging about that?

UG
Our names! Ug are Arg!

ARG
Big deal. Weird names. Shortcuts to imply character traits. A boring and over-used tactic.

UG
This is bullshit!

ARG
Completely...

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...This play’s no different than any other play, is it?

ARG
Nope.

UG
Nothing original or meaningful will come out of this.

ARG
You got it.

UG
Life is pointless and empty and will only lead to growing expectations of futility and despair.

ARG
There’s a TRILLION plays about that...

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...Arg?

ARG
Yeah, Ug?

UG
I’m depressed.

ARG
You’ll get used to it.

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...

ARG
...

UG
...

(...)

CURTAIN.

"Merry Goddamn Fucking Christmas"

2007-12-24T14:19:00.002-06:00

Merry Goddamn Fucking Christmas.
Happy Birthday, you dumb little brat.

Thanks for letting your idiot dad
make a holiday out of your name.

Not that it matters, anyway –
that nativity scene is a crock.

That fat fucking Santa’s
as real as the story
of how you came to life.

And the sweet irony
of this dumb holiday
is, rhetorically, if you were real,
I’m sure you’d destroy
this brightly lit temple
of capitalist mall-fed piranhas.

But the good thing, I guess,
is the family’s together,
we’re alive,
we’ve got coffee,
got toast.
The kids are yelling,
my brothers are laughing,
my sister’s off rolling a joint.

So…

Merry Goddamn Fucking Christmas,
Happy Birthday, you dumb little brat.
We’re not working today
and we’ve all got a buzz,
so I guess, in a way,
you done good.

"SLOWLY MELTING AWAY"

2007-12-22T11:47:00.002-06:00

* * * * * * *

PART I: “SAME OLD SAME OLD”

Hammer and Anvil had had enough. They’d been going at it for days, no, weeks – possibly years. Giving and receiving a pounding.

“My God, Hammer,” said Anvil. “This is one goddamn repetitive life we got going here, my friend. One goddamn repetitive life.”

“Yep,” said Hammer, banging down on Anvil once again for no reason at all, a reason for which a majority of things are done in this goddamn world. “Yep.”

Hammer stopped hammering.

They listened to the silence of their motionless existence.

It sounded soft.

“What do you suggest we do?” said Hammer.

Anvil shook itself off. Something fell to the ground with a clank. “Wanna get some ice cream?”

Hammer had never had ice cream before.

It sounded good.

“Sure,” said Hammer. “Why the fuck not?”

PART II: “NOTHING IS SPECIAL”

Ice Cream Scoop was stuck in a bucket of Rocky Road. The symbolism was killing it.

The door jingled. Hammer and Anvil walked in. They flung themselves up on the counter.

“Hey!” said Hammer to Ice Cream Scoop. “What’s good today?”

Not even a hello, thought Ice Cream Scoop. Not even HELLO.

“What are the specials?” said Anvil.

“There are no specials!” said Ice Cream Scoop. “Look around you. Look at the world. Do you think there’s anything goddamn special about it?”

Hammer and Anvil looked at each other and at the world around them, and said, no, definitely not, there’s nothing goddamn special about it.

“But we’d like a scoop of Vanilla, anyway!” said Hammer.

“Fine!” said Ice Cream Scoop. “Fucking FINE!”

Ice Cream Scoop picked itself up and shoved itself into Vanilla, grumbling the whole time. It dug out a scoop of Vanilla, said, “Here, enjoy your pile of unspecial shit!” and, as if it were a catapult, flung the ice cream at Hammer and Anvil with a vengeful and sticky precision.

It hurt Vanilla’s feelings to be called “unspecial shit”.

PART III: “CONSEQUENCES”

Anvil held tight onto Ice Cream Scoop, Hammer raised and ready to go.

“Looks like you fucked with the wrong goddamn tools!” said Hammer.

“Wrong goddamn tools!” said Anvil.

“Wrong goddamn tools!” repeated Hammer, and proceeded to turn Ice Cream Scoop into a Spatula.

PART IV: “MELTING AWAY”

Vanilla dragged itself and the Bucket that contained it out into the sun. It was a violent world and Vanilla was sick of playing a part in it. Everything was pointless and mean. Predictable and sad. Anything “new” would just turn into the “same”.

It was time to end it.

To let the sun do its magic.

Concrete tore a hole in the bottom of Bucket, leaving behind a liquid sugary trail as Vanilla scooted closer and closer to death.

"POEMS TO READ TO YOUR CHILDREN ABOUT LIFE"

2007-12-18T11:32:00.000-06:00

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

THAT’S WHAT SHE GETS

She told me I couldn’t steal her heart.
She challenged me.
So I tried.
I tried so hard to steal her heart.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t steal her heart.
So, instead of stealing her heart,
I stole her purse,
maxed her cards,
peed in her gas,
and gave her herpes.

TAKE GNR OUTTA THE JUKEBOX, GODDAMNIT!!

Goddamnit,
not again.
Fuck this song
and the fuckers that played it.
May they die
and die
and die
and die,
and then when they’re dead
may they die some more.
And then when they get
to paradise city
may the grass be brown
and the girls be ugly,
and may they be stuck
fucking their mothers.

A REACTION TO DISAPPOINTMENT

Because of his flaws
today was the day
he pepper-sprayed
his own eyeballs
and rolled in some dirt,
tore off his shirt,
cut off his nipple,
watched the blood trickle
into his navel
where it pooled and dried,
then laid in his bed
‘till he finally died.

A MINOR PROPOSAL

“Whadda ya say,”
she said to Ted,
“We get married
and travel
the country?”

“Whadda ya say,”
he said to Sally,
“We get married,
not really,
fuck off?”

A CARTOON WAR

Mickey punched Minnie
with an open hand,
then Minnie stabbed Mickey
with a fine-point pen.

Then, they fucked like you would not believe.

I SWEAR, THIS POEM IS NOT JADED

**text missing**

"Sammy and Suzy"

2007-12-15T10:47:00.000-06:00

SAMMY stared at Suzy.
“What?” said Suzy. “What is that look?
Why are you giving me that dumb goopy glare?”

Sammy was eight and he’d seen his fate,
a vision in his brain
drawn in crayons and markers
and splattered with watery colors.

“Seriously. What?!”

Sammy told her his vision.
Every cheesy detail.
She smiled,
she laughed,
she shook her head.
Called him weird and shrugged it off.

“You better get going,”
said Suzy to Sammy.
“Your Mom is gonna be mad.”

“No she won’t,”
said Sammy to Suzy,
“She’s happy to be alone.”

And on that day
they continued to play
‘till nighttime,
then Sammy went home.

SAMMY turned 9, then 10, 11,
‘till one day he was 12.

“I’m gonna miss you,”
said Sammy to Suzy,
her car packed and ready to go.

“I’ll miss you, too,”
said Suzy to Sammy,
her mom screaming, pounding the horn.

But before she left,
Sammy grabbed her hand,
said,
“Promise you’ll write and visit this summer?”

Suzy held tight,
averted her eyes,
said, “No,”
and shuffled her feet.

“That sucks,” said Sammy.

“I know,” said Suzy,
“But Dad’s dumb girlfriend,
she’ll probly move in.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s gross.”

“What a turd.”

They stood in silence,
arms swinging together,
till she squeezed his hand once more...

…and rode out of his life for a while.

SAMMY turned 12, 13, 14
and on the day that he turned 15,
his past came back
when it traveled the country
and landed in Sammy’s mail.

First of all,
she was no longer Suzy,
her name was Suzanne,
get used to it.

Second of all,
she was no longer a girl,
life made her grow out of that.

Third,
she was sad.

Sammy wrote back,
said his name was still Sammy,
said his mom was still
loaded with crazy.

And in a PS
said he still saw that vision
as bright as when he was eight.

Eventually,
she stopped writing back.

SAMMY turned 16, 17, 18,
and, on the dreaded day he turned 19,
that dumb stupid mail,
it did it again,
it brought the past right on back.

He tore up the card,
drank until dawn,
and though he skipped the wedding,
he still couldn’t shake
that goddamn vision
he had when he was eight.

SAMMY kept living
year upon year.
Before long, a decade had passed,
when up popped a message
on a website he’d started
from the girl he’d loved since eight.

“Sammy!” it stated. “Guess who!
How the hell have you been?
I miss you, my friend!
I know, I know,
that sounds weird."

“So!
I’m passing through town on the 28th –
I can’t believe you’re still in Philly!
Wanna get together?
Get some dinner?
Feel free to say no,
I’m sure this sounds silly!”

“But I’m curious.”

“You’ve been on my mind.”

Of course he wrote back.

Of course he said yes.

And when she got to town…

They got dinner,
desert,
some drinks,
a cab.
They went back to Sammy’s apartment.

They sat on the couch
where they yapped of their lives,
of the shit they’d both been through.
Suzy, her kids,
her divorce, her breakdown,
a little about her job.
Sammy, his writing,
his scarce dating life,
his loneliness, his work, his dreams.

They held hands ‘till sunrise,
then drove to the airport
where they lingered silently
at the terminal entrance
‘till she walked through the gate
and flew off again,
leaving Sammy alone in his head.

SAMMY turned 30 and 31,
and eventually learned she’d moved on.
She’d married again,
had another kid,
relocated way out in San Fran.

And Sammy?
He encouraged himself by saying,

“Well, at least I have my friends.”

SAMMY turned 32 with a thud.

33 was a fucking flop.

Thus, he was sure
that year 34
was a year that was destined to suck.

It started that way,
shitty day after day,
Sammy’s life droned on and on and on…

‘till one night he got high and got drunk.

He turned off his phone,
cranked up the music,
thought some thoughts
that fucked up his brain.
And then what he got
was another vision
like the one he had at eight.

The room, it spun,
his head, it blared,
and her voice, it banged in his ear.

He fell asleep.

He dreamed he could fly.

The next day
he woke up,
had some breakfast,
smoked up,
went for coffee
and wrote for a while,
then did some searching
on his small silver Mac
for the girl
that consumed his brain.

That night,
he got drunk.

He gave her a call.

She answered on the second ring.

“Holy fuck!”
said Suzy to Sammy.
“I can’t believe it’s you!”

Sammy smiled,
enjoying her voice,
said, “I love holy fucks.”

Suzy’s dad was dead,
her marriage a bust,
her life in San Fran a drain.
Long story short,
she got her dad’s house,
big enough for her and her kids.

“That goddamn house.”
said Suzy to Sammy.
“Can’t believe I’m moving back.”

Her brain opened some files,
searched through old memories,
‘till it landed
on that long ago day.

“Remember that time I made you be Ken?”

“You pretended,” said Sammy, “That I was John Taylor,
that I played bass for Duran Duran!”

The laughing slowed down,
the last chuckle faded,
and,
with a soft elegance,
Suzy breathed deep
and opened her mouth
and finished the rest of the story...

“And then you had that vision.”

The silence that followed
was longer than short,
but they let it sit there awhile…

…'till Suzy spoke up,
her voice kind of cracking,
her mouth a nervous smile.

Could she give him a call, she wanted to know?
As soon as she got to town?

A NOVEL COLLECTION OF BEGINNINGS…

2007-12-07T15:42:00.001-06:00

BOOK 1…

My name is Samira, and fuck is my favorite word. Don’t let that get to your heads, boys.

I can’t seem to recall the moment in my life when I first discovered my love of the word “fuck”.

But if I had to guess, I’d say it was the day I met the clown…

BOOK 2…

I don’t like mornings. They’re too quiet. Too perfectly unharmed. I don’t like it when I wake up feeling fresh and relaxed, not bothered by anything. I don’t like to be teased. To be toyed with. I don’t like to be mocked by happy mornings. It’s always a letdown. Some new shitty thing always ruins it.

That’s why this is a great morning. I love this morning. I don’t have to wait for today’s piece of shit to form, I don’t have to wait for it to suddenly appear and plop itself onto the bigger pile of shit my life has already grown into. Nope. Today’s new piece of shit is already there to greet me when I wake up.

Today’s new piece of shit is that, for the first time in eighteen years, I’m waking up unemployed. Everything else is the same. Same small 1 BR/1 BA cookie cutter apartment. Same spit-stained sheets. Same books. Same annoying buzz coming from the fridge. Same pile of first-drafts I’ve yet to rewrite. Same issues lurking in my brain. Same bump on the back of my neck I’m finding harder to ignore. Same toothpaste-specked mirror reflecting the same face back at the same old me.

It’s all the same.

Except, now, not only does the sum of my shitty life equal me being a loser, now I’m an unemployed broke loser. And I’m almost out of weed.

Somebody give me a sarcastic high-five.

I need to vent. To break something. Cause some pain. Even if it’s my own.

I need to fuck some shit up.

So that’s what I do.

I decide to fuck some shit up.

And I know just how to do that.

I pour a glass of orange juice, roll a joint, grab my bag of fireworks, and head into the bathroom…

BOOK 3…

I joined the army to kill people. So far, it’s going well...

BOOK 4…

Timmy told Tally a joke.

They were just two kids strolling down the road, walking home from school as if they didn’t have a care in the world, as if their lives would forever stay great, as if they wouldn’t one day become miserable adults, as if they weren’t destined to be wash-outs in a washed-up world, as if there was hope for them, as if it’s such a great thing to be a goddamn kid.

Tally laughed. She loved Timmy’s jokes. She always laughed at his jokes. He was a funny guy. Why shouldn’t she laugh at him…?