FireVaney

Kerri, of all people, sought advice from me, of all people, on you’ll never guess what. I drove her home after last night’s rehearsal, and along the way she asked if she could ask a “personal question.” That is, with regard to writing. She asked, “Have you ever written a sex scene?” Since I’d recently started two “X-rated” blogs, my answer was, “Yes.” As Chucky P. would’ve told her, I told her to “unpack the details” of the scene. I advised her to consider each character’s point of view and each character’s past experiences. “How comfortable are they with their own bodies?” I asked. Also, “How well do they know each other?” And, “How hot are they for each other?” Stuff like that. I suggested an exploration of exactly how they wound up in the sack together. “How easy or awkward was it?” I asked. I also recommended envisioning the scene from beginning to end… although I never do.*  17 March 2007  *Due to a dearth of personal experience to draw from and, perhaps, a weak imaginati...

You want to say things that you believe would help clarify the situation. But you feel that actions speak louder than words, because they do. So you wait. And it appears that inaction, actually, will speak louder than, perhaps, anything else. But who is to blame? You are at least partly to blame. But only partly. It takes two to tango. (Christ, how many trite idioms are we going to go for today, eh?) You are not the one who should think about the times that you don’t want to behave when the situation was false and the lawnmowers won’t FUCKING SHUT UP! Let the grass grow. No, don’t. Yes, let it grow, but only up to a certain height. Christ, just let me buy a lawnmower so that I can do it myself on my own schedule and not have to deal with all the fucking noise. But then the same mowers cut the grass next door, too. This is why winter is the best season for writing. NO FUCKING EXTERIOR NOISE!!! Although – and I AM aware that I’ve mentioned most of this before – autumn is my favorite seas...

To celebrate his new gig, Spiffy sprang for crab legs at Queequeg Jr.’s World Famous Crab House. We waited in a large, noisy, crowded room for two hours before a table opened up. Ate my first “soft shell” crab; drank my first glass of guava juice. Tasty? Tasty. Following the meal, Spiffy drove us over to the big, new Knottydart Hotel & Conference Center. We had no business being there, but looking inconspicuous has its perks. Then again, Spiffy’s always spiffier than most. I’m the inconspicuous one—and maybe that’s why Spiffy keeps me around. Some brat was celebrating his bar mitzvah in one of the ballrooms. The theme was The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson . Kinda odd, given that this newly minted man was likely born a few years after Carson retired. It makes you wonder how much this brat’s dad missed “Carnac the Magnificent.” There was an open bar, so I picked up a Guinness and followed Spiffy, who’d picked up a Canada Dry, out into an elevator. We wandered into the spacious...

Ma, Stepdude, and I drove up to Lake Geneva, WI for Mother’s Day.  Before we got there we stopped in Antioch, where Ma and Stepdude mused over the possible purchase of a lot in one of those Redacted Homes developments. Turns out there were too many hidden costs. That, and Ma brings home the bacon these days. Stepdude? He brings home the bupkis. And besides, Antioch is too far from where Ma works. Upon reaching picturesque Lake Geneva, we stopped for a bite at—of all places—Subway. After that, it rained. But the rain passed quickly. We wandered around the old business district, which was very much alive with tourists.  The Copper Mountain Toy Co. & Train Land Of Lake Geneva * sells, among a great many other trinkets, historical action figures of Jesus, of Moses, and of Shakespeare “with Removable Quill Pen & Book!” They also had an action figure of a coffee barista. On impulse, I purchased the three remaining Shakespeares: one as a future gift to one of my many theatri...

The names of places—of restaurants and places—if I only visit them once, their names almost always escape me. This is also true of people I’ve only met once. Typically, it takes two or three visits for a name to stick. (And to think of the piss-poor shape my memory’ll be in when I’m twice my current age!) Point is, we went to a place for carnivores for what’s-his-name’s bachelor party. (Lori is a vegan, by the by.) Along with a fork, knife, plate, napkin, and water glass, each diner gets their own circular cardboard card. * One side of the card is red and the other side is green. Somebody explains how it all works and then the servers surround you with various forms of cooked meat. They’ll keep carving it up and heaping it onto your plate until you flip the green side of your card over to its red side. After all that—which is to say, after scarfing down way, way, way too much meat—we drove over to a flashy bowling alley in Streeterville where they charge you five bucks for a BOTTLE of...

Forgot to mention that the sewer backed up into Pop’s basement last week. I’d gone down with a load of laundry and was met with a swamp of filth. I spent the day—ankle-deep in piss and shit and used Charmin squares—cleaning and salvaging and trashing. When the plumber finally showed up, he was only in the house for about five minutes. He spent the most of the afternoon in the front yard, rodding out the pipes from there. While it didn’t look like an easy task for him, at least he was out in the fresh air. I spent the better half of yesterday bagging up anything else that seemed unsalvageable. Today, I’ll have a better idea of just how many bags the garbage truck will have to haul away. No idea how much extra it’ll cost. Tonight, at The Goodman: a staged reading of an early draft of Mamet’s American Buffalo . Mr. Mamet himself will be in the house. *   10 April 2006  * [If memory serves, Mr. Mamet remarked, onstage, just prior to the reading, that he wasn’t a fan of festivals t...

If you drop a notepad and it hits the ground, it’s not going to break. And you don’t need to recharge a notebook – that is, a paper-filled notebook. And unless you’re famous (or infamous), nobody’s going to want to steal your paper notepad or your paper notebook, either. Not that it matters. Forgive me, I am in mourning, for a Constant in my life has now faded into oblivion: The Chandler’s Assignment Notebook. In these parts, in the past, they’d go on sale around the beginning of August. But as I feared with last year’s edition, all was not well in Chandlersland. In years past, there’d be some famous, inspirational quote printed on the upper lefthand corner of every page. But for the 2007-2008 edition, there were no such quotes. That space on that side of every page was left blank.  Yesterday, whilst stockers stocked the shelves with Back-To-School supplies at the local SavYah, I asked a manager when they might expect their annual shipment of Chandler’s Assignment Notebooks. It had...

We attended the same high school, she and I, but we never spoke to each other. And now, thirteen years later, we both burn carbs and pump iron at the same gym. And still, although we frequently make eye contact, we’ve never exchange words.  Two days ago, whilst huffing and puffing on the treadmill, she walked by and stuck her tongue out at me. It seemed a playful gesture. In return, I offered a raised eyebrow and a slightly perplexed grin. She stepped onto a treadmill next to the one next to me (id est, leaving one in between).  Yesterday, whilst pumping up my gluteus maximus, she passed by, twice; and so I stuck my tongue out at her, twice. She didn’t notice. Two OTHER people, however, DID, and apparently they thought I was directing my tongue at THEM. They, in return, both offered perplexed stares.  Mayhap, the other day, whilst I huffed and puffed on the treadmill, she was actually thrusting her tongue out at somebody else—perhaps at the huffer and puffer behind me. 6 ...

A café.  AMY and BRANDI, sitting. Nearby, sits FIREVANEY, eavesdropping.  AMY  He kisses me too much.  BRANDI (slow nod, raised eyebrows) Mmm. You don’t like him anymore.  AMY  No —  BRANDI  Or you’re liking him less.  AMY  That isn’t —  BRANDI  There’s somebody new?  AMY  No! He just… too many kisses.  BRANDI (nods)  There are worse things.  AMY  He won’t let me speak.  BRANDI  Well, not with his tongue down your throat —  AMY  Exactly.  BRANDI  Is he a … substandard kisser?  AMY  No. He’s a fine kisser. That’s not what I’m —  BRANDI  Too much of a good thing.  AMY Exac— Yes. Sort of.  BRANDI (pushes her latte away)  Brandi? Sometimes? You make me sick. AMY  No, you don’t understa—  BRANDI  Nor could I ever. Nor could I ever.  (she stands and shoves in her chair)  I’m late.  (She exits.)  FIREVANE...