FireVaney's

The nest is in the tree where it belongs. That is not code. That is a nest. A simple, run-of-the-mill nest. A bird’s nest, to be exact. And I had meant to write something else, something – a word – that wasn’t “nest.” Only, now, I cannot recall what that word was. I started to write it, and… oh, here, the word I intended was: “next,” but, as is evident, I wrote, “nest,” instead. And I ran with it. Rather, I tried to. But I didn’t really, did I? No. Because I stopped myself and tried to explain my original choice. My typing of “nest” was an accident. My finger hit the “s” key instead of the “x” key. And there you have it. Aren’t you pleased to have the explanation? Doesn’t it make you whole? No? I didn’t think so. But, if, by chance, it did , then how lucky for you. I really ought to run with it, though. Go with the accident. The nest is not in need of repair. It is a dandy nest. It is next to the other next. (I meant to write “nest,” of course!) An eagle’s next is next to the nest I ...

I’m only on the schedule for Monday. Fine by me. I lead a hermit’s life. Frugality is my superpower. But then Huggs calls at six o’clock this morning. Can I come in? Donny’s in the hospital. On the way to work, he crashed his bike into an open car door. Huggs needs a “superglue.” She knows it’s my favorite “role.” (You’re not stuck in the same spot doing the same thing for four or six or eight hours, and you can avoid dealing directly with the customers.) More importantly, Huggs knows that I live half a block away from the coffee shop. She calls two more times after that. Sure, I could pick up the phone, sure I could come in and work a few hours—but I gotta WRITE. Yes, I feel guilt, but FUCK, DAMN, I GOTTA WRITE IF I’M GONNA GET OUTTA THIS CRAP WAY OF LIVING. That was eloquent. I’m listening to Miles Davis’s Milestones . The world would be a better place if most of it appreciated jazz.  11 April 2001

“I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero.”

Started pulling shots before the sun rose, quit pulling shots after the sun set. The line of folks jonesing for a hit of caffeine never shortened. At one point, when Huggs and I were the only ones on duty, she stopped taking orders to help me fill all the ones flashing on my screen. I made a general announcement about the other Coffee Cadre Café a mere three blocks away. “IT’S TWICE THE SIZE OF THIS ONE!” I told them. Nobody left. Or if a few did leave, still more arrived. Late in the day, the espresso machine made an explosive internal hissing sound like none I’d ever heard before. I nearly thanked it aloud. Minutes later, all on its own, it was up and running again.  8 April 2001

Over the phone, Ma reads me the speech Macbeth gives in Act 5, Scene. 5. You know the one. It ends with: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Then Ma tells me she wants this speech read in its entirety at her funeral. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. Over the phone, she can’t see me shrug and shake my head at the same time. “Sure it’s beautiful,” I say, “as far as beauty in the English language is concerned. But, Ma, out of context? All it means is that life is a big fat waste.” When ole Macbeth shares his nihilistic thoughts, he knows that the jig is up. That’s all. Big bummer for him. Next time, Scotty boy, maybe consider karma. “Ma,” I say, “find me something hopeful to read at your funeral, huh?” After that I tell her to make an appointment with a shrink. She won’t be shuffling off this mortal coil anytime soon.  4 April 2001

Lome   They give you a choice of soup, salad, or coleslaw.  I chose the coleslaw.  They serve it to you all by itself.  A plate of it.  Trigg A plate?  Not a dish?  Like a saucer -dish?  Lome   All by itself.  A dinner plate.  A mountain of coleslaw.  Trigg   Why not get a salad? Lome   I figured it’d come with the meal.  You know, on the side .  Trigg That is the usual way.  Lome It wasn’t bad, the coleslaw.  Trigg You’d think a plate of it all by itself would have to be pretty good.  Lome Still, didn’t really work.  A big plate of it.  All by itself.  Trigg You’d think it’d be common knowledge.  Commonly understood.  As a side .  Lome Not like I was expecting greatness .  It’s coleslaw .  Cabbage and mayo.  Right?  Trigg It’s Dutch. “Koolsla.”  Lome   How is that useful?  Trigg I dunno.  Conversation starter?  Lome...

Start: Now. Do it. See the way. Now. In the apple orchard. No. The “Old Orchard.” Nothing “old” about it. Nary an apple to be found. Save for in a pie. And even then. Artificial flavor. Right? I dunno. Ask that clown over there under the “golden arches.” Ah, but the old “Old Orchard”? The way it used to be? No. Now. The way it is. The way it was… you don’t want that. That was lame. That’s when hardly anybody went there. But now? Good luck finding a place to park. And they keep building. And the new owners — they’re Australians — they don’t even want to call it “Old Orchard” anymore. They’ve got their corporate name taking prominence. They want to be the Six Flags of giant shopping malls. Plus: They don’t dig on word “old.” Who does? Just like Oldsmobile. What most folks don’t know, I’ll bet, is that there was a guy named “Olds.” According to Wikipedia, his name was Ransom E. Olds. That’s some first name, huh? So the name, the car company’s name, it had nothing do to with nostalgia for ...

I suppose it wasn’t the worst Thanksgiving I’ve had.  The worst Thanksgiving was the one I spent in my walk-in closet of an apartment way up north, where the turkey that night came from a Swanson’s “Hungry-Man” TV dinner. I watched Gone with the Wind [on VHS] for the very first time. I think I cried a little, but not as a result of watching that sappy epic.  I spent last night with Cindi in her (much nicer) walk-in closet of an apartment. We ate a real Thanksgiving meal and watched X-Men , part of Beetlejuice , part of Commando , all of Lethal Weapon , and all of a corny kung fu flick called The Last Dragon . *   24 November 2000  * [Questions, questions: Had Cindi made the meal herself? More importantly, did I get laid? Why can’t I recall?] 

A fellow tenant placed a fig tree in the lobby. Shortly thereafter, somebody took it. I never saw the tree, but I did see the sign. It was posted, presumably, where the tree had been placed. The sign demanded the return of the tree. I could not tell you if the tree-giver had secured permission from the landlord to place the tree in the lobby in the first place. I doubt it. This isn’t a building full of neighborly people, as far as I can tell. It’s a twelve story building full of strangers who don’t give a damn about disturbing their neighbors with the blasting of music or the late-night cries of sexual climax. While the lobby is spacious, the apartments here are all fairly small. The place shares some of the characteristics of a modestly priced hotel of the early twentieth century. But what sort of tree-lover would take a tree he or she presumed was up for grabs, and then, recognizing the error, not return it?  26 March 2001