FireVaney

Upon stamping the life out of the aforementioned roach, I sprayed my place end to end with Raid Max, replaced twelve roach baits, and sprinkled boric acid along the threshold along the door to my apartment. After that, I tried to eat my chicken burrito (which, by then, was cold). Whilst nibbling and chewing and reluctantly swallowing, I contemplated the purchase of a plug-in pest repelling doohickey. Such doohickies supposedly emit bursts of sound that drive certain unwanted critters away. It is unclear (to me) if said doohickies target all pests or just mice. Either way, after prolonged exposure, might such a doohickey scramble the neurons of my own brain? In light of these aforementioned cogitations I’ve elected to put off said purchase. Even so, the day may come when I make the purchase anyway. If the liberal use of insecticide doesn’t give me cancer, then the plug-in doohickey will surely drive me mad. I think you’ll agree, if given the Hobson’s choice, that madness is generally pr

Following another full day of standing on my feet and pulling endless shots of espresso and steaming gallons of milk, I came home to find a roach lying on the metal rim of my bathroom sink’s drain. If you’re a plumber, or you know one, you might call said metal rim a “flange.” I am not a plumber. I do not know any plumbers—not personally, nor professionally. But, occasionally, I like to be accurate. So I looked it up and there you have it: “flange.” You’re welcome. It was a fat one—the roach, not the flange—nearly more than half as big as a Hot Wheels Redlines Porsche 917. (I own more than several.) I haven’t seen a live roach since last August, when I signed the lease on this walk-in closet with a kitchenette, toilet, sink, and tub. This roach on my sink’s flange, although on its back, was very much alive. Methinks it was playing dead. Upon laying eyes upon it, I gasped and leapt across the kitchenette’s floor and swiped my steal blue bottle of Raid Max from its home on the far corner

She didn’t want to get out of bed. She wanted to remain in bed for the duration of the storm. She didn’t care about work. She wanted to quit. She was sick and tired of it. She wouldn’t suck up to her boss, not one day more. And she enjoyed listening to the rain and to the thunder. She enjoyed the unpredictable flashes of lightening which lit up her bedroom. She wished she were in a boat. She didn’t care about the dangers of being at sea during a storm. She could sleep much more soundly under such circumstances. She accused everyone she knew who suffered from motion sickness of being weak, of being cowardly. She could sleep in an active roller coaster car. Once, in fact, she HAD once fallen asleep once whilst riding the Demon at Marriott's Great America, in Gurnee, IL, USA, Planet Earth, Milky Way, once. But just that once. She had, indeed, fallen into the most peaceful of sleeps, once, whilst her boyfriend feared she’d passed out. More than once, she fell asleep during sex. She lik

Tonight I woke with an idea: Terror Theatre —a showcase for balls-out, over-the-top horror comedies and melodramas. H. Oozewalt, Jr. would present each play (à la Rod Serling) and he would give sole authorial credit to his late father, H. Oozewalt, Sr. The general conceit: H. Oozewalt, Jr. murdered his father for being a superior writer. Hence Jr.’s penance for presenting Sr.’s work. What’s more, Jr. is plagued by Sr.’s ghost. In fact, Jr. is only left in peace when he recites (stages) Sr.’s stories.  But here’s a thought: What if horror in our printed fiction and projected upon our silver screens allows us to ignore the true horrors of the real world? We close the cover on the horror novel, or exit the multiplex (our nerves drawn taut) as the credits roll, and we breathe a sigh of relief. (That is, presuming the book or the flick did its job.) And then we smile, or perhaps we chuckle, and we remind ourselves that it wasn’t real. And we do so whilst skirting the begging vagabond. Give

So this one guy hops aboard a Red Line train and offers copies of his writing to perfect strangers. He says he’s seeking feedback. I’d seen him pull this stunt before, some three years ago, aboard a CTA bus. To me, it seemed like a ruse, a con, a ploy. If you actually took a look at one of his pages, he might ask, “How much would you pay for it?” Possibly, he’d mean it sincerely. He might even promise to include you on the Acknowledgments page when he finally found a publisher. Well, he didn’t find any takers today, on the “L,” nor three odd years ago, on the bus. Here's hoping he’d revised his magnum opus since the last time we shared public transit. In sooth, I wish I had the courage to discuss his work with him. But then he might’ve followed me off the “L” and all the way home. I might’ve felt compelled to invite him in for a sampling of my mother’s legendary borsht. And after spooning up the last of a delicate teacup full of it, he might’ve threatened me with the rusty marlinsp

Erryk and Jeffie rent an apartment above a block of empty storefronts on the far north side of Chicago. Unless you’re a gang banger, or a vigilante martial artist, you wouldn’t want to be caught walking the streets of this neighborhood alone at night. At least that’s the general vibe. Teenagers hang out in the recesses of storefront doorways and smoke dope in the cold. Up and down the sidewalk all varieties of trash stick to mounds of snow and ice. Erryk called the cops a few nights ago, when a homeless drunk broke into the building and made a nest for himself in the stairwell. When the cops arrived, Erryk watched through the peephole as they thrashed the drunk with their fists and their billy clubs.  18 February 2001

His best idea involved a young man afflicted with a speech impediment very much like the one suffered by Donald Duck. That is, until, one day, when he encounters a young woman who, by her mere presence, remedies said impediment. But he is only “cured” when he talks to her , and her alone.  8 December 2000 

Start: There isn’t a time when I wouldn’t eat cheese at sunset in the park. No, I’ll eat cheese at any time, during sunset, in the park. Yes, I would not like to enjoy the turbulent kites of your apples. That makes all of us. When the eatery closes tonight, would you like to go back to my palace for a cup of pea soup? I make the very best pea soup. No, that’s a lie. I don’t make it, I get it out of the can. I’ll pour it into a bowl and stick it in the microwave for three and a half minutes. That’s the truth, Ruth. How are you today, Ruth? I haven’t met many Ruths in my time. Are you named after a relative? Tell me, Ruth, when the apples are ripe you do enjoy eating the worms that don’t want to leave them? Worms have a lot of protein, from what I understand. When I write, I almost always consider listening to a classical station in Wyoming via iTunes. Likewise, I almost always consider “tuning-in” to the same station, “Classical Laramie,” when I read. Unlike WFMT in Chicago, “Classical

Must get Erryk and Izodd gifts. Erryk’s birthday is tomorrow and Izodd’s was several weeks ago. (Oops!) If I can find it, I think I’ll get Erryk one of those little plastic little boys that pees when you pull its plastic pants down. I couldn’t get Ian—I mean, Izodd —the same gift. Why? Well, firstly, that would be weird. One plastic peeing boy is funny; two will earn you a reputation. (And by “you,” I mean “me.”) Secondly, Izodd and Erryk are close friends. Thirdly, Izodd is more mature. Or rather seemingly more mature. Fourthly, Izodd has a wife and a kid (a daughter). Fifthly, Izodd wouldn’t appreciate a plastic peeing boy as much as Erryk would. Must get Ian something more respectable. You know, like maybe a glass ashtray from the ill-fated O’Hareport Hotel and Convention Center. Not that Izodd smokes, no. It’d be a “collector’s item.” He could build a collection of glass ashtrays from defunct hotels from around the world. And once he accumulates a thousand of them, or at least fi