FireVaney's

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...

The concern for whether or not you’ve shut the refrigerator door completely, or whether you’ve completely shut the refrigerator door, always, always, always strikes once you’ve completed your climb up the stairs. So, then, you do what you’ve always, always, always done: You descend and you return to the kitchen and you press a hand against the refrigerator door. Sometimes, yes, it’s still a bit open by a little bit; sometimes it isn’t. No, MOST TIMES it isn’t. Most times, it’s shut. Really, if you really cared, you’d draw up a chart to chart the validity of this recurrent concern. But if you really, really, really cared THAT much, then your madness would be confirmed. Hencethus, you won’t be drawing up a chart for the aforementioned porpoise. Rather, PURPOSE. Why can’t you simply confirm the ceiling—rather, the SEALING—of the refrigerator door whilst (still) in the kitchen? Exactly what exactly prevents you? Why is it so difficult? What makes it such a challenge? But soft! Perhaps you ...

God only knows. Only God knows. That’s, assuming God is playing attention. Or, rather, PAYING attention. And why would He? ’Tis all foolishness. Perhaps ’tis all for His amusement. That’s what methinks anyway. We’re toys. Playthings. That’s what methinks. Makes sense. ’Tis all so so so SO so so SO so S-O-S so-so foolish. Meaningless. Insane. Stupid. Why? Well, were it meaningful, why such silliness just to find the right cow to milk? Apologies, this is not working out the way I’d hoped. What does? Nothing does. Hencethus, I want to stop hoping. I want to stop nighttime shenanigans. No, not really. I want to PARTICIPATE in nighttime shenanigans. Yes, that’s it. Why not? Well, for starters, I’m too hairy. What’s more? A tad short. And to top it off: “orange” haired. That’s what “they” say, anyway. “They” call it, “orange.” Bottom line: These physical characteristics are NOT in demand – that is, if you’re endeavoring to attract a heterosexual female Homo sapiens of reasonable beauty. But ...

Pop likes to tell stories. They usually fall into one of three categories: childhood adventures, investment triumphs (or blunders), and brushes with the Chicago “Outfit.”  Sometimes, shortly after launching into a tale, he'll stop to ask if you've heard it before. Your answer is of no consequence; he's going to repeat the story even if you've heard it a hundred times. This isn't out of spite. Pop can't help himself. Once the memory is recalled, it must be played out. Even if you help him finish the story, even if you beat him to the punch, or offer a summary, Pop will continue his spiel. It makes no difference how many times you interrupt with, "Yes, yes, I know. I've heard this one before.” What's nice is that Pop never tells a story the same way twice. He always adds a new detail, or shuffles the chronology of events. But he never lies—or, rather, he never intends to lie. Since the stroke, his memory still, occasionally, plays tricks on him. And ...

You walk into a bar and spot your crush. She spots you back and waves and squeals your name. Anyone else who notices, they smile—a few even go so far as to turn and smile—but they keep their waves and squeals to themselves. Not that you’re undeserving of waves and squeals, but, don’t fool yourself, you’re a bit player in a large cast of characters. She saw you first because her booth seat faced the door. You didn’t think she’d be at this bar. You figured she’d be at the other bar, the louder bar, in the neighborhood. It’s younger, hipper, trendier. You feel relief and frustration. Let’s unpack that: You feel relief because, here, you can keep an eye on her. And, perhaps, when the time comes, she’ll ask you, in some roundabout way, for a lift home. And then, who knows, maybe she’ll even invite you in. You feel frustration because, here, you can watch her flirt with all the boys and girls who are much cuter than you are. But, dude, you gotta quit kidding yourself. Let’s be realistic....

Rare is the natural-born chick magnet. Or, rather, rare in MY experience—which is, admittedly, severely limited—and, further, limited to Northern Flapjackistan. Regardless, my (admittedly) unsolicited advice? Young man: Take FULL advantage. Just my “two cents.” Just in case you aren’t already. This presumes that you are not a religious man. Presuming my aforementioned presumption is none too presumptuous, then, by all means, you absolutely MUST look upon this gift of yours as a biological FORCE of life—a FORCE you are, no less, of course, IMBUED with. YOU, sir, have a responsibility. Feel no guilt. But DO use protection. Please, by all means, SPREAD the “wealth” —and ONLY the “wealth,” if you catch my drift. * As for me, I’ll be up in the “stands,” so to speak, rooting you on. Best I can do. (MOST I can do, really, as I would not want to interfere.) But if I am lucky, perhaps some of your pheromonal magic will, in due course, rub off on me. Mayhap, just by hanging around you long enou...

Be careful, more careful, with your declarations. Why? Because you’ll always find a way to rebel against them. For example, you’ll state, for the record, that you listen to one thing, and then, shortly thereafter, you’ll stop listening to it altogether. You’ll say you write one way, today, and then, tomorrow, you’ll write in a completely different way. In this way, by making such declarations, you’ll embarrass yourself. Ergo, unless you have something to gain from the act of sharing, don’t share—ANYTHING—until it is absolutely necessary. Don’t set yourself up for failure by making declarations. Or promises. Lead, instead, by example. (How trite. How hackneyed. Well, you ARE a bit hungry.) You always overdo it: the declaration thing. You give too much away. Nobody wants that. They want mystery. They want to be teased. Stop giving away so much. Or, stop giving so much away. This over-zealousness must cease. It embarrasses you; it scares everybody away. Nobody buys it. I ask you: When has...

His yellow toenails jag as if bitten off by some terrible two-year old. His skin flakes white specks under his five o’clock shadow. His wifey’s tremulous fingers clutch a cigarette between two fingers. You want to ask about her caveman’s painting of the sun tattooed to her calf, but you never will. Both hubby and wifey drink cheap wine out of what’s clean—coffee mugs. You’ve heard that hubby’s got a hernia. You won’t ask about that, either—though you’d like to. What’s he gonna say anyway? “Yeah, I got a hernia.” What with their fried burgers every summer night, both hubby and wifey, they’ll be lucky if they make it into their mid-fifties. Not that you’re a happier, or a healthier, or in any way a better person. Ho, no. You’ve told them that your former wingman was a con-artist. Really, though, he was just a bit of a hustler. But given his uncompromisingly spiffy aesthetic, he didn’t have much choice. *  15 July 2005  * [“I've wasted a greater part of my life looking for money ...