FireVaney's

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...

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 ...