FireVaney's

Some of you wait at the designated pickup counter for your drinks. Many of you don’t. Never mind the sign above the counter. (It’s the rustic slab of faux-wood that hangs from two chains and spells out the word, “PICKUP.”) But, I dunno, maybe you’re not one to look up at anything… other than a posted menu. Or maybe you suffer from chronic neck pain. But then also never mind the cashier who directs you to said pickup counter. A number of you will, instead, grab a table (granted, they are scarce, given how busy we are) and wait there until I shout out your drink(s). This is fine. Those of you who note that the pickup counter is in close proximity to the restrooms may promptly choose to relieve yourselves. (It’s almost as if, whenever a toilet presents itself, some of you will automatically think that the time is right to drain your bladder and/or empty your bowels.) A few of you, immediately upon paying, will bolt straight for the pickup counter and stare at me with such extreme inten

What’s the worst that could happen? Yeah, okay, so maybe she works for the Russian mafia. That’s unlikely, you understand. Could be she’s looking for permanent residency—or whatever they call it. As you might’ve heard, those Russian chicks, they’ll go through A LOT to get what they want. ‘Least that’s the perception. Says she’s “spontaneous,” huh? This is a good thing, yeah? You like spontaneity, no? Who doesn’t like spontaneity? The dude that doesn’t dig spontaneity, who wants him around, huh? Come on, really, what’s there to lose? I know, I get it, I hear ya. You’re troubled. You’re concerned. She’s the only one outta—what?—a hundred seventy matches to reply to your, uh, your uh, “invitation to mingle”? Dude: Eyes on the prize, right? You’re lookin’ for fun. Amirite? Make a few friends, isn’t that what? Lookin’ for a “fuck buddy.” Or two. Or three. Amirite? No? Yeah? No? C’mon. What if maybe that’s all she’s looking for, too? Just keep it light, man. Like The Chairman sings, “Nic

Characters : GRANDPOP a retired accountant; FITZ VANNI, his “caregiver.”  Scene : The “study” in GRANDPOP’S house.  AT RISE : Early morning. FITZ VANNI, at the desk, writing in his notebook. Enter GRANDPOP. FITZ VANNI puts down his pen.  GRANDPOP    Couldn’t sleep.  So I took a second Melatonin.  Then, I slept.  That’s why I’m running late.  FITZ VANNI   You’re running late, huh?  GRANDPOP   I’m running late.  FITZ VANNI   (brief pause)  What are you running late for?  GRANDPOP   (subdued chuckle)  Good question.  (FITZ VANNI nods, smiles, and returns to the first draft of the day’s, or some future day’s, blog post. GRANDPOP moseys over to the newspaper that waits for him on the sofa.)  (LIGHTS FADE)  18 August 2004

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