FireVaney

SEPTEMBER 28, 2001 : Yesterday made the list of my top five worst days at work. I’ll tell the whole story tomorrow. I’m too tired right now. I’m going on something less than three hours of sleep. * Donny, the guy I worked with yesterday afternoon, is a stubborn son of a bitch. He also lacks common sense—which is common of stubborn sons of bitches. I got pushed to the edge yesterday—it wasn’t entirely his fault—but he did send me over. I worked a double and then some, without a break, during which two lunatics really got under my skin. One was a “guest” and the other was a drunk Donny should’ve left alone. I’ll explain tomorrow. SEPTEMBER 29, 2001 : Here’s the story—it’s a pathetic story, but it happened; and I suppose it sums up why I avoid coffee shops…  So I’m scheduled to work a double, starting at six in the morning. It’s a typical AM shift at the Chicago Coffee Cadre (store #7) on the corner of Broadway and Aldine. Donny clocks in at noon and takes over the espresso bar. Two...

(The FireVaney takes the stage.) FireVaney Good evening.  Mmm.  That looks refreshing.  I hope you’re enjoying it.  But I can only hope.  Because when it comes right down to it, I don’t know a thing about your taste buds. And that’s sad. It’s sad because if I knew about your taste buds…  and your taste buds…  and your taste buds…  we’d all have a fighting chance at achieving global taste bud harmony. But why would we want that? We’d want global taste but harmony because it’s become impossible to agree on anything. Our culture is so fragmented that society is unraveling. We can’t get on the same page anymore because we can’t even agree on what the page is. How can you get on the same page about anything when the other guy (or gal, or nonbinary carbon based unit) …hates paper? So I say:  Forget the page.  Just… recycle it. If nothing else, you can tell Larry that you made some progress on the deal.  Alec Baldwin as Larry: ...

Do you ever listen to your eyeballs as they roll in their sockets? I discovered this sound only recently. It terrified me. I never wanted to move my eyes again. You think something’s wrong. You shouldn’t be hearing this. Perhaps your sockets require some sort of oil change. Like sex, is this yet something else mommy and daddy failed to adequately explain? That every few decades you might need to replace your eye lubricant? If so, is it an in-patient or an out-patient procedure? Will insurance cover it? Does it hurt? Will it affect your sight? And if it’s not done, will your eyes eventually freeze and stare in one direction? Can you imagine that? Everyone looking at you while your eyes are permanently lodged up, down, or askant?  “Hey!” snaps every woman you talk to, “I’m up here!”  “I know,” you plead, “but my eyes are stuck!”  They’ll slap you anyway.  And while we’re on the subject of corporeal embarrassments… When you’re really anxious or scared do you ever start...

 I live on the top floor of my building and I see a lot of birdies. I like birdies. They have feathers. They chirp. Some are tasty. But the birdies in my neighborhood, they’re kinda weird. Seeing that I’m kinda weird myself and many of my neighbors are kinda weird, too, this makes some sense. Said neighbors sit broadly on the weirdness spectrum. And, with this knowledge, it seems we have confirmation that “it takes one to know one” and “birdies of a feather flock together.” They’ll perch on the ledge outside my bathroom window—the birdies will, not my neighbors (only “Tiny,” the giant who lives on the third floor, is that potentially weird)—and they’ll chirp the entire morning away. And as I’m sure you know, there are people in this world who, without knowing it, tend to mistake a monologue— their monologue—for a conversation. Likewise, the birdies on my ledge seemingly tweet at , rather than with , each other. True, this is more annoying than it is weird. But weird is coming. The...