FireVaney

Whilst making out with Cindi last night, I stopped to ask— very gently —if she would do something—not necessarily right there and then —about the few hairs growing above her upper lip. I had no idea what female facial hair removal involved. I figured you could simply and easily shave it off with a disposable razor.  “No,” Rich told me, this morning, at work. “It must be plucked, or removed with special creams, or by electrolysis.”  Cindi was rather upset at my request. “What’s the big deal?” I’d said, in the moment. “It’s only a few hairs.” But amongst all her many smoochers, I’d been the first to make mention of it.  She would not let me kiss her for the rest of last night. Did I make her feel like a hairy beast? Does this mean she enjoys my habitually unshaven face, along with my hairy chest and back? [I never thought to ask.] For the record, I don’t care for it myself. I’m particularly hostile toward the hair that sprouts from my ears and noses. [So sorry, only one nos...

Cindi looked out the window of her apartment this morn and spotted a bright orange hard-backed chair. It sat across the street in a lot between two unremarkable buildings. Curiously, this chair appeared to be perfectly centered in said lot.       — I wish I had my camera, she told him.       — As neat as I’m certain that experience was, he replied — it was not art. He invited her to look it up. He labeled it: happenstance.       — Art is deliberate, intentional, he declared. — It is, at root, a creative expression.  He reflected on the aforementioned episode, years later, whilst rereading this journal entry. The photo Cindi had desired to snap of the chair, centered in the lot, would indeed count as art. What’s more, he’d admit, if he could (for Cindi’s whereabouts were unknown to him), that he was in no way qualified to judge what counts as art. Is a maple leaf art? Are caterpillars art? Would the wings of a moth or a ...

START : Ah, this music? It’s from that movie nobody appreciates. I love this movie. And its music. To date, it’s their best effort. The Brothers. You know those Brothers. Surely you do. Evidently, the music in the movie wasn’t an original score but, rather, arranged by Mister Burrwell. All these years – since 1894, I guess – I’ve been convinced that Mr. Burrwell was the composer. Of course, it’s listed right there on the back of the compact discus case – that the music in question was composed by Mister Khachaturrian. (Better check that spelling.) Some name, huh? Ah, but it appears that Mr. Burrwell composed some of the music, after all. This, of course, wouldn’t be the first time I’ll have overlooked a glaring detail. I do this all the time. I hope folks look upon this trait, this foible, this quirk of mine as more endearing than annoying. Whichever the case, nobody mentions it. Well, that isn’t entirely true. My father enjoyed ridiculing me. Exempli gratia: At a Bennnigan’s in Alabaa...

Thirteen degrees below zero didn’t stop us from joyriding through suburbia last night. We ate pie at Poppin Fresh Pies for dinner. Huddled in our booth, I bitched about the warped logic of rooting for the “home team,” given that most players rarely hail from the “home town” in which they play. Seinfeld likes to call it rooting for laundry. Those who don such laundry (in my worthless opinion), they’re basically athletic mercenaries. Did Spiffy give a shit? Nope. He’s always all about what’s all the rage, but only superficially so. He watches the Super Bowl (exempli gratia) for the commercials. And Flabjack? He won’t take sides. He keeps his beefs and passions, if he has any, to himself. I admire that. So it’s not like I’m preaching to the choir. It’s more like I’m preaching to an empty church.  Spiffy didn’t follow my train of thought. (When he does, he usually seeks to derail it.) Instead, he expressed his desire to send flowers to his ex. Nummy dumped him after three years, exactl...