FireVaney

I’d planned to break up with Cindi tomorrow night. Her appetite for me outstrips my appetite for her. It’s a shame, really. She’s quite accommodating and not at all bad looking. The first time I saw her I wanted to kiss her. But she smokes (granted, she’s trying to quit—just for me) and she looks a little too much like my father’s second wife.  The ugly truth? I’m not looking for my match. I’m looking for a woman I can worship, idolize, set high upon a diamond studded plinth. I want a woman I’ll never feel worthy of, a woman I’ll never quit pining for.  Cindi left a fraught message on my machine this evening, before I came home from work. It wasn’t what she said as much as how she said it. If the creaky front door of a dilapidated old house could speak, it’d sound a lot like Cindi. So, even though it was late, I had to call her back.  She picked up in the middle of her machine’s greeting. She sounded groggy, like she’d cried a lot. But when I asked her about it, she said ...

On the bright side,  unbridled artificial intelligence  might have such a  corrupting effect that the ensuing  chaos   renders the World Wide Web useless. 

Pop turns to me—I’ve just walked through the door—he turns to me and says, “Did you lose your phone?” My answer is, “No.” He asks because he found a dirty old cell phone lying on the front stoop. He’s just come back from the library; I’ve just come back from the gym. My mind jumps to the postwoman. (She always lets Pop kiss her on the cheek.) I see her in her mail truck yapping on her cell phone nearly every day. So I go looking for her, but she’s gone. Then I get the bright idea to take the strayed phone to the nearest U.S. Cellular store, since that’s the thing’s brand. The girl behind the counter says she can’t track the phone back to its owner. This seems stupid, but what do I know? I’m not a criminal. So I take the phone back home and scroll through its own phone book. I press a button to dial up the “home” entry, but the phone doesn’t connect. So I dial up the post office (using Pop’s landline) and leave a message; then I drop the phone in Pop’s mailbox. The next day the postwoma...

In any case what matters most are the subjects closest to the heart and that of course goes without saying. So what’s left to say? Well, today it’s going to be pleasant—and not simply dude to the weather. (Or, if you prefer, due to it. Albeit admittedly nonsensical, “dude to the weather” is funnier. Don’t you think so? It’s certainly curious. You must concede that much. No? Pshaw!) And how do I know this? I don’t. I’m not a meteorologist. But I can feel it in my gut. Some folks feel it in their bones or, more specifically, in their knees or in their elbows. I feel the weather in my gut. Ah, but what sort of weather are we discussing? Internal or external? I say both are closely related to tomato paste. I do. You see, there is, or there was, recently, a scare connecting salmonella to tomatoes. And what happened next? All this flooding! All these tornadoes! See? It’s all relative. Aside from that, he fully intends to strut up to a chick on the beach or in the park or on the farm and ask...

Even after I apply every conceivable precaution, there are times when the microwave will nuke the cheese on my “Great Starts” breakfast sandwich beyond all edibility. Such was the case yesterday morning around a quarter to five. This sight, of the mangled and burned and unchewable brown and yellow glob clinging to the edges of the English muffin sent me over the edge—for I am ALWAYS on edge when made to rise at FOUR-THIRTY A.M. to open a bloody coffee shop. So what did I do? Well… I slammed my fist down on the “Great Starts” breakfast sandwich again and again and again, until cheese and egg and Canadian bacon and English muffin bits clung to the kitchenette cabinet doors and the fridge and all four walls and even the ceiling of my “studio” apartment—which is smaller than a one-car garage. (My bathroom-ette was largely unscathed, save for the single small spatter of egg that stuck to the upper left corner of the mirror.) If nothing else, this mess will make the roaches smile. And who ca...