FireVaney

Over the phone, Ma reads me the speech Macbeth gives in Act 5, Scene. 5. You know the one. It ends with: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Then Ma tells me she wants this speech read in its entirety at her funeral. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. Over the phone, she can’t see me shrug and shake my head at the same time. “Sure it’s beautiful,” I say, “as far as beauty in the English language is concerned. But, Ma, out of context? All it means is that life is a big fat waste.” When ole Macbeth shares his nihilistic thoughts, he knows that the jig is up. That’s all. Big bummer for him. Next time, Scotty boy, maybe consider karma. “Ma,” I say, “find me something hopeful to read at your funeral, huh?” After that I tell her to make an appointment with a shrink. She won’t be shuffling off this mortal coil anytime soon.  4 April 2001

Lome   They give you a choice of soup, salad, or coleslaw.  I chose the coleslaw.  They serve it to you all by itself.  A plate of it.  Trigg A plate?  Not a dish?  Like a saucer -dish?  Lome   All by itself.  A dinner plate.  A mountain of coleslaw.  Trigg   Why not get a salad? Lome   I figured it’d come with the meal.  You know, on the side .  Trigg That is the usual way.  Lome It wasn’t bad, the coleslaw.  Trigg You’d think a plate of it all by itself would have to be pretty good.  Lome Still, didn’t really work.  A big plate of it.  All by itself.  Trigg You’d think it’d be common knowledge.  Commonly understood.  As a side .  Lome Not like I was expecting greatness .  It’s coleslaw .  Cabbage and mayo.  Right?  Trigg It’s Dutch. “Koolsla.”  Lome   How is that useful?  Trigg I dunno.  Conversation starter?  Lome...

Start: Now. Do it. See the way. Now. In the apple orchard. No. The “Old Orchard.” Nothing “old” about it. Nary an apple to be found. Save for in a pie. And even then. Artificial flavor. Right? I dunno. Ask that clown over there under the “golden arches.” Ah, but the old “Old Orchard”? The way it used to be? No. Now. The way it is. The way it was… you don’t want that. That was lame. That’s when hardly anybody went there. But now? Good luck finding a place to park. And they keep building. And the new owners — they’re Australians — they don’t even want to call it “Old Orchard” anymore. They’ve got their corporate name taking prominence. They want to be the Six Flags of giant shopping malls. Plus: They don’t dig on word “old.” Who does? Just like Oldsmobile. What most folks don’t know, I’ll bet, is that there was a guy named “Olds.” According to Wikipedia, his name was Ransom E. Olds. That’s some first name, huh? So the name, the car company’s name, it had nothing do to with nostalgia for ...

I suppose it wasn’t the worst Thanksgiving I’ve had.  The worst Thanksgiving was the one I spent in my walk-in closet of an apartment way up north, where the turkey that night came from a Swanson’s “Hungry-Man” TV dinner. I watched Gone with the Wind [on VHS] for the very first time. I think I cried a little, but not as a result of watching that sappy epic.  I spent last night with Cindi in her (much nicer) walk-in closet of an apartment. We ate a real Thanksgiving meal and watched X-Men , part of Beetlejuice , part of Commando , all of Lethal Weapon , and all of a corny kung fu flick called The Last Dragon . *   24 November 2000  * [Questions, questions: Had Cindi made the meal herself? More importantly, did I get laid? Why can’t I recall?] 

A fellow tenant placed a fig tree in the lobby. Shortly thereafter, somebody took it. I never saw the tree, but I did see the sign. It was posted, presumably, where the tree had been placed. The sign demanded the return of the tree. I could not tell you if the tree-giver had secured permission from the landlord to place the tree in the lobby in the first place. I doubt it. This isn’t a building full of neighborly people, as far as I can tell. It’s a twelve story building full of strangers who don’t give a damn about disturbing their neighbors with the blasting of music or the late-night cries of sexual climax. While the lobby is spacious, the apartments here are all fairly small. The place shares some of the characteristics of a modestly priced hotel of the early twentieth century. But what sort of tree-lover would take a tree he or she presumed was up for grabs, and then, recognizing the error, not return it?  26 March 2001

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 si...

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. ...

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

His best idea involved a young man afflicted with a speech impediment very much like the one suffered by Donald Duck. That is, until, one day, when he encounters a young woman who, by her mere presence, remedies said impediment. But he is only “cured” when he talks to her , and her alone.  8 December 2000 

Start: There isn’t a time when I wouldn’t eat cheese at sunset in the park. No, I’ll eat cheese at any time, during sunset, in the park. Yes, I would not like to enjoy the turbulent kites of your apples. That makes all of us. When the eatery closes tonight, would you like to go back to my palace for a cup of pea soup? I make the very best pea soup. No, that’s a lie. I don’t make it, I get it out of the can. I’ll pour it into a bowl and stick it in the microwave for three and a half minutes. That’s the truth, Ruth. How are you today, Ruth? I haven’t met many Ruths in my time. Are you named after a relative? Tell me, Ruth, when the apples are ripe you do enjoy eating the worms that don’t want to leave them? Worms have a lot of protein, from what I understand. When I write, I almost always consider listening to a classical station in Wyoming via iTunes. Likewise, I almost always consider “tuning-in” to the same station, “Classical Laramie,” when I read. Unlike WFMT in Chicago, “Classical ...

Must get Erryk and Izodd gifts. Erryk’s birthday is tomorrow and Izodd’s was several weeks ago. (Oops!) If I can find it, I think I’ll get Erryk one of those little plastic little boys that pees when you pull its plastic pants down. I couldn’t get Ian—I mean, Izodd —the same gift. Why? Well, firstly, that would be weird. One plastic peeing boy is funny; two will earn you a reputation. (And by “you,” I mean “me.”) Secondly, Izodd and Erryk are close friends. Thirdly, Izodd is more mature. Or rather seemingly more mature. Fourthly, Izodd has a wife and a kid (a daughter). Fifthly, Izodd wouldn’t appreciate a plastic peeing boy as much as Erryk would. Must get Ian something more respectable. You know, like maybe a glass ashtray from the ill-fated O’Hareport Hotel and Convention Center. Not that Izodd smokes, no. It’d be a “collector’s item.” He could build a collection of glass ashtrays from defunct hotels from around the world. And once he accumulates a thousand of them, or at least fi...

Manager Mick says you give the “guest” what they order, and charge them for what they order, and never try to correct them if they order in error. For instance, if the “guest” orders a latte with extra froth, do not explain that they are really ordering a cappuccino. If the “guest” orders a latte with a shot of chocolate syrup, do not explain that they are really ordering a mocha. Ok, but this is akin to hammering in screws, ordering a McDonald’s cheeseburger with everything that comes on a Big Mac, or concluding that a chocolate milkshake without ice cream is still a milkshake and not simply chocolate milk.  22 February 2001

OXYGEN BARS?!? Yes, according to once source, they started in Los Angeles (naturally), spread to New Mexico, and have recently been spotted in Cincinnati. That’s right, you pay money to inhale a few minutes’ worth of scented air from a tank. The “bartenders” will happily list many of the innumerable (bullshit) health benefits of breathing tanked air. Granted, breathing tanked air might be healthier than breathing LA smog. But how would you know that your tank of choice wasn’t filled with air from the breathing bar’s parking lot?  In other news, Donny and I got into it yesterday. Not about oxygen bars (although I’m sure he’d be happy to plop down twenty bucks to suck it up), but about lattes and mochas. A customer ordered a latte with a shot of cocoa—which, by definition, is a mocha. Donny disagreed. But what, then, in this day and age, does one call the combination of espresso, steamed milk, and chocolate syrup? While, yes, whipped cream is often a standard feature of the American...

This is not the time for apple pie and pudding. No, this is the time for wilted roses in the dust layered over the seventh floor of a condemned midrise apartment building. The apple pie and the pudding will have to wait. But that’s the good thing about well-prepared food: it has patience. You might say the same of the well-prepared person. Who eats apple pie and pudding during the same meal? Such a gourmand must have one heck of a sweet tooth. And the sun rises on the blue statue of your great uncle Samuel. He was an adventurous man. Well, for his time, he was considered adventurous. Today, however, folks would dismiss him as something of a shut-in. When your great uncle Samuel ate, he only ate apple pie and pudding. (Didn’t see that comin’, did ya?) I gained a pound over split pea soup, several dinner rolls, and half of an egg salad sandwich on rye. It had to be all that bread. Nary a forkful of apple pie, nor a spoonful of pudding. I wouldn’t touch pie – the lard involved and all tha...

When Betty sleeps over, she sleeps in the room my mother and her older sister once slept in. Betty spends some part of the night and some part of the morning in Grandpop’s bedroom. She’d spend all night in Grandpop’s bedroom if he wasn’t such a snorer. One night, five years ago, I heard them trying to have sex. When they came downstairs the next morning, Grandpop said, “She’s my diamond. Sometimes I need to shine her up.” He laughed. Betty laughed, too; then said, “Sometimes he needs to shine me up.” Five years later, in the middle of the night, I don’t hear anything; but that doesn’t stop me from plugging my fingers with my ears by which I mean plugging my ears with my fingers whenever I have to use the upstairs bathroom in the middle of the night. That is to say if I plug my ears with my fingers or vice versa I only do it in the middle of the night. Have I not made myself clear?  A doctor recently asked Grandpop how he managed to look so young. Grandpop’s reply? “Lots of sex.”...

Most of the time you’re a tangled mess. Running, for a period of no less than twenty minutes, straightens you out. That, or it straightens you out as much as can be expected; straightens you out better than just about anything else. Certainly, with respect to running, the effects are longer lasting—the stabilizing effects, the calming effects. But it takes effort to run. It takes dedication to run, to make it a daily habit. The day after a good, long, hard run you feel drained—at least you do lately —and this makes it a chore to attempt it daily. It is better to feel drained than it is to feel anything else or anything more. Curse all that extra effort it takes to feel lust, or love.  9 March 2007

A wealthy man, his wife, and all of his children die in a plane crash. Eighty other passengers die with them, along with the entire flight crew. Very tragic. It’s why I don’t fly. If planes were made of rubber and could bounce off the ground, like a balloon or a beach ball (but not like a tennis ball or a basketball), perhaps I’d modify my position. But they aren’t, so I won’t. Regardless, roughly three and a half weeks after the aforementioned plane crash, an attorney knocks on the door of the wealthy man’s next of kin. Said attorney claims to represent the illegitimate children of the man in question. He (said attorney) offers a deal to protect the dead man’s reputation (from disgrace). Naturally, the legitimate next of kin is/are doubtful. Ah, but the attorney came prepared. He supplies them (the legitimate next of kin) with birth certificates and photos of the dead man with his mistress and illegitimate children. Said attorney offers to arrange a meeting with said mistress and/or s...

My specialty? Delicious morsels of vomit. I bake them in my grandmother’s oven. The oven doesn’t exactly work. You turn the dial and it smells gassy. It smells gassy even though the pilot light is on. I should call somebody to fix it, but I’m too cheap. And lazy. Or busy. Yes, “I’m busier than a one-toothed man in a corn-on-the-cob eating contest.” What am I busy with? Stuff. Things. None of your cotton-pickin’ bus-wax. Just now, I’ve looked up that word: “bus-wax.” I wanted to see if it qualified for legitimacy. I’ve not thought of the word “bus-wax” for many years. In sooth, it’s not: “bus-wax,” but: “beeswax.” The dictionary I’m looking at (when I’m not looking at this, or at anything else) offers two definitions. The first defines “beeswax” as “the wax secreted by bees to make honeycombs and used to make wood polishes and candles…” I didn’t know about the “wood polishes and candles” part. We’re really gonna miss those bees when they all buzz off into oblivion. The second definitio...

And Manager Mick asked,  “Wanna see pictures of my cat?”  And somebody said, “Sure.” *   I was at the other end of the room,  too busy to look up from counting  down my drawer,  which was short  —because it’s always short.  And Mick said,  “This is the pose I want her to be in  when she’s taxidermied.” [Sic.]  And whoever he told this to said,  “But you cat’s not dead yet.”  “No,” replied Mick,  “but she will be soon.  And you need to have pictures  or what you get back  looks nothing  like your cat.”  “Uh-huh.”  And Mick continued,  “I’m going to have her body  hollowed out  and her neck  hinged  so I can lift her head  and put stuff in.  No one would think  of looking  for anything  in a stuffed cat.”  12 February 2001  * [Strange how I cannot now declare with absolute certainty who this somebody was. That back room / stockroom...

People look at my face and say, “Are you growing a beard?” And I don’t reply: Is that cause for alarm? Or: What’s it to you? Or: Aren’t you observant. Rather, I tell them I’m taking a break from shaving. Which is true. I miss Cindi. I miss both of us clinging to each other, naked, in the dark of her apartment. I miss sucking her bumpy tits. What I really need, right now, is some caffeine. Yes, that’s right, Cindi’s tits were (and, presumably, remain) bumpy all around the nipples. I suppose they’re officially known as “areolas.” So: bumpy areolas. And I miss them. But she was a smoker and a bit of a racist and somewhat out of shape and not terribly bright. All that, and she liked to lick the clouds, too. Time and again I admonished her for taking advantage of her height and sullying the troposphere with her taste buds. She accused me of harboring an inferiority complex just because I can fold myself neatly inside a Pringles potato chip canister. An empty one. (Are they called canist...

She’s a cute, slightly waifish dirty blonde. I don’t know her name. Let’s call her… “Veronica.” She used to work at the Dominick’s Finer Foods over on Chicago Avenue. Maybe she still does. Maybe she avoids me whenever I shop there. It’s a big store and I’m usually zeroed in on all the shelved comestibles for sale. Welp, turns out Veronica’s a neighbor of mine. Couldn’t tell you which floor. (There are twelve.) Gimmie a break, I’ve met less than half the people who live on my floor, let alone whoever lives in the rest of the building. And those few I do kinda-sorta know, I don’t know any of them by name. Either way, most don’t smile or say hello. Maybe it’s me. The way I look. Maybe it’s my deodorant—or lack thereof. Could be it’s my natural musk. You know, like I have repellant pheromones or something. Even mosquitos avoid me. I dunno. Should I ask? I could ask, sure. But then all the expressionless folk who tend to look straight through me as they pass on the sidewalk, or on the sta...

Denial will be our undoing.

Changing my “Love@AOL” ad to display the headline: “F R E A K” seems to’ve made all the difference. Nearly all the women who’ve contacted me since the change have remarked that I’m a “cutie.” They say I look like Jim Carrey. But more importantly, Dominick’s has stopped stocking my favorite flavor of coffee creamer.  2 January 2001

Start: So I unplugged the beastly bitch and twenty-four hours later her touch pad is working again. Go frakking figure. So maybe? Here on? I’ll just leave her unplugged when I’m done with her. And yet keeping her plugged should NOT be the cause of her touch pad’s misbehavior. What’s more, I’ve got her jacked into an expensive surge protector. Whatever. And that lamp in Pop’s room? The one bedside near the window? Its bulb crackles. I screwed in one of those compact florescent “energy saving” bulbs and it started crackling after I hooked up the new digital TV tuner converter box. There isn’t any legitimate relationship between the converter box and the lamp. Ok, ok, they kinda-sorta share the same electrical outlet—but that’s all. Actually, the box is plugged into a power strip with the TV but the lamp is plugged directly into the wall. What’s more, the treadmill fraks up the digital signal. Whenever I slide a lever on the treadmill—whether to up the incline or increase the speed—the di...

Sean runs a checkout lane at the Dominick’s down the street. Sure, he’s got some issues, but he’s bright enough to scan and bag and make change. Sean cracks jokes, too. Here’s one he told me: “Your change is seven eleven… but don’t go there! Get it?” It took me a moment (I’ve got issues of my own), but then, with a smile and a nod, I told him I got it. If you make Sean laugh he’ll start to drool. If you excite him, his motor functions will speed up and he’ll drop your change without realizing it. Beyond that, Sean is a model checkout clerk. Other shoppers try to trip him up all the time, though. They look at him and, automatically, they don’t trust him. But maybe I trust him too much. Or maybe I just don’t give a damn about the penny, nickel, or dime I’m occasionally shorted. Sean probably needs it more than I do.  22 January 2001

Clayton’s back in town. After sneaking into the newly renovated “Cadillac” Palace Theater, he landed a gig with the show that was, at the time, going up there—and then he went to New York with it. That was something like a year ago. Back then, I gave him a direct order: “If you get to go to New York, you stay there. Don’t come back here.” Welp, Clayton got lonely. He patched up with his ex and moved back to Arkansas to be with her. (They’re both from Little Rock and, a few years back, they’d moved up north to the Windy City.) Welp, Clayton got bored with Arkansas (and/or perhaps his ex). He decided to migrate to the last place he didn’t feel bored or lonely: Chicago. *  12 January 2001  * [More recently, though, Clayton wound up working on location as some kind of technician with James Cameron’s Avatar franchise.] 

Every time Ma or Stepdude flushed the toilet, their, um, deposits wound up on the floor of the basement. The plumber they called in sent a root grinding “rod” through the sewer pipe that ran beneath the front lawn. Somewhere on the other side of the street, the rod got stuck and the plumber couldn’t reel the thing back. To Ma, I said, over the phone, “Sounds like the hook of a monster movie.” The plumber told Ma and Stepdude that the rod wouldn’t budge until the city dug up the street for it. This was particularly bad news for Stepdude, as the bathroom was his favorite room in the house—and the toilet, his favorite seat. So he, Ma, and their bear-sized shaggy dog had to spend a week in a hotel room. When a city crew finally got around to digging up the street (a major suburban artery) in front of their house, they discovered that they’d gouged out the wrong patch of earth. Meaning: They’d have to fill the cavity they’d made, repair the street and the grassy parkway, and start all over...

Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...

Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...

Old pal of mine from high school’s having an affair with some pastor’s young wife. Maybe it was only a one night stand, I dunno. He met this pastor’s wife where he meets all of his lovers—on the internet. And, no, you wouldn’t call my old pal a Don Juan or a Casanova or a Lothario. He’s not a bad guy, but you wouldn’t call him “charming.” As for looks, like me, he’s squishy and plain. From what very little I understand, this pastor’s wife is forbidden from doing anything beyond keeping house and rearing children (two). Turns out she hasn’t limited herself to my old pal. No, she’s carrying on with a man old enough to be her father. And this other older dude has grown children who probably went to school with me and my old pal.  21 December 2000  [A few lingering questions will, alas, remain forever unanswered. E.g.: Did the adulteress only cheat with men who weren’t Christian? Were these spiteful affairs—that is, was the intent to make a mockery of her marriage? Was the cuckold...

I have not watched an episode of The Brady Bunch in well over a decade, but, very early this morning, I woke with its goddamned theme song leisurely jogging laps round my brain. If that’s not a bona fide indication of insanity, then I couldn’t tell you what is. I can tell you this much with near absolute certainty: It is currently four thirty-five ante meridiem. If you must know, I am conscious this too goddamned early to open the goddamned coffee shop. I don’t have a key to the place, and the jolly man on TV says that “with the windchill, it’s eighteen degrees below zero right now.” Rubbing his own shoulders, he adds, “ Brrr. ” But since he’s paid to be jolly, he says it jollily. I do not have a key to the coffee shop, so Manager Mick better be there before I get there. I truly wish that I could, with ease, rise and shine this goddamn early every goddamn day.  12 December 2000

I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve lost sight of my objective here. This isn’t about you, the reader. No, this isn’t about amusing you. This is about me, the writer – the streamer. Thus, we’ll summarily dispense with all reason. Henceforth (or, at the very least, until the bottom here is reached), there’ll be a whole lot less forthright insight into what makes the FireVaney tick. The sky is grey because the bombs are not dropping on the sun at five o’clock in the morning when the trees are wishing for a new potato crop at the next summer fair. You’ve been to the summer fair, don’t say you haven’t, don’t lie to your uncle FireVaney. Dude, to say that the dreams are not true just because they’re dreams is like saying that the potatoes are dreams in the minds of so many apple seeds. NO, I won’t eat bananas naked anymore. That was a fad, a trend, a phase. Yes, we all go through the nude eating banana phase. Don’t tell me you didn’t skip to the tree’s beat last Saturday night. I saw you. I was spyi...

The Family Redacted (and friends) came together last night to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of their beloved matriarch, Hattie Redacted. It was held in her son’s luxurious home in/on Chicago’s famed “Gold Coast.” The entirety of this author’s walk-in closet of an apartment would fit into Hattie’s son’s first floor half-bath, with room to spare. This event was catered, naturally, and the catering would put state dinners at the White House to shame. In her informal address to the family (and friends), Hattie, without airs, noted how she’d had the good fortune to chat with dignitaries the likes of Elenore Roosevelt, and dance with luminaries the likes of Isaac Asimov. She paused several times to wipe away a fallen teardrop. (Not the same fallen teardrop, no; rather, multiple teardrops that fell periodically. It was something just short of crying. That is, unless, perhaps, she merely suffered from an itchy cheek.) She’d lived through the Great Depression, abject poverty, two world war...

Who wasn’t drunk? Mister Wench: he wasn’t drunk. He was the only one. He doesn’t drink. He looks like he would, but he doesn’t. He’s the rare breed of teetotaler who fits right in with any dive bar crowd. But see, you can’t master much, let alone puppets, when you’re blotto. So Mister Wench was on his hands and knees in the men’s room wiping up the puke. “Think of it as another donation,” I told him. Believe me, it was his kind of snark, but he wasn’t in the mood.  When the girls weren’t flaunting and exposing themselves or kissing each other, they were gathered around me and Slange. We talked about love and desperation. According to Slange, I need to view love more as a concept than as something tangible. That is, unless these words of wisdom were instead spoken by Nikki.  (Something I didn’t think to ask: Unless you’re getting it on , when is love ever tangible? And, something else: How is love ever conceptual? I get how it’s consensual . But conceptual? No. democracy is ...

Damn near everybody I know who saw it called it: “Disturbing.” It was staged in a lovely little theater on the second floor of a church. This was a late night show. (It had to be.) One of my pals played an Eastern European * pimp who dabbled in bestiality. Another one of my pals was cast as one of two hermaphroditic apes. He wore a head-to-toe ape costume. So did the other guy. Said hermaphroditic apes were, as part of the plot, forced into sex slavery. But that’s not all. Said sex enslaved hermaphroditic apes were not of this world. That’s right, they were space aliens. The patrons were drunk and rowdy. (They had to be.) More than a few of them pulled out their cell phones to film the eastern European pimp and the enslaved alien apes as they danced to George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.” This ninety minute show ran about forty-five minutes too long. At one point, near the end, my friend in the ape suit whips out a twenty-two inch dildo † and uses it to strangle two of the villains....

Big Len, our rotund neighbor to the west, found a raccoon nestled in his garbage bin yesterday morning. As he looked down at it, it looked up at him. (In fairness, it is possible that, as Big Len approached, said raccoon was already looking up at the inside of the bin’s lid. I couldn’t say for certain; I wasn’t there. You’d have to ask the raccoon—presuming it would offer a honest answer, that is; and presuming you could hire a competent translator of Raccoon-nese or Raccoon-ish; that is, presuming you aren’t such a translator yourself.) Big Len tossed his bulging Hefty bag into the bin anyways and slammed the lid down. He fixed the lid with a heavy shovel to thwart the raccoon’s escape.  Then, yesterday afternoon, whilst strolling to and from the train station, Big Len told Pops that the raccoon was “too stuffed to move.” Sure, Big Len could’ve called up the animal control folks, but he figured they’d be off for the holiday. Fair enough.  Why Big Len had to “secure” the racco...

Last week was a better week. So what’s going wrong with this week? Could it be the cooler weather? You’re supposed to like the cooler weather. Your future is north of here. That’s what you believe. The national inclination is to move south, and/or west. You, though? You’re a contrarian. You’re always pointed in the other direction. “Against the wind.” But if not north, perhaps you’d go east. Then again, you’d consider going west. To Portland, Oregon. According to Chuck, you’d fit right in. Well. Ok. He hasn’t said so. Not exactly. Not explicitly. No. Besides, you’d rather go north. Way north. You’d rather be Canadian. You feel somehow lighter when you’re up there. There’s too much gravity down here. It weighs you down. Then again, Southern California – particularly during sunrise and sunset – felt good, too. But Canada felt better. Calmer. Lighter. Not brighter. Somehow lighter. But you don’t know if you’d actually relocate to Canada. Or even if you should , assuming that you could ....

Thanks to artificial intelligence,  Hollywood,  as we now know it,  will cease to exist  inside of three years.  Flesh and blood actors will only find refuge,  if any,  upon the boards.

A number of loud and flashy storms scudded through the Windy City last night. It’s been a few years since I’ve heard a strong Illinois thunderstorm. As I cheered on the wall-shaking thunder, I recalled the many violent storms of my youth, and then suddenly reminded myself that I was once the Storm Master. [Self-proclaimed.] That’s right, I had the “authority” to rate and judge [subjectively] thunder, lightning, and downpours. As you might expect, the more relentless and varied the claps and rumbles of thunder, and the more dazzling and blinding the streaks and flashes of lightning, the higher the rating. Bonus points if I could feel the thunder seemingly shake the foundations of the house. [To the best of my recollection, I paid little attention to the rain (I was inside, after all), unless, of course, it thrashed my bedroom windows.] Less worthy storms were those that executed strong starts, but petered out too quickly into a light rain [story of my life, really], and so on.  20 A...

Betty slid two frozen Eggos into the toaster oven. I didn’t ask why she didn’t use the toaster. True, there is a “toast” setting on the toaster oven, but did she use it? Nope. She turned the temp dial all the way to max and burnt the hell out of those poor waffles. We’re talking burnt enough to trigger a freaking smoke detector. For real. Did she apologize? Nope. Instead, she pointed at the crumbs scattered over the bottom of the toaster oven. She blamed those crumbs for triggering the smoke detector. In other words, she blamed me. True, there are many scattered crumbs and, yes, I should probably clean them out. But I use the toaster oven several times a week, and I’ve never caught its crumbs smoldering. What’s more, I’ve used the toaster oven several times since Betty charred the Eggos, and the smoke detector hasn’t once peeped. Ergo, the crumbs are not to blame. Such being the case, I’ve left the crumbs alone and I’ve banned Betty from using the toaster oven.  29 April 2005 ...

It’s a simple YES/NO question: “Is it hot outside?” Pose it to Ma, pose it to Grandpa, and their answer? Always, always, always something like: “All I do is sweat.” Restate the question: “So it’s hot outside?” Respectively, their reply’ll go something like: “You don’t believe me, do you? I’m a liar, that’s what you’re thinking. How dare you call me a liar.” And so you’re lambasted when all you’ve done is ask a simple question. In sooth, nobody in my family—save for me, unless the remark I make is facetious (which, if it is, it’s typically as plain as Wonder Bread)—will limit themselves to a simple Yes/No response. In fairness, it isn’t as if they enjoy bloviating at the drop of the hat. You will receive many “I don’t know” answers—especially from Grandpa. Exempli gratia, he never knows what he wants for lunch or dinner. Ask him, point-blank, what he wants for any meal and he’ll say, “Not much.”  19 July 2006

Rufus ate potato chips all of his life. He ate all kinds of potato chips, but only potato chips. He did not eat hotdogs or hamburgers or French Fries. He ate BBQ flavored potato chips, cheddar cheese flavored potato chips, sour cream & onion flavored potato chips, you name it. He ate all brands and all varieties. He ate potato chips. And milk. Chocolate milk. Made with chocolate syrup . And so he’d munch all varieties of potato chips and he’d wash them down with chocolate milk made from chocolate syrup. And the milk was always 2% milk from the fast food place down the street. The fast food place down the street only sold milk in the half-pint size. Rufus only drank milk and bought potato chips from that fast food place, so he gave it a lot of business. He gave them so much business they started stocking bags of potato chips just for Rufus. (Or so he believed.) They weren’t the big bags, they were the little bags. But Rufus didn’t care. Rufus went on like that for many years. His ...