FireVaney

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...