"And so he tells me if it gets any bigger, he's going to have to lance it. Stick it with a pin so it can drain. I know, I TOTALLY would feel bad about that too, so I'm just going to wait one more day I guess, but now it is starting to smell bad..."
This is the lady behind me in line. She is talking on her cell phone, and she is not trying to be quiet. I try to tune her conversation out, I read the headline of one of those magazines in the rack there. A Kardashian doing something-or-other. A Kardashian in a bikini. Someone cheated on this Kardashian. This Kardashian is not going to waste any time getting even with her man. I wonder what this Kardashian is doing on Friday? The woman behind me in line is impossible to ignore, and is ruining my Kardashian fantasy.
"So I just says to him, 'This sort of thing wouldn't happen to you if you didn't eat all that Taco Bell all the time!' Right? I mean, it don't matter how cheap they make those things, they ain't healthy!"
I turn slowly to my left and examine her out of the corner of my eye. Short. Bad skin. Not a thin woman, not a thin woman at all, if you know what I mean. Sweat pants and a tank-top, and she was not going to the gym, I can assure you. She is carrying a two-pound block of this grocery chain's proprietary recipe of mild cheddar, one large tomato, a half-gallon of ketchup and a bag of hot dog buns. Not exactly the person I would trust to advocate a healthy diet. I'm just saying.
She catches me checking her out. Eye contact. I try to smile. She senses it is not genuine, or does not admire my appearance either, because she makes a face and then turns away from me.
"Yeah? So, ANYWAY! Like I said before, I'm at the store. Uh huh. The one on Lombard. Right, THAT one. Remind me later to tell you about the creep I saw today.."
I turn on her again, less covertly this time, to see if she is talking about me. She glances up at me, smiles, and then looks away. It was not a nice smile, I could recognize that. I feel awkward and begin to fidget. The line has not moved in the last four minutes because some other woman in her fifties has been arguing with the cashier about how the eggs were advertised as five cents less than they rang up as. After a long explanation about her Club Card number (which she did not have), there was further discussion about her six lottery scratch-its. I did not follow, but was annoyed anyway. I had become the meat in a checkout-line-abomination-sandwich. I had to pause for a moment and ask myself though - Am I the bad guy here?
Somehow, mercifully, the woman in front of me was finally soothed and dispatched from the store. I was up. Efficiently entering my Club Card # while being rung up and politely chit-chatting with the cashier without engaging in outright conversation, I was finished in seconds flat. This isn't difficult, people! I collected my bag and made my way out, but I was still troubled by the conversation of the young lady behind me, the one with all that ketchup. I walked slow. I thought some more. I could not allow this aggression to stand. I made my way outside, and installed myself just to the left of the automatic doors. I leaned casually up against the brick wall there, one knee cocked up, striking a pose. I waited. I did not have to wait long.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Coming Soon - FORENSIC DOUGHNUT!
Yes, Forensic Doughnut, a new line of offerings from the Unclezak's Industries palette. Consider this a new division of Unclezak's, this one catering more to the humanistic needs and desires, and less to the machines. Specialties include: worldly reflections, investment opportunities, sports apparel, live-and-stop-action episodes, anger management, stories, advice, life-imitating-art, hip-hop, baked goods, cabin rentals and industrial pet collars.
It's been a long time comin'. Stay tuned here for instructions to the big kickoff event later this Summer.
It's been a long time comin'. Stay tuned here for instructions to the big kickoff event later this Summer.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Starting Fresh
The sky has rained itself all out by the time you open your eyes and wake up to this day, not exactly sunny, but not as bleak as you had expected it to be either.
You open your eyes on this morning, and you can almost hear the >click< as six zeros roll up, all in a row there again, and you feel that stir of excitement, again. You made it back to the start. Again.
The last two months the result of some 'letting go', which was the result of several months of 'trying hard', and you did in fact try hard. You had made progress, and eventually found yourself clinging desperately to some dry and rocky unknown height, much higher in fact than you had thought you would be able to claw your way up. You made it so high, and so near the top even, that you were reluctant to let go. You had even managed a peek over the top, to flat ground, and what you saw was not the promised land you had expected or hoped to see, not at all. Again. But you still hoped a little bit that you were wrong. With even just this tiny decrease in enthusiasm however, you felt your fingers slipping, toes scrabbling against the sandy wall ineffectively, and with a deep breath of resignation, you let go.
Confused as the world spun, top to bottom, air rushing by, not knowing what would happen next. The equivalent of an explosion, or a birth, or a battle with something ferocious with your bare hands, it all happened fast for a while, and then you felt your wind knocked out of you, again, laying on your back someplace in the dark and dank. Then things began to happen slowly to you.
Wanting to remain alone, wanting to think about something else, time crawled, in bed most of the day for a month or more, trying to think of some new way out, but crawling back the old familiar way, following the old script, seemingly unable to learn any new tricks. And then one day, the rain. Again.
It had been weeks and weeks and weeks, and you DID learn a few new things, finally, you found new distractions, and new manners of creativity to occupy your mind, and you began to notice that you were feeling better, without asking yourself constantly, it was a surprise, and even this small detail made you happy, and you began to realize you knew just what would have to be done, and what pieces would have to be left behind, and which ones were good for you, and you would make a new little matrix of your assorted aggregates, and you could imagine how they were falling into place, where they would go or not go, and you realized you were ready as it rained hard for two days straight, and you listened to those sounds on the roof above your head as you painted and wrote, and lay there in bed before going to sleep, the roof closer than ever to your face at that time, and the sound of the rain was so soothing to you, reminding you of some time from long ago, when you thought everything was going to be okay, and you were safe in your bed listening to that sound whisper you to sleep. The rain that voice in your ear telling you it is alright, telling you to go to sleep, and when you wake up this will be a new clean place, and you will be fine.
You open your eyes on this morning, and you can almost hear the >click< as six zeros roll up, all in a row there again, and you feel that stir of excitement, again. You made it back to the start. Again.
The last two months the result of some 'letting go', which was the result of several months of 'trying hard', and you did in fact try hard. You had made progress, and eventually found yourself clinging desperately to some dry and rocky unknown height, much higher in fact than you had thought you would be able to claw your way up. You made it so high, and so near the top even, that you were reluctant to let go. You had even managed a peek over the top, to flat ground, and what you saw was not the promised land you had expected or hoped to see, not at all. Again. But you still hoped a little bit that you were wrong. With even just this tiny decrease in enthusiasm however, you felt your fingers slipping, toes scrabbling against the sandy wall ineffectively, and with a deep breath of resignation, you let go.
Confused as the world spun, top to bottom, air rushing by, not knowing what would happen next. The equivalent of an explosion, or a birth, or a battle with something ferocious with your bare hands, it all happened fast for a while, and then you felt your wind knocked out of you, again, laying on your back someplace in the dark and dank. Then things began to happen slowly to you.
Wanting to remain alone, wanting to think about something else, time crawled, in bed most of the day for a month or more, trying to think of some new way out, but crawling back the old familiar way, following the old script, seemingly unable to learn any new tricks. And then one day, the rain. Again.
It had been weeks and weeks and weeks, and you DID learn a few new things, finally, you found new distractions, and new manners of creativity to occupy your mind, and you began to notice that you were feeling better, without asking yourself constantly, it was a surprise, and even this small detail made you happy, and you began to realize you knew just what would have to be done, and what pieces would have to be left behind, and which ones were good for you, and you would make a new little matrix of your assorted aggregates, and you could imagine how they were falling into place, where they would go or not go, and you realized you were ready as it rained hard for two days straight, and you listened to those sounds on the roof above your head as you painted and wrote, and lay there in bed before going to sleep, the roof closer than ever to your face at that time, and the sound of the rain was so soothing to you, reminding you of some time from long ago, when you thought everything was going to be okay, and you were safe in your bed listening to that sound whisper you to sleep. The rain that voice in your ear telling you it is alright, telling you to go to sleep, and when you wake up this will be a new clean place, and you will be fine.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Poison
"I simply can not do this any longer!" Victor Bibbins declared out loud, addressing the giant poster of Mr. Bean pinned to the wall behind the tarantula cage. "Enough is enough!" And with that sentiment made physical, committed to spoken word, he found the determination to lower his quivering bulk down into the ergonomic chair in front of his computer, and then he began to type her an email.
"Dear Tricia," he typed into the body portion of this new composition, "As I am sure you know, I am no longer satisfied with the parameters of our current relationship as it stands now, and"...
He paused there a moment and re-read what he just typed. Victor was not entirely happy with the proximity of the 'know' and the 'no', he felt it created a disturbance in the flow of his words. The cadence was all off. He stared at the computer screen, his tiny lips pursed as if he tasted something unpleasant. After a brief deliberation he skillfully used his backspace and delete keys, and replaced the word 'know' with the words 'are aware'. He read this back to himself once, twice, three times, enjoying it a little bit more with each recital. He was feeling very pleased with himself and thought that he may reward himself with a treat. So, with some effort and several creaks, he rose from his chair and made his way into the kitchen.
Ignoring the many inspirational post-its fixed to the outside of the refrigerator, post-its reminding himself that food should be used in moderation only, post-its telling him to be strong, post-its designed to nurture success and positive thinking, he pulled the refrigerator door wide open, all the little yellow sticky notes ruffling momentarily from this action like the feathers on a waking bird.
Victor's expectant face was all aglow from the jaundiced bulb within the cooler. He stood there with the door open, quickly but silently making an inventory using only his shifty beady eyes. There were many reused clear plastic produce bags laying about on top of each other in no discernible order, as are bodies hastily thrown to a mass grave in a war zone, the contents of all a mystery as each and every one was obscured with a thick fog from inside, and not cinched tight enough to assume the shape of the contents within. This meant that each bag would have to be picked up, fondled, and presented to the nose to determine what bounty (or pitfall!) may be encountered there. He could think of no food that he had consumed in the recent past that was worth that sort of an effort at this time. In fact, he was vaguely aware that he almost never ate his leftovers, that if he truly delighted in any given meal, he would eat it down in its entirety, in one sitting, regardless of portion size. He was also vaguely aware that by the time a person has to wonder about leftovers, it is too late to salvage them. Even if a sense of potential guilt from being wasteful were to prevent you from throwing the item away at that exact moment, wondering to yourself 'Is this fresh any longer?' is tantamount to an indictment of inedibility, and that particular foodstuff has crossed a particular line in your mind, and once this line has been crossed, the concept of savoriness will never return to that particular morsel ever again, and it may as well be scuttled immediately as it rests unaware, before it is forgotten and allowed to linger on, befouling everything it comes in close proximity to with its own ugly and unkind revenge, like some spiteful and disgruntled ex-employee or lover.
NO. What Victor wanted was NEW FOOD, something easy yet calorie-packed in order to keep his energy up at the computer during this current, emotionally draining, task at hand. His overactive eyeballs scanned again and again, back and forth like a pair of windshield wipers during a snowstorm, looking for brightly colored cardboard or plastic containers, something not-necessarily-organic, something that had not been opened already.
"Dear Tricia," he typed into the body portion of this new composition, "As I am sure you know, I am no longer satisfied with the parameters of our current relationship as it stands now, and"...
He paused there a moment and re-read what he just typed. Victor was not entirely happy with the proximity of the 'know' and the 'no', he felt it created a disturbance in the flow of his words. The cadence was all off. He stared at the computer screen, his tiny lips pursed as if he tasted something unpleasant. After a brief deliberation he skillfully used his backspace and delete keys, and replaced the word 'know' with the words 'are aware'. He read this back to himself once, twice, three times, enjoying it a little bit more with each recital. He was feeling very pleased with himself and thought that he may reward himself with a treat. So, with some effort and several creaks, he rose from his chair and made his way into the kitchen.
Ignoring the many inspirational post-its fixed to the outside of the refrigerator, post-its reminding himself that food should be used in moderation only, post-its telling him to be strong, post-its designed to nurture success and positive thinking, he pulled the refrigerator door wide open, all the little yellow sticky notes ruffling momentarily from this action like the feathers on a waking bird.
Victor's expectant face was all aglow from the jaundiced bulb within the cooler. He stood there with the door open, quickly but silently making an inventory using only his shifty beady eyes. There were many reused clear plastic produce bags laying about on top of each other in no discernible order, as are bodies hastily thrown to a mass grave in a war zone, the contents of all a mystery as each and every one was obscured with a thick fog from inside, and not cinched tight enough to assume the shape of the contents within. This meant that each bag would have to be picked up, fondled, and presented to the nose to determine what bounty (or pitfall!) may be encountered there. He could think of no food that he had consumed in the recent past that was worth that sort of an effort at this time. In fact, he was vaguely aware that he almost never ate his leftovers, that if he truly delighted in any given meal, he would eat it down in its entirety, in one sitting, regardless of portion size. He was also vaguely aware that by the time a person has to wonder about leftovers, it is too late to salvage them. Even if a sense of potential guilt from being wasteful were to prevent you from throwing the item away at that exact moment, wondering to yourself 'Is this fresh any longer?' is tantamount to an indictment of inedibility, and that particular foodstuff has crossed a particular line in your mind, and once this line has been crossed, the concept of savoriness will never return to that particular morsel ever again, and it may as well be scuttled immediately as it rests unaware, before it is forgotten and allowed to linger on, befouling everything it comes in close proximity to with its own ugly and unkind revenge, like some spiteful and disgruntled ex-employee or lover.
NO. What Victor wanted was NEW FOOD, something easy yet calorie-packed in order to keep his energy up at the computer during this current, emotionally draining, task at hand. His overactive eyeballs scanned again and again, back and forth like a pair of windshield wipers during a snowstorm, looking for brightly colored cardboard or plastic containers, something not-necessarily-organic, something that had not been opened already.
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