Saturday - House of Biscuits

The familiar and expected smell greeted his nostrils as he moved into the driver's seat and began to fumble with the seat belt buckle. The car smelled like all old British cars, a warm and pleasant smell of leather and wood. He liked the smell, and he liked this car, but he was running late and he couldn't get the seat adjusted exactly to his liking, and the seat belt buckle wasn't quite right either.

'Fuck!' he shouted to no particular target. He just wanted to use the word. He loved this word. He never grew tired of this word. It amazed him how those four letters together could amuse him, help him relax, inspire him, express his every emotion. He thought this often, but did not think it right now, because he was running late and he had to get across town.

He decided not to fiddle with the seat or seat belt any longer, and he twisted the key and the car immediately coughed to life and he blipped the throttle a few times with his toe, and satisfied with the sounds generated by the engine he put the car in gear, looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, and speedily entered the artery of asphalt.

'Fuck!' he yelled as his coffee spilled, fortunately only on the dashboard and not on his pants or shirt, which were really looking great today. He spent only three minutes selecting this shirt to meet her in this morning, he knew right as soon as he saw it he was going to party the pink gingham with a blue tie. He was especially pleased that his thin jeans were fitting as well as they were.

The green car was hurtling East now, in top gear, switching lanes left and right through the slower moving cars, which were few as it was early morning on a Saturday. The brakes in the green car were not good, not good at all, and he was traveling much too fast considering this fact - which he did - but he was running late and he did not want to make her wait.

As he sped towards the understood meeting spot, he adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see himself, pick any wayward hairs or other unsavory items from his face, and he also elected at this time to adjust his tie, pulling it down, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to give the effect of having just thrown everything on, as if he didn't quite care to look perfectly put together this morning, a look he liked to cultivate often, a look he liked to call 'Contrived Casual'. Sometimes he would leave one shoe untied or button his shirt wrong to maintain this look. It worked for him.

He was a little loopy still from the night before, the drinking, and the lack of real sleep, but he found the meeting spot easily enough, they had met there before, actually, a little coffee place that made biscuits that she would pretend that she shouldn't eat but secretly loved. She was always talking about being on a diet and working out in the gym, and how she shouldn't eat this or that, and he thought she was crazy. Or fishing for compliments. Or just acting like a normal woman. She actually was a normal woman, he decided. She said nothing she meant and acted crazy and expected him to read her mind. This thought brought him reassurance. This thought brought him relief. This thought freed him from any real culpability regarding relationships. The man believed that nothing he did would make any difference as far as getting along with a woman was concerned. He could be nice, be mean, be aloof, be available, be responsible, irresponsible, tell the truth or lie, and the result would always be the same. Women would judge him and react to him however they felt like acting regardless of his behavior. Everything was contextual, and determined by the mood of the woman he may be involved with, completely independently of reason or fact.

He hoped she would be in a good mood this morning.


He parked the car, grabbed his notebook, wallet and jacket, and jogged across the street while putting the jacket on. As he walked up to the glass door of the restaurant he tucked in one side of his shirt only, taking Contrived Casual to the next level. He opened the door and went inside.

He saw her at the table where she sat last time, in the back, in a corner. He saw her there and she looked great. She rose and walked to meet him in the middle of the room and he noticed she was wearing another jumpsuit, this one of chocolate brown velour. Earlier, while lurking about on her Facebook page and admiring her many photographs, he noted, with pleasure, that she owned dozens of jumpsuits in a wide range of colors and textures. Sometimes she reminded him of a superhero. Maybe this was because she fought crime at the district attorney's office. Maybe it was because she could leg press fourteen times her own body weight. Whatever the reason, he thought she was great. Maybe she was crazy? He hoped so.

Their bodies came together in a hug in the exact center of the large open room, and for just a moment he felt like he was on a stage again, acting out a scene from some tired and weary drama. He felt all eyes in the room on them and their hug, their forms an exercise in opposite geometries; his massive,bright and loose while hers was tiny and tight and brown. They both enjoyed the brief hug in their own way, enjoying different aspects of the brief hug - He enjoyed touching her tiny strong form, enjoyed stroking the velour stretched across her back - and She enjoyed the briefness of the hug, the civility of it. She found satisfaction by behaving in a civilized manner, and abiding proper etiquette, and hugging your breakfast date would be expected by the population enjoying their coffee and biscuits surrounding them.

After the brief hug, and with the momentum generated by the separation of their bodies after the brief hug, they returned to the table she had selected in the corner.

'How are you doing?' they asked each other at the exact same time, and then sitting down he answered 'Great' while she answered 'Fine' , again at the exact same time.

Once seated, eye contact was made over the tiny table, smiles exchanged, and he touched his hair and wondered if it looked disheveled enough. HER hair looked disheveled enough, he noted with some jealousy. He pondered her disheveled hair a tiny bit longer and began to grow angry. Wasn't he worth the time it would have taken to properly coif her hair? Maybe she had stayed out too late last night with someone else to take the time to style her hair, was that what had happened? He was beginning to get angrier, and when this man got angry, he got quiet as well. Maybe she was just being funny again with her messed up hair? Maybe this was meant to be funny like the time with the wig? Maybe he was jumping to conclusions again? Maybe he shouldn't get quiet yet? He saw an opportunity to get out of his bad mood and entertain at the same time, and he took it: HE WOULD MAKE A JOKE.

He often did this when he was nervous, with mixed results. As he still could not tell if what type of mood she was in, it was a bit of a crapshoot, but he went for it anyway:

TAKING MELODRAMA TO ELEVEN PART THREE - What I actually do when someone wrongs me, or I feel that someone has wronged me:

SO, I have been sitting inside pretty much the whole day - and don't even give me any shit about this, I needed it, I'm the motherfucker who worked 7 or 12 or however many days in a row before this without going to the lake or fishing or having friends over for board games or even getting drunk - anyway, inside pretty much all day EXCEPT for the time where I went to Fred Meyer to buy some brownies to go with my ice cream. Now I'm worried I have too many brownies and not enough ice cream, so I may have to go to Fred Meyer, AGAIN. So, I have been pretty much sitting around here, eating ice cream and brownies, and making sandwiches and soup and watching bad movies and sort of just feeling like shit in general, but I guess I am emailing and kind of writing my balls off, which is also a good thing, I suppose - the writing that is, not the balls off - and just sitting inside, feeling fat and old and generally waiting for life to suck some more before I die.

I did kind of play with the Rover for like four minutes.

the phone has been BLOWING THE FUCK UP all day, and I am proud to say that I have not checked messages yet, but some of these people (are they people? is this how real people behave?) have been calling AGAIN AND AGAIN without leaving messages (I bet) and some of these people are Joel and the guy with a mexican-sounding-name who paid for something recently, and that Will Sloop kid (Does HE think I am old and over?) and maybe Fred, but I;'m all like "Fuck THAT shit! I'm not answering that fucking phone. Call back. Do it. CALL BACK, MOTHERFUCKERS, CALL AND HANG UP AND CALL BACK AND SEE IF I ANSWER THE PHONE THEN! THINK YOU'RE ALL CLEVER AND SHIT? CALLING AND NOT LEAVING MESSAGES? Wait 'til I get your car in here. We'll see who's clever THEN, won't we? When I'm rubbing my balls all up on your door handles and steering wheel, WHO IS GOING TO BE CLEVER THEN???? " - Basically shit like that. Fucking phone. I just turned that ringer OFF. Fuck it. All these crumbsnatchers, don't make me hit the caps lock again Baby, alright? Please don't get me started about the phone.

So ANYWAY, eating too much garbage, emailing, the phone, staying inside, I smell my feet again. I don;t know why I have shoes on. I don't have anything else on, why do I have shoes on? Why do I smell my feet? I didn't exercise. ... OH THAT'S RIGHT, I HAVEN'T TAKEN A SHOWER IN A WHILE. That's why with the feet, the thing with the feet. so, THIS is what it is like when you just say fuck it and let yourself go at 39, and get all old and fat and go crazy like Howard Hughes, except you aren't rich and you never had sex with a movie star and you can't fly an airplane - so it is actually NOT like Howard Hughes, except for the part where you get old and stay in your room eating junk food and watching movies and going crazy.

What was I saying?

OH, I KNOW. The Nugget:

The Nugget: I feel like I'm in a cocoon, and I know I have to come out tomorrow, but in the meantime I hunkered down in this building, in the dark (Like a caterpillar, get it?) and I unpacked all the shit out of my mind and spread it around me on the floor like I used to do with those dirty magazines when I still lived at home with my parents - but that is a different story- I spread all the shit going on in my mind in a big circle around me on the floor so I can pick each piece up and examine it and decide what to do with it, keep it? throw it away? and while I am doing this I am growing stronger or weaker , I'm not sure - but I am CHANGING is the point, like the fucking caterpillar, right? Evolving? I mean, I can feel this change happening, but I am looking at all this shit on the floor now, all of the stuff from my mind, and I know I can't fit it all back in there (remember the BLIVET?) and now shit is going to be different just like the caterpillar, and I have run out of time, it is Spring now, or Summer, whatever time it is when you have to tear out of your cocoon, you don't have any more time left to change, so you had better be ready to go, someone had better tell somebody to clear a fucking path, because IT IS TIME. That is what the last 30 or 40 hours have been like, a throbbing hot dark pocket to shift and fidget inside of while I eat too much and sort through my thoughts and try to cut some of what I believe in away and try to fit some other new belief in there, where it does not fit, I have to fool myself into believing new things, I have become good at doing this in the last twenty years, I can do it when I need to. So this is the time now where I hold my breath so I swell up and fill up inside this thing, I have to hold my breath as long as I can and tense my muscles and roll my eyes back into my head and hold still and begin to vibrate with tension and effort and I remain there like that for as long as I can, and if I am very lucky, and I mean VERY LUCKY, I will feel wings tear through the flesh and skin of my back and break apart this shroud I've been in, and I will be able to shake it all off and then move ahead actually better than I was before I went into it. If I am not very lucky, I will be able to swell up enough to break out of here, but I will not have wings. If I am VERY unlucky, I will be stuck in this thing for a long time. I'm thinking I'll be regular lucky this time.

That's what I've been doing. Now you know. ISN'T IT GREAT!!!? THE CATERPILLAR??

Maybe I'm more like a pollywog?

TAKING MELODRAMA TO ELEVEN PART TWO : i. am. AWESOME!

(Dude, I feel this way ALL THE TIME) :

The door rolls up slowly, but steadily. It is obvious the door is heavy.

The door rolls up to reveal the huge shop within, illuminated in bright light torn out of the fabric of the dark night surrounding it.

The camera moves in on the man, in through the door slowly and closes in on him as he works animatedly on some machine in the middle of this building: Tall, handsome, muscular, seething intelligence, he appears much younger than his XX years.

Camera closes in tight on his face, cheeks stubbled with coarse black hair, sweat beading on face, vein athrob on forehead, there is something dangerous in the set of his jaw as he performs some action, hands obscured in the bowels of some contraption.

There is no doubt: THIS is the principal character of this story. This is NOT the guest star, or an 'Also Starring' , or an 'Introducing' , or even a 'With' - THIS is the reason you are here, why you paid for the ticket in the first place. You can not take your eyes off of the screen, and you would trade ANYTHING to be him there, right now, in giant single-point relief.

Music begins to throb from the speakers, faint at first, unnoticed or mistaken for something else, then recognized as the score, then FELT like a sudden drop or rise on a roller-coaster, or a naked slap across the face. This music is AWESOME: evil, pounding, rhythmic, hypnotic, but there is something familiar about it as well, you know the words already, this song is old and redone and addictive and it brings your heart rate up a few points, you find your hand clutching the armrest of your seat like a vengeful parent would grab the throat of their child's killer.

The man on the screen is successful now! The wrong has been righted, he stands full upright at last, arching his sore back behind him to the left, to the right, accompanied by the noise of muted poppings as vertebrae and ligaments are once again properly aligned and home.


The man has a ridiculous bandana turned backwards on his head, upright, Aunt-Jemima-Style and with oversized bows like great bunny ears atop his crown. and he pulls this off in a triumphant gesture, and with it wipes of his hands and face, then installs it back on top of his head.

The music has begun to drop down now, and fade, and then silence entirely.

He leans back on the machine with his ass, and thinks about her for a moment, where she may be, what her hair may look like now, and then he spits on the floor. A beat passes. Another.

Suddenly, he turns around and fits the key into the ignition switch. He pauses just half a beat and closes his eyes before twisting the key to the right, and the empty canvas of sound is once again and immediately filled with the healthy regular idle of a very serious and threatening machine.

An exercise from long ago : TAKING MELODRAMA TO ELEVEN: Part One

(This is a guilty, self-indulgent pleasure. You think it. I broadcast it. )

Part One : WHAT I WOULD LIKE TO DO SOMETIMES, IF THERE WERE NO CONSEQUENCES TO CONSIDER, TO SHOW EVERYONE THAT I AM NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH (When wronged, or I FEEL like I was wronged) :

I fantasize about ending my own life. I want them to KNOW how serious I was, and how WRONG they were. I want to die and dry up and turn to dust and blow away and fly into their eyes to sting and scratch them, I would find satisfaction finally, that I would know it was *I* causing them discomfort, while they had no idea.

I would like to end my own life by ceasing to eat entirely, just stop. I would become first smaller, and then thin, and then a few friends would notice and ask me if everything was okay, and then maybe become concerned or scared, and they may call my mother, who may visit me and begin to cry, and I would have to promise to start eating again soon, I would promise her, but I would be lying.

Around the time I began to feel faint whenever I stood up, I would go away on a trip to where nobody knew me, I would pay for this trip with the money earned from selling all of my most important and treasured belongings, all of my things, in the month or two prior to buying a one-way ticket to the seaside.

I may experience a tickle of doubt once there/here. I may see the beauty of the crashing waves upon the rocks along the shore, or the endless promise and possibility of the distant horizon, maybe there is a girl working at the post office where I send my postcards - to be routed through another destination before their stamps are canceled, their recipients never really aware of where they came from - This girl; young, beautiful, kind, understanding me more than she should, almost convinces me (effortlessly, without being aware that she does) to stay here in this world, not to give up. BUT, there is some final insult cast, an event, or, tragic misunderstanding that re-enforces my original desire to exit this smorgasboard of disappointment.

The local people do not know me. None but the girl care that I look sick and weak.

I will give what is left of my money to a needy and deserving acquaintance back home.

Once I notice I have trouble breathing and begin to lose my perfect eyesight - everyday foggy and blurred now - I buy a small boat. I buy a small boat that I find tied to a local pier, with a FOR SALE sign affixed to it with a phone number and email address, I buy this small boat without ever having to meet this previous owner of the small boat. I buy this small boat with an outboard engine, and I buy two five-gallon gas cans which I have filled with gasoline, and I must ask for help to load these into my boat, as I have become too weak to carry them by myself by this time.

FINALLY, in late afternoon on an Autumn day in this coastal town, I manage to pull hard enough on the rope to start the engine of my tiny boat. I manage to finally start the engine of my tiny boat, and as all the other boats - the fishing boats and the sailboats, and the much bigger boats head into this little harbor - I will pass them on my way out, my tiny boat jostled in the wake of these other boats, rudely lifted and then dropped, again and again, as I aim my tiny boat with the little bit of consciousness I have left, towards the distant horizon.

I will lift the bottle to my mouth once the sounds and sight of the shore are safely behind me. This will be the first time I have had a drink in months, and the liquid will burn my throat, now unaccustomed to substance of any serious intention. I understand this will be the last thing I ever drink. This thought reassures me.

My little boat steams on, now calmly across the flat brown water towards the spot where the sun will fall and extinguish itself in just a couple more hours. I will twist the throttle of my tiny boat's engine a little bit more to accelerate, racing the sun to that understood definite point straight ahead of us.

New Mexico Unimog 2005

February 13th, 2005 Sunday night, about 6:50 PM Mountain Time Phoenix, AZ David and Cassandra's House

So, this trip, the UNIMOG, a disaster. Two and a half days of grinding, howling, engine noise. Freezing. Floods.

Wait. Too soon. I'll back up.

I arrive in Albequerque just fine. Like, the plane didn't explode. Which I appreciate. As a bonus to surviving my flight, a woman who I was admiring from afar in the Denver airport, who I was *admiring*, approches me at the baggage claim and calls me adorable. and tells me whenever I'm in LA to give her a call She then gives me her card. A great beginning of a trip, I think. A rather auspicious sign, I reckon.

About two minutes later, the fantasy begins to slip away, like my willpower in the cereal aisle at Safeway. With a handshake, I meet the German outside with the goatee and smart tan. he is a semi-car-salesman-type. We drive back to his building, exchanging the standard dialogue, and scripted pleasantries employed in this particular man-act of long distance vehicle trading.

Long story short, my UNIMOG is not exactly as described, but I'm a very good sport about it. Always with the cool head and reasonable beyond reproach. Plus, my plane ticket was one way only, and I'm now 1800 miles from home. The adventure was now officially underway.

If I have learned anything from my travels, one should never stifle or otherwise abbreviate an adventure, much like a sneeze or other automatic bodily function.

And so, with only a tiny bit of trepidation, I was off and heading west again. nearly immediately, (on the freeway, on level ground) I break down. At least I was only running out of gas (gauge non-functioning). I switch tanks and I'm rolling once again. Full throttle, at maximum speed... 49 miles an hour. I feel good, excited. Thinking again about the woman at the airport, I smile. I begin to feel confident. So confident, even, I turn off of the big freeway, and onto (on my map, at least) what appears to be an only slightly less significant freeway. A shortcut to my destination for the evening, Phoenix. No sooner do I negotiate the off ramp to the smaller road when I in my vehicle, encounter a slight uphill grade and am forced to shift into a lower gear. Yielding about 30 miles per hour wound out full throttle, pedal to the floor. the noise in the cab is deafening. The engine threatens to come apart, fastener by fastener. Despite my slow speed, the canvas top flaps violently, just inches behind my skull.

About four hours later, I have travelled a hundred and ten miles from my start point. Barely over 25 miles per hour. Ouch. Not as planned. My ears are ringing, and fingers beginning to get numb from the cold Rocky Mountain air that has been passing freely through the unsealed cab. But, I tell myself, I can get a fresh start in the morning and grind all day, (or maybe just a few hours? There should be a downhill soon) and make it into Phoenix.

So when I freeze my ass off in the back of the truck, and I could go into more detail about broken battery terminals, disconnected heaters, uncomfortable "beds", but suffice it to say, it was not an entirely enjoyable evening.

Sailboat Story Continued

May 18th, 2004
Day ---4?
Fayetteville, Arkansas
Almost Noontime, Central TZ

So here I am, on a front porch swing, just sitting, on my way to the boat.

Drove about 950 miles yesterday to arrive here around 12:30 AM or so, to be greeted to a little "party" type situation --

I like the uncomfortable awkward experiences. So here you go!

Within an hour I am doing lines of coke off Anna's bed with her brother, some other guy, and two semi-dimwitted coeds.

No one would be quiet or give a man his rest of course, but finally, 4 AM or such a pad was placed at the side of the bed, and after a small debate between Jone's siblings as to whether Xanax or some other drug I havent heard of may be more effective, and appropriate to my beginner status of medicance, tiny pills were supplied and a short time later I slept.

One visit to the restroom at night to drain (trying as hard as I could to be quiet, including bouncing my spray off the back of the bowl as to not splash(like at Willow's a few weeks before)), and up at an early 10 AM (well that's 8 AM Pacific!) Anna went out to look at a house or something so I sponged off, walked to find an espresso shed, bought my coffee, and returned.

Pacing a few moments later I began doing dishes, and unclogged the tub (producing with my thrusts, a plae, blue, nitrile glove, just one, that surfaced through a miasma of brown rusty water and tiny scraps of a plastic bag.) Cool. At least I fixed something today.

Did some curls, now catching up with some "writing" I like to. I would like to write more often. I always feel so pressed for time. No time. Will this all change soon??

So today my head is still cloudy, or foggy, or whatever. Well hang out here today, and push off for New Orleans tomorrow morning. I should be off my boat by Saturday or Sunday at the latest.

GOOD NEWS!

I've gone almost four days with nothing to eat but beef jerky and Altoid sours. Can this be the new diet craze? I don't even feel hungry, and the pounds seem to just be melting away. Also, other than a beer last night, no drinking either. I hope the whites of my eyes become white again soon. See we shall. Ok, off to go look at Pinzgauers and shoot turtles.



May 21? 04 Saturday afternoon, 5:20 PM Eastern

I'm on my boat. This is probably the biggest vehicle I will ever own. 55 feet. I hear the sloshing whisper of the water against "her" sides.

Oh, the boat -

So, after the dude I bought the boat from didn' show or call me back for about an hour this morning, I was convinced I was an Ebay victim to the tune of $7900 (plus expenses so far) but he called, and I unloaded my gun. Not long after, I boarded the boat.

I got depressed.

This is probably too much work for me. Rotton these. Seized those. Fucking church boat. Dingy looks like shit too. $1100 for THAT? Fuck YOU! But. No matter what, I bought a sail boat sight unseen, and drove cross country 4200 miles to board the fucker. Yep. So I was very upset and depressed for about 5 hours, now I am beginning to like it.

Fuck these people, I like the boat, though. Too bad it can't move. I've bonked my head several times already, pumped a monster shit out of the "head". Where does it go? Will stroke, next on the list, - and will try to stay here all day tomorrow. I'm having my first drink in several days and will follow that up with some "nighty-nights".

Next day, on the boat. Almost 5 PM EST

Suffice it to say, I hate boats. At least I found out I had a total complete meltdown today. I would have left if my money and computer and other shit weren't on my boat.

I had to row the dingy to shore. (The guy I bought it from kept the engine as a result of one of my most near-sighted bargaining episodes (the boat was only a mile from shore and I felt I could use the exercise of rowing)).

Then drove my crippled Range Rover around looking for the internet cafe. I finally found one. The sign said "Open At Noon". I waited until 1 PM. Not open. During this monstrous display of submission, I also finally decided to eat. I went to three restaurants, and was not served in as prompt or timely a manner as I feel entitled to (No, really). So I showed them, and just up and left, Zak-style.

Shitty service down here, remember to tell everyone. Entirely annoyed, finally, I just wanted to row back (Oh, I lost an ore somehow in the dingy earlier, so I bought two more and oar locks)to the big boat, get drunk, and eat some stuff (Just discovered Cuban sandwiches, and had wine, cheese, turkey, and apples. The flood gates had opened.) I put the new oars in, (I also had two bags of rapidly melting ice). Started trying to row, and the oar locks kept popping out of their holes. Not my fault (really). Boat is fucked.) Managed to row about 60 feet from dock, lost an oar lock, and had to paddle back in with only one oar like some raging, off-kilter, Jewish, Pocahantas. By the time I returned to the dock, my Cuban sandwich was drifting sadly about in the bottom of my boat, bumping against apples, bottles of liquor, the final remnants of ice, before sinking, defeated, to the bottom of the boat.

Then, I, determinely ram my dingy into the dock and begin to tie up I have yet, another, old lady, walk up and remind me to come to the hot dog feed at 2:00. I now realize, I can't row out to my boat, I'm stuck. Range Rover is broken, its HOT, I want to drive home, but all my money and stuff is on the big boat, (which at that very moment, decided to resell on Ebay). It is at this time I recieved a call from Kalee. She called me from Eugene. 4,000 miles away, to let me know she has a flat tire and ask me what she should do.

FUCK.

I lost it. I'm screaming how I hate it here, I hate boats, Fuck all these people. Fuck a hot dog. All this in the parking lot with the locals about. I start punching my car, I throw what's left of my bags of ice across the parking lot, screaming, a single word over and over again. Fuck. I am not a boat person. At least I found out, right? Let's say you;re on your boat and you want some batteries, or an apple, or a plastic bag? A huge ordeal to get to shore. And hopefully, when you return to shore, your car works, and has a suspension, and stuff, an, fuck. I still have a 4,002 mile drive home. I'll take my time on the way back though, see some shit, go to a swamp?

Avoid Arkansas.

Final thought. Next stop, sell boat, buy 911 or?? Go to Mexico for a while. Live in LA. Ride my bike 1000 miles somewhere, or walk it? Thanks.

Mexicans Hate Fords (A Dream)

I just woke up, laughing really hard AT MY DREAM. You may not think it was funny, but then you weren't there, were you?

The beginning, I woke up, my throat full of snot, I cleared my throat and spat a huge ball of phlegm out, which audibly 'splat', loudly on a floor nearby I was surprised to find was made out of marble.

It was at this moment I realized I was not alone. In another bed, nearby, behind me? Maybe in a connected room? There were several girls sleeping. Or, I hoped they were sleeping and did not hear the noise I just produced. One of them was Talia. I do not know how or why. Fear crept up my spine as I realized she was in fact awake and heard me hack up a huge loogie and spit it out on the floor.

With shame and fear I ran to the bathroom to find something to wipe up my mess with. More shame as I understand I was only in my underwear and I was in this huge hotel suite was filled with people already awake. FANCY PEOPLE.

I closed the door to the bathroom to look for kleenex, or a towel or something, and was arrested at the sight of my face in the mirror. It was horribly, impossibly swollen, with blood leaking from nostrils, Chinese eyes almost entirely puffed shut.

I tried to clean the blood off (why?) with a towel when someone began to knock on the bathroom door and ask what was wrong. I then remembered the snot/spit ball on the floor outside. I wadded up a huge ball of toilet paper and hoped I could sneak out there and wipe it up before anyone noticed.

I opened the door to find several people already working frantically, one on the floor, two on the bed which (at first I thought was only a 'little' bloody, BUT) was drenched in blood, and saliva, and to my horror, VOMIT which confirmed ME as being the type of person to eat a quart or two of strawberry or raspberry yogurt in bed before he goes to sleep.

Someone now looks up and sees me and shrieks "ARE YOU OKAY??!"

I now find I am actually NAKED, but draped in a robe that is shamelessly flapping open. I pull the robe around myself, can not find the draw-tie and answer "Yes, I'm fine. Sorry about the bed, I don't know what happened. Here, let me help..." Avoiding mention of spitting on the floor, and completely prepared to deny it if asked or accused.

I look around for Talia, I do not know how I know it is her, or why she is here, but I am beginning to calculate that this is a gathering for a wedding, and we are in a HUGE fancy hotel in the countryside in Vermont. I really hoped she was unaware that I spit all over the floor of my room. And bled all over my bed.

I cautiously, smoothly, ask where Talia might be. I am told she left for brunch already with the girls. There is much, much more blood (and raspberry filling, and yogurt) in the bed than originally thought, so more towels and a mop are called in, as well as several more hotel staff, who seem to be taking notes. I sort of want these people out now so I can get dressed. I keep looking down to discover my robe is wide open.

I walk into the huge adjacent room to find it is full of fancy-looking people, and two of the walls are made entirely of glass windows. I then notice we are very high up.

"How high up are we?" I ask someone nearby, wondering if they notice my puffy face. "The hundred and fourth floor" they answer. I feel queasey. I am afraid of heights. At this very moment the wind begins to blow very hard, the building begins swaying, I feel panic, and someone in the room shouts "It is designed to do this! Isn't this great??!" - People begin screaming soon though and crowd into the elevator as the building threatens to topple over, the last thing I saw before the doors shut was the world outside, a crazy vertiginous picture through those huge windows.

We are soon rapidly descending, and everyone is calm now, and I am pleased to learn we are going to see if they are still serving brunch, which I find interesting because Talia may be there and I can talk to her. It is only with conscious effort that I remember to hold my robe closed, casually, with my hands.

The door to the elevator opens into a huge, fancy hotel lobby that looks like a tasteful casino. People are everywhere playing slot machines, roulette, some electronic music is playing somewhere (while I am sleeping during this, I had Sigur Ros playing in the background). 'My' herd of people immediately diffuses in every direction, and I find myself with no one I know nearby, naked under a malfunctioning robe, in the middle of a casino in Vermont.

I pick a vector and there set forth, thinking to find the brunch spot by myself. It is impossible. I am feeling hopelessly lost, but go outside, down some stairs, towards a pavilion that I now understand is where the wedding, or brunch, will play out.

I am somehow back inside the casino/hotel now, and am staring at a light-skinned negro I somehow recognize from SOMEWHERE... YES! - Alison's father's birthday party - two years ago. I remember he was Dr. Lord's (Alison's father) good friend, and we had a gay old time talking but I can NOT remember his name now and am therefore embarrassed to strike up a conversation.

I stay close to him though, his is a friendly face amongst the strangers, but avoid actual eye contact. I am excited for Talia to see that I already know someone here, I am certain this will boost her opinion of me.

I begin to become aware that this negro is acting like a servant, or I should say, an employee of the hotel. He used to be old, rich, and act entitled. He seems to be waiting on people now in formal attire. As he passes me, he says under his breath "Zak, my man! How you doing?" - "You remembered my name?" I respond. "Wow! I'm surprised". "You kidding?" He says "It's only been what? - A year? Two? I ain't that old, man!" - I completely avoid any opportunity to have to call him by name as we banter for a moment covertly while he occasionally refills someone's coffee cup from the decanter he carries.

I finally say, "I am embarrassed to admit this, but I think I forgot your name... Joe? - Joe, right? Or was it David?..."

"You had it right that first time, bother". He almost whispers to me, over his shoulder. He has to go seat some people somewhere, but he beckons me to follow him. I do. I try to, but he is moving very quickly, skillfully navigating through this crowd of people and tables, glancing behind himself at me once or twice, his eyes and crooked finger encouraging me to hurry up, but I keep bumping into people and apologizing, and trying to keep my robe closed, and knocking things over.

I just see him turn and go down some stairs, which I discover are bleachers or stadium seating, to guide his people down and out of my sight. I follow, find out I have to jump over people, their drinks, folded coats, and I am now following other people over a tiny fence, down a hill, under a stage where I was surprised to see Depeche Mode playing. They look pretty old and their hair is dyed bright colors, but there they were! We are sort of outside now, but under a dome or something. In typical Las Vegas fashion, very few people are actually watching the band, but instead eating, gambling, talking. As security guards move towards me, I realize I just snuck in, not meaning to, behind some rowdy kids. The casino guy grabs my arm, and without saying anything, guides me back up the hill.

"I'm with the service guy" I explain. "Joe. He told me to follow him. I wasn't sneaking in. See? I have money" I say, realizing I am wearing only a robe, with no pockets, no wallet. Unfazed and unamused, this man releases me at the spot by the fence, and I climb back up the bleachers, back into the casino/hotel lobby.

At some point here, Joe finds me again, and we sit down, reminisce, and he reveals to me that Alison is angry with him. "The old man" (Dr. Lord) left Joe "everything" (which I realize is alright - Joe really admired/ loved "the old man") He tells me how he took over the old prining press, had to dump all of his money into it to keep it going, blah blah blah, and it is sort of like a scene from Goodfellas, two guys in a booth by a window, drinking coffee and talking about the good old days. I now realize Joe is not black at all, but a very old, old-school NYC Jew with a thick accent and fading blue eyes.

I realize this gathering is NOT a wedding, but actually a wake for Dr. Lord, who just passed away. 'Alison will not be attending' Joe confides in me.

I tell Joe I have to go find my people. I thank him, and collect my Robe, and head back in the direction of the elevator, trying not to bump into people or knock anything over along the way.

"Zak! Zak! Zak!" I hear materialize out of the crowd behind me. Another concierge, or servant, or whatever is scanning the crowd he weaves through, his head on a swivel like a radar dish on top of a navy boat. "Here!" I yell "That's me!" - He becomes uninterested/ bored, and plows forward after only the slightest attempt at requesting I follow him. I try to follow. Almost immediately I hear "Zak! Zak! Zak!" again behind me and turn to see my mother and father catching up to me. They are dressed in their best get-ups, and I now realize we are all here for Brealan's wedding, and not a wake after all. My parents are both slightly amused and not surprised at all to find my in my current condition, thinking I planned on attending my cousin's wedding in a robe, my face spotted with blood. More of my family gathers, and we begin to move towards the lobby again.

I am now feeling bolder, no longer alone, not as shy with my family near me, and I begin to act out in typical fashion, making fun of people's hats, knocking things over, laughing loudly. Adequately encouraged, my other cousin, Brea, starts to knock things over too, but goes too far and knocks over a huge statue of glass things and plants, steel and candles. My family, no longer amused, frantically begins to right stands, arrange plants, and I too am helping, putting this here and that there, and as I finally find myself squatting to arrange something low on a shelf, I notice laughing behind me. I notice, again, my robe wide open while I am squatting, and Brea is mimicking or mocking behind me, my family all laughing, creating a scene, and I stand up to close my robe. Now I am beginning to become annoyed, and I notice that Brea is actually setting fire to the bottom of my robe with one of the candles, my family delighted, clapping, crying with laughter.

"Ha ha ha" I mock, closing the smoldering robe around myself "Real funny, until she burns the hotel down." At this very utterance, my smoldering robe bursts into full, licking flames around me.

I screech, flapping my arms at the flames, but unwilling to actually take the robe off and expose myself. I fall to the floor, slap at the bottom of my robe, slap out of flames with a napkin from a nearby table. I now notice Brea setting fire to a nearby tablecloth, still thinking this is funny. I begin to shout. My robe is still burning a little bit as the tablecloth goes up in a burst of bright yellow and orange. "Stop it!" I yell at Brea, who does not look sorry or worried. The bouquet on the table is burning then falls on the floor, setting another tablecloth on fire. Everyone suddenly realizes this is no longer funny, and there is a very real threat of burning the hotel down. People are running, yelling, but I somehow calm myself and deal with this menace, I pour a pitcher of water onto another tablecloth and use this to swat at the fire. I yell for someone to pull the fire alarm and then yell "Wait!" As I think I may have it under control and do not want to interrupt the Depeche Mode concert nearby. Just as I think the fire is dead, it pops to life from another smoldering area. It has crept up a wall, into a bookshelf. The books there are clearly a loss. As I am about to give up and yell again for someone to pull the fire alarm, I see a garden hose connected to some water fountain - thing, quickly disconnect, and start spraying. It should be noted here there I was the only person to contain the fire. I begin to imagine that it is *I* who will be celebrated here, (forget that it was me who sort of started it) Depeche Mode allowed to play and play, I will be a hero! Would I be on the news? I wondered. Would Talia see me?

Just as the threat is completely neutralized, a waiter, or Bell Boy, or someone clearly an underling rushes up to grab the hose out of my hand, threatening to steal my moment of glory.

"I GOT THIS!!!" I scream at him, again and again, keeping the hose out of his reach.

"There's a lot of water damage here" he slyly threatens me. The way he says this to me makes me think that maybe, maybe I should disappear. I turn around, mumbling something about needing to change into fresh clothes, and disappear into the crowd, away from the soggy burnt mess. Away from the barbarian members of my family.

There is now a Mexican, complete in a Zootsuit speaking to me in a cliche Mexican voice, like Cheech Marin, "Hey man, Jason says you need to come with me now."

"Are you Ruben?" I ask, the only person who I can think of that my best friend Jason knows who could match this character's outrageous dimensions. If this individual was in any way affiliated with Jason, he must be funny too, I think. Jason is never serious. "What are you supposed to be?" I ask, nodding to his suit. "Come on, man!" He guides me by my elbow away from the crowd and up to a beat up, white convertible monstrosity of American manufacture. I notice with amused contempt it is a General Motors product of some form. (Mexicans HATE Fords, and can not afford MOPAR products like Dodge, Plymouth, Chrysler; Medical Fact). This was maybe a Chevelle? Pontiac? Early 1970s vintage. This blue-suited man does not look at all amused as he fishtails out onto the main road, which is narrow and now covered in snow.

The Mexican's ridiculous hat remarkably remains on his head as we thunder down the street. "Nice hat" I say, still convinced this is some sort of joke if Jason is involved. The Mexican says nothing, but looks worried, annoyed, angry. "What are we doing?" I ask, and after a moment and no response at all, "You're Reuben, right?" - Nothing - "Where are we going? I have a lady to talk to back there. When do you think we'll be back?"

"You'll see" he answers enigmatically, then takes it up a notch with two more words: "Bad selection", which was spat through his gritted teeth. ? What the fuck does this mean, I wondered. Without saying another word, he now accelerates more and more, the car tires sloshing, hydroplaning through the moist snow. I want to be cool, don't want to be considered a nag, but a sharp corner is rapidly approaching and we are doing about 90 miles an hour now according to the speedometer, which I had to sneak a look at.

"Ummm, What's the hurry?" I begin to panic, yet again. I grab the dashboard in my hands and brace for disaster as we slide around the corner in the wrong lane. I begin to sense that this may not be a joke at all after all? He says nothing. He begins to drive faster.

Finally getting upset I muster the nerve to bark "Hey! Slow the fuck down, man!" - He tells me to shut up - Fuming now, I wait a moment before yelling again at him (Banking on the fact that this is still possibly a joke) "Fucking! Slow! Down! I don't want to die out here in the fucking snow with some fucking Mexican dressed in a ridiculous blue suit, in a fucking G.M fucking car!"

At this he now stares at me with naked hatred, the car still hurtling forward, now towards the back of a much slower moving Cadillac (Note: also a GM product). He glares at me for two full beats before slamming on the brakes with both feet and skidding to a full stop just inches from the rear bumper of the Cadillac.

"I'm. No. Fucking. Mexican. PINCHE! You got that? I'm Spanish. You right about one thing though. You gonna die in a fucking G.M, you call me a Mexican again!" He seems not to notice the huge (Chevrolet, 4x4, manufactured by G.M.) truck skidding towards us from the rear, threatening to smash us between it and the now-not-moving Cadillac. As if to make his threat concrete, real, he now draws a huge blade out from somewhere on his person and thrusts it in my face. "Plus, you think I want to fuckink die with some stoopeed-lookink grinko dressed in some burn-up fuckink cape?" (as if to mock me, his Mexican accent more irrefutable than ever) As if to prove his reluctace to die then, there, with me, he smashed the accelerator pedal to the floor at the last possible moment before being sandwiched in G.M. Hell, and skillfully peels out, fishtailing around the Cadillac with one hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing his steel blade into the side of my cheek.

I wait a moment heart pounding, give him time to calm down, then cautiously offer: "I don't think you are supposed to drive a car and handle knives at the same time. Like running with scissors? You know? It's not safe?" The man surprised me by smiling, suddenly happy to oblige. "Well let me just put this away then" he says, speeding, and then slowly pushes the knife into my side.

I can not tell if the knife is going into my body, or only between my robe and the skin of my left shoulder, but I feel no actual pain despite feeling intense fear and doom settle in my core.

"Hold REAL still" he tells me. I do.

He removes the knife, then slides it up my robe, suggestively against my thigh, and again I can not tell if he is actually stabbing me or not, holding my breath I wait to see if blood begins to pool or spurt. I finally conclude I was only scratched.

My Latin captor now turns right, bumping down a driveway, still holding the knife between my legs. I try not to jostle too much.

"Jew gonna bee coo?" he asks me. "I got friends in heeyere, jew better not ack stoopeed."

I slowly calculate what was said. I nod, relieved as he finally puts the knife away. I have no intention of provoking anyone here in this giant hideout. I really want to get back to the scene of the fire and my awful family.

I follow him inside, and the house is huge, nice, open. Many people are inside, and the Mexican/Spaniard is well received here. He speaks in a language I do not understand, and try not to understand, as he speaks in machine-gun staccato bursts his friends laugh, regarding me with looks of amusement. We all sit down now at a low table. Many people are around us now, and he is suddenly holding the knife against my leg again, obscured by the table top, I assume to keep me from acting stupid. I sense plans are being made in this bizzarre language. It becomes more tense. I have no control over anything and feel I am being dealt into some nasty game that will have no happy ending for me at all. I fill with dread. I am among evil starangers.

A vehicle audibly pulls up outside, crunching gravel and a low rumbling idle announce it's arrival. The ranks now all stand, organize themselves. My captor jumps up, puts the knife away in his suit somewhere and asks me over his shoulder as he goes down a staircase to open the front door to whatever awful fate is waiting on the other side - "Jew ready?"

"Uhh, what's happening?" I respond.

"Be cool!" he warns, again. He does a double take at me, and then adds, surprised, amused, smiling: "Hey man, look! Jew got a gun now all of a sudden!" He laughs.

I look down to find in a special holster built into my robe a black gun I recognize as my own, heavy, waiting there for me.

With this discovery, I am filled with immense joy and sweet anticipation for whatever is going to happen next. I palm the pistol, pull back the slide and let it snap back with an enormous, loud 'CLICK', drawing a hollow-tipped .45 caliber round into the chamber.

Grinning maniacally, I nod to the Mexican, but say nothing.

"Be cool, man!" he advises one more time and now HE looks a little worried. "Be careful with that. These guys here in the house are my crew"

"Got it, I know" I assure him with bobbing head as I hide myself from the door he is about to open, me at the top of an exposed spiral staircase, my back to a wall.

The door is opened. I hear chatter. Commiseration? A minute passes. What is going on? I wonder.

Finally the Mexican yells out to explain to us all "It's just the UPS guy" - and he steps back from the door allowing to pass three serious, solid, square men dressed in the brown standard - issue UPS uniforms, carrying long cardboard boxes and tubes, and wearing dark sunglasses. Everyone in the room relaxes a bit, some men coming out from behind their cover. I begin to descend the stairs to ask the Mexican what was about to happen, then notice all the UPS guys have shoulder holsters containing semi automatic pistols. I realize they look like a swat team. As I pass them on the stairs, me on my way down, them on the way up, I lock eyes with their trailing member, the only one not wearing reflective lensed sunglasses.

His eyes are threatening, angry. I see contempt. I return the look. Something here is not right.

I stop on the landing, halfway down the stairs, as the group of UPS guys arrive at the top of the stairs. I turn around to look at them. As I do, the guy who stared at me begins to reach for his gun.

"It's a trap!" I yell - I am barely aware of the Mexican, now my friend (maybe he is Jason?) Shouting for me to be cool as I raise my gun at the UPS guy and squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession.

I am now having the time of my life, I am so happy as I can see the two bullets leave the barrel of the gun, lazily exiting the belch of flame, silvery and spinning, and after they float through the air for what feels like minutes, one punches neatly through the UPS guy's chest, dead-center, the other through his forehead and he does an equally slow back-flip, ruined, over the banister to crash on the floor below.

I am again the hero, I realize, for the second time this day! I am brimming with joy and pride as I squeeze two more off at one of the Mexican's friends for fun. I blast one round at a vase perched on top of a grandfather clock, for fun I dispatch one more of the UPS guys with three swimming bullets. I artfully shoot a framed portrait on a tabletop through both of it's subject's eye sockets rending it a crazed, smiling zombie. I am very much aware of the dashing and skilled figure I am now displaying - Robe flowing in slow motion back and forth as I spin this way and that, dispatching my bullets now with no discrimination whatsoever as to their target. This is fun!

"Hey man - That was my cousin!" I hear the Mexican complain somewhere behind me. To show my prior captor how little I care, I now fire my gun at another of his friends, knocking him flying backwards, arms uselessly pinwheeling, through a plate glass window.

"Ah, MAN!... You're good!" I hear with satisfaction as the Mexican's protests turn to compliments.

I am now having the best time I have ever had in my entire life, and it is really, really funny to me now, I shoot without aiming from the hip, I shoot from between my legs after I jump, I am dispating enemies left and right, even shooting using only the reflection in small compact mirror I pull from somewhere as a guide, it is all very funny now, the Mexican even is doubled over laughing.

At first I am trying to keep a straight face, then actually begin to ham it up. Ironically looking serious I fire, raising one eyebrow I fire, gritting teeth as I blow holes through everyone and everything in the room, all too aware of the laughter track now playing in the background. I am the star of some insane, violent sit-com, entirely out of control.

Finally, the last UPS guy is charging toward me, his pistol drawn in one hand, firing at me, in his other hand the long awkward package he had been carrying this whole time, hell-bent on delivering it, I understand now this is his duty, and this is his final, desperate act.

I easily sidestep the bullets whizzing towards me, then I calmly take one knee as I announce to nobody in particular "I'll take that!" and fire my gun three times at the angry delivery man.

He is knocked straight back into the space he just arrived from, but the box continues on its same trajectory, unimpressed and flung high towards the vaulted ceiling, spinning. Not one to be trifled with now, I jump from my crouch and up into the air to meet this defiant package, and I seize it effortlessly in one hand, my gun still held in the other, and on my controlled descent back down to the floor, I finally break character and begin to laugh at the ridiculousness I had just witnessed before me.

I hit the floor on both feet, robe up over my head, then it floats back down over my back, and I am laughing so hard I colllapse on the floor.

I hear the Mexican whining that I killed all of his friends and broke his vase, which makes me laugh even harder, and I level my captured box at him. Sighting down this long package I want to mimick aiming a rifle at his horrified and complaining face, but can not do it because I am laughing too hard. I realize I am awake now and laughing into my pillow, full force, I swear to God.

Sailboat Story Part 2

Saturday, January 02, 2010

Florida, hurtling towards my boat. ...(continued, somewhat changed from the Sailboat Story, PT1) ... forced life into my wretched vehicle, and then flooring the accelerator pedal, got straight back on the freeway, and did not get off again for the next three hours, until I absolutely had to, as the low fuel warning light had been illuminated for the last forty miles. I will not tell you how I spent those three hours white-knuckled and glancing into the rearview mirror every 30 seconds to see if I was being followed, or how I tried, to no good effect, to make sense of what I had just witnessed there in that tiny parking lot beside the Gulf of Mexico, but how I did indeed sense I was close to a very real danger that I did not want to know anything about, nor will I tell you how I will be revisited by this mental picture with accompanying fear every so often, unexpectedly, for the rest of my life. I will not tell you any of this. I do not want to bore you with ‘the little stuff’ that would prevent us from getting to the part about the boat as quickly as possible. In all fairness to the physical nature of my tale however, the cornucopia of geographical surprises waiting in store for someone driving across-the-country, I should at least mention that Florida is a very large and unique state. If you would humor me for a moment, close your eyes and imagine Florida. Yes, there it is. You’re imagining the semi-turgid, average sized penis (relative term used here - Length x Width as opposed to 'Actual Size' , which would indeed not be 'average', clocking in at over one thousand nautical miles in length ) a well-aimed cock that threatens to rain urine in the general direction of Cuba right? Well, there is another part of Florida too. Up at the top, where the cock joins the groin of the Southeast Continental United States? Well, right there, Florida turns left and West, and is proud to claim another five hundred miles of swampy coastline in that direction as well. Read: It takes a very long time to drive the length of Florida, from the west then down down down through toll road, swamp, marsh, your vehicle passing alien roadkill, giant bugs you have never seen before decorating your windshield in explosions of guts that threaten to shatter the very glass with their huge bodies. All day you have to pilot your vehicle. All day, and all night it will take you to drive this distance, and that is only if you are able to resist the billboards tempting you to stop and explore amazing Disney World and Epcott Center, and only if you stay as far away from Miami as possible, and are not sucked in by a sudden curious urge to ‘see the skyline’ , or ‘stop for a quick bite’ , since, GEE, you did just drive 3500 miles, and when are you ever going to be in your own car again near Miami? Only if you possess carbon-and-fire tempered self control will you be able to withstand such wonderful pleasures, and only then be able to make it across Florida, the long way, in a day and a night, driving only slightly faster than the posted speed limit, and stopping for gasoline only when absolutely necessary. Florida deserves this endorsement! It’s big, and it’s humid, and it is flat. You have never seen such a big, hot, flat humid state. If you ever find yourself wanting to experience the most unpleasant, hot and boring drive of your entire life, If you just want to go ahead and get it over with NOW, so you don’t have to keep wondering when it is going to happen to you, just pencil in a few days and head South and East. You’ll know when you’re finally there, because you will be wishing you were dead. And so it was that, finally, just a quick nineteen hours after crossing the state line from Alabama, I found myself crossing one of those weird bridge-things you have perhaps seen pictures of before that connect ‘mainland’ Florida with it’s daisy-chain of tiny tropical-looking islands. Actually seeing the road sign that read ‘Key Largo’ was pretty exciting, I have to admit. Soon that very song would be playing non-stop in my head as well as a mental picture of Humphrey Bogart in a trenchcoat, I do not know why. Is that when he says : “Here’s lookin’ at you kid”? I don’t know. I DO know that I could not banish either of these things from my mind, once they inserted themselves there. THAT’S what you get for driving straight across Florida, I guess. You lose your mind. The good news was that once across Key Largo, I didn’t have long to go now! And the road so tiny, it gave the effect of traveling faster, when in fact you can not. It should be noted that the freeway sort of peters out, and gradually shrinks after leaving the vicinity of Hell, AKA Miami. The lamp posts beside the road disappear suddenly and you are left in the dark wondering what happened. Remember: it is now the middle of the night. Doubt begins to flirt with you as the pavement literally disappears right in front of your shiny black SUV with no springs: from fourteen lanes to ten, to six, and by the time you begin to get frightened again, thinking you maybe made a wrong turn - but you have no map because you are 'better-than-that' - and you find yourself totally alone in a swamp after the most unpleasant drive of your entire life, after the road has dwindled down to two sinister yet-attempting-to-be-jaunty lanes, the shoulders of which are decorated with cardboard and plastic gaily-colored profiles of alligators and flamingos hawking God-knows-what, then far off in the black, moist distance where you imagined existed only an eternity of nothingness , and which you had been speeding towards all day and night, you finally see a flashing yellow light.

Sailboat Story Part 1

Thursday, December 31, 2009

Marathon, Florida Did I ever tell you my Sailboat Story? Well, it was 2004 or 2005, I forget which. I was riding high on the crest of a tsunami of Ebay success, and I was lovin’ it! Those were the days, I tell you. Tax free income. I was exceptionally successful buying and selling Porsches and Porsche parts, as the venue was not yet over-saturated with others. I was in a unique position: I knew what I was doing, I had some money, and I did not have a wife, girlfriend, mother or family to tell me I could not part out cars in my driveway under a canopy of blue tarps. I don’t know if you people know it or not, but women HATE blue tarps in the front yard. I do not understand why. That is another mater altogether though, I know. So. I was flying high, one of the few members on Ebay ready and willing to purchase any ‘good deal’ of a car or part, and flip it for a handsome profit. This was working out very nicely for me too, I must add. I had accumulated a very handsome shoebox full of twenty, fifty and hundred dollar bills in my closet. It was like a ChangeJar some people have, but mine was a Box full of foldable. I would usually not know how much was in it, it would be a surprise to count it only every so often, and then rubber-band off $500 chunks at a time. I averaged about ten thousand bucks in that thing every month or two, I shit you not. As a result of my cache of cash, I could impulsively buy most material items I would want to buy. This was usually limited to the occasional non-op Porsche Product or stainless steel commercial restaurant gadget. Or, popcorn machine. Or, unusual cars I had never owned before. I love machines! I truly do. I understand them. I love to learn about new machines. I love to see them for the first time, scrub them, make them work properly, operate them, gaze adoringly upon them. I am very fond of machines, vehicles in particular. One day, quite by accident, I came upon an advertisement for a sailboat. The reason was the ad must have had a term I usually search for in the body of the ad, you know – ‘Porsche’ , ‘Citroen’, ‘Sweden’, ‘Russ Meyer’ , one of those things, I forget which now. The point is : A sailboat! It too could be considered a vehicle, if ‘only’ a vehicle of the sea. They have engines too, I was surprised to discover. They can also cross seas. I had heard that rumor before regarding sailboats. This rumor was supported by the ad copy I read that day. Unfortunately, this particular sailboat was seventy thousand dollars, which was more than I had in my shoebox at that, or any, time. But, the important development here was, I discovered there were ‘sailboats’ out there, and they had engines in addition to sails, and you could sleep in them. Some of them you can even poop in. I was hooked. A thing to know about me is, and those who ‘know me’ will attest to this : When I want something, I get it. I make it happen. Throwing caution to the wind, risk-taking, or slow and steady, I do it. I DO IT. Once I decided I wanted a sailboat, it was after a very brief online courtship I found that vessel I was to love, and love dearly. Although, for the life of me, I can not remember ‘her’ name right now. (In case you don’t know, boats have names, and those names tend to be ‘girl names’, or ‘effeminate names’). About four days into my researching of watercraft on eBay, I found my boat, to be sure! And what a bargain it was – 55 feet of ferro-cement engineering for only twelve thousand dollars! Never ye mind that the diesel engine was seized and it ‘needed some work’ and was four thousand miles away, it was to be mine. I examined the seven tiny low-resolution pictures of what was to be my first foray into watercraft. A hull (that is the word for ‘body’ of the boat) painted red! Three mighty masts! (The things that the sails are strung up from) The engine, albeit ‘seized’ , or ‘broken’ , or ‘fucked’, whatever adjective you choose to describe it, was the least of my concerns. I am a master of those things mechanical. I was bringing my toolbox, and was certain I could fix it. What is a 6-cylinder Caterpillar industrial diesel engine when compared to the technologically-superior engine of the evergreen Porsche 911? Child’s play, I was confident on this point more than any other. So, bid I did, and as usual, I was the victor in the battle of the bids. Oddly enough, there WERE no other bids. I found this a tiny bit concerning, but chalked it up to the seller marketing the thing with misspellings in his ad and lack of good pictures. I was shrewd enough to ask for additional photos, which although equally tiny and grainy, there were in fact more. I felt good about this. I soon owned a boat. Very Very soon after, in mid-April, I was on my way with a brand spanking-new white ‘captain’s hat’ aperch my globe and fantasies of getting an anchor tattoo on my left bicep, just to be ironic in the whole business. I was on my way! I loaded my duffle bag, shoebox somewhat depleted of cash (I had already sent a wire transfer for half the purchase price already) , My Heckler & Koch .45 caliber handgun, my laptop, seventeen protein bars (I was on a diet) into my 1995 black Range Rover, and butterflies in my stomach, yanked the transmission lever into ‘Drive’ and stabbed at the gas pedal with the newly-purchased flip-flop on my right foot. Fuck, YEAH. I don’t know how much you know about Geography, but Eugene, Oregon is a very very far distance from Key West. I thought it may be - what?- three thousand miles? Isn’t that what people say about ‘coast-to-coast’? Right? Three thousand miles? Well, I suppose it is. The thing is, that dangling phallus of Florida is about another nine hundred miles from ‘The East Coast’ - AND – If, let’s say, the computer-controlled air suspension on your Range Rover fails in, I don’t know, MISSISSIPPI, that is a very long way to drive with no buffer between road imperfection and your spine. I can still remember every single expansion joint in the freeway from Biloxi to Marathon. Hurtling along the freeway at eighty-five miles an hour, even the tiniest of imperfections in the surface of the road with actually cause your vehicle to leave the terra firma entirely, and return with a teeth-rattling landing. These imperfections are engineered every two hundred feet. That is 26 times in every 5200 foot mile. That is once every second and a half at eighty miles an hour. I can tell you, from a perspective of experience, it is not entirely pleasant, and you never get completely desensitized to it, like someone shooting at you with an assault rifle. I need to move this story along, I need to get you ‘on the boat’, I know this, so I will spare you the part of the story where I pull off of the freeway somewhere in Mississippi to investigate why my vehicle is suddenly shaking violently and collapsed to within three inches of the actual road itself. I will not tell you the part about how, immediately off of the freeway, the pavement ended and turned into sand, and even though on my map it showed the Gulf of Mexico RIGHT THERE, I could not find it. I will not tell you there was water, sure, but no ‘beach’, but only chain link fence and mammoth, stern and somehow unpleasant grey gigantic warships floating menacingly just beyond these fences of galvanized steel. This is superfluous to my original story. I will also not share with you the part where I, who considers himself very ‘urban’ and has lived in Los Angeles, and can take care of himself, and has seen it all, gets a bit nervous when he finally finds a convenience store where he thinks perhaps he can pull over and raise the hood of his vehicle and investigate what the problem is. I will not tell you how, when he finds what appears to be a convenience store, but all of the windows are made out of plywood, and there is a (literally) BURNING 1985 Honda Accord in the parking lot, he begins to worry a tiny bit. I will also, in the interest of moving this story along, not tell you how as soon as I got out of my Shiny Range Rover, a gaggle of Negroes dressed in football jerseys and with afropicks sticking out of their mushroom clouds of nappy locks began to march directly at me. I will also not tell you how I, for once, found myself actually, truly, frightened by the completely foreign Mandingo scene before me turned around, jumped back in my car, and quickly pressed the door lock button, and frantically began to try to stab the ignition key into it’s home, missing it maybe seven times, and then, in a panic, forced life into my wretched vehicle, and then flooring the accelerator pedal, got straight back on the freeway, and did not get off again until I absolutely had to, as the low fuel warning light had been illuminated for the last half hour. I will not tell you any of this. I do not want to bore you with ‘the little stuff’ Let’s just get to Florida, shall we? .. I wish it had been that easy in reality.

Another Reason To Live

So this is it, the end of the decade, the end of the experiment, the end of this madness. Two more days, I can not wait! Things are really starting to unravel here now. I hope I can last that long. To quit now, so close, would be a travesty of monumental proportions with a significance that would spawn aftershocks throughout humanity. I can hang on. I think. I took a look in the mirror today, and what I saw there was not pretty. Except for my ‘Hair Pretty’, that is. I have not shaved or showered since Christmas Eve. My eyes looked like sunken flat pieces of glass, the button eyes of a snowman that were pressed in too deep by insensitive thumbs. My hair was sticking up at some crazy angle on the side, but flat on the back of my head. There seemed to be a new scab just over my right eyebrow. I have been wearing the same thermal undershirt for a couple of days, and it was pocked with a variety of stains, coming in almost every color imaginable, and a good number of shapes as well. I had to look away quickly. I could get away from my reflection, but I can not get away from my aroma. I tell you this not to brag, or to attempt to amuse you, but I most surely am beginning to smell funny. And as the saying goes, ‘Not funny Ha Ha’. I would take a shower, but I feel I haven’t the strength or interest. My next meeting with my editor is not until tomorrow night, and I would prefer to just lay atop my filthy pile of blankets, pull my knees up to my chest, and rock back and forth moaning. So I shall. I would take a nap if I could, but my stomach is too upset to allow me to fall asleep. And then there is the issue with my knee, but that is another story for another time. I hope you people appreciate this, what I am doing for my art. My medium : The Human Life! I can make it, break it, bend it, fold it, I could even end it. I almost had, a good number of times during this particular project, but whenever I would get near the edge, I would only have to recall my mother’s face and voice, and I would remember why I’m here and what I’ve been doing all this time. I could almost hear her speaking to me : “Can I microwave you a waffle, Hon?” as she sweeps the cat litter off of the kitchen counter with the grey, sad dishrag. I could almost see her, the strong maternal figure clad entirely in plaids, hunched over a dark steaming kettle of broccoli and Brewer’s Yeast in the kitchen, bandana tightly wrapped over her precious skull like some antebellum black mammy gone somehow awry. It is to earn the pride of sweet dear mother that I continue to do this, and it is for this reason, if not for any other, that I shall see this through to whatever wretched ending is in store for me. For my story too is hers, and hers mine. Just as I have her high blood pressure and crooked arthritic fingers I also have her desire, need, to make the world a better place, if even only a tiny bit. Where she brings joy to the people at the homeless shelter with her boxes of fudge, I will bring happiness to the masses with my gift of literary mastery. It’s the same thing really, when you think about it. Fudge, fiction – fiction, fudge. It’s the philanthropic high we both get helping people. Where she is a sorceress of the saucepan, I am a wizard of the word written. I always felt like she should have written a book herself. Could she ever tell a tale! I used to wake up early on Saturday mornings to sit by her side while she plucked a chicken in the living room just to hear her tell her fascinating stories of life in the big city! Little Rock, Arkansas in the forties! What a crazy time it was, sure, but the way SHE told it, it was just like you were right there in the front of the bus with her, as she asked her ol’ grandma, her darling, innocent little face sending confused glances towards the rear of the vehicle, "Why are niggers so stupid"?! I know she could fill volumes with her recipes too. Her carrot and black bean tofu dip is to die for! I suppose that will be another project I’ll take on as soon as I can : cataloging all the exotic ingredients in that food before she is dead and drags the secrets with her into that grave. She would do it herself if she could, she is very proud. Unfortunately, she is entirely illiterate. I am happy to help, and this will be a very rewarding collaboration for the both of us. Plus, like I always tell her - "You can still go back to school and learn to read and write! Surely you can't be the oldest student getting her GED - You're only 82 years old, for Pete's sake!" She may just surprise us all and write her own book yet. So it was with the mental framed, glossy three by five of Mother proudly displayed on the fireplace mantle of my consciousness I began to wonder: Is the liquor store open for business yet? I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and just keep wearing my dirty clothes another day longer. What difference could it make at this point? I was not attending Fashion Week in Milan. Not for another month or two. I had nothing to lose, and nobody to impress, but I went ahead and put on my pants anyway, I could not afford another indecent exposure charge, even in the name of fine literature. As I began to insert a toe into the leg of my rancid jeans, I had a brilliant idea: My Snuggie Sack! That’s the ticket. Then I will not have to bother with those troublesome buttons, or a shirt at all, for that matter. I kicked my pants away in disgust and found my onesy right where I left it, under the program to the opera I had attended a few weeks earlier with Jennifer Connelly. As her panties drifted out of one of the leg holes of my furry pink jumpsuit I wondered: What was she doing right now? I also guiltily reminisced for a moment – What a fine evening that was! I promised not to kiss and tell, so faithful readers, my journalistic oath dictates I must leave your imagination to fill in the blanks. I can however tell you this: Several trips were made to the local Farmer’s Grange for D-rings, a blue tarp, and live baby chicks. I was thus clad as I stumbled down my stairway, made my way to the front door, and took a deep breath before opening the door and allowing the light of day to illuminate my horrible face.