short attention span stories

Glabrous Ride

2011-04-28T23:30:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is my last day of work, yet for the last couple of years, it’s felt like it has been a vacation, of sorts. Maybe not a vacation exactly, more like a detour.

This detour was simple. The turns were clearly marked and I seemed not to realize that I was going in circles, and each circle was getting smaller and smaller until I was standing in place.

I have decided to start moving again, shifting to first gear and letting go of the clutch slowly so as to not stall. I will shift to second, then third, then fourth and if I am lucky, shift to fifth on a fast yellow sports car down a never ending highway, twisting and turning but always going forward.

It is a little scary, this road of unknowns, but standing in place and watching life pass you by is much more frightening and paralyzing. I felt content in inertia as my muscles atrophied and my mind died slowly, but it was a false happiness.

Now, I look forward to the energy and joy that comes with the adrenaline of not knowing what the next turn will bring. All I know is that perpetual motion is best and I’ve got the fuel to get me where my dreams want to take me.

It’s gonna be a glabrous ride...

(word by Marty Barrett)

and on the fifth day there was clarity

2011-02-19T13:45:00.000-08:00

A couple of months before I got married, I had an experience that not only changed my life forever, but made it very clear for me that I was making the right decision. Don’t get me wrong. I never doubted that I wanted to marry Erik, but this was sort of a test that made me really search inside myself and make one of the hardest decisions of my life. Whether it was God, if you are a believer, the universe, if you are spiritual, or sheer coincidence, if you are an atheist, it completely shook me to the core of my being.

It started when I went to Mexico for the second time to make all the arrangements for the wedding, which at that time was going to take place in the beautiful town of San Miguel de Allende. I talked to Erik on the phone and he told me he had punched the dresser in his sleep and was worried about it. When I returned, we talked about the incident and he said that he thought his grandfather had died of Huntington’s Disease, but had to ask his parents. I had no idea what Huntington’s was but he said he was going to make an appointment with his doctor that week.

The next day, I typed it up on Google and this is what I found out via Wikipedia:

Huntington’s Disease is a neurodegenerative genetic disorder that affects muscle coordination and leads to cognitive decline and dementia. It typically becomes noticeable in middle age. HD is the most common genetic cause of abnormal involuntary writhing movements called chorea. Symptoms of Huntington's disease commonly become noticeable between the ages of 35 and 44 years, but they can begin at any age from infancy to old age.

It is also incurable.

Suddenly, I felt I was on a quagmire and I was sinking. I was shocked so I kept searching for articles about the disease. I read countless horror stories from the families of victims, of the quick decline into dementia, and how, as the disease was passed on, it got worse and the symptoms appeared at a younger age.

I couldn’t believe it. I sat behind my desk at work in complete despair. I had to leave the office and go to the bathroom to cry.

“How can this be? How can Erik not know the horrors of Huntington’s? How can he not have told me before?” All these thoughts rushed to my head, then came the realization that he must know and I felt terrible.

“How was he feeling? Was he afraid of finding out? Was he more terrified than I?”

I drove home that day in silence. I couldn’t even turn the radio on. All I wanted to do was see him and hug him and kiss him.

When I got home and he was there, cooking dinner, like nothing. “How are you? How was your day?” he asked. All I thought about was his strength and how he must be putting up this happy front for me, so I acted like nothing was happening. I needed to be strong for him.

The next day was the same. I got home and he asked me how I was. I said fine and then very politely and sweetly asked him if he had made an appointment with the doctor. He said he forgot, very matter-of-fact. My heart skipped a beat and I understood that he might be so scared of finding out, that he was putting it off. I changed the subject and tried to make conversation and talk about happy things.

I couldn’t stop researching the disease, I began to think about his family. Was his dad showing signs of dementia? Did his brother have the disease? Were they aware of the level of care they would need in the very near future?

That evening Erik told me he had not made a doctor’s appointment again. I swallowed my anguish and reminded myself to be strong, to smile and to be his rock.

My drive to and from work became a time for thinking, for imagining the worst, for crying, for meditating. At work I was barely functioning and my level of productivity was nonexistent. All I did was read about the disease.

There was an article in the New York Times about a woman who got a DNA test to see if she had the disease at 24, which she did. At that moment she knew she had an expiration date. She sacrificed herself to raise money and awareness for the disease. She fought with her mother who was against her taking the DNA test because it only meant that she had it too. She didn’t date because she didn’t want to fall in love and then have him take care of her in the end. She made arrangements for her ultimate demise into dementia.

The fourth day came and on my way home I thought of this woman and how there was a very real possibility that this was going to be his future and of the very real impossibility of having children. Suddenly I was in a rage. I was so angry at the world, at the universe. Why him? Why me? Why couldn’t we have a normal life, have kids and dogs and cats and grow old like everybody else? Is love like ours not allowed to exist?

I got home and I was a mess. Before he said anything, I asked him if he had made the doctor’s appointment. He said no and that was it. I had had it.

“Please make the appointment with the doctor. Please! Stop torturing me in this way. I have to know!” I yelled at him with tears in my eyes. He looked at me like I was crazy and said that he would, first thing in the morning.

I went to the bathroom and cried some more. He asked me if I was ok, and I said I was fine. I needed to keep it together, I thought, for him, for me.

This went on for five days. I would sit on the couch and stare at him as he watched TV. I wanted to cherish every moment because I knew our time together was limited. When it was obvious it was making Erik uncomfortable, I would stop and just hold his hand. At night, I would stay up watching him breathe, in and out, in and out, rhythmically and beautifully.

After one more unproductive day at the office, on my drive home, I didn’t think of anything. I took the Colorado exit on the I-5 and as it curved I said out loud “Ok God. If this is the way it’s going to be, fine. Let it be. Because I love him, I will accept not having children. I will accept caring for him, and I accept that he will eventually succumb to the disease. I just ask you to give me the knowledge, the strength and the patience I am going to need because this is going to be very hard.”

Then a miracle happened. I got home from work and found him in the kitchen. The first thing he said is that he had made the appointment and that he was going the following week.

I hugged him and kissed him and sat quietly on the couch. I waited a couple of minutes and asked something about his grandfather.

“Does your family ever talk about Huntington’s?” I asked.

“Huntington’s? Why would they talk about that?”

“Didn’t your grandfather die of Huntington’s?”

“No. He either died of Parkinson’s or Hodgkin's. I have to ask my parents. I told you that.”

What???? I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. Somehow I had misheard and combined both Parkinson’s and Hodgkin’s in my head and came up with Huntington’s - a disease I had never heard of.

I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh or bang my head against the wall or what. Five days I thought he was going to die! Not just pass away, die of a horrible disease that takes your mind, your thoughts, your physical abilities, everything. For five days I cried, I yelled, I played out all sorts of scenarios in my mind. For five days I was in total chaos.

And at the end of the fifth day, I realized that I loved Erik so much that I was willing to put myself aside, sacrifice not having children, and take care of him for the rest of his life. I loved him so much, I still wanted to marry him and spend my life with him.

Think of it what you will, but to me, it was a miracle. To me, it had been a test that I passed and in return, I was given clarity and the assurance that what we share is true love.

We laugh about it now. He still thinks I am crazy, but it doesn’t matter. We have a long life ahead of us, together.

(the word 'quagmire' was provided by Jessica Hopkins. Thanks, Jessica!)
(image by Paulina Merekiova)

One Last Weekend with My Brother

2010-12-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, two different and separate events reminded me of a moment I shared with my brother before he died.

The first was the visit of my fantastic brother-in-law K. Witnessing the great relationship between brothers made me wonder what my relationship would have been like with my brother if he hadn’t been sick. The second was my friend J talking about how going home for the holidays was not only a time to celebrate, but to also spend time with elderly family members, knowing he might not see again.

A month before my brother died of pulmonary arrest, a complication of muscular dystrophy, I decided to go visit him in El Paso where he lived. It was Easter time, and when I told my mother I was planning on visiting him, she asked me “Why? He’s fine.” I think my parents were in such a state of denial that they didn’t see his condition worsening as time went by. Because I only saw him once a year, his deterioration was very apparent to me.

Throughout the years, my brother’s illness had taken his ability to walk and at this late stage, most of his mobility. He refused to use a wheelchair. Instead he had an office chair with wheels so he could still, somehow, propel himself in his apartment. When I arrived he was in his usual place: in front of his computer, a portal into a world where he could move freely, using only the frail muscles of his hand.

I opened the door and he turned to me and breathed out a quiet “hi” with his deep voice. I think he noticed my sense of shock when I saw him in such a frail and delicate state, because he smiled in a comforting way. I stayed with him all weekend, taking over some of the many things my mom did for him. Cooking, cleaning up the apartment, watching TV and just chatting it up was the easy stuff. The hard stuff was of a more personal nature.

My brother and I are very private and independent people. We hardly ask for help and are very stubborn in our ways. This time, it was different. I bathed him or should I say, he let me bathe him. It was a process that I am sure my mother and his nurse knew very well, but I did not. I think he sensed my hesitation and told me not to worry, he would let me what to do. I wanted both of us to feel comfortable, so I followed his instructions of privacy carefully: when to undress him, how to move him from his chair to the bench in the shower, where to put the towel. I made jokes every once in a while and he seemed to welcome the comic relief. I washed his hair and closed the curtain so he could rinse.

After the shower, I dressed him in his pajamas and noticed how dry his skin was, especially on his feet. I asked him if I could put lotion on his legs and surprisingly, he said yes. I applied the lotion on his atrophied legs until his skin was soft. We talked a little as I got the nail clippers and clipped his toe nails, careful not to tickle him. I brushed his hair when noticed that his eyelids were heavy with sleep. I picked him up from his arm pits and sat him on his bed. He felt so light for a man of his size. I am sure he was at least 6 feet high, if he had been able to stand up right.

“Do you want the light of or off” I asked before I closed the door. “Off,” he said.

The rest of that evening, I thought about my mother. How could a petite woman with a full time job do all this on a daily basis? Every morning she crossed the border to see him, then work, then see him at lunch, then go back to work, then come back, make him dinner, bathe him, put him to bed and drive back across the border to make dinner for my father. I also couldn't help but think about how her routine would undoubtedly change in the very near future.

My brother passed away a month after my visit.

I think of those last days we spent together as his gift to me. By being completely vulnerable and allowing me to help him in such an intimate way, I was able to show him how much I loved him and to see how much he loved me. In a way, this feeling eases the guilt that I feel for not doing more for him, at least a little, sometimes.

Once I Was Lost in Downtown LA

2010-12-08T16:52:00.000-08:00

It was the winter of 2006. I lived with my fabulous friends J and A in a wonderful little townhouse in Park La Brea and I did not own a car. Not owning a car in Los Angeles is like being trapped in a cage in a dark corner of a candy store prevented from enjoying the delightful Silverlakes, fun Echo Parks and beachy Santa Monicas.

My life didn’t stop, however. When I needed groceries I hitched a ride with A. With all its smelliness and grit, public transportation was there to take me to work. Walking down from Hollywood Boulevard to Third Street on Fairfax was a delight in the crisp, Los Angeles evenings.

For the most part, it was bearable.

One day, I received an invitation from my good friend M and his wife to watch a movie at their apartment in Glendale. Asking for a ride was (and is) not in my nature. To get from Park La Brea to Glendale using public transportation was going to be a challenge, but I knew I could do it. I replied with a vibrant YES and a promise to bring muffins. LA was not going to stop me.

I went to the MTA website and planned my route. “Only 2 buses,” I thought. “This is going to be easy.”

So, I walked a couple of blocks to Whole Foods, bought the muffins and made my way to the bus stop. The Third Street bus heading to Downtown LA was already there. No problem at all. From my comfy window seat I could see the sun starting to go down, down and finally disappear altogether. The gorgeous lights of the skyscrapers were like stars to me. When I arrived downtown, it was dark.

I exited the bus where I was supposed to and walked to the corner for my connection bus: Destination Glendale. The sign listed what seemed like 15 different buses that stopped there, but not mine. I must have the wrong corner, I thought. So I walked across the street trying so hard not to look like I was lost, like I had no idea where I was going, like I was way over my head trying this thing. Nothing.

One bus stopped and I asked the driver if he knew where I could catch the bus I needed. He said he never heard of it as he shut the door and left me there. Downtown. At night. Lost.

I was not going to give up. I walked a couple of blocks pretending I knew where I was going, never going on the same side of the street twice. Suddenly, I found myself in a small, dark street. I couldn’t turn back now or everyone would know I was lost. A man was walking towards me. I couldn’t see his face, but I wrapped that plastic bag with the muffins tight around my wrist and prepared to defend myself to the end. He just walked by.

When I reached the end of the dark street I realized that I was right in the middle of Skid Row. I made a conscious decision to walk with resolve and purpose, to hide my fear and keep looking forward. Armed with organic flour and earth friendly blueberry muffins, I walked past the tents, the cardboard shelters and the homeless people. The smell of liquor, filth and insanity filled the air.

Anger started to overtake me. I was angry at myself, at the impotence I felt in not being able to be fully independent and go to a party across town because I didn’t have a car. I was angry for being stubborn, for my hard-headedness in not asking for help. I had put myself in a dangerous situation unnecessarily. Blind with anger, I remember feeling sorry for any bastard who crossed me at that moment because I would have beaten him senseless with my muffin bag. I didn’t care.

I turned the corner and briskly walked back to the streets with the lights and the people. At that very moment, I realized how incredibly lucky I was to be me and how incredibly stupid it was to be there.

I tried one more time to ask a bus driver how to get to Glendale. He was nicer and told me he didn’t really know if I could get to Glendale from where I was at all. With that, I found the Third St. bus heading west and made my way back home, muffins and all.

LA had won. I am not invincible.

(image by Jessica Franco)

True Story

2010-12-01T17:41:00.000-08:00

About four years ago, I used to work in a building on the corner of Hollywood and Highland, one of the most crowded intersections of Los Angeles. Tourists from all over the world cross that intersection from Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum to the Grauman's Chinese Theatre amidst the angry locals and fake super heroes.

On the north east corner, there is a bus stop where hundreds of people board and de-board the bus at all hours of the day and most of the evening into night. I had to walk by this bus stop every morning and evening to and from work.

One hot morning, I noticed an older man sitting on the bus stop bench, resting his arm on the armrest. I only noticed, because he was wearing tight leather pants and a black leather jacket, and thought to myself “that man must be crazy wearing leather in this weather. Ha ha ha! That rhymed. I am a riot.”

That evening, on my way back home, I saw that the man was still there, in the same position on the same bench, which also happens to be in front of a busy Chinese restaurant. I didn’t really think much of it. After all, Hollywood is full of crazies.

The next morning, he was there again. Same position. Same bench. Same hot leather jacket. This time I walked by a little slower, paying closer attention to the man, but I just continued on my way.

All day I thought about the man. Why was he there? What was he doing? Wasn’t he hot?

Finally 5:30 rolled around and I made my way to the parking lot. He was still there.

I walked past him, thought about it for a second, and stopped. I slowly made my way back to the bench, past people walking, some waiting for the bus, others taking pictures. As I came closer, I noticed that his listless hand had turned a deep purple. I looked up at his face, wrinkled and tanned, and realized he was dead. Dead on that bench for 2 days and nobody had noticed. He might have been dead for longer than that. I cannot say for sure.

I called the police and reported the dead man. The ambulance arrived and stopped rush hour traffic on a Friday. I remember it was a Friday because as I walked away I could see the frustrated and angry faces of all those drivers wondering what all the commotion was all about.

True Story.

(image by Jessica Franco)

red rhino

2010-09-21T17:29:00.000-07:00

Schematic

2009-05-28T09:34:00.001-07:00

Projects Galore!

2008-06-23T16:36:00.001-07:00

So, I've decided to have a different blog page for each of the crazy projects I am working on and dedicate Short Attention Span Stories to just that: stories.

Some projects are complete, some are works in progress. I intend to complete them all, or in some instances, to continue.

As you can see, the links are here

------------------------------------>

Thank you all for always being supportive of the crazy ideas that float in my head. I hope I can corral them all here and put them in some sort of order for myself and for you my friends and family who I love.

NEW BLOG!!

2007-08-13T17:24:00.000-07:00

Hey kids! - There's a new story posted on a new blog - a collaboration between Ms. Franco and me. Check it out!

It all Began in St. Pius

It's a fun read and there's pictures too, great pictures.

Maury the Mortician

2007-07-26T15:50:00.000-07:00

The local anesthesiologist killed the patient with a turtle bite, and in doing so, she involved Maury, the mortician, in her convoluted world of intrigue, cheesecake and porridge. Who knew?

2007-07-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

.............to paraphrase
...................she said nothing else

"I think you're dreamy" was enough

............but he never returned her call.

"This could've been something. We
..........................were
.......................so.......so
...................very...close."

.............fuck.

..........................g.
..........................7/7/07

2007-07-09T12:51:00.001-07:00

Mary the republican was beautiful:
long hair, ample breasts, thighs of sugar.
She taught me the art of punctuation and
dissection of living organisms.
I almost forgave her.
Almost.

g.
7/7/07

Clump

2007-06-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

There is a clump of mascara on her eyelashes as she explains to me the rhetorical perspective of her pet iguana, who she aptly named Gomez. She blinks and she has trouble opening her eye, but it snaps open as the iguana looks at me without interest. I only understand every third word she says and it sounds more like a song I heard on a boat when I was three as it made its way through Niagara Falls. The woman drifts away and I continue on my way to the supermarket on Polk and Clay- the Big Apple Discount store, where the oranges are pretty and the rice comes in bulk. As I exit, the flowers in the front of the store look sad and in their indignation, dispose of their colors and expel them into the air like perfume, stinging my eyes and turning the world into a kaleidoscope.

- word provided by MV

Hollywood Fire from My Office

2007-05-08T14:45:00.000-07:00

Detection

2007-05-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

“I concur.”

That’s all he tells me (sometimes he says “kinky is the way for me” but only during the most inopportune moments, so it doesn’t count).

Would you prefer Indian or Thai? - "I concur."
Peanut butter or Chocolate Chip? – "I concur."
Your place or mine? – "I concur. "

The detection of his volatile emotions is key in understanding this man completely, wholly and without a doubt. I use a portable radio with a large, obtrusive antenna to decrypt the true intentions of his stare and the meaning behind his agreeability. Every Sunday I print out a report which extrapolates, through complex mathematical equations, the intricate and often juxtaposed articulations of his brain and at last I can retrieve meaningful answers to my inquiries: Thai. Chocolate Chip. His place.

He doesn’t seem to mind me following him around with the apparatus as long as it doesn’t accidentally pick up signals from the local radio station or disturb his aging cat, who, I’ve come to realize through long hours of research, doesn’t really like the hard-wood floors or the color orange.

Although the truth only exists in the algorithms of the past and I am constantly made to wonder about the present, I am fascinated by the notion of a future guaranteed to be laminated with long hours of solving the calculus that is him. That, and the French radio station I pick up every once in a while. Oh-la-la.

A parking space made just for me

2007-04-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

(County of Los Angeles - PARKING ONLY FOR DEPARTMENT OF MENTAL HEALTH)

One Night at an Art Show

2007-03-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

Not so long ago, I went to an art show and took some pictures of what I found interesting. Not that I didn't find the art interesting, because it was awesome, I just didn't think I could take any pictures of the art so I took pictures of the other stuff.

This guy below here is one of the artists. I kinda like the picture.

More ceiling stuff.

Moonshine

2007-03-22T11:10:00.001-07:00

There is a small, violent man living in the upstairs apartment. He likes to pace back and forth, between the kitchen and the hallway closet. He coughs loudly on every third step. Sometimes, when it's really quiet, I manage to hear him whispering under his breath and say little things that make my belly rumble.

I know he is a violent man because just last week, I heard him yell at his meatballs for losing their shape in the pan. "I don't want no meatcubes!" he screamed as he threw the pan and the sizzling "meatcubes" out the window, giving Lopez, the janitor, third degree burns and a concussion. He didn't deserve that, but taking into consideration Lopez was a boxer, he's had his share of concussions. And he is no looker either, so no harm done really. He also beat up his next door neighbor with her cat a couple of weeks ago, but, she was asking for it, and don't get me started about the cat.

If I stand on my breakfast table and move the light fixture ever so slightly, I have a perfect view of the kitchen and the hallway. I can see him in his anger writing little blackmail notes or erasing the signature on a stolen credit card. I have a perfect view of his dilated black eyes staring blankly at his empty refrigerator deciding whether he wants orange juice or a jar of moonshine for breakfast.

A while ago, when he left his apartment one day to do some more violent things in the world, I drilled a little hole above my bed to get a better look at the other rooms. I discovered that he sleeps on a soiled mattress in the back room and has a large collection of Mad Magazine. He sleeps in the nude and he twitches his nose while he sleeps. An hour or so after he passes out, there’s a barrage of cussing and rambling punctuated by a loud scream: “Porker!” and then silence.

Unfortunately, when drilling into his bathroom floor, I ended up under his bathroom cabinet so I don’t have a good view, but the smell, oh the smell, manages to filter into my apartment. I will try again when he leaves for work tomorrow at 9 am.

He is a violent little man and I love him.

Meteorite Love

2007-03-19T17:20:00.000-07:00

Tabulating the constant barrage of inter-spatial fragments of meteorites and planets would take Ilsa 3 years to accomplish, particularly if she keeps biting her nails and knitting her father a sweater. She chose a turquoise green color for the sweater and matching scarf to make sure he will never wear them. That way she has ammunition to guilt-trip him to death, or at least until Easter Sunday...but she's not promising anything. Her brother Charlie had the best guilt-trip ammunition on the planet, but he blew it when he married that hippie girl, stole their father's mini-van and made their way to India.

and that's that.

Orphan Pete

2007-03-19T15:21:00.001-07:00

Sometimes Pete refuses to dream of me, particularly when I steal his arithmetic book. All I want to do is play with the numbers and figure out what x is really all about, but he won't let me borrow it. So I have to steal it. But if that means he won't ever dream of me, then I will never add or subtract or figure out the volume of a sphere in motion again.

The Woe

2007-03-16T17:51:00.000-07:00

When I was in France, hitch-hiking my way across Louisiana, I came upon a desert dune where the monarch butterflies came to digest the insects of the Amazon. There, in a torrential rain, freezing outside of the Vatican, I fell in love with Gordie Johnson, of the very well known Thompson family, and declared my love for her as I rested my head briefly on my pillow. Sometime later, a hurricane wiped out the town of Sevilla and eradicated smallpox, while the population suffered a very successful orange crop. The children were inconsolable, but I tried to tell them to eat their enchiladas quietly and never, ever, let the dandelions know your secrets.

Dave

2007-03-16T16:57:00.000-07:00

The mortician noticed that Dave had a very Greek nose: beautiful, compact and fruitful. She was very saddended by the deep worry-wrinkle on his forehead and imagined him laboring over a matzo ball soup in the kitchen of his Deli. The science experiment of it all - the 1 inch matzo meal balls dropping to the depths of the boiling water, only to rise seconds later and bobble at the top, slowly growing to the size of an orange. Bobble. Bobble. Bobble.

On his hand, he had a mole in the shape of the state of Arkansas and she tapped it three times with her index finger. She wondered what color were his eyes. Were they blue? Were they Hazel? Were they like her own, brown and dark and full of intention? She didn't really want to know, after all, his fingernails were clean and his belly button was in place.

She figured Dave was one in a million and no older than 53.

Beast Hunter

2007-03-16T16:22:00.000-07:00

Instead of torturing the beast, Kit decided to roam naked in the fields behind his house and howl at all the people he encountered. In the end, only a single malodorous vagabond happened to walk by, taking Kit's half-empty milk bottle with him.

My Trip to Miami

2007-03-05T15:10:00.000-08:00

As you very well may know, traveling with me is an adventure. Traveling by myself is an adventure, but there’s nobody there to witness the chaos that surrounds me. So I am going to share with you my latest business trip to Miami Beach.

Everything was fine all day Friday – my flight was on time, no delays, a little turbulence but nothing to write home about, my luggage arrived safely, etc. I had a nice dinner in a swanky Miami Beach restaurant and off to bed in a quite scary and not very clean hotel room with a lovely view of a parking lot. The TV and the air-conditioning worked, so I guess it wasn’t too bad.

Then embarrassment began. While I was waiting in the Filmmaker’s Headquarters at the film festival where I was, a great Mexican Actor who I love (because he’s a great, great actor), walked in to get tickets to a film. I turned to my co-worker and whispered in his ear “Do you know who just walked in?” and he said no. And I said “You don’t recognize him?” and he said no and then I started to blush for some reason. Then because I knew I was blushing, it got worse. I started to sweat, I felt light-headed, the room was spinning and all this time I am turning red, redder, REDDEST! I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stop it. The festival coordinator was looking at me like I was a freak. A documentary filmmaker who I had just met was also looking at me funny. My co-worker wouldn’t cooperate with me and try to calm me down. I was so very embarrassed because I think the actor noticed and laughed at me a little. I am such a TOOL.

Then, we went to the screening which started at 10. We arrived at 9:30 and there was nobody there, and we were very surprised and worried. “Why isn’t anybody here?” I said as I looked up and saw the name of the theatre “Lincoln” and I felt the little wheels turning in my brain: “Wait. That doesn’t sound right. Lincoln…Lincoln…” and then it hit me – “The screening is at the Colony Theater not the Lincoln Theater!”

Luckily, the Colony Theater was only 3 blocks away! So, we made it.

Our sold-out world premiere extravaganza was super successful. The audience loved the film about this wonderful Cuban singer. Here’s a little clip of her singing (not from the documentary)

Here are a couple of pictures of the Colony Theater, my way:

Then we had a little reception at a local cigar bar, and everybody had lots of fun - we drank, we ate, we were merry.

Afterwards we went to the Shore Club Hotel, where the Miami SKYBAR is stationed and had a couple of drinks!

Then, the nightmare began.

My flight back to Los Angeles, via Charlotte, NC, left Ft. Lauderdale at 12:45 pm. I was at the airport at 11:30 and I saw that there were very long lines, but I didn’t pay attention since I was over an hour early. I checked my bag in after like 20 minutes at the curb, no big deal and then I go inside – The lines are incredible. Hundreds of people sitting on the floor, some of them crying, some of them yelling. The chaos was overwhelming. Apparently, the incredibly astute folks at U.S. Airways, decided to switch to a new computer system that day…a SUNDAY…with hundreds of people getting off the multiple cruises that just docked that day. Yes. They picked a SUNDAY!!!!!!

However, I had already checked my bag in outside (I don’t know why more people didn’t check in outside, I mean, it only took me like 20 minutes) so I could go straight to security and move along. There was a sign on one of the lines that said “4 Hours Waiting from This Point On” and there were like 500 people beyond that point. It was incredible. I felt bad for them, and I told a couple of them to go outside, but the line outside was already 3 times as long as it was when I got there.

So I get to the gate and the sign says my flight is delayed, but there were letting people in, so I gave the attendant my ticket and I proceeded to board the plane. I sat in my assigned seat, I put my book in the pocket in front of me, I prepared my pillow, rested my head and prepared to take a nap when I hear the man next to me say “Man, I can’t wait to get to D.C.” “WHAT!!!! This plane is going to D.C.!!!!”

So in my embarrassment and hurry to get out of there, I left my lovely book (which I was enjoying very, very much) in the plane, but at least I had escaped a certain disaster. I went outside and told the attendant I had gotten on the wrong plane and he looked at me like I was an idiot, which I was, I admit, then he scolded the other guy for not checking my ticket.

My flight was delayed 2 hours. Meaning, I would miss my connecting flight to L.A.

So I waited, bored, with no wonderful book to read, and I began to test the camera feature on my phone once again and took some pictures. The couple sitting in front of me got so upset I was taking pictures that they gave me a dirty look and moved away. Here’s the picture:

That’s the man’s feet. Maybe they did have reason to be mad. I don’t know.

When we began to board, finally at 2:50 pm, there was a large crowd waiting by the gate, and this lovely, older man, who just landed and was in a very good mood, stops by me and exclaims to no one in particular: “Will you look at that? What is this line for? What are all these people waiting for?” The girl next to me wanted to kill him. I stopped her.

So, the flight to Charlotte was uneventful. We actually made it in record time. I was thinking “I just might make my connecting flight yet.” We land, the plane stops and the captain announces that we don’t have a gate and that we might be waiting for a long, long time to get one. My dreams, and the dreams of many in the plane, were shattered. Children cried; a lady with a little bird in a cage let everyone know her bird might die. It was quite depressing.

Ten seconds later the captain says “Nevermind. It seems like we are very lucky, because a gate has just opened up!” (Not an exact quote of course).

I run out of the plane, look to see if my flight to L.A. had departed and to my lovely, and wonderful surprise, it too was delayed and it was leaving in exactly 2 minutes!!!

I run to the gate and find a chaotic mass of people, with no boarding passes yelling and screaming at the U.S. Airways guy, who in turn, is yelling and screaming too. And because I am a very selfish person who doesn’t think before she speaks I exclaimed very loudly “I made it! I made it! I can’t believe it. I am making my connecting flight!” to the horror of the people on stand-by who were hoping that my flight didn’t make it so they could get on. No one was happy with me, so I retreated to the back of the line and smiled all to myself. “Ha!”

The flight then was very uneventful – They still wanted us to cough up $5 for a sandwich (jerks).

So, all in all it was a very fun trip with lots of fiascos and laughs.

Anyone up for traveling with me? I promise it’ll be a good time.

Tantalize

2007-01-18T15:21:00.000-08:00

There was a corrupt monastery manager called Gustav who refused to let the young monks harmonize during the day because it would tantalize the forest creatures who lived in the surrounding area. One day, one of the very handsome and well put together monks, decided to act against the manager and torment a squirrel with his harmonies of beautiful hymns he had learned in the past. The squirrel concentrated on eating his little nut while the monk filled the air with his beautiful voice and suddenly, after he had completed his song, the squirrel let his nut drop and fainted. Gustav heard the whole thing from his crowded office in the back and ran to the monk, but he was too late. The squirrel had suffered a stroke and was never able to use the right side of his body again. He just ran in circles, round and round the little nut until he dizzied himself into a stupor and threw up on the monk’s feet.

The monk never sang again.

Lummox

2007-01-17T15:19:00.000-08:00

Young Hilda Reyes was a manic depressive goose who lived somewhere near the Himalayas. She wrote me often and in her letters, sprinkled with a rotten perfume that gave me hives, she would often describe her husband the rabbit:

Yes darling, the incessant humming of his rheumatoid arthritis is at once aggravating and admirable. The lummox causes me great grief and great love simultaneously. How incredible are his whiskers…how awful his musky smell…and yet, he’s my love…my rabbit…my friend.

3 Minute Exercises

2007-01-17T15:07:00.000-08:00

The following stories have come to be due to a certain exercise I used to practice when I had writer's block, which is what I have at this moment...a block so monolithic I can't even see my lonely typewriter anymore. The poor thing hasn't been touched in weeks because I just can't bring myself to sit there and have nothing come out of me. One of my New Year's Resolutions is to finish Legumes Vol I and Vol II - two books of really short and tiny stories using the same method - and I only have about 1/2 of the stories completed.

So, I asked my dear friend to give me a word, any word that came to his mind. Then I gave myself 3 minutes to write a story. This story in particular is not very long or very interesting because I was interrupted various times by work, but the whole point is to just write whatever, whether it makes sense or not, in a sort of stream-of-consciousness way and keep doing it until your writing muscles are all nice and relaxed and ready to do some serious non-sensical writing.

It's a fact. So don't judge or take it personally...it's just an exercise.

Thank you.

Tim

2006-12-14T11:11:00.000-08:00

The trinket Lili found in the street across from the Piggly Wiggly was all her own - shiny, silvery and green. Upon closer inspection, she found someone had somehow squished a little white bird inside the little circular box and left it there for Lili to find and love. She named him Tim.

The little bird lived inside its tiny home and provided comfort to the little girl when her parents fought, warmth when the nights were cold and a lovely song when Lili felt blue. Many years later, while Lili sat on the grass watching the sunset with Tim beside her, the lovely song that came from inside the trinket suddenly stopped and Lili knew the little bird was gone as the stars began to appear in the purple sky all around her.

Boots

2006-11-06T21:06:00.000-08:00

Sometimes Eddie called me into his room and reprimanded me for eating his grapes the night before. He would look at me with his droopy eyes and indulge me in the history of grape theft – from early Egyptian times to the wonderful world of today. I listened and rocked back and forth with my hands behind my back and all I could think about were the grapes I would surely steal the following week when Momma went shopping for groceries.

Once he was done explaining why Sugar Ray became a boxer, he would tell me to help him get his boot off – the left one. He always had a hard time, so I did, help him, I mean. I would pull and tug and he would groan and kick until the darn thing came off. He would take his ostrich leather boot and look inside, then he would take one long, strong whiff, and finally we would say “Goodbye, gracious.”

Oh Eddie. I always remember him, just like that - passed out on his bed, clasping his boot tightly to his chest and then the long, disturbing wheezy snore that would be sure to follow.

The Emu is on Hiatus

2006-11-02T20:55:00.000-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sorry to say The Emu Report is on hiatus until further notice. There are circumstances beyond our control. I hope you can understand.

Thank you for listening and for your wonderful support.

The Emu Report 2

2006-10-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

The second installment of The Emu Report has been posted!

It is all about our experience in L.A. and naturally, PORN.

The link is as follows: http://theemureport.podshow.com/

You don't have to subscribe to the service to listen, just look for EMU3 and click Play It!

You can email us here if you want to send us some comments such as "Please Stop, You're Embarrassing Yourselves" or "You're Great, Keep it Up" (I need encouragement).

Thank you again to all of you for your support. I know I am a crazy person with lots of crazy ideas and I can bombard you with crazy stuff, but this time you can blame Jesse too.

PS. Please feel free to forward this message to people who you think would enjoy it!

The Emu Report Podcast

2006-09-22T13:30:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen it is here - The Emu Report Podcast

Listen to the birth of a creature so vile, so pukey, so wicked, only the strong can withstand it.

here is the link: http://theemureport.podshow.com/

The Flower Massacre - Continued

2006-09-08T17:06:00.000-07:00

Later that day after Markus’s mother paid the extra nickel she had demanded, Susie decided to keep some of the mud and petals for evidence. She didn’t know why, but she suspected the red headed monster of something wicked and unclean. As she searched her house for a little plastic bag, she remembered her husband Shirley (yes, it was a woman’s name, but she didn’t care. She was proud of her husband and his girlie name) had used them all to store his snacks for the upcoming rocket launch – that stupid rocket launch that had been causing all this ruckus in her small village.

It was months ago when Arthur “the Immaculate,” as he liked to be called, waltzed into town carrying a trumpet in one arm and a licorice stick in the other, proclaiming that King Ingmar had chosen this humble village as the launching pad for their new invention.

Hippos, albatrosses and flamingos, all rejoiced at the news and danced around in their pajamas until the rooster croaked. They all attended the somber funeral hours later and forgot about the launch. Mary, the grimacing cat who lived in the outskirts of town, gave a heartwarming eulogy during the service because after all, Pete was her lover, her mentor and her pet, all rolled into one. (For the record, Pete was a beloved member of the community with his free wake-up service and the long hours he spent volunteering at the local center for the elderly.)

The mourning was over quickly because, immediately after the proclamation, the town was overrun with carpenters, engineers, mathematicians and hobos of all sizes, shapes and smells. Poor Susie didn’t know which way was up or down, or what side of the river was deeper. Two times she gave her customers the wrong size shoes. It almost made her lose her entire shoe fixing enterprise, but Shirley helped make things better with his cucumber sandwiches and daily back massages.

To be continued….

The Flower Massacre!

2006-09-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

How it began as a response to an invitation for dinner via mass email:

“I am there. Like a trampoline on a gaseous cloud on planet Huskarian - For all to see and no one to roll over and play dead.

My synapses are firing once again! I ran out of my scurvy medication the other day but that's just because Jesse ate all the little red pills behind the couch while i ironed the blankets for my incubator.

More to come!!!” - gg

The seeds were planted by a curious response:

“Is planet huskarian where the matrix is? and there's scurvy?” – jd

And the monster grew:

“Let me relate the wonderful, if not feisty, history of Planet Huskarian - if you are familiar with such history, please refrain to read any further since you would just be bored senseless and realize my tales are false and without merit.

But I digress - Millions of years ago, during the battle of Alpha vs. Omega in the distant, and may I say, fragrant, galaxy of Sycamore, a little boy with hellish red hair decided to indoctrinate the daises in the valley with his religious rhetoric and senseless caterpillar literature. He would sneak up behind them and whisper sweet nothings behind their petals while passing around pamphlets with pictures of dolphins involved in not so very "legal" or "pretty" affairs. The daisies couldn't care less about all this stuff but they enjoyed the company of the manic little boy with the funny hair and missing belly button. Realizing that the flowers weren't converting to the teachings of Sandism, the boy, who referred to himself as Markus, decided to take drastic steps and follow Clause #34 in the Book of Sandism or Borán which stated "Thou Shalt Use Force!"

And so he did. He ravaged the fields! He tore petals, he stomped on stems and ate the leaves, leaving tormented and tortured dead flowers in his wake. One flower, desperately hanging on to one petal and a piece of grass, protected the last unmolested flower and onto her petals she whispered: "Lula, go and find a planet, far far away, where there is not Sandism, where there are no children and re-create or peaceful civilization - where all flowers are free, where the sun is abundant and where Botox is available to everyone for free."

Lula, frightened, but with a new outlook on life, uprooted herself and ran. She ran and ran and ran until in the distance she saw a rocket ship preparing for lift off. 10...9...8...7...

Squish. A lovely Hippo named Susie accidentally stomped on her.

It was all over. The dreams were gone.

And that's just the epilogue.” - gg

More egging on by someone intrigued…

“But what happened to Susie!!!???!!!” - am

And the monster continued to grow ever larger:

Oh Susie the Hippo never knew of the calamitous mistake she had made that day. She went on about her business, which was shoe repair if you really want to know, and never paid no mind to Lula and her mission. In fact, Susie was in the process of fixing Markus's shoes that day. She noticed that the soles were particularly muddy, with all these flower stems and petals stuck all over the place.

"What sort of mess did you get into, son?" she asked him. He didn't reply. He just looked down at his bare feet and poked at the dirt with his stick.

"Fine, don't tell me little old me, what do I care? I'm just gonna tell your momma to pay me extra."

man, i am really going off the deep end, ain't I? Telling stories about flower massacres and shoe repairing hippos. Man. I am sorry. I'll stop now. Jeez. why you people humor me, I'll never know.

Out of Control:

“NO!!!! Keep going! I'm very intrigued now...” – am

Conclusion:

I will continue this lovely story on this blog…

I thank you for your interest in my mental decay. wink wink.

Birdie

2006-08-15T17:49:00.000-07:00

Limmerick - HELP

2006-07-21T16:18:00.000-07:00

Please help me finish the following limmerick:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who ate all the cheese in my pocket
And when he was through
He puked in my shoe
and...

2006-07-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

Marisol grew each day more accustomed to the sound of the tic-toc clock in the living room. At first it infuriated her to be stripped away from the silence, but then, like the humming of an air conditioning unit, the sound melted into her subconscious and became nothing.

There wasn’t anything else to do in that house but sit in the cool living room with her doll and sealed envelope on her lap. She looked out the window and stared at the swaying tall trees in the distance behind Rita’s house.

Of all the days, Mondays were the hardest to stay still. Wednesdays were OK and Fridays were the easiest. Her dress was always the same, flowery and soft with lace all over the place like a spider web tangled in a strong breeze.

Three years to the day she remained sitting on the velvet couch in the silence in her head, in the middle of rhythmic sounds which had become invisible with time.

Her mother had often sat beside her and held her hand waiting for her daughter to say a word, any word, and maybe shift her gaze and look into her eyes. And then one day, without warning, Marisol walked into her bedroom and requested a glass of milk, a glass of cold milk to take with her cookies. Her mother picked her up in her arms and held her tight as she cried tears of happiness. “Of course my darling! Anything you want.”

Soon after, Marisol was enrolled in school and thrived in the classroom. She even made friends here and there, but every once in a while she would sit on that couch again and frighten her mother. One day, while Marisol was staying with Rita across the street, her mother destroyed that antique velvet couch with a hammer and a butter knife, threw the pieces in the car and took it to the dump.

When Marisol returned from Rita’s the following morning, all that remained was a small piece of red velvet fabric in the corner of the room. She picked it up before her mother came in and hid it in her pocket.

No one ever understood her fascination with silence and the overwhelming drive to be alone, if only for a couple of minutes a day. She tried to explain it to a small number of people – one friend, two boyfriends, her husband - but it was impossible for her to describe the complete feeling of ecstasy she felt while sitting completely still, alone, in silence.

Once, Thomas Gutierrez, the boy she dated briefly in high school, made her world spin around when he touched her behind the lemonade stand she had built and kissed her silently. He was mute. She was his. She thought he of all people would understand. But just as she was trying to explain, the chilling noise spilling from the approaching ice cream truck ruined it all and she ran into her house crying and covering her ears with her hands. Thomas Gutierrez didn’t call again.

When she was eighteen, she lived by the ocean and she discovered the perfect place for her solitude – the forest that came dangerously close to the edge of the water. There she would sit, on a rock, under a tree, and close her eyes and listen to the massive sound of the waves crashing below her, mist enveloping her and tickling her face. There she would feel for the first time what she felt on the velvet couch for three years of her life. That magical place is where she realized that silence was inside her and had made a permanent home in her body, had planted roots, deep into her soul and no matter where she went or how many people were around, she would always be alone.

This made her happy.

2006-07-19T21:07:00.000-07:00

...
PLEASE USE IN CASE OF URGENT NEED TO SHED A LITTLE PART OR YOURSELF.

--THE MANAGEMENT

2006-07-19T21:06:00.000-07:00

...
Buckle up, soldier
or the impotent stars will rise and
pop the milky way.

2006-07-19T20:06:00.000-07:00

...
Really limp monkeys
share a universal desperation
to indulge in the bare
necessities of the modern machine.
Give them some peanuts and a sunshine.
They'll jump.

fish

2006-07-12T17:37:00.000-07:00

2006-06-22T12:15:00.000-07:00

There was a time, long ago, when Sam enjoyed the delicate texture of a good rack of lamb, particularly on Sunday mornings after reading the funnies in the Daily Herald. His wife, Lucy, would take several days to prepare it and have it ready for her loving husband the following day.

He doesn't enjoy it as much anymore. He prefers broccoli. Or soup. No, broccoli.

2006-05-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, young Linda James from across the street decided that today was going to be my lucky day. She stood outside her house, in the shadows of the side alley, armed to the teeth with tomatoes and cheese. Not any kind of cheese, you see. She had carefully selected this one from a large variety of Swiss and Monterey Jack -the most colorful one of all: Blue to be exact. She didn't mind spending her hard earned, cumulative allowance (for 7 weeks she saved) on the pricey smelly food product.

So she waited. And waited. And waited until mother finally drove up, hit the garbage can for the 32nd time in a row and parked diagonally on the driveway, knowing full well that there was no room left for daddy to park his lovely vehicle. My brother and me in the back seat waited until the station wagon had made a complete stop to exit with our backpacks and lunch boxes.

I shut the door and fought my unruly sweater back into place.

That’s when Linda James made her appearance. She looked at me for a second and smirked as she raised her hand above her head and prepared to lunge.

Suddenly, the station wagon began to move backwards. Mother had forgotten the parking break again. Linda, in all her emotion and satisfaction of throwing the fragrant cheese, was blind to the car coming toward her, gaining speed like the cheese flying in the air.

I took a quick step to the left and avoided the cheese. At the sight of the cheese missing my lovely hair and face, Linda suddenly became aware of the large car coming her way.

She could have made it, but instead resigned to yet another humiliation caused indirectly by me, her sworn enemy.

The next day I found out she suffered a broken leg and arm and plenty of stitches on her knee. While the doctor stitched her up, one by one, she once again began to plot against me. What will it be next time? Albacore?

The Jellybean Boy

2006-04-26T21:16:00.000-07:00

Robin was the name of a boy who fixed my refrigerator once. He had dreamy eyes and a stature only very few shared and all respected.

Jumping jellybeans were found inside his car on the first day of Spring and the shock of the police officer was such that Robin decided to quit cold turkey that day. He only lasted 23 minutes without his jellybeans, but that was a long time for him.

Although he wasn’t sure why, the mere texture of the sweet treats gave him chills and goose bumps and sometimes, diarrhea. He remembered the first Easter in his stepfather’s house, the day his real father fathered his half-sister, when his mother took him by the hand and showed him his new little sister and shoved a strawberry flavored jelly bean in his ear.

“The sweetness will now fill you completely,” she said.

Luckily, they were already at the hospital, so the jellybean was removed promptly and without a glitch, but in the time between the anesthesia kicking in and the doctor proceeding to amputate his earlobe, Robin experienced such feelings of elation, he forever craved the candy every moment of everyday.

In the morning before class, in the evening before his pea soup, at night while he counted the moths on the ceiling, in his dreams when he had perfectly symmetrical ears, jellybeans were his thoughts.

He fixed my refrigerator good, Robin did.

Patsy and the Postman

2006-04-20T21:24:00.000-07:00

Patsy reminded me the other day about the time the watermelon was left on her doorstep. One morning, Patsy exited her house to go to her employment agency job and tripped on the large, supple, juicy fruit causing her wrist to break in 3 different places and dislocating her pinky. The neighbor, who everyone referred to as Sal, pointed in glee and hid behind his curtains.

She had assumed it was him. But it wasn’t.

The postman was the culprit. He had some sick sense of humor that man. At night he would wait until his wife Helen was fast asleep and then he would put his face really close to hers. He stayed there, motionless, trying to contain his laughter, until she felt a presence, opened her eyes and found the eyes of a stranger looking at her. Once she screamed so loud and punched him so hard on the stomach, he didn’t speak to her for a week.

His wife never got used to the midnight pranks and one day she pretended to leave him to teach him a lesson. She packed all her clothes, her shoes and the lavender towel she intended to be used by the guests and left the house. Heart-broken, the post-man cried himself to sleep that night. Helen waited by the window of the bedroom until she was sure she heard him snoring. Helen then put on a Frankenstein mask she had purchased earlier that day at the liquor store and she walked in slowly. Tip-toe, tip-toe.

She put her face really close to his. The hair on the mask tickled his nose gently and he opened his eyes.

The postman died of scurvy that night.

When Patsy heard the news of her postman’s death, she knew it had been he who candidly placed the watermelon on the porch. Her heart sank. She lived the rest of her days feeling guilty with a strange aversion to English literature.

You don’t say.

Plank

2006-03-29T22:19:00.000-08:00

My Sweetest Eloise:

May I have the pleasure of your company this evening? I swear I will not make you walk the plank this time. That was only once, a long time ago, in a time when my sanity had vanished and my good will had been shot to death by an AK-47. My mind was mutilated by a cannibalistic plant with a taste for human thoughts. All around me went blank like the still face of a still-born infant in my arms and I swear, I have no recollection of that rainy night.

My dear, dear Eloise.

You with your lips as red as the fiery hell that burns my insides. You with your eyes as blue-green as the corpse rotting away in my bathtub. You and only you can make me smile the way taking a stroll through the cemetery during cloudy days does.

Please, accompany me tonight, my love and hold my hand as I carve out your name and mine on the skull of my pet bunny jo-jo.

I will wait for you in the dark, patient and blue, with the knife in one hand and strawberries in the other.

Your beloved,

Marcus Darley

2006-02-13T22:59:00.000-08:00

Each day came by with a bang or two of sorts. The girl who always sat in the corner of the school yard where all the dead moths gathered for some reason, never seemed to mind the constant humming of the principal’s ventilator near the window. She sat there all throughout recess listening to the children playing in the distance. She would close her eyes and listen to the colorful sounds of the chain on the swing and the thump, thump of the children’s sneakers on the metal slide.

Little sounds she liked. The whispering between little girls and their quiet giggles afterwards; the screams of little boys catapulting themselves on the monkey bars and their landing on the sand, of the courageous kid flying away from the swing in full thrust, in full swing.

All those sounds kept the balance of the world. That’s why Mr. Coupe’s ventilator never bothered her.

Neither did the thought of the whispering and giggling being about her, which was the case most of the time. Sometimes, it was about Gustav and his missing eye. Gustav had a tendency to lose his glass eye. His real eye he lost when he was three in a Karaoke incident which he doesn’t recall. Often, the nuns had to help him look for his blue glass eye in the sand but Ritchie and his friends would find it first and play with it after school. The nuns usually gave up and escorted Gustav to the nurse's office where he would wait for a replacement.

Over the years, Ritchie and his friends collected a large amount of Gustav's eyes. They carried them around in their pockets and used them as marbles in the playground. The clicking sound of the glass eyes in Ritchie’s pocket in particular fascinated the girl, who called herself Carrie even though her real name was Sandy Deen.

In her corner of the playground, she waited patiently for Gustav to lose another eye and for Ritchie to collect it. She couldn’t wait to hear the wonderful and exquisite melodies that would be born into existence when yet another blue sphere would join the countless others in Ritchie’s pocket. In secret, she loved Gustav and Ritchie equally and deeply for giving her this unique and everlasting gift.

Over the years, Carrie tried in vain to replicate that glorious sound. She even went so far as to bribe a doctor into selling her a pair of glass eyes, but it just wasn’t the same. To this day, Carrie still closes her eyes and remembers the indistinguishable, unexplainable sound of glass colliding against glass, like a small, colorful creature living inside Ritchie’s pocket.

Every so often, she would walk by the ol’ playground and dig in the sand gently with her fingers just to see, just to see.

Tire Iron

2006-02-03T17:14:00.000-08:00

Aunt Molly disemboweled her nephew’s car and beat it senseless with its own tire iron. The mustang never had a chance against the wrath of his lunatic aunt and her feverish anger. Sunny watched from inside his mother’s house as his red dream bled oil and glass onto the pavement below. He stood motionless by the window for the hour and seventeen minutes it took Aunt Molly to mutilate and destroy the car for which he had been saving most of his life.

In the end, she kicked the fender lose with her bare foot. Breathing heavily, she held the tire iron by her side and admired her work as the sun set behind her sister’s house.

“There. No more nightmares. No more isolation,” she whispered as she walked back to the house.

The creaking of the door startled Sunny some, but he didn’t take his eyes off the wreck outside. Aunt Molly walked toward him and ran her fingers through his dirty blonde hair. She held his chin in the palm of her hand and kissed him on the cheek.

“Virtue is here to be seen, not heard,” she said as she tapped the tire iron gently on his head. She walked away, not really expecting a response.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t move. The light of the sun faded away, leaving him in the dark and in silence until the sound of crickets outside filled the house slowly.

He held his driver’s permit in his hand, perfect in every way. They even got his name right this time. I didn’t even get to drive it, he thought.

“Dinner is ready! It’s turkey, your favorite,” his mother yelled from the kitchen.

Her voice awakened him from his stupor. He touched his pocket and felt the twenty dollar bill his father had given him the day before. He grabbed his cap from the couch and walked out of the house.

Off he went into the night and never looked back.

2005-11-29T16:20:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, in the eve of major holidays, the spongy substance growing under the sink becomes so intoxicating, I forget to place my airplane tickets in my purse and instead I run them through the shredder. The next day, I wake up, wipe vomit off my hair and proceed to have a holiday by myself.

I’ve meant to clean the spongy substance growing under the sink, but I forget as soon as I remember why I woke up on the floor and wiped vomit off my hair. That, and the fact that it makes the house smell nice, like gum, cherry gum.

There is nothing more interesting to me than to see it grow, slowly, day by day, just an inch or two here and there.

To be continued....

2005-11-28T18:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes there is this little noise in her head that twinkles and sparks like a voltmeter on acid. And when there is nothing more to do it becomes as loud as reverberating thoughts can get. Deafening.

“What’s that? What did you say? Oh sorry. It’s the voices in my head. You are gonna have to speak louder. Louder than you’ve ever spoken before. Louder even. It is although you are mumbling something inside the barrel of a gun as I pull the trigger.”

He gave up. Tommy gave up trying to tell her sweet nothings and innocent whispers. Tommy gave up telling her she was beautiful. He always had to struggle and fight and lose to the voices in her head. So there he remains, silent on the couch imagining what it would be like if the world was silent, if no one was there to retrieve and analyze the encrypted sound waves, if only he spoke louder than they.

She made him happy with her smile and her darting blue eyes. But white and blue are not enough. Not enough for him. Like frozen dinners. They are never enough to fill the gaping appetite building inside you.

Lack

2005-11-08T19:10:00.000-08:00

Linda doesn’t lack anything these days, only her sense of humor and her pinky. She lost her pinky in a fight the other night when we were at the bar. She realized the girl behind her gave her a pinch and without thinking or remorse, slapped her a good one across the face. The girl, blonde and full of giggles, had great reflexes and quickly bit Linda’s finger as it left her cheek and spit the tip of her pinky on her face.

“That’s youth for you. Now have some soup,” the girl said as she walked away from the counter. The girl, whose name was Eloise, ended up on the lap of some bohemian poet that night and had the best episode of the giggles yet. He wrote poetry in French on her inner thigh with a red fine point sharpie and misspelled the word Chanteuse over and over. The poet, ashamed of his infidelity to the English language, killed himself three years later by lacerating the area behind his knee with a dull knife he had used to spread mayonnaise on his crackers earlier that day.

When the neighbors found him in his apartment, they recall hearing him say his last words with such sullen courage while releasing his last breath.

“Oh death, I see thee now. Take my rice and spread it in Mongolia where there are no buffalo…..”

Mr. McMahan, the building manager later told his wife he hadn’t heard anything at all, but because everyone else was gasping and awing, he gasped and awed too.

2005-11-02T14:46:00.000-08:00

Fandango was a turtle who lived in my shoe a long time ago. He was an elderly turtle, very educated and quiet. He was a good tenant until Mr. Pigeonhole moved in in the shoe next door. That Pigeonhole was not a pigeon or a hole as his name describes, but an Oyster. He said he was a Royal Descendant of the famous Oysterizer family in Germany, but he spoke no German and wore no gloves, so Fandango was always suspicious.

And curious.

The curiosity burned inside his little shell day and night. Why would an Oyster live in a shoe? He wondered. Why would a turtle such as myself live in a shoe as well? Who is writing this story, for goodness sake? An Oyster named Mr. Pigeonhole? What in the sake of all that is good is happening here?

Needless to say, now, I have a vacancy in one of my shoes. Fandango has left, very indignant, I might add, and now I am in search for a new Tenant.

SHOE FOR RENT
Spacious, red high-heel shoe for rent in quiet, safe neighborhood. Rent starts at 4 cents a month and increases with age. Only serious mammals may apply, no silly reptiles please. Contact me by snail mail only: 555 Textile Road, My Head, WS 42556.

2005-10-29T17:05:00.000-07:00

Lynn cancelled my ballet class on Sundays due to the incessant fear of cats she shared only with her Great Aunt Anastasia who now resided in Greece with her duck and broken hearing aid. The nurse, who bathes her and listens to her fragrant stories of mystery, romance and stale potato chips, is an elderly woman with false teeth and a true sense of grief for missing and exploited macadamia nuts. In the year 1974 she single-handedly created the Lost of Macadamia Institute in the East Coast, the first of such institutes to flourish around the world.

there are arms and legs

2005-10-28T23:11:00.000-07:00

there are arms and legs behind the counter
who dares to say today what became of the torso
the left eye was sinking behind
cascades of miracle life

sometimes I wonder
under the young apricot tree in his
gustav of a backyard

how come reactionaries in the dead of winter
enjoy the basking of the sun

when did he ever become entangled
in such a glamorous web of tangerines?

here lies the answer
in my hands
in my hyperactive exultation
in the questioning look of
tender and complicated youth.

2005-10-23T22:20:00.000-07:00

Spotty enjoys cream cheese and honest cowboys, especially if they come in the same container. The limousine he used to drive around was sticky and it had a faint smell of agoraphobia. Very slight, but very distinct.

Salty were the circurmstances of his arrest. An incalculable sense of fatigue overtook his carefully calculated body and resting his head lightly on my pillow, he became disoriented and oblique like the slow, deafening sound of a leaking balloon.

Olaf

2005-10-23T22:18:00.000-07:00

Olaf was I man I spoke with when I was in France. He said he found me particularly repulsive.

He did.

He did it with a smile and then he patted me on the head as he walked on. One could not fault him for his observation since it was true. I knew it well.

He said it so non-chalantly and with such warmth and distaste.

2005-08-08T22:54:00.000-07:00

Marty decided to elaborate, coincidentally, moments after Ringo gave his statement to the police officer who listened to the magical story just outside the bowling alley. Marty seemed to recall suddenly the color of the vintage bicycle belonging to the alleged thief who took one too many of the pickled eggs the night before. It was too dark to tell how many eggs exactly were missing since no one had kept an inventory since 1982, but it was obvious from the amount left behind that it had been more than one.

You see, the eggs were sold on the honor system since the day the bowling alley was opened to the public, May 1, 1967. The process had always been the same: the customer puts down 50 cents on the south side of the bar, Sal motions quietly to the north side of the bar with a quick movement of the head, then the customer proceeds to walk to the other side, opens the jar and removes his purchased good, not goods.

The honor system was shattered that fateful night, when all steps were followed except for the last. In somebody's greasy hand, two or more pickled eggs resided when only one was bought.

When the police officer questioned Sal, who is legally blind and deaf in one ear, not to mention, a leftie, he seemed to recall only the clinking of the change on the counter and the strong putrid smell of rotting flowers when the man or woman walked away.

to be continued.....

2005-07-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

Instantly and without remorse, Annie infiltrated the monument with great care and an accuracy seldom seen in mice of prey. As was planned in detail the night before during the various commercial breaks severing her favorite public access television talk show, where someone very indignant yells at somebody else who is equally indignant and vice versa, she armed herself with a small antique lampshade and a string she found behind her stove a couple of days before. Later on when investigators asked her about her odd choice of instruments, she admitted that although the string seemed unnecessary and a little presumptuous, she felt it played quite a vital role in the planning and execution of her plan.

To be continued…..

2005-07-07T22:16:00.000-07:00

Managing not to crack a simian smile, Anna Marie enveloped her aging, prune of a husband in her arms and gently, with all her strength, carried him head first into the collapsing and cracked porcelain bathtub in the ceiling-less bathroom at the rear of their house.

2005-07-06T11:36:00.000-07:00

Sally enjoys living in Idaho, she says. She says the pomegranate trees in Ted's back yard are green with envy and treacherous in winter. But the mailman told her once to keep quiet about the nightingale incident on Corner Ave. and Lincoln.

She never served tea at seven o'clock or ate biscuits after lunch. She kept her calendar clear of insects and walks to the zoo. She was terribly afraid of the letter Z.

She waited idly by as the ice-cream truck paraded down her formidable, yet statuesque block. How can the ice-cream cone revolving atop the yellow polka-dot truck resent her so. The stern posture of the swiggle at the top unnerved her greatly.

Ted reassured her by twisting her hair around his finger and patting her on her back.

She liked that. It gave her the willies.

2005-06-22T13:59:00.000-07:00

Making sure she was not followed, Martha, who had lived in the charming town of Hendricksville all of her life, approached the crouching man who sat alone by the delicate lake like he did every tuesday night, tapped his shoulder lightly and stated with a dry and sandy voice, "you're it."

2005-06-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

When will she be able once again to facilitate the entertaining and yet submersive involuntary manslaugher charge upon her very mother, the Countess of Hammington? How about tomorrow? Isn't George missing now? He was here yesterday.

2005-06-22T09:52:00.000-07:00

The lady in the closet spoke carefully with words she picked out of her hat the night before while thinking of all the incredible matchmaking she had endured in the last few days.