So, the wedding is today. We are excited! So excited we can't sit still to write long blog posts...but we can sit still long enough to say that in the coming week of relaxation, the bachelor party, Shar party, rehearsal dinner, and the wedding will have their own posts and photos put up here. The first three were great, and we have high hopes for the wedding :D. Oh, if you have pictures of any of those events, send em to me!

Labels: Generalness, wedding

{How could I write about anything else on our wedding day?}

Because this isn’t me fumbling awkwardly with you on a couch for the first time.
This isn’t me smiling nervously, flowers behind my back,
Or driving you home, circling the block a dozen times.
This isn’t us in different cities, cradling our phones like babies,
Counting the days till the weekend,
Praying for a surprise visit.
And it’s not a first Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or anniversary.

This is nothing new.

This is our home together,
It’s the hundredth time, not the first.
But we like that.
This is us reading on our couch, lazying about on our bed, throwing the covers off when it’s too hot.
This is us finding new places with an old friend.
This is me, getting used to the idea of being happy.
This is me for the next five, ten, a hundred years, standing on a rooftop, shouting your name at the skies.
Shouting my thanks to the heavens.

Labels: Stories

I could paint a mountain, but I’ve already painted a fucking mountain. I could paint the street outside my window, but I’ve already painted the fucking street outside my window. I even sold that one. I’ve painted everything I wanted to paint, and now I’m 36 and broke, and I don’t know how to do anything but paint. Maybe a still life…I fucking hate still lifes. Why are they called still lifes, everything painted is a still life. A painting that moved, that I’d love to try. But it would just come out looking like a cartoon, and that’s not what I want.

I. I. I. I. I! I fucking hate this! What do you want to see? What do you want from me? What in this world isn’t so ugly that you can’t stand to look at it? Nothing. There’s nothing to see. Don’t look. There isn’t anything worth looking at.

I won't do this a lot, but you should all consider Digging this article, written by my friend Conor Izzett (who also has two new stories up on his blog that I liked a lot). It's a little blog post over at the OC Weekly, but the song he's writing about has had a profound influence on...well, nothing. But it's great nonetheless.

Expect a cavalcade of wedding postery in the next few days: I have a few parties and miscellaneouses to write about, and I'm trying to keep caught up.

Labels: Generalness

{As usual, this story is meant to kinda/sorta stand on its own, but if you're interested in the rest of the Adventure! series, click here for more.}

Stepping off the bus, Kirk’s foot touched ground in this new world, where he was as tall as anyone, despite only being in the seventh grade. As he started walking towards the busy marketplace, the fuchsia, fish-faced creatures began to crowd around him, began to coo his name, and then make a weird sucking noise after it. It wasn’t a sucking noise to them, though. It was their word for savior.

Kirk’s guide, the tallest of the fish-men in the crowd, stepped forward, and placed a reassuring blue, three-fingered hand on his shoulder, steering him through the crowd, into a little hut on the far end. The crowd remained deathly quiet, except to occasionally whisper his name. The moment he passed through the door of the mud hut, though, he could hear things return to their normal bustle. “They have a short memory,” said his guide with a fishy smile.

“You––?”

“Yes, I speak English. Actually, as I have been trained at a collegiate level, it is likely I speak better English than you…but that is beside the point. I was trained, specifically, Squire Kirk, to communicate with you. To give you your mission…”

“My mission? What on earth is my mission?”

“Why, to save the world, of course. Wasn’t that made clear to you?”

“Um. No. But,” he said, images of Alexandria, the seventh grade goddess of beauty, springing to mind, “if I can do it, I will.”

The guide smiled. If the boy had not known of his mission, he surely didn’t know of the prophecy. So he skipped that part, and equipped him with a map and the finest weapon the fish-people could fashion with their little hands and lack of natural resources: a wooden sword, smaller than the one Kirk had in his room. Bravely, or rather trying to feel brave, Kirk set out on the long walk to his destination.

Labels: Stories

“I’m late.”

“What do you mean, you’re late? Are we doing something?”

“No, I’m late. For my period. By like a week and a half now.”

“Oh. Shit. Um.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So…?”

“We have to go get a test.”

“A p-pregnancy test?”

“Yes, a pregnancy test. Get your jacket, let’s go.”

* * *

“Jesus, how long is this supposed to take?”

“It says fifteen minutes.”

“How long has it been?”

“Ten.”

“It feels like it’s been an hour.”

“I know. Let’s try and relax.”

“Okay… It’s not that I don’t love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’m just not––”

“I––know. I’m not either.”

“I just mean, we’re still in college, we haven’t even been going out a year.
So, I mean, if it’s positive, maybe we could…you know.”

“We’ll talk about that if it’s positive.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Okay.”

“Oh my God, it’s turning blue. What does that mean? What does blue mean?”

“I think––Yes! It says blue is negative!”

“Yes! Oh my God. I love you.”

“I love you too. Really. But thank God.”

Labels: Stories

“He’s just secure about his masculinity, Roy. Don’t be an asshole.”

Secure about his masculinity. That’s the biggest excuse in the world to act like a fag. If he had any masculinity at all he wouldn’t be dressing up like a chick just to get an A in some GE Shakespeare class. It didn’t say in the requirement we had to be drag queens. That was voluntary. And I’m sure our professor is going to compliment him on acting like an idiot.

And fuck, why did Tiff say it like that? Like I’m not secure about my masculinity. I ran through three chicks just last week, which I think puts me on more solid footing than Mr. Pig Tailed Shaved Leg Knee Socks up there. I’m not an asshole. I’m just calling it like I’m seeing it. And I see that kid acting like a fag, that’s all. I wasn’t making a judgment or anything. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” and all that bullshit. Fucking A, when do we get out of here? I don’t want to be late for practice or coach’ll have my ass. How’s that for secure in my masculinity, Miss Tiffany?

Labels: Stories

“The fuck you lookin’ at? I always laugh when I see an ambulance, ahuh. You know why? Cuz if I can see it, I ain’t on it. And if I ain’t on it, I’m still on top. Keep staring at me, you might find yourself staring at the inside of one, find out how you like it. I’ve been there before, yeah. Had to get sewn up, man. By the time it got to the hospital, I just sat up and walked out the back of it, no gurney or nothin’. Wasn’t gonna let them write me up, put my name in their systems, look through my wallet and shit. Fuck that, man.

“Naw, I just stood up, walked out on my own two feet, like a grown man. Walked straight back to where they picked me up, found out that bitch that tried to do me, and then I called an ambulance, told ‘em somebody was about to need it. Don’t look at me like that, man, that little punk stabbed me in the back. You think he deserved better? You ever have someone try to end your life, man? Find out how much you give a shit about someone that tries to do that to you. I bet that punk looked real surprised, too. I couldn’t see his eyes when I did him, so I don’t know, don’t give a shit either. By the time that siren got there, I was gone. Ain’t seen the inside of an ambulance since then. Don’t plan to.”

Labels: Stories

I just posted my story for the day, which means I can relax and enjoy the rest of the day. What is the rest of the day? Why, my bachelor party, which I leave for in like a half hour. It should be an incredibly enjoyable (and hopefully stress-free) day hanging out with some of my best friends (the ones that have penises). I will no doubt be caught sneaking away to call Shar at some point in the day and be mocked ceaselessly.

Also, today I got a response back from the Southern California Review, a prestigious literary journal out of USC. The story I sent was rejected, but I got my first written commentary from a journal of that caliber, which started off by saying "Excellent writing and opening," then gave a few really good points of constructive criticism. And I have a story being published in Verdad this fall, and maybe another being published in another local journal, as well as about 15 stories out for consideration at different journals and quarterlies. Being a fiction writer is a lot harder than being a journalist/reviewer, but it feels like I'm moving forward, which is all I need. And the work I'm doing (simultaneously) on two novels, one I think I could sell and one I just wanted to write, is going well: I'm at about halfway on each. I'd like to finish one (the one I think I could sell) on the honeymoon. But, you know, we'll see about that.

Here's a picture of me before the bachelor party:



I'll post about how it went tomorrow. Unless I get drunk and accidentally kill a prostitute or something, which is unlikely, but always a possibility.

Labels: Generalness, wedding

At the zoo, the bees are on suicide missions, divebombing innocent zoogoers. The giraffes are stretching their legs and chasing each other up and down the lush (transplanted) African hills. The big cats, the cheetahs and lions and yes, tigers, are just trying to stay cool for another few hours, till the sun touches the horizon and the breeze kisses the grass. The birds are grateful for the sanctuary and all, but honestly wish they had a little more room to spread their wings, thanks. The roadrunner doesn’t get why all these weird land-locked bipeds keep looking at it and saying “meep meep.”

At the zoo, the primates are aware of what’s going on here, and are resenting any trace of anthropomorphizing, because after all they were here first, even if we did figure out how to work a cage and a camera before they did. And the plants are bearing it all with dignified silence.

At the zoo, the people are gawking

Labels: Stories

Actually, I'm not going to say anything about our fifth anniversary, since Shar has already said it much more eloquently on her blog. She also discusses the horrid woman we ran into (or actually, were run into by) at Trader Joe's today. Wedding planning progresses nicely with the exception of a few things, but we're relaxed and happy and it looks like the damn thing might actually happen, even if it is 90 degrees when it does.

Anyway, we went to the San Diego Wild Animal Park with my mom yesterday for her birthday, and ended up having one of the best days ever. We got there at noon, and didn't leave till after eight, tired and very very happy. I hadn't been to the WAP in my memory, and was stunned to discover it is really not at all like a zoo; no, it's more like Jurassic Park...but for animals. The majority of the animals aren't in cages or small exhibits, but rather in elaborate displays that are more heavily tailored to look (and presumably feel) like their natural habitats. The bulk of the park is a 60-some acre preserve that you can take a tram around the perimeter of; inside, on rolling hills and flat savannah land, live a number of species, including rhinos, giraffes, wildebeest, zebras, cattles, etc. It's really amazing: I tried to get a picture of it from across the park, near the condor sector, to display its immenseness:



I didn't do a good job, but check this out: while we were watching this scene, the giraffes and rhinos started chasing each other around, friendly like, running up and down the hills. Amazing.

Equally amazing was this fact: we took the tram tour twice, and got a completely different experience from each 30 minute excursion. The script overlap was minimal, maybe five percent, and we saw different animals displaying different behavior both times. The second time was just as the sun was setting, so they were all very active, chasing each other around and playing. I'm not doing a great job of describing it, but it was pretty indescribable. We also saw the lion exhibit around that time, when the huge cats woke up and were wrestling each other and running around. Oh and a baby rhino, swear to God, was running around, shoving a boulder in front of it with its horn.

Here are some of the other animals, namely Shar and my mom (you will notice my mom is not named in this blog: that's because she's paranoid, and this way no one can google her name and find a picture of her):



So really, a truly remarkable day. But honestly, this whole blog has just been to say that don't be surprised if there's a blog story about all the aminals tomorrow (and yes, Dupree, monkeys and giraffes will make an appearance).

Labels: Generalness

He was praying he’d find a thousand dollars when a man with a five hundred dollar suit and a thousand dollar laptop came out of the house whole stoop he was leaning on. The man looked at him crooked, and Evan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the laptop and ran. He fenced it for a grand, which he gave to the clinic doctor, along with another hundred he stole to stop the doctor’s asking where he got the money. The doctor gave his wife the morphine.

Evan spent the next six months slinking around the city, stealing when he could, mugging when he had to, scraping up enough money to get his wife painkillers. Her cancer would have been operable, but he would have had to knock over armed trucks to pay for it, and there just wasn’t any way he could swing that. They’d been going through a bankruptcy, already living in a nasty part of town when she’d been diagnosed. No assets, no relatives, no chance. So Evan did what he could to make sure her trip out of his life was as painless as possible. And before she slipped away, her fingers fluttered against his lightly and she whispered, “Thank you.” And he told her she was welcome, and closed her eyes for her.

You might think that Evan, heartbroken as he was, took some kind of satisfaction in the stealing, that he saw himself as a kind of noble Robin Hood figure. Not so. He didn’t think he was better than the rich––he was just smart enough to know they’d be the easiest to rob. But Evan certainly didn’t think he was better: he really was praying that day on the doorstep, all those years ago. He’d been brought up a devout Christian, and he died at 71 absolutely positive that he was on a one-way trip to Hell. All that time ago, looking at that laptop, he’d weighed his wife’s comfort in one hand, and his own soul in the other. He died thinking he was going to hell; he also died knowing he’d made the right decision.

Labels: Stories

The day Todd had been fearing had finally arrived. That morning, he woke up at 7:40am, springing out of bed to run downstairs and move his car before the street sweeper went by. He hopped in, as usual, the car started fine as usual, and the heater coughed exhaust in his mouth as usual. Then he put the car in gear and started circling the block. But there was nowhere to park. Usually there were three or four spaces, but today his college town was filled to the brim. Not panicking, he started circling further out from his block, prepared to walk a little if he had to. It was early, but Todd was reasonable. Still: nothing.

Eventually, his circles got bigger and bigger. No one knows how long he’s been driving: nobody can leave their house to find out. Every person on the planet has exactly one parking space now, except for Todd, and no one wants to leave their patch of asphalt bare for even a second, in fear that he’ll swoop in and take it. He is the bogeyman of parking. And he’s out there, circling bigger and bigger, tracing orbits around the planet now. He never rests, and he never stops. We’re all playing musical chairs, and Todd is the big loser.

Labels: Stories

It was hot, so he got up and opened the window, that was all. And now he was tied up in his kitchen, pleading for his life. The only single good thing in that life? His girlfriend hadn’t wanted to stay over because she had an early interview the next day. The two men standing over him laughed as he tried to wriggle out of his rope ties. One of them kicked him savagely in the ribs. “Quit it,” he shouted. “You’re not going anywhere. Even if you get out, we’ve both got guns, and your front door is on the other side of us. Just relax, we’ll finish up in ten minutes or so, and then you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Please,” he whispered, trying not to go into shock. “Please don’t kill me.”

“But we left our ski masks at home, man. You saw our faces. We can’t let you live after you’ve seen our faces, can we?”

“But––but you’re wearing ski masks,” he sputtered.

“Yeah, see? That just proves my point. You’ve been paying too much attention.” The man gave him another kick, and he let go, slipping into the fuzzy ocean the shock brought on.

* * *

When he came to, his house was empty. It looked like professional movers had come in and stripped everything. As far as Kyle knew, he no longer had any possessions at all. He felt violated, and dirty, and he probably had a few broken ribs. But against all odds, he was alive, and he felt lucky, too.

Labels: Stories

So, when you go to a wedding (or so I hear, I've never been to one), you usually get a favor of some kind. I've been told these are usually things like matchboxes, or little buckets with M&Ms in them, etc. In keeping with our theme of "Let's have this day actually mean something and not just be a reason to throw money at the wedding industry," Shar and I decided we wanted to do something that was at least semi-meaningful for the party favors, or just not do them at all. Then I had a "brilliant" idea: mixed CDs. We've always made each other mixes, some of it romantic, some of it not, going back to just a few weeks after we started dating. I thought, what a great thing: do a double CD mix set, one CD for stuff I've given Shar, one for things she's given me.

Then, of course, it occurred to me that entailed a lot of work. It took me forever to get the songs narrowed down (we could have easily done four CDs), and then split them to the two discs, and then mix them to where my anal-retentive self could be happy with them. But we did. Then, last Sunday, we had a junkload of guests (by my memory Dan, Conor, Beef, Erin, Katie, Dupree, and Brian) over from noon till after 1am, burning CDs nonstop. The result? We managed to get all 340-some CDs burned for the wedding, and Dan and I put in another several hours on Monday night to get the labels on all of them. Special thanks to Dan for that, and for staying that entire thirteen hour period on Sunday. What a champ.

Here are the fruits of our labors:



The biggest casualties of this CD onslaught? My hands, which are now withered and arthritic, and Beef's birthday bash. I took him out for a slurpee the next day, as I know that always has been, and always will remain his favorite drink. Beef is rad, and I wish him again a happy 21st birthday. We're glad you didn't shit yourself, pal.

Principal Swinemore knew that the rule was extreme, and he knew that there would be some backlash to it, but he told himself that when you’re the principal at a middle school where a twelve year old was just killed because of gang violence, you have to make some extreme decisions. Surprisingly, the rule’s first, and loudest critic was his best friend. Franklin Scott was a teacher at Hamilton Middle School, and Principal Swinemore and Mr. Scott had been friends since they were both students at the school. Mr. Scott was in the Principal’s office now, and he did not look happy. “What is this? A no touching policy? You have to be joking.”

“Franklin, don’t talk down to me. You know the pressure I’m under with what happened––”

“What happened was a tragedy, Bill. But to punish kids for high fives? Handshakes? Hugs?”

“Frank, FOX has video of two 11-year olds using gang initiated hand shakes on our playground. On a playground! I know that this is extreme. But it is necessary. And it will be enforced, by you, and the rest of the staff. Hundreds of other schools have already implemented this, and it’s corrected all their disciplinary problems.”

“Yeah, so would shock collars,” Franklin muttered under his breath.

“What was that, Frank?”

“I said we’ll see, Bill.”

* * *

After news got out about the rule, there was a week’s worth of debate about it in town, and then it was forgotten along with the rest of the week-old news. Even the parents who had kids in Hamilton seemed to think that as long as they weren’t getting phone calls, everything was fine. But on campus, the students were going nuts. Franklin Scott was an English teacher, for eighth graders, and he was popular. His students came up to him after class was out, or during lunch, to talk about how scared they were, how terrified they were that if they bumped someone in the hall they’d be expelled. He tried to calm them down, but to no avail. And he didn’t blame them for being scared, for being angry. Coincidence had it that they were reading speeches that week, by nonviolent protestors.

One of his prodigies, a boy named Alex, started staying later after each class, spending most of his lunches in Mr. Scott’s class. He was growing more upset by the day. He’d written a letter to the newspaper, who told him they didn’t have room for stale stories. He wrote the principal, who said he couldn’t discuss policy with students. He talked to his parents, who told him if he didn’t quit whining they’d give him something to whine about. And finally he talked to Mr. Scott, endlessly. And then he had an idea.

* * *

The protest was scheduled for a Tuesday, because no one missed school on a Tuesday. Alex told Mr. Scott to go to Principal Swinemore’s office that lunch period, because he was going to be “too busy with my friends in the quad” to have lunch that day. Mr. Scott complied. And at 12:15, he opened Swinemore’s blinds. Every eighth grader in the school was lining up, in two rows, from one end of the quad to each other. Swinemore looked at Mr. Scott, panicked. “What are they doing, Frank?”

“I honestly don’t know, Bill.”

The rows turned to face each other, and then came together, and embraced. Looking down from the second story, Bill and Franklin could see every eighth grade student, hugging. They did not move, and Swinemore did not send anyone to separate them. He was momentarily breathless. “What am I gonna do, Frank?”

“You are going to remember that the ends do not justify the means, Bill. How can you ever separate them? How can you honestly tell those kids that what they’re doing is wrong?”

Labels: Stories

He was getting high by the police station when the thought hit him, rising in glowing letters from a murky swamp: he was absolutely sick of parties. More than that, he was getting sick of getting sick of parties, was sick of reading stories in his creative writing classes about how sick his classmates were, was sick of reading girl after girl’s myspace blog (in the middle of posted party pics) about how sick they were of partying. He was sick of turning away from the balcony, where he was lighting up and daring the cops to look his way, and seeing all the other partiers in there, so utterly and thoroughly sick of partying.

What was the point? Didn’t they all have other things to do? Did they have to keep traveling, Thursday, Friday, Saturday nights to the same places? He was so sick of watching the same two slutty girls make out with a rotation of the same five slutty guys, and he was getting more sure by the day that they were all sick and tired of it, too. He felt like his whole generation was sick of things, but couldn’t change things, were resigned to just doing the same fucking things over and over again.

Then, for the first time, he remembered something else he could do. He could start playing guitar again, instead. Pick up where he left off with his friends in high school, when he spent his free time writing songs and trying to figure out how his parts would fit together with everyone else’s. He used to look forward to that free time all day, but now, the time he didn’t spend in class or working felt more and more like a prison sentence, a mandatory blowing off steam period. Every second he stood there on the balcony, he wanted more and more to run home and get his guitar out of the garage, not procrastinate the way he usually did. But he waited one half second too long, and his weary-looking best friend dragged him back inside, into the haze of smoke and discontent that filled the room.

Labels: Stories

She’s attached to the driver’s-side window of your car, and she is fully aware that you are driving five miles an hour over the speed limit. You may think she just thinks she’s clinging to something stationary, and that when you stop the car and she flies away, she’ll be stunned to realize she’s in a completely different part of the world. You would be wrong. She didn’t know you’d be whisking her away when she bumped into your window, then turned over and put her legs on it. But when you started moving, she could feel the air rushing over her shell, pushing her down. She knew if she wanted to, she could have shoved herself off the glass, opened her wings and glided home. Instead, she crouched, and surfed the winds on your windowpane, leaving behind her entire ladybug life.
Her mate would think she’d been killed, she knew, or that she’d left him. She felt bad, but as she felt her life slip further and further away, she felt free, too.

Labels: Stories

Richard Gorman is one of the music industry’s most respected songwriters; not one of those hacks that fills pop albums with syncopated bullshit, but a true songwriter, like Dylan or Neil Young. He’s penned more Grammy-winning songs than any other writer, and he usually takes little to no credit for his works. “Rich, why don’t you keep some of those for yourself?” people always wonder. “If you recorded half the songs you’ve written, even if you can’t sing, you’d be the new Bob Dylan.” After those people have met him, they stop wondering, because then they’re let in on one of the industry’s best-kept secrets: Richard Gorman is deaf and dumb. He can neither hear, nor talk, and his vision is so hazy he composes his masterpieces on a big whiteboard, using a black marker so he can see. He writes letters that are two feet tall, and an average song will often fill an entire wall of his Beverly Hills mansion.

Gorman never married, and shuns any press that tries to contact with him. An investigative journalist tried to get his story for the Times, but Gorman wouldn’t have anything to do with it. He cultivated the idea that he was arrogant, that he hated reporters and the media. But really, he dodged interview requests and emails because he knew anyone who wanted to talk to him wanted to know the answer to the same question: how could he write such beautiful songs if he couldn’t hear them, and he couldn’t sing them? He knew the answer, and he was afraid that people would laugh if they knew, that no one would take him seriously anymore. The only other living soul he’d ever told was his interpreter, a dedicated (and well-compensated servant) who translated his sign language into speech for him. One night, before he went to sleep Gorman’s hands had asked his servant if he wanted to know the secret. Of course, he did. So Gorman told him: he didn’t need to hear the songs, or hum them or sing them. Because he could taste them.

Labels: Stories

It’s soccer season again, my favorite time of the year. The first practices were yesterday, Thursday. I know this because my house is just across the street from the biggest park in town, so I can hear them practicing. It’s not a major street, either, with lots of cars zooming around in between me and them, it’s just a tiny little one, on the back side of the park where the practice fields are. I was on heavy painkillers for my knee yesterday afternoon, so I couldn’t go outside to watch, but I could hear them out there, running around, laughing, falling down. They’re so happy just to get to run around, just to play. They appreciate those things.

I think of them like young rock formations, still jutting further and further towards the sky each day. The second they stop growing, time will begin to wear at them, will tear them down piece by piece, each passing moment another grain of sand scraping off a piece of their life. One day, the erosion will catch up to them the way it caught up to my wife, when she was sanded down to nothing last year. Maybe, decades from now, it will cripple them the way it’s crippled me, wearing and wearing at my left knee until I can hardly stand on it anymore, a hollow mountain set to topple over at any moment.

But there are still joys for me, even if it takes all my effort, even if it’s a big production now to make it out to my porch on a Friday evening, with a glass of lemonade, to sit while the sun goes down and watch the new kids learn to strap on their shin-guards, to watch the older ones weave intricate patterns from one end of the field to the other.

Labels: Stories

We've had a lot of pop-ins in the last few weeks, ranging from people stopping to say hi on their way to doing something else, to people showing up and hanging out for a whole day. This makes us (that's me and Shar, not the royal we) very happy. The central location of our apartment in the city of Long Beach was a big part of why we picked it, imagining at the time the kind of bustling traffic we've been seeing lately. Today Jeff popped in, just for like twenty minutes, and ended up (we both agree!) brightening the whole day, and yesterday Dan, Beef, Erin, and Dupree all happily and unexpectedly showed up for dinner, so I treated them to my new specialty: BurgCheesers, which are hamburgers with cheese in the middle of them. They're amazing. Anyway, this is a definite ramble of a post since it's late and I don't want to start the District's BooksCal yet, and I'm too lazy to do a massive wedding update. But, to sum up: hooray for people! And also, pop in any time you want...but you should probably call first, to ensure that I'm wearing pants. Good day!

Labels: Generalness

Today’s the day. I’m finally selling the old hog. When I first met my wife, she told me it looked more like a piglet than a hog, since it’s this cheap Harley knockoff, the only thing I could afford at the time. But it was big enough to hold me, and then my wife, for the last ten years, the end of college, a few years of dating, a few years of marriage. But now, with the baby on the way, it’s time to sell her for what I can, and get a real car.

As much as I love the old girl, I’m ready to move on. It’s been a pain in the ass lately with work, trying to get there and back with all my files shoved into a backpack, hoping my suit doesn’t rip or pop a button under the leather jacket. It’s the college days I’ll miss, when I’d get in a big fight with a professor, or be stressing about a paper, and I’d hop on the bike and just let it rip. Sometimes I’d end up spending my weekends in parts of the country I’d never even thought to visit, towns you could only find if you weren’t paying attention to where you were going.

But that’s behind me. There’s too much at stake now to not pay attention. My life, my wife’s, the state of the world: that beautiful little baby in there is going to be born into all of this, and I need to clean it up as much as possible. Besides, the baby won’t fit on the bike, so I need to buy a car. That’s not a tragedy, it’s not growing up, it’s not being smothered. No, that’s just arithmetic.

Labels: Stories

So, first and foremost: go see Stardust. Go see it, if for no other reason, because it's an original fantasy movie (that's not Christian or a sequel) based on a great book, and it got creamed by Rush Hour fucking 3 last weekend. The hope for Neil Gaiman, author of the book the movie is based on, and Paramount, is that word of mouth will make up for a bungled advertising campaign and a weak opening weekend.

So, word of mouth: we loved it. It was surprisingly funny, generally had the kind of dark/but still light tone I love for kids'/fantasy movies; part of why the ad campaign was bungled was that they never figured out what kind of movie it was, which is understandable. This is a love story, a coming of age story that features flying pirates, sword fights, Robert DeNiro, magic, witches, a plot for the throne, and a group of hilarious ghosts who watch the whole thing unravel. It's kind of indescribable: the acting is thoroughly good, with DeNiro turning in one of his best (and certainly most different) performances, and Claire Danes and Charlie Cox doing, I thought, a great job. There are problems, mostly a bad piece of dialogue here and there, but overall this movie stood out for me in a summer of big movies, and Shar and I are both prepared to validate the comparisons to Princess Bride. It's definitely a LOTR-era Princess Bride, but the tongue-in-cheek epic adventure mode is the same.



Now for a book, which is less good: I haven't been writing about books much because I've been back on my nearly-complete Vonnegut study, and reviewing the in-betweeners for a new web site I've been involved with (as usual, more on both of these later). The World Without Us has probably the coolest one-line pitch ever. What would happen to the world if we disappeared tomorrow? How long would it take for things to return to "normal"? What would happen to our cities? The possibilities are endless. Unfortunately, they're also largely undealt with, as Alan Weisman spends too much time talking about how things are now, and focusing on too many specifics to knock me on my ass with the big picture, which is what I hoped for. There's also little to no comprehensive order to the book: it reads like a collection of facts. Granted, they're really cool facts for the most part (if humans didn't pump it daily, the New York subway would completely flood within two days, for example), but loosely associated facts do not a great book make. Y'all're welcome to borrow this, and I really wish I could say it's worth buying, but sadly, it isn't.

Lastly: IF AT ALL REASONABLY POSSIBLE, DO NOT MISS FRIDAY AUGUST 24TH AT ACRES OF BOOKS. I will have to miss the event as it's my fifth anniversary, and the one day in the last two months and the next two weeks that Shar and I have committed to doing absolutely no wedding planning, just hanging out, getting a nice dinner, and remembering why we're getting hitched in the first place: cuz we like each other. Anyway, the 24th: HOBOETRY!!!!!!! HOMELESS POETRY! LIVE READINGS! SEVEN PM! Holy Shit! Ahem. Anyway, check that out, I don't often find don't-miss events for my friends while doing book calendar for the District, but this one really caught my eye in a big way.

Labels: Generalness, Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit, wedding

Becky had been planning her divorce for months now, carefully spending money where it had to be spent, laying the seeds for a successful event. But the stress of such a massive endeavor had been getting to her, and the divorcée shower was a great time for her to relax and kick back with her divorced friends, who had invaluable advice and experience with what she was dealing with.

They had Pina Coladas and talked about their proposals, that magical moment when they’d suggested divorce to their then-husbands. They pored over the details of where they’d been, what they’d had for dinner, and who asked who. Cindy’s husband had proposed divorce to her, which scandalized a few of the older women. She shrugged and smiled. “We were always untraditional like that.”

Still, as the shower was wrapping up, it was apparent to all that Becky was still anxious. “There’s just so many things I’m going to miss about him, that’s all,” she told them.

“Well, of course you’ll miss him, Becky. But trust us, you’re better off single. And besides, it’s going to be easy for you. It’s not like me: we had kids before we got divorced. God, I still haven’t lived it down from my mother.”

“I just…I think he really loves me.”

The women laughed at her, patted her knee. “Oh, Becky. Be realistic. Nobody loves anybody anymore.”

Labels: Stories

Lately, it’s been taking me longer and longer to wake up from my nightmares. Like a few weeks ago, I had a dream where I was falling off the top of the Empire State Building; normally, not a big deal. I usually have that nightmare monthly, and have since my parents took me to visit it when I was a kid. But in the normal version, I’d wake up a second or two before I actually hit the ground. Last time I had it, I didn’t. I could feel it, really feel it when I hit the ground, when every piece of me came apart from every other piece. I could feel my soul drifting skyward when I woke up. It took me three nights to fall asleep again after that.

But then, all I got was the pleasure of watching myself shot, stabbed, and strangled to death. And not just me: my friends, my family. My brain picked them apart while I slept, and made me watch. And they’re all gone now, all gone. And what am I left with? I’m left with myself, waking alone in a room, missing my wife, missing my kids, missing my mom, missing my dad, but left with nothing but a rusty fan and the sweat I’m soaking in. Everything else is gone.

They say in space, no one can hear you scream. But in your own head, at night, sleeping, things are much worse: because it isn’t that no one hears you, it’s that no one cares. Not even you care anymore. At least in space, you have all that nothingness to comfort you before your head explodes.

Labels: Stories

Or a one-hundredgenarian! Or something! Yes, somewhere back there, I hit 100 original stories, one written every day in the midst of other writing jobs, wedding planning, and housewifery. I had planned a mini-celebration, but have ended up being way too busy to stop and be proud of myself, especially since I still have to crank out a good story every day of the week. Honestly, the last fifty days have been easier than the first fifty, and I have some great ideas scrawled down for the next fifty...and the next fifty, etc....

I've been under a flood of emails lately, the general tone of which has been: "Wow, Mike! 100 stories! All for free? All for me? Surely there's something I can do to repay you?" Relax, readers. As a creative endeavor, this has been more than fulfilling thus far, and looks to continue to be so. However, it always makes me happier to have more readers, so this feels like a real project, and not just an ego stroke, so I'd love it if you continued to help spread the word. I'm doing a little bit of next-stage stuff in this line, and I've received lots of help already, so thanks for those who have helped, and thanks in advance for those who want to.

Also, if you see an ad you like on the right bar, or at the bottom, I get nearly 20 cents if you click on it! Wahoo!

Anyway, it's been too goddamned hot (98 in Long Beach today!!!!) to do much of anything other than lay around and do as little work as possible, but I have a Tay Zonday post I've been fiddling with (it's intimidating to write about someone so much more talented than yourself), some links to other articles at other sites to post soon, and tons of other shit I'll try to get better about updating soon. Wedding planning is chugging along slowly, happily, and expensively, and I'll keep everyone posted on that as it comes along.

Till then, thanks for reading. Really. Readership has been high and fairly steady, and I can't tell you all how much it means that I'm not the only one who isn't sick of this after 100 (and four) stories.

Labels: Generalness, Mission Statement

They look like specks to you, but they’d look like giants to an amoeba, if an amoeba could see. They’re flying in central California. It is pitch black, until they float on an updraft over a hill, and they see what looks like a vein of gold tracing a crooked path through the darkness. They swarm to it, craving that pulsing light like a vampire would a jugular. They smash against your windshields, leave little smears of their guts. It might look like suicide, it might look like the shore where technology and the natural world run together. It might look like you’ve killed them. But you take them with you, wherever you are going, and they’re still there.

Labels: Stories

The rapture is real. It is coming tomorrow. Contrary to some beliefs, we will all be taken, lifted from our lives and this plane and set down somewhere bright and beautiful. There is nothing to worry about, if what you’re worried about is people. There is nothing to worry about if what you’re worried about is the planet either, although there’s certainly more to talk about.

Can you imagine your house, that you saved for and built attachments on, that you defended against insects and rodents, that you lived in for decades, left empty for the rest of eternity? Imagine the mildew creeping in, the holes that dead leaves will eventually punch through the roof, the flooding, the warping that will occur every time it rains. Imagine every house in every suburb falling to its knees, begging Earth for mercy as her rain and winds take them apart, piece by piece.

Can you imagine all the lovely things that will grow, that will evolve after we are gone? Imagine the animals taking Manhattan back, taking up residence in Trump Towers and the Ed Sullivan Theater, until the asphalt and concrete break apart from below, and the city is swallowed whole by the island beneath it. Imagine all those buildings falling, with no one to grieve for them. Can you imagine, your world without you in it? Can you imagine Eden?

Labels: Stories

Observe, the domicile of the human hermit, class. His house is closed, fenced, locked up. He fancies it impenetrable. If our calendar is correct, though, today should be a remarkable…yes! See, his windows flung open, his blinds drawn. Today is the day he lets light into his home, and if we’re lucky, he may even come out, to forage for food or attempt to mate with another of his species.

He’s walking to the door, and…yes! We are really in for a special treat today, children, he’s emerging from his shell for a few hours. Notice the thick beard and the downcast eyes, the pale, chalky skin, dying from lack of exposure to the sun. Notice how he shuffles, how all his muscles look atrophied from lack of use. Okay, he’s in the grocery store, notice how he looks at the females from under his long hair, then shuffles back from them. He’s spent so much time in hibernation that his big brain has forgotten how to interact, how to court a mate. He no longer remembers even how to approach another human. There, yes, he’s bringing his ramen and macaroni and cheese to the counter, and making his purchase.

Well, there he goes, class, he’s going back into his shell. Observe the way he stands at the window and watches the world for a minute. Now the blinds are closed again, the house shuttered and locked backup. The human hermit has returned to his shell. Yes, Michelle? No, darling. It’s a shell, not a cocoon. A cocoon is something you go into to change, and our hermit will certainly never do that.

Labels: Stories

Susannah is getting an ice cream cone. She’s a young girl, and like all young people, she loves ice cream. The young man behind the counter hands her the cone, and glances nervously towards the corner, at the man in the shiny sunglasses who’s been sitting there all morning. That man is me, the man writing this story.

No, I am just kidding. Nobody in the story can see me. Think of me more as a detached eyeball, floating high above in the sky, with x-ray vision that lets me see through walls and rooftops, and occasionally into people’s heads. If we were in a creative writing class, the professor would tell you I’m a “third person omniscient narrator,” but we both know that’s bullshit. If I were omniscient, I could tell you what was happening inside of every leaf, blade of grass, and tree in the world below us. But I have no fucking clue what’s going on in there.

All I can see are the people. That’s why I can rotate my big invisible eyeball away from all that delicious ice cream to see Bobby Larenzo, famed hit man of south Florida. He’s older than he was the first time I looked at him, his son is nearly grown now, and Bobby is strangling a man to death. He has killed hundreds of men, but never by strangling them before. He is surprised by the noises the man is making.

Now I can turn and look at Kirk Anderson, in the middle of a big adventure, encountering his adversary, surprised to see that he recognizes him. I can see a vigilante who calls himself The Night, running around in the daylight, skipping from shadow to shadow, uncomfortable and determined.

It pleases me to look at all these people, to see what they are doing. I have been looking at them for one hundred days now. I am smoking an enormous cigar in celebration. This cigar is the size of a redwood tree, and I am the size of the sun. Susannah’s family is going to the redwoods next summer. Bobby has never been, and will never go. Kirk Anderson was there very recently. The Night has never been, and will never go. There are dozens of people there now, running around, playing hide and seek behind centuries-old trees. I can see them, even when they are hiding, I can see and hear all the exciting and beautiful thoughts in their heads. I cannot see inside the trees.

{Note: As always, this story is mean to stand on its own, but for more of Susannah's stories, you can go here, for more of Bobby's you can go here, for more of Kirk Anderson's adventure, here, and for more of The Night, here. For more stories by the most important of all characters in this story, I suggest you visit here.}

Labels: Stories

Football is back!!!!!!!!! Tonight was the first game I've been able to see on TV since the Super Bowl (the actual first preseason game was the Hall of Fame game last Sunday in Canton that was only televised on NFL Network), and I am fucking excited. Ryan and I make our first trip down to San Diego on Sunday, to watch the Seahawks get the shit kicked out of them. And things are looking up for the Niners. And life is looking up, generally; it's so much easier to be happy during football season...

It's well-known by now that Hunter S. Thompson waited to kill himself until after the NFL season was over (proving what a champ he was, he even waited until after the Pro Bowl), writing a suicide note/essay before his death entitled "Football Season is Over." I don't take football that seriously...but I'm glad it's back on.

Labels: Football, Generalness

Yakko hates laughter more than most people are capable of hating anything; he hates it so much that the anger has burned out of him. That’s what makes him the world’s saddest clown. Thing is, being funny is the only thing Yakko knows how to do: aside from clowning, he has no marketable skills, no talent to build a career around. So, Saturdays and Sundays, and Friday afternoons, Yakko will come to your child’s birthday party. When he gets out of his too-tiny car, he will trip, and fall face first on your concrete. The kids will all laugh and point, but Yakko will just discreetly wipe the blood from his nostrils.

He’ll trip and roll and flail his way into the family room, farting here and there, and then tumble around your house until you pay him and he can go home. None of this is intentional. The only intentional and deliberate thing about his job is the application of the makeup, a thick, wide red smile around his mouth, the rest of his face caked in white. Yakko doesn’t intend on making a single pratfall or dance: he’s just clumsy, and afflicted with vertigo.

How did I find out about Yakko, the world’s saddest clown? No, I don’t have any children, and I don’t have any friends who do. I met him at the grocery store, where he was picking up some milk on his way home from a Saturday afternoon gig. A small child was eating grapes, and dropped one on the floor. Yakko, in full clown regalia, slipped on it, and fell on his back. Falling, he’d flung the groceries up so high that the milk broke open on the ceiling, and as it fell to the ground, poured the entire gallon’s contents on his face. A manager came rushing over, furious. “I don’t know if you’re filming a video or what, mister,” he yelled, “but we don’t think destruction of our property is very funny. You’re paying for that milk, and any damage done to that ceiling.” A crowd began to gather around Yakko and the manager. Yakko sat up, soaked to the bone with milk, looking miserable and very, very white. The only color on his whole body was his ruby red painted-on smile. And the crowd, naturally, the crowd went wild.

Labels: Stories

So, it's been quite a bit since we got massively caught up on wedding planning. Here's what's been up, with the accompanying pictures:

Most importantly, Shar and I have settled into our hectic schedule, with both of us working as hard as we can, then working as hard as we can on wedding stuff during all our free time. Here is what Shar looks like now, as opposed to the stressed out shell of a lady she was not so long ago:



Yes folks, life is a real party when you're planning an awesome wedding.

And planning we have done: since last we spoke, we've written a couple of big checks, including booking our honeymoon (a week and a half in a very nice hotel in Hawaii, where we will enjoy sun, surf, and yes, the opening of the NFL season together, as man and wife). We also paid off the rest of the fee for the site, which was a bit of a doozy, and had our next-to-final meeting with Liz, the coordinator for the Arboretum. She's rad, though I don't have a picture with her.

Shar had her bridal shower on Sunday, which I am told was a great deal of fun, and which generated the following leftovers:



and the following presents:



A big thank you to those who attended; for everyone who was out of town, Shar's planning a second shower/bachlorette party/get-together on Saturday August 25th. That will also be when my bachelor party is. Beyond that I don't know anything about the bachelor party as I've been barred from all planning for my own good.

We've also seen a ton of friends and family come through here (which we love and appreciate), a budget crisis present and resolve itself, and about half our RSVPs come back, with lots of them covered in wonderful messages or creative drawrings.

All in all we're much less stressed than we have been, due in part to the fact that Shar is great and also due in large part to the triumphant return of my car (thanks again to Val and Whitney for driving it down). Being able to take myself places and listen to music while driving to destress has returned my sunny disposition. It's also enabled us to buy cool stuff like this Just Married window flag, to keep people from using car-soap on my beautiful car (which I'd prefer given that Brian spent like a half a year scrubbing that shit off of his):



We also bought an instructional wedding dances DVD, which we may not make use of for actual wedding dances, but which we've been enjoying all the same. So far, we've learned to fox trot, which we've been doing to Sinatra and Stevie Wonder. We're pretty good, and it's been surprisingly good exercise.

Other than that, the big time-consuming thing has been the music, which I've been working on for a few weeks. I'm coming up with a playlist for reception music, as well as a two-disc set for use as the party favors. Here are supplies:



The music for the CDs is pretty set, but as a reward for reading through all this mess, I would absolutely love any and all suggestions from people for reception music. If it's a song you like, a special song with your lady or fella, whatever, leave a comment and let me know: you may be dancing to it in three weeks and one day.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is, wedding-wise: we've been getting a lot done, and we haven't been worried about it. Because there's nothing to worry about but worry itself. Then of course there's this. I don't get on the moral high horse very often, but that got me up there pretty quick.... I've never been afraid Shar would cheat on me, but it's weird knowing that if she wanted to, there's a networking site specifically catering to that kind of thing.

UPDATE: Our wedding registry is also now listed in my links on the right, for your convenience. Well, really for ours, I guess. Anyway, it's there.

Labels: Generalness, wedding

America, once the world’s richest country and always the world’s most elaborate get-rich-quick scheme, is destitute. I can tell you how, though I was one of the lucky ones who got out. The answer, of course, is simplicity itself: all the rich people left. Apparently, they had been planning on leaving all along, since the very beginning. The Freemasons planned it, and again, had evidently been planning it all along. The Freemasons were thought of as a secret society, though everyone knew about them, and wrote funny stories about them, and made silly movies, and so on. It was only the true purpose of the Freemasons that was kept secret.

The plan was to come to America, four hundred years ago, and to accrue an inhuman amount of wealth and power, then leave for home, a dozen generations or so down the line. These families had secretly maintained their ancestral properties, and were welcomed back to the countries of Europe with open arms. No one in Europe seemed much surprised at all by the plan, actually.

So that is what happened to America. There are only poor people left there, now. Even the middle class, like myself, left for other countries. It was as though the world had collectively tried an experiment, and then, collectively, finished with it. I think, sometimes, when I see a news story about a car bombing in Los Angeles or Manhattan, that we should have cleaned up our mess. But I think more about the strange life of a Freemason in the twentieth century. They were already rich enough to leave, but their great-great-great-great-and-so-on-grandfathers had written that they were not to return to their true homes until 2010, so they had to go on living in their empty, pointless worlds. I am told that the only joys they found in life were taking showers that were so hot they made you pee a little, involuntarily, and in listening to ice crackle in glasses of lukewarm water.

Labels: Stories

It was the Yogi Hajajaru that first discovered human beings’ ability to evolve spontaneously, at will. The Yogi was practicing a new form of meditation that he had been developing when he made his discovery, which certainly did more to shape the course of mankind than the discoveries of Newton, Edison, and Franklin combined. This meditation was called underwater meditation, and it was something the Yogi had been doing since he was a young boy, sitting under a small waterfall. Eventually, he’d been able to do it at the bottom of oceans, and lakes, and slow rivers, for hours at a time, focusing on his breathing, even though he could not draw air.

The Yogi was focusing on his breathing, and on the water, when he became the water. This is not a symbolic statement, mind: he just actually turned into water, and flowed downstream. After a few miles, he changed back, because he wanted to tell other people. Everyone called him an idiot at first, but then before you knew it, people were flying around overhead, and lighting themselves on fire without getting burned. Nobody used these abilities for what would be called “good” or “bad” because once you could become anything you wanted to, what was the point of robbing a bank? Crime disappeared so there was no crime to fight.

There are very few of us left now, and I have finished scratching this brief story into a tree, to explain our history should visitors from outer space land and be curious about the empty buildings and cars. Now it is time for me to take my leave. Where am I going? I am going to lie in the mud and think about our mother, mother Earth, and then I am going to return to her womb.

Labels: Stories

He promised to marry me but he left, he promised to marry me but he left, he promised to marry me but he left. That was the soundtrack running through Cynthia’s head as she sat in her Ford Focus, waiting for her ex-boyfriend to leave his apartment. Everything was great, everything was perfect, everything was great until he left me. He had to be with that bitch, he had to leave me and ruin everything, he ruined everything. He promised to marry me, but he left. It was raining a little and Cynthia couldn’t see Craig’s door, so she turned the wipers on, their squeaky beat marking her fragmented, repetitive thoughts.

Squeeak. We could have been happy. Squeeeeak. We should have been happy. Squeeeeak. He ruined everything. Squeeeak. He ruined my life. The door to Craig’s apartment building opened, and he came strolling out. So happy. He couldn’t care less. Well, he’s going to care, whether he wants to or not. She turned her car on and rolled her window down, then drove up next to him.

“Craig! You fuck! I found out all about everything!”

He looked at her for a second before recognizing her. “Cynthia? What are you talking about?”

“I know you’ve been sleeping with another woman.”

“Cynthia, we’re broken up. I’ve been seeing another woman for almost six months now.”

Cynthia’s face turned red. Ruinedmylife ruinedmylife ruinedmylife. “You love her?” she asked in a voice that was deathly quiet.

“Uh. Yes.” He started to walk away.

Ruinedmyliferuinedmyliferuinedmylife. “Fuck you, Craig.” She pointed the car at him like a gun, and drove it home.

Labels: Stories

It’s eight in the evening here, now, and the sun is still where it always is: right above us, looking straight down. And no matter where he runs, how he jumps or dances or poses, a man in this town cannot cast a shadow. Kids play in the street twenty-four hours a day, not getting and not needing sleep. Me? I guess I don’t need it neither, but I sure as hell wish I could get some.

But it’s too bright, and there are too many things to do. The days are just packed, with concerts, and tender lovemaking, and movies, and books. It started out perfect, but it got to be a bit much. I miss the shade, I miss the coolness of night, even if it was dark, even if it was hard to see. Maybe you wonder where I’m talking about, this forsaken town where the sun never goes down. You might think it’s an Alaskan summer, but you’d be wrong. If I’m honest with ya, I’m not really sure where it is either. When I got here, they told me this place was Heaven, but lately it burns like Hell.

Labels: Stories

Yes, uber-awesome friends Val and Whitney drove the Batmobile back to its rightful home, and I am once again in posession of transportation. The car is as good as new...it's even in better shape than when I dropped it off, since they detailed the outside, getting rid of the marks I made destroying dozens of CSULB Parking Gates. Oh, and magically, my iPod cable works again, so no more shitty fuzzy FM transmitter for me. Hurray life!

Shar's bridal shower is today, and I'll have a post later tonight or tomorrow with tons of updated weddingness.

Woo!

Labels: Car Accident, Generalness, wedding

“Yes sir. Into that lens? Okay. My name is Officer McClaren, I’m the rifleman who patrols the gun rail in Block D at San Quentin Penitentiary. Each block has five tiers, with each tier consisting of a long row of inmates. These tiers are stacked on top of one another. We release the inmates tier by tier when it’s shower or chow time: because of the way the prison was built, and since we can’t afford it, we don’t have electronic locks on these doors. A guard unlocks every cell in a tier, then pulls a bar to let them all out. When each tier is unlocked, the guards on the floor are very vulnerable: they just released over 100 inmates, and there are only two of them, besides me. As I stated, I man the gun rail, which is a long walkway directly opposite the five tiers. It’s my job to monitor the activity on the open tier, to make sure no one gets hurt as the inmates progress out of the block.

“On Wednesday, August 1st of this year, I saw an inmate grab Officer Lewis, then move his other arm towards the back of his waistband. It looked as though he were grabbing for a weapon, so without hesitation or the requisite verbal check, I discharged my rifle, killing the inmate. We did thereafter discover that the inmate was unarmed, and had apparently tripped.

“Do I have anything else to add? Yes, sir I do. Please be fair in your deliberation of the incident. I know that I broke protocol, and I know I made a mistake, but ask any one of the other guards, check my personnel file. I work the gun rail because I have the best vision and marksmanship, not because I’m a killer. I made a mistake, because I was trying to protect my fellow officer. In the eyes of our Lord and Savior, no man’s soul weighs more than any other’s, I know. But I am not He, and it’s my job to protect those officers, so they can go home to their wives and children when they leave here. I would never discharge my weapon without cause, but you have to understand there’s never more than five of us in the active zone, and there are over 500 prisoners. Block D holds class 8 convicts. Every single man in a cell there committed a violent crime, and would love to commit one against us. What I did was violent, but it cannot be considered a crime. I did my job. Thank you.”

Labels: Stories

{NOTE: as always, this story is meant to stand on its own, but you can find more Hit Man stories here and here and here}

Bobby Larenzo, that famed hit man of southern Florida, knew they weren’t Muslims, he could tell that from the diction of the man who commandeered the amusement park PA. No, these were a distinctly Christian kind of nutball terrorist. Bobby didn’t care: a group of men had shut down the amusement park he’d taken his son to, and were ushering people into the large theater at the center of it. Bobby’s son had been on a ride when it happened, and he still hadn’t found him. So he could care less what religion these madmen claimed to be representing, he had one plan and one plan only: find his son, and kill every single person who tried to come between them.

* * *

He waited until, among the crowd, he was sure no one was looking at him, and he wasn’t in range of any of the security cameras (the last thing he needed was the face of Miami’s most prolific professional killer plastered all over local news; somehow, he doubted his bosses would approve). Then, for the next ten minutes, he became a whirlwind of activity. He always kept metal-tipped darts with him, but he ran through those within thirty seconds, killing each one of the fifteen men guarding the theater. Each fell with a perfectly round, nearly imperceptible hole in their throat, sucking air down the wrong pipe until their lungs gave up trying.

Five minutes later, half of the remaining twenty men spread across the theme park were dead as well. Five of the last ten men were guarding the ride Bobby’s son had been on, the Tomb of Tut, a high-speed coaster that wound underground through fake pyramid tombs. They were keeping the rides disabled in the tunnel, using the kids onboard as backup hostages in case law enforcement got through to the theater. Bobby could see that, with its one entrance and one exit, and darkly lit interior, the ride was nearly impenetrable to the police, when guarded by only a few men. But Bobby Larenzo was not the police.

He moved as fast as he could, but they still saw him coming, and he barely had time to dive for cover before they opened fire. He was out of things to throw, and he was sitting on what must have been the only clean patch of ground in the park, with not a pebble or piece of plastic in sight. Sighing regretfully, Bobby broke the stems off his expensive sunglasses and dove out from behind his cover, throwing one stem each through the men’s left eyes. They lost control of their bodies as they died, spinning and riddling each other with bullets.

He knew the guards at the other entrance would have heard, so he took off into the ride as fast as he could, praying he’d reach his son before they did. He didn’t: running as fast as he could manage along the winding metal tracks, he reached the stalled cars at the same time as the remaining three guards. He ripped three of the fake jewels off the wall, leaving chunks of skin and fingernail in their place. Slipping between two bullets, he sent the purple, red, and blue trinkets spinning through the air. Bobby never stopped moving, and he pulled his son, Bobby Jr., out of the rollercoaster as the men hit the ground.

Five minutes later they were pulling out of the parking garage, Junior in tears and Senior gripping the wheel, furious. “Daddy, what happened? How did you do that?” his son asked.

Bobby grimaced, squeezed the steering wheel tighter. “Junior, I’ve got some explaining to do.”

Labels: Stories

We went to Acres of Books with our truly great friend Adam today, and it was probably my best haul ever in terms of price, and quality. I got all this:



for slightly less than the dust jacket price of HP7... an even better deal since about half of those are out of print; the Twain book has a foreword by Vonnegut and about 1400 pages of Twain, for five bucks. And that Joyce book is a translation of a seminal French biography that I've never found for a reasonable price, that I got for eight. Great times.

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Also, I've got a new article in this week's District (which also features a great article about Acres); the new article is all about comic book stores in Long Beach, which (ahem) I may know a few things about.

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In other news, thanks to everyone who has come by recently. We've been hanging out with friends pretty much every day, from disc golfing excursions to groomsman bachelor party planning to just lying around. It's been a great stress reliever spending time with all of you, and I hope we keep our happy home nice and full for the next (eep) four weeks.

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Speaking of four weeks from today, we've been plowing through wedding resonsibilities, and we're feeling happy and relaxed about the whole thing. We're finalizing a ton of stuff at the Arboretum tomorrow, and hopefully checking it out with a photographer; I'll post a massive whack of a wedding update tomorrow night. Also, Shar and I are watching some VH1 huge wedding planning show, and this couple spent two thousand dollars more on their cake than we're spending on the whole wedding. Their total price tag was $2 million. Wowza.

Labels: Generalness, wedding

This is Susannah again, writing another journal entry. Today we are going to the movies! My Mommy and Daddy are going to take me to see the new movie, about Rattletooey, the rat who cooks food. I am very excited, because a lot of days I’m very bored. It’s summer, so I don’t have to go to school except twice a week for day camp, which I like because Johnny and Holly go too, so we can play checkers and the marble game and then we’ll play kickball after lunch with all the kids. It’s at my regular school, but none of the teachers are there in the summer. Next year I’m going to be in second grade, and I’m very excited because Holly says her older sister says the second grade teacher is really nice.

And when I don’t go to the day camp I stay at home and play with my toys, or play video games. I have fun, and my grandma comes down to visit me because Mommy and Daddy still have to work in the summer because they are grownups, but it gets boring to do the same thing over and over and over again, even if it is something fun. I am excited to start school again in a few weeks. Oh but the weekends are nice when Mommy and Daddy are home, and we can go to the zoo, or the park, or the movies like today!

Sometimes my grandma takes me to the library, which is in the park a little while from here. When I go with Mommy and Daddy we ride our bikes, and I’ll race them and I always win, but when I go with my grandma, we drive, because she says she is too old to ride a bike now. At the library I tell the librarium about all of the books I’ve read, and she gives me stickers to put next to my name for each one. Every time I read five books she lets me pick out a toy from the treasure chest. Okay! Bye journal, my Mommy and Daddy say it is time to go and see the movie. I’m going to get popcorn, too!

Labels: Stories

Today is water day at A Storied Year. Hope you enjoyed the watery story from earlier; here's some more water tidbits:

Shar and I have been on a water diet, as a way to save money and lose some weight before the wedding. It's very simple, and easy: we've replaced all drinking liquids in our diet with water. I've lost seven pounds or so, and have generally been feeling about fifteen pounds lighter. Since most liquids you buy in a bottle or can in this country contain high fructose corn syrup, which is essentially the devil's jism, I'd recommend either switching to more water, or buying your Coke from Mexico, where they make it with real sugar apparently.

I also have a brief water bottle-related rant. My Idahoian grampa was a water geologist, or a hydro-electric geologist, or something like that, but basically he knew as much about water and how to provide cities with it as anyone else did in the country, and I've genetically inherited his distaste for bottled water. It's priced higher than gasoline, and given that everyone from Pepsi's Aquafina to Costco's Kirkland Signature has now admitted to just bottling tap water, I think this $4 billion a year industry easily qualifies as one of the biggest consumer scams ever pulled on our consumerist market.

Especially given that all non-bottled water company funded testing I've ever seen indicates that bottled water is much worse for you than tap water, which can be had at one one thousandth of a cent on the dollar. Plus you aren't generating plastic waste, etc, etc. In 11th grade I took a tour of a water plant in Long Beach (to get extra credit in a Chem class I had a C in), and found out that Long Beach not only has some of the best tasting water in the country, but it's also some of the best for you, since we augment the fluoride icon here, which helps prevent cavities. Interesting trivias: that ion is augmented because the PTA lobbied for it, to lower dental costs. Also, the vast majority of the money spent at a water treatment plant is spent on changing the color from brown to clear.

Anyway, to sum up: tap water tastes better (this is just my opinion), it's better for the environment, it's damn cheaper, and, most of all, it's one of your rights as a citizen of a relatively free country (one that I think is much more essential than voting, in the grand scheme of things).

For those of you interested, here are Penn and Teller ranting more eloquently about the scam of bottled water than I ever could (well, Penn does most of the ranting):

Labels: Generalness

In China, they say, men were tied down and had water dripped on their foreheads until they went insane. In fact, this only happened in Italy. In America, a man would have cold water thrown over his back before he was whipped. This made the whipping hurt more than it would have otherwise. It also makes the skin more prone to ripping apart, which is of course the end goal of whipping. Witches were dunked in either tepid pots or flowing rivers over and over again until they either confessed to witchery or inhaled enough water to drown to death. If the CIA needs to know something from someone who doesn’t want to tell them, they’ll strap a person to a wooden plank, with his feet above his head, then gag him and pour water over his face until, usually after 15-30 seconds, he would rather kill his mother than be there for another second. And of course, everyone from the French to the Japanese has used forced water ingestion as a method of interrogation. This simply involves pouring water down someone’s throat until the terror of drowning makes them confess. If they are not sufficiently terrified, they will in fact drown after a few minutes. A human being needs to pour water down their own throat every so often, or they will die.

My friends and I all surf, not just in the summer but whenever we can spare a few hours. We surf in the winter, too, because it’s always pretty warm here. We grew up swimming and playing in pools, too, either the big ones with chlorine, or the little plastic ones filled up with a hose. Sometimes we would get out a black tarp and someone would hose it off while the rest of us ran and slid down it. When my girlfriend is stressed out, she takes a long bath, with really really hot water, which makes her skin softer and loosens her muscles. When I used to be terrified, like after my parents died when I was sixteen, or after my older sister killed herself a year later, I used to turn the shower on, hot as it could go so it would fill the room with steam, and then lay down next to the tub. I wouldn’t get wet that way, but I could fall asleep peacefully, with the sound of all that water pouring and pouring and pouring down the drain, just inches away.

Labels: Stories