{Since I was dumb enough to do this ludicrous "one story a day for a whole year" nonsense in a leap year, that means that the 6th appearance of my birthday means a bonus story for the blog, which will bring the total to 366 if I can finish. So, since it's my birthday, Shar and I collaborated on a graphic story: words by Mike, pictures by Shar. Enjoy!}

Labels: Stories

Because she had eaten a Chipotle burrito with a little too much hot sauce on it, Tina went into labor a day earlier than the doctors had predicted. Robert Jackson was born on February 28, 1988. He was a C student all through school, kind of good at English and History, and kind of bad at Math and Science. After graduation, he and his plain girlfriend both attended state college, where he majored in Business and worked in the Carl's Jr. on campus. Then he got a job in Chipotle's corporate office, and spent the rest of his life coordinating the purchase of new franchise real estate. This was less interesting than it may sound. He broke up with his plain girlfriend, then married her two years later and had plain little children with her. They took two vacations every three years for the rest of their lives.

And to think, if his mother could have held off the sauce, Robert would have had an interesting birthday to offset his ordinary, beige life.

[The author wishes no offense to any readers born on February 28, 1988.]

Labels: Stories

"What are you, my son or a limp noodle? Give me that, I'll show you how it's done! You gotta go in tight little circles or your gums will recede. No! I said TIGHT circles. TIGHT! Yeah, that's better. Now, quick strokes side to side, quick strokes side to side, make sure you brush the gums too. NOW YOUR TONGUE! BRUSH YOUR TONGUE OR IT'LL GROW BACTERIA! Good. Not too hard, you don't want to cut it. Firm but gentle, that's the way. FIRM BUT GENTLE! Perfect."

***

"The first thing you want to do is look over your right shoulder to make sure there isn't anyone behind you. The last thing we need is for you to run over Timmy McCormack and have his goddamn lawyer father sue us. Okay, great. Now, put the car in reverse, and let your foot off the pedal slowly…slowly. TOO MUCH! Okay, now slowly…good. Good, son. Now turn the wheel in the opposite direction you want to go. The opp—THE OPPOSITE. Okay. Now, put it in drive. No, not D2, in D4. I don't know what D2 is for. It doesn't matter. STOP ASKING ME QUE—okay. I know what you're trying to do here, you're trying to bait me so you've got something to talk to that goddamn therapist about. Well it's not working, hear me? I'm going to teach you how to drive whether you like it or—oh for God's sakes, would you give it a little gas? You drive like grandma."

***

"Okay higher. A little higher. Make sure it goes in on the roof. THE ROOF! What are you, a T-Rex? Stretch your precious little arms out, get them out there. Otherwise you just dribble it down her chin. HIGHER! You're spilling the applesauce. Just give me the spoon already, will you? You feed grandma worse than you play football."

Labels: Stories

The water is clear, and you can taste it, feel it on your skin just by looking at it. The grass is dazzling, the shade of green that only grows in Ireland, and you want to reach into the painting and touch it, run your hand slowly through it, feeling each blade tickle and prick your skin. Your calluses would fall away at the touch of that grass. The woman in the painting is kneeling at the riverside, bending over and combing her hair into the water. It spreads and fans so that you cannot distinguish it from the river, the strands of water mingling and intertwining with drops of hair.

The woman's neck is pale, and you feel that it's clear, like the water, that some inner whiteness is shining through, the sun behind a cloud. Her dress is white, too, but it's dirty, soiled with the kind of dirt that only Ireland grinds into her children. While you're staring at it, the painting begins to move, and the water is actually running, you can hear it, from the top left corner of the painting to the bottom right, where it disappears into the frame but not, you know, from existence. There's a rainbow of colors shimmering in between the woman's hair and the water, and a low, sweet kind of music is rising from the background. There are such colors in that rainbow, colors that have a taste and a texture. Colors that are epic poems, pantoums, haikus, sonnets. Colors that beckon.

Labels: Stories

As promised, here is an election-centric plea from myself to yourself. It's one week until the most important primary election day, probably in the whole race. Texas and Ohio, and two smaller states nobody cares about (just kidding) will be going to the polls, quite possibly to decide the fate of America. Texas and Ohio. I know, it's scary. As she's slipped further behind, Hillary's campaign has sharpened their rhetoric, very consciously, and very uglily going negative. It's been disappointing (to say the least), but I think the Obama campaign has weathered it beautifully. Thank God his staff isn't filled with wishful idealists who don't know how to play the political game, as she has claimed. If it were, it's pretty doubtful he would have come from down by a bazillion points in the polls a few months ago to have taken the lead by over 150 elected delegates.

Anyway, the point is this: Obama has already had more donors to his campaign than anyone thought would be possible in today's supposedly apathetic political climate, and he's nearing the historic mark of one million donors. One. Million. These donors are like Shar and I, people who have found an extra five or ten dollars to donate, in the hopes of elevating hope on the national stage. If you're an Obama supporter (and I think almost everyone who reads this blog is) who hasn't made any contribution, I urge you to help them get to a million, even if it just means donating one or two dollars.

Please click here to donate, and help push this campaign over the top of its remarkable and very achievable goal. The race absolutely isn't over yet, as Texas or Ohio could go either way still. Thanks for reading, in the next few days I'll post something addressing superdelegates, and a way to help make sure they vote with the people (you know, democratically).

If you're still not convinced, here's my favorite photo ever. Let's put a non-robotic couple in the White House!



Here's the link again!

Labels: Generalness

You are going this weekend right? Oh my God, I'm so relieved. No, she said you weren't going, which would have meant that I wasn't going, which would have meant that I wouldn't have seen him there and he wouldn't have seen me there and we wouldn't have talked all night. I know. You're the best. You're going to have a great time, though, I promise. Because---because everybody's going to be there. Everybody, John, Tucker, Melinda, Melissa, your future husband, your future children, the Pope, JFK, everybody. Yeah, like everybody everybody. And if you hadn't been there, you wouldn't have gotten to see any of them. Yes, and more importantly I wouldn't have gotten to see him and talked all night. Okay, you're the best! See you at six.

Labels: Stories

So the next nine days are going to be crucial for American politics, and I'll most likely be doing a few posts between now and March 4th about the race, as well as some birthday plans and pics (I get my quad-annual REAL birthday this year, which of course means that I have one extra story to write in this never-ending record of my spiraling insanity). To kick off Give a Shit About the Fate of the Free World Week, here is a pretty hilarious recent speech excerpt by Hillary Clinton, responding to Obama's message of hope and change (which as an Obama supporter I'd point out he's been tempering by pointing out that hope means we have more work to do, not less):

Labels: Generalness

There was a little black spot on my wall today. My bathroom wall. Over the toilet. So that I was looking at it while I made pee. It was easy to see. Because the wall is very white. The spot was very black. Like a hole cut in blank paper. Behind the paper is nothing.

I was afraid of it at first. Now I've been thinking about it for the last two hours. I'm not scared anymore. Now I'm excited. The paper was blank and there was nothing on it. Nothing is boring. Behind the paper is all of that nothing. There's so much to explore in the blackness.

Tomorrow will be a more exciting day. I hate this endless stability. But now it is not endless. Because now there is tomorrow. Now there is the void behind the blank. Now there is a black hole on my wall. And tomorrow it will be bigger.

Labels: Stories

THOMAS [Wanting to appear smart, sensitive in front of girl in college bar]: I just, I just really believe that there is only one religion. One faith, you know? And just…what we think of as different religions, that's just different ways of expressing that faith, that bigger religion.

STEPHEN [Wanting to appear smart, impressive in front of girl in college bar]: Oh really? One religion, Thomas? You got that off a bumper sticker, right? Are you fucking kidding me? We're not talking about one religion that'll let you have a bacon cheeseburger and a beer versus one that won't, Thomas, these are deep-seated and enormous differences. How about, for starters, the fact that Muslims and Jews believe that Jesus Christ was a prophet, or a rebellious philosopher, while Christians believe he is the actual physical embodiment of an incomprehensible God, in flesh and blood, on our planet? How about the fact that to one of those religions, you can be forgiven for just about any horrid thing you can imagine doing, while in others you have to be responsible for your actions. Thomas, Heaven's Gate members considered themselves a sect of Christianity, you really think their way of understanding the cosmos and the meaning of our lives on Earth is the same as a Catholic's? Or a Muslim's? And that's just the Abrahamic religions, we're not even talking about those that believe in the annihilation of the self or the importance of cows. Do yourself a favor, you wannabe-smart-sounding twat: look up monotheism in the dictionary. Then look up polytheism. Then spend half a second thinking about how you'd view the world around you, down to every tiny detail, in either of those systems, and call me and tell me if you still think there's "really only one religion."

THOMAS: Jesus Christ, sorry Stephen. Excuse me for having an opinion.

STEPHEN: Yeah well, try and have one based on any kind of actual thought or knowledge next time, asshole. Sorry I harshed your self-important New Age buzz.

Labels: Stories

She was standing at the panorama back window of her home, gazing at the back yard, where two years prior she and her husband had sat and talked about having children. Today, she'd signed the last of the paperwork; she was glad to be done with it. Something was happening in the yard, something that had happened a few dozen times in the last few years, that she had never paid any attention to: it was raining. The yard was square, with a small cement patio up against the house and a rose bush on the cinder block wall across the yard from the window. On either side were tall wooden fences. There was a light on her house that shone into the yard, and a light on the neighbor's house whose back yard adjoined her own that shone back at it, well over the cinder blocks.

Every other day that's what she'd seen when she looked out there. But today: the rain was making tidal waves in the small pool of water where her concrete patio dipped a little, a dip she'd never noticed before; when the light reflected on the pool and its ripples, it looked like a giant Tyrannosaur footprint; the leaves of the rose bush danced this way and that, bossed around by drops of water barely bigger than a pinhead; the light in her neighbor's yard seemed to wink knowingly at her, or at her patio light; the grass looked like the emerald from her wedding ring, chipped out and flattened with a bulldozer, spread flat over the ground—it was stunning; the concrete, the grass, the darkened wood fences, the bush, the lights: it was all alive. And she'd never noticed.

Her realization, her wonderment, was tempered by the knowledge that a split second after it stopped raining, after this unremarkable and totally ordinary shower had passed, everything would go immediately back to being boring, not one by one but all at once, like a light switch had been turned off. One minute, beautiful and vibrant and alive, the next, just her too-small-for-a-dog back yard. But, still, she thought there must be something like magic in that transformation.

Labels: Stories

Her eyes opened, but she saw no light. A darkness like none she'd ever experienced surrounded her, the darkness a child fears, the darkness that clouded her vision for a moment when the doctors told her that her father had died in emergency surgery while she was in high school. Unreal darkness. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they were restricted by soft fabric, backed by undoubtable, solid wood. She was in a coffin. The urge to scream encroached on her from the dark, assailing her from all sides, but she did not. Instead she pushed up on the lid, testing it, hoping that she was maybe in a hearse on the way to be buried. No, even through the oak, she could feel the weight of the world pushing down on her little box, sunk only six feet deep into the planet she'd walked and driven on for over 40 years. She wished she were stronger. She wished she knew of a way to kill herself, painlessly and quickly. She wished she knew how to meditate the way the monks did, disappearing bodily from the earth that held her in its bosom, strangling her. And then she started screaming, the noise deafening to her ears, unheard by any others. The oxygen, strained through her lungs, thinned, and she passed out. But she'll wake up.

Labels: Stories

The megaphone was brand new, just out of that impossible to open hard plastic shell, the kind you need shears and hired muscle to open. Jeremy had never used it before, but he was using it today, and he was excitable, nervous, anticipatory. The kind of words needed to describe the multitude of emotions running through his head, contradicting each other, crashing into each other and falling down, those words would have to be German, and they would have to be long. They would have to encapsulate contradictory multitudes. Standing on the rooftop across the small alley, watching the Sunday herd flock into their imposing church, that's what Jeremy felt like: a contradictory multitude.

A shaky thumb flipped the bullhorn on, and he began his own sermon. Jeremy told them they were followers of a false prophet, that their religion was false, and their promised paradise a lie. He did not tell them this was a sociology experiment, nor did he tell them, nor did he have to, that he nonetheless believed every curse he hurled at them.

Some hurled back, insulted and enraged, and had to be dragged away from climbing up to Jeremy by their wives or parents. Most ignored him, as his thesis predicted they would. They were too indoctrinated, too deeply held in the rapture of their fantasies to allow one man with a bullhorn to break through to them. A few gave him looks of admiration, mixed with respect, mixed with trepidation and fear. These were the ones Jeremy was speaking to, and had meant to: the contradictions, the disbelievers lining up with the believers, the foxes in sheep's clothing. But when the church's doors closed and Jeremy climbed down, they weren't the ones Jeremy remembered: it was the handful of mothers, the ones there without husbands or boyfriends, clutching their children to them as they hurried by, not looking over their shoulders, not letting their children look either. Jeremy wondered what else they were clutching to them; and he wondered who was really peddling false hopes, and who was buying them.

Labels: Stories

For any and all who might be inclined, I stumbled across a pretty cool webcomic yesterday, called We the Robots.  It's a blend of a lot of comic strips I like (Calvin and Hobbes, the Boondocks, etc.) and usually pretty funny.  It's only a few months old and occasionally you can see the writer/artist struggling to get his legs under him, but the commentary on politics, religion, and sports (three things I care deeply about and don't often find once source to provide me with) is spot on.

Here's a sample:

Labels: Generalness, Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit

Throb. Dammit. Throb. Go away, headache. Throb. I'm serious, go away, I'm not in the mood for this. THROB! OW! Damnit, headache. What's your fucking problem? THROB! Quit it! Jesus, I was just trying to read. Throb. Yeah, that's nixed now, you're right. What do you want me to do, take a bath? Get a massage? Your every wish is my command, headache, just don't hurt me an—THROB. Hey! I was going along, alright? Alright. Here, what if I twist my neck just so and lay my temple against this firm pillow? … Yes, you like that don't you, headache? That makes everything better. … That's a good headache, you just go to sleep, don't worry about me, I'll just pick this book back up and—  THRRRRROOOOOOB!!!!!!!!! Headache, you are what hell must be like.

Labels: Stories

I would absolutely kill you if you were standing between me and a new car. I'm putting that out there at the beginning, so if you do choose to get between us, that's your fault, not mine. It's not personal, I assure you. It's not the new car itself, either. It's that goddamn smell. It's just…I don't know how to describe it, it's just…something. It's everything.

I've always liked the way a new car smells (who doesn't?), but I didn't love it until right after my wife left me. I was going to get myself a new car, as a pick-me-up, but I ended up just test driving a half dozen of them. The next day I tried a half dozen more at another dealership, and then I kept working my way around the city. Then I had to start going outside the city, and eventually outside the county. There are actually laws prohibiting you from test driving cars too often at one dealership, can you imagine that? Ludicrous.

Anyway, like I said, I'm not some rabid capitalist, this isn't about the new car. It's not about the benzene or the cyclohexanone either. It's not just one of the chemicals, it's all of them together. Some people go their whole life without finding something that makes them happy, and I'm lucky enough not to be one of them. If I can have everything I want with one sniff, how could I be crazy for chasing it? Wouldn't I be crazy to not?

Labels: Stories

Stephen King has been monkeying around with a new style for a while, since he was almost killed by a van that struck him while he was walking, most likely. It's popped up in From a Buick 8, Cell, and most obviously in Lisey's Story, published in 2006. It was hard to put a finger on what that style was, and it made for a read that was often frustrating, with plots that it took ten minutes to sum up (in other words, these weren't "evil big dog" novels, or "evil car" or "evil hotel"). The narration would meander, the frequent pop culture references replaced by more and more oft-repeated odd turns of phrase that seemed to go beyond the regional dialect King often employs in his Bangor books. But it wasn't until Duma Key that this new style finally seems to have found cohesion.

Duma Key is not a novel I could sum up for you in two sentences, but to attempt: Edgar Freemantle, construction mogul, gets into an accident on a site and suffers a brain injury that impairs his speech and thought. He also loses an arm. After his wife leaves him, his therapist suggests he spend some time in another locale to help recover, so Edgar moves to Duma Key, a small and unknown Florida Key. Once there, Edgar begins painting, and churns out paintings of surprising power and beauty. But, naturally, there are unseen forces behind the work, and they're not all that nice.

Now, that plot snippet really only gets you a third of the way through the book, and doesn't cover any of the people he meets on the Key, who are very important to the plot, but that's exactly the difficulty. Short of describing the entire book in outline form, you can't put your thumb on summing it up. But what's different about this book is...it's finished. That's the feeling I had reading it that I didn't necessarily get from the other books. In those, the prose seemed a little unpolished, as though King had published a first or second draft, while in this everything worked for me. The weird recurring dialogue snippets made sense because of the head injury and the introduction of a character (Wireman) whose speech patterns match King's new way of writing.

The novel is also barely a horror novel. There were a few scenes that made me want to turn on the light, but there's a point about two-thirds of the way through where he could have ended it, and it would have been a beautiful 400-page novel about recovery from injuries physical and psychological. The supernatural stuff doesn't seem tacked on, it just seems...I don't know, secondary. In a way, that is a return to his earlier work, since the point of Carrie is the pain and frustration of being a high school reject, and the point of the Shining is the destructive nature of alcoholism, and what it can do to a man and a family. King's new narration style is a return to his older sensibilities but with (and he'd hate me for saying this) more of a literary sensibility and a greater attention to the subtleties of character. He had to take his story from Bangor to the Florida Keys to find it, but I'm glad he's reached a new plateau, and I'm looking forward to seeing if he can stay there for a little while, before either falling off, or trying another rocky climb to somewhere new.

Labels: Generalness, Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the end of times, and Akbar had been resurrected, and was standing before the bridge. The bridge he'd been thinking about for a few millennia now, waiting for his chance to cross it, into the Garden, paradise, or plummet from it into the Fire below. Into Gehenna, into Hell. He strode confidently towards it, eyes fixed firmly on the lush green panorama that spread itself out before him on the other side. He thought of all the wonderful things he'd done in his life, the two children he'd put through college, the wife he'd never struck, the rules he'd obeyed. Of course he hadn't been perfect, that was not humanity's lot, he'd done things he wasn't proud of. But he considered himself a good person, at the bottom of everything.

Halfway across the bridge, the flames from the chasm below grew hotter, and sweat began to bead on his face and neck. Sweat ran into his eyes and blurred his vision, unsteadying his step. When the sweat was rinsed out, the green paradise before him was browning, dying before his eyes. Akbar looked down and saw that the bridge was narrowing.

His good deeds fell from his mind, leaving a black hole in their wake. All he could think of were the men he'd hurt, the man he'd killed for money; the indifferent and hateful looks on his boy's faces in the hospital before he died; the way his wife had looked at him when she found out how he was supplementing his income by beating up debtors for money. The bridge narrowed until he found himself standing on the blade of a sword, his feet slashed and bleeding. The fire below him bubbled and steamed and hissed and popped. Akbar fell.

Labels: Stories

Charlotte's hair was usually straight, blond, and very, very limp. That morning when she woke up, it was still blond, but the flaxen locks were curled like corkscrews, springy and bouncy. Which would have been fine (unusual, but fine) except that they were standing up straight, pointing towards the ceiling. She'd worn it long, to the middle of her back, which meant that now she couldn't get out of her door, couldn't get her tanktop on over her head, or find the top of her mane with her hands. She thought about dying it like the Bride of Frankenstein, but thought it might be too morbid, then thought about dying it blue like Marge Simpson, but thought it might be too geeky, so instead she sat on the floor, and had her husband get a ladder to put a hat on top of it, and went (ducking) out the front door. Her office was surprisingly accommodating, removing the ceiling panel above her so she'd have more room. In return she allowed them to use butterfly clips to open a hole in the middle so people could still see through to talk to each other across the room.

For a while it looked like it was going to work, but the next day it was higher, and the day after that higher still. Her husband called a friend (a doctor), and she called one too (a hairdresser) but nobody had ever heard of anything like it. After a week, it was higher than anyone could even see, and she was staying outside almost all the time; when she was in, it filled the room, but as soon as she walked out the door it shot straight up again. She tried to have it cut, but the hair ate scissors for breakfast, clippers for lunch, and yes, tree shears for dinner. Nothing could make a dent in it, and if someone did manage to cut off a chunk it was overgrown again immediately.

They let Locks for Love take wig after wig's worth of hair out, but still it kept going higher. It was so high it was threatening to leave the atmosphere, and it was still growing every day, with no end in sight. Her husband (who was a rock climbing hobbyist) was the one who came up with the idea to climb it. But nobody, not him, not the CIA, not NASA, were expecting what he came down with.

Labels: Stories

Marcus had a family of ungrateful ingrates, so when he was buried, his eyes did not bear the coins they should have, coins meant to pay the ferryman Charon to row him across the river Styx to Hades, abode of the dead. Marcus assumed that he'd be able to figure out a way into the ferry, though, and he approached Charon confidently.

"Greetings, ferryman. My name is Marcus, I need help across, but I'm afraid I have no coins." He tried to not to recoil from Charon, his long, filthy robe covered in pockets that overflowed with coins. Charon was an old, old man he realized; even worse, he smelled like one.

"Not to worry, son. We have a plan in place to take care of men such as yourself."

"Yes?"

"Yes. You just wander that shore for 100 years, and then I'll take you over." He pushed his oar into the soil and began to shove off. Marcus looked at the mud he was standing on, and knew he had to do something.

"Wait! Uh, wait. Here's a coin, right here, I uh, I forgot about it."

"Oh yes?" Charon said, leaning forward and peering at Marcus, looking for his payment.

Marcus leaned forward, pretending to look in his waistband, then fell forward, crashing against the ferry, which shook hard enough to dislodge several of the coins on the edges of Charon's pockets. He palmed one as it fell.

"You dolt!" Charon shouted. "You almost knocked me into the accursed Styx!"

Marcus smiled and handed him the coin, then stepped smoothly onto the ferry in one fluid motion. "Quickly, ferryman," he said. "I haven't got all day."

Labels: Stories

In Mississippi, there's an old black couple you're likely to meet if you pass through New Albany. They're known down there simply as The Robinsons: that's what it says on their mailbox, and that's all they've been called for as long as anyone can remember, and then a little stretch after that. The Robinsons are the town elders, both a few hairs over 90. They were born in the 1910s. Can you imagine that? Born in Mississippi just a stone's skip after slavery, and a damned long haul from desegregation.

They married when they were young by our standards and old by the standards of their town and their families: he was 19, she was 17. It was 1934, and they were poorer than dirt poor, so their ceremony consisted of a few rushed words, and then the hasty construction of another little partitioned room in his family's home. But they were in love, even if it's not a love we'd recognize easily today. He loved her for listening to him and defending him when bad words got kicked up, and she loved him back for being kind to her, and for being the only man in town who didn't think he was a long country mile better than her just because he was swinging sweet peas between his legs.

The Robinsons have marched more miles to and from work, to buy groceries, and yes, in protest, than most people will drive in their lifetimes. Their feet are thick with hard calluses, their toes twisted and gnarly. But their hearts are strong: neither has had a heart attack, neither in all their long years has stood up in the morning, wavered, and fallen back onto the mattress with a thud. As far as anyone knows or can tell that's the way it's always going to be. Young people will grow up and get old, and walk by their stoop, and the Robinsons will raise their hands and shout hello, then put their hands back together again on the table between them, the one with their lemonade and their radio. The young people, the old people walking by will shake their heads and wonder what keeps those damn old farts going, what keeps their hearts ticking. But they'll know.

Labels: Stories

Hey, you're cynical and bitter: we get it. Here's a cookie. There's nothing I hate more than fake smart people, or real smart people who throw around false cliches that they think are original for some reason. A quick fact: every holiday we celebrate, with the exception of July 4 (a concrete-date celebration of a historical event), is totally made up. Christmas isn't the day Christ was born (and most people who celebrate it in this country, myself included, don't consider him to be that special of a guy anyway), nor was Easter the day he rose again, nor did the Pilgrims land on "the fourth Thursday of November," and New Year's is just the resetting of an arbitrarily constructed calendar. They're all made up, 100%. The holiday most shaped by American greed and corporatism? Halloween, but that doesn't stop us from enjoying it.

The same people who whine about the fakeness of Valentine's are often those in line to buy Mother's and Father's Day cards (much more influenced by card companies than Valentine's), and the same carousing drunkenly in the streets for St. Patrick's day, celebrating the feast day of an Irish saint on a day meant as an Irish holiday by drinking green beer.

St. Valentine's Feast has been celebrated on February 14th since as far back as 496 AD, a fact I know because I have Catholic grandparents, Wikipedia, and ten seconds of free time. It's no less "real" than any other holiday we celebrate, which means that like every other holiday we celebrate, it's about what you choose to do with it. What Shar and I have always chosen to do, in a no-pressure kind of way, is to have dinner together and make a nice night of it, without giving any money to Hallmark or American Greetings.

Even if you're not in love with a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a fiance or a fiancee or a husband or a wife, I sincerely doubt that you have no-one in your life to love, just as I doubt that on Thanksgiving, fake as it is, you have nothing to be thankful for. So stop wasting oxygen repeating an oft-repeated, stupid, and untrue truism, and call your grandma or your mom or your brother or your sister or your best friend and tell them you love them. I guarantee you'll find it a better use of your time.

Labels: Generalness

So we got some fish! We've wanted them for a while, and we finally got off our lazy asses and walked the two blocks to the pet store to get them.  I'd post better pictures, but my camera is out of batteries, so this is just a blurry MacBook shot.  There are three of them: the smudge at the bottom center of the tank is Matches Malone, aka Batfish, a kora catfish who moves faster than lightning when he wants to, and who looks like a miniature shark.  The smudge about an inch up on the right side of the tank is Sharfish aka Retardfish, a mini puffer fish about the size of a pea, who likes to float around lazily and stare at everything wide-eyed.  At the top right is Male Guppie, our Male Guppie.  I think we're going to get a blue Female Guppie, for aesthetic and fish baby-making purposes.

Labels: Generalness

[All stories on A Storied Year are meant to stand on their own, but if you'd like to read Pt. 1, it's right here]

Stephen had read about phantom limb sensations in amputees, but he had no idea that it could happen to people missing their beards as well. He thought maybe it was because his beard had been forcibly removed, his luxurious facial locks cruelly raped by stainless steel scissors, wielded by his fraternity brothers. The phantom sensations became a distraction.

Trying to sleep each restless night, he'd shift, and feel the familiar scratch against the pillow. In class, he'd rest his weary check on a fist, then for a moment feel the tickle of his beard between his knuckles. When engaged in engaging intellectual conversations with his friends, he'd go to thoughtfully stroke his familiar facial appendage, and, briefly, feel the hair in his hand. Then reality would assert itself, and he'd find himself rubbing his bald chin.

Labels: Stories

He knew not of many things, but he knew that the sun rose in the east, and that its birthplace was his ultimate destination. They warned him that that way lay madness, that his ship and crew would fall from the surface of the earth into the abyss below, but he laughed them off. Finding a crew was easier than he thought: poor, unmarried sailors were in full supply in London at the time, and they were all happy to trade their lives for a small shot at fame and fortune. Gralangon and his crew set sail early, their historic departure attended by a lone journalist and no others. It was the last time any of them would see their native country.

The coming months saw hundreds and thousands of obstacles, both small and seemingly insurmountable, imagined and horrifyingly real. None of the men could believe how long they sailed without finding an edge to the world, without catching the sun while it slept. Every morning it rose on the eastern horizon, seemingly as far away as it had been months prior. It mocked their days, cursed their frozen nights.

When the man in the crow's nest sighted the western coast of Europe, the crew looked to Gralangon for guidance. He hesitated. Then he burst into a booming laughter that echoed off the sails and across the continent. He and his men had just had the world's biggest secret, and its cruelest punchline dropped on them in the same moment. They docked in Spain for supplies, then set off again, another trip around the spherical world, under an indifferent sun.

Labels: Stories

...which sucks. I was going to write something funny, or poignant, or point out that this is when Hunter found life so unbearable it wasn't worth it anymore, or something. But, I don't know: it was a great year, it's over, it sucks, and I hope people still come over and see us every now and then. Hey, basketball looks great in HD too! Right? Right?....sob.

Labels: Generalness

The drug store was nearly empty, and he shuffled over to the pharmacy aisle, which of course was totally full. He'd always been embarrassed to be seen in that aisle, even when he had normal business to attend to, like today. There were nineteen different home pregnancy tests to choose from, and he bought the most and least expensive brands, then hurried home, nervously. His girlfriend did her bit, then they huddle around it, staring, waiting. So much rode on the next few seconds. They got exactly what they wanted.

Labels: Stories

Yeah, it's a pretty big deal. I had to take out another student loan to get the work done to it, but I think you'll admit it's pretty impressive. Eight months ago, this was just a regular green truck, that I bought for a few grand. Then I had it raised, had the new kicks put on it, the tracking, had the body expanded to the way it looks now, then had it painted so it's black, had the windows tinted. Then I went to Hot Topic and got that wicked skull sticker on the black window…yeah, that's pretty much what I'm all about, that sticker, I think it pretty much sums me up. What? Yeah, it probably would have been way cheaper to just buy a truck that looks like this than to have the work done, but…I don't know. I guess I never thought of that. Damnit.

Labels: Stories

Well tonight was just gangbusters! Super Tuesday was already a qualified success with Obama winning more states and delegates than Hillary (and swing states as opposed to NY and CA which, while influential and important, would vote for my new fishes if they ran for president as a Dem). But tonight, undeniably, was an unqualified success! Shar and I toasted grape juice and ate cake, and donated just a teeny bit more. The structure of his fundraising efforts has been to get small donations from many different Americans (we've donated in amounts as small as five bucks) as opposed to cutting himself five million dollar checks as the Clinton family did last week. If you're an Obama supporter who hasn't chipped in yet, I would strongly urge you to throw in even a few dollars if you have them. If a clear majority doesn't begin to emerge, we could be looking at a brokered convention, aka the end of a representative democracy.

Here's a video that you may have seen already, but which is worth watching if you haven't:

Labels: Generalness

The brothers thought it would be a funny joke, to cut off Stephen's luxurious and lengthy beard while he was sleeping. Fraternities are funny like that. But the next day, when Stephen woke up, with a bad hangover, he was not pleased. "You don't understand," he said. "That beard was important." They laughed and photographed his seasick expression on discovering his newly shorn face.

Stephen had been very popular: he was funny, he was smart, he had been good looking. But over the next few weeks the brothers noticed he was developing a bad case of acne, and he was starting to struggle to remember big words in conversation. His jokes weren't funny anymore.

He tried to grow the beard back, but it wouldn't return, nor would his special powers. Stephen was consigned to an ordinary, average life: when he drank milk or beer it didn't run down his face and stiffen his beard, and when there was a stiff wind blowing at him, his face was chilly and naked. Pity him.

Labels: Stories

I shaved my beard a few nights ago. I grew it four years ago, and I'd had a goatee since 10th grade before that, so it's literally been nine years since the last time I saw my entire face with no hair...it's drastic (the experience of seeing it, not my face). I was going to post a picture, but figured I'd let people see it in person first. A preview: apparently, I have a chin dimple.

Anyway, if you find you hate the stories for the next few weeks, it's probably because my beard held all of my magic powers. Lots of things have been going on, I'll post a massive update some time this weekend. Oh, and I promise to limit beard-related stories to one or two over the next week.

Labels: Generalness

It's a little known fact that cats are not nearly as clever as they'd like you to think they are. In fact, our feline friends are self-image obsessed megalomaniacs, who will go to any lengths to make you think they know something you don't. That's why they pay off the world's premiere seismologists to let them know when there's about to be an earthquake, so they can act skittish and look like they saw it coming. This is why they're never under the bookshelves.

It's a little known fact that the leading cause of gum cancer is people flossing with toothpaste on the floss, thinking it'll keep their breath smelling better. But it's a little known fact that toothpaste contains two chemicals which become toxic upon introduction to the inside of your body, even if it's just through your gums.

It's a little known fact that clouds are actually edible. The reason this fact is little known is that almost nobody bothers to try and eat them. They're delicious.

Labels: Stories

Helena had always been little. Not midget little, or mouse little, but little enough that life wasn't easy. She had to get chairs to reach the tall cabinets, had to ask her friends to help her reach their wine glasses, kept on top of their refrigerators out of reach of their kids. Little Helena loved to read, and when she went to the library or bookstore, it seemed that whatever book she wanted was inevitably on the top of the tallest shelf, and she'd have to slink to the front counter and ask, quietly, for assistance.

But one night, something happened to Little Helena. She grew, a whole foot even. When she woke up, she wasn't little anymore. She was just Helena. She called her mother, who told her, "You see darling? We're late bloomers, like I said when you were in high school." Helena, in her mid-thirties, did not believe that this was the case, but she was so happy to be able to reach the wine glasses that she didn't say anything to protest, or go to see a doctor.

Instead, she went to the library, and offered to help little kids reach books off the top shelves until their parents gave her the stink-eye. She decided to read her favorite book, by the world-renowned midget psychologist Finkley Fillmore, entitled "It's Okay to be Small." Helena had read this book a dozen times, so she knew exactly where it was, at the top of the Psychology section where the Fs started. Except that the library had sold a few old titles nobody wanted, and had shifted all the Fs down to the previous bookcase. Grudgingly, she bent down, down, so far down to the bottom shelf and picked out the book, Fillmore's stodgy face looking seriously at her from the cover.

She hadn't minded buying a new wardrobe, and had loved the newfound experience of living in a world designed for someone her size…but she couldn't shake the feeling that Finkley would be disappointed in her.

Labels: Stories

Tom was comfortable in his bed, underneath three layers to shield him against the winter cold, a sheet, his comforter, and a quilt his wife had made. From where he was, nestled in a pocket of heat, this little fortress seemed utterly impenetrable. Suddenly a bright light flashed in the window. Tom knew in an instant it was what he'd feared his whole life, since he first saw lights dancing in the sky in his backyard: the aliens had come for him.

Soon the window would disappear, and they'd enter the room. Tom would begin to rise, to float, and his impenetrable fortress would be swept off of him by nothing more than gravity. He clutched the blankets. He wanted to wake his wife but he was paralyzed. It had begun already, he couldn't move even an inch. They'd guide his hovering body into their craft, cut his clothes off, run their disgusting alien hands all over him, maybe—oh God—maybe even probe him.

And then the woman turning around in his driveway backed up, and drove off, engine roaring, and the lights in his window disappeared. Tom felt a little silly.

Labels: Stories

Ahem. Vote? Yes, please! I assume by now anyone who reads this blog knows who I'm voting for, so I'll just post a plea/reminder for people to get out to the polls and vote today. I've never understood the opinion (I won't stoop to call it an "idea") that voting doesn't matter. We're lucky enough to live in a country where we have regular elections. Think they're rigged? Elect a civil rights lawyer. Think they're run unfairly? Elect a campaign reformer (I'd point out my candidate of choice is one).

Anything below 75% voter turnout is absolutely nuts. If you really believe it doesn't matter, consider this example, just the biggest of a billion: if a few hundred more lazy Democrats had gotten off their ass in Florida and gone to the polls, and had taken their time to read the instructions and vote for the candidate they wanted to, right now, America would be a bastion of environmental reform, would never have gone to Iraq, and, quite possibly, would even had had a president in 2001 who would have taken a high priority memo seriously, and prevented 9/11 in the first place. I'm talking the number of people who live within a city block of me. Is that wishful thinking? Maybe. But I've been told since first grade by my parents and teachers that wishful thinking is the heart and soul of a democracy, cynicism and apathy its cancer.

So: Vote! If you don't give a shit who our next president is, or even about state measures, consider that in Long Beach we have Measure E on the ballot, which will either provide $440 million to LBCC to keep providing poorer citizens with the opportunity to attend a high-quality college, or it won't. There are hundreds of seemingly small measures like this going on at the city and county level across the country, and nobody is deciding the result but me, you, and millions of other people.

PS- If you need another reason from me to vote for Obama, please call and I'd be happy to hash over specific policy, etc. Also, DeNiro has just endorsed Obama, his first political endorsement ever. He echoes what I think is the final word on the "experience" question.

Labels: Generalness

I am the street sweeper you don't hear your friends bitch about, the one you might not know about. I'm the one that actually cleans the streets, the ones that have trash on them, the big streets, the cross streets you give when your friends need directions to your new place. This isn't a Thursday or Friday affair for me, I do it every night. My shift starts at 11pm and it doesn't end until 4. I took this job because I needed a part time graveyard shift, because the tax cut we wasted our surplus on only went to the people who owned the corporation I worked for, the people who weren't at that time struggling to send their son to college. I was. And still some of my friends think they shouldn't participate in our electoral process…

But that's a beef for another day. I was talking about the bricks, not the Great Wall. As stupid as it sounds, I may have taken the job like I said for a little extra money, so my boy could get his textbooks without having to start his life 40 grand in debt (and without having to take on so many hours at his campus job that he wouldn't have time to be in college, getting drunk, having sex, and making stupid mistakes), but I'm still doing it for the love. I love this, I really do. I love driving to work as everyone else is getting under the covers, I love knowing that when the country goes to work in the morning, the street is clear because of me.

I love being the man behind the curtain. The man who does the cleaning, and doesn't just parade around, trailing parking tickets behind me. And for the one or two people who hear the dull hum of the sweeper, and peek out the window, they know how important I am, there in that world, at 2 in the morning. I even have a police escort. I mean, how cool is that? I mean, what's wrong with being a bricklayer, and not the guy who designs the wall, or buys the bricks?

Labels: Stories

Well, there's not much more that can be said about yesterday's Super Bowl. It was absolutely unbelievable, one of the best football games I've ever seen, and the best non-49ers Super Bowl I've ever witnessed. It was also, I'd like to note, the most fairly called since it was reffed by Mike Carey, the best in the biz.

The day and game were made even better by the fact that I was at Smooth's downtown, along with Shar, JJ and Tracy, Zoomy and Nikol, my mom, Dan, Conor, Big Fidds, Kobes and Les, and about a jillion other Pats-haters, erupting in joy over and over again throughout the fourth quarter. Also, the food was delicious.

We weren't just there to enjoy the game, which we certainly did, and eat the amazing food, which we absolutely did. We were there to record the historic 16th episode of Sports Night, complete with interviews and guest spots with Major Leaguer and CSULB grad Evan Longoria, Smooth's owner and Long Beach legend John Morris, LBPost Publisher Robert Garcia, all our ladies, our parents, and our friends. It was an absolute blast, and I think it translates to the show- I especially like listening to the predictions and pregame and laughing at how wrong we all were (except my mom).

I've heard that some people haven't downloaded because the link is a solid four inches to the right, soooooooooo:


Click here to get your own player.



And if you want to go to our page, here's a little badge you can clicky click:

Labels: Generalness

"Yes I can, Peyton."

"No you can't."

"Yes I can!"

"Eli, no you can't!"

"Can too!"

"Can't!"

"Can!"

"Eli, you're seven years old now, you have to start acting a little more grown up."

"But Peyton, I can! I know I can!"

"You absolutely cannot light your pee on fire, and I swear to God if you do I'm telling Mom and Dad."

Labels: Stories

"Franklin bought the biggest television they had at Cheap Buy, the biggest one in the entire fucking store. It was, I shit you not, 74" big. It was as big as an entire wall, and he had to take his door off its hinges when the delivery guys brought it over (they said it would cost extra for them to do it, and he was already adding an extra mortgage and dipping into his savings to pay for it). He had it delivered the week before the Super Bowl, so he'd have plenty of time to hook it up and figure the damn thing out before he had us all over. He got HD service, got everything plugged in right, bought dip, bought chips, bought beer and more dip. He was ready.

"Now you have to understand, this was a big stinking deal for Franklin. He'd never had the guys over to his sissy little house before, we usually watched games in my basement, or Teddy's garage. He was pumped for this. So we were all over, and it was great seeing the big game on an even bigger screen. We were having a blast, and most of us were starting to reconsider our position that Franklin was a repressed homosexual. Then, as the fourth quarter was starting, the screen goes black. Not blue, not green, but black, as in, "Nobody's home!" Franklin's face turned bright red, and he runs behind the TV and starts checking all the cables; ten minutes later he manages to get the cable company on the phone, turns out they had to retest his wire or some bullshit like that. I think his deposit bounced because the TV cost too much.

"Anyway, look, that's why I'm not going to your house on Sunday. No first-timers for Super Bowl Sunday. You've got the best teams playing, the best reffing crew officiating, and we'll be watching it in a tried and true room, on a tried-and-true setting. You see how it is, right? It's not that I think you're a repressed homosexual, it's not that your new TV isn't nice, it's just…we know Teddy's garage. We trust Teddy's garage. You see how it is."

Labels: Stories

Civic Judge…seriously, y'all. Me. Gilgamesh. Maybe you've heard of me? I'm the star of the epic of the same name. Yeah, that's right, "Gilgamesh," that's the one. It's the first epic poem and first true heroic narrative in the western literary tradition. And don't give me any, "The first poem with extant remains" bullshit, I was here first, and I should know, because when I got here, the playing field was empty, ya got me?

Anyway, I'm here in the everafter, Irkalla, and they were passing out jobs and I expected something cool, you know, something where I get to fight things, or rescue things, or kill things, but—yeah! Civic Judge. What does that even mean? Like I settle lawsuits between other ancient Mesopotamians about who encroached on whose harvesting terrain? I'm fucking Gilgamesh, slayer of things that needed to be slain, rescuer of Enkidu, plus some other people. This is total bullshit, but apparently the only appeals judge in Irkalla is me, and there's nothing I can really do to help myself here. Ah, how the might me hath fallen…

Labels: Stories

I've spent a ton of time in the Pyramid this week (the number three in the nation volleyball team on Wednesday and Friday and a basketball game on Thursday), which has reminded me that I like spending a ton of time in the Pyramid. Seriously, if you live in Long Beach, and you have a CSULB student ID (or if you could conceivably pass for a student) it's the deal of the century. We head a mile down Atherton, park for free, walk in, are admitted for free (and are handed a ticket stub anyway that gets us a free Chick-fil-A sandwich to boot). Then we sit back and enjoy an hour and a half of awesomeness with Jayj, Zoomy, and anybody else who likes sports and hates spending money. Plus, for the first time I used the bathroom there yesterday, and I have to say: top notch. It was clean, it smelled nice, and it was well stocked with supplies.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I have a new article up at the Post, and to tease you with an upcoming announcement of monumental proportions, which I will not tip my hand about yet...unless of course I've already gotten excited and blabbed about it, which is maybe pretty likely.

See you at the 'Myd!

Labels: Generalness

There was a red light, which happens about as often as a green light does, and so I came to an orderly and timely stop, as I usually do. There were, I don't know, a half dozen cars in front of me, we were in the left lane. The signal is just past the freeway, so four of the cars in front of me were parked under the overpass, but a few behind them, as well as myself, weren't.

Well you just couldn't wait, could you? You thought, "Hey, if I swerve around this guy at the last second before clipping him with my zippy little rocket car, there'll only be four cars in front of me, instead of seven! Wow! That means I'll get to wherever I'm going approximately 0.0004 seconds faster! Zoooom!"

Of course, that meant that you were under the overpass when it collapsed. Had you just been patient, like a good boy, you would have been behind me, merely witness to the atrocity as I was, instead of smooshed underneath it. That, my friend, is the value of patience. Some lessons just, you know, cost more than others.

Labels: Stories