A few of my friends and I were reminiscing the other day about the places we used to go for lunch during high school. There was a pizza place made famous by the titular CJ Riders. McDonalds, where we used to all use the school newspaper's buy one get one free coupon for Big Macs every day for two weeks following the paper's monthly release (it didn't hurt that we were in the Journalism class and could swipe extra copies of the paper as needed). A friend who wasn’t in Journalism had a BOGO method that was very nearly the equivalent of the coupon: he would buy a Quarter Pounder with Cheese every day, eat thru 75% of it, then bring it back to the counter and said it wasn't cooked enough, "Are you trying to kill me!?!" He would get a second burger free every time.
Taco Viva was great for liquid lunches; they would actually sell us a pitcher of beer to have with our food. One of my friends would distribute pairs of his dad’s used construction worker gloves for us to wear before we went in and then each of us would conspicuously remove them at the counter while placing our orders. Now, I know the drinking age at the time was 18 not 21, but come on, we were 15 and 16 years old and were wearing school uniforms!
There was this other great place that sold hot dogs, chili dogs and the like. It’s long gone now. It was a gutted out caboose from an old train converted into a snack shack. Once in a while we would go there. None of us could remember the name of it though. We thought and thought. No one could remember the name. Someone said they'd Google it when they got back home and come up with the name then tell us all later. Turned out he couldn't find it on Google. So it goes.
A few days ago, while I was eating a hot dog, it hit me: 'Trolley Dog', that was the name.
I called one of my friends and told him. “Yea,” He said all excited, “Trolley Dog, that's it!" He asked how I came up with it. I said simply, "With my brain."
Well, he must have told the other guys that I finally came up with the name of old Trolley Dog because a few minutes ago one of my friends called me and asked, "Hey, they said that you came up with Trolley Dog using My Brain, but I can't seem to find it, is it My Brain dot com or dot org or what?!?!"
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The best dreams happen after you've woken up for a brief while, then head back to the still. This morning was an example. My brother and I were standing on a city sidewalk outside a nightclub that was adjacent to a Chineese restaurant (it must have been New York City because I once had egg rolls in a chinese restaurant there when it was subzero outside). We were watching our vapored breath in the crisp air and reveling in the aftermath of the show our new rock and roll band, The Magic Lions, just played. We were energized, drinking cold beer in the cold night. I was singing 'The Spider and the Fly' to myself: ...Thinkin', sinkin', drinkin'. A man in a sharp looking coat came out of the club and acknowledged us with a silent nod. We nodded back. There were a few more visible breaths, a couple more beer sips. Then he asked, "You guys know the story of Rocky?" We looked at him. He continued, "You know, the movie Rocky." He started to hum Bill Conti's "Dah dah da da da da da da da da da..." I looked at the guy like he was crazy, my brother said, "Of course we know it: down and out boxer falls in love with a pet store girl, fights the champ, goes the distance, becomes a local hero." The man smirked and nodded, "True, true." He paused a moment, "But that's the plot, not the story." My brother and I finished our beers and were about to go back inside when the man produced two more bottles and handed them to us. He went on, "Rocky's a movie about opportunity." We agreed. The man kept talking, "The big star, Apollo Creed, had a huge show planned, the fight to end all fights, a spectacle like nothing before. But at the last minute, his opponent had to cancel. The show was doomed, or so it seemed. Turns out, they were able to make an even better bigger and billing than the one they had had. Apollo finds somebody no one knows about yet and gives him a chance at the championship. He even said, 'This is the land of opportunity, isn't it?'" The man seemed to be warming up to the chill in the air. We popped open the beers and looked at him as if to say, politely, what's your point? Then he made it, "Allow me to introduce myself, I'm the national tour manager for Aerosmith. They're headed out on the road, it's going to be a huge show, but the problem is the hot new band that they signed as the opening act just cancelled earlier today." He handed us each a business card. "That was a great set in there tonight, give me a call tomorrow, early." He started walking away into the night, then turned and beamed, "Congratulations, tonight, you guys are Rocky Balboa. The tour starts in three days."
Then I woke up. It was a great dream.
Then I woke up. It was a great dream.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
...an excerpt from Peace River
...Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry
She slipped over to the driver’s seat, started the car and screeched away. The animals continued consuming the scraps, there would be nothing left for the vultures in the morning.
chapter 5
Roadkill
In the dark and quiet wooded farms that stretch between Avon Park and Zolfo Springs runs Highway 64. Rob's Zombie's Dragula and a Ford Mustang's headlights bladed through the night. The stereo blared at full volume but the silence killed the man as he drove. He hated this most of all: when he was so wrong and she was so right she wouldn't say a thing. That kept her safe from incrimination to any degree and gave him nothing to pounce on. It wasn't so much her righteous attitude – even though she wasn't at fault - but her total neglect at even giving him a chance, an opening. He took a fast and full drink of his beer, he pushed the bottle out of the slightly opened window and slammed on the brakes before it hit the pavement. The car squealed and twisted to a stop.
The sound rang in the air and caught their attention, the smell of stalled prey kicked their salivary glands into gear. They moved in the direction of the vehicle.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch!"
She didn't react. She couldn't. She had been through this before, it paralyzed her. Once out of fear, now out of loathing. He took a loud breath, held, released and got out of the car, slamming the door. He buckled down in anger, grabbing two lungs full of air, then burst up and howled, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck."
The scream was just ahead but they needed to veer direction for precision, the animals were closing rapidly.
He went around to the back of the car and yelled out to her, "Pop the trunk." Nothing happened. He waited another moment.
The sound rang in the air and caught their attention, the smell of stalled prey kicked their salivary glands into gear. They moved in the direction of the vehicle.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch!"
She didn't react. She couldn't. She had been through this before, it paralyzed her. Once out of fear, now out of loathing. He took a loud breath, held, released and got out of the car, slamming the door. He buckled down in anger, grabbing two lungs full of air, then burst up and howled, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck."
The scream was just ahead but they needed to veer direction for precision, the animals were closing rapidly.
He went around to the back of the car and yelled out to her, "Pop the trunk." Nothing happened. He waited another moment.
"Pop the trunk!" He wrenched his eyes closed, "Pop the Goddamn-"
The trunk opened. She let go of the latch and sat back. At this point she was just hoping to get home with no damage. It didn't seem likely. She readied herself for abuse, vowing never to allow him to put her in this situation again. He reached into the trunk, opened the cooler and grabbed another beer. He opened it, drank, closed the trunk and leaned against the bumper. He lifted his head to the sky and peered at the stars. He dumped the remainder of the beer into his mouth, catching most, swallowing some. He clodded around to the passenger side of the black Mustang and stood brooding outside of her door.
Drunken, he fooled himself into a state of composure. He leaned his back onto the car and reached back-handed to the door handle, clicking it open. She knew better than to lock it, she actually had unlocked it as he approached. The door jimmied open slightly. The breech had been crossed, the castle wall had been climbed. It would begin.
In a clumsy gallop they approached the edge of the woods.
Low and slow he growled, "Get out." No movement from within.
"Get out."
“I’m not getting out,” She squirmed with diffidence. “And I’m not going to say anything that winds up with me walking back.” She saw them break through the trees and barrel into the clearing near the road. The pack was no more than forty feet away from the car. They hurled themselves through the night right at it, moving silently in unison.
She tried to speak but terror caught her tongue for an instant. Oblivious to their presence, her soon to be ex-boyfriend raised his voice, on the verge of rage, “Get…the…fuck…out….of…”
His ridiculousness helped her find her voice, she screamed, “Turn around! Get in the car! Get in the car!”
“Not until I teach you a lesson.”
She locked the door. The first beast leaped onto the hood of the car and lost its footing, slipping on and then over the windshield and into the back of the man’s head. He was shocked at the contact but didn’t lose his footing, only bending forward as the animal fell to the ground with a yelp. The second one came around the vehicle, leading the rest. They were on him before he had a chance to move. He didn’t know how many there were; all he saw was dull, dark flashes of furless, rotting animal skin contorting above him. He felt the tears at his flesh and the ripping of his meat as he kicked and punched wildly.
She knew enough to sit silently in the car, hoping they would take their kill away and leave her alone. She could hear his agony slowly fading through the cracked window. A thought jumped into her head: the keys! She turned her head, they weren’t in the ignition, he had taken them. Shit, you asshole.
His bloodied arm rose up and hit the glass with a thud and a metallic rattle, she couldn’t help screaming. One of the things lifted its head from the feast and tilted its eyes toward her, blood dripping from its gnarled fangs. He had given her up to them. Or did he? She saw now he was holding the keys up to the window. She was just able to reach through the opening and pull the keys from his fingers. Thank you, asshole was the last thought anyone gave him while he was alive. His arm fell and became a meal.
The trunk opened. She let go of the latch and sat back. At this point she was just hoping to get home with no damage. It didn't seem likely. She readied herself for abuse, vowing never to allow him to put her in this situation again. He reached into the trunk, opened the cooler and grabbed another beer. He opened it, drank, closed the trunk and leaned against the bumper. He lifted his head to the sky and peered at the stars. He dumped the remainder of the beer into his mouth, catching most, swallowing some. He clodded around to the passenger side of the black Mustang and stood brooding outside of her door.
Drunken, he fooled himself into a state of composure. He leaned his back onto the car and reached back-handed to the door handle, clicking it open. She knew better than to lock it, she actually had unlocked it as he approached. The door jimmied open slightly. The breech had been crossed, the castle wall had been climbed. It would begin.
In a clumsy gallop they approached the edge of the woods.
Low and slow he growled, "Get out." No movement from within.
"Get out."
“I’m not getting out,” She squirmed with diffidence. “And I’m not going to say anything that winds up with me walking back.” She saw them break through the trees and barrel into the clearing near the road. The pack was no more than forty feet away from the car. They hurled themselves through the night right at it, moving silently in unison.
She tried to speak but terror caught her tongue for an instant. Oblivious to their presence, her soon to be ex-boyfriend raised his voice, on the verge of rage, “Get…the…fuck…out….of…”
His ridiculousness helped her find her voice, she screamed, “Turn around! Get in the car! Get in the car!”
“Not until I teach you a lesson.”
She locked the door. The first beast leaped onto the hood of the car and lost its footing, slipping on and then over the windshield and into the back of the man’s head. He was shocked at the contact but didn’t lose his footing, only bending forward as the animal fell to the ground with a yelp. The second one came around the vehicle, leading the rest. They were on him before he had a chance to move. He didn’t know how many there were; all he saw was dull, dark flashes of furless, rotting animal skin contorting above him. He felt the tears at his flesh and the ripping of his meat as he kicked and punched wildly.
She knew enough to sit silently in the car, hoping they would take their kill away and leave her alone. She could hear his agony slowly fading through the cracked window. A thought jumped into her head: the keys! She turned her head, they weren’t in the ignition, he had taken them. Shit, you asshole.
His bloodied arm rose up and hit the glass with a thud and a metallic rattle, she couldn’t help screaming. One of the things lifted its head from the feast and tilted its eyes toward her, blood dripping from its gnarled fangs. He had given her up to them. Or did he? She saw now he was holding the keys up to the window. She was just able to reach through the opening and pull the keys from his fingers. Thank you, asshole was the last thought anyone gave him while he was alive. His arm fell and became a meal.
...Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry
Devil on your back, I can never die.
She slipped over to the driver’s seat, started the car and screeched away. The animals continued consuming the scraps, there would be nothing left for the vultures in the morning.
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Thing That Worked Until Smart People Fixed It
The corp known as Rewsnork was in fiddles and fits,
As came the report from alow,
Financial comings were the quarterly pits,
And what was to blame for the woe?
Neither forecasts nor flurries did summon despair,
But beckoning came from bebove,
Demanding the answers: who, why, when, and where,
They had to explain, plus the was.
Not long ago the profits were zenith,
And earnings were socketing high,
But now at the fringe not far from the pith,
The specklers were widdling nigh.
Pockets were filled when business was booming,
Just when the stocks where at summit,
Yet square the obtuse disaster was looming,
And soon the interests did plummet.
The headlings with desks that were bigger than most,
Called between them a council that those,
Who had sevenfigs of a salary to boast,
Would be told not to miss nor repose.
No one without glated pens could attend,
And terms of the meet were kept guardly,
It was up to the men to make this divid end,
They were sure to work very hardly.
The findings they found pointed to a point,
That explained all the droppings indeed,
Such was an astounding thing to anoint,
As the cause of the terrendous bleed.
Once Smart people did think to dispel myth:
(And this is what made holders cry),
‘What’s not broken is fixed,
If only we think to and try’.
Rewsnork did make and sell one product well,
And that was the Tutuwanatee,
But before the tumble, before earnings fell,
The Smart people decided it weighty.
They declared, “It needs fixing!” and raised it aloft,
Not one of them wasn’t not speaking,
“Here it’s too hard” and or “Here it’s too soft”,
“The Tutuwan requires tweaking.”
“This creation of ours should be newer then older,”
Did one of the Smart people pundit,
Project Phixit was born and marked on a folder,
“And the Money Department will fund it!”
“It’s too simple and smooth to go fast and not slow,”
Offered an unsuperqualivised Smart,
“Give it the this or the that or the other thing, no?”
Having no knowledge or name for a part.
One Smart like a surgeon called out for a nurse,
Beckoned and begged for a hatchet,
This Smart twiddled and tinkered, not very terse,
Tight-loosened, twerned and did ratchet.
Then there was expert who called himself thus,
Who stuck on the ‘Wanatee throttle,
He added a widge, a trank and a truss,
And changed it less little than lottle.
The Smarts sat back and looked and listened and were,
Surprised to hear the contraption,
Which once made a whirr a lot like a purr,
Now crankled and spurtled and blachened!
It fell to the ground and went all berserk,
And the corp known as Rewsnork went with it,
For this was the thing that successfully worked,
That was until Smart people fixed it.
The corp known as Rewsnork was in fiddles and fits,
As came the report from alow,
Financial comings were the quarterly pits,
And what was to blame for the woe?
Neither forecasts nor flurries did summon despair,
But beckoning came from bebove,
Demanding the answers: who, why, when, and where,
They had to explain, plus the was.
Not long ago the profits were zenith,
And earnings were socketing high,
But now at the fringe not far from the pith,
The specklers were widdling nigh.
Pockets were filled when business was booming,
Just when the stocks where at summit,
Yet square the obtuse disaster was looming,
And soon the interests did plummet.
The headlings with desks that were bigger than most,
Called between them a council that those,
Who had sevenfigs of a salary to boast,
Would be told not to miss nor repose.
No one without glated pens could attend,
And terms of the meet were kept guardly,
It was up to the men to make this divid end,
They were sure to work very hardly.
The findings they found pointed to a point,
That explained all the droppings indeed,
Such was an astounding thing to anoint,
As the cause of the terrendous bleed.
Once Smart people did think to dispel myth:
(And this is what made holders cry),
‘What’s not broken is fixed,
If only we think to and try’.
Rewsnork did make and sell one product well,
And that was the Tutuwanatee,
But before the tumble, before earnings fell,
The Smart people decided it weighty.
They declared, “It needs fixing!” and raised it aloft,
Not one of them wasn’t not speaking,
“Here it’s too hard” and or “Here it’s too soft”,
“The Tutuwan requires tweaking.”
“This creation of ours should be newer then older,”
Did one of the Smart people pundit,
Project Phixit was born and marked on a folder,
“And the Money Department will fund it!”
“It’s too simple and smooth to go fast and not slow,”
Offered an unsuperqualivised Smart,
“Give it the this or the that or the other thing, no?”
Having no knowledge or name for a part.
One Smart like a surgeon called out for a nurse,
Beckoned and begged for a hatchet,
This Smart twiddled and tinkered, not very terse,
Tight-loosened, twerned and did ratchet.
Then there was expert who called himself thus,
Who stuck on the ‘Wanatee throttle,
He added a widge, a trank and a truss,
And changed it less little than lottle.
The Smarts sat back and looked and listened and were,
Surprised to hear the contraption,
Which once made a whirr a lot like a purr,
Now crankled and spurtled and blachened!
It fell to the ground and went all berserk,
And the corp known as Rewsnork went with it,
For this was the thing that successfully worked,
That was until Smart people fixed it.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
A hotshot new employee asks himself a work question out loud. A longtime yet unschooled grinder offers her unsolicited assistance, 'What is it you're looking for to do?' He belittles her without a second's thought, 'Nothing you can show me.'
from Archie Bunker, by a guest actor named Randy Quaid,
quoting anonymous...
from Archie Bunker, by a guest actor named Randy Quaid,
quoting anonymous...
Every man is my superior, that I may learn from him
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
With nothing being said but the quiet knowledge of all capable of this kind of thought and delicious yet horrid fear, with the acceptance of the most improvable yet undeniably calculable fact that everything great and worthy of praise that can be done by humankind during their universally measurable brief stay upon this celestial orb has already been accomplished coupled with the growing vastness of the population of those able to imagine and possibly conquer such achievements compared to the reversibly exponential numbers of the thinking living who strove to do such thus making the simple odds of being among the last few to stand aloft upon the pillar of glory remarkably complex, those of keen mind breathing the air of today and forward the air of each day moving in the non-existent but inescapable prison of time seek to numb and dumb those very minds that could and may create or discover the wondrous tumult of knowledge and achievement in the fear of the day when the beat ceases and possibility ends.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
WESTPORT TOWNSHIP, FL – Marcella Doming has often thought she was being watched while she worked. Little did she know it was by mini-people! The proof came one recent Monday after she left a trap for them. Marcella likes her job because, as she says, “No one is creeping around to look over your shoulder, I can work in peace.” But lately the administrator has been bothered by the notion of someone looking in on her as she toiled at her work-a-day, move-the-paperwork-along, nine-to-five.
It all began one Friday after leaving work. She remembered that she forgot a piece of carrot birthday cake on her desk and decided to go in to work the next morning on a Saturday to throw it away so it wouldn’t spoil over the weekend. What she witnessed when she got into the office, unexpectedly, on that morning is remarkable. “I thought I was still sleeping and dreaming, I got to my desk and saw these tiny people whisking around the cake like ants around a morsel of food. They had formed a line like ants do, but instead of all on the ground, the line was like an invisible escalator up to a small hole in the ceiling tile.”
The office worker couldn’t believe her eyes! But woe, no sooner had she discovered this new species then they disappeared from sight. Upon realizing their discovery, the line of mini-people, in Marcella’s words, “Got sucked up into the ceiling!”
She described them as having tiny bug-like bodies with human heads, kind of like, “Termites with people’s heads,” she declared to this reporter. “I could hear them talking among themselves before I scared them. I heard one of them say that they’d had better carrot cake.”
Wary of their predicament, the mini-people didn’t reveal themselves to Marcella until she outwitted them weeks later. Having decided she was not seeing things that fateful Saturday, the pencil pusher set a trap before she left work. None of her co-workers knew of her plan. Of course, she was embarrassed to tell them.
But she was right! The Man-O-Mites took her bait. Marcella left a small bag of fries on her desk at the end of a long work day. But she didn’t go home. Instead, she snuck around the corner and waited. The wait wasn’t long.
Momentarily, having thought the coast was clear, the Man-o-Mites dropped in. This time they were friendlier. She spoke with them briefly and they told her they lived in the crawl space above her desk. Unfortunately, just as she was becoming acquainted with them, a brazen cleaning lady burst into the office and they were frightened back to their hovel.
Marcella swears she will contact them again and communicate to them that we only want to learn of the ways of their existence, “They are my new friends now, I will do what I can to help and protect them, but first I have to finish this report.”
We will keep you apprised of further developments in this exclusive story.
It all began one Friday after leaving work. She remembered that she forgot a piece of carrot birthday cake on her desk and decided to go in to work the next morning on a Saturday to throw it away so it wouldn’t spoil over the weekend. What she witnessed when she got into the office, unexpectedly, on that morning is remarkable. “I thought I was still sleeping and dreaming, I got to my desk and saw these tiny people whisking around the cake like ants around a morsel of food. They had formed a line like ants do, but instead of all on the ground, the line was like an invisible escalator up to a small hole in the ceiling tile.”
The office worker couldn’t believe her eyes! But woe, no sooner had she discovered this new species then they disappeared from sight. Upon realizing their discovery, the line of mini-people, in Marcella’s words, “Got sucked up into the ceiling!”
She described them as having tiny bug-like bodies with human heads, kind of like, “Termites with people’s heads,” she declared to this reporter. “I could hear them talking among themselves before I scared them. I heard one of them say that they’d had better carrot cake.”
Wary of their predicament, the mini-people didn’t reveal themselves to Marcella until she outwitted them weeks later. Having decided she was not seeing things that fateful Saturday, the pencil pusher set a trap before she left work. None of her co-workers knew of her plan. Of course, she was embarrassed to tell them.
But she was right! The Man-O-Mites took her bait. Marcella left a small bag of fries on her desk at the end of a long work day. But she didn’t go home. Instead, she snuck around the corner and waited. The wait wasn’t long.
Momentarily, having thought the coast was clear, the Man-o-Mites dropped in. This time they were friendlier. She spoke with them briefly and they told her they lived in the crawl space above her desk. Unfortunately, just as she was becoming acquainted with them, a brazen cleaning lady burst into the office and they were frightened back to their hovel.
Marcella swears she will contact them again and communicate to them that we only want to learn of the ways of their existence, “They are my new friends now, I will do what I can to help and protect them, but first I have to finish this report.”
We will keep you apprised of further developments in this exclusive story.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
2 too true candy stories.....
1) Why are Lifesavers called Lifesavers?
Not because they are shaped like life preservers. But because they have a hole in the middle that assures should one be accidentally swallowed and become lodged in the throat, breathing is possible (through the hole) until the candy dissolves.
2) Overheard in the concession line at the movies....
Man: Do you want some popcorn?
Woman: No thanks, I don't like the butter on my fingers.
Man: What about some candy?
Woman: Oh yes! Uuhhmmm....uhh...get me a Butterfinger.
1) Why are Lifesavers called Lifesavers?
Not because they are shaped like life preservers. But because they have a hole in the middle that assures should one be accidentally swallowed and become lodged in the throat, breathing is possible (through the hole) until the candy dissolves.
2) Overheard in the concession line at the movies....
Man: Do you want some popcorn?
Woman: No thanks, I don't like the butter on my fingers.
Man: What about some candy?
Woman: Oh yes! Uuhhmmm....uhh...get me a Butterfinger.
Speaking of Eddie the Bookie…
One week, when it came time to pay, I was the one allotted to collect our loses and meet Eddie. I hadn’t meet him before but I had spoken to him on the phone. He would always answer the phone with his, “Yeeaahh-up?”
“Hey Eddie, I have the money, where should we meet.”
“I’ll come to you, whereabouts are you?”
I told him approximately where I lived and he agreed to come meet me in the parking lot of the convenience store right across the street from my apartment in half an hour.
“How do I know who you are?”
“I’ll be in a station wagon.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
I thought to myself is that enough information “I’ll be in a station wagon"? But I’d heard Eddie had only three teeth so I figured I’d use that to identify him as well – how many people with three teeth are going to be in a station wagon in the parking lot of that particular convenience store, right?
Now, in those days, I worked the swing shift, so my mornings and early afternoons I had free. I would usually lounge around in crappy clothes until it came time to go to work. By crappy, I mean: Smelly, torn, over-worn rags. (There’s another story there for later)
At about noon, half an hour after I got off the phone with Eddie, I headed down to the parking lot, dressed like a bum, with the cash – which was a substantial looking amount, maybe about $800, all in tens and twenties – folded in my pocket.
I crossed the street and immediately saw a station wagon parked slightly away from the front of the store, off to the side. I chalked that up to a bookie being discreet, it had to be him. As I approached I started to get nervous, I mean this was illegal, I was participating in illicit gambling activities. You hear all kinds of stories, this was the mob after all. With each step I grew more apprehensive. My mouth started to get dry. I tried to wet my lips but I was parched. My palms, however, were moist with perspiration. I started to doubt myself. Would I have the courage to go up to him when I got close enough? I had to.
I was close enough to see the driver. He was alone, sitting in a relaxed manner. I got closer. He was eating an ice cream cone and reading a newspaper, his seat pushed back from the steering wheel. Another step. I was close enough now to see he was reading the sports page, it had to be him. I was too close now, committed.
I stepped to the open window, pulled the wad of cash from my pocket, flashed it to him and said desperately, “Are you Eddie?”
“Am I ready?” It was then I realized he had a full mouth of teeth.
He turned and saw me, instantly frozen in horror at the dilapidated stranger who had so openly approached him with a ton of cash and a proposition. The ice cream cone fell from his hand.
“Ready? Ready for what? Oh my God!”
He was trembling, panicky. The words hadn’t yet left his mouth before he threw the newspaper to one side, slide his seat in a rush back forward and started the car.
“I’m getting the hell out of here!”
He pulled the car back with a set of uneven jerks, switched gears and squealed out of the parking lot like he was being chased.
It wasn’t Eddie.
He pulled in about two minutes later. Thanked me for the money, “Better luck next week.” Then left.
Transaction complete.
One week, when it came time to pay, I was the one allotted to collect our loses and meet Eddie. I hadn’t meet him before but I had spoken to him on the phone. He would always answer the phone with his, “Yeeaahh-up?”
“Hey Eddie, I have the money, where should we meet.”
“I’ll come to you, whereabouts are you?”
I told him approximately where I lived and he agreed to come meet me in the parking lot of the convenience store right across the street from my apartment in half an hour.
“How do I know who you are?”
“I’ll be in a station wagon.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
I thought to myself is that enough information “I’ll be in a station wagon"? But I’d heard Eddie had only three teeth so I figured I’d use that to identify him as well – how many people with three teeth are going to be in a station wagon in the parking lot of that particular convenience store, right?
Now, in those days, I worked the swing shift, so my mornings and early afternoons I had free. I would usually lounge around in crappy clothes until it came time to go to work. By crappy, I mean: Smelly, torn, over-worn rags. (There’s another story there for later)
At about noon, half an hour after I got off the phone with Eddie, I headed down to the parking lot, dressed like a bum, with the cash – which was a substantial looking amount, maybe about $800, all in tens and twenties – folded in my pocket.
I crossed the street and immediately saw a station wagon parked slightly away from the front of the store, off to the side. I chalked that up to a bookie being discreet, it had to be him. As I approached I started to get nervous, I mean this was illegal, I was participating in illicit gambling activities. You hear all kinds of stories, this was the mob after all. With each step I grew more apprehensive. My mouth started to get dry. I tried to wet my lips but I was parched. My palms, however, were moist with perspiration. I started to doubt myself. Would I have the courage to go up to him when I got close enough? I had to.
I was close enough to see the driver. He was alone, sitting in a relaxed manner. I got closer. He was eating an ice cream cone and reading a newspaper, his seat pushed back from the steering wheel. Another step. I was close enough now to see he was reading the sports page, it had to be him. I was too close now, committed.
I stepped to the open window, pulled the wad of cash from my pocket, flashed it to him and said desperately, “Are you Eddie?”
“Am I ready?” It was then I realized he had a full mouth of teeth.
He turned and saw me, instantly frozen in horror at the dilapidated stranger who had so openly approached him with a ton of cash and a proposition. The ice cream cone fell from his hand.
“Ready? Ready for what? Oh my God!”
He was trembling, panicky. The words hadn’t yet left his mouth before he threw the newspaper to one side, slide his seat in a rush back forward and started the car.
“I’m getting the hell out of here!”
He pulled the car back with a set of uneven jerks, switched gears and squealed out of the parking lot like he was being chased.
It wasn’t Eddie.
He pulled in about two minutes later. Thanked me for the money, “Better luck next week.” Then left.
Transaction complete.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
My Dad overheard me telling my mom about my somnambulism. He heard me saying how I wander in my sleep in the middle of the night and rant and rave, sometimes, while in a state of standing slumber, visiting the fridge. "Hhmpph..." He chortled, knowing my penchant for drinking beer all night, "Is that what they're calling it these days?'
Friday, May 11, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
the end of the world has already happened
how could the end of the world already have happened?
CLUE: first grade teacher mrs. schmidt has twenty pupils in her third hour philosophy class - the class lasts exactly one hour - how much time has past in her classroom at the end of the class?
answer: 20 hours
how could the end of the world already have happened?
CLUE: first grade teacher mrs. schmidt has twenty pupils in her third hour philosophy class - the class lasts exactly one hour - how much time has past in her classroom at the end of the class?
answer: 20 hours
"Sweeney you asshole! Go...go...go...Sweeney you asshole!!"
Those are the words that eventually led to the formation of our fantasy football league. It was the fall of 1988 and my friends and I loved to bet on Sunday games. We mostly lost. And not really having any discretionary income didn't stop us.
On Sunday, November 13th 1988, my friend George called me at around 7:30PM, "I fucked up man, I really fucked up." There was an aloof tremble in his voice. "I bet on every game."
"Every game? Every game?"
We usually watched football at his house and would place wagers with Eddie the Bookie on the games that were going to be shown on TV plus maybe one or two others, maybe four or five during the Sunday football marathon. On this day however, something compelled him to bet
on every single game: 14 in total.
"Where have you been? Every game? How did you do?"
"I was out on a boat with some friends. Before I left I called Eddie and something happened. I just- I kept going. I went through the whole schedule and picked a team in every game this afternoon. I figured you can't lose every one right?"
"How did you do?"
"I lost every game."
"Shit."
"What am I going to do? I don't have the money. How could I lose every game!"
"That sucks."
"I'm going to have to ask my dad for the money, he'll kill me. Man I'm fucked. Hey if I bet as much as I owe on the Sunday Night game and win I'm in the clear. Dallas is playing Minnesota. (to himself) Where's the paper?"
"What if you lose?"
"If I lose? I have to ask my dad for the money as it is now, fuck it, if I lose I'll just ask for twice as much. I'm dead either way, right? Let me go, I have to call Eddie."
"Hey, I'm coming over. I want to see this."
"Allright, see you."
When I got there I witnessed three hours of the most intense football watching you'll ever see. Al Pacino couldn't have done better. George bet on Minnesota and the over, a parlay. He wound up risking less ca$h exposure for a two and a half to one payout. It seemed like a good bet to me, probably what I would have done in his shoes.
Minnesota kicked the Cowboys all over the field that night, so the team bet was never in doubt. The over though, that was another story. It was 44 points. The score was 40-3 Vikings and with less than two minutes to play, the Cowboys were deep in Viking territory, driving for a meaningless score. George was very close to breathing easy. Normally we'd be lounging back on the sofa. Right then, he was sitting upright, a bundle of potential energy awaiting release as soon as Dallas scored. The celebratory scream seemingly inevitable.
A young quarterback named Kevin Sweeney had been put into the game by Tom Landry. He moved the team down to the 10-yard line, leading them with the fervor of a veteran QB in overtime of the Super Bowl. He was playing his heart out and had a new, big fan in my friend George.
Sweeney led the Cowboys out of the huddle. George tilted forward toward to TV. Sweeney came to the line and shouted signals. George rubbed his hands together, anticipating victory, "Come on Sweeny, come on Sweeney." Sweeney took the snap and dropped back. George took a deep breath and heaved up. Sweeney saw his target in the flat. George lifted his hands to his head. Not the flat, not the flat. Sweeney released. The ball headed for its target, the running back out of the backfield, with nothing between him and the endzone. George made a squeaky, gutteral sound, every muscle in his body tensing up simultaneously. The ball fluttered, hovering forever in the air, suspending every physical law. Time stopped.
A flicker of something purple flashed across the screen. The ball was no longer there.
"Sweeney you asshole!" All was lost.
The young quarterback's pass was intercepted. The defender was streaking towards the other goal line. George, distraught, was already thinking of what words to use when he was going to speak to his- WAIT! George realized any score would put the game over and win the bet. He catapaulted from the sofa, "Go....go.....go!"
The QB's determination and winning spirit launched him in chase of the purple mariah who had stolen his ball. Down the field they ran. What's this? The quarterback was catching up to the defender? How could this be? How could you lose every bet? The Viking remained stalwart, cruising on, fifty, forty, thirty....
"Go, go, go!!"
...twenty, ten. Sweeney dove. He tagged the purple man's foot in mid-air. The foot swung sideways and got tangled with the other foot. The purple man fell in a heap. He fell at the one yard line. No score.
"Sweeney you asshole!"
George fell back on the sofa, his hands grabbing his head, "What the fuck just happened."
There were no words to say. Nothing left. The potential energy had been spent, but not in the way for which it was intended. We sat in silence and watched the rest of the game. We watched as the clock ticked away. We watched, mouths agape, when, for reasons that may never be known, Minnesota sent their kicker in for a field goal leading 40-3 with seconds left to play. It was good. 43-3. Minnesota and the over. George did it.
After that day, we needed a new way to watch football, some way where we wouldn't be asking ourselves, "How could you lose every bet?"
"Hey, George, you ever about that fantasy stuff?"
Those are the words that eventually led to the formation of our fantasy football league. It was the fall of 1988 and my friends and I loved to bet on Sunday games. We mostly lost. And not really having any discretionary income didn't stop us.
On Sunday, November 13th 1988, my friend George called me at around 7:30PM, "I fucked up man, I really fucked up." There was an aloof tremble in his voice. "I bet on every game."
"Every game? Every game?"
We usually watched football at his house and would place wagers with Eddie the Bookie on the games that were going to be shown on TV plus maybe one or two others, maybe four or five during the Sunday football marathon. On this day however, something compelled him to bet
on every single game: 14 in total.
"Where have you been? Every game? How did you do?"
"I was out on a boat with some friends. Before I left I called Eddie and something happened. I just- I kept going. I went through the whole schedule and picked a team in every game this afternoon. I figured you can't lose every one right?"
"How did you do?"
"I lost every game."
"Shit."
"What am I going to do? I don't have the money. How could I lose every game!"
"That sucks."
"I'm going to have to ask my dad for the money, he'll kill me. Man I'm fucked. Hey if I bet as much as I owe on the Sunday Night game and win I'm in the clear. Dallas is playing Minnesota. (to himself) Where's the paper?"
"What if you lose?"
"If I lose? I have to ask my dad for the money as it is now, fuck it, if I lose I'll just ask for twice as much. I'm dead either way, right? Let me go, I have to call Eddie."
"Hey, I'm coming over. I want to see this."
"Allright, see you."
When I got there I witnessed three hours of the most intense football watching you'll ever see. Al Pacino couldn't have done better. George bet on Minnesota and the over, a parlay. He wound up risking less ca$h exposure for a two and a half to one payout. It seemed like a good bet to me, probably what I would have done in his shoes.
Minnesota kicked the Cowboys all over the field that night, so the team bet was never in doubt. The over though, that was another story. It was 44 points. The score was 40-3 Vikings and with less than two minutes to play, the Cowboys were deep in Viking territory, driving for a meaningless score. George was very close to breathing easy. Normally we'd be lounging back on the sofa. Right then, he was sitting upright, a bundle of potential energy awaiting release as soon as Dallas scored. The celebratory scream seemingly inevitable.
A young quarterback named Kevin Sweeney had been put into the game by Tom Landry. He moved the team down to the 10-yard line, leading them with the fervor of a veteran QB in overtime of the Super Bowl. He was playing his heart out and had a new, big fan in my friend George.
Sweeney led the Cowboys out of the huddle. George tilted forward toward to TV. Sweeney came to the line and shouted signals. George rubbed his hands together, anticipating victory, "Come on Sweeny, come on Sweeney." Sweeney took the snap and dropped back. George took a deep breath and heaved up. Sweeney saw his target in the flat. George lifted his hands to his head. Not the flat, not the flat. Sweeney released. The ball headed for its target, the running back out of the backfield, with nothing between him and the endzone. George made a squeaky, gutteral sound, every muscle in his body tensing up simultaneously. The ball fluttered, hovering forever in the air, suspending every physical law. Time stopped.
A flicker of something purple flashed across the screen. The ball was no longer there.
"Sweeney you asshole!" All was lost.
The young quarterback's pass was intercepted. The defender was streaking towards the other goal line. George, distraught, was already thinking of what words to use when he was going to speak to his- WAIT! George realized any score would put the game over and win the bet. He catapaulted from the sofa, "Go....go.....go!"
The QB's determination and winning spirit launched him in chase of the purple mariah who had stolen his ball. Down the field they ran. What's this? The quarterback was catching up to the defender? How could this be? How could you lose every bet? The Viking remained stalwart, cruising on, fifty, forty, thirty....
"Go, go, go!!"
...twenty, ten. Sweeney dove. He tagged the purple man's foot in mid-air. The foot swung sideways and got tangled with the other foot. The purple man fell in a heap. He fell at the one yard line. No score.
"Sweeney you asshole!"
George fell back on the sofa, his hands grabbing his head, "What the fuck just happened."
There were no words to say. Nothing left. The potential energy had been spent, but not in the way for which it was intended. We sat in silence and watched the rest of the game. We watched as the clock ticked away. We watched, mouths agape, when, for reasons that may never be known, Minnesota sent their kicker in for a field goal leading 40-3 with seconds left to play. It was good. 43-3. Minnesota and the over. George did it.
After that day, we needed a new way to watch football, some way where we wouldn't be asking ourselves, "How could you lose every bet?"
"Hey, George, you ever about that fantasy stuff?"
I work in an office building. Our company has offices on the 4th and 5th floors, my desk is on the 5th. One morning I was getting into the elevator on 1st floor. There was another gentleman, older, already in the elevator. He had pressed the button for the 8th floor; I pressed the button for the 5th floor. Just before the door closed, a woman got into the elevator. I recognized her as someone who worked on the 4th floor for the same company as me. Without the man noticing, the woman and I acknowledged each other with only a polite, very slight, nod. He did see me however when I reached out and pressed the button for the 4th floor.
When we reached the 4th floor, the woman got out of the elevator without saying a word. The man looked over at me, astonished. How did you know? The elevator door closed. I gave him a coy smile and raised my eyebrows.
We reached the 5th floor and the door opened. I got out and turned around. As the door was closing, I looked back into the elevator and told the older man, calmly, monotoned, "When the elevator gets to the 8th floor, don't get out."
I have never seen a person press a 7th floor button so fast in my life.
When we reached the 4th floor, the woman got out of the elevator without saying a word. The man looked over at me, astonished. How did you know? The elevator door closed. I gave him a coy smile and raised my eyebrows.
We reached the 5th floor and the door opened. I got out and turned around. As the door was closing, I looked back into the elevator and told the older man, calmly, monotoned, "When the elevator gets to the 8th floor, don't get out."
I have never seen a person press a 7th floor button so fast in my life.
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