It's like that time someone stuck an "I love Mormon Pussy" bumper sticker to the back of my parent’s car.
My Mom and Step dad were looking for homes in Park City when they noticed it. They'd been driving around for hours before pulling in to Ruby Tuesday's for Lunch. The ironic thing is, my Step Dad, he backs into every parking space.
If he would've followed suit and backed into that spot, they never would've noticed it.
So when my mom called me from work, I could only assume it was an emergency. She never calls me at work.
She left me a voice mail telling me to call her back. There was Panic in her voice.
I was a customer service representative for Direct TV at the time. It was a phone job so I couldn't really stand up and walk out to make my phone call.
I pressed 2468 ## on my phone and logged out.
"Walter!" My boss shouts. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
I tell him it's an emergency. I tell him it's an Emergency and my Mother needs to get a hold of me right away.
He gives me permission to go into the break room and make my phone call.
I dial the number to my Moms Cell and press the phone against my ear.
She picks up
"Hello!" She says
"Hi Mom. What's up?" I brace myself for the worst.
My Step Dad and a Heart Attack.
My Younger brother and a Car Accident.
Cancer
Death
Sickness/Illness/Disease
"Did you stick a bumper sticker to the back of my car?" She asks
"No."
"Honest?
"Yes. Honest. What's wrong Mom?"
"Nothing"
"Really, 'Cause in your message it sounded like something was wrong."
"Nothing...it's just...well...someone stuck a bumper sticker to the back of our car..." She says
"That's it? A bumper Sticker?" I Say
"Yes...well...Are you sure you didn't..."
"I'm sure Mom. What did the bumper sticker say?"
Pause
"It said 'I Love Mormon Pussy'..."
I laugh. I tell her just to take it off.
She tells me it's on there pretty good.
My Boss comes back into the room to Check on me.
"Gotta Go mom." I say, "My Boss is checking up on me."
I tell her good luck on the Sticker.
After I hang up the phone, my Boss, he asks me if everything is okay.
I laugh and tell him everything is fine. He wants to know what the emergency was.
"Someone stuck a bumper that says 'I love Mormon Pussy' on the back of my parents car."
Years later no one ever talks about it. I tried bringing it up during a Thanksgiving dinner a few years back. I had gotten as far as saying "Hey, Remember that Bumper Sticker?" My mom cut me off by asking the table if anyone needs more mashed potatoes.
If you ever happen to ask her, you know like run into her on the street and ask her.
She'll deny it.
She'll say you have her mixed up with someone else.
Legend has it, there's a Red 2001 Ford Focus that can be seen between 2100 S and 100N.
Always on State Street.
Legend has it, if you look close enough, in the bottom right hand corner; there is an outline of what used to be a bumper sticker.
Don't jump to any conclusions
I'm not
Maybe it is, maybe it isn't the same car.
Either way, it' out there somewhere.
The Legend
The Car
The Bumper Sticker
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wyland
The thing about Wyland, he doesn't really care what people think.
It was already a quarter past six when Wyland opens the door to room 211. A white cord extends from his left hip pocket, moves up past his torso and branches out to both ears.
"Hold me closer Tony Danza..." Wyland sings.
As he enters the room, Wyland appears to be singing Elton John's "Tiny Dancer"
Except the lyrics appear to be about Tony Danza.
Since the first of the year, the Center for Recovery starts at Six O'clock sharp. Monday-Friday
He is the last one to enter the room.
"Wyland?" Our facilitator says
On top of the desk near the entrance, Wyland grabs the sign in sheet.
"Wyland..." The facilitator asks again
"Hold me closer Tony Danza..." he sings.
Wyland places the sign-in sheet over the wall in front of him and signs his name
"Something something something soommmeeeething....." he sings
He scans the room and looks for an empty chair.
Our facilitator's cheeks have now turned from white to I'm fucking pissed at Wyland for being an asshole red.
Yes I think that's a color. Just check your 64 box of Crayolas.
Wyland finds his seat and sits down.
Our facilitator makes eye contact. Mimicking a pinching gesture, she holds both hands above both ears and pulls her hands away from her head. Silently she mouths "please take those out."
Wyland stares blankly back. It looks as though he's taking a moment to register her request.
After a pause, he removes the ear buds from his ears.
I count 10 seconds.
"Sorry." he says
"You're fifteen minutes late." the facilitator says
"I had car trouble." he says
"You won't get credit for being here." she says
"Then I won't get credit." he says
I write these quotes down in my moleskin.
Something about Wyland, he doesn't drive a car. I write this minor detail down as well.
The facilitator apologizes to the group for the delay. This is of course, in her own mind, is a tactful way of taking a shot towards Wyland and his constant tardiness.
Charles sits to the right of me. "What a fucking asshole." he whispers
It's bad when Charles thinks you’re an ass.
Our facilitator gives the details on tonight’s lesson. While she speaks she takes a thick stack of papers and hands it to the girl on her left. She tells her to take one down and pass it around.
She tells us our lesson tonight is on Cognitive Thinking. She tells us "the way we view ourselves..." she says "Can ultimately become self fulfilling. She gives an example of a child who grows up telling himself he's no good. She says when this child reaches adulthood; he grows to be an introvert. Always keeping to himself and never giving others a chance to get to know him. The outside world views this person as socially awkward. His peers at work stay away. They consider him the office weirdo. To everyone, he really is "Just no good."
Wyland tells the facilitator he is offended by the example. He tells her he knows the example is about him.
The group laughs
Charles tells me he's fucking paranoid.
"The key to this lesson." our facilitator says "are the details." says "The more detailed you are about the way you feel, look, and react to certain events, the better chance you have of understanding yourself."
The details about Wyland are:
He always wears a shirt and tie.
Tonight he has on a tan pair of Khakis, a white button up dress shit, and a navy blue tie embroidered with three Rainbow trout on it.
If you ask any therapist around, they'll tell you his attire is more of an attempt to attract attention than to exceed the standard dress code.
If you ask any of us, we'll just tell you Wyland doesn't really spend much time thinking about how he looks.
The thing about Wyland, he doesn't have many clothes.
After we all receive a lesson plan, our therapist asks if any of us want to read.
No one wants to volunteer. After a few seconds in stalemate, I raise my hand
Charles calls me an ass kisser.
I tell the group that Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is a form of psychotherapy that emphasizes the important role of thinking in how we feel and what we do.
I tell the group
Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is based on the idea that our thoughts...
"Hold me closer Tony Danza..."
I pause and look over at Wyland. He smiles and tells me he's sorry.
I read
“Is based on the idea that our thoughts cause our feelings and behaviors, not external things, like people, situations, and events...
"Something something something soommmeeethhiinnngg"
A few of the girls from the group laugh
I read
"The benefit of this fact is that we can change the way we think to..."
"She works hard for her monkey..." Wyland sings
"Wyland!" Our facilitator yells
"Thank you Weird Al Yankobitch" Charles says
The entire group laughs.
I look over at Charles and say "nice." followed by "fuck this” I tell Wyland I think it's his turn to read.
"Sorry, eyes don't knows hows to weed." he tells me. "Eyes just a knows gud dwunk." he says
The same girls from before laugh again.
"It's nice to know someone went to collage." says a voice from the circle.
I have no idea who said it, but the comment made me laugh.
Our facilitator asks if we can excuse "us" for one second. I assume that "us" is her and Wyland.
She extends out her right arm, pokes out her index finger and curls it in towards her body. This motion is directed towards Wyland.
They both leave the room and step out into the hallway.
While the circle pretends not to listen. We all are. Listening.
EPILOGUE
A couple of nights ago, someone in the group asked about Wyland. Our facilitator told us he was no longer with us.
"Like, he's in heaven?" Someone from the circle asked.
The facilitator tells us that it's not heaven. She tells us it's kind of the opposite.
Charles nudges me in the ribs and says "Unless your homo."
Later that night I found myself awake, staring at the ceiling. I found myself staring at the ceiling singing "Tiny Dancer."
Except I wasn't. I was singing "Tony Danza."
The thing about Wyland, attempting to or not, he leaves a piece of himself behind with everyone.
It was already a quarter past six when Wyland opens the door to room 211. A white cord extends from his left hip pocket, moves up past his torso and branches out to both ears.
"Hold me closer Tony Danza..." Wyland sings.
As he enters the room, Wyland appears to be singing Elton John's "Tiny Dancer"
Except the lyrics appear to be about Tony Danza.
Since the first of the year, the Center for Recovery starts at Six O'clock sharp. Monday-Friday
He is the last one to enter the room.
"Wyland?" Our facilitator says
On top of the desk near the entrance, Wyland grabs the sign in sheet.
"Wyland..." The facilitator asks again
"Hold me closer Tony Danza..." he sings.
Wyland places the sign-in sheet over the wall in front of him and signs his name
"Something something something soommmeeeething....." he sings
He scans the room and looks for an empty chair.
Our facilitator's cheeks have now turned from white to I'm fucking pissed at Wyland for being an asshole red.
Yes I think that's a color. Just check your 64 box of Crayolas.
Wyland finds his seat and sits down.
Our facilitator makes eye contact. Mimicking a pinching gesture, she holds both hands above both ears and pulls her hands away from her head. Silently she mouths "please take those out."
Wyland stares blankly back. It looks as though he's taking a moment to register her request.
After a pause, he removes the ear buds from his ears.
I count 10 seconds.
"Sorry." he says
"You're fifteen minutes late." the facilitator says
"I had car trouble." he says
"You won't get credit for being here." she says
"Then I won't get credit." he says
I write these quotes down in my moleskin.
Something about Wyland, he doesn't drive a car. I write this minor detail down as well.
The facilitator apologizes to the group for the delay. This is of course, in her own mind, is a tactful way of taking a shot towards Wyland and his constant tardiness.
Charles sits to the right of me. "What a fucking asshole." he whispers
It's bad when Charles thinks you’re an ass.
Our facilitator gives the details on tonight’s lesson. While she speaks she takes a thick stack of papers and hands it to the girl on her left. She tells her to take one down and pass it around.
She tells us our lesson tonight is on Cognitive Thinking. She tells us "the way we view ourselves..." she says "Can ultimately become self fulfilling. She gives an example of a child who grows up telling himself he's no good. She says when this child reaches adulthood; he grows to be an introvert. Always keeping to himself and never giving others a chance to get to know him. The outside world views this person as socially awkward. His peers at work stay away. They consider him the office weirdo. To everyone, he really is "Just no good."
Wyland tells the facilitator he is offended by the example. He tells her he knows the example is about him.
The group laughs
Charles tells me he's fucking paranoid.
"The key to this lesson." our facilitator says "are the details." says "The more detailed you are about the way you feel, look, and react to certain events, the better chance you have of understanding yourself."
The details about Wyland are:
He always wears a shirt and tie.
Tonight he has on a tan pair of Khakis, a white button up dress shit, and a navy blue tie embroidered with three Rainbow trout on it.
If you ask any therapist around, they'll tell you his attire is more of an attempt to attract attention than to exceed the standard dress code.
If you ask any of us, we'll just tell you Wyland doesn't really spend much time thinking about how he looks.
The thing about Wyland, he doesn't have many clothes.
After we all receive a lesson plan, our therapist asks if any of us want to read.
No one wants to volunteer. After a few seconds in stalemate, I raise my hand
Charles calls me an ass kisser.
I tell the group that Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is a form of psychotherapy that emphasizes the important role of thinking in how we feel and what we do.
I tell the group
Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is based on the idea that our thoughts...
"Hold me closer Tony Danza..."
I pause and look over at Wyland. He smiles and tells me he's sorry.
I read
“Is based on the idea that our thoughts cause our feelings and behaviors, not external things, like people, situations, and events...
"Something something something soommmeeethhiinnngg"
A few of the girls from the group laugh
I read
"The benefit of this fact is that we can change the way we think to..."
"She works hard for her monkey..." Wyland sings
"Wyland!" Our facilitator yells
"Thank you Weird Al Yankobitch" Charles says
The entire group laughs.
I look over at Charles and say "nice." followed by "fuck this” I tell Wyland I think it's his turn to read.
"Sorry, eyes don't knows hows to weed." he tells me. "Eyes just a knows gud dwunk." he says
The same girls from before laugh again.
"It's nice to know someone went to collage." says a voice from the circle.
I have no idea who said it, but the comment made me laugh.
Our facilitator asks if we can excuse "us" for one second. I assume that "us" is her and Wyland.
She extends out her right arm, pokes out her index finger and curls it in towards her body. This motion is directed towards Wyland.
They both leave the room and step out into the hallway.
While the circle pretends not to listen. We all are. Listening.
EPILOGUE
A couple of nights ago, someone in the group asked about Wyland. Our facilitator told us he was no longer with us.
"Like, he's in heaven?" Someone from the circle asked.
The facilitator tells us that it's not heaven. She tells us it's kind of the opposite.
Charles nudges me in the ribs and says "Unless your homo."
Later that night I found myself awake, staring at the ceiling. I found myself staring at the ceiling singing "Tiny Dancer."
Except I wasn't. I was singing "Tony Danza."
The thing about Wyland, attempting to or not, he leaves a piece of himself behind with everyone.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Can't we get past all this? Or...
You know it's bad when you start loosing your followers. It's even worse when you only had three to begin with.
Right now the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I'm a fucking nervous wreck.
I can't focus.
I can't eat.
Most importantly I can't write. I'm a nervous fucking wreck and it's causing me to have writers block.
On Thursday morning to my surprise I finally had followers. You know that knot you get in your stomach?
Not the bad one.
The good one.
The one where it feels like Shyanne Tibbets thinks your ass looks good and you have a chance to fuck her.
That one.
And if you don't know Shyanne Tibbets just think of someone.
Anyone
Maybe a Celebrity
So, Thursday morning, to my surprise, I finally had followers.
For twenty minutes I sat there staring at my computer screen.
I thought, "This is fucking awesome!" Then I couldn't think of anything at all.
Whatsoever
Nada
Zip
Fucking Zilch
I'm a nervous fucking wreck and I cant' think of anything to write.
You know those Television Shows? The ones where they plan re-runs half way through the season in hopes to catch the attention of new viewers?
That was my inspiration
So I posted an old post
It was shit
It still is
Shit
I thought the residents of Tooele County would provide some inspiration.
I mean, after all, I have followers. My next post has to be something worth reading. I have followers. Three of them.
It should be four.
Pearl suggested I add a "follower" widget to my blog soes she could follow me.
So I did
I don't think she ever came back. I do thank her for the kind words.
By the way
Her blog is fucking awesome
In the Tooele County Library at computer number 6 I see him. It's the first time he's been here since the New Year started.
"Can I get my own library card." Joey says.
Joey's head barely reaches over the top of the internet reception desk.
To avoid mutual eye contact my head slides down six inches. I cower behind the sixteen-inch flat screen of computer number six.
"You have to be at least 18" the receptionist says
My head reaches out from behind the monitor to get a better look.
Joey stands there. Lifeless.
He stands there lifeless with no expression on his face whatsoever.
"So...are you 18?" the receptionist asks
Joey stands his ground. Same look. Same expression.
"Do your parents have one.”? The receptionist says " Because if they do, then you should be able..."
"But I want my OWN library card."
"Are you 18? 'Cause you don't look 18"
There have been times where I have seen people avoid an implicating question by using numerous variable tactics.
But silence?
This kid is good.
Really good.
"Do you have any sort of I.D.?"
"I just want my own library card." Joey says
Joey stands his ground. At only ten years old he stands his ground. This cold, expressionless cool as cu-fucking-cumber look is genius.
The receptionist picks the hand piece up to his phone. Over the loud speaker we hear
"Aaron, please come to the internet desk please."
Maybe the receptionist has reached her end game. She's tired of fucking around and ready to deal the game-ending blow.
Security is on their way Joey. You've done well for yourself but the game has to end eventually.
An overweight, Forty-something year old approaches the desk. I think it's Aaron.
The receptionist and Aaron form a huddle.
They whisper
Make gestures with their hands
Shake their heads.
Aaron leaves
"Sorry little fellow" the receptionist says, "My boss tells me there's nothing I can do. You have to be at least 18 to have your own library card."
Not response I was expecting but the outcome appears the same.
"Why?"
Pause
Joey stares down
Stands his ground
Doesn't even seemed phased
"That's just our policy." The receptionist says
"But why?"
Joey is making his comeback.
He stands his ground and makes his comeback.
"I don't know, it just is."
Expressionless
Blank
Cold
Unforgiving
The receptionist sighs.
He looks beat
Defeated
"Okay...how 'bout this..." he says "...
Anyone in Hollywood will tell you, the secret to a long standing Television Series is continuity.
Have a recurring theme. Pick up where the last episode leaves off.
If you look at the Nielsen ratings for the past 12 months, those shows, the ones with continuity, they are in top.
Good ahead look it up.
Right now the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I'm a fucking nervous wreck.
I can't focus.
I can't eat.
Most importantly I can't write. I'm a nervous fucking wreck and it's causing me to have writers block.
On Thursday morning to my surprise I finally had followers. You know that knot you get in your stomach?
Not the bad one.
The good one.
The one where it feels like Shyanne Tibbets thinks your ass looks good and you have a chance to fuck her.
That one.
And if you don't know Shyanne Tibbets just think of someone.
Anyone
Maybe a Celebrity
So, Thursday morning, to my surprise, I finally had followers.
For twenty minutes I sat there staring at my computer screen.
I thought, "This is fucking awesome!" Then I couldn't think of anything at all.
Whatsoever
Nada
Zip
Fucking Zilch
I'm a nervous fucking wreck and I cant' think of anything to write.
You know those Television Shows? The ones where they plan re-runs half way through the season in hopes to catch the attention of new viewers?
That was my inspiration
So I posted an old post
It was shit
It still is
Shit
I thought the residents of Tooele County would provide some inspiration.
I mean, after all, I have followers. My next post has to be something worth reading. I have followers. Three of them.
It should be four.
Pearl suggested I add a "follower" widget to my blog soes she could follow me.
So I did
I don't think she ever came back. I do thank her for the kind words.
By the way
Her blog is fucking awesome
In the Tooele County Library at computer number 6 I see him. It's the first time he's been here since the New Year started.
"Can I get my own library card." Joey says.
Joey's head barely reaches over the top of the internet reception desk.
To avoid mutual eye contact my head slides down six inches. I cower behind the sixteen-inch flat screen of computer number six.
"You have to be at least 18" the receptionist says
My head reaches out from behind the monitor to get a better look.
Joey stands there. Lifeless.
He stands there lifeless with no expression on his face whatsoever.
"So...are you 18?" the receptionist asks
Joey stands his ground. Same look. Same expression.
"Do your parents have one.”? The receptionist says " Because if they do, then you should be able..."
"But I want my OWN library card."
"Are you 18? 'Cause you don't look 18"
There have been times where I have seen people avoid an implicating question by using numerous variable tactics.
But silence?
This kid is good.
Really good.
"Do you have any sort of I.D.?"
"I just want my own library card." Joey says
Joey stands his ground. At only ten years old he stands his ground. This cold, expressionless cool as cu-fucking-cumber look is genius.
The receptionist picks the hand piece up to his phone. Over the loud speaker we hear
"Aaron, please come to the internet desk please."
Maybe the receptionist has reached her end game. She's tired of fucking around and ready to deal the game-ending blow.
Security is on their way Joey. You've done well for yourself but the game has to end eventually.
An overweight, Forty-something year old approaches the desk. I think it's Aaron.
The receptionist and Aaron form a huddle.
They whisper
Make gestures with their hands
Shake their heads.
Aaron leaves
"Sorry little fellow" the receptionist says, "My boss tells me there's nothing I can do. You have to be at least 18 to have your own library card."
Not response I was expecting but the outcome appears the same.
"Why?"
Pause
Joey stares down
Stands his ground
Doesn't even seemed phased
"That's just our policy." The receptionist says
"But why?"
Joey is making his comeback.
He stands his ground and makes his comeback.
"I don't know, it just is."
Expressionless
Blank
Cold
Unforgiving
The receptionist sighs.
He looks beat
Defeated
"Okay...how 'bout this..." he says "...
Anyone in Hollywood will tell you, the secret to a long standing Television Series is continuity.
Have a recurring theme. Pick up where the last episode leaves off.
If you look at the Nielsen ratings for the past 12 months, those shows, the ones with continuity, they are in top.
Good ahead look it up.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Repost-Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and little shits at the library far, far away
Here is a re-post from a November entry.
WHY?
Because I'm fucking Lazy!
From November 23rd
Sitting here, trying to figure out where to start, my eye burns. I’ve just rubbed pizza sauce over my eyeball-on accident of course- and it hurts. My left eye has been closed for over a minute now. Trying to type with one eye open fucks with my equilibrium. And I say that truthfully. It isn’t just an opportunity to use a cool word like “equilibrium.”
I’ve never been self conscious about my writing. I know its shit. If anyone else read my shit, they’d know its shit too. It’s just not that good. But it’s mine. I take comfort in that my shit is my own. I write what I want to write. I don’t take requests. The only influences I listen to are the ones my own reality creates. So…I’ve never been self conscious about my writing.
Never
Until Today
“How come all your stories start at the end and end at the begining?” Little fucker asks me.
“How come you don’t drive a car?” I ask
Sitting at the computer to my left is some kid. Some kid, who looks no older than Ten years of age. Some kid who feels he has advice to offer.
“Because I don’t have my driver’s license.” He says
“Exactly!” I sit there and act like my comment made absolute and perfect sense. Though I don’t think Little Fucker buys it.
I turn my attention back towards the computer screen.
“It’s not very funny either.” He says
I sigh
“What’s not?” I ask him.
“Your introduction. It’s not very funny.”
“What do you know about introductions?” I ask
“I know yours isn’t funny.” He says
I turn my monitor to the right, moving it out of his view.
“Shouldn’t you be looking at Disney.com or something?”
“I’m Ten years old.” He says. He moves his chair to the right and back into view
“Yeah, So.” I say.
“So… I’ve outgrown all that Disney shit.”
“You shouldn’t say shit.” I tell him. I look around the room with hopes of finding someone who might resemble the same genetics little fucker has. Aside from his small frame, Little Fucker has short brown hair, blue eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. His T-shirt says “Idaho” at the top, followed by a potato in the middle and the phrase “my little spud” written across the bottom.
“You say bad words in your stories.” He says.
“But I’m an adult. Adults don’t have bad words
“Yes they do!” he says. “I bet you can’t go into McDonalds and say, ‘I’d like to order a fucking hamburger!’ They’d probably arrest you or something.”
Little Fuckers lips are blue. Probably from the sucker he was chewing on a minute ago.
“I’m gonna tell your mom all the bad words you’re saying when she comes to get you.” I say
“I’m gonna tell her all the bad words your writing down.”
I sigh.
“Look, I’ve got some very important work I need to finish.”
“No you don’t. It’s not important because it’s stupid.” He says.
I can't take anymore abuse. I lay down my king and surrender. I’ve been bested by a Ten year old. A fucking Ten year old! I close out of my blog, log out of my facebook and Gmail, and stand up. Little Fucker slides back over to his computer.
“It was nice to meet you.” I say to him. “See ya.” He says back.
I walk to an open space in the Library and sit in a chair. I pull my moleskin from the backpack and try to remember my conversation with Little Fucker. I write down quotes and laugh. Some strange passerby gives me a weird look as she sees me laughing to myself. I write this down in my moleskin as well.
After twenty minutes or so I hear a familiar voice.
“Wait mom, I want to say good bye to my friend.” The familiar voice says. Before I can put it together, little fucker is standing directly in front of me.
“Are you gonna write about me in your next story.” He asks.
I look up at the mom. She returns a look of something that resembles terror. Terror with a dash of curious suspicion.
I should probably lie. I should probably stand up and say something like, “Who are you and what are you talking about.” Instead I sit there with a dumb shit look on my face.
“if you write about me, make sure you…”
“JOEY!” His mom calls.
JOEY. It always nice to put a name with a face.
Joey the Little Fucker runs back to his mom. She bends down and whispers something into his hear. It kinda sounds like;
“Do you know that man?”
Joey The Little Fucker looks up towards his mom and whispers something like;
“Yeah, he’s a writer. He was writing a story on the computer. It wasn’t very funny though.”
Mom gives me another one of those looks.
“I told him he shouldn’t use so many bad words.”
Another one of those looks.
“He told me adults don’t have any bad words.”
One of those looks.
“I told him that even adults shouldn’t use words like that
One of those looks.
Great. She probably thinks I’m a fucking pervert or something.
Joey the Little Fucker and his mom head towards the door. She gives me one more look for the road.
“Fucking amazing.” I say under my breath. I write down the past few minutes in my Moleskin.
You may have won the battle Joey the Little Fucker, but you haven’t won the war.
WHY?
Because I'm fucking Lazy!
From November 23rd
Sitting here, trying to figure out where to start, my eye burns. I’ve just rubbed pizza sauce over my eyeball-on accident of course- and it hurts. My left eye has been closed for over a minute now. Trying to type with one eye open fucks with my equilibrium. And I say that truthfully. It isn’t just an opportunity to use a cool word like “equilibrium.”
I’ve never been self conscious about my writing. I know its shit. If anyone else read my shit, they’d know its shit too. It’s just not that good. But it’s mine. I take comfort in that my shit is my own. I write what I want to write. I don’t take requests. The only influences I listen to are the ones my own reality creates. So…I’ve never been self conscious about my writing.
Never
Until Today
“How come all your stories start at the end and end at the begining?” Little fucker asks me.
“How come you don’t drive a car?” I ask
Sitting at the computer to my left is some kid. Some kid, who looks no older than Ten years of age. Some kid who feels he has advice to offer.
“Because I don’t have my driver’s license.” He says
“Exactly!” I sit there and act like my comment made absolute and perfect sense. Though I don’t think Little Fucker buys it.
I turn my attention back towards the computer screen.
“It’s not very funny either.” He says
I sigh
“What’s not?” I ask him.
“Your introduction. It’s not very funny.”
“What do you know about introductions?” I ask
“I know yours isn’t funny.” He says
I turn my monitor to the right, moving it out of his view.
“Shouldn’t you be looking at Disney.com or something?”
“I’m Ten years old.” He says. He moves his chair to the right and back into view
“Yeah, So.” I say.
“So… I’ve outgrown all that Disney shit.”
“You shouldn’t say shit.” I tell him. I look around the room with hopes of finding someone who might resemble the same genetics little fucker has. Aside from his small frame, Little Fucker has short brown hair, blue eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. His T-shirt says “Idaho” at the top, followed by a potato in the middle and the phrase “my little spud” written across the bottom.
“You say bad words in your stories.” He says.
“But I’m an adult. Adults don’t have bad words
“Yes they do!” he says. “I bet you can’t go into McDonalds and say, ‘I’d like to order a fucking hamburger!’ They’d probably arrest you or something.”
Little Fuckers lips are blue. Probably from the sucker he was chewing on a minute ago.
“I’m gonna tell your mom all the bad words you’re saying when she comes to get you.” I say
“I’m gonna tell her all the bad words your writing down.”
I sigh.
“Look, I’ve got some very important work I need to finish.”
“No you don’t. It’s not important because it’s stupid.” He says.
I can't take anymore abuse. I lay down my king and surrender. I’ve been bested by a Ten year old. A fucking Ten year old! I close out of my blog, log out of my facebook and Gmail, and stand up. Little Fucker slides back over to his computer.
“It was nice to meet you.” I say to him. “See ya.” He says back.
I walk to an open space in the Library and sit in a chair. I pull my moleskin from the backpack and try to remember my conversation with Little Fucker. I write down quotes and laugh. Some strange passerby gives me a weird look as she sees me laughing to myself. I write this down in my moleskin as well.
After twenty minutes or so I hear a familiar voice.
“Wait mom, I want to say good bye to my friend.” The familiar voice says. Before I can put it together, little fucker is standing directly in front of me.
“Are you gonna write about me in your next story.” He asks.
I look up at the mom. She returns a look of something that resembles terror. Terror with a dash of curious suspicion.
I should probably lie. I should probably stand up and say something like, “Who are you and what are you talking about.” Instead I sit there with a dumb shit look on my face.
“if you write about me, make sure you…”
“JOEY!” His mom calls.
JOEY. It always nice to put a name with a face.
Joey the Little Fucker runs back to his mom. She bends down and whispers something into his hear. It kinda sounds like;
“Do you know that man?”
Joey The Little Fucker looks up towards his mom and whispers something like;
“Yeah, he’s a writer. He was writing a story on the computer. It wasn’t very funny though.”
Mom gives me another one of those looks.
“I told him he shouldn’t use so many bad words.”
Another one of those looks.
“He told me adults don’t have any bad words.”
One of those looks.
“I told him that even adults shouldn’t use words like that
One of those looks.
Great. She probably thinks I’m a fucking pervert or something.
Joey the Little Fucker and his mom head towards the door. She gives me one more look for the road.
“Fucking amazing.” I say under my breath. I write down the past few minutes in my Moleskin.
You may have won the battle Joey the Little Fucker, but you haven’t won the war.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I'll take Darkness for a Thousand...
One man walks into a bar with three different problems.
The bartender, being the worldly observer he is, notices the weight of the world on the man's shoulders.
"Working this job for 30 years..." the bartender says "you get to know when something is bothering someone." says "You my friend, look like you may have a few problems." says "Why don't you pull up a chair and talk about it."
The man grabs a stool at the bar, orders a shot of whisky and pours it down his throat.
"To be specific, it's three things." he says
He orders another shot
“The first, I lost my job last week." He pours the shot of whiskey down his throat.
He presses his index finger on the bar counter ordering another drink.
"Second, my wife of 6 years left me." He pours the shot down his throat.
"Wow!" the bartender says "All this happened in one week?"
"Yep" he points down and orders another shot.
"Shit partner..." the bartender says "I kinda don't want to ask, but what is the third thing?"
The man pours the shot of whiskey down his throat.
"This one is the worst of all..." he says "so I'm gonna need one more drink before I tell you."
The bartender pours the man another shot. The man grabs the shot, pours it down his throat and stands up.
"The third..." he says "I don't have any money to pay you. I just came in here to get warm." The man turns and walks out of the building.
Have you ever tried to take a shit in the dark? I'm not trying to be juvenile or gross. I'm only asking.
It's not so bad really. Except for the whole dark thing. That part fucking sucks.
Last night at 9:05 PM I found myself sitting in the dark.
In the bathroom.
On the toilet.
Ten hours earlier, at exactly 11:05 am, I receive a knock on my door. I was sitting on the couch enjoying a nice espresso roast from Starbucks when it happened.
Note: The espresso from Starbucks was not bought at an actual Starbucks. It was a Christmas present from my father. The Espresso machine and Starbucks espresso roast that is. I'm assuming he used money from my own trust fund to purchase these presents. So, in essence, I bought myself the Espresso machine and a bag of Starbucks espresso roast.
I open the door. Standing in front of me is a forty-something male. On the right breast of his winter jacket are the words "Rocky Mountain Power."
"Are you the owner of the home?" he asks
"Yeah, something like that." I say
In his left hand he holds a yellow piece of paper.
"I'm here to disconnect your power." he says
He hands me the yellow piece of paper. It tells me my power is being disconnected for non payment.
The man makes a sharp 180 degree turn, and walks down my front steps.
In the movies, those ones where shit like this happens, This is the part I chase after him. I would yell something like...I don't know what I'd yell but it would be something.
Instead I just stand there. In my flannel boxer shorts and white T-shirt I stand there. With the front door open. It's kind of cold outside too.
I close the door and retreat back into my living room.
I grab my cell phone and dial the number to Rocky Mountain Power.
The automated message asks me if my service has been disconnected for non-payment.
I tell my phone "yes."
It transfers me to some kid named Jerry.
"Rocky Mountain Power, this is Jerry." he says "How can I help you."
I want to tell him he can turn my fucking power back on. But I don't.
Instead I ask him how his day is going. Jerry tells me its fine. He asks me how he can help me again. He wants to get right to business.
I tell him my power has been disconnected and ask how much it is to turn it back on.
Jerry tells me one moment.
Hold music.
After a minute, the hold music stops and Jerry is back on the line.
"Sorry about that wait..." he says "It looks like your past due amount is 789.50, and the reconnect fee comes with a deposit of 189.00, so...
I don't even hear the total. If you want to take a moment to do the math at home you can. Go ahead. I'll wait a minute.
I hang up. By now my power is off. I know this because the clock on the stove top is off. It's never off.
I put on my pea coat and go out to the garage to smoke a cigarette. I sit in my garage, in my flannel boxers and pea coat and smoke a cigarette.
I hold the butt with my index finger and thumb. My ring finger flicks the middle of my smoke and ashes fall to the cold cement.
I say "Fuck."
I think about the fact that I should have money. I should have my inheritance check. For some reason the banks are still having a problem clearing it. The check that is.
I flick some more ashes to the cement.
I say "Mother Fucker."
I try to remember if I have any candles in the house. Tonight is going to cold. Tonight is going to be dark. I think about the two frozen dinners I have in the freezer. I’m not worried about the dinners thawing out. I can just put them in the garage or something. I'm worried about not being able to cook them.
I flick the cigarette against my garage wall and watch the cherry die out on the cold cement floor.
I say "Fuck." followed by "Mother Fucker."
With everything to prepare for it's easy to forget the little things. Details you'd almost never think about.
Like making sure the toilet paper is stocked.
It's not so bad really. Taking a shit in the dark. Except for the whole toilet paper thing. Even with your eyes having been adjusted to the dark, it's still hard. To see that is.
My left hand reaches towards the wall and grabs at the air. Finally my fingertips are able to touch what should be a roll of Extra Soft Charmin. The only thing I feel is cardboard. An empty cardboard roll that is.
I pull my cellphone open. It provides a small amount of light. Not much but a little. With my pants down around my ankles, I lean forward and look through the cabinet below my sink. I can't find anything.
With my pants down around my ankles, I remember I put my toilet paper stock under the sink in the upstairs bathroom. Don't ask me why. I probably couldn't tell you but at the time it seemed genius.
With my pants down around my ankles, I decide to make the trek up the stairs and into the bathroom. In the dark that is.
To enhance the mood I pretend I'm a cave explorer. I pretend I'm trapped inside a cave I'm...well...exploring and the only way out is to shimmy up a 100 foot ravine. I forget to tell my imagination about the simple fact that my pants are down around my ankles.
This pretend journey. This make believe voyage, it works up until the point I step on my dog in the hallway. Five feet from the stairs, give or take a few, my right foot comes down on the paw of my miniature dachshund.
He yelps
With my pants down around my ankles, I fall face forward into the carpet.
I tell my dog I'm going to fucking kill him.
After I gain my composer I make my way up the stairs. The luster my imagination once brought is gone. Poof! Out like a fucking light. I pull myself up my staircase on sheer motivation alone. I don't even have time to rejoice when I reach the summit. I simply feel out the hallway walls and make my way into the bathroom.
There, under the sink, I find nothing. I suddenly remember I put my stock underneath the stairs. Don't ask me why. Please don't fucking ask me why. I couldn't tell you.
It seemed like a fucking good idea at the time.
As a last ditch effort, my finger tips feel around the wall for a possible toilet paper roll. Two feet from the toilet, on the south wall, I locate an almost unused roll of toilet paper. By the feel of things it's not the Charmin Extra Soft I was dreaming of. But I'll take anything. Even fucking sandpaper.
So, sitting here at computer number three, I re-tell my story.
It's like that fucking joke at the beginning. The one with the Guy and the Bartender.
I'm that guy.
No job
No wife
No money
No fucking power
The frustrating thing is I have money. I just can't use it. Not until it clears. This morning when I woke up my thermostat tells me its 53 degrees. Inside my house that is.
I have no electricity to run my washer and dryer. I'm wearing the same shirt I wore yesterday. My clothes probably smell of body odor and stale cigarettes.
I guess I'll leave you with that. The smell of my body odor and stale cigarettes.
Smell ya later.
The bartender, being the worldly observer he is, notices the weight of the world on the man's shoulders.
"Working this job for 30 years..." the bartender says "you get to know when something is bothering someone." says "You my friend, look like you may have a few problems." says "Why don't you pull up a chair and talk about it."
The man grabs a stool at the bar, orders a shot of whisky and pours it down his throat.
"To be specific, it's three things." he says
He orders another shot
“The first, I lost my job last week." He pours the shot of whiskey down his throat.
He presses his index finger on the bar counter ordering another drink.
"Second, my wife of 6 years left me." He pours the shot down his throat.
"Wow!" the bartender says "All this happened in one week?"
"Yep" he points down and orders another shot.
"Shit partner..." the bartender says "I kinda don't want to ask, but what is the third thing?"
The man pours the shot of whiskey down his throat.
"This one is the worst of all..." he says "so I'm gonna need one more drink before I tell you."
The bartender pours the man another shot. The man grabs the shot, pours it down his throat and stands up.
"The third..." he says "I don't have any money to pay you. I just came in here to get warm." The man turns and walks out of the building.
Have you ever tried to take a shit in the dark? I'm not trying to be juvenile or gross. I'm only asking.
It's not so bad really. Except for the whole dark thing. That part fucking sucks.
Last night at 9:05 PM I found myself sitting in the dark.
In the bathroom.
On the toilet.
Ten hours earlier, at exactly 11:05 am, I receive a knock on my door. I was sitting on the couch enjoying a nice espresso roast from Starbucks when it happened.
Note: The espresso from Starbucks was not bought at an actual Starbucks. It was a Christmas present from my father. The Espresso machine and Starbucks espresso roast that is. I'm assuming he used money from my own trust fund to purchase these presents. So, in essence, I bought myself the Espresso machine and a bag of Starbucks espresso roast.
I open the door. Standing in front of me is a forty-something male. On the right breast of his winter jacket are the words "Rocky Mountain Power."
"Are you the owner of the home?" he asks
"Yeah, something like that." I say
In his left hand he holds a yellow piece of paper.
"I'm here to disconnect your power." he says
He hands me the yellow piece of paper. It tells me my power is being disconnected for non payment.
The man makes a sharp 180 degree turn, and walks down my front steps.
In the movies, those ones where shit like this happens, This is the part I chase after him. I would yell something like...I don't know what I'd yell but it would be something.
Instead I just stand there. In my flannel boxer shorts and white T-shirt I stand there. With the front door open. It's kind of cold outside too.
I close the door and retreat back into my living room.
I grab my cell phone and dial the number to Rocky Mountain Power.
The automated message asks me if my service has been disconnected for non-payment.
I tell my phone "yes."
It transfers me to some kid named Jerry.
"Rocky Mountain Power, this is Jerry." he says "How can I help you."
I want to tell him he can turn my fucking power back on. But I don't.
Instead I ask him how his day is going. Jerry tells me its fine. He asks me how he can help me again. He wants to get right to business.
I tell him my power has been disconnected and ask how much it is to turn it back on.
Jerry tells me one moment.
Hold music.
After a minute, the hold music stops and Jerry is back on the line.
"Sorry about that wait..." he says "It looks like your past due amount is 789.50, and the reconnect fee comes with a deposit of 189.00, so...
I don't even hear the total. If you want to take a moment to do the math at home you can. Go ahead. I'll wait a minute.
I hang up. By now my power is off. I know this because the clock on the stove top is off. It's never off.
I put on my pea coat and go out to the garage to smoke a cigarette. I sit in my garage, in my flannel boxers and pea coat and smoke a cigarette.
I hold the butt with my index finger and thumb. My ring finger flicks the middle of my smoke and ashes fall to the cold cement.
I say "Fuck."
I think about the fact that I should have money. I should have my inheritance check. For some reason the banks are still having a problem clearing it. The check that is.
I flick some more ashes to the cement.
I say "Mother Fucker."
I try to remember if I have any candles in the house. Tonight is going to cold. Tonight is going to be dark. I think about the two frozen dinners I have in the freezer. I’m not worried about the dinners thawing out. I can just put them in the garage or something. I'm worried about not being able to cook them.
I flick the cigarette against my garage wall and watch the cherry die out on the cold cement floor.
I say "Fuck." followed by "Mother Fucker."
With everything to prepare for it's easy to forget the little things. Details you'd almost never think about.
Like making sure the toilet paper is stocked.
It's not so bad really. Taking a shit in the dark. Except for the whole toilet paper thing. Even with your eyes having been adjusted to the dark, it's still hard. To see that is.
My left hand reaches towards the wall and grabs at the air. Finally my fingertips are able to touch what should be a roll of Extra Soft Charmin. The only thing I feel is cardboard. An empty cardboard roll that is.
I pull my cellphone open. It provides a small amount of light. Not much but a little. With my pants down around my ankles, I lean forward and look through the cabinet below my sink. I can't find anything.
With my pants down around my ankles, I remember I put my toilet paper stock under the sink in the upstairs bathroom. Don't ask me why. I probably couldn't tell you but at the time it seemed genius.
With my pants down around my ankles, I decide to make the trek up the stairs and into the bathroom. In the dark that is.
To enhance the mood I pretend I'm a cave explorer. I pretend I'm trapped inside a cave I'm...well...exploring and the only way out is to shimmy up a 100 foot ravine. I forget to tell my imagination about the simple fact that my pants are down around my ankles.
This pretend journey. This make believe voyage, it works up until the point I step on my dog in the hallway. Five feet from the stairs, give or take a few, my right foot comes down on the paw of my miniature dachshund.
He yelps
With my pants down around my ankles, I fall face forward into the carpet.
I tell my dog I'm going to fucking kill him.
After I gain my composer I make my way up the stairs. The luster my imagination once brought is gone. Poof! Out like a fucking light. I pull myself up my staircase on sheer motivation alone. I don't even have time to rejoice when I reach the summit. I simply feel out the hallway walls and make my way into the bathroom.
There, under the sink, I find nothing. I suddenly remember I put my stock underneath the stairs. Don't ask me why. Please don't fucking ask me why. I couldn't tell you.
It seemed like a fucking good idea at the time.
As a last ditch effort, my finger tips feel around the wall for a possible toilet paper roll. Two feet from the toilet, on the south wall, I locate an almost unused roll of toilet paper. By the feel of things it's not the Charmin Extra Soft I was dreaming of. But I'll take anything. Even fucking sandpaper.
So, sitting here at computer number three, I re-tell my story.
It's like that fucking joke at the beginning. The one with the Guy and the Bartender.
I'm that guy.
No job
No wife
No money
No fucking power
The frustrating thing is I have money. I just can't use it. Not until it clears. This morning when I woke up my thermostat tells me its 53 degrees. Inside my house that is.
I have no electricity to run my washer and dryer. I'm wearing the same shirt I wore yesterday. My clothes probably smell of body odor and stale cigarettes.
I guess I'll leave you with that. The smell of my body odor and stale cigarettes.
Smell ya later.
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