Sunday, December 7, 2014

Joe & Debbie's Wedding Toast

Hi Joe and/or Debbie! Thank you for following my link. I will keep this here so that you may look upon it in times of nostalgia or times of strife so that you may reminisce as the pages yellow with time. Woah, what if there was an app that could make a web page yellow like paper in real time? You guys can take that idea and run with it, consider it a wedding present.

December 6, 2014

So Debbie approached me several months ago and asked if I would write the story of how Joe proposed to her and present it at the wedding. I was unsure of how to proceed, so I looked up how to write a wedding toast story on Yahoo Answers. They suggested that I put it off until the day of the ceremony, eat some cole slaw that was left in the sun for 12 hours, and write whatever pops into your head without editing it. So here we go. As many of you recall, the story of Joe and Debbie began literally 174 hours ago. Back then, Joe was about... 5 lizards and Debbie was 43 pigeons, if I remember correctly. They met right outside of That Restaurant Where They Only Serve Insects. Joe stood there staring at the pigeons (but only the ones that were Debbie), doing those pushups lizards do, hoping Debbie would check him out. Debbie approaches him, lights 27 cigarettes (the other 16 of her were trying to quit at the time) and Joe said, “I heard this restaurant only serves customers who are insects.” Debbie said, “I heard they only serve insects as food.” So they walk into the restaurant, only to find no insects at all. People were talking about insects, how they are ugly, how they are beautiful, how they are delicious, how they might have stopped existing decades ago. Joe said, “This sucks, there are no insects here, let's eat at my place.” “Oh,” Debbie replied, “I don't know if we should go that far. You are a lizard. 5 of them. What if you change colors on me?” “Please,” said Joe, “I am incapable of changing colors, so I paint them onto my canvas.” Debbie laughed at that line for 45 minutes. Joe knew there was only one way to recover, and I think you all know what he said. Everybody, say it with me: “You are like the first tornado of spring, I am a virile salmon king. Suck me up and spew me all over Arkansas and we'll grow like mold on mayonnaise”. Have more loving words ever been spoken? If that doesn't appear on a t-shirt soon, well, I'm just gonna stop wearing shirts! Anyway, the moment Debbie accepted those words, the 43 pigeons and 5 lizards that Debbie and Joe were started becoming people and less of them. Today before you stands approximately two people. Two people who are deep inside, still searching for insects with the intensity 43 pigeons and 5 lizards, together, just like the rest of us. Maybe some day, someone will find an insect, but for now, we'll just have to wait. Joe, Debbie, congratulations and may you always be the writhing supernova of understated eloquence you are today.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Monnn

11-22-14 around 2PM, I am approached and asked for change by a man and a shy woman. The guy had very earnest eyes and a facility with words that would make him really good at telling jokes (he looked a lot like Brendan Small, which might be why I thought this). I am digging through my bag for money and a lost bag of nuts, and after a few moments pass he says, "I didn't know that it would be such a struggle." The way it was timed, I thought he was being sarcastic about how much effort I had to expend exploring my bag, and the irony that he would call that a struggle made me laugh. I also pushed my chuckle and drew it out a little, the way you would laugh to generate mirth on a bad date, an austere crowd at a standup show, or with a homeless person who said something genuinely funny. Then I realized that he was not joking about my fake struggle, but referring to their very real struggle, thus rendering my laughter highly inappropriate. We parted ways after the exchange with no attempt on my part to address my laughter, but here is how I imagine said explanation would go:

Guy: I didn't know that it would be such a struggle.

(drawn out laughter)

Guy: It has been difficult, anything you can spare would be so helpful.

Me: Oh jeez, sorry, I thought you were joking!

Guy: About what?

Me: About how I was struggling with my bag!

Guy: What do you mean? I'm sorry to cause trouble, but it's just... we haven't had-

Me: -Oh no, it's not a struggle at all! Sorry I interrupted you. I just thought-

Guy: -It's OK, I-

Me: -I just thought it was ironic that you would call my search through my bag a struggle, considering what your daily existence must be.

Guy: It hasn't been easy...

Woman: Like you have any idea what our daily existence is like. Why do you think he'd joke about that?

Me: Well, he just has a very sincere face.

Woman: If he looks sincere, why do you think he was joking?

Me: Maybe he was being sarcastic, like someone walking by a construction site carrying a pizza and one of them says "Look who brought lunch!" They know it's not for them, they're just joking.

Guy: Why would you carry a pizza right in front of a bunch of people who are working and hungry?

Woman: Thanks for telling us what sarcasm is. Still doesn't explain why you think he was joking.

Me: I think part of it is that he looks like a comedian I like.

Guy: Oh is that so? Which one?

Me: Oh, he's not all that well-known...

Guy: What, are you saying I haven't heard of him?

Woman: Can't you see? There is no comedian, he's just making excuses.

Me: Fine, Brendan Small!

Guy: Is he funny?

Me: Yeah!

Guy: You don't sound too certain of that...

Woman: He doesn't sound too certain of anything!

Guy: So I remind you of an unfunny comedian.

Me: No! He is totally funny, he writes great character dialog that really captures the tediousness of human interaction, but I have seen him attempt some jokes in his stand-up that used pejorative terms to describe people born with ambiguous genitalia, and-

Guy: -Oh no! We missed our train while this guy was rambling about political correctness like some social justice warrior.

Woman: I think he just wanted to use the word "pejorative".

Guy: Now we'll never make it to the food bank on time!

Me: I found this bag of cashews!


Now here is how it would have gone if I wrote the homeless people as people and not just an extension of my guilt, paranoia, and social anxiety, and myself as a person instead of a narcissistic warrior fighting the hydra of his sense of inauthenticity:

Guy: I didn't know that it would be such a struggle.

(drawn out laughter)

Guy: It has been difficult, anything you can spare would be so helpful.

Me: Oh jeez, sorry, I thought you were joking!

Guy: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah, about how I was struggling with my bag? It's such a mess, haha.

Guy: Oh yeah, hahaha. Well thank you so much.

Woman: God bless you!

(they head off to train)

Me: Good luck!


Now here is that interaction if we had all secretly taken mushrooms and they hit the moment the guy says "struggle".

Guy: I didn't know that it would be such a struggle.

(drawn out laughter)

Guy: Why was that funny?

Me: (still searching through my bag) I can't seem to hold onto anything, it's great!

Guy: I hold on to too much.

(brief pause, still searching in bag)

Me: Are you still here?

Guy: You can look at us if you want to.

Woman: Careful, that was mean...

Me: (emerging from bag) No it's OK, I'm here now. Nobody's mean.

Guy: What are you going to do with those?

Me: (look at keys I'm holding) Oh yeah, money! (back into bag) Sorry, my bag is such a mess.

(Guy and Woman are staring past one another, I eventually emerge holding money and bag of cashews and look past them for a moment, then start taking tiny, tiny steps closer to them)

Woman: Oh, hey!

Me: Here they are! Here it is! (hand them goods) Sorry that took so long, you must've been standing there wondering if it was worth it.

Woman: It was so long, thank you for making it OK to mention!

Guy: I know! Thank you so much for saying that, and for the monnn.

Woman: God is truly everywhere

Guy: Monnn

Me: Time is not the avalanche I thought it was, but a different one I may never see?

Woman: Monnn

Guy: Monnn

Woman: Monnn

Guy: Monnn

Me: You guys are the Best, and what's more, have the Best day! (swinging arm to accent "Best", then walking off still spinning arm in similar fashion for three blocks)

Monday, September 22, 2014

Most Unappealing Conversations in History, Part 8: I Really Appreciate Music. Wow

What follows are two actual conversations, about 45-60 days apart, overheard at a coffee shop in Phoenix on Sunday evening. I'm pretty sure it is the same girl, first with her mother then with a date. I think the date is the guy mentioned in the first conversation. I find the contrast fascinating. She is 27, blonde, in good shape, anglo-tan. Tertiary female role in Judd Apatow flick. For first conversation, wearing a wholesome white textured polyester dress, like they just had dinner somewhere nice, but wearing flats. For second conversation, some sort of printed cotton dress you'd see in piles at a farmer's market, awful mixture of beet red, black, & purple with shapes that approach some sort of symbol nobody would expend the energy to discern.

Girl and her mother
This was originally condensed into short hand, out-of-context quotes, and summaries/meta commentary, am reconstructing now after hearing the second conversation.

Girl: She just keeps going to parties every weekend, keeps drinking. She slowed down a little since...
Mother: I was really worried about that night. Still am.
Girl: I don't go out with her anymore. She met this one guy on OK Cupid, and they had 3 dates before he asked to be her boyfriend. 3 dates! Then, get this: It's only been a month, and he said he's in love with her. And she said she loves him back. Like, I don't even know what to do. She's always like...

(complains about this person inaudibly)

Girl: I just sat there for two hours. She seemed OK at first but then she started crying and I was like, "really?"
Mother: Well that's what friends do, hon!
Girl: Mom, you just aren't educated about this stuff.
Mother: If your friend was upset and crying, you just gotta listen.
Girl: No, I'm sick of being a people pleaser. I could have done anything but I just sat there listening.
Mother: I'm sure she'd do the same thing for you!
Girl: I would never make her do that.
Mother: But that doesn't matter, it's just what friends do.
Girl: You keep saying "that's what friends do" like it means something. You have no friends.
Mother: That's not true.
Girl: No, you just have people who come to you for stuff.
Mother: I have at least a few people-
Girl: Name even one friend.
Mother: I don't have to. I'm not-
Girl: See? You can't!
Mother: No just-
Girl: No, don't dodge the issue, mom. You don't have any friends, you just let people go in and out of your life when they need you. You're a people-pleaser.
Mother: Will you let me say anything? I'll admit that I am there for my friends, and some had a lot of problems.
Girl: You confuse friendship with pity. (missing section) He was just a rebound from dad, you know it's true. Then you married him and used him. He wasn't perfect but that wasn't fair. It always felt forced having him around.

(indistinct complaining about friends)
Girl: And now I live with them and it's just frustrating. Their problems are my problems. (repeats theme a bunch of times)
Girl: Someone will accept me for who I am instead of what I do for them.
Mother: Maybe you're helping people with their problems to avoid your own problems or learning about yourself?
Girl: No, I just have a problem because of my impulse to help these people. You do the same thing, you just need to get educated, then you'll learn. I'm always listening to people talk about their problems, and I'm like, I don't care. I mean, I do care, that's the problem. I just end up with these people who always need my help.

(editor's note: Haha, what if I asked her to watch my laptop?)
(same thing goes back and forth, starts to get heated)
Mother: I just don't understand how it was such a big deal that you listened to your friend talk about her issues.
Girl: What!? I didn't listen to her talk about her issues with me, I sat there at work listening to her crying with her dad on the phone! How did you not get that?
Mother: (laughing) That's not what you said!
Girl: No, I said it like 5 times.
Mother: Well then of course you shouldn't have sat there for all that time! You just sat there the whole time? Why would you do that?
Girl: I don't know, it just seemed like-
Mother: I don't think that's your friend's fault!
Girl: Now you're just trying to upset me.
Mother: I'm not!
Girl: Can we just be quiet for 2 minutes?
(Girl rests head on table and does breathing exercises, snaps at mom when she tries to speak. Eventually starts talking about trees and weather)

Mother: You can't spell 'natural' without 'nature'.
Girl: A park isn't nature. It's a patch of grass with dog shit in it.
Mother: But parks are fun!
Girl: You can't do something just because it's fun. Fun ends when you're little. Eventually everything stops being fun. We don't have the imagination of a kid.
Mother: I think it is healthy if you acted childish.
Girl: You wouldn't be worried if I was in the backyard talking to imaginary friends? 
(missing part)
Girl: (describing adulthood) Those dull moments where we are trying to escape are life. Joy is just the unexpected beautiful moments.

Girl: I hate being that person, the one everyone comes to talk to about their problems. When people come to me for help, and I always give it to them, for me it is so easy to see it is unhealthy.
Mother: If she gets that from you, she's gonna take it.
Girl: She calls me and says, 'I looked really cute today!' And I play into it by acting interested, playing right into it. I ask what she was wearing, but it's like, 'I don't give a shit!' I would not call someone and say, 'I looked cute today!'
Mother: She's probably on Facebook all the time.
Girl: Actually, she deleted her Facebook.

(subject changes to a boy who always asks her how her day was)
Girl: I'm not the type of person who is going to just say 'My day was this', like, you need to ask me, then I'll tell you. I don't like small talk, like who cares how your day was?
Mother: Well that's an ice breaker.
Girl: I don't get it. How is 'How was your day' an ice breaker? You don't get to know someone by asking how their day is. He just asked me about my day so he could talk about his day.
Mother: Well how was his day?
Girl: I wasn't even listening. Is that bad? I prefer conversations that have depth.
Mother: (laughing) You're a little snoot!
Girl: I guess that does sound a little stuck up


Now with a slightly hippie-looking guy
This is all verbatim, except where otherwise noted, with the extraneous material removed.

Guy: I basically plant trees in Paradise Valley.

Her: Paradise Valley is so beautiful! Wow, so you're like, a real human. You're working with the Earth, not like everyone else who works at a desk, like behind computers. Like, society is turning people into robots. (next sentence paraphrased for coherence) We're all losing touch with our ability to relate to one another. Like, the new iPhone has a chip in it so you don't even need to use a credit card. We're all like turning into robots. (inaudible part missing) And like, the radiation? No thanks.  (inaudible) We don't use our imagination anymore.

(he inaudibly mentions his music healing gig, which seems like something they've mentioned before)

Her: Music heals. Something about music... it's amazing. I really appreciate music... wow.

Her: (paraphrased) I'm an Autism consultant. I quit my corporate job years ago so I could like, be independent, then I started working for some friends for this Autism consulting firm, but somehow I am a vegan cook right now.

Her: I'm not a hippie. I have a lot of personalities ... I've seen a lot of documentaries ... I don't eat meat. I eat fish ... I've been trying to live an organic life. No chemicals or GMOs ... I never deprive myself ... I do a lot of yoga, I wanna teach yoga. I have a lot of interests.

Him: So do you like... smoke?
Her: I haven't in a long time.
Him: Sorry, I didn't mean to- 
Her: No, it's ok, it's cute.

Her: I smoked a lot like, when I was 18, then I got over it. I think the last time was when I was twenty so like, 7 years ago. I mean, it is OK that other people smoke pot, it doesn't bother me. As long as they have a job and like, don't do it every day, it's totally great. ... I'm very affectionate when I smoke.

Him: Oh yeah? That makes sense because like, it makes you feel more things. Like, everything feels good. ... All the sudden I realize this genre of music had so much going on, and I wouldn't have seen that if I wasn't open.

Her: I've read some articles (paraphrase) about how people can take pot for ADHD. I think that it makes sense. I have a theory, because so much of ADHD is about overstimulation. Instead of so much stimulation, maybe lower the senses.

Her: I am all about energy, and when I saw you I just knew I should talk to you at some point. ... I wanted to at least make sure I said bye every day.

Her: Yeah, no I don't like looking at my phone. People want to talk to me every day and I'm like, I have close friends I haven't spoken to in, y'know, 6 years but if I talk to them tomorrow, it'd be like no time has passed. But people will text me and call every day, people want to talk about their problems and I'm like, “Why are you telling me all this negative stuff?” I try to avoid Facebook, people always posting about bad things.


Monday, September 15, 2014

The Shredding

What follows is a true story, with inferences made, creative liberties taken, and names changed.

It's sunny, Saturday and Josh's parents' three-car garage smells like lawnmower gasoline. While his loyal bassist Rob slaps out Nintendo novelties as warm-up, Josh writes a list of what songs to run through, once the new guitarist arrives. He is late. Josh's hands are numb from an intense episode of weight lifting, so he only writes the first word of the songs. "Good" They are all songs in heavy rotation on Philly-area rock stations in 2002. "Under" Cam, the new guitarist, found their number on a posting at Guitar Center that advertised their need for a guitarist along the lines of Guns n Roses and Red Hot Chili Peppers. "Iron" Their drummer got into Berkley so he left. "Interstate" Cam's leads were sloppy but determined. He had shown up to every practice with a different pair of leather pants, which Josh found more exciting than a person should.

Rob the bassist was by far the most technically proficient of the group, but was either extremely repressed or still empty. He is missing the karate lessons or mind-blowing sex that would imbue his identity with drive, confidence, nuance… anything other than flawless bass runs replicating the work of the default heroes of latter teen white males. His hair is short and mouse brown, his loose t-shirt makes him look doughy. Despite his confident presentation, Josh's dark chestnut eyes withhold neither criticism nor personal terror. His outfit wicks sweat as efficiently as his voice produces unease. Carefully guided as though being thread into a machine with no exhaust vent, the sound is pressured and off pitch. Usually just above the note, which makes Cam wonder if he is crazy for noticing, especially since Rob is constantly telling him to retune his Gibson Les Paul, a particularly expensive and well-crafted instrument that ought to be able to withstand more than one song without requiring adjustment. Cam had greasy chin-length brown hair and aviators on at all times, wearing a dirty white Batman shirt and leather pants with black Italian dress shoes. His pockets bulged with cigarettes, wallet, and a flask of gin. He resembled an A & R guy from 1988, or a Zippo ad.

In Josh's Words

So I'm listening to Cam play and thinking, "Man, this guy's chops are shaky but he's really got that style we're looking for." I mean, not just the awesome pants and whatever, but I'm listening and I'm like, "His leads are just so full of energy, I can feel it." And that's important. I know Rob doesn't like him, but he'll come around. I wish he wouldn't stop us so much and just let us get through the song and work out the imperfections later. He has a point though, Cam's rhythm a bit chaotic and uneven. I should just trust Rob. He's like, the true musician of the group. He's so gonna be the voice of reason when we get big.

We're still working on "Good Times, Bad Times", and it's a little above my range but I think I'm doing alright. It's hard to tell though, Cam's guitar keeps going out of tune. I'm glad Rob has perfect pitch, keeps us on our toes.

So I tell everyone to take 15 so my voice can rest, and I'm waiting for Cam to finish yet another story. I try not to let Rob's facial expressions affect me, but I'm like, "Do you know how conversations work?" It's like he's trying to be a standup comic, but instead of punchlines he just starts another story. Worst of all, he apologizes for talking too much and is like, "So what are you guys doing tonight?", then starts talking again! Now that I think of it, what am I doing tonight? I have to write a report for that market simulation thing for macroeconomics, that's due Tuesday and I don't even know what I'm summarizing yet. I hope we can get through practice soon, it's crazy that I'm even doing this today. I probably won't even have time to go running.

So Cam is rocking out some riffs, and I'm thinking, "I was bobbing my head before, bro, but now I'm not. Don't you think that means you should stop so we can move on?" Then he stops as Ariella approaches with the dog, and he checks her out hardcore. I'm telling myself, "Cam, not cool. You know that's my sister." Oh god, don't try to chat her up! She couldn't be less interested in this, she only listens to Top 40. She is completely indifferent to music. Sorry sis, but you know it's true.

Rob says "How about we try that Chili Peppers song?" We play it all the way through for once, though Cam has a few false starts on the beginning. We were gonna run through it again, but Cam suggests we go find a new song. What the hell? I mean, I noticed he wasn't too excited about the Chili Peppers, which disappointed me a little because they're like my favorite band. I guess the guitar parts are a little boring for him, but he needs to learn how to take the back seat sometimes. I can tell Rob agrees, he's giving me that look. We convince him to do a few run-thrus, but then he asks to use the bathroom. That's what that break was for 5 minutes ago, dude! Whatever though, Rob and I will run through it, you can go ahead and make my house smell like cigarettes, that's fine.

Oh man, what's this guy doing to us here? We've gone through the song like, 3 times now since he left and I'm telling myself, "I gotta go check in on Cam before Rob starts freaking out." So I go in, OK, and he's not in the bathroom. I walk through the living room to check the other bathroom, still no Cam. Is he in one of the upstairs bathrooms? I head through the family room past the kitchen towards the stairs, and I find him… it doesn't even matter what he's doing, but it clearly shows his total lack of dedication to the band.

So practice is over. I help carry his amp as Rob plays his bass unplugged, doesn't even look at him when he says "bye". As soon as he's in his car, I look at Rob and say, "So he's out, right?" Rob says, "Oh yeah, big time." "And not just because of the whole thing with my sister… though that was pretty obnoxious." "Nah man, he's just not there yet, technically." "And he's an asshole." "That too. And what was up with that Jewish comment?" "I didn't even know what to say about that shit. And the way he just stood there in the kitchen all cocky, like nothing was wrong." "Someone needs to shoot down his ego." "Were you playing the Jeopardy song when you were unplugged?" Rob smiles in mock sheepishness. "Haha, that's awesome! You're awesome!"


In Rob's Words


I can't believe we're still playing this song.

I don't know why Josh keeps giving him chances. We'd be better off not practicing at all and trying to recruit someone else.

Why did we start with something so guitar-heavy? "Under the Bridge" is all chords, we should have done that first. As if he could even handle that, I mean he's off the mark on even the loosest strum patterns.

Alright Josh, you need to start taking your voice lessons seriously. How can we play live if you're constantly going sharp? How many times can I tell Cam to retune before you get the hint?

What the hell? It's like he can never play the same thing twice.

Maybe I should suggest we assign each other homework. I'd tell him to just strum through basic chords in a simple rock beat for a two hours every day. You have to go through points A & B before you start point C. I doubt he has the focus to do that, but I mean, that's how all the legends started. Gotta start with the basics. Josh may not be perfect but man, he works at it.

If we have to do this song one more time I'm gonna suggest we just remove the guitar solos.

C'mon Josh, your voice is not tired, you are. I don't know why he can't work out after band practice.

Great, second hand smoke will do wonders for Josh's voice. And more booze. How can someone with their mouth engaged in multiple vices still talk over everyone?

Ok, done being polite, just going to start playing my bass unplugged until we start again.

Uh, no Cam. You have no chance with Josh's sister. She's looking grim. Did she spot someone with more expensive sunglasses? Did she run into one of the quarterbacks she used to bone on his way back up to Columbia for the semester and have to explain where she was going?

He wants to make us learn more songs? He has yet to coherently play any of the ones he already made us learn, but he wants more?

Yes, bathroom break, because that is what we need, more standing around.

Ok, it's been like half an hour. I hope Josh just tells him to leave.

Finally. Ugh, time to go put up new flyers.

Cam's Story

Rob requests another retune. This time, Cam just pretends he is turning the knobs but not actually doing anything. Sure enough, Rob is satisfied after a few plucks. Cam has a theory that 90% of people who claim to have perfect pitch are just trying to seem interesting and get laid.

After 2 successful runs of a classic Led Zeppelin tune in an hour, Josh's voice needed a break the same way Cam needed a smoke, so they sat in front of the garage and talked of their weekend plans. Josh had to study, Rob was working on some nondescript computer startup thing, and Cam planned to go to the beach, but wasn't sure which one, which blossomed a pleasant topic. Josh and Rob related their nice times at various shore towns, but were dominated by Cam's tall tales of inebriated adventures with strangers, minor property damage, and generalizations about certain shore towns. "Yeah, Margate is lame, full of rich JAPs with bullet-proof tits." Josh gives a diplomatic laugh and asks what a JAP is. "Wait, fuckin'... you live in Jersey and have never heard 'JAP' before? It stands for Jewish American Princess. Like, chicks that are super spoiled by daddy who owns banks." Rob has begun noodling with his unplugged bass. "Oh ok. Well, I'm half Jewish, so… I guess that makes me half Margate-ian?" A moment settled into place as Cam lit another cigarette, jacked up his amp distortion and went into a riff he kept playing in the hopes that it would spawn a legend.

Rob and Josh were sharing glances as Cam was loudly trying to make that anthemic riff that would render all guitar playing superfluous, looking very pleased with himself. A woman approaches who seemed to have a sort of Stockholm Syndrome with her own attractiveness. Cam watches her still on the sidewalk with a dog; she looks demurely downward and away from herself, hiding from neighborhood dads inside an XL t-shirt that only drew more attention to her boobs. "A St. Thomas t-shirt?" Cam decided that nobody so disengaged and melancholy could possibly enjoy St. Thomas, so it must be ironic. "The same way I don't really like Batman!" Cam abruptly stops playing and rallies Josh & Rob's attention to his cocked eyebrow and unmistakable intention. They look confused, and Cam wonders for a moment about their sex organs. She turns up the short driveway and flashes Cam the most platonic smile that ever failed to serve its purpose. Cam tried to explain what garage bands are while offering her his flask. She declines and comments dryly to Josh about the dog's latest bowel movement, then recommends they have fun as she closes the door into the house. Josh looks embarrassed, "Yeah, that's my sister." Cam is looking for any way to bring practice inside for a bit. "Hey how's your internet here? Maybe we should like, listen to some more songs?" Josh and the bassist share a look as Rob replies, "I don't know, I think we should get through one of the songs we've already picked. And learned." "She seemed so bothered", thought Cam, wistfully. "Clearly she hates this town. So do I! We'll run away together. I'll drop out of school, we'll move to the west coast and make music. We'll sound like Joy Division, but with soaring melodic guitar solos." He loses track of Josh's comments about his playing of what he secretly deems "Yet another boring Chili Peppers song", imagining ways he can show Josh's sister that he totally knows about angst. Cam excuses himself to use the bathroom, hoping to see her on the way.

Cam imagined that she would be in the kitchen doing something futile, like chopping fruit. Was the kitchen on the way to the bathroom? Not so much abandoning as forgetting his alibi, he walks straight past the open door to the bathroom and into the empty kitchen. Struggling to ignore that his presence in these rooms was growing more inexplicable with each intrusive step, he continued through the living room, past another bathroom, and starts up the stairs when Josh's mom walks through the front door directly behind him. Cam's sheepishness is misinterpreted as something she could find endearing as he offers to assist her with groceries, hoping maybe to deliver a bag of produce to Josh's sister. He is coming up with possible dry one-liners about fruit and dog bowel movements, and is interrupted when Josh approaches and apologizes in monotone for his mom enlisting him to help with groceries. Inundated with embarrassment and failure, Cam can only express himself by leaning against a door jamb and smelling like cigarettes. Josh enumerates his afternoon plans to his mother and tells her practice is over. He never tells Cam that practice is over, instead just goes out and helps carry his gear to his car. Cam is excited that he got away with his raid and drives off to the coast singing minor key declarations and inventing places to meet Ariella.

Cam was never formally kicked out, Josh just stopped returning his calls or texts. The rejection, paired with the knowledge that he'll not likely get the chance to see Josh's sister again, drove Cam into a brief depression that would preclude his auditioning for any more bands. He spent the remainder of summer being dragged by friends to shows in VFW halls full of insufferable straight-edge kids, lamenting the death of the guitar solo to anyone who would listen. Ridicule drove him to take his case to online message boards. That is where someone instructed him to purchase Jeff Buckley's "Grace". He spent Fall finding places to stare at trees and quietly cry for something that he had not yet seen destroyed but knew he would because of what he'd begun building.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Infinite Alibi

I left in the car
Tried to make it to deepest green
Before the weather caused a scene
You were computer face then

I skid into safety
Familiar enough with the scent
Of burnt water from your descent
When we yelled at who you are

I chewed in a way
To commemorate the jagged lights
Of weaponized reflection nights
That tore like children play

If there was such a hat
We would wear our losses down below the legs
Like we were candles of erectile dysfunction
Neglected junk in a hot trunk

Having planted holes
And handed out roles
You broke out
Then broke in
Chanted, "Let the righteous shout,
And the killing begin!"

A pinwheel-powered car
Driven by a solar-powered drunk
Crashed through the garage
You thought it was me
You thought I was morning
Did the damp leaves of decay
Stick to your feet as you surveyed,
Stumbled, then sat?

Bereft of all impulse and peering
Thru the window with no sill
A stenographer with no need of hearing
I watch from the deep green still

Sunday, September 7, 2014

It's All in the Alveoli

As a brick in the cellular Fortress of Annoyance,
You watch the two-step of phony clairvoyance
"And the dance begot the dust"
Taste it
Taste the hate
Taste it
Before it's too late
Before you write the national anthem
And all other language dies
Bricks like you cry the morning dew
The sun quietly dries
I think the sun is built
From time and existence alone
With no signature of guilt
But only the sun can be unknown
Surrounded by unmade lives that live
And this fortress was all it had to give
So lean against that loathsome wall
To push toothpicks
Through your skin
Push them deep until you fall
And burn it with
Your pure inner light
We have each and all
Bathe in the smoke
Disguise your scent
So no one knows where you went
Until the smoke wears off
And you land
And you're too ciliated and free
To get caught as
What you don't want to be

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Las Conchas

On a bad night you sleep here, in this one of many unfinished vacation homes in this unfinished vacation town in coastal Sonora, Mexico. Those ass-chafing bicycle nights, those hair-cursing soaking nights pounding a dusty concrete slab as your bones pinch your flesh against it. Through sweat that forces your eyes closed but keeps you awake, all you can do is imagine relief. Relief was maybe a few weeks ago, with a name like Samantha or Tabitha. You chide yourself for forgetting her name. You're getting sloppy, like you used to be. Samantha or Tabitha was friends with Sara, whom you sold dog shit weed to in the alley of a night club. Maybe you were the first person they approached, or maybe they didn't even approach you at all, but you tell them a story of why they would have had a hard time finding someone. A passionately delivered narrative catered perfectly to the white American drug purchaser's desperate reach for a connection to struggle, something about the American war on drugs and roving packs of corrupt Federales. You are a brave, principled rebel who carries the best product. You're like Whole Foods and Pancho Villa at once. This both allows you to charge an obscene mark-up and ingratiates you to their group. Samantha or Tabitha seemed skeptical, which meant that you get to spend extra time talking to her, selling her on your story, and on you. You give them their baggie, but smoke them up with your "private stash" before they go back in. This is when you ask Samantha or Tabitha about her tattoo, just before the bowl is kicked. In this familiar tactic, the momentum of conversation will draw you into the club with them, but tonight you are uncertain, so you mention the "secret after-parties". Maybe there are a few guys in the group, so you must get them to trust you and admire your street cred, even busying themselves trying to impress you. You must get them too wasted to make decisions, but not wasted enough to require a ride back to wherever they are staying. You think one of them may go alpha on you and resent your superior local wisdom, so you make jokes about petty machismo to start an undercurrent of bias against his objections to having a drug dealer as a tour guide. Somewhere in the midst of all this your hand ends up on Samantha or Tabitha's knee for a few uncertain moments, unfolding a rumor of natural tenderness and hesitation to contrast your jagged directness in all other matters.

The group decides against after-parties and invites you back to their beachfront rental, which is perfect because there are no after-parties you know of. You have three alarms on your otherwise broken flip-phone set to go off at 2:25, 2:27, and 2:37AM to simulate a text conversation with a friend saying the party may be busted, to wait a few minutes (to build tension), then officially call it off. You shut off your phone and pour everyone shots as they raid their fridge to nearly construct tacos from remnants of poorly boiled rice, limes, and shredded cheese, but end up eating the component elements.

Someone's beachy playlist in the background, you hold court in the living room as everyone leaves for bed or to gaze at stars until Samantha or Tabitha is the only one left listening. Bloated on rice and Tecate, she tries to speak but you move closer to her and she trails off into thought, returning with a noncommittal weed solicitation. You lead one another to her room and crack the window, but only a little bit because you know what happens next. Her new glass bowl is passed back and forth on the edge of the bed until it is spent. After blowing the char into a bag, you dig through your musty backpack to refill, leaning forward heavily as she lies back and stares at the ceiling for a few moments. Just before you reemerge, you feel her big toe tracing the waistband of your boxers. Thoroughly high, you climb her leg up to her face and begin the ritual.

Now that you've ascended to the rank of "Mexico fling", you must earn your stay for the weekend. Most trips are at least 3 days, and that's 3 days with air conditioning and showers and free food. She may be affectionate towards you and may even make you feel like you're not a public service, but you don't dare think that. Under no circumstances do you stop fucking her until she is asleep, and you wake up ready if she wants it. You know that without weed and good dick, you sleep on concrete. Nothing can go wrong. Your every dollar is spend on weed, condoms, and a steady diet of aphrodisiacs to ensure remarkable virility. Marine bivalves and avocados for every meal, and an unending bag of pumpkin seeds, which also works as a charming personal affectation.

You've been out in the sun for years so your race is ambiguous, and the accent you once faked now feels the most natural. On the rare occasion people may ask of your past, you know the sort of tales tourists want to hear and never disappoint. Your real name is never given, familiarity is aggressively dissuaded. Regardless of the situation, you are the first to leave.

Tonight was a bad night; you left the club alone. Maybe you were too direct. Maybe they could hear the clockwork of your motivation, or maybe they were actually just tired, and maybe you really would see them at the same place tomorrow night. You consider that prospect, leaning against the wall in silence next to the women's room entrance with with an empty bottle in your hand for an hour or two. Your other hand is in your pocket, with your thumb fondling several peso notes, a lighter with the safety band removed, and a condom you poked full of holes, as you've done with every condom you've used since you became a permanent nonresident.

You brandish peso notes and toss them on the bar on your way out, then pedal maybe 5 or 6 scarcely defined blocks until you pick a shadowless alley to wait for the sound of chains and effort. You busy your mind with fantasies, maybe of Samantha or Tabitha and exaggerated memories of the postcoital reverie you permitted. You rein in your thoughts as a few restaurant employees pass on their way home. The sea breeze is against you as you briskly walk from the alley directly into the path of a lone cyclist, dress shirt billowing, rapidly approaching from the clubs. The moment you collide and he realizes what is happening, he starts trying to put words together. You catch him in your arms. In one graceful gesture, you place them on the ground and push a rusty file through their right eye deep into the skull and, in a gentle breaking whisper, slowly sing the following verse in a tune almost recognized as you crank the file in widening circles:

When all vows are one
And questions end
What we leave undone
Will relief send
Let loose the pure
Light within you to mend
Knowing nothing more
Time to shut the door

By the final line all motion has subsided. You hoist him over your shoulder and carry him to the nearby beach, drop your backpack at the shore and fully clothed walk them through the calm water, which is waist-high for nearly a quarter mile and warmer than the air. You swear in harsh bursts because you forgot to leave your phone in your backpack and it keeps vibrating with reminders of the alarms you set, and you are sweating and cramping and your whole body itches. The moon unceremoniously sinks below the horizon like a match tossed into the ocean and you notice bioluminescent microbes give a lingering flash as you disturb them with the arm dangling in front of you. When you are finally well over your head, you tie the body to a rock so it is at least 6 feet underwater at low tide. Leaving your old bike for a new thief, you walk to their bike, pants causing painful blisters on your thighs. You ride to the outskirts of town, scarcely distinguishable from the last outskirts, cruising straight into the entry of the concrete skeleton of a luxury home abortion and lie down next to your bike in a corner.

As you caught your breath while seeking the least painful position, you were wondering who I am and why I am here with you. The night is long and you want to be alone, but this is where I will stay, and there will probably be others. I wanted to express my appreciation before. Now I get my chance.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Most Unappealing Conversations in History, Part 7: The Grand Inquisitor & Kelly in Customer Service

Kelly: Thank you for calling Quiz Giant, the Internet's premier FREE quiz generator: guaranteed to go viral or we give you your free back! My name is Kelly, how can I help you create your custom quiz?

The Grand Inquisitor: Hi Kelly! I'm sorry you have to deliver such a long greeting. Anyway, I am looking to make a "Which color are you?" quiz.

K: An excellent choice! You are tapping people's natural desire to have the visible spectrum be about them. Could you please maybe give me a sample answer? Describe, for example, a "blue" person?

TGI: "Blue is very intuitive and creative. They are more concerned with the ethereal and that is OK! They are most likely an artist, or if not they definitely find subtle ways to use their intuition and creativity to do their job. Romantically, blues are most compatible with green or yellow, and should stay away from maroon because maroon's need for stability and accountability will be a frequent point of contention."

K: That is very nice! The answers will be perfect tie-ins for ads for online schools and dating websites. Now could you please give me an example of a question?

TGI: "What do you think most reflects the current living situation in Haiti?

A) Probably on the road to recovery, since like, Beck held that benefit concert?
B) Everybody has their own journey, but I'm sure all the people there are doing their best.
C) Rubble and cholera, but nobody is paying any attention, they should try the paleo diet.
D) I don't know! I'm awful! Does feeling awful and apologizing for my awfulness then continuing to do exactly what I was doing before help?"

K: Hey now, I see what you're trying to do here…

TGI: Well good! I'm not exactly being subtle about it. I was wondering, if I could come up with a rate at which people are dying due to starvation, diseases, armed conflict, etc, could the answer page list how many people died while they were taking the quiz?

K: We do not want to make a quiz that insults the person taking it.

TGI: I'm going to allow silence to communicate the obvious irony of that statement, starting: now.

K: Fair enough. Hey, how many people do you think died under despotic regimes during this conversation?

TGI: Don't try to pull a reversal on me, I'm using satire draw attention to-

K: No you're not, you're just another writer trying to look cool and above something. Plenty of sexy activists and others in existentially favored positions take our quizzes. You just resent people having fun in ways you don't agree with, and you would rather feel superior to them instead of trying to relate. How many hours have you spent on our website trying to design this quiz?

TGI: I don't-

K: That was actually a filler question to kill time while tabbing over to a report that would tell me. It says here that you've been on our site for 4 hours. Do you know how many reasons you could have found to like people in that time?

TGI: I just think everyone spends too much time crafting fake personalities on the Internet.

K: That's probably because they think the outside world is full of judgy assholes like you! Writers like you shape the world with your perspective, and your cannibalistic usage of meta is ruining everything! Meta is the most obvious shortcut to acting like you're better than something, which is probably why most people become writers anyway

TGI: Don't do that!

K: Don't do what?

TGI: Writer ego baiting. It's possibly the worst part of being a writer, really. Writer culture is fraught with self-deprecation, which is basically your bridge toll to talk about yourself and have people pretend to still like you afterwards.

K: What has that to do with ego baiting?

TGI: As writers analyze one another and themselves, as they are wont to do, these bridge tolls become too obvious, and thus the toll goes up until all that's left is picking on the egos of writers. So we bludgeon ourselves and each other with quotes like "kill your darlings" or pretty much everything Ernest Hemingway ever said, misappropriating every wise saying we can find to apply to every sentence we enjoy.

K: I hate to break it to you, but it looks like you just proved my point.

TGI: No I didn't!

K: Yep. You're saying writers use more meta to discreetly seem better than each other. You even make out of context wise sayings about yourselves, how egotistical is that? All justified through meta.

TGI: Oh no! Where can we hide from the meta?

K: I don't think there is any way to hide from it. How can we recover when we're the disease?

TGI: My God you're right!

K: I didn't know you were Christian.

TGI: I didn't say I was Christian. Actually I-

K: Well yeah, but you used a capital 'G' in- OH NO!

TGI: It's getting worse!

K: I think we deserve to die. It is the only way to atone.

TGI: You're right, it doesn't matter, because we are just Ian talking to himself.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Broken Bread

Dear You,

I appreciate your inquiry and will do my best to answer your questions. As a serving of bread, my life cycle is fairly predictable. Today is a good example. Well, everyday is an equally good example, but right now it is today. There is only today. My initial debut from the oven features 30 minutes of effervescent warmth that cannot be replenished, only imitated through reheating. Today's 30 minutes lapsed hours ago under the cover of a linen cloth in a large, crowded basket as I listened to the kitchen staff talk about sex when there were no members of the opposite sex around. Eventually I am divided into smaller baskets which are carted each off with a cheap side salad. I must be at a convention, not sure what country. I do not understand language, only meaning. I hear discussion of basic mass-produced medical implements (syringes, scalpels, etc), often growing very nuanced to the level of individual manufacturing cost and the grade of steel used. Insurance trade show? No, these details are far too mundane for even that. That there are people requires so many tiny concerns, one would have to be mentally ill to have any direct passion for most of them.

After the warmth fades, I have a couple hours of a clearly defined layered texture of crispness, softness, and moisture, and today I am squandering it on a sterilized plate listening to people talk about other food. I'm glad my existence is too short for jealousy. Also, I am glad I don't want to have sex. Maybe those two are related? But seriously, if you've ever had to sit silently and observe every exchanged word between people on a date, you'd know what I mean. The amount of human tedium I am forced to know is something you would be jealous of; o how i seek avenues to barter it away to you.

After a curious bite, I am left on a plate with undesirable vegetables. The twilight of my edibility fades into rubbery mediocrity, and my spirit leaves as a hollow, soulless rigidity takes over. Maybe tomorrow I'll have a short life somewhere charming. It seems like the more appealing the location, the stronger the desire for bread.

I hope this helps, but I doubt anything could.

Sincerely,

The Bread

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Reasons Why Wherever the Fuck You are Right Now Is the Worst Place Ever

I have some bad news, everybody! Looks like you live in/were thinking of moving to the most soul-crushingly awful place in the world. And I should know, I live here! Let me give you the scoop so you don't have to learn the hard way:


Who cares?

There is no culture! Everyone is such a snob because we have that museum district and that world famous opera house. I feel bad for the poor local artists trying to pump blood into the dead dog of this city's arts scene, but not as bad as I feel for the suckers who have to sit through their pathetic attempts at art galleries and live theater. It's like, if you don't have $250, or nothing, to blow on a night out, then you might as well stay in, drink cheap beer and have your mind numbed by reality television!

There are no major landmarks. It's full of major landmarks and they are such tourist traps, covered in trash, and their "keep the park clean" policy is stifling and downright Orwellian in its approach. I feel like if the paper sleeve blows off my straw, I have to chase it or an undercover agent will get me, and when I chase it I trip over rubble because it is so filthy! Uh, no thank you, think I'll just smoke some mids and pass out with my face buried in US Weekly.

Restaurants are so expensive! And they think that a cheap and ubiquitous local street cart food item that gives the city character can make up for this? Hah haaa! I laugh at your overly spiced fatty salty flavorlessly healthy local fare! You want ethnic food? Forget about it! You either have to travel to these sketchy neighborhoods spread throughout the city, find one of the places in a boring strip mall, or go to one of the places in that expensive neighborhood with all the restaurants. Might as well just hang out at home and drink brandy out of a paper bathroom cup and see what the Kardashians are up to.

The sports fans are obnoxious, you don't wanna be out at night when the local team is playing. The city doesn't even have a sports team.

Nobody is from here. It is so insular, it'll be 5 years before anybody even commits to remembering your name if you don't have 3 generations of family living within a 4 block radius.

Here's one piece of stupid graffiti I found. So original guys.

The geography stinks! You're near the beach, so everybody is such a braindead slacker who smokes too much weed and they are so pretentious because their beachfront property costs more than all of your organs if you were an endangered rhino. The city is amorphously sprawling because its not near a large body of water, and the damned featureless landscape brings in all these obnoxious outdoor sports enthusiasts. How about I just have bowl of oatmeal with percocets crushed in it and catch a rerun of Access Hollywood?

Don't even get me started on the job market! There is no major industry here anymore so everyone just works nondescript corporate gigs. The tech bros are so insufferable with their google glasses, constantly telling everyone about their production company and their affiliation with actors and directors, and they're all obnoxious improv comics! Maybe I'll just have some brownies with Vick's vapor rub baked in and watch football reruns.

The weather is like a… fuckin' boring… serpent of death… rainy… sun… strip malls... g- god dammit! JAHGAK;DFG

Wally Wilbertson is a self-proclaimed yogurt snob and life couch, and his work can be seen on Vice, Huffington Post, Elite Daily, and Fuhhhh. He got his MFA in creative writing at the Snupdy D. Bottlemyre Conservatory. Please hang out with him. He has a MacBook, a Netflix account, and hot and cold running disdain.

Friday, May 2, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 30: Sorry for my Existence

For the last day of poetry month, I am writing a slam parody about sexism. Cadence and hand gesture as you see fit.

As a woman, I woke up carefully and
Alone
My bed has too many pillows,
no wonder I'm single.
No wonder
Know.
Wonder.
I wander to the mirror
From my own eyes, the male gaze peers back at me
My eyes are daggers that cloud my mind, and don't even recognize me,
I wanna use Occam's Razor as a sweat lodge
Trim this fat from my mind
I wish I weighed less, but someone once told me
"Real women have curves"
I head to the scale to find out what I'm worth
1 for that time I didn't care what people thought of me
3 the number of points in a bowl of granola
4 u, I might starve but
2-day I eat
4 me
Does it count as skinny shaming if I eat bacon in public?
Is my body acceptance making other women fat?
I'd stop at Starbucks, but I don't wanna be a basic bitch
I tell my boyfriend I'm going to yoga
But if I actually go, I'm a manic pixie dream girl
But if I just say I'm going to yoga then don't, I'm a basic bitch
So I stop thinking about yoga
And dump my boyfriend so I can develop my own storyline
Move to Europe,
Live there for 4 years so I wouldn't be just another
basic bitch on her token eurotrip
But I didn't do anything interesting that might
Inspire a depressed male writer
It's been a crazy 4 years, so I
Go to bed and
It's funny, I
Used to say "Hail Mary"s and "Our Father"s as a kid, but
Now my precious nightly prayer session goes something like this:
"Hail Mary, full of spite
Hollow be my existence
Give me this day,
My daily affirmation
And forgive me my made-up trespasses"
But Mary and the Father sleep in separate beds now
And God is just the patriarchy saying
"Stop hitting yourself!"
"Stop hitting yourself!"

"Stop hitting yourself!"
Step off of the know-ledge
Now I use booze like a sledge hammer
And cigarettes as a DIY liposuction kit
So if I can't shatter the glass ceiling
At least it can shield me from the wind so
I can spark up when men tell me how
To blame other women
And I can drop ash on their cocks and say 
"I heard you coming a minute away"

Thursday, May 1, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 29: Autophage Checklist

Kicking rust with a whole shoe
Aerated
And follicles of oat
Cry for breakfast
Granola oxide
Crispy bitter dense
Emerging economy of sweetness
Feed the machine
Ask myself
Do I bend or break
Today
Do I bend or break

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 28: Counting

I held up all my fingers
At gunpoint
to my head
They were counting reasons
why I'm still at work
They are brave and less biased than I
Odwalla Marcellus Wallace tosses lentils in my face
Capital precipitates but
I can't make it rain
Unless the dance is done
Before the setting sun
Sets the table
And makes my bed
Breaks my head
Like a piggy spank bank
And I wake up to
Trail mix of numbers and signs

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 27: Demand

On a scale of one to five,
Just tell me.
Ok,
How about I start counting
Then sit on the hard waves
And you do the same. Backwards so 
We'll meet. They'll
call us "Sawtooth"
or "Demand"
Just before 
They cut us in half
Erecting statues
And erections
Nobody will forget what
We did for the
world of meaning.

National Poetry Month Day 26: J.P.

The tastemaker's haste caused a permanent case
Of the Big Apple sour grapes
Behind an old oak vibraphone
Pushing keys like a drunk Jon Arbuckle
Some understand
Others need to get carved
Big Meta won't spring for healthcare
Employs millions, crisis pregnancy
Morning sickness without the sense of achievement
If you can't shut up
Do a hand stand so we can pretend

National Poetry Month Day 25: 2003, New Hope, PA

Ride one bike
And steer a second
Lost the owner
Or have yet to find them
A warm, reverberant echo
Louder with each crooked start
You can't find the source
Before it's caught by a crooked heart
With you they want to ride
Setting their spare bike aside
Chained to the last stop
On their free guided tour
Of riverside cafes and local lore
But before you give them their free
You shiver, looking down
"The wind in April, the whiskey in whiskey"
Make another crooked start
Find your guest bike all the while
Is where they chained their own
So you head home
For pliers and a file

Saturday, April 26, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 24: Svengreen

Sven Green chummed the stork saddle n' sat
Earth lights all look like that
It's all alright, 
Pity, the antidote to spite
Like that pale red guy, Elmer Fudd
For censorship? I can see your blood
Social media bathtime lobotomy
Eat your own lemony metonymy
It's the zest, but not the sauce
It's the sauce, but not the meat
It's the meat, but not the cow
It's the cow, but not the life
It's the lunch, but not the meal
Not the difference, but the zeal
It's the Same Difference 
Cultural Reference
Themed 
Inconsequential Sequence 
Decade Mongering Thrill Ride™!
Metered, time-released time
Dispensed at a taxable rate
Brand-expanded
Wasted, banded
Winter accessories by Duck Tape


Thursday, April 24, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 23: Habits of Highly Confident People

So I punish myself for reading click bait list articles by writing a parody of them, and I decided to incorporate this one into NPM by making it a Ginsberg-style enumeration! Hopefully I'm not trying to do too much at once with this.

For just about everyone

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by lack of valid self criticism, helpless, attention-starved, confirmation bias diets,

Dragging themselves through social media, filling out the bingo card of rationalization to do what they already want to do for a self-fulfilling fix,

From confident people, who never have their hands in their pockets, for people with their hands in their pockets are hiding from the need to take action,

Confident people, who spend no time contemplating jazz, they just get it and move on with their busy lives at the tops of cities,


Who maintain focused, unblinking eye contact through the entire conversation because they know they have overflowing dumpsters of nothing to hide,



Confident people who don't get distracted by people with really annoying laughs because they're too busy and focused constantly improving,


Who don't believe in the multiverse because they know they live in the dynamo Chelsea foothills of getting everything right on the first try,

Confident people who aren't afraid to take a vacation because they are confident that work will still be waiting for them upon their return, everything is relative between paint thinner swigs and blindness bare breasts,

Who don't spend any time thinking about whether or not to leave the toilet seat up in a public bathroom, regardless of gender

Who never need help or approval, because they know how much work they can get done and your opinion just gets in their way,

Who seek out unpleasant things and confront it on their time, not yours,


Confident people who are not afraid to ask for help when they need it and build consensus to get the task done,


Who won't quit because they know success is always on the other side of the every jackknife line where non confident people quit,

Confident people who have an objective figure for how much each of the or friends are worth, but will never tell anyone but the nearest Suzy-blended Glenn,

Who know when it is time to make a tough decision and cut their losses if something isn't going well,

Who don't notice passive aggression, because they always say what they mean, so if you are trapped at the bottom of a pit, don't acknowledge the absurdity of the situation with your tone of voice in your cry for help, because they won't hear you,

Only confident people can pull you up from the pit,

Only confident people can dig a true pit,

If you cant escape, then it's a true pit,

Confident people who have destroyed everything outside of the pit,

Who know there is nothing outside of the pit so they make the most out of their life inside of the pit,

There is no pit,

There is no pit,

There is no pit,

There is no pit.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 22: Somewhere Over the Rimbaud

Empty but somehow
Still decaying
Trying to escape the
Hounds
Distant
Braying
Through the stink of the sphere of rot where
The brown
Purples
Greying
Are indistinct, engineered to stop air
Burst forth like a blemish
Pour into the SS Folly
Set adrift on smooth blame
Making ripples of guilt
Until their volley
Shakes your vision
Until the stranger you'll soon find
Is a yellowed memory
A trusted swing, a recipe
Your mother never got right
Suddenly you feel permission

You drift into an orchard
Reaching,
Eating blueberries of lye
Makes you leak roots
From holes in your boots
Every single color, every single time
Every single year goes by
And at the end of time when
Passing everyone, strangers again
Leaking every single color, Then!
Then you hear what they all think
"That's the reason I can never quite sink!"

Monday, April 21, 2014

National Poetry Day 21: To Tucson

When itchless we scratch
The fabric of meaning
Who does it hurt?
Good thing 
it wears fabric
The mil thickness
Is sanity


Sunday, April 20, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 19: Judgement Day

If only children in Uganda were as immune to disease and insulated from despotism
As you are against criticism
Then you could land a plane with your social media presence
And he would buy a pair of pants that fit him this year
Instead of that really good year
The year he was invited to a good 4-20 party
Instead of smoking fake joints alone in the park
Maintaining a protective caustic personality
The same day she memorized the periodic table
To achieve superiority
After they actually allowed an emotion to escape

National Poetry Month Day 20: Pastels, Youth

Pastels washed
Grow further pastel
Each thought draws
You more into hell
From what you've seen
There's no distance between
To question, to quench, to quell

Choir girl tugs ephemeral curled mousy locks
Spilling out her dress scented Spring and more
Hallmark print hips, a specialty cake box
From a Safeway in California in '94
Your new God's commandments on your rocks
You toss them like Moses on the bathroom floor
Then quietly weep for Absalom behind the stall door

Dark spot advertising
On your lavender shirt
That you cracked your egg
Of all days, Easter Sunday
You cracked your Easter egg
What would your parents say
If you tried to tell them
You found it that way

National Poetry Month Day 18: Disposal

Work is toilet paper
For misery
Misery an excuse for happiness
Like corn chips
An excuse for avocados
Avocados an excuse
For the oil industry
Misery and happiness
Eating one another
So I don't have to worry about them
And keep fuel in my car
And go to work

Thursday, April 17, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 16: Policymaking

This stone is red
Before it gets away
I must be dead
Wait

I must be red
The stone got away
Before it is dead
Wait

The stone must be dead
Before I am red
I must get away
Wait

Before I am dead
The stone is red
I must get away
Wait

I must get way
Before the stone is red
It must be dead
Wait

National Poetry Month Day 17: Dayfect

Pores enough wider than a toilet seat
For me to fall in and sell angel dust
I false start my day replete
With habit wax and moral rust
I am pure listen
And ask that folks refrain
From this tired particle breathing game

National Poetry Month Day 15: Alcoholism

Knowledge is a frisbee
You threw it at doubt
It went over the fence
You asked for another
And were given memory
Which you leveled at fear of failure
And it went over the fence
And asked for another
And you were given mercy
And you grew bored
And killed your neighbor
Took his house
Now all you have
Are frisbees and his booze
Until someone else moves in
To your old house

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 14: The Manual

Please imagine the first two words being repeated in the background throughout in the same beat as the students dutifully reciting their Latin conjugations in "All That's Known" from Spring Awakening. Or don't, I'm not here to tell you what to do.

Horse.
Cart.
Horse.
Cart.
Horse.
Cart.
Horse.
Poster strudel house by Hostess
What are you, some kind of booze hound stenosis?
Glass table natal, acoustic meatal
Echo farm to cradle
Lined up between Tatum Channing & Peyton Manning
Out of context monks chanting
King!
Nut!king
King!
Nut!nut
King!nut
Nut!
King!king
Nut!
NUT!
Gender image Peters Bering Straight
Cigarette butt
Magistrate
In your Teach For America jorts
With your
Smoke when you
Drink for America Cohorts
And these children you don't spit on
From your dry mouth and rope butt
They won't hang out with you either
Cart.
Horse.
Cart.
Horse.
Cart.
Every night a ghost
Tugs your riverbed tether
And you don't know what it is
But it holds you together
Horse.
Cart.
Horse.
Cart.
Horse.
Cart.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 13: Acoustic Guitar Guy Review (In Verse)

A back story
for ev'ry song
That tells more than it will
Of the casual loss,
And heartache behind
The falsetto resigned to never be shrill
He anchors hooks into flattering throat regions
Neck veins and biceps squeeze out their allegiance

Thus begins the tense white guy
Closed-eye bob and sway
You know that dominant 7 #9
Jazz vibe is just two chords away
Ornamenting generalities concocted in a booth
Staring tragically at a menu,
But through, like
Piss in a bed, and directly to
The waistline of who won't see him glaring
Brooding about how he can't move on
The tame bordello of his mind sparing
Nobody but
The one he claims he can't live without
Old sayings exist to give people with
Pretty voices something to sing about
The needle in his flaming pants
Would kill two birds in any bush
He's jumped enough moons to give the audience gout

Voice soars like a favorably framed dick pic
Yet soulful and thick
It coats the ears with the grace
Of cheese melted on a three legged dog
That won first place
What he lacks in any decent creation
He more than makes up for in validation

Saturday, April 12, 2014

National Poetry Day 12: Buzzfeed Headline Haiku

The sky saw you first
What it does here when you're dead
It will blow your mind


You will not believe
What this frog does with its life
I'm still blown away


Seasons will change but
Stay the same as you wither
It will break your heart


These four black dragons
Will change your life forever
Just by arriving


The veins of this leaf
Converge in a way only
90's kids will get


Seventeen life hacks
Learned by rocks in this river
The 6th is genius


National Poetry Month Day 11: The Away Game

United in the belief of
The solemn dance to
Avoid the weighty release of
Being needlessly anything
Cutting pockets for
Tucking away,
Switching out thousands
Of hot feet - breathing
No silly breaths when
Pendings
Fill the air
The accountants of my lungs
Shake their heads
Scornfully,
Coughing fuck

What is juggled
Into the clouds
Grows bio-luminescent
Glows the clouds hollow
In the absence of doubt
And what we can't follow
Will burn upon reentry
We'll smell them
Catching our breath
Feeling necessarily everything
Skewering life averages
Lungs and accountants
Slowly giving
Up
And fall on us like
Snow
That stays all
Summer

Thursday, April 10, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 10: Fans

A fan
Makes there be wind
Where there was always wind
The fan would grow dizzy
If the wind could grow tired
Park at a rest stop and eat
All things that were not already there
Grow

National Poetry Month Day 9: Please Describe Yourself

Excuse me, I
Can't help revealing
That I'm now you
Well, you made it so appealing
With your instructions step-by-step
T'was more copy-paste than stealing
Away from my self I was swept
Lost in a reverie
You goaded me with every
Thoroughly displayed precept

See, once I had a hoard of
Over a dozen handbags
More than a closet's share
But when you said you were bored of
Purses and just owned one
All but that many of mine
vaporized into thin air

And all my friends were of
my political persuasion
Until you mentioned you pulled off otherwise
Incredible! And in so short a conversation
I can feel my morning renaissance dawning
Like successful people in movies
For you also punish yourself
If you wake up later than 8
With discordant smoothies

Suddenly I don't get the
Obsession with crazy aunt flower pants either
And my future is suddenly bright
Because I go to law school at night
And work at a used clothing shop by day
And at the drop of a bowler hat
Tell everyone about my life

National Poetry Month Day 8: The Worst Poem I've Ever Written (Without Trying)

Driving the entire half alone
With the exact feeling you're
Farting someone else's vile gas
No matter what you do
Pick up a hitchhiker
To share the blame
They won't stop changing the radio
Talking about the importance of the centering of the burger on the bun
You tell them you're allergic to gluten
You're about to just tell them you're deaf
When you drop him off
He leaves you his dog Brad
Brad likes your farts
And wants you to meet his
Which smell very familiar

National Poetry Month Day 7: (Secret track)

Poetic thought of the day: Some poems are the receipt of a revelation. Others are the scratch pads set to meter. And others are pay stubs left open on the kitchen table.

Oh, ffffffffffacts
What would we do,
Where would we go?
I had to once
But I didn't
So
I'm not.
Fortunately it wasn't
specific
enough, So
nobody
could tell The Difference
And I didn't tell
The Difference
So here I am again
(On paper)

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

National Poetry Day 6: Sentimental Singer Songwriter Review (In Verse)

Never kicked the booze
Never had a reason
Never had enough to lose
He drinks because it's pleasing
With nothing to abuse

Talks about his mom a bit more
Than the hard rocking folkers
And self-saboteurs who came before

Coastlines and fresh caught social cues
Other things that follow you around
Like personal squalor with new shoes
They almost happen, then hit the ground

A life rich in lessons
He's busy never learning
Reciting walls of writing
Just to criticize the kerning

Left LA for a bit
A quick Sonoran breather
Maybe he forgot
Self-deprecating wit
Is almost always neither
When both you are not

National Poetry Month Day 5: This Street

The green side of a stone
Charges double for the lease
And sells you bleach as well
A hundred for a sheet
And you'll tell them you've seen hell
But it was on another street
So you pass your bleach around
Through your new bleach vendor
Part time photographer
Tour guide of the garden
Guardian of the splendor
Freedom at a bargain

By the time we got to Woodstock
It was 2012 and the only ones yet to move on
Shill their tribal dance school through Groupon
Trying to beat the next day hell chose
To add a dozen to its zip code

Sunday, April 6, 2014

NPM Day 4: A series of haiku about anxiety dreams

Popcorn trapped between
My teeth escapes the only
Way it knows: through them


You never left home
Everyone's as bad as your
Imagination


You're free to climb down
The thorns tear, you should go, but
You are the tree


10. 9. 8. 7. 6
The counting is for all of 
The bees in your mouth

National Poetry Month Day 3: The Cookie

The ant is hungry
and lost
and taking a look
We crossed
paths en route to
The Cookie
I blew polite
discouragement breezes
It freezes in
someone else's tracks
Ensures its footing
Recalibrates
Cracks
from hesitation to full stride
Onward to where
The Cookie used to reside
I blow again,
a little harder it stops
Ensures its footing
Recalibrates
Continues from
Where the crumbs once stood
Recorded their echoes
As a prophet would
Their solemn thunderous tragic descent
He'll petition every baker
In order to prevent





Friday, April 4, 2014

National Poetry Month Day 2: Mustache Lottery

Thought on poetry of the day: when I write, I want a hypothetical reader to be reminded as little as possible that they are reading a poem.

Mustache Lottery

Place this hair patch
A tricky proposition
It arrives
Whole pieces
Without ethics or position
It will make your sweater dirty
Long
Before it makes your meals a challenge
It makes children think of birds
and birds think of home
And stoners think of gnomes
and old baseball

His is uneven
He's not all there
A mustache, everyone gets
Except for its wearer

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Nation Poetry Month Day 1 - Fool in the Rain

Trying not to write about the rain
The important, constant fresh
Freshly perfumed rain
My stylist, rain, I
Each subsequent customer notice
Fuckin' wet heads
I'm just a number to you,
right?
I can't even count you
Unless the answer is one. It's like
You have a
Vanity plate and
Bumper stickers that
Celebrate your half
Marathon completion
And I can't say shit
About your
Mommy daddy issues?
We see what we want in clouds
We wanna fuck
What we don't want in
Clouds that stood us up
Are those your tears on
My windshield of
Deaf ears, because I'm
"Bulletproof" I
Sing as I
Hydroplane into grass on
The dime-thick reflection of my face
And some filth I found
Then stop
The only sound left
The droplet dance
Bereft of my influence
Goes home with everyone
Else
How come I can't touch you?

Friday, March 14, 2014

How to Tell if You're a Good Writer

-You're not wasting your time reading lists. Just kidding! Lists like these are a tool for self-improvement. Some might say they create a shallow, artificial economy of ego, a flawed way to seek deeply personal validation because they are crafted to create dependence, but in reality, people simply use these lists for perspective, and there's nothing wrong with that. The more egotistical thing to do is to deny this fact, which is an intellectually dishonest way of feeling like you're better than other people. People who say they don't read lists are the same ones who say they don't watch TV at parties. If you think you are better than everyone else, by all means don't read this. Go back to writing that edgy piece about selfies and FB photos of food.

-When you are reading a book, you are constantly thinking of ways to improve the text. In fact, you often will stop reading a book because you see so many changes you would make.

-People listen whenever you tell a story. If you really want to be sure, tell a long story and reveal esoteric details using advanced creative techniques. People should be captivated the entire time. If you want an easy way to test this, try telling these stories when people are busy and distracted. Maybe at the end of a dinner with friends when people are trying to leave. If they stick around, congratulations! They are captivated by your words. The more anxious they appear to leave, the better of a writer you probably are.

-Want another easy way to see if people like your stories? Read them at an open mic! If people think your story is boring, they'll approach you and tell you. People pretty much owe you a discussion. There is a tacit agreement that if a writer goes through the trouble to create something, the audience owes it to them an articulate critique.

-This goes both ways. You should always approach people and tell them what you would have done with their story. Even if it seems to be just fine as it is, it is always good to exchange ideas with other writers.

-When in doubt about whether people are really following your story, include a particularly vivid scene. Include a climactic performance scene and describe a round of applause and see how many people move their arms as though they are about to clap. Or write a sex scene and (discretely) try to see how many people are hiding erections.

-You often find yourself going out every night instead of staying in and writing because you find writing itself to be boring. There's nothing wrong with that! You are just searching for inspiration. Perhaps you make a habit of going to the same bar. You should definitely engage the other patrons in a discussion about your literary inspirations and your ideas for novels. Give people book recommendations, people love that sort of attention. And don't forget to follow up about them in a month, it shows that you care.

-You often find yourself having affairs. You see many narratives in the world and don't want to be tied to just one. Come to think of it, it is likely you have felt an urge that is unmet in every relationship I've ever had.

-If when you try to engage with someone you are attracted to at the bar, you often end up being misunderstood. Your mind is occupied with the synthesis of transcendent thought. Theirs most likely isn't, and that is OK!

-You often end up spending the night alone, ignoring calls from your significant other. Writing is a rather solitary activity.

-You often need to, umm, "relieve" yourself of your sexual urges. Again, writing is a rather lonely undertaking and you're probably pretty sensitive to distractions like sexual tension. And you don't allow your significant other to gratify you during these times. Inspiration is too elusive to permit such intrusions.

-You are very selective about the "viewing" materials you use for that last portion. A decent story line, and a plausible coupling. It is important that the male is as attractive as the female.

-You are capable of finding aesthetic beauty in the form and genitalia of the same sex as yourself, even if you are definitely heterosexual (you're a good writer and you know yourself well). You sometimes fill pages of notebooks with lines describing genitalia you are not attracted to, just as a writing exercise.

-If your significant other breaks up with you because you've been "distant" and they think you "need to find yourself". Again, solitary activity. This ALWAYS happens to me. I guess good writers should date other good writers who understand them.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

I Have Always Been Here (Part 7 of 7)

On Saturday she is a disembodied floating smile to the children whose interpretations of what genitals mean is still wide open. That being said, the water park is often the venue where people discover their terminal fascination with skin, and the exquisite architecture of the underside of her breasts alone has turned numberless future engineers into day laborers and day laborers into artists and artists into accountants. The regulation lifeguard bathing suits usually wear the employees more than the other way around, but her uniform practically does her grocery shopping. The park is old sometimes and many of the summers have few real water park days, so she finds creative ways to pass her time perched in a chair atop the water slide, which is carved into the natural rocky hills, suspended by metal pipe that has rusted into the color of pine bark. To arrive at the summit slide, one must navigate a trail that is imposed upon what should be an intimidating, jagged ravine, tamed with terraces of logs until they ran out of logs and started using pressure-treated railroad ties. Oh the splinters, the staph infections... The view is obscured by shrubs and boulders, so when she sees someone begin the trek, she slides her finger under her bathing suit and begins counting. By around 50 she reaches her second orgasm and knows to shift her gaze to a clearing and wait to see the children pass. Once she they do, she has at least 45 seconds to squeeze off what she can and adjust her smile. Her record is 8. She does not remember how this habit began, there has never been a time where she did not do this. Each session has grown indistinct apart from the incidences where she has been caught. This has happened 6 times, each by the rationalization that one more is worth the risk, and what's the risk? The kid won't understand anyway! When they arrive, however, and she quickly retrieves her hand and orientation, the reflexive shame is stamped on her flushed porcelain face. She feels guilty, then paranoid that the children will say something, then assurance bordering on self-righteousness that nobody would dare to accuse her of something so awful, but within 20 minutes she is on the edge of her seat, counting.

I Have Always Been Here (Part 1 of 7)

Monday is conceived by drunks around 3:30 AM, when she finishes cleaning the floors and shelves of the store after their parade of blessed jubilance. For reasons of her own, she decides on life. This is when she ritualistically stuffs twelve paper bags with equal amounts of danish, donuts, bagels, and if it was a slow night, a cookie or two for the newspaper couriers, who celebrate the end of their route with a bag of free day-old pastry each. "What are you doing here at this hour?", the gentleman from The Post asks every couple nights. "Are there cars on road?" she replies. "Because as long as there are cars, I am here." "Was that too strange?" She asks herself this when nobody replies. She protects them from Silence, because somebody has to. "Where's Gene and that boy with the Inquirer?" Half of the regulars will be too tired after their shift to stop in, but she prepares a dozen bags anyway. Someone always thinks, "Why does she always fill all those bags, when she knows full well there's never more than six of us here?" When someone has time to think, she waves away the Emptiness, saying something like "I gave you two of the lemon-filled, Bill. I know you just looooove those lemon-filleds..."  She really doesn't really know that, but she is a Guardian now, and Bill was so happy to seem to have a preference that he ate both of them. After the couriers leave, it is one hour and forty-five minutes until the first batch of day laborers passes through on their way pick up the Short Line bus to New York City, and she must be prepared, lest there be another problem. There can be no further incidents of Silence or Emptiness. Seamless transactions only. No more customers can be lost, not even another homeless woman who goes by "Tortoise" and her de facto husband Red Carl. The day laborers set the tone for the day as they drift through to acquire the only breakfast that can maintain a belly that hangs several inches over the waistband on someone who spends all day doing calisthenics with power tools and cinder blocks. "Not all of you can be crane operators", she teases as she fills bags with sugar, fat, and carbs, the guitar, drum, and bass of a mobile diet. The first few Short Line rushes are mostly still in REM sleep, they'll grunt affirmatively at anything she says. Once the consistent crowd starts, so do the personalities and thus the challenges. She gathers ammunition between rushes, studying whatever the radio has to say about the world and writing it down, filing down every sharp edge until everything relates to snack foods, going to work, or dogs, and never cats. When people think of cats they think of cat owners and grow reflective, sympathetic, judgmental. The last time she permitted the unfettered mention of cats, there were three more innocent faces staring back at her in the missing persons poster on the front door who were never anywhere else.

Inevitably a regular will compliment her attire like a child tossing a Freudian cheese fry to a bluebird, unaware of the Freudian pigeons preening themselves behind him. Her daily tolerant smile at one Jimi Hendrix of sexual harassment permits a dozen Billy Squiers, which takes her through most of the morning rush. The Bunn-O-Matic always breaks at around 9:30AM, so she makes coffee in small batches using a maker she brought in from a home she only remembers. The coffee grows more burnt, and apologies grow more necessary as the customer emotional maintenance decreases. That last part is significant, because apologies can actually mean something to people. No apologies at all to frantic people who woke up late or the brittle vacationing families who failed to get that early start, but a distant "sorry" for the numb drunks with finally enough courage to show their face, followed by university students too overwhelmed to take an apology seriously, then finally the homeless, to whom she never apologizes at all because she gives them the coffee for free so they leave before people grow cautiously self-aware.

She is never seen eating, and is accepted as the picture of equanimity. Everybody knows she is never not there, they accept that as well. Some of them hurry because they are glad they are not her but may become her if they linger, others hurry as though if they are fast enough, another less indicting face will greet them when they return for more cigarettes after their shift. Some are outright hostile, hostile the way we are to our mistakes 2 years later, or hostile towards someone who watches bad television, or hostile over their success while they watch her doing the same duties, their years reflected in one daily cycle.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

The Assist

Yeah he's still back, slash never really left. ... He commutes to school, (our) mom just... She bought him pants ... I was so upset, like, I told her to return them. 
...
Like, with a degree in that, you need to intern while you get your degree. Otherwise it looks terrible on paper. ... And he wants to work for Facebook? Facebook is like “Go get your experience somewhere else, we don’t want you until you do, we’re not here to train you. (There is a hidden agenda to this level of enthusiasm for his role as the "bearer of tough love".  Is he bitter about the way the world has treated him?  Or is he angry that other people have priorities that he does not understand? I already hate him, is it because of my sympathy for her boyfriend or do I just hate aggressive vain pricks? The latter.)
Speaking of indecision Oh yeah, how is ? I just don't know where it is going And neither does he, and I guess he's taking it out on me?
...
Maybe it’s because I’m hearing it all at once, because we haven’t talked in a while, but it seems like you’ve been bottling this up for months. (Exaggerating her barely audible gripe. This guilt trip serves the following purposes: A) puts her on defensive so she won't notice that her misfortune makes him act slightly jovial. B) Casts him as sexually threatening, as though he can't be around when she is in a relationship or else they'll do something, that there is some palpable sexual tension.)

He's just ...  ... But I still love him ...

This guy just sounds like… a drain on society. Like, this guy is the reason socialist countries can’t work. (Silence. This could be when she shuts herself off to him for his vitriol. Will he take the hint?)

You need someone who is invested so you can take a break every now and then, maybe take some time for creative endeavors. Part of the problem with hipster type guys is there are relatively few of them who are reliable. (Don't you know? Creativity and financial instability is for women. So you should date me, and after we move in and get married I will convince you to take some time off of work for creative endeavors or to find yourself or some other bullshit so you’ll become more dependent on me. From there I will easily convince you that we should have children, and I will own you forever!)
...
I was an idiot, why didn’t I date you? (Likes giving people what they want so they'll leave her alone.)
...
You don’t need to feel guilty because you don’t get to that point unless shit is really fucked up. If you’re upset about this, you are already at the point where you’ve done enough. (I hope the glaringly faulty logic of this sentence overshadows my bias)

I know, but it’s just hard… (I like venting to you, but nothing you are saying makes me feel better)

My goal…

Is to take over my life.