Just a little somethin' I came up with last night to be read at Speakeasy. It's a pretty bald-faced stab at things, but hey, I only had 20 minutes.

---

Oh mother.

I can only imagine the long, lonely nights you endure, rum and diet on your end table, fat little corgi endlessly stabbing eardrums with his paranoid yips. Your four children all grown, out of the house. Little machines you kept tinkering with until they walked well enough on their own that you couldn’t catch them. So you sit at night, huddled in an afghan your own mother made. It must be so quiet. So lonely.

At least I hope you’re that fucking lonesome, because then it would explain why you keep asking me why I haven’t made you grandchildren yet. And by the way, why haven’t I “made” you grandchildren is fucking disturbing, so stop saying it like that. You showed amazing restraint for a while there. All through my early twenties you were helping me learn the corporate ropes, consoling me through some rough break ups, and coaching me on real estate. And then fifty hit you and – bam! – it’s like your brain got pregnant. Well I hope you’re prepared for a long gestation period, ‘cuz it ain’t happening with this son of yours for some time. If ever.

But, when you were my age, you’d already spat four kids out of your womb, and the oldest was already six! Six! Surely I must be running behind schedule, lest I’m implying that there was something wrong with my childhood, that there’s something wrong with my own mother. I assure you it’s nothing of the kind, mother! For, don’t you know? I started having children of my own as soon as I got out of high school. Didn’t you know? Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t heard me talking about my little bundles of joy, my little student loans!

Come on, you know it’s practically the same thing. Like you, I could have been off gallivanting about in my youth, traveling the world, but I had to stay home and take care of my student loans. If I didn’t work, my loans would starve half to death, and then the state would come and take them and everything I own away from me! I don’t know what I’d do if that happened. I can’t imagine the horrors that would become them, locked away in a file with all sorts of other toxic assets mixing with them. No, no, they’re safer with me.

In some ways, having student loans is better than having kids. Though they often feel like a ton of shit, they do not actually shit, which saves a lot in diapers. And though they sometimes do keep me up at night, I never have to worry about Sudden Student Loan Death Syndrome. Nope, that’s something I definitely don’t need to worry about.

And the rewards! Like real children, I can look upon my student loans with pride and see the accomplishment they represent: a bachelor’s degree in science (science!)… that I don’t even use for my job, not even a little. Aw, I can’t stay mad at them – look at their little faces, and allll those cute zeroes! I know you must love them, too, since you helped make them.

Yes, before I knew what personal finances were, you helped make those private school dreams come true with yours and your ex-husband’s co-signature on those loans. You chose what’s best for me, made my little ones as good as you knew how. Oh sure, they’ve gotten a little fat recently, but who could have foreseen a decade ago that $45,000 borrowed against variable interest rates would be crippling if the financial industry were to collapse during the life of the loans? Oh well, good thing the other $35,000 was in safe, government accounts. Whew! Eggs and one basket, you know?

So like having kids, having loans has its ups and down as I try and raise them right. But then after 18 years, if I pay down a little more each month, I’ll be able to tearfully let go of their hands, and look back on the past two decades they were with me. Almost 20 years of the prime of my life, every month siphoning off $700 to those little loans of mine. I can’t tell you how good it will feel to see them out the door and making the best of themselves in the real world. Why, maybe they’ll go on to make little loans of their own. I hear that in the future, even electronic text books are still going to cost $150 at the school book store – so loans just like them are going to be needed!

Oh mother, can’t you see how proud I am of them? How could I possibly have anything left to spare for children?

current mood: rushed

The Death of Hagar

Many forget just how much boats creaked in those days.
The way the boards gave way under a heavy foot
making the sound of a wet sponge when squeezed –
it shook the faith of most of the men, but not him.

He never feared the roiling sea,
knowing even as a boy that from the water’s perspective
Odin was right-side up.
Tales of maelstrom, monsters, and mountains of raging ocean
only made his heart surge more,
and his voice sing verses older than trees.

His men often complained and fought each other,
but there was little he could do
until they were sated by the treasures found,
the women tasted, the enemies felled,
and whole islands of timelines collected and ended
in the glorious thrill of conquest.

The fighting was not for him.
Age had made him soft, maybe even round enough to float.
The reward for him was his woman, his children, and their awe –
they were the only reason dry land had a purpose.
To keep them safe. To keep them where he knew they’d be.

When stores of mead ran dry
and his men’s antics and foolishness became unbearable
it was time to head home,
though this time the path
was through weather darker than any Viking’s thoughts.
The water soaked the decks, rending them soft as foam.
The vessel grew heavier, and the horizon rose ever higher
He knew no fire was hot enough to dry the ship, much less burn it
but he hoped to see Valhalla anyway
and on his way there to pass his home once more
to see his family where they should be
to feel his woman’s kisses on his lips –
which he almost imagined he could –
as water rushed into his mouth
and he and the sea finally became one.

current mood: productive

Deep in the purpling bruises of hills that are the Great Smokies

most nights you could hear escaping from the audio hall of mirrors

an echo of his hollow howl broadstroking its way to you

through the pine cone minefield of the thick forests

His father was pure West Virginia stock,

boiled down until his lungs were hard as bones

and his fingers tinted derelict shades of black

leaving crusty fingerprint ridges

on a long shard of jasper

found in the mine and given to his son

Moving on from home, that son found a wife

had a son of his own who died just a toddler

and even though he took in his orphaned nephew

he couldn’t find the strength to forge a fatherly connection

beyond the one between the back of his hand

and the side of the young man’s face

Waking some foggy mornings in a heavenly-lit field

he would pick up his rifle and set out for the day’s meal

wondering why everything felt less purposeful

than his father’s prints on a worthless rock

until one night, cushioned by owl’s hoots and moonshine

he found his dead toddler’s marker near a young quadrant of pines

and, rifle in mouth, left a mark on a stone all his own.

current mood: working

Outside the bar where the fog held like hesitant snow

Virginia asked if she could bum a cigarette

saying “I hate living up to people’s expectations” as I obliged.

She tore the butt off before I struck a flame, tossing it to an ice-frosted snow pile.

After I lit my own I told her I’d be quitting after New Years

and she nodded, echoing similar plans.

She would be soon moving to Portland

giving the west coast another try

this time switched from vegetarianism to veganism

and from heterosexuality to maybe-homosexuality,

not knowing if anything is a good idea anymore.

She wore her cigarette down quickly,

            invisibly blowing the smoke into the fog

and I wondered if she removed the filters so she would smoke less of the cigarette

and was therefore wasting my precious stash.

Back inside with our $2 pints she asked if I had gray hairs yet.

I said I’ve only seen them on my arms, and I pluck them out.

She said she had found two and a half so far.

            I asked which half.

She said the bottom, and then resigned to calling it the third hair.

“I’m almost 28 and I’m getting old!” she said,

so I showed her my retreating hairline

and I told her how something as simple as running my fingers over my head

            emancipates tiny clusters of follicles

            that dangle from between my fingers,

            little grains of sand floating to the ground

            counting down to the moment I become old and ugly.

So we both sipped our beers and looked to the people entering the bar

not expecting to recognize them

            but because what we saw in each other is too familiar.

So I used that.

I said “Well now that you’re kind of gay we can talk about girls.”

“Yeah!” she said, “Let’s talk about girls.”

I launched into my inept wooing of a beauty far out of my league

            how when I’m around her I become the work me

                        the me that’s polite

                                    and articulate

                                                and quiet

                                                            and calculating

                                                                        and everything that I use to defend myself

I asked Virginia why I do this

because for the life of me I have no idea.

It’s only after drinks that we can be ourselves,

            gorgeous girl included, as I suspect she’s doing the same.

But Virginia didn’t know either.

She does the same thing around her own objects of affection.

Hides behind the inoffensive version of herself.

Like a job interview.

But she knew the answer. She said we should do like we’re always told.

            And just be ourselves.

                        The only problem being, I said, that we’re too scared to do that.

Things weren’t going quite like we’d hoped, so we ordered another round

            and I started talking about old high school friends

            which perked Virginia up, since I’m the only one she talks to.

I mentioned how a lot of them are married, or almost there

and starting on another round of children.

And we both wondered what bit of programming we lacked

            that kept us,

                        the us that are getting older and uglier

            single

            childless

            disappointments to our parents and grandparents

            while our peers had no problems with it.

It wasn’t that we didn’t want to eventually have partners and families

            but we didn’t want to have partners and families.

            Yet.

            Or maybe ever.

By the end of the night it turned out we were almost exactly who we were

when we last met two years ago

and also three years before that

standing still but aging

growing from the people and things that fly by us

            and sometimes hit us.

Our feet in the slush

            toes long ago numb

                        as I pass ten years of cigarettes to her

                                    a mountain of torn-off and smoked butts surrounding us

                                                and empty pint glasses sporting the ghosts of cheap beers

                                                            all this collateral, encircling us like rings on a planet

                                                                        physically impossible to shake loose

                                                                                    and too obvious to ignore

                                                                                                so that all we can do is look at ourselves from a distance

                                                                                                            squinting our eyes a bit

                                                                                                                        and imagine it’s all actually beautiful.

current mood: peaceful

It's a long way down from your voice
especially in the humid dark
where I can't see the beautiful parts
that tremble as my face passes them
But either way it's worth it
A crasser man would say I get mine
and you get yours in this scenario
Like there's some kind of money shot
that made the effort
rather than the means being what we were after all along
For us it doesn't matter who gets to go first
or if our turns are days apart
There's no keeping score
or timing of each other
or worrying about making the finish line
or knocking off points
because it was sweaty in there
That whole trip down from your request
it's that first drag of a cigarette
the one that tastes the best
until you realize it's really a clove
and then you can't stop licking your lips

HEY! HEEEEEY! YOOOOOOO!
WITH TAKEN ME ARE YOU!?
SO HOPE I! REALLY! YESSSS!
INTO MY, THIS HEART, THERE IS A HARPOON! FROM YOU!
ARRRRGGGHHH!
LOVE! WHAT HURTS IT IS – LOVE!
DELICIOUS! WE ARE THERE!
YUMMY! MORESO THAN PROVOLONE!
ON A CHEESESTEAK! TRUTH! HARD!
IS IT ME!?
NO, I AM NOT BACKING AWAY!
NO! NO!
IT IS YOU! BUT DON’T!
YOU EMBRACE! HUG MY BRAIN! YOU WORK! WORK ON ME! MEEEEE!
SYSTEMIC PLAGUE OVERTAKING THE PEASANTS! NO HOPE!
THIS IS YOU, THE PLAGUE.
STOP WALKING?

current mood: blank

Yes, Del Monte has written me back! Here it is, the moment of truth, the help I've been begging for!

---

January 18, 2008
Dear Paul,

Thank you for your e-mail about Del Monte Savory Sides.

We're sincerely sorry to disappoint you, but this product is no longer available. Unfortunately, due to changing market conditions and a lack of consumer demand, we made the difficult decision to discontinue making the product. Your opinion is very important to us and will be shared with our Management.

We regret we were unable to help in this instance. As a way of thanking you for your interest, we have sent a complimentary coupon for a Del Monte product.

Niki, Del Monte Foods Consumer Affairs
consumeraffairs@delmonte.com

Del Monte. Nourishing families. Enriching lives. Every Day.

--

What the fuck? Those assholes and their fucking management-based decisions! Damn it all to hell! They did it, they did the one thing I specifically begged them not to do - they took my one good recipe away from me. "Enriching lives"? Bullshit! They have just diminished my existence by one whole food product! Oh, Niki, I genuinely hope you don't think this is over. You have just unleashed hell upon the Del Monte world! I shall have my revenge!

...after I retrieve my free product. I wonder what it's going to be!

Okay guys, you gotta help me. Several years ago I developed a kickass recipe for burritos, mostly because I was tired of using bland powder mixes and stupid salsa as ingredients. I happened upon your Savory Sides Santa Fe Corn in the grocery store one day and thought "What the hell? I'll give it a shot." Oh. My. God. Dudes. You have no idea how you saved me that day. I was living alone, didn't have much money, and cooking onions, mushrooms, kidney beans and your Santa Fe Corn with some meat lasted me for DAYS. I could eat it alone, over and over, and no one would chastise me, and I saved money on going out, eventually allowing me to purchase a house. I made the burritos all the time, like every week, but then I started to get a little chubby so I had to knock it off for a bit. But now I'm skinny again and I crave those burritos so badly. But... someone has it out for me. I don't know if they're in your company, or if they belong to some kind of vegetable cartel operating inside Central Florida, but my secret ingredient - my sustenance, my wooer of girlfriends, my poetry muse (seriously) - is suddenly gone from all store shelves. Zip. Bye bye. Sure, there are still Del Monte tomatoes available, but I tried Frankensteining together some Santa Fe Corn with that tonight and it sucked hardcore. Come on guys, I see on your site that you still make this stuff. Why can't I have it? Isn't there some little loophole you can make in your distribution deals to get me just a little taste of that sweet, sweet Santa Fe Corn suga'? I haven't found any substitute (though over several months I have tried - God DAMN have I tried, but to no avail!). I'm desperate. Please, tell me where I can get this stuff (even AMAZON.COM isn't holding, those wholesale bastards!) - I'll do anything. I'll pay more than I have to - it means that much to me! Please, please I beg you to not take this one good recipe of my own design away from me. I realize my mortal folly in resting the secret ingredient on gods like you - tempting you to take it away from me and watch me squirm like the puny worm I am - but I have been humbled. I now know your power. And I ask you to be merciful. Grant me this wish, and tell me where I may get your most holy of canned goods. I will be forever in your debt.

Yours truly,

Paul

current mood: full

Situation: You are male, driving alone on the highway, and hit a traffic jam that stops you cold. You have to pee. There is no bathroom and there is no cover by the side of the road.

Solution: There is a collection of empty water bottles in your car.

Tip to the wise: Pick a wide-mouthed bottle.

Scientific principle behind the tip: Say you have a hose and a container. If have a large enough hose that seals the container's opening, you will find that turning the hose on and introducing liquid into the container displaces air. Eventually enough air will be displaced so as to force the flaccid hose out of the container with a burst of surprising pressure. If the hose is not turned off by this point, the liquid you were trying to put in the container will not make it into the container.

I'm not saying I know this from experience, mind you. I just like Newtonian physics.

current mood: tired

I IM'd this to my buddy Cayce, who agrees the emotion is spot on. Sure, not the most pleasant thing, but I imagine it's a familiar situation.

Paul: You know the feeling when you're sitting all alone in your cubicle and you pass a particularly noxious fart? You sit there, not really embarrassed, but still thinking "Jesus Christ, that came out of me? Fucking hell, this is awful. Oh well, I'll just sit and marinade in it a little bit." Because it's your fart, and everyone prefers their own brand. But then, as you're sitting there comfortable in your solitude, and your eyes start watering from the funk, someone walks in to chat with you. No one ever walks into your cube normally, only now when you've laid the fart of the century.

Suddenly you're thinking "Oh. My. God. If I move, will that upset the cloud of poison and send it their way? Can I just breathe it all in and spare them?" So you talk quickly, and use all your body language skills to keep them away, out of the cubicle, anywhere but where the fart stench lies, praying to God they don't get a whiff of it, or at least, if they do, they're polite enough to pretend to ignore it. And no matter what you do they stand there, as you sit frozen, taking in quick breaths through your nostrils, sampling the air every half-second to see if it's cleared yet. They probably think you're hyperventilating when in fact all you're trying to do is save them. May they never know the truth.

Well, the TSA thing's still going on because they pegged me correctly - I am quite the lazy bastard. But I shall have my revenge yet! So tonight I tried to write a quick story, but didn't have the right mood for it (it was about a sad, balding man who I may have made paralized if I let myself continue - yikes). So instead I wrote a poem. I kinda dig it. Too bad there's no Will's for me to share it in. All the other places have too likely a chance of pretensioning me to death.

---

current mood: sleepy

Well, a response to my initial complaint has arrived. Just a few days after I sent my initial complaint some TSA automaton sent me an email instructing me to fill out the attached forms (in PDF) and reiterate my complaint in that. I should send the complaint, and the monetary amount for which I am complaining, and wait for it to be processed.

Ah, but to speak to a human there, just once.

Among the many instructions were these ten helpful hints:

1. Purchase receipt of the ORIGINAL item lost or damaged. (If unavailable credit card statements, bank statements, or sworn written statement)
   (are they kidding me? Besides just me, who in the world holds on to receipts for all their property? What if the stolen item was hand-made?)
2. Boarding Passes
   (Hm, guess I shouldn’t have thrown that away, like any normal person who’s finished a trip would)
3. Repair Estimates (if unable to repair a statement from the estimator)
   (You can’t repair a broken ego)
4. Replacement Estimates
   (Ahh, here’s where things get interesting. I can make a claim for the two condoms, but the money I would receive would not allow me to replace those condoms, as I can’t just go and get two, at least, without heading to some specialty store, like a porn shop. I’m sure the TSA wouldn’t want me to do that. So I am going to request the cost of whatever the lowest package amount of condoms would be, like six or twelve. This seems fair and reasonable to me, particularly since I have been inconvenienced on the government’s behalf)
5. Photographs of lost/damaged items (past or present)
   (Damn, now where did I put my condom scrapbook? What useful purpose does this serve to anyone? If someone reports a missing ring they can easily go to any department store, try on a ring, snap a photo, and voila - proof of ownership. This is nothing more than yet another bureaucratic hoop for we monkeys to jump through)
6. Police, Witness, or Incident Reports (if applicable)
   (Yes, because when I’m opening my checked bag in the airport after it’s come down the carousel and notice something missing, I’m going to report… hey, wait a minute! Who files reports at the airport for stolen property from a suitcase?)
7. Airline/Other company claim reports
   (Again, if your beef is with the TSA, you go complain to the TSA! Why do they recommend you report missing goods to the airline?)
8. Avoid incorrect acronyms (do not use DIA for Denver Int’l airport)
   (OMG, this is going to be hard, LOL)
9. Fill out the claim form completely (front and back). Blanks may delay your claim
   (Um, you gave me a PDF. When I printed, there was only one side on each sheet, unless… oh my God, the paper now has two sides - the magic of government!)
10. Submit a claim immediately. Delay in filing a claim can make gathering information difficult or inaccurate
    (Yeah, this is a good tip. However, according to other sheets they gave me, you have up to two years after the incident, or noticing that your property is gone, to file a claim. I guess that, the longer you wait, the less chance they have in calling you a liar due to your not having supporting evidence to your claim.)

So, I’ll be sending this puppy off soon. I expect to be shortchanged on my condoms, in which case I will fight for the full amount I demand. I apologize in advance for wasting your tax dollars, but there’s something about this, about the brazenness of someone taking someone else’s property and thinking that their government shield will protect them, that bothers the hell out of me.

I sure they’ll have learned their lesson by the time I’m through with them.

current mood: crazy