How the Middle Class Tax Relief Act of 2010 Screwed the Unemployed

While Congress and the President were wrangling over the Middle Class Tax Relief Act of 2010, the FAC (Federal Additional Compensation) Program — which was part of the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 — was allowed to expire.

The FAC provided a $25 dollar per week supplement to those collecting unemployment compensation. Between February 22^nd of 2009 and December 7th of 2010 the program distributed an additional $353 million to those in the ranks of the unemployed.

While the rich, and the adequately employed, celebrate the windfall of extended tax relief and temporarily reduced FICA deductions, the unemployed will discover that their biweekly unemployment check is about fifty dollars lighter.

That means that instead of a can of tuna, some rice, and a Diet Pepsi for daily sustenance, the average unemployed American human will be consuming some rice and a half glass of Kool Aid. And, best of all, that human will still be contributing taxes (10% federal, 3% state, in Illinois) to help offset the budget deficit.

It’s too bad those Tea Partiers weren’t on board for this vote. I bet they would have been really concerned about expecting the unemployed to contribute part of their pittance to the tax coffers of the grossly negligent governments. Or are they only concerned about the tax rates that rich people pay?

What? You didn’t hear about this in the news? Of course you didn’t. We mostly like to ignore the plight of those less fortunate who are on hard times. Plus, the way the pie has been divided up is much classier. Lexus dealerships will be doing bigger business, and Dollar General will take a hit. The unemployed don’t need to buy a cheap new pot anyway because they won’t be able to afford a chicken to throw into it.

Still, I wonder when and if the real anger will kick in on those people who have lost their livelihoods to foreign competition. Do you think maybe they will begin to hurl rocks at each passing Lexus and Mercedes? Maybe they’ll firebomb Bank of America!

I am not bitter though. In fact, I am proud that, even though I am unemployed, I am probably still paying more in taxes than the Koch Brothers.

Hidalgo Le Mondrop

2008

Scurry, scurry, scurry, full of seething fury. There’s a tenement to raze!

 Hidalgo Le Mondrop was so contrary that he wore his moustache on the back of his head.

“Let me see that.”

            “What have you done?            ‘

            “That looks ridiculous!”

            To which Le Mondrop would say, “It is my art, and I wear it like a wound.”

            The Rosenstock Tenement was a state sanctioned, sole proprietorship that stood amid other examples of anonymous, toxic decay. There were sixty-nine apartments in the building, which was composed of four wings. The north wing fellated the east wing, and south wing cunningled the west wing. The dwellers were addicts, prostitutes, pimps, and convicts. In other words, the most honest blue collar tradespeople. There were also children — accidents mostly — who were bitten nightly by the rats who patrolled the greasy squalor for nocturnal morsels. Le Mondrop judged the tenement to be corrupt and worthy of destruction. The children, however, mustn’t be in the building when it came down.

            Le Mondrop made up flyers for a magic show that would take place at seven in the evening on Saturday. He slid a flyer under each of the sixty-nine doors in the tenement. The magic show would take place outside, in the crotch where the east wing met the south wing.

            Le Mondrop walked the perimeter of the building. He collected spent condoms and syringes out of which he would make a clown suit. He built a low stage out of stolen planks in the vulva where east meets south. He broke out the basement window at stage right. He went into the basement and laid a trail of rags and newspaper to the boiler. He acquired a five-liter jug of petrol.  He tailored his clown suit.

            Saturday night found every filthy little face from the tenement in front of the stage. Le Mondrop bounced onto the riser and realized that the children’s wretched toys were about to be consumed by the inferno. He wept. The children laughed. He wept harder. The children laughed harder. He stumbled to stage right and kicked over the petrol, which drained into the basement window and the rags and newspaper below. The rags and newspaper wicked the petrol toward the boiler. The pilot light ignited the petrol soaked rags and newspaper.

            The children shouted glee at the flames and smoke pouring from the basement window. It was, after all, a magic show. What would happen next? Maybe a dragon would emerge from the conflagration.

            Le Mondrop stood at the front of the stage and studied the fruits of his labor. Before long, flames consumed the whole of the Rosenstock Tenement. As the fire engines arrived he said;

            “C’est mon dada.”

The Company Cafeteria

Mar 17, 2009

This small tale occurred about six years ago when I had more gainful employment. I went to the cafeteria to get a bagel and risk the coffee. Sometimes I could tolerate it when I added the right amount of milk and sugar. I usually drank black coffee in those days, but I would doctor inferior brews to make them palatable. By-itself-naked, the cafeteria coffee tasted like pond water that had been populated by a flock of ducks with dysentery.

I got a cinnamon swirl bagel, toasted it, grabbed a container of cream cheese and sidestepped to the coffee area. My stomach was growling a little bit due to hunger that decided to turn ravenous once it smelled the toasting bagel. There was someone in my way though. It was Fat Kid.

* * *

I know, I know, that's a harsh name. However, I am not being entirely un-empathetic here. I was a bit girthy in those days too. I blamed the holiday feeding frenzy for making me balloon up to my Winter weight of about two-twenty-five, and then I would look forward to my golf addicted Summers where I would walk the tension back out of my thirty six waist pants. It was a good cycle. I would be all porky and worked up by March, and straining toward the good weather and my healthy pursuits on the golf course, but Fat Kid had few, if any, healthy inclinations, and Fat Kid played his role, or should I say "roll," for every calorie it was worth.

He was a thirty-and-some bachelor who wore clothes that looked like his mom picked them out. He owned a lot of khaki pants and wore dress shirts that flirted with plaid-ness and reeked of nebbish. He had a part in his dishwater red hair, and gold rimmed glasses that were born out-of-date. If Sears ever needed a plus-sized male model for its Dreary Collection, this guy could have had a sweet career modeling tasteful, durable tarpaulins.

He had a plain, yet inoffensive, face that was ideal for placement in a game show audience. He was well mannered enough to clap at all the right spots for all the right reasons. He could be assertive though, even if it meant being a pain in the ass. He was the last person in the office to give up his Mac once we had converted to PCs. He was deathly afraid that he was going to lose some valuable data if he turned it over to us. The damn thing hadn't been turned on for a year and a half, but he clung to it like a security blanket. His cubicle generally looked like it was holding onto too much stuff that needed to be discarded, and "Oh look! There's a picture of you swimming with a dolphin set as your background!" Yeah, he had been to Florida and molested some poor Flipper, but I didn't seize on the obvious joke of a dolphin swimming with a whale. I let it pass in a moment of extreme generosity.

 And then there was the Weight Watchers incident. Despite the fact that we had already had our first major layoff which was boding ill for our collective non-futures, a couple of hens in HR hatched the idea that it would be "really neat" if we all got down to a healthy weight. Why? So we wouldn't take up so much space in the unemployment line? Sorry about that bitterness leak; I'm sure they had good intentions at heart. Fat Kid, though, was an associate of the HR department and fell in line with the program. He became obsessed with it and spoke of it ad nauseum to tired ears throughout the plant. He was given to obsession. One was a raccoon that had taken up residence in his attic. For a good long time he spoke of nothing else. We asked how the raccoon got access, and the explanation painted a none-too-flattering picture of his bachelor crib. It seems that it was a rundown little cracker box ranch that wasn't cleaned well or often. It appears that the only thing he did well was his laundry. So we developed a mental image of a guy sitting on a ratty sofa, in a ratty house, who would watch SportsCenter on ESPN, drink beer, and cry because he couldn't find an appropriate chubster to ease his loneliness and clean his house. Wait a minute! That's wrong! Fat Kid, for all his luster, did not cotton to chubby girls. For shame!

He had back problems. When he didn't have a flare up, he was still slow in the hallways. If I saw his shuffle-waddle up ahead, I would look for an alternate hallway to my destination, even if it meant that I would have to use my key card. When his back was acting up he would cause traffic jams. He would be slunched a bit toward one side and people would be dodging around him from both directions. You might hear him say something like, "I know, I've got a chiropractor's appointment tomorrow." He was a tractor pulling a hay wagon on a two-lane road. Well, Weight Watchers was going to take care of that! He embraced and promoted the program.

So I went to his cubicle to deal with one of his non-problem problems one day. I put on my best attitude because I wasn't in the mood to make any waves. Once I pointed out that his files had not mysteriously disappeared — he was searching for them in the wrong location — he made a pitch to me about signing up for Weight Watchers. He finished off with something like, "Don't you want to lose a few pounds?"

He made the pitch loud enough to be heard by adjoining cubicles. My ire came into play. Something like that should be whispered. I felt like I was expected to set the good example for any nearby potbellies. Suddenly, I did not feel like explaining my yearly weight reduction that was a byproduct of my maniacal golf addiction. In a nanosecond I leafed through my Ready Joke Rollodex and nearly shouted, "Fuck no! A man's gotta have a shed over his tool!"

Snickers and yowls broke out and I broke out for the safety and security of the IT office, which was behind the locked door of the Secret Server Enclave. That lock saved us from a lot of routine idiocy. Fat Kid lasted about three days on Weight Watchers. He said something about driving to Burger King at two in the morning to secure his leap from the weight reduction wagon. That first Whopper must have landed with an actual thud. Hell! The second and third one probably made noise too! Chomp. Chomp chomp. Grumph grumph grumph... gleek... shhhhhhue thump!

* * *

Fat Kid was blocking my access to the coffee urn. He was delicately stirring his mix and lifted it to his precious lips for a test. He smacked his lips — smack smack smack — three times. He got a sour look on his face. "That's not half and half." Then he thought he had better say it louder, "That's not half and half!"

The two Mexicans who worked at our cafeteria did not run to his elbow to see what was amiss. They were both named Eduardo. One spoke English: the other nodded and said, "Okay." Okay Eduardo was working on the line. The other was chopping something in the prep room. They both wore black hairnets, white chef's coats, and checkered chef's pants. We all felt a little spoiled and superior to have these admirable fellows to banter with, or not, while we were criticizing the plates full of warm fat we were about to consume for lunch. I still miss the Sweet and Sour Pork. That was my favorite.

Fat Kid had a mildly apoplectic look on his face. It seemed as though he was about to shudder. The perpetual upside-down smile crease that lies just below his barely discernible chin deepened in redness before the rest of his face followed suit. He picked up the half and half carafe and waddle-loped to the service line. He sat it on the raised counter and said, "That's not half and half! I know half and half, and that is not half and half!"

Okay Eduardo was overwhelmed by that much English. Hearing "half" over and over again probably made him think that Fat Kid was reciting an angry poem about war. The other Eduardo put down his knife and came to investigate. I prepared my uneven concoction against the background music of irate bitchiness and Spanglish punctuated with "leche" and "crema" and "no."

I don't know how it played out. I left the exact change on the register and made for the Secret Server Enclave. On the way I decided that Fat Kid would forever be "Fat Kid" in my brain for berating those poor bastards who fed us on a daily basis over a paltry milk-fat issue. He was laid off in the round before the one that set me free. The plant is now closed.

Who Put the Me in the Me Decade?

Who Put the Me in the Me Decade?

            Was it real? Did it really happen? Did self-improvement really get over the tipping point and turn conscious seekers into self-loving cretins? You bet your ass, and all of its glory, it did. I was skeptical when I’d first learned of Tom Wolfe’s label. The seventies were screwed up enough. We didn’t need to obsess about something as dire and chaotic as me. The Human Potential Movement had it down though. Werner Erhard and Wayne Dyer and Deepak Chopra all tapped into the collective willingness to spend money to have your doubts and guilts and repressions stripped away so we could worship at the temple of selfishness. “I’m okay, you’re a hopeless train wreck,” became the new mantra and it survives to this day. “Don’t tax me and waste my money: I am incapable of wasting my own money.” Even the Jesus Freak movement adopted the zeitgeist. Those who were “born again” joined the flock for personal salvation rather than to embrace the altruistic spirit of community that church membership also provides.

            So we abandoned community. Service clubs, and organizations, are wanting for members, and few are able to volunteer for anything other than a buck, or two, and the odd mouse-click when one of our Facebook friends invites us to join a cause… which might be the start of something really good.

            Many of the me gurus, like Chopra and Dyer, realized that the Human Potential Movement stripped away the generosity of spirit. So, they infused their ramblings with dogma lite and implied that there was something greater than our selfish old selves. The magical thinking was just that though. Without evidence, and proof, they were concocting new flavors of the same old kiddie cocktail of spirituality designed to preserve the individual’s feeling of being at the center of all things, but cautioning the imbiber that there really was an all knowing entity judging their deeds. Their claims may salve the psyches of the more readily hypnotizable, but it leaves the not-so-easily-hypnotized with feelings of disgust regarding the whole buy-my-book, attend-my-seminar, psuedo-psycho-spiritual gang of charlatans.

            At first glance, it seems that Facebook is the logical result of the Me-ness that permeates our society these days. It’s the public face of our egos. It lists our education, our workplaces, our politics, our dogma (or lack thereof), and our family and friends too. And our walls are invariably populated with our concerns, quirks, prejudices, and even some confrontations. That’s the key. What looks like a shrine to our selves is actually a community made up of… Us. And we share. Music, video clips, opinions, photos, and the result — whether we know it, or not — is a continual group therapy session. It’s more than just a conversation because we actually — at times — feel heard, understood… and affirmed. That’s what the me gurus missed; a  reoccurring place for us to come together. Once they took our money, we were just as isolated and insufferable as before, only more selfish. Perhaps, by visiting on Facebook, we will renew our sense of community and regain our empathy. Maybe we’ll even get our sympathies reawakened.

Pot Luck

2007

 for Andrea, title inspired by Ragdoll

 

The summer between our junior and senior year of high school was as steamy and typical as all of the others. We had all of that long hair and it wasn’t cool to wear shorts. So we suffered mightily to maintain whatever minimal status we had in our peer group. In 1974 it wasn’t cool to dress cool, and I had just been fired for the first time.

I had been working at the Goldblatt’s located in Rockford Plaza. I had been hired in with about twenty other young men to help them redecorate the store. For about three months we moved stock back and forth so the tradesmen could hang new drywall and fixtures. The redecorating was nearly complete, and there were too many stock boys hanging around. On my last day, some clean-cut, religious young fellow ratted me out for smoking a cigarette by the trash compactor. It was an alleged fire hazard. The assistant store manager fired me as soon as our paths crossed. I don’t remember getting a chance to defend myself or lie. I was just fired.

The injustice infuriated me. This was the same store manager who tried to be so cool and impress us with his little stories. He told a group of us about a time when he and his girlfriend, who became his wife, were driving in to see a Bears game, and his girlfriend gave him a blowjob on I-90. He waved at the truckers who blew their horns as he streaked passed them with a bouffant in his lap. I thought the guy was an asshole for bragging out an intimate story about his wife to a group of teenaged morons. I hoped that I would never have to meet the poor woman who was married to such a fat, insecure, imbecile. However, I did learn something new that day. It was a new thought that I’d never considered. I wondered if I should avoid owning a car with a center counsel.

I borrowed my mother’s 1968 Chevy Caprice the day after I got fired under the pretense of job hunting. I was sort of job hunting. I drove around and looked at all of the businesses and wondered about the misery level of the people who worked in the stores and factories that supported our middling lives in our barely descript town. In between musings I appreciated my mom’s car. It was a turquoise coupe that did not have the black vinyl roof that spoiled many of the cars of that era. You could just point that car, stomp on the accelerator, and the four-barrel carburetor would juice the 327 cubic-inch engine into a growling compliance that felt powerful enough to satisfy a young man’s need for dominance. That car was at its best when Won’t Get Fooled Again came on the radio. Oh . . . and it had a bench seat—no center counsel. The black interior was as big as a third world living room.

I pulled to a halt at a stoplight at Rockford Avenue and Charles Street and some friends pulled up next to me in the right lane. Dave was driving around in his car, and Mike was along for the ride. I reached across to roll down the passenger window. “What’s up?”

Dave nodded and informed, “We’re going to get some beer and go to Mike’s basement.”

I said, “Cool. It’s a good day for avoiding the Sun.”

Dave nodded some more, “Yeah, a little music, beer, and some Oaxacan is what’s goin’ on.”

Friendly Mike leaned forward and invited, “We’re short on beer money. If you pitch in, you can come over.”

I did some quick calculating. It was too hot to hang out with the Freaks (a.k.a., latter day hippies) at the forest preserve, and being a Tuesday, there weren’t many other possibilities. So I said, “We’re gonna need a frozen pizza, or two, if we’re gonna be smokin’.”

I threw the car in park, and fished my wallet out of my back pocket. I pulled out a twenty and leaned out the passenger window to hand it to Dave. Just as Dave secured the lucre, a chorus of horns from the traffic behind us pointed out that the light had changed.

I jumped back behind the wheel as Dave slipped away and shouted, “See you there!”

Mike and Dave lived in an older neighborhood on Jackson Street. They lived just about across the street from each other and had been friends since they were first able to cross the aging concrete. The houses were mostly frame and white with mature foliage, and some houses were beginning to look like they had seen their best days. It was generally considered a lower-middle-class workingman’s neighborhood although some geriatric near-hoi-polloi denizens were hanging on until their children convinced them into a nursing home, or they broke a hip. Twenty minutes after I got there, Dave and Mike rolled up with beer and frozen pizzas.

Dave was fairly tall with near Afro-Like, dark hair and a plodding gait that reminded everyone of Mr. Natural. It seemed that Dave was always tripping and just about ready to break into a trucking walk. He had a genius level IQ and was as non-conformist as any of us hoped to be. We imagined that he would someday toil in a laboratory and make some kind of magic out of chemicals that would make him rich on royalties. He wore granny glasses, took Calculus at the junior college, and his face was a bit exaggerated. He was especially popular because his full, yet scraggily, beard made him look old enough to buy alcohol. His freaky, intimidating manner scared most clerks into serving him without question.

Mike had the shortest, most acceptable hair in our group. He was almost stocky and athletic looking, but didn’t play any organized sport in high school. His face was as friendly and balanced as the midwestern landscape and the girls in our group thought he was cute, but not quite exciting enough. He was everyone’s good friend, but nobody’s best friend. His girlfriend, Carla, seemed to treat him like a brother rather than a love interest. Although they had been dating for over a year, no one had ever seen them commit a public display of affection—not even hand holding. The most shocking thing about Mike was his plan to go into the Marine Corps when he got out of high school.

We slammed car doors and carried the goods up the driveway to the basement door of the two-story, frame dwelling. Once inside the door, it was a hard right down the basement stairs. Carla and Chrissie were sitting on the retired family sofa listening to a Joni Mitchell album. Dave opened one of the cases of beer and equipped the girls. All of us males converged in front of the semi-retired basement refrigerator to stash the beer and pizza in a cool place.

Once we all had beer, I managed to flop into an overstuffed chair that had a mushroom ottoman in front of it. I felt entitled because I had contributed so much moola to the festivities. No one objected. Mike took up station on the couch next to Carla, and Dave settled into a green and white strapped chaise lounge that belonged out in the yard. There were printed, hippie tapestries hanging over the cinder block walls and separating the party area from the mundane mechanicals that contributed so much to the livability of the house. A huge bong sat on a rectangular coffee table in front of the couch while Court and Spark wound down with Twisted. Every female who had a halter top owned Carol King’s Tapestry, and Joni Mitchell’s Blue and Court and Spark. I had a theory that the women of that time could not begin to menstruate until they owned those albums. Sure, it was good music, but it made me feel like sleeping while the complaints of failed romance and rotten men vulcanized those feminine ears. “Wake up! This is the good part!”

“’It’s too late, Baby.’”

Carla never spoke, or rarely spoke. She was an acute listener. She would look over the top of her glasses and take everything in. Sometimes she would jiggle one of her feet to help process and file the information. Chrissie had pet names for everything, and her boyfriend was at work. They were similar girls who were wearing dreamy halter tops in which their moderately sized, rather pointy breasts would dance behind. They were averaged sized with harp-like hips encased in embroidered bellbottoms with sandals on their filthy little feet. The post-hippie, emphatic nod was everywhere, and these longhaired brunettes practiced it like swans on Seconal. It was a dreamy, drowsy head bob that reeked of earnestness and an Earth-Motherly appreciation for exotic chemistry, “Far out, man.”

When Carla did speak the sound of her voice would set you back because of its strength. Maybe she saved up her strength. Maybe if she spoke all of the time she would be reduced to whispering. Mike cleaned pot on a matronly looking silver tray, and conversation sat up like shifting volleyball games. Once in a while we would all play on the same court, but it was mostly disorganized into groups and subgroups with Watergate, space, astrology, music and gossip filling our ears with pseudo-adult candy. All of the pieces of any worthwhile knowledge were known by at least one party in our party. Dave had gotten up and put Houses of the Holy on the stereo. It occurred to me that I was partying with the Led Zeppelin wing of our peer group.

We were subdivided into two groups; one group loved Led Zeppelin, and the members of the other group were fans of David Bowie and Roxy Music. We didn’t yet know that we were mutating into Heavy Metal and Glam/underground/atypical attitudes. I was in the latter group. I liked Led Zeppelin only a little. They frustrated me lyrically. Some of our other friends were harsher though. One time someone said that Led Zeppelin was stupid to which someone replied that David Bowie fans were faggots. Cooler heads intervened to pull the warring parties from each other’s throats. I felt like I had to maintain the peace on this day. Plus, I would sooner have an eye put out rather than risk being called a faggot in front of a couple of girls who I thought were cute.

The bong was passed around. We made a game out of the name of the pot we were smoking. None of us knew how to spell Oaxaca or Oaxacan, but we could cough “Wah Hah Cun” when we exhaled. True violence erupted when I took my first hit. I coughed, “Wah Hah Cun, Wah Hah Cun, Wah Hah Cun” in succession with tears rolling from my eyes. We were all laughing and sounded like Native Americans in the midst of a raspy, tuberculosis driven vision. Gradually, the word shifted to “Wah Hackin’” and finally “We’re Hackin’.”

By this time Dancing Days was playing, and we were all . . . way-stead.

I was totally into the song. That riff is played on a Fender Telecaster equipped with a tricky little device called a B-Note Bender. “Daya daya duh, daya daya duh, daya daya dayah, daya daya duh.” It still makes me swoon and feel all druggie. That device was invented so Country guitar players could mimic riffs from a pedal-steel guitar, but Jimmy Page worked an act of genius and came up with a hypnotic, trancelike riff that reeks of sinister perversion. Everything was good until Robert Plant sang about some lion at the roadside with a tadpole in a jar. What the fuck does that mean? It’s not a good image. Was the lion holding the jar in his paw? So that makes it a cartoon image! Why would anyone write a cartoon image against that evil sounding, hyper-sexed riff? Oh, please! Does it take Mick Jagger to write smut when it’s called for? Everybody was glaring at me. I had forgotten myself and began to speak out loud by accident.

Carla gave me an out, “I really love Stairway to Heaven.”

I jumped at the opportunity, “Yeah, Black Dog is great too. I still haven’t figured out how to play that riff.” Good! Now they all knew that I owned at least one Led Zeppelin record. I didn’t bother to mention the missing credits to Willie Dixon or Howlin’ Wolf on the Led Zeppelin One and Two. I was getting hungry and decided that I wanted to live long enough to eat some of the pizza I had paid for.

It was a weird thing. As soon as I thought that I was hungry, Mike said, “We brought some pizzas. Would you throw them in the oven for us all?”

Carla jumped up and headed for the fridge. When she walked back through the party area, Chrissie elevated from the couch and followed her. Every male eye was warily watching the halter tops for every nuance of breast movement until the girls climbed the basement stairs out of sight. The conversation took a decidedly male turn while the women were cooking. It wasn’t hateful, or lewd. We talked about the hopeless Cubs, cars and graduation plans. We were going to be seniors and immediately following that we would be subject to the draft and voting and serious tax paying. The buzz was wearing down.

The bong made the rounds again as the girls returned with the pizza cut up and sorted onto paper plates. They even brought us napkins. As Chrissie bent forward to hand me my plate, I was again locked in on her halter top. I simultaneously mused on the word halter, which led to thoughts of restraint and control. Then I turned toward the concept of feminism and wondered why women had lost their bras, but not their servitude. Could the next step be far off? Now that they had free moving breasts, weren’t we men supposed to begin our service to women? How long would it be until males were expected to cook the pizza? Nice erect nipples! Feminism is so cool!

We ate. Foghat jumped onto the turntable. We talked. Electric Light Orchestra took a spin. We smoked. The Allman Brothers Band beat Southern Blues around a Whipping Post. Dave and I got onto the subject of evolution.

Dave said, “Wars and famine won’t be a problem once we evolve a little more.”

I leapt at the chance to be a pain in the ass. I said, “How are we going to evolve? That happened when the population was much smaller. There’s too many people for a mutation to survive and dominate.” Dave looked at me sideways. So I pushed my luck. “What are we going to evolve anyway? Prehensile penises?” I was out on a very thin branch and started jumping up and down on it. “Okay, so somebody mutates a totally controllably-move-anywhere cock that works like a tongue.” I was in the bug-eyed, freak zone, and the scenery was becoming more bizarre. “How many generations would it take before a prehensile equipped Hitler could form up an army to wipe out the surviving erectoids?”

Dave shook off the question, “Who cares? We’ll all be stoned anyway.”

The music had stopped. There was a vacuous silence. I looked toward the other three dumbstruck faces. Shit. I did it again. I crossed the line and ran straight into traffic.

I decided to write my own epitaph. “It’ll be great though. You’ll be able to hold the bath towel while you blow dry your hair.” Laughter. Thank you very much. I elaborated. “You’ll be able to hold a hand mirror while you pull nose hairs.” They were stoned enough. They bought that one too. Mike put on Bare Trees and Chrissie decided to practice astrology.

She consulted a book in the hope of figuring out our rising signs. She was going to tell all of us what we were really like. It wasn’t a smooth process. While she was faltering, I was imagining her and I driving in the Caprice on I-90. Only, to keep things from becoming sick, I imagined us heading North toward Madison. She was scooted over close to me. She was teasing me. Then, just as she was beginning to tug my zipper, her boyfriend’s head popped over from the back seat and offered us some pork rinds.

Chrissie told each of us that we were a blank with a blank rising. Then she leafed through the book and began to give me a reading. I think she started with me because she thought I had the most dismal future, and that the subsequent readings would be rosier.

“Okay, Jeff. Virgo with Virgo rising. It looks like you are very studious and persuasive. You would do best if you became a lawyer.”

The room broke out in broad guffaws. I laughed as hard as anyone did. I said, “You should return that book and try to get a refund.”

When things subsided, Chrissie said, “I’m too fucked up to do this right now.” Then she puked all over her book, notes and lap.

Carla grabbed her by the hand and guided her to a large wastebasket before the next torrent began. She then gathered up Chrissie’s hair and held it safely out of harm’s way. Chrissie convulsed. There is nothing more stinky, or disgusting, than pieces of pizza and beer returning from a visit to the human stomach. It was making us all queasy. The weakened males climbed the stairs with a beer, or two, retrieved from the fridge, and took refuge on the driveway.

We wobbled around, talked, and behaved like the worthless, testosterone impaired wretches that we wanted to be. Not that we didn’t have some odd chunks of sympathy or empathy floating around in our craniums. Mike said, “Poor Chrissie.”

Dave ran out of beer. He took a deep breath of fresh air and ran down the stairs to retrieve one. Once he emerged, he gasped for more of the humid, mildly sweltering sticky stuff that we subsist on during the summer months. About ten minutes later, Carla and Chrissie pushed through the screen door while tripping over each other. They gathered with Chrissie leaning on Carla. Chrissie’s eyes had dear streaks of tearful mascara running down her cheeks. It looked as though Carla was going to drive her home. Chrissie was clutching a trash bag in her hand in case the heaves started up again. Just before they got to the end of the driveway, Carla’s head twisted around toward Mike and she said, “Clean up.”

We men groaned while we watched the sandal bottoms clap up against the blackened soles of the departing females.

Dave said, “They must walk on charcoal when they’re not wearing their sandals.”

We had been looking at the same thing. Mike asked, “Are you gonna help me with this?”

Dave and I both gave him strained, but affirmative nods. We all pulled our shirts up to the bridges of our noses and entered the contaminated basement.

Mike said, “Let’s get the trash can outside.”

Dave grabbed it and near ran up the stairs. He missed a step and thumped back a step, saying “Woh!” Collective relief was felt when the vomit remained in its container.

Mike lit some incense, retrieved some rags, and some spray cleaner.

I said, “I scrape up cat puke with something like a cereal box at home.”

Mike ran up the stairs and came back tearing out the waxed paper inner bag that was still half full of Lucky Charms. He handed me the box. I tore off the top flaps. Then I tore off the face of the box, and used it like a squeegee to coral the puke chunks into the remaining box. I thought about Instant Karma and how I was being paid back for having lewd thoughts about a girl who could barely tolerate my presence. I needed to lift my mood while I scraped the chunks off of the sofa, coffee table, and floor. I mulled over my recently failed relationship with Mary Jo. She was a tall blond with a wardrobe and sixteen different shades of frosted lipstick. She had a hairstyle. At first we had a mighty crush on one another, but soon we discovered we had little in common other than a bright, shiny lust that we were too terrified to consummate. After about three weeks of furtive attempts, her conventional, blond ditsyness tired of my verbose weirdness, and we parted. I was relieved. She went to the Catholic high school, and I was terrified that I would impregnate her. I longed for someone who wore patchouli, now and then, and had read a book without having her arm twisted.

I climbed the stairs and sought out the trashcan that everyone kept by their garage. Then I walked toward Dave who was spraying out the wastebasket in the middle of the back yard. I asked, “Where’d the chunks go?”

Dave lifted an eyebrow and said, “A convenient dog stopped by for a visit.”

“They like cat shit too.”

“Yeah, I don’t like it when dogs try to kiss me.”

“So. Do you put a bag over their heads?”

Then I was drenched. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the garden hose away from Dave to return the favor. Mike came outside and laughed at the scene, and it was time for me to go home. Dave gave me about eight dollars back from the twenty that I had passed to him in traffic, and Mike gave me a garbage bag to sit on while I drove the Caprice back to my house.

Harvested

 Oct 23, 2007

We are traveling down an interminable country road. You are in a wheelbarrow that I am pushing. It is one of those farm-sized contraptions. Its three wooden sides are flat and so is the floor. It is painted red and has an iron wheel. It is in "like new" condition, but I figure that it dates from the Depression Era. We have a deal to take turns pushing one another in the wheelbarrow, but it is always my turn.

The only direction is ahead, footstep following footstep. We do not speak, so I am left with nothing but considerations. The sky is dappled with smallish clouds that have dark underbellies. I wonder how many hundreds of miles it will take them to become full enough to rain. There is a low ringing in my ears.

You're lying curled up on your side, and I think about pigs although we haven't passed any pig farms. I wonder how the farmers managed to slaughter a pig. Would they put a .22 caliber bullet in the pig’s head, and hoist the carcass up on a butchering table? Or would they hogtie it, haul it up on a hoist by its free hind leg and slit its throat? Don't they use everything? How much do they scrap out to the farm dogs and cats? Are the teats a delicacy for the farmer or his dogs? It occurs to me that if we were to stop and slaughter a pig, I would be able to strip out the tenderloin, but because we don't have any means of preservation, we would have to leave the rest for the carrion. I think of roasting the tenderloins wound round a stick over a fire, yet it does not make me feel hungry.

The entire morning melds into the middle of the afternoon. I consider great wars and economic theory. I consider systems of government and diplomacy. I consider plagues, pestilence and famine. I wonder why Jesus never taught us about infectious disease and how something as simple as boiling water could save untold lives. I guess that it wasn't miraculous, or spiritual, enough to matter at the time.

My arms stretch beyond usefulness at mid-afternoon. The wheelbarrow stands are dragging on the ground. There is a cornfield to our right—north—that is in the process of being harvested. There is no sign of the farmer or his machinery. We decide to rest there until my arms rebound. You have to lift the wheelbarrow over a low fence topped with barbwire. It seems like it would be impossible for you to do. You bitch. Somehow you get it over the fence. You're in a reddish brown robe with a hood. I only see your feet and hands. They appear to be feminine.

It takes great effort to raise my rubbery, achy arm to my breast pocket for a cigarette. As I take a puff, I lower my head to meet my hand, because that last couple of inches are murder. I'm wearing blue overalls, a red checked shirt, a straw hat, and some tan work boots with rawhide laces. My duds are very new and I feel uncomfortable and ridiculous in them. I think we must have stolen our outfits from the wardrobe room of a community theater.

I look up and down the road while you push the wheelbarrow in among the stalks of corn and I finish my cigarette. It seems like we are evading and far from penitent. I negotiate the fence and walk toward the stalks. We lay down in adjoining rows. The clumps of dirt are really uncomfortable to lie on. We gyrate around to compromise with the most offensive clods. I am so tired that I could sleep on a meat hook. I curl up on my right side with my head slightly elevated by a furrow. I fall asleep to the sensation of a bug crawling up the back of my left calf. We do not wake up. The weird thing is that I do not know who you are.

SIPRNet + Manning + Assange + WikiLeaks = Careless

SIPRNet was a carelessly administered database. We’ll come back to that. Bradley Manning couldn’t possibly have read all of the documents he allegedly pilfered, so he did not fully care what he was taking and could not have evaluated the possible impact of his actions. In his own estimation he thought the revelation of these documents could result in, “Worldwide anarchy in CSV format.”

Julian Assange and WikiLeaks? Why would they accept responsibility for this information? It’s vast. And what controls are they using to insure that un-redacted copies of the documents don’t fall into the hands of vengeful entities? Thus far, WikiLeaks has redacted to a lesser and greater degree for varied reasons. That’s to say, they are inconsistent. Also, it isn’t much of a stretch to imagine that the organization members are probably a bit paranoid about being arrested. So are they distributing the raw documents to friends and family for safekeeping? The considerate assumption is that no one mentioned in any of these 250,000 plus documents is safe from targeting and retribution. From all that I’ve read—from multiple sources covering a range of positions—Assange seems to have no more judgment that a length of network cable. He isn’t a reporter: he’s a recorder. He isn’t a rock star: he’s a conduit. His petty threat to drop a “thermonuclear” file of information if anything happens to him, or his staff, shows that his interests concern himself rather than the public. It doesn’t seem very altruistic or objective.

SIPRNet is the real star of this farce. Forget about Manning, Assange, and WikiLeaks. How did an Army Specialist at a command post in Iraq gain access to, and copy, the entire database? It demonstrates how vulnerable we are… and how honest. The overarching thing that one gleans from the cables is that the U.S. really does believe in human rights and democracy, but—according to two French journalists, one right leaning and one left leaning—our diplomacy "lacks cynicism," and though we might be "naive," we probably should not accept demands for absolute transparency. I would add that we seem to suck at developing secure databases. I just hope that this deflates some of the more virulent conspiracy theorists like Alex Jones. Surprise! The government believes in its founding principles, Alex. Buy all of the damned guns and gold you want!

Sample TV Commercial for the Genesis II Vibrator

Sep 5, 2007

A couple of copywriting jobs that I've applied for requested a script for a TV commercial. This is a convenient place to place the sample. Plus, you all know how I love to share with you.

Copyright 2007

An attractive lingerie-wearing woman with a dreamy expression on her face is laying in bed bathed in moonlight from a window. She reaches into her nightstand, pulls out a largish vibrator. and gives the end a twist while the announcer says;

ANNOUNCER      Are you tired of noisy vibrators that alert your family, friends and neighborhood to your activity?

The woman twists the vibrator to "On"  and it sounds like a chainsaw. The scene cuts to; children bolting up in bed with mouth gaping expressions of surprise, a dog walking neighbor looks toward the woman's house, rolls his eyes and chuckles, and a surprised burglar drops a crystal bowl in the woman's dining room.

ANNOUNCER      Well say goodbye to those noisy, old school contraptions!

A bunch of vibrators and a goodly sized cucumber are thrown into the trashcan. Then a hand quickly snatches the cucumber back out of the trashcan.

ANNOUNCER      Felix Industries has perfected quiet time with their Genesis II (two) Vibrators. The Genesis II has exclusive wiggle worm technology to make sure that your quiet time stays that way.

A technical animation shows the elliptical cam rotating inside a cutaway view of the vibrator.

ANNOUNCER      Yes. Your self-pleasure will be whisper quiet with the Genesis II Vibrator.

The woman is shown in bed. She tentatively turns on the vibrator and scrunches her shoulders and nose while grinning gleefully.

ANNOUNCER      Don't you just hate it when toy time becomes noise time?

An elderly woman is shown in bed in a matronly nightgown. She turns on a vibrator and it sounds like a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Scared—she fumbles and drops the appliance.

ANNOUNCER      Nothing will break the mood faster than a roaring vibrator. Now, whether at home, work, or play, you can find the satisfaction you desire with the Genesis II without all of that attention grabbing noise.

When the announcer says "home" there is a quick shot of the woman sitting in front of her computer with her robe ajar, and her left hand below the table while she moves the mouse around. There is a look of inquisitive delight on her face. When the announcer says "work" we see a pair of female legs with panties around the ankles and some quivering below the door of a bathroom stall. When the announcer says "play" we see the woman stuck in a traffic jam. She darts looks around and reaches into her purse.

ANNOUNCER      With the Genesis II you will be able to hear the sweet nothings your honey whispers in your ear.

There is a shoulder up shot of a much older, shirtless man whispering into the ear of a much younger, but legal, apparently nude woman while reclining on a bed. The young woman's head rolls around a little and her chin strains toward climax.

ANNOUNCER      And solo, your business stays your business because no one can hear you massaging your pearl.

We see a pair of children transfixed by the TV. There is an open door to a bedroom behind them. The woman approaches the door. Turns and looks at her children. She makes an exaggerated nod while smiling broadly and ducks quickly into the bedroom with the door closing rapidly behind her.

Cut to a shot of a bedraggled looking lab technician in a paisley lab coat approaching a demonstration table in a lab. A lone Genesis II sits in the middle of the table.

ANNOUNCER      With its patented Varistat control you'll enjoy excellent fine tuning capability . . .

The lab tech picks up the vibrator and turns it on to its lowest speed, and replaces it on the table. The vibrator quakes about every second.

ANNOUNCER       . . . that cycles from 60 to 6,000 pulses per minute . . .

The lab tech picks up the vibrator, turns the control all of the way up and returns it to the table. The thing goes nuts.

ANNOUNCER      . . . you're certain to find just the right frequency to send you over the top in waves of ecstasy.

We see a shot of the woman's free hand clutching desperately at the fitted sheet of her bed.

ANNOUNCER      The Genesis II keeps your quiet time quiet.

WOMAN      OH, GOD!

Cut to child's bedroom with the startled darling bolting upright.

CHILD      What's wrong, Mommy?

Cut back to spent woman who now has her free forearm across her forehead.

WOMAN      I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning.

ANNOUNCER      The Genesis II is also available in egg and strap-on models.

Product shot of all three vibrator models nicely arrayed.

ANNOUNCER      Batteries and lubricants not included. The makers of Genesis II do not advocate its use while driving, flying, operating heavy machinery, or engaging in unprotected, loveless sex.

I Knew It Was Going To Be Trouble (Warning: Contains graphic sexual references.)

Mar 1, 2007

Our tastes in porn didn't mesh well. I like amateurs. They seem genuine and honestly affectionate. I find the talent on display in homemade videos to be more engaging than the glossy, porn-industry stuff. Also, there is little acting involved, and even less plot: amateur stuff is real. There is nothing real in the glossy stuff.

I didn't want to like porn at all, but I found it exciting at the same time. I felt a little guilty when I watched it, perhaps because of my lapsed Catholicism, or because I was bothered that someone was being used. The guilt wove itself into the ritual. Then a good acquaintance and I spoke about it, and he brought up a salient point in a crude manner. He said, "If it weren't for porn, how would women learn to give a decent blow job?" Well, they could date a gay man. I know of someone who did just that, but she didn't learn the craft that well. Sex wasn't one of her stronger subjects, and she hates porn. Therefore, my good acquaintance had convinced me. Somewhat. I embraced erotica from that point onward, and guilt exited the ritual. However, I still do not like to see people victimized.

She likes girl on girl. She likes groups. She likes outdoors. She likes wild. She likes big cocks, although she muses over the possibility of having a relationship with someone who doesn't even have a cock—a woman. She likes it rough. She likes gay men doing everyone. She likes bi. She likes seeing people used. She likes gangbangs, and perhaps the triality [sic] of the woman being worshiped, desired and humiliated all at once. I could never quite figure out who she was in those scenes. Was she the victim, or one of the abusive gangbangers? She may have fluxed between both. She shared her fantasy of having a cock, and she often gave the impression that she wanted to be fucked by anyone, and everyone, she ever crushed on at anytime she saw fit to do so. Did she want all of us at once? I wanted to be left out of that deal. Ever since the concept occurred to me, I have worked tirelessly to separate, and set myself apart, from her usual race of vulnerable, dependent pseudo-men.

Once she was watching a clip of "the usual blond" being force-fed a monster vein snake. The dude was ramming it against the back of the blonde's throat, and he had a hand on the back of her head, eliminating any possibility of escape. Cockarama guided the blonde's head repeatedly to the gag reflex, and said cute things that startled me.

My accomplice was rapt. She had just had an orgasm so I don't know how wound up she actually was, but she was definitely in an attentive, blissful, trance-like state. She noticed me noticing her. She offered an explanation, "I like the way they make them [do it]." She sounded dreamily bemused, and her left hand gestured delicately toward the computer screen. It was sort of like a poof—"There you go,"—magician's flourish. Her fingers were close together at first, and then spread apart as they approached the screen. Had she thrown fairy dust before?  It was a subtle, regal, and controlling movement. She wanted to touch. She wanted to join. She wanted to push harder on the back of the bitch's head. Or maybe she wanted to be the recipient as an abusively large cock pummeled passed her uvula. I had a sinking moment and wandered off to find that after-sex cigarette. Realization and resignation scurried from one hemisphere to the other as if a secret had been discovered and wanted to be accepted throughout the palace.

I sensed a menacing trouble in her attitude. I thought there was a possibility that she could actually hurt someone for pleasure. I mean really hurt them against their will. The gray area was darkening and my moral compass was pointing elsewhere.

I thought I had been helping her keep things contained, private, and safe until a solution could be committed to and acted on. That is not to say that I wasn't up for experiencing some of our more exotic exercises. It was interesting. Intriguing. It makes my nostrils flare to recall some of it. Some of it was worth trying. Otherwise, how are you going to know whether or not you like something?

Maybe I was just enabling. I had those dreaded good intentions, but I felt inept and confused at times. As it turned out, in exchange for being willing, caring, supportive and protective, I was emotionally going to get something rammed into the back of my throat.

I think she dug it.

The Shake Up

Jun 4, 2007

"Darling, do you know the capital of North Dakota?"

"Not in the Biblical sense of the word, but I believe it's called Bismarck."

"Did they invent the jelly filled donut there?" Janine asked.

"No. That might have happened in the other Bismarck." said Phillip.

"There's more than one?"

"Usually. American place names were often lifted from the Old World. A bunch of them have "New" tacked onto them like New York and New Jersey, but sometimes they just stole the name outright, like Manchester. Of course, I'm using some intuition and personal observation here. I haven't read any books on the subject."

"No books? No Google? No Wikipedia?"

“Nope. Just delirious experience and street savvy. Do you want to consult an expert."

Janine sat up straighter on the couch, and put the newspaper and pencil on the coffee table. She said, "I don't think a crossword puzzle warrants that much attention. It was good to hear you speak though. You haven't said two words all morning."

"Sorry. I don't feel chatty. I mean—I'm kind of grinding away in my head. It was inconsiderate. I'm guilty. I was just smoldering along and took it for granted that you were okay."

"I didn't mean to make trouble for you, Dear. I was studying you. I was half amused by your sporadic grunts and sighs. Finally, I had to shake you awake though. I grew tired of imagining what you were chewing on."

Phillip set his coffee cup on the table and took Janine's foot in his hand. He then ran another hand up the back of her calf and gently massaged some affection toward his lover's pleasure center. He was a touchy, feely accountant—and better looking than most of the brand. Janine was a nimble, Afghan Hound of a blonde with long features and erudite coolness in her voice that passes through one of those barely moving mouths.

She said, "My, my, you are feeling guilty, and now you're trying to soothe me. I want to know what you were thinking. Fess up, Mister!" The big toe of her free foot probed one of Phillip's arches while she made her demand for a confession.

"I was planning a caper, if you must know—but I am stuck. I can't decide whether, or not, my scheme will demand a murder, or not."

Janine brightened, "Murder! Plotting! May I be an accomplice? Will we need to hire henchmen? What is the motive: money or power or both?" She folded her arms across her chest and confided, "You—the erstwhile CPA! Ha! I thought you had a bit of larceny in your blood!"

"Oh ho ho!" Phillip laughed in baritone and slapped both of his thighs at once. "Truthfully, I was a little backed up and hoping that my coffee would kick in. The only thing to be murdered here is the mood. Sorry." He got up off the couch and made for peristaltic Nirvana saying, "Aren't you glad you grilled me?"

"Traitor! Liar! It could have been such fun! Please do reconsider! Someone must need killing!"

The Gooiest Stuff Ever (Why I don't write children's stories.)

Jun 2, 2007

Sallydra was an average seven year old girl who had an average five year old brother named Bendrew.

They lived in a town named Median that was in the middle of the country.

Their Mom and Dad both worked. Except now they were both unemployed because the spring factory had closed down.

Dad would complain to Mom that their jobs had gone to China.

Sallydra and Bendrew liked having their parents home all of the time. Except that every once and a while Mom and Dad would have an argument about jobs.

The arguments didn't last very long though. And when the arguments were over, Mom and Dad would go to their bedroom, close the door, and jump on the bed for about half an hour.

Sallydra and Bendrew would watch TV until their parents were finished jumping.

Sallydra asked Mom why parents could jump on beds but kids weren't allowed to.

Mom said, "Because adults are more coordinated than children."

Bendrew asked, "Why do you close and lock the door when you jump on the bed?"

Mom said, "People are supposed to bed jump in private. There are laws against bed jumping in public."

Sallydra and Bendrew looked forward to becoming adults so they could bed jump.

Mom and Dad complained that there were no jobs in Median that paid as well as the spring factory.

Finally, Mom got a job that she could do at home.

Mom and Dad moved the computer into their bedroom and bought a webcam.

Mom would work at odd times of day with the bedroom door closed and locked.

When she worked, Dad would turn the TV up rather loud and sit on the couch with a funny look on his face.

One afternoon Bendrew asked Dad why he looked funny when Mom was working.

Dad said, "Why don't you two go outside and play."

So Bendrew and Sallydra went outside.

Sallydra said, "What do you want to do?"

Bendrew said, "I dunno. Throw rocks?"

"Naw. That can leave a scar. I know! Let's look for gooey things on the sidewalk."

"Yeah! Let's find the gooiest stuff ever!"

Sallydra and Bendrew looked around and found a couple of sticks to test things on the sidewalk for their gooeyness because kids do stupid shit like that.

            The End!

The Jugular

Apr 27, 2007

Isis was made from two adjoining storefront buildings on the most tolerable block of the main street. It was trendy and above average. The Jugular pulled open the door and entered the bar side of the restaurant. Isis was in full flower this night. People who had mortgages to pay were dining on the restaurant side of the building, and people who had MySpace profiles were imbibing at the bar. The fortysomething Jugular appreciated the almost imperceptible Egyptian theme of the establishment. It was subtle. The Jugular liked subtle when it came to themes, and direct when it came to people.

The Jugular was wandering and commiserating. He had been doing so since his marriage amicably dissolved two years ago. Isis was the third bar of the evening. Factory Air, Hellfire, Melinda, Klaxon, Annabelle, and Keith were sitting in a row at the bar. Factory Air and Hellfire were talking shop about the restaurant where they both waited tables. Melinda and Klaxon had their hands all over each other. Annabelle and Keith were talking about Keith's current girl troubles. They all acknowledged The Jugular with varying nods, waves and utterances. Hellfire flipped her hair with her usual tick, and leaned to Factory Air's ear and said something that made the other girl giggle. The Jugular was reminded that he had to clear something up. He took a couple of steps toward the twentysomethings and made his case.

"You two have the wrong idea. I am not a dirty old man. Sure, I'm on the hunt, but I want a late thirtysomething—at minimum." The Jugular's hood scooped hairline and angular features were as pointy as his point. The ramshackle, second-hand-store, punkish girls—blonde and brunette—were a little frightened. Factory Air looked cooler and took on slight incredulity as a defensive affectation. The Jugular continued his tirade; "I am on MySpace so people can hear my music. I don't expect to get rich or famous. I just want to be heard. I just want a little appreciation. So can we just be friends? This is a small town and I am old enough, and wise enough, to mind my manners. Capeche?"

The gossiping girls smiled criminally, nervously and The Jugular turned to the right and started toward Keith. Annabelle had left during the speech. The Jugular wondered if the brunette, Italian, Hellfire was translating the word for the blonde, Norwegian, Factory Air. Keith was standing with his chin on his chest. He looked like he had been kicked somewhere between his emotions and his sense. The Jugular ordered a cheap, domestic beer when he got to Annabelle's vacated seat, and made friendly talk with the bartender. Once the commerce was complete he turned to Keith and said, "I don't even have to guess. You're having trouble with your girl."

He began to retell the story that he had just rehearsed to his friend, Annabelle. "Things were going fine. We've been together for a month. We didn't even have sex until this week." The Jugular grimaced at the nice guy talk. Keith took a hit off of his drink and continued, "Then a couple of days ago we spent the night together. She went to work, and I didn't hear from her that evening or the next morning. She had been calling me every morning before she left for work. I sent her a text message when I got to work yesterday. She didn't answer it. So I sent another, and then another, and then another. I was worried about her. I didn't know what was going on."

The Jugular knew this girl, and her reputation, just a bit. She had been escorted around by a toad for awhile. It led to disgust and conjecture among the inhabitants. He asked Keith, "What about her and The Toad? Did they have a relationship?"

"No. People thought, but they didn't"

The Jugular was looking for the loose side of the decal so he could peel it back for his friend. "She kinda has a reputation."

"They don't know how she really is. She isn't really like that."

Then Keith started a familiar song about sullied girls whose relatives introduced them to carnal intrusion. The Jugular's heart stopped dead, and a wound throbbed in his thorax. There were nearby ears homing in on the sordid tale. So he escorted Keith to the front of the bar, near the storefront windows, where they could examine the brass tacks.

Slight, five-nine Keith had picked up his drink. He was wearing a tannish, brown t-shirt with some erstwhile slogan emblazoned on it in a nearly unintelligible typeface. Keith usually wore suits. The Jugular noticed that Keith had quite a tattoo collection on his forearms and biceps.

When they got out of likely earshot The Jugular said, "So you thought you were going to be her hero, eh?" To which Keith swirled his drink around in its glass.

"You can't do that for her. She has to do it for herself."

"But," started Keith, "she needs someone to"

"Feed off of," interrupted The Jugular, "You've become one of them. You're no better than they are now. You are the enemy, not an ally."

Keith was sinking lower, and The Jugular wished he could take the heel of his hand and whap the whole painful realization into Keith's forehead. It would hurt a lot less than the way he was bound to learn the lesson.

"You've got to detach. You're going to become a doormat. What's her revolving door been like? Biker, biker, doormat... biker, biker, doormat?" Keith nodded. "Do you wanna take in strays and try to heal them? Detach, dude, you're in for a world of pain. Where can you go? Are you still in touch with that fuck-buddy from the cell phone store?"

"Yeah."

"Go there. Hide out. Protect your nuts. Be honest, but ask your friend to lick your wounds for you."

Keith was looking like he could burst. "Isn't there something? I wanted to be different."

"She's got to do it. Look, there is this government supported counseling service in town. It doesn't cost anything. It's supposed to help people in this situation. I will email the contact info to you tomorrow. Then give her forty-eight hours to contact them. If she doesn't do it, run for your life."

Keith brightened a bit at the slim ray of hope that was offered to him. He and The Jugular re-hammered the theme until The Jugular left repeating, "Forty-eight hours and then run for your life."

The Jugular fulfilled his end of the arrangement and wondered if Keith would have better luck than he had. The ray-less Jugular wondered.

After And After

He lay there with her head cradled in his arm. The room was cool and dark despite the clear May afternoon. Her breath was blowing across his right nipple, and a light breeze was drying the aftermath on his cock. She was thinking—strategically. He could feel it. He wanted to see what was oozing from her, but the palpable tension and lover's exhaustion prevented him from making his mildly perverse plea. He was regretting the soon to be missed opportunity, and all of the other shortcomings of the affair.

She broke the silence with "Where are we?"

Vague and purposeful, the question seized in his chest, and provoked his "here we go" thought. He said, "We are in afterglow."

She stalked in the silence. His cute answer made him deserve the looming inquiry. "Why can't you feel about me like you felt about her? I'm jealous. I want what you had for her."

He lifted his hand, took a lock of her hair, and brushed her shoulder with it while saying, "People can't make that happen. It just has to happen. Besides, you're already in love with alcohol. You either need to quit, and find a man who's also recovering, or you need to find another drunk and party both of your livers away."

She rolled her hips and shoulders until her chin rested on his chest, and she looked into his eyes. "I appreciate your honesty."

"What good would lying do?"

Her eyes wandered a bit, "You sure know your way around a woman's body."

He appreciated the flattery for what it was, and said, "Thank you."

"What are we going to do?"

“Take care of each other for a bit. Maybe until we get bored or something. I don't know. Let's get dressed and go get some dinner... maybe close down a bar."

"You got money for that?"

"Yeah, I had a good week."

"What are we celebrating?"

"Freedom. Freedom and honesty."

Things blew up a few days later. There was some little infraction that set her off. She became much angrier than necessary. He knew what it was. She couldn't handle the concept of mutual use. She couldn't throw down with using one another to keep the loneliness away. He exited her apartment after the blowup, and left her alone.

Eight months later he saw her at an after hours bar in the next municipality. She was with a couple of men, but she didn't look particularly attached to either one. She stood out in the trailer-park-karaoke crowd. She was dressed like she had been partying at a good restaurant. He watched her from a safe distance. The men drifted off for a moment. He saw her puffing a cigarette, holding a wineglass, and looking statuesque. He went over to say hi, and see if the wound had healed over.

She turned and caught sight of him when he was next to her. He said nothing, just smiling broadly. She smiled her tipsy smile, and said, "Well, hi!"

"Hey."

She foamed, "You look good. You look better than I've ever seen you look."

"Thanks. You look good too," and the surrounding crowd gave them an excuse to brush their slow-dance anatomy together.

"Sorry things went all wrong. What happened anyway?"

"We wanted different things."

"Well you look goood," she wobbled.

"What are you up to? You still living in the same place?"

"No. I moved in with my honey," and she flashed some apparently significant ring at him.

He recoiled and felt vindicated in his lack of desire for a relationship with her. "Jesus! You're that serious? Our genitals touched!"

"Yeah, they did."

Her escorts returned from whatever mission they were on. "Which one of these dudes is the lucky guy?"

"Neither. My boyfriend is working tonight."

"Oh. Well it was good to see you," he backed out of the confusion without trying to make sense out of things. It was time for him to go. Alcohol, impaired judgment and infidelity could have her and the night.

A Poe Moment

Jason Crodich entered through the side door of his former high school and walked past  the cafeteria imagining that he had an AK-47 and would spray the eating students if any were at the tables. It was early summer vacation, so the school was nearly uninhabited. Jason didn't actually make any gunman like gestures. He just imagined it. There were screams of pain and horror. There were cries for mercy. There were shards and blood and falling trays of nearly edible food. There was reeling and collapsing. Most of all, he wondered how anyone could actually do such a thing.

He rounded the corner to the main hallway and loped toward the administration office. It had been two years since he graduated, but the echo and the lockers still felt familiar. He had returned to get a transcript to settle a bet with Ian. He would win ten dollars if he had made better than a C in Civics class. That was the class that Ian and he had often skipped to go smoke a joint in the student parking lot.

Mrs. Kiernan was at her desk as he rolled up to the counter. She smiled and said, "Steven, how have you been?"

Jason blushed and felt a little angry. He corrected her, and she said, "Oh, of course. I had you confused with the Biernbach boy."

Jason explained that he needed a sealed, official copy of his transcript to sign up for the Marines. Jason was good at lying. He found it easy when it made his life easier. Yet he was careful to only lie to protect himself, and, sometimes, other people's feelings. Mrs. Kiernan had Jason sign some piece of paper and she walked through the door that led to the private offices of the Principal and Vice Principals. Jason thought it was odd for a moment, and then thought that one of the officials may have to sign off on his request before it could be honored.

He looked through an open door and saw rows of filing cabinets. He thought it would be really dramatic to open the sealed envelope in front of Ian and win the bet. Although, he wasn't sure that he would win it.

Mrs. Kiernan had been gone for fifteen minutes or so. Jason was getting edgy and agitated. He was starting to have more AK-47 fantasies. Did she go to lunch? Was she having a quickie with Principal Mandlowe? He had considered every object in the office three times. He considered urinating in the center top drawer of Mrs. Kiernan's desk. Then he had his most considerable thought. He would go into the file room and have a look at his permanent record. What was really in that thing anyway? Was every mishap and detention in there? Did it contain commentary from the teachers? Did Kate Nelson, the biology teacher, write that he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her breasts for the whole school year?

He decided to act. If he was caught, he could say that he had grown tired of waiting and thought he would help by retrieving his own transcript. What could they do? Expel him?

Jason lifted the walk-through on the countertop and crossed to the file room. He found his bearings on the alphabet and homed in on the Cs. He leafed through the third drawer of Cs, near the floor, and found his folder. He lifted out of his crouch and listened for Mrs. Kiernan's footsteps. There were none. She and Mandlowe must be having a not-so-quickie.

His folder was three quarters of an inch thick. He was flushed with curiosity. He wanted to stuff it under his shirt and run off with it so he could study every detail, but he froze on the idea. Instead he flopped it open and the first document he saw was in some odd Cyrillic looking script, and had a black spider shaped seal on it.

"What the fuck is this," streamed through his mind. He touched it and felt the unmistakable feeling of a spider web. It was creepy. When he took his hand away, the web followed. He waved his hand about, but it wouldn't free itself. The web wove itself to follow and capture his arm. Jason began to panic a bit. His waving became more emphatic and the web coolly and methodically spun along. The web found it's way onto his face and became more than Jason could bear. He dropped the folder and tried to wipe the web from his face. The web persisted. Jason turned and bolted for the doorway. His fight or flight response decided that he needed distance and the outdoors.

As he made his way through the office, and over the counter, he could feel layers and layers of spider web giving way and creepily tickling him. The whole school was enmeshed. He clawed and cleared the webs from his face, only to be replaced by another one. He bolted for the most direct route out of the school through the front doors. The webs stopped there. The whole front grounds of the school had become ranks and files of razor blades on edge. As Jason cleared the webs from his face, he made out the horror in front of him. He lost his footing on the step and fell awake.

Jason bounced on his bed in terror. He had felt the razor blades begin to slice into his body. His thirty-seven year-old brain felt relief and agony at the same time. His wife was already up and in the shower. Just to be certain, Jason checked to make sure that his genitals weren't bleeding.