An excerpt from my mystery-noir novel, So Young, So Tardy, So Dead: A Trip Duncan High School Mystery

The hallway outside Room 167 was dark and dank. The air was fetid. I lit a cigarette against the chill and slouched against the wall, pulling my slouch hat low over my face and balling my hands into fists. Two days’ worth of beard stubble rasped against my coat collar. My eyes were blue steel. My eyes bored holes into the mug in front of me. My eyes could beat the snot out of him if I so desired. And as it happened, I did so desire.

“You’re going to talk, punk,” I rasped. “We can make this easy, like a day at the beach, or we can make this hard, like breaking rocks with the heel of your palm. Your choice.”

“I just…I just need to go to the bathroom,” he said uneasily, producing a hall pass. I smirked, grabbed it from his hand and lit it on fire with my cigarette. Then I dropped my cigarette, so I had to use his hall pass to light my next one. Then I burned my hand on the hall pass. I cursed as I flapped my hand to put the fire out, hopping around in what I hoped was still a threatening, no-horse-manure-allowed manner. At first I was worried I might have lost some ground, but he still seemed suitably scared by my blue steel eyes and slouch hat, so I figured I wouldn’t have any trouble with him after all. Provided he started talking before I got tired of waiting and started using his head for a punching bag.

“I know you know what went down last night, when the dame got herself iced,” I rasped. “You know I know you know. So let’s cut the square dancing and get right to the second course. Empty your pockets and I won’t have to empty your skull.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Spill it, punk. What happened to the broad?”

“Who?”

“The broad, the dame, the femme fatale, the vixen who can make the earth move. Stop playing dumb, punk, or I’ll make sure you never think straight again after I pound your head into last night’s leftovers.”

He blinked some more. “I…uh, I don’t know to whom you’re referring.”

I lit a cigarette. “I think you do. And in a minute, I’m going to lose my temper. Only when I’m angry, my minutes seem a lot more like seconds.”

“So…you’ve already lost your temper? I’m confused.”

I smirked and lit a cigarette. “Keep talking dumb, punk. It’s better than a Bach concert.”

“You know…you, uh, already have a couple of cigarettes going.”

I looked down at myself. Sure enough, the punk was right. One in the lower lip, one in the left hand, one tucked behind my ear. No wonder my hair was on fire. I sucked deep on the cigarette in my mouth and coughed wildly, smacking my hair and putting the fire out. Sooner or later, I’d have to start smoking these things for real.

Never mind. He’d never notice. It was time to break out the big guns. I grabbed him by the shirt and thumped him against the lockers behind him.
“Start squealing, little piggy, or you’re never going to the market again.”

“Hey!” he yelped. “I have a hall pass!”

“Nuts to your hall pass, maggot. Tell me about the girl or your eyes will be playing tennis with your tonsils!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” The punk started sobbing hysterically. “You keep mixing your metaphors, your pronoun referents are ambiguous, and you use dime store clichés with which I’m not familiar! For God’s sake, talk to me like I’m a product of the 21st century!”

My eyes narrowed. So: he was an AP English student. I’d have to change my tactics.

“All right, dummy,” I rasped, lighting a cigarette (and then remembering my other one, and swearing, and hiding it behind my back). “Your main idea is what happened to that young woman Nancy Caskin. Now for your evidence, you’re going to tell me where you were last night.”

“And…and my link?” He looked up, starting to appear hopeful.

“It’s going to link where you were to where she was.”

“Okay.” He breathed more calmly. “Okay.”

Now it was only a matter of time. And a graphic organizer…

Next week: Opening STACS of Death!

Push, by Sapphire: A Review

Push is the stream-of-consciousness novel by Sapphire, poet and performer, that created such a ruckus when first published over a decade ago and which was turned into an acclaimed film, Precious, in 2009. It's the story of a young woman who...holy fuck, this book is disturbing.

Ok, let me start over:

Push tells the story of 16-year-old Clareece "Precious" Jones, who, at the novel's beginning, is pregnant with her father's child. She...I mean, seriously, her father's kid? That's messed up. Plus, get this--it's her father's second child by her. The first one? She had it at the age of twelve! And it's got Down's Syndrome. That is too much.

Okay, where was I? Precious lives with her abusive mother who...oh Christ, I forgot, the mom abuses her too! Sexually, physically, psychologically, you name it. It is totally off-putting. One minute the mom is all, "Make me some dinner!" and then she's clocking her in the head with a frying pan. God.

Right, right, the novel. Well, it's written in the form of Precious' thoughts, stream-of-consciousness, like I said, plus journal entries she writes for class. In these entries, she finds a new voice and a new freedom of being able to love herself and not see herself with the eyes of others...

Her parents? Good God, both of them? Plus she winds up getting AIDS from her father! Like Sapphire decided, "You know what, I don't think this kid is sympathetic enough for an emotive character. What else can I give her?" I'm surprised she didn't pop her into a time machine and dump her on the deck of the Titanic or something.

There are truly moving scenes in this novel, though. Like the extended hands of fellowship Precious finds in an alternative school. Kind of hard to keep those scenes in mind, though, when you remember Precious' account of her father climbing on top of her. Hoo. Man. I mean...boy. Did anyone see the movie? How'd they pull that one off?

Okay, so in closing, Push is an emotive, poetic dagger through the heart of the discerning reader. Precious becomes a Job for the twenty-first century, and as we see her spirit begin to take wings, we are reminded of the transience of life and love, and that both truly are precious for all the right reasons...gah, I can't get those abuse scenes out of my head. Messed. Up.

Fuck me, anybody got any weed? Need to shake this book off.

Ways to Pass the Time at a Job Fair

I'm a professional. It's a tough job market out there. You want to give job candidates a fair chance. But if I weren't a professional, this is probably what I'd be up to...

Greet candidates with a pleasant "Good morning!" and then say nothing. How much can you get out of them with nods, throat-clearings and the occasional raised eyebrow?

Start out by telling them, "The jury found Mr. Aaronson guilty, so, we've got an opening after all." Time them for a response.

Begin by staring fixedly at the left hand. Respond to inquiries with, "I'll tell you what I'm not doing--looking for a wedding ring."

Ask interviewee to define professional philosophy without using any verbs. Turn to colleague next to you and yell, "This one's actually trying it!"

Squirm uncontrollably in your seat; cross and uncross legs constantly; exhale violently. Respond to concerned inquiries with, "No no, I'm fine, I'll just sweat it out."

Ask about affiliations with the Communist Party. When they say they're not a communist, shrug disappointingly, hand them a tract and send them to the District 211 table.

Tune out to their answers to your question and think about something sex-related. Then tune back in. Can you salvage any of the interview? Avoid exposure? Rate yourself.

Mention to colleague next to you, "I'm getting so sick of these fucking losers, I think I'm going to puke." Then turn to next candidate, smile hypocritically, and say, "Well it's nice to meet you."

Concentrate hard. Really hard. Stare at them and squint ferociously. Can you set them on fire? With your mind? Because that would be so cool to have that power...

My Somewhat Ecclectic and Scattered "Best Of" List of 2010

Harlan Ellison once said any book you haven't read is a new book. I like that. I take comfort in that. It reminds me we're never really finished with the arts, since they can hardly finish with us. Hell, last month I leafed through an old Balzac novel I thought I'd absorbed a decade ago, only to discover I didn't remember two-thirds of it. Right now, I'm reading Robert Harris' novel The Ghost, which is what Roman Polanski filmed as The Ghost Writer, which I saw seven months ago, and I'm still turning pages like crazy since I can't remember the details of how it comes out. By this rationale, just think of how many books I have yet to really read. It's like being a kid all over again.

So, I'm in no position to rate "Best of" anything in 2010. I don't get out to the movies that often, I don't go to many concerts, and I'm too busy trying to ball through Balzac to try much contemporary fiction. I do have my moments, though. So, in no particular order, with the proper bibliobiographical notes following, I give you:

Music I Discovered/Rediscovered in 2010

The Cold War Kids. A friend loaned me their CD. I went to their concert. Got a free concert download. And I was hooked. An original sound altogether.

The XX. Again, same friend let me download their stuff, which led me to go out and buy it anyway. Oddly compelling rhythm; lyrics are bordering on poetic. I like it.

Arcade Fire's Suburbia. Caught my attention, maybe because of all the media hype I stumbled across.

Ed Harcourt's Lustre. Half the songs interbreed pop and soulful moodiness too much for my taste, but the other half really get in my brain and bounce around pleasantly. Saw him when he opened for James; his bassist totally eyed me up at the bar.

School of Fish's self-titled debut album of 1991 or 1992. Caught between the no man's land of eighties rock and the grunge movement, it blends pathos and detachment very well for my indifferent generation.

Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. How did I miss "Visions of Joanna" all these years? How can you not get hooked on a song that captures in seven minutes ten years of feeling?

Pretty much anything by The Velvet Underground. How did I miss "What Goes On" all these years? How can you not get hooked on a song that captures in five minutes half an hour's worth of pensive thinking?

We Became Your Family When You Died, Bullets in Madison. How did they not put this out sooner? How can you not get hooked on an album that captures in ten songs...ah screw it, I've got nothing.

The Cult's "Embers." Now this is the Cult I remember.

Stuff I Read/Discovered in 2010

Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell. The Times did a big piece on him over the summer and the description of this novel caught my eye: four or five separates stories spanning the South Seas in the seventeenth century, to near-contemporary Britain, to a Korean dystopia, to a postapocalyptic Hawaii, and then back again, right to the beginning. All stories are separate, but interconnected. Utterly spellbinding.

King Lear. This time, when I read it, I accompanied it with Ian McKellan's RSC performance on DVD. I can't get him out of my head any more when I read of Lear raging against the storm.

Last Poems, A.E. Housman. For whatever reason, his verses exploring the profound in the commonplace really resonated with me last winter. I think everyone should memorize the following:

We for a certainty are not the first

Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled

Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed

Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

Ballistics, Billy Collins. I'd picked this book up five times since it came out in 2008, but when I finally finished it, I have to admire how he managed to make poetry so accessible, and still so worthy of reflection. He makes you want to see the world all over again.

Letters from Iceland, W.H. Auden. I was led to this book by one of his poems that appears in it; now I want to go visit Iceland. More to the point, I want to go visit the Iceland in the early twentieth century that Auden got to visit--I think I heard that now the country is broke or something?

Lamb and Fool by Christopher Moore. Drop-dead hysterical, especially Fool. It's like the novel Benny Hill and Kurt Vonnegut would have fathered together. Okay, not really, but pretty close.

The Death and Life of the Great American School System, Diane Ravitch. Required reading for anyone who wants an opinion on why American schools suck. Short on solutions, but long on data and analysis. Might correct some of the commonplace assumptions kicked about in Washington and Springfield these days.

Movies I Saw in 2010 Worth Mention

The Six Wives of Henry VIII, a miniseries produced by the BBC. Keith Mitchell starts as Henry Tudor did: young and lithe, full of energy and innocence. By the end he's morbidly obese, still great yet corrupt, enthralling yet repulsive. He pulls the act off like no one else I've seen (Jonathan Rhys Meyers is supposed to be in his forties? Please).

Henry IV Parts I and II, from Shakespeare's An Age of Kings (first aired back in the 50's on television). Sean Connery as Hotspur is enough in itself; the Falstaff/Hal interplay is probably the best-achieved chemistry I've ever seen on film.

I Am Love, starring Tilda Swinton. Not that I could tell by watching this, but she had to pull off Italian dialogue with a Russian accent. Story of a woman who either dives into or is thrust into an illicit affair with her son's best friend, only so much more than that.

Winter's Bone. A young woman living in the Appalachians and trying to hold on to her house and family plays detective to find out what happened to her crystal meth-dealing father. She has to go through a backwoods drug empire that would give Vito Corleone pause.

Inception. Not quite a movie I could go right back into and see all over again. But pretty close.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire. Of course, the books are worth mention too, but the films did a superb job capturing the story, character and pacing of the Millenium Trilogy. Which begs the question as to why Hollywood feels we need an American version. Perhaps Americans are illiterate and can't be bothered with subtitles. Which brings me to...

Idiocracy. Not Mike Judge's greatest, but amusing. And I'd say a fairly accurate painting of where we're headed: once mediocrity becomes the norm, we tend to equate knowledge of civics with brilliance, or being able to tie one's own shoes with homespun wisdom and savvy. We might have a former president who's pretty good proof of this, but I'm not sure.

The King's Speech. If Colin Firth doesn't get an Oscar for his portrayal of George VI, struggling in equal measures with his duties as king and his speech impediment, I can't imagine who will get it instead. Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush are equally impressive.

True Grit and Black Swan I have not seen yet, but I suspect I'm going to really like. Haven't seen Waiting for Superman, but I'm sure I'd have a reaction to that as well. And fan of Aaron Sorkin that I am, I thought The Social Network was a bit overblown.

Okay, that's enough for this year. Bring on the next 365 days, and let's knock it off with the vampire stuff already, mkay?

Poetry Written Upon Seeing a Disabled Toilet at the Pub Down the Street

"The sign tells me it
doesn't work. No big deal:
There's still a hole there."

"What disappears when
I pull the handle above
my mess on the floor?"

"It became clear after my colonoscopy that I had to kill her..."

No jury in the world will convict me of murdering the Woman I Love. Why, you ask? Simplicity itself.

Under doctor's orders, I had to go and get one of these damnable procedures last week. Nothing earth-shattering as far as why, I assure you, although the fact that I'd rather get medical instruments shoved in me than go to work for the day speaks volumes about the power of the mind over its environment. Still, I'd be a liar if I didn't confess to a selfish motive for going: A really good quip.

I'd practiced it all day and all night long the twenty-four hours preceding. I would awaken from the anesthesia and sit up in bed, sharp and alert. The doctor would come by, clipboard in hand, a carefully-arranged concerned look on his face, and ask me how I was doing.

And I would reply, oh-so-wittily, "Well, doc, hope it was as good for you as it was for me."

And the entire operating room would erupt in laughter, cancel my bill and send me home with a cigar and a clean bill of help. Nothing could be simpler.

But oh no. Leave it to Kim to screw it all up.

I did, in fact, awaken blearily, in a room I didn't recognize. There were, in fact, people in there. The doctor did come by, and I think he was carrying a clipboard. "Well now, how are we doing?" he asked me cheerfully.

"Ug," I rasped. "Ug uh ug."

"Yeah, you'll be a little tongue-tied for a bit," he said, patting my shoulder sympathetically. "Don't worry. You'll come around."

The Woman of My Life chose then to show up. "Oh, he's awake," she said flatly. "What a relief."

"Yeah, you'll probably have to cook him something tonight," the doctor said to her. "Maybe keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't try anything too strenuous."

"Fat chance," she muttered, watching me try to sit up. "That there is more than he's moved all month."

"So, you feeling any better?" the doctor asked me immediately afterwards, hoping to get the niceties out of the way."

"Well...doc..." I started, laboring mightily to form syllables with a tongue and mouth that felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. "Well...well doc..."

"Good, good," he said, glancing at his clipboard. "Okay, let's see, you need to eat something soon, then take a nap. Get dressed, and, as long as your insurance payment processes okay in the next twenty minutes, we'll let you go home."

"Was it...was...was it..." I breathed out, grasping mightily at the few remaining seconds before the joke went flat.

"It went fine," he reassured me. "You're as healthy as a horse. And almost as intelligent."

The room erupted in laughter. I cast them all a withering stare. My joke was better. As long as I could get it out in time.

"Was it--" I began, increasing in strength and confidence.

"It didn't show anything to worry about," he said, glancing at his watch. "Now, I've got to run. Those nine holes aren't going to play themselves."

"Thanks, doctor," Kim said to him, grasping his arm in a neighborly fashion. "I'm sure it was as good for him as it was for you."

Ten times the previous laughter filled the room. Nurses came over and squeezed her hand. The male attendant came over and nudged me. "You got a keeper here, pal," he said, yanking my IV out of my arm with all the sympathy of a pile of rocks. "Hold on to her."

Oh I will. You have no idea...

"Okay, honey. You just rest easy. But are you
sure I have to be standing on a ladder
in a puddle of water to do this?"

My Web-based Sexual Harassment Tutorial Crib Notes

Fig 1. Potential lawsuit.

Look at Fig. 1 closely. Can you spot the potential lawsuit?

If you can't, then you're clearly in need of sexual harassment training. If you can, well, guess what? You're getting training anyway.

Clearly, sexually inappropriate behavior in the workplace is a serious offense. That's why my employer gives us this halfassed webinar every year, with the exact same brick-stupid questions and scenarios outlining the facets of sexual harassment, the vagaries, the mise en scène, and all the other crap we have to deal with now that we live in a world where a man can't spank his secretary's ass without her yelling about respect as a woman, blah blah blah, go bake me a pie, will you?

So I'm glad I kept my notes and screenshots this time around. That way, I can halve the time I normally spend on this drivel, just clicking the appropriate answers to the quiz questions they give while reading Big'Uns instead of actually reading them. That makes it much easier.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introductory Lesson: Sexual harassment is when one person makes a move upon another person in the workplace. This move is unwelcome if unwarranted, or unsolicited, or made by someone not good-looking enough. Hence this will never be an issue for me.

Fig 2: When to complain...

Fig 3: When to not complain...

Okay, training is over. Time for the exam.

Quiz Question #1: Which of the following constitutes sexual harassment?

Answer: Scenario A. Here, the employer is being insensitive and chauvinistic. In Scenario B, he has a sailboat, so that's totally different.

Quiz Question #2: Which of the following constitutes sexual harassment?

Answer: Scenario C. In Scenario D, the man is showing the woman the Swingers Classified section of the daily paper, completely innocently. In Scenario C, it's Mr. Sandberg, so what else could it be but an invitation to something filthy and depraved? Friggin' pervert.

Quiz Question #3: The man has just propositioned the woman. What is the proper response if she wishes to refuse his advances and let him know they are no longer welcome?

a) "No thank you, I'm busy tonight. Perhaps another time?"
b) "I don't know. Maybe you could show it to me first?"
c) "It's nothing personal. I just don't date people of my own ethnicity."
d) "Up it another five dollars and we have a deal."

Answer: None of the above. Because, seriously, most people think the man was the one on the right. And it's not. She's actually the one on the right, and she's trying to accept the offer. Did I just totally rock your world or what? It just goes to show you: trying to train us about suppressing our primal urges is completely, utterly futile. Let's go hit the Admiral. I'm buying first round.

Local goes to Florida, Gets Married

A beach- and downtown-Key West wedding review

What I remember was totally awesome. But the stuff I wish I could remember, I'm sure, was even more awesome.

Congrats to Tso and his blushing bride. Now: you guys are doing the holiday cooking this year, right?

New rock band Bullets in Madison on fire with new single; lead singer on fire with fire

Originally published August, 2003, in Spun Magazine; reprinted here in light of rerelease of Panic in Amber Blue

Originally published August, 2003, in Spun Magazine; reprinted here in light of rerelease of Panic in Amber Blue


The singer steps up to the microphone, wind machine ruffling his clothes and carefully-disheveled hair artfully. The band behind him strikes chords and poses with thoughtful, somber moodiness.


"Crosswords..." keyboardist and vocalist John Morton intones soulfully.


I'm on the set of the Bullets in Madison video shoot for their hit single, "Crossroads," off their new album Panic in Amber Blue. Surrounding me are all the makings of a killer video: chained, caged strippers, a neon band insignia highlighting the stage, a prowling leopard in the rafters and a rotating drum set.


Director McG, whose Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle recently took in $52,000 at the box office, is at my side, coaching the merry montage of musicians along what will undoubtedly be their chart-busting hit single. The band is sluggish and slow-moving, which, for them, translates into ecstatic. McG is polysyllabic in his directions to the band, which, for him, translates into intellectual. I want a drink, which, for me, translates into business as usual.


"Crosswords..." Morton croons again, the band soulfully striking up the tune once more while McG makes frantic get-on-with-it gestures with his spindly arms. The music plods on, then stops as Morton trails off into silence.


"I forgot the rest of the song," he admits soulfully, hanging his head in shame.


"It's okay," McG assures him gently, shooting a quick glance at his budget director who is currently preparing to hang herself with a length of power cord. "We're going to overdub your singing in postproduction anyway."


"It's weird," Morton continues, gazing at his keyboard mournfully. "I have that first word down, but when it comes to the words that come after it, all I can think of are the words 'drive-by.'"


"That's the next song," guitarist Michael Stautmeister tells him thoughtfully. "The one we play after this one." Nearby, the trumpeteer is getting stalked by the leopard.


"Oh yeah." Morton adjusts his shirt collar artfully. "That's weird."


McG, clearly wishing he could get back to more cerebral projects like looking up Lucy Liu's skirt in her next film, hooks an elbow around Morton's neck. "We're going to get through this, guy. You and me. And the rest of the band. Sky's the limit. No holds barred. We'll show the rest of the clowns you play music with you're the glue that holds this miserable act together. You just wait."


"We can still hear you," guitarist Aaron Sandberg drones somberly. As he looks after Morton and his director, he runs a hand through his full head of hair soulfully...and winds up with a fistful of his remaining hair. His bald spot glares triumphantly. Upon seeing it, he screams mournfully.


McG is not unaware that the band is aging somberly, soulfully and mournfully ten years for every minute this farce drags its nuts. But clearly he's got ideas cooking on how to get the show more dynamic. More engaging. More today.


"Cue the flame thrower guy," he tells the head grip. "And get the kerosene ready. We're torching Morton first."


-----


Bullets in Madison is an up-and-coming band whose debut album is just as new as they are to the Chicago indie rock scene. For some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of these guys are going to wind up teaching in the public school system. Some of them might even wind up where I work, sneaking into my room, swiping my lesson plans, stealing my medicinal whiskey (kept safely on the bookshelves, where students will never find it) and locking me inside the building when I'm not out the door at 3:05 like them. I have no idea why I suspect all this. But I'm rarely wrong.


That's the future, though. Years away. In the meantime, the band is putting together its first music video.


The "Crosswords" shoot has been going on for months, as Morton struggles to remember his lyrics and his partner in crime Sandberg watches the last remains of hair fall out. I've spent the majority of my time here exploring the band's origins and musical influences, only to discover that, much to my dismay, Morton and Sandberg are the most boring people on the face of the earth. Stautmeister was, for a time, a better bet at entertainment, but he stopped talking to me when he caught me going through his wallet looking for naked roadie pictures.


Sandberg, on the other hand, won't shut up about what inspires him as a musician and motivates him as a performer. Our most recent interview took place backstage, while McG layered Morton in petroleum for the big fire scene, which, according to McG, "really captures the song's anti-Iraq war message." Morton had tried to explain to him that the song actually came from a frenzied effort at free verse over the Sunday papers comics section, McG insisted that he had the better interpretation, and Morton's objections were effectively overruled. As the grip splashed Morton's mostly-hairless chest with a paintbrush dunked in Vaseline and Stautmeister, for some reason, rapidly took pictures, hooting and whistling all the while Sandberg droned on and on concerning the dangers of artistic influences.


"Many writers will stop reading any books by other authors while they are working on their own novel because they’re afraid that another style will seep into their own," he said. "Yet at the same time, they’re in a bind because they might happen to like that particular style, and wouldn’t mind if the influence rubbed off, so long as it didn’t suffocate the work."


Bored out of my mind, I tried desperately at this point to steer the conversation to oral sex. But no dice. Man. Musicians.


"The problem compounds when you’re in touch with many influences," Sandberg continued.


"Speaking of touching," I tried again, simultaneously gesturing towards the nearest cage-dancing stripper and my crotch. But he didn't take the bait. He only averted his eyes from my groin and went on with the interview. Fucking musicians...


"Again, two things can happen. There's a constant conflict between original vision and influence which the careful artist addresses."


"Hey, Professor, want to put it in language we can all understand?"


"Well, the resulting work, whether novel or album, can become an ugly pastiche of all styles, or, the result can be a beautiful and diverse, woven piece of work."


"That's the biggest load of bullshit I ever heard," I jeered.


Sandberg fixed me with a level gaze, and another clump of his hair fell to the floor. "You don't even know what pastiche means, do you?"


"No. No, I don't. Do you?"


"Well...no."


"Okay then. So, getting back to getting your knob polished..."


Here, our interview was interrupted: the pyro guy had ignited the flamethrower, turning Morton into a flaming ball of smoke and heat.


"Crosswords! Crosswords!" Morton shrieked, running around the stage, slapping at the flames with his hands. "Agh!"


Sandberg took this opportunity to make some lame excuses to go and comfort his friend. However, Morton, engulfed in fire and screaming in blinding pain, decided that company with Sandberg was infinitely worse, and came back over by me for his interview.


"And yes, while some say it is impossible not to be influenced," Morton said, leaning in close to my tape recorder, "I say it is possible to use the influence to eventually transcend the influence. That is the ultimate goal."


"Did you used to have chest hair there?" I said, gesturing towards his smoldering torso. "Because you don't any more."


With one thing and another, Morton getting carted off to the emergency burn ward, Stautmeister running off to post the entire thing on the Internet and Sandberg finally taking a hint and hitting up the cage dancers for some back room action, I finally got some peace and quiet in which I could actually listen to the album. So here's my review:


It's good. Overpriced, but good. I recommend it.


Maybe in the future we won't have to buy music any more. Maybe some day we'll be able to get it for free off the Internet. Not Napster, obviously, but something else. Something...torrential. That would be sweet. In the meantime, if you want it, you'll have to buy the album off their website, or your local Tower Records outlet.


Hmph. Musicians. Always in it for the money. And a first aid kit.

Website addresses I'm either sure exist or think should exist

Iron Sheik on Youtube. http://ironsheikyoutubereview.blogspot.com/. A blog exclusively about the WWF star Iron Sheik's meltdowns and conniption fits on Youtube.

Professor Blago. http://blagojevichyoutubereview.blogspot.com. A blog exclusively focused to former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich's spouting of my favorite poetry in front of news cameras as he gets indicted, trying to weasel his way out of corruption charges by invoking Tennyson, who, ironically enough, did plenty of tirades against the corruption of humanity. Not that the former governor need bother with such trifles.

The Real World: Chile (2,000 feet below). http://therealmine.blogspot.com. A blog detailing what happens when 33 miners have to stop living in the real world, with easy access to water, insulin and wives, and start getting...real.

What am I, one right out of three? Not bad. Not bad.

Tso is Tso damn gullible...

Me (via text message): Just got tickets to Charlotte for your stinking wedding.

Tso: Why Charlotte? Wedding is in Key West.

Me: Whoops.

Tso: 15 hour drive. Are you nuts?

Me: Nuts like a fox! Don't worry. I'll be there on the 29th.

Tso: Wedding is on the 18th.

Me: Whoops.

Tso: WTF moment?

Me: WTF like a fox!

-------------—---------------

I could play this guy like a violin. What a maroon.

Now...Key West is in Massachusetts. Right?

Just kidding.

From NPR's Contest Story Site: Three-Minute Fiction is back, and it's time for Round Five!

Our contest has a simple premise: Listeners send in original short stories that can be read in three minutes or less. We're looking for original work no longer than 600 words.

Each round, our judges throw out a challenge. This time, your story must begin with the line, "Some people swore that the house was haunted." It must end with, "Nothing was ever the same again after that."

Those lines were written by the judge for this round, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Cunningham....because he's a huge fan of ghost stories.

“Those Deadbeat Dead”

A short story

Some people swore the house was haunted. Most just swore.

It wasn’t so much the two-story brownstone’s foreboding façade, or its squeaky hinges or vampire, cannibal rats. It wasn’t even that it was built on top of an ancient Native American sacrificial site, and it wasn’t the regular parade of headless apparitions that got people boiling mad.

No, the deal-breaker for everyone, and what got Neighborhood Watch Patrolmen Rory and Buck knocking on doors up and down the block to raise awareness, was whether or not the ghosts were legal.

“Because we’re not just taking this country back for America,” Rory would tell people up and down Pleasant Street. “We’re taking it back from the undocumented undead too.”

Buck honestly didn’t give a shit whether the house had one ghost or two hundred, or whether the ghosts had all just taken the night shift at the local Wal Mart. He was only following Rory because he really wanted to get into Rory’s sister’s pants, and the afternoon before, he and Rory’s sister, a fox of an activist named Jessica, had gotten plastered on a cheap bottle of wine, during the course of which he’d been granted immediate access to her boobs while she’d speculated about what might be in the house, “people all dead and on welfare? That would leave this nation vulnerable!” Yet now, at three in the afternoon, with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, he was wondering if maybe he hadn’t overestimated the allure his investigations would have in Jessica’s mind when he returned to her later that afternoon.

Rory, however, was a man on a mission, unlikely to back down.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he told Buck for the twentieth time. “The Constitution doesn’t say anything about whether or not the occupants have to be alive.”

“Activist judges, man,” said Buck, wishing Rory would shut up so he could go back to daydreaming about his pleasant afternoon with Jessica.

“Just wait until some activist judge manages to tack a bunch of bloodsucking, brain-eating, chain rattling Mexicans into the Fourteenth Amendment. Then what? They’re in our schools, our factories, our abandoned asylums...”

“Exactly,” said Buck. “Illegal. Also breasts.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Buck said. He ignored his friend’s stare and squinted up at the house. They were in front of it, and he could faintly hear the sound of the walls moaning and bleeding.

“Let me handle this,” Rory said, pushing past him and rapping against the dark mahogany in front of him. “Damned illegals. Probably socialist ghosts, too.”

Buck scowled, and thought of breasts some more.

The two waited a minute. Eventually, a transparent, cadaverous white man appeared with a blood-smeared mouth and sharp fangs, dressed in black, sporting a cape. “Visitors,” he intoned in a smooth, Eastern European accent. “Welcome to my home. I bid you enter! Mwa-hah-hah!”

“Good evening, sir,” Rory began in his best official voice. “My name is Rory Calhoun, and this is my friend Buck Mulligan. We’re canvassing the neighborhood, and we’re wondering if we could inquire as to the residency status of this house, specifically pertaining to number of people, both alive and dead, currently living in this fine establishment.”

“What?” The apparition, startled, drew back from the door. “Uh, sorry, no habla espanol. I, er, love Americanos. Go local sports team!” The door slammed in their faces.

Rory beamed triumphantly at Buck. “What did I tell you? That guy’s never seen the inside of INS, I tell you.”

“Oh yeah?” Buck retorted. “Well I’m seeing the inside of your sister tonight.”

Nothing was ever the same again after that.

Finis

Thomas Friedman's "We're Number 11!" Required reading for anyone invested in the debate over education.

An Open Letter to a Friend of Mine Who's Going to France While I Toil Here in Wretched, Abject Misery and Jealousy

Dear Matt,

So you're going au France, are you? Good for you! Of course I was only kidding before! About hating you for going! How could I, loyal friend that I am, be so small-minded and petty as to sabotage your journey? Très unlikely. In fact, I've gone so far as to try to help you out a bit.

As you probably remember, I studied French in high school and college, and had to brush up on it some in grad school for some work I did with Rimbaud. So I've dug up some of my dictionaries and idiom books and written up a list of phrases you'll be sure to need pendant votre temps à Paris. All you need to do is keep this cheat sheet handy, but I'd suggest memorizing these phrases so you can spit them out rapidly and confidently as you encounter people.

Expressions You'll Need Upon Your Arrival:

"Where is the nearest hotel? I just landed and am tired."

Où est le district de feu rouge ? J'ai faim de la chair mâle.

"I am American, but I admire this lovely country."

Les États-Unis essuie son âne avec votre pays.

When You Wish to Eat Out:

"Let's grab a bite. I have reservations at a restaurant nearby."

Nous étreignons charnellement. J'ai prophylactics que nous pouvons utiliser.

"I'm quite hungry and would like a table for two."

Je suis tout à fait content de manger votre saleté.

Random Pleasantries

"Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

Cette rue pue des abats.

"Greetings to you!"

Foutrez-vous.

"I think those clothes light up your face."

Je veux pour vous m'asseoir sur mon visage.

In Case You're Ever In the Country

"This is a beautiful farm you have here. Where is your bathroom?"

J'ai imprégné tous vos moutons. Où sont vos filles ?

When You're Getting Ready to Leave

"How far is the airport? My flight leaves in thirty minutes."

Je peux le plaisir vous dans une question de minutes.

"Let's stay in touch after I leave."

Je vous ai juste donné des herpès. (Note: It's very important to smile broadly after saying this.)

Now, I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no. No need to thank me, and certainly no need to pay me or anything. I just want you to have a good trip and take lots of pictures, especially of the people you meet and socialize with using these expressions. That alone will lighten my heart and ensure me of the good time you're having.

Your friend,

Piss Off

My Introductory Lecture and Reading List for Fall, 2010

Hi kids! Welcome back!

I'm your teacher. Hold the applause.

Yes, it's been two months and change since we've all seen each other. Joey, I see you've been working out. Mustache is coming in well, isn't it? Whoah, that's a killer grip you've got there. Good. You're growing into a fine young woman.

Sarah, not so plain and tall any more, are you? Ha. Now you're just plain.

Okay, enough of this charade of good intentions and civility. You don't want to be here. Fine. I get it. Hey, you think this is my whole life? I've got a family! Okay, I've got two dogs to train. Okay, I don't actually train them so much as I just let them lie on top of me and sleep, but they do their homework, dammit.

No, I'm not interested in how you spent your summer. Now, I spent a lot of time this summer touring Europe and wining and dining several high-rent models and call girls. I also climbed Mount Kilimanjaro (for like a few feet--that damn thing is steep!). Also, I did a lot of reading, and I've managed to construct the class syllabus around these selections. This exposes you guys to what I call high-quality literature, but more importantly, it cuts down on my workload. So here's our syllabus for the fall. Read it, get the books, and read those. We'll meet back here in a month. If anyone asks, I'm in the can.

• The Kama Sutra: This text has been showing up on the AP Reading List for a few years now. It's technical, and skills-based, which means it aligns perfectly with the Core Standards coming out of the White House. No, I haven't seen any of the pictures, why?

• The Anarchist's Cook Book: Enough with the whole, "I don't know what this word means" crap. Look it up! Enough with the whole "But I don't know who to vote for." Look it up! And enough with the whole, "I can't make gunpowder! I don't know how." Not my kids. Not any more.

• Das Kapital: "Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people." Stop and think about that for a minute. Realize how bleak and meaningless your existence actually is. Okay. Now you're ready to join The Party and follow your One True Leader. Your blue overalls are in the far left cabinet.

• Listen Whitey! by Huey Newton. Well, actually I don't know what this is about. But it says to listen, so...

Film Notes Assignment for "Dante's Inferno: An Animated Epic"

Directions: Note observations, critical and stupid, while watching the movie and write a summative evaluation at the end.

• Dante seems pretty buff for a would-be medieval pilgrim. I didn't know clerics had such broad shoulders, armor and deadly swords.
• Okay, scratch the last comment: Dante is a Crusader? This is critical of the church? There's so many paradoxes here, I think my head is imploding.
• "Hey, Dante? When you run up to a woman whose stomach is spread out about her on the ground, the last stupid question she needs to hear is 'Are you all right?'"
• Did medieval couples always get naked and rub against each other before swearing chastity?
• "Hey, Dante? Saying 'I don't like the look of this' before entering Hell is a pretty stupid comment."
• Okay, unbaptized babies were in the original poem. But an army of scrimitar-wielding demon babies? I'm never going near a nursery again.
• So the second circle is filled with horny lesbians? Then what's a Heaven for?
• I'm beginning to sense a pattern in this movie. Is it...we're all sinners?
• The seventh level looks pretty much like a parking lot. I think Dante was on to something. It really sucks when you have to drive around and around looking for a spot, you know?
• In every level, Dante and Virgil have different hairstyles. So when I go to Supercuts...am I sinning?
• Nerissa is pretty hot. Even if she has a tail.
• Wait a minute...Mark Hamill did Dante's voice? He can't be that hard up for work.
• Okay, I think I've got the theme figured out...we're all going to Hell? Party on my rock, then.
• If the real Dante saw this movie, he'd probably come up with a new circle for video game movie directors.

OVERALL SUMMARY: Vivid action scenes, zooms and extreme closeups of people getting their heads chopped off, women raped, men butchering and overall mayhem does wonders for preaching a message of compassion and Catholic faith. I felt myself getting brainwashed every minute this thing dragged its nuts. It just needs a good soundtrack.

Lines of Poetry Written Upon Contemplation of a Really Screwed-Up Bathroom in Tinleytown, D.C.

"And whoever tells me there's a need for more government transparency
Will have to do their business here, or else shut up."

Rejected Fortune Cookie Submissions

--"It's been ten minutes. You'd better call home and check on the kids before something happens."

--"We can recommend a good proctologist."

--"If you had the chicken, see the hostess before you leave."

--"Time to pull the plug on that machine that's keeping Gram Gram alive."

--"If it oozes and hurts, you've got at least a few months."

--"They're talking about you."

Proof I am a red-blooded American and
not a secret Russian spy

With all the hype about the Russian agents circulating amongst the US in recent weeks, we're all getting a little nervous about who's really whom he says he is. And if history is any guide, that proves it's time to start pointing fingers and making wild accusations about each other. So before the mass hysteria sets in, I'd like to preemptively clear myself and demonstrate my love of this country and full citizenship.

Of course, as we know from accounts of our president, birth certificates are insufficient. You have to look deeper. So here's proof positive of my patriotism and American background, a template we would all do well to apply.

I know all the names of the players in the Chicago Bulls and how many home runs they scored last season.

When watching Rocky and Bullwinkle, I always cheer for the moose and squirrel.

I have no idea how to say dosvedanya. And I think Leo Tolstoy deserved getting shot in Mexico like he did.

I really suck at math and science.

I live on Main Street, and we have backyard barbecues every weekend.

My On Record Introduction to the Shakespeare Institute

I live and teach in a working- and white collar district. I've been teaching for twelve years (ten in the public schools, two as a teaching assistant), although the last few years have been a bit hairy, what with revamped curriculum, new preps and the like. I do journalism and the school newspaper as well.

The only play I've taught consistently is "Macbeth," although I sneak in what I can when I can. Usually, this means reading or doing a film of "Hamlet," the film version of "Henry V" to my seniors, and maybe parts of "Richard III." But it's tough to get away with this these days.

I have all the usual hobbies and interests of an English teacher (reading, writing, etc.) See you all next week.

My Off The Record Introduction to the Shakespeare Institute

I teach in a complete hellhole, where skill and brilliance does take place, but staggering mediocrity and incompetence tend to have their way as well. I've been saddled with new classes almost every year lately and am just about at the end of my rope. Either my students or myself are getting more and more complacent every year that passes, and "teaching Shakespeare" is regarded by administration as an inane luxury these days. If you all don't inspire me and help me start getting the circle of gifts going again, I'm packing it all in next year and taking a job as a Starbucks barrista. I just met one last week who regularly travels the world and looks twenty years younger than he is, which makes me think this whole "professional education" stuff is for the birds.