Charlotte has brought to my attention that my previous post against Jon Spencer may be incorrect. When Jon Spencer wrote "Sybil," he may have been referring to a 1976 made-for-tv movie by the same name, about a woman with multiple personalities. If this is the case, do I owe Mr. Spencer an apology? I would sooner die. The fact that he trumps a 33 year old movie that never appeared in theaters over classic mythology is perhaps worse than mistaking who the sibyl is in the first place. By the beard of Zeus, Mr. Spencer, you are out of order!
When I was a child my father told me a lot of old myths before I went to bed. He'd sit down in a rocking chair and tell me how Apollo wept after accidentally killing Hyacinthus, how Dryope accidentally plucks the Lotus and is cruelly turned into a tree despite her pleading, or how Orpheus was so sad his head sang when he was decapitated by crazed women. Sammy says this should mean that I like to read, but I said, No, it only makes me want to rock in a chair.
***
Rather than interpreting someone else's dream, I thought it would be enjoyable to post one of my own dreams to let people interpret. Who knows, maybe there is a shy reader out there who wants to take a stab at my brain (note: jokes about mad cow disease will not be tolerated). Here's the dream:
I was in a hotel skyscraper with Boyce and Sammy. A giant ufo flew over top of the city and parked itself above the tallest buildings, as seems to be the polite thing to do according to movies and television shows. Well, we all knew this wasn't a good thing. That's when we saw the aliens descend from this mothership, except they descended in hot air balloons that were shaped like silhouettes of people's faces. All the balloon-faces had rather large noses. Their method of descent was particularly bothersome to me, and I ran around the room trying to figure out how we might lock ourselves in the room while the coming slaughter ensued.
Have a crack at Cyrus, and email me your interpretations!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Take Note, Sports Editors!
Sammy and Boyce spend more time than I do in the world of sports, but they nevertheless sometimes send me links to interesting things. Lately, they’ve sent me the editorials of an Ohio-based writer who is nothing short of baffling. I tried to look away since I don’t care about sports, but like with the misguided use of the word "literally," I must make a stand against one Jon Spencer. Bear in mind, his sports opinions are irrelevant. His pistol-whipping of the English language, however, is not.
On November 2, he wrote an article called “Return home to be biggest test for Pryor.” Maybe it was a test. I don’t really care one way or another. He doesn’t speak about what Ohio birds eat from the buckeye tree, so my interest often waned. Nevertheless, I did note he said the following:
3. "Let's not go there.” Apparently, "too much information" and "talk to the hand" were already used in previous articles.
Just today Sammy sent me another article, this one called, “OSU's future finally looks like Roses.” I understand this means that they will play in a football game more special than other football games. Yet, when the game is over they will still depend on birds to help continue mammalian life. What I don’t understand about this article, however, could fill a dump truck.
Spencer writes, "That's what happens, JoePa, when you fill your non-conference slate with Larry, Curly, Moe and Bart Simpson." This is odd to say the least. It’s like saying lions, tigers, and bears, and monitor lizards, oh my! All carnivorous diets, but one doesn’t fit. Also, it would be theoretically possible to exhume the bodies of the actors who played Larry, Curly, and Moe, re-animate them through lightning or necromancy, and get them to play football. This is not possible, however, with Bart Simpson. Someone could dress up like him, but we couldn't really say he was Bart Simpson.
He later writes, "Not only will these Buckeyes get to California, their defense and special teams -- the real heroes Saturday -- will give them a fighting chance against the Pac-10's representative. Go ahead and diss the Big Ten, but that Left Coast conference is filled with a bunch of Sybils."
First, Spencer stops to state that the "real heroes" are defense and special teams, assuming other people were claiming that the offense were the heroes. Given the fact that thus far Spencer has only spoken about the offense, I assume the other people he’s railing against is himself. Second, to call one group "real heroes" assumes another group are imaginary heroes; but in this context, this amplifies the fact that Spencer believes football players are heroes. They may be, but not because of football. You could better say that the flightless Southern Cassowary bird (pictured right)
is a hero since it provides an “irreplaceable role in ecosystems,” as was reported in 2004 to the National Academy of Sciences in a report called “Ecosystem Consequences of Bird Declines.” Just try to tackle yourself a sustainable ecosystem!
Second, let’s address this issue of sibyls: (a) when referring to the mythological figures, it is spelled “sibyl.” Only when referring to a woman’s name is it spelled the way Spencer spells it. Perhaps he means that the “Left Coast” conference is populated with women named Sybil. (b) Sammy would like it pointed out that sibyls were prophetesses in different mythologies. One of these is the Cumaean sibyl, who forgets to ask Apollo for eternal youth when she asks for near-eternal life. Apparently, Spencer believes the “Left Coast” is full of slowly decaying mythological creatures who have lost the ability to die.
May I suggest to Ohio newspapers that Sammy, Boyce, and I could together write exceptional football articles. Our articles would also include informative asides about ornithology and gambling techniques, which I believe many degenerate sports gamblers may be interested in. Write me, newspaper editors: cyruswetherbee@gmail.com
On November 2, he wrote an article called “Return home to be biggest test for Pryor.” Maybe it was a test. I don’t really care one way or another. He doesn’t speak about what Ohio birds eat from the buckeye tree, so my interest often waned. Nevertheless, I did note he said the following:
"Bad Troy wouldn't be seen again through 19 consecutive victories until his bloated body got chomped by some desert Gators. Let's not go there."A few points. 1. "Bad Troy?" Is Bad Troy an alternate personality to Good Troy? Is this how you conceptualize what I assume are the complexities of football? Is this akin to saying roulette is just a matter of Red and Black? 2. "Bloated body?" This is a dubious modifier. Was this college football player drowned? Or lying on the side of the road like a common white tail deer half-filled with fly larvae? Are these gators so malnourished that they feed on clearly diseased corpses?
3. "Let's not go there.” Apparently, "too much information" and "talk to the hand" were already used in previous articles.
Just today Sammy sent me another article, this one called, “OSU's future finally looks like Roses.” I understand this means that they will play in a football game more special than other football games. Yet, when the game is over they will still depend on birds to help continue mammalian life. What I don’t understand about this article, however, could fill a dump truck.
Spencer writes, "That's what happens, JoePa, when you fill your non-conference slate with Larry, Curly, Moe and Bart Simpson." This is odd to say the least. It’s like saying lions, tigers, and bears, and monitor lizards, oh my! All carnivorous diets, but one doesn’t fit. Also, it would be theoretically possible to exhume the bodies of the actors who played Larry, Curly, and Moe, re-animate them through lightning or necromancy, and get them to play football. This is not possible, however, with Bart Simpson. Someone could dress up like him, but we couldn't really say he was Bart Simpson.
He later writes, "Not only will these Buckeyes get to California, their defense and special teams -- the real heroes Saturday -- will give them a fighting chance against the Pac-10's representative. Go ahead and diss the Big Ten, but that Left Coast conference is filled with a bunch of Sybils."
First, Spencer stops to state that the "real heroes" are defense and special teams, assuming other people were claiming that the offense were the heroes. Given the fact that thus far Spencer has only spoken about the offense, I assume the other people he’s railing against is himself. Second, to call one group "real heroes" assumes another group are imaginary heroes; but in this context, this amplifies the fact that Spencer believes football players are heroes. They may be, but not because of football. You could better say that the flightless Southern Cassowary bird (pictured right)
is a hero since it provides an “irreplaceable role in ecosystems,” as was reported in 2004 to the National Academy of Sciences in a report called “Ecosystem Consequences of Bird Declines.” Just try to tackle yourself a sustainable ecosystem!Second, let’s address this issue of sibyls: (a) when referring to the mythological figures, it is spelled “sibyl.” Only when referring to a woman’s name is it spelled the way Spencer spells it. Perhaps he means that the “Left Coast” conference is populated with women named Sybil. (b) Sammy would like it pointed out that sibyls were prophetesses in different mythologies. One of these is the Cumaean sibyl, who forgets to ask Apollo for eternal youth when she asks for near-eternal life. Apparently, Spencer believes the “Left Coast” is full of slowly decaying mythological creatures who have lost the ability to die.
May I suggest to Ohio newspapers that Sammy, Boyce, and I could together write exceptional football articles. Our articles would also include informative asides about ornithology and gambling techniques, which I believe many degenerate sports gamblers may be interested in. Write me, newspaper editors: cyruswetherbee@gmail.com
Monday, November 9, 2009
Life in These Weekends, Part II
It’s been a while since I wrote, and I kept my promise to Harris Ames, the man in the cowboy hat from the Indian casino. But now all proverbial bets are off and I can say what I need to say about what happened to us.
Harris Ames, the man in the cowboy hat, followed us out as we were escorted from the Indian casino. We didn’t mind leaving since we had money for a really nice tombstone for Hank’s grave. He pointed at the two journals we had of Hank’s, and said he bet those were worth a lot of money. I told him they were priceless, and he said especially when you don’t get caught.
I told Sammy and Boyce that he was going to take us to the Green Bay Packers vs. Minnesota Vikings game. They couldn’t understand why, so I said because he’s rich, which means he’s eccentric. As we parted ways with Harris, he grabbed me by the sleeve and said maybe on our way to Green Bay I could tell him about the secrets in those books, but I told him the secrets were beyond us, and he laughed the way rich people do, and said, “I bet they are,” also like rich people do, who always assume there’s something they can know that other people can’t.
He picked us up in one of the biggest non-limo cars I’ve ever seen. Boyce said there should be bull horns on the front. When we got in everything was leather and smelled real new, like Ames had never took the car out before. He told us about his family company started by his ancestor Dalton Ames, but I wasn’t listening to anything he was saying. Boyce had just told me before we got in the car that when he went to get us tickets for this game a couple months ago, seats were going for over $2,000. That made me think Harris Ames was psychotic, so sitting in the passenger seat I didn’t bother listening to him—instead I just watched his hands to make sure he didn’t pull out a knife or a cup of his urine.
We were around Chicago when Harris Ames started asking if we brought the books. I said yes, and explained that they belonged to the recently departed Hank Gradowski. Harris said he must have been a very intelligent man, and I said I’m pretty sure he was. Harris asked how he came across his system, and I told him there wasn’t a system. Harris said sure there wasn’t, and then tried to elbow me without letting go of the steering wheel. Harris asked if I would read from the books. So I read: “HALLELUJAH union scabs union scabs sing in the choir Trouble AHEAD?????”
I’m not sure what Harris was expecting, but he started to get real uneasy. He asked me to read from another part, and I read, “The measurement of a dolphin’s skeleton can’t be done with forceps and the blood of the damned.” Harris got real pale. I thought I should read him the part where he mentions me, but I didn’t want to share that. Harris asked me one more time to read from another section, and I said, “There's a Scylla in the palm of my hand and he's fed from the wheels of the children cry cry cry children of the waterlily mister man WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE???????????”
At first I thought Harris had a stroke. Then, after swallowing like a hundred times and pulling at his collar, he asked what the big idea was. What were these books? I explained to him that they belonged to Hank Gradowski, who had recently died of mad cow disease. Harris looked at me for a real long time, and I was afraid he was going to drive us into the back of a semi. Sammy piped in and said, “We thought he might have written us a code in the midst of his madness,” and Boyce then said, “or corrected his journal as a ghost from beyond the grave." Harris immediately hit the brakes and pulled off on the shoulder. He wouldn’t look at us and just kept screaming, “Get out of my car. Get the hell out of my car.” We got out real slowly because there were a lot of cars and trucks whizzing by. I told Harris this was no place to leave us, and he said, “You bunch of idiots. I’m sorry boys, but you’re all idiots. Here, take it.” And he threw us a whole bunch of cash he got out of the console. He didn’t say goodbye. He just screamed that if I told anybody about this before he did, he'd come take away my manhood. Then he screamed like a really fat man getting a tooth pulled and pulled back onto the interstate, ran over the median, and went the opposite direction. For a second his car was spinning its wheels in the grass of the median, but Harris was so angry I think he screamed his car into not getting stuck.
Boyce, Sammy, and I walked a couple miles to the nearest exit, and from there rented a car to get back home. The money Harris gave us was more than enough to pay for the car, so we actually came out in the positive. Sammy and Boyce also got something new to make fun of me for. Plus, I learned something: the next time someone wants to take you to an expensive sporting event in exchange for your gambling system, make sure they know that your system comes from the crippled scribblings of a recently deceased man suffering from major neurological decay.
Of course, we never got to the Packers game. That’s okay, though, since I would have just wanted to talk to Rachel about it. Besides, I don’t think I could stand to see Bart Farve in The Minnesotas' blue.
Harris Ames, the man in the cowboy hat, followed us out as we were escorted from the Indian casino. We didn’t mind leaving since we had money for a really nice tombstone for Hank’s grave. He pointed at the two journals we had of Hank’s, and said he bet those were worth a lot of money. I told him they were priceless, and he said especially when you don’t get caught.
I told Sammy and Boyce that he was going to take us to the Green Bay Packers vs. Minnesota Vikings game. They couldn’t understand why, so I said because he’s rich, which means he’s eccentric. As we parted ways with Harris, he grabbed me by the sleeve and said maybe on our way to Green Bay I could tell him about the secrets in those books, but I told him the secrets were beyond us, and he laughed the way rich people do, and said, “I bet they are,” also like rich people do, who always assume there’s something they can know that other people can’t.
He picked us up in one of the biggest non-limo cars I’ve ever seen. Boyce said there should be bull horns on the front. When we got in everything was leather and smelled real new, like Ames had never took the car out before. He told us about his family company started by his ancestor Dalton Ames, but I wasn’t listening to anything he was saying. Boyce had just told me before we got in the car that when he went to get us tickets for this game a couple months ago, seats were going for over $2,000. That made me think Harris Ames was psychotic, so sitting in the passenger seat I didn’t bother listening to him—instead I just watched his hands to make sure he didn’t pull out a knife or a cup of his urine.
We were around Chicago when Harris Ames started asking if we brought the books. I said yes, and explained that they belonged to the recently departed Hank Gradowski. Harris said he must have been a very intelligent man, and I said I’m pretty sure he was. Harris asked how he came across his system, and I told him there wasn’t a system. Harris said sure there wasn’t, and then tried to elbow me without letting go of the steering wheel. Harris asked if I would read from the books. So I read: “HALLELUJAH union scabs union scabs sing in the choir Trouble AHEAD?????”
I’m not sure what Harris was expecting, but he started to get real uneasy. He asked me to read from another part, and I read, “The measurement of a dolphin’s skeleton can’t be done with forceps and the blood of the damned.” Harris got real pale. I thought I should read him the part where he mentions me, but I didn’t want to share that. Harris asked me one more time to read from another section, and I said, “There's a Scylla in the palm of my hand and he's fed from the wheels of the children cry cry cry children of the waterlily mister man WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE???????????”
At first I thought Harris had a stroke. Then, after swallowing like a hundred times and pulling at his collar, he asked what the big idea was. What were these books? I explained to him that they belonged to Hank Gradowski, who had recently died of mad cow disease. Harris looked at me for a real long time, and I was afraid he was going to drive us into the back of a semi. Sammy piped in and said, “We thought he might have written us a code in the midst of his madness,” and Boyce then said, “or corrected his journal as a ghost from beyond the grave." Harris immediately hit the brakes and pulled off on the shoulder. He wouldn’t look at us and just kept screaming, “Get out of my car. Get the hell out of my car.” We got out real slowly because there were a lot of cars and trucks whizzing by. I told Harris this was no place to leave us, and he said, “You bunch of idiots. I’m sorry boys, but you’re all idiots. Here, take it.” And he threw us a whole bunch of cash he got out of the console. He didn’t say goodbye. He just screamed that if I told anybody about this before he did, he'd come take away my manhood. Then he screamed like a really fat man getting a tooth pulled and pulled back onto the interstate, ran over the median, and went the opposite direction. For a second his car was spinning its wheels in the grass of the median, but Harris was so angry I think he screamed his car into not getting stuck.
Boyce, Sammy, and I walked a couple miles to the nearest exit, and from there rented a car to get back home. The money Harris gave us was more than enough to pay for the car, so we actually came out in the positive. Sammy and Boyce also got something new to make fun of me for. Plus, I learned something: the next time someone wants to take you to an expensive sporting event in exchange for your gambling system, make sure they know that your system comes from the crippled scribblings of a recently deceased man suffering from major neurological decay.
Of course, we never got to the Packers game. That’s okay, though, since I would have just wanted to talk to Rachel about it. Besides, I don’t think I could stand to see Bart Farve in The Minnesotas' blue.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Life in These Weekends, Part I
It was two weekends ago that we went to the Indian casino in order to win enough for Hank’s gravestone. Boyce and Sammy were armed with Hank’s two journals, determined that they had found a code. We agreed to split the night between roulette and blackjack, beginning with roulette. I asked them how the journals would know when the games were switching, and they both told me that any code written about the future, or altered from beyond the grave, could anticipate a switch in tables.
Surprisingly, Boyce and Sammy didn’t attract immediate attention at the roulette table with the journals. They appeared to be reading both the previous number as well as how other people were betting. They’d scan the table, then seemingly flip randomly through the journal pages. After whispering over one another’s shoulders as though they were counting money on their laps, they’d produce a number. It was always one number. I explained to them that this was madness, a waste of their (and my) money, and then Sammy said that’s exactly the way someone like Hank would have wanted it.
Their bets were wrong, of course. I think this is why the dealer didn’t care they had illegal materials at the table. Every time they bet they lost and their pile dwindled. My own pile was staying steady with a minimal growth, but in a few more bets Boyce and Sammy would have nothing. Then Boyce said, “Let’s do it. Right now, let’s do it. Do you feel it?” “I couldn’t be happier,” Sammy said. “I feel it, too.” Still wanting to show some subtlety, they slid the journal to me and pointed at a page. What I saw made my chest cave in a bit. The only time I’d ever felt that before was when I saw an injured bird in the grass with a neighborhood cat slowly approaching it. When it was only feet from the disabled bird, other birds began swooping down from the tree tops to attack the cat. The cat tried to fight back for a moment, then realized better and sprinted away. Some of these avenging angels returned to the treetops as though scouting for more predators, while others created a perimeter around the disabled bird. Most amazing was these birds were all of different species. It would be spectacular enough to see birds defending their own kind. Here, though, it was warblers and robins and buntings and grosbeaks all defending a meadowlark. When I saw it I sat down on the grass and felt like there wasn’t time anymore. That’s how I felt when I saw written in Hank’s journal “0 Cyrus 0.”
At first I didn’t know what I was so thrilled about: being in Hank’s journal, or having what may be a real code. I thought of Rachel a lot right then, like I couldn’t see straight. “Double zero or single,” Boyce asked me. “Which does it mean?” I didn’t even hesitate. Single zero. They put their entire pile onto single zero. I didn’t bet. I couldn’t see straight and wanted Rachel to come walking in the door. The dealer spun the wheel and dropped the ball in. Sammy said, “Single zero, right? Single not double.” I nodded, and felt like I was going to throw up. The dealer said all bets in. And it came up red 32. We watched the dealer take away all of Boyce and Sammy’s money. Typically, Sammy said, “At least it wasn’t double zero. That would have been tough.”
They told me it was up to me to win money for Hank’s gravestone, and as the dealer opened the table, I pushed all my money onto single zero. They both asked what I was doing. Sammy pleaded with me, saying, “There’s no code. I saw your name with a zero next to it—maybe it’s the letter o. There’s no code, Cyrus.” He was talking frantically and Boyce had stood up and took my shoulder and told the dealer not to take my bet. I squiggled my shoulders and told the dealer to take the bet. “There’s no code,” Sammy said again. Not only the size of the bet, but the altercation between the three of us was attracting a crowd. Even a man with a cowboy hat came over to see. Generally, people with cowboy hats are very focused.
As Boyce and Sammy kept trying to push me away, I didn’t say anything to them. I told the dealer to ignore them and keep the bet. “There’s no code! Cyrus, we were having a good time. This isn’t your bet!” I knew it wasn’t my bet, though. I didn’t think I was going to win. I just didn’t care. My head still hurt bad from seeing my name in Hank’s journal, and I couldn’t see straight for wanting Rachel to come in through the doors. The dealer dropped the ball and Boyce, really angry, said, “Cyrus, stop it.” But I didn’t, and the dealer said no more bets. Everything got real quiet. I could hear the sound of the casino, I could feel Boyce and Sammy holding their breath, but all I really thought about was my name 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 and maybe it was the letter o, and he was calling out to me the way I call out to Rachel. And then there was a loud crash in my head, and I felt my body whipping back and forth. It was Sammy and Boyce: they were shaking me as the whole crowd was screaming. It came up single zero.
Boyce pulled me off my stool and flung me around in his arms like a rag doll. Sammy kept trying to kiss me on the cheek and laughed hysterically, screaming, “My god! My god! My god!” Everyone was clapping and the dealer was smiling real big. An official had to come unlock a table because the winnings were so big. I watched him real distantly though, like when I woke up after that time my dad let me have a few drinks. So I didn’t mind when that official, with long black hair in a ponytail, came up to us with two security guards and said, “Come with us.”
Boyce and Sammy knew exactly what it was about. The journal. They immediately went into their persuasion mode. This is absurd, though. Persuading casino security is like persuading a wall. They did convince them to leave me out of this for a moment, and Boyce and Sammy walked off with the official. I sat back at the table with all my winnings piled in front of me, but I didn’t make any bets. The dealer didn’t mind though. He smiled at me and you could tell he felt real fine about what happened.
That’s when the guy in the cowboy hat came up to me and told me that this was his single favorite moment in a casino. He said he’d like to get to know me and my friends, maybe have that little crib sheet rub off on him too. He asked me if I could tell him what was in the book, and that even if the casino wouldn’t let me keep the winnings, he’d like to know how we did it. He said he’d like to help us if we could help him. I told him we could use three tickets to see Green Bay versus Minnesota. He laughed real loud, like people in cowboy hats do. Then he said he’d make it four.
That’s when Boyce and Sammy came back. The man in the cowboy hat took a step backward and let us talk. He saw the journals were still in Sammy’s hand, so he was licking his chops. Right behind them were the security guards who leaned over me and took all my winnings, leaving me with what I had before the magical bet. I didn’t even flinch, though. Some of the crowd that was still there moaned and booed, but I didn’t do anything. Then Sammy opened one of the journals and gave me a check that was written out to Artisan Monuments in the amount of 1,700 dollars. It was enough for a granite headstone and engraving for Hank. Sammy said they weren’t going to get the winnings, but the head casino director believed in ghosts, believed in noble things, and apparently “believed in crazy shit too, because he cut us this check.” It was about 3,000 dollars less than my winnings, but I didn’t mind. I hugged Sammy and Boyce. Then I told them we’re going to Green Bay to see Bart Farve play. The guy in the cowboy hat made a funny face, but then he smiled real wide and licked his chops again.
But I’m tired, especially after what happened this past weekend, so I’ll finish later…
Surprisingly, Boyce and Sammy didn’t attract immediate attention at the roulette table with the journals. They appeared to be reading both the previous number as well as how other people were betting. They’d scan the table, then seemingly flip randomly through the journal pages. After whispering over one another’s shoulders as though they were counting money on their laps, they’d produce a number. It was always one number. I explained to them that this was madness, a waste of their (and my) money, and then Sammy said that’s exactly the way someone like Hank would have wanted it.
Their bets were wrong, of course. I think this is why the dealer didn’t care they had illegal materials at the table. Every time they bet they lost and their pile dwindled. My own pile was staying steady with a minimal growth, but in a few more bets Boyce and Sammy would have nothing. Then Boyce said, “Let’s do it. Right now, let’s do it. Do you feel it?” “I couldn’t be happier,” Sammy said. “I feel it, too.” Still wanting to show some subtlety, they slid the journal to me and pointed at a page. What I saw made my chest cave in a bit. The only time I’d ever felt that before was when I saw an injured bird in the grass with a neighborhood cat slowly approaching it. When it was only feet from the disabled bird, other birds began swooping down from the tree tops to attack the cat. The cat tried to fight back for a moment, then realized better and sprinted away. Some of these avenging angels returned to the treetops as though scouting for more predators, while others created a perimeter around the disabled bird. Most amazing was these birds were all of different species. It would be spectacular enough to see birds defending their own kind. Here, though, it was warblers and robins and buntings and grosbeaks all defending a meadowlark. When I saw it I sat down on the grass and felt like there wasn’t time anymore. That’s how I felt when I saw written in Hank’s journal “0 Cyrus 0.”
At first I didn’t know what I was so thrilled about: being in Hank’s journal, or having what may be a real code. I thought of Rachel a lot right then, like I couldn’t see straight. “Double zero or single,” Boyce asked me. “Which does it mean?” I didn’t even hesitate. Single zero. They put their entire pile onto single zero. I didn’t bet. I couldn’t see straight and wanted Rachel to come walking in the door. The dealer spun the wheel and dropped the ball in. Sammy said, “Single zero, right? Single not double.” I nodded, and felt like I was going to throw up. The dealer said all bets in. And it came up red 32. We watched the dealer take away all of Boyce and Sammy’s money. Typically, Sammy said, “At least it wasn’t double zero. That would have been tough.”
They told me it was up to me to win money for Hank’s gravestone, and as the dealer opened the table, I pushed all my money onto single zero. They both asked what I was doing. Sammy pleaded with me, saying, “There’s no code. I saw your name with a zero next to it—maybe it’s the letter o. There’s no code, Cyrus.” He was talking frantically and Boyce had stood up and took my shoulder and told the dealer not to take my bet. I squiggled my shoulders and told the dealer to take the bet. “There’s no code,” Sammy said again. Not only the size of the bet, but the altercation between the three of us was attracting a crowd. Even a man with a cowboy hat came over to see. Generally, people with cowboy hats are very focused.
As Boyce and Sammy kept trying to push me away, I didn’t say anything to them. I told the dealer to ignore them and keep the bet. “There’s no code! Cyrus, we were having a good time. This isn’t your bet!” I knew it wasn’t my bet, though. I didn’t think I was going to win. I just didn’t care. My head still hurt bad from seeing my name in Hank’s journal, and I couldn’t see straight for wanting Rachel to come in through the doors. The dealer dropped the ball and Boyce, really angry, said, “Cyrus, stop it.” But I didn’t, and the dealer said no more bets. Everything got real quiet. I could hear the sound of the casino, I could feel Boyce and Sammy holding their breath, but all I really thought about was my name 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 and maybe it was the letter o, and he was calling out to me the way I call out to Rachel. And then there was a loud crash in my head, and I felt my body whipping back and forth. It was Sammy and Boyce: they were shaking me as the whole crowd was screaming. It came up single zero.
Boyce pulled me off my stool and flung me around in his arms like a rag doll. Sammy kept trying to kiss me on the cheek and laughed hysterically, screaming, “My god! My god! My god!” Everyone was clapping and the dealer was smiling real big. An official had to come unlock a table because the winnings were so big. I watched him real distantly though, like when I woke up after that time my dad let me have a few drinks. So I didn’t mind when that official, with long black hair in a ponytail, came up to us with two security guards and said, “Come with us.”
Boyce and Sammy knew exactly what it was about. The journal. They immediately went into their persuasion mode. This is absurd, though. Persuading casino security is like persuading a wall. They did convince them to leave me out of this for a moment, and Boyce and Sammy walked off with the official. I sat back at the table with all my winnings piled in front of me, but I didn’t make any bets. The dealer didn’t mind though. He smiled at me and you could tell he felt real fine about what happened.
That’s when the guy in the cowboy hat came up to me and told me that this was his single favorite moment in a casino. He said he’d like to get to know me and my friends, maybe have that little crib sheet rub off on him too. He asked me if I could tell him what was in the book, and that even if the casino wouldn’t let me keep the winnings, he’d like to know how we did it. He said he’d like to help us if we could help him. I told him we could use three tickets to see Green Bay versus Minnesota. He laughed real loud, like people in cowboy hats do. Then he said he’d make it four.
That’s when Boyce and Sammy came back. The man in the cowboy hat took a step backward and let us talk. He saw the journals were still in Sammy’s hand, so he was licking his chops. Right behind them were the security guards who leaned over me and took all my winnings, leaving me with what I had before the magical bet. I didn’t even flinch, though. Some of the crowd that was still there moaned and booed, but I didn’t do anything. Then Sammy opened one of the journals and gave me a check that was written out to Artisan Monuments in the amount of 1,700 dollars. It was enough for a granite headstone and engraving for Hank. Sammy said they weren’t going to get the winnings, but the head casino director believed in ghosts, believed in noble things, and apparently “believed in crazy shit too, because he cut us this check.” It was about 3,000 dollars less than my winnings, but I didn’t mind. I hugged Sammy and Boyce. Then I told them we’re going to Green Bay to see Bart Farve play. The guy in the cowboy hat made a funny face, but then he smiled real wide and licked his chops again.
But I’m tired, especially after what happened this past weekend, so I’ll finish later…
Friday, October 30, 2009
Dream Interpretation
I know I should have written earlier in the week about what happened at the Indian casino in a bid to win money for Hank's gravestone, but I gave my word to a major player in last weekend's events that nothing would be written until after Halloween weekend, when "everything would be complete." Boyce assured this major player that no one would read what I wrote before or after Halloween weekend. I nevertheless remain true to my word.
Therefore, in the meantime I have been asked to interpret a dream. Problematically, I have not met the dreamer, which always makes dream interpretation difficult. Sometimes a cigar is a cigar, and sometimes it most definitely is not. Knowing the dreamer certainly helps. The dream was given to me by a third party, however, and I have agreed to interpret the following. All sophomoric grammar errors belong to the dreamer.
Therefore, in the meantime I have been asked to interpret a dream. Problematically, I have not met the dreamer, which always makes dream interpretation difficult. Sometimes a cigar is a cigar, and sometimes it most definitely is not. Knowing the dreamer certainly helps. The dream was given to me by a third party, however, and I have agreed to interpret the following. All sophomoric grammar errors belong to the dreamer.
the first dream starts out with me and a few friends driving in two separate cars to a log cabin in the woods. the driver of my car is my brothers' girlfriend kelsey. we get to the cabin and arent really doing anything when the people in the other car get mad at the people in our car. all of a sudden the mood becomes chilled to immediate fright. the people from the other car become very hostile so the people from my car run away from the cabin. kelsey gets in the drivers seat and takes off with the other car right on our tales. we take a left out of the drive way and it turns from a wooded road to open meadows. we pass a few indian reservations. finaly we stop at one to try to find shelter and protection. we meet the indians and they hide us in a small house. we hear the other car drive in and start wrecking the place trying to find us. right before they reach our little hut i wake up
now i go back to sleep later that night and the dream starts over. we drive back to the cabin with my brothers girlfriend driving the car. the cabin gets even more hostile this time. ( remember we are all friends so there is logically no reason to be furious to the point of wanting death) so this time as me and kelsey and my friend cameron and allie are running to the car kelsey throws the keys of her car to cameron and we take off with him driving while allie is in the back seat and kelsey apparently gets taken by the angry mob. as cameron speeds out of the driveway i yell for him to take a left as we had done last time but he swerves right. this time we got a little more of a head start and the other car was not directly behind us. so as we are driving we never see the car behind us. we are still freaking out though. we are not sure if they are on another road watching us or if we just cant see them but they know exactly where we are. this road also changes from woods but is now really hilly. we start talking about where we should go for shelter. we talk about going to our houses but we know we are unsafe there. so i said we should go stay at the church where my mom works. we decide to do that but are very uncertain about it. right before we get to the church i wake up.
Although I have not met this person, this is what the dream means.
the first dream starts out with me and a few friends driving in two separate cars to a log cabin in the woods. the driver of my car is my brothers' girlfriend kelsey. we get to the cabin and arent really doing anything when the people in the other car get mad at the people in our car. all of a sudden the mood becomes chilled to immediate fright. the people from the other car become very hostile so the people from my car run away from the cabin. kelsey gets in the drivers seat and takes off with the other car right on our tales.
One thing here is clearly important: identity. It's no coincidence the dreamer is going to the woods with his brother's girlfriend, the only named figure. This doesn't necessarily suggest the dreamer actually wants to have his brother's girlfriend. What it does mean, however, is that he is betraying or desires to betray his brother. Whether this is in a romantic context or not can't be known. Note the fact that the identities of those in the other car are obscured. This could mean they were obscured in the dream, or that the dreamer is obscuring them out of shame in his telling of the dream. Either way, his brother is a part of the other car. Note the person who drives away the escape car is Kelsey herself, the symbolic object of betrayal.
we take a left out of the drive way and it turns from a wooded road to open meadows. we pass a few indian reservations. finaly we stop at one to try to find shelter and protection. we meet the indians and they hide us in a small house. we hear the other car drive in and start wrecking the place trying to find us. right before they reach our little hut i wake up
Indian reservations could mean a variety of things. They could symbolize disgrace or gambling opportunities. Given the clear betrayal from the first part of the dream, the Indian reservations represent the unfair dealings between the natives and whites in previous centuries. The dreamer's subconscious is trying to make the betrayal of his brother known in the dream by putting him into the bosom of the betrayed. Of course, his betrayal of his brother only leads to more betrayal--the huts are destroyed despite the fact that the natives were trying to help. Betrayal is a cancer, and the dreamer knows it.
now i go back to sleep later that night and the dream starts over. we drive back to the cabin with my brothers girlfriend driving the car. the cabin gets even more hostile this time. ( remember we are all friends so there is logically no reason to be furious to the point of wanting death)
This is comical. Despite the dreamer's subconscious explaining the betrayal, he still can't imagine why there is hostility. The bell tolls for thee!
so this time as me and kelsey and my friend cameron and allie are running to the car kelsey throws the keys of her car to cameron and we take off with him driving while allie is in the back seat and kelsey apparently gets taken by the angry mob
This is an emotional fact of life. Once you betray someone, ridding yourself of the object of betrayal does not return things to normal. The removal of Kelsey is simply too little and too late. Also, one can always interpret the dream, but one can interpret the telling of the dream here as well. Subconsciously the dream-teller is trying to distract me from his original betrayal by only now giving names to the rest of the people in the car. Both the riddance of the object of betrayal and the distraction through name-giving are attempts to alleviate the original guilt of the dreamer, both within the dream and in the telling of it.
as cameron speeds out of the driveway i yell for him to take a left as we had done last time but he swerves right. this time we got a little more of a head start and the other car was not directly behind us. so as we are driving we never see the car behind us. we are still freaking out though. we are not sure if they are on another road watching us or if we just cant see them but they know exactly where we are. this road also changes from woods but is now really hilly. we start talking about where we should go for shelter. we talk about going to our houses but we know we are unsafe there. so i said we should go stay at the church where my mom works. we decide to do that but are very uncertain about it. right before we get to the church i wake up.
"We talk about going to our houses but we know we are unsafe there." Do you think? It's your brother you betrayed! The fact that his mother works at a church is irrelevant. What's important is that both mothers and churches are figures of authority, and the dreamer desires to hide under the skirts of both. The dreamer's subconscious will not allow him to have an easy absolution of his crimes, however, thus he wakes before he can get to either authority, suspending him in fear. In the end, the dreamer knows what he's done or is contemplating doing, and his moral center will not allow a childish escape by crying to authority. The subconscious is demanding that he give up the betrayal like a man.
No doubt the dreamer will disagree with my interpretation. There is nothing new about that. Dreamers rarely like being told about the things they repress, which is often the subject of dreams. Very seldom does a dream mean something positive. That well is long poisoned with the fears and guilt of the townspeople.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Finding a Code
What can you make of this excerpt from Hank's journal?
YOUUUU AND WHOSE ARMY???? What a luster shine that is I don’t think I can stop moaning. sleep sleep sleepsleep sleep sleep? Robin?? In a museum in an Atlanta way back in a corner somewhere. The here is now woe is me judgment day. Where is Bulkerson? Bulkaninni? We needed Bulkington. Trouble ahead. Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep. It’s an alarm Tat Nurner. Reuben, live happily ever after. King Barlo is a liar… sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep. Fight.
Sammy is at his best. He said he’s never been so dedicated to cracking a code in his life. But when I asked him if he even thought there was a code, he said, “Now what would that matter?”
Thus far he can’t decide if the words themselves are the code, or the letters are the code. He gave me the above excerpt and told me to try my best. I looked at it for a while, then said Hank was a smart man, and I didn’t know him very long, but I miss him. Sammy squeezed my forearm and said he was sorry for my pain—but that's positively not what the journal means.
He’s given excerpts to Boyce, but he’s pretty sure Boyce is just passing them on to Charlotte. Sammy doesn’t mind though, since he’s sure if anyone can crack this code it’s Charlotte. Maybe my uncle's old friends could crack the code, since they're generally saying a lot of things that don't make any sense to anyone. If I had more time I would go out to my uncle's grave and write some of Hank's words on the tombstone. Maybe someone would write back, "Put it all on double zero!"
I'm sure Sammy doesn't think there is a code, but just to relieve his frustration he ordered a few Russian mail-order bride catalogs for Dr. Keegman's office. He ordered all of us one, too. He said it's like a fire extinguisher--every home should have one.
I'm not convinced anyone is reading this blog, but I told Sammy I would give a direct request to any readers to try to come up with a code from the above passage of Hank's journal.
YOUUUU AND WHOSE ARMY???? What a luster shine that is I don’t think I can stop moaning. sleep sleep sleep
Sammy is at his best. He said he’s never been so dedicated to cracking a code in his life. But when I asked him if he even thought there was a code, he said, “Now what would that matter?”
Thus far he can’t decide if the words themselves are the code, or the letters are the code. He gave me the above excerpt and told me to try my best. I looked at it for a while, then said Hank was a smart man, and I didn’t know him very long, but I miss him. Sammy squeezed my forearm and said he was sorry for my pain—but that's positively not what the journal means.
He’s given excerpts to Boyce, but he’s pretty sure Boyce is just passing them on to Charlotte. Sammy doesn’t mind though, since he’s sure if anyone can crack this code it’s Charlotte. Maybe my uncle's old friends could crack the code, since they're generally saying a lot of things that don't make any sense to anyone. If I had more time I would go out to my uncle's grave and write some of Hank's words on the tombstone. Maybe someone would write back, "Put it all on double zero!"
I'm sure Sammy doesn't think there is a code, but just to relieve his frustration he ordered a few Russian mail-order bride catalogs for Dr. Keegman's office. He ordered all of us one, too. He said it's like a fire extinguisher--every home should have one.
I'm not convinced anyone is reading this blog, but I told Sammy I would give a direct request to any readers to try to come up with a code from the above passage of Hank's journal.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Gambling Codes and Ghosts
I received the following response to my earlier email regarding headstones for Hank.
When I told Sammy and Boyce that we needed to head to the casino again, Sammy said he had a brilliant idea for how to place our bets. We never ended up burning Hank's journals, and Sammy took them home. He said he's convinced that Hank put a code into his journals from beyond the grave, and if we could just figure out that code, then we would know how to bet. Both Boyce and I pointed out that this would assume either: a) Hank wrote the journals knowing what we would do with them, and knowing how the numbers would come up whenever we bet, or b) Hank is going to change the journals from beyond the grave to fit what is going to happen before we place our bets.
Point of order, Sammy said. There are other options as well: c) Hank's hand was moved by none other than God himself, who existing outside of time knew what would happen at the casino, d) one of the unknown consequences of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is to see through time, e) visitors from other dimensions, charmed by our lives, felt like helping us out and exchanged Hank's journals with ones that will align with the numbers that come up.
At this point Boyce was convinced there were at least fifteen more possibilities, and said: f) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, would make the numbers come up to fit whatever code we come up with, g) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, tells us to forget gambling in the first place and directs us to a treasure chest in the trunk of the brand new Mustang he made for us that runs on the sound of Led Zeppelin music.
By this time I was so agitated I threatened with going to the casino alone. Neither wanted that, so we came to the compromise that I would bet using my system, and Hank and Boyce would bet with their system according to whatever code they find in Hank's journals (I agreed to provide one-third of their seed money). All winnings would go to Hank's tombstone. We also agreed that if the "ghost code" made more money than I did, we would include some variation of, "Thanks for the ghost code, Hank!" on the headstone.
I once asked Rachel about ghosts, and she didn't have much to say about them. She said, "How am I supposed to know that ghosts are real when I can't even convince myself other people are real?" Sometimes she said weird things like that, but she would say it smiling. I don't believe in ghosts, though. In fact, I don't think Sammy believes in them either. I think he just wants to try to have a story to tell people, so he's going to try to find a code in Hank's journals. Boyce believes in them, because he believes Charlotte. I gave Charlotte all those bird songs to write out as music, and it took her about a year to do. When she got to the blue jay though, she told me that after her mother died she kept seeing several blue jays together, either on a branch or in the grass or on a fence. She said those blue jays were her mother telling her not to feel alone. I told her she might as well say that the fence was her mother. But then Boyce got upset at me and said, "When is the last time you saw a bunch of blue jays hang out together?" And I had to say that I'd never seen that.
If I were to believe in ghosts, however, I do appreciate them appearing in bird form. If I came back as a ghost, I certainly wouldn't choose a translucent, wavy version of myself. I'd be a Great-Horned Owl. And when people saw me they would say, "Oh my god, it's an owl! I thought it was a ghost." But I wouldn't say, "I am a ghost. It's me, Cyrus!" Instead, I'd just fly away, because I'm an owl and I don't really care whether they know I'm Cyrus or not. I got flying to do.
Mr. Winterbee,They didn't say anything I wanted to hear. I was hoping to get an email that went, "What charming questions, Mr. Wetherbee. May we offer you a 50% discount on a headstone?" That means I don't have enough money to get Hank a decent headstone. That means a-gambling we must go.
Thank you for your inquiry. In regards to the sinking of the headstone, that’s really dependent on weight. The granite headstone is heavier. We do not recommend putting a headstone where it is likely to sink. As to your second question, yes you can bury ashes where you like so long as you are not trespassing. Finally, we don’t recommend putting a headstone on property not assigned for the purpose, or on property you do not own.
When I told Sammy and Boyce that we needed to head to the casino again, Sammy said he had a brilliant idea for how to place our bets. We never ended up burning Hank's journals, and Sammy took them home. He said he's convinced that Hank put a code into his journals from beyond the grave, and if we could just figure out that code, then we would know how to bet. Both Boyce and I pointed out that this would assume either: a) Hank wrote the journals knowing what we would do with them, and knowing how the numbers would come up whenever we bet, or b) Hank is going to change the journals from beyond the grave to fit what is going to happen before we place our bets.
Point of order, Sammy said. There are other options as well: c) Hank's hand was moved by none other than God himself, who existing outside of time knew what would happen at the casino, d) one of the unknown consequences of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is to see through time, e) visitors from other dimensions, charmed by our lives, felt like helping us out and exchanged Hank's journals with ones that will align with the numbers that come up.
At this point Boyce was convinced there were at least fifteen more possibilities, and said: f) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, would make the numbers come up to fit whatever code we come up with, g) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, tells us to forget gambling in the first place and directs us to a treasure chest in the trunk of the brand new Mustang he made for us that runs on the sound of Led Zeppelin music.
By this time I was so agitated I threatened with going to the casino alone. Neither wanted that, so we came to the compromise that I would bet using my system, and Hank and Boyce would bet with their system according to whatever code they find in Hank's journals (I agreed to provide one-third of their seed money). All winnings would go to Hank's tombstone. We also agreed that if the "ghost code" made more money than I did, we would include some variation of, "Thanks for the ghost code, Hank!" on the headstone.
I once asked Rachel about ghosts, and she didn't have much to say about them. She said, "How am I supposed to know that ghosts are real when I can't even convince myself other people are real?" Sometimes she said weird things like that, but she would say it smiling. I don't believe in ghosts, though. In fact, I don't think Sammy believes in them either. I think he just wants to try to have a story to tell people, so he's going to try to find a code in Hank's journals. Boyce believes in them, because he believes Charlotte. I gave Charlotte all those bird songs to write out as music, and it took her about a year to do. When she got to the blue jay though, she told me that after her mother died she kept seeing several blue jays together, either on a branch or in the grass or on a fence. She said those blue jays were her mother telling her not to feel alone. I told her she might as well say that the fence was her mother. But then Boyce got upset at me and said, "When is the last time you saw a bunch of blue jays hang out together?" And I had to say that I'd never seen that.
If I were to believe in ghosts, however, I do appreciate them appearing in bird form. If I came back as a ghost, I certainly wouldn't choose a translucent, wavy version of myself. I'd be a Great-Horned Owl. And when people saw me they would say, "Oh my god, it's an owl! I thought it was a ghost." But I wouldn't say, "I am a ghost. It's me, Cyrus!" Instead, I'd just fly away, because I'm an owl and I don't really care whether they know I'm Cyrus or not. I got flying to do.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Sammy Has a Dream
After yesterday's dinner rush, Sammy took a break from Arby's and brought me a dream he'd written down from the previous morning:
some family and i were hiking in montana. tried to get the world cup finals to come in at camp, moving rabbit ears and stuff. soon after finally getting the game, i was transported to being IN the game! played defender. the teams weren't countries... more like combinations of random people. the other team's goalie was the patriot and brewer samuel adams (and behind the corner kick flag he was keeping, and refreshing, his players with a huge wine stockpile). as the tie game neared the end, our team was given a penalty kick. the crowd was like a million strong i thought. cameras flashing all the bit. our penalty hitter hit the crossbar as the crowd gasped but i followed it in as samuel adams lay dejected. i knew that scene i was in would be the cover of all magazines. but i had to go play defense for the last 6:11 on the clock. the field morphed into somewhat of a hotel conference room look. i and some pirate were guarding a closet like goal. with about two and a half to go i swung and missed at a ball heading across our goal and the pirate was so disoriented by my miss he picked up the ball with his hands (penalty kick!). they tied it up and we went to overtime. during this time, the pirate and i were sneaking wine from samuel adam's stash. then, after a long time, we saw a little pop up tent type goal for them that was supposed to be manned by little bo peep (she was INSIDE the tent) was open and a teammate knocked it in, setting off a less that exhilarating win (were there still fans there?). i woke up.
An impressive dream by Sammy. No doubt he wanted, as he wants all his dreams, to mean, "You will be a professional athlete and everyone will marvel at all the smart writers you quote in your interviews."
Unfortunately, this is what I had for him:
As usual, the real interpretation to come from all dreams: maybe everyone else is as unstable as me.
some family and i were hiking in montana. tried to get the world cup finals to come in at camp, moving rabbit ears and stuff. soon after finally getting the game, i was transported to being IN the game! played defender. the teams weren't countries... more like combinations of random people. the other team's goalie was the patriot and brewer samuel adams (and behind the corner kick flag he was keeping, and refreshing, his players with a huge wine stockpile). as the tie game neared the end, our team was given a penalty kick. the crowd was like a million strong i thought. cameras flashing all the bit. our penalty hitter hit the crossbar as the crowd gasped but i followed it in as samuel adams lay dejected. i knew that scene i was in would be the cover of all magazines. but i had to go play defense for the last 6:11 on the clock. the field morphed into somewhat of a hotel conference room look. i and some pirate were guarding a closet like goal. with about two and a half to go i swung and missed at a ball heading across our goal and the pirate was so disoriented by my miss he picked up the ball with his hands (penalty kick!). they tied it up and we went to overtime. during this time, the pirate and i were sneaking wine from samuel adam's stash. then, after a long time, we saw a little pop up tent type goal for them that was supposed to be manned by little bo peep (she was INSIDE the tent) was open and a teammate knocked it in, setting off a less that exhilarating win (were there still fans there?). i woke up.
An impressive dream by Sammy. No doubt he wanted, as he wants all his dreams, to mean, "You will be a professional athlete and everyone will marvel at all the smart writers you quote in your interviews."
Unfortunately, this is what I had for him:
some family and i were hiking in montana. tried to get the world cup finals to come in at camp, moving rabbit ears and stuff. soon after finally getting the game, i was transported to being IN the game!This is most likely due to Sammy's feelings of inadequacy toward electronics and other masculine things. He attempts to fix the television in a very masculine environment (Montana mountains) with people we all must impress (family). Yet, some part of him admits that he doesn't know how to fix things, and this is performed through his mixture of “fixing” and “getting sucked into t.v.”
played defender. the teams weren't countries... more like combinations of random people. the other team's goalie was the patriot and brewer samuel adams (and behind the corner kick flag he was keeping, and refreshing, his players with a huge wine stockpile).Note here the lack of geography. He started in Montana, then warped to another location. Then note the non-geographic players in the game. Yet he does have Samuel Adams, who obviously represents the East Coast. He is the only person here clearly from somewhere: Sammy came from Montana via a television, the players have no countries, and a pirate, by definition, is without country. Samuel Adams also represents the past. Given Sammy's constant harping on his ancestor Charles Brockden Brown, as well as his family background from New England, as well as the fact that he and Samuel Adams have the same name, I believe Samuel Adams is another Sammy in the dream.
as the tie game neared the end, our team was given a penalty kick. the crowd was like a million strong i thought. cameras flashing all the bit. our penalty hitter hit the crossbar as the crowd gasped but i followed it in as samuel adams lay dejected. i knew that scene i was in would be the cover of all magazines. but i had to go play defense for the last 6:11 on the clock.Theoretically he has a wonderful moment here. But theoretically I married Rachel and we live in a bird sanctuary, and call a modest pagoda made of $100 chips our house. His wonderful moment comes against himself, what we will call the Samuel-Adams-Sammy. This Samuel-Adams-Sammy is who he wishes he could be, as is evidenced by his “life-giver” role by giving out wine. Samuel Adams may have been a brewer, but wine in dreams is an archetype for reproduction and immortality. Even Sammy's dream knows this victory against the other team is hollow, as seen in the fact that the game is still over, and eventually goes to overtime.
the field morphed into somewhat of a hotel conference room look. i and some pirate were guarding a closet like goal. with about two and a half to go i swung and missed at a ball heading across our goal and the pirate was so disoriented by my miss he picked up the ball with his hands (penalty kick!). they tied it up and we went to overtime.Again, note the lack of geography. Even the playing field has been upturned, which is to say in this battle between Sammy and the Samuel-Adams-Sammy, he feels lost. The pirate is the ultimate nomad here, and he’s playing on Sammy's side, and he helps let in the goal against the self Sammy wishes he was, that is the Samuel-Adams-Sammy team.
during this time, the pirate and i were sneaking wine from samuel adam's stash. then, after a long time, we saw a little pop up tent type goal for them that was supposed to be manned by little bo peep (she was INSIDE the tent) was open and a teammate knocked it in, setting off a less that exhilarating win (were there still fans there?). i woke up.Part of Sammy's mind realizes he wants Samuel-Adams-Sammy to win. He is, after all, drinking from the latter's live-giving preserves. Thus Sammy and the pirate give up the goal. However, another part of him must battle this Samuel-Adams-Sammy, perhaps for the faux-masculine reasons that began the dream. Sammy's mind then comes to a compromise. He won’t let Samuel-Adams-Sammy win, nor will he let himself beat him. What he can destroy, in a kind of rage, is the most “real” Sammy Clifton: the little child who is scared and hiding about something he knows he’s lost (in his case, honesty, in her case, a rogue sheep). This also explains the “less than exhilirating win,” because, how could it be anything else? In the end Sammy didn’t even know what he wanted, so he chose to self-loathe.
As usual, the real interpretation to come from all dreams: maybe everyone else is as unstable as me.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Marker for Hank
This morning I sent the following email to a headstone company. I will let you know any details when I receive an answer.
Dear Artisan Memorials,
I am hoping you can answer a few questions. First, I see the bronze headstone is more expensive than the granite. However, which is more likely to sink into the ground if the area around the headstone is moist and prone to puddling? Second, I understand you cannot bury a body just anywhere. But I assume it is not illegal to bury ashes anywhere. So in a situation where a person was cremated, but then the subsequent owner of those ashes wanted to see the person buried, can you bury the ashes any place you like, since it's essentially burying dust and debris? Third, if I can just bury the ashes anywhere, could I also put the headstone there as well? I understand that if one doesn't own the land the rightful landowner could remove or destroy the headstone, though we can probably all admit that would be a jerk thing to do.
Thank you.
Cyrus Wetherbee
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
#8
Boyce called me at 4:33 in the morning last night. He sounded like Ernie laughing and every time he tried to speak he just started laughing again. He finally had the composure to ask how many times I was punched in junior high and high school. I said, "You know good and well. Eleven times. You were the first." And then he burst into laughter again. Then, after he told me to "Wait...wait...wait...wait..." he finally asked me the name of the kid who punched me in the stomach in the bathroom. I told him, "Jeremiah Rawlson," and Boyce laughed like Ernie, and told me to tell him the story again.
Jeremiah Rawlson would go to the school bathroom in order to have a bowel movement nearly every single day. He did this, however, in between classes when the hallways were filled, like some kind of sociopath, in one of the busiest bathrooms in the school. Once, he walked out of the stall and I told him, "You know, what you're doing is one of the most private things a person does. Don't you even want to do it when people are in class?" He just sneered and ignored me. Then, one day he walked out of the stall while I was washing my hands, and I said, "Given the choice, Jeremiah, even a dog wants privacy." Jeremiah punched me in the stomach. I half fell into the trash can, but eventually rolled under the sink to catch my breath.
Boyce laughed through the whole story, and when I finished he told me I was the best and then hung up the phone. It was 4:36.
Jeremiah Rawlson would go to the school bathroom in order to have a bowel movement nearly every single day. He did this, however, in between classes when the hallways were filled, like some kind of sociopath, in one of the busiest bathrooms in the school. Once, he walked out of the stall and I told him, "You know, what you're doing is one of the most private things a person does. Don't you even want to do it when people are in class?" He just sneered and ignored me. Then, one day he walked out of the stall while I was washing my hands, and I said, "Given the choice, Jeremiah, even a dog wants privacy." Jeremiah punched me in the stomach. I half fell into the trash can, but eventually rolled under the sink to catch my breath.
Boyce laughed through the whole story, and when I finished he told me I was the best and then hung up the phone. It was 4:36.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Hank's Burial
It wasn’t until we all got together in Boyce’s van that we realized we had no idea where we were going to scatter Hank’s ashes. The only place I ever saw him was at the Sleep Center and the hospital, and Boyce pointed out that he didn’t even know the color of the man’s eyes. Sammy said they’re a brownish-gray, and shook the box a little.
We went to a park to dump the ashes there, but there were a whole bunch of teenagers around and I didn’t want them to roll on him while having sex. Boyce was obsessed with the idea of blowing a handful of Hank’s ashes in someone’s eyes, so he kept suggesting we go to a bad area of town to try to get mugged. None of us really knew how Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease works, but since it’s like mad cow disease, we were afraid someone else might get it if we threw Hank into someone’s eyes, or put him in their coffee, or sent him to Dr. Keegman's office in a jack-in-the-box. So we kept driving, and once we stopped to eat at a diner. Hank sat next to me.
Sammy and Boyce said what we did with Hank was up to me, and I said that I didn’t like the idea of scattering him anywhere. I liked to visit graves and talk to the headstones. When I first told that to Rachel she said there wasn’t anything more human than needing to talk to the deceased, and since death didn’t sting anymore I should go ahead and talk to my father. Well, in Hank’s case, his brain liquefied so it’s hard to say if there was a sting or any kind of pain, but I still wanted him to be buried somewhere. Sammy said that if my mother was buried at a Ruby Tuesday’s, maybe we could bury Hank at a T.G.I.Friday's. I said Hank was better than that, so Boyce said Applebee’s. But I said Hank was better than any restaurant lawn, and he was going to be buried some place nice.
I don’t know any place nice, so we went instead to the Roger Malvin Country Club which is also a bird sanctuary. There are sandhill cranes there, along with a whole bunch of ducks, and some mergansers, too, all because of the water on some of the holes. Once I went there to see the birds but got kicked out by a marshal who drove around in a golf cart. He asked where my clubs were, so I asked him the same thing. He said he was there working, and I told him the same. Then he told me to get the hell out of there, and I told him to do the same. Then we stared at each other for a long time because he didn’t know what to do. Later, a man who sold beer from the back of a golf cart came by and warned me the police were coming, so he gave me a ride out of there.
One of the greens at Roger Malvin had some woods on one side of it and a marsh on the other side. We took Hank’s ashes there and buried them real deep a few yards inside the woods. Then we went and sat on the green. It’s October so they didn’t turn on the sprinklers, and we had a nice view of Hank’s gravestone we made out of rocks, as well as the marsh on the other side.
It didn’t take long before we heard a night heron in the marsh. Boyce and Sammy were quiet so I could listen to him. I told them he was hunting. We wondered if some animal dug up Hank’s ashes and ate them if it would go crazy. Sammy said since Hank hallucinated about robins, maybe a robin would hallucinate about Hank. Probably though the earthworms would eat Hank’s ashes, and then the robin would eat the earthworms, therefore it’s hard to tell if the robin would hallucinate about Hank, earthworms, or something else entirely. We all agreed that the next time we saw a bird fly into a window we’d all think of Hank Gradowski.
Eventually the night heron found something to eat, and I promised I’d come back to Hole 14 with a better tombstone for Hank.
We went to a park to dump the ashes there, but there were a whole bunch of teenagers around and I didn’t want them to roll on him while having sex. Boyce was obsessed with the idea of blowing a handful of Hank’s ashes in someone’s eyes, so he kept suggesting we go to a bad area of town to try to get mugged. None of us really knew how Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease works, but since it’s like mad cow disease, we were afraid someone else might get it if we threw Hank into someone’s eyes, or put him in their coffee, or sent him to Dr. Keegman's office in a jack-in-the-box. So we kept driving, and once we stopped to eat at a diner. Hank sat next to me.
Sammy and Boyce said what we did with Hank was up to me, and I said that I didn’t like the idea of scattering him anywhere. I liked to visit graves and talk to the headstones. When I first told that to Rachel she said there wasn’t anything more human than needing to talk to the deceased, and since death didn’t sting anymore I should go ahead and talk to my father. Well, in Hank’s case, his brain liquefied so it’s hard to say if there was a sting or any kind of pain, but I still wanted him to be buried somewhere. Sammy said that if my mother was buried at a Ruby Tuesday’s, maybe we could bury Hank at a T.G.I.Friday's. I said Hank was better than that, so Boyce said Applebee’s. But I said Hank was better than any restaurant lawn, and he was going to be buried some place nice.
I don’t know any place nice, so we went instead to the Roger Malvin Country Club which is also a bird sanctuary. There are sandhill cranes there, along with a whole bunch of ducks, and some mergansers, too, all because of the water on some of the holes. Once I went there to see the birds but got kicked out by a marshal who drove around in a golf cart. He asked where my clubs were, so I asked him the same thing. He said he was there working, and I told him the same. Then he told me to get the hell out of there, and I told him to do the same. Then we stared at each other for a long time because he didn’t know what to do. Later, a man who sold beer from the back of a golf cart came by and warned me the police were coming, so he gave me a ride out of there.
One of the greens at Roger Malvin had some woods on one side of it and a marsh on the other side. We took Hank’s ashes there and buried them real deep a few yards inside the woods. Then we went and sat on the green. It’s October so they didn’t turn on the sprinklers, and we had a nice view of Hank’s gravestone we made out of rocks, as well as the marsh on the other side.
It didn’t take long before we heard a night heron in the marsh. Boyce and Sammy were quiet so I could listen to him. I told them he was hunting. We wondered if some animal dug up Hank’s ashes and ate them if it would go crazy. Sammy said since Hank hallucinated about robins, maybe a robin would hallucinate about Hank. Probably though the earthworms would eat Hank’s ashes, and then the robin would eat the earthworms, therefore it’s hard to tell if the robin would hallucinate about Hank, earthworms, or something else entirely. We all agreed that the next time we saw a bird fly into a window we’d all think of Hank Gradowski.Eventually the night heron found something to eat, and I promised I’d come back to Hole 14 with a better tombstone for Hank.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Box of Hank
Nothing ever appeared in the newspaper about Hank's funeral. Then, in the middle of the week, Boyce called and said he and Sammy managed to obtain a few phone numbers for me. They gave me Hank's ex-wife's number, his still-living mother and father's phone number, as well as both sisters.
I called them all up, beginning with his parents. Every time they said the same thing to me: "There is no funeral." I explained at each phone call that this was stupid, and if it was a matter of paying for what food I ate at the services I could do them one better: bring plenty of Arby's for everyone. That pretty much ended the conversation with everyone but Hank's ex-wife. She said, "I know it's stupid. I don't know what's wrong with those people. Wait, what did you just say about Arby's?"
Hank's ex-wife told me that his family decided not to have a funeral with Hank. She told me they cremated him, and she had no idea what they were going to do with the remains. She didn't think they would do anything with them at all. I asked her if she could get them for me then, and she asked me again who I was. Then I asked her again, and she asked me if I was going to do something weird with them. I told her that the last coherent thing Hank said was to apologize to me, and he was my friend, and the least I could do in return is put his remains somewhere. She told me Hank was a good man, that she never thought Hank wasn't a good man, and I told her I know he was.
Last night Hank's ex-wife called me and said she had a whole box of stuff that his family gave her when she went asking for it. She brought it to the Sleep Center since I worked on Saturday, and then I called Boyce and Sammy. We spent some time behind the Sleep Center going through some of Hank's stuff. His remains were in a small box, and we all thought that was weird. Sammy thought it was weird that such a small box could hold a person's remains. Boyce that it was weird that if we dropped it we couldn't tell Hank from the rust on the side of the dumpster. The only thing I thought was weird was that Hank's voice was somewhere in that dust. I didn't mind that his brain and teeth were in there. His voice shouldn't be in there, though.
Other than the small box of his remains, Hank's ex-wife pointed out that there were a couple journals in there, too. We read a couple of his last entries, but they were mainly just jagged, deep marks in the paper with random words like, "Wheel" and "Chariot" and "Martian." Sammy pointed out that among the jagged marks was the word "ROBIN" over and over. It could have been a person's name, but I think Hank was one to appreciate the American Robin even if other people take it for granted. We decided not to go through the journal, but instead to burn it when we get rid of Hank's remains, which we're doing tonight. I'm waiting right now for Boyce to come pick me up. I actually have Hank's little box of voice and lung right here in my lap.
It's been ten minutes since that last sentence.
Ten minutes since that last one. Boyce is late. I don't mind. Boyce and Sammy got Hank's family's phone numbers by calling Rex Tugwell and telling him to go through Hank's file. Rex told them to make me do it instead, but Sammy pointed out that Boyce was, at that moment, stripping bark to gather earwigs. Then Rex got them the numbers. Sammy and Boyce are my friends.
Ten minutes since that last one.
That's, Boyce! Bye, Hank.
I called them all up, beginning with his parents. Every time they said the same thing to me: "There is no funeral." I explained at each phone call that this was stupid, and if it was a matter of paying for what food I ate at the services I could do them one better: bring plenty of Arby's for everyone. That pretty much ended the conversation with everyone but Hank's ex-wife. She said, "I know it's stupid. I don't know what's wrong with those people. Wait, what did you just say about Arby's?"
Hank's ex-wife told me that his family decided not to have a funeral with Hank. She told me they cremated him, and she had no idea what they were going to do with the remains. She didn't think they would do anything with them at all. I asked her if she could get them for me then, and she asked me again who I was. Then I asked her again, and she asked me if I was going to do something weird with them. I told her that the last coherent thing Hank said was to apologize to me, and he was my friend, and the least I could do in return is put his remains somewhere. She told me Hank was a good man, that she never thought Hank wasn't a good man, and I told her I know he was.
Last night Hank's ex-wife called me and said she had a whole box of stuff that his family gave her when she went asking for it. She brought it to the Sleep Center since I worked on Saturday, and then I called Boyce and Sammy. We spent some time behind the Sleep Center going through some of Hank's stuff. His remains were in a small box, and we all thought that was weird. Sammy thought it was weird that such a small box could hold a person's remains. Boyce that it was weird that if we dropped it we couldn't tell Hank from the rust on the side of the dumpster. The only thing I thought was weird was that Hank's voice was somewhere in that dust. I didn't mind that his brain and teeth were in there. His voice shouldn't be in there, though.
Other than the small box of his remains, Hank's ex-wife pointed out that there were a couple journals in there, too. We read a couple of his last entries, but they were mainly just jagged, deep marks in the paper with random words like, "Wheel" and "Chariot" and "Martian." Sammy pointed out that among the jagged marks was the word "ROBIN" over and over. It could have been a person's name, but I think Hank was one to appreciate the American Robin even if other people take it for granted. We decided not to go through the journal, but instead to burn it when we get rid of Hank's remains, which we're doing tonight. I'm waiting right now for Boyce to come pick me up. I actually have Hank's little box of voice and lung right here in my lap.
It's been ten minutes since that last sentence.
Ten minutes since that last one. Boyce is late. I don't mind. Boyce and Sammy got Hank's family's phone numbers by calling Rex Tugwell and telling him to go through Hank's file. Rex told them to make me do it instead, but Sammy pointed out that Boyce was, at that moment, stripping bark to gather earwigs. Then Rex got them the numbers. Sammy and Boyce are my friends.
Ten minutes since that last one.
That's, Boyce! Bye, Hank.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Hank Gradowski (1968-2009)
Hank is dead.
He died Sunday night and I did everything Rachel told me to do for people who are dying, but it didn't help. I am yet to see it work, and though I am not an old man, I have seen too many people die. When I was a little boy and my mother told me to get that "damn dead bird" out of the house, I had already had enough of death. Rachel said sick people like to be read to, and the best thing to read to them is poetry, because it's generally short and you can stop after each poem to see how they're doing. She used to read poetry to sick people, and she said the most unread, hateful person would listen to those poems like it might save them. She said the only people in the world who are convinced they're going to die are poets and sick people. So I took the collection of bird poems Rachel gave to me and read them to Hank. He died anyway.
At first I couldn't see Hank. The nurses asked me who I was, and I told them that I had recently been sketching Hank's hallucinations, and I'd like to update him on their progress. I had all the sketches with me in a tube, and had some pencils too in case Hank had some new ones. After the third time I said it the nurses understood I wasn't playing a joke on them, and they told me Hank was in a coma and he wouldn't be able to speak to me. They said only family could see him, and his family had already visited.
I sat out on the curb of the hospital sidewalk and called Sammy and Boyce. They both came out to meet me at the hospital, and we tried again. Sammy is good at talking people into things, but when he's around Boyce he's even better. Boyce is generally a quiet guy, but when he needs to, he can be really convincing, and the two of them have a great track record of talking people into things. One summer, Boyce and Sammy made it a month never paying for a soda at a restaurant. They just always talked the waitress into floating them something for free. The formula generally goes:
On our way back out through the lobby, however, I saw Randy Bart, who was custodial staff at the Sleep Center years before, and had put in a transfer for the hospital. Randy is nearly seventy years old and very religious, and when I said hello to him he said God bless me for visiting someone. That's when Sammy and Boyce took over, renewed by a new target. In twenty minutes--fifteen of which were given to let Randy talk about the new carpet at his church and his grandkids--we were inside Hank's room. It turns out Randy Bart is adored by the nurses because he doesn't ever complain, so when he vouched for me they agreed to let us see Hank.
I tried reading some poems to Hank, and when I got tired Sammy took over. Hank didn't move though. It's hard to look at a person in a coma and not imagine them suddenly coming out of it, kind of like I can't follow the directions scribbled onto my uncle's grave and not imagine him jumping out of the ground when I stand on his tombstone and scream, "FREE DRINKS FOR THE UNDEAD!"
For a while the three of just talked amongst ourselves, wondering if Hank could hear us. Sammy said his brain is so shot that if he did hear us, he wouldn't know our voices from his own memories. We figured if that were true though, we should just say some great things and maybe Hank would think they happened to him. So for an hour we just told stories to each other about fun things we'd done in our life. We talked about going to Vegas, Atlantic City, Reno, and all those riverboats and Indian reservations. Boyce told the story about when we were in high school and tried to tip over the vending machine for a free coke, but it fell onto Sammy instead. And even though Sammy hurt his ankle real bad being pinned under that thing, when the gym teacher found him he still had the presence of mind to say, "Remember me as a peacemaker." And Sammy told the story about how he got Boyce back for running away when the vending machine fell on him by spelling, "MOVE PLANE, I CAN'T SEE GOD" with bleach on his family's front lawn. And then Boyce told the story about how his family talked for the next ten years about what that was supposed to mean.
None of Hank's machines ever blipped like I hoped they would. I said goodbye to him and that I'd visit him again if I could. But when I called the next day, Sunday, they said Hank was dead. I asked the nurse when the funeral was, and she said she didn't know, that it was up to family, and that I should contact them. I don't know how, though. Sammy has been checking the paper they get at Arby's, but there hasn't been anything there. Boyce told me to just look up his file, but I promised Rachel I'd never do it again. Both Sammy and Boyce think she'd accept this as an exception. Even Charlotte agreed. I won't do it, though.
He died Sunday night and I did everything Rachel told me to do for people who are dying, but it didn't help. I am yet to see it work, and though I am not an old man, I have seen too many people die. When I was a little boy and my mother told me to get that "damn dead bird" out of the house, I had already had enough of death. Rachel said sick people like to be read to, and the best thing to read to them is poetry, because it's generally short and you can stop after each poem to see how they're doing. She used to read poetry to sick people, and she said the most unread, hateful person would listen to those poems like it might save them. She said the only people in the world who are convinced they're going to die are poets and sick people. So I took the collection of bird poems Rachel gave to me and read them to Hank. He died anyway.
At first I couldn't see Hank. The nurses asked me who I was, and I told them that I had recently been sketching Hank's hallucinations, and I'd like to update him on their progress. I had all the sketches with me in a tube, and had some pencils too in case Hank had some new ones. After the third time I said it the nurses understood I wasn't playing a joke on them, and they told me Hank was in a coma and he wouldn't be able to speak to me. They said only family could see him, and his family had already visited.
I sat out on the curb of the hospital sidewalk and called Sammy and Boyce. They both came out to meet me at the hospital, and we tried again. Sammy is good at talking people into things, but when he's around Boyce he's even better. Boyce is generally a quiet guy, but when he needs to, he can be really convincing, and the two of them have a great track record of talking people into things. One summer, Boyce and Sammy made it a month never paying for a soda at a restaurant. They just always talked the waitress into floating them something for free. The formula generally goes:
When we got up to Hank's floor though, the nurses saw me with my tube of hallucination sketches and said, "You and the architect can turn right around. No visitors." Sammy and Boyce didn't even get a chance to start their formula. When reacting against such vehemence, however, they adjust the formula by scrapping all bells and whistles and getting straight to the point. Boyce said, "Look, this is Mr. Gradowski's good friend, and you and I know both know he's not going to live much longer." They would have none of it, though. Family wasn't even allowed at this time of night.a) Be polite, but not too polite. Smile, laugh, and when the seductee speaks lean your head in slightly.
b) Separate yourselves from the unwashed masses. This includes nodding, saying "Really?" and "Seriously?" when the seductee complains, and looking at one another as though to say, "Can you believe this, Boyce?...I cannot, Sammy."
c) Tell a story that resembles any complaint of the seductee. This works especially well if you set up the other person. For instance: "Sammy, didn't that happen to your mom once?"
d) Never make an overt request. Ask with your eyes and awkward pauses that are redeemed through your eye contact and smiles. Always let the seductee feel they are acting graciously out of their own willed kindness, rather than being guilted or seduced into an obligation.
On our way back out through the lobby, however, I saw Randy Bart, who was custodial staff at the Sleep Center years before, and had put in a transfer for the hospital. Randy is nearly seventy years old and very religious, and when I said hello to him he said God bless me for visiting someone. That's when Sammy and Boyce took over, renewed by a new target. In twenty minutes--fifteen of which were given to let Randy talk about the new carpet at his church and his grandkids--we were inside Hank's room. It turns out Randy Bart is adored by the nurses because he doesn't ever complain, so when he vouched for me they agreed to let us see Hank.
I tried reading some poems to Hank, and when I got tired Sammy took over. Hank didn't move though. It's hard to look at a person in a coma and not imagine them suddenly coming out of it, kind of like I can't follow the directions scribbled onto my uncle's grave and not imagine him jumping out of the ground when I stand on his tombstone and scream, "FREE DRINKS FOR THE UNDEAD!"
For a while the three of just talked amongst ourselves, wondering if Hank could hear us. Sammy said his brain is so shot that if he did hear us, he wouldn't know our voices from his own memories. We figured if that were true though, we should just say some great things and maybe Hank would think they happened to him. So for an hour we just told stories to each other about fun things we'd done in our life. We talked about going to Vegas, Atlantic City, Reno, and all those riverboats and Indian reservations. Boyce told the story about when we were in high school and tried to tip over the vending machine for a free coke, but it fell onto Sammy instead. And even though Sammy hurt his ankle real bad being pinned under that thing, when the gym teacher found him he still had the presence of mind to say, "Remember me as a peacemaker." And Sammy told the story about how he got Boyce back for running away when the vending machine fell on him by spelling, "MOVE PLANE, I CAN'T SEE GOD" with bleach on his family's front lawn. And then Boyce told the story about how his family talked for the next ten years about what that was supposed to mean.
None of Hank's machines ever blipped like I hoped they would. I said goodbye to him and that I'd visit him again if I could. But when I called the next day, Sunday, they said Hank was dead. I asked the nurse when the funeral was, and she said she didn't know, that it was up to family, and that I should contact them. I don't know how, though. Sammy has been checking the paper they get at Arby's, but there hasn't been anything there. Boyce told me to just look up his file, but I promised Rachel I'd never do it again. Both Sammy and Boyce think she'd accept this as an exception. Even Charlotte agreed. I won't do it, though.
Friday, October 2, 2009
I Got a Letter
I got the following letter in the mail this morning. I wouldn't generally post a letter on this blog, but seeing how not a single blog reader worried if I was dead a couple weeks ago, I figure it's the same as posting it in my bathroom.
So instead we talked about Hank Gradowski. He was at the Sleep Center last night, and one of the other doctors besides Marcel, Dr. Chesnutt, told me it was the last time Hank would come. Hank is so far gone that there's really nothing the Sleep Center can do for him. Hank is only forty years old, but just in the last two weeks he looks like he's aged twenty years. At some point Hank went to the bathroom, but demanded to go by himself. Things didn't go well in there, and when they dragged him out he was saying, "I'm sorry, Cyrus. I'm so sorry." I tried to tell him that I once messed myself on the floor of an Atlantic City Casino due to a poisoning attempt by an evil cocktail waitress, but the caretakers were snobs and told me to back away for God's sake. The ambulance came to take him away pretty quickly. Dr. Chesnutt said he hadn't said a coherent thing all night. I pointed out to him that Hank apologized to me for the bathroom, but Dr. Chesnutt just said he hoped he doesn't die that way.
I've been working hard to finish all of Hank's hallucination sketches. Having a friend with Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease would have its distinct disadvantages, but the weird stuff they'd tell you would make up for some of it. Hank told me a couple days ago he saw his father as a young man again, and that alone was worth all his problems. I told Hank I'd love to see Rachel again, so maybe I could eat his brain after he dies.
Another advantage of having a friend with Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease is when you say horrifyingly offensive things, they--unlike a certain local bird-watching group--will forget what you say.
Dear Cyrus,
I just wanted to send you a note apologizing for what happened last week in the classroom. Obviously I never intended to keep you and Boyce Jr.'s father from speaking, but given the content of our first speaker, I thought it best to simply stop all talks that day. If you can believe it, it's actually the second straight week someone said something strange to the class.
I would invite you back to the class, but I've indefinitely suspended bringing in outside speakers. I appreciate the fact that you were so willing to teach the kids about birds. I wish I had some way to learn about birds like that!
Sincerely,It's not often I get communication from people, except when I get angry notes in my mailbox which assume I am the owner of the old Camaro that's been parked in front of my house for almost three years (a common one: "DO YOU KNOW THERE'S NO ENGINE?"). I read the letter to Boyce and Sammy. Boyce said he's completely comfortable with me marrying his son's teacher, and Sammy said no one remembers the meal, but everyone remembers the party. When I told them I had no intention of contacting Miss Felton except to inform her of a certain local bird-watching group that I am currently banished from, they both got quiet. Finally, Sammy said it wouldn't be anything disloyal to Rachel to go on a date with Miss Felton. Because they've been my friends for so long, I let Sammy call me a mule and a coward and Boyce remind me she was hot, and because I've been their friend for so long they let me change the subject.
Andrea Felton
So instead we talked about Hank Gradowski. He was at the Sleep Center last night, and one of the other doctors besides Marcel, Dr. Chesnutt, told me it was the last time Hank would come. Hank is so far gone that there's really nothing the Sleep Center can do for him. Hank is only forty years old, but just in the last two weeks he looks like he's aged twenty years. At some point Hank went to the bathroom, but demanded to go by himself. Things didn't go well in there, and when they dragged him out he was saying, "I'm sorry, Cyrus. I'm so sorry." I tried to tell him that I once messed myself on the floor of an Atlantic City Casino due to a poisoning attempt by an evil cocktail waitress, but the caretakers were snobs and told me to back away for God's sake. The ambulance came to take him away pretty quickly. Dr. Chesnutt said he hadn't said a coherent thing all night. I pointed out to him that Hank apologized to me for the bathroom, but Dr. Chesnutt just said he hoped he doesn't die that way.
I've been working hard to finish all of Hank's hallucination sketches. Having a friend with Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease would have its distinct disadvantages, but the weird stuff they'd tell you would make up for some of it. Hank told me a couple days ago he saw his father as a young man again, and that alone was worth all his problems. I told Hank I'd love to see Rachel again, so maybe I could eat his brain after he dies.
Another advantage of having a friend with Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease is when you say horrifyingly offensive things, they--unlike a certain local bird-watching group--will forget what you say.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Hank Gradowski
For the last week everybody at the Sleep Center has been talking about our newest chronic patient, Hank Gradowski. Nobody really told me about him, I just heard his name getting thrown about. When he first introduced himself to me last week I said, “Hank…Hank the Tank…Ka-boom!” He smiled and said that’s right. But when he shuffled away, Rex came up from behind and said, “Nice work, Typhus. He’s dying.” I asked if he was dying from a tank injury, and Rex said I was the biggest idiot he had ever met.
I later found out in the break room thank Hank is not dying from a tank injury (I was then called an idiot again, this time by Marcus, one of the assistant). Instead, Hank Gradowski has Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, which is the polite way of saying human mad cow disease. Marcel tried to explain to me what exactly was happening in Hank’s brain using words like “spongebob encepholopod,” “prius,” and “microscope.” I tuned him out until he said it’s kind of like his brain is liquefying. Hank is slowly losing the ability to fall asleep, which Rex says is going to make Hank go "ape." The Sleep Center is doing what it can for him before he either dies or goes into a coma.
Hank’s a pretty great guy, though. I asked him if he was dreaming when he slept, and he was, and then I told him I’m a good dream interpreter and sketch artist. Hank got excited because, since he has memory loss, he likes to know about the dreams he doesn’t remember. He told one dream about how he went to an underground rodeo with the leader of North Korea, only to find out they went on the wrong day and so instead sat on the ocean and ate Mentos breath mints together. I sketched it for him and he was pretty happy, and told me he’s excited to look at it when the deterioration of his neurons causes his dementia to create further memory loss. That Hank!
He commissioned me to draw as many of his dreams as I possibly can. Last night Marcel and Marcie, an assistant, were working with him, and he told me another dream he had. His speech is pretty slurred so it took a while for me to understand, but it seems Hank was in a fitness center with a whole bunch of identical twins, and he was walking around pouring Pepsi on everyone from a two-liter bottle. I started working on it immediately in the utility closet. Marcel told me that Hank had also told him about a dream involving a book being shot to space that leaked milk on its way to the sun. On the way out with his caretakers Hank whispered to me not to tell anyone, but that he didn’t see those things in his dreams, but when he was awake. I told him I wouldn't tell because sometimes I wish people are around so badly it's almost like they really are there.
Then he said he hopes he starts hallucinating about pretty birds just for me, and I told him that would be awesome. Then I told him if he didn’t hallucinate about birds that would be okay, too. And then I called him "Hank the Tank," because Rex is the one who's an idiot.
I later found out in the break room thank Hank is not dying from a tank injury (I was then called an idiot again, this time by Marcus, one of the assistant). Instead, Hank Gradowski has Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, which is the polite way of saying human mad cow disease. Marcel tried to explain to me what exactly was happening in Hank’s brain using words like “spongebob encepholopod,” “prius,” and “microscope.” I tuned him out until he said it’s kind of like his brain is liquefying. Hank is slowly losing the ability to fall asleep, which Rex says is going to make Hank go "ape." The Sleep Center is doing what it can for him before he either dies or goes into a coma.
Hank’s a pretty great guy, though. I asked him if he was dreaming when he slept, and he was, and then I told him I’m a good dream interpreter and sketch artist. Hank got excited because, since he has memory loss, he likes to know about the dreams he doesn’t remember. He told one dream about how he went to an underground rodeo with the leader of North Korea, only to find out they went on the wrong day and so instead sat on the ocean and ate Mentos breath mints together. I sketched it for him and he was pretty happy, and told me he’s excited to look at it when the deterioration of his neurons causes his dementia to create further memory loss. That Hank!
He commissioned me to draw as many of his dreams as I possibly can. Last night Marcel and Marcie, an assistant, were working with him, and he told me another dream he had. His speech is pretty slurred so it took a while for me to understand, but it seems Hank was in a fitness center with a whole bunch of identical twins, and he was walking around pouring Pepsi on everyone from a two-liter bottle. I started working on it immediately in the utility closet. Marcel told me that Hank had also told him about a dream involving a book being shot to space that leaked milk on its way to the sun. On the way out with his caretakers Hank whispered to me not to tell anyone, but that he didn’t see those things in his dreams, but when he was awake. I told him I wouldn't tell because sometimes I wish people are around so badly it's almost like they really are there.
Then he said he hopes he starts hallucinating about pretty birds just for me, and I told him that would be awesome. Then I told him if he didn’t hallucinate about birds that would be okay, too. And then I called him "Hank the Tank," because Rex is the one who's an idiot.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sammy's Delivery and the Baltimore Oriole
Sammy was irritated that Boyce Jr. didn’t want him to come talk about his ancestor, Charles Brockden Brown. He nevertheless happily agreed to help us order things to Dr. Keegman’s office. In fact, just this morning he called us to say that he’d already hand-delivered six boxes of sandwich buns to the doctor’s office. The receptionist just stared at Sammy when, dressed in his Arby’s uniform, he brought in the boxes for “one Dr. Jonathan Keegman.” The receptionist told him there must be a mistake, but Sammy had an order form all filled out and showed it to her. She told him she didn’t care what the order form said: “What in God’s name would we want with six boxes of buns?” Sammy said it wasn’t his job to judge, and that maybe this Dr. Keegman was planning a rogue potluck, or perhaps he was an agoraphobiac. “Do you know what an agoraphobiac is?” he asked her. She told him to get out, and he agreed to, but refused to take the buns with him: “You’ll just have to dispose of them yourself, ma’am. If I walk out that door with a delivered order I could be fired.” So he stacked the six boxes next to a few patients sitting in the waiting room, and whispered to all of them, “What’s a doctor want with a bunch of expired hamburger buns? Weird, if you ask me.” Then he left.
I think Sammy is the most excited of all to torment Dr. Keegman, and he said he’d research all the things he could find that were payment upon delivery.
Meanwhile, the leaves are falling where I live, and that means it’s autumn, or as my dad would always call it, “The season of remorse.” The recommendation from ol’ Cyrus is to head out and look for some migratory birds while you still can. Just like dad always said, “This might be the last chance you get!” This past
weekend I got a couple good looks at some Baltimore Orioles, one of Rachel’s favorite birds. She once bought me a hat with a Baltimore Oriole on it, but I generally don’t wear it so I just keep it on the top of my coat rack. I don’t want to wear it out and then one day not have a hat Rachel gave me. I know it’s an impossibility, but I still think I’ll get this phone call from her and she’ll say, “Cyrus, come quick and save me! My apartment is on fire!” Then I’ll grab that hat and run over to where she used to live, and say, “I’ll save you, Rachel! Come on, you've got to--what's that? This old thing? I'm not sure where I got it....Are you sure? Maybe you did get it for me...What's that?...Well, I love you, too!”
Note: Since her apartment was a rental it doesn't really matter that it burns down.
I think Sammy is the most excited of all to torment Dr. Keegman, and he said he’d research all the things he could find that were payment upon delivery.
Meanwhile, the leaves are falling where I live, and that means it’s autumn, or as my dad would always call it, “The season of remorse.” The recommendation from ol’ Cyrus is to head out and look for some migratory birds while you still can. Just like dad always said, “This might be the last chance you get!” This past
weekend I got a couple good looks at some Baltimore Orioles, one of Rachel’s favorite birds. She once bought me a hat with a Baltimore Oriole on it, but I generally don’t wear it so I just keep it on the top of my coat rack. I don’t want to wear it out and then one day not have a hat Rachel gave me. I know it’s an impossibility, but I still think I’ll get this phone call from her and she’ll say, “Cyrus, come quick and save me! My apartment is on fire!” Then I’ll grab that hat and run over to where she used to live, and say, “I’ll save you, Rachel! Come on, you've got to--what's that? This old thing? I'm not sure where I got it....Are you sure? Maybe you did get it for me...What's that?...Well, I love you, too!” Note: Since her apartment was a rental it doesn't really matter that it burns down.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Boyce Jr.'s Class
I wish I could type that the talk to the kids went well. I wish I could say that at one point when I spoke about the nesting techniques of the Carolina Wren each little child held their head up to me like baby Ospreys reaching up for digested chum from the mother’s beak. That on our way out Boyce told me I really got to those kids, and three of them were on the elementary school roof wishing they could fly.
None of that happened, though.
I knew Boyce was going to speak to the class too, but I had no idea there was a third speaker. One of the students' uncles named Jonathan Keegman, a well dressed doctor who gave us business cards, sat next to us in the front of the class. When Boyce Jr.’s teacher, Ms. Felton, asked which of us would like to go first, I stayed quiet. I figured the kids would ask so many questions—“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wetherbee, you say the Dark-Eyed Junco’s song is different than the Yellow-Eyed Junco? How so?”—that the others wouldn’t have time to go. Boyce didn’t speak because Boyce didn’t want to speak. So Dr. Keegman said he’d be honored, and then he stood up before the class and asked them if everyone knew what a doctor did.
That’s right, he said. Doctors save lives. For about ten minutes he told stories about saving lives, and he really had the kids going when he told the story about how he saved a puppy’s life when it ate too much cotton candy. He told the kids that the boy who gave that dog cotton candy didn’t know it was bad because he wasn’t a scientist. Scientists, he said, teach us about all kinds of things. He said scientists teach us the truth while what we hear from other people is sometimes just gossip and lies. He said people don’t always mean to tell lies, they just thought they were telling the truth. He asked the kids if they ever had an experience where they found out something they knew was true turned out to be false. I looked over at Ms. Felton and she was kind of nervous that none of the kids were raising their hands, so I raised mine and said, “People thought halcyon birds, or the kingfisher bird, nested on the water, but that’s not possible.” That kind of caught him off-guard though, and he looked back at the kids and asked again.
When none of the kids spoke he gave an example. For instance, he said, let’s say a whole bunch of people told you that something bad really happened. A whole lot of people said it, it must be true, right? “You’d be surprised how many people still think that about the kingfisher,” I said, but again, he was clearly not looking for something from me. So he went on: but what if the only reason they thought the really bad thing happened was because they were taught that—taught that by the supposed victims of that bad thing. And then what if you found out that those supposed victims were using that bad thing that never happened to increase gold and gem prices during economic panics?
That’s when Ms. Felton stood up and shouted for this to stop. I think Boyce had fallen asleep, because his head shot up real quick. Dr. Keegman told her that he didn’t mean anything in particular, but Ms. Felton told him we were out of time, and maybe we should pack things up and leave. Boyce was confused but didn’t really want an explanation so he started to pack his records up. He shouted to Boyce Jr. that he’d see him at home and waited at the doorway for me. Dr. Keegman and I were awkwardly being whisked to the door by Ms. Felton, and Dr. Keegman said, “Freedom of speech, kids! Freedom of speech.” She moved us all into the hallway and slammed the door.
When Boyce and I went to the van I saw something and rushed back to Boyce Jr.’s class. I knocked on the glass but everybody’s head was down. Even Ms. Felton’s. She raised her head and waved me away. I came in anyway and told her that I’d seen an Indigo Bunting nest outside, and I could bring it in. She told me no, and that I should leave. “I’m positive the nest has been left for the fall,” I said. But then she just put her head down again. All the kids were looking at me, and I thought they could all go for an Indigo Bunting nest, so I said, “Do you know, Ms. Felton, they use spider webs to keep the nest together?” And then she told the kids to put their head back down and asked me to leave.
I asked Boyce what happened back there, and he told me he drifted off as soon as the suit started talking. He didn’t want to listen to how great that doctor was, nor think about Boyce listening to how great that doctor was. I told him that we had Dr. Keegman’s business card, so we could start a slow-burn revenge by having things delivered to his office. He thought that was pretty great, so we started brainstorming.
None of that happened, though.
I knew Boyce was going to speak to the class too, but I had no idea there was a third speaker. One of the students' uncles named Jonathan Keegman, a well dressed doctor who gave us business cards, sat next to us in the front of the class. When Boyce Jr.’s teacher, Ms. Felton, asked which of us would like to go first, I stayed quiet. I figured the kids would ask so many questions—“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wetherbee, you say the Dark-Eyed Junco’s song is different than the Yellow-Eyed Junco? How so?”—that the others wouldn’t have time to go. Boyce didn’t speak because Boyce didn’t want to speak. So Dr. Keegman said he’d be honored, and then he stood up before the class and asked them if everyone knew what a doctor did.
That’s right, he said. Doctors save lives. For about ten minutes he told stories about saving lives, and he really had the kids going when he told the story about how he saved a puppy’s life when it ate too much cotton candy. He told the kids that the boy who gave that dog cotton candy didn’t know it was bad because he wasn’t a scientist. Scientists, he said, teach us about all kinds of things. He said scientists teach us the truth while what we hear from other people is sometimes just gossip and lies. He said people don’t always mean to tell lies, they just thought they were telling the truth. He asked the kids if they ever had an experience where they found out something they knew was true turned out to be false. I looked over at Ms. Felton and she was kind of nervous that none of the kids were raising their hands, so I raised mine and said, “People thought halcyon birds, or the kingfisher bird, nested on the water, but that’s not possible.” That kind of caught him off-guard though, and he looked back at the kids and asked again.
When none of the kids spoke he gave an example. For instance, he said, let’s say a whole bunch of people told you that something bad really happened. A whole lot of people said it, it must be true, right? “You’d be surprised how many people still think that about the kingfisher,” I said, but again, he was clearly not looking for something from me. So he went on: but what if the only reason they thought the really bad thing happened was because they were taught that—taught that by the supposed victims of that bad thing. And then what if you found out that those supposed victims were using that bad thing that never happened to increase gold and gem prices during economic panics?
That’s when Ms. Felton stood up and shouted for this to stop. I think Boyce had fallen asleep, because his head shot up real quick. Dr. Keegman told her that he didn’t mean anything in particular, but Ms. Felton told him we were out of time, and maybe we should pack things up and leave. Boyce was confused but didn’t really want an explanation so he started to pack his records up. He shouted to Boyce Jr. that he’d see him at home and waited at the doorway for me. Dr. Keegman and I were awkwardly being whisked to the door by Ms. Felton, and Dr. Keegman said, “Freedom of speech, kids! Freedom of speech.” She moved us all into the hallway and slammed the door.
When Boyce and I went to the van I saw something and rushed back to Boyce Jr.’s class. I knocked on the glass but everybody’s head was down. Even Ms. Felton’s. She raised her head and waved me away. I came in anyway and told her that I’d seen an Indigo Bunting nest outside, and I could bring it in. She told me no, and that I should leave. “I’m positive the nest has been left for the fall,” I said. But then she just put her head down again. All the kids were looking at me, and I thought they could all go for an Indigo Bunting nest, so I said, “Do you know, Ms. Felton, they use spider webs to keep the nest together?” And then she told the kids to put their head back down and asked me to leave.
I asked Boyce what happened back there, and he told me he drifted off as soon as the suit started talking. He didn’t want to listen to how great that doctor was, nor think about Boyce listening to how great that doctor was. I told him that we had Dr. Keegman’s business card, so we could start a slow-burn revenge by having things delivered to his office. He thought that was pretty great, so we started brainstorming.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Charlotte's Chips and That Mexican Woman
Yesterday I rode the bus with Sammy to meet Boyce and Charlotte for lunch at Charlotte’s new favorite Mexican restaurant. Charlotte doesn’t talk very much, but when she’s eating chips and salsa you might as well move to another booth. I’m pretty sure the only reason she wanted Boyce to invite us is so the waiter wouldn’t hesitate in bringing a sixth or seventh basket of chips. One of the saddest I’ve ever seen Charlotte is when we drove past her former favorite restaurant, Senor Frog Wearing A Sombrero and a Bandolier, or something like that. The restaurant had instituted a two-basket limit on chips and salsa, and as we drove by it Boyce forgot, and said, “You want some chips, babe?” She dropped her head; didn’t even bother sobbing. When we stopped at a red light Boyce told us about the restaurant’s new policy, and Sammy demanded we turn around and drive by it again. As we did, Sammy grabbed an old, lukewarm Arby’s coke from the cup holder and heaved it at the restaurant. Thing was, we were in the outside lane, and all he did was heave that paper cup against the driver’s window of the car approaching in the right lane. Needless to say, those two men inside the car were both confused and angry. Boyce is a big man, and Sammy looks like he could get one good shot in, but we were all terrified. Charlotte was in the back seat with me and didn’t even react because she was still thinking about the chips policy. Before we got to the next red light we were frantically trying to figure out what to do. I think out of fear, I shouted, “Ram them! Ram them!” until Boyce told me to shut up. He tried to do a U-turn but traffic just wouldn’t let him. And those men in the car next to us just kept right by our side. When we were forced to stop at a red light, Sammy told us he’ll take care of it. He rolled down the window, leaned out, and shrugged his shoulders as he said, “It happens.” I don’t know what was going on in the lives of those men next to us, but when they saw Sammy do that they burst into laughter. The guy in the passenger seat started trying to rock their car side to side. The driver held down the horn. When the light turned green, Sammy even leaned out to hi-five the driver. When he got back in he said, “Angels among us,” and Boyce explained how awesome they were through a dizzying string of obscene modifiers. I leaned over to Charlotte to say that clearly the chips policy wouldn’t last.
So yesterday we met at a different Mexican restaurant, one much more authentic based on the Western Union signs in the window. As Sammy and I went inside, a Mexican woman in the parking lot began talking to me in Spanish. She tried to communicate with me, but I didn’t understand. She got really excited, and then she walked away.
When we sat down with Boyce and Charlotte Sammy told me that my behavior with that woman was one of the more incredible things he’d ever seen, including those lovely reefer addicts from the coke-throwing incident. According to Sammy, I didn’t even nod my head or squint when she spoke to me in Spanish. I did nothing but stare right at her with a completely blank expression, and this expression did not change no matter how many times she got excited or pointed at different things in the parking lot.
I asked Sammy what he expected, but he ignored me, saying, “That was spectacular. She was trying to bring a street sign to life.” I asked him why he didn’t help her out, and he claimed he was too impressed with “the most brilliant impersonation of death by something that breathes.” I told him that the woman was probably crazy, since I was the last person at the restaurant she should speak to in Spanish. Surely, if she was in danger she would have just walked inside and asked one of the workers. We spent a lot of the lunch talking about different situations that made her speak to me instead of anyone else. We came up with several scenarios that involves car bombs, kidnapping, arson, and prostitution. I was going to say maybe she thought I was good looking, but didn’t because then Charlotte joined in, saying the woman had just lost her son’s dog, so why ask people in the restaurant who had been inside all day. So we raised our glasses to finding the dog. It was a few seconds later when Boyce said, “I bet it was a Chihuahua.”
When we left Sammy said my complete lack of sympathy through body language was inspiring, and he was going to try to make it a week without giving a single courtesy laugh to anyone. Boyce said that was impossible, that especially in his line of duty he wouldn’t make it a day. They wanted to bet, so I placed the odds at 10:1 Sammy fails.
Tomorrow I go to Boyce Jr.’s classroom! Turns out Boyce caved and is going to go in with me to talk about his record collection. He told Boyce Jr. not to tell his teacher that though, so I’m not sure what she’s expecting.
So yesterday we met at a different Mexican restaurant, one much more authentic based on the Western Union signs in the window. As Sammy and I went inside, a Mexican woman in the parking lot began talking to me in Spanish. She tried to communicate with me, but I didn’t understand. She got really excited, and then she walked away.
When we sat down with Boyce and Charlotte Sammy told me that my behavior with that woman was one of the more incredible things he’d ever seen, including those lovely reefer addicts from the coke-throwing incident. According to Sammy, I didn’t even nod my head or squint when she spoke to me in Spanish. I did nothing but stare right at her with a completely blank expression, and this expression did not change no matter how many times she got excited or pointed at different things in the parking lot.
I asked Sammy what he expected, but he ignored me, saying, “That was spectacular. She was trying to bring a street sign to life.” I asked him why he didn’t help her out, and he claimed he was too impressed with “the most brilliant impersonation of death by something that breathes.” I told him that the woman was probably crazy, since I was the last person at the restaurant she should speak to in Spanish. Surely, if she was in danger she would have just walked inside and asked one of the workers. We spent a lot of the lunch talking about different situations that made her speak to me instead of anyone else. We came up with several scenarios that involves car bombs, kidnapping, arson, and prostitution. I was going to say maybe she thought I was good looking, but didn’t because then Charlotte joined in, saying the woman had just lost her son’s dog, so why ask people in the restaurant who had been inside all day. So we raised our glasses to finding the dog. It was a few seconds later when Boyce said, “I bet it was a Chihuahua.”
When we left Sammy said my complete lack of sympathy through body language was inspiring, and he was going to try to make it a week without giving a single courtesy laugh to anyone. Boyce said that was impossible, that especially in his line of duty he wouldn’t make it a day. They wanted to bet, so I placed the odds at 10:1 Sammy fails.
Tomorrow I go to Boyce Jr.’s classroom! Turns out Boyce caved and is going to go in with me to talk about his record collection. He told Boyce Jr. not to tell his teacher that though, so I’m not sure what she’s expecting.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Preparing For the Speech
I already know what the highlight of the week is going to be. It’s not the coming migratory patterns which remind me that just because the Universe is a blind mother who at times offers her teat to us, and at times offers her teat to disease and carnage, doesn’t mean she isn’t beautiful. No, it’s going to talk to an elementary school class about birds.
Last night Sammy and I had dinner at the Lancaster house, and it came to our attention that Boyce Jr. is a whopping eight years old. He started the second grade two weeks ago, and his teacher has made it clear that she would like parents and visitors to come and talk about their work. When Boyce Jr. asked his dad to come in to class Boyce said he’d rather die, and then said, “Look, here’s some metal…buzzzzzzzz…now it’s a key. There you go ma’am. If your boyfriend doesn’t want to heave your keys into traffic anymore, I guess I’ll be going. How’s that class?” If Boyce Jr. wasn’t Boyce’s son he probably would have cried. Instead, Boyce Jr. just made a stabbing motion with his fork and said, “Traffic!”
Sammy told Boyce Jr. he would go in to talk about his ancestor, the writer Charles Brockden Brown. Boyce said he’d rather him come in to say whether it’s true that Arby’s roast beef arrives at the store in liquid form. Boyce Jr. then asked if I would come in and interpret his classmates' dreams for him. I said, “Sure, but you better hope none of your friends are being abused, because if they are, I’ll know.” Then after some consultation with his father, Boyce Jr. asked me if I’d come and talk about birds, and I told him I would be delighted.
At this point in time I am thinking about using scare tactics and analogies about parents who stop loving their children in order to explain to the kids how important it is to stop invasive species of animals and plants from moving in on native bird territory. I will provide them with the harrowing example of The Elf Owl’s loss of habitat, and then paint vivid, realistic portrayals about what would happen to their own internal organs if they were taken away from their family and had only dust and fertilizer to eat.
Below is the outline of my speech:
I. Introduction
a. Birds—why getting high won’t make you one [the anti-drug
part of speech]
II. What makes you not care about endangered birds?
a. Who doesn’t care about you? How does that make you feel?
b. Who do you know is capable of hurting a bird?
III. Invasive Species—The end of the ecosystem…or the world?
a. The effect of Chinese imports and tariffs on birds
b. Hand Puppet Drama: The Story of Mr. Big Farmer and
How He Murdered The Elf Owl and Buried Him
Under a Pile of Corn Syrup and Bank Notes
IV. Conclusion
a. What kind of God would allow this?
V. Q and A
I’ll let you know how it goes!
Last night Sammy and I had dinner at the Lancaster house, and it came to our attention that Boyce Jr. is a whopping eight years old. He started the second grade two weeks ago, and his teacher has made it clear that she would like parents and visitors to come and talk about their work. When Boyce Jr. asked his dad to come in to class Boyce said he’d rather die, and then said, “Look, here’s some metal…buzzzzzzzz…now it’s a key. There you go ma’am. If your boyfriend doesn’t want to heave your keys into traffic anymore, I guess I’ll be going. How’s that class?” If Boyce Jr. wasn’t Boyce’s son he probably would have cried. Instead, Boyce Jr. just made a stabbing motion with his fork and said, “Traffic!”
Sammy told Boyce Jr. he would go in to talk about his ancestor, the writer Charles Brockden Brown. Boyce said he’d rather him come in to say whether it’s true that Arby’s roast beef arrives at the store in liquid form. Boyce Jr. then asked if I would come in and interpret his classmates' dreams for him. I said, “Sure, but you better hope none of your friends are being abused, because if they are, I’ll know.” Then after some consultation with his father, Boyce Jr. asked me if I’d come and talk about birds, and I told him I would be delighted.
At this point in time I am thinking about using scare tactics and analogies about parents who stop loving their children in order to explain to the kids how important it is to stop invasive species of animals and plants from moving in on native bird territory. I will provide them with the harrowing example of The Elf Owl’s loss of habitat, and then paint vivid, realistic portrayals about what would happen to their own internal organs if they were taken away from their family and had only dust and fertilizer to eat.
Below is the outline of my speech:
I. Introduction
a. Birds—why getting high won’t make you one [the anti-drug
part of speech]
II. What makes you not care about endangered birds?
a. Who doesn’t care about you? How does that make you feel?
b. Who do you know is capable of hurting a bird?
III. Invasive Species—The end of the ecosystem…or the world?
a. The effect of Chinese imports and tariffs on birds
b. Hand Puppet Drama: The Story of Mr. Big Farmer and
How He Murdered The Elf Owl and Buried Him
Under a Pile of Corn Syrup and Bank Notes
IV. Conclusion
a. What kind of God would allow this?
V. Q and A
I’ll let you know how it goes!
Friday, September 18, 2009
Cyrus Picks
After telling me how much money he's willing to spend to get me to Lambeau field when Bart Farv returns (see earlier posting), Boyce told me it would only be fair if I pulled my weight by getting informed about the entire football world. To show Boyce my commitment, I am therefore making the following picks.
You might think I was a big sports gambler, but that would be an idiotic thing to think. I do not bet on things that I cannot control. And while I cannot control the spin of the roulette wheel or the roll of the dice, it does allow me to play the odds. In sports, it is proven time and again that supposed "experts" cannot guess at any higher rate than computer programs. That means there is no inside knowledge to aid in sports betting. It is fate. And while that is extremely mouth-watering and oddly makes me fantasize about Rachel lying in a bird's nest, I like to at least have a hand in fate. Therefore, you are just as likely to win in your local "sexual fantasy" football league using my picks as anyone else's.
1. Alabama 45, North Texas 13. North Texas is not really a place name like North Platte, South Dakota. Therefore the fact that it's North Texas rather than Northern Texas is stupid. I have never been to this school, but I imagine it's filled with people who stake their identity on archaic grammatical constructions, rather than learning how to push the ball into the goal zone.
2. Virginia Tech 24, Nebraska 13. In researching Virginia Tech online, there appears to have been a shooting recently. They'll be playing for vengeance against Nebraska, who, according to my internet research, did nothing to stop the shooting from happening.
3. Michigan 45, Eastern Michigan 13. Excited about the fact that Eastern Michigan forms the acronym EMU, I rushed to their web site to see what their mascot was. It is an eagle. This is aggravating for several reasons. First, eagles are endlessly subjected to unoriginal mascotry which turns them from unique animals into pedestrian cartoons. Inexcusable. Second, there are over 60 species of eagle. Exactly which one are you, Eastern Michigan? Or are you claiming that you're all of them? Stupid. And third, Eastern has the opportunity to be the EMU Emus, a wonderfully unique creature (pictured right). Instead, they continued to carve eagles into tiny bits with their rusty Knife of Conformity. Until the change is made, DOWN WITH EASTERN MICHIGAN, AND UP WITH THE EMUS!
4. Florida 40, Tennessee 13. I have not heard of either of these teams, but as Tennessee is irritating to spell, I go with Florida (Note: this is mathematically as good a reason to bet as anything you paid to learn).
5. New England 35, Ohio State 13. Although "The New England Patriots" sound more like a middling soccer team at some snotty prep school, they are nevertheless highly paid professional athletes. Ohio State players, from what I understand, are not paid as much.
6. Green Bay 24, Cincinnati 13. Go Packers!
You might think I was a big sports gambler, but that would be an idiotic thing to think. I do not bet on things that I cannot control. And while I cannot control the spin of the roulette wheel or the roll of the dice, it does allow me to play the odds. In sports, it is proven time and again that supposed "experts" cannot guess at any higher rate than computer programs. That means there is no inside knowledge to aid in sports betting. It is fate. And while that is extremely mouth-watering and oddly makes me fantasize about Rachel lying in a bird's nest, I like to at least have a hand in fate. Therefore, you are just as likely to win in your local "sexual fantasy" football league using my picks as anyone else's.
1. Alabama 45, North Texas 13. North Texas is not really a place name like North Platte, South Dakota. Therefore the fact that it's North Texas rather than Northern Texas is stupid. I have never been to this school, but I imagine it's filled with people who stake their identity on archaic grammatical constructions, rather than learning how to push the ball into the goal zone.
2. Virginia Tech 24, Nebraska 13. In researching Virginia Tech online, there appears to have been a shooting recently. They'll be playing for vengeance against Nebraska, who, according to my internet research, did nothing to stop the shooting from happening.
4. Florida 40, Tennessee 13. I have not heard of either of these teams, but as Tennessee is irritating to spell, I go with Florida (Note: this is mathematically as good a reason to bet as anything you paid to learn).
5. New England 35, Ohio State 13. Although "The New England Patriots" sound more like a middling soccer team at some snotty prep school, they are nevertheless highly paid professional athletes. Ohio State players, from what I understand, are not paid as much.
6. Green Bay 24, Cincinnati 13. Go Packers!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Shocked!, But Right
I always assumed only Sammy and Boyce were reading this. Maybe Charlotte, I thought, and if I really played my cards right I could get Marcel to read it. That's all. Yet knowing this, it is nevertheless disturbing that for over a week I have been silent after writing how a deranged stranger wanted to badly hurt me, and no one even emailed me to see if I'm okay. Sammy and Boyce knew I wasn't dead, but no one out there in cyberspace bothered to check. It makes me think about the funeral director who gave me my mother's ashes (he was unaware of our burial plans, or he would have undoubtedly called the police). He told me, "When they both go you feel like an orphan, no matter how old you are."
Obviously, to those who care, I did not die. I did, however, endure my third recent episode of physical pain. First was the monkey wrestling, then came Rex's car wreck, and now the crazy father. When I went to the Sleep Center for my first shift after the Labor Day trip, I tried to get off the bus a block early and sneak through the back door. That worked, but it turns out the crazy guy had learned I was the janitor, and when I opened the utility closet, he was standing there. In the instant I saw him I thought he was going to deck me. Instead, he poked me with an electric cattle prod. I immediately collapsed and then he shocked me two more times before Marcel heard my boots kicking violently against the wall. When he showed up the crazy man threw the cattle prod at my face, which just seemed really unnecessary.
He sat peacefully in the waiting room with Marcel and a couple other attendants until the police came. They asked me why the man had done this to me. I told them I had never met the man. They asked me if I wanted to hear the man's version. I said yes. The cops said, "His girlfriend is carrying your baby."
I would not have been shocked if the cops had told me the man wanted to kill me "just because." Twice in my life people have told me they would just feel more comfortable if I were dead. I was willing to hear anything, but that his girlfriend was carrying my baby was just too much. When I told Sammy and Boyce the story, Boyce wondered if the man's girlfriend was a starfish. Sammy said that still wouldn't make sense, but it didn't stop them from talking for fifteen minutes about how starfish do and do not reproduce, and for some reason, another five minutes about whether a goat would or would not eat a tin can. ("I'm just saying, the cliche has to come from somewhere." "It would die." "Maybe it would just chew the can, like when it's bored, and then spit it out if it saw a leather boot." "That I could agree to.")
After the cops showed me a picture of the man's girlfriend, I remembered her. She had come to the Sleep Center about a month ago suffering from insomnia. I heard through the wall when she told the attendant that she was a having a dream of a two-headed dragon. When she walked by me in the hallway I told her, "You're pregnant." She asked me if I were serious, as though I'd just informed her that they were towing her car. "Don't assume it's twins. But you're pregnant."
This seemed to explain why the man called his child "my baby." Once the woman verified my obviously true statement, she told him. He wanted her to abort it, but she told him "the psychic at the Sleep Center knew..." and refused to give up the child.
While this explained everything, the cops wanted to know how I knew the woman was pregnant, even when she didn't know. I told them that the woman had dreamed of dragons, which represented three things in dreams: the devil, pregnancy, or the presence of worms somewhere in the dreamer's digestive system. I didn't think it was the first, because I don't believe in the devil. When I once told Rachel that, she said that if I wasn't going to believe in God, I sure as hell better not believe in the devil. "Baby steps," she said. That left pregnancy or the presence of worms. The latter actually works better with insomnia. When I walked out of the utility closet I assumed it was worms, especially when I saw she was a thin woman with a lot of make-up who didn't look particularly educated (which would tell me: worms through lack of cooking food, walking barefoot, or worms through purposeful insertion of tapeworm.). As I got closer, however, she distinctly struck me as a person who would have a complete fool for a boyfriend, one who would certainly not encourage contraception. Therefore, I went with the pregnancy, despite the unusual presence of insomnia.
The police were stunned. I told them it was something I could do often, and when I began to explain to them that really, archetypal images are only the beginning of dream interpretation, they walked away shaking their head.
When I told Boyce and Sammy, they both interrupted to say that--point of order--it shouldn't matter if I believed in the devil, or even if the woman believed in the devil. It still could have been the devil in the dream. It took a few minutes for them to explain exactly why this is so (the starfish/goat conversation had really angered me and threw off my concentration), and I told them I would not make the mistake again.
Anyway, to avoid possible litigation for being assaulted on company property, I got a paid week off. I did some sketches, some bird watching, and some dreaming. I even went on a few calls with Boyce in his locksmith van. If all it takes to get that kind of week is to be shocked with an electric cattle prod, I will begin looking for other potentially parasite-riddled women to eavesdrop on so that I may say, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you are pregnant or in a losing battle with a real or metaphorical evil presence. Possibly both."
Obviously, to those who care, I did not die. I did, however, endure my third recent episode of physical pain. First was the monkey wrestling, then came Rex's car wreck, and now the crazy father. When I went to the Sleep Center for my first shift after the Labor Day trip, I tried to get off the bus a block early and sneak through the back door. That worked, but it turns out the crazy guy had learned I was the janitor, and when I opened the utility closet, he was standing there. In the instant I saw him I thought he was going to deck me. Instead, he poked me with an electric cattle prod. I immediately collapsed and then he shocked me two more times before Marcel heard my boots kicking violently against the wall. When he showed up the crazy man threw the cattle prod at my face, which just seemed really unnecessary.
He sat peacefully in the waiting room with Marcel and a couple other attendants until the police came. They asked me why the man had done this to me. I told them I had never met the man. They asked me if I wanted to hear the man's version. I said yes. The cops said, "His girlfriend is carrying your baby."
I would not have been shocked if the cops had told me the man wanted to kill me "just because." Twice in my life people have told me they would just feel more comfortable if I were dead. I was willing to hear anything, but that his girlfriend was carrying my baby was just too much. When I told Sammy and Boyce the story, Boyce wondered if the man's girlfriend was a starfish. Sammy said that still wouldn't make sense, but it didn't stop them from talking for fifteen minutes about how starfish do and do not reproduce, and for some reason, another five minutes about whether a goat would or would not eat a tin can. ("I'm just saying, the cliche has to come from somewhere." "It would die." "Maybe it would just chew the can, like when it's bored, and then spit it out if it saw a leather boot." "That I could agree to.")
After the cops showed me a picture of the man's girlfriend, I remembered her. She had come to the Sleep Center about a month ago suffering from insomnia. I heard through the wall when she told the attendant that she was a having a dream of a two-headed dragon. When she walked by me in the hallway I told her, "You're pregnant." She asked me if I were serious, as though I'd just informed her that they were towing her car. "Don't assume it's twins. But you're pregnant."
This seemed to explain why the man called his child "my baby." Once the woman verified my obviously true statement, she told him. He wanted her to abort it, but she told him "the psychic at the Sleep Center knew..." and refused to give up the child.
While this explained everything, the cops wanted to know how I knew the woman was pregnant, even when she didn't know. I told them that the woman had dreamed of dragons, which represented three things in dreams: the devil, pregnancy, or the presence of worms somewhere in the dreamer's digestive system. I didn't think it was the first, because I don't believe in the devil. When I once told Rachel that, she said that if I wasn't going to believe in God, I sure as hell better not believe in the devil. "Baby steps," she said. That left pregnancy or the presence of worms. The latter actually works better with insomnia. When I walked out of the utility closet I assumed it was worms, especially when I saw she was a thin woman with a lot of make-up who didn't look particularly educated (which would tell me: worms through lack of cooking food, walking barefoot, or worms through purposeful insertion of tapeworm.). As I got closer, however, she distinctly struck me as a person who would have a complete fool for a boyfriend, one who would certainly not encourage contraception. Therefore, I went with the pregnancy, despite the unusual presence of insomnia.
The police were stunned. I told them it was something I could do often, and when I began to explain to them that really, archetypal images are only the beginning of dream interpretation, they walked away shaking their head.
When I told Boyce and Sammy, they both interrupted to say that--point of order--it shouldn't matter if I believed in the devil, or even if the woman believed in the devil. It still could have been the devil in the dream. It took a few minutes for them to explain exactly why this is so (the starfish/goat conversation had really angered me and threw off my concentration), and I told them I would not make the mistake again.
Anyway, to avoid possible litigation for being assaulted on company property, I got a paid week off. I did some sketches, some bird watching, and some dreaming. I even went on a few calls with Boyce in his locksmith van. If all it takes to get that kind of week is to be shocked with an electric cattle prod, I will begin looking for other potentially parasite-riddled women to eavesdrop on so that I may say, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you are pregnant or in a losing battle with a real or metaphorical evil presence. Possibly both."
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
If Only I Could Write
The annual Labor Day trip is over, and I wish I could spend my time talking about the things I did and, as always, failed to do. But I work tonight, and there's still someone who wants to bite my teeth out of my head waiting for me at the Sleep Center. I have tried to write about the man by my father's grave, Barry, who hangs out at the cemetery because he'd already bought his plot and then lost his house. Now his grave is the only place he owns. Well, owns isn't the right word. He has to hide at dusk when they shut the gates, but he does have a lot of Doritos and sandwiches hidden around the cemetery, so it's kind of like he owns it. Every time I try to write about Barry though, I think about that guy who wants to hang me with barbed wire from the high branch of my burning family tree.
I'd also like to write about the homeless man who hung around Audubon's statue and who wouldn't listen when I told him that loud smells of other creatures keep birds away, and so surely he could find another place to sleep in his own vomit-encrusted military jacket. Every time I write about that man who wouldn't speak to me but instead gave himself splinters by scratching the wood benches, I think of the guy who wants to deliver my colon to the orphanage my children will soon be sent to.
I'd also like to write about how I can't ever get used to the fact that my mother's grave is actually on the property of a Ruby Tuesday's--and the Ruby Tuesday's was there first. When she died she hadn't gotten over the fact that the manager at her local Ruby Tuesday's told her--after she demanded that since she was blind her check should be reduced since half the cost is to put "stupid shit on the walls I can't see anyway"--that maybe she should dine elsewhere. She made us bury her urn in the middle of the night by the flagpole in front on the front door, and people always look at me when I put flowers there and talk to her. Once the hostess came out and asked me if I was alright, but I told her to go to hell because I thought that's what mom would have liked. I'd like to write about all that, but instead I think of the guy who is going to brush his teeth with my ashes and a toothbrush made out of my elbow.
I'd also like to write about my uncle's grave which, other than my father's, makes me the happiest. His drunk friends sometimes hang out around his grave until they are kicked out, but then come back when they're drifting through the state again. They write all over his tombstone, and sometimes it gets washed off, but then they put more messages right back on. This time I went none of his friends were there, but they had recently written on his grave:
"Ask the devil if it's your turn yet"
"Charlie!" (my uncle's name is not Charlie)
"I poured out nine beers here on August 4th"
"Remember [unintelligible] yeah!"
"Wake up, seepy-boy"
"Apollo is a peckerhead"
And someone put the lyrics to a pop song: "Lo! 'tis a gala night / Within the lonesome latter years!"
But I can't really get into all that, because I think of the guy who hasn't eaten for three days just so he has enough room to digest my entire brain.
I'd even like to write about the other graves I saw, and about the whippoorwill that I saw for the second year in a row at the grave I spend the night at. The whippoorwill must have a nest near the grave, and it sang its nocturnal song for the whole night, and that made me so happy I couldn't sleep. But then I think of the guy who wants to clone me and then push my clones into traffic while everyone who ever loved me watches.
I'd also like to write about the homeless man who hung around Audubon's statue and who wouldn't listen when I told him that loud smells of other creatures keep birds away, and so surely he could find another place to sleep in his own vomit-encrusted military jacket. Every time I write about that man who wouldn't speak to me but instead gave himself splinters by scratching the wood benches, I think of the guy who wants to deliver my colon to the orphanage my children will soon be sent to.
I'd also like to write about how I can't ever get used to the fact that my mother's grave is actually on the property of a Ruby Tuesday's--and the Ruby Tuesday's was there first. When she died she hadn't gotten over the fact that the manager at her local Ruby Tuesday's told her--after she demanded that since she was blind her check should be reduced since half the cost is to put "stupid shit on the walls I can't see anyway"--that maybe she should dine elsewhere. She made us bury her urn in the middle of the night by the flagpole in front on the front door, and people always look at me when I put flowers there and talk to her. Once the hostess came out and asked me if I was alright, but I told her to go to hell because I thought that's what mom would have liked. I'd like to write about all that, but instead I think of the guy who is going to brush his teeth with my ashes and a toothbrush made out of my elbow.
I'd also like to write about my uncle's grave which, other than my father's, makes me the happiest. His drunk friends sometimes hang out around his grave until they are kicked out, but then come back when they're drifting through the state again. They write all over his tombstone, and sometimes it gets washed off, but then they put more messages right back on. This time I went none of his friends were there, but they had recently written on his grave:
"Ask the devil if it's your turn yet"
"Charlie!" (my uncle's name is not Charlie)
"I poured out nine beers here on August 4th"
"Remember [unintelligible] yeah!"
"Wake up, seepy-boy"
"Apollo is a peckerhead"
And someone put the lyrics to a pop song: "Lo! 'tis a gala night / Within the lonesome latter years!"
But I can't really get into all that, because I think of the guy who hasn't eaten for three days just so he has enough room to digest my entire brain.
I'd even like to write about the other graves I saw, and about the whippoorwill that I saw for the second year in a row at the grave I spend the night at. The whippoorwill must have a nest near the grave, and it sang its nocturnal song for the whole night, and that made me so happy I couldn't sleep. But then I think of the guy who wants to clone me and then push my clones into traffic while everyone who ever loved me watches.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)