Marty Bulfinch

I am happy to report that Marty Bulfinch is not dead.  Marcel figured this out later Saturday night, but since I’ve gotten the cold shoulder from him I wasn’t made aware.  When I was going on shift last night he was leaving.  I told him I was sorry I didn’t take Marty with us that night, but if I had Virgil would have known something was up.  “You’re my friend,” I said.  “You come first.”  Marcel put his hand on my shoulder in a big, sexy brother kind of way.  He apologized too for not telling me Marty wasn’t dead, even though he’s known since thirty minutes after I left the apartment complex.  Turns out Marty and Virgil came home soon after I left.

As it happened, I guess Virgil telling the dream had an effect on him.  Sitting alone with Marty, both of them staring into their hands, Virgil broke down into tears.  He gushed to Marty that he’d never told anyone that dream in all the years he had it.  He said for twenty years he’s tried to make it to his wife’s grave, but each times he turns around early.  His daughter comes and asks him if he wants to come with her when she goes, but he never can.  Marty told Virgil he’d take him if he wanted, so the two left for the cemetery, which is about forty minutes away.  Once Virgil got to the cemetery he just couldn’t go any further.  He did, however, do what he does every time he fails at getting to the grave—he went to Arby’s—and bought Marty a sandwich for going with him.

I told Marcel that none of this changed the fact that Virgil Ray murdered his wife.  Marcel said I would have the chance to say that to Virgil’s face.  When Marcel apologized to him he said he didn’t know how to help, but could offer a free analysis of Virgil’s sleep just to see how much rest he was getting in a night.  Virgil agreed to come next week.

I don’t know what I’ll say to Virgil when he comes.  I’m not going to apologize since interpreting his dream was not my idea, and the interpretation I made was correct.  I was not wrong when I interpreted my mother was going to go blind three months before she saw the first signs.  Her body “knew” what was happening before the conscious brain did, so it was expressed in a dream.  I was not wrong when I interpreted that Rachel, no matter how much she denied it, wanted to see her brother again.  I was not wrong when I told Charlotte not only would she have a boy, she would name him Boyce Jr.  I was not wrong when I interpreted to my uncle that he would one day die from the substances he put into his body.  Though to be fair, his liver was pickled by the time I was out of diapers.

And I am not wrong now.  Virgil Ray, the bell tolls for thee!

The Night with Virgil

Well, I’m pretty sure Marcel thinks it’s my fault that Marty Bulfinch is dead.  To be fair, I was acting not just out of self-preservation, but Marcel-preservation as well.  If there’s anyone who should appreciate that, you would think it’s him.  But no.  At least the ladies out there appreciate it.  Women of the world: you’re welcome!

The night began with a bus ride over to Marcel’s.  He said they decided to change the location of the poker night from his place to Marty’s.  We went over to Marty’s and helped set up before Virgil came.  I thanked Marty for writing that note and he said he thought the blog was a hilarious bit of irony.  I wasn't sure what he was getting at so I ignored the comment and asked him if he was a good gambler.  He said he wasn’t and had to borrow poker chips and some cards for the night.  But apparently, Virgil was.  When Marty invited him for Saturday night, Virgil started sucking beard hairs in his mouth and getting really excited.  Marty said I must be a good poker player too since I like to gamble so much.  I referred him to the August 4, 2009 posting of The Bird Casino where I listed my rules of gambling.  Marty didn’t say anything for a second, then smiled at me and said I was awesome. 

Virgil came over with a whole caseload of beer and offered it when Marty went to shake his hand.  Marcel was real polite with him and introduced me, but Virgil wandered over to the table and looked like he wanted to sit down.  Before Marty had shut the front door Virgil was taking money out of his pocket. 

We started playing poker right away, and Marcel and Marty both were trying to be really courteous without asking too many questions of Virgil.  Marcel spent a lot of time telling Virgil about me, though he was good enough not to mention the gambling.  Virgil seemed like he might have reached across the table to eat my hands if he thought he had a worthy opponent.

Which he did not.  The three of us were losing money pretty quick, and besides occasionally biting the poker chips like some train robber with gold coins he didn’t even really look at us.  Marcel finally brought up the fact that one of the things I was good at (oh, Marcel!) was interpreting dreams.  Virgil didn’t look up, but Marcel asked me to tell him a story.  So I told him the time in the eighth grade when I was invited, obviously out of pity, to a co-ed birthday party.  Since they were popular white kids they had to act like dancing was fun, so down in the basement everyone was working hard at pretending.  When a slow song came on, Angela Baxter asked me, obviously out of pity, if I’d like to dance.  Worried she might turn it into a production if I said no, I agreed.  I attempted to slow dance with her, though my movement was less dancing and more that of a crude robot being pushed from one side to another by miserable, spoiled rich kids taunting him about why he is unable to feel love.  Clearly sensing my discomfort, Angela nervously laughed and started talking about the dream she had the night before.  She ended with, “I wonder where my mind came up with that stuff?”  So I told her that she’s petrified her parents are getting divorced.  She started to lose her rhythm a bit, so I said, “I can tell you which one you’d rather live with if you like.”  But instead, she burst into tears and ran up the basement stairs.  Word quickly spread.  Needless to say I was not able to leave the party with all my hair.

Virgil was unimpressed with the story and it certainly didn’t lead him to confess his own night terror.  I felt like the moment was getting away from us so I just said, “Virgil, you’ve nearly taken all our money.  Let’s make this interesting.  If I win this next hand you have to tell me whatever nightmare is working you over at night.”  Marcel and Marty stared, I think expecting Virgil to either march out of the apartment or flip the table over.  Instead Virgil stared at me with that massive beard and gray hair, and said, “And what happens if I win?”  I wasn’t sure what to say.  Generally I offer people the opportunity to hurt me in some way since that’s clearly not far from what they most desire.  I was nervous with Virgil though, so I said he could sleep with my wife.  That made Virgil laugh for the first time that night.  He told Marcel to deal only two hands.

As I referenced with Marty, my rules of gambling state that I do not like to compete against another person.  This leaves me blind to strategy when it comes to poker.  The entire night Marcel was surprised at my offers to trade all five of my cards in, or ask another player if they had a card I needed.  For this hand with Virgil I would depend on pure luck, though.  I looked at my cards.  Virgil chuckled at his.  Marcel looked at my cards and advised me with a subtle hand gesture to not do anything.  At the end of the hand, when Virgil laid down his two pair, I laid down a full house. 

Virgil said he should crack my nose for cheating, and I told him I wouldn’t even know where to begin at cheating at poker.  Virgil said "He would," and pointed at Marcel.  “I ought to break both your backs.  You want to know what I’m dreaming at night?  You want to know what you’re hearing?  I’ll tell you, fly boy.”  I believe fly boy was me.  I am not positive, however, since at no time during the night did I mention my interest in pursuing a pilot’s license.  “I come home from work and standing in front of my door is my wife, and she’s been dead some twenty years, you should know.  So she’s standing there, in the clothes I buried her in, and she’s holding all these flowers.  Tons of flowers.  She asks when I’m going to let her come in, and I say that she can come in tomorrow.  It’s always tomorrow.  And then all the flowers just keep getting bigger and bigger and she starts getting buried under them.  Then I suddenly am holding flowers and throw them on top of her.  And she screams ‘I can’t see you anymore! I can’t see you anymore.’  But I just keep putting the flowers on her till she’s gone.”

Marcel, Marty and I were quiet until Virgil said, “Happy now?”  I asked Virgil if I could ask him one question.  He told me to ask it, so I asked what color his wife’s eyes were.  Brown, he said.  I thanked him for all the information, which made him scoff, and then I went to the bathroom.  From the bathroom I frantically scrambled a text message to Marcel that said, “MEET ME IN YOUR CAR!”  When I came out I announced I needed to leave, and Marcel said he’d walk me out.

Virgil said, “What, no interpretation, nancy boy?  You got something for me?  You cheat at cards with this guy and don’t have anything for me?”  I told him I was sorry his wife was dead and I had nothing else for him.  My powers of interpretation couldn't help him.  Marcel and I walked out in silence until we were both in his car.  I told Marcel I wouldn’t talk until he started the car and drove away.  I was stubborn about this, so Marcel, the most anxious and excited I’d ever seen him, drove away from the complex.  He asked me where he was supposed to go, but I just said far away from here.  After driving fifteen minutes he pulled the car into a parking lot and asked me what was happening.  So I told him: “Virgil Ray murdered his wife.”

I thought Marcel’s question was going to be, “How can you possibly know that?” So I said, “You wrote me that he shouted, 'Your eyes!  Hazel!'  But hazel doesn't mean her eye color.  It's his wife’s name!”  This was confusing to Marcel because, 1) This wasn’t proof to him that Virgil was a murderer, and 2) His actual question was, “Why did you leave Marty alone back there?”  He never asked me if I was sure, which I appreciate, though it is shocking from someone with a lot of college degrees.  He turned the car around and took us back to the apartment complex.  I tried to make him understand that I was unselfish to get Marcel himself out of the apartment.  After all, if Virgil was going to kill anyone that night, it was going to be the guy who made him lose the hand.  Generally, in any size room, I’m the one most in danger of being killed.  Then I told Marcel that it was a pretty neat trick with the cards, but he wasn’t listening.

When we got there Marty’s apartment was unlocked and empty.  Virgil’s car wasn’t in the lot.  Marcel told himself not to get excited, that there are a lot of explanations.  I said I’m sure there were, but one thing for sure is that Virgil Ray killed his wife.  Anyway, why would Virgil kill Marty?  Everyone would agree he was a very pleasant host.

It's now Tuesday and I still haven't heard from Marcel.  We haven't shared shifts, and he didn't return my texts.  I thought about calling the police, but Sammy said if my only proof was a dream Virgil had it wouldn't go very far.  I tried to explain that Hazel must be his wife's name, not her eye color, but Sammy was unimpressed.  Whatever.  The guy killed his wife.  And maybe Marty Bulfinch.  But definitely his wife.

A Little About Virgil

Marcel emailed me about Virgil, but then called me to make sure I got it because time is tight.  He and Marty have arranged poker night with Virgil tonight.  Needless to say, I'll report later how it goes.  As for now, here is what Marcel knew about his neighbor.

1. Mid-fifties.  If he's a drinker, possibly mid-forties.  If he moisturizes, possibly mid-sixties.
2. Heavy: beard.  Heavier: eyebrows.  Heaviest: backs of the hands.
3. Very rarely has visitors.  When he does it's a young woman who is dressed very, very elegantly.  Possibly a daughter or a prostitute.
4. Seemingly unemployed based on number of blaring ads in the day for mesothelioma lawsuits.
5. Dress and size lead one to believe his parents were a log cabin and an axe handle.
6. In regards to the night terrors: has them at night but sometimes during the day.  Often times he just wails and moans, but sometimes shouts, "One day, yes!", "No flowers! No flowers!", and "God knows! God knows! God knows!"  Very often he shouts, "Hazel! Your eyes! Hazel!"  Marcel pointed out that although hazel might be the least horrifying eye color, it nevertheless sounds awful in Virgil’s nightmare.
7. Sometimes during nightmares walks about the apartment.  Occasionally goes through drawers.
8. Comes back with Arby’s 3 to 4 times a week.  I therefore asked Sammy if he might know the man.  It’s possible Sammy said, but he small talks with every regular customer.  Although most of his regulars are very hairy and open to escort services, this man doesn’t ring a bell.
9. From their apartments both Marty and Marcel can hear the sound of frying food but never smell food frying.
10. Has never gotten something from his mailbox that he didn't immediately tear into small pieces and shove into his pocket.
11. Has never smiled at Marcel.  That's just not right.  Seriously, you should see this guy.

Hollins Emus Update

Last week, amidst my outrage over Eastern Mennonite University's athletic director refusing to respond to my email, I shifted my allegiance to Hollins University.  Hollins, as Boyce pointed out, has no mascot.  This gives us the opportunity to simply create the Hollins University mascot through grassroots efforts of just pretending that reality is already what we want it to be.  In this case, the Hollins University Emus.

Yet it has recently been pointed out to me that Hollins University is an all-girls school.  With no guys at the school, you would think the ladies could really concentrate on their sport.  Yet, a check of the Old Dominion Athletic Conference standings in Women's Basketball shows that Hollins is an unacceptable 1-17, behind perennial doormat and resident jackass of the conference, Randolph College.

Has the Bird Casino hitched its wagon to the wrong star with Hollins University?  Perhaps.  Is the Bird Casino unable to figure out how to delete old posts that connect it with the school?  Certainly.  This being the case, we remain loyal to the Hollins Emus.  If our godawful attempts at basketball fail, we've always got riding.

Though to be fair, it's entirely possible we're terrible at that, too.  I'm not sure how you win at riding, but here's hoping we've killed a lot of the other teams' horses!

Is there anyone out there who could design t-shirts for the Hollins Emus?  I figure if there were enough people wearing rogue shirts of the Ragin' Emus the school would switch just for the revenue opportunities.

I currently don't have a facebook page, so I'm wondering if anyone out there could start a group called the "Up with The Hollins University Emus!  Down with Eastern Mennonite University!"  If you do, I'll join it!  Though I'd have to have a facebook account.  And if I had an account, I could just make the group myself.  You see how this could go on for some time.

Go Emus!

Mission: Interpretation!

Last night, when the patients were sleeping and I got the Sleep Center cleaned, I went out back and made a small campfire by the dumpster.  Sammy was working that night and said he might join me.  He never did, though after a while Marcel came out.  He asked if he could join me and I told him to pull out one of the folding chairs from behind the dumpster that I keep for Sammy and Boyce.  Marcel is always friendly to me, but he had never joined me out back before, especially in winter.  He generally works during the day because the administrators who schedule him want him to be there when they come visit.  Even the heterosexual men want to be around Marcel so they can feel energized by his stories about sailing around the world.  Everyone wishes they could tell a story that included the line, “He was my friend—I couldn’t just let him drown.” 

Marcel asked me if there were birds out here during winter, and I reminded him about the nesting box I built in one of the trees to get the Great Horned Owl to come, Rachel’s favorite bird.  He said, “You know, I’ve known you for a couple years Cyrus and I’ve never met Rachel.  Are you hiding her from me?”  He figured out he said something he shouldn’t have, so he said, “Sorry, brother,” and for a moment I wished I had once fallen overboard on a boat that Marcel was on.  He asked me if the Great Horned Owl ever came, and I said no, but that there were a couple Eastern Screech Owls living in the box.  We waited for them for ten minutes.

Marcel asked me if I remembered Marty Bulfinch, his neighbor.  Of course, I did.  It was Marty Bulfinch’s note to Marcel wondering what happened to me that got me blogging again after the holidays.  Marcel said that between his apartment and Marty’s lives a man named Virgil Ray.  Marcel and Marty have discussed on several occasions that they both can hear Virgil kicking the walls and having a dream that was clearly terrifying him.  Marcel said neither he nor Marty are close to Virgil, so they haven’t told him they know he is plagued with nightmares.  Marcel asked me, if he figured out a way to bring the subject up with Virgil, if I could help out somehow.  "Even if you don't want to help him," Marcel said, "you can help me get a better night's sleep without Virgil's sobbing."

I told Marcel I wasn’t really in the business of stopping dreams so much as interpreting them.  It’s possible if I interpreted the night terrors to Virgil maybe that will get them to stop. If it’s something buried deep that becomes conscious through interpretation, there may be no more need for his mind to express it through night terror.  Marcel thanked me and put the chair back behind the dumpster, leaving me with the fire.  It wasn’t long until one of the Eastern Screech Owls came back from hunting and perched on its nesting box.  I watched him for a long time and thought about a lot of things.  Eastern Screech Owls mate for life.

This morning Marcel texted me the following:

Having Virgil over this weekend.  Come.  We’ll start talking dreams and get him to talk. 

I don’t know what’s more exciting.  That I’ve got a bona fide mission, or that I’ve got a mission in Marcel’s apartment!  I texted him and asked if it was okay if Sammy and Boyce came, but Marcel said it’s probably better with just a few people.  He said Marty Bulfinch will be there, and they’ll disguise the evening as a poker night.  I texted back and said to email me with all the details he knows about Virgil Ray.  The more I know about this unfortunate man the more I can help with his crippling nightmares.  Plus, a real email from Marcel!

My Hoosiers

Boyce wants me to share one of his new favorite album covers.  It’s a great cover so I was happy to oblige.  On the cover is some kind of statue surrounded by Rooks.  Rooks are a part of the Corvis family which includes Crows, but they aren’t exactly the same as the Crows we have in the United States.

The album cover reminds me of this time when I was a child taking a walk with my father.  Every once in a while he’d let me go on his “tours,” as he called them.  We walked through a path by a creek.  We came to a line of trees and dad told me to look up and see all the European Starlings sitting on the leafless branches.  He said Starlings weren’t native to our area, but in the late 19th century, “like some attacking cancer buried deep in our bones that rises like the hydra to eat our love,” they were introduced from Europe to New York.  Now there are millions here.  My father said, of the bird class, they ranked high on the list of birds he’d like to beat.

We stared at the Starlings for a while and my father asked me if I wondered why these hundreds of birds don’t just swoop down and peck us to death.  I asked him if birds would ever do that, and he said, no, but if they got poisoned they could act real crazy.  Then he pointed to a microwave that someone had heaved into the creek by the trees.

When we got home he asked me if I wanted to watch the movie The Birds.  I told him I had school tomorrow.  He said I didn’t have to go, so I stayed up with him to watch the movie.  When I told Rachel that story she asked me if I didn’t have nightmares that night since it was such a terrifying movie.  Up until then I didn’t even realize it was a horror movie because my father was clearly rooting for the birds.  I’ve always considered it a movie about overcoming obstacles, like Hoosiers.

Valentine's Karaoke and Sammy Finds a Nemesis

This past weekend was Valentine’s Day, and that meant a night out with Sammy, Boyce, and Charlotte.  Ever since the last time I saw Rachel, Sammy and Boyce have taken me out to karaoke on Valentine’s Day.  That doesn’t mean I ever spent a Valentine’s Day with Rachel.  I did once see her through a restaurant window making a toast with some of her girlfriends, but I never got to spend the evening with her.  She would, however, send me inappropriate Valentine cards.  Once she found a box of old Valentines at a garage sale that had Heckle and Jeckle on them.  She was always tickled by those magpies, and she sent me one of them that year.  She wrote in it, “How do you tell the difference between Heckle and Jeckle?”  The answer, at the bottom of the card, was “Jeckle is more chewy.”  It’s not often you find a woman willing to joke about ingesting humanoid cartoon birds, especially when those birds are holding hearts that say “Be Mine.”  Oh, Rachel.

We invited Charlotte to come with us to the sushi bar where the karaoke was going on.  Charlotte likes karaoke and besides she always gives up her Valentine’s Day with Boyce.  Charlotte never sings, though.  Instead, on her blank sheet music she quickly writes the notes of the songs people are singing.  When she goes karaoking, she brings the folder of all the previous songs she’s transcribed.  Then she gets out some new sheets and goes to work.  This weekend though Charlotte got frustrated quickly because people were singing the songs she had already done notation for.  Boyce was proud of her when she said, a little too loudly, “Oh, no one has ever sung this song before,” when a few mildly drunk, unfunny women got up to sing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”  After a few more ordinary karaoke song choices, Charlotte gave up.  She packed up her sheet music, kissed Boyce, and took his van home.  We said we’d get a cab.

As the night went on and we sang a few songs, something odd happened.  Generally, everyone likes Sammy and Sammy likes everyone.  He generally finds something redeeming in people.  Once when we were in high school, I was watching the local news with Sammy and his family.  They put up a mug shot of a serial rapist, and Sammy said, “Piercing eyes.  Truly.”  Even when Sammy hid homemade brochures for the North American Man-Boy Love Association in Dr. Keegman’s office, he did it more out of a lovable anarchy than any dislike for the man.

During the course of karaoke, however, it became clear that Sammy despised the karaoke DJ.  I don’t think it was the man’s on-purpose-messy hair or his tiny pony tail, or even the sport coat with the ironic t-shirt underneath.  It was really the fact that Sammy kept getting his turn skipped.  Boyce and I sang two duets (“Making Love Out of Nothing at All” and “Islands in the Stream”) while Sammy sat and petulantly nursed his drink.  We figured the only way Sammy was going to get up there was a trio, so under Boyce’s name we put in a song.

There are two emotions we want to create in a karaoke crowd.  The first is joy.  We sing songs to make the people stuffing their faces with uncooked fish and barley feel happiness.  But toward the end of the evening, as the pitchers run out and the deep-seated bitterness begins to rise in my belly, I long to make the crowd feel naked alienation.  For instance, we might sing Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” at the beginning of the evening, but by the end I clamor to sing, “Silent Night.”  Nothing brings down the house like singing “Silent Night,” though songs about abortion and suicide work, too.  Rachel always thought it was poignant that “Silent Night” did the same thing to a karaoke crowd that “Hurt” did.  But once she saw me make people at the sushi bar angry and uncomfortable with “Silent Night” she just laughed hysterically and said I was brilliant. 

This weekend, once we hit the alienation stage of the night (and Sammy was definitely wanting to alienate the DJ), we went for a trio with the song “Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat” from the musical Cats.  Sammy came said he’d take lead.  He sang the entire time staring directly at the DJ.   When the song ended Sammy stayed on the stage and started singing, “Once…there was the kid who got into an accident and couldn’t go to school,” because the song he wanted to sing all night was by the Crash Test Dummies.  Then he “accidentally” dropped the mike and walked past the DJ.  When the DJ turned around and watched him, Sammy made an obscene gesture, and said, “Mmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm mmmmmm,” like in the song. 

I was sorry Sammy’s night was ruined, but by the time we got a cab he was smiling.  Even though he tries to like everyone, I think Sammy’s thrilled he has a nemesis.  We don’t know his name though, so Sammy calls him Kip DeJigaboo, for Karaoke Disc Jockey.  I was going to call the sushi bar to get the guy’s name, but Kip DeJigaboo is better than whatever it really is.

Hollins Hoorah!

I still have not received an email back from Dave King, Athletic Director of Eastern Mennonite University, about changing their mascot from the Royal (stupid) to the Emu (daring and original).  Sammy thinks we should boycott the entire school.  He says Mennonites are good at not doing things--the anthem, the pledge, fighting wars, being quick to respond to honest emails--so a boycott would be appropriate.  The problem is, of course, that I was not even aware of the school less than a week ago.  I have unconsciously been boycotting them my entire life.

Nevertheless, Sammy says that colleges get federal money, which means the smallest fraction of the income taxes I pay go to that university.  Therefore on my tax return I have included the following addendum:

Because of my beliefs, I refuse to support the federal funding of Eastern Mennonite University.  Because of the amount of colleges that receive money, I recognize that my contribution to the school is much less than one penny.  However, I refuse to pay even that fraction of a penny.  Therefore I have filed my taxes and demand that one less penny be taken from me (I have rounded up because if I round down the money won't exist).  You will notice, of course, that because I work part time my income tax is actually returned to me.  I don't want to accept that money as it will ruin my symbolic gesture.  Therefore, I demand that the rounded-up penny that would go to Eastern Mennonite University go instead to their hated rival Hollins University.  You will note that I did not choose my penny to go to EMU's other rival, Bridgewater College, because they are the Eagles and you don't even want to get me started about that.  

Boyce pointed out that Hollins University has no mascot.  This is just the opportunity we need!  I will write to Hollins and request they become the Hollins Emus, thus completely sticking it to Eastern Mennonite University.

Down with the Royals!  Let's go Hollins Emus!

#4: The One With the Stairs

Got a “three way” phone call from Sammy and Boyce last night.  They were both sheepishly laughing, so I knew what they wanted.  Which one, I asked.  “The one with the stairs!”  That would be number four: the fourth time I was punched in junior high and high school.

I was a freshman in high school.  It was only the second week or so and I still wasn’t used to the building or the crowds.  One morning I was walking with my head down and imagining my shoes slowly turning to ostrich feet.  The ostrich is the fastest bird on the ground and should have been the one in the cartoon with the coyote.  The fact that in the cartoons a coyote could not catch a roadrunner is absurd.  The Greater Roadrunner can run up to 20 miles per hour.  A coyote can more than double that speed.  Of course, the Greater Roadrunner can also fly, which makes that entire rivalry even more frustrating to endure.  Then again, that cartoon coyote does look malnourished and possibly suffering from several debilitating infections.  Either way, the ostrich can run twice as fast as the Greater Roadrunner, and could simply ram the coyote and send its anemic body twirling into a chasm. 

Anyway, I was imagining my feet turning into those of an ostrich when I ran into this very tall, very attractive senior girl.  Unfortunately, I bumped into her at the top of the staircase and sent her tumbling down the steps to the first landing, where she lay splayed out like the coyote would be if the ostrich rammed it at top speed.  Several things made this unfortunate.  I had just sent one of the most popular girls in school down the stairs in front of a lot of people who secretly resented her, and were thus laughing hysterically.  I also, out of mind-numbing fear, stared at her for a few seconds and then walked back the way I came, leaving her there unattended.  And finally, she was dating Keller Bigsby, potential menace to all shy bird-lovers.

Keller Bigsby was not a bully.  He was above such activities.  But he was like Apollo who you knew, the first time you sneezed wrong, had the ability to put antlers on your head just so he could cut them off with your own sternum.  It wasn’t long before Keller Bigsby found me.  He said, “Did you push my girlfriend down the stairs?”  I should have said no, but I started by explaining about the top speed of the ostrich and how great it would be to run with its legs though you’d probably have to hide your metamorphosis because the government would want to do tests on you.  So he punched me in the stomach real hard, and then when I bent over he swung for my face but hit me in the ear instead.

For the rest of the day I couldn’t hear out of that ear.  My dad had been dead for years so I was living with my mom.  She wasn’t blind yet.  When I asked her if I needed to go to the doctor she said, “Eh, you got your ear boxed.”  That’s how she kept saying it.  Even when I came back to her a couple hours later and said it really hurt, she just said, “Eh, you got your ear boxed.”  She wouldn’t even say, “boxed ear.”  She always said it, “you got your ear boxed." 

If you’re wondering where Sammy and Boyce were, here is your answer: except for a couple times, they don’t get involved in my beatings because they generally happen so spontaneously and quickly.  Boyce and Sammy are generally there for the recovery, though.  This time, however, they went to Keller Bigsby and explained what happened and said that I was currently deaf.  Because Keller wasn’t normally a bully that really freaked him out.  So he picked me up at my house, and I called to my mom, “The guy who beat me up is taking me to the urgent care.”  She said, “Eh, you got your ear boxed,” and went back to her stories on the tv.

Keller Bigsby and I spent three hours together at the urgent care.  He kept looking in my ear canal because he was freaked out about what he did to me.  He asked me why I didn’t just tell him what happened.  I explained that the ostrich feet thing was the prologue to the story, and he didn’t give me a chance.  He said he was sorry, and paid for the urgent care in cash so no one would know I went there.  Turns out my ear wasn’t permanently damaged.  The hearing actually started coming back on our way to the urgent care, but I liked that Keller was worried.  I know he was worried about getting in trouble rather than my ear, but close enough.

When I told all this to Sammy and Boyce—a story they already know very well—they responded by asking me if I wanted to sell my house.  Turns out Boyce was picking up Sammy from work and on their way home they saw a house with a for sale sign.  Keller Bigsby is a realtor.   I said even if Keller is my realtor I didn’t want to sell my house, though if he wanted to get rid of the Camaro in front of it that would be great.

The Emu is the Future!

As you all know, this weekend was the Super Bowl.  The Indians lose to the Saints!  I'm sure it was exciting.  Of course, my Green Bay Packers weren’t involved, but the big game has nevertheless got me thinking a lot about sports.  You may remember that on September 18 of last year I wrote the following scathing commentary about Eastern Michigan University:

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!

Since sports is in the air this weekend, I thought I would write a letter to Eastern Michigan’s athletic director to suggest the mascot change.  To find his email address, I went to the web site www.emu.edu only to find out that this is not Eastern Michigan’s web site, but Eastern Mennonite University’s site.  Alas, neither do they take advantage of being the EMU Emus, but instead are the Emu Royals, which is totally unrelated to birds.  Not wanting to bother finding Eastern Michigan’s web site, I instead emailed the following on Saturday, February 6, 2010 to Dave King, Athletic Director of Eastern Mennonite University.

Dear Mr. King,

My name is Cyrus Wetherbee.  I am a big fan of Eastern Mennonite University athletics, and an even bigger fan for the potential of Eastern Mennonite University athletics.  As you obviously know, the mascot to the university is “The Royals,” depicted as a lion.  May I suggest, however, a change of mascot to the Emus?

The Emu, although flightless like the Ostrich or Southern Cassoway, is nevertheless a noble, beautiful creature.  Originally from Australia, it is now commonly farmed in the United States for eggs and meat.

I believe you depict the “Royal” as a lion due to vague religious connotations to Jesus.  To be fair though, Jesus probably saw as many lions as he did emus.  Also, the emu has more religious connotations than a lion since it is instrumental to the Australian Aboriginal creation myth.

The advantages to the mascot change are multiple.  First, you (dare I say we?) would be the EMU Emus.  People would just love to say that.  To my knowledge, no other organization uses the Emu as a mascot.  Currently Eastern Mennonite University is the Royals, associating this great school with a perennially-failed professional baseball team.  George Brett is the past—the Emu is the future!  Second, because it’s so original a mascot you would have people unassociated with the school wanting to wear our apparel.  This could be a major revenue source for the school.

While I am not personally Mennonite, my friend Sammy Clifton has family that is, and he tells me that you’re pretty much morally obliged to at least hear me out and give my offer some thought.  This is an opportunity we can’t let pass.  If we don’t act now, Eastern Michigan may beat us to the change.  Let me know what you think.  I could get you some sketches of lovable emus or more fierce-looking emus (“Ladies and gentlemen, here are your Fightin’ Emus!”).  I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Cyrus Wetherbee

I’ll let you know what I hear!

Return of the Cyrus

Well, I’m back.  It’s been a few months and I’ve done some things I’m happy about as well as things I’m not very proud of.  But to be fair, that’s true of just about any 3 month period of my life.

As you may remember I left the Bird Casino with a request to interpret my dream (previous post).  Recognizing that only a few people read this blog, I was aghast when I got several interpretations of my dream in my email inbox.  I didn’t know what was more baffling: why strangers would take the time to interpret my dream, or why strangers would take the time to interpret my dream in such hurtful ways?  A small sampling:

-Here’s a better question than what’s your dream mean: why are you still alive?

-I’ve read your dream several times.  The aliens coming from space are a symbol of you having no friends.  Burn in hell.

-Hi Cyrus.  My name is Cyrus, too.  And I’m so ugly people know it from the way I type.  Oh wait, never mind, we’ve  already met because I AM YOU.

-DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-Nice homo dream, homo.

Part of me was excited that so many people wrote.  A larger part of me was depressed.  So I decided to give up The Bird Casino and took to my bathtub and pretty much did nothing but look through ornithology books and listen to New Order albums.  At the holidays I got out of the funk a bit by having Christmas with Boyce and his family.  On Christmas night Sammy came over too, and he and Boyce told me the present they got me.  For the last year I have wanted to go to Central America to see in person the mysterious Resplendent Quetzal bird, and they’d saved up to pay for half of the trip.  After Christmas I told Rex that I needed a few weeks off to get to Central America and go look for the Quetzal bird.  He thought I said, “I need a few weeks off to get to Central America to get hooked on heroin,” so he just laughed and said sure.  I figured that out because when he said sure, he then said, “Can’t wait to see you strung out, Typhus.”  I owe him some shifts, but that’s no big deal.  I like working at the Sleep Center.

So I spent January in Guatemala looking for the Quetzal bird.  It’s a really, really rare bird that used to be a holy bird revered by the Mayans.  I went to look for it in Guatemala but there’s only around 25 still alive there.  So I took a bus to Costa Rica and in San Gerardo de Dota I finally saw the Resplendent Quetzal.  That’s it’s English name.  Resplendent Quetzal.  I was so excited that I got dizzy.  Someone on the tour said if I thought that was great, he knew a guy who sold Quetzales.  I was still feeling down about The Bird Casino, so I told him I’d love to buy a Quetzal.  That night his friend came to the lodge where we all stayed and I had to go down the drive and look in the back of this black van where there were two Quetzal birds in cages.  I said I’d buy them both.  They cost over 4,000 dollars!  I told the guy I only had 300 dollars, but in the morning I could provide the rest of the money.  He made me give him my driver’s license (I refused to give him my passport) so he’d know where to go to break my “spindly woman legs” if I never paid him. 

He gave me both birds and I immediately named them Rachel and Hank.  Then I told the bird seller, “Keeping birds in cages is dumb.  You’re dumb, too.”  Then I released both birds.  I thought the guy was going to have a fit!  He screamed at me, “You think I care what you do with the birds?  You’re paying that money.”  I told him I know that, but it's still a real jerk thing to do to keep birds in cages.  I mean, the word RESPLENDENT is part of the bird's name!  Even the scientist who named it in English said, "This is no ordinary bird.  It's resplendent!"  The bird seller said he didn't care, and that he'd be back in the morning to either have my money or my liver.  So I went back to the lodge, packed my stuff, and got the hell out of there.  I was on a bus back to Guatemala the next morning.  The id I gave him was one of my fake ones with Boyce’s name and a bogus address.  When I got home and told Boyce, he was really excited that somewhere an illegal bird trader is telling someone how much he hates Boyce Lancaster.

So now I’m back home and I’ve visited Hank’s gravestone a few times, and thought about Rachel a lot, and told Boyce and Sammy the story about letting the Quetzal birds go a hundred times.  I still didn’t think I was going to go back to The Bird Casino, but then at work Marcel LeFarge gave me a note he got from Marty Bulfinch, Marcel’s neighbor.  The note said:

“sitting in bed doing a crossword puzzle and i get the clue "barn bird", 3 letters.  hmm... owl?  owls don't live in barns do they?  hmph, if they did surely cyrus wetherbee would've made mention of that fact.  so where is old cyrus anyway?  if my vote counts for anything, i cast it for the return of the wetherbee bird casino.”

Marty Bulfinch, the answer you’re looking for is Owl!  I’m back, baby.

Spencer is Still Nuts, and a Dream

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!

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:

"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

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.

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…

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.

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. 

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 sleep sleep 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.

Gambling Codes and Ghosts

I received the following response to my earlier email regarding headstones for Hank.

Mr. Winterbee,

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.

 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.

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.

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:

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.

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

#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.

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.