The New Sofa

This weekend I was driving through the CD and saw a sofa by the curb and decided to take a look. It was a nice, neutral color, which I like. I hate that cabbage rose and Wedgwood blue shit. The upholstery had a little tear at the back, but only about 4 inches long. And that's the side that faces the wall, so, really, who cares? Really--who? So I called a friend and said, I'll buy you a Coke if you come over with your pickup. He's a real Coke whore, a  real cheap son of a bitch, so getting him to get off his ass, leave his TV for an hour, and drive to the CD was no big deal.

When we got back to my place and parked in the alley behind my building, there was a homeless guy who asked if we needed help unloading and moving the sofa, and I said, sure, dude, I'll give you a Coke. Really, the plan was to just give him a small cup of Coke, because if my friend was doing all that driving and hauling for a full can, it would be pretty unfair and offensive to him to give the homeless guy an entire can of his own. It didn't matter anyway, because the homeless guy said "Fuck you!" when I made the offer, and went off down the alley to look for some sucker who'd give him, I don't know, THREE Cokes or something for moving an ironing board.

We had a hell of a time getting the sofa up the four flights to my apartment. It was really a pain in the ass, and my friend kept saying, "Geez, I could really use a Coke about now," but I wasn't going to let the cow get his milk for free, so I just told him to stop dropping the goddamn sofa every five steps and get moving.
It took awhile to find the perfect spot in my living room. First we put it on the west wall, which has the most space. But it didn't look right there. So I had my friend move it to the east wall, which took him quite awhile, because he had to get it over the top of the old sofa, which we'd moved to the middle of the room to keep out of the way.

But the east wall has all my art on it, and some of the paintings are hung at a level below the back of the sofa. Did I really want to measure the space and plan new nail holes? No. Because I wouldn't just have to move my set of 3 dead game bird still lifes (oils, of course; great detail! I got them at an art show at the airport Red Lion)--I'd have to move every single goddamn painting. In addition, my TV is hung on that wall, surrounded by the art. If I moved the art, I'd have to move the TV, and that means hammering through the plaster in another spot so that TV is partially recessed into the wall as it is now. Have you ever done plaster work? It's a major pain in the ass.

So then I had my friend move it to the south wall, but that's underneath the windows, and I was worried about the upholstery fading. I think I've already said that the upholstery is a really nice neutral color. In my experience, if neutral fades, it look less neutral, and more vibrant. And I hate vibrant. I like colors that resemble things you kind find in nature, like rocks, or dead game birds.

By now he was all "A Coke would be really refreshing about now," and I told him to cool his jets. So I said I'd like to see the sofa against the west wall, and he was all, that's-where-we-had-it-in-the-first-place, and I was all, do-you-want-your-fucking-Coke-or-not, so he lifted the sofa over the old sofa again, and put it on the west wall. It then occurred to me that the west wall was the perfect spot, as a radiator is on that wall, and I can lie on the sofa with my feet at the radiator end and they'll stay nice and toasty.

It was time to try it out. I sat on the sofa, where I could admire my art collection and see the TV. Then I got up, went to the opposite wall, and looked at the new sofa. I couldn't really get a good idea of how it looked with the old sofa in the way, so I had my friend move it to the hallway. That was much better. The sofa looked great! I was pretty satisfied with all our effort.

After my friend took the old sofa down the stairs and put it in the back of his truck to haul to the dump, I opened one of the alley-side windows on my floor to give him his Coke. "Here ya go!" I called out, and tossed him the can. He was tying the old sofa down with ratchet straps, and didn't move fast enough to catch it, so it fell on the concrete and the pop-tab opened. He was able to get to it before all the contents sprayed out though, and put his whole mouth around the can top to suck out the pressure. I've heard that there's less pressure build-up in room temperature soda vs. cold soda, so I think he got nearly three-quarters of a can.

Back in my apartment, I turned on my TV, grabbed couple of throw pillows, and lay down with my feet propped up on the sofa arm next to the radiator. Wow! What a comfortable piece of furniture--and what a deal. I suppose some people might say that I should use a lint roller on the whole thing to get rid of the pet hair, that I should turn over the middle cushion to hide the stain, and that vinegar is good for getting rid of urine odors. To these people I say, "Fuck off," because you can't fix something that ain't broke, and you can't break a free lunch.

How to Work with a Writer

Writers are almost like normal people. To squeeze the most use out of your writer, first consider the importance of describing your project to them. Don't worry—like badminton, the more you do it, the better you'll get. Tell your writer:

• whom the work is for (the target audience)
• the objectives (why it's being written)
• the voice (the CEO? colloquial? formal?)
• the length in words, paragraphs, or pages
• the deadline
• what the high-level outline looks like
• who the additional contributors and/or reviewers are

Getting the most from your writer

You'll get better-quality materials if:

• ...you give succinct feedback (not just "change this," but "rephrase this; the word 'attuned' doesn't work here").
• ...you allow a reasonable deadline. Writers will try to schedule their work, and you'll get a quality job done faster if you give them the time they need.
• ...you understand a little about how writers work, because you'll have a window into their progress on your project. Writers tend to think in terms of deadlines, drafts, and length of the written piece. They break up their time units of interviews, research, writing, editing, and reviews.

Sometimes writers have their own rules

Many writers see no problem with using "they" as a singular pronoun, but will go on a rampage if you use "who" when you should use "whom." Some can't stand "e.g.," and will demand that "for example" be used instead. Find out what these quirks are, and go with the flow.

Writers are individuals

Like snowflakes, grains of sand, and naked pink kangaroo joeys that have not yet left the pocket, all writers are different. Some are literal, some like to write poems using cooked spaghetti in their spare time. The earlier and better you integrate a writer into your project, the more you'll find out about how they work. Then you'll be able to anticipate how you can most successfully work with them.

Scruffy

Naked carnation gray I wavered in, dodo-nosed, stumbley pie. There were
barfed-up bees and sandwich crusts and the straw was musty warm
and all was scratchy comfort.
Since then, rain and sun and nasty ice, and sometimes French fries,
a nice puddle for bathing, the glints of light piercing the library mirrors
and sponged up by the bronze vertebrae,
tiny minty leaves ungathering and sinuating,
then yellowing and relinquishing.
Here is my spot, mostly unseen, almost dry, almost safe,
pinions every whichway, down undowned,
on my left temple a fluffy badge like an extra ear saluting the sky.
Say something to me that soaks my pallium,
or better yet draft me a map to the middle way
and I will compass my way back
after my oily plumes tatter away,
coral feet curling up stiff, and
my mind molts the body,
think well of me and I will return, following the poles,
finding a new true family,
naked carnation gray.

Disaster Kitty Showcase: Sinkhole Kitty

Sinkhole Kitty

Like a weasel with a taste for juicy, slow-moving grubs, its appetite for buried cable is never satiated. Is quite bitter about the overwhelming amount of press given to Gulf of Woe Disaster Kitty.

America is a Fancy Feast for Chaos

Are you surprised? I’m not. The signs have been there for a long time. FEMA can’t solve this problem. The president and his advisors? Completely ineffectual. And if you think this kind of thing can be solved at the state level—whom are you kidding? You're as helpless as a baby mesmerized by a dangling shiny object. Or a dangling baby.
Face facts. The tsunamis, earthquakes, floods, and other “acts of God” are not caused by God, or “Mother Earth,” “global warming,” or any other origins your pseudo-scientific-Judeo-Hippie mumbo jumbo belief systems can come up with. Disaster kitty is dried up? A media distraction. It's time that we acknowledge our helplessness against these unvanquishable forces that are threatening to destroy Earth, our only home.

Molten, Face-Melting Rock Disaster Kitty
“Volcanic chain hot spots” my ass. See how the lava is beckoned from the caldera with a simple gesture!



Down with America Disaster Kitty
This one loves to destroy Montessori schools, frozen hand-held luncheon pie manufacturing plants, flat-state shopping malls, and other institutions that make our country great.



Shocking Losses Disaster Kitty
Pitting shareholders and environmentalists against each other and watching them claw each other’s eyes out is one of its greatest joys.



Gulf of Woe Disaster Kitty
Swimming in circles at lightning speed, it whips up a furious, frothy whirl of deadly ocean like a tiger wearing pants.



Think this is a new phenomenon? Records in the Los Angeles historical archives will prove you wrong. It’s no coincidence that the last century’s California floods happened around the same time that the Midwest ran out of sand.



The best way to spend our last days would be to eat lots and lots of pie.

Pigeon morning

Look little mossy deathbed, the pinebox sycamore soul does not quit. I had a temporary appointment, I kept it, I took a left, and then. And then.

Electricians shut off power. Rain goes straight down, and sometimes sideways. Night makes it dark, and dark makes it dark. So sometimes you sleep, and sometimes you wake, and in between you walk, and sit, and stand, and push out your chest and, your head down, you crave that good lovin’.

From dirty gray branches the spring pushed a thousand green heads, and the hummingbird every morning this week has finely chopped the air like grinding coffee. You’re a dinosaur. No, you’re the dinosaur.

Nothing sticks out into the courtyard. What was it? Maybe a zippity flash from a frayed wire, zippity. Oh, my neck hurts. I hurt all over.

Yesterday I found a half a chicken sandwich. Chicken and I, we are good friends. Some days you’ll see us sitting on grass. Sometimes rain goes straight down, and sometimes sideways. Now, just let me rest here a moment. Just let me rest here.

Ron Dakron reads in Astoria, OR

Ron Dakron reads from "Mantids" at Godfather's Books in Astoria, Oregon this Saturday (11/14) at 1:00 p.m.

"Mantids is an update of the world's oldest novel—Petronius's Satyricon—with a twist. In Satyricon, the hero can't get an erection; in Mantids, the narrator can't get rid of one. Combine his Viagra overdose with an invasion by mutant female praying mantids and a scuzzed-out, speed-tweaker Astoria, Oregon locale—add biting comedy, a warrior heroine and stir into a B-movie plot stew—and you have a classic Dakron novel, chock full of sardonic prose and more fun than a barrel of junkies."

http://blackheron.mav.net/dakron/Mantids.html

The painting

There is a painting that hangs on my living room wall. At first it seems innocuous, a vision of a simple Sunday morning in the dry California hills, where a family walks to a red-roofed, whitewashed church along an unpaved road. A board and post fence, tilted and cockeyed as if intoxicated from road dust, wanders underneath a tree—a Eucalyptus?—and out of the frame.

What a pretty scene! The church is charming. The sun is hot on the yellowing, mid-summer hills, and a thin, white scrape of clouds is so bright it likely makes our devoted wayfarers squint as they approach the house of worship, where the doors are open and a behatted gentleman and a woman in a yellow dress are already on their way inside.

Can you smell the leaves of the Balsam Poplars near the parsonage? What pleasant shade they offer this time of year! And although the grass along the road grows dry and has begun to lose its green, its golden sheen and hay-sweet scent fills one's head with fond memories of simpler times. Happier times.

But don't be fooled. Lean nearer the painting and look closer. Okay, now you're breathing on the glass and getting it steamed up. Either stop breathing, or move a few inches back.

Now, do you see it? I know. I didn't see it either, at first. Actually, I didn't notice it for a long time. To think that this painting has been on my wall for years, and for decades before that hung in my grandmother's living room.

Have I told my mother? Of course not! She probably grew up with this painting, and I don't know what frightens me more—knowing that it loomed like a sinister phantasm over her lighthearted Parchesi games and dolly tea parties, or worse, that she saw it, kept the terrifying secret, and keeps it still.

Every time I glance at the painting, I want to call out to the couple entering the church, "Look out! Don't do it! Run!" But I know that if they attempted to flee back down the steps, a breeze would lift the man's hat off his head, and he would go back for it; he always goes back! And then it's too late. Too late! Oh, he never listens to my warnings or his wife's admonitions. (I think he goes back for the hat because his wife is a nag and always telling him what to do and it drives him crazy. It's not even his favorite hat.)

If I could enter the painting, I would run in front of the horse pulling the spring wagon, waving my arms, pleading to the unwitting family to Stop! To save themselves! I grab the horse's bridle to pull his head away before he turns towards the parsonage and his blinders no longer protect him from the horrors. But he is too strong for me. He rears, the dry, worn shaft snaps, the farmer's family tumbles from the wagon, and there are cries of grief and terror. At this point I leave the painting, because I'm pretty scared, and would not be much help to the people in the wagon anyway.

You might ask, Why do I keep this painting? Go head. Ask. Well, I guess I keep forgetting to take it down. I tend to easily get distracted, and after an episode in which I try to save the painting's incognizant human (and horse) subjects, I notice that there's still that pile of get-well-soon cards stacked on the television cabinet, or the cable box is sure getting dusty, and I should get the feather duster out and clean it.

We have an oven sitting in our hallway. It's been there since Memorial Day when we moved it out of the attic behind the knee wall to clean a bunch of junk out of there. I wasn't going to move it back; that attic is really hard to work in! It's a very awkward space.

Eventually I'll put an ad on craigslist or something. It's a nice little oven, perfect for a studio apartment, and is super good condition. Maybe I'll ask for seventy-five bucks for it.

Anyway, that's why I still have the painting hanging in the living room. It's kind of like that oven.

The Prettiest Girl in the World

Have you met the prettiest girl in the world? She's right over there. No, over there. No, that one.

Isn't she pretty? Some people have called her "lovely," and "sublime." What the hell's with that? She's pretty, goddamn it.

Once I was having brunch with her at the Space Needle, and we were in line for custom omelets. All she had to say was "Ham and Swiss, please!" to the omelet maker guy and he dropped his pan of half-cooked eggs and then collapsed. Then he started to whimper.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm sure egg will come out of this silk blouse really easily."

After brunch we went to the Fun Forest because she wanted to go on the Music Express ride. I wanted to go on the Wild River, but she said that the color of the fake log didn't complement her sweater and her hair would get wet, even though it was already raining.

She liked the Music Express because when she sat in an outside seat, her hair would flow out behind her like a curtain of radiant gold light, and the music would make it all be like being on MTV. I sat on the inside seat, which was still fun. But not for the kid in front of us whose barf stream sprayed my head.

When we got off the Music Express, there were a couple of fat, ugly girls leaning on the entrance railings, and they started saying very mean things. "Hey, ugly!" they said, and "Where'd you get your hair done...at the hair place that doesn't know how to do hair?"

She turned to them, and then it happened: she smiled. It was not just any smile. It was the smile of the Prettiest Girl in the World. Gleaming. Magnificent. (But not sublime.)

Then the clouds broke, the rain stopped, and light streamed down from the sky. I thought I heard angelic voices. The fat ugly girls shielded their eyes from the light, shrieked, and fell. But unfortunately for them, a worker had left on the ground a sheet of plywood into which he had hammered big, rusty railroad spikes. The ugly, impaled girls writhed in pain, twitched, and then became silent.

Then the Prettiest Girl in the World and I went and got giant soft pretzels.

Bait

When Janice asked me to go on a cruise with her, I was apprehensive. What about the inevitable weight gain? Would our cabin have a bathroom? Must I talk to people in the buffet line? What if I were swimming in an on-deck pool, and the ship suddenly hit some wild weather, and I was splashed out of the pool into either the ocean or onto some wooden deck chairs?

Once I'd agreed and the ship set out, I was feeling better about it all. There was all the fresh seafood you could eat, and the deck had tons of open space for shuffleboard, although you had to guess where the lines would be because they hadn't painted them on yet. Also, you had to use empty cat-food sized cans for the pucks, and kick them because there was only one broom and it belonged to one of the cooks or something.

As I said, the deck was spacious, and you could really feel the wind in your hair, and also through your swimsuit. There ended up not being a pool, but since it's a cruise, you have to wear a swimsuit at some point. That's what the purser who's always hanging outside our room told us, anyway.

Janice’s and my favorite nightspot was a little bar called "The Boiler Room." I guess because it was darn toasty in there. We'd wear our swimsuits under our clothes, and then strip down. It wasn't the most popular spot; no other passengers ever showed up, but that means that there was always a 5-gallon bucket free to sit on. The waiter always seemed to be "on break," as the bar manager said, but he was nice enough to bring out some great liqueur from his private collection. I think it was something imported and Polish, and he let us drink it right out of the bottle.

Several times a day we'd go up on deck to watch the chef's assistants haul in the catch for dinner. There's no way we could have eaten all the seafood they brought in, and we told them so, but they just kept on pulling in these big nets through enormous winches.

A few days into the cruise, one of the cooks asked us to a special, invitation-only fish fry. Sounds great! But we were kind of disappointed. First of all, the fish wasn't even cooked! And the dining room really stank. I was afraid to say anything, but Janice & I exchanged embarrassed looks.

Apparently there was a dearth of cooks, because Janice & I had to stay down in the dining room for the rest of the cruise cutting up fish, removing the guts, and tossing the fish onto a conveyer belt that must have run to the kitchen. I was kind of resentful about having to do some of the work while other passengers sat in another dining room--which probably didn't smell!--with a cornucopia of delectable seafood gliding by.

The last day of the cruise the gift shop was closed. So for souvenirs, Janice took the shuffleboard broom and The Boiler Room manager's special liqueur. I took a few particularly shiny bolts from the base of the net winch. Now that we're safely back home we can look back on it and laugh about how we'll never go on a cruise again!

State of denial

Iowa called again last night—twice. It's getting to be a bit much. Several times a week now the phone rings, my caller ID flashes the offending 319 area code, and the hair stands up on my arms. I tried shaving my arms, but you know how it is. It just seems to stand up whether it's there or not.

This is starting to look like a repeat of what happened with Arkansas, with whom I was in frequent contact after Oregon and I went our separate ways. It seems that states—the central, land-bound ones anyway—never want to do anything half way. There's always a plan that takes up an entire weekend, or a state fair, or a centennial celebration that "just can't be missed!"

I'm just not the type to become so overly attached that I build my life around someone else's needs. And let me tell you, Arkansas had needs up the yin-yang, and Iowa's sure as hell showing itself to be one whiny-ass bridesmaid. If I hear another god-damn peep about topsoil loss or a clogged corn processing pipe in Cedar Rapids, I'm going to blow.

And I tell you, I'm getting pretty tired of these voice mails attacking my character and making vague threats. Especially when they're followed by sobbing, backpedalling, and "We'll always have Muscatine."

Sometimes when gazing out the window at the hoards of hummingbirds attacking smaller groups of juncos, I think about North Dakota. Others criticized me for giving North Dakota too many second chances, and have no appreciation for its stubborn, windy nature. But at least North Dakota knew when to stay out of my face, and gave me time alone and a vastly wide berth when I needed it.

Funny. I can't recall now where that all went wrong. Maybe I'll give North Dakota a call this weekend. You know—just to catch up.

Silver lining

It’s not easy for me to talk about my illness—a journey that took me on an RV trip through friendly small towns and lonely big cities. I witnessed quaint lemonade stands and great, big truck stop steaks, and had great, big truck stop love affairs. It was a trip of fantastic roadside attractions, including a family of contusionists from one of Wyoming’s largest metropolitan areas. Oh the things I learned! It was this journey that planted the seed for my business endeavors. Who’d have thought that within a few months I would be named Entrepreneurial Woman of the Year with 1.2 million dollars in sales!

When my journey came to an “end,” I found myself lost. I began to haunt the treatment centers where I had spent so much of my time. I would sit in the waiting rooms reading the magazines and help myself to the free tea, complimentary bottles of Boost nutritional energy drink, and the occasional box of Russell Stover Assorted Creams at the receptionist’s desk. I was searching—searching for answers, antibacterial gel, and perhaps a friendly face.

I finally found solace in the dressing rooms. At first I would just sit in these tiny rooms. Sometimes I’d bring in a magazine, or just stare for hours at myself in the full-length mirror. Then at some point I started putting on the exam gowns. How I’d missed their texture! I’d take one from the top of the neatly folded pile, remove my blouse, put a gown on, and put my blouse on back over it. I’d tuck in the ends so it didn’t hang out. Then I’d walk down the street to the bakery and get a cupcake.

So began my love affair with the humblest of textiles. And I found that with some seam binding tape, a pair of pinking shears, a Bedazzler, and a top-notch PR firm, I could share this love with others. Maybe you’ve seen my creations spotlighted on Entertainment Tonight, or have spotted my special cost-conscious summer collection at target.com.

You may ask, “How do you keep up with the demand? Surely, you can’t keep going back to the clinic dressing room for more gowns!”

Well, first of all, don’t call me Shirley! Ha ha! But yes, to answer honestly, at a certain point the clinic staff did get suspicious. I almost had to shut down production after the hospitals started recognizing me and asked if I hadn’t finished treatments months earlier. So my next step was to ever so quietly recruit, which wasn’t difficult, as I’d made plenty of friends over the jigsaw puzzles and free magazines in the waiting rooms!

So this is where you come in. Are you currently in treatment? Are you facing grave illness, or for any reason at all required to make frequent appointments at medical facilities? If so, give my assistant a call, and we’ll send you a Franchise Application Packet. Believe me, I know what you’re going through, and how difficult it is to stay upbeat under grave circumstances. Let us give you a boost!

And I don’t mean an energy drink! Ha ha! Hope to hear from you soon!

Sad day

I’m afraid I have some bad news. Today is a sad day. As I left the parking garage, I saw a leaf on the sidewalk, a sad-looking leaf. I asked, “Little leaf, why so sad?” But it did not answer. That’s how sad it was.

I walked to work listening to Hall and Oates on my headphones. Hall and Oates did not put a spring in my step like they usually do. I imagined myself singing karaoke Hall and Oates songs, thinking that a fantasy of me wearing a white pantsuit and holding a microphone with multicolored, sparkling lights behind me would cheer me up. But it didn’t. It just all seemed sad.

I got to work and unwrapped the sandwich I bought at the deli. I was about to take a bite, and saw tomatoes, which have recently been identified as carriers of the Saintpaul bacteria. So I had to throw it out, and instead had a sad lunch of string cheese, nuts, and pineapple juice. I was going to have the pineapple juice with the sandwich anyway, but it was a sadder juice when paired with the substitute solid lunch foods.

The baby crows in the nest outside our office window have flown away over the weekend. I was going to take their picture before they left. Were they fleeing the weekend’s inclement weather that made their tree bend wildly? Did they feel emboldened by their strong, youthful wings and thirst for crow adventure? Did they sense that in the nearby park there were weak, sparsely-plumed sparrow nestlings to be had for the snacking? I’ll never know, and I’ll never see them again.

Today I explained that world was big, but then slowly the world got pushed through an empty toilet paper roll. When it came out the other side, it looked like another empty toilet paper roll. Which made it smaller. And sadder.

If not for Del

When I met Del, he was living in my mother's basement apartment and working as a prep cook at Shari’s. A lot of people say I owe a lot to Del. Before he and I met, I'd seen quite a few hardships. There had been some nasty breakups, a few failed real estate investments, and at least one house fire. It was taking me me a while to get out from under my business debt, and the price of gold had dropped drastically. Life was not good, and I have to admit I was a little depressed. Then I met Del.

I was at my mom's house while she was at work at the nursing home. I'd stopped by to take some cash out of the old pantyhose she kept in the rice canister. I was suprised to see Del sitting in my mom's kitchen, having a cup of tea. Later I'd find out that the teabag was actually steeping in coffee. That was one of his charming eccentricities that would never cease to blow my mind.

He said simply, "Hi, I'm Del," when I walked in. I knew my mom had a renter, but I didn't know that she'd let him sit naked at her kitchen table drinking her tea. "Would you like some tea?" Del inquired. Too stunned to say anything else, I said, yes, with lemon and sugar, and some LU Petit Ecolier Biscuits if he had any. That was the beginning of my unique friendship with Del, one that was rife with laughter, tears, sharing, and brutality. It's a friendship I'll never forget.

When Del and I decided to open a sandwich shop together a few weeks later, we faced a lot of derision from the Downtown Business Association. And from my mother. "What the hell do you know about making sandwiches?" she said. "You can't even butter bread." Which was true. But who was she to stand between me and my dream? I wanted to tell her that I wasn't going to listen to any advice from some dried up old professional bedpan changer who kept her cash in the rice bin. But I held my tongue.

As Del was the one with food industry experience, I was confident that I could put the majority of the production in his hands. It was my job to be the big thinker of the team. I bought a top-grain cowhide journal and a ballpoint pen set at the stationery store, and spent my days sweating over the business end of things—the shop's decor (French ice cream parlor, or gay 90s?), menu additions, and franchise opportunities. This freed up Del to open and close the shop, prep the food, and provide unmatched customer service.

We ran a tight ship. Del still worked the early morning shift prepping at Shari's, and was able to procure supplies from the restaurant's walk-in fridge, which really shaved a lot off our food budget. As he knew how busy I was with high-level business concerns, he always had time for the little extras, like cleaning the bathroom tile grout with a toothbrush, or buffing our second hand kitchen appliances with a professional stainless steel sander 'til they shone. Unfortunately, Del's Shari's work schedule made it impossible for him to attend our grand opening cocktail reception, but I saved him a watercress sandwich and a cup of sparkling cider in to-go cups.

Once we got the business off the ground, there was no time to rest. I had a weekly blog to plan, and out-of-state restaurateur conferences to attend. But here's one thing they don't teach you at those conferences: devotion to your business makes you blind to your personal life. I ignored all the signs, and by the time I could see that things were falling apart, it was too late.

I used to think I had the world by a string, and that string was looped comfortingly around the throats of those I loved, binding them ever closer to me. But I was lost in my own sense of loyalty, justice, and business acumen. As they say, you're always the last to know.

After I found some scattered rice grains and the empty pantyhose in the kitchen sink, my mother's bathroom cosmetics drawer cleaned out, and the shop's supply closet bereft of deli paper basket liners, I knew my mother had been providing Del with more than tea for quite some time.

So now I'm in transition. Count me down, but not out. Like a tiny, gentle sea ray peeking out from its ocean-floor hideout after a strenuous escape from a black-tipped shark that continued to circle until late in the afternoon on a Saturday, I'm shaking the sand off my back, and moving onward.

My current job as a host at Shari's keeps me busy and gives me plenty of time to plan for my future. And it's introduced me to Sandra, a real sharp go-getter waitressing in the evenings after her high school track practice. Lately, she's seemed to be seeking my advice on her boyfriend, who hasn't asked her to some formal dance, or forgot or birthday, or something like that. I don't know—usually I tune her out.

But my trust has been bruised, and I've told myself that I'm not going to make the same mistakes again. So I've been giving her small assignments, like sending her out to my car for my cigarettes, or to the mini-mart next door to buy me a diet Coke to see if she brings back the change. Which she does. So far, she hasn't asked why I don't just drink a Coke from the restaurant. I think this is a good sign. And boy, can that girl carry a bus tub.

Quelle surprise

I’m so glad you could come. It’s a lovely little party—quite a surprise. My favorite champagne flowing all evening! The cheeses! And all my favorite friends, old and new. I say “favorite,” because obviously the ones who made it here are the ones who really care. When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you find out who your friends really are, and who your favorites really are, and sometimes you find your friends are not your favorites. Sometimes they’re someone else’s favorites. But c’est la vie. That’s what I always have said. And isn’t it true. Isn’t it true.

I have to admit I was expecting some type of surprise party like this. All week long, Inge has been acting quite coy, and when she was turning down the sheets last night, I noticed that she’d forgotten to bring up the tray with my nightcap. Oh, that Inge. That’s when I knew for sure something was going on. Too bad about her forgetting that tray, or she wouldn’t be stuck at the the Dearborns’ in Kennebunkport for the rest of the summer! But again, c’est la vie.

Speaking of surprises, I see Meredith couldn’t make it tonight, either. But, as you probably know, she has a little surprise of her own to tend to! As far as I’m concerned, Meredith looks much too young to be a grandmother. Of course, both Meredith and I were such little sun-worshippers in our heyday, but she absolutely refused to wear her tennis visor on the court, which is why, if you get a close look, you can really see the damage. But her daughter is such a sweet girl, don’t you think so, Adele? Didn’t your son date her last winter?

You know, looking back at the follies of my youth, you’d think I’d have some regrets, some things I’d like to do over. And I say, without qualifications, “None.” I wouldn’t change one thing. I mean, look at this place. Really, take a good look. Chuck and Gilda, remember when you told me that it was a waste of money to buy this house? Remember? You said that it was too soon after Robert and I split, and that I was being impulsive. Well, look at what I’ve made of it. I’ll bet there’s not a day goes by you don’t wish you’d snagged it first. What with that fishing cabin you live in now. Some may call it quaint, but I’ll call it what it is, and it’s a fishing cabin.

And Tabitha, don’t you stand there with your mouth hanging open. Though it doesn’t surprise me if it’s involuntary. What, couldn’t afford to go to the city for the work? Had to resort to that hack in Dover?

I have an absolutely fantastic idea. Let’s all retire to the patio. Hans, would you please cart out the rest of the champagne and cheeses? It’s time to take a little dip in the water. And yes, Adele, I mean you.

Dear Mr. Spielberg

I recently saw one of your “Star Wars” movies on TV. I liked it! Then I found out there were other “Star Wars” movies, too. I could not find these on TV, so I went to a “video rental store,” but they were going to charge me $4.75. Each! So I went to the library and watched your “Star Wars” movies on the Internet Computers in the library’s big Computer Room. I could only watch 2-minute pieces of your movies, because the Internet didn’t have the whole ones. And the other Computer Room users got upset at me for having the volume so high, so I had to turn it off and could not hear the actors talking or the big spaceships exploding. But I think I got the gist.

These “Star Wars” movies seem to have something special. I cannot put my finger on it. But I have been thinking about the characters—the young man and his shiny robot friends, the cute lady in the nightgown, and the big dog-man that drives the spaceships—and I have come up with an idea that I think will certainly float your boat.

What if, instead of a bunch of “just Star Wars movies,” you somehow tied all the movies together into one big story? You could make some more movies with the same characters, using the same actors, if they’re available, and say to people, “By the way, all these movies are like chapters in a book!” That would get people’s attention, I’ll bet. If you did it right, it would be like the “Rocky” or “The Terminator” movies, or like “The Lavender Hill Mob,” if they had made more than one.

I’ve often been told I am a “creative type,” and that I come up with some “darn creative ideas.” How about if I wrote the stories for you? You obviously put a lot of work into these movies, and I think you’re due for a well-deserved break. You could assign me a team of Hollywood screenwriters who would take notes and give me ideas on what the actors should say. I don’t need a very large team, but we will need access to a big conference table so we can roll out large sheets of butcher paper that we can “brainstorm” on. If my screenwriting team knows any big-name actors, that’s even better, because I’ve read that actors are creative, too, and have good ideas, and that they like to talk about these ideas at fine restaurants and exclusive Hollywood parties.

What’s really exciting about this idea is that we can bring in some new characters to freshen things up. I don’t mean to say that people are tired of your current characters. I think they’re swell, really I do. But one thing I don’t get is that everyone is wearing cotton fabrics. Why don’t they have body armor? They’re in a lot of wars and fights, and they don’t have much protection against the evil white robots, who are obviously well-built and rather invulnerable.

I say, bring in some new, armored “warrior” characters who teach the other characters some new fighting moves and how to make shields and helmets out of metal. The armor should be very shiny, like polished chrome, and maybe have lion figures in relief on the chest plates. If there are any girl warriors, you could put them in chrome brassieres and some sort of thigh guards. They should also have silver boots, and you can give them helmets, but they should have long hair that hangs down from beneath the helmet.

This outfit is not only realistic for a space warrior character, but should save you on the cost of costume materials. Girl warriors don’t need as much armor as the men, because they don’t get hurt as often if they are fighting against men, because the men feel bad about hurting a woman. However, this may be a problem if some of the evil white robots are girl robots. We all know how ugly girl fights can get. You’ll have to let me know if you meant the robots to be both girl and boy robots, or just boys.

Another thing I think is missing is funny characters. Sometimes the friendly robots in your movies are funny, but that’s not the kind of funny I mean. You could have an old man who tells it like it is, or a sidekick who always gets in trouble, or maybe a character with a funny accent. Some of the best movies and TV shows have funny characters. Because people love to laugh!

I think I’ll head back down to the library to see if I can find more of your movie pieces on the Internet Computers. I want to keep these ideas flowing! You know, I’m giddy just thinking about the possibilities. This could be a very big.

Pets

The other day I was reading an article about dust mites. The article talked about their eight fuzzy legs, scaly, eyeless faces, and cute little mouth-like appendage. They sound adorable, and I want one! I read that there are thousands of these in every home, but I’ve never seen any.

When I was in first grade, I had a friend whose mother had a pet iguana. It would hang from the curtains and barf up flies. One day it went behind the clothes dryer and died.

I had a friend in college with a pet monkey. He said his brother saved it from a research lab. It had to wear a diaper all the time, and he made it wear a beanie. I say “made,” because he had to tape the beanie on, or the monkey would keep taking it off. The monkey often looked thin, so sometimes I’d bring the monkey leftover sandwiches from the deli where I worked. I’d mark them “for monkey,” and leave them in my friend’s fridge. But the monkey never gained weight; his diaper just hung around his hips in a very sad way. Then I found out my friend was eating the sandwiches. Which made me very angry.

I felt bad for that monkey. Except he used to throw things and knock items off the coffee table. Also, he’d interrupt our conversations with irritating noises like, “I’m not a monkey! My name is Dr. Blake! My family will come looking for me!” Then we’d put him back in his box.

Clairvoyant

No, please. Don’t try to help me out. I’ve done this for years, and my skills require concentration.

I see a man. He’s around 25 or 35. He’s tallish. His hair is brown. On his left wrist is a watch—this is important—it’s a digital watch, not analog. Make sure you write that down.

There’s a magazine. It’s on a chair—no, a bench. It’s a bench seat…on a bus. The magazine is on a bus seat. Someone left it there. Someone who was riding the bus that morning. They may have been riding the bus to work, or to the drugstore.

The man with the brown hair picks up the magazine. Let’s pause here. Do you see that what this means is that the brown-haired man was on the bus? You do? Okay. Just checking. We need to be on the same page here.

The floor of the bus is dirty, but not dirtier than bus floors normally are. Could you note that? That they're not unusually dirty? Thanks. The bus seats are vinyl, with vinyl piping. Some of them have gum under them. Don’t ask me which ones. There is a lot of gum, and I will get squeamish and lose my concentration if you ask me to pinpoint which seats have the most gum stuck to them.

Is it really that important? Okay, well, the ones just before and just after the side door, the fourth one back on the right, the last 3 on the right before the back bench, and the last 2 on the left before the back bench.

You know, I don’t really understand how this is important to your investigation, but let me think...

Well, mostly Bubblicious Gonzo Grape, and Dentyne Ice.

Wait! I think you may have something there after all. There is gum stuck between two pages of the magazine. And it’s not a magazine. It’s a Little Nickel flyer. The gum is stuck between an ad for self-cleaning gutters and an estate sale annoucement. The estate sale lists furniture, sporting equipment, and a waterbed. There are baby items, a burl coffee table, and a non-operating hot tub, which you have to haul away yourself.

The brown-haired man walks to the back of the bus with the flyer. He is despondent. He must miss his son’s birthday the coming weekend, for reasons I can’t see. His son is 7, and has a disease. Or a limp. Or he limps because of a disease. The man peruses the flyer. He’d really like to send his son a nice, used football for his birthday.

But this is terrible! He misses the estate sale ad with the sporting equipment listing because it’s stuck to the ad for self-cleaning gutters. How will he find a used football now? Who will help him gain his crippled son’s love?

You people really have to get to work and track this guy down, or there’s going to be a very disappointed little boy out there.

My hobbies

As an amateur zoo train enthusiast, I’m always happy to share insights into my hobby. But sometimes I end up answering the same questions over and again. While I understand the recent explosive interest in amateur zoo train engineermanship, the newbies are kind of getting on my nerves. I mean, “Do zoo trains always run on tracks?” Come on, people! If it’s not on a track, it’s not a train. I know you’ve probably seen those gas-powered wheeled trains in two-bit parks like the old Expo ’74 site in Spokane. But those are for the losers who think it’s all about the striped cap. What the hell do they know? Nothing.

When I was at the Expo ’74 site at the end of April, I had the misfortune of catching the dirty, smelly tail-end of an Earth Day celebration. A celebration for the earth? As far as I’m concerned, Earth Day doesn’t need that kind of visibility. In the same way as when on Mother’s Day, a worn, unamused matron snaps to her whining child’s question, “Why isn’t there a kids’ day?”, “Because every day is kids’ day,” Earth Day doesn’t require a designated square on my desk calendar. It’s the earth. It gets every goddamned day it wants.

There was a sno-cone vendor at the venue, and though my teeth were already sore from the corndog I’d had for lunch, I decided a little something sweet was in order. A big mistake. Waiting in the sno-cone line, I got smacked in the back of the head by a big, vinyl “world globe” ball kicked by a hippie. You’d think that kicking an inflated replica of the globe would be against a hippie’s ethics, but apparently this kind of hypocrisy was lost on him.

You also might think that because it was earth day, initiating a physical altercation would in violation of the spirit of the occasion. But if anything, it was a necessary comment on his anti-earth behavior. I kicked that hippie’s ass. I kicked, and I kicked again. I boxed him until he bled from his ears. I dug my heel into his instep. And then I took his money and bought myself a blue raspberry sno-cone.

Why I walk

I really have to get going in a few minutes, but I think I have a little time to answer any questions you may have.

Some of you—many of you, in fact—have asked me why I walk.

Why I walk. Now, this is something that is both easy and difficult to answer. I’ll start with the easy. Actually, no, I’ll start with the difficult.

A long time ago, when I was very young, we—my family and I—lived in a very nice neighborhood in a small town not too far from here. It was safe, well-lit, and filled with old people. Now, I don’t have a problem with old people. My parents are pretty old, as a matter of fact, and they give me no problems at all! Ha ha!

But really, old people are fine. They’re the salt of the earth, and I look up to them as the elderly that they are. They give good advice, although they can be a bit quick to judge. And I like their sense of style. Often when I see one of those old-timers with his plaid shorts hitched up and belted above his belly roll, I come up behind him and say, “Hey Pops! Nice chicken legs!” And we both have a good laugh about it, and I help him up.

Where was I? Well, this neighborhood had one resident that was a little problematic for us kids. Mrs. Kleff. She was either a widow or an old maid. Or an orphan. But whatever her marital status, she was mean. She once threw a rock at my sister and chipped her tooth. It’s true that my sister had thrown a garden gnome at Mrs. Kleff, but Mrs. Kleff didn’t have any teeth to speak of, and therefore was a low risk for dental injuries. My sister had to wear a homemade cap on her tooth for three months before my parents could afford to send her to a dentist for a real cap. And after that long, Wrigley’s gum does not come off easy.

Well, one summer’s day my brother went into Mrs. Kleff’s yard to drink from her hose. I think you know where this is going. What is wrong with old people, anyway? Have they forgotten what it's like to be young? Do they not understand the dangers of standing hose water? Are they so bitter about their dried-up youth that they see violence as their only option?

I'm sorry. Can you give me a moment?

Thanks. I also told you that I'd give you the easy answer to why I walk. And that is, I'm doing this for the children.

Thanks to all my sponsors, and to the lady back there who gave me a water jug for my journey. The container is kind of dented, though. Could one of you get me a fresh bottle of water? I like the kind with a bit of flavoring, but not too much. I suppose you could call me a purist!

Thanks again, and now, I really have to get going.