History Retreating.

At last... first.

Worst Album Cover Ever?

Only The Backs Remain.

Sharc...

I drove for hours and hours.  I decided I’d never tell a living soul what happened, not even my best friend.  I’d never tell anyone.

Then, the car crash.

A cop picked me up at a little diner.

I called him from a payphone outside the gas station, then I had called my sister and left her a message.

In the diner, all those stupid people looking at me, wondering if I was a criminal.

In the cop’s car, there were no door handles in the back. 

The cop told me stories as he drove; told me I was lucky to be alive.

And I was.

At the police station, standing in line for hours… cold coffee in a styrofoam cup; the dull thud of waiting.

The car graveyard.  Rows and rows of twisted and mangled machines lined-up in order of severities.

One had been torn inside-out.

One looked like it had been scooped-up with a giant spatula.

One was crushed and bent up to the sky like a sculpture.

Thanks To You, We Could Be.

Rest in well-earned peace, Muhammad Ali.

Ahsrc...

She got on the phone and started talking to somebody in Spanish.  I could make out the pitch and inflections of the voice on the other end.  It was a man’s voice, also Spanish.  Not her brother, either. 

She was doing a good job;  she chose words which weren’t obvious.  But Spanish is like French, you know.  Even big words, carefully chosen, sound the same.

I’m not that dumb, you know.  I’m just a slab of meat, sitting on the edge of a bed with a stone face.

She hung-up the phone.

“Sorry, that was a friend. I had to call him.

“He’s upset.

“You understand.”

“Sure I do… let’s go to sleep, I’m tired.”

I was gone before she was awake.

I put the room charges on my Visa; the call had been local.

I got in my car, turned on the heater, and chugged coffee.  I beat the morning traffic by over an hour. 

I Would Never Have Known.

Worst Album Cover Ever?

Hey BooBoo! It's Yogi Dare!

Hcsar...

“ ‘Gur-tuuuh’…. What is Faust?”

“Faust is a doctor who sells his soul to the Devil. Or, well, to the devil’s agent, Mephistopheles.  In return, Faust gets all the worldly power and knowledge a man could hope for.”

She lit a cigarette; stared at me openly.

“It’s a bet,” I finished.  “A bet between the Devil and God, just to see what would happen.”

Smoke oozed from her mouth.  “What happened?”

“Faust goes to Hell. 

“He tries to repent, but he goes to Hell.”

She nodded.

I shouldn’t be fucking this girl.

I shouldn’t be alone with her, naked in a hotel room.

I shouldn’t be here at all.

“Could I make a phone call?  I forgot I need to call a friend.”

“Sure,” I said, pulling my shirt on.

The Best Thing I Said Today.

She said: "Kids... I can't believe he's started lying to me."

I said: "You can't believe everything you breed."

Shcra...

But, after I had crawled from the wreckage, when I stepped off the car rim, I sprained my ankle.

But I’m getting ahead of myself….

*    *    *

The day before, at the hotel.

Brothel scenes like you can’t imagine.

The walls dripped sweat.

When she came, she’d cry “Kill me, kill me, fuck me, kill me!”.

A Latin girl from South America, you know.  Catholic schoolgirl stuff.

Sex and death.

It was all wrong.

Later, she took the book from my bag.  “What is this?  I have heard of this.”

“What?  Oh, that’s—“

“ ‘Faust’.  Goethe… it’s German, no?”

“Yes, it’s German, and it’s ‘Gur-tuh’.”

Birthday Boooooooy!

Birthdaaaaay Boy!

Happy Birthday The Boy!

8 years young and so loved!

Ahrsc...

And there she was in the lobby at eleven o’clock, when I came down to greet her….

               

*   *   *

So, here’s how stupid I am:  taking a curving turn at 87mph, that’s 155km.  The sign read “Warning, 40km. Slow. Curve.”

Driving twelve hours straight, taking a curve at 87 per….

The car careened into the solid rock of the overpass; flew across the road, and slammed off of a huge, concrete pillar.  Then it tumbled over the snarled guardrail and into the frozen mud.

All the junk in the car --tapes, my sweater, old coffee cups half-full of coffee from the night before, me-- all of it, slammed back and forth.  First one way, then the other.  Sky, mud, sky….

Six seconds.

All four tires burst; shit was everywhere.

The wipers were still going, and somehow, so was I.  Unscathed.

Half Off = Half Wrong.

Rchsa...

I got up; stood in front of the window while she exhaled smoke on my back.  Standing out there in the freezing cold, looking up at her building… her friend shivered in the darkness.

“I wish he’d just go away,” she sighed, lighting another cigarette.

We split at dawn.

I had her number scrawled on the torn corner of a phonebook page, folded and tucked in the front pocket of my favorite jeans.

It stayed there all day.

It stayed there when we stopped to buy a goldfish at the pharmacy.

It stayed there when we ate Indian food at that place on Bay Street.  A real spread; chicken masala, aloo matar, lamb korma, naan, raita and chai. 

I felt that little scrap of paper in my pocket.

Still there.

It was still there when I took my friends to the train station that night.

Later, finally, I pulled it from my pocket; called her from a booth in the hotel lobby.

My toes felt frozen in my boots; the wool of my socks itched.  I hummed softly while the phone rang on the other end….

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"What? Next to the Asian Jan Michael Vincent?"

Read Between The Whines.

Trumped.

Yeah... You Don't Know.

New Feature!

I ask you: "Worst album cover ever?"

Scrah...

The smell of smoke and shampoo.

Amber oil in her hair.

Captured!

Every last thing my mother ever told me; every caution, every trained nuance… gone.     

But we couldn’t do it.  Just a few quick strokes and I had to stop.

I couldn’t do it.

She was patient.  She reassured me.  She bent over to kiss me, but stopped when she felt the tears.

“You are crying?

“Why?”

But that’s always the problem, isn’t it?  How to get all that stuff in your head out from behind those teeth and lips.  How to get it out of your dry mouth and into the warm air of a sweaty room.

No.  It would be too much to explain, even to you, now.  I didn’t even try.  I just let those few tears get swept up by her mouth.

She lit a cigarette then.

Fatman Returns.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Rhsca...

I heard her go into the bathroom next, and from the next room, I heard my friends… moans through the walls.

I leaned back.

The little statuette on the wall beside the door.

The curtains blowing softly in a chilly breeze.

The red glow of the night-light, casting crooked shadows on the floor.

The bathroom sink… on… off… on… off….

She came back naked, except for her socks.

I could see between the silhouettes of her thighs.

Now, sometimes something happens when a beautiful girl presents herself to you.  Naked, floating in the fragrant shower of her aromas.

You lose yourself.

You are lost, and you are fucked, and you are captured….

You are hers.

You belong to her.

You are played out, even if you don’t know it yet.

The moans from the next room grew louder.

Lamplight from the hall.

Borne Ceaselessly....

Scrha...

“Only three leaves?” he asked petulantly.

“You are not that lucky,” she replied, capping the pen.

Later, when the bar closed, she took us all back to her place. She fried plantains, and gave us more tequila, and put a fire in the little wood stove.  The tequila was chilled over ice, strained, and served with a lump of sugar and the juice of a half lime, each in a little tumbler, without ice.  We watched Spanish soap operas on a tiny TV in her bedroom.

Her friend got up and went to the kitchen.  He stayed there; I could hear him pacing, his tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum floors.

On that collapsible couch, she leaned on me, pressing her breasts into my arm.  Her breath was sweet, and it cradled my face in its warmth.

The pacing stopped.  He called out her name a couple of times, tersely.

“I’m going to get rid of him,” she spat angrily, rising.

The front door slammed; she came back, and gave my friends the spare bedroom.  Then she went back out to the kitchen; cleaned the mess, turned off the lights, blew out the candles and cracked open the windows.

Just a little, to let in the cool, morning air.

What's The Worst That Could Happen?

Hrcas...

He snorted, and shook his head.  Small dead things fell out of his dirty hair, and littered the table between his greasy hands.  He was just intimidated.  And why shouldn’t he be?  His crooked yellow teeth, fucked-up haircut, stupid Rush T-shirt.  He oughta’ be intimidated, the way she was staring at me. 

I rose confidently, and walked over to their table.  Looking down at him, I took a risk -- to knock him down some more.  “I think you want to fuck her… that’s what you’re saying, you know.”

Chickenshit.

“Hey man, it’s cool.  I don’t want it to be that way.  Come on, sit down.”

I slid into a chair beside her.  I looked at her; this was the girl in my dedications.  She asked me my name.  She couldn’t understand my English, so I wrote my name on her palm.  I asked her friend for a pen; he reluctantly handed me a fat, black Sharpie.

She told me her name, but I missed it.  So she said it again; so proud.  A film school student, rich kid from Venezuela.  She smiled, and wrote it on my arm, all twelve syllables worth.  He asked her to write it on his arm too, but instead she drew a three-leaf clover on the back of his hand.

Hello?

Ahrcs...

Her legs were open.

Her legs were spread wide, and I could see the white of her thigh through a carefully-torn hole in her jeans.  The guy sitting next to her?  All he saw was me, staring at her, and wondering….

Well, there it was….  Four shots of tequila and an icy stare. 

My downfall.

“What are you looking at?” my friend asked me.

“That girl’s spread.  Could that be a mistake?  The way she’s sitting?”

He leaned over, and took a long look; his gaze lost in the shadow that nestled between her slender, welcoming legs.  “I doubt it,” he announced with a hopeless sigh.

Her friend spoke to me then.  It’s weird when a stranger in a crowded bar addresses you from an adjacent table.  “We see you man,” he leered.  It was clear he wasn’t her boyfriend.  “Why don’t you come over instead of just staring at her?  She’s not gonna’ fuck you, don’t worry.”

Asshole.

“What makes you think I want to fuck her?”

Whaaaaaaat? It's Not.

Happy Mother's Day!

Signs Of The Times.

The Best Thing I Said Today.*

"What's that watermelon doing there?"

*Special guest star edition.

You're An All Star. Every Year. All The Time.

No "e" Valley.

Trump(ster) Fire.

Wake up. Wake up! Wake up! WAAAAAAKE UP!

That's All She Wrote.

I'll Want The Finger With The Ring.

HISHE! Gesundheit!

If It's Friday, It Must be Ikea!

Nothing Compares 2 You. Just Sayin'.

One.

Never Wanted.

Reign On Down.

I Just Want Your Extra Time.

Secondhand.

Don't Stop Dancing.

Purple Reigned.

Glow On.

Your Weren't Using That Thing Anyway.

Zombie? Or Not A Zombie?

What's The Worst That Could Happen?

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"I dunno... it stopped sucking an hour ago."

As Above, So Below.

Fuel For The Fire.

Burn Baby! Burn!

Eyeing Those Exits!

Funk You (See What I Did There?).

Praised You.

Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuurbs.

Withal Liner.

And I Cry.

Dogged.

I Say "Sabotaaaaaage."

Secrete Weapon!

So!

April Fool.

Promise Not To Stop When I Say When.

One Man, One Hope For One Vote.

FU2.

Tellyouwhat.

God Says Hi.

Four in the morning, Saturday, and the dot on the TV screen had barely faded away when a blinding flood of ethereal light burst through the bedroom window, silhouetting a solitary figure outside tapping persistently on the dirty glass. Clyde’s eyes were slow to adjust, but he soon realized that the figure outside was none other than God.

“Marguritte,” Clyde said, “God’s outside, tapping on the glass.”

“Oh,” Marguritte replied. “Then is this a miracle?”

Clyde thought carefully about this.  “No,” he said, “He hasn’t done anything yet.  It’s probably just a visitation.”

“Well, we better see what He wants,” Marguritte said, and she and Clyde went to the window.

“Hello Clyde and Marguritte,” God said.

“Hello, God,” Clyde and Marguritte said back.

“I’ve decided to destroy the earth by flood as punishment for its wealth of violence and complacency.”  God’s manner was grim.

“Oh,” Marguritte exclaimed, “but You did that already, and said You’d never do it again.”

“Well,” God said, standing a little taller, “I’m doing it again.”

“That makes you a fibber… like that Mr. Newman who used to live next door,” Clyde said.

“Never mind that!” said God back, which made the Earth tremble slightly.  “I am warning you that you may be spared.  Your time is short, so ready yourselves.”

Clyde and Marguritte were somewhat taken aback by all this, but Marguritte regained her poise and asked slyly, “Do people really burn in Hell?”

God stared back at her. “What?” He said.

“ I mean, are they actually on fire?” Marguritte clarified.

“I know what you mean!” God boomed back. “No! That is a vicious rumor!” He rumbled, and then, He was taken up, the light disappearing. Then the sky opened up and it started to rain like Clyde and Marguritte had never seen before, except once in Montana.

It had been, Clyde mused, heading for the bathroom, a very long week.

The Whole Audience Is Dogs.

Deal.

Hello Darkness.

Living On A Prayer.

Dragons Fly.

The Penelope Is Mightier.

What's The Worst That Could Happen?

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"Does this look infected?"

Where There's Strife, There's Hope.

Roger That.

Like I said.

An Egg For All Seasons.

Just For One Day.

The More Things Change...

The more they stay insane.

Word.

Ohhh!

Zac'd.

Look. I don't know. It just seems to matter.

He is One Of Him.

''My life is really evil. There are people who are starving in the world, and I drive an Infiniti. That's really evil. There are people who would just starve to death. That's all they ever did. There's people who are like born, and they go, "Oh, I'm hungry," and then they just die. And that's all they ever got to do. And meanwhile, I'm in my car, "boom, boom, pow," like having a great time and I sleep like a baby. It's totally my fault, 'cause I could trade my Infiniti for like a really good car, like a nice Ford Focus with no miles on it, and I'd get back like $20,000. And I could save hundreds of people from dying of starvation with that money, and every day I don't do it. Every day I make them die with my car.''

~Louis C.K.

This Is How The World Ends.

Wake up.

Happy Anniversary.

Too Late.

Exactly How It Was.

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"You're never too close for far out."

About A Town.

Time after time.

About A Boy.

About A Home.

Promenade!

Don't Give Up!

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"Tequila is made of bruises."