Older, Wiser, Still a Nerd

Pride

2012-01-02T11:42:00.000-08:00

I'm a woman now,
living on my own in a $1250 a month
apartment with a daughter
by my soon to be ex-husband.
When I have free time, I exercise
in the complex gym.
Hell, my money's gotta pay for something, right?
On my way back today,
I walked by a dirty old Honda.
It musta been an '84.
It's paint was peeling,
and there was a
Community College parking pass
hanging from it's mirror.
Amid the dust, I could see:
A pink rose on it's dash.
The petals were squished against the window
like my teenage lips
aching for a kiss before you go.

It's 1996 in my head sometimes.
It's always that in my gut.
I'm a lot like Daria in that Beavis & Butthead cartoon.
Or Janeane Garafalo in her non-political days.
Like them and their hubris
I long for things that matter
and I put random objects
on the dashboard on my car.

It's the first place I look
when I can't find my mail.

Ty is Typing

2011-10-20T19:22:00.000-07:00

It wasn't love. God, he knew that.

"For shaw," his cousin Bill used to always say then spray him with unintentional spit sprays, "You gotta love 'em and leave 'em bro!"

She sure was sexy though. Almost 60 now--for sure, maybe even older--but in '73 she was the sexiest thing on two legs. She showed him a picture after she invited him up to her hotel room. Said she was waiting for "her Johnny" when that shot was took of her in bellbottoms. They had met in the hotel gym, where she was exposing her still shapely calves in skintight workout clothes. He wanted to kiss her creamy skin behind her knees, contrast his dark skin against hers.

After the picture, he had gotten nervous. Why? Who knows. It must have been the sight of her 70s beauty and the thought of her musky treasures. He asked to use her laptop. There he used it, on her bed, while she slid out of her clothes. His cousin Bill IMed him which he was on gmail.

"What's up bro?" Bill typed, "Ready to turn 40?." But all it read on Ty's end was:

"Ty is typing..." for at least the next 45 minutes. He could feel those computer keys under her bum while he squeezed. Type, type, type.

Back to Black

2011-10-20T16:40:00.000-07:00

Mitosis Blues.

It's like a pepple in my shoe
One that gives birth
to twins.
You went back to what you know,
so far removed from all that we went
throw.

My odds are stacked.

You go back to her and
I go back to black.

Soon Oz

2009-03-29T20:20:00.000-07:00

No more blah. Just waiting for something to happen.

Be Yourself.

2009-01-18T21:44:00.000-08:00

If this doesn't work, try this link.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x82ptf_be-yourself_webcam

Be Yourself.
Uploaded by levisah

Lost

2008-10-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

Just because I'm losingDoesn't mean I'm lostDoesn't mean I'll stopDoesn't mean I will crossJust because I'm hurtingDoesn't mean I'm hurtDoesn't mean I didn't get what I deserveNo better and no worseI just got lostEvery river that I've tried to crossAnd every door I ever tried was lockedOoh-Oh, And I'm just waiting till the shine wears off... You might be a big fishIn a little pondDoesn't mean you've won'Cause along may comeA bigger oneAnd you'll be lostEvery river that you tried to crossEvery gun you ever held went offOoh-Oh, And I'm just waiting till the firing startsOoh-Oh, And I'm just waiting till the shine wears offOoh-Oh, And I'm just waiting till the shine wears offOoh-Oh, And I'm just waiting till the shine wears off…

I may be in Australia in a month. ::Lisa grins like a little kid before Christmas::

Coldplay - Lost

kitty litter

2008-09-25T23:07:00.000-07:00

An online AIM chat with a friend of mine some weeks back.

LISA'S FRIEND: He likes you.

LISA: Why do you say that?

LISA'S FRIEND: Because he likes Sci Fi. You are like kitty litter to sci fi guys.

[Lisa pauses to contemplate this statement. She wonders why the metaphor escapes her. She double checks the phrase "kitty litter" and realizes that yes, that is the phrase he used. Technically, he is comparing her to sand that cats poop in.]

LISA: kitty litter?

LISA'S FRIEND: Yea, kitty litter.

[Another pause while Lisa sorts through metaphors involving cats and things they enjoy, besides pooping.]

LISA: Did you mean cat nip?

LISA'S FRIEND: Oh yeah... I don't have a cat so sorry. Is cat nip the stuff that drives them crazy?

LISA: Yeeeeaaaaah.

LISA'S FRIEND: Yeah ok cool. That's what I meant.

LISA: You just called me a toilet!

LISA'S FRIEND: I was going for a compliment there. Guess I failed.

Cheaters Never Prosper

2008-09-14T16:41:00.000-07:00

"I'm married," Jon said matter-of-factly. Zoe had opened the door to her second floor North Hollywood apartment to see Jon sweaty from the run upstairs. He was holding a DVD copy of "The Way We Were," a bottle of wine, and their senior year high school yearbook. He looked nervous and even though she felt cruel, seeing that gave her pleasure.

The door never opened unless she recognized the face through her peephole. Seeing Jon standing there was overwhelming and made her numb. She never thought she'd see him again and didn't know if it mattered anyway.

She stood there, feeling a surge of power and not sure what to do. She gave up on him weeks ago. Zoe knew he was married, but now she had the proof. Truth needs validation from at least two people, not just one. With just one, you go insane with your own thoughts, like the Unabomber.

She could slam the door in his face, but she didn't. She stared at him for what seemed like forever, studying his twitching eyebrow. He twitched like that in Algebra before their AP test. The afternoon sun, which Zoe now realized shined the same color in Moreno Valley and Hollywood, brightened his blue jeans giving them an innocent sky blue appearance. She had deja vu and remembered her ripped jeans on that day on the patio. She put a finger to her lips and smiled.

Fuck it, she thought, and invited him in. He smiled timidly, handing her the gifts.

Zoe had the 90s station on her XM satellite radio playing. REM's "Shiny Happy People" had just begun. The room was pungent since she had burned a designer scented candle, something from DOLCE & GABBANA, part of a gift from the suits at New Line Cinema. The scent reminded her of the stuck up bitches she waited on at the cafe, so she blew it out. Before the knock at the door, she was headed for the bathroom for some Lysol.

Jon inhaled. "Oh, my wife has this perfume!" Embarrassed, he looked down. It was an awkward blurt, sort of like asking a woman when her baby's due, but turns out she's just fat. Zoe let it slide.

"How did you know where I lived?" she asked. It was an honest question. Jon had never made the trip out to visit her.

"Well," Jon said, nervously running his palms on his jeans. "That's a funny story." He sat down on the futon and looked up at her. "You know how you always talked to me about going to the LA Zoo after you got off work at the restaurant?" She shook her head yes, shocked that he remembered.

"Yeah, and well, you know how you said you liked the chimpanzees because they look so much like people?" Again, Zoe shook her head, confused.

"Well, I went there... to the Zoo, and the Chimpanzees. I thought maybe I might see you since you worked early on Wednesday mornings and got off at one..." He sat up and stuck his hands in his pockets and twitched.

"Ok," Zoe said, "but I wasn't there and I didn't work today, so..."

Jon cut her off. "Yeah, I found that out. So I asked around the gift shop and the churro stand. I described you to the teenagers. I mentioned your play and bumped into the actor who played the bodyguard in that kidnap scene of 'Run Far Away.' I gave him $50 to take me to your apartment."

"WHAT?!" Zoe was stunned. Her jaw hung open. The actor he was referring to was a 19-year old with corn-fed face and build. He played a Kansas farmboy that was sucked into a cult. She cast him because he really was from Kansas and could play brainwashed. Feeling sorry for him, she took him to her apartment a few times. She gave him a lamp, some canned goods, old bedding from Wal-mart; he was sleeping the floor in some crack house. Jon could have been some crazy stalker out to kill her, but for $50, farmboy was sold.

"Oh my God!" She actually didn't care that Jon was there. She just needed to act like she did. She made her way to the kitchen for some water. Her mouth felt dry and she wasn't sure how this would end.

"I'm sorry, Zo, but I wanted to see you. I missed you and I should have told you the truth."

Zoe turned on the facet, filling a plastic cup decorated with yellow ducks with warm tap water. She drank and tried not to cry. She didn't regret letting Jon in. Not yet, but she was unexpectedly feeling the pain all over again: the treadmill, the whiskey, the tears, that mixed emotion of joy and disappointment Jon had brought into her life. Was this what love was? If so, it sucked. She walked towards him in the living room and turned off the stereo, then sat next to him on the futon. She wanted to run away.

"It's ok," she said, looking at her hands, not him. "I mean, we only had sex that once, so it's not like we had anything more than a one night stand. The sex was good, right?"

Jon nodded and put his hand on her head. He seemed eager to touch her, but she couldn't read him without looking at his eyes. A tear fell from her eye and Zoe moved his hand away. Still looking down, she said, "I have a lot of writing to do today, so I'm going to have to kick you out now."

He paused for a moment, stunned that the two hour drive and hour at the zoo, were ending after only ten minutes with her. When he stood up, Zoe wiped her eyes and looked at him. She read him that time. He did want to touch her.

"Thanks for being honest with me though," she said.

Jon leaned in to kiss her. It was seduction. Zo knew if she showed any affection they'd be in bed together. Now that he was honest, she wanted him 100 times more. That wall was completely down. Plus her roommate was gone and they could be as noisy as they wanted. Frustrated, she gave him her cheek and swore under her breath.

She sighed, picked up the yearbook and that smelly candle, and handed it to him. Then mustering her guts, she led him to the door. She leaned in and closed her eyes as she savored the feel of her lips on his cheek. She wanted more and had missed him so much. Jon was only human, right? We all make mistakes. She began making excuses, realizing how his hands calmed her when she felt so lost.

No, she couldn't. She'd have to start from scratch if she did. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at him. This sucked.

"Me too," said Jon, sounding sincere. His eyes looked misty. "I should have come here years ago." Zoe nodded and closed the door. She cried for a bit. She was always emotional. Eventually, one of the waitresses called to congratulate her on selling her play to New Line. She said thank you to her friend and felt relief after kicking Jon out. It was as if she just had sex. Who knew refusing a married man could feel like that? This was a new sensation and Zo liked it a lot.

Basement Jaxx - Where's Your Head at? (featuring monkeys)

A Blotchy Mess

2008-08-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

His Oldsmobile convertible swerved along the Long Island highway. Jackson Pollock was behind the wheel and although he didn't know he would cause his own death, he was aware of the danger. He was drunk, had been an alcoholic since age 17, but this erratic behavior was international. He was channeling his art.

"It was a romantic way to die," said Ruth Kligman, Pollock's girlfriend at the time of his death. She was the sole survivor of the crash. "If he hadn't met me and died in that car, he would have died a sick man with maybe an enlarged liver." *

Jackson's wife, Lee Krasner, called him Pollock when she was criticizing. A painter herself, she criticized his artwork. As he swerved and pressed the gas, he could hear her in his head. His vision was blurry, but he could feel the cold air on his face as he drove. The screams of Ruth and Edith were a distant third behind his own internal voice and Lee's. He wanted to be good.

Kligman adds, smiling: "[Dying of an enlarged liver] is not as romantic as dying tragically in a car crash with a woman that he loved." She avoids mentioning that her friend, Edith Metzger, died an innocent victim of Pollock's behavior.*

The road was his canvas. Pollock didn't need usual utensils. He used a stick and sometimes poured paint right on the paper. They labeled it abstract. Who the fuck are They anyways? Pollock knew he was 100% direct. Even Autumn Rhythm and Lavender Mist, both painted in 1950, use the same use colors but are remarkably different. The strokes in Lavender Mist are thin, delicate. Autumn Rhythm is hurried. It's a blotchy mess.

"He let the nature of the medium take over," said Kirk Varnedoe, of the Museum of Modern Art New York. "You think of drip painting as simply being a sort of pouring or accident but it's not. It's a constellation of effects that Pollock orchestrates."*

The black period, where he used nothing but black paint, had been foreplay into this. Tonight, while driving in this drunken state, his muse was reborn. The car swerved with emotion and he smiled over the girl's screams. He wanted to tell them to stop being whores, but that was just the alcohol talking. They'd understand when it was over: insanity comes with inspiration.

"He had become a legend," said Milton Resnick, artist and friend. "It had nothing to do with his art... Who would of even thought that this guy that really didn't even know how to paint would become famous. Incredible..."*

The painting was becoming clear in his head. It looked like Picasso. It was cubistic and of life with Lee. The colors were autumn. They say a man is nothing without a mate and who the fuck are They anyways? He missed Lee. He never loved Lee the way he loved Ruth. She wasn't as beautiful or as kind, but she was his strength. If Lee were in the car, he'd have braked long ago.

"Who knows what famous is?" continues Resnick. "God, [fame is] so fucking stupid."*

Pollock thought of Blue Poles. Since the Life Magazine article in '49, he felt like a fraud. People claimed a five-year old could do what he did. He almost believed them too, but in 1952, he channelled maturity. In Blue Poles, friends got him liqueured up and encouraged him to create again.

Blue Pole has black streaks that resemble squashed flies. Yellow and marigold surrounded them, like pus. It was done by a man in his 40s; you could tell. That night, the glass turkey baster he used was stepped on and shattered. Chunks of it still remain in the painting.

Fielding Dawson, artist, recalls Pollock's work: "He was imitated just overnight, but for some strange reason, no one could do it just the way he did... in the Village they'd hold those art shows [and] you'd see a dozen imitations of Pollock, but they could never do it."*

He felt hot despite the chilly air. He wished he could take off the black velvet shirt he was wearing. It screamed "Look at me! I'm a painter!" On the off chance he died, he would regret having worn that shirt. That's all though. His actions were crazy, but he was taking them back to the start of his madness. It was the only way he could understand it. It would soon burst forth in an organic way and he'd cry about it in bed with Ruth.

"Drunkeness, violent death, sex and art," said Cile Downs, artist and friend. "All of that is attractive to the public with the exception of art, you know? So it's a lot easier to think of the drama of his history, then to think about what he did in the realm of art."*

* Quotes taken from the documentary Jackson Pollock: Love and Death in Long Island.

Coldplay - The Scientist

Suddenly

2008-08-20T00:38:00.000-07:00

A new sensation.
Overnight success story.
He turned 42 that day.

Anxiety

2008-08-14T22:09:00.000-07:00

Starting a new job that requires training
and aptitude tests. I've had three this month
and they're draining.

I'm 30. Not 21, 25, or my beloved 29, so stress
is of the non-emotional, financial sort. Instead of
birds, I wake up to the ring of Student Loan Gods.

Thoughts of debt plagued me at this orientation
for substitute teachers. They assigned me number
15, which is half what I owe in thousands.

I heard 15 called 3 times and each time I did,
I tried to steady my nerves and not feel like
a desire to run. Leave me alone, please.

I gave them answers. Faking it. And not once did
my reply make me feel any better about
being a grown up.

They rewarded me with two candy bars. Since
I'm on the Can't Eat Junk Food Cuz I'm 30-diet,
this was an insult.

I'd give the diet up, but I'm skinny. The same with
being gainfully employed. Cuz who needs anxiety?
Just sign me up for hoboville.

One day I'll have a husband, a home and a bouncing
baby deduction. But for now, I "enjoy" single life and
resist the urge to go postal.

Once

2008-08-11T23:09:00.000-07:00

Once in a while,

things don't feel so

shitty. The clouds part,

I have plenty of food

or beer, and my

favorite episode of

South Park is on.

Once in awhile I

get caught up on

projects. They include

losing weight, re-learning

algebra, emailing

Howard Zinn,

and blogging again.

Writing this poem satisfied

the latter and once is never

enough. Not for me.

Pick It

2008-07-06T22:21:00.000-07:00

You can't pick your
life or crimes.
Somehow they are
ingrained from the
day we are born.
They just are.
We'll say or do
lots
and there is
little control
in our
Deoxyribonucleic
acid.
You can't pick your
pleasure or pain:
not an option
in an Earthly world.
They're endured,
occasionally enjoyed.
Once in awhile,
the chef,
also known as God,
will come out and ask
your opinion,
but mostly he just wants you
to chew with your mouth closed.
He (capital H) has
an image to uphold.
I turned 30 on June 25, 2008
and throughout my
youth and teens,
I was told not to pick at scabs
or pimples.
They won't heal properly if you do.
I never listened.
I have scars on each knee and
a few on my cheek.
I don't regret picking at them,
but I do feel nostalgic
in the mirror.
If you told me not to
pick that scab on my knee
at age 5,
I would obey you long enough
to run home,
close the door,
and see for myself.
I'm just as rebellious now,
only this time,
I'm in now hurry to prove you
right.
It will come. Or not.

It's Over

2008-07-03T15:43:00.000-07:00

I realized it was over that day we used my paper cup full of pennies and could only buy one meal. I was especially hungry that day and so was our baby, but you scarffed it down. I didn't have a chance.

Crowded House - Don't Dream, it's Over

Washington Square

2008-06-30T18:15:00.002-07:00

She walked around the plaza, looking at buildings. It was freezing cold. She needed a hot shower. Her watch, a skinny gold Seiko given to her by her boss, said 3:06 a.m. There wouldn't be a bus around for another two, maybe three hours. She sat on a square planter, still dizzy from her whiskey sours. The concrete scratched her butt because there was a hole in her panties. Good thing they were from Wal-mart, not Victoria's Secret. She was using this trip to party instead of lobby, and her boss wouldn't be pleased, but goddammit, she was having fun.

The Village Stompers - Washington Square (LP)

Titanic

2008-06-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

Everything I care about is sinking on this ship,
but I own nothing.
I can't be with you on land.
I don't exist there
because
she's the jealous type, you say.
As we talk, sink, and smile,
I wise up.
I jump on a lifeboat to try and save myself.
I hate survival instincts.
I'd rather go down with the ship
to be with you.
Would you hold my hand if I did?
Would you feel foolish if I risked my life in
your presence?
I might,
but I don't know for sure.
Nothing is certain here.

Nobody's Fool

2008-06-24T23:41:00.000-07:00

Tonya wore a Navy Blue dress
with a stylized rip showing her
(covered) left ass cheek.
If daddy saw it,
she'd be dead.
The scent of Jasmine radiated from her
milky skin.
Smelling good was a concern so she kept
sniffing the oil streaks on her pale wrists.
Each time she did,
thick magenta lips
would smear ever so slightly.
No time to redo.
Wearing the perfect lace gloves, she continued
teasing her hair.
She got the gloves from Gemco;
they looked like Madonna's from Lucky Star.
Gemco was also where she met Fennel,
her boyfriend;
right at the snack bar eating a hot dog.
She liked his name and thought he was cute.
He was 26, drove a moped and was meeting her
at the busstop for their concert date.
They met there to avoid daddy.
Tonya is late.
Not "missing a period late."
That would just be gossip and don't believe
those girls when they talk!
She's late from spraying too much hairspray
while teasing out her bangs.
They became too crunchy and she had to
wash her hair, start again.
A girl can't leave the house looking like that.
She'd be a fool if she did.

Cinderella - Nobody's Fool

George Carlin

2008-06-22T22:16:00.000-07:00

Cool people really need to stop dying. Just heard about this and my heart has dropped to the floor. We love and miss you George. You're one of the few people I like. The members of the People Who Hate People party need you.

George Carlin 1937-2008

Half Empty

2008-06-17T19:18:00.000-07:00

I have no hero worship.
Lost that at 16.
Even the misfits,
folks who make me proud with
their fuck-it attitude:
musicians, comics, writers.
I can give a shit about them too.
No one impresses me
enough to be my hero.
The closest I get are grown ups
who pay their bills, are responsible
and love their life enough to
live it.

Stinky Old Men

2008-06-17T18:30:00.000-07:00

Some of the great American writers

were nothing but

stinky old men.

Their words so keenly disguise

immaturity

and narcissistic rage.

Sometimes the only thing I respect,

aside from their beautiful language,

is that I can call them on their

faults,

but only if I don't sleep with them.

You can insult the ego of an author

who sprays his fists with

Teflon,

thus avoiding tears,

but it changes if you

sleep with him.

His words are daggers.

He'll use them against you if he has

a bad day

cuz you make him feel vulnerable.

No cop will arrest Hank.

He gives the blue collar man hope.

Blue collar women have to

choose their poison, I guess.

I've kissed Romeo's lips for a taste.

Men with sour smells seeping from their pores.

It's just cologne for a secret fragrance.

I can't worship at the altar of a man

who doesn't know his own stench.

So long as there's no sex, I can worship you,

you stinky old man.

Chocolatey Crystal Ball

2008-06-17T13:24:00.000-07:00

When I worked as a waitress in Hollywood,
I would park my car near a Starbucks
then walk to the restaurant.
There was always a sea of empty Frappucino
cups on the sidewalk.
They weren't there long.
Hollywood hates anything unattractive,
even in it's gutters,
but they would multiply every day.
Empty cups of "coffee,"
with as many calories as a slice of cheesecake.
Their most interesting feature was
that unique dome-shaped lid.
These empty cups would have streaks of
chocolate sauce
dripping down the inside arches,
like remnants of a fudge and
whipped cream lava lamp.
I never thought twice about it
until one day I saw
the psychic medium I served breakfast to
sitting outside.
She was dressed in her usual moon-themed clothes
and sucking on a thick green straw of her
very own Venti Frappucino Cheesecake.
She was sucking hard,
and the whipped cream was dipping
far below her cup's sea level.
Then she stopped,
looked down and trailed
knife sharp
purple fingernails over the chocolate streaks.
She was tracing them through the plastic dome,
as if to clear her psychic view.
Once I was kind to her ailing Hungarian father.
He needed his food cut extra small.
Ever since, she was trying to get me to see her
"at no cost"
so I could know my future,
but I refused.
If the broad gets her inspiration from Starbucks,
I made the right choice.

Without Sticks?

2008-06-14T22:34:00.000-07:00

Coach came in and said
"Boys, we're gonna play this one without sticks."
and Pierre said "Huh?"
I said "What?"
and Valeri said something in
his native Russian
that sounded like an angry
cartoon character.
It was absurd, of course.
Coach was fond of huffing
paint thinner
when he loses at the dog track.
That was all I could think of
when he said
no hockey sticks against Toronto.
Our team looked at each other,
big burly guys pale as can be
padded for cold weather.
Pierre was still bleeding from his nose.
I'm sure he didn't want to break it again.
Not unless he was armed with a
non-regulation stick
made from metal.
To be honest,
everyone had this scared
little boy look on their
faces,
like mommy forgot to pack us
lunches.
Asking a hockey player to play
stickless
is like asking John Holmes to
detach his cock before a fuck-scene.
It's sacrilegious.
Sacrifices dignity and ethics.
I was unsure what to do.
Coach was clearly insane.
If this were the NHL instead
of college
our stickless team would be seen
kicking around
the hockey puck on Sportscenter's
funniest clips of the year.
I doubt refs would call it either.
That's golden entertainment.
I had to do something.
Softly, but with force, I spoke.
"Coach, I'm fine with playing
without sticks
so long as I can do it without clothes too."
I watched his eyes bulge as he laughed at me.
I could smell the whiskey,
even from far away.
"Are you crazy McGonigle?!"
Other players were silent.
Maybe this was all an episode
of "Punk'd" on MTV
but they knew it wasn't;
he was just baked.
"Girls," Coach said choking on the
saliva in his throat,
"Let's all laugh at McGonigle for wanting
to flap around his cock
like the gay Ice Capades!"
Everyone laughed at me and this
good ol' boy moment
allowed coach to glance
at his watch and forget
his previous commands.
We played regularly that night,
and afterwards
everyone bought me a beer.
Sometimes you gotta take one
for the team,
which would have been our motto
had we lost our sticks.

Love is like a Pollack Painting

2008-06-13T17:51:00.000-07:00

It doesn't matter where you are:
settled down, an emotional wreck,
or confident as fuck.
It hurts.
And to answer your question:
Yes. I feel ashamed,
going back as far as I can
remember.

Giving emotionally to someone not
of blood relation can be embarrassing
because it's not logical.
It doesn't look good; messes you up.
Are we just bipeds in a reality show
created by God?
It feels that way.
Hopefully it beats Tila Tequila's car crash.

Love smells sweet, but tastes bitter.
It's the vanilla I use making french toast
on special mornings.
The smell is good, but the taste is awful.
I don't know why I lick it off my finger.
I think the taste might change someday
but it doesn't.

I thought love's scent would evaporate off the couch
in my heart like using Febreze where the dog sleeps.

It's faded, but there's butt impressions like sinkholes
that won't go away.
There's artwork, too.
My heart has a love seat, excuse the pun, and while my exes sat,
I took a paintbrush and outlined their body on the wall
like a lab tech does with chalk.
The result was one super boyfriend with no clear definition
and he keeps growing.

That living room is disorderly but
I can be anywhere and see it clearly:
sipping coffee in my room or chugging beer at the bar.
Aesthetics are a good thing.
They keep us alive.
Being judicious is healthy so long as you
continue to care about others.

Now when I fall in love, I put down the brush and
admire my artwork.
No more outlines.
Abstract beauty is subjective.
People claim five-year olds can paint like
Jackson Pollack did, but I have yet to see fingerpainting
as delicate as Lavender Mist.*

* Pollack's Lavender Mist is pictured above.

Coldplay - The Scientist

"Nobody said it was easy. It's such a shame for us to part.
Questions of science. Science and progress do not speak as loud as my heart"

New Sensation at 9

2008-06-09T23:18:00.000-07:00

The first time I meditated was in the fourth grade.
We were in the auditorium
of our elementary school.
It was used for assemblies, book fairs.
I was with my class
and we were sitting Indian style
facing our teacher
in much the same way
yoga students do.

Our teacher was cool.
She had these sterling silver
glasses with dangly star charms
and she wasn't like
other teachers.
She did things different with us,
like on that day in the late 80s when
she played new age music from a
hot pink boom box.

She then asked our nine-year old minds to
imagine flying through the sky.
This was every kid's dream anyways.
She had us fly over
"snowy mountains,"
then "sandy beaches,"
"farmlands," and eventually
our humble California town
called "Alta Loma."

We felt the breeze and smelled
the smells, just thrilled
to use our imagination.
I like remembering this day.
It was the first time
I recall feeling refreshed at school,
like I just got out of a
swimming pool
or bathtub.

I felt calm, not anxious.
This was a new sensation
given to me by a teacher.
I was even allowed to chew three pieces
of spearmint gum and
not get in trouble.
I know she saw because
our eyes met and I was
chomping away.

I was only nine but thanks to her,
I felt like a grown up.
She didn't make me spit out my gum
so I was able to relax like I was at home.
For the first time,
I flew
and chewed gum at the same time:
something I never did before.
Isn't that what school's all about?

Meditation Music: James Newton Howard - Soundtrack to the film "Grand Canyon" TAKES A FEW SECONDS TO LOAD... WORTH IT!

The Relaxed and Guilty Businessman

2008-06-09T15:51:00.000-07:00

The tall business man was riddled with guilt and temporarily without a car. Therefore he was forced to wait at the bus stop like every other blue collar human being, which he wasn't. Not by a long shot! In addition to guilt, he felt anger, because the goddamn mother fucking shit for brains intern had forgotten to book his vacation flight to Fiji in First Class. Now the business man had to fork over another two thousand dollars and spend an hour on the phone fixing this. Only the hour on the phone concerned him, not the money.

He was an important man and his time was valuable. Already he missed the 112 downtown bus. He would have to wait a half hour for the next one. He'd take a cab or even a limo, but chauffeurs were on strike today. He'd ask an intern, but everyone hated him in the office. He'd get a rental, but after the crash, he was on a shit list; so missing the bus was the cause of his guilt. Before he left, an overseas client had sent him a file of the Kim Kardashian sex tape and he spent about thirty minutes jerking off in front of his Sony Vaio laptop, nearly gumming up the works. He couldn't help it. Blame his weakness for big asses. His time is valuable, in case we didn't mention it, and he didn't have time to purchase hot masturbation aids. Those thirty jerk-off minutes were pure heaven to him.

He had all this money and yet couldn't control the space/time continuum. Maybe he could invest in the scientific research for that. His Amazon stocks were paying off big time. He would mention it next time his financial planner asked him to throw away a million for tax write-offs. Oh well, at least he felt relaxed. It was a nice day, too. The sun felt good on his skin. Maybe today's the day Kim will call him back.

"Time goes by so slowly..."

James sings "Hung Up" by Madonna -
YouTube id: jameshayward1

Soda Pop for Breakfast

2008-06-08T10:09:00.000-07:00

That morning, he felt like a Muppet. Like an asexual frog with no genitalia. His stomach was a mess, so instead of food, he grabbed a Diet Coke for breakfast. He gulped it in his kitchen like it was medicine. It contained a sugar substitute.

Miss Piggy had come for him last night in Hollywood. He was playing darts with his friends at the bar. She was dressed to the nine in her pink lace wings purchased from Hot Topic at the mall. That store is for every emo/goth/alternative beauty to adorn themselves. The clothes adorned them in much the same way brownie bites adorned Miss Piggy's frozen yogurt.

He didn't have a problem with fat chics, excuse his language. Curves were fine and most women look sexy with a belly pooch. What turned him off was the mixed candy bag she had purchased from Sweet Tooth. Inside was a golf ball-sized jawbreaker the color of a tie dye shirt. Miss Piggy continuously took it out to suck, then put back in. She did this while he drank his fifth mojito, which was not a faggy drink since he saw The Rock drink one at Sky Bar, and the more it went in and out of her mouth, the more he could taste the sugar in his own drink.

It was offensively close, like getting a whiff of sweaty balls in the locker room.

When he last had sex with her, she insisted on using whipped cream. Maybe this time, she'd ask for Hershey's on his nuts. She tried her best to persuade him, licking seductively and turning her tongue a grey-puise, but it failed. It felt weird not caving to his libido; he wanted to do anything that moved. Then again, too much of a good thing is disgusting. When he got home, he vomited in the toilet. He hadn't eaten anything, so it was all mojito juice.

There was nothing offensive in his kitchen, which now smelled like Pine Sol because the maid came. As he drank his Coke, he was thankful his diet started that week. There was only chicken breast, fruit and vegetables in his fridge. He wasn't vain about his weight or having a clean home. Weight comes and goes and we can all be messy pigs, but it truly made him thankful smelling disinfectant and Splenda. It cleansed his nostrils like a colonic.

No more sugary drinks at the bar.

Marcy's Playground - Sex & Candy

True Love Song

2008-06-07T15:59:00.000-07:00

I rarely mention comedy anymore, but anyone that knows me knows I am the biggest nerd about all things funny. I love to laugh and lighten up. I still love stand-up but I prefer writing so much more. And those open mics in Hollywood stole my soul. I'm still looking for it. Last I heard, my soul was turnin' tricks on Melrose wearing a pink feather boa and leather boots.

At Doug Stanhope's party, in between many beers and water fights, I saw Henry Phillips perform in the middle of Death Valley in 2006. This song will make you bust a gut. Anything with the phrase "waxed vagina" should be a hoot and a hollah, right?

True Love Song w/ Henry Phillips & Julia Lillis
*shows how differently men and women get turned on*

Delicate Boy

2008-06-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

Poor Donald.
With a broken heart,
he walked around the
dented white
Toyota Corolla
wondering what to do.
The dent was from an
accident years ago,
but he would
have preferred
a ruined car over
his current
ruined self-esteem.
His shoe was covered in
neon green slushie
that Cheryl
poured on his foot.
It was all he had left,
minus the emptied cup
in his hand.
He wanted to kiss it,
the cup, not his hand,
to relish her,
because she was
really gone now.
"Go, baby, go go!"
he had yelled in disgust,
feeling like an asshole.
It wasn't him.
She left him alone!
Alone.
A flip of her hair and boom!
Gone wearing hot spandex
pants she bought from a gay
thrift store in Long Beach.
They had stretchy
material for her feet
to slide into like an
ass on a swing.
She wore them to bed once
and his toe ran underneath
and snapped it.
The noise was funny and
he laughed,
but she cried.
Could he really be an
insensitive prick?
She poured the
sugary green snow
on his foot
and walked away.
Her ass did look great though,
and sitting on top of the neon
ice was a lid with the straw
still in it.
He picked it up to kiss
and savor her memory.
It was stained with
bing cherry lipstick.
The lipstick made him angry.
Angry.
Because this puny tube
was officially the last thing
she sucked on
before breaking his heart.

Garbage - Cherry Lips

Fight at the Cartoon Bar

2008-05-30T18:57:00.001-07:00

We can't be certain who the villains are cuz everyone's so pretty, but this we know for sure:
Schoolboy John's the only eye-witness to this whole thing.
He saw Sunshine Sally clock Jane with a diamond ring.
Now Cowboy Jane's in bed.
She's nursing a swollen head and this whole thing was started by Slutty Kim,
who slapped Aunt Bea in the face with a sticky Slim Jim.
An ugly, ugly scene full of pretty cartoon faces.
Aunt Bea was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, you see,
she dropped acid on a Saturday night to quote
"see what the fuss was about," then her face turned green, a piano fell down the stairs, and an anvil dropped on her toe.

Until things cool down, I'd advise you to find a new place to drink...

Sheryl Crow - There Goes the Neighbourhood

Before I needed blush.

2008-05-27T01:55:00.001-07:00

The short girl, who may or may not be me, awkwardly stood up. She almost fainted. Her movements were like those dumb cows right before they get tipped over by college phrat kids. Dizziness came from a root canal which her dentist recommended so she wouldn't suffer "unrepairable damage." She didn't believe him. I didn't believe him.

One side of her face, the side with silver skull hoops on her ears, was as swollen as a watermelon on steroids. The only thing she could feel was heat and pressure. It was like a Hypercolor shirt.

Do you remember those from the early 90s? You know the ones where you put your hand on it and that part changes from color to bleach white? Kind of like a tie dye shirt, but better. The scientific term is thermochromic pigment. Everyone I knew in high school (1992-1996) had one and it stopped working after they accidentally put it in the dryer with other laundry. It stops looking cool; gets all blotchy and plain and who doesn't own a frumpy white t-shirt? I own several. I dye my hair in them.

Anyways, this short girl presses her cheek over and over making blood ooze from the fresh wounds in her gums. She couldn't feel a thing. All she could feel is the warmth of her hand, like a heating pad. The Novocaine soon wears off and her face now hurts and is a blotchy mess, like a Hypercolor shirt that went through the dryer. Her beautiful complexion, gone. The doctor did say unrepairable damage.

Linkin Park - Numb
Cover by: Adrian Lee

Gay Guy Meth Story

2008-05-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

[It is almost 10 p.m. on May 8th. Lisa is working on a story on her blog when her phone rings. The ringtone is the music to Weezer's "We Are All on Drugs" She answers on the part that goes "...ooonnnnn druuuugs..."]

LISA: Hello?

LISA'S FRIEND: Hey Lis, saw you called earlier, wassup?

LISA: Oh yeah. Hey. Not much, I was bored but now I'm finishing up a story on my blog.

LISA'S FRIEND: Oh yeah, whattcha writin'?

LISA: A Gay Guy Meth Story.

LISA'S FRIEND: A what?

LISA: [talking louder this time] A GAY GUY METH STORY!

LISA'S FRIEND: [long pause, then] You're weird Lisa. That's weird.

LISA: I write things that interest me.

LISA'S FRIEND: Yeah, but a gay guy meth story? What happened to that novel you were working on? Did it change or something?

[Lisa looks at her computer and the chicken scratch notes for her novel "Elly Mae & The Science of Love." She's frustrated with the structured approach of her book and is having writer's block. To free her brain she writes something different everyday, usually based on inspiration from a documentary, book, or song. This gay guy story was inspired by a documentary on gay men called "Meth." She sighs and takes a swig of coffee from a cup that has been there since that morning when she started working. It is ice cold.]

LISA: No, I didn't change it.

[another long pause. Lisa's friend coughs.]

LISA'S FRIEND: You're not on drugs are you? Cuz if you are, you can tell me. I know you secretly write stuff on your blog to come clean in your life. [Lisa's Friend laughs at her joke.]

LISA: I'm not on drugs. I'm just frustrated.

[Lisa's Friend giggles and takes a deep breath before saying her next line.]

LISA'S FRIEND: Wanna go get drunk?

LISA: Ok.

[Lisa hangs up and pretties herself up for some late night drinking. The Cure for Writers Block 101.]

Weezer - We are all on Drugs

Jack's Insults

2008-05-25T00:48:00.000-07:00

She pops her bubble gum
and laughs at us,
like it meant nothing,
like you didn't just insult her
with your words.
She understood you, Jack,
but as of Tuesday, she's
been off her rocker
and speaking in tongues.
She's waiting for
a mysterious phone call.
She says this
between hyper breaths.
"Crazy bitch," you say
underneath your Raiders cap.
You call all women that word
so I don't put a lot of
stock in it.
Last week,
we saw her rummaging
through garbage cans
for mementos of lost love.
She spoke to me when you
weren't around
(she says you make her uncomfortable)
and said:
"I found Miss Havisham's
wedding cake in a recycle bin
full of Fanta cans!"
I believed her,
because for days
she smelled just like
strawberry soda with
vanilla frosting.
It would have made a good
air freshener to cover up
the stench of your feet.
Don't take off your shoes
in my car anymore,
ok?
It's gross.
Above all else,
it's a miracle she survived
sleeping in a trash compactor
for three days straight.
To me,
that proves
garbage is a constituent
in a world full of indignity.
That's not a deep thought, Jack.
Just an obvious one.

"No we're never gonna survive unless we are a little crazy"

Run Far Away

2008-05-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

I continued the story of Zoe, Jon and Karen from The Truth Hurts Lying Down. I didn't want to, but they wouldn't leave my head. Dammit. If this story continues, it will only for one more round, if that. Yes, it's fiction. Stop asking me that.

I'll stop writing when it feels cheesy. Karen's last entry felt that way, so maybe I'll stop it here.

Run Far Away
By Lisa Jablonsky

Part One: Run

Part Two: Far

Part Three: Away

Away

2008-05-24T14:45:00.000-07:00

This is a continuation of The Truth Hurts Lying Down, a short story.

....part one of this story is called Run...
....part two of this story is called Far...

The microwave beeped, so Karen put the away message on her AIM profile, and headed to the kitchen. Ramona's bottle was ready. She had been chatting online with her sister, Kat.

Kat was showing stress about the wedding. She kept typing "ugh" and "help me," so to make her laugh, Karen changed her icon from Disney's Tinkerbell, to a bunny with a pancake on his head. It was a funny picture she found on a pet website. She was contemplating a new one since Bruno left.

It worked. Kat sent a stream of yellow smileys, then typed "Thanks sis!" in capital letters.

Bruno ran away a month ago, about the same time Karen was having second thoughts about school. She looked for him, but he never returned. She regretted hitting him with that newspaper, she thought she may have done it too hard, but Jon had just paid for their new carpet. Seeing him destroy it made her snap.

The way he yelped, he sounded so sad. It was a guttural meow, like he was under water.

She didn't want to think about Bruno anymore. She missed him and it was painful. She shifted her focus. On the couch, she held the baby in one arm and with the other, guided a bottle into her mouth, using a forefinger to tickle under her chin. It was a trick she learned months ago.

Jon was helpless at feeding the baby. He was, however, excellent at stopping her tears just by holding her. It was a male dominance thing, something guys can just do with the opposite sex.

Ramona suckled, then stopped and yawned. She stretched out her fat baby arms, like the end of a long work day, and quickly passed out. Karen could hold her for hours, just looking at her while she slept. It was spiritual. This baby was the cherry on top of married life.

That was why she was having doubts about school and wanted to drop out. It was just too much. She planned on telling Jon when he got home that day, but she was nervous.

He hadn't been in the best of moods. He even turned her down for sex. Although to be honest, Karen was only interested that one day with the Forget-Me-Not flowers. It was a sweet gesture, out of the blue like that, and she started taking off his pants, but Jon said he had a migraine. RN's deal with incredible pressure and those medical conferences must have wiped him out.

Karen looked at the baby, fast asleep in her arms, and carried her into the nursery. She placed her in the crib and wound the musical mobile that played "Ba Ba Black Sheep." The soft music filled the room and Karen considered a long nap herself, but she knew she couldn't. She had chores to do. She made her way to the living room to fold laundry.

Folding a bath towel under her chin, she sighed. Telling Jon would be hard. He was so enthused about her independence, saying "I knew you had it in you! All you needed was a push," and she felt guilty. Being a librarian wasn't in her future. If it was, she wouldn't be here. She'd be far away from Moreno Valley and living alone. Karen's life didn't function that way. It never had.

Being a wife and mother was all she ever really wanted.

Jon promised her domestic bliss. It was a struggle. Those first years after high school he was hardly husband-material, going from job to job and spending weekends with the guys. She knew how bad he wanted her, though. His crush on her started in 10th grade and she knew she could change him.

He asked her out when he was working as a waiter, seven years ago. She was looking for a husband and thought he had potential, but soon realized his lack of funds. After two months, things were starting to fizzle and he hadn't even made it to second base yet.

Then they went to the Orange County Fair. They were on the Ferris Wheel and it was stopped, letting everyone take in the nighttime view. Overlooking luxury cars and Republican households, Karen got excited. It turned her on! It was the life she always wanted. She carefully moved Jon's hand under her skirt.

"Oh baby," he had groaned with pleasure. "You don't know how bad I've wanted to touch you." He buried his face in her neck, like a wolf with blood lust, kissing and bringing her to a climax. Karen managed a few words.

Through her heavily red lined lips and powdered face, she said: "I need someone who can take care of me. Can you?"

"Of course baby, anything," he replied.

That was how she got him into the nursing program at RCC. Then like magic, Karen's biggest worry was putting dinner on the table for her husband. Having a man fulfill her every need was the ultimate delectation. Better than sex.

She decided against folding clothes and poured herself a glass of wine. It was early in the day, but it had been a stressful month. With the cat running away, buying the new car, planning her sister's wedding, and Ramona getting over an ear infection, she deserved some release. That case of wine had four bottles left now. She gulped the Chablis, realizing she was depressed. It hit her like lightning.

Sex. This was about sex.

Her marriage seemed strong, but Karen wasn't sleeping with Jon. Not regularly. Did that cause his mood swings? She was turned on by material things: new carpet, Jon's sports car, Ramona's ladybug outfit from Anne Geddes. To her, they were integral to a happy marriage. Without Jon's money, they were nothing but an average couple in the Inland Empire suffering in this awful summer heat.

Did Jon resent her because of their sex life? Were those conferences just to get away from her? He was going to run away like Bruno did, she just knew it. Her heart raced and she drank some more. Something felt terribly wrong. Her life felt phony, especially her attempt at college. She hadn't gone to class in weeks, but Jon didn't know that.

Why couldn't things be just like they were on that Ferris Wheel? When Jon would've do anything for her and she was excited about the future.

Karen read that sunlight cures depression, so she opened the blinds. Bright rays washed over their Italian silk couch. Looking at the reflective surface, she felt a lump in her throat. She laid on the floor and buried her face in the carpet. The musical notes of Ba Ba Black Sheep started her tears.

She cried until snot bubbled from her nose. Then fearing Jon would come home, straightened up and wiped it with her sleeve. An overwhelming feeling of failure washed through her, all the way to her toes. She licked the remaining snot off her upper lip and it tasted like white wine. She wanted another glass, so she gave up on laundry. Beside, her sister was waiting online to finish up their chat.

When Jon got home, she was drunk and surfing YouTube. And even though he wasn't good at it, he ended up folding laundry and feeding the baby dinner.

Soul Asylum - Runaway Train

Far

2008-05-23T12:53:00.000-07:00

This is a continuation of The Truth Hurts Lying Down, a short story.

...part one of this story is called Run...

The GPS system on Jon's 2008 Limited Edition Lynx Yellow Saab convertible was telling him he was far from his destination. Fifty three miles, to be exact. Since the destination was a special bakery for wedding cakes, right across the street from his house, he decided it was wrong. Maybe he mistyped it, but it didn't matter. He only entered in coordinates for fun. The car was his new toy.

There were only 140 of these Swedish cars allowed to be sold in the U.S. and now he owned one. Had just picked it up from the dealership, pleased that the stereo and GPS were modified to say "Hello Jon" when he turned them on. It was the least they could do for $50,000. His new car offered a perfect world and an escape from day to day bullshit.

It had been three weeks since that last night with Zoe. He missed her. Since she stopped taking his calls, he was back to the usual grind. Karen, the baby, being sent to the bakery for wedding cakes. It was something he started to dread. Being with Zoe gave him light. She inspired him with her beauty and intelligence.

He wouldn't have stayed married if he didn't love Karen, but their life was so ordinary. Months earlier, they fought about money, and he grabbed The Guide, an entertainment publication published by The Press-Enterprise every Friday, to find something to do without her. The more extravagant, the better. Who did she think she was ordering him around?

He came across Zoe's play, "Run Far Away." The synopsis enticed him. It likened it to the plot of "Pulp Fiction," which was one of Jon's favorite movies, and was a series of inter-locking stories. It wasn't until he was inside reading the program that he realized these were love stories and that the playwright was his former classmate, Zoe. Her picture was buried in the back by an advertisement.

He didn't know what had happened to her so it made him happy to see her name.

The play was good. Both sexy and frightening. Every character was in a life or death situation when they met their lovers. There was also a really hot lesbian scene, which Jon would be lying if he didn't say turned him on, with live actors to boot!

He approached Zoe as she was shaking hands with patrons. She acted humble, like she hadn't even written the thing, like she was the janitor or something, and she had this glow. It was the same look a woman gets when she's pregnant. Karen had it those first few months, but it went away.

He wanted her instantly, he was so turned on by those plays coming from her mind (who would have thought that'd be so sexy?), so he stepped up his game. Zoe wasn't like other girls. He remembered that much from high school. After some crap nostalgia, he told her she had "really nice eyes" and that she needed to "visit him sometime."

Within days, they met up for dinner. He told Karen he was playing poker at his brother's. It was all so casual at first that he didn't know what to make of her interest. So he played it cool and made up even more things about his life after high school. She didn't ask a lot of questions which made it easy.

In the parking lot of the bakery, Jon parked his car, making sure to put the top up before going inside. Karen sent him to place an order for her sister's wedding. It was the job of the bride's family to make arrangements and by default, Jon was utilized.

He stood in line behind an attractive Mexican woman holding a baby girl in a puffy pink blanket. The baby was sleeping, her tiny head resting on her mother's shoulder. Her eyes were delicate slits accented by those flushed baby cheeks. She reminded him of his daughter, Ramona, who always slept when she held her. He could instantly calm her down.

Karen picked the name. It was her favorite children's book character, Ramona Quimby. Jon had gotten used to taking a backseat in those decisions. Karen had complete control. That was why the affair with Zoe was such a vital supplement to his ego. Just talking to Zo put a spring in his step. Her phone calls fed the flame. He knew she liked him. He knew she would do anything he asked.

Anything.

There were times he felt guilty. Those Internet chats late at night, when Karen was asleep. Zo had this icon that was a closeup shot of her eye and Jon's was just a picture of a Victorian beach at sunset. It was taken near a cottage in Australia where they vacationed last year. Her parents owned it, but Jon told Zoe he found the picture online. Didn't lie about the location though.

"I've always wanted to go to Australia," Zoe typed. "Wouldn't it be nice to make love on that beach?"

He made love to Karen in that cottage, then she went went dry for six months. It was a bitter tug of war. Now, by not taking his calls, Zoe was playing the same game; gaining control by bargaining the one thing that gave her power.

What did she want from him? To leave his wife? To come running to her? It was crazy. He knew she wanted him thinking about her fit little body and that night of the broken bottle. It was the same trick Karen used years ago, after their make out fest on a Ferris Wheel. The day he married her, he felt relief, like he conquered a secret level on Super Mario Bros. They'd fight and he'd hear Nintendo music in his head.

Guys take game strategy seriously. That was why that night haunted him. But Zoe laughed when he broke that bottle, right? He wouldn't have hurt her, but he was crazy then. Her interest gave him his manhood and made him high. Only briefly.

Because just as quickly as it came, he forgot about his needs. He looked into her eyes and lost control. That morning with her, he gave himself a migraine making Zo climax. She told him it was true what they say about women in their 30s and he enjoyed every minute. Would have suffered all over again.

The paper with Karen's instructions was folded in his pocket. This line was hardly moving. He knew he'd be here awhile, missing Zoe and thinking about their sex. There was egg on his face from the whole thing. He felt stupid. Having watched "The Way We Were," even emailing her a poem he wrote to express his feelings, but she didn't reply. He hadn't seen her online either.

He was a rat bastard, just like Robert Redford in that movie. Do all guys cheat on their wives? Jon didn't know, but he figured it was the curse of being a guy who will do anything for sex. Zoe wasn't the first girl he'd lusted after since marriage and she wouldn't be the last. She was, however, the only one who got under his skin with just a few words. In fact, he'd give anything, anything, to make love to her in the backseat of his new Saab, just to hear what she'd have to say about the experience.

Or, so she could see Australia, they could do it at sunset on a Victorian beach. She wanted to visit so bad, but he knew it wouldn't happen with him. Zoe was so far away in LA. Might as well be on another planet.

He had thrown his boxers from that night in the trunk of his car. Typical behavior from someone having an affair. He kept them there until he could do laundry alone, which had yet to occur. They were one of the few important things, like insurance documents, he remembered to transfer to the Saab before the trade in. Opening the trunk that morning, he caught a whiff of her musk.

Feeling helpless in line, Jon gripped his cell phone, holding it close to his crotch. Yup, he'd give anything.

U2 - Stay (Far Away, So Close)

Run

2008-05-22T12:41:00.000-07:00

Lisa's Note: I didn't want to continue this story, but these characters have been in my head every day since I finished The Truth Hurts Lying Down. If you think this story is real, you can suck it.

The spandex covered Barbie jumped off the treadmill and Zoe immediately replaced her. She upped the speed button and the tar-like mat moved faster until she was running hard. Her chubby cheeks jiggled, her straightened teeth chomped. She struggled for breath like she was under water. The crying had made her congested.

The break from Jon had been emotionally hard, but she needed it. It was a relationship, moral or not, and two weeks had past since that afternoon in Moreno Valley. She hadn't spoken to him since. Although they didn't talk much that morning. It was mostly kisses and moans.

Zoe pressed the incline button on the machine. She wanted to run uphill until she collapsed.

Had it just been a game? Were his lies the same to every girl? Why go to her her plays or watch that movie? She knew not to trust him, but she was open to it. He just needed to prove his affections were real. She didn't feel regret, just a sinking feeling of loss that had been lurking in the wings. She protected herself, so why did it hurt to lose him?

She increased the speed of the treadmill even more. Almost tripped as she ran.

Aside from his secret marraige, there was a social divide between her LA-lifestyle and his simple one in Moreno Valley. He joked about it in their online chats, calling it a wall between them.

"There's a hole in The Wall, Zo. I can just barely make out your eye!" he'd type. Then a smiley face and she'd laugh. It was a reference to her AIM icon: a close up of her left eye.

The lies hadn't helped. She didn't sleep with him because of them. She did it because he was a regular guy from her hometown and she liked that. LA had been filling her with false hope for years and she was ready to evolve. That was why she let him in. It was a surprise because his come-on lines were so phony that night in Riverside, but it didn't matter. Zoe made choices based on her own desires, not what other people thought.

After "The Way We Were," he broke that wine bottle and held it towards her face, but she wasn't afraid. She knew he wouldn't hurt her. Not intentionally. It could happen, though. The San Jacinto fault ran right through the Inland Empire. If it slipped just then, Zoe would have been cut to shreds.

Californians don't fear Earthquakes. They assume they'll go away and stay in bed. That morning, one had just rattled the glass of Seagrams Whiskey by Zoe's nightstand. Two point eight on the Richter scale. She drank whiskey until she could go back to wine. With each sip, she tried to forget that look Jon gave her.

"You know I'm just kidding, right?" he asked. Shards of broken glass was all around them on the couch.

"Of course," she said, understanding the dance.

He moved towards her and put both of his hands on her face like it was a ripe cantaloupe. His thumb moved over one of her eyebrows. They were Brooke Shields-style and she just had them waxed. The Korean woman told her that women with thick eyebrows have power and that waxing them can unleash a spell.

She didn't know if it was a spell, but Jon was looking into her eyes, at her brows, and the curve of her chubby cheeks. Her head felt full like a melon. She wanted to run away because this wasn't a game anymore. She thought she wanted his love, but now that it was happening, she felt sick and guilty.

When they made their way to the bed, she kept thinking about a girl he idolized in high school: Karen MacAskill. He was always offering her spare pens and staring at her during movies. He told Zoe they "dated briefly," but for all she knew, that was a lie. Maybe Karen was his wife.

Zoe's crush on him began the day Jon read a poem in class titled "The Wall." His words moved her, proof that a cute, popular jock had depth. When he used the metaphor again, 15 years later, she didn't even remind him. She liked The Wall between them. She was only glad it was down for the sex.

Exhausted, she jumped off the treadmill and walked towards the lockers. Her body ached. She'd been running for an hour, but the pain had a numbing effect on her broken heart. She couldn't drink booze 24/7 and exercise was a natural high.

She took off her workout clothes and walked naked through a sea of teenagers towards the showers. They stared at her, but Zoe shook it off. She'd be 31 in a month. A hot shower would wash it all away.

Soap was provided in a metal dispenser on the wall. It was pearly white and smelled like candy. Zoe rubbed it everywhere, stopping to massage sore muscles in the steam.

The girls were still there as she dried off, whispering about her unshaven legs and armpits.

She was too depressed those last few weeks. Besides, they were too young to have experienced mind-blowing sex. Sex so good, you're too sore to pick up a razor for awhile. Nope, these girls listened to Britney Spears, drank Starbucks, whereas Zoe drank whiskey and listened to jazz on NPR. In the real world, experiences ebb and flow. You pick your poison.

She had a meeting with New Line Cinema in 20 minutes. Her play "Run Far Away," had been nominated for the ATCA New Play Award. Zoe didn't care what those rich critics thought of her, but her agent was the one who entered her in the running.

New Line was interested after the recognition, so Zoe agreed, but she didn't need their acceptance. Her goal was feeling comfortable in her own skin. Life in LA wasn't the answer. All it had to offer was money, but she was broke and carrying around debt, so she gave in.

She brought those ripped up Wal-mart jeans to wear to the meeting. The ones with so many holes, they barely had any denim. They were from high school and that last day with Jon. For good measure, she brought fancy Mac makeup and a silk Armani Exchange t-shirt that cost $175. It was a yin and yang outfit. As she slid the expensive shirt over those white trash jeans, her fuck you was about to burst.

Without a mirror, she cleaned up in five minutes and grabbed her purse. The gym was near LAX so she didn't have to call a cab. Just flagged one down. Her cell phone rang on the freeway.

"They're expecting us at Spago in ten. I hope you're wearing something nice, Zo. Your clothes tell me you can't break away from growing up in Riverside." Zoe's agent was a sharp Jewish woman that had cut deals for Quentin Tarantino. He recommended her to Zoe at a party. Quentin said she saved him from a life of working at Blockbuster Video.

A stubbly knee poked through a hole in Zoe's jeans. They were a size four, so who cared if New Line was offended. Zoe had kept her figure the same for 15 years and had every right to wear them for sentimental value. It was LA and she was allowed to be eccentric.

"I'm on my way," she said. "I am wearing something nice. If they don't like my clothes, they can suck it. I won't pretend to be something I'm not."

The agent was quiet. She wondered if things had gone bad with that guy in Moreno Valley. She called her Zo because of him. Zoe told her about the nickname and she knew it made her vulnerable; the girl was a sucker for manipulation. That was partly how she agreed to submit her play to ATCA. Things had been going well for Zo, but she had a history of bad relationships. It was just a matter of time.

The agent reminded her about an awards dinner and they hung up. Zoe's phone rang again. It was Jon. She knew from the photo of Pink Floyd's album "The Wall" that came up whenever he called, so she sent it to voice mail. He only called from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on weekdays, his work hours. She couldn't answer it unless he called at a time less convenient. Anything would have sufficed, early or late, but this never happened.

She avoided the Internet, too. She missed him, but she needed a change. Now to contact her, he'd have to set off a flare for her to see from 70 miles away. He had a choice, even if he couldn't hear her voice. She knew he wouldn't do it so it pissed her off when he called.

She touched her upper lip with two fingers, smelling them and fighting back tears. She needed to light up. That candy soap didn't wash away the nicotine scent and this ride was bumpy. It was sunny so Zoe took sunglasses out of her purse, thankfully shielding her eyes.

...part two of this story is called Far...

Snow Patrol - Run

Desert Turkey

2008-05-21T12:35:00.000-07:00

It burned inside him, a secret oven full of dreams and hopes, as cliche and girly as that all sounds. There was no getting around how weak he was to this heat in the desert.

With a deep breath, he took a handful of dried mushrooms from his pocket, then washed them down with a squirt of warm water. Any minute now. It was quiet, except for the buzzing sound of bugs around his face. He saw nothing but beige dirt, cacti, and his car, one of those modern Volkswagen Bugs in red, sitting solemnly on the highway. The car was all he had now and she looked out for him. Only downside was that she couldn't drive.

Pressing the gas was never a problem, not even when he was drunk, but steering could get tricky. Therein lied the beauty of dropping mushrooms: it was a clean high. Just you, nature and happiness. No wobbly head, no upset stomach.

He understood Prohibition and had told all his drunk friends how alcohol was artificial. It subtracted the soul from your glee. You might as well be a robot if you abuse it.

His girlfriend had dumped him very publicly in a Vegas casino. About 30 minutes later, he asked a cocktail waitress how get to Death Valley. Since he lost his girl, he figured he was free to seek beauty elsewhere.

He had been here with a group of guys in his twenties. Laying in the dirt, staring at the stars, they bonded over mushrooms. The dry desert had felt so warm that when the temperature dipped, they were toasty and didn't feel it.

His girl said he was obsessive compulsive and had a gambling problem. He didn't see it. Big deal if he liked to play a few hands, even bet hundreds. He accepted the potential loss with maturity. And he wasn't even losing! Where was her glee?

Before she walked out, she said "I'm leaving you for good!" and he believed every word. There was no ifs, buts, or hey baby wontcha cool your toes... The broad was gone. Bye bye bye, as 'NSYNC sings in that song.

The buzzing got louder; mushrooms were working. He put his hands on his face and felt warm skin. He knew he had been in the sun awhile. His face was probably turning pink. Taking mushrooms in the desert is like cooking a turkey in a toaster oven. It's a slow process and can take a lot of patience. The key is to not freak out, because the turkey is you.

Time

2008-05-19T13:07:00.000-07:00

This story is called "Time Goes By So Slowly." It will be posted in four sections. Been stressed out so this is a story for me to be weird with. It's partly based on the dancing characters in the Madonna Video "Hung Up." It goes without saying that this is fiction, but for my own gratification, I'll say it like a concerned mom, cuz who knows who reads this. IT'S JUST A STORY SO DON'T BREAK YOUR NECK ATTEMPTING THINGS. The girl character will be used again. She'll be in "Sweating in a Bunny Suit," which is another serial on my blog, like Celery Stalk. If you check out "Sweating..." (March) you'll better understand the Touch, Inc reference. Krump Dancing is real. Watch the documentary "Rize."

Part One:

It wasn't like he could just scale walls. It had taken a year to unearth that momentum: starting with a running start. He began it all by Krump Dancing in Watts with a group of guys. This urban style of dancing kept many blacks out of gangs; started them on something positive. In Watts, if you're not busy, you will be harassed, attacked, even killed. There's an underlying morality to Krumping. It's a positive outlet for the black community, but anyone who does it knows it's about self-gratification. That's why when CJ moved to Long Beach, he continued to practice, alone at 5 a.m. He wanted to be a superhero. He wanted to be Spiderman.

There was an industrial building behind the Long Beach Convention Center. There he could spring between parallel staircases. That morning, he managed a backflip--after a 360 degree spin from one side to the other--and landed feet first on his red sweatshirt. The adrenaline made him attempt again. But as he ran, his spirit told him he wouldn't make it, so he stopped.

He wanted to ride the high of his accomplishment so he picked up the sweatshirt and made his way through the foggy air to the Convention's fountain. He couldn't stop smiling because he was happy. He concentrated on his visible breath and sweat dripping onto the sidewalk. The smile went away.

Spiderman took him a year. To save his palms, he wore fingerless leather gloves, but he still got hurt. He scraped himself a lot. He broke his ankle once and he was always harassed by police.

They saw him, a black man, springing back and forth from buildings in downtown Long Beach. Enough said, right? He knew the burden of his skin color. He'd give it up if it didn't mean something.

And he didn't know what else to do. He was 22 now and other than sex, Krumping gave him unmeasurable pleasure. Kept him in shape, attracted the ladies. He didn't even drink! He'd have a one to save face, but he didn't need alcohol anymore.

He was hung up on this. It gave him the power to climb walls... with a running start.

Tupac's "Untouchable" began playing on the ipod shuffle in his boxer shorts. He came up to the huge fountain, located at the top of concrete steps, just like the stairs from "Rocky." The water sprayed in arched rainbows and vertical gun shots. The cold mist was nice.

Taking a deep breath, he stood on the side of the fountain. Bobbed his head to the bass, bit his lip; he waited for the moves. A violent dance emerged, channelling the rage of his minimum wage existence: McDonalds for two years. He was Krumping, but it was all him. Black dancers are born with a spirit telling them how. White people don't have it. It's not their gift.

He moved up and down like a slinky, extending his arms for leverage. With each bounce, his stomach folded with crisp precision. Cold water drops splashed on his dark arms. The touch of the water was inviting, like the touch of a girl. As an extension of this mating call, he did a handstand, then sprung himself right into the water, landing on his feet.

Like the crash of a huge bong, the splash stopped his dance. Game over. He sloshed his way to the side. Before exiting, he checked to see how badly soaked his sneakers were. Aside from his ipod, shoes were prized possessions. He didn't want to wreck them entirely.

With his leg up, he looked towards the street. He could see a white brunette girl watching him from by the bus stop. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt the dark green color of a Christmas Tree. It showed her figure. Nice curves. She was also wearing silver roller blades, a walkman on her waist, and those bulky, old-fashioned type of headphones on her head. CJ wore wireless earbuds from Touch, Inc.

His first thought was what the hell was she doing out here so early. Exercising? His second was why did she look like a dork. Especially with that walkman! It was like something from the eighties. She didn't belong here and was fresh off the bus.

He'd seen Asian tourists making their way through downtown Long Beach. This girl looked like one of them: out of place, looking for something that wasn't there. Long Beach didn't have a lot of beauty. Tourists were dumb.

They made eye contact and she started climbing the stairs. She moved fast for wearing roller blades. He was impressed, but embarrassed. He turned away, pretending to tie his shoe. She reached the top and skated over.

"Hi!" she said, sounding just like a stupid white girl. Bubbly, instantly nice.

He gave her a quick look, then turned back.

"I got these skates," she said, pointing. "I got 'em at the mall from my boss and well... they make me it so I can dance like you just did... I think."

CJ looked at the girl's face, confused. What the hell was she talking about? Shit, now he was mad. He'd taken the bus enough to see crazy people mumbling to themselves. This girl was just an extension of that. A little cleaner, but just as nuts. He had to be at work soon.

"A'ight," CJ said casually. He stepped out of the fountain, stomping his feet to shake out excess water. "I ain't got time to talk to you. K?" Throwing his sweatshirt over his shoulder, he began walking.

"Can I prove it to you?" she yelled. CJ turned around. He quickly did a scan to make sure no one was watching.

"A'ight," he said, an evil smile. He was always up for someone making a fool of themselves. No one could touch ghetto moves.

The girl pressed the clunky play button on her walkman. Then like a hot wheel being backed up by a kid, she effortlessly moved backward on her skates. It was weird. There was no help from her legs or nothin'. She skated forward like a sling shot, right along the fountain, weaving in figure eights. She jumped the edge too, holding her arms out to touch the water. The sun glistened off her skates, which were the same color as the guy from Terminator 2. They looked expensive. With her white skin and colorful clothes, CJ thought of the Trix cereal bunny.

She was moving, but not with passion. He didn't know if white people could hear spirits. He didn't think so. That dance was about listening inside.

When she finished, she asked him: "Am I dancing?"

He wanted to ask how she moved, but he didn't. He just nodded, as if to tell her good job. There wasn't time. He sighed, because his wet shoes would weigh him down. No more Spiderman today. It was then he realized how difficult moving in those skates really was. They were made of heavy material and she moved without gravity.

Not letting on, he said: "You're just using your legs. You need to feel it from inside. Use your hands and your stomach." As he said this, he watched her face. The girl had approached him out of awe, just like he approached his mentor, Blue Eyez, when he started Krumping. It took five attempts before he could ask for advice. This girl did it right away. Did she want guidance?

He sat down on the fountain and took off one of his gloves. He started to give her The Speech, which made him happy since he had never been able to say it before.

"You got the music in your ears right?" he said, pointing to her headphones. She nodded. "But you also got the music in here." He patted his chest, his heart. "You need to listen to the beat. It tells you what to do. It's gonna take time, because the hardest moves are the ones that help you touch the sky. When you do those, you're gonna get hurt, but it's better than gettin' sh--" CJ stopped. The speech ended with "gettin' shot;" Krumping was an alternative to gang life, but this ending didn't apply to her. She wasn't marked.

The girl blinked. Wide eyes. "Do you mean getting caught?" she asked.

He regretted talking to her. She may very well be crazy. Didn't crazy people on the bus think somebody was after them? It ain't like she committed a crime or anything. Did she? Maybe she stole them skates.

"Um, yeah," he said, then handed her his glove. His spirit told him to do it as a ritual gesture. Karma. He did it quickly before regret set in. "Protect your hand," he said, then got up to leave.

Helping her was a good deed, he knew, but there was something off about her moves. And it wasn't 'cause she was white. She had passion, though. No one asks if they're dancing unless they want to be moved. CJ gave her credit for that. She could improve if she relaxed a little.

To be continued...

Feeling Bruised?

2008-05-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

A British Stewardess asked me this

on the plane because her cart

slammed me on her way

towards the back of the aisle.

I was sitting in the

middle of coach,

cramped, miserable, bloated.

At first, I thought she meant

my female troubles,

like she could sense it

by my cringe,

but when she rubbed the growing

ache on my naked arm with a

french manicured thumb,

I knew she was just apologizing for

being clumsy.

She understood.

Her smile said it all.

What a smart girl.

When we landed at Heathrow,

the bruise had become a welt,

but I didn't mind.

Blood rushing elsewhere was

a relief.

She royally waved by the exit

"Bye now, bub bye, take care, bye now,"

she said to exiting passengers.

As I passed, I pointed to my arm

and said sarcastically:

"My pitching career is over! Thanks Sweetie!"

Her eyes grew wide and she looked like

she wanted to run.

I was sure she thought I was gay

and hitting on her.

Maybe she wasn't so smart after all.

Why do chics do that?

Not everyone in this world

wants to get in your pants, lady.

Try getting over yourself for once.

Sometimes I get what guys are talking about

when they say we're nothin' but trouble.

Like a Sister

2008-05-17T19:47:00.000-07:00

His little sister was crying.
He looked out for her and
cared for her well being.
She wasn't unattractive.
She wasn't his sister.
A chance meeting that first day
in a crowded seminar:
Indian relations of the Modern World.
He walked over and said hello
but did it with overt intentions.
Her name tag attracted him,
like a moth to the flame.
Blame the name.
After some time, he revealed to her
the name of his first love.
It was the same.
She knew that was big for him;
he kept intimacy to himself.
However,
he was taken...
Girlfriend, possibly a wife.
Non-specific.
He took his relationship seriously,
like a cautious Wall Street planner;
nothing was a fluke.
So by default, she became his sister,
which was not a demotion of her worth.
She could still be cherished,
if not enjoyed.
Eventually she wondered why he had
spoken to her in the first place.
Didn't he have enough friends?
Why did he feel the need to tie her
with platonic rope?
Wasn't she beautiful?
Didn't she matter?
It pained him to see her tears,
because he knew his mistake.
And like a real brother, he ached to
beat up the one who made her cry,
so he punched himself in the stomach.
It was a pain he had to endure.
Incest was not an option
in the moral code of mateship.

Gerard McMann - Cry Little Sister (Lost Boys soundtrack)

Pack of Lies

2008-05-17T12:58:00.000-07:00

"So you can wipe off that grin because
we know where you've been,"
my auditor told me.
I couldn't pick up his E-meter.*
It's all been a pack of lies!
This was the end of the Truman Show.
I was no longer a female homo novus.*

I'd spent two years near FLAG* in
Clearwater, Florida
taking courses to clear engrams.*
My funds ran out that week and they
began monitoring my every move,
like visiting anti-church websites,
such as Operation Clambake.
I had sinned.

"We have reason to believe you are PTS,"*
he said, his spy notes on the table.
He looked disappointed, but relentless.
Our chat session had became an interrogation
of my convert hostility towards the church.
I hadn't slept in days.

He handed me a contract for the Sea Org,*
asking me to sign away.
Life was nothing without The Tech,* he said.
I stared at him, the pen in my hand,
becoming an exterior thetan.*
They call it facing without flinching:
lesson one in Scientology.

L. Ron gave me truth packaged in those
abbreviations and ethics.
I was thankful, but confused.
It was time, money, acceptance.
They wanted my freedom now.
I began to think I should have
saved some receipts.

I was an OT* and had been cleared
from the pain in my reactive mind.
Nothing could occur while I
was extant.
So half asleep, I eased over
to the open window.
I remained free.

* E-meter - a common lie detector device used in auditiing, a Scientlogy practice for spiritual cleansing.

* homo novus - originally a Roman term. literary translation means "new man." L Ron Hubbard used this term to describe the transformation of Scientologists when they embraced Scientology.

* FLAG - a spiritual headquarters in downtown Clearwater, FL. for the Church of Scientology. church members stay for weeks or months as they take courses and receive auditing. many become Sea Org members during this time.

* engrams - in Scientology, imprints of painful experiences that affect in their day-to-day life until they can be cleared. a Scientologist has reached the state of Clear when he can face these memories with no reaction on the E-meter.

* PTS - potential trouble source. anyone who has become influenced by an SP, suppressive person. more specifically, a PTS is someone who listens to anyone against Scientology and it's ethics.

* Sea Org - a military-like labor force comprised of Scientologists, many who can no longer afford courses. they work 80-100 hours a week for low wages doing various jobs for the church, of which they have no say in choosing. they are also asked to sign a billion year contract of service.

* The Tech - how Scientologists refer to the life skills of the religion.

* thetan - in Scientology, a thetan is simlar to the spirit or soul.

* OT - operating thetan. attained after reaching the state of Clear.

More Truth

2008-05-16T17:33:00.001-07:00

I realized a short story I wrote was not finished. About an affair. I added the wife's POV. I feel sorry for every character: the mistress, the husband, and the dumb wife. And I don't know who to blame. Everybody? No one?

The Truth Hurts Lying Down

by Lisa Jablonsky

Part One: Truth Hurts

Part Two: Lying Down

Part Three: , The <----New section!!

, The

2008-05-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

...part one of this story is called Truth Hurts...
...part two of this story is called Lying Down...

There was a great amount of distance between Karen and the book. She was studying for a grammar test at the community college. Studying was an uncomfortable act for her, so she preferred to keep the book at arms length.

She looked around the kitchen to distract herself. The stove's digital clock said 4:13 p.m. Her husband was gone and the baby was asleep so she had to study now. When Jon came home, it'd be too busy. Even Bruno, the family tomcat, had disappeared. Karen slept with him the night before. He was big and she was fond of him when Jon was away, but Bruno disappeared after she whacked him with a newspaper for ripping up the carpet. That was an hour ago.

He wasn't such a bad cat. He just needed to learn his place.

A few months ago, Jon told her he'd be attending more conferences. There had been an increase in medication for AIDS and HPV, he said. Karen was nine months pregnant at the time and not exactly sure what to do. For years, her whole life had been centered around Jon, but since he gave her advance notice, she decided to take the initiative. A small part of her hoped it wasn't because of their sex life.

She always wanted to work as a librarian so she enrolled at Riverside Community College. She gave birth to their daughter after the first day of class, then continued on like a determined wife and mother. Her gumption impressed everyone, especially herself. It hurt that Jon wasn't around for the birth, but feeling independent was a new strength. He was busy working.

She prayed they would survive the ups and downs of a baby and her career. It would be a lot of work.

Why couldn't she do it all? If she took one class at a time, there was no excuse. On Monday nights during class, her mother watched the baby and cooking dinner for Jon wasn't difficult. Not really. Their lack of sex had a reason now: she was a working woman. He understood. His conferences took his time, too.

He always came home talking about how much he missed her and the baby.

They had a strong bond. He proved it by waited on her hand and foot during the pregnancy. She couldn't wait until he got home to present the big meal she made. Steaks had been marinating; salad had been mixed in the fridge. He always came home starving.

She sighed and turned back to her book. Grammar made her feel ignorant. She loved to read, but she wasn't well-read. She preferred trashy Danielle Steel or VC Andrews books. Reading made her feel good, but learning grammar was a drag. She'd rather just absorb it.

She rose from her chair and poured another glass of Chablis; for comfort. Jon took her to the Temecula vineyards for their fifth anniversary. They enjoyed dinner and wine tasting to the sounds of Van Morrison. Very romantic. He even purchased a case to take home. It was an aphrodisiac.

They made love once after drinking that wine. Karen wasn't the type to be seduced, but her husband went out of his way. He had purchased a dozen bottles and she now saw eight left in the case. They must have had more wine then she thought. She could have sworn they only opened three.

Jon put up with work to earn a good living and care for them. There was nothing in it for him other than their well-being. He offered to pay for her education as well, a thought that helped her hold that grammar book closer to her head.

"If he can tough it out, I can too," Karen said out loud. She was studying commas.

"The comma," she read out loud, "is used in many contexts and languages. It's principal use is for separating things, such as dependent and independent clauses." Karen uncapped her highlighter and streaked it across the phrase 'separating things.'

Studying commas made her flash back before the days of the Internet, when she poured through card catalogs as a kid. She learned that book titles beginning with 'The' were separated with commas, to help with the alphabetizing.

Once she looked up The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland under T; she was shocked when the librarian told her it was listed under A. The listing read:

Adventures of Alice in Wonderland, The.

To further investigate, Karen looked up the word 'the' in her grammar book. It was listed as a definite article.

"The," she read, "is a definite article used before singular and plural nouns that refer to a particular member of a group. Example is 'The cat is on the roof.'" Karen highlighted 'particular member' and read on.

"Indefinite articles such as 'A' or 'an,' can refer to any member of a group, such as 'a girlfriend' or 'a wife.'"

Karen was 'a wife.' Her marriage was a partnership, so why she was wasting so much time studying? She didn't have to worry about dependent and independent clauses. Her husband didn't stick around because she was brilliant.

She picked up her glass of wine and made her way to the couch. With the remote control, she turned on HBO to see if any good movies were on. "The Way We Were" had just started. It had always been one of her favorites. Even though Streisand had such a big nose, she still liked the movie. When Redford cheats with that other prettier girl that he knew from college, the scene made Karen happy. She herself was more looks than brains. It was how she gained control.

The movie was half way over when Jon walked through the door. He made small talk about her class and the baby, then asked what she was watching. She told him and watched him turn green; he hated love stories. She persuaded him to watch it with her, calling him honey. He sat on the couch for a minute, but abruptly rose and told her he had to put gas in the car.

Karen was sad, but Jon came back with a bouquet of forget-me-nots. She understood his ruse and felt nothing but love. While their baby slept, they drank Chablis and made out on the couch.

Garbage - Stupid Girl

Case of the Mondays

2008-05-15T16:59:00.000-07:00

There's murder in the air
for one forensic scientist.
His job? To analyse soil
for telling particles.
If he can link dirt from the suspect,
a disgruntled sanitation worker,
to this recovery location,
the evidence will be available
to prosecutors
and they can send
him away for good.
The victim's remains were found
on this dirt hill.
It was covered with a garbage bag.
Upon arrival, the forensic scientist
couldn't believe his eyes and ears when,
he saw a skinny, bearded man humming
Don't Fear the Reaper and digging a hole
with a pitch fork.
Next to the man was a stuffed sleeping bag
that looked like someone was inside.
The bearded man ran when he saw him.
He dropped his fork.
The sleeping person did not move.
The scientist thought it funny,
but not ha ha funny.
They always disappear before the
morning light.
He groaned, realizing he'd just witnessed a crime
and a new body was at his feet.
He took out his supplies and reminded himself
that he preferred dealing with soil over people.
Dead people weren't so bad though.
Not hard to figure out.
It was just another day on the job and
cold beer waited at home.

"There's a smile on my face.. for everyone... it's just another day."

Pink Fist

2008-05-15T12:10:00.001-07:00

I call this: My Feminine Side.

Pink fist = Emotional Girl.

i.e. Big Pain in the Ass

Hang Ups

2008-05-15T02:58:00.000-07:00

When she wanted to get over something, she turned up the stereo and let the beat enter her head like a drug.

Time goes by so slowly...

The cheesier the song, the better. Give it up, give it away. Save the dance. She danced like a professional fly girl in her pink leotard. No one could see it, though.

Every little thing that you say or do, I'm hung up...

Endorphins entered her body, curing her blues, tingling her toes. She felt alive. It worked like gangbusters. She was resilient.

Those who run seem to have all the fun...

She began to think that fathers should take their daughters to lunch more and brothers should help you change your oil. It should be a law or something.

I can't keep on waiting for you...

And because she danced alone in her room, no one knew she could do the splits. It was quite a sight. Maybe not as good as a professional, but still.

Don't cry for me cuz I'm on my way...

Madonna - Hung Up

A mute walks into a bar...

2008-05-15T02:37:00.000-07:00

Sighing, she realizes
that
drinking alone
is a
bittersweet
symphony
so
drunk and
hardly satisfied,
the confused
pathetic mute
leaves the bar.
Two out of three
ain't bad,
she says
out loud.

The Verve - Bittersweet Sympony
Cover by: Adrian Lee

Semi-Circular

2008-05-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

The 20-year old Thai girl walked along the concrete wall, trailing her fingertips on the grainy cement. Life happened on all sides, but since the tsunami, she could only witness the east. This east-bound small town, where she worked in a market, moved in a semi-circle around her.

It wasn't satisfying.

It made her ache for more.

The wall was four meters tall, a barrier after the disaster on the 26th of December 2004. Waves reached over 35 meters that day, so the logic of four never escapes anyone that questions it. It means we are helpless if it happens again.

She lost friends and family.

It still hurt two years later.

She wanted to scale it. If she had a ladder, a tub of adhesive, or springs on her feet, she would try. She could, however, see through a crack between two bricks which revealed ocean and seagulls. Her vision had cleared since the disaster. She thought she needed glasses, but it was only blurry from tears.

She had never been in love.

She wanted to be.

A salty breeze hit her nose and she inhaled. She remembered the people running to the ocean, scrambling for fish that were so ripe for the catch. It had been a trick from Mother Nature. Every person that caved was now dead, washed away by an ocean wave like a scream. She had been curious, too, but something about the receding water was too frightening.

Had she known it would be her last clear view.

She may have grabbed a fish.

Taking a risk might have made her view 360 instead of 270. There were times she regretted not stopping people, because she knew what would happen. Other times she felt jealous. They eyed hundreds of fish helpless to their fates and were very happy. She had turned her back and ran so she didn't see their looks when the wave came.

She should have looked.

To see the other side.

"My priest says, you ain't saving no souls... and here I stand, with a sword in my hand..."

Tori Amos Video Tribute (Take To The Sky)

Provisionally Accepted

2008-05-12T14:09:00.000-07:00

"Don't take anything for granted!"

Maggie yelled this at me as I walked away. If only I could understand what she meant. It was strange how she said it. Take what for granted? Her? My education? My job? Life in general?

"You taught me a lot!"

I grew embaressed and sped up my pace. I was relieved to dump her. Maggie was out there and should have been born a male so she could lead some wacky cult. Besides, she was a student and gave signs of becoming problematic as a girlfriend.

I made my way to the library, grateful my one week fling was over. On my way to the reference section, I kept eyeing the sexy young brunette that looks like Moira Kelly from Twin Peaks. She was half my age and her name was Grecia. She worked in the library and was from some far off country that I can't place but love thinking about when I see that arched stare of hers.

Her blue-green eyes follow me when I come in. I come here often for research. She is wearing a white blouse today, almost see-thru, and the tightest blue jeans I've ever seen at this school on a student. (It's fairly conservative here.) Her eyebrows are angular. I wonder if they grow in naturally like that. They give her a constant look of judgment and Grecia judges me everytime I'm in here. I love it.

But why can't I talk to her? I have nothing to say. That's why Maggie was so easy to date and dump: she did all the talking.

I feel manifest destiny when I see Grecia. I deserve to conquer her and be her American man. Conquering Maggie was my training, like scaling a bunny hill to prepare for Mount Everast.

God Bless you Maggie Gothchalk, of whom will get an A if she can just remember the elements on the Periodic Table, you gave me the ego boost I need. Today's the day I claim her.

I vow to do it after a bit of research for our grant-funded project on cardiac rhythm. I sigh because the grad kids should be doing this stuff, not me, but I do it right.

I got heart murmurs on my birthday this year. I wanted tenure, but heart murmurs was what I received. I realize time is short.

"I'll remember the strength that you gave me now that I'm standing here on my own..."

Wondering Soul

2008-05-11T00:34:00.000-07:00

The van had to brake suddenly for a kid's soccer ball in the street and everything crashed on the floor. Crash! Chunk! Bang! Booooom! Don't laugh, but the drum set cymbals where the last to fall. Poetic, I know. Luckily, it survived the drive to Encinitas, CA. A Lou's parking lot gig was hip stuff. Indie band merit badge material. As a roadie, I arranged it. I do the phone calls and I help lug equipment. At no time do I play any music. This is a good thing, trust me.

I get to sit back and enjoy the scene. Which is what I did at Lou's from the van. Man, what was wrong with those kids? You could see them in the back watching in their flannels and smoking cigarettes; it was just like the 90s again, but none of them moved. Delta Spirit sung one of their foot stompers called "People C'mon." The song devastates the clubs. People start rocking out and the gals look so sexy moving to the bluesy beat with their denim asses. Then again, all those cats are legal and of drinking age.

Alcohol helps. I hate to be cliche, but I wanted to scream at the crowd to c'mon, just like the song. If any band can help rekindle the spirit of the 60s, it's Delta Spirit. I know their songs are of the Ben Folds Five/Eels-variety, but they have enough of a folky vibe for the soul. When Modern Fix, the San Diego music mag, compared them to Dave Mathews Band, I knew they had arrived.

So move your feet kids. We know what's good for you.

Beautiful Fucked Up Man

2008-05-10T23:07:00.000-07:00

A beautiful fucked up man
is the man for me.

I like him rugged
with dirt under
his nails,
but he doesn't have to
work with his hands.
I like him to
make me laugh,
but he doesn't have to
perform.

Let me just say,
I hate liars.
Jerks need not apply.
Bonus points for
personality
and being yourself.

My fucked up man is smart.
He can ride his brain waves
like he's on a surfboard
in a Disney flick.

In that scenario,
I'm Annette Funicello
in a one-piece.
Yup, my
fucked up man
must prefer
Mary Ann over Ginger,
Betty over Veronica,
and glasses on my face.

Don't get offended!
I'm a good girl.
Godammit all!
So when I call you
fucked up,
just take it like a man.
It's a compliment.
Who knows what I mean, really.
I'm a woman.
Sometimes I don't even know,
but it's not such a tough gig,
is it?

Business Arms

2008-05-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

You come out at night.
When we work on projects
in the dark,
our productivity booms.
This is our affiliation
and you're the CEO.
I can tell by your hat.

I don't know how really.
No accounting or planning,
and I never got that MBA.
So when the work day ends,
I'm outside with a flashlight
wearing sandals in the snow.

How was I hired?

My teeth, they shine bright, white,
and with braces.
As far as strategic hiding,
darkness won't work
because I reflect all light.
Fuck...
I'd be better off as your janitor.

Where's this company going?

Count to five.
Deep breath.
Ok...
Can I be honest?
Good...
Regardless of my faults,
I do love working for you.

You have vision and you
always see things through.
You never threaten me with
voodoo dolls, like other bosses,
and you're careful when I'm
in your arms.

Your business arms, that is.
I'm in your capable hands.

Celery Stalk 2.3

2008-05-09T12:00:00.000-07:00

A man leisurely smoked behind the Starbucks billboard. With his dog in a chair, he seemed oblivious to the fact that a crazy man was standing feet away. Feeling frightened, Sandy wanted to call out and ask if a guy in overalls was behind that sign, but something inside told her she shouldn't.

She ran to her car. The expensive coffee fell, making the guy's dog bark.

"You will get it bitch," from The Vegetable's note. It scared her all over again. Forget about The Grammys, she could easily become a statistic on this unprotected street. How trite all her preparations, the salon and designer clothes, now seemed. Her biography would be featured alongside E!'s coverage of stalker victims like Rebecca Schaeffer, gunned down in 1989.

Robert John Bardo became obsessed with Schaeffer from "My Sister Sam" and shot her after what he described as rude behavior towards him. He had knocked on her apartment door, obtaining her address from a detective agency, and shot her point blank. The agency requested it from the DMV. California has since passed a law prohibiting that, but The Vegetable already knew where Sandy lived. Finding her Jaguar wasn't luck.

She reached the car and searched desperately for her keys. When she found them, she couldn't get the door opened fast enough. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She had sprinted and was lacking oxygen to the brain now. The thought of looking behind her terrified her more than passing out or being shot from the back. Not to say Sandy wasn't petrified of any of those things. She definitely was.

She was not brave. For years, she suffered from stage fright. That's where Xanax came in.

After Schaeffer was shot, she was taken to Cedars-Sinai in Beverly Hills. The paparazzi camped out there; ill or wounded celebrities was a guaranteed photo sell. The hospital was right up the street, so Sandy's lifeless corpse would get coverage in seconds. She thought death might be easier than having the public find out she was a fraud.

She sped off in a panic, thrust into like a ball shot by a pinball plunger. Her car almost hit a bus, but turned left just in time. On the back, the bus was advertising The Grammys on CBS, reminding Sandy of impending doom. Lots of people get stalked, she thought, but did any of them steal from their stalkers?

Schaeffer's last word to Bardo as she bled to death was "Why?" Sandy knew why she would get it from her stalker, but she didn't know when.

To be continued...

Celery Stalk 2.2
Celery Stalk 2.1
Celery Stalk 1.3
Celery Stalk 1.2
Celery Stalk 1.1

Sticky

2008-05-08T20:40:00.000-07:00

"Wake up, dude,"

Simon could smell pancakes. He was hungry and hadn't eaten for days.

"Wake up!"

He could also smell butter. It reminded him of those Sundays spent at his grandmas right before church. He hated church, but put up with it for pancakes.

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

With a sticky pull, Simon opened his eyes. They were caked with something gooey, so it was like peeling off an adhesive stamp. He was shirtless, and sweating through wet jeans on the couch. It was from the shower. He interrupted the stream for a makeout session with Rodney. Unfortunately, Simon felt a dive coming so retreated to the couch and didn't have sex. It had been 3-5 days since he slept or ate, but there was no real way to estimate.

His roommate, Gordo, was looking at him. Gordo was one of those semi-straight tweekers who only party on weekends. For him, it was about release from his Dilbert-themed office hell. Drugs aside, he was a level-headed guy; only did guys he met online and stocked condoms like Y2K provisions.

Recently, Gordo had some bad luck.

It was the kind of thing that would make anyone go on a bender. His boyfriend of two months, a tan and buff Antonio Banderas lookalike, left him stranded in Vegas. He took his money, his drugs, and stole his Mercedes. Gordo called Simon from a gay bar off the strip. After he told the bartender his story, the guy escorted him to the courtesy phone in the back. It was used for guys in his Dump-'Em-in-Vegas situation and to use it, he was required to leave collateral. He left a Bruno Magli shoe. It would be returned when help arrived.

Hours later, Simon showed up from LA. When he arrived, Gordo was shaking and saying "That's what I get. That's what I get" over and over. He was still looking good. He could have accepted drink offers, but the bartender said he just sipped water and mumbled.

They would have filed a police report, but since Simon dealt meth, that wasn't a good idea. But partying for 3-5 days was fine with both of them, to clear their heads.

Now Gordo's Beatles-esque haircut, more Ringo-like, was sticking to his forehead. He also wore 4VOO male makeup, which ran in beige droplets into his eye lashes. In a daze, Simon watched him blink as he spoke and the drops spilled on his lips.

"They took it all!" Gordo cried.

"What?"

"It's gone," he said. "They took the meth."

Simon didn't know who 'they' were. He guessed Gordo meant the cops, but the apartment looked serene like always: aluminum foil over the windows next to the orange and green tropical fish tank. So he didn't think there had been a raid. Then he saw a box of pancake batter and remembered.

Before getting wet, Simon cooked one pancake, swallowed it whole, then decided he was hungry for something else: the guy in the shower.

But fatigue set in.

They had stolen his drugs. It happened while Simon slept. He relayed the story of the three of them -- Rodney, Gordo and the stranger -- making pancakes, chatting, and drinking, until they pulled out a gun.

They left and the door was still open, revealing daylight. It shocked Simon that he heard nothing. In fact, robbery aside, he was still hungry and ready for bed. Pancakes on the brain.

"It's not fair," said Gordo near tears. He was an emotional homo, a real girl. "Why does this shit happen to me? I don't deserve it. Well, I do, but not twice in a row!"

Simon picked up a syrup-covered plate.

"It'll be okay," he said to his friend while standing. He usually had the masculine role. "Wanna wash some plates for us to eat on?"

"You're hungry?"

"Yes," Simon replied, eager to reveal the surprise. "I put half a dozen eight balls in the pancake box. We'll be ok 'till I can make some more."

Gordo squealed and hugged his friend's legs. It was almost an act of worship.

"Thank God! Thank God!" Gordo sang. His eyes closed in gratitude. Again, Simon thought of church and wondered if there was a spiritual reason he craved pancakes after meth binges.

"It's ok," he said, patting Gordo's sweaty head. "I'll make us more. Just help me out with the dishes, ok?"

Gordo got up and took the plate. The domestic act made Simon remember his grandma in an apron. He suddenly had the urge to leave flowers on her grave. After all those years and pancakes, he could never recall being thankful. He was only a kid then. Usually mad from being forced to attend church.

Gordo ran the warm water and squirted pink soap on the dishes. He scrubbed and said with relief: "That's what I get for thinking everything I love has gone away from me. Thanks bro. I owe you one."

The Offspring - Gone Away

Sugarcubes

2008-05-07T18:39:00.000-07:00

Like a kid on a sugar high, Malka Saffro walked around the NY studio party delivering acid-laced sugarcubes to the tongues of her friends. "They are lovely and we are having such a good time" she declared. Teeth and gums shining like a 60s poster girl. "We want all our friends to have some!" Artist Ray Johnson stood in the corner sipping seltzer near Warhol silk screens. He knew Warhol, but they lost touch over the years.

Billy Name said of Johnson and Andy, conceptual artists: "Andy's performance is totally in his work, where like Ray is half him, half his work. He didn't disconnect." *

At the party, she stood by Ray and beamed under a knit cap with wool threads in her face. "I'd like to give you a sugarcube, Ray." Ray was her friend. Her emotions on acid made her want to cover him with love, but all she could give was the cube. The pill box holding them was beautiful: woven gold threads and laced pearls; a gift from Malka's Russian cousin. Malka held a cube between paint-stained fingers, she worked in oils, to give to Ray, but he refused. He was offended, so he stampeded towards the hallway like a child throwing a tantrum. Ray was high, but never did drugs. Why couldn't she get that?

"Ray wasn't into narcotics or opiates at all. Period. Not at all. I mean zero," Billy Name says. "He was already high all the time. People would get high and to try to get where Ray was. He was already there..." *

In the hallway, Ray calmed down by taking a burgundy crayon from his pocket and using it on the white marble steps. It surprised him no one in the School had thought of this. People were here weekly; all his "friends." It was strange because this canvas seemed so obvious. The crayon could be easily rubbed off but that was besides the point. Ray never attached to anything he made. He once cut a quarter pizza slice from a round collage priced at $2,000. The collector paid $1,500 and got what he paid for.

With squares, he did stripes. They were complex, symmetrical, self-portraits of his brain.

"That's one of the factors about Ray's aesthetic is that it was always on that level," said Name. "He was always where inspiration and revelation were. It's where people go periodically or occasionally or to take narcotics to achieve, but he was there all the time." *

Ray wished he could relate better to people, but when they do stupid things like take drugs, he knew he was better off alone.

"Ray wasn't a person. He was a collagist or a sculptor. He was Ray Johnson's creation." *

On the steps, Ray drew an Arabic woman he watched eat at a Middle Eastern Restaurant. She drank a large glass of milk and honey and called her female friend 'habibi.' The drawing didn't do her justice because he couldn't remember her profile, although he stared at her shadow silhouette from a flickering candle on her table.

He drew her with stripes and circles instead.

* Quotes from the documentary "How to Draw a Bunny"

Habibi - Milk & Sugar - Watch today’s top amazing videos here

The Truth Hurts Lying Down

2008-05-04T23:54:00.000-07:00

More often than not,
it's hard to do
what's best
for us.
That's why I
thank
God, Buddha & Mohammed,
for sex, cigs & rock & roll.

It's too bad I'm
a wallflower
for most of the party.

The Truth Hurts Lying Down
by Lisa Jablonsky

Part One: Truth Hurts

Part Two: Lying Down

Lying Down

2008-05-04T16:06:00.000-07:00

...part one of this story is called Truth Hurts...

Lying on his brother's bed, Jon woke up thirsty. He didn't drink any water last night and his mouth felt windblown from snoring. A slight headache indicated a hangover, but that may have been from the sex he had with Zoe. She was a bit ravenous that morning and he overexerted himself. Not that he minded. Not at all.

Standing up, he adjusted boxers that were falling down. The time on the clock read 3:04 p.m. and Jon had to hurry home. He turned around to tell her, but Zoe wasn't in bed. He thought she might be smoking on the patio, her dirty habit, but there was no one out there. Through the bars, he saw two kids petting a cat near several rows of forget-me-not flowers. Zoe's cigarette butt was smashed on the concrete, like a mini accordion. He knew it was hers from torn white threads of denim jeans.

Maybe she was in the living room. He hoped she was.

Her purse was gone. She had left it on the coffee table next to the broken wine bottle. He broke it after their conversation about "The Way We Were," a 1973 romance starring Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford. They watched it on HBO.

Truthfully, Jon wasn't big on chic flicks; wouldn't even watch them with his wife, but Zoe had a thing for romance. Jon did see some of her romantic plays and thought they were excellent, real gritty and raw, so he watched the movie with her from start to finish. Like a girl, she cried at the end.

He hadn't planned on lying this long. It began as a way to get to know her. He always regretted the days of popularity contests (aka high school). When he saw her again, it was at the Riverside Municipal Auditorium to see her plays. He went on a fluke.

Afterwards, he was sitting on a bench by the theatre, moved by the stories, and there she was. Gorgeous. Together. Beaming. He felt like a fool, but he struck up conversation. Lying was form of reparations.

Later he gave her a nickname, something special only he called her. Zo, no e. She liked it.

Coffee would be necessary before he could go home to Karen and the baby. Sunlight blazed through the window on Jon's squinting face. Karen would know he was hungover since alcohol wasn't served at medical conferences. Jon hadn't actually attended one in years. It was a lie he told Karen once a month.

The lies had been stressful. He thought about this as he exhaustively fell on the couch. He must have looked like a madman when he broke that bottle. Thank God Zoe laughed!

In their 10th grade English class, Zoe and Jon watched "The Great Gatsby." Zoe called Redford a "blond-haired stud" out loud. The kids laughed because it was nerdy, but Zoe was an honest person that way. Her crush made him jealous now. There was still a starry look in her eyes when she saw Redford. Jon worked hard to look good after all these years: worked out, ate right, fucked like a maniac. Why couldn't she drool over him instead?

There were crumbs from crackers and cheese on the coffee table, and since they were too drunk to use coasters, imprints of wine glasses were also there. He picked up the bottle, careful not to cut himself, and took it to the trash.

If he could go back in time, he would have never married Karen. Karen was great. He did love her, but he always craved D&M and she just didn't have that sense of humor about life. His uneasiness caused the delay in starting their family. But eventually, if he wanted to stay married to her, he couldn't put it off any longer.

D&M was something Zo made up. It meant "deep and meaningful."

Her tears at the end of "The Way We Were," made him guilty. He felt like she knew about his situation.

"It wasn't real," she had mumbled after the flick.

"What wasn't?" Jon asked.

"Their marriage wasn't real." she said.

She looked so matter-of-fact then, he got frustrated. Why did she have to ruin things? Why couldn't she just watch the movie and enjoy it? It was just a movie! And Jon knew Redford cheated on Streisand not because their marriage wasn't real, but because he was a rat bastard and it ate him up inside. It was like Zoe's smoking and how she always tried to quit, twice on his watch since February, but once the urge struck, she kept a pack nearby.

So he struck the bottle on the table like it was a bar fight and in his best gangster voice said: "I say he loves her! Don't ruin it for me, Zo!" and she giggled.

He loved her laugh.

He smelled musk on the couch. Zoe's cologne stuck to furniture like flypaper; proof he'd get caught if she touched anything at his house. His brother understood, that's why he let him use the place; Karen could be so stingy with sex. Jon's stubbly reflection stared at him from the blank screen of the HDTV, reminding him to shave. He liked having stubble, felt like a warrior when he did, but Karen didn't. He also liked his large shoulders. At least Zoe complimented him on both those things.

His crotch muscles ached from having proved warrior-status in the bedroom. For a moment, he wished Zoe was around so he could bum a smoke. Holding a cigarette would have complimented his nonconformist mood.

He was too attracted to Zoe and that scared him. The affair had been going on for months. The more time with her, the more he forgot about his wife and kid.

Zoe's lack of trust did bruise him. Afterall, Jon went to great lengths to give her romance. Asking his brother for the apartment and arranging their chats when Karen was out with friends. When he called Zo beautiful, he meant it. When he made Zo cum, he was honored. There was pride for his ego, sure, but she was special.

She never crossed the line with him. It earned his respect, and if she decided it was best not to trust him, he couldn't fight that. At least he made her laugh with that broken bottle. They had a good night together.

Jon got up and brewed some coffee, then headed to the shower to shave.

Johnny Lang - Lie to Me

Truth Hurts

2008-05-03T15:32:00.000-07:00

It hurt to wake up, but she did, with the sun stabbing her pupils through the nearby vertical blinds. Zoe had been up for a few minutes and splashed water on her face in the bathroom. She intended to face the day and was just gaining strength.

It was already two in the afternoon and the sun was unforgiving. Zoe stepped onto the patio by the bed to have a cigarette. Jon's two bedroom apartment was in the middle of a boring, but crowded Moreno Valley complex. As she peeked through the patio railing like prison bars, she noticed how green the community grass was. Over it, she watched two small children chase a fat cat with a stick. Sweat bubbled on her brow from the sun. She hated the Inland Empire. Visiting Jon in the summertime was a no go in this heat.

She closed the screen door behind her, cradling cigarettes and her cell phone in one arm. She didn't want to make a call, nor did she want to answer but holding it was a habit she clung to, like smoking. It was sporadic. Done only after writing or sex.

Jon was sleeping in boxer shorts after their morning tryst. Snoring dryly and Zoe was tempted to throw a cigarette at him to get it to stop. It would be playful, of course. She enjoyed Jon. He was handsome, smart, and well-employed as a nurse. The only thing she didn't like about him was his residence. The rest of the world was in LA.

She sucked on her cigarette like it was whipped cream and thought about him. She wanted to be honest with herself. She liked Jon's normality. He offered a world that she could depend on, and in an unpredictable city like Los Angeles, conventionality was her fetish.

Her reflection in the sliding glass door stunned her. She looked attractive in those ripped up jeans from Wal-mart. So ripped up and old, she almost threw them away each month. Her unmanicured toes poked out from the denim cradling her heels. The legs hung lower than usual due to ghastly tears on her knees and thighs. She owned them since high school when she first met Jon. They wore well post-coital.

The orgasms had been intense. Even though it had been hours since they did it, she felt sore. Sore and satisfied from his pelvis. Her body was different at 30. Every touch turned her into an insatiable 14-year old boy. Her sexual peak.

She sucked on the cigarette, feeling a light nicotine buzz. The way she inhaled reminded her of doing whippids in high school. She laughed at this thought, then wiped away a tear. It was stupid to cry, because nothing was wrong. Jon cared for her. He invited her over everytime she made the trek east. It was pleasurable, romantic. Zoe couldn't ask for anything more in a Moreno Valley boyfriend.

Last night, Jon even watched "The Way They Were" with her. It was on HBO and she had never seen it. One of those movies that everyone references. Degrees of love were big themes in her plays, so Zoe wanted to watch. Vulnerable, she quickly succumbed to movie like she was having PMS. Sniffing, etc. It impressed her that through it all, Jon stayed interested. He preferred action flicks. She remembered that much about him from high school.

She had watched him out of the corner of her eye on the couch, wondering what he saw in her. His affections were genuine, but she didn't want to live in a fairy tale. When the movie ended, she commented on the relationship between Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford, because it was a good example of how blind love can make you. Differences can separate people like oceans and everyone needs a reality check, no matter how in love they are. Jon was irritated by her remark so she shut up, laughed it off. No need to over analyze.

If he hadn't broken that bottle, she may still be in a daze.

Zoe often caused her own problems with men. However, that Insecure-Depressed-Girl-with-Daddy-issues was only a theme in her earlier plays. She was confident. She exercised everyday (for the endorphins), took responsibility for her life, avoided bad influences, and got an agent for her writing. She owned enough esteem for 12 people. If this play got nominated, there were talks about a tour, screenplays.

It felt good, but it had been a lot of work.

Jon had been lying to her. It started off innocent: where he lived, how much money he made, how his relationship ended, what kind of cereal he ate. She saw the contradictions in their conversations because she had a memory for details. Things just stuck out to her. So when Jon gave conflicting information, it was as obvious to Zoe as a pimple on his forehead. But it was harmless, so she let it go. It was a Buddhist approach. You cannot control another human being.

They seemed to click because there were no conflicts. She never expected him to change or to love her. Not even when he held her face and called her beautiful that first night. No, she never expected anything. Attachment causes suffering. That was why her love for him was a bolt from the blue. However, his dishonesty was thickening. She didn't expect that either, but it was. It would soon be razor sharp, like that broken wine bottle.

Her conclusion was not because she was scared of getting hurt. She was hurt, but she soaked up the good and the bad like a mature woman sleeping with a married man with children.

This wasn't his apartment. It was his brother's who lived with a roommate and they were in Vegas on business. And Jon only called Zoe when he was at work. He never made actual plans with her, not even just to chat. Everything was like that wine bottle he broke on the table after the movie: spontaneous. Sure, they laughed about it then, but it was a sign to her. Several times, Zoe had been talking to Jon on a webcam and he disconnected after what she thought was a baby cry. Nothing was real except her feelings, so she had to let him go.

Before the cigarette, she saw a wedding ring on the floor by his jeans. It looked like it fell out of his pocket. He should have just been honest.

It was as if Jon wanted everything to go smoothly to get her into bed. That wasn't the hard part though. Zoe sucked on the whipped cream cigarette, knowing full well she was guilty of adultery, but a part of her still felt virginal. She never trusted him and she wanted to badly. She wanted to trust him more than she wanted an orgasm.

Megadeth - Trust

Train Coming

2008-05-02T17:11:00.000-07:00

I heard the train coming
so I stayed
seated on that track.
I should practice piano here, I thought.
Alone and facing death
sounds exciting.

"You've got the music pent up,"
my instructor had told me in
his German accent,
slapping his notebook for emphasis,
"but your fingers don't play it right.
They're just diddling keys, wasting time!"

I had been studying at the
Sydney Conservatorium of Music
on scholarship
and loose fingered Chopin gave me
a failing grade.
It left me discouraged, pale, and
wanting to go home.

My hormones got in the way.
Classics don't parent me like they
used to as a 5-yr old wunderkind.
I have to want it really bad now and
only that rhythm can melt my
frustration like butter.

The train howled and my hands
rested on my stomach.
Steel vibrations travelled through the
denim on my ass to my teeth.
Inspired,
I stretched out sore fingers
to play.

The notes began between my belly button
and crotch:
a concerto on my skin.
As I reached the apex,
I wondered if Chopin sounded
as good as he felt.
I was flushed when the train came.

Cold Acceptance

2008-05-01T01:15:00.000-07:00

Pluck, pluck, pluck. Or maybe tish, tish, tish. The sound could be a combination of both. It was the sound of Alfred Wegener chipping away at a Greenland icecap. He had been stranded and survived the cold night by moving and not sleeping. He didn't think he would survive another one. He was tired.

Strange that it would come to this. After 15+ years conducting research for Continental Drift, and looking for evidence to support movement by centrifugal force, this was unexpected. Most physicists know that centrifugal force is difficult to prove. Somewhat fictitious and just theory. However, the inertia that powers forces are wholly real. Inertia is what kept Alfred alive during the subzero evening. His life was scientific proof.

Plish, plish, tuck. Tuck, tuck, plish. He could barely feel the handle of the scraper.

They failed to make contact with the rescue crew after delivering supplies. Rasmus Villumsen had miscalculated the distance from the drop off point to their camp, and in the icy blankness, the misstep was deadly. Rasmus had gone to sleep and was now curled up near foliage. Surely dead and frozen.

Inertia moved the continents, thought Alfred, inertia should move me.

The only thing that moved Alfred was the thought of his wife at home, oblivious to her husband's fate. She had known expeditions were risky, but he soothed her fears with kisses and chocolate. He loved his wife and everything would be left to her.

His theories were documented in The Origin of Continents and Oceans, as were notes on centrifugal force, and research from Greenland had been kept safe in steel boxes. A shame that there was nothing gained from this: the trip that killed him.

Aside from Alfred's strong desire to kiss and feed his wife chocolate, he was ready to stop moving. Nothing else mattered.

Apocalyptia performs a classical version of Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters"

Capital H for Headache

2008-04-29T12:52:00.001-07:00

I have the world's biggest headache. It began last night. I fell asleep with one, woke up with one, wrote 5 pages of the novel with one. It's all the same one. Why can't my headache take a hint? What with the aspirin, aroma therapy, meditation and rubbing my temples... I just don't want Him in my life anymore. It's over! Maybe if I listen to Tom Petty's Free Fallin'...

It's over headache. Run, be free, sleep with someone else besides me.

"All the good girls are home with broken hearts..."

Salty Gumption

2008-04-28T15:36:00.000-07:00

If I knew how to play guitar
better,
I'd do that instead of write.
More gumption with
less words;
just gasoline.
I overwrite how I feel.
If it's too much,
you'll stop reading,
but with music,
that's not an issue.
You can just feel.

At 21, I lived in an
oceanside studio apartment-
a place so small you
had to be short and skinny
just to live there-
I boogie boarded
twice a week.
Weekends spent
stumbling on sand.
I was constantly sleepy
and
smelled salt on my skin.
I heard Pearl Jam's Ten
everyday.
Eddie Vedder said
they wrote it
after surfing
and not sleeping.
I liked that.
Few things encompass
a joyful lack of sleep.
That opened my ears
and
understanding someone's
creative process
is key, dontcha think?
Anyway,
it was how I appreciated them.
I also listened while drinking
salted margaritas
on Main Street.

This YouTube gent from Ireland
has a love for Pearl Jam.
Because of him,
I've listened to his cover of "Porch"
10 times.
Now I crave tequila, the ocean,
and feel like I should do something
instead of just sit here.

edvedd sings "Porch" by Pearl Jam -
YouTube id: edvedd

Stimulation

2008-04-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

I cried then
because
I missed
something
I didn't lose.

I shivered again
because
I feared
something
I never felt.

I purged on Tuesday
because
I disliked
something
I won't ingest.

I dusted the bookcase
because
I needed
something
to sneeze at.

our luck be there then

2008-04-27T16:57:00.000-07:00

She typed frantically in Italian, trying to convey how she felt in the MySpace blog. It was 3 a.m. in Tivoli and she wondered: "Can my English friends fully understand what I mean?" English is the universal language, what everyone is taught in school, so she visited freetranslation.com to clear up her vocabulary. She copy and pasted her blog about life, death and the upcoming graduation and selected "Italian to English" in the drop down menu. The English translation concluded with the phrase:

"our luck be there then."

Needless to say, that's not what she meant. Luck was not the word. The site also completely omitted the part about Kafka's Metamorphosis. What a jip.

"A rock opera based on Franz Kafka? Uh, I don't think so..."

Celery Stalk 2.2

2008-04-26T15:41:00.000-07:00

Without causing an accident, but causing a few horns to honk, Sandy made an illegal U-turn. Starbucks was calling her, saying "Colombian soy latte, you want one!" Still buzzed from the wine, caffeine would help the new headache in her temples.

Why was being a celebrity so much stress?

She parked at a meter and displayed her parking permit, an ugly yellow color that month. She often forgot and had to send her assistant to the DMV to pay tickets.

Tabloids once ran photos of her Rolls Royce with a boot. That was a mark of poverty. Nothing scared Sandy more than being poor again. It's why she was terrified of this lawsuit. She did steal a line or two from The Vegetable and he could win all her money. 'Garden of Eden' was the sum of her wealth after that Matt Damon film.

She was thankful Starbucks wasn't too crowded and took off her sunglasses. Then she rubbed her temples with both hands. The Grammys would not be easy.

"A Venti Colombian Soy Latte, please... make sure it's lukewarm." The employee gave her smirk and nod. Joe Job Hollywood workers are used to eccentric orders. It's perfect that most of them are aspiring actors/musicians themselves. It gives new meaning to the phrase: "Treat others as you want to be treated (when you're famous)."

Leisurely, she took her drink to one of the tables. She needed a plan of action for this lawsuit. Some comments on the red carpet at the Grammys might sway a jury pool in her favor. But what could she say?

A man in a white suit clutching a clothing catalog like a Bible got up and positioned himself in the middle of the room. He looked like he would perform a song, but wasn't holding an instrument. She sighed. Performers were like nats out here.

"Good afternoon Ladies and Gentleman," the man said evangelically. "I'm Reverend Billy from The Church of Stop Shopping. I'm here today at this lovely, corporate owned Starbucks to send you a message of hope. You know, there's no better place to spread this message than in Beverly Hills where only block from this establishment people spend millions of dollars at a mall on things they simply don't need..."

Sandy looked around to see if anyone was listening. They were. While glancing, she noticed a cameraman, nestled coyly behind a Japanese Bonsai plant, filming the Rev. Billy's sermon. Rev. Billy continued preaching and tapping his catalog for emphasis. He claimed that "Jesus doesn't want you to be in debt." Right about then, Sandy wondered if she was the only unpaid extra in the room.

Patrons were too intent on what he was saying and Sandy knew that look. Money had to be involved.

"The members of my congregation," continued Billy, pausing for dramatic effect. "we like independent shops, where you know the person behind the counter, or at least like them enough to share a story..."

"YEAH!" A Starbucks employee pumped his fist and yelled from behind the counter.

"Cut!" The director, who was innocently reading a book the whole time, walked over to the guy and told him "we're not paying you overtime to say anything."

Sandy chuckled and picked up her drink to leave. She smiled big and felt good while walking out the door to her car. She then heard someone sigh loudly behind her. She wondered if it was an actor or a fan.

When she turned to look, the person dropped their coffee and ducked behind an outdoor display that read 'ICED MOCHA & CREPE SUZETTE ~ $12.99.' The display was tall and she couldn't see their face, but she could see their filthy mud-caked work boots looking out of place by the Beverly Hills Starbucks.

To be continued...

Celery Stalk 2.1
Celery Stalk 1.3
Celery Stalk 1.2
Celery Stalk 1.1

Guys Love Bacon

2008-04-25T00:07:00.000-07:00

I miss him sometimes.

When the sun sets and there's a chill in the air, I just go bananas for that warmth. A taste of him would ease my mind and soothe my nerves. You know, he brushed his teeth with baking soda. Funny, huh? It makes me laugh now, but I just loved the taste. We lived in a one bedroom apartment with no television and no phone. For food, we ate B.L.T.'s and sometimes just the B-part. We fried bacon on our gas range stove top and toasted Wonder Bread in the broiler. I always burned the slices, but he was perfect at it. The scent made him crazy, like an animal. He told me that guys love the scent of bacon. He said it's in their blood.

We were happy.

We were poor.

We were living in sin.

I miss him so much.

I taste him when I bake cakes.

Conceited

2008-04-24T21:48:00.001-07:00

Have I told you how
awesome
I am?
I haven't?
Well shit...
where do I
start?

I can write.
I can sing.
I can play piano.
I can draw.
I can do 100 push ups.
I can do 100 sit ups,
I can belch on command,
just to name a few.
Blush, blush.

How 'bout you?
What do you do?

Oh really?
Interesting.
I've never heard
anyone
say that before.
In fact,
is that actually
a skill?
Or did you just
luck out
in the DNA pool?
If it's luck,
then you can't be
proud.
You can only say
"I'm lucky."

Says who?
Says me, Kojak.

Insecure, me?!
Psssshaaaww!
Don't make me laugh!

No Worries

2008-04-22T13:29:00.001-07:00

"You ever been to Australia?" the man asked. His British accent was thick and it bounced around the walls of the hostel's kitchen like a pinball game.

She held the coffee cup in her hand. The cup was small. She cradled it from underneath, feeling the ceramic weight on her palm, then tapped her finger on the cup three times, thinking about his question. She had never been to Australia, but that didn't matter now. She was and she was hungry, too.

"No," she replied, devilishly smiling and taking a sip. Although she was American, her demeanour was slightly British.

"Is that so?" British and Australians speak in questions. It's what makes their accents musical. "Having an adventure, then?"

She gulped. Looking at her Converse tennis shoes, which she had painted American flags on with colored permanent markers, delayed her answer. Those shoes made her proud of her feet and of her country. She was proud to be here on her own traveling with the clothes on her back, her pride, and her orthodontic-enhanced smile. It was an American thing to do.

"Yes," she answered. Her finger continued tapping. She was still hungry and had been at the hostel for a week.

"Where are you off to today?" The man looked at her cautiously. He was beginning to think she may be in need of some food or a lift, of which he was happy to oblige. His polite nature wouldn't allow anything less, especially for a young woman. They had been talking for half an hour, and she had sat listening in that intent way Americans do, not nodding or adding any antidotes other than yes, no, and those telling smiles.

She pointed to the map of Melbourne above his head and he turned to look.

"It's a big city you'll find... Would you like a lift? Some lunch?"

She sighed and finished the instant coffee. Instant coffee and toothpaste were the only things she brought for the trip in her Cal State backpack, and all she could afford to. The sigh conveyed a message to the man, and he became polite again.

"I'm sorry," he said, embarrassed. He cleared his throat with a closed fist by his lips. "You must already have arrangements. A young American girl alone in Melbourne. I can't imagine anything but a carefully planned trip on your end.

"While the man watched, she got up and put her cup in the sink, feeling tears that she would not cry. The moist look in her eyes made him want to comfort her, but twice her age and a stranger, he knew that wasn't appropriate. She tapped her fingers on the counter. One, two, three. Then she faced him.

"I don't know how to cook," she mumbled, saying all she could muster and the most in that half hour.

He studied her features for a reply. She looked like a prisoner awaiting sentence and with those wet brown eyes, she needed clemency. He said the only thing he could think of.

"No worries... You're young."

The girl turned around and filled her cup with tap water. It tasted like lead. Every sip weighted her down with the reality of being so far from America. She had purchased a one-way ticket.

"Would you like some lunch?"

She turned back towards him and accidently started choking and coughing, but she nodded, happily accepting his offer. He tapped his foot three times wondering if he should take her by the hand.

Beauty in Death

2008-04-22T01:47:00.000-07:00

It's why lovers watch each other sleep, and goth kids salivate at black draped clothing. It's why musicians live fast and die young. It's why Elvira has such big boobs and it scares you that you can't stop looking at them. It's the lump in your throat when you survive a car crash, and the sigh you make after slating your hunger. It's why little kids bury hamsters in shoe boxes and play taps with their recorders.

Beauty.

It's why Mozart moves us, and why I lustfully long for the completion of my novel. There's beauty in ending it all.

Sometimes my novel writing goes no where and I hate it. When that happens, I close my eyes and listen to my heart beat. I then feel small.

Mozart - Lacrimosa
Cover by: Jh8812

Analog Hiss

2008-04-21T13:14:00.000-07:00

Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you. By now, you should have somehow realized what you gotta do. I don't believe that anyone feels the way I do about you now.

The fifteen-year old boy having these thoughts listened to the record player spin a vinyl of Oasis' Wonderwall. He found it at a garage sale and had listened to it so much, he smelled smoke from the player. The lyrics and his emotions had meshed into one. Was he too aggressive in his passions? Yes, he was, but the objective was pure.

Anyone could see it was harmless kid stuff. But in another fifteen years, what he was about to do would cause him torment; possibly a prison sentence. He had no idea the regret he would feel. Billy Joel sang a song about fire and passing the blame, but right now, Oasis said it best.

Backbeat, the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out. I'm sure you've heard it all before but you never really had a doubt.

His mother didn't approve. He could hear her hissing at him from the hallway. He ignored her and continued writing his letter to the President, looking at the bus ticket nearby. He was looking forward to everything but the bus ride. All the roads we have to walk are winding. All the lights that lead us there are blinding.

There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don't know how, he wrote in cursive.

Tripped Over a Dog in a Choke-Chain Collar

2008-04-19T20:39:00.000-07:00

I have this picture of my mom and dad in 1971 when they were teenagers in love. It makes me happy cuz they were so innocent.

Dad recorded blurry home videos on a B&W VHS clunker and they make me cry. Just hearing the sound of his voice cooing at his kids, us. There was dysfunction, sure, but there was occasional joy. For everybody.

My slutty Abuelita, my gay uncle, my twin brother, my second cousins that I barely knew. Notice how I preface them with my?They're mine. If they did me wrong, does it matter now?

For instance, we were broke and mom fed us terrible hot dogs that I choke on just thinking about. They were made of ground-up bone products and fatty corpuscles with thin pork skin. It was pure dog food! Now I only eat Hebrew National, but I am glad I ate that crap at one time. I'm not sure why.

It's not worth thinking about too much. I guess I could have a Robin Williams-Matt Damon breakdown moment a la Good Will Hunting just talking about hot dogs, but something tells me that's not gonna happen.

Californians worry about crap. They're just hot dogs, ya know? Who says every moment has to be happy?

Tripped over a dog in a choke-chain collar
People were shouting and pushing and saying
When I traded a smoke for a food stamp dollar
A ridiculous marching band started playing...
Won't you follow me down to the Rose Parade?...
The trumpet has obviously been drinking
Because hes fucking up even the simplest lines...
I'd say its a sight that's quite worth seeing...

Elliot Smith Rose Parade

California Dreams

2008-04-18T20:03:00.001-07:00

I live here,
I've worked there
and it happens.
Give me a 7-11,
Circle K,
any No Name,
Indian-run
Convenience store,
and I'll show you
one lucky schmuck
who won
75 million dollars
buying a hot dog
created from
shit on a
meat factory floor.
He covered it in chili
and nacho cheese, too.
He ate it in his
paint-splattered
pick up truck.
All the while,
he thought that
hot dog
would be the highlight
of his day.
He didn't even think
to look
at the Lotto ticket
until he drives past
David Carradine holding
a hot dog
outside another 7-11
in North Hollywood
and thinks:
"Hmmm, I loved Kung Fu,
I wonder if today's
my lucky day..."
Checks the ticket,
bing bang boom,
ya get the picture.

It happens.

Give it 50...
give or take
20...
years,
like this guy did.
It's totally worth it.

The Incredible Self-Conscious Girl

2008-04-18T14:59:00.000-07:00

Behind the bathroom door with "Ladies" written in cursive, Leslie could hear girls laughing. As the door opened and a stampede of giggly almost women walked out, a cloud of fruity air freshener hit her in the face. If these girls used the restroom, there was zero trace of it in the air. Lucky for them, Leslie thought.

The tile was pink and black with thick gold flakes embedded in each square. Leslie looked at her feet as she walked to the stall, shyly wanting to disappear. Thankfully she was alone. There would be no one to hear her as she urinated, or worse, defecated.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Her parents took her and her sisters to this Steakhouse every Saturday where families from school, church, and Girl Scouts, all their regular social activities, came by for lunch. It was a tradition and not handled lightly by anyone. Mom got dressed up, dad got liquored up, and her sisters got wound up hairdos with colored yarn tying them up in bows.

Leslie pushed open the black door to the stall. The toilet was clean, except for a few water droplets. Since Leslie did not know if those drops were water or pee, she decided not to sit down. She could have scanned the other toilets first, but decided it was easier to just stay here.

She pulled down her skirt and panties and pressed her hands flat against the walls to level herself. Then she did her Maharishi Yogi Levitation trick, floating with her butt above the seat. The hard part would be starting the flow.

She closed her eyes and imagined her families swimming pool. They had a water fall that they turned on for parties or BBQs. She imagined standing underneath it, and imagined the sky blue pool water gently caressing her with H2O and chlorine.

She started to pee. It began as a trickle and she was apt to maintain her grip. Relieved, but far from being finished.

The bathroom door opened. She heard heavy footsteps walk inside and turn on the water. Thank God for the water so they can't hear me peeing, Leslie thought. She continued to urinate in a relaxed manner.

The facet was suddenly turned off, and Leslie could hear the woman in the bathroom opening her purse. She was taking out unknown items to fix her face. The sound of the lipstick cap coming off with a suction-like pop stopped the pee. More specifically, made Leslie tense so she couldn't continue to pee.

Leslie's hands were still gripping the walls and maintaining her levitation. The tension had rode up her entire body. Holding onto the walls was all she could do not to cry from the pain. She bit her lower lip to stop her trembling chin.

"Ow," she whispered in her stall.

The woman at the sink continued applying her makeup. Leslie could hear a compact opening and closing, tweezers being used on her eyebrows, and a brush being run through her long hair. She recognized the sounds from hearing her older sister in the bathroom. For some reason, Leslie thought different colored hair made different sounds. For instance, her sister was blond, and when she brushed her long hair, it was light sounding, like the inside of a seashell. But this mystery woman's hair sounded darker, like the soft rush of a street sweeper.

Leslie's hands were sweating. She didn't know how much longer she could levitate and hold in her pee. It was painful.

Slowly, her hands started slipping down the wall, making streaking noises. Her 70 pound body inched to the seat. When she touched the possible pee drops, she started to cry. Her soft sobs were heard by the woman at the sink.

"Everything ok sweetheart?" she asked in a Texas accent.

Leslie didn't want to say anything. She just wanted to crawl out to the safety of her family's bathroom and do her business; with the fan on like always, but she couldn't.

"Yes, ma'am," she answered politely, and sniffling.

The woman put her tools back in her purse and zipped it up.

"I'm going to leave," the woman said. "Would you like me to turn on the water for ya?"

Leslie's eyes opened wide, embarrassed. Was there a camera in this stall? How did the woman know she was having trouble?

Unsure, she replied: "Yes, ma'am."

"Ok then." The woman turned on the water full blast and exited the bathroom. Leslie could hear her mumble "Poor little darlin''" as she left.

With the water facet running loudly, Leslie sat on the wet seat and tried to imagine the pool again. She had a lot of stress in her life.

Weird Love

2008-04-18T00:39:00.000-07:00

I see him again
in his thrift store suit,
sipping white wine
at the bar.

I don't know how he
does it.
He's weird
but he's just
like me.

A single conversation
with him
is the same as eating
just one potato chip
or drinking one
beer:
you need more than that.

No matter how hard
you try not to care,
you will,
because he's weird,
but he's cruel, too.

I care about his
well-being which
I think about when
I'm grocery shopping.
We're all cruel.

I've been cruel by
ignoring him.
You see,
I have a distinct preference
of what turns me on.
I'm weird that way.

The Pleasant Torture of Writing

2008-04-17T20:31:00.001-07:00

Chocolate Pretzels and Belgium Beer
today.
And for hours, I wrote parts of the novel.
Most of the time it's quality,
not quantity,
but today it was fucking do it,
or suffer losing the opportunity.
Hence the beer and chocolate.
Note to self:
Choose chocolate or beer, not both.

Yucky aftertaste.

I kept listening to Oasis' "The Importance of Being Idle"
because the lyrics remind me that
laziness will be the death of me.

Tap tap go my fingers on the keyboard.

I'll save my anxiety for the rewrites.

I still need a date. An ice skating date.

D.E.* - Circumspection

2008-04-17T01:05:00.001-07:00

* D.E. = Definition Explanation only. Not the definition because Dictionary isn't written on my forehead, but there might be some antlers courtesy of a Sharpie and a night of drinking.

Circumspection is handy in life, especially when it comes to the urge to date exes. It can save many people from potentially embarrassing situations. While this term should be used mainly in business analyzation, I once heard it used incorrectly at a Jewish Briss. The correct sentence should have been: Upon careful circumspection, we realized our son's wiener was not infected, because it looked just like his father's, and we would not sue.

Crumbs

2008-04-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

She watched him drawing on the dark mahogany table. Since day one, his pen etched several obscene things into the finish through the paper. He was compulsively drawing, so it wasn't long before they blended together in a more abstract appearance. After 24 hours, she could serve dinner on it again. No harm, no foul; you take what you get.

She was proud of his talent. It had given them money to buy that beautiful oak table. The legs were so strong they conceived their daughter on top of it. With sex, he was most turned outside the bedroom.

She picked up his tea cup from the table. It held homemade lemonade minus the pulp. He hated pulp. An orange scone sat on the saucer dish in exactly the same manner he placed it after taking only one bite. Crumbs surrounded him like a flaky moat. He often held food while he drew, but didn't eat. That bite mark was rare.

"Why do you do it?" she asked, scrubbing the cup with a towel. There was blood on it. His fingers were bleeding.

He stared at his paper, drawing a clipper ship. She sighed and finished the cup. Five minutes passed. She readied the kitchen for dinner: roasted lamb, mashed potatoes, and brown sugar carrots. She lit the stove and he answered, but did not look up.

"Do what?" he said, darkening the sails.

"You heard me," she replied. "Why do you do this? You know it's not good for you."

He glanced at her, eyeing her ass and strong legs, but not her face. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"A lot of things aren't good for me, dear."

"Don't call me dear," she snapped. "I hate it when you do that! It's like here you are, the genius artist, right? And the rest of us are Ward and June Cleaver in a boring world you escape. You just fuck off with that talk!" She stared at him rubbing his eyes, waiting for him. He finished, put the glasses back on, and drew. He did not look at her.

She took the lamb out of the fridge and basted it with lemon and rosemary. Another five minutes passed and she put it in the oven, preset at 425. The squeaky oven door jolted him awake.

"Maybe you say these things out of guilt," he said. Again he took off his glasses and began cleaning them with spit. "You're the one feeding us meals from the 50s when you know I don't care."

She was scrubbing potatoes. With a peeler, she scrapped the skins into the small trashcan by the sink. Hunched over and miserable. They didn't have a garbage disposal.

"I feed you so that you don't die," she replied. When they were dating, he was so anemic, his nail beds were bleached white. She secretly snuck crumbs into his lemonade, fearing he'd starve.

"By the way," she continued. "Your hand is bleeding. I saw the blood on the cup."

He glanced at his writing hand. Three of his fingers were dripping blood. The blood was coming from tiny holes in his fingers. He had used them to unclog the fountain pen three different times.

He sighed audibly. In a precise manner, he began pressing his bloody fingers onto the paper above the ship, rolling each one. They made reddish plumes. Picking up the pen, he decorated them, giving them lines like fireworks.

He snorted. "A bloody Fourth of July," he said. She came over to look, but was still angry.

"I made an appointment with the shrink," she said. She watched him draw. "You knew it would come to this, so don't twirl your pen at me." She recognized movements he substituted for human interaction. An out-of-place spiral meant 'You're wrong.'

She cupped his head with her hands, wishing she could squeeze out his insanity. She loved him and what she was about to say was cruel, but she couldn't lie. He was ill.

"That's not your best work, dear." She went back to basting lamb.

He stopped drawing.

He capped his pen, pushed things in a pile, and put it all in a cardboard box on the floor. He wanted to tell her to set the table. He wanted to say it in a mean, asshole husband sort of way, but he didn't have the lungs. He walked to the bedroom and spent the rest of the evening listening to Blues records in his room.

His daughter missed him at dinner. She wanted to show him a drawing she did at the private school he paid for. They had Berry Crumb Cake for dessert.

The Greatest Life Ever Lived

2008-04-15T02:46:00.000-07:00

It helps to be a white male in a white world.
Dad's convertible is pure Heaven to drive.
Listening to Mondo 77, I wear a striped jacket with sunglasses.
I pretend I'm Tom Cruise from Top Gun.

Jump through hula hoops.
Point out this Highway.

Sister gets a whack on the head.
She whacks me back.
I smoke a corn cob pipe by advertisements.
I do it on a chair made from an old tree.
Then run around in circles at the gym.

Go through tree holes, like Alice in Wonderland.
Wearing an Easter Bunny Costume.

The Greatest Story Ever Told involves:

fighting bunnies,
stupid human tricks,
cheesy grins with lens glare,
blue tinted shades,
me with headphones.

Self indulgence like you've never seen before.

Uncontrollable.
Laughter.
In the shower.
Close the curtain.

Apple Rocks & Other Poems

2008-04-14T13:48:00.000-07:00

As weird as it sounds, the Inland Empire inspires me. When I was 20, I started writing a quirky story called Peach Bones. Just recently, I wrote a narrative poem that referenced these characters and mentioned a rock "painted like an apple cut into fourths." This is true and part of my inspiration for Peach Bones.

Here's a picture I took on my way to the Dive Bar in Lake Elsinore. It's the prettiest thing on the drive, that's for sure...

Here's the narrative poem:

Free Bird

---------

The lyrics from this Paul Kelly song Dumb Things have always fascinated me with their dream-like quality. Until the Internet came along, I had no idea what he was actually saying. I wrote these poems using some of those lyrics. They feature naive young college girls in sexually tense situations. If you have any thoughts on the meaning (other than I need some), let me know.

Do I need a date? Sure, but that's a different issue...

Hollywood Waitress

2008-04-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

It starts with instant oatmeal
and a coffee pot
that I leave on
accidently.
Not once has my life
gone up in smoke.

At 5 a.m., I drive across
the San Pedro bridge.
This job callouses my feet.
They're ugly now
and shame me
as a woman.

I can't wear flipflops.
I never wear flipflops.

Talk radio is my closest friend.
How embarrassing that is
to say out loud.
There's no traffic now,
but if I'm late, I'm fired.

Ten extra minutes to shower,
say to shave my legs,
will destroy the
space/time continuum.
My salvation is an
uncongested freeway,
cleared for this commute,
like a chest cold
with Vapo Rub.
It's my only defense.

I arrive an hour early to work
I have no choice.

I planned all this, but
each day is an infection.
Deli's are the rage so
I always have money.
After a full day and
driving home,
I'm lucky to eat dinner
before I pass out.

I'm never hungry anyways
so why cook?

Tips are evil
especially from celebrities.
Because I tell people
about waiting on them
again and again.
It further gives me a
Thelma & Louise
conclusion
on how this will end.

I don't want to be here.
Everything's too light and bright.
I need sunglasses to see.
No one really makes it big
anyways.
I've been here three years
and if I'm late to work, I'm fired.

I'd lose income,
I'd lose purpose.
And even though
I hate this life,
failing at it would be worse.

Elliott Smith "Angeles" - from the film "Lucky 3"

Celery Stalk 2.1

2008-04-11T21:36:00.000-07:00

Sandy could still taste the apple. At first, it was sweet and crisp; but after she found out where it came from, it tasted like human flesh. A confused Michelangelo let her spit it into his silver sink, but not even Shiraz washed the taste out. For the remainder of her $700 haircut, she sipped wine and felt like she ate a meaty piece of The Vegetable himself.

She told Michelangelo why she was shaky. Relayed the story about her stalker as best she could, but he wasn't convinced.

"Freaks are everywhere in LA," he had said. "Just because he wears overalls and grows fruit doesn't mean there aren't more just like him."

She wanted to believe him, so she did. It was why she headed to the salon in the first place: celebrity reassurance. She figured tomorrow's red carpet walk would do the same thing. Her nerves were shot. This lawsuit was a damper in her otherwise beautiful life. Money and adoration numbed any feelings of guilt she had over an empty existence.

The Vegetable's letters reminded her of all that was petty. She was petty. This lawsuit could expose her as a fraud.

Before leaving the salon, she scheduled an appointment before The Grammys. Not surprinsing, he was booked solid. She would have to get her hair done hours before the show.

She hoped in her Jaguar and headed to Stella McCartney's shop. If Michelangelo knew, he'd have a fit. Her lawsuit seemed a distant memory. This was thanks to four glasses of Shiraz and the yapping homosexual in her ear. Life made more sense when she felt rich and famous.

She saw a red dress. It was 20s style, with long sleeves and a modest frill that draped around the hem. It was just what Sandy wanted; she was feeling fat and having her period. However, she knew she'd have to be drilled. She could already see the salesgirl walking up to her: an 80-pound waif in a business suit.

The waif smiled big, exposing bleached teeth (the angelic sheen was a giveaway) and collagen lips. She extended her hand, thin knife-like black nails, as she came towards her. "Miss Oregon! What a surprise it is to see you today," she said. "That's a beautiful coat, can I take it?"

The waif introduced herself as Island, or Ireland. Sandy wasn't listening.

"Thanks Isla...erlan..." she coughed, pretending she had something in her throat. "I actually have an important dinner and I don't have time to browse. I'm here on a recommendation from Lisa Rinna."

Island/Ireland looked confused. "Lisa Rinna? She didn't recommend her store on Ventura?"

"Did I say Lisa Rinna? I'm sorry, my mind's on women with big lips for some reason," she laughed mean spiritedly. The salesgirl looked offended, but used to it. Commission paid for rent and plastic surgery.

"I meant to say Melissa Gilbert. Melissa and Lisa were both seated at a SAG event with me. I want that red one right there. It's for the Grammys"

Thankfully, she took the hint, which was less subtle than her cheek turn at the salon, and began measuring Sandy from head to toe. Sandy was embarrassed to learn she wore a size eight. At Gucci, she was a four. She ordered a size six.

"I'm retaining water," Sandy explained. The waif nodded, not really caring.

She let the waif talk her into shoes - a Woven Raffia Peeptoe Pump, red, with 3.9 inch heels: $595 - and a necklace - large glass beads, red, with hand-tied closures in silk satin: $285. She was satisfied with this outfit and took out the American Express.

"That'll be $2,764 and 76 cents," the waif said. No need to check the card with an ID. That's taboo in LA; like cashing out Donald Trump and checking his cash for a watermark. Looking at the register, she added, "You're going to love that cherry tomato necklace with that dress and shoes. On the red carpet, you're Scarlett."

Sandy looked at the accesories being placed in velvet boxes.

"These both match the dress, right?" Sandy asked. The waif nodded, busy with the transaction. "What color did you say again?"

"Cherry tomato red," she replied. "Although Stella calls it Blood Red. She thinks anyone that buys this color likes to walk on the edge."

To be continued...

Celery Stalk 1.3
Celery Stalk 1.2
Celery Stalk 1.1

The Darker Side of Easy Listening

2008-04-09T21:46:00.000-07:00

I like all music. I tend to favor rock or alternative but because I'm a complicated gal, sometimes those just won't do. I go for hip hop, metal, even easy listening. That's right, I said easy listening... poppy shit you hear in the dentist's office. There is nothing wrong with this music. On it's own accord, you can listen and get a darker impression of what was intended. To not offend anyone, American marketing firms whitewash that impression out. Why? Because they want evreyone to buy it. As proof, let me submit two videos for the same James Blunt song, "High," which was released in 2004, then re-released in 2005. The original video is dark and disturbing. Such a cheesy song, I know, but watch it if you don't believe me. It's a creepy plot about a guy feeling "high." You wonder if this dude died of dehydration. It's obvious there's a drug context.

In this 2004 one, James is drunk and chasing after an imaginary girl in the desert. He even vomits. Check out the creepy American ghoul that drags him when he passes out.

In this 2005 one, James is in a whitewashed warehouse (it could be Target) with happy-go-lucky balloons. Then he runs into the woods. No vomit. It sucks. Nice special effects of turning the lights on and off, too. You think his agent was the grip on that? LAME!

Less to Say

2008-04-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

We drink our coffee every morning,
but that's not always accurate.
It's often noon when it brews.
Our schedules vary.
As far as roommates go,
we click with quiet acceptance,
like ducks in a pond.
The most we ever talked was that first dinner
at Cocos.

You're here because of a separation
from your wife.
A girlfriend helped catapult this,
but she's not the reason, you say.
"This has been a long time coming..."
You talk with sadness, a sign of truth.
Your wife resents you.
Over coffee, you mime getting the words
"Everlast" tattooed across your chest:
a punching bag joke.

You miss the home gym in your garage,
but you visit for the kids.
These apartments have a gym.
"It's just like the Academy's," you tell your girlfriend.
I feel bad for you,
but you saved me from a rut.
I wanted a responsible adult.
The last roommate was young and
I think my Jack Daniels bottle
scared her away.
That bottle did the opposite for you.

At Cocos, you say your wife constantly cries.
She asks why you don't.
"You're a man," I say, understanding.
"Men don't express things like us.
You need to tell her just because
you're not crying
doesn't mean
you're not sad
and just because
your leaving
doesn't mean
you don't still love her."
When things matter, men stop talking.
I don't know when I learned this,
but it's important because
sometimes there's less to say.

You look at me with relief
then reach for your cell phone.
"Can you call her and say that?"
I laugh and sip my beer.
No way in Hell, buddy,
but thanks for the silent props
and helping with my lease;
I think all this to myself.

Benjamin sings "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" by Colin Hay-
YouTube id: benjamincostello

Knives Out

2008-04-08T22:47:00.000-07:00

I saw the knives out and turned my back.
Clown College was a joke.
"Why couldn't we juggle and do backflips?" I asked.
I was good at backflips.
This gold outfit Bobo found
wouldn't work for tricks.
Short skirts take practice.

"Not exciting enough," he said. "We need a hook."
Defeated, I faced him.
I looked at the sawdust-covered floor.
It was a secret room behind the studio.
Everything about it seemed musty.
"Nice sequins," he said looking at my
ruby slippers.

He kicked at a barrel with oversized shoes.
A green tear drop was painted
under one of his eyes.
He once joked it was tattooed while
"doing time in clown pokey."
I giggled at this.

"Hey Bobo, why'd you go to prison anyways?"
I expected a joke,
but he looked serious.
He shrugged under multi-colored
suspenders.
Then he touched his knives.
"We all have a story," he said. "You ready?"

I stepped up and he smoothly strapped me
to the wheel.
There was discomfort,
but I had gotten used to that.
Every assignment feels weird at first.
You learn to trust your instincts.

I quickly realized I'd been had.
Knife throwing wasn't in the handbook.
We were supposed to practice a known routine.
Bobo's grease paint glistened as he smiled.
"You didn't think I was gonna throw these knives for real,
did you?"

Hat into the Rain

2008-04-07T01:08:00.000-07:00

I felt like a female Gene Kelly,
but I was naked and
songless.
It was two days after
Rush Week and
this along with my GPA was required.

Streaking is illegal
in Massachusetts,
but it was business.
The sheets of rain slapped me like
a tightly wound gym towel.
It was cold and I was clumsy
and pathetic.

A cop car moved slowly ahead.
Before reaching the quad,
I threw my hat into the rain
and regretted it.
It could have been my shield
from his eyes.

"Little lady," he called while
wearing sunglasses.
"Don't you think you should get inside?"
Guilty, I stopped.
He pushed open the door and I sat
on The Daily Collegian.

With no luck, I tried to explain.
"I need this sorority, sir,"
He took the newspaper out from under me.
"I could arrest you,"
his jaw clenched as he looked at the
wet imprint.
"Do you want to be arrested?"

I felt a caffeinated jolt.
This could be my Scarlet Letter;
an arrest warranted on civil rights.
The cop surveyed an empty quad and
I knew my fate.
That backseat was less than cozy.

Falling into Pillows

2008-04-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

The large teddy bear was calling her, so Denecia, who was named after her grandma's best friend, snuck away while grandma stood in line. She saw the teddy when they walked into the store. It was milk chocolate brown, just a few shades lighter than herself, and it sat in between the aisles, surveying the store like a stuffed animal King.

In first grade, Denecia learned that it was wrong to disobey your parents. Her grandma was her mom, because her real mom was sick, but anyways, she knew she hadn't disobeyed. Grandma hadn't told her to stay near the makeup counter. Grandma just stood in line and started looking inside her purse for the ten dollar bill grandpa gave her for Old Spice. When Grandma didn't say "don't go anywhere," Denecia could play.

Denecia walked on the white and black tiles, playing Walk Hopscotch, a game her and her friends invented, only they played it on the grey sidewalk instead of the blacktop. She was wearing pink tap shoes, because every step went clickity clack and that made her feel pretty. She knew grandma could hear her when she walked.

She looked up from her pink shoes and saw a Yamaha piano. A white man walked towards it and stopped. He wore black pants, a white button up shirt and tie. He looked around the store to see if anyone was watching and his eyes met Denecia. He stared at her for what felt like forever before kneeling down to her level.

"Don't tell on me, okay?" he asked Denecia.

"I won't," she replied, very serious. "Don't tell on me, either!"

The man smiled and looked at her shoes. Denecia wondered if he thought she stole them. "What did you do?" he asked her.

"I snuck away from grandma," she said. "These are my shoes from Aunt Betty. I don't steal things."

"That's okay," he patted her on the head. "I snuck away from work. Would you like to tap dance with your pink shoes?"

Denecia beamed from ear to ear showing off her double dimples and nodded. The man sat down on the piano bench. She rushed to the aisle next to him and started doing Dance Hopscotch, another game from school. They played that game in the sandbox because the sand was soft when they fell down. Denecia felt brave doing Dance Hopscotch on the tiles. Her shoes went clickity clickity clickity clack.

"This is somewhere only we know," he said, then played.

Denecia didn't recognize the song, so she stopped dancing. The song was pretty, but it made Denecia want to do ballet instead of tap. Most piano songs sound the same but this was different. She looked at the black and white piano keys where the man hit each key like magic.

Now, she knew what she wanted for Christmas: a sandbox full of pillows. She thought she wanted that big teddy bear, but not anymore. With a sandbox full of pillows she could do ballet and it wouldn't hurt when she fell down. This music made Denecia want to fall into pillows.

Keane - Somewhere Only We Know
Cover by: Adrian Lee

No Connection

2008-04-04T23:14:00.000-07:00

The silver sword with black and gold plating
glistened with the blood of it's owner.
She cut herself putting it back into her hoister.
She was only 17.
She didn't know how.

There was no connection from one day to the next
and although she was a warrior,
she felt more like a nun
dressed in male clothes.

The manly tunic was laced to her trousers
which were laced to her boots,
and she wore a hood.
Every curve was disguised because if she were captured,
her vow to "keep her virginity as long as it pleases God"
would be broken.

Rape was not a maybe.

She did not see herself as woman.
She was a vessel for God's will.
She heard voices every day.
It was an honor, a duty.
They humbled her at age 12.

She couldn't cry now.
Looking at her sword, she warmed
her feet by the fire.
Her nose was runny and
her eyes filled with tears.

Although she wanted a hug from her maman,
she turned her fear over to God and used the flithy tunic
to wipe moisture from her girlish eyes.
She had long, long lashes.
Up close, it was obvious

Beauty comes from within.
Only a woman can bleed in silence
while nurturing those she must protect.
She suffers and it goes against her nature.
Nature vs. nurture is the question she must ask God.

Sleepy Delusions

2008-04-04T15:34:00.000-07:00

The lead singer of The Shins, James Mercer, suffers from insomnia. He also resembles Kevin Spacey. He wrote most of the songs to the group's album, Wincing The Night Away (a reference to his sleeplessness) on his own, then brought the rough cuts to his band. I mention this because I'm suffering from insomnia right now and it's nice to find somebody to relate to. I manage five hours a night and last night I got nine. Nine hours made my week. Nine hours is better than chocolate.

The horrible thing about not being able to sleep is that you don't know what to do with yourself. Your thoughts keep you up even if your body is too exhausted to have them. You start to feel disconnected and like a used dishrag.

The Shins make me feel better. They have a soothing sound. I can almost sleep to it.

Lack of sleep can cause delusions. Once I thought I was Joan of Arc, but I think I was dreaming. Like I said, I do sleep, just not a lot.

The Shins - Phantom Limb

Satisfying Sunsets

2008-04-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

I cried today watching Harold & Maude.
Guys laugh when you tell them
about this love story.
"What? The chic's 80!" they say via instant message.
The love story between 20-year old Harold and elderly Maude disturbs some.
Their reaction is typical,
because they are thinking with their crotch.
Unless, of course, these people are 80 themselves.
Don't judge, people, we all do that;
just turn off from love because we aren't
physically attracted.
Here's a secret:
your soul is sexier than your skin.
If it's sexual attraction you crave, watch porn.
If it's spiritual comfort, watch Harold & Maude.
I seek spiritual comfort.
I meditate, cry, giggle, and walk on the beach. (Not all at once)
I miss the beach because I moved,
but there are more.
There are also more types of love.
If I had a serious boyfriend,
or a not-so-serious one,
we'd be watching the sunset,
and the stars rise this evening.
All the while, the ocean would be lapping at our feet.

If he didn't like Harold & Maude,
he simply needs a strong argument on
why it sucks.
I try not to judge.
I try not to judge too much,
but it takes effort.

mRNA

2008-04-03T17:52:00.001-07:00

Here's my theory: People who are racist, sexist, or just judgmental, have whacked-out mRNA. Messenger RNA (mRNA) is responsible for translation. Translation is a biological process in protein synthesis. These proteins control the activities of the cell. By controlling protein synthesis within each cell, the genes that make up DNA control life in people.

But definition, translation is how we understand a different language than our own.

HIV positive people are aided in survival by RNAi, a technique that interrupts HIV-positive mRNA in their attacks on cells.

I will make a hypothesis. I believe that hard-headed people have fucked up mRNA and cannot translate anything properly.

Ever see a bike messenger in a busy city? Imagine mRNA carrying genetic info to the ribosomes in your body on a BMX in San Francisco. Only instead of certified documents - "FYI re: Postponement of Friday's Agenda" - your mRNA delivers information to your body's cells. It keeps us functional in times of stress, like Gatorade, a chocolate chip cookie... or sex, if you will.

And mRNA doesn't act alone. No, mRNA has the help of Transfer RNA (tRNA), Ribosomal RNA (rRNA) and Transfer-Messenger RNA (tmRNA.) They work together in four steps of translation. That's right. Four Steps! It's like the United Nations in your body working out their problems through varied cultural input.

So think about that next time you are narrow-minded. Inside your body, millions of cells are working together thanks to mRNA. Translation processes your ignorant thoughts and grows your ignorant hair.

Your body works well with others just to keep you alive. Why can't you do the same?

One can never experience the rush of crowd-surfing without a helping hand. Just a thought...

Tire Pressure

2008-04-03T00:26:00.000-07:00

"Uh oh," he said.

"Uh oh, what?" she replied.

For half a mile, the car had been riding bumpy. He realized it was a flat. He pulled their car, a 1984 Delta 88 Oldsmobile, to the side of the road. After hours of her attitude, it was a relief.

"Are you shittin' me?" she said. Her lip curled in a defiant pit bull way. He was afraid of her reactions so he turned on the charm. There was no one here.

"No baby, honey, sweetie-pie," he took a deep breath and turned off the engine. "It's a flat." Nothing but fields and road.

She sat coldly on the passenger side.

"Gimmie your cell phone," he asked politely, but she didn't move. She sat there staring at the windshield, her arms crossed and jaw clenched.

"Gimmie your cell phone," he asked again. His hand was outstretched, but she didn't flinch. That stone face matched her lips, which were turning blue and white.

There was no time to waste in Nebraska. This chick had "daddy issues." He had to be firm.

"Goddammit, Lucy, gimmie the fuckin' cell phone!" He sucked in his breath, prepared for a punch. If she reacted badly, a police report could be filed right away. He'd have to since the bruises would be fresh.

She turned to him and blew a raspberry through her Clinque Black Honey lip gloss. Her face was as pale as the Evil Queen from Snow White, but it wasn't striking. She looked like a pissed off juror in a courtroom. Defeated, he wiped her spit from his face.

"I knew this would happen," Lucy said. "Remember when I told you to check the tire pressure before we left?"

He sat there and stared at the empty road. It angered her.

"You do dontcha?" she asked, poking two fingers at him. "That's why you're quiet, huh? Admit it!"

He turned to face her and instead of flinching, he planted a wet kiss on her cheek, making sure to slobber. It shocked him that she blushed.

"Um, ok...." She wiped his spit from her cheek. An AM radio announcer started talking about "a crisis in the U.S. economy" and they absorbed it aurally. It was the only station that came in and they didn't care.

A rabbit ran by and the announcer was replaced by a commercial. The poppies blew in the wind.

"See that?" He pointed to the fields where the rabbit disappeared. "Those are Poppies. We should take a nap in that field and forget about the world."

She smiled. Things were about to become cliche.

"A million of them," she said, forcing her cheeks with pink and looking amazing.

"A million and two," he said. He was happy to not be punched so he admired her beauty.

"A million and three," she said femininely. "You forgot the rabbit."

He was stunned. Since they left Canada, it was the first time she voiced a concern about something other than herself.

Screenwriter's Blues

2008-03-31T22:09:00.000-07:00

Let the words speak for themselves.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
We could go for a banana muffin right now.
Fuckin' Adaptation.
Fuckin' Nicolas Cage.
Fuckin' muffins.
Interior... what?
Exterior... when?
We wasted yesterday in Pasadena.
That professor's home had nice stucco.
Would Bukowski write screenplays?
How about Hunter S. Thompson?
We shouldn't care in the long run.
Los Angeles bekons the teenagers to come to her on buses.
Even with money, we still take buses.
Buses in a town full of stucco-lovin' screenwriters.
Thinking about muffins and nothing.

everything's been done.

If You Don't Love Me (I'll Kill Myself)

2008-03-31T13:43:00.000-07:00

"No I do not love you, you stupid Math geek!"
Susie hung up and began sobbing.
Life was over.
So much for her dream to become
a concert Clarinet player,
and attend Harvard on an
Applied Mathematics Scholarship.
Emerson, the cute boy that played the drums
in her Middle School band,
told her he didn't love her.
She thought he did.
He gave her half of his french bread pizza once.
And then he let her borrow a pen
in Ms. Schubert's English class.
It was one of those gel roller ones that look
like calligraphy when you write.
Guys don't share roller pens with girls they don't like.
She just wanted to know.
So she called him and said:
"Hey Emerson, do you love me?"
and he said no.
Now Susie wanted to die.
She looked around her room
for a way.
She could stick her Barbie backpack over her head
and suffocate.
Nah, that's horrible.
She could act like Claire Danes in that Shakespeare movie
and stab her chest.
Nah, that's gross.
Susie realized she didn't want to die
but for about five minutes,
she understood why
Edgar Allen Poe was cool.
She opened up her purple Trapper Keeper
and began to write.
It was about her heart being ripped
from her chest by a boy that played the drums.
She wrote it with Emerson's cool pen.
Tears came, but then she felt better.

Color Bars

2008-03-31T00:49:00.000-07:00

I see color bars when I come. You're always asleep with the TV on, because it's usually 3 a.m. when I get there. Your house smells like meat loaf and spilled vodka. I've never seen Popular Mechanics on any other coffee table but yours.

Free Bird

2008-03-30T18:54:00.000-07:00

Driving down D Street in Downtown Perris, California.
I make a right on Highway 74 towards Perris Pentecostal Church.
I always drive past it and wonder if snakes are involved in worship.
There are dead snakes on this highway.
Dead bodies are found here too, but usually hidden in dusty ravines.
I knew a kid in school who got abducted here.

I drive past the graffiti-painted rocks that look like a red apple cut into fourths.
She is waiting on Peach Street.
I saw her once at 7-11 on my lunch at the graveyard shift of my graphics job.
She was stealing fruit.
Security hassles her.

When she talks, she sounds crazy.
When she makes sense, I'm quiet.
She talks like a preacher.
She told me I "was lost in a sea of acceptance" and that I needed a friend.
She said this on the phone and I don't know her.
I never smile; maybe that's how she knew.

She called security at my job that night to ask for a ride.
I don't know how she knew where I worked.
I think she's homeless and I think she's hyper.
She's right, however.
I accept everything.
I told her I'd pick her up and I accepted that, too.

I made graphics that night thinking about what she said.
I don't like my life, but I don't care to change.
Perhaps things would be better if I went to church.
Faith gives you a purpose and something to do with your hands.
On my breaks, I have sex with the sandwich lady from the factory.
It's not very good, but keeps me busy.

It was 8:17 a.m. when I pulled up to Peach.
She was wearing denim cutoffs and a yellow tank top.
She smiled and got in the car like a refined lady.
I could see a garden of pimples on her back.
She's 18, dirty blond and makes heads turn, but I can't tell if she's pretty.
On Highway 74, she's stunning, but I don't really know.

homeless guy sings Lynyrd Skynyrds Freebird

Shakin' All Over

2008-03-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

Just the way you say goodnight to me.
in an instant message
delivered at 5 p.m. Australia time.
Your melodic voice melts me,
but we rarely talk,
so I remember it instead.
Can I be your online girlfriend?
Because...
I'm five foot one and three quarters.
and you're five eleven.
You're perfect for me!
And I like that picture of you.
You have lines in your face when you smile.
I sent you a photo.
You told me I had an Aussie face.
Does that make you want me?
I crave your arms.
Your shoulders are perfect.
I mean it.
America is fond of sarcasm
so I try to limit my humour;
sarcasm is insincere.
I added the U out of respect.
I would have told you to bug off when we met.
I don't like getting random IMs,
but you were too kind.
It was over with your picture and voice.
Now I think of you when I'm on a bad date.
I can't shield myself 'cause you're so far away.
You suck. Thanks a lot.
Oops, sarcasm again. I mean the opposite.

Magnolia

2008-03-27T19:54:00.000-07:00

You look like a perfect fit.
I'm so lonely.
So desperately lonely,
but I can tell
you know what it's like.
Please be my friend
and make everything alright.
Do it quick.
I don't have much time.
Tick, tick.

Ha ha.
I was just kidding.
I'm ok.
Wanna talk another five hours
on the phone?
Time is of the essence!
Every petal is different!
We are all special!
Chuckle, chuckle.

My pain feels worse than yours,
but don't hate me because
I need you to understand.
Tell me how to feel
and it will all be alright.
I respect your opinions.
I suck at this on my own.
ROTFLMAO.

Yeah, I did see "Magnolia."
Why?
Those different characters with
different problems and
then it starts to rain frogs!
Oh really?
I never thought about that.
I guess you're right.
We all experience the same weather
sometimes.
Can you nervously laugh
so that I can sigh with relief?
Wow.
Thanks.
That helped.

Leave Me Alone

2008-03-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired of being here.
It gets old.
I wish you'd
leave me alone.

I was searching for
an identity in those board games
you created from my
devotion.

But I'm not here for your
amusement, kid.
You'll stick around.
My words feed you
like Chinese food buffet.

Don't call me.
Your voice has chased away
all the sanity in me.
I feel it in my back.
Go away or die trying.
Although you're still with me
I've been alone all along.

Deeper & Deeper

2008-03-27T17:02:00.000-07:00

Daddy couldn't be all wrong
and my mama made me learn this song.
At least I have a skill.
Singing at the club
keeps me from poverty.

"When you know the notes to sing
you can sing most anything,"
that's what my mama told me.
I sing it all
and even though I'm naked when I do it,
I know I'm good.

I can't help falling in love, though.
I fall deeper and deeper,
the further I go.
There was a man who gave me $20 bucks
just to sit on his lap.
I wanted to marry him.

I imagined us together
in a two-story house,
and I was singing
to our twin babies:
a boy and girl in a bassinet.

I told the owner, Reggie,
that I would marry that guy and
that we were in love
Reggie laughed and spit out his gum.
"Some said that romance was dead,"
he yelled out loud.

The bartender heard this and chuckled.
I didn't understand that.
I mean, I was strong, right?
"All is fair in love," she said.
think with your heart, not with your head,"
that's what my mama told me.
I let my father mold me

Reggie says he has no heart.
I call him the Tin Man.
My parents are dead,
but my love is alive
And I'm never gonna hide it again.

Triangulation

2008-03-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

Whenever you have three of something,
you can use triangulation.
It's used when measuring
the epicenter of earthquakes,
and the basis
of trigonomentry concepts.
It is how the primary color
spectrum is divided.
In elementary school,
I was taught yellow as a primary color,
but if you look closely at
your CRT monitor,
you'll see: red, blue and green.
No yellow.
On my Periodic Table of Emotions,
(see blog header)
Yellow is the color of Fear.
Red = Hate,
Green = Need,
Blue = Loneliness,
and Pink = Love.
The only thing I need to figure
is the emotion for Light Blue.
It's creepy and cool when emotions make sense.
And yes, I know what emotion White is.
It's a big part of my emotional table.