DaveContent

notsolinear: There's a shakin' in my steering wheel. I think it's a bad rotor. Got nothing to do with Halloween, cuz my truck ain't scared.

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 06:39:02 -0700

notsolinear: There's a shakin' in my steering wheel. I think it's a bad rotor. Got nothing to do with Halloween, cuz my truck ain't scared.

Weezer just keeps creating great hits. This one’s on...

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 15:27:51 -0700

Weezer just keeps creating great hits. This one’s on repeat-1 for me right now…

notsolinear: The Avery is in a glass that says, "Hop Freaks Unite." Proper.

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 14:52:45 -0700

notsolinear: The Avery is in a glass that says, "Hop Freaks Unite." Proper.

Zombie Crawl

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 11:34:11 -0700

Zombie Crawl:

While in Denver Saturday night, we got stuck in a zombie outbreak. I think we escaped with our lives…and our brains…but I’ve had some strange hankerings lately. Different from the strange…

notsolinear: There's been a zombie outbreak on 16th in Denver. Don't worry. C and I escaped with our brains.

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 17:37:08 -0700

notsolinear: There's been a zombie outbreak on 16th in Denver. Don't worry. C and I escaped with our brains.

notsolinear: Learned how Avery brews their Big-Ass hoppy beer at the HQ in Boulder. Then came the tasting...forgot it all...including my name.

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 14:57:45 -0700

notsolinear: Learned how Avery brews their Big-Ass hoppy beer at the HQ in Boulder. Then came the tasting...forgot it all...including my name.

notsolinear: There are two types of people in the world. One needs a sign to tell them not to feed or approach the mountain lions or bears.

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 20:42:26 -0700

notsolinear: There are two types of people in the world. One needs a sign to tell them not to feed or approach the mountain lions or bears.

notsolinear: One way to spend a lot of money is one folded dollar at a time. And sometimes that's a pretty good way to do it.

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 08:15:06 -0700

notsolinear: One way to spend a lot of money is one folded dollar at a time. And sometimes that's a pretty good way to do it.

notsolinear: I'm looking at snow-covered Evergreens. Make no mistake...it is winter in Denver, CO.

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 14:57:43 -0700

notsolinear: I'm looking at snow-covered Evergreens. Make no mistake...it is winter in Denver, CO.

Somebody’s got a birthday coming up ….

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:53:03 -0700

Somebody’s got a birthday coming up ….

notsolinear: Your iDoesn't? DroidDoes: http://ow.ly/vqsj. New Google OS phone. Perfect if you rely on G-apps, not your OS, for biz and home. Yes please.

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:49:35 -0700

notsolinear: Your iDoesn't? DroidDoes: http://ow.ly/vqsj. New Google OS phone. Perfect if you rely on G-apps, not your OS, for biz and home. Yes please.

notsolinear: Would love to see my 6-0 Broncs play at Invesco while in the Mile High. But my bro had the nerve to schedule his wedding during a bye week.

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 20:58:41 -0700

notsolinear: Would love to see my 6-0 Broncs play at Invesco while in the Mile High. But my bro had the nerve to schedule his wedding during a bye week.

notsolinear: Spoke to Apple. They say the problem is I own too much Dave Matthews. F'ing smug hipster Apple types.

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 14:08:24 -0700

notsolinear: Spoke to Apple. They say the problem is I own too much Dave Matthews. F'ing smug hipster Apple types.

notsolinear: @suicide_blond I knew a guy who used to say something very similar. But it wasn't "dj." Seemed like it rhymed with it, though...I forget...

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 14:07:08 -0700

notsolinear: @suicide_blond I knew a guy who used to say something very similar. But it wasn't "dj." Seemed like it rhymed with it, though...I forget...

notsolinear: There's something wrong with my iPod: I hate all the music on it. It's unacceptable. I'm gonna call Apple and bitch.

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 08:00:40 -0700

notsolinear: There's something wrong with my iPod: I hate all the music on it. It's unacceptable. I'm gonna call Apple and bitch.

notsolinear: I guess we're skipping fall this year...

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 07:26:25 -0700

notsolinear: I guess we're skipping fall this year...

notsolinear: Honey has been worshiping the space heater all day. Praying for the warmer weather to return, I think.

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 16:08:49 -0700

notsolinear: Honey has been worshiping the space heater all day. Praying for the warmer weather to return, I think.

notsolinear: RT @dictionarycom: word of the day--fetor: a strong, offensive smell. http://dlvr.it/Sb. Me: Dang yer fetor really rank. Yay jouet des mots!

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:14:49 -0700

notsolinear: RT @dictionarycom: word of the day--fetor: a strong, offensive smell. http://dlvr.it/Sb. Me: Dang yer fetor really rank. Yay jouet des mots!

notsolinear: Tonight there's a critter on the PATH tracks. Scurrying amongst the rocks and trash. Dat dere little critter's hungry, he is. So am I.

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 18:31:30 -0700

notsolinear: Tonight there's a critter on the PATH tracks. Scurrying amongst the rocks and trash. Dat dere little critter's hungry, he is. So am I.

Albino Peacock

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 10:06:17 -0700

Albino Peacock:

There’s an Albino Peacock at the Peace Fountain near the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, directly across the street from The Hungarian Pastry Shop. He got really close to us. I think he wanted…

notsolinear: @suicide_blond Did you find it?

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 09:21:00 -0700

notsolinear: @suicide_blond Did you find it?

notsolinear: C says the dog stink is getting to her. Guess it's time for a bath. For the dog, too.

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 09:04:36 -0700

notsolinear: C says the dog stink is getting to her. Guess it's time for a bath. For the dog, too.

notsolinear: Hunted me up ten wooden pallets from behind a grocery store. Cost: $20 tip. Gonna make me a 3-bin composting system. http://ow.ly/tQTK

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 15:00:45 -0700

notsolinear: Hunted me up ten wooden pallets from behind a grocery store. Cost: $20 tip. Gonna make me a 3-bin composting system. http://ow.ly/tQTK

notsolinear: A Great Day in Harlem. Gonna stand on that site. Hallowed jazz ground. 51 years later. First, some soul food. http://ow.ly/tJGf

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 09:26:55 -0700

notsolinear: A Great Day in Harlem. Gonna stand on that site. Hallowed jazz ground. 51 years later. First, some soul food. http://ow.ly/tJGf

"Publishing is not a dying business; it’s a changing business. It’s a business going..."

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 19:25:19 -0700

“Publishing is not a dying business; it’s a changing business. It’s a business going through literary puberty, fiscal adolescence, and management hell. It’s a business that needs to grow up, in other words.”

- Makenna Goodman: The Future of Publishing Isn’t Rocket Science (It’s Sustainability)

Read the full article…pretty good.

The Word ‘Curate’ No Longer Belongs to the Museum Crowd

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 10:29:41 -0700

The Word ‘Curate’ No Longer Belongs to the Museum Crowd:

I curate the most interesting group of neuroses to fit in one brain.

Novice Authors Must Promote Themselves, Since Publishers Won't

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 21:15:25 -0700

Novice Authors Must Promote Themselves, Since Publishers Won't:

Book publishers actively market and promote authors, of course, particularly the big names, but for thousands of writers it’s a figure-it-out-yourself world of creating book trailers, Web sites and blogs, social networking and crashing on friends’ couches during a tour you arrange.

Honey Outside Elie Tahari

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:10:26 -0700

Honey Outside Elie Tahari:

She’s got the expensive taste.

Now, her hair was as black as a bucket of tarHer skin as white...

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 08:01:00 -0700

Now, her hair was as black as a bucket of tar
Her skin as white as a cuttlefish bone
I left Texas to follow Lucinda
Now I’ll never see heaven or home
…

The devil dances inside empty pockets
But she didn’t want money or pearls
No, that wasn’t enough for Lucinda
She wasn’t that kind of girl

A little Tom Waits to get things going this morning. Be sure to watch the interview afterwards. Good stuff on words and sounds.

Tom Waits on Late Night With Conan O’Brien 05.04.2007

Speedy

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 13:15:00 -0700

Speedy:

From this summer at Montauk.

We must talk in every telephone Get eaten off the web We must...

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 09:02:47 -0700

We must talk in every telephone
Get eaten off the web
We must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read
And in the face of every criminal
Strapped firmly to a chair
We must stare, we must stare, we must stare

Bright Eyes - At The Bottom Of Everything

I used to be a romantic. Maybe I could be again. Bright Eyes -...

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 19:57:41 -0700

I used to be a romantic. Maybe I could be again.

Bright Eyes - First Day of My Life

Self in Pan Lid

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 06:26:32 -0700

Self in Pan Lid:

I like to wash dishes with the ear goggles on. And when I call them ear goggles, you know it’s cuz I’m hearing Beastie Boys.

6th Annual Brooklyn Country Music Festival at SOUTHPAW in Park...

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 07:07:00 -0700

6th Annual Brooklyn Country Music Festival at SOUTHPAW in Park Slope! (via brooklynbuzz)

We were here last night. Good times.

Italian Pastries

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 12:20:46 -0700

Italian Pastries:

Caffe Roma, Little Italy, NYC

Houston: Texas-Sized Sprawl, No End In Sight : NPR

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 10:07:51 -0700

Houston: Texas-Sized Sprawl, No End In Sight : NPR:

NPR is doing a series on Htown. I listened to this piece this morning and it made me get all teary-eyed for my hometown, sprawling energy-sucking metroplex that it is.

Feast of San Gennaro, Little Italy

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 04:18:44 -0700

Feast of San Gennaro, Little Italy:

At the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy this Sunday.

Zeppoles and Fried Oreos

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 04:18:44 -0700

Zeppoles and Fried Oreos:

Zeppoles = Italian donuts. Makes sense at the Italian Feast of San Gennaro.

Fried Oreos? They make no sense at all. Period.

Why, I wonder, is my heart full of holes?And the feeling goes...

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 21:56:50 -0700

Why, I wonder, is my heart full of holes?
And the feeling goes but my hair keeps growing
Will I set the sun
On a big-wheeled wagon?
Oh I’m bragging
I’m always in love

When I let go of your throat-sweet throttle
When I clean the lash of your black-belt model
Will I catch the moon
Like a bird in a cage?
It’s for you I swoon
I’m always in love

Wilco - I’m Always in Love

Incense Burner

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 12:26:10 -0700

Incense Burner:

The new incense burner in our living room creates some lovely smoke formations.

Smoke

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 10:04:57 -0700

I love to watch the movement of smoke.

Fiction Reading: Change of Venue

Fri, 28 Aug 2009 07:06:55 -0700

The fiction reading I wrote about before has changed venue. It's still in Hampden, but at Minas Gallery. Here's the new details. Hope to see some of ya'll there!

What: Fiction Reading, Three Writers
Where: Minas Gallery, Hampden Baltimore, 815 W. 36th Street
When: Sunday, August 30th, 7pm

Web: Minas Gallery

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Fiction Reading this Sunday in Baltimore

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 10:16:19 -0700

Ashlie, a friend of mine from college and fellow English major and writer, has put together a series of fiction readings at El Rancho Grandé in Hampden, Baltimore. This Sunday evening, August 30th she will be reading there, along with two other writers. It's been a while since I've seen Ashlie, but she and I used to sometimes read at events when we were in school together. As I recall she has a great knack for words, not to mention one of the cutest smiles you've probably ever seen. C and I will be taking a road trip down to Bmore to listen to her read and absorb the funky, pink-flamingo'd, feather-boa'd neighborhood known as Hampden, hon. So to my friends in Baltimore/DC: come out to El Rancho Grandé this Sunday and hang with us and drink some coffee and listen to some fiction being read. It'll make you feel good and you'll be glad you did. Details and web site below. Hope to see you.

What: End of Summer Fiction Reading Series
Where: El Rancho Grandé, Hampden Baltimore, Falls at 36th
When: Sunday, August 30th, 7pm
Why: Great Fiction, Coffee, Conversation
Web: Myspace | Facebook

Go To Post

You...Always You.

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 09:44:45 -0700

If you're here, it's probably because you were looking for another site. Well, I hate to drop this on you all unexpected like, but nicolasix is dead.

If you knew her, you know it was what she wanted all along. I just didn't think I would be the one to do it. But really...when you think about it...who else?

Last night. Waiting for her in the heavy, black car at the end of the dead-end street. The broken window. The car-tool in my lap. She walked up to the passenger door. "Get in," I said.

"You," she said, leaning over. "Always you."

I hope you don't think less of me. I'm not a murderer. It's really not in my nature. But she asked so sweetly. "Please," she said, "It's all right to do it...It's all right." She was so cold. Cold in her crimson shoes.

Anyway, it's done.

Now, when things die, new things often arrive in their place. And so let me introduce you to notsolinear.

If you're subscribed to the old RSS feed, you will still receive updates when I post here. But it might be a while, yet, until I do. I'm working on a few offline things. A novel. Some short stories. Old-fashioned, I know. But it has to be done. And I've made a promise to my mistress. Sadly, I'm prone to severe bouts of writer's block. But hopefully, in the not-so-distant future, I will have a complete first draft of the longer piece. I've got a working title now, so it's beginning to seem more real.

Anyway, when the full draft happens, I will commence with the posts here. And I look forward to that. Because I'm getting itchy. I'm getting very, very itchy. The only exception to the no-post rule is if I have some writing-related news to share.

Until then, please stand by.

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The Reason I Forgot My Watch

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:36:10 -0700

I came back for my watch. Honey heard me drive up and was barking in the back yard.

So I went to the window because I figured Mike must be out there too, and I saw him out there. Lying face down in the grass. Not moving.

He'd taken too much. Or just mixed too many of the pills with too much of the alcohol.

Honey, licking his head. The smell of burnt chicken in the air.

I'd never used my cell phone to call 911 before.

I'm sure the neighbors got a kick out of watching the ambulance pull up. The whole dramatic scene. Me wailing like somebody gone crazy.

At the hospital, they were able to revive him. Thank God.

I guess I'm relieved. There's a reason things happen. There's a reason I forgot my watch.

I moved back in yesterday. And I told him I won't leave again.

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Deciding Not to Choose

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:35:13 -0700

Then there's the whole problem of choice. Goddamit. We like to think having choices makes us happy. But we now know the great paradox about that, don't we? That the more choices we have, in general, the less happy we seem to be. Because there's the fear of making the "wrong" choice. And there's the regret that comes with making a bad one. And, of course, in a certain time and place, every choice can seem like a bad one. At root, I think is the illusion of control we like to maintain—that we have power over our lives and that our choices give us this power. That we determine our fate, in part, through the decisions we make. And shit, when you think of it like that, it's paralyzing, isn't it?

It's why I like to feel the burden of self-imposed boundaries. It's also why I like to be addicted to things. Because when you're addicted to things, when you set up boundaries for yourself, you remove the element of choice from your day. When you're operating under compulsion, you take away the risk of making the wrong decision. Because it's already been made. Long ago. And now you're just carrying through, brother. These pills. This drink. I'm good at the carry-through.

It's warmer today. There's an undertone of spring in the cool March air. And Moses and I are grilling free-range chicken in my back yard. He spits in the grass and takes a drag on a fat cigar. Honey is next to us waiting for the drop of deliciousness that's sure to come. We drink our beer and watch the blue sky and feel the cool afternoon air against our faces.

"Maybe I suffer from a lack of emotion," I tell him.

"Maybe you're deciding not to choose," says Moses. "How's that working out for you?"

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A Dog Can Increase Your Life-span, But Kill Your Marriage

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:34:01 -0700

He thinks it's funny that I'm jealous of the dog and not her. But I'd like a back scratch in the morning, too. You know?

"But she's just a dog, C."

"Exactly. What's wrong with that picture?"

"She's around. You're not. We've bonded."

"God. Not that again."

"Science has shown that it's good for your health to pet animals. It relaxes you. Helps you live longer."

"I bet you science would also show that women who receive affection from their husbands live longer than those who don't."

"I wonder what science says about women who are too needy?"

"I guess Honey and I are alike in that regard, eh? Maybe I should wag my ass and lick your face."

"Maybe you should."

God. It's getting so tiring, these conversations. I think I'm just going to leave for a while. Go to Linda's house. Maybe what we both need is a little distance. A little perspective. Because right now, we just keep saying the same things. And it's like neither one of us is really hearing.

Oh, did I mention&I bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday. It's just not worth it.

The dictionary defines "enable" like this: to provide with the means or opportunity. To make possible, practical, or easy. I think we've started to make things too easy for one-another. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I've made things too easy on him.

Anyway.

He's taking Honey fishing tomorrow. When he leaves, I'll pack some things and head to Linda's. I just got off the phone with her.

It's only fair I leave him the dog. She's so attached to him. Or maybe it's the other way around.

I have to admit, despite it all, I'm going to miss her.

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Seeing The Spot for What It Is

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:32:45 -0700

Sometimes this spot—the one on my glasses, the right lens—sometimes, it doesn't bother me that much. But sometimes, like right now, it's all I can see. And I have to cock my head back in an abnormal way in order to get it out of my line of sight. It's not a spot that I can just rub out, either. So maybe spot is a bad word for it. Because spot might imply something akin to gunk or a smudge. Like the sort from a greasy finger that's been dipping into the chunks of rotisserie chicken treats in a coat pocket. (Canine motivation.) Or spots, plural, might indicate the things you get from a fine mist or drizzle. And it's not like either of those things, really. It's more like a chip. Or a chink. That's it—like the lens connected with something hard and sharp and it just put...well, a goddamned chink in it, you know? Or a dent. Maybe that's the word. Either way, it's not a spot. I shouldn't have called it that.

Look, I'm sorry for saying spot.

I hope you know, I don't go around using words like that all willy-nilly. I should have thought about it more carefully. I'm not thinking too clearly right now.

And here's the thing: She didn't show. And I wanted her to. I really, really did. But she had more sense about it than me. I wish I had more sense.

So I was just sitting here thinking about that and noticing this chink as I looked out over Baltimore Harbor at the smokestacks. Just thinking about what a glorious shithole this town is, and listening to the strung-out woman across the street screaming at the hard-candy mess stuck to her shoe, an unlit cigarette butt glued to her dry, brown lips. Her hair, an elaborate straw roost for all matter of the hinky.

And just screaming, brother. Screaming with an anger and a crazy. Screaming the bloody murder bellow of a sanity shredded and tossed to the fire.

This is Charm City, and there are demons here. Believe. In the neighborhood corner bars. The cobblestone streets of Fells Point. The pink flamingos of Hampden. And despite the gangrenous streets filled with the feet filth frenzy, something about this place seems right and holy. And if you put your ear to the ground you can hear it. You can smell it. Among the brick scum and the shit. An inspiration. These are the right demons, brother.

"When there's a spot on your conscience, everything else is clouded by it," I say. "And it doesn't go away, no matter how much you scream at it."

"It's not a spot," says Moses. "It's a chink. It's not supposed to go away, doncha know?"

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Egg Cracking

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:31:17 -0700

"I'm jealous of your egg-cracking skills."

"Really?"
"Yeah. You crack eggs all clean-like without getting bits of shell all in the scramble. It's amazing. When I do it, the side of the egg just crumbles and smashes and falls apart in the pan."

"That's because you're an idiot, Mike."

"Thanks for boiling that down for me."

"Welcome."

"...I forgot to tell you. I've got to go to Baltimore on Friday."

"What's in Baltimore?"

"Inspiration. It's part of the story. I can feel it. I think I'll find it there."

"...Okay."

"...Okay."

"...Does this story have a name?"

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The Truth About Mirrors

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:30:13 -0700

Late at night, when I'm in my office and only the halogen arm lamp above me is on, Honey will sometimes catch a glimpse of my reflection in the sliding glass doors and she'll start barking her deep, burglar-alarm bark. I'll assure her that it's only me, but she keeps at it, the hair standing up on her back, until I can finally snap her attention away from the reflection and show her that look, I'm right here, Honey. And she will look at me, pupils big and dark, her brow creased with worry. Then she'll look back at the night glass casting my reflection. Then back at me. And she will huff and sigh and make this agitated noise, almost like speaking and almost like howling. And she will come over to me and nudge me with her nose and put her paw on my leg and wag her tail. Like she is so goddamned happy. So relieved that I'm there. Because, holy crap Daddy-O, did you see that? There was somebody who looked just like you outside. And that was some scary shit, man.

The funny thing is she makes this mistake again and again. Because she doesn't get that it's an illusion—that I'm the thing she's seeing out there. And the fact that she gets so upset, and then so visibly relieved when she sees me—it kind of cracks me up. Because otherwise she's a smart dog. She can sit and lie down and roll over. She can lift her front paw in the air when she's prompted to "wave." She knows how to fetch her leash from the doorknob when it's time for a walk. But the whole reflection thing, it just escapes her every time.

And I love that about her. And I get it. I do. Because we all have those things that we just don't grasp. We all have those mistakes we make, over and over. Sometimes, we even set out to make them—on purpose. Because the mistakes define us, brother. Yeah. The mistakes define us.

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Want

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:28:46 -0700

"How's the work coming?"

"You really want to know?"

"Probably not."

"I thought so."

"You still seeing Moses?"

"You really want to know?"

"Probably not."

"Okay."

"You know, I met her. A while back at the JCC. "

"Who?"

"Her."

"Oh."

"She's pretty."

"I've stopped seeing her."

"I know."

"Okay."

"...you don't need to, you know."

"What?"

"Stop seeing her."

"I know."

"Everybody needs a work spouse, Mike."

"I know. But..."

"What?"

"...I want to."

"What?"

"Stop seeing her."

"Okay."

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Three Things, As I Climb the Stairs

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:27:47 -0700

I had written down some things I wanted to talk to her about the next time we were together. Which I knew probably wasn't going to happen anymore. But still. Just in case, I didn't want to forget. So I had written them on a piece of paper, the kind you get from one of those glue-bound, square scratch pads. But not the kind that are sticky underneath, like post-its. Just simple paper. Three inches by three inches. And maybe three inches high, at least to start off. You know the kind of pad I'm talking about. They usually have some sort of corporate logo on them. But you don't know whose it is. Because you've forgotten how you've come into possession of the pad in the first place. Or why.

And none of this actually matters, anyway.

When I asked the girl at the counter for something to write on, she looked all around her, totally ignoring one of those pads I'm talking about, which was right there in front of her. I had to point at it. Then she made a face like Of course! and tore off the top piece from the pad and gave it to me. Funny how we overlook these ubiquitous pads, especially when we're looking for that one thing that can do exactly what they do so perfectly: provide a temporary blank slate to make possible the quick unleashing of an idea or the jotting of a bit of information.

And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense to her. And me. I wanted to explain how she made me feel and why it couldn't go on. I wanted to tell her that this had become another addiction for me. And I already had too many of those. And then I numbered the points...1, 2, 3.

But I lost the paper. And I've forgotten the three things. Like most of the stuff I care deeply about. Or couldn't give a shit about.

"And isn't that funny?" I say. "I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Maybe there is no difference," says Moses. "Why don't you tell her that."

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Bond

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:26:57 -0700

"You stink."

"I stink?"

"Yeah. Kinda like dog."

"Cool. I guess Honey and I have bonded in smell."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"The thing is, Mike...she doesn't smell like you. It's not a two-way street."

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I'm Thankful for the Bad Dreams

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:25:23 -0700

My hands are dry and cracked and bruised. When I bend the index finger of my right hand, sometimes the knuckle splits and bleeds. I think this is the way my hands should be. They are more interesting this way. They remind me that they've done things. And that they have purpose. And during morning walks, I sometimes keep my gloves in my pocket and wrap the leash around my bare hand and let my skin go numb in the bitter air to help the process along.

Right now, Honey is asleep beside me. Sometimes she barks at the things in her dreams. I wonder what these things are, and if they have names like "Daddy" and "Kong," or if her dreams are filled with monsters and ominous knocks on doors and garage doors opening. When Honey's not asleep, she's frighteningly awake. And when it's cold, she prays to a god called "The Space-Heater." She says one Hail Mary and three Our Fathers. She also farts.

My chest burns from Sambuca intake. Then it subsides. Then I wait. And I swallow again. And it burns some more. Sometimes, on a Saturday night, this is the cycle of things.

There is usually a call I do not want to make. Usually, I make it anyway.

Last week, C gave me one of the best birthday presents I've ever received. She still loves me. I'm lucky for that and it makes me feel horrible. It was a vintage radio. I will listen to morning news radio on it this week. And it will be good. Pretty much as good as it gets.

I used to figure life was something I was working towards. That it was full of good intention and determination and grand purpose. The thing about that—the thing about believing in a life's purpose—is you have to accept the fact that maybe it already happened. And you missed it.

When I go to sleep, I hope that I will dream. Usually, I do not. When I do, the dreams are usually bad. I'm thankful anyway.
I'm never too sure what a particular day will bring. But I'm always quite sure it won't bring anything resembling wonder, or awe, or any other thing I used to feel before thirty.

"Maybe I've forgotten how to be a kid," I say.

"Maybe you just spend too much time looking at your hands." says Moses.

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More Beer Bottles Than Trash

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:23:34 -0700

"We've always got more recyclables sitting out there than actual trash."

"Well, that's a good thing, right?"

"Except it's all beer bottles...it's kind of embarrassing."

"Maybe not."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's just embarrassing to you."

"No. Christ. I'm sure the whole street notices. And what's up with your face? When do you think the last time was it saw a razor?"

"God. Who cares, C?"

"I do. And people notice. You think you aren't freaking out the neighbors? Jenny was telling Linda how she saw you throwing the tennis ball with Honey in the back yard the other day."

"Yeah, so?"

"All you had on was boots, Mike."

"What do you mean?"

"It was 25 degrees and she said all you had on were boots, underwear, and a hat."

"I needed to clear my head."

"I think it's a symptom of all the beer bottles."

"Maybe&You know—maybe she was a symptom of you."

"...You didn't need to go there. You really didn't. Jesus, Mike"

"I'm sorry."

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Everybody Needs a Work Husband

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:17:23 -0700

Everybody Needs a Work Husband

I met her. I haven't told Mike yet. But I did. Last week.

And she's pretty, dammit. I'd love to have hair like hers—long, straight, black. That kind of hair that shines, so black it seems blue. I figure she's probably South American or something, though she didn't have an accent, so I don't know.

Her ass is smaller than mine.

Anyway.

She was at the JCC. On the stairs. I took the machine next to her. She clearly didn't know who I was, which kind of surprised me. We talked about workout regimens. I asked would she mind telling me about hers. Because, I said, she obviously had a good one. I asked her if she always did the stairs or did she ever do any of the other machines. She said usually just the stairs, but sometimes she also ran.

She said she had a dog and sometimes she liked to run with him. I didn't mention I had a dog, too. Or that its name was Honey.

I asked when did she think the best time of day was to workout. Because, I said, I only have time in the morning, like right now. She said she sometimes worked out twice a day. The mornings, and then sometimes in the evening. She said she knew a guy who worked out in the evenings and sometimes she'd come to meet up with him. But mostly she thought the mornings were the best time because it helped her get the day started. I said I felt the same way. I said if I had a guy to meet, though, I might change my mind.

She laughed. And so did I.

Anyway.

It's sort of weird to say, but I liked her. I didn't want to, but I did. She's really...nice. I mean, if it's going to be anybody, I'm glad it's her.
I told Linda that, and she thinks I'm crazy. Like, what? Am I supposed to become angry? And make ultimatums. People expect you to behave like you're in some soap opera. God.

Linda watches too much TV. She just doesn't get it.

That I'm not jealous. That I don't want to kill him. But he's not in love. I know this. I know because I have somebody, too—a work husband. Jake. We have lunch together. We go out for drinks. We quit smoking together. He's married, too. So we vent about our lives, about our spouses. We flirt. We've never had sex, but we might. We've talked about it. I'm not ruling it out. I'd love something that isn't weighed down by a mortgage, and cars, and a decision about whether or not to be parents. I need something without a Future. It's something Mike can't give me. Not anymore.
So the idea of an affair of some kind is appealing. But it just seems so messy, at the same time. Especially with somebody at work.

Anyway.

Linda says I'm wrong about wanting an affair. She says I'm wrong about my attitude toward Mike. She says my spouse should be my everything. She says that's what Al is to her.

I kind of think she's lying. Or delusional. You would too if you knew Al.

But deep down, I guess I'm scared that she's neither.

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Making Blueprints

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:15:46 -0700

Moses has been showing up at the dog park lately. He wears a hoodie over layers of other clothes. His face is all eyebrows and a beard the color of road snow. We talk about the economy. He says things like, "When you're an architect, nobody wants to put you on retainer." I nod my head. I have been an architect. Of stories, of drinks. Of different colored pills. Nobody wants to put me on retainer, either. Moses speaks a lot of truths, and I like listening to him talk.

He brings Oliver with him—a bounding, white Labradoodle. When Moses wants Oliver to poop, he says, "Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!" I like that. Honey poops when I say "Business." Now, that seems boring. I wish I had trained her with something more fun. Something like ... "Tucumcari."

Like Honey, Oliver has a lot of energy. But Honey is much faster. She's always beating him to the ball. But she lets him get it, anyway. It's because Honey likes older men. She listens to them. She follows them around. And she'll eventually let them win at games of chase. It's the girls her age she likes to antagonize. She never lets them win at anything. And she barks at them relentlessly. She's alpha to the core.

We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.

"There's no real blueprint out there for how to do this thing," I say.

"Then you need to make one."

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Expiration Date

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:12:41 -0700

"I think I'll get Honey another one of those bones for this weekend."

"I don't know...looks like she's still got some mileage on that one."

"Yeah, but it would probably be good to get her another one anyway, you know."

"No...I don't. Why?"

"I don't know...it just would."

"You just like buying her things."

"No...it's just I think...they've got expiration dates, those things."

"Bones?"

"Yeah. If they don't, they should. Shit ain't fresh."

"Jesus, Mike."

"She needs a new one, that's all."

"You know, you're making me jealous of her."

"Of the dog? That's crazy."

"Do you even realize it's my birthday tomorrow?"

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Stir

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 13:36:41 -0700

I went outside in the morning dark. The town already wide awake, excited, true. Like the quick intake of breath. Like the root and the stir. Like the clutch of a tongue-tied pinky swear. And packed purposefully into layers of clothes, I went chasing the down and the din.

Untroubled, drinking Irish-whiskey lethe from a silver flask, I thought it would be easy to begin the day. And to go where I intended to go. But sometimes arriving in a good place means going to a lot of other places first. And you just have to wait that shit out, brother. And sometimes waiting that shit out is worth it. Sometimes it's the best part.

I left her apartment knowing it wouldn't happen again. Knowing that sometimes you get the girl, but sometimes the girl isn't really what you need, even if it's what you want. In those moments last night—drunk and floating inside one another—I think we found ourselves in the place we had gone searching for, which was the place we wanted to be, which was the place we wouldn't visit again. And I'm kind of sad about that. I am.

Today, I start the early things. The bedroom air is cold. By the bed, Honey tumbles over herself and makes morning sounds. Snorts. Collar clangs. She paws at my hands. She pulls herself across the berber carpet on her belly. As I put on socks and crocks, she angles for a tummy rub. I give in. We go downstairs and outside and then return and I put food in the bowl and she eats it.

And then, a switching on: of breakfast, of coffee, of radio. I stir up the grits. I try to stir up the living things. C is showering upstairs. Then her footsteps. Then her lips touching mine goodbye.

The heater begins its loud surge from the night's off, pushing warmth through the vents. The oven hisses and I stand near it and look out the window. Outside it is all hard and freezing and beautiful. I click in the button on the espresso machine. I listen. I wait. I breath.

Moses thinks there's no such thing as arriving someplace you didn't intend. He says you find what you seek. He says it's that freakin' easy. I tell him I hope he's right. That there's a lot that's good here. But there's a lot I miss. And a lot I just don't get.

He thinks I will. He says he has a good feeling about me. But I'm not sure.

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Bad Week to Quit Smoking

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 13:33:18 -0700

He told me the panties belonged to a stripper. Like I didn't already know about her. I guess the idea of some anonymous stripper is supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't.

I mean, you find women's underwear in your husband's gym bag while looking for car keys. This freakin' black thong. God. How unoriginal. He doesn't even like thongs. Anyway. You find this thing, and it's definitely not yours, and so you're supposed to think...what? It belongs to some stripper? When you already know he's got this girlfriend that neither of you talk about?

"Yeah I got it at that bachelor party."

"But I was with you at that bachelor party. I never saw any dancer giving you her thong."

"It happened while you were with Andy. She slipped it in my pocket. I barely noticed."

"Front or back?"

"What?"

"Pocket."

"Oh, uh...I don't...front."

"Front?...Front? Really? You're gonna go with front?"

Shrug.

The thing is, I know. I knew already. Before the thong. He knows I know. We just don't talk about it. Because what good would that do?

Shit. Not a good week to quit smoking.

Then the other day he tells me about this conversation he had with a character from one of his stories. What the fuck? He says he was just shooting the shit with this guy. Chatting on the front porch. And so I'm like, ha, ha and I'm waiting for the punch line and I'm looking at him like you're kidding, right? But he's not. He's dead serious. And he's telling me he knows the guy was real because Honey saw him, too. She actually ran over to him at the fence. And so he says they talked about yard stuff and storms and dead things. And they drank beers. And he shows me how yesterday he had five beers in the fridge and now he's got none.

Like that proves anything. Jesus Christ.

Anyway.

Now he says he keeps seeing the guy in the back yard. Usually early in the morning. Big bushy beard ... doing something in the dirt near the trees. But when he goes out to talk to him, he's gone. And at this point I don't really believe him. But then again what if there is somebody out there? Forget sleeping, right?

So then he says it's Moses. And so I ask him, "Moses? Like, from The Bible?" And he tells me no, the guy from this story he wrote. And my stomach kind of turns when he says it. Because there's no irony there.

And I'm hoping some will be there. But there's not. And he says something about how he never got that guy right. And I'm not sure what he means by it.

Now he's getting up earlier and earlier and he's walking Honey sometimes even before the sun comes up.

Anyway.

I'm just worried. About him. About the thong. About Moses.

This was definitely a bad week to quit smoking.

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It's Hard to Feel Grounded in All This Rain

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 13:28:36 -0700

My friend Steph once told me she thought I was well grounded. I thought she was crazy for saying that since I was the most ungrounded person I knew. But I never argued with her about it. I liked that she saw something else in me and I let her. Steph's died in a car crash, but sometimes I dream about her. I wonder if she can see me from where she is, and I wonder does she still think I'm well-grounded.

It rained non-stop this past weekend. And C and I woke up early each morning to a fog that enveloped our house and the rest of our little mountain. When we looked out our back window, you could barely make out the trees in the yard, and our neighbors' houses were entirely lost in the gray. On these mornings, it's nice to wake up and listen to the rain trickling softly through the gutters, and to imagine that we are the only house for miles, and to go back to sleep.

Last Friday, Honey went to doggy day camp so I could meet a deadline, and for the first hour she was gone I was more distracted than I would have been with her there and I paced and made too many cups of coffee and listened to music and tried to remember what I did before she was around to help keep my mind off itself.
Do you still think I'm well-grounded, Steph?

There are 2,421 songs on my iPod. I don't say this to impress you with my large music collection because I'm certain that this is pocket change compared to most music junkies. Still, a couple thousand songs and several dozen podcasts—that's a lot of media to have latched to your waist. And yet some days I go to the gym and can't find anything to listen to. Because each song is a ghost, reminding me of where I've been. Ready to take me back minutes or hours or weeks or months or years to some point in my personal history. And sometimes I don't want to be reminded. Sometimes I don't want to go back. So I click forward through song after song in the shuffle and I stop on every tenth one or so. And when I have the right song and the right endorphins from my stair climb washing over my brain, then sometimes the words come, and I scribble them down on whatever scrap of paper I can find.

My body produces a really good drug. Better than the myriad I get from my pharmacist. But I usually have to beat it up to get it out of me.

Honey and I were outside at 3 am the other morning. Rain pouring down. She needed to do business. We walked out into the backyard through puddles of water a couple inches deep. And as I stood in the grass, the water creeping through the holes in my crocs and making my socks wet, it made me feel alive to be outside at 3 am in the dark and the cool and the wet, listening to the steady beat of rain and feeling it begin to soak my clothes.

Honey is always surprised by the rain, and her first instinct is to run back inside. But after she's been out in it a while, she'll bury her nose in the soaked ground and begin to slap her paws on the large puddle of water that settles near the patio. And I would swear, it almost seems like she's laughing.

And I'd love to have done that too—to have gotten on my knees and slapped my hands in the water and stuck my fingers in the wet earth. But I didn't. I let Honey do her thing and then we went back inside and when I put my head back on my pillow I realized my hair was wet and I fell back to sleep.

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