Life According to Jason™

A Status World

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 22:18:39 PST

I had to pee since 8AM. It was just past noon when I made my way to the restroom at a Hilton – it was the airport Hilton. Everyone seemed friendly enough as I shuffled past them. Inside, the restroom was glorious – stately gray marble and glass – and exceptionally busy. I scanned the urninals – all taken. The stalls – feet visible in each one. Well… almost. The handicap stall, the presidential suite of restroom stalls, was open. I headed straight for it. Already my bladder was rehearsing its acceptance speech for surviving so long. But as I rounded the corner of the stall, an arm shot out and blocked me.

“Sir!” It was the restroom attendant. I was frozen, baffled – this was surely a joke. Sensing my confusion, he continued, “This stall is reserved for our platinum and executive platinum members.”

In my bafflement, another gentleman, flashing a member rewards card, slid past us into the stall.

“Welcome back, Mr. Johnston,” the attendant said with a warm smile.

I don’t need to describe what happened next. Well, okay… none of this really happened. BUT don’t think we’re too far off from there. Take a look at airports. The only way to get an any perceived value of customer service is to have “elite status.” Even for people with “status,” there seems to be a diminishing return. The number of rewards members grows, and the number of service staff decreases. If everyone is elite, no one is elite.

But I got to thinking (quite dangerous, my wife likes to remind me), and wondered what the “status” system might look like for some of our most frequented locations and commodities.

Burger King – Whoppies Gold Members receive unlimited ketchup, in addition to free upgrades for every 1000 in Whoppies Bucks.

Starbucks – Bucks This members are never corrected for saying Medium instead of Grande. Also, when presenting your Bucks This card, café staff will all stop and do the Bucks This line dance, followed up with a slow clap, making you feel mutha effin EPIC.

Griffy’s Pub – clean mugs for anyone with status. Plus television remote access for Premium Elite.

Bingo Hall – unlimited complimentary diapers with one free wipe-down per visit. (Sorry! Couldn’t resist.)

"Mutha Effin" Makes It Better

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 20:44:25 PST

A clean mouth is a clean soul. Sure. Grandmothers will all agree on that point. But Grandmothers and school marms never considered the social and economic state where we have ended up. Everything is drab, drab, drab. Who remembers what the spice of life is anymore? Well, fear not. The quick fix is here.

I overheard a conversation between a blind guy and a very colorful person on the subway. The blind guy held onto the pole while the colorful person did all the talking. I should note that the blind guy steadily nodded his head in agreement (the colorful guy was ranting), or he was asleep and the head bob thing was only a result of the subway car’s starts and stops.

I was listening to the conversation. The colorful guy had a dirty mouth. It was eff this and eff that. That b word and you can’t believe… I looked away embarrassed. How awful were his manners! But I couldn’t stop listening. The guy was magical. What really caught my attention was the end of a line where he paused for emphasis after posing a rhetorical question, then said plainly: I’ll tell you who! Carl Mutha Effin Lagerfeld!

That’s when I realized: if the colorful guy had removed the bad words from his statement, it would have lost its impact. Consider it: I’ll tell you who! Carl Lagerfeld. Sure, it works. But it’s just so…plain. Carl Mutha Effin Lagerfeld is spicy. It’s got a poetic ring.

I began to play around with this idea. And the proof was clear: Mutha Effin makes things better. Take any normal, boring statement – take “I’m going to walk the dog,” for example – and throw in a Mutha Effin. “I’m going to walk the Mutha Effin dog.” That’s a SPICY meat-a-ball.

Here are a few more:

BORING: Go get some toilet paper at the store, at least eight rolls.

SPICY: Go get some Mutha Effin toilet paper at the store, at least eight Mutha Effin rolls.”

BORING: My head hurts.

SPICY: My Mutha Effin head hurts.

BORING: Peace be with you this holiday.

SPICY: Some Mutha Effin peace be with you this holiday!

Try it with anything, and the result will always be better. Another application to this rule is the name-split Mutha Effin – ideal for names. Bruce Willis becomes Bruce Mutha Effin Willis. Arnold Mutha Effin Schwarzenegger. Kobe Mutha Effin Bryant.

Remember this golden rule whenever things seem drab. You’re only ever two Mutha Effin words away from something better.

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 20)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 15:38:38 PDT

The Conversation

On the way out, clinging to a stack of papers, Les seemed in a hurry. His face was red with exertion.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He breathlessly shouted over one shoulder:

“Remember that lead I was telling you about? From that thing I couldn’t really tell you about?”

I galloped after him.

“That story,” he blurted. “The really big one.”

“You mean the mysterious business you’re always slipping away to do?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Well, I’m not quite sure what story that is exactly. You never say.”

“It’s big, and it’s going to come to a head real fast. I don’t want to spoil it.”

“Spoil what?”

“The story,” he insisted. “You’ll see…soon.”

He juggled the armful of papers to remove his car keys. What was he up to? It was just possible that Les had no lead, and there was no story. Maybe sealed away in a small corner of his imagination was a lockbox of paranoia bursting with conviction. Each day, randomly, his subconscious would take over. It would lead him to an abandoned processing plant on the other side of Little Vietnam, where papers filled the empty corridors—stacks of papers, heaps of papers, overflowing armfuls of papers—because one also had to validate a mystery with hard proof. And what better way to fake a huge, roiling story than with a huge, roiling collection of notes?

What Les did not realize is I knew more than I let on. One day I’d seen him scampering about with his usual stack of notes. Curious, I followed him outside. Catching the wind, one note slipped away and flittered down the street. He was in such a rush he failed to notice. I tarried after the lost note and retrieved it.

In retrieving the flyaway paper, I noticed an oddity right away. Such was not Les’s note-taking style. He was a vivacious and messy note-taker. He covered his papers from edge to edge with large, obnoxious scrawl, then flipped them over and repeated. Quite possibly, he was incapable of deciphering the script afterward, but he claimed the value was in the writing of the note rather than the reading of it. Which is why it took no time at all to realize this note was different. It was entirely blank. I considered the possibility that all those papers were blank, excepting a few strategically faced decoys.

I discarded the note in the nearest trash receptacle, but something took hold of me. I returned and flipped the paper over. It had not been entirely blank. There was in fact writing on the other side. Just a few lines scratched in the center and underlined. I looked closer, and horror seized me. The writing on the note was mine.

It was my note—one I had written a few weeks prior and had presumed to be lost. But the note alone had been a mild curiosity. Forgotten. Finding it made me wonder. Why had Les taken this note? A plain, simple note? What was the connection? Les had skillfully avoided my inquiries then. And now as he struggled to open his car door in lieu of his latest armload of papers, I hardened up.

“Les,” I said. “We must get to the bottom of something right now. I don’t care how busy you are, or where you need to go.”

He was finally getting into the car:

“I can’t right now, Bren.”

“Les, I don’t care.”

He showed no sign of slowing. The giant had an uncanny stubbornness in such matters.

“Les,” I insisted.

Nothing.

I hooked my arm through the car and unlocked the back door. I then gracefully opened it with the other hand and was comfortably buckled in before the giant could respond. Styrofoam coffee cups and notepads crinkled under my feet.

“Aw, Bren,” Les whined.

“Drive,” I demanded.

Les eyed me in the rearview mirror. A flash of derision passed between us and was gone. He started the engine.

I waited until we had driven to the edge of the neighborhood, then said carefully, pointedly:

“I have some questions to ask you. You will answer them for me one by one. And don’t argue. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“Bren, I really—”

“BECAUSE,” I interjected. “You are my pal, and I would offer you the same knowledge. That’s what real fellows do.”

“Are you sure this is what you want? There’s no turning back once we begin.”

“First question,” I said.

Les made a wide turn onto 37^th.

“Okay. I’ll answer the best I can.”

“Okay,” I confirmed. “What is the relevance of the Drunken Strumpet?”

I watched his eyes in the rearview mirror as they narrowed and became dark with seriousness. He took a left turn.

“Remember McGully?” he finally said. “From the restaurant way back? The really fat Asian guy with the English accent?”

I instantly conjured the image of an overweight behemoth who, shoveling fistfuls of food into his gullet, spoke through a spray of minced edibles. And, yes, the spoken voice that managed to penetrate the early lunch had been unnaturally British.

“Do you remember why I took you to that meeting?”

“No, actually, I don’t think I ever figured that out.”

“Bren, seriously…”

“No, I don’t know why you did that.”

“Well I had many reasons. First of all, I needed a witness. You saw the guy; you can vouch that he is real.”

“Please, Les, no existentialism right now.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. Do you remember what I told you about him?”

“About what? He was crazy and a messy eater.”

“No, Bren, think about it. About who he works for…”

I thought back on that day. The nice southern restaurant. The three plates of food the freak of nature known as “McGully” consumed before our we’d even placed an order. The creepy English accent, when he was a fat Asian. The name: McGully. One wondered at its origin, because it was neither Asian or English in origin. “McGully” was the fabrication of an uninventive mind. A pseudonym.

“Well?” Les urged.

“I remember, Les. How could I forget?”

“And..?”

It was so obvious. Why had I not made the connection before? Then again, no. Couldn’t be. Because it was so obvious.

“Brennan, put the pieces together. You’re a smart kid.”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m thinking Asian Mafia.”

“Yes!” Les blurted. “Asian Mafia.”

I chuckled, “Asian Mafia. No shit. I was partly guessing.”

“You’re a good guesser, my friend.”

Than a pang. “Asian Mafia? Really? There is an Asian Mafia?”

“You bet there is.”

“What – do they go around hoarding all the sushi and creating porn that makes you vomit?”

“Bren, Asian Mafia is a serious business, and it is alive and well in Biloxi. Take heed.”

“I don’t know,” I said, dismissive. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Good. Get your believing hat on, because we’re almost there.”

“Where?” I said. We sat at a stop sign in an empty neighborhood. A car peeled out in the distance. A dog barked and another joined it. Les turned back around in his seat, placed his hands on the steering wheel. He revved the engine, and the car proceeded forward.

That's Not a Picture of a Mentally Challenged Person, But, Yes, It's Me

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 07:11:53 PDT

Sometimes, I feel like life is no less than a series of horrifying realities about one's self as observed and reported by friends and loved ones. I once lived happily in the ether of ignorance, unaware of simple facts. Such as, that I cannot dance or sing. That I have fat pads on my back (der. muffin tops). That I have and make regular use of a drinkin cup. That I have a music collection which includes Ace of Bass and Cher (and the single "My Heart Will Go On" from TITANIC).

The last year has been particularly eye-opening. The pealing away of the blissful layers of ignorance that once shielded me from harsh reality have made me realize that Ideal Jason is nothing like Real Jason. Not even distant cousins. Through marriage.

Thus continuing in the year's newfound tradition known as Life's sucker punch to the face, yet another occurrence of reality happened at a party. Well, the instance occurred at the party, among friends new and old -- the realization was made days later, as I stared horrified at a photo of me on Facebook.

A message in my inbox notified me that I had been tagged in a photo. Goodie, I thought. My likeness is being shared virally on the internet. Without any action or effort on my part. I am cool.

I clicked the link and saw that the photo was from the "Group Wrap Party" album. I clicked the thumbnail, and the image filled the screen. At first, I stared for a moment, feeling nothing. Then it just lazed around me like a fog. I groaned, "Aw, it's awful. Just awful."

Heather happened to be in the other room. She promptly appeared with a power drill in one hand and goggles, with an inquisitive look on her face. "What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," I replied. "Just can't take a good picture and have it end up on Facebook. It's always an embarrassing one."

"Oh, yeah," she said with recognition. "What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it!" I snapped. "I look like Stephen Hawking getting kicked out of his chair."

She was calm and cool. She said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but you make that look a lot."

Horror swept over me like a cold heavy blanket. I croaked, "I do..?"

"Yes. When you get really passionate, you lean forward. You talk with your hands. Your lips stick out like that."

I felt sick. Was it true? My eyes were glued to the photo, the ridiculous PUBLIC photo on the internet.

"And...people see me like this?"

"Oh, yeah," she assured. "Most definitely."

Her words sank in. Then, appropriately, she brrzzzzt the drill in the air like a vigilante road warrior repairman and said, "Gotta go and finish these shelves."

"Sure," I said, but she was already gone. I stared at the photo in thought, letting the reality permeate the facade of my false self-image like battery acid.

Okay, I thought. I'm okay with this. Note to self: do not get passionate in public.

Note to everyone else with a camera and a Facebook account: if ever it happens (likely through trickery or optical illusion), and a bald spot appears on my head, do NOT let me see it.

For all other photos, please note the newly-established approval process:

A. All photos must be shown to Jason prior to publication, no exceptions

B. The following are automatically disqualified:

-- Fat angle photos

-- Gobbler angle photos

-- Weird eye punched in the face photos

-- Short photos inaccurately creating the illusion that my legs and torso are in an atypical proportion to each other

C. NOTE: any photos of UJLs (Unsightly Jason Look-alikes) will receive a Cease and Desist [see EXAMPLE below]

Have You Seen This Man?

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 21:28:28 PDT

Why Does Everything Soft Have to Be "Angelic?"

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 22:35:31 PDT

Whether a family of bears cleaning after their own messes with special regard to moisture and softness, or a cherubic mascot hugging a roll in ecstasy, toilet paper branding for all intents and purposes is meant to rub us the RIGHT way. Sure enough, it does.

However, which advertiser, when, decided that all things soft had to be angelic? The persistent images abound: clouds, angels, pure white cotton tufts, innocent babies. Even one of the leading brands in toilet paper derives its name from these: Angelsoft.

Advertisers should broaden their horizons (yeah, I know, but it was the best word choice). Consider the brand that challenges the status quo. Ask anyone with life experience -- not all things good are good. Some very good things happen to be very bad. Which is why I propose a new case study for an edgier, sexier household commodity meant to touch your most private parts: Devilsoft.

Sure, Angelsoft is great for children and orthodox Christians. But for everyone else, Devilsoft will change the way we think about toilet paper. Imagine the possibilities. It can be moist, ribbed, studded. Devilsoft for Him. Devilsoft for Her. It's not just for reading anymore. Turn your bathroom from a library into a bedroom. Barry White, take it away with the Voice Over...

"Aw, yeah...for that SPECIAL experience on the commode...

Turn OFF the lights...

Turn UP the heat...

Baby, let's get SANITARY...

Sanitary in LOVE...

So SOFT...it's DEVIL soft."

Hey, they did it with cake, why not TP?

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 19)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 15:37:10 PDT

Omission of the Word "Penis"

The shades were drawn in Ralph Persimmons’s office. Gems of sunlight sparkled through the cracks. The handgun was out, glimmering brilliantly. Sitting in the hot seat I had the distinct impression of impending bad news. I delivered the draft of the New Orleans piece around 3:00 AM. It could have been in his possession for six hours at most. Thirty minutes would have been ample, though. Thirty seconds even—the time it takes to scan a single page of copy. I’d had my chance, a feature assignment complete with travel expenses, a make or break opportunity. What felt looming and precarious would soon be a reality: I was being fired.

I reminded myself of the why: only the pursuit of truth can ever validate one’s life. While a journalist, proud member of the media, words transcend the ordinary. They empower. They judge. When spoken true, they have the ability to aim the light. This is one’s journalistic duty, one’s ethical mandate, and worth fighting for. From the kernel of one’s being, through the protoplasm of one’s will, right to the last fiber of one’s existence. Somehow, out of a wan life, I had emerged.

The thoughts fizzled and popped like intestinal gas. Ralph studied his large handgun in the shadows. He sensed the fear, the disappointment, and the chagrin. But feelings were not the issue. Life was not the issue. Business was the issue. And like that nickel-plated death cannon, business held no room for sentiment.

I waited for Ralph to explode into a tirade before delivering the death blow. Instead, he grunted and set his gun atop the desk. He stood, and a bullet began its tinny roll across the lanolin, neared the edge, and fell to the floor with an ineffectual thud. Ralph disregarded the runaway. He leaned forward and slapped the top of a paper stack.

“I’ll just get my things,” I started, dismal.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “It’s genius.”

A feeling of wonderment came over me.

“You liked it?”

“Genius,” he repeated, stretching the circumference of my ego. “You’re young,” he purported. “That does show in the piece. And it’s a bit lengthy…over 3,000 words, I think.”

“You can’t use it,” I said, glum.

“Nope. Can’t use it on page four like I intended. It’ll have to go to cover.”

“Cover?”

“Cover,” he asserted. “Congratulations.”

Ralph’s gruffness did not undermine my excitement.

“Oh, sir,” I said. “That’s wonderful. I mean—”

“I’m not finished,” he barked. Sustaining a dramatic pause, he eased back into his seat and folded his hands across the desk. He drew in a deep breath and then proceeded to unfurl the dense knot of his carefully measured criticism:

“Number one: it’s too wordy. You must familiarize yourself with this phrase: Economy of Words. Learn it, memorize it, know it. If you must use an adjective, do so frugally, and never in combination with others. One descriptor is plenty. If you can’t describe your noun thus, you’ve got the wrong noun. Also, eliminate excess words. Say more with less. For example, instead of writing, ‘As fireman Richard Handy investigated the scene,’ write, ‘Fireman and investigator Richard Handy…’

“Now, I’ve gotta say, you’re young. You can’t help that, but it shows in your style. I mean there’s a lot of stuff out there that’s not as good as yours—this is an industry of hacks, after all. So I’m not saying your style is bad; it’s just not amazing. That’ll change. So, why isn’t it amazing? Well, your writing isn’t airtight. It’s not bad. It’s just not airtight. Of course, Frank will help you with that.”

Ralph paused.

“I see by your face that you’re getting down. Don’t. My job is to tear this paper apart—its content, its writers, and its meat and bones—to make it better. Take what I say to heart, but you should also know that you wrote a very good piece. I’m impressed. You have a natural ability to lay out the facts and meld the commentary so that your writing really flows. While your style is just fine, your ability to tell a story is superb. So, I wouldn’t worry.”

Ralph stood with his hands still folded, as if preparing to communicate life’s harsher realities.

“Now there are some…” choosing his words with care, “logistics. Names, first of all. You listed six boys you discovered in the bar. Brilliant. The part about opening a beer bottle on the waitress’s nipple piercing—brilliant. I loved it. The long and short of it is, though: we can’t print their names. They’re minors—we can’t do it.”

Here, I interceded:

“What do you mean we can’t do it? They were in a public space. I have witnesses. I—”

“Let me stop you. Those boys were not in public. You found them in a club at a private event. I’m still not clear as to how you got in, but that I love.”

“I don’t understand, Ralph.”

“Look, Brennan, you’ve got a lot to learn. We can’t print those boys’ names. This is the Biloxi Inquirer; remember a little speculation is good. Besides, we don’t have the weight the Times or the Post has. We print the names of those boys, and you—me, this whole paper—will be out of business by nightfall. You’re in a whole new world out here, Brennan. This is the nitty-gritty. No names this time. And something else I just thought of. You can’t use the word ‘Penis.’”

“I didn’t use that word,” I insisted.

“You didn’t?”

Ralph took up the crinkled copy I’d given him and leafed through the stack until he’d found what he was looking for. Following his finger’s lead across the text:

“Ah, here you write: Peter M--- reported [quote] the lights went out.. I had just begun to relieve myself [nice touch], when there was a horrible cry from out in the hallway. SUDDENLY, my PENIS was roughly gripped and then yanked. I was punched in the stomach, slapped, and left there in pain, all curled up on that filthy bathroom floor [end quote].”

Ralph looked for a response, his face inquiring, Now what do you have to say?

Ralph’s heavy stress on the words “suddenly” and “penis,” and my having lied about using the word “penis,” caused a nudge of glee. I laughed.

Ralph ignored the outburst and continued coolly:

“While you no doubt enjoy the spectacle of your writing, there is need for emphasis on this particular point to which I will return now: the politics of this paper are a touchy issue. You see—how do I say this?—we rely on certain endorsements to keep running and have so for many years. Now we don’t necessarily push a particular political view. By that I mean we don’t use our paper as a propagandized calling card. After all, we aren’t the New York Times. With our staff’s accumulation of wide-ranging views, I like to think of the Biloxi Inquirer as a truly bipartisan publication, expressing all views and, namely, addressing only the facts.”

With this he smiled wryly.

“You have to be subtle. Say whatever you want, but say it indirectly. No names. No blatant finger-pointing, but damn, son, you sure did get those boys in a pickle. Which leads me to the title…

“This is of course entirely another matter—my final matter of discussion. In newsprint…especially on the cover.”

Ralph paused in time to let this sink in once more—just long enough for a resounding sparkle of surprise and giddiness to rise once again from my cockles.

“Title is of the utmost importance. It is the main derivation of success. The eye-catcher. The curiosity snare. The lure. A title must be alluring and educating both, informing the reader at a glance of an article’s contents, but in a way that will beckon for them to discover more. Instill in the casual observer the need to know more of what that gripping title speaks. I call it the insatiable plebeian itch. Your working title—“D is for Dirt”—satisfies none of these requirements. Of course, “dirt” is precisely what it is, and that is precisely what people want. But they don’t want it called dirt. Dirt is…well, dirty sounding. It’s bad karma to obsess over and find extreme delight in dirt. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Although sight and sound are quite different, never logically correlating…a nod.

“Good. Besides, dirt is non-specific. You need to be more pointed—remember, an alluring glimpse—and be catchy, too.”

“What do you suggest?”

Ralph perked up at once. He had been moving toward this very moment, praying and pushing for that very question to come forth and allow him the grace of seeming less imposing and more candidly insightful. Feigning consideration:

“Well, let’s see. Maybe something more loaded…uh-huh…yes, I have it. ‘Future Republicans in the Dark.”

A gleeful snort ushered out of him, followed by a joyous clap.

“That’s it,” he announced, as if only now conceiving of this idea and finding it compulsively astute, the absolute perfect choice. “It’s going to print.”

With that, Ralph Persimmons came around the desk, gruffly shook my hand, and rushed out of the office.

Fellow LAJers and Brazeneers (open letter)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 07:47:00 PDT

First, the process. I have enjoyed editing Brazen, the Totally Awesome Serial Novel, into bite-size sections for your perusal. I realized with horror last week that my working draft was corrupt. The first 20 sections represent about 100 pages of the final manuscript.

The snag. What I thought was a 175-pager, was in fact a 100-pager with 75 pages of gibberish.

Don't despair. I found the rest of it. All 450 pages of it. Yikes, I thought. At this rate, Brennan Frick's journalistic adventures...in Biloxi, New Orleans, Louisville, and more, including an undisclosed future location thanks to a renegade mafioso priest...would take several years to hit the Life According to Jason site. And I just ain't goin there.

But I want to hear your thoughts. This is an open dialogue. Thoughts, words, flung feces. We're all primates here.

Future Republicans in the Dark

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 08:18:18 PDT

...Brennan Frick's first feature story for the Biloxi Inquirer

FUTURE REPUBLICANS IN THE DARK

NEW ORLEANS, LA—Darkness fell on Nawlins Friday when a 16 lb. Squirrel confronted the main generator at the Morial Convention Center. As fireman Richard Handy investigated the scene, the sight of a hefty, elongated carcass in the form of an overcooked sparerib “wasn’t a damn bit interestin’.” What was then? This simple fact: intense voltage was not the cause of death. According to fire chief Handy, “A small pellet ‘bout the size of my pinky nail’s what did it. Besides, his tail was broke…” which meant one thing: the carcass had been flung into the generator, and by someone who, in the words of Dan Smalls, investigator for the Bayou Chronicle, was “a degenerate and a half-wit.”

Emotions were high as incident after incident occurred by cover of shadow in the hour of hysteria to follow the initial power outage: mysterious groping peppered with anonymous bursts of profanity, young women’s blouses ripped from their torsos. Resplendent fear abounded as several instances of lewdness in restroom facilities were reported. One victim, Peter M--- of South Carolina recalled his horrific account to authorities: “The lights went out. I had just begun to relieve myself, when there was a horrible cry from out in the hallway. Suddenly, my penis was roughly gripped and then yanked. I was punched in the stomach, slapped, and left there in pain, all curled up on that filthy bathroom floor.”

Hysteria and panic best describe this opening day of the Future Southern Republicans Convention. “A litany of degradation!” Vince O’Neil of Northern Mississippi raged. “Our children come to New Orleans in the hopes of a better nation, in the name of free government and the American Dream. Despots and social negligents will always persist, but these true enemies of the American people will never prevail in dampening the spirit of this great convention.

In 11years of annual gathering of the South’s brightest and sharpest up and coming republicans—many just days beyond the 12-year age eligibility requirement—this is the eleventh such debacle. So the question remains: who are these mysterious vigilantes who year after year find some way to botch the sublime organization of the event? They have no face and go by no specific name. Their identity is lost in the numerous dismissive shrugs and powerless expressions. In an effort to shed some light on this pressing issue, This Journalist followed an anonymous tip, which lead to the seedy underbelly of an old and dynamic city…deep into the French Quarter to a shoddy nightspot known only to undergrounders as Sangomar Bar. What This Journalist discovered was not only terrifying, but was downright horrific.

Light bends away from Sangomar Bar, defying all laws of physics. In essence, its very presence is the dark, and on an overcast night on what insidious paper flyers discreetly passed among the elite proclaimed as “DEVIL NIGHT!” the Sangomar Bar revealed itself in a dim illumination of brimstone and a villainous cloudburst of insane chatter.

The air inside was dank, resonating undertones of urine and smoke. A stainless steel counter top brazed to complete dullness was the initial platform for a host of performers and staff—all adorned in tight, minimal leather dress. Nipples elongated by heavy piercings, razor-burned pelvic regions exposed, any and all instances of lewdness shone in silhouette beyond numerous cubicles of rice paper effectively illuminated from behind like a radiant John Waters fantasy.

Sheer repugnance and humble will urged This Journalist away from the place with the utmost haste. But suddenly a piercing scream rent a microsecond of pause in the antics of the bar. It was brief and hardly noticeable in the haze, but it was instance enough to direct my attention to the deepest shadowy corner, where, sitting guiltily with hands upraised, was a young man in a chambray Oxford shirt with a crimson tie loosed about the neck. Evident in the fleeing waitress, her left hand clutching a bloody napkin to her bare breast, and the ribald smirk of the young man, the scream had been a direct result of their interaction.

Upon closer inspection, five other well-dressed minors revealed themselves one haughty gesture after another from the shadows of a large circular booth before which was centered an extravagant hookah. I had stumbled upon no ordinary criminals. These were not truants of the delta region. Orphans these were not, for their clothing was of the finest materials, fitting like only hand-tailored garments could. I hoped to discover them to be no more than corporate executives on company expense accounts—all with unusually babyish faces. By this hour of night, they’d been driven mad with alcohol and exotic incense. They were carrying on wildly in anecdotal bursts, and suddenly I was seized with horror and surprise as the reality of this spectacle revealed itself in the form of six glossy ID tags, which glistened one by one in the flicker of candlelight. They were all attendees of the Future Southern Republicans Convention—all under the age of 16. Pete F--- (FL), Donald W. P--- (FL), Edward V--- (MS), Howard L--- (LA), Dean S--- (MS), and Harold C--- (GA). Many of them engaged in discursive shouts toward passing waitresses, ripping at their bindings and slapping bare flesh like it were baker’s dough. Sure, some of the staff appeared quite fond of the treatment, but that sentiment did not prove all encompassing.

Minutes later, four colossal bouncers surrounded the booth and ejected the youths from the premises on the basis of one of them having attempted to open a beer bottle using a waitress’s nipple piercing. Yes, Devil Night was in full force at Sangomar Bar, and the convention's attendees—wealthy, abhorrent minors with little penal exposure—had only begun what would become a full weekend of unbridled, unpunished antics.

In the search for those hidden enemies of the convention, the score thus far was astounding:

Republicans:0 Republican'ts: 6

Have You Seen This Man?

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 16:06:13 PDT

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 17)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 14:10:06 PDT

Bobbola

The opening remarks had concluded, and people were filing out of the main ballroom, making off to their designated conference rooms for various meetings and tutorials. A large banner had fallen from the ceiling and was being held aloft by anxious hands. Frequent whistles perforated the white noise of conversation. Before Les could take off in the direction of his friend, we were ushered out by sheer masses, as they overflowed the aisles and cascaded out of all doorways. In the great sea of persons I reached out and took hold of Les’s Hawaiian shirt. Wherever he or I were pushed, we would not be separated.

“That better be you, Brennan Frick,” I heard him say, and we were immediately washed out into the arcing hallway, carried along its breadth in a mob of parents and children, only coming to a stop near the entrance of the convention center, where a flurry of fliers and cigar smoke assaulted us. We found refuge behind a stone pillar. Les had me in his arms like a lover on a cold night. When I looked up, it was his great jovial smile I saw first. He managed to speak without compromising the expanse of his grin:

“And they’re off,” he said.

As if in response, a fellow bumped into us, taking my bicep in one hand and Les’s in the other, then squeezing, and he muttered with great energy:

“On they er off…on they er off…gentlemen, hal-lo. My hat off to you…to you both…and good tide eens…very good tide eens…bobbola, bobbola…”

My eyes were wide with fear in the face of this maniac, my only thought: his grip is not loosening, and it is one of iron. Les, on the other hand, erupted with joy. His red cauldron face flamed. Quivering with potential energy, he seized the stranger in a bear hug, soliciting a high-pitched whinny of enthusiasm. He was short and stout with a face like a bulldog. Short blond curls were plastered to his high forehead, and sweat gleamed atop his lip. As Les gave another good squeeze, the stranger whinnied once more, this time mumbling something unintelligible while slapping full-heartedly on the giant’s broad back.

Finally, Les backed away so that an equilateral triangle of space was formed between us.

“I knew I saw you in there!” Les said.

“Friend, it was me who saw you.”

Les slapped the fellow on the shoulder, then turned to me.

“Brennan,” he said. “I present to you: Olsen Birdflight.”

Olsen eagerly took my hand, fully enclosing it with the other, and shook. In the manner of handshakes, I failed to match his ferocity, and I felt my shoulder jerking and popping.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“So sorry, friend—bobbola—what deed you say?”

Les anxiously studied my every move as he calculated the precise impression I was forming of his long-time good friend. Unsure of this character, I attempted to be amiable.

“Olsen Birdflight—is that French?”

“No, my friend,” Olsen chuckled. “It’s like Russian-Ukrainian. Like Po-land. You dee-side. Bobbola, bobbola.”

I decide? What did that mean?

“Les, is this guy for real?”

Les frowned.

“Don’t talk about Olsen like he’s not here.”

But Olsen Birdflight appeared nonplussed by my question.

“Friend,” he said. “Bobbola—I keed you. To make easy—I am from Ukraine. From. Ukraine. Polo-russian, no?” Abrupt, explosive laughter: “No (snort)…no…I keed. I only keed. Ukraine, yes? Bobbola.”

I looked on in utter confusion. Les offered no help. He seemed to be deriving pure enjoyment from the mere presence of his old friend. Olsen persisted:

“I kaminov boat, yes? You see…I kaminov boat. Ha!”

“Olsen, what have you been up to?”

“Guys, you must listen—must leessen. I know very big secret for thees convention.”

“Tell us,” Les urged.

“I see. I see. Like blind man, yes? No,” he grunted. “I only keed. That is playing. Big secret is not playing. Those keeds are very bad, yull see. Tonight, here.”

Olsen stuck a red flier in my face. It read: DEVIL’S NIGHT…SANGOMAR BAR. Les snatched it up.

“What is this?”

His face came alive by the time he had read to the bottom of the announcement.

“This sounds like a hell of a time.”

Olsen took it back.

“No,” he chortled. “Not good time for you, my friend. Good time for keeds…for very bad keeds. How do you say…bring your cam-er-a, eh? Yes! Take picture. Is very dirty and people love it. They buy five copy each!”

Olsen was eyeing us with childlike excitement.

“How did you find this?” I asked with my usual skepticism. Les answered for him.

“Olsen is an expert undercover agent.”

“Bobbola—thank you.”

“And…” Les drew out. “He happens to have many uncles in positions of power.”

“What? Like the whitehouse?”

“No,” Olsen answered. “The black house—is very secret. My uncles, yes, they are connected. I am connected. Big secret is easy…is my specialty.”

“Actually, he’s being modest. Olsen is AP. He covered the European beat for twelve years, traveling six days a week, international cell phone, business credit card. His father is the ambassador of a very small, but very powerful nation on the Russian border.”

“So where did you get this flyer?”

“Friend,” he said, smiling. “I get from keeds. The love me; they love thick accent.”

Les chuckled heartily, then slapped Olsen’s shoulder.

“They love the sticky you bring them in little plastic baggies.”

“Well, yes,” he laughed in unison. “They love that very much, too. What can I say? They love dat stuff.”

Suddenly, Les was struck with an idea.

“Olsen,” he said. “You must join us for the evening. We have a wonderful hotel suite at the Hyatt. We’ll make new friends and have a party. Remember last time? The red robed monster?”

Olsen blushed at once.

“Oh, yes, I could never forget. That was wild one, yes? Oh, bobbola, that was wild one. Friend, you are so crazy. But I cannot do it this time. I have engagement with woman…with very nice woman from Prague. She does not know English too well. Maybe I help her.”

Olsen’s last witticism sent him into hysterics. He could tell us no more about his mystery woman from Prague or how he met such a woman in New Orleans, Louisiana. When Les tried to give back the flyer, Olsen motioned to keep it…as his gift.

“Well,” I said, ready to get moving. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Birdflight. Les, I’ll let you two say goodbye while I check this place out a little more.”

Olsen bobbola’d me a few times before turning toward Les. The two blocked me out with their broad shoulders. I turned away toward the thinning crowd. An awkward sensation overwhelmed me suddenly. I felt like an outsider, alone. And my auto-psyche engaged in a seamless motion. One wondered in times such as this—those random moments of alienation that consume one unexpectedly, when all persons and all objects or settings appear instantly foreign, euphoria abounding, questions of self-purpose pressing—why am I here? What is the precise impetus for this day and time, this event in this location? And what is my purpose here and now? What possibly could I be meant to do? The initial answer: I should not be here. I am only an adornment. An excess. At this very point one feels the awful pang of uselessness that quickly spreads throughout the body like frost bite, eating up the senses. Before long, one has given one’s self over to futility. The external governs the internal, and my thought: I am nothing more than a novice. I have failed to rise above.

Then, mercifully, reality intervenes.

“Bren, are we gonna blow this thing apart, or not?”

And I can take it or leave it.

“Les, let’s do this. Sangomar Bar…Devil Night. We came to get some dirt; now let’s get it.”

Les leaned back and howled like a werewolf.

“I like the way you’re talkin’,” he crooned.

“Only promise me one thing.”

“You got it.”

“No fighting.”

“Please,” Les abated. “I would no more think of fighting on such a fine night at such a wonderful, God-given, raucous event than I would—”

Before he could finish this next blatant, unbelievable Les-ism, the power went out, and darkness engulfed the convention center.

We were half in darkness, only slightly illuminated in our present position by virtue of the afternoon sun through the doors of the main entrance. But that sparse sunlight promptly tapered off after fifteen feet, leaving much of the lobby in shadow. The suddenness of the blackout caused an unequivocal spell of silence. In unison, the multitude of all persons present stopped breathing, minds shut off and senses on alert as the details of the unexpected problem materialized into a discernable awareness.

The phenomenon endured only a half a second, but it was just long enough for a solitary scream to penetrate the entire convention center.

Deep inside, far into the arcing hallway that disappeared into the building, the scream rang out once more, piercing the air like a spear, and then, closing in on that shrill declaration of distress like a tidal wave after the crest, came the explosive rabble of several hundred persons in the dark scuffling about, shouting for help, and some even enjoying the unfortunate debacle.

Moments later, a young woman came tearing through the crowd and out of the hallway toward the exit. She came into view at full-speed, her taupe suit jacket hung crooked off one shoulder. She let out a long, horrifying scream. It was unmistakable: she was the very screamer who had kicked off the commotion not seconds prior. A pink headband held her hair away from her face. Her soft, forming breasts jangled freely with each galloping stride. Her legs had yet to fully shed the remnants of childhood’s chub, and her hands, one clenching the hem of her jacket, the other jabbing through the air, looked like kid’s hands. Finally, as she reached the glass doors, she shrieked:

“SOMEONE TOOK MY BRA…RIGHT OFF MY BODY…AND I CAN’T FIND IT…OH THIS SUCKS…THIS JUST PLAIN SUCKS!”

And she was gone.

Not even her long shadow across the pavement seemed capable of keeping stride. The precedent had been set. Whatever ribaldry ensued, or whatever level of pandemonium was achieved, this was going to be a hell of a ride. I looked to Les, who conferred smiling:

“Buckle up.”

Indeed, buckle up. We were in for a long weekend of covert exploration, seeking details of the darker aspects of these rich kids’ lives, drawing out the true behind-the-scenes happenings, and, most important of all, writing them down.

McDonald's Introduces NEW Healthy "Sad Meals" for Kids

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 07:24:58 PDT

Imagine: McDonald's Introduces NEW Healthy Alternative to Happy Meals.

Kids love Happy Meals. These caloric explosions of greasy goodness are the bane of youth's existence. The fries, the nuggets made from reclaimed poultry (it's good for the environment), and of course the Coup de Grace: the Happy Meal toy. But recent health awareness has given rise to widespread questioning of what people eat. [But, hey, man, "Living IS Dying."]

Yet we still have Happy Meals. These heart bombs for children.

One must consider...that part of what puts the Happy in Happy Meal is all that dreamy badness. So if McDonald's decided to reconstruct the classic childhood meal in a thoroughly healthy way, the result would be a meal that, while heart-healthy and nutrient-packed, causes blanket sadness. The side by side breakdown:

Four Golden Nuggets (OLD) -------- Four Soy/Tofu Blend Discs Resembling Meat (NEW)

Crispy French Fries (OLD) -------- Bundle of Baby Carrot Sticks (NEW)

Fizzy Coca-Cola Classic (OLD) -------- 8oz Wheat Grass Shot (NEW)

Iron Man Toy (OLD) --------- (1) Free Visit to Gold's Gym (NEW)

The new meal for kids stripped of all its deliciousness can no longer be called a Happy Meal. There is nothing happy about it. Instead, call it what it is: a Sad Meal.

Drive up to the window. Order up two number 4s and a number 1. Oh, yeah. The kids. You know what? Give me two, no, three Sad Meals. Babe, you wanna Sad Meal, too. Make it four! A whole carload of Sad Meals.

Health is definitely important. Look how fat we are. But, come on. Whatever happened to so wrong it's right? I really look forward to the new adult meal lineup for Fall 2010:

Anxiety Meal

ADHD Meal

Bulimia Meal

Same great prices - but all the comfort of life's insufficiencies we've come to know. I'm luvin it.

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 16)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 06:39:43 PDT

The Fuel and the Fire

He was two steps ahead at all times. Even now, winding deeper along the generous hallway, I found the going difficult. Did he really know the place so well? I soon had my answer. Quite by chance, I discovered the entrance to the main ballroom as a gentleman quietly escaped to attend to nature’s call. Les, as it turned out, had grossly overshot the mark, and was still going strong.

The door had burst open - it was one of those emergency-bar mechanisms – and light spilled into ante-hall. In that instant, I glimpsed a massive crowd of aligned in a semi-circle around a small platform, and there on the platform a squat, red-faced individual spoke with great animation, his hands raised in passionate spirituality, his jacket stretched high above his round belly. The room shook with applause and shouts—all dampened instantly as the door slammed shut.

“Les!” I blurted. “Get over here.”

The giant skidded to a halt on the buffed linoleum. I stepped toward the door, cautious, and pulled it open.

I peered cautiously into the ballroom and instantly felt Les at my back, looking in over top of me.

“Darn it, get back,” I said.

“I’m not a shepherd dog,” he mumbled as he backed off, his words drowned in applause. The speaker, who was very animated, had a sly ole drawl he used to its fullest:

“You all sure are a fine lookin’ bunch of gentlemen. And I say—” Applause, whoops. “And I say, you sure do this absolutely wonderful state just right. One could not have picked a better group…a group that will surely make a diff-a-rinse. A group that positively will make things right in our great nation. Because now, my able-minded dilettantes, is the time to seize our American Dream!” Roaring applause. “We may do things a little diff-a-rint ‘round here. We might just be a little…graced with extraordinary charm and positively advanced oral faculties (after all, we are from the south…)” A sly smile drawing laughter. Then seriousness: “There is one thing right here in this room—full of so many fine faces—that we have that puts us at the top…one thing we have bigger and better than our contemporaries up north…and that solitary, irrevocable fact is: we’ve got the loudest voices, and I’ll tell you, when we use ‘em, people listen. Because one thing is certain, it will be those of us right here in this room beginning on this fine day who will bring this great nation into the twenty-first century—gonna get this nation up on its feet…and keep it runnin’!” Raging, rip-roaring applause, cheers, standing ovation.

Behind me, Les was laughing, swooping his arms in broad arcs and slapping his giant hands together.

“That son of a bitch there can talk,” he yelled into my ear. “He’s like a sculptor on all these young, impressionable minds.”

I looked on as he spoke, taking in the scene. The brilliant lights hid nothing in the massive space, and the oddly shaped ceiling had surely been designed for the purest acoustic efficiency; even though the level of noise remained at ear-splitting capacity, I could still make out Les’s voice. And suddenly horror consumed me as the crowd began to chant in unison with cult-like fervor:

“U…S…A!…U…S…A!…U…S…A!…”

Alongside us in the fringe of the room were several rows of adults. But fifteen feet deeper, the age plummeted. Most of the real crowd consisted of adolescents and early teen-agers. Chanting in sweet innocent voices:

“U…S…A!…U…S…A!…U…S…A!…”

“Children,” I uttered in shame and disgust. “Only children.”

The speaker raised his hands into the air for an encore burst of fervor from the audience, then he backed away toward the exit.

“Isn’t this great?” Les still clapped and cheered.

“Where will they play? How will they laugh?”

“What’s that, Bren?”

“Who is that man? That figurehead of humanity’s greatest injustice?”

Les laughed.

“Shoot, this is nothing. You should see the Republican rallies in Ft. Lauderdale. They really know how to tear it up there. Great speaker, though, don’t you agree?”

“What are you talking about, Les? Are you even listening to me?”

“Honestly…no. It’s louder than a rock concert in here.”

“Well, it looks like your brother Senator Blackwell is leaving the stage. Ought we try and get a few questions in?”

The squat, round Blackwell slipped off the stage where he disappeared into a crowd of well-fed, hormone-injected children. Some of them were already six feet tall and no doubt wonderful tennis players. Their thick, wavy hair was right off the box of a L’Oreal volumizing conditioner. The fortunes spent on hand-tailored suits could have afforded less fortunate souls an entire college education at a four-year state school.

“Quit it!” I heard Les’s heavy voice right beside my ear. “You’ve got that darn sneer again.”

“So what if I’ve got that sneer,” I snapped. “This whole thing is an assault on the working-class ego. Here in the last few minutes, I’ve run the full gamut of human emotions beginning with curiosity, moving to sympathy and sorrow, and finally after some quick jolts of reality, contempt. So, yes, I’m a little taken right now by the truth of it all, and when I’m taken I sneer. I sneer like a goddamn Ebenezer.”

“Relax, buddy,” Les implored, amused. “What can you possibly mean by the ‘truth of it all’? You just got to hear a very important speaker.”

“Blackwell, yes—not very impressed.”

“Not Blackwell,” Les snorted. “Montgomery Cladswell. Pronounced ‘Munt-gummery’. Blackwell’s long gone by now.”

“What’s so big about…Munt-gummery?” I chided.

“Nothing,” Les said, “ Except he’s from our neck of the woods. Come on, I see someone I know.”

Remembering You, Weird Dogs From My Youth

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 19:35:59 PDT

Nothing brings more delight to a child than a puppy. They are at once innocent and vulnerable. Carefree and splendid. The most fortunate of children will know at least one best friend. Others will know more.

And sometimes, perhaps rarer, are those dogs thus more advanced in years who come in and out of our lives. They are lost souls, wanderers, in search of a home. They arrive and are gone within months, weeks. And they are almost always weird. With a loving mother willing to extend herself to any of God's creatures, I experienced many roving mongrels such as these in my childhood. Here, I remember a few of them (fondly).

Shabby - a hunky wiener with a fine caramel coat. His front and hind quarters never moved in concert, and so his gait resembled a confused waddle. He was romantic among people, holding his nose near their faces, feeling the cumulative warmth of auras intertwined, and a menace among other dogs. It just didn't work out with Shabby -- our lifers Sophie Joe and Daisy Mae were first.

Frida - a wiry-haired thing with bald patches. She ate the poop out of the cat box and bit furiously at her back. When riled, she sought her tail, spinning, growling. Frida like to split at any opportunity and dart off down the street. Mother found a better home for her. The exchange occurred during the night, while we were sleeping.

Pepe - resembled a tiny black wolf, with fur as soft as fleece. The details cannot be divulged simply. Suffice it to say, Pepe was a real jerk when one got to know him. He had a dark side......and most people don't know that.

The Onion Update

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 22:35:00 PDT

The Onion rocks. Here are some recent headlines. Who needs CNN?

Check out the whole deal at www.theonion.com.

Sanyo Praying Area Man Doesn't Send in Rebate Form
Pentagon Loses Drive With All the Movies on It
Man at Bar Has Incredibly Complicated Reason Why He Enjoys Rolling Rock
Office Janitor Asks to Work From Home
Man Running After Bus Delights Bus Occupants

Word of the Day: Sumpin

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 22:46:36 PDT

SUMPIN (SUMP-in)

n. a yet identified thing facilitating want

origin: needy kids missing two front teeth

use: "Mom, cook me up sumpin -- I'm hungry! Whine. Whine. Whine."

related forms: sumpinelse

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 15)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 07:05:01 PDT

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Wooing

As we approached the wide steps of the convention center, Les two strides ahead, I found myself wondering how a guy wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and Tiva sandals gets into a political convention without a press pass. There were suits all around: businessmen, lawyers, and the like. Women wore their Sunday best: light-weight wool suits in pink and yellow, matching hats, white gloves, pearls, all perched happily at a gentleman’s elbow. They were commingling, all of them, laughing, touching hands, squeezing shoulders in patent acknowledgement of a witticism. Here and there a lone smoker puffed away in his best air of nonchalance. In passing, at least a dozen attendees glanced our direction, giving the same sneer of disapproval a caretaker gives vermin.

Thirty feet before us two eager young volunteers looked onward from long folding tables draped in red cloth. They were armed with missives, programs, and buttons, ready to greet and catalogue each participant in this year’s Future Southern Republicans Convention. No security as far as I could tell, but if we were going to get past the greeting tables and into the building, it wasn’t going to be like this. Even in my slacks and linen shirt with rolled sleeves I felt brutish.

“Les, we can’t do this,” I said. My eye kept returning to the backs of his bare legs as he pressed on up the steps. His hairy feet, fastened by two single straps, were like two squirrels bound and gagged. Surely, even as a last resort the press passes would not save us from instant ejection; we would be accused of stealing them. The convention would go on, our trip a failure. “This is insane. We’ve got to get our suits.”

He wouldn’t have any of this. Les grunted and increased his stride to three steps at a time. We closed in on the greeting tables and two jovial faces.

“Brennan, why the sneer?”

Les held me by the shoulders. We were fifteen feet from the tables.

“Forget it,” he said. “We can talk about it later. Right now, I need you to stay right here.”

I glanced at the greeting table, which was framed by the crook of Les’s arm. The girl standing there appeared on the brink of puberty. Her blond hair, crimped per the current fashion of youths, rustled uniformly in the breeze. She wore a gray suit jacket over a white blouse and featured a very prominent blue and white button on her lapel. We made eye contact for a brief moment, before she looked sharply to the side, her optimistic smile goint taut. She must have been running the possibilities over in her head, turning the pages of all those manuals on safety she had only skimmed through. What exactly was the protocol involving vagrants and degenerates? Who would come to her aid in the event of a public infraction? She’d never operated a can of mace before, but she always had it with her, primed and ready for situations just like this one—all speculation thus far, of course, but better to be prepared.

“Bren,” Les repeated, “stay here for just a minute, while I go talk to one of those ladies up there.”

“How’s security in a place like this?”

“Security? Well, there’s security, for sure.” Again, that edge of concern crept into Les’s voice and was by default governing his very word choice. “There isn’t a need to bring security into this, though. Leave them to keynote speakers and guests of honor. We just want to get in there and find out where the real stuff is going on.”

“What do you mean stuff?”

“I mean what they don’t want you to see. Behind the Members Only door. That sort of thing. Make no mistake, Bren. This is a very big place, with many things happening at once. The press junket is for amateurs. You want to get at the essence of this thing or what?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then wait right here.”

Les walked up to one of the alarm-stricken girls and held his hands outward, shrugging. I watched from my safe distance, seeing only the giant’s back and the girl’s face. By his gestures, he was explaining something elaborate or telling a long story. The girl from the other table soon joined them, her face dark and uncertain. I wondered what he could possibly be telling them.

Slowly, like a soft country landscape forming beneath a painter’s brush, the two faces became enrapt. Their eyes gazed unwavering at Les, eventually drooping in admiration. Then, suddenly, they burst into giggles. Not laughter, but childish, uncontrollable giggles. Their cheeks were rosy red. Les turned, grinning and blushing, and trotted down the steps to where I stood.

“Look,” he said, hardly able to contain his large smile. He wore two pins depicting elephants in a patriotic color scheme. They were like small headlights on his Hawaiian shirt. “Those kids,” he remarked. “Come on, Bren, let’s go.”

He hooked his arm around my shoulder. We ascended the steps and passed between the two greeting tables, both girls eyeing Les with bashful, sidelong stares. Inside, the main lobby was deserted, the ground littered with confetti and convention buttons like the ones Les wore.

“Anyone participating is in the main ballroom,” he announced as he led me into a wide hallway veering off to the left in a broad arc. Faint eruptions of applause came frequently, reverberating in the empty hall with ghost-like energy. The action was very near, but still I could not pinpoint its precise origin. The convention center was no doubt chock-full of grand ballrooms and speaking halls. We needed only to find the right one. Still, a more immediate point compelled me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What exactly did you tell those girls?”

“Who? Them? Outside?”

“Who else?”

Again, he smiled big. His cheeks flushed like hot coals.

“What does it matter?”

“Les. You had those girls feeding out of your palm. They were in love with you by the time you turned back around to get me.”

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes, I do. That was incredible.”

“Okay. It wasn’t really anything. I told them I was Georgia’s Senator Blackwell’s younger brother, and I was terribly late to hear his opening speech. I explained that the reason I was late was that one of my bags had been left at home, and that it was the one with all my suits. I told them I had contacted a premiere tailor first thing this morning, but that he had not been able to finish in time. So here I was missing my brother’s speech, and I decided, hell, I’m not missin’ it for the world—certainly not for a goddamn suit! So I came just as I was, because, unlike the rest of these hoity-toity people, between appearances and family, family comes first.”

“And what did they say?”

“Well, they said how wonderful a brother I was to come just as I was given the circumstances. But why, they wondered, would I come dressed as I was when there were half a dozen fine clothiers within the French Quarter alone who could have sold me a ready-made suit right away. They admitted an untailored suit was not as nice as a custom sewn garment, but was surely superior to shorts and sandals.”

“It’s a very valid point.”

“Yep, it sure is.”

“So, how did you explain yourself then? What could you possibly have said?”

“I told them a ready-made suit was grand; I have nothing against them. I could care a less if my suits were tailored or not. But I told them it wasn’t up to me. Then I told them to lean in close for a second, because I didn’t think it was anyone’s business, but that, given the situation, I would tell them the truth.”

“What’s the truth? What did you tell them?”

“Well, they leaned in, and I told ‘em, look, I have a cock like a horse, and the only way I’ll wear a suit without embarrassing myself is to have a suit made special.”

Les patted my back and continued down the hallway as if that answered everything. I stepped quickly after him, agitated.

“Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, then what? They weren’t offended?”

He was baffled.

“They let us through, didn’t they?”

Frustrated, impatient:

“What did you tell them about me? Did you tell them I had this big super-penis, too?”

“Why on Earth would I do that, Bren? It’s none of my business what your personals are like. I told them you were my tailor, and that I invited you along seeing as how there was no way you’d finish in time anyway and you seemed a nice enough fellow working on your one day off just to help me out. They thought it was awful nice of me, too. Charitable, is what one of them called it. And it’s true, you know?”

“What is!”

“You should be happy for this opportunity. I’ve really gone out of my way to make sure you get the real deal here. I mean this is it. This is the nitty-gritty. Well…it will be soon. You just wait till tonight.”

“What happened to being professional?” I steamed. “You said, be professional; we have to make them think we’re very important people.”

“I did that.”

“No, Les, you didn’t do that! You made them think you were some big important person, some…senator’s brother with the big horse penis, while I…while I get to be some poor seamster. Just like in the hotel, too—you make yourself look good, while I get stuck looking like some low assistant. It would be nice of you to let me know what your plan is before you act. Even now, I have no idea what we’re doing, where we’re going. I’m just following you…”

“Quit steaming,” he blurted. “We’re gonna miss the keynote speaker if we don’t hurry.”

“Stupid darn…” I muttered and again had to hurry to keep up with Les’s long giant strides.

NEXT (Will post August 8th)

A Little Weird Goes a Long Way 1

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 21:24:57 PDT

On more than one occasion Heather has said to me point blank, "Babe, that's weird." While this comes from a place of pure affection it is most always delivered with a stern, peremptory glare, and a pointed pause after BABE.

Weird is a dicey term. Like strange and different, it typically points to a behavior or thought that stands apart from Common Acceptance. We are first aware of difference as children, wishing to be nothing but carbon copies of our schoolmates. Difference is ridiculed. Difference is noticed.

Then maturity releases us from this notion. and we aspire to attain uniqueness, although most refer to it as character.

In my case, I suspect Heather's "weird" comment refers less to this phenomenon of finding one's uniqueness and more along the lines of behavior or thinking that is just plain odd. Like, nutball odd.

Today I had a notion about phrases and wise sayings. Where they come from, how they originate. And I began thinking that many expressions are antiquated and make no sense. Yet we acknowledge them as true (no one wants to stand out from the group and say, "HEY, what does that MEAN, anyway?").

For example, the bee's knees. What is really meant by saying that a thing is the bee's knees? More importantly, why the bee's knees? Assuming a bee's got knees, one could be partial to ankles instead. And we'd all be shouting that U2's latest album is the bee's ankles!

I happen to think this morning that it would be fun to create a bogus saying and randomly drop it into a conversation as a pearl of wisdom. And furthermore to leave it hanging in the air as I made a hasty departure. The first test occurred at lunch.

Two coworkers were discussing their frustrations with a big project when I walked up all chipper. I listened for a few moments then adopted a look of grave empathy, saying, "You know...it's like lobbing peas at elephants." I promptly clapped one of them on the back and rushed off. Both of them, I noticed, were nodding with deep understanding as thought I couldn't have been more right.

Later, I had a talk with a friend about the mortgage crisis and the financial bailout. My phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, mimed the I-gotta-take-this-talk-to-you-later gesture, but first said matter-of-factly, "It's like lobbing peas at elephants!" At first he looked confused. I was already on the phone talking. But quickly that confusion shifted to closure, and I walked away.

This is the point where, beaming and triumphant, I recount to Heather the events and the inspired thought trail leading up to the social experiment, complete with my findings. And she plants her fist on her hip, cocks an eye at me, and opens her mouth. I know what she's going to say. And I kinda like it.

Have You Seen This Man?

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 23:10:03 PDT

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 14)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 07:04:45 PDT

Les-O Suave

We worked our way through the crowded streets toward the waterfront Hyatt. The river was balmy and dismal beneath the overcast sky. Thoughts of the River Styx came to mind. We entered a vast lobby and approached the front desk. A young face greeted us with a smile and inquired about our stay. Les jumped right in.

“Yes, hello, sir. We are here as media consultants for the future southern republicans convention. I believe our reservation is for an economy suite under the name of Banger—that’s with a B.”

The clerk searched his computer database.

“If you don’t mind,” Les cut in, “my friend and I are very tired. We’ve had a terribly long journey, and now we find ourselves utterly famished. I am familiar with the reputation this hotel has for the finest quality service—“

“Thank you, sir,” the kid blurted.

“—and I assure you, I recommend this Hyatt to all of my business associates…which is just to say, I don’t mind touting the excellence of this establishment as nothing more than but a small token of appreciation for all the hard work and amazing courtesy allowed by this staff at this very hotel.”

“Well, thank you, sir!”

“You see, there is just one thing, Lewis,” here Lewis glanced down at his own nametag. “Seeing as we are so very…un-presentable as it were, from our long and tiresome travels, it would be so kind of you to allow us to retire promptly to the bar for some refreshing beverages and a moment of relaxation.”

“Oh, understandably, sir.”

“Ah, you’re so kind! Just as one would have expected. Right on the mark. True to form, I say. Now, we will just set our burdensome bags right here beside your desk. Could you kindly have your bellhop deliver them to our rooms? And the keys…well just have them for us at the bar at your convenience. That would be most helpful.”

“It would be my pleasure, sirs. Not a problem at all. We do everything we can to please our customers, and if it would be easiest for you two sirs to go directly to our barroom—it is fully and extravagantly stocked, I assure you—then I would be delighted to have your bags accounted for promptly, and also to have your keys delivered in quite a timely manner.”

“Lewis, you are exquisite.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I would not want to burden you any further—I, unlike most of the well-to-dos you serve each day, am quite aware of the difficulty and skill required to carry out this position you so effortlessly employ—however, if it isn’t asking too much, and you can fit it in, would you be so kind as to call this gentleman and inform him of our arrival?”

Les handed Ralph’s business card to the boy.

“Oh, sir, it would be no burden at all. Thank you. And thank you.”

Les shook hands with the boy, who gripped the giant’s arm eagerly. We left in a shower of thanks and good tidings. I followed blindly, staring at his back along the way while trying to digest the exchange that had just transpired. Meanwhile, Les was perfectly aloof. He navigated the elaborate foyer with ease, as he led us to a comfortable, quiet bar illuminated by string of lights. We collapsed into a pair of plush, oversized lounge chairs in a cordoned nook and sunk back in sheer ecstasy. A pretty waitress came by. We ordered. And as she turned to leave, Les slipped the girl a coy wink. She chuckled all the way to the bar.

When she returned with our drinks, I turned to Les, who held his martini glass with one delicate pinky extended parallel to the floor. I said:

“HOW do you do that?”

His eyes perked with curiosity as he sipped. Once the vodka had fully passed the length of his esophagus, he replied:

“Do what, Bren?”

“When you talk to people you just slip into this weird…eloquence.”

“Why, isn’t that the proper way to do things?”

“It’s not you, though.”

“Who is it then?”

“I don’t know. That isn’t what I mean.”

“Aw, Bren, you just haven’t caught on yet. But you will. You will.”

Les took another dainty sip, then continued:

“It’s like this…in business, in life, you’ve got to talk smart. Oh a southern drawl, as you northern folk like to call it, can be very charming. A southern gentleman always knows more than he lets on, and he always means more than what he says. You ever heard the phrase ‘Silver-tongued Devil?’”

“Sure.”

“Well, that’s what a true southern gentleman is—a master of speech, a wordsmith. When he talks, and you begin to feel charmed or under his spell, he knows he’s got you. And you’ll never guess what thoughts or intentions lie behind that sly grin. And the women—well, just forget about them. They’re far slyer and more devious than we are.”

He finished his drink and thus could not resume his speech until another had arrived.

“Les,” I said. “Eloquence can be just as charming and elusive as your southern drawl method.”

“Why, Bren,” he cut in, smiling big as day, “you make it sound like science.”

“Okay: bad word choice. But what I’m saying is, look at Shakespeare—or Donne or Pope. Keats.”

“All Brits—I happen to know we’ve utterly and drastically evolved since then.”

“Then why revert to their way of speaking? Why not be your usual coy, southern gentlemanly self?”

“One word: Business. It’s just good for business. Because there are some in this world who will not be charmed by a country bumpkin—despite whatever said bumpkin may believe with all his heart.”

Les looked up to acknowledge the bellhop. The guy was swimming in his uniform, but waited courteously at attention. He might have been there for ten minutes, standing quietly, respectfully, in wait for the appropriate moment. When Les greeted him with a simple nod, his face alit with servile joy.

“Sir,” he coughed. “I believe you requested that your keys be brought to you here in the bar.”

“Why, yes, how marvelous of you. Once again you exceed my highest expectations. Wonderful. Splendid. Thank you…Clark.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. Please don’t hesitate to notify the front desk should you need anything—anything at all. We are glad to be of service.”

Bowing, the young bellhop retreated to some other hasty errand. Les looked at me, smiling, and plucked the fat olive from his empty glass.

“You see,” he said. “Charm is almost always regional; whereas eloquence is universal.”

He popped the juicy olive into his mouth and savored it down to the last meaty fiber. I suggested we freshen up in the room before heading to the convention, which was well underway by now.

“No time for that,” he announced, before lumbering out of the chair and hurrying off. I followed closely, entreating:

“Go like this?”

“You have the press passes?”

I showed them to him. The act elicited a peremptory grunt, nothing more. I could only follow his lead. He moved through the lobby quickly, confidently, while I chased behind, waving the ID cards at anyone who glanced our way. We looked nothing like reporters. Les looked like a powerful businessman and I his bumbling assistant. The bellhops and the front desk attendant saluted Les as we passed. When I looked at them, they averted their eyes and feigned complete absorption in their work, their watches, etc.

“You know, Les, you can be really overbearing sometimes.”

He stopped finally, and gave a hearty laugh. His face, bright red, looked softly on mine.

“Bren, are you being sensitive right now?”

“Well,” I muttered. “Of course not. It’s just…”

“You wanna raise hell at this convention, or what?”

“I do.”

“You agree we need to get their first?”

“I do.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I guess nothing.”

“Okay, then follow me.”

“Okay,” I said.

We walked four blocks to the Morial Convention Center, where a sizeable throng of youths populated the steps and a tight perimeter of welcome draped welcome tables at the top. The vibe differed from the street performing, tourist fare of the French Quarter. This was all business now. My first assignment in a new city. I found myself returning to an earlier topic of discussion.

“Les,” I said. “Tell me again. How exactly can one be a future southern republican? I mean, wouldn’t they just be a republican?”

Les outright ignored the question. His face was serious and laser-focused.

“Start acting professional,” he quipped. “…and ditch the press pass.”

“What?”

“I said, ditch the press pass—hide it if that makes you feel better—but the only way we’re really going to crack this thing wide open for all its glorious secrets is by fooling everyone into thinking we’re very important people. We’ll tackle this sucker from the inside and get right at the heart of it all.”

“Guerrilla tactics.”

“Right…and it all starts now before we even get up to those welcome tables. I hope you brought your helmet…”

A pause.

“…Silver Lion.”

Me and My Drinkin Cup

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 23:56:43 PDT

You never know you've got one until someone close points it out. And when they do, your emotions will run the gamut. At first amusement, then suddenly confusion and alarm. You will quickly feel ashamed and ultimately depressed. A roller-coaster ride that will result in manic dependence on the object solely responsible for causing the downward, introspective tailspin.

I experienced this journey a few months ago.

A warm Sunday in late Spring. Fresh off of a morning workout and two solid hours of reading and meditation. Noon hit, and I proceeded to the kitchen for a cup. I eye-balled the shelf of bourbon on the way, feeling a subtle nostalgic pleasure rise up within me. A single, purposeful can of coke waited patiently beside the drinkable yogurt and leftover chicken parmigiana in the fridge. I cracked some ice blocks into the cup, popped the can of coke in a satisfying fizzy burst, and sashayed toward my shelf of alcohol. Which is precisely when Heather cut me off at the pass.

She stood blocking the way, her hand on her hip. She shook her head slowly, pointedly. "What are you doing?" she accused.

"Nothin," I replied. "You're in my way."

"It's only twelve."

"So."

"So?" she repeated. "What do you think you're doing? It's too early for that."

I played dumb. "Too early for what?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've got your drinkin cup."

This is what caused me to stop.

"Drinkin cup?" I replied.

"Yeah, drinkin cup. Anytime you have a drink, you use that cup. It's your drinkin cup. When you have that cup, you're preparing to drink."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I thought, I have a drinkin cup.

The idea sounded so terrible. So alcoholic. Like I had a serious problem and it was time for an intervention. The real story was much simpler than things seemed.

When Heather and I moved to California from Maryland, we left a lot of stuff behind. The issue was cost. For each item you bring, you need space with which to bring it along, and the more space you need, the bigger the truck, the slower it drives, the more it costs. So deciding what was going to make the cut was a lot like Noah deciding on animals for his Arc. Sorry, Elephants; we've got two of you already. You, Warthog fella -- you're good. Come on board.

In the glassware department, we packed 6 red wine, 6 white wine, 6 champagne flutes, one clear boot, and one plastic cup. The glass boot is another story, but for some reason, of all the plastic cups that amass in the cabinets of America, specifically in our home, one rose above the rest. One was worthy. All others were sold, donated, or discarded (quietly) in our friends' cabinets. The winner, the cup that would be making the journey with us, was red with a stenciled wildcat on it. I'd gotten it at a home game of my high school -- Louisville's own Waggener Traditional. At the time, I never would have guessed this was the cup that would go down in infamy as my Drinkin Cup.

But what began as a horrific realization that I had one sole cup reserved for drinking, quickly reverted to amusement. I have a drinkin cup. Awesome. All guys have at least one item that is sacred. An object widely known as being untouchable by any but one. For most guys, it's a chair. That's dad's chair -- better not dare sit in it. Or that's Granddad's pickle -- I wouldn't go near it if you value your life. But me -- I have a drinkin cup.

me and the drinkin cup

Chloe and the drinkin cup

Profile: The Awkward Guy

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 08:07:23 PDT

There's one in every office. His label is not so much derived from his personality as his personality's effect on everyone else. He's the guy who casually discusses his raunchy sex life while you attempt to brew the first pot of coffee in the break room. He'll proudly drop an F bomb in the all-staff meeting. He goes commando and doesn't hesitate to draw attention to this fact (and call you out on it). Yeah, he saw you lookin. He knows you likey.

Truth is, you no likey. You feel awkward. And so does everyone else within a four cubicle radius.

He walks into the room with devilish swagger. You avert your eyes. He's like the foul-mouthed comedian who picks on the audience. Who is the butt of the biggest joke right now? You are. Can I get a GD over here!

To survive the critical tsunami of his gaze and razor-sharp wit lashings, here are some tips. Note, these are not absolute and are only "best case" options. Everything burns at the right temperature.

a) Make Eye Contact, But Not Too Much

He will search for the averted gaze and zero in on it faster than a bullet. Establish a cursory, emotionless glance that acknowledges his presence but not his greatness. Never linger, because he will see this as a challenge. You already know how that will end.

b) Repeat the Last Two Words of His Quip While Chuckling Softly

Almost more important that "a." This allows you to commune with the Awkward Guy, proving you're on his side, and he's the Alpha male. For example, he sees Margaret looking nervously at her computer and says, "I had a third grade teacher who wore dresses like Margie -- wanted to [dirty word] her with a wicker broom stick." It's so awful you and Margaret both want to die. But this is survival of the fittest, so laugh and repeat sarcastically, "broom stick, ha." This will set off a secondary series of scoffs, a sure sign the ruse is working.

c) Never, EVER, Complain to Human Resources

Self-explanatory.

TOTALLY AWESOME SERIAL NOVEL: BRAZEN (No. 13)

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 12:00:13 PDT

Farce From Civilization

My first characteristically Nawlins experience occurred before noon outside the Café du Monde. One man, dressed like a mime and stockinged from head to toe, stood near the sidewalk before a small crowd. Small crowds populated the streets of the French Quarter, and there was nowhere in between to rest. If there was a bench, someone was in it. If a corner or a nook, filled with strange tourists. These dancing boys with tacks in their shoes speckled the landscape; their skin was as dark as tar. And though not readily spotted, the gravelly smooth voices of Deep South blues singers penetrated the atmosphere with an unsettling, glorious malaise. Fortunetellers packed the lawns in droves, adorned in their best multi-color gypsy wear. Whether one’s interest in dark lore lied in palm reading or a crystal ball or, at its darkest, Tarot, one could find it here at competitive prices. But the character that caused me to stop and observe was this wacky mime.

I stepped closer to see what everyone was studying so intensely, and my pants began to emit a horrifying, high-pitch tone. At first I mistook the alarum for a policeman’s megaphone, but soon realized it was that stupid walkie-talkie. Fumbling, I pulled it out, only to be eyed criminally by passersby. The mime, unfazed, began a dance. I depressed the talk button on the walkie and spoke:

“Les, what is it?”

There was a pause, then the tiny speaker squawked at full volume:

“DON’T USE MY REAL NAME—I TOLD YOU IT ISN’T SAFE.”

I glanced around, embarrassed, looking for even a semi-private location where I might conduct this conversation without attracting too much attention, or at least figure out how to adjust the volume—presently, it was full blast. Everywhere I looked was jam-packed with searching, eager pedestrian eyes.

“SILVER LION! SILVER LION!” Les squawked. “ARE YOU THERE?”

“Les!” I snapped.

Instantly, the high-pitch tone exploded out of the device, calling the attention of all hounds within a forty-mile radius.

“NO REAL NAMES! SAY THE CODE WORD.”

“Les, I won’t say it…and stop using that god-awful page button, or whatever it is.”

I found myself caught between a whisper and the necessity to speak loudly so that I could be heard on the walkie-talkie. The result was a mother’s shameless reprimand: stern, penetrating. People were very much staring by now. Again, Les:

“SAY IT, SILVER LION! I NEED TO KNOW YOU’RE STILL WITH US.”

“What do you mean ‘Us’?”

A pause. Then, doubt:

“IS THIS SILVER LION?”

“Yes,” I insisted.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH SILVER LION? WHO ARE YOU?”

“This is Silver Lion!”

“YOU BETTER NOT HAVE TOUCHED A HAIR ON HIS HEAD.”

“Les, it’s me. Nothing is wrong. It’s still me.”

Silence. I was the object of great interest now and had, in fact, a small crowd gathered just out of reach.

“THIS ISN’T LES,” the voice said over the radio. “YOU ARE VERY TRICKY, YOU KNOW. BUT YOU CAN’T FOOL ME. NOT IN A MILLION YEARS. NOW, TELL ME WHAT YOU’VE DONE WITH SILVER LION.”

“Les, really…”

“OH, YOU’RE CLEVER! YOU ARE CLEVER. YOU BETTER PRAY TO GOD, THOUGH, SILVER LION IS 100 PERCENT OKAY AND IN ONE PIECE. YOU’LL BE SORRY. I’M GONNA FIND YOU AND YOU’LL REGRET EVERY SECOND OF THIS. BETTER TO JUST PUT THE RADIO DOWN AND UNHAND SILVER LION.”

Then, an unknown person shouted:

“Give back Silver Lion!”

I looked up in a craze and searched the faces in the crowd: they were all still. Then, after a pause, the whole group began to chant in unison:

“Give back Silver Lion! Give back Silver Lion!”

“There is no Silver Lion!” I shouted at them in a quick burst of spittle.

Parents averted their children’s eyes, and the chanters disbanded, mostly out of fear. Meanwhile, Les continued to make threats at full volume.

“Okay,” I said into the radio. “Okay. If I say the code name will you knock it off?”

Somewhere in the city, likely not far from this very spot, Les considered this carefully. Then, he replied:

“ONLY SILVER LION KNOWS THE CODE WORD.”

“Yes! That’s right! So if I say it will you cut it out?”

Some straggling spectators tightened into an audience once again. Suspense filled their chests as they leaned forward in anticipation of my next move.

“OKAY,” he said, and there was a solitary sigh of relief from somewhere in the crowd.

“Alright,” I said. “Here goes.”

I took a moment to eye the others with contempt—this was none of their business. I was imprisoned, though, by the pedestrian populous and the open streets. The river was at my back; otherwise, there was only the looming brick façade of one building then the next.

Trembling, I depressed the red talk button. A drip of sweat traced my brow. All eyes were on me now, and I felt the pressure of a hundred—no, a thousand—inquiring minds. At last, I whispered:

“Pink Putty Cat, this is Silver Lion.”

Relief did not come; it did not swoop down and lift me out of there like a caped crusader. All those eyes were relentless. I released the talk button and received only silence, save a low static hiss from the radio. They hadn’t heard me—and neither had Les.

“WELL?” the radio squawked, echoing the intention of those spectating eyes.

This was it. I cleared my throat and repeated:

“I said: Pink Putty Cat, this is Silver Lion.”

The crowd alit with hysterics, laughing and pointing at me, and echoes of that name emerged with their comments. Pink Putty Cat…Pink Putty Cat…Ha! I’d been made an instant laughing stock—the very thing I had desperately wished to avoid.

And Les:

“AW, HEY, BUDDY. I THOUGHT I’D LOST YA.”

Dodging laughs and the many scoffs and quips, I circled round to the other side of the mime fellow, where I prayed my face would be lost. Les gave one final announcement.

“JUST GETTING A CUP OF COFFEE—I’LL BRING YOU A PLATE OF HOT BINETS WHEN I’M FINISHED. OVER AND OUT.”

“Over and out,” I mumbled, then jammed the walkie-talkie into my pocket.

Near the performer, I managed to push close enough to get a decent view of what was happening. This character exuded more plebeian appeal than a bar maid at a Ren fair.

The fellow, adorned in stockings and wild, eye-catching vestments, had just finished a juggling act involving clay pigeons and a ripe cantaloupe, and was stowing them in a big black box. Beside the box of tricks, there was a tin labeled “Gasoline,” and I gathered by his handling of it that he meant to use it for his next trick. All the chatter in the crowd ceased when he lifted his gloved hand, palm outward, into the air.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he warned. “Please stand back as this next performance will be too hot for the little ones.” A great emphasis he put on the word hot, as he doused the sidewalk with a discolored liquid from the tin labeled Gasoline, forming a semicircle in front of him.

“He’ll burn us all,” a concerned parent from the crowd gasped. Others were mesmerized, even me, who wondered furiously about city regulations against combustible materials in a public walkway. Flame produced from a fire or even just damage from the gasoline on the cement would result in deterioration of the walk space. Take pride in your city, man, I nearly blurted. I was no environmentalist, but for God’s sake you don’t just go burning up anything you please.

“Again,” the man announced with a grin, “Please stand back.”

Children cooed in the audience. I admit I, too, wondered what a half-ring of fire would look like.

From his ballooned pocket, the clownish fellow drew a match—of the long strike anywhere variety—and lit it on the surface of his tongue.

“Do it,” a little trouble-maker shouted. Others agreed. Meanwhile, I held my breath.

The entertainer drew oohs out of the audience one final time and silenced them just as suddenly with his free palm. He held the match out from his body so as to avoid catching himself on fire and after a touch more suspense dropped the flaming stick. It twirled through the air, and a thousand horrible outcomes turned in my mind: uncontrollable fires, burnt children, property damage. And then the match hit the glistening rim of gasoline.

Nothing.

It had landed with empty force upon the glimmering rim of discolored liquid and…nothing. Water no doubt. All was just a farce, and while some laughed, I felt cheated and disgusted.

“Pah!” I said with a dismissive, downward swat.

I turned away just in time to come chest to chest with Les.

“Darn trickster,” he said.

The plume of a coffee stain marked his collar, and cinnamon speckled the corners of his mouth.

“Where are my binets?”

Les stared blankly for a moment, then his face drooped in utter sorrow.

“Aw, shit, Bren. I ate ‘em.”

The bastard.

“I—I can get you some more. I’ll go get you some more. They’re just real good. I mean, you never had such tasty pastries.”

“Les,” I said, “forget about it. We need to check out the hotel and get prepped for this convention. Southern Republicans, right? We better be on time.”

“Future,” he corrected.

“What’s that?”

“It’s future southern republicans. You just said southern republicans.”

“Les, whatever.”

Pretty Certain My iPhone is Trying to Come Out of the Closet

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 10:19:46 PDT

The mind of the iPhone is baffling. It functions by a peculiar logic indiscernible to the normal human brain. One has to wonder in certain instances what the iPhone is thinking. And sometimes, as with the auto-correct text function, we glimpse the inner-workings, its thoughts.

In a message earlier today, I began to text my boy John, "Homie, what's the plan?"

Pretty straight-forward.

When I got to H-O-M-, the iPhone (through its auto-correct text function) insisted on completing the word thusly: homoerotic.

What?! There are several more commonly used words beginning with hom- that come before homoerotic. Home, for example. Homily. Home-fry. Homage. But, no, the iPhone brain leapt hom- to homoerotic.

Perhaps the instance was a glitch. Chalk it off to crossed wires or funky algorithms. But prior evidence from a month ago suggests otherwise.

I was on the way to another friend's house. The two of us were going to grab a cup of coffee, and I was driving. Rather than blare the horn when I got there like a redneck psyched up on Pabst Blue Ribbon and sesame seeds, I texted, "Go outside in six."

But when I hit send, and the load bar lit up, I realized with great horror that something entirely different was transferring to my friend's cell phone. Because of auto-text, and because I was driving and not paying full attention, the message that sent was, "Go outside for sex."

Come on. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. The only logical explanation is that the iPhone has a one-track mind...and is inherently gay.

Maybe it was all those hours in my pocket that did it. Or did I just send the wrong message?

Have You Seen This Man?

noreply@blogger.com (Thimble Publishing) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 20:22:00 PDT