Here’s a cool little one to roll around for the weekend.

Three and only three people, Jack, Amy, and George, are sitting at a table.

– Jack is looking at Amy.
– Amy is looking at George.
– Jack is married.
– George is unmarried.

Question: Is a married person looking at an unmarried person?

A. Yes
B. No
C. Cannot be determined

Under Angels
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Wet nothingness. Pete slithered like a trapped snake in the pit, groping with his fingers for his lost headlamp. The glutinous floor sank beneath the weight of his body as he wrestled with the darkness.

The hell?

Mud?

Pete tried to crawl, a cockroach in glue, his eyes neither open nor shut. He looked up, unable to gauge how far he’d fallen. Disoriented.

“Spiri!”

He shouted up into the ceilingless void, his voice dampened and without echo.

“Give me some light–”

Pete’s hands sunk into the soft floor as he crawled, his knees like crutch tips in rice pudding.

“Toss me the rope! In your bag–”

Pete’s hands found nothing but slimy silence.

“I think I landed in quicksand down here–”

“Pete?”

Mick’s voice thudded into the gooey pit.

“You down there, brother?”

“Yeah–” Pete wriggled on the gunky floor, its cold pulp clinging to his arms and neck. “Drop me a light, man. I can’t see shit down here–”

The chilled stickiness found its way to the bare legs beneath his fatigues.

“Sun’s coming up, brother.”

Mick’s light shined from stories above, its beam swallowed by the darkness, falling short of the pit’s floor.

“Gotta take Lucky Thirteen back now.”

He’s taking the dog–

A blindfolded potato bug stuck in honey, Pete struggled to get to his knees.

“WAIT!!!”

He tried flattening his body to keep from sinking. Tar?

“THROW ME THE GODDAMN ROPE, MICK!!!”

Silence.

“MICK???”

Just the sound of his heartbeat, fidgeting in syrup.

“LITTLE SOLDIER???”

Pete sneezed and wiped the gelatinous slop from his eyelids, his dilated pupils catching the ringed glow of his headlamp. Still on, buried in the unseen sludge, miles away.

“THE ROPE, MAN–”

Pete’s crawl to the glow turned into a labored swim as he screamed.

“SPIRI–”

“Time’s up, brother.”

Mick’s shouts dripped down the black pit’s walls.

“Lucky Thirteen and me. We gotta go.”

Pete writhed, stretching for his headlamp.

He’s not leaving me down here. He’s not taking the dog.

“I can see my light, Mick. Just throw me the rope–”

Mick growled from above, a man late for work, worried about losing his job.

“Quota, brother. You know–”

Mick’s throaty voice turned harsh.

“Looks like you found what you were looking for anyway.”

“MICK???”

There’s no way he’s taking the dog. He can’t leave me down here. Not now. No way.

Pete wormed toward the glowing ring of his headlamp.

Christ–

Slime crept down his fatigues and under the waistband of his boxer shorts, seeping toward his genitals.

“AW, SHIT–”

Pete began to thrash.

“MICK!!! THROW ME THE ROPE!!!”

Silence.

“STOP FUCKING AROUND, SPIRI!!!”

Pete panted in the dark, his fingernails reaching the glow.

“Atta boy,” Mick’s abrasive whisper resonated from the top of the pit. “This way, Lucky Thirteen–”

“DON’T FUCK WITH ME!!!” Pete screamed. “MICK–”

Mick roared down with a new dryness.

“So long, Sergeant.”

Sergeant? The darkest of panics assaulted Pete’s mind, cementing him to the floor of the pit.

Mick erupted in a guttural laugh.

“I’ve always loved playing games in the rain.”

“MICK!!! KNOCK IT OFF–”

Pete’s shouts became shrieks.

“DON’T FUCK AROUND, SPIRI!!!”

Pete’s senses boiled in adrenaline, throwing themselves on autopilot. “Stress can be harnessed,” his grandfather would say. “When correctly channeled, it empowers the intellect.”

“SPIRI, GOD DAMN YOU!!!”

Pete screeched from the bowels of his lungs.

“Indeed,” Mick said from above. “You have no idea.”

Holy fuck–

Pete choked on the epiphany. He was being betrayed.

Spiri?

His mind spiraled in the tacky darkness. “Spiri,” Mick had told him. “My last name.”

The game was on. Pete closed his eyes.

Spiri. Mick Spiri. S-P-I-R-I–

Pete rearranged the letters in his head, imagining the shapes of the five letters.

SPIRI. S, P, I, R, I–

Pete’s spine curled in a knot.

Mick Spiri. “Mick Spiri?”

Pete muttered to himself in the hole, his imagination turning the letters upside-down and sideways, flipping them, stacking them, rolling them, back and forth, shuffling them, tossing them in the air to let them fall where they may in the abyss of his consciousness.

Jesus–

Pete twisted in the dark, a tortured animal. It had dawned on him.

“NOT AGAIN, YOU SICK BASTARD!!!”

The harshest laugh Pete knew too well fell like jagged hail upon him in the pit.

“That took you longer than usual, Sergeant. I must be getting better at this.”

“GREAMER!!!”

Pete wriggled like a maggot.

“GOD DAMN YOU–”

Pete lifted the headlamp from the muck, casting a glow across the pit’s rippling floor. His first look…

Moving?

“I stumped the master!” The laugh was not Mick’s. “Goodbye, Sergeant.”

Pete flailed in the dark, strangling the headlamp in his grip, brushing it clean. Laboring in the goo, he sank to his waist, like a heavy fork through lumpy mashed potatoes.

SPIRI. S-P-I-R-I–

He almost wished he didn’t know.

MICK SPIRI.

It was obvious.

MICK IS RIP.

Pete held the headlamp above his head, illuminating the forsaken dungeon that held him. He screamed in horror.

To be continued…

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- – - – -

This floating post is a byproduct of this year’s Under Angels project. Subject to change at any time, it’s based on this this idea. Drips will be completely arbitrary, appearing at the top of this site as they happen. If you have no idea what to do next, start from the beginning.

Under Angels: Chapter W

By Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Wet nothingness. Pete slithered like a trapped snake in the pit, groping with his fingers for his lost headlamp. The glutinous floor…

To be continued…

- – - – -

Go to chapter: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

→ Table of Contents

- – - – -

Sunken City, San Pedro CA, 10.24.2009

With Vive, 11.02.2009

The world turns on symmetry — from the spin of subatomic particles to the dizzying beauty of an arabesque. But there’s more to it than meets the eye. Here, Oxford mathematician Marcus du Sautoy offers a glimpse of the invisible numbers that marry all symmetrical objects.

Peeps here in the Art Department — all big Seinfeld fans — decided by committee that we’re doing a Seinfeld theme today. I was asked to be Kramer. I never watched the show, but I’m told I got close.

10.30.2009

UPDATE: Who aaaaaaare these peeeople???

“We tell ourselves stories in order to make sense of life. Narrative is reassuring. There are days when life is so absurd it’s crippling; nothing makes sense. But stories bring order to the absurdity. Relief is provided by the narrative’s beginning, middle, and end. Without an end, you have an obsession, a constant circling around a fact or situation that cannot be put in place.”
– Norman Mailer, ‘The Spooky Art’

Thesis one point six
Tweaking options, full control
With dropdown menus!

Of all these classic Aames Home Loan commercials from the seventies, this is the one I remember most.

From ProofreadNOW:

Either and neither are versatile words. Each can serve as a pronoun, an adjective, a conjunction, and an adverb. Know another word that can be any of four parts of speech?

When either or neither is used as a pronoun, confusion sometimes arises as to what form of verb should follow. The rule: always use the singular form of the verb in phrases and clauses that begin with either of and neither of, regardless of the number of the noun that follows.

• When it came to choosing between mango ice cream and Key lime pie, it was a win-win situation. Either of them is delicious! (The single verb form is is required here.)
• But when it came to voting in the recent election, I held my nose and pulled the lever. Neither of the candidates has any experience at running a water ski club, so what does it matter? (The singular verb form has is required here.)

Earlier this month, a couple people informed me of a writing project called Significant Objects and its associated contest conducted by Slate Magazine. The purpose of the contest was to take a worthless object — in this case, a BBQ sauce jar — and write a short story (500 words or fewer) in which the object plays a significant role.

A great exercise. Just hours before the deadline (I think I’d just watched the Dodgers blow Game 4 of the NLCS) I decided to sit down and see what I could come up with. Pressed for time and not exactly in the mood to start from scratch, I ended up re-imagining an old piece I’d already written a year or two ago, tweaking a few things to fit the exercise. Feeling as though I was slightly cheating, I reminded myself of one of Hitch’s quotes, “Self-plagiarism is style.”

Today the winner was announced. You can read that entry here.

For the archives, here’s what I offered:

Hold Still
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Once upon a time, in a world much like ours, there lived a jar of glue. Not your ordinary jar of glue, mind you; not the kind with with a shiny label and a fancy logo. This jar of glue was different. It was made of clay, and was labeled BAR-B-Q SAUCE.

Born full of purpose, and equipped with uniquely handy application brush, the jar of glue spent its life fixing, mending, and repairing broken things. Many broken things were helped by the jar of glue, becoming stronger than new.

Over time, the world changed, and breakable things were replaced by unbreakable things. Things that were real and vulnerable became things of the past, and the world was full of fake, plastic, less-than-precious things. The jar of glue’s purpose began running low, and it began to feel unimportant.

Determined to keep its purpose alive, the jar of glue went searching. Before long, it met a young dish.

“Do you need me for anything?” the jar of glue asked.

“What do I need you for?” the dish replied. “I’m unbreakable. Besides, I really don’t like barbecue sauce.”

Judged by its shell, the jar of glue continued searching. Before long, it met a vase.

“Do you need me for anything?” the jar of glue asked.

“What do I need you for?” the vase replied. “You can drop me on the hard floor and I’m fine. Besides, I really, really don’t like barbecue sauce.”

Judged again by its shell, the jar of glue continued searching. Before too long, it met a bowl.

“Do you need me for anything?” the jar of glue asked.

“What do I need you for?” the bowl replied. “I’m cheap, and can be easily replaced by bowls exactly like me. We all come from the same mold. Besides, I really, really, really don’t like barbecue sauce.”

Judged yet again by its shell, the jar of glue continued searching. Its purpose was beginning to dry up, and the jar of glue felt very desperate.

“If only I could find one last thing that needs me,” the jar of glue said. “So that my purpose does not go to waste.”

Before too very long, as if by plan, the jar of glue met a heart. Not a fake, plastic, less-than-precious heart, mind you. Not the heart on greeting cards. This heart was real. And it was broken.

“Hold still,” the jar of glue said. “You’re going to be fine.”

The jar of glue poured its purpose into the fractures of the heart, filling every crack with its saturated brush, applying a second coat for extra durability.

“Thank you,” said the heart.

“No, thank you,” replied the clay jar labeled BAR-B-Q Sauce.

And from that day forward, the heart was stronger than it had ever been before.

Rip Greamer, 10.24.2009

Makeup by Aloha Marine

Downtown Los Angeles, 10.24.2009

The Greamers, 10.24.2009

Makeup by Aloha Marine

I’m quite the proud papa right now.

My buddy’s buddy is a travel writer for LocalGetaways, and the other day he threw out a request to his network of peeps requesting “photos of dogs frolicking on the beach” to supplement an upcoming feature on dog-friendly beaches in Northern California. Anybody who knows us knows that there is no shortage of such photos on this site.

We just learned that Kona made the cut! This came in today from the publisher:

A huge thank you to everyone who sent us their happy-dog-at-beach photos (which was a lot of photos). Attached is a PDF of the newspaper feature that will go out to about 3 million readers in Nor Cal this Sunday. We were also able to fit in more doggie pics in our online article/blog that will go live on Sunday and reside on the site permanently (see the other attachment). Feel free to post comments on our doggie blog when it goes live: http://blog.localgetaways.com/

A shining star. Attagirl! <3

Under Angels
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Verbal chaos replaced her screams. Hurried footsteps echoed in the hall outside the supply room’s closed door. Doctors shouted status updates like sportscasters calling the final minutes of a one-point game.

“RED BLANKET! ROOM ELEVEN–”

Pete awoke, eyes shut, his back an anvil on the floor. The supply room’s shelved walls spun around a single hanging light bulb. Planets around their sun.

Beatrice?

Pete’s pant legs held him down like bags of cement.

I can’t hear her–

“You can’t hear what’s not there,” a familiar voice scraped.

Greamer?

Pete rolled his eyes to his brow, looking through his cracked eyelids at an object on the cold floor beside him. A black sole.

No–

Rip Greamer sat on a waist-high stepladder, waiting like a fisherman with a fiendish love for his sport. He stirred a cup of black coffee with a knife, bony legs crossing themselves under black scrubs.

“Hello again, Sergeant.”

“ABDOMINAL ANEURYSM–”

The commotion continued outside.

Pete’s body lay thawing like a steak, his eyes scanning the dim room’s organized necessities. Wall units kept order for bottles of spirits, jars of swabs, canisters of pills, boxes of packaged ointments.

Where am I–

“I’ve always loved playing games in the rain.”

Greamer leaned forward, looking over Pete like a coroner, the stench of his festive repulsiveness filling the room.

“And it’s raining.”

“Where is she?” Pete said in silence. “How long have I–”

“Her number has come up, Sergeant. Thanks to you.”

Pete tried to clench his fists, his forearms glued to the floor.

“You said she’ll be fine–”

“SHE’S BLEEDING OUT–”

The shouts continued.

“They will be,” Greamer said, smiling at the door. “They’ll be perfectly fine with us. Under Dad’s E.T.A.”

The hell?

Pete’s said nothing, the blood simmering in his gut.

“I don’t appreciate people making my decisions for me, Sergeant. You’ve interfered with my quota.”

Greamer stood from the stepladder, his bones cracking like an old rocking chair.

“People like you make my job difficult. But since you’ve given me a business opportunity I can’t refuse, I must oblige.”

The back of Pete’s skull bolted itself to the floor.

“What have you done with my wife?”

Greamer straddled Pete and hunched down, reading his face like a golfer trying to identify his ball in the rough.

“When you chose to jump from the point, you were vandalizing my workplace.”

Pete breathed through his mouth, paralyzed by the stink of the wretch.

“I don’t like vandals. Nobody likes vandals.”

“Bea–”

Greamer cracked his knuckles, a defender of his own perverted sense of justice.

“I take great pride in my quota, Sergeant. It’s my purpose.”

Immobilized. What about the baby? “Let me up–”

“You have your wife,” Greamer said, stepping to the wall. He sifted through a shelf’s contents, examining the labels of bottles and canisters. “And I have mine.”

Greamer turned from the wall and grinned. Sleaze in black.

“I like to think of my quota as my bride.”

Quota? “What quota–”

“I choose who comes and goes, Sergeant. By design. Who, how, when, and where. I have a system to my surgery of demise.”

“You sick fuck–”

“EIGHTY OVER FIFTY! TACHYCARDIA–”

The corridor’s ruckus continued.

Greamer laughed, amused, like an entertained scientist testing the effects of battery acid on baby rabbits. He sipped his coffee and set it on a shelf.

“When a man like you makes my choices for me, my system breaks down. System crashes are my pet peeve.”

He turned from the wall, riding a passing wave of rotten anger.

“Now I must adjust my quota. All because of you. It’s quite inconvenient.”

Greamer pulled a bottle from the wall and turned his back. A cautious chef concealing a secret recipe.

“Men like you are thieves,” Greamer said, removing the cap. “Robbing me of the results of my careful plans.”

His lanky arms moved like a spider’s, weaving its web.

“Fortunately for me, it turns out your offense was a blessing in disguise–”

“VENTILATION BAGS AND HEART MONITOR–”

Greamer looked at the door, his yellow grin scorched with pleasure.

“So to speak.”

“God damn you,” Pete moaned.

“Indeed.”

Greamer laughed at the truth of the insult.

“You’ve cut in line, Sergeant. I must now leave somebody behind. To balance my quota.”

Greamer looked at the door with pride.

“Under Dad’s E.T.A.”

“Leave her alone,” Pete demanded. “Like you said.”

Greamer smirked, his long fingers crafting their wrongness.

“Ah, but that wouldn’t be part of our game. I’m a purist like that, Sergeant.”

Pete was getting grilled like the butt of a joke.

“Are you not a man of your word?”

“Yes,” Greamer said. “And no.”

Greamer tilted his warped head back, pouring coffee down his throat from its flat black mug.

“I didn’t mean to fuck up your quota,” Pete said. “I only took myself out to protect her–”

“How chivalrous! But I’m afraid it’s not your choice to make, Sergeant.”

Greamer grabbed a jar from the shelf.

“If they found me, they’d find her,” Pete explained. “I couldn’t let that happen. Not on my life–”

“Again, not your choice to make,” Greamer repeated. “Thief.”

Greamer held a wad of cotton over the the mouth of the bottle, turning it upside down.

“I’ve decided to keep the thief behind this time. To make it worth my while. It’s been a long time since I’ve had so much fun.”

Fun? The sick bastard.

Greamer rolled his ugly stare to the ceiling, vertebrae crunching beneath his neck’s skin.

“Under Dad’s E.T.A., Sergeant.”

Pete’s eyelids twitched.

“What?” Pete’s usual sharpness was numb. What E.T.A.?

Greamer walked back to his chair with the moistened wad of cotton.

“Think about it, Sergeant. What would you do if you could live forever?”

Pete said nothing. What E.T.A.?

“Is it really so bad?” Greamer sat down and crossed his legs like a giant mantis. “You can live to do it all. The world’s newest superhero.”

“CODE WHITE–”

Acid gurgled in Pete’s throat.

“And all because of your choice,” Greamer continued. “But that choice has added another figure to my carefully planned numbers. Against my will.”

Greamer uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, admiring his lab experiment.

“And that figure must be filled by another.”

Pete barely squirmed.

“No–”

“Buyer’s remorse.” Greamer sat on the edge of his seat like a fisherman letting out the drag, taking joy in watching his prized catch fight to the end. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Bastard–”

Greamer smiled, shaking his head.

“You have no idea.”

Pete fought to keep his head from exploding, pulling out a reserved coolness from the cellar of his soul.

“I take it back,” Pete whispered. “Okay? I’m sorry about the whole thing. I take it back. Reverse my choice.”

Greamer laughed like a father catching his child with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Man never reverses his choice, Sergeant.”

Gastric drool ran from the corner of Pete’s mouth and onto the floor.

“But why?” Pete asked, a conquered defendant after a fixed trial. “Why are you doing this?”

“It was a deal I just couldn’t pass up, Sergeant. Two for one.”

Pete’s bones turned to slush. Two for one?

“It seems your lovely replacement comes with an unexpected bonus,” Greamer chuckled. “A bonus for me.”

“PEDIATRIC! CODE WHITE–”

My god. The baby–

“It only seems fair,” Greamer continued, remorseless. “You’ve interfered with my quota, Sergeant Durante. You’ve stolen from me. Now you must pay me back. With interest.”

Interest?

“Your Beatrice will take the spot that you chose to create. Under Dad’s E.T.A., as it were. You can thank yourself for this one, Sergeant.”

“E.T.A.?”

Greamer leaned forward and glared down, his corruptness eclipsing the light bulb above.

“And then there’s that little bonus for me. Under Dad’s E.T.A.”

“What are you talking about?” Pete asked. “Under Dad’s E.T.A.?”

Greamer grinned, a riddler taking pleasure in stumping an expert.

“You’re slow today, Sergeant. Under Dad’s E.T.A. Don’t you get it? I thought you were the best there is.”

Greamer almost looked disappointed.

“Come on, Sergeant. Think. Under Dad’s E.T.A.”

Greamer sat back, satisfied enough.

“Dead Durantes.”

Pete choked on his screams.

“A free soul. Her unborn child comes along for the ride. It is yours, yes?”

“I’M CALLING IT AT FOUR-TWENTY-ONE…”

Shouts in the outside corridor turned to murmurs of aftermath.

Greamer basked in his twisted delight. A cheating gambler hitting the jackpot.

“Lucky me. I may even take a vacation–”

“NO!!! PLEASE!!!”

“A deal’s a deal, Sergeant.”

Pete squirmed, his muddy fingers beginning to twitch.

“TAKE ME WITH THEM!!!”

Greamer seeped his hoarse giggle.

“I’m afraid you must stay behind, Dad.”

“TAKE YOUR FUCKING VACATION!!! JUST LET ME BE WITH MY FAMILY!!!”

Greamer leaned forward, looking down with a flat coated smile. Pete couldn’t even tell where one yellow tooth ended and the next one began.

“You know the rules, Sergeant.”

“God damn you.” Pete couldn’t breathe. “Go to Hell.”

“Indeed,” Greamer smiled. “But that’s old news.”

Greamer took the wet wad of cotton and reached down, holding it against Pete’s nostrils.

“Find the tunnels and the game will be over.”

What the–

Pete sat straight up, his body folding like a mousetrap.

“Beatrice–”

Pete clamored to his feet, stumbling into the shelves, jars falling to the floor. He circled the supply room like an elephant about to vomit.

“Where am I?”

Pete turned for the door.

“What have you done with her–”

Greamer smiled, sitting back into his chair, crossing his legs.

“You won’t find them out there, Sergeant.”

Pete grabbed the doorknob, his clammy palm floundering for a grip.

“Beatrice–”

“A deal is a deal,” Greamer reminded. “Find the tunnels and the game will be over.”

Pete flung open the door, escaping down the corridor in his lead-soled shoes. It zigged nowhere in particular, becoming darker with every labored stride, zagging into twisted nothingness. He screamed.

And he screamed.

And screamed.

Again.

To be continued…

- – - – -

Go to chapter: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

→ Table of Contents

- – - – -

Part 1 of 3. Via Jon:

Louis C.K. on Conan. A classic.

Be especially careful of these; your spell checker won’t catch them.

1. Your – You’re
As mentioned above, your message might lose impact if you’re not paying attention to this number one word maltreatment. If you find it particularly difficult to separate them from each other, stop using ‘you’re’ altogether and notice how you are starting to improve your spelling.

2. Then – Than
The next step is then to tell yourself that it’s better late than never to get that vowel placement in order. Then your readers might find something more useful to comment on than your apparent spelling impediment.

3. Its – It’s
It’s best to write an article and its words properly for optimal reader engagement. Again, if you still fail to tell the difference without effort, just write how great it is not having to worry about misusing or misspelling words.

4. To – Too – Two
To write two posts per day, or not to write two posts per day. That too is the question.

5. Were – Where – We’re
Where in the world were you? We were at Billy’s and we’re staying for another day. Make sure your blog visitors do that too.

6. There – Their – They’re
They’re moving their cursor over there. By focusing more attention on proper word use, your visitors won’t highlight and pinpoint your mistakes.

7. A – An – And
A flawlessly written article serves as an eye-opener and should provide lasting value. Remember also that an abbreviation like SUV starts with a vowel pronunciation and requires an ‘an’ in front of it.

8. Off – Of
Of all the mistakes you could prevent from appearing, start off by checking out this common mix up. You should have paid attention at school when they told you not to write ’should of’. Or off your visitors go.

9. Here – Hear
Hear ye! Hear ye! Here is a blog worth reading. You can almost hear the distant clicks of new visitors finding their way over here this very moment.

10. Lose – Loose
But if you’re too loose on your writing discipline, you will end up losing those readers after a while. You’d have a bolt loose if you don’t apply these 10 writing rules from now on with greater care. You win some and you don’t lose anyone.

Source: The Probablist