AC/DC

I have a friend, who shall remain nameless, that asserts she does not like fish. HOWEVER, I have it on good authority that she is spending the weekend with a seafood loving friend she met over the Innanet, together, in a hotel room, after many martinis and an evening trolling for the catch of the day at the Hagens Fish Market. Chances are, beef is NOT what was for dinner last night.

Not that there's anything wrong with... fish. It's just that she's so adamant about how much she prefers meat -- to the point of ricockulousness, really. I'm like, "Whatever, friend. So, have the kielbasa and leave the fish tacos for someone else. Why are we even talking about this?"

I'm not saying she's all of the sudden a fish lover. I'm merely saying that she may be in a dark hotel room, confused and fumbling around for her misplaced steak knife. I mean, whatever. Next she'll be calling me saying, "The fish looked pretty good," then, "I think I might like fish after all," then, "Hey Brian: I've sworn off of beef."

Again, not that there's anything wrong with... fish... but, really dear: lesbehonest about it.

Marathon Man

The Denver Marathon was this morning. I cannot believe I've lived here for 15 years and the extent of my involvement with it has only been viewing it on t.v.

You'll be amazed to know that I got through it in only 42 minutes. It was arduous, for sure. There were moments when I thought I wouldn't make it. But I slogged on, veering down the city streets, crawling at points, but never giving up.

40 minutes in, I made my big break... finding a left turn that wasn't blockaded, I sped west toward the highway and circumvented the rest of the city with ease. Now, in the comfort of the coffee shop, I realize that marathons are not for me. Just the same, I now understand the tremendous sense of accomplishment involved in such an undertaking.

I'll Say Hi to the Big Bopper for You

I have to fly out on assignment tomorrow. But here's the thing: it's on a corporate jet, a small one, the kind you practice yoga to board. And the flight is over various ranges of the Rocky Mountains. I have a thing about small planes and mountainsides. I don't believe in any kind of symbiotic relationship between them. Flying over mountains doesn't unnerve me. It's the having to emergency land into their granite sides and jagged pitches... they're just not well designed runways. Flying over Nebraska or Kansas, however, no big deal. Basic runway states. Land anywhere. Hey: try the corn. Flying over large bodies of water does not unnerve me... unless those bodies are also referred to as oceans. And then, as soft as I think that landing would be compared to the early harvest of some midwestern cornfield, there's the whole, "Let's get out of the plane, float around and wait for a search party" thing... because when I think of ocean search parties, I think dorsal fins and sharky bitey death. It's not bad enough that you have to crash, escape and swim for hours -- it's that now you get the opportunity for mind-twistingly painful disembowlment by serrated mawed killing machines. Sweet.

On the bright side, flying over the mountains at least ensures a sudden death if one crashes. Ooh... umm... unless your a soccer team flying over the Andes.

I always try to dress nice when I fly, though. It's sometimes gotten me upgrades to first class if I'm hanging out in a suit and tie. But that's not really why I'm in the suit and tie. I'm in it because if my plane crashes, I'll at least go to heaven looking somewhat formal, because if dressing for success counts anywhere...

I'd be so much more comfortable in my riding leathers, though. And, less chance of severe burns. Hell, I might even start wearing my helmet. Then I could say to the other passengers, "I really don't like our chances on this flight. Hey, has the drink cart been by yet?"

Sunstain

I've tried to ignore it. I really have. But every morning as I towel off from my bleary-eyed sudsy ritual, I look down at the 2.5" perfectly square brown splotches atop my feet and note that, yes, they're still there: sunstain tattooes inked by the exposure area of my Tevas sandals, during a trip to South Beach to visit my dear friends Cat and Paul.

In February, 2004.

Wtf?

I suppose they would have been better protected had I worn socks. But had I worn socks in sandals, I never would have met any of my Janes, and further I would have had to marinate in a vat of Cartier and Aqua di Gio then immolate myself atop a pyre of GQ and Details magazines while onlookers launch motley-colored Crocs from Speedo slingshots at my broiling, bubbling head.

You know, on principal.

Because I grew up in NY -- and that's where fashion comes from.

Christmas Goose (Part 5)

We sawed off the other wing, and turned our attention to the head and feet. I hoped filleting the bird would save some of the gore, but with limited counter space it was clear that the remaining appendages would need to be removed, and decapitation was in order. It would be for the best to bring inside as little of the bird as possible. The image of a bloodied, wingless goose complete with head and feet, sprawled across the counter in my well-lit kitchen was too surreal, and I brought the butcher knife down against the neck.

Parts thunked into the trashcan. I felt dirty. Granted, I was covered in goose bile and blood, but I felt dirty inside. And though I hadn’t killed the bird, and though its systematic mutilation seemed necessary to eat it, there was a depravity in the act, worsened by the sheer incompetence in accomplishing the job. These sick feelings heightened when Mark nodded toward the second bird, “I’m gonna let you handle that one yourself,” he said.

I paused, staring at its intact beauty. My hands had gone numb again, and the foul smell that had soaked into them kept me on the brink of gagging. I blinked, looked at Mark, and then slowly toward the trashcan.
He shook his head, “You shouldn’t have taken two.”
“I shouldn’t have taken one,” I added. “You want it?”
“Hell no,” he said without hesitation, and opened the second trash bag for our feathered friend.

We quickly swept up and sealed both bags. Mark grabbed the hacked bird torso and went inside to wash. I pulled my cap low to my eyes, scooped the hood of my parka over my head, and crept to the back alley to discard the incriminating evidence into an empty trashcan – an empty trashcan at the opposite end of the alley, that is. Though I wished no ill will upon my neighbor, the anxiety of waiting for garbage pickup for three days was more than I was prepared to cope with.

I turned the handle to the back door using my coat sleeves, and stepped in, realizing my face had gone numb from the cold as the 68-degree climate seared rosy life across it. The mutilated bird lay on my white countertop, awaiting surgery. Mark assisted in filleting the breasts, and we dropped them in a bowl of salted water, to help extract additional blood. I rooted around for the birdshot and extracted four pieces of lead.
Janie walked in, martini in hand, “Where’s the rest of it?”
Both Mark and I scowled at her, and she stepped back.
“Honey,” I calmly said, “Are you even going to eat it?”
She cocked an eyebrow, “Not after what I saw.” She jerked away from me in disgust, “Jesus, Brian. What’s that smell?”
“Me, apparently.” I had washed several times before filleting the breasts, but could not remove the thick stench from my hands.

Later, Janie gave me some of her best, most girlie-smelling hand cream to overpower the goose odor, and it did improve things -- my hands smelled like lilac manure, a solid step above the musky carcass stench. I wore the smell for three days before it began to fade.

On the long trip from the parking lot to my office building at Rocky Mountain Arsenal, I had to pass many clusters of geese, padding about on the faded winter lawn. They cocked their tiny heads toward me, and some even approached as I scurried for the safety of the building. I was sure that they knew and were plotting against me. Perhaps they were just confused, wondering why I smelled like a goose but didn’t look like one. “Odd bird. Smells of lilac. He’s probably gay,” they seemed to say.

I dropped the filets at my mother’s house, including three recipes I’d researched for their preparation. Still, I had no interest in eating them.

Christmas dinner came and the family gathered around the table. My mother proudly carried a covered platter into the dining room as we unfolded our napkins over our laps. I would make do with side dishes and salad, I thought. Even though I wasn’t going to partake in the dining experience, I felt excited for the unveiling, that the others might enjoy the fruit of my gruesome labor. My mother placed the platter in the center of the table and removed the lid with flair, to a swell of oohs and ahs and assorted high praise.
“That looks great, Gail,” my stepfather exclaimed.
“Oh Gail,” Janie nodded, “It smells absolutely delicious.”
“Good work, Gail,” and, “Beautiful,” and, “I can’t wait to taste it.”

I remained silent, and stared at the platter. It was beautiful. It smelled delicious. The thought of it warmed my belly with Christmas delight. From all around the table, I felt the eyes of family and guests upon me, as I hadn’t said anything, instead staring, unblinking at the piece de resistance. I leaned over to my mother and whispered, “Where’s the goose?”
“Oh, honey,” she shook her head, “That wouldn’t have been enough to feed all of us. So I made this turkey instead. I threw your little package in the freezer. Don’t forget to take it home later.”

I did take it home, and placed it in the freezer, thinking that as soon as the nightmares stopped, I would cook it up. But I had to face it every time I needed an ice cube, and eventually the filets worked their way to the back corner of the freezer, next to the frozen okra and below a stack of undated, foil-sheathed slabs of mystery meats.

I didn’t forget about them, though. And, one balmy summer evening that July, I reached into the back corner of the freezer, pulled them out, and promptly dropped them in the trash on top of three recipes for a perfect Christmas goose dinner.

Christmas Goose (Part 4)

At home, Janie peered out the window as I hurriedly unloaded the boxes from the bed of my pickup truck and brought them around back away from the view of the neighbors. Janie leaned out the back door as I opened the lid of one box, then leaned back in and contorted her face, “Where’d you get THAT?”

I don’t know what I had been thinking, but as I searched for an explanation far more impressive than the truth, I realized there was nothing to be said. Janie knew I didn’t hunt. Janie knew me better than anyone, and though I longed to impress upon her the potential magnitude of my manliness, bringing home another hunter’s kill didn’t exactly bolster my macho image. “Do you remember Rick Da---?” I started.
“Rick Dangerfield? Oh God, yes. I mean, isn’t he the Director of Health and Safety for Fish and Wildlife?”
“Um, yeah.”
All evidence of disgust fled her face as she beamed, “That was so nice of him! How sweet! We should write him a thank you note right away.”
“Yeah. Sweet.”
“Ooh, but you’d better do something about… about… those,” once again overcome with expressions of nausea, she waved her hand as if to brush the geese off the back porch. “What are you going to do with those, anyway?”
“Mark’s coming over to show me how to strip them.”
“Mark who?”
“Mark. Mark Lomax?”
She stared blankly.
“Mark Lomax – my best friend? Has a wife, Marie? They were here last week for dinner?”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. I’m going to go look for my good stationary. Ooh, maybe I should bake him some thank you muffins instead. Or a pie. Which do you think?” But she disappeared into the house before I could tell her what I really thought.

Mark arrived with Marie promptly at 6:00 p.m. The temperature had dropped unfathomably, and we were both wrapped so heavily in sweaters and coats that our arms poked helplessly outward away from our sides like fluffy stick figures. We stood and examined the boxes. He looked none too thrilled, and frowned even more when I showed him my surgical tools: a serrated butcher knife, a well-worn paring knife, and a small, rusty pair of pruning shears that I had unearthed in the garage. They were no longer sharp enough to trim the rose bush, but I thought perhaps they could be of use now.

“That’s it? That’s all you have?” Mark shook his head.
“Well, I have a bread knife inside if you think—“
“Never mind. Where do you want to do this?”
“What’s wrong with right here?””Too small,” he surveyed the back porch, “We’re going to need to get two trash cans up here.”
“What for?”
“Feathers.”
I tried to envision filling two trashcans with feathers. It hardly seemed possible.
“How about the back yard? Do you have a light back here?”
I bit my lip, immediately regretting the act as the moisture was icily whisked away, “The only light is on the front porch.”
“The front porch is big enough.”
“But the neighbors.”
“We’ll have to do it as stealthily as possible. Plus, it’s not like your neighbors have nothing better to do than look out at your front porch.”

He didn’t know my neighbors.

We brought the geese, cans and tools to the front porch, which had nothing but a three-foot brick railing and an additional half-foot rise of jagged juniper bushes to obscure our clandestine procedure.

“What now?” I asked.
“Now we pluck one.”
“Can’t we just cut into it?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I just hunt quail, Brian. I suppose it depends on how you want to serve it. We might be able to filet it.”

I thought of all the wasted parts, and how pathetic a filleted goose would look on the Christmas dinner table. I pictured myself carrying a platter to the table, amidst oohs and ahs of hungry family, and the piece de resistance looked something more like a big, browned whole turkey. “ I think I want to bake it,” I asserted.

Mark shook his head once more, and we commenced the joint plucking of the first bird.

The volume of feathers was astonishing. I kept pulling at a patch on the belly, each time removing a fist full of fluff, with little evidence of headway. No wonder jackets and comforters are filled with goose down. Why, I could have made two pillows, a duvet and a winter parka from this one goose. We held the bird over the trashcan and plucked and plucked but got nowhere. It wasn’t long before I couldn’t feel my fingers from the cold, and I was grateful for the numbness. I looked over my shoulder at the thermometer by the front door: ten degrees. Down floated around the garbage can, and blew gently into the driveway. The mess grew. After about forty more minutes we had exposed its belly. Another half hour saw the removal of the majority of feathers from its torso on every side.
“Now what,” I sighed.
“Now we remove its guts.”
“Like, how?”
“Like you’d do with a store-bought turkey, I guess,” Mark shrugged.
“Oh, yeah. Right.” I’d never cleaned a bird before. “So, like, how?”
Mark made a circle with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand, folded the fingers on his right hand together, and pushed them through the circle.
“You’re kidding.”
“Up the butt, man.”
“Alright. You do this one, I’ll watch and do the next.”
“Nuh-uh. Your bird. Your job. I’ll hold it and spread its legs.”
“Shouldn’t I use some kind of lubricant?”
“The blood will work fine,” he assured me as I recoiled. “C’mon man, it’s freezing out here,” he urged.
“Fine.” I located the port of entry, grabbed the bird by its floppy but stiffening neck in my other hand, turned my head away and pushed.
“Harder,” Mark said.
The sheer act of it was surreal to me. We were violently defiling one of God’s little creatures by porch light. I pushed harder, but my little bird friend seemed to have clenched pretty good in its death throes.
“Harder!” Mark said.
I couldn’t help it -- I broke out laughing as I thrust my pinched hand into the goose. ‘Yeah? Like that? Huh? You like that? HUH?”
“Harder!” Mark chuckled.
“C’mon! You know you like it, baby. C’mon!” I laughed. My hand broke through into the body cavity and I stopped laughing. The expression of revulsion on my face, however, caused Mark to double over with laughter, and he lost his grip on the bird.

The Venetian blinds on the front window separated as Janie and Marie looked out to see what the commotion was about. I turned around to face them, my new goose glove slid on up to my wrist, poised in the air over the trashcan. I smiled. The girls shrieked and the blinds snapped shut.

When Mark returned to his senses, he told me to extract everything I could from the body cavity. I began groping about inside, grabbing squishy lumps and pulled them out by the bloody handful. The second extraction left my hand and wrist covered in something black.
“Probably bile,” Mark said casually, but slowly began to ponder something.
I shoved my hand back inside and rooted around, ripping free anything that didn’t seem permanently attached. I pulled out another fistful.
“Keee-ripes!” My back arched and I extended both the bird and my hand as far away from me as possible, “What is that smell?” We were overcome by a putridity so foul that it escaped definition. It seemed to originate inside the bird, but most definitely extended to my bloody, blackened hand.
“Oh yeah,” Mark said from behind a gloved mitt that covered his nose and mouth, “You want to be careful when pulling the innards out. They have a musk gland or something in there that you don’t want to rupture.”
“You think?” I gagged.
“It’ll ruin the meat,” he added.
“So now what!”
“I don’t know. Start over with the other bird?”
“No way. Nuh-uh. I’m over it. Talk to me about filleting this damned thing. Can we cut into it?” I handed him the butcher knife with my clean hand, he put the bird on the porch floor and tried to find a way to approach the incision.
“I need more light.”
“We’ll have to take it inside.”
“It won’t fit on the counter.” With its wings now flopping freely from its torso, it must have been a good five feet wide. We resolved to remove the wings, and once again held it over the trash can, but the pruning shears were far too dull, and only seemed to crush cartilage and bone near its goose shoulder as Mark twisted and tugged at it. I handed him the butcher knife once more and he began to saw. “Pull on the wing and I’ll hold the body,” he said, cutting through the joint, the bird wobbling in a creepy lifelike fashion with each stroke. “Pull harder. It needs to be more taught.” I pulled harder. “No, harder.” He sawed away and sighed, “This knife sucks. Let me have the shears again.” I traded him the shears for the knife and he began pruning bone once more. “Pull harder!” he demanded through gritted teeth.

We were both fully back on our heels as though engaged in a twisted tug of war when the wing ripped free. He fell on his butt, mutilated bird landing in his lap, and I reeled backwards without footing, flailing my arms to gain balance, waving a massive butchered wing overhead.

The blinds parted right before the wing collided with the front window, causing the girls to shriek wildly. It must have been quite a sight for Janie and Marie, Mark on the ground with a one-winged butchered bird in his lap and me dancing about the porch, waving a three-foot wing in one hand and a butcher knife in the other, a cloud of pinfeathers swirling at my feet. They didn’t open the blinds again.

Christmas Goose (Part 3)

I met Rick in the bitter, windswept parking lot. Tumbleweeds hurried across the pavement, and huddled together under the frames of the vehicles, shivering. I tried not to quiver in front of Rick, but the wind pierced through my parka and bit at my ears under my wool cap, and I had forgotten to wear the long johns I usually use to give me more girth under my clothing. Rick waited patiently in his short sleeve Fish and Wildlife shirt and khaki slacks, leaning comfortably against his truck, picking at his manicured cuticles with a Swiss Army knife.

He dropped the tailgate on his pickup truck and raised the door for the cap. I peered in: feathered death. There appeared to be about eight slain geese piled atop one another, their hopes and dreams ventilated by birdshot through their bellies, tiny purple tongues protruding out from their slack beaks.

It had never occurred to me that geese have tongues.

“Take your pick, excepting these three in the front here. They’re for the orphans.”

“Of course they are. Wow, there’s a lot of them. And… and look: they have feathers. Look at that. They’re all… feathery.” I’m not sure if I expected them to be set properly in a Styrofoam tray and shrink wrapped, but I hadn’t calculated the plucking process. I paused and wondered if it was in poor form to decline his offer. I wondered if he’d realize that I knew nothing of guns and killing and diesel trucks, and that perhaps my only claim to masculinity was a ritual morning shave.

Rick looked back toward the offices, “Go ahead and grab one.”

I had to crawl over the carnage, trying my best to cling to the ceiling of the cap, legs split across the bed from wheel well to wheel well while I closed my eyes and squeezed the smooth, cool neck of one of the geese and pulled him out with me. It was surprisingly heavy. I laid him across the tailgate, his head slung limp over one side, his tail feathers sticking out over the other. “I had no idea they were this big.”

“Dinner with the girlfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah… umm… no—“ Why is he asking about Janie? “Well, yeah. Janie and my mother, stepfather, his kids, some neighbors—“

“Better take two,” he smiled generously, quickly looked about and urged me back into the truck.

Iew. I dragged another out, and he brushed my Christmas dinner to the pavement below before slamming the tailgate shut and dropping the cap door, to lock it.

“Best get those in your truck,” he clapped his hand on my shoulder as though I’d done him a favor and then strutted back to his office.

I left them on the ground, pulled my truck around and hefted each of them into the open bed with a thunk! My light, Nissan pickup bobbed with each impact. I was amazed at their weight.

In the warmth of my officicle my brain began to thaw and I realized I had no idea of how to prepare a goose. From the Internet, I downloaded three succulent looking recipes for the perfect Christmas goose dinner. Notably, none of the entrée presentations included feathers. I wasn’t sure about how to pluck feathers, and wanted to approach the task properly, so as not to risk damaging the final, magnificent presentation of my delectable geese.

I called my good friend Mark Lomax, whom I knew to trudge through brush and shoot at things, sometimes wildlife. Surely he would know the best defeathering method.

“What do you mean you have geese? Where?” he asked, with a curious alarmed tone.
“In the back of my truck, man.”
“At the Arsenal? You’d better get them out of there.” He hurriedly explained to me the criminal punitions for the possession of geese without a hunting license.
“But I didn’t hunt them. I’m not a hunter. I don’t even have a gun. I’m a gatherer,” I cried, “I gathered the geese!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mark added. “You’re in possession of a migratory bird without a hunting and conservation stamp.” He elaborated, touching upon powerful imagery such as imprisonment and up to $15,000 in fines.

Doing what I do best, I panicked.

“Well, maybe they’re tagged,” he added.
“Like with a bar code?”
“No, you—They should have tags on them with the hunter’s name, address and total kill number?”
“What if they don’t?”
“Who gave you these geese,” he asked, appalled.
“Rick.”
“Rick Dangerfield?” he asked. Mark used to work at the Arsenal, right around the time that Rick started. “Why I can’t believe that. Did you talk to him? Wow, I haven’t seen him in years. Does he ever mention me?”
“Mark, focus.”
“Right. So, what kind of geese are they?”
“I don’t know. Dead geese.”
“Snow geese? Canadian geese?”
“How the hell should I know? It’s not like they carry papers.”
“Snow geese are predominantly white, and there’s no kill limit, so possession isn’t treated as harshly. Canadian geese have a light grey underbelly, dark wings and a dark head with a patch of—“
“White? A patch of white? Shit! I’m going to jail, aren’t I? Are they protected? Are they endangered? Oh God, I’m going to jail on possession.” But it wasn’t the cool kind of possession that might win you friends in jail and keep you alive. Christ, they beat the hell out of pedophiles in prison – what will they do to someone who seemingly kills endangered birds for fun?
“They’re not endangered,” Mark reassured me, “but there is a bag limit of six. How many did he have?”
“Like, eight, I think.”
“So he gave you two to get down to his possession limit.”
Bastard! I knew he was no good. I smiled, “Maybe I should tell someone?”
“Tell them what? That you have two dead Canadian honkers without a hunting license? Cover them up or something,” Mark urged. “Get a big box. You’ve got to stop at the guard post on the way out and, trust me, you don’t want them to see those. They’ll assume you got them off the Arsenal. Then you’ve got another federal crime to contend with, and – umm, don’t take this wrong, but – you’re a little too fancy to fare well in prison.” He continued to feed my fear with worst-case scenarios, painting mental pictures of a joyous Christmas day filled with beatings and unsolicited manly love.

“Dude,” I implored, “Will you please help me clean these things?”
“I don’t know anything about dressing geese.”
“I’m not entering them in a fashion show, Mark. I just want to get the feathers and stuff off so Janie can cook them.”
“Dressing means—forget it. Look, Brian, I hunt quail. I don’t know anything about cleaning a goose. Rick probably field dressed them anyway.”
“I think the only thing he did was shoot them.”
“You mean he didn’t clean them at all? That’s not cool.”
Ah-ha! “He was supposed to clean them?”
“Well, it’s sort of hunters’ code to at least field dress the gift of a kill.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t. So I guess I have to. Will you help me?”

Mark moaned. I thought that hunter-types longed to get blood on their hands. Shouldn’t cleaning the kill be nearly as enjoyable as killing the kill? “Brian, I don’t know. It’s so damned cold, and I need to put up decorations tonight. And I have to make dinner for Marie and myself. And I have an early—“
“Dude! Pleeeease! I’m begging you man. I’ll totally owe you a favor. You may not know much about geese, but it’s 100% more than I know.”

After more moaning, Mark conceded. He instructed me to have clipping shears, sharp knives, and garbage bags at the ready. I smiled for a moment, thinking of sharp knives and shears and other manly instruments of destruction. I didn’t, however, envision their application.

I went to the supply room to steal a garbage bag to stuff the geese in, only to discover wastebasket-size clear trash bags. I took two, and then took two of the largest boxes I could find out of the reproduction room. Outside in the biting cold, I gripped the smooth, cold carcasses and shoved them into the bags. One purple tongue was pressed tautly against the clear plastic. I jammed the bags into the boxes, guiltily looking this way and that, and then sweated out the rest of the icy day in my cubicle, dreading the ride past the guard post and all the way home.

I normally speed a bit when driving, but all the way off the Arsenal I maintained the exact speed limit. Police should be most wary of those that do the speed limit.

Christmas Goose (Part 2)

The email plinked into officicles across the floor on a bitterly cold Denver December morning: “Free Christmas Geese.” “Bagged my quota again,” Rick bragged, “so, I’m happy to offer a Christmas goose for your holiday table if you’re interested.”

What a braggart. I don’t need his testosterone-tainted gifts to feed my family. I’ve been a successful gatherer for years, gathering coupons and battling for superior position in the most combative assortment of holiday checkout queues – bringing to the table an impressive assortment of beasts for dollars off the pound, humbling lesser price shoppers for miles around. Rick probably couldn’t even arrange a smart and balanced floral centerpiece for his Christmas dinner.

Rick and I both worked at Rocky Mountain Arsenal, an Army base-turned Superfund cleanup site, slated for reintroduction into Colorado as a U.S. Fish and Wildlife protection area for the observation of bald and golden eagles every October as they migrated down from Alaska. The eagles would majestically swoop in, perch on a barren branch and rest for a moment. Then, as if to say, “What a dump,” they’d whoosh quickly on their way. I was an editor for a contracted recordkeeping company, convincing myself that the millions of pages of documents that crossed my desk should be free of typos and grammatical errors. Rick operated as Director of Health and Safety for U.S. Fish and Wildlife. I’m not sure if he found anything redeeming in that.

He had something mysterious about him that attracted all the women at the Arsenal. Perhaps it was his high-ranking position, or maybe the all-American Midwestern boy look, square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and a full head of hair that tousled itself to blond points that directed the eye to every one of the best of his perfectly chiseled features. He held a higher degree than I, a better position, drove a new truck every year, and smiled humbly though toothily at the ladies in such a fashion that they would lose their sensibilities and talk about him incessantly after he passed, blushing and playfully twisting their hair. I had no choice but to look up to him.

He stood a good three inches taller than I.

The last thing I wanted was to have Rick provide for my family. But with the financial embarrassment of an editor’s wages, the allure of a traditional Christmas goose became strong, even though I was unsure of whose tradition it was. Perhaps I could glean a little masculine glory by simply bringing such a kill to the table. I shot an email back quickly, typing with a dexterity and rapidity that surely couldn’t be replicated by Rick’s clunky, hunter hands, “Rick: The offer of holiday fowl is quite magnanimous of you,” I wrote, quietly hoping he’d have to walk to his bookshelf to search for a dusty dictionary, slip on the way, fall backwards and strike his perfectly shaped skull on the corner of his big Director’s wood desk – not in such a fashion as to kill him: I’m not petty or cruel. But perhaps just hard enough to leave him with a speech impediment and a propensity to drool slightly when he parted his lips to flash that bright smile.

With a slight grin I sent off the email. I stood up, grabbed my coffee cup, and turned to leave my officicle, when an email plinked into my inbox. Rick, RE: RE: Christmas Geese. “Brian, I am overjoyed at your timely response and reciprocally kind assistance with my dilemma. If it’s not an inconvenience, please be so kind as to meet me outside at 10:30 a.m. in the lower parking lot by the new, white, Ford F350, where you may choose from the assortment of my cache of fowl – excepting the three largest, which I will be delivering this evening to a home for orphaned and troubled children where I volunteer nights and weekends. I apologize for that shameless plug above, regarding the orphanage, but we are always looking for volunteers, as the home is seriously understaffed and in dire need of the kindness of whatever generous souls are willing to open their hearts to these beautiful children in need. I shall see you at 10:30. Thank you, Rick.”

Wow. What a total run-on sentence.

Christmas Goose (Part 1)

I had always fancied myself something of a man’s man, the sort of man to cause a woman to stop dead in the street, ponder her poor luck, then assume me married or gay.

Unfortunately, I never really had many of the trappings of the objective man’s man, such as biceps sculpted like boulders from the mighty Rocky Mountains, or the steel blue eyes that blaze from behind leathery but perfectly carved cheekbones, or a firm jaw supporting a broad-toothed smile which I would flash at some precious darling that caught my steely gaze from a shop window. Or perhaps I would stoically reserve its brilliance for good laughs over beers at the hunting lodge with the boys. I didn’t quite possess a fabulously broad chest, or shoulders you could land a Cessna aircraft along. I didn’t have buns like two red delicious apples straining against the back pockets of sturdy dirty denims, concealing a wallet full of cash.

To my knowledge, there’s never been much coveting of my anything by anyone.

I was also pretty aware that men’s men didn’t “fancy” themselves anything, since men’s men didn’t use words like fancy, or fabulous. I didn’t fill out my flannel shirts too well, and often heisted extra napkins from fast food restaurants for the purpose of padding the back pockets of my freshly washed Levi’s to lend to the appearance of having a backside at all.

Men’s men wielded power tools, and ventured into forests with firearms and Sawzalls to dispatch animals I considered cute and fuzzy, and bring them home to grill up with a German beer rather than to unwrap, sauté and serve with a fine pinot noir that sported notes of currant and pepper. In fact, my lone excursions into the wilderness, to date, could have been admonished by critics as cutting through the neighbor’s evergreen patch to shorten the tiring quarter-mile hike to ballroom dance lessons – a notion my father had to improve my marketability among single women.

“A lot of guys don’t dance, son,” he patted my teenage shoulder as he discreetly ushered me into my first lesson, “You need an edge. You really need an edge.”

So obviously when the opportunity presented itself decades later to bring home a goose for Christmas dinner, I leapt at it. I envisioned myself with three days growth of beard, strutting through my parent’s door in my buffalo checked hunting jacket, woolen pants, and deer stalker cap – proudly holding in my iron, calloused grip the limp neck of a magnificent goose, eliciting gasps of pride from my adoring family and girlfriend, Jane. In this vision it seemed to me that I should also have an empty shotgun resting open and smoking in the cradle of my other arm, as it was unlikely that any goose would swoon to death in the humbling presence of my new manly ensemble. Hence, the offer of a pre-murdered goose by a man possessing such manly appurtenances would have to suffice.

Oh, So THAT'S What It Means

Last night, in Santa Fe, I discovered that "tapas" is Spanish for "tiny, costly food."

Two pieces of cheese, three slices of pepperoni, 4 olives, 1 oz. prosciutto: $18.00.

Now It's Time for Change

Maybe I should elaborate on why I closed my account at Wells Fargo. I didn't really need my money, I just wanted to move it to another bank where I keep my other money. So, why not move it to Wells Fargo?

Well, one day, just before closing my account, I went in with a jar full of pennies and asked the bank teller to exchange them for bills. She gave me a super surly sneer and said, “Sir, what do you think this is?”
I looked around at the desks, the guard, and at the vault. “I think it’s a bank. This is what you do. You count money for a living.”
“We don’t do that, sir. If you’d like to make a transaction…. A deposit, for example—“
“Fine. I’d like to deposit this in my account.”
“Fine, sir," she looked at the jar, "How much is there?"
"I don’t know. Looks like you'll have to count it."

I filled out a withdrawal slip while she counted.

I Will Go Butch Cassidy On Your Ass

Why do I have to stand in line to argue to get my money from my bank? I use more than one bank, because I have a major problem with paying non-customer-related additional fees at ATMs. There are some banks that don't charge you for your ATM use, so I decided to consolidate some of my institutions, and walked into Wells Fargo to close my account – in essence, to ask to use all of my money.

I was ushered to a large desk in a small room of glass walls, where I was later met by a woman her hair pulled back so tight it looked as though her head had been threaded through the eye of a needle. Her facial muscles held a pained expression in place until she sat down in her big leather chair behind her big desk in her small room, cautiously folded her fingers, looked at me intently and audibly cracked a smile. I mean I could hear the ripping of facial tissue as the upper row of her teeth forced themselves into the open air.
“Mr. Blair, I’m Ms. Penniworth. I would like to find out if there is a problem with your account, or with our service.”
“No problem, really. I would just like to have my money now, thanks.”
“What do you need it for?”
This gave me pause. I felt 16 years old, asking my mom for the keys to her car. Are you kidding? What do I need MY MONEY for? It’s my money, isn’t it? “I’d just like to have it, please.”
“Mr. Blair," she cleared her throat and continued to bare her teeth, "Are you aware of the advantages of taking a loan as a Wells Fargo customer?”
"Umm... if I hold onto your money, I don't have to give it back either?"

Blank stare from her. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, and, despite a serious pucker factor and wardrobe choices by Barbara Bush I tried to imagine for a moment that if she let down her hair, kinda shook it out a bit, took off those horn-rimmed glasses and maybe put on a little lipstick, she might actually be kinda hot.

Nope.

"By taking a loan with us, or perhaps a second mortgage--"
"I don't have a first mortgage with you."
"Splendid, because right now we're offering exceptionally low rates on--"
"I rent."
"That doesn't matter." From behind a computer monitor she pored over my entire worth in the eyes of Wells Fargo, "How much did you say you wanted to borrow?"
"About $7,100."
"Heh," she started to laugh -- finance humor, I guess, "It just so happens that is the exact amount you have in your account with us."
"RIGHT."
"Well then," crack, ripppp, "This shouldn't be hard to process at all, seeing as you've been a loyal customer and you have the current fluidity to back the loan,"
“I don’t need a loan. I have my own money. Well, YOU have my money.”
She furled her eyebrow in confusion, “But if you take a loan you wouldn’t need to close your account with us.” Which, I'm sure made perfect sense to her.
“Oh no no no no no, darlin': I WANT to close my account with you.”

The Return of Gerald

Anyone... everyone: I need your help!

There's, like, no good way to tell Jane this, but this morning, at an ungodly hour, unable to sleep, I was puttering about in the kitchen attempting to make coffee that didn't taste of tar, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something run from the laundry room to under the fridge.

Now, granted, I've been up since 3:33 a.m., but I've seen this streaking act before in a different house and I'm pretty damned sure that I didn't hallucinate a mouse. And it's not like the place is dirty. It was cleaned top to bottom just last week... I mean CLEANED: Spic n' Span, Ajax, Mr. Clean CLEANED... every nook and cranny. I'm thinking that with a sudden and severe weather change two days ago, the little bastard decided to move into the house from the garden or something. Plus, the laundry room houses Bob's dog food, so maybe he sniffed out a renegade kibble nugget or something.

But how the hell am I going to tell Jane? Mice freak her out. She's going to have a cow. And I sure can't house a dog, a cow and a mouse.

I mean, I can go to the store and buy a buttload of D-Con, but the sudden presence of D-Con will lead her to the same conclusion, and then I'll be in trouble for not telling her I saw a mouse.

What do I do?

3:33 a.m.

Why do I keep waking up at 3:33 a.m.?

I've been researching it for awhile this morning and some say it's just an easily remembered time, so we ignore the other times when we wake up. Others say that it's angels/spirit guides trying to send you a message or comfort you. I don't know what's so bloody comfortable about being awakened in the middle of the night and then not getting back to sleep (especially on a Monday)! And what's the message? "Good morning, Brian. It's 3:33 a.m. Have a nice (long) day!"

Some say angels... but it feels like devils. I like to think angels are a bit nicer. Angels would let me sleep.

I Dated the World's Worst Mom

Meanwhile, back in Innanet Dating Land....

My wicked, nimble digits had clicked their way into the life of a Colorado Springs mishap. I couldn’t help it. Her photo portrayed this really cute and shapely brunette (my Achilles heel: brunettes... or... well, women) and in a cosmic display of certain destiny, she wrote back. Letters led to long-distance phone calls and an eventual coordination of schedules. I should have known better than to entertain the idea of dating a girl that lives an hour away, but at the same time the concept had its merits.

Shanon called me the night before and told me she forgot that friends of hers from Germany were visiting, but that I was welcome to join them. How can you forget you have visitors from Germany? When I indicated on the phone that the following weekend might be better to try to meet instead, she said, “Well, I may be going to Florida next weekend.”
“You ‘may be’? Why don’t you know?”
“Well, I’m not sure what the guy expects from me in return for the trip. You know? But still… it’s like free tickets to Florida.”

Warning.

I tried declining to make the trip, as I was still recovering from mononucleosis, and any activity more than an hour was taxing. She urged me on, saying she'd show me "a really good time."

When I arrived at 2 p.m. they were finishing their second round of Bloody Marys. She didn’t look quite as arousing as her photo, but then, they rarely do. There were two girls and three guys sitting around the dining room table and I was having difficulty identifying which one was Shanon. I said hello to the room, and in a moment Shanon stood up and introduced herself. (I was relieved that I didn’t have to pick her out of the crowd, but troubled that it was an issue.) While the guests introduced themselves, Shanon drifted into the kitchen and offered me a drink, casually draping a napkin over a bong that stood at the end of the counter, her girlfriend discreetly sweeping up a scattering of marijuana seeds from the table. All but one fellow introduced himself, so I took the initiative, "Hi, I'm Brian. I didn't catch your name."
"Rob."
"Are you one of the visitors from Germany?"
"No."
"Oh. Umm... So... how do YOU know Shanon?"
He said nothing and Shanon interrupted with a singular laugh saying, "Oh, Rob's my ex. We met on Match, too!"
Rob didn't find it amusing. I postulated, "Well, that's cool. So you guys are still friends?"
"Yeah," Rob growled, "'Friends'."

Shanon began to laugh, bray almost, recounting how she got home at 4:30 that morning from dancing the night away. In fact, she was partying so strong that her visiting friends decided to leave her at the bar dancing with two guys, take a cab back to her place and wake her roommate just so they could get in and go to bed. The lot of them started drinking again upon waking at 8:30.

A dark-complected, brown-eyed child wandered about the living with a drooling watering can, seeking plants to drown. He paid me no mind. In fact, he ignored everyone in the room. Something told me he was the mature one of the group, so I asked his name. He ignored me. "Oh," Shanon said, "That's Dante."
"Who's Dante?"
"I am," he said without looking at me.
"Heh. OK, Dante. I mean, who's little boy are you." He looked at Shanon for a second and then went back to watering. Shanon interrupted his work to introduce me as Uncle Brian. I felt a little ill.
"Didn't I mention I have a son," she asked.
"Umm, no. No. Yeah -- no. I would have recalled that."
"He's from my first marriage. That guy was a real asshole."
"First marriage? How many times--"
"Oh, just twice."
She was between 25-26 years old.

No one had eaten that day and Shanon promised to lead us to a restaurant. It didn’t seem to be a priority for her though, as she instead directed us to the geological marvel, the Garden of the Gods, Dante in tow. Shanon had seen fit to bribe Dante with large amounts of cola earlier that day, and the caffeine had now taken possession of his mind and body. He twitched and kicked about in his car seat while chattering incessantly about the magnificent magnetic space rocks that keep us all from floating into the sun. When we freed him from the vehicle, we spent the next couple hours chasing him around the Garden, pulling him off of rocks and away from belaying climbers. His mother nonchalantly blamed it on the caffeine, accepting no responsibility for giving him the stuff in the first place. She was quite a sight in heels and dress slacks, climbing the rocks behind him with a burning cigarette dangling from her lips. I didn’t realize she smoked.

Shanon’s friends – now dwindled to two, Abbey and Joe, and me – were ready to fall over from hunger. We pleaded with her to reign the boy in so we could leave. She eventually led us to Manitou Springs, essentially an even more redneck suburb of the already ultra-conservative Colorado Springs, to a bar where literally everybody knew her name, first stopping off to see her mother so she could get some spending money.

Warning.

Her mother is a chain-smoking shop owner with a mouth like a sailor and a sense of humor to match.

By this time you may be wondering why I’m still on this date. So was I. It was certainly no longer a matter of manners. She had separated me from my wheels, and I was quite at her mercy, much as I was at the mercy of the bar menu. We were in luck, for the yellowed, tattered menu boasted “Manitou Springs Best Burger”. If it was the best when the menu was printed in 1993, I was sure it’d be even better by 2003. We impatiently ordered a round of meat, then drinks for the wait. From the bar Shanon brought Dante a pile of maraschino cherries for dinner and promised him some of her fries when the adults’ dinners came. He began pouring sugar packets into his glass of water to make it fit for his consumption.
“Dante, don’t.”
He sipped the drink, shook his head disdainfully, looked at his mother then me, raised an eyebrow and emptied another packet into the water.
“Dante, don’t,” she repeated, dragged off her cigarette and rolled her eyes away.
He sipped again and repeated the process until the water was sucrose saturated. She sighed in a “Well what can you do” fashion and went back to smoking and drinking.

This was no environment for a child, or for myself. I was tired, hungry, and the Epstein-Barr virus (mono) had my head in a vise. I wanted to go home, but Denver seemed a lifetime away from that smoky, noisy pit. I leaned over and mentioned to her that I needed to head back to my truck as I had plans to see a friend’s band that night.
“Oh, OK,” she said, then ordered Jaigermeister shots for Abbey and herself. More friends joined the table. She accepted a pitcher of beer from a flirtatious man at the bar. She began to loosen up, and suggested another night of dancing, picking up her cell phone and procuring a babysitter for her son for later.

Shanon and Abbey began to drink like true champions: red wine, Jaiger, vodka and cranberry, beer, peppermint schnapps. I was ill just watching them. The daylight slowly disappeared outside and the drinks kept coming, all to the soundtrack of Dante running around the bar, wailing like a fire engine while intermittently flailing his arms about and beating himself on top of the head with his hands. Out of boredom I wandered over to the jukebox where a new acquaintance, Daryl, joined me. He pumped some money into the machine and selected Blondie’s “Tide is High”, then proceeded to pick crappy pop song after crappy pop song. Daryl was cautiously gay, and I applauded his courage for living in the Springs. He corrected me, stating he was there on a date with one of Shanon’s bar friends, and prayed to get back to Denver safely.

I sat back down next to Shanon and asked yet again to be taken to my truck. She agreed, but the waitress brought another round. A tear may have welled in my eye. She sang along to Blondie on the jukebox, “I’m not the type of girl, who gives up just like that…”
What? The “type” of girl? You stupid bitch, it’s “I’m not the kind of girl!" She had gotten the lyrics wrong. I’d had enough. We were a poor match, with obviously differing values, and I was not going to spend another minute in that bar when I could be home doing something more stimulating like clipping my toe nails or watching the impression patterns of my popcorn ceiling. I stood up and announced to the table that I needed to be driven to my truck. She chugged her vodka and cranberry and within 15 minutes had joined me outside to transport me back. It had taken two and a half hours to pry her from her drinks.

Finally, back at my truck, she told me what a wonderful time she had and how interesting I was and that we should do it again real soon... as soon as she gets back from Florida, that is. She leaned in for a kiss. While I found her to be an atrocious mother, an obnoxious, inattentive date, and not nearly as attractive as the photo she'd posted, I honestly did quickly consider giving her a long, slow kiss. After all, I might still be contagious with mono.

Instead, I gave her the stranger hug where you only touch shoulders and arc your back and hips away as though there's a three foot flame coming up from the ground inbetween you.

“Call me?” she suggested.

"Mm." Call you the World's Worst Mother, you loon....

Two Years, Two Dates, Toodaloo Tw@#

Meanwhile, back in Innanet dating land...

So, I made a second date with Paula, whom I took to the Hard Rock a week prior -- but I had actually met her two years prior at a Hipshake gig. Well, I called on a Wednesday telling her I just wanted to firm up plans for Friday and find out what time to pick her up, and she says, "About Friday..."
Iew. The next object will suck. Then she goes into this bit about how she has a fear of abandonment and that she needs to break the date, then tells me that she's sought immediate help for the situation but for now cannot see me again.

I laughed.

She didn't.

"Oh, you're not kidding, are you?" I asked.
"No. I have trouble getting close to people that I like because I'm afraid they'll leave me."
"So, you make a pre-emptive strike and leave them first?"
"Kind of."
"So... you like me." I can work with this.
"Yes. It's why I can't get involved with you right now."
Hmm... maybe not. "Am I the only one that sees the irony here? Would you prefer to go on a string of first dates with guys you don't like? Would that be more enjoyable for you?"
"My friends pressured me into putting my profile on Match. I should take it down."
"So, you like me... therefore you're dumping me."
"I am sorry. It's heightened when health issues are involved, and you have..."
"HAD. I HAD. I'm better now!"
"But you may relapse or something, right?"
"SHIT I hope not!"
"Well, you 'hope not'," she sighed, "I just don't want to fall for you and then have you taken away from me."

No worries. I think I'd run before I was taken.

We Spaniards, We Make Joke

Smart move, fellas. Hey, if your sponsor told you to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you? I mean, no, would you, please?

Spanish Coach, Aito García Reneses, said the intention was a joke. Guard Jose Manuel Calderon said the intention "would always be interpreted as an affectionate gesture," and, "Whoever wants to interpret something different, confused absolutely." Kinda like Calderon's grasp on language? Player Pau Gasol asserted he was uncomfortable with it, and that some of the players in the photo weren't making the gesture. He must have been looking at a different photo. Ummm... ain't that you, Gasol, third from the left? Just checkin'.

Hey team, here's an idea: let's play ball in front of the whole world, do it in China, and -- OOH! I know: preface the whole thing by pissing off Asians and the rest of the thinking world!

(Sorry folks... usually I post the dumb shit I do. I don't think I can top this today.)

Joke, affectionate gesture, racial salutation? At least call a time out to pick one story. Me think they went pee-pee in their own Coke.

Comments?

Gametic Deficiencies

I got to see much of my family this weekend, which was nice because it reminded me of what an educated, intelligent, clever, creative clan I come from. I think the world of them, and feel confident that they are proud of me.

For the Record

It should be noted that I started this blog on April 2 of this 2008th year of our Lord. And while I've been called many things, including foolish, I was careful to begin posting AFTER April Fool's Day, so that you would know that the content herein is no joke... it's all true.

Recently, I have had people read certain excerpts, then call me up and question the credibility of what I wrote -- which is very upsetting. INFIDELS! Therefore, to mitigate any uncertainty out there that all the events described herein are true, I am making this simple, humorless post today and permanently removing my phone number from the site.

I am, however, leaving my address up. If you wish to question the validity of any content herein, I encourage you to come to my home instead. Please knock, because the doorbell's been dodgy lately. I will answer and either invite you in to discuss your concerns over coffee or tea, or whack you over the nose with a rolled up newspaper. (It could go either way.)

Thank you,
Monster

Partly Cloudy with a Chance for Truth

I don't often post quotes, but lately have felt like I needed something uplifting, something stable and true to hold onto... a reminder that when I feel down or when I feel like I'm seeing the world askew, it's still my world and it is what I know -- and no one, NO ONE can take away what I feel in my heart. It can't be reasoned away, it can't be called wrong, it can't be called untimely and it cannot be restrained by anyone but me. Maybe you will like this quote as much as I:

"Remember above all things, Kid, that to write is not difficult, not painful, that it comes out of you with ease, that you can whip up a little tale in no time, that when you are sincere about it, that when you want to impress a truth, it is not difficult, not painful, but easy, graceful, full of smooth power, as if you were a writing machine with a store of literature that is boundless, enormous, endless, and rich. For it is true; this is so. Do not forget it in your gloomier moments. Make your stuff warm, drive it home American-wise, don't mind critics, don't mind the stuffy academic theses of scholars, they don't know what they're talking about, they're way off the track, they're cold; you're warm, you're redhot, you can write all day, you know what you know..."
-- Jack Kerouac

Say It Ain't So

Meanwhile, back in Innanet dating land...

I opened my Match.com email for a bit of a shock. The letter read: "Hey. Look, I don't think this is working out. I just don't see us clicking. You're a great guy and all. Sorry I didn't let you know sooner. --Lisa."

Well, that's just GREAT. Dumped via email.

I promptly wrote back: "Lisa, I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd end it... like... like this, after all we've been through. I should have seen this coming. I mean, you've been so... distant. I know I'll be able to move on eventually, and one day I'll get over you, but first: WHO ARE YOU?"

I had no idea who Lisa was. I pulled up her profile from her user name, examined all her photos and was at a complete loss. I'd never talked to her. True, I was having minimal luck with Match.com and going through a dry spell. Statistics showed that for every woman there was 8 guys. (Apparently, 7 better looking guys than yours truly.) But honestly, to get dumped by a girl I'd never met... That's gotta be like rock-bottom.

No Good Comes of Smoking

So, I go to get a pack of smokes a minute ago -- because, Hi: I'm flawed -- and walk toward the convenience store door at the same time an adorable little rosy-cheeked girl of about seven years approaches it. She looks up at me with big blue eyes and reaches up for the handle, then, using all her body weight, pulls the door open and holds it for me.

"Aw, thank you sweetie," I said, completely surprised by thoughtfullness in a child during an age when I thought all manners had been lost. I imagined she was hurrying in to get some apple juice or, perhaps if she was lucky, a sweet treat with money from her mother who was pumping gas during all this. I remembered the excitement of having some of Dad's change in my pocket and being given carte blanche to get a candy bar or a comic book or perhaps some little trinket from the store. So, of course, I added, "But you go right ahead, dear."

She just stared at me, straining to keep the door open.

So I added, "Ladies first, you know."

"But I'm just a girl. I'm not a lady."

"Well, heh-heh, then you're a little lady."

Her face was reddening as she pulled against the weight of the door, and I could feel the heat from the asphalt on my own face. It's about 100 degrees outside. Yet, she didn't move. So I arched my arm toward the top of the door and held it as well, offering her a chance to scurry in under me. She remained.

"See, it's good manners for me to allow you in first, because that's what men do for women. It's gentlemanly."

"But you're old and my mom told me to hold the door for old people."

You little shit... "I'm not ol-- listen, kid: that's ageist."

"What's ayjis?"

"You. You're being ageist. Now, you have certain privileges you can enjoy as a young lady, and having a man hold the door for you is one of them."

She scrunched her chubby face, "What is it when girls aren't treated the same as boys?"

"That's called sexist."

She thought about it for a second and then yelled across the parking lot, "Mom! What's sexis?"

The officer explained to me some of the parameters of "verbal harassment of a minor," I think is what he called it...

Womens is Cray-zay

When I found myself single for the first time in 13 years, I realized something: I had forgotten how to meet women. I'm not sure I ever knew how. All the Janes I'd loved before had pursued me. So, after bolstering my courage with eight single malt scotches (each with a solitary spring water ice cube, because I'm not, like, a barbarian or anything) I decided it was time to get "out there" again. Putting my best foot forward, I tripped and fell into the door jamb and decided maybe it would be safer to try to meet someone online instead. My buddy, Travis, had met his wife online... surely I could at least procure a date.

A quick summary of some memorable but not-so-pleasurable experiences from my first round of Innanet dating include, but are not limited to:

• Two women that both found it perfectly normal to call me at 1:30 in the morning for psychoanalysis (both of whom I'd had only one date with... bizarre, huh?);
• One date that had us meet at a drag show for a very surreal first date;
• Two women that wanted my babies after one date;
• A gal suffering from such delusional paranoia that she became convinced after our first date that I was only going out with her to sleep with her roommate -- her roommate that she had in college ten years prior in a different state and that I'd never seen, no less;
• One woman that posted a photo from seven years prior claiming that, even after childbirth, the passing of the nineties, and the addition of 50 pounds she felt she looked "exactly the same as when the photo was taken";
• One woman that found herself incredibly sexually attracted to me to only later discover that I reminded her exactly of her brother (eesh!);
• And one of my favorites: a woman that showed up an hour late for my homecooked meal, drank the entire bottle of wine, talked the entire way through the rented movie, insisted on imparting an unsolicited two-hour long monologue about her dysfunctional past, freaked out claiming my bathroom turned her lips purple (see Purple Lips post) and bit my big toe twice before being asked to leave.

And then there were some seriously scary dates.

Ladies, if you're out there: thank you for the memories, I hope you're getting the help you deserve, and I owe you a debt of gratitude -- had I not fled from you screaming into the night like a hunted man, I would not have met Jane.

No Jane, No Pain

There seems to be some confusion about Jane. All of my (significant) exes are named Jane. It's a strange coincidence, I know. And, oddly, there's my current relationship with Jane A. Malgum. I'm sorry for any confusion this has caused. To me it just seems wrong to make up a fake name for each ex. The idea rankles my journalistic integrity. Additionally, I think my credibility would suffer if I started telling you about my life with Swamp Witch, Bitch Goddess, Soul Sucking Vampiress from Hell, etc. Therefore, in an effort to clarify from here on out, I will try to remember to refer to each Jane with her designated Roman numeral, assigned according to their chronological appearance in, pestiferous persistence of morally objectionable antics during, and subsequent eviscerating disappearance from my life.

This, of course, does not apply to Jane.

My apologies for the confusion.

Suddenly Single

After I broke up with Jane II, I started going to the tanning salon. It helped color my blanched, tear-stained cheeks. I had to pay careful attention as to when to quit, so I didn't turn orange. You can always tell the careless suddenly-singles on the scene from their solar-white/blue bleached teeth, orange fake-bake complexion, and hair color from a bottle. They're also easily found in the health clubs, blubbering shamelessly while pumping iron.

The largest faction of singles are of course grouped on a Friday or Saturday night at a selection of clubs specially designed for them. But again, the fresh singles are easily differentiated from the pack: They are the ones at the beginning of the evening who enter the joint grinning widely and looking like they found the promised land, while the end of the evening finds them either shocked at their solitude or sh#tfaced.

I’ve noticed that pockets of damaged humans can also be spotted at Barnes & Noble in the self-help section, hunched and poring over some book like "Do I Have to Give Up Meat to be Loved by You?", "Single Again -- Stopping the Insanity", "I'm OK, You're OK, but I'm Lying -- You're Not OK", or "Loving Yourself -- Looks Like You'll Have To Now". They have a perpetually confused look on their face, as if asking the world where they went wrong. You can tell how freshly single they are from the grace of their smile. (I'm still working on mine.) Newly floundering singles, such as I was, smile crazy-like, as though they just dropped acid, drank a pot of coffee and ate a lemon. This is likely a breakup reaction developed by nature to protect others from this person, much as the pine tree emits terpines to keep cute and loveable woodland creatures from nibbling its cones.

Fresh singles rarely get their cones nibbled.

I'm Batman!

Last night I'm working in the yard (as usual) and it occured to me, I'm Batman!

I sweat weird.

Could be the rolls of fat beneath. More like Fatman. Kinda the same, only without the cool car and kickin' trust fund. But if crime runs rampant in Denver City, I shall spring (read: roll) to action, armed with my trusty hoe (not Jane) and squash the evil-doings of each nefarious villain by... ummm.... well... sitting on them.

Granted, it's no Shroud of Turin.

You'll Never Believe What Happened

The other day I was--- no. Wait. That wasn't me.

The Preemption of Ninja Boy

Jane got me throwing stars, and I finally put up a target in my garage. I'd forgotten how much fun they were. I had them as a kid, and hid them in the tiny hollow under my nightstand. I had homemade nunchakus that I also had to hide from my parents. It was kinda hard to hide the bruises though. Never did get very good with those. Fortunately I had the foresight to make them out of hard rubber, so none of the injuries were traumatic. Just embarassing.

And of course the necessity of my owning a katana or any other sword was completely lost on my parents. They didn't even like the idea of me having a bokken. They viewed it as something else I could swing around in the house, at my brother, and invariably through a lamp or vase.

They had no compassion for my burning desire to grow up to be a ninja. My mom wouldn't even make me a ninja costume for Halloween 'cause she knew eventually one night she'd open the door to my room to find an empty bed, an open window and -- in her mind -- a twisted pile of costumed ten year old boy on the grass two stories below. Consequently, I blame her for all the crime in my hometown. How can I fight crime without a ninja costume? How do you stalk evildoers in corduroys and bright red Chuck Taylors? Who'd be intimidated by a ninja in a colorful rugby shirt? She would have the news on while making dinner and with every broadcast of a missing child or hijacking -- or especially a holdup -- I would mutter under my breath, "See what you've done, Mother?"

Looking back, it's pretty silly to have wanted to be a ninja when I grow up.

Spiderman's so much cooler.

Cut the Cord, Kid.

I think that historically irony has been lost on preschoolers and that ridicule taught at an early age will help those children become the taunters rather than the taunted by the time junior high rolls around. There aren’t enough thick-skinned five year olds, in my opinion. I know that every time I take the time to share my thoughts with one, he or she ends up in needless tears.

“Look, Susie, I’m sorry – I know your mother still dresses you. I’m merely ‘encouraging’ you to reconsider those shoes with that dress -- maybe question her judgment every now and then. It’s called ‘critical thinking’, sweetie, and you have to learn it sometime. Just because she’s ‘Mommy’ doesn’t mean she knows what she’s doing, OK?”

Or maybe people just shouldn't bring their children into work if they don't want them to talk to me.

Sheesh.

It's My Birthday

It's my birthday today. I wish I could come up with something witty and wise to say after having been alive for so long... 35 years. But I'm not nearly as creaky and saged as some of my 40 year old associates. So, I'll turn to them for wisdom. They'll probably tell me not to call them 40.

All I can think is that 35 years ago today, I was born during prime-time on a Thursday night. Today is Thursday. My ever creeping varied literary devices tell me that I'm running a high risk of dying today... full circle... Thursday to Thursday... 3 and 5 being prime numbers...

But I must shrug that off if I'm going to have a good time. I'd like to have a couple drinks and get out on my motorcycle for a bit. That should ease the angst.

Outfoxed by a Rabbit

Last night, on my ga-gillionth trip to Home Depot this summer, it occurred to me that I've done this all wrong. I had asked a floor clerk for grass patch to try to heal the portions of my lawn that I'd razed in ripping out my gardens last week, and he directed me to it. I'd only walked by it four times, so I didn't feel entirely stupid. There, at his feet was a small rabbit. I pointed to it and he sighed, "Yeah. We've got rabbits."
"That's so cool."

"Not really. There's feces everywhere. We've called Terminix to deal with them."

"You're going to kill Thumper?"

His face drooped, "Sir, you don't understand. They break into the bags of seed and then we have to mark them down to sell them because they're partially empt--"

"How much?"

"Sir?"

"How much do you mark them down?"

"At least half price."

"Awesome. I'll take those open ones there."

He loaded them into my cart. "It's just not good for business."

"Are you kidding? It's great! I'm the customer. I should know."

"But we're losing money."

"The customer is always right. You'd better not kill Thumper. In the meantime, why don't you stop storing seed on the floor?"

And I did see rabbits throughout the garden aisles, poking their heads out, then venturing up to the nearest pallate for a snack. Must be nice to live in your grocery store, fellas. Then it occurred to me: instead of buying a home and going to Home Depot every other hour, I should have moved into a Home Depot. I mean, they have all the supplies I need, plus the personnel that knows how to use them. Clever bunnies.

"Sir, these bags of seed are open," said Britney at the register. "Would you like to grab some different ones instead?"

"Nope. These are fine. Half-price, right?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to get the manager. Are you sure you don't--"

"Yeah, just call the manager."

A few moments later, a mustached gentleman in his mid-forties approached. "Aw, I see the rabbits have been at it again."

"Yes. Yes they have. Half-price, right?"

He nodded solemnly to Britney and she scanned them, then marked them down. I couldn't help but notice a typo on the manager's name tag, "Llloyd."

"Excuse me, but your name tag has three L's in it."

"Yes?"

"Yes." I paused and he stared at me, wondering what my point was. So I elaborated, "Yes. Three."

"Yes sir, I know. That's how I spell it."

"Oh, I've just never seen three L's in Lloyd before."

"Who's Lloyd?"

"You're Lloyd. Or Llloyd..."

"My name is Frank, sir."

"But your tag says Llloyd."

"That's just how it's spelled."

I swiped my credit card and then Britney shrieked and grabbed Ffrank's arm. She turned to me and announced, "Mr. Blair: this is your ga-gillionth trip to Home Depot!"

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Ffrank double-checked her information on the screen. "It's true, sir. You've been here a ga-gillion times now."

"So, does that get me some kind of discount or something?"

They stared at each other and Ffrank turned to me, "Well, no. Not really. It's just that we've never had a ga-gillionth customer before."

"So, no discount?"

I could tell that Ffrank felt it unfair of Home Depot to not be prepared to honor such an event. He took me out front of the store and bought me a bratwurst and a soda from the hot dog vendor, but I had to pay for the chips.

True story.

Well, mostly the part about the rabbits.

Grabby Versnatchen

Grabby Versnatchen was a curious girl
With long golden hair
That hung down in curls
And the prettiest bright eyes
You ever could find
But these were nothing compared
To her bright, curious mind

One day in the woods
While walking from school
She found a strange fruit
Atop a toadstool

“Why, this fruit is new!
The strangest I’ve seen -
It has little red hairs
And flowers of green.
It looks quite delicious,
What harm could it bring
To try a new fruit
Like this odd little thing?”

But her mother had warned her
Many a time
“Don’t try new fruits -
Beware what you find!
For some fruits are good
And some fruits are bad,
You’d better just stick
To the fruits that you’ve had.”

This didn’t make sense
To Grabby’s curious mind
“Why should I leave
This new fruit behind?
What harm could it do
To have just a taste?
To not try new things
Could be such a waste.”

So Grabby ignored
Her mother’s advice
And tried the new fruit
And then tried it twice
It was really unlike
Any fruit that she’d had
“How could Mother say
That new fruits are bad?”

The next day she decided
To walk through the woods
And find just as many
New fruits as she could

She found fruits colored orange
And yellow and green
And violet and purple
And aquamarine

She picked through the bushes
And plucked from the trees
Taking as many
fruits as she pleased

“This one is pink!
I’ll drink it, I think.
And this one is blue
It’ll go fine in a stew.”

Each fruit was new
And different and fun
And she vowed to try every
Fruit under the sun

She put them in soups
In salads and teas
Some she cooked up
And some she did freeze

Grabby Versnatchen
Tried all the fruits that she could
She tried far more fruits
Than any one person should

The blue ones were good
But they made her arms grow too short
And long tufts of hair
Sprouted out of a wart

The reds were so rich
And tasty and sweet
She didn’t even notice
They put hair on her feet

The pinks made her happy
(That never did fail)
But who could have guessed
They’d give her a tail?

And when she had found
Every fruit she could find
Boredom crept in
And dulled her bright mind

Her friends had grown up
And moved far away
While Grabby grew old
And shabby and gray

You see, discovering new fruits
Consumed all of her days
Especially when prepared
In so many ways

With each fruit there came
An unexpected result
That caught up with her
As an adult:

Her lungs started wheezing
She had quite a cough
Her eyes had filmed over
And her fingers fell off

Her nose grew thick
And hairy and wide
And in bushy nostrils
Birds did reside

Her teeth they dropped out
One at a time
And I shudder to tell you
About her bright mind

Grabby went crazy
I guess was the case
But you would go too
If your mirror had THAT face!

One thing’s for sure,
She was a curious sort
With eyes that did glow
And a snout that did snort

Grabby Versnatchen
Ignored one simple truth:
Do what you want
But beware of strange fruits.

Lungs Like Lima Beans

In an ongoing effort to lose weight, I went hiking yesterday in the Boulder Flatirons -- a series of large jagged rocks that just out from the the foothills of the Rockies in Boulder, named supposedly by Colorado's pioneer women who noticed a strong resemblance between the rocks' shapes and the irons they used to press their clothes. (Gosh, I miss those pioneer women.)

This week's painful realization: aerobic and anaerobic fitness are two wholly separate issues. Apparently, I have lungs the size of lima beans. I had to make more stops along the way than I cared to, but I eventually made it all the way up the trail. It was disconcerting to see groups of septagenarians (or greater) come stepping down the trail every ten minutes. The last old fella I saw paused alongside the trail to let me ascend beyond him. He spoke in a kindly, gentle voice saying, "You're almost there, sonny," then, smiled and added, "Not that it's worth it."

To tell another hiker that they're almost there can in fact be a thoughtful thinkg to say, especially when they look like they'd just been passed through the bowels of a rhinocerous. We all have that reserve fuel takn that can only be tapped with Hope. A promising statement, some words of encouragement is just the singular mortal act that it takes to persevere when one cannot see an end in sight. For that crusty ol' dude to add, "not that it's worth it," took a lot away from me -- more than my last short breaths, but my spirit as well. I grabbed his ankle and yanked it out from under him, laughing as he tumbled bloodily down through the trees.

Well, not really. But the gratification of thinking about it fueled me for the rest of the way up.

When I got to the summit, I was determined that the veiw before me was going to be worth it, no matter what. I'm not sure if it was, but I pretended like it was, gasping and oohing and ahhing to the point where the other hikers came to stand by me to see what I was looking at. After looking about themselves, they eventually asked me if I was in need of an albuterol inhaler, or perhaps just general medical attention.

The scenery wasn't too bad, though. There was a beautiful view of a natural formation called the Royal Arch -- a big rock doughnut that gazes over southern Boulder like a hollow eye. Passing through, one can look back northward at the Flatirons, and feel as though they could pass through this odd, stony picture frame into a great heavenly rock garden. The Third Flatiron, foremost in the painting, was being conquered by climbers with ropes. Most were wearing helmets, which I assumed weren't stuffed with silver hair as mine would be. Some poor chap fell over 100 feet this weekend off that Flatiron. Perhaps he was rapelling down and passed another climber, pausing long enough to say, "Just another few feet, man, but take your time -- the view's kinda crappy up there," right before saying, "Hey man, watch that knife -- you almost cut my-----iiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

The trail back was oddly longer than the one up, and had a curious number of uphill portions. I found this particularly strange, since it was the same trail. On one steep ascent, I happened to catch up witht the mean old geezer that tried to crush my spirit near the Arch. He never heard me coming -- surprising, since I was wheezing like one of Bob's favorite dog squeeze toys by that point. The trail mercifully widened enought to two-man's width, or the width of one wasting old guy and one sweaty fat guy. I drew upon everything I had, even tapping into all the bottled childhood rage I could muster, reeled that old fart in and dusted past him, loosing what rocks I could above him with an insincere, "Sorry ole timer." I kept going for another ten yards around the next bend, then ducked behind a large rock for a satisfying vomit.

At least I showed him.

I hope he slipped in my Powerbar puke puddle.

I sure miss my billy goat days when I could bound up such trails with ease -- a Marlboro in one hoof and a flask of whiskey in the other. Yesterday, at the pinnacle, I did particularly miss the companionship of my old vices, and suffered a small bout of alveoli envy. Formerly, it was always a ritual for me to summit, take a shot off my flask and enjoy a smoke at the top of the world. Instead, now, I stood at the top, hands on my knees, my arced posture trying to smother the fire in my lungs, bloodshot eyes watching my sweat droplets coat the ground and some very confused ants. "Hey, Frank, I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today."
"Cripes, Jack, what's that smell?"

When the mezzotint of oxygen deprivation left my vision, I paused and thought, "Now what?"
Now you go back down. Wasn't that fun, Sysiphus?

Hello, I'm Stupid. I'll Be Your Waiter This Evening.

Hacienda Colorado is apparently an equal opportunity employer, but favors the young and retarded. In an inexplicable bout of planning ahead, I called to make dinner reservations for tomorrow night.

"Hacienda Colorado, this is Jeff with a 'G'."
Why do I need to know this? "I'd like to make a reservation, please."
"Uh, yeah? For when?"
"For--"
"Not for tonight!" Geoff interrupted, aghast at my audacity.
"What?"
"You're not trying to make a reservation for tonight are you?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, for when?"
Don't kill him. He's not worth it. No one would miss him, but don't kill him... "For tomorrow night," I replied, calmly.
"Oo-kaaaaay," he said slowly, voicing his growing irritation with my ignorance of the reservation process, "What time?"
"Six."
Geoff sighed and persevered, "For - how - many - people?"
Well, maybe kill him just a little. "Two."
"Yeah -- we don't take reservations."
What the fuck was the point of all that, then?! "Then does it matter when I wanted to come in?"
"Yeah -- we'll probably be busy around 6. That's dinner." Really? What a coincidence. "Call us about an hour ahead and we'll put you on the list," he sloughed. "Then you'll probably have to wait about 20 minutes or more when you get here, but you get to do most of your waiting from home," he touted as though he'd just imparted some brilliant new strategy in restaurant management.

"So you don't take reservations, but you'll put me on the list if I call in around 5 to eat at 6, and then I get to come in and wait at least 20 minutes anyway?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"Say G-eoff, why can't you just put me on the list now?"
"Uhhhhh..." I could hear his brain cells' popping, effervescent demise while he pondered this, "Uhh... 'cause you have to call tomorrow, an hour ahead?"
"Why?"
"...'Cause we have to put you on the list."
"An hour ahead, right," I assured him.
"Right."
"Thanks. Say, G-eoff, are you working tomorrow night?"
"Uhh... yeah."
"Good. Good-bye."

Please Leave a Message

When the phone rings unexpectedly after 10 p.m., I automatically assume that either someone died or is about to die -- lying in a ditch somewhere, moaning softly and praying that his good friend Brian will be able to find and return his body to his loved ones in a timely fashion.

The whole "in a ditch" was my grandfather's doing. He worried about everything. If someone was late to supper, it meant they had some horrific accident and were left, "lying in a ditch". I'm not sure why lying in a ditch is much worse than, say, lying in the bushes, or lying on the sidewalk or in a bathtub. I guess I always imagined that they might be face down in that ditch, gurgling in a stream of murky water, but that's probably because I grew up in the northeast where all ditches worth their depth eventually filled with water.

Jane's response is, "Who the hell would be calling at this hour?" This is a valid response, and we explore the possibilities of who's likely drunk, stranded, kidnapped, being stalked, etc., until the phone stops ringing.

So, when the phone rings well into the night I grow very concerned about my friends and family. Not concerned enough to pick up the call, mind you.

To whomever called last night at midnight, I'm sorry. I generally provide salvation weekdays before 10 p.m. and by 11 p.m. on Fridays and Saturdays. Please make a note of it.

How to Make a Tweeterfod

Brearbits slope toward groft valleys
plunked amongst the peeper plots,
filling with the shimmery drippings
of a moon that glomes on felten hills.
With sliven tongues and fuzzy fellies
starry winks tickle the popperpinks
as the Snicklebots and Brearbits click on
in swelling softlure, until the keepers of the Clackwick
can take the kerang no more
and open the gates to the Bomigods
in and “ooh” and “ah” and a rush of wet.

The Bomigods grow thinner ‘til
from the slide of one felten hill
a solingle Clackwick slips into the groftiest spot
‘neath a twisting thranch, in the thickest peeper plot.

Just beyond the wetten huffaluff
it sets and grovulates
until ready to thring itself at the Great Thooden Door
(of Bulmuffuh)
and then a Clackwick it is no more
but rather a tiny Tweeterfod
thrung forth from Clackwick pod.

So you see, it is neither the Brearbits nor the fuzzy fellies
(that have been known to twitter from Snicklebot jelly),
nor is it the starry winks or popperpinks
(although they give us pause to think),
but maybe the mystic kerang and glome
on felten hills where Bomigods roam,
and settle into velvet sod
to infiltrate the Clackwick’s pod,
progenerating a Tweeterfod
from a rush of wet,
before a nod.

Ode to El Borrico

Jane and I went for Mexican food last night. I never tire of it, but it never seems to live up to my loving, time-honored favorite:

.

Mmmm.... #1: El Borrico, w/shredded chicken. House
Marguarita -- no salt.
BIG glass o' water. Yes, yes: the hour of my
digestive undoing draws
near. Yet, I embrace this culinary dissolution.
What spectacle! Take me
down to depths of cheesy debauchery and bury me

'neath a shredded iceberg
knoll. Scald my wicked flesh with salsa and top me
with a solitary lima
bean. O gassy rapture! This destiny I can no
longer deny.

To the celestial, and my colon's idol, the most
beautified Borrico---
Doubt thou mine ass shoots fire,
Doubt my tortured bowels to move;
Doubt that I'm over-tired,
But never doubt my love.
O dear Borrico, I am ill in my adjustable chair. I
find no comfort in
pancakes, no solace in Kettle Krisps.
There is no glee in pastrami -- never to compare to
my love for thee.
O perfection with picante, my unholy love for you.
Thine evermore, you Spanish goddess-whore,
tender sloppy burrito,
so long as my loving jaw doth move…

.

Note: to be found only at Benny's Cantina, 7th & Grant, Denver, CO. http://www.bennysrestaurant.com/

Purple Lips

It was February, 2002. I should've taken heed when Aneita invited me to a drag show for our first date, but the second date was worse. I invited her over to my place for dinner. She showed up an hour late. Bad.

But she brought a bottle of wine and a video. Good. I immediately served dinner and she proceeded to eat nothing. Bad. In the 40 minutes it took me to drink a half of a glass of the wine, she killed the bottle. Very bad.

We adjourned to the den to watch the video she'd brought (her favorite, her "this is the best movie ever made and I can't beieve you haven't seen it" video), Harold and Maude. She proceeded to talk the entire way through the movie -- setting up each scene before it happened and causing me to miss most of the dialogue. The credits rolled and she asked what I thought of the movie because, again, it's her favorite and she's seen it 11 times. I told her that it looked like I missed a pretty good movie. I took this opportunity to suggest putting on some music, but she grabbed my arm and said, "No, don't. We need to talk."

"We do?" It was our second date. What could we possibly NEED to talk about? For the following hour and 45 minutes she regaled me with a moderately dysfunctional life story, interrupting any dialogue that I tried to create. The last hour of her vinous monologue involved me staring at a chair across the room. I gave up on nodding, muttering affirmatively, or actually making any noises at all. I tried to give up on breathing. For something to do I held my breath for as long as I could, and counted Mississippi’s. It seemed to me that my underformed adolescent lungs had greater capacity. My brother and I would dive the twelve feet to the bottom of my grandfather’s pool, hold on to the drain to keep from floating up, and then jet to the surface just before blacking out. I’m pretty sure I could hold my breath for a minute and a half back then. Now, I was only making it to 39 seconds. My thoughts traveled to my ex, Jane, and I wondered if she had experienced any of this sort of tragedy prior to moving in with the man she would marry.

Aneita only stopped talking once to go to the bathroom. I stretched out on the couch and slung my arm over my face – the universal sign for Holy Shit I’m Tired and You Need to Go. The silence was wonderful. I would have loved to hear some Fabulous Thunderbirds, or some Faces, but my legs were melting into the couch, and sprinting to the stereo to preempt another hour of Aneita’s saga seemed a little too taxing. Maybe she’d take the hint? Maybe the haze of wine was lifting from her eyes by now and she’d be able to see how tired I am and then she’d—

“Iiiieeee!!!”
Scream?

Aneita burst through the bathroom door and stood over me, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at her face. "While I was in the bathroom my lips turned purple," she said, sort of accusatorily.

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was pretty sure it had to be the funniest thing I'd heard in years. "Think it might have something to do with the bottle of merlot you drank?"

"No. It's not the wine. That's never happened before. They turned purple in the bathroom. Just now."

"Aneita, they were purple when you went in there. It's from the merlot. They've been purple half the night."

She folded her arms and shook her blonde head defiantly, "No. Nuh-uh. Your bathroom turned my lips purple,” she frowned, and then pondered, “How weird."

"And your teeth? They turned purple in the bathroom just now?"

Aneita jaunted back to the mirror. "Oh my God! My teeth are purple too! This is so weird. What's causing this? What’s happening?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. I'll call a plumber in the morning." I flung myself dramatically across the couch, being sure to bury my face once more in the crook of my arm. Surely she would—

Remove my socks?

I peered out from under my arm. Aneita had slipped her bony butt between my feet and the end of the couch, and pulled off my right sock. I began to search for the words to address this, because “what the hell you loony bitch” seemed a bit harsh, but she immediately began massaging my bare foot, and shortly all willpower slipped away. Well, maybe just for a minute, but then she’s gotta go.

I began to relax. It felt good. I hadn’t had my feet rubbed in years, and the effect was so soothing, so comforting, so—

“IIIIEEOOWWW!!!”

This time it was me who screamed. I whipped my arm off my face just in time to catch her pulling my toes from her mouth. She began rubbing them vigorously, raised her eyebrows and shrugged, “What?”
“You bit my toes, that’s what!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brian,” she smiled and continued rubbing.
“I saw my toes coming out of your mouth, a split second after I felt your teeth clamp down on them. THAT’s what I’m talking about.”
She shrugged again like I was daft, but kept rubbing. It felt good – the rubbing, that is. The pain in my little bones subsided, and I decided to let her make it up to me through a really good foot massage. I’d been single and unsuccessful in the dating world for so long, who knew how long it might be before a woman would perform any body work on me, much less a foot rub that’s… hmm… kind of sensual, really. Sensual, and sort of—

“IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

I have no qualms in telling you that the scream that came out of my mouth was not the bellow of a man in pain, perhaps wounded in combat or while chopping down large trees, but rather the startled shriek of a six year old girl who's just seen a spider in her bed. I sat bolt upright, in a “V”, my nose only about a foot and a half away from Aneita's powerful jaws. This time she didn’t have time to remove my foot from her mouth, but smiled apologetically, baring the teeth that were still sunk into my petrified little piggies. I jerked my foot from her jaw and examined it. There would definitely be a bone bruise. I searched for the words to approach this with her and abruptly demanded, “What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrugged.
“That fucking hurt!”
“I’m just playing.”
“Yeah, well you play rough. That fucking hurt.”
“Didn’t if feel good at all?”
“Yes, until the part where you tried to EAT MY FOOT.” I sat up and yanked on my sock and shoes. She sprung on me, catching me off balance from the side, and momentarily pinning me to the couch. I maintained the look of a man in peril. She thrust her tongue into my mouth, and I had half the mind to give it a good chomp. Instead I bench pressed her off of me and, aware of the fury of a woman scorned, delicately said, “Look, Aneita, it’s late.” It was nearing one o’clock in the morning on a work night. I wanted her out of there two hours prior. Even if I had decided I’d like to sleep with her, I would have still wanted her out by midnight.

Since being single, I'd learned the joys of freestyle sleeping. Sometimes I would lay spread eagle across the bed, just to see if I can hang off all four corners at once, but most times I preferred to sleep at a diagonal, splitting the bed in two like a sliced grilled cheese sandwich. In fact, a grilled cheese sandwich sounded like a good idea. Sleeping sounded like a good idea. Everything sounded like a good idea with the exception of Aneita staying one moment longer.

I stood up, “It’s really late, and I have to be at work very early. And I have a proposal due. It’s for two million dollars. And it could cost me my job. I’m sure you understand.” I didn’t care if she understood. I grabbed her coat and hat and presented them to her. She looked confused. Perhaps later she’d look mad. I didn’t care. In moments I wouldn’t have to see it anyway.
“But, I need the—“
“Here’s your video.” I had it in my hand. “It was interesting. You’re… interesting.” She was still buttoning her coat and I had the storm door wide open, letting in a purging gush of icy night air. She stepped onto the porch, still confused, and looked at me for some reassurance. I smiled, “Well, goodnight,” and swung the door shut.

She forced her hand around the door for a moment and stammered, “Will, uh… will—“

“I’ll call you,” I nodded. She released the door and I waited the obligatory thirty seconds for her to get off the porch so I could shut the light out and block the memories.

Yeah, I’ll call you: I’ll call you Crazy Toe-Biting Bitch when I mention this to my friends.

But I was wrong. She was henceforth remembered as Purple Lips.