The Philosophical Squat

He was outfitted in a Joseph Aboud, pinstriped, grey suit; his shirt was azure blue, and a matching striped tie was neatly wrapped around his neck. Highly polished Barrington wing tips and black socks adorned his feet, and a well-trimmed, slightly grey head of hair crowned his six-foot frame. He appeared to be the very model of a successful businessman, a stockbroker perhaps or maybe an attorney. He gave off a confident air, and his blues eyes seemed determined, resolute.
I sat on an uncomfortable bench, killing time and people watching waiting for my wife to finish her shopping in a mall department store, when the man passed in front of me. He carried no bags and didn’t seem interested in the window displays he passed. As he passed Abercrombie & Fitch, he slowed, and before he reached The Fantabulous Cookie Company, he halted, backed up to the wall, and squatted.
I’ve been in many third-world countries were squatting is considered a perfectly acceptable form of resting, but in the United States, you rarely see people squat unless they are relieving themselves in the woods or building a campfire. I don’t recall observing much squatting in retail malls. But there he was, this well-dressed man, squatting, staring straight ahead, and seemingly unaware of his surroundings.
Most shoppers passing by took no notice of the man; those that did acted surprised and a little befuddled, but no one stopped. The man continued to squat, knees spread, hands resting on his them. I thought he might have a leg cramp that needed stretching or just needed a moment to himself, but he continued to squat. Ten minutes passed, and curiosity got the better of me, so I walked over to the man and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
“Are you Ok?”
“More or less.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve been squatting here for a while and wondered if you were Ok, if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Can you do a puppet dance?” he asked without a trace of a smile.
“Probably, but I don’t think I want to.”
“I understand. Do you think people condense or expand as they receive more information?”
“Hmmm, that’s a tough one. I guess I’d have to agree with Saperstein and Lao Tzu, that there comes a point when too much information hinders growth.”
“Interesting. Well, I guess I ought to be getting back to the newsroom. Could you help me up, I think my knees are locked?”
“Sure,” I said and grabbed his arm and pulled him into a standing position.
“Nice talking to you,” he said.
“Yeah, me too.”
He turned to walk away, but hesitated and turned around. “Say, how tall was Saperstein?”
“He was five feet.”
“I thought so,” he said, and then walked across the mall to Victoria’s Secret.

(c) 2007

Read more!

Bunny In The Woods

The sky was sweating profusely as they pulled in to a small parking area next to an emerald English field. A few campers had arrived ahead of them and their outdoor abodes dotted the soaked landscape.
“Come on sweetie, help me get the tent out of the boot, and we'll have it set up in a jiff,” said Jo.
“Mum,” cried her 13-year-old daughter Bunny, “it’s bloody pouring out there. This is not exactly the kind of outdoor experience I was hoping for.”
“Don’t be silly dear, it’s just a spot of rain. It will blow over soon.”
“But Mum, it’s been raining for 32 days; I think it’s going to blow London away before it
‘blows over.’”
“Oh posh, come on now, we need to make camp before all the good spots are taken,” said Jo as she opened the car door.
Bunny sighed and reluctantly followed her mother around to the back of the car, leaning into almost gale-force winds trying to stay on her feet.
“Just smell that fresh country air,” said Jo as she opened the boot and started hauling out the recently purchased camping gear.
“I can’t smell a thing,” complained Bunny, “my nostrils are full of water. This is not a good idea, mum. We could drown or catch a cold or become all wrinkly.”
“Nonsense. We are modern British women, and we don’t let a little inclement weather dampen our spirits. It will be fun.”
Bunny looked at her mum who seemed oblivious to the hurricane in which they were in the middle. “But mum, I am not a British woman; I am a British girl who hopes to one day be a British woman. But, my chances of achieving that goal are diminishing every minute we are out here in this tempest. Jesus mum, look there’s a waterlogged cow being blown across the field; we could be killed by projectile livestock. This is daft.”
“But Bun, I spent a fortune on all this equipment, we have to get our money’s worth out of it.”
“Well then let’s take it home and set up camp in the parlor.”
Jo looked defeated. It was hard to tell if she was crying. “But I so wanted this to be a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“It is mum. I’m bonded; I’m in bondage. Now please untie me and let’s go home before this turns into a mother-daughter-cow-flood experience. We can even bond some more on the drive home.”
“Very well,” agreed a somewhat reluctant Jo, “but as soon as England dries out, it’s off to the wilderness again.”
“Fine, mum. But next time you have to bring along your meds.”

Read more!

Chicken Scratching

I discovered an online magazine today that seems to specialize in the kind of weird little stories I enjoy. It's called "Bust Down The Door and Eat The All Chickens."
If you stop by, you can download a PDF copy and read it at your leisure.

Read more!

One Is The Lonliest Number

“It’s not fair Ellen; it’s just not fair,” Regina Stanton cried into the telephone, “God, I love them both so much.”
Ellen’s brassy voice echoed in the small apartment, “Well Reggie, you gotta do something. This thing has gone on far enough. You have to tell him.”
“I know. I know I do, but with him being in Iraq and all, it seems so, uh, bitchy to write him a ‘Dear John’ letter. I feel so guilty.”
“I know you do girl, but you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
Regina picked at her flannel pajama bottoms with serrated fingernails, as she cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood. “I never meant for this to happen, you know? It’s just that John’s been gone so long, and then they extended his tour. I was lonely, so damn lonely. The walls in this apartment were closing in on me; I needed company. Oh Ellen, I don’t want to lose either one of them.”
“Listen baby sister, you knew how John was when you married him. You knew he was a warrior. And, you can’t say you didn’t know about the other thing. You have got to tell him or you’re not going to be worth a damn to either one of them.”
“You’re right sis, I know you’re right, and I will tell him; I’ll write him that letter. Thanks for being there.”
“Anytime you need me Reg, anytime at all.”
Regina hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands. “What did I get myself into,” she asked the sofa. It didn’t answer. She glanced at the desk, the personalized stationary her father had given her on her last birthday hid in the middle drawer.
Before heading to the desk, Regina made a detour to the kitchen and poured herself a half-glass of Pinot Grigio, hoping its lubricating effects might loosen her thoughts and help transcribe them to paper. She looked at the sink, two plates sat in soapy water, reminders of her dinner with Thompson only an hour or so earlier. Two. Two is what Regina had signed up for, not Iraq, not loneliness, not the heartbreak of one.
As she gathered her resolve and started for the desk, she caught the feint sounds of Thomson’s snores coming from the bedroom. It was the music of damp breezes played on ripe potatoes. It was the music of companionship in the key of love major. The snuffling ear candy drew her towards the bedroom, but she resisted, knowing if she did not take pen in hand now, the stress of deception would crush her.
After placing the wine glass on the desk, Regina withdrew her stationary from the drawer, grasped the comfort-grip gel pen in hand and began.

Dear John,
I miss you so much, and I been so lonely, so please don’t be upset with me because…I bought a dog. I know you don’t like dogs, but I hope you love me enough to like Thompson….

Read more!

Marla & Sylvia

“You shouldn’t be doing such a thing,” Marla Reno told her friend Sylvia, “It might be an abomination before God.” The two middle-aged friends were sitting in Sylvia Blastivo’s breakfast room sharing a Danish and drinking cups of Oolong tea.
Sylvia snorted, “Fie, God doesn’t know from doll clothes. There is no harm, Mar, and Petey likes it.” She turned and looked at Petey, who was atop his cage by the window. “You like it, don’t you Petey, my sweetie boy?”
“Brrrr, gak, gak,” Petey responded, his head moving like a Fourth Street hooker going down on a sailor.
“It’s just so unnatural; if God had wanted animals to have clothes, he would have taught them how to sew.”
“It’s not really animals wearing clothes that bothers you, is it Mar? What chaps your ass is that Petey likes to dress up in girl clothes. You think he’s gay, don’t you?”
“Well Jesus, Syl, look at him all tarted up in that Barbie Doll outfit. Look at all the colors in his hair. That bird is definitely a homo.”
“He’s not a homo; he’s a fucking cross-dressing cockatiel. Of course his head is colorful, he’s an exotic bird you crone. Christ Marla, you really amaze me sometimes with your idiotic prejudices.”
“Well excuse me for living, I was just trying to help save that bird’s soul. By the way Syl, that cover makes your toaster look like a lesbian.”

Read more!

Max

A short while ago, while driving home from the veterinarian’s office I began to cry. Minutes before, I held the old beagle that lived with me as he took his last breath, finishing his string of days with the help of a lethal injection. I killed him, and no matter how well intentioned that act may have been, I have to accept the karma of playing God.

Max came to live with me when he was one year old. He was an abandoned toy, purchased by well-meaning parents as a Christmas gift for their children. Like many children, they lost interest in Max once he outgrew his puppy cuteness, and he was spending his days locked in a garage without companionship and stimulation. My mother, who lived next door, spoke to the people about Max’s situation, and they said they would be happy to give the dog to someone. Of course, mom called me. My wife and I already had four dogs living with us, but once we met Max, we knew we’d find room for one more.

Max brought joy to our lives. He was curious, crazy, funny, loving, laid back, and demanding when it came to matters of a culinary nature. Before he became crippled with arthritis, he would leap into our bed every night and lie next to me waiting for his evening tummy message. He was the only dog that has lived with us who found my ear canals to be fascinating; he would tongue-scrub them nightly with great attention to detail. I never had to use Q-Tips for the longest time. Max got along well with other animals; he was never aggressive, mean, or afraid. The world was a curiosity to him. He would approach horses and cats with equal magnanimity; neither children nor adults caused him any uneasiness.

If Max had a fault, I guess it might be his anal retentiveness. His bark (which was actually a howl) would echo throughout the house whenever there was a slight change in his routine. A certain bark would mean, “Hey, you left the toilet lid closed, and I’m thirsty.” One of his favorite spots on hot and humid summer days was the floor in the step-down shower. If anyone left a bottle of shampoo or a washcloth on the shower floor, he would howl until I came in and picked it up. He used to love to lie on the bed in our bedroom and take a nap under the ceiling fan. If he awoke and found himself to be alone in the room, he would issue a command for company or to be taken off the bed so he could rejoin the pack. In the evenings when I was reading or watching television, Max would jump up on my lap, roll over on his back and nudge my hand until I would softly stroke his stomach. This would go on for hours or until my muscles cramped up. There was never a day that I didn’t feel grateful Max had come into my life.

Last December, Max turned 14, and with his advanced age came advanced health problems. Arthritis stealthily robbed him of most of his ambulatory functions. Liver problems arose. Recently, he became incontinent; his quality of life plummeted. I didn’t want him to suffer, and I didn’t want him to die, but I tried to make the decision about killing my dog not about what I wanted, but about what was best for him. I asked him if he was ready to go several times, but received no firm answer. Ultimately, I had to answer for him, and I will have to answer for his death.

Max died in my arms with my lips on his tri-colored head. Of course, a little bit of me died with him. I will pick up his cremated remains in about a week, and he will take his place alongside Emmutt and Roxie.

As I drove home with tears in my eyes, the sky opened up and cried.

Read more!

Kenny's Timing Is Off

Kenny arrived a few minutes late for his shift at Burger King. As he stepped through the back door into the kitchen, he sensed something was amiss. He glance to his left and saw Cassie, the new counter girl from Enid Bagnold High School, wielding a basket of hot French fries and making threatening gestures towards Nell, the veteran grill supervisor.
“Cool,” thought Kenny, as he stood riveted to the floor, “chick fight.”
Alex Guisada, the assistant manager came out of the little office, took in the scene and said, “What seems to be the problem here?”
“The problem,” said Nell, “is that this little bitch doesn’t know a number 2 combo from a number 6 combo. She totally screwed up an order and tried to blame it on me.”
“Bullshit,” cried Cassie, “This crazy woman hates me because Stan, the drive-in window guy, thinks I’m pretty. She’s jealous, and she’s mean.”
“Let’s just all calm….” Alex started to say but was cut off as Nell grabbed a hot spatula and lunged for Cassie. Cassie reacted by tossing the hot fries in Nell’s face, causing third-degree burns on Nell’s forehead, lips, and nose. Nell screamed and brought the spatula’s edge down on Cassie’s bicep, causing a severe gash and drawing a copious amount of blood.
Kenny took a tentative step forward and slipped on the blood-covered tile. As he fell, his head struck the corner of the ice machine, killing him instantly.
The chaos in the kitchen halted. As the kitchen staff looked down on dead Kenny, Stan’s voice could be heard on the intercom, “Hey, where’s my onion rings?”

Read more!

What Do I Want

I've been pondering the question ask of me by my high-school guidance councilor many years ago: "What do you want out of life?" When you are 16, it is near impossible to even know what life has to offer, much less to be able to choose specific components that will make up yours. When I responded, "I don't know, whatta you have to offer?", he told me to go back to class and, then he wrote "waste management assistant" in my file. In my "permanent file," the one I was sure would follow me throughout my adulthood. I needn't have worried; adulthood has yet to arrive.
But the years still pass, and eventually I suppose I'll have to decide what I want out of life before I run out of it. The older you get, I think the first thing you want out of life is…more life. I've known a few people who were ready to go, but not many. Life is habit forming, and it is a bitch to quit.
Life has been pretty good to me, and there's not much I want that I haven't gotten. There are, of course, very personal things I would like to change, but I can live with the results.
I want a mounted buffalo head. I don't want anyone to go out and kill a buffalo to get me one, an old ratty one will do. When I was 12, I wanted a buffalo for Christmas. I badgered my parents for months, telling them that if I had a buffalo head, I'd never want anything again--ever. Christmas came, and I opened a brightly wrapped box, and inside was a plastic buffalo head. Plastic! Jeez, I was disappointed.
I'd like to opportunity to apologize to Marilyn Beaner for saying she had cooties in the 5th grade. I still feel real about that.
I want my children to live happy and productive lives. They are well on their way to accomplishing that.
I want to be more than I am, but less than perfect.
I want to spend my love and save my pity.
I have a lot of knowledge, so now I would like more understanding.

Read more!

An Umlaut Spurned

She wants Belgium waffles and a Bob Marley joint. “You won’t find them here,” the nose-studded shopkeeper said. Her face rose to the next octave of color, and she danced with an alpaca’s tooth in her hand until dizzy. “Polly Sumatra just doesn’t understand me,” she complained loudly as she fled from the shop. I followed. She floated up the boulevard, black hair trailing in the slipstream, finally stopping in front of The Word Store. I approached cautiously as she peered through the display window. Standing next to her, I coughed, and she turned to look at me. Her electric blue eyes were almost painful to observe. I cleared my throat again and asked, “Do you need a word?”
“I need a whole sentence,” she replied in a cherry-colored voice with a half-smile on her lips.
I wasn’t prepared for her answer, and I stared too long at her cleavage while thinking of something to say. “Uh…I….”
“Are you a vulgarian?” she interrupted my stammering.
“Why yes, I am,” I said, regaining some composure.
“Oh,” she whispered, “cool. Do you have an umlaut I can borrow for a few days?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’ve got several extras, I’ll be happy to give you one.” I pawed around in my shoulder bag, and my hand emerged with a shiny, mint-condition umlaut which I handed her.
“Wow, thanks. That’s a very nice umlaut. Now, I’d like to offer you something in return.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, “It was my pleasure.”
“I insist,” she said. “You name it, anything you want.”
I thought for a bit then said, “I’d like peace on Earth.”
She handed me the umlaut back and walked on up the boulevard.

Read more!

Crystal's Lizards

Forty-two small, green lizards lined up to lick the big toe on Crystal’s left foot. She hated to disappoint them so she asked Roger to wait until the procession of reptiles had each had their turn before they left for the airport. Roger, of course, complained in that whiny, nasal voice that Crystal had come to despise ever since she had agreed to accompany him on this trip to The Barbados.
“Fuck off Roger,” said Crystal with a look of disdain on her freckled face, “Go take a cab by yourself. If I miss the plane, at least I’ll be spared sitting next to you on the fight home.”
Roger pouted. He pouted a lot over the past four days. Crystal hadn’t lived up to his expectations. She was not pliable enough; she was too…independent. “Fine, I’m going. You can stay here with those damn lizards, they’re cold blooded, just like you.”
“You’re a dick, Roger,” spat Crystal, “a real small dick. Now get the fuck out of here before I turn you into lizard chow.”
As Roger stormed away, Crystal turned her attention back to the lizards. They were so cute, each one waiting its turn in the grass, just off the patio. When one would finish its licking, the next would waddle up and take its place. She found their ministrations to be more calming than valium. Crystal leaned back in the deck chair, closed her eyes, and realized her toe had an erection.

Read more!

Waiting

Yesterday, I finally heard from my literary agent. I left a message for her last Friday wanting to know how the pimping of my book was progressing.
“We’ve had a couple nibbles,” she said, “but nothing definite yet. Don’t worry Mike, it’s only been a month, and we really haven’t gotten into the big push.”
Nibbles? Does that mean a publisher bit a noun but spit it out when he tasted the adjective attached to it? I’m worried; do I need to change bait?
“It is going to be fine,” she said, “You’ve got to have patience. The wheels of this business grind slow. I’ll talk to you next month, or sooner if I have any news.”
I am, of course, convinced my book, Pathetic Bob’s Self-Help Guide (Practical Advice From a Very Strange Dog), is probably the worst book ever written. I’m sure slush-pile readers are gathered at some New York bar shaking their heads at the audacity I had to pose as a writer.
The other manuscript—The Lunatic (My death and Life in a Bi-Polar World--is now in the hands of my editor. I anxiously await her phone call asking me if I have ever thought about as a mime.
Four submissions sent out to three magazines yesterday, weird magazines, my kind of magazines. Three notices of receipt by those magazines today. Electronic sniggering?
Writing is not as hard as waiting.

Read more!

Life (And Death) Throw Ed and Shirley A Curve

The transformation couldn’t have come at a worse time for Ed Rassmussen. The 84-year-old, retired, farm-implement salesman living in Glaston, Minnesota was in ill health and looking forward to dying, when Shelly, the next door neighbor’s teenaged, idiot, vampire daughter had gone and bit him, and now, he was turning into a bloodsucking himself.
“Why couldn’t that little blond, belly-pierced, cheerleader have bitten someone younger, or, at the very least, sucked out all my blood and left me in a pile of dust? Fuck, now I’m gonna have to become a night predator, and I wear dentures. How the hell is that gonna work out?” Ed complain.
Ed’s wife Shirley was as upset as Ed. Her plans to spend Ed’s life insurance money on a cruise to Panama and a 48-ince flat-screen TV were now in ruins. It seemed that there was little choice but to become Ed’s minion, carrying out his daytime errands and keeping his coffin clean.
Life sucked. So did death.

Read more!

Jugs

I'd like to see more jugs. No, I'm not euphemistically talking about women's hooters...er...breasts, but I refer to ewers, clay receptacles, earthenware storage units. You know, jugs.
Jugs were once a mainstay of civilization. Even before Jesus was a puppy, people were schlepping around all sorts of commodities in jugs. Jugs of wine were real popular, as were jugs of grain, dates, water, hummus, cocoa puffs and animal renderings. Jugs were the backbone of ancient commerce.
Jugs were easy to make, too. A little water and dirt and, viola--a jug. Jug-making guilds sprang up all over the Middle East, providing thousands of workers with an honest day's labor. There are even inscriptions on ancient pyramid walls featuring jugs. Jug craftsmen were hailed as great artists. Ernie of Mesopotamia was the first recipient of the "Juggie" award in 12 BC. He set a standard that jugsters aspire to today.
But there lies the rub. There are not many jug craftspeople left. Why? Because the demand for them has dwindled. Sure, maybe a few maple-syrup factories order some, but by and large, jug packaging has become a thing of the past. Now, we are deluged with plastic and cardboard containers that have no style, no panache, and no soul. With a jug all you have to do is take off the top and pour the contents out. Not any more; have you ever tried to open a cd package? Of course people might say, "Well, now we have metal canisters, they're much better." Perhaps metal canisters are better if you are storing nuclear material, but metal is a harsh, industrial material fit only to enfold waste products, but they lack aesthetics. Jugs are earthy, vibrant, and beautiful. When metal dies, it rusts. When jugs die the eulogy might read, "dirt to dirt, water to mud." Jugs are environmentally sound and their construction can provide even the most simple-minded person with gainful employment. Jugs rock.
It's time to bring jugs back. Write your government officials.

Read more!

Blessed Be His Name

His mother called him “Pink” instead of his given name, “Vernfrom.” The boy’s father insisted on “Vernfrom” because it was his grandfather’s name, and Pink’s mom relented to the pressure.
“He may be Vernfrom on paper, but it is obvious we just can’t send him out into the world with that odd name,” said his mom, the day after he was born. “We will call him ‘Pink.’”
What Pink’s mom found obvious about “Vernfrom” she was totally oblivious to when it came to “Pink.” The moniker “Pink” is fine if you are a young woman pursuing a career in pop music, but for a boy struggling his way into manhood, the name carried with it serious connotative baggage.
Shortly after his 18th birthday, Pink/Mordecai had his name legally changed to Mike, proving, to me at least, the boy suffered from the same obliviousness that ran in the earlier generations of his family. His family name is Hunt.

Read more!

The Search For Randy Eleven

(Many thanks to Bernard, the Canadian beaver wizard, for his contribution to this story)

One of my favorite musical groups is Randy, Randy, Randy, and Randy, whose album "I'm So Randy" shot up to number three on the underground, subliminal music charts in 2002. The group is still together and is currently touring in support of its latest release, "Spiders and Milk," but has limited its tour appearances to states and countries with an "O" in their names.
I've been listening to the new album and have become intrigued with the cryptic song, "He Ain't A Randy No More," so I got on the Internet to find out more about the band. There were only three entries for Randy, Randy, Randy and Randy on Google, and the first two were about a Burmese family that named all its kids after actor Randy Quaid. On the third try, I hit paydirt. The Randy Files, run by a kid who calls himself Snip Whippet, is a virtual goldmine of all things Randy (and Randy and Randy and Randy). I read the band-members' bios, discography, saw colorful pictures of each member's tattoos, and learned the band's original name was "Turds Wrapped In Foil." Interesting stuff indeed, but the most astounding thing I learned was: there was a fifth Randy! I'm not kidding, a Randy number five. It seems Randy 5 left the group shortly before the release of "I'm So Randy," and even though he sang back-up vocals and played rhythm guitar on the album, he was never credited for his contribution.
According to Whippet, Randy 5 and the rest of the band had a falling out over which drugs the band would use to gain street cred with its fans. Four Randys opted for heroin and crystal meth while Randy 5, a former lactose-intolerant, semi-pro squash player, insisted on Viagra and Mylanta. A nasty scene ensued, with Randy 5 trying to strangle Randy 2 with a guitar string. Randy 1, 3 and 4 pulled 5 off and beat him to a pulp. Randy 5 left the group and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. But, the story doesn't end there.
Financed by student loans and Google’s AdSense revenue, Whippet relentlessly pursued clues as to the fate of Randy 5, and he has come up with some fascinating tidbits. Using sophisticated tracking software, Snippet combed through IRS records, voter registration records, Blockbuster movie-rental receipts, and birth certificates to find the missing Randy's trail. It seems shortly after leaving the band, Randy 5 (whose real name is Randy Eleven), abandoned his musical career and went to work in a shoelace factory in Sri Lanka, where he rose to a supervisory position as chief aglet installer. After only a year at the factory, Randy 5 (Eleven) left, and the trail went cold.
Six months later, he turned up in Flagstaff, Arizona working as a cactus inspector for the state. Records show he was fired for drunkenness after only three months on the job, and Randy 5 (Eleven) once again moved on, finally resurfacing in New York City, hiring himself out as a footstool for the rich. One day, while propping up a wealthy industrialist's feet, the tycoon's wayward son wandered in and recognized Randy. The kid peppered him with questions about the band, the breakup, and what Randy's had been up to. Randy 5 (Eleven) flew into a rage, told the kid to "get sodomized by a syphilitic lizard,” and stormed out, falling off the radar again.
Whippet says the last reported Randy 5 (Eleven) sighting came earlier this year in Barstow, California. A woman named, "Wisteria," says she recognized the fifth Randy at a Shell gas station. "I was like, uh, wow, that's Randy 5, so I went up to him while he was pumping gas into a Chrysler mini van and said, `Wow, you're Randy 5, and he was all like, `Yeah, I was, now I'm just Randy Eleven," and I'm like, `Cool,' and then he smiles and gets in his mini van--which, by the way, was totally full of cacti--and then he waves at me, and I'm like, ‘Bye Randy 5.’"
I should have left in the tale there, but I am a former journalist with an inquisitive nature and too much time on my hands. I became obsessed with Randy Eleven’s story and was determined to pursue it.
During my days as a newsperson traveling the globe, I developed a web of friendships with some rather extraordinary individuals. These people—from rogues to royalty—are uncanny in their ability to gather information, so I immediately sent out e-mails and carrier pigeons asking for help in tracking down the missing Randy. I received much of the same information Whippet had already posted on his website, but a friend based in Canada sent me a cryptic letter that takes the story in a weird, and possibly ominous direction.
My friend, Jean-Pierre Castor, is a former dealer in rare antiquities, specializing in 14th-century drool buckets favored by European aristocracy and old, Flemish chastity belts. He retired from the trade after a “misunderstanding” with law-enforcement officials Columbia, and currently runs the “Cirq Beav” in Montreal. However, Jean-Pierre is still in the loop when it comes to matters of secrets and rumors.
After customary greetings, his letter reads:

“Actually, I had to verify on my source before I could only think of mentioning some odd events that a friend of mine told me about. He's been researching abuses on the Canadian health care system for some time. You need to know that Canada has become a haven for people in need of medical care as the service is free for Canadian citizens. Well that could partially change soon, but that's not what I want to entertain you with. Plus, Michael Moore has already clowned around this issue.
My friend is a free lance journalist--he's done some stunts over the years, like spending three months among homeless people, living the way they do, making friends, really becoming a member of the community, if such a word can define the thousands who wander about, in search of an answer to the question ‘where the fuck am I today?’. Of course, with abuses of alcohol, zombie pills and other fire exits, his recollection were sometimes foggy. He still managed to write a series of articles, although I don't know how much of it is true. In any case, this series brought him recognition.
“Now, this is where things get interesting. My friend spent a few weeks in Lebanon just before Israel proceeded to bomb the southern suburbs of Beyrouth. He was there to collect information about Lebanese who also have the Canadian citizenship. There are a few hundred of thousand of them from Christian backgrounds who generally keep an address in Canada via a family member, but really live in Beyrouth most of the time, coming back when a war breaks out or when they need medical care. It is a documented fact.
“Now, my friend flew back to Canada just before the Beyrouth airport was damaged by bombing, and he spent the flight sitting with an American man with a southern accent who told him a fascinating story about an experiment that Israel has been trying to set up. The experiment involves creating a wall of cacti at the border with Lebanon. Unfortunately, the war broke out and the first thing that Hezbollah did was to rocket shred the experimental fence into a fruit salad.
“The American, who identified himself as Warren Robertson, could not provide documental proof, and considering the collateral damage from the war, it was just about impossible for my friend to verify the facts. Although the inquiry on the conduct of the Israeli chiefs of the military suggests information was withheld, my friend remained skeptical of the whole story and the character himself.
“However, once they landed at Montreal Pierre-Elliot Trudeau (PET) airport (and by the way, in French, the meaning of "pet" is "fart", so you can imagine how the French Canadians have been laughing at their English counterparts for being so fond of a fart--but then, most of them are assholes anyway), Warren Robertson's luggage was checked by custom officers, and what they found was dumbfounding: a Styrofoam case filled with frozen cacti flowers. Now, cacti are one of the plants that are banned from entering Canada due to their negative effects on beavers; beavers among other species have suffered severe wounds from trying to use cacti as dam building material in some area of Southern Quebec. Mr. Robertson didn't even argue the confiscation and was rather eager to walk away. That more than anything else triggered my friend’s interest into the man.
“My friend offered to let Mr. Robertson stay at his apartment as long as necessary for him to arrange for his traveling back to wherever he was coming from. That's how he eventually discovered that Mr. Robertson is a Canadian citizen since 2005.
“I don't want to go on at length on how my friend researched the whereabouts of Mr. Robertson, but I can transmit to my friend any question of yours if you really are interested on the details for your eventual book.
“Anyway, my friend discovered that Warren Robertson is actually Randy Eleven, although by the thick moustache he had under his nose, he looked more like George Clooney in Ocean's Thirteen. He seemed to have just been treated for breast cancer in Montreal (yes, it happens to men too; although not as often as colorectal cancer , which tends to show that he eats well and is not too anal retentive).
“My friend told me that he is still around; he even knows where he lives but was reluctant to tell me more, as Randy Eleven seemed somewhat evasive on what his life in Canada was about.
“I know that my friend has diverted his investigation towards Randy, but I think that the connection with medical care is still on. He wouldn't tell me more. And you know what? I strongly feel that there could be something of an American Connection tapping into the medical care system; it could even be that there some CIA and FBI agents involved undercover, although I hope not; it would be so corny. I just don't know what Randy is doing in here; I hope to know more eventually.
“I have to admit that my lack of knowledge of the music of Randy, Randy, Randy & Randy makes it difficult for me to understand how the hell he could end up in Lebanon with cacti flowers. I wonder sometimes; there are so many obscure personas involved in the show business, maybe Randy Eleven is not Randy Eleven?
“I'd be curious to have your take on it.
“I hope this information can be of help to your research; I am not sure however that my friend would be too happy that I told you about this since that would be like stealing the dough from his mouth, if you see what I mean. But considering that you have yourself much to share as far as Randy's background is concerned, I am sure that an agreement can be reached.”

As I stated before, I am obsessed with this story, but I am unsure how to proceed. Jean-Pierre’s information was startling, to say the least, and I know I can count on him to funnel further tidbits. However, I’m torn. I do not wish to place Jean-Pierre in harm’s way, and from the information we now have, it seems there may be nefarious actors involved. I know my friend can handle himself, but what if something bad befalls the beavers in his cirq? How could I live with myself?

Read more!

Underwear: The Lynchpin of Literacy

Thank the gods for discarded underwear. Without it only the rich may have had access to literature.

"Underwear underpins the spread of Western culture, with discarded underpants ranking alongside the invention of printing in the spread of literacy, according to a medieval historian.

Delegates at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds, northern England, were told that social migration from rural to urban areas in the 13th century brought with it changes in attire.

Whereas rough and ready peasants thought little of wearing nothing under their smocks, the practice became frowned upon in the burgeoning towns and cities, leading to a run on undergarments.

And when the underwear was worn out, it provided a steady supply of material used by papermakers to make books.

"'The development of literacy was certainly helped by the introduction of paper, which was made from rags,' Marco Mostert, of Utrecht University in the Netherlands and one of the conference organisers, said this week.

"'These rags came from discarded clothes, which cost much less than the very expensive parchment which was previously used for books.

"'In the 13th century, so it is thought, as more people moved into urban centres, the use of underwear increased -- which caused an increase in the number of rags available for paper-making.

"'The invention of the movable type printing press by Johannes Gutenberg in the mid-15th century is generally credited with spreading learning.'

"But Mostert said that although literacy did not become widespread until the 19th century, it was more common in the Middle Ages than many believe because of cheap paper made from rags."

Thanks to Raw Story.

---

Read more!

The Riboflavin Dream

“I don’t think I’m getting enough riboflavin.”
“What’s riboflavin?”
“I’m not sure, a vitamin or mineral or something. I’m pretty sure I’m deficient in it though.”
“Why would you think that?”
“It came to me in a dream.”
“Was it a voice dream or a picture dream?”
“It had elements of both.”
“Well, can you describe what happened in your dream?”
“You know how dreams are, after you wake up, the details become hazy.”
“What do you remember?”
“I was sitting on a tattered couch in the attic of a condemned paint store. Gathered around me were 12th-century Arabian physicians, sweat-soaked female basketball players, seven gophers that were missing their left arms, Polynesian graffiti artists, and a white Shetland pony. Paintings of ferrets dressed in old, British naval uniforms hung on the walls. Agaves were situated in the west corner, and a large, decorative ewer filled with shimmering water was placed by the side of the couch. There seemed to be quite a bit of murmuring going on.”
“I don’t see how that has anything to do with riboflavin. Did someone tell you that you needed more riboflavin?”
“I was getting to that. Suddenly, a naked Asian woman sporting a full-body tattoo of American Civil War’s Battle of Bull Run, walked into the room and started singing the Prince song, ‘When Doves Cry.’ When she finished, the assemblage broke into applause and shouted, ‘riboflavin, riboflavin.’ The Asian woman looked directly at me, and I immediately got an erection. Everyone except the pony filed out the door, and the water began to bubble. Shortly thereafter, the ferret paintings fell off the walls, and the pony remarked, ‘Those were not well-hung ferrets. I believe they needed more riboflavin in the pigment.’”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. What do you think?”
“Hmmm, what do you think?”
“I think I need more riboflavin.”
“I think you’re fucking nuts.”

Read more!

Riding The Raccoon

I rushed swiftly at the rainbow ostrich, tackling it low, right below its knees. It was caught unawares and fell with a woosh and a ferb and lay stunned for a moment—but only a moment. Holding tight to ostrich legs that felt like old baseball gloves soaked in pickle brine, I wondered why I had tackled the bird in the first place. Before an answer arrived in my brain, the odd-looking creature pecked my pate and bit the living hell out of my arm. Reasons no longer seemed to matter, running away did. I let go and rolled away, into a clump of damp pampas grass. The ungainly bird rose, gakking and sputtering. He looked around and spotted me laying there, wiping blood off my right arm. He walked over to me on his velociraptor legs and proceeded to kick my body like a street fighter as I pled insanity. Eventually tiring, the pissed-off geek-bird screamed an ostrich curse, spit on me, and then pranced away into the night.
I felt like a torn bone sack, but I was alive. Mirasol was not going to like this; she was not going to like this at all, so I decided the best thing to do was to stay away from Mirasol. I re-saddled my raccoon, Gerde, and rode towards the bluffs where I knew I’d find solace and solvents at my friend Leotis’ penguin-free condo.
I arrived after midnight, but Leotis was still up working on his new play about the celery stalkers of lower Saxony. He welcomed Gerde and I with open arms and quickly filled plates of foul-smelling cheese and cups of licorice soda for our sustenance. When we had finished, Gerde crawled off to a nearby sofa and fell into a bushy tailed slumber. Leotis inquired about my rather disheveled appearance and the state of things at the lab. I filled him in on the man vs. large-mean-bird episode and brought him up to date on Mirasol’s work. He glowed like a beaver’s wine bottle and said, “Mirasol is not going to like this.”

As Mirasol undressed in the bedroom, the muscles in her tan shoulders were aching. It had been a long day at the lab, working on her notes and trying to finish the report for Elgin, the project’s manager. The depletion of energy she was feeling exacerbated her irritation at Charlie. Where was he? He could have at least called. This was the third time this month he’s gone off on “a short ride of spontaneous discovery and cultural survival,” as he like to call his brief disappearances.
After a shower and her ritual “rubbing of the beauty oils” into her toned and tasty skin, she lay in the bed and wondered briefly if Charlie might be having an affair. “Highly doubtful” was her conclusion. They had been married for 20 years, and although she knew he appreciated the magic of women, she was confident that she, and only she, possessed the right mojo for him. Although they were opposites in many ways—she, a scientist, he, a writer of novels; she, a detail diva, he, a big-picture dreamer—the bond was strong. Charlie was a brilliant wing nut, a gilded loon who often saw things too painful or beautiful to see. He was a curious curiosity, and she loved him enormously. “Goddammit, where is that son of a bitch?” she said out loud, frustration and worry weaved into her voice. She looked at the clock on the nightstand; the digital numbers displayed 3:00 a.m. She turned her body onto its sleeping side and closed her eyes. At 3:01, the telephone rang.

Leotis Andrews loved Charlie like a son. They met at a reading Leotis had given during Charlie’s first year at U.C.L.A. Andrews was touring in support of his latest novel Green Beans, (which won a National Book Review Award), and Charlie wanted a chance to meet a “real” writer. Charlie got his chance at the “meet-and-greet” after the reading. He took Leotis’ hand, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Mr. Andrews, you make my brain dance. You make castles and cottages with words, and I am pulled into their parlors where you and I spend a few hours together. When I walk out the doors, I feel pleasantly plump. My name is Charles Rainwater, and I am, at the moment, professorial fodder, a lump of clay that is being kneaded and shaped by the higher educational system of the great state of California. But no matter what the system needs, wants, or says I should be, I will be a writer.” Leotis Andrews invited Charlie Rainwater to dinner that evening, and a great friendship was born.
Andrew’s was now 65 years old, and Charlie had recently celebrated his 45th birthday. As Andrews watched Charlie talk, he recognized there was something different about his long-time friend. He couldn't say what is was in particular, but some thing was a little off. Charlie had lost weight since the last time they’d been together, but the sight change he noticed wasn’t physical. No, this was something in the waves, a current flux maybe.
Charlie was very talkative tonight, but it wasn’t like a methamphetamine induced word rush; he wasn’t spewing out manic word bullets. On the contrary, he was quite lucid. He spoke cogently, in well-measured sentences; his words flowed with insight, wit, and color. It was just that he seem that if he stopped talking he might collapse. Leotis listened attentively, throwing out a comment now and then, but he instinctively knew that Charlie needed to talk…about anything. He needed to rid his mind of and excess of words.
Gerde, Charlie’s raccoon, was making soft snurgerling noises on the sofa, and Leotis was beginning to tire. “Charles, my dear friend, you’ve been talking to me for half the night; are you really going to begin talking to me, or should we turn in?” said Leotis.
Charlie poured himself some more soda and took a long drink. He tilted his head down for a few seconds, as if gathering his thought. When he raised his face, there was a hint of a smile on his lips as he looked into Leotis’ eyes. “I think I’ve become more than human.”

Read more!

The Moon and the Lycanthrope

What does a full moon say to a lycanthrope that causes him or her transform into a ravenous beast? I can’t imagine a song so seductive it would oil the blood, raise the hair, and lengthen the teeth of a human and cause it to morph into a man-eater.
Does the moon coax the werewolf out by the tidal influences on its bodily fluids, or does it simply say, “It’s that time of the month again, let it bleed.” Is the moon’s voice soothing or harsh; does it command or cajole?
Why can’t the lycanthrope resist? It’s not as if he couldn’t procure fresh meat as a human; I mean, haven’t they ever heard of butcher shops?
Does the moon lose its voice when it is waning or waxing, or can it only whisper at these times? When lycanthropes bite other animals, deer or rabbits for instance, why don’t those animals turn into werewolves also? I would think dogs, much more than humans, would be more susceptible to lycanthropy. Why doesn’t the moon sing its changing song to them?
Is the moon a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing? For centuries, man has looked to the moon for romantic inspiration; songs and sonnets have been written and sung to the glow it casts on love. Is lycanthropy the moon’s yang to its yen, the Pink Floydian Mr. Hyde to its Henry Mancinian Dr. Jekyll?
What is the magical song the moon sings?
What are the words the lycanthrope hears?

Read more!

Paris Hilton's Furniture Conspires to Kill Her

As soon as the deadbolt slid into place, and they were sure she was out for the night, the Henrik Mussman leather sofa spoke up. “Listen up, all of you, I can’t stand it anymore, and I know some of you feel the same way. It’s been going on for far too long, and I say it’s time we put an end to it.”
“I’m pretty disgusted, too,” said the $12,000, Machenspeil sideboard, “but what do you suggest we do?”
Several other pieces including the Rococo hall table, the Tienda floor lamp, and an 18th-century Gruble side chair chimed in, “Yeah, the situation is deplorable, but what can we do about it, we’re only furniture?”
“Well,” said the sofa, “I cost $35,000, and she treats me like a cum towel. I’m tired of her leaking on me.”
“Me, too,” said a voice from the bedroom, which everyone knew was the oversized Van Allen bed. “She dresses me in these atrocious flowered sheets, and lets that little dog crap on me. Something must be done.”
“Wait a minute, just wait a minute,” said the Diane Von Furstenburg dining table, “I don’t really have any problem with her. Sure there was that one time she had sex on me with that Greek kid and didn’t bother to wipe up, but that was it. I don’t think we should do anything drastic. And, I definitely think we should leave the little dog out of it. Poor thing, the way she treats it, dressing it up in those stupid clothes and all; no wonder the dog has mental problems. It’s not his fault, so let’s be fair.”
The sofa coughed and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. We’ll let the dog go but not her; she’s going to pay, and pay dearly.”
Some of the knick-knacks disagreed, and they were joined by the chandelier in the foyer, but the sofa said they’re opinions didn’t counts because they were simply decorations and couldn’t really be considered furniture.
Finally, the old, hand-woven, $70,000, Oriental rug spoke up, “Look, I’ve been here the longest, and I seen a lot. I don’t mind that she walks all over me, and I don’t mind that she has sex on me, but I absolutely draw the line at the leaking thing. It’s just rude and disrespectful. I say we should kill her.”
A hush fell over the room. Some of the furniture had been thinking the same thing, but had been reluctant to voice their opinions. Now, since the idea had been brought up, a murmur of approval arose. “Yeah, let’s whack her,” said the coffee table. “It’s not as though she has an important job or something. Does she even have a job?”
“She’s a celebrity,” offered the ottoman, “a leaking celebrity. It’s time for her to go.”
A vote was taken, and Paris Hilton’s furniture decided to murder her. “But how do we do it?” asked the rug.
“I’ll do it,” said the sofa. “The next time she sits on me, I’ll clasp my arms around her and smother her to death.”
“But she’ll leak all over you,” warned the armchair.
“That’s Ok, It’ll be the last time.”
The floor lamp sounded a note of caution, “What if you get caught?”
“Hey,” said the sofa, “I’m not worried about that. If I get caught, what are they going to do, reupholster me?”

Read more!

Razor Camels and Short Hoppers

The blackfellows from Downchurch called them razor camels. No one knew when the camels arrived, but the group had first been spotted in the lowlands nearly three years ago. Although no official tally had been kept, it was believed there were about 23 of them, mostly males. Razor camels seemed like an odd name for the indigenous people to call them; they carried no sharp instruments and didn’t know how to use a Motorola cell phone. Thought of mostly as desert animals, these camels preferred the seclusion offered by the forest. Seen so rarely, some said they were only specters, dromedary ghosts, better not seen or heard, but when the dry, Australian night wind blew, you could hear them, and what you heard was frightening. Apart from the occasional night-wind camel grunts, the group never bothered anyone; they kept to themselves and asked for nothing.
The troubles began a few months ago, shortly after the Great Roo War of the far outback. When the dust had settled on the bloody uprising, surviving, malcontent insurgents were driven from the west by King Longtail’s army and started arriving in the area. They came in pairs or groups of up to 15, most of them bearing scars and nasty attitudes. They became known locally as the Short Hoppers, and they were looking for a place to heal and plot revenge.
At first, the Short Hoppers settled at the edge of the forest, but it was clear they had aspirations on the forest itself; it was a perfect place to build a terrorist encampment. The fact the forest had been claimed as a homeland by the razor camels made no impression on the battle-hardened roos; they believed their cause justified any action they took to further it was Loki’s will.
The razor camels were not unaware of the roos’ presence and intentions, but abstained from direct confrontation. For the time being, they preferred to remain aloof, hidden, and calm. The people of Downchurch and its environs were growing apprehensive; by the end of the month, the roos’ numbers had swelled to more than 350 and the tension in that remote part of Australia was palpable. Small gangs of 15 to 20 Hoppers would occasionally be spotted in town, lounging on street corners, smoking weed or whispering secretively to one another. Dogs would whine whenever the Hoppers appeared.
It was the first of November that the tension escalated, and the fist casualty occurred. Henry Pontic, the old shepherd from the Boswell ranch, found a razor camel near the tree line of the forest on his way into town. The camel was dead, the victim, it seemed, of a savage tail thumping. Henry, a spiritual man, buried the camel under the watchful eyes of a dozen more camels standing in the shade at the edge of the forest. When the camel was interred, each of the other ones came out one by one and stamped a hoof on the grave. The last to emerge thanked Henry for his kindness and said, “Please, send word to the Hoppers, and tell them if they hop into the forest, they will be hopping into Thermopylae.”

Read more!

High Jumping

Yesterday, my lovely dentist Sonia said those words to me that all dentists learn in density 101: “Now you may feel a little discomfort.” She then proceeded to inflict massive amounts of pain in my head as she rooted around the canal of my upper molar. “Yes,” I screamed, feeling like Dustin Hoffman in the movie Marathon Man, “it is safe.” Undeterred, she continued to get all Lawrence Oliver on my ass.
Today, I am still in pain, and to help put the pain in perspective, I dug out an old video in which I am shown in all my glorious stupidity defying a grisly death. “See,” I told myself as I watched the video, “things could have been worse.”
The video was taken at least 10 years ago, and involved lunacy, cocaine, jumping off stuff, and my friend Lamont (names have been changed to protect the innocent).
One day, Lamont and I were bored, so we decided to drive around the Texas Hill County in his truck, snort large amounts of cocaine, and talk about sex, politics, and cheese. Suddenly, one of us said, “Hey, let’s go jump off a cliff.” This idea really sounded good to us, so we drove up to a place on the Guadalupe River that offered bungee jumping. There, high on a limestone cliff, was a huge steel walkway jutting out over the river. All we had to do was pay some people $80, and they would strap us into harnesses, walk us up the steel plank, and let us jump out over the river and fall several hundred feet, narrowly missing rocks and people floating by on inner tubes.
My white-powdered brain was absolutely stoked at the prospect of hurtling myself into space…until I arrived at the top of the steel walkway. Once I reached the summit, my brain slipped into reverse, and my feet began to back peddle. The bungee master could sense my terror and did what all good bungee masters should do; he pushed me off.
Since I was now committed, I tried my best to execute a perfect swan dive, and I must say I looked pretty good…for about a second. I made the mistake of looking down, and the swan quickly devolved into a spastic chicken. Wings flailing about wildly, I tried to grab onto air as the water, rocks, and tubers rose to meet me.
A split second before my head became a stain on the Texas landscape; I was yanked with a terrific force back into the sky. Unfortunately, the harness I was in had straps that formed a V at my crotch. Evidently I had not shifted my package correctly and when my downward plunge was diverted upward, the force of the harness strap on my left testicle shoved it up into my body where it came to rest next to my thyroid gland. A high-velocity rearrangement of sensitive body parts causes pain that even a snout full of cocaine cannot diminish.
My tooth feels a lot better now.

Read more!