Emmett Waxes Philosophically

Waxing philosophically, but you don't get a job by waxing.

It is often a problem to those of us who are considerably more patient with the whole process of being than those who are not to exist in the rush of the daily grind. The run fast or you don't get there mentality; the money makes the world go 'round ideals. We think it's silly, but it's actually quite profitable for the big pill companies.

Consider the other little people when you step on their heads and they scream out in pain. You laugh - HA! and they scream a little more... So Dante Infernoesque where the angels and the pilgrims turn their noses up at the damned, but isn't it only up to God to judge? Those who would be blinded by the shining wings of holy men are not so sinful as they seem. And those holy men don't shine so bright when you look close enough.

It has been so very long since I've had the chance to say what it all means to me (although sometimes it doesn't really mean it at all). I feel like Montaigne, but Montaigne would have never felt like me. Dahli is a veritable treasure trove of demi-godliness. She's my little chickadee.

Busloads of gawky little kids in dressy clothes run and play in places where they shouldn't. If I should trip one or two would I be liable?

It's Like One Big Epic Poem! Only Not So Big. And Not Really Epic.

Comfortable spaces are those that let you observe the world alone, but a crowd can often be more private than an empty space.

If I were a Celtic folk songstress I would sing on street corners until my lungs bled. And I wouldn't play the piano.

And here is where I play with my words:

The red wine on the table of facts has not affected us one bit, but the cute guys and chickens story at the local Taco Bell. All the cats seem to be running into themselves while Tommy, circuslike, slips on a red swimsuit. Swimming is the thought of the moment as the wound on my foot heals and I can only watch the fun. Too fucking long is how he describes the length of time it has been since he's eaten meat. Michael decides Tommy will be anal until his next sexual conquest, but Tommy thinks girls suck.

Yin Yang Café on 3rd Street on a Saturday Night

Welfare reform is the thought of the day as abortion, theater and economics roll around on our tongues. It's the Yin Yang Café on 3rd Street on a Saturday night. Jazz. Wine. Being thrilled at the idea of fruit.

We have befriended Tiffany, a jazz singer/actress from New York. It's all very nice, very cool. Cool. Jazz. Cool beer...no, cold beer.

Tim had scabies at one point of his life, but Danny is only here for the music. The music. The simple tapping of a cymbal while the bass speaks in tongues. If, at one point, the guitar's notes should float wistfully toward me, putting me on a train to Kansas City - a slow train, if you will - I would feel sublime. Lime. Lemon. Orange. Back to fruit, which Marge has craved all day without satisfaction. It's all talk. Sweet, winsome talk.

Meanwhile in Pamplona...: The Selwyn Diaries Part One

It is the biggest news to come out of the rock world. After almost a decade of dusty confinement in the back of Aileen's closet, the newly resurfaced diaries from Selwyn's ill-fated 1989 tour will soon find their way into a book.

"I got sick of people asking me, what happened? what happened? Whatever! It just ended. Read it yourself, if you have to. Now leave me alone, I've got some whittling to do."

It may have just ended, but for too many that doesn't explain the demise of The Biggest Band of the First Half of 1989. Fans, historians and scientists alike are salivating at the idea of reading, in her own words, anything that might help them understand why. They are hoping that the diaries will tell them what Aileen and Erica refuse to say. And The Cuyahoga Falls Intelligencer has procured an exclusive excerpt:

Thursday, 3 April -
Last night, after a pretty miserable show, I went searching for a technobar. I was saddened to find that Pamplona either did not have any or I was looking in all the wrong places. Fortunately my spirits were lifted when I returned to the hotel by the sight of those premier Southern rockers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, partying in the lobby. We talked and compared notes - much like rock stars do - and found they had also come expecting a good run with the bulls. We'd all figured they just let the bulls go periodically to run through the streets, goring unsuspecting tourists while the locals ran alongside them cheering and waving red kerchiefs (I always picture Spaniards waving red kerchiefs, like, all the time). But it turns out that they only do it during the Fiesta of San Fermin in July. Oh well.

Anyway, Erica was there, but she left pretty early into the night. Too bad, 'cause that's when the party really got started! Out came the instruments and the drinks, and we jammed - much like rock stars do - to all of Skynyrd's greatest hits. This went on and on until our climactic hour-and-a-half long rendition of "Freebird" in which I totally rocked out on my pan flute. Yeah!

At about four, we all said our good-byes and I went back to my room to prepare for our unscheduled stop at Fantasy Island, which is apparently near Pamplona. I've been thinking about what fantasy I want for myself. It hasn't been easy (there are so many!), but I think I've got just the right one. I wonder whose fantasy it is to see us?

Saturday, 5 April -
Well, well, well diary...it was Mandy Candy Sandy who requested our presence on the island, as if she doesn't run into us everyday anyway. It seems she's doing some sort of documentary on us for WNRDSNM Radio back home and we had to spend Friday sucking up to her. Sometimes she can really be annoying...

Ah, but today was my fantasy. I had told Mr. Roarke that I wanted to spend a day with Doug - doing what he does, being where he is. Suddenly there was before me the Flipadee Armenian Donut Hut, right there in the woods, complete with Autumn the redneck countergirl and an assortment of customers. I looked around and there he was - Doug! Mmmm.

We spent the rest of the day eating powdered donuts and staring out the window. No one seemed to notice that the trailer park was nowhere around. It wasn't exactly what I was hoping for, but it is what he does...and I did get the large vat of fried catfish I requested. I think next time I'll be more specific. In any case, we go to Paris next. Au revoir.

Monday, 7 April -
In gay Paree and yesterday we stopped by the Maison d'Eauclaire to pay our respects to the ladies who taught Carmine Lynne back home everything she knows about massage. Unfortunately, they were all dead, but we did get luxurious treatment anyway. It was a great feeling after having spent almost a week with those horrid scabs all over my body from the Barcelona incident. Erica kept staring at my shoulder again, poking at my birthmark and making those tsk-tsk sounds. So it looks like Dan Fogelberg, so what? It is NOT a tattoo! Whatever! She's just uptight from all her "lessons."

Anyway, last night I hooked up with one Luc Fauteuil, who showed me what real Parisians do. We spent the evening at a hole in the wall cafe in the Arrondissement of Montmartre and then we went to a house party. I managed to drag him away from the festivities to an office, where after rummaging through the drawers I found - of all things - a staple gun. We got totally naked and I spent the rest of the night making him run back and forth as I pressed down on the stapler, flicking little aluminum bullets at his most sensitive areas. He kept screaming, but I know he liked it.

When I was fully satisfied we got dressed and entered the main room to much applause (I guess they heard). Luc's fearful face turned into macho yeah-I-got-laid bullshit, which really disgusted me, so I left. YUCK!!!!! On the way to the hotel I noticed a dark figure staring over the side of a bridge by the Seine. Upon closer inspection I saw that it was Dahli (is everyone here?), who looked up startled when I said hey. She smiled and mumbled something about meeting Emmett then ran off into the night.

The rest of the way back I kept thinking about what I've been trying not to think about - that idiot David, who fell into my crocodile pit onstage in Spain and was eaten. It's not as if we haven't had the damn thing at every show we've done for the past year! What was he doing running around back there anyway, messing with Fluffy and Moe? Erica and the rest of our cast keep insisting that I get rid of it, but they just don't understand at all. I look at them and think of those days down home on the bayou, when I would sit on Mammy's lap while she told me stories of the original settlers and the voodoo witches would come by with herbs and stuff. Small minds, alas!

Today was uneventful. We had a great show and I decided to just go to bed, so here I am. And here I go. Night, night.

Tuesday, 8 April -
Today we were presented with the keys to the city of Paris and Erica proceeded to make a stupid joke about patisseries that no one understood. Her ankles were scratched raw and she had a small fly swatter with white fur stuck to the mesh sticking out of her back pocket. I'm not even going to speculate.

After that we hopped on a plane to Istanbul. Ironically enough, the movie for the evening was "Midnight Express," which left me feeling a little queasy. As far as I know I don't have anything that'll make me a target, except for Fluffy and Moe, but Raynelle assured me that she cleared it all at customs. I've heard they have excellent fish and carpets there. We're supposed to land sometime in the afternoon, so if I'm not feeling jetlagged I think I'll go explore.

Erica looks a little concerned, but she won't tell me what's going on. I have a feeling that she and Sting have had some sort of spat. To my great irritation, both of them seem upset, but it could be the in-flight movie. Sting is on his knees ignoring the stewardess (excuse me, flight attendant) that keeps ramming her cart into him, blocking me from the scrod I can see just a few feet away. Move dammit!!! Erica may call it quits anyway - she has alluded to that. I'm not really surprised, though. He's...off. I can only imagine him behind closed doors. I hope he's not treating Erica badly. What's that about being careful what you wish for? It makes me wonder - along with my fantasy on the island (which, yes, was pretty lame) - that maybe I don't want Doug after all. Maybe I don't know what I want. Or maybe I just want to dance at a technobar.

Wednesday, 9 April -
This evening's show was excellent! I must say that it was enhanced by the presence of Efe, the boy who sold me a particularly tasty fish snack while I looked at all the rugs. Yesterday, after we had landed and checked into the hotel, I decided to go on an adventure to the markets. I approached a gorgeous dark figure with dark eyes and thick black hair sitting in a booth. Oh, but I could hardly stand being next to him without jumping in and having him take me there among the animals. Luckily, with my rudimentary Turkish and his basic English, I got him back to the hotel, where he spent hours teaching me indigenous dances.

Early this morning we snuck out to his grandfather's farm, where we spent the day running naked in the fields. Suddenly, there was before me a slightly bemused Erica and Raynelle. How they found me I do not know, but I have a feeling that Mandy Candy Sandy must be here. The four of us drove back to the concert. Sting was there, looking rather down, and I actually felt a little sorry for him. But that didn't last long. We threw on our stage clothes and ran out to a roaring crowd. It was during the third song, in which I really rock out, that I glanced back to see Efe and noticed he was playing with Fluffy and Moe. And they liked him! They don't even like Raynelle, who takes care of them more than I do. Yeah!

And so I sit here diary, with Efe curled at my feet, thinking that this one's definitely a keeper. More than Jorge, even more than Doug. I was planning on going to Erica's room to have an in-depth discussion about him seeing as how we haven't been talking to each other lately. She just keeps looking at me all concerned and I look at her like she has a problem. Anyway, when I knocked on her doorshe wouldn't open it. She kept asking me what the password was with a strange tone in her voice. I thought for a minute that she might still be upset about having to find me this afternoon until I heard laughter...but it could have been the TV. She absolutely refused to open the door! I wonder if she's being held hostage, but then I would think that wouldn't I? Oh well, I'll talk to her about it tomorrow. Night night.

Friday, 11 April -
It's back in the U.S. for us my friend, and what a trip it was. Well, not that too many exciting things happened, but enough to keep it interesting. I didn't bother asking Erica about the password thing seeing as how she felt uncomfortable even looking me in the eye the whole way back. I, of course, couldn't help but chuckle at her situation. I know, I know, I'm cruel, but when they found her stuck to the bed in much the same way I was in Barcelona, I couldn't help myself. Funny, though, everytime she passes by I feel like I'm at the beach. Whatever.

Anyway, we're in Kansas City tonight. I've had a great time telling Efe about the American wonders that Third World countries like...well, like everywhere but America...wish they had. Then I feel silly. I mean, it's not like he didn't study at university or something. In America. But no matter, I need to get ready for the show. I think maybe Erica and I should talk.

In The Beginning: The Selwyn Diaries Part Two

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

Room 203

If you walk down the hall of the BBMS Memorial High School and pay close attention to the arrows carved into the walls and lockers of the first floor, you will reach Room 203. Aileen carved those arrows to honor the site of her first meeting with Erica. On April 23rd, 1986, after days of staring at her intriguing, androgynous hair, Aileen accidentally on purpose punched Erica in the gut as a way of greeting. Erica kicked Aileen in the shins. They formed Selwyn & the Storks then and there.

Two years earlier the room was the scene of the infamous Great Caulking Horror, the details of which are questionable as the story evolves into legendary proportions. Every year brings new bits of information, some from sources who cannot be trusted. Local children innocently skip rope to rhymes commemorating the event. Frida’s Catering has a sandwich named after it. The only thing that remains certain is the inability of Steve the Janitor to walk in a straight line anymore.

The school is empty now as the summer season brings vacation time, but Room 203 remains lively as the Cuyahoga Falls Popular Museum. Mayoress Reputa, in an effort to bring in tourism, made it a museum just last year after Hybrid Molasses used it as a rehearsal space for their latest album, Chevrolet. They cited the room’s intense vibe as the foundation for their best record to date.

Emmett Colquitt penned his first philosophies from a fourth row desk during a math class in Room 203. The BBMS student pro-choice/pro-life march started from this room. It was here that in a fit of patriotic loyalty Blink Edwards stood upon his chair during American History and brought everyone to tears with his “Greatest Citizens” speech. Indeed, Cuyahoga Falls’ greatest citizens and then some have been a part of this room since the school’s first incarnation as Cuyahoga High in 1912.

Many have wondered at how fate has worked to bring such a collection of events to this one small blip on the map. But in life some mysteries must remain so.

Of Beer and Water

Down by the banks of the river was a small pub with an outdoor bar facing the hills. Dahli would sit there for hours and contemplate the state of life, staring at the water. Emmett would philosophize to all the local drunkards on their patio chairs. Sometimes Dahli would impulsively throw herself into the river and Emmett would have to round up the gang to get her back out again. Eventually, the bar owner decided it was far too dangerous to let her come around anymore. After all, these folks who were trying to save her life were usually drunk and therefore likely to drown as well. It seemed to her that everyone was being rather silly, so she decided to throw herself into the river somewhere else instead.

No one ever realized that Dahli didn’t want to die. She just wanted to feel the smooth stones on her feet, which didn’t actually happen until she decided to take her shoes off.

Chris Jackson Begins

It was a balmy 65 degrees on the night Chris Jackson stuffed his first victim, an evening which had started innocently enough at one of Akron’s finer roadside juke joints.

A lovely Swedish girl - Chris had an affinity for all things Swedish, no doubt stemming from a rare disease he had contracted in his childhood - clung to his arm. He smiled proudly as he noticed the smirks of appreciation she received from the other men in the place. To Chris she was a well-deserved reward reaped from his envelope-stuffing enterprise.

Everything was pleasant. The Boone’s Farm artificially flavored Sangria sat chilling in a bucket and the chili cheese fries were on their way. Then the voices started.

“Fernando!” they beckoned.

“Fernando!” they called incessantly. Chris began to swat at the air and slap his face.

“Are you okay?” his date asked hesitantly. Her eyes cut toward the door, beyond which the Akron night was waiting, pregnant with possibility.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get out of here. This place is freaking me out.”

Chris and his date went to a local dance club. She hoped to escape with someone else now that Chris was beginning to pull out wads of his already thin and smarmy hair. He just hoped that the music would drown out the voices. But the voices didn’t stop, and he began to stare at his date with a new, malicious gleam in his eye. They seemed to be telling him something, as if “Fernando!” were not the exact message they were trying to portend.

“C’mon!” Chris said.

His date gave up her search for salvation. No one else in the club appeared any better than her own suddenly psychotic boyfriend, so she left with him. They went to the nearest grocery store, where Chris bought cans and cans of Spam, completely ignoring the cleverly shaped tins of COON just to the left. She eyed him strangely. He turned and slapped her face, sending her reeling down the aisle to crash into a teetering display of pantiliners.

*****

It was almost dawn when Chris found himself slinking back through ominous Akron alleyways toward his car, trailing behind him the bits of fleshy potted meat that dripped from beneath his fingernails. He couldn’t remember the events of the previous night, but he felt oddly at peace. His heart had been sated. The voices had ceased. For now.

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

The Stuffer

A strange man was seen running from an alley near the Flipadee Armenian Donut Hut. When police went to investigate they found a young Scandinavian girl stuffed with Hormel brand food products.

“The Stuffer has hit us again,” quaffed Lt. Wunderbar. “Fortunately for the CFPD, he did it next to a donut shop.” He then proceeded into the store. There he ordered three dozen lemon iced cookies for a departmental meeting that afternoon. It was later reported that a good time was had by all.

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)