I Could Play With My Words

Possession

2007-02-26T22:11:00.001-06:00

To D, When It Is Cold Outside

2006-10-26T14:23:00.000-05:00

In the night I am an oven;
I preheat until I bake.
And in the morning,
when your skin is crispy,
I know it’s time to eat.

I Am Virginia. I Am Validated.

2006-10-03T21:24:00.000-05:00

Yes, I have been going through some unfortunate issues lately. They always come along in a big bundle like property rights. It is good, then, that things have settled in my favor, as they do. My only complaint is this that every time, every single time, I have gotten the same response from friends and enemies alike. I have been told that I am a good person, and that good people always end up...well...good. What is this Good? I am not good. I am not of the Discovery Health Channel minions who can find beauty and joy even after suffering a horribly disfiguring disease. I cannot adopt a child of my own race, let alone of another, and love him as I do my own. I will laugh at you and talk behind your back. Regardless of whether I am right or wrong, I will tailor my arguments just so in order to win them by the widest margin possible. I am often sad, angry, superior, aloof. I pick my nose and flick it out the window, preferably at somebody. To be sure, I am not bad either. Still, I do not know this Good. And I am not so sure I would like it if I did.

On My Way Back Home

2006-06-24T15:22:00.000-05:00

The path from our nation's capital is riddled with stops. Not the typical ones, though, as we've tried to avoid those, but the ones that tell us about Joe Sweeney's banjo, Walton's Mountain and the Virginia Prison Farm recordings of 1936. The real stuff. Sure there's Appomattox and the Blue Ridge Parkway, whose suicidal turkeys cause much laughter, yet there's also the Carter Fold off The Crooked Road. There's Jonesborough Tennessee, the Lost Sea and McCaysville Georgia. There's the downtowns of Asheville North Carolina; Richmond, Bristol and Lynchburg Virginia; Auburn, Montgomery and Monroeville Alabama. There's great food and views in Rabun County Georgia with nary a squealing pig or a dueling banjo in sight. There's mountains and lakes and creeks and trees and really nice people.

There's so much more.

Just get off the damn interstate.

Stuff I Didn't Write

2006-05-22T01:02:00.000-05:00

See the dwarves and see the giants. Which one would you choose to be?

I'm freezing like a 30 Century Man. Again with the Disney reference, but he is safe and buried somewhere in California. NOT, as is commonly rumored, in a freezer - with his feet in the air and his head on the ground. Ewww...or is it Oooo?

Don't believe all that I say. Hell, I don't believe all that I say.

The termite eats the windowsill. And I'm determined to believe that if I lift the shade there will be more. I envision the Koi pond at that Chinese restaurant in Orlando. Nasty, slimey fish. I see the termites, but I don't see that thing hovering out of the corner of my eye. It is not there. IT IS NOT THERE. The wine will help me believe it. It'll slow me down, like the night I did 'shrooms and ate the tiny Kit Kat bar in six hours. You know what I'm talking about, little sister.

There are people I dislike in this world. You know who you are.

There are people I love. Like My Bloody Valentine. Loveless is eleven tracks of pure perfection (sorry if I'm repeating myself TOTW). Buy it if you know what's good for you. I'm listening to it now and it makes me want to...do things...with certain people. Again, you know who you are.

I laugh like a machine gun.

This is how I feel at this moment.

If I walk down this hallway tonight it's too quiet, so I pad through the dark and call you on the phone. Push your old numbers and let your old house ring till I wake your ghost. I think last night you were driving circles around me.

There is dirt on your pants. Who made you crawl?

Crap. I'm not supposed to be saying all of this. Honestly, though, I'm amazed I can type at all. Oh well. Tell me what the saddest song in the world is.

About A Boy and A Girl

2006-05-21T20:08:00.000-05:00

I can slice these grapes
tenderly, in two, like the
way you sliced my heart.

Wide Awake

2006-04-25T21:32:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up and he was still dead. Damn. Just when I get used to the idea I have to fall asleep and start all over again the next day. And the next. And the next.

Then one day I'll wake up not thinking about him much. Then one day I'll wake up not thinking about him at all.

Really I'm already not thinking about him much. It has been so long, in fact, that I'm beginning to wonder if he was real or just someone I made up. That, I think, makes me saddest of all. A real deep-down-achy sort of sad. One that comes very, very close to touching the place in us all where we question the point of things. Because I used to not be able to live without him, yet now I'm doing just fine.

Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow

2006-04-05T20:29:00.000-05:00

I believe people still want to live like human beings. But there are a lot of things that could be done. I'm not against the automobile, but I just feel that you can design so that the automobile is there but still put people back as pedestrians again. I'd love to work on a project like that.
-Walter Elias Disney

Me too, Mr. Disney. Me too.

The Cuyahoga Falls Business Association Ball

2006-03-30T02:18:00.000-06:00

As Mayoress Reputa (the Beauta) makes out the list for the upcoming Cuyahoga Falls Business Association Ball she wonders if she’s the only rational person in this town. In her opinion, there is not one denizen within a ten-mile radius born with all the right chemicals. She has always felt like this is one of those places inhabited by strange and intriguing characters one always reads about in books. But of course she knows that this place and these people are as real as the setting sun. Or even God, Himself.

Althaea Officinalis

2006-03-29T21:28:00.000-06:00

Marshmallow candy was not invented in Cuyahoga Falls. It was also not, as insisted upon in a popular cruise along the Fowl River, invented in Mobile. I pant undeniably at the beauty of the marshmallow. Why do I love it so? Ah yes, it’s because they are good to me. They fill me with sticky sweetness.

What can I say to conjure up unusual facts and trivia? What is a usual minded person and why must he always exist among the red rose bushes? Can man truly succeed in the plethora of mindless activities he is forced to perform day after day? Is Lawrence Welk really dead? I had a cow once, has it been eaten?

In a dark corner of a dark restaurant sits the man who knows you well. He looks like everyone you’ve ever known. Looking the other way when it happened is the woman who is all things to all people. When they get together things are mentally devoured until only the skeletons of what once was remain.

Tippy Solvidol Solves It All

2006-03-22T20:07:00.000-06:00

Armand Van Helden makes me feel like a whore. Fuck yeah!

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

No Escape

2006-03-21T22:47:00.000-06:00

Stopped at a light on my way to the grocery, I flip on the stereo to whatever CD is in current rotation. After only a few minutes, though, an overwhelming urge to switch to the radio comes over me. It's an odd urge. Normally I don't listen to the radio, seeing as how most of it is crap. But today I must. My soul requires it.

I click on the presets, but I get no satisfaction. What am I looking for? I click on the auto-seek button. It goes through the local stations, stopping for a moment on each one. Do you like this? No? Okay... Do you like this? No? Okay...

Then, after a while, I hear it. It is the Sirens' call. It is Escape (The Piña Colada Song). My soul is soothed.

The Piña Colada Song has long played a role in my life. A friend and I used it for many years in a series of psychological experiments on my sister. We'd find it - no matter how well hidden among her CDs - on a compilation disc. (Thankfully, I've forgotten which one.) We'd stick it in the stereo, press endless repeat and wait. Her reaction would range from disgust to humor, depending on her mood. There was one time, however, when the situation got violent.

My sister, eight months pregnant with her first child and very hormonal, was asleep on a chair. Beads of sweat dripped down her face from the lack of air-conditioning on this very hot July day. Gristle from the large steak she had just eaten lingered on the corner of her gaping mouth. We should have known. We should have... We put the CD in the stereo and out came the first fateful notes of The Piña Colada Song.

I've blocked out much of that day, but every now and then I'll wake up screaming from a nightmare of blood, tears and arrests. Needless to say, that was the last time we ever did it.

Today I'm not screaming. I'm realizing that I've never actually listened to the words. So here, at the light, on my way to the grocery, I finally do.

What a stupid song.

The guy was "tired" of his "lady" (and really, who says that?), so he starts reading the personals as she's asleep right next to him. Whatever. Then he responds to one. No surprise. Then they meet, and guess what? It's his lady! Yay! They laugh. They drink (Piña Coladas, no doubt). They escape.

I don't, however. The Piña Colada Song is in my head and it won't go away. I remember now why I should never heed the Sirens' call. I am drowning in a swirling blender of 3 oz light rum, 3 tbsp coconut milk, 3 tbsp crushed pineapples and ice. I'm sorry, sweet sister, for all those years. Please, please, just pour me into a Collins glass and let me die. And thank drinksmixer.com for the recipe. Thank you.

I Could Play With My Words

2006-03-13T21:15:00.000-06:00

What is this noxious odor called New Orleans? The streetcars and their sparks flying about ready to strike an unsuspecting fool such as myself... Or perhaps the stench of beer from too many fuckin' frat parties on one block? A plastic bag from a cab.

A red truck, car, van, whatever the hell kind of vehicle that is, sits idling on my front lawn. Yet it's not my front lawn. It is, in fact, an amazing replica of an English garden in the Spring.

Coffee and the Single Girl

2006-03-11T13:04:00.000-06:00

Just today I was sitting at a café in Hollywood. I stared at the traffic while sipping my black coffee when, suddenly, Mr. Joaquin Phoenix came into my line of sight.

We had met a few months before at a poetry slam in Albuquerque. I was trying to lay low, but a friend insisted I get up on stage. Not surprisingly, the impromptu performance of my environmental impact study of a new cell tower in the historic neighborhood of Hyder Park made the crowd go wild. Joaquin was there, and he noticed me. We talked. We laughed. We drove around and beat up treasure hunters at a nearby archaeological dig. Finally, we parted. Though we spoke on the phone, I didn't see him again until now.

"I missed you the other night."

"The other night?"

"At Elton John's party."

"Ah. It completely slipped by me."

Mr. Elton John (excuse me, Sir) had thrown a post-Oscar bash/AIDS fundraising event at some famous Los Angeles eatery. Naturally, I had been invited. But I didn't go. I couldn't. And I didn't have the heart to tell Joaquin - sensitive that he is - that I had recently decided to protest sprawl. Therefore, I would not attend any function I couldn't get to by public transportation. Now I know that in the scheme of causes AIDS probably ranks higher than sprawl, but a girl's got to pick her battles.

Anyway.

Joaquin sat and grabbed my hands in his. (I'll admit that I went quite tingly when he did this.) He tried staring into my eyes, but, well, I'm just not into that. Very disconcerting. I stared at my coffee and lost all brain activity.

"I wanted to see you again. You know, when they announced my name at the Oscars I looked right into the camera and said 'I Love You.' That was for you. Did you see it? Why won't you look at me?"

"Yes."

"What? Is there a problem? Why won't you look at me? Why are you making that face?"

"Yes, you, uh, no problems."

"I don't understand. You have such a way with words. The Carver Court Housing Project MOA Implementation brought such tears to my eyes that I couldn't help but drive to it a number of times to stare at its beauty. The cops were called on me twice. M. Night is turning it into a film."

"Just stop staring at me, please. I don't like it."

"Oh."

So he looked away, thankfully, and I came back to reality. I remembered that report - a survey I did in Orlando. It was a good one. I squeezed his hands, sincerity oozing from my fingers, and told him it could never be. I kissed him chastely. He bowed his head and sighed. As I walked away I realized that I hadn't finished my coffee. It was damn good coffee, too. Oh well.

U2 as Satan's Minions

2006-02-22T23:34:00.000-06:00

Much like Ferris Bueller and Wayne Campbell, there are times when I must break through the fourth dimension to address the audience. And so I step away from the fiction, however briefly, to give you this 8 minute video of truth. Rock On!

Achtung, Baby!

Selwyn: The Barbara Walters Special (A Transcript of the Unedited Interview)

2006-02-21T23:54:00.000-06:00

BW = Barbara Walters
VO = Barbara Walters Voice Over
A = Aileen
E = Erica

BW: Selwyn, a word that became a household name for a time in the latter half of the Twentieth century. It conjures mental images of sex, blood, exceptional advances in the field of city planning and, of course, broccoli.

[Image of Selwyn during the 1989 tour, performing "Choppin' Broccoli."]

BW: Even a desperate lawsuit from Dana Carvey and other Saturday Night Live writers over the rights to that now infamous song could not deter Aileen and Erica from their light-speed jump to superstardom. From the bowels of the BBMS, a high school in Cuyahoga Falls, to the pinnacle of success by the age of seventeen - to all appearances a legend in the making. When I spoke with them in the summer of 1989, they were in the early stages of recording a new album, and there was even talk of a starring role in The Silence of the Lambs for Aileen. But one month later, Selwyn had ceased to be. The album was shelved, perhaps permanently. There were no more tours. No more impromptu guest appearances on Letterman. No one even heard from Erica for more than a year. And now, one week after their triumphant comeback concert in Cuyahoga Falls, they have graciously agreed to meet with me here in Cleveland, Ohio. Erica, you are now platinum blonde. Has it changed your personality?

E: Absolutely. And please, call me Dolores.

BW: Dolores?

A: (discreetly, entre nous) Yes, it uh, goes along with the personality change.

BW: Do blondes have more fun, Dolores?

E: It depends on what your idea of fun is, Barbara. And I was joking about calling me Dolores. There you have an excellent example of what fun is for me, making others look foolish. So yes, to answer your question, I'm having a blast.

A: (laughing obnoxiously, ending with a wet belch)

E: For Aileen, fun is being obnoxious and attending rodeo events with Karl Marx impersonators.

A: And whittling. I'm proud to say I've won the Ohio State Whittling Championship three years running.

BW: The last time we talked, you were at the peak of your respective careers. There was Aileen's impending movie deal, the plans for the new album, Erica's romance with rocker, Sting –

E: He's really much more than just a "rocker," Barbara.

BW: Agreed. He's something of a pop icon, an arrogant Machiavellian poet, able to blend subtle jazz hues in with fresh French rap jams, Egyptian melodies and old-fashioned gospel rhythms, topped off with a boasted ability to sustain intercourse for seven hours... But you were a couple in 1989, were you not?

E: I'm afraid I signed a non-disclosure agreement prior to the initial coupling, as I was quite illegally below the age of consent, even for the state of Georgia. But to some extent, yes we were a couple.

BW: After your joint appearance with Sting in Cuyahoga Falls last week, during which Aileen parachuted from a Huey directly into the audience – and may I just take a moment to congratulate both of you on what was surely the finest performance of your career to date, excluding perhaps the "top of the building" concert, which was quite good, considering it had already been done by the Beatles, U2, and even parodied on The Simpsons -

[Metallic click of a switchblade.]

A: Hey! We didn’t come here to be insulted!

E: Aileen, put that thing away...thank you. It's true, Barbara, it had been done before. As you were so kind to point out, even the cartoon image of George Harrison on that Simpsons episode shrugged and said, "It's been done." But I ask you: did the Beatles, or U2, or even Homer Simpson's B-Sharps have the brass onions to shove officers of the law OFF that roof when they tried to break it up? No. Selwyn pioneered that frontier.

BW: And remarkably, you were never convicted of abuse against the badge.

A: Never convicted.

BW: Well, to return to my original line of questioning – having been on-stage with Sting, seeing him for the first time in over ten years, did that rekindle any flames for you, Erica?

E: Absolutely none. The only flames I saw were in the parking lot of the Blossom Music Center, as that charter bus from Akron was doused with kerosene and ignited.

BW: That was truly tragic. I understand there are some victims still in the Burn Unit of the ICU over at Cuyahoga Falls General.

E: I'm afraid I have to disagree with you there, Barbara. It might be tragic for those victims, and their families, and maybe the people who were counting on those victims to show up for work the following Monday, but is it really so tragic for you? Or for me? Had you honestly given it a moment's thought before now? Will you next be asking me what sort of tree I think I should be?

BW: There's no need to be hostile. And besides, you've never answered my question about Sting. No feelings whatsoever, eh?

[Once again, the switchblade is flicked open.]

A: She already told you NO! Damn!

E: Will you give me that thing...thank you. You can't just go waving a knife around when people are watching.

VO: Clearly, the subject of Sting is a sensitive one for both Erica and Aileen.

[Footage of Sting snarling at an intrusive camera man as he and Erica leave Philpott's All-Nite Grocery Pit in Cuyahoga Falls. Mandy Candy Sandy is thrusting a microphone at him.

MCS: Sting, you've been quoted as saying that your "seven hours of Tantric sex" includes dinner and a movie. Are you in the middle of such a date right now?

Sting: Fuck off!

MCS: Can I quote you on that?]

BW: Ladies, are there any plans to blow the dust off the practice session recording of that unfinished album, and possibly share it with the world?

A: No. We're in the middle of recording a brand new album at Pink Confusion Studios, in the Falls. It's scheduled for release later this year. We previewed some of the new material at the show with Sting.

BW: The new material you're referring to would be two songs not previously heard, "Flogging the Carny" and "Intestinal Duress."

E: Yes, we're actually here on location in Cleveland to shoot the video for "Intestinal Duress," for which we've had to import a gigantic pit of ordure.

A: Humongous.

E: The good folks over at Big Dutchman Wholesale Poulterers have been instrumental in turning our dreams of such a pit into a reality.

BW: Overlooking this transparent plug, I shall proceed. Aileen, were you disappointed that Jodie Foster was cast in the lead role for The Silence of the Lambs instead of you?

A: Had you done your research, Barbara, you'd know that I was up for the part of Hannibal Lecter. Jonathan Demme felt the role was made for me. I remained in character for weeks after my audition, but the studio was unconvinced. Whatever. I needed a rest from the tour anyway.

BW: Everyone knows that you were incommunicado for over a year after the breakup of Selwyn, Erica. I realize this is a delicate subject for you. Can you shed a little light on that year for us?

E: The year was 1990. I was obviously devastated over the breakup of the band. The tour had been going so well until that date in Atlanta.

BW: You're referring to the incident –

E: - Yes. Well, I knew right then that we couldn't go on. That all we had accomplished was now bitter ashes in my mouth. There were never any charges brought about, but I just...

[Erica is unable to continue.]

A: I vividly remember Erica coming into my hotel room because I was so angry that she'd intrude –

E: - There were all those young boys she'd picked up earlier in the day. Scott –

A: - Ah, Scott. I heard later the incident left him so scarred that he joined the Navy, but anyway, Erica was in floods of tears and Sting was unconscious in the next room, and there was all the blood –

E: - Blood everywhere -

A: - Just everywhere. And all those magazines with page 53 torn out. It was a definite turning point in the tour, Barbara.

BW: It was, in fact, the ending point for the tour.

VO: The next day, the equipment was packed up and shipped back to Ohio. The crocodiles were returned to the zoo in Paraguay. Sting awoke alone in a cheap motel room, in a puddle of vomit.

[Clip of a 1991 Sting interview from Entertainment Tonight:

Sting: I never found out whose it was...]

VO: And Aileen and Erica boarded separate planes – one going to Los Angeles, the other bound for destinations unknown.

BW: So, Erica, where were you for that entire year?

E: I was backpacking around Eastern Europe.

BW: Sounds dangerous.

E: Oh it was, Barbara, it was. As a matter of fact, during my stay at a disreputable Greek bordello, I was drugged and sold into white slavery in Pakistan.

BW: Pakistani flesh peddlers, the scourge of civilized Eastern society. However did you escape?

E: After about three weeks, some Christian fundamentalists raided our camp as we were making our way to the Afghan border. They 'rescued' me. I spent the next six months trying to escape their prison camp in Wichita Falls, finally gnawing my way out of the particle-board box they kept me in and hitch-hiking my way back home. As you might imagine, being in a culture which was so foreign to me certainly gave me the creative impetus I needed to get back to business.

BW: And you went on to publish The Selwyn Diaries, a collection of your memories from that monumental last world tour. But the book ends the day after the last show in Atlanta. Why is that?

A: Well, that's where the tour ended. Was she supposed to make shit up?

BW: Yes, but readers were left wondering about those last fateful hours.

E: Barbara, to quote Hall and Oates, "some things are better left unsaid."

BW: Another point many people have made about The Selwyn Diaries is how much more complete a picture we would have about that tour if Aileen's portion of the diaries had been included in the publication.

E: Perhaps.

[An uncomfortable pause.]

BW: Okay, do you deliberately try to be controversial?

E: I believe it was the great director François Truffaut who said that one never finishes a film, rather, one must give it up. And I believe this is true in all walks of life.

BW: And by quoting the oft-pretentious Sting just then, you are deliberately trying to be difficult. There I have my answer.

A: I'm not sure how paraphrasing the pretentious intelli-babble of a pop star is 'being difficult,' but if that's how you see it, our work is done.

BW: Aileen, you have been linked romantically with a wide spectrum of men, including Matthew Perry, Billy Corgan, the Montreal Expos and the young donut pseudo-philosopher of Cuyahoga Falls. But we really want to know if there is any truth behind the rumors that Rod Steiger was more than just a friend to you?

A: Well, there were some intimate dinners at Spago, but that's about it. I’d wanted to meet Rod since the day I saw him on late night TV. I thought his Napoleon was excellent. He showed up at a difficult time for me, but we had some problems and now I don’t need him anymore.

VO: Brazil. 1990.

[A montage of Aileen and Rod running naked on the beach, getting drunk at bars and attending high society events in Rio.]

VO: What was rumored to be a storybook romance between Rod Steiger and Aileen quickly turned sour as their differences came to light.

[Footage of Rod looking on incredulously as Aileen crosses a picket line of political prisoners' wives and mothers, over and over again.]

VO: Soon Aileen was slumming, as she called it, alone, picking up boys that were barely of age just to watch them exercise and get into street fights late at night.

A: Rod ended up being something I wasn't expecting. I mean, he was all right at first, but when it turned out that he hated me showing off how much better I was as a rich American, well, that was it. I care for things, but that was crossing the line.

BW: In the year following the breakup, you did a lot of charity work for children.

A: Is that what my PR office is saying?

BW: Yes. Is it all a pack of lies?

A: Hell yeah! The tour took a lot out of me, what with my fish dependency and all. I was tired of giving. I took some time off, wrote a few poems, did a little city planning.

BW: It's true that you transformed the notoriously horrid borough of Brooklyn into a teeming intellectual community, a haven where artists the world over could gather and create beautiful, soaring...things. You were on the cover of Newsweek above the caption "The Most Brilliant City Planner of the Late Twentieth Century." Pretty heady stuff for someone who never even graduated from high school.

A: (to Erica) Give me the knife.

E: No! Just calm down... Take a cleansing breath.

[After a moment.]

BW: My comment has upset you.

A: Whatever! For your information, Barbara, and that of your drooling legions of The View-watching housewives, I have a high school diploma. I also have two college degrees.

BW: But you never attended the graduation at the BBMS. You never returned to that school after the tour ended. According to Erica's account of the tour, she alone reaped the benefit of Sting's tutelage while you spent your free time in the company of filthy and dangerous young men.

A: Sting’s 'tutelage' included bondage, spackle, Slim Whitman and only a little Shakespeare. You'll notice that Erica is the one without a college education, while I bear the scars of his damned spackling knife!

E: Calm down...deep breath...stop picking at that scab, people will see you.

BW: Have you ever thought of what you wanted on your tombstone?

A and E: No.

[Cut to shot of Barbara, alone in an elegantly appointed drawing room.]

BW: Like so many things in their lives, the interview with Aileen and Erica concluded abruptly at that point. They returned to the set of the video, and have declined to return ABC's many subsequent phone calls. Since then, Erica has been repeatedly seen in Sting's company around the country, giving fuel to the rumors that they are back "on" once again. Aileen has reportedly been busy enhancing and completing her half of The Selwyn Diaries, to be released concurrent with the new album this fall. A miniseries adaptation of the Diaries is in negotiation, to feature Vanessa Redgrave and Ice Cube. Selwyn has no plans to continue the tour this summer. The appearance with Sting in Cuyahoga Falls was nothing more than a comeback show, a testing of the waters, so to speak. With the acclaim they received for that one show, there's no doubt that Selwyn will be taking the world by storm during next summer's concert season. I’m Barbara Walters.

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

Emmett Colquitt, Again

2006-02-19T14:19:00.000-06:00

A simple dose of reality was all that Emmett Colquitt needed to get his imagination jump-started, and certainly the thought of Doug penning idiotic ideas and selling them to the masses from a donut shop was a huge jolt. Emmett sat among fellow intellectuals at the weekly meeting of the Cuyahoga Valley Philo Club - of which, he always smugly noted, Doug was not a member - discussing various subjects of interest, when his face suddenly brightened.

"The world is round," he said to himself, "and oranges are round and the face of a clock, and yes, even donuts..." Slowly, the restaurant in which they all sat, The Pearl Tree, turned silent as people began to realize that Emmett was creating. Suddenly, he jumped up on the table to command the attention of all.

"Perhaps the reason why history repeats itself is not because we don't learn, but because everything is round!" Following a collective gasp of approval, everyone applauded. And then someone piped up.

"Everything?"

Emmett, still distracted by his revelation, turned to face Dick Liggin, anal-retentive treasurer of the Philo Club and the scourge of the WNRDSNM Radio morning show.

"Excuse me?"

"What I said was, 'Everything?' Meaning, is everything round, as you say?" asked Dick, absently scratching his buttocks with a fork, to the dismay of his fellow diners.

"I mean, is this fork round?" He held up the offending implement, then pointed it at the four-sided table on which Emmett was standing, speechless. "is this table round? Or would you have us believe that time itself, an intangible concept, is round? That history repeats itself because time is round?"

Emmett stood on the table, which was indeed square, fuming. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to grab the fork out of Dick's hand and spear the fat slob's testicles upon it, to further emphasize the roundness of all things. But he was a generally passive man, and managed to restrain his temper.

"Time? Time is only an intangible concept to those of you who limit your thoughts, Dick..." this last word he pronounced with the slur of an accomplished wit, "perhaps I was too literal, but yes, I will say that time is round. You can see it in the cyclical seasons, or in the way a child is born, grows and gives birth to begin again...Dick...Time may never end, as some people are wont to believe, but it is certainly round."

All heads swivelled from Emmett to where Dick sat, contemplating. Now he was the one fighting a compulsion to jam the fork into Emmett's person. A violent man by nature, he was only able to prevent himself by savagely biting his own hand until he was forced to drop the fork onto the table.

"But Emmett, the tangible concept of 'round' cannot be applied to an intangible concept such as time!" Dick winced as he pounded his injured fist on the table to emphasize his point.

"It is physically impossible, Emmett, to attribute any shape, be it round, triangular or even rhomboid, to something such as time. So maybe I do limit my thoughts, Emmett, but I limit them within the boundaries of what can be witnessed, felt, sensed or otherwise experienced. Besides, Emmett, you are still faced with that little matter of proving your theory of the roundness of all things by explaining to all of us just how round this fork is!" Dick almost screeched, spearing the fork at Emmett. It flew past him and hit the wall, tines first, accusingly flat.

Everyone's attention abruptly shifted back to Emmett. This debate between the two was even better than their legendary argument over pasteurized processed cheese products back at Cuyahoga Falls Community College. Back then, more than ten years ago now, Emmett had been president of the Debate Club, as he was currently the president of the Philo Club. And back then, as now, Dick had been a perpetually disgruntled member, convinced that he, a hard-line realist, could be a more effective governor.

Dick maintained that the problem in Cuyahoga Falls 'these days' was that people were too wrapped up in such vegan principles as equality for animals, socialized medicine and even, he shuddered, nuclear disarmament. Chronically paranoid, he was of the opinion that "Mo Nukes" was infinitely preferable to "No Nukes."

Emmett casually jumped off the table and began to walk in slow circles around Dick, knowing that he had a slight problem with having people stand within 5 feet of him. He clasped his hands behind his back. Dick began to twitch.

"Well, I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that something else had caught your attention when I apologized for being so literal. I'll say it again, I'm sorry that your fork is not round." There was a chuckle from somewhere in the back of the restaurant.

"You know, it must be easy to be so black and white; to know for sure that time is intangible. It must be such an amazing feeling to believe in only that which you have - what was it? - witnessed, felt, sensed or otherwise experienced. But for those of us who live in greys your idea of time isn't so certain. To use your criteria, though, I can definitely say that I have experienced time. In fact, everyone here has experienced time. I know that even you yourself, Dick, have commented on how the time can pass so quickly...but if time is intangible how can you apply a verb to it? I've heard you say to 'friends' you haven't seen since college how time ravaged they look...but again, if time is intangible how can it do something? You can't be so selective. If you can attribute it with speed or ability then why can you not attribute it with a shape? Far greater minds than ours have put properties on time."

Now it was Emmett's turn to flail and pound as his temper rose. Dick Liggin was probably the only person in the world who could make him want to inflict deep, serious pain on people - a role of which Dick was aware and quite proud. But Emmett held back on physical violence, focusing instead on the personal hatred between them that had been going on for so long.

"What drags you through your day, Dick? When your radio show is over and you're walking home, what fills your sick, twisted brain? Did you join the club to satisfy some sense of inadequacy or was it just to annoy me?" There was no stopping Emmett now. He knew that Dick's reason for coming to Philo Club meetings was not to engage in serious discussion, but to feel superior to 'silly' idealists.

"You know, if I look at you any longer I'm going to have to bash your face in!" Emmett shouted. The gathered crowd gasped.

"And you know I can do it too. Just because I turn the other cheek doesn't mean I won't make an exeption about non-violent solutions. Oh yeah, Dick, I'll take you on! And don't think the people of this town have forgotten that day three years ago when I kicked your ass!" Another gasp. Yes, they did remember, and they all quietly agreed that it was a fine beating. Emmett slinked down onto a nearby chair and slicked back his hair with his hands.

"Just go," he hissed. "Just go and I'll see you at the next meeting. But if I see you anytime before that, and I don't care if it's even at Philpott's while you're out running an errand, I will hurt you. Now go."

So Dick left, somewhat embarrassed at the turn of events. As always, Emmett had managed to turn the tables to make him look wrong. As always, Dick slithered away concocting scenarios for the next meeting, where he would really get Emmett.

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

I Am Not Richard Moe

2006-01-25T20:30:00.000-06:00

At the Johnny Rockets in Baywalk, St. Petersburg F-L-A, I sit writing the latest in a series of reports designed to promote newly designated historic buildings in Miami. While not a glamourous job, it nonetheless has made me famous. Why just the other day I was stopped on an L.A. street by Mr. Matthew Perry, who praised my technical writing skills.

"You're her, aren't you?"

"If by her you mean me, then I suppose I am."

"I absolutely love your reports! I mean, the local register nomination for Magic City Tourist Court was sublime. I spit on those who denied its designation!"

"Thanks for the support, but really I'm not surprised. Long gone are the days of Tin Can Tourists pulling into vacation cabins for the summer. Magic City's now a trailer park and preservationists just aren't going to go for that. Besides, I'm not sure if the property owners were keen on the idea either... Hey, how did you get a hold of that report anyway?"

"It's a hobby."

"Ah."

And so on. Of course, Mr. Matthew McConaughey was very nearby listening to all of this, making Mr. Matthew Perry very jealous indeed. Such is the life of a girl like me. Seriously! Jay Leno has been positively aching to get me on his show to go over the comical rendering of the Secretary's Standards for Rehabilitation I wrote for a graduate class once, but I'm holding out for Larry King.

If this report gets spotty, by the way, it's because I'm wiping my onion-greased, french fry fingers all over it. The bacon on my BLT was perfect. It would be fun to work at Johnny Rockets, I think. The ketchup smiley faces, dancing in the middle of the restaurant to "Staying Alive" - although there is always that one person, you know what I mean. However, I think I would prefer working at the one at Pentagon City Mall in Washington D.C. There they dance to Frank Sinatra singing "Chicago," and Chicago is my kind of town, after all.

But I write reports. Damn good ones. And soon I will be all power, all control. Happy because life is just like that, though the delicious sting of heartbreak has been mine as well. And isn't that a wonderful thing?

Intelligent Design

2005-12-20T11:38:00.000-06:00

It's such a beautiful day today with nary a cloud in the sky. It's as blue as the day I was born. But elsewhere the skies are black. And everyone is dying. And it feels so wrong to be sitting at a desk listening to Uncle Tupelo while staring at the blue, blue sky.

If I could play the banjo I would pick my sorrows away. No such luck, though. I suppose I could do an interpretive dance in my front yard. There's really nothing that can't be solved with an interpretive dance. So Kevin Bacon.

In the Beginning: The Selwyn Diaries Part Two

2005-12-17T22:16:00.000-06:00

Still waiting for the release of the Selwyn diaries, The Cuyahoga Falls Intelligencer has decided to release a few more excerpts. We begin at the beginning:

Thursday, 27 March -
It was the evening before our world tour when I decided to take a walk around the city. Take a last look, you know, at all the wonders of town before leaving for Toulouse and Nice and all those other places. As I was passing Erica's humble abode (yeah, right), I noticed a dark figure in the bushes and called out to see who it was. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be Mandy Candy Sandy, who proceeded to tell me all the titillating details of Erica's encounter with Sting. I was unimpressed.
Well, it's not that I was unimpressed, I was just reeling from earlier this evening. Erica had come screaming to my door to tell me that our journals - the ones that spelled out our every fantasy (which for me was 50 dramatic ways of killing myself if I didn't meet Bono - were sitting in a display case at the Cuyahoga Falls Popular Museum. They had been donated by an anonymous source and were available for check-out by all. We went running to the BBMS and confronted Mayoress Reputa with a few choice words until we realized for the time being there was nothing we could do. Erica slipped away intending to make a "phone call" to Disinformation and I went home. Oh well, I'm sure Mandy was the first to read them and if so, everyone's going to know what's in them anyway. Still, I'm plotting my revenge.
Anyway, Erica was up in her place with Sting and the whole incident left me with a craving for fish. Fish with tails, yum! It's that same craving I get any time I go on a long trip...something about the Omega 3 Fatty acids, I guess. Good brain food. On my way to Philpott's All-Nite Grocery Pit I ran into Chris Jackson smelling faintly of potted meat byproducts. Whatever. I bought some kippers and went home to get ready and now here I am diary, writing to you before I sleep. And now I'm going to sleep. Night night.
Friday, 28 March -
Today's plane ride to France wasn't too interesting. Erica proceeded to tell me what I already knew about her night with Sting and that he would be joining us on parts of our tour to whip her into submission...um...I mean, into a high school graduate. I kept saying that I'd probably need some tutoring if I wanted to graduate, but she kept conveniently not hearing that part of our conversation. But the trip did have fresh fish. I was glad that I had put that into our rider right before we left, stalling our takeoff while Raynelle - the queen of all private assistants - ran to buy some at Philpott's, but making me very, very happy.
I am glad that Erica's dream man has come into her life, but I can't help but wonder how someone can be with one person. I myself prefer variety even though I never do anything. Really. I just like to hang out in seedy parts of town, picking up dangerous boys and turning them into my pets. Europe is great for that 'cause no one seems to care that I'm only 16. Just call me Lolita, baby!
Really the thing is that I'm waiting for my very own dream man to realize I exist. And the only one for me is Doug. I know everyone says he's a loser, but if they would only hang out at the donut shop they would see that there is so much more to him. I always know when he's going to be there (all the time), so I make sure I get a choice seat right near him to hear his voice while he deals and makes up poems about Jim Morrison. But what am I going to do? If being a world famous rock star with a hit record and a 3.7 GPA isn't enough then what is????? Alas, I'm off diary. I need to get ready for tonight's show.
Saturday, 29 March -
The show was okay last night, Erica seeming a bit distracted the whole time, but the boys on the main rue were magnifique! I did actually meet one young stud that night that gave Doug a run for his money. He was tall, lanky and aching to touch me through his unwashed jeans, but I held out. God it felt good! I picked him up with a glance and took him back to my hotel room, passing Erica's on the way. Out of curiosity, since Sting was supposedly "tutoring" her, I put my ear to the door to see if I could hear anything. All I could make out was something that sounded like a combination of barking dogs and someone stirring a bucket of plaster. Who knows.
Anyway, I brought Michel into my room and undresses myself. No words necessary. I made him sit on the bed while I Jazzercized into a good sweat (he was noticeably sweating as well) and then, right when I was about to go into my famously high leg kicks, I kicked him right out of the room. Yeah!!! He banged on the door for at least half an hour until I called security, which promptly shoved him along his way. Ah, Toulouse!
Today we were in Nice. I convinced Erica to go to the topless beaches with me to help me film my trip to France. It was a great feeling to be topless in public. I flimed this one 14/15 year old boy who had an enormous penis. Mmmm, it's nice in Nice. Out of the side of my lens I noticed a dark figure laying right in Erica's way, but I guess Erica didn't. I chose not to tell her since, you know, it's much funnier not to, so she tripped right over the figure and gave me the perfect ending for my entry to "Cuyahoga Falls' Sleaziest Home Videos."
Tonight's show was much better than the last. Erica seemed to have an energy and passion that was lacking earlier. Maybe she was over the jetlag...or maybe last night's lesson was particularly stimulating. I asked her if she had learned anything and she mumbled something about Thomas Campion. Whatever. Tonight there are no boys for me. I need to sleep to prepare myself for España, home of the Latin lover...which I will conquer with much style and ease. Night night.
Monday, 31 March -
Yet another eventful trip for Cuyahoga Falls' greatest export. We took a train to Barcelona and arrived with much to do by the locals. I felt so like The Beatles that I just had to mention that we were bigger than Jesus (they, of course, were bigger than God, and I can't be that presumptuous). Anyway, this nearly caused a riot in the crowd that had been placid and adoring moments earlier. Alas.
We had to leave early yesterday, so when we got settled on the train everyone fell asleep but me. I had to walk around drinking in the sights and smells of this creaky ride. And what a smell it was! Tasty hake coming from the dinner car, to which I was heading when I saw someone sneak out of another compartment. It was Sting. Naturally. He looked a little flustered as we exchanged pleasantries and then went inching away as if I hadn't already seen him. Whatever. He's a good looking man, but he seems like he'd be a real dick even after you get to know him...or maybe because you get to know him. I was staring out the dinner car window gnawing on my fish when I saw him leap off the train onto a silver Aston Martin that had been stealthily driving alongside. Damn...
I did manage to fall asleep for a few hours in the afternoon after we arrived. Good. I needed to be shiny and cute for this evening's events. I went to this newfangled thing called a technobar, which is like a mindless beat fuck. Nothing but hours and hours of drums and synthesizers and the occasional vocal. Sweet! I took home two boys that night because nothing has ever, ever, ever made me feel the way this does. Never...never, never, never. I still maintained the upper hand, though. I think. Maybe. Whatever. Since we're playing tonight here in lovely Barcelona, I've given Jorge and Manuel backstage passes. No doubt the three of us will be having much more fun tonight.
I feel sorry for Erica because she never gets to see anything lately with all her "lessons." She was always one to take the English seriously.
Tuesday, 1 April -
It's Tuesday now, something like 5 in the afternoon. I'm writing from the train to Pamplona, where they do the running of the bulls. I may have to jump on in and join the fun.
This is actually the first conscious moment I've had since about 12:30 this morning. What I remember from last night is Jorge and Manuel being backstage with us, noticeably greasier than the night before (yum!), and Erica flashing me a concerned look as I led them away by their belts. We were at a technobar no less than an hour when I felt those...feelings again. Next thing I know I'm sitting on this train...
I'm wearing a dog collar and there are random words written all over my body in Spanish, which with my rudimentary skills in this language I've managed to translate. "IT'S TEATIME FOR THE THREE MUSKETEERS," "COME TO MY LAIR," "I LIKE YOUR MEATBALLS" and on my right arm the cryptic "BIG CHEESE GETS HIS TONIGHT" with an arrow pointing to a star on my pinky. I can hear the roadies saying something about having to pry me off the bed with industrial strength WD-40 and a spatula...and yet I feel so fresh and rejuvenated. Erica keeps asking me when I got the tattoo of Dan Fogleberg on my shoulder. I keep telling her it's a birthmark, but she won't believe me. I'm changing the subject now.
I wonder if Disinformation has gotten in touch with Erica regarding the notebook situation. I would love to find out so I can plan what horrible things I'm going to do to this anonymous source.
I hope Pamplona has technobars.

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

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

Emmett Waxes Philosophically

2005-11-28T21:40:00.000-06:00

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.

2005-11-28T21:05:00.000-06:00

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

2005-11-17T00:48:00.000-06:00

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

2005-11-16T20:49:00.000-06:00

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

2005-11-07T15:37:00.000-06:00

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

2005-11-07T14:58:00.000-06:00

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

2005-11-07T14:36:00.000-06:00

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

2005-11-06T21:44:00.000-06:00

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)

Dahli Writes an Open Letter to the Intelligencer

2005-10-27T21:19:00.000-05:00

The Cold War was easy I guess is what it was. I mean, how great is it to know your enemies? What the Fuck happened after all that died? Tell me that one. Tell me how I should feel. Today we've got a bunch of No Fear fuckers jumping around on skateboards. Whatever. This is fear, O My Brothers. This is fear.

I squatted for days in that ditch behind enemy lines. Dirt on all sides and a crudely fashioned plank above my head separated me from those that would...what? Killing me straight up would have been too humane. Letting me go would have been inconceivable. I have No Doubt that a long, slow, Torquemada-style torture was what I would have endured before my inevitable demise. But should I have managed to not spill any secrets while suffering through it, my death would have been For The Good Of The Country. I shiver now with the deliciousness of it. Back then I wished I hadn't traded my Cyanide pill for that pack of cigarettes.

I had nothing with me save for some nasty rations left over from the Last Great War. After my rations were used up I ate the bugs and vermin coexisting with me, which was sad. As far as I knew anymore they were the only living beings in the world besides myself. They were my friends. There was one grub in particular who squirmed violently as I slowly led him to my lips. Definitely my Type of Guy, and I told him as much, although he did taste a lot better than the government's crap. I soon became the vermin. I am vermin today.

I shit and pissed in a tiny hole I had dug in the corner. The smell was intoxicating, and not in a Calvin Klein way. My puke found its way into the hole as well.

I would get nervous at the sound of voices getting not louder, but softer. Softer as They got closer. That's a sure sign They know you're there. And They knew I was there. How could They not, with my heart beating so loud the whole world heard it? To this day I wonder why They left me there, when I was as easy a target as I'd ever be. Regardless, I was left. Years later I found out that They did return - with backup. It brings a tear to my eye knowing I was so important.

Of course, it all sounds rather cold, doesn't it? Like not scary at all. The thing is I put myself there. I LOVED IT, O My Brothers.

But.

But Michael was out there. Alone. And I didn't know where. I still don't know where.

That's fear.

Obdulia

2005-10-26T15:20:00.000-05:00

"Yes, Lars will meet his match tonight," she surmised with an evil smile. After all, she had shared her most secret of secrets with him, and he had taken one of them away. No man had ever touched her there before and lived. Not "Bill" the McDonalds guy, who had promised her free Big Macs for a year and then forgotten about her. Not David and David, the twin gynecologists, who had assured her it was all part of the exam. No, not even Father Bob.

But none of that mattered to her now. She had a man to bludgeon, so she laid out her plans. First, she would invite him over for a bit of wine and cheese - perhaps some ham and fig paté. Then she would seduce him in that way he liked. And finally, from under the pillow, she would come out with the coup de grace, the .38 she kept hidden for these special moments. She was getting excited. Very excited. Later that evening, after the wine had been chilled and the gun polished to a brilliant shine, she made the call.

"Lars, baby," she said lustily, twirling the revolver in her fingers, "why don't you come over for some fun tonight?"

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

Stacy's Mom

2005-10-21T16:26:00.000-05:00

My hands are small. I can't make them larger no matter what I do. Sometimes, though, when I let my nails grow, they look a bit longer. I keep looking at them because they're RIGHT THERE and I can't help it. I'd like to stop. Hell, I'd like to stop thinking about them, but here I am writing an entire paragraph on this very subject.

Johnny Sarampion, Archaeologist, Breaks Down

2005-10-21T14:38:00.000-05:00

Where is my mind? Where Is My Mind? WHERE IS MY MIND? Way out in the water, see it swimming. (With many thanks to Mr. Black - I had a real moment with you Frank.)

Sometimes I look at archaeology reports and wonder if all the original folks ever did was sit around and make pottery all day, like pottery-obsessed Rainmen. All we ever talk about is pottery. Pottery and middens. The middens, of course, being made of pottery.

"We thought only the Orange culture of the St. John's Valley made pottery, but look! the Weeden Island related Manasota culture did too! Joy!"

I really don't know why this is bothering me today. It never has before. Maybe I'm not bothered at all, but just thought I'd make the observation. Sometimes, however, it highlights the fact that we have no clue about the meaning of life. Or if there is a meaning at all... Okay, it doesn't say anything about the meaning of life. So sue me.

Anyway, we think it's all about consumerism today, but we ain't got shit on those pottery-making fools from the Late Archaic period. Like real pottery whores. I mean, useful as pottery is, there's no reason to be giving it up all over the village.

Ignatious on the Hill

2005-10-18T22:57:00.000-05:00

It isn't hard to imagine what Ignatious Crawley is up to on this lovely Friday afternoon. After having been shut in the house with the flu, eating his wife Frida's scathingly awful chicken broth, he is more than happy to sit on the hill and work on his series of Cuyahoga Valley paintings.

He slips a tape of his favorite classical recordings into an ancient Walkman while stroking away at the canvas. What a wonderful day it is to be Ignatious Crawley on a hill.

The valley is beautiful. The music is beautiful. Ignatious is soon fast asleep dreaming of beautiful things.