Probably Not the Best Naming Decision

Twelfth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Twelve*:

L

"L" stands for "l," which means "the 12th letter of the English alphabet." However, it could be confused with "I," which means "the ninth letter of the English alphabet." To avoid confusion, it is best not to start sentences with words like "illicit" or "illadvised." The word "Illinois" should be avoided whenever possible and can be substituted with "Land of Lincoln" in most contexts.

*Twelve, as defined by Webster's New World Dictionary, means "two more than ten." The word "ten" is defined as "one more than nine."

A Readership Poll Inspired by Malaise (the Person, Not the Emotional State).

Am I done with the monologue?

What I Saw at the Mall Today

A Commercial to Believe In

Once upon a time, RadioShack commercials consisted of Teri Hatcher demeaning Howie Long in between episodes of "Cops." They didn't inspire me to shop at RadioShack, but they also didn’t inspire me to not shop at RadioShack.

This is where the fairy tale ends.

Last weekend, I caught the tail end of the latest RadioShack commercial. It looked so much like a Hallmark commercial that I almost tuned it out—something about a lonely old woman finding joy again in the angelic voices of her caroling grandchildren—but the ending caught my attention. “This holiday season, don’t just buy stuff. Do stuff.”

How inspirational. Thanks RadioShack, for that selfless holiday reminder. Oh but wait, doesn’t your latest slogan ring a bell? Why yes it does, and how it rings. Let us follow that joyful reverberating sound, guided by the ghost of Holiday Advertisement Past, all the way back to November of 2005. Don’t worry—he means us no harm.

Is this where you are leaving us, ghost? Here in the 2005 holiday season? He nods and points to the back of the room, to a dark corner beyond a crowd of holiday merrymakers warming themselves by a roaring fire. Howie Long lies hiding ever so quietly under the piano bench, peeking out expectantly. Now I see… RadioShack pulled the ol’ “let’s play hide-and-seek” trick on Howie and replaced him with random people sitting in a red chair and telling us what they want for Christmas. A man tells his wife about the perfect phone, a child begs his parents for an RC car, an elderly woman struggles to remember all the features of the computer she wants. The ‘05 marketing slogan: "This holiday season, don't just get a gift. Get the right gift (at RadioShack)."

Ahh… the holiday season, the glorious celebration of that one time when baby Jesus bought everyone digital cameras... Or, wait… was it the time when baby Jesus fried up some latkes for the innkeeper? Between these conflicting messages, will we ever find the true reason for the season? Foul specter, why have you shown us these things?

Perhaps we’d find more clarity if we looked at RadioShack’s 2006 holiday message. The ghost shakes his head. He will take us no farther. Unfortunately, all I really remember about the HS of ’06 is that someone named My Brother threatened to punch me in the face in the middle of Best Buy because I told him to shut up, so I don't recall RadioShack's '06 advertising campaign. Probably more of the same, but the important thing to remember here is that I was shopping at Best Buy.

Of course! When have I ever shopped at RadioShack? I mean, for crying out loud, the name of the store is RadioShack. As an electronics store, they really ought to keep that on the down low, don’t you think? I’m not even crazy about Kozy Shack. About the only shack I've ever been in complete support of is the snack shack at summer camp. Gummy worms, fun dip, ice cream cones: these things can come from a shack. Cell phones, CD players, wide screen TVs: nuh uh.

Come to think of it, the last time I shopped at RadioShack was when I wanted to connect two short coaxial cables into one medium-sized coaxial cable, and I don’t remember why. I just remember that they had what I needed. It's called a coupler—basically a threaded cylinder that’s less than an inch long, and it costs about $5 because, as they say in the industry, "you don't know how to make one.” I went to RadioShack last night to see if they had the same type of coupler. They did not.

So, unless I need some batteries but don’t want to see anything from Duracell or Energizer (so help me God), I don’t really see myself needing another RadioShack, which kind of sucks, because now I have no idea where to turn for the meaning of the season.

Cranberry Sauce is Good in Cottage Cheese

I was just about to write some ridiculous, worthless post just to say I'd written something this week (working off of the Spanish calendar week), but I really have to pee right now so... urine luck.

Quote of the Night

"The couch should not smell like poo."

-some lady

Quote of the Year

"Why do you have a case for a plastic flute?"

-a guy named Josh

This is What Yu'r Missing if You Don't Read the Comments

"I hate when someboys toss me beers to drink. Piss me off. Plus, they should make 'shake me' on the opening 'kus no one would drip it down thier pants.

I like yur blog."

-malaise

In Conclusion:

Take Note.

an exhaustive list of things I hate

1) this: <3

2) that

Out to Dinner with the Folks

Mom: "Was your cioppino as good as it was the last time you had it?"

Dad: "It was good, but I'll have to get something different next time. The pot roast looked good."

Me: "Yeah?"

Dad: "Well, I didn't actually see it, but it sounded good."

Me: "Well, you didn't hear it either, so..."

Dad: "True, but it does sound good... pot roast."

Me: "Pot roast. You're right, that does sound good."

Dad: "Doesn't it? Pot roast. Yeah, it sounds pretty good."

by special request: This Might Be a Rebus

Nectar, Take Note

I don't know who's idea it was to put non-carbonated beverages in cans—honestly, I don't—but I doubt it was a group decision. I have come to feel this way because whenever I am about to twist off the top of a bottled beverage, be it plastic or glass, and even before I insert straw here, I usually pause to think, hmm... I wonder if I'm supposed to shake this, and subsequently, no, it does not appear that way, or, ah yes, it says here, "shake well," depending—but replace that bottle or box/carton with a can, and that thought process is replaced entirely by the much simpler (though still poised and articulate) oh boy, here goes nothing, and I certainly am not alone in this.

That's right, whoever came up with putting non-carbonated drinks in cans must have been the single person on earth to make it to adulthood without being conditioned to believe that all beverages in cans, when shaken, gain horrible destructive powers—that there are safer ways of running with scissors than there are of running with Pepsi-Cola(s)—that only very stupid people ever say "hey broskie, throw me a beer," and that said beers thrown to said people are usually not their first of the heretofore unmentioned afternoon.

Somewhere, probably in a desert untouched by civilization, a butterfly (presumably a nomadic butterfly) flapped its wings in just such a way that the shifting winds of the earth somehow shielded a solitary person from this common knowledge, and that person went on to market nectar—yes, nectar—in cans. If anyone should have known this would happen, it was the butterfly, who should have known better and who was an idiot. The butterfly's victim, I can only regard as tragically sheltered, because anyone who would dare add copious amounts of sugar to the juice and puree of everyone's favorite fruits in the world (that's right mango, I'm talking about you... you too papaya... alright banana, you can come too, as long as you bring your friends) and offer it to the masses for less than the price of an expensive cup of coffee demands our respect.

However, how many more untold thousands must pick up cans of nectar, usually on vacation or over at a friend's house, and open them cautiously before realizing that (oh crap) this is the solitary canned product in the universe that you're supposed to shake, before we look past that respect and see a problem that needs to be fixed? How many faceless, nameless, thirsty people will be forced to improvise a method for shaking an open can before we gather together and do something about it? How long before it isn't just some guy on the street corner or some friend of a friend? How long before you find yourself with a little bit of nectar on your thumb, and a little dripping down your hand—before some of it ends up on your pants? How long, people? How long?

I Just Won a Game of Solitaire...

...and thus ended a 10-game losing streak. As an optimist, I'd say the glass is one eleventh full. As a realist, I'd say that I shouldn't play solitaire in the desert.

This is What Dead Cats Look Like When You're a Special Agent

This is What Lamps Look Like When You're a Special Agent

More Like, Silver Full of Its

They say you can only kill a werewolf with a silver bullet, but that’s ridiculous. If you shot one with say, 28,000 bullets of the non-silver variety, wouldn’t a werewolf at least bleed to death? Has anyone ever tried explosives on a werewolf? I mean, have explosives really been ruled out? How about poison? If you locked up a werewolf without food or water for a year, wouldn’t it starve to death at some point? Couldn’t you strangle a werewolf? Couldn’t you cut off a werewolf’s head?

It’s one thing to have a weakness against silver bullets—that I can believe—but to be otherwise invincible is absolutely preposterous. If a meteor the size of Vermont collided with Earth on the night of a full moon and happened to land directly on a werewolf, am I really expected to believe that the werewolf would swim up out of the magma-filled crater and die only the next morning when it transformed back into a human and choked to death on the ashes of a dead world? Come on, let’s get serious.

Way Too Serious

Today I was an only child.
Wait...
I don't even know what that means.

things that the internet at work is slower than at the moment

1) hell

Sci-Fi Free Verse Epic Poem Part 5

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. The point is
That Sam was a freaking loon. You could even say it this way:
“That Sam was a freaking loon,” so it doesn’t even
Matter if you pause unnecessarily at every line break
Like so many do.
(It’s hard not to.)
But here I am just rambling on and on (and on and so forth) etc.,
When I could be telling you about the episode with the puppet.
Well, I’ll get there soon I promise, It’s just that
I need to finish out this stanza before we can get started.

list of things that dried white peaches make me want to do

1) puke
2) have another

a(n im)partial list of things that dried white peaches look like

1) human ears poorly preserved in formaldehyde

This Title Thing is Going to Get Boring Pretty Soon, So...

So, to clarify, what Sam really said when he woke up was
“Dude, it was right here a moment ago.”
There’s nothing wrong with that wherever two or more are gathered,
But… Sam was all alone, so it was a bad sign, at least in hindsight.
Greg, on the other hand,
With the whole “Shooter" thing,
Well… Greg was an all right guy. Sure, he might have said
Things like “Whoa Shooter, keep away from the pastry,”
But when you’ve been alone for two years
It’s okay to be afraid of pastry. Especially lemon bars.

Know What I Mean?

I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you
That Greg and Sam didn’t go by "Greg" or "Sam" anymore.
Heck, they’d been the only two people alive for two years,
And there weren’t a lot of people around to say
“Hey Greg,” or
“Hey Sam.” You
Know? So they’d both taken to thinking of themselves
By different names. Greg called himself “Shooter,”
And Sam always thought of himself as “Dude,”
But, like, he really thought of himself as “Dude.”

...So Now's My Chance to Get a Head Start

Greg peddled to a nearby mall and stocked up on supplies.
He found a better backpack and a pair of running shoes.
At some point Sam woke up and found his bike was gone.
“It was right here a moment ago,” he said—alone in his head,
Though in a sense his head was right,
Maybe for the last time,
For Greg had long since found the bike
And ridden far from town.
If ever again their paths should cross
Then Fate obviously doesn’t have anything better to do.

In the Future, Anything Will Pass as Poetry

At the end of our age, only two men survived the plague.
Their names were Greg and Sam because, why not?
But they both thought they were the last one alive,
Which explains why, after two years of wandering the earth alone,
Greg stole Sam's bike
While Sam was asleep.
The chances of that happening probably aren't very high,
But anyway that's what happened.
It was the highlight of Greg's life
And the start of when Sam went insane.

written for my newspaper internship

Monday night at Hennessy’s Bar and Grill in Carlsbad, a few men and women begin trickling in at the back patio around 7, shaking hands and trying to remember one another’s names. After too long of a debate, they decide to pull two small plastic tables together. Twenty minutes later there are 10 people around three tables and it doesn’t look like anyone else is coming. A man on the end passes out articles on scratch paper—politics, religion or science on one side, old multiplication worksheets or tips for preserving fruit on the other. No one looks too interested in reading just yet.

“Are we eating?” one wants to know. He doesn’t get a definitive answer, but orders the fish and chips anyway. A few others order something to eat or drink, and then, now that everyone’s here, it’s time for introductions again. It’s understandable that they don’t all know each other because they only meet once a month, and they can’t all make it every month.

This is a meeting of the Brights. Their common bond is that they are all atheists, or is that right? Technically, a Bright is someone who does not believe in anything supernatural. The Brights started in Sacramento in 2003 and have spread to almost 100 countries since then, but it sounds like the terminology is still being hashed out. The group around the tables launches into a discussion about the difference between atheist and agnostic, agnostic and ignostic, skeptic and secular humanist. From there they talk about religious texts, presidential canidates, faith and belief, corporations, morals and ethics, good books. But a lot of what they talk about is just how nice it is to be able to talk at all.

“I have a wife and two children, and they’re religious. Just for family harmony, I’m not going to go on and on,” says the man with the fish and chips. It’s a common sentiment, but some say it more strongly.

“We have family that are religious and we’ll go to Christmas and Thanksgiving with them, but we have friends and family members who have found out we were nonreligious and now they don’t want to hang out with us,” says Paul Wenger, 53. Paul has been the president of the San Diego Association for Rational Inquiry for 2 years. He’s got brochures in his car if anyone is interested, but he’s really just here to talk.

So is Eve Daniels, 70, a trained concert pianist with a master’s degree in human development who has met with the Brights off and on for the last 9 months.

“We all need to be able to talk. We all need to have a place where we know we can talk and what we say is valued, and that also allows us to hear ourselves, and you can say back to me what I’ve said, and the idea gets polished.”

Eve says this to Anne Adams, 68, a retired secretary and proud grandmother who once considered herself to be a Christian. She had difficulty pinpointing exactly when she changed her mind about religion.

“I’ve been what you would call a freethinker my whole life. I just didn’t know what to call it,” she says. “I miss being part of the church, you know, the closeness, the camaraderie, but not the other…” she waves her hand to sum it up. Anne says she hasn’t ruled out the existence of the supernatural, but that she does need to be true to herself about what she thinks.

“The thing of it is—we don’t know.”

That’s when the man with the handouts chimes in.

“I disagree, we know thoroughly.”

His name is Lambert Bertrand Halsema, but “Bert” is good enough.

“I’m a Buddhist, so I’m an atheist with a future,” he introduced himself earlier. Asked how old he is, he says he’s not old, he’s a classic. He moved from Florida to California when he joined the Merchant Marines 53 years ago, and he probably wasn’t young then.

Bert has a doctorate in cultural geography from the Nation Autonomous University in Mexico City, he keeps up on his reading, and he isn’t afraid to express his opinions. His t-shirt reads, “God needs no help starting holy wars. Keep church and state separate.”

They all have plenty to talk about, and the topics are as varied as the people around the tables. No one gets up to leave until 10:30, and even then, saying goodbye is a 30-minute process for some.

Nutrition (fun) Facts for Said Sunflower Seeds

serving size: "1 package"
servings per container: "about 1"
me: "...?"

Note Scratched into the Wall Next to a Neglected Bag of David's Sunflower Seeds

It's been, how many weeks now? Each day fades into the next, fades into the next.

Leaving Work at the Office

According to AP style, the correct abbreviation for electronic mail is "e-mail," and this is a "Web site."

Amazing Tattoo Idea #4

An angry goat-like creature whipping an email account that timed out and lost a very long email in progress. The whole thing would be on fire, only the goatman would be unharmed, as would his whip. But, to clarify, it would be a fiery whip made out of chain link. Also, there'd be a kid on the other deltoid popping bubble wrap, just to make the scene painful and annoying. Bonus suggestion: have the goat thing also be kicking the email account with its cloven hooves.

Note to Self # 2

Don't write poems after 10.

p.s. Don't write poems.

This Calls for a Dirty Limerick

I Once Knew a Girl in Marysville

I once knew a girl in Marysville
Who could walk the ridge of an old mill.
She went up for the view,
But she hadn’t a clue
That the workers saw more than her skill.

"I Knew a Girl in Marysville"

Today's word of the day: ridgepole

Definition: (noun) A horizontal beam at the ridge of a roof to which the rafters are attached.

Synonyms: rooftree, ridge

Usage: I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridgepole of a roof.

I know this is a poem, but I'm not sure how it should go exactly.

"I knew a girl in Marysville
who could walk the ridgepole
of a roof."

"I knew a girl
in Marysville
who could walk
the ridgepole of a roof."

"I knew a girl in Marysville who
could walk the ridgepole of
a roof."

Something to think about, innit?
Sorry about all this, but I can explain...
Current mood: ;)
Current music: Lily Allen

Note to Self

That's all.

p.s. Never mind.

Yeah Ya Tryin' ta Tire Me, Tire Me

"I can see you in front of me, front of me
Ya tryin' ta tire me, tire me
Why don't you get from in front of me?"

That's right. I delete span tags to Rage Against the Machine.

What Should Have Been

I can’t stop thinking that this is all happening over a bag of carrot sticks. We were driving to get carrot sticks. An ‘84 Chevy Monte Carlo was not in the plan. Neither was its license plate cover. “I’d rather be golfing,” it said. I must have read that twenty times before it hit us. Me too, I thought, which is funny because I don’t even know how to golf. It’s important to keep your sense of humor at a time like this. Trust me I know.


“I’m sorry, what was that? No, I said we were going to get carrot sticks. A bag of carrot sticks.”


The police are always asking me questions, ever since it happened. What does it matter where we were going?


“Huh? Oh, right.”


Sorry for the interruptions. He’s right though, I’m really not supposed to sit up. “Sir, you need to lie down,” they keep saying. Who says sir anyway? Sorry, where was I? Oh right, golfing… You want to hear something else that’s funny? The biggest lie I’ve ever been told came from a Volkswagen Bus in the intersection outside Piggly Wiggly. I mean, that just sounds funny. I was almost eleven when it happened. My father was headed to a hardware store for wood stain—my father was a carpenter, you know, just like Jesus, except that’s where the resemblance pretty much ended. Three days after he broadsided that Volkswagen in the intersection, my father was still very much dead.

I got my first birthday cake that year, by the way. It wasn’t until later that I found out you’re supposed to make a wish before you blow out the candles, but that was okay; I’d already gotten everything I wanted that year, and I thought I’d learned an important lesson—that lie I was telling you about—that red means stop.

The trouble is, I stopped. According to the Volkswagen, Tiger Woods and his Monte Carlo over there shouldn’t have hit us. I mean, Charles and me.

You’ll have to excuse me again.


“Yes I can hear you, officer. Of course I know I’ve been in an accident. I’m pulling glass out of my hair; I’m very aware that I’ve been in an accident. No, I don’t want to lay back down. Why don’t you stop worrying about me and arrest that man? He should be in handcuffs, not on a stretcher. Whose idea was it to give him a license in the first place? I’m telling you, I’m fine. Are you going to arrest him or what?”


This is ridiculous. It’s hard enough sitting here without having to tell these people how to do their jobs. That man is obviously drunk. It’s barely three in the afternoon. What’s a guy got to go through to be flat out drunk at three in the afternoon?


“Excuse me, officer, what time is it?”


Three forty-five. Not even four and the guy’s so plastered he doesn’t know where he is. And what’s worse, I’m actually not that fond of carrot sticks. No particular reason that I know of, but I haven’t liked carrot sticks since I was five. They were for Charles. I guess in a way I can be glad we never made it to the store, because I’m not sure what I would do with a bag of carrot sticks now.

They aren’t going to tell me, by the way. Charles is dead and they aren’t going to tell me, as if I didn’t already know, as if my arms weren’t still tired from holding him. You’d be surprised how heavy a five year old can be. I couldn’t believe how heavy he was—I’d forgotten how heavy he was.

I know this sounds strange, but I—I don’t remember… ever holding him before the accident. That might sound odd but you’ve got to understand… I loved Charles. I just—I didn’t want him to get hurt. We all have to let go eventually, so why put him through it any more times than necessary? Why rehearse the inevitable? I couldn’t put Charles through that again.

I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this; it’s not going to change anything. But I guess I’ve got to explain myself now. I don’t want you to go away thinking I’m a bad person.

I was Charles’s age when my father started ruining my life. “Father/son bonding time” he called it, “just in case.” On my birthday, nonetheless.

He took my measurements first. Thirty-eight inches long, he said, and twelve inches wide. “A little small for your age, but that’s fine; we’ll save wood.” I remember we always added a few inches to allow for growth. Better to play it safe, he’d say. Five years old and I spent my birthday in the garage with my father, helping him build my own coffin.

Normal families mark off their children’s height on a doorjamb or something. I found out how much I’d grown each year on my birthday, based on the size of the latest coffin. “You never know when your time will come,” he would say. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

I’m sorry, but it’s getting difficult to see and I really need to do something about this bleeding.


“Excuse me.”


I think I’ve ruined this blanket.


“Excuse me. Yes, I think, do you have a bandage or something? It’s just that, the blood keeps running into my eyes. Oh right.”


They don’t want me walking around right now. I hadn’t noticed that’s what I was doing. Just trying to see what’s going on, is all. I can’t seem to find Charles. Did I already tell you about him? I hope he didn’t hear me telling you about the coffins. I’ve never told him about any of that. Only good stories for Charles. Only what should have been. I’m almost certain he was with me a minute ago. I’d hate to think anything happened to him. Hang on; here comes someone with another bandage.


“Thank you. I was just having a hard time seeing, that’s all. I’m looking for someone. Have you seen a little boy around here, five years old? His name is Charles and he was with me in the car but I can’t seem to find him. We were going to get carrot sticks. They’re his favorite.”


You have to excuse me. It’s just that I’ve been in a very serious accident and I have to find Charles. He’s the closest thing to family that I’ve got. If something has happened to him I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. Actually, I think I hear someone calling him now, the policeman over there. He’s coming this way.


“You found Charles? Oh, of course, yes my name is Charles, but I’m looking for Charles. He’s never been on his own and I’m afraid I can’t find him. What’s going on here anyway? Officer I believe that’s my car in the road. Where am… I should be at the store by now.”


I don’t particularly like the way everyone’s looking at me, just so you know. It’s like I’m on display or something. Do you hear sirens? I hope no one’s been hurt.


“What was that? I don’t need you to call anyone for me. No, I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’m actually feeling better than I have in a long… oh never mind, you’re right that looks pretty bad. No, I really don’t have any… It’s just me and Charles. It’s been just us for, what… 30 some years now. What? I just told you; he was with me a minute ago.”


They’re not listening, I can tell. Geeze, they sure can fit a lot of stuff in these cars. Is that what you would call them, cars? Vans? What is an ambulance anyway? Oh wow, all right, I guess the needle goes right in the arm there. I expected a warning or something. I hope you don’t mind but I’m probably going to pass out soon, if I haven’t already; It’s been a long day and I can’t hardly think straight anymore. I’m pretty sure though… that I’m not stuck anymore. If you see Charles, tell him it’s okay to grow up now. Tell him I’ll be fine on my own.

Dark Eyes Opened Wide

From his lifeboat perch a towering three feet above an endless expanse of water, Matthew surveyed what remained of his father’s crop in the early morning light. The shifting blanket of fruit billowed gently over the now peaceful, perhaps tired Atlantic Ocean. Here and there a pale yellow orb stood out starkly from what otherwise offered no challenge to the crop’s namesake—orange—surrounded above, below, and on all sides by a continuous expanse of dismal blue sea and sky. Orange, Matthew saw, and blue, and dots of yellow, and the drifting brown body of Edmundo Antunes dos Santos.

“Edmundo!” Matthew called. His voice was shrill with fright.

“Edmundo!”

He reached into the water and scooped up a bobbing orange, then chucked it at the body. It bounced off his chest with a calloused thud.

“Wake up!”

The body rose and fell along with the oranges—silent—a blotchy yellowing brown except for olive green cargo shorts and a bright orange life jacket, and close enough to see his dark eyes opened wide, staring into the blue above as if deep in thought. His right hand clutched a clear plastic carton of water, which sometimes bobbed out of sync with the rest of his body, causing his arm to gesture toward the timid red beginnings of sunrise as if something in that direction might interest the boy in the lifeboat.

Matthew’s face narrowed from desperate to perplexed, then flattened into grave. He leaned over the bow and threw up, wiped his mouth, sat up, and passed out. The morning continued on without him, while Edmundo's eyes kept keen watch on the brightening blue sky.


He’d been staring like that the night before when Matthew walked onto the deck.

“Look’s like a big one,” he’d said, still looking up. “We’ll probably hit it tonight.”

Matthew had come up hoping for stars, but he couldn’t even find the moon behind all the clouds. Every day on this stupid ship was worse than the last. He looked up again with practiced disinterest, then saw that Edmundo was absently peeling an orange.

“Hey Edmundo,” he said, “I’m hungry. Give me that.”

Edmundo didn’t look down. “I’m hungry too.”

“Give it to me!” he yelled. Matthew was too bored to be agreeable. “Give it or I’ll tell my father you stole it!”

Edmundo still gripped the half-peeled orange but now looked at Matthew with disbelief in his eyes, or was it fear? Matthew hoped it was fear. Edmundo was only nine years old, a year younger than Matthew, but he still looked intimidating without his shirt on, and Matthew didn’t like the idea of fighting him with anything more than words if he could help it.

“I’ll tell my father you broke into one of the bins and stole it, and then we’ll see if your dad ever finds another lousy job on a ship again.”

He’d gone too far with that one and he knew it, Edmundo’s father was the most experienced captain in the whole company and a personal friend of the family, but Edmundo let go anyway. He was never one to make trouble for his family, a fact that Matthew used to his advantage as often as possible.

“Here,” said Edmundo. His right hand clutched at his stomach while his left hung limply at his side in defeat. “Can I at least have half?”

Matthew dropped the peel on the deck and sectioned off a piece of the orange, then looked his adversary in the eyes as he chewed the first bite. “Have a nice night, Edmundo,” he said, tagging on his name at the end as if it tasted bitter, then walked inside.

Edmundo was such a pushover, and so eager to please. “Call me Eddie,” he was probably saying.


A gut wrenching cry startled Matthew awake. A hoarse voice yelled frightened pleas from somewhere in the dark.

“Help, I can’t swim! Don’t let me go. I can’t…”

The voice trailed off into silence as Matthew realized it was his own. His body was stiff on the floor of the lifeboat. Tears rolled from his closed eyes down well-beaten paths that joined at one nostril and ran across his cheek. The sea rocked heavier than it had during the day, but much less than the night before. Much less. He listened to the ocean thump against the sides of the boat, then sunk back into sleep under the light of the watching moon.


The sun was beating down through a cloudless sky when Matthew finally woke again. He pushed himself off the boat floor and peered over the edge. Most of the oranges had drifted off somewhere during the night, leaving behind them a whole world of unbroken blue except for a small patch of colors on the horizon that was Edmundo. Matthew reached over the side and grabbed the only two oranges within reach, then turned to inspect the lifeboat while he ate for the first time since the storm, careful not to let any juice drip.

So far he hadn’t left the three feet of floor space between the bow and the closest of three wooden benches. The white benches contrasted sharply to the boat’s faded red floor, which looked about fifteen feet long and five across. Two sets of red oars stretched across the floor underneath the other benches, and a watertight metal case sat in the middle. The box was empty except for a grey metal can marked with black stencil letters. Drinking water.

The boy lunged at the can and brought it out with both hands, clawing at the rim for a way in. The can was heavy for its size and made a deep sloshing sound as he turned it around in his hands, searching for an opening or a tab or anything. He banged it against the metal case, then against a bench, then the boat’s edge. A dent grew in the side of the can but showed no sign of becoming a hole. Matthew eyed one of the oars. They were sharper than the boat’s edge. He held an oar over his head and swung it down against the can. A gush of water shot out in all directions and the can flew from the boat. He dropped to his knees, his eyes and hands scouring the boat floor for whatever moisture was left. Most of the water had collected into a salty puddle under the rear bench. Matthew scrambled forward and sucked up the puddle until he licked at faded red splinters. Nothing was left. He curled up onto his side and coughed violently, grasping his face and stomach and convulsing in the motions of weeping without tears.

Again he pushed himself up and looked out at Edmundo, an orange speck where the sky draped down and reached out beneath the lifeboat. Matthew picked the oar back up and began to row. He winced quietly with every effort and switched hands often as the lifeboat dragged through the water, rocking forward and back on each passing swell, slowly closing the distance between himself and the drifting body.

“I’m coming Eddie,” he shouted. “Wait there.”


A backdrop of gathering clouds was lit bright orange and red by the time Matthew reached the body. As the boat came closer, he could see that Edmundo’s arm was still pointed out from his body, only this time toward the west. A passing swell raised the carton in Edmundo’s hand and caused him to wave at the boat or perhaps swat weakly at one of the gulls fighting for position around his floating body. Matthew paddled harder. He saw now that a gull had landed on Edmundo’s lifejacket and was pecking at his eyes.

“Get back,” Matthew shouted, already hoarse. “Leave him alone.”

The gull gave one last peck at the floating boy’s face and then launched into the air with a squawking protest, narrowly dodging a swing from the oar, which instead hit Edmundo across the temple. Edmundo swung backward, then bobbed forward unfazed. Matthew let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh God, Eddie, I’m sorry.”

His eyes moved to the carton.

“Hang onto that water, Eddie. I’m gonna pull you out.” He set down the oar and gripped both sides of Edmundo’s lifejacket.

“One, two, three.”

He pulled up and back with all of his might, and Edmundo slid into the boat with surprising ease, owing to the fact that his green cargo pants were now gone, along with his torso and lower body. His left arm was missing below the elbow.

“Thank God,” said Matthew, “I didn’t think I’d have the strength to lift you.” His smile faded as his eyes shifted greedily toward the carton. He pried it out of the puffy yellow hand and ripped off the cap, shoving the opening to his cracked mouth and guzzling down its contents against a sudden fit of violent coughing.

Halfway through the carton, Matthew shook his head and looked around as if surprised by his surroundings. His eyes moved from the dripping carton to the bloated remains beside him, widening in horror at its gaping round holes for eyes. Thin streams of blood and salt water dripped from the remains and splashed on the boat’s red splinters, making them look washed and new.

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” he said, ”I don’t know what came over me. I just…”

Matthew paused mid-sentence. He angled his friend’s head back and poured some water down his throat.

“There, that’ll have to do for now. We’ve got to ration our water if we’re going to make it.”

The last traces of red were fading from the darkening blue sky as Matthew picked up the oar and began to paddle west, then stopped and smiled as he remembered something.

“Here you go, Eddie. I saved you an orange.”

Quote of the Year

From "Différance," by Jacques Derrida

"And yet, are not the thought of the meaning or truth of Being, the determination of différance as the ontic-ontological difference, difference thought within the horizon of the question of Being, still intrametaphysical effects of différance?"

Screw You, Blog

Get off my back. Gosh.

Reading, Writing and Arithmetic

I think spelling should be the fourth R.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 2 Number 2

Hey how are you? That's great/too bad. I hope things keep going the way they're going for you/get better soon.

The staff at This Guy would like to take this opportunity to say "scratch that" in reference to last week's newsletter. Since then, the staff has developed a similar yet slightly different (that is to say, similar) plan and has decided to "go ahead and go with that one."

Furthermore, that's all for now.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 2 Number 1

Welcome to about 4:00 p.m. One hopes one is enjoying the day.

We at this guy are excited to announce that an all new, full-length short story will soon be published on The Coolest Address. Portions of this story have already appeared in our publication under the working title "A Lack of Color," which is a bad title for anything but a Death Cab for Cutie song. The full story will be published under a new title in several illustrated "chapters." The chapters will be published in ascending order within minutes of one another so that the entire story will appear on the site in the correct order from top to bottom.

We hope you will check back with us often for this exciting new publication.

Working Title: A Lack of Color, Part 2

He’d been staring at the sky the night before when Matthew walked onto the deck.

“Look’s like a big one coming,” he’d said, still looking up. “We’ll probably hit it tonight.”

Matthew had come up hoping for stars, but he couldn’t even find the moon behind all the clouds. Every day of this stupid voyage was worse than the last. He looked up again with practiced disinterest, then saw that Edmundo was absently peeling an orange.

“Hey Edmundo,” he said, “I’m hungry. Let me have that.”

Edmundo didn’t look down. “I’m hungry too.”

Matthew was too bored to be agreeable. “Give it to me!” he yelled. “Give it or I’ll tell my father you stole it!”

Edmundo still gripped the half-peeled orange but now looked at Matthew with disbelief, or was it fear? Matthew hoped it was fear. For nine years old, Edmundo looked unusually intimidating without a shirt on, and Matthew didn’t like the idea of fighting him with anything more than words, even if he was a year younger.

“I’ll tell my father you broke into one of the bins and stole it, and then we’ll see if your old man ever finds another lousy job on a ship again.”

He’d gone too far with that one and he knew it, Edmundo’s father was the most experienced captain in the whole company and a personal friend of the family, but Edmundo let go anyway. He was never one to make trouble for his father, a fact that Matthew used to his advantage as often as possible.

“Here,” said Edmundo. His right hand clutched at his stomach while his left hung limply at his side in defeat. “Can I at least have half?”

Matthew dropped the peel on the deck and sectioned off a piece of the orange, then looked his adversary in the eyes as he chewed the first bite. “Good night, Edmundo,” he said, tagging on his name at the end in an effort to make it sound stupid, then walked inside.

Edmundo was such a pushover, and so eager to please. “Call me Eddie,” he was probably saying.

A gut wrenching cry startled Matthew awake. A hoarse voice yelled frightened pleas from somewhere in the dark.

“Help, I can’t swim! Don’t let me go. I can’t…”

The voice trailed off into silence as Matthew realized it was his own. His body was stiff on the floor of the lifeboat. Blood and mucus clung thick in the corners of his mouth, chapped from screaming. Tears still rolled from his closed eyes down well-beaten paths that joined at one nostril and ran across his cheek. The sea rocked heavier than it had during the day, but much less than the night before. Much less. He listened to the ocean thump against the sides of the boat, then sunk back into sleep under the light of the watching moon.

Working Title: A Lack of Color, Part 1

From his towering perch a full three feet above an endless expanse of water, Matthew surveyed what remained of his father’s crop in the early morning light. The shifting blanket of color billowed gently over the now peaceful, perhaps tired Atlantic ocean. Here and there a pale yellow orb stood out starkly from what otherwise offered no challenge to the crop’s namesake—orange—surrounded above, below, and on all sides by a continuous expanse of dismal blue sea and sky. Orange, Matthew saw, and blue, and dots of yellow, and the drifting brown body of Edmundo Antunes dos Santos.

“Edmundo!” Matthew called.

He reached into the ocean and scooped up a bobbing orange, then chucked it at the body. It bounced off the naked chest with a calloused thud.

“Edmundo, Wake up!”

The body rose and fell along with the oranges—silent—a blotchy pale brown except for olive green cargo shorts and a bright orange life jacket, and close enough to see his dark eyes opened wide, staring into the blue above as if deep in thought. His right hand clutched a clear plastic carton of water, which sometimes bobbed out of sync with the rest of his body, causing his arm to gesture toward the rising sun as if something in that direction might interest the boy in the lifeboat.

Matthew’s face went from desperate to perplexed, then grave. He leaned over the bow and threw up, wiped his mouth, sat up, and passed out. The morning continued on without him, while Edmundo's eyes kept keen watch on the brightening sky.

Amazing Tattoo Idea #3

Shark being eaten by a Spanish 102 Workbook/Laboratory Manual

Breadsticks

"Are we going to Pat and Oscar's tonight?"
- self

"Yes. At some point."
- Anonymous

"Sick daddy."
- self

In celebration, I have written a poem about breadsticks. This is my poem:

Breadsticks (#1)

Breadsticks,
At Pat and Oscar's,
Are free.

And good.

And have butter on them.

Sentence of the Day from the Word of the Day

"His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons."

-Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

Today:

1) I found a hefty brownie crumb lodged (lodging, rather) on my keyboard between J, K and I.

2) I got it out with two pens—one with a cap and one with a clicker (a to be clicked, rather).

3) I chose not to eat it (even though the rest was good).

4) other

Eleventh Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Eleven*:

K

"K" stands for kohlrabi, which means "a vegetable related to the cabbage, with an edible, turniplike stem." Unfortunately, it could easily be overheard as "coal rabbi," which means "a black, combustible Jewish teacher used as fuel" and poses a significant risk of attracting unwanted attention from entrepreneurial Klansmen. Incidentally, this is the only occurence of the "word" turniplike in the dictionary.

*Latin for "two."

Meet the New Pants, Same as the Old Pants

...except for this whole "pre-worn" fad that we're still dealing with.

My left knee was getting cold so I bought some new jeans for it, but now I look like I have to pee a lot.

Amazing Tattoo Idea #2

Spanish 102 Workbook/Laboratory Manual being eaten by a shark

Five Minutes Ago

Chris: "Wait, what are you guys talking about?"
TG: "The Guitar Hero competition. Have you heard about it?"
Chris: "No."
TG: "Dub, tell him about it."
Dub: "Well, there's going to be a Guitar Hero competition..."
Chris: "Yeah, I heard about that."

A Valentine's Message from Dave Barry

"The discovery that the Valentine heart resembles the prostate gland and not the human heart has MAJOR implications, and not just for people who play bridge (I bid three prostates). It also means that there are thousands, perhaps millions, of hairy men walking around with the word 'Mom' tattooed on a picture of a prostate gland."

Amazing Tattoo Idea #1

New Hampshire license plate

Tenth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Ten*:

J

"J" stands for Jack-a-dandy, which means "a little dandy; a little, foppish, impertinent fellow." That's exactly what it should mean.

*binary for three

Dent

You should have stopped.

You’ll be telling yourself that for a while, until time fades today into distant gray. But today—today is stark black and white. Today the locked front door will frustrate you to tears before you remember the keys still in the ignition, the car still running.

“I hit a deer,” you’ll say. That will explain the dent. That will explain why your arms won’t stop shaking. He’ll pull you close, hold you tight. “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” he’ll say. “Let’s be glad no one’s hurt.”

And that much is true. It has to be true.

Does This Guy Have the Coolest Address (dot blogspot dot com)?

Hey.

I think I can change this blog's URL.

Should I try?

p.s. This has been a readership poll.

Quote of the Day

"That guy is the man." - Jesse Davis

Portrait of a Killer

Journal Entry of the Wet Cushion on the Floor

day 167

They left me outside again. This time in the rain. Things are getting worse every day. Ever since the air cooled, their visits have become irregular at best. It wasn’t so bad with just the cold, but I fear this business with the rain may be a sign of potentially damaging neglect. With each passing day I become increasingly convinced that it is no longer safe for me to stay here.

day 168

I saw him watching me last night. It might have been early morning.

Someone’s been looking in my journal.

day 169

Reading over my last two entries, I find it odd that they cover a span of a couple days though I only started this journal several minutes ago.

day 170

It occurred to me that I don’t know how to read or write. Whoever is writing this journal, it isn’t me. Tomorrow, I go.

I'm Just Stretching Them Out for Someone, I Swear

I found out something awful about myself today (and to think I've been introspective all this time). I'd just finished velcroing a bear-shaped puzzle to the kitchen wall (because, why not?) when I decided that it was time to display the last puzzle I'd built ("Wild Animal Panorama") and also Mod Podged together (as much for the puzzle's preservation as for the smell of Mod Podge [Wet carrots and broccoli; the folks at Bath and Body Works are fools if they've ever been in a craft supply store]).

"Where should I put this puzzle, guys?"

No answer.

I hold it up to a possible location. Michael seems less than pleased.

"It's just kind of a weird place to hang anything," he explains. Dub doesn't look up from the TV, apparently engrossed in a commercial about how patriotic Chevy trucks are.

"Well, what about over here?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

Huh. "Dub, what do you think? Over your desk, or where should I put it?"

Dub hesitates before letting his eyes leave the screen, probably pulled in by the stellar performance of the Swiffer Wet Jet. "Um... over my desk could work, I guess... or maybe in our room somewhere."

"Well, I don't want to put if over your desk if you don't want it there, but if I put it in our room I feel like no one's ever going to see..." Suddenly it hits me. "Oh my gosh, I'm a weird puzzle person, aren't I?"

Michael gives me a look like he just found out his girlfriend wasn't pregnant. Dub lets out a nervous laugh. I'm feeling dizzy, and my roommates' voices sound muffled and far away. "Well... not exactly," someone says, I'm not sure who. The Bears/Saints game comes back on but Dub isn't watching. Instead he's saying something about how it's not weird to build puzzles at all, so long as you put them back in the box when you're done. Michael mentions that his grandparents are always building puzzles.

Even in that moment, I know I want a puzzle on every wall, as if I were a 12-year-old girl from 1995 and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. As if I were a 42-year-old mouth breather living in my ailing mother's musty basement and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and Ritz crackers were decent social skills and acceptable hygiene (because I also wanted some Ritz crackers just then, but I didn't have any). I don't even think building puzzles is all that fun; I just like having them when they are done. It's true. I am a weird puzzle person.

Dub and Michael are still talking, their muffled voices assuring me that it's okay to make mistakes, that everyone gets a little excessive from time to time. "It's not you, it's me," they might as well be saying. I close my eyes, figuring my only hope is to wake up into a world of black and white and find out that it was all just a dream. "And you were there, and you were there, and you were there..." but to no avail—my life really has come to this, and I can tell from the way they're looking at me that my ruby slippers are only making things worse.

turns out

I spoke too soon.

self titled

Should a poem about getting a free burrito in an order of several burritos really be called a poem? I think we're about to find out.

Spending any more time on the title will cause me to miss the sunset. Yes, today we get rain and a sunset.

Chessie looks unmoved by the rumblings outside. Perhaps if the storm moves closer she will don the usual "I hope this won't poke me in the eye" demeanor she displays whenever anyone so much as stretches a rubber band or picks up a letter opener.

But it sounds as if I'm out of luck. God has finished rolling his garbage can out to the street, returned up his heavenly driveway, and shut the gate. I hear only rain, and keyboard.

And computer hum. And rain gutter—either that or there's a bored kid with a bunch of bubble wrap in the back yard. And if so, he's probably the one banging chimes. But I think that's the wind, which, for an invisible force of nature, sucks at stealth.

I hear a small plane chancing the weather overhead (naturally), perhaps challenging it. Neighborhood dogs (really the only type of dog we have around here) are amicably discussing their philosophical ponderings one howl at a time, but far enough away that only unhappy people would dare to mind. Chessie's breaths are making a squeaking noise, and so are mine, which is acceptable when you're breathing through your nose. So pretty much it's loud as heck. All it took for me to notice was a little thunder.

They say that, on a day like this, if you listen very carefully past the rainfall and wind-tossed pine needles and snoring dogs, you will hear the soft call of a good book whispering your name. Actually, no one says that, but I'm going to go read, which is a lot of verbs for such an activity.