FireVaney

Foot!

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 31 May 2026 05:00:00 +0000

At first I thought it was the shoe, but now I think it’s the foot. My foot. My right foot. The bottom of my right foot. Because the shoe was new. One of a pair, of course. But then I bought yet another new pair and the same sensation occurred—that is, on the bottom of my right foot. No issue with the left. To be clear, I feel it—on the bottom of my right foot—whilst running. It feels like the sock has bunched up—right under the ball of my right foot. But often the feeling runs halfway down the middle of said foot. The feeling starts at the ball. “Ball,” isn’t that what you call it? Should it be plural? Balls? Balls of my foot? Balls of my toes? But only whilst running. That isn’t to say one ought to refer them as “balls” whilst running. Rather, I’m referring to the feeling, the sensation. Whilst running. Or walking quickly. Said sensation occurs exclusively whilst upon the treadmill—any treadmill—and only whilst said treadmill is in motion. O, how I wish the word “whilst” would catch on in the States! O, how I wish the eastern bow would replace the western handshake. Germs, man. Germs. And yes, the gym indeed has a track; and, yes, I could jog upon it, but I’m simply too lazy to run on will alone. I need the “path” beneath my feet to force me on. Sums me up quite well, that. That, and it’s been much too cold of late. Outside, I mean. Look out the window—it’s April, and it’s snowing!

11 April 2007

ennui

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 24 May 2026 05:00:00 +0000

…and yet,

how self-deceitfully

easy

it is

to slip

back

into the dull,

monotonous,

thudding-along

life…

31 October 2005

“The Shit”

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 17 May 2026 05:00:00 +0000

BOB
Does it matter that a guy goes his whole life thinking he’s “the shit” when he’s not—and he’ll never have a clue that he’s not?

JOE
Why should it matter?

BOB
Cuz he’s a loser. He’s never gonna get anywhere staying on the track he’s always been on.

JOE
So long as he thinks he’s “the shit,” doesn’t matter. It’s been said before, many, many times, but it’s true: Life? Perception. ‘S all about perception.

BOB
But if you’re fooling yourself—

JOE
Doesn’t matter. People told Hemingway he was the greatest American writer—and he still blew his brains out. Obviously he didn’t think he was “the shit.” Even though he WAS, he didn’t believe he was. Well. Maybe.

BOB
I’ve never read any Hemingway.

JOE
Me neither. Not the point.

13 August 2002

temerarious me

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 10 May 2026 05:00:00 +0000

See, I keep knocking things into the wastebasket betwixt the matching wood desk and dresser in my Aunt Redacted’s childhood bedroom. These knocked over things, they’re my things—the pens, the keys, the stapler, the bibelots and baubles that tend to clutter one’s desk. The wastebasket, too, that’s my wastebasket—a metal Chicago Bears wastebasket. Other than being cluttered, it’s kinda neat, this desk. It literally fits into the corner of the room. It would neatly fit into a 90 degree corner of any ordinary bedroom. Suffice it to say, this desk, my Aunt Redacted’s childhood desk, now my desk (for all intents and purposes), its surface is more triangular than rectangular. To be clear, it’s a small room, but still, in and of itself, fairly rectangular. Regardless, things keep falling through the space betwixt the desk and the matching wood dresser, falling into the wastebasket, or rather landing in the wastebasket, because I keep knocking them over into it. So what do I do? I move the wastebasket. I move it beneath the desk—or, rather, fully beneath it. See, it was previously somewhat beneath it, but I’ve just now decided to do this—relocate it beneath the desktop completely—after months, years, decades, centuries, and/or eons, of knocking things over and into. It’s how God came up with life, I’d bet. The Almighty just knocked over some shit. You know, like getting your peanut butter on my chocolate, or getting my chocolate on your peanut butter. Only now there’s less room for my feet. That is, my feet and my legs. That is, less room beneath this desk. And that must be why I’ve left the wastebasket where it was for these many months, years, decades, centuries, and/or eons. And here we arrive at the real error of my ways. Since the gap betwixt the wood desk and its matching dresser no longer served a purpose, I went ahead and yanked the dresser closer to the desk. That is, to close the gap. A hasty move, to say the least. See, in the act of yanking the dresser, I caused one of its short wood legs to crack and buckle somewhat. As you might expect, I cursed. Then, after I cursed, I descended onto all fours upon the carpeted floor for a closer inspection of my handiwork. I straightened the leg and, to this day, it continues to bear the weight it was designed to carry. Even so, if I ever again try to nudge the dresser in any direction—even by a millimeter—that leg’ll very likely snap clean off. Thus, the gap remains.

7 April 2007

s t r e aM # 5 4

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 03 May 2026 05:00:00 +0000

There is no way that I’m going to choose the path which will lead me toward prune juice. There are things I will tolerate, and there are things that are just things. They are thingy things. They exist to collect dust. They are not the things you want to bother about, they are just things to be things to sit on a shelf and collect dust. They are things to toss against the wall when things are not going well. They are things to toss. They are tossible tossables. You say that “tossable” and “tossible” aren’t legitimate words. I say, go fuck yourself, you KNOW what I mean when I use these “illegitimate” words. If something is tossible/tossable, then they are able to be tossed. That’s all. They are garbagible garbagables. Fuck you. You are not going to control my vocabulary. Not any more. There are things – thingy things – sitting on my shelves that are garbagible/garbagales tossable/tossibles. I know what I mean, and that is all that matters because nobody else is reading. FREEDOM (is lonely) (but that’s the price you pay). The price of Freedom is the cost of doing business on Planet Earth. Beyond that, Nothing cares. Nothing. Nothing gives a shit. Thank God for good ole Nothing. Always patient and reliable, that good ole Nothing. Yes, you can always depend on Nothing. Or, at least, I can. Fuck you, [NAME REDACTED]. What the fuck did you mean when you titled your piece of shit sequel, [REDACTED TITLE]?!? The fuck was that? Exactly WHO was wanting to believe WHAT? I am STICK and tired of wasting money at the movies. Maybe if it was cheaper. I’m SICK and tired two. Also, I’m sick and tired, TOO. That’s right, I wouldn’t mind so much if it were cheaper. The next time you want to eat with me why don’t you bring your pet cheetah along? They allow dogs, why not cheetahs, too? I want to cheetah on you. No, I don’t. I want roasted cheetah. No, I don’t. Maybe fried cheetah. Nah. Well, maybe. I do not foresee the opportunity. Full stop. There are BETTER WOMEN OUT THERE. Maybe. I don’t want to believe that. But I do. I just don’t care anymore. I want to just not care anymore. Yes, that’s it. I want to believe that I just don’t care anymore. I’ve had my moments of apathy. It is the natural state: Apathy. I don’t want to care. As it is, I hardly care. I care less and less. Everybody fakes it so well. Everybody’s cocooned. I don’t know what to do. Yes, I do: I’m going to blow up all the lawnmowers. Why can’t they make quiet lawnmowers? Why not “green” lawnmowers, for Chrissake! Why the fuck not? You know, they’ll run on batteries – NO! WAIT! BETTER: SOLAR-powered lawnmowers! Makes all the sense in the world. Honestly? I don’t give a shit about the environment. I give a shit about PEACE and QUIET! The only noise I want is my music—my classical music—and a tweeting bird or two, every now and then. The fucking bugs, man. JESUS. When it gets hot they really crank it up. I swear to GOD. Fuckin’ horny bugs and fucking lawnmowers. There are worse things, of course, of course, a horse is a horse. Like exploding bombs. It’s important to maintain perspective – particularly when you are “embedded” in suburbia – where everything goes numb. Bottom reached.

1 August 2008

"The most urgent film of our time.”

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Fri, 01 May 2026 17:06:00 +0000

In a nutshell...

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Fri, 01 May 2026 17:02:00 +0000

“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eye watered.”

- Guildenstern

from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

by Tom Stoppard

Contagious Deportments

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 26 Apr 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Since Pop takes naps, I take naps. Since Pop pisses a lot, I’m pissing a lot more. On the bright side, his house has two toilets. No, not side-by-side. One’s upstairs, the other’s downstairs.

Since Pop drives slow, I’m driving slower. I find myself asking other drivers, as they pass me, “What’s the rush?” I need a bumper sticker that says, “I believe in the speed limit.” Thing is, Pop and me, we’re the only two such believers in town.

Since Pop grunts when he sits, I grunt when I sit. And each time I grunt, in my head, I ask myself, as I sit and grunt, I ask, “Why am I grunting?” I don’t have back pain. I’m too young to grunt like Pop grunts.

Beyond that, he and I, we have very little in common.

He reads business periodicals. He’ll read them all day long. Me? I read plays and novels. Pop won’t touch ‘em. At night, he watches whatever’s on TV. He watches Wheel Of Fortune, he watches The Bachelor, he watches Dancing With The Stars, he watches Deal or No Deal.

Me? I limit myself to Peter Jennings. If it’s Sunday, I’ll tune in for Alias.

Pop’s active at two temples. He’s a founding member of both. He’s not religious, but, in nature, he is ritualistic. He’s also very sociable. Pop goes to temple because the American Jedi he grew up with and worked with didn’t go to bars. You went to bars if you wanted friends; you went to work if you wanted money. That’s how you pulled yourself out of Depression-era Humboldt Park.

Nobody ever asks, but, more and more, to me, it seems like religion is the best, most enduring, most indestructible con game ever invented. Not always, but more and more. Maybe my views will change when (and if) I hit Pop’s age. He turns 97 this month, two weeks before I turn 27.

Oh, and, since Pop’s memory sucks? Yeah, my memory, it’s sucking a whole lot more than it used to.

My hearing’s going, too. Pop’s? His is LONG gone.

7 June 2004

Graduation Letter (Rough Draft)

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Dear Scáthach,

Does the name Polonius ring a bell? He was a wise fool. Had he survived Hamlet’s rapier, he might’ve lived long enough to share the following sage advice* with you…

There are two little words that will open a lot of doors for you: “Push” and “Pull.”
If at first you don’t succeed, then skydiving definitely isn’t for you.
When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.
The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Do you remember the time we robbed that bank? Oh. Wait. No. I was with Cúnait. Never mind. Before you came along, she was something of a wild child; not at all the demure, prudish saint she is today. But forget I mentioned it. (Of course, if you ask her, she’ll deny it.)

Do you remember stealing my sippy cup? Near the turn of the 20th century, my great grandmother, Avdotya, sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way from Russia, with that very sippy cup and, other than the clothes on her back, nothing else. That same sippy cup had been in her family for seven and a half generations. Show it off to the appraisers on “Antiques Roadshow” and they’d tell you that it’s a priceless artifact. Truly, it belongs in The Louvre!

Do you remember the time we walked Gracie down to Radhanagar Beach? Do you think she remembers it? Did you know that dogs aren’t allowed on that beach? I bet you did. I didn’t.

I’ll close the same way Dan Rather would end many of his CBS Evening News broadcasts, by stating quite simply and somewhat inexplicably: “Courage.”

Luv,

Uncle FV

*Note that, in so doing, he’d be ripping off several well-known comedians. Also note that, to’ve lived so long, he'd have had to be a vampire. (Exempli gratia, Stack and Mary in Sinners.)

April 19, 2026

Riddled

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 05:00:00 +0000

What do you believe? Why trust yourself when, time and again, you’ve led yourself astray? Astray, astray. Ashtray. If only leading oneself astray were a lucrative career path. And as for faith: Faith in what? Faith in what you know? Alright. Or, all right. You have faith in knowing what you know is wrong. Or, at best, what you know is riddled with wrongs. Go? BOLDLY go? Where? Spend? How much? Write? How much? Spend it all? Go everywhere? Write until the ink runs out? Write until the paper runs out? Type until the fingers ache? Ah, but recall Mister Rather’s sage advice.* What do you want? What, REALLY? Self-reliance? Ah, but you get soooooooooooooooooo lonesome, don’t you? Lonesome and loathsome. You suffer soooooooooooooooooo much doubt, no? You want a lover. You want a companion. You want to “go free” with a lover-companion. And you don’t want a boss. Well, who DOES? Well, frankly? Many do. All too many seek to be led. But you? No. As the Bio-Farter oft said, “You can’t take instruction.” True. You don’t want a boss unless that boss is a competent publisher or an accomplished producer with deep pockets and strong connections. But which faith to embrace? Why the need to choose? For Chrissake, why can’t “the Almighty” put His / Her / Its foot down and settle the matter? Settle something, for Chrissake. Why must we shed blood over competing ideologies, if there is, in fact, one correct philosophy / faith / truth? Short of that knowledge, how are you supposed to know the correct course of action? Mind the wise words of Mr. Goldman: “Nobody knows anything.” Indeed. Be it Hollywood or The Church or Wall Street, “Nobody knows anything.” That said, all the best academic research supports dollar-cost averaging your nest egg into low-cost, broadly-diversified index mutual funds and/or ETFs. But, you know, who has the patience, right? And, besides, Pets.com was way sexier than VFINX, no? But beyond that, what to believe? Who to trust? What to do? What to do DIFFERENTLY? What do you know? What do you NEED to know? How to proceed? Who to ask? Don’t stop. Keep going. Come clean. Like the man said…

14 April 2007

StREAm # 5 3

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 05 Apr 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Blasted weather! It saps my creativity. Blast it! This is why I must move North. Around here, August is the worst – typically the worst. To my mind, it IS the worst. July is bad, but August is worse. Now, October? That’s a much better month. It’s my mother’s month. But more importantly, why can’t I dress the brown bear in its fur? YOU said I could. You promised. You wanted me to dress it in a red velvet jumpsuit. “But that’s too tacky,” says you. It’s MY bear! Why can’t I dress it how I please? Who are YOU to say how I should dress MY property. It IS my property. It’s not like it’s a REAL bear, a LIVE bear. It’s a mere teddy. I was wondering where that came from – that “teddy” bear term. I kinda knew already, but I wasn’t sure. One of my dictionaries, in case you didn’t know yourself, says that “Teddy” was the nickname for “Theodore,” alluding to “Theodore Roosevelt,” who was an “enthusiastic” bear hunter. So there you have it. And I’ll wager that President Roosevelt wouldn’t care to have my teddy dressed up in a red velvet jumpsuit. Elvis might not mind, but I don’t care what Elvis might or might not mind. Why? Because I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Elvis doesn’t give a hoot about what I mind – not that President Roosevelt would give any more of a hoot. But who is more respectable? I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t done nearly enough research. I don’t expect to DO any additional research, either. So: MY bear, and the bear gets the fur. When I’m off to work you can do what you please. And you will. That is your nature. Which is to say, in other words, that whilst I’m away you can dress my bear as you please. What can I do? I suppose I could take the bear with me. But my bear never leaves the house. I wouldn’t want it to get stained. I’m terrified of all the stain-producing potential out there. Once you leave the house, everything gets stained, one way or another. You cannot prevent stains. Stains happen just like shit happens. And shit stains. And shit stinks. And I just want you to light my fire. Come on, set the night on fire. Whatever. No, please, don’t set anything on fire. Leave the fire in the fireplace. Leave it there – in the fireplace, or in the oven, or on the stovetop, but don’t set the night on fire. I won’t be able to sleep. To sleep, perchance to snore, I need the night to be pitch-black. Pitch-black and bone-cold. Otherwise, I’ll get no rest. Bears need fur. It makes sense. What is that damn bird yapping about outside my window? Said “fine” feathered “friend” sounds like cross between a duck and a crow. I want my little tummy to feel better. Blast this weather! It saps EVERYTHING; all vitality. Confound it! Makes me want to give it all up – save for breathing. Makes me hungrier, too. Aren’t they heftier down south, anyway? Did I eat too much bread (carbohydrates) for dinner yesterday? Was THAT why I was tossing and turning betwixt two and four ante meridiem, and then up at five, but then resetting the alarm for five thirty, and finally rising and “shining” at five thirteen? I’ll let you in on a little secret: To wake up faster, tell yourself jokes. Works for me. Bottom reacheth.

31 July 2008

"And if you can't be with the one..."

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 29 Mar 2026 05:00:00 +0000

She’s drunk and she presses your face into her cleavage—twice—and you tell her you think of her as a sister. And but so now, after that, you’re not so sure. You tell her it’s hard not to stare at her breasts and she tells you go ahead, stare. After that, you babble on about the painful crush you have on her best friend. She sits there beside you and she’s very understanding. At one point, for Paparazzo Pete, she bends over and aims her face at your crotch. It’s all for fun and she’s drunk and so are you—a little bit. And but so now, writing this, you’re thinking maybe you should pursue something with her. And you’re completely sober now. It would be a sober relationship. You want a companion and you want sex but you don’t want to break her heart if she falls in love with you.

8 March 2007

Sofas & Space

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Betty’s bad back has a beef with every chair and sofa in the house.* So I drove her and Pop over to Wickes and, after a lot of test-sitting and indecision, Pop ordered some new furniture: a sandy-colored reclining chair, a matching sofa, and a matching loveseat. You might say they’re more comfy-looking than they are stylish.

By the way, Pop’s bad ears have misled him to refer to Wickes as “Wicky’s.” Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve explained that the name is pronounced, “Wicks,” —as in the “wick” of a candle—it’ll always be “Wicky’s” to Pop.

Before he made the purchase, I measured the room so everything would fit.†

Only I forgot to measure the doorways.

Turns out the new sofa wouldn’t fit through. So we changed the order to two loveseats and the reclining chair.

Now Pop’s worried about the two OLD sofas that have to go. The Salvation Army is sending a truck the day before the new furniture arrives. Pop, though, he’s not convinced the old sofas will make it through the doorway. As I’ve reminded him more than once, the house wasn’t built AROUND his two old sofas. If you turn them onto their sides, they’ll make it out through the backdoor, easy-peasy.

“I don’t know...” Pop kept saying, rubbing his bald head.

Right there in front of him, I measured both old sofas—never mind they’re exactly the same size. After that, I measured the back doorway. I PROVED it to him that they’ll fit through, but he just stared with real concern at these old sofas, saying, “I don’t know...”

For the record, these weren’t the very first sofas he’d bought for the room. He built the house in the 1950s; those two old sofas, they date back to the 1980s.

But maybe he doesn’t really want to let ‘em go.

04 June 2004

*[Not that it mattered, but Betty’s bad back probably had a beef with every chair and sofa ever made.]

†[Not the living room; nobody spent time in the living room. We’re talking about the many-windowed addition in the back of the house Pop called, “the TV room.” It’s where he took his meals, read his newspapers and magazines, napped, and, you guessed it, watched TV. It’s a hefty 40-inch Belushi CRT TV. I still own it and it still works. Back in 1996, it was state-of-the-art.]

A Recluse Walks Into A Bar...

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 15 Mar 2026 05:00:00 +0000

I waved, few noticed, I left. Out on the street I mumbled to myself, “What a terrific waste of time.” I couldn’t tell you what my “scene” is, but it sure ain’t the “bar scene.” One light beer made me drunk, so I had to wait for it to wear off. So many conversations… I couldn’t follow a single one. So I watched others laugh and flirt. Damn near every time anybody spoke to me, I shouted back, “WHAT?” They’d have to shout whatever they wanted to share or ask several times, until I’d give up with a smile and a nod. All of that secondhand smoke still clouds my head a day later. Damn near ever wall was full of muted TVs tuned to one sport or another. Birds of a feather self-segregated in the several available corners. Ms. J. Redacted drank straight from a pitcher of beer. Ms. D. Redacted hugged everybody in the cast—except for me. But then I wasn’t easy to reach (story of my life) and she barely knows me. I did, however, hear what Ms. L. Redacted shouted at me on her first try: “WHY ARE YOU SO QUIET?”

15 April 2007

Mister Argh

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 08 Mar 2026 06:00:00 +0000

You could, if you wanted to, live here, where I live, in this community, blissfully ignorant of what goes on anywhere else. One of my high school history teachers compared the Village of Knotydart to a cocoon. That same history teacher wore leather boots, blue jeans, and a jean jacket to class nearly every day of the week. He tossed the word “groovy” around quite a bit. When we studied the Roman Empire, he rolled a TV with a VCR into the classroom and showed us Jesus Christ Superstar. That was his first year, when he did all of that. He’d moved back to Knotydart from Tinseltown. He’d given up on the pipe dream of becoming the next Frances Ford Coppola. (Incidentally, he studied screenwriting with StepDude at Tinseltown College, but that was many moons ago.) After Mister Argh’s first year of teaching at Knotydart High, he started wearing khaki pants and a professor’s elbow-padded wool sport jacket, a button down shirt, and a tie. He traded his boots for brown oxfords. He shaved off his thick black beard, and I never heard him say, “groovy,” again. Over the next two years he worked off his beer belly. He married an English teacher, and they had a kid. One day, by chance, like a year after I’d graduated college, he led his family into the bookstore café I kinda-sorta managed. He and his wife smiled at me. They didn’t say hi, though, and they never came back—at least not when I was around. No surprise there. I was a lousy student.

20 March 2007

S t r eA M # 5 2

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 01 Mar 2026 06:00:00 +0000

Save for the enviable, one should save for the inevitable. Whereas the inevitable will come a-knockin’, the enviable will steer clear. (Hencethus, why we envy them.) And so but anyway, when the inevitable comes a-knockin’, you’ll need a reserve. This is true of the balloon as it is true for the needle. The balloon seeks to be popped. Indeed. It does. And the needle seeks to pop. It does. Indeed. To pop, or to pierce. To pierce whom? To pierce Brosnan. Ha, ha. The needle enjoys it: The Bursting. And the balloon enjoys being burst. It’s not unlike an orgasm. Perhaps it IS an orgasm. Why not? The balloon drifts on the wind. Indeed. It does. It drifts. The needle stays put. It does not have the luxury of buoyancy. Launch it into outer space, and, yes, it’ll have buoyancy, of a sort. But I had a conversation with the needle. It’s rather sharp, that needle is. Ha, ha. I asked it all kinds of questions. (Afterall, how often does one have the opportunity to converse with a needle?) It answered promptly and concisely. Better: It answered pointedly. Ha, ha. As you might expect, it kept expressing its desire to be introduced to the balloon. In vain, I tried to explain that I cut its string (the balloon’s). I tried to explain… but the words were mud. Or, rather, they might as well have been mud. The words are not easy to express. The right words. The words that clarify. The words I speak of are the sort of beast(s) that drinks tea at midnight in the house of apes and kites. The kites are not the same as the balloons. Nor are the balloons the same as baboons. Nor are the kites the same as the nice bloke down the block. The bloke down the block causes me, causes you, causes us no trouble. None at all. He keeps to himself but he must have skeletons in the closet. Who doesn’t? Well. I can name one, but that would be conjecture. One never can tell. It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished them well. But the next train will be late. It will not house cartons of milk. It will, instead, house cartons of seaweed and soy sauce. The next train will rim the corner. Whatever that means. The next boat to follow me home is going to get it. The dead will not abide by the next train. They will abide by the next boat. They will not eat. They eat. When they want to fly kites they blow up baboons instead. Better make that BALLOONS, instead. They don’t do the things they really want to do. They deny themselves. They practice the art of getting what one needs, because you can’t always get what you want. This time there will be no designated driver. We are family. And the next time we designate a water bottle for the apple, we’ll ask the orange first. The orange has a lot to say. It doesn’t fit. It won’t fit. It’s too big. It has no power to judge the committee meeting. It does want to dish out the shit, though. He is the next man to walk the rings of fortune. It takes tiny feet. I’m taking the car in for an oil change and then some. I think I’ll have less butter on my toast, this time. Why did the salad make me fat? It was supposed to be a healthy salad. Fuck that cabbage. Fuck it. Fuckin’ cabbage. Fuckin’ lettuce. Feet first. FEET FIRST! Remember that, if nothing else. Always, always, FEET FIRST. And who doesn’t enjoy a little music, every now and then? Bottom.

30 July 2008

Pop’s Green Thumb

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 22 Feb 2026 06:00:00 +0000

Though he’s not up to it, not physically, Pop wants to plant flowers on his front lawn. He’s done it for years. This year, he’d like to plant exactly ONE HUNDRED flowers, though not all at once. Thank God.

I told him the landscapers can do it. The landscapers can do ANYTHING lawn-related. But Pop insists on doing it all himself. He says he wants to do something useful; he says he “likes the exercise.”

Last summer, after planting just three little plants, he was wiped out for the day. For Pop, a man his age, this is not the right kind of exercise. Summer before last, after planting five, maybe six flowers, the man literally gave himself a hernia.

He walks his treadmill, he lifts his (light) weights, he stretches his stretching bands, he walks to the mailbox and back; this is his daily routine, and he’s got no problems maintaining it.

Crouching, reaching, digging, when it’s eighty, ninety degrees outside? No. That’s no good. Not for Pop.

On the off chance I make it to ninety-three, you can bet I won’t be risking my life to plant one stupid little flower. I’ll get my grandson, or the landscaper, to do it. Happily.

23 May 2004

FireVaney Earworm #2

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Mon, 16 Feb 2026 02:00:00 +0000

👆

"Enhanced"

__________________________

Original

👇

Sunday Night Bally

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 15 Feb 2026 06:00:00 +0000

This guy on the bench-press bench, sitting up, hunched over, picking his nose, all the while, there I am: eight sets on biceps, eight sets on triceps, three sets on chest, three sets on calves, and, all the while, I’m wondering whether or not he’s gonna get up the nerve to try a single set—a single rep—before the place closes in twenty-eight minutes. Do I want to stop my (futile) efforts to pump myself up for all the single ladies and fetch this guy a tissue? Part of me does—not because it’s a nice thing to do, no. Maybe he doesn’t give a shit who sees him digging for snot. And for that, in a way, maybe he deserves my respect. That’s my problem: I give a shit. Or too much of a shit. In any case, when I leave, five minutes to close, he’s still there, picking his nose.

16 January 2005

FireVaney Earworm #1

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Fri, 13 Feb 2026 19:47:00 +0000

Three Months From Now

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 08 Feb 2026 06:00:00 +0000

Pop didn’t want a big party for his 90th birthday, but he got one anyway. He had a good time, too. Now his eldest daughter is planning another big bash for his 95th birthday, three months from now. She doesn’t intend for it to be a surprise party, but she’s reluctant to mention it to him. “Hold off until the end of the month,” I told her. By then, he’ll have healed from his fall. He fell yesterday, too, but it wasn’t a serious fall. The man’s always been in too much of a hurry to get wherever he’s headed. Back when I was a kid, and grandma was still alive, and we three went out to eat, Pop was always in a hurry to get from the car to the restaurant, and then, afterward, from the restaurant back to the car. Like it was a race. Grandma, though, she always took her time. If there was ever any need to hurry, I wasn’t aware of it. That said, back then, I was largely oblivious to everything, and obliviousness is more blissful than ignorance. Anyway, if Pop’s sick or hurting now, he won’t be receptive to the idea of a party—even if it’s three years away. Ask him how he’s feeling today, and he’ll kvetch about the stomach ache he had a week ago. Truth is, he’s had a bumpy ride, health-wise, these past few months. Bottom line, he’d be satisfied with a birthday bowl of matzo ball soup and a slice of noodle kugel from Ada’s Deli. Don’t get me wrong, Pop can be very sociable. Only he’s more likely to accept an invitation from a relative stranger, than one from a close relative. Or so it seems.

22 March 2007

S T r E AM # 5 1

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 01 Feb 2026 06:00:00 +0000

Something less lucid, perhaps? Teresa bounced the ball in his direction. She did so on purpose. Her purpose was to win his attention. She was successful. He looked her way after the ball hit him in the head. He let the ball hit him in the head and bounce away. He looked at her, generally displeased, and then he looked toward the ball, bouncing away – bouncing down the driveway – bouncing into traffic. She said, “You’re supposed to bounce it back.” The next time the ball bounces it should signify a change in current temperature. That’s what balls do. They signify change. But only when they bounce. When the bounce is high, that means something. When the bounce is love or when the bounce is low that means something else. But how to tell the difference between a love bounce and a low bounce? It all depends on who does the bouncing, and why. Boobs bounce, too. He tries not to look. Sometimes he looks, but he tries not to look. He focuses on faces, but then he’s accused of staring. So what’s to do? Focus on kneecaps, perhaps? He doesn’t know. What he knows changes from day to day. No, what he believes changes from day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute. The love bounce is not to be confused with the hate bounce. However, as they say, There’s a fine line. A very fine line. It is a very fine line, indeed. When the ball bounces, look at the way the shine. That’s it. That’s all. Look at the way the shine. Because we don’t. Shine the way we look. Or, sometimes, we do. Typically, we shine the way we do only when we’re alone. Or after sex. You know, that glow. That’s the way on the train but it’s also the way of things. When the ball drops who catches it? Who? Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who? I really want to know. That’s a good song. They need more songs like that. Or we do. Or, I do. You think you know but you don’t. Nobody knows. I know that this will end soon. That much, yes, I know. Then I’ll have the time to bounce the ball a few more times. The ball – if you can call it a ball – if it qualifies as a ball – regardless, it bounces – ball or not – and it’s round – ball or not – and if it’s round and if it bounces is it not a ball? And I’m not talking about the balls below my penis. Those balls only bounce while engaged in naughty activities. But why are they naughty? What makes them so? Who are you to judge? What was that thing Lenny Bruce said about sex being naughty? Or dirty? Something about pinning the blame on the Creator. God. That it’s His fault that it’s naughty. Well, of course it’s not. It’s OUR fault. WE made it naughty. Well, really, the old folks made it naughty. If they convince you that it’s naughty they’ll have power over you. Control. And that’s what they want. But they’ll say it’s for your own good. Sometimes, it is. And, anyway, what ISN’T a test of patience? Bottom reached.

29 July 2009

Still One Tough Chick, Though

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 06:00:00 +0000

Among Nikki’s fears: Heights, trains, butterflies, and birds—in particular, pigeons and crows. Heights and trains because whenever she’s confronted with either, she contemplates suicide. Trains, too, because she dreams of them oncoming. Butterflies, because she was once engulfed by a swarm of them. Birds, because her mother was once attacked by a crow. Somehow, it had trapped itself in the drying machine. Said crow flapped up into the kitchen and proceeded to attack a red velvet cake. Had you walked into the kitchen (post crow), and nobody told you about the cake (or the crow), you might’ve wondered why the walls, floor, ceiling, and surfaces were all seemingly splattered with chunks of bloody flesh and black feathers. In the end, a neighbor smacked the life out of that crow with a tennis racquet. The kicker? Just the day before, Nikki had sat through all of Hitchcock’s The Birds.

31 March 2006

Matriarch

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 06:00:00 +0000

She’s somewhere around ninety-five, my Great Aunt Hattie. Her three younger brothers couldn’t say for sure when she was born. Hattie can barely walk now. She’s fallen a few too many times. Her hips couldn’t take the punishment. Even with hearing aids, she can hear about as well as she can walk. Pop, Betty, and I pay her a visit nearly once a week. Toward the end of a recent visit, I overheard Hattie telling Betty that every week she expected to die. She choked back tears when she told Betty this. Betty, with her ever-sunny disposition, did her best to raise Hattie’s spirits. As I see it, Hattie couldn’t ask for much more out of her ninety-something years of life, save for a little less death. When I kiss her goodbye, I usually kiss the air near her face. She doesn’t stink or anything. It’s MY hang-up. Well, this last time when I did it, Hattie chuckled and said, “You give cold kisses.” So I went ahead and pecked her cheek. She said it again, “You give cold kisses,” but at least she kept chuckling.*

22 December 2005

*[A year or so later, she’d catch me making out with one of her caregivers.]

This car has driven 1,253,070 km...

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sat, 17 Jan 2026 15:22:00 +0000

...and it's still going.

A Nova Scotia man is the proud owner of a 1985 Toyota Tercel.

Despite being 40 years old, the car is in mint condition.

But there is one thing wrong with it:

the odometer doesn't go up high enough.