FireVaney's

Zipper

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 25 Oct 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Two weeks ago I bought a brand-spanking new backpack for ten bucks. One week ago one of its zippers broke off. Today, I took it to a luggage repair shop. The guy said he could fix it for fifteen bucks. A year ago, another guy, at a different luggage repair shop, said he’d fix the broken zipper on my old backpack for six bucks. A week later that six-dollar zipper broke off. So I went ahead and paid fifteen dollars for a zipper. (Actually, he insisted on replacing two zippers. So I got two new zippers for the price of one. Maybe.) At first, he said he could have it done by six o’clock. I said I’d come back.* But he said, no, when did I want it by? I said three o’clock. (At the time, it was one o’clock.) He said ok. I checked around, and other tailors said the job would cost over twenty bucks, so I didn’t feel so ripped off.

12 August 2002

*Presumably, the FireVaney meant that he’d come back some other time to have the zippers replaced.

This Little Piggie...

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 18 Oct 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Pop’s big toe on his right foot is still swollen from gout—which he often refers to as, “the gout”—but it doesn’t hurt him as much as it did yesterday. “Thank God for that,” he said, lying in bed this morning. Then he added, “Or thank somebody.” I smirked and said, “You can thank me.” I pointed at myself, in case he hadn’t heard. Pop said, “Thank you and thank the nurse.” The nurse practitioner we saw yesterday was a large, jolly woman who everybody called, “Margie.” She told Pop he’d gotten gout from bumping his toe into something. The infection was verified with a blood test, and Margie told Pop to lay off any exercises that involve his feet. She wrote a prescription and told me that she wanted to see Pop again next week. She didn’t bother with the calf Pop had also managed to bang up somehow. She didn’t think the two injuries were related. Seems like nobody wants to give a straight answer about gout. When Pop asked Doctor Sliverberg how “the gout” might’ve come about, the answer was: “The Good Life.” But Pop, he doesn’t overindulge in anything. So I asked Margie if Pop’s diet played a part in the development of his gout. “It could,” she said, without further elaboration. It’s odd how simply bumping into something can cause an infection. Betty will want to stay at the house until Pop gives up his cane—if ever. I told the director of the show I’m in that I might need an understudy.

1 March 2007

Caitlin

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 11 Oct 2026 05:00:00 +0000

The place didn’t serve Guinness, so I ask Caitlin what she could recommend. And Caitlin—she’s our server—she tells me the name of a beer they have that she likes. I tell her that I’ll go with that. By this point, she’d already introduced herself, and I’d already introduced myself and my “wingman,” Spiffy. And this place, it just opened up like a week ago. It’s airplane-hangar massive—like you could fit two or three jumbo jets under its roof. Outside, the hand-painted sign smeared across the road-facing wall calls the place, Sips 'n' Pins. You come here to bowl and/or to play bocce and/or for the pub and/or for the pub grub. Not sure about Spiffy, but before tonight, the word “bocce” meant nothing to me. Caitlin takes to us so well that she tries teaching us the rules. This was a first for her, too. What I mean is, before Spiffy and me, she hadn’t tried to teach anybody else how to play bocce. The beer Caitlin brought me was called a “Fat Tire.” I kept needing her to remind me of the name; I could only remember the “Tire” part; I thought she kept saying “Flat,” not “Fat.” I tell Caitlin the beer has “character.” I say it’s got, “layers of flavor”—which it does, but she doesn’t believe me. Maybe it’s my delivery. Maybe it’s my expression. Always when I ask Spiffy how I look, no matter what, he says, “Goofy.” And he’s got this super understated dead-pan way of saying it.

20 May 2007

StreEA m # 5 9

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 05:00:00 +0000

I lost the first stream [of the day]. That makes this the second stream [of the day]. The godham COMPUTER lost the first stream. I do not understand WHY it lost the first stream. I did not want to write about my frustration over having lost the first stream. But I cannot help it. I am really, really, QUITE pissed off. This godham machine. Of course, you’re going to blame me. Naturally, you’ll think I’m the one who made the mistake. But no. I went through the same routine I’ve gone through for the last fifty-eight streams and I’ve never had this sort of problem occur. God, I am SO pissed off. I’ll get over it. [Upon further reflection, I kinda-sorta figured out what I did wrong: Instead of duplicating the “blank” stream template document, I created a shortcut. So, fine: My bad.] Fortunately, the streams are schlock. But this stream is certainly not as colorful as the one I inexplicably [and now explicably] lost. I hope this doesn’t ruin my entire day. I’ve a buddy coming in from England. I don’t want this frakk up to overshadow our reunion. He’s only in town for the weekend. I’ll run this fury out on the treadmill. That’s what the treadmill is good for: running all the little furies out and dousing them with sweat. I’m feeling better just thinking about it. It’s strange, how intense and fleeting my feelings have been over the past few months. Everything is fluid – including my ability (or lack thereof) to control my temper. I don’t want to end the day with my wisdom teeth chewing cornbread from that stupid tree. No, how are you not going to feel the next ice-cream cone with your head on fire? I don’t think you should set your head on fire in the first place. I think that would be a mistake. That won’t impress the ladies, either. Unless it’s all a trick, and you come out of it unscorched. Huh. So there’s no such word as “unscorched,” eh? That’s frakked up because we all know what “unscorched” means, don’t we? It means something hasn’t been frakking scorched. Godham spell-checker. Godham dictionary. I am not going to drink that bottle of poop. No, you go ahead and have your fill, but I won’t be kissing you after. And I won’t be kissing you ever again. That’s one surefire way to guarantee that I’ll never try to kiss you: if you drink a bottle of poop – even if it’s through a straw and mixed with chocolate syrup. It’ll be amazing if you don’t get sick. Even if you mix the poop with vanilla ice-cream, I ain’t ever gonna kiss you. Why would you do that to yourself? That just isn’t right. There is nothing right about consuming shit. Your body is trying to get rid of it. If it wanted to keep it, it would keep it. I’ll warrant it smells bad for a reason. It’s a godham hint telling you NOT to eat or drink it. That’s your body’s biology being smart. You should listen to your body. The problem is, however, that the body doesn’t speak English. Maybe it speaks Spanish, though. I need to learn Spanish. Spanish and French. Bottom retched.

8 August 2008

The TV

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 27 Sep 2026 05:00:00 +0000

A year ago, I pulled my TV out of the closet. I’d put it in there because I couldn’t resist switching it on. The point was to watch less and to write more. Prior to 9/11/01, my TV sat in the closet for six months. A smarter man would shove it back in there today. But then that new DVD player would’ve been a wasted purchase. So I’ll compromise. Nightly, I’ll watch Peter Jennings report the world news, and then, from time to time, I’ll rent a DVD. But nothing else, nothing more. Somewhere, Mr. Mamet mentioned that TV was the ultimate medicine show. From Webster’s: “Medicine Show: A show given by entertainers who traveled from town to town in order to sell cure-alls and nostrums.”

11 September 2002

Feeding Tube

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 20 Sep 2026 05:00:00 +0000

The feeding tube that’s poked through Great Aunt Hattie’s* nose clogged up last night. The staff at the nursing home tried various ways of flushing the tube, but it was useless without some device that’s only available at the hospital. Poor, half-paralyzed Hattie kept moaning while the nurses futzed with her tube. During this, her son, Shell, switched on the TV. He kept flipping the channels between race car racing and human track racing. Later, one of the caregivers told me that Hattie wouldn’t have to deal with a feeding tube through the nose anymore. Instead, the doctors will plug a feeding tube directly into her tummy. Since last night, she’s only been “fed” intravenously.

Betty rediscovers the “Screw the Golden Years” sign every time Pop and I pay her a visit and wheel her around the assisted living building. She’ll either agree with the sign, or defend “The Golden Years,” depending on how her day is going.

21 May 2007

*Please note that Great Aunt “Hattie” and Great Aunt “Nelly,” as mentioned elsewhere, are one and the same; but Great Aunt Charlotte will always be referred to as Great Aunt Charlotte.

Progenitrix Day 2007

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 05:00:00 +0000

I walked right past Ma and handed the gift to StepDude. “Happy Father’s Day,” I said. He almost opened it. No one else in the room found it funny, save for me. Ma corrected my error, of course, and I said, “Oops.” I snatched the wrapped box from StepDude and delivered it to Ma. “Thank you for bringing me into the world,” I lied. After that, I drove them, along with Pop and Betty, out to La Grange for lunch with everybody else in the semi-immediate fam. That whole day anybody who didn’t know Betty wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. She certainly looks like somebody’s mother. It didn’t affect her, not outwardly, but nothing ever does. Everything is always A-okay with Betty; she doesn’t question and she doesn’t correct. It wouldn’t be in her nature to reply to “Happy Mother’s Day,” with, “Thank you, but I’m barren.” I spent much of the meal teasing little Keira. I would, for example, say that some random thing on the table was mine—a fork, a salt shaker, a bread stick—and she would promptly grab it and proclaim that it was hers. In fairness, at times, whatever I’d declared as mine was, in fact, hers.

13 May 2007

S TREA M # 5 8

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 06 Sep 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Ah. Low blood sugar. Or what feels like low blood sugar might feel like. Where were we? Ah: Contraction. Detachment. People fear such notions. But this was how the Chuckster got down to business. He fled the city, fled the noise, the distractions. That’s when he really got down to business. How he focused. That is, if memory serves. I should have it somewhere, that story. But I don’t feel like giving it up – rather, I don’t feel like DIGGING it up. The trick is to count my blessings. That’s one trick. To continue to count my blessings whenever the pangs of error strike. Exempli gratia, I have a roof over my head. I am healthy. I’ve sufficient funding and savings. And my credit? Pristine. Plus, I have one – perhaps two – good friends. I have peace and quiet – relatively speaking. No addictions – save for caffeine. And sugar. And TV. My stresses and worries, for the moment, the precious moment, the precarious moment, are few and far between. But I’ve covered all of this, previously, haven’t I? No. Don’t answer that. Thank you. Thank you for maintaining your silence. Really, it’s very kind of you, very mature of you. I’m just a touch bit dizzy, though. Light headed. It’s quite something, how it comes on so quickly. Fret not, I’ll eat just as soon as I’ve reached bottom, and bottom is near. Nearer. And since you mentioned it, no, I don’t believe in objectivity. Or, no, I believe in objectivity less and less – just like I believe in YOU less and less. Objectivity is absurd. It’s absurd on its face. Why? Because objectivity has no face! It’s an illusion. ALL is an ILLUSION. Heard that one before, haven’t you? I’d wager you have. I’d wager a small fortune. And I’d lose. I’m a piss poor gambler, if nothing else. But as for objectivity, who can truly remove oneself from one’s way of seeing things? No. Don’t answer that, either. I will continue to wait. That is my error to make. Yes, your view can change, but it is still YOUR view – different from the views of others. We are all capable of enjoying the same flick – that's the irony. The kicker. The ironic kicker. Nevertheless, I have been forgotten. Wait this out, and you, too, will be forgotten. That’s a promise. Bottom retched.

7 August 2008

Early

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 30 Aug 2026 05:00:00 +0000

I waited. I was early. The staff stared at me. I walked through the place. That is, I walked through the place before I waited. In other words, I didn’t wait first, although I suppose I could’ve waited outside. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t recall that I did, but I might’ve. The staff offered to “help” me. I explained the situation. I don’t recall how they [the staff] replied, but they left me alone. I couldn’t tell you how many [staffers] there were. Perhaps “they” only amounted to one. Regardless, they left me alone. I went back upstairs and stood by the revolving door. I tried to read through more of the book, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell you its title or who wrote it. I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. Was it even written in English? I don’t know. I looked at the time on my cell phone several times a minute. And waited. People revolved in and out. Somebody said that downstairs used to be a nightclub. There is a bar down there. Ten minutes crawl by. I think of calling but I don’t wanna look that way. The people I’m waiting for are busy. They have “lives.” They have careers—or at least jobs. At long last, Big C shows up. He stomps down the stairs like he owns the place. I follow. He tells the hostess, “Table for five.”

19 April 2007

Cataloging Men

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 23 Aug 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Two hours after banana pancakes and chicken links and fresh squeezed orange juice at Flapjackistan’s Famous Flapjacks with Pop and Betty, I’m eating clams and onion rings and fried zucchini and salami pizza at Poppa Pandemonium’s Pizza in a Pan with Spiffy and Rah-Rah. I was surprised that Rah-Rah was surprised that I didn’t have a girlfriend. Naturally, this made Rah-Rah even more attractive. Rah-Rah sat there and looked at me and thought I’d fit in with the male models you’d find in an Eddie Bauer catalogue. She told me this—after I’d asked—because she had a friend who wasn’t looking for the kind of guy I apparently am. Said friend falls for the kind of guy you’d find in an Abercrombie catalogue. And as for Spiffy, he belonged in an H&M catalogue, according to Rah-Rah.

28 May 2007

Pop's Right Ear

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 16 Aug 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Pop (and I) sat in a crowded waiting room for an hour and a half before he could see the doctor who’d charge an arm and a leg to scrape the wax out of his ears. That was yesterday. Sometime overnight, Pop’s right ear started to bleed. Dried spots and dribbles of blood have ruined a silken pillow case. But hey, Jackson Pollock might’ve called it art. I called Pop’s internist. He wasn’t available, but the one who was didn’t seem terribly concerned. Doctor Substitute advised me to call Doctor Ears, Nose, and Throat when his office opened, for eardrops. Here’s hoping we don’t have to spend another hour and a half in Dr. E.N.T.’s office waiting for eardrops, if nothing else. Pop keeps asking why it happened; why at night and not when Dr. E.N.T. scraped out Pop’s ears. The ear that bled? Pop’s right ear? It all but quit on him years ago. Sure, it detects sound, but his brain processes the sound as an audible equivalent of mush. Any working hearing aid turns the mush into louder mush. All this sucks for Pop, but anything that distracts me from What’s Her Face isn’t all bad.

23 December 2005

S t REA m # 5 7

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 09 Aug 2026 05:00:00 +0000

If I’m late, I’m late because I’m wrapping up something else. Used to be that I’d start out doing this. My “warm up,” this was it. But it drained the muse instead of jump-starting the muse so I switched up the routine. Now, this is my “cool down.” But after this, I’m might go back to the other thing because I’m only three pages away from finishing it up. If I’m smart, I’ll save it for tomorrow, but I’m an idiot and I’m impatient. But I’m also drained, so, I’ll probably save it for tomorrow. And I’ve got the reading yet to do. And when the next baked bean jumps over the hill surprising its mother, I swear to God, I will shoot the motherfucker. Whoa. Hey, hey, hey. Come on now. Relax. It’s just/only/merely a baked bean. It’s not like it’ll give a hoot don’t pollute. And the next time you want my point of view step into my shoes but clean your feet first. I can’t filthy feet mucking up my point of view. And if opportunity affords, please insert a “have” betwixt “can’t” and “filthy” in the previous sentence. Also, please consider wielding the word “betwixt,” in lieu of the word “between,” whenever and wherever opportunity affords. Why? Well, isn’t “betwixt” more fun? And the next time you want a peach, such as the one in my plot, please feel free to dig one up yourself. I am nothing if not generous to a flaw. And, you’re wrong, MY peaches DON’T grow on trees. Or, rather, they DO, but I pluck them and then I bury them in my plot. To plug the holes. Get it? And the next time you want to change the toilet paper, please, do not ask the Next Frontier. The Next Frontier has nothing to say on the patter patter pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter pitter matter matter matter in my shorts. And in the next installment of tomorrow new comer to the city we’ll meet the latest troublemakers. Won’t that be smashing? Well, what do you want to see in the nest? Birds or eggs? Which? You can’t have BOTH birds AND eggs. You must choose. Why? Because that’s cheating. Because that’s not the time to cheat. Because it will be in another minute. Because I want my next life to be more goofy and less mickey. The next time you want to take the steps up to the tower don’t take the elevator. MY GOD. MY GOD. MY GOD. MY GOED. this one will not due. this one will not due this one will not due to the ecosystem in the toilet. because I don’t want trouble. the oentoyw otgn ot nno to the next one. please nod. thank you. please nod agaon. thank vyou., please don’t retire. thank you. please rite of passage. nothing to it. when the bobbing bozeors highten their trees I will finally have plenty to eat. but until then I will starve. because this is not enough this is not enough this us aee arer you listening? WHY? You should be reading. WHY? ARE YOU SOOOOOOO SUPERFICAL. did I spell that rite. superficial. you are sooo superficial. not me. not me onot to the extent which we are not able to feel. and that’s why you’re not a fucking lilly pad. nor fucking a lily pad. while you are nboy not a boh boy touy eat the echr wye when you are net oxt bout that’s okay. really, that’s gerbil. Rather, that’s germane. I’m sorry, but that’s really not a good idea. I’ll settle for it, irregardless of all irregularities. You should, two. Too. Tutu. Toto. anyway the wind blows and you want it that’s the way you need it anyway tyou want it groove to the moe more move. Bottom retched.

6 August 2008

Here's The Deal

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 05:00:00 +0000

“Deal, No Deal,” Pop calls it. He’s too cheap to spring for the “or.” When Betty’s with us on the weekends, she’ll watch it with him, but she’d never watch it on her own. So they were watching it this one time, and I happened to be in the kitchen, and there’s like a faux window between the kitchen and the TV room (because the TV room was an addition to the house), and Pop says to Betty, “She’s not wearing any lipstick. I don’t understand that.” Betty doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Whether Pop meant the contestant or one of the briefcase models, I didn’t ask. Now, let me be clear, Howie Mandel is very talented—and I get it, work is work and money is money—but this show is truly idiotic. Pop, along with every other dirty old man, enjoys watching it because it’s got money and it’s got models. Big surprise, Pop also watches all the beauty pageants, too. But that’s where Betty draws the line. Whenever Pop tunes into a Miss Whatever pageant, Betty leaves the room. Pop’ll keep watching, though. He’s a retired accountant, but he still likes to “look at figures.” Pretty much every time Big Len from next door drops by, he and Pop sink into Dirty Old Men talk. They don’t care if Betty’s around. Drives me nuts, just a little bit. Betty, though, she’ll just sit there and knit and wait it out. She was raised in a world where women accommodated men. That, and her late hubby might’ve been a mobster. He ran a “linen cleaning service,” supposedly, for a bunch of shady motels up in Minocqua and Woodruff. Maybe they weren’t shady at the time. Either way, before he kicked the bucket back in 1967, he was one of Pop’s best clients. Says Pop, “He was always sick.” Pop had several shady clients. Yesterday, when Betty had breakfast ready, she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt Pop as he dug through the heap of bills and miscellaneous papers on the dining table in the TV room. When I came downstairs and saw this, I all but shouted, “Pop, your oatmeal’s getting cold.” He abandoned his heap, plumped down into his seat on the other side of the table, and picked up his spoon. Betty thanked me. I’d have prepared breakfast for both of them, but as Betty likes to say, half-seriously, or maybe full-seriously (but with a smile), “I’ve got to earn my keep.”

10 April 2007

Oh, Grow Up!

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

I’ll go and I’ll see her and I’ll feel all that anguish all over again and for weeks thereafter. So much anguish over someone I know all wrong. She’ll be there—at some point she’ll be there—and she’ll go wild and I won’t be able to wait to want to leave. But because she’s far away, and busy, maybe she’ll be late. And if she’s late, it won’t be so bad for me to leave. I’d feel bad if I had to leave early. Like Bio-Dud often liked to say, “Firey, you need to suffer more,” unless it was, “Firey, you haven’t suffered enough.” So I do my best. I do the best a “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” as Step-Dude likes to say, can do. And it’s true, as a confirmed “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” I do do a lousy job of suffering. If I really, really, really, wanted to suffer, I’d join the military and fight in Afghanistan—and not only because “war is hell.” Setting aside the war, Afghanistan is hot, and I can’t take the heat. Anyway, everything is too late. Why can’t I ever be on time for anything? I don’t mean for appointments as much as I mean for opportunities. Why can’t I get just one damn thing straight?

21 April 2007

Bucket Kickers

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

Yesterday, Mister Wisecracker* sent around a text message with a photo of his cocker spaniel in a costume. Said cocker spaniel was looking up at the camera, and the message below it read, “Dinka says, ‘Happy Easter. Now get the damn ears off me.’” Like most fringy theatre folks I know, Mister Wisecracker doesn’t take care of himself. He stays out too late, gets up too early, drinks too much, eats too much, and smokes packs and packs and packs. I don’t do any of that, but I am a yo-yo dieter. That said, I exercise pretty hard, so I figure I’ve got a better chance at a longer life—not that I want a longer life. Who can afford to live? Even if I could (afford to live), I’ve no interest in outliving Mister Wisecracker and his company of assorted misfits. Odds are, though, I will. I’d bet they’ll pretty much all have strokes or get cancer before hitting sixty. Inside of twenty years, I’d bet, half of everybody I know will be dead.

9 April 2007

*Formally and foolishly referred to as “Mister Wench.”

Spring Chickens No More

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

Nearly every weekend, Betty says to me, “Firey, don’t get old.” She means it in both a funny and an honest way. She tells me she was perfectly healthy before the radiation treated her breast cancer, some twenty years ago, when she was sixty-something. The cancer is all gone now, but arthritic aches and pains affect her daily. She can easily recall her phone number and her home address and also the game show that’s on Channel 7 every day at 6:30 post meridiem. She has no problem naming the show’s host and co-host. Monday through Thursday, over the phone, she’ll say to Pop, “Time to watch Vanna.” She means it, too. Ever the accountant, Pop will dryly confess that he “likes to look at figures.” Betty never forgets to call Pop first thing in the morning and last thing at night. But ask Betty to ask her pharmacist three little questions? Forget it. Ask her to repeat those three questions right after you’ve stated them, and she’ll get them all wrong. Poor Betty, she’ll fumble all the words in embarrassed confusion. At least she doesn’t deliberately flout my counsel. Can’t say the same for Pop. As a man who survived the Great Depression, and thereafter thrived, Pop feels the need to prove himself competent. Only, in the process of doing so, he’ll often make a mess of the matter and wind up even more befuddled. Still, he’ll stubbornly press on… until something breaks.

23 March 2006

st re AM # 56

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

I’m concerned about the sump pump. It works when I test it, but, by testing it, it may not work on its own. This is my fear – that it won’t work on its own. So, that’s what I’m waiting for. I never thought I’d spend hours waiting for a sump pump to kick-in. To be clear, I’m doing other things, too. Like this. But the sump pump is on my mind. And, in a way, it is a blessing. There are only so many troubles I can keep an eye on. In sooth, I have not counted the maximum number of troubles that I can track, but the maximum cannot amount to very many. Nevertheless, it is a blessing, so to speak, to worry about a contraption rather than a human being. The machine either works or it doesn’t. One can either repair the machine or replace it. One should never fall in love with a machine, however. A machine cannot return love. It can work, or it can break. That might change someday; and when it does – when a machine can be programmed to behave irrationally, jealously, enviously and/or selfishly – then? We’re all fucked. Surely somebody somewhere is working on that eventuality. It’s all because “we can.” You climb it, why? “Because it’s there.” You fuck it (up), because you can. Because you will. That’s human nature. So. Better the sump pump than some babe. Of course, once the sump pump finally kicks on (or proves defective, prompting a call to the plumber), I’ll then go back to dwelling on the babe. Or some new babe… like the one at the delicatessen. Ah, but she’s too young for you. For me. For you. Thus, you won’t pursue it. Perhaps you’ll flirt (whatever that entails), when you’re feeling up to flirting (on those rare occasions), and that’ll be the end of it. Besides, you can’t trust waitresses or restaurant hostesses or cash register clerks because it’s their job to smile at you. It’s their job to laugh at your jokes and whatnot. Besides, I’m getting too old to flirt and mean it. The more evolved the species, the more complex the bullshit. Ants, for example, have no use for happiness (or sadness). Lucky them, eh? How much crap is it going to take for you to get off your fat ass and make something of that jerkface in the window who keeps laughing at your shit motives and brushes your teeth in the onion roll juice? When you don’t have the choice you seek to create liquid apple sauce and stuff it down the drain of the next door neighbor’s toilet. You won’t read into that but you’ll read into everything else, won’t you? In which case, Sir Madam, you are a fook. And a fool. I don’t know what a “fook” is. I’m sure it’s something. I’m sure you’ll read into that, too. Fook. That can be the Topic Of The Day: What did he mean by writing: “Fook”? Discuss. No, don’t. I’ll tell you. It means it’s a typo and I left it in. But will that be good enough for you? Probably not. It’s always more exciting to spread rumors than it is to dig up the truth. Bottom retched. (Heh, heh.)

5 August 2008

Meals

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 28 Jun 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Spiffy likened his lovers to meals. Like his relationship with Trussy? That was a solid meat and potatoes sort of meal—only without much in the way of dessert. His relationship with Kandi was all dessert—too much dessert. Imagine being trapped in a Twinkie factory for a year, that was Spiffy’s relationship with Kandi. His relationship with Nummy was harder to match because he rarely ever gave her an orgasm. That said, she told him he’d given her the first she’d ever had. As for me, I wasn’t terribly interested in likening my lovers to meals. I’ve had so few (lovers) and most of those were basically “appetizers.” So then Spiffy asked, “If you were any sort of restaurant, what sort would you be?” Easy. I’d be one of those early-to-mid Twentieth Century roadside diners—the sort that had a long lunch counter and a line of booths with a clear view of the highway and the cornfields. I’d be open 24hrs. I’d be comfortable—clean and comfortable—and never too busy. And if I had to be a chained restaurant, I’d probably be a Bob Evans. Or a Steak 'n Shake. Or maybe a Waffle House—though I haven’t yet had the pleasure of dining at one. Add it to the bucket list. Start a bucket list. Keep it realistic—exempli gratia, patronize a Waffle House.

13 April 2007

More Gall

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 05:00:00 +0000

Pop spent his 96th birthday in hospital room 4132, recovering from the removal of his gallbladder. His dinner tray came with a frosted cupcake he couldn’t eat. Why? Well, he’s lactose intolerant. That aside, in honor of his birthday, the doctors cancelled the liquid-only diet he’s been on since last Wednesday. Pop’s birthday was yesterday (Sunday). Today is Monday (duh) and I really hope he’ll get to go home. By the way, I learned a new word a few days ago: “sundowning.” According to one of the nurses, this happens when an elderly patient forgets where they are and hallucinates that they are anywhere else. As you might’ve guessed, it often occurs around sunset. Nobody really knows for sure, but it might have something to do with “circadian rhythms.” Supposedly, thanks to “sundowning,” all new hospital rooms are required to have a window.* Last night, in room 4132, Pop kept asking me for the time. Repeatedly, he wanted to know how much “this house cost to rent.” Again and again, he’d ask, “Who checked me in?”

11 August 2005

*Insofar as Pop and Betty were concerned, the presence of a window never made a difference. Three days into any given hospital stay, Pop was usually “floating.” Over and over again, he’d say, “I’m way up here. You’re way down there.” He’d say that even if you were standing over him at his bedside. On several occasions, the nurses had to strap his wrists to the bedrails. And as for Betty, if she wasn’t in her assisted living room by sunset, she’d become anxious about getting back to the family farm. Thing is, she hadn’t been a farm girl since the Truman Administration.

The Gall

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 14 Jun 2026 05:00:00 +0000

His helplessness makes me mad. Where they operated, where they removed his gallbladder, it hurts like nothing else, it hurts like it’s the end. All that morphine they gave him, and it still hurts. Just this morning he was bragging about all his childhood fighting, bragging about all those bones he broke. Tell him he’ll get through all this pain, too, and he’ll reply at you by wincing more pain. Ever the accountant, he’ll tell you his estate is in order. Tell him the market went up today and he’ll try a smile, but then his body jerks in more pain. He tells you he’s wiped out, he tells you he’s got no energy left—and then he tells you he’s got to get out of bed. Because he feels like vomiting and urinating and shitting all at once. But, thank God, none of that actually happens.

10 August 2005

s tr EA m #5 5 (ABS Draft 1)

noreply@blogger.com (FireVaney) — Sun, 07 Jun 2026 05:00:00 +0000

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4 August 2008

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