Better or Verse - "Brand-New Effervescent Action"

Nothing is as sweet as this moment
caught improbably between the teeth like a bullet.

To mentally calculate the odds of such a thing ending well
is about as wise
respectful
appropriate
and advisable
as biting down.

The properly appreciative state
(and I don't know how to achieve this, but I'm trying nonetheless)
Is one of unconscious, reflexive grace
Drunk, giggling and balancing on a moving El Camino's hood
The Roadrunner, post- cliff edge
But pre- looking down.

The rare Metaphorical Luna Moth
(cue the turquoise and crystals and incense)
Would be the perfect spirit guide
Antennae unfurled, gratefully receiving
Vibrations, visions, glowing pollen specks
Happy little twitches that haven't happened quite yet.

The moon is bright. Breath crystallized. Her hair spread across a fresh-chalked goal line.
The lake's blood-warm. Sky melted Creamsicle. World saturated in liquefied sun.
You do not think about the harshly bright awkwardness of the next morning.
You do not think about driving back to Providence on sopping wet upholstery.
You just jump in.

A Fairy Tale of New York

J.Q.'s second Christmas was also the first one he spent apart from me.

On Christmas Eve, our brood gathered in New Jersey. It was a warm, happy evening. J.Q. was inundated with cookies, presents and attention. Within five minutes of being placed in his car seat, he'd passed out... an exhausted, sprinkle-coated cherub.

An hour later, I extracted him from the car, kissed his little forehead, handed him off to his father and drove home alone. It was deeply surreal.

The next day, I celebrated the world's first Solitary Contemplation-mas.

It began with Ground Zero. It ended with an apocalyptic wasteland. In between, there was exhaustion, disorientation, soul-searching, eel-eating and trudging around in rain-soaked wool.

It was a good day.

Solitary Contemplation-mas : A Primer

• You've heard of "Christmas in July"? Solitary Contemplation-mas is like Yom Kippur in December, only with less atoning. No atoning, actually. While there are no traditional Solitary Contemplation-mas greetings (see also : first word of holiday's name), "I ain't atoning for SHIT!" would be entirely apt.



• Solitary Contemplation-mas occurs every December 25th. What's that, you say? "Uh, dude, most people have other plans that day?" Agreed.
  
  "Most" people. If you want to be like "most" people - another namby-pamby emotional weakling who would rather peer into an eggnog latte than the troubled depths of your own soul - well, be my guest.
  
  Okay, okay. Special provision: if you absolutely, positively must postpone Solitary Contemplation-mas, it is permissible to do so, PROVIDED that the new date fosters a similar feeling of loneliness and disconnect from one's fellow man. The day the Free Ice Cream Cone and Fuzzy Kitten-Petting Expo comes to the convention center, for instance.



• The traditional color of Solitary Contemplation-mas is Pantone Cool Gray 8C.



• Solitary Contemplation-mas may take place in one of two venues:
  
  
  1. An extremely rural setting. This is the traditional choice; mamacita Nature has long been a refuge for the reflective, the distraught, the secretly-plotting-to-reupholster-their-Lazy-Boy-in-human-skin (if you are the latter, this is not the holiday for you. May I suggest Psychotic Break-wanzaa?). While full of thought-provoking scenery and blessed isolation, nature has a dark side. It is also crammed to the gills with things that will bite you, claw you, sting you or pin your ass to a rock like a fanny pack-wearing butterfly. And as the entire rest of the hemisphere will be busy with their pine-perfumed orgy of comfort and joy, help may take a loooong time to arrive.
     
     You should not allow being pinned to a rock to curtail your observance of Solitary Contemplation-mas. However, it is permissible to take periodic fifteen-minute breaks from soul searching to either scream for help or fantasize about your inevitable Discovery Channel special ("Holy Shit, How the Fuck Are You Still Alive?!: The [Your Name] Story").
  
  
  
  2. An extremely urban setting. If you fail to understand how one can feel utterly alone while in a crowd, you are ill-suited for Solitary Contemplation-mas; you should stick with the traditional candy cane-fellating rigmarole.
     
     Ahem.
     
     How urban is "extremely"? Do you feel as though you are a tiny grain of sand, swept up in a crushing wave of humanity? No? Try harder, bucko.
     
     Manhattan is nice. Busy. Enormous. Large non-Santa-centric population (oy gevalt!). Abundant Chinese restaurants, which brings us to...



• The traditional Solitary Contemplation-mas meal is Chinese food. And by "Chinese", we mean "Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Laotian... so long as said cuisine has been dumbed down and sugared up for the Western palate". The reasons for this are twofold:
  
  
  1. Chinese restaurants are open on Christmas.
  
  
  
  2. You know that vague sense of dissatisfaction and unease, the one you're supposed to be addressing via solitary contemplation? Yeah, well... Chinese food is kind of like that, only deep-fried and slathered in phlegmy brown goo. It's not inedibly awful, it's not fantastically good... it is a Moo Goo Gai Obstacle to Personal Fulfillment which one must gamely plow through. Hoisin sauce helps.



• The traditional solitary contemplation-mas beverage is plum wine. It is the potable analogue to pseudo-Asian food: it is liquor, yes, but it is also disgusting.
  
  
  Special Plum Wine-Related Sidebar:
  
  Most American school children are familiar with the "disintegrating penny" myth. As legend has it, a penny placed in a glass of Coke will dissolve within days, thus proving... something. The myth is kind of vague on that point. The inadvisability of using a can of soda as a change jar, perhaps? In any event, despite being more noxious than even New Coke, plum wine has no urban legends of its own. I will bravely take it upon myself to rectify this situation.
  
  Possible Plum Wine Urban Legend #1 : Plum wine needs to be served in specially-coated glasses, otherwise it will melt through the glass, through the tablecloth, through your shoe, through a 2" reinforced floor joist and through the skull of one of the poor elderly ladies playing mah-jong in the basement.
  
  Possible Plum Wine Urban Legend #2 : Plum wine will steal your woman. It looks so guileless in its cute little decanter. Do not be deceived. It's merely biding its time. As soon as you go to the bathroom to check if there's any seaweed stuck to your teeth, BAM! Its sticky, delicately-fragranced hands will be ALL OVER HER.
  
  It occurs to me that I should quit while I'm ahead, lest I be found dead with a chopstick protruding from my frontal lobe and an ominous note tucked inside my belly button.
  
  



• The official musical form of Solitary Contemplation-mas is the fugue... or, if you are some sort of freaking sissy, the toccata.



• The official weather of Solitary Contemplation-mas is rain. If rain is unavailable, sleet, hail and "plague of locusts" are also fine. If it is capable of blowing your ass down Fifth Avenue, cursing and shivering (or shrieking, "Aaaaagh! Get 'em off me! Get 'em off me!"), it is an acceptable meteorological condition.



• One concludes Solitary Contemplation-mas by watching a movie.
  
  Popcorn is fluffy and insubstantial and therefore prohibited. Milk Duds are permitted, so long as they are consumed chocolate-first, then caramel (traditional tactile sensation of Solitary Contemplation-mas: stickiness).
  
  Foreign films are preferable; French ones in particular. It is generally possible to tell if a film would be a good Solitary Contemplation-mas selection by the synopsis alone:
  
  "Le Cygne Pleure Milliard-et-Demi des Larmes" (The Swan Cries a Billion and a Half Tears) : a grieving widow's tragic life is turned upside-down by the arrival of a mysterious lodger. However, the unlikely duo's newfound happiness is endangered by a tragic secret from his past. Can two wounded souls find solace from the world's tragedies? Here's a hint: no.
  
  That right there would be an excellent Solitary Contemplation-mas movie. Someone needs to dig up and reanimate Jean-Luc Goddard, pronto.
  
  As far as American films go, "Blade Runner" is a good choice. "Kids" would do nicely (as well as segue nicely into February's "Kick Harmony Korine's Pretentious Little Ass-mas"). The recently-released "Children of Men" was my personal Solitary Contemplation-mas film; it is a rare film indeed which makes one think, "Huh, maybe the annihilation of the human race wouldn't be such a bad thing after all."

I paced around Penn Station, headphones blaring, doing parkour-style acrobatics off the steps.

I called my mother, wished her a merry Christmas, apologized once again for forsaking the bosom of my family for Eeyore-ish isolation.

Newark was cold, damp and oily black when I arrived.

Post-marriage, I try to take care of myself in all of the cute little ways a spouse might. When I hopped in the DecrepiCivic, it had a nicely chilled bottle of diet soda on the seat and a full tank of gas. "Awww... thanks, Jul! You shouldn't have!" I said.

Driving back home, I felt a little like I do after a really good run... sweetly depleted, centered, standing stork atop the oft-shaky tectonic plate which is my life.

Like I said... it was a good day.

Oh I could be
Condemned to Hell for every sin but littering.
I could
Slip on the East River and crash into Queens all skittering.

Everything is going up.
Everything is going as planned, yeah.
Everything moves along.
Everything is fine, fine, fine.

Soul Coughing, "The Idiot Kings"

Better or Verse: "Reverse Tantra"

In the dentist's chair, nails in pleather
The taste of copper and the smell of bone
From the ceiling, you count backwards and just know
You're days from the free toothbrush, stern lecture and home

Marshmallow, skewered by fiery glare
Wondering, not yet s'mored (or forest-floored)
In this new carbon cloak, where do you stand? There's
No oblivion, nor going back to the bag

Progress reports just don't indicate
The panache with which you do calculus
In reverse, strangely pantsless, in public and late
For some other all-important final exam

It is one hell of a party trick
Lit coal peering from a soft, trembling palm
One could have a fine career: The Human Wick!
Who can't decide whether the warmth is worth the burn

You have been burdened with buoyancy
And will come to curse the gurgle, the gasp
And the swap: what's in for what's above a sea
That has scraped you across the beach so many times

Las Vegas, Nevada Is Trying To Kill Us All - Pt. IV

So… um, yeah... I fully intended to finish my Las Vegas travelogue (for those just joining us... Pt I., Pt II, Pt. III). But I am easily distracted, goddamn it, as anyone who's ever eaten out with me can attest ("Oooh, bread! Did you know that most restaurants' 'brown' bread is white bread with caramel coloring added? Huh, who do you suppose invented the foil-wrapped butter pat? Yum, turbinado sugar! Let me now do some fork acrobatics. Whoo, look at 'er spin! Hey, my pierogies are here! This ONE time when I was eating pierogies...", ad nauseum).

So due to my flitty nature, there will not be a rousing, journalistically-brilliant conclusion to the Vegas story. There will, however, be a stupid synopsis, complete with bulleted lists. I may even toss in some napkin origami ("Look! A crane! Oh... uh, sorry. Why don't you just wipe your mouth on the tablecloth?").

Further Events of Note Which Transpired in Sin City

The Wedding : The raison d'etre for the entire sojourn. A coworker of Em's was getting hitched at Caesar's Palace. The ceremony was due to kick off mere hours after Em and I returned from the gun range. While getting gussied up, I was scrupulously careful not to wash my hands. I found the juxtaposition of gunpowder and formalwear to be somewhat roguishly sexy. "Will you be having the stuffed capon Florentine or the herb-rubbed prime rib, Miss Moneypenny?", I murmured in my best Sean Connery brogue, zipping up my dress. Once suitably smokin', Em and I headed over to Caesar's. The bride was gorgeous, the groom was adorable, the chapel was surprisingly non-tacky. The wedding itself was... well, rather painful. For me, at least. The participants both seemed radiantly happy, but this isn't THEIR blog, now is it (http://radiantly - happy- newlyweds- crushing- the- spirits- of- those- whose- own- marriages- have- recently- collapsed.blogspot.com)?

Prior to the whole divorce process, I wasn't easily swayed by our culture's common emotional triggers... death, natural disaster, fuzzy-eared puppies, insurance company commercials. I didn't cry at my own wedding. I didn't cry at J.Q.'s birth.

There was no saline dribbling down my face at the wedding, either. But it is safe to say that I was - as bad lyricists and pop-psych mavens are so fond of saying - Crying On the Inside.

I will never have another first wedding. I will never be so idealistic. I will never be so blindly hopeful.

You only get one chance to jump off of that particular pier with gleeful, fuck-all abandon. If you fall victim to an ill-placed rock or marauding speedboat... well, you'd better believe that your next immersion will be of the jittery, one-toe-at-a-time variety.

I sat there, toying with my miniature bottle of bubbles, averting my eyes from the bride and groom's soul-cauterizing joy. I had never been so acutely aware of that little hollow spot within me; my mind kept returning to it, like a tongue unable to stop prodding a recently-vacated tooth socket.

The happy couple kissed. There was a flurry of bubbles and flashbulbs. Em looked at my face. "Wanna go get some drinks?" she said.

The Strip Search : Em left the following morning. By this point, our normally hardy constitutions had been reduced to Waffle House hash browns: smothered, diced, scattered and fried. Fuck Transylvania - Vegas is without a doubt the most vampiric of locales. "I have no idea how you're going to make it through another two days," said Em, practically French-kissing her boarding pass in gratitude, "I feel like I've been here for two YEARS." "I know," I said, lying in bed with my eyes closed, "I'm thinking of hopping on a Greyhound bus to L.A. Or Death Valley. Anywhere but here. This town is killing me."

I was too drained, however, to successfully mount an escape attempt. Instead, I opted for immersion therapy. In a singularly Cheever-ish move, I walked the entire length of the strip, traveling from casino to casino. I have this to say about that:

• Steve Wynn is a genius. If he keeps cranking out consistently-gorgeous masterpieces of modern industrial design, he can rip through a DOZEN Picassos, take a whiz in the Sistine Chapel and paint a Hitler moustache on the Mona Lisa. His chosen field may be vulgar and commercial, but the guy is gooooood at what he does.


• Don't bother with the Bellagio's cute little pastry shop. Grainy gelato, lackluster crepes. C'est merde!


• Do stop by Vosges-Haut Chocolat at the Venetian. The truffles with Taleggio cheese are transcendentally good. Yet again, I’m a sucker for unusual candy. Pour some melted chocolate over a box of roofing nails, drizzle it in caramel and sprinkle it with pulverized Alaskan lichens, and you’d better believe I’ll pay $17.50 a pound for it.


• Even though I have no desire to see scantily-clad ectomorphs twisting themselves into knots, unless they are doing so in translucent heels while clutching a pole... I must admit that the Cirque du Soleil gift shops have some pretty awesome swag. C'est bonne!


• The Fashion Show Mall: visiting a mall while on vacation has always struck me as vaguely awful... how many cultural differences can one encounter at Bath & Body Works ("Wow, they sure like freesia here in Pyonyang... it's like a whole different WORLD!")? However, the cool, capitalistic confines of the mall are the perfect antidote for the non-stop stimulation of the Strip. In ye olden days, warriors would fortify themselves for battle with flagon of ale and a nice meaty haunch. Today, we can do the same with an Orange Julius and a hot dog on a stick.


• Heee-larious tourist game: "Drunk… Or Just German?"

After monorailing it back to my hotel (and determining that my fellow passengers were, in fact, of the Teutonic persuasion), I felt chipper/stupid enough to embark upon a new adventure...

Terror at 1,150 Feet : For the latter half of my trip, I stayed at the Stratosphere, the Strip's northernmost casino-tel. The joint's claim to fame is the big ol' concrete phallus known as the Stratosphere Tower. One would be tempted to call it a low-rent Space Needle… however, the thing’s literally twice as tall as its Seattle-based bro. It is topped by a glass-walled flying saucer which contains thrill rides, a revolving restaurant, the world's highest Starbucks... a busy little mish-mash of American culture. It is fitting, then, that my tower excursion was a Betty Boop/Lucille Ball/Anna Nicole Smith-style triumph of ditziness. I somehow managed to:

• Decide to visit the tower.
• Purchase a ticket for the tower.
• Wait in line to ascend the tower and
• Take an ear-popping elevator ride to the top of the tower, without ONCE remembering that
• I’m afraid of heights.

Whoops.

After exiting the elevator, one is deposited in doughnut-shaped room. The "hole" of the doughnut contains a gift shop and concession stands; in lieu of chocolate glaze, the doughnut's exterior surface is floor-to-ceiling safety glass. I exited the elevator, strode merrily over to the glass... and promptly sank to my knees. I was sorely tempted to lie down (maximizing body-to-carpet contact and minimizing my chances of FALLING ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE OH GOD NOOOOOOO). After five minutes of wide-eyed terror, I stood up. "Okay, Jul," I told myself, "time to take it like a man: with alcohol!" A tiny bottle of hooch was purchased at the World's Highest Gift Shop. A cup of ice was obtained from the World's Highest Starbucks. I retreated to one of the park benches lining the outer perimeter of the room and spent a happy half hour staring at a strip club's blazing neon sign and sipping Gentleman Jack. It was very Jethro Tull. "Well, shit," thought I, chewing on an ice cube, "Might as well take advantage of my chemically-steadied nerves. Thrill ride time!"

Jul's Handy-Dandy Tourist Tip #83:

If you're going to summon up all your courage and go on one of the World's Highest Thrill rides, don't ride in the last car. It will reduce what should be "courageous confrontation of one's fears" to something more akin to "sitting on top of a Speed Queen during spin cycle".

Jul's Handy-Dandy Tourist Tip #84:

Sometimes, when you need a "vacation from your vacation" because you're "about ready to fucking die", it's helpful to stage an Evening of Suburban Sloth in your own hotel room.

You will need:

• One (1) bottle sparkling wine. Ideally Pepto-Bismol pink in color, sweet enough to attract ants from neighboring counties and under $5 a bottle.

• One (1) Styrofoam take-out container full of greasy Mexican food... sour cream, pico de gallo, mountains of Mexi-cheese, plus a protein-stuffed starch of some kind. Starch should preferably be fried; protein may be fatty chicken, deep-fried fish or Beef Which Is Strangely Unlike Any Beef You've Ever Had Before, But You Suspect It Is Wise Not to Ask Questions.

• Three (3) or more (4?) episodes Law & Order, variety unimportant. Classic L&I is superb (and fun to handicap... "Huh, Chris Sarandon is in the opening credits. Insanity plea!"). SVU features Ice-T, as well as Namby-Pamby Sensitive Detective, always right on the verge of popping a forehead vein over a penguin bestiality ring or some such depravity du jour. And Criminal Intent, of course, has Vincent D'Onofrio... weird, mumbly and ooooh, lordy, hot as the surface of the sun. I’d confess to just about ANYTHING, just to bask in his twitchy presence for a few moments more.

What Would a Trip to Vegas Be Without Public Indecency? : A number of Vegas hotels have recently begun offering "European-style sunbathing". I was unaware that a town which offers topless shows, topless bars and topless mud wrestling was suffering from such a boob deficit, but there you have it.

In an uncharacteristically "hep" move, the Stratosphere had recently hopped on the public-nudity bandwagon. Their Naked Pool was advertised via a series of posters featuring fuzz-core photos and the promise of a “secluded, adults-only oasis".

After giving birth in a teaching hospital and crashing a swinger’s convention, I officially have no shame. Thus, the morning of my last day in Vegas, I grabbed my towel, my copy of “Fear & Loathing” and my courage and headed over to the Naked Pool. I navigated a maze of hallways, ascended a dim staircase and flung open a set of fire doors. Stepping out onto the roof, I surveyed the scene.

It was kind of hilarious. It looked like the set of MTV’s Totally Exploitative Summer Blast, circa 1993.

Sheets of beach grass were stapled to every vertical surface. The pool was flanked by frighteningly ugly fiberglass palm trees. Four individuals occupied the “oasis”.

There were three Aryan frat boys, reclining on lounge chairs, letting the sun crisp their bulging pecs.

And then there was The Goddess.

She straddled a pool float, giggling and flirting with the appreciative Tri-Delts. She didn’t appear to be made of flesh, but rather melted and injection-molded Barbies. Every inch of her body was taut, bronze and on magnificent display. Her bare breasts and thong-clad ass were as perfectly globular (and, one suspected, unyielding) as the fiberglass coconuts looming overhead. I scurried under the “Melanoma-Obsessed Dorkwad” canopy, eyes trained on her the entire time.

I spent close to an hour curled up on my shady chaise, reading “F&L” and sneaking furtive glances at The Goddess. She didn’t do much… bobbed around on her float, exited the pool to place a few cell phone calls (while lying on her stomach… perhaps her gleaming ass functioned as something of an impromptu antenna?)

Finally, I could stand it no longer.

“Goddamn it… I may be pale and squishy, but I wanna go for a swim!” I said, yanking my dress over my head . I flung my bra over the back of the chaise and strode, bikini bottom-clad, into the sunlight. The Goddess and her harem gave me a cursory glance, then returned to their conversation. I shimmied down an aluminum ladder and slipped into the pool’s chlorinated coolness. For the next forty-five minutes, I swam laps… doggy-paddle, backstroke and - uh-huh - breaststroke. I floated on my back and stared at the pale desert sky. Semi-nude swimming was indeed delightful. “Damn, maybe I’ll try this the next time I’m at the Holiday Inn,” I thought. Once pleasantly exhausted, I climbed out and sashayed over to my chair. After toweling my hair and sheathing my nakedness, I headed downstairs and treated myself to some breakfast. You can keep your butter, your jelly, your twee little jars of double Devon cream. Nothing makes toast taste better than cheerful brazenness.

And that, my lovelies, was Las Vegas. There was, of course, the journey home, which featured jellybeans, “In Cold Blood”, a barbecue-scented layover in Memphis and the enthralling experience of riding next to a prisoner being extradited (“Don’t worry, I didn’t kill no one,” said my seatmate by way of introduction. I wonder if one can REQUEST prisoner seating, like the Kosher meal?). There was the unsuccessful attempt to secure a gypsy cab for the ride home (The Soon-To-Be-Ex Mr. Thumbscrews advised me to “look for the guys wearing pimp hats”). There was the joyous reunion with J.Q. (who chanted “Mama!” for a solid 15 minutes). And then there was the solemn vow that my next vacation would absolutely, positively be in a more relaxing locale. I’ve heard Pamplona is lovely in July…

Night of the Rat

[Ed. Note: this is the grossest thing I'll ever post. If something grosser occurs, I'll be too busy killing myself to write about it. That being said... enjoy!]

Last night, J.Q. and I were enjoying a leisurely walk home. Our usual route was at its best: cool, leaf-strewn and minimally-odoriferous. A Whole Foods bag full of delectable overpriced goodies hung from the back of the stroller. Every few minutes, J.Q. tilted his head back, gave me a huge smile and said, "Mama! HiiiiIIIIIiiii!" For the moment, life was supremely good. Suddenly, the JulPhone rang. "Hrmn!" said I, "Perhaps it's a man!" (Gloria Steinem needs to kick my ass with one of her doubtlessly sensible shoes).

"'Lo?" I said.

"JUL!" sobbed my caller. I surmised via the voice's pitch that it was either a woman or a castrated man (which would certainly explain the sobbing). It was, in fact, my sister Pixie.

"It's Sloepoke!" she said, anguished.

Sloepoke the rat had recently developed signs of Fatal Familial Rat-Plague, the mysterious malady which caused Pixie's other rodents to scurry off this moral coil. One day they were fine... the next, a bit twitchy... the next, interred in a tiny cardboard coffin. As Sloepoke had reached the "twitching like electrocuted methamphetamine addict" phase several days prior, I figured that nature had taken its gruesome course.

"Oh, no, Pix...", said I, "Dead?"
"No... bleeding!"
"From where?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"HER BEHIND!"

Which was - without a doubt - the worst possible answer to that question. Even if Pixie had replied, "Her pores... I think it may be rat Ebola!", that would have somehow been a little more tolerable.

"Dude," I sighed, "That's never a good sign. She's probably going to have to be... y'know... put down."
"My normal vet is closed, and I called the emergency vet, but they want $97 just to LOOK at her!"
"Did you call dad?"

Our father possesses a singularly useful combination of traits: he's an engineer AND he was raised on a farm. He is well-versed in both creative problem-solving and the harsh realities of nature. If I ever needed to dispose of a corpse, he'd be the first person I'd call ("You bound their wrists with DUCT TAPE? Well... it's okay as far as tensile strength goes, but you might have considered heavy-duty electrical tape for increased torsion resistance. Now pass me that hacksaw").

"HE'S NOT HOME!" said Pixie.

My pulse quickened. As Pixie's sibling, it was now up to me to assume the task of Making Everything Better. Our immediate family sticks together with more tenacity than an entire CASE of duct tape. The previous evening, in fact, Pixie had traveled across state lines to save me when I'd locked J.Q. and myself out of the house.

"I'll be there in 45 minutes," I said, breaking into a jog. I'd been secretly hoping for a chance to put my running skills to practical use; an emergency rodenticide mission seemed as good an opportunity as any. After a brief pit stop in my apartment, I loaded J.Q. in the car and screeched off towards New Jersey.

"We're going to go see Pixie!" I told him.
"Pixie! Pixie? Pixie? Pixie? PIXIE!"

J.Q. is insanely in love with Pixie. Most days, he asks for her as soon as he wakes up in the morning. "No, baby," I tell him, rubbing sleep from my eyes, "As she is not your ACTUAL MOTHER, LIKE ME, THE PERSON GETTING UP WITH YOU AT 7:00 IN THE GODFORSAKEN MORNING, Pixie isn't here right now."

We whizzed down the highway. J.Q. munched on rabbit-shaped graham crackers; I ate the sticky toffee pudding I'd picked up at Whole Foods. In case you were wondering, "sticky toffee pudding" is right up there with "cherries jubilee" and "one of those meat-festooned scimitars from Brazil" on the list of Things Which Are Not a Good Idea to Consume While Driving a Manual-Transmission Vehicle in Rush-Hour Traffic.

Precisely 43 minutes later, sticky and harrowed, we pulled into Pixie's driveway. "Pixie? Pixie? PIXIIIIIIIIIIE!" said J.Q. "Uh-huh," I said wearily, carrying him into her apartment. As soon as she walked into the room, red-eyed, J.Q. launched himself at her like a 25-pound aunt-seeking missile.

"Okay," said I, ignoring Pixie's blatant alienation of my son's affection and extracting a medicine bottle from my coat, "Here's what we're gonna use." During my stop at the Bachelorette Pad, I had rooted around in my medicine cabinet and grabbed the most-controlled substance contained therein: Ativan.

Last February, shortly after my marriage began crumbling, I took a little trip to my G.P. "Um, yeah," I said, fidgeting and rubbing my raw, red eyes, "I can't live like this for another minute... anything you can do to, you know, fix that?" "Here," said my doctor, handing me a prescription, "This ought to take the edge off."

Ativan (a benzodiazepine related to Valium) did not, in fact, take the edge off. It didn't really do a ding-danged thing. However, close to a year later, I still had the little bottle in my possession... a relic of a sadder and more desperate time. I hoped it might be a little more useful now.

"How about you feed your #1 fan some more graham crackers?" I said, walking towards Pixie's PC, "I'm going to do a little research."

"IT IS NOT WATER-SOLUBLE!" I shrieked across Pix's apartment.
"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" she yelled back.
"WE SHOULD TRY DISSOLVING IT IN SOME PROPYLENE GLYCOL!" I yelled, "IT WILL BE MORE BIOAVAILABLE THAT WAY!"
"YOU ARE A FUCKING DORK! LET'S POWDER IT AND FEED IT TO HER IN SOME YOGURT!"
"Mama? Mama? MAMA!" said J.Q., who had wandered away from Pixie and was tugging at my pants leg.
"OH, WHAT THE HELL!" I yelled, scooping him up.

Five minutes later, a spoonful of raspberry yogurt had been prepped (I am sorry to say that I was unable to resist calling it "Death Yogurt"). Pixie tried to gently cajole Sloepoke into eating it while J.Q. hugged her legs and chanted, "WAT! WAT! WAT!"

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" she hissed.

"Yeah, probably don't want him exposed to an anally-bleeding rat and benzo-laced yogurt, huh?" I said, carrying him towards the kitchen.

For the next half hour, I tried to distract J.Q. while Pix attended to her rat.

"Come here and have some muffin, J.Q.!" I said cheerily, "It's got cream cheese frosting!"

J.Q. wasn't swayed.

"Pixie? Pixie? Pixiiiiiiiiiie!" he wailed, trying desperately to pummel his way past me to get to his aunt.
"PIXIE is kind of BUSY right now," I muttered, "Pleeeeeeeease eat the freaking muffin!"

And so it went until a saddened, disheveled Pixie joined us in the kitchen.

"She ate a few in the yogurt, some in a piece of macaroni and three by themselves."
"Whoa... so is she... ?"
"Nope, she's just really tired."

Either we had picked the wrong substance for ratricide... or Sloepoke was the Keith Richards of the rodent world.

For the next hour, Pixie, J.Q. and I sat in her bedroom, waiting for Sloepoke to die. She lay in Pixie's arms, eyes closed, breathing peacefully... very much alive. "Go towards the light, 'Poke!" I said.

"Here, like this," said Pixie, gently moving her towards a desk lamp.

Choice quotes from Deathwatch 2006, Genus Rodentia Version:

• "My bedtime is 8:30. If Sloepoke isn't dead by then, I'm burying her alive."



• "How's she doing?"
  "She's giving me mixed signals."
  "Pix, the anal bleeding kind of negates all of the positive signals. It negates ANY positive signal. I don't care if Sloepoke spontaneously learns English, stands up on her back paws and begins reciting Chaucer... she is STILL! Bleeding! Anally!"



• [Pixie holds up her hand and begins sobbing] "She's bleeding again!"
  "Not to sound unsympathetic, but... wow, can you possibly get anything WORSE on your hand?"
  "What, blood from a rat's ass?"
  "Yeah - wait a minute. That would be an AWESOME title for a metal record!"
  "Hey, it would!"
  "New from Danzig... BLOOD From a Rat's ASSSSSSSSSSS!"



• "Fuck, this rat has eaten seven Ativan and it is STILL alive."
  "Yeah, I don't know what's up."
  "Well... you know how chocolate is good for a rat's cough? Maybe Ativan is like that, but for anal bleeding."

When it became apparent that the end was NOT nigh, I packed up J.Q. and prepared to head home. I hugged Pixie and gave her my best wishes. "Dude, that thing has GOT to die during the night!"

She didn't.

"She woke up!" said Pixie this morning, "She is calm and stable, and she's eating and wants to be held!"

It's unfortunate that rats don't have the power of speech; otherwise, she'd probably also be proclaiming, "Duuuuuude... last night, I got SO fuckin' wasted!"

"Is she still... you know?" I asked Pixie.
"Uh-huh," she said, "And falling over."
"Oh, shit," said I, "Okay, plan B: use car's tailpipe as makeshift gas chamber?"

"Nope," said Pixie, sounding eerily chipper, "I'm just going to keep feeding her and see how she does."

So that's how I spent my Friday evening: helping a domestic rodent get as high as a verminous little kite. I don't regret a minute of it, though... Pixie, Junket, my parents and I? We are family, in ways far deeper than the Sister Sledge variety. When it comes to pain, crisis, desperation - and yes, blood from a rat's ass - we've got one anothers' backs.

Although if any of you ever run into a situation with, say, projectile-vomiting marmoset, give me a holler: Pixie definitely owes me one.

As Far As Insults To the Iraqi People Go, It Feels Sooo Good

Incongruity Alert: I don't generally do short posts, or current events posts, or political posts. HOWEVER, if no one else is going to take the bait...

Doesn't Iraqi president Jalal Talabani look like he's demonstrating how to locate the G-spot?

That is all.

Either You Give Blood Or We Take It

Ed. Note: Dewey Billem Fivehundredbucksperhour & Howe's blood drives have sometimes had pretty poor turn-outs. I imagine this is due to the hectic, demanding nature of The Law. Either that or I work with a bunch of soulless bastards. Regardless, the e-mails announcing our quarterly exsanguination sessions have gotten somewhat, ah, "terse" as of late...

Do you know how many people in the tri-state area are in desperate need of your gift of blood?

Don't even pretend like you don't. You've gotten our e-mails. Or are you also going to feign unfamiliarity with a little concept known as "read receipt"?

So, yeah: we totally need some blood up in this joint, homes. So cough it up.

No, not literally. Unless you've got tuberculosis. And you'll notice that question 17-C on the donation questionnaire specifically addresses that particular malady.

Or at least you WOULD notice, if you bothered to show up to donate.

We offered cookies. Multiple varieties of cookies. Did chocolate chip, snickerdoodle or oatmeal-raisin coerce you into opening up a vein? Of course not.

We offered a selection of juices wide enough to make the local Stop 'n Shop's produce department manager gouge his own eyes out in shame. Perhaps with a sharpened plantain. But were any sufficiently succulent to lure you and your precious corpuscles down to conference room 813? Nooooo.

We hung posters with poignant black-and-white photos of children, all of whom needed donated blood at one point in their lives. Did these posters tug at your heartstrings? The heartstrings are connected to the artery-strings, you know. Which are, via the wonder of capillaries, connected to the vein-strings. Which are connected to a needle, a few feet of sterile tubing and a baggie. What's that? They're not?

Excuse me while I feign surprise.

Or perhaps your chest cavity does not contain a heart, merely a cruel and chilly lump of granite. Perhaps you were utterly unmoved by the photo of Baby Johnny, whose life was saved by two units of O-neg. Yeah. We can just imagine you, walking by the poster we hung above the office microwave. "Screw you, Baby Johnny!", you scoff, "You're not getting a single leukocyte outta ME!" And then you surreptitiously eat a coworker's Lean Cuisine.

You monster.

We're sick of you and your sanguinary stinginess. It's time for radical action.

Either you give blood, or we take it.

Right now, at a Red Cross compound in an undisclosed-yet-heavily-guarded location, we're building the future. And it is quick with an iodine swab.

Our first group of highly-trained phleboto-ninjas will be unleashed upon the world in mere weeks. And when they are, you - and your red cells - had better watch out.

Equally at ease in an ill-fitting lab coat or a traditional shinobi shozoku, the phleboto-ninja is versatile. He is fast as the rushing stream, agile as the cat on the prowl. In the time it takes most allied health technicians to ask, "Yo, Rick, we got any more #16s?", the phleboto-ninga can locate a suitable vein, prep the skin surface, deftly insert a needle AND single-handedly dispatch a cadre of armed attackers.

The phleboto-ninja's hands have been trained in modern venipuncture technique. His soul has been steeped in feudal Japanese tradition.

And make no mistake about it, he's going to drain your sorry ass.

The phlebotomist of the past said, "Okay, this may sting a bit." The phleboto-ninja says nothing. He does not betray his presence in such a blatant fashion. By the time you notice the sting, he will have vanished... along with a still-warm bag of your vital fluids. Within minutes, he will place his conquest within a ceremonial ice chest; it will then be reverently presented to his shogun/regional Red Cross collection center. And you will remain completely oblivious to his actions... that is, until you notice the freshly-applied sticker on your lapel: "BE NICE TO ME! I GAVE BLOOD TODAY (ALBEIT IN A TOTALLY INVOLUNTARY FASHION)".

It's your choice. You can take the noble path, conveniently available in conference room 813 from 8:00 AM - 1:00 PM. Or you can take the dishonorable one... sitting at your desk, munching on a snack cake, the gift of life hoarded in your miserly veins.

In the past, we would've told you to choke on your own Krimpet. But that was the past.

Go on, lick the butterscotch frosting of selfish decadence from your fingers. Go about your daily routine. We'll be watching... and waiting.

Will the strike come while you're in the elevator? Walking to the copier? Holding court at the water cooler? You'll never know. Oh, there will be a sting... the sting of your own greed being forcibly extracted. There will be a faint feeling of light-headedness, perhaps the ethereal whisper of jika-tabi on linoleum. At this point, you may wish to hit the vending machine for a can of fruit punch and some Chips Ahoy. Because whether or not you're aware of it, you've just become a hero.

UPDATED: MoHoHo

Now complete : the world's first (and god help us, LAST) set of Christmas cards based on Modernist design precepts. Clicking each card will take you to a Wikipedia page chock-full of further information. Clicking the little "Address" bar at the top of your screen, mashing keys randomly and then hitting "Enter" will no doubt take you to a less-dorky destination than your present one.

Because It Is Crappy, And Because It Is My One-Third Finished Novel

1. For my post title, apologies to Stephen Crane.

2. For my excuse, apologies to Michael Ondaatje:

"Elimination Dance, NaNoWriMo Style"

• Those who have prepared a vegan BLT rather than working on their novel.


• Those who have violated their rental agreement in the most flagrant manner possible by drilling holes into the drywall at 2:00 AM rather than working on their novel.


• Those who have attempted to absorb Wikipedia in one large gulp, much like one of those Amazonian snakes the diameter of a telephone pole, only with more knowledge of limited-run sports cars and art history and less wholesale consumption of wild boars, rather than working on their novel.

• Those who minimized Word in order to briefly research a one-sentence description in their novel, only to look up several hours hence with a rudimentary understanding of particle physics but their word count no higher.


• Those who have consumed a healthy quantity of Scotch and soda under the assumption that, hey, it seemed to work pretty well for ol' Hemingway, only to look up several hours hence with a demented little smile and pure ethanol oozing from every pore... but their word count no higher.


• Those who have done more or less anything else, including disinfecting entire bathroom with bleach water, plucking eyebrows into new configuration hopefully more "alluring" than "perpetually shocked", making Thanksgiving dinner for five, eating leftover pie directly out of the plate while standing underwear-clad in front of the open fridge like an illustration out of "Portraits In American Decadence", downloading music intended for use during Romantic Moments, as Romantic Moments mix currently consists of 90% Morphine, which is excellent, don't get us wrong, but jeezy-creezy, enough baritone sax and moodiness already, fantasizing about opening own micro-batch distillery solely to produce a Scotch known as "Easy Islay", only to have aspirations cruelly dashed by actual pronunciation of region's name...
  
  ... rather than working on their novel.

3. For my proto-book, apologies to each and every person brave/stupid enough to read it.

It's a rough draft. A very, very, very rough draft. It's wordy and choppy and stylistically inconsistent. There is too much character and not enough plot. There is too much This and not enough That. There are seven bajillion separate narrative threads which will all be tied up in a tidy little skein... I hope. Any science therein is roughly as plausible as that in "Plan 9 From Outer Space".

And yet I intend to keep working at it. Not "hammering away", as that would indicate a level of commitment to the novelling process which I clearly do not possess. Perhaps "tapping away". "Poking away". At this rate, my very own crappy novel should be done at roughly the same time as my divorce decree is granted by the Commonwealth. The confluence of these events will merit some Easy Islay indeed (no, I have no idea what that means, either).

First Third of Untitled Jul Thumbscrew Novel

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