(What follows is in no way intended to be flippant, but rather a genuine wonder. I know the topic is a serious one)
Part 1. The Question and The Seriousness
I remember listening to the radio program Love Line when I was in high school. The show was a drive-by counseling session for people struggling in relationship and addiction problems, with Dr. Drew Pinsky doling out the medical rationale and suggestions, referring the majority of them to local professionals or support groups. As Pinksy spoke with addicts and drew their conflict out, the audience usually learned that one or both of the caller's parents were also addicts of some kind. That the 'addictive gene' had been passed to the caller, and it was now their demon to manage for the remainder of their life. Knowing little to nothing at all about the science of addiction, last week a question bubbled in my mind: Can someone be an addict without the addictive gene, or is that particular gene present in everyone?
For instance: Can someone without any history of addiction in their family become an addict? Are the destructive ones such as alcoholism, eating disorders, drug problems, gambling, etc. directly related to the presence of that gene? Perhaps the gene has been passed along the family line for some time and didn't manifest in anyone until that one person was unfortunate enough to awaken it? And please take this grand scientific wondering of mine with a grain of salt, for my various attempts to understand the worlds of science invariably end with headaches, frustration, and poor grades.
Part 2. Me.
Why the hell am I thinking about this? Because I've wondered if I'm addicted to certain things in my daily life. If they're actual addictions, if there is a such a thing as a 'healthy addiction' (which honestly doesn't make much sense), if it's just compulsive behavior, a strange habit, or something else entirely. Listed below are some of those 'things,' both present and past.
-Soft cookies. Impossible to ignore, and now I don't even bother fighting the impulse to eat them.
-Exercise. I'm now into that irrational space where I feel like an utter slob if I don't maintain my routine.
-World of Warcraft. I cut free of this one some time ago. I played that game wayyyyy too much.
-Certain TV shows. Some of you know that feeling. You happen to miss that one show that you count on all week, you're pissed. Currently, missing an episode of 'Lost' is not an option for me.
-Eating the same dish at your favorite restaurant every time you're there. This one is strange. You go to your favorite restaurant, let's say once every month or two. How often do you try something different? I always eat the same incredible thing, not because I'm worried the other items won't be good, but because the feeling of going to that restaurant and missing out on that meal is somewhat terrifying.
As always, thank you for being patient with my wonderings...
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Complaint Department
The Management rattles the complaint box, and the papers drift to the floor...
False Fruit.
You scan the rows and boxes and stands of fruit, trying to be as deliberate and perfect in your choice of the fruit that suits your fancy for the week. You find the Navel oranges (or clementines, as the season dictates), struggle to open the plastic bag, and go about your selecting. You might squeeze a few, look for ones devoid of any discoloration, or just grab randomly.
None of it matters one damn bit.
You perform a similar ritual with those lovely looking Braeburn apples over yonder, and yes, struggle again with the plastic produce sack. All of these apples look delightful and are unbruised. It's only later, possibly the following day, when you eat one.
Rather than the satisfying snap of a crisp, juicy apple, the whole thing sags beneath your teeth like some evil pulp. You can't even chew it because the texture is utterly what an apple is not, and you let the wad of wasted apple fall into the trash. Now you're irritated that this, and possibly each of the other apples are ruined (they are), so you move onto your orange. The citrus floats from the rind as you peel and tear through it to the flesh. You separate one wedge of the orange, place it between your front teeth, and bite.
Dry as a goddamn cob. The juice has evaporated. Or been sucked out. Or something ridiculous. And your day has been effectively ruined because of this pile of false fruit.
Plastic Produce Sacks.
You can't half-ass these bags, folks. Poking through produce with one hand and tearing a bag with the other is completely impossible. Should you attempt such a move, not only does the bag not tear at the dotted line where it promises you that it will, but due to your lack of superhuman strength you end up unrolling another three to four bags before any tear occurs. You'll snap out of your produce search, tear the one bag off that you need, and are then faced with a dangle of unopened, untorn produce bags that you cleverly try to hide behind the roll, stuff in the trash, or put them in your pocket because you feel too guilty.
And the thing isn't even open yet. You flip the bag over a few times looking for the correct end, find it, rub the bag together to get it to open, and realize that you're at the wrong end. Or not. So you shake it out, snapping it in front of your face like a crazy person.
'That Kind of Day.'
1.) You oversleep a bit. Something small. Let's say five minutes.
2.) You get out of bed, wondering what happened there. You don't recall hearing the alarm, and you already feel a bit...off.
3.) You bang your toe on the edge of the bed. Or bang your shin on something as you get into the shower. Either works fine.
4.) You get ready for work, school, whatever, conscious that you're five minutes off. Your toe/shin hurts.
5.) You go to the kitchen to eat cereal. There isn't enough milk for such things. So, you have toast and coffee and some Oreos.
6.) You head out to the car, carrying your bag, your coffee, and any other paraphernalia you may need to have a successful day. You're still conscious that you're running about five minutes behind.
7.) The radio is irritating you. The commercials will not stop. Or, your iPod isn't playing songs you'd prefer today. Either works fine.
8.) The traffic is absurd. But you can't decide if it's because you're running a bit late, if there's a wreck ahead, or if it's always like this.
9.) You get to work, try to get the various things off the passenger seat in one giant well-balanced pile. You're successful. You walk to your office/desk/room/bunker, nod your head or smile to a co-worker in greeting, and your pile collapses, inches from it's destination. Now the irritation is gone and you are genuinely pissed off. Also, you're crashing from the sugar in the Oreos.
10.) You're quiet for the rest of the day, and you feel ridiculous getting upset at such little things. But whatever. It's your life, and you can be cranky whenever you feel like it.
11.) A significant other asks you what's wrong/how's your day/why are you so cranky, and you feel foolish telling them any one of those things, let alone the entire list, so you say, "Nothing."
12.) You hit your head on something painful. Trust me. It'll happen. You're seeing red and wondering if it makes more sense to cry or try to obliterate the thing that you just hit your head on. Instead you glare at it and threaten it with horrible, unspeakable things under your breath.
13.) The small things keep happening, and the day progressively swirls down the toilet, and everyone else seems to be deliriously happy. Whenever someone stops by with their cheer, you're tempted to tell them to piss off and slap them in the teeth. And then you feel guilty again.
14.) You wonder if things will get better once you get home for the night. They won't. It's one of those days, and you have to see it through to it's conclusion.
False Fruit.
You scan the rows and boxes and stands of fruit, trying to be as deliberate and perfect in your choice of the fruit that suits your fancy for the week. You find the Navel oranges (or clementines, as the season dictates), struggle to open the plastic bag, and go about your selecting. You might squeeze a few, look for ones devoid of any discoloration, or just grab randomly.
None of it matters one damn bit.
You perform a similar ritual with those lovely looking Braeburn apples over yonder, and yes, struggle again with the plastic produce sack. All of these apples look delightful and are unbruised. It's only later, possibly the following day, when you eat one.
Rather than the satisfying snap of a crisp, juicy apple, the whole thing sags beneath your teeth like some evil pulp. You can't even chew it because the texture is utterly what an apple is not, and you let the wad of wasted apple fall into the trash. Now you're irritated that this, and possibly each of the other apples are ruined (they are), so you move onto your orange. The citrus floats from the rind as you peel and tear through it to the flesh. You separate one wedge of the orange, place it between your front teeth, and bite.
Dry as a goddamn cob. The juice has evaporated. Or been sucked out. Or something ridiculous. And your day has been effectively ruined because of this pile of false fruit.
Plastic Produce Sacks.
You can't half-ass these bags, folks. Poking through produce with one hand and tearing a bag with the other is completely impossible. Should you attempt such a move, not only does the bag not tear at the dotted line where it promises you that it will, but due to your lack of superhuman strength you end up unrolling another three to four bags before any tear occurs. You'll snap out of your produce search, tear the one bag off that you need, and are then faced with a dangle of unopened, untorn produce bags that you cleverly try to hide behind the roll, stuff in the trash, or put them in your pocket because you feel too guilty.
And the thing isn't even open yet. You flip the bag over a few times looking for the correct end, find it, rub the bag together to get it to open, and realize that you're at the wrong end. Or not. So you shake it out, snapping it in front of your face like a crazy person.
'That Kind of Day.'
1.) You oversleep a bit. Something small. Let's say five minutes.
2.) You get out of bed, wondering what happened there. You don't recall hearing the alarm, and you already feel a bit...off.
3.) You bang your toe on the edge of the bed. Or bang your shin on something as you get into the shower. Either works fine.
4.) You get ready for work, school, whatever, conscious that you're five minutes off. Your toe/shin hurts.
5.) You go to the kitchen to eat cereal. There isn't enough milk for such things. So, you have toast and coffee and some Oreos.
6.) You head out to the car, carrying your bag, your coffee, and any other paraphernalia you may need to have a successful day. You're still conscious that you're running about five minutes behind.
7.) The radio is irritating you. The commercials will not stop. Or, your iPod isn't playing songs you'd prefer today. Either works fine.
8.) The traffic is absurd. But you can't decide if it's because you're running a bit late, if there's a wreck ahead, or if it's always like this.
9.) You get to work, try to get the various things off the passenger seat in one giant well-balanced pile. You're successful. You walk to your office/desk/room/bunker, nod your head or smile to a co-worker in greeting, and your pile collapses, inches from it's destination. Now the irritation is gone and you are genuinely pissed off. Also, you're crashing from the sugar in the Oreos.
10.) You're quiet for the rest of the day, and you feel ridiculous getting upset at such little things. But whatever. It's your life, and you can be cranky whenever you feel like it.
11.) A significant other asks you what's wrong/how's your day/why are you so cranky, and you feel foolish telling them any one of those things, let alone the entire list, so you say, "Nothing."
12.) You hit your head on something painful. Trust me. It'll happen. You're seeing red and wondering if it makes more sense to cry or try to obliterate the thing that you just hit your head on. Instead you glare at it and threaten it with horrible, unspeakable things under your breath.
13.) The small things keep happening, and the day progressively swirls down the toilet, and everyone else seems to be deliriously happy. Whenever someone stops by with their cheer, you're tempted to tell them to piss off and slap them in the teeth. And then you feel guilty again.
14.) You wonder if things will get better once you get home for the night. They won't. It's one of those days, and you have to see it through to it's conclusion.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Villainy!
(Disclaimer: some coarse language follows, as taken from the mouth of a villain for the purpose of this post and The Management didn't want to leave you unprepared. Those who don't care for such nonsense, please avert your eyes for the time being.)
It's relatively easy to think of the film and television villains who, supreme and dark in their evil power, fill the scenes with such an overpowering presence as to render them unforgettable. Kenneth Branagh as the amoral Iago in Othello, Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter, or Heath Ledger's portrayal as the Joker for some reason jump immediately to mind. Lists and essays of villains of this dark sort have been, and will continue to be, written by people much smarter than me, so I'd rather do something else.
Each a foil to a particular characteristic of the protagonist, the villain resonates differently in each story they occupy. The villain can inspire hate, loathing, confusion, comfort, and occasionally, the hope for redemption. The villain is arguably a much more intricate and important character than the hero, and they are therefore much more difficult to handle. We've all been lost in a story in which we hope the villain is in some way successful. That they may escape the action unscathed or find salvation for their damaged hearts and minds. They provide humor, suspense, and more often than not, serve as the most honest characters in a story.
So, in this and future Villainy! rambles, I'll post some of the myriad of minor or more-forgotten villains that are part of the tapestry of fantastical characters in my head. That said, I can't promise that I won't stray into more established, iconic Bad Guys from time to time.
Vizzini, The Princess Bride
Westley: You're that smart?
Vizzini: Let me put it this way. Have you heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates?
Westley: Yes.
Vizzini: Morons.
Vizzini was one of the first memorable villains from my childhood. Not only did this mastermind have a real giant and a master swordsman at his beck and call, but he appeared to be the most nefarious and confidently intelligent creep in the world. His wit, lisp, and utter impatience for the idiocy and rhyming of his cohorts made him believable and, more importantly, fun to watch.
Additional Villain Points:
1.) Not only did Vizzini serve to counter Westley's mental prowess, he was a foil to the film's primary villain, Prince Humperdink. The Prince was an elite, vacuous twit we all hoped would suffer a swift and hopefully humorous demise.
2.) The bastard literally laughed in the face of his own death.
Ace Merrill, Stand By Me
Ace: Okay, Chambers, you little faggot. This is your last chance. What do you say, kid?
Chris: Why don't you go home and fuck your mother some more?
Ace: [pulls out switchblade] You're dead.
There was nothing funny about Ace Merrill. You hated him instantly and completely. He was cold, heartless, and cruel. He was the reckless alpha male of his circle, and in a small community like Castle Rock, Maine, he had little to fear. When he and his group of friends (whom he loathed) decided that they would be looking for the body of Ray Brower as well, a confrontation with the four young boys was inevitable.
What became the most remarkable aspect of this character upon the film's conclusion was his utter irrelevance to the boy's painful loss of innocence. The boys found the dead body near the train tracks, and the audience felt things crumble. Their laughter ceased, and the party ended as they stared at the bloodied, pasty face of a boy not much older than they. The idyllic childhood was finished.
Ace's threats and snarls of vengeance fell to pieces as he stared down the barrel of gun of held by a boy no longer concerned with the bluster of a pitiful, "cheap, dime store hood."
It's relatively easy to think of the film and television villains who, supreme and dark in their evil power, fill the scenes with such an overpowering presence as to render them unforgettable. Kenneth Branagh as the amoral Iago in Othello, Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter, or Heath Ledger's portrayal as the Joker for some reason jump immediately to mind. Lists and essays of villains of this dark sort have been, and will continue to be, written by people much smarter than me, so I'd rather do something else.
Each a foil to a particular characteristic of the protagonist, the villain resonates differently in each story they occupy. The villain can inspire hate, loathing, confusion, comfort, and occasionally, the hope for redemption. The villain is arguably a much more intricate and important character than the hero, and they are therefore much more difficult to handle. We've all been lost in a story in which we hope the villain is in some way successful. That they may escape the action unscathed or find salvation for their damaged hearts and minds. They provide humor, suspense, and more often than not, serve as the most honest characters in a story.
So, in this and future Villainy! rambles, I'll post some of the myriad of minor or more-forgotten villains that are part of the tapestry of fantastical characters in my head. That said, I can't promise that I won't stray into more established, iconic Bad Guys from time to time.
Vizzini, The Princess Bride
Westley: You're that smart?
Vizzini: Let me put it this way. Have you heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates?
Westley: Yes.
Vizzini: Morons.
Vizzini was one of the first memorable villains from my childhood. Not only did this mastermind have a real giant and a master swordsman at his beck and call, but he appeared to be the most nefarious and confidently intelligent creep in the world. His wit, lisp, and utter impatience for the idiocy and rhyming of his cohorts made him believable and, more importantly, fun to watch.
Additional Villain Points:
1.) Not only did Vizzini serve to counter Westley's mental prowess, he was a foil to the film's primary villain, Prince Humperdink. The Prince was an elite, vacuous twit we all hoped would suffer a swift and hopefully humorous demise.
2.) The bastard literally laughed in the face of his own death.
Ace Merrill, Stand By Me
Ace: Okay, Chambers, you little faggot. This is your last chance. What do you say, kid?
Chris: Why don't you go home and fuck your mother some more?
Ace: [pulls out switchblade] You're dead.
There was nothing funny about Ace Merrill. You hated him instantly and completely. He was cold, heartless, and cruel. He was the reckless alpha male of his circle, and in a small community like Castle Rock, Maine, he had little to fear. When he and his group of friends (whom he loathed) decided that they would be looking for the body of Ray Brower as well, a confrontation with the four young boys was inevitable.
What became the most remarkable aspect of this character upon the film's conclusion was his utter irrelevance to the boy's painful loss of innocence. The boys found the dead body near the train tracks, and the audience felt things crumble. Their laughter ceased, and the party ended as they stared at the bloodied, pasty face of a boy not much older than they. The idyllic childhood was finished.
Ace's threats and snarls of vengeance fell to pieces as he stared down the barrel of gun of held by a boy no longer concerned with the bluster of a pitiful, "cheap, dime store hood."
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
A Bad Dream and Coming Attractions
I imagine in the future I'll be better equipped to reflect upon the job I've done as a parent to my boys due to the sheer volume of memories to sift through and judge and decide if the right move was made. I'm confident though, that a few nights ago I fulfilled my job responsibilities when my oldest had his first legitimate, heart-breaking nightmare.
I heard his door open sometime around 2am and he shuffled cautiously down the hall, whimpering. I got out of bed and met him in the hall, and he was shaking. The screams and tears burst from within him, and his trembling intensified as I lifted him off the ground. Between sobs and shrieks and bubbling snot, he pointed into his room and said that there was someone bad in his room and he wasn't going back in there.
I carried him back towards the room, and he lost his mind. He tried to climb and claw his way out of my arms, screaming about the bad person and clamped his hands over his eyes. I took him into the bathroom in the hall, turned on the light and we sat on the cold floor together. I rocked him in my lap until the sobs slowed, and I stood up to perform that simple duty that I'd seen so many times.
"I'm going in your room. There's no one in there, buddy. I promise. Poke your head out the door and watch, if you want."
His wet, blue eyes followed my steps into his room, watched as I threw open his closet door, peeked behind the curtains and under the bed. He padded out of the bathroom and towards me, and I bent down to him. "There's no one here. You're safe. Everything's going to be okay." He nodded and yawned, the exhaustion of sleep returning to his bones. I lifted him up and slid him under the covers and kissed him goodnight.
I walked back to bed and felt that in that small moment I had actually done it right.
In the coming days:
-Famous People I'd Enjoy Punching, Even If It Meant I'd Get My Ass Kicked
-Some Favorite (fictional) Villains
-The Complaint Department
I heard his door open sometime around 2am and he shuffled cautiously down the hall, whimpering. I got out of bed and met him in the hall, and he was shaking. The screams and tears burst from within him, and his trembling intensified as I lifted him off the ground. Between sobs and shrieks and bubbling snot, he pointed into his room and said that there was someone bad in his room and he wasn't going back in there.
I carried him back towards the room, and he lost his mind. He tried to climb and claw his way out of my arms, screaming about the bad person and clamped his hands over his eyes. I took him into the bathroom in the hall, turned on the light and we sat on the cold floor together. I rocked him in my lap until the sobs slowed, and I stood up to perform that simple duty that I'd seen so many times.
"I'm going in your room. There's no one in there, buddy. I promise. Poke your head out the door and watch, if you want."
His wet, blue eyes followed my steps into his room, watched as I threw open his closet door, peeked behind the curtains and under the bed. He padded out of the bathroom and towards me, and I bent down to him. "There's no one here. You're safe. Everything's going to be okay." He nodded and yawned, the exhaustion of sleep returning to his bones. I lifted him up and slid him under the covers and kissed him goodnight.
I walked back to bed and felt that in that small moment I had actually done it right.
In the coming days:
-Famous People I'd Enjoy Punching, Even If It Meant I'd Get My Ass Kicked
-Some Favorite (fictional) Villains
-The Complaint Department
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Behind the Curtain: Scraps and Portions
The Beginnings of Habits
As you read and categorize and place me in the most appropriate and cozy compartment in your mind, allow me to make the identification process a bit easier: I'm a huge nerd. I read comic books, play video games, watch cartoons, enjoy good fantasy and sci-fi novels, talk to myself, and already worry about the finale of Lost.
Many of these habits started in elementary school. I was home with the flu, slept the day away, and stumbled awake once the sun began to drop and the skies turned violet. My dad returned from work, tie loosened, shirt untucked, heavy lidded, and set this gently on my lap:
I smiled and sat up from the ravines I had worn in the couch. Dad grinned back and said, "Saw this today in the mall, and thought you'd like it. Glad you're feeling better." And that was that. Reading comics, even if I had no idea what the hell was going on, became one of the most exciting times of the week.
The video games began with my older brother introducing me to Intellivision, Atari, and eventually his NES. Countless hours were clocked on Metroid, Zelda, Mega Man, Contra, Gauntlet, Blades of Steel, and Double Dribble. The NES strengthened friendships, became such a shared experience with so many of my classmates, and allowed my mind to begin its imaginings and wanderings.
Careers I've Considered Either In Passing Or Intently While Staring
1.) Shooting guard in the NBA
2.) Chef
3.) Assassin
4.) Editor-in-chief of DC Comics
5.) Origami Grand Master
6.) Counselor
7.) Florist
8.) Voice Actor
9.) Thief
10.) Bartender
11.) Independently wealthy philanthropist
12.) Professional fort builder
13.) MLB closer
14.) Superhero
A Fault
I allow too much time to pass before making contact with old friends. Hell, even with family. I used to figure this complacent behavior typical for men, but now I'm not so sure. It may be me. Several friends (all of whom are also men, which complicates things further and leads me to believe that it is actually a common pattern of behavior) exist now as only a clouded outline of a memory of good times spent together. The opportunity to reconnect is always there, within reach, and yet I'm reluctant to do it. Why?
I have absolutely no idea.
As you read and categorize and place me in the most appropriate and cozy compartment in your mind, allow me to make the identification process a bit easier: I'm a huge nerd. I read comic books, play video games, watch cartoons, enjoy good fantasy and sci-fi novels, talk to myself, and already worry about the finale of Lost.
Many of these habits started in elementary school. I was home with the flu, slept the day away, and stumbled awake once the sun began to drop and the skies turned violet. My dad returned from work, tie loosened, shirt untucked, heavy lidded, and set this gently on my lap:
I smiled and sat up from the ravines I had worn in the couch. Dad grinned back and said, "Saw this today in the mall, and thought you'd like it. Glad you're feeling better." And that was that. Reading comics, even if I had no idea what the hell was going on, became one of the most exciting times of the week.
The video games began with my older brother introducing me to Intellivision, Atari, and eventually his NES. Countless hours were clocked on Metroid, Zelda, Mega Man, Contra, Gauntlet, Blades of Steel, and Double Dribble. The NES strengthened friendships, became such a shared experience with so many of my classmates, and allowed my mind to begin its imaginings and wanderings.
Careers I've Considered Either In Passing Or Intently While Staring
1.) Shooting guard in the NBA
2.) Chef
3.) Assassin
4.) Editor-in-chief of DC Comics
5.) Origami Grand Master
6.) Counselor
7.) Florist
8.) Voice Actor
9.) Thief
10.) Bartender
11.) Independently wealthy philanthropist
12.) Professional fort builder
13.) MLB closer
14.) Superhero
A Fault
I allow too much time to pass before making contact with old friends. Hell, even with family. I used to figure this complacent behavior typical for men, but now I'm not so sure. It may be me. Several friends (all of whom are also men, which complicates things further and leads me to believe that it is actually a common pattern of behavior) exist now as only a clouded outline of a memory of good times spent together. The opportunity to reconnect is always there, within reach, and yet I'm reluctant to do it. Why?
I have absolutely no idea.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
In Rockville: The Rolls
The scent of his mother's cinnamon rolls in the oven always tugged him from sleep, hopeful that he could get to the pan before his sister and father and mother marred the perfectly iced surface of the golden rolls with their greedy damn hands. He grabbed what clothes lay at the foot of the bed, and dressed wildly as he moved through the house to the kitchen. His bare feet landed on the cold linoleum as he pulled the raggedy t-shirt over his head, backwards. Fashion mattered little to a boy of seven, especially when he needed to focus on the grim battle of attrition that faced him with each new batch of rolls.
His mother stood at the counter, spreading the icing across the surface of the soft, perfect warmth inside the pan, and they were untouched. Big sister was at mother's side, eager to take her share and ruin the entire pan with her clumsiness. His father sat at the table with the paper, nodding his head at the box score of last night's Cardinals game. He looked over the top of his paper at the ragamuffin loitering in the kitchen.
"Hey. Shirt's on backwards. Where's your other sock? And what the hell is on your pants? Boy." He repeated himself for the final time, firmly. The glare blazed into his sky blue eyes, "Boy."
"Mornin'." He walked slowly to his mother's side, eyeing his sister's movements as he approached, lest he need to tackle her to prevent her from being The First to take a roll. "Hey ma...how many did you make?"
"Answer your father," she reminded, softly.
He stood at the counter, transfixed, fumbling within his shirt to right it. He pulled a crumpled gray sock from his back pocket, stood on one foot and hopped as he struggled to slide it on without breaking eye contact with the gift of heavenly nourishment. "Hey dad. I told you The Man hit one out last night. Number 33, I think it was." The boy looked down, quickly, remembering the question and rubbed the stain. "It's oil. Mr. Huff was changing his oil yesterday and I was watching and got some on me."
"Hm."
Just as his mother started to lift the pan from the counter, his sister grinned at him, and made a grab for a roll. The boy's eyes widened in horror. Mother barked, "Will you stop? You know he'll throw a fit. Just stop. Or you can go without." Sister retreated to sulk in her chair at the table. Rolls were distributed, to the boy first, of course, and everyone was silent. Eager.
Forks clinked against the plates, glasses rapped against the table, and appetites were sated. The boy smiled as he swallowed, thinking of the day to come. Baseball with Charles and Larry. Maybe a trip down to Panther Creek for some catfish, or to his uncles for some leftover fireworks.
This was going to be the greatest day ever. Glorious, even.
He swallowed the remnants of his fourth roll and patted his little stomach. His father wiped his mouth, folded the paper, and rose from the table. "Thank ya for the rolls, baby. Come on, bub. We need to get moving."
Things began to rattle and shiver in the boy's mind, teetering on the brink of ruin. "What? Get moving where?"
Father shook his head. "Jesus, you really don't listen do you? Chickens. We're picking some up for the store out at the Davidson's. And you've got a coop to clean. Move."
This was going to be the worst day ever.
His mother stood at the counter, spreading the icing across the surface of the soft, perfect warmth inside the pan, and they were untouched. Big sister was at mother's side, eager to take her share and ruin the entire pan with her clumsiness. His father sat at the table with the paper, nodding his head at the box score of last night's Cardinals game. He looked over the top of his paper at the ragamuffin loitering in the kitchen.
"Hey. Shirt's on backwards. Where's your other sock? And what the hell is on your pants? Boy." He repeated himself for the final time, firmly. The glare blazed into his sky blue eyes, "Boy."
"Mornin'." He walked slowly to his mother's side, eyeing his sister's movements as he approached, lest he need to tackle her to prevent her from being The First to take a roll. "Hey ma...how many did you make?"
"Answer your father," she reminded, softly.
He stood at the counter, transfixed, fumbling within his shirt to right it. He pulled a crumpled gray sock from his back pocket, stood on one foot and hopped as he struggled to slide it on without breaking eye contact with the gift of heavenly nourishment. "Hey dad. I told you The Man hit one out last night. Number 33, I think it was." The boy looked down, quickly, remembering the question and rubbed the stain. "It's oil. Mr. Huff was changing his oil yesterday and I was watching and got some on me."
"Hm."
Just as his mother started to lift the pan from the counter, his sister grinned at him, and made a grab for a roll. The boy's eyes widened in horror. Mother barked, "Will you stop? You know he'll throw a fit. Just stop. Or you can go without." Sister retreated to sulk in her chair at the table. Rolls were distributed, to the boy first, of course, and everyone was silent. Eager.
Forks clinked against the plates, glasses rapped against the table, and appetites were sated. The boy smiled as he swallowed, thinking of the day to come. Baseball with Charles and Larry. Maybe a trip down to Panther Creek for some catfish, or to his uncles for some leftover fireworks.
This was going to be the greatest day ever. Glorious, even.
He swallowed the remnants of his fourth roll and patted his little stomach. His father wiped his mouth, folded the paper, and rose from the table. "Thank ya for the rolls, baby. Come on, bub. We need to get moving."
Things began to rattle and shiver in the boy's mind, teetering on the brink of ruin. "What? Get moving where?"
Father shook his head. "Jesus, you really don't listen do you? Chickens. We're picking some up for the store out at the Davidson's. And you've got a coop to clean. Move."
This was going to be the worst day ever.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Brief Conversation and Other Things
(Apologies for the lack of blog consistency as of late. Between illnesses and time being strangely elusive for the past two weeks, I've felt horrible for the legion of readers who might have been wondering if the author was trapped under something heavy or perhaps frozen dead in the wilderness after failing to recreate scenes from an episode of Man vs. Wild. So, for the two of you reading this, the consistency will return.)
The little boy with the blond-white hair, big eyes, small chin, enormous smile, and who is oddly-reminiscent of Bullseye the horse from Toy Story 2, was drawing. Well. "DrawLing," as he sharply corrects me. I sat down next to him and watched him scribble and add sharp things to what looked like an angry Christmas tree. Or a sharp tornado.
Me: "Hey. What's this? What's going on there?"
Him: No reply.
Me: "Hey. You. Boy. Whatcha makin'?"
Him: "Huh? Oh! This? Just makin' some Army guys."
Me: "Ah. So, this big dark thing in the middle. What's this? A hairy ninja?"
Him: Rolls his eyes. "No...he's THE Army guy!"
Me: "Why is he so sharp? What's all of the pointy things everywhere on his clothes?"
Him: "Those are the sharp things to protect him from the killer whales."
Me: I nod, approvingly. Because, you know. If you're in the Army, you never know when you'll get dropped into a sea teeming with ravenous killer whales, so being sharp is always a damn good idea. I continue, "So, what are these round things growing out of his shoulders? Golf clubs? Weapons to use against the killer whales?"
Him: "No. Those are mirrors, so he can see stuth behind him."
Me: "Stuth? What are you talking about?"
Him: "StuTH. You know...like, things. Stuth."
Me: "Ahhh. StuFF. I get it. Mirrors to see stuff behind him. Like the mirrors in a car, right?"
Him: "Yup."
Me: "What kind of stuff?"
Him: Stops drawing and looks at me. "Killer whales."
Me: "Oh. Sorry. Dumb question. And what's that thing growing out of his head? A poisonous tree to keep the whales away?"
Him: "Nooo! Jeez! It's his kniiiife!!!"
Me: "Ohhh nice. To attack the whales if they get too close."
Him: "Ugh, no. This is a fire knife to use against the robots."
I was completely lost now. I pity the poor bastard who has to plan to fight killer whales AND robots in the same day. I laughed and said thanks for the chat, patted him on the head and walked away. Later, when it was colored and complete, he brought it over to me to show it off. He's a good 'drawler.'
Currently reading The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer and I'm loving every sentence. During college, I had a terrible habit of asking for or buying books to read before I finished the current one, which resulted in a massive backlog of unread things choking out all of the space on my bookshelves and desks. Over the past few years, though, I've read quite a few of them, donated the ones I'd read to friends or libraries, and remarkably, the backlog is shrinking! The next three on the menu:
-Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy. I've tried this one twice before, but lost the momentum needed to get through it.
-The River of Doubt, Candace Millard. Teddy Roosevelt in South America.
-A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole. This one is a maybe. I'm nervous that it's overrated.
Lastly, it's February 18th. Pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training in Arizona today! Woohoo!
The little boy with the blond-white hair, big eyes, small chin, enormous smile, and who is oddly-reminiscent of Bullseye the horse from Toy Story 2, was drawing. Well. "DrawLing," as he sharply corrects me. I sat down next to him and watched him scribble and add sharp things to what looked like an angry Christmas tree. Or a sharp tornado.
Me: "Hey. What's this? What's going on there?"
Him: No reply.
Me: "Hey. You. Boy. Whatcha makin'?"
Him: "Huh? Oh! This? Just makin' some Army guys."
Me: "Ah. So, this big dark thing in the middle. What's this? A hairy ninja?"
Him: Rolls his eyes. "No...he's THE Army guy!"
Me: "Why is he so sharp? What's all of the pointy things everywhere on his clothes?"
Him: "Those are the sharp things to protect him from the killer whales."
Me: I nod, approvingly. Because, you know. If you're in the Army, you never know when you'll get dropped into a sea teeming with ravenous killer whales, so being sharp is always a damn good idea. I continue, "So, what are these round things growing out of his shoulders? Golf clubs? Weapons to use against the killer whales?"
Him: "No. Those are mirrors, so he can see stuth behind him."
Me: "Stuth? What are you talking about?"
Him: "StuTH. You know...like, things. Stuth."
Me: "Ahhh. StuFF. I get it. Mirrors to see stuff behind him. Like the mirrors in a car, right?"
Him: "Yup."
Me: "What kind of stuff?"
Him: Stops drawing and looks at me. "Killer whales."
Me: "Oh. Sorry. Dumb question. And what's that thing growing out of his head? A poisonous tree to keep the whales away?"
Him: "Nooo! Jeez! It's his kniiiife!!!"
Me: "Ohhh nice. To attack the whales if they get too close."
Him: "Ugh, no. This is a fire knife to use against the robots."
I was completely lost now. I pity the poor bastard who has to plan to fight killer whales AND robots in the same day. I laughed and said thanks for the chat, patted him on the head and walked away. Later, when it was colored and complete, he brought it over to me to show it off. He's a good 'drawler.'
________________
Currently reading The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer and I'm loving every sentence. During college, I had a terrible habit of asking for or buying books to read before I finished the current one, which resulted in a massive backlog of unread things choking out all of the space on my bookshelves and desks. Over the past few years, though, I've read quite a few of them, donated the ones I'd read to friends or libraries, and remarkably, the backlog is shrinking! The next three on the menu:
-Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy. I've tried this one twice before, but lost the momentum needed to get through it.
-The River of Doubt, Candace Millard. Teddy Roosevelt in South America.
-A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole. This one is a maybe. I'm nervous that it's overrated.
Lastly, it's February 18th. Pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training in Arizona today! Woohoo!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)