When I get really old I think I’ll live over there
in Golf View Estates, a place nearby where senior citizens go to relax when they retire, eat up their food before it expires, walk their small dogs, look around for their cats, host yard sales and try to sell hats, rise in the morning along with the sun, and head to the golf course, looking for fun. If I move over there, thirty years from now, first I’ll hire a landscaper, and tell him how to arrange my rocks and cactus in the yard. I’ll watch that young man work, work really hard, then I’ll thank him and smile and shake his right hand. I’ll pay that man generously, and have him understand that I respect him, that I’m grateful for him, and the labor he offered to me, a senior citizen. Then I’ll sit in the yard, look on it with pride, and when it gets hot, I’ll walk back inside, and there in my house, in an air-conditioned room, I’ll notice, through a window, my prickly pear bloom. That’s the way I’d like to live on some far-off distant day, but life has its phases, I am young, and I have work today. I used to get Suave,
the strawberry kind. It was at Walmart. It was cheap, the cheapest one there- a dollar and fifteen cents, I think, and it was bright, bright pink. That shampoo bottle was all plastic, like every other bottle of shampoo, and like every bottle of conditioner, and like most of the containers of milk or insecticide or chips or whatever at Walmart or wherever. Everything's plastic. Plastic, plastic, plastic. That strawberry shampoo was contained in plastic, and at the top of the bottle was the lid, and the lid was circular, maybe two inches across, and on that lid there was a firm rectangular piece only partially connected to the rest of the lid. And that firm rectangular piece had a small ridge protruding downward on one end. It was a ridge that fit perfectly onto a nub that bulged from another part of the bottle. The arrangement of the ridge and the nub enabled snapping and unsnapping, concealing and revealing. And what was revealed? The hole, the opening, the access port to that pink ooze, Suave shampoo, the strawberry kind. That bottle of shampoo- I mean both the bottle and the shampoo contained within the bottle- was meticulously engineered, mass-produced, mass-marketed, mass-distributed, and it was mine, every morning, for one dollar and fifteen cents. When that snap was unsnapped and that hole was revealed, I flipped the bottle upside down, shook it up and down, and squeezed. Squish. Squish. Squish. Out came the shampoo, forming a mound in my palm, a mound that approximately smelled like strawberries, a mound that was pink and wet, a mound that spoke, "Slather me onto your scalp. Massage me into a bubbly lather." When I washed my hair, there were so many bubbles. But sometimes, I got tired of strawberry, so I got kiwi or coconut or milk and honey, but I think I always got Suave. Yeah, I think I always got Suave. There were probably no real strawberries in the strawberry kind, no real kiwis in the kiwi kind, no real coconuts in the coconut kind, and no real milk and honey in the milk and honey kind, but that's okay. That's okay. It was okay then, and, it's okay now. For a while, I had dandruff, pretty bad. I've had bad dandruff for most of my life, really, so one time, I got Head and Shoulders. The Head and Shoulders commercials said it would make my dandruff disappear and I could wear black shirts with confidence once again so I got it and that stuff stung my scalp and smelled funny but I think it worked for a while. I can't remember. My dandruff's back now but I don't care. I don't care at all. Everything's fine. I use expensive natural stuff now because my wife is scared of chemicals and I'm done talking about shampoo.
Franklin, hey, Franklin, Dave is dead.
Linda told me. Linda said he had a heart attack yesterday. It was sudden, it was quick, and now he’s passed away. I really liked Dave. He was my favorite cashier. Isn’t it sad to think that he won’t be here tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again, to buy us candy, and say we’re living in sin? Dave is gone. Do you understand? Franklin, will you please hold my hand? He never reached retirement. He never got his wish of living next to a river and catching a thousand fish. That’ll be us someday. That’ll be me and you. I only hope you’ll marry me before our lives are through. Old people wanna tell me about their health problems
and I usually don't wanna hear it because I'd rather talk to them about my health problems. Like, I wanna tell old people about my brain fog. I have brain fog. It's a white mist that moves around slowly and expands and contracts and spins like a slow-motion figure skater. My brain fog actually looks really cool, like lava in a lava lamp, or like regular lava, like, real lava, you know? But it doesn't feel cool. My brain fog is so dumb. My brain fog made me fail at business. I'm not dumb. There's just some fog up in there... I have a note from the doctor... and that's why... I don't like math. And my hips hurt. I'm not old. But I feel old. And my hips hurt. Really, though, I'd rather not tell old people about my health problems. They have wrinkles and drooping eyes and they usually can't hear very well anyway. Some of them can't stop drooling. You know who I want to talk to? Supermodels. No, no, no. Supermodels are bad for my soul! Get away from me, supermodels! Get away from me, demons, you demons who look so good, you demons who sound so good, you invisible demons, you supermodels, get away from me! You know who I really want to talk to? You know who I really need to talk to? The Pope.
It’s my Dad’s birthday today
so I called him to say happy birthday and now he’s blabbing about his garden which I’m not at all interested in, but I don’t want to be rude, and I guess my Dad’s an okay dude, so I say, “yeah… neat… yeah… wow, that’s a lot of cauliflower…” and I start to doodle chaotic squiggles, zig-zags, lines, simple organisms without spines, jiggling and spreading all over the place but really going nowhere. I tapped my pen three times and eyeballs popped up in a blank space. A small circle appeared, signifying a nose, and now I draw a line, a mouth, curved into a smile. I pause to peer into the black-dot eyes. Despite their roughness, their disproportionate size, those eyes look desperately to the skies and catch a blurry vision of me. Now the doodle speaks: “Thank you for drawing my eyes, so I may behold you, my Maker. Finally I see the One Who Wields Both Pen and Paper!” Next he says, “I’m bored. And you drew me all wrong. I would have preferred non-existence!” There’s nothing I can say to him now, and anyhow, I’m busy breathing life into the nostrils of a million more faces. Each face has a smile. This is my attempt to communicate, to give to them something innate, to let all my million creations feel the truth that Joy is their rightful state. I was sitting by my window
when a bird flew by. It made a small red flash across the sky. You should go to Wendy’s. You know what’s on sale? The Premium Double Bacon Burger. The Premium Double Bacon Burger is on sale, today and tomorrow, but not the day after that, so you should go to Wendy’s today or tomorrow. Actually you should go on both days. And on both days, you should get The Premium Double Bacon Burger. And actually you should get more stuff there too, like french fries, soda, and a baked potato with sour cream and chives on it. Or maybe instead of a soda you should get a glass of strawberry lemonade. Or you could get both a soda and a glass of strawberry lemonade. There's nothing wrong with getting two drinks. Remember the name Wendy’s. Remember that name. Oh yeah. You have to have the right coupon. If you don’t have the right coupon, then you don’t get the discount. You can still have the burger, but you have to pay the regular price. So, like, if you have a coupon, but it’s the wrong coupon, then you don't get the discount. If you have a coupon, and it’s the right coupon, but it’s the wrong day, then you don't get the discount. If you have a coupon, and it’s the right coupon, and it’s the right day, then that would be so awesome. But even if you don't have a coupon you should still go to Wendy's and buy so many things there, especially the Premium Double Bacon Burger. Remember the name Wendy’s. Remember that name. Yee-haw ya’ll! Get your spit on them bolo ties
And break out some big old bucking bronco boots, guys, ‘cause it’s the Rootin’ Tootin’ Big-Gun-Shootin' Bexar County Rodeo! It’s gonna be just like they do on the television show They’s horses, they’s barrels, they’s bulls and they’s hay, Calves, dogs, clowns, and beer kegs flowin’ all day! And up in the seats is some treats for us who like ropin’ Cuz there’s sweetheart ladies just a struttin’ and a flouncin’ With them girlie curly twirly hair ribbons just a-flap-flap-flappin’ And when them ropers yank hard on a sheep’s bleeding neck, the women all start hollerin’ from here to Heck. I tell you there ain’t nothing sweeter in the nice Texas breeze than to lasso a steer, tie ‘em up, and bash ‘em in the knees! And this year my Granpa’s Ex-wife’s Cousin Buck is gonna bring in a 5 foot tall rabid duck. A duck! Hauled in direct from the farm on his big-old diesel truck. 5 foot tall! No lie! They cooked up chemicals they made him drink then scientists gene-mixed him with a T-Rex dinosaur, I think, well, it’s a feathery neon-yellow-glowin’ guy, a mutated quicker about to die. Children might even cry when they see it foaming at the beak and veins just a poppin’ but us cowboys know when the Rodeo is startin' and when the Rodeo is stoppin' and the show ain't done 'til the duck's done droppin' down to the dirt and starts spewing chunky orange spew but the rodeo ain't through, no, I said the rodeo ain't through until we make that duck fight some turtles.
Sick! I can barely stand
it. tomorrow night is going t obe a nightmare- I hope the principal doesn’t come to the plays, because theyre going to bomb. I have to make writing work for me and I’m scared to death of failure, rejection, I need to relzx, but I also need to write my shoulders ache, sting, ouch, no, please- i can ride my bike if i want to right now maybe it's getting dark I don’t really really don’t want to go back to teaching drama after fall break, either- I don’t have any ideas for screenplays
I tried to do it myself but
couldn't find a release mechanism, grooves that properly aligned, a pair of needle-nose pliers, an Instruction Manual-to-English Dictionary or the will to keep trying. Defeated again, I remembered my other defeats: the pipe that leaks despite my tinkering; the fuzzy air filter I put in backwards again; the backyard ant colony impervious to poison, plotting the next ambush on my bare feet. And I have no idea what the Korean War was about even though I’m thirty-two years old and people who are thirty-two years old really ought to know things like that. We live in a cruel world. We live in a cruel, cruel world. I can’t find my needle-nose pliers, and we live in a cruel world.
No, I will not buy a muffin, a T-Shirt, or a pencil,
and no I will not purchase a magazine subscription to the latest incarnation of the Daily Worker and I don’t want that magazine and I don’t like that magazine. Oh, you think that I might like that magazine? No! I hate that magazine! It ought to be burned! Turn away from my doorway, I say, before I burn that magazine, you ignorant, misguided, pompous teen! I happen to know Mrs. Kritchly personally- she’s supposedly the art teacher who supposedly teaches art- her eyes burn bright with a violent red, that communist! That whole school’s ran by a pack of communists! They’re trying to turn all the kids into communists! Even the custodian carries a communist card! He flashes it about while he's raking the yard! Where are you going? Please, don’t leave. Wait, maybe I’ll buy your muffin. Listen, I have an interest in the de-ignorant-ization of the rising generation. I want you to bloom. No, no, no, I’m not against art. How could I be against art? You think I’m against art? Ha! I might as well be against rivers! Speaking of rivers, young man, the idea of rivers presently presents itself for use in instructive similes, like a worker bee arriving at a honey-dripping hive: Art, like a river, gushes through gulags, killing the communists. Art, like a river, gathers strength from the free-falling pitter-patter of raindrops, heavenly, heavenly raindrops. Art, like a river, rises beyond her banks, engulfs a city of corruption, and sets Beauty upon her rightful throne. Art, like a river, guides the lonesome traveler home. Art, like a river, cuts through earth to the heart of the earth, and then swells from the heart of the earth, turns, twists, grows, and without compulsory means, gives life to those who stop by to drink, or perhaps to dip in their toes. Let the school children learn art the way Elizabeth Cotten learned art. (Please, don’t let Elizabeth Cotten be forgotten.) She heard a freight train rolling through her North Carolina town, wrote down some lyrics when nobody was around, played on a banjo she borrowed to pluck out her sorrow, boy, she’d pick at that thing and moan and sing all night long ’til she broke a string. |