My Shifting Autumnal Gorge

There are signs all around us and I have a new one. Global warming is a fact my friends. It's a factoid. Book it. Obviously, the rising global temperatures, the melting poles, polar bears dying of exhaustion as they have to swim for miles and miles before they can find an ice pack to rest on, these are signs. As is the fact that a bald man hasn't worn his winter hat once this year, and it's Christmas. If all that wasn't enough, I just began my autumnal gorge. Sad but true.

I always thought it was curious. I'd wake from slumber like its any old day and I'm still a rational three square meals type of guy. However, it isn't and I'm not. Like a dog shoveling dirt on a hot steamer he just clipped, it has to be instinctual, a matter of survival. While I'm rummaging through the fridge like a bum in a restaurant dumpster, I understand that my steady stream of caloric intake will remain steady and I can go ahead and push myself away from the frightened appliance. Yet, I can't halt the intake.

I’m like an ape and hors d'oeuvres party, minus some of the hair. I have dessert and dessert-breakfast, then a mid-morning snack. I take a lunch break and am thinking only of my next meal immediately after unbuckling my belt, at work. Dinner is more like a food-filibuster then a meal with the only thing standing between my mouth and more consumption is sleep and/or a shit. And, oh man, are those things healthy.

It may very well be confined to areas with harsh winters. I've had a few confabs with those possessed by the affliction and they've confirmed it's real. Aside from ogling breasts, I can't think of any other truly instinctual actions in which I partake and over which I have no control. I'll eat until my back hurts and I can't find a comfortable position to sit in and that is when I'll crack open the cookies. I'll smack my gut aghast at the lengthy flab-reverberation and then I'll pull out the squeeze cheese.

It's seasonal since there is the reverse affect when the weather warms. It just isn't as sudden or dramatic. It's the seasonality that has me thinking. I remember the days when the autumnal gorge came at the fall/winter transition. As the last leaf fell from the last tree with a leaf, I would start pudding-pounding like a fat sixth grader. It was then that McDonald's once again became a viable dining option. It was then that I could convince myself of a french-fry's nutritional value. It was then that the idea of lettuce or vegetables became repulsive without the latherability of butter or rich cream based toppings. It was then that words like rich cream based toppings caused delicious imagery and leaked saliva from my glands.

Then was before who-knows-how-many more millions of cubic centi-feet-meters of fossil-fuels have been burned into our atmosphere. Then was once in early November. Now the autumnal gorge doesn’t fatten me until late December and it’s accompanied by fifty degree winter days. Both are oddly enjoyable. A fifty degree winter day rings as eerie on my internal register. An entire box of chocolate donuts is just plain wrong. Still they’re sinfully enjoyable even though I’m clearly borrowing upfront to repay with interest on the backend.

I once listened to a futurist discuss the fact that the internet has enabled instant access to so much information that it's accelerating our evolution exponentially. Because of this, in the near future, humans will evolve during their own lifetimes. The same must be true for global warming. The compounding of effects have shifted the climates just enough so the cold weather hits slightly later nudging my annual gullet stuffing a little further down on the calendar. I’m making the claim that it’s the first tangible affect global warming has had on me personally. Me and the polar bears are feeling it. Anyone else?

The Idea of Entitlement as Applied to Old Age and the Gym

There are a lot of less-than-interesting things about getting older. I know. I have grandparents who love to discuss their maladies. Through them as well as some of the other elderly types I've come across, I've noticed that there are also some interesting things about growing old. Wisdom, contentment, sense of accomplishment are all some of the positive vibes an elderly person can radiate. What I find interesting about getting old is the idea of entitlement as it relates to time served on earth. I see it in every interaction. When you're old you feel entitled. You think simply because you are old that you are entitled to certain things in life. Health care. Social Security. Discounts at movie theaters. Quick service at your local diner. Patience from the frustrated drivers pushing Cadillac sedans towards speed limits all across the country. These are just the tip of the entitlement iceberg. The bottom line about getting old is that if you are old, you're lucky to be old even though you don't feel lucky because you are old. Therefore, when dealing with an old person hop-to-it, because they don’t have the time to be fucking around with anything other then the next thing on their to-do list. After all, they have their pills to take.

Don't get me wrong, I think they deserve every bit of it. I guarantee that if I'm lucky enough to get old, I'll be waving my entitlement wand as feverishly as the best of those that came, and went, before me. I'm sure I don't completely understand the physical, mental and emotional changes and challenges that each and every old-fart faces. However, I stand here in my thirties making a bold entitlement claim. I will never ever become that guy who feels he's entitled to walk around the gym with his sixty year old nuts flip-flopping around for all to see. I fully understand that when you’ve reached a certain age there isn’t any more embarrassment because you’ve been everywhere and done it all. Still, I’ve learned so much from the older generation that I think it’s time to give back. Dear old-men everywhere, when in a gym don’t fear the towel. Embrace your underwear. Hide your balls.

I first discovered old-man-naked-entitlement as a fourteen year old in the locker room at the YMCA. I nearly sat down on the naked chair before some other gym-going teenager rescued me. "That's the fucking naked old-man chair. That seat has handled more balls than a quarterback." That was the warning. The lesson came about thirty seconds later in the form of an old timer. Hairy as hell and naked as a jay bird, he rested his old-man ass on the old-man seat and sat there splay-legged flashing his old-man nuts like they were on the Carnegie Hall marquee. My god! Like being caught by an unexpected camera flash, I could only see the negative image of a pair of nuts blinding me for minutes. From then on, I avoided that chair like a thief ducking a surveillance camera. I also never looked anywhere below the ceiling. If I did: old-man-nuts.

That was twenty years ago, but the more things change, the more they stay the same. Every night at the gym is old-man-entitlement-hour. There is a nightly celebration of nuts and gruesome ass. Fucking peripheral vision. Not a help. Old-man-ass is like a fully squeezed tube of toothpaste. Sadly, the gruesome ass is infinitely more palatable than the two prunes jiggling mid-thigh two lockers down.

That's a sweet pair of balls you got on you sir. Those things look like they've done some work. Some creatin’. Could you lift those things up? Let me check out the undercarriage. See how you're holding up.

That may seem ridiculous, but it's what I think is running through the Mr. Naked-Entitlement roaming my gym. Opening the shower door is like ripping back the shower curtain at the Bates Motel. Only, instead of being hacked to death with a knife, you're getting stared down by an eighty year-old one-eyed monster. Not fun.

Eye level. That's the worst. If things continue down this road I'm going to start changing while standing on the benches. Every time I sit down it's like Russian Roulette. You don't need a bullet in the head. A pair man-nuts eye level is just as life-altering.

Wow. Great circumference. You still have those things, huh? I thought that by your age they sort of fell off like acorns.

I don’t know what it is about a naked man with his junk dangling like a worn out pair of sneakers from an electrical wire, but if there’s even the remotest opportunity for a conversation, he’s taking it. Go ahead, lean or look away. Cower if you want to. It won’t matter. Naked old men in the gym can’t read body language. If they could they’d have a fig leaf to cover that ball-park frank they love to twiddle while engaging you in some light banter about the delicious tuna sandwich they had for lunch.

No seriously. Don’t shower. Don’t get changed. It’s much more comfortable for all involved when you mill around aimlessly. Stand at your locker. Bend over if you could. There’s nothing more awe inspiring than the rear view of a ball-bag that’s been battling wear and tear for six or seven decades.

I’m not sure if Murphy’s Law has a nut clause, but it should. Why is it that the very person who should be naked for the shortest amount of time is always the person who is naked for the longest amount of time? Why is he always holding a towel rather than mercifully putting it to use. Why is it that a man who loves to parade around forever naked needs to wear a pair of flip flops? And why is he always at the locker directly next to mine?

I look forward the day when I’m commendably still grinding it out at the gym earning the admiration of all my peers. I look forward to the day when there is nothing left to register on my embarrassment meter. I look forward to the day when I’ve done so much in life that I could care less about who sees what and what it looks like. I hope I last long enough to earn some of this entitlement. But rest assured, even when the day comes that I’m entitled to endlessly display my old-man-nuts to all the world, I won’t. Just because you earn a buck, doesn’t mean you have to spend it.

The Bus Stop

The Bus Stop Stop is the very first thing I do when I get to my spot at the stop. I have one. It’s a specific spot that I’m intrinsically drawn to due to its intangibilities. My spot has a daily standard deviation, but it’s certainly negligible considering I could successfully catch the bus while standing anywhere on the block. It’s a long block. But I’m there. Some days it’s sunglasses and some days it’s Sunday. Hat and scarf or depressingly tired, I spend time on my spot at the bus stop like a television being on in your apartment. I spend less time in the shower than I do at the bus stop. Not that this is mind-boggling, but it’s an illustration of the fact that the bus stop is more routine than the gym.

And still I find that impeccably placed inch on the square of concrete to do my bus-stopping. Standing there on that supremely preferred concrete slab – that one – is measurably and increasingly more preferable the further away I’m forced to stand. The others do it to. Them. The people I loiter in anticipation with. They choose their spots too, these strangers.

What is stranger than strange is the odd strangers-among-familiar-faces feel and reality that the bus-stop purveys. I’ve seen them enough to at least know their names, though I don’t. I’m with them enough that I know if I’m out the door at 8:00, I’m seeing group A. If I’m out at 8:10, I’m seeing group A stragglers and group B. If I’m out at 8:15, it’s the core of group B. And if I’m out the door at 8:20, I’ll be getting a nice nap, because traffic is going to you screw you.

I’m thinking that everyone has to realize, perceive, notice. I’ve pretty much deduced where at least 10 people live from their bus-stop to-and-fros. Most definitely I would certainly freak out this lucky group with the information that I know this person is roommates with her, in that building, likes to get to the bus-stop at 8:10, even though the roommate tends to trail behind by five to ten minutes. Oh, and how about the girl with the guitar? I know she works on 43rd and 5th. And the other bald guy, I’m 100% sure that he’s the type of guy that would complain about your ipod blasting too loudly next to him in a cab, even if it was five a.m. on a Saturday morning. I’m 100% sure.

I can’t possibly be the only one who is aware. Surely, someone is pretty sure that I live above the Indian restaurant. They’ve seen me through the nail salon window as I fumbled with me keys and disappeared. They know that I carry two bags once a week or that I can quite often be inappropriately dressed for the weather. They must realize that I’m thoroughly inconsistent with my shaving, face and head. They must be able to place me when confronted with my face in out of context situations, because I can them.

They should. We’re bonding. We bond as our days begin the same. We bond as we handle the morning’s hurdles with differing levels of patience. We bond as the morning’s circumstances toy with us equally despite our day’s unique set of pressures because late is late, early is early and the bus is anything but consistent.

We bathe in inconsistency like our pants and shoes bathe in a torrential down-poor, even the guy with the obscenely large umbrella and floor-dragging trench. As a unit we fend off the seasonally adverse weather conditions that challenge us on all but the top percentile of comfortable days. Uniformly compacted and intimately coalesced under the bus-stop-weather-shelter-thing dodging the dodgy weather. Under that shelterish apparatus which almost blocks a dramatically-small fraction of the wind that bears down upon the one or two square inches of skin brazenly and nakedly facing it. The stalwart blockade-like structure that nearly successfully protects you from upwards of ten to fifteen potential pant-sopping rain drops. The cauldron of warmth that valiantly shaves at least a tenth of a hair of a degree off the temperature, more or less. We’re under it and thankful!

Mostly, I opt for my spot in all but the most inclement of days. It’s where I pause and crane my neck, staring relentlessly above the line of parked cars hoping to catch sight of the rolling rectangle lumbering uptown. Still, whether it’s directly or peripherally, my vision isn’t distracted by the tracks of tunes playing in my ear. I see without looking. I notice without observing. It comes to me even as I read my book, a morning rarity that must send a beacon announcing – he actually got to bed at a decent hour – loudly to all that notice such things. I sense I might be the only one.

Our stop is interesting. It’s interesting in the way the Spanish Channel is interesting when holed up in a hotel room in Podunk, Kansas. It’s also comfortingly haphazard. We all find our spots and stand there anxiously still, then move methodically towards the arriving bus in a first-come first-serve arrangement where internally you’re dying to get on and secure a seat while your outward appearance belies anything near that notion. You’re cool. You’re calm. You’re the BMOC where C = B.S. and B.S. is not equal to bull-shit. I’ll be honest. The difference between securing a seat and standing is roughly equitable to those extra fifteen feet Evil Knievel could have used as he flew over the Caesar fountains. That’s why I like my spot. It gives me a good angle of entrance.

Catch a glance as it approaches. Is it empty or full, or is it near capacity and a sit-or-stand gamble. Are there more on the way? Are you late or early? Were you late yesterday or any time this week? How tired are you? Many considerations made in a matter of moments like a batter deciding whether to swing at a ninety mile an hour fastball, because once you’re on and standing, you’re on and standing.

I’ve seen other bus stops; the next couple on the route. Lines rule their stops. Those people, they stand in line like bunch of cold war communists waiting for some t.p. for their a-s-s. That’s not my style. That’s not our style. We’re more like cows grazing in a fenced off area. We’re just looking for the greenest grass, man. And a seat. Just one fabulous seat with an armrest and reclinability so we can all deal with the traffic in the way traffic was meant to be dealt with, laid back. Chilling. Cold chilling. Hopefully, because being hot on the bus is as frustrating as taking a standardized test on a Saturday morning after about 12 drinks the night before. I should know.

It’s not about the stop or my spot at the stop. It’s not about the bus or the commute. It’s about them, my cohorts, my gang. We’re neighbors. Why else would we choose 13th street? It’s not lucky. It’s not preferable since the number of seats available in the course of a morning is in inverse proportion to the count of the streets. Still, we’re there because we’re neighbors. A fact confirmed as I literally ran into one girl on my way out of the voting booth. Not the one who read Bergdorf Blondes. Not the one who loves to yak it up with the Asian guy who is always in a suit. The one with the killer collection of high-heels and the mole on her face. The one with the cute little wire-haired puppy. I don’t know her, but I know her, you know?

Does she know me? It’s tough to tell considering the communication is less than forthcoming at the bus stop. The Bergdorf girl, we’ve talked. It was about the bus, but still it was a break through. She even defended me by calling a driver a dick as he callously left me despite my arrival at the door in ample time. I agreed he was a dick and she is cute, but she read Bergdorf Blondes, and while I don’t know what it’s about, I can assume. So that is that.

It must be really hysterical to an outsider to see when the block is barren of buses. Sometimes, indiscriminately, busses cease to appear. Like ghosts in ghost-towns they just don’t show. Caravans of busses are soon replaced by a sinking feeling in your stomach as your earliness regresses, your lateness is delivered and you become more frantic than the mother of a lost child. It’s like keeping calm on a plane that’s experiencing brutal turbulence when the person next to you is sweating like a pig at the butcher and losing control of his emotions like a chemically-imbalanced brain. At first, everyone is curious. Some people just take a seat on the bench. The trips to middle of the street, a better vantage to see six to eight blocks down the avenue, grow more frequent and furious. Heads shake and palms turn up. Annoyance is displayed through communication. “What’s going on?” Anger actually grows like a plant from a pot of dirt. From a seedling to a stem to a furious fern of combustible frustration and anger.

I watch the action like I watch a fish tank of territorial and tenacious Sicklets. It would be more entertaining if I wasn’t emotionally invested in the trauma and drama. I’m in the middle of it like a belly-button. Sure, someone died in an accident corking the traffics’ flow, but none of us know. If we did, I’m sure we’d be calmer or look for alternatives. Alternatively, we feed off each other like an army going into battle. He grows impatient and paces next to her who now fishes fiercely for her phone and shouts recklessly into the receiver. The energy is transferred like the word in a game of Pass It Down the Line. This proves that we are a group, a community of neighboring bus-riders who are united by the universal oneness of a morning commute and geography.

We’re tied together by the bus, the bus stop, our spots at the stop and the ever increasing compendium of knowledge that we passively compile while standing there daily trying to do what comes naturally. And what comes naturally is the collective state of being that causes that odd strangers-among-familiar-faces feel and reality that the bus stop purveys. Oddly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Roundus Amongus

Up the stairs released from the subterranean bob-and-weave, I’m fresh off a middling six hours of sleep, trudging along. The sun leans between the buildings, stares squarely into my eyes. I squint like a motherfucker. I’m not in the hurriest of hurries, but still, I like to move at a good pace; even when I’m navigating against a wild rush of oncomers rolling shoulder to shoulder at least twelve deep.

I use the subway grates as an express lane. It eliminates the chicks with the shoes. Dodging his and her suits galore, my bags swing widely if I cut hard right or left. And I do. Smokers eye me as I maneuver circles around a fair portion of the commuters herding right at me. I think moo-ve when one clogs an opening or beats me to it.

I wade through the initial onrush catching a respite after reaching the second level. With a few more strides the stream switches and I’m walking with the flow of foot traffic and against the flow of car. I slash across the street at an available opening. I’m making solid time, nothing to write home about. Still, I’m always looking to steal a tenth of a second wherever I can. Often I can with a quick skip or a corner cut.

I use guile when walking to work. I tap into agility. I’ll lean into turns. I jut off the balls of my feet. I’m not O.J. in a Hertz commercial, but I have moves. Combine that with shiftiness and some yoga classes and you have yourself a professional marketer walking to work professionally. For that reason, I’m shocked that I’m consistently foiled by a waddling round person.

They appear like a chess piece suddenly dropped with expert precision. They waddle like a penguin sporting a winter coat. They are rotund and a tough pass. Their clothes are comfy and their shoes are of the good walking variety.

Roundus Amongus, they seem to damn the flow by forcing both directions of traffic on a collision course as we all try to pass. My pace is such that I’m on top of them before I can react. Braking like a speeding driver approaching a red light, a blink and I’m engulfed in back-flab, searching for an off ramp. This morning I tripped right over the top of the little waddler as she dodge my line of sight for just long enough to damn near cause a pile-up.

We walk in lock-step. I’m smushed into her back like Wile E Coyote sliding down a tunnel-painted rock wall. Peaking, I peer and crane my neck. Under the armpit, over the shoulder, I’m scouting opportunities like a model scout in a mall. I edge out to the right but scurry back like a prairie-dog with hawk-fear. We seep down the street trailing a molasses glaze. I escape to the left skirting a meat-filled arm. Quick choppy steps speed me around and one long stride leaves the waddler fading in the distance like an astronaut jettisoned from her ship. Freedom.

As if unified by army technology, another one crystallizes and plugs the traffic as I reach the corner. Like a robot dance party, we shimmy mechanically sorting out the congestion ourselves. The orderly interchange disperses as does the round person. Whoosh.

Long-striding, the foot-parade is thinner than Grandma’s hair as I approach the final leg of my trip. I can see down the long avenue to the horizon far in the distance. I can also see the unmistakable visage of yet another Roundus Amongus dawdling down the street. Like the Maverick on a mig, I have a bead on him half a block away.

Shoulders like ham hocks. Neck like an alligator. The fact that he can’t see behind him is as much a strength as a weakness. His arms rest on his side-boobs as if he was hiding a football in each armpit. His legs don’t bend as much as he tilts onto one side and rotates his hip-socket to move forward and his movement barely outpaces the earth’s rotation.

Like a stallion down the stretch, I’m getting the whip and storming the final furlong. I’m bearing down on the waddling wide-man like and officer in hot pursuit. A stride behind and I realize we’re fast approaching my building and my building’s entrance. I contemplate a pass around the wide side. I contemplate a sharp cut to the inside. My indecision costs me like a tell at the poker table. From full speed to full stop, my window of opportunity vanishes like sock in the dryer.

I call off the dogs and go into coast, positioned to the posterior of the round person. As I wait for him to pass, I realize he’s heading where I’m heading. We share a destination on this day if not most days. With a quick calculation, I think it’s worth the wait. I lay back and scope him work the revolving door. I’m early anyway.

In Line to Hell

I slosh in the sweat induced sock puddles covering my feet. My watch ceases as a time piece; succeeds as an antagonist. Boredom shifts my weight like a four-foot gymnast anxiously working the balance beam. I beam a supple rouge from my flushed cheeks. A toe-tap. A sigh. The alternate stick and unstick of my rubber soled shoes placates my mind, then annoys. For fleeting seconds I can visualize time passing. I can see it clearly, clownishly standing before me. Clowning me like a birthday clown. The type of clown whose routine causes instant wonderment as to the person’s background and means. It’s the type of wonderment that occupies my inner dialogue a second, seemingly minutes, breaking me from the negative cycle of dwelling on my current linear realities.

We move forward as a collective. Guide ropes usher us through systematically meandering corridors. We creep at a crawl’s pace. Awkwardly leering at the various creeps crawling by at their creep’s pace. I hear a cough behind me, a sigh elsewhere. Frustration echoes like a scream in a guano-filled cave. I shout internally. It reverberates. The sharp sound pings my ears like the high pitched tone of a wayward fax send. I grimace. The line groans, moves forward.

The fact that the beginning of the line, the end of my wait, is within sight counter-intuitively adds to the anxiety a stagnant line can create. Now that I can see the front of the line, movement is a measurable and quantifiable data. If one foot, mine, equals nine-inches, and I’ve moved three steps in the last thirty minutes, then it would take four days to stand in line for a mile.

I’m with someone. She stands to my left and leans in intermittently flashing puppy-dog eyes. I respond with sympathetic face gestures. Her experience is the same as mine. She stands in the same line. We’re both tapped into the current of frustration that is pulsing up and down with the electricity of the third rail. However, the collective experience is trumped by the interminable inner experience ruling my every breath. She stands alone. As I do. Together.

Ding! Or was it Ting? I analyze the next-bell feverishly. I watch the light, light – a secondary announcement curtly preceded by the Ding! The light-bulb above the attendant’s cage catches my gaze. Line-lulled, catatonic, my thought process has an outward manifestation like a book with the first chapter on its cover. No reaction. Delayed reaction. Action. Next. Ding! Shuffle. Shuffle. Wait.

I peer behind me at my peers. They’re peers in the way traffic school students are peers. They’re peers in the way that a condo association is comprised of peers. I peer back over my shoulder but my view is obstructed by light. The front of the line is lit like a late night talk show or a play. The illumination of the front of the line is at expense of the back. I shade my eyes relentlessly and do a double take. It’s chin-scratchingly perplexing. As far as I can tell I’m at once in the front and the back of the line. Those ahead of me have been mercifully moved through the way-station between where they are and where they’re headed. Those behind me have been shaded out of my waking life. I’m next, standing both at the front and the back of the line. Bing!

I approach the attendant. She is behind glass. Her movement is like watching water evaporate. Her features are horrid. She’s waist deep in indifference. She wears a nametag inscribed clerk. She doesn’t look a day younger than eighty. Neither does her cleavage. My toe cracks. My knee aches. My back howls. I walk toward the attendant like I’m walking to my coffin with a pillow in hand and a night-cap on my head. I’ve waited in perpetuity; perpetually pushing towards the completion of my to-do list. A list of one. A lengthy line of many.

I feign a smile. She doesn’t look up. Her gum pops. Her glasses sit at the end of her nose like a basketball sitting on the end of the rim. She is still life in action. A painting in motion. I make eye contact only to instigate some recognition. She raises a brow and flips a palm. That was as much of an inquisition as I could expect. She would wait for me to state my business until the cows came home, assuming they were traveling by line. Finally, after a lifetime passes, I lean in and say, “I’d like to send this certified.”

Me Problemo

It’s astonishingly clear. I’m a drooler. I’m currently sitting on the couch that I absconded from my grandparents’ old home. At their place, once, I was awoken from a nap on this very couch. My grandmother, the culprit, woke me while shimmying a towel under my chin. At the time I thought; must be an expensive couch. Now I think; nobody wants spit on their couch.

The alarm sounds on mornings and sometimes startles me. I come to and sense the soppiness. I think; I’m a drooler. Next I think; must have been a good sleep. Finally I think; I now correlate a good drool with a good sleep. Then I shower and get on with my day.

Intermittently I’ll toss from left to right and right to left. I play a strange game falling asleep. Start on one side until I’m damn near asleep. Then react to the overwhelming urge and roll onto the other. As I roll, I wipe the corner of my mouth. I wipe not to remove drool. I wipe to remind myself that I drool.

Quite often I fall hard asleep immediately. It’s probably the forty-five best minutes of sleep I get on most nights. Consistently, I’m thrown awake by some REM-fueled happening. As I gather myself, I readjust my pillow to offer a new corner for fouling. Fresh turf.

It’s not an epiphany. I didn’t just realize. I’ve simply accepted the challenge at this point in my life. I fall asleep nightly with my mouth shut, breathing through my nose. No prob. I awaken nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand with my mouth closed. I lack a good seal, clearly. And it’s not every night. That’s as far as the analysis has gone and as far as the analysis has gone is probably as far as it can go since I’m asleep the while. I focus on not drool during the times I don’t drool. I drool when I can’t control my focus. A conundrum.

Have I ever drooled while sleeping on someone else’s bed or couch? Sure as shit I have. Have I ever done it while sharing the very pillow I’m pumping full of my unique brand of saliva? You bet your balls I have.

I realize that nobody cares if I drool. I’m well aware that it’s not as dramatic as wetting the bed. I understand it’s the least imposing of all the bodily fluids. Still, leaving a trail of spittle like the oil trail left behind a ghetto jalopy isn’t something I want as my calling card.

The curiosity is not on the mornings when I turn my pillow into a down puddle. It’s on the mornings when I awake on a pillow as dry as the Martian surface. It’s when I wipe my chin dry and my chin needs no wiping. It’s when I wake, mid-morning, to flip that soaking corner I’ve covered with spit. Only, there isn’t any need to flip.

Is it position? Is amount of time asleep? Does it occur during different times of the week? Is there any consistency to the seepage?

I wrestle with this problem like a dog wrestles with a bone. I chew on it for a while, then I forget about it. But when I see it, or feel it, I remember it’s there and chew on it some more. There are worse problems in the world. I have a few of them. So, I probably shouldn’t dwell too long my drool problem. Not when I could dwell on my egregiously small penis.

It’s the teeniest.

I Yogi

Yoga. I’ve done it. Four times. And sure, I’ve enjoyed it each time. Taking a class once a week isn’t turning me into a Yogi anytime soon. I’m not quitting. Don’t fret. Don’t get your little leotard in a bunch. Don’t go all warrior pose on me. I like it. It makes me feel longer. It gives my third eye purpose. It offers glimpses towards the day when I will have control, somewhat, over my branium. It gives me the faintest notion of what mind, body, soul could mean, possibly, at some point in the terribly distant future

Understand, I’m inflexible to say the least. I’m like elastic if elastic was concrete. I’m malleable like a church pew. My hamstrings creak like an attic floor board at the slightest folding of my waist. And while the waist doesn’t fold as neatly as it once did, it doesn’t need to because the hammies won’t allow it. My hips give ball-and-socket joints a bad name. My shoulders should be called levers and my back, well, I just discovered I have one.

As much of an obstacle as my rigidity presents to my yoga progression, it is the reason I’m taking classes. And so I diligently grunt and grind almost and nearly into these alien-like positions. And as a newbie, I scope the room for guidance and direction in my feeble and ill-fated attempts at mimicking poses that themselves mimic every creature that’s every walked the earth. I know I should be breathing deeply and putting all daily-inspired thoughts aside, but I’m still at the stage where I can’t help but think that child’s pose would be more aptly named The Fart Cannon. As much as I should be focusing on a spot in front of me and timing my movements to start and finish along with my inhales or exhales, I can’t help but think that down dog could come in very handy, but she’d have to be strong and on the shorter side.

If you’re not familiar with yoga, you should know that for the souls-of-stiffness blocks are supplied that save you those extra six to nine inches of lean giving beginners a much needed break from the inevitable muscle-ripping that would ensue had you jumped head first into the deep end of the yoga pool. These blocks are no saving grace, but more like a “rubba-dub-dub thanks for the grub” before dinner at a god-fearer’s home. In other words, you still hurt even with a block under your arms, elbows, ass or back – the side of my body I recently discovered.

As I said, I’ve been to Yoga four times. More than enough visits to the temple for my ego and competitive nature to take hold. Granted, it might be akin to a kindergartener’s determination solve that F’ing bitch of a riddle that is the shoelace, but I entered this class determined to make progress. Not leaps or bounds. No breakthroughs or momentous strides forward. But progress as defined by me – mind, body and soul.

Class beings with a directive. Directive number one, find yourself in starting position – Succasunna, otherwise known as Indian style. Mind you, the last time I successfully folded myself into this position was within a stone’s throw of the fourth grade. Maybe sixth. Certainly no later. Say, some twenty-two to twenty-five years ago was the last time anyone has ever seen yours truly sit Indian style and I can bet I was none-too-happy about it even then. In the ensuing decades, it isn’t like I haven’t tried, attempted, struggled, to fold leg over leg, widen the hips and sit for more than one millisecond with heels tucked. One millisecond being a lofty goal to shoot for even as my twenties approached. With my failure grew indifference and with age grew my inability to even conceptualize my hips and hammies allowing this position, let alone achieving it.

Oddly, this is a classic position of which everyone knows and one in which most every girl is able to sit in, seemingly comfortably. I suspect no balls has something to do with it. In any case, the oddity of Indian style is that it is semi-entertaining to watch uber-taut guys at some degree of advanced age attempting to conjure their days of yore by landing, if ever so fleetingly, in the Indian Style position. Trust me. Ask your dad or husband to do it and try not laughing. That’s just how it is with Indian Style.

As was the case on Yoga class visits one through three, I sat with a block under my “sit-bones” to ease the stress on the hips and reduce the angle of incidence necessary to get one leg over the next and heels locked in. This was not the case on Yoga class four.

You’re doubtlessly getting whiffs of the odorific stank of break-through wafting towards you from the end of this tale. Inhale deeply my friend and smell the smell of break through.

Forged with determination and focus, I placed my “sit-bones” directly on my yoga mat and demanded of myself that I get into fucking Indian position even if it meant tearing ligament away from bone. As I always have done, and has always come naturally, I folded my left leg easily into position. Sure, I hadn’t done anything, but it was a start. Next, I lifted my right leg and bent my knee. It was folded into a position that would sure have tucked neatly into place, if my hip would have cooperated. Plan b involved lifting my right heel and forcefully pulling it towards my pelvis. And while my hip flinched a millimeter or two, my knee yelped audibly and the outside of my hamstring mocked me by sending a warm rush of pain from hip to ankle.

Sweating. Hurting a bit. Plan C was hatched. With left leg folded and heel in hand, I rocked back, leaning deeply onto my left hip and pulled with all of my focused, third eye inspired strength. Need I say the only success I had was in rolling myself onto my back? Need I describe the reaction of the others?

Yes, I had given up. Though I wasn’t upset about it, nor embarrassed. Not after class three when The Fart Cannon got its name. I was simply satisfied with my effort and we were about to move onto the next position I didn’t have a spec of a chance at landing.

However! And whether I had subconsciously connected with the earth’s energy, or whether it was my body lending my mind a hand (figuratively), I don’t know and I don’t care to know. Because just as we were about to move to the next pose, my legs inexplicably repositioned themselves. I watched with a disconnected curiosity as my right leg folded itself first and my left leg lifted easily over it and slid into position. Heels locked. My heels fucking locked! What the fuck? And I was only in moderate pain.

Now, I’m sure this is not the essence of yoga or maybe it is. I truly have no clue. What I do know is that from the sixth grade on I’ve tried unsuccessfully, several times, to sit Indian style and I’ve attempted it the same way each and every time. Right over left. Right over left never worked and I never even contemplated that their might be a different way. Say, left over right? Maybe that would work?

Mind you, I had nothing to do with it other then the fact that these were my legs involved. It was voluntarily involuntary. It was consciously unconscious. And I’m not saying it was a greater power lording over me. I’m not saying that I’m the Zen Buddha. I’m just saying that it’s amazing the level of stupidity that I can sometimes attain. This time, pleasantly so.

Smell the sweet scent of breakthrough, do ya?

What if I interviewed Dan Rather about his comedy career?

The sun, fading into the night’s mystery, silhouetted a man, a funnyman. Home to fat women and Dan, Wharton, Texas is where this comedic genius began cultivating his career. Walking towards me, Dan’s bulbous head shaded the sun from my eyes. I was in the midst of my comedic hero.

Scantily clad, Dan was wearing tight fitting cut off jeans that hugged his sadly sagged rear. His legs, cleanly shaven, donned thigh highs, and the pumps, mauve, really accentuated his calves. His shirt, sporting the logo of his favorite diner, The Greazy Urn, was a boy’s size medium. His nipples, thanks to an “accident” at the cleaners, shone through to the world and spoke volumes about Dan’s comedic bravery.

Starting sometime last century, Dan did his version of “the news” for local radio stations. Quickly gaining notoriety, it was his brilliant timing, his dashing looks and his irreverent rendition of an Asian man using a fork that burst him onto the national scene. It was a tough act to follow as Dan quickly found out in what he later called his dark days. Remaining experimental, Dan worked new routines such as, “The Dirty Finger,” “Anus and Andy” and “Food is Good Food” to no avail.

Soon after, the car was invented and Dan returned home, dejected. With his career in peril, Dan drowned his sorrows in Boonesfarm, the affordable wine. Drunk, depressed, Dan married Bessy, his family’s best looking cow, at the local convenience store where he and the ushers milked the bridal party in celebration. This stunt, as he later called it, rejuvenated the funnyman back into action.

Working the local Tan and Feed stores, Dan fine-tuned his act in front of the bronzed locals and the farm animals enjoying a snack. Though no one in the audience related to his high brow humor, he learned his most valuable comedic lesson, the straight face. It was this knowledge and Bessy’s recent tryst with Shwumpy, the three-legged goat, that empowered Dan to be! He packed his things and headed for bright lights, big city.

It was March 9, 1981, that Dan, caught in the rain and fearing what it might reveal under his tapered pair of white pants, was discovered. Finding shelter in the closest building, Dan and his straight faced antics, immediately upon entering, chased the urine from everyone within earshot. Hired on the spot, he has been delivering his off beat brand of humor ever since. Following it up with his book, “I Remember Afghanistan,” a playful look into the hotbed of hilarity, Dan cemented his spot in the comedic hall of fame.

As I sat there, pen in hand, expecting to laugh, I realized Dan was much deeper than a simple joke, a simple eye poking. I could tell as we delved into my question that comedy was simply the by-product of a man who has lived an interesting life.

I asked, “Dan, did you always think you would be a comedian?”
Dan, replying with the scowl I’ve come to know and love, “what the hell are you talking about?”

Dan, you said a mouthful.

A Frog and a Girl

The water rippled as a breeze from the northwest tickled my back. I faced the sun, eyes wide open, accepting the day’s last moments of warmth. I had been feeling lonely lately, however it was my fault. It started when I met her. I was in over my head in more ways than one. She was much taller than I. Also,
there was the age difference. I’m sure many people frowned upon it. I was the laughing stock up and down the pond. My height has always been a problem with women, which is why I jumped at the opportunity. She was twelve and I eighteen, but that didn’t matter to me. This was love. At least I thought.

I had seen her down by the pond plenty of times. We all did. My eyes, already protruding from my head, nearly sprung after her themselves. I relaxed in the water and pretended not to see her. That was my move to get women, and bugs. Her skin was white. Her hair was blonde. She walked gracefully and I question whether her feet actually touched the ground. Her teeth were pearls and an orthodontist’s nightmare. She was long and thin and classic. She spoke softly and sang like an Angel, but she only sang when she thought she was alone. I admired her from a far as she skipped rocks on the water. She was terrible. She could only get two skips.

I approached her this day. I was a daring fellow. She saw me, but didn’t budge. She was crying, head in her hands. As the tears escape her bloodshot blues, I sprang into action. With one excited leap, I landed on her lap. She was a stoic broad. No flinch. No yelp. No swat with her hands. She just peered down at me and crinkled her crooked nose. It took a few minutes and a few timely jokes, but I made her troubles go away.

“Hi Mister Froggy.” That wasn’t my name, but she patted my head so I let it go.
“How ya doin there beautiful? What’s with the tears? Surely, it can’t be all that bad.”
“My boyfriend broke up with me. He was Billy from the next block. He was pulling Sally in his wagon.”
“Maybe she needed a ride,” I offered as I slurped a fly off her shoulder.
“That was our wagon. He said so himself.”
“Forget about him baby. You’re with me now. If there’s one thing I am, it’s monogamous.” I winked.
“Awe. You're so cute. Are the stories true,” she questioned as she rubbed her pointed chin.
“What stories?”
“Of you being a prince?”
“Yeah. How d’ya know? My reputation must precede me. Were you talking to Lucy from lilly pad six?”

I sucked in my gut, stuck out my chest. I stood on my hind legs. She squeezed me tight. She was strong yet gentle. She pulled me close to her face. We started going at it, tongue kissing and everything. Her face was flush as she placed me on the ground. She stepped back and called me her prince.

“How ‘bout some more,” I coyly queried.
“Not until you become my prince.” She wagged her finger at me.

What was she saying? Didn’t I perform? This isn’t good for my delicate male ego. She grew frustrated. I grew confused. I thought I was doing it right.

“Why aren’t you changing,” she screamed high pitched. An octave higher and Fido would be here.
“Changing me already? I’ve had it with you broads. I’m going back to my lilly pad, number three.”

I turned in a huff. I was mad. Before I could take a step, she shifted her weight and kicked me clear across the pond. Shouting profanities - I was kind of turned on - but the landing took my attention. I was hurt in more ways than one. I haven’t been able to sit since. I learned my lesson, though it was painful. Never date out of your species.


***

The pond had been there for years. It was just a lonely pond, but soon the developers capitalized on its coziness. First a house to the north; the Obecks moved in. Their son’s name was William Obeck. He was a wild child and covered with scabs. His attention span was that of a dyslexic gnat. He loved to run, but was more adept at falling. He had a bike and a way with the ladies. He also owned a wagon, all red. He was untamable; at least that’s what his parents thought. They prefer he played all day.

From sun up to sun down Billy was out and about. He was social chair down by the pond. He threw rocks at the squirrels. He chased the possum. He tried to spit on the frogs. The snakes he was afraid of, the rats he liked, but it was this new vixen that caught his eye. The moving trucks approached casting ominous shadows. They also brought Sally Defry.

At first glance upon exiting the truck, she grew frantic with excitement. A peek to her mom and a nod of mom’s head, Sally tore straight for the water. With red hair and freckles, she looked like a flame - a flash of orange light heading for Billy. She gained speed as she loped down the slope, but lost more control by the second. Her arms started flailing. Her legs gave in. She tumbled chin over forehead. Coming to rest in a squall of dust, Billy was there to pick her up.

“Are you okay,” he asked then laughed. “There’s a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit round these ways.”
“I know that,” she countered. “I was only up to twenty-three.”
He agreed with a nod.
“How come you have so many scabs,” asked Sally.
“I don’t know. I guess I like them.”
“You like them? Do you mean lick them? Cause I don’t know anybody who likes scabs.”
“I don’t lick them,” said Billy. “I pick them. It’s step number one in the healing process.”
“No it isn’t,” Sally argued.
“Yes it is.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Okay then what is,” Billy rolled his eyes.
“Getting hurt,” Sally stuck her tongue out at Billy.
“Well, it looks like your healing. Healing from your chin, elbow and knees,” he said with a modicum of compassion.
“My butt hurts too,” Sally whimpered.
“So does mine.” They high-fived. It was the first thing they had in common.
“Anyway, it’s getting pretty late. I should head home.” Billy started to mosey up the hill.
“Wait,” called Sally. “I need help. My knee hurts, can you carry me up?”
“No, my butt hurts too much. I also stretched my patella and my femur feels out of whack. But wait there. I’ll be right back.”

What looked like a mosey turned into a limp as the incline toyed with Billy. He gimped back down with his wagon trailing behind. It was fire engine red, his favorite color. Sally hopped in back and Billy started to tow. It was proof that chivalry only had a head wound.

As they conquered the hill, Tracy, Billy’s next door neighbor, passed by with a look of shocking disappointment. Billy said hi, but Tracy didn’t return the favor. She headed like a zombie towards the pond. The sun swung low silhouetting her image by the water. She flung rocks and kicked at the dirt mumbling to herself the entire time. From the left of Billy’s house came a cascading call, “Tracy. It’s time for dinner.” She heard the call, but had unfinished business. It was with an unlucky frog. She must have been mad, or upset, or cruel. Whichever, the frog learned his lesson. She scooped him up and, in one fell swoop, kicked him clear across the pond. I guess she could now call it a day.

My boss

The day of pain, this day, the fourth day in October, has all but dwindled before my eyes. They, my eyes, have counted the minutes by gently closing in sync with the sun. The sun chased by the rain still rules the clock off in the distance. The clock in my office however, screams aloud four-thirty, but it screams louder "Keep Working!" The work on my docket will not be done today, rather there is a bigger fish to fry. The frying, of my brain, which occurred on a long and cumbersome Saturday eve, has left residue not yet shaken. So I shake. Staring at the wall, I think to myself, "say something funny." I cannot. Drinking my nth cup of coffee at whatever time, I think, "read something." I realize I'd rather stare at the wall.
Exhaustion is prevailing in this lopsided match. I am tired. I do give in. Though a day off I do deserve, a day off I do not take.

Realization dances with me as I think to those I was with. They feel the same, I'm confident of that fact. So why do we do it? Can you answer? If you can, please don't. It would simply injure the insult that I currently feel.

I write this with visions of tomorrow circling my office. Tomorrow, that's when I will be funny again. That is where I will find my personality. Tomorrow I will get to it. Tomorrow it will be done. You do believe me right? You don't think that tomorrow, though refreshed, I would spend my time corresponding, via mixed mediums, to various homosapiens, while ignoring the urgent business on my desk. No sister! That work will surely be done by Wednesday, the day after tomorrow, for tomorrow I will have to catch up on today. Obviously you, nor any other logical being, could expect me to catch up on today, tomorrow. Tomorrow’s business will surely be a top priority and the business of the day before, Monday, will have to wait until Thursday.

Thursday!?, you say with such astonishment. To that I reply, but what about Wednesday. Is Wednesday not important? Has it become simply a day to kick to the curb and waste like the scraps from a restaurant? With Tuesday’s docket signed, sealed and sashayed, obviously I would move according to our linear philosophy of time and deal with Wednesday and Wednesday’s work on Wednesday. Not Tuesday since I am doing Tuesday’s work. Not Thursday since it hasn’t happened yet. Not Monday since it will be over. Wednesday is when I will do Wednesday’s work.

Well that brings us to Thursday and the work there of. Ahhhh Thursday, the beginning of the weekend to some, the end of the week to others, to me it’s simply the day after Wednesday. Nothing more than that. How could I justify giving one-day precedence over another? That is why today’s work will have to wait until Friday. If Thursday was more meaningful than Tuesday, then I guarantee I would have done Thursday’s work on Tuesday, which would have freed Thursday up for me to do today’s work. Sadly, that just isn’t the way it goes and today’s work will have to wait till Friday.

Obviously you can see the importance the work of today is to not only the company, but also, me the employee. Though I do not feel up to par, I came to work to deal with today’s problem. You can see that I have sacrificed of myself a lot and despite feeling awful have successfully managed the work of today. That is why I am confident you will be understanding and allow me to have Friday off. Yes it is a fact that I deserve it. Yes it is a fact that I have weathered today’s storm for you, my employer. And finally, yes I will do Friday’s work, on Monday.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

My Compadre

It has been too long since our last correspondence. The prevailing seconds grab my attention, blinding me to the minutes that have elapsed. The minutes, veiled by the incessant ticking and constant movement, shade the hours from the heat. The heat generated by my life spirals before me, distracting my thoughts, engaging me into movement and preoccupation. For I can count but one occupation and that is my preoccupation. Reminders flutter by but cannot flick the switch. A string on my finger will merely become frayed with age or angered by its own ineptitude. As I push on, a thought of you surely was generated. Another victim of red tape, a thought of you must have been lost in channels. I have not forgotten you my friend, I simply have not thought of you. Can it be that you exist without me in your life? I seem to believe that life becomes still until my presence replenishes the arid reserves. Drink from my self-serving trough, for I bring you the gift of life inspired, or is it the other way around.

I’ve often given thought to what others are doing at this exact point in time. A futile exercise in melodrama, I realize that I am as far from anyone’s mind as you have been from mine over the past years. Do random thoughts of “I wonder” really exist? I think not. Surely one would have generated a lead starting and finishing at my doorstep. As I stare at the phone, waiting ever patiently for someone to remind me of their existence, I can hear the mailman brag as he completes his rounds never once taking a stride in my direction. Never once giving me a glimmer of hope that out of sight isn’t always out of mind.

Why is it that those, gracious enough to return a correspondence, fail time and time again to act as initiator. Am I being selfless in rekindling the flame of relationship or am I being selfish in my disinterest for a message returned. I feel the burden of paths crossed. Paths, sewn in time, never to meet again. The list, infinitely growing, will never cease to torment me. Compadre, you are but one in a line of many. Some I’ve loved, some I’ve hated, all I’ve ignored the same.

This, my last correspondence to you, is not a justification for my inaction. This is not a plea for renewal. Rather this is to fulfill my need to close the book on my past, to cease the never-ending cycle of love and leave. Please do not return this correspondence. I do not care to hear a reply. I say this to you because I have to and I hope you can understand why.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

That Day

I have opened up the new mail slot on the television that I type on and I am going to congregate the cells adjacent to my cornea in order to commemorate that fine day in history. Do you remember? Do you remember when? We like to call that day, "That Day". "That Day was such a great day" is the name of the salute given to "That Day" on that fine day. The "That Day was such a great day" salute was coined on the day directly after "That Day," now known as "The Post That Day day." In case you are wondering, the "The Post That Day" day does not have a salute since we felt it didn't live up to the greatness of "That Day,” nor would the "The Post That Day Day Salute" even come close in comparison to the "That Day was such a great day salute."

I guess you know that we have been commemorating "That Day" ever since that day. Many years have gone by and I know you can't possibly forget the "First Annual That Day Commemoration", which now has a salute called "The Commemoration Salute of the First Commemoration." That day, (The First Annual That Day Commemoration) was such a great day that we almost dropped the "That Day" commemoration and the "That Day was such a great day" salute, but we decided to keep them and just double up on the commemorating. So really, our "That Day" commemoration is a commemoration of "That Day" and a commemoration of "The First Annual That Day commemoration." Conversely, the "First Annual That Day Commemoration" commemoration is also a day of commemorating "That Day." We do both the "That Day was Such a Great Day" and the "The Commemoration Salute of the First Commemoration" salutes. We love them.

The anticipation for this years "That Day" and the "First Annual That Day Commemoration" commemoration was so large that the celebration started on the eve of the "That Day" and the "First Annual That Day Commemoration" days. We filled our gullets and packed our pudding with such regalia and fervor that we have decided to honor the "Eve of That Day and the First Annual That Day Commemoration" as an official holiday. There will be no salute.

So have a great time at the "That Day" and the "First Annual That Day Commemoration" commemorations. Give a hearty shout when doing the "That Day was such a Great Day" and the "Commemoration Salute of the First Commemoration" salutes. Enjoy the celebration of the "Eve of That Day and the First Annual That Day Commemoration" holiday and embrace the reflection of the "Post That Day" day (which technically is also the Post First Annual That Day Commemoration day). In case you forgot there isn't a "Post That Day Day" salute.

Thank you for your time

Conway Twitty
Mayor of this God forsaken Place

Uma

Please allow me to start this, our first communiqué, properly, with a hey there! The drag on of my day continues in a tedious fashion and even though the paint is drying, I don’t seem to be any closer to the end of the day. Alas, the four o’clock bell has rungeth, four times, and I am yet another hour closer to leaving, but the finish line is still drearily hidden off in the distance. A distracting dalliance you are, but don’t be sour, I write you to write you as well as to pass the time.

The sun, dancing with a different lady, a different hemisphere, has dipped beyond my sight. My window reveals this and teases me with a reflection of myself. A single strand of cold air waltzes past my ear. My window doesn’t close all the way. Peaking back to the reflection before me, I see an ugly sight. My shirt, awful, my pants, wrinkled, what was I thinking this morning? It doesn’t matter. Still off to the bar I’ll go.

From a few flights up I can peer at the world. Well, sixth avenue and some of 42nd. A yellow mist colors the streets, taxis are not few and far between. Brake lights on a city night, it’s a painting in motion with pollution. The earth is flat and square. You would believe it too if you were standing right here.

Perfume trails can actually be seen from the visitor that just visited and left. She was here on official business. Secret Santa to some, Pollyanna to others, it’s the game we play in the world of the office. I chose a guy, a friend at that, I’ll have some fun with this gift. I have thoughts already for this special occasion. Mister Potato head, maybe, a Chia-head, could be, it’s one since his head was massively crafted.

My thoughts take a left down the road to beyond. Actually, to what I’ll be doing tonight. It’s a Tuesday with Morrie, rather, Dave and Rachael. We’ll have dinner at the bar where I’m a regular. The spirits will flow along with the libations, stories, chides, and laughter. I feel at home with a group of former strangers. It’s the way of life in the city.

My officemate, an attraction for sure, is trying to strike up a conversation. “I’m writing,” I squeal. “I don’t care,” she replied. “I’m a lady so I will be heard.” Ten minutes of time has just been spent hearing of this and of that. I feign interest, it’s about her shoes, until she decides to move on. A good sport I am, though sometimes it’s rough, I struggle with the talk of apparel.

This tale is of me and forty-five minutes in time. I wish that it were more exciting. I could tell of robbers, of cops and horses, of a one armed man with two guns. I could speak of his lady with the truck driving tongue all hopped up on Night Train and Cheetos. But to me the challenge is not in the story. It’s in making the mundane seem fun.

Orpheous

Meredith Patterson

Dear Meredith,

I would first like to congratulate you on the good looks. Kudos! I, if I were forced to characterize your looks based on the photos I've seen, would say you are a very cute gal. That, however, is not the purpose of my foray into your world via the Internet. The following letter is a most sincere attempt at reaching the relatively lofty goal of wooing you. Although I haven't been in the practice of wooing women, I have decided that it is time to make a comeback. At the very least I should hone my skills in the event I run into a woman in need of some wooing. I don't plan on indiscriminately using my wooing skills on any Jane, Jill or Johanna that crosses my path. No sister! I am just looking to bounce a few ideas off of you in hopes of distinguishing the true wooers from the duds. I, being a conscientious young lad, will quickly rush them to the vault to use only in extreme cases of emergency, for I feel they may be too dangerous to release at this date in time. So Meredith, perk up your ears, grab a hold of your socks, fix yourself a drink or a light snack, turn off the tele, stretch out those quads and get ready to be wooed like you've never been wooed before.

Meredith, I want you to rest assured that I will not be concentrating my wooing skills on any of your physical features, lovely as they are. Rather, I will be wooing your inner being, your celestial aura and your stunning presence. To properly woo, I feel that concentrating on physical attributes such as nice toes or well-formed wrists would cheapen the sentiment with the eventual effect of a non-woo (or no woo depending on what part of the country you are from). However, I would like to state for the record that you are a fine physical specimen obviously put together with meticulous care and pin point precision. Meredith, in case you aren't sure, you will know that you've been properly wooed by several distinct and immediate reactions. Typically, the normal reaction time from brain to body is around two seconds. This generally allows you plenty of time to size up your body's intended action and cover up accordingly (i.e. a sneeze, cough, burp, what have you). However, when you are wooed that reaction time drops to one second and when you've been fully wooed by yours truly, me, the suave and sophisticated homme writing you, the time drops to around .000001 seconds. So be prepared! Let us both hope that you will react like most with a subtle blush, a warm sensation and a little knee bend. Let us not hope you react like the last girl I wooed. We were cleaning up for days!

I should warn you that turn about is fair woo. The effects can be reversed (if you think you're capable of hanging with an experienced wooer such as myself) and when they are reversed the power is doubled, the reaction time is next to nothing and the effects are irreversible. That is why the woo is such a large risk. A woo reversal is the most unpredictable force the temptress, Mother Nature, has at her disposal. I once reversed a woo and the girl, a sexy sofa upholsterer, kept nibbling on my ear while calling me, "potty mouth" over and over again. Needless to say it wasn't a turn on and my sofa still isn't fixed!

Now that you've been properly informed on the finer points of wooing, there's only one rule that must be abided by. That is Rule #1, in section 1, appendix 1, Line 1-2 of the international Wooing Ethics and Code Enforcement Booklet, updated and authorized annually by the IWC, International Wooing Council, made up of a 12 person panel (9 women, 2 men and 1 "tweener"). This rule states: There Ain't No Rules! Meredith, here it comes!

Woooooo! Woo! Woooooooo! Woo – Woo! Woooooooooooo! Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa-Woooooooo!

Sorry baby! I understand my skills are devastating. It's a power that I've learned to accept and live with. I feel bad that such a sweet lady has to get caught in the wake of a Orpheous-Woo, but such is life. Well, reverse it if you dare and if not I guess you'll be thinking of me a lot. Once again, congrats on the fine form and hopefully you will recover from the woo!

Ciao,

Orpheous Roy

www.meredithpatterson.com

Amy Weber

Dear Amy,

I just want you to know that there is no point to what I am going to write. There really isn't any purpose for writing you. I can confidently say this for one simple reason, I don't' know what I am going to write. Forgive me if I go astray. Forgive me if I run afoul. With infinite possibilities staring me in the face, I cower and run to a dark and forgiving corner for I cannot think of a thing to write about. Amy, surely you won't hold this against me. I could speak of your profession or your success, but in the self-centered world of Orpheous, I would find it more pleasing if the subject was me. I, however, am finding myself rather boring today and I fear that you are beginning to agree.

Have you ever written an open-ended letter and then sent it to someone who you don't know? It's an interesting phenomenon. For I, being of sound mind, like to pontificate on subjects, but feel empty when I draw the subject to a close and no one else gets to share in my fancy. You may receive this letter. You may not. It is more about the possibility that for a few seconds in time I may drag you into my world. Maybe reaching a dark recess in your brain, stimulating some ions causing you to walk away saying hmmm? Or what? Or huh? Although, I write this with my feet firmly planted on the ground so I realize that the channels to you can only be as immense as the red tape littering the intersection of our paths.

Sometimes I think if our roles were reversed would I be up to the same shenanigans? Would I reach out to some unsuspecting nameless and fame-less person, saying something, anything, in an effort to share some time. Well Amy, no I probably wouldn't. Frankly, if I received a little more stimulation from my position in the food chain of corporate society, I probably wouldn't even be writing you. I guess you can read between the lines and see that I am merely using you and I apologize for it. I am using your name and address as an escape. An escape that affords me the luxury of investigating the endless possibilities of life all while using the time that proves to be such a burden to me.

Now this is not to be a solemn correspondence, rather it is a celebration of sorts. I realize that patience is taking the lead and that in due time all will be worked out. With this knowledge, Amy I hope you will celebrate with me. Celebrate with me this sunshiny day. Celebrate with me the fact that not only is today Friday, but I have already had two good nights of partying this week. Celebrate with me the fact that I hit a recent hot streak with the ladies. Amy, while we're at it, let's take a minute to celebrate you. Way to go!

Well Amy, with that being said let me bid you a fond farewell. It has been a pleasure while it lasted. Rest assured that our mission has been completed. The recess bell is soon to ring and I am soon to traverse the streets of New York City. Free at last, thank God almighty, I'm free at last.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

www.amyweber.net

Cindy Margolis

Dear Cindy,

Cindy, even though this has been done to death I would like to take a moment of reflection to thank the lord up above (whichever one you subscribe to) for bestowing upon you a beautiful face, a curvaceous bod and, of course, perfectly aligned teeth.................................................................…………………Way to go!

Now that we have that out of the way let's get down to some serious business. The aforementioned serious business that I speak of is a problem that I have been faced with for quite some time. It's typically embarrassing, often uncontrollable and an overall pain in the ass. My problem is that I have a pain in my ass! Well, not the ass really, it's more of the ass cheek. Right one to be exact, about two paces left of center. Follow the spine south and take a left, however, whatever you do, DO NOT GO THROUGH THE TUNNEL!

It all started when I was a wisecracking whippersnapper of 10 days old. I took everyone by surprise when I came shooting out. Bald head, mustache, mouth packed to the rafters with teeth, I was chain smoking Cubans and hitting on the nurses. After three days in the nursery, I was up ten large. Craps was my game in more ways than one. The Doctors, suburbia learned white boys, fell victim to every scam I pulled. Upon leaving in Dr. Feinstein's convertible black Mazarati, I was pulled over for speeding and reckless endangerment of life. I got off, scott free, sighting Mazarati's failure to design a seat that effectively positioned driving ten-day-olds. Upon suing for gross negligence, I was awarded a settlement of 3.5 mil, only to see it overturned by a glue sniffing appellate court judge with ties to big business and gambling doctors. Crest fallen and disillusioned, I, like Jonathan Sea Gull, did some soul searching. I realized that I had lost control. The fast life, the only life I knew, had taken the reigns as puppet master and now it was my turn to take them back. I decided to shave my mustache and return home a new infant.

I was a year into my new life and had just turned one. I spent the year nursing on my mother's bosom while building my new business from the ground up. Orpheous' Cactus Chair and Porcupine Pillow Warehouse was the name. Stupid idea really, but one thing I've learned in my life is if you advertise, they will buy it. Cindy, you can use that one if you want to. Anyway, business was good until Dr. Feinstein returned seeking revenge. He didn't recognize me without my mustache, but held me at gunpoint none the less. The irate doctor, seething with anger, could barely contain himself, fidgeting about and making the porcupines nervous. "Don't worry," I told him "they won't charge unless you continue to sweat like a fat woman at a buffet." Unfortunately his glandular problems just increased, incensing the quilled pigs. They charged and so did he. During the hail of bullets and quills, I found refuge underneath my cactus desk. Needless to say this fiasco was a publicity nightmare. All the advertising in the world couldn't rescue the business, so I folded up shop and returned home. I started to live the life I was supposed to. I stopped gambling, sold the Mazarati and re-grew the mustache.

That first year of driving really spoiled me and since I sold the car I am forced to use the conventional one-year-old method of transportation. What with all the booze, gambling and the store managing, I'm not as limber as your average one-year-old. This lack of looseness combined with a strong urge for a beer caused me to pull my hammy crawling to the fridge. Don't worry it's just a temporary condition. I'll be good as new in a few days.

Once again I'd like to say "kudos" on the good looks and keep up the good work. Cindy you are a treasure to us all, especially the ones who can vividly remember nursing.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

www.cindymargolis.com

Cheryl Ladd

Dear Cheryl,

I just wanted to butt my nose into your business in order to congratulate you on the good looks. Way to go! When I saw your "North Americow" cow painting I immediately gathered my screeners in order to decide my opinion on it. Well, I'm pleased to say that they have decided that I like your painting by a whopping 64-1 vote. You see Cheryl; I am leaving all of my decision-making responsibilities up to the sixty-five monkeys that I keep in my apartment. Not only was it a landslide victory, but the room was buzzing with interest as soon as I mentioned your name. Foo-Foo, a retired "working girl," credits you with inspiring her to leave the streets and get her life back on track. I'm sure you will be pleased to know that following in your image, she died her hair blonde, married Scooter, the juggling chimpanzee, and gave birth to twins, Shwumpy and Lumpy. Flavor, the multi colored orangutan, claims that all The Angles needed was a signature car, such as the General Lee, and it would have been an international phenomenon (at least among the monkeys who Neilson is starting to recognize as a growing target audience).

The only nay came from Nipples, the three-legged cow posing as a baboon. He just wanted me to include the following statement:

Dear Mrs. Ladd,

I am grossly disturbed by your rendition of the cow in your painting North Americow. Despite the fact that I am a monkey, I still have the right to take offense.

Thank you,

Nipples

The screeners (except Nipples) and I were so enthused by this idea that we also put our heads together and came up with a few ideas. Feel free to use them as "Inspirato" on your next canvas. Oral, the ex-Portuguese ventriloquist monkey, thought of "Cow-Dee-Doodie." That, of course, would be a cow's body with a How-dee-doodie head attached. There was some debate as to who gets the head and who gets the body, but with Nipples protesting and out of the room, it was an easy decision. Jade, the hairless chimpanzee, came up with the ideas "Cow on the Cob" or "Harvest." This would be a corn stalk about five to six feet high, with a cow growing where the corn should be. "Harvest" could be the same idea just with an entire field full of Cow's on the cob.

Anyway, just some thoughts followed by a boisterous round of applause on the good looks.

Yours truly,

Orpheous Roy

www.cherylladd.com

Dita Von Teese

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Michelle Behennah

Dear Sage,

I was going to drop an email to comment on the good looks and the nice bod of your girl Michelle Behennah, but I have decided to scrap that idea and give you a "kudos" on the efficient, timely and passionate job of web hosting that you do. I am also a web representative; however, Gary the world-renowned ventriloquist doesn't get quite as many hits as your models. Don't you get sick and tired of them always getting the attention? Sure they may be beautiful, sure they have great bodies, sure they throw their voices 200 feet making a dog sound like he's French Cabaret Dancer, but can they keep up in the drive through world of E-commerce. Can they communicate in hypertext markup language? Can they handle the excessive hit rate that comes after a successful show at Billy Bob's Chuckwagon Steakhouse in Tuskeegee? I think not. Where would Michelle be without you Sage? Nowhere! And I'll tell you what, that no lip moving bastard Gary wouldn't be throwing anything if it weren't for the publicity generated from MY site.

I mean, really, how hard is it to take a few pictures? Stand here! Stand there! Shake 'em a little harder! Look down! Lift your leg! Arch your patella! Suck in that neck! Spread those toes! They certainly have no idea what it is like to be an information disseminator as you and I do. Sage, they don't understand the power that we have. They are just lucky that we don't abuse this power, although, Gary has been rather arrogant lately. I wonder how much business Gary's new site, Gary the world-renowned proctologist, would generate.

Sage, I apologize for ranting and raving in your face like this, but really, we deserve some credit too. Is that too much to ask? I guess I just wanted to say that you don't hear this enough. Good job on the hosting. Keep the chin up kiddo, we'll get our due some day.

Obversely yours,

Orpheous Roy

www.michellebehennah.org

Jacqueline Collen

Dear Jacqueline,

I felt compelled to verbally gush over your scintillating beauty, your macadocious bod and of course your ethereal nature. Jacqueline, in my insatiable efforts to kill time at work, I have anointed you the chosen one and have chosen you the anointed one to read my latest letter. I guess, really what I am saying to you is nothing. Despite having nothing to say, I boldly push on, never tiring, never looking back. This next sentence, devoid of purpose, babbles on like a brook of communication. Flowing thunderously, this typed glacier is steering its own course, for you see Jacqueline, I'm not the driver of this train, I am simply a passenger in the bar car, sipping Merlot, tipping well, thinking out loud but saying nothing, wishing I hadn't eaten all that damn Gouda. I could follow the masses using the commoner's form of communiqué, the question. I could ask you, which would be worse, poison ivy underwear or poison ivy gum? I could give you my philosophy on the art of vacuuming; "It's all north to south baby!" I could give you my philosophy on women; "I have absolutely no idea." I could tell you that I am over-appreciated and under-worked. I COULD YELL AT YOU! I could pick you up, "Hey baby, my name is Orpheous, I'm a Taurus and I'm not afraid to cry." I could test your eyes
A T F G H I B. Backwards sentence a write could I. I could share a few lines of a rhyme that I have written:

if Picaso was my dad I'd probably paint my room
startin’ at eleven done at half past noon
I didn't touch the ceiling cause that's minimal
I didn't touch the clock cause that's digital
I didn't paint the window because that's plain stupid
when he asks who did? I'll say you did

Jacqueline, I will do none of that! Instead, I will continue to hold on for dear life while this letter continues to, "get, get, get on down, get on down!" brmp...crmp...brmp Sorry, I was snacking. There’s nothing like a mid-afternoon batch of Melbatoast and Conch Fritters to pep you up.

Well Jacqueline, I guess that's it. Our paths have crossed in the oddest of ways, for the briefest of moments, stirring the deepest of emotions and tantalizing the tastiest of taste buds (Conch Fritters are good!). With that I bid you a fond adieu. I would like to offer one last "Cheers" on the good looks and good luck with all of those things you do so well.

Blankly yours,

Orpheous Roy

Stephanie Cameron

Dear Stephanie Cameron,

Well I just wanted to write in and say congratulations on the good looks. Good job! Anyway, I really don't have much to say at this momentito in time. That usually isn't the greatest way to start a letter, with nothing to say, but hey I'm ostensibly cavalier so I'm giving it a shot. Actually Stephanie, if you must know, saying nothing at all in as many words as possible is a god given talent. Other god given talents that I possess are:

1. I can make my eye squeak
2. I can make my chest crack, and
3. I can breathe underwater

I think that gracefully saying nothing over several paragraphs is an art form not to dissimilar to minimalism. Imagine a book that keeps you on the edge of your seat from cover to cover. As you read you sink deeper and deeper into the nether world of vague opinionism, gathering more information than your brain can handle, waiting for the ever illusive link that is and has been missing from the entire story. The link that neatly fits like a puzzle piece, a binding tie there to serve you, the reader, as a bridge to connect the unconnected. Reading further your thirst for a conclusion, an understanding, a meaning, grows furious. Finally!, you have reached the final page and to find what, nothing. It hasn't said a damn thing, but it kept you reading. Now that is art.

I would write a book like that but I have realized that the optimum length for my writing style is no more that one typed page. I just don't have the stamina to push on, to see the obstacle and conquer it. My flow will be precise, strongly mowing down the opposition for 52 lines. As I cross into the uncharted territory of line 53 the vision comes toppling down and I am disillusioned once again.

So as I near my maximum thought expression capacity, I am going to bring this letter to a close. I guess you can view this as the demented and useless offspring of an existential philosophy. Anyway, with absolutely nothing being said, I want to, once again, say "kudos" on the good looks and keep up the good work.

Meaninglessly yours,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Academy/3851/

Christina Chambers

Dear Christina,

Well, my dear, I just wanted to offer my sincerest congratulatory congratulations on your good looks. Excellent job! As for me, I just haven't had much "Inspirato" lately. There was a day when I could just sit down, stare into a blank page, wait for the "inspirato" to strike, then craft a bouquet of verbs tantalized by poignant adjectives linked in meaning and thought by those worker bee conjunctions. Nouns were my friends. Christina, that was then and this is now. As it stands, I look deeply into the foreboding whiteness of the page before me with only one thought swirling my mind, "what is the deal with an itch?" Christina, I understand that itches occur for several reasons. Itching signifies the healing process. It can also call attention to a budding problem, of which, the caretaker my not be aware. I truly appreciate the release of energy and the phantasmal feeling of relieving the nagging nomad of his stronghold on my body. However, the itch has overstepped his bounds. The itch, in a word, is a bitch! How did he gain free access to the remotest of the remote bungalows of my body? He may crop up on your head, he may crop up on your tibia, but there is one thing you know and that is the itch will rear its ugly head to tease the ends of your nerves and ultimately grab your attention which he so desires.

Christina, ponder with me. Have your ever concluded your day itch-less? Have you ever been wakened by an itch? Have you ever had an itch that you just couldn't locate? Trying in vein to cease the disruption, a disruption as clear as day but as mysterious as night. A disturbance that toys with your existence only to disappear just when you think you have it nabbed. It's a cruel joke if you ask me. I don't understand. As I write this I have an itch doing its prickly version of the electric slide directly on the center of my back. Pen poised for invasion, movements cautious and calculated, zeroing in on the target and waiting for the optimum time to strike, my attack is quick, daunting and successful, but how long can I keep this up. What if I wasn't such an intelligent tool using species of animal? What if my arms were short? Christina, what if I was a Giraffe? How long can I be expected to keep up this battle? Does it end? Will I be invaded by the random itch until the day I die?

I believe that we are making some headway. Christina, me and you, you and I, the lady and the tramp, the beauty and the beast, might have just solved the yet unanswered and oft pondered riddle of existence. Christina, proof of existence lies within the itch. Birds itch. Wildebeest do too. Dogs definitely itch and what's more they all exist. We did it!

Hmmmm....wait a minute. Plants exist as well. Do they itch? Do they have to deal with the incessant mockery of life that the itch purveys? I think not. But do plants exist? Hmmmm…I say sure, they can exist too. Christina, me and you, you and I, Tito and Germain, Sugar and Rays, Q and U, have a new philosophy to proclaim to the world. Awareness is symbolized by the itch. If you itch you are aware. Hmmm...Are dogs aware? Are iguanas privy to the celestial aura that we, the hair-less apes, are? Does the Muskrat contemplate the origins of life, the vastness of space and the contents of scrapple?

Well Christina, it was a nice effort. We tried. Unfortunately the only thing I can say for certain is the itch is a bitch and there's no denying that. As I bring my thoughts to a close I hope you will join me in giving thanks. Thank you for Solarcaine. Thank you for Novocaine. Thank you for Scalpacin. Thank you for Benadryl and especially thank you for Cortisone, the queen hootchie-mama of itch relievers.

Scratchingly yours,

Orpheous Roy

P.S. I bet you have an itch right now.

http://www.christinachambers.com/main.html

Kimilee Bryant

Dear Kimilee,

I don't know if I can say this to you since you are an Operatic Singer and I don't want you to get offended by my vociferous vindication for perusing your sight, but I must say you are one sexy opera singer. I didn't realize, stereotypes ruling my thoughts, that there was such physical beauty in your line of work.

As for me, your sight has brought a quiver to my lip, a twitch to my neck and a small tear to my eye. Don't worry. It is nothing you had anything to do with, nor is there anything for you to do. It just makes me think back to my ill-faded music career. I just want to scream to the heavens, "By God, Hath you no mercy?" Well, I want to scream that for a different reason, now back to my story.

It all started in the fourth grade when I, a budding musical prodigy, entered the music class to choose my weapon. Trombones, clarinets, oboes and triangles galore. Vexed by the magnitude of my decision, I was frozen stiff in time. This was going to decide my fate with the ladies from the fourth grade on. Well, I spotted my arc de triumph in the form of a clarinet. I was aghast to see that the instrument that I coveted, the instrument I was born to play, the clarinet, was not called a trumpet. In fact, there was nothing trumped about it. "I doth protest," I exclaimed to the teacher to no avail. Forever stuck with the stinking trumpet, I pushed on determined to be the Dizziest Gillespie who ever French kissed the brass horn. Unfortunately for the next six months I lived a lie. I lived a Milli Vinilli style farce until the day it came crashing down upon my well-groomed head. I faked it at the recital. I didn't play, I couldn't! I never regained the zest, the zeal or the inspiration that was naturally bestowed upon me by the clarinet and when it came time to perform I could only go through the motions.

Don't worry Kimilee, my stick-to-itiveness kicked in and I wasn't going to give up on my music career so quickly. Fast-forward to the eighth grade and my next date with destiny. We had been working all year for the recital at the mall, the crème de la crème of venues in Pennsylvania. We practiced and practiced and I even had the black pants, white shirt and red bow tie laid out in preparation. I practiced "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" so many times that I could say it backwards and forwards. I could break it down into anagram form. I could equate each letter in the lyrics with a star in the sky. I still have swinging visions and chariot dreams, but all I can remember is "Swing low sweet chariot, coming forth to carry me home." Anyway, my friends and I were playing a little "grab ass" when we were supposed to be rehearsing. The teacher, singled us three out and we had to sing solo, a cappella and by ourselves. Needless to say my rendition of the verse melted the other children's skin. I put several young girls into psychotherapy when I hit the "sweet" and I caused Danny, the "slow" kid, to foam at the mouth. Unfortunately, the story ends there. It was general music from then on in.

So what I am saying Kimilee is, you, the people who pushed through the boundaries, are an inspiration and hero to the people like me, who failed miserably at an early age. Not too mention you’re pretty hot. Good luck on all of your future endeavors and if you could, hit a high note for me.

Thanks

Orpheous Roy

www.kimileebryant.com

Marliece Andrada

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