Bubble Bath

She lay there in the tub of warm water and bubbles and imagined things.

She liked to turn over on her belly and submerge her head under the water and pretend she was a spy on a secret mission for the CIA. Her team members had all been taken out by the opposing ganglords of Tanzania. She had said a quick prayer for them but had no time to salvage their bloody bodies. She had to let them flow down the Zambezi for heaven to take their souls and the crocodiles to take their flesh. She was on a mission that must be completed or the very sancitity of the world would be at risk. She was now wading in a swamp headed towards the headquarters of the dreaded Tanzanian Syndicate. She scoffed at the eels that slithered against her skin. Though she was alone, she knew no fear. She was on a mission to find out the secret plans and nothing was going to get in her way.

She gasped for air and lifted her head up. She opened her eyes and the bubbles ran down her face.

She liked to pick up a cloud of bubbles and bury her face in it. It felt like swimming in a pond of fairies and pixies. Their silvery rainbow wings brushing against her cheeks. She was the ancient Elven princess who was being given a festival by her followers. The land of the fairies and pixies were honoring her for her extraordinary powers. They had enjoyed 1000 years of peace in their lands and the surrounding sanctuaries. They danced with leaves in their hair and dreams in their hearts. She felt the sheer happiness surrounding her and for a moment she almost felt like she was suffocating from so much love.

She let a snake of bubbles run down her calf.

It looked like melting marshmallows. She imagined that this is what it was like to be in a cup of hot chocolate. Wading in complete and utter warmth. The steamy goodness curly-cueing around her with an aromatic scent of pleasure. It penetrated her soul and she wished she were hot chocolate flowing through the body of a cold-blooded mortal being the object of warmth that brought so much comfort to his long day of cold icy snow. The melted marshmallows sticky on her skin was always her favorite part.

It was time to get out now. The water was getting cold.

As the water drained away, she lay still on her back. Still as a corpse. The air kissing her wet skin made her shiver and goosebumps appeared on her arms and legs. As if she were a long forgotten memory of someone's past crime now resurfacing after the police got a tip to dredge the lake. The water slowly being sucked away revealed the naked wet body of her. The cops were dumbfounded and weren't sure whether or not they would be able to figure anything out at the autopsy. But though her lips were blue and her limbs frozen, her eyes cried out, "Listen to me....hear my secrets."

"It's OK to be in Love with the Avacado, Baby"

A Brief History of Bonn's Bagel Factory

(Continuation of Big Shoe, Small Shoe/Brik-a-Brak)

1945

"Honey, I can never finish a whole bagel. They're just too big for me. You want the rest of this."

"But you're pregnant. You should be eating up everything in sight! Don't you want the baby to be big and handsome like me?"

Aurora laughed. "But then everyone would know, it's not yours." They both laughed. Aurora sighed. "I know, I know...I'm just not feeling good right now."

Kenneth Bonn looked at his petite wife and smiled. Her belly was just beginning to show. Aurora pushed her plate towards him.

Aurora smiled at him while he ate the bagel sandwich. "You know what they should do? Make mini bagels and make sandwiches out of those."

"I think they do have mini bagels, dear." They both started laughing. It was a calm, peaceful Sunday afternoon and the two were having lunch after church. They had never been to Charla's Diner before but always noticed a long line winding out the door. It wasn't too bad, except for the large bagels.

Kenneth coughed.

"Hon, are you ok?"

He coughed some more. Lettuce and cheese spilled out of his mouth and his face flushed red.

"Kenneth! Somebody help! My husband is choking!"

A crowd gathered and a burly man tried giving him the Heimlich maneuver. A worker rushed to call an ambulance.

But the man's thrusts were not helping the situation. It just made Kenneth cough more and now his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. All of a sudden, Kenneth, went limp.

"Oh my god...Ken...someone...Please help him..."

***************************************************************

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bonn. You don't have a case here. It was an accident and no fault lies with Charla's Diner. I don't know what to do for you. I'm sorry for your loss."

Aurora pursed her lips and closed her eyes because she didn't want to cry like she did in front of the five other lawyers she had talked to prior to this appointment. She slowly stood up and left.

***************************************************************

The funeral was small. Kenneth's family only consisted of his father and his step-sister. Aurora's family was all in Maine and they couldn't make it down. Some of the local townspeople were there to give their condolences. Charla Moore, the owner of the diner, was there too.

"Honey, I'm so sorry. I can't believe this happened. I...I...don't know what to say..." The tears rolled down her cheeks.

Aurora felt nothing. She looked at the woman with apathy and walked away.

***************************************************************

At night, she would lie awake missing Kenneth so much she thought she had been hit by a train. Sometimes, she'd go to the restaurant where her husband had choked to death and just look at the glass windows, the wooden door, the green striped awning and weep. She hated them. Them? But who? It wasn't the employees fault, was it? The owners? Charla Moore? No. The managers? Aurora had a burning feeling inside of her....she needed to blame someone. One night she noticed the lot across the street was vacant and it was for sale.

****************************************************************

After six months of saving, planning, and bank loans Aurora had enough to buy the lot across from Charla's Diner. She built Bonn's Bagel Factory and made her specialty mini bagels which was a big hit with the town. Charla's Diner was run out of business within two months.

****************************************************************

Aurora had a healthy, 8-lb baby. She named him Kenneth Jr. Kenneth would grow up not knowing a father. But he was still successful in his pursuits. He married a gorgeous interior designer and they had a daughter. They named her Lara.

F.Y.I. Regarding Snoring...

I'm sitting in the library after a week of being cooped up in my apartment. I wasn't forced to stay in my apartment for a non-stop string of 118 hours straight by any dictatorial means, it was merely from shear laziness. How awful is that? Mighty awful...mighty.

But I did get a good amount of reading and studying done. But that can be cancelled out by the good amount of television watching I did as well, so whose to say which side of the coin is luckier, eh? I might have stepped out to check my letterbox but that doesn't count because I don't even lock the door when I step out to check my mail which could be dangerous. I read somewhere about some serial rapist around here who would sneak into girl's apartments when they left the door unlocked because they were just throwing trash in the rubbish bin or some other mundane task like that where you wouldn't even give a second thought of anything violent happening if you were just meandering away 20 meters or so. But then when they came back, woops, to their astonishment a rapist was there to pillage them. How awful is that? Mighty awful...mighty.

Let that be a lesson to all females (and males, perhaps!) reading this to always lock your doors when you step out no matter how close or far you might stray.

Anyhow, I digress.

I am in the library which is deliciously empty because the term has not started back yet (not till January 18, the lucky undergraduate bastards!) and there's not a trace of university life other than the hopeful librarian at the circulation desk, the brunette professor with the thick rimmed glasses chatting with her Internet lover, the grad student whose fallen asleep and me who should be studying for the GRE's but my muse decided to climb onto my back so I have no other choice but to give it a piggy-back ride, yes?

Let's go back to that grad student whose fallen asleep. I cannot see him because I am tucked away in the corner in my cublicle, but I can hear him. His snores are bellowing out like he's trying to wake the dead. Or maybe attract some wild boar. Either way, where most people would find this distracting and annoying, I find it quite amusing and am grateful for him because if his melodious drones weren't permeating (GRE Verbal Rocks!) my ears and brain, I might find myself asleep as well (and I've been told that I snore, too!)

So this sparked my interest and I decided to learn some more about why people snore and so where else to look but embarassingproblems.com Hey, that's really a site, don't knock it. I know a few of you have wandered there in your darkest hours seeking insight and refuge. Don't try to deny it.

So what's the million dollar question for today? You guessed it. Why do people snore? Simple enough, all you had to do was ask.... :) I know you've been dying to find out.

When we're not sleeping, the muscles of the throat hold the throat open, so that air passes in smoothly as we breathe. When we are asleep, these muscles relax and the throat sags inwards, causing air turbulence, particularly as we breathe in. Snoring occurs when the roof of the mouth (soft palate and uvula - the uvula is the piece of tissue that dangles at the back of the throat), and sometimes the base of the tongue as well, starts to vibrate intermittently as a result of excessive turbulence. (Interestingly, astronauts hardly ever snore in space, because without the pull of gravity, the throat and tongue will not sag in.) [Reference: http://www.embarrassingproblems.com/pages2/snore1.htm]

Isn't that interesting? And even more so are the list of things that heighten your chances of being a snorer which I have assembled as follows:

• have a small jaw and narrow throat and/or a large uvula
  
• drink alcohol or take sleeping pills
  
• are overweight, particularly if you have a fat neck
  
• breathe through your mouth rather than your nose
• smoke
• sleep on your back
• eat a large meal before bed
  
• have relatives who snore
  
• have a round-shaped head rather than a long, thin head. (Sleep and Breathing 2001;5:79-91).[Reference: http://www.embarrassingproblems.com/pages2/snore1.htm]

That sucks because I have a small jaw, drink alcohol, smoke, sleep on my back, have relatives who snore and have a large round shaped head (does that count for also being overweight because surely my head is larger than the average human head...?) That's 6 out of 9!! How embarassing to have your embarassing problems highlighted in an embarassing way from going to the embarassingproblems.com site. Well, I guess the truth has finally sunk in. Another damn reason to stop smoking and drinking. WTF?!, right? Can't they throw a dog a bone? Anyhow, that's my little delirious blurb. Maybe I've studied too hard...But I think the grad student has woken from his slumber (I bet he doesn't even know the symphony his uvula just played in his sleep) and my muse can get off my back now...

5-Year Old Anxiety

I tipped the glass of kool-aid over and was worried that mom would notice. I placed two paper towels on the spill and watched as the red crop circles formed on the once white fibers. Maybe she wouldn't be as nice as last time. This time she might trade me with the village barter for some Chinese spices or a bag of corn kernals to make a stress bag.

So I went ahead and grabbed my knapsack. I had no other choice but to run away. I decided that I should bring eight days and eight nights worth of food so I tiptoed to the kitchen and filled my Rainbow Brite thermos with more of the dreaded kool-aid that put me in this predicament in the first place. There wasn't much else in the fridge other than a head of lettuce (which I hated and I didn't want people to mistake me for a rabbit) and I didn't think I should touch Dad's pickled vegatable collection because those are his prized treasures.

So what else was I to do but ask my sister what she thought would be a good foodstuff that wasn't perishable. She told me to bring candy and said I was in luck. For one dollar she would give me her whole stash of sweet tarts. I thought it was a deal that only came along in a blue moon so I broke up Mr. Curlytail and counted out one dollar in pennies and made the transaction. I packed the candy away in my knapsack along with one pair of underwear, an umbrella, my cabbage patch doll, and a picture of my family (at that time it was just four of us). I told my sister I was going and she just said goodbye and I regretted breaking Mr. Curlytail into so many pieces.

It would be a long journey. Out the backyard door all the way to the corner where the grass was long and tall. No one would find me there. I would stay there and maybe see how many times my picture would come up on the milk carton. But where would I find the money to buy milk cartons. That means I have to dig through people's garbage for empty ones. Gross.

My stomach was hungry. I took out my thermos and poured my Cabbage patch doll a cup of kool aid as I drank straight from the thermos. I took out the pack of candy my sister had given me and sorted it out by colors. I ate the orange one and immediately spit it out. It tasted like gasoline. I realized that my sister had given me Easter egg dye tablets and sighed for being so naive. She would never have given me so much candy for just a dollar. Now what?

I waited for probably five hours (in reality, it was only thirty minutes) and mom comes out to the yard and says that dinner is almost ready and to come in and wash up and I shouldn't be sitting in the tall grass because that's where the ants are and I hate itchy bites.

She must have not noticed the spill or maybe aliens had touched down and taken the spill as corroborative evidence of human dietary habits. The latter was more beleiveable so I made a promise to always say a blessing for green martian men when I said my prayers before I went to bed.

I packed up my knapsack and held my cabbage patch doll tight. I put them on top of my bed just in case I spilled something at dinner that night.

Lifelong Struggle for Haiku

(Attempt #1 [Ambiguous kigo, overdone theme])

Rain of tomorrow
Erases tears of today
When will I move on?

(Attempt #2 [Lacks kigo. Good attempt])

Waking from slumber
The sun shines brightly outside
No light in my room

(Attempt #3 [Kigo relative to U.S., first line needs adjustment, change "watch" Ln.2, onomatapeia?])

Popcorn, sticky sweet
Perfect time for Oscar watch
Shh, movie begins

(Attepmt #4 [No kigo. Weak second line])

Get out of my head
And on to the blank paper
Words, my friend, my foe

Sestina for Mom

Mom really wanted that piece of land.
The one out there in the country
where there's a pond and lots of trees.
Dad agrees and then we even get cows
and some emus because a farm always
has to have those two things.

But even though we were content, things
were bound to happen with that land
because the volatile good times always
lead to an insidious mess in this country.
Nothing ever lasts, but at least Mom had the cows
and she always remembers the tall, solid trees.

So sad how one’s dreams can become ephemeral trees.
Nothing can assuage his taste for avaricious habits.
Then Dad says no more hay and saltlicks for the cows.
And it’s now a bargain chip, no longer a piece of land.
Mom doesn't like how Dad is in this country.
But he says it’s for the best, loves us always.

Mom threatens she'll hate him for always
if he takes away the solidness of all those trees.
She needs a sanctuary of calm from this country.
And she's tired of working and his betting things.
Mom is scared Dad will gamble away the precious land.
I even remember having to burn one of the cows.

Some might think it is trite, the thought of cows
but if you knew how much it meant. She always
dreamt about that freedom in that peace of land.
But dad went ahead and sold those tall, solid trees.
Because he was thinking of other things
like how to make money in this capitalistic country.

Mom wonders what she hates more: him or this country
I remember, at the auction, selling all the cows
and selling all the beloved emus and acre things.
I will remember the sight of Mom crying always,
the cut on her legs like slashes on those solid trees.
A distant memory in her mind of that faraway land.

Now we live in an empty country with no trees.
And mom always has to hold on tighter to her things
with the memory of burning cows in a desiccated land.

New Year's Resolution

Dear XXXXX
I know it's been a while since the last time we've talked. I don't know if you would say it ended on a good note or a bad one but aquaintenances like us do not linger on the past. It's just not our style. The friendship that we have leaves room for hiatus but always the hope of a rekindling, no? You know that I am here in the background smiling and you are somewhere in the foreground where I can't quite see. But the presence of you and me is always mingled somewhere in the roses. That's why I like it--no self-righteousness, no expectations, no pressure.

A lot has happened since we've last talked and I'm sure you have had a lot of that thing called "life" happen to you on your side of the world. And if something exciting has happened, I would love to hear all about it. Maybe not now because there wouldn't be enough time in a letter. But maybe too little for a phone call. And I get nervous talking on the phone, you know that. I was always the laconic one that brought out your loquacious disposition. Or was it the other way around? Ok, ok, I'll stop trying to use all those big words. You know every little idiosyncracy. Don't worry. You don't have to say a word. I know you are enjoying life and I can honestly say that I am content too. Maybe not at the happiest I could be. Sometimes life gets hard and it is more opaque than you'd like it to be. But I like to think that there's more in store for me. More than meets the eye when I see my life through convoluted glass. The best for me is yet to come. And I wish the same for you. Isn't it crazy the situations we find ourselves in? The decisions we make that make us question ourselves? So much left up to the wind but we always try to hold it in our palms when all that happens is air slipping through our fingers.

As you can see, its a new year ahead of us and it's that time where we think and reflect on our lives and what we've accomplished, our goals, our successes, our foes, our loves (or lack there of...) I don't want you to write back. God, no. I only want you to take in my words, soak them in and just realize that there are moments in my life where you wander in. Sometimes more frequently than you might think. A familiar stranger that dances across my stage and know that I am applauding you, good friend. Where once before it was just you and me in that empty auditorium. Now life has filled the seats with many pristine patrons and inimical idiots. But even though now I am sitting in the back and all you see is the large mass of crowds before you. Remember, I am in that crowd, watching you and applauding.

A reminiscent friend,

xxxxx

Confessions of An Airplane Neurotic

Being on airplanes freak me out. Not because I am afraid of heights. No. That's not it at all. It's just the strangest things take place 30,000 feet above ground. My mind starts racing a mile a minute and I get awfully neurotic. It's not natural for humans to be up that high.

The worst thing that can happen is that you are assigned to the middle seat. It's probably the closest to Hell you can get because you are confined to looking at the sad little head rest in front of you because you can't look out the window because then the person who is actually sitting next to the window will think you are staring at them forcing them to look at their sad little head rest or stare out into the clouds. And you don't want to look at the person sitting in the aisle seat because that would force them to look down at the aisle and the aisle lights could blind them. That would just be down right rude. I wouldn't want the guilt of causing someone's blindness on my head, would you? I don't think so. I already have enough to answer for when I arrive at the pearly gates.

I had to sit in the middle seat one time as I was flying home from some point across the Pacific Ocean. A 12-year old Asian girl sat next to me. She had the honor of the aisle seat. Oh, the aisle seat. You, lucky, lucky girl. Did you request that precious jewel or was Fate just on your side that day? When the angels colluded to give you a 14-hour plane ride of comfort and relaxation while the drones of Hades plotted my demise? Sleep on, little girl, enjoy the gentle touch of Destiny's palm while you can.

The freedom to get up whenever you want without having the imposition of tapping the person next to you on the shoulder and putting on puppy dog eyes, pouting your lips, and nodding your head towards the back of the plane and giving a "Sorry, buddy, but can't you see I really gotta go #1" sorta look. I wonder if everyone is as edgy as I get when I am on the plane. I hate having to go to the bathroom on planes because it's like getting up in the middle of the crescendo of a symphony or something like that. Maybe like getting up in the middle of a crazy cool action movie and the hero is blasting away at the bad guys or in the middle of a crazy sexy love scene where you realize these two people really should be together...or maybe getting up in the middle of your sister's wedding where the best man is giving his toast and you scream out, "I think I have to pee!! But don't mind me...keep going." I'm just neurotic. I sat in place for God knows how long and I kept saying to myself, "Come on, lightweight, you only have 7 more hours to go. Your bladder can handle that." But of course, I cannot. It's just not humanly possible, people.

Back to sitting next to this 12-year old Asian girl. She has conveniently fallen asleep and I contemplate how long she'll be taking a nap until I can go to the bathroom. I hate waking up people especially strangers. Because how many other occasions would you have to wake up a stranger? Only on an airplane when you have to go to the bathroom and maybe the next morning after a hard night of clubbing and tequila shots.

Oh, here comes the stewardess with the refreshment cart. Oh, if I go to the restroom, I'll miss her and I won't have the courage to ask her for a drink on my own because I'm sure she'll cast me a look that says, "You should have been in your seat, Miss Apples. You'll just have to wait until the next round of refreshments." And I've never been one of those people to push the "Request for Personal Service" button. That tiny ding that goes off and you think, "What does that loser want? Can't you leave the flight attendants alone. They work hard enough. All that pointing and coffee pouring, don't you know."

So I stay. Oh, what do I want to drink? What do I want to drink? This is always a big decision because you always want to get your money's worth so that means alcohol or fruit juice. But you don't want to be the lush with a tray table full of tiny vodka bottles and a glazed look in your eye as you become the airplane booze bum. When the flight attendant asks whether you want chicken or beef you get into a fist fight with her because your alcoholic veins want a thin crust pizza with pepperoni and extra olives. That would be a scene for sure.

"Chicken or Beef?"

"Pizza!! I want pizza...pepperoni and olives, don't you know?"

"I'm sorry Miss Apples but your choices are chicken and beef."

"I thought I told you I'm going to have the thin crust pizza, lady! Perk up your ears!"

"Miss Apples, calm down. I'm going to have to give you the chicken then."

"What the hell? I'm the customer! I want pizza! I can smell it baking back there. You attendants just want it all for yourselves, you selfish bastards!!"

So fruit juice then? But that seems so kindergarten. So you want soda? But then sometimes they don't give you the whole can and pour you half from the can and save it for the next poor soul who wants Diet Pepsi too. So water? But that seems like such a waste. You can get water anytime. Get a 7 up. Or a ginger ale. That sounds fancy...like a mature adult of drinking age who knows their boundaries.

"What drink can I get for you, ma'am?"

"Ginger ale please."

"Oh I'm sorry we're out of ginger ale."

Dammit!! Foiled again. I'll never fly this airline ever again! Ok, quick-- think!

"Umm..ok...7 up."

Dammit, no!! You should have gotten an apple juice. 7 up is too fizzy.

So now here I am with a cup full of fizzy soda and I still have to go to the restroom but now I have to finish the fizzy soda before I can get up. And since when do they start giving us pretzels instead of peanuts!! Look at the situations you put yourself in!! Goddammit!!

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. Ok, I have to go. I shake her once. Shame on you. I shake her twice. Shame on me. Nothing. I swear I nearly rip this girl's arm off but she still doesn't respond. What, did she take a bottle of sleeping pills or something? Worse yet, maybe she's narcoleptic. How sad. Now I feel sorry for being upset at a person with a physical disorder. But now I can tell people I met a 12-year old narcoleptic. Stop making jokes, you have a bladder situation on your hands.

I look over to the old man sitting in the window seat. I expect some look of sympathy...some expression of condolences because surely he had to have noticed my attempts to shake off Mr. Sandman's dust from this girl. But he gave me a quick glance and looked back down at his Skymall catalogue. Maybe he thought I was looking out the window and was startled to see my eyes meet his. What a cad. So what else was I left to do. I unbuckle my seat belt and climb over this girl. How embarassing. I felt like everyone was watching me. As if I was the in-flight entertainment.

"Look, honey, put on your headphones. The movie is starting. Oh its that one with the narcoleptic who always sits in the aisle seat and makes the person sitting next to her dreadfully uncomfortable. The best part is whether or not the person climbing over the narcoleptic's bladder explodes as she's crawling over the girl only to find out that one bathroom is clogged up and the other already has three people waiting in line for it!! What a comedy. Oscar gold for sure!!"

Anyhow, I make it to the tiny restroom and do my business. It embarassingly takes a few minutes for me to figure out how to flush and when I step out, the old lady waiting after me gives me an irritated look as if I stunk up the bathroom. Come on, lady, that smell was already there!! Blame the fat man in G21 who ordered the rubbery beef stroganoff, not me!!

Hopefully, I would have thought the 12-year old Asian girl had awoken or at least shifted in her sleep. I tapped her on the shoulder. I shook her shoulder. I wanted to slap her or maybe pour some hot tea in her lap but then that would make me the wrong one. That's the paradox of this situation and of society. Come on, a smoking gun doesn't give you all the details....

So once again I have to climb over her and I am hoping my bladder can last the final hours of this trip. Was the destination Texas or Purgatory, I forget?

I buckle my seatbelt and give a sigh of relief. I shake off those last few moments and decide to have a nice read of my anthology in peace and solace.

Oh great, now the sleepy bear awakes from hibernation. The girl shifts. She opens her eyes. Draws her knees up to her chest and turns in her seat. And the next thing I know, she has wedged her toes under my thighs for warmth.

Where am I? Is this happening? Who is this child who thinks she can use me as some kind of human heater? Do I look like a pair of socks? She continues sleeping and I don't know what to do. Obviously if I try to wake her, she won't respond. This truly is hell.

At least she doesn't have long toe nails and is wearing socks. And now, its easier for me to pass by her if I need to go to the restroom because I don't have to crawl over her legs. See, I'm not that pessimistic.....only 6 more hours to go....

Waiting for Julia

I woke up this morning and found a note from my girlfriend. It read "Went to buy milk. Be back soon." I smiled. That must mean Julia is going to make pancakes. Goddamn I love that girl. Was today Sunday? Because she only makes me big breakfasts on Sundays...mmm...but wait today is Tuesday.

Daily ritual. Get out of bed. Brush my teeth and wash my face. Hop in the shower and wash away the recesses of yesterday. Julia bought me this neato shower radio. She knows that I love to listen to NPR in the morning. It makes me feel extra smart. The insecurity in me is palpable but Julia lets me be who I am and she makes me feel like I'm king of the world. How did a fellow like me end up with a goddess like her? Life is good, I tell ya. Hmm...I feel extra clean today. Maybe its that new soap Julia bought for me. Smells like peaches.

The shower radio clock says its 8:34 A.M.

Clean my ears with q-tips and wrap the towel around my waist. I listen to the sounds of the apartment. I hear no one. I don't even hear someone trying not to make a sound. Because sometimes those are even louder. Is Julia hiding? She must be back from buying milk by now. The corner store is only a block over. Or did Mr. Lee say he was closing down for remodeling? I guess she had to take my bike all the way to Turner Street. What a hassle. All because she loves me so much to make pancakes on a.....Tuesday?

I sit in my flannel boxers and white T-shirt and make some coffee. The paper is already on the table. The sun shines through and I can see that its going to be a good day. Marshall called me and said I didn't have to go into work until 11:30. What a guy. "We all work hard and you've been working extra hard. Come into work late tomorrow, son. How's that little lady of yours? Man, she's a firecracker." Marshall's great. I've worked at GridIron, Inc for five years now. Maybe this Christmas, I will get that bonus I've been waiting for so long. Just maybe.

Where's Julia? I hope things are ok. Oh man, I hope nothing happened to her. I shake my head. What a doof. She's a big girl. She can take care of herself. Should I call her? No, because if I do then that's when she'll stroll through the door and I don't want to seem needy...what a doof.

I put on a pot of coffee and try to remember if Julia preferred the French Vanilla or the Columbian roast. Maybe the French Vanilla.

She'll be here any moment.

I look out the window and can see Mr. Lee sweeping the outside of his shop. I chuckle.

The phone rings and I let the machine get it.

"Uhh...Eric. Are you there? It's Julia. I wanted to know when I can come pick up my things. Its going to be weird so maybe I should just come by when you're not there. I'll leave the key when I'm done. Hope things are ok with you....remember...this was for the best. I'm sorry."

I listen to the words but they wash over me and are taken away by the waves of my mind. When's Julia coming back to make those pancakes? The beep weighs on my mind as if something important had taken place. I shrug. Life is great. I have a great job, a great girlfriend...life couldn't be better.

I wonder when Julia will be back with the milk to make pancakes. I'm getting hungry.

Three Musketeers 

Comptine D'un Autre Ete-L'apres

(Intermission)
Sitting by my window
Listen
As the slice of music
Cuts into me.
And you cross my mind.

Big Shoe, Small Shoe

(Continuation of Brik-A-Brak)

Officer Nip sat at his desk. The investigation found the girl's purse on the roof of the Bonn's Bagel Factory. And it laid there on his desk in a plastic bag. It had been opened and her ID cards were placed in separate smaller bags.

Mona Mingh. 23 years old. Brown eyes. Black hair. Organ donor.

Nip wondered what she was thinking as she fell to the hard concrete street. Did she scream? Did she land with a hard thump, crack, or maybe thud? Did she feel the icy, cold hands of gravity grip her slender waist and slam her mortal body against its chest? He liked to imagine her falling slowly...like a curly lock of hair shorn off at the barber shop..lightly floating to the ground but then swept away.

**************************************************

Froggie walked into the police station with sweaty palms. He tried to visualize this as another acting audition. Be the boyfriend who loved his girlfriend. Be the guy who breaks down when he realizes his love is gone. Be the man that Mona deserved.

Dammit. No, not that last one, man. She was a bitch, remember?

Froggie wished he could cut out his conscience with a knife and tuck it away in his pocket just for awhile until he was able to leave this cold police station.

"Hi, I'm here to talk to the police. They said something happened to my girl."

**************************************************

Nip looked at the 5'6 guy who sat in the chair before him. This guy was with that girl? Ok, whatever.

He explained how Mona had died (at least what they thought at that point in time. She was still awaiting an autopsy).

Froggie kept his eyes blank.

"Was Mona under any pressure? Was she the suicidal type? Sir, did you talk to her at all that day?"

Froggie tried to find the right tone. Sad? Confused? Upset? Maybe a combination...

"I talked to her that morning. She said she couldn't have lunch with me because she had other plans. I dunno with who. Have you talked to her parents? Do they know?"

Dammit, don't shift the blame to the parents. You look guilty now, you stupid fuck.

"She didn't tell you what plans she had. With who?"

Froggie felt something inside him bubbling up. What was this? A whole slideshow of his time with Mona flashed in his mind. What had he done? What he done?! The heat ran up his spine and reached his face and he felt like he was going to explode. He burst into tears on Nip's desk. "Oh my god, she's gone. She's gone! What am I going to do?"

*********************************************************

"Can I have two sausage mcmuffins and three egg mcmuffins and five hashbrowns and uhh...three orange juices."

"Thank you sir, pull up to the window."

BoBo drove up, paid, and grabbed the bag of food.

Kuno sighed. "Froggie is going to fuck up. He's gonna fuck all of us over."

Bobo shook his head. "It'll be ok. I think maybe..---Hey is that Lara?"

Lara was walking drinking a chocolate milk and seemed unaware of the world around her.

"Lara!" Bobo pulled up beside her. "Get in, we're having breakfast. We have some stuff to tell you. Come on, get in."

To be continued...........

Squeeze Back, Grandma

In the dimness of the nightlight by my feet from the corner, I could see the shadows of my grandmother's face as she lay in bed. It cast an eerie yellow glow throughout the room. Her cheeks seemed hollow. I pictured her as a young woman with high cheekbones swept with apple blush. Her long black silky hair in a conservative bun. But her red lips displayed an intriguing playfulness. Oh how beautiful, she is, they would all say. Now her face was matte'ed with age and lines. The windburns of life experience creased deeply into her forehead. Her hair was thin and grey almost like dry rice sticks. She had been sleeping for quite some time now. Her eyes were closed and I longed to see through them. What do you see, grandma, what do you see?

I had been at the hospital everyday for the past week and the doctors said it would be soon until...

So, tonight, I would stay for her. Tonight I would stay.

The IV drip hung limply and the heart monitor jumped with a droning beep. I laid my head on the papery sheets and held her tiny hand. Everything about my grandmother was tiny, from her lively eyes that disappeared when she smiled to her size 4 feet.

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother and I had never had a real conversation. She spoke only Chinese and Vietnamese and I could only speak English fluently. Being born in America and my parents, who were always at work, didn't leave much room for language lessons. I could understand bits and pieces and maybe say a sentence or two in reply to her conversations, but for the most part, her words fell upon my ignorant ears. It's not that I didn't want to know my mother tongue, it’s just...well, my excuses could fill a basket (no time, laziness, capitalist America and its TV, or worst of all, apathy) and we'd still be left at square one.

So my relationship with her was one of blood. It was as if when we were together, we occupied some neutral space during war times where there was an underlying feel of something bigger around us, but we pretended like it was just made out of sand. You are my grandmother and I am your granddaughter. Nothing more, nothing less.

She would cook lovely foods for us though. Greasy chicken wings hot off the pan and rice was her usual. (Gosh, did grandma cook again? There's grease all over the kitchen floor. *sigh* This is the third time I've had to mop this week...) And then there were the green onion pancakes and red wine chicken for birthdays. Did I ever tell you how much I liked your cooking, grandma? Because I do. Maybe when we get out of here you can teach me all your recipes...

When she had gotten really sick two years ago, it was a family debacle trying to figure out where she would stay to recover. It was hard because everyone had their own lives and things going on. In times like these, people always seem to fall short of their familial responsibilities.

My oldest uncle had too many people in his house. "I have three families living in my home right now! There's just no room. I'm sorry."

My youngest uncle in Leander shook his head. "No, no, no, we're too far away from everyone else. She should be closer to you guys. It would be too risky to drive her all the way out here in the first place."

Cousin Quoc and Ming didn't want to take her either. "Ming just got married and since me and my wife both work, there wouldn't be anyone to take care of her during the day. That's not safe."

And my own parents also worked during the day and wouldn't have time. And with my little sister and baby brother still young, there would be too much going on for grandma to have a stable environment.

And so she was put into her own little apartment, centrally located between all her sons and relatives. They hired a nurse to look after her. And we could all visit her at our own convenience...

She wasn't improving and so they transferred her to a nursing home which I was always uncomfortable going to because it always felt like there was a thickness to the air. Made it hard for you to breathe. We would visit her on weekends. My siblings and I stood there smiling and nodding at my grandmother as she talked in Chinese to my parents. It was like we were deaf children waiting for someone to give us some sign of what was going on.

I would imagine what they were saying--

Grandma: Oh really? The little one has teeth now? Oh that's great. Is he talking yet?

Parents: Oh yea they grow up so fast. Are you sure you're comfortable here? Is it too cold? We could get you another blanket.

Grandma: Oh it’s fine. I just wish there were more people to talk to. My room mate just watches the television. And it’s all trash, this American TV programming. They don't have one Chinese channel here. How rude. Where are Quoc and Ming? They were supposed to come yesterday.

Grandma: Are the kids hungry? I can't eat this American hospital food. What's this wiggly red block? Jel...jell....jello? Only in America....

And then the spell would be broken and my parents and I would wave and leave and I could breathe again.

And just recently they transferred her from the nursing home to the hospital...

Oh, grandma. I wondered if she had many stories and secrets she wished she could tell me throughout all these years. So many things to teach me. All the times I came home from school when I was young and she would be there eating bread and lotus seeds. She would make me a plate of food and we would sit in silence. All those hours of silence that could have been filled with stories!! Tell me about the time you first fell in love, grandma. Or tell me how it was like moving from China to Vietnam. Was learning the language hard? Tell me about it. Tell me how Dad was like when he was little. Was he bad? But nothing came from my lips except sincere smiles and empty hopes.

Do you hear my silent screams to know you, grandma? It runs through my veins and fills my bones, grandma. Can you feel how they shake through me and try to get to you..? My deepest regrets...the time lost between us.

I realized I had started crying. I held onto my grandma's small palm and hoped she could hear my thoughts, that maybe, just maybe, times of high emotion can transcend speech and just flow from one person to another.

I'm so sorry grandma. I'm so sorry I couldn't talk to you like I wanted to. I'm sorry I never tried harder to learn Chinese. It wasn't my intention. I wanted to know you. I wanted to learn how to cook from you. I'm sorry every time I didn't eat all the grains from my rice bowl or eat my chicken bones clean. I'm sorry I never was able to know how hard it was for you to come to America. I try to remember the bits and pieces I've picked up. (You were with Uncle Pak...and you were in a boat...so scared.....I can sort of remember...trying so hard...oh no...it's slipping away...) I'm so sorry I can't remember...so sorry for not paying attention. I'm so sorry every time I said mean things about you behind your back because I knew you didn't understand me. I'm sorry for all the resentment I held towards you because I couldn't go ride bikes or play with my friends because you wanted me to stay by your side. You were just worried about me, I know that now. I'm so sorry its' been so hard for you while you've been sick. But I hope you know we all love you. We all do. In our own way. But don't go yet, grandma, stay a bit longer...I promise I'll change. I'll learn. It's too soon...

And for a split second, I thought I felt my grandma squeeze back. But it was my imagination. I let go of her hand to wipe my tears away. I fell asleep on the chair beside her until morning.

Yellow Birthday Cake Dress

My earliest childhood memories are of me being in my mother's convenience store when I was about 5 years old. I was a small child with the standard haircut for 5-year old Chinese girls: a straight chin-length cut with one and half inch bangs. I cringe now at the thought of it.

At that time, that convenient store was my mother's life and so it genetically became mine as well. I didn't mind then because I wasn't old enough to do anything but I do recall filling up the soda machines when they were low and me and my sister would imagine we were scanning the sodas like at the grocery store scanners at the register as we passed them to each other.

I do remember being on loss prevention patrol though. That wasn't as fun as filling up the sodas because I was self conscience and didn't like people not liking me and of course they can tell I'm watching them needlessly so that would make them not like me. Oh, mom, do I have to? But off I would go, my little 5-year old body in green overalls and ponytails standing there in the middle of the store, the eyes and ears of the whole operation. If you wanna steal anything, buster, ya gotta get past me, ya hear! Go ahead and try. Make my day...

So there I stood with my back to the wall watching a group of teenagers that had come in from after school. That after school bunch can get rowdy, I tell ya what. They were looking at the wide selection of candy because our store did have the best offering of candy in the entire metropolitan area. Then one black girl turned around and saw me watching them.

"Look at that little girl watching us, who do she think she is?"
"She think we stealing!"
"What's she gonna do if we do?"
"Man, that's messed up. If I wanted to steal something, I'd shove this in her face and run out the door!"

The last girl who spoke picked up a candy bar and came up to me. She waved it in my face. I could remember feeling the plastic brush across my nose. Was I scared that she would kill me with this candy bar? Maybe, I was only 5 and many things can kill a 5-year old's spirit. The girl then proceeded to pretend to run out the door, but nonchalantly walked back up to the counter and paid for the chocolate.

The bastard children walked out laughing, the jangling door chimes echoing behind them.

I didn't resume breathing until they were long gone across the street and into the field. I looked at my mom but she was busy with other customers.

The burning tears welled up in my throat.

"Mom, I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

She smiled and said ok absent-mindedly. "Is this all for you today, Mr. Parish?"

I sat in the back room for two hours before anyone came looking for me.

My mother was one of those ladies who considered their human babies to be novel dolls to be dressed up in whatever fancy they pleased. One day as I sat quietly on the orange plaid chair staring at the customers as they went by, I found myself in a yellow birthday cake dress. It was a fluffy lemon yellow meringue of a dress. Layers and layers of scratchy lace and ribbon. I even think there were tiny yellow roses embroidered on the collar.

But to my 5-year old mind, this was elegant. I didn't know any better. I was used to my mother's home-made creations that were made from thin, ugly colored material (usually avacado green or a flat burgundy). So this store-bought beauty was the highlight of my day.

I remember feeling much like a barbie doll. I had a whole collection of those. But how could I look like the barbies? I looked at Barbie #1 with the glossy blonde hair and long legs and look back at my stumpy 5-year old trunks. Glancing over at Barbie #2, I wasn't any closer to physical looks with her amber waves and hefty bosom. Ok, so a five year old's imagination can override reaity. That's the beauty of that age, no?

Then I remember how that sunny day dampened into a grey, rainy mess. A customer, I cannot recollect if it was a man or a woman, but that doesn't matter, comes up to the counter to purchase their can sodas and cigarillos and looks at me. They smile and look back at my mother ringing up their total purchase. "Is that a boy or a girl?"

I stare wide eyed with embarassment and can feel my face getting hot as the blood rushes to my cheeks. I pop off the chair and run to the back kitchen to hide from the spectators who couldn't decipher my gender. How horrifying!! To be on cloud nine, feeling like Princess Lemon Meringue and then knocked down to an androgynous dwarf dressed in yellow rags.

For Christ sakes, I was five years old in a fluffy yellow dress not a one month old infant. My ego scarred, I looked around at the familiar back room that had been my sanctuary for many occasions. I wondered how long it would take for that ignorant customer to realize their folly and then come crawling back on their hands and knees asking for forgiveness. I would sit in my throne as they groveled at my feet and look away. "Off with his head."

But of course that didn't happen and I lived to see many more days that would force me to that back room of my mother's store. I'm much wiser now in my adulthood and with a thicker skin. And my mom no longer dresses me so that's good. It just makes me realize how silly people are when they talk to children. I still see my mom behind that same counter with the same manual cash register asking Mr. Parish, "Is that going to be all for you today?"

All the Sunflowers

In a far off land, where things are simpler and time seems to stand still, sits two old men in plastic lawn chairs in a vast field of sunflowers. Nothing surrounding them except wide eyed yellow buds and their own thoughts.

There they sit.

They are senior citizens. The one dressed in brown slacks is 76 while his elder, 80, sits placidly in a grey pinstriped suit.

"Today seems extra special, don't you think?" 76 asks in a husky voice.

80 smiles at him and pulls the head of a sunflower stalk closer to him so he can smell the pungent aroma. "You're right, 76. I think today is extra special."

A lady bug lands on 80's forehead. "You see that. This lady bug thinks its extra special too since she decided to land on my wrinkled forehead. " He gives a chuckle as the scuttling of the ladybugs legs tickle his skin. She creeps between his eyes and crosses the bridge of his nose and then flutters off.

"Do you remember the first day we sat in this lovely field of sunflowers, 76?"

76 sighs and searches the realms of his mind. "We've always sat in this field, have we not?"

80 smiles. "Correct, my good man. You are correct."

They sit in placid silence. The breeze causes the sea of sunflowers to sway in unison like the waves of the ocean.

"I remember when I brought Lora here. She thought it was the most amazing place in the world. And it is. It's a shame she had to leave so soon." 76 looks off and a tear rolls down his cheek.

"Oh, 76. There are people who touch our lives who we hold on to. We hold on to them in reality physically but their emotional presence touches us, penetrates our soul and that never leaves us and that is both a blessing and a curse."

"What do you miss most, 80?"

"So many things. I miss the smell of my mother's cooking. I miss the throaty voice of Michelle singing in that little Paris cafe. I miss the smell of the ocean and the feel of the broken seashells under my feet. I miss the kisses of my woman on the back of my neck."

76 rocks in his plastic chair. The metal legs have become rusty. "We should get rocking chairs. Those are fun. Who gave us these nonsense plastic things. It doesn't match with the sunflowers."

"It is of your own doing. Don't complain. This place is beyond complaints."

The sun is a bright golden coin in the impossibly clear blue sky. It's rays warm the men's faces and tenderly bronzes their tone.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be in a field of roses, 80?"

"Roses?" 80 shifts in his chair. "What for? Roses are for hopeless romantics. For those ideal fools. Sunflowers are real. Roses carry unfounded expectations that never come through. Sunflowers are real. The only real thing."

"How do you know? This could all be a dream and tomorrow we could wake up and find ourselves sleeping in a bed of rose petals. I think they smell nice. How do we know what's real and not?"

"You're nonsensical. I know they're real, these sunflowers. And that's what makes them my reality."

76 thinks and is satisfied with his friend's answer.

80 remembers a time when he was in Paris at a nightclub he can no longer remember the name of. He would go there every evening to smoke cigarettes and have a coffee after a long day of work and meetings. Two lovers, the same ones or a different pair, would sit in the corner kissing unaware of the public around them. At first he would be envious of their romance, but then Phillipe would stumble onto the stage and introduce tonight's entertainment, Michelle. This impossible beauty would emerge from the backdrop in some fantastic dress that would cause all the men to blush. She'd clear her throat and start her heart wrenching ballad. After her last song, she would sweep across the audience and make small talk with them but right before Michelle could get to 80's table, he would pay for his bill and leave. He always remembered her raven hair that flowed down her back and the perfume that trailed behind her....

"80? 80? Did you hear me?"

80 broke from his reminiscent daydream and remembered the sunflowers.

"Did you hear me?"

80 shook his head.

76 repeated, "Do you think it's going to rain?"

80 looked into the crystal clear sky without a hint of grey and no trace of cloud.

"Maybe, 76. If we're lucky.... just maybe."

Brik-A-Brak

Three shadows hovered in the moonlight in the alleyway next to Bonn's Bagel Factory.

The red and blue police lights were causing a disorienting display that seemed to bring much undue attention to a sensitive situation. In tragedy, things should be kept quiet and respectful. But in reality, we turn tragedy into spectacle and nothing good can come from that. The media was on the scene in seconds and the area seemed flooded with curious yet apathetic onlookers.

The excess flapping yellow CAUTION tape tied around the telephone pole, drew lines on the black concrete as if writing this case in invisible ink.

The two policemen looked at the victim. The body was contorted--a cracked shell of who she used to be. Her hair was silky black and her eyes were wide open. Apart from the greyish-blue her skin had become, she was quite attractive. There wasn't as much blood as expected. All internal. Like many of life's pains, but for her, it served fatal.

Officer Lee sighed and walked over to the car to check on the status of the much-needed ambulance. His partner, Officer Nip, couldn't peel his eyes off of the thing before him. He'd never seen anything like it before. It would seem at first as if this were an open and shut suicide case: female, mid-twenties, jumped from the roof of the bagel factory. But something looked off about it all.

Officer Lee walked up to Officer Nip. "Hey, Charlie, Jon is going to be here in a few to take her in. He's not doing too bad nowadays. But damn, how can you ever get used to doing autopsies. All that blood...fluids...dead skin...yuck. I just don't get it." Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance.

Charlie Nip nodded and was still left speechless. A boiling feeling of dread seemed to bubble in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck..." He ran over to the trashcans in the alley and vomited his dinner away.

The three shadows from the alleyway made a flighty exit, confident their goal had been reached.

**************
"I don't understand. I saw her yesterday for lunch. She was fine." Froggie gave a nervous chuckle and held onto the phone tight until his knuckles turned white.

"Mmm-hmm. Alright. I'll be right down. Thank you." He hung up and looked over at the two pairs of eyes baring down on him.

Kuno and Bo-Bo sat on the couch. Bo-Bo got up and crossed his arms across his chest. "Well, what did they say?"

"They want me down at the station to identify her body. Her parents are away somewhere in the Caribbean and can't get in contact with them. Shit. I don't think I can go through with this."

Kuno peeled his 6-foot frame from where he sat and put his hands on Froggie's shoulders. "Come on, bitch, you can get through this. You knew this is what would happen. Just make like the pussy-bitch you are and go cry for your dead girlfriend. They won't bat an eye at you."

The three pulled in front of the police station. Froggie sat in the back, head down.

Bo-Bo shook Froggie's shoulder, "Come on, identify the bitch, and get the hell outta there. We're gonna go grab some breakfast sandwiches. You want Canadian bacon or sausage? Don't do anything stupid. Fuck off, call us when you're done. "

Froggie climbed out of the backseat and watched as his two best friends drove away.

*******************

In a way, our minds try to deceive us by twisting our conscience out of blame. As if we were slathered in olive oil, not allowing anything to stick to us....but it still leaves you standing there, a gross oily mess.

Lara stood in front of her manager at the Gump's Corner Store. She smacked her gum annoyingly and just waited...waited for the firing to begin.

"......we pride ourselves for integrity and conviction. If our employees aren't loyal, how do you expect our customers to be?...."

Lara apathetically nodded. Just fire, me! Fire me, goddamit!

".........and we here at Gump's try to gather a good group of workers that embody our spirit and enthusiasm for our products..."

Her eyes were literally going to fall out of their sockets if her manager didn't hurry up. Yes, I drank the bottle of chocolate milk without paying for it! Fire me!, she thought.

".......Look Lara, you're one of our better employees so you've put me in a very compromising position. I've thought this thing up and down....

Lara's mind wandered. She wondered if her manager knew his nose hairs had become so overgrown it looked like birds had started a nest in his nostrils.

A middle aged woman walked in the store (Lara liked to guess what they'd buy before they came to the counter) She thought...umm...pack a gum, liter of Diet Coke and a pack of condoms. Lara watched as the woman went to refill her birth control prescription and bought a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Damn, so close.

Lara wondered what Froggie and the other guys were doing...maybe watching a flick or eating chili fries.

"........And the holidays are coming up so we're going to need the help. And then Jeremy said he was going to have to transfer from full-time to part-time...."

She couldn't take it any longer. "Look, Bert, I quit. Thanks." Lara grabbed a bottle of chocolate milk without paying for it and walked out the store, never looking back.

To be continued......

Excerpt

This is an excerpt of Graham Greene's novel "The End of the Affair." Great writer, great book, great movie. Just thought this little piece was really inspiring and truly captures what it feels like when you can't really express your feelings to the one you love...

June 12, 1944
Sometimes I get so tired of trying to convince him that I love him and shall love him for ever. I know he is afraid of that desert which would be around him if our love were to end, but he can't realise that I feel exactly the same. What he says aloud, I say to myself silently and write it here. What can one build in the desert? Sometimes after a day when we have made love many times, I wonder whether it isn't possible to come to an end of sex, and I know that he is wondering too and is afraid of that point where the desert begins. What do we do in the desert if we lose each other? How does one go on living after that?

The excrutiating agony of love....--Apples Signing Off

The Family 

Escapism into Tapas

We're at a bar one night. There's a band that's gonna play a set in the next few minutes. It feels like its Hoobastank but when I see them it is not (and why would Hoobastank be in Texas anyhow?) and I don't know what the band's name is but the excitement is still there and the crowd is anxious to let the music wash over them. People with drinks and wafting cigarettes stand in their cliques mingling, talking?, or maybe just being. Probably patiently letting the inebriation set into their veins.

I am with my two best friends Carrie Bradshaw and Maragethe Von Trotta who both came in from New York to be with me tonight (the darlings!) but Margarethe has to leave for Munich this weekend for an upcoming film collaboration. We'll call it an early night, we promise.

We wait as the band sets up and I notice the lead singer who has a big fluff of curly hair and I like him. Our eyes meet and I smile which makes him smile which makes me smile even bigger because of his smile that matches mine. We realize we've stared at eachother too long and I shy away and busy myself with the stirrer straw in my vodka Red Bull.

Carrie tells us about how her and Samantha have had a falling out because she caught her having a blow job in her office and ran out and Samantha is hurt Carrie judged her or was Carrie mad that Sam came to her book party with a layer of skin missing because of her chemical peel....And then Maragarethe asks Carrie whether there is too much sex in the city or too much city in the sex? Carrie rolled her eyes to ignore the topic as if to say she'd heard that dime a dozen question over way too many cosmopolitans before.

Maragethe told us about a recent screening of her movie Rosenstrasse at the university and she's tired of the wishy washy Americans who think she's a radical feminist or an anti-semite and she's just tired of the bureaucracy of it all in the movie industry and wants to dance just dance on screen, why can't they just let her dance?

I focus my eyes on the lead singer as he begins the set and I smile once again and my heart flutters. The drummer begins and slowly the ensemble blend into a racy mix of beats. Suddenly the music has stopped and the lead singer scribbles something on his palm and jumps off stage and runs towards me. He opens his palm and I read the scribbled black on his sweaty skin. It reads, "Hi, Annie, do you like tapas?"

I nod and we make a drink date after his set. He runs back up and resumes his play.

Carrie and Maragethe look at me in astonishment. But then conversation ensues like nothing has ever happened. Has a musician asked if I liked tapas before and my two girlfriends find it commonplace now? I don't recall this ever happening. And I question whether or not I really do like tapas? What are tapas again...?

They ask about my plans after graduation and I cringe at the question because does anyone ever know? I'm not so sure, I say. I've gone through so many answers my mental filedrawer is completely deluged. A ask my mental secretary to please retrieve a viable answer and the little gnome limps to the cabinets, scans through the files and takes out a paper that reads WRITING IN GRAD SCHOOL. I smile, "Maybe writing in grad school."

But so many others seem to have their heads screwed on straight and here I am making tapa dates with curly haired guys and talking about feminism....or was it chemical peels? I forget.

But then I realize I have to take my best friend home because he has an assignment due tomorrow and he is stranded at my apartment and he has no car. But what about Curly Hair Guy? My best friend will be furious at me because plans always seem to change. But then again I seem to lose to always watch him win. But wouldn't he understand. I would wait for him if he met a big bosomed girl at a club. But then who's to say when it comes to these things?

The band is good and the crowd is loosening up as the night gets older and the alcohol is flowing through their bodies. I light up a cigarette and remember I have a sore throat and this would probably prolong my ailment. But I've already started one so I can't let it go to waste.

All of a sudden I'm sitting in front of Curly Hair Guy and we're talking about the simple things that strangers talk about and he asks me questions about school and my writing and I ask him questions about his formal vocal training. He laughs.

I realize I haven't felt this way in so long and I've wanted this feeling back under my skin and I couldn't wait for it to seep into my bones. But then Curly Hair Guy has vanished and so have my girlfriends (did they leave without saying goodbye?) and now all the other people in the bar are no where to be seen and the smell of cigarette smoke has been replaced with jasmine incense.

Shuddering because my window was left open and it had started raining, I awake from my slumber and shut the window. I curl back into my position on the couch and see that I had left Season 3 of Sex in the City on and I click the television off. I contemplate whether I should go back to sleep or work on the assignment for European Studies that compares the filmic strategies in Von Trotta's Rosenstraße versus Die Andere Frau.

*sigh* It's been such a long day.

Amalgamation of Three Texts

(Dedicated to Daddy. Happy Birthday, Dad!)

The long poem of walking manipulates

A straight-laced distingue gentleman

Aimlessly typing mundane thoughts

Neither foreign to them

To extend a helping hand

It’s cold outside in Sydney

Creates shadows and ambiguities

Ingrained in our street lexicon

Made out of sand, blow away

Like a peddler, carrying something surprising

First shriek of the summer cicada

One minute of space and time

Modern art of everyday expression

Meaning considerably more complex

Than drama-queen theatrics

Two complementary poles

Exercising our right to Democracy

And having a break for smokes and beer

Yesterday was only painted

Summer nights that smell like bushfires

Wafting smoke from his cigarette

Every walk constantly leaps or skips

Maintain some semblance of empathy

That’s bullshit

Gaps in the spatial continuum

Illustrated for us years ago

Rebuilding glass castles

Inseparable from the dreamed place

“F—kin arsey c—t”

This was fun—let’s do it again…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

De Certeau, Michel. (1988) “Walking in the City.” The Practice of Everyday Life (trans. Steven Randall) Berkely: University of California Press, pp. 91-114

Owen, Alexander M. (2004) “UnAustralian? It’s just not cricket…” Blitz Magazine 16-22 May p.9<>

<>Trinh, Annie. (2004) “Email #2087-Observing from the 110^th floor.” 12 May

Bus Ride in Précis

homeless
corn husk hair
asian man
sits next to me
on the bus
trapped
falls asleep
on my shoulder
I shudder
and wake him
he stirs
and falls back
on my shoulder
i cringe
he awakes
no apologies
for his foreign slumber
empty eyes
of a forgotten man
wanting nothing more
than to sleep

Scale: Chapter 1

::The Unjust Persecution of Tom Brodie::

Tom Brodie started breathing heavily as he looked at the scale under his waxy, pudgy feet. Could it be? 302 lbs? Could that be right? He fainted and the Health Police were at his door 5 minutes later hauling him out on a gurney into their ambulance.
In a world where image is everything, the world's obesity problem was climbing to staggering numbers especially in the United States. 50 years ago, the government was having talks with representatives around the world and many leaders were also concerned. The concern laid in scientists predictions that within 200 years, the world's food supply would run out. Things had to be done.
There were experimentations of genetically grown foods, chemically enhanced. But even those findings would not sustain the human race especially at the rate the population was exponentially growing. And many activists were concerned of the long term health ramifications of human consumption of all those chemicals.
Then Mr. Howard Duvalle from Perth came up with a radical plan. "The problem is not the food sources gentlemen. The problem is the consumers that are eating this food at an enormous rate and the more pressing culprit is the obese human. Obese humans eat an average 5000 calories a day whereas a normal person only consumes 2500 calories a day. What we need to get rid of are people who are morbidly obese."
"Well how do you plan we do that? Slaughter them so we can eat them ourselves?" The representative from Lithuania said half-heartedly but quickly frowned when he saw Howard's stone face. "My god, man, you're not serious. That's inhumane!"
Howard laughed. "No no no, I for sure would not want to eat the ass of a fat man who probably has more diseases than a pigeon. I just don't think this is a laughing matter. Our race is in trouble and we will not be taken out because there are humans who can't control their stomachs. There are parts of this world that are not even occupied. The glaciers of Antarctica, the rain forests of South America. I suggest, gentlemen, that we take these fat people and make them drastically lose weight on these deserted places and when they are of acceptable size, they can be integrated back into humanity. This is what our world is heading towards. Drastic measures. I suggest we focus this plan on America where the obesity problem has gotten out of hand. Just as a test run."
The leaders were in an uproar.
"You're a crazy man, Duvalle! Incompetent!"
"That's involuntary slavery, you fool! The public won't stand for this!"
"Would you put your own mother on an iceberg in Antarctica, ignoramus! I'm disgusted!"
"There must be a better way..."
People were shouting and no one could understand anyone especially with all the different languages being spoken. The presiding officer banged his gavel.
The conference mellowed into a light stir and then was quiet. It felt sinister as if they were in the middle of a sci-fi movie. Was this really an option? What about the mental state of these obese people? What about civil rights? How would they implement this? Had the human race really been reduced to this morbid solution?
Fast forward 50 years....
When Tom Brodie awoke, he found himself in a hospital bed. The stale smell of antiseptic stung his nose and he realized that he was plugged up to an IV drip and the tubes going in and out of his body were numerous. The tears were rolling down his cheeks. "I'm only 25. 25, this can't be happening. I can change. I already started this new diet...." His words trailed off when there was a knock at his door.
Three men dressed in white smocks and a woman in a nurse's uniform walked in and stood at his bedside.
The woman stepped closer and checked his vitals. "Mr. Tom, I'm sorry but your weight has gone over the acceptable limit of national standards and you will have to be reprimanded. I'm sure you've read about our process, yes?" It seemed as if she were reciting a speech she'd done many times. Her toothy grin was mordant and sinister and gave Tom an uneasy feeling.
Tom wanted his mother. "Where's my mother?"
The nurse smiled. "Have you been monitoring your weight on a daily basis, Mr. Brodie? Well, the Health Police sure have and they have a bone to pick with you." She gave a nonchalant laugh. Tom felt as if he were back in primary school being condescended by his kindergarten teacher. The nurse continued, "I'm sure the government has sent you the brochures. The process is nothing special. In a way, you can think of it as a vacation. You get to go and relax, not have to worry about work or school. We just need your signature....," she fluttered a stack of papers in front of his blurry eyes. The tears were making his eyes swollen. "....here. Pen?" She clicked the pen and the tip gave an evil sparkle. He looked up. The hanging light above him swung slowly and gave a slight squeak.
Tom shook his head. "But I thought they give you a month's notice! A month's notice before you come! My friend said she knew a woman who was able to stay home for a two month's grace period and she ended up losing 50 pounds!! She didn't have to be shipped off! I can do that. .. I don't want to go away...."
He thought of all the investigative news blips on how people were shoved into tiny cabana huts and forced to eat banana leaves and caterpillars. And the worst part of it was most people went crazy, or committed suicide or ended up dying before their time was up. Drastic Weight-loss Rejuvenation Deportation....
The tall man with the mustache stepped up. "Mr. Brodie, yes, we usually do give people a month's notice but haven't you kept up with the Weight Report News? They announced 4 months ago that if a person is gaining too much weight, too quickly, the Health Police take over jurisdiction and are able to make the call of who goes or doesn't. And you've been chosen and we cannot do anything about it. We have the warrant right here, " He waved a light yellow paper with an official emblem embossed at the top. He pointed to Tom's name printed at the bottom. "You, my sir, have been eating too many pancakes."

My Holiday Cup Runneth Over

It's 7 A.M. on a Saturday morning and I'm tired from driving all night to Dallas from Austin and I cringe because my biological clock won't let me go back to sleep. This has been happening for a while now. Every time the clock strikes 7 in the morning, something inside my brain goes off and says, "Annie, wake up. You're not allowed to sleep anymore." How sad...so I lay there awake underneath blankets and pillows trying my best to sqeeze the sleep back into me, but to no avail. Coincidentally this is also the time my little sister and little brother have been conditioned to wake up at as well since they attend primary school still. So my little siblings bounce on my bed and smile, "Let's put up the Christmas tree!!" Why not? It's already mid-November. We're following in the footsteps of capitalistic America and its department store ploys to get us to consume consume consume. But I digress. We put up the 9 foot artificial pine and adorn it with a collage of bright lights and ornaments and to say the least, its very....colorful. Let the holidays begin!!

Baking makes the house smell good.

One of the most fun and rewarding things to bake are madelienes. They are soft, sweet, light little bites of heaven, I swear. And all it is is eggs, butter, sugar, and flour!! And when's the best time to bake other than the holidays? And so after the Christmas tree is set up, and the old dirty cassette tape of Christmas carols is scratching through the music player, the only reasonable next step is to bake something. So madeleines are a favorite in our house so we whip out the eggs, the flour, the sugar, and butter. The best part is whipping the eggs until they are fluffy peaks. No, we don't do it by hand--we cheat with our Kitchen-Aid Delux Mixer with Multiple Speeds and Functions (circa. Christmas 1999--remember, capitalistic America) Ladle into madeleine pan and bake for just 8 minutes. 8 minutes! That's all. And since my mother sees us baking stuff, she lugs out a 50 pound bag of pecans that need to be shelled (50 goddamn pounds!!) and says, "Look, pecans! I got the whole bag for a great price. For pecan pies!"

Great mom, are we making enough pecan pies to feed the whole country?

If my mom could read my mind she would probably say, "Oh in that case, we should be making apple pie."

So after our fingers are sore and scratched from shelling the devilish nuts, we make two pecan pies--just for mom.

Confronting the Bullshit

9:05 A.M....
My hands my hands my hands too sweaty too sweaty what will i say to make them like me or maybe start off with a funny story what the hell do i know about funny stories oh dear oh dear breath mints breath mints yea put some extra in your pocket but not too many because last time you put mints in your pocket you put too many so when you stood up to shake the interviewer's hand, the mints poured out of your pocket onto the floor and you both stood there in awkward silence and i just smiled and walked out what a retard i am oh gee in retrospect i should have swept the breath mints into a neat pile with the side of my shoe and dustpanned them into the cusp of my palm with the business card he had given me but maybe just maybe the interviewer swept them up himself and put them in a glass cup and offered them to the other unsuspecting interviewees after me and inside his head he was devilishly laughing to himself do i look alright i need a haircut oh dear what would mom say i wish i wasn't like this just relax just relax its just an interview not the end of the world but it sure does feel like it when you walk out that door and you know they're not going to call you back bullshit i hate it

9:10 A.M....
My last interviewer gave me a "satisfactory" for my appearance mother-fucker what does he want me to wear a Dolce & Gabbana pinstriped two piece mother fucker what does a girl have to do oh well it was only for Walgreen's what do i know maybe the store managers at Walgreen's do wear Dolce & Gabbana pinstriped two pieces and if so then to hell with them i dont need that shit mother fucker the interviewer was nice though i wonder if when i left he laughed just a little bit or laughed alot maybe some guffaws at what a fool i was what did i say i don't even remember he had a mustache Speedy Gonzalez mother fucker no no no thats not nice Annie why do you say shit like that just to make yourself feel better its human nature though oh fuck off you're so full of yourself Annie the ego the ego the goddamn mother fuckin ego i swear get it together you're Annie you're Annie just be yourself but they dont tell you to do that in all the Career Center literature they give you or the workshops you attend they tell you to always wear skin toned pantyhose and always smile and slick back your hair mother fuckers this is absolute bullshit

9:15 A.M.
Should i go in now i dont know who am i interviewing with again oh yea oh yea a mortgage company what the hell do i know about mortgages the other interview with the insurance company i went fifteen minutes early and just sat there in the sanitized aroma of the career center with the labrinth of interview rooms tiny rooms where they expect to fit you and your nerves and your butterflies as well as the interviewer and his bullshit questions in what the hell thats not fair they should have the interviews in bars where people can just drink and relax because corporate people these days go to happy hours after work anyhow and that's where they really have fun and the alcohol will surely ease the nerves and kill the butterflies and make your brain cells throb so you can tell witty stories you probably made up but people do that when they're sober why make this process so cut throat breathe in breathe out pop in another breath mint my teeth hurt

9:20 AM
Alright here we go here we go just another day just 30 minutes of meeting another person 30 minutes of talking about your strengths and making them see your winning smile 30 minutes of.....excrutiating pain and my insides rip up whenever they ask me a question and when i see them searching my face for an answer i want to slide out a butcher knife i've been hiding in my suit jacket and cut out their tongues and scream WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE TO ASK ME NOW MOTHER FUCKER

9:25 A.M.
Hi, are you Annie?
Yes, nice to meet you.

**********************************************************************
10:07 A.M.
Oh my god oh my god decompress decompress its over its over they liked you but you still were a spaz at times did you have to SAY spaz so many times lets review the transcript a whopping ten times oh gee who wants to hire a spaz and you paused way too long after they asked a question and before you began and why did you tell them the Norma Jean story they probably thought you made that shit up because whose name is still Norma Jean oh gosh how disappointing mortgages are bullshit oh stop oh stop always trying to talk yourself out of feeling like shit well maybe its time you just wallowed in your own self misery interviews suck ass goddamn fuck why can't you be more like that girl who has it all with the perfect makeup and perfect pinstriped suit who already is in her second round of interviews and not only is she flying out to New York this weekend for an office visit she already has offers from Dell, IBM, and mother fuckin Microsoft goddamn but do you want that do you really want that or do you want something more something more that makes your insides shake with passion and something that when you do it you just feel like its just you and your skin and your thoughts and just being honest with your soul thats what i want to do i don't want that other bullshit i just want to write and write good and write for those who like my writing fuck confront the bullshit of it all and just be honest with yourself stop being a scared shit and just do it dont worry you can get through this lets take five and have a cigarette

An Evening with David Sedaris

"To Nancy and Annie--Thanks for making me rich!" Signed David Sedaris.

The phrase was both witty and mordantly caustic which is what I like to call the Sedaris Touch (ala The Lubitsch Touch). We had waited a good 45 minutes in the line to have our book signed by the talented author and both of us were ecstatic. What would WE say? What would HE say?

Finally it was our turn and Mr. Sedaris looked smaller, frailer, and more human up close and personal. But I guess that's how it always is when you build up someone in your head and finally meet them in person and realize, "Oh yea, they're just flesh and bone too."

He had asked mundane questions to us like where were we from and why the hell had we driven an hour and a half down to San Antonio to see, of all people, him. We were flubbering fools and gushed as if we were teens in front of some fad pop idol. We told him how we tried to go to his Austin show but it was sold out and I asked if he had time to see the city and maybe get drunk on 6th Street. He said no and that he usually sees former governor Ann Richards when he's in Austin and we listened intently.

We were ushered into our seats and the Empire Theatre in San Antonio was quite fancy. The red chairs and heavy velvet curtain shone in the beaming spotlights. The wine and cocktails served at the bar would have pushed the event towards being pretentious but then sitting next to the couple that was already almost half drunk brought the status levels down a notch.

I realized. "Nancy, do you think he was being serious about Ann Richards?" Nancy looked at me and said it was a grey area. He seemed to be telling us the truth but then again the Sedaris Touch creeps in and the room for sarcasm is endless!! I buried my face in my hands, "Oh, we're fools! Of course he was just joking!!" There was the possibility for him to know one of the popular political figures of Texas such as Ms. Richards....but he also had a morbid fascination with monkeys and spiders. I guess like the age old tootsie roll-licking question, the world may never know.

The two hours of grandeur was filled with Mr. Sedaris reading from his writings, two pieces I recognized from "Dress your Family in Courdoroy and Denim" and others I didn't but were equally as funny. It was an entertaining night and I felt redeemed in my own literary pursuits. Or to say the least, I had a broader knowledge of spiders:

Did you know that there is a spider that carries its egg sack attached to its behind. And if for some reason, the sack gets stolen or lost, the spider is content with carrying around a piece of trash in its place.

I hope I never lose my egg sack...

Trick o' Treat Politik

Mary-Beth and Janice were normal people. They liked vanilla ice cream and watched The Regis and Kelly Show every morning before work. They were also Republicans. And as the pending presidential debate loomed ahead, they decided to show their campaign spirit by putting up a Bush/Cheney poster in their window to display their support for the GOP.

Days went by and the girls also got into the Halloween holiday spirit by putting up orange lights on their door and carving a jack-o-lantern and placing it on their front doorstep. They lit it up with candles and their holiday spirits were high and flying.

One weekend, they were having a nice brunch of french toast and fruits while reading the Sunday newspaper. Suddenly they heard a loud banging on their front door. They glanced at eachother and shrugged because neither were expecting any company. Mary-Beth got up and answered but was startled to see that no one was there. She glanced down and was shocked because their beloved jack-o-lantern had disappeared and was replaced with a white piece of paper. Mary-Beth picked up the paper and walked back in to show Janice.

"Janice, that was weird, no one was at the door, but the pumpkin is gone and there was this paper." They proceeded to read the note:

Your jack-o-lantern has been taken for ransom.
Don't be alarmed. If you follow our requests, he will not be harmed.
If you want your pumpkin back, take down that damn Bush/Cheney poster.

Regards,
Concerned Democrats

Mary Beth and Janice stared at eachother and started laughing. How childish. Had the elections really been reduced down to this. Has the American electoral system been replaced with constituents reduced to stealing pumpkins in order to supress individual policital views. They decided to ignore it, keep their poster up, and continue with their day.

5 hours later.....

KNOCK! KNOCK!! KNOCK!!!

Mary Beth and Janice had just sat down for coffee when they heard the familiar knock. Mary Beth rolled her eyes. "You get it, Jan." Jan chuckled and headed towards the door.

As expected, no one was there and there was another white note on their doorstep. This time there was a polaroid picture clipped to the note.

We see that you refuse to take down your Bush/Cheny poster.
Due to your apathetic actions, you left us no choice.

Regards,
Democrats Up to No Good

The picture attached was of their jack-o-lantern with three butter knives stuck in its orange flesh with ketchup blood oozing out of it.

The End.

*This is a semi-fictionalized account. No pumpkins were harmed in the making of this blog.

Death of my Marlboro Man

Waking up to a new day
And he wasn't there anymore
The craving waned, the novelty faded

A new day with an empty box
His company no longer needed
To walk beside me in these dark ages...



I quit smoking.

Now what do I do with all these lighters? -- love, annie

Look at this Texan...

Annie's a Cowgirl