Tossed and Turned

                “I can’t sleep,” said Harry.

                The room stayed silent as Harry stared up at the ceiling fan. The darkness was only broken by the occasional passing headlight reflecting off the storefront windows across the street.

                “Why not? What’s wrong,” asked Margaret in a snoozy haze.

                “I don’t want to tell you,” said Harry.

                Margaret opened her eyes and turned over on her pillow to face Harry.

                “Don’t want to tell me? What’s that mean,” asked Margaret.

                “I think you’ll get mad,” said Harry.

                Margaret turned all the way over in bed and put her hand on Harry’s shoulder.

                “You can tell me anything Harry, you know that. No matter what, you can tell me,” said Margaret.

                Harry took a deep breath. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He found he couldn’t make a sound. He didn’t know how to tell her that he knew that she didn’t love him anymore. He found her e-mail to her mother in which Margaret expressed how trapped she felt by Harry and how she wanted something more out of life than he could give her, even though he’d done his best to try and make her happy. He didn’t know how to tell her that he understood how she felt and that maybe, with her falling out of love with him. He may have fallen out of love with her, but he wasn’t sure.

                “I don’t know what to say,” said Harry, “I don’t… I just have a lot swirling around in my mind I guess,” said Harry.

                “Why would that make me mad,” asked Margaret.

                “I didn’t mean mad, just, I didn’t want to bother you with what’s going on in my head,” said Harry.

                Margaret sat up on her elbows and considered Harry for a moment. He was on his back, hands folded on his chest. He looked fatter than she remembered. “When did he get so fat,” she would wonder.

                “Well, you did wake me up so now you have to tell me what’s bothering you or I will get mad,” said Margaret.

                The room was silent again as Harry held his breath. Margaret continued to stare at him through the darkness. A car drove by blaring bad, tasteless music too loud.

                “It’s a wonder anyone can sleep with all that racket outside,” said Harry.

                “Right,” said Margaret. 

                She lay back down and turned away from Harry. 

                “I know that things haven’t been great between us lately. I know that you feel a little underappreciated and maybe a little put upon while I’ve been trying to get myself back together. I know it’s been hard on you and I want you to know that I am sorry,” blurted Harry. 

                Margaret stayed still on her side of the bed. The same side she’d had for nine years without any variation. Her eyes were open, staring at the darkly lit water glass she kept on the nightstand.

                “I just want you to know that I do appreciate all the things you do for me, and for us. I want you to know that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I may not always say it, but I do really appreciate all that you do,” continued Harry, “I’m just getting back to normal and I hope you can bear with me for a while longer.”

                Margaret rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling fan.

                “Now I can’t sleep,” said Margaret.  

 

C'mon Brad!

Today we enter a land strange and mysterious. A land of darkness and incomprehensible madness. Today we join the few who’ve ventured here before. Today we join, The Friday Guild.

                The Friday Guild, shrouded in secrecy since the late 1700’s, is a loose cabal of those closeted hedonists that must suffer through the “other” days of the week.  They not only Thank God it’s Friday, they celebrate it with offerings of the flesh through magical sexual conquest and goat’s head dancing. The Friday Guild meets in underground caverns; their meetings are lit only by candles; they wear the ceremonial “Friday” powdered wigs of our forefathers and they eat massive amounts of gravy smothered mashed potatoes, followed by lots of wine and Tequila. However, this is a more formal and antiquated setting for the Friday Guild. Today they are most likely meeting at that bar up the street that you want to go into but just never seem to have the time.

                They love Fridays. In fact, the restaurant, TGIFriday’s is actually a front organization for the Friday Guild. That’s why there’s so much gravy and mashed potatoes there. Plus all the crazy crap on the walls. An alligator head wearing sunglasses and a cowboy hat? A clear sign that the Friday Guild is there. 

How do you spot a Friday Guild member? They are a crafty bunch and they are able to blend into the normal fabric of society Monday through Thursday. They look like our mother’s, our sister’s, our brother’s and that one cousin you sort of wish wasn’t a cousin but are now resigned to the idea that they’re family and it’s super wrong to have those thoughts about them. That’s who they look like. They mix in around the coffee maker, telling stories about old Seinfeld episodes and how they just started watching Orange is the New Black and how much they totally love it.  These are the members of the Friday Guild.

They are a shady organization; however they have no leadership structure that can be detected. They seem to congregate where ever there are “happy hours” and “free mini tacos” or “free high school cheerleader car washes”.  En mass, they are a true force to reckon with. They manipulate jukeboxes with a graceful deftness and can get a whole room singing along to Journey with such ease you’d believe there was indeed something magical about them.  They also dance like no one is watching. 

They have no uniforms other than what is called “Appropriate Casual Friday attire”. In years past, these outfits included Hawaiian shirts, wacky neck ties, tank tops with a tasteful shawl and the occasional jean jacket, but nothing is standardized. 200 hundred years ago, in the beginning, they could be spotted by the shortness of their pantaloons or the tremendous size of their bustle.  However, they are harder to spot now thanks to Facebook, Pinterest, YouTube and various other fashion police squads.

It is their mission at the Friday Guild to embrace all things Friday (Friday of course being named after the Latin dies Veneris or "day of Venus") which means they are all about riding seashells on the surf,  naked as a jaybird while being followed by cherubim and seraphim. Which is very similar to the SocietieDe Tuesdanauts but without the colorful sashes and trombones.  They are diligent in the fulfillment of their lusty drink specials and saucy flirting with wait staffs.  It is important to remember that if you find yourself drawn into a secret meeting of the Friday Guild, it’s best just to go with the flow.

If you are not part of a local Friday Guild Chapter house, I suggest joining. You have to bring your own goat’s head for the dancing ceremony but based on the current popularity of goats in advertising I’m sure that won’t be a problem. Otherwise, remember their secret “high-five handshake”, which in all reality is just a regular high-five, just more often and by that one guy who you normally don’t like to talk to because his shirts are just way too tight for his physique.  (C’mon Brad, you can’t wear that shirt anymore.) Just remember that and you should be able to blend into their meetings like you were there the whole time.  Heed what you have learned here today and remember Omnes speciosa Friday!

 

Bedtime Cookies

It may not be best,

before seeking rest,

for cookies to be eaten,

in hopes they’ll sweeten,

what dreams may come.

No crumbs in the bed,

just a sweet tooth fed,

hoping nothing will encumber,

an easy, cozy slumber,

to awake bright-eyed and bushy.

A quick cookie before sleep,

ahead of counting sheep,

seems perfectly fine and right,

before saying goodnight.

What harm could come?

Fevered cookie dreams,

fevered cookie screams,

drenched in cookie sweat,

cookie nightmares to forget,

The cruelty of bedtime cookies.

It’s not their fault or sin,

it was mine, much to my chagrin,

seeking that last sweet snack,

before hitting the sack,

The price was mine to pay.

Yet upon waking,

past dreams of cruel baking,

I felt refreshed, renewed,

sugared and cubed,

Ready to start this long day.

So cookie sleep forgotten,

a day starts less rotten,

with only one more to go,

time to get this road on the show,

Maybe cupcakes before bed tonight.

 

Not My Parade

That simply isn’t my parade.

So I don’t mind if it’s raining.

I don’t mind if it’s cold.

I don’t mind if the roads

are slick and wet.

I just don’t mind.

It isn’t my parade.

That’s not my calliope music.

Those aren’t my elephants.

Those are not my clowns tumbling

and somersaulting.

That’s not my ring master.

That’s not my lion tamer.

That’s not my trapeze crew.

I don’t know who they are.

They fling and fly with the

greatest of ease.

They are not mine.

I don’t know them.

So go ahead and rain.

It’s doesn’t matter to me.

Let the skies open and the

monsoon come.

I’ve got no dancing pony in

this parade.

Do your tricks,

do your flips,

do your show,

in the rain,

it matters very little to me.

Run and rush,

scatter and push,

cover and cower

between the heavy rain drops.

It won’t make a difference to

me.

I’ve got my own parade

to tend to.

A girl on the high wire to

watch.

A tiger to tame.

All in the sun.

Some other day.

 

Aftermath

            The clean-up was massive. There were beer cans and bottles, spent fireworks and cigarette butts strewn all about the park grounds. Dave just had to shake his head. There were garbage cans spread all through the park, logistically placed to be of maximum use to the estimated number of firework watchers. Yet most of the cans were nearly empty. Dave couldn’t believe all that anti-littering propaganda from the 1970’s and 1980’s he was so indoctrinated by had somehow been abandoned by current generations. It was just deplorable.

            Dave adjusted his work gloves and started the work of cleaning this massive mess. He had a small grabbing, scoop device, something like the old ladies use to reach items on high grocery store shelves from the comfort of their scooters.  It made Dave’s job much easier and there was at least a little less bending over thousands of times an hour. He wasn’t the only one in the field. There were several other volunteers with him spread across the park. So he hoped that the clean-up wouldn’t take all day, yet he had no illusions that it would be at all fast.

            The grass was still damp from the morning dew and it was already starting to warm up as the sun lengthened overhead. It would be a hot day in the field and that distressed Dave more than anything. He’d hoped that his altruism might be rewarded with a cooler summer day. He realized now that wasn’t going to happen and he’d be a sweaty mess by the time the day was done. He was already sweating as he moved through the north section of the park. He had somehow drawn the short straw at the morning meeting and got the worst section of the park to clean. He’d already found three condoms and a pair of underwear mixed in with the garbage.

            It was those things that bothered Dave the most. How could reasonable people these days consent to having sex in a park, during a fireworks show, surrounded by hundreds of other people? It baffled Dave. It made Dave feel a sad. It’s been a long time since he’d even been that close to a woman where the question of underwear removal was even an issue. He just didn’t care that much about it, yet, he really longed for that kind of intimacy. It was clear from the debris spread in the field that lots of people were certainly discovering that intimacy. A bikini top. A pair of men’s underwear. More condoms. It seemed to Dave that he’d wandered into the orgy section of the fireworks show.

            He looked around for the other volunteers, to see if they were also amid the cast offs of intimacy, but they were too far away in their own sections. Dave picked up a few more beer bottles and cigarette butts. he thought that smoking was on the decline, yet the number of butts on the ground seemed to argue that statistic. He kept moving forward through the trash, trying to clear his mind of the hijinks that some couples seemed to have engaged in last night. It was tough. It seemed every time he found something new it tore at his heart a little more. One more crushed flower, one more condom wrapper, one more thong, one more lost ring, one more crumpled phone number written on some handbill were all daggers to Dave.

            It was getting warmer outside fast. By the time Dave was halfway through his field he felt like quitting. It was just too much to bear. It seemed that he really had discovered some sort of love making grotto. The worst thing he’d found so far was an empty ring box. He’d guessed that at some point during the fireworks someone had found the courage to propose to another person, the ring box came out, the person said yes, the ring was slid on a finger and the ring box, now useless, was tossed to the side in a jubilant expression of loving embraces. Dave snapped the ring box closed and shoved it into his trash bag. It almost made him angry to see it but he really didn’t know why. His own feelings of loss and rejection, of foolishness and stubbornness, seemed reflected in that ring box and all the apparent love debris he was drowning in. It was making him feel too many things.

            Dave finally saw the volunteer coordinator. A young man, a hippie of sorts, named Sasha. He smelled of weed and an intolerable sense of righteousness. Dave had only volunteered to clean the park in the hopes that there might be some women around. It was mostly guys, all hoping for the same thing. Dave walked over to Sasha and handed him his grabber/claw thing and the trash bag he’d been dragging. Sasha looked at Dave with confusion.

            “I’m done,” said Dave.

            Dave turned before Sasha could say anything about loving mother Earth or how he won’t get his tee-shirt if he left now. Dave didn’t care. He wanted to go home. He wanted to finish that book. He wanted to watch TV. He wanted to do anything else.

            He got to the parking lot and saw a woman, about his age, also walking toward a car. She looked worn out and tired. Her feet and legs were covered in smelly mud. She appeared angry in her pace. Dave realized they had parked next to each other in the parking lot. He figured it was his only chance.

            “Were you volunteering too,” asked Dave. 

            The woman stopped and turned to face Dave. She was tired, but still had a brightness to her eyes.

            “I was. It sucked. They put me by the outhouses. I told Sasha he could shove all that crap up his butt,” she said.  

            Dave laughed. 

 

Happy July 4th USA-er's!

It’s that most American, er… North American…well, no…um... it’s that most United States of America time of year! Yeah, that’s it. (Due to The US not having complete and utter dominance over the Western Hemisphere I must be somewhat politically correct.) But still, it’s pretty great to have this wonderful holiday weekend approaching. It’s one of those great holidays that don’t require any gifting or special prayers or thoughts about being charitable to your fellow man. It’s all just the USA in your face! Ka-blammo!

As a citizen of the United States of America I have to say that I’m pretty darn happy to live here. I’m glad my great-grandfather left his country of birth (Ireland) and came to the good old US of A. It’s afforded me some wonderful opportunities to completely waste due to either lethargy or disinterest. I couldn’t be bothered to determine which is more likely. That’s my awesome right as a US citizen. I can ignore any crazy crap I want and feel like I’ve done the right thing; nay, that I’ve done my country a service by being completely oblivious to the plight of others.

I care. Enough. I mean, I’m not down at the soup kitchen ladling out bowls of survival or giving free baths to the elderly, but I care, sort of. I mean. I’m a natural US citizen; I was bred not to care too much. And that’s not to say my mother didn’t raise me with any compassion. I’m loaded with compassion and concern for the downtrodden. I love them. Just while they’re over there, not so close. No…further over there. A little more, to the left, in the shadows…annnnnnd there.

Issues of public policy are very close to my heart and I hate to see the little guy, the hard working fella, get pushed around or ground into the dirt just because they don’t have the power to rise up against those that act as impediments to upward mobility. I’ll always root for the underdog. Americans love the underdog. From Rocky Balboa to the actual Underdog, we just can’t get enough of that scrappy doer with the wry smile and dirty fingernails who makes it out of the mud and the muck and reaches the pinnacle of the middle class. We frigging love the underdog character; unless it’s a woman. Then, c’mon, she’s not that special, am I right fellas? C’mon… (Based on the current wage disparity among other things, you’d think that statement was true.)

I’m kidding of course, man or woman, Americans love their underdogs. I think it goes back to our defeat of the British during the revolution. We were the world’s underdog and we made it. (With considerable assistance from France. Shhhhhh….) I think that plays just right into our love affair with rising to the top. As well as our love of seeing the powerful and wealthy get toppled and brought down to the level of complete ruin. There’s a perverse thrill of seeing the millionaire begging for change on the corner. (Hardly ever see that anymore. Is that just an old Great Depression image?) We love to see the mighty fall, and the weak rise.

Yet we celebrate all the people this weekend with our Independence Day. Rich or poor, black or white or other, all are welcome at the USA’s cornucopia of freedom. Well, I mean, sort of. I mean in a free society not everyone can be free. I mean that would just be anarchy and no one wants an anarchist in charge. We’d never know what time the town hall meeting was if there was an anarchist in charge. It’s all, “maybe later” or, “Now”, with those anarchists. It’s especially bad if they are procrastinating anarchists, then it’d be complete chaos. So clearly there has to be some sensible limits on our limitless freedoms as Americans.

I think a short list to explain the RIGHT way to express your freedom and love of this Republic this 4^th of July might be appropriate here:

 

                                                                     Blowing things up:

YES                                                                                                            NOT SO MUCH

Fireworks are a great                                                           Gas Stations – Not so great to blow up.

way to celebrate the 4^th,

as long as you are safe.

 

Small Backyard fire pits                                                     Flamethrower inside a friend’s house.

to sit around with other

friends and Americans.

Cocktails:

A few beers spread out                                                            Heroine and 8-balls and Tequila

through the evening and                                                          in your week old underwear.

never to excess.

 

Sharing a keg with other                                                                 Not sharing that 8-ball.

responsible Americans.

                                                                       Family Fun:

A nice time at a local                                                               Shooting up the neighborhood

pool and maybe an                                                                  and killing innocent families or kids.

early bed time for the

kids.

 

Sparklers for all the kids,                                                      A .45 for little Johnny to shoot straight

black cats and bottle rockets,                                                up in the air with.

safely supervised.

 

Hopefully this small list can offer some Holiday clarification. I’m just here to help you at an arm’s distance, like every good American should.

 

Regardless of the silliness of this post, I do hope that everyone does have a safe 4^th of July weekend and really feels the love your country has for you. I mean, it loves you. I mean, I talked to her at lunch and she is crazy about you. I mean some of you. Not all of you…you know who you are.

Happy 4^th of July and stay safe out there!

You Again

                Steve fussed with his collared shirt. The collar just wasn’t sitting right. It was just falling too wide and made Steve feel like he was wearing a button down shirt from the 1970’s. His collar appeared to be quite “fly” in the store window reflection he saw of himself. It really bugged him. He’d ironed it to lie flat, but being on the hanger too long had made it de-evolve into some sort of throw-back, nostalgia style shirt. It was Steve’s version of hell.

            He fidgeted with his collar as he waited for his appointment with the Offices of Science and Interdimensional Control. Steve volunteered to be part of a new experiment in order to pay his rent. He’d been out of work for nearly three years and it was just too much. He’d burned through his savings, his checking, his family money, he sold his car, he gave away his dog, and he stopped smoking and drinking. So all that was really left for him was to “volunteer” for experimental procedures and collect that hazard pay. It was better than nothing for certain. He had his doubts that anything would come of this particular endeavor.

            Steve wasn’t an intellectual slouch by any means. It was his heady intelligence that was likely the cause of his perpetual unemployment. He just knew too much and after a short time working somewhere, and letting every one of his co-workers and bosses know how incredibly smart he was, he’d be let go for being a nuisance. A know-it-all nuisance, who wouldn’t stop telling people how right he was. The strange thing was he was always right. He was a genius of sorts, a savant of the highest degree, but he couldn’t apply that knowledge to anything interesting. He would just burn out after a while and stop caring about things. He had a hard time working with people he deemed to be of lesser intelligence. It was exhausting to stop and wait for them to catch-up to where he already had been. 

            So he had real doubts about the Offices of Science and Interdimensional Control having any real chance of sending a volunteer backwards in time. He didn’t think Relativity would allow for it and that the past was fixed and no amount of speed could ever send anyone back further than the perception of time would allow. 

            Steve looked at his watch. The Human Resources person, Betty, was already ten minutes late for his interview and screening. It was terribly annoying. It was only annoying in the sense that it was inconvenient. It wasn’t like Steve had anything else to do with his useless unemployed time. Frankly it was keeping him from watching cartoons all day and scrounging around for something to eat. Steve fidgeted with his shirt collar again. It was still not laying right. It was just too wide. He sighed heavily.

            The receptionist at the counter smiled at Steve and she said she’d call Betty to see what the hold- up was. She was sorry that Steve had to wait so long.  

            “Hi Betty, it’s Ramona at the front desk. Steve Brooks is still waiting to see you for your nine o’clock…,” said Ramona.

            Ramona looked up from her desk as she listened to Betty on the other end of the phone.

            “What do you mean he’s already in your office,” asked Ramona.

            Steve looked up at Ramona. He started wondering who might have stolen his identity and was posing as him. He stood up from his waiting area chair, fixed his collar again, and approached Ramona.

            “Yes, a blue shirt, black pants, black suit coat, light blue tie.... Right, he has been fussing with his collar on his shirt… He walked in an hour ago?”

            Steve felt for his shirt collar again. He wondered if this crazy office and volunteer work might have some psychological test to it. He put his hands on Ramona’s high front desk. Ramona hung up her phone.

            “What’s going on,” asked Steve.

            “I’m not sure. But Betty said that you’re already in her office. You arrived an hour ago,” said Ramona.

            “Well, that’s just insane. Someone must be pretending to be me, since I’m the only me,” said Steve.

            Betty knocked on the glass partition that separated the lobby area from the offices. Ramona and Steve looked back at her. Betty looked at Steve and stood there with her mouth open, she dropped her pen. Steve approached Betty from behind and pressed his hand on the glass partition and started nodding at Steve. He had a smile on his face.

            “It works,” mouthed Steve to Steve, and he laughed.