Table for Two

I went to dinner last night
Good conversation
Nice service
Decent food

Yet something was missing
Something deep
Sliced right down the middle
Like a canyon
Perhaps even the Grand Canyon
You reflected off the water glasses and windows
You bounced from table to table
Easily gliding from conversation to conversation
The patrons smile playfully

They toast you
You have won
Congratulations

To All Trains

I watch from the street level
The sign reads, “To all trains.”
So many people
Walking down the stairs
Boarding the trains
Leading the way
1970’s commuter vessels taking them back to their shitty lives
Where are they going?
Why do they go?
The sad part is:
Do we even care?

I can’t say I do.

Most of them are ugly and insignificant certainly to me, if not to the world

Why are the masses so unattractive?

In fifty years they will be dead
In fifty years the trains will still pull out of the station

Hauling new carcasses to “new and improved” shitty lives

In fifty years I will be older than shit and probably dead too.

So many people

The idiot masses

“Boarding the trains”

Shopping at Ikea

Buying flat screen televisions on credit

Making babies

Filling their Ikea home entertainment furnishings with framed ultrasounds of their unborn mess

Future carcasses to fill the trains

A lifetime of shit

A world of mess

Fertility disturbs me the most

Today I am going to walk

Amazing Oysters on the Half Shell

Sis: This one is for you
***
Oysters on the half shell
Screaming, vulnerable oysters
Tempting, regal
Sliding down velvet throats
Sensation of unmolested bodies
Flesh discovering flesh

How easy they go down

deep down....

***
Oysters are alive when they are eaten
Violently hacked from their shells
Screaming vulnerable oysters
Tilting toward darkness
Sensation of unmolested bodies
Sliding down, deep down, into terrifying abyss

How easy they go down
deep down....

Amazing

Trees

Trees
***

Sunday night

Dinner with family and laundry collection

Why is dad asleep by five pm?

“Your father is depressed” my mother barks.

Why does my mother look so defeated? Where has her upper lip gone ? Tell gravity to stop tugging on her brilliant skin.

“You’re too critical,” she informs me.

Why is the dog so fat that she looks like a beach ball?

“Your father is depressed,” she replies.

What is my mother doing in my childhood bedroom surrounded by empty bud light bottles?

“It’s a grand room” she reveals. “I can hear the birds and see the trees from the window.”

"I like trees."

"I think you like Bud light better. "

“You’re too critical,” she informs me.

I glance out the window.

She is right

The trees are quite nice.
I must have enjoyed this room in childhood

Weddage 2

Okay, so the gauntlet is thrown. Every time Ms. Hardwick has a family member die, she writes a touching homage to the ephemeral nature of life. Every time I go to a wedding, I'm-a gonna write a sardonic treatise on the sad state of affairs regarding love in the world. Game on!

As my escort, Ms. Milk, and I drove up to the chapel, she asked if it was a Catholic wedding. Had I understood what awaited us in the ceremony, I would have told her that we were going to have a hard time keeping Jesus out of our intestines, let alone our hearts. I went to goddamn Catholic school (they HATE it when you describe it that way) and I don't know that I heard the words "God" and "Jesus" that many times throughout my entire tenure. Let me tell you all something, Jesus is a pretty busy deity, being at the bottom of everything. Anytime the word "love" came up, it was as though the minister was contractually obligated to point out that Jesus copyrighted love about a zillion times over and any time we are experiencing anything other than abject misery, we need to think about a bloody, tortured waif and thank Him. Naturally, after talking about Jesus and God to the audience for awhile, the minister invited the couple up to the dais, and talked to them about Jesus and God. While I'm not Christian, I don't necessary want to blaspheme too badly, so I'll sum the whole thing up this way: if this service didn't give God a big ole' God-boner, nothing would. (I doubt God reads this blog, and if He does, I hope He's into jokes about His holy genitalia.)

Anyway, with all that religion out of the way, it was time for the drinking. The good news is that being Catholic requires being pious half the time and piss-drunk the rest. Ms. Milk had graciously assumed driving duty, so I took it as a personal challenge to be the drunkest person at the party, yet still be incredibly charming and clever. To be fair, this is my primary intention most nights when I go out, and this same M.O. recently resulted in me being hit on by a very cute bartender and responding with: "Yeah...I get Stella 'cause Streetcar Desire and yells 'STELLA!!!'...so that desire...yeah and the thing about that is...did I your name?" Even with this knowledge, I made the commitment to drink red wine in quantities generally used to describe the payload of oil tankers. The first indication that I had made an outstanding decision was my obsession with my reflection in the mirror. I was banned from sitting across from the mirror at the dining room table as a kid, and that was before I learned that red wine turns me into the most attractive human being alive.

As I was now a social grenade, it was time to say "hi" to the members of my high school class who were in attendance. All of my actual friends were on the bride's side, but there were a number of members of my high school class on the groom's side, and upon seeing their posse arrive, the gentle Ms. Milk was curious as to "What's with all the douchebags?" She obviously did not attend high school with me, because these people were pretty low on the mammoth, twisting douchebag hierarchy of my high school; basically "douchebags light." That said, I have no idea what it is about my personality that makes people I was not close with in high school want to talk to me. However, with the comely Ms. Milk in tow, I was even more formidable, and I staged one of the most impressive social coups I can remember. Basically, I went outside, and, in a 10 minute smoke break, out-cooled the cool kids to a degree that I went back inside to a chorus of "Daaaaaamn." Ms. Milk was impressed, and I made sure to do a victory lap past the mirror, to notice that, yes, I was still looking better than any mortal human has a right to. Ms. Milk rightfully concluded that she was also frighteningly good-looking, and we decided that, due to the shortage of any worthy partners for either of us, we would be one another's "date" rather than go through the lengthy explanation that, yes we're straight and single, but platonic. We were lookin' too good.

The entertainment was orchestrated by the most awesome person alive. Seriously, I would not have believed this guy existed. Here's this 50-55 year old guy who basically runs this synth-cover/karaoke/dj one-man operation. Now, his synth covers of Journey and Cutting Crew were expected, but he followed up the chicken dance with a karaoke version of Flo Rida's "Low" that was done with such simple, naive enthusiasm that it caused the bride to stop what she was doing for an "is this actually a dream?" pause. When he rapped "When she throws her legs on my shoulder" it resulted in all of the children who had been shuffled onto the dance floor for the chicken dance being shuffled off, possibly back to church. After a bit more dancing, another gallon of wine, and a few well-deserved fist bumps from my new parishioners, it was time to hit the road and congratulate both my date and myself on a job well done. We managed to go to a wedding and not leave depressed.

Overall, it was odd to see someone I had grown up around get married, especially to a guy she went to prom with, and always seemed better than. The toasts were friendly and well-executed, but I couldn't help but see this as a "people need to get married, and it was time" wedding. Maybe that's most weddings, and maybe my cynicism will dissolve when I'm getting ready to marry someone, but it's hard to say. Weddings don't really seem like they're a right of passage for the bride and groom, more for the families. I guess that makes sense, but it seems awfully elaborate, and also disingenuous. I caught a few expressions of the bride that seemed to be "well, this is it, but what is it?" It's weird that weddings always make me happy to be single; it's like I know that somehow I'll do it right when I get the opportunity and it will be genuine and perfect...but what if in, say, five years from now, I'm staring at a person I'm ostensibly in love with, in front of a hundred beaming people and wondering exactly what "it" is?

Vampires!

Sure, you’ve pushed it to the furthest recess of your mind. You might be drinking just a little more than you used to in order to sleep. ‘No,’ you say ‘Today just isn’t the day for thinking about this.’ I admire your stiff upper lip and enviable posture, Olivia Optimism, but the simple fact is that, during our lifetime, someone, sometime will totally turn in to a Dracula.

Got your attention? Good, because the Mayan calendar or Nostradamus or some kind of vague yet pinpoint accurate predictiony thingy has posited that this Dracula (or perhaps even Draculae) is about to hit high school right fucking now! And yes, I will accept your roses and paypal donations due to being the first to analyze the odds of which overly stereotypical social group this threat to freedom, happiness, low oil prices, and um…internal bloodiness will germinate within. My ratings are from 1 to 10, and completely fucking scientific. Please sharpen multiple stakes during your read, as it is the least you can do.

Suspected Group: Goths.

Dress: (4) Black jeans and graphic T’s do not a Dracula make. The OG Dracula was super obsessed with looking debonair, and even if a Goth stole an actual Dracula’s outfit that fit the Goth perfectly, you’d still think something was sloppy. Color scheme isn’t enough, Goths, but you have my permission to write poetry with Chaucerian spellings about how wrong I am.

Manner: (6) Dracula was a successful socialite. Um…yeah. He would not have assumed that receiving an introduction from someone in your dorm meant that this person desperately wanted to see your Ren Faire pictures. However, the whole musing in simile thing is a pretty nice match.

Lifestyle: (5) This is a tough one. Were there an actual opportunity to drink blood, many Goths would probably go for it, but when is that going to happen when you’re a computer programmer by day and playing World of Warcraft by night? Honestly, the only reason Goths score this high is the fact that a few of them hope to quit their day job and become Dracula. For real. And then maybe battle other Draculas to become King of the Draculas. Damn, that’s going to be a good day for the winning Dracula.

Obsession with dark stuff: (10) Yes, yes. You’ve done well here, Goths. Cover yourselves in candle wax as a reward.

Obsession with virgins: (2) Unless you mean SELF-OBSESSION!!!! Ha ha. No, really, since most of the gothy people I was around in high school would obsess over pornography, and when you see gothy folk at clubs they’re usually dressed in ways that are…shall we say…not concealing, I don’t see this as a good match.

Weakness: (9) The aversion to sunlight is spot-on, and you know that any Goth worth his or her salt would desperately try to turn to dust if staked.

Total: (36) This may seem low, but Draculove is only a panel in the rich tapestry of Goth existence. If you want to know more, go start chanting in a cemetery and make some new friends!


Suspected Group: Hipsters.

Dress: (7) If you’ve ever been to a hipster party, there’s always some asshole trying to pull off the three-piece-suit-and-pocketwatch-holy-shit-have-you-seen-anything-so-dapper-yet-achingly-ironic look. Even though that schmuck is the obvious match, anyone who will go along with the trend of pastel skinny jeans could be in a cape and tux by tomorrow afternoon…and working like fucking hell to pull it off.

Manner: (3) Dracula was pretty into himself, but certainly not aloof with strangers, especially when there was delicious blood to be had. If all vampires did was schmooze with each other, their kind would never propagate.

Lifestyle: (9) Hipsters wear not having a nine-to-five like they would a bracelet made out of Lou Reed’s foreskin. Factor in the fact that many of them have trust funds, and you’ve got your ass some nocturnal mansion dwellers!

Obsession with dark stuff: (2) Pretty much every hipster has gone through a goth phase, but it’s usually been replaced by the posturing phase, and, once this nugget of pure pretense is found, even the most fickle are ready to settle down.

Obsession with virgins: (8) Disturbingly young girlfriends are pretty common among the hipster community.

Weakness: (5) I could totally see a hipster turning to dust, but that would only be if his or her vinyl collection were stolen. A stake through the heart would probably just elicit some sort of slightly arcane pop culture quip that had been planned for such a moment. (i.e. “Morrissey is so jealous…” :dies:)

Total Score: (34) While it’s not too likely that a whole slew of hipsters will Draculize, it’s more of a match than you may have thought, since all you do is think about who might become Dracula, weirdo.


Suspected Group: Jocks.

Dress: (0) This simply does not work. It doesn’t matter which jocks you consider. By the way, jocks, I went to my high school reunion and…well…I still wish I could have hung out at your end of the quad!!!

Manner: (8) Constantly looking around for someone to do something horrible to is both a jock and a Dracula trademark. The only reason this wasn’t a perfect score is that Dracula would NEVER tell a drunk girl that every interest she had was “badass” as a means to engage in the sanguinary; Dracula was above that weaksauce shit.

Lifestyle: (2) Outside of the “living to party” element, there isn’t much overlap. Dracula isn’t about to work for his dad’s construction company after a few half-assed years of community college.

Obsessions with dark stuff: (5) Higher than I expected, but I’m making this list, so that makes no sense. Anyway, mixed martial arts, NASCAR crashes, bar fights, there’s a lot of pent-up aggression here. Also, jocks listen to metal a lot of the time, so this isn’t that far off.

Obsession with virgins: (10) There is no fucking way I’m going to write on this nastiness. Instead I will compose a non-threatening 5-line play:

RABBIT: Hey, mister turtle.
TURTLE: Hey, mister rabbit. What’s the word in the forest today?
RABBIT: Um…I just meant to say ‘hey,’ I don’t really feel like going into detail, it’s not like we know the same animals.
TURTLE: Yeah…good point…sorry.
RABBIT: It’s cool.

(Scene.)

Weakness: (0) An ACL tear and a metabolism crash are pretty much the last things a Dracula worries about.

Total: (25) Too many low scores for the jocks…just like when we got our SAT results!!! Take that, jocks!!! I’ve saved all my venom for this article you’ll never read!


I know this may have been difficult to process, not due to my questionable sentence structure, but because anyone that reaches the conclusion understands the gravitas with which this was composed. I hope that opening this door was as comfortable as one could wish. Now, I believe that there’s a certain matter of arbitrarily staking people. Understand that while my contribution is limited to derisive evaluation of absurdly categorized demographics, I will be there in spirit. Godspeed!

North of Grosvenor Street

In November of 2008, the inedible happened. My 96 year old grandfather passed away in his sleep. One month later I stand in his kitchen, armed with boxes and garbage bags faced with the daunting task of emptying out his personal belongings. I have been assigned to throwing away most of the items in the 1960’s linoleum kitchen. It is a cold December day and the house has no heat. The kitchen is dark and my grandmother’s cigarettes are still in the candy dish, although she has dead for three years. I can hear my mother in the living room cursing while she frantically tosses candlesticks and broken 1980’s digital alarm clocks into boxes destined for the Salvation Army. I hear a cacophonic crash, she has obviously dropped something. I wonder if the stress of clearing out the estate has finally caused her to have a nervous breakdown. After all, she has not been right for years.
My friend Byron stands next to me, obviously not interested in helping me clear out the cabinets as much as he is excited about claiming the Bone China tea sets for himself. He is oblivious to his assigned task. Earlier, he instantaneously fell in love with the house and proclaimed that it had “good bones.” He is contemplating in his head if he can afford to buy it. I tell myself that he is here more for support anyway. So far we are the only volunteer cleaners. My father refuses to step foot into the house as well as both of my uncles. I have not heard from my cousins in over two years, although their framed childhood pictures appear all over the living room, a shrine created by my late grandmother. Unsurprisingly, no pictures of my twin sister or I can be found. This explains why my grandmother never invited us over for sleepovers. She obviously liked my cousins better. “Where are your favorites now?” I ask my dead grandmother as I quickly stake out the room. Establishing that there is no loot to claim I proceed into the next room. Recently my cousin appeared on the History Channel acting as a tour guide assigned to the task of leading the overly excited show host into the forgotten world of Los Angeles’ basement speakeasies. My TVo recorded the episode. One can imagine my surprise when my estranged cousin magically appeared on my living room flat screen the following week. I ponder if he is brave enough to lead the potential house buyers into my grandfather’s basement. There is not telling what one might find down there.
I proceed back into the dark empty kitchen. I am sad, sad at the solemn realization of death and the reality of growing old alone in a cold dark house lined with Vaseline and adult diapers. I am sad that once you are gone you are gone and your belongings, those that define you, end up tossed in Salvation Army boxes or in the trash (an eerie reminder from Jimmy Steward that you really “can’t take it with you”). As I begin wrapping my grandfather’s mismatched “made in Taiwan” tea cups in newspaper (meticulously hand selected as a present for my grandmother at St. Vincent De Paul’s goodwill) I come to the haunting realization that I may be the only remaining family member drawn to this house and to my family’s past.
I can’t help wonder how we all got here. I glance up at the dry rot walls and down at the stained carpets. I am convinced that there is more to this house than what it appears. There are stories here, life experiences concealed in time, heavily weighted down by dark tormented emotions. I sense that the past longs to beak free and be realized. I know that these stories will remain long after the house’s walls are freshly painted over and hearth once again warmed by the presence of a new family. Yet, these stories are silenced by death and the awkward stillness of a cold empty house.
The only witnesses to these memories are my father and uncles but they remain terse and astute. They want nothing, no furniture, no pictures- no memories. All they want is the check when the house sells (for way under value I might add due to the 2008 Californian real estate market crash). I smirk a little at this realization. The truth in the matter is that the all the living under this roof (good or bad) has molded who all of us are today. Haunted or not, there is not way to escape this. My Father and uncles are foolish if they think they can simply escape life by avoiding it. As if it could be that simple.