A BRIEF CONVERSATION WITH MY HAIR
By Russell Bradbury-Carlin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Russell Bradbury-Carlin
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In this book:
How to Make Your Own Proverbs
A Life Reviewed: A Collection of Blurbs
Living the American Dream
Walt Whitman's Guide to Cooking for Bachelors
Summer of Sam I Am
Random Quotes from the Cereal Monsters
How are You Doing?
Diary of a Grocery Cart
The Music Mash-up Phenomenon Expands
Hills Like Stuffed Tigers: Calvin Discovers Hemingway
Parents as a Narcotic
The Secrets of Parenting That No One Will Tell You
Future Broadway Hits
“I Sound My Chlorophyll Yawp”
Masters of My Domain: My Vices as Characters from Seinfeld
Introducing: Baby Talk
How to Frighten the Grim Reaper
Pay the Rent: A Solo Play Exploring Gender Politics
Sugar and Demons: A Scientist's Field Notes
The Absent Adults of Childhood Favorites Speak
Some Suggestions for the Next Film in Romero's Zombie Series
An Interview with Old Man Next Year
The Calls of Cthulu
Hierarchy of Needs for Parents
A Brief Conversation with My Hair
Clouds: Important!
Gilgamesh Responds to Advertisings Biggest Questions
Ferris Bueller Fills in for the NY Times Magazine's “The Ethicist”
Masterpiece Theater Presents:Bleak House, Starring Gremlins
Language Acquisition and “Poopie”
Magician Doug Henning Has Something on His Mind
Today's AA Speaker: Mr. Tom Waits
All I Really Need to Know I Learned from Kindergarten Cop
The Gummy Bear Survival Guide
If Allen Ginsberg Had Written Pay-Per-Click Ads
Happy Birthday from the Future
The Coyotes
So Now You're a Therapist
I Am Glad My Childhood Dreams Did Not Come True
Dionysus: Party Clown
There Must Be Fifty Ways to Heave Your Brother
Interview with a Butler
How to Make Your Own Proverbs
Sure, everyone loves proverbs. If you go to any bookstore you can easily find many books with proverbs that can help you learn life lessons and get you through tough times. What is a proverb, you ask? Well, even proverb scholars are loathed to admit that there is little consensus about the definition of a proverb.
“Where there is a will, there is a way”
This is an easily identifiable proverb.
“Where’s the beef?”
This is clearly not a proverb. Proverbs are different than clichés, maxims and slogans. In the end, the definition of a proverb is usually summed up as a short statement that contains some piece of wisdom, truth or lesson.
But did you know you could make your own proverbs? Actually it’s quite easy. I’ll show you how.
First, let’s try to make a proverb out of a problem you’ve learned to overcome. Can you think of one? Now take what you’ve learned and state it in a colorful, illustrative way. Remember not to make it too long. I have a lesson I learned and here is the proverb I created out of it:
“Remember to read the labels on clothing. It is the only voice they have to keep from shrinking or bleeding.”
How did you do? Good! Next, let’s take something that you worry about and create a proverb that will help you to overcome it. Let me help. I have a worry that I am sure everyone has. I get embarrassed when people on the magazine covers that I keep beside my toilet are looking in my direction. So here is what I came up with:
“Keep magazines in the bathroom face-down, so the people on the cover don’t sneak a peek.”
See isn’t this fun! Of course, I have other worries that I use proverbs to help me out with. I am not shy about it. Everyone has worries. In fact, the best way to overcome them, I’ve been told too many times, is to be frank and admit to them. Here is another proverb that has helped me:
“Turn off and unplug the coffee maker in case the devil lives in its circuitry and wants to burn down your apartment.”
Now, I don’t really believe that the devil exists, at least not in a form that would really live in my coffee maker. I’m not that silly.
How about this proverb:
“The clock on the wall does not keep time to your heartbeat.”
I know everyone can relate to that! What about:
“All door locks should be checked each night in case their insidious lazy ways make them let go and then just about anyone can walk in to sit on your comfortable couch.”
See how proverbs can be helpful in your life. And, it’s not just to help you with your pesky little worries. No, you can use proverbs to teach future generations so they can learn the things you learned quicker than it took you to learn them. But, I mostly use them to keep my head on straight:
“The cat is, in fact, a cat.”
Not that I get that one confused too often, mostly. What about:
“Bad checks do not ring your doorbell at 3 A.M. and then hide in the bushes - they come in nice white envelopes from the
friendly bank.”
And, my current favorite which my friend, Dave, is having printed up on some bumper stickers so I can sell them at the bazaar to help pay my rent:
“The squirrels in the attic are not chewing through the ceiling and stealing your dirty socks to make warm homes.”
Good luck and have fun with proverbs!
(Published on McSweeney’s website – 2004)
A Life Reviewed: A Collection of Blurbs
“Maybe two or three times in a generation, a person transcends his or her humanity to become myth-like. Bradbury-Carlin is not an event of this order.” Time
“Bradbury-Carlin finds poignancy, terror, sacrifice, (some bit of) wisdom, mystery, numerable neuroses, heartbreak and a real emotional impact that emerges from a life lived just under the speed limit.” Newsweek
“A cross between America’s Funniest Videos Bob Saget and a slightly melancholic Friend’s David Schwimmer. This is no mere hyperbole.” Entertainment Weekly
“A strange, perplexing and, at times, indecipherable life.” Clark Derpot, The Christian Science Monitor
“Bradbury-Carlin’s tragicomic life - a fantasia of bad television shows and bizarre writings and an addiction to English muffins - invokes the glorious, unreliable promises of art, politics and beauty.’ Jack Krumb, WTOC Radio
“This man is truly mediocre. Middle-aged, white, middle-class and male - a heady pastiche of all that is deemed average.” The Washington Post
“Elegantly alluring - a life that works both as a paean to love (of caffeine) and a subtly sly comedy of errors.” Cosmopolitan
“Bradbury-Carlin is certainly pleasurable enough, I guess.” Cass Fremont, Saturday Review
“The scenes of his eluding the grade school bully for almost a full year with his elaborate methodical escape routes home - worth the price of admission. The scenes of his fumbling through a daisy chain of first dates and awkward sexual encounters – priceless.” New York Times
(Published on The Big Jewel website – 2004)
Living the American Dream:
True Stories of My Brushes with Fame
President Jimmy Carter:
I was very young. The President was traveling to the airport in a limousine using the highway near my home. My family and I waited by the side of the highway for three hours with hundreds of other people. Finally a line of cars, many of them black limousines, drove along the shutdown highway. I waved madly at every car. I think I saw a bulbous head-like object and either a bobbing stick or hand waving through one car’s tinted glass.
Darth Vader:
I was twelve when Star Wars came out. My mother read that Darth Vader was coming to a nearby Toys R Us. I had to meet the Dark Lord of Sith. We were forced to buy a Timex Star Wars watch and wait three hours to meet him. I was, however, disappointed when I realized that this wasn’t the actor David Prowse who played Vader in the movie, but some schmo paid to wear a costume and sell watches.
Peter Gabriel:
I saw Peter Gabriel at a small theater in Worcester, Massachusetts. After the show, my friend and I waited in the alley behind the theater with other Genesis/Gabriel fans, to meet the singer. After three hours, the numbers of fans dwindled to five. Finally, he came out of the back door with his wife. This was the first night of his tour and they hugged and kissed for a long time. Then she got into a limousine and was driven to what I guess was the airport to return home. Peter turned to his small
gaggle of fans and began signing autographs. I wondered how
thrilled could he be, at this moment, to sign autographs when he
was not going to see his family for months. But then he turned to me - pen at hand. He scribbled on the piece of paper I handed him, turned and scrambled into his limousine. His scrawled signature read: Pike Gab.
ZZTop:
On a string of post-concert waiting experiences, I was prodded by my friends to see ZZTop on their popular “Eliminator” tour and try to meet them afterward. We waited for almost three hours behind the Boston Garden for the long bearded rock stars to sign our t-shirts. Finally, they came out the back door drunk and barely able to walk. They waved at a buxom blond waiting beside us before stumbling into their limo.
Abe Vigoda:
I was having breakfast by myself in a restaurant during a visit to New York City. As I ate my eggs-over-easy with wheat toast, I noticed the long-faced actor who played “Fish” on Barney Miller. I didn’t talk to him. What do you say to Abe Vigoda?
Kurt Vonnegut:
Kurt Vonnegut changed my life as writer. After college, I was struggling to write like Lawrence and Hemingway, all to no avail while ending up with the worst case of writer’s block. But after reading every word that Mr. Vonnegut wrote, I realized that I didn’t need to torture myself to write. I could be playful and “important” at the same time. So I had to meet him when he read at the Boston Public Library. After his insightful talk, I waited three hours in line to have him sign my copy of “Hocus Pocus”. As I waited, I decided that I needed to make some type of impression beyond: “gee, I love your books!” So, in my head I wrote the beginning of a more substantial conversation. I knew that his daughter lived in the town I lived in - that was my hook. When I finally reached the table, I handed him the book and said, “I came a long distance to see you today.” He responded, “really, from where?” Just as my script had been written. “Oh, I’m from Northampton.” Kurt looked up at me, having scribbled his name in my book. “Well, my daughter lives there.” He
continued to look at me, waiting for a response. I said nothing. I
was stymied - this was as far as my script had gone. I turned red, stammered, “thanks”, and moved on. I didn’t write again for two years.
(Published on Facsimilation website – 2004)
Walt Whitman’s Guide to Cooking for Bachelors
English Muffins
Soft, fluffy vessels. Containers for rich empyreal savories. Cow’s butter! Orange marmalade! Drizzly peanut butter! The elixirs of the constellations! They aren’t just for breakfast. No way! (Cut in half. Toast until brown at edges. Cover surface with favorite condiment. 10 minutes.)
Macaroni and Cheese
Oh, workhorse of simple meals! Tasty fortitude found in the pairing of two plain ingredients. Winter’s warmer. The hearth heater to those languishing in the cold breath of solitude. Creamy and delicious. (Boil pasta until preferred consistency. Drain. Mix in cheesy packet.10 minutes.)
Chili
Strapping and robust. The young sweaty rail worker of meals. Spicy! Hearty! Consume and feel the spirit of your life blood thrum heavily in your chest. (Saute 1 LB of hamburger. Mix in drained can of kidney beans, stewed tomatoes. Add 3 tbl of chili powder. Cook at medium until done. 30 minutes.)
Hamburger
America! Your simple glories hailed in this profound tasty.
Maidens! Patriots! Lost shipyard workers! Wheat gatherers!
Those who affix those plastic things on the ends of shoelaces!
This is America’s food. As vast and mighty as the Great Plains. Hefty and filling like the Rockies. (Make burger in to patties. Grill to taste. Place on bun. Top with favorite condiment. 15 minutes.)
French Bread Pizza
Salute the world! Myself - Walt Whitman - lover and embracer. Mingler with people of other nations, sound my barbaric yawp about this pleasing foreign dish. O amazement of melty cheese! O fluffiness of soft bread! O tanginess of tomato sauce! (Take pizzas out of plastic wrap. Place in toaster oven. Bake until golden brown. 12 minutes.)
Corn Flakes
I sit and stare at a yellowish flake. Marvel at its contours and roughened surface. Each flake - creation of hundreds of hands: plower, planter, farmer, produce-buyer, truck driver, factory worker, grocery store clerk. Small flake before me, enough to inspire gazillions of infidels. Tasty in milk, too. (Fill bowl with corn flakes. Add milk. 1 minute.)
(Published on Opium Magazine website – 2004)
Summer of Sam I Am
Yes, it was a long, hot summer - steamy, fetid and humid. It was the kind of heat I experienced out in the swampland of Florida as a child. Heat that wriggles its sweaty fingers into your brain and changes your perception, causes you to see things that aren’t there, like that shimmering body of water glistening sweetly on the mid-summer horizon. The one you always approach but never reach. Yes, it was like those summers I survived as a youth – only I was in the hothouse, asphalt-baking city. A prescription for insanity.
I was always polite. I only asked each of them to try a taste. A little taste. Sure, it did not look as appetizing as, say a butter-drenched heap of fresh crawfish, ready for ripping into. But, it was my dish. A culinary piece of art that my grandma used to make for us on Sunday mornings. The recipe was in my genes. I perfected it – tweaked it until it was a pure piece of heaven. So, when those folks refused to even taste it, they, in a sense, refused me. I didn’t appreciate that at all. And, they were so callused about it – “no, I won’t eat it on a train or with a goat.” Well – damn them! They deserved the punishment I dealt. It was all so simple - my wrath could have been avoided. Just one little taste.
The summer of insanity – bloody, twisted insanity – finally ended on the morning after a nine-day heat wave broke. Fittingly – it was a Sunday, of all days. It had been a long, dogged search, but on that day, I met the right person. Oh, he was not open-minded at first. He quickly decided that he did not like me. He declared, right to my face, “I do not like that Sam I Am.” I was persistent, though. I offered him all different means and manners to try a forkful of my delicious offering. I suggested here, there, in a house, even with a mouse - all of which he refused. Eventually, however, his resolve broke. He took a taste. And, with a bright eager smile on his lips, that summer of horror ended. It ended with a declaration - so profound, so eloquent, so simple – “I do, I do like green eggs and ham!”
(Published on Uber.nu website – 2004)
Random Quotes on Fame and Nostalgia
from the Cereal Monsters
Frankenberry: “We were pretty fortunate. Three fairly untalented monsters given the golden throne of cereal icon – and then lucky enough to last as long as we have.”
Count Chocula: “I’m not trying to sound paranoid, but it was like the world was composed of millions of mirrors. Everywhere…everywhere you’d turn, there you were – TV’s, posters, cereal aisles. Sometimes it felt great, but that stuff can also screw with your head.”
Boo-Berry: “Okay, Frankenberry….Frankenstein. Count Chocula….Count Dracula. Boo-Berry...what? There are no famous ghosts, except maybe Casper, and he’s more wimpy than scary. So who am I based on? They gave me Peter Lorre’s voice and the style of a drunken Dean Martin: a bleary-eyed, laid-back ghost. Wooo! Frightening.”
Count Chocula: “It was like being a piece of film stuck in a projector – held in the consciousness of America – staring until it seared and burned. Paranoid has got nothing to do with it.”
Boo-Berry: “The current world of cereal characters is built on the broken backs of those characters who burned out or sold-out.
The three of us lost Yummy Mummy and Fruit Brute – short-lived
and forgotten now. What ever happened to the Freakies, Quisp or the California Raisins? And, Cap’n Crunch? He’s turned his previously red Crunchberries into multi-colored trash. What’s up with that? Its’ like turning a 1970 convertible Mustang into an SUV.”
Frankenberry: “Things are different now. No more spotlight or TV cameras. I don’t get floods of fan mail anymore. I like my life, though. There are a few internet fan-sites out there. But, otherwise, things are quiet. I can go to the gym and feel anonymous – something I treasure these days.”
Count Chocula: “Nostalgia’s what’s kept me locked up in this house for so many years. Its’ all about appearances. People come up to you on the streets ready to throw adulation at you. Then they see your pot-belly, wrinkling skin… and they back away slowly.”
Boo-Berry: “Nostalgia is someone else’s poison, man. I avoid it like the plague.”
Frankenberry: “Nostalgia? Well, in reality, things change. People change. It’s like that saying “you can never go home”. Forms of nostalgia are fixed in time. And, like certain smells that conjure up particular memories – pieces of nostalgia bring us back to idyllic times. Some people look at me and they can go home, back to Saturday mornings watching cartoons with a bowl of sugary cereal floating in pink milk on their lap.”
(Published on Facsimilation website – 2004)
How Are You Doing?
A Bit Too Direct
Awful, to be honest. Actually, to be completely honest - everything pretty much sucks to hell. My wife’s cheating on me, you know. At least it seems like everyone knew except for me. So everything is putrid. No, you know what it’s like, how I’m really doing? Well, it’s kind of like having a tiny splinter under your fingernail. The kind that you can’t dig out without drawing blood. And, no matter what you do, you keep bumping that finger against everything. That’s what its like - well, add feeling constantly nauseous, yeah - add that and you’re pretty close.
Thinly Veiled
Oh, great! Fine, fine - though I lost my job last week after my key broke off in the ignition again and I was late for work for the third time. Ha, ha - you know - “one too many - you’re fired”. But otherwise everything is very good. Except I think I have that cold that’s going around. You know, the one that starts out as the sniffles and then keeps you in bed for a week with a raw, phlegmy, cough. Ahem - but things are going pretty well. And, you?
Too Many Self-Help Books
Okay, let me see (quietly to self) be direct, honest and remember to not ramble. (Louder) I am doing okay. Today, I am going to the post office. Today, I am going to mail a letter to my ex-lover to make amends for sitting on her pet ferret five years ago. (Quietly to self) whew, good job. Remember you are a lovely person. Feel good.
Too Strange
Doing? Doing? Well, I’ll tell you about doing, doing is what doing does. Too much work makes Francis a dull boy. Doing, doing, doing - I can’t always be doing. What about don’ting, huh? Don’t, don’t, don’t - that’s more like it. That’s what they say - do, do, do - da, da, da. Hey, where are you going?
Close but No Cigar
I’m doing great. Started a new job, which is always a bit stressful. And, I’m in a new relationship. I like her a lot. How about you? Whoa! Check out the legs on the blonde over there. HEY HONEY! YOU’RE KILLING ME WITH THOSE LEGS!
Back Away Slowly
That’s it! Everyone keeps asking how I’m doing. Is this some type of conspiracy - “hey everyone, be sure to ask Alfred how he’s doing because, you know, something’s wrong”? What’s wrong with me that I don’t know? Is it my hair? The color of my new loafers? Do you know something about my ex-wife? I’m telling you - its feeling a bit freaky. Either tell me what’s wrong now, or lay off - and tell your little cabal to lay off, too. Why are you staring at me?
(Published on Uber.nu website – 2004)
Diary of A Grocery Cart
May 11: Oh, I am shining. I am glistening with hope. Here I am in the tractor-trailer with all of my shining, glistening comrades making our way to a Piggly Wiggly in Penopshaw, Indiana. After all of my time dreaming about this day, it has finally come. I am going to be of service to the common man. I will wheel over asphalt and tile to carry his or her burdens, help families provide sustenance, to be an integral part of the Capitalist system - I am the future of grocery transportation devices. No higher calling could I think of.
May 13: I thought that being at the end of the truck meant I would be one of the first fresh carts for customers to make use of. Instead, they took us off one by one, and I was jammed deep into the far recesses of Backup Cart Storage Area #2A in the plastic-covered, dirt-floored side lot of the store. I am not discouraged, though. This is giving me ample opportunity to drink in all aspects of my new life. Sure, I share my space with the over-ripe fruit disposal container. But, who said the life of a hard-working grocery cart would be all soft loaves of Wonderbread and bright bags of Cheetos. I feel lucky to have this time to watch the veritable ballet of fruitflies dancing around me. I will be patient. My day will come.
May 21: Today I was moved to the main backup cart storage area at the front of the store. Oh, the bright lights, the bustling murmur of customers entering and leaving the store. I am almost
sure I can hear the laughter in their voices as they wheel other
carts from the store ladened with their freshly bought grocery items. That is the good news. The bad news is that my back right wheel is almost completely covered in some sort of sticky
brown muck with a gum wrapper stuck to it. I fear that I may be unbalanced - that if someone takes me, they may reject me - because who wants to push a cart that wobbles. I will keep my hopes high as best I can.
May 23: Today I was outfitted with an advertisement card on my child seat. I’m happy because it means I’m being suited up for my first foray into the store. It means I’m finally getting my chance. Unfortunately, the downside is that I feel as though the message on the advertisement - “Wiggle Your Way To Great Savings At Piggly Wiggly!” - makes my mucked up rear wheel more apparent with the “wiggle” reference and all. I know paranoia is a drink best taken in sips. I mustn’t let this damage my excitement. I will hope that no one will make the connection.
May 24: It was a bit of wait, but I’m in! It was a busy Saturday so this morning I was moved into the main cart station. After a number of people started to roll me into the store and abandoned me after noticing my wobbly wheel - I was given the opportunity to assist a family of six. As they loaded me up with Tang and butterscotch pudding, I bopped along with the muzak version of “Losing My Religion”. I was overflowing with abundance. I think I’m going to like it here. What am I talking about? I do like it here.
June 14: Children - God bless them - should not be allowed to be unsupervised in a cart. It says so on the placard near the front door. This one little tyke who was fond of a can of strained peaches, decided to take out his latent aggressions on me by pounding the can on my frame. The damage wasn't too bad - a few dents and chipped coating. I hope it doesn't rust. I will soldier on, though. Despite my shredded finish, I will finish my job. Despite my disappointment, I will not disappoint.
August 28:
Shakespeare once wrote:
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices/make instruments to
plague us
And, I almost told this fat guy about his apparent vice - gluttony.
"Hey, buddy! Didn't you hear that cola can take the rust off of metal? It turns your teeth into dust. Do you really think you can drink twenty cases of cola in a week and not have your stomach dissolve? It will dissolve or my name isn’t A Grocery Cart."
August 29: I want to apologize, Diary, for my entry yesterday. It was the week before Labor Day and I had been constantly out in the store and in the lot for seven days straight. My head's clearer now. I am clearer now. I will not get upset like that again. Because my head is clearer now. I am relaxed.
September 4: Those scummy little punks! Last night, near closing, a group of rogue juveniles nabbed me as I sat out at the side of the store. Who parents these violent and untamed youths? They took me for a joy ride - deciding it would be fun to slam me into the sides of buildings. I lost a wheel in the vestibule of the pet food store. Then, these desperate youths dragged me out to the copse of woods behind the store and shoved me into the swamp. As I write this now, I'm half-buried in mud. In the dim murky distance I can see the inert outlines of other carriages. I am sure they are covered in rust, I can smell it from here. I'm trying to keep my hopes up - at least mosquitoes don't bite metal.
September 6: I’m still trapped in this viscous swamp. But, I continue to pray for the best. It is difficult. I fear I may be too far from the store to find my way back alone. At night, I have fever-dreams of families in the store juggling produce and meats in their arms, entire rounds of cheese, sausage links, and celery stalks crashing to the floor in a dirty and distasteful floor salad. I could be there right now. I could be helping them.
September 8: I am guessing, at this point, that the Cart Organizer, Ben, will not come looking for this lost member of his flock. I remember thinking him lazy when I first laid eyes upon him and now I know for sure. I write this now knowing I will
never make it back home. I was so ready a few short months
ago to fill my open carriage with the bounty of life that lines the well-stocked shelves of Piggly Wiggly. Now, all I am left with are boxes of shattered dreams, cans of disillusionment, and bags of
lost hopes. So please remember me faithful reader, whoever you may be. Remember me for my once steely optimism. Remember me for the corners I turned - despite handicaps. Remember me, world. And sing out my name. Sing out A Grocery Cart.
(Published on The Big Jewel website - 2004)
The Music Mash-Up Phenomenon Expands:
Some Suggested Movie Mash-Ups
Godfather’s of the Caribbean
A Street Car Named Cujo
Rear View to a Kill
Apocalypse Same time, Next Year
The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, JFK
The Day the Earth Shot Liberty Valance
Who’s Afraid of John Malkovich?
What’s Eating Dr. Zhivago?
Citizen Kane 2: Electric Boogaloo
Some Like it Psycho
Hedwig and All the President’s Men
Dances with Goonies
My Dinner with Gandhi
(Published on Opium Magazine website – 2004)
Hills Like Stuffed Tigers:
Calvin Discovers Hemingway
I am on the hunt. My hands feel gritty against the stock of my rifle. Sweat and dirt have tightened my grip. I turn to my faithful friend, Hobbes.
“Do you have the scent of the prey?”
“What prey?”
“An antelope. A buck, I’d prefer. I think we should climb that hill. We can settle in a bower and wait, just as we did that time in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.”
“Sure, what ever you want to do Calvin. But don’t you think that your dad will be upset with your taking his gun?”
“I think, being a good man, he’d tell me not to return without blood on my hands.”
“That sounds kind of yucky to me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
And we were off.
I thought about Margaret, back at home. Her wondering if I would return. She was always too concerned. She didn’t understand my need to hunt. She understood little. Yet, I did feel a bit of love for her. Enough, it seemed.
“What do you think it means to be a man, Hobbes?”
“I wouldn’t know, I’m a tiger”
“It is moments like this, that I know I can test myself - see what separates the boy from the man.”
“You weren’t much of man last night when you wet the bed.”
“Is it the light breaking through the trees while I perch behind a rock, ready to shoot? Or is it the sound of skinning your dinner - freshly killed?
“Or is it the sound of your dad chewing you out?”
“When we get home, Hobbes, I owe you a drink - maybe more.”
We settled in behind a large oak tree. We would have to wait until dusk for the hot fetid sun to set. Then, the animals would appear looking for food and water.
I considered my friendship with Hobbes. An odd thing, having conversations with a stuffed tiger. Perhaps this is not what a man does. It is what a boy does. I eyed the talking tiger suspiciously. Perspiration ran down the back of my neck.
“How long are we going to sit here, Calvin?” the tiger asked.
“As long as needed.”
“I thought we were going to tape down all of the toilet seats at home.”
“Those are children’s games, Hobbes. I am on the verge of no longer being a child.”
“Too bad, sounds like fun.”
A group of young boys played football in a distant yard. Grunting, rolling around in the dirt. I felt a dryness in my throat that could only be quenched by a stiff drink. Something hard. Like grape Kool-Aid.
“Hey Calvin, I know. Why don’t we grab that bag of balloons you borrowed from Margaret’s party, fill them with water and throw them at her?”
Doesn’t this tiger ever stop his talking? How can I keep my head clear with his incessant noise? Perhaps, this “Hobbes” was more of a liability than I had previously considered.
Perhaps this was that moment when I would truly become a man.
I gripped the stock of my rifle harder. A hot breeze blew over the hill.
“Hobbes, is that an antelope over in Mrs. Wilson’s yard?”
“An antelope? Here in the neighborhood? I can’t see it”
The stuffed tiger was turned away. I brought up the barrel of the rifle. The harsh caw of a crow echoed in the tree above us.
But, the barrel was caught on my pant’s leg. I fell forward. My face landed in the dirt. My finger pulled on the trigger of the rifle accidentally as I hit the ground. A metallic click told me that the rifle was empty. Something I had not considered.
I lay in the dirt for a moment. Humiliation struck a match and began to light up, like the old Guajiros I had encountered in that dusty Cuban town.
“Calvin, that wasn’t an antelope, that was Margaret. And, look she’s all dressed up to go to a party or something.”
I jumped up, ready with a new plan.
“Hobbes, let’s go get those balloons!”
“Great!”
I was already half-way down the hill.
(Published on Yankee Pot Roast website – 2005)
Parents as a Narcotic
Last weekend, Candace, Will and I visited my mother. And, while I was there, I realized I was very tired. Granted, I had not slept well the night before, but it suddenly occurred to me that I am often tired when I visit my mother. Then, on the way home, it also occurred to me that I often feel tired when Candace and I visit her father or mother. I brought this up to Candace. I asked her if she thought I had some kind of problem. “Have I developed a mental association with our parents…some self-imposed Pavlovian condition…is it my way of checking out around them?” Candace, defending me from myself, offered another perspective - “maybe you just relax when you visit our parents. You know, kind of like going back to your childhood home. You don’t have any obligations or chores like at home. You chill.”
Good, I thought. Then I realized that our eight month old son often seems tired. He certainly sleeps a lot - three solid naps a day and he snoozes through most of the night. He can barely keep his eyes open after two hours around us. Then I thought about all of the other parents that I know. And, you know what? Their babies sleep a lot, too. And when we get together with these parents all we talk about is how tired we are. I am beginning to suspect that its not babies that make parents exhausted…its themselves. It is us.
If my supposition is true, parents are a sedative, even to themselves. We (or at least I) get sleepy around our parents, our children get sleepy around us, and we get sleepy around other parents. In fact, for the last eight months all I’ve talked about is how tired or not tired I am (usually the former). My daily condition is based on this. But, I’ve been eyeballing the wrong culprit. It is not Will. It is myself.
I wonder if babies were left to their own devices if they would stay up all day like a “normal” human being. Maybe that’s the way it should be. We let the babies hang-out and play with each other all day, while we parents hang-out with ourselves and breath in the sweet sedative that is us. Then we could all curl up on the floor, like in kindergarten (maybe they used to keep a stash of parents in the closet so we’d get tired at “nap-time”). It certainly would be nice to give into the red-eyed junky-demon that is exhaustion sometimes.
The more I think about it, the more this makes some kind of wicked sense. All of my older friends who suffer from insomnia either don’t have children or their children have grown up and moved on. Perhaps the sedative-effect only occurs while you are actually parenting.
You know, I could rent out parents to insomniacs. I could set up sleep clinics where those who suffer from sleep disorders are administered three or four parents a night until they can return to restful nights of sleep. Or I could even create a Parent Channel that features a line of parents jumping over a fence like sheep to help those who need a little assistance to drift off. Yeah, that’s it.
Besides, who likes warm milk anyway.
(Published on The Science Creative Quarterly website – 2005)
The Secrets of
Parenting
That No One Will Tell You
Parenting can be very difficult. And when you become a new parent, people will give you hundreds and hundreds of books about how to be a good parent. But what they don’t tell you is that there are secrets to parenting that you will not find in any book, even one from a bookstore. These secrets have been handed down generation to generation, parent to parent for eons. I learned them from my mother and she learned them from her father, who learned them from his Great Aunt Larry. And so on and so on. Well, today, I would like to reveal just some of these secrets about parenting.
The first secret that no one talks about is quite simple: babies are amazing creatures that look a lot you only they are much, much smaller. Now who ever told you that? No one, right? Also, you may know that children of all ages are little balls of energy. But did you know that if one is not careful, they may spontaneously combust. Yep, happens hundreds of times each year. Similarly, if your child screams like he or she is possessed, they probably are.
Now, a common experience that many parents often have is their babies and children interrupting their sex-life. In fact, your baby can be sound asleep and if you and your spouse make any kind of physical contact they will wake up crying. This is because of a small pheromone-sensing organ buried deep in their nostrils. But don’t go looking for it. Babies don’t like you touching their noses, and besides the organ disappears when you look at it.
Great. Are you still with me? One thing that many people don’t know is children are quite thrifty. Just put down an old battered box and a multi-colored all-the-bells-and-whistles Fisher Price toy and see what he or she goes for. They know how you spend your hard-earned money and are trying to teach you that it is better to save - especially for their education, or for the huge credit card bill that they are racking up by ordering all of those pairs of lime-green fleece pants that you are pretty sure you yourself didn’t order, though things were a little fuzzy again last month.
Children are mysterious. No, this isn’t a secret, but its true. You never quite know what is going through their tiny, teeny, little minds. So, if your baby throws things and watches them roll around the kitchen floor, he is really trying to tell you that he wants to be a major league baseball player, no matter how much you tell him he can have a better career in skeet-shooting or spelunking. A lot of people don’t know this, but it is a fact. You should also expect that he won’t appreciate the little miner’s helmet you gave him either, or the cool cave you made out of the all the pillows in the house and from your neighbor’s houses and from the stores.
Another secret is - when your child leans forward as if he or she is preparing to crawl, they are just playing with your head. Children already know how to crawl from birth and will do so when they are damn ready to - no sooner. Similarly, when your child is babbling and seems to say “da-da” or “ma-ma”, he or she is really, truly calling you by this term of endearment. They know it will get you excited and make you clap loudly. Children like to tease their parents and make you do tricks, like slapping yourself in the nose repeatedly for an hour or two or calling your ex-girlfriend and asking her if she’s been ordering lime-green pants on your credit card. It’s innate.
Finally, it is important to know that Children communicate telepathically. If you ever notice them staring off into the distance, it is because a new signal is coming in. I think this is because they are secretly planning the domination of much of
the Earth’s resources, especially for some odd reason, coal.
Either that or they are sending updates about baseball scores.
Good luck, new parents!
(Published on The Science Creative Quarterly website – 2005)
Future Broadway Hits
(now that Spamalot is popular
with straight males age 18-35)
Dial B For Beer
A Ford F-150 Named Desire
Rambo From Oz
Punk’d – A Musical Revue
Damn Yankees…And The Knicks Suck, Too.
Guys And Dolls And Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell For Xbox
CSI: The Great White Way
Lysistrata – Starring The Women Of Hooters
How To Succeed In Business Without Actually Going To Work
Nyuck, Nyuck, Nyuck – The Three Stooges Musical
(Published on Uber.nu website – 2005)
“I Sound My Chlorophyll Yawp”:
One of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass Responds
It started with a corpulent guy who loafed and looked for my soul,
crawling on soft knees searching for stem and stone,
bearded head lifted toward leaves and branches,
looking for something beyond pulse in fingers
or beyond clutch of thought.
Myself – a spear of grass –
existence comprised of a tiny world
within reach of a small section of soil,
supposedly with all the answers to birth, death, reasons why,
connections to neighbors, alignments to the sun -
all at the tip of my roots…
and plenty of time to contemplate.
Now, drug-trippers and askers come to me
seeking knowledge and responses
on heaven and hell, recipes of health and sickness,
on beginnings and endings –
I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
Don’t you get it? I’m a blade of grass. I don’t talk
(though, obviously and strangely, I can write).
It’s hard enough seeking light, water and oxygen.
But, of course, you look to me.
Men – nomadic by virtue of mobility –
don’t plant roots.
Those feeling up-rooted, rootless, not knowing their home-soil –
look to those who have.
Awed by the breadth of the world –
its mountains and forests, its oceans and plains,
and the universe –
beyond the grasp of your small minds,
always looking beyond, further away,
seeking and seeking and seeking,
never stopping and staying,
waiting for grand collections of nothing
to accumulate into something.
I’ll tell you all that I do know -
stand still long enough,
reach out to the world within your grasp:
the firm grip of the dirt surrounding your roots,
the scent of the pungent oxygen-filled air you breath,
the sensation of the glorious sun on your broad blade -
everything eventually comes to you.
So, if you want to seek me again – look in your own boot soles.
Failing to find me at first – look for a friend.
Missing me one place – call a therapist,
maybe you’ll find yourself somewhere waiting for you.
(Published in Yankee Pot Roast website – 2005)
Masters of My Domain:
My Vices as Characters from Seinfeld
Characters:
Pride - Jerry
Envy - Elaine
Sloth - George
Gluttony - Kramer
Scene: Pride’s apartment. Pride, Envy, and Sloth are standing around the kitchen. We come in the middle of a conversation.
Pride: I could go without it for a couple of weeks…easy.
Envy: No way. You wouldn’t last four hours.
Sloth: I think I could go a long time without it…usually I do.
The door bursts open and Gluttony enters and takes a deep bow (applause)
Gluttony: What are we talking about?
Envy: Pride and Sloth here think they can go for weeks without tempting Russell.
Gluttony: That’s easy. I could go a month. In fact, he’s been spending a lot of time with me and could use a break. All that
winter-fat is bulging over his shorts.
Envy: Get real! You, especially you, couldn’t go five minutes.
Gluttony: Let’s put money on it.
Sloth: I’m in.
Pride: I’ll go against my better judgment, but only if Envy doubles the best time. It’s too easy to go with out wishing you were Brad Pitt or Tom Hanks for a few weeks.
Envy: You got it.
Sloth: It’s set then.
Gluttony: Oh yeah!! (Laugh Track)
Envy(Smiles): I can whittle us down by one right now.
Pride: How?
Envy (Loudly): Sara Lee!! Moist cake!! Rich frosting!!
Gluttony: Hey, quit it!
Envy: Hostess Cup Cakes!! Chocolate chips!!
Gluttony: I’ll be right back.
Gluttony leaves the apartment slamming the door. We hear the door across the hall slam. The others exchange glances. Suddenly we hear the door across the hall slam again. And, Gluttony re-enters. He approaches the kitchen table with chocolate around his mouth and slams a $20 down.
Gluttony: Well, I’m out.
Pride: That was easy.
Envy suddenly stares up.
Envy: Great, now that Russell’s stomach is full, he going to sit and watch a movie. There’s a Troy and Fight Club double feature on. (She tosses a $20 on the table). I’m going to go home and flex in the mirror, I guess.
Sloth: Well, it looks like it’s down to the two...hold on, the phone’s ringing. It’s Tuesday, it’s probably his mother. He’s supposed to go help his mother fix her computer tonight.
Pride: This could be trouble…
Sloth: Hey, get up and answer the phone, you bum! Great, he’s turned up the volume on the TV to drown out the phone.
Pride: Isn’t that a yawn?
Sloth: Don’t do it, don’t do it….oh, wouldn’t you know it, he’s fallen asleep. YOU SHOULDN”T HAVE STAYED UP SO LATE LAST NIGHT WATCHING THAT BUSOM BUDDIES MARATHON, YOU IDIOT!! Congratulations. (He tosses a $20 at Pride’s feet and walks out of the apartment).
Pride: Excellent! I won. I am Numero Uno!
The door bursts open. Sloth, Gluttony, and Envy step back in and grab each of their $20 out of Pride’s hand, then leave.
As he is closing the door behind him Gluttony looks at Pride.
Gluttony: You let it go to your head.
Door shuts.
Pride (through gritted teeth): Russell!!
Applause and credits.
(Published on Yankee Pot Roast website – 2005)
Introducing: Baby Talk
Most parents are anxious to know the meaning of the various cries, groans, and sounds their child makes. Recently a Spanish electronic engineer named Pedro Monagas created a battery-powered device called “Why Cry”. This instrument about the size of a calculator is reportedly able to tell a parent whether their baby’s cry is indicating hunger, sleepiness or tiredness. Mr. Monagas states that his “Why Cry” is 98% accurate.
Well I, myself, am considered a kind of “tinkerer”. And, as a new parent I often wonder what all the sounds that my baby makes might mean, not just his crying. So, I gathered together some random things lying around my basement: a bike frame, a tube of caulking, some bits of string that I keep in a metal tub, the metal heads from golf clubs I found, amongst other things and started to put together my own device.
“Baby Talk” is a small instrument about the size of a 70’s Volkswagen. It will listen to any sound that a baby makes and translate it into its true meaning. On a good day, it boasts 61.3% accuracy. I intend to place it on the market in the next year. I intend to sell it for a reasonable price. I intend to make a lot of money.
But does it work, you ask. Well, I can tell you that the communication between my 11 month old son and I has greatly improved since I’ve been strapping this device to him. Let me give you a sample of translations.
Mmma-maaa: Why don’t you give me some Cheerios…in fact give me the whole box.
Blaa-Blaa-Blaa: Dad, you’ve put the diaper on backwards again.
Tthhhpttt: I’ve recently come to realize that my tongue is capable of spraying some kind of liquid from my mouth all over everything, making a nice glistening sheen.
Gaa-gaa-grrmm: I quite like to look in the mirror as it seems to contain the twins of my parents and an amazingly handsome young child.
Bbb-bb-bbb: Excuse me, but you are invading my personal space.
Huhhhh!: Actually, these Cheerios are quite bland, I’d much prefer a case of Cocoa-Puffs.
Tweeemm: If you ask me to give “kisses” again, I’ll give you a big kiss, all right, buster.
Rrrrrrrrrr: It would be awesome if you would let me sit in the car alone, start it up, and let it roll down the hill.
Ddd-ddd-ddd: Where is that really cute girl-baby that came by yesterday? I’d really like to see her again, let her yank toys out of my hand, and make me cry. Rowr!
Whaaap: The “Baby Talk” machine is amazing. It has changed my life! By the way, where are those Cocoa-Puffs I asked for?
My “Baby-Talk” machine has been a bit of a miracle in our house-hold. Now, instead of waiting for our son to communicate clearly to us, or having to go through the long anguishing work of teaching simple sign language, I just plug the “Baby-Talk” machine into its gasoline-powered generator, attach it to my son and we’re “talking”.
I am also currently working on another device. But this one
works the other way - translating parent’s words into baby-sounds so the child can understand us. Does anyone have a bucket full of used staples or the frame to ’68 Cadillac?
(Published on The Science Creative Quarterly website – 2005)
How to Frighten the Grim Reaper
Tell him he's looking a bit paunchy and ask if he has put on some weight.
Hire a clown as a bodyguard. The Grim Reaper is terrified of clowns.
Ask him what it was like to take the immortal soul of Mr. Frederick Hooper of Augusta, Maine on April 11th, 1934. For some reason these two guys did not get along at all.
Offer him a fruit smoothie with wheat germ. The Grim Reaper is deathly allergic to wheat germ.
Mention Blue Oyster Cult.
Take out your old plastic toy light-saber from the1970's and when the Reaper enters the room recreate the Obi-Wan/Darth Vader fight scene from Star Wars. This won't necessarily frighten him, but when you make the fake-electric-sparks-noise with your mouth as your saber touches his scythe, it will totally freak him out.
Offer him an anti-depressant.
(Published on Uber.nu website – 2005)
Pay The Rent:
A
Solo Play Exploring Gender Politics
Characters:
Evil Landlord
Female Tenant
Male Hero
Sociology Professor with a concentration in Gender Studies
Scene: none, except for one prop - a single piece of paper folded into an accordion.
Enter Actor. Picks up piece of paper, holds it in the middle, and places it under his nose - a mustache. He is now the evil landlord
Evil Landlord: You must pay the rent!
Actor now places the piece of paper, still holding in middle, on top of his head - a bow. He is now the female tenant.
Female Tenant: I can’t pay the rent!
Evil Landlord: You must pay the rent!
Female Tenant: I can’t pay the rent!
Actor now place piece of paper in front of his collar - a bow-tie. He is now the Male Hero.
Male Hero: I’ll pay the rent!
Female Tenant: My…
Actor now places the piece of paper diagonally from his chin - a goatee. He is now the Sociology Professor with a concentration in Gender Studies.
Sociology Professor: Excuse me, but aren’t you dragging out the same old misogynist act of saving the “helpless” female.
Male Hero: Well, I…I’m not…
Sociology Professor: Why not try another approach?
Male Hero: Okay…ahem…I’ll punch the Evil Landlord in the face!
Sociology Professor: No, no, no. Now your relying on the old male paradigm of conflict resolution - don’t fall-back on the ways you were socialized to repress any feelings of vulnerability or sadness by acting out aggressively. You can certainly think beyond that.
Male Hero: You think so? Okay, what about this: I’ll pay the rent and you can pay me back!
Sociology Professor: No! Now you’re saving her again.
Female Tenant: Listen, I need to get going.
Sociology Professor: Please do not interrupt me. I am talking. Male Hero, go ahead.
Male Hero: I’ll share the burden of paying the rent!
Sociology Professor: Closer. But what about countering the ways in which she was socialized to look toward others to help her?
Evil Landlord: This is Gay. I’m out of here.
Sociology Professor: Gay? Great now let’s throw some homophobia into the mix…
Male Hero: How about this Sociology Professor - I’ll do what you need me to do to feel more empowered!
Female Tenant: I’m leaving, too. I have a date with a biker, anyway.
Sociology Professor: Oh, that’s nice - give males the message that women really want the “tough-guy”. Why not date a poet? Or a college professor?
Female Tenant: Yuck!
Evil Landlord: Do what you all want, I’m going to contact my lawyer.
Male Hero: Now what do I do?
Sociology Professor: Well, now that you’ve made some realizations about the ways that traditional gender roles have boxed you into a corner, why don’t you and I - two heterosexual males - go out to a movie together as friends.
Male Hero: Sure, but only if we keep an empty seat between us.
(Published on Yankee Pot Roast website – 2005)
Sugar and Demons: A Scientist’s Field Notes
Day 1:
While changing my thirteen month old son’s diaper, he begins to spin around and around on the bed at an extremely fast pace and giggles loudly to himself, like a madman. This is not his usual behavior.
I decided to investigate.
Day 2:
After spending all night breaking down the circumstances that led to my son’s bizarre behavior and pouring through numerous scientific journals on-line, I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities: 1) he ate too many Dannon Children’s Yogurts right before I changed him, thus consuming a high amount of sugar. Or 2) demonic possession.
Day 3:
I continue my investigation by pursing my first hypothesis: my son is possessed by an apparently very, very silly demon.
After a bit of research on possession I discover the following:
Historically, Christianity has taught us that Satan and his minions of demons move about the world attempting to torment and destroy humans. The Christian Scriptures contains dozens of passages that describe the belief that demons can possess a human being and cause them to behave strangely. A large part of the Gospel message concerns Jesus’ healing ministry of exorcism. He is described as having cured numerous sick people by removing demons from their body, including in one
notable moment, transferring a thousand demonic spirits from a person to a herd of pigs.
My research ends, however, when I am unable to identify any demons that are specifically silly.
Day 4:
I am, again, changing my son’s diaper, when he starts to spin and giggle insanely. I struggle with my current hypothesis when I notice that the top-edge of his diaper is sprinkled with cookie crumbs. I entertain the concept of sugar being the source of his bizarre behavior. But, I am pretty sure that the seemingly incoherent babble he is emitting is Latin spoken backwards. I am not too clear on this as I flunked out of Latin in high school and took Spanish instead.
I decide to try a little exorcism and see what effect it will have. I gather a cross that my wife keeps in her bedroom dresser, a copy of the Bible that we use to prop up a window, and a glass of water that I was drinking. I ask Jesus to bless it and consider it holy water.
I am forced to abandon my experiment when my wife walks in and asks me what the hell I am doing. She grabs the cross from my son’s forehead, picks up the pieces of the Bible that he tore up and grabs a towel to wipe up the holy water that I poured over him. She mentions my needing help. I counter with a clear articulation of the possibility of demonic possession. I ask her if she is specifically aware of any silly demons. She walks out with our son.
I am disappointed as I was pretty sure that my son had begun to speak Latin forwards as he ripped out pages of the Bible.
Day 5:
After returning from a couple’s counseling session with my wife, I abandon my first hypothesis and pursue a new one: my son ate too much sugar.
In my research on sugar, I find: Sugar or sucrose, is a carbohydrate that is present naturally in fruits and vegetables. All plants use a natural process called
photosynthesis to turn sunlight into the nourishment they need for growth.
Sugar is a carbohydrate. The body’s primary source of energy is from carbohydrates. All vital organs—brain, heart, liver—need carbohydrates to meet their energy demands. Carbohydrates, including sugar, also play key roles in muscle function, growth and regulation of body temperature.
I am not sure where to go with this information, so I take a break to watch The Exorcist.
Day 6:
I have an idea for a next step. But, since my wife won’t leave me alone for too long with our son, I decide that I will test my new hypothesis on myself. I head to the grocery store where I buy twenty-five bags of Pepperidge Farms Double Chocolate Milanos, a gallon of whole milk and ten bags of sugar.
While my wife and son are out for the day, I begin to consume all twenty-five bags of cookies. Before eating each cookie, I dip it in milk and then into a bag of sugar. I am not sure of the amount of sugar my son ingested, but I assume that I need to exceed it due to my larger body-weight.
When I am done with the cookies I eat the rest of the sugar, just to cover all bases.
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