I was going to write a story about buying dime bags in downtown Detroit in the late 90s from a giant woman named Candy who looked just like Mo’Nique in Precious. I was going to attempt to run a bead of racial tension through the story, and allow my discoveries to hopefully illuminate the darker reaches of the reader’s, for lack of a proper agnostic equivalent, soul, letting a slash of light across our common experiences, forcing us to recognize our one-ness.
But instead I’ve decided that this poem about Sarah Palin containing liberal use of fart puns is a more appropriate addition to this sunny Friday:
Hey Sarah Palin
I can smell you through the TV
You should consider
seeing a doctor
I bet he’ll give you a pooscription
for the fartmacy
because you’re blowing up
like a stinky Snoopy
on Thanksgiving Day
Some people find you attractive
I just want to find you a gastrointestinal specialist
with references
It is cute though
that you try so hard
But don’t strain
because
you know…
The farts
Friday, May 21, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Brain
This is a short story about heaving a fat kid into a recycling bin with a retarded fellow in Michigan in the early 90s.
Frank was a stereotype. At five feet two inches tall and two hundred pounds, he was barely able to lift his perfect-replica light saber to illuminate his Dragonlance novel. Frank was your classic nerd, he was a geek, and he was my friend. During Spanish class I would write and he would illustrate a comic we conceived called Udder Destruction about a mutant, bipedal, well-armed, fast-talking milk cow with an axe to grind. We spent a week in detention together for co-authoring a play that envisioned Dustin Hoffman’s character from Rain Man venturing to Sea World to liberate Shamu. The opening scene saw Rain Man engaged in a messy slap fight with the snap-crackle-pop of his Rice Krispies. We deserved the adulation we received from our fellow seventh graders. The play was a hit in our writing class. We also deserved, and graciously accepted, our detention. Frank and I were thick as thieves.
Brian was a quiet, unassuming kid. He had a very small group of friends and he didn’t venture out into gen-pop often. The times I spoke with him prior to eighth grade were few, but he was funny and smart and kept to himself by choice, not because he couldn’t make friends. You knew this kid too. Every school has him. Frank and I called Brian “The Brain”. He was the guy who was going to be on the cover of Forbes one day. Unfortunately, he made the cover of the local paper instead.
I spent the summer before eighth grade wearing out my second cassette of Pearl Jam’s genre-definer, Ten, and, in hindsight, enjoying one of my last summers before the women, booze, and drugs of early adulthood complicated everything. Frank lived down the road, and we would spend entire days playing pool poorly in his basement (which is not a euphemism for something tawdry, like it sounds, but actual poor pool playing). That’s where we were when we heard Frank’s mother call out to us, her voice somber.
Brian had been in a car accident. He’d smashed his head into the glove compartment, causing severe brain damage. He’d have multiple brain surgeries and months of physical and psychiatric therapy in order to find a version of himself that could operate in the world. The news hit me and Frank hard. We liked the Brain and looked up to him. We saw in him a person who, without compromising who he was, was able to survive middle school without much detection. Frank and I, on the other hand, screamed “nerd”. We never compromised, but, for it, we would catch the ire of a quarterback here or a star power-forward there. It seemed that a colorful imagination did not make up for a girly layup and cowering in a corner during dodgeball. We didn’t know what to expect from the new Brian, and it was a subject of much conjecture leading up to the first day of our last year in middle school.
That day came in late August and I wore my worst smelling flannel shirt over a BBQ sauce-stained Nirvana t-shirt for the occasion. Remember, it was the early 90’s. I walked to school and, upon entering the building, began searching for Brian. I wish that I could say that I was searching for him in order to tell him how sorry I was and to let him know that I would be there for him, whatever he needed, but honestly, I can’t say that. I was a kid and I was morbidly curious as to how fucked up his bean got. When I found him outside the “special” kids’ classroom, I came to find that his bean got fucked up real good. His head was covered with deep scars, patches of hair growing wispy and unsettling. When he spoke, he spoke loudly, his hands gesticulating madly, his words slurred and ill-considered. He called out to me upon seeing me and I called back, “Hey, Brain!” The nickname took on a dark tone, and I considered abandoning it.
Brian in many ways became the opposite of his previous incarnation. He was boisterous and embarrassing and simply fantastic. That first day, he leaned into me and whispered, “Let’s throw Frank in the pop cans.” Our school, as most schools do, had large recycling bins to collect empty soda cans. This was an anthropologically important time in history when soda was what one drank in middle school. This sounded, logistically speaking, like a tough endeavor. Frank was a couple hundred pounds, I was a weakling, and my partner in crime was retarded. Not one to back away from a challenge, I accepted.
We agreed to meet at the vending machines at lunch and conspired to wait for Frank to pass, pull him from the stream of hallway traffic, and tip him into the bin. When lunchtime rolled around, I was nervous. We weren’t going to get away with it. Frank would be too heavy. A teacher would see us. The bin would tip, spilling soda cans everywhere. There were a million ways for our plan to fail. Little did I, or even Brian I assume, know that, since his accident, the Brain was about as strong as the big Indian in One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest. The moment came, Frank approached, Brian was standing with his back pressed against the Pepsi machine, and I was at his side with my back against the Fruitopia machine.
Suddenly, Brian darted out from behind is post, puma-quick, and grabbed Frank. I pulled him by his arms out of the hall and Brian Hulk-heaved him into the air and dropped him, ass first, into the bin. Mission accomplished. Frank was unharmed and amused, as we knew he would be. Brian was joyously basking in his accomplishment, and I wore a wide, shit-eating grin. We helped Frank out of the bin and went to class, our heads buzzing with innocent glee and too much Tangerine Wavelength.
Throwing Frank in the pop cans became our way of dealing with the relative hardships of the eighth grade. If one of us was rejected by a girl; throw Frank in the pop cans. When I failed my first class ever (first of many); throw Frank in the pop cans. When Frank’s dad divorced his mom; sorry, Frank, pop cans.
After eighth grade, Brian went to a different high school, a place better suited to his needs. Frank and I remained friends through freshman year, but drifted apart soon thereafter, as is the way these things go. Last I heard, Frank got married and joined a cult, which seems about right. I don’t know what happened to the Brain. I like to think that he’s found, figuratively speaking, a new Frank and a new recycling bin in which to toss him. I like to think that the buzz of innocence and youth is still alive in that banged up bean of his. Hopefully one day we’ll get to do it again. Watch your ass, Frank.
Frank was a stereotype. At five feet two inches tall and two hundred pounds, he was barely able to lift his perfect-replica light saber to illuminate his Dragonlance novel. Frank was your classic nerd, he was a geek, and he was my friend. During Spanish class I would write and he would illustrate a comic we conceived called Udder Destruction about a mutant, bipedal, well-armed, fast-talking milk cow with an axe to grind. We spent a week in detention together for co-authoring a play that envisioned Dustin Hoffman’s character from Rain Man venturing to Sea World to liberate Shamu. The opening scene saw Rain Man engaged in a messy slap fight with the snap-crackle-pop of his Rice Krispies. We deserved the adulation we received from our fellow seventh graders. The play was a hit in our writing class. We also deserved, and graciously accepted, our detention. Frank and I were thick as thieves.
Brian was a quiet, unassuming kid. He had a very small group of friends and he didn’t venture out into gen-pop often. The times I spoke with him prior to eighth grade were few, but he was funny and smart and kept to himself by choice, not because he couldn’t make friends. You knew this kid too. Every school has him. Frank and I called Brian “The Brain”. He was the guy who was going to be on the cover of Forbes one day. Unfortunately, he made the cover of the local paper instead.
I spent the summer before eighth grade wearing out my second cassette of Pearl Jam’s genre-definer, Ten, and, in hindsight, enjoying one of my last summers before the women, booze, and drugs of early adulthood complicated everything. Frank lived down the road, and we would spend entire days playing pool poorly in his basement (which is not a euphemism for something tawdry, like it sounds, but actual poor pool playing). That’s where we were when we heard Frank’s mother call out to us, her voice somber.
Brian had been in a car accident. He’d smashed his head into the glove compartment, causing severe brain damage. He’d have multiple brain surgeries and months of physical and psychiatric therapy in order to find a version of himself that could operate in the world. The news hit me and Frank hard. We liked the Brain and looked up to him. We saw in him a person who, without compromising who he was, was able to survive middle school without much detection. Frank and I, on the other hand, screamed “nerd”. We never compromised, but, for it, we would catch the ire of a quarterback here or a star power-forward there. It seemed that a colorful imagination did not make up for a girly layup and cowering in a corner during dodgeball. We didn’t know what to expect from the new Brian, and it was a subject of much conjecture leading up to the first day of our last year in middle school.
That day came in late August and I wore my worst smelling flannel shirt over a BBQ sauce-stained Nirvana t-shirt for the occasion. Remember, it was the early 90’s. I walked to school and, upon entering the building, began searching for Brian. I wish that I could say that I was searching for him in order to tell him how sorry I was and to let him know that I would be there for him, whatever he needed, but honestly, I can’t say that. I was a kid and I was morbidly curious as to how fucked up his bean got. When I found him outside the “special” kids’ classroom, I came to find that his bean got fucked up real good. His head was covered with deep scars, patches of hair growing wispy and unsettling. When he spoke, he spoke loudly, his hands gesticulating madly, his words slurred and ill-considered. He called out to me upon seeing me and I called back, “Hey, Brain!” The nickname took on a dark tone, and I considered abandoning it.
Brian in many ways became the opposite of his previous incarnation. He was boisterous and embarrassing and simply fantastic. That first day, he leaned into me and whispered, “Let’s throw Frank in the pop cans.” Our school, as most schools do, had large recycling bins to collect empty soda cans. This was an anthropologically important time in history when soda was what one drank in middle school. This sounded, logistically speaking, like a tough endeavor. Frank was a couple hundred pounds, I was a weakling, and my partner in crime was retarded. Not one to back away from a challenge, I accepted.
We agreed to meet at the vending machines at lunch and conspired to wait for Frank to pass, pull him from the stream of hallway traffic, and tip him into the bin. When lunchtime rolled around, I was nervous. We weren’t going to get away with it. Frank would be too heavy. A teacher would see us. The bin would tip, spilling soda cans everywhere. There were a million ways for our plan to fail. Little did I, or even Brian I assume, know that, since his accident, the Brain was about as strong as the big Indian in One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest. The moment came, Frank approached, Brian was standing with his back pressed against the Pepsi machine, and I was at his side with my back against the Fruitopia machine.
Suddenly, Brian darted out from behind is post, puma-quick, and grabbed Frank. I pulled him by his arms out of the hall and Brian Hulk-heaved him into the air and dropped him, ass first, into the bin. Mission accomplished. Frank was unharmed and amused, as we knew he would be. Brian was joyously basking in his accomplishment, and I wore a wide, shit-eating grin. We helped Frank out of the bin and went to class, our heads buzzing with innocent glee and too much Tangerine Wavelength.
Throwing Frank in the pop cans became our way of dealing with the relative hardships of the eighth grade. If one of us was rejected by a girl; throw Frank in the pop cans. When I failed my first class ever (first of many); throw Frank in the pop cans. When Frank’s dad divorced his mom; sorry, Frank, pop cans.
After eighth grade, Brian went to a different high school, a place better suited to his needs. Frank and I remained friends through freshman year, but drifted apart soon thereafter, as is the way these things go. Last I heard, Frank got married and joined a cult, which seems about right. I don’t know what happened to the Brain. I like to think that he’s found, figuratively speaking, a new Frank and a new recycling bin in which to toss him. I like to think that the buzz of innocence and youth is still alive in that banged up bean of his. Hopefully one day we’ll get to do it again. Watch your ass, Frank.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Beaver
It’s Pittsburgh in the 80s and I’m The World’s Biggest Masters of the Universe Fan. Official title. My mother’s at work, and her doughy Boy Scout husband, Chuck, a man whose physical appearance clumsily lands somewhere between Jon Favreau and Teddy Ruxpin, is click-clacking at a typewriter in the dining room. Chuck is jobless. A freelance photographer for NASA, he’d recently witnessed the Challenger explosion while on assignment and, understandably shaken, has decided to find other work. But for now, he’s a deadbeat stepdad. A deadbeat dad can happen to anyone, but when a deadbeat stepdad creeps along, it’s hard not to question Mom’s decision-making skills. I don’t much like Chuck, and Chuck shows little fondness for me. We stay out of each other’s hair. He types. I play. He casually makes sure that I don’t get impaled or crushed or kidnapped. I chew the soft rubber head of He-Man while watching Three Stooges reruns too loud on our new-at-the-time television, a beast of wood and knobs and convex glass that sits on the floor with me and my toys.
This is one of many stories collected from my time with Chuck.
Chuck’s job search would take him out of town for two or three days at a time, which was fine by me. The neighbor I stayed with while my mother worked was a bit of a pothead and would let me watch The Twilight Zone, which I loved but would scare the shit out of me. I was six. When my mother came to pick me up that day, I was eager to get He-Man back to Castle Greyskull, a hard plastic grayish-green skull-shaped castle that mustn’t have been difficult to name. Silverhawks were invading. He-Man was needed.
My mother was happy because Chuck was going to be home after traveling out of state for an interview and she needed the help looking after me. I was happy because Chuck had told me over the phone during one of our weird, forced “let’s both pretend you’re not fucking my mom” conversations that he had gotten me a “surprise”. A surprise is to a six year old what oral sex or a low utilities bill is to an adult. My mother and I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex in our shitty red Chevette (which, incidentally, was the name of the first draft of Prince’s now-classic Little Red Corvette), I hopped out and ran inside, my mother trailing behind, hands full of whatever it is parents carry that gives them that burdened, clumsy walk.
Upon entering the apartment, I was met by Chuck. He threw a poorly wrapped package my way and gave me a polite nod while walking past me and embracing my mom. I ran to the living room, cranked the giant knob that turned the television on and it rattled to life as if it were steam-powered. Might’ve been. I patiently waited while Chuck sat on the couch and my mother came out of the kitchen with three small cups of homemade chocolate pudding she had prepared for this very occasion. I was given the go ahead to open my gift. I ripped the wrapping paper away to reveal a round, furry, stuffed…
…beaver.
Polite to a fault (as a kid, at least), I graciously thanked Chuck for the kind present while I thought of ways that this stupid stuffed animal could terrify the population of Eternia (He-Man’s home planet) before He-Man could come in and slay him with the magical Sword of Power (He-Man’s magical sword. It has powers). But in the meantime, I figured I’d throw the damn thing in the air a bunch of times. Given, this was a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Pittsburgh; it may as well have been a Haitian box-house, so the words Chuck spoke to me that day make sense from a safety standpoint. That doesn’t mean the fact that this string of words was spoken in English at all isn’t of great importance to the idea and power of language itself. It certainly does. Upon the third attempt at swinging the beast into the air by its quilted felt tail, Chuck, my deadbeat stepfather who resembles Teddy Ruxpin and the director of Iron Man 2, in theaters now, bellowed to me sternly:
“Brandon, do not throw your beaver in your mother’s pudding.”
For a long moment there was silence. It was as if an elderly holocaust survivor farted loudly at the most dramatic swell of his own tragic recounting. It was as if everything was drained from the room and all that remained was that ridiculous sentence, hanging in the air like a hobo-fart. And suddenly, we laughed, all of us together. The beaver lay alone on the floor, ready to wreak havoc on Eternia. Pudding safe.
Since that day in 1986 in a grey Pittsburgh suburb, I have heard many more ridiculous sentences spoken, but that one would definitely make the starting lineup. Thanks Chuck.
This is one of many stories collected from my time with Chuck.
Chuck’s job search would take him out of town for two or three days at a time, which was fine by me. The neighbor I stayed with while my mother worked was a bit of a pothead and would let me watch The Twilight Zone, which I loved but would scare the shit out of me. I was six. When my mother came to pick me up that day, I was eager to get He-Man back to Castle Greyskull, a hard plastic grayish-green skull-shaped castle that mustn’t have been difficult to name. Silverhawks were invading. He-Man was needed.
My mother was happy because Chuck was going to be home after traveling out of state for an interview and she needed the help looking after me. I was happy because Chuck had told me over the phone during one of our weird, forced “let’s both pretend you’re not fucking my mom” conversations that he had gotten me a “surprise”. A surprise is to a six year old what oral sex or a low utilities bill is to an adult. My mother and I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex in our shitty red Chevette (which, incidentally, was the name of the first draft of Prince’s now-classic Little Red Corvette), I hopped out and ran inside, my mother trailing behind, hands full of whatever it is parents carry that gives them that burdened, clumsy walk.
Upon entering the apartment, I was met by Chuck. He threw a poorly wrapped package my way and gave me a polite nod while walking past me and embracing my mom. I ran to the living room, cranked the giant knob that turned the television on and it rattled to life as if it were steam-powered. Might’ve been. I patiently waited while Chuck sat on the couch and my mother came out of the kitchen with three small cups of homemade chocolate pudding she had prepared for this very occasion. I was given the go ahead to open my gift. I ripped the wrapping paper away to reveal a round, furry, stuffed…
…beaver.
Polite to a fault (as a kid, at least), I graciously thanked Chuck for the kind present while I thought of ways that this stupid stuffed animal could terrify the population of Eternia (He-Man’s home planet) before He-Man could come in and slay him with the magical Sword of Power (He-Man’s magical sword. It has powers). But in the meantime, I figured I’d throw the damn thing in the air a bunch of times. Given, this was a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Pittsburgh; it may as well have been a Haitian box-house, so the words Chuck spoke to me that day make sense from a safety standpoint. That doesn’t mean the fact that this string of words was spoken in English at all isn’t of great importance to the idea and power of language itself. It certainly does. Upon the third attempt at swinging the beast into the air by its quilted felt tail, Chuck, my deadbeat stepfather who resembles Teddy Ruxpin and the director of Iron Man 2, in theaters now, bellowed to me sternly:
“Brandon, do not throw your beaver in your mother’s pudding.”
For a long moment there was silence. It was as if an elderly holocaust survivor farted loudly at the most dramatic swell of his own tragic recounting. It was as if everything was drained from the room and all that remained was that ridiculous sentence, hanging in the air like a hobo-fart. And suddenly, we laughed, all of us together. The beaver lay alone on the floor, ready to wreak havoc on Eternia. Pudding safe.
Since that day in 1986 in a grey Pittsburgh suburb, I have heard many more ridiculous sentences spoken, but that one would definitely make the starting lineup. Thanks Chuck.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Fear
The first words I write in this blog, aside from these, are as follows: I am afraid. Strange words with which to start a blog? Maybe. But there they sit, three little words, thin and black. A strange confession. A nip-slip.
I've called this blog The Infinite Monkey Theorem. The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In other words, on a long enough time-line, anything is possible. Nice thought. And then one realizes the tail of history is growing behind one and that the cat's ass of oblivion is approaching fast, dark, and puckered. We do not have eternity. The monkey behind this keyboard is finite, and if he's going to create something worthwhile he better start typing. Type, monkey. Type.
So, of what am I afraid?
Mechanical dinosaurs too close to an unstable nuclear reactor, for one. Plus, I'm turning 30 and I need a place to freak out about it. The Internet seems as good a place as any.
In closing: My name's Brandon. Nice to meet you.
I've called this blog The Infinite Monkey Theorem. The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In other words, on a long enough time-line, anything is possible. Nice thought. And then one realizes the tail of history is growing behind one and that the cat's ass of oblivion is approaching fast, dark, and puckered. We do not have eternity. The monkey behind this keyboard is finite, and if he's going to create something worthwhile he better start typing. Type, monkey. Type.
So, of what am I afraid?
Mechanical dinosaurs too close to an unstable nuclear reactor, for one. Plus, I'm turning 30 and I need a place to freak out about it. The Internet seems as good a place as any.
In closing: My name's Brandon. Nice to meet you.
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