Saturday, April 21, 2007

Virginia Tech

A couple of thoughts about the whole tragedy:

1. NBC News is a piece of shit for airing segments and letters from the package Cho sent them. That's what he wanted, you douchebags. Now every whackjob is gonna know he'll die in infamy if he finally decides to mow down some people. He just needs to fire up the old video camera first. They merely pay lip service to the victims, because it's the actual death that makes the news, not the lives that were lost.

For example, look at the Amish school shooting. The Amish simply forgave the shooter, and then moved on. They didn't plaster his picture everywhere. We Americans can be pretty sick fucks sometimes- we get off on our supposed revulsion to violence by talking about how much we hate it until we're blue in the face.

2. Everybody is bitching about gun control. Gun control is not the solution- creating a society where people tend to not go crazy is. He could have just as easily used a bomb or poison gas or laced the campus cafeteria's food supply.

But since I'm pretty sure we're just going to stay fucked up, here's an idea. Let's allow people over the age of 21 who pass a battery of psychological and background tests to apply for a civilian police position- basically full-time off-duty cops who get to carry a weapon. I sure as hell don't want to wait ten minutes for the cops to show up while some nutcase is spraying students and walls with lead. How many lives could have been saved if someone in the building had been carrying a firearm, been trained in its use, and had a suitably working moral compass?

Gun control doesn't work for another reason- the people who aren't supposed to have them don't care too much about the laws. So decent Americans are left without protection, and the fuckups get to run willy-nilly with the guns they buy from drug sales and smuggling rings.

3. My thoughts are with those who passed away on that campus- I hope you find some kind of peace somewhere.


Monday, April 2, 2007

The Great American Novel

I post this merely for posterity's sake- I wrote this story in 2002, and just recently found a copy of it while moving to my new place. With my luck, it'll be lost again in a few weeks, so I thought I would recreate it here. It's fairly long, but somewhat humorous- feel free to ignore if uninterested. It's primary purpose is archival oriented self-edification.

The Great American Novel

It has been duly noted over the centuries that the Great American Novel has yet to be written. But I, even though admittedly innocent when it comes to literary pursuits, must beg to differ. But considering that the average critic knows nothing of a certain Harry T. Belfunk, it is a charge most understandable.

For, you will see, I have met a man named Belfunk and his work. Now I'll be the first to admit that almost all of his literary efforts were a great waste of time and ink. However, it happened one day that Mr. Belfunk wrote what had to be...

But look at me. I delve immediately into the meat of the story.

One autumn day I was busy arranging my Sunday ties according to size and color. The largest went to the right and the smallest to the left. Anyway, I was so engrossed by my organizing that I didn't hear the sound of Harry's rather large feet slapping the cobblestone road. What I did hear, however, was the knock on the door.

For those who have never heard Belfunk's knock, a bit of explanation is in order. His knocks may not awaken the dead, but I am certain that they rattle the elderly. And since I knew the price of new oak doors (they aren't cheap), I decided against acting as if I wasn't there. So with a smile one usually reserves for the deaf and dumb child, I opened the door.

Harry simply marched in, paced around a few times, and said, "I need capital."

A few more words concerning Harry: he was never one to mince words, seeing anything superfluous as wasteful. Furthermore, it was understood among his friends that he wasn't exactly of the same financial breed as they were, and I always thought that this made him slightly insecure. But for one reason or another, Harry was always busy cooking up get-rich quick schemes.

Of course, I did what any noble man would do- I turned my pockets inside out to show him I was in no danger of sinking in a river, were I to be pushed.

But with a wave of his hand he canceled my offer, stating, "No man, I need real capital. Something to live off of, not pocket change. What I need from you is a plan."

"Sure thing, Harry. But why?"

"I'm in love. And it would..."

"Say no more," I interrupted, "For now I see your plight. You need money to marry the girl, for she says she needs security."

"You couldn't be more wrong, old chap," Harry countered, "You see, I truly think that she is the most wonderful dame in the world. She never asks for anything, and that's what breaks my heart the most. I want to buy her things, put her in a nice house. I have too much pride to ask her hand in marriage before I've earned a living."

At that moment, I could predict me and Harry staying up all night, drinking tea and formulating a suitable plan. But I always love an opportunity to tease him whenever I can, and it would seem this time that Fate wasn't about to allow me to forego my future.

"The answer is simple," I declared, waving my hands emphatically, like a circus announcer. "Just sit down at a desk and write the Great American Novel."

There are seasoned veterans who have found glory on the battlefield who cannot stomach the sight of Harry's mug catching onto an idea. He starts to sweat profusely, his eyes grow to hideous proportions, and saliva escapes freely from his open mouth. In fact, he closely resembles Secretariat coming down the home stretch.

If there were one good thing that could be said about Harry, it would be this- that he always follows through with an idea, once it has caught his eye.

This one had obviously caught his eye. For a moment, I debated whether or not to call the carpet cleaners, so great was the flow of saliva, but I quickly decided Harry was more important. So I said what I thought I had to say.

"Harry, you can't. It's preposterous! Okay, I concede that in a couple of years maybe..."

"I have three weeks," Harry announced quietly and solemnly, his eyes now glazed over, the rusty wheels starting to turn in his head.

And with a glance, I could tell he was no longer paying attention. He was lost. So with a heavy heart, I decided to let Father Time teach him a worthy lesson.

Without even a word of parting, Harry was gone.

Three weeks later, I was organizing my pots and pans according to their respective sizes and uses when I once again heard the booming sound of Belfunk's knock upon my door. As I started to let him in, I could almost picture the look of disappointment on his face. But what I actually saw touched my heart and broke my soul.

Looking back at me was a man changed forever. His eyes were the blackest black, his hair whiter than lightning, and his face heavy with unshaven hair. His clothes were filthy, and in his ink-stained hands he carried a large parchment, which I assumed to be his Great American Novel.

I stood in the doorway for a few minutes, letting this awesome sight sink in. But I quickly came to my senses and ushered him inside. Without a word, he walked over to the fireplace, and tossed the papers into the blazing fire. I was speechless, as was he.

He watched the fire for a few moments, turned to me, and said, "It's finished."

Dying with curiosity, I fixed a pot of coffee and begged him to share his story. He acquiesced and began.

Immediately after leaving your house, I headed straight for my home, intent on writing the story. I gathered up some paper and some quills (everyone knows you must use authentic goose quills if you're attempting to write anything great). And there I sat.

I don't know if you've ever tried to write anything but your name, but let me tell you, it's a lot harder than it looks. After staring at a blank piece of paper for two straight hours, you're not exactly brimming with confidence. I decided I needed something to write about.

And then it hit me- I would write about my love for Sylvia! And with a brush of my hand the ink started to flow. I must have written over thirty pages the first hour alone! What I wrote was pure, and honest. Whereas my predecessors had materialistic motives, I wrote for another. Shakespeare's greatest works are sonnets- sonnets about love for another. And so it was with me.

Love is a liquor that produces varied emotions- some men fear ardor; others practically swoon at the notion. However, love mixed with madness is the greatest catalyst known to man. Money and power, when all is said and done, fall far short.

Yet love is also a fleeting thing, to be sure. So, I had to act fast. I ignored both the telephone and the doorbell, my ears simply refusing to hear that which would halt my writing. For days at a time I went without the company of food, only allowing myself a boiled egg and toast twice a week. And when I didn't write, I slept; but that was from only the greatest physical exhaustion. I contend that only Atlas himself could bear my weight on his shoulders.

But perseverance always pays off. Exactly twenty days after we met, I finished my novel. It was a masterpiece of construction. Every sentence had a meaning, every word a certain nuance. I tell you, man, it had words that would move the hardest heart, entrance a man to move the stars, or even make men forget their lesser gods... I knew this would gain me Sylvia's love, for if it didn't, nothing would.

The instant I put down my quill, I marched over to Bumbleman's printing company, threw open the door to his office, and placed the manuscript before his hands. From somewhere deep within, I heard myself utter a terse phrase.

"Pay me."

Bumbleman is the type of man who could pass a child dying in the street and check his pockets for loose change. His heart was last seen being traded in for gold bouillon on the common market. But then again, you get the idea.

To this day I know not whether it was the wild look of poets in my eye or the fierce consternation of a novelist, but something greater than the both of us forced him to read my tale. You may ask why he didn't throw me out on the spot, casting my papers and me in the gutter. But you must think the whole thing through. Publishers don't get rich without some sort of sixth sense, some sort of gut feeling. He also knew, in his own corrupted way, that passion inscribed on paper equals dollars. Perhaps he learned it from me.

So he read it. And he paid.

After a brief stop at the bank, I set off for Sylvia's. Knocking on the door, I was so excited I almost knocked it off the hinges. Her door slowly opened, inch by excruciating inch. Instead of a hug and a kiss, I received a magnificent slap to the face, and her tears to boot.

I'm sure stars have fallen from heaven and crashed into the hissing sea, but no one could have felt worse than I did right then. After I picked up my heart and dusted it off, I considered joining a circus troupe far, far away. Perhaps the chimpanzees and lions would appreciate my love more...

My thoughts were banished at the sight of Bumbleman's little, bald head popping up over Sylvia's shoulder. He looked surprised- because of me, or the vicious right hook I threw, I don't know. So it ended up with Bumbleman and me wrestling on the veranda, Sylvia all the meanwhile beating me unmercifully with a wicker broom. Wicker brooms hurt. I made a solemn oath that day never to sweep a rug again with rage in my heart.

For the record, my ambition was to make Bumbleman eat dirt and yell "Uncle!" which is quite hard to do at the same time, I would soon realize.

Finally- I'm not quite sure when- we quit wrestling, dead tired on the front walk. For a long period afterward, we were all silent, too busy sucking air. But eventually, I had to speak.

"Why, Sylvia, why?"

"Why?! I'll tell you why! For three weeks, you don't call, don't visit! You don't even answer your door, even when I begged and cried. And worse yet, I knew you were in there. I could hear you munching on your toast, with more than moderate delectation."

"But Sylvia..." I tried to stand, my legs threatening to buckle at any moment.


The wicker broom bade me sit back down, and I obeyed before I knew it.

Meanwhile, Bumbleman had finally removed most of the dirt from his mouth, and he opened it as if he wanted to speak, but no words would come.

I also tried to speak, but Sylvia, who was now on the verge of tears, wouldn't hear of it.

"Go, Mr. Harry T. Belfunk. I shan't have anything else to do with you. There is no reason for your absence. Mr. Bumbleman has shared the whole story, and the idea makes me nauseous to a frightening degree. If it is truly love you seek, Mr. Belfunk, I suggest you stain the pages of your novel with the moisture of your lips. In any event, you will find your novel more receptive of your attention."

I knew then all was lost. Bumbleman would get the girl, Sylvia would get the love, and I would get paper cuts in cumbersome places.

Resigning myself to my fate, I stood up, dusted myself off, and walked out away. I shed no tears, spurted no words of bitter remorse (though my poetic should was tempted), but simply strode away, with all the dignity a broken heart can hold.

I did, however, suffer myself one glance back. I saw Sylvia, blessed Sylvia, helping up Mr. Bumbleman. I also saw love. I think it was then my hair turned white. A meager recorder of fervid dreams was never supposed to be a witness to true love. The only thing that spared my life from such an awesome sight was the intense burning in my heart.

So I walked to Bumbleman's company. I gave back all the money owed, and his secretary gave me back my manuscript. Mr. Bumbleman is a gentleman, I'll grant him that- he knew how to win gracefully. My next stop was here. And so you now know the story...

At that point, the exhausted Belfunk lapsed into a deep sleep. I watched the light from the fireplace turn cartwheels upon his sunken face. What price had love paid to buy a man's work of art? I slowly shook my head, letting it all sink in. And then I smiled. I suppose it is fitting that his sacrifice should warm him, at least for a while.

My curiosity assuaged, I let him snooze, for there are only two temporary cures for a broken heart- unconsciousness and love. The man who can drink while he sleeps never regrets falling in love.



The sun hung in the sky like a life-threatening blood clot, menacing and deep red. The warm waters of the Mediterranean rolled out beneath it in complementing shades of orange and yellow. In the distance the last remaining evidence of land was slowly retreating behind the horizon. The only sound was that of the waves slapping lazily against the wooden skiff.

Fernando was tired. He had been on the water all day and the work and the sun had beaten him, if only for a while. The clouds above him were a light gray. They scattered and diffused what was left of the evening light. He looked to the east and frowned. A bank of dark clouds had suddenly appeared. With them came the promise of a great storm.

He suddenly grew anxious even though his experience taught him there was no need. He set himself to tasks that seemed important and yet were not truly necessary. He checked and rechecked knots that had held for weeks.

He had never faced a true storm before. Once, near Naples, the wind had picked up and rocked his skiff back and forth like a toy boat, but he had not been scared. On another occasion he had made landfall just before a major storm hit. He remembers sitting on a rocky cliff and watching the power of the ocean. He had been glad not to be in it. Today he would have no choice.

Even though it was not wise, his thoughts wandered and fell on the memory of his father, Manuel. His childhood had been filled with his father’s tales of sailing and adventure. Storms that he had battled for days at a time with no sleep and little hope. Marlins he had struggled with until the ropes cut like knives, the pain compounded by the salty sea.

But above all, Fernando remembered the scars and on his father’s hands. Scars that served as silent witnesses to the trials he had endured. As his father told his stories the fire they used to keep warm cast shadows that seemed to deepen them, make them greater.

Fernando broke free of his thoughts and looked east again. The storm had grown noticeably larger. Seemingly pregnant with rain, it shifted closer and closer. Lightning struck in the distance in small sparks that belied the storm’s strength. Thunder could be heard, magnified by the waves. And yet it was not its size or girth or power that made it great- it was the awesome sense of inevitability that this thing would come. He quickly set himself back to work lashing nets and bracing the vessel.

He wanted nothing more than to encounter this storm. The outcome would be interesting, but it did not truly concern him. He sensed without exactly knowing that was critical was the meeting, the age-old conflict. Everything else was detail. He glanced down at his smooth hands and back at the approaching storm. He would be ready.

His skiff was fifteen-feet long. He had purchased it from a friend who had inherited a better one from his father. It was old and the wood had been bleached sea-gray, but its maker had done his job well.

A boat of Fernando’s size is an anomaly on the open sea- just big enough for one man to have trouble steering but just small enough to cause concern in a storm. In the chaos of wind and water that is a storm, time spent running to untangle a misplaced rope can easily spell death. He looked up- he would have to hurry now.

The storm was practically upon him. The wind had picked up, and the waves heralded the approach of things to come. At last his work is finished.

As a last thought, he sits and lashes his right arm to the boat. The boat was not only his source of income, but also his refuge. He had been twelve when he first saw a man go overboard in a storm. A sudden gust had lifted him as he was lowering the sail and threw him into the raging sea. The men had called and threw ropes, but to no avail. They found him floating facedown the next day. The fish had already started their grisly work.

He has done all he can. Now there is nothing but his thoughts and the waiting. He cannot help but hear the booming thunder and taste the salt in the whipping wind. It will not be long now.

And then the impossible happens. The storm turns. He watches in disbelief as the massive behemoth shifts and begins to pass to his left. A few sprinkles throw themselves harmlessly against the skiff. Light waves cause the boat to rise and fall rhythmically as the storm passes. He watches the storm for a very long time.

Finally his head falls into his tired hands. He weeps quietly before cursing the passing storm under his breath.


Tuesday, March 27, 2007


I'm so fuckin' tired of TV commercials. The next time you think a dollar isn't worth much, just watch a damn commercial. All those bastards want you to plunk down your money, and they try to entice you with fancy commercials. It's all bullshit. MacDonald's has gotten rich by selling us one dollar burgers that cost 20 cents to make. A dollar here- a dollar there- pretty soon they're worth over a billion dollars. The shit adds up.

Deal Or No Deal is the worst. I swear, I think there's more commercials than there actually is television show. I get tired of the commercials even when I Tivo through them- that's how many there are. I get it, people- you make the best truck/drink/hair replacement produce/diet plan/alcoholic beverage/online dating site in the world, and it'll only take me a few bucks to get in on the action. All of you suck.

It's kinda sad that Coke pretty much knows that if it pulls all of its advertising, people would slowly stop buying their product. Because we're not drinking Coke, we're drinking soda water that a billion dollar company has driven into our heads. It's not even a choice anymore- it's a Pavlovian response.

I'm tired, so this isn't fancy or clean, but suffice it to say that commercials can suck my ass. If I want to buy your product, I will- but you don't have to shove it down my throat fifteen times an hour. I don't care if you do have a fully fuckin' boxed frame, Ford. You can still kiss my ass.


Monday, March 26, 2007


Just a few days ago I saw a car on the side of the road. My wife recognized it as a car that had run up on my bumper and passed me with a delightful zeal about a week before. I remember the primordial and terribly delicious sense of schadenfreude rise up in my chest before being squashed by my civilized sense of mercy and pity. Is that poetry? Or is it merely the stuff that must be molded into poetry? Is poetry something we do, or something that is done to us?

Yesterday I sat on the porch swing and sipped whiskey until my head spun like a rusty merry-go-round, grinding and screeching its slow circuitous route. All thoughts melted away, and Descartes' famous maxim, "I think, therefore I am," became obliterated with the clankings of chipped ice against an empty glass. My body reverberated with pure and solemn existence, and it reinforced my ardent belief that my best ideas come from no thoughts at all. Is that poetry? Is poetry something we think, or something that thinks for us?

This afternoon I passed some boys playing basketball in the street, and I was transported to a care free time when the biggest worry was getting home in time for supper. I remembered the time I jumped over a creek and felt the universal thrill and ecstasy that only comes from doing the uncharted and unexplored. The tingling of the skin and emotional compression of the bone that only comes from taking risks. Is that poetry? Is poetry something we feel, or a thing that forces us to feel?

Is this poetry?


Leaves of Green

Every night I tramp out to the dog pen.
My two dogs, when they see me,
Tense up with exuberant impatience-
Tails stiff, eyes fixed.

When I pry open the old hinge
(Taken from my grandfather's gate)
They erupt, jumping and whining
For the styrofoam plates.

Max, the Newfoundland,
Won't eat while I'm close.
So I walk over to the plastic chair
Beneath a tree and watch him
Watch me until he's satisfied
That's where I'll be.

It's quiet- the dogs,
Their instincts engaged,
Shuffle the food silently
Only pausing to take
Quick and gasping breaths.

Above me is a light
That illuminates the leaves
Now just growing.

There is no greener green
Than this. The light strikes
From above, and I look from below
In wonder at every shade
Of green ever placed upon the earth.

Jades, emeralds- jewels they are
Never to be set as a stone
But inscribed perfectly
For me to hold
In a halogen ring
Stored safely away
Against the velvet lining
Of a dark night sky
And a greedy mind.

Then, Dakota, my lab mix,
Having finished his meal,
Pulls me from my reverie
And reminds me of more
Pressing matters- mainly,
Dog treats and some
Well-deserved attention.


Saturday, March 24, 2007


During the summers I would visit my uncle.
He would always drink Budweisers from the can
And walk around his front yard
In a pair of old shorts and wifebeaters
Stained with sweat, motor oil and
The aforementioned beer.

He was perversely comic.
Once, he held two frogs in his hand
And said to me,
“How can you tell if a frog’s a boy or a girl?”
I said, quite truthfully, that I did not know.
Upon that response, he turned both frogs over
And laughed, in his drunken way,
With a glory that Prometheus would have
Been proud to share.
I could see in his eyes
How he reveled in his self-proclaimed genius,
Thinking that his proclamation had changed
My whole perspective on life
And shattered everything I believed in.

Once he asked, “If a tree falls in the woods,
Does it make a sound?”
With such hushed reverence
It was clear he felt he deserved a Nobel
Prize for asking the question.
I wanted to say, "If a fat old man
Hell bent on drinking his life away
In his front yard said something
Incredibly stupid just to impress a child,
Does he make a sound?"
But being young, I held my tongue.

I think he’s dead now.