My Town Smells Weird When It Rains
Showers and a roaming aroma.
I have to get to the bottom of this
Is it skunk or hippopotamus?
My town smells weird when it rains
A Touch of Discomfort
A cover artist tweaks my inner prude.
I’d heard good things about Beth Morgan’s A Touch of Jen, so I placed a hold at the library.
The evening I picked it up was the first time I saw its cover.
The librarian was an older woman. She shot me a look.
“I heard it was good,” I said.
“What’s it about?”
I didn’t remember exactly. I thought for a second. I said it’s about the toxicity of social media culture.
“You know… more or less,” I said. “Broadly.”
“I hope you like it.”
I felt weird.
Dog on a Cold Stone Floor
The infinite monkey theorem in action.
The creative writing class I teach at the community center meets every other Thursday at 7 p.m. Anything goes, I say. Poetry, short stories, a screenplay; write whatever you like, and we’ll work to improve it. The students vary in age from teenagers to octogenarians.
Recently, Lucas, 20, submitted a one-act play called Dog on a Cold Stone Floor. The play, set in Harlem, is an inversion of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Li’l Daddy and Li’l Mama live in a two-bedroom apartment with their son Pebble and his wife, “Maggie the Dog.” They all love each other, communicate openly, and enjoy perfect health and happiness.
When I told Lucas I liked his idea, the inversion, but felt a one-off joke better suited his premise than a full-fledged one-act, he scratched his earlobe and said, “Huh?”
“Tennessee Williams,” I said.
“Who?”
“Cat on a hot tin roof,” I said.
“Huh?”
It’s been a few days and I keep thinking, is this possible?
The Stare
The psychology of yearning.
I told her I admired her look. I told her I was an investment banker, a lie, just to impress her. I told her I could take her places, show her things. I offered to buy her lunch.
She just kept staring into the distance.
When I realized she was plastic, naturally I was embarrassed. But it proved a point. It's delicious to be ignored.
The Life You Make
A poem written first thing in the morning.
There is another life
A life where you’re everything you want to be
A life where everything goes right and nothing goes wrong
And there is another life
A life where everything makes sense
A life where you know everything and like everyone
And there is still another life
The life you have
The life you’re living
The life you make
Martin’s Thoughts
Is he really thinking for himself?
Meet Martin.
Martin likes to think he thinks his own thoughts. But when he really thinks about it, he decides he doesn't think so. He decides most of his thoughts are implanted.
Good for Martin.
Speaking of decisions, when Facebook decides to force Martin down Memory Lane by showing him photos of himself from two years ago, or five years ago, or eight years ago, Martin becomes vulnerable. Maybe the photos make him happy, or sad, or disappointed, or something else. The point is, Martin has no control.
Just a reminder: with social media, no one trustworthy has control.
Mo
Kindness & friendliness always feel great.
I was walking along the Hudson River (near the midtown piers), waiting as my car was being serviced, striving to get my 10,000 steps in, when suddenly I heard a voice.
“Hey!”
“Hey,” I said, saluting, a little unsure of myself. A 30-something-ish black woman in a uniformed coat waved me over to the fence she was standing behind. She was eating cashews out of a bag.
“Nice day, right?”
“Definitely,” I said.
“You see the ducks?”
“Yeah.” There were nine ducks floating nearby. “I love those ducks,” I said. “They’re so cute.”
“You should see the little ones.”
“Where are they?”
“Sleeping now,” she said. I glanced at the logo on her sleeve but didn’t recognize it. She smiled at me. We were silent for a moment. We watched the ducks.
“They love me,” she said. “They’re waiting for me when I arrive for work.”
“That’s so cool.”
“My name’s Mo,” she said.
“I’m Rob.”
We told each other it was nice to meet each other. I lowered my mask when I said it. She wasn’t wearing one, but we were separated by the fence, and were roughly seven feet away from each other. The sun shone brightly. Life was good.
Chance Meeting
Under your nose the whole time.
Feeling good
Seeing colors
Helping sort the trash of others
Walking fast
Buildings passed
Love life has a spark at last
Deactivated
The disappearance of Donald Trump.
January 8th, 2071: Today marks the 50th anniversary of the day Donald Trump’s Twitter account was suspended. What was Twitter you ask? Twitter was an American microblogging and social networking service on which users posted and interacted with messages known as "tweets,” similar to today’s “plops.” Who was Donald Trump you ask? He was the worst President in American and world history, and was deactivated from collective consciousness on July 4th, 2030.
Pardon My Rudeness
When acting like you own the place goes wrong.
I like to be in the habit of making short videos. Habits are everything. It’s a silly thing, making videos, but it helps me. I tend to be committed and consistent in all good habits when I’m making videos. I exercise more. Sleep better. Floss, etc.
I set my camera up to shoot. I was in the park. It was very quiet. Suddenly my voice, louder than usual, broke the quiet.
“I’m sick of following my dreams, man,” I said, quoting Mitch Hedberg. “I’m just gonna ask where they’re goin’ and hook up with ‘em later.”
I heard footsteps crunching on the leaves to my right. I turned, expecting a stranger. I prepared myself to smile and explain my hobby. No stranger. A squirrel was staring at me. Like, really staring at me. With a look on its face that said, What the hell are you doing? I’ve never seen anything like it.
Distance
Prison means different things to different people.
Brendan finished reading a long-form article about Charles Dickens. It was partially concerned with the Englishman’s fixation on imprisonment. Brendan brewed a cup of oolong tea and pondered the nightmarish idea of being thrown in jail for a crime one didn’t commit. He took slow, careful sips and stared out the window. He watched a tufted titmouse leap from a tree branch and fly away.
His iPhone buzzed, startling him. These days no one called. The number was unknown. On a whim, he answered.
“Hello?”
“Brendan?”
“Yes?”
“This is Charles.”
Charles? Brendan paused for a good long while and then asked the caller to explain how they knew each other.
“We met in prison. Remember?”
Never having been imprisoned, Brendan didn’t remember.
“You said that thing to me about us both being in prison? We were in the grocery store? It was pretty soon after Covid got really real and all the mask-wearing and distancing and stuff? Remember?”
Brendan still didn’t remember.
“You gave me your number? You said… if I ever needed a job?”
Brendan hung up. He turned his phone off. Whoever that guy was, if he was nice and sincere and not crazy, he certainly wouldn’t be approaching me like this. No normal person would reintroduce themself like that. We met in prison? That’s just weird and rude and scary. Plus, who calls anybody anymore? I certainly don’t.
Brendan drained his tea. Then he grabbed his mask and headed out for a walk. He kept his head down and kept his distance.
Submerged
Just breathe, it’s fine.
No need to worry - let me say that right away - but there’s a ton of water flowing into my apartment, and this being Christmas Eve, “it doesn’t show signs of stopping.” Luckily I have a scuba tank and a diving mask. I’ll be okay.
And now I’m completely submerged. All is calm. All is quiet. I’m sitting on my couch, toward its edge (to make room for my tank). I’m aware of my breathing of course. You’re always aware of your breathing underwater. My mind isn’t thinking about how this situation will rectify itself. I’m not concerned about water damage. I’m not worried about the future. I’m underwater, in the present, in my apartment, and it’s nice.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Dirty Malone
The strength in being Dirty.
The Malone boys were Frankie, Johnny, Jimmy, Patty and Dirty. Dirty never minded his name, he turned it into a strength. Not a nickname he'd tell anyone who asked. He worked harder than his brothers, took himself less seriously. Many thought he was the best of the bunch. He was.
No Know-How
When in doubt, link to something else.
I’d like to write something intelligent about Juneteenth, but I don’t have the talent or the know-how. This is a very good piece though.
A Bit Much
You know that guy you can’t stand?
Your opinions on Twitter
a bit much
Your leather bracelets
a bit much
Everything about you
a bit much
So go away and never return
The Undetected
Your pity is misguided.
Traffic's never an issue because we travel very early in the morning and very late at night. Whenever possible, we avoid crowds, we wear what we want, we're polite but distant, we prefer good books to listening to others' bullshit, we prefer written bullshit to spoken bullshit, we cheer for the common. No one in our town sees us (physically, yes, but not otherwise). We live on small portions and we always pay cash. No one will remember us, but we don't care. We're gratified day to day.
Ageless Rhythm
Get loose like the Peppers and Jack Black.
Felt moved to make a music video. Very impulsive. I thought, okay, I’ll use some footage of people dancing, and try to match their movements to the beat of an unreleased song by Red Hot Chili Peppers called “Circle of the Noose.” There was no point to this other than… I loved doing it. Only so many beats in the world. We all move to the same rhythms. You, me, and Jack Black.