day one

Dayton stepped from the bus and his eyes went wide as he drank in his new reality. For better or worse, this was now home.

Rough voices filled every nook of his auditory consciousness. Shuffling feet gave the dust no chance to settle. Instead, it seemed, it all sought refuge in his nostrils. There was no way of avoiding it. It’s not like he could stop breathing.

His snot would be black for months.

Doubt clawed at his confidence. Maybe there were other ways to honor William’s memory, to prove himself a man his father would have been proud of. At this point, however, he might as well have wished to command the rain with a stern look skyward. He now had that exact amount of control over his own life.

“You!” A lion’s roar singled him out.

Perfect.

Dayton’s hands locked at his sides as he stiffened in his best impersonation of a soldier at attention. At least he did not have to search long for the source of the voice. Eyes dark as coal and colder than winter’s heart held him in their gaze from twenty paces away. The distance shrank to nothing in a manner of seconds.

The man, identified as Sergeant Galante by the name and rank patches on his fatigues, radiated authority. Those eyes were set in a chiseled face that could have fooled someone into believing he was handsome if he ever smiled. He was taller than Dayton by nearly a head and wider by at least half. Dayton wished that extra width came from fat, but he knew better. The man was a rock.

An olive army hat was pulled down lower than fashion dictated. His pants were tucked into his boots, also a no-no on the outside world. Dayton grew worried the differences would soon grow too numerous to count. Worse, they would become commonplace.

Dayton looked straight up to meet the sergeant’s eyes and swallowed a comment about his personal space being invaded. The tips of their boots were touching. He released a breath he did not know he was holding. The sergeant wrinkled his nose.

“You been eating shit, boy?” Galante yelled like he was a world away. Maybe he thought Dayton had a hearing problem. He was, after all, close enough to kiss.

Hardly a distance for yelling.

Dayton wasn’t sure what to say. Of course he hadn’t been eating shit. The sergeant knew that.

He had to know that.

But what if he didn’t?

What if he was brought up by backwards parents who encouraged that sort of behavior? What if he hung out with other people who did the same thing, who cheered him on when he did it in front of them? Dayton had never met anyone like that, but that didn’t mean they don’t exist.

“I said,” the sergeant got closer, a possibility Dayton didn’t know existed, “you been eating shit?”

“Sir?”

Television taught him to use that term when addressing a superior officer. It never told him, however, how angry that officer gets when he gets a question instead of an answer. Sergeant Galante’s face grew a red the envy of sunsets and his voice exploded like a bolt of lightning.

“It’s a simple yes or no question that I will ask one! More! Time! Boy, have you been eating shit?”

Dayton resisted the urge to wipe the spit from his face and flip off the other recruits who had stopped to watch the proceedings.

“No sir!” He hoped the volume of his voice made up for its unsteadiness.

“Well then,” the sergeant took a step back and a smile flicked across his face before his lips formed a line straight enough for a ruler. He patted Dayton on the shoulder. “I guess we just need to teach you to brush better. Welcome to boot camp. I do hope you’re a quick learner, son.”

Then, with a quick glare that sent the watchers scurrying off, he walked away, paying no attention to Dayton’s look of confused wonder.

Dayton slung the green duffel bag over his shoulder and started walking towards the barracks, his lips whistling a cheerful tune and his mind replaying the incident in his head.

He would catch on quick and earn the sergeant’s respect.

He would honor his dad’s memory.

a short list of "firsts" from my recent trip to mexico

I just returned from a short little jaunt to the Mexican Riviera. While there, I accomplished some things for the first time ever:

• Peed in the Gulf of Mexico
  
• Sat indian-style in the trunk of a hatchback taxi for a 40-minute ride
  
• Won a game of beach volleyball
  
• Played poker while smoking a genuine Cuban
  
• Picked up a group of local girls in a club using my high-school-level Spanish
  
• Saved a Guadalajarian princess from a forced deflowering by a rogue group of Peruvian pirates
  

All in all, a good trip.

rachel's reaction

the scent of summer lilacs gently grasps young rachel’s nose
then cradles her so tenderly, inviting her to doze.

she smiles at the memories that travel with the smell;
the secrets shared with loves gone lost, their presence now a
  shell.

a whist’ling wind sweeps cross the sand and blows the scent
  away,
reminding her the past is past and this is a new day—

a chance to chase a new horizon she’d ignored before
for fear of what would happen if she’d dared go and explore.

she searches for the scent again but finds it can’t be found,
so with a smile as smooth as silk she heads towards untouched
  ground.

so it goes

This isn't the post I was planning to write. Today's entry was supposed to be about my past year in sports. Not the sports I've played, mind you, but the teams I follow.

I was going to talk about how each of my teams went one step farther than it's predecessor. The Mets made it to the NL Championship and lost. Then the Bears made it to Super Bowl and lost. And now the Rangers are in the playoffs where, hopefully, they'll go one step beyond the Bears and bring the Stanley Cup back to New York.

Then I woke this morning and saw the news.

Vonnegut died.

I don't suppose it should have come as a shock. The man was 84 years old, smoked unfiltered Pall Malls because they were "a classy way to commit suicide," and has been battling depression for most of his adult life. Still, losing a friend always causes the heart to stop for a moment.

And yes, although I never met him I consider him a friend. Through the years I've spent countless hours with Kurt. Not in person, mind you, but with his words. Words he crafted in isolation for the eyes of the reader. Sometimes, when reading his stories, I would come across a line that made me step back and smile. His sentences were made just for me, it seemed. There was a connection I didn't have with other authors.

It's like he was the letter writer and I was the recipient.

When I was a student at Boston University, Kurt was the writer-in-residence at Smith College, an all-girl university in Northampton, Mass, that is a member of the famed "Seven sisters." Many times I toyed with the idea of driving out there to visit him during office hours. Obviously my having a penis would let him know that I wasn't a student, but I liked to think that wouldn't matter. I liked to think he'd invite me in with an eyebrow raised, and his face would settle into a relaxed smile as we spent the next few hours talking about everything and nothing.

I never made the trip down the turnpike. The thought of meeting him made me nervous. I didn't want to seem star-struck and didn't want to show up just to have him tell me I wasn't his student and he didn't care that I drove all the way from Boston to see him. That was my mistake in judgment, he might say, not his.

I didn't want to tell him I liked his books. I didn't want to tell him I found wisdom and advice in all he wrote, like, "the fiction writer can take the reader anywhere, including the planet Jupiter in case there's something worth seeing there," and "if you don't care for the subject you're writing about, neither will your reader." I was worried none of these things were perfect enough to say, and I needed to be perfect to solidify my place in his memory.

Now, sadly, even the most perfect words can't be shared with him. He's gone off to join Billy Pilgrim and Howard Campbell, Jr. and Felix Hoenniker and Wanda June and Kilgore Trout and countless others in that big chrono-synclastic infundibulum in the sky.

Take care, Kurt, and thanks for everything.

the real reason we're still in iraq

The administration said it would take six months. They said it wouldn't cost the US taxpayer a dime. They said we'd be greeted as liberators and heroes.

But now, 4 years later, we're still there, still paying, and still not welcomed. In a way, we're the red coats without the snazzy uniforms.

In doing research to compare the first Gulf War with this one, there's one glaring difference. No, I'm not talking about the time spent in the desert, the reason we went to war, the money burned, the cities invaded, the dictators toppled, the supposedly US-friendly puppet government installed, the global outcry, and the high presidential approval rating. Those aren't differences. They're funny little nuances.

I'm talking, of course, about the support of a plethora of performers across a wide-range of musical fields.

The first Gulf War brought us this:



The current Gulf War brings us:



So obviously it's Neil Young's fault we haven't won yet and we're still in Iraq.

Where's Michael Bolton when you need him?

untitled

The scent of the night slips slowly from my olfactory consciousness, leaving me questioning if it really happened or if it was just a dream.

I look down to see mud caked on the soles of my boots. Both elbows are skinned and sting when I bend my arms. My jeans, dark blue denims that have traveled with me across miles and mountains, are littered with holes that my leg hair pops out of.

There's a lumpy orange smear across my left hand that has no smell. It is hard and shiny, but does not feel especially heavy. I'm curious of its taste but cannot bring myself to lick it.

Could you if roles were reversed?

My water bottle is still full. The seal was never broken. It feels greasy in my hands and warmer than it should considering each exhaled breath forms a thought-bubble before my eyes. I think of opening it but quickly kill the idea. My mouth is already moist and I'll need the water later.

Turning around, I see the final proof that the night happened. My car is missing the hood and a sapling is lodged in the windshield. The trunk is open and my bag is gone.

I stretch, wince at the crackling down my spine, and pull my hat down low to block my eyes from the rising sun.

Step after step I get further from the scene of the accident.

Step after step I get closer to the bitch that took my stash.


------

there's no title for this. suggestions?

greasy-haired mullet man

It was me and Kyler on Friday night. We had some drinks, some shrimp (her, not me - you know my position on seafood), and a veritable truckload of laughs. When our time in the city reached its end, we set our sights on the illuminated green orb at the end of the block and pulled out our metrocards.

There are many trains one can take, but, since we were heading back to my house, we waited at the station for the F. We passed the time as people who enjoy each other usually do - with banter, with smiles, and with drunken flirtations. The train arrived and together we walked through the open doors.

Normally, the first thing that hits me is the smell of the train. It's like walking into a wall of human funk. Sometimes it's a bad funk, and sometimes it's a decent funk. The one thing it never is, though, is a good funk.

Does life really have any good funks? And don't say music. Now is not the time.

So like I said, smell is usually the first thing that hits me when I get on the train. This time, though, it was a sound that struck me. Two words mumbled angrily by a man with a greasy, dirty-blonde mullet: "blasted bitch."

Two times he said it in the time it took us to take 3 steps to the empty seats across from him.

I took out my iPod and split the headphones with Kyler. We were listening to the Cat Empire but looking at the guy across from us. He had three bags. "Blasted bitch." The one on the empty seat to his left was a black Timbuktu. It was a bit beat up but so is mine. At his feet were two more bags that seemed to speak to a certain degree of affluency - one from Bloomingdale's and one from Saks Fifth Avenue.

Both were filled with newspapers.

Another "blasted bitch."

The guy looked up. Not at us, mind you, but just up from his bags on the floor. That's when we noticed his eyes–red like a raddish and crossed. I averted my gaze because I didn't want to stare.

I mean, I wanted to stare. A red-eyed, cross-eyed, greasy-haired mullet man with high-end bags filled with newspapers is worth a stare. I just didn't want to get caught staring.

Turning towards Kyler, I saw she was smiling and holding in more.

"What's so funny?" I asked quietly.

"Are you laughing at me?" I heard distantly my left ear.

Kyler stared at me and crossed her eyes.

"Are you laughing at me?" It still didn't register.

I smiled at her imitation then turned left when it finally registered.

"Hey!" Our friend was standing up and leaning towards us. His voice was loud and menacing. Accusatory. He'd caught me and Kyler and he knew it. "Are you laughing at me?" He took a step and crossed the halfway mark set by the pole in the middle of the train.

"What?" I raised my arm towards him, palm facing his face. I locked eyes and held his gaze. "No, we're listening to Eddie Murphy."

Then, as if to prove my point, I looked down at my iPod. His gaze followed mine and a thought raced across my mind. What happens if he reads the screen and sees it's something called The Cat Empire? Then what do I do?

I started to slowly slide my thumb towards the screen but it was too late.

He'd seen enough.

He stared between us for a moment more then turned around. With shoulders slumped he picked up his bags and stood facing the door. Kyler and I exchanged a look of relief. The next stop was his.

Except it wasn't.

The stop came and went and he sat back down, this time in the seat at the very end of the car. We felt bad but didn't say anything and the train continued its run.

We pulled into Jay Street and idled at the station. "This train is being held at the station," the PA announced, "pending a police investigation."

I turned the iPod off to listen for more.

Kyler looked at me with a question and I looked past her, seeing a group of policemen enter the opposite end of the car. "Look."

"Come on, Roger," she said with a hint of excitement, "let's go see what's going on".

"No, let's just sit and watch from here."

They moved slowly through the car, all six of them. They walked past us and stopped in front of our friend from earlier. Forming a circle around him, they asked him to step off the train. He looked up with a puzzled plea, looked down at his bags, grabbed them, and walked off the train.

I felt bad that he got pulled off because he accused us of something we clearly were doing. Kyler saw the look on my face and soothed it.

"Don't worry," she smiled, "I heard them say he just had to wait for the next train."

I smiled back and grabbed her hand. There was nothing to do but keep riding until our stop.

ice-t

he sang "cop killer" which included lyrics like:

Die, die, die pig, die!
f**k the police!
f**k the police!
f**k the police!
f**k the police!
f**k the police!
f**k the police!
f**k the police yeah!

then he played a cop in new jack city. and now he's played a detective in 157 episodes of law and order.

that's a fun little career turn.