Monday, December 20, 2010

Parents Met. Combined Photos. Thought I would be Cute so they Googled "How to Make a Baby."

So I was at this party the other month when some lightweight vegan started getting perky off of too much tomato juice and asked the host if they could get everyone to sit down and share their conception stories. I quickly saw two ways out; tell a crafty lie or play mute. When the turn came to share the events of my conception, things got out of hand. I tried to lie and play mute, and many party-goers inconceivably walked out.

To start things off I held out my hands for something to draw on. I was handed a baby and a laser pointer. So, as I practiced laser exfoliating the baby’s belly with stirring red light, I conceived of a lie. I figured the lie would go like this; parents meet, combine their headshots, see that I will be adorable, Google how to make a baby, then make a baby.

There were several reasons this was completely false and unbelievable to me, but I figured they wouldn’t catch on. How could they know that my parents never “met” because they are actually fraternal twins, that they couldn’t combine their headshots because their heads are already attached, that they couldn’t "see" I was going to be adorable because they are both partially blind in their shared eye, and that they can’t Google anything because they only trust Baidu, the Chinese search engine?

To convey to the attendees that the first part of my story was that my Parents Met, I drew some sloppy stick figures holding hands. I should probably point out here that I can’t draw and have no concept of head-to-body ratio, so the general consensus derived from my drawing was “Ah, his parents were aliens.” I couldn’t dissuade them. Hell, I couldn’t even speak… so I moved on.

Next my parents Combined Photos and fell in love with my potential face. To convey this touching non-reality, I drew a picture of two faces smashing together with DNA strands exploding in every direction. Their only guess was “aliens combining DNA.” I was starting to get a weird crowd from the vibe. I decided to stay away from stick figures.

In my flustered state I predicted that the furthest possible thing from a stick figure would be an Emporer penguin. To show everyone that my parents Thought I would be Cute enough to bother Googling what sex was, I drew a penguin holding a headshot in one flipper and a hatching egg in the other.
Aliens implanted the combined DNA in a penguin egg!” shouted Sigourney Weaver. 
I should have known she was behind this messy chalk outline of Pictionary murder. She was in Aliens and Avatar and she voiced over the American version of Planet Earth. She had been planting guesses the entire game, I never even had a conceivable chance of winning.

Partially because I wanted to leave but more because I wanted to hear Sigourney’s conception story, I decided to wrap up my own struggling scenario. To show that my parents Googled “How to make a Baby” I drew a comfortable looking twin bed with a computer on it, and waited. I waited impatiently for a good answer. There were many murmurings and then:
A desk?! Is that a desk?” 
Either some wise guy in the back was completely unable to interpret what a good Serta looks like or Sigourney was off her alien kick and on to solid oak idiocy. I’d had enough. I took myself off Mute.

A desk? A desk!!? No, it isn’t a desk. My dad HATES desks. Why? Because my dad was RAPED on a desk. BY MY MOM. And THAT’S how I was CONCEIVED!” To add insult and salt to the phrases I had bulleted into Sigourney’s hanging jaw, I told everyone that I would MUCH rather have a British man narrating my waterfall chase scenes then some washed up, crack-addled poor man’s version of Susan Sarandon. Sig looked as if she had been slapped around by an otherworldy being.

When I was done with my tirade, I handed her my keys and said, “I don’t feel like driving… can you take me home Mom?”

Friday, December 10, 2010

"How did he get three people?"

When a coworker asked me if I was shooting up people again... I wondered how he knew I had just looked at my Xbox and considered playing Halo over my lunch break. I sent him a cryptic response and waited to hear how he knew my inner thoughts so well. He responded with a link to a story in the local news and told me to Google the address.

I need a new hero in my life and since some fancy homeowner is sitting around my county somewhere saving his own ass and possessions by firing a sawed-off shotgun from his La-Z-Boy, I thought I would check it out. Since possession of a "Get the hell off my lawn" attitude isn't exactly illegal, I knew this was a one way avenue I could drive down with my eyes closed. Turns out I wouldn't need to drive that far.

I do believe this is the first time in my life I've lived only a few houses down from a crime scene tape party that the Police were invited too. By the way WRAL, I was working from home all day and I was wearing my nice pants in case you wanted to do a full body interview. Top notch reporting.

Check out the names: Gary Brady Sr. must be a proud papa.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Dried Grapes

There is a zaggy road, forceful in its turns, ill-planned, that runs through Gum County and dumps out onto the kind of highway one would highlight with white signage. At the intersection, where one must decide on turning one way or the other - or just plowing into the barbed wire fence straight ahead - sits Donald Raisin.

                You could hardly call him a boy. But since no subset of women, men, peers, or queers would call him a man or a child, we can settle on boy. I guess you could call him a boy. His lower arms, glistening in the sun as he sits cross-legged juggling the chain of his 10-speed, are not vastly smaller than his upper arms. That is not to say either are entirely impressive specimens.

If you want impressive, and I’m sure you do, look closer at his eyes. The intensity is impressive. There, split diametrically by his skinny nose, flint and focus are poured together and laminated onto shining quarters, waiting to be spent.

Scattered across the path of his past are husks of former relationships. Without exception eviscerated, transparent and examinable, were anyone interested in examination. Donald slips his teeth over his lower lip without thinking. Thinking he must fix the bike to get home to get fed, he doesn’t notice the long shadow move across the passing lane behind him. Husks rustle, but Donald is too focused to allow osmosis of this information to infiltrate the forefront of his conscious thoughts.

Donald considers the issue at hand. Seven miles between himself and home. Jammed between points A and B, clumps of bike chain and oily, sequenced links. Donald moves methodically through the issue, placing force on the chain’s catch with his right hand and culling the extra chain into a manageable position with his left. Like a mechanic playing an oboe in the bassment with a cleft lip, Donald understands the importance of moving quickly through time.

Finally, all is in place. The bike stands up, as does Donald, and the shadow has taken to the sagebrush in the adjacent ditch. This is the essential precipice of the afternoon; bike, boy, shadow, enstanced and in transition between almost and ready. Donald is suddenly gone, still standing but no longer there, remembering with unequivocal alacrity the first time he ever felt fear. He is suddenly sure he needs to get home. Pumping the pedals, he flies past the Gum County sign, sure that he needs to get the hell home before Shane does.

Thursday, December 2, 2010


she sits him down in a swayed backed chair
reaches for still unyielding vine

and threads it through his torso

elbow across chest into pit, entwining
hands clenched tied back with wire
his desire to waken, unavailable

feet taped screwed to the legs to the floor
jaw stretched open stuffed silent
she tests the connection, push tug tilt
all is holding, secured in union

the restraints do not,
lessen, taut

world on paws, tipping in stasis, axis wrenched
she speaks and pulls flexing, waiting
he is talking, walking, her fingers flutter

he could be anyone.

it isn’t anyone. it is him,
alive with her nearly flipping
the switch on the sun
in the sky wide