FireVaney

She’s somewhere around ninety-five, my Great Aunt Hattie. Her three younger brothers couldn’t say for sure when she was born. Hattie can barely walk now. She’s fallen a few too many times. Her hips couldn’t take the punishment. Even with hearing aids, she can hear about as well as she can walk. Pop, Betty, and I pay her a visit nearly once a week. Toward the end of a recent visit, I overheard Hattie telling Betty that every week she expected to die. She choked back tears when she told Betty this. Betty, with her ever-sunny disposition, did her best to raise Hattie’s spirits. As I see it, Hattie couldn’t ask for much more out of her ninety-something years of life, save for a little less death. When I kiss her goodbye, I usually kiss the air near her face. She doesn’t stink or anything. It’s MY hang-up. Well, this last time when I did it, Hattie chuckled and said, “You give cold kisses.” So I went ahead and pecked her cheek. She said it again, “You give cold kisses,” but at least she kep...

...and it's still going.  A Nova Scotia man is the proud owner of a 1985 Toyota Tercel.  Despite being 40 years old, the car is in mint condition.  But there is one thing wrong with it:  the odometer doesn't go up high enough.

There you are, a grown man nearing middle age, rehearsing a silly play in somebody’s cold, dank basement. You’ve got a bit part, so you spend a lot of time waiting on the cold radiator wishing it would warm up. You’re wondering what you’re doing there anyway. Q: What have you to gain from this experience? A: Only the thrill of performing—that is all. Theatre on the fringe is a hassle and a thrill and nobody understands or appreciates that fact, unless they’ve done it themselves. But you want more. You want sex with the young beauty in the cast. You want some lasting [positive] consequence. You’re getting too old to rehearse in cold basements with poor lighting and spider webs and mold. You always get bit parts and you’re always the most dedicated and yet nobody ever takes you seriously. True, it doesn’t help that you’re an inveterate ham.  21 March 2007

Consider the childhood imaginary friend. It is an accepted form of psychosis, is it not? Perhaps “psychosis” isn’t the best word for it, but you get my meaning. As a child, you might’ve been encouraged to conjure up a hallucinated companion. As an adult, however, such imaginative exercises are not encouraged. That said, many DO encourage the practice of “projecting” some desired outcome (Winning The Game, Acing The Interview, Boarding The Plane, etcetera). So, it struck me – just yesterday – that I still have an imaginary friend of a sort. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s a way of dealing with my loneliness. And it’s based on you. (Assuming you’re reading this.) Jenny says to Forest Gump, “I wish I could’ve been there with you.” Forest replies, “You were.” And I know what he means. So now what? Now, perhaps, I’ll be able to, in effect, put faux-you to bed. Once you know what something is, you can put it in its place. Physically as well as mentally. Well, when you come right down to it, it...

On his annual joke show, Garrison Keillor cracked one that went something like this: Grandfather was lying on his deathbed.  The family gathered around him. Grandfather inquired, weakly,  “Are my grandchildren here?” “Yes,” someone gently replied. “Are all my sons and daughters here?”  “Yes,” someone said, “they’re all here.” “My sisters, and brothers, and cousins, too?” “Yes, Grandfather, everyone.” “If everyone’s here,” Grandfather asked, “then why is the light on in the kitchen?”  Twice, Pop has fallen in the dark. Both times, he busted a piece of furniture to break his fall. The first time, it was one of those fold-up “TV dinner” tables. The second time, it was the divan in his bedroom—he broke one of the arms off it. Both times, he got away with minor bruises. He’s fallen in the daylight, too—when he’s been in a hurry. To be sure, nobody has ever, nor will ever, accuse Pop of being a slowpoke.  Last night, I came downstairs and found him watching his favori...

No. The weather outside?  Not “frightful” at all. Me? I look FORWARD  to weather SO COLD that it CRACKS my skin regardless of how much  Lubriderm I smear on.  Honestly (though I AM honest  about the knuckles cracked bloody)* what’s great about  winter  is  LESS NOISE,  NO bugs, and, seemingly,   less crime.  Plus,  with the snow, all the drivers  around me  are  FORCED to drive  the speed  limit WITH me.  Finally. Now, assuming you’re not homeless,  you can always  come in  from the cold.  Air conditioning,  however,  when outside it’s 90 plus,  is not required by law.  Also,  I love my blue jeans,  my heavy leather coat,  and my long, black  “made in England”  overcoat. These habiliments don’t  show how chubby  my tummy  is,  or how scrawny my  arms and legs  are. I feel  tougher,  cooler,...

Kerri, of all people, sought advice from me, of all people, on you’ll never guess what. I drove her home after last night’s rehearsal, and along the way she asked if she could ask a “personal question.” That is, with regard to writing. She asked, “Have you ever written a sex scene?” Since I’d recently started two “X-rated” blogs, my answer was, “Yes.” As Chucky P. would’ve told her, I told her to “unpack the details” of the scene. I advised her to consider each character’s point of view and each character’s past experiences. “How comfortable are they with their own bodies?” I asked. Also, “How well do they know each other?” And, “How hot are they for each other?” Stuff like that. I suggested an exploration of exactly how they wound up in the sack together. “How easy or awkward was it?” I asked. I also recommended envisioning the scene from beginning to end… although I never do.*  17 March 2007  *Due to a dearth of personal experience to draw from and, perhaps, a weak imaginati...

You want to say things that you believe would help clarify the situation. But you feel that actions speak louder than words, because they do. So you wait. And it appears that inaction, actually, will speak louder than, perhaps, anything else. But who is to blame? You are at least partly to blame. But only partly. It takes two to tango. (Christ, how many trite idioms are we going to go for today, eh?) You are not the one who should think about the times that you don’t want to behave when the situation was false and the lawnmowers won’t FUCKING SHUT UP! Let the grass grow. No, don’t. Yes, let it grow, but only up to a certain height. Christ, just let me buy a lawnmower so that I can do it myself on my own schedule and not have to deal with all the fucking noise. But then the same mowers cut the grass next door, too. This is why winter is the best season for writing. NO FUCKING EXTERIOR NOISE!!! Although – and I AM aware that I’ve mentioned most of this before – autumn is my favorite seas...

To celebrate his new gig, Spiffy sprang for crab legs at Queequeg Jr.’s World Famous Crab House. We waited in a large, noisy, crowded room for two hours before a table opened up. Ate my first “soft shell” crab; drank my first glass of guava juice. Tasty? Tasty. Following the meal, Spiffy drove us over to the big, new Knottydart Hotel & Conference Center. We had no business being there, but looking inconspicuous has its perks. Then again, Spiffy’s always spiffier than most. I’m the inconspicuous one—and maybe that’s why Spiffy keeps me around. Some brat was celebrating his bar mitzvah in one of the ballrooms. The theme was The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson . Kinda odd, given that this newly minted man was likely born a few years after Carson retired. It makes you wonder how much this brat’s dad missed “Carnac the Magnificent.” There was an open bar, so I picked up a Guinness and followed Spiffy, who’d picked up a Canada Dry, out into an elevator. We wandered into the spacious...