Mordant Ballyhoo

 The following is an INovella produced by myself in collaboration with a part-time contributor to this blog, Brandon Martinez.  Brandon is the Assistant Principal at La Habra High School, and a former colleague of mine from Fullerton Union High School.  Many of his short fictions have been published in the Happy Workman magazine, Journal for Banshee Profligation, and his latest piece, “Lathe and Plaster” was short-listed for the prestigious Veal Chop Prize.  Please visit his blog American Dunderfunk listed in the links on this page.   

     When the custodian left the storage closet, his dulled olfactory did not detect the strong, fetid stench emanating from the ground. Some of the others passing by pluged their noses and actually bent towards the smell. Sage produced a lighter–one of those classic Zippo affairs, only his had a skull and crossbones emblazoned on one side–and lit it. When he held the flame near one of the cracks, his suspicions were confirmed as a low blue flame inginted just above the crack and danced steadily as if a stove top burner.
    Two of the others looked on and shifted their weight, wating for Sage to say something. Then, one of them spoke. “What’s the deal with that?”
   “The deal? What are we, in Vegas?” Sage said.
   “No, it’s just that, well, what is it?” asked the taller of the other two.
   “What do you think it is?”
   “Sage, stop with the tweny-fucking-questions,” the shorter one said.
    Sage stood, fixed his shirt, and returned the lighter to his pocket. He then leaned on his heels, a controlled reel, looking at each of the other two, they returning the gaze intently.
   “Do you remember hearing of a teacher here a few years back that supposedly took kids into the basement and tunnels here?”
    “That’s bullshit,” the tall one said.
    “Okay, Lucien, if you want to doubt it, then find your own goddamn explanation.”
    “All right, I’ve heard of him.”
    The short one took from his pocket a bag of sunflower seeds and popped a handful into his mouth. “I’ve heard of him,” he said.
    “Thank you, Hippo, I’ll continue,” Sage said. “I think his lab is still active down there.”
    “Come on, you serious?” asked Lucien.
    “Follow me.”
    He turned and shuffled towards what he thought to be an entrance to a stairwell. Lucien and Hippo stood, watching him, Hippo cracking seeds and spitting the shells, Lucien, looked at his watch.
    “Come on, let’s go,” Lucien said.
    “Where?”

“To get Cheese Nips.  What do you think?”
           
“Shit, man.  I can’t cut homeroom.  Kransky will have my ass.”
 
            Lucien proceeded, disregarding Hippo’s remarks as if they were a fart in the wind.  He had already decided, irrevocably and immediately upon seeing the blue lick of the flame initiated by his lucky Zippo, that this was a place he had to explore.  He was impelled by the draw of the unknown, the small shiver that quickened in his loins.  He was Hillary, and Hippo his sherpa.
 
            “Aw fuckit,” intoned Hippo meekly.  Lucien tried the handle of the door.  The stripes of Lucien’s Newcastle United football jersey shone iridescently in the neon lights of the public school hallway.  “Kransky’s a tool, anyway.”
 
            Lionel Spieziak, the school’s lifelong custodial engineer, watched through a small, secret peephole as the two misfits opened the heavy door.  He picked up the receiver to a rotary dial phone, and turned the disc furtively, dialing a number he knew by rote.
 
Chapter II
 
            The receiving side of the doorway was surprisingly well lit for what had initially appeared to be an eerie and dank passageway.  Lining the walls were several outdated lamps, like the ones that appeared on the tables of a Chicago steak house, beaded and ornate, and giving a fresh umber glow.  The scent of gas grew immediately stronger, and Lucien fought the urge to light one of his Benson and Hedges menthol cigarettes, a habit he had gleaned from his uncle Smarge.
 
            “What do you think this place is?” asked Hippo.  Lucien didn’t answer, but carried forth into the womb of Humbert Humber High School.  They were below the surface now, as they scaled the stairs that led downward from the hall behind.  Hanging betwixt each art deco lamp were photos of forgotten people of forgotten times.  Their candid expressions hung knowingly and benign at the two figures as they descended the cement steps.
 
            Above the surface, at the threshold of the passageway, Happy Porcine adjusted his night-view lens and checked the battery of his camera.  He had spied the two miscreants as they examined the door, and had seen them plummet the depths of the doorsill.  He now had a choice.

*          *          *
            Somewhere in the city, a phone rang and Lionel Spieziak shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. His left hand held the phone to his ear, the pre-digital ring of the phone droned.
 
            “Yeah?”
            “There’s at least two of ‘em going in now,” Lionel said.
            “How old?”
            “Dunno, teenagers, anyway,” he said.
            “Hold back. Give it a few, then the usually.”
            “Call back?” Lionel asked.
            “Only if you need to.”
            “Got it,” he said and returned the phone to its cradle.
 
            Further down the dank hallway, Hippo said, “Hey, fool?” His voice echoed.  Lucien ambled close to the dim, yellowish light, taking a drag from the cigarette.
            “Sage?” He called out.
 
            Nobody replied. Hippo stopped abruptly and Lucien bumped into him. “What are you doing?” He asked.
            For a moment, Hippo stood stock still, eyes locked on something. Lucien said, “What the hell, what is it?”
            Hippo said nothing, but held up a hand to silence Lucien. “You’re tripping,” he said.
            “Shut up, fool,” Hippo said in a whisper.
            Lucian tossed his cigarette, looked closely at Hippo’s face, and then looked in the same direction. It was then that he saw what Hippo saw, and his voice was gone.

            Where is that motherfucker, Sage? Lucien thought.  He had disappeared as soon as the door opened up into the bowels of the public school.  Could this be his revenge for me fingering his girlfriend at the school dance?  Lucien was cool, though, and stared the effigy down as if it were a testament to his manhood.

            “What the fuck IS that thing?” Hippo howled.  Lucien continued to stare.  It looked like Sage, but its eyes had been gouged out to the point where the face was semi-unrecognizable.

            “It’s your homie, Sage,” whispered Lucien, and he flicked the tip of his personal defense mechanism out in an unhurried, workman-like efficiency.  He used the Bowie knife to prick the two pennies out from his former rival’s eyes with a sudden necessity, much like the manner in which his father used to scrape rodentia from a rusty garden hoe.  “He’s dead.  He’s a dead motherfucer.”

            Lucien had never seen a dead body, at least in person, but he was untroubled by this current discovery.   It was as if he had half-expected it.  Forseen it in some warped dream.  Hippo became unraveled.

            “Holy shit, man.  Holy fucking shit!”  Hippo was now beside himself.  Lucien was cool.

            “Shut up, Hippo.  Be quiet.  Be still and quiet.”  Lucien knew what was before him, and had chosen this route long ago.  Sage was just a pawn in his game, and now he had been sacrificed, reduced like a simple fraction in a mid-level math class.  He ripped the skull and crossbones Zippo from Sage’s dead hands.  The lamps from the sidewall dripped gloomily onto the two figures, as another shadow from above began to descend upon the duo.  The shadow filtered along the cement partition between the schoolhouse and the basement with alacrity, and before he knew it, the crucial moment was upon him.

            Above, Happy Porcine sat perched filming the entire episode from the third stair.  His night-vision camera was astute, and captured every waking moment of the scene below.  Suddenly, he too was felled by a severe blow to his cranium.  He died instantly, but the camera marched on to capture the feat below, although at a somewhat unfavorable angle.  The loud screams were muffled by the thick, concrete walls, and several sprays of deep, sanguine blood clouded the lens.

Chapter III
 
            Footsteps echoed with a diphthongous quality—part step, part shuffle, the two combining in a sonorous unison.  Lionel Spieziak came to a halt and held what looked like an ordinary stethoscope. He placed a listening end into each of his ears and held the metal medallion end to the brick wall. The bricks—not a normal object for the purpose of auscultation—were the sole point of his concentration. It was apparent that this was not an ordinary stethoscope because a thick wire attached the metal listening device to a box attached to a strap slung over Lionel’s shoulder. The muffled bleep, zip, and pfzzt, intensified each time he listened to a new area on the wall. He was standing in the area that Lucien and Hippos had stood moments before.
 
            The night vision camera took on a new angle as someone resumed filming with a steady hand, and the zoom and focus were not accidental. Still, the hand wipe of the blood off the lens created a muted almost hazed gel effect, and nobody could say for sure what he saw.
 
            Happy Porcine lay prone, his head turned to one side. The thick non-prescription glasses were tangled across his face.  Both eyes were open and his tongue jutted from the side of his mouth. He never knew what hit him.
 
            Hippo and Lucien inched slowly past what that thought as the corpse of their acquaintance Sage.  Lucien knew they were nearing the deepest points of the tunnels as the graffiti grew scarce and the few spray painted markings that existed were a graffito of a 1970s slogan and a crude drawing of a marijuana leaf.
            “Damn, it’s getting hot,” Hippo said.
            “Shut up, you’re just fat,” Lucien whispered.
            “No, I’m serious,” Hippo said.
            Lucien noticed the beads of sweat that dripped from Hippos brow and realized that it grew not warmer, but hotter with every step they took. That is when he noticed the five-inch pipe that ran along the wall.
            “It’s an old school heating system or something,” he said.
            “How the hell do you know?” Hippo asked.
            “Just keep walking.”
            Lucien took the lead and in an epiphany made the connection between his current experience and the whole cetological conundrum of Ahab, Starbuck, et al. What he didn’t know was that what he thought to be the dead body of Sage was an ersatz version of said nemesis and his false belief allowed him to lower his guard.

Chapter IV: Lionel Spieziak’s Flashback
 
I am a Jew.  I have suffered, as all Jews have suffered, under the banner of oppression, hatred and most of all, circumcision.  I am half a man because of my Jewishness.
 
My father was born in Switzerland in 1921, in Basel, a minor canton of the Swiss cofederation of arrondissements.  When I was five years old, my grandmother killed herself with an ironing board and two old dinner plates, each with cherry rose designs on the edges, all of which bore her blood as if they were the holy shroud and Ikea combined, and inversely, as if they were nothing at all.  My grandfather took his life soon after, although without domestic implements.  His was a normal suicide.
 
This made my parents pretty rotten creatures.  They somehow blamed me for their misgivings, and forced me to toil, day and night, on their manuscripts, all of which were in Yiddish, and needed translating into Swiss-German, a language which I alone spoke among my direct parentage.  The days were hard, spent mostly at the local school for boys.  The nights were worse, diddled over over foreign texts, translating what were to be meaningless dross into common language.  I was only seven.  I eventually finished high school and entered college.  There, I became what is know as the “Meuchelmörder”, or hitman.  I translated for years before I was able to enter graduate school, where I took classes in morphology and orthography.  I was an assassin of words.  Nothing escaped my erudite scrutiny, save for a few damsels and fraulines.  I also learned to take lives, sometimes brutally, sometimes fastidiously.
I received my doctorate degree in 1970, and continued my studies in Switzeralnd and eventually what was to be known as the Czech Republic until 1989.  Then the Wall fell.  I was free, and came to America.  America was the home I had always dreamed of: large hedges, fountains and supermarkets with aisles and aisles of bread, and already sliced!  I married a girl from New York in 1992, and settled in a small apartment, and began a job at NYU as curator of Nazi relics.  Since most of the treasures were of Jewish decent, it was easy categorizing the memorabilia into small ranks, each with their own sense of determination and worth.  I was happy, until discovering I had been followed, watched and documented by the Stasi, some years earlier.

Nutshell—this is the version of the interim I offer, nothing more nothing less—truncated sans detail. 
The Stasi had details about my dealings in the underground art market. But, I had my details as well. The difference between them tossing me into the mud and me staining their white table cloth with ink is that we both get dirty. And, although what they had on me was far more damaging that what I had on them, my wrench was far too big a headache to rid with a simple aspirin.
Our agreement was to move on. They demanded I cut all my ties with my previous work. They would assist with the transition, calling it a case of nervous breakdown—a need for a change of scenery. California was the perfect counterpoint to the hustle and bustle of four-season New York.
A cousin of a cousin, or something like that, got me into the gig. Once I was no longer under the aegis of the Stasi, the old ways, my knowledge and skills were useless—I could not afford to put myself back on the radar. Any move in the art or historical artifacts world would surely land me to, as they say, wallow in the mire.
It was in the basement of the school I clean that I developed the thing that would get them all—the thing that would allow me to push them into the mud. I call it the chronovoxilator—a device that can hear conversations of the past stored in the bricks and motor of buildings.

V     Numerous and violent staccato clicks shook the small metallic box.  One might think the thing had a life of its own.  It did not.  It had the monopolistic power of Feynoord Electric Company, and Lionel Spieziak.  Lionel eyed the machine cautiously, turning a knob here, a dial there.  His fingers glossed over the membrane of the memory machine like silk gloves on a debutante’s wrist.  He pranced around the small table making calibrations.  His gazelle-like movements were memories of their own.  He turned the machine to the off position, scribbled some notes in an unintelligible Swiss-German script, put his notebook in a battered breast pocket, and alighted from his stool.  The hour was nearing six, and he had loads of work to do.      Lucien and Hippo approached a cul de sac at the end of a narrow tunnel.  Both had been silent for some time, neither wanting to speak about what they had seen, or thought they had seen.  Hippo was first.     “What do we do now?”     Lucien gripped the incandescing device tightly in his paw.     “We go back.”     “I’m all for that.  I never thought I’d say this, but I wish I was in class right now.”     “Classes are over, dummy.  We’re going back to the stairs.  I thought I saw a small door back there somewhere.  C’mon, sissy.”     The pair made a synchronized pirouette, only to be confronted by a large, human shadow.       “That’s far enough boys.  Give me the lighter.”  Lucien tensed, the kind of tightening of spine and bowels a warrior makes just before mortal combat.  Hippo shrunk to half his size.     In the distance, just out of eyesight of the two boys and assailant, a video camera candidly recorded the transpirings of the man-boy encounter.      Lionel Spieziak was awake now.  He had been dormant, in a near catatonic state for what seemed like decades.  Life pulsed in his veins now, and he was young and alive.  The tiny pitter-pat of his loafers echoed in a dark passageway in the distance.  The last message from the phone call:   

Nimm den lebendigen Mann.  Take the man alive.

Lucien held the lighter in his hand, the Zippo, a talisman of veneration, and flicked the flint wheel with his thumb. All he could see was the black silhouette of a man, oscillating in the corona of flame.
            Spieziak held out a leathery hand, palm up. Lucien closed the Zippo. Somewhere a switch flipped and lights the shapes of half-basketballs gave off a dull illumination in the corridor.
            “Hey, wait a minute,” a voice said.
All three turned to look at the source. A sinewy young man, dried blood alongside his neck, thick glasses, and a mop of head like steel wool, stood holding what appeared to be an 8mm camera.
Hippo broke into a dead sprint. Not towards an exit, but further into the recess of the cave. He was not in control of his bladder. Lucien turned towards Hippo, but turned back towards Lionel as the old man held the chronvoxilator, slung over a shoulder, headphones on, and the stethoscope devices sliding on the walls. Lights flashed and blinked. The machine blipped and beeped.
The camera boy held steady. It was silent.
“This is it,” said Spieziak.  “Listen.”
He depressed a button on the machine. The entire of Hippo and Lucien’s conversation played. Lucien looked befuddled and the camera lens zoomed on his face.
            “How did you…?” he asked.
            “It’s called the chronvoxilator. Latin for ‘time voice machine’,” he said. “You see, whenever humans speak, the sounds don’t disappear. They actually embed themselves into walls and trees and other solids in the vicinity of conversation.”
            “How?” Lucien asked.
            “Not ‘how’, my boy, but ‘why’,” Lionel said.

 By a miracle of metaphysics, Lucien was hearing his and Hippo’s voice on a strange machine.  The man holding the machine was no stranger.  He was the disinterested janitor from the school.  Now, he seemed to be in control of the entire situation.  Sage was not far off, with a small, video recording device in hand. 
     “My father was your father.  We’re brothers,” ejaculated Sage, while looking directly into Lucien’s eyes, his nemesis.  For years the two had done social and at times, physical battle.  No wonder they had been attracted to one another.
     “Listen to this,” said Lionel.  He flipped a switch on the small box affixed above his shoulder:
     “Hello boys, it’s me, your father.”
     “Who is that?” asked Lucien.
     “He sounds familiar,” said Sage.
     “It’s me,” said the box, “I am your father.  I am probably speaking from the grave, but don’t despair, I am home now.  Lionel is here to lead you the rest of the way.”  Speziak clicked off the machine with a torreador’s gusto and faced his newly reunited audience.
     “That’s right, you little fuckers.  And my uppance has come.”  He removed a small revolver from his janitorial bib and aimed it towards the two siblings.  Hippo still cowered in the darkness, the wetness climbing his trousers like a snake on Sunday.  Could anybody see him?  All eyes were on the boys and Lionel.  “Now don’t make a fucking moive.”  His accent sudenly more German, more desperate.  “You will both take me to it.  Take off your shirts.”
     The two newly-found brothers looked askance, and made the same desperate lunge.  A small blast of gunfire rang out in the solemn cavern.  One man screamed in agony.

Chapter VII
            The man in the black leather chair stared at the rotary dial phone, askance as to whether or not it would ring. Had he done the right thing? The thought repeated itself in his mind, an endless Xerox copy, staring hard at him in courier bold—the viscera of the serif fonts. And just what, he mused, would the boys make of the chronvoxilator? Several secret histories unfolded with the push of a button, walls, brick and mortar, conversations captured and distilled a la the 23-year-old single malt scotch.  He reached for the door to his office liquor cabinet and retrieved the bottle of Glenlivet. Two fingers-worth and two rocks from the freezer tray. He sipped and let the cool burn take its effect and his mind on to things at hand. If it went wrong he would never forgive that jack-ass-hole Speziak. Never.
            It was his uncle’s cuete.  They never gave Hippo his due; the eternal hanger-on to Sage and Lucien’s A-group status. And, now, in their most desperate moment he was the hardest of them all. He pulled the trigger. There would never be the same spreading in the groin, the need to micturate out of fear, gone in the new found heroism. That he would weep that night in front of the police and almost sound sissy-like, would not diminish the newfound status. After all, said uncle was in la pinta doing hard time for some accumulation of illegal tomfoolery. Now, the three sat in the waiting area. The detectives finished the interviews and called home, pondering the spin for the papers and morning news. And, Sage, thinking of the chronvoxilator sitting on his lap. His mind took flight to various locations and Lucien looked at him with a wicked gleam. And, in their secret silence they thought of the girls bathroom, the principal’s office, and then the connection reached its apex as the words “grassy knoll” escaped Sage’s mouth. Then, suddenly, the three looked at each other, a myopic triumvirate, knowing this one could not be shared, could not be boasted or bragged about. With subtle nods it was agreed upon, this death of their own mordant ballyhoo.
THE END.

London, England.
The rain trundles down like a cart leading the condemned to the gallows.  Outside of Stamford Bridge in South London, the residents in Blue are jubilant.  Those in Red are wondering what happened to a season that held so much promise, so much potential.  Arsenal conceded two late goals as Didier Drogba took the match by the scruff of the neck and led his side to victory, and may well be on his way to knicking the title from ManUre come May.  It was a match devoid of controversy, unless you count starting Essien at right back, but Grant soon got that correct, too.  I was surprised that Gallas’s reception wasn’t colder, seeing what happened to Ca$hley Cole at Emirates.  At least he didn’t cry in the middle of the pitch this time.  I think it’s time for Walcott to spend some time up front.  Ade has lost his edge and RvP just isn’t match fit yet.  Bendtner did score for denmark this weekend.  Drogs may be off to warmer climes next season, but his contribution to destroying Arsenal is uncanny.  Hat’s off to the most difficult striker to defend in the EPL.
 
Up North, in the Freezer of Dreams, Manure coasted to a 3-0 victory over the bin-dippers.  One might say that Liverpool have their eyes on the CL, much the same as AFC.  We’ll see who has the steel in a little more than a week’s time, when the tournament resumes.  For now, it looks to be a two-horse race for the ePL title between Chelsea and ManUre, but stranger things have happened.  With seven games yet to be played, there are some exciting matches at the top and bottom.  Don’t forget, the relegation matches can be more exciting than the league leaders.

Yes, it is a leap year, and for the past three Earth orbits, we have accumulated an extra six hours totalling eighteen.  This year, that final six has resulted in an extra day.  It is a whole other day that we would not have had if the Aztec calendar were in place.  Thank heavens.  So, with an extra day on my hands, I struggled to make the most of my windfall.

I woke late.  I usually wake early, but for some reason, probably psychological, I rose late at nearly 11 am.  I fed myself a smoothie and a hardboiled egg, some chai and did the crossword and sudoku.  I ran six miles, did 200 crunches and push-ups, and prepared chili for dinner.  I showered, did some banking, read like a motherfucker, watched the lakers lose, and am now sitting at my laptop writing this blog entry.  Not very exciting for a whole extra day in the life.  Here is what I would have done if I were an adventurous gadabout:

1.  Written a letter to my grandmother (I miss her).

2.  Dropped acid (I mean, come on, an extra day that doesn’t even count?).

3.  Called my friend Justin, whose birthday was on the 28th (phew, almost missed that one!).

4.  Started a rock garden (I just saw Karate Kid again last night.  Brilliance!).

5.  Kept traveling around the world to be suspended in “no-time” (expensive).

6.  Fought the law and won.

7.  Had Hamburger Helper (I’ve never had it!).

8.  Fixed the Time-Flux-Capacitor.

9.  Written my pen pal in Rangoon (Poor Tumansuquet!).

10.  Fielded questions about steroid use.

Well, there’s always next Leap Year.

I am not usually one for politics, but I have been having funny dreams lately, so here goes:

10.  It would make Hillary really, really mad, and I don’t think she is capable of happiness.

9.  4 out of 5 doctors agree

8.  He has tremendous oral hygene.

7.  John McCain was seen wearing a Manchester United jersey (which is a sign of the devil).

6.  I would remain the black sheep in my family (no pun).

5.  Brett fucking Williams!

4.  It will finally send Dick Cheney spiralling into some nefarious region of oblivion (not quite killing him, mind you, but almost like putting him in that glass window, like Superman 2).

3.  To redeem myself for at one time supporting and buying records from Scritti Politti.

2.  The Hypno Toad.

1.  Because his name is onomatopoeia for passing gas (along with Braaap, Briiip, and booooop). 

1. I fell, hitting my head, severely imparing my judgement
2. I was forced to do so (torture via kd lang’s newest album, played repeatedly over high volume).
3. My meter was almost out, and I was borrowing my mom’s car.
4. It was a dying wish of someone close to me.
5. Hillary turned out to be a man.
6. Obama quit smoking.
7. It earned me “free buffet” points.
8. Parkas were on clearance in Hell.
9. It was either that, or gallons of castor oil.
10. I am a McCain, for fucksake. Think of the possible sexual encounters. Then again, I am voting Democrat, because any girl that was a Republican that was interested in fucking probably looks like this:

This post-Columbia University ensemble has quite a bit going for them at the moment.  With a sound not unlike an olla podrida of The Talking Heads, Paul Simon and The Kinks, Vampire Weekend’s eponymous release is full of plump goodness. 

The band is rooted in the rythyms of western Africa and the Carribbean.  They combine the beat with soulful lyrics and adventurous guitar making for an upbeat, pleasant sound.  I for one, will worship any band that waxes lyrically about punctuation.  Many of you may have heard the single “Mansard Roof” playing on stations like LA’s Indie 103.1, and the rest of the album is just as good, if not better.  The aforementioned “Oxford Comma” is an interesting postmodern look at a little dash we have all taken for granted.  Poor little thing.  “Campus” brings us back to our college days, when everything was difficult and confusing, much like Pinochle or Thomas Pynchon.  Give me ham and eggs, baby!

As a whole, the album hits all the right chords.  The sound is fresh and catchy, the lyrics witty and insightful.  The only shortcoming is that the songs are short in duration.  Perhaps like vampires, they leave us always wanting more.

Super Bowl Sunday looms large!  Will we have the nerve to concentrate when such a seminal event exists like a capitalist pig floating overhead in a Macy’s parade?
 
The FA Cup produced some interesting draws for round five.  Chelsea play a team from the SBPSL premier division, while ManUre are pitted against Arsenal at the Theatre of Dreams.  Mark your calendars for that one, buoys.  One team is guaranteed NOT to win the treble this year.
 
Premiership games this week were basically uneventful, although Liverpool have basically been eliminated from the title, losing to the Hammers by a 90th minute penalty.  Arsenal saw consecutive 3-0 victories over the Magpies, the first being their FA Cup tie over the weekend.  ManUre looked cool and composed for an easy win over Pompey, with Ronaldo’s first half brace sealing the game in minute 15.  That’s a shitload of goals for number 7 of the Red Devils.  What happens if he is injured??  Chelsea kept in contention with a workman-like 1-0 win over Reading.  They are ugly, but they win.  Ballack scored the winner.  Welcome back, die Berliner!
 
Champions League knock-out rounds are around the corner.  ManUre face Lyon, or the sharks versus the minnows.  The tie of the tournament thus far will be AC Milan and Arsenal.  AC have looked dismal as a mid-table team in the Serie A, but always have the ability to dominate in this format.  Look for Kaka to regain his form, while Ronaldo (Brazilian) to eat many donuts before the match.

The biggest move of the transfer window has been Woodie’s switch to Spurs.  He deserves the cunts!

A pretty damn funny piece of literature:

The Jewish Messiah, by Arnon Grunberg is a witty romp akin to Christopher Moore’s Lamb.

So it’s 2 am or so, and there are yet 2 more hours until the league leaders meet in a much anticipated clash at Emirates Stadium in North London.  I know I have been looking at this date for ages.  Arsenal, the hands-down most fluent and beautifully passing team in the world, versus their old nemesis, ManUre United.  It does not get much better than this for the football fan.  The game is destined to be a classic, with both sides in tip-top form.  Manchester is scoring goals at will, while Arsenal is mesmerizing teams with hypnotizing passing and individual skill.  I am predicting a win for the Arsenal, 2:1.

This is a tall order, of course.  Manchester has had Arsenal’s number in the last ten years.  Last campaign, AFC took all six points, while finishing 21 points behind the ultimate League champions, Manchester United.  I would settle for a draw if it meant Arsenal went on to win the title.  Stranger things have happened.

A loss for the Gunners might mean a severe psychological blow for the young side.  They are unbeaten so far this year, and a loss might send them spiraling.  On the other hand, a win could send their confidences soaring, ending in a miraculous run of the treble.  So it goes (thanks, Kurt!).

So, I am recently off of work, about two, big glasses of wine deep, and I am finding it difficult to contain myself.  Ninety percent of the anxiety is over the match, whereas a wicked ten percent is due to other things, football notwithstanding.

Football, unfortunately, is not my life.  I hate to dwell on the fact I never gave college ball a try.  But, that is well into the past, and my concers seem to dwell more on current situations outside of the beautiful game.  How have things come to be so bad?

It would be easy to say that Woody’s passing (just had the four year ‘death-aversary’), but it’s more than that.  Every path I have embarked upon since then, has seemingly ended in bitter sadness and defeat.  The teaching is a non issue.  The loves are lost.  My triumphs have been few and far-between.  Is there an end to the darkness, a light at then end of the tunnel?

My feet also seem to hurt much more than they have.  Why is this?  I have lost weight, 20 pounds to be precise.  Am I walking awkwardly?  Have I forgotten how to tread lightly?  I think not.  It seems that it has more to do with the fact that I have lately been imagining myself constantly walking on hot coals.  This is not hyperbole; in fact, it is a waking nightmare from which I have yet to wake.  Sometimes, I look down, and I see glowing embers and coals beneath my shoes.  I can see the sering heat making those wavy, clear lines, like a reverse oasis, below my feet.  I will look down and see them there.  They are burning the underside of my opposable large toes.  Am I mad?  Is there a cure?  I am lost, and constantly seek that cool, wet grass that most coal-walkers traipse before traversing the red-hot rocks in mock miracle. 

Besides having my feet constantly burn as a result of my path of above average temperatures, I have become more and more physically ill.  Why is this?  I eat well.  I haven’t offended any dieties that I know of.  Maybe I am too pensive.  The rocks, therefore could be a manifestation of something larger, something inherently psychological.  It does not take away from the fact that I constantly have blisters on the soles of my feet, and I am inexorably tired…all of the time.  I miss the comfort of bliss, of the daily joys that once rained down upon me like cool sheets of ice.  God, I wish I had a popcicle right now. 

There are one and a half hours until the match now.  Should I drink more wine?  Duh…of course I shouldn’t…but I do anyway. 

Trust me, the wine helps.  But, I know it is only a temporary solution to the problems of ennui.  I’ve really turned to the books lately.  Vonnegut, Huxley, Dostoyevsky and Dickinson.  These four have kept me fueled.  How long will their therapies last?  I don’t know the answer to this.  At least they don’t disappear.  Sometimes, they bring with them cool sheets of ice to stand upon.  Sometimes, they don’t answer at all.  But, they are always there, ready to talk, to listen at the drop of a hat.  I thank them for that.  The masters will always be the masters.

I feel like my life is a series of three stones.  The three stones are prodigious.  They are enormities but I cannot see thier entirities.  About ten percent of them exists above water.  They are unconnected, about three feet apart in the water.  They look like stepping stones.  The first is the stone that represents my career.  This is the shortest stone.  It is barely above the water.  Under the surface, teaching, writing and editing scramble for air, but are constantly drowned out by the realization that maybe this stone is not tall enough.  I can stand upon it, but my feet are still wet.  I hop onto the next.  The second stone is my relationship stone.  This one is loose, and wobbles as soon as I set foot upon it.  It is weak, unsure and unstable.  I cannot find balance.  Each time I think that I have stopped the wobbling, I am once again thrown, this time into the cold waters of the sea.  Maybe I placed to much of my weight, expecting a stability that was not there.  I am doused, and forced to swim to the third.  This is the stone of overall happiness.  This stone is also a mirage.  I swim towards it, hoping to catch a breath and maybe dry off a bit.  But, with each stroke, each paddle of my flailing arms and legs, the stone appears further and further away.  I keep reaching out, trying to clasp onto the cool smoothness of this stone, but I simply cannot make up the distance.  Each effort sends it further into the disatnce.  I am in the middle now.  i cannot go back to number two, because I have come too far.  I tread water.  I tire in the cool vastness of this ocean.  I begin to sink, and am suddenly comforted by the quietude of things beneath the surface.  For a moment, I am calm in the soundless barrier of the liquid universe.  There are no sounds.  The water is warm and unyielding.  I sink down, way down.  There is nothing now below me.  Bubbles emerge from my lips like alien crafts from their mother ship.  I begin to feel faint.  I realize I still require oxygen, but there is none to be had this deep.  I can either grow gills, or I can die of asphyxiation.  I feel my body begin to struggle.  I am had.

I wake up in a neatly made bed.  It is my bed, in my room, in my house.  My feet and hair are wet, but I am safe.  I am alive.  The sun creeps up over the horizon, and immediately, my feet begin to dry.  I  look beneath the warm sanctity of my sheets and see the beginnings of a warm fire.  The coals soon heat to red, and my feet once again feel the sting of burning flesh.  The begin to blister.  I can see the print on the wall at the foot of my bed.  It is a picture of three individual rocks in the middle of a vast ocean, each one a lifetime apart from the other.

Arsenal wins two goals to one, in a game that takes place in the middle of a freak ice storm.  Each stone in the painting is covered in a perfect white blanket of snow, and for a time the red glow of the coals recedes into the blackness, leaving a thin coat of ash and burnt skin.

Q:  What have you been doing since…you know…you died?

GP:  Well, I can’t say that I have been doing much at all.  I’ve really only begun to get used to this endless floating in unoccupied space.  Sometimes I eat crackers.

Q:  What do you miss the most?

GP:  That would have to be American Idol.  I was secretly a massive fan.  Also, acting with Matt Damon.  He was dreamy.

Q:  What will come of the Paris Review?

GP:  The What?

Q:  What do you regret most?

GP:  Not shagging Matt Damon when I had the chance.  That, and not reading more graphic novels and Japanese manga.  They really are the bee’s knees, if you know what I mean.

 Q:  Do you do anything else but float in Purgatory and eat crackers/

GP:  I sometime practice a Harvard accent.  Also, I appear in bookstores as grumpy people that don’t know how to navigate the aisles.  I act like I’ve never even been to a library.  I feign not knowing Shakespeare and Dickens.  I mope around and make the booksellers recommend inane mystery novels while they are trying to flirt with their fellow co-workers.  It’s great.  Really, really great.  Oh, and I visit laundromats and jam the dryers during peak hours.

Q:  Any parting words?

GP:  Be kind to cats.  Trust me…be kind to cats.