Category: This; And also that

is what this fellow shouts
at me and my chat-mate.
We’re sitting on a bench,
enjoying the East Bay sun.
He comes up to us
holding a black garbage bag.
He puts the bag down
next to us on the bench.
He was so happy.
There was something
moving in that bag.
He disappears into the coffee shop.
Then pops back out like a
hillbilly leprechaun.
Grabbing the bag he crows:
“I’m making pruno!”
He shakes our hands and
cackles down the street.
I’m telling you,
it almost made me want to
make some pruno.
******
note: I was delighted to find out later that pruno (pronounced “prune-o”) is a kind of homemade booze commonly associated with prison living.

They named a drug
designed to help men urinate
“Flomax.”
(They really did.
They called it “Flomax.”
Can you
imagine the joy in
that room? “Flomax!”
“Oh my God — we’re going to
call it ‘Flomax!’ Somebody, do a trademark
search!”
“You’re incredible,
Dave.” “No Sally, you are
the incredible one. You came up with
the ‘max’ part!”)
It makes me so angry. They
named it “Flomax”
when they
could have
called it
“Niagra.”

He sounds surprised
at everything he says he’s
constantly surprising himself.
“Is there food somewhere around here?” is what I asked.
“There is?!” he self-flabbergasted. “Nordic Sub Shop — right next door?! Good food?!?”
Surprise, surprise, surprise.

I have this recurring dream in which the brakes in my car give out. The shudder these dreams share is that moment when I’m pressing down but the car careens.
I’ve had this dream in various forms for probably twenty years or so. Not too often — every couple of months I’d guess. I had a version of it last night as one of my last late-dawn eye-flitters. The thing that struck me, as I yawned myself into the day, is that we’re hardwired for metaphor.
Our brains could operate in a much more literal fashion. We could fall asleep and a fast-talking phantom self could give us an eight-hour lecture on exactly what it is we hope for and what we fear. But instead we close our eyes and we generate these little poems for ourselves.
In my case, my brain seems to have found a metaphor it likes and it’s sticking with it. I suspect that the brakes meant one thing when I was twenty and they mean something a little different now that I’m two times twenty. But the image persists. Or maybe it’s been the same mortality song all along: “hey, wait — stop time!” And wouldn’t that be nice?
That sensation of soft brakes is so real, I find myself wondering if I ever owned a car that had this problem. Was there something wrong with the brakes on that strawberry-scented Chevy Impala I drove as a teenager? Or the gold Accord that carried me from New Jersey to the West Coast?
I don’t think so. These aren’t real brakes, after all. Just a poem I tell myself at night.

This morning while dropping my kids off at school, it occurred to me that California is now my home. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else.
I spent seventeen years on the east coast, interrupted by five years as a kid in Holland. Meanwhile, my California experience will hit nineteen years this coming July.
Oh, I’ve been keeping one eye out for the “when will I have spent half my life out here?” milestone — it’s waving at me from about 3 years down the road. But this subtler calendar-flip slipped past me in the night.
If I was super-dooper rich, I think I would hire someone to scan my personal numerology, looking for just this sort of Highly Significant Moment.
“Mr. Vortex, did you know that your heart has now beaten more times than a bumblebee’s wings will flap, using standard bumblebee life expectancy charts and such?”
“Thank you, Harold.”
“Also, if all the work emails you’ve sent were compiled into one document, it would be eight times longer than Finnegan’s Wake.”
“That’s fascinating, Harold. Here’s a gold doubloon with my face on it.”

Lovely. (Link via ye olde zefrank.com.

At an Italian restaurant last night, while I was picking at my spaghetti bolognese, a perfect little gentleman of around 2 or 3 years old came up to me and stared.
Whatever I did — peekabo, wiggly fingers, wiggly fingers on head, big smile, surprise face — it didn’t matter. He just stared. It was wonderful. And once again I found myself so grateful that I don’t live in Belgium or Austria or one of those other places (Portugal) where they take their children and send them into the forest and don’t let them come back until they’re 25.
You can criticize Americans and say that we watch too much TV or that we put feathers in places we probably shouldn’t (egg dishes), but you have to admit: at least we don’t make our young people live in the forest.

You probably can’t tell from this blog, but I’m an exceptionally accomplished fellow. For example: I once taught a family of gerbils how to sign “hello” and “nice to see you.” I can hold my breath for three hours. From 1983 to 1987, everything I said or thought rhymed with “cantaloupe.” Nice bar of soap. I like the pope. Someone should write a book called “The Audacity of Hope.”
It was a difficult time for my family.
Still, even I was surprised to learn of my latest accomplishment. It turns out I’m the creator of the world’s top-ranking Google result for the search phrase want to smell something wonderful.
When something like that happens to you, you just, you know you look back on your life so far — that dusty road leading up to the here and now, and you say, “Yeah. Time well spent.”
What about you? Accomplish anything extraordinary of late?

Some people, like Hillary Clinton and my 7-year-old son, have been hammering home this “Don’t Mess with Texas” message. In the case of Hillary, it’s one of her slogans for the March 4th primary. With my son, it’s on this t-shirt he likes to wear.
And I’m sorry, but I enjoy messing with Texas. I do. And I don’t care what Hillary or Power Vortex say — I don’t intend to stop.
For example, sometimes I move Texas’ seat a few inches away from where they think it is. Not so much that they fall. But just enough so they go “Whoa!” and they have to readjust themselves. And they’re looking around, thinking, “Who did that? Who’s messing with me?”
Or I tell Oklahoma that Texas said something mean about them, when really they didn’t.
Or if Texas is shooting pool, I walk up quietly behind them and tug on their pool cue right as they’re lining up their shot. They hate that!
Got any ways you like to mess with Tee Ex?
Update: Reader James in the comments gently points out that those McSweeney bastards got to this watering hole first. I guess it’s true what they say about an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters taking it to Texas in similar fashion, where time is expressed as T and “ways Texas can be messed with” is expressed as M or perhaps (M Over Tx).
Update to update: After a little reflection, I’ve decided that this is a sign I should redirect my energies. Instead of “messing with Texas,” I’m now going to “screw with Delaware.”

today’s a good day
to introduce them
to “Bicycle Race” by Queen.
On your mark, get set, go…..