mmdcccxlvii

Del Is Short for Delicate

and so, for conversation
after conversation we
sat in a circle as the
ocean breeze chilled
the sweat from our
shirts and our blou-
ses and cooled our
hearts a bit, as they
[our hearts, that is]
each attempted never-
theless to outpace the
others. our precious
hearts. we needed
this. or that was be-
yond a shadow of
doubt at the time,
anyway. but did we?
some of the attend-
ees were upset about
one thing or another
and had to either
prove the validity
of their anger or
to simply vent
to those who,
moreso than from
any alternative
set, more than 

from any other
other group of
individuals that
could be found,

would listen, or

would be good 

at providing a

semblance of

empathy. the 

folks that could 

be assembled into

such a size as this,

and in a location as 

pleasant, as peaceful
as the one in which they
currently huddled, were here.

be they crouching, standing, 

pacing, squatting or stooping 

(as were exampled cases presently).
none would be more effective,
more significant, none would
relate with more clarity, none
could offer better perspective,
none would or could collectively
and/or literally care less. all other
circumstances being equal. these
were our people, the ones
who mattered, the ones who
needed to know, the only
ones who could know, and
it was crucial that this was
the set of individuals with
whom this transpired. sure,
they were a hardheaded lot;
some where hesitant to ad
here to agreed-upon rules.
feathers easily got ruffled,
but these were his people, 

the right ones, the ones with the
most accurate motivation. and
yet, they were steadily running out
of patience, running out of
better ideas, tensions were
rising, disagreements were
become more and more over
whelming, there were great
disagreements over simple
acts. there had always always
been makeshift buffers in place,
effective ones, they had become
as predictable as the breeze that
unfailingly drifted in from the top
of the ocean on days they assembled,
a breeze that came in with the spindrift, 

from lands far away. there had always
been buffers in place. individual
goals never trumped the goals,
the desires, the needs of their
particular collective. but slowly, 

naturally, chaos began creeping
in over the water and began to
drool down the cliffs that made
their way down to their beach
from the great continent.
there are as many ways to
explain how this happened as
there were members of the
collective. each step in this process
toward inevitable destruction had
primary participants that were
also members of the collective,
a falling apart seemed inevitable,
in retrospect, and examining, scrutinizing,
reexamining the details that reduced the 

once well-oiled success, the mechanisms,

the mechanics that kept this group and
its various purposes in place would seem
unnecessary, irrelevant. the purpose,
a clear understanding of the necessity
for these guidelines and specific steps;
the cause, the intent. the overall under
standing of all involved regarding why
this particular and collective existence,
of their all-too-relevant and necessary
existence. . . . and the host, the one
who had brought them all together
the un-leader, a rather awkward
exceedingly aloof human, knew 

and understood this. I
wonder, years later,
if it might bother him
to know that a few of
us were aware of what
was transpiring; some
simply allowed to enter their

consciousnesses nary a
clue, however, as it would, 

of course, obstruct their view
of reality. of those that did 

have some general idea, 

or think they knew, they

did not begin to grasp
the severity of what was 

to transpire, of what was

to be endured. several 

members of each of these 

subsets were above all else 

steeped deep within a 

swamp of confusion.
these meetings worked
well to enlighten such
thoughts because,
at any given moment,
even those sitting within
the circle weren’t paying
much attention to any-
thing being spoken or
done, even though the
longstanding motions
were continually in play,
which was okay and which
was understood, because
of all of the other and import-
ant ways these gatherings
were fruitful. first, they 

enabled the meeting of 

many an objective.

eventually, they
did not. so does it
matter, given the
magnitude of it all,
how it transpired?  often,
at these meetings of the 

collective, individual
attention would seem to be
most prominently directed 

toward the ocean, the
vastness of which, the
ocean-ness of itself, not

one particle of which could

know of this focus, this
admiration, the research,

the studies, none of it at
all, of course.  it was
perhaps mere meditation,
either screwing in their
brains so tight that
thoughts came and
went quickly and
were each paid almost
no attention; meditation
as precipitated by the
grand ocean that lay
before them, and by
the us sitting there in
a circle on the sand
in close proximity to
the ocean that were ex-

pected somehow to 

magically elicit the
grandiose goals of
the group, and the
truth was that some
of the goals were met,
but a great many were
ignored by their lack.
of capability. some
fixes are simply too large
to ever see through to the
hopeful conclusion. some
of the gazes out into the
distances were just means
of some escape. others
would nod off for extended
periods of time, do that
quick jerky dance akin
to what a person being
electrocuted might be
observed doing in that
last moment or two,
seeming to come to
attention almost im-
mediately, and those
who did were clearly
back into the fray of
the indifferent very soon

thereafter; lost on or
against or from
the subject of the
moment. this, in
particular, was a
favorite practice of
mine during much of the
duration of these meetings
we’d had each month for
several years now. everyone
seemed to have the idea that
if I didn’t meander back
and forth between alert
and semi-to-un-conscious-
ness that I would be other-
wise overwhelming, ineffective,
that disallowing the others a
word edgewise for fifteen minutes,
a half an hour or, sometimes,
even much longer, was, for better
or worse, an integral aspect,
a necessity. these humans,
my friends, at least knew this
habit of mine, this aspect, they
knew this, about me. and they
cared enough for the collective,
to play along, to accept, which
in turn made me accepted, for
the most part, which eliminated
within me the usual guilt, the
sorrow that I felt so otherwise
constantly enshrouded within
at most any given moment. 

and when I would, and I 

most assuredly would, mangle
or mismanage the pace of my
melting into the ocean and of
then return again, and in-
stead allow my overly dram-
atic voice to overstay its welcome
before realizing that here I was,
once again, doing my damnedest
to maintain attention indefinitely,
I’d say (or at least feel) a bit of a
whoops and in no time would dis-
solve back into the Pacific. the
health that comes from the awareness,
the knowing that you are accepted
and that you are are taken in, as you,
and because of you, for simply being,
but also, for simply being yourself.
that it is always this and only this,
that I, who am always me and only
me, am taken. as that. with intention
and care. they listen attentively, by all
appearances. this not only is life,
but it surely must extend it if you
have the pleasure of living inside of 

these truths, or anything like them, 

on any regular basis. sure, a few
of the more clever folks would
use the moments most seemingly
crucial during these meetings for a
bathroom break. also, we always
tended to overdo it a bit on the
snacks, the potluck of it all.
but, as I remember it, it was
sheer peace and the always
unpredictable and always
enlightening currency of
apparently necessary
thoughts and emotions
being circulated among
the people who felt
like family (with emo-
tions that were so
wound up by meet-
ing’s closure that
they could be
boundlessly
hyperbolized:
absolute joy, im-
mensely appropriate,
keep it up, Del, you are
doing so well, aren’t
you?).

but now it’s all sand. And a few
eroded memories that get washed
back into the sea. I go there some-
times, trying to remember the people,
exactly where each of us were sitting;
But I can’t remember a thing, except
what I’ve just recounted, and much
of that might be some sort of re-
envisioned history (that neither
takes the place of those long ago
moments nor gives any appropriate
value to the healing that transpired
there) - so, rather than take one
second from then or now for
granted, rather than gloss any
of this life I live and have lived
over, I incorporate all of it, everything
I can remember, at an any rate,
and use it, to build wisdom,
knowledge, common sense,
however uncommon it surely
must be - I incorporate it into
what I imagine to be the
place it should, if at all, be
incorporated. I must always
believe that it should at the
very least be held, be kept,
as indefinitely as is humanly
possible.

so this is what I’ve been doing
these days. this, and a whole

lot of eyebrow furrowing.
also, I keep thinking about
sanity. and what, if anything,
that might mean. oddly, or not
so oddly, I keep seeing ads for
a revamped Twilight Zone that brings
all of these particular thoughts together
for me, into full bloom, so to speak, if not
full circle. I do remember some things.
like how, when a person might get con-
fused, and how those who witnessed
this horror sometimes decided it
best, and not out of spite at all,
out of concern, or out of a desire
to minimize the calamity, to just
play along. people get con-
fused; we play along. or
you do. I do? when
ever it’s you that’s
doing the playing
along, thank you.
it can be very…
placating. but,
before you find
yourself doing it
a next time, if there
happens to be one,
lock your eyes on
mine for a moment
and just tell me instead,
tell me that I am alright,
say that I am okay. and,
if it is not too uncomfortable,
perhaps you might take me
in your arms and give me a
bit of a squeeze. I love
you for doing this,
time and time again,
whoever you are.
wherever you are.

mmdcccxlvi

Conversations,
Needs and
Needing a
Conversation

Simple enough said,
I suppose, but with
no words comes no
meaning—less than
nothing, no doubt;
cuz what’s meaning
within a singular sem-
i-conscious mostly bar-
ren chamber unless the
echoes get to pass be-
yond the great wall of
mystery? To point,
your pal, whom I’ve
never met until now,
furthermore only to-
night ever having
spoken with him
a first time (Re-
member? You ans-
wered the phone,
then promptly
handed it to him
for whatever rea-
son.). I believe that
he said more to me
on that phone in less
than five minutes than
you have in three years
of being on the same line
most every one of those
days at least once. I ev-
en gleaned from this guy,
your friend, a fairly sub-
stantial bit of info, most
specifically about you.
And he wasn’t making
a presentation, mind
you. He was simply off-
ering a bit of your local
news, drinking a beer,
teaching me a new
language (well, an
apt phrase or two,
in any case), yet I
barely even under-
stood a word he said.

I wish you more than
anything in the world
lightheartedness and
great health and happi-
ness. Because these are
what I now lack thanks to
these months of disconnect,
or, rather, non-connection.
There is so much of what
I had assumed was quite
the contrary, as I still re-
call and cannot beat the
mysticism out of that sad
burden. But upon a redir-
ected rendering, it seems
there was less than a big
zero transpiring via that
perfectly taut line that al-
ways runs from you to me
and me to you, no matter that
you exist, if at all, at the op-
posite end of the planet. A
straight line, mind you. It
will always remain a mystery.
But that was the problem, real-
ly. One always wants to know
at least something. Or per-
haps that is just me. You
were the most interesting of
them all, and yet you never
had any interest whatsoever.
Did you? In me. In life. In
leading an Interesting life. or
even in those bursts of plea-
sure I’d have the pleasure of
witnessing on a few occasions.
To me, they were and always
will be genuine miracles. My-
story miracles. Each caused
my own pleasure to bubble
up and burst forth on most
every mere occasion. These
things happened. And I sup-
pose I created a fiction a-
round them. But man,
what I would not give
for even a singular such
similar moment. An ex-
plosion. Of joy. Two
things which one might
have a difficult time
putting together into
one, when the words
are said out loud, I sup-
pose. But it is just a fan-
tasy, like those three years,
I suppose. They were, if they
were, and it would be, if it
could be again, after all, ex-
plosions across an ocean. A
big, beautiful, goddamned o-
cean. I don’t know how much
more specific I can get, sitting
here with my head wagging back
and forth between an empty cell-
phone and the shiveringly vast Pacific.

mmdcccxlv

People Get Confused; We Play Along

A biography may come in any shape or size.
That doesn’t necessarily make it a cretin.

Some people like biographies, in general.
It seems that way to me, in any cases. But

I say take heed. Rule number one: everybody
lies. Rule number two: most people are

generally good people. Are you with me so
far. We have just used the deduction of a wise-

ass to prove that lies are ubiquitous and maybe
just fine. What is truth, anyway? So herein

comes one of my primary rules for living a
healthier life: just don’t make the lies the

problem. Treat them how my mother (and
countless others) used to always find a

way to slip into any day whatsoever: have
them simply roll like water off a duck’s

back. So the next time you have the
occasion to run into someone with whom

you are acquainted (or even if you can’t
recall their presence beforehand)—that is,

when beginning any type of engagement, be
it high or low, short or incredibly long in

the wind department, before speaking,
draw in a breath, try to allow any pre-

conceptions to float in some other direction,
and do yourself the favor of giving the whole

honest thing a nice long vacation. Because
let me be clear, honesty, it’s just not a thing.

Just remind yourself (silently is best) that
you are happening upon a liar. Because you

are. And, especially if this seems like it’s too
big of a problem for you to begin with, you

might disturb the issue altogether away by
making it interesting. For example, I tend

to use as a general means of learning a lot
about people I meet, know and/or sleep with

by playing the game of Hm, I Wonder What
THIS Dude Lies About? Navigate through

the whens and the wheres of the missing
pieces until they begin to find logic, reason.

There are, I find, one or two basic reasons
that an individual chooses his or her person-

al line of dishonesty. We’re basically simple
folks, leading pretty simple lives, no matter

how we might even fool ourselves into be-
lieving otherwise [the number one most 

common lie, as it turns out]. Dishonesty 

and hypocrisy are the real deal, people. Hon-

esty is just plain bogus. It is, as some say 

of more specific hypocritical schemes, a

ludicrous construct. I’m not suggesting
that being truthful isn’t a direction toward

which we should aspire, in the same way
that some do toward the ideal of nirvana.

All I am saying is that the notion of com-
plete transparency or of being totally truthy

is bogus (extra hint: check out any compen-
dium on etiquette to discern the moments

in life when truth is purportedly inappropriate).
And not that it is my job in life to point out

all of these whizz-bang discrepancies inside
of which we like to take residence, but when

this subject arises, my mind tends to migrate
toward the paranoiacs who believe Big Brother

is (or might be) watching, and that making too
much out of striving for privacy is a means to

get him off your back (and let’s face it, there are
massive swaths of folks who get piping hot

about the idea that someone is or may be watching,
or [even] recording them). Whether this find

is a subversion of exhibitionism or a (sub-
conscious) subversion of just plain wishful

thinking, allow me a moment where
honesty might be the appropriate response.

I submit for our consideration that spend-
ing precious time on this bedeviled, beguiling

and beautiful planet worrying too much
about such nonsense is a waste of time,

and that it surely becomes for a lot of us
a means to eliminate no small percentage

of our youth. Furthermore, as far as I can
currently tell, we are not experiencing an

apocalypse (not yet, anyway). And I’m pretty
sure, as well, that the inevitable mob of zombies

has yet to make its stiff-walking appearance.
However. Good people. We are sprinting

into the heart of the 21st century and al-
ready well into the post-Big Brother Era:

get over yourselves. We are, each and all,
being watched. You are not having a night-

mare in which you are the star of a Lifetime
movie about a stalker. There aren’t even

any infomercials. You are being watched.
Either in real-time, or via recording. May I

therefore offer that perhaps rather than walk
around in a constant state of paranoia, that

we each take for granted that all the world
is, indeed, a stage (and that the surveillance

crew is just beyond the audience)? Can’t we all
just take that piece of news and slip it into our

worry-free pockets? Or, better yet, let our
crocodile tears roll down our backs as if

it were a downy duck’s and worry about the
bigger problems in life; the problems that

can literally be adjusted? And then, I say,
take a little bit of that extra time that

you’ll soon find you have on your hands
and milk every ounce of joy you can out

of every minute you can; out of each
turnip of a day in which you wake up to

find yourself. It’s just a suggestion.
But it seems to do pretty well by me.

mmdcccliv (2)

First Ladies
[or how not to explode under pressure]

Some regular-looking guy
sidles up to the bar, orders
a drink, reminds himself that
it’s April already (for Pete’s
sake!) and that he has yet to
do his taxes (for a few years
now, in all honesty). But
yet, he believes. In the sys-
tem; in its ideology; in its
process to reduce evil as a
means to slog through an
increasingly complex good,
i.e., the progress of human-
kind; even in romance. (And
he, a disavowed goth kid,
he claims—and I can feel us
all strain to find, earnestly,
a smidgen of that kid, as we
chomp our various potato
incarnations. You can see
him trying to find the kid
that he must have been, 
the he that once was.)

So he believes in the
progress of mankind. I learn
all of this as I sit next to him
during one of those overly-
long dinners, but this is
one I have no anxiety en-
during (a dinner that was
mostly just drinks, which
has got to help that ling-
ering relaxation). I sat
through, literally feeling a
light-bulb suddenly pop
out with its beam of lum-
inescence on at least a
couple of occasions. The
most meaningful to me was
when he suddenly felt he un-
derstood everything. Just in
that moment. And for only
a few that followed. Then it
apparently left him. (I know
these moments well, when
everything suddenly makes ab-
solute sense and can be ex-
plained away, even in terms
of some of the most peculiar
pairings that exist in the
same cosmos; in fact, with-
in mind-boggling proximity.)
Anyway, it was an occasion
of some significance, this
dinner taken with complete
strangers, at least it seemed
so to most of us, who tuned in
from time to time to listen to
his pretty elementary but/and
poignant ramblings. Good for
him, I am thinking days later,
perhaps, because not every
Tom, Dick or Harriet has her
very own nickel psychiatrist
(if we’ve learned anything
during these sessions in which
we find ourselves dining
with complete strangers,
isn’t it surely this: that no-
thing whatsoever should be
taken for granted, nothing.
Most especially that Dame
Jade refills my prescriptions
without fail. Every. Single.
Month.) (My problem is in-
deed anxiety, purportedly.
And it doesn’t just happen
on airplanes. Therapy works,
right?). Unless you’re on one
of those new, those, whattaya
call them?, those 90 day refill
plans. And that, my friends
(during which we both stifle
chuckles), is, as they say (and
even I do), an entirely different
ball of wax (and don’t we know
it!), thank you. We remember
the first time we realized what
a doctor’s appointment was
all about, so that we can pass
such morsels on to those as yet
uninitiated (oh, humanity!, progress, etc.).
It is, quite simply, to prance in to the
doc’s lobby, sit for the five to twenty
minutes (on average) until called,
at which time you try to recall with
some accuracy the maze of cubicles
and gadgets you need to map yourself
from where you were sitting to her
office (also, remember that she goes
by Jade, says don’t call her Doctor
anyone), and once you find this
nice little working box with a view
of Alcatraz say, Okay Jade, I’ve a
fear of flying, and I’ve been tak-
ing a poll for something for like
20 years now on what my people—
the ones with the same condi-
tion—a poll which won’t be the
handiest tool of the trade but,
is not completely illogical
[Don’t forget Miss Jade that
I’m basically logic personified,
right?]. So, anyway, Jade, dear,
this very lengthy and logical—
semi-scientific—poll I took
using my old pals as lab rats,
which weren’t exactly rand-
omly chosen, was my way of
trying to find a way around
this illogical fear. So, my queries
of that good portion of the world
that seeks an answer for some,
a remedy to this fear, it looks
to me like Xanax is going to
be my answer. I mean, really.
I still. Very much. Desire.
To experience. As much.
Of THE WORLD. As is human-
ly possible. At my age. So
can you please write me a pre-
scription for enough Xanax (I
would prefer the 1 milligram
to the point fives) to get me
to Boston and back [that'll be
the trial run, of course, which
by the way worked splendidly!]
so that shortly after that i can
turn 40 in Paris, hang out with
the Parisians for a couple of
weeks, and get back in one
semi-sane single solid, please?
Then she of course habitually
inserts her hand into her
left lab-coat inside pocket
and comes out with that old-
school looking rubber-band
topped prescription pad
that is, we all now understand,
the guiding light of these visits.
Within seconds she has written
you out a prescription for some-
thing illegible (it’s true) that turns
out to be, like, 20 Xanax. That,
my friend, is the game-changer.
That’s a part of humanity evolving
in which we can palpably feel our-
selves participating, if not some-
time clinging to with our dear
lives.
Soon,
there-
after, he turns 40 in
Paris, France – his
very first trip abroad.
And the rest is history
(which, you can judge,
if by nothing else, a peek
into his medicine cabinet
alone.) (Ah, alone a-
gain, poor dear med-
icine cabinet, what?).
Well, lots has been
learned, I would say.
Especially today. We
learned how to do one
thing the unwritten but
most appropriate way,
in a world which we
find increasingly more
bizarre, day after
day after……day.

mmdcccliii

Embrace Your Inner Sociopath

     (loosely inspired by the book of 

     the same name by Jenny Mollen)

If you’re Jason Biggs’ wife, don’t
just write a book about hair, I
believe she’s saying. Hair is
somehow related to sociopathy,

it would seem. One learns a
lot more on YouTube these days
than one (at least I) bargains
for. Just a few new musical

talents would wet my whistle,
having been a pariah of society
for so long now, and attempting
to un-pariah myself, slowly but

oh I certainly do hope surely.
But I can’t stop listening. I
Have the same problem with
almost all news related to

our president and the soap
opera he so entertainingly
spins from surreality. That
thought makes me con-

tinue to watch Ms. Mollen,
who shows everyone in the
studio audience how to
properly breastfeed. “One

must make sure the curtain
hangs open at least enough
on the mound not being
sucked that it is visible.

We call this showing off
our voluptuous.” There
is a pause as if this must
be truly taken in. “And if

you happen to have two
going at once?” an aud-
ience member goads.
So Ms. Mullen demon-

strates that the volupt-
uous results in such a case
can be awe-inspiring, if not
entirely too compelling to wit-

ness by a generic human (and
I’m exhausted by the fact that
she must mean people of all
sexes; makes me glad I never

had one of the little devils).
This double-do of course is
double-voluptuous, not
dissimilar to the Wrigley’s

Spearmint Gum twins. And
because of them as well.
God it sounds so tongue-
in-cheek, but I do love

celebrity gossip (unless
the celebrity is celebrity
due to participation in
a sport; or is one of the

Kardashians). I truly am
taken with this Jenny Mollen
Biggs (yet why she doesn’t
appropriately add her hus-

band’s surname, given the
topic of voluptuousness and
all, is truly beyond me). But
nothing shatters the fact

that she’s so damned CUTE.
And to top off this cuteness,
she cuts into a story (is it
in the book, is all I keep

wondering) about how she
dropped her son on his head
when he was a toddler, fract-
uring his skull, in fact. There

is an entire school of guilt,
it turns out, regarding this
apparently common and
worrisome event that hap-

pens at least once around
toddler-hood. This guilt.
Well, sure. I suppose I
get it. But more than

anything else, this phe-
nomenon underscores,
personally, for me, how
celebrity kids are not much

different than you or me
(not being much of a cel-
ebrity, of course; at least
not yet, anyhow). It seems

that there would be excep-
tions to that little rule,
though. So, are we then
to get psychopathic with

any and all toddler-aged
kids world-wide? I’m so
sold. Even thought I’m not
quite sure yet what the key

word in the title, which,
whoops, is sociopath and
not psychopath, to which
I’d just alluded. My bad.

And, I’m also more than
a bit in tune with how
influenced I am by this
amazing martyr of a wo-

man who just happens to
be married to the perhaps
underrated but too over-
stated Mister Jason Biggs.

That verity rises above the
crown of my head to form
the shape of a dizzying halo.
Which seems more than right.

I nevertheless look forward
to embracing my own opinions
on the matter, of course. At
some point. I’m sincerely hoping

that it isn’t just one more thing
from which us guys are vehement-
ly exempt (read, disallowed) from
doing or in participating in any way.

It does sound nurturing and
a perfectly awesome way
to get in touch with our
feminine sides (sparse as

they may be in some of us).
But she sticks with the
story of dropping her son
on his noggin, repeating

the moment’s scene incess-
antly. And, sadly, I don’t
believe noggin-fractured
kid is even Biggs’ boy.

Poor Biggs sits at a table
that is placed on obvious
display for the interview’s
television audience, behind

and to the left of the ladies
at the table, front and center.
He’s on a dais a couple feet
in height, so he resembles

a museum exhibit or zoo
animal. With nothing to
do, really, unless he wants
to meed the gaze of a hostile

audience now and again (and
I suppose I don’t spend enough
time on that hostility and from
whence it might have derived);

we, the audience, see him
refer regularly to a copy of
his wife’s book. I notice a
definite Season One of Orange

Is the New Black look that is
exacerbated by the obviously
unintentional bald spots that
dimly light his head. Certainly

there is nothing National
Lampoon (nor molested
apple pie) about this
particular version of

Biggs. Half-listening
to his wife, I begin to
nod my head in agree-
ment (her voice has a

very mesmeric quality
to it) as she lures me
back to the impossible
combination that pro-

vides an incredible all-
ure (and I can see that
I’m not at all alone on
this; plus the guests are

at least eighty-five per-
cent female, at least to
these eyes, I should app
ropriately add). In ess-

ence, the moral of this
story (and presumably
the moral of the book
she is tandemly touting)

is don’t drop your kid on
his or her noggin. Unless
it just happens, in which
case, we all should suppose

“Why not; might as well.”
It’s a bit confusing (and
here, I cognizantly assume
this confusion must be test-

osterone-related) whether
she’s encouraging the prac-
tice or just finding method-
ology to excuse it; to elim-

inate the guilt that surely
surrounds and follows one
after the act of dropping
your kid head-first on the

floor, or god-forbid a con-
crete sidewalk, perhaps.
And, come on, who doesn’t
drop their child on their head

at one point or another? Al-
though I do suppose that mak-
ing a habit of it might be an
incredibly alarming thing for

all involved. I'm not always
the brightest, but even I
know that for real answers
to these burning questions

on this subject I’ve never
given a thought to is that
the entire world population
of mothers should be con-

sulted. Scientifically. As
purely as is convenient.
Perhaps even a random
sampling of fathers, too.

This I think surely due
to the fact that I’d love
to be involved in such
a census; to affect

some world knowledge.
Wouldn’t that be a
kick?! Granted, I’ve
never had a child of

my own—that I know of,
anyway. Well, I’m not
even sure Ms. Mollen-Biggs
is a celebrity or not. But

she has turned out to be
such a delight to catch. And
has encouraged such ex-
pansion of thought. And

this isn’t even TMZ (which,
truth be told, I never watch,
anyway—and my wife loves
to repeatedly remind me that

this fact makes me a complete
celebrity gossip hypocrite). It’s
CNN where I get the brunt of
my celebrity gossip, while try-

ing so hard to skip the rest of
the news altogether. But.
Celebrity gossip. What can
you do? At least when you’re

me. I can attest to the fact
that I never once spent mon-
ey (mine or anyone else’s)
on a National Enquirer. I

can even say with some con-
viction that this is a good thing.
And while I cannot say how
good or bad this segment has

been for anyone in today’s
audience, I do sincerely
believe that it’s not been
a great couple of hours for

our dear Mr. Biggs. Nor,
perhaps, I must sigh, for
CNN, who decided to take
this initial plunge into the

‘studies’ of his psy-
chotic or pathologic or
sociopathic, yet oddly
hypnotic wife and her

unpinpointable cause
celebre. Whatever can
be said, I’ve certainly
had my moment of

growth today. And all
of those in attendance
have surely had one as
well. Even with the ad-

mixture of disturbing
and confusingly comical,
life-threatening stories
such as this must abound.

I am even certain there
will be things that I learned
from this spectacle which
will only be discovered in

hindsight. So, without even
delving too deeply into the
disturbing parts (I’m easy
to tune out, you see, and

quick on the draw with re-
gard to such matters), I pic-
ture the audience departing
quickly up and out of the

theatre doors and into
the mid-day sunlight
as better people for
having experienced a

spare moment or two on
such a confusing subject
(which I am not convinced
is less confusing than when

off she roiled with the first
few words of the evening).
But doesn’t that confusion
somehow equal a relatively

higher level of import-
ance than, say, less confus-
ing stuff? Like Newton’s Law,
I suppose. Anyway, I’d never

even given this subject a
chance; or, well, it is one
that I must admit never once
crossed my mind in the first place.

That is not until today, when I had
the honor of attending this fine
pseudo-political event. Something
that always comes to mind when I

drop by one of these town hall
meetings is that life, you know, is
honestly a total gamble. Don’t
you think? I certainly do.

mmdcccxlii

"He’s Crazy Like a Straw!”

“At least somebody laughed,”
he said, his head tilted slightly
downward in my new apart-
ment (compartment, box; I
was just happy for company).
It was not me that laughed,
however (too honest to a
fault, that’s me). Anyway,
that fact was most definitely
noted (the lack of laughter,
not the honesty; honestly,
I don’t know if anyone be-
lieves – or if I will ever be-
lieve – that part–the honesty–
but its true)–by the both of us.
So much so that quiet swirled
around in the tiny room for a
moment or two. Why am I
so damned serious, you might
wonder. The Aunties are always
mortified by the severity of my
seriousness. “Learn to espouse
a bit of levity,” they’d always say.
To paraphrase. Or expound upon,
in my own words. So to speak.
“I mean, lighten up for God’s
sake,” they translated, in
front of the both of us,
all three standing stock
still in the sub-zero weather
at the barely cracked door.

mmdcccxli

“Have you met my friend, Dawn?”

“Dawn, Mister Smith-
ereen. Mister Smither-
een, Dawn. Well, now
that we’ve gotten that
out of the way, I do be-
lieve that I myself am
going to tiptoe over
to the bar for a quench.
Shall I get you queens
anything? A julep,
perhaps? At least it
doesn’t come with
a cantaloupe knock
knock joke dangling
just over the edge of
Four Corners, New
Mexico and such” [@
which he whips up
more of a mosey
than a tip of the
old toe…]….

mmdcccxl

Musing Over Teenage Assignments on Anxiety In this Age of
Anxiety; and Envisioning What such Homework Might Be
(In a Somewhat Cheeky and Unfinished Manner; Inspiration!)

I bought a few yards of
sweet-to-the-skin rope
at Britex the other day,
so that I could bring it to
my Xanax class today, see?
I mean, look, I have this
soft-to-the-senses [watch
as I demonstrate effortlessly,
at least empirically] … …rope.
[Look as I rub it in all the
right places, exposing all
the right places, including
my raw and jangled nerves,
if at all possible, can you
tell how raw and jangled
they are?] [Eyes meet the
intended audience – mean-
ing the skittish eyeballs of
everyone in the room. Eye-
balls which, upon half meltingly
introducing my ‘rope’ and
offering my gaze, pop directly
up to meet mine, so swiftly as
to almost exit their sockets.]
My students, amongst their
so-called peers (which ap-
parently include the pre-
viously noted professional
professor) now each and
all have eyeballs aimed
like a compass needle
steady on north are at
me. And my audience fetish ....

[Loud and deliberate as fuck,
please, but coming from an
indeterminate somewhere
in the audience:] “Hey!
I get 30 bucks a pop for an
A of any kind. Excepting
in the case of an A+, for which
I get at least a half a yard apiece,
maybe even a double..so Benji,
or whoever, depending on the
needs of the weekend, bettah
pop! Holla that?”

I think I’m enthralled. May I just
throw in right here [clearly,
but without clearing my throat]
“End of dream sequence.
Come back tomorrow?”

Yeah, I did. And I do.

mmdcccxxxviii

“Is her name really Meerkat?”

Says the man who just asked
if I really want to have a family.  
So as to be decisively dismissive,
I dissolve into my tiny computer
and wonder irritatedly what “back 
to form” must mean.  With regard
to one of my favorite film directors.  
Back to form?  When did she ever 
lose it in the first place?  Her so-
called form.  Is this petty of me, 
I wonder, given that it is at least 
a back-handed compliment (yes,
given my trail of consciousness,
petty is much too small a word).
(But petty.)  Like the ritual that
for decades now has given me
unfathomable amounts of joy: 
watching film trailers.  For hours
sometimes.  Only these days it’s 
only the trailers (just like it’s
only me).  I’ve been at the cin-
ema twice in the past three
years (not bothering to give
a comparison, such as an
estimation of the zillions
of times the previous three).  
Occasionally, I’ve taken Net-
flix up on a free month or two, 
but even then I can’t—but almost
absolutely cannot—watch anything
in there.  It’s not the screen
being so small (sizes; as opposed
to the big screen or a more robust
computer than my cheap-ass phone).
My dismissal of the surroundings of
my present; the questions that de-
mand decisive answers; my retrieval
into the celebrity of the small screen,
this meandering, this me being just me 
and, most specifically, only me.  On-
ly now, since I just tore my back,
I’ll be going on an indefinite leave.
“It’s all connected.  We can get to
the bottom of it.”  

My weapon of
choice (martial arts-wise) is the 
killer umbrella.  A killer umbrella?
Or, until now at least, it was my
go-to.  Probably more than any 
other reason because it’s so…
unlikely?  In that historical
Hong Kong (etc.) martial arts
flick cinematic genre’s way.
Even in that specifically un-
real universe it is not only
original (true historians 
might disagree, given 
true origins and such), but
it is outlandishly imaginative
and just plain beyond this guy’s
(me; my) version of reality (by which 
I apparently do not mean reality
but am thinking more in terms of
what it was, what it is and what it 
could be).  There is perhaps no right
word, much as I am positive there
is one.  It is a phenomenon, this
notion of deadly umbrella in this
specific cinematic universe.  It’s
historical.  As in history.  Like the
act of, let me offer as example, 
looking backward through the
assumedly more accurate lens of
time.  In this case, to a time-frame
when I was not just me.  And then
locking my gaze onto his (mine; or
ours) as if to ask (jokingly? I wonder.) 
“Look at us now.  What do you think, 
Pops?  Amazing?  Or suck?”  And to 
whatever degree it does surely suck, 
extending that question a bit fur-
ther with "How the fuck to change 
the trajectory; to change this traj-
ectory?"  In this case, how to abso-
lutely flip it or reverse it?  Is it
possible?  Can I simply “put my 
thing down, flip it and reverse it”?
To quote goddess-rap-lyricist-and-
performer-on-a-savior-level, Ms.
Missy Elliot.  Look it up.  It’s
in the chorus of the same ditty
as the one that immortalized 
the badonkadonk (donk! and I’m
definitely not worthy).  Boys,
boys, all type of boys.  As I
(we) stare at myself into the
future, everything begins to
make sense.  Killer umbrellas.
Lost form.  Torn abdomens.  
Families of meerkats with no
names, only so someone who
makes names can give birth to
something who’s never met a
mammal (from the outside),
and name the result Meerkat.
And that, historically, is for
life (unless you're Madonna
or Gaga; but frankly, why
would one ever try to erase
such a fabulous given name?).  
And, so, I wonder, why this
pyrotechnical eureka, this
everything making sense
all of a sudden (like that
moment during the first sem-
ester of my sophomore year of 
undergrad, nearly two-thirds of 
the way through the term, during
which my courses were Physics III, 
Organic Chemistry II and a class
that gave dramatic/cinematic 
closure—with the scary pro-
bability of a sequel—to all
of the mathematics/algebra/
calculus courses I had thus far
endured)?  Everything makes
sense sometimes, right?  Or 
am I the only one? Do we not 
each have these moments?  
I suppose I would not know.  
But did you know (as I now 
do and am compelled to
share; because, inter-
net; and because why 
bother to correct me
if I’m wrong on this
point given where it
has gotten us thus
far?  By which I of
course mean gotten
me.) that for the
two lines after that
one I quoted above, 
(the Missy Elliott flip 
it and reverse it 
quote from the
chorus of the song
that I say immortalized
badonkadonk-donk), that 
she then just repeats that 
line, but in absolute
reverse?  She flips
it.  And there are
two lines of that
flat-out flipped-
out line.  And
then, end
of chorus;
next verse.

mmdcccxxxvii

“But I Deserve You MORE!”

I am so in touch with what it,
I suppose, is like to be desperate—

and, I do mean hopelessly des-
perate—in love.  Romanticism be

damned; idealism be damned;
such stupid incessant oil-mixes

to be avoided at all costs.  The
Montagues [hack!], the Capulets

[spit!!], the various nurses and
nephews only trying to help!  My

constipated ass they are!!!  Hope-
lessly fucked in a no-win situation,

completely unable to turn the right
screws [and to this he mumbles a

bit of aren’t well all?].   Pushing
the right buttons of course we all

get down so a science.  The life of
a spy, the life of a queen or a king,

even and especially the goddamned
JESTER [a title to which our company 

leader adds enormous decibels, as
if it were a grander title than either 

king or queen; it is basically coughed
out of his throat—directly after which,

predictably, he has rolled his somewhat
hazel-pixied pupils so far back behind his

yellows that he seems pained to continue;
nevertheless].  Everyone knows that it is

at least momentarily back to business,
even if on tenterhooks.  So for now

what would sound like silence to a 
newcomer is actually a bombardment

of echoey gossip banging around in
each attendee's head.  Some or most

may be unaware, but their skulls, 
in toto, are knowingly relieved

by such reverberated headache-
inducing slam.  So much so, in

point of fact, that roaches, might
they be present would most likely

be catching a bit of the conver-
sation via these echoes.  Ah,

silence.  Old habits dies hard; 
I’ve learned from the best; etc.  

And just like that, it's back to 
being desperate for just a smidge

of human flesh.  Never not once!  But
behold, the almighty drag and swing

of Frankenstein’s newly stuffed arms,
built cold and about to crumble only a

few minutes ago, are now scorched with-
in and without, and not simply by the al-

mighty Franklin God of the induced
lightning storm, but, as time passes

toward a chilly dusk, to cool the con-
fusing emanation of heat that burns

within their own circulatory reverb.  
Oh, to be desperately AND hopelessly 

in love, unable to screw or button-push 
in any engaging or locally and simultan

eously stimulating method.  Dare I
intimate the possibility of intimacy

(this seems the appropriate spot to do
so).  Desperately and hopelessly in love.

This I have known (intimately).  But, during
the same season, finding oneself in his first 

(and oh how utterly despicable) instance 
of ALSO being utterly desperate for love;

even for the screws and buttons that often 
accommodate such whimsical nonsense.  

This, an overwhelming combination that, 
with  all the common sense one can muster, 

seems an algorithm that literally necessitates 
violence.  It is by no means inequitable to

accepting as many agonizing pinpricks as can
be positioned onto one palm-sized portion of

human flesh.  To become, as such, Mister
Pincushion, who, never having a complete

termination of remorse from the one afflic-
tion, finds with the added disease a nonstop 

blister-producing juggle-gouging of hot po-
tatoes so hell-bent that each night one eagerly-

picked vegetable simmers hot and then
only hotter even as it has been distributed

upon the alternative flesh of a human [this,
I can attest, reaches its full magick when the

heart-tortured company’s grotesque and mottled 
tomcat’s lavish hairball, a daily hot mess, has 

just arrived (and NOT metaphorically) to double-
press the steam out of the vegetables and into

the human soul.  This, the idiotic magick of
love.  All this.  All this:  Just another nonstop 

reminder of the repeated inalterable movements 
we who are so double-afflicted each found our-

selves in every single day.  And if we recuperate
from this idealistic bullshit we learn far too late;

that we are always merely the déjà vu of a monster.
The one you'd always already become.  Kindred 

spirits with the immortal heaving a burden of rock
and alloy from bottom to top of the earth, every

single day the rock goes up until dusk settles, when
the burden is delivered to its appropriate destination,

only to (re)discover, on the verge of unconscious-
ness, that his innards are being dined upon like

carrion.  For the rest of the night.  Then, before 
the sun bellies up through the blue horizon, that

it is time to head back down to the bottom of this
fiendish sphere, prepare the same burden, make

its daily delivery and reap the same rewards as the
previous night.  Over and over and over again.  

And this was our Don, the Caesar of all of our
immortal godfathers (emphasis on immortal?).

I mean, just take a gander at that gizzard, 
folks!  No don, no caesar and no immortal 

would readily serve this up nightly, daily, 
routinely.  And yet, with nary a snake left 

in his bellypot, up he goes once again.  [Sitting, 
as is his habit, for one brief moment beforehand, 

almost laden with sense]. What’s a kiss but an 
inevitable stab in the heart?  What's a twirl 

of our fair lady's finger in her fine kept hair
but a clump of it in some cold soup a few 

moments later?  You call the odds if you 
want, but we already know who wins.  And

that there is no cycle so odd.  Yet, there will 
never be one so impossible to quit until the

instant the demeaning poison finally reaches
the lips (which always is entirely too much of a 

change in the conversation), am I right?  This,
perhaps the only cure that might remove the

tragic cycle?  We are all afflicted.  It is impossible 
to quit this tragedic scheme.  Until, of course, we 

finally learn (if we make it there—but I can most
certainly pinpoint the instant at which I received 

my education).  Lessons learned?  Perhaps.  But when 
routine begs to prohibit crises of faith, it begs to toss 

love to the mortally wounded coil.  Then we might
find ourselves no longer fools (nor dons, nor caesars, 

nor gods), but mere, redundant mortals.  As for 
this kind of non-love we deemed romantic and 

actual?  Anyway, it’s time to call in the dames.  
Time to roll the dung into a slippery ball and to

get it moving on up.  Got it? All hands on deck!  
Let's get it on, my men.  It's another night for 

the dogs.  Until we've completely eradicated 
the scourge of hope and unscientific emotion.