Lips!!!!

I mis-posted earlier. The lyrics to the song were "Shut your lips. Shut your lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips." It has been corrected. Thank you, sugar plum wife-o-mine.

Horsehead

We really weren't sure what to make of him, the chubby, late 40's, mustachioed man seated in a chair by the jukebox bobbing his head vigorously to the driving dance beats. Between games of pinball, Tegan ad I would take turns eyeballing him, as well as the rest of the room. At first we thought he was probably with a group playing pool nearby, but when they left and he remained, we had to reassess.

Maybe he was a new bouncer, his seeming ridiculousness merely a facade covering great experience. This theory was overturned by two points. First, as trouble simmering at another pool table began to become more heated, he paid very little attention, almost averting his eyes from the situation.

Secondly and possibly more importantly, he was regularly pumping several dollar bills into the jukebox to select music whereas employees wield a remote control. A group of very young girls were now shooting 9-ball, and his bobbing throbbing presence was causing an obvious anxiety.

I was almost certain that the songs were repeating, but their similarity made it difficult to be positive. Then over the thumping refrain, "Shut your lips. Shut your lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips." my suspicions were confirmed. As I pondered the reference to Helen Keller (I guess the more accurate "Do the Helen Keller and redefine how society teaches individuals with aural/ocular impairments" wasn't very euphonious) a heavily tattooed man across the room thrust his finger towards the jukebox bopper and yelled, "Dammit, I can only handle hearing this fucking song 5 times in a night. Quit playing the same fucking songs!"

Mr. Mustache continued to nod his head nearly in rhythm to the beat, eyes half closed, as if simultaneously agreeing with and ignoring his assailant.

Some strange spell had been broken, and others began to adventure into the strange man's sphere and select music to play. The early Pink Floyd "Bike" began and the head bobbing became more erratic. The beat shifts and modulations broke down his disjointed self-confidence and he soon departed, leaving a group of early-20 hippies playing Grateful Dead. Their tastes were more varied than Mustache, however, because they also played "Don't you remember you told me you loved me, Baby!" and an early rap song with lyrics politely benign.

The Horsehead always has fun people-watching.

Too soon

I've been on a bit of a break from posting, enjoying the early summer with my newly liberated wife. Free from the shackles of higher education's encompassing schedule we have kept relatively busy. I barely find the time for simple tasks and they are starting to build up. For instance, I finally got around to cleaning out my wallet last night. Among the dust bunnies and moth carcasses was a receipt reading 'Thank you for shopping at Cash Depot: ATM. Green Bay, Wisconsin.' Shopping?

Speaking of shopping, the radio man says that Billy Mays, pitchman extraordiniare, has passed away this morning. Although it hasn't been announced, I suspect fowl play, possibly found asphyxiated with a Shamwow lodged in his throat. Oh Oh, wouldn't it be terrible if he was done in by his own products, like choking on several Big City Slider mini-burgers? Or maybe he collapsed under his own genius and swallowed a lethal dose of Oxy-clean.

I suppose it's too soon for this humor.

More stories soon.

Susan

Susan Hischman was a dour woman, with a sour pout perpetually residing below the long nose that some might call regal, while others would simply label "big". Her salt-and-pepper hair was cropped above her shoulders in a bob, shoulders draped in one of her closet's many plaid shirts. It wasn't with some mannish intent that her jeans rode so high upon her wide hips, but simply a side effect of pants with such an oil-lamp curvature.

The canine usually wheezing at her side was some mish-mash of dog DNA. Large lumps of benign growth gave his torso a mutant appearance but did little to distract from the unsettling fact that the dog's expression mirrored his owner. Children did not ask to pet Petey on the street. His frown seemed unnatural and disturbing, as if the muscles permitting such a human emotion had been surgically implanted.

And that is why, had the brown bulgy envelope been a living creature with eyes and awareness—some papery slug crossing the sidewalk, two frowns would have loomed down at it. Petey's nose left little wet spots on it before Susan stiffly stooped and snatched it away. Had it lain a foot away and not in her direct path, Susan would have passed it by. Like many grudging altruists, she would retrieve litter only when it presented itself so ineluctably. She crinkled up her long nose and gambled a quick peek inside, expecting some disintegrating mush of formerly edible substance.

Standing just feet from the dumpster her quick peek was masochistic curiosity, like opening the yogurt container plumbed from the depths of a refrigerator cleaning. What repelling repugnance might it hold?

As Petey spattered the blue steel of the trash bin with yellow, Susan's frown grew roots and bent to acrobatic depths on her chin. From the envelope bloomed the crinkled corners of currency. Hundreds of 20 and 50 dollar bills formed a thick wad between her finger-bones. She blinked, twice.

This new, deep frown remained rooted the whole walk home, holding the envelope at arms length like a particularly ripe doo-bag. She dropped it on her end-table, which was empty, clean, barren as a windswept desert. It's brown existence was like some animal dropping in the room's aesthetic. Petey was oblivious to the envelope's obtrusiveness as he slopped water ravenously from his chrome dish.

Susan abruptly decided it was time for bed, snapping away from the table and marching towards her toothbrush. Perhaps the morning's light would dissipate this illusion and return that sense of routine that fed her frowns. Those frowns that permeated even her dreams.

Happenings and Goings On

Updates:

Tegan finished her first year of nursing school and is plotting a barbecue bash tomorrow. Incidentally, that is the one day on the computer's weather forecast with a thunderbolt icon.

We opened a bottle of my father's 2004 plum wine and enjoyed it with out friends Sarah and Greg. It was quite tasty. We also have a 2005 plum wine still in our rack, as well as every other bottle of wine we have ever been given.

My free YMCA membership is about to run out, but over the last 3 months I've shed 12 pounds. Down to a sleek 177. Punched a few new holes in the belt. Still debating wether to pay for a membership.

Lots of new stories in the works, but nothing ready to publish.

I can't even get rejection letters from the places I apply to, except from Lane county, which seems to have consolidated all my rejections for the numerous positions I've jumped at into one flimsy postcard. I tacked it up on my wall, a symbol of the rewards reaped through perseverance.

Short

If he hadn't been there, the stiffness of his brown suit might still have held it upright, standing behind the yellow tape line like a mannequin behind a mime's window. His expression was rigid, so much that it might have been simply an extension of his starched shirt. Yet for all his stillness, a fire danced in his eyes.

Milo's mouth was too dry to speak, much less swallow. He felt his eyeballs being pulled, sucked from their sockets by the gravity of electric gaze pinning him. Breath he didn't realize occupied his lungs was now wheezing out in a disgorged, ugly laugh. "hhhhhhaaaaaaaaa..." His knees angled inwards causing his torso to swivel like a slinky on rubber hips. Milo saw an ocean, a blue billowing sheet of silk, as his head bounced on the linoleum.

The figure in the brown suit did not move. He waited for the next attendant to come along and contemplated what he would try next. His toes nearly touched the line, but remained separated. After all, Milo had told him to stay behind the yellow tape line. And a devil can only do what man allows him.

Roll them bones

On the first Wednesday of every month, the short asian bartender of the Knights of Columbus club knocks on our living room window to remind us that Thursday is Bunko night.

Bunko is a simple dice game, it's fast-clip driven by enthusiastic octogenarians whose competitive side flares every time the bell is rung. You rotate tables and partners, keeping the conversations fresh. "Working yet?" they will ask me, and I will smile and shake my head. "Get that unemployment," they will say. For a roomful of McCain/Palin votes, they don't seem too upset at my stint on welfare.

Some of the regulars get snippy if you are on a hot streak. "That'll do," they will say in their grandmotherly fashion, reaching for the dice prematurely. You have to watch when they keep score. There isn't any malevolence, just poor arithmetic, but sometimes their numbers don't add up.

The median age of participants is 74, and everyone is a member of the catholic church. The drinks are cheap and the potluck snacks abundant, so it really is a great deal for a $5 buy-in.

Most of the time the prize money is split 3-ways with the average prize being at least $30, but last night they attempted a new system. When the breakdown was complete (which took awhile, remember the poor math) some people got $2.50, some got $7. I think I was the only person who didn't win any money.

Regardless of how they will split the money or how mercilessly they rib me about my seemingly endless unemployment, I look forward to the first Thursday of the month and our next match-up in the windowless cinder-block building across the alley.