Some People Must Go To Hell
I left the farm and came to Northern VA to facilitate with paint the separating of two feuding Jr. BC's.
Mrs. BC said of course eat anything you can find but when people say that they don't really mean it. I am eating every damn thing. I am not at all responsible for what people really mean. They, the whole BC clan, were barely out the driveway on their way to holiday fun before I devoured the two pieces of pumpkin pie. And ohmydeargod, there's whipped cream in a can. It can get away from you but cleans up nicely.
Mr. BC, a giant of business and active participant in the raising of three adolescent boys, can't seem to understand why I won't do the little things he asks of me, like photo-documenting a damn gazebo, and delivering a damn electronic device to a man who will never use it (and the man said as much when I finally did deliver it.) Anyway, I frankly forgot about the device, being as I was in full seasonal descent into a depressive state of hibernation and temporary loathing of humanity in its entirety. As for the gazebo, well, my neat little camera ceased to work the minute I drove over it with the Jeep. He's probably wondering right now, reading this, well, are you at least feeding my fish?
You are dear limited readership possibly picturing this giant of business type, with his palatial homes, one, gated in the burbs, one in the country and one at the beach, finding his much deserved relaxation with his hobby, exotic fish, which he cares for in a tank that covers a whole wall. But actually what you will find is a fish bowl in his bathroom with one goldfish in it. Mind you, the bowl is a bit oversized and the goldfish is getting bigger over time so as to imply an actual living fish instead of one of those neat little toy fish in a fishbowl which simulate fishiness pretty well without exuding all that other organic matter, and for my money....
I only bring all this up about the fish so that I can say, yes, I'm feeding it. However no would be my answer to your question--is he doing well, is he happy, does he move around his cloudy bowl with happy reckless abandon? Do you think he misses me?
On a more cheerful note let me say this--I haven't killed the cats, yet.
In fact the cats are apparently warming up to me and for the first time in three years I have actually been permitted to pet one of them, FiFi I think. And while Pounce does not seem overwhelmed by his love for me, at least he doesn't cower in abject fear every time I enter the room. So that's some good news I think you will agree.
While we're on the subject of FiFi though I should like to ask is it normal for a big tuft of hair to be sticking out like something you are tempted to remove but in my case won't because I'm afraid of an arterial spurting over carpet and walls or the other thing I imagined possible was the deflating and whizzing about the room of a cat shaped air balloon?
Actually, don't worry about any of these things. Today is your day for feasting and relaxation with family and I know you never get a break from work because I can to my right see the middle one of your three gigantic flat panel moniters and it is keeping a running total of only one of your email inboxes and it shows this morning a total of 159 for the last two days or so. You may be the only person I know who gets more personal/business email in a day than spam, although I'm sure in many cases the difference between those two categories is nominal. You should tell some of those people to go to hell.
...more recent posts
What Jules Verns Said
If what Jules Verne said is true, that--"Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real," then I would like to proclaim that I can hardly imagine a statement with more horrifying implication.
For example I imagined this morning being tried as a mass murderer in a court of law run by giant pissed off mice. That is, the courtroom gallery was full of giant pissed off mice whereas the ruling body of the courtroom, the judge and the prosecution team and my own defense team, were rather placid in their demeanors. This placidity combined with the English barrister wigs they wore atop their heads added an element of reality to the rather un-real and absurd scene of a courtroom run by mice.
In the gallery I could see the ones that got away, damning me with their presence as sure as any ace mouse prosecutor ever could. They all sat together: that one missing its tail, and that one its arm, and that one most of its hindquarter. And oh my god, look at the bent and mangled snout on that one. As if these exhibits were not enough, the eight foot tall carved wooden doors at the back of the room burst open and the most damning exhibit of all came to our attention. A mouse lying on a spring trap retrofitted with wheels, its midsection harshly folded by the spring bar, an oxygen mask over its whiskered face and the tank strapped hinder. An IV fluid bottle hung from an attached vertical rod front and center. The mouse propelled itself with two sticks used like oars. To their bottoms were attached rubber pads for gripping.
There's really only one way to escape this Jules Verne-ian nightmare of imagined potential and that is to just stop the imagining. I mean come on, if you can't imagine anything better than that.../if you can't say something nice.../think orchids, not onions.
But you know, I can't help imagining what I would be like up there, on the stand, in the seat, given the chance to. Would I be the belligerent dictator-type, cussing my captors and declaring myself superior in all ways, that my killing was justified? Would I scream that MY god had given me dominion over all you little insignificant, disease carrying, rodent bitches? Or would I blame it on my superior officers? I was just doing as ordered I would say as melee broke out in the courtroom, traps smeared with peanut butter flying like V-2s across great distance and some landing near me, their clicking explosions sending dabs of peanut butter in arcs across my vision, and others, the direct hits, clamping shut on my girly-long hair, my ear lobes, my eye lids, and finally, to the ecstatic cheering of all, the trap that clamps shut on my nose. When I look over at the mouse judge he is solemnly shaking his head. I've heard enough, he says, duct tape shut the mouth of that fulminator, and let's see what thunder now comes forth?
If what Jules Verne said is true, that--"Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real," then I would like to proclaim that I can hardly imagine a statement with more horrifying implication.
For example I imagined this morning being tried as a mass murderer in a court of law run by giant pissed off mice. That is, the courtroom gallery was full of giant pissed off mice whereas the ruling body of the courtroom, the judge and the prosecution team and my own defense team, were rather placid in their demeanors. This placidity combined with the English barrister wigs they wore atop their heads added an element of reality to the rather un-real and absurd scene of a courtroom run by mice.
In the gallery I could see the ones that got away, damning me with their presence as sure as any ace mouse prosecutor ever could. They all sat together: that one missing its tail, and that one its arm, and that one most of its hindquarter. And oh my god, look at the bent and mangled snout on that one. As if these exhibits were not enough, the eight foot tall carved wooden doors at the back of the room burst open and the most damning exhibit of all came to our attention. A mouse lying on a spring trap retrofitted with wheels, its midsection harshly folded by the spring bar, an oxygen mask over its whiskered face and the tank strapped hinder. An IV fluid bottle hung from an attached vertical rod front and center. The mouse propelled itself with two sticks used like oars. To their bottoms were attached rubber pads for gripping.
There's really only one way to escape this Jules Verne-ian nightmare of imagined potential and that is to just stop the imagining. I mean come on, if you can't imagine anything better than that.../if you can't say something nice.../think orchids, not onions.
But you know, I can't help imagining what I would be like up there, on the stand, in the seat, given the chance to. Would I be the belligerent dictator-type, cussing my captors and declaring myself superior in all ways, that my killing was justified? Would I scream that MY god had given me dominion over all you little insignificant, disease carrying, rodent bitches? Or would I blame it on my superior officers? I was just doing as ordered I would say as melee broke out in the courtroom, traps smeared with peanut butter flying like V-2s across great distance and some landing near me, their clicking explosions sending dabs of peanut butter in arcs across my vision, and others, the direct hits, clamping shut on my girly-long hair, my ear lobes, my eye lids, and finally, to the ecstatic cheering of all, the trap that clamps shut on my nose. When I look over at the mouse judge he is solemnly shaking his head. I've heard enough, he says, duct tape shut the mouth of that fulminator, and let's see what thunder now comes forth?
Where I Live
Five months ago I returned here to Mt. Pleasant from New Orleans and during that time an ambitious project was occurring which required that workers from the city stay in the cottage of yours truly, the caretaker. The project included some moving of dirt around and some plantings, the building of a stone wall or two and a gazebo with attached fireplace and adjacent bocce court.
I lived in the bighouse during that time and although it is not without its charm the bighouse is no place for a caretaker. So I have moved back into the cottage this weekend, after some cleaning and airing out and the moving of my bed to the room across the hall, which now gives me clear view of the long gravel driveway so that I can shoot the air out of your tires if you approach without invitation, and there is better light in the room across the hall, so that I don't suffer from the ills of sunlight deprivation and descend into a spiral of madness and crotchety behaviour, even as giving in to such would seemingly befit my station as caretaker.
And further, being now a couple of hundred yards downhill from the bighouse is a thing not causing me grief for this reason: the bighouse is haunted--there is in the night the constant clanking of heavy chains and ghouls dressed in moldy-smelling, tattered Civil War uniforms of both Confederate and Union stripe, roam the halls at night, gurgling insults at each other in a past dialect sounding part foreign and part recognizable. Fanged glistening black snakes the size of anacondas slither down the bannisters as morning light comes bringing what one would hope is a world less frightening. When dawn relinquishes her hold on night and accepts fully that coming orb too bright to see the snakes squeeze themselves most unreasonably under that sliver of space beneath the basement door and disappear, but still haunting as effectively in my memory as in fact, if the sensibilities of fact are even worth considering after five months of living in a haunted house, high on a hill in Virginia.
Five months ago I returned here to Mt. Pleasant from New Orleans and during that time an ambitious project was occurring which required that workers from the city stay in the cottage of yours truly, the caretaker. The project included some moving of dirt around and some plantings, the building of a stone wall or two and a gazebo with attached fireplace and adjacent bocce court.
I lived in the bighouse during that time and although it is not without its charm the bighouse is no place for a caretaker. So I have moved back into the cottage this weekend, after some cleaning and airing out and the moving of my bed to the room across the hall, which now gives me clear view of the long gravel driveway so that I can shoot the air out of your tires if you approach without invitation, and there is better light in the room across the hall, so that I don't suffer from the ills of sunlight deprivation and descend into a spiral of madness and crotchety behaviour, even as giving in to such would seemingly befit my station as caretaker.
And further, being now a couple of hundred yards downhill from the bighouse is a thing not causing me grief for this reason: the bighouse is haunted--there is in the night the constant clanking of heavy chains and ghouls dressed in moldy-smelling, tattered Civil War uniforms of both Confederate and Union stripe, roam the halls at night, gurgling insults at each other in a past dialect sounding part foreign and part recognizable. Fanged glistening black snakes the size of anacondas slither down the bannisters as morning light comes bringing what one would hope is a world less frightening. When dawn relinquishes her hold on night and accepts fully that coming orb too bright to see the snakes squeeze themselves most unreasonably under that sliver of space beneath the basement door and disappear, but still haunting as effectively in my memory as in fact, if the sensibilities of fact are even worth considering after five months of living in a haunted house, high on a hill in Virginia.
Getting Lost With Chic And Jade
I was recently squatting in the Moab desert behind a juniper as hundreds of feet away Chic laughed at me, out loud, clearly unaware that a few hours hence I would be attempting to rescue him and Jade from death by dehydration, them huddled and confused and lost within site of the highway, hoping but uncertain that Bernadette and I would coast efficiently on mountain bikes downhill along the highway into the town eight miles away and bring back the SUV, Gatorade, and Krispy Kreme donuts.
You get Chic laughing hard and you can kill him with it and all in good fun I thought I might like to do just that. If you are in a restaurant and someone gets up to use the restroom 30 feet away from you, you are not so aware or hyper-conscious of what is going on in there, but in the vast Utah desert surrounded by sandstone skyscrapers and crisp blue sky, a person a hundred yards away behind a juniper is something you are very aware of. The thing about being in a restaurant is you don't usually ask your fellow diners for toilet paper before excusing yourself. In the desert no one had brought any. I took the paper towel wrapping from the sandwich I had just been offered, said--my toilet paper has avocado goo on it--and walked carefully over the less than pristine bio-crust to take care of my business. The desert floor provided for excellent digging and I--as is my custom--left no trace (but for my obvious boot prints to and fro), and spent a little time creating a picture of natural desert nothingness, with twigs and dead vegetation and the swirly movement of my hand. I even found some wild rosemary near me and freshened up with it upon conclusion.
Chic was giggling when I got back because he didn't want me near him with the obviousness of my business so fresh in his mind. I predictably got up close to him and made him squirm and beg for distance. I was going in for the kill. I had a long sleeve t-shirt underneath my long sleeve button down and one of those under-sleeves I had used as backup to the avocado-soggy sandwich wrap. Chic, I prodded, while he cried out, no man, no, leave me alone, please. I said, come on man, look at me, just look at me, but he was recoiling and laughing, almost crying. When however he first chanced to look my way I caught him off guard with a provocative toying of my outer sleeve and he was so curious that he watched on as I inched the sleeve up little by little until I finally got to the ragged edges of my bit off and ripped under sleeve. When his mind clicked on the implication of the missing half-sleeve, he let out a burst--a hyper-ventilated cackle, and I then backed away from him, for I did not relish the idea of burying his expired ha-ha-self in that soft desert soil.
Chic provided small cigars brought by him from Miami and we lit up and followed Jade and Bernadette, coasting and peddling and puffing down the rocky mountain path, on rented mountain bikes, until we came to a steep hill, and then we got off the bikes and pushed them until we reached a plateau from which we could coast again.
Later we came to the unanimous decision that we were lost in the desert, and although it turns out we were not, exactly, lost, we were without water, and ten miles from town, and a couple of miles from the path we were supposed to be on. Jade's back tire was not holding air that well and this increased her work-load considerably. It was only a joke about wanting to kill Chic earlier and we all of us reached a point where there was no humor left but only a mild panic and a sort of distrust between characters like in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, only without the treasure. We back-tracked to the highway.
After Bernadette and I coasted all but the last of the eight miles into town we dropped off our bikes but not before almost stopping at Denny's for a mid-afternoon Grand Slam breakfast. That last mile was the hardest, which I bet is a theme I see repeated in life. I agreed to drive out alone so we could fit Chic and Jade and their two bikes in the rented Ford Freestyle SUV. Bernadette and I had already freshened ourselves up with Gatorade and Krispy-Kremes first thing returning to town but I was still a little cranky from the discomfort of that last mile. When Bernadette suggested I drop her at the nearest bar I barked out that I would do no such thing, for how would it look to our desperate friends, surely near their death on the fringes of Arches National Park, Utah, if to their shivering, huddled, dehydrated selves, and probably in need of emergency medical attention, that I announced that sure we can get you straight to the hospital, but first we have to pick up Bernadette at the bar.
As it turned out I could not find Chic and Jade. Had we really made it that clear where I should meet them? No, the more I thought about it, I don't think we had made it sufficiently clear. Chic and Jade were Bernadette's friends. I had only known them for three days at this point. Where are they? Bernadette would ask and I would have to admit, simply, that I could not find them. Would that really be my fault? I was hating this part of the vacation--the killing of the friends of my new girlfriend. I told you I wasn't a social butterfly, I would tell Bernadette. She might well argue that not being socially adept and killing someone's friends were two distinct categories. Not in a passive-aggressive way I would probably concede that point.
As I drove up and down the highway I just smirked at the little squeaking voices reminding me that--losers quit and quitters lose, and thought again about getting me one of those Grand Slam breakfasts, for a late lunch. Still, it wasn't much out of my way to try that one last driveway, and that is where I found Chic and Jade, alive, and to my estimation, a bit too happy and perky, and not even remotely near death, except in that same way that all of us are, every minute of our lives. We loaded up the bikes and drove on back to the bike rental place. Bernadette, not to be kept from whatever the hell she wants, had created her own bar, and was under the covered porch of the bike place, sipping a local micro brew and puffing the American Spirit.
I was recently squatting in the Moab desert behind a juniper as hundreds of feet away Chic laughed at me, out loud, clearly unaware that a few hours hence I would be attempting to rescue him and Jade from death by dehydration, them huddled and confused and lost within site of the highway, hoping but uncertain that Bernadette and I would coast efficiently on mountain bikes downhill along the highway into the town eight miles away and bring back the SUV, Gatorade, and Krispy Kreme donuts.
You get Chic laughing hard and you can kill him with it and all in good fun I thought I might like to do just that. If you are in a restaurant and someone gets up to use the restroom 30 feet away from you, you are not so aware or hyper-conscious of what is going on in there, but in the vast Utah desert surrounded by sandstone skyscrapers and crisp blue sky, a person a hundred yards away behind a juniper is something you are very aware of. The thing about being in a restaurant is you don't usually ask your fellow diners for toilet paper before excusing yourself. In the desert no one had brought any. I took the paper towel wrapping from the sandwich I had just been offered, said--my toilet paper has avocado goo on it--and walked carefully over the less than pristine bio-crust to take care of my business. The desert floor provided for excellent digging and I--as is my custom--left no trace (but for my obvious boot prints to and fro), and spent a little time creating a picture of natural desert nothingness, with twigs and dead vegetation and the swirly movement of my hand. I even found some wild rosemary near me and freshened up with it upon conclusion.
Chic was giggling when I got back because he didn't want me near him with the obviousness of my business so fresh in his mind. I predictably got up close to him and made him squirm and beg for distance. I was going in for the kill. I had a long sleeve t-shirt underneath my long sleeve button down and one of those under-sleeves I had used as backup to the avocado-soggy sandwich wrap. Chic, I prodded, while he cried out, no man, no, leave me alone, please. I said, come on man, look at me, just look at me, but he was recoiling and laughing, almost crying. When however he first chanced to look my way I caught him off guard with a provocative toying of my outer sleeve and he was so curious that he watched on as I inched the sleeve up little by little until I finally got to the ragged edges of my bit off and ripped under sleeve. When his mind clicked on the implication of the missing half-sleeve, he let out a burst--a hyper-ventilated cackle, and I then backed away from him, for I did not relish the idea of burying his expired ha-ha-self in that soft desert soil.
Chic provided small cigars brought by him from Miami and we lit up and followed Jade and Bernadette, coasting and peddling and puffing down the rocky mountain path, on rented mountain bikes, until we came to a steep hill, and then we got off the bikes and pushed them until we reached a plateau from which we could coast again.
Later we came to the unanimous decision that we were lost in the desert, and although it turns out we were not, exactly, lost, we were without water, and ten miles from town, and a couple of miles from the path we were supposed to be on. Jade's back tire was not holding air that well and this increased her work-load considerably. It was only a joke about wanting to kill Chic earlier and we all of us reached a point where there was no humor left but only a mild panic and a sort of distrust between characters like in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, only without the treasure. We back-tracked to the highway.
After Bernadette and I coasted all but the last of the eight miles into town we dropped off our bikes but not before almost stopping at Denny's for a mid-afternoon Grand Slam breakfast. That last mile was the hardest, which I bet is a theme I see repeated in life. I agreed to drive out alone so we could fit Chic and Jade and their two bikes in the rented Ford Freestyle SUV. Bernadette and I had already freshened ourselves up with Gatorade and Krispy-Kremes first thing returning to town but I was still a little cranky from the discomfort of that last mile. When Bernadette suggested I drop her at the nearest bar I barked out that I would do no such thing, for how would it look to our desperate friends, surely near their death on the fringes of Arches National Park, Utah, if to their shivering, huddled, dehydrated selves, and probably in need of emergency medical attention, that I announced that sure we can get you straight to the hospital, but first we have to pick up Bernadette at the bar.
As it turned out I could not find Chic and Jade. Had we really made it that clear where I should meet them? No, the more I thought about it, I don't think we had made it sufficiently clear. Chic and Jade were Bernadette's friends. I had only known them for three days at this point. Where are they? Bernadette would ask and I would have to admit, simply, that I could not find them. Would that really be my fault? I was hating this part of the vacation--the killing of the friends of my new girlfriend. I told you I wasn't a social butterfly, I would tell Bernadette. She might well argue that not being socially adept and killing someone's friends were two distinct categories. Not in a passive-aggressive way I would probably concede that point.
As I drove up and down the highway I just smirked at the little squeaking voices reminding me that--losers quit and quitters lose, and thought again about getting me one of those Grand Slam breakfasts, for a late lunch. Still, it wasn't much out of my way to try that one last driveway, and that is where I found Chic and Jade, alive, and to my estimation, a bit too happy and perky, and not even remotely near death, except in that same way that all of us are, every minute of our lives. We loaded up the bikes and drove on back to the bike rental place. Bernadette, not to be kept from whatever the hell she wants, had created her own bar, and was under the covered porch of the bike place, sipping a local micro brew and puffing the American Spirit.
First Lady Invasion
It's the oldest trick in the book but this wasn't the caretaker's first rodeo; it was Wednesday, all day long.
The first lady and 25 of her closest girlfriends came to town yesterday and with secret service agents and drivers effectively doubled the population of the little village 70 miles west of DC.
They ate at that restaurant across the street from the one at which the caretaker eats but not on Wednesday did he eat there because all day long he guarded the castle in his care against the marauding losers from the Washington Hill, lest they, the losers in search of new digs, uproot him from his own little hill. Even at his most inactive the caretaker is diligent, performing duties that may not have even existed the previous day. While others fawned and took pictures of the posing first lady a few blocks away, the caretaker hunkered down, letting no one pass his way, except the cleaning lady coming for pay, some Hispanic workers, a neighborhood cat, a dozen bush-eating deers, and two mice (who unfortunately committed suicide by peanut butter, so clearly unaware were they that the caretaker was back from vacation).
It's the oldest trick in the book but this wasn't the caretaker's first rodeo; it was Wednesday, all day long.
The first lady and 25 of her closest girlfriends came to town yesterday and with secret service agents and drivers effectively doubled the population of the little village 70 miles west of DC.
They ate at that restaurant across the street from the one at which the caretaker eats but not on Wednesday did he eat there because all day long he guarded the castle in his care against the marauding losers from the Washington Hill, lest they, the losers in search of new digs, uproot him from his own little hill. Even at his most inactive the caretaker is diligent, performing duties that may not have even existed the previous day. While others fawned and took pictures of the posing first lady a few blocks away, the caretaker hunkered down, letting no one pass his way, except the cleaning lady coming for pay, some Hispanic workers, a neighborhood cat, a dozen bush-eating deers, and two mice (who unfortunately committed suicide by peanut butter, so clearly unaware were they that the caretaker was back from vacation).