Stop Doing That!

‎"Stop doing that! There's something wrong with you."

"You have no idea. I saw this bus crash on there last night. Oh my God. I'll never recover. It was in like Mexico or Columbia or somewhere."

"You're an idiot."

"I know, I can't stop. Remember when I was on my beheading kick?"

"You're sick. You have a child now."

"You don't understand. I have to. What do you think I'm looking at when you're watching Good Morning America? It's the only way I can stomach this shit. It's incredible though. Until you see it, you can't imagine what actually happens to the human body."

"But then your sister liking Target, THAT'S what disgusts you!?"

"Oh my GOD! That is just so fucked! I can not accept that. I saw three people like Target today! How the fuck do you LIKE Target? Why do you NEED to like Target? What exactly is it you like about Target? Do you like their clothes? Their kitchen items? Do you like their lighting? The staff? Their carts? Well, they do have the best carts. But I mean, think about it. Seriously, you'd have to decide, yeah, ya know, I DO, I DO like Target, and then you'd have to drag your cursor over there and click on it. That is just so fucked up!"

"And that offends you more than a beheading?"

"Yeah, it does." 

"There's gotta be a reason. You know, Like us on Facebook and you'll get a 15% discount."

"Oh, really?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Oh."

Leonard

By now his anxiety was such that Leonard began to slow his sipping of his beer for he feared not only the interaction that would surely take place if the ditzy young bartender were to see his empty bottle upon the bar but even more unimaginable than that would be the simple act of standing up and having to walk himself over to the door. The bartender came near him and began pouring a draft and after stealing a quick glance at her magnificent tits, he looked down and picked at the wet paper label of his beer as he cringed inside at the thought of having to suffer again hearing the sound his own voice if she were to ask him if he needed another. Just then the door opened and he heard her say: “Hey, Mike, did you get me some gum?” and he looked over and saw the hipster kid with the beard waltzing in as he peeled away the transparent wrapper off of his new pack of American Spirits. It was only then that Leonard realized the kid had even been gone and the sight of him alone was enough to bring back the anger which had earlier kept the anxiety at bay. Anger was good, he had only recently decided, at least for him. He had a curious mind and had gone through life trying always to understand rather than blame. But, of course, when it came to people, there were too many variables to ever come close to an understanding. People had secrets, secrets you could never know, and over time he had begun to realize that more often than not it was these secrets which fueled the very behavior he had been trying to understand. Much of this realization had to do with the falling out he had had with his best friend, Ron. Some issue had arisen between Ron’s wife, Susie, and another wife which in turn engulfed Leonard’s wife along with many others and by the time Leonard began to realize that his wife had been right, that the situation would inevitably affect his friendship with Ron, when he finally asked Ron to get together for beers to discuss the matter, it became stunningly apparent to Leonard that though they dismissed the whole fiasco as a ridiculous misunderstanding and for the most part talked about other things, something unimaginable had happened, for reasons he would never fully understand, his friend sitting across from him was no longer his friend and never would be again. It was towards the end of their conversation when the full reality of this hit him, when Ron regurgitated a statement which had obviously been programmed into his mind by Susie. It had to do with Leonard’s overall character, about how he had always tried to understand rather than blame. Ron said: “You know, Leonard, I always thought you were so strong, the way you are always able to forgive. But I don’t think that anymore. I don’t mean to offend you, but now, I actually think you’re pretty weak. Susie’s right, man, you’re always playing the victim.” Leonard simply nodded his head as he thought about the words and the many painful instances in the past which Ron was obviously referring to. Even when Leonard responded, he responded in kindness and understanding. He said, “Well, I can sort of see how you would think that.” But as time went on, Leonard found himself thinking more and more about those words, and for the first time in his life, he began to get angry, truly angry. Leonard’s eyes followed the kid as he tossed the pack of gum on the bar. “Thank you, sweety,” the bartender said. “No problem,” said the kid. And then the kid began slapping the pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand. Leonard used to do this too when he used to smoke. He felt it did make a slight difference in the way they smoked. But the kid just kept doing it, over and over again- SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK... Finally, the kid stopped. But then he turned the pack over and started doing it some more. Leonard had to look away. He chugged down the remainder of his beer and placed the empty bottle in front of him upon the bar.       

John Mayer May Very Well

‎"Are you fucking serious?" 

"It's fucking crazy, man, I know." 

"I mean, this is like Andy Kaufman shit! But better, WAY better!" 

"I know, I'm telling you, he's a fucking genius." 

"How'd you guys meet?"

"Um, well, I had this studio on 18th near the West Side Highway. He just walked in one day. He was the first person to buy one of my 911 pieces. He bought this one where I close in one of the windows on the north tower, you know, just before it collapses. You really had to get right up close to see it, but through the smoke and flames you can make out this person, this sort of ghost like figure walking by, eating a bagel or a doughnut maybe."

"I remember that one. So who's the person, the ghost?"

"People used to ask me that all the time. I'm really not sure. I painted John Wayne in there at first. But he didn't really work out. I painted him over with Elvis and then I painted over Elvis with James Dean. I put Ronald Reagan in there, Big Foot, fuckin’ Bugs Bunny. Nothing worked. I probably painted a hundred different images in there. The whole thing just seemed stupid and obvious."

"So who is it then?"

"Well, I was just about to say fuck it and toss the painting out, but then I went out to get coffee one day and as I’m walking, I see this homeless man with this big white Santa Clause beard. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. I mean, just piercing blue eyes. He was living in a box by that big building on 8th ave."

"You went all the way over to 8th for coffee?"

"Yeah, I liked that place over there, that muffin shop place."

"Oh, yeah, I know that place. Paradise Muffin or something?"

"Yeah, that’s it. There was this girl that used to work there. I would go all the way over there for coffee just to look at her. Anyway, this homeless man... I mean, you should've seen this guy. I walked by him just as he lifted his head and looked up at the sky. I had never in my life seen a face like that. I mean, it was like he was from another planet. I’m telling you, his eyes, they were fucking incredible, man. He looked possessed, like he was seeing God.”

“The person in that painting didn’t have a beard though.”

“No, he’s not the person in the painting. But I started talking to this guy. He was really nice. It turned out he was this college professor who just went nuts one day. He lost everything, his wife, his home, his job, his kids.”

“What happened? Did he tell you what happened, what it was?”

“He said he didn’t know. He just woke up one day and everything felt meaningless. He had no desire to do anything ever again. He just took off and never looked back. He didn’t even take his wallet.”

“So who’s the person in the painting?”

“Well, we were talking and he asked me what I did and I told him and then I told him about the problem I was having with my painting and he said he knew exactly who it should be in the painting. But he said he couldn’t tell me who it was and that he would have to be the one that painted it.”

“No way! He painted it? You let him paint it?”

“Yeah. He did a good job too, don’t ya think? I have no idea who it is. I tried to pay him but he wouldn’t take it. I never saw him again.”

“That’s fucking awesome! Holy shit! Oh, man. Okay, so back to John Mayer. Are you fucking serious? You’re telling me the whole thing, his whole career is just one big sham?”

“Yeah, man. He worked the whole thing. He’s actually a really cool guy.”

“So like all his songs, they’re just like...”

“His whole thing is to see how disgusted he can make himself feel about himself.”

“But he has a good voice, he’s pretty talented.”

“I know. It’s just fucking brilliant, right? I’ve never met a more committed nihilist.”

“Man, that is just crazy.”

Days Of A Fool

I'd been drunk for days, many many days. I was working on a story, a short story. Just a little exercise really. But the more I wrote, the more I felt needed to be written. The story grew, it grew and grew. 5 pages turned into 10, 10 to 20, 20 to 40. I realistically considered the fact that I might just be insane, that I had always been insane, only when your pictures appear in ads and magazines, people never think that you might very well be insane. You get away with it, is what I'm saying. But what the hell, what could you do about it anyway? All I knew was that the story would not cooperate. It had a life of its own. I felt it did not like me, that it didn't want me writing it. The agency sent me an email. I was still with the biggest agency in the fucking world. I had almost forgotten. It didn’t seem plausible. What was the world anyway? What was I? What was anything? I booked a job, that same Boston job. I hadn't worked in a while, a long while. The checks still came in when you weren't working. They mostly came in when you weren't working. It’s not a healthy thing. Nothing made sense, nothing ever makes sense. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked down at my gut. I grabbed it with both hands. The hole of my belly button went deep, deeper than ever. I remembered the scene in Poltergeist where Craig T. Nelson is standing in front of the mirror, doing the same thing. Shit, he was probably younger than me then. I used to climb rocks. I couldn't imagine climbing rocks. My brother came for a visit. We drank. I drank MUCH more than him, enough to make me worry. I took out the week's recycling. There were 2 plastic bins. I figured around 80-85 % were mine. I continued to worry. The sun was shinning. We went out in the backyard. It always astounds me that I have a backyard. I don't feel like I deserve a backyard. I showed my brother how I liked to toss Henry's yellow toy bat up in the air. I had gotten good at it, very good at it. I showed him how I could throw it behind my back. I showed him how I could flip it backwards, frontwards, under my legs. I seldom missed. I told him how it could replace everything, that I may never climb again. I tossed it as high as I could, maybe 25 feet in the air. We watched it twirl a good 15 or so rotations and I caught it with ease and simply tossed it again. He was impressed, he was sincerely impressed. I could tell, I knew my brother. Sarah rolled her eyes. I thought about writing a story about a man, a family man, who is so defeated, all he can do, all that makes sense to him anymore, is to toss his son's yellow plastic bat in the air. I drank and the job loomed. I decided that one day I would definitely write that story. "What a great fucking story!" I thought. "Very Raymond Carver right?" What would you call it though? The bat? Tossing the bat? Bat tossing? My brother left and then we found out we were pregnant. Part of me knew something was up. But that part of me was just as dumb as the other parts of me. I drank more, much more. I worried about the job and I worried about us and the new baby and what would come, but I kept drinking, writing and drinking, pretending that I was a writer and not the failure that I was. Then her parents came to visit. I drank with her dad. Her dad would go to sleep and I would drink with myself. One day we were out in the yard and I tried to show him how talented I was with the bat. I tossed it in the air and caught it. I looked for him but he had already walked away. I also walked in on him once in my writing room. He was standing there with his hands on his hips, looking around at the walls, at the thousands of brightly colored scribbles I'd written all over the walls. "Hey," I said. "Hey" he nodded as he walked away. We celebrated Sarah's birthday. It was a good visit and then they left. Henry was sad. I woke up and wrote more pages. I did a word count- over 19,000 words. I kept writing until Sarah yelled at me to stop. We talked about baby names and moving to Canada. That night I drank. I could tell Sarah was starting to worry. I had 2 days until the job. No doubt, I'd pushed it too far. But I always pushed it too far. The next day, I woke up and hiked the mountain. It felt good. I felt like I might actually be okay, slightly okay. I came home and then I turned around and hiked it again. I had one more day to get things together, to at least try to get things together. I was coming down the mountain when my phone lit up. It was an email from the new assistant at the agency: "Amtrak reservation for Philip Bram tonight." I wrote a frantic response: "WHAT????????!!!!!!!!!!!!! The ticket I have is for TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!" My agent called immediately. I was out of breath. "Bram, sorry. This job got all fucked up. We got the dates wrong. How soon can you be in the city? We have to get you to Boston ASAP!" So here I am on the train. I made it to Penn Station in time to catch the last train out. Do I have a beer? Yes. I've had 2, which will most likely become 3. Am I a fool? Yes. Yes, I am nothing but a fool. But tell me, is there anything more fitting for this world than a fool? No, I think not.

Birthday Dinner

We were the only ones there, the last ones there. Their babysitter had run late. All of a sudden, the entire staff was standing beside our booth. A sombrero was placed upon my head and I rolled my eyes and everyone started singing and clapping. The bus boy had a silver tooth and he was smacking some sort of Mexican tambourine high above his head. A shot of bad tequila appeared in front of me. Everyone clapped and smiled and sang and I shook my head and then shot the shot. I winced and then I sucked the lime and then tossed it into the little glass. Then the song was over and our waitress removed the hat from my head and they all walked away and resumed their closing work. We sipped what was left of our drinks and went back to our discussion about the endless suffering of our sick world. "What's the name of that company again?" asked my friend's wife. "Monsanto," I said. "God," she said, "it's just too far gone. There's no way to turn it around. If I didn't have kids, I'd just blow my head off." She then looked over at the wall, at some wooden art piece screwed to the wall. She was always saying things like this. You knew she meant it too. I always found it refreshing. We looked at her and then down at our drinks. My friend bit his lip and nodded as he picked at the label on his beer bottle. A few moments later, the check came and we all reached for it and we laughed.

Hey All You Beautiful Motherfuckers!

Let's fuck the skulls of our dead everything. The flower in the fist of our pain is all we have and all we will ever have. And we drag what little is left behind us. We drag it along by the dead hand of our love because we have no choice, because we have no other way. The bird turns its head and looks at you then looks away. The trees scream their leaves then they fall away. It all falls away. And when it is over, it will not have mattered because we will have gone back into what we came from forever. And it is beautiful, I tell you. It is goddamn beautiful!

Skeet Giddens

‎"Are you kidding me? I was hated by almost everyone. My own mother hated me. That's how you know you're on to something. It never changes. People never change. Energy may move over a bit from time to time. That's all. Musical chairs. That's life. But once you're hated, you're hated for life. There's no such thing as forgiveness. But these are things you're ready for. By the time it happens, it doesn't mean much. You've already left them anyway. I hear of someone's death now and it gives me no more pause than the mail. Another bill tossed in the box. It means nothing, no more than a toothache. And the more they hate me now the better. The less I have to talk the better. I look no one in the eye. They don't deserve it. Well, women are a whole nother thing though, right. I was a late bloomer. Ass is more astonishing to me than ever. I could look at ass for a hundred thousand years and be right back where I started. It's just wonderful. Endless fuel. I wouldn't have painted a thing without thinking of all the ass I would get." Skeet Giddens, 3/2/12