Monthly Archives: October 2012

The Unbearables Found Holylocks Jussst Right

Once upon a time, there was a little Jehovah’s Witness named Holylocks.

She had been wandering through the neighborhood, and stumbled upon a quaint suburban home, lined with a white picket fence and two Volkswagens parked in parallel perfectly on the parkway.

Walking towards the door of the house, she thought to herself, ‘Oh this is such a lovely home. I bet the family inside is nothing like the other families with whom I’ve tried to speak.’

Technically,
She was right.

For it was the home of the Unbearables.

There was Unbearable mama, who was only bearable on Percedex.
There was Unbearable papa, who was only bearable when Unbearable Mama was bearable.
And their Unbearable kid, who couldn’t bear them both.

Straightening her crisp white blouse and ironing over her beige polyester skirt, Holylocks rang the doorbell.

Unbearable Mama opened the door.

‘Hello, I’m here to bring you eternal happiness.’

‘Finally! I’ve sent thousands of emails asking you guys to start offering door to door service!’

Holylocks seemed confused. ‘But we already do?’

‘Well then, you should write that on the bottle.’

‘Bottle?’

Unbearable mama scoffed. ‘Grey Goose doesn’t come in a juice box.’ Her eyes shifted left, doubting the assertion of her statement. ‘Does it?’

‘I’m not from Grey Goose. I’m from Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

Unbearable mama gazed through Holylocks.’Oh yeah…Mary, my neighbor, insists you guys make the meanest scotch. I’m not really a scotch drinker, but hell, come on in…’

Holylocks entered the house. It was absolutely immaculate. Mahogany polished floors, large canvas windows framing the external green landscape and high classic ceilings ornamented in the foyer by a dangling crystal chandelier whose chassis mirrored the shape of the spiral staircase under it.

‘I’m so outta here.’ The voice had come from a top of the staircase, where Holylocks saw a short gangly girl garbed in black, lit up only by the florescent green of her spiky teased out hair.

It was Unbearable kid.

Grunge-ing down the stairs, Unbearable kid imprinted each cream carpeted step with the sole of her chunky black leather boots.

‘Who is this,’ she said interrogating Unbearable mama while inspecting Holylocks with her darting blue irises, which seemed to be suffocating between all the melting black eyeliner and eyeshadow.

‘You’re not going anywhere. I told you, you’re grounded.’

Unbearable kid continued to inspect Holylocks. She then turned around and climbed the steps, making freshly new boot imprints atop the old ones. ‘Bitch.’

Holylocks gasped, as she hadn’t realized the comment was directed at Unbearable mama.

‘Why don’t you go and practice throwing up. If you become good enough at it, Vogue might hire you.’ Percedex may have caused Unbearable mama’s tongue to trip, but its biting sarcasm was still impeccably coordinated.

‘Ah, I can come back another time.’

‘No, no, no… don’t mind her… why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I get us some glasses so we can crack open that bottle of Jehovah’s Witnesses of yours.’

Holylocks ignored Unbearable mama’s comment, assuming she was joking around with her, and sat on the plushly embroidered sofa in the adjacent living room. Just then she heard keys clanging against the door, struggling to penetrate the lock.

A tall man walked it.
It was Unbearable papa.

He didn’t notice Holylocks.

‘Hello, I’m Holylocks.’

Searching the air to determine where the voice came from, his eyes rolled towards the sofa and landed dead straight on Holylocks.

He must have been a doctor, Holylocks thought. He was examining her very intently.

She also must have thought him to be a gynecologist. His examination was of her upper chest cavity.

Then unbearable mama came back. Without waiting for the question, unbearable mama answered it.

‘She’s from the Jehovah’s Witness Company.’

Unbearable papa turned around and, as usual, ignored Unbearable mama’s unrequested reply, only interested to listen to questions he actually prompted. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘There’s a cyanide casserole in the fridge. Why don’t you go heat it up?’

‘Leftovers again?’

‘I don’t complain at night about getting leftovers after you’ve come back from fucking that bimbo slut…’

Unbearable papa strolled towards the kitchen, his voice carrying through the hallway, ‘Holylocks? Tell her God doesn’t like it when she calls her mother names.’

Unbearable mama screamed back, ‘Stepmother! She’s not my mother!’

Unbearable mama sat next to Holylocks and opened a small silver box. Holylocks’s face turned at the sight of all the rainbow of pills inside. Looking at Holylocks looking at the pills, Unbearable mama felt ashamed.

‘How rude of me. Would you like one?’

Holylocks cleared her throat. ‘No, thank you. If this is a bad time, I can come back.’

Unbearable papa came back. ‘Stay. We insist.’

Looking at Unbearable mama, he raised his eyebrows.

Unbearable mama looked at Holylocks. ‘Well she did bring the booze. That makes for the ambiance. But the abortion you wouldn’t let me have is still in her room…’

Holylocks looked at them both blankly and automatedly began her scripted speech. ‘Are you feeling lost? Unhappy? Do you feel like even though you have everything you want, something’s missing? Do you know what that something is?’

‘Yeah. The glasses. I forgot them in the kitchen.’ Unbearable mama got up to get them.

Holylocks reset her memory and turned to Unbearable papa, re-reciting her automated script again. ‘Are you feeling lost? Unhappy? Do you feel like-‘

‘You know what I feel like? Going upstairs.’

Holylocks lowered her head and gazed at the Persian rug, which she didn’t know was Persian, as she didn’t know a place called Persia even existed. ‘Oh… please stay and listen what I have to say, it isn’t going to take long. In fact, from what I’ve seen here, I am sure that God brought me to this very house because you are in great need of me showing Him to you.’

Unbearable mama came back in and set three short glasses on the coffee table.

‘Oh, I’ve seen God.’ Unbearable papa leaned in towards Holylocks.

‘You have?’

‘All the time. Upstairs.’ Standing up, Unbearable papa extended his hand to her.

Holylocks’s religious intuition rattled and she started to suspect Unbearable papa’s intentions.

‘We can show you God too. Upstairs.’

Holylocks felt a surge of internal relief, followed by a tsunami of guilt.

How terrible, she thought, for her to think Unbearable papa may have been making an indecent proposal, when he all he meant was for Holylocks to go upstairs with him and his wife so they could both show her God.

‘REALLY? REALLY? You have no idea how much it would mean to me!’ Holylocks jumped up and grabbed his hand, reaching out with her other hand for Unbearable mama to hold.

Clasping her hand, Unbearable mama, along with Holylocks and Unbearable papa, walked towards the staircase.

Holylocks stopped a few steps up and turned to them. ‘Have you shown your daughter God? She seems like she’s in awful need of seeing Him.’

Unbearable mama smiled. ‘That would be illegal.’

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I Wish I Was The First of Henry’s Six More…

Roahl Dahl, by far, has been the greatest literary influence in my life since the age of 6. As a children’s writer, he introduces kids to the adult world of complex themes and sober endings rather than happy endings, leaving the imaginary and ideal in the vehicles by which his characters travel, in the physique of their grotesque beauty and the worlds in which his stories take place.

One particular book of Dahl’s has stayed with me until this very day. ‘The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More,’ is comprised of 7 stories, all of which are more fantastically original than the next. If you have kids, you have to get this book for them to read- it is definitively the surest cure for ADD and all things PlayStation. If you don’t have kids, you have to read it- it is effectively the most comprehensive explanation to many of life’s unanswered questions.

Of the 7 stories, my favorite is: ‘The Boy Who Could Talk to Animals.’

This is perhaps the one thing I wish I could do the most.

The very first animal I would talk to would be a tarantula, if not for anything but the fact that I’ve got a severe case of arachnophobia. My bet is, as most ironies in life, its character is more flaccid than its appearance.

In fact, the average tarantula probably has a Woody Allen personality.

Me: Hey, tarantula.

Tarantula (eyes ping-pong anxiously left to right, right to left): Uh… you talking to me?

Me: Yeah, I just want to know, are you going to bite me? And if so why? Did I do something to bother you?

Tarantula (neurotic tone, waving around its front legs around the air in stupor): Bite you? Why? Why do people think I want to bite them? Hollywood really screwed us over… I mean one movie, and like over night, we’ve become the ‘El Qaeda’ of the animal kingdom…

Me: Yeah, but to be fair you guys are pretty scary…

Tarantula (pacing around with its to front legs clasped behind its back): Tarantulas can’t roar like lions, so God gave us ugly… its how we exercise self-preservation… take away our furry coat, awkwardly shaped body and small head with all these legs protruding out, 4 of which I still haven’t figured out how to use, and you humans would squash us like ants!

Me: Well, you are a lot bigger than ants…

Tarantula (stops pacing and buries his forehead in his right front leg): It’s our innately big cephalothorax- of course, having a Jewish mother, I’ve inherited quite a wide one… I mean, it isn’t enough my mother breastfed me til I was 15 days old- which wouldn’t be so twisted if tarantulas were actually breastfed. She had to give with her cephalothorax too. Seriously, I’m the only guy I know who has the birthing cephalothorax to lay 2 dozen eggs. Some days I wake up and have to remind myself I’m not a chicken.

Me: But you guys crawl so fast! And you approach us even when we run away!

Tarantula: No, no… half the time we just are asking for directions! I mean, come on, Lady! Our vision’s like zero! I mean I’ve hit more tarantula ass crawling around a jungle than I’ve hit in my marital web!

Me: So you really don’t want to bite me?

Tarantula: Bite you? I don’t even chew my food… We use our fangs just to inject this gooey stuff that liquifies the insides of insects… then all we do is suck the insides in through this straw stuck onto our mouths… I mean, seriously, when we’ve been created with 8 legs, you’d think God would have given us teeth instead of another pseudo-limb.

Me: I think I like you.

Tarantula: Oh, don’t ruin it… I liked you, and now you like me, which means something’s seriously wrong with you, and so if I like you, something’s even more seriously wrong with me…

Me: But I thought you wanted humans to not be scared of you and like you???

Tarantula: Of course I want you to like me, we all want to be liked… but who really wants anyone to actually follow through in liking us??

This is What Happens

This is what happens when the Daily Prompt isn’t so daily.

And I want to write about something, but my creativity doesn’t
avail me.

I look at my laptop, and looking back
at me,

Its just as keybored
As I am.

The only thing that’s having fun, is
my right foot
under the sun,
Coming through my window at
3pm.
Its Cairene, so
its
STRONG
even then.

My toes wiggle
My skin tingles
My nails are red.

So today,
I’m going to post
My foot.

This is what happens when the Daily Prompt isn’t so prompt.

 

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Milk

I love the morning in winter,
Roulade in my blanket, I un-roulade myself out.
And hold its wooly ends,
whining until it agrees to come to the kitchen with me,
So I can go drink my milk.

I love watching the milk tsunami
out
of
the
bottle.

And surf
into
its
reflection
off the
Stainless.
Deep.
Pan.

I love watching the gas stove flame up.
Stretching its blue and yellow fingers,
Pinching the pan’s ass,
Until it makes the milk mumble
in audible bubbles.

As it boils up.

I like how it

shhhhhhh-es

into my cup.

I like looking at the foam floating on top,
Parting in the middle,
Letting the velvet white sea swim up.

I like the first sip.

It’s sweet like sugar that’s huddled into grainy crystals,
That un-grain

in my mouth.

I like the last sip.

It’s less sweet,
its faded sugar
stone washed sugar
that’s a lot less passionate
that’s a lot more chilled out.

I love the morning in winter,
Because I love my milk.

I Was Going to be a Fashion Designer, So I Studied Political Theory in Grad School…

A couple of drawings of my design vision at 16… she got lost along the way and did ‘the right thing’, going to grad school…it feels funny looking back at them, but it feels good that I can still relate to that girl on some level.

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On Several Given Mondays II (Con’t of Same Entitled Post Published October 23rd)…

‘Yes.’

Cigarillo puff.

Cigarillo puff.

The cab driver got back into the car and star-…star-… star-…

Started it up.

Jerking into first gear, the car stuttered a few steps. She puffed on the last frail bits of her cigarillo, looking at him looking at her.

And that was that.

Slap a camera on the dashboard of the cab, and you instantaneously become producer of your very own Survivor show. Traffic was a death wish at any time of the day- too slow, and you risk being sideswiped by a jackass-driven cart of carrots, too fast and your obituary blurb will be clip on how you flipped on a pothole in the middle of what should be a new highway.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, she arrived.

The mall was a great way to multitask exchanging her boots and doing cardio. It was colossal and so going from one end to the other and back was a work out, since she never strolled, but malked.

She walked at the rhythm of a march, minus the posture of a march. Not stiff, nor coordinated. It was a Meg Ryan arm flail combined with a Hitler leg lunge. Extremely determined about it. But not committed to it.

She malked.

‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

The salesman was a human metal detector. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, x-raying the complexities of her personality.

By the dumbfounded dilation of his pupils, it seemed his scan detected a whole bunch of crazy amid a few other unrelated items that had no business being there or were just completely unidentifiable.

‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

She knew there was already crazy inside her. She knew there was a lot of unidentifiable goo too. She looked past his judgmental expression and carried on.

‘I said I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

‘Sorry, all I can do is exchange them, I can’t return them.’

‘Re-ally??? So I can’t exchange them? Hmmm. Do you think it’s possible then to just exchange them?.’

The human metal detector must have shorted a wire or two. His eyes now seemed broken and his scanner wasn’t picking up on her sarcasm.

He grabbed the bag while she malked around, looking for another pair of boots.

There were short boots, tall boots, loud boots, dull boots, hip boots, blingy boots, furry boots, leather boots and,

Tall-loud-furry-blingy-that-tried-to-be-hip boots.

There were red boots, blue boots, black boots, blacker boots with thin heels, thick heels, no heels, half-heels.

But there were no

Just, boots boots.

‘Hey, human metal detector?’

She really didn’t say that. She said, ‘Excuse me?’

He pivoted his axle ass and gazed at her.

‘Changed my mind. Can you just give me a new bag to put my boots in? The handle on the other one is about to rip.’

He pivoted his axle ass around again, and with an angularity you’d expect a human metal detector to motion, he mechanically extended his arm for a new bag.

I just bought a water bed, it’s filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So, why don’t we get drunk and screw

She felt the inside of her purse as she fished for her ringing mobile. Hooking onto a box of TicTacs, a lighter, a comb and a cigarillo that jumped ship of its pack, her hand finally caught hold of the phone.

Usually, she’d be willing to miss a call just to sing along with the ringtone, but the screen was anxiously flashing ‘work, work, work’. So, as Jimmy Buffet repeated his suggestion to ‘…get drunk and…’, she interrupted him to answer.

‘Yeah, I’m on my way to the café now. Yeah… yeah… sure. Yeah…yeah…sure. Great. I’ll email the evaluation by 7 today.’

She blindly grabbed the new bag with her old boots that were really new boots and malked as quickly as she could across the mall, to go hail a cab that would stop before she could hail it. Because,

Cairo’s convenient like that.

Index finger circling right.

No left.

No right.

No left.

Restlessly deciding to listen to a song and then deciding not to, she endlessly confused her iPod the entire ride to the café.

Finally.

Lunch.

It was already a fantastic lunch, because it was free.

‘Good afternoon, would you like to hear the specials?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘The soup of the day is Creamy Crouton Asparagus. Our main course this afternoon is Citrus Salmon with a grapefruit marinade, next to a side of pesto fusilli pasta… and for dessert, Kalhua tiramisu.’

‘Is the Creamy Asparagus made with cream?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is it made with fresh asparagus?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Can you remove the croutons?’

‘Yes.’

‘And put parmesan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the salmon grilled?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can it be steamed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Replace the fusilli with artichokes?’

‘Yes.’

‘But with the fusilli’s pesto dressing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. I’ll have a Caesar salad, the Beef Burgundy Fillet, rare, and the Mixed Zucchini and Carrot Medley.’

‘Would you like anything else, Ma’am?’

‘Yes. If you would be so kind as to not piss in my salad for me being difficult.’

She didn’t really say that. She said, ‘No, thank you.’

The job of Mystery Shopper was perfect; she was getting paid to basically be her picky, precise, reinvent-the-dish, change-the-menu self. Overdoing her usual self this time, though, was part of this particular evaluation as per the café owner’s request. He or she wanted to know how eloquent his or her staff was in handling very fussy customers.

So far, the waiter did well. In her mind he did so well that she decided not to mention in the evaluation him forgetting to introduce himself, a blasphemous blunder by any standards of service.

Don’t seem so surprised. She’s not a total bitch.

She’s Bitchin-hood.

Bitchy to the arrogant, but never to the kind.

She wasn’t hungry, but as is the laws of nature once food is ordered and one is awaiting the food,

Without warning,

She went from Dr. Fickle,

To Mr. Hyde.

Mr. Hungry Hyde.

Fidget. Fidget.

Put the salt and pepper next to the ashtray, put the ashtray opposite the flower vase,

Shift the flower vase next to the salt and pepper.

Align the salad fork at an exact 90 degree angle perpendicular to the soup spoon,

Juxtapose the knife parallel to the salad fork and center the plate so…

Its circumference is equidistant from all silverware.

Light a cigarillo?

Light a cigarillo.

She grabbed her purse to fish them out and knocked over the boots bag.

She bobbed her head inside the bag as she picked it back up.

The left boot was missing!

The human metal detector was a twit!

There was no phone number printed on the shopping bag to call. She didn’t have a receipt to take the number from either. She couldn’t call information for the number because…

Cairo’s so not convenient like that.

Waving her hands in oscillation across the air, she got her waiter’s attention and he came malking over as fast as he could.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘I need to cancel my order.’

‘No problem ma’am.’

In theory, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make back to the cafe in time to have a late lunch and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 7.

In reality, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make it back in time to have a late dinner and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 11.

She was a very realistic girl.

So she did the realistic thing and headed for the door.

Just like a person never thinks of himself or herself in third person, Fate never thinks of itself as Fate. Like you and me, it walks around and does its thing.

To the String Theory subscribers, the human metal detector just forgot to put the left boot in the bag, and so she had get up from the café and go back to the mall to get the boot.

To those who know the Universe consciously conspires, the human metal detector was meant to forget to put the left boot in the bag so she would have to get up from the café at that exact moment and go back to the mall to get the boot.

Handbag over shoulder, boot bag in hand, she pushed the heavy glass door open, defying its hinges and the blatantly visible ‘pull’ sign hanging on it, with all her tricep-cular might.

Thank God for Ed Hardy lighters, right?

She succeeded.

It opened.

And it just missed hitting…

You guessed it.

Him’.

She didn’t believe in the String Theory.

Correction. She couldn’t believe in the String Theory. First, she’d have to be aware it existed.

He did believe in the String Theory.

He now doubted though it was what strung them together again for the second time today.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get a left boot.’

‘Need a lift?’

‘Is it a non-smoking lift?’

‘No. I still smoke.’

He opened her door. She did a Lady-Di-legs-together entrance. It was SO HARD for her to purposely coordinate, but she pulled it off.

He got in and leaned back into the black leather seat, smothering it until he adjusted himself into a position strategic enough to be able to scan the all of her.

But so not like the human metal detector.

He scanned her like you do a memory. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking for the many women she was to him for 2 years.

The temptress,

The mother, the best friend,

The worthy opponent, the daughter, the goof, the lady, the angel…

The Eve with the Apple.

…and

The little girl.

Who he had always loved the most.
The girl with whom he didn’t have to be a strong man.
The girl with whom he was,

The vulnerable boy.

The girl who rang true to the Van-Man.

She took,
like a woman.

She made love,
like a woman.

She ached,
like a woman.

But,

She

Broke.

Like.

a…

Little girl.

He remained quiet until he found every one of those women.

It took 12 seconds.

And they were all still there.

Leaning in towards her, letting the leather seat breathe again, his eyes smiled,

‘You’re looking good.’

Inside her, she squirmed a bit. No one had brought out those women, one by one, let alone all at once,

Except

him‘.

She resented that to no end.

They may have been within her.

But they were and would always be his women.

She resented that to no end.

‘I can just cab it and save you the embarrassment of admitting we haven’t driven off yet because you don’t know how to release the parking break.’

His eyes smirked.

Not at her sarcastic tone.
At her sarcasm.

Not because he found it funny.
Because that was her still in love with him.

He knew he had of explaining to do.
He knew he blindsided her.
He knew she was devastated.

But a tomato and street vendor named Yacoub would help him out.

How? Next Monday, you’ll find out…

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I Love, Therefore, I Laugh

Music…

It perhaps is the greatest understand-er of our emotional state.

Especially when it comes to luuuuuv.

Awwwww.

But over the years,
Through experience,
From under a whiskey bottle,
To over a skyscraper’s ledge,
We learn that
luuuuv.
Isn’t so
luuuvly.

That changes the meaning of luuuuv songs, and reality sets in:

Pink Floyd, ‘How I Wish You Were Here’
In our youth, translation: ‘I want to share this moment with you.’
In adulthood, translation: ‘God Damn it. Should have broken up with you after I had you hang these bloody curtains.’

Foreigner, ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’
Youth: ‘I’d give anything to experience real love.’
Adult: ‘It’s about time I consider a healthy relationship with someone relatively normal.’

Guns N’ Roses, ‘Don’t Cry’
Youth: ‘Baby, I can’t see you in pain.’
Adult: ‘Strap on a pair and stop whining.’

u2, ‘With or Without You’
Youth: ‘Our love is so intense it paralyzes me.’
Adult: ‘Look, I’m going to this party. You can come or not come. I’m still going.’

Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Under the Bridge’
Youth: ‘The depths of my love are deep.’
Adult: ‘Ideally, it would be great if you jumped and landed there.’

Eric Clapton, ‘Tears in Heaven’
Youth: ‘Nothing will change my love, not even death.’
Adult: ‘You really want to stick to that story? Really? Even God’s laughing so hard at it, He’s crying.’

Guns N’ Roses, ‘All We Need is Just a Little Patience’
Youth: ‘Let’s give it time. We can save this.’
Adult: ‘Hold it in and WAIT for me to get there too. Jackass.’

The Police, ‘Everything She Does is Magic’
Youth: ‘She is absolutely beyond any woman of my imagination.’
Adult: ‘I’m telling you, the chic made a Voodoo Doll of me and has plans, man.’

Kenny Loggins, ‘Meet Me Half Way’
Youth: ‘Let’s compromise so our love prevails.’
Adult: ‘Yeah, I don’t see why I have to U-turn to pick you up when you can just walk across the expressway.’

Righteous Brothers, ‘You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling’
Youth: ‘You don’t love me anymore.’
Adult: ‘I’ve got one word for you. Viagra.’