A Year With My Beard

Sophistication That Grows With Time

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 51: Terrence O'Malley- Little Squirrel In The Big City Part V

Terrence descended the long way down into the subway tunnel like a condemned man marching to the gallows. His resolve cracked just a bit more with each step taking him further from the bright light and safety of the New York day. Suddenly this honor bound mission of friendship seemed more ludicrous than ever before, and for the first time since leaving St Louis he seriously considered jumping ship. 

Why not? Just chuck the package in the nearest garbage bin and leave this whole God-awful mess far behind me. 

Standing there looking back up the stairs stuck at this precipice he realized that he was already all the way down to the subway platform amidst strange machines, stranger advertisements, and an implacable breeze dancing garbage all through the dark emptiness just ahead. In that moment it seemed much more ludicrous to have come so far only to turn back now. He took a deep breath and stole a final glance at the clear blue sky before turning back to the cold subway platform. The next thing he saw was a bag coming down over his head. The next thing he felt was blunt force trauma. 

He awoke several hours later with the bag still on his head sitting on a rickety wooden chair. He couldn't see anything, but felt like he was in the middle of a room. This couldn't be some store room or broom closet. It smelled of good liquor and lived-in cigars. There was something almost warm about this room. He thought he could even smell a fire. He was not alone in this room. He could feel eyes on him. He could hear the steady in-out breathing of two somebodies. Two large somebodies who ate well and stayed large as a necessity of business. One of which, he'd hazard a guess was more than a little experienced at coldcocking unsuspecting young fools unlucky enough to suddenly find themselves with a bag over their head. There was another somebody in the room. A somebody whose breathing was more labored. A somebody whose largeness had nothing to do with a necessity of business, but rather as a result of many comfortable twilight years. Terrence had a mean throbbing in his head as they awkwardly sat in silence and he wondered what was to become of him. 

Not too many squirrels dumb enough to come into my subway. Usually, we find some rumbrave jackass like you skulkin around- we throw ya in front of the next train that comes along. But you my fuzzy-tailed little friend, you had something mighty interesting in your coat.

Terrence heard a snap after which the bag was immediately pulled off his head. Sitting before him behind an ornate and impressive desk was a large rat made mean by many years of struggle, skirmish, and sacrifice. He wore spectacles which rode down at the end of his snout and a three-piece suit, coat off, sleeves rolled up. He had clearly done well for himself. There was in fact a fire warming the spacious office. On his ornate impressive desk was the object Terrence had had in his pocket, still wrapped like some last minute present not yet under the tree. Big Julie took his time lighting a fresh cigar as he looked Terrence up and down. 

So tell me, fuzzball. Where'd you get this? And what the hell are you doing down here?

Lionel gave it to me. Told me to come here and give it to you. 

And who am I?

You're Big Julie. I mean, you are, right?

Big Julie let our a big hefty laugh which slid immediately into a fit of coughing. This oddly enough reminded him of his cigar and he took a few more puffs as his lungs calmed down and he caught his breath.

Lionel, yeah. Decent enough squirrel. Good little smuggler. So, what? Somethin more important came up? Why am I sitting here looking at his goddamn errand boy? 

He's dead. Sir.

Dead? Lionel...dead?

Yes, sir. 

Big Julie ordered his goons out and waited until the door was closed firmly behind them before saying another word.

What did Lionel tell you?

He just said to get this to you. 

You could always count on him to finish the job. We grew up together. Right here in New York on 51st street. Used to always be runnin around, messin with tourists, playin marbles. Y'know, that kinda shit. 

He taught me all about trains. Saved my life.

Yeah. That sounds about right. He still riding the rails from coast to coast?

He is. Was. Sir?

Yeah.

May I ask, what happened between the two of you?

You gotta make choices in this life, son. This his blood? 

Yes, sir. 

Lousy. I'm sorry, old friend. 

Big Julie then carefully unwrapped the package keeping his eyes closed not wanting to see what lay waiting for him until he could face it completely. Finally, he looked down and immediately started weeping. The photo was taken many years ago. It showed a young trio of rodents smiling wide without a care in the world. It was Lionel, Julie, and one more Terrence could not recognize. She was a young beautiful opossum named Sarah. They both loved her dearly and though she never exactly picked either Julie or Lionel- the two of them always secretly believed she had chosen but would never speak of it to spare the other's feelings. The three of them remained the closest of friends throughout much of their childhood. But as Julie rose in the ranks of the rat underground, the danger to himself and his loved ones rose as well. It became more and more improper to be seen with creatures of another kind. Julie grew more and more distant and before too long, Lionel had come to the belief that he'd lost his friend forever.

After she died...that's when Lionel finally let me have it. Told me I'd lost sight of what was really important. Family, friends. That's when he left town. Found work here and there. Even with me. Hell, I thought this picture was long gone. Figures. Thank you, son. Thank you for this.

You're welcome, sir.   

Big Julie poured a drink for Terrence and they shared stories about Lionel. Julie of course had many more to share, but it did not matter. The differences of age and species melted away as they reminisced about the squirrel who had so profoundly touched their lives and was now gone. After many tall glasses were filled and emptied again, Big Julie gave Terrence a personal escort back to Penn Station where he boarded a train, waved good-bye to the east coast, and began his long journey to the other. He thought about all that had happened in the last week. Everyone he had met and all the times he'd very nearly wound up flattened, devoured, or, shived. As the train bustled along taking him further and further away from the cold he thought about all the hope and promise of the new year. He couldn't help but wonder just what adventure life had in store for him next. 

THE END

Thanks so much to everyone who's been with me on this wild ride of weekly writing assignments. It's been a blast but I'm very anxious to get back to my horribly neglected Netflix queue. I'm sure to post here again during 2014, but on a much more sporadic basis. For myself and of course Reginald Buford Brimley: Happy Fucking New Year!! Now go read something else! -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 50: Terrence O'Malley- Little Squirrel In The Big City Part IV

Terrence was happy as a clam though not well rested and quite a bit stiff as his train squeaked to a halt at Penn Station. Lionel's masterful tutelage served him very well on his twenty-six hour journey from Mound City to The Big Apple. His time was spent well fed and out of sight. Sleep however did not come so easy during his many miles across the country. His mind never seemed to quiet down enough for him to get a substantial amount of winks. There was too much buzz. Too many questions. Too much uncertainty in his constantly racing mind. He made the decision to unwrap the package placed in his hands as Lionel lay dying and immediately decided not to again many times over during the trip. This was his charge after all. A new but dear friendship had been cut short and left him with this mysterious item that was to be delivered post-haste. The wrapping still stained with Lionel's dried blood remained a constant reminder of just the kind of tough customers he was dealing with. After wrestling back and forth with the decision, he settled on the fact that he probably knew as much about this mess as he needed to and would just as soon not tempt fate by prying into something that wasn't meant for his eyes. Best case scenario: he'd find this Big Julie, drop off the package, and find someplace warm in this unfamiliar city to eat and rest before heading westward away from the cold. Away from turf wars and blood-soaked packages and death-bed promises and all the damn fool adventures he'd spent his quiet life avoiding. Cautiously sprinting passed the thousands of human people jammed into the station he wondered just how in holy hell he'd find this Big Julie. Was he even a squirrel? A rat? Had Lionel sent him off to New York City on a wink and a prayer to meet some fatass kill-for-pleasure psychotic gangster? He'd heard wild stories about this place. Everyone had. Most who ventured out to the first city never came back to tell the tale. Some said it was because the human people and therefore discarded food stuffs were plentiful. Others said fairy tales like that were just how weary families lulled themselves to sleep at night when months had gone by without so much as a postcard from a loved one who's made the long journey to the east coast. But like it or lump it, here he was. And he had a job to do. It was after about the third flight of stairs that he began to wonder if he'd ever see the outside. Was New York just a massive system of tunnels running underground forever into eternity? Finally, he slid into a revolving door and emerged into a bright and blistering cold windy morning. 

Ho. Lee. Shit.

After the thirty seconds or so it took Terrence to scurry down the station steps to the sidewalk he came to the conclusion that this had to be without a doubt the loudest goddamn place he'd ever been in his life. There were human people crawling over every inch of it. Taxis zooming this way and that honking as if in some beeping grudge match, shoes going clickity-clack along the concrete, rolling bags, dogs barking and yipping and pulling their human people along behind them, sirens coming from every conceivable direction every few seconds it seemed, all echoing off buildings that stretched from the city streets up and up into the clouds and completely out of sight. Terrence was stuck in a private moment of awe and wonder curious just how many ways there were to die on an average day in this city when he realized he had meandered right into the path of a stampede of human people. All of them moving with speed and determination, all of them with a cup of coffee or donut or bagel or dog leash in one hand, all of them staring into a smart phone firmly grasped in the other. What's more- none of them seemed to take any notice of Terrence at all. If they did, they simply stepped over him like a just-too-wide crack in the sidewalk. Several anxious and overly curious canines would occasionally stick their hulking wet snouts into whatever crevice of his body they found most appealing, but were quickly pulled along by leashes too busy and intent to concern themselves with why the dog had stopped in the first place. Since there didn't seem to be any immediate danger, he gave himself another moment or two to take it all in as this giant impossible city whizzed and throbbed and pulsed all around him. Suddenly, he felt something poking around his tail, a little too close to his rear-end for comfort. Before he could fully appraise the situation, his temper got the better of him.

Get your nose out of my fucking ass, Fido!!

The dog he punched in the nose was more surprised than hurt or angry. He turned his head to the side the way they do, stared at Terrence who was by this point very close to pissing himself and laughed very loudly. This was good considering this literal son of a bitch was gigantic enough to swallow him whole. While his human person thumb-typed something important enough to require all his attention, the dog sat right down on the sidewalk in front of Terrence. 

Not from around here. Are ya, mac?

No. I'm from Chicago. 

Chicago, yeah, Chicago. I know some folks back in Chicago. You know a dachshund named Paulie? Real squat little guy, always talkin up the Blackhawks. 

Sorry.

How bout Terry? I think he's a mutt a' some kind, but then who isn't? Am I right?

No. I don't really know many dogs. 

What? You gotta problem with dogs a' somethin? 

No. No-no-no-no, not at all.

Ahhh! Don't worry, pal. I'm just jerkin ya chain. So, what brings ya out? Don't mind me if I lick my balls while ya talk. I'm still listenin. So, what? You here for Christmas, or what?

Well, no-

Oh, shit. You Jewish? You're probably Jewish. Shit. I tell ya this city has got some a' the best Chinese food- bar none. Just better hope they didn't stick my brudda in the chop suey! Am I right? Ah, shit- I'm just jerkin ya chain. So, what? You visitin family or what is it?

Something like that.

Well, where ya headin? Do ya know?

I'm looking for someone. 

Well hop on, mac. We'll see what we can't do for ya. And in light of this festive season of givin and what-not, this one's on the house.

What, you usually charge for this?

Charge for it? Hell, it's my business. How else you expect to get around a city this big? Goddamn rats own the subway. Ain't safe for a squirrel down there. I hate rats. Filthy fuckin animals. If a squirrel needs a ride someplace- ya just hop on a dog. Might take a few transfers but we'll get ya there. 

But how do you- I mean, I haven't even told you who I'm looking for. 

Ain't no worry, pal. I'm people who knows people. 

Well, thanks. I'm Terrence. 

Yeah, yeah. Nice to meetcha. Now hop on already, my human person's finally out of the cloud. 

Terrence scampered onto the dog's back as quick as he could and they began a nice leisurely trot down the sidewalk. 

Thanks again. By the way- I never got your name. 

Ah, right. Where are my goddamn manners? Name's Cooper. And if you ever need a lift, just give that tail a' yours a wag. Know what I mean?

Not really.

Ha-ha! You're alright, Terrence. 

Cooper then let loose with a boisterous guffaw which stayed with them petering into occasional chuckles as they marched further down the sidewalk. His laughter gave the impression of some inside joke Terrence was completely missing, though it seemed just as likely that Cooper suffered from a massive drinking problem. During the ride, Terrence filled Cooper in on his previous forty-eight hours, which brought with it its own shock when he realized all that had happened in just two days. He told him about Chicago and his dumpster. Murray and his nephew. Lionel and his near death experience on the Amtrak train. He told him about the great St. Louis turf war between the rats and squirrels. Cooper was quite pleased to hear of the squirrel victory. Not that he was particularly impassioned or interested in this mighty blood-feud. It was the kind of casual support one gives a favorite football team. Still, Terrence was relieved to have such a large powerful creature sitting on his side of the fence, whatever the reason. He told of the bar on the riverfront, and the three mysterious rats who attacked and killed Lionel. Finally, without too much flourish or preamble- he got to the point. 

Do you happen to know a rodent named Big Julie?

Big Julie, huh?

Yeah. I don't know what this thing is, but Lionel made me promise to come here and get it to Big Julie. 

Only one Big Julie I know of in this city, mac. And if ya lookin for an audience with that terrifyin rat bastard- you had better come correct. 

Cooper proceeded to inform Terrence about a young tough many years ago who rose very quickly in the rodent underground. He was the first to organize the separate warring rat factions throughout the city and unite them under his swift militant rule. Inside of six years, the subways in every burrow of the city belonged to the rats. They even had their run of the Staten Island Ferry. There wasn't a single one of them who wouldn't fight and die on Big Julie's order. The underground trains were all but off limits. Every squirrel in the city knew as much and kept their distance. Any trespassers caught in the wrong place at the wrong time would suffer the uncompromising wrath of Big Julie. Terrence suddenly had to give extra attention to his sphincter muscles to avoid losing control of them. 

Hell of a guy to be bringin a message to. Hey. What if it's bad news?

The ride got ominously quiet as they rounded a corner. Cooper told him he'd have to be heading in soon but could drop him at a nearby subway entrance. 

But once I'm in the tunnel, how do I find Big Julie?

I wouldn't worry about that, Terrence. From what I hear- he'll find you. 

With a sharp turn and a wag of his behind Cooper dropped Terrence at the top of a long set of stairs heading deep underground. 

Good luck to ya, mac. And Merry Christmas. 

Terrence took one final look at the sun and sky and street above as Cooper got smaller and smaller in his vision. No one left to see. Nowhere left to go. Terrence took that first hefty step down following it up with another and another, breathing easy and trying to focus on how each subsequent step was just a little bit easier than the last. 

To be concluded...

Okay! Look, I know I said that this was gonna be the last one. But Part IV just got so fat so fast. I promise Part V will be written, typed, and posted by this weekend. Happy New Year everyone! -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 49: Terrence O'Malley- Little Squirrel In The Big City Part III

Terrence and Lionel skipped and scampered along the riverfront for some time after their ceremonious departure from the screaming clusterfuck at Gateway Station. While Terrence was taking in the good sea air and trying to capture that Twain-Esq grandeur, Lionel kept retelling his version of what had just happened, always making new less subtle exaggerations each time. 

And you- and you shoulda seen your face! You were like- Buhhhh! And I don't blame you, son! I'dve like to shit my tail if that whale was comin down on me! She musta been seven hundred pounds!

I don't think it was that much.

I don't think it was human! Hey, by the way: How are your earholes? 

He kept giggling more and more with each rendition, and Terrence could not help the awkward sense of pride he felt coursing through his veins. The night and sky and city being what they are it was already getting late before Terrence found himself plagued by some very basic questions. 

Where were they going?

Didn't Lionel say he had some great plan or idea?

Where would he sleep tonight?

Where were they going?

Will there be food there?

Should he eat now?

And, oh yeah-

Where are we going?

Not too much further. I think you'll dig this place. I used to tend bar there. 

Minutes later they were knocking (rather Lionel was knocking, Terrence was standing) at a small door expertly constructed at the base of a very large dumpster. A Judas Hole slid back to reveal a piercing pair of peepers which clicked into high beams when they saw Lionel. The hole closed with a harsh slide and after a very heavy lock was removed the door sprang open. A large squirrel with an even larger smile wrapped Lionel in a hug which very nearly swallowed him whole. The old friends caught up as Terrence took in the swelling scene around him. There was music booming throughout the dumpster as squirrels of all shapes and sizes danced and jigged and bopped to a fantastic beat coming from Terrence knew not where. There was a corner bar being operated by a no nonsense squirrel with no fur on his forearms. He was running the raucous three ring circus solo with both poise and aplomb. Terrence found himself stumbling about one step at a time as his eyes wandered about the room quite freely. He saw squirrels dancing, talking, drinking. He saw squirrels playing cards and smoking. Squirrels sitting at the bar shouting at each other, singing songs he'd never heard, punching each other and hugging as they howled with laughter and ordered another round. He bumped into at least three squirrels on the dance floor who gave him a snotty scowl, reassuring grin, and sausey wink respectively before he finally anchored himself to the bar.

What'll it be, hmmm?

What in the name of Assington Jones is this place?!

First time here?

It is, yeah.

Well, hey- welcome to the party, brother. Always nice to see a little fresh blood. What can I do you for?

Something strong.

As Terrence sipped, the bartender with no fur on his forearms told him all about the gang war that went down between the various scrappy squirrel factions and the ruthless rat population of St. Louis. After many vicious street brawls leaving many a rodent slaughtered and left to rot- the squirrels had prevailed and won the rights to St. Louis proper while all rats in the city had to reside in East St. Louis according to the terms of the shaky truce. It had held for years and the squirrels of Mound City had prospered. And this establishment had even been the setting for the final negotiations and signing of treaties. 

And that's why we named the place- Lionel! I know you're not behind my bar.

Now, now, son. These folks look mighty thirsty. You go and forget everything I taught you?

The crowd at the bar got gravely quiet as the bartender with no fur on his forearms stared Lionel down. A moment crawled by as they stood there like two desperadoes about the draw in the thoroughfare. Suddenly, one of them spoke. Terrence couldn't make out which one.

Go.

What followed could only be described as a cacophony of shouted orders, splashing ice, and clanging glasses. They were each of them taking as many drink orders as they could hope to manage in some ridiculous elbow bending pissing contest. Squirrels all throughout the bar were cheering, clapping, and placing bets on the counter as liquor flowed, shakers were shaken, and bottles quite literally flew through the air. Terrence did the only thing he could- he ordered three drinks from Lionel and chanted his name like mad as he edged ahead in the race. It became quite clear that neither one of them would tire anytime soon and as drink after drink came flying down the bar, the crowd got more and more rowdy slamming empty glasses to the beat of the music and singing praises of celebration and joy for the two master mixers taking each and every spectator to school. It was truly a sight to behold. The commotion died down not long after Lionel whipped his towel to the floor in a shameful flourish and bowed deeply to his former protege. After the mighty howl that erupted- the assembled masses dissipated back to their former distractions and Lionel settled into a barstool next to Terrence slowly sipping some much needed rye.

So. You used to work here?

Days of my youth. Back when I looked around less and slept easier at night.

Or day.

Sure. Whatever.

He slipped into a kind of sad silence and sipped his rye with busy eyes and an occasional smile. They sat like that and drank a while longer until Lionel finally slapped Terrence on the back and gave a simple,

Bout that time.

It was near close anyway, he said, and they needed to be saddling up. He threw some bills down on the bar and wrapped the bartender with no fur on his forearms into a big hug.

You don't be a stranger now, Lionel. It's been too long.

It always is, old friend. Til next time.

He led Terrence out of the bar and that was that. The 1am to New York was waiting back at Gateway, but only until those magic words were uttered: All Aboard. Apparently, Lionel had some business in the Big Apple, but promised to help Terrence find a westbound train to hop on. Maybe one heading nonstop to California so he wouldn't have to bother with a transfer. It was on the platform and before any kind of goodbye could be managed when suddenly and without warning three well dressed shady looking rats crossed the platform seemingly from nowhere. They were headed straight for Terrence and Lionel. 

Lionel, Lionel, Lionel, where you been, buddy? I been worried.

Just about to hop the train and meet that guy for ya.

That's not the answer I want, buddy. Who's your friend?

Look Dmitri, I was on my way to meet the guy, and I got a little side-tracked. It's not my fault. 

Hey. Who said this is about blame? It's just business. Damn shame too. You used to be the best. 

The butterfly blade materialized almost out of thin air and vanished just as quickly into Lionel's belly. Out of instinct more than anything, Terrence shoved the extra muscle into the path of the oncoming 1am to New York just pulling into the station and smashing the goons into a bloody stew on the cold hard track. Wirth what must have been the resolve of a God, Lionel grabbed Dmitri, pulled the knife from his own belly and plunged it straight away into the throat of his attacker. The rat gasped for air, collapsed to the ground, and bled out in seconds. Meanwhile, Lionel's strength instantly left him and he tumbled to the pavement of the platform. Terrence tried to ease his fall, but like so many sacks of potatoes that had come before him, there was no slowing his rapid descent. As Lionel fell to the concrete gushing blood, he pulled something small, solid, and heavy from his coat, which he then forced into Terrence's hand. It was wrapped in newspaper already stained with fresh blood. Before Terrence could ask what the hell had just been shoved into his hand, Lionel grabbed him and held him close.

Get your ass to New York. Find Big Julie. Make sure he gets that. Promise me.

Okay. Sure, I promise. 

Take er easy, kid. Keep your head do-

His final breath sputtered out with a soft choked off moan as his large brown eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids closed for the last time. With no time left for farewell, Terrence hopped aboard the 1am to New York. His journey west would have to wait. He didn't know exactly how far it was from St. Louis to New York, but as the train pulled out of the station he reflected on how little that mattered. He'd find out soon enough. Too many other questions were spinning in his mind. 

What was Lionel doing working with the rats?

Who is Big Julie?

And what the hell is this thing I'm bringing him?

As the train began to reach its cruising speed and Terrence began to curl up for some much needed rest, he reflected once more on how little it all mattered. He'd find out soon enough. 

To be concluded... -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 48: Terrence O'Malley- Little Squirrel In The Big City Part II

This life don't owe you nothin.  

It had taken some doing, but Terrence had managed quite well at Union Station. After wriggling his way into prime jumping position, he selected the nearest train heading toward the setting sun and hopped aboard. There wasn't much on top of the train to hold onto, but he scurried about just the same and found a large crack he could dig his digits into and held on for dear life as the train picked up speed. The bullet continued down the track passing highways and factories faster and faster, the wind flying through his fur and whipping his tail into a frenzy like some strange fuzzy flag that never quite straightened out. He came to the conclusion very quickly that he wouldn't be able to keep this up for long. Certainly not for the whole trip. He began racking his brain for an answer to this exponentially distressing dilemma. Sadly, no answers came. Only more wind, less daylight and an increasingly stabbing and pronounced pain in his fingers which were the only thing keeping him from being carried away and subsequently dropped flat dead on the unforgiving track below. Even over the racket of the train engine itself and the general noise that comes with riding atop a giant hunk of metal moving at 79 MPH, he still heard the voice. It was as plain as day. For all Terrence knew- it was the voice of God.

Boy, you gotta be out-chore damn mind! Get your dumbass down here before you git yourself killed!

It was not the voice of God. Lionel was a Drift-Squirrel, though he'd never much cared for that nomenclature. He considered himself more a kind of vagabond prince of the railways. He'd ridden and lived on all manner of trains rolling from one coast to another and back again stopping only briefly where it suited him and moving on again when the mood struck him. He must have been nearly twice Terrence's age, but you'd never know it to look at him. This constant traveler had all the energy and whimsy of a small child keeping his home-spun wisdom close to his chest saving the pearls for those special moments of conversation where such a thing was a welcome stimulant as opposed to a derailing snag. 

Just what in the Sam Hill did you think you were doin?

I guess I'm a little new to train travel. 

You ain't lying there, son! You're damn lucky you didn't get thrown.

Another few minutes and I would have been. 

They were nestled safe and sound in a secluded section of a baggage car in the rear. Lionel procured them some dinner from the poorly guarded cafe car and proceeded to share with Terrence all the things he had learned about trains over all the years he'd been traversing all the miles of track he'd traversed. The safe places to hide and sleep. The areas to always avoid. The places you could always find unattended food. Terrence tried to offer Lionel some of the meager portions he'd brought with him but Lionel flat out refused. 

Plenty to eat right here. Besides, you're gonna need that soon enough.

Thanks. I owe you.

You don't owe me nothin. Just like this life don't owe you nothin. Where you plannin on gettin off anyhow? 

Hadn't really thought that far in advance. 

What, you runnin away from somethin?

Yeah. The cold. 

I hear that. Birds get to fly south for the winter. We gotta get a bit more creative. 

I'll say.

So you just got no destination at all?

West. That's all I planned. Just tryin to get away from the cold. 

West, huh? That's a lotta track to cover. Hell, you shoulda gone south. Much faster. 

I wasn't exactly thinkin about speed. 

Well, you'd better start think about the next step. This train's stoppin in St. Louis. 

St. Louis? Is it warm there?

Hardly. You ever been?

I've never been outside Chicago.

Well shit, son. You're in for a treat.

Terrence wanted to ask what he meant by that but decided since Lionel chose not to elaborate- he wouldn't press him for an explanation. Not long after they'd finished eating, Terrence fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

Lionel gently nudged him awake several hours later as their train pulled into Gateway Station which also doubled as a Greyhound hub. Dusk was just settling in as he saw both the Mighty Mississippi and the St. Louis Arch for the first time. Looking at these mammoths of existence against the glowing backdrop of the slowly sinking blood red sun was nothing short of majestic. He didn't speak for several moments. Lionel didn't seem to mind. The train then slowed to a stop and snapped into place as the human-people passengers all simultaneously grabbed their parcels and coats and uneaten prepackaged snack foods and stood up to begin their slow clumsy migration to the exit.

Okay. Get back with me, now. This is the tricky part.

With that Lionel was off like a shot darting about beneath the seats, through the ankles, and under the footfalls of every human-person inside the train. Not a one of them seemed to notice. Perhaps too preoccupied with their various bits of luggage, perhaps he was just that good. It didn't really matter. On he ran without a single human-person passenger catching wise to the crafty fuzzy bastard about to beat them all to the exit. Terrence had to shake himself out of the stupefied paralysis that gripped him as Lionel was damn near already off the train. He felt quite silly as he scurried through the train car and about the human-people passengers mirroring Lionel's flight path as best he could. It was ridiculous freezing up like that, but he'd never indeed seen this kind of thing before. A squirrel deftly darting in and out and all about a herd of wild human-people all moving at once in a tiny space. It was a wonder he wasn't crushed before passing the emergency exit, or the garbage boxes for that matter. Terrence was mere steps from the exit when he saw the expression on Lionel's face abruptly change. Being the first one out, Lionel was in a prime position to see the giant human-person barreling down on poor Terrence. She looked to be about a 300 pounder with a permanent scowl, pale skin, and lime green Bermuda shorts. Terrence looked up just in time to see her foot coming down, down, down about to smash the life out of his little body. Not to mention his blood and organs. He would most certainly be needing those before this adventure was over with. He suddenly sprang with all his hind legs would give and cleared the giant stinky meat sack landing zone without a second to spare. He and Lionel shared a brief chuckle just before the large pale human-person brought her other foot down right on Terrence's tail. 

FUCK!! Fuck my earholes!!

Oh my God! It's a rat! 

It was at this precise moment that a panic ensued. The woman in the lime green Bermuda shorts ran with her stinky meat sack feet head first into a locked bathroom door. Four babies started crying, two others were throuwing up. One man was climbing over seats and shoving children from his path with all his strength, while another had smashed the emergency exit window and was crawling out while weeping uncontrollably. The luggage which had once seemed so important was now abandoned in the name of escape from what had become a catastrophically violent crisis. Terrence, now safely off the train was watching the pandemonium with a silent awe tempered only by the more than moderate pain in his tail. Lionel meanwhile, could not stop laughing. 

Man, you'da thought this was a mutha fuckin shopping mall at Christmas!

After they'd had their fill of the obnoxious spectacle that is humanity, they made their way down a street just near the riverfront. He was still cold, but Terrence was very aware of a certain overbearing weight that had somehow been lifted. He was sure of only one thing as he strolled through these new city streets: he was ready for just about anything. 

Hell, if you think making the human-people riot is a good time- I gotta great idea.

To be continued... -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 47: Terrence O'Malley- Little Squirrel In The Big City

Winter's coming.

What's that?

Terrence didn't recognize the voice but that wasn't reason enough to take his attention away from his search. He'd fought hard for rights to this dumpster and there was work to do. This particular receptacle always had something good and with the cold time fast approaching he had precious little time to collect enough food to last. Too many squirrels year after year didn't adequately prepare for the cold time and soon found themselves starved, squashed, or frozen. Terrence had no intention of being added to that list any time soon. 

I said, winter's coming. 

There was that damn voice again. Strangers didn't usually linger in this alley, or any other for that matter. Chicago was a rough city for a squirrel. Between the traffic, the lack of trees, and the constant competition with a staggeringly large rat population- life in and of itself was a privilege, not a right. And during these hard frigid months it became a merciless elimination challenge. He continued to search and add to his budding collection as he spoke to the unfamiliar voice. 

Who's Winter?

You mean, what's winter. 

This was already becoming tedious. He tore himself away from the bundles of discarded food wrappings and styrofoam take out boxes to address the persistent chatterbox.   

Fine. What's winter? And who the hell are you?

No one special. Murray's nephew. 

That made sense. Murray occupied the second dumpster down from Terrence. He was also a talkative jackass who never engaged you in conversation so much as just scurried into earshot and start yammering some half finished thought as if picking up mid sentence from a previous chat which had to be prematurely cut off, but which you yourself could never remember taking place. Maybe it was a family trait. Murray was getting old. This could very well be his last year in the alley. This notion didn't hurt Terrence as much as the notion of enduring the friendship of a younger more energetic version of the old bastard. 

Winter's what we call the cold time back west. It's what the human-people call it.

It takes a special kind of idiot to imitate the human-people.

I guess.

How far west?

Pretty far. Out west the winter isn't nearly so bad as it is here. Some years it barely gets cold at all. 

That sounds nice.

It is. But Uncle Murray isn't doing so well these days. I'm trying to help out. We don't have much family left around.

This your first cold time in Chicago?

Sure is. Uncle Murray says I'm in for one brutally rude awakening.

And how.

They're fucked, Terrence thought. They'll never make it through to the warm time. Never collect enough food to last them both. The one's experience and the other's energy wouldn't be enough to coordinate their fractured efforts and carry one another to the other side of this. If one was to survive, it would most likely be on the other's carcass. Gruesome, but he'd seen it many times before. Family's family, but a meal is a meal. Given certain circumstances, you sometimes needed one more than the other. While he had no deep love in his heart for Murray or his dimwitted young nephew, he was greatly disturbed by the mental images of avunculicidal cannibalism that flooded the walls of his mind. He returned to his search. He had wanted to give the young squirrel a word of advice.

He wanted to tell him: Collect more than you think you'll need. No matter how much you manage to pack away, no matter how much you abstain and pace and ration you'll always run out. It will always be too early. It will always come at the worst possible time when you're convinced you won't possibly last. And that when the warm time comes again you'll be nothing more than a slowly thawing squirrelsicle. 

He wanted to tell him: It may be a bit safer and a shit-ton smarter to collect your uncle and high tail it out of town. Just keep moving until you reach a warm place and make a new home. The chances though slim certainly seemed better. 

He wanted to tell him these things. Instead, he simply grunted and muttered something like, you two take it easy. It was at this moment as the young squirrel was scampering away that he uttered the words which would set Terrence on the most memorable adventure of his life. 

If it were up to me, I'd just head west. 

West, huh?

Oh, yeah. They say you head out west and you'll never be cold again.

Terrence had never considered such a notion. Never be cold again? Did such a place exist? And if so, did he have the wherewithal to find it? As he considered this, Terrence felt a snap from deep within himself that he could not explain, but something had most definitely changed. The squirrel who always prepared and never took a chance tasted possibility for the first time in his life. And he liked it. An adventure most definitely sounded like more fun than rooting through the same dumpster in the freezing cold just like the year previous and the one before that and on and on past the point of memory. Then Terrence did something else he'd never done before. Something very brash and impulsive. Terrence decided to leave home. He would leave the cozy little dumpster in the mostly quiet little alley which had housed him all his days, and go seek this so-called warm and wonderful west. He collected as much food as he could carry and set about booking passage. The accommodations would hardly be lucrative on such short notice nor on his even shorter budget, but he would simply have to make the best of it. The cold time waited for no one. If he was going to take this chance, it needed to be now.

That night, on his way out of the alley he stopped by Murray's dumpster and pitched all the food he'd collected thus far but could not carry into the bin. Someone should have it, he thought. I just hope the dumb schmucks are smart enough to find it before they start eating each other. Terrence knew of only one place a poor destitute rodent like himself could book passage west in the city of Chicago. He headed straight for Union Station. With any luck there'd be an Amtrak waiting to shoot Terrence across the country wherever he'd care to go. And how hard could it be to pick the right one? The human-people do it every day. 

To be continued... -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 46: Notes On A Kansas City Turkey Week

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

It was just passed 10:20pm central standard time when the #3 Amtrak with nonstop service to Kansas City pulled into Union Station. Due to an abundance of communication I was met by a larger than necessary welcome wagon which included my mother, her husband, my brother, my sister, her fiance, and some tall Jewish kid whose name I didn't bother to remember- but he was a very sweet boy with a scruffy chin who'd forgotten his wallet and state liquor laws being what they are we soon found ourselves 86'd from the first establishment we stopped at. This may have also been because of how enraged he became upon realizing his wallet was missing. Of course there would be no drink for him tonight. He wasn't the only Jew in this manic party, and sweet boy or not I sure as hell wasn't buying him a drink. After smashing a bottle into the face of the nearest barmaid, we were politely asked to leave and seek out a watering hole with a less strict adherence to the codes of public decency. Thank God. This was Kansas City. The land of wide hips and bottomless fries. Boulevard Wheat and fifty cent wings. In a matter of minutes we were inside a shabbier, roomier, much more charming dive. The bartender was a bleached blonde beauty who stood like a mis-made hourglass in distressed jeans and red corset to accentuate her less than impressive rack and couldn't seem to tell me what whiskey she had behind the bar. After suggesting SoCo, Petrton, or maybe Jack Daniels I decided to just pick something before she hurt herself. Though I'd never tried it before, the holiday as well as the unmistakable 101 on the bottle made my choice as plain as the nose on that Jew-kid's face. 

Wild Turkey.

After a loud feisty game of Apples To Apples, another couple Turkeys, and some very decent wings we decided to make our exit. The rest of the crowd seemed relieved. Of course this was no ordinary game of Apples To Apples. Blood was spilled and the shouting was constant. We paid our tab, tipped generously, and proceeded to book it. The ending to the muted sequel to Austin Powers would have to go unwatched. Before I knew it I was rolled, smoked, and kayed out on my sister's couch. 

Live music, it would seem follows my family around like the clap because later that night we were at it again. After a depressingly sloppy family pool tournament, the kids (as I can think of no other way to describe ourselves) hit the bricks downtown once again to The Green Lady Lounge. Many a night have we sat in the comfy red booths of Green Lady sipping their signiture drink of whiskey, ginger beer, and lime: The Horsefeather. But tonight for the first time we headed straight for the basement passed the poor oafs just inside the front door who didn't know what they were missing. Down into the bowels of the spacious basement with its much smaller bar and wider seating area. The same deep red walls Green Lady has upstairs, it includes a small stage by the stairs as you come down. We were attending a top secret concert with just two hundred or so of the band's nearest and dearest. Or something like that. They played samba or mambo or some kind of badass that I couldn't quite put my finger on. One too many Horsefeathers went down as I tried to figure just what the pianist had done to his head. It seems like every time I see this joker he's added more rings, more rolled sleeves, and more just plain ridiculous to his ensemble. I was trying to work out just what he'd done to his dome this time (it was somewhere between a mohawk and A Flock of Seagulls) when the crowd closed in and I couldn't see a single thing happening on stage. I was watching people dance, drink, and converse as the beat called for more and all the while that same joker was tickling those ivories at a pace so freakish that half the crowd would be hitting him up for cocaine before the end of the show. The day and drink had more than done their duty and I was fading fast. Slipping in and out of sleep as the party swirled around me. Never leaving my chair with this constant energy and action was both sexy and surreal. It was at about this moment I saw a voluptuous body darting from table to table with both poise and focus. The only server it seemed down here for this raucous crowd in this suddenly not so spacious basement. She dispensed drinks with a wink and a smile all but squeezed into a tiny black dress whose cut in front left little to the imagination. I wanted to chat her up. I wanted to ask her about her goals and dreams. Her life outside this loud and lively place. I wanted to ask if she had any family. If her father might be willing to meet with me. Tonight if possible. I'd make her a very good husband. And if I ever caused her heartache or sorrow he was free to shoot me. It is only proper. It is our way.

Holy shit! Where did that come from? Was this just Wild Turkey, or was it Kansas City? I didn't stick around to find out. Making the fastest and earliest exit possible it was still after three in the morning before sacking out at my sister's place on the couch. One cat snuggling in my lap trying to gain my confidence so it could betray me the moment I let my guard down, the other monitoring from afar for weaknesses it could exploit and use to destroy me as I slumbered. Perhaps they were in cahoots, perhaps not. The only thing I could be sure of was that they wanted my demise. I can only attribute my living through the night to some argument between them as to the best way to divide my carcass. 

Turkey Day dinner came and went with all the subtlety of a Gatling gun. True we didn't rape or slaughter a village of brown people but upheld tradition all the same. Glass of wine, white meat, dark meat, all the casseroles, every kind of potato, and loud conversation which seemingly came from nowhere and had no logical destination whatsoever. The joy and inebriated cheer was somewhat spoiled by my grandmother's uncharacteristic absence from the table. She was needed in the other room to spoon feed Granddad as he bounced back and forth in his chair. About three quarters mad with dementia, his sweet side was bleeding through kissing hands and smiling at everyone who walked near him. Thin, frail, and mostly blind he's now incapable of getting up out of his chair, but constantly determined to do so. Why? We can only guess. It makes little difference since he always ends up on the floor, and an eighty-five year old woman with a bad hip isn't going to be the one to pick him up again. So the fire department have become regulars at her house helping the old softie back into his chair. She spent most of the afternoon trying to keep him still so we wouldn't have to bother the firemen on their Turkey Day. It was a lovely day all around. Nevertheless, the gravy train demanded another trip and before we knew it we were in the car passing a bowl and cruising out to WhoGivesAShit, Kansas and a bar called Quasimodo to see a kick ass combination of blues, whiskey, and rock. Three guitars, bass and drums, and a not-fuckin-around electric fiddle wheeled by a woman with a certain Janis Joplin quality. Her former husband, the Clone of Eric Clapton was jamming on the other side of the stage as these over fifty freaks of nature traded tunes for over three hours. In all that time not one of them phoned in a damn thing proving once again that age and treachery will always win over youth and beauty. It was a purely electric evening filled with bump, thump, shake, rattle, and roll. And more Wild Turkey. After who can remember how many, I was snug as a bug in a twin mattress sitting on the floor of my mother's attic.

I immediately awoke to issues. It was the god-damn clock. The clock in Chicago that was always ticking away and sounding the alarms of obligations and responsibility. The life I had left in the Windy City didn't stop and wait just because I was on vacation. I never fully recovered my fuzzy focus after that night at Quasimodo. I was doing the splits across a state and a half one foot in Chicago and the other in KC. Projects were moving and issues needed to be handled. Phone calls needed to be made and emails needed to be sent. And the text messages! My God, the text messages!! I finally had a short reprieve grabbing a very late breakfast with my old friend Walks. A fundamentally fantastic gentleman with the strangest collection of attributes imaginable. A chemist with a certain radical super-power I'd rather not name with degrees in botany, biochemistry, and African Women's Studies. A long time hockey player who once set a state record for most refs punched out in a single game. I believe he was seven at the time. We met at the White Horse Pub for eggs and beans and sausage and tomato and ham and mushroom and coffee. The only way to improve what was in front of me was to add a glass of whiskey. So I did just that. I was then encouraged by the barkeep to try Templeton Rye. This was a prohibition era whiskey which was allowed to stay in business because their particular rye just happened to be the personal favorite of Al Capone and the President of the United States. One smooth sip and I choose to believe every word. The food was divine, the conversation jumpy, and the drink long overdue. It had been months since I'd sat with Walks by a Taco Bell engulfed in flames roasting hot-dogs and discussing the wonders of the universe. He was doing well. Planning a wedding in the coming months. Inheriting a fatherhood he hadn't expected. Fixing up his house. We said our good-byes and the next couple days bounced along with just as much smoke, rye, and loved ones as could be expected- but I never really came back after Thursday night. I found myself restless. Driving the same highways again and again just like I'd driven all those years ago when this town was more of a prison than a memory. 

Bright and early Monday morning and I was on Amtrak's #4 with nonstop service to Chicago. Quick hugs were exchanged and a half finished coffee was chucked at a nearby trashcan as I ran along the platform terrified of being left behind. There was no danger. Except for the hysterical loon with three pieces of luggage stumbling down the stairs like some drunkard with Palsy. I was really missing that coffee when I finally got settled in. I made a mental note to pick up some Templeton Rye when I got back to town. That'll be something to look forward to. I always enjoy making new friends. -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 45: Why Do You Do What You Do?

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

The psychological community has often encountered patients with an overwhelming illogical fear or belief that they do not matter and are viewed as inconsequential by everyone around them, particularly friends and family. Urban Dictionary defines this as Middle Child Syndrome. Neither the oldest with the privilege and achievements nor the baby with the abundance of nurturing, the middle child must struggle to find an identity with which to exist within the family. 

Not too long ago I was in the middle of a very rewarding but very frustrating production. I was standing in the dressing room at intermission one day when I told a close friend in the show with me that I didn't know if I wanted to be an actor anymore. She immediately asked me why I wanted to be one in the first place. I didn't have an answer, and found myself instantly transported back to a class I'd taken seven years ago with the late great Marsha Hanna. Hell of a woman. Never without her Diet Pepsi and Virginia Slims, so eager and encouraging in the classroom, and an absolute delight to audition for. This particular morning she started class by asking each of us what it was we loved about acting and why we wanted to pursue it as a career. I watched her ask me, and I watched myself stumble and bumble something that in no way resembled a real answer. Like any addict I long ago accepted this need without cluttering my mind with the existential whys and wherefores and went about my business comfortable playing the broken record singing the praises of the tradition and nobility of the storyteller. The wonder and joy that comes with donning the mask, opening your heart to a fellow human being and giving them the greatest gift you can- the power to hurt you. And all this in front of an audience willingly suspending their disbelief, taking the journey with you, vicariously sharing your adventures. While all of this is true, it doesn't answer the original question: why?

After watching video of Taylor Mali giving his impassioned poem What Teachers Make and shedding many unexpected tears just before ten-o-clock this morning I realized my answer. Like any great epiphany it came to me in the shower. It's because I want to matter. Because I want to make a difference. And because without this work, without storytelling, without the emotional push and pull created by tension on stage shared with our sweetly silent spectators- I don't feel like I do. This could be a symptom of some deep seeded depression, or even Middle Child Syndrome, but whatever the cause I can't deny that I don't feel like I amount to much more than a minuscule pile of shit unless I'm doing a show. When I was growing up it was the people on stage and in films who knocked my eyeballs back and consistently redefined possibility. Storytellers matter. They make a difference. And sometimes I think it's the only thing I'm good for. If I go too long without a production to work on (even one that isn't very good) I find myself increasingly listless and logy. This is what I do. This is how I matter. And I think that's the why. Because the work gives my life meaning and purpose. It allows me to feel like I belong somewhere and am worth a damn. I'm not enough on my own. The work elevates me to that oh-so-unreachable place of worthiness. Worthy of the air in my lungs, the blood in my veins, and all the rest if the meat inside this useless undesirable suit of skin. Whether or not this is a factual reality is so diabolically unimportant. I feel it, so it's true. Without the work I am nothing. Is this what self-realization feels like? Cause I gotta say- this pretty much sucks. -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 44: 20,000 Leagues Under The Lake

A Note From The Desk Of Reginald Buford Brimley:

After a recent Blackhawks victory, cuisine of the greasy fried variety, and several short glasses of Captain, Mr. Newman and I took a very late night stroll along the beach. It was a brisk evening but the cold wind felt quite bracing as we meandered across the starlit sand, boots sinking a little deeper with each merry step. Mr. Newman was informing me about the much despised Coyotes of Phoenix. The rant was hard to follow which is a consistent problem with Mr. Newman even in his rare moments of sobriety. His hatred of these men from Arizona seemed to stem mostly from unconfirmed accusations such as playing dirty and being an absolute waste of helmets, sticks, and skates that nobody in the state of Arizona or even the country wanted to own.

You see ice anywhere else in Arizona? Fuck no! They don't care about hockey in Arizona! All they care about in Arizona is bringing down Mexicans and shooting Congresswomen in the face!

And what could you say to that? He then abruptly made it a point to explain that Mike Smith (the gentleman with Wile E Coyote on his helmet) was the only redeeming quality in the entire franchise. He was quite worked up at this point and somehow ran himself balls first into what I can only describe as a contraption. We later learned it was a steel wonder of underwater engineering designed to dive to the depths of the deepest ocean. How it washed up on the shore of Lake Michigan we could only guess. But that would have to wait. Everything was on hold as Mr. Newman cradled his aching swollen balls. 

After the moaning subsided, we examined the contraption and realized very quickly what it was because of my background in marine biology. I had studied machines like this one but had never seen anything quite like what sat before me. The steel and curvature of its outer shell was so archaic- like something out of a history book. But the inside had such an abundance of modern technology I could scarcely believe my eyes. This impossible contraption was some inexplicable combination of classic and modern making for one very efficient, secure, and aesthetically pleasing piece of hardware. I related as much to Mr. Newman and was about to suggest trying to locate the owner or perhaps the architect of the nautical marvel in question when he immediately began pushing it toward the Lake as fast as his stumbling legs would carry him. 

You up for an adventure, Reginald?

Do I ever have a choice?

My balls still hurt. Let's do it!

And with that we jumped into the contraption, closed the hatch safely behind us, and began a slow gradual decent into the depths of the lake. This was actually most unremarkable at first. There was the usual growth of greenery, sand, rocks. The occasional turtle. Nothing was all that interesting or unexpected except for how shockingly well Mr. Newman piloted this contraption neither of us had ever seen or studied. I decided it was best not to say anything lest he remember he didn't actually know what he was doing, panic, and send us both to a watery grave. Suddenly we were being pulled with great force into what felt like a supersonic vertical dive. The depth gauge kept reading further and further below sea level. Far deeper than Lake Michigan has ever been reported to be. We dove faster and faster bracing like mad to the curved steel innards of what now felt very much like the belly of some beast which would very soon be tearing us to shreds and disposing of us without a second thought. Just as our screams reached deafening levels we began to slow and seemed to drift very lightly and easily to the soft sand bed below. During this gentle sink we observed sea life the likes of which I've never seen even in books. It was all so vibrant and full of color. The creatures we saw- there simply aren't names for them. There aren't records. As far as the world is concerned these plants and animals do not exist. There was a kind of jellyfish/seahorse which was the size of a small stingray. A sea turtle roughly the size of a whale shark. There were beautiful brightly colored stems that grew in waves from the sea floor, each with a tiny creature at its tip. They looked like a strange and small combination of starfish and lobster, and they were clearly reaching, grabbing, snapping, pulling for freedom. We watched with confused glee as we saw them all detach one by one and blast off into the open sea. The plants below soon after shriveled and sank into the sand. Had we just witnessed the ending of some strange parasitic relationship, could the star-lobsters have just broken free of something that wanted them for lunch, or had we in fact just been the first to encounter the amazing birth process of the star-lobster? Questions amassed with each passing second. Our only answers came in the form of more and more fantastic awe inspiring creatures, never before gazed upon by the human eye, each one more wondrous than the last.

It felt like we'd been down there quite a while, a kind of steel wallflower before I finally bothered to look at the depth gauge which read 11,000 meters. This is actually deeper than the world's deepest ocean. This is when I began to worry. How could this place exist and no one know about it? How could it be at the bottom of Lake Michigan? How easily (if no one had ever been here before) could the two of us expect to get back home? Perhaps people had come here before. Perhaps through sheer accident much like ourselves. Was it not unlikely that these weary travelers never made it home to tell the tale? And if so, what chance did we have of making any kind of escape? The situation grew more dire before there was time to discuss these recent fearful revelations. Before our very eyes we witnessed the giant sea turtle who like the others and been lazily ignoring our presence make an abrupt turn and head straight for us. He was maybe two hundred feet away when he opened his huge gaping mouth to reveal three rows of jagged teeth sharpened to a fine point. These teeth flew toward us at an alarming rate of speed and with a casual Oh, shit, Mr. Newman pushed a button which shot a powerful gust of air from our contraption into the face of the approaching killer turtle. It stopped, shook its head from side to side, and swam away. I immediately congratulated Mr. Newman but felt the dread crawling as I heard him click his tongue the way he does when something has gone awry. Apparently the weapon he'd just employed was our reserve oxygen. A flashing red alarm sounded informing us we were running out of air to breathe and fast. This prompted me to speak up and suggest that we head home. I for one was all adventured out and in an uncharacteristic showing of self-preservation Mr. Newman agreed. He was taking a minute to consider the esoteric control panel and plan some kind of return route. Frankly, I'd have been satisfied enough if he'd just closed his eyes and hit something. Instinct had gotten us this far. Stopping to think could be the very thing that would leave us utterly doomed. But he didn't have much time to think. We heard a sudden commotion and looked out only to see six of the giant killer turtles all swooping, swimming, and diving around us. They were surrounding us, working as a pack, figuring the best way to devour us. In that moment I was very grateful not to have bowels to lose control of because I believed we were most certainly done for. I was just preparing a quick prayer when Mr. Newman muttered something like, What the fuck was I doin? Oh yeah. He immediately pushed some buttons, turned some knobs, and whacked some tiny protruding box which looked fragile and important. But this seemed to be just the ticket because we were off like a shot, barreling up and up, faster and faster leaving the confused killer turtles far behind us. As quickly as we'd gone down we found ourselves back at the surface piloting the contraption back to land. Back to tall buildings and crowded sidewalks and streets packed with cars. Back to pizza by the slice til 2am, cabs, buses, and bicycles. This was the jungle we called home and even with dark alleys, gang violence, and train derailments- it was a lot safer than what waited for us under the sea. 

We dragged the contraption back where we found it and spent the next couple hours digging a sizable hole to bury it in. Perhaps we should have reported our findings, Perhaps the scientific community had a right to know about such a pure and mystical place untouched by man. But that seemed to be the point. Mankind has an uncanny ability to suck all the purity and mysticism out of most anything the moment they touch it. Whether or not it was the right call, we were the only ones around to make it. As we headed for home Mr. Newman expressed his excitement about the upcoming Blackhawks game against the Nashville Predators. 

Now let me tell you why those guys are a bunch of useless bums...

-RBB

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 43: The First Of Many

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

This year's Halloween came and went much faster and more sly than most in memories past. Decked out in my best Santa Claus suit complete with bloody gash skull mask I won a bottle of whiskey at a costume contest during a party over the long weekend. I spent the first half of the party sipping rum cider and chatting up a vapid blonde actress. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but soon dead-ended into a cul de sac of disconnection and awkward silence. She later found a douchebag in a leather jacket who gave her his undivided attention (something I was physically incapable of doing) and I was left on the back porch smoking my pipe and reflecting on the Halloween of 1998. I was twelve years old and knew somewhere in that spot behind my retinas where we know things that this would most likely be my last year trolling door to door for free candy. I don't even remember wearing a costume. What I do remember about this night is that it was the first night I ever smoked marijuana. 

We were a motley crew of discontent preteens and skater punk zealots who met with some suddenness that Halloween night just before the sun began to set. It was myself, David, Nathaniel, and the rat-faced Mike Jones. Poor Mike had recently assumed the very necessary role in any group of friends as the flusher. A twelve year old punching bag of sorts that we all periodically insulted and ridiculed because we could. Truth be told, I was glad when Mike came along and started hanging out with us. I'd been filling in as flusher pro tempore ever since our previous punching bag Jon B had thrown himself into a set of spinning helicopter blades. Apparently he was suffering from depression. At any rate, I was getting tired of eating everyone's shit and was quite pleased to be just one of the guys again now that we had Mike to kick around. He was like our own personal Richard Nixon. We met at David's since his dad was single and therefore we could get away with just about anything at his place. He like most single parents was a bit negligent and terrible at setting boundaries. Just as well since David was himself terrible at respecting boundaries. But you can't really expect much from an over forty bald electrician with a red convertible and insatiable appetite for Coors Light. This was the house where we first saw and held a real gun. The house where we found and viewed our first porno. And as luck would have it, the house where our grubby preteen meat hooks first grabbed onto a small baggie of stinky green herb.

If memory serves, David's dad had some sketchy drifter crashing on his couch. Old friend or not this guy was a sketchy drifter plain and simple. Who else would roll up a jay for four twelve year old kids to run loose with on Halloween? Well we didn't have to wonder for long because he did just that. And armed to the teeth with pillow cases for candy, a bag of extra shake, the jay in question, and the plucky ambition that comes with the promise of mischief we were off into the night. The plan seemed simple enough. Toke in the woods out of sight, trick r treat to our heart's content, and temper our inevitable munchies with the huge candy haul we knew was waiting in our future. We'd all seen Half Baked. We knew what to expect. Standing in a tight circle formation we were ready to light the candle as it were when Nathaniel told us he needed to use it. Jesus, man. Nobody wanted to walk all the way back to David's just so he could pinch a loaf. Nor were we keen on waiting for him to make the thirty minute round trip on the shoe leather express before we could start smoking this thing. He assured us it was no big deal and shuffled off only to reemerge from some bushes about five minutes later informing us he felt much better. David immediately wanted to inspect the logs for reasons which are still very unclear to me. But whatever the reason, the deficatory detour was done with and we could finally get on to the business at hand. None of us seemed concerned at the time that Nathaniel had no way of washing his hands. The jay was a tightly rolled slip of a thing filled with the ditchiest of ditch weed the sketchy drifter on the couch could bear to part with. After a lot of coughing and even more drool it was done and smoked and we were sober and disappointed. Nothing was happening. Nothing was in the mail. We had just collectively choked down a pinner of dirt-shit-nothing green. Sure we had more, but no way of smoking it. Nobody had a pipe, nobody had papers and there was sure as shit no hope of buying any, and alas we were still many months away from our early MacGyver years of pop cans, aluminum foil, and plastic bottles. Nathaniel had the brilliant idea to roll some up in a dollar bill. That's just paper, right? Mike Jones proved very quickly as our first test subject what a foolhardy and hopeless endeavor this was. At least the dollar was still intact. We all agreed if George Washington had been there, he could have rolled us a fat blunt on the spot. But without our nation's first president to aid us in getting high we simply went on with the evening trick r treating lightly but mostly just wandering around the neighborhood feeling let down and out of place. One bone of shitty weed smoked up with nothing to show for it, and more in a baggie we couldn't even put to good use. Young costumed children scurried through the streets from house to house gleefully collecting candy as the older teenage crowd stayed indoors to drink, party, and feel each other up. Meanwhile, we stood around the outskirts of both scenes feeling dejected and foolish trying to find our place in all this harmless debauchery.

But all's well that ends well. Here I stand fourteen years later in a whiskey award winning costume puzzled by something far more complex and mysterious than a preteen existential identity crisis. The great mystery which has served as my chief puzzler since puberty closed its cruel fateful grip around me. Women. What's up with that? I kicked out the cashed bowl and loaded it once more before heading back into the party to accept my award. How is it I never thought of dressing as Evil Santa before? -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 42: Another Midnight At The Oasis

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

Hip-hip-hooray and okily dokily doo! Roll out the red carpet and get those seventy-six lazy bastards some trombones to play cause it's on yet again. I joined The Corporal at the Oasis that oh-so-late Sunday for drink and karaoke more out of obligation and friendship than anything else. In six and one half hours I needed to be unlocking the doors of another man's business and getting it up and running for the new day. Sleep was fairly essential. But The Corporal and I were long overdue for singing, dancing, and darts. Long weeks and early mornings be damned. I didn't feel quite up to refusing him and would rather deal with a groggy morning. Besides, how late would this night really go? One beer, one game, one song I told him- then I gotta be heading home. Sorry, buddy. Early morning and all that. How late indeed? 

I didn't see her coming. I never do- but this time it was a bit more literal. After a more than decent round I turned back from the dartboard and saw her standing at out table seemingly from nowhere striking up chat with The Corporal of a very enthusiastic and energetic flavor. She had large warm eyes and long flowing hair. Both shared very complimentary shades of brown. Her smile was honest, eager, and had clearly benefited from the practiced hands of a very skilled orthodontist. On her short athletic frame she wore simple pajama pants with boots, zip-up hoodie, and scarf surprisingly well- the clothes hugging her every curve and radiating confidence, comfort, and sex. She said she'd seen us before and began telling us what a lousy day it had been and before the next round was finished our duo had grown by one. Queens had come from New York in March to train dogs and escape the hell she was stuck in back in the Big Bad Apple Land. After the usual stumbling, leapfrogging, and couch-surfing that comes with a sudden uprooting she was settled in a nice apartment in Evanston. Very plucky for her twenty-two years, even so she preferred being able to access the city rather than being a slave to it. To each their own. A refugee from some university back home which proved to be a bad fit, she was apparently quite satisfied in her current training program. She had found a mentor.

But enough about that. She had also brought smoke.

And thus the evening got interesting.

She lamented the fact that she had nothing to load it into. I offered my pipe and the three of us were soon in one of many walkways in Chicago. Lucky coincidence, I told her. She reminded me that in the territory of shortcuts and smoke breaks there are no coincidences. Not in the alley behind a bar. If these walls could talk. We toked up and hurried back knowing the songs we had coming up wouldn't be held forever making it just in time. I tried to remain disinterested all night. I tried to be no more than polite. I tried kidding myself that the occasional glance I stole as she rocked the shit out of Oh Darlin meant nothing. That I'd finish this beer and go home already. What time was it, anyhow? I didn't consider the trouble I was getting into until after I pulled her into a dance during a Stevie Ray Vaughn guitar solo. There was whirling and twirling and hips and thighs and everything dancing should be. She thanked me after the song wrapped up. Apparently young men these days didn't know how to lead. How sad for them. Another toke in the alley, another game of darts, another song and dance and it was last call. Holy shit, already? I only just got here. But the night couldn't simply end like that. Just getting on the bike and slinking straight home. Not even Lame-Sauce McGee would allow that. Whattaya know? Queens had too much to drink and was worried about getting home. Could I drive her car while The Corporal followed in his? Of course! After all, she had a dog and a bong waiting at home. I was eager to meet both of them. The pup-pup was adorable and friendly, the bong hit like a dream, the bookshelf had a fine collection of Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein with several Beatles records at the base. The Corporal excused himself to use it. It was time to go and I seized the opportunity without thinking. Lingering outside her bedroom I told her I wanted to call her, asked if it was okay, if she'd like to do drinks or food or whatever people do. The Powers That Be were smiling on me as she clearly had an appreciation for the awkward and nerdy. Even still, I remained unsure right up until the moment our lips touched. And I'm still unsure. After the car ride back to my bike, the unsteady peddling home, the zombified murderous shit-show that was my open to close that day, and even what passed for an actual date later that week. Unsure from head to toe. She's too young and maybe it doesn't matter. This isn't going anywhere and maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's enough to have someone to hold and smooch and hang with. Someone who like you is mostly interested but mostly otherwise engaged with a life and friends and goals that don't concern you. Maybe that person doesn't need to be someone you admire. And maybe it's that kind of thinking that's gotten me into every dirty rotten mess making up the checkered past that is my love life. Maybe it's this practiced passivity, this insincere apathy that's kept me stuck dissatisfied, cynical, and alone. It's on again. I don't know where this could go besides nowhere. But it's on. And Jesus, I'm already tired. -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 41: The Specimen: Part Two

A Note From The Desk Of Reginald Buford Brimley:

Last week I shared with you the first installment of a story I found among Mr. Newman's belongings. It was a bit deranged and more than a little disturbing. It didn't occur to me at the time just how fitting it is at this time of year to be a bit deranged and more than a little disturbing. With that in mind, please enjoy the chilling conclusion of The Specimen.

To say this experience was not fulfilling would be untrue. It may not have been the jovial celebration he was hoping for, but this was as close as he'd ever come and it was thrilling none the less. Being so ready willing and able to taste her flesh. So near the hour when he would open her up and see what secrets she had hidden away inside. It had been its own particular brand of exhilarating and he woke the next morning feeling more invigorated and peaceful than he'd felt in weeks. As he showered, he found himself wondering if he truly needed this so soon. If maybe he should wait. Refrain until he was a bit older and wiser. Respect the work and the specimen instead of lusting after it and making a mess of things like some bumbling hapless virgin. But over the thirty or so minutes of hot water, steam, and sound he was reminded of why this pursuit began in the first place. He did not choose this. He was chosen. So many walked about but did not see. They did not understand the abundance of beauty lying just beneath the skin. They would never comprehend what a crime it was to keep this locked up tight keeping secrets so terribly secret. He used to be just like them. Shuffling about consuming the drive-thru-window pellets and staring at a phone, earbuds firmly in place closing him off from the rest of humanity. Comfy and cozy and dead to the world. And then one night he had a dream. A dream that hit him in the chest like a diesel locomotive. Standing atop a tall building in the clouds during a frightful storm which raged all around him. There were no stairs, no doors, no other buildings, and not one star in the sky. There was only a Creature moving toward him. It had legs but they seemed to be more for show than anything else as it slithered toward him like some giant komodo dragon whose mother had been raped by a python. Its piercing red eyes stared as he found himself frozen stiff. The Creature slithered ever closer flicking a forked tongue in his direction every few seconds. It wasn't until the tongue was sliding up his thigh that he heard the voice ringing through his head, exposing the truth, and setting him free. The next morning, he found himself looking at the world with brand new eyes. For the first time he saw these people for what they really were. For what they'd always been. Painfully ignorant huddled masses moving through their empty lives step by little step. His burden was being able to see what others could not. The sheep. The cattle. Believing everything they're told, buying and selling the world one brick at a time, keeping all their beauty inside to themselves like so many selfish children maintaining such ugliness outside. One shower was all it took to screw his resolve to that sticking place just passed the point of no return. He would take her. He would learn her secrets. And his work would continue. It had to. He had no reason to believe anyone else was fighting with him. For all he knew he was the only one in this struggle and he would not accept failure. His next opportunity would not go to waste. He would make it count. He would be patient and vigilant. He would find the beauty in the blood and set it free. He would make ready and wait as long as he had to. It took less than a week. 

She had bought a new sensible coat. Purple, perhaps to go with the boots. He didn't care for it preferring his specimen just as she was when he'd first laid eyes on her. No matter. It was still her. The same thick-rimmed glasses. The same full ruby lips. The same blue stocking cap with the same jet-black hair just poking out atop that gorgeous pale face. There was no coffee this time. No standing around waiting. There she was scurrying down the steps just as he'd seen her do half a dozen times before. A bit more distracted today, perhaps. He had to pick up his pace to get to the alley on time. He made it, hid himself just around the corner, and waited. He breathed as deep and as silent as he possibly could and was very suddenly terrified that something might go wrong. She might cross the street early or a patrolman may happen by at just that exact moment. He chanced a quick glance around the corner and found himself face to face with his specimen. There she was in all her perfect glory. The one he'd searched hunted and waited for. He was speechless, his mind a vacant blur, but his body still seemed to be working on some kind of motor reflex level. As she excused herself and tried to quickly pass him he grabbed her from behind and pulled back. She kicked and screamed but he placed a gag firmly in her mouth she could neither reach nor spit out. In seconds they were halfway down the alley passed garbage and dumpsters and puddles that never go away and far far away it seemed from the loud delivery trucks and city buses roaring on the early morning street. Her heels dug a trail into the chewed-up gravel marking their progress down the alley. His heart was pounding faster and faster as she shrieked through the socks throwing elbows, kicking at his knees, throwing headbutt after headbutt. Reaching again and again for the mace on her keychain knowing it would save her if only she could reach it- but she could not. He knew she was special. That's why he picked her. But he was not expecting this. Finally they reached the door to a small forgotten room at the far end of the alley. His fear finally got the better of him. He had taken too many risks already and there was work to do. In a quick motion he shoved her head into the brick wall very hard. The screaming immediately stopped. 

The room was not decorated or adorned. It was supplied only with what it absolutely needed. A bit of light, an operating table, and a very heavy lock on the door. He had left his satchel stored safely in the room the night before, and a good thing too. His specimen had proven herself to be quite the handful. He laid his shiny instruments out one by one on a stand by the table. He fastened her down, cut her clothes away, and removed her gag and glasses as the blood dripped from her head wound. He glanced casually at her face. The wound was at the back of her skull and therefore did almost nothing to blemish that perfectly peaceful visage. Still out cold. Not a sound could be heard in his little forgotten room but the drip drip drip as her blood formed a small puddle on the floor. So clean. So pure. So perfect. He raised his blade, savoring the silence. Waiting for the symphony that would soon be ringing in his ears as he opened her slow. Just before he brought it down her eyes snapped open. They were a deep brown. He realized with some suddenness that he'd never taken them in before having never seen her without her glasses. He expected a scream or struggle against the restraints. He expected blubbering, bargaining, begging for her life. She simply looked around and very quickly took in her surroundings. The room, the stand with the instruments, and finally the young man standing above her- blade raised, poised, and ready to cut into her heart stopping it forever. She studied his face and looked into his eyes burrowing ever deeper to the back of his skull and laughed. It was full and from the belly and it took him off guard. 

"You sad, pathetic fuck." 

He suddenly felt terror out of nowhere. He felt the bile rising in his gullet as if the Creature's tongue was on his thigh once more. Not knowing what else to do, he plunged his blade into her chest with all his might. She did not scream, but gave a kind of smirk and winked at him. She took exactly three labored breaths before finally becoming peaceful and quiet and still. And all through this and for some time after she never broke her gaze. Even in cold glassy death those deep brown eyes seemed to burrow ever further into his skull. He closed his eyes and felt her final pulse jolt through every corner of his being. He shut them tighter and breathed deep grabbing the operating table for support. He held the air a moment and let it out in one long sigh releasing all tension in his body. He then opened his eyes, set his jaw, and got to work.

It was mostly an exploratory. One can only learn so much from books. The sights he beheld and treasures he touched all had their own special sensual experience to enjoy. Even the smell was fascinating. The pool of blood had grown more and more with each drip drip drip from openings both new and numerous. The one treasure he felt compelled to keep for himself was her heart which he put in a jar closed up safe and sound in his satchel. He wrapped her body, collected her belongings, and disposed of her in a quiet place where neither man nor beast would ever think to look. The dissection had been simple. The disposal even simpler. The sun was just going down. The city looked beautiful. 

It wasn't until he arrived home absently wondering what to eat for dinner that he bothered to look inside her bag. Who was this specimen, after all? He expected a wallet, some make-up, maybe some pictures of friends and family- but there were none. Inside this perfectly innocent somewhat stylish shoulder bag were several surgical instruments. Each one as sharp and shiny as his own. Each one placed gingerly throughout the bag fastened tight to the inside stitching. He dropped the bag and lost balance reaching out for a chair, the counter, anything to steady himself but finding nothing and fell on his ass staring at her bag in disbelief. If he'd but known. Taken an extra week to better learn her before. The joy and grandeur they could have found together in the flesh and blood and bone. As he later feasted upon her heart, he promised himself he would never make the same mistake again. Next time, he would not rush. Next time, he would be sure. Next time, he would know better.

The End.

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 40: The Specimen: Part One

A Note From The Desk of Reginald Buford Brimley:

Earlier this week I found myself rummaging through Mr. Newman's discarded scribblings just as I've done on numerous occasions. What I came across and will share with you now both alarmed and fascinated me. It was much too long to present in one installment. The second half will appear next week. In the meantime, please refrain from calling the police. I can personally attest that Mr. Newman keeps himself quite regularly medicated and is therefore not a danger to others. 

The dissection was simple. The disposal even simpler. He always assumed that the killing itself would be the most difficult part. But that was before he really knew anything. He learned very quickly that the movies greatly overdramatized the whole act which in actuality took mere seconds. Most of his last six years had been spent slowly learning that the entirety of his childhood was little more than another lie from another trusted official after another. From his parents and of course the church, but none were so ambivalent in their deceit as the appalling number of films he digested throughout his younger and more vulnerable years. The hardest part, it turned out was selecting the proper specimen. Gender was irrelevant, though he assumed he'd take one of each at least before hanging up his spurs for good. How else could he ever expect to become truly enlightened by the full majesty of the flesh and blood and bone? He wouldn't let something so arbitrary as sex organs guide him in this particular hunt. He never doubted he'd find the one. It was just a matter of patience and vigilance. Finding the one would be like falling in love. There would be no neon sign. No swelling music. No cinematic lies of beauty and romance. He would see his specimen and simply know. Perhaps on the street on a sunny afternoon, perhaps in a crowded dive bar playing cricket, or maybe in a deserted movie theater during a weekend matinee. One thing he knew- it would only take one look. And he'd know. The spark would ignite a flame in his gut that would grow into a pyre and he'd feel a warmth spread through his veins, deeper and deeper head to toe into his sinews, lungs, and heart. He needed the warmth and the pyre inside. He needed it to quell the fierce cruel unchanging ice that had set up shop inside of his insides sometime long before he could remember. It was just a matter of waiting for that spark. He knew it. And one overcast Tuesday on Paulina- it happened. 

She stepped down the Brown Line steps in purple boots with powerful heels. There was was a flighty directness to her gait. He stepped carefully through the human sea that was the sidewalk and watched as she moved serpentine down the street. Every few footfalls just when it looked like she was going to dart off in another direction- she didn't. It was fascinating. Alluring. She drew him in with her boots and her manic kind of motion making her easier to follow. He could keep his distance and still keep her in view. The longer he watched and followed, the clearer the picture became. Thick-rimmed glasses, short black hair that just peeked out of a blue wool stocking cap. A fine specimen. She was pale. With full ruby lips that stood out even more because of her skin tone, and she knew it. She carried herself in a sensible black coat with a bounce and air of confidence he was not accustomed to seeing. He stood and looked and saw a spirit that had not yet been weighed down by life and its many disappointments. This was clearly a grown woman who perhaps had known hardship, yet still there was light and passion and fire inside. He could see it. Anyone who took the time to look could see it. A fine specimen indeed.

The instruments themselves were easy enough to acquire. He made it a point to procure them with great care, never buying more than one instrument at a time, and never at the same store, and never in the same neighborhood, and never ever with the same appearance. Carelessness was not an option. Once obtained, he cared for and maintained the instruments with due diligence. Polishing them. Keeping them safe, shiny, and sharpened to perfection. He even purchased a leather doctor's satchel second hand to store them in. He told himself he'd wait. Watch her for weeks. Months if need be. Learn her routine. Wait for the perfect moment. One never wanted to be too hasty in delicate matters such as these. It was always a recipe for disaster. His concern had nothing to do with being caught. For some reason that was the furthest thing from his mind. In a city as crowded and depraved as Chicago, it's not at all uncommon for a perfectly brutal crime to slip by completely undetected. His concern was for privacy. It took time to build himself up and make himself ready for this moment. He had no intention of allowing any interruptions. He told himself he'd wait. He lied. 

After only three and one-half nights he decided it was time. She'd followed the same schedule more or less the whole week thus far. Stood to reason she'd be stepping off that same platform at that same hour. Walking passed that same alley. He got there early and bought a donut and a coffee. It was too hot to drink and he stood awkwardly watching the platform considering his donut and blowing on his coffee but consuming neither. He stood and he waited. And he waited. And the clock dragged on and he waited still and he bought coffee again and he blew on it awkwardly as he stood and waited some more. Nearly four hours had gone by before he decided to call it a night. Walking home, he took a shortcut down an alley and stomped a rat to death just before masturbating behind a dumpster. 

To be continued... -RBB

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 39: Isolation

A Note From The Desk Of Reginald Buford Brimley:

The last few days Mr. Newman has displayed a great deal of unexplained inactivity. There's quite a hell of a lot to be done to use the parlance of our times. However, the last forty-eight hours have carried with them a disproportional amount of time planted on his couch (or rather his roommate's couch) focused intently at the picture box. He's left his post only to answer the door and collect food he's ordered. And an agonizing three foot journey it must be as well judging by the exasperated sigh that escapes his lips as he settles back into his couch. His roommate's couch. Back at his post to stare with intensity at the picture box. Sometimes crying, sometimes cackling with a kind of psychotic glee. There has been much talk about the multitude of projects he's in the middle of, ideas for the next step, palaver about the need to dig in and get to work on something- anything. It'll all get done if you just get down to it. His words. Words, words, words. That's all they are, really. He mockingly condemns himself for avoiding the work, for wasting this rare and valuable chunk of free time, but goes on just the same like some glutinous statue of sloth, greasy hamburger in hand, glass of rum on his so-called coffin table. Styrofoam boxes and large paper bags with various togo menus stapled to them litter the whole room. One can barely walk from one end to the other. I've questioned him many times as to the rhyme or reason for this senseless act of wanton vegetation he's knowingly committing. It absolutely confounds me and I can't make heads or tails (as they say) of the situation. If the work is too much, if time away is needed- why the isolation? I've heard him speak at length about his loneliness and alienation. Why not get out? There are still people in the streets. Market fairs, concerts, festivals, marches, ballgames on top of ballgames. There are bars and cafes and movie-houses and bookstores the plenty. The weather has yet to turn, but very soon the air will be thin, cold, and heartless. Soon people will shut themselves away with blankets and liquor and the security of top shelf weather stripping. Soon leaving the confines of a warm apartment will require a very worthy cause. Food or a much needed paycheck or the promise of true love.

I must confess I do not understand what seems to be a great squandering of the opportunity to involve himself in a community and enjoy some comradery. He acknowledges my questions with a simple nod and tips the glass once more to his lips. His lack of accountability, this illogical self-sabotaging misery he's engaged himself in- avoiding people, avoiding the outdoors, avoiding his work with what is either a reckless abandon or some dedicated unknown purpose- it is all very murky and unclear. I find myself rather irritated with him. It is not so much because he's barricaded himself without clear cause from the outside world but that he seems so unconcerned about it. I've often noticed this strange quality in people. More so than any other living thing- people make an uncanny practice of working (sometimes with great diligence) against their own personal aspirations, desires, and needs. There's no logical explanation for it so far as I've observed, and it always seems to end badly. The person in question will usually claim to have learned something and grown from the experience. But whatever they've learned and however much they've grown doesn't seem to be enough to stop them from venturing down that self-destructive road again and again. It seems a necessary cycle (especially for these so-called creative types) that must be practiced over and over if work is going to happen and life is going to be truly lived. People like Mr. Newman often drive themselves too fast and too hard off the road and into walls. Sometimes through them. This kind of living is tough of the body and murder to the soul. A new kind of living will need to be forged I think if he and his kind are to last. But there's no ink right now for new philosophies. No paper to be devoted to radical action. Right now- for a still unknown reason the life has dripped out of these veins. The post must be upheld, the picture box must be monitored, the garbage must be allowed to grow. Perhaps tomorrow he'll take it to the dumpster. Perhaps tomorrow he'll clear the cobwebs from his dusty mind and set his idle hands to some worthwhile endeavor. Or at the very least get out of the blasted apartment and another few feet up the mountain. After all, tomorrow is only one sleep and a couple thousand miles away. For now- we can only hope. -RBB

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 38: An Irritating And Recurring Form Of Patriotism

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

The powers that be decided this week that I would spend about four hours in a car with someone from St. Louis, MO. If you ever have the chance to do this- find someone from Michigan. An aged actor who spent about fifteen years in LA scraping by and snatching the odd walk-on role for things like Buffy, Passions, and Port Charles, she now lived in her hometown and directed high school theatre. She commented on being regularly snubbed by actors in the Mound City who wrongfully judged her as being a snob simply because she worked in LA. But at just over 50 with a husband and two teenage boys at home she couldn't very well worry about what a bunch of arch-loving twat-waffles had to say about her life. Between the directing jobs and regular murder mystery gigs she was still making her living in the theatre industry. Glamorous, fulfilling, or not-so-much this had long ago become a job. The way to pay the bills. Possibly the only one she was really qualified for. She struck me most certainly as a lady who didn't have time to care about such things. But of course there was that tell tale ping. That pin dropping deep inside with its deafening sound that echos throughout your solar plexus. Nobody likes feeling openly shunned by a community of any kind, and no actor can hide such a feeling from seeping through plain as the nose on her face. 

But this isn't what has me whittling this out at eleven passed twelve on a Saturday morning. What's been sticking in my craw since that drive to Wisconsin and back three days ago were the two things she said next. To begin, she said she felt more alienated politically than anything else. Since she comes from The Show-Me State (a state only admitted to the Union under the provision it would remain a slave state) and holds some conservative viewpoints she choose not to share, the ultra-libs out in the Land of Lah found her too conservative for their taste. Meanwhile home in the Either Red Or Dead Midwest, her general community found her too loose and liberal in her viewpoints. Since she doesn't seem to fit in anywhere she essentially declared herself in a big booming voice (which was a bit much trapped inside a four-door sedan) to be the absolute middle of the spectrum! 

.......ummm

It's difficult to know how to respond when you hear something so blatantly ludicrous. The statement itself defies all reason. How do you begin to dissect such a delusional exclamation? It'd be one thing if the political spectrum in this country wasn't a narrow viewed right skewed sick joke- and it is. But how does one arbitrarily declare themselves the middle of the spectrum? Not even Frankie Muniz has the balls to say something like that. Who defines the spectrum? And how many people have to be behind a certain belief to appear on said spectrum? Does the Political Action Committee to elect rabid weasels into office get a spot on the spectrum? How far to the left or the right would the Rabid Weasel Party fall? Is this woman closer to voting in a rabid weasel than I am? Frankly, I'm against it. Nothing personal, you understand. I simply feel there'd be some insurmountable communication barriers with the first rabid weasel President of these United States. There was such pride in her statement, as if she believed there was some huge difference between Democrats and Republicans. As if being dead center of the prescribed US political worldview was something to be proud of. Where you're okay with most things, not exactly for anything, against some things- but you understand why people feel the way they do and most of all just wish all the yelling would stop. I hadn't felt that speechless in a very long time. The discussion then turned to abortion and thank fuck for that because I was starting to get uncomfortable. This was something we basically saw eye to eye on except for her acknowledgment of this fantasy revolving door of crack whores getting abortion after abortion rednecks like to bring up so often when arguing for pro-life statutes having any legitimacy at all. Taking the time in such a discussion to even mention this fabricated scenario and cite your disapproval of the women who do things like that reveals a lot about the community a person surrounds themselves with. Good to know that Vagina Control lives and breathes alive and well in America's Heartland. I know the folks I'm talking about like to be referred to as Pro-Life, but it's difficult for me to make use of that moniker. After all, so many of them are against nationalized healthcare which basically means if you don't have insurance- they're fine with you dying no matter how young you are. Furthermore, so many of these God-fearing concerned citizens are also in favor of the death penalty. I'm not sure they've got the joy-joy-joy (where?) down in their hearts. I'm pretty sure they're just talking the talk and not walking the walk. I'm pretty sure the abortion issue for them has nothing to do with the sanctity of life and everything to do with controlling vaginas. It seems a little more in line with their general track record up to this point.

It was somewhere around here in the conversation when she expressed a sentiment which always gives me that same dumbfounded pause I mentioned before. It's something I hear at least once every four to six years and just like the declaration of representing the absolute median political view of the nation- this left me quite speechless. She said she was just glad she lived in America. Because here we're free to believe what we want and say what we please and have these kinds of discussions without having to worry that someone's going to shove a gun into our hands and send us off to fight some horrible drug war or commit some terrible genocide. Yes, the Janjaweed are awful. But that's Sudan. The globe isn't divided into those countries and the good old U-S-of-A. Every time I hear this patriotic sigh of relief uttered a screw turns deeper into my right temple. There's a very consistent bit of programming that has existed all over the nation probably since its birth perpetuated by our underfunded, undermanned, undervalued education system which states that this country is the only one where basic civil liberties exist. Holy shit! We lucked out, huh? I wanted so badly to remind her of the staggering number of nations that have all these basic freedoms. Nations which don't seem to have the same difficulties with gun violence, healthcare, education, or a wealth-gap which grows larger and more astounding every hour. Noting as well the rampant social injustices regularly visited upon those of color and those who happen to be gay here in the Land of Opportunity doesn't exactly give me a warm and fuzzy either. But there she was, warm and fuzzy enough for both of us sitting next to me in the car. Examining the condition of other countries only makes you proud to be an American if you compare it to the shittiest nations you can find. Examining the conditions of countries which are actually similar to this one doesn't make me proud to be an American. If anything it makes me ashamed.

I look around and I see a nation of distracted consumers. A group of selfish, impatient, uninterested children who are staring into an iPhone while all around them people are being dragged from their homes, locked up for profit, or dying on the streets. A group drinking themselves into a stupor and going blind on Mylie Cyrus while their government wages war for meaningless conquest, strips their liberties away one by one, and rigs the system so they're the only game in town.

It's so important to get out and vote for the rich guy you want in power. Don't vote for the other rich guy. He cares too much about money. Who else will you vote for? A third party? Go ahead! Throw your vote away!

I see a collection of the frightened and the ignorant coliding with each other without pupose and begging for someone else to pay attention. Someone else to be responsible. Someone else to make the hard choices. Someone to celebrate in times of plenty and curse in times of want. I see a nation whose soul was lost in that ugly decade of harsh change and grim realities. The decade of Vietnam and Dr. King. The decade of Malcolm X and the Kennedy's. Of sit ins, bus boycotts, fire hoses, and attack dogs. The decade of the draft and church bombings and a riot for every death and a march for every cause and that fantastic illusion that things might get better. I believe America was tested in during that decade, and I believe it failed. People are so pacified now. Anything for a TV big enough to dive into at the end of the day as they shop online for shit they can't afford and don't need. Their children stand abandoned on the schoolyeard learning to be an adults by pack mentality. Materialism and money are the new God. Worship well, and they will reward you. With status, with sex, with self-satisfaction you wouldn't waste time earning through work and skill and sacrifice. You can buy that kind of validation much faster with money. And if the youth aren't learning values at home which don't come filtered through a loud brightly colored ad for 5-Hour Energy, where are they going to learn them? School? In a country with more money than sin, we place 17th in a ranking of the education programs of developed nations. And yet we spent $300 billion more on military "defense" in 2013 than the next fourteen ranked countries put together. I remember fondly the stories I was told about this country when I was young. I believed them to be true. As I grew and came to know history as well as the world I was living in I reached the conclusion that this country had severely lost its way. And long before I was born. The Doctor himself knew this kind of fatal resentment only too well. His final solution involved a short note and a large revolver. I can't imagine myself going down a similar road. He was too invested in America. I began to see this place for the sham it was when I was thirteen. Still, it couldn't be easy for a man to truly live the sixties as he did and come out the other side alive and well enough to see 9/11 and Operation Iraqi Freedom. I won't begrudge him his exit. The only way to move through this life is forward. -JN

“The third president, Thomas Jefferson, had a vision of America. He believed that this whole new country, this giant unformed continent offered a chance to start again. The premise was very simple. That human beings acting in a sense of enlightened self interest are smart enough to do the right thing and know the truth. America could have been a fantastic monument to all the best instincts of the human race. Instead, we just moved in here and destroyed the place from coast to coast like killer snails. Everybody wants power over a country that’s had its day. I think we’re finished.” - Hunter S. Thompson

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 37: Dishrag Wedding At The Old Madhouse

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

Like anyone in my age bracket can tell you: the mid-twenties carry with it many dubious honors and customs often accompanied by a double punch combo of aggravation and despair. The most regular of which is receiving wedding invitations by the barrelful. Usually for people you grew up with whom you haven't spoken to for years. And more often than not they'll be tying the knot with someone you've never met at all. It was for this reason I hopped on the #3 Amtrak last weekend bound west where the coffees don't refill, the leg room is plentiful, and Dewar's costs the same as Jack-D for some reason. A smooth eight hours later and I was having significantly better drinks with my significantly fantastic siblings and their significant others at The Green Lady Lounge where the walls, carpet, and booths are a deep red and nobody seems to care. The pianist for the jazz trio immediately sprang to his feet to greet us as we breezed in reminding me just how small this town is. In my ratty T-shirt and oversized PJ pants I was dressed to impress back again in the land of BBQ and jazz. The land of thick thighs and short skirts. Back again in Kansas City. Oh, joy. 

The ceremony was for A-Net, a dear old friend from the strange and volatile high school days. A fellow writer who was more bloomed and practiced when we knew each other but whose work I haven't read in ages. I don't actually know if she's still writing at all. But none the less A-Net was getting married! Roll out the band! Or the DJ- whatever! Let the drinks flow free! Let us gorge ourselves on food and cake! We'll work it off on the dance floor shaking and gyrating and proving to all those within a three mile radius that we are merry, filled with glee, and hopelessly fucking white. That's what it should've been. But that's not the way it happened. 

The ceremony itself proceeded well enough with a lovely small outdoor service complete with string quartet and small white chairs that were too close to each other. The preacher told a short endearing story and got on with the exchange of vows which none of us could hear. The ornate Greek columns erected behind the happy couple did little to help the atrocious acoustics on the giant lawn. But no matter. An awkward procession of strange hand shaking later and we'd made it inside to the open bar. There was whiskey, there was beer, and a Hy-Vee catered dinner- but somehow the mood just wasn't very jovial. It could have been my uneasy stomach and the unexplained throbbing in my head. It could have been the fact that deep down I viewed this whole occasion as an obligation. It's hard to let your hair down and cut loose if you've made up your mind not to have any fun before walking in the front door. It didn't help that after weeks of expecting to be partying with a whole slew of old friends from those long lost high school days, I arrived to find only one member of the club who was never really a member. Just a polite face often on the periphery we never rejected but never fully accepted into our clan. Further more it didn't help that the music selected for the evening came straight from Time Life's Super Sounds of the Elevator series. Whether A-Net's  parents were to blame or an inexperienced ineffective DJ- the damage was done. The atmosphere was rank with the dullness of a wet dishcloth. Music matters. Anyone who doesn't understand this needs to be bull-whipped and locked away for the good of all humanity. An hour or two of polite conversation was more than enough. After they cut the cake and shoved it in each other's faces I was beyond ready to go. I gave A-Net a big hug laced with my congratulations and made a tasteful abrupt exit.

The one interesting twist to the event was that it was held at the newly renovated Odd Fellows Home in Liberty, MO. The once renown hotel built in 1888 and later lost to foreclosure during the depression had been redesigned as a home for widows and orphans but by 1951 was turned into a hospital and nursing home which continued to operate into the 1980s. By the late 90s when I was growing up Odd Fellows had fallen to disrepair and ruin. Being such an old landmark, the city decided not to tear down this dilapidated mammoth and let it stand empty and ignored for years. Many a night in my youth were spent venturing out to the old Odd Fellows place and crawling through a window to wander around with fellow delinquents half loaded on whatever we could get our hands on hunting for trouble or any random furious spirit who might be haunting the hallways.

They say there are ghosts here, y'know? The whole place used to be a madhouse run by a sick twisted lunatic doctor who performed experiments on the patients here. It was the old days, y'know? Nobody bothered to check in on these poor sad fuckers and the doctor who ran the place, he basically had his way with them for years until he died one night in some super mysterious way. Fucked up, man. That's when all the stories started coming out and the place was shut down. I hear the doctor was a distant relative of Liberty's mayor. That's why they won't just rip it down. You wanna see what's downstairs? Hell yeah! Pass the pop can...

It was a hell of a mind trip making my way to the dinner buffet passing the recently made pristine rooms, still seeing through pre-teen eyes the garbage and broken glass on the floor, the graffiti on the walls from those late nights so long ago when energy was abundant, no act was productive, and nothing mattered. I finished the night lying on a couch waiting for my headache to subside wondering if I had openly rejected some supposed infectious bliss or if it was the other way around. My thoughts returned to the last wedding I'd been to only four months prior. The dearest of friends tying the knot in Michigan. The trip was well worth whatever obnoxious price I had to shell out to the soul-sucking scumbags at whatever douchebag car rental company I went through. Great music, a slew of like minded folks shaking it with furvor on the dance floor, shared joints with brand new one night only friends, finally sitting around a fire with the bridal party and case of cheap beer. There was an unlabeled bottle of bourbon making the rounds. Everyone had a pull and passed it on. I even shared a bowl with the bride's mother as I recall. We all felt like royalty on our own private island on a Sunday night in June that stretched on to eternity. That was a mother fucking wedding. The best I've ever been to and the set standard of comparison for all unions to come. I decided that night that that's exactly how I want my wedding to be. Thankfully, that means the hard part's over. Now I just need to find a lady foolish enough to walk down that aisle with me. All in good time. Right now I'm content to watch others take the plunge and take notes as I take full advantage of the free food and open bar. Mazel tov! -JN

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 36: A Wet And Sour Ride...Three Ladies Of Presence And Purpose...A Not So Typical Night At Red Line

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman:

This week began asininely enough with an early Sunday morning bike ride to open the sandwich shop. Must've been six-thirty in the AM and the streets had grown very chilly very quickly. The pathetic excuse of a summer had come and gone with not a blip on my ever cluttered radar screen. Am I ever going to take one summer in Chicago to simply enjoy myself and the city? Doubtful. The real point is it was just a hair passed balls-ass chilly and I was racing off to work before a single homeless person had time to roll off their cardboard cot under a grey sky that promised nothing but the same as the long day bore on and on. A drizzle had been teasing me in fits and starts the whole ride south to Belmont which grew into a light rain just as I was locking up. I later remarked that in this city rain only lasts fifteen minutes in any one spot then moves off to some other part of town to look for better action. IE: who gives a holy blue fuck? Over the next eight hours I proceeded to eat my words as a torrential downpour continued to pound the whole goddamn city. My next shift at my other job was ninety minutes from go-time when I finally picked up my balls and headed out into the soup. The storm had become a regular Christ-on-a-crutch monsoon as I peddled north on Clark. The ride itself wasn't all that unpleasant. I was wishing I'd thought to bring or for that matter buy some safety glasses, but after nearly a half hour of awkward squinting and extended blinking I made it home to my quiet little pad on Foster. Safe, sound, and soaked to the bloody bone. There was just enough time to shower, stuff and sandwich in my face, and get moving to the serving gig. I tried to remember the last time I'd rung my socks out into the tub. Sadly, that memory like so many others has been long ago smoked away. This was a little matter compared to the fact that I left my bike at home and took the train thinking the rain would continue all through the night. I hate taking the train anymore. It's nothing against the train per se, it's just the inactivity. The static nature and lack of control that comes with waiting on some rolling hunk of metal to show up on its own time to ferry you to your destination as you sit on a hard plastic seat with your proverbial dick in your hand. It drives me just a little bananas. And not in a Gwen Stefani way, but more of a punch infants in the face while chewing on tin foil kind of way. In sheer Alanis Morissette fashion- the rain stopped just before I made it to the train platform. The skies remained clear for the rest of the night. Fuck-a-diddle-goddamn-doo. This was little matter in it of itself compared to the fact that by the time I made it to the restaurant I was finding it impossible to breathe out of my nose. That sickening familiar drip down the back of my throat had already begun signaling that the cold would be in full swing within the hour. I'd barely been out of the rain for three. The next thirty-six got worse and worse convincing me this entire day had been nothing more than the beginning of some cruel elaborate punishment for something I'd done in a past life. It could have been theft, wanton buggery with a goat, or the extermination of six million Jews for all I knew. Whatever it was it must've been a whopper because this cold could only be described as one day and one half on the sunnier side of Hell.

But the end of Tuesday afternoon brought with it the excitement of new possibilities when three very lovely young ladies of presence and purpose breezed into the sandwich shop. They were cycling across the country from Vermont to Montana allowing themselves only to make camp or crash on couches the whole way. No hotels on this tour, no sir! Only in Chicago for two days they were very keen to experience all the city had to offer in the way of live music and thrift stores. After steering them toward some very delectable veggie sandwiches and chatting them up as I am want to do the conversation moved to the impending evening. 

So, what's fun to do around here?

Well, it's Chicago.

I proceeded to blather on for a solid twenty minutes about different things to do on a Tuesday night none of which involved food. Hey, I'm learning this city. Once they spilled that they were bluegrass fans I couldn't help but invite them out to The Red Line Tap to see The Mudflaps. And why not? It'd been a good couple weeks since I'd hauled my cookies up to Rogers Park to see the masters of pick, steel, and twang remind us all of the brilliance that can come from too much whiskey in a high altitude environment. 

We'll see you later, they said.

Here's hopin, I replied. 

It's now midnight at Red Line and I'm sipping my at my second PBR tallboy. Though the cycling ladies have proved to be a no-show, I'm still glad for the false hope which brought me out. In the last hour I've been privy to a plethora of wildly irregular irregularities for Tuesday at Red Line. To begin, no Mickey. I don't know if she's ill, off, or fired. Maybe out of town for a friend's wedding. I didn't bother to ask the new girl running the taps and bottles. Probably be the umpteenth person to pester her about it and what difference does it make? She seems capable enough and I really just wanted a beer. Still, it is damn peculiar seeing anybody else behind that bar. Next, no Justin. The usual acoustic guitar God among men is absent tonight. In his place is another cat in a wicked cool hat playing both guitar and some odd-ball contraption that looks like a tiny keyboard with a rubber tube coming out of it as if he he's been ordered by the court to blow clean before operating the instrument. I later learned it was called a melodica. There is also a very tall very lean bespectacled fellow who has spent the show rocking a fiddle well enough to win a bet with Satan himself. These special guests, so-called have added some of their own tunes and as well as a richer fuller sound to the Mudflaps' set. The show was one king-daddy-hell of a lot of fun. Also in attendance tonight for no conceivable reason is a member of the Iron Order Motorcycle Club. I've never heard of this Illinois MC much less seen a member out sporting his colors for all to see. His Iron Maiden remains at his side and they seem a very agreeable couple sitting and having beers at a nearby table with a pair of local civilians. After a bit of research I learned that the IOMC began in 2004, and has since sprung new chapters in Kentucky, California, Little Rock, Atlanta, and Orlando just to name a few. The website actually boasts at least one chapter in each of the fifty states- Alaska and Hawaii included. The rings on his fingers number three (two of which are skulls) and the patches on his cut read IOFFIO, MBBM, and Capone Crew respectively. Agreeable or no this is clearly a man who has beaten more than his fair share of poor sad punks senseless not because he wanted to, but because he had to. I'm certain he could take the cheerful meathead Columbia grad who asked not five minutes after I walked in the door if I was in a band. Apparently, his friend just got engaged today and during this final hurrah he's determined to drink him under the table. Downing three shots at once in one hand was actually a pretty fun trick to watch, but he was a bit too loud and aggressive in his cheer for anyone else at the bar to suffer him gladly. Hannah was drumming her damaged vibrant heart out and yelling at the meathead to shut up and get the hell out just as The Mudflaps wrapped up their first set and I was contemplating another beer. Enough PBR, I thought. Let's try that Oktoberfest they've got on special. I'm thinking I should be heading home as I glance once more at the front door. No cycling ladies. No matter. The trip itself was more than worth it. A nice ride on a gorgeous night and more than a few sights I wasn't counting on. The cold is all but gone, and as James gives me a wave from the stage just as he's picking up his steel for the late night drinking set I'm reminded once again of where I belong. No small benefit. Some search their whole lives for such a feeling and come up empty handed. In comfortable moments such as these I wonder just how long it can last. -JN 

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 35: A Dynamic Duo Of Douchery

A Note From The Desk Of Jeff Newman: 

There's a kind of Dread that seems to follow me around wherever I go. It wakes with me in the morning and hovers about through shower, shaving, and teeth. It sits with me through couch and coffee and tags along as I ride to work. The Dread sets up shop for the next eight hours or so behind my left retina just occupying space so I know he's there. Even on a day off when I'm able to do things that are personally fulfilling or better yet where I'm able to do nothing at all the Dread is still hangin out. And always on my favorite chair.

I don't like the Dread. The Dread sucks the fun out of everything. The Dread will not allow the enjoyment of this alien concept commonly known as personal time. The Dread casts doubt and suspicion on all I meet and have occasion to dare I say- trust. The Dread reminds me of all the bad times when pain came constant and swift and you learned to hit hard or run fast. He wants me to believe nothing has changed and relying on others is a rookie mistake. The kind of dipshit cock-up you'd expect from a hapless child, not a god-damn grown-ass man. 

I wish the Dread would go. But it's only a feeling. You can't see it or touch it. It's a thick slime. A kind of sludge that coats my insides just beneath the dermis. It radiates out and my bloodstream does the rest. The Dread would be tolerable, I believe if he weren't accompanied by a Voice. They want me to think their motives are just, that we want the same things, that this is the only way and it's up to me. The Voice only ever says one thing over and over like a broken turntable hooked up to a 10,000 watt speaker- 

You should be getting something done.

Always. Every day. Every god-damn day.

You should be getting something done. 

I know.

You should be getting something done.

I know!

You should be getting something done. 

Fuck you, Voice. I got stuff done all day yesterday.

You should be getting something done. 

I'll try to get stuff done later.

You should be getting something done.

I KNOW!!

The plate keeps filling up and I keep working but it's never enough. The Dread and The Voice. A double act of douchery the likes of which the world has never seen! I'm all about getting things done. I'm the get-it-done guy. But I happen to know first hand that sacrificing your personal health and all around sanity just to get-it-done is wicked stupid and not indefinitely repeatable. The origin of the phrase "run yourself into the ground" is not hard to guess at and that is exactly what I think the Dread and Voice want. I think they want me dead. To feed off my creative energy until I'm dried up and beyond use. They will then slink off to infect another poor unsuspecting jackass who will in turn be drained dead and dry only so this Duo of Douche can slink off yet again and the cycle continues! They want me to believe that without them I'd never get anything done. They come out loud as all fuck especially if I'm taking time out for myself. Goofing around on the internet, meeting a friend for drinks, or God forbid playing video games- it doesn't matter. There's always something I should be reading or writing or re-reading or re-writing or planning or funding or organizing or communicating or attending and being attentive. The TO-DO list has become a living thing. It grows every day and The Douchetastic Duo won't let me look away. I've come to the conclusion that they don't work for the TO-DO list. They couldn't possibly. If I'm dead the list won't get done at all. 

You should be getting something done. A whole world is in that sentence.

Why aren't you doing something now?

If you really cared you'd be working on something.  

You're being lazy.

You're being selfish.

You're worthless.

People are counting on you and you're letting them down.

You're wasting your time.

I know what's best for you.

It's all in that judgmental observation. You should be getting something done. And in that certain nagging voice which rings so perfectly in my ears. It's enough to drive a man quite out of his senses. I'm not sure I remember a time without The Dread and The Voice. It would be wrong and unfair to say they've done me no good at all. I completed projects and assignments so quickly in college I was regularly approached by fellow stidents for clarification about homework. Due dates, instructions, etc. I was the guy you could count on. The guy who was on top of his shit. And this was with a very healthy very public marijuana habit. Was it worth it? Is it? To spend most days psychologically scarring yourself over and over? It hardly seems constructive. After all The Douchetastic Duo are supposed to stand for productivity above all other things. Is it worth it to feel socially alienated and uncomfortable around most people after about five minutes? How much harder would college have been without The Dread and The Voice? How much easier? It can't all get done at once. It won't. And if I'm trying to avoid being ashes before I'm fifty I need to wise up. I need to chill out. I need to put The Douchetastic Duo down for a six mile dirt nap. I wish I could say this revelation was step one on some road to recovery. Sadly, this is no epiphany. I've known The Duo for years. I know they're killing me. Every day we do battle. I win some. I lose some. A final solution has yet to present itself. Some days I tell myself I'll find it when I'm ready. Some days I fear it doesn't exist at all. -JN