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Jess Hilliard There is an ancient and genetic hatred of the sound of a slowly beating drum in the work place, in which everything is manual, and nothing is automatic. "I find myself in a weird secret society of time traveling story tellers, who carry on a string around their necks a golden pencil which sends them back if they do something wrong, or to seek out rogue story tellers; a golden trumpet emerges from my amulet and surrounds them, and they would be returned to face the humility of their peers, so that I could continue telling my harmless stories through the ages. How was your weekend?" . . . "It had big red eyes that turned to look right at me," Wayne said, turning his own head to mine, his eyes bulging in his expression, his body movements like that of a slow mime, or a 1920's male cheerleader. "Then he rolled over and I thought maybe he's sleepy, you know how them bugs get sleepy, but then he got up again and walked around funny, all in a circle like he been drinkin'," Wayne was gesturing kind of like a chicken, hands in fists on his hips, flapping them slowly as he slowly turned in another circle next to me. I was nodding, and eating a hard boiled egg. "And you know what" he said, stopping and looking right at me, "...he had two stripes on his BELLY." "No." I said, imagining he was telling me a story about some dog. Wayne is paranoid. He's 48 years old, has reddish-orange dyed hair in the shape of a blunt cone on his head, wears tight pants in a peddle-pusher style, pants rolled almost up to his knees. He told me something about how he might get lucky with Donna, his realtor. . . . There is a woman named Sue. She's a temp, only there occasionally, about fifty years old, bow legged, tight pants, huge belly, no teeth so her mouth has a caved in look; head is encircled by a red white and blue bandana, smokes menthols, wears cheap perfume and a swirly patterned read white and blue tie dyed shirt, and carries a 64 ounce red white and blue mug with her where she goes. "My girlfriend says it holds a six pack," Sue told me about her mug. "Do you have kids," I asked her. "Yeah, but they're all in group homes. Adult onset ADHD." "Yeah," I said, "...the 90's are tough." . . . Church bells are ringing, I can hear an owl, and a young boy calling for his dog named Pepsi; a young mongrel howls and cries for his boy. "Pay-pee! Pay-pee!" An old man selling newspapers out of a big pocket poncho as he walks. He says Pay-pee instead of Paper, or newspaper. There is an abandoned video store with a single, faded, wooden, hand painted sign out front that says "Nintendo." A rotting wreath lies at its doorstep; the door has a large hole chewed into it by some animal. Two girls walk past me-one asks if I am sleeping, the other says he is meditating. I am on Park Avenue. My middle name is Parks. I do not believe in terrorists, or identity theft. I might whisper to you "no difference between coffee and cocaine," but you won't believe it. This street starts on Battle Run Boulevard and leads to Walnut, Peachblow, and Grief. Muscular squirrels with muscular haunches, the drive through pizza parlor which used to be a house, and the house which used to be a hobby shop, and the hobby shop which used to be a lighthouse and was turned back into a hobby shop again. The clothes I'm wearing. Buck Rogers field and Buck Rogers walking area. The small silverish meteorite I found, which looks like a tiny horse hoof. The flag lady with the concertina; the flags, the flag ribbon, and the giant porch pinecone. The sunshine auto insurance and hamburger shop, all in one. The tanning salon/laundromat place. The live bait machines that look like soda machines, and the real soda machines next to them. The town fish fries. The objects in the gutter I hold so tenderly in my hand. Where sports minded people meet, and the home of the world famous fried bologna sandwich, and the pork rinds of many flavors, and the eggs and honey for sale on the sidewalk. The town's only bridge under construction, and the apartment I almost lived in. The town's very origin rooted in an ancient concern of a necktie and some whiskey. Knowing they got it good, but also knowing they don't know it. "Momma who is that man?" "I don't know, honey." "Does he talk?" "No." I open my eyes and wave. The young people all move away, and no one ever moves in. And the groundhog problems turn into real serious real groundhog worries. But I will not kill them. I will collect and sell them as exotic pets, and train them to use and flush the toilet and to wear tiny pairs of little denim pants with cute patterns of appliqué on them. . . . Drinking with John in 1990, we were both twenty one, drinking whiskey in a bathroom stall at his old high school during school hours and then wanting to leave the bathroom and maybe drink someplace else but were too drunk too walk, and sort of too scared by that point to even leave the stall, together, we stumbled out of the bathroom, reeking, and asked a group of girls for a ride, I told them "we have no where to go for Thanksgiving", and then got into their car and waited, but noticing that the girls looked nervous, or frightened, and there was a gathering crowd of kids pointing at us, and we also knew the people in the office knew we were there, and maybe what we were doing, because I had already been in there, too, right after leaving the bathroom and just before approaching those girls, to buy a pencil with the school's name on it, "The Eagles". "I can't believe you went in there for that," John said. But somehow we got out of the car and made it by foot back to John's parents' house, where I then puked in their sink and didn't clean it out because I passed out before I had a chance to clean it, and then woke up to angry John telling me his parents wanted to know what was wrong with me. I overheard his mom saying I had the "Hong Kong Flu". But I knew what was really wrong with me, and it took twelve more years of uncomfortable situations like this, and worse, before I finally quit drinking. . . . Is it wise or wisest, to have a philosophical , or humorous approach to science? Is it unwise not to? Don't be scared, little muffin. It's only a silver of the moon. And no one's ever seen a ghost, and no one has ever been to L.A. . . . It is sad that I have this recording hobby, habit, with no technology, or reason for it. My tiny guitar and stories and songs and way of talking get onto cassette, and then into a box. Perhaps for future generations of micro cassette social scientists, and I know there will be. And I will blow their mind with the lost art of the loop tape. . . . I hadn't bought a record in over ten years, but have recently been thinking about Jethro Tull. Aqualung. Hearing it on the radio, but for the first time, noticing it. I went to the mall, something I rarely do, and everyone was in pairs, but I was alone. I couldn't find the record, had to ask for help, and the guy couldn't seem to believe he had what he called a real music fan in the store. I was freaked out by the store, and did not understand much of what I was seeing, but he found it for me and up at the counter he asked if I wanted to buy into their frequent customer plan and I said "No. I have not bought a record in over ten years and it'll be at least that long before I buy another one. This may be the last record I will ever buy. You will not see me again." . . . I was thinking about the differences between southern democrats, whigs, and republicans, and also the health benefits of Michigan tart cherry juice concentrate and sardines. This, as I watched Starship Troopers 2, which was not good: it was filmed in complete darkness. Then I called Cleveland and told him we need to get funding for a car trip in which he and I drive without changing course or direction until we hear the song, "In the year 2525" on the radio, any radio, which could make it a long drive in one direction. I told Cleve that last night the moon looked like a shining sword coming up out of the water, which were the clouds, through the windshield of my car. And that the saddest thing you could say before or after any occasion, is "I wish I didn't eat all that pie." . . . I know the reason Chihuahuas are so nervous. It is because they were once bred as tiny cattle to be eaten by the ancient Aztecs, and are, to this day, still fearful of their Aztec masters. When a Chihuahua looks up at you, he doesn't see hair parted on the side, an Izod shirt and Docker pants-he sees brown, flaming eyes, framed by a wild headdress of exotic feathers, and golden ingots of war. For the little Chihuahua, there is no such thing as petting, only preparing. And for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, it was known by all mankind, the existence of the planet Vulcan, until 1916, when Albert Einstein introduced some sort of unifying theory which "proved" Vulcan didn't exist. Years went by, until the late 1960's when Gene Rodenberry gave us Star Trek and proved once again that Vulcan does exist. . . . "Wheat don't scare me anymore," I said to him. And I could tell by the look on his face, and his body language, and the little dance that he did, that he was with me, and was so very glad. So very, very glad. "Wheat don't scare any of us anymore," we said together, like we'd planned it, or that it was destiny to feel that way. Or that maybe we should do a project together. . . . I have a compulsive behavior, or feeling, that I will leave the house without my pants on. Which is partly based in fact-not only do my summer shorts strongly resemble my boxers, but a few years ago when I was still drinking, and on way more than one occasion, my (ex) wife found me naked on the porch, or naked walking around the apartment complex, trying to get out. So I can't really feel safe regarding this. And even now I must check my trousers and zipper several times before moving beyond my front door. And even once I merge out into the world I still feel doubt as to what I will or will not see if I look down at my leg area; each time I leave the house, and the door closes behind me, I always say, or think, but usually say, "Oh well, I checked. There's nothing I can do now if I'm wrong." . . . How do I take such great pictures? Why am I so photogenic? I've been meaning to provide an internationally promoted seminar on this very topic for years now. Well, when most people get their picture taken they say cheese. But when I whisper, I whisper, "love." I mean, when I get my picture taken, I whisper in a Southern accent, "Let's understand this." . . . Frogs and toads-they are very cute, but I don't want to touch them. How do they reproduce where there is no water-or are they born in puddles? They start as tadpoles, which must swim, yet they are everywhere, in neighborhoods and other non-lakes. Frogs are the only animal that doesn't sleep. But maybe they hallucinate. I think they're crazy, all frogs and toads. But how can we know? How do you know that they're not crazy? Can you prove it? The answer is, you can't. No one, not even in the future, will ever know that I am right. I'm not saying that I'm a genius, maybe you're the genius, I don't know. But even in the future no one will know. No one will ever know. But I want to have a little toad house for the yard. It's like an inverted clay bowl with a little door cut into it for the toads and frogs to go in and out of. Maybe they can have their babies there, I don't know. . . . There's a picture of a faded sign (on an abandoned restaurant) nearby that says "Friendly", next to another abandoned restaurant called "The Halfway House". My apartment, which came with a giant, framed, wall-sized color photograph mural of some mountain scene, was the dance hall portion of a mason's lodge, then a travel agency. It's above the post office, library, and stained glass store. The Scioto river is across the street. 1200 square feet, 3 walk in closets, 14 windows, 15 foot high ceilings, with carpeting in the kitchen AND the bathroom, and a small lounge area in the bathroom. It looks like a giant office, and it is a giant office. It came with a desk. And a ladder, and two toilet plungers. And a picture of babies dressed up like vegetables, and a bunch of wire hangers in one of the closets. Which is good, because now I don't have to buy any of that stuff. And inside one of the desk drawers someone had written in black sharpie, "you got class." . . . Next to the French door entrance to my bedroom is the French door entrance to my carpeted bathroom with the tiny lounge in it is my collection of 3D photographs of the 1950's film, "The Creature From The Black Lagoon." I took the pictures of the screen with a disposable camera. And when you wear my 3D glasses, the pictures stand out in 3D. Also I have pictured a photo homage to my recently passed away dog and best friend, the blond, 17 year genius named Merlin. And pictures from the six proms I went to. By the 5th prom I was feeling a little freakish. After #6 I knew it had to end. But I still almost went to #7 in Ireland. . . . Picture me, no shirt on, a blue ribbon around my head, not smiling, on Christmas morning 2003. And you will have an idea of just that exact thing that is also on my wall. I also have a picture of the door where my cleaning supplies are kept, and also my poker supplies, in a backpack shaped like a toy soccer ball that has the word "goal" on it. The other objects on the wall are historical items, top secret items including an irradiated dime inside an irradiated envelope from the Atomic Energy Commission in Washington DC that I got from a yard sale. Hanging by it is a term paper I wrote on my pants, on the subject of the Louisiana Purchase. I wrote other papers on my pants, too. But sometimes on my boxers, or shirt, and then I'd wear it to class and turn it in, folded, and remain partially clothed for the rest of class. I considered the "turning in" portion a part of my grade. And so did they. Then there's Space 1999, Boris Karlof, Ritchie Rich, and Mandrake The Magician comic book covers , Debrah Harry's autograph, pictures of me and Cleveland at the Salton Sea with Harrell; me and George Lucas at his home in Marin in 1977; my baseball team shirt from my old team The Green Gremlins, in 1976, and a picture of me and Cleveland in Harrell's truck on a trip we took to a Southern California desert in 1990. These items are all in my bathroom. The next photos on my wall are of my two cousins, Josh and Kim. They are toddlers in the photo. Their dad is a tanned, secretive landscaper in Fresno. Josh is the father of twins. Kim is the mother of at least six, and both Kim and Josh are more than ten years younger than me, and I have no children. Next to it is a picture of me wearing bear ears, and a light up nose, holding a small dog. Sometimes, like in this picture, that dog looks like a fish. Then there's a picture of my friend's brother, Steve. My friend's name was Chris. There's a chair in my dining room set that I've had since I was a baby. There's fork marks on it from when I first learned how to use a fork, and other markings and scratching I've made on it, a sort of personal scratch history, 1969 to now. On the wall is a small colorful jacket made for me by a family friend's grandma when I was three. The shirt next to it is one I wore whenever me and my family went to Mexico, in the mid-seventies, to a beach house owned by a psychiatrist friend, who also had a small plane that he would fly us in, to Mexico, but who had later turned up missing for several years until his crashed plane was found on the side of a mountain, with only his teeth, his watch, and two bottles of Mexican Vanilla left intact inside the wreckage. Also on this wall are pictures of me in a powder blue jumpsuit my mom made for me; picture of me in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, 1975, holding a colorful paper ball given to me by Japanese tourists who wanted their pictures taken with me, something which happened to me a lot back then-I looked to them to be a small, blond, blue eyed Asian, but I wasn't. I just looked like it, a lot. Usually when kids get teased for looking a certain way, they cry for them to stop it, and say "no I don't" and stuff like that, but I knew what I looked like, and would say I knew what I looked like. Once in high school some girl walked up to me and said, "You got trippy eyes." And that was the last time anybody ever said anything about it to me, but I wouldn't mind it if they did. And there's still probably pictures of me in scrapbooks all over various Asian countries, in small villages probably not even accessible by modern man. I'd like to find them. Also a picture of me and Richard Kiel, the metal toothed guy who played "Jaws" in the James Bond movies. I met Richard at a yogurt shop in Fresno in 1987. Next to it is a framed letter to me from my dad's old boss, thanking me for sending him my school picture and that I should see his farm in Iowa sometime. His wife, Kika, was in the 1970's movie, "Convoy". Remember that disco truck driver song called "Rubber Ducky"? That was the theme song of Convoy. I also got framed: poems written to me by my cousins and aunts. A picture of me on "grad night" at Disneyland, 1986. Picture of me in a homemade swimsuit in Mexico, 1974. Picture of me wearing the wookie mask in George Lucas' office, and a letter to me, framed also, from a 4th grader in my mom's class that says "Hey Jess you so so cool man you look like a karate guy can you be my brother Carlos". In my living room is the wagon my parents used to give me rides in, around the block, to get me to go to sleep, with a blanket and a pillow in it, so I could lay down and look up at the sky as they pulled me, slowly, and I could listen to them talk, and to the sounds of the street all around me, and the sidewalk below me, barely, and all bundled up and comfortable. My book cases have my tapes, books, records, some hats, comics, knife and sword collection, spy glass replica of what Lewis and Clark used; stink bombs from Germany, my baseball trophy (1st place), my paperboy trophy (getting the most subscriptions), radio dramas, metal detector, a giant shogun warrior, my bib I used when I was a baby (on my couch is the blanket that matches the bib, made from the same fabric-an early polyester-and a small patchwork blanket, all made by the same woman who made me the colorful jacket I told you about), a picture of me looking nervous and standing next to Clint Eastwood on a beach near some elephant seals; a postcard from Dave Barry saying "Dear Jess, Thanks, you're not so bad yourself"; a picture of me in my wagon wearing the patchwork jacket, sitting on the patchwork blanket; a picture of me and Debrah, my best friend when we were both four years old-we would look at my dinosaur books together, wear matching outfits and hats my dad would make for us out of brown paper sacks, and hold hands and walk around the complex together, in silence. Sometimes she would kiss me on the cheek. That was about the only way she would communicate with me, other than holding my hand, reading and walking with me, and wearing those outfits together. But somehow I felt like I knew her. Another book case in my office where I live, has my toy gun collection, animal dioramas I made a few days ago, a picture of me in a suit next to some elephant seals on a beach; there's a clicker for dog training (it's shaped like a paw), some other dog training stuff; on the other wall is yet another patchwork jacket made for me by yet another old lady when I was little. Above it is the first painting I ever did, in 1991, which I won $75 for in the "scrap metal" category it turned out I was in-I won, not because of my actual painting, but because of the piece of scrap metal that I had painted upon. And also because the sponsors thought I had purchased the scrap from them, but I hadn't-I'd found the scrap in the bushes behind a grocery store. So I guess they thought the award was kind of a reimbursement, but it was really a profit. To the right, on the frames of the doorway into my bedroom, are attached the small envelopes of my magic and joke collection-fake beer, fake cola drink, savon a' mains rouge sang (a trick that turns your face red), fish flavored candy (one is missing because I ate one), fake brown pile, fake broken window, a love potion which claims to be the "perfect aphrodisiac"-but it has only one ingredient-something called "Zingiber Dextrose", and in small print it says "For Gag Purposes Only". Also is "Instant Smoke", but it's really a kind of slightly vaporized fiber glass, and a small pouch of "Genuine Itching Powder" which lists no ingredients, but after looking at it and trying it out on my self I figured out it's really made up of tiny cactus needles, and fiber glass, that get imbedded in your skin and then get into your clothes and sheets, and it's hardly possible to wash off, but it does itch. It itches bad, and so bad that you would think you're not gonna make it, for the several days that it lasts while it's imbedded in your skin, and everything you've touched, or loved. Also mounted nearby to that is my squirt-nickel. All of these items, including the nickel, claim to make you "the life of the party". On the floor next to my wagon is the washtub bass I made. In the middle of the living room is my L-shaped couch that has two reclining easy chairs built into it. Barkaloungers? On the couch is a pillow covered in a pillow case my mom made me out of my old curtains that had cowboys and horses on them, which she also had made. But after they were curtains, she turned them into that pillow case, and also into a shirt that matched it, in the same thick fabric. On the wall near the bathroom is the red sombrero I used to wear as a kid, and a framed napkin that says, "Blessed is he or she that see-eth, and use-eth, Guest Towel in House of Friend". Up above those is an engineer's cap from the skunk train in Fort Bragg, and a tiny night shirt I wore when I was a baby. Also up there is my (mounted) comb collection (part of it), and my finger prints taken by the police in 1983, as well as my measles and rubella records. On the wall to the right of that is a black and white picture of me in a feather headdress, flossing my teeth, and another one of me with a shoe-polish beard, wearing an American flag cape, hunched over a tin pot of macaroni and cheese that I was eating. Neither one of those pictures was staged, but I can't remember how they came to be, either. On the floor beneath these is a tiny rocking chair and tiny wicker chair, both of which I used as a small child. I don't remember where the little rocking chair came from, but the wicker one I got in Mexico when I was five, and I had carried it all around the outdoor market for a long time before finally getting it to the car. I think it was my first real test of endurance. I still look at that chair as a kind of accomplishment. And there's a picture of me, next to my mom, carrying the chair on my back. I don't think I HAD to carry it, or was made to carry it, but I felt driven to carry it-inwardly driven. I was five years old. It was my first project. Behind these, in the corner, is an Aztec piñata bat. But probably not ever used by real Aztecs. And in another corner are my old stuffed animals-the grey rabbit is haggard because of the haircuts I would give it; the lion (made for me by someone, it was my baby pillow) is haggard because of the haircuts I would give it, and also because of the stains on it. Next to my door is a picture I took of two cows kissing; a picture of me with two puppies near a small church in Mexico in 1974; my badge collection is mounted around the door frame, as is my belt buckle collection: Battlestar Galactica, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and one depicting a welder. On the wall above my desk are my favorite greeting cards: one that shows a boy next to a lion and says "Special Boy"; one of a man in a tweed suit saying, "I'd like to introduce myself"; one with a picture of a needle that says "The Doctor Says You Might Need A Hypo", and one that just says "Happy Trip". Also above my desk is my (mounted) massive pencil collection; on my desk is my wind-up radio, night vision goggles, small safe that I keep my guitar picks in, a postal scale from the 1980's, two spiderman signal watches, my bags of lists of things to do, CIA badge, a 24 hour sobriety coin, and a rocket-bear mug that hold my pens, but that I drank out of when I was a baby. Also a picture of a picture I took of a dumpster near Mount Shasta that had spray painted on the dumpster, "NO ROCK OR METAL". Inside the desk: office supplies, costume makeup, and my sunglasses and napkin collection. On my tv is a sort of astronaut angel Antarctic dog crash site diorama; above that are some backstage pictures from David Letterman; an aerial map of Denton, Texas, and some pictures of friends breaking a Guinness record for skydiving; a picture of my dad skydiving, and on another shelf: some sound effects devices, a trombone, and a compact karaoke set up. Above my bed is the "Outstanding Scholar Boy" award I won in 6th grade, a writing award my dad received in high school, and some competitor's shirts I won when I was on the rowing team in college. There's a picture I drew of a smiling woman watching a man who is not smiling, but who is next to a car; a button that says "ask me about whitefish", my pass to visit congress, and small dioramas of tiny weapons replicas. Also a letter of response from Ed Emberly-he wrote a how-to-draw book for kids in the 1970's, and also this one really inspiring letter to me, on the bottom of which he drew my favorite animal from his book-the ape. On the wall next to the closet with my clothes in it is a battery operated flashing light, and a little fringe vest that I wore to L.A. when I was four. There's a picture of two hands shaking each other that says beneath it, "Canada/USA Friends Forever"; a "Tokyo Rescue" patch, some other patches, and an academic decathlon ribbon I got in high school for something called Future Problem Solving. In the kitchen is a picture of my collection of mugs, and a box of tea: black, green, and sleepytime. Then a picture of a rock pile near my home, and one of some scrap metal I'd found and sold about five years ago. A picture of the runway/landing strip I made in our wheat field; and a picture of me considering underpants designs for an amazing fabric I now have. A picture of a café I pass on the way to work each day. It has strawberry pie, and an underground pool hall\pistol range underneath it, beneath the café. Pretty much all anyone, or me, could want, all in one creepy shack. Also in the kitchen is a picture of my mom's little dog who I think looks like a tiny buffalo, or tiny gorilla; one of a groundhog-it's hard to photograph them up close like this. It took all day of waiting, and sneaking, to get this one slightly blurred picture of his shadowy, blurred face. But finally he did poke his head out, but then the flash scared him and he ducked back into that hole FAST, but he whistled at me first. Also in my kitchen you'll find vitamins, cough drops, prunes, raisins, peanut butter, tuna, lemon juice, and dried cranberries. Above the sink are excerpts from Boris Karlof comics, two flyswatters I won at the Popcorn Festival, and a feather duster I got from the Wooley Bear Festival. I have another feather duster that is over eight feet long, but I also use it as a decoration so that it kind of blends in a little. On the fridge are pictures of me with cows, goats, pigs, chickens, dogs, cats, birds, telephones, a ferret, some horses, and a monkey named Hobo that climbed into my arms. I know him, because he works with my friend who is an organ grinder. I would like to have one, but it's expensive to keep a monkey. And they need more space than I could provide. Next to the sink, and above the stove, are other poems written to me by relatives when I was born. There's a picture of me and some woman dressed as a 19th century prostitute, and below that, next to the oven is a metal rack. On the rack is a metal box. In that box is my coin collection of coins I'd pried up out of the pavement, in Texas and in California, and also a piece of fake vomit I've had since 1973. Next to the rack is a picture of my dog wearing a tiny paper crown I made her. On a side note, I used to drink a lot, and when I'd get drunk I'd sort of become this guy I thought of as "Pedro Fumar, The Magic Swami Ghost King." And from what I hear, Pedro could get pretty mean. I have no pictures of him, or me as him, but I sometimes think of it, or him, when I see some of these things I have around. If you ever feel an addiction coming on, try to fight it. Because it could eventually make you crazy, and kind of split your personality, which might seem funny, or interesting, at first. But it's not interesting. It's terrifying to become two people. Because the one that you were, starts to die; and the one that you are becoming, you don't want to be. So, on another kitchen wall are the letters I got back from Presidents Reagan and Carter, each thanking me for my interests in ecology, and for my ideas to use giant robots to rescue Skylab. On another kitchen wall are nailed my coffee lid and tiny spoons collection; an altered jackalope; a picture of me with real baby squids crawling up my arm; me getting kissed by a show dog (bichon frise); one of me driving a small clown car when I was nine years old-the clown car was owned by our friend Newt who quit his law career to follow his dream of selling frozen bananas. And part of that dream involved that little car, somehow. Next to this is a picture of me in a cow suit, dancing; one of me at a peep-eating contest (those little marshmallow birds)-I ate six, and the winner ate almost a 100 peeps; then here's one of me and my guinea pig, Flower; me with my hand on fire while talking on the phone, one of me shooting a civil war era black powder rifle; one in front of the truck I used to live in; me with a polar bear; me on Angel Island; one of a lady I once saw in a bikini when a goose walked up to her and I took their picture; another one when a raccoon walked up to her, and my "Biker Mice From Mars" paint set. A Polaroid of me in a black leather jacket next to a guy dressed like Uncle Sam. Framed and hanging is my letter of congratulations from White Castle for winning their essay contest. The prize was: that letter, and a pin that says "White Castle Hall of Fame". Yesterday I entered an essay contest to win the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. I enter lots of essay contests, but rarely win. I've written essays to become an honorary Harlem Globetrotter, to win Prince's purple motorcycle, Jon Bon Jovi's childhood home in New Jersey, Billy Idol's sunglasses; also an essay to win my own Taco Bell restaurant, a lifetime supply of Nyquil, and also a Del Monte recipe contest. I did win that last one, and got thirty dollars for my recipe idea, which was just salt, water, and a can of their mixed vegetables that I called "Special Delight". In losing so many essay contests I've been realizing that there are way more literate gamblers out there than I had ever imagined. Because somebody's out there writing and winning those things. My life would sure be different if it was me. . . . Few people know the connection between practical joke products, and international espionage: Fart Spray was invented by the CIA to make America's Enemies feel some sort of shame. And there was a version of the original fart spray that had a custom ingredient in it that would also make the guy's beard slough off, thus discrediting him further, possibly. But with that product, you could only discredit a person with a beard. Those were the days when I liked what the government was doing. . . . I could easily define my life as being in three phases: 1) The time and part when I did not understand the Blue Man Group, 2) The time and part when I finally did understand the Blue Man Group, and 3) The time and part when I am not really interested one way or the other in the Blue Man Group. . . . What's his name, that record producer with the last name conjugated into the past tense of the verb "to be", first name, "Don", oh yeah, "Was". Also, I'm beginning to think that some of my memories are really only recently developed opinions. . . . It took a while, but I did identify the hip hop florist on highway 203. Their sign says "we got bulk mulch, yo." And if I could write the labels for containers of oatmeal, I would draw a picture of a single oat, and below it I would write, "this illustration represents the average size of an oat (oatmeal, oats, and whole meal oats) in this container. The oat becomes meal, you can use a spoon, and it's pretty great. Did I tell you my idea for a lotion, and a cookie? The lotion would be a high priced lotion of some sort, promoted to reflect this paranoid, militant age, and marketed to trendy 40 year olds from big cities. It would have a trendy, World War II look to the packaging, and would be called "Atomic Balm". And the cookie would be edible cookie teeth-I got the idea by putting an animal cracker in between my front upper teeth and my top lip, with only the legs of the animal cracker showing, and it looks like some kind of weird teeth, so I thought why not market them that way. They could still even be in the shape of animals, but the on the package they would be called "Uncle Jesse's Good Time Fun Teeth", with a chopsticks-style diagram on how to use them. . . . Tonight as the sun was setting I saw in the sky, thin clouds that formed an "I" and an "X", and they were close together like the Roman numerals for "nine". Just at that moment, looking back down from the sky, I turned on the radio and the DJ said, "9pm", and looking at my watch saw that it was, indeed, 9pm, and it was also up in the sky in Roman numerals. And in my mind, right now, and on this page, and maybe in your mind, too. . . . "...I ate mostly only beans and prunes for over two weeks; one gives you bad gas, and the other gives you the runs," I told her. "But only if you eat too much of it" she said, and I was sweating and rocking and bobbing in my chair and then said, "Beans-and-prunes-are-good-for-you" like some kind of crazy slogan I wanted her to think I had. And I just kept talking: "It's like two friends that one has a tank of gas and the other has a lighter, well, friend, that's just one dangerous hobby. What did you do this weekend?" "I went back in time and gave valentines to special friends: each valentine was a small paper cup, royal blue; written in cursive, on the outside of the cup it said, in swirly, gold letters, 'Divide and Conquer', and on the inside of the cup, in regular letters, it said 'Love Jess.' Then I found a secret river in which I could swim to the planet Mars, a planet of dreams and commitment, and photographs, and reflection, of memory. This is a planet of finding things." "That's cool, I like your haircut, will you be my brother?" "Yeah." . . . I don't dream in color, I have trouble filling out forms, I make lists for everything, computers upset me, and I seem to recently have gotten a slight stuttering problem. But I can think about many things at once. Just now I was thinking about work, remembering some of the new breakers and parts and rules, while clipping my nails, thinking about my two friends who are having a baby overseas, how glad I am that I made coffee today, how happy the Lawrence Welk Show makes me, all while I tell you about the guy at work who talks loudly and gestures like an angry gorilla; the guy at work who barks and moans like a dog and yells "Suh-weeet!" each time I hand him a finished pan, which happens eight or nine hundred times a night; the box I found at work, on which every word on it is in Chinese except the phrase, "Stealth Marine Pollutant"; the sign I saw on the back window of a van today that said, "GOOD EAGLE LUCK WRESTLING", and the question: Why is Berkshire pronounced "Buckish"? . . . Here's an idea, this is a good idea: take some stage combat classes, or teach them, or maybe take one over; make a stage combat movie, or a play. And the stage combat book on tape. Sample dialog from the ending of the stage combat play: "Sir, all of the tiny horses have beards, what have you to say on this matter?" "Just that nothing I have ever known could have prepared me for this moment." "I love you, sir". "As do I, sir. We all do." The End. . . . A samurai, a ninja and a shogun walk into a bar. They are invisible. The End. . . . Sometime in the 21st Century, which is still the Future: It is hot here, robots are doing everything, and the thunderstorms are crazy! I run a miniature gold concession, I mean, miniature golf, but mostly it involves yelling at kids to quit swinging the clubs like swords, as I sit in my high tech lawn chair, drinking ice tea, and wondering what people in the future mean by "an elephant ear." . . . "Loud radios, most slang, reality TV, football and NASCAR, politicizing health or morality; the shallow, manipulative, irresponsible, unoriginal, self centered fashion style culture trends marketed to the young. There's just not enough thinking and loving, and too much looking and taking" I said. "Your mouth, and the sounds coming out of it, are as beautiful as the natural flow of a fresh amber grist. Do you know what that is? Ask me and I'll tell you. I promise. I might even give you some, or a replica" she said. . . . There are two things I think about a lot-turtles, and clams. Because of their life spans. Clams live to be 200 years old, and they don't move much. Or do they? Do they think? Or have a sense of time passing? It's so much experience, and waiting, for so long, for such a tiny, simple thing. And as for turtles-they are immortal. They grow up, but not old. There is no known cause of death for them. A turtle will live for hundreds, or thousands of years, until something eats it. And what do they think about? What do dolphins think about this, and what else do dolphins think about, or know? Also, what I like about Christopher Walken is that he is so funny, but that's not the best part. The best part is that he doesn't even have to be there to be funny-all someone has to do is relate a Christopher Walken story, or tell something he'd said once, or mention the title of one of his movies, or do an impression, even a bad one. Christopher Walken is more than just a guy, he's a hobby. You can watch his movies, think about him, tell people about him, imagine him in different sorts of unusual, or ordinary, circumstances, and stuff like that. . . . Dear Friend: it takes the same amount of time to make cheese as it does for L.A. to move 4 inches closer to San Francisco, as it does for my hair to grow to the length I had it in 1991: two years. So that's how much you can learn about the world and the universe and chemistry and all of physics, just by looking at an old picture of me in my cool hairdo. And also why San Francisco better find a way to scoot from L.A., cuz it's comin', bud. Love, Jess PS: You look great. . . . Why shouldn't we eat fish? They eat each other. And yes, it's true that people are born, but I find it disturbing to refer to the newly born as "people", I prefer to call them "babies." If you say "people" are born, it sounds like fully grown adults, or some sort of pod creature is being born. So let's just call them Babies. . . . A lot of times when I look around it seems that the world is made up of words, not atoms or molecules, but brand names, ideas, theories, and names--you, me, and the universe. Even though it all came before there were words, it has all turned into words as the way my mind interprets what it thinks it sees. For example, the future: the future is a list, and so in a way, you can see into the future, or possible futures, by looking at each other's lists, or peering into my baggie of lists. And that's really the only way. It's just like the past-I will keep spreading the words, and lists, around-naming, redefining, remembering, foretelling, hoping; everything that you love comes to you as a word, on my list, first. And once it's a word, on my list, it can be categorized and re-remembered, even spiritually. It's how your soul stays alive. It's how you love, and move forward, and know what you know, giving purpose to seeking your purpose. But we also misinterpret everything, on purpose, because deep down we are all abstract poets, and we would all have it no other way. . . . Here are the seasons we have around here: groundhog season (over, just passed); frog season (over, just passed); and squirrel season (not over, not passed). This is squirrel season. But I don't hunt. I just like knowing the seasons, and I like those animals. When it comes to animals, I tend to like the small ones. And the ones who pose no threat, and that tend to be cute and bewildering. Well, the groundhogs are actually a little scary because of their teeth, but then they get a little cute because they whistle, and they have sort of a cute shape. And even though frogs and toads are cute, I have no wish to touch or hold them. Nor a squirrel. . . . "In My Writing Seminars" by Jess Hilliard I will teach that to add interest and importance to your story, start it with a title followed by the word "by" which is then followed by your name. To add some humor to your story, which makes you seem more talented, end it with the words, "The End", followed by three spaced out stars, which signify that your important thought is over, and it's time for the reader to reflect upon it. This works every time. The rest is just filler. Try it. It's really a great formula, and if you use it, you will be a great writer, too. The End. . . . "Why's a high fat diet controversial? It's a congealed weapon...and you can tell a lot about a town by its public restrooms (no doors, two-way mirrors, comic machines, joke machines, porno and porno gadget machines, musk machines, and hair nets) if written on the wall is, 'That's what I get for using psychic energy in a foreign country-you don't speak the language, you sure not gonna read their minds.'" And I always believe what he tells me. The End. . . . Movie series idea: get people that you know, or work with, or don't know, or you, to spend a day or two writing and making with a video camera, a "teen movie", whatever and however they interpret it. The next series would be "romantic comedy". And the next would be the film makers interpreting, through video, the titles, "the American way", "Robot Problems", "Welding Patterns of an Untrained Welder", "My Scope of the Future Has Narrowed To One Goal", "Patent Search" (like "Star Search", but about up and coming inventors from your county), "There Is Something Special About Loose Change, Isn't There", "Fashion Is Not Your Problem", "Puff of White Powder From Unusual Places", "Watch The City From The City", "Sifting Flour Over A Thousand Twin Beds In One Day", "Can I Have It Animal Style?", "Wearing A Hat Is A Spiritual Experience", "Ice Floats, And So We Live", "Do Your Every Trick And I Will Love You For It", "I Thought I Was Gonna Fart My Pants", "The Miracles of Michigan Tart Cherry Juice Concentrate", "The Children Aren't All Beautiful, And I Don't Create Tiny Little Animals Just So I Can Watch Them Die", "The Ladies In The Bank Make Change For Your Mints", "Faces Behind Plate Glass Windows", "Italian Wheat Music", "A Word That I Know Is WELLBUTRIN", "Why Does It Seem That Deep Thinkers Are Pretty, Or Never Are?" and "Physics, Cowboy Style". If I had made the Hulk movie, I would have had less, or no, action. And more thinking and walking, with that sad, slow piano music like in Bill Bixby's TV version in the 1970's. . . . I wonder why, instead of calling it the Y2K problem, no one called it M&M Worries, because M&M is 2000 in Roman. And I think there should be a helmet law for cars-strictly, abusively enforced. You will lose your license for life, and must do a lifetime sentence of really harsh community service IF YOU DON'T WEAR YOUR HELMET IN YOUR CAR. This is the only political cause worth fighting for, and enforcing, strictly, and abusively. . . . Three things make me happy: one, that there's a town somewhere called Sopchoppy; two, that there's a cat somewhere named Lady Nonesuch; and three, that people in Florida believe in a creature called The Skunk Ape. And as a side-gladness, I am glad not to be afraid of puppets, ventriloquists, flutes, and related things. . . . I woke up at five thirty this morning because of a loud explosion outside my window. The paramedics were down there with the sheriff, helping a trucker get out of his truck that he had just wrecked, right outside my door, barely missing my own little car. He had turned the corner too sharply and quickly and hit the barrier on the sidewalk, which made him crash, and his wheel explode loudly. I could hear him talking, he said he thought he was having a heart attack-he said this as he was throwing his work uniforms into the trash. "I'm not gonna drive ever again. These are goin' in the trash. I think I'm havin' a heart attack," he told the sheriff. They checked him and said it was just panic and anxiety. But the paramedic asked if the guy had ever felt this way before, and the guy said, "Yeah, but it was gall bladder. And I got that took out." The guy looked disappointed when he was told his heart was ok. Then the sheriff asked why the guy was throwing away his uniforms, so the guy showed him the new wheel on the other side of his truck and said it was new because he had "popped IT earlier this morning". He'd gotten two tickets that day, been the cause of two accidents, totaled his company's truck, was told on the radio that he was fired, and, as he was throwing his uniforms into the trash, saying he was having a heart attack, he was telling the sheriff he'd run out of pain medication from the gall bladder surgery. And on top of that, as I watched and listened to this, I realized there were four specific swarms of gnats over the four corners of my bed, like four tiny tornados boxing me in. Why were they in that formation? And why weren't the Chinese beetles on my ceiling eating them? I lay back, so much to think about, and remembered the pigeon that appeared to me, out at the farm, with numbered tags on his legs-he could fly, but instead he chose to follow me around on the ground, watching me do yard work, just a few inches away from me. He wasn't scared of me. He was tame. We don't know why he was there, or where he came from. But he was very interested in me, in being near me, and observing me with head-to-toe sweeping eye movements that he gave me, as if he considered me strange, or perhaps even amusing. I named him Charlie. And after a few days, the cat ate him. . . . At the Teflon pan factory where I work, there are thousands of brave little spiders about the size of a half dollar. If I try to scare one away, like by stomping my feet and waving my arms at it, it will not scurry, but will rear up on its hind legs, waving it's front legs, too-in a threshing, karate chop motion. And it will stay in that position until I calm down, or give up, or walk away. I think the Teflon makes them insane. How can such a tiny thing feel equal in shaking its little fists at me? That is, unless I look smaller that I think. . . . Every town in Ohio has a festival for whatever food, animal, or idea that occurs to people as being something they want to have a festival concerning. And every festival has a queen, who is Queen over whatever food, animal, or idea that the festival is about: moonshine, duct tape, wooley bears, bratwurst, covered bridges, sweet corn, walleye, corn pone, deep fried twinkies, elephant ears, or tractor square dancing: they're all festivals, and they've all got their queens. And tractor square dancing? What is the origin of it? When, where, who, and why? Even the teens out here love it, and aren't too cool for it. There's a caller who shouts out all the doh-say-dohs, and alamand lefts, to fast-paced, turkey in the straw, banjo music-the antique tractors being driven, in pairs, as if they were dancers. "Who here's for John Deere?" The caller shouts out to the stands, as the old tractors get into formation, facing up, pairing off. "YEAH!!" part of the crowd yells. "...Any Minneapolis Moline fans in the stands?" he asks us again. "YEAH!" the audience cheers. The dancing tractor riders wave to the stands. And then they start-- weaving, figure eights-like a nonviolent, choreographed destruction derby, done to the soundtrack of fast picking banjo music. We're up in the bleachers, they're out on the dirt of the race track, in their own little area-pairs of men and women, weaving in and out of each other with their fancy tractor driving, smiling, looking to be in their sixties-those big old tractors aren't easy to maneuver-lots of levers, gears, pedals, shifts, turns and stops, all close together, to the music, and to the caller. The men's tractors all have pants hanging on the front, and the women's tractors all have skirts attached to the snouts of the things. . . . He wears sweatpants and clicking tap shoes to work. You can hear him coming. Stepping out of the toilet he said, pulling up his sweat pants, and exhaling, "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride AND California Adventure!"...but he only sounds cool. Because later, brooms falling on his head, pans dropping at his feet, holding his back and wincing, often hunched over, hands at his feet, doubled over in the cherry-picker position, he looks up at me, and for some reason I think the best thing for me to do is act normal. "Ever heard the term 'not in fighting shape?'" he asked me. "No," I said. "Well, I'm not in fighting shape." He said, then the robot came around and slammed him in the back again. I left him there. When I found my supervisor, I said, "That guy-he's a sad sack." . . . How to sleep quickly when there's no time to dream: your goal becomes to 1)Avoid insanity. And that's pretty much it. But a sample layout of your brief evening/morning (they are the same in this example): no shower, lay on floor in clothes, no heat, hot dog for breakfast that you microwave as you put leftover scraps into your lunchbox, caffeine pill faster than coffee, so don't fool with the coffee, then leave! You're already dressed! Use the toilet at work, not at home! Just because you didn't have time to dream doesn't mean you aren't rested enough to work! But you DO need to lay down, relax, close your eyes, and allow unfocused thought-this can simulate a kind of dream state that will at least keep you mobile, and not likely to cause harm. But don't be tempted to skip this little hour of rest. It's not much, but without this meager resource, you will crumble, pass out, scream, cry, attack, and die-I've tested it, and an hour is the least bit of rest you can survive on within a 24 hour period. You'll still need caffeine, but take it in a pill; and beware the simple sugars. Coming down off the bullshit energy of a candy bar can literally destroy you, and those around you, if you've only had an hour per night of sleep; this tiny rest does also serve another purpose-it separates each day from each night, putting a psychologically necessary, punctuated ending/beginning to your day. Your body and mind need this. I think it resets your internal clock-a sane person needs to feel a part of both space and time-which keeps you centered, at least on that level. And while you can remain quite alert and productive on this little bit of rest, you will probably appear to others as "weird", "dull", "slow", "crazy", "emotional", "dangerous", or "highly dangerous"-most of which can be faked, but it's hard to fake your way out of "dull" with only an hour's sleep; your energy is not, at this point, being spent trying to be "interesting", "nice", or "engaging". No, you will be dull. But at least you'll be alive, and paid. Carry a pen and notepad. In your condition, thoughts will not stay in the brain, so any ideas, words, thoughts, wishes, dreams, or goals must be recorded as they occur to you, or they will be lost. Your notepad becomes your anchor to reality. Without its remainders, by the end of the long day you will drift into a very disappointingly un-fun confusion, staring at the floor, and crying. Or fighting. That is an absolute guarantee. Listen to as much classical music as possible. For some reason it evens out the brain waves, kind of like a miniature, waking nap. Again, it won't make you less tired, or less angry, just less apt to immediately losing your mind. But it's really the caffeine that's gonna do it for you. Caffeine, like alcohol, can make something that's boring seem all the more interesting, the more you've consumed. Which is perfect for the job you need to do. But it's not just the caffeine alone-it's that, and staying physically active, as much as possible. Because if you rely on just the caffeine, with no movement and not enough breathing, you will panic, at a cellular level, which is, trust me, not good. Also, your day will be challenging enough; avoid the anxiety of alarms. Meditate on the time you want to wake up, and you will, no matter how tired you are. Anyway, it's good for you to meditate, and this gives you something practical to meditate upon. Also, there's something about a well-tuned internal clock that somehow adds to other intuitive parts of your life-in your waking and sleeping, in flowing smoothly from one state to another. Avoid the News, especially from the TV. It's ok to read the paper, but I find it best to focus on the stories about animals, local heroes, and the kids' page. You don't want to add any more anger or panic than is already there. Being so busy, one of your only freedoms is your thoughts. Perhaps remembering this will give you a feeling of heroic importance as you drive through the black ice, slowly. Drink a warm tea of chamomile, tilia estrella, valerian, spearmint leaves, lemon grass, hawthorn berries, and orange blossoms. Think about the Slow Lorrus, a primitive monkey who's only defense is to sit quietly on his branch, emitting a stink from the stripe on his back, but reaching quickly for food that happens by, and though he has that stripe, he does get his treats, and is very very cute. Being cuddly as a natural defense. Escaping the gravitational pull of small talk. The words "what do you mean" is as much a personal motto as it is our greeting. Stuff like that will occur to you. So go ahead, write it down, it's ok. . . . (At my work, it's really loud and hard to hear what people are saying through the noise, and through the respirators we are wearing)--"What?!" I asked the new guy who was helping me over at the end of the oven. "...it sounded like you asked me if people still drink fermented mare's milk to get drunk..?" "Yeah, do they?" . . . When I was little, my mom also babysat a little girl who came from sort of rich, hippie parents. We sometimes ate baloney sandwiches for lunch at our house. When the mom came to pick up her kid, the little girl said, "Mommy, Mommy we had baloney sandwich at lunch!" She had liked it, most kids do. But at hearing this, her mom lost the color in her face, "Baloney?" she said in a high pitched voice, looking at the wall. "..oh...dear...God......how MUCH boloney, Dear?" "Two, Mommy, two pieces of baloney", the little girl said, smiling. "Well, we've never had baloney, have we, Dear?" And that's when the embellished memory trails off in my mind. . . . I work six days a week, about thirteen hours a day, without talking to anyone, mostly. I think I might be the weird guy. For a while I thought the weird guy was someone else, but then I found out it was me. I don't talk, drink, smoke, have kids, or watch sports; I work hard, I make my own lunches, and I eat them in my car. I am faster and more efficient than the factory robot. There ought to be a folk song about me. And it will be called, "He's got the outfits, he's got the dance moves, and he's got a great recipe for garlic dip, and it's mostly just garlic, and dip." . . . Roller King in the 1970's It was a roller rink in Modesto, but it's out of business, now. Kind of like how drive-in movies are mostly gone, people these days don't roller skate, or go to rinks. If anything, they roller blade. But I used to own my own roller skates, from about the age of six until I graduated from high school. And I skated all the time, around the block, in empty parking lots, on grass hills in the park (with handheld, cardboard or Styrofoam wings that would get me airborne, going downhill, on windy days, like a human child kite on wheels), and for years, every day, I roller skated to school-in elementary, junior high, and for part of high school. And sometimes, through those years of bold displays, I did get made fun of, threatened and chased, for being whatever it was that was so horrible for daring to do what I did. So sometimes I was scared, and kind of ashamed, but I was also proud and excited, every time I strapped those suckers on. I stopped doing it about the same time I met my first girlfriend, and learned to drive. But until then, there was that special thing, and place, where I wasn't the only free styling loner. But Roller King wasn't only a place to roller skate. They had an outdoors "trampoline park" built into a field of concrete, like a parking lot surrounded by cyclone fencing, but instead of parking spaces in there, it was rows and rows of black, nylon, individual, twin-bed sized, rectangle, stretchy, jumping mats on springs. These weren't elevated trampolines like you see in backyards. These were ground-level; they almost looked like taught black mats on the pavement, but there were deep pits built underneath each one. No one could ever tell me, and I know because I had asked, and looked, if there was a secret door that led into those underground, sub-trampoline chambers, where maybe I could hang out, look up at the bouncers, and to the sky, through the black mesh filters which would hide, and shade me--eating cheese sandwiches, thinking about things, and listening to the voices, and springs, above me. What I really looked forward to was the weekend, twelve-hour, "all night skates". It was almost lawless; like being in some other dimension where the shackles of reason, responsibility, typical social dynamics, general physics, and childhood do not exist. Our parents didn't have to stay, and there was almost no supervision, except for the guy in the booth that put on the records, and would randomly call out "Shoot the Duck", "Couples Skate", "Backwards Couple's Skate", or "Hokey Pokey". Other than that, there were no in and out privileges (one of the only rules that was posted, besides "No Cutoffs"), a feeling of eternity, and poor lighting; people would be having sex, making out, taking drugs, drinking, sleeping (lots of that, but not me-I was scared to, and didn't want to), eating, smoking, playing video games, mugging, threatening, cussing, stealing, fighting, spitting, chewing, making out, shirts off/pants down/unzipped in the shadows, to the sides of the rink. Luckily for us young scientists, bullies and bad guys are not good roller skaters. It's hard for them to be on such tiny wheels with all that anger, size, hate, and wild punching and pointing, all of which do little more than cause their own unbalance, out on the rink. So with all of this other stuff going on, there was not that much actual skating, except by me, and perhaps a few others, especially by two or three in the morning. And from 7pm till 7am, we were all locked inside. The place would be packed during these all night skates, but I would mostly have the skating area to myself-it was always safer to just stay out on the rink, occasionally catching glimpses of the activities on the sides, and in the shadows, but never making eye contact, and in fact, I would physically avoid the bathrooms, the shadowy areas, and all "rest" areas, benches, seats, tables, walls, and any carpeted spots, for the whole twelve hours, until my mom came to pick me up. Until then, I never stopped skating, except to turn around and skate backwards. But that was ok, because I was in heaven out there, skating in total ecstasy to "The William Tell Overture", "A Fifth Of Beethoven" (by the Bee Gees), "Convoy" (and all disco trucker songs), moving fast, but with smooth, gentle motions, thinking of myself as a slow-motion blur, to "Heart Of Glass", "Ring My Bell", "Xanadu", anything by Journey, The Beach Boys, or KISS; "Dueling Banjos", "Searching For A Heart Of Gold", "Rhinestone Cowboy", "Dancing Queen", "Pac Man Fever", "We Are The Champions" and "We Will Rock You", "Eye Of The Tiger", "You're So Vain", the disco version of Star Wars and the disco version of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, "Two Tickets To Paradise", "Hot Blooded", and "Jesse's Girl"--but all of this only for roller skating. At home, for listening, it was ragtime piano music, Souza marches, and show tunes. But I liked that harder stuff to skate to. And the skate styles I liked: crossed arms; hands in pockets; arms waving at sides; running on the toe stoppers with my arms in the air; pirouette; shoot the duck; disco backwards walk-skate; fast skate; backwards fast skate; hokey pokey; simon sez; couple's skate-with the thrill, and excuse, of having to find someone to skate with, a whole special relationship that lasted only as long as the song--holding hands, looking straight ahead, and not even talking during that; the only thoughts we shared were the pride of being great roller skaters, being together, and the words to whatever song we were skating to; and also: "russian dancer", and "egyptian style". All non-participants had to clear the rink during the one song of these specialty skates, and if you didn't have your own skates out there and only wore rentals, you weren't very good. To me, roller skating was like flying-but flying really, really low to the ground. Which was great to my mind, because if I could actually fly, I would like most to fly just inches over the ground, or water-crossing sidewalks, and deserts and oceans, really fast, arms stretched out, just above the surface. Anyway, I still felt like I was heading toward something big, and one year when my parents got me a metal detector, a set of encyclopedias and a chemistry set, I thought for sure those things would teach me what I needed to know to get the powers to become some sort of mutant, scientist, roller-man, or boy. To save the world from black holes, and to impress people with my ability to find lost pennies anywhere, and to impress them with my super roller-disco skills, and my backwards fast-skate skills. And while not ALL of that ended up happening, I did get really good at some of it-AND was able to learn about some of the animals I like, and some of the uses of vinegar. Which is kind of a super power, in a way. . . . How do the words MILD TACO SAUCE make you feel? Sad? It does me. And you know what's funny about the Garfield cat? Other than he's not funny at all, is that he hates Mondays, loves lasagna, and has a friend named Lyman. The Garfield cat ought to focus, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, on the phrase, "I'm not fat, I'm just starring in a slow-paced, life-long, untitled, one-man performance piece about a guy who tries to fill his own skin." Anyway, that might be a start in making the Garfield cat better. And I wonder if anybody ever made, or ever will make, a drink called "Vodka And Chilled Beef Consume' On Ice" because that's what's in it. I just know I won't be the one to make it, or at least not drink it. And for sure not buy it. "I'm seriously going to kick my own ass" isn't something you hear much of anymore. . . . My birthday was on Friday the 13th this year, and I spent it at the town fish fry, drinking iced tea and playing bingo, three cards at a time, twenty five cents each. But that's not the good part. This is: As I walked into the town hall, everyone began singing "Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, happy birthday to Hattie, happy birthday to you." You see, I'm shy, my name isn't Hattie, but I am slightly paranoid, and also I'm new to this tiny town which is thousands of miles away from everything that is familiar to me. So I drank my tea, finished some bingo, and then didn't stop yelling "BINGO, BINGO!" as I threw my chair back and ran out into the street, still yelling "BINGO, BINGO!" which became only a whisper as my voice grew hoarse and I collapsed onto the ground, feeling perfect, in a kind of trance, covered in mist, wearing my windbreaker as a cape . So now I have lots of new friends, they all know I love iced tea, and bingo, and just like that, my life changed forever. The End . . . It's hard getting rid of my actual, and non-actual, junk. Because when I uncover a bit of it, from my boxes of it, and stuff like it, I think "I could do some project with this bit of napkin. Or perhaps with it, or inspired by it, fashion some sort of simple gift for a friend, or a new friend. You might be my best one, you." But then I look past the bit, or bit of napkin, at the hundreds, or thousands, of other, similar, napkins and I realize I won't be doing hundreds, or thousands, of napkin, or napkin bit, projects even if I become immortal. But I do keep getting stronger and stronger, and I will take over the world. And by that, I mean something not like that. Love, Jess . . . Idea for a show: The Biotic Man. It's like The Bionic Man, but the BIOTIC man hates antibiotic soaps and pills, but he loves exotic fruit juice, and sampling every kind of tiny or miniature style fruit, and donut peach. And those things kind of give him powers, but not the kind the secret government agency was looking for, so they set him free, and The Biotic Man then travels the countryside, sharing the knowledge of a free-styling snacker. . . . There's this guy at work that likes to look at what I eat for lunch, getting in close, sticking his face over it, sometimes knocking my spoon onto the floor, then washing my spoon with just cold water between his fingers, and drying it on his pants. "Is that dog food, or dog SHIT?" He asks me every single day, looking at my lunch, his face down close to it. It was, indeed, today, brown and lumpy. "It's an experiment," I told him. But what I didn't tell him is that I really call it "Super Scrap". And later, when I got real bad diarrhea, he said, "You been in there shittin, huh. It's that fuckin dog shit experiment." But what I didn't tell him is that I had eaten a whole box of prunes before work, and washed it down with almost a half gallon of cranberry juice, 5000 mg of vitamin C, a handful of raisins, and four fiber laxative pills. Yeah, I was shitting all right. But it wasn't because of the experiment HE thought it was. . . . "I need a trouble cord," he said. I looked at him, waiting for more words. Did he want me to GET him a trouble cord, or was he just being wistful, about how nice it would be, if this were a perfect world, to have a trouble cord. "Wouldn't we ALL like one," I thought, feeling I was finally on the same page as this guy. But also, what is a trouble cord, and if he does want me to fetch one, where would I find it, specifically? "You don't know what a trouble cord IS, do you," he said, invading my possibly perfect world. "No-not yet." "It's an electrical cord with a light attached. On the bench, in the shop. You don't know your way around a shop, do you. You didn't grow up on a farm, did you." He kept saying stuff, but I just walked away; we go through this, at some point, during almost every project. And when I got out to the shop and found the bench he was talking about, there were two similar, but possibly different, items, side by side on it. . . . There he is, just looking at him makes me not want to eat my lunch, or to ever put anything into my mouth except purified water and purified air, preferably from some sort of specialized backpack that he has not been near. His false teeth flapping loose over the sparse moustache while a course mist sprays from it as he speaks, laughs, eats, thinks, writes, sits--hearing the sound of his voice, or his spray, or his tap shoes when he walks near my area, when he holds a half-bitten piece of something between his unwashed hands and some rag, or even just looking at the stains where he has spilled his punch, or is likely to spill his punch, because he will; and where he has left crumbles of pepper corns and cheese, makes me know that I will now starve through self-purification, or fire, and I will never be able to love again. And here he is, today, at his station, blood everywhere in little spurts and drops, on the work table, on the floor, on his hands and face-is it a bloody nose? No. He is eating his salad using a penknife, but quickly and not stopping. As he eats, and cuts his mouth on the razor blade he's using like a spoon, and says he wants to make little replicas of the pans we make and make little pan earrings out of them, "like little pans to dangle from my ears". His loose, unattached, flapping teeth give a marionette appearance, and there's the blood, and his salad. He can barely form words with those floppy things. I wonder why he doesn't use denture cream. There's probably too much spit in there for it to stick. And now he's got all that blood, punch, and salad to deal with, and all of this is sort of reinforced by his brown fringe vest, tap shoes, sweat pants, blue bandana and shirt that says "classic rebel" on it. "...sounds like Dandy Don's had a couple of cocktails at lunch," some other guy said, when I told him about the salad. "...and did he show you what he did to his car?" I said. "...his floor mats are mud flaps from a semi that he found on the side of the road, and he's converted his windshield wiper sprayer-fills the reservoir under the hood with vodka, routed the little sprayer-hose from the windshield, INTO the car through the dashboard, then uses the lever next to his steering wheel to pump the booze, into his cup, while he's driving." "Yeah? Well check this out-you know those stainless steel boxes they have in women's restrooms for disposal of used napkins? Well, HE carries his LUNCH to work in one of those boxes. He said he stole it from a bathroom where he used to be a janitor." So I asked him why he's not a janitor there anymore and he said, "They hated my clicking shoes." . . . When he got tired, he wouldn't eat. His hips became narrow, and he could no longer climb the three steps back up onto the porch where his bed was. He was seventeen years old, and toward the end, pretty much only had his sense of smell to connect him to the world, and to his memories. He was old for a dog, and though he showed his age to some degree, up until the very last couple of days, he was mostly only old in his attitude, and speed. Other than that, he was the same, mostly-interested best friend I had always known him to be. One day recently, he wasn't just old, he was sick, and soon died in his sleep, warm, wrapped in blankets, in the kitchen. I think he was waiting to let go, until I could see him one more time. He'd saved up the rest of his strength for that. I walked up to him slowly, bent down, and petted him gently. I was sad, and almost scared to touch him, but I could tell that he was fading. He seemed smaller, beyond fragile, almost transparent. I told him he would be ok, and that one day I would be with him again, forever; that it was ok for him to go. And the thing is, he was never my dog-he was my mom's. Merlin was just a friend to me, not really a pet. And we've seen each other go through a lot of changes-he's lived in California, Texas and Ohio, and had traveled by car through many states in between, and it never freaked him out. He was never a nervous or suspicious dog. He knew who he was, and he was comfortable. He didn't seek validation from anyone, but he would always be the friend that anyone needed him to be. He was always way better at keeping his cool than I was with mine. He was definitely cooler than me. He was layed back, and loved being with his family and friends, wherever that happened to be. And through the course of the seventeen years that I knew him, and saw him grow, he got to see the changes I went through-the massive weight gains and losses, being on my college rowing team, the band horrors and successes, the beginning through the end of my alcoholism, my marriage and divorce. I was nineteen when he was a puppy, and almost 36 when he died. He had never liked human males, or most people, or unexplained balloons, loose keys, or most creatures for that matter. He wasn't angry toward any of them, he just didn't care for them much. He might growl softly, but he would never bark or bite, or bare his teeth. He would endure the unwanted company, and that was about as unfriendly as he ever got, unless they, or it, tried to steal a bite of his food, or watch him while he ate. And then he'd just turn his back to you. Other than that, he liked to walk, fetch, get brushed, take naps, watch TV, and stare at me when I talked to him. Sometimes when I wasn't talking to him, he would lean against my leg. Staring and leaning and listening were some of his best traits. He was the loudest snorer I ever heard, and he had some wild dreams; I could tell, because he also talked in his sleep. But there was one trick that he did, that he invented all on his own, that he tried to teach everybody, but I think I was the only one he ever really taught it to. The trick was: he would get a real crazy look in his eyes, he'd stand up on his hind legs and walk toward me holding his front paws in the air-and when he had walked right up to me, I had to place my paws up to his, like a double high-five. Then he'd get back to normal and the trick was over, until he decided to do it again sometime. He had a lot of very different hairstyles throughout the years-sometimes looking like an old wizard, sometimes like a 1950's beatnik, sometimes like an ancient Chinese philosopher, and sometimes like a 1980's heavy metal guitarist; sometimes with a ribbon in his hair, or a hat, or a bandanna. And unlike my attempts at some of those same styles, they actually looked good on him. |