Staying Home

So there I was flicking through the channels on a Friday evening. Law & Order had a re-run I’ve watched forty-three times, the Biography channel provided a violent rundown of Robert Blake’s decrepit life, and when I finally settled into the E Channel to see Jenny Jones kill a gay man by association, I realized that there was a group of people living a very different life tonight. This wasn’t unlike the Christmas mornings in Michigan when I was a kid. I saw this group springing out of their work places and into an evening filled not with sugar plumbs and candy canes, but butter-filled wines and delicacies laden with confections and sauces that accented the evening of talk and emotions.

I envisioned conversations stripped of stress and worries only to be replaced by breath burdened with alcohol, eyes heavy with the effects, and hearts filled with expectations and finally the hope of Monday’s new contract. I could hear the clinking of plates as a faceless servant responded to the interrupted requests by the group for more of the same. The fleeting thoughts of the next morning were quickly drowned with another swallow of the butter, and the swirl of the sweets, which now brought the discussion up another notch to the feelings stage of the evening.

I turned the channel. Nothing. Walking out onto my porch I light my 20^th cigarette of the day and begin to understand the tear between my business partners and settling into a new life as a father.

The group has hit the frenzy and peak of the evening. With a meal complete, they sink into the dessert portion of the evening. This is truly the lighted hallway to truth. Sambuca is ordered and the savory flavor coupled with the promise of a burning sensation triggers the mind that more pleasure is quick to follow. Love and the loss of it now take center stage. Very few words are spoken about the desires and clouded hopes that have come from the heart to the mind, to speak of this would reveal much too much for this group, and for me this is where it belongs – somewhat torn.

Smashing the smoke out and promising to never light another hits me hard. The insidious lie is not just what I do, but a truth that it is who I am. I shut the door and can hear the group’s crescendo of the evening plateau.

The tears come behind the façade of a laugh. Not one of the tender people around that table pretends not to share it. The real laughs come shortly after and that is why they come together, stay together, and know they will succeed together. The calm approaches and another round is ordered with the strike and infusion of a topic that brings all of them back to a second wind that makes more promises for the night and their lives. Bathroom breaks and cell phone calls are much more regular, yet completely expected and accepted at this point in the night.

The clash and sting of both the television’s light and my absence tonight from the group heeds confusion and an emotional clash of my own. Sambuca…….

The evening’s stay at this house of escape slows. Some of the group wants to move on to more heightened avenues of flight and some of the others are unable to take the pleasures that wait for them there. The group stands and mulls about with hesitation to leave their den. Each has their own destination and it’s with trepidation and the knowledge of what lays tomorrow that only slightly motivates them to go home. The night has delivered its promise, and all hope for another to bring them further and extend the night. But tonight, tomorrow is looming, and the prospect for Monday still flickers hope for each. It’s been a good night and there’s always and forever the same tomorrow.

I’m interrupted by the cries of a baby. With self-pity and disappointment I abandon the thoughts of the group and go upstairs. I pick my crying Lael up. She looks me straight in the eyes as children do and us grown-ups have learned to avoid, and says dad-ing. As she buries her head in my shoulder and goes back to sleep, my all and anything about me goes away and I know I’m home.

Pre-New Year’s Adventure in Bethesda

About a month ago, “40” and I were drinking some beers at a local tavern in DeGula Prefecture - A small but bustling enclave in Southeastern Namibia. Domingo was there shooting a special for the State Department on the medicinal utility of yellowcake and I was there as Domingo's translator. Now neither of us actually speaks Namibian, but I can come damn close as long as I'm completely inebriated, because any of the Namibian dialects come across almost perfect at or around a 7th Vodka & Tonic.

So “40” stands up all of a sudden, grabs his camera gear and begins porting these outrageous statements to everyone in the Tavern. I could barely keep up with the translation, partly because he was talking so fast and furiously, but mostly because I was lying on the floor unable to walk, stand or talk.

"Yellowcake, yellowcake, Cheney needs some Yellowcake!" His hand thrust into the balmy Namibian night air like Castro on crack in '57!

I immediately retorted with a 12 vodka martini drenched and muffled, but loudly slurred, "eez zhust jo-hing evlyone, jush shit don en remax."

The locals sat back down, but Domingo, sensing the crackle and bustle of the perfect shot swung his D-421 Digital Amplimeter Studio Camera right at the entrance to the tavern just as the doors to a 67 VW minibus opened and out came a contingent of emissaries from all walks of life from Bethesda USA region -- apparently to squelch the impending uprising, which we now know as the "Wilson / Scooter" agenda.

First Mike (The Mechlanic) and his gal Beth, (who was still recovering from yet another "Incident" at the liquor store) came bustin in yo - ready for action. Mike, wearing his thong - backwards - and proud as a peacock at a Maryland State fair in July, along with Beth- one arm in a bandage and the other carrying a battled bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 - shouting "No Yellowcake, No Yellowcake!" No one understood Beth as the MD she was carrying had yet to be opened, but Mike came through loud and clear! Domingo got it all on camera and instantly eased into his jujitsu producer T-stance, at the ready for what was surely to be more action!

And he was right, immediately following the Rinehart's initial recon - Jeff Diamond, that's D-I-A-M-O-N-D - slams through the entry holding a diaper in one hand and a copy of Ayn Rand's 'Atlas Shrugged' in the other. From the back of the room there's a loud gun blast and Jeff hits the air high, his body twisting as shotgun pellets near miss him all the way; in mid-air he sees me unable to walk and about to soil myself and with a Favre-esq toss, hits me square with the diaper, and on his decent to the floor begins shouting "Who is John Galt - Who Is John Galt?" He hits the ground and does a perfect Natasha Kinski roll, then springs back up into that mysterious Namibian night air, and grabs the shotgun out of Cheney's hand, slapping him repeatedly with the paperback again and again!

Kelly Diamond - not to be outdone - wasn't far behind as all hell broke loose. Domingo got a perfect shot of her doing the tuck and roll into the tavern. She had a guitar in her hand and by this point the locals were now again all standing and huddled against the crumbling walls of the tavern. Kelly sensed their fear and although dressed in full military gear, she began playing and singing California Dreamin - In perfect Namibian no doubt. Now that she was here for singing and translation, I slapped on the much needed diaper, ordered another Belvedere and Tonic, and stayed put knowing my job was done.

One would think this enough for an early evening in Namibia, but no, just as things began to settle down and Jeff was ever-so-gently pulling buckshot out of Mike's ass, Domingo got that feeling again and this time he set-up behind the wicker bar knowing full well it wasn't going to be pretty. A whirring and whooping resonance began low and grew slowly inside the tavern. The papier-mache like walls began to rumble and crumble as the reverberations and whirring increased. Kelly, having come prepared for just this occasion, slung the acoustic guitar across the room hard and fast - Jeff aptly ducked and Cheney took it full on the side of his face! She then reached back into her Special Forces bag and pulled out an amp and a Stratocaster guitar - slamming it together like lightning -- began cranking out the ever popular Noriega Nightmare tune - AC/DC's Hell's Bell's!!

With the jams cranked up, Domingo once again at the ready behind the bar, Mike now wearing my diaper and healing well from the buckshot, a Skyhawk 487 copter landed adjacent to the tavern - and even with the music blasting, we could hear the thump and pump of the revolutionary marching boots coming our way. Like magic, the night sky seemed to open and for just an instance all I could see was stars burning down from the Namibian night into the tattered tavern. One corner of the tavern wall had been pulled out completely, revealing all of us in our readiness like actors on a stage. Bright flood lights replaced the dimming night stars, temporarily blinding us, but as our eyes adjusted, the reality hit us all -- There, in all their glory was Steve and LeAnne with the entire HGTV crew filming their astounding entrance.

“40”, obviously miffed and feeling upstaged by all of this, slammed his studio camera into the dirt and did the back flip thing four times across the bar top - all the while Steve was totally air-guitaring it to the AC/DC tune Kelly D was cranking out - loving every minute of it and getting taped-live, too! “40” flies off the bar and lands perfectly into one of those tumbler thingy's - does one more back flip and from under a table hauls up a 14 gig SATCOM Bio-delineated StarCom Camera, smiles and starts shooting everything live to networks around the world, Domingo has buried HGTV effectively, and the madness continues with the Calvary's impending entrance.

As the dust settles, the whirring, now a low bladed hum from the copter; six figures, all dressed in white bio protected suits emerge from the emptiness of where the wall of the tavern used to be. On the shoulder of each suit reads "Team Withdraw"

The first of these ghostly aberrations to walk in and lift the protected glass mask was none other than Carol C.. As her mirrored mask slowly glided open, smoke, probably from a Kool, billowed out, and when it cleared, we all knew we were on our way home soon. She barked some orders through what I thought was a chin-microphone, but was actually a cigarette, yelling at all of us to line-up and get ready for what all of us now know as "Extraction Yellowcake"

Next, Stephen M &M popped open his face mask and in a loud commanding voice with the intensity in his furrowed brow of ten-thousand burning suns, asked everyone, "Can I have a show of hands of those who are circumcised?" Everyone heard, no one seemed surprised nor shocked by this question though; however, a third white bio-night rider must have misunderstood and as the hand was raised in affirmation, one Kerri M’s face mask rose along with her hand- revealing more questions for us all than answering that one inappropriate one from Stephen.

As we all rambled with relief at getting back home, a fourth Bio-buddy, tall and brooding, lifted his mask and everyone simply stopped and stared in total disbelief. There, in all his glory was Bill C. clad in an all white bio suit, but long golden lockets of blonde hair tumbled from his helmet. Highlighting this mass of beautiful hair that fell onto his milky-white bio suit, was a perfectly made-up face with an off-red lipstick that actually accented the evenings events, a fine base, probably Lancôme, a hinted mauve hue to accentuate his cheekbones, and a couple of Tammy Fay Esq. eye lashes that waved at everyone as he blinked his way through the room. When he realized everything had stopped and it was because of him, he straightened his back, stared each and every one of us in the tavern dead in the face, blinked, and said, “I got the 9-1-1 call while I was campaigning in Iowa for Obama.” We all drew a heavy sigh of understanding and began to shuffle towards the copter.

As people were getting into the copter, “40” was getting every bit of the action. Surprisingly LeeAnne, who had been quietly but continuously taking shots at the bar throughout all of this, and passing the Mad Dog back and forth to Beth, decided it was time to bring out the big guns in the operation. We all knew what company she “Worked” for and that recently this company was considering a split into a Commercial Opps. and a Government Opps. And since most of us in the room had connections with the government in one way or another; Bill C. with God only knows what agency, another Bill F. maybe Commerce, Kerry in DOE, myself in Corrections some of the time, LeeAnne knew what strings to pull and when. Bill F., who until this time had simply let others take the initiative and organize the Withdraw Operation, now could be seen lifting that ambiguous mask and slowly but surely moving towards LeeAnne at the bar. Beth was now passed out using the empty MD bottle as a pillow, so this worked well. When Bill F. reached the bar, he and Lee Anne both ducked and edged along the length of the wicker bar, slipping behind and out of site.

As the last of the gang was seated and readied for lift-off in the copter, everyone looked about for Bill and Lee Anne. With what seemed to be a burst of warm air from behind the bar, shrouded in a glazed smoke, surfaced Lee Anne, Bill and Barack Obama. Everyone started to cheer and shout and hoot as the smoking, drug-using presidential candidate walked towards the copter stereo-sided by Bill and Lee Anne. The “40” worldwide camera was getting the entire operation in full success mode with Obama at the center, Lee Anne as the operations handler, and Bill F. on logistics - smiling – thinking of his new 80 foot schooner!!!

Back in Bethesda things returned to normal. Game night was back in action, music was being played here and there, kids were all safe and sound, Scooter was pardoned and the Wilson’s now have a 2 million dollar home in Arizona. Mostly though, for New Year’s Eve 2007 – “40” got to hang out with the adults!!!

Home Schooled

He toggled back and forth wringing his hands in anticipation of the negotiations to come. Crying was not effective most times and usually raised the stakes. Yelling and screaming only irritated and perpetuated the onslaught of abuse. He hated it when his sisters got involved, they always intervened with tears or whimpered pleadings, agitating the monster further. The oldest simply stood back and waited, at 8 she was more teacher now than student for the rest of us.

Eye contact with the animal was avoided at all cost before the curtain came down, but looking into Dad’s eyes was more painful to us then any slap or verbal punch from her could ever produce -- as fear and embarrassment in your hero’s eyes never sits well.

We will wait until it is all over to look at each other.

The little one, pacing from the TV to the kitchen counter, eyes cast down, hands unconsciously washing themselves over and over, are lessons learned early on, a means of calming herself as she has yet to master her role in the production.

Although they were right in front of him, center stage, and the slapping, yelling, hitting, and throwing of things had stopped, he knew she was not through yet, as the look hadn’t left her face, there was more to come.

Dad retreated to the window, not facing mom as he always did. He hated to show his kids these tears, even at 6 years of age - dad knew his boy could read the shame in his eyes. In turn, the boy didn’t know how to let Dad know…...

Understanding his dad’s darting downward glances, he knew it was not over with. Both kept their heads low and eyes away.

A few more minutes of priceless commentary designed to humiliate, the look went out of her face.

Mom re-enters stage right, dad’s back slightly humped up covered by his brown, crushed cotton bathrobe, head still down, but alert and in the ready for one final assault -- instead the apologies set in.

The play takes a new light and the familiar, yet empty void of Mom’s conditional apology seems to please Dad, mostly because it’s over for all of us.

No shame in his eyes now, but the boy senses this is the time to have it -- isn’t it?

Now it was his turn to produce, direct, and shoot the scene he had rehearsed now for so long. With a perfect toss of humor, adjectives strung together (perfect for a 6 year old), and an effective distracting performance overall, his role is done and the family settles in for what little healing they can muster.

Humor, barren smiles, and a vessel full of deflective tools and ammunition created by these theatrics for years on end, have proven to become the boy’s armor, the little one’s heart, the barrel of a gun for the middle one, and the oldest one still today shrugging it off today. All four of us join in now, our characters in full dress, scripts in hand.

School is Out.

Bears in Detroit

Michigan in August is hot. The heat soars with the sun in the day and the humidity keeps it heavy and thick in the evenings. It was on one of those hot and heavy nights that I was attacked by Bears here in little Lake Orion Michigan. Lake Orion is a smallish town, almost rural with about 25,000 people hanging about on any given day. A stones throw from Detroit. On this night, I had closed the bar (as a bartender) at an Old Castle in a little wonderland of a place called Canterbury Village around 2:00 a.m. Many of the locals believe it’s haunted, as I do, and closing the castle alone in the wee hours of the morning a few times a week keeps my spirits high and alert.

Earlier in the day on my way to work, I realized that my rear blinkers were out on my 1981 Chevy Pick-up. At the time I thought since my drive home later that day would be pretty much a straight shot, I didn’t need to deal with it. So at the end of the night, as I pulled away, I realized all the lights in back of the truck were out. With this, I knew I was going to get pulled over on the way home, but as my alcohol intake is at a halt these days, I had no worries. I pull out of the Castle lot and begin my straight shot drive down Clarkston Road at 2:30 in the morning, and having just stopped at a traffic light, here is the much expected Officer right behind me. As I’m at a red light, I raise my right hand with cigarette smoke billowing appropriately from my nicotine stained fingers, and signal him with a short gesture that I’ll pull over to the right.

So with lights a-blare, I pull over, immediately get my license and insurance, and all that good stuff. The officer asks for the papers, if I've been drinking, and then proceeds to tell me that I must park the car off the road as it is a hazard to the --- what -- not one car or person within three miles. But I was actually OK with having to walk home at this point as no ticket given, it was a perfect summer night, and I actually thought the walk home would be good. So a goodbye to the cop, and as I had no cell phone (nor would I call and wake the kids anyway) I did not call anyone for a ride and began a five mile walk home. I walked a few blocks West down Clarkston road, (and let me give you a little lay of the land here) Clarkston Road, like most two lane roads out here in the burbs have no shoulders or street lights. The entire of Michigan is truly packed and loaded with trees everywhere, quite beautiful in fall especially, but even more so out here in Oakland county.

I reach a couple blocks of walking and decide that it will take about three hours to get home at this pace, and I remember that I have the keys to the company Catering Van (Jesus, God and all that's Holy; I know things have changed in my life when I have keys to a fish infested, stanky Catering Van, with a logo displaying an Italian guy wrapped in pasta named Joe Bologna).... so I turn around and begin walking the three miles back to the Castle. I get about four blocks now heading East back towards work, walking on the road, in the mud, on the frontage lawns of home owners that pay for big houses with tons of driveway, and of course I have about 500 dollars cash on me (All in 1s and 5s of course) in a green plastic type zipper jobby-doo of a bag that not only has a paper clip for the zipper handle, but reads "Support Your Local VFW Hall" stretched across the side, and this little baby is strapped across my tummy and the bag hangs down gently, but steadily bumping my "No, No Zone".

So here I am now six blocks East of my shit-ass truck, flumping down a dark, desolate road with the corner of the this death bag bumping into me with every step, and as I’m passing a school on my right, I see a small opening of what looks like it may be a half –ass sidewalk of dirt that I can get off the hard cement. I re-adjust my now slightly bruised “Central Area”, and continue on my way.

Right, so just as I pass this school I see this little anemic path of sorts and promptly bounce into it and get a good stride going, rearranging the bag so it is now gently, yet consistently bouncing off my bony ass instead of the “Frontal area.”

At this point in the long walk, on my right, in total darkness, there is a nature reserve that steeps back a couple of miles, leading to a small lake. To my immediate left is the treachery of Clarkston road that is now off limits totally for me as I am somewhat concerned that anyone that drives by at this time is either drunk, and will surely run me down, a ruffian of sorts from neighboring Pontiac that will duly relieve me of my money, or a friend of the cop that put me here, whom will surely ticket me for walking in the middle of the street at what is now closer to 3:00 a.m. So on the other side of "off-limits" Clarkston road is a lot of nothing as far as this story is concerned. A lot of shrubbery, grasses, trees of course, and an occasional home that’s 42 miles back from the road.

With a rush, as if I was just beginning to peak on a hit of X, every hair on my body stood at attention. I slowly, through emotion, not really as a response to any physical feeling, look to my right at the deep entries into the nature reserve, and just as I turned my eyes to what I know is miles of forest, but can’t really see, the sound of crackling branch and brush emerges towards me. Although my body is not reacting, my mind is instantaneously taking in data and trying desperately to justify this noise with ANYTHING that is safe, healthy, and maybe even good for me at this time. I thought, (really this is what first popped into my head) that one of the neighbors across Clarkston Road and 17 miles back, had seen through a telescope of sorts from their dining room at this time in the morning a rather lanky, but gentle white man adjusting his member in a relational, but non-threatening manner juxtaposed to a green bag marked “Union” on it. And in response to a call from the neighbor to the, yes you guessed it, the Clarkston Police, maybe four or five of them had decided to "Sting" this operation and take the pounce approach on this man instead of a drive up next to him and ask "What the fuck are you doing here" statement. You see this would have been good for me, and quite desirable at this point as I would surely get a ride back to the Castle.

As fast as that hopeful scenario came into my mind, the horrors of what was most- probably the truth took hold. I now believed with conviction that it was thugs or suburban kids really high that were simply making this noise that now had been elevated to a very loud and consistent crashing sound of branches, shrubs, tree limbs, along with the swishing of tall grass being ruffled and torn as many sets of feet ripped through its water logged, bending stalks. I became fearful thinking their goal was to beat me senseless, take my money, and leave me on the side of Clarkston Road where no one would find me till morning because there is no light….. ironically, ‘it’s because I had no fucking lights to start with that got me here almost an hour earlier!!

What happened next not only woke every fiber of my 40 year old frame, but immediately made me hope that it was the thugs that were going to crash through the trees onto the now abandoned and wimpy, little dirt path and beat me with a welcomed fervor.

Coupled now with a sturdy rise in sound of the loud bush and brush crashing, and an ear-shattering, branch breaking, collective Yawl of "Lets Kill Whitey" clamor, was a distinct, night piercing sound of a low and climbing bellow, a guttural roar of what I know with certainty believed to be a group of bears.

I am now 14 years old again. I am sure of it, because this 40 year old Dad of three, who smokes a pack a day, and eats Butter-sickles for breakfast everyday, bolted like a bat-out-of-hell from that rickety old dirt path squarely into the center of Clarkston road, with a single Gazelle like leap, catching hold of the pavement on the two center, faded yellow lines, and simply ran.

And run I did. As the two now terrorizing sounds of the Bears’ ghoulish screams and the felling and crushing of branches rose into a midnight crescendo from hell, I bolted. All was clear now. I jolted forward with the clarity of mind to simply not get eaten tonight.

Although the speed of my run was immediate and extreme, problems occurred within 2 short minutes of my leap and run to safety. The fucking bag. The green, shit-bag had swung back to its original carrot-pounding position in my quick departure from the bears, and was now pummeling my "No, No Zone" like the piston of a tractor engine on crack. I mean to drive this moment home, let me elaborate a bit with some adjectives that will clear things up a bit philosophically, and I think consequently answer some questions as to what it is I have become -- or maybe now realize what I have always been. Picture a man in a blazing Red three-button Polo short-sleeve, Green and wrinkled khaki shorts, with white socks pushed down to the top of brand-new, eye-blinding, white Polo tennis shoes, flying down the middle of a dark street, with ashen face and dark circles deep around his eyes, a small cherry head topped with thinning hair that repeatedly jerks back over his right shoulder with the understanding the he is soon to be bear fodder on the edge of the 10^th largest city in America.

So see me now, here I am transformed by time of night, location, and sounds into what looks like a little fucking Panda Bear on two legs wearing a red shirt with a now battered penis, zipping down a darkened road with blazing trails of white lights powered by Polo. As this entire picture evolves, and as my most heightened realization of self takes hold firmly, as does the fear, I realize that I may be the only man in this small, but sure metropolis that was killed and eaten by bears just a stones throw from a traffic light.

Now less than 60 seconds later the evenings picturesque and landscaped tale changes dramatically. From a shaking fear, all is overcome by new sounds and feelings. All I now hear is my heart thumping and it is fear that has now given way to the burning heat of my lungs as they prepare to implode from exhaustion.

I turn my head back one more time as I am now resolved to let whatever happens, happen. I slow to a stop, hands to knees, head down, I gradually turn to my right 180 degrees, looking a bit like a little centipede on his way into a full roll, and check my rear to see if it is dinner time for Ling-Ling and her brown-bear brother brother.

At this moment, my ass is facing west, and I hear a car approaching from behind. I do not care now, I want the lights of the car to illuminate my fate and allow me to see what comes to me this night. The noises fade as the car passes, maybe the noise of the tires on the road collided with the sounds of the screeching bears, but as the car lights up East Clarkston Road I see nothing, and as the humming of the car tires fades, so does the screaming, the breaking, and the debauchery that was there only moments before. Nothing now – just dead-air.

After a few minutes of catching my breath, I painfully stand tall, fling the green bag of death into the now silent evenings brush, and I begin the second and utterly uneventful walk back to the castle.

I talked with a police officer the next morning at the castle, through separate circumstances that I had nothing to do with, I asked him why the officer last night would not drive me home. He thought for a moment and replied that although the police are not really a taxi service and don’t usually take people home, he assured me that if he would of seen me running down the street, drenched in sweat, with a couple bears on my ass, he would have picked me up and taken me home.

Footnote: I asked the officer if there really were Bear here in these parts, as some of my neighbors would say, and he said most-likely not, it was probably a deer or two giving birth as there's a lot of that going on this time of year.

Metro Ride

I'm comfortably seated riding the Metro here in the Capitol City. As the train pulls into Farragut North station, the screech of metal on metal rails wakes me a bit. As I juggle my head up and wipe the spittle from the edge of my mouth, I look across the train’s aisle and see nothing but an empty seat. I straighten up a bit, a scowl on my face as I think about the 3 or more stops I have to get home, and grab my Newsweek and settle in as the doors open. I neither see nor pay attention to anyone getting on the train.

Halfway through an article about Karl Rove's trials and tribulations I peek up, no more than a swift glance above the magazines edge. Across from me sits a young girl. Cute, jet black hair, red lipstick on a small pouty mouth with the edges etched in a Lancôme

brown. Even though it's a bit chilly out, she’s sporting a gray flannel wrap that covers her blue blouse, but leaves her legs uncovered. I notice that she's wearing light colored stockings that reach to black, comfortable looking pumps.

Her face as I said is cute, but her eyes are distinctive in that the deep blue really accents her sharp nose; all against a pale complexion. I look at her and she stares right back at me --- I quickly dip my eyes back to Karl Rove.......

Another stop through DuPont Circle and the train picks up speed to Woodley park-zoo. I look up for another peek and the stare is not only hard and direct, but the corner of her mouth is slightly hooked up, forming the beginning of a smile. I hold my look. Her eyes lift and open a bit more, showing those dark-blues and her mouth opens to perfect teeth. Instantly I start to strategize a response, but before I can she lets her slender arms slowly fall to her sides and relaxes her whole body. She doesn't slump, but she relaxes. Her legs unfold.

Her mouth now comes to a hearty smile with eyes raised and blazingly blue. I scan her entire body repeatedly as it looks and feels like seventeen things are going on at once with her. The look, the mouth, the legs all captivating my, yet the relaxed arms and slightness of her body provides a contrast that enhances her allure. She begins to open her mouth a bit wider, staring hard and fast at me and keeping my eyes peeled now to her blues. Her teeth, especially the two front ones are riveting as her lips come back along with her brows rising. I am compelled to follow her mouth with my own and find myself doing the same in the hopes that something will be said, but there I sit, just emulating her actions.

Her mouth slowly closes again, but then quickly opens up and she exudes a short, breathy moan that rises along with her mouth and eyes. I too follow her mouth with mine, but without the short whah sounding moan. She smiles now broadly. I'm stunned both by her

beauty and her strange behavior, but mostly I'm starting to get all jitty and juicy and quickly take a millionth of a second to look about and see who else is watching this happen --- no one; yet.

I race back to her face and her smile grows, like she knows I'm now hooked. I mirror her smile and settle in a bit, just a bit. She doesn't care who's around or who's looking / listening to her. She begins, loader now, with her mouth and eyes again. wha oaw

wha, opening mouth and closing with each wha oaw wha... up and down, open and close. I'm enthralled as her eyes mock her mouth rising and falling with each sound that escapes from her. I'm almost used to the mouth when suddenly her legs begin to slowly but

surely open, brushing aside the gray frock, her arms never moving. Dudes, I’m now hooked as I slowly stare down and get a glimpse of her legs beginning to part.

The wha oaw wha sound, the mouth opens, her eyes rise, and now her legs open. The second round of groans brings me a perfect, straight on shot of her "No, No Zone". It's perfect. The stockings run up around her hips, but the inner-thighs and "Central" area is

totally ripped open. As she opens and moans I can see the vertical smile under her belt line that completely mirrors the smile she is sporting on her face.

The groans and opening / closing action is getting loader and accelerating and my frenzied face and blood-pressure begins to mix and cause my head to bang up and down to catch all the snippets and views, yet at the same time my head also goes right to left to

ensure that not everyone on the metro train is watching us. Everyone is watching us and particularly her with the noise level moving up. My head is whipping around in a circular motion when my friend Aaron, who I work with smacks my leg. I snap out of the dream and there I am, sitting and staring at nothing as the train sways back and forth down the tracks.

A Bit Tired

Upon reflection I could see he was fatigued. The slight drag in his step, the constant retreat from topics that required excessive feedback, and more than anything he was wearing two different types of shoes as we strolled down O street for church services.

I held his shoulder every now and then with slight rubs and gentle pulls on his Polo as if saying, “I know you think your head is about to blow off your shoulders from the stress, but I’m here if you need me.” Church was nice. Catholics we are. A bit of standing, a few knee drops, a little hand-warmed oil, a lot of hugging, and off we were to eat.

“There ya are”, almost slurring as he dropped a buck into the hands of a homeless man as we exit the church. I like that he does this for people. Not because I think he’s altruistic or anything that grand, but simply because he knows he’s a part of a community -- his community. Also, he saves me damn near four or five dollars a day because when the homeless approach me, I can honestly say I gave earlier.

The hostess was sweet. Petite, tanned, young, and full of smiles as we asked about a table. The restaurant was Italian, very nice and a bit crowded, especially for an early Sunday evening in Washington, DC. We had both dined there before, loved the food and we were ready to settle in, relax and enjoy a good meal before finally getting home to sleep. But no, not tonight, not at this restaurant. As little hostess explains that there are no tables available I can see my dear friend gazing onto the outside patio. I stir, shuffle my feet, and begin to twirl my hands one over the other knowing full well there is nothing I can do to halt the impending onslaught this girl is surely to receive. She is nothing to him now. His fatigue disperses and is replaced by a gush of justification that emanates from his face with the intensity of 10,000 scorching suns.

I know what is coming, but Missy Hostess has yet to feel the fury. “How about that four-top right there,” his finger straightened and pointing through a window onto the patio, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, sending those accusatory rays of intensity right onto her doe-like face. Her lips slowly descend and cover her teeth, her smile fades, her dimpled cheeks smooth out as her face drops ever so slightly, and as she lifts her head, lowers her eyes, she asks, “There’s only two of you yes?”

The following 94 seconds involved a manager, some words, and Hostess sliding out of the way into her corner until my dear friend purged his demon. I stood by my friend as he discussed the horrors of this PR nightmare with the manager. I gallantly positioned myself appropriately between the two of them, blocking all views from passer-bys who may have taken notice of his Rockport loafer on one foot and a Nike Sneaker on the other glaring up at us all saying, “I’m a bit fatigued.”

A few more words are exchange, people behind us now, and I tug on his sleeve and we leave for another spot to eat.

One-of-those-things

I'm walking out of my office today and there is a micro-dried particle just on the inside of my right nostril. I had blown my nose about an hour earlier and the missed sector of this boog had dried and begun to agitate me.

As I walked out I slyly, but quickly raised my right hand, and with my thumb did the hooky thing to quickly and efficiently remove said snot. Thinking it was dry and brittle, and would simply crumble from my pulpy digit onto a fellow employee’s desk or something, I twisted and pulled at the same time in the affected area of my nose. What happened next is hard to put pen to paper, but it must be said:

As I whipped my thumb about, the perceptible structure of the crispy booger was only surfaced, not unlike the tip of an iceberg; below this crusty coating lay a small but sinewy sewer if you will of coagulated snott-age that was ripped from its resting place as I pulled and tugged on the brittle boogered crumb.

Remember dear friends, I was walking through the main hallway that is littered with windowed offices chucked full of fellow associates. Initially I thought just a shorty as I tugged, but immediately felt the long and arduous cackle of this mucal mess almost choke the back of my nasal aureole as the heap willingly and frighteningly remained and followed it's tip of horror. Yes, the strand, the muck, the sagging, hanging bellow which now stretched from the innards of my cavitations’- challenged passage caught the attention of most standing and watching out of their office windows.

Looking back now this is not surprising as what appeared to be a long and narrow linguini-esq apparatus dangling from my nose and firmly attached to my fucking thumb and for-finger, swayed with ease as I stared in utter shock at what had happened in the past 3.1/2 seconds. To make matters worse, I instantly tried to take the downward "Slash and Burn" response, believing that simply lowering my hand quickly would erase the humiliation along with the mess being made; but no, only a marked streak of snot snapped up and then down like a boomerang tied to the rock of Gibraltar, landing just as firmly across my upper lip as an anchor and along my dark blue sweater back do to the thumb that started this whole muck of shenanigans.

I freaked. I began looping my boog-finger with its attachment in quick-circle-jerks in a lame attempt to roll the mess onto the finger and do what with it I do not fucking know!!! But as I cruised quickly, red-faced and humiliated to the men’s room, I reached for the door and it was not only locked but now the sticky, brittle end on my hand was loosened and attached itself to the door handle. I whispered "Fuck", not in anger but more in a yelp of awe and fear, and bounced back from the locked door, turned and the snottage unwound itself - as in reverse -- from my body and simply hung there on the door handle waiting to be serviced for it's second act.

All of this transpired within one minute friends, and it is moments like this that allow me to wallow in the gratuitous sunshine of your love, friendship and understanding.

People began to gather and gawk at the spectacle. As I swung in a Pliés type of dance away from the door, which left its mark, I now found myself having to sashay sideways back to the handle and simply sweep the mess onto my right arm, all the while offering a diversion to those that had gathered for the show. I immediately gathered the bound boogsters around my hand and rammed the sticky substance into my pocket and simply walked around the corner to the lower bowels of the building to hide and clean my mess up.

Thanks for listening.