How to Dress Like a Tourist in Europe

You are an American, and you are going off for your first trip to Europe. You have some vague ideas on what this trip will be like, you'll have to go see the Effile Tower (sic), and the big art museum nearby in Paris Town. You've wanted to do that since 9th grade. Also, stop by jolly old England, home of the Brits, and go to the other Tower, this one of London where they chopped off peoples heads. Rome is in the running too, the Pope lives there.

But the main thing you worry about is, how to dress like a proper tourist. The kind of tourist that can get around savvier and faster than the locals, under their "cultural radar". You want to be dressed, so when it is time to strike & get that deal for a hotel room or a platter of pommes frites, you'll not get snagged on something or be laughingly turned away. To help you, here are some suggestions:

1. Wearing blue jeans is a must. In fact, don't bring anything but blue jeans. Bring some new ones, bring some old ones -- if you get in a jam, everybody knows you can sell them for hundreds of Euros a pair -- those damn Europeans are crazy about American blue jeans.

2. Nobody in their right mind would go to Europe and not wear white sneakers. Due to Europe's arcane and antiquated transport systems, and the fact that many Europeans have never learned to drive a damn car, because the roads are too small -- you know you'll be hoofing it all over the place. You've studied many travel shows and seen how much walking is done in Europe. Sensibly, white sneakers, the whiter and fatter the better, are the obvious choice. Bring two pairs.

3. If you forget a fanny pack, you might as well curl up in Heathrow and die. You're going to need all your money and important irreplaceable documents on you at all times, for easy access to conduct business and clinching a deal that may come up with rude or unsuspecting foreigners. Without this fanny pack, you won't be able to hustle your way in and out of those tight situations. Wear it right in front, and don't worry, it doesn't make you look silly, because you have a purpose here.

4. The weather in England is pissy and rainy. In France, the weather is pissy, rainy, sunny, and full of the French. The sun in Italy is harsh and unavoidable. You'll want to make sure you bring a baseball cap, the kind with webbing in the back to keep the back of your head cool, but with foam fabric in the front, to shield you from bird droppings & staring locals, because face it, Europe is full of pigeons and gawkers. If you feel sassy and proud, have a big American Flag patch on the front of it. That'll show them you're serious and not afraid of what those people from the EU think.

5. Have lots of maps and travel books. Carry at least two maps and a travel book with you at all times. For perspective, one map should be of a country you have been in, or are going to next. Thinking strategically, the other map should probably be of the last city you were in, or the next city you'll be going to. There is a lot of information to absorb, and you may need to consult from your travel book at any time to glean the obscure cultural references that are going on all around you. Mark places that you think will be key with little post-it stickers. The locals expect to pull some fast ones on you, taking advantage of your lack of travel experience, and the fact you haven't bothered to understand anything about their day-to-day lives, or learn the rudiments of their language beyond hello and another kind of hello, but that is what being a tourist is all about. You can read the travel books and maps for the first time while flying on the plane, a few hours before you land. Then the knowledge these materials impart will be fresh in your mind.

6. Either wear a sweatshirt two sizes too big, for comfort, or a nylon windbreaker. Better bring both, because sometimes it snows in Europe, at any time. Logo or information on the sweatshirt could be a swanky victorious American flag, unfurled and blowing impressively. Barring that, sport logos, like the Chicago Bears will make you friends or mollify hostility because everybody loves the Chicago Bears. Have a Disneyland sweatshirt as a backup. A Seattle's Space Needle sweatshirt will show you are culturally adept, or at least show you know how to drink good coffee.

7. Though not technically an article of clothing, a camcorder is going to have to be on you at all times, at least in public. Use the device more, not less, and be sure to narrate loudly to the microphone exactly what you are seeing and exactly where you are, so you won't be confused when you watch it later in your living room at home with the extended family. Don't worry too much if this seems to be irritating people who live in Europe, they know their whole economy runs on tourism, and they couldn't get a decent living without travelers like you.

8. BACKUP: If all goes wrong, and you can't make headway, bring a Canadian maple-leaf pin and some Canadian flag patches. Though this feels dishonorable, and you are betraying your nation by having these & displaying them, the Canadian pin or patch could be your ace in the hole. Of course, when you open your mouth, everyone will know you aren't Canadian -- keep mum and your eyes on the prize, and you should be able to get though a rough spot.

9. MISCELLANEA: Here are some optional things you can bring that you may find pleasing for your trip.

- A sun visor, the kind that has no cap on it so your hair sticks out the top. The deeper the visor, the better.

- The biggest, blackest sunglasses you can dig up. To shield your eyes from the glare of the sky on all that marble & stone ruins.

- A second camcorder! In case their first one gets damaged on the plane, train, or cab by jostling persons who have no concept of personal space.

- Lots of sunscreen, lip balm, and extra make-up -- because you know at some point you'll mess up packing and you'll have your stuff confiscated.

- A few bottles of American bottled water. You might want to ration this and see if you can make it last for as long as possible, until your tummy gets used to the water over there.

- For the above reason, and if you are sensitive and haven't eaten food in places other than your home town, you might want to consider bringing a Cosco sized Pepto-Bismol too! Better safe than sorry!

Good luck and have a memorable trip!

Aren't You Going to Thank Me for That?!?

Yes, yes, I drank your precious bottle of genuine India Ink. There, are you happy? No deceptions, I did drink it. If it makes you feel any better, afterwards I was immediately sick for 25 hours. I was horribly and absolutely ill, like I was going to die. Don't you feel bad about that? Wine? What wine? OK, I'm really going to come clean with you -- I drank your wine. How much? I don't know, how many bottles did you have laying around? That many? I don't know if I could have physically drank all of that. I had a few glasses. More than a few, don't get so touchy. Look, calm down, don't be so goddamn touchy. It cost how much? Lordy, I didn't even know you could buy French wine at that price. I won't say I'm sorry because I can see that will only make you more angry, and do you see how that makes me feel? Hurt. Speaking of hurt, I may have hurt your car. Where is it? That is a Question for the Ages. I was in a hazy state of mind and the road was definitely not the safest place to drive, in my confused state of mind. It may be under a large tree. Scattered under a large tree. OK -- I parked it in a large tree, and parts of it are scattered under the tree branches. But I have the keys, and it is locked, so nobody is going to steal it. Aren't you going to thank me for that?!?

Breakfast

I was going to write something good, but then shit -- we go out to breakfast. I get the kosher salami with eggs sunny-side up with a coffee. You get the baby Belgian waffle and a vegetarian omelette with an orange juice. Yes, we want cream with the coffee. The waiter tell us he's waiting 6 tables, and sorry if he's slow. No problem, don't worry, ok. The Belgian waffle is slightly burned on top, so is my kosher salami. Your vegetarian omelette is fabulous. Daniel takes all the sugar packets and dumps them one by one onto the floor, experimenting with gravity. Pay the bill, leave my cell-phone behind, go back, get it, go to the grocery store at the corner because we really do need a few things. Now back at home, I sit down. I still have to put all the groceries away & the leftovers. What the hell was I going to write?

News - THINGS DON'T WORK

Hey -- I'm firing up my long neglected blog THINGS DON'T WORK. Used to just be for technology, but now it will be for multi-topical bitching and complaining, too. Because everything should generally work better than it does, and it could, if people gave a damn. Drop by and see the latest diatribe -- airline horror stories. If you have a topic or a complaint, feel free to send it to me. If it is good, I'll just put it up.

AND?

"I've been told that fleas don't drown in water." I say to Chung Tzu.

About ten minutes of silence goes by. Then Chung Tzu looks up at me, and he says, "AND?"

Hill of Beans

Things are just ducky. I have a nice spread, neighbors don't bug and the kid can walk to school. Then one day, a big beanstalk pops up through the floor and this human boy is running around the house screwing with stuff and it all goes to hell. Wouldn't you know I end up blind, drowned in a lake by that wiseass Jack. And the last thought that goes through my head as I settle at the bottom is, who'd believe how I got down here and life in the end ain't worth a hill of beans.

Waking Up in the Middle of the Night

In the middle of the night I am interrupted by waking up, aware in that instant in dreams I am on the verge of completing important, hugely complicated metaphysical tasks of conceptual reasoning that will be a refinement of the vast undulating ceaselessly replicating mystical underpinnings of the universe. And that kind of shit is fucking weird.

i have my ways

i have my ways
they please me

i defined sunlight
i defined snow

my sunshine is
not your sunshine

my snow is not
your snow

why we came
to this

of how snow
was snow

or sun was
the sun

i do not
know

dali

dali is near the end
of his life

he sits in a chair
with a rubber tube
up his nose

surprised to be photographed
all eroded in a leopard-print robe
in a dead dream

something inside

i am sitting here
late at night
after studying

my light is on
and on the other
side of the room
my roommate
is sleeping

i am waiting for
a bottle of beer
to get cold so to
amuse myself
i leaf through
ginsburg's kaddish
though i hate him

suddenly i realize
the freeway is
very loud

i have been living
two years within
earshot of it and
it's sounds were
no longer entering
my consciousness
until again now

i feel a vague
late night thrill
of horror because
i had ruled out
the sounds of the
freeway for months

killed the sounds
of trucks and cars
as a possibility for
almost a year now
until this night
it all came back
to me

i feel as if
i have committed
a crime so i pick up
four books of matches
& look at their
gaudy covers

one has a phone number
written on the inside
in loopy handwriting
but i don't recall
whose it is

i will never call
them but i admire
the phone number
for what it offers me

another matchbook
advertises fine home
and gardening products

another book is from
a cigar store

the last book of matches
is from seven eleven

i hear the freeway
and the 18 wheelers
roaring through the night

overdubbing reality
should be a capital crime
i think to myself and
i tilt the chair back
almost fall over

sounds quiet down
i check the beer
it is cold on only
one side

i realize i have
many books of matches
but no cigarettes

i drink the beer
with a light sweet
empty taste
simultaneously something
in my mind or
in my soul bows down
acknowledging
greater forces of
consequence in
the universe

these forces
will utterly overpower
my arrogance in
affirming reality

one of those
big-rigs could
drive off the highway
and come here
and kill me

something
inside me knows
that

Phone Story

The phone rings.

"Hello." I say.
"Yes?" I say.
"No thanks." I say.

I hang up the phone.

In This Life

"What do you think is the most impressive thing in this life, that you ever saw with your own eyes?" I ask Lao Tzu.

Lao Tzu doesn't reply. He may be asleep, sitting there.

"What about bugs? Mud? A broken stick?"

Lao Tzu shrugs.

I spy a squirrel in the backyard. "What about squirrels?"

"Ah! You should probably have been a squirrel in this life." says Lao Tzu.

Lao Tzu and the Orange

In the morning, I was in the kitchen peeling an orange, when Lao Tzu came in.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm peeling an orange." I reply.

"That's a fine looking orange. Why did you have to go and ruin it by peeling it?" he asks.

"Because I want to eat this fine looking orange." I reply.

"Oh! Excuses, excuses!" says Lao Tzu.

~

Later, I find Chung Tzu, who is hanging out with a few hobos under a railroad bridge. He looks scruffy, and they are sharing a bottle of Thunderbird in a paper bag.

"Here! Sit down with us and have a drink!" says Chung Tzu.

I sit down and have a big swig of Thunderbird. In a time, we are all drunk. A train goes overhead.

"Lao Tzu told me to leave oranges oranges." I say. "So how do you eat an orange?"

"Oh, that Lao Tzu!" says Chung Tzu, and he slaps his leg. "Lao Tzu is the best. You can't beat Lao Tzu!"

My New Religion

I'm ready now to invent a new religion. I don't know the specifics...but it will be funny, yet serious, impressive, yet humble, thoughtful, but not didactic, easy to pick up, but hard to put down, obvious, yet surprising, fresh, yet not a novelty, energetic, but not spastic, true, but not fatalistic, powerful, but not savage, informative, but not like Al Gore. I don't know if I'll have priests, or ordained ministers. I do know I'll want to encourage people practicing this religion to have skills -- they should possibly be able to change the oil on their own car, or have the determination to get though college in less than, say, 5 years. Churches are cool, churches are a great place to go inside when it is hot, because the right kind of church is cool and dark & mysterious inside with stained glass, so we'll have to have stained glass and that kind of thing. But I'd have to think about the layout, I don't like cruciform, and I also don't like circular layouts. There's much to consider, inventing a new religion. Try it sometime -- what kind of religion would you invent?

On the Watch List

You're on a watch list. One of a couple watch lists for suspected terrorists, complied by a myriad of federal government agencies that are overstaffed, over funded, and competing against one another. The problem is, you are so fucking BORING to watch. BORING! BORING! You don't go out enough, you stay in the house day after day in those old yellow pajamas and an old tee shirt and that ridiculous motorcycle jacket liner & you don't appear to comb your hair. Sometimes you wear mismatched socks -- what the hell is up with that? Match your damn socks! Get a damn haircut, and trim that weird goatee beard that looks right out of The Deerhunter. The beard thing looked good on Robert De Niro but you ain't no Robert De Niro -- not even close, buddy, okay? What the fuck else? Buy the cats dry cat food, stop using baby formula powder instead of milk in your coffee (that is so GROSS!), brush your teeth, put your damn clothes away, and clean up your office. Your office is disgusting! And file all those files piled up in the filing cabinets! Filing cabinets are for FILED FILES, not PILED FILES. And you're not acting like a terrorist, you have no terrorist friends, your family lives in Napa fer Christ's sake, we have no idea why you are on this list, but if you'd do something remotely terroristic, or questionable, we'd be so happy we haven't totally wasted our time. And have to watch your pathetic life. You overwrought bastard.

Poem - the midnight vote

the midnight vote
that's the biggest one
sealing thoughts
that normally float
free and easy
like butterflies

so i stay up
i recline on the couch
i watch the night get on
the stoplight at the corner
goes red green yellow red
with no cars

THE STORY OF ARTHUR BRENTLEY

1. george mellon sat down one afternoon on the spur of the moment and even though he wasn't a novelist he wrote the greatest single book ever to be produced by mankind
2. everyone was very impressed so george was invited to appear on oprah. he also made a great deal of money giving a large sum to his mother who had paid for his college tuition at the international school of policy & research in escondido california
3. george named the book "fuck goddamn shit" which people found hard to accept. at first the book sold well outside the united states and other english speaking countries
4. he was invited to india and the former soviet union. he was invited to burma and the new nation of bunsawwalli -- the bunsawwallians wanted george to be their new god-king but george said no because he had allergies and was afraid of air-travel
5. george's portrait began appearing on calendars postal stamps bills of sale posters fruit stands newspapers magazines post cards and in national galleries
6. the people of america finally decided that "fuck goddamn shit" was not obscene in the sense of the novel. now the whole world embraced george and his work
7. fans wrote him long letters in all sorts of languages asking george if he knew about god puppies shoe laces unsolved murders conspiracy theories metaphysics semiotics cajun recipes ufos or how the stock market would be doing or if there would be war anywhere in the world and was it time for the people of this little blue planet to become enlightened
8. george got a full time secretary to coordinate the answering of his mail. the secretaries name was pam and she was pretty. pam had recently graduated from juilliard with a degree in music and had huge student loans, she had brown hair that smelled slightly of peppermint
9. in the following spring he was blown to bits by a bomb sent as a disguised medium sized box of flowers and assorted chocolates made from cruelty free manufacturing processes. everyone was very surprised george was gone and there was an extended inquiry into the circumstances of his assassination
10. his body was buried secretly by his relatives in a small rural cemetery that had not been used in over 100 years
11. george mellon author of the greatest novel ever written by mankind lays in a small grave with a tombstone naming him ARTHUR BRENTLEY
12. the only thing to add is pam drew a heart on the marker below the name with pink lipstick because it was the only thing she had to mark the grave under a wide wide blue sky

News - Apexart Show Cartoons

Some people have asked to see the work that was accepted for the April apexart cartoon show. If you want to see them, go over to my cartoon blog, I'm putting them up. Blogger is acting funny right now, but I'll get all four posted as soon as I can.

CM Evans @ Apexart & McSweeney's - April 2008

Big news! I've been invited by Dave Eggers to be a participant in a cartoon show at apexart in New York in April. The title of the show is "Lots of Things like This", and will feature 100 cartoons from blockbusting talents like Saul Steinberg, R. Crumb, William Steig, Ralph Steadman, Shel Silverstein, David Shrigley, Nedko Solakov...keerist the list goes on. There will even be work by Alasdair Gray, one of my favorite writers & illustrator. Topping it all off (if it could be topped off), McSweeney's will be publishing an edition that will be a companion to the show. My work will be in that publication too. I am frankly, totally amazed this is happening. Up to this point, I haven't been invited to be in anything, anywhere. If you love art, cartooning, or satire, you won't want to miss this installation. Opening is on April 2, from 6 - 8 PM. The show runs April 2 - May 10. If you make it out on April 2, I'll see you there!

James Bond's Gun

Though not technically crazy, he ruins the action movie for himself by trying to imagine what the world sounds like to James Bond's gun, if the gun could hear. Most of the time he thinks, the world would sound muffled. But when James Bond drives the tank through the wall, he thinks, wow, the gun would have definitely heard that!

My Turn Now

Do I write, do I draw, no. Do I write? No. Do I draw? No. Am I in 1975? No. Do I have a red suitcase, with a red suitcase inside the red suitcase? No. Is there a note inside the red suitcase, in the red suitcase? No.

What color is the stove? What color is the color blue? Is blue red? Is green white? Do all straight lines curve? Does everything that rises, converge? Is God the color of water? Did it rain last night? Was that evening purple, like soda bubbles?

Where is Small? Small is a cute bug. Small was small. Where did Small go? It is my turn to look for Small. I will find Small. When I see Small, I'll say, "Hello, Small!" Small will smile at me. Small will wave & I will wave back.

What I Want & What I Will Do

- I want to be as fox-crazy as Tom Cruise. Yeah, that crazy. Then I'd be able to scale tall buildings, playing the star spangled banner on a comb with a piece of wax paper, while turning all the water in the city of Chicago into peppermint schnapps.

- I will be known as "The Man in the Iron Mask", even though I have never worn, nor ever will possess an iron mask of any kind. I will be feared as this persona throughout the continental United States of America, and also especially in Australia, because of my maskless exploits.

- I will be held in high esteem while wearing a pope-like paper hat made from a shopping bag. Drawn on the front of the hat will be a cute kitty cat, but it won't appear to be silly in any way while on my noggen.

- Likewise, I will appear in public wearing a paper suit, with attractive shoes made of cardboard. I will move with the poise of Fred Astaire, virtually sipping Napoleon Brandy in my wild wild ways. Often in this getup, I'll do a quiet little dance in the mystery section of the Oak Park Public Library, 3rd floor, by the Swedish Detective Fiction. Hear me roar!

- Finally, I will convert my toaster oven into a time machine, in which I will be able to squeeze into, by using long forgotten techniques of Feudalistic Magic. After transporting myself to 5 million AD, I will battle the Morlocks and vanquish them, to found a new civilization where every citizen is a genius, and their children will write numerous ground-breaking novels about Tricopia, my favorite imaginary land of bountiful colors.

The die has been cast!

Via Wikipedia - Random Wikipedia Articles

Today I decided to play with the "Random article" button on Wikipedia. Here are a few things I found out:

Virgos Merlot -- "Signs of a Vacant Soul" was the group's first, and only album. I thought Virgos Merlot would turn out to be an artist from Europe, but this is an American hard rock band from Birmingham, Alabama.

Yinggarda -- is an Australian Aboriginal Language, of tribes living on the central western coast of Western Australia.

Anomoeanism -- A 4th century sect of Christian Arians, following the opinion of Aerius, that believed Jesus Christ was totally different, in nature, compared to God. The sect kept going after Aerius confessed to the Church that his opinions were wrong.

Riddickart -- Mark Riddick scares me. He makes me good 'n scared.

List of UK Prime Ministers -- Who doesn't need to know who all the Prime Ministers were for the United Kingdom, going back to 1721? And their party affiliation. Well, here they are in a handy graphical display...every name there also clickable to a separate Wikipedia article so you can find your favorite PM. Wow, that Walpole guy, and that William Pitt dude were Prime Ministers, like, forever!

Now you have something to talk about when you go home tonight. :-)

Game - Crayon Physics Deluxe

You should go check out Crayon Physics Deluxe, by Jim Merithew. This has got to be one of the most intriguing & interesting game concepts I have seen in a long time. Reminds me of my reaction to how revolutionary the Wii is...because most "innovation" in technology and "game concepts" are boring repetitious engaging of older worn out concepts. Then through the mediocrity comes something beguiling, simple, and totally captivating. And this little game just won the Independent Game Festival's grand prize of $200,000.00. Way to go, Jim!

Tomorrow It Will Snow

Tomorrow it will snow, and I look forward to that. I've been told we've had a terrible winter, this year. This being my first winter in the Midwest, I have found it to be oddly beguiling. My only complaint is dealing with ice, once it gets started, it is hard to clean up. But who can complain about snow, twirling falling flakes of quiet snow? A heavy falling blanket of snow, erasing details, falling over houses and streets? You go to sleep on a bitterly cold black night, with the naked tree branches swaying & scraping -- and in the morning, by breakfast time, the entire city has been muted in an expanse of white. The world has less of an edge, boundaries erased, and still the fine particles of snow fall less some, more so. Then the people come out to damn the snow. Everyone, except me.

The Battle of the Nile

This morning, Chung Tzu, Horatio Nelson, and I are sitting in a cafe. It is clear, sunny, and cold. Ching Tzu orders a latte, 1st Viscount Nelson orders a doubel-shot of espresso, and I have a cappuccino. We're used to one another, so neither Ching Tzu, nor the Vice-Admiral say anything about me ordering a cappuccino.

"Did I tell you about Brueys?" says Baron Nelson out of the blue, while doodling in a napkin.

"The French Admiral? At the Battle of the Nile?" says I, trying not to be burned by my drink.

"Some call it the Battle of Aboukir Bay." mentioned Chung Tzu.

"A trifle detail, but an important one, yes." says Captain Nelson, brightening, and looking at Chung Tzu with his good eye.

"Yes, you beat him, and his fleet." I reply. Ching Tzu and Nelson don't hear me.

"Captain Thomas Foley displayed initiative, slipped through the gap in the line and a few others followed. So you could attack on both sides." mentions Chung Tzu, as if talking about clouds.

"And it was bonnie well done!" exclaims Nelson, bouncing up and down. With his face shining like that, and him so pleased, we didn't say anymore about the Battle of the Nile. Everybody likes to be around Horatio Nelson, especially when he's happy.

Via Mangle - Ugly Random Web Pages

So today I decided to go back to Mangle and check out random personal webpages. I haven't done this in years, I used to do random sampling all the time, to try and come up with interesting links. But now I remember why I stopped random sampling. Yeeech! The number of crappy webpages out there is beyond belief! Here are a few of them:

Vishal03 -- You're killing my eyeballs with the green textured background that looks like a blizzard of puke. Yes, from the picture, I can imagine you're having a raging time with your pals.

Bocefuss! All I can say is, wow, I hope you get the site constructed, any change is better than what's up there now. Actually, now that I look at it, it is kind of like Zen meeting Taoism.

jmr08860 -- Ahhhhhhh! A ROOSTER PAGE!! No, it is not "KOOL". My brain slid off it's chassis when I saw the blue and green stripes.

Heartland/3682 -- I wasn't going to rip on the Barker Family, and I'm still not going to rip on the Barker Family. But when the music started playing, I wanted to rip on the Barker Family.

Palms/9420 -- I like your site. Simple. Completely broken. I could stare at it all day.

Vienna/1591 -- Starting out with, "This page will never be completed. It experiences what one would call a continuum of existence..." suckers me into hanging out 5 minutes longer than I normally would in your sucky, angst-ridden, narcissistic webpage extravaganza. Keep up the good work!

That's all for now. I hope you enjoyed this post as much as I did.

if you really/ do it

darling i'll
love you
madly
absolutely
if i love you
at all

which is bad
i know
very bad to love
this way
experience shows

i'd write more
& try to put
the obligatory
twist at the end
of the poem

but love is
a bitch of a
proposition

never simple
or safe

if you really
do it

vatchel

vatchel lindsay
lindsay lindsay
you were a liar
and a drunkard
and above all
a poet

people paid
to watch you
in theaters your
higher vaudville
as you called it
BOOM BOOM
BOOM

treking across
the wastes
of middle america
with no money
paying with spoken
words

and then after
hitting your zenith
years of slowly
going down down
a star like lucifer
now just a tin plated
phony

america dumbed
further and further
by the depression
you grappled
with children and
family debts

vatchel lindsay
on one afternoon
drank lysol
"those bastards wanted
to get me --
but i got them first!"

but i will always
remember you
by that one photograph
arm out head back
hips cocked
wracked in
poetic ecstasy

vatchel lindsay
i could be
like that

vatchel lindsay
lindsay lindsay
i have been
like that

Chung Tzu & I vs The Librarian

I see Chung Tzu in the "quiet reading" section of the Oak Park Library.
"Hello, Chopped Stick!" he says.
"Hello, Dirty Old Man!" I reply.
"Shhhhhhhhhhh!" says the Librarian.

We wait until the Librarian is gone.
"So what's news?" asks Chung Tzu.
"It's raining. There's water in my garage. I can't stop the water from getting in." I reply.
"There's garage in your water." says Chung Tzu, thinking this statement is very funny.

I look to see if the Librarian can hear us.
"I can't get everything done, at my house. There's too much to do." I say.
"There's a dirty sock on your stairs." admits Chung Tzu.
We wait a bit, as the Librarian walks by.

"Hey, Dumbass!" says Chung Tzu, this time loudly.
"Hey, what, Shitwit!" says I, as the Librarian calls Security.
"I wouldn't want to be a Librarian in a world with us in it." says Chung Tzu, standing up.
"I know what you mean." I say, as we get going.

Being Here

In the morning, Chung Tzu comes into the house, unannounced, of course. He finds me in the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" asks Chung Tzu.
"I am upset." I reply.
"Don't be upset." says Chung Tzu, and he leaves.

Later, at noon, Chung Tzu comes into the house, unannounced, as always. He finds me in the basement office.
"What are you doing?" asks Chung Tzu.
"I am thinking." I reply.
"Don't think" says Chung Tzu, and he leaves.

Chung Tzu returns at sunset. I am back in the kitchen, by the stove.
"What are you doing?" asks Chung Tzu.
"Being a goat." I reply.
Chung Tzu this time smiles, and he leaves.

Late at night, I am in the kitchen again. It is quiet, everyone else is sleeping. Chung Tzu quietly lets himself into the house.
"What are you doing?" whispers Chung Tzu to me, as if we are forming a conspiracy.
"I am being here!" I whisper back, handing him a cup of tea.
"Good!" he whispers back.

One Morning, Not So Long Ago

One morning, not so long ago, I was walking though the woods. To my surprise, I saw a young man at a fork in the path, standing on a dunghill. He was wearing a sharp looking business suit, and looked very out of place.
"Hello." I said to the young man.
"Good morning!" he exclaimed.
"What are you doing here in the middle of the woods, dressed in a business suit?" I asked (because I couldn't help wanting to know).
"Oh!" the young man said "Well, I am glad you asked! I am trying to be the most Important Person on this dunghill!"
"Gracious!" was my reply.
"Yes. Yes. I made my plans, chose my action, and here I am DOING it." He took in the wide blue sky, the bare trees, everything around him. He was greatly satisfied. Then he looked at me. "Do you have any suggestions, or advice so that I may achieve my goal more swiftly and efficiently?"
I though about it for a moment. "Know your limitations." I said.

Historical Facts - William Tell's Practice Shot

I was sad today to find out that William Tell had a few kids, besides his eldest son, Walter. He was so scared at shooting Walt in the noggin, he practiced on Hundertwasser first, and missed. I guess he felt so bad about this shooting accident, in 1354, W.T. died while trying to save a child from drowning in the Schachenbach, an alpine river in Uri. His favorite crossbow, Wolfenstein, is now in Das Wichtige Historische Supermuseum der Völker die Crossbows Schossen und Kampieren Mögen, in the little hamlet of Schnell, by the 14th century Schloss Nein-Ausgang. God rest his troubled soul.

Music - Easy Star All-Stars - Dub Side of the Moon

Needed some music to kick me up to the next level. So I got out "Dub Side of the Moon", by Easy Star, and playing it loud, it rocks...takes me back to the past & forward to the future. Imagine Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" redone into brain-busting reggae, no-holds barred & you got it. Very few CDs I've purchased over the last few years have such a place in my mind -- in terms of creating raw astonishment, and listening pleasure.

We Demolished the Wrong Building

We demolished the wrong building. Okay, I'll say it again, we demolished the wrong building. It wasn't 3342 Barnham Way, it was 3324 Barnham Way. That aside, the job was a snap. But the problem is, we demolished the wrong building. And it was a church. You can't fire me, we're partners. You said you wanted to run the office, and I'd go out and do the jobs.

Poem - i want to mope

i want to mope

i want to mope
but the kids are up

i can't brood until
they go to bed

one kid works
on her homework

the other has a bottle
& walks all over the house

dripping dots of formula
shrieking room to room

so i drink cup after cup of tea
smoke cigarettes

standing by the stove vent
set on the highest setting

i watch it snow in
a nocturnal backyard

then i think of chung tzu
& all his great advice

are you thinking too much?
then don't think!

are you wanting something?
then don't want it!

i pick up my son i tell him
"you look tired!" he laughs

so i laugh

homework doing daughter
laughs too

Poem - with the heart of a child

by chance today
i look in the mirror

i realize i look like
a dangerous madman

hair all wild
eyes piercing

how is this possible
with the heart of a child?

Dear Diary

February 11, 2008
21:33

Dear Diary,

Today we attached the 14 ton science lab module to the International Space Station. It was technically very challenging, but we did it. No pressure, I mean, it only cost 2 billion dollars. And right at the end, some nameless breathless idiot in Mission Control goes, "BEAUTIFUL JOB!" into Leopold's ear, so he almost crushes the brushings.

So, later we all got high on some hash brownies. You can't even faintly imagine how fantastic the Earth looks from space, when you're stoned. Even Schlegel felt better, and said Africa talked to him. NASA will never know.

My Battle with the Ice

In the cold night, when I fall on my ass really hard, I know I'm back. Ice and dress shoes don't work. Ice and formal shoes, with a backpack and a suitcase in tow does not make a happy ending. You won't even be walking upright very long. So I fall more on the way home. I fall backwards onto my back, full on the backpack, my legs shooting out towards the street. I fall like I am drunk, or like I was shot in the chest by a stream of machine gun bullets. When I'm not falling, I am almost falling, skidding, slipping, doing a funny little dance here and there. And I can't help but cursing as traffic flys by on the dry road. Why can't these m***er f*****rs keep their sidewalks shoveled? There's at least one bastard on every section of a block I have to walk through. Whoops. There's another one. When at last I get home, the last stretch of pernicious hateful ice is on my section of sidewalk, in front of the house. Bastard that I am, I die one last time, going down, as if hit with a rock. This time, I fall in silence. I feel like throwing my suitcase into the bushes, but I can't get enough traction. Later, after I have gotten in out of the cold, I can laugh about it. And look, the laptop still works. Victory!

PIG SWAT LAKE & Seeing Jesus Christ on a Bicycle

Before crossing the street, I look at the electronic sign for the San Jose Performing Arts Center. The instant I look at it, it says "PIG" for several seconds. Then it changes to "SWAT LAKE" for a few more seconds. By that time, I realize some light bulbs have burned out...there is no PIG SWAT LAKE performance, which I would have to go and see, if it did exist that way. What caps it is, walking across the street, I then see a man who looks exactly like Jesus Christ...with a bicycle. I try not to stare. Nothing to see here folks, just move along.

Bell Tower

I am waiting for the bell tower to ring. I swear it half-rang a second ago. So now I am waiting for the bell tower to ring. My ears are not playing games on me, I swear. The problem is, I have been waiting for the bell tower to ring, and I am now waiting too long in expectation for it to, in fact, ring. A watched pot of water never boils, wanting to get laid badly means you'll die a virgin, and the bell tower listened to will never ring. I take out a pair of binoculars and look at the goddamn bell tower, look closer, is it stopped? Are the hands moving? Should I be able to see that from here? Look, see -- the hands ARE moving. The minute hand is half way from 4.45, headed to 5.00. I wait. I wait. Then, when the minute hand crosses the ornate 12, nothing happens. Who do I call? The fire department? The mayor? Then the bell tower goes DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG.

A Ghost

In San Jose, the sun is shining strongly though a gap in the clouds. The sun shines over a wall of mist, then it is gone. I think about being a ghost, and what it would be like to haunt this building. I've worked here a long time, and now I am just visiting, like a ghost. Virtually a ghost, I go to the 9th floor, in the West Tower and see how things have changed, and how other things will always be the same. Like a ghost, it is good to be back. Like a ghost, I am now outside of normal time, free in my own limited scope. Memory is my structure, I am thought now, beyond decay or corruption.

Eating Skripes

Me, I'm good at naming things, see? Even renaming things! Cats, dogs, furniture, houses, trees, squirrels -- even people. Especially people. I got a gift -- it's a gift, I swear. Now, if you had amnesia, and you didn't know your name & you came over to my house, I could name you in a jiffy and it would fit you perfectly. I named my daughter JuJu, and my son....he's a Skeeter if you ever saw one! Look at him. I see you agree with me. I named my granddaughter Petals, and my grand nieces Pepper-Reee-Aw and Keerlee Lee-Branches. This here sofa ain't no SOFA, who came up with that name? Makes no sense. You agree, don't you? Yes? Good. This here SOFA is what I call a Boo-Wa-Large. Sit yourself down on the Boo-Wa-Large while I gets us a few Mooches from the Piner. THEN WE CAN EAT US THEM SKRIPES OVER THERE ON THE STOVE.

Poem - living in the land of leech

for Crystal Reghetti

do you recall
the land of leech
and how everybody there
big & small
spoke that strange
nonsensical language
that you made up
as we ate home-
made sausages at
the kitchen table
for breakfast?
i even joked
i'd like to go
to that place
the land of leech

it has been many
years now
but you know
more than ever
i feel like going
to the land of leech

then i realized
i am already
living there

4/96

Two Ladies

I was sleeping at the hotel. Two ladies, they were talking all night, almost to 4 AM, in a foreign language. It sounded like Russian or Polish. They weren't too loud, nor were they trying to keep the noise down, so the volume rose and fell as they sounded amused and lyrical. If I could have understood what they were saying, it would have been hell. Sometimes I head a male voice interjecting, but he was unimportant to the overall discussion. All night, sleeping and slightly waking up when he spoke, I was surprised to hear anyone else other than the babbling ladies, but I forgave him. We all put up with his interjections with good humor, he was comfortable with his ironic position as permanently being on the side-lines to the real action. Then at 5 AM, I head two kinds of snoring, one for each lady. The snoring sounded like it was in English. Sleepily, not even half out of dreams, I thought, "Amazing! They talk all night in Russian, or Polish, but then they snore in English. So sublimely strange. And even more lyrical."

Me and My Rap Song

I have this horrible rap song stuck in my head. It loops around and around certain lyrics. "Don't you want a girlfriend that is fly like me? Don't you want a girlfriend that is free like me? Don't you? Don't you?" Meanwhile, I have been writing great poetry, all of it extremely depressing, and this bothers some of my readers. I think I can find some happy poems from my notes, written about ten years ago -- they can be fixed, I think. And the rap song rolls on, the sultry fly female voice sings, "I know you want me, I know you do...I know you like me...something something something..." More music. Now I think the song is making me happy, because it won't stop.

Poem - Kepler

DESCRIBING ASTRONOMICAL STEPS
IN A GENERAL EDUCATION PHYSICS CLASS
WITH BITS OF MATHEMATICAL ABSTRACTION
ALL OVER SIMPLIFIED AND CORRECT
IN ONLY A FEW SITUATIONS

BUT MOST THINGS ARE LIKE THAT ANYWAYS

Notes: May 12:

Kepler: A true giant (non-smoker), living at the time of
Galileo, that other giant of a guy (non-smoker).
Wrote various laws on napkins/ luggage & ticket
stubs & hotel stationary:

1. Planets move in elliptical paths
around the Sun without any
pit stops, or laying eggs*

*The Mileage
Law.

2. A line drawn from the Sun to a
planet sweeps, waxes, washes,
dusts, vacuums, or
calls a maid...asks for a janitor,
or otherwise asks for the Army
to clear equal areas in equal units
of time*

*Principal of
the Cleaning Lady.

3. Harmonic Law

P² = a³

P= Pomp/ a= Average/

Amount of pomp gathered
(in astronomical units)
of consternation
or level of annoyance
by a galactic
body revolving
'round Sun of other planets
once using this formula

Philosophical idea, getting all these P' s & a's
blended together, for instance:

P² = a³

11² = 5³

(Jupiter) = (Jupiter)

121 = 125

(Grave annoyance,
a cosmic falling out;

Jupiter, far from
the Sun is a little less
annoying than Neptune

but Pluto is the worst
a virtual black-sheep
of the family)

Kepler: Oh, what a Mensch. His predictions,
not just a magical thinker, propelling us
into modern thought with his modernity

Kepler: Father, Mother, Originator, Co-conspirator,
Manager, Idealist, Thinker ---

Oh hell --

Stated with pride and simplicity, virtually
the Georgewashington of Astronomy

(P² = a³)

Kepler: Friend of Tycho Brahe and Galileo Galilei
(they took names and kicked asses), known by
Newton -- surpassing Euclid, Plato, and the fat guy
in all the restaurants with the mustachio

Kepler: The Boy-Hero, Crime Fighter, Mathematician &
Adventurer & Private-Eye

Kepler, the Unsung Poet of the Mind:

Planets
sweep out
pie-shaped
wedges
of area
during their
orbits

taking no
more than
giving in
motion

so we shade
in that area
that is
swept
out

and soon
the Planet
is a bead
on the
edge
of a black
disk

Poetry - poems written on the road

#1 boston

calls out to home
but no calls returned

people come & go
on planes alone

they leave each other
without saying goodbye

as if it was understood
how we are connected

but we do not understand
alas we do not

#2 the place

when you go to the
place and sit at
a table for two
but you hang your
coat on the other
chair

everyone in the joint
knows you're dining
alone

as far as they know
it is like that
every night

even if it isn't true

#3 sales talk

sales talk sales
jargon

i've overheard it a hundred
times or more

"she's a real worker bee"
"i gotta step up to the plate"

"love it or leave it"
"how do they treat their people -- bad."

salesmen talk this way
but they could be doing anything

eating dinner or
waiting for a flight

butchering cattle
or digging graves

#4 comfort

she sits alone in the
sushi restaurant
she looks unhappy

i am alone also
i hope i do not look
as unhappy as she does

i grab a few red napkins
write this poem and when
i look up she has her meal

though she is still alone
she feels better with her dinner
and i find comfort with my poem

Poem - this night

this night
i am in a restaurant
outside it is raining
other than that
i do not know myself
or where i am

logic dictates i
must be someone but
realistically i could be
silverware or
that glass of wine

but through thinking
i will myself to be
from the point of view
of the person sitting in
the chair enjoying a meal
arbitrary as that is

precious strangeness
remains
one thing as real as it is
unreal
meal concluded like a
life ended

table cleared and reset
with just a few
crumbs
from the last
underneath the next
diner's feet

My American Airlines Horror Story

Air travel is not what it used to be, you hear that all the time from people who have to travel frequently. Here is my airline travel horror story.

It started with an American Airline ticket for travel on Sunday, January 6, from Orange County to Chicago O'Hare, with a stopover in San Francisco. The flight was due to depart at 2.40 PM, so I called at about 10 AM to verify the flight would be on time. Mysteriously, American Airlines thought my daughter and infant son would still be traveling with me, even though I had changed the ticket & their flights for a different time a few days ago. I recorrected the information for the flight, it would just be me.

When I got to the airport at a bit before 1 PM, I saw that the line for American Airlines stretched the entire length of Terminal 1. There must have been about 300+ people waiting to check in at the American Airlines counter. Every other airline there at John Wayne Airport had a few people checking in, but American Airlines was the only carrier with a stupendously long line. I reached a ticketing agent by 2.20 PM. I explained to the agent that I could have made my flight, if not for starting at the far end of the terminal. She said that I could go on a non-stop flight to Chicago at 4.00 PM.

Ticket in hand, and luggage checked, I processed myself through security -- the line there was negligible. At the gate, when the plane arrived, we were told there was a mechanical problem with the plane. The American Airlines employee at the gate said that a part had to be sent from Los Angeles. Then, the attendant said they were not sure when the plane would be ready. Then, we were told to stand by for more information. At about 4.00 PM, we were informed our flight was completely canceled. Hotel vouchers would be provided for people who did not live in Orange County.

Another long line formed at the gate counter. Only one American Airlines employees was there to process us, so the progress was slow. Soon, three Orange County sheriffs showed up, and stood there staring at the crowd. One was on a Seqway, and as we stood there barely moving, he'd twirl around on it, showing us, I guess, how skilled & important he was. For a short time, there was another American Airline employee helping, but then after about 20 minutes she left. We'd have traded three cops and an idiotic Seqway demonstration for one extra American Airlines employee, but it was not to be.

While we stood there, because the line was moving so slowly, several people (including me) asked the woman at the gate politely if more American Airline employees could help hand out vouchers. We were all told that there were no other employees available. Absolutely no help would be coming. After about two and a half hours of standing in line, I got a hotel voucher, and a "dinner voucher" for 10 dollars. We were told that everyone on the canceled flight had been booked for a non-stop 7 AM flight the next day at the same gate, and we should keep our boarding passes. American Airlines said in the morning, there would be a special place for us to drop our luggage off, and to keep the tags on the luggage. When I checked into the hotel, I discovered the meal voucher was not redeemable at the hotel, only at the airport.

So I woke up at 4.20 AM the next day, got to the airport a bit before 5 AM and there was no one there who knew where we should be handing our luggage to. People from the canceled flight stood in the international departures line, and so American Airlines processed us there. When I got to the ticket counter, I was told that there was no 7 AM flight to Chicago. I was scheduled to depart at a 9 AM flight. The agent switched me to the earliest flight, which was a 6.45 AM. My luggage was retagged.

At the gate, waiting, at 6.20 the agent said that the plane waiting at the gate was the wrong plane, and needed to be switched with another plane. It seems that American Airlines forgot to move the broken plane from yesterday & it sat there all night. We were able to board the new plane by about 6.50 AM. Once aboard, we were informed that we would have to sit on the tarmac at John Wayne Airport for about an hour, due to President Bush landing at Chicago O'Hare. After about 30 minutes, we did take off.

Basically, the take from all of this is my time (or any other traveler's time) is not important, or valuable, in any way to American Airlines. American Airlines demonstrated quite clearly customers are trivial, treated with no more concern or feeling you'd expend on bags of luggage. Having the longest line for checking in, forcing people to stand in lines for hours for vouchers with the police in the background, denying us extra personnel to speed things up, it shows the airline doesn't give a damn how much time they waste. American Airlines could care less if you make it home on time -- and when things go wrong at the airport, there is no customer service when the public interfaces with actual airline employees.

I know there are worse travel related airline stories out there...it shows how off the mark and arrogant, or just indifferent carriers are today, post 9/11. Once they get a traveler into that controlled airport environment, they can do anything they want with you.

P.S.

A special thanks goes out to Chicago O'Hare....when I asked, there were no door-to-door shuttles to take me home. I ended up renting a Lincoln town car for $67 bucks to get me to my front door.

Poem - from HOME - a meeting

there is a
beautiful girl
walking along
cloumbus street
in north beach

by chance she
looks through
the long windows
of the cafe puccini

our eyes meet

we both almost
look away past
that polite
customary second

but we don't

and she looks
into my eyes
as she walks by
all the way

and like that
she is gone

From HOME, a collection of Poetry, Writing, Illustrations and Photographs
By CM Spaghetti

News - Fourth Collection Finished - HOME

I have completed my fourth collection of poems, short stories, and illustrations, titled "HOME" -- above is the cover. You can go to my store at CafePress and order a copy. This edition will most likely be edited a bit, but the bones are solid and the meat on the bones is good strong flesh. Pardon my bad writing. From HOME, here is a poem, titled "Weeding". I hope you enjoy it.

---------------

weeding

because i was
fired i payed rent
through weeding

grubbed pulled out
the grass and the
spiked weeds
growing in bunches
weed growing sparsely
interspaced
nestled between the
rocks and white gravel

wanted to use gloves
got gloves used gloves
handled the
soft rotting rose-heads
fallen in the shade
of the path that
ran behind the house

weeded took off
the right-hand glove
weeding thinking
about things took off
the left glove and
got a drink of water

filled the cart
full of weeds
the sun dipped down
where i thought
it would be shady
all day long but
no longer cool
at 11 o'clock

weeding along
cleared a great mess
of fallen vines with
a pitchfork twirling
them up like spaghetti

took them on the
tip of the fork
into the field
balancing the wood
shaft on my
shoulder as i
walked

i could feel
the weight of the
vines digging
into my shoulder
as the shaft bobbed
hurled them all down
in bright sunshine

vegetable matter
on top of more
vegetable matter
in the place where
we burned trash
and dead cats or
other rodents

and still
there from previous
burnings

ash
flew up with a sigh

-----------

Look in 2008, in the summer, for a "micro-book" titled "LUNA", poems to the moon, written in 1993. I need to find a publisher for it, the book being 3x3 or 4x4 inches in size.

Merry Christmas!

Getting ready for the big day, one of the elves comes to me -- he has his hat in his hand. And I haven't ever seen an elf with his hat off, so this can't be good. He says they can't find the list. I'm so goddamn busy I'm ready to shit bricks and mail them to Timbuktu. What list? I ask. THE LIST. Says the elf. Jesus Jumping Christ in Red Plaid! I exclaim. Did you ask Mrs. Clause? Yes! says the elf. So after that, we tear up the workshops, warehouses, storage & lofts, we rifle through the stables, look under every tree, present, box, trunk, hay pile & bail, turn over every wreath, look in every nook and cupboard, to no effect. Cookies and Cockeyed Crumpets, we're F--d! No List. Who had the List, last? They name the elf, Fonterloughighoblo, and he's not here, so we all go to his house. And lo, there he is, passed out dead drunk, the list is in shambles, all over the place. I can't make head or tail of it, the pages all mottled, crumpled and smudged. I see he used some of it to start a fire. So there it is, with no list we had to improvise. Because of Fonterloughighoblo, 2007 was the year everyone got a crate of Spam.

Remember Me?

Hi there. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago at a bar when we both were getting drunk. I can't remember the name of the bar, but it was the one with the huge patio with colored electric lights. I pretended to smoke, because you'd go out to the patio and light up ever 20 minutes, even though it was about 25 degrees & freezing ass cold. One time I loaned you my jacket, you looked cute in it with the sleeves hanging down 5 sizes too big. I noticed your hair was light, but not blond, and your eyes were hazel with fine gold flecks. You also had a cut on your chin, you said a motorist opened his car door when you were riding your bike and you crashed into it. The guy didn't even check to see if you were okay, he drove away and people stared at you laying in the street. You seemed to like me because I didn't try to come on too strong or say the typical guy things you hear all the time, but you said I shouldn't be too interested, because you have a boyfriend. But later I overheard you saying your boyfriend is an asshole and you think he's sleeping with his ex-wife. I want to say I'm nice on the outside, and if you get to know me better, you'll find I'm nice all the way down to some dark unpleasant secrets. And if you get to know me to that point, my behavior could do a subtitle change. But I think everyone is like this, to be honest. I think you are experienced enough to know that. I am not looking for someone experienced enough to know that we all have dirty secrets, deep down. But I think it is unavoidable.

Scrapping the Universe

In Heaven, there are mixed reactions to the proposal of shutting Creation, the "Universe", down. Hell, on the other hand, is delighted. Satan and his band of merry rebels think they will be getting all the scrap if external phenomenon is retooled or unmade, just like last time, which happened so long ago you couldn't quite imagine it...and it really isn't any of your business. Hell goes through quite a growth spurt each time interdependencies are all unmade. There is a sort of silent agreement between Heaven and Hell, regarding the size of Hell. Hell shouldn't be too big, and certainly not too small. And the requirements for a bigger Hell goes with the creation of a new universe as two peas in a pod. God isn't slimming things down, you see. He's trying to get it right after many excruciating attempts. He almost has it down, the Genesis thing. Now Heaven will convene for about 45 million years and talk it through. That is equivalent to about 2 weeks our time.

Train and Teredactyl

A few days before Christmas, little curly haired Julian, who is almost 3, mugged Santa. But it didn’t start out that way. Paul and Molly took Julian to the Mall, stood in line so Julian could sit on Santas lap. For small children this can be a harrowing, horrifying experience -- it usually ends up being good -- but sometimes the wheels come off and a small child has a complete mental breakdown. When his time came, with some trepidation, small Julian looked at the funny guy with the beard in red. And right there and then, Julian made the blessed & magnificent mental connection between TOYS and SANTA. "TRAIN!" exclaimed Julian. "TRAAAAIN!!" He yelled again, almost jumping up and down. All was well. Santa acquiesced, and so Julian left the interview very satisfied. But then a bit later in the toy store, Julian saw the best rubber teredactyl in the entire universe. On the way out of the Mall, passing near where Santa was set up, Julian launched into action. When his parents were within striking distance, he broke from his Mom and Dad, running as fast has he could for the fat guy in red. He barreled to the front of the line between kids and parents, jumped onto Santa's lap, screaming, "No TRAIN! NO TRAIN!!! Ter-DACTL!!! TER DACTL!!!!" So this Christmas, I do believe Julian got a Train and a Teredactyl. Never get between a 3 year old's Christmas gift idea and Santa!

Poem - winter/ snow

winter
snow

i stand
outside

i listen
to the

crackling
trees

their limbs
covered

in a fine
layer of ice

CM Evans - 4 Poems Live Over @ Opium Magazine

Four of my poems are live over at Opium Magazine. Opium is online, and also goes out to print. Issue number 5 is the latest off line offering, featuring writing, poetry, illustrations and more. David Barringer designed the cover & Todd Zuniga edits it, along with an army of tireless lit volunteers. Please do pick up a copy.

Poem - nevermind

carrying an
over under
shotgun
cold to the touch

see
moisture beads
on the steel
as i look around

i thought
i was real but
there is nothing
in this moment
but here and this rain

falling soft rain
in a wide field
of just stubble
rising gently that way

soon i
nevermind
shift the gun
walk on past a fence
walk on


From POETRY from the CITY of BRASS
by CM CHICAGO

Christy's Mom

When you were an infant, your mother decided she had to leave. It could have been even in mid-sentence, when she was talking to your father. She literally walked out of the house one day, with the clothes she happened to be wearing -- not a scrap of luggage, not even a toothbrush or a comb. She never came back. You told me your father was stoic about your mom going, he hardly ever talked about it. If you ever asked him about your mother, he said he wasn't sure why she left or where she was. At first you asked because your dad kept all of your mothers things, he never cleaned or cleared them away. It was like someone was on vacation, or away on business and they'd be coming back any day now. As you grew up, you saw over time how her perfume bottles and erring holders, coils of necklaces, small crystals on her side of the bureau got old and dusty. The jewelery tarnished. When you dad wasn't around, you looked at her dresses, and other clothes still in plastic dry-cleaning bags hung in the closet, with her shoes. Over time the articles of clothing got dead, and deader, which is impossible for inanimate things, but it was still true. Later, when you were 25 and had a little girl of your own and dropped out of college, your sister said mother was married again. Your mom was living in a big expensive house in Burlingame. One afternoon you drove to the house, and spied on her when she parked on the driveway. You watched her walk into the house. She wasn't smiling, she seemed very serious with frown lines on her cheeks, cold. You didn't feel like meeting mother after you saw her face, so you drove away. You never hated her, either, until then.

Me and Bobby

One evening out riding, I clipped a side-mirror on an expensive sedan. When I crashed, I bent the front wheel of my bicycle and smashed down on my shoulder, ribs, and hip. I remember laying for a few seconds in the street, a truck narrowly missing me. I jogged away, dragging the bicycle. I was more afraid at being caught by the angry owner, than if I was seriously hurt. Eventually I was home where I found one of my roommates, Bobby, cooking a late dinner. I examined the bicycle in the kitchen while he cooked a big meal. It was fucked. My ribs hurt. My roommate was happy & ate and there was nothing to do. I had to do something, anything to not be alone like this. I decided to walk to a little cafe, but when I sat down and had coffee, the cafe was closing. I picked up my cup and put it into a grey overflowing plastic bin on the way out. Alone again, I walked back to the small flat. My other roommates had come home. Silent disapproval was in the air. I had left the broken bike in the kitchen and Bobby, who hated the other roommates, was blitheringly drunk. I watched Bobby play a guitar, drink more beer, and howl songs about love, while the other set of roommates watched television in the back of the flat.

Ten Ways to Cheat Playing Monopoly

10. Roll for other people. If they aren't attentive, under or over count the roll for your benefit

9. If you're playing with kids who can't count money quickly, short change them

8. Tell people Boardwalk and Park Place aren't worth buying

7. Swap out the game dice for fixed dice for important rolls

6. Ply your opponents with alcohol, help them make the right decisions

5. Throw away, or hide the game rules, and make up rules beneficial for yourself, when needed. For example: establish an informal rule that all monetary penalties from Community Chest and Chance not payed out directly to a player, get put into Free Parking.

4. With #5 in place, if you take a break and nobody is looking, skim money off of Free Parking

3. Hide Monopoly money from another game set all over your person for those must needed purchases -- do this also with an assortment of good Community Chest and Chance cards hidden to replace any bad ones you get

2. Be the Banker

1. If you are going to lose the game, right before you are bankrupt, kick the whole board over, Say, "Oops!"

Fucking the Man

My parents wanted me to learn about being responsible, and learn the value of positive work ethics, so that summer they were done with my ways and insisted that I work at a Real Job in the Real World. It was important that I get a dose of reality, rather than spending 6 weeks out of the summer being a camp counselor at a boy's summer camp far away in Leggit, California. So that summer I got a job packing in a mail order warehouse. The job was for a small catalog company. I was a good packer, the pay was okay -- far more than I earned working at the summer camp, and I broke down old cardboard boxes with my boots by kicking the boxes so hard they exploded. My co-workers were, for the most part, friendly, affable kids. They were also dishonest, lazy, and contemptible of the hard work they had us doing, day in and day out.

I discovered this was the only way to beat the system that we were collectively up against. What mattered more, above honesty and positive ethics, was the appearance that you were fully engaged with something and always willing to do any task. And while you did any work, you always should be on the lookout to take a secret break, have a beer, take a smoke, go somewhere you were not supposed to be, or amuse yourself in innumerable ways bored employees amuse themselves to run out the punch-clock. Occasionally, if it was safe, you could pilfer unimportant things that wouldn't be missed. It was important not to be fired, it was important to get paid for any kind of overtime, it was essential not to give in to the man. It was a mark of distinction to have a contempt for the Boss, a sly knowing contempt, to never be caught with the accusation or perception of having a "bad attitude". Being found contemptuous was not playing the game with the correct mindset. This showed a certain lack of skill.

I must admit, through all of this I learned quite a bit about the Real World, working my Real Job. I also understood what we were up against, I sympathized with the other packers. I was also surprised the one afternoon when Rick was fired, Rick being about 25 and the King of the warehouse. He was at the top of the packing hierarchy because, for starters, Rick was the only person qualified & mature enough to drive the electric fork-lift and pull palettes down from the huge shelves. We all understood how impressive and dangerous this skill was. I was surprised, because Rick was the best of all of us at Fucking the Man. The managers never seemed to catch on when Rick Fucked the Man. But I guess one day he pushed it a bit too far, but I am not sure how. As the King, it wasn't for Rick to screw up, he had it set up too good to throw it all away.

Discharged, I remember him walking out with a placid expression, escorted by the top manager. Though the manager was furious, Rick's face was calm, even blank, as if he was looking at a serene scene a thousand miles away. His final check in hand, he got into his spit shined red Trans-Am, the kind of a Trans-Am that was all souped up & cherry, meticulously taken care of with a bit of faded paint. As we kept working, he drove out of the parking lot.

Here is another short story.

Here is another short story. But I will call it a vignette, because it is hard and true, even though it ridicules. Because in the last moments of your life, what will you be thinking? For instance, I am sitting on the edge of this hard cold bed, minutes to dawn, with part of a Brady Bunch rerun stuck in my skull. My mind has been co-opted. It is the episode where one of the Brady boys has his voice changing, so when they sing the song he makes a funny sound when they get to "...it's time for a change." The scene was supposed to be ironic and cute and funny, but it is corny now and stupid. Now it is inane to be stuck with this, I wanted to have a dignified death, a kind of a martyrs death with the right thoughts, not puerile disturbed mental flotsam. The cute stupid singing part of the episode is lodged firmly in my minds eye, an idiotic mantra. The mantra reveals my vanity for a "heroic end" -- not just the result of a bunch of commonplace, run-of-the-mill series of trivialities.

Now I see it is dawn and I hear the squad turning out in the yard with their rifles. They are pissed off that they couldn't sleep in, some of them are hung over. One blows his nose repeatedly, loudly without a handkerchief. I hear them talking: Why can't the fucking officer just shoot me in the head with a pistol? Can't we get this over with as quickly as possible? Then when they settle down, because Pleše arrived, a kid shows up with a slip of paper. Is it a reprieve? And for a second I am free of the stupid skit. But then when Pleše sends the kid away and he orders the men to unsling their rifles, but one last overriding question interrupts all other thoughts in my head. And I don't care anymore about the whole thing, just get the answer now as the cell door opens. One last question must be answered. I look at a drunk cold frowsy soldier with a cow-lick, his belt loose, cigarette stuffed in between his lips. What the hell was that Brady kids name? Peter Brady. A smirking, sniggling Peter Brady. Time to put the pen down. Goodbye.

beware of dog

in alleys
the sign it says
BEWARE OF DOG
but most times
there is no dog
dog long long gone

but every once
and awhile
admiring in solitude
the yellow trees
when i'd want no dog

then there is a dog
snarling bouncing
barking
tail waging
with no BEWARE sign at all

Happily Ever After - Award Winning Film Short

Super news! I just found out two friends of mine (Gary Cohen from Adobe, San Diego and Lidia Sheinen from St. Petersburg, Russia) just got first place in the experimental film category at the Rhode Island International Film Festival for their film short "Happily Ever After". It was their first attempt at film. Here is a link to an interview of Gary and Lidia, at the film festival.

Click on the "Play in Popup" link under "Lidia Sheinin and Gary Cohen - Happily Ever After [29:00m]" link to hear the interview -- and here is a tip -- at about 20 minutes into the interview you get to hear who created the logo for Scared Mouse Productions.

Click here to see the award winning short they made. Here is their blog.

Book Read - Treasure Island

I just finished Robert Louis Stevenson's "Treasure Island". It took me about 3 days, I took my time. I never managed to read the story cover-to-cover before, but I always liked the map*, plus other assorted illustrations. With memorable characters & action, and many clever twists in the plot, Stevenson penned a first rate adventure story, while also defining a whole genre of how Piracy and Pirates are portrayed with this small book. For a start, the majority of historical pirates didn't bury treasure -- mercantile in nature, most pirates would have found that plainly insane. Crews wanted their spoils as soon as possible, shared out amongst the crew. Pirates didn't talk the way Stevenson's pirates talked, or use the expressions they use so vividly in the book. The Jolly Roger, parrots, maps with "X marks the spot", and one legged Long John Silvers were props from Stevenson's own fertile literary imagination. An interesting note is the person & personality of Long John Silver is modeled after a friend of Stevenson's, William Henley, writer and editor. The only thing that tripped me up (or made me read more carefully) is the language usage can be arcane -- but the lexicon has not shifted as far as, say Shakespeare. For the influence this book has had on our images of swash buckling men-of-fortune, a heroic mythic mien still very much with us, it is a worthy and enjoyable read. To think this tale all started out with a simple hand drawn watercolored map -- drawn on a rainy afternoon by Stevenson's stepson Lloyd Osbourne, plainly marked with "Skeleton Island" and "Spyglass Hill".

* Note, there are many versions of this famous map. Most of lesser detail or quality. This is the best example I have been able to locate.

Poem - nancy you shot

nancy you shot
the .22 from the porch
the light was right
we could see sunshine
on the bullet
as it flew from the barrel
to the fence-post 60 yards away
like an electric bee
or the fastest fly that ever was
autumn afternoon
time for wine and a cigarette
it is funny the things you remember
we don't know what we forget

Rejected by the New Yorker

Three of my poems were rejected by the New Yorker. Yay! I'm waiting to hear back from Poetry Magazine, I have four poems off to them. Getting a poem published in either, for me, would be like a squirrel from my backyard getting a gold in weightlifting at the next Olympics.

Trying to Locate a Scary Book, Recognize this Symbol?

This has been driving me nuts. See the above symbol? It comes from a book I read back in elementary school, juvenile fiction. I can't remember the name of the book! Hopefully somebody can tell me the name or author of the book if I describe the story. Main characters are an older brother, younger sister. I think they are pre-teenagers, but just barely. Brother gets a job mowing the small town cemetery's grass. Sister tags along, because the graveyard is cool and creepy. The brother makes wisecracks about the various people buried there and makes up a series of satirical rhymes using names on tombstones. Then we are introduced to a mystery -- there is a mausoleum, or large gravestone with an angel on the top of it. The angle points towards a part, or corner of the graveyard, where a certain plot is. This plot is where a family is buried, reputed to be witches. The person who put up the angle blamed this family for the untimely death of their son. The kids examine the cursed plot tombstones, but there is not much of interest. Then, before Halloween, the kids notice that someone has drawn a symbol on one of the gravestones. In red paint, I think. This (above) is the symbol. Then some stuff happens, the kids have their eye on the last living member of the "witchy" family -- an old woman who they are naturally very afraid of. The girl ends up getting kidnapped by the old woman, who turns out to be a witch. The old lady tries to bargain the girl's soul away to a demon the witch invokes, but instead the demon tricks her and turns the old witch into a Douglass Fir. Ring any bells? Book had some illustrations in black ink.

every time you think back

for my father

now i am away from there

separated by not only distance

but time

i write about this and that

and i see that even my worst

wasn't that bad

i find i miss people

not the places

and also by remembering

i am forgetting

it is some kind of rule

every time you think back

a part of the past fades away

slowly slowly fades away

oh it isn't so bad

this melting away of facts

of details or faces

otherwise it would be

like having to hold

a red hot iron in your hand forever

yes all things subside

they must settle

and be gone

A Ride for the Abbot

You were a fraud monk. The abbot of Sera Mei monastery knew this, but he ordained a few young men who were studying with you. The abbot never outwardly criticized you for being a phony, for having no faith, but later after the ordinations he wouldn't come into your house. He stood by the curb, outside on the sidewalk in the cold San Jose night. After the ordination you giggled, sitting in your snug little house. You giggled and giggled at how successful things were going. You laughed because you had asked the abbot to come in out of the cold and the abbot had refused. I think you were the only person there who truly understood what that meant, the abbot not coming in to your house. The abbot waited and waited for his ride while you didn't give a goddamn, because he wouldn't come in. June and I asked the abbot if he was okay. He stood there for about 40 minutes while I tried the phone number to the place he was staying, it was wrong. June and I drove him home. When we got to the place, he invited us in. We sat in the living room and then he started to laugh. We drank tea and he asked us many questions and told us his stories. We got the correct phone number for the house he was staying at. When I called to see how the abbot was few weeks later it was hard to hear the person on the other end of the line, and besides they couldn't understand english that well and said I must have the wrong number.

poem/ behind

poem
going
going
going
gone

what a
waste
&
i call
myself
a writer

i have
to keep a
pad on
me at all
times

because
after
you
leave a
poem
behind
on the
side of the
road

you never
see it
again

(and i wish i/ brought my gloves)

we head into chicago
riding the cta

i look out as we
go along
soon it will be rainy
and dark all
the time cold
then the predictions
will come true

they all say we'll
find the winter here
depressing
we'll yearn for
that "extravagant
california lifestyle"
we left behind

but i don't
tell them i disagree
with how terrible
the weather will be
i let them
opine

chicago rises
buildings higher
and higher as if
the skyline was
growing

we get off
at adams
when we exit to
the street i
can see the art
institute and
get a blast of wind
from the lake

you recoil and
so do i brrrrrrr
we recover
winter will be fun
i say to you

(and i wish i
brought my gloves)

Cigarette Butt

One day, not long ago, a cigarette butt was looking up at the wide blue sky. For some reason, cigarette butt had very good eyesight. It watched the clouds going on their way east, and it thought about life.

Being smoked, cigarette but had every reason to feel morose, but for some reason it didn't feel depressed. It thought back idly to the proud day it was a whole cigarette, with all its friends in the cigarette pack. They were fresh and new, packed in by a machine that made hundreds and thousands of them, all day long. It was so exciting at the factory. Many of cigarette butt's associates thought that they were like soldiers, bound for exotic places far away, over the globe. But cigarette butt's pack ended up at a White Hen liquor store in a suburb of Chicago.

"How I would have liked to have seen the world!" thought cigarette butt, when a cloud wandered by that looked like the Eiffel Tower.

A robin landed near cigarette butt. "Hello, what are you?" asked the bird.

"I was a Camel Light filtered cigarette." said cigarette butt, mater-of-factly.

"Are you good to eat?" asked the robin, looking at cigarette butt with one bird eye closely.

"Not really. All that is left of me is the filter." admitted cigarette butt.

The bird pecked at cigarette butt to make sure this was true.

"Ouch!" said the cigarette butt.

"Okay, well, take care of yourself!" said the robin, and it flew off into the next yard.

After the robin was gone, it was quite for a long time. Cigarette butt was comfortable, because after the robin had pecked, cigarette butt had become wedged & almost completely hidden in a deep crack between two paving stones. Down there was a complicated fascinating fluff from tree leaves, twigs, bits of bark, and below this mixing in was loamy earth flecked with bits of decayed granite.

Cigarette butt became drowsy down there in that secret place, and it decided for all time that life was good. The earth was interesting, and cigarette butt knew it was now becoming a part of it.

Leaves, Twig, Bark

One day, two yellow leaves had a meeting.
"Let's go back to the tree." suggests the first leaf.
"I think that idea is acceptable." says the second leaf.
"I don't think that is possible." says a twig.
"Who let the twig in?" says leaf one.
"Twigs! Just ignore it." says leaf two. "Let us continue with our plans. Now, the tree must be nearby somewhere around here."
"Absolutely." agreed the first leaf.
"Precisely!" added the second leaf, needlessly.
"Hello." said a fleck of bark to no one in particular.
"Hello." said the twig. "Where did you come from?"
"The tree."
"Is it very far away?" asked the leaves.
"Once you get dropped, there will be no going back to it, ever." replied the fleck of bark.
"You said it, brother." said the twig.
Then a small gust of wind kicked up. The leaves, the twig, and the fleck of bark were hurled wide and far and never spoke to one another again.

a poet/ has no patience

i.

poet
has no patience
for poetry

going out
most of it is
words words
phrases complicated
convoluted
so involved!

(written for
other poets
who dare not
leave their
ivory towers

or written
for the dead
that he
thinks were
greater than
himself)

ii.

poet!
a fresh
wind blows
through the
small backyard
bringing some
leaves down
by a rabbit

yellow leaves

oak park
october 2007

Dentist Printer

At 6.30 AM this morning, as soon as I am awake, I am unhappy. I have a dental appointment today. I go to the dental office, the Dentist tells me all about "The Da Vinci Code" as he drills and drills and drills and drills and drills and then he gets a bigger drill and drills so it feels like I have a malfunctioning 2 stroke motorcycle engine strapped to my head. More drilling, water splashing, suction, air please, stuffing, pushing, scraping, packing, drying, open as wide as you can, drill, drill, done. Signing the bill on the way out, the dental assistant cannot get the printer to work. It alternately won't print, or it prints the wrong document, shreds the pages it is outputting, jams, or takes forever to print. I watch her try to produce the bill for over 15 minutes. She unplugs the printer from the network, reconnects the printer, partially disassembles the printer, disconnects, reconnects printer, and so on and so forth. She expects me to get impatient at this, but I reassure her I am not impatient. Gradually though, while I am waiting, I start to hear a small child in the back of the dental office crying as the Dentist works on him. I watch the assistant work with the printer as the child's moans and cries evolve to delirious shrieks and screams. The printer being jammed forever doesn't bother me, but the agony of the small child begins to get on my nerves. The assistant pretends she doesn't hear anything, or possibly she is so used to little kids crying at the office -- the sounds do not register. I tell her to fax me a copy of the bill and leave the office. For the next few hours I have a soundtrack lodged in my brain of a small child yelling at the dentist's office. I try to drown this out with heavy metal music, but this phenominon unfortunately has to wear out so slowly on it's own...and eventually it does.

Everything I Say is Meant to Frighten You

Everything I say is meant to frighten you. Are you scared? I've been talking for awhile and you've been listening, but you don't look scared. This you not being scared and my attempts to frighten is starting to annoy me. What the hell is wrong with you? Kids these days! No appreciation of subtlety, no knowledge, brains full like a hopper stuffed with disjointed images. Should I just swear and scream like a blithering idiot? Then you say we should just make love now, and I agree. We walk to your flat, and as we go in, you say your older brother spent your whole childhood terrifying you with his stories and you believed every one of them. As a yellow moon comes up over the rooftops, as seen from your window, you relate to me his litanies of horror.

and it needs/ to be known

and it needs
to be known

it wants
to be known

it is asking
to be known

begging
to be known

please

before it
is too late

there is no
time to waste

To Walk a Mile in Your Shoes

To test out the saying, "...to walk a mile in your shoes", I really do -- it turns out walking a mile in your shoes is hard, but not impossible, you fucking asshole.

Life/ God Tried to Eat Me

I. Life

"Life is a roller-coaster." I say to Lao Tzu.
"Get on the ferris-wheel." he replies.
"Life is a ferris-wheel!" I exclaim.
"Get on the bumper-cars." murmurs Lao Tzu.
"LIFE is a BUMPER-CAR!" I yell.
"Go to the shooting-gallery." says Lao Tzu.
"LIFE IS A CARNIVAL!!" I shout happily.
After a short pause, Lao Tzu blows on his cup of tea, and he says, "Great! Now leave the Carnival."

II. God Tried to Eat Me

"God tried to eat me." I confess to Lao Tzu.
"Everybody, even God, has to eat something." responds Lao Tzu.

He Smokes

He smokes and has all kinds of smoking related accidents. He accidentally burned his jeep down -- I'm not joking. The fire department filled the jeep with a foot of water, and the good news was it was still drivable after the fire. Just a bit melted in some places. He burns his fingers on the tips of cigarettes, he lights them on the wrong end -- one time we were sharing a cigar and he took it and put the lit end in his mouth. He realized that mistake at the very last microsecond and spit the cigar and ashes violently into the air. The still lit cigar landed on my hand. So my pal says, "What can I do? I'm constantly burning things, my clothes, me, you." I said, "Quit smoking." He said, "I don't think I can." So I said, "Then smoke more for the practice." Last week I heard he decided to quit smoking after he accidentally lit his bed on fire. But then later I heard he changed his mind.

Big Fat Liar Dream

I have a dream last night we are talking on the phone, and like in real life, you are still a big fat liar who keeps getting tripped up in the tangled webs you weave. And you know I know this, but I listen to you continue to go on like I'd watch someone surfing a giant wave, knowing eventually the surfer is going to get smashed to death on the shallow reef.

i am/ none of my business

i am
none of my business

when will
i learn to stop looking

at myself
commenting on my

thoughts
like a frivolous idiot

but sometimes/ they should

i have seeds
you don't
like seeds

i have water
you drink
wine

i make noise
you'd prefer
silence

i am company
you like
tv

no no that
is okay i'm
not mad

i realize i
am dead to
you

deader than
dead i never
existed

rubbed away
like a mark
or stain

replaced by
wine

replaced by
tv

they say
you can't make
someone love you

but
sometimes
they should

Angry

Man, am I angry. I am so angry. Why am I angry? I am angry now because I was angry about something for good reason, but I forgot what that subject was -- I just plum forgot about what I was righteously, indignantly enraged over. Forgetting what I was angry about makes me angry. What was it? Was it over gnawing telephone line squirrels? Was it about the failed socialistic building experiments of the 1950s & 60s? Was I mad over the resurgence of American fascists? No, I see now why I was so upset. I lost my left flip-flop under the couch and the cat pissed on it.

I Blew the Interview

Thanks for letting me borrow that sharp suit, but unfortunately I blew the interview. I had my new resume, my contacts, I studied up on the company. For starters, they didn't like the fact that I came into the room wearing on the top of my head a paper bag, so it covered my eyes, but the rest of my face was visible. I pretended that I was blind. (I had gotten this idea of coming in with the paper bag over my head when I got a bagel in the subway and after I had eaten the bagel I had the paper bag left. And you know there are no trash cans in NYC anymore because of 9/11, so I was stuck with the paper bag. Plus I like to recycle. In the lobby I decided then & there to wear it as a hat.) When I sat down, I only irritated them more by issuing out a stream of continuous farts -- a fullisade of farting that lasted at least 40 seconds. I hadn't planned on the farting. It happened on its own. As the flatulence was going on and on, I alternated on left and right ass cheeks, almost like I was sledding down mountainside at high speed in an Olympic luge event. While I was luging my paper hat fell off. When my hat hit the floor, the interview was over.

5,000,000,000 cowboys go riding

5,000,000,000 cowboys go riding
out of the same western town at the same time
on the same crookedly trail to the same whorehouse
discreetly tucked away behind the graveyard

not surprisingly
there is a terrible traffic jam

in the middle/of the night

in the middle
of the night god
whispered to me
the truth i
ignored it