At first he thought it was cute, the way his girlfriend Myra
would say, every time she came over with her violin, "Hey, diddle, diddle,
it's Kat and her fiddle!"† Pretty
soon he started responding, "The cow jumped over the moon!" and she'd
clap her hands like a toddler as he sprang up from wherever he'd been sitting
and jump over whatever thing was lying on the floor at the time.
One day, she paused with an eyebrow raise after
"fiddle" and said, "Well?" three times when he didn't respond.† And all he said was, "Your name's not
I should just resign myself to the unassailable FACT that
there is no such thing as a pair of reading glasses that won't make me look
like I should not only be institutionalized but hidden in solitary confinement
with nothing for company but bugs that manage to find their way into the cell courtesy
of my daily gruel.† I do have a few
pair(s?) at home, but my cat agrees that there's no way in hell I should ever
be allowed to read even a fortune cookie fortune in the presence of any guests
if it means putting them on.
There is a special place in Hell for inconsiderate fucks
whose alarm clocks bleat incessantly on mornings they're not home to silence
them.† After listening to this nonsense
through the wall for way too long, I swap lounge-y pants for pajama bottoms,
shove my feet into snow boots, throw on a coat, and dash outside to tape a note
I've typed in a large font to the door of the building housing the offending
apartment.† Later I hesitate to scrap the
Word document without saving it, thinking, "I'll want proof!" and
then think, "Of what?" That I'm such a superheroine?†
His tells me that his cat, Twyla Carp, swallowed a
transistor radio in 1972 and hasnít been the same ever since.† I tell him that's highly unlikely because
there's no way his cat is 45-plus years old.†
He points at Twyla Carp, nods his head, says, "Hit it, honey,"
and when the cat opens her mouth, out comes the voice of Howard Cosell, broadcasting
a sporting event from days gone by.† His
mouth is smug as fuck under his too big beard.†
I say maybe she's just a good ventriloquist.† "But she knows nothing about
sports," he says.† "Explain
How many times this morning will I see my black coat hanging
on the back of the door out of the corner of my eye and think it's my mostly
black cat lounging atop the printer?† So
far, 9. †It's almost noon, so I'll say 11
How many times will I eat a pink lady apple this week and consider
telling the person they remind me of that I think of him every time I eat one?† So far, 2.†
Number of apples remaining in the refrigerator, 3.† Thus, 5 total.† How many times I'll actually tell him, 0.
This morning I saw a photo of Neil Gaiman on Twitter and the
first thing I thought was, "Good god, man, get a haircut." I realize
this makes me sound like a dad or a guidance counselor or a dad who's a
guidance counselor, and I'm equal parts neither of these things, but really,
come on.† I don't know if the photo I saw
was old and your hair is more presentable now.†
You're a writer, and a good one I hear. I'm sure you can write a way to
climb into that photo and lop off that confused mess.
He's gonna stand in this uncomfortable pose as long as it
takes for someone to walk by, notice that not only are his socks colorful but mismatched
patterns, and to remark how nifty and fun and unique they are and what a
welcome sight, especially on a Monday morning when nobody wants to be anywhere,
especially the gym.† When his first
client shows up 15 minutes late and says nothing about his socks, even though
he swears she saw them, he feels foolish for having taken the time to roll his pants
"just so" and tells himself it's still early.
couldn't even make it through a month without burning something on the
stovetop.† Here it is, the 23rd, and I'm
scraping charred farro from the bottom of a vintage saucepan and cursing myself
for the neglect and stupidity.† I'm glad
I didn't "resolve" not to burn anything for the new year.
also glad I'm not on Facebook anymore, because if I were, I'd be compelled to thrill
my "fans" with this rousing report within minutes of its occurrence
instead of all of you here on 100 Words an hour or so after.
begets that "urgency", you know?
Almost a month after Christmas, and curbside spiky green
carcasses are still appearing.† I pause
by a heap to examine a red bow and two ornamental pinecone clusters.† They're attached to a wreath.† For a few seconds, I touch them and see if
they are easily removed.† They are not,
and I am a bit relieved, because in the brief interim between seeing them and
wanting them, I've come to think of this as the same as stealing the jewelry off
a dead person, leaving the body looking even more vulnerable in its abandoned
state.† I apologize and move on.
I can't believe I've never read "Fahrenheit 451" before.† If I were still on Facebook, I'd be posting
an exclamatory update telling my fanz to read this incredible book that's been
out for 64 years, like a kid these days discovering ABBA and coming to me with
stars in his eyes, saying, "Oh my god, have you heard of this awesome band
I mean, really.† Duh.
But seriously.† This
book.† I pause to hug it to my chest.† Or at least hug the Kindle to my chest, in
reverence.† And to marvel breathlessly at
Bradbury's prescience and genius.