Cough Drops, Part V

Storage

The previous owners had never cleaned out the storage shed, and from the looks of it, neither had the owners before them, or the owners before them, or the owners before them. The only way of measuring what belonged to whom was to think that if it had never been cleaned out, whatever was at the bottom or at the back belonged to the original owners, or whoever had built the shed.

After a few days, all the following had been removed: two lawnmowers, one with a broken starter rope, and blades jammed with moldy grass clippings, the other with a grass catch and a broken key; a drafting table; folding chairs, rainbow striped cushions ripped and stained; a dead, petrified squirrel; brass lamps without bulbs; hedge clippers; boxes of board games, pieces missing from some, and mixed together; a box of many-colored dice; comic books, spines disintegrating upon touch, some over fifty years old in cellophane wrappers; a greasy, car engine; wicker baskets, sides of two goopy and stained blue from what once were blueberries, but over time had turned the sides into gelatinous branches; large leather chests, filled with holed sweaters, musty smelling fur coats, winter jackets, Swiss-cheesed socks, ripped, grease stained jeans; one chest filled with love letters, National Geographic magazines, tax paperwork, photographs; broken rakes; deflated basketballs; baseballs; stumpy baseball gloves; dog leashes; rifle racks; troughs and feeders for animals; plastic bamboo plants; lawn flamingoes; plastic Tiki gods; books, greened with mold and moss, pages crunched together as if protecting the secrets within the words; cracked trash barrels; bicycle chains; concave bicycle tires; ropes; a tire swing, leaves and spiders’ webs inhabiting the inner part of the tire; firewood stacked to the ceiling and halfway down one of the walls, underneath, scrawled into the concrete floor, a heart, initials J.H + S.L; a metal workbench; antique dinner plates, those on top, cracked and leaf-stained; a soldier’s uniform; empty cardboard boxes nested inside empty cardboard boxes; broken computer printers; gutted computers; Eisenhower lawn signs; army posters; a volcano-shaped ashtray, Hawaii spelt in lava along its side; stuffed eagles; a collection of pipes.

Cough Drops, Part IV

Inscription

Little Johnny Hartmann was told not to touch the concrete at all while it was still setting. At. All. Little Johnny Hartmann had a history of not doing what he was told to do, though, or of doing those things that most kids wouldn’t do because they knew better. Like the time he ignored the “Beware of Dog” signs on the outskirts of Farmer McKinnon’s and had to run all the way home with the seat of his jeans and underwear ripped open, all the neighbors and classmates seeing his behind. Or the time he was told not to play near the big hickory tree in the back of the yard, the tree that separated his parents’ yard and the woods beyond, because there was a giant bees’ nest in it. So, while playing catch with himself, he threw the ball as high as he could and it ended up drifting into the hickory tree. He climbed up thinking he could reach it, not wanting his momma and pa to know that he had been playing near the tree. He dislodged the ball from the leaves it was stuck in, but on the way down, it rattled the beehive. He wasn’t able to open his right eye for two weeks; and that happened one week before school had started.
If they told Little Johnny the only thing he wasn’t to do, or told him the only thing he wasn’t to ask or talk about due to sensitivity and respect, that was the one thing he would do, the one thing he would ask about.
So his parents really had no one to blame but themselves for the inscription in the concrete of the storage shed.
Little Johnny was the smallest in his grade by half a foot, thus creating the second reason for his name, the first being that his pa was Big Johnny. Being that small led to obvious difficulties, but also had some advantages. Anytime a ball was trapped in a hard to reach spot, or a tiny crevice needed to be explored, Johnny was always the first volunteered by the other students, and sometimes by the teachers themselves. One day after school, a kickball was sent careening down the edge of the field and rolled into a sewer drain, lying about ten feet inside. The hole was too small for anyone to squeeze down except Johnny. The only options were to retrieve the ball, or to stop playing the game altogether, the second option not being realistic at all. As such, Johnny was called upon. He was on the far side of the field, trying to coax a squirrel out of a tree with a stick and a rock when the other students came to find him. He threw on an invisible cape, and followed the other kids, running with his arms outstretched and bent backwards as wings, for better wind resistance, and jumping over the crocodile pits and dodging the gunfire that somehow the other students never saw. He arrived to the sewer drain to the encouragement of his fellow students, and mortal beings.
“What a weirdo.”
“Freak.”
“Just get the ball, Hartmann.”
Johnny whipped his invisible cape behind him, like the women on momma’s programs whisking luxurious hair out of their faces, and dove into the sewer drain. The drain was mostly parallel to the ground, and he crawled his way down until he reached the ball. With the ball tucked under his arm, he began crawling his way backwards when his jeans got caught on one of the jagged edges and ripped halfway up his pants leg to his knee, scraping and cutting his knee. He screamed out in frustration, but kept moving, eager to be done with his expedition. He turned his head backwards to see how far he had to go, scraping his head against the top of the drain. Dust and some black gunk dripped down onto his face and, before he could see what it looked like, he wiped at his face with his arm, smearing the black in a smudged line across it. Moments later he came out, jeans ripped, face blackened with grime, to the applause and eternal gratitude of his students.
“Nice jeans, Hartmann.”
“Nice face.”
“Why don’t you guys thank him?” This from Sue Lovely, who was walking home with a friend; Sue Lovely who sat two seats in front of him in most classes, who lived two doors down from him; Sue Lovely who, when he was not out saving the world in his head, Johnny was saving from imminent danger and she repaying him with the eternal gratitude only shown through kissing.
Johnny smiled at Sue, and handed the ball over to the players. He ran back to his tree, face red, to get his book bag.
When he got home, he ran inside to his room, changed his pants, and scampered into the bathroom to wash his face. Once done, he jetted back to his room to grab from his bag the stick and rock that he had been using to coax the squirrel, and went to run outside.
“Johnny!” his mother implored from the din of the television set.
His feet screeched in a thud into the door. “Oh. Hi, mom.”
She greeted him with the usual eyeball roll, reserved for when he tripped or clattered into the furniture. He was convinced her eyes would freeze in that position. She took a deep breath, and stated, slowly with a measured beat after each word, “Your father poured the concrete for the storage shed today. It hasn’t set yet. So don’t go playing over there.”
“Okay. No problem.” His hand reached up and pushed the door open.
“Johnny!” His mother implored again, head checking to see if her programs had returned. “Now, what did I just tell you?”
Johnny answered in the same measured, word by word manner as his mother. “Don’t play by the concrete of the storage shed.”
His mother looked at him, eyes unblinking, the swooning violins of the end of a commercial break in the background, then smiled. “Okay.”
And off Johnny went outside.
During the walk home from school, Little Johnny had been convincing himself that Sue Lovely now saw him as the superhero he knew himself to be, that she dreamed of Johnny swooping in from the sky, picking her up, one arm under her shoulders, the other under the crook of her knees, and flying off into the sky, burying his mouth into hers as they flew into and out of the clouds. He was convinced of this. He had been trying to keep his thoughts of her to himself, not telling anyone, despite his wide-eyed stares in class, his playing catch with himself in front of their house, how he always went around the block toward the Lovely’s house when momma sent him to the store, even though the store was in the other direction. And despite his increasingly angry and repeated denials to this fact when classmates accused him of liking her, their accusations persisted. But now, in light of her stance for justice, her assertion of gratitude for his rescuing of the kickball, he was convinced of it. What better way to show the world how he truly felt, too, than to write it, scroll it, inscribe it on a tree, sidewalk, under a bridge. He would carve their initials somewhere for the world to see, since there was no more denying her feelings.
At that moment, he looked down. His rambling walk had taken him around the yard, and to the edge of the storage shed, the liquid concrete floor. The concrete had appeared just at the moment that he needed a medium for his masterpiece, his avowal of love to the Lovely. With a dramatic twirl of the stick, he plunged it into murky mold of concrete, sketching a heart with initials J.H. and S.L. emblazoned inside, and a flourish of curved lines beneath the initials, coming to stop just above the point of the heart. Now everyone would know that he and Sue Lovely were meant to be one.
As he looked down at his handiwork, the smitten smile on his face faded quickly into terror as his mother’s voice punched him in the stomach.
“Johnny! What are you doing?! What did I just tell you?”
But he hadn’t touched the concrete; the stick had.

Sit-ups regime

Quick personal interjection:

A mathematician friend of mine had a New Year's Resolution, except he didn't call it a New Year's Resolution. He called it an "assessment for self-improvement" or some such thing: it had the phrase self-improvement, or 'ways I can improve myself.'
That's it: Attainable goals for self-improvement. His reasoning for not using the word resolution was that people always choose ridiculously unattainable goals for themselves for New Year's Resolutions:
"I'm going to learn how to fly this year."
"This is the year I'm going to grow wings."
"This is the year I finally run for president."
"That's it: I'm going to read three books per week, and not watch any tv all year long." Later that month, with the season premier of Laguna Beach, however...

So, his attainable goal was to lose weight. But he didn't like pain, and he didn't want to incur any residual pain afterwards. The day after running, for instance, when you have to pick up your thighs with your hands in order to walk up the stairs. So, he theorized that he could do one sit-up per day. One sit-up certainly wouldn't hurt. And since the first day he was able to do one sit-up, the next day he would be able to do two sit-ups, because his body would have been used to one, and he would have built up resistance. The third day, he would do three sit-ups, and so on. He told me of this resolution on day 183. By this point he was doing sit-ups in intervals of 25 to 50, because 183 consecutive sit-ups would defeat the purpose of no pain.
Now since 183 sit-ups can seem rather boring, he has altered it a little, by adding push-ups to the regimen. As of the day of telling me of his intentions, he was at 33 push-ups. I could be wrong. He is probably close to 245 sit-ups as I write.

I have decided to adopt this regimen. I determined to start when I returned from vacation, which was July 17. I have not been as disciplined as Lee; today is day 18. Obviously, I have missed some days.

Due to this lack of discipline, every day that I follow through with my intention, I will post that number.

All entries corresponding to this exercise will be transferred and hereon chronicled on a separate log.

(It might be interesting to bury the number in a story and make you, my beloved fans, search for them. But that would require readers.)

Calligraphy

Here is a story I wrote a couple of years ago. I might revise it slightly based on some past feedback I have received.

On the first day Haruki didn’t think much of it.
On the second day he started getting a little worried but figured if his wife had meant to send the letter, she would have before she left.
On the third day, the letter still sat on the dining room table, and his wife had also still not contacted him. He picked up the letter, examining it. It was written in calligraphy, which she had undertaken years earlier during one of the trying periods of their marriage. She had become quite accomplished at it but usually only reserved her calligraphy for invitations to important events or for her journal.
Her mother had taken ill months before. Osuka had gone to visit her in Orono when she had first taken ill but returned to Osaka days later. Haruki could not make it to see Osuka’s mother because he could not get the time to leave the school; he was the head of the International Government and Politics department at the university. It also was easier for him to not visit; his mother-in-law never approved of their marriage, as he was not from Japan. Osuka had contacted him daily during this last trip to inform him of her progress.
As her condition worsened over the next few months, Osuka decided to go see her before it became too late. She wrote letters feverishly to all her family back in Japan. The calligraphy indicated how grave her condition was, and took all the letters with her, except this one, which she must have accidentally left behind.
On the fourth day, his curiosity got the best of him, and he decided he would open the letter that day if he did not hear from Osuka. He went about his normal routine: tea, porridge, university, lunch. That afternoon he would go to the gym and then the steam room, and would return home to make himself the leftover tempura, sake, and tea. During the afternoon he frequently checked his emails, or would check the messages on their home phone. He had not heard from her all day.
During dinner he pawed at the letter, twirling and turning it behind his thumb and fingers, careful not to bend the edges. Upon finishing his second glass of sake, he left the table decidedly and retrieved the letter opener from his office desk. He came back and hesitated for a moment before ripping the sealed part of the envelope open, almost ripping the letter as he pulled it out of the envelope ravenously.
He unfolded the letter and in his wife’s calligraphic script, he read the following sentence:

I knew you couldn’t resist

Osuka

Moments later the telephone rang:
“Hello, Osuka”
“Is this Mr. Myamoto?”
“Yes”
“This is Orono Regional Hospital. We’re calling about your wife Osuka.”
At that Haruki, dropped the phone and collapsed onto the floor, weeping.

The Day the Robots Came to Town

“Hush up, boy!” implored Uncle Varnish. “Ah’m trine t’listen!”

Uncle Varnish guarded the door, rifle in hand, eyes having not blinked for days. He skittered over to the window, thrust the rifle into the jagged hole in the window he had made two days before, and pulled off two cracking shots. With each shot, he screamed, “Take that, y’ mettle sunovabitches. Goddamn robots,” his voice cracking with effort with the last word.

All the electricity had gone out in the town three days before. At first we thought the outage would last an hour or so, as they usually did. When it sustained to a half a day, our sense of novelty turned to concern, then to worry as Uncle Varnish started pacing, then to panic when he went to the attic and found the rifle. Three days on, with Uncle Varnish holding my dad, sister and I captive in our own house, we were down to near curdled milk and dried pasta.

Over the past three days, after firing, he would call us over to the window, finger jabbing out the window hole, trying to point to his victims and assailants, but all we saw were the clouded shapes of felled trees and the darting footprints of flashlights. We’d congratulate him, pat him gingerly on the back and wait for his chest to stop heaving and for him to sit in the folding chair propped against the door. Trina or I would bring him a beer, and go back to making dinner or playing cards, a holding pattern until Uncle Varnish’s next outburst.

This time after firing, though, Uncle Varnish slouched against the wall with a timbering thud. Trina and I jolted at the sound and saw Uncle Varnish staring at his shadow in front of him and the light blaring down at the table, lips fluttering in murmur, creaking sounds coming from his mouth. Dad, who was playing this hand with us, stood up and pulled the light string off over the table. He started turning off the lights as he slowly made his way to his fallen brother.

Dad sat down and put his meaty arm around Uncle Varnish’s brittle shoulders. He gently turned my uncle’s face towards his so they could look at each other. Calling him by his real name, my dad then said, “You did it, Vern. You got ‘em.”

Uncle Varnish stretched his arm around my dad’s shoulders like the scrawniest yoke, and creaked, “Goddamn robots.”

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

Why Nancy Pelosi does not call for impeachment

I very rarely enter into direct political editorial. There are a few reasons for this, the most prevalent being that I prefer to use satire and mockery in my political editorials; and that the political dialogue in this country is so toxic that the moment you posit an opinion for one side or the other, you are immediately labeled as a "liberal," "conservative," "bleeding heart," "right wing nutjob," etc, despite the fact that most people cannot define these labels in any logical form.

(Hooray, for our ability for independent thought! Hooray!)

However, moments ago I read an article about a grassroots movement in the country calling for the impeachment of President Bush and Vice President Cheney. I have read many vitriolic articles about Speaker Pelosi's stance that, in her words, "impeachment is not on the table," words uttered moments after she became Speaker, articles claiming that she was caving in to the right wing in an effort for placate the mainstream media, and that she was no better than the present administration. I have read many other articles claiming that the idea for impeachment is just the Democratic grandstanding and an effort for divisiveness and to make political points with the more extreme elements of their base. Contentious on both sides, you can see.
Regardless of my personal view, whether or not Bush and Cheney should be impeached for deliberately using fraudulent intelligence to mislead the nation into the war in Iraq; or whether they should be applauded for attempting to rid the world of the worst terrorists in the world, and giving 500,000 people the opportunity to live in a society outside of religious and societal despotism and repression, I believe I have a new theory into why Nancy Pelosi has not called for impeachment, a theory that I have not seen debated or posited in any mainstream, or high-profile independent press. (Qualifier alert!: for those who need things blatantly spelled out for them: this does not mean that this theory has not been posited, just that I have not seen it posited.)
The Constitution lists the Order of Succession as follows (in my own words): If the President cannot serve, or is impeached, the Vice President would assume the role of the President. If the Vice President cannot serve as President, or is impeached or unable to assume these responsibilities, the second in line for succession is the Speaker of the House. This is the position that Nancy Pelosi has. Were she to call for the impeachment of President Bush and Vice President Cheney, scream show hosts, and other knee jerk reactionaries (read television pundits) would call her an opportunist, a self-serving hypocrite; would claim that she was abusing her power the moment she took control of being Speaker. Given the vitriol that would be sure to ensue, the reactions would undoubtedly be worse or just as bad as those screaming about the present administration and the war in Iraq, or the fervor over Alberto Gonzalez.

I believe that Nancy Pelosi's decision to not call for impeachment was a political calculation, and not based on how she really felt, if a politician can really have their own honest feelings on any subject. It was a decision based on political expediency and career enhancing motivations, certainly not for the benefit of the office.

Monday Morning Songs

Note: The inspiration for this list goes out to Nick Hornby and Jack Black

The following are songs that on a Monday morning put you in a good mood and get you out of bed. As usual, they are in no particular order.

1. Son of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield
2. Superstitious - Stevie Wonder
3. Crazy Train - Ozzy (no last name needed) and Randy Rhodes
4. Hooked on a Feeling - BJ Thomas (Blue Suede version not allowed; and neither is the Hasselhoff version. The video for the Hasselhoff video might make a "Videos that would make you wake up on a Monday morning" list, and firmly establishes Hasselhoff as the successor to Shatner. But that's a subject for an entirely different entry)
5. Walking on Sunshine - Katrina and the Waves
6. Tired of Being Alone - The Reverend Al Green (Can I get a "Hell's Yeah!!" "Hell's Yeah!!")
7. Sailing - Christopher Cross, if only but to throw your stereo a.) against the wall, b.) into the river, c.) into the garbage after destroying it with a hammer


This is an ever-expanding list. Be prepared for sequels.