Don't get me started on Bird Baths

Bird houses are ridiculous
What next, bird apartments? Bird condos?! Bird yurts?!
Bird brooms for sweeping bird parquet floors
Bird suits so they can look nice applying for bird mortgages
Bird regret as she comes home to her unemployed bird husband, sitting on the bird couch with a bird beer watching the birdsons on the bird TV
She used to soar. In bird high school she was an excellent bird athlete. Got into bird college on a full bird scholarship for bird track and bird field. Fell in bird love. But she was a Blue Jay and he was a Chickadee and her bird parents threatened to cut her out of the bird will if she didn't break it off. The day she bird dumped him was the day she knew the bird price of her bird soul.
And the bird turmoil on her bird emotions had a price too. She couldn't keep up with bird track practice. Her bird times kept bird slipping. She couldn't afford to lose her bird scholarship but the bgh (you know, hgh but for birds) helped. She started rebounding. Making more bird practices. Her times climbing back up only once she reached her old bird times she couldn't stop like she told herself she would. She kept using, kept getting faster and better. Soon other bird athletes started to notice. This Blue Jay who'd been solid if unremarkable before was suddenly stellar. It begat jealousy, which begat rumors which begat accusations which begat an investigation.
A bird investigation.
At that point it was over. The bird jig was up. She lost her scholarship and returned home in bird disgrace.
But she vowed to not let it define her. She got a bird job flipping bird burgers at the bird fast food shop. She kept her bird head down. She paid her bird bills and her bird dues. Lived in her parents bird house. They never looked at her like she was their daughter any more, though. Like she hatched from their egg. They were pleasant enough but kept their bird distance.
That was fine. After their cruel bird ultimatum forced her to see herself in a new bird light she was ok to not be bird adored by them. She would never let another bird make her feel that way again.
So she worked. She saved bird money and did her bird job. Soon her bird bosses began to take notice and gave her more bird responsibilities. With that came more bird money. She paid off the bird school debt and moved into her own bird apartment. She allowed herself the occasional bird's night out. She bird danced.
She met a bird man on the bird dance floor. They had an instant bird attraction. They danced as if they were one bird.
He made her bird laugh. She'd forgotten about bird laughter.
And then the night was over. She was still too bird guarded to go bird home with him and in the closing hour rush lost him in the bird crowd.
She didn't bird cry but she was bird disappointed.
She put it out of her mind that bird weekend and stayed in with bird ice cream and a bird movie ("Birdsmaids"). On Monday at bird work she'd almost forgotten about it when he walked in the bird door.
Bird table for two, he'd said
But you're alone
Take your lunch break.
And from that moment on they'd been bird inseparable.
He'd lit up her life in such a way that she either blinded herself to or deliberately ignored the early warning bird signs. The excessive bird spending. The late bird nights out. The way the bird beer bottles piled up at his bird apartment. He always blamed his bird roommates but it wasn't a total bird surprise when he was suddenly looking for a new bird place to rest his bird head and since they'd been going pretty strong for a couple bird months...
She said yes. He could move in.
He had very little bird things. He'd sold them, he said.
The move in helped put bird rose colored glasses on things. They bird laughed again. They talked about bird marriage, bird kids, saving up a bird nest egg for their bird retirement.
Then she started seeing it again. The erratic bird behavior. Yelling at bird waiters. Quiet moments of bird violence hitting the bird fridge over some hidden bird aggression from the day.
He lost his job the day her egg fertilized.
But at least he was home to keep the egg warm while she went out to her bird job. But bird money was tight and with a new mouth to regurgitate into, she was getting bird worried. And it wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't look at her like he was bird sorry for being bird pathetic all the bird time.
She knew everyone went through rough bird patches. She knew better than most, even.
One day he looked at her and said he had a bird idea. She asked what it was but he wouldn't say. Suddenly bird money was coming in again but he still wouldn't say where it was coming from. Just not to worry and to trust him.
So she did. At first.
Then he started getting bird calls on his bird cell phone at odd bird hours. He'd leave the room to take them and then make up a flimsy bird excuse to leave.
So she started bird following him. Calling out of bird work to see what he was bird doing.
When she found out, she bird sobbed.
It was bird prostitution.
She couldn't bird believe it. He was going out and touching other cloacae and coming home to their shared bird nest! Who knew with what bird STDs.
She came home from work early one day, Hoping he'd be out. He was. She grabbed her bird go bag, the one she kept for bird emergencies, and she grabbed her sweet baby bird egg and made for the door. She hoped she still had some of her own bird track strength, she needed to start running.
She was locking the bird door when he said what are you doing
Oh I was just
You can't leave me, Sharon
Ted I
No. I'm making money again, everything is going to be fine
We can't
Do you even know what I've sacrificed for us? My dignity and pride
We can't do this anymore ted!
The gun was out fast. So fast she didn't even see it.
Look what you've brought me to he yelled.
And three shots rang out. And an egg and two bird bodies fell.
And that's why I'm against bird houses.
Now bat houses, that's another story!

27 Ways To Be A Modern Man

With apologies to the New York Times.

1. Pants are in these days. Wear pants.
2. A finger in the butt.
3. Know how to cook something in an oven. Like a pigmeat or something. Feed it to your lover with your fingertips.
4. Learn stuff from your kids, like good spots to hide boogers and stuff. Probably no sex things.
5. Cry. Emotions are neat and if you show people you have them, they won’t think you’re a robot.
6. Oooh! Design and build a robot!
7. You could design the robot to take care of number 2 up there.
8. That wasn’t a poop joke. The Modern Man doesn’t make poop jokes. Unless it’s, like, really funny.
9. Cultivate a distinct sense of style. You don’t see many deerstalkers and capes these days. Go with that!
10. Polish your shoes.
11. When you’re out in public with your lover, be sure to share an intimate moment with him or her so he or she knows that you consider him or her important. Go ahead and start talking about your living will at the movie theater.
12. Butt finger
13. Write and follow lists. Lists for all things.
14. Know where North is at all times.
15. Howling at the moon doesn’t have to be something you do on your own. Bring your family!
16. Stand on a mountain.
17. Drink coffee. But don’t be like “Look at me, I’m drinking a coffee. Mmmm. It’s sooo good.”
18. Do not discuss number 18.
19. Speak in a posh accent for a day.
20. I don’t know, scarves I guess?
21. Know how to change a tire on your car. Memorize the number to AAA. No one memorizes phone numbers any more. Millenials!
22. Learn your lover’s favorite scents and train your body to make them during acts of love-making. This may involve meditation and diet changes.
23. America.
24. Change the list to 24 ways to be a modern man. I can’t be bothered to finis

State of The Union 2015

Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress, my fellow Americans:

We are fifteen years into this new century. Fifteen years that dawned with terror touching our shores; that unfolded with a new generation fighting two long and costly wars; that saw a vicious recession spread across our nation and the world. It has been, and still is, a hard time for many.

But tonight, we turn the page.

I don’t need to bore you with the statistics. I don’t need to tell you about expanding economic opportunities, access to health care and civil rights.

I don’t need to bore you because of this. Because the fact of the matter is the aliens are coming.

The aliens are coming and it is up to us to stand as a united human race and demonstrate our power.

Now, we don’t know exactly what these aliens will look like. Whether they’ll have one eye or fifty. Maybe they’ll be an oozing blob of squishy flesh - like a slug - or maybe they’ll have a rigid inflexible shell, like Speaker Boehner here.

Just kidding, John.

We don’t know what exactly these aliens will look like but we do know we’ve got to stand up to these aliens with an impressive display of force.

We know this because, I’m sorry to say, we lost contact with our contact team. 7 brave astronauts aboard NASA’s top secret, state of the art shuttle Excelsior were sent on a mission to contact the ship once we noticed it cruising past Saturn.

That’s right, the shuttle program isn’t dead.

We sent these courageous astronauts - doctors, philosophers and scientists - with hearts full of hope. We saw an alien ship. This was to be a brave new moment. A moment that the human race crossed the boundaries of the solar system and became a species of the universe.

But we lost track of them. The last transmission is painful to watch now. Dr. Stetson, her eyes full of hope and a slightly quavering voice, detailed the final approach to the alien ship. Then the signal broke.

At first, back in Houston, we thought it might’ve just been a technical hiccough as the Excelsior reached out to the mysterious vessel. Maybe they needed more power in their transmitter. We just didn’t know.

Time passed.

We grew anxious back in Mission Control. Worried, you understand. These were some of the finest minds on planet Earth, tasked with a mission of unprecedented and breathtaking importance. And we couldn’t raise them.

Radio contact got us nothing. Our fancy wristwatch communicators were useless. We even tried to reach out to Dr. Braino, Excelsior’s on-ship psychic - yes, they’re real - but heard back nothing.

Nothing.

And then we got visual confirmation of our worst fears: telescopic image showed the alien ship plowing forward through a field of debris. Excelsior’s identification number was cruelly preserved on a floating chunk of metal, like it was a damn movie or something.

They’d been blown up! Billions of dollars of American money, investments in training the finest space crew in human history, the most brilliant minds Earth had to offer. Gone.

And now, the aliens are coming here.

We don’t know what their exact purpose is. They may pair us up for mating for some sick sexual experiments. They may want to harvest our bodies for the iron content. Or maybe it’s something the Earth itself offers, maybe they’ll breath in all our oxygen and fart out carbon monoxide, leaving us to suffocate in the streets and plains of this glorious country.

Let's not kid ourselves, here. They blew up the Excelsior. Top NASA scientists say they're trajectory will bring them to Earth within half a year.

We can’t know their purpose - perhaps to kidnap the human race and send us back to their homeworld for slave labor - but we can do this. We can stand up.

And my fellow Americans, my fellow humans, right now we’ve got to stand up.

My proposal to stand up to these space invaders is two-fold. First, we’re scrapping all non-essential programs and dumping a lot of money into the defense budget. We may get some whining from the left - looking at you, Sanders - but when a horde of homicidal aliens is coming, we’ve got to be prepared with the most advanced lasers, the finest atomic bombs and the bitchingest, ball-grabbingest vehicles the defense program has to offer.

We will spare no expense when it comes to arming ourselves against the invaders.

The second step is this: We build a giant statue of me, your elected leader, striding over a field of skulls. This statue should be mountain sized. I should be shirtless and carrying an AK in one arm, Sasha and Malia in the other. Michelle should be looking up at me in awe and affection. There should be a field of skulls before me and a path of crushed skulls in my wake.

I’m calling on the United States’ best artists to sketch this up for me. The lowest bidder wins.

I believe this display, coupled with an impressive array of firearms, will help deter these would-be conquerors.

My fellow Americans, we are a strong, tight-knit family. We have made it through some hard times. Fifteen years into this new century, we have picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and begun again the work of remaking America. We've laid a new foundation. A brighter future is ours to write. Let's begin this new chapter -- together, stepping over the bones or exo-skeletons of alien invaders-- and let's start the work right now.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless this country - and this planet - we love.

Advice from Josie

My grandmother, Josephine MacKinnon, passed away on May 12, 2014.

She was 89 years old.

Grammy Jo to me, Nana to the world, she was sweet and gentle and her family extended well beyond blood. It was broad and varied and full of diverse characters who all loved Josie.

She was very dear. Nana lived one of those contemplative and quiet country lives (apart from a brief stint in the big city of Dover, NH).

She loved breakfast - something I inherited from her. She loved still mornings with coffee and a window looking over unbroken snow. She had a green thumb. Or two. Or maybe three. She could make anything grow. Josie loved her family, her friends and her pets. Her beloved Bichon Frisée, Monique, was buried with a marker in my grandmother's meadow.

She cared for people. It was an irrepressible trait. When it wasn't her seven kids, 10 grand kids or one great-granddaughter, it was the friends and acquaintances they brought into her life. Or her work as a home care nurse. Or her time helping the troops during WWII (her husband, my grandfather Dan, fought in Europe)

Grammy Jo, while being sweet, was also not afraid to call people out when they were being shitty. "Shit" being the only curse word I really remember her using. She wasn't afraid to call someone a "shit" if, say, they broke into Nana's house to play with one of her visiting grandchildren (Nana still loved you, though, Caity).

So. Be sweet, like Josie. But don't stand for bullshit, like Josie.

Like Josie, watch old movies in the afternoon. Fall asleep during them. Snore. Loudly. Who cares? The people who are with you at three in the afternoon all love you. 

Be sure to have people who love you, like Josie. Have them over for lunch (chicken salad with grapes). Then fall asleep in the living room.

Nana could sleep anywhere, any time. Nanalepsy, I called it. She had a particular knack for passing out in cars. Before even leaving the driveway, Nana would be out cold. And her sudden naps weren't an old age thing. My aunts say she'd fall asleep just as easily while riding with them to the bus stop as kids.

"Enjoy bacon while you can." 

Grammy Jo mostly taught by example. She lived a good, simple life but occasionally took a moment to offer some opinion or tip or piece of wisdom. In this case, enjoy bacon.

She was on a restricted diet for her last 8 years or so (minus the time right at end where she could eat anything she wanted). And through the lens of her low-sodium, largely meat-free diet, she could see that bacon truly is a wonder.

At a family brunch, she said that to me with a grin. Enjoy bacon while you can.

Be thankful you can tie your shoes.

What a gift it is to be able to tie your own shoes. With that skill, anything's possible. The whole world's a well-kept street if you have shoes on your feet.

Grammy Jo taught me to tie my shoes. I learned late, as I recall. And the tutelage came while the whole family was camping on Lake Aziscohos in Western Maine. She taught me that one with the rabbit. Around the tree and down the hole.

When you're five or six, tying your shoes is as big a deal as getting your driver's license. Bigger. You can't even get a driver's license if you're not wearing shoes.

It gives you freedom! You're free to explore, ready to meet people. To walk the dog. To get a coffee. To shop. To help. To teach someone else how to tie their shoes.

That's what my grandmother gave me.

What's the Spamquency, Kenneth?

MORE SPAM. This is much less adorable than the previous two missives from the Russian Lonelyhearts Club. It's just bizarre. I don't understand the point of it. UNLESS the point is to make me intrigued. Because now I am. What does it mean? How does it pertain to my life? Is there some secret code at work here? Is this the sigil of some dark cabal?

Someone get me Dan Brown, stat!

Another charming spammer

Yesterday was Olga's charming email with "Yoyo". Today I get one from Elena with the subject line "Hello!"

I have seen your info and has decided to write to you. I am Elena I write you from Russia from cities of Moscow. I hope, I hope I have made a correct choice, and we can find much in common in each other and we can create family.I am 25 years, growth 178. I never was in a marriage, and I do not have any children. I dream of the large and strong love. I think, that you also dream of it. I hope, our dreams will come true also we probably we shall embody them in the validity. If I am interesting for you, please write to me by my electronic mail: Holodoev1983 [at] yandex [dot] ru

I can't decide whether it is lovely or sad to think of two lovestruck Russian women trying their hand at netting an American husband. Perhaps they share a flat in the suburbs of Moscow. They split the bill on groceries. They have a nightly cup of tea and write emails at their separate desks, lit by candles. The wood floor creaks as the pet koshka slinks across the floor.

Charming Spam

I just got the most charming spam mail ever. She says her name is Olga. The subject line is "Yoyo." Here is the text:

You have drawn my attention to a site of acquaintances. I hope, as I shall like you. How I to you in a photo? The truth - pretty? :) But in a life I more nice!!! And as I cheerful, kind, sociable and fluffy! I like to go in for sports, read books, to listen to music. I love winter and summer. I do not love spring and slush. If I have interested you, with pleasure I shall tell about myself more in the following letter. I wait for the answer on kdighwivan [at] yandex [dot]ru

I'm not going to write back, of course, but reading her broken declarations was a delight.

Who wants to make a movie?

In my freshman year of college I took a scrptwriting class. It was, despite being my earliest class in my college career (9:00 AM, I know, right?) one of the most fun classes I had.

I was going through some of my old files and found a copy of my final project for Scriptwriting I.

I'm pleased with it to this day. It's not perfect and I remember making a concession or two that I wish I could change back... but I can't remember what the original draft looked like. Ah well.

It's called "Raimondo V. The Carney"

Please forgive the formatting:

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS - DAY

PAOLO, a skinny twelve year old boy, wanders through "Billy Pilgrim's Traveling Circus." Tacky booth next to tacky booth create aisles of decadent foolishness. Neon lights buzz uselessly against the sunlight. Random clowns juggling knives on unicycles zoom past Paolo. Carnies yell at him, trying to attract his attention and his dollars.

MUHAMMAD
Bop five midgets, earn yourself five dollars!

SANJAY
Dislodge this trinity of decanters and win a large, shoddily made stuffed animal for the woman for whom you have mild affection!

There is a large line at that booth.

JACQUES
I'll guess your age and weight! For an extra buck this monkey will play a drum while I dance the Charleston!

Paolo walks past these vendors, but for some reason stops at one who is not calling for his attention.

It is a dart booth. The sign reads "Pop 5 Balloons with 3 darts, win a tiger." Paolo walks up to the counter and sizes up the booth. One middle aged and tall carny, SPITTIN' PETE stands to the right of the board. He is chewing on tobacco and a faded red handkerchief is tied around his balding head. A couple days of stubble play around the creases of his weathered face. He is wearing overalls. Bare feet stick out of their worn hems like fallen branches in a gutter. The balloons themselves are set up like the five side of a die. They are all orange and black.

Paolo stares at the Carny and slaps down a dollar. Spittin' Pete expectorates to his right and saunters up to the counter. He towers above Paolo and sweeps up the dollar bill. It disappears into one pocket, and from another pocket he pulls out three darts. They are set down. Paolo grabs them, but before he can retract Pete grabs his hand.

SPITTIN' PETE
(leaning in to Paolo)
You ain't strong, boy.

Paolo's eyes widen and lips pull back in a momentary fit of terror, but quickly return to their normal positions. He keeps two darts in his left hand and paces in front of the counter with the other dart in his right hand. He is weighing the dart and gauging the balloons. The Carny leans against a convenient post and crosses his arms. His interest in the boy fades and he leans his head back, watching Paolo over the tops of his cheeks. Paolo assumes a position aligned with the left side of the balloons. He stares at the board, moves his throwing arm a bit and looks over to Spittin' Pete. Paolo smiles a bit, and Pete smiles back, revealing a lack of various teeth. This makes Paolo grin wider, and he turns back to the board.

He tosses the dart up, almost straight up. It moves in a narrow parabola, curving back to earth about halfway between the board and Paolo. The dart passes through the top balloon with no problem. Slices through it so smoothly the balloon holds its shape for a few comical moments. The dart continues and it bursts the second balloon, then lodges in the wall. Pete's eyes widen, but he quickly conceals it. He spits. Paolo begins to pace again, tossing the darts between his hands. He comes to a stop on the other side of the board. He smiles at the Carny again, then looks back to the board. Spittin' Pete doesn't smile this time. Paolo winds up and throws again.

This time the dart flies into the wall above the balloons and drops, pointy end down. The balloons pop and Pete flinches with each one. He spits again. The boy has moved into his place for the final burst. Paolo closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He weighs the dart carefully and tosses it up. Catching it on his fingertip, he proceeds to balance it. His eyes snap open and with an action much faster than the eye the dart is tossed. The balloon is much slower, and it deflates over the dart, which is lodged in the wall. Paolo stifles a smile, Spittin' Pete tries to spit but his reservoir is dry.

SPITTIN' PETE
(mumble)
Shit.

The Carny COUGHS, wipes his hands and walks out back. Presently he comes back with a baby tiger. Paolo eagerly accepts him from over the counter. He turns the tiger around and looks him in the face.

PAOLO
Raimondo.

INT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

RAIMONDO, now full grown, lays on his back. Sunlight streams from an open window across his belly and tail. His whiskers twitch minutely in his sleep. His forepaws lightly swipe at an invisible dinner.

EXT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

Paolo, also full grown, fumbles with his keys in the door.

INT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

Raimondo's eyes snap open, the keys are JANGLING.

EXT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

Paolo, after much coat and briefcase rearranging, manages to open the door with a pained CREAK.

Raimondo BURSTS through the door, playfully tackling Paolo and launching them both several yards from the house. Paolo's shoes were left at the door.

PAOLO
Waugh!

Raimondo jumps to his feet and sprints back to the house. He stops at the door and looks at Paolo for a moment and heads back in.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Oof. Hi, Raimondo.

Paolo gets up and enters the house. The tiger is in the middle of the living room, rump high in the air, forearms stretched out in front of him. His tail waggles like a striped cobra. He bounces up and down several times. Paolo smiles and picks up what could be a gazelle thigh bone from an umbrella holder by the door.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Ready? You ready, boy?

He THUMPS the bone to the ground a couple times, then tosses it. Raimondo leaps and SNATCHES the bone from the air, then lands and skids into the kitchen. Some plates SHATTER on the ground. Paolo SIGHS and walks into the kitchen. He walks to a door and undoes a latch at the bottom.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Come on, Ray-mo, wanna go outside?!

Paolo slaps his thigh. Raimondo jumps his upper body up and down and furiously nods his head. Finally, he jumps against the door while his rear legs are still on the ground, Paolo undoes one last latch, the door swings open on two creaky hinges at the top, like an oversized kitty door. Paolo shakes the remains of a bag of "Orphaned Children Brand Tiger Chow" into a huge bowl as Raimondo runs outside, chasing a butterfly.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Hmm. Out of tiger chow.

He wanders into the living room, CLICKS on the television and sits. The chair he sits in has enormous gashes on the legs. As his head falls onto the headrest, an ad pops up.

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS - DAY

A top-hatted man, BILLY PILGRIM, in a red formal coat with wide black trim, white knicker-bockers, and a large waxed moustache stands in front of a parade of animals.

BILLY PILGRIM
Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I'm Billy Pilgrim and my traveling circus is coming back to town after our mysterious 12 year hiatus. Come on down and see the wonderful sites, like Shark Girl here.

A woman with a shark fin strapped to her back walks up next to Pilgrim, gives an unenthusiastic smile and walks off.

BILLY PILGRIM (CONT'D)
That's right! And you can win a ton of wonderful prizes. Like an unlimited supply of Bear Mating Musk, this hilarious leash and collar. Makes People think you're walkin' an invisible dog!

The man holds up said leash.

BILLY PILGRIM (CONT'D)
Or a lifetime supply of placenta, three hundred gallons of walrus...

Billy Pilgrim drones on, but Paolo is struck by the placenta comment. He looks in the trash at the empty bag of tiger food. Words begin to float through his head.

BILLY PILGRIM (CONT'D)
Lifetime supply of placenta.

PAOLO
Out of tiger chow.

BILLY PILGRIM
Lifetime supply of placenta.

PAOLO
Out of tiger chow.

BILLY PILGRIM
Placenta.

PAOLO
Tiger chow.

BILLY PILGRIM
Placenta.

PAOLO
Tiger chow.

He sits back in his chair and thinks of his job.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. OFFICE - DAY

Paolo pushes a mail cart through hordes of people. They bump against him and tip his mail cart wildly. Someone spills coffee on him and his mail. He stops at a cubicle and grabs a package. As he turns to give it to the cubicle resident, someone steals his mail cart and is immediately swallowed by the crowd.

INT. ANOTHER PART OF THE OFFICE - DAY

A woman hands Paolo his paycheck. Paolo rips open his paycheck envelope. It has a little table on it with the following clauses: "Hours worked - 57", "Pay earned - $60",
"Income Tax - less $10",
"Social Security - less $3.50",
"Medicare - less $1.50"
and finally:
"Employee Morale Tax - less $10"

YVETTE
(extremely perky)
Don't spend it all in one place.

INT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

Paolo is in a daze in the living room. Raimondo slinks in through the oversized kitty door and slips into the living room. He sits in front of Paolo and stares up at his master. When Paolo doesn't respond, Raimondo drops the eagle from his mouth onto Paolo's feet. Paolo SNAPS to attention and Raimondo jumps onto his lap.

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS - LATER

Paolo, a skinny 24 year old, wanders through "Billy Pilgrim's Traveling Circus." The same tacky booths create a visual assault, but it is much less noisy. The crowd parts around him and there's a quiet whispering from various carnies.

MUHAMMAD
(whispering to a son)
There's the only boy who ever won anything valuable from us carnies.

SANJAY
(whispering to a 'mark')
I understand he has telepathic abilities, can rend a prosthetic hip from 700 feet away.

JACQUES
(whispering to pet monkey)
Play that drum or I'm feeding you to that tiger!

At the end of this alley is the same dart booth where Paolo won Raimondo. The same stubbly, handkerchiefed carny is still there, aging seems to have hit him pretty hard. He's very bald. He does, however, have a little boy of about 12 with him. He appears to be of Indian descent. The boy is standing behind his surrogate old man, peering out at the stranger with a tiger cautiously.

SPITTIN' PETE
Well, if it isn't the little boy who could.

PAOLO
Hello to you, too.

Raimondo SNARLS.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
So, anyone else ever win a tiger from you?

SPITTIN' PETE
No one's had the chance, boy, after you we had to change the prize to a gopher. You stand alone among a field of suckers.

PAOLO
Well, its nice to hear that...for... umm... once.

An awkward beat passes. Pete spits.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
That your boy?

SPITTIN' PETE
Ayuh. He's my pride and joy, Pawan. Won him fair and square about the time I lost that tiger, there. Isn't that right, son?

The boys steps out from behind Spittin' Pete.

PAWAN
Yes.

Pawan ducks back behind the carney.

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS - DAY

Sanjay, of Indian descent, stands alone at his booth. A single tear rolls from his right eye.

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS, DART BOOTH - DAY

PAOLO
Excellent. Look, I'm thrilled that you're still alive, but I've got things to do. Would you mind directing me to whereever it is I can get the lifetime supply of placenta?

SPITTIN' PETE
You, boy, are in luck. You're standing in the place. I'm your man.

PAOLO
(dripping sarcasm)
Fantastic.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
So, what's the deal. Still a buck?

SPITTIN' PETE
Times have changed. Used to be a buck could satisfy a simple carny diet. Nowadays, things is more expensive. We've had to...double the price. But for you, lets make it free. For old times sake.

PAOLO
(shocked by the carny's generosity)
I...thanks...

SPITTIN' PETE
Of course, it won't be completely free. If you win you'll get the placenta for... whatever. And, hell, I'll even throw in my son here! Just to make things interesting.

PAWAN
Dad!

SPITTIN' PETE
(Turning sharply to Pawan)
You'll do as I say!

Paolo considers this.

INT. DIRT BASEMENT - DAY

Light streams in between a single barred window high on the concrete wall. Pawan, clad in a leather thong and collar, is chained to a post in the middle of the room. He is shoveling a hole, exhausted. Gentle FOOTSTEPS echo through the basement. Pawan's eyes and mouth open. He drops the shovel. Raimondo steps out of the shadows and snarls.

CUT TO:

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS, DART BOOTH - DAY

SPITTIN' PETE
If you lose, however, you have to give over that cat.

Paolo is speechless for the moment. Raimondo sits and looks up at Paolo. Paolo turns and looks to him. They exchange a moment of understanding.

PAOLO
I'll do it.

Spittin' Pete spits.

SPITTIN' PETE
Son, we're eating tonight.

The carny pulls out three darts and puts them on the counter. Paolo doesn't recognize them. He solemnly walks Raimondo to the edge of the dart booth and ties his leash to a post. Calmly, he makes his way for the darts on the counter. He walks directly to the left hand side of the board and lobs a dart easily. It passes through the balloons in a manner eerily similar to his first attempt.

Paolo, confidence boosted, beelines to the other side. He tosses, the dart falls and two POPS signify the deaths of two innocent balloons. Pawan grips his dad tightly, Spittin' Pete shuffles back. Paolo lines up his final throw. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He weighs the dart carefully and tosses it up. Catching it on his fingertip, he proceeds to balance it. His eyes snap open and with an action much faster than the eye the dart is tossed.

It misses. Well, it doesn't miss, it hits the thumbtack and knocks that off. The balloon floats to the ground.

Paolo can't move. Pete can't move enough. He quickly begins to pick up the darts and, of course, the damned balloon.

PAWAN
(amazed, happy, relieved)
Shit.

SPITTIN' PETE
Watch your mouth, son! Now, as for you, boy, the rules clearly say "pop." This balloon has not been popped.

He bops it off Paolo's head. This signals Paolo and he begins to move towards Raimondo.

SPITTIN' PETE (CONT'D)
That's right, boy! You just bring that tiger on over.

Paolo's hands are shaking. The knot tethering Raimondo to the post confounds them.

SPITTIN' PETE (CONT'D)
Hurry up! I ain't got all day!

Paolo manages to untie it and begins to walk Raimondo over. He begins to babble to the tiger, and Raimondo looks up at him as he does.

PAOLO
I'm sorry, Ray-mo. I'll get you back somehow, I have to. Things won't be the same without you. I need you. Who'll greet me when I come home?

EXT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

Raimondo TACKLES Paolo off the front step.

PAOLO
Who'll scare off the Mormons?

EXT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

Two men in conservative dress, slacks, white, short-sleeved shirts and ties, walk from the sidewalk to Paolo's house. Raimondo jumps from the bushes and tackles one of the men. As clothes and blood spray his face, the other man sprints away.

PAOLO
Who'll protect my house from the largest of rodents?

INT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - DAY

A capybara, essentially a giant guinea pig, scurries through the kitchen. Raimondo is hot on its trail, leaping and bounding after it.

EXT. FAIRGROUNDS, DART BOOTH - DAY

Paolo and Raimondo come to a stop at the counter. Raimondo sits again and Paolo mindlessly pets his head a couple of times.

PAOLO
Now, you be a good boy for this carny. I'm sure you'll find he's a nice gentleman.

SPITTIN' PETE
Yeah, say your goodbyes quickly. Gimme that cat.

PAOLO
Bye, Raimondo.

Paolo lifts up the leash and Raimondo jumps on the counter. Spittin' Pete greedily accepts the leash and Paolo walks off, shoulders slumped, crying softly. Raimondo watches him walk away for a minute, then jumps off the counter behind the dart booth.

FADE TO BLACK.

FADE IN:

INT. PAOLO'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Paolo's living room is only illuminated by the television. He has melted onto the couch and watches the wall. A box of tissues sits on the floor, and a mountain of used tissues decorates the carpeting. A THUMP is heard at the door.

PAOLO
Go Away!

The THUMP repeats, this time louder.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
I said Get lost! No visitors!

The THUMP returns and repeats. It starts to come at regular intervals. Paolo throws down a tissue and storms toward the door.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Whoever you are, you are damned lucky my tiger isn't...

He OPENS the door and an ORANGE BLUR knocks him off his feet.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Raimondo! Hi boy!

He pets Raimondo's head. He crawls up and gives the beast a hug.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Where're your new owners, boy? They let you come and visit?

Paolo hugs him again and sees a piece of red handkerchief hanging from Raimondo's mouth. He pulls it out and examines it.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Ray-mo? ...Did you eat the carnies?

Raimondo nods.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
'Atta boy! Well, this was quite the day, wasn't it?

Two Asian women walk in through the open door. They are wearing skimpy, sequined leotards and fishnet stockings. They are identical twins.

PAOLO (CONT'D)
Identical twin contortionists!

TWINS
(giggling)
We follow the tiger.

PAOLO
Aww, thanks Ray-mo!

Paolo drapes an arm around each woman and Raimondo rubs against Paolo's thighs, purring loudly.

FADE TO BLACK.

Small Family Car Rides

My Dad left when I was seven years old. He and my Mum had been together for a while before I had been born and the loss was hard on both Mom and I.

But we had family not too far away.

My Grandmother and several Aunts have always lived, if not on the same road, at least in the same region of New Hampshire. And they were there for my Mom to help pick her up and keep her sane.

So we would drive out there a lot. In Mom’s red Subaru hatchback and later in the teal Impreza sedan, then the white Impreza hatchback. We were a Subaru family. I remember the padded cloth seats and the nylon seatbelts and the checking on the edges of the rear windshield.

But I mostly remember the music.

Mom and I were a team for a long time, we were joined a few years after Dad left by Maxx, my Jack Russell Terrier. And like any good team of heroes out on our own we had our theme music.

We went through phases.

Tom Petty got lots of circulation. The Beatles, too. I remember considering the album artwork all rectangled and squared behind the hard plastic. The green of ‘Rubber Soul.’ Tom Petty’s skeletal frame behind the Rickenbacker on Damn The Torpedos.

But we really loved Paul Simon.

Those trips between Sebago, ME and Lee, NH were scored by Graceland probably more than anything else. At least they are in my memory.

Mom loved the man whose folk music carried her through the 70s. Loved that he was successful again, loved the wonderful new sounds coming from the speakers. I loved them, too. I didn’t have the history with Simon that my Mother had, of course, but I could feel that she did.*

And this album about travel and heartbreak and finding something seemed to be the perfect accompaniment. Route 202 was our Mississippi Delta. We weren’t received in Graceland, but in my Grandmother’s kitchen in Dover or standing over the hot air register at her duplex in Barrington.



The three of us - Mum, Maxx and Myself - would leave our home which, for all the love, still bears the scar of separation and pile into the car. Crack open the tape cassette and let that asthmatic accordian carry us down King Street. The bass kicks in as we turn onto 114 and by the time we’re up to speed Mom and I are both singing along “It was a slow day and the sun was beating on the soldiers by the side of the road.”

We’d pass signs and talk and lose our place in the music and come back for “the bomb in the baby carriage was wired to the radio.”



My relationship with Mum was really defined in those rides, I think.

The home - where my Mother still lives - was still freshly marked by Dad’s absence. My Grandmother’s house was a comfort but there were always other people there. In the cars and the roads and the music we could carve out a space for ourselves and that new void we were still feeling.

It’s important to note that I love my Dad very much and I always have. But for some time it was hard to reconcile those feelings of love with the shattered trust of seven year old Krister.

I can’t imagine what it was like for Mom.

In New Hampshire Mom got to rebuild herself with her mother and sisters, the same people who had been there the first time she built herself up. And I got to know and love my Aunts, Alis, Ann and Bonnie.

When feelings were still raw and exposed, I considered changing my name from Krister, which is my father’s name. And the name that I landed on was Al. Seven or Eight year old Krister, I can’t remember exactly how old I was, loved the song. I also adored my Aunt Alis - or Al, if you will - and that may have also played a factor.



I’m not really sure what changed my mind. I think my Aunt was part of it, I seem to recall some sage advise about “giving it time.” Even then I understood that she was mad at my Dad and would have liked to see some sort of vengeance but that approach was not the healthiest.

Of course, I’m glad I stuck with Krister now and have been for years. I’m proud of the connection I have with my father regardless of what was a difficult separation.

Echoic Memory is the term for the way a sound can trigger a recollection. Sometimes it can hit as a full immersion into a past experience. Graceland for me, every time I hear it, pulls out little bits of this whole experience. Of car rides through Southern Maine. Of the freshness of discovering my new relationship with my Mother and my Dog. Of finding out who my family is. Of finding out who I am.

*This part of the post, and in fact my whole inspiration for writing it, really must go to Nell Boeschenstein's ruminations on Graceland for In This Recording.

A poem

I wrote this poem on a snowy Wednesday while waiting for the Downeaster to take me to Boston.

I was inspired by a contest on the Boston Globe's website. I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out, though, so I'ma publish it again here, because blogs are where lasting impressions are made.

Broken shovel
snapped blade
lies collecting snow

New wood handle
fresh stained
iron rusted years ago