Category: Postaday

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I Have Three Arms! Okay Not Really

Postaday for May 28th: A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma. Tell us something most people probably don’t know about you.

I have three arms. Okay, not really. But I do have ESP.

Fine, fine, I don’t have ESP. But if I did have ESP I would try to read your mind right now, and find out if you’re thinking “Does he really not have three arms? Is he lying about lying about it? Maybe he does, maybe he has three arms, which would be quite a feat! Afterall, bilateral symmetry is one of the vary basics of animal existence. To have three arms, he would have had to have overcome some five-billions years of evolution. You don’t joke about something like that. Three manly arms on one body would be almost too much. All those biceps! Would the third one have it’s own deltoid? What if it’s growing out of his head! No, it wouldn’t be growing out if his head. The prompt said, “something most people probably don’t know. If this guy’s got a third arm, growing out of his head, it would haven been on Buzzfeed by now. So, yeah, he doesn’t have three arms.”

But I don’t have ESP so I have no idea if you’re thinking all that. Maybe you have ESP? Well then, what am I going to tell you about myself that you don’t already know? What if everybody except me has ESP? That would be funny. “Here’s something about me that most people probably don’t know: I don’t have ESP.” Ha.

I mean, most people don’t know anything about it me, including that I exist. I have probably interacted in my life with, I don’t know, a few million people, if you count friends, lovers, and baristas (note: sadly, no one has ever been all three). But a few million isn’t even one percent of all people. So here’s something most people definitiely don’t know about me: I am.

I like Spam. I memorized pi to 33 places, once. I nearly died last weekend white-water rafting. I’ve written and published two books. I enjoy listening to The New Mastersounds. I keep my Facebook profile 100% public accessible. Our house was robbed when I was a kid, and they stole a freezer full of frozen meat. One of my favorite songs to run to is Yatta by Green Leaves, as well as Morning Musume’s Joshi Kashimashi Monogatari. I have a degree in English but never read Moby Dick. I’ve never had a conversation with a nun. I can solve a Rubik’s Cube but it takes a while. I could stand to lose about 20 pounds or so. 30 would be ideal. That is never going to happen.

Ach, ptooey, boring stuff. I’d rather go back to the three-arms-and-ESP thing. I wonder if there’s anyone with ESP, and does she know if there are any people with three arms hiding themselves away from our terrible two-arm-biased society. That poor gal, bearing the horrible weight of that truth. And that poor guy! Hiding his third arm! I wouldn’t, if I was him. Not even in anticipation of writing to a prompt like today’s. Call me lazy.

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Introducing Dale

Postaday for May 27th: Baggage Check. We all have complicated histories. When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?

I got one of them headaches here you swear you’ll never drink again. Which is a lie because in my hand, a jelly-jar full of wild turkey. To take the edge off. Woke up at 2 am to gobble some exedrin and spent the next three hours moaning at the pillow where my wife’s head left a dent.

Ha, now you got to guess if she divorced me or died, and then guess if that’s why I drink.

The name’s Dale. Jason made me up— he says that sometimes when these writing prompts leave him flat, he’s going to hand it over to me, let me say a few things. Purely fictional, of course, but then, as he says, the point’s to write, not report. No one’s building a biography about poor old bukkhead.

So where was I. Sitting here in my overstuffed, looking out the window. Hurray for us, another hazy day my little corner of LA. You know how there’s New York City, and then there’s Queens, and there’s Long Island? That’s what this part of LA is like. Right in there and no where close. I don’t look out my window for the celebrities.

Truth is, my history ain’t so complicated. I don’t have to make too many major decisions. Wouldn’t be great if I got to tell you that I pulled the plug on my wife, on account of I had to make the same decision about my ma and I let her linger too long and we all suffered for it? But nah.

Look at me shrug, slosh a little wild turkey on my wrist, and say, sorry, to you, not my wrist.

That’s the second time I’ve brought up my wife. I think Jason’s trying to get somewhere with this. Now, I can’t have murdered her or anything, because he wants me to chime in now and again, and if all I am is a wife-o-cide, that’ll get real boring real fast. I need to be more complicated.

How about this. My wife didn’t leave me, and she ain’t dead. She’s visiting her sister. In, let’s say, Berkeley. Last time she went up there, I made a few bad calls. Sowed some oats. Nothing illegal, broke no vows, but had to take a couple hundred showers to get the glitter out of my chest hair, if you know what I mean.

So this time, major decision: two six packs and the Netflix. That kept me from driving any place. My oats went sowless.

Now what I have to decide is, was it worth it. What I gained in clean conscious, I lost in pounding migraine. And here I am, 10 in the morning, wild turkey in hand, staring out the window. Hazy day. My lawn needs mowing. Gloria, the neighbor, just backed out of her driveway and got slammed by some idiot kid doing 50. 50 in a residential zone. Broken glass everywhere. Kid’s half-hanging out his windhsield. I should call the cops. But damn, this headache is something fierce.

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Bridges Like Roller Coasters

Postaday for May 26th: Nightmares. Describe the last nightmare you remember having. What do you think it meant?

We went to San Diego a week ago, and had occasion to drive over a bridge to Coronado. Have you seen this thing? It’s terrifying. It’s steep and narrow and when you’re on it you’re pointed at the sky. I don’t have nightmares very often, but when I do, often I’m in a car going up an impossibly steep road, over a bridge. There’s no immediate danger, but a feeling of deep dread.

I’m happy to report that while sighting that bridge at Coronado sparked memories of nightmares, the drive itself was not so bad. Nor have I had any nightmares since. Last night, I DID dream that I was late for Spanish class, but that’s silly because I haven’t been in school in 20 years and I never took Spanish. But I digress (doesn’t all dreaming digress?)

Another super duper scary bridge along these lines is the San Mateo Bridge in the Bay Area. Every time we visit the in-laws, there’s occasion to drive over this darned thing, and it gives me the willies when I’m a passenger. When I’m driving, no problem at all. Which is funny, because in the nightmare version, I’m always the one driving.

I did a quick Google search for scary bridges, but they were all “scary” due to length, width, high winds, terrible tolls, etc. None of them seemed to have that super-steep part that gives me the heebiejeebies. Maybe it’s a roller coaster thing— you know, that initial steep climb before the big plunge? I’m not the biggest fan of roller coasters, just because I find them a bit tedious. But my wife loves them, so I won’t hesitate to go on one.

She makes us stand in the longer line that you stand in so you can sit in the front car. I get why she wants to sit there, as opposed to elsewhere; she figures why waste time on waiting unless you get the best seat? But when we finally do, and I’m sitting there, and the car goes cerclunk and we start to move, I’m fine. And then we hit that first dip before the big climb, and I’m okay. And it inches up and up, and more and more of the amusement park comes visible as we keep climbing, and I look up and see there’s still a lot of track to climb, and I’m good, I am. I might be a little bit nervous, but that’s probably sympathetic, next to my giddy wife who’s practical foaming with anticipation.

And then that very top part, where we crest, and since we’re in the front car we seem to hang there for a few seconds while the weight from the rest of the cars gets redistributed, and then that click and a second of utter silence— a loud silence, since I’d forgotten I was listening to the clunk clunk clunk of the chains pulling us up. A huge silence, the breeze up here at 500 feet a cold and frosty…

And then the screaming starts. The rest is getting thrown around the roller coaster car, knocking heads with my wife, posing for the part where they take the picture. Nothing like my nightmares at all.

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Another Night at Tums

Postaday for May 25th: Fill In the Blank. Three people walk into a bar . . .

Three people walk into a bar. Mary, Maria, and little Marissa, just turned 21. Three generations, none of them related. They work together at Roma, Inc, an office around the corner. The bar is called Tums. Everyone inside is more or less losing their minds. There’s sports on the TV and one of the teams has done something that has driven this after-work bar crowd wild. Mary, Maria, and Marissa glide through the chaos like cherry blossoms floating through a pre-maelstrom breeze. They arrive at the bar.

Mary, Roma Inc. VP, finance, thin as bones and skin so tight she looks like she’d bounce off of swords. Says to the bar in general, “Rum and Coke” and it appears before her, instantly.

Maria is an operations director, and she will never ever be a VP. She’s married, which isn’t the problem, but she has no kids, which is the problem. She glares at the bartender until he appears. She glares at him until he picks up a glass and a bottle of Chardonnay. She glares while he pours, glares when he sets in front of her. Glares as he backs away, slowly. Maria has curly brown hair, wears a lot of lipstick. She sips the wine with lips pursed so tight that only water molecules pull through, leaving behind the alcohol.

Marissa just started at Roma. Marissa went to college a year early, got her bachelors in two years, and decided to take a year off to back pack around Europe. She wanted to really slut it up, sleep around, experiment, just go nuts. But everywhere she went, people treated her with respect and dignity. Men we courteous, almost chivalric. She got nowhere with them. She put pictures of herself online, as a test, and was reassured when anonymous assholes unambiguously noted the dirty things they’d like to do to her. So it wasn’t her. Fine. Whatever. Came back home, got her MBA in one year, got a job, turned 21, and somehow ended up walking out after work one evening at the same time as Maria who happened to be walking out at the same time as Mary.

Marissa asks the bartender for a boilermaker. He brings her a margarita. God damn it.

Mary looks over at the other two. “I’m Mary. VP.”

Maria says “Maria. OD, been with Roma 20 years.”

Marissa says “Marissa. Just started. I have no idea what I do.”

They each sip their drinks. The bar has calmed down quite a bit. In fact, many people have left. In fact, Mary, Maria, and Marissa are the only people left. Not even the bartender is there any more. There’s a loud booming sound as the door to the bar closes. The boom echoes, then all is silent.

“Marissa, you’re young,” Mary says, like one of those questions that comes out like a statement.

“Yes,” Marissa says.

“Does this story pass the Bechdel test?”

“Uh….”

“Not anymore,” Maria says, setting down her glass. She slides off her barstool, and walks towards the door. She leaves. A soon as she does, the door opens and people walk in. The bar’s a little brighter now, and the TV’s back on.

Marissa stares into her margarita. She hates margaritas. Has hated them every since Spain, where she found the only Mexican restaurant in Madrid, and drank about a dozen of them.

Mary finishes her Rum and Coke. She stands up too. The bartender’s back, and there’s a few more people at the bar now, a few in booths. A waitress walks by, carrying a tray of chicken wings. “See you tomorrow I guess,” she says, and leaves.

Through the increasing bar noise, as more and more people are getting into the game on the TV, Marissa says “No you won’t.” It’s not cynical. It’s just that VPs work on the 12th floor, and Marissa’s stuck on three.

The bartender comes by, and without asking, sets down another margarita, and a bill for all four drinks. She picks it up, walks over to a booth where a bunch of people are going to town on some jalapeno poppers. Sets the bill down amongst their soiled napkins. Asks one where the women’s restroom is. Walks in the opposite direction when it’s pointed out to her. Leaves.

The door closes behind her, shutting out the screams and hollers of a hundred sports fans losing their god damn minds.

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We’re Going to Need a Bigger Orchestra

Postaday for May 24th: Mix Tape. Put together a a musical playlist of songs that describe your life, including what you hope your future entails.

Well obviously all I need to do is pull up the Daredevil OSC and play that. Boom. Life described and planned, in strings and timpani.

Now I know what you’re thinking, your thinking, “But Bukkhead, Daredevil the motion picture starring Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, or the recent Netflix original with Debra Ann Woll and Vincent DeNofrio?” Friends, I’m here to tell you: both. Both describe my life to a T. Both project how my life is going to go in the future. Allow me to elucidate.

What the two soundtracks have in common is that I’ve only heard bits and pieces of each, and only once, as I’ve seen the movie only once and seen the TV show only once. And let’s be clear: I’m not talking about rock n roll songs from the movie. I’m talking the deep moody stuff that plays in the background when it rains or there’s a fight that goes on too long. What’s that song by that band that was a big hit after the movie came out? Bring Me to Life by Evanescence? I like that song, like it alot, but it doesn’t capture my life at all. For example, when that song came out, I was getting over a terrible crush. The words go: “How can you see into my eyes like open doors?” and later “Now that I know what I’m without.” Sounds plaintive. What it needs to describe is the tons of pizza I ate that summer.

Which the strings and timpani stuff does! Just think about it: a city on the edge of dusk, horizon’s fire dying as the camera sweeps up a tenement, over the rooftops, and there perched on a ledge, as the horns swell and the strings skitter towards an angsty foreboding, a chubby guy on a computer shoving pizza in his face and playing video games. I get chills just thinking about it!

And let’s face it, what with the way my life is going now: fighting that bulge still, the one created by eating all that pizza years ago, a habit forged and hard to break. Just like the sounds backing a frenetic martial-arts fight, violins swooping, trumpets blasting, drums rat-a-tatting as I land punch after punch on the bad guys, the which are my urges to eat more pizza. Good god I’m hungry all of a sudden.

My apologies if this comes across as lazy. I know some people have worked hard and thought long about each song on their own lifetime playlist, combining their personal experiences with the songs themselves as well as the deep metaphors from the lyrics that evoke their best hopes and dreams. Mostly I listen to instrumentals, so I don’t have lyrics to work with. And when a soundtrack fits, it just fits!

Maybe, hmm… maybe I should change my blog from “Bukkhead” to “Daredevil in Cargo Shorts.”

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Zone In, Zone Up, Zone Out.

Postaday for May 23rd: The Zone. Tell us about your favorite way to get lost in a simple activity — running, chopping vegetables, folding laundry, whatever. What’s it like when you’re in “the zone”?

Music is the key to get me into something, kind of a way to drown out the background thoughts that keep me from getting busy. You know, all those urges and frustrations and over-analyzations. For example, I’m listening to Pandora right now, which makes it easier ti ignore that “over-analyzations” isn’t probably a real word.

Cleaning the house, writing, doing paperwork, doing the filing, running, all of it requires music, most of the time. And Pandora is my drug of choice. I’ve got a couple hundred different stations, most of which I don’t listen to, since it’s all about whimsy which is ephemeral. My latest have been stations based on The New Mastersounds (laid back studio-funk jazz) The Sound Defects (minimalist adult industrial hip hop) and Bitter:Sweet (electric lounge).

I made up those “genres” by the way.

Of course is doesn’t always work. Today’s been kind of rough, getting into things. A couple of tiring days, my allergies kicking in something fierce, and a general lack of motivation. But when it does work: oh man, the zone. Its hard to describe being in the zone, especially to someone who’s never been in it. And for those who have, they know what I mean.

Better to describe what it feels like afterward. You come out of the zone and you feel so accomplished. Like you got something done, something meaningful, impactful. You’ve been heads-down at a task for maybe hours, but you don’t feel tired at all, you almost feel rejuvenated.

Its all psychological, of course, and after a bit your body catches up and reminds you that you are, in fact, tired, pretty exhausted, actually. But if you’ve timed it such that what follows is sleep: what a satisfying sleep.

And music is the doorway tog et there. For me anyway.

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Puttin’ the “Alien” in “Alienate”

Postaday for May 22nd: Worldly Encounters. The friendly, English-speaking extraterrestrial you run into outside your house is asking you to recommend the one book, movie, or song that explains what humans are all about. What do you pick?

Book: Finnegan’s Wake. I have not read all of it and I am hoping that, like me, the alien will read a few pages and then toss it aside and decide the human race is too confusing to understand as a single entity. Heart and lungs, skin and bones. That’s more or less the only way we’re all the same, and any assertion to the contrary will sprout contradiction after contradiction.

For the most part, people are good, but there are a choice few who take advantage of this truth and exploit it for their own ends. I’d hate to have the alien read Harry Potter and decide we’re all courageous, only to have some coward steal his space ship and use to do donuts on the moon. Nor would I have the alien read The Stranger and find us all so disconnected and depressing that his plans to build a hyperspace bypass through our planet are accelerated out of indifference. And I would of course hate it if the alien read Dan Brown.

So I’d go to the book store and buy the book, and just so know one there would think I’m going to give it to extra terrestrial alien, I’d wear a sweater with patches on the elbows, make sure my goatee was grown out, and I’d stop by the coffee stand inside the bookstore itself and sigh at the quotidian menu and, seemingly reluctantly, order an espresso and frown when they served it and frown when I sipped it.

Back at my house I expect the alien would be sitting on my front porch, the beer I’d given him to drink while I was gone long since finished, his razor sharp stainless steel teeth slowly gnawing on the glass bottle. I’ll scowl at myself and think that I should have given him a beer in an aluminum can instead. But what’s done is done. I’ll park my car and set the parking break with a loud ratcheting sound. I’ll be prepared if the alien asks me why I set the parking break when my driveway is not very steep, or if he suggests that I install a few anti-gravity mag-lev inertia dampeners. And then when he doesn’t I’ll be a a bit disappointed because the argument I have ready is a really good one.

And he’ll see this on my face but not know what the frown means, because even though his quarter-inch photo-sensitive skin can read the variations in my body temperature to hundredth-of-a-degree accuracy, he will have no empathy gland, owing to a terrible space accident with an asteroid and joy-riding Melaplurx from Planet Gojaxicak. Hence the need for the book. Nevertheless he’ll ask me why there’s a centigrade temperature elevation in my risorius, platysma and depressor anguli oris.

And I’ll say, let me guess, you asked some asshat for the same thing you asked me, and he handed you Gray’s Anatomy?

And the alien will be a little bit confused, because, yes, someone did, and also because someone else handed him a Dr. Seuss book, and since my question to him rhymed, he would wonder if I was going to next tell him about my disdain for viridia ova atque perna.

The I would seize the moment! Thrust Finnegan’s Wake into his seven-fingered hands! All three of them! And I’d say, “This explains everything!” And then I’d go inside my house and eat some Doritos and play some Xbox.

And I bet you a thousand dollars we’d never hear from that alien again.

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Floating and Hoping Tomorrow Will Go Away

Postaday for May 21st: Linger. Tell us about times in which you linger — when you don’t want an event, or a day to end. What is it you love about these times? Why do you wish you could linger forever?

At first the swimming pool was freezing cold, but then we got used to it, and we splashed around and clung to the side and talked and splashed some more and just floated by ourselves. Now the pool is cold again, and we’re stubbled with goosebumps. But we don’t want to get out.

We’re shivering and the sun over there is shrugging its shoulders. Looking down at the edge of the sea and getting ready to set. We’re kind of of hungry because we’ve been in the pool for three hours, and three hours without food while you’re on vacation is tantamount to starvation. And yet we can’t get out of the pool.

Our hair is nearly dry, so long has it been since we dunked under, but we still find ways to bob and make small waves, and so our shoulders are wet. They’re the coldest part of us, just above the water where it laps against clavicle and shoulder blade. Maybe that’s why we’re reluctant to leave: the towel’s over there, on the chaise, and it’s so far away.

Or ancient memories of yesterday, when we were in the pool for hours, so long the muscles in our legs atrophied, and when we pulled ourselves out we felt like we weighed a thousand pounds each. We linger because we don’t want to feel so heavy. And the siren calls of a hot shower and room service and a pay-per-view movie are too faint to compel us. We’re deaf to the future.

Even though we’re shivering and our fingertips have turned into wrinkly old men.

If we get out of the pool, we’ll have to go to our room, where we sleep, which brings tomorrow, which brings repacking, a ride to the airport, returning the rental car, that slow rental car shuttle, checking in, the long security line, waiting to board, the cramped airplane seat, the meager four ounces of complimentary beverage, the clenched fist turbulence, waiting for rude people to rush off the plane, baggage claim, car retrieval, a boring familiar highway, the dusty smell of a house closed up for a week, and then work, and then life, and then, and then…

And then no more swimming pools. No more weightlessness. Last night’s luau and yesterday’s snorkeling will be last week’s and then last month’s. This morning’s photo with the sea turtles will be just a piece of paper or an image that floats by on a screen saver.

We don’t want to go. Even though we’re shivering and it’s getting dark and we’re the only people left, even though there’s a sign over there, frowning at us and telling us the pool closes at dusk, even though we know we can’t stay here forever, we’re hoping we can make forever last just a few more minutes.

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Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Cured

Postaday for May 20th: Placebo Effect. If you could create a painless, inexpensive cure for a single ailment, what would you cure and why?

I read somewhere that when our cells reproduce, they can only do so a certain number of times. There’s some strand of DNA or alleles or something, I don’t know, that doesn’t copy well and after so many tries it just can’t do it any more. Cancer cells, on the other hand, don’t seem to have this problem, which is why they reproduce like crazy and eat everything. Which is pretty darn bad, and so I should say I’d cure cancer if I could.

But consider the case of Henrietta Lacks, who’s cancer cells have benefited so much oh humankind (if not herself or her family: read the book about her for more info). I’m sure there’s some moral logical fallacy in what I’m suggesting, but if cancer had been cured, what non-cancer ailments would the world still suffer from?

And while I appreciate the prompt’s call for an “inexpensive” cure, I am nevertheless a cynic, and I can’t help but feel that a cure for cancer would somehow be compromised by one lobby or another, and somehow even a cure as cheap as “rub an apple on your head” would be turned into a multi-billion dollar business.

Thus I find myself not considering the prompt’s spirit, but all of the ways I’d have to defend against my choice, mostly defend against my own warped imagination. Because no matter what horrible ailment I consider, somehow there’s going to be an argument for how my choice is a terrible one.

And therefore I will choose the ailment of “being a judgmental jerk” as the ailment I would like the cure the most.

Of course, many many people might insist that diagnosing someone a judgmental jerk is a matter of opinion, not fact. To those people I say, “get thee to a pharmacy, thou sick bastards.”

I’ll be first in line for the cure, by the way.

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139 Lies Down, 226 to Go

Postaday for May 19th: State of Your Year. How is this year shaping up so far? Write a post about your biggest challenges and achievements thus far.

Well, let’s see. Some things I can’t disclose because there’s a very off chance that the wrong person will read this and we can’t have that. Suffice it to say that soon, if you need a home loan, call me.

That’s a lie, by the way, purposefully vague and enigmatic. Or was it? Trust me, it was.

And yes, I appreciate the irony of saying “trust me” just a two sentences after confessing to having lied.

Also, I appreciate the smug nature of saying I “appreciate” something that I, in fact, wrote.

Otherwise, this year has been, more or less, 139 days long. Went to San Diego, so that was good. Twice. Went to Las Vegas, but just the once. Went to Woodinville, drank a lot of wine. Ran a half marathon, and when I say “ran” I mean eight miles of it. I’ve got a new nephew. I’m going to a bachelor party. I’ll be having egg slad for lunch today

Challenges? Need to lose weight. Need to run more. I’ve challenged myself to write more. And to not let boring topics like this one stop me— and I don’t mean the prompt is boring, I mean the reality of my life is boring. But that shouldn’t keep me from writing.

For example, this year, so far, I’ve earned well over three million in illicit profits. Now, this, too, is a total lie, and may or may not have anything to do with the lies I told above. The point is, since there’s no point to really doing any of this, I’m kind of allowed to do anything. Like confess, finally, to all those cars I stole. Another lie. Or is it? It is.

I swear it is. And if you happen to drive a blue BMW 3 series with oyster-leather interior, and it’s missing, and you live in the greater King County area, don’t come to my house and look in my garage because it’s not there. I did not steal it, nor was stealing it a kind of gift to myself after having stolen 100 other vehicles, a milestone if you will, and it is certainly NOT the case that said grand theft auto was in part payment on a debt I owed to drug lords.

I don’t do drugs, or sell drugs, or buy drugs. I don’t steal cars. I don’t hardly ever even drive my own! So when I tell you that this year has been pretty good, averaging about .8 stolen cars per day passed, I am lying, because my life is otherwise not worth writing about very much.

Certainly not from the back seat of this Lexus is250, on “my” iPad, hiding inside a warehouse, waiting for the police helicopter to go away.

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