Q E

uixotic

xotic

AMI FAZCHAS

Copyright 2014 by Ami Fazchas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,

without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Lulu.com

3101 Hillsborough St.

Raleigh, NC 27607-5436

http://lulu.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fazchas, Ami

[Selections, 2014]

Quixotic Exotic / Ami Fazchas

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-312-31283-8

1. [category]

I. Title.

Printed in the United States of America

5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Preface ..............................................................

THE VIEW FROM THE #12:

PART 1 .......................................................... 1

MISSED ......................................................... 4

HOWEVER HARD YOU TRY,

IT’S ALWAYS A SELF-PORTRAIT. ........ 5

JMJ .................................................................. 7

VIEW FROM THE #12:

PART 2 - SWELTER ................................... 8

ACTION ...................................................... 10

SEX, LIES, AND INTROSPECTION ..... 11

PEDESTAL BOY ....................................... 15

THE MAN-BOY CLOWN ....................... 16

TWO TWENTY SIX AM ....................... 23

WE TOO MOVE ON TRACKS OF

NEVER ENDING LIGHT ....................... 25

REST ASSURED ....................................... 27

WATERMELON RAND .......................... 28

WHERE THERE’S SMOKE .................... 30

LET’S FACE IT… ...................................... 35

VIEW FROM THE #12: PART 3 - WILD OATS

...................................................................... 36

NO DOUBT ............................................... 38

DON’T SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD ..... 41

TWO WEEKS (TURKEY PARTS) ......... 48

ROBIN WILLIAMS DIED YESTERDAY

...................................................................... 50

PREFACE – PART TWO ......................... 51

TWITTERPATED .................................... 55

Q E

uixotic

xotic

PREFACE

The Idea of writing a real live book is daunting

no matter how many times you sit and approach a

keyboard. Even now, I’m not entirely sure of the

ability of the words contained in the next fifty pages

or so. I can tell you that the Totino’s Party Pizza in

the oven I’m daring to call lunch has about ten

minutes left; so, there’s that. The organic, fair-trade,

coconut chai black iced sweet tea in the fridge is

aching to be paired with the melty MSG laden food

conglomerate-creation on which I’ve lovingly

sprinkled an Italian Herb mix on…for, you know,

that homemade feeling.

I seriously wonder where that pizza was made.

Really. People wonder all the time about how the

veggies in Winn-Dixie get on their plate, but does

anyone consider the provenance of the forlorn

frozen party pizza?

I suppose one could…Oh…wait...buzzer. I better

go get it, considering it took me two minutes to

finagle the microwave timer to the full fourteen

minute cook time suggested.

Enjoy.

-AF

Ami Fazchas

1

THE VIEW FROM THE 12 PART 1

For a second between Polk and Cass, home

appears before me. I’d swear I’m on a rare deserted

corner of Washington Heights, the north block of

Barnard perhaps, where the old sky scrapers sit like

dormant volcanoes or spent fireworks that no longer

dazzle, greying and decaying in block-long gutters.

People don’t come to Tampa for the city. So

it’s corralled south of the interstate and suburban

sprawl surrounds the tiny bit of truly urban nucleus,

sending people from the deed restricted safety of

New Tampa and Brandon in to feed it, nurture it, in

sustain only, never to grow it. It could easily branch

out north hopscotching 275 if it weren’t for historic

neighborhood plaques, kept shiny in front of

deteriorating bungalows and archaic cigar roller’s

Exotic Quixotic

2

cottages that lay like coffins end to end for blocks.

They are quaint in construction, easily the stuff of

tropical romanticism in their first decades.

Books will tell you suburbanization of the these

United States started in the 40s and 50s in response

to the baby boom, with an influx of track housing

built somewhere between the country and the city to

accommodate the progeny of the returning soldier,

but that would be a lie. Far before, it started, in the

late 19’oughts and 20s with these houses filled with

the good catholic Cubans, Georgia and Tennessee

rooted second-generation Tampanians, and other

immigrants of varying provenances, who sat elbow to

elbow in hot factories by the hundreds tirelessly

giving our city its fair nickname. Side by side,

sweltering in their work, side by side sweltering on

the street cars that now only run as tourist attractions,

side by side sweltering in those tiny wood frame one-

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3

ones without yards to speak of. Many of them have

been washed away in floods of years, weather beaten

and eventually put out of their misery.

Some though, remain as low rent tenant

houses, home to honest working mothers who still

need welfare after 40 hours a week or hipsters who

can’t afford Tampa’s imitation SoHo district (that’s S.

Howard Ave), or wigger druggies who have never

peaked beyond high school, all wondering

despondently why life continues not to work out for

them hoping the next scratch ticket or water

treatment sales pyramid scheme will allow them to

strike it rich.

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MISSED

While you get back what you want

I'm left with the consolation of a quiet dejection

Oh, I will put on such a good show!

Pretty faces lie so well about letting go

Live as though our time

Was some dream, magnificent...

Details traded every time I sort the remnants

I'd have done anything

To quell your concerns

But instead you made the choice

And left me here to burn

The booze, the boys

The music's noise

I find, are no replacement

Your touch, your words

Memory enacts displacement

Of time and interest

Though on a good day

I seem to get on

And find my way

But in solace, or parks near water

Pier 60, or the food court

My mind still wanders

Preying on happiness, it thwarts

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HOWEVER HARD YOU TRY, IT’S ALWAYS A

SELF-PORTRAIT.

The blonde

The brunette

The clown

The hobo

The need to be a savior

To make me believe I’m not the one drowning.

That of myself I revile.

And stay enslaved.

Crash course in you.

I study, a face:

a history

the baggage

the buds

the defeat

As I repeat the repent

And lament that I could be everything

Salutations to the sun,

Still irrelevant

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The angel

The devil

The jester

The bard

Remind me of The Unattainable

My unknown unworthiness

My not good enough

Despite…

The artist

The soldier

The lost

The independent

Ami Fazchas

7

JMJ

A sweeter note remembered

Caustic silence of a waiting room without end

Observation without contact, a clinical distance

Was I so insincere about our absence of sincerity?

A concerted effort to convince you of your

convenience.

Adjacent to untroubled embraces

Willing to accommodate your necessity

Deprivation in your absence - never saw that one

coming…

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8

VIEW FROM THE 12 : PART 2 - SWELTER.

It was one of those unforgiving Florida days.

The ones theme parks and vacation pamphlets fail to

mention. Where the heat compounds onto itself

and, the sun, if it had any concept of mercy, would

have shown it 25 degrees ago. But instead, it baked

everything with full menacing truculence of a

thankless forgotten god. It was as if we were the first

pagans to deny it as a deity a few millennia back.

Nearly 85 in temperature and humidity and it

wasn’t even 10am.

My…whoever, used to explain that to be born

here meant you were a teenage soul. That in past

lives you had endured pleasure and luxury, or

extreme third world poverty, for this was the middle

of the road. This natural pressure cooker was at

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9

once the best and the worst the climate had to offer.

The same person, some elder, I’m sure, assured me

that this once was a hellish place, but that through

piety, the fortunes of our fair city had grown. Not as

large as others, of course, but it was explained that

this was because it was so evil in the first place. We

had simply reached the middle.

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Action begets action; a body in motion

tends to stay in motion…what they will never

bother to explain to you is

how scary forcing yourself to gain

MOMENTUM

can be.

Ami Fazchas

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SEX, LIES, AND INTROSPECTION

Why?!

A therapist would tell me that a well-adjusted

person would not let how desirable they are

romantically or sexually affect the rest of their lives.

Yet, here the fuck we are.

Mental images of dog food and a great searing

mass of momentum in my chest tell me something is

wrong. I feel like something wants to burst forth and

waylay the world to scorched earth crispiness. Put

some lemon on it I’m sure it’ll be delicious. Let it

burn, a putrid calamari, rolled in stale bread crumbs

and deep fried.

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12

The sun will decide if it wants to shine

momentarily; I’m sure of it.

I hold back the urge of my arms to spasm into

left hooks and right crosses. I feel so incredibly toxic.

Getting laid would help, but I’d just feel worse about

myself after. The sex you want, you ain’t gettin’. The

sex you gettin’, you ain’t want.

Sunshine, and too much to be done. Too

many friends that go silent when you’re at odds with

yourself. Too many I silence.

So, the instinct then is to run. I’ve bottomed

out on the high this city gives me. I need a new one.

This fucking argument again. I left to escape the

inevitable monotony, to a place that’s never that.

The place that’s least that. How many times do I

have to keep doing that? I’m the worst kind of

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person; I don’t want home, and I don’t want here.

I’m not sure where I belong and I want bits and

people from both. I will never be satisfied and I

detest it. I’m in pain….no really my torso aches when

I move the wrong way and feel like I’ve just been

shoved underwater without warning and my sinuses

are smarting.

I’m well aware of all the girls I can’t compete

with. The laundry list in my head is rife with

insecurities, but this is no romantic fucking comedy

or some justgirlythings schmaltz text image. They’re

real. People see them and I’m not pretty enough to

look past them. The Guy is not secretly thinking that

I’m worth it despite all of them. The one’s I’m

interested in are worth it, but don’t see that I am.

Alone. I did this alone. So many years put into

this, and now my focus is skewed and blurry. It’s

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easy when you know where you’re going. But,

opportunity without a destination….wandering….this

isn’t the time for that. That’s how these fucking

distractions occur. The cold heartless truth is that I

liked having the boyfriend PA. I got shit done. I

moved toward a better life for both of us when I had

someone taking care of the details.

I need a canvas…poster board, fucking

literally…I need to plan, to visualize all the plans I

have…all the roads I want to go down. Goddammit.

Fuck.

Ami Fazchas

15

PEDESTAL BOY

Graceful exits and loyalties.

Mine, with you, lie; always.

Housewives and playmates.

Clandestinely seeking the day you’re in need of a

teammate.

Search me out.

How could I not come running?

Pond to a fish bowl

…but hey, it’s cozy.

Safe.

Who could anticipate,

An empty canvas could be

So intimidating?

“Don’t expect me to keep waiting”?

Search for authenticity

and sick of self-insincerity.

Holdout and holdup for a pedestal boy’s love.

Absolution that ain’t never comin.

Exotic Quixotic

16

THE MAN-BOY CLOWN

Inches away.

Inches that may have well been miles. She’d

have to travel that far to even be on his radar. That

was a lie.

She had been permanently taken off the radar.

A monolith explored, no longer interesting, just

something to navigate round.

After a boozy night in which she had ended up

in his bed and he in hers…a block apart, he had

asked to forget the ordeal. He didn’t feel so hot and

had had other things going on. She asked if he

would like coffee later in the week and he obliged,

Ami Fazchas

17

but instead of a time for chat, it turned in to running

errands - sending money home to the kids.

The kids.

He had said that that night. The night when he

was so many drinks in, clothes no longer felt

necessary, but picking out a watch for the next

morning did. Had mentioned in drunken honesty,

that She was a beautiful woman, but that she wasn’t

interested because he had them, and so he wasn’t

bothering.

It was true. His appeal was searing. Ambition,

talent, intelligence, looks, promised potential, all

wrapped up in a self-deprecating humor that created

a package at once, most charming and irresistible.

As the weeks went on He evolved into an object of

passive fascination.

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Why in the hell had she not said something that

night? Corrected him? Sucked his dick?

Something? Anything?

Instead, she sat, catching glances…settled and

unhappy into a position of secondary friendship.

Acquaintenship really, he barely talked to her. Not

that much of depth would come to mind if he did,

infatuation still had its horrid black magic hold on

her. Her neurons simply refused to process cohesive

thought. Her inner feminist railed at this, then railed

more at the implication that he was causing her such

distraction to begin with.

What she wanted to tell him was that, for the

first time in a long while, she had found someone

who fit. Putting the pieces together, he fit her plans

so uncommonly well, and he was an utter dork with

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19

a cheeky smile. He was the personification of one of

those really fancy four-syllable coffee

drinks…venti…with extra whip. Put a fucking bow

on the man’s head. She wanted him to know how

inexplicably she felt the instinct to insure his

happiness. That the notion that his ex, or anyone

would make him feel lessened for any reason, made

her unbearably offended. That, she felt innately he

was worth fighting for.

And the kids. Christ. He was enough of a

catch that she had rethought it. He had done that.

She had won out through shit bosses,

unemployment, destitution, a fault line family life,

on the thinking that a focus on the self was for the

best. Taking on a parental role scared the hell out

of her. It was a bit silly she thought to make it a deal

breaker just for dating, it seemed trivial but. Her

logic followed, though that, on your third chance in

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life, relationships become a game of strategy.

Standards were just that, and employed for a reason.

Dating best case scenario could lead to a steady

relationship, which is what she wanted, that in turn

could lead to marriage…someone to build an empire

of a life with. Thus, her logic followed, every guy

contained the possibility and promise.

The ideal she had for her own had seen many

revisions - mostly for the good. And, she was

incredibly aware of the possibilities she presented

too. Tottering into a theatre career after thirty, with

Ivy League debt wasn’t fantastically appealing, and so

the kids thing felt unfair. She had survived the

childhood where her best interests were neglected

and abhorred the idea of engaging maternity without

responsibility. She couldn’t become that person, it

was her greatest fear to do so. Not that they would

be hers, but the level of dedication involved in even

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bonus parenting…was that something she was

capable of? She recognized she would be

unprepared for motherhood in any shade for a while

and why not bar fathers from the list of possible

suitors?

Still.

She couldn’t help to feel something…a warm

expansion, a filling up…when he smiled. When he

dropped to his knees, sliding to her feet at karaoke

on the bridge of a boy band standard.

Such a lovely idiot this man-boy clown.

Why such triviality to this? It was confusing. A

culture of men touting self-confidence being the

sexiest thing about a woman underlied by a reality of

men scared. Scared of a woman who’s run the

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numbers on viability and wants to go full steam

ahead with someone she gathers can fulfill her and

someone she can do the same for. All that, waylaid

further by a pseudo-counter culture that dictates

insistence of near-indenture on the part of the man,

so that we appear to be the strong, confident women

men are meant to covet - all with a nametag of

equality peeling at the corners.

Relationships be damned and along with them,

sanity.

Ami Fazchas

23

TWO TWENTY SIX AM

Must decipher a way

To make favor sway

In my direction

See the world

And give a better inflection

To the verses of the bard

And Caryl alike

I might

Learn to finally fight

This feeling and flight

response.

Engage a self

renaissance.

To get what I’ve always imagined

Yeah I’ve got issues:

A localized economic depression

I’m short on financial supply

With an addiction to dreaming

And a view of my best life

That only keeps growing

I’ve gotten careless about the seeds I sow and..

Unfortunately caring is not an advantage

It just leads to damage

And false promise

Of reciprocation, a reason for staying.

So my only road then

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Is to approach life careless

Banking that no one will care less

About what I want and my success

But what to do

When that too,

Seems to betray me?

Denigrate me?

Make me less than

The woman I need to be to make it out

Survivor and sell out

“Get the fuck out.”

If I needed a catch 22

I’d read Heller

High Water, Rushed

Dreams crushed

One false move here you get the brush off

When you’re the dirt on the shoulder

It doesn’t matter how much you smoulder

How much you wish to catch fire

And burn brighter than the next voice

The next face

Keep the pace in this twisted foot race

Of memory and wit

This was never your competition to win.

Ami Fazchas

25

WE TOO MOVE ON TRACKS OF NEVER

ENDING LIGHT

0:03

You take my face

In your hands, soft.

Sleepy intent, awakening

0:20

Looking at something

Brand new

Was breath this hard to keep

0:34

A few seconds ago

First of firsts, Eyes don't close

Richest amber

0:54

We couldn't,

Not when

We've come this far

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1:05

Every second

Another expectation

Exceeded

1:28

Explore freely

This uncommon frontier

Something from a memory

1:47

Linear aberrations

A bleach blonde angel

Sun rises as you and I do

Ami Fazchas

27

REST ASSURED

The

Only

Thing

We

Know

How

To

Do

Straight

From

The

Womb

Is

Suck

Titty.

Exotic Quixotic

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WATERMELON RAND

Why do the words of Rand get so outshined by

the politic they create? Why does she need to be

labeled? At what point does the message of the

work that speaks to a few, itself become greater than

the passages that speak to many? Why can he words

not just be beautiful? Why can’t John Galt’s speech

be a light to any not sure of themselves, of their own

difficult ascension, of the ascension of the human

spirit? In politics, yes Rand may be the manifesto of

the conservative capitalist, but Galt’s speech is

decidedly liberal. In an early post-modern

ascription it progressively speaks to the individual

first.

How anyone cannot see these words as a battle

cry for upward mobility is astounding and a small

beauty of the work that is squandered.

Of course, one could argue that upward

mobility is most obviously a class issue, a lofty goal

Ami Fazchas

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to be crushed by bipartisan interests. In reality,

though, I believe they simply differ on the means

and moral ambiguities that are employed in

achieving it.

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WHERE THERE’S SMOKE

That Damn Alarm. The batteries must be

going. Or, the harvest of our new neighbors

partaking is wafting through the vents upstairs. The

alarm downstairs isn’t going off.

I assure you nothing is on fire. Nothing in this

house is burning. Nothing at all. For the time being,

I am a Good Post-Modern Human. Consuming

without creating. No passion. No fruit.

Perhaps it’s the carbon dioxide monitor. How

horrible that would be. I could be sitting here

neglecting my apartments own death rattle. It’s been

hours, so I doubt it. I would have felt woozy.

Really nothing is incendiary here. Nothing.

Not a damn thing.

Trying to remember my practical chemistry.

Those Damn Alarms are set off by a chemical

reaction set up with in the alarm. If the smoke

particles reach beyond a certain parts-per-million

Ami Fazchas

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near The Damn Alarm, the reaction occurs, and

bingo bango – Jimmy, Lassie, and the entire house

wakes before being incinerated to a crisp.

If it would just be consistent! No, That Damn

Alarm insists on wailing with no respect to pattern or

timing…or purpose other than getting attention.

“Change my fucking batteries, bitch!” it wails

incessantly whenever it pleases. What if anyone else

cried out so mercilessly as in days of old?

Something must be done. How could one

sleep with that sort of demand being made. What if

it really is carbon monoxide? How could one sleep

at all? How does one sleep ever? All the pissing

and breathing and natural functions we have to

control so consciously while awake, on complete

auto-pilot dormancy while we sleep. As if we’re not

even necessary. Imagine if we never needed to

ingest food or water, we could simply sleep. The

economy would be in shambles. All of it, all of the

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incredible sophistry of the world work system, it all

boils down to the need of nourishment, all the way

back to the cavemen. Someone had a little extra

meat from a hunt and someone had less and so

something of commiserate value was traded. Or,

maybe it was the other way round. Wouldn’t that be

interesting and so incredibly Post-Modernly

Human? In any case someone figured out that if

you had enough of something the other thought was

valuable, you could forgo and forget the hunting and

let someone one else handle it. The American

Dream folks, it’s really just The First Kings Dream,

the Caveman Dream - getting as much as possible

with as little distractive work as possible so that one

may do as one pleases as much as possible. There’s

always a tradeoff though. Those that didn’t want to

hunt ended up inventing agriculture, one of the

hardest types of work, to have something else to

trade. The First Kings had to provide peace and

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unity or risked deposition, no matter how much a

divine right they thought they had. Most Good Post-

Modern Humans trade our time doing jobs few of

us knew or cared to have in those passionate days of

childhood, all to be able to consume what we’re told

is good for us. Few of us seek out deviation. Few

need too or have the means to start any sort of

internal fire. So, no…there’s nothing burning in this

house of the Good Post-Modern Human. Not a

damn thing.

What about beans? Does cooking pinto beans

produce some odd chemical that sets off The Damn

Alarm mechanism? I don’t think they cooked all

the way through…for what it’s worth. Wouldn’t that

be the saddest last meal ever? This may be all poor

third-worlders live off of, but I bet they at least they

know how to cook them through. How could I

spark any revolution? Not this Good Post-Modern

Human, eating rice as white as the men who rule us.

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34

Not paying attention to the choosing of the Rice

Men. Not paying attention to The Damn Alarms.

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

Ami Fazchas

35

LET’S FACE IT…

I

Could

Have

A

Lot

Of

Fun

At

A Barn Raising.

Exotic Quixotic

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VIEW FROM THE #12: PART 3 - WILD

OATS

I never smiled on the bus. A young lady did

well not to, generally, lest she be taken as crazy,

naïve, or worst of all - interested. A short tentative

grin to assign I was of no harm, was all I bothered

with.

He had put on at another fifty pounds in the

last six years. Indeed, I barely recognized him. His

name was Josh or Jack or …Jason? Jesus. Not that

he was called Jesus.

Jason. I definitely think it was Jason.

Jason…er…suited him at least.

In any case he had verily lost his neck

completely since I saw him last and on the whole

seemed a sad sort. Young, frustrated. He must have

had his Bachelor’s by now and had only moved

from driving the campus shuttle to driving the city

bus.

Ami Fazchas

37

Largely someone I regret letting between my

legs. We pretended not to recognize each other, but

a woman never forgets her wild oats, at least if she’s

careful, or has a turn to the responsible.

He had been sweet, doting in fact. Took me

for lunch, ridiculously affectionate the entire date. I

didn’t find out about the girlfriend till after. Which

is just as well; presumably, she never found out

about me. It was never going to be serious; he was

an exploration, an experiment. I know I realized

with him that I thoroughly detested sex with the

lights on, but I simply adore it bundled up in covers

when there’s soft natural light at twilight or dawn,

maybe candles.

Either way there’s an oddness to knowing

you’re confined in a small space with someone

you’ve had sex with, not acknowledging each other.

Ships passing and all that…

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NO DOUBT

Past the edge of wondering if it’s wrong.

Will you still be interested

…when you find out where I live?

…where I’m from?

…who I’m from?

…what I do?

…what I want to do?

…what I want?

…what I need?

…what I think about your needs?

…when I say you’re not one of mine?

…when I want a dog?

Past the edge of wondering…

…when I want commitment?

…when I want chicken and grouper at the

reception?

…when the play sells and is a hit and

we’re going to be ok?

Ami Fazchas

39

…when I want to make you the father of

my children?

…who we should name them after?

…when I want to raise them secular

humanist?

…when the girl wants to do scouting and

the boy wants to be a dancer?

…when I’m laid off and you have to bear

the brunt?

Past the edge…

…when they’re off to college, the house is

empty, and it’s just us again?

…when you walk our daughter down an

aisle of her own?

…when you tell him how to make it work?

…when the first grand-child is born

…when I want to be cremated because I

think being scattered different places is

Exotic Quixotic

40

romantic, but only partially because I also

feel something of death must be final?

Past.

Ami Fazchas

41

DON’T SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD

A: Don’t speak ill of the dead

B: Especially if they’re not dead

A: Now you little fuckers are going to come

out

B: Bastards

A: Cooling off

B: Seriously, seven of you?

A: Holy.

B: Don’t speak ill of the dead

A: Especially if they aren’t dead.

B: Anoles and geckos

A: Anoles and geckos

B: Non-native species

A: Don’t speak ill of the dead

B: Transient

A: Transplant

B: Pansexual

A: Tourist

Exotic Quixotic

42

B: Especially if they aren’t dead

A: Tall + tan

B: Sundial effect

A: Ancient Greeks and their columns

B: Don’t speak ill of the dead

A: Lost weight

B: Rabbit’s food and dressing

A: Dressed

B: For a good bye

A: Especially if they’re not dead

B: Palm trees

A: Timidness

B: Stagefright

A: Relationships

B: Don’t speak ill of the dead

A: Especially if they’re not dead

B: C130s

A: Fight or Flight patterns

B: Nock

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A: Draw

B: Anchor

A: Aim

B: Release

A: Don’t speak ill of the dead

B: Especially…

A: Recoil

B: Eight glasses a day

A: Mobility

B: Quality of life

A: Good penmanship

B: Don’t speak ill

A: Especially of the

B: Professors

A: Snake oil salesmen

B: Women and children

A: White people

B: Especially if they’re not dead

A: Skin power

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B: They don’t like lettuce

A: Bastards

B: The ants do

A: Just the dressing

B: Hood ornaments

A: Tormentors

B: Fly systems

A: Fight systems

B: Lawn chairs

A: Mountains

B: Don’t speak

A: Especially if

B: Front doors slam

A: Clouds, windows, and wasps

B: Want in

A: Carpenters

B: Geometry masters

A: Hedged bets

B: I bet he forgets

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A: Pages to go

B: Footsteps unmeasured

A: Books half read

B: Unsung songs

A: Don’t speak ill of the dead

B: Especially if they’re not dead

A: Water-proof make-up

B: Sweat or tears?

A: Argentina

B: Hadrian’s Villa

A: Do you have your passport?

B: Ma’am, do you?

A: Have faith in the one true God?

B: Mold. Black mold.

A: Mother in Law to-be

B: 2 Eggs and Cakes

A: Babies

B: Settling up debts

A: Reclining

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B: Truffles

A: Pigshit

B: Cities. Ever bigger Cities.

A: Don’t

B: Ill

A: Speak

B: Of

A: Not

B: Especially

A: Dead

B: Echo

A: Bats

B: Family ties

A: GQ

B: Paris…Milan…Oregon …whatever

A: Threadbare

B: Flip-flop sandals

A: Nicer than home

B: Boys of Summer

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A: Sweetest days

B: Honeyed sunsets

A: Bright sweet days

B: Over analyzation

A: Call me a cab would you darling?

B: Blue Blue water

A: Something we were supposed to discover

millennia ago.

B: Another noose to escape

A: Don’t speak ill of the dead

B: Especially if they are not dead.

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TURKEYPARTS (TWO WEEKS)

Two weeks is just about the perfect amount of

time. People take two weeks of vacation, give two

weeks’ notice…that half month space of time is just

about the best. It’s enough time for someone not to

be rushed, but also enough for someone to make

plans.

Two weeks felt so perfect when I was in the

sand and sun and sunscreen. I still had time to call

up friends and ask to see and be seen. It apparently

was too much time for the job I had put in for. I

mean seriously, HR paperwork and background

checks would take two weeks, but it wasn’t good

enough for some lady in charge of hiring for some

on campus shlub. It felt a little ridiculous; I wrote

her back telling her, tactly, just that. Wwhen it was

only one week a near panic set in.

At two weeks you still can pull out hamburger

for pasta sauce later that night because it’s not quite

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time to swear off carbs just yet, forgoing, yet again

those particularly useless turkey parts that came with

the family package from the butchers. They’ve been

taking up space for nearly a month. No one’s quite

sure what to do or make of them. They just sit

frozen.

A fortnight is just enough time to find yourself

lonely with all the craziness of the immediacy of

social media. Calling someone every two weeks

used to mean you were interested, a close friend.

Now, texting someone every two days is requisite just

to be considered an acquaintance. Not hearing from

someone for two weeks puts you so out of the loop

an entire social presence can be destroyed. It’s

enough to become a frozen turkey part.

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ROBIN WILLIAMS DIED YESTERDAY

...

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PREFACE - PART TWO

The mood has changed in an instant. A 63

year old man hung himself yesterday and it changed.

Still put on tea in the morning. Out of Thompson’s

Irish, black coconut chai will have to do.

Sugar…damn, no agave. The tea and breakfast are a

nice distraction. I feel like I’m writing these eulogies

for the Faraway Unmet Teachers more and more

often.

I’m not saying the second half of this little romp

is going to get dark and morose here on out, but yes

indeed the mood has changed.

I had wanted to work with the man. Play off of

him as an actor, paint with him as a director. It is an

odd mourning, certainly a selfish one. I no long get

to laugh or cry or both because of him, there is no

chance now that our artistic paths can cross.

I am saddened primarily because of the loss of

potential. Secondarily, I mourn this gap, this hole

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now left in the American arts fabric. He was so

varied, his range so expanse that even now I think of

yet another title he led that felt so distant and distinct

from the others and feel the brunt of another sling.

Hook

…But then Patch Adams

…But then Good Morning Vietnam

…But then Dead Poets Society

…But then Jumanji

…But then Mork and Mindy

…But then Jack

…But then Flubber

…But then Fisher King

…But then Nine Months

…But then Bengal Tiger at the Bagdad Zoo

…But then One Hour Photo

…But then Fern Gully

…But then Live On Broadway

…But then Bicentennial Man

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…But then Aladdin

…But then Good Will Hunting

…But then Mrs. Doubtfire

…But then Happy Feets

…But then Awakenings

…But then both Night at the Museums

…But then Birdcage

…But then The World According to Garp

…But then Too Wong Foo

…But then Death to Smoochy

…But then Insomnia

…But then August Rush

…But then The Butler

…

Even now I wonder: did he ever work with Bill

Murray? I bet they would have played off each

other so well.

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In any event, this does seem to be the day the

music died, for our generation.

James Lipton famously concludes every session

of Inside the Actor’s Studio with the final question

of the Pivot Questionnaire. When I got home from

the café last night, I rushed to my copy of Inside

Inside to double check Robin’s answer as if it was

some way-marker, some last gem of advice:

“If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear

God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?”

“The concert begins at five. It’ll be Mozart,

Elvis. Or – just to know that there’s laughter. Just to

hear God say, “Two Jews walk into a bar…”

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TWITTERPATED

25 JUL – It was not till I could see, that I did

not want to close my eyes. #NewGlasses

4 MAY – No. No more writing. I refuse! Ok,

I acquiesce. Whoa. I spelled acquiesce right on the

first try… #finalsweek #papers #fml

13 APR - #ThoughtForTheDay : In respect to

#love, the unexpected – the unlikely is always more

interesting and more genuine.

6 APR - #liveBelowTheLine week? Bih…this is

a #liveBelowTheLine year.

3 MAR – What am I wearing? The t-shirt is

@adidas and the jeans are @lanebryant #redcarpet

#Oscars2014

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2 MAR – I changed my text tone to the

#MightyMorphin #PowerRangers communicator

beep. *Laughing my ass off everytime I get a

message.* #ClassicMMPR

14 FEB – DAMMIT ELSA! YOU CAN

STOP LETTING IT GO NOW! WE GET IT!

#ThunderSnow #WTF #NYC

14 DEC – I can make you believe we’ve been

in a relationship for years in a matter of minutes if

you let me…it’s kind of what I do. #PartOfTheGig

13 DEC – “You think we just got #SoloCups to

waste?! Put your name on it and wash that shit out.”

#finalsweek #OverheardGSLounge

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12 DEC - #QOTD : “That sentence was

already red before you got on top of me!”

#finalsweek

30 NOV – Not sure if #FDNY ambulance or

@Skrillex concert…

30 NOV – I always give and honorary “dat ass”

under my breath to the #NYPD…It’s only common

courtesy… ;)