dreadcrumbs

“Visiting Dad”

When I open the door to Dad’s apartment, I am hit with a wave of rank hot air. The air is moist, and I can smell an odd undercurrent of sweat and grass. Maybe urine. If there was such a thing as a sauna for horses, it would smell like this.

My father is standing in front of the sliding glass door that leads to his four foot concrete balcony. He has his back to me, and is naked except for what looks like some large belted underpants from the 1940s.

“Cool pants.” I say.

“It’s a modified pillowcase,” he says, not turning around. “I should probably be naked, but I put this on for your benefit.”

“Thank you for that.”

The pillowcase he is wearing has what looks like a wet spot blossoming out from the base of his spine, where he has it fastened to him with a black dress belt. I’ve just about convinced myself that it is sweat when he speaks.

“What’s the worst part of being a cannibal, Greg?”

“I don’t know, what?” I say, wandering over to the refrigerator. I need something cool to drink. It’s just too hot in here.

He rests his hand on the glass, and suddenly seems very tired. Exhausted maybe, or hungry. “It wasn’t a joke,” he says. “I honestly want your opinion.”

Opening the fridge, I find it empty, except for a few open packs of string cheese. “Um...fridge space?”

He leans his head on the glass of the window, and it makes a brief rubbery squeak. “Seriously, though,” he says. “What makes it a bad thing?”

I leave the refrigerator door open and sit down in front of it. I can’t imagine Dad will mind, at least not right now.

“I don’t know, gag reflex?” I say. “Things that make us gag when placed in our mouth tend to be...um...culturally inappropriate. Feces, vomit, body parts...”

He interrupts me. “I think it’s the murder,” he says. He hasn’t turned around, but I know he twitched his head, because I heard it slip on the glass. “When you think of that soccer team stranded in the Alps...”

“Andes.”

He turns around, resting his back on the window. “When you think of them,” he says, “you have more empathy for those that ate the already-dead casualties than for the ones that hunted down survivors and killed them for their meat.”

“I’m not sure it happened that way,” I say.

He slides to the floor, the sweat of his back leaving a long greasy smear on the glass door.

“But killing people for their meat and then eating them is worse, morally, than just eating human meat,” he says.

“I guess. Sure,” I say. “Two bad things is worse than one bad thing.”

My father tilts his head and stares sidelong out the window for a few seconds. He hasn’t really looked at me this whole time, just staring into the distance, idly bored, like he’s waiting for something.

“I’m not a cannibal, you know,” he says.

“I never thought so,” I say, and my stomach growls, which seems odd, considering what he just said.

“But I think about it sometimes,” he says, and it sounds strangely mournful, like he’s remembering a cherished relative who died years ago.

“Ah.”

He sighs loudly, closes his eyes and drops his head. “I wish there was a way to try the meat, you know?” he mutters. “Just try it, but not have to kill anybody, or eat meat that’s been lying around for days. Or weeks. That’s just gross.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes it is.”

His eyes open, and he finally looks at me. Not right at me, but at a spot just above my right shoulder. “I have a plan, though,” he says.

“Does this have to do with the pillowcase?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. Sort of. The pillowcase has more to do with you. The being naked part is, though.”

“And the heat?” I ask.

He seems to notice for the first time that I’m sitting in front of an open refrigerator and shivers. “That’s mostly to keep me warm while I’m naked, but I’m also hoping to create a comfortable environment for them.”

“Them?” I ask, looking around. I’m worried he might be keeping some kind of animal in here.


“The dragons,” he says.

“Of course,” I say, sighing. I shouldn’t be as disheartened as I am, since there is a possibility he might talking about komodo dragons, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t. Then I wonder how I got to the place where the prospect of my father keeping komodo dragons in his one bedroom apartment is a reassuring thought.

“I am going to lure a dragon to me, you see, and then I will live in its mouth,” he says. If he wasn’t so tired, it might have actually sounded triumphant.

“It seems a little dangerous,” I say. “With the sharp teeth and fire all around, I mean.”

He seems not to notice I said anything. “I will lie upon a cushion of soft flesh while the beast provides me my daily meat,” he says. “I don’t have to hurt anyone. I won’t need to work, I won’t need to go shopping, I won’t even need to go to the restroom. I can just be, and all my needs will be provided for.”

“So how long have you been waiting? You know, for a dragon to show up?”

“Too long,” he says, tapping the glass on his sliding door. “I’m beginning to think they don’t exist.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. I’m pretty sure they’ve gone extinct.”

“That’s not good,” he says, troubled.

“I guess not,” I say. “It kind of ruins your plan.”

Dad ponders silently for a moment.

“No dragons?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say.

He turns to stare out the window again.

“I guess you can go ahead and put on some pants,” I say.

“A hippo, then,” he whispers.

“What?”

He turns, looking right at that spot above my shoulder. “I will lure a hippopotamus to me,” he says. “And then I will live in its mouth.”

“A hippo?” I ask.

“Hm.”

I watch him for a moment. His eyes are active, darting around from what looks like one corner of his ceiling to another. I’m pretty sure hippos don’t eat people, but I’m no expert. Maybe they do. I don’t want to shatter Dad’s dreams twice today in any case, so I don’t bring it up.

“All right then, Pop,” I say, standing. “I’m heading out.”

“All right,” he says. “Shut the fridge on the way out, will you?”

I stand, closing the refrigerator door with a wet thunk. “Happy Father’s Day,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, clearly thinking about something else. “You too.”

"First Impressions"

I approach the door with as much zeal as I can muster. Joey is supposed to be here, but I don’t see him.

“Are you wearing...cargo pants?” I hear whispered behind me.

Whirling around I see Joey, crouched in the shadows. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he hisses, rising slowly to his full five feet six inches. He’s dressed almost entirely in black leather. Or maybe purple. It’s too dark to tell for sure, but I’m pretty sure he’d do black.

“What do you mean?” I ask, looking down at my pants.

“Shock and awe, man. Shock and awe,” he says, shuffling into the moonlight.

“What?” I say, perplexed both by his words and the now-visible red smear on his mouth. It looks like he put on heavy lipstick and then ravenously ate a tomato.

“First impressions, chief. We’re here to impress. To stun. To frighten a little.”

We stare at each other for a second or two. I’m not sure if we’re having a fight or not.

“So what did you do to your face?” I ask. I try not to sound judgmental.

“I made love to a tyranny of razor blades,” he says, too quickly. 

“Yeah,” I say. “No, really.”

“Lipstick and tomato,” he says.

“My lipstick?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You never use it,” he says.

“That’s not the point,” I say.

“Whatever,” he says. “We were talking about your cargo pants.”

“We were?”

“They send the wrong impression,” he says.

“That I’m practical? Interested in utility and comfort, maybe?”

“Yes! You’re totally missing the point. We need him on the defensive.”

“You want me to take them off, maybe?”

“Yes!...No!...um...maybe you could rip them a little.”

“I like these pants. I’m not ripping them.”

He glowers at me, and I take the opportunity to look at my watch.

“We’re already late,” I say.

“I guess that’s something,” Joey mutters.

I open the front door to the school and hold it for him as he clomps up the stairs.

“What’s your teacher’s name?” I ask.

“Mr. Berger,” he says. 

“His first name Ham?” I ask.

“Not funny, Mom,” he says. “Let’s just get this over with.”

"Minor Emancipation"

Johnny wakes up on Monday morning at 6:30, just like he’s done ever since he started third grade.  He gets dressed, makes his own breakfast (Froot Loops), packs his school bag, and crouches down to kiss his mother’s head before he leaves. Not on the lips, and not just because they’ve started to peel away from her teeth. It’s because he’s a big boy, and he knows he’s a big boy, and big boys don’t kiss on the lips.

"Changeling"

The boy who took my place in the family visits sometimes. He leaves little pieces of cooked meat on my shoulder when I sleep, just close enough for me to reach with my teeth. He tells me what everyone is doing, about my old friends, and the funny things my baby sister does. He says mom and dad are happier now than they've ever been and that they love him a lot. When I cry, he pats my head and asks if I want more meat. He tells me he has lots of spare meat.

Stories by Max

So my four year old son Max wrote me a story for my birthday way back in October, and has been waiting patiently for me to post it on my long-languishing blog to share with the world at large.

Alas, his patience came to an end, and decided to do an end-run around his papa, and start his own blog.

So I'll link to the story here: The Eyeball

I'm so proud of my boy...

Lunchtime Interlude

So I’m sitting in the large conference room at work (the same one which still has the human waste cleanup norms I posted years ago) during lunchtime. I chose to take my lunch here because of the reactionary climate control that seems to take place in the office every time the outdoor temperature drops below sixty-five degrees. It’s a sauna in cubeville, and while the individuals who spent the summer shivering in puffy coats and hooded cloaks are finally able to relax, those of us with recessive walrus genes are now irritated and sweaty. The large conference room is currently the last bastion of sub-eighty degree temperatures, as long as no one else is in it. And no one is. The table in the center of the conference room sits about ten, fourteen if you have no respect for personal space. I tend to sit at the head (or foot, depending on which way you roll) of the table in this room, even when I’m not alone, so that’s where I am. I should say that that isn’t because I’m usually in charge, or the boss or anything, because I’m not, gracias a Dios. But I *am* physically larger than everyone here, and it’s probably important for people to remember that *really*, if it came down to it, post-apocalypse, we all know who the warlord would be.

Anyway, I eat the bag of chunk-light tuna that is my lunch (or my *first* lunch, because clearly a bag of tuna isn’t enough for a creature of my stature) and sit down to write a blog post. I was shamed at a recent signing for Rapunzel’s Revenge by some of my wife’s fans, who took me to task for not posting more. So I figured I should do *something,* since eating my three ounces of tuna wasn’t going to take the whole lunch hour. I had intended to poach a story that my four year old son wrote me for my birthday, and I probably still will, at least before he turns five, but I wanted to share a bit of dialogue that just happened.

I’m sitting, as I’ve said, at the head of the table, which has me facing the door to the conference room, when Gary (not his real name, of course, because who would really be named Gary?) speedwalks into the room and, upon seeing me, abruptly stops. I don’t know Gary very well - he’s in a part of my department that I don’t usually work with much, and because I’ve stopped going to the morning “stand-up” meetings, I only ever see him in the hallways (which I frequent) and company parties (which I don’t).

I don’t look up from the computer immediately, expecting him to just leave, but he doesn’t. He stands in the door and doesn’t say anything. Really, it was probably only about five seconds that he stood there silently, but it felt like a long time. Eventually I look up.

“Hey,” I say.

“Oh,” he says.

There is a pause where I expect him to tell me what he wants. He has an unposted meeting in this room in five minutes, he wants to do some deep knee bends in privacy, something. Nothing.

“You want some tuna?” I ask, hoping he says no, because there isn’t any left.

He stares.

“Is there a meeting in here?” he finally asks.

“Not until two, as far as I know,” I say.

“Oh,” he says again, still standing there.

Nothing for a minute. I look back at my computer and poke some keys, like I’m actually doing something, but he doesn’t leave.

“I am accepting petitioners until then, however,” I finally say.

“What?” he asks.

“If you have any grievances you’d like redressed, I’m willing to hear them,” I say.

“Um...no,” he says, looking around the room. I think he’s trying to avoid my eyes.

Then he walks out.

It’s a tricky business, nurturing that aura of unapproachability. If you’re cruel or are generally difficult to get along with, you foster hatred, which can actually be a lot more of a hassle than people liking you and wanting to be around you all the time. But having little conversations like the one I just had with our Gary here go a long way toward getting people to leave you alone.

Also, only posting blogs every two months or so tends to keep people away.

The Horrifying Secret March of Human Corruption (and Poo)

The tiny communist on my shoulder has been at me for quite some time to do a post. Okay, to be honest, I don’t know he’s a communist for sure, but he has a hammer and a goatee, so what am I supposed to think?

Anyway, I’ve mostly been listening to the fat guy with the PS3 controller on the other shoulder, but he’s fallen asleep for the moment, so I thought I’d write something just to shut little Lenin up.   

Also, because my topic today has to do with bathrooms, and I’m about one post away from having to rename this blog “Astounding Tales of Toilet Terror,” I was biding my time to see if something less fecal came up, but alas, not the case.

So. Any of you poor souls who have read this blog for any length of time know that I have long considered public restrooms a haven for The Mad. It’s as if the communal waste disposal depot is such an incomprehensible horror that people who enter into it are instantly driven insane, embarking on behavior that would otherwise get them exiled from human civilization. And I’m talking about the men’s bathroom here, folks, though I imagine the repositories of the fairer sex have their own brand of madness and woe. I’ll let my wife do a post about that.
In any case, a review of my top complaints:

1. Urinating anywhere but in the proper receptacle. I have seen way too much splash during my nearly 30 years in civil society. WAY too much. If your quizzical biology somehow renders a single directed stream impossible, sit on the toilet. Do not stand and hope for the best. Sitting to pee does not make you a girl, unless it is one of the 17 toilets situated directly on a ley line.
2. Failing to clean up after yourself. If you leave hair, feces, strange ashy particulate matter (I’ve seen this several times and have no idea what it is), or visible bum-grease on the toilet seat, wipe it off before leaving. I know you can’t remove the bacteria and viruses you’ve undoubtedly also left behind, but please, make an effort.
3. Spitting. Don’t do it. Just...don’t. Yes, I’d prefer you do it in the bathroom to doing it in the hallway, but please. Spitting in the urinal is retarded. Really, it’s proto-human behavior. And the sink? Come on now, we wash our hands there. If you’ve got that much of an excess of snot and phlegm, see a healthcare professional. Or blow your nose. Using tissue paper.
4. Chatting. While sitting on the toilet to pee won’t necessarily turn you into a girl, catching up with your buddies on the sports scores at the urinal most definitely will. Going to the bathroom is not meant to be a social activity any more than sleeping or vomiting is. If the public bathroom is the only place you are able to comfortably connect with humanity, you need to see a therapist. Now.

And, of course, washing your hands. Even if you did sit to pee, and are quite sure nothing moist got on your hands, and are in a devil of a hurry, you *were* in the Realm of the Unclean, so just wash those suckers. It doesn’t take long. If you have a skin condition that causes you to break out in boils when water touches you, wear disposable gloves. And dispose of them. I can’t count how many times I see people walking around the office with dirty disposable gloves on.

*--tangent - I’m eating mixed nuts while I write this, and I just ate what I think was a peanut that looked like a tiny bison skull. It was delicious.--*

Okay, so I bring all this up because I’m in the bathroom the other day, wrapping things up in the stall, when I hear someone stomp in to the bathroom and sidle up to a urinal. There is an overloud sigh, a nasty hacking noise, and some spit. Then someone else comes in.

“Randy!” shouts the man we will soon discover is named
“Dave! We must be on the same watering schedule, brah!” Randy shouts.
“I downed like two gallons of Dew during the call this morning, and now I’m paying for it,” Dave says.
“I know what you mean,” says Randy. It sounds like he’s nodding or shaking his head or something. “I’ve got a keg of agua, a keg! under my desk. Feels like I’m here every half hour!”
*more spitting*
*watery noises I try to ignore*
“You sell that boat?” asks Dave.
“Last week,” says Randy, still sort of shaking or something. “And I made a mint!”
*water noise changes pitch*
“Woah, shoulda worn my waders!” shouts Dave.
*Someone else comes comes in*
“Hey!” says the unnamed someone, who I will call Chester. “Standing room only, huh guys?”
*Chester enters the stall next to mine, leaves the door open *
“You guys on the call this morning?” Chester shouts, way too loud. Something wet speckles the floor near the divider at my feet.
“I was,” says Dave, and a urinal flushes. He does not walk to the sink area, but instead hovers somewhere outside Chester’s stall.
“What did you think about that whole Roger thing?” Chester asks. The speckles under the divider are forming a small pool.
“Eh, not my problem,” says Dave.
Randy’s urinal flushes just as Chester flushes the toilet loudly, possibly using his foot.
“Cha-ching!” shouts Randy. “Owe me a coke!”
“Riiiight,” Chester says. “You owe me A WHISKEY!”
*Uproarious laughter*
At this point, they all tromp off together, giggling, one of them muttering “gotta pay to play, man, gotta pay to play.” Right out the door. Which is to say, no washing of any kind.

So, clearly, I’m traumatized. For therapy, I made a flyer, and hung it up in the workplace bathroom. Here it is:

Vengeance Rampant

I thought I'd take a break from self-imposed blog exile to sound the horn about the imminent release of My First Book. "Book," if you can find it in your heart/brain/gizzard to call something that uses pictures as well as words to tell a story. I do, but my traditional definition of "book" as anything bound has proved awkward on my inspection visits to jungle prisons.

And "First," if you don't count that YA romance anthology that I somehow ended up in. And, of course, the "My" only makes sense if you overlook the fact that I only *CO* wrote the words, and someone else entirely did the pictures.

So...if there's anyone out there who comes to this blog who doesn't first stop by my wife's site (and who wouldn't? she updates that thing with new content like every two hours), the book is called "Rapunzel's Revenge," and you should go out and buy it now. Or pre-order it, anyway. They moved up the publication date to this Monday or something. Soon. I'm not sure why. I think the publisher got nervous about that big London Times piece about how the book's text is one giant anagram of a Middle English translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

It's totally not, though. That's just ridiculous. I don't know why journalists make up stuff like that.

Still, you should get the book and find out for yourself. Don't take my word for it.

And if you want more info, Shannon has a cornucopia of it here.

Summer Re-Run

Because I’m apparently on vacation from the blog for the summer, I thought I would at least do what tv shows do when they run out of material. A flashback! Just film two new minutes of characters saying “Gee, you remember when...”

So, back in the early days of the blog (and my current job), I noticed our meeting rooms had little sheets of paper mounted on the walls with the rules of the room, so I went ahead and made rules of my own, and posted them in the place of the official ones. So click on the link for the re-run.

The two new minutes of material?

< This blurry cameraphone photo.

Here we are, lo these many years later, and my rules are still there. Being obeyed, too, as far as I can tell.

On Finding Forgotten Things

I’m finding there isn’t anything more difficult to wake up from than sleep. Of all kinds, really. Unconsciousness, Stupor, Apathy. They are all friends of mine, and while I’ve never been a smoker, I will make the uninformed declaration that they are  just as difficult to quit. As a human being, and more specifically an American one, I feel it is my cultural duty to make at least one uninformed declaration each week. So there it is.

To make up for my lack of posts lately, I thought I would put up a couple of pictures. Because, you know, they count for like a thousand words each.

This is a little 8 page home-made notebook, apparently being held by a zombie.

I made it from two pieces of printer paper folded twice and one well-placed staple. If you can’t make it out from the second photo, the columns I wrote in are “Date/Time,” “Color,” and “Consistency.”

I wrote in some bogus data from sequential days with a variety of pens and pencils, held a sweaty chocolate bar and then handled the booklet to make it seem well used, and then left it in the bathroom stall, hooked inside the seat-protector dispenser. I did that yesterday, and it is still there today. I think the cleaning lady has been in there at least twice, but didn’t throw it away. I would suspect people might not want to touch it, but I know at least one person did, because it has moved location subtly. I’m thinking of making new entries until it disappears.

Maybe if it’s still there on Monday, I’ll put an “If found please return to Dean Hale” message on the front. Then when it is delivered to me I’ll be gushingly gracious and insist on giving the person who returned it a two dollar and fifty cent reward.