Drink Life to the Lees

No Vice, No Virtue

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 01:52:00 +0000

I didn’t have to slide the envelope across the desk like some sort of sleazy movie villain. Liz simply strode across the room, planted a soft kiss on my cheek, and glided her hand over the envelope as she walked back towards the door, picking it up in a movement so fluid that I wasn’t sure it had happened at all. I’m not one to get easily distracted by a kiss from a woman, but I ought to give Liz her due; she was a professional, after all.

Before she left she turned back to me. “Suppose he’s not interested?” she asked coyly.

I smiled. “Not likely.”

Liz smiled back. “No, it’s not. But some guys … some guys are funny. Suppose he’s not interested?”

“If our boy Harold is able to withstand the full force of your … ample … persuasions, then both you and he are free to part.” Her piercing gaze lingered. “And of course,” I continued, “you will keep the money.” Liz nodded and turned to leave again.

“And Liz,” I called, “do me a favor, would you?”

Her eyebrows raised provocatively in an expression I knew she must have practiced in the mirror. “No,” I said, “not that. Not right now, anyway. What I want is this: if Harold does resist, and you have to leave, remind him- before you go- that he’s going to wish he had said yes. That after you deny all the pleasures the world has to offer you’re left with an ugly place indeed.”

She chuckled and said, “That’s a little deep for someone like me to be saying, don’t you think?”

“You may fool most people with that ‘simple working girl’ act, but I know you better, Liz. You’ll do just fine.”

The door closed behind her and I didn’t bother to think about the right and wrong of what I had just done, or whether Harold would take the bait, or even Liz, whose perfume still lingered around me. All of those things were already done and gone. I turned back to my work, or what I called my work when people were watching. I made phone calls, replied to some emails, and at five o’clock I locked up my office and met Harold Dunmoore for a drink.

Correction: I was having a drink, Harold would have a Sprite. As Harold hung his jacket the back of the barchair he slid a small envelope into the pocket of my own. Another well-practiced move. He ordered his Sprite.

“Jesus, Harry,” I said, “you could at least order a beer. I’d be happy to pay for it. Be worth any amount to see your smiling face.”

Harold shook his head without smiling. Harold never drank. Harold never smiled. “I don’t want a beer. I want what I ordered. And please don’t call me ‘Harry’.” And Harold never liked anyone calling him “Harry”.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll back off. For now.” Sometimes it was fun to toy with Harold, but I was doing enough of that behind the scenes; no need to rub his face in anything tonight. “You were half an hour late tonight, Harold. Not like you. Long day?”

Harold took a sip of his soda. “There was an error in one of the reports filed today. It took a while to track down.” By his tone I knew that he had been the one to finally solve whatever problem there had been, and he was proud.

“Well, no one better than you to track down an inconsistency.” He shot me a look, his eyes narrower and his face paler than usual. We were both silent as the bartender took my class away and put another Manhattan in its place. “Fine,” I said, “you don’t want to talk about what you do. Fine. Good idea.”

“You’re drunk,” Harold said condescendingly.

I couldn’t hold in the laughter. “Damn it, Harold, you’re a piece of work. You really are. Drunk from one drink. If you’d ever had a sip of liquor in your life you’d know how alcohol works, godammit. You’d know that I wasn’t drunk, and that I’m just telling you to keep a clear eye on things. You wish I was drunk so you could write me off, but it’s just not true, Harold. It’s just not true. Face it.”

His voice was a whisper and his eyes darted from me to other random points in the room as he spoke. “I am a Senior Account Manager at that firm and that is my only job. Everything else, that stuff on the side … that’s mainly you. That’s your thing. The money-”

“We don’t talk about that. That word doesn’t pass between us. Ever.” Now it was my turn to lower my voice and be serious. “I’m sorry I made the comment in the first place, Harold.” I softened my tone a bit. “But I worry about you sometimes. Nothing makes you tick. Makes me think you’re out of touch.”

Harold got up and put his long coat on with a flourish. “I’m in touch.”

The next morning came with rain and very little sun. I took a cab to work and wondered how Harold had fared the night before. Liz could be very persuasive. Harold could be a total prick when he wanted to be, too. I watched the rain on the window and thought.

There were a lot of reasons I had set up that little rendezvous. From a business perspective, I didn’t mind having something on Harold. For a normal person it might not be that big a deal- even if a guy were married. But for Harold, a night with a whore would be the end of the world. It would hold him in place more than the threat of being fired or going to jail ever would. There was an obvious benefit to Harold, too, which I didn’t mind. A little fun would do him some good, once he realized it didn’t kill him. Most of all, though, it was the fact that I didn’t understand Harold. I made my business out of knowing people, in a way. I could talk to a person for a few minutes and see what drove them, what held them back, and what hurt them. It made me good at what I do, and I trusted it. But Harold … I just didn’t get Harold.

The sky was darker now and the rain picked up.

I’d seen holy-rollers and born-agains reject all things pleasurable in the name of Jesus or God or whatever. I’d even seen drug-addicts kick the junk for their wives or their kids. It does happen. But Harold didn’t have any of those things. He didn’t care about God or heaven or anything like that, and he never came close to having a wife, as far as I knew. Something else made him the way he was, and I just didn’t get it. No vices, no virtues. Just Harold.

But one night with Liz was all it would take for me to understand him. We’d meet at the bar downstairs tonight and he’d have a stupid grin on his face, or he’d avoid making eye contact. Worst case would probably be if he was really mad about the whole thing, but he’d let something slip and I’d know a little more than I did before.

I wasn’t in my office long before Mark Schroeder’s long frame came in through door. He looked tired and upset. “Morning, Mark,” I said.

He didn’t greet me or even pause. “Were you with her last night?”

“With who?” My mind was already working, but I didn’t let it show.

“With Elizabeth What’s-her-name. Where you with her last night?”

“You mean Liz?” Mark nodded. “No, I wasn’t. Jesus, Mark, what’s this about?”

“She’s dead, James. They found her this morning behind the Regent-Claire Hotel. I need to know that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“She-” I started. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“James, as your attorney I’m going to need-”

“As my attorney you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, whatever pays you enough to hold onto wife number three. You think she’ll be around long if you can’t afford her little necessities?” I snapped. It was overkill but I needed to control something.

Mark shut up and took a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. I’m just trying to do my job. They found an envelope full of money on her, so it wasn’t a mugging or anything. I just need to know whether that money will come back to you at all. You and Elizabeth-”

“Yeah, me and Liz,” I said quietly. “That money won’t come back to me.” I thought for a moment, and Mark had the good sense to stay quiet. “I was at the Harvester’s Club last night. Played poker. A lot of people saw me. We’re clear.”

Mark nodded. “Good.”

He was halfway down the hall before I shouted after him. He came back and stood in the doorway. “How did she die?” I asked.

“Stabbed. Three times. That’s all I know.” He left. I picked up the phone and dialed. No answer. Harold wasn’t at work.

I got out of the cab in front of Harold’s apartment and told the driver to wait. I searched the list for his name and rang the bell. I had never been to Harold’s place before. He didn’t even know I knew where he lived. I made a business of knowing people, though, and at least I knew where he lived.

Harold didn’t answer, so I rang all of the bells. One of them buzzed me in and I went straight to Harold’s apartment. The door was partly opened and the only light came from the hallway; the inside of the place was dark. I walked in carefully and there was Harold, sitting on the floor in the entryway. He was wearing his shoes and his jacket. It looked like he had been about to leave but just stopped. Now he was just sitting, staring. He didn’t move when I opened the door a bit and stepped in.

“Harold?” he nodded. “Harold, what happened?”

“You sent her, didn’t you? I couldn’t quite figure it at first, but you probably sent her, didn’t you?” His voice was steady, but just above a whisper.

“Harold, I… what happened?”

“Why did you send her? Why? That filthy whore …”

Harold was gone. I nodded absently at him before I stepped into the hallway where he couldn’t hear me. I made a call to a guy I don’t like calling. I came back to Harold after I hung up. “Harold.” No response. “Harold, I’m going to go soon, and a friend of mine is going to come and pick you up, alright? He’ll take care of you.” Harold just sat staring at the wall; he wasn’t going anywhere.

Back in the cab I thought about the things I had done over the last couple of days. I had no illusions about being the good guy, but none of this felt right even for me. I felt responsible for what happened to Liz, and getting rid of Harold wouldn’t make it less true but it might help. And I wanted to get rid of Harold anyway. I make a business of knowing people. But Harold wasn’t person. No vices, no virtues.

Honesty

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 04:09:00 +0000

The most honest feeling in the world is hot sunlight burning away the night before and illuminating a hangover. At that moment, you are feeling nothing else; there are no thoughts lingering in the back of your mind, no distractions from the edge of your senses, and no predictions whatsoever for the future. At that moment you have no mind, no senses, and no future. You sit in that harsh sunlight for a moment, part of you hoping that it will burn you out of existence.

That’s what I was doing on the steps of Vanessa’s apartment building. Half of my face was molded into the cement step while the other half was letting the sun do its work. Neither was helping, so I pushed myself up and moved into the shade, which was a painful move and far too ambitious for my condition. A half-smoked cigarette sat by my left foot; I knew it was mine because I could still taste it in my mouth.

I went to breakfast.

The diner’s vinyl booth wasn’t much of an upgrade from the cement stoop, but I didn’t care. I scanned the table for an ashtray and remembered that I hadn’t seen an ashtray in a restaurant for years, not even in a shithole like this. Some forward-thinking law or other had gotten them all removed.

“If you call that progress,” I muttered to no one.

“What’s that?” A scrawny waitress, too old to be cute anymore but still just too young to be called old, had sidled up next to the booth.

“I was bemoaning the decline of civilized society in the name of progress.” She gave the blank stare I deserved and I continued, “And I was saying that I’d love two eggs over easy and some wheat toast, no butter.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, black as hell. And water.”

She went away and came back with my drinks. “Any chance this coffee’s any good?”

She snorted. “Always tastes like shit when I drink it. I drink it anyway.”

“Yeah,” I said, “me too. Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the ambience.” She didn’t bother with a stare this time, she just walked away.

It was true, though, about the ambience. Who wanted to be hungover in a nice restaurant? A diner was perfect: it was unadorned, ugly, and never changing. You could criss-cross the country and eat at the same place everywhere you went, as long as you found a diner. A diner was honest.

Honest. There was that word again. Why did I keep thinking things were honest? Did somebody lie to me? Did Vanessa lie to me? That wasn’t it; I wouldn’t care if Vanessa lied to me. I probably lied to her. Damn, that was it.

I went over to her place and woke her up at about three the night before. I was drunk and angry about having been kicked out of a bar, and I went over to her place… well, I didn’t remember why. Maybe it was for something sordid and deviant. Maybe her place was more comfortable. Maybe it was something else.

Right when I came in I should have turned right around. It was trap, and sitting in the booth drinking bad coffee I could see that clearly. She said I woke her up but she was dressed and the TV was on. She was waiting for me. Yep, I should have turned right around.

“You can’t just barge in whenever you want,” she said. She had straight dark brown hair that was flat against her head and shoulders. It barely moved even as she shook her head at me, stumbling in. “What the hell, David?” The long, pale features of her face were turned to me angrily.

“I know it’s late, darling, but this is the only place I want to be,” is what I wanted to say, and very probably what I should have said. What came out was, “I dunno… tough.” I sat down on the couch via the coffee table.

The anger had all but disappeared and was replaced with a kind of curiosity. She was trying to see through me, somehow. “What is it with you?”

Now, I don’t recall the entire diatribe word-for-word, but I know it was something like, “We’ve gone to dinner twice, I’ve been to your place a few times, you spent the night here most of last week. But you don’t call me- ever- and we don’t talk. You just sit across the table or the sofa or the bed and don’t say anything. It was mysterious at first, but now… I don’t get it! What is it you want?”

I know it went like that because it was true. We didn’t talk and I had never really tried. We chatted sometimes, of course, about the food or the movie or whatever was in the area, but it was nothing substantial. I didn’t know what I was doing with Vanessa. I just liked being there, and every molecule in my body was aligning itself, like iron filings under a magnet, against the idea of telling her that.

And that’s when l lied to her: “It was… I just… a booty call. All I wanted,” I mumbled. I don’t think I could pinpoint anger or shock or grief in her expression, but they were all there. The look was enough to get me out of the apartment. Apparently I had only made it as far as the steps.

* * *

I think this is the second post I've made that starts off with a hangover. I don't know why, but whenever I sit down to write something just by stream-of-consciousness a hangover always seems like such a great place to start. What do you think?

In the Cards

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Tue, 26 May 2009 03:53:00 +0000

Once upon a time, when much of the world was still new and there was still magic in it, there lived a young boy named Jack. Jack was the only child of two poor farm workers who spent all day in the fields and all night resting their tired bodies. His parents did not raise him as much as the townspeople did. Jack had learned how to read a little bit from the town’s only priest, how to hunt from his neighbors and uncles, how to mend a fence or a wall from carpenters and masons. But Jack’s true skill did not lie in any of these areas. Jack’s true skills were those he learned in the pub.

Jack was not yet old enough to drink in the pub as the older boys and men did; his mother told him that he had only seen twelve or thirteen summers, though she couldn’t be sure. But while the old men drank and caroused and played in the pub, Jack watched them play their games. He watched as piles of money moved across the table, first to one man, then to another, then to another. They dealt out cards and whether they won or lost was based on the cards in their hands. Jack had watched honest men working hard for days and weeks, and they never made as much money as these men could win in a single hand.

Jack did odd jobs around town until he could buy his own set of playing cards. They were his most prized possession. For hours and hours, late into the night, Jack would practice moving the cards around his hands. He learned how all of the cards felt and how the friction worked between them. His fingers were long and nimble, and it wasn’t long before he could place the cards wherever he wanted! With a few dexterous flicks and twists he could place the cards in any order he could imagine, and when they were dealt he knew exactly where each card lay.

To young to play himself, the boy merely used his talents to have a bit of fun with the men at the pub. He would offer to deal for them, and spend the entire night making one man rich, only to take it all away at the last minute. Some nights, everybody around the table inexplicably broke even. His favorite was to pit two of the drunkest players against one another, watching as they blundered and cussed at one another as the pile of money went back and forth, back and forth. What fun was had just by shifting a few cards about!

One hot summer night, Jack was dealing to the men around the table. John Mason was up nearly tenfold for the night, and Jack was certain he could winnow the fortune down to a single penny. But as he did so, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose as they do on a dog’s neck before a storm. His motions, as always, were lightning-quick and he was in no danger of being caught or discovered as a trickster. But still, there was something not right about the air, so he ended the game immediately- much to John Mason’s delight.

With the game ended its players got up and stumbled into the balmy night, all but one of whom looked forward to the harsh looks and stern lectures from disappointed wives. (John Mason’s wife would no doubt be subdued by the bulging coin purse). Jack sat alone at the table, shuffling and re-shuffling the deck without thinking about it and trying to figure out what had caused such an odd sensation. His hands moved automatically over and through the cards, and for a moment he became hypnotized by his own movements. When he looked up, a prune-faced old man wearing a dark cloak was sitting across from him.

“I was watching you, boy,” he croaked.

Jack’s heart raced, but he spoke calmly. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You oughtn’t toy with the players like you do,” he said, ignoring Jack’s question. “It’s not safe.”

Jack’s lip curled upward automatically, a confident grin beginning on his face. “I’m too fast for them to see what I do. They’ll never know.”

“It doesn’t matter whether they know, boy!” The old man’s voice was almost like the creaking of an old door when he raised it, a creak that got louder as the door swung open. Jack’s grin instantly disappeared.

The old man continued, but his voice was softer again, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dense student: “You see, the games these men play are all about chance. When fortune falls from one man to another, we accept it because that’s the way the world works. There’s nothing right or wrong about it, you see, it simply… is. Do you understand?”

Jack furrowed his brow while he thought, but shook his head. “Come with me,” the man said, standing. “I’ll show you.” Jack didn’t move from the table. He looked suspiciously at the old man. The old man only laughed. “You needn’t fear me, boy. I’m trying to help you, and I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to. If your feet are half as fast as your fingers, you can run right home if you feel you must. Come along now.”

Outside and behind the pub was a wagon with a roof on it, parked in the alleyway. “You’re a gypsy,” Jack said.

“Hmmph,” said the old man. “I’m a wanderer, boy, if that makes me a gypsy…” Jack followed the man into the wagon.

Inside Jack could see a bed on the far wall, and a table with two chairs in the middle. The walls were lined with shelves, but the candlelight didn’t shine on them very well. The shelves seemed only to contain different dark shapes and shadows. Jack and the old man sat across from one another at the table. With a movement so subtle and imperceptible that even Jack was impressed, the old man produced a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere.

“These, boy, are the cards that make our fate,” whispered the man. “Do not doubt me! I can see the look on your face, but is it really that hard to believe? Our destinies are no different than the cards dealt in a hand.” As he spoke he shuffled the cards over and over, and once again Jack was pulled into the sway and motion of it. “We may win, we may lose, but in the end we know that it is all random.

“When a mother’s child drowns in the river, do we say that either one deserved it?” The man dealt three cards slowly in front of Jack, face down. “When the rain and the sun are balanced perfectly and a farmer doubles his yield, do we say that he earned the sun and the rain? Of course not! We just know, boy, that these things are simply meted out. It is not your place to pluck idly at the strings of fate!”

With this, he flipped over all three cards in front of Jack with a flourish. The first was an owl, sitting on a branch under the crescent moon. The second was a mound of gold coins and jewels. The third was the most frightening, a bony hand bent around a sickle. Fear welled up in Jack and, embarrassed, he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his face. The old man only threw his head back and cackled loudly, his dry voice piercing the stillness of the still summer night.

While the man wasn’t looking, Jack swept his hands over the table and bolted from the wagon. He didn’t stop running until he was sure he no longer heard the ugly laughter echoing around him. When his finally stopped, however, the first thing he did was unclench his fist from around his new prize: back on the table, in that mysterious wagon, Jack had switched his own deck for the strange deck the man had laid out.

* * *

Jack spent the following weeks looking at and learning how to shift and manipulate this new deck. The old man’s wagon had disappeared the very next day, and with him all of the fear Jack had felt that night. Now he only wanted to know this new deck as well as he had known his old one.

The symbols were strange and usually impossible to decipher. Many of them showed animals doing the things that people usually do, like farming or living in a house. Others showed the sun or the moon, or both, or many suns and many moons. And always in the deck somewhere was the dark card, the reaper and his tool.

Jack stopped dealing to the men at the pub, but instead sat in the back and watched everyone around him. The men played cards, the barman served ale and his daughters served the food while their bottoms were pinched by the young men. Jack watched and watched, shuffling the cards over and over as he did, until his gaze froze on just one person. This night, for example, it was Samuel Goodwyn. He watched Sam playfully lift the dress of one of the barmaids, Elizabeth. As he watched Jack laid out three cards: a branch with a green bud, a cat and a dog standing upright and holding hands as people do, and a sun and a moon rising together.

As Jack laid the third card down, Elizabeth was caught up in the folds of her dress, which Sam had lifted, and she dropped the dishes she was carrying and fell backwards, right into Sam’s lap. The other men around Sam’s table laughed or jeered, but Elizabeth and Sam sat together for a moment, looking for one another. Sam muttered an apology and Elizabeth, whose face was flushed red, only smiled.

Now Jack looked over at John Mason, who already had a young woman on his lap who was feeding him bits of meat from his stew and wiping the juices from his beard. Jack shuffled again but, as usual, he knew exactly which cards he would deal out: a lightning bolt striking from a cloud to a tree, an all-seeing eye, and a teacup- this last card dealt upside down. Again, no sooner had the clean snap! of the card hit the table than Mrs. Mason stormed into the pub. John stood up quickly, practically throwing his young companion over the table. John began to talk and plead, but was walloped again and again by his wife and was driven outside into the street. The pub erupted in laughter, and several young men offered to help the young lady off the floor.

Jack laughed, too. This was much more fun than moving pennies across a table! He dealt again and again, watching the others dance like his own private puppet show. By the following week, however, silly games were becoming boring. And more, Jack wasn’t getting anything out of it except for cheap laughs. He knew the power he now controlled, and he was ready to use it for himself.

Jack sat on the dirt floor of his own meager dwelling while his parents slept not far away. Quietly he shuffled the cards, but this time he closed his eyes and thought only about himself. Even with his eyes closed Jack knew every card and where it was. He dealt the branch with the green bud, the pile of treasure, and the sun and the moon rising together. Laying the last card down, Jack heard whispers from outside the window.

“What did you say?” hissed one voice.

“In the field!” said the other. “We’ll bury it in the field!”

“And we won’t get in trouble?”

“Naw. A man as rich as Robert of Norwich won’t notice a missing purse or two! We’ll bury it in the field’s far corner until he leaves town, and then we’ll be set!”
Jack smiled, for he knew what he would find the next day. Sure enough, he found a clean mound of dirt in the far corner of the field near his home. Inside were two rather large sacks with gold plates, cutlery, and jewelry.

“I’m rich!” Jack cried aloud, though he could hardly believe it. The magic of the cards was more powerful than he thought. With this power, he thought, I can do anything! I can be an earl- or king!

He stowed his new-found wealth in his home and that night he went to the pub. His next acts would be in public, where the people of the village could watch Jack as he manipulated the strings of his own destiny in his favor. He sat at a table in the back, anxiously shuffling and re-shuffling the deck. Next, he thought, I will bring more gold. Perhaps an entire chest this time!

As confidently and adeptly as ever, Jack laid the cards on the table, but was shocked to see images he did not expect.

The first card showed a crow in flight with its wings spread across a full moon.
The second showed a great tear in the ground with a fiery red glow rising from beneath.

The third… the third was a card that Jack had not seen since that night in the gypsy’s wagon. The third was that bony, pale hand gripping the reaper’s tool.
Jack was holding his breath without realizing it. He jumped when the pub’s door flung open and slammed against the wall. Mrs. Mason entered slowly, leaning heavily against her aged father, her face buried in her hands.

“It’s terrible!” cried the old man to the crowd. “Terrible!” Everyone in the pub now gave their attention to the crying woman and her father. “My daughter’s husband is dead!” With this Mrs. Mason gave a great moan of grief and continued crying. Her father left her sitting at a table and walked around the pub, telling the sad story: John Mason had been building a new wall outside the town’s mill, near the river, when the earth gave a mighty shake and the rocks came tumbling down on the man. John and the boulders rolled into the river They sank together and never came up.

Mrs. Mason’s father was crying now, too. “What a cruel fate!” he cried.
Jack stared wild-eyed at the cards. He knew that they had done this, that the cards had brought John Mason his end. Jack picked up the cards and shuffled again. Surely they could undo this accident. He felt the cards as he always did and was sure he would lay out a lucky sequence.

He dealt and was surprised once more. It was the all-seeing eye, followed by the mound of treasure upside-down and the teacup, also upside down. Jack gathered the cards and rushed home. The door was already open and the house’s only room was illuminated by moonlight. Jack entered to see his parents’ bodies beaten and unconscious on the floor. He knelt down to them, but even before he reached out to them he knew that they were still alive; the cards had not shown death this time, only misfortune and poverty. He looked around to confirm what he already knew: the bag of loot was gone. The thieves had discovered that their treasure was missing and when they found it in Jack’s house, his parents were punished for it.

Jack looked at the deck in his hands and was suddenly terrified by it. He ran outside once more. He had to get rid of the cards, destroy them, anything to stop them from bringing about such awful things.

In the dark and stillness of the night Jack once again felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he felt again as if he was being watched though nobody was near him. And then, down the road, came the steady clip-clop of a horse. A wagon crested over the horizon, blocking the muted light of the moon. Jack recognized the wagon immediately and watched it approach, paralyzed.

When he was near the old man stopped the wagon and descended slowly. “Have you learned your lesson yet, boy?” he asked.

“I thought I could control it all,” Jack explained to the old man. “I thought I could make whatever I wanted happen.”

The old man shook his head. “You cannot play with that kind of control, boy. Fate holds all of us- including you. Including me.”

“A man died. John Mason died because of me.”

“Maybe. Maybe he died because he was meant to die. Either way, you have no business playing games with those cards.” The old man stuck out his hand and Jack carefully gave him the deck.

“What do I do now?” asked Jack.

The old man seemed to smile as he climbed back onto the wagon. “Now? Now… you do the best you can, and do it honestly. You never know what may be in the cards tomorrow.”

The wagon bumped and swayed into the night, and Jack never saw it or its occupant again. Nor did he forget the lesson he had been taught. He continued to learn trades and help out around the village. He respected the power of all the things he didn’t know, and did his best with the things he did know. And he did it honestly.

Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 03:40:00 +0000

Malcolm's world resolved in front of him from a thick haze. A weak winter sun cast itself onto his rumpled bedspread, which was not on the bed at all but on the floor, covering Malcolm. Malcolm stared up at the ceiling, allowing himself to wake up slowly as he pondered the world from this rarely observed angle. The ceiling seemed like a cathedral above him, miles away from where it usually was. A dusty fan looked down at him with its single eye surrounded by five blades. Malcolm tried idly to remember the previous night, but it was lost in a vague haze of alcohol, the stale taste of which still lingered in his mouth. Suffice it to say that at some point last night, sleeping on the floor seemed like the most wonderful and natural thing to do. In fact, it was strange that fewer people thought to do it. Or so it seemed at the time.

Malcolm rose and did a casual examination of his body, unsure of what else may have happened the night before. He wore boxers and, from what he could see, he was intact. He liked his body; tall enough to be better than average but otherwise unimposing. He was strong enough, fat enough, skinny enough. Sleeping on the floor, however, had not done him any good. He walked, stiff-legged and sore, out of the room.

The small apartment was lit solely by the glow of morning sunlight through window blinds, giving the place an even, preternatural glow. The apartment was clean, but not in the sense that everything was put in its place. It was clean in the sense there were so few items that it could never really be messy. A small sofa and a television on a stand were all that comprised of the living room. Water was running in the kitchen.

"Did you sleep on the floor too?" he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Elizabeth was standing at the sink filling a coffee pot with water. She was wearing the long T-shirt she kept at Malcolm's apartment. On the front of the shirt was a faded logo for a company or a band that probably hadn't existed since the mid-nineties. It was the one piece of ratty clothing that Malcolm ever saw Elizabeth wear. It hung loosely on her and did nothing to flatter her form, but, as Malcolm noted, her legs looked good. Plus he had seen everything beneath the shirt and knew that that looked good, too.

"No," she laughed, placing the pot in the machine and turning it on. "You seemed pretty set it on it, though, so I grabbed a blanket off the couch." She walked over and pecked a kiss on his cheek. "I'm getting in the shower," she whispered.

Malcolm poured himself a bowl of cereal and stood at the sink to eat it, taking in the morning glow and listening to the shower run in the bathroom. He continued to wake up and his mind began going over the plan for the day. Work in an hour, lunch today would be at one and he'd be meeting Eddie at the Mexican place, after work he'd go to Elizabeth's place. He didn't know what he'd do after that; it was still too early to plan that far ahead.

* * *

Eddie was already waiting at the restaurant when Malcolm arrived. Malcolm had shed his hard hat and vest but was still covered in the grit and smell of the construction site, a nearby medical office building. A new wing was being added and Malcolm, among others, was adding it. Eddie's dark hair was as wild and unrestrained as ever, but his face was clean-shaven. It had been nearly a year since Malcolm had last seen his brother.

Lunch progressed. The food came quickly, as both brothers had ordered a sufficiently simple arrangement of tortillas, meat, and cheese. They ate without speaking much save for an occasional commentary on the decor or people surrounding them. An observer might have mistaken the meal for a weekly ritual, an uneventful meeting of two long-time friends. The real conversation, however, did not begin until after the plates had been cleared.

"How are Mom and Dad?" Malcolm asked.

"They're... how they always are. I don't know." Eddie lived closer to their parents and hence was expected to be more up-to-date on their well-being. "Mom's started that thing where she emails you every annoying cartoon or joke that gets sent to her."

Malcolm nodded. "And you? What've you been up to?"

It was half a question, the unspoken part being, "since you tried to kill yourself?" A year ago Eddie had taken a razor blade to his wrists while on vacation in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Malcolm and his parents had flown out to South Carolina to visit Eddie, only to make small and unimportant conversation as he recovered. To this day no one had received an exact explanation of why he had done it. Malcolm tried once to ask him if he regretted it. "Yes," Eddie had said. "Razor blades are such a cliche. I like to think I'm a little cleverer than that."

"I've been good," Eddie answered. "I'm writing some more." Eddie had published a novel when he was eighteen but had written virtually nothing since. "I like it. I like living in New York, too."

"That's good," was all Macolm said. It was not that Malcolm wasn't engaged; he simply meant what he had said. It was good, both that his brother was writing and that he enjoyed living in New York.

"And you?" Eddie asked. "What's new with you?"

"I'm working in construction. We're adding a wing on an office building. I like it. And Elizabeth and I are still together," he added. "Been about seven months now."

"Tell me about her."

"She's a legal aide. She's wants to be a lawyer, though. She's going back to school in the fall. We're not living together, but really we're just taking turns between each other's apartments. We'll have to figure something else out when she goes to school, though."

Eddie nodded, and a silence followed. There was a question floating in the air around them, waiting to be grasped. It was Eddie who finally voiced it, though it could have been either of them: "Do you think Mom and Dad will ever forgive us?"

"Forgive us for what?" Malcolm had an idea of what his brother was talking about, but followed him anyway.

"'Edward Clarence the Second,'" he said in a mocking British accent. "'Malcolm Harold.' They always wanted a lot more out of us than we gave them. You know they did."

Malcolm shrugged. "We are who we are. They love us."

"They do," Eddie said quickly. "I know they do. They just... wanted something else, I guess. I don't know." The brothers were quiet for a moment. "Do you love her?" Eddie asked.

"What?"

"Elizabeth. Do you love her?"

"I... yeah, I guess. I mean, we don't really talk about it. I like being with her, she likes being with me. We love each other, I suppose."

Eddie nodded. "Good. Maybe you should tell her that."

Malcolm grinned. "Is that a bit of brotherly advice?"

Eddie laughed, too. "No, I don't think so. Just advice, I guess."

Late Night Ramble

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 06:50:00 +0000

I haven't written very much lately, but it's still been on my mind. And, seeing as I'm having a little trouble sleeping tonight, I thought I'd set fingertips to keyboard and see what came out. Ramble with me, won't you?

I've been thinking a lot about Spanish lately. I'm absolutely loving my Spanish class this semester (my first "classroom" class in about five or six years) and I'm very seriously considering majoring in Spanish when I go to U of I this fall. Originally I though I'd major in English and minor in Spanish, but I think the latter would hold my attention longer, in the end. Besides, majoring in Spanish has the potential to lead to much more... interesting... possibilities. There's the possibility of travel, of course. Perhaps I'll even return to Spain and fulfill my original goal of finding work there and living for a time. I had very little luck finding a job the first time, and I'm not likely to let that score go unsettled.

But more than that, I've been thinking about the possibility of teaching Spanish. Knowing another language has opened up so much for me in my life that I could really get behind the idea of spreading that to someone else. I plan on learning at least one other language reasonably well in my lifetime- perhaps more- and I truly believe that everyone should pick up one or two along the way. It's not just a matter of academic accomplishment; it's the ability to communicate and see another slice of life. It's access to another part of the world. (See previous post.)

On a more in-the-moment note, I, like so many others, am rejoicing at the little hints of spring as they become more and more frequent. It's still cold, yes, but every so often there is that warm breeze that carries so much promise. As I walked out of school the other day I drew a lungful of vernal air: that simple act brought a smile to my face. Compare that, now, to those early days of winter, when I would step outside and take a deep breath of chilled air and feel it cool me from the inside out. I smiled then, too, because after the balmy summer heat it was a welcomed change. Yet another sign that change and contrast are what make life interesting and- dare I say it- worth living.

Some random, shorter notes:

I downloaded Mozilla Firefox recently and am using it now instead of Internet Explorer. I'm probably well behind the times on that one, but it is much faster and, from what I've read, more secure.

Watch 30 Rock if you aren't already. It's funny and goofy and clever. I love it.

I've been listening to David Bowie's album "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust" a lot lately. Classic,tripped out, rockin' Bowie.

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe,
Put your ray gun to my head,
Press you space face close to mine, love
Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah

That's all for now, and it's certainly enough. Feels good to have gotten a little bit written down. Decent ramble, as far as rambles go. Insomnia's not all bad.

Travel

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 04:06:00 +0000

What do you think of when you think of travel?

I instantly think of being lost in somebody else's city, roaming through the twists and turns of streets with unfamiliar names, different food smells, and another language adorning every sign and every tongue. I think of doorways and stairways leading into unknown buildings, the very fact that I do not know where they lead urging me to explore. I think of exciting glimpses into someone else's world as I pass by, little slices of life, brief and illuminating.

That's the most important part to me: looking into someone else's world for just a moment- not enough to understand it (which would take a lifetime) but merely life at a glance. I'm excited by the idea that this foreign, completely alien place is somebody else's home. I'm walking through their back yards, in a sense. The strange calls and noises of the street are a thrilling caucophony to me, but to those who live there it's the background music of their daily lives. What for me is another turn on a meandering day-trip is for them the road home- every crack in the sidewalk familiar, every step taken a million times before. I like the idea of sharing that for a moment. I like to think that I am collecting those moments as I travel, arranging them into a kind of mosaic. Some peices are small, such as a peek into a half-open doorway or down a narrow side street. Other peices are larger- sharing a conversation or a meal with someone I've never met. Together there are a variety of sizes and colors and textures, all unique and separate, united only by the fact that they are part of my mosaic.

I'm no expert. I'm writing about travel because I think about travel, and I think about travel because I am only a novice. I hope to learn more- not only from travel, but about travel- as I go on. And of course, I will go on- I'm going to Dublin, Ireland in April. I don't know where I'll go after that, but I will go. When I think of all the things that I may do in my life, elaborating and increasing that mosaic seems to me the most important.

"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page." - St. Augustine, via Trisha

"You will travel to many exotic places in your lifetime." - the coolest fortune-cookie fortune I ever got

Impermanence

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 05:33:00 +0000

My iPod can hold a vast number of songs in its 32 GB. I've been adding to the music on my computer for years, adding any song that I happen to hear on the radio and like, sometimes downloading entire albums because I like one or two songs from it. Even after all of this, my iPod is in no danger of being full at any point in the immediate future. And if it were, I could buy the 160GB model and spend a lifetime filling that up. What all of this has led to is the convenience of listening to pretty much any song I want, any time I want. Every song I've ever liked, no waiting. Similarly, TiVo records programs I can watch later and, failing that, there's always the Internet to make available any missed episode of House or Lost. Shows that barely warranted reruns twenty years ago are now available on DVD so you, too, can watch "Roseanne" and "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" anytime you like.

This isn't a rant, mind you. I like this availability. It's great not having to plan an evening around the airing of a TV show. As for my iPod ... well, it's tough loving something that can never love me back, but I'll get by. But with all of this anytime, anywhere availability, I often find myself fascinated by the idea of impermanence. There's something very exciting about things that won't last forever, that I cannot record and take with me.

Food is one example. The old maxim about having your cake and eating it, too, is true of all things tasty. Without getting too graphic, any money you spend on good food is all flushed down the drain the long run- but in the short run, in that infinitesimal fraction of your life you spent eating that meal, it was worth every penny. Plus gratuity.

I stepped outside this past February weekend into an unusually warm breeze, part of Illinois' tantalizing, schizophrenic game of peek-a-boo we call "weather". It was wonderful, but what excited me most was the knowledge that it wouldn't last; I enjoyed it more because I knew it would be gone soon. That kind of now-or-never excitement can only exist when there's no way to record or store except for memory.

The Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 05:31:00 +0000

A response to a writing prompt on Trisha's blog.

The Tree was the last in the forest. Standing solitary and proud, it spread its branches as far as they could reach, striving to capture all of the Sun's warmth. They spread wider and wider, the leaves casting a great mottled shadow on ground below. Time passed, and the Rain and Sun only spurred more growth. The Tree's great canopy was never out of Sunlight, and on its branches it tasted the salt sea Air, the Wind through vast plains, the cool chilled Air flowing from the Mountains- all at once. In its solitude the Tree had encompassed all of the Earth. It knew intuitively all of Nature, and it used that knowledge to accomplish the miraculous: one day, after much more time had passed, a single Acorn grew on one of its branches. The Acorn soon grew heavy and fell to the Earth. The Tree retracted its canopy, and gave Light to the seed.

ZING!

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 20:20:00 +0000

Nathan hated coming to this part of town, but it was getting easier each time. He had even stopped really thinking about it, it had become so much a part of his routine. It was just something he did, he told himself, like buying a milkshake or a snack. Just a place to buy things. After school, every Friday, he'd take the long route home, stopping by Buck's place.

One thing Nathan never got used to was the smell of Buck's place. An overwhelming wall of smell greeted him whenever he entered, an earthy, almost dirty smell. On a warm spring day like today it was especially pungent. Nathan knew that Buck didn't hear him come in. He was racing around the kitchen, moving plates and stacking cups next to the sink.

"Oh hey," said Buck when he noticed Nathan. "Didn't hear you, Little Brother." Buck spoke with some sort of accent, probably from somewhere in Africa. He had a tattoo on his right hand of a mermaid and on his left hand was a star. And he called everybody brother- Little Brother if they were shorter than he was, Big Brother if they were taller. Nathan never asked him where he was from, mainly because he never wanted to stay too long. Buck looked quickly around the kitchen and then back at Nathan. He explained, "Just had some energy, you know? I have to do something, you know?"

Nathan nodded. Yeah, he knew. "Look," he said, "I didn't want to bother you or anything. Just thought I'd pick up what we talked about last week. I gotta get home soon, anyway," he added nervously.

A broad, stained-tooth grin spread across Buck's face. "Yeah," he laughed, "yeah, Little Brother, I know what you are talking about." Despite his hefty frame, Buck darted across the room and pulled a small box out of one of the drawers. He pulled out a small plastic bag and tossed it to Nathan. Nathan peeled open the bag and took in a deep whiff. It was strong, all right. High end.

"Ethiopian, right?"

Buck laughed. "Yeah, that's the Ethiopian stuff. Cost a little more, but it's worth it, you know? Just a little bit and ZING!- you gonna be all set."

Nathan nodded and handed Buck the money. Buck counted it quickly in his fingers and said, "You have a good time, Little Brother. Come back next week and maybe I will still have some, you know?"

Nathan nodded and headed home. As soon as he left that neighborhood he was feeling better, planning for the weekend. Maybe have a few friends over tomorrow, give this new stuff a try.

Nathan noticed the silence as soon as he entered the house. Normally Samantha was playing something loud and obnoxious in her room and his dad was watching TV. Today, nothing. Nathan told himself he was being paranoid and went up to his room.

His dad was sitting on his bed when he came in. It was all there on his bed- his own small box, plastic baggies... everything. The two looked at each other for a long time. His dad finally broke the silence. "What the hell is this, Nathan?"

"Dad ... it's not really a big deal. It's nothing."

"Nothing?! Look at this stuff- a grinder, a perc, whole beans! Do you know how much trouble you could get into for having any of this?" Nathan just looked down at the ground. "How much of this do you do, huh?"

"Just a couple of cups, that's all. In the afternoon ... sometimes we just want a little buzz, that's all. No big deal."

"'No big deal'? 'A little buzz'? Jesus, Nathan, next you'll be telling me about your 'lattes' and 'cappuccinos'!" Nathan looked away. "My God," his dad said, "is this where all of your mother's milk and sugar has been disappearing to?"
**********

All of this because I was at Starbuck's the other day and the girl behind the counter recommended the "Ethiopan stuff."

"I had a little bit of that the other day," she said, "and ZING!- that was it." It just sounded too much like I was buying some illicite substance!

Autumn Falls to Winter

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 21:58:00 +0000

The leaves have left,
The pageant is over.

The distant sun shines no more
But glows, amber like wine.

The air’s chill is ever-present,
It walks beside and all through.

Autumn has fallen,
And winter, victorious,
Tiptoes in on soft white specks.

No Place Like Home

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 04:09:00 +0000

I've spent most of my life in Illinois. There was a brief time- almost two years- during which my family and I lived in Georgia and then Tennessee, but we were soon back in Illinois. Actually, saying we were back in Illinois hardly does it justice. We moved back to the same town in which I was raised, just three blocks from the house we lived in before. After only a couple of years, I was able to enter the seventh grade with all of my friends from elementary school without missing a beat. If I believed in fate I'd say that it was evidence of the universe righting itself. Fate or no, I'm very glad things worked out the way they did.

The house we moved into was undeniably "home" for the next few years. From seventh grade until the end of high school there were birthday parties, cast parties from high school plays, arguments, laughter, first kisses, redecorations, and the multitude of events and non-events that make up a home. At one point an addition was built and I was allotted my own bedroom. The room was mine to do with as I pleased and I thought of it as my own mini-apartment, my first major experiment in autonomy. Even so, it was still inextricably part of that house, and therefore I considered as much home as the kitchen or the living room. The bedroom was no more mine than any of the other rooms.

After high school I moved to California. I came back after a year and home was still there, waiting. Some things had to be moved around a bit to accommodate me, but accommodate me they did and I was back. There were still get-togethers and some friends came over from time to time, but more often that not I went out to their houses. Home was no longer the center of activity, just the place to which I returned.

A few months later a friend of mine and I got an apartment. This place certainly wasn't home; it was more of a clubhouse that we got to stay in every night! We moved all of our things in and marveled at our independence. Everything was novel. Watching TV, cooking food, even cleaning- it was all different in our own place. Neither of us had had an extremely restrictive environment growing up, but it was still exciting to do all of these things on our own. And home, of course, was only a few blocks way. I visited frequently.

Life really started moving after that. There was Spain, of course- twice. Home wasn't even a thought anymore; life was all about everywhere else. My friend from the apartment moved on as well as he bought a house last year, just before I went back to Spain. When I returned from that adventure I arranged to rent a room from him. I'm still living there for now, until the next move or adventure or whatever it is one calls these great changes.

One of the greatest changes, however, occurred without my ever being aware of it. I still go to the house I grew up in every once in a while. Usually I chat a bit with my dad or my sister and then I leave. Tonight I arrived a half hour early and waited in that empty house for my dad to get home. No matter what I did, no matter what room I wandered into, I couldn't get comfortable. It was like reaching for a light switch instinctively and finding it always on the opposite wall; everything was a reminder that this house was not home any longer, at least not in the way it had been before. I thought about this for only a moment and decided- correctly, I believe- that most people probably feel that way at some point in their lives. It even felt satisfying, in a way. It was as if that experiment I started so long ago, moving furniture around in that added-on bedroom, was finally showing some results. At 23, after living with family in another state and essentially alone in another country, I'm finally starting to feel like I might actually be able to make it in the world. Not bad.

But then something else happened tonight. I walked into my bedroom tonight- the one rented from my friend- and suddenly realized that it isn't home, either. There are a few of my things here and there, but the walls surrounding them aren't mine. There will always be somebody on the other side of the door, somebody who does own the house and probably calls it home. But it's not my home: I'm a tenant, a transient.

The fact that this is not my home doesn't trouble me. I like my transience, and I'm always excited about where it will lead. But the question occurred to me: will any place ever feel like home again?

Early Autumn

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 05:00:00 +0000

I couldn’t sleep again last night. It happens every once in a while, this fit of non-sleep. It’s psychological; my body wants to sleep. It knows that it’s three o’clock in the morning and that there’s nothing to be done at the moment. It wants nothing more than to settle down and wait for the morning. But my mind races and refuses to stop for even a moment. What’s the point of sleep, anyway? So much time wasted. I should be doing something better. Or so my mind keeps reminding me in between spastic leaps from thought to thought.

Inevitably, at some point during these sleepless nights, it occurs to me that I’m definitely not going to sleep anytime soon. After that moment, though, anything goes. This time was reserved for bed, nothing else. Now that that’s out of the question, the door’s wide open. Do I go out for a late-night bite? Do I read, watch TV? TV’s the usual solution. I may not be sleeping but I’m still tired. Unending streams of music videos and infomercials require very little investment on my part.

But not last night. I don’t know why last night was different. Maybe it was the weather changing again, or maybe I’d already watched too much TV today. Whatever it was, I was dressed in jeans and a hoody and walking out the door at three twenty-three in the morning.

The nights had been cool lately, and this was no exception. Fifty-something degrees, I figured. I exhaled forcefully to see if my breathe was visible; it wasn’t. Oh well, autumn would be in its full glory soon enough. The world now seemed to personify the transition: trees and grass were still green and vibrant, even as the air around them became cooler and cooler. Summer could hold on for a bit longer, but sooner later the colors would change and autumn would take over.

I thought back on summer, on how active, noisy, and colorful everything seemed to be. On a hot summer afternoon the air was warm and light, carrying on it the cacophony of birds, children, music, and construction that emanated from a given neighborhood. Summer made for lazy days- avoiding the heat, taking a dip in the pool, perhaps. Almost everyone was out of school and taking advantage of the open days. I wasn’t in school and hadn’t been for a while, but the summer still seemed like a vacation. A holdover, I guess, from twelve years of indoctrination. In the end, summer usually was a vacation. Not a lot got done. I didn’t go anywhere, but what’s a summer for, anyway?

Autumn would be different. When the air cools it takes on a heavier quality, enveloping the trees and the streets and the sky. It muffles the sound and, with that blanket of coolness around me, I feel a little more solitary, which I like. Autumn calls for motion- walking, working, raking leaves. There is less daylight, and that always seems to make what I do with it more important. Maybe I ought to go back to school … autumn is meant to be seen through school windows, I think to myself- another habit of a thought from my mandatory twelve years. The cool air doesn’t lend itself to lazy afternoons as the summer heat does, and the changing colors are a beautiful reminder that everything is impermanent. Eventually the trees and the air have to change.
And so somehow, last night at some predawn hour, walking in autumn air among summer trees I embraced and prepared for the changes ahead. Summer may still have its last stand, but for me, it was already early autumn.

I went home and slept, my mind at rest.

Unnecessary Personal Update #1

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 03:39:00 +0000

I’m sitting outside tonight, enjoying the cool air that remains after the heat of the sun has retreated. The wind is gentle and provides a constant soft rustle through the lush tree leaves; it sounds enough like a calm ocean to soothe the soul. The peace is only broken by far-off traffic and the occasional pops of left-over and cheaply bought fireworks exploding in someone’s backyard, the vestiges of celebration from the weekend’s Fourth of July festivities.

This week, in retrospect, has been a kind of break in the rhythm of my regular life, slight enough not be upsetting or challenging, but different enough to be noted. Christopher was home from the Marines for the weekend. As we grow older and move around- as my brother and I have certainly shown a penchant for doing- Keri, Christopher and I may have fewer opportunities to get together, but they are no less enjoyable for it. In fact, I think it prevents us from taking things like simple meals out for granted. Also, I think that the three of us getting together allows us to touch a kind of home base: we point out how the rest of the world is crazy and that, despite our individual differences, we seem to be the only ones who are sane. There’s certainly some comfort in that.

I’ve also registered for all of my classes and am even considering adding another in my excitement for the fall. The thought of going to school full-time again is at once daunting and thrilling. I haven’t had a full schedule of classes since high school, and my life as well as my view on life have changed considerably since then. That is, perhaps, the exciting part about it: it will be new, again. I delight in change, especially when it’s a change I’ve designed myself. Although I will take it as all of life should be taken- one day at a time- I cannot help but feel that though I am in the middle of writing several chapters of my life at once, a new one is waiting to begin. How exciting!

(Personal Note: I must remember to re-read this around mid-term.)

My laptop is already flashing a low battery, so I think I’ll sit back and enjoy the wind and the fireflies for a bit.

Begin

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 21:35:00 +0000

Maybe it's the change in the weather. It could be my friend's recent return from a month in Europe. Then again, my impending return to school probably has something to do with it. Hell, it might just be that I've spent too much time in the Travel section of Barnes & Noble. Whatever caused it, I've been (gulp) thinking.

What I've been thinking about can't be summed up in a single word. For the past few days I've been trying to sort through thoughts that appear unrelated but I know are not, because they all seem to spring from the same well, whatever well that is. Travel, school, jobs, money, sex, food, drink, exercise ... somehow these things are interrelated, and I think it has something to do with deciding the way I want to live my life.

Before I left for Spain, I did my best to tie up any financial loose ends. I paid off old debts and bills and by the time I left I knew to the penny how much money I had, where it was, and even what I would with it. Now, several months after my return, I am enjoying the freedom of that decision. I able to live cheaply and save money. I'm not married and I don't have any kids. If I wanted to leave tomorrow I think the most planning I would have to do is to book an afternoon flight so that I'd have time to pack. I have made plans to return to school, but the ball is only just beginning to roll for things like loans and classes. In short, my life is as blank a slate as can be.

It's an open-ended essay question.

"Today's assignment, class, is to write your life in fifty years or less. There will be no extra credit for those who go over but, no matter how much you write, make sure it's all worth reading. Begin."

And so I must. These past few months have been a grace period, but the time is coming to start making actual decisions. And because my possibilities are so wide-ranging I feel a certain amount of pressure- from myself- to make correct decisions, and to make them early. I'm not complaining about the situation (part of me revels in it) nor am I boasting. I am what I am. Now I've just got to figure out what I'm going to be.

The Statue of the Fallen Angel

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Tue, 13 May 2008 03:32:00 +0000

From my personal journal kept while in Spain:

10-3-07

As I stand in El Retiro Park looking up at the Statue of the Fallen Angel I can't help but feel a little sorry for ol' Lucifer. Not in a religious context, of course, but viewing the whole tale as any other collection of myths- as literature- I must admit I have a little sympathy for the Devil.

Lest we forget, Lucifer was an angel, designed to serve and worship God. Free will not included. In this way he was not unlike the spiritual equivalent of a robot: "Serve your purpose. Do not go beyond specified parameters." Oh, but he did! Like one of Asimov's rogues he broke the Law: he defied God. Why? What motives did he have? Pride, say most. Jealousy, say some, of this new creation called Man, who had the built-in ability to ignore God. Maybe a mixture of both, one feeding the other.

But the infinite mercy granted this new creation was not enjoyed by the angels who defied God. No, these rebels were cast down. And so we see Lucifer, in the Statue of the Fallen Angel. He is writhing like the serpents that are coiling around his limbs and dragging him below, one tattered wing pointed accusingly toward Heaven while his arms attempt to shield him from his horrible fate.

Like Prometheus, Lucifer defies the King and is punished for it. So, is Lucifer a martyr? I say no. Where Prometheus' treason was for the good of mankind, Lucifer's was self-serving and, of course, proud. Still, whoever carved the Statue of the Fallen Angel must have felt the same tug of pity as I do now, for his depiction of the Devil is a sympathetic one.

The Dark Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Fri, 02 May 2008 06:50:00 +0000

Inspired by a picture.

The Dark Tree grows at world’s end,
Where stars arise from stone,
Where man’s journey’s final steps,
Must be taken alone.

It’s Trunk grows strong, a solid core,
Mixed of oak and olive,
It’s Branches bent toward heav’n are,
Seeking gods and knowledge.

And so must you seek, Traveler,
O Pilgrim to the Tree,
Many Answers find you there,
If you’ve the eyes to see.

Weird Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 07:21:00 +0000

There is a bird outside my window,
That sings every morning
The date of my death,
And the tale of how I will die,
But he sings it in bird language,
Which I don't know.
I think the sound is nice anyway.

What does this mean? I have no idea- probably nothing. I was literally crawling into bed when that basic idea popped up fully formed in my mind. Any thoughts?

Maybe I'll drop in another weird poem or two from time to time, if I decide I like this one.

'His Dark Materials' Can Shed Some Light On a Few Things

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 03:03:00 +0000

I’ve just finished reading the ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy by Philip Pullman, the latest in a series of interesting reads I’ve had. Before I start in on the controversy and the higher ideas I will say first that the series is, at its heart, a grand adventure. It takes you into different worlds and introduces you to unforgettable characters. That capacity to transport the reader alone makes it a worthy read. I could go on for pages, I’m sure, about the story and magic of the worlds that Pullman creates in these books, but today I’m more interested in the ideas, and the backlash.

Do a simple search for “The Golden Compass” or “His Dark Materials” and it won’t take you long to find boycotts, outraged citizens, and pamphleteers foaming at the mouth. The movie, which waters down the book’s more controversial aspects, is described as subversive- an innocent fantasy movie designed to lure unwitting children to the blasphemy of Pullman’s books. And what awaits them in these dark tomes? No less than a story about a man- and two children- on a mission to kill God.

Have you caught your breath yet? I’ll wait.

Now that we’ve calmed down, I’ll clarify. The “god” that is to be killed is called the Authority, the being from which the earthly religions derive their own authority. The Authority represents the mindless and absolute oppression that has been handed out since the beginning of religion. The intended target- the Authority- is the suppression and villainization of things like sexuality, freedom of choice and thought, and free inquiry. This is what the characters set out to kill (even if some of them don’t know it) and this is what we, as individuals, should set out to kill as well.

In reverse order: free inquiry. I’ll spare you the history lesson of tortures, excommunications, and backwards thinking of the Middle Ages, when the Magisterium- I mean the Church- really did have all of the authority. Today’s challenge to free inquiry into matters formerly dictated by dogma and doctrine has taken on the form of the dangerously ridiculous: “creation science,” a term so oxymoronic that many scientists a hundred years ago would have scoffed at it. Since Darwin we have been able to piece together our past as a species and continually renew our knowledge with the discovery of new information- old fossils, new genetics, and much more in between. We can start to give real answers to questions like, “How did we come to be as we are?” and “What will we become as we go on?” They may not be the answers we always imagined (the answers being “monkeys” and “smarter monkeys”, respectively) but they hold a truth that our imaginations did not, and that is infinitely valuable. And I say that creation science is dangerous because one of the main goals of its followers is to have it taught to children in schools. In Lyra’s world, Jordan College of Oxford stands for reasoning and science against the enforced doctrines of the Magisterium. We shouldn’t be teaching children to believe; we should be teaching them to think, to ask, and to stand up and argue when necessary.

Freedom of choice and thought: this is more of a personal issue for me. For most of my life I’ve looked at the world a certain way and was confused to learn that others saw it differently. I listened to religion, liked some of the stories, but I don’t think I ever believed they were true, and I certainly don’t now. To learn that many people took it all very, very seriously was somewhat of a surprise to me, and I learned that apparently there was something I wasn’t getting so I had best not say anything at all. I don’t pretend for a minute that I was ideologically suppressed or harmed in any way, but the general population all seem to agree that God is good and the Bible is true and you must be some kind of sick in the head to say anything different. Go ahead, tell somebody you’re an atheist and watch how quickly the room clears. You’d be better off listing your hobbies and interests as “seal clubbing” and “baby punching.” The point is that saying anything different has been taboo for so long that even the most open-minded among us have a hard time getting past the initial knee-jerk reaction and saying, “Well, he’s free to think so.”

Sexuality: a big one for the HDM trilogy, especially in the last fifty pages or so. Lyra, the main character, spends most of the series being referred to as a child, just on the cusp of adolescence. In fact, many of story’s main plot points center around the maturation of children into adults. By the series’ end, Lyra does in fact cross that thin veil between child and adult and takes her first shaky steps. All of this happens not in a “Beauty of womanhood, Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret?” kind of way, but in a “Gosh, isn’t it wonderful that we get to experience this and that this is all a unique and celebrated part of being human?” kind of way.

There’s more, of course, much more. The tragedy of Balthamos and Baruch, the gay angels. What our daemons (souls) say about us and how we choose what kind of people we become. What we leave behind after death, and what we should hope to carry with us. And as I mentioned above, there is a quest, an adventure, a story. I encourage those who haven’t read the books to do so, no matter what side of the ideological fence you lean toward.

William Donahue, of the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, said of the His Dark Materials trilogy, “I don’t want to see those books flying off the shelves at Christmas. I want them to be collecting dust.”

Well, Bill, if you read the books then you know that I and fans of Pullman’s work couldn’t agree with you more. I can think of nothing better than for those books to be around for ages, collecting Dust.

P.S.- In the books, a daemon is a person’s soul, manifested outside of their body but very deeply connected the person. It takes the form of an animal, always the opposite gender of its person. The daemon’s form settles when a person reaches adolescence, and the form it chooses usually reflects something of that person’s personality, e.g. servants tend to have dog daemons, because they are obedient and loyal.

I like to think my daemon would be a she-bear. What would yours be?

Just A Little Something

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 07:43:00 +0000

It's been a while since my last entry, and a lot's happened since then. Different country (back home), different plans for the future (school ... among some other 'lees-tasting' opportunities.) I've been doing a lot of thinking, a lot of planning, and a lot of reading ... but little writing.

Today's entry is not much, just a few paragraphs of stream of consciousness that I kind of liked. I started with, "It seems like it's always raining when I walk down this street," and let it go from there. Hopefully it will prime the pumps for more to come- we'll see.

The Lesson

It seems like it’s always raining when I walk down this street. Maybe it’s the other way around- maybe I only come here when it rains. I like it, though. When the street’s sunny I feel like I should be happy but I’m not. At least when it’s raining I can curse the weather.

I shouldn’t have left you, I know. I always end up leaving when we fight. It’s stupid. I pride myself on my self-control, satisfied that I didn’t lose my temper. But as I think about it walking in the rain, walking out is just as bad as yelling or breaking things. Worse maybe; I don’t know. But it’s at least as bad.

I don’t get it sometimes, that’s all. I say that I’m in love with you, and I’m sure that I am, but what does that mean I should do? Yell more? Break things instead of leaving? That doesn’t make any sense to me, but like I said, I don’t know. I got my education on love from bad movies and good Frank Sinatra songs.

The worst part is that a few blocks from home- sitting on the subway or when I finally sit down and order drink- I start to worry that you won’t be there when I get back. I’m allowed to walk out on you, but you’re not allowed to walk out on me. I guess it’s because I always thought you were stronger than me when it comes to this stuff, this relationship. You always seem to know what you’re doing or what the next step is.

That’s also stupid, I know. Just because I’m completely lost doesn’t mean you should have to work twice as hard. But it also doesn’t mean that the clouds will open up, sunlight will hit my face and I’ll suddenly understand what everyone else seems to understand automatically.

So where does that leave us? I came home again and you were there, reading on the sofa. You’d been crying, but not recently. I’ll apologize, or you will, or neither of us will. Maybe next time I won’t leave. Or maybe next time you won’t be there when I get back. Either way, one of us is going to have to learn.

At Home in Toledo

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 21:19:00 +0000

What’s most impressive about Toledo is that, even in this touristy area of shiny stores and restaurants, there is still a sense that people are living here. In so many historical places you feel like you’re in a special room, cut off from everyday life- even if it’s an entire section of a city! You can read the signs and learn about what the place was like when people did live there, but now it’s nothing more than a cold wall with sign in front of it and nothing behind it. Walking around these preserved sites is like taking a tour of a heart that isn’t beating. There hasn’t been a pulse there in a hundred years. The only “life” in these places is the steady flow of foreigners in one door and out the other.

But Toledo is different. Not only is there life here, but it seems to be coiled in upon itself so that it all fits in the maze of streets. The shops and restaurants are there in abundance, yes, but among these is something else. As you get lost in the tunnel-like streets and alleys (as I did) you don’t feel like you’re in some Disney-style artificial attraction. You’re doing your souvenir shopping and passing people who are on their way home from work or school. You feel like you’re in somebody’s home.

There is one image in my head that, for some reason, drives this feeling home for me. I turned a corner and saw a woman sitting in here car in front of a music school, waiting for her son to finish his lessons. She was just waiting in the car, reading a book while her son murdered some member of the brass family. I don’t know why a person waiting should make the city feel more alive to me, but it did. Maybe it was the contrast between the woman and me. I had just gotten off a train and was pining to explore every corner of the city before I got back on that train later that night. Everything was exciting and interesting to me, and here she was just sitting there, reading her book. I could have been in her living room. I guess in a way I felt like I was.

Son of Random Thoughts

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 21:15:00 +0000

Trivial things I miss about the U.S. - good pizza, American cussing, personal space when having a conversation, good beer.

Trivial things I'll miss about Spain- good ham, great cheese, good wine, Spanish game shows (or, as I refer to them, “Let’s try to figure out what the hell is going on here.”), Spanish titles for American movies/TV shows (Knight Rider = Coche Fantastico “Fantastic Car,” House = El Cojo “The Man with the Limp”), the Metro, horchata.

I think too much, and I’m okay with that. It’s better than the alternative.

There are more than 40 million people in living in Spain. Am I the only one who, at this moment, is listening to "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel? More than likely.

If I were to wait tables in Spain, I’d be the best waiter in the country.

I’d also be the most overworked, and probably the poorest.

It is better to do something and learn than to do nothing and wonder.

I’m still young, which doesn’t make any sense because as far as I’m concerned I’m the oldest I’ve ever been.

Sol, At Night

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 23:48:00 +0000

On kind of a spur of the moment decision I went to see a movie tonight. It was a British comedy called, “Death at a Funeral.” It was a funny movie, and it was good to get out and do something different.

Seeing a movie in Spain differs very little from seeing one in the States- or anywhere, I imagine. The only major difference was probably the assigned seats. Come now, we wouldn’t want people sitting where ever they wanted, willy-nilly. (Note: what’s Spanish for “willy-nilly”?) No matter where you are, though, Friday night movie crowds are good people. They’re not worried about anything, they have the weekend ahead of them, and they all at least have some sense of fun- otherwise, what’s the point of going to see a movie? They’re likely out with a partner or a group of friends, enough to put anybody in a good mood.

I waited with my ticket in the lobby among my fellow movie-goers and the smell of popcorn. I had arrived far too early, proving once again that moving to another country doesn’t automatically change anything about you. I was almost half an hour early, as usual, and immediately (but not for the first time) realized how ludicrous that is. I pretended to read the movie fliers and posters that were scattered in the small lobby while waiting for the screen to change from, “Un Funeral de Muerte: ESPERE” to “Un Funeral de Muerte: PASE.” When it did I made my way up to the theatre.

I was directed to my seat by an usher. It was in the furthest upper left-hand corner of the theatre. When I had purchased my ticket, the ticket vendor had asked something in rapid Spanish which sounded to me like, “Esta [something] bien?” Is [something] okay? Yes, I had said. Whatever was all right, as long as I could see the screen. Looking at my seat, I now knew that the vendor had in fact said, “Ah, ticket for one. Will the loneliest seat in the house be okay?” Oh yes, limited human contact, please. Put me in a corner somewhere, if you can.

As I said, the movie was very funny. Classic British slapstick combined with agile dialogue. And hearing British people cuss, for me, is fantastic. Allen Tudyk had the best part, and the whole theatre- myself included, from my corner- laughed pretty much the whole time he was onscreen.

So far, a successful night out. Found the theatre, bought the ticket, enjoyed the movie. But the problem was that I had gone to see the movie alone, which usually isn’t a problem until you’re leaving the movie theatre. When everyone is packed into the theatre, sitting in the dark and staring in the same direction, everyone may as well all be alone. Nobody’s talking, all just watching- we’re all alone but doing to the same thing together. Great. But afterward you want to talk about the movie. Favorite parts, where you laughed the most, good quotes. When you’ve gone to the movie by yourself … well, you just put your hands in your pockets and head up down the street. If you’re lucky maybe you can blog about it when you get home.

And head up the street I did. I walked up the Calle de Doctor Corteza, passed the Plaza de Jacinto Benavente, and then up Calle de Carretas towards Sol. Sol is, I believe, in the exact center of Madrid- indeed, the exact center of Spain. It is where the Calle Gran Via and the Calle Mayor, running parallel to each other, bend in closely and almost meet creating a great open area filled with expensive shops, restaurants, and kiosks catering to visiting tourists and upper-class madrileños alike. This being a Friday night it was heavily trafficked by window-shoppers, people arriving in Madrid and looking for their hostels, and people just out for a walk in the crisp autumn air.

I had come to Sol with the intention of heading down into the Metro right away and going home, but I found my pace was becoming slower and slower as I watched everyone around me. Couples, families, groups of friends- they were all suddenly fascinating to watch as they went about their shopping and walking. I strolled along the edge of the open space for a while, watching the people and checking out the movies, handbags, and jewelry being sold streetside by the moros.

Moro means “Moor,” and is used in Spain to refer to just about anyone from Africa. A lot of them make their living selling bootlegged movies and designer-imitation goods on the street and in the Metro. Although the term moro isn’t always used in a positive light, I don’t think there’s anything inherently racist about it so I’m going to use it here. If I hear differently, of course, I’ll change it.

What the vendors do is lay out their goods flat on a square of cloth with cords tied to each corner and joined in the center. When the cops come wandering along, the moros just pick up the cords in the center and all of their movies (as an example) are gathered into a nice little bag which they can throw over their shoulder as they take off running. What was great about tonight was the fact that there were so many vendors out to sell to the weekend crowd that when a couple of police cars pulled up, I turned around to see about two dozen black men running at me with white bags over their shoulders! They cut through the crowd and took off down a side street like a school of fish that knew exactly where it was going. Within ten minutes the cops had moved on and business resumed.

The parade of nightlife had continued without interruption and I took up a position leaning against a lamppost to watch it all go by. Very European. I suddenly found myself wishing that I smoked. Leaning against a lamppost doing nothing, you must appear very strange, or at least very bored. Put a cigarette in your mouth and suddenly you’re doing something, taking a smoke break in this busy world. Well, I don’t smoke and never much cared for the habit so I had to suffice myself with putting my hands in my pockets and pretending to be invisible.

This was surprisingly easy. After a few minutes I felt like I was invisible. People would pass me on either side and pay me no mind, and I sat there like Emerson’s transparent eyeball, just watching. Once a man walked up to me with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a suitcase in tow. In Spanish accented heavily by another language (French?) he asked if I knew where a certain street was. I told him no, that I didn’t know the area very well. Maybe he should look at the map over there. I was very pleased with the completeness of my response, but I don’t think the man understood anything past, “No.”

He gave me a look that displayed disdain and understanding at once. “How dare you lean so casually against a lamppost if you’re not a local!” he seemed to say. “But since I’m a nice guy I’m trying very hard to forgive you.” Gee, thanks.

He headed back into the sea of people. I really did wish I could have helped him. I even thought about walking the ten steps and consulting the map for him, but by the time that thought entered my head it was too late. I was once again the invisible observer, sworn never to interfere. Besides, I was now watching his blue suitcase disappear along the Gran Via west past Sol.

I had been standing there I-don’t-know-how-long. I was starting to feel cold, but I liked the cold so I stayed a little longer. I watched the couples, the families, the friends … the couples, the families, the friends … and as I did so another feeling started to creep up. I was no long the impassive observer: I was lonely.

It wasn’t a total loneliness, or anything so depressing. I was simply feeling that empty space where someone should have been sharing the whole thing with me. The feeling had really been there the whole night- and probably most of my time here in Spain. Every breathtaking sight or impressive building, every crazy random Spanish event (like the drummers in El Retiro), every joke untold or meal unshared- they all lacked someone sitting next to me to whom I could say, “Hey, isn’t that something?” It was all a tree falling in the woods.

Now, it must be said that I’ve been a very good traveling companion to myself. I get along with me, I like all the same food as me, and besides which I think I’m a riot. But there are times when it would be nice to be able to turn to someone and say, “Man, that part where Allen Tudyk was ass-naked on the roof was hilarious!”

Guess you had to be there.

A Message from the Madrid Department of Transportation

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 12:54:00 +0000

Greetings from the Madrid Department of Transportation! You know, the people who put up those little reminders on the highway telling you how many people have died on the road this weekend! Well, we here at MDoT are not all just flashing signs and green vests! We actually care for your well-being, and for that reason we have produced this pamphlet with a list of suggestions for the road. Remember- like all traffic laws and signals, these are merely suggestions; feel free to improvise as you see fit!

1. The speed limit exists for a reason!!! And that reason is to slow other drivers down so that you, personally, can speed along to your destination. You're welcome.

2. The car horn is not only for emergencies and accident prevention- it is a highly communicative tool. When at a stop light, begin honking one half second before the light changes. Do not stop for one (1) city block.

3. However, we are aware that there are situations in which a horn will not suffice. For these situations, lean out your window and explain to the other drivers what they are doing wrong, using as many colorful metaphors as necessary. This is so that we are all reminded of the rules of the road in a fun way!

4. For safety's sake, stop at all red lights and crosswalks!

4(a). Unless you don't see anyone coming.

5. Finally, when parking your car, try to avoid bumping into surrounding cars in the process. However, if it is a small space, how can you be expected not to brush up against another car every once in a while? These things happen. Besides, that bump tells you exactly when to stop!

Thank you again for heeding the rules of the road. Have a safe and happy weekend!

- Madrid Department of Transportation

This Ain't Easy

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 21:28:00 +0000

Deep breath. In. Hold. Out. Okay, here it goes.

My trip here, in respect to the plan of finding work and making a living, has not gone very well. I’ve been told many times that I need more schooling, more experience, and- oh yeah- more of a legal status here. This doesn’t come entirely as a surprise. It was always a possibility- no, a probability- that work would not be as easy to come by as I had believed. My roommate here recommended that I start looking for work teaching private class and tutoring students, but that kind of work wouldn’t provide the stability I’d need to maintain myself here; it’s a little too risky. Because of this I will be heading home on November 12th.

Come on, be honest with them. They’ve supported you this far; you owe them the truth, at least.

Well, perhaps my homecoming isn’t entirely caused by a lack of work. The truth is I don’t even want to be here anymore. God, I sound like Veruca Salt, don’t I? It sounds petty, like the child that got what he wanted for Christmas and immediately decided that he didn’t like it. There’s more to it than that, of course. When you remove yourself from your life, remove distractions like television and easy ways to entertain yourself, a lot of things become clearer. You start thinking new thoughts … or maybe I’m just finally admitting what I’ve thought all along.

It’s funny, but my biggest fear coming here was that I wouldn’t find work and then I’d feel like a failure. Here I am now, I haven’t found work, I’m going back home, and I have about a month of limited finances and the ennui of empty days to fill, but I still feel like I came out on top somehow. It wasn’t a failure at all- it was more of a miscalculation, an error, an oops!, a misjudgment. Yes, a misjudgment. Like that step you think is there but isn’t. You’re jarred at first, and you feel like you’re never going to stop falling. But then your foot hits the ground, you right yourself, and you move on. Next step.

Almost done …

You’ve all supported me in my venture in some way or another and I can’t thank you enough for that. I have a feeling that this will end up being one of those life-changing experiences (even if it’s not in the way I had planned) and it wouldn’t have been possible without that support. Thank you.

That wasn’t so hard, was it? Good job.

Supermercado Sweep!

noreply@blogger.com (Brandon) — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 10:48:00 +0000

Here's what I've learned from grocery shopping in Spain:

Supermarkets have bars inside. Brilliant.

The 'juice-box'-style container (see photo) is apparently underused in the United States. It can be used for anything: milk, tomato juice, orange juice, or even cheap wine.

Milk and eggs: these do not need to be refigerated before opening.

Bread, however, does need to be refigerated before opening.

Do not buy peanut butter in Spain. Just ... just don't.

If you buy fruit in Spain, simply bringing it up to the cashier isn't enough. She'll yell at you, and say that you need a bag, or a bagger, or something. So you'll go back and get a bag. When you return with the bag, she will examine it as if you've given her a bag filled with assorted roadkill. No, she'll say incredulously, you need a bar code, too. At this point you go back to the produce section and ask an old man what the hell the cashier is talking about. He'll laugh good naturedly and explain that there's a person whose job it is to weigh the fruit and put a bar code on it. I was not aware. So you get the barcode, go back to the cashier and utter the bizarre phrase, "I've never bought fruit in Spain before." You laugh, she laughs, and the people in line behind you ... well, they're mad as hell. All of this because you wanted some bananas. You poor, stupid bastard.

Other Notes:

When to eat in Spain:

Me: I just woke up.
Spanish Response: Have something to eat!

Me: I'm going to take a nap.
SR: Have a huge meal first!

Me: I'd like a beer, please.
SR: Eat some ham/olives/unknown bits of fried thing!

Me: I'll have another beer.
SR: You'll have some cheese!

Me: It's 11:30, I think I'll hit the sack.
SR: Let's have dinner!

Me: I'm full.
SR: Seconds?

To Nana, if you're reading: Sorry I wrote "hell" and "bastard".