Brave As A Bulldog

To write something for the history books, and keep this whole thing goin’.

One of our newest employees at the gym has left her collection of George Orwell essays, called All Art Is Propoganda. I finally get to read Politics and The English language, amongst other essays. I thought his essay about Salvador Dali, called Benefit of Clergy, was extremely entertaining. There is something very satsifying about a sharp mind lambasting someone in an intelligent way. Like “roasting”, but on a high intellectual level. Orwell roasts Dali in the essay, putting his full brilliance to the task. He writes lines such as, “It ought not to be in doubt that he is a diseased intelligence.” (He being Salvador Dali.) I mean, imagine that George Orwell writes that about you. Imagine that anyone writes that about you. “It ought not to be in doubt that he is a diseased intelligence.” That’s just amazing. And I was just delighted by a line that I read in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes yesterday, and I read this line to several people because I loved it so much. The line is: “I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.” That was just really getting me. “An absolute imbecile in his profession.”

Sherlock followed up his roast of Jones with: “He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone.” And that’s about just as good. Brave as a bulldog and tenacious as a lobster. Love that.

I’m at the climbing gym making some good use of my time here. Nothing much to do, except read, which you know that I’m doing. After Robinson Crusoe, I continue going for the classics, and I had been wanting to reread some Sherlock Holmes, because I remember it being so good, and I really want to read something juicy, something totally gas, and entertaining, and it has now been probably five years since I read any Sherlock Holmes. Well a few days ago at the gym, I opened it up, and wow. Not disappointed, as you can see from the above lines. “The League Of Red-Headed Gentlemen.” That’s what’s going on in the Sherlock Holmes world. Taking snuff, cocaine, riding in carriages, wearing disguises, exhibiting incredible powers of brilliance and wit, the King of Bohemia. This is juicy stuff.

Yesterday was a historic day. For the first time, I consumed, literally, the veggies of my labors. It was a bok choi, pak choy, whatever you want to call it. Well, multiple, I planted many. About 500 seeds came in the packet, the seeds being incredibly tiny. They have done well enough. Planted on October 7th, along with radishes. Yesterday, I ate some. Tasted great, super fresh, plucked them myself. That was a historic day. Grown from my front lawn by the busy street, where I dug up the turf grass. Tomorrow I’ll see about those radishes.

Yesterday I learned about yet another invasive plant. There are so many. So, so many. This one seemed to be widely detested, as being a top comment on a Reddit post about invasive plants, and why so many stores are still selling terrible plants that are infesting the local ecosystem and turning it into an exotic jungle mess. This plant was called nandina, also known as heavenly bamboo or sacred bamboo. I thought, well at least I haven’t seen that around (this is what I thought at the computer, yesterday, as I learned about nandina.) And then, guess what? Oh yes I saw it. I’ve seen it twice, already, today. One was waiting for me when I went outside this morning. In the front of my neighbor’s lawn is a large nandina, with berries. Wonderful. They are toxic and can kill Cedar Waxwing, who like to gorge on berries, apparently. And then, as I drove to Kroger from the gym on my break, I passed through the alley behind the strip mall, and in the yard behind the gym, two large nandinas. So, my eyes have been opened to nandina. I still have yet to see one having escaped cultivation here in the neighborhood, but I have no doubt it has because it is listed as a top invasive.

I also learned about Chinese Wisteria, and I see a lot of vine stems (many have lost the leaves now) blanketing and smothing the trees in the lot in front of the gym that look suspiciously similar. This small strip of forest is an invasive haven. I patrolled it this morning before I clocked in, and I find everything. Everything – Japanese honeysuckle, privet, bush honeysuckle, English ivy, etc. It takes only a second. Currently, almost everything green on the edge of these forests is invasive. Tree of heaven as well, forgot to mention. Wintercreeper too. Forgot that, so much wintercreeper. Wintercreeper is really, extremely pervasive. For some reason I have a personal vendetta against this one. It just smothers and is so entrenched. Privet, honeysuckle, they are simple enough to remove. But wintercreeper, no. You are in for a long, long fight. The root system is extensive, the branches of the vine on the tree will last for a long time. They will keep sprouting out of the earth for years. It takes so much time to pull it all up. It’s smothering the trees at Shelby. All over the neighborhood. All over the ground. And you can buy it at the store right now, if you want.

The frost killed all the flowers in my garden. They could handle the low temperatures surprisingly well, I thought they would have given in a long time ago. But the frost, the real cold frost, sub-zero temperature, that did them in. The next morning they were all done for, the zinnias, the cosmos, the marigolds. But they had held on for a long time. The first frost this year was only a few days ago, early-mid November. And it snowed.

There was a girl (should I say woman, I really wonder about this) (female???) who was in here earlier, around my age. My associate Mr. Holloway checked her and her friend in. I was then at the counter when she wanted to purchase a Pelligrino (she said she didn’t know how to pronounce it) and a Kombucha (asking me if I liked them and I had to tell her that I have still never had a Kombucha) (which is not a proper noun, so why am I capitalizing it?). Luckily Mr. Holloway was there to tell her that it was in fact delicious, and the blueberry flavor was the best. I then for some reason, as I was standing there at the drink fridge, opened it up and took out her two desired drinks, and then I realized what I was doing, and I said, “And I don’t know why I’m getting them for you,” laughing at that, because I was absolutely acting on autopilot, and for some reason that’s what I was deciding to do, and then I realized, “Why?” We laughed about that, I was providing a personal service, I suppose. I then took the drink over to the ring them up, and I looked up at her, and then I looked her in the eyes, and noticed that she had really beautiful green eyes.

It’s not often that I feel that someone has beautiful eyes. It’s very rare, actually, that I noticed that someone has beautiful eyes, or that I am struck with that thought. Even when people have commented on my eyes I’ve kind of been surprised, because I have never looked in the mirror and thought anything about my eyes. But her eyes, I noticed. They were green, and they were incredibly sparkley, like they actually had glitter in them. I remember those eyes. And when I was thinking about that, I thought again about Melody, who works here at the gym and was hired on at the same time as me. We were trained together. Melody is a wonderful spirit. And she also has an incredible, beautiful set of blue eyes. Her eyes are also sparkling, like they have glitter in them. And nearly every time I look her in the eyes I think about that. I have wanted to tell her that sometime, and I am reminded again that I want to tell her that.

I interact with many people at this job, and there have been of course a few standouts and memorable individuals. It’s interesting what makes someone memorable. I give just about everybody the same deal, I would say. I like to think I do. I show up as I am and am generally the same with most people, I think, although of course I’m going to meet people where they are and try to appeal to their interests, etc. But I think that from the beginning I am pretty neutral. So then it’s interesting where things go with each person. What they want to talk about, if they even want to talk at all, if they are more jovial or joking, more serious, more grounded, shy, etc. All of these things. Well, DG, one of the most memorable climbers I’ve gotten to know, he was a 19 man from Memphis, Mexican, but born and raised in the US, and speaking almost no Spanish. This was at first a shocking thing to me, but why not? Plenty of Japanese, Chinese, etc., American-born and raised, do not speak Japanese or Chinese. And me, I don’t speak Swedish, and I have a Swedish last name. So there you go. At some point we will all be diverged from our roots. Or our roots are just replaced with other roots. That’s how it goes. He did say that his friends and family were all roasting him all the time, and he was like, “Guys, chill, damn.” DG was a funny guy. He was visiting about a month, and I remembered his name, because he was young, friendly, good-looking, and the name was so easy to remember. His name was like Juan Hernandez. You just don’t forget that name. Or Don Julio. A classic name. So I could remember his name. He was impressed that I remembered his name, and then he wanted to remember my name. And then I think it was the fourth time that he came in, he was just so excited to tell me everything about his life, about his Halloween experiences, about his girl drama and his story of going to a frat, about the brothers asking him “Do you know a brother here?” And of course, he just needed someone to tell all of this to, and I was more than willing to listen, and give him all the appropriate responses, and encourage him, because I really enjoyed hearing his tales. He was animated, funny, self-conscious, genuine – all of these things. He was a real young bro, and he was taking me back to my young days, as I told him. He was very happy to have me as a friend, and then we were homies. I found out then that he was an extraordinary climber, if what he said at least was true, and that he was working on a V13 climb on the kilterboard, which, when I said that to Parker, who knows more about climbing than I do, he said that Mr. Don Julio is one of the top 5000 climbers in the world, and probably one of the top 5 climbers in Nashville. So the next time I was at the gym and he came in, and he was sure to ask what my schedule was so that he could come in and hang out with me while I worked, I said something like “There he is Mr. Top 5000 Climber in the world”, and of course he liked that, and then had to do a lot of showing off for me. But I was talking to him about it, genuinely, and he said, when I asked him about the climbs here, he said, “I’ve climbed everything in here.” So he had done everything we had, and was now doing V13 climbs on the kilterboard because he needed more challenge. I’m assuming that he wasn’t lying to me. And he was extremely strong. He did about 120 pullups, weighted pullups. 30 in a row. With a belt on, with a plate attached. He had the Arnold Swarzzengaer build, I told him so. He was like a young Arnold Swazzenarger. Of course he loved to hear that. He was an amazing mixture of self-conscious and egotistical, which makes someone very lovable. I think that this was really a good man here, this young guy. Where you’re like, “These jeans don’t make me look fat, do they?” And you know they know that they look good in the jeans. Except, girls don’t ask that unless… Well, you get what I’m saying. He was like, “Do I look jacked?” When I commented that he had the Arnold Swarzennager build. And of course, yeah buddy, you look extremely jacked. But he needed to hear it. He was desperate to hear it, in that charming way. So, we were comparing muscles then (extremely bro-ing out), and it was amazing to see what it is to have those bodybuilder genes, such as Arnold has. Because, this young man, Don Julio, he was about the same height as me, just slightly shorter, and I am lean and muscular, and he is lean and muscular, except that, his bones, his shoulder and bicep and forearm and hands, were all twice as large as mine. Basically, we held our arms up together, and his arm, shoulder down, was just the same as my arm, except twice as big. Twice as massive. Every vein in his forearm clearly delineated. That’s just amazing to see.

Don Julio was here washing windows, and he was doing it on the Pinnacle building, which I don’t know what that is, and he was shocked that I live here, and don’t know what it is. But he showed me pictures and videos, of him being up on the skyscraper, in the clouds, over the city, legs dangling, and they were amazing. He was happy to show me that. And when it was his last time at the gym, before going back to Memphis, he was so sad to leave. He was the last one out the door, and was fake crying, and I said I had a feeling we would see each other again someday. When he moves to Nashville. He was hamming it up even as he left the door, he said, “Oh no, the door is closing, no!”

I would put this man at the very top of the characters here. And I thought about him, and how easily and amazingly we were able to bond, in that very, boyish way. It’s a soccer player way, for sure. Like dogs, very much dog energy. By comparing muscles, by talking about girls and adventuring, by joking a lot and ribbing. Basically, being playful and fun. It really did remind me of the soccer players and being on the soccer team. He was like a soccer player in that way. Fraternal. I just love that. It’s just guys being dudes. But, it isn’t so common to get that, always. Not with artists, not with climbers. Don Julio and I are outliers a bit, in that way, in the climbing world I think. It’s that instinct that guys have, to wrestle with each other. You know, they like to do that. I have that urge, to wrestle around, to race, to tumble and take shots, etc. To do some crazy and stupid stuff for fun, in the name of having a good time. To have some little good-spirited competition, in the name of fun. All that kind of thing. And Don Julio had that energy exactly.

There was another man who I connected with, on an entirely different level, and in a much shorter period of time, just a few days ago. Tall, very tall, well-built guy, and he was buying something at the register at the end of night. I commented on his shoes, which were a cool color of electric green, and black, and I had never seen them before. He told me that they were the vegan Scarpas. And I told him that that was awesome, he told me a little more about them, and he said he was a vegetarian too, and he said, he was trying. He said, “You know…” and he shrugged. I can’t remember the exact words, but we both understood, I understood clearly what he was implying. That it’s an uphill battle, that we are fighting a very difficult fight. I told him about how I was a vegetarian too. And I understood him, I knew what that guy was about. You know, that says a lot. That he is someone who cares. In very few words, I could feel that.

“Is that your handwriting?”

Hello world. I am reporting from the desk at (insert name of climbing company here) in lovely ol’ East Nastville. What a beautiful day it is out today! The sun is shining. The birds are singing. The people are working communally. What a dream, what an absolute dream.

We’ve had an exciting day here so far. I am the only staff member at this small local gym, until my reinforcements show up at 2pm. I opened the gym up at 10am, and got to crackin’. A deluge of folks came in right at the turn of the clock, that is, exactly at 10am, they were ready to go. Coaches, youth team, gang of young lads, veteran local climbers, and a couple on a first date. This was a lot for me to handle on this sleepy Saturday morning, I must confess, due to my lack of being properly caffeinated. This failure on my part to ensure proper caffeine levels in mine bloodstream was because I had planned to drink some expired energy milk drink this morning. There is a chocolate milk energy drink by the brand Hatchers, that is sold in these gyms, called Jumpin’ Jimmy. Jumpin’ Jimmy is a 16 oz. beverage that offers everything that anyone could ever want in a single drink, all for an affordable price and packaged in a container that will likely end up in the ocean and starve a whale to death. One Jumpin’ Jimmy contains 42 grams of sugar, 160mg of caffeine, and 32 grams of blessed protein, and of course wonderful fats, calcium, etc., the normal offerings of milk.

I had scored some Jumpin’ Jimmy yesterday… long story short, I forgot the Jumpin’ Jimmy today, and I was planning to finally drink one for test purposes, to see what would happen, because we do sell them after all, I should know about the product, but I have been avoiding them because I have a great fear that it will make me feel terrible and horrible. Well, I purposefully drank only a small amount of coffee this morning, so as not to overload myself on Jumpin’ Jimmy juice, but then I forgot it. I was then blasted with a good amount of action right out of the gate, at the gym, and when it cooled down, I was doing my general activities, and having cravings for more coffee. I took a can of cold brew out of the fridge three separate times, deliberating whether I should buy one or not, as they were $4.21 post-discount, which was still too expensive for me, and I thought long and hard about this purchase. Did I need this coffee? 250mg of cold brew? For $4.21? When I make $15.50 an hour and should be scrounging every penny possible?

This was such a difficult decision that it took me 45 minutes to decide to pull the trigger. I wrote about it in my journal, to help me through the quandry. I went for it, in the end, it was a small joy, and the timing was right. And here we are three hours later, I am 2/3 of the way through the can, and we can say it was the right decision. That caffeine is turning this Saturday around and got me goin’ right quick.

Immediately after I decided to purchase this can of cold brew, my home boy and veteran climbing staff member guru Luke shows up for some Saturday climbing, and the first thing he does is ring up a cold brew, same one that I bought. And he didn’t think about that for a single second. There was no deliberation there, no hesitation, unless he worked it all out in the car. That is a great place for deliberating, we all know it. I commented on this. (He did end up spilling some of his can, his precious coffee life-blood, lost about 70mg worth of cold brew.) When he rang it up, I noticed that it was cheaper for him, and he said there was an issue with some staff members getting regular member discount rates (10%) and not the staff discount rate (30%). I was getting a member discount rate! I could have saved $1.00 on that coffee! And 45 minutes worth of deliberation! I messaged the Director of Operations immediately and brought this issue to his attention.

The cave lights were not on today. One of the coaches asked me to turn them on, and I couldn’t figure it out, and then I had other business to attend to, and I forgot about it for a while. Then I remembered that that was something that needed to be done, and I asked all the brains in the building, how do we get these cave lights on, because nobody told me and I’ve twisted every visible knob and none of them have turned the lights on. I was walking back into the lobby to contemplate this issue further and see if anyone had answered my plea for help on our communication channels, when I spied Carlin, the herpatologist (who also works at these gyms), and I said, “Carlin, do you know how to turn the cave lights on?” (I should have that there is an overhung section of the gym, where you climb at 60 degree angle or so, maybe just 45, and that is referred to as “the cave”). Carlin investigated, attempted to turn some knobs, and then began to engage her brain further. We discussed the possible resolutions to the problem, and we then had the hypothesis that these cave lights should be also controlled by the master light switch, which toggles every light on that side of the building. Had someone then manually switched off the cave lights by accident, when they should be controlled by the master switch? I was stumped, when Carlin suggested that I just try toggling the master switch again. Okay, why not — I did so, and would you know it? That worked. Now all the lights were on plus the cave lights. Carlin was genius. We made many jokes about this, that our technical issue was actually resolved by the classic “Did you try turning it off and on again???”

I wanted to write about my handwriting, and I will, when I then remembered that another comment was made today about my mannerisms (if that’s what we can call them – my quirks.) Two comments were made today about things that are classically commented on, for me. The first is that I was asked by the 16 year old climb coach why there was a loaf of bread in the office. Many of you may know that I am a bread enjoyer and have no problem with eating an entire loaf of bread. This has gotten much attention in basically every workplace I’ve ever been it. I replied to this young climber coach, “It may be that someone is going to be eating a loaf of bread today.” Something like that. It was obvious to us all that it was my bread. The other girl said that she hoped that whoever would be eating the bread wasn’t just eating bread, and I said, “There may also be some peanuts around,” (that was true). She then called my diet “medieval”. It’s the first time it’s been called medieval, but I think that is actually a pretty great description for my diet, if you don’t want to call it “sparse” or “simple”. I generally use the word “simple”.

Some time after this, I was checking in a couple here on their first date, and the guy said to me, noticing my open notebook on the counter, “Is that your handwriting?” This is another thing that is commonly commented on. I confirmed that it was in fact my handwriting. It has already been outed here at this workplace that I have wild and unreadable scribble and script, as I have left several informative notes at the counter that no one has been able to decipher, even though I used my best handwriting. I came in to Starbucks a few days after my last shift, where I had written a short fictional letter of a man who had been stranded on an island with dinosaurs, and it was an object of interest for the staff, most of whom just looked at it and joked about it, but one friend, Chris K., one of my true homies, he went further, and spent hours, so he said, attempting to read my scribble. He had gotten quite far, through pure perseverance and will, and when I showed up for my next shift, he immediately came to me with the notepad and had me read the story to him. He said several times, “So that’s what it said!”

I was shocked then a couple weeks ago, when one of the climb staff members was able to read my handwriting almost flawlessly, with very little difficulty. I told him, you are an anamoly. The other team members couldn’t read it and were lambasting it, but he said, “I can read it,” and then he read every single word that I had scribbled on a sticky note. It was amazing. I wrote another message and had him read it, and he read that one too with perfect accuracy.

I was also shocked to see, once upon a time, a bartender who had nearly the exact same handwriting as me. She had almost all of the same patterns and quirks in her handwriting. I like to say that it is a “highly evolved script”, as it has become the way it is to be fast and efficient. Many things meld together and evolve/devolve (depending on how you want to look at it), but are readable to me or in context. It’s not an accident that the handwriting looks this way, and this bartender, her script was exactly the same. I had her write on a piece of paper for me, because we were having a conversation about my handwriting, again as I had a notebook open, and I wanted to see hers. I was amazed to see her writing, to see a kindred handwriting spirit. Right there on the paper, I performed a small analysis of the similarities of our writing.

The man at the gym, he said, “Is that your handwriting?” and he was amazed to see it. He said that his writing was “bad, like a 5th graders”. I asked him what he thought about my handwriting, and he said it looked like a doctor’s writing. It does look like a doctor’s scribble.

Bob Schmingus and The King of the Rats: Part 1

(Readers, please recall that Bob Schmingus is a top cat agent who has recently saved America from a humilating loss at the hands of the Chinese King Liu Wei, who wished to purchase MacDonalds and rename it MacWangs.)

Bob Schmingus had just returned from his recent successful adventure, convincing the King of China, who had recently desired the purchase and renaming of the iconic American restaurant chain MacDonald’s to MacWangs, and was enjoying his reward of 20 boxes of Fancy Feast. He was lounging on a beach in the Carribean, at this moment, shades on, feet up, and licking his paws clean, when his phone rang.

It wasn’t his usual ringtone, Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love by Van Halen. No, it wasn’t that, but it was a familiar ring: The Star Spangled Banner. And that could only mean one thing.

The President Of The United States was calling.

Bob Schmingus sighed. This wasn’t exactly what he wanted right now — he wanted waves and sun. That’s why he came to the Carribean, duh. But when the Prez calls…

He took the call.

“Talk to me, Jim Bob,” said Bob.

“Schmingus, I told you not to call me that. My names Carl. At least call me Carl, if you won’t follow the proper formalities.”

Schmingus chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. He loved messing with the President.

“Alright, Carl Bob. What do you need? Surely can’t be more trouble with the King of China? After we just had such a pleasant time together?”

“Ugh…” Groaned the President.

“It is.”

“Come on. What a guy! Isn’t he ever satisfied?”

“He’s a wily one. We can’t keep heads of tails of him. And we’re in for a long time with this guy… I hate to think about it.”

“So what’s the deal? I’m not exactly his babysitter here. That’s for the Chinese ambassador.”

“I know, Schmingus… I know. But… you know how to work him.”

Schmingus smiled. It was true.

“He respects you,” continued the President.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Birds of feather. So what’s his deal now? What geopolitical problem are we solving today? Wait, don’t tell me. He wants to buy Burger King and rename it to Burger Kang?”

“You know Schmingus, I understand why you two get along. You must have the same brain. That’s exactly what he’s trying to do.”

“You’re kidding me.”

The President sighed.

“I wish I was, Schmingus… I wish I was.”

Bob stared out at the lolling waves through his black Raybans, but he hardly saw them anymore. His mind was on the mission.

His mind was on China.

“He’s offered 100 trillion dollars for it. They’re thinking of selling. We could block them, but, the legalities, the politics… We need it done quick. You know what’s at stake—the geopolitical blowback, we could lose the culture war—”

“I get it, Pres. It would be a national tragedy, the loss of an American gem, yada yada. What’s the pay?”

“Same as usual.”

“I want Friskies, sardine and anchovy this time.”

“You keep Burger King American and you’ll have whatever flavor of Friskies your little paws could possibly desire.”

“I want Greenies too. Ten boxes.”

“Dammit Schmingus, you glutton! Don’t you ever tired of your hedonic binges? Don’t you ever want something more fulfilling? For a mind so brilliant, you live like a heathen!”

“I like this lifestyle. It suits me.”

The President was silent for a moment.

“There’s something else, Schmingus.”

“Uh oh. I don’t like that.”

“We’re teaming you up for this one.”

Schmingus bolted up, knocking the half-eaten tin of Friskies off of his lap and into the sand.

“Teaming? There is no teaming. I don’t do teams. You know that.”

“This time you do. The situation is getting dicey in the East. You need backup.”

“Like Hell I do!!”

“Dammit Schmingus, I’m not your damned butler! I give you the orders, and you aren’t going alone, dammit, and that’s that!”

Schmingus took a deep breath. The President was really testing him on this one.

“Just tell me who it is, Pres. And it better not be a woman. I’m not looking for any romance—”

“It’s your old pal, Schmingus. It’s your old Navy buddy.”

“No.”

“No one can fly a chopper like him Schmingus. He’s just what we need for the job—”

“NO!”

Schmingus was enraged, and without thinking he slammed his phone shut and hung up.

Immediately, he had regrets. He just hung up on the President of the United States. Not exactly recommended procedure. But…

The President was out of his mind. To suggest that he, Bob Schmingus, international ace, detective, dealmaker, assassin and schmoozer? Go to China with his greatest nemesis and archrival?

Schmingus had kicked his fallen can of Friskies and had thrown himself back on his chair, stewing with rage, when his phone buzzed.

“Pickup point Gorganzola. 11pm.”

— Carl Bob

Bob Schmingus wasn’t sure if he would go. But in the end, he wasn’t one to walk away from a trip to see the King. No he wasn’t. China was one of his favorite countries to work with. Something about the Orient that appealed to him. And he wasn’t going to give it up just because of that damned bastard Boldchungus… the grin that must be on his face right now.

Boldchungus probably hated the assignment as much as Schmingus did. He didn’t play with partners either. How did the President get him on board? Must have offered him a lot of Friskies. Greenies, Churu treats too…

They had that in common, at least. They were both greedy, thrill-seeking bastards.

Schmingus packed his essential gear, a lockpick and his trusty Barret .50 cal, and headed to the pickup point.

Someone was there to meet him.

Standing by the chopper, a model 450x SteathKite, with quad-lazer rotors and a radio-drive cloaking device (a top of the line stealth chopper, undetectable by all modern equipment known to man—or at least, America), and looking as smug as a bug in a rug, was Charlie Boldchungus.

That smug asshole.

“Well, well, well… Little Kitty’s gonna get his paws wet again, huh?”

“Save it, jackoff,” growled Schmingus, throwing his Barrett in the SteathKite’s storage hold. “I’ll rip that loose tongue right out of your mouth. What the hell does that even mean, anyway?”

“It means whatever I want it to mean,” Boldchungus retorted. “Tell me, how did the old man get you on board? What flavor of Friskies was it this time? Sauteed Salmon? Pink Antarctic Krill?”

Schmingus rounded on him in a flash, claws unsheathing.

“At least I don’t work for some god damned Fancy Feast. Pathetic.” Bob spit on the ground.

“You can’t buy taste.”

Boldchungus looked on with his iconic, smarmy grin spread across his face.

“Oh, and you’ve got it, do you?”

Charlie’s eyes screamed disdain. He hated being with Schmingus as much as Schmingus did being with him.

“Listen to me,” said Boldchungus, glaring at his arch-rival. “We don’t have to do play this stupid game. You get me in, you get me out. We both get paid. We don’t have to say as much as kum-ba-yah to each other.”

Boldchungus laughed, and climbed up into the cockpit. “Whatever you say, captain. Me, I’ve decided. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“I’ll enjoy it when I’ve got my Friskies,” muttered Bob, hopping up in the co-pilot seat. “And not a minute before then.”

Bob and Charlie went way back, if you can’t tell.

They were two of the hottest hotshots known to catkind. Two of the top feline agents in the entire world.

Six billion cats on Earth, and only a handful could do what these two could do. Part of an elite ring of feline actors, they were employed by governments and private businesses and wealthy individuals worldwide to carry out their respective desires. If the price was high enough, chances are you could find a cat to do it. Some stayed loyal to their countries — others only called a place where they could hoard their Friskies or Fancy Feast home.

Bob Schmingus and Charlie Boldchungus were both American cats, so to speak, and they had stayed loyal—for the most part. Boldchungus was known to run a mission or two for the French. Schmingus got the occasional call from the Japanese Prime Minister, the King of Danes, and Moldovan High Crown.

And, there is some speculation that he might have worked for the current King of China, King Wei. That might be why he had such close ties with the King. But, currently, it’s only speculation…

As far as Boldchungus goes, he was a top-flier. Boldchungus lacked the charisma, the geopolitical brain, intellect and charm of Bob Schmingus—that’s mainly why he despised him. But, of course, there was Lucina—better not to dig that up, not just yet. But what Charlie Boldchungus lacked in brains, he more than made up for in grit and sheer damn luck.

Charlie could find his way out of a truck in a deep muck, blindfolded. He had saved one the world’s top energy executive from an assassination attempt by shooting the assassin’s bullets out of the air. He had managed to find his way home after being buried alive in a Mongolian bunker twenty-three thousand miles deep (he was the only survivor). And in one of his most legendary feats ever, he was said to have flown his helicopter through another helicopter.

No one even knows how that could be possible, really. But he did it.

Why did Schmingus hate Boldchungus then, aside from the fact that he was an insufferable idiot?

It all goes back to the Iran incident…

But that’s for another time.

Quack Hits

I meant to say, Quick Hits.

“But what could it do, if any danger came?” Alice asked.

“It could bark,” said the Rose.

From Through The Looking-Glass, 1871, Lewis Carroll

Quick hits:

We write for joy. We write for fun. That’s why we write, ultimately. It is for joy.

Sometimes to convey information. Sometimes to persuade. But the best writing is that which comes from an act of love. It is play. That’s the best. So says Stephen King.

I have sat down to do this and found that I don’t really want to do this. So it goes.

“So it goes.”

– Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut.

I went on a run today. A wild run. I ended up in the middle of the woods running on deer trails. I stopped one centimeter before running through an enormous spider web, complete with large, scary black spider in the middle, at face height. It was like meeting a tripwire. I stopped just in time. I felt out around the edge, not wanting to just destroy the poor beast’s hard work and livelihood, but having to pass through this way, being in dense woodland forest, and I felt around the edges of the web, the invisible space, to see if there was some way I could pass without entangling myself in threads. I did find a large patch of open space, and I contorted myself through it, hoping very much to not bring the spider down upon me. I then resumed my running.

I could not believe that I had absolutely no ticks on me after this wild run. Through long grass, for a mile or more, I had mud, some scratches, various other debris, but surely, thought I, there must be a tick or twenty on my body. And there were NONE. Moving too fast? Too much sweat? No ticks in that grass? I couldn’t believe it.

It’s good to run hard through the woods. Makes you feel alive. I ran through about twenty deer, ten different pairs of two or three deer, on that run.

Tragedy struck this morning. Or, it struck last night. I discovered the tragedy this morning. My sunflowers had been ravaged. They had been doing so great, too. Well, they were ravaged. Not even a trace of three of them, only craters left in the ground from where they had been savagely ripped from the earth. The second largest, uprooted and mangled, left a carcass on the soil. If sunflowers had blood, there would have been blood everywhere. The largest, my prize bonnet, or whatever people said in the old days, my prize pig, bit clean off from three inches up. Three measly leaves and a smidgen of stem left. Well, at least they gave me that. Can it rise from the ashes?

Mysteriously, the two that have made it out of my second planting were left untouched. Perhaps they are being saved for later? Allowed to fatten before the slaughter?

Who was the culprit? We will never know. I suspect a rogue deer that haunts our neighborhood.

I’ve seen her.

I have had a growing history of reading people things from books, offering personal heartfelt readings, generally when in the comfort of my abode. I have read or attempted to read many a story to my living mates. Two nights ago, at a party, before heading out into the night, we sat around in the living room, eight of us young modern American people, and my roommate Smosh said something that I will never forget. I remembered it just now, I was reflecting on the significance of this event just moments before I started to write this piece, because it was truly extraordinary, and has put him in my good graces forever. He said, in the midst of the revelry, the group now gathered around the couch and table, all conversing, he said to me: “You should read us some poetry.”

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it first. Smosh, you wonderful man. I ran the three steps from the living room into my bedroom and grabbed my book of Poems of Fun and Fancy. And I read the poems.

Some of them.

I first chose to go out on a limb and try a new one. That was as an experiment. But it was not a great success. Everyone (my sister) just wanted to hear A Letter To Evelyn Baring.

Smosh then said, “I thought you would read us a Japanese poem.”

I went and got my Japanese poems.

I read the first poem I came across, which happened to be from The Exile Of Godaigo, about an exiled emperor of Japan in the late 1200’s.

tsui ni kaku

shizumihatsubeki

mukui araba

ue naki mi to wa

nani umarekemu

If it is my fate

To terminate thus my days,

In the depths of ruin,

Why was I ever born

Sovereign supreme of men?

After only one week, possibly ten days of avoiding all artificial light bar fire in the evenings, my circadian rhythm has completely reset. I have woken up at the crack of dawn on nearly all of these days. And now, the sun goes down, and I am sleepy. I am still often having surges of energy and late night mental wanderings, but I resist the urge to indulge them. I think it takes some time to fully adjust. This morning I woke up at 5:30 am, and for the first time, I felt like I was waking up regularly, as in, I did not feel that I wanted to go back to bed.

Parker came into my room last night to show me something on his phone. He had been working on some art for his Spotify. I allowed him to show me, he said, in an attempt to persuade me to evaluate his art, “I’ll show you on the lowest light settings.” Well, to my fully adjusted nighttime eyes, that “lowest” setting was still blinding, and when he flashed that screen in my face, I immediately recoiled, and I felt my eyes rapidly contract in my head. It was like I had just looked into the sun. I felt like I had just been doused with cold water.

I talked to a girl at the barcade, the night of the party. It was towards the end of the night. I had gone over to the machine to play Q-Bert. I got the second highest score, that night. Someday I will claim the first.

There was a girl standing alone at Burgertime. She was pretty. I had the urge to talk to her. I walked over to the machine next to her, and said, “Are you winning?” She said, “Oh, I’m just waiting for my friends, they abandoned me.” I said, “Oh.” (Or something like that.) She said, “I don’t even know what this is,” gesturing to the game in front of her. I looked at the title, saw that it was Burgertime. I said, “It’s Burgertime!”

She said something about how her friends were always going outside to talk to the bouncer or something. I said, “What do you think they’re talking about?”

She thought for a moment.

“Drugs.”

I laughed. She said, something about how they’re always talking about a “plug”, and she put emphasis on that word, somewhat mockingly, lighthearted mocking. I think she rolled her eyes.

She then asked me, “Are you winning? Tonight?”

I said, “Eh. I’m not losing.”

She was really looking at me now.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

I could tell she meant where I was really from.

“Elkhart Indiana… Northern Indiana.”

I don’t remember if she had any real response to that or just acknowledged it.

(Actually, I remember. She asked what brought me to Nashville.)

“How about you?”

She was from Nashville. She said, “right down the street” and she made a gesture suggesting that she really was talking about right down the street.

I said, “You can tell I’m not from Nashville?”

She said, “Mhm.”

“How could you tell?”

“Your stature.”

That was not what I expected to hear. I didn’t really know what that even meant.

“My stature?”

“Yep. And the way you talk.”

I ain’t no southern boy. That’s for sure.

Somehow, then, for whatever reason she told me that she had broken up with her ex that night. I don’t remember why she was telling me that. It was pretty matter-of-fact. She didn’t seem too devastated about it. But I remember that she phrased it as, “My ex and I broke up tonight.”

I said, “You’re already calling him your ex?”

She nodded.

I thought that was interesting. Can you say, “My ex and I broke up?” Not really, right. Because you can’t break up with your ex. You’re not dating them anymore.

I didn’t go into that right then. I said, for some reason, I guess I just had the feeling, “Have you broken up before?”

She nodded.

This was about at the end of the conversation. I’m wondering why I didn’t offer any words of solace or comfort. She might have asked me right after that what brought me to Nashville, but that doesn’t seem like it would have been the follow-up question. I think that came earlier in the conversation. There wasn’t much more said though, before she said, “I’m so sorry, but I really have to go now, my friends are waiting for me. It was nice talking with you, though.”

And she touched my arm.

I said, “Go on!”

Not in a way that suggested I wanted her to go. But it was time for her to go.

Maybe I was supposed to say, “It was nice talking with you too.” I don’t think it mattered too much what I said, then.

I now had permission to go ham on Q-Bert.

I had an epic run. In the very first game, I lost two lives like they were… pieces of candy… that you don’t… want, on Halloween. (I want to come up with an original and unique simile here. I don’t have it.)

I lost my first two lives like they were tadpoles… in a pond. Because frogs have so many babies…. they’re disposable… do you know what I mean?

Oh my god.

I lost those first two lives, and then I was on the ropes. I had one life left. And somehow, on that one life, I ended up going so far. It was all I needed. I was rolling hot on that one life.

I was in the perfect place, mentally, for crushing Q-Bert. I was the right level of invested. I didn’t care too much. I wasn’t too drunk. I was just a little buzzed, a little desirous of doing my best. The alcohol was unlocking some Q-Bert skill in me.

Then, my sister came over. She started talking to me. Something happened. I got riled up, I got distracted. And I made my one, final life Q-Bert jump off the cliff.

What a tragic ending!

I watched as my Q-Bert fell into the abyss. There went my final life. And for the night, that was my attempt at the top score. I did no better than that.

Boys’ Club at Ugly Mugs

More freewriting. I’m giving you more freewriting. I’m giving me more freedom to freewrite.

I woke up today at 6 am. And I don’t feel terrible. That’s pretty good, except I did feel sleepy still, and I sat on the floor and meditated for a while, and then moved to the more comfortable place, the bed, and then I was feeling so peaceful and comfortable, and I just touched the edge of blissful sleep —

I forced myself to get back up again.

Why am I doing this? I ask myself as I get out of bed, throw on clothes, head to the coffee shop, Ugly Mugs. If I’m tired, why not sleep in? Why am I battling my sleep schedule like it owes me money? Why am I not just living my life freely and comfortably and doing whatever I want whenever I want it?

Parker, in his infinite wisdom, said the other night, “Why don’t you just use your energy when you have it and rest when you don’t?” That was the most profound thing I had ever heard in that moment, and I told him so, to which he said, “Isn’t it obvious?” That just made it all the more profound.

The coffee at Ugly Mugs is gas this morning. As in, it’s really good. It’s hitting me like gasoline in a tank. And it tastes great. Really good coffee.

This is the earliest I’ve ever made it here, by far. 7 am I was at the shop. I wanted to get something done, I wanted to get started on whatever it is that I’ll do, and I knew that the chances were much higher if I escaped my freezing cave, and made it out here, out into the world.

I wondered what would be going on here at 7 am, I really did. It’s a local neighborhood coffee shop. The day is full of remote workers, college students, friends meeting for a chit-chat, coworkers or acquaintances talking business. What would be happening at 7 am?

A shocking thing. As I stumbled in, there was a guy, my age, different vibe, shorts and sunglasses, sandals (I’m wearing full black with running shoes, black hoodie in July because my roommate blasts the AC in the house, and it keeps me safe from the mosquitoes anyway, that love to feast on my precious blood), and I knew that we were on track to be reaching the door at the exact same moment.

Sometimes in this situation, when my brain has accurately calculated that I am on a collision course with another human, I will slow down or speed up. But I didn’t feel like doing either of those things, and he didn’t either.

I could tell he knew that we were both going to reach this door at the same time. Well, I reached it just a second before he did, and I opened the door and held it open for him. And he said, “Oh, you go ahead,” and I said, with a grandiose, sweeping gesture, “No, after you,” to which he replied, with a small nod, “Thank you,” and walked through the door.

Now, that wasn’t awkward at all. Just two humans being polite to one another. That was nice.

I did end up then walking right past him to order, as he stopped to look at something on the wall.

That was some foreshadowing. The fact that I was holding the door for a MAN, then. As I took my first sip of coffee I surveyed the scene, scanning the crowd. Who were the 7 am folk on a Wednesday morning at Ugly Mugs? And I was shocked.

All men.

Yes, in a place where the crowd is at least HALF women, I’ve never noticed a ratio skewed one way or the other, this morning, Ugly Mugs was a total boys’ club.

There was (and still is) one group of four lads having a great time at the long slab of wood table. They seem to be discussing some business, wearing smart business casual attire. I just stole a glance at them. Then, you have two more gentleman having a conversation at a table behind them… There’s a bro in sunglasses sitting outside in the sun. There is a refined-looking gentleman with well-maintained hair, glasses, comfortably but tastefully dressed, reading something on his phone. Probably the news. He is giving major dad vibes.

There is a guy behind me doing remote work. He was typing up a storm when I sat down.

There were about four guys in the back of the room, that seemed to all have moved on already. There’s one guy left way back in that corner, who is with high probability working. That’s the workers’ corner.

Since my arrival, somehow it’s already 7:45, several ladyfolk have entered the store, one is walking in right now. But none have stayed.

Who will be the first to break the boys’ club?

Will it be this woman in a blue and white summer dress?

Holy s***. It is!

But wait a minute. She may just be taking a temporary seat as she waits for her coffee.

She’s going to pick it up now.

What happens next?

She’s put a lid on it. It’s in a plastic cup. She could take that thing right out the door.

She’s added some cream. We are all waiting on tenterhooks.

She’s taking a sip. She seems pleased.

And now?

Another sip.

And… she’s gone to a table in the back!

She’s sitting!!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to the club!!!!!!!!!!

(One minute later)

Oh my god. She just left.

She had just been waiting for a sandwich.

The boys’ club continues…

Bart

Sometimes, the universe gives you exactly what you ask for, exactly when you ask for it.

(This just happened to me.)

It was noon. I had already done some writing on a story that I’ve been working on. I’m nearing the end of it, and it feels like I’m in the middle of a boss battle. I’m currently writing what seems to be the core emotional center or climax of the piece. It’s a difficult part. I can’t force it. But I can’t leave it alone.

However, after spending the better part of last night as well immersed in writing, I realized I was hitting a limit of time spent in fantasyland. I tried to write outside so that I wasn’t cooped up inside all day but was immediately beset by mosquitoes and angry about it.. I had an unshakeable feeling that I needed to get out into reality and connect with it, right now, during the day. I could come back to writing at night. Now was the time for reality.

With that solified in my mind, I decided to go out and walk, and do a bit of running, which I have wanted to do but am struggling with a calf strain. Just let my feet take me somewhere, and move my body in the sun. I changed clothes, threw on shoes, and out I went.

Immediately, as I turned right to go up the hill and into the depths of my East Nashville neighborhood, I saw a man on the ground in the grass across the street. He was about thirty feet down the way, rolling around near the sidewalk. I didn’t recognize him. I saw that he was old, had snow-white hair. And at first, I thought that he may have been doing yoga or something. I approached him with great curiosity and growing concern. I realized that he was not just doing some noonday stretches, but he trying to get up off the ground, and he was shaking and rocking rhythmically, like he was having a small seizure.

I walked up and studied him. There was no else around. I asked him if he was okay, and what had happened. I now noticed that his forehead was covered in a smear of blood. It was shining and deep red. It was the color of blood. He seemed confused, and I was trying to figure out what had happened to him. Was he having a stroke? Did he have a concussion? How conscious was he? Was he on drugs? He was not coherent at all. He only kept asking me to help him get up.

I could tell that if he did get up, it wouldn’t help him much. He was going to fall right over, and risk hurting himself again. I knew then that I needed to call an ambulance, and I looked around for anybody, but there was no one around. I didn’t have my phone on me and would have to go back and get it. I didn’t want to leave this man, but that was what I had to do. As I walked over to the man I had heard a siren, and I was hoping that maybe they were on the way for him, although there was no one around that I could see that would have called the police. Well, I hung around with this man, who was becoming angry at me, that I was not helping him stand up, which he couldn’t do anyways, and he started yelling at me, when I let go of his hands, “Help me, God Dammit!!” I grabbed his hands again, calming him, and then I saw turning the corner at the end of the street, a fire truck. That was a relief, and I waved to them. They pulled up, and three guys hopped out of the truck.

The lead guy was middle aged, shaved head. The two guys following behind were younger, wearing sunglasses. The shaved head firefighter walked up to the old man, and said to my surprise, in a friendly way, “Hi there Bart! Need some help?” The firefighter knew this guy. That was good. Bart said, not looking up at them, “I don’t want your help. Don’t help me.” He seemed to know them too. He was not happy to see them.

I backed off, and let the professionals take over. They talked to him, grabbed a plastic chair off the nearby porch and sat him down in it. As they picked him up, he collapsed again. The two other firefighters were sitting with him now. The lead firefighter now turned to me and gave me an explanation, in low tones. “He lives just over there,” he said, gesturing to the houses back behind. “He has Lou Gehrig’s disease and does crack, smokes weed.” He talked about it as if it were regrettable but common. All I could really thing to say to this was, “He’s having a tough time, I can tell.” The firefighter now walked over to Bart, and at that time an ambulance and a squad car showed up, everyone getting out of their vehicles. Six personnel were on the scene, and my role here in this small play was finished. I went off on my walk.

I thought briefly about this. I reflected on the plight of this old man, of the casual, matter-of-fact way of speaking about him, in his patheticness, of the firefighter.. This man, a man of my neighborhood, in such abysmal condition, and his story so natural and normal that I don’t even bat an eye at it. It’s not surprising to me at all to have encountered this situation. Especially after New York City, and from my time at the Cummins Station Starbucks, I am not shocked to see these things anymore.

Underneath the normal veil, the standard quietness of this suburban space, today, where I do my writing and my gardening, and things seem so normal, there was a rupture. I learned that my neighbor is doing crack. He is not okay. He is suffering.

Bart punctured the veil.

I am supposed to write something memorable and significant here, in conclusion. I know that. But I don’t really have anything to say.

I left my house seeking reality, and yet I was immediately met with a somewhat fantastical event. I guess it’s just that kind of day. The lines are blurred.

I hope Bart is okay.