Friday, February 5, 2010


Ah, remember those Thirsty Thursday college nights? Yeah, I don't really either - forget about 'em.  This is just a little link post to get us into the weekend.  The Super Bowl is coming up on Sunday and a snow storm (somewhat?) is supposed to hit tomorrow night.  I'll hopefully be doing some more sketch filming this weekend if the weather permits.  I will also be enlisting the help of any local Italian deli to provide me with a submarine sandwich for the Super Bowl.  I know just the place, Graham Avenue Meat & Deli, although the Lorimer Street Meat Market is just as good.  Anyway, after the super-serious Gene Clark post from yesterday, we will be moving back to basketball with my play-by-play of the 1992 NBA All-Star Game.  I know how I'll be spending my next day off from work.

Two new links to point out.  The first is my old college roommates band, the Sanctuaries.  You can find a link to his music on the side - his name is David Stern.  However, now he has a band he is playing out with and you can find them listed as the Sanctuaries.  They played at Brouar Falls on Grand Street last Sunday and should be playing at Cake Shop on February 25.

The second is my friend Emily Schenkein and her excellently (read, perfectly) titled blog - Piles of Fruit and a Fully Stocked Bar.  There may be a reference there I am missing, but I love the name anyway.  Check her blog out because it is very good.  You like interesting people right? World's Coolest Dude 2007 wouldn't lead you wrong, right?

On a personal note, keep any eye out because I entered the manuscript of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt into the Amazon CreateSpace Breakthrough Novel Contest.  This is for a shot at a book deal with Penguin.  The first round of judging begins next  week so I may be able to post some feedback up here.  We will see.

Anyway, stay tuned for the new material that I am always bringing to the table.

Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.


Yes, I’m on the floor.  I feel the drool coming out of my mouth onto the floor.  It’s moist there already.

“You been kissin’ girls, Connor?  God knows Benny’s kissed a few.”

He was a strong and funny old man.  A little too hard on Connor, though.  He used to slap his back and you could hear that slap.  Thock. Hulpth.  A smack is supposed to be fleshy, but this was hollow. 
Here are the girls now.  My blondie on the left and Rose reincarnated on the right.  Is it too soon for reincarnation?  She couldn’t be reincarnated anyway, because she already was.  She is.  So then maybe I’ll look forward to a flower coming off of a tree, or an especially beautiful shepard dog, or perhaps a girl who is too young and sweet for me – like her - will pass me on the street one day from now.  That’ll be ten years or maybe even one hundred years from now and it’ll be her, hair riding behind her, a small wave and that slow creeping smile, like the fade-in of a piano on mono speakers.
“Dad, are you alright,” I hear Liza say.  She kneels down right above me.  I can feel her.  It’s funny how you can feel your own children, its like that organ inside of you is a radar, that glowing recognition of yourself out in the world – a full entity beyond you and inside of you forever. I smell a freshness, something like dirt.  It smells like a moist night by the harbor.  It’s Mags.

“Mags,” I hear myself mumble. “Dance Maquokeeta! Play piano man play!”

“What, dad?” I hear her. “Looks like the damage has been done old timer.”

“Shh, Maggie. I ain’t that old.”

“Not that old, did you say? Maybe not.  But I can think of maybe one of your organs that is.”

I hear the touch of fabric.  It was like a slap.

“Just grab his other arm-pit,” it’s Liza little sing-song.

When dad used to slap Connor on the back it was because he saw something womanish in him.  It was because he was so close to mom.  He must’ve had a few and walked in on Connor confessing his soul’s purpose to mom one of those nights they used to sit at the table after dinner picking at scraps of chicken, or dipping bread in the vinegar at the bottom of the salad bowl.  He was going to be a poet-doctor, like William Carlos Williams.  He was just sensitive and found himself around girls like mom, whether it was at school or at the altar with Erin.

“You looked like sunshine up there,” I said.

“That was weak for such a cunning wordsmith,” Erin said.

“And you,” I turned to him.  He looked handsome.  A little too thin for his tuxedo, but looking suave, pushed back and relaxed like he always did.

“Thank you, Ben.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.  The younger one got married first.  I feel pressure underneath my pits.  My wings are lifting. Praise be to⎯

“Just pull him up, Liza.”

“I am.  Maybe we’re not that strong?”

“What the hell is that clicking noise?”

“It’s the record player I think.”

“Oh yeah.”

I feel my arms hit the rug. 


“I think I’ll get James.”

“Damnit.  We can do this without him.  The two of us.  Get his legs. I’ll get the armpits.”

I want to laugh but my mouth doesn’t want to.  I was always ticklish down at my ankle.  When Rose found out she was unmerciful! 

“Is that his tickly little ankle?” She talked to me like I was baby.

“No no no! What’s the ransom?”

“Tell me how much you love me.”

“I thought a girl like you didn’t need to be remindahahoo.”  I rolled back on the bed.  She leaned over me.  Her hair covered her face and she moved it.  Her breasts dangled.

“All girls need to.” She ran her fingers gentler.  Five feathers along my bones.

“OK OK.  But what if I have no words?”

She stopped and looked down at me. She kissed me.  She kissed me hard.  Then she pulled away.  Our lips and eyes only so far apart.  Silence, sheets, the smells of our bodies, her breath beginning to turn before bed but I loved it.  I loved it!

“I’ll invent something new.”

I feel myself lifted.

“We got it, Liza. We got it.”  Mags again.  Ah, its always about the girls.  Now its these two.  First my mother who feared God and I feared her and stuck to the shadows where you could curse and didn’t have to be controlled, didn’t have to keep your foot above the break.  Then it was the faces and tinkling music of girls at school, passing passing always passing skirts and jackets.  Then Rose.  She was nothing but – what?  She was everything.  I  saw her from all angles.  I saw her bleed, I saw these girls come out of her.  What was Rose but all colors and all girls and all lights and all clothings and every album and song that I ever loved?  She was that touch on a piano key that makes you think you could live forever.  Do I still have it?  Do I still have it in me to live forever?  Or is that gone with my stitching?  Is all my fabric bleeding out all over this house?  My blood, piss, and half-oxidized alcohol.

The girls at school:

    Connor and Benjamin O’Donnell,
    They were born with their heads in the bottle.

“Just down the hall.  We’ll take a break at the stairs.”

“I’m losing grip on his ankle.”

“Right here, c’mon.”

Now it’s these two.  My blondie and my – my Mags.  I can see Liza ahead of me a litle blurred holding two logs. My legs.  I lean my head back.  Mags’ blurred face, a little point in there on her chin.  Like Rose of course.  I lay my head on my chest and keep my eyes closed.  I’m riding out to sea.  I’ll let myself explode like a Cutty Sark.  I’ll try to live forever.

“Ok, here.”

Thud. Ow!  Right by the fucking ass!


“What the hell was that?” I hear James.

“Well big – little brother.  Here’s your everloving father.  I think we may need your help hoisting him the rest of the way.”

All my children are here.  My wife is dead.  But where is Tom?  And what is tomorrow anyway?

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