All the best plots are stolen, and all the best snots are, too. I should know. I was the attendant of our town’s
stone nose. Night and day, I guarded the golden snot. It was honest work and lousy pay, easy work at a steady rate. I stood by the nose and protected the snot. From the left nostril, it hung, its golden green gleaming under warm sunny rays.

My job was simple. Only the lawful could essay a picking. The frauds were forbidden, you know, those without
papers—usurpers, outsiders, weaklings, and thieves. But the lawful had documents in order, and so by the thousands, they waited in line, and one by one, I allowed them a plucking. Easy, no?

Alas, I bungled the job!

The nose? The nostril? The golden snot? Do you insist that I start from the start and share with you the entire
sad tale? Then pass the pipe and I pull you in—learn the truth as I pull you through.

Our town was built by the nose. In our civil center square, it stood as the stable locus between Church and Gym
and State and School. It was the pride and joy of our town. It put us on the map as the prime place for proving one’s pluck.

Now I know you readers have all fingered and frothed over ordinary boogers—green and gold, brown and yellow.
Crusty, rubbery, watery, hard. But know that this was no ordinary gold!

Far from it! For whomever could yank the yucky stuff would unite the land? Of course. Untie the snot and unite the land! It was so simple and certain. And all I had to do was guard the sucker.
And I failed.

Failed!

Do you demand dimensions? The nose was five men high and at its heavenly tip, three folks wide. The nostrils were each deep enough to shove in several plump dwarves.

It’s type? You mean ugly or corrected, asymmetric or aquiline? Let us rise above such specifics reeking of
opinion and prejudice. In substance, the nose was like any other—an individual on thorough inspection.

But from where did the pickers grasp the golden goodie? Do not snots inevitably hang down? Do not nostrils face the ground?

We had a platform on which the nose stood. And we tilted the nostrils halfway to the heavens. The picker picked
from above the snot, leaned over the guardrail, and yanked with all her or his might. And always failed, inevitably flunked. After each attempt, I gently lifted up the picker, sat her upon the nose tip, and pushed him down. And the happy failure flew down the stone nose and on his or her merry way—back to Church or School, home or work, out of my hair and nostril hirci. Next please, I cried. And another would climb.

But what about a ramp? Could the crippled elderly attempt a pick? Were we equal opportunity pluckers? Indeed,
every seventh fool was old folk off the ramp. Many an elderly cripple I hoisted over my head, and each was offered a chance, and my feeble smile waned as they flunked snot pulling.

By the thousands, they came from near and far. Young soldiers brought their rifles and tension. Old ladies
brought tweezers and gumption. Patriarchs pulled with strong arms. Jokesters punned with court yarns. Physical therapists tried to teach snot to walk. Psychotherapists insisted it talk. Mathematicians summed it as possible while intellectuals quarreled and deemed it implausible. And after three minutes of trying, I picked up each picker and down he slid flying.

And a little boy, but a babe in the woods, an innocent toddler in a tucked-out tee. He unsucked his thumb and pried with his heart—

Nope, no luck. But down the nasal slope, he cried in glee.

000

Years passed in which nary a snot was picked. Thousands passed the peril of my platform. Various auteur types, in passing, showed papers, and essayed a plucking. They shared with me their feeble efforts as they failed to
pry my golden prize. Heart surgeons left hospitals and life savings, and upon my platform pried for gold. Narcissists left their mirrors and chanced a shot at fame. Seven in twenty tipped and offered bribes. Fat chance I smiled, and most begged forgiveness in that awkward space between trying and flying—down
the nose and on with merry life.

I went about my business and screamed next please and secretly laughed as afore the snot each sorry sucker
sunk.

Alas, work became a dull routine!

000

I confess. I stole the snot from out under my own nose! (Not mine really, merely the one I oversaw.) The painful
urge ever burgeoned. I could not help myself. It was at night. My greasy pinkies edged toward the nostril. A tuna of a woman begged for her turn. She was next, but did I care? Hell, no.

I gave into the fates and stole into the treasure trove. For a moment, I had my entire face stuck in said cavern.
What did I see? An endless hall of buggers with a golden glob outshining the rest? Cavemen or mice? God or the abyss?

Nothing of the sort.

One long simple snot as described above. No more, no less.

After I plucked it out—piece of cake, truth be told—I was unsure of my next move. I panicked. The night crowd
below began to grow restless. I heard their mean cries and bitter complaints.

“Hey, you at the front! Get your butt up on that platform!”

“I said, move it, buddy.”

“Yo, attendant! You fall in or something?”

“Yeah, you on top. Hoist up the fat fish.”

“Like we ain’t got all day!”

They were screaming at me! They were throwing no rotten fruit—not yet—but I knew I had to act fast. I looked down upon the angry masses, the swollen mob, the roaring crowd grown impatient from a recent lack of linear progress. They were starving and snot was grain. They all craved their fame, but the snot had been plucked and it was now in my hands! I saw that I must ditch the platform before they stormed it and lynched my ass.

But what could I do? What would I do? What did I do?

Good question.

What did I do?

000

You see all along my folks always told me I’d only amount to an average no-good Joe, a follower or failure, that
I better get a job and keep it or I’d never support myself. So when I landed snot-watch work I thought I’d done right. I was the chosen one, lucky shit, company man—opportunist, capitalist, yes man, thief. Term me what you will, it all depends upon your point of view.

For the first several months, all I did was do my job.

And then the urge came. The lust. Once it came it would not desist. Over the years, it grew immense. I was
spending my hours lifting folks up, so they could free the snot, unite the land, achieve the fame, and forget the attendant. Do you know what I mean?

The urge was killing me!

Forgetting the queue and putting my best pick forward was my slippery mind could dream of. Gosh darn, the vacation I’d go on if that snot was out of my hair. So I guess it really wasn’t only about uniting the land. To be frank, I was dying for a coffee break. So it was both envy and java that led me to act.

000

And I got as far as the edge of the nose’s long Cyranoesque shadow. Far from the masses, on the opposite side of
the square, I was home free—or would have been.

But I got tangled up, all caught up in the golden green!

You see, it was melting in my clammy palms. All the while I was ditching my career, the snot was melting! All slimy and squishy, it slipped under my feet and through my legs, and I was still caught in the square and the new attendant approached and he demanded my papers and I had no proof of previous snot-picking privilege and he doubted my earnest pleas that yes, I was only the old attendant saving the snot from sure mutilation at the hands of an angry mob, and no, I had not stolen it from foreign fingers, and yes, I was telling the truth, and no, I hadn’t used the magi’s magic tweezer or the doctor’s surgical scissor, the witch’s prickly wand, or the butcher’s meat saw!

“With my own bare hands,” I whispered. And I quivered on the ground, caught in the glob of glutinous
boogie, awaiting punishment from the stern attendant.

But he said nothing. He smiled at me. His stiff smile moved to a leer. So condescending was his unwavering leer.
Damn that attendant.

000

So there we were in the middle of the square. I thought he would call the police or fire chief or cry to the
masses that he had caught the man.

But nooooo.

He thought he could untie me himself.

Yanking this way and yerking that, he pulled and pried, fondled and fingered.

But far from extricating my person from said phlegm prison, all he did was get us both stuck in the glob!

How we scuffled and flopped and flailed and tried all extrications known to mankind and his attendants, all the while in fear of the blood-sucking masses and our boogie-befouled fingers. But we failed. We flunked Phlegm Evasion 101. And we knew by morning, they would have us destroyed.

000

But the funny thing was morning never came, and the crowd never charged, and the attendant never ceased to aid me in my futile escaping, and as I pulled and pried and fought, my thoughts got
stuck in perpetual dream.

In the sweet dreams of my captivity, morning came and the crowd attacked. They charged into our snot in broad
daylight. Truckers, grandmas, lawyers, salesmen. By the hundreds and twenties, forsaking the nose, they dove into mine and my attendant’s battle. Once smeared in snotty goo, not one citizen could ever escape. The whole nose line caught in my dreamy plot, the entire civic polity stuck in golden snot.

By dusk, the town stood fully united!

When my father’s favorite sister leaves, I get Dad all to myself again. Since early in the summer, my aunt and I have knocked heads on the proper way to care for a dying man, so as soon as she is out of the house, I feel an enormous weight lifting. I feel more relaxed. I plan to make up for all the arguments from earlier in the summer. Then, I wanted to confront my father with his various failings as a Dad—from his various absences to his overbearing presence—but I’ve come to realize that it’s too late for this. He hasn’t eaten in weeks and can hardly take any fluid at all; he doesn’t have energy for intense conversations. If anything, a dying man feels he’s owed an apology from the rotten world, not like he is the one to apologize to selfish offspring or anyone else. So now, I am committed to rising above the fray and playing the role of the dutiful son until the end.   

Over the next five days, I make a conscientious effort to meet all of my father’s needs. He wants constant drinks, water or sweet tea, and ice cubes and plant waterings and laundry and dishwashing, so I’m a whirl of activity, trying to stay on top of all of these tasks while being pleasant, good company in my moments of rest. At first, I’m exhausted, and I imagine what hell it must be to be a mother with young children, or a maid or servant. Compared to domestic servitude, teaching doesn’t seem too bad.

To get out of the house, I take afternoon excursions to a local grocery store on Main Street, bland, beige shelves full of processed and packaged food, and then drive a bit further down to the bright lights of Kmart where I pick up a few other items. At times, Dad gets an idea for a specific thing he wants—maybe some seeds for the garden, or a particular popsicle flavor. One day, strolling through the aisles, I discover that the movies in the video section are affordable, many for four to six dollars, not much more than the price of new-release rentals. I pick out three films that I think my father might enjoy; these are movies I don’t think he’s seen. Among them is What Dreams May Come because I know my father is a big fan of Robin Williams.

When I get back to the house and show Dad the loot, he seems excited to see this movie; in fact, we both are. The problem is we don’t know what the movie will be about. As it turns out, the opening seems to depict a spacious final resting place, heaven perhaps, or some other next stage or afterlife. As the scene opens, I get this awkward feeling that it is much too close to home for present circumstances. I move from watching heavily animated backgrounds to taking furtive glances at my Dad to see his reactions. Finally, I’ve had enough.

“This seems kind of depressing.”

“It’s kinda morbid, huh?” Dad looks over at me, not demanding that we turn off the movie, but with a look of real questioning. The doubt on his face suggests that I’m to decide if this is permissible viewing. It’s as if I’m the parent who has to decide.

“I was going to get As Good As It Gets for the same price, but I remember you said you’d seen it already.”

“Ooo. That’s a good one, Al. I’d watch that again.”

“I’ll go get it.” I’m eager. This is my chance to do something that will please my father, what a good son would do. Maybe I can’t properly clean his bathroom or choose the right career, but I can run to a Kmart and get the movie he’d rather see.

“Can I come?” This surprises me. On the one hand Dad hasn’t been out much at all during my visits, so I’m surprised he’d want to go. But the way he asks me catches me off guard.  He sounds like a small boy asking his folks if he can tag along to run errands, so I tell him he can certainly come along. He uses his hands to heave himself off the couch, and then walks into the bedroom. When he returns, he’s replaced his sick man’s bath robe with grey sweatpants and a peach tee-shirt. The sweatpants have pleats and pockets, so he can bring his wallet and comb too. He could almost pass for any other semiretired Waynesboro citizen, so dead man walking and I proceed out the door.

We can’t take my Tercel because it’s hard for him to squeeze into the firm bucket seat on the passenger side, but lucky for me, he is still willing to drive in his old Buick, and the aged vinyl seat is soft and comfortable. Like always, I’m incredibly nervous driving with my father in the passenger seat. So even though he hasn’t eaten in weeks, I ask him to drive. He finds this cumbersome. It makes no sense as to why I can’t drive him two miles to Kmart, but nonetheless he obliges and takes the wheel.

On the ride over, Dad says, “This is all the fun I got left, Al, messing around with those retail managers.”

Rather than grant my father his small fun in what remains of a short life, I chastise him. “Dad, those guys are really underpaid, and have to deal with all sorts of annoying customers who complain about everything. Plus, they work fifty or sixty hours a week and don’t get paid overtime. They’re sitting ducks for people to take their anger out on.”  From experience, I know retail counters can be a hassle and a half.

“OK. Dad’s wrong again.” I see a pout form on his face.

We walk into the Kmart and are immediately attacked by the bright lines beaming down from high ceilings. The fluorescence illuminates the plastic and polyester merchandise, and I imagine my father must find this dazzling—bright lights and colors all over, big black numbers on white backgrounds announcing discounts and bargains on every rack. This is the world my father will soon depart.

Returns are just to the left of the main entrance, and there is a line of several customers exercising their American right to take it back. Dad sits in one of the electronic wheelchairs Kmart has on hand. It’s hard to say if these are available for old people, for children, or our standard-issue American fatties. But he sits there with a look of the obedient child on his face. He is going to let me handle the transaction.

When our turn comes, the woman tells me that I have to give a reason for the return.

“A reason?”

“That’s right. We can’t just take anything back.”

“We didn’t like the way it started.”

“That’s not an acceptable reason.”

She looks so proud to clarify the rules that all I can think to do is move quickly to the trump card.

“He’s,” and I thumb in Dad’s direction to show her the old dead guy playing silent cherub, “sick and dying, and we just can’t watch a movie about heaven.”

It sounds like she mumbles that our reason isn’t acceptable, but she completes the return anyway.

“Did you tell her I was dyin’? Is that what you said?” Dad looks curious. He thinks this is the funniest thing.

I’m in my all-business mode and can’t even pretend to make some decent conversation with my dying father. Instead I go straight back and get As Good As It Gets. I remember several months back, he told me he identified most with the gay character in the movie because he wasn’t accepted by his neighbors for who he was. This reminded me of the Havertown neighbors calling the cops on Dad for not mowing his lawn, but I’m not positive if this is what Dad was thinking of.

We take the five-minute drive back to the house, and settle in to watch Jack Nicholson dominate the screen. I can see my father is enchanted by the movie. It’s amazing how we can still get subsumed in someone else’s life even at the end of our own. The constant search for diversion that is this American life. It reminds me of an article I once read on the death penalty in Texas, and the last words of many of the convicts. A good many did indeed address their crime—some apologized to family of the victim, some professed their innocence for the final time, and some prayed to God. But many others avoided the topic entirely, and for last words said, “How ’bout them Cowboys!” It was as if the Dallas football team was the final thought, the Cowboys’ triumph a blessing before one’s own end. Later in the summer, I’ll watch my father let various parts of the outside world fall off and drop away from his life. And then I’ll see him focus on the people in front of him, myself and a few others. But for now, enjoying ornery Jack is a welcome diversion, a chance for Dad not to think about his own impending death.

The whole visit is like that, the two of us finding a way to work together, each understanding his place in the equation. At nights, I make Dad a cooler full of cold drinks and ice cubes he can swirl around in his mouth and spit out into a large mauve pitcher. I imagine that some of the fluid diffuses into his body through his mouth, and this is his only source of hydration. He still pisses, frequently in fact, but his urine is the Indian red color of the dehydrated man. But the system is working—no nutrition but he can swirl and spit his fluids and enjoy the flavor of frozen juice and sweet tea. I know his cancer is a terminal condition, but I hope I can help him stay alive.

“No Returns” is an excerpt from rough draft of The Book of Jay, a memoir by Alex Kudera with journal selections from his father, the poet Jay Roberts. It’s a work in progress that will consist of intertwining memories of each writer’s father.

The other night, I caught the last hour of a movie masterpiece on TV: Sidney Lumet’s 12 Angry Men. It is an inspiring film to watch, in and of itself, and it is full of that 1950′s mixture of sinewy intellect and bongo-driven, twelve-tonal avant-gardeness. It is a film that simultaneously, as much of the art of that period did, praises and condemns the register of human action and tendency. 

But the old stream-of-consciousness kicked in when I again saw Lee J. Cobb, the disgruntled father who wants a young man to hang as a result of his own feelings against his own rebellious son. Seeing Cobb made me think of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, in which he played the first Willy Loman.

I can’t even think of that play without feeling emotional. In my humble opinion, it might be the highest work of art in the history of American letters. Miller captures the common human struggle in that play in a way in which only he can. I have always seen Arthur Miller as a hero — as the writer I wish I could become. 

(To give you perspective, when it was announced that Arthur Miller had died, in 2005, I was driving and had to pull to the side of the road to contain myself. Granted, I am an emotional guy, but it rarely comes to that. )

At any rate, when I was watching the film and I thought of Death of a Salesman, I got an all too familiar pang: Please, God, just let me write just one thing that good — one thing that can move someone else the way Miller moved me. This is an ache not unlike the feeling of an earnest young crush — a passionate, pure love for someone else who doesn’t have the slightest idea that you cry and sigh at night, just praying for the feeling of her palm in yours. 

I have known this feeling at increments all my life (both for love and art), and while I recognize it as real, I am also aware of its fiery transience, just as I am aware that Miller didn’t write his masterpiece in a rush of passion but in a series of intense intellectual, meticulous visions and revisions. 

Still, I went to bed with that ache, thinking of Willy and his son Biff — of the seething secret that connected them; of the real tragedy of Americans dreaming of grabbing a prize they cannot define; of Miller’s deep, realistic yet mystical wisdom in painting a portrait of what can go so terribly wrong with the American dreamer. 

But the next day, as I looked out the window and saw my nine-year-old son wearing his baseball cap and tossing a ball into the sky and catching it with elaborate dives accompanied by announcements of glory, living, in his imagination, the fame he knows will be his, someday, in the Majors, I realized the stark truth that all writers must face, even (maybe especially) in the afterglow of great inspiration: The wonder and the reality and the profundity of this moment — of a boy imagining, dreaming and pretending – has never been and will never be captured by a pen. Not with all its colors and shades. 

Life is so much bigger than art. Strange as it may seem, it took me a few decades to really believe that. The messenger of reality’s wonders doesn’t stride the stage boards, bellowing and gesticulating as if to tear down heaven’s roof; he wears a tiny ball cap, hates baths and laughs belly-laughs at the mere mention of flatulence. 

Still, we write. Still, we paint. Still, we compose. Still, we are driven to create, hoping that we can shine a perfect light on something for just one second out of an eternity. That’s cool.

Chris Matarazzo’s ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS appears every Tuesday.

“We slept in a bungalow! On the floor!”

“After waiting in line for 3 hours, we were lucky enough to see a 30 minute comedy show…for free!”

“As far as the eye could see, there were free energy drinks…and boy did we drink them.  We drank them all.  We were sick as dogs.”

“Love was in the air.  More often than not, you could see couples embracing each other in heated passion, right there on the street.  Any time of day.  Any time.”

“Everywhere you walked, there were enormous crowds of smelly youth.  By the day’s end, your own body would reek of Pabst and the odors of passing strangers.”

“We got to drive through Texas…and Oklahoma!”

“Everyone had iPad 2s!”

“The streets were filled with the sounds of death metal bands and unsigned country acts all morning!  Nothing like sitting down to a french toast breakfast at 8am while you are barraged with the worst music you’ve ever heard.”

“Nobody wore shirts!”

“We would walk 6 miles downtown, stand around for 5 hours, then walk 6 miles back uptown to the bungalow.  We felt great.”

“Did I tell you we also drove through Arkansas? I think I forgot to tell you that.  We saw the little rock.  It’s in Little Rock.  It was kind of big.  Don’t go to Little Rock.”

“There used to be a saying that everything was bigger in Texas.  People would say, ‘Everything is bigger in Texas.’ We found this to not only be true of the state itself, but also in the way of migraine headaches and feelings of extreme anxiety experienced while within the borders.”

“We had the best time.”

Q: What do you get when you mix a celebrity spouting self-truths, the power of social networking, and some people up for a silly little creative writing challenge?

A: Charlie Sheen-inspired poetry, written in the style of e.e. cummings!

So here’s the back story:

Unless you’ve been living under a rock (and even then), you’ve heard about the ongoing implosion of Charlie Sheen. Love him or hate him, his antics and verbose psycho babble ramblings have made for delectable Facebook and water cooler fodder. In one such instance, I decided to post a mash up of my favorite quote as my FB status:

“I have tiger blood and Adonis DNA, motherfuckers.”

From here, numerous friends responded with their favorite Sheenisms, one which included “Can’t is the cancer of happen.” One responder noted that this particular line sounded like it was lifted from an e.e. cummings poem, which I thought was a brilliant and astute observation.

This sparked an idea: What if we wrote our own “Can’t is the cancer of happen” poems, in the style of e. e. cummings? Submitters could either chose to focus their poems on the topic of Sheen and his antics, or completely divert from the subject matter while still using that amazing line.

So far, there have only been 3 brave enough to submit. Read their poems below and, if you’re feeling up for the challenge, submit your sheenings using the comment form below!

———–

Alabama Foghorn: 12/12/1968

Impossible divinely darling Cans
floated from her feet to her waist to her hands
up-conveyed thence from her heart to her brain
chemically untaxed with thought or strain

of the negater of Can: not.
Of a concrete-rough malignant agent
she’s a victim now, without repent,
of the insidious cancer of Can’t.

-g. coursey

———–

i blinked
and cured
my
brain

because –
radical Gibson/Penn calls
came to
the
red phone
that lies
on my sunlit ego in the rain

can’t is the cancer
of happen
of the party’s rules
you people don’t know magic

i drink red drinks
until
you live
with my brain –
not of this earth.
bitch.
-cj matarazzo

———–

kacey and charlie, brittany and bree
went down to the mansion(for a partying spree)

and kacey discovered how her phone rang
after tweeting and texting and sexing;and

charlie befriended another porn star
whose eyes after freebasing languid were;

and brittany was bashed by a horrible thing
which raced upstairs while blowing more coke;and

bree came home to their king-size bed
as private as a world and as pleasant as dread

for however we unhinge, however we scant
we always must know the cancer of happen is can’t.
-s.w. moreno (based on this cummings’ poem)

I probably should have published the following post on Valentine’s Day, but since VD was only three days ago, I’m guessing everyone is still filled with tender emotions and the excitement of love.

Anyway, here’s a thought experiment:

“What if Carl Sagan had written erotic fiction…”

• From THE 8-ARMED ICE-CREAM MAN OF MNEME:

“His digits were shimmering vestiges of a spiral galaxy. Every appendage was filled with delightful flavors, each guaranteed to satisfy…”

“Her clenched, webbed fist made for an excellent proxy.”

• From THE WELL-HUNG WHITE DWARF:

“I felt as though I was standing on the veranda of a vast cosmos as I unleashed my essence into her love purse.”

“I marveled at the tantalizing array of bills, beaks, scutes, pectorals…and breasts…”

• From STICKING COEFFICIENTS:

“A sharp distinction between human lovers and alien lovers is essential if we are to bend them to our will, make them work for us, wear them, eat them — without any disquieting tinges of guilt or regret.”

• From PANSTELLAR PECKERWOOD:

“Her supple lips met mine. Soon, our coupling began beneath a small altocumulus cloud. I knew then that she was the perfect Moon Creature for me.”

• From FOUR-VECTOR FEATHERWOODS:

“Her ample backdoor provided all the airlock pressure we would need. Soon, sexual congress commenced.”

• From SEDUCTION IN THE SUBDUCTION ZONES:

“She fondled the large emplacement of basalt rock. When he eventually loosened her from the restrictive iguana harness, she cooed amorously…”

• From LONGITUDINAL ENGINES:

“The biblical God is usually a sloppy manufacturer. But he outdid himself with Ginny. She was a busty, big-diesel masterpiece whom I loved to read poetry to.”

• From KEPLERIAN CRANKSHAFT:

“He dipped his hardened magma plug into her rock pool. Together, they could feel the Earth’s crust buckle.”

“Some nights we were two sworn enemies standing waist-deep in gasoline, one with three matches, the other with five. And then…out of nowhere…some force would propel us… into each others’ pinch machine…”

• From BETA-DECAY KAY:

“Kay radiated magic, poetry and…lust. I enjoyed nuzzling her Pale Blue Dot.

• From PLUTONIAN PLEASURE SQUAD:

“Her buttocks trembled in a lyrical way…this singular beauty made me pine for the satisfying hues of Sigma Orionis.”

• From CELESTIAL POLES:

“He pried open her fleshy portal with the throbbing anticipation of a Wolf-Rayet star.”

“Geologically we were in the most active body of the Uranian system. Thus, Rick’s thickening, hardening and elongating served as gripping metaphor.”

• From LOVE BUDDIES OF URANUS:

“ ‘I always prayed that somebody would stuff my chute,’ said Rick while preparing to leap from the sky cruiser. ‘And thanks to Todd, that prayer has been answered.’

• From LOVE BUFFET ON MARS:

“Our union, so full of culinary delights, made us feel like carnal gladiators, yes, but also like world-champion gurgitators.”

• From DOUBLE-CLUSTER DUVETS:

“I felt as though I were a cosmic quilt-maker…the rich tapestry of intricate, interwoven ecstasy nearly left me for dead…”

• From THE SEXUAL SAFARIS OF SEDNA:

“Reality died screaming when Todd removed the accommodator mask from the tentacled beast.”

• From FINE DINING ON DEIMOS (co-written with Ray Kroc):

“Todd was a griddle man through and through, so cooking up a thick, rich stew of carnal flavors was no challenge for him. Doing it in zero gravity, however, was the tricky part.”

Sagan Valentine by Ironic Sans

Friendly

Tepoy

Jarl

Receive

Os

Hunters

Qis

Neep

Saved

Bunker

Jins

Tine

Worth

December 21, 5:50am:

Worst news ever. Flight has been cancelled. Huge snow storm. Horrendously long lines— in one of them now, hoping to get on the 2:30 flight to Copenhagen and catch connecting flight home tonight.

December 21, 9:33 am:

Still in line, moving painfully slow. Someone in the family in front of me has a case of the farts. Annoying. I bet it’s the chubby kid. It’s always the chubby kid.

December21, 10 am:

Not going to Copenhagen. But guess who is? That’s right, little mister fartface and his whole slob family. Blood pressure rising.  Need a Cinnabon.

December 21, 10:13am:

Line at Cinnabon of unspeakable length. Don’t care—right now this glutinous mound of fat is more important to me than seeing my family.

December 21, 11:30am:

Got 10 Cinnabons, just in case. Ate three, stowed six in my carry-on, used one to bribe the lady monitoring the line at the United ticket counter. Got a spot near the front. Feeling pleasantly engorged. Staying optimistic.

December 21, 12:02am:

Unfuckingbelievable. I think my spleen is ruptured. A group of Australians behind me saw my greased transaction with the line lady and went mad max on me. They must have burst an insulin clot when they were shoving me to the back of the line. I don’t mean to sound bigoted, but Australians are the most brutish people in the world. And the ugliest.

December 21, 3:45pm:

Really wish I brought something more to read than the December issue of Details. Don’t get me wrong. Great magazine. I owe everything I know about performing world-class cunnilingus as well as my prized pair of eyebrow tweezers to their staff of writers. But reading it in public makes me feel kind of like a—how-do-you-say—oh yes— moron.

December 21, 5:30pm

So bored.  So tired of hearing CNN on the monitor above me. So death squads are terrorizing Ivory Coast, but do you have any idea how long I’ve been in line? I’m trying to get home for Christmas, so don’t burden me, Anderson Cooper, with your lament about death squads.

December 21, 7pm:

Great. No flights today. Ticketing agent said my best option is to sleep overnight and see if I can get placed on something tomorrow. Said the wait might last a few days, possibly until after Christmas. Does anyone know the best place to sleep in Heathrow?

December 21, 9pm:

Thanks for the tip on the ventilation shaft by baggage claim 4. Have made a cozy bed in here with clothes from my suitcase. Just feasted on a couple more Cinnabons and am quite engrossed in Details’ investigative piece on male cheerleading. Have a feeling tomorrow will be better.

December 22, 1:52am:

Hey, how many people did you tell about the ventilation shaft?! Seven more have shown up and we’re at capacity. A German accountant is leering at my carry-on. He must smell the Cinnabons. If he touches them, I will destroy him.

December 22, 9:33am

Spirit broken. Fell into stink- and heat-induced sleep coma, overslept, and awoke in the arms of the German accountant. Pretty sure there’s frosting on his lips. Kicked him in the neck out of suspicion. Ran to the ticket counter, where the line was already out the door and snaked into the short-term parking garage.

December 23, 10:12am

Realized I forgot my luggage, with wallet in it, in the ventilation shaft. Sprinted back in cold sweat. Nothing. Frantically searched for airport security and related my story. Airport security guy asks what I was doing in a ventilation shaft in the first place. He wants me to go with him to answer a few questions.

December23, 7:00pm

Now I know—in airport security jargon, “answer a few questions” means “answer a few questions while a gloved finger wiggles around in your anus.” I will never complain about the TSA body scan again.  Thank god, have been released.

December 23, 11:08pm

Spent the last four hours ravenous— loitering in duty free in vain attempt to pocket candy. Every fucking thing is oversized! Store clerk picked up the phone when she saw me trying to stuff a jumbo Toblerone and a handle of Chivas down my collar. Left empty-handed in a panic. But, by stroke of luck, found a bonanza of Auntie Anne’s pretzel cheese in an overflowing trash bin near Delta counter.  No Cinnabon, but it’ll do.

December 24, 3:19am

So cold. So scared. Will I ever get out of here?

December 24, 4:06am

Tormented by a single unrelenting thought: what if that wasn’t pretzel cheese? Of course it was, I tell myself. But then my devil voice whispers: well, then what was it doing in a pile of diapers?

December 24, 7:30am

Sleepless night, but I conquered my demons. Queued up at United ticket line before dawn, resolved to make it home, even if it’s the day after Christmas. Realized I still had a photocopy of my passport in my pants pocket.  There’s still hope!

December 24, 1:23pm

Hallelujah!  Finally spoke to the ticket agent who accepted my passport copy and booked me on a flight to Madrid tonight, arriving home Christmas morning! Save some eggnog for me!

December 24, 5:40pm

Made it through security, plane has arrived, about to board. Hey that’s funny— that sounds like my name being called on the intercom.

December 24,  6:02pm

Name definitely being called on the intercom.

December 24, 6:09pm

They found my bags! Lady at the gate told me sweetly just to wait at the counter and someone would come for me. Guess everything always works out in the end.

December 25, 12:03am

Tried to tell them it was just icing, you know, from a cinnamon roll. But they couldn’t understand why I would line the inside of my carry-on with icing, nor why a normal cinnamon roll would have so much icing, especially one with such high levels of silicate residue. It’s no normal cinnamon roll, I told them, it’s a Cinnabon, and I had six of them in there. That’s absurd, they said. No one eats six Cinnabons, besides, we didn’t find any cinnamon rolls in there. Damn that German, I screamed, tears welling up.

It’s ok, they told me. Why don’t you come with us and answer a few questions.

Please excuse the shameless self-promotion, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t plug the latest piece of sensational artwork by When Falls the Coliseum‘s own Ricky Sprague, which graces the cover of an online comic book by yours truly.

An excerpt, wherein the protagonist, ennobling Smart Growth advocate pdX-Man, confronts his arch nemesis, Ed Peckerwood, libertarian candidate for congress:

pdX-Man winced. He and Peckerwood had been arch enemies since an emergency symposium a few years before entitled Inner City America – All That Plight & Shit. In a workshop contemplating why local African Americans don’t use mass transit as much as Portland whites do, pdX-Man took the ennobling position that bike ownership among Portland minorities should be compulsory and mandated by law. In response, Peckerwood pinched a loaf on pdX-Man’s PowerPoint presentation. The ensuing chaos ended with Tasers and pepper spray…a cacophonous medley of broken limbs.

While pdX-Man was an advocate of human-powered transport, paternalistic intervention and traffic-calmed neighborhoods, Peckerwood was a blustery carnival barker who promoted uncapped personal “autonomy,” fetishistic “liberty” and the so-called “free” market. In short, Peckerwood was the face of Gresham, a wicked hamlet outside Portland that couldn’t rightly be called a suburb. More accurately, as pdX-Man once said:

“Gresham is a landing platform for pollinating, red-necked cockroaches. Its teeming and barbarous middle class requires taming, taxation and most of all – governance.”

Slowly, pdX-Man circled his old foe, trying to ascertain what ideological desire phase Peckerwood had worked himself into now.

“Ah Peckerwood. Masquerading as a libertarian now, yes? Well, I suppose hucksters like yourself have to incorporate the latest mouth-breather trends to stay relevant.”

Peckerwood roared with fearsome laughter. Then, as if to prove his newfound libertarian cred, he took out a replica of the Patriot Act, rolled it into a bleezy, and inhaled. Ripplets of smoky Alaskan Thunderfuck filled the air of downtown. After a brief moment of conflicting emotions and philosophical paralysis, the crowd of social justice aficionados and hard-left sportswear enthusiasts shouted in unison:

“FUCK YEAH!!!!!”

This bizarre development floored pdX-Man. The good, trim people of Portland, Oregon were cheering for a rapacious, “free-market” rube? What madness.

The whole thing is available here.

“He can’t do it,” Dale said to the doctor.

“He can’t? He must!” Zarkhov said back with his barking, Czech accent and with that I seemed to have been shut out of the deliberations on the subject. “We have seen their power. They do not need our permission to do anything if they are willing to destroy us all and they seem pretty well able to find the will. We must cooperate. We must ALL cooperate. We will save our own lives and almost certainly the lives of everyone on earth. It is our only path.”

Judy, ever the forward thinker, said, “The people on earth won’t go along with this. It doesn’t matter if it’s life or death. They’ll fight it somehow. They all will.”

“Not all of them,” said Terry. “Some will go along. Some will sell out the others. Some will not even notice a damn thing has happened. Some will worship this ‘Ming’ as a god which is what these creeps are always about anyhow.” And with that Terry Lantz froze and spoke no more. The doors opened and two uniformed and masked men entered and dragged him off like so much lumber. Praga’s voice came over loudspeakers “I do apologize but naturally we cannot allow any disparagement of Ming, the Kind and Wise even by ignorant savages like yourselves. You should follow the advice of Doctor Zarkhov. He is easily the most intelligent of you though that is not saying much. Continue your discussions but be respectful on the subject of Our Loving Father; the Wise and Beneficent Ming.”

The conversation was a good bit less animated after that. Actually no one said anything for many minutes. A weariness so great it was pain came over me. Staggering over to one of the couches seemed like the greatest effort I had ever made but stagger I did, flop down and go into a sleep deeper than death.