middleeastcoastnonsense

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Troublemaker Thomas

Strange things happen at night. Walking home some time ago, I watched someone steal a street sign. Not the strangest sight until I could make out the full picture. Perspective can turn an act into a work of art. I don’t know what that means, it sounded kind of cool a second ago.

When she jumped and started hanging from the, “Stop,” sign on the post, I thought that was the part she was after. I thought it was pretty careless, but she just pulled herself up, and perched on it while working to dislodge one of the street names. It was as if she didn’t think anyone was watching, and maybe no one else was around, but I stopped on the sidewalk across the street and stared captivated the whole time. I also feel at this point that should mention that I’m easily amused, but that may go without saying.

Dropping her prize in the grass, Haukea Thomas dismounted the post quickly and quietly before darting into the night. I can’t remember the name on the sign the thief had tucked under her arm, some place that isn’t here, I remember that much. Maybe it was someplace she liked, maybe somewhere she longed to visit, maybe she just thought it was a funny name, I forgot to ask her both times.

I feel it is important to note that names have been changed to protect the guilty. I had no idea who Haukea was, nor did I know her name until I saw her for the second time at a market research conference in Orange County. We didn’t talk long, but seeing her in two very different worlds made me feel like I had known her for years. She’s not a bad kid, just bored. She’s also not much of a kid, maybe in the eyes of some, but by no means is she too young to know better. Everyone has their vices. Haukea’s is a mild penchant for mischief.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Ice Fishing in Los Angeles

Since moving to Los Angeles, the lowest that I can recall the temperature dropping to is 46 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s not cold. I was colder out to dinner one night sitting across from a stranger. She wore a summer dress during what was technically early winter. I wore a Nintendo shirt and some shorts because I don’t know any better and I like showing off my legs. Set up by a married couple that I call, “friends,” for some reason, I agreed to it to get them off of my case for two months. Yes, the terms were that specific. One of them, a lawyer, was able to whittle my demand down from eight months.

When we met inside the quaint Northeast grubbery, we started the night with one of those fun exchanges where each offers the other a hug and a handshake. We eventually settled for a chest-bump and a pat on the back, like old teammates. “Wow! Your hands are cold!” she said, brilliant start.

“Sorry.”

I remember hearing somewhere that the body pulls blood from the extremities to the core more than usual during stressful situations. Supposedly it’s an evolutionary trait designed to slow bleeding-out during severe trauma or some noise like that. I’m not sure, I just know that I don’t like dates and when I get nervous my hands and feet get cold and clammy. After a few seconds of skating around our gawky beginnings, I took it upon myself to try to break the ice with a toothpick, because I am smarter than the average bear.  

“So, what do you do?” I ask whatsherface. I didn’t remember her name and was too embarrassed to ask again. I don’t think she managed to pick that up.

“I teach.”

“Ah, what grade?”

“Well I tutor kids learning a number of languages,” she admitted, which didn’t make me nervous at first. “Farsi, Arabic, Urdu, French, Spanish, Malagasy, Ndebele, Korean… I’m polishing up on a few more.”

“You’re shitting me?” I wasn’t really asking. She shrugged and grinned in that way that said she was flattered but also knew it was impressive. “That’s impressive. Nuts. So what for, I mean, you can’t just tutor…”

“No, I actually work for the FBI downtown,” she answered so warmly, but my hands got so much colder.

“Oh.” I had no follow-up question. I think I just stared at her for a few seconds matter-of-factly before recognizing she was getting uncomfortable. So then I just started looking around the room. I probably looked like a bird; eyes darting every so often to some new stagnant object. Pretty sure this made her feel worse.

“So what do you do?” She asked.

“I’m a writer-,” I almost dribbled water out of my mouth like a nervous politician, but I recovered. “I write.”

“Neat!” She sounded like a nine year-old for a second. What grown adult says, ‘neat’?? “What do you write about?”

“Anything and everything,” I started to overcompensate. “Mostly humor, but I like to try a little mystery, sometimes something surreal or fantastic. Whatever catches my mood at the time,” that last line I used is a sentence that no one has ever used before and it is not a saying.

Whatsherface was brimming with excitement for the moment. “That must be so interesting to do for a living!” she said.

If I lacked the pigment to blush I would have. My gut felt like it was trying to sneak away from the table out of embarrassment and I wanted to follow it. I thought about just getting up and making a break for it. Then at least she would have an interesting story to tell her friends: “Then he just got up from the table and ran out! He was so fast! I bet he was going to save somebody! Maybe he has powers!”

Nope! Disappointment time!

“No, I actually don’t write for a living. I write. It just doesn’t pay,” I said, sheepishly. I could swear I hear my gut yelling at me, “You fool! We still have time to escape!!!”

“So what do you do?” She sounded so excited.

“Essentially anything I can get to pay the bills,” I said with an abashed sigh. I avoided eye contact for a while but she kept staring, waiting for an elaboration. I thought about cracking a joke about selling drugs, but I just wasn’t in the mood, not anymore. Plus, I didn’t want to entertain the possibility of being pistol-whipped by a blind date.

I didn’t get the chance to melt into the floor before the waitress showed up. We were both happy to see her but I wanted to give her a hug. Undoubtedly inappropriate on at least two levels, but I was genuinely picturing a scenario where I pulled up a third chair after the hug, so maybe it would just be weird on 1.5 levels. After eating in near silence, it was like we had lived a lifetime and we were just that old couple waiting for the other to die so they could retire in Hawaii.

After a couple minutes, I felt awful for withdrawing, and I was angry for agreeing to come. Whatsherface didn’t deserve this. Our mutual frenemies probably told her I was silly and would make her laugh after a long day stern and maybe even downright morbid bullshit. She looked so sad.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to do this for this reason, and that was unfair of me. Can we start over, at least for a little bit?”

“What is your greatest fear?” She asked stoically.

“We’re jumping right into this, huh?”

“Yup.”

I took a couple seconds to stare at the ceiling fan overhead and rub the stubble on my jaw as if it was a difficult question. “Probably large spiders and breathing anything other than air; I was asthmatic as a little kid growing up. You?”

“Running out of toilet paper when I get diarrhea,” she replied without hesitation. I looked at her funny in silence for a moment. “What??”

“That might be the realest shit that I have ever heard.”

“No, you’ve ne-“

“Pun intended,” I couldn’t believe she was going to let me just say that and carry on explaining her fear of being gross.

The rest of the night was as forgettable as the preceding with whatsherface, but we had a better time. I think we almost ate half of a cake and they had to roll us out. She was almost fascinating enough when it was all said and done to convince me to swallow my pride and just ask her name. For now, the nickname will just have to do, and if I am lucky I will be hassled into learning for two months. It’s a shame that I am so good at debating.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Pen Ronin

Everyone is selling something. What kind of clichéd way is that to start? It is the way of the creatively constipated, the contracted composers, and the mercenaries of manuscript; people like me.

It’d be easier to carry actual eyes and ears as evidence of my proficiency, but I don’t think that would amount to much in the current climate. It would also be completely counterproductive if it were done literally. For now, bouncing from spot to spot providing words for wages will have to work for now. I still wish it sounded as cool as being an arrangement assassin.

Four of five meetings on the week resulted in rejections for services offered.  Demoralization is a familiar feeling. I have seen worse weeks and I get it: A man with no name strolls into town with a sharp, swift pen and people are quick to latch the doors. Folks can’t be too quick to trust anyone in the Wild West; they may be as inclined to spill your guts as deliver you the goods. Keep tracking the desert, stay sharp, remember where to deal and where to avoid and don’t get so desperate that you can’t see recognize yourself being marked by bandits.

I meet up with other wandering warriors every now and then, trade tales of battles over ale and less addled stories of our travels. It is an exercise in keeping the mind from giving weigh under the strain of everyday toil.

“Are you narrating in your head again, Sam?”

That familiar voice pulls me from the image in my head and I look up from the bead of condensed water as it forks in two on its path down to the table, breaking between the glass and my fingertip.

“Care to fill us in?” another of my colorful cohorts asks. Nikki’s eyes keep following my face while she slowly raises her glass to her lips with a smirk. Her look is competitive, almost like she is daring me to try to run so that the four of them could move to box me in.

They’re waiting. “We’re waiting,” Ali reminds me. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to start another conversation. “No one else is going to start another conversation,” sometimes I wish that butthole would stay out of my head.

“Alright,” I respond. “A cinematographer, a pianist, a painter, a journalist and a market analyst walk into a bar…”

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Banter-Up

"What's it like, being a disdainful American who thinks everything is beneath him because he can tie his shoes and speak smugly?" She asked.

"You know what smug means, I am impressed. No really, since your country is responsible for Celine Dion and doesn't know what bacon is, you are truly a breath of fresh air," he replied. "Asking me a question and referring to me in the third person is bizarre, though."

"Little off putting?" she asked.

"A little. Not as much as cutting me off before I can answer the first question," he replied.

"Sorry," she said, just cheekily enough.

"Unbelievable," he replied.

"I know," she said. "So rude, no idea where I picked it up."

"No, that's how it feels," he clarified.

"Ahhh! I see," she replied.

"Behind those Coke bottle frames, you better," he jabbed.

"Where did that expression come from, anyway?" She asked.

"Well, kids have always been cruel, they were just a little bit more, how should I put this..." he paused.

"Try faster," she replied.

"No, they were kinda dumb back then. Everyone was-"

"No, I mean this lesson. It's taking forever..."

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

When I Grow Up (Cool Kids’ Edition)

“When I grow up, I want to have a rat-tail and a bowl cut.” -’90′s Kid

“When I grow up, I want to make a dress out of cartoon panels from The New Yorker.” -Snob Kid

“When I grow up, I’m never going to clean my room.” -Future Hoarder Kid

“When I grow up, I want to be a ninja.” -Kid With Scars or Missing Fingers

“When I grow up, I want to own a store dedicated to cricket and jai alai sporting goods.” -Foreign Kid

“When I grow up, I want to color outside the lines.” -Abstract Art and/or Graffiti Kid

“When I grow up, I want to fly jets through the bright purple sky.” -Colorblind Kid

“When I grow up, I want to make ravioli with bacon and cheese inside of them.” -Kid with Excellent Taste

“When I grow up, I want to look cool while skiing.” -Snowboarder Kid

“When I grow up, I want eat a cheetah and gain its powers.” -Bored Kid

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Trouble Man (1988)

I don’t think that any kid is actually ready to meet Becky, but it befalls the elder kin to say, “To hell with it, I have had a good amount of gin! Sock it to me!! Now, give me another. Once I get back from whatever I was doing,” because I don’t remember, and I never want to.

Hi, I didn’t see you there. My name is, slams his head into table for a laugh and life-lasting scar. But you can call me whatever, I don’t care anymore. I am usually far less brooding and nihilistic. Except when I can’t remember, so maybe that is who I am?

But I always have and I have always felt so far away from that space in between all of that noise. So much noise that I can’t escape but I thought I could until I watched theirs fade. Now I wonder what happens when mine does, and I can’t show anything for it. All of that sacrifice, the work and the noise, for nothing?  

I am troubled.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

A Boy’s Diary

Dear Diary,

I punched the outside of my left knee this morning four times as a joke. I was going to do it sixteen more times, but I stopped because of PAIN. 

It isn’t as fun as it is being a reckless 21 year-old. Now I can’t help but wonder how lucky I was to make it to almost 30 with only tendinitis? Granted, tendinitis is awful, it is what made Charles Woodson, the Heisman winning, All-Pro, hero of my athletic youth a mere, “Hall of Famer,” instead of, “The Greatest of All Time.” 

However, we hardly compare; I have bony fists, and I got tendinitis playing pick-up basketball from a lunging knee. Not saying that the knee belonged to, Sagat. Maybe a smaller, friendlier Sagat. 

So a Tiger Knee is to account for my only, long term sports injury. He also has both of his eyes and an aggressively attractive older sister so, good thing you don’t talk to anyone else, eh, Diary. Diary?

Diary, it is important that this danger to my knees does not learn of this!

So many jokes to make, so little time.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

The Sociology of Business 101

I know that movies can't be released on a weekend alone with no other competition, but who is the suit that sees Christmas and says, "Let's put Jumanji against Star Wars," you are thinking to yourself? 

Well, friend, he or she is the kind of business mind that sees an opportunity. They know there is no contest, but they also know that not everyone can see Star Wars at once. So, with the tidal wave of cash disguised as, "people with children," hitting theaters with kids on the holiday, they do some sociological math. 

The money, I mean parents, but the sweet coin is unwilling to wait in lines for hours with single dorks like you and I while listening to little Billy scream about needing to pee and Sally pleading for ice cream pizza. In their late twenties to early forties, with all of the energy spent trying to keep the small spawn from killing themselves, they are too old for that shit. They will show up when they know that the demon spawn of youth's spastic energy and enthusiasm are ready. That being said, tickets will be sold out and SPOILER ALERT: no one wants to go back home and deal with the shit-show that will occur. Everyone will start throwing shit-fits and the house will be a poopy place to be. 

Here comes the suit. We have a substitute, and it appeals to the kids and the parents. Did I say, "We," like I was a suit? Sorry. I just know how people think and went to business school, so I mean, "We," like, "sneaky people." 

Anyway, this is when you put out a, "meh," product; at the same time to appease all of the people who couldn't get what they want. Some people call it, "economics," or, "trickle-down-economics," or "the-reason-most-publicized-January-releases-stink." Said the man born in January, quite salty. 

In the case of Jumanji, a businessperson gets (almost) everything that they want:

Kids love looking at animals. 

Parents love "meh," family movies. 

Everyone loves The Rock. 

A release date that can poach loads of dough. 

Plus, nostalgia. 

The original Jumanji was released during a similar weekend. Can you guess what time of year? It came out over twenty years ago. Who is spending money on movies with kids now?? They made the basis of the movie video games instead of board games. Who do you think loves video games now more than their children??? 

I mean, "more than their children do," not more than their children. Important distinction. Welcome to business.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Midnight in Milwaukee

On a cold December night, the Bucks won so Dezzie is amped. She calls a few to celebrate but winds up stepping out on her own, for a while at least. Dezzie doesn’t subscribe to the belief that nothing well-meaning ever happens after midnight.

On the bus, she finds a note left for someone else. It would have made her blush if it wasn’t so amusing to her and it wasn’t so cold out. So amused, touched, and heartbroken by the misplaced object of devout affection, she decides that this is her mission tonight: Dezzie would find the recipient of the awkward note.

First stop: her favorite local watering hole. High-fiving strangers on the big win, Dezzie makes her way to Lloyd. Lloyd has forgotten more people than she or anyone else will know. He has been sliding frothy pints and smaller potables around since before Dezzie could walk. He slides her favorite shandy to her right as she passes him the note with her left.

Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Lloyd mentions that the handwriting is unfamiliar to him, but he does know of a Benny. He dishes to Dezzie that he frequents a little joint called, “Franklin’s,” that is no more than twelve blocks north and six blocks east. Lloyd is awesome with directions. After polishing-off her glass of berry-shandy, Dezzie leads the patrons in one last ruckus roar for the Bucks before donning her mittens and heading back out.

Before long, Dezzie makes it to, “Franklin’s,” pub after double-timing it with the wind in her face. She sits at the bar and asks for the spiciest thing that they have and a shandy, preferably one with berries. When the bartender asks Dezzie to sign a waiver, she doesn’t think anything of it; she just needs to warm up. Moments after biting into the first of twelve chicken wings, Dezzie’s cold is replaced with a sense of searing pain. That isn’t to say that she is fazed, she keeps eating and everyone nearby looks on in awe.

Dezzie drops the last clean bone to an explosion of applause that churns into a deafening chant of, “BUCKS GIRL! BUCKS GIRL!”

Having shed her heavy coat, knit hat and mittens while devouring the spicy wings of flightless fowl, Dezzie stands on her stool. She waves to the crowd with gratitude before beckoning their quiet. “I am looking for Benny!” She exclaims.

The faces in the pub look around as one makes his way forward from the crowd. “I am Benny, Bucks Girl,” he answers humbler. “How may I serve the devourer of the wings?”

“Is this yours?” Dezzie asks handing him the note.

Benny takes the note from Dezzie, holding it with the reverence of one who just received a message from on-high. He observes it carefully. “Nah, I don’t spell, “Benny,” with an, “I,” at the end. Apologies, m’lady.”

With those words, the shoulders of Dezzie and all other inhabitants of the establishment shrink in defeat. A bottle breaks in the distance as one man shrieks, “Bollocks!”

“But wait,” Benny replies full of hope. “I do know of another Benni! She waits tables not seven blocks from here!”

“I must be off then!” Dezzie dramatically exclaims before dismounting the table, slamming down cash and donning her winter gear again. But just as swiftly as she prepared to set out, another stranger shouted.

“Nay, you will never make it in time, Bucks Girl! Closing time is in five minutes!”

Another loud crash and, “Bollocks!” could be heard in the distance.

“To my chariot,” Benny says grabbing the sleeve of her coat. “I have a side car, quickly! We must make haste!”

Rushing out the door, a familiar voice in the distance of the pub could be heard above the others, excitedly shouting, “Bully!!!”

Zooming down the fairly quiet downtown streets, Dezzie lets out an audible, “Oh geez.” Because it is cold as shit riding a motorcycle with wind-chill and a helmet that doesn’t cover the face. Nevertheless, they arrive at her destination two minutes prior to last call.

As she opens the door, Dezzie shouts, “Benni!” before adjusting her volume to the appropriate volume befitting a classy establishment.

A statuesque, well kempt young woman rushes to her, smiling apologetically to the few patrons as she passes by. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” she whispers to Dezzie.

“I have your note,” Dezzie replies as she hands it over. “Do you have any spicy food and shandy?”

Benni’s face beams with gratitude before she embraces Dezzie and Benny. “This is so embarrassing! Thank you so much! We are having a little coworker get together later after close to celebrate the game, I can get you something then if you and your friend would care to join us?”

“Absolutely!” Dezzie replies, taking Benny and dragging him by the sleeve. Benny wouldn’t get another word in edge-wise for a good, 20-25 minutes.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Concert on the Pan-American Express

I should be sleeping but here I am, detailing a chance encounter while snacking on dry cereal and sipping milk. I prefer when it stays extra crunchy. Seven hours ago, I was on the Pan-American Express, one of the first high-speed rails from Washington, D.C. to Los Angeles. It’s about time, longer than flying, but fun if you like scenery.

I left my personal room about half-way through the trip; supposedly there would be a concert in one of the other cars. I don’t have the cash to get that close, but it would be simulcast in four of the wet cars. I always make sure to have a little of that money. I order a double gin-tonic and take a seat on a couch.

After a brief intermission in Amarillo, I order another as we conclude the second leg of our journey. Not ten minutes pass before I can tilt my head back and watch the stars applaud the band in the night sky through the window. I doubt anyone has seen a standing ovation like that. I can’t help but smile.

“It’s quite a sound.”

“Old jazz standards always sound better in French,” I reply without opening an eye to the stranger. “The language is less aggressive, on my ear at least.”

“I hear you.”

I can’t decide which voice is deeper. His is older, calmer, so I am lying when I say I can’t decide. He has the edge, for now. “Headed home?” I ask as I finally level my head and find the source of the sound.

“No,” the grizzled cross between Sam Elliott and Demián Bichir answers. “I’m just a fan.” I didn’t pay attention to how genuine his reply was; I was still drunk on sound. Unfortunately, “doubles,” had lost their edge for me some time ago.

Barren lands sped by in the midnight blue while the act in the monitor remained brilliant. I don’t think I could wipe the smirk from my face, nor my new acquaintances. “Can I ask you a question?” I finally asked.

“Shoot,” he replied, while cigar smoke danced from his lips.

“When’s the last time you shaved?”

“I think it was the 80’s. “Winners Don’t Use Drugs,” ads on every arcade cabinet,” he answered more candidly than I expected.

“You haven’t shaved since Nancy Reagan was in office?”

“You mean Ronald,” he replied with a grin and candor to correct a man half his age.

“Nah, that bamma didn’t know where he was half of the time; she was calling most of the shots. Now 30 years later, stupidity is still rampant and people still have a hard-on for outdated traditions.”

“Ha! I like you, kid!” he chuckled. He was careful never to drown out the music. “You’re mean. I want to appoint you my Ward Companion.”

“Not really feeling that label,” I answered graciously. “I hate being put in a box, but I’d settle for “Sidekick,” or, “Supporting Character,” before that lame-ass shit.”

“Deal,” he responded while pointing the bright orange ember of his cigar at me from his barstool. “You could have whittled me down to, “stranger,” but, “sidekick,” it is!”

Funny cat that guy was. We ran off at the mouth a little more in between tracks to Los Angeles. We were usually too captivated when the singer had something to sing. I know I couldn’t understand, I don’t think he had any problem, but there was a shared respect. He talked food, cooking, and about places I only fantasized about spending lengthy amounts of time. I talked about movies, games, trying to build a quiet empire in a time that no one wants to read. He looked fascinated, I appreciated that.

“This is my stop,” I got up as the train pulled into the station just outside of the Los Angeles city limits. “It has been real.” I never did ask for his name. He never asked for mine. The singer seemed to end on a cue in an eerily surreal fashion, fitting the light on stage.

“Say,” he called out, passively stopping me as I started to leave. “You know, I think I have a daughter your age. You should meet her.”

“I hope I do,” I replied with a tired grin. “Just at a better time.”

The laugh that bellowed from his gut echoed in my ear for a while, as did the image of the singer as her head on the monitor seemed to turn in the dark toward the sound of his glee. Her hand jolted to her mouth, covering what I hope was a laugh, but I wish she wouldn’t: why broads do that I will never know. Then I stepped back into La La Land.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Dueling Opposites

“Goddamn! That Beach Boys album IS so versatile!”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

“I DIDN’T know how short sighted you were, person. I am going to enjoy hugging you awkwardly. Shhh! I won’t let go, you are too weak to escape this quetzalcoatl wingspan. Just listen to all of the applications of the notes!!”  

“That is a creature…that is approxi-…-mated to have eight… times your wing span.”

“I like the syllable use, but I am not squeezing hard enough to warrant that kind of dramatic effect.”

“You must really like that Guardian Force, huh?”

“Now I am very afraid of you for knowing what I liked when I was like, 11, before I told you.”

“Come on! Everyone knows that game!”

“And archeological trivia?? Nah, no. Everyone does not know all that. Please step back.”

“You were the one smothering me!”  

“Growth is relative.”

“Like, mathematics, rhythm and music? Or History, science and storytales?!?”

“…I’m sorry. Sorry. Can we start over?”

“I liked being hugged to death. Is there a continue point there?”

“Before or after you admit you were wrong about vibrations?”

“You asked me!!!”

“I also went to business school and you have shown a weakness for intelligence. I intend to use it against you until you use mine against me again. Kinda how things work.”

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

MECN Recipes: Roast Beef 3-5 Meat Pizza Taco with Baby Spinach, Chicken Enchilada Sauce and Guacamole Dressing Recipe

Ingredients:

1-2 slices leftover roast beef 

Store brand personal 3-5 meat pizza 

Baby spinach 

Leftover roast beef gravy (strongly advised) 

Leftover homemade chicken enchilada sauce (any homemade enchilada sauce will do)

Guacamole salsa 

Shredded cheddar and jack cheese

This little doosey is a new favorite from my Sloppy Monster Memory Cookbook. Title pending because I made it and the name up today. I do a lot of cooking. Things like, roast beef, chicken enchiladas, boring salad, so leftovers are inevitable. What do I do with too many leftovers but not enough of another, you ask? Shit like this. 

First, travel to your local Ralph’s supermarket or any other and get a personal size frozen multi-meat pizza. 

Cook it. Duh. 

Take a slice or two of roast beef and chop it up into a microwave safe dish. Add some leftover gravy to it before heating it in the microwave. If you don’t make enough gravy when you cook, I pity you. If you don’t make gravy, you are a bad person and should feel horrible. If you throw out unused gravy instead of freezing it, I swear I will come to your home and lecture you for 11 hours on why you should. Even when I use the restroom, I will yell at your ass. 

Halfway between heating the beef, pause to add some leftover enchilada sauce. Mine was a robust chicken enchilada sauce with diced tomatoes, habanero and jalapenos because I have taste and culture. You don’t need to be as refined. 

Set a nice bed of baby spinach on top of the personal pizza. 

Dump that tasty, molten beef goodness on the baby (spinach, do NOT pour hot roast beef and sauce on a child). 

Sprinkle the cheese and add some guacamole salsa. As much as you wish. You might even be able to pour guacamole salsa on your actual kids. I don’t know, I’m not their pediatrician. I just eat wild things. 

And there you have it. If you have any questions, just ask however people ask these days. No one actually speaks now, I’ll answer how you ask.  

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Dreidel Song (Alternate)

I have a little dreidel 

I made it out of glass

And when it's cool and mellow

It will tickle my fair ass! 

Chorus:

Oh dreidel, dreidel, dreidel

I made it out of glass

And when cool and mellow

It will tickle my fair ass? 

It is so damn top heavy

I want to pledge romance

But dreidel hates commitment

so pornos I will watch

Chorus: 

You can't mate with a dreidel 

That is made out of glass

Dreidel's don't have sex organs

Please see a shrink instead

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Nomad Damned Man

“Don’t trust a word that he says,” she says. That’s what she said. Is the joke too late? Probably, sorry not sorry, I enjoy cringes.

“What did you do, bruh??” I ask, with the widest, crooked toothiest grin that I can muster.Little homey seems uncomfortable and home-girl has similarly withdrawn into her turtle-shell. So, I withdraw my probe with the least offensive way that I know. “Hey, you just gonna leave me hanging here with my beard in my hand?”

I suck at conversation. I also barely have a beard because I regularly shave my goatee to 3/8 of an inch.

Inquisitiveness is underrated in business, a field that rewards insight without insight. Go figure.

Keep your mouth shut, don’t ask questions, eat it, dork. That is against my nature. I am not a dork; I use proper grammar and am much larger than the typical, harmless dork, geek and/or nerd. Mindless zombie however, those guys can get pretty big.

Where were we?

AH! I was talking about the desert. It seems to offer nothing, but people can make a living out here. I do mean here, I didn’t indent for a reason. Deserts are just untapped wells filled with jewels, oil, fortune, Dave Brubeck and water. I can see that lady dance through the glass.

I like her ass. Think I might marry her. I am way off topic.

As the layer of skin on my worn palms flakes into the dust that will be worn into the tread of bus tires, I make my way to my car. Or, my sister’s car. It is in her name now.  

I am pushing 28, without a home to my name nor a damn car. Dad had a car.

Dad had a car, a pad, terrible furniture, Mom. Mom who threw terrible shit away. Mom did stuff while Dad did stuff, too.

Trying to replicate all that, it is exhausting. I just want to sleep forever. Dream about stories. But I am a coward and I can’t, so I have to make up my own and rest in between dreams.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Offensive Freelance (Jazz-Induced-Oxymaniacal-Calm)

"I'm not hiding. Here I am! If you can't see me, you're not looking close enough. Or you are, "skimming." In that case, you're gonna be surprised. Otherwise, fuck off. I don't have any time for you either. I am leaving the parentheses open because I can go on; I have always been able to. Those, "open-ended," questions are bullshit contradictions. No, this rant isn't over: chickens; learn to fly, you fat, goofy, delicious meat. Make your price worth the beef. Or fish. At the very least, learn to look with both eyes like bacon.

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Poop Jokes

“Ah come on! I worked really hard on that one! I like your smirk, but is that really all I can get? Is it too gross?” 

“I’m trying to be a tough critic,” she finally offers with a single restrained chuckle. “I’m more of a, “fart,” girl. It’s the sound, I guess. Shit is hilarious, as long as it is in designated receptacles and/or away from me and my shoes.”

“Too visceral, I get it,” he says. “Less imagery?”

“No, the imagery is fine. I’m trying to find a way to say it…”

Lovers in jest. Or, Jesters in Love, I can’t decide which, but it isn’t about me. He’s crazy intrigued now.

“Say it! Pleeeeeaaasssee!”

“I can’t remember now! Your psycho-grin has crushed my memory like M.Bison,” she says, quite dorkily.

“You are a goddamn dork,” he replies, calling the kettle black. “Honestly, is it funny?”

“I feel like you are funnier than jokes about shit,” she answers. “Honestly.”

He buries his baby-face in his monster-hands and tries to massage away his headache to no avail. “So what do I make fun of?”

“Us,” she answers assuredly.

Isaac can’t understand. I mean, dude is genuinely befuddled. “I am befuddled,” he says, quite befuddled-ly. “You always look so mad and bitc-,” Isaac is still coherent enough to pump the brakes. “Complain to your friends when I talk about you. And us.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t funny,” Thandi says. She is a fickle mistress, like the wind and senses of humor. “Sit on this big, dumb blue couch with me.”

“Why did you let me buy that shit?”

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

“Stop quoting old movies.”

They both pause.

“Are we old now?” she asks. “I mean, do kids, they don’t know that reference, do they?”

Isaac took a moment before answering. “They should be so lucky.” He always did have a platinum tongue when it came to a well thought retort. 

[middleeastcoastnonsense]

Technically Awkward Foul

“He paints the ceiling of her dwelling with heat and pastels.”

“I’m particularly fond of that, please say you like it?”

As her toughest critic and biggest fan, I find myself at an impasse. In layman’s terms, I am in a tough goddamn spot. “You shouldn’t restrict yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“What the shit DO you mean, idiot??” I ask myself in the solitude of my big head.

It is the fairest question I have been asked since I was 11. The first time that I remember being asked the question was age 8. It was put much more gently then. “WHAT IS THIS TRASH!?”

Mrs. Pierre was a hormonal bitch. I hope she was hormonal, that is the only explanation I can give for yelling at a nearly mute child wrestling with ambidextrous tendencies. Pretty sure that is where the experiments with using either hand to write ended.  

Back to now…

“When we get old, know all of those intricate secrets. Like, how you like your Arnold Palmer’s chilled with a touch of brandy or how yo-”

“Don’t you dare bring Kermit into this!!” Her ferocity and smile freeze me like a child. Like an eight year-old child in math class. Not like a scared kid in an elementary math class. (Fffuuuccck you Mrs. Pierre!!! You miserable heifer!) More like, a scared kid who gets a personalized Valentine’s Day Card in front of everyone.

“What do I do with this?? Why is it so bright?? Do we play, “tag,” now?? Shit! I feel hot!! Why does my mom buy me so many turtleneck shirts?!?”

“I mean, write what you want; not cliché bullshit,” I’m smooth. “But if you want to write that, then do you, I still like you.” I. Am. The. Best.

“I-You’re the best.”

Bitch, didn’t you just hear my inner monologue?!?

“Can we talk about something else for a sec?”

Shit. She pump-faked me and I jumped. “Sure, sit here and watch the Bucks with me?” She loves basketball. No one breaks up during a basketball game.