cannopo's Journal

Hello. A story by me. Go forth and read.

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I spent much of my brother’s wedding at the senior citizen’s table. We didn’t actually have a table set out especially for senior citizens, it just happened that after a few hours, they came together to discuss the merits of Out (backwards k) ast and other quality dance music, but they didn’t so much discuss this music or any music at all, rather they expressed their disgust at the current state of the world and the corruption of all that was good when they were children—that is, in the Depression Era and in the years following. And we all know how good those years were. Anyway, they didn’t seem to appreciate the fine work of Andre and Big Boi, and not one expressed any interest in shaking it like a Polaroid picture; however, one of the men (a 79 year-old) was asked to dance by a 20-something, and well, what could he do but think: Well, shit. I’m gonna get up there and dance. And so dance he did, but really, his dance was more of a creaky twist.

So I was sitting near this table because, well, I had tired of answering the: So how was Japan question. And also, because unlike most of those at weddings, I had brought no one, and so, I needed to sit somewhere, and where better than a place where no one would bother me. So the evening progressed.

Later in the evening as I begged around for a ride home, and as I said goodbye to the oh-so-happy couple, an old woman accosted me. She grabbed my arm and asked me if I liked older women. She tried to pull me close. I, in turn, ran away. I think this was the appropriate response, but I regret shattering her heart in such an abrupt fashion. I hope she can move on.

So eventually I found myself at home. I curled into a corner and wished for September to come, but it didn’t, and still, it hasn’t.

I lied.

There’s really no good corner in my room in which to curl. Really I curled into a ball on my bed. Soon morning came. Then night. Then morning. A few more. Now we’re here. Night. Morning, really.

Anyway.

So, because I have nothing to say, ever—I will list for you the movies I have rented/watched/watched again in the past 3 or 4 weeks. I assure you, this will be exciting. You know, even better, I will rank them as well, because this will give me something to do, yes. I think I’ll put them in various tiers, yes.

Pulp Fiction
City of God

Talk To Her

A Clockwork Orange
American Splendor
Far From Heaven
13 Conversations About One Thing
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Elephant
Boogie Nights
Jackie Brown

Big Fish
The Big Lebowski
Master and Commander

Grave of the Fireflies
Dark City
Being John Malkovich

Ran
Scratch
Blue Velvet
Zelig

Whale Rider
Castle of Cagliostro
Cowboy Bebop

And in other exciting news, because Esquire won the National Magazine Award for fiction, George Saunders’s story, “Red Bow,” was made available online. I know no one cares, but this was an exciting find for me.

Really.

I feared many people would miss the Spelling Bee today, and so I decided to keep a running commentary for this great American event. After about 15 minutes, however, I got too into rooting for Normal Kid to win, and so I had to stop my commentary. Normal Kid did win—despite his apparent normalness.

Anyway, here is my commentary on the exciting first 15 minutes of the 2004 National Spelling Bee. Don’t doubt the excitement.

I’m serious.

12:10

So, remember the guy from Spellbound who recommended that all his fellow competitors trust in Jesus? I think his brother is on the stage right now on the verge of breaking down. Oh, wait, no—not his brother, but the brother of the 2002 champion. What was I thinking? Anyway…

Alupocoid? That’s what I’m hearing. This poor guy here sounds downright suicidal. You’ve really got to hear this kid talk. I’m pretty sure his parents make him sleep in a darkened closet with a bag over his head while listening to tapes of past spelling bees again and again. His dad just looks like a bad man. Come on, let’s be judgmental.

Alright…ok…his word means like a fox. That should help him out. Yeah.

HOLY GOD!

He just fainted on stage! He just stumbled to the left and fell down. Everyone’s all OHHHH and AHHHHH!

And he gets up and spells the word correctly! He just got up and walked to the microphone and started spelling like nothing had happened. I’m sorry, but this must be the greatest moment in Spelling Bee history.

What an athlete!

With time running out!

I just can’t get over this. Someone, who else was watching? Someone! Why aren’t they making a big deal out of this?

It was amazing! You have to believe me.

12:13

I think a requirement of the bee is that you have to look on the verge of tears at all times. I’m sure they sign a contract. Oh, and did you know Katie plays an instrument? Apparently, it helps with spelling—at least, this is what our announcers are saying. It helps with rhythm. Get your kids on the drums, ok?

12:17

So, do you all know about the new time requirement? They have only 2 minutes to spell a word. The time clock just went off, so this girl here’s got to spell. She misses, but sure, we should have known. Everyone who has had the time clock go off has missed their word say our informative announcers.

Chris McKendry, what are you doing at the spelling bee? You used to be somebody.

12:22

This boy’s name here is Biplab. What was the conversation between his parents like when he was born?

So, yeah, what is the absolute worst possible name can you think of, hun?

How about Shitbag?

No, no. Let’s go with Biplab!

Oh, sweet! Biplab!

So that’s when I stopped to make a sandwich, and I just couldn’t get writing again. I was far too into it. I was about on the floor when Normal Kid was hiding beneath his placard because he was so nervous. And then Normal Kid started to cry when he was spelling the word because he knew was going to win. Ah Normal Kid. A good kid, that one. I just about broke down there with him in the middle of the word. Why is this not a more popular event? I don’t get it.

Anyway, I’m glad this year’s crazy didn’t win. He reminded me of Rebecca from a few years ago (Yes, I watch the Spelling Bee every year. I am so very amazing). But do you remember. Euonym? Something like that? She was the craziest of all the crazies.

But you know who else this year’s crazy reminded me of? Toby from American Splendor. Who’s with me on this one? That kid needed to get some White Castle’s on the stage and explain to everyone that they were his White Castle burgers and no one could have any. Because they were his. His! And then he could offer everyone some Jelly Belly’s in place of the White Castle’s. Sort of like a consolation prize.

So, the Spelling Bee was 2 hours of high-quality television. On paper, it seems like such a bad idea, doesn’t it? Kind of like poker on TV…but in reality, it’s great. Maybe this is just me, I don’t know, but I think there need to be more televised board games and the like. I’m all for a Monopoly championship. And when these all get popular, we can have professional board game players who make millions of dollars a year and they can get all corrupt and drug-addled, and it’ll be great.

So I went to a bridal shower tonight. Or perhaps it was a groom’s shower, but I’ve never heard anyone say, “Hey everybody, it’s a groom’s shower!” I guess I’ve never heard anyone say that of a bridal shower either, but it seems like it would work better somehow. Groom is just such an ugly word.

Oh, words. Let’s talk about words.

I’ve begun keeping a list recently of good words that I come across in my reading. John Gardner recommends such a practice, and what John Gardner recommends, I do. Let’s take a look at some of these words, shall we?

Hornswoggle.

What an amazing word. It just sounds so dirty. It means bamboozle, but go ahead and use it in a sexual context. No one will ever know the difference.

Panjandrum.

Another amazing word. Use this to describe a powerful or pretentious official. I was looking for ways to sneak panjandrum into conversation at tonight’s party, but I really didn’t have any conversations. Alas.

Bonhomie.

Oh you know, just some good natured friendliness.

I’ll stop there because I’m sure you want to hear about this party I attended where surely I mingled with every last attendee because every last attendee would want to mingle with me, mingler-extraordinare.

I actually spent most of my time in the corner playing with the dog. By the end of the night, when I approached him, he ran. I think I came on too strong.

Anyway, this party was a “couples” party and so there were a lot of couples. Funny thing about that is well…huh, the thing about that, you see, well. Well.

So, I think the highlight of the evening was the opening of the gifts, particularly my gift. I bought my brother and his girlfriend a hose. It’s a great hose.

I explained to them the various uses of that hose. You can water your lawn, I said. Or perhaps, frolic in the spray of a sprinkler. You can buy a Slip and Slide on the cheap, and hook that hose up to the Slip and Slide and pass many wonderful weekend afternoons. I really think they appreciated it. They liked my card. They opened my card first.

Here’s what my card said:

I got you a hose! Have you opened it yet? It’s a HOSE!

Later, I explained to my brother’s girlfriend’s parents why I was my mother’s favorite son. It wasn’t a detailed explanation exactly. I just said, you know, I’m my mother’s favorite son. I think it’s pretty obvious. She just oozes love for me. Look at her!

Sometimes I just start saying things.

I left early because I had to get home to sit in my room. I’m really good at sitting.

I think it’s better than being at the bridal shower though, because that dog was just breaking my heart.

I like grab bags. I’ve always liked grab bags.

Grab bags are fun.

***
So I was watching poker on TV because I enjoy watching poker on TV. I don’t play poker, but sometimes I think about playing it. When I was 11, I bought a book called the Body Language of Poker while we were on vacation in Florida. I stayed inside and read it while my family went to the beach and tanned themselves beneath that great star of ours. I know many of the classic tells of poker players now. I’m very knowledgeable. Hand in front of the mouth. That’s a tell. Looking at the cards again. Yeah, that’s a tell.

So anyway, I was watching poker on TV (on the Travel Channel, by the way), and during the game, they showed replays of so-called “crucial” hands. These replays were of men thinking of what move to make next. That’s all. Just men sitting there, thinking. They did this again and again.

It was quite enjoyable.

***
I bought a ping pong robot. It’s like a tennis ball machine, but for ping pong. Now I can play ping pong by myself for hours and hours everyday.

I am the coolest person in the universe.

***

On mother’s day, we went out to dinner and the waiter laughed when I said I was 21. I thought he was going to fall over, he was laughing so hard. I was really worried.

***
In one minute, my ping pong robot can shoot 100 balls each at 70 MPH. It’d be fun to just take it places—it’s only five pounds. It could be fun at McDonald’s or in the mall or something.

***
Ping pong was also on TV today. I turned on the TV, and ah! ping pong. So all in all, it was a good day.

?

***
Besides comps, I will be taking Film Criticism and Astronomy fall term. And also rock climbing. Because I’m a rock climber.

***
These entries are getting progressively shorter. Have you noticed? I don’t have anything to say, that’d be why. I’m sure you’ve noticed that as well.

***
I like movies with voice-over narration. Movies with voice-overs are so much better than movies without voice-overs. Especially if the actor doing the voice-over is Kevin Spacey. Has anyone else noticed this? You must have. Come on. But Whale Rider—it didn’t so much work there. But that’s probably because the movie sucked.

***
It works in American Splendor. I saw it last night. No, you can’t have any of my White Castle burgers. No!

I’m buying that movie.

***
I’m really very excited about my ping pong robot. It’s perhaps the coolest thing I own. Tomorrow I need to buy more ping pong balls though. I only have 100 right now.

***
I’m BUILDING a bird house!

I’m in a fiction workshop with several middle aged men and more than several middle aged women.

Two years ago I was in a workshop with one middle aged woman. I figured her stories of divorce and other middle aged womanly topics were a mere aberration. She was just one woman who lacked an imagination, I thought. Well, I was wrong.

I’ve read the same story, I think, fourteen times in the past few weeks.

Why don’t we plot one together?

Are we ready?

Here we go!

A woman wakes up in bed. It is her (birthday/anniversary/other significant date). She turns and sees that her (boyfriend/husband) is no longer in bed. The (boyfriend/husband) is (always/usually/almost always) there when she wakes up, so she worries that something is wrong. She wonders if he is perhaps (having an affair/out planning a big day for the two of them/something else terrible that men do because they are terrible). She gets out of bed and goes to the kitchen where suddenly, out of the blue! oh my god! she has flashbacks about (3/5/594) old boyfriends of hers who treated her (horribly/terribly/horribly and terribly). She decides that no goddamnit, it’s her (birthday/anniversary/other significant date) and she isn’t going to take it anymore. (Here, she does something symbolic. Maybe she learns to drive a stick shift. Look at her taking control of her life! This is amazing!) Her (boyfriend/husband) returns and he says (I’ve been having an affair/Look at the great gift I bought you). The woman (hugs/slaps) the (boyfriend/husband), and she realizes that she (needed to change/didn’t need to change after all). The woman and the (boyfriend/husband) (hug/slap) one another again, and the story ends.

Congratulations if you read through that entire paragraph.

The number of times that stories begin with the main character waking up on a birthday, etc. is astounding. I wonder if this has always been a favorite little trick of people who write thinly-veiled autobiographical fiction. Not that there’s anything wrong with thinly-veiled autobiographical fiction.

Except everything.

When I am the editor at THE BEST LITERARY JOURNAL EVER (a working title), I intend to burn all such stories and write the rejection letters with the ashes. It’ll be a lot of work, yes, but I think they’ll get the point.

Look for copies of THE BEST LITERARY JOURNAL EVER in the spring of 2015. It’s my best guess.

I’m a busy guy.

My brother walked into a clothing store, one of those goddamn!-we-think-we-are-some-sexy-bitches-type clothing stores (if you could read this line in the voice of Samuel L. Jackson, I would appreciate it, thanks!), you know the type, of course—so, he walked into this clothing store and looked around for the sales girlies and boys who fold and refold the fashionably wrinkled shirts and ripped pants, and he saw but one, a girlie behind the register, who happened to be the manager and who happened to be attractive. But no, I shouldn’t say “happened to be ,” because as an employee of such a store, (remember, they think they’re some sexy bitches, right? (And have you seen Samuel in the new trailer for The Incredibles? It’s amazing! “Where’s my cape, woman!”)) she was undoubtedly attractive. Although I’m sure I would have found her quite unattractive because I find those who are traditionally attractive in the teen-pop idol sense of the word to be, well, less than pretty. And all one of you with whom I have played the exciting game at hotornot.com, you know this very well. But you agree with me, no? Girlies with very little clothing on get one’s. Shirtless boys also receive ones.

Ugly people too. They get one’s.

Oh do they!

So my brother, right? he walked into this store and strutted up to the manager and asked if he could fill out an application. She looked him up and down—I’d say she leered at him, but I wasn’t there, but it would be cool if she leered at him, I mean really, leer, what a great word…so, yeah, what the hell—this manager leered at my brother and said “You sure can!” She then brought him an application and told him he didn’t have to fill it out. “You’re hired,” she said.

The story ends here, and I’m sorry that it’s not much of a story, but I really don’t have much to say because I haven’t really been doing much other than doing nothing at all. But I have watched the last two nights of Super Millionaire. It’s really very exciting to be watching the real Regis instead of the Japanese Regis, because the Japanese Regis is a real prick. Goddamn he’s a prick. The contestants say final answer and he stares them down for three of four minutes before he says, “Unfortunately, you’re wrong. Ha ha. You lose. I’m glad I’m the Japanese Regis and not you, because, well, you’re not the Japanese Regis.”

I swear he said that once. Maybe I misunderstood him, but he’s really a prick, so I can’t be sure.

The other day I watched TV because my mom insisted that I watch TV. She worries that I read and write too much. God, I’m an amazing son.

Anyways, we watched the Survivor finale. My mom and my sister spent much time wondering aloud whether this one guy would betray this one girl and oh my god what would the other guys and girls think.

I don’t think he could do that, my mom said.

I don’t know about that, my sister said.

Well I guess we’ll see, my mom said.

And we saw. Oh yes, we saw. The aforementioned guy did not betray the aforementioned girl which disappointed me to no end because nothing makes better TV than backstabbing and betrayal.

The Russians know all about backstabbing and betrayal. And vodka. They like their vodka. Anyway, among the seven or eight books that I’m reading now (I have problems), Anna Karenina is one of them, and let me tell you, Tolstoy knew about this backstabbing and betrayal I’ve mentioned several…let’s see, one, two, three times now—he knew, yes, he knew all about it.

Oh Vronsky. Oh Anna. Oh Kitty.

You see how I spend my time.

I figured I should read something other than contemporary short stories, and 19th century Russian novels seemed like a good place to start.

They’re quite long. They’re in no way short.

They’re…yes, long.

Oh Russian novels.

Oh…

I’ve got nothing.

We moved a pool table yesterday. I say “we,” but when I say “we,” I really mean everyone that is not me. My brother and his Handy Friend did most of the work. They lift heavy objects on occasion for the purpose of gaining strength, and with this strength, they hope to wow the womens. They often lift pianos and cruise liners, and then wait for said women to say yes, oh strong men, please hump us vigorously. When they moved the pool table, they looked to me and said, “Could you come over here, we need some help.” Then they laughed. They called my brother’s girlfriend instead. Rather than feel hurt and insulted and humiliated and mocked and underappreciated, oh my god! appreciate me!—no, rather than feel such emotions, I returned to my room to read stories, because that’s what I do, read good stories and then write poor imitations.

At some point, my brother, my brother’s not-yet-wife person, and Handy Friend left. At some point the phone rang. And at some point I fell asleep. Then I got up. At some point, that is, just so we’re clear.

In the afternoon, I was in the basement. My mom came down and said, “Look they moved the pool table.” Then she said, “Pool tables are big and heavy.” I nodded my head. She nodded her head too. She said hmmm yes hmm hmm. She said, “You know, being alone so much is probably bad.” I agreed and went upstairs to my room.

I went to Borders later, the seventh time I’ve been to a bookstore in the past seven days. Tomorrow I will go to Barnes and Noble’s. It will be amazing.

I went to a party last night, and oh what a party it was. It was a Confirmation party, and there’s nothing like an old-fashioned Confirmation party, what with all the confirming and the drinking and the sex. I made up the part about the confirming though. There is no confirming at a Confirmation party. That happens in one of them fancy church buildings beforehand with the old men who wear the big funny hats and carry the magic staves and molest little boys. The staves aren’t really magic though. If they were, and if Gandalf were head priest, or pope or what have you, I would attend religious services on a regular basis. Well actually, I don’t think even Pope Gandalf would turn me into a devout church-goer, but…but if there were sword fights every week? And if there guns in these sword fights? And magical flying elves? Big cannons and big boats? I would consider attending every once in a while.

Let’s get back to that party. Remember that part about the drinking and the sex? Yes, just one of those things I make up because I have nothing else to say because I lead a life of endless boredom. It was my cousin’s Confirmation party, and so, it was one of those fun family get togethers. I sat at a table with my mom, grandma, and three aunts. Here are a few choice topics from the whimsical night of conversation:

CHURCH WINDOWS AND ACOUSTICS

Yeah…that church really does have some nice windows.

Really good acoustics too.

Really.

Uh huh.

Yeah.

PEOPLE WHO DIE

(My aunt to my grandma) Do you see any of those people who use to be on dad’s floor?

Well, no. They all died.

Oh they did?

Most people I know are dead.

…

John had lung cancer. He died.

…

They’re all dead. Everyone dies.

MY EATING HABITS

Kevin doesn’t eat enough.

You need to eat.

You need to eat.

You’re too thin.

What’s wrong with you.

Oh my god eat your food.

I can’t eat anymore. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Eat your food.

I’m going to throw up.

Eat your food.

You’re too thin.

I’m going to go throw up now.

You’re emaciated! Eat!

MY LIFE

What do you do all day anyway?

…

?

…

???

…! …! …!

So…what is it that you do, you know, ever?

Go away.

See, it was truly a great party. My favorite part was leaving. Then I came home and watched Spellbound and looked around for someone in my room to make sarcastic comments to, and I saw my many stuffed monkeys, but I didn’t think they would understood, so I thought my comments. Oh how I thought them.

I wanted to smack the one kid. You know the one.

My host mother said, yes, umm, bye. I said, yes, umm, bye. My host sister looked at the ground and frowned. She didn't join in on the love-fest that was my departure from Japan. I left her the bag of pretzels that she had stolen from me some months ago. I left Roz a loaded pistol specially-crafted for suicidal Black Labs. The trigger isn’t one of them fancy complicated squeeze-deals—she’s just got to lick the handle.

Bam. Freedom.

I worked in the gun-lab down the street for two months on that piece. My friend Gunny McGunn constructed a gun out of apple cores. It looks like a big apple core. Gunny McGunn calls it the Apple Core Gun. He’s not very creative. I never named my gun, because I tend not to name creations of mine, or things I own, or anything at all really. I want to have a child so I can name her Child; or, Baby; or, Big Toed Monster. That last one’s more of a name, but in this case, I may make an exception, because then I would have an excuse to say Big Toed Monster on a daily basis. Finally.

My monkey doesn’t have a name. Maybe I should call him Big Toed Monster. After all, he does have some pretty big toes. But then I wouldn’t be able to name my child Big Toed Monster, because if I had two Big Toed Monsters in the house, people might start thinking I’m crazy, and if people began to call me crazy, they might say, “Hey Crazy!” when they see me, and I really hate when people say “Hey Crazy!” Well, I imagine that I would hate it, because no one in my presence has ever actually said, “Hey Crazy!”

I went to the bookstore today. I talked with the woman at the register. She said, “Will this be all for you?” I said, “Yep.” I think we’re going to be good friends.

I talked with a guy at Best Buy too. He said, “Is this is debit or credit?” I said, “Debit.” I thought he was going to ask me if I wanted to hang out after that, but he just said, “Thanks.” I think he had social problems. Or maybe he was just shy. No, no, he has social problems— I bet he lives alone and talks to the walls.

Anyway, I’m in my room now and the walls aren’t talking to me. Before I chatted with the man at the register, I bought a wireless internet machine. Somehow I managed to connect this machine to the bigger machine in my house, and I now have internet in my room. For a while, I feared I would cause the bigger machine to explode, but it all worked out in the end. It’s still making ticking noises, but I won’t concern myself with them because I’m in my room, and it’s all the way downstairs. Way downstairs. I have to take 3 elevators to get to my room. And then an escalator. The roller-coasters are on the third floor, Amber, just to let you know.

So I’m in my room. I may have said that. Oh, I just looked up and noticed the really big monkey in my room. I had forgotten about him. He’s about four feet tall. He really blends in with the surrounding environment though, what with his being purple and all, so that’s how I managed to forget about him. I need to name him too. Maybe I’ll call him Jumbanitron.

Minutes ago, one of the great mysteries of our times came to a tearful conclusion. One bag of chocolate covered pretzels and one bag of Synder's mini-pretzels that I never knew I had now lie on my bed. After two months in my host sister's lair of lies, they're partially eaten, a little old, a little disgusting, and presumably a little inedible, and yet, I will eat them because they are my pretzels, mine! Mine! My host mother stood outside the door while my host sister cried inside my room and muttered something about being sorry and doing something selfish and being a horrible human being and deserving of a caning or maybe six. She didn't actually say anything about the caning, but I think we were all thinking it. My host mother seemed to enjoy this apology, or maybe she enjoyed my uncomfortable squirming. She smiled and smiled while she peaked through the door. I simply looked confused and said, well, it's ok, umm yep, ok. I said this several times.

Oh, and behold! She also stole money from me. She just left my room for the second time. She said the following: Monkey monkey garbage car parts.

Well, she said something, but I'm not exactly sure what. The snot pouring from her nose muffled her speech. But I did I understand the words: Money, stole, and I have serious problems and will probably turn to drugs and alcohol in two or three years.

I imagine this incident will make my relationship with her and my host family even more awkward. I look forward to meals for the next week. Then, I leave for home and five months of solitude. But that's not exactly true. Sometimes I talk to the nice men and women who work behind the registers at my bookstores. Do you need a receipt, they say. No thanks, I say. Or, did you find everything alright, they say. Yes, I say. Thanks, they say. Thanks, I say.

AKP published a collection of essays, one written by each student. I will probably never read these essays, and I hope that no one ever reads these essays, because I, in a gross oversight, titled my essay “Eunuch? Who’s a eunuch?”

I know no eunuchs, and well, nothing against the eunuchs as a people, but I have no interest in them. I meant to title my essay “Unique? Who’s unique?” but because I am foolish and do everything wrong in my life, I placed the long mark in the wrong spot, and so, we have an essay in the collection that ostensibly seeks an answer to that all important question—Who are the eunuchs? Let’s get to know them a little better, shall we? What follows are a few excerpted translations from my essay of immeasurable brilliance.

“Eunuch? What’s a eunuch?”

“Because there’s no one else like him, shouldn’t we be able to say that he’s a eunuch?”

“There are quite a few people in Japan who like to say, ‘We are eunuchs!’ This is, however, quite different from the case in America.”

“As a race, the Japanese people are not eunuchs, as human beings, however, they are very much eunuchs.”

“Sage is probably a eunuch. But why is he a eunuch? Because he’s Japanese? No, even if he weren’t Japanese, he’d be a eunuch.”

Bask in my glory.

We barbequed outside of Roz’s stoop tonight. Chicken and liver and heart and some sort of bone meat. I ate bones tonight. I would have given some to Roz, but she was on her stoop, throwing herself against the wall. She was far away, about ten feet. I couldn’t reach. She often ran into her dog house and slammed against the back wall, backed out, and ran back against the wall once again. The house edged forward little by little, so Roz either figured that she would eventually arrive at the place of meat, or once again she was merely trying to tumble from her stoop and kill herself.

But I don’t think suicide was on her mind tonight. The smell and the possibility of meat provided a respite from her ever-present thoughts of self-mutilation and suicide. She whimpered often, and for awhile engaged the neighboring dogs in a fierce competition of annoy-the-hell-out-of-everyone-in-the-area. They may have been communicating; it may have been a conference of sorts. A mass jailbreak, but not a jailbreak, a doggie stoopbreak may very well be in the works. Look for it in the papers sometime next week—if it happens, I mean. I trust that Roz is the leader of this movement. She’ll be the black lab humping someone or something in whatever picture makes it into the papers. She’s a fierce humper, that Roz.

I don’t speak dog. While I was working as a representative for the National Hockey League in Ghana, I not only learned the black arts, I also learned how to speak whale, giraffe, and elephant, among other languages; I did not, however, learn dog. I do, however, have the imagination of a highly drugged sea otter, and so, now I will attempt to reconstruct some of the conversations from tonight’s doggie stoopbreak conference.

Roz: And so after I break this chain of mine here, this chain on my dignity, my freedom, this chain around my neck, I plan on bleeding every last one of those motherfuckers. I’m going to start with the white one who nearly strangles me every time I simply want to lick the urine saturated concrete, or eat a urine saturated bush. If we fail, I know, I know, I shouldn’t talk about failure, but if we do fail, next walk, I’m going to hump his leg until it falls off.

Neighbor Dog (Rusty): Oh, Roz, you’re such a character.

Roz: And then I’m going to kill Rusty.

Neighbor Dog (Sparky): I’m with you Roz. I’m with you.

Roz: Good to hear Sparky. The world will know our names one day. Roz and Sparky.

That’s just an excerpt. They really talked for awhile. They may have talked about sports as well.

Roz is a big Phil Mickelson fan. She doesn’t want to see him choke and lose yet again, because she’s afraid he may overeat in his disappointment and become even fatter.

The saw-musician’s name is Billy, I learned this some two weeks ago. I also learned that Billy may have a drinking problem, and possibly an anger management problem, but I think his drinking may cause his anger, and so if Billy would just stop drinking, it’s likely that he would no longer become angry and kick the bumpers of cars and sneer at passers-by and swerve along the sidewalk on his bike while muttering to himself and cursing those who dare walk on the sidewalk in front of him, because goddamnit that’s his sidewalk, Billy’s sidewalk, and what are those Japanese people doing walking in front of him, slowing him down, causing him to arrive home at his box beneath the bridge a few minutes later than usual and causing his wife to erupt in anger at his lateness, because oh my god, Billy, he never does anything right, he can’t get a break, the poor man, he plays the saws in front of the train station and drinks wine straight from the bottle, and then some American sees him, and that American wonders why Billy would want to live the life of a homeless man in Japan when he could live the life of the homeless man in America, although, I guess Billy may find the Japanese people to be kind and nice, because after all, they toss him twenty or thirty dollars everyday, one day, I even saw over fifty dollars in his case, but honestly, I think Billy put that there himself, because Billy thinks that if the Japanese people see a case without money, they’ll be reluctant to put in money themselves, so clever Billy, he brings money with him and sets it in his case before he begins playing, and seeing that money, the Japanese people feel obligated to toss in more money, but now that I think about it, if Billy puts in money before he begins playing, and I rarely see more than twenty dollars in the case, he must be making less than ten dollars a day or so, but really, how much money does Billy expect to make playing the saws in front of a train station in Kyoto, Japan, probably not that much, but maybe Billy is happy playing the saws in front of the station and he drinks, not because he feels weak from loneliness, but because he likes the taste of red wine, he likes how it makes him feel light and distant from the world, as though he were merely watching it, and so he plays the saws, but he’s really watching himself play the saws, listening to himself, and he thinks that this life of playing the saws really isn’t so bad, because when Billy returns home to his box beneath the bridge, a fine box covered in a nice blue tarp that every other box dweller envies, his wife does not scream and rant, but rather, she greets him with a hug, and she says, good day playing the saws, and he says, sure was, got myself twenty dollars, and he hands her the twenty dollars and another bottle of red wine, and together they drink, and when the bottle is empty they roll on their newspaper floor in laughter because the American who Billy often sees staring at him at the station just walked past his house, and he was walking alone and talking to himself, and Billy and his wife wonder what could be wrong with that American boy, he should come in and drink some wine with us, Billy and his wife think, but when Billy exits his house and walks out from under the bridge, the American who was walking alone and talking to himself is already gone.

For years I believed that I did my best bowling in the presence of zebras and other wildlife of this sort. Koalas caused some problems, but never zebras; I thought zebras were a bowling charm of mine. I would see those stripes, enter my bowling happy place, and sometimes, yes, sometimes, I would even break 100. But on Friday, even in the presence of the zebra that occasionally flashed on the screen above me, I ended the day with an average under 100. The bikers in spandex and the scantily clad women who shared screen time with my zebra friend were of no help either.

When we finished, I looked to the wall, the sidewall where some sort of slogan is painted in every bowling alley in the world, and it asked me: Do you like bowling?

Sometimes, I thought. When hammered, for example, it would be fun then, I’m sure. The wall answered me though, perhaps taking my sometimes as a definite yes, and told me, well, ok: Let’s play bowling!

But I’ve already finished, I wanted to tell the wall, but the wall kept speaking to me, and here’s what the wall said: Breaking down the pins and get hot communication!!

I’ve spent many hours thinking this slogan over, and I have yet to find any sensible meaning in it, and I would say that it’s just one of those things Japan got wrong, again, but it’s more fun to think that the bowling alley has a team of monkeys in the backroom smoking marijuana and drinking whiskey and writing all of the alley’s slogans and signs. One brilliant monkey stumbled upon a fine name for the machine from which you get your 4-sizes too small bowling shoes. The Automatic Shoeser, he called it. A smart monkey, that one.

My right arm is still sore from the bowling, perhaps my repeated use of the 15 pound ball caused this pain. I figured a heavier ball would knock down more pins. I’m not very smart. It didn’t work.

I did, however, defeat the couple who were bowling in the lane next to us. In their first game, through 5 frames, the man was bowling 21, and the woman, 4. The man, who was wearing a beret-esque hat, pulled the woman to the side. I couldn’t hear him, but I imagine he first said: Oh my god, that massive leather belt you’re wearing is hideous. And then he said: So, well, the thing is, I’ve knocked down more than 5 times as many pins as you. So I think I need to teach you a few things.

So this man in the beret-esque hat who was bowling 21 after 5 frames showed the woman in the hideous leather belt what he believed to be the correct bowling form. She nodded her head, and he said, (again, I couldn’t quite hear), but I imagine he said: Go get ‘em, tiger! Because he was wearing a beret-esque hat, and people who wear beret-esque hats say stupid things of this nature. So the woman in the hideous leather belt walked toward the lane, stopped, and dropped her ball. She watched it trickle into the gutter, then, still wearing her hideous leather belt, she returned to her boyfriend and he hugged her. They laughed together, and then the boyfriend took his turn and launched his ball into the gutter. In the end, he bowled a 40-something, and she bowled, I think, 13.

What a cute incompentent couple they were.

On several nights last week, I wandered home late as it was spring break and I was spending significant amounts of time in Wendy’s tearing my Wendy’s receipts and my Wendy’s tray-papers into spirals. I also spent much time listening to Amber describe my graying hair, because apparently my hair is graying in places, a normal occurrence at the age of twenty-one, I’m sure. Those who have no gray hairs by the age of twenty-one are clearly less experienced and world-weary than I, world traveler, sage, and short story reader extraordinaire.

I feel that my short story obsession is a fine obsession, a good obsession, yes, a good obsession in my quest to become an obscure writer of short stories myself. I seek obscurity, give me obscurity. And a loyal fan base. And millions of dollars. And endless praise. And, I cannot forget, Scarlett Johansson’s character from Lost in Translation to fill in the holes of my lonely life. Give me these things. I don’t ask for much, really. Give me these things and happiness will be mine. Eternally. Until I want more things, like a Super Tivo with which to record quality television shows, such as Big Brother, and Survivor. I will then watch these shows with my mother—oh, and, of course, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy—we will watch these shows, and my mother will wonder aloud about the motivation of the contestants.

I wonder if that alliance will hold, she will say.

And I will say: Who can say? It seems quite solid, but I don’t know about that Anne. Could be a backstabber.

And she’ll say: She could. I can see that.

Then when Anne votes off Mary-Jo, a former friend and alliance member, we’ll say together, in unison: Knew it!

We’ll congratulate ourselves, possibly drink a celebratory glass of water, because water is what we drink, and then we will go to bed, perhaps at nine, maybe nine-thirty. Ten would be pushing the limits of our endurance.

Before we retire to our respective chambers, however, we will watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and she will say: You know, you could do your hair like that.

A brother, or perhaps a sister will wander in at this point and agree with my mother, and then add: Some new clothes wouldn’t hurt either. You should probably lift weights too. And go out into the sun.

Following this exchange, I will leap from the couch as my eyes well with tears, and I will cough in my attempt to withhold my sobbing. I will cough again as I dash up the stairs. When I cross the threshold of my room, however, I will release my sobs, wail, and beat my chest like various depictions of cavemen do in various movies, or much like Tom Hanks does in Castaway when he is kind of like a caveman, but really more of a modern day beach man, because cavemen didn’t have packages floating to shore with high quality and useful items—volleyballs and ice skates, for example. Had cavemen had these items, I’m certain that as a race, humans would be very different today—deft at volleyball and figure skating as opposed to murder and theft, for example.

Then there was the time I lived my life again, for the third time.

Among my many childhood beliefs, my telepathic powers, for example, God, for example, that the teenagers who lived down the street were constantly plotting against me and my fellow 6 and 7-year old friends, for example, my favorite, and still an ever-present day dream of mine, was the belief that I was living my life over again, not merely for a second time, perhaps not even for a third time, but more—a fifth time, a seventh, a ninety-ninth?

My world often freezes at a friend’s words, an action, a simple tic—a touch of the face, the fingering of coins. And I think: That, I’ve seen that before, but where, I don’t remember, not you, it wasn’t recent, no, not you, it wasn’t you, but it has to have been, couldn’t have been anyone else, no, no one else, you, yes, you, must have been recent, must have been you, must have forgotten.

I feel that such discussion would be much more entertaining aloud, perhaps done against my reflection in a pond, and maybe with Sam creeping up from behind with a large rock to bash against my head, but then, every time I had such a thought, I would have to drag whomever was with me at the time to the nearest pond, and explain to them their role as Sam the rock-basher, and I don’t know how cooperative all of my friends would be, only a small percentage of them sharing my (clearly) severe mental illness.

I convince myself that what feels repeated, what feels familiar, is merely some trick of my mind, no more than a forgotten memory prodded and poked back into remembrance. But then it happens again—it happened again today, why, I have already forgotten, but the feeling lingers, and by now, in my super-logical, I-used-to-want-to-be-a-physicist mind, I have convinced myself that it’s merely that, a feeling and nothing more.

But then there’s my six-year old self dancing in the background, hands raised Egyptian-hieroglyphic style and his head rocking forward and back, because he danced in this manner, my six-year old self. He rocks his head, finds a wiffle ball bat and chases me around, shouting, because my six-year old self often found that a wiffle ball bat greatly aided in communication. He shouts, and for some reason his shirt is off, and, of course, he’s wearing red sweat pants—he shouts, he says that I have no imagination, and I believe in nothing, and wouldn’t it be fun if you got to live your life over and over again until you got it right, because there must be a reason life’s on repeat, unless someone accidentally hit the repeat button and left the room, and went on a trip or something, maybe to Europe, somewhere far away because they’ve been gone an awful long time.

In the past, I did have the constant urge to relive my life, the urge to make it right as though my own life was insufficient. With time, such a feeling has faded, but now I often wonder why I am so driven to write, why I now have the urge to tell so many stories, stories at times distant from my life, but at others, very much related, so much so that I may appear to be re-plotting my own life as I would like it to be, or have been.

I imagine my six-year old self would consider this very much a victory. I imagine he’s listening to the New Kids on the Block right now, celebrating, bobbing his head, dancing away.

There are floating heads around Katsura station. I suggest all those in the area, so, maybe three of you, I suggest that all of you sprint to the nearest Hankyu station and come see the floating heads in Katsura. They’re not actually floating, of course; they’re more on sticks, or metal poles, plastic poles perhaps. I can’t tell exactly—they’re floating in the salon across the street. Women and men are practicing cutting the fake hair of the fake heads; although, it very well could be real hair, and they very well could be real heads.

Heads go for $550 on the body market. I have no part in the body trade, but I do know that heads go for $550, or so says the woman who wrote the article on the body trade in the latest Harper’s, also known as the greatest magazine ever, unless there’s a Super Harper’s I’m not yet aware of, because if it were Harper’s, but only Super, it would then overtake regular, Harper’s Lite as the greatest magazine ever.

Forearms go for $350. I wonder if I could sell my forearms to someone in this body trade, this legal body trade. I don’t often use my forearms. I don’t lift weights, or pianos, or dead animals. I don’t fight, and if I ever had reason to fight, I would run away giggling, maybe screaming or sobbing, flailing my arms in the direction of my pursuer. Maybe I would chant while I flailed my arms, because then it’s possible my pursuer would think I was casting a spell, and he in turn would flee, but then I, in turn, would have no choice but to become the pursuer and continue my chanting and frantic arm flailing.

The solution, of course, is to run in the opposite direction of my pursuer, without turning back and without chanting any sort of spell in his direction, even though I did learn the secrets of magick during my five year stint in Ghana as a representative for the National Hockey League.

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