Real Reality, part 1

Thread count is important, he thought. Thread count is not just a casual allusion to status in cocktail party discussion but, rather, one of those subtle references to a man's character, his true spirit. Thread count was, in fact, the single factor in determining Fred's living arrangement. He had moved into the basement apartment with his girlfriend Lori, two years ago after a passionate discussion in the "Bedding" department of Linens 'N Things (or maybe it was Bed, Bath, and Beyond).

"Baby, I know it's a little more money but think about the thread count." Lori's blue veins seemed to stretch back her eyebrows as she prepared to defend her position. "Goddamn," is what Fred thought but, "Fuck," is what he said, a strategically placed expletive to conceed his defeat and introduce the obligatory, impotent reply.

"Fuck, I don't even know what thread count means." Truthfully, Fred had heard the both the word "thread" and "count" but never in such a definitive progression. He briefly connected them to a sports term. The veins in Lori's head receded, as if to signify her victory and slide in to collect her winnings. She lectured Fred, elevating thread count as the defining characteristic in blanket shopping. Clearly, the thread count not only exposed the quality and distinctiveness of the brand, but also spoke unequivocally about the deep sense of comfort potentially connected to the particular piece of bedding. Lori examined various fabrics, noting the prestige based on thread count. Fred was not only dazzled by Lori's seamless flow of words on an obscure subject, but her to equip Fred with the tools necessary for future shopping. Fred could not live without her, he thought. Two weeks later, Fred agreed to move into Lori's apartment.

the shadows of stringy pole dancers reside peacefully in glasses of watered down scotch...keep your double vision steady, steady, steady

Professional Wino

American society embraces the rhythmic flow of social development. Elementary school tempts the appetite with finger painting and nap time, but those dreams are soon crushed with the commencement of middle school. Thirteen is a beacon of awkwardness. Hair spurts in the dark crevasses of your body. There are weird explosions that make the Darth Vader cartoon pictures on your bedsheets look like the marshmallow man. Finally, these changes happen at the precise time that appearance and civility rises to the forefront. In elementary school the teachers asked you to bring a change of clothes in case you soiled yourself during recess. Involuntary bodily functions were a normal occurence and fully embraced. At thirteen, sweat glands suddenly decide to come out and play, and instead of being the guy that gets picked last in kickball, they act like the asshole who yells "penis" during the school production of "The Sound of Music."
Of course the fine folks who crafted the public education institutions decided to throw all these thirteen year olds into an old building, lined with linoleum floors and barbaric lockers. The thirteen year olds spend six hours of their day in these buildings learning things that they will never remeber and slowly discovering that the blond girl in the front row of biology class makes it difficult to stand up when the bell rings. In a few years of middle school all the kids are assumed to have worked their kinks out and realize that deodorant is a necessary daily application. Thus, the young people are sent to the next rung called high school. Here the students learn business by selling drugs and discover the least amount of effort to put forth to get through to the next level. Ironically these important lessons are just a side effect of the institution, unintended yet accomplished. Finally, when a student's time has expired in high school, most students go to more school. College, however, begins the long circle back to childhood. For the first time in awhile choice, and not just the illusion of choice is available for the student. There is a plethora of class choices and even choices for teachers. Most students even move away from their home.
But up until now, this horrible cycle is not really my point of concern. We all go through it, and it is as futile as trying to squeeze a condom over Star Jones' head. Perhaps, it has to do with my age or the effects of psychedelic drugs, but presently I am considering exactly what I want to do post college. The over fifteen years of schooling has taught me that I don't need anymore, and most of the jobs seem horribly unamusing and minimal in their benefits. However, their is one job I believe I am perfectly suited for: professional wino. Wino, as a profession, dates back centuries to ancient Greek society when highest breed of intellectual first decided to make an urn filled with alcohol a necessary accessory for any occassion. Over the years, the position has experienced many permutations, all of which were extremely necessary to the evoltuon of the entire industry. In 1875 in Oklahoma City, Carlyle Duncan made great strides for the wino community when he exposed himself to a statue of Grover Cleveland. He also marked the first chronicled occurrence of public urination. He was a great man.
There is a fragile, symbiotic relationship between the wino and straight society. Both benefit but neither realizes the extent of the others' influence. The man talking frantically to himself about the failures of capitalism is not only a spectacle on the sidewalk, but occupies police officers, obliterates insecurities in paranoid businessmen, and enhances the general ambience of any city. Conversely for the wino, the city provides a canvas for observations, the buildings and parks create places for congregation, and passer-bys even occassionally contribute money to his habit.
So after a few months of horrifying introspection and self-discovery I realize that professional wino is probably the best suited job for me. I really enjoy drinking and consider myself pretty good at drinking. Furthermore, drinking outside and in parks is one of my favorite activities. I have ideas but lack the motivation to actually do anything with them. Therefore, a public forum to voice my opininons would be very fitting. Finally, I hate showers and any type of soap with a passion only matched by my hatred of those miserable hacks at Fisher Price. So keep your eye out in the major cities because Im training to be a professional wino.

Stucco

Now I usually don't consider myself an authority on wall textures, but my friend Steve recently made me painfully aware of the material that covers my surroundings. I have known Steve since I was very young; however, until about two years ago we only spoke infrequently at family gatherings. College served to renew our friendship. Living in the same city, we often met at the bocce courts or the local meat distributor.

After his father's symposium on public health in Estonia, we were cruisin' the sidewalks all hopped up on the fall air when he stopped, suddenly. He immediately buckled over in pain. While I was concerned for his well-being, I could not determine what exactly prompted his pain. Furthermore, there was no visible area of concentration; his whole body seemed to be pulsating in pain.

There was a man selling sno-kones down the street. I figured if anything in the world could help my friend Steve at that particular moment it would have to be a sno-kone. The glorious union of ice and sugar-syrup was enough to brighten up even a bathroom attendant at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. I assessed the situation and decided on sno-kone.

When I returned with the mound of colored ice he was briefly relieved and thanked me repeatedly for the gesture. Then he took the kone and inserted it directly into his rectum. The insertion was done with such force that the syrup at the bottom leaked onto the sidewalk. The paper was severely punctured, and his hands were stained with syrup and ass juice. However, his face immediately fell back to its normal form. His legs stopped twitching, and the color returned to all his appendages. I was pleased he was better and didn't really need an explanation for the outburst, but halfway down the sidewalk he turned to me and said, "Sorry, but I always get hemorrhoids when I pass stucco walls. It's an affliction I inherited from my great uncle."

My Feet Don't Talk, but They Should

When I was nine years old I had a chance encounter with a schizophrenic shoe sales man. He worked at Nickel Cent Shoes on the corner of Thompson and Hill Street. I initially went in for a new pair of thong sandals, the kind that have the flimsy rubber soles and squeek when you walk on linoleum. My foot has an awkward arch that seems to plateau in the middle and jut violently down toward my toes. Usually the inexperienced salesperson assumes I have a high arch and emerges from the backroom with a Dr. Scholl's insole.

However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.

While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.

As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.