I made my dog wear a diaper today. She brazenly pissed on the carpet today. My son and I were watching. So, stern words, doggie diaper. Handled that.
I’m a man.
I bit of a noodle what I made. I call it Quackulele.
This is a music video what I directed and such
lacma
Last weekend I took my 11 year old to LACMA. It was a rainy Sunday, perfect for skulking around a museum. I’m fortunate to have a boy that has the demeanor to find this a worthwhile way of spending the afternoon. A break from Lego Indiana Jones on the XBOX 360. It was a New York day.
We stepped inside the massive red elevator that takes you to the Koons and Warhol. We walked amongst the giant balloon animals and the soup cans. My son’s mind was whirling. Many questions and as with all art, no definitive answers. Just impressions. We entered the Joseph Beuys exhibit. I was not familiar with this artist. His concepts were stirring. He often used his publicity as his art. Turning photographs taken during his radio interviews and turning them into silk screen pieces of art.
This wander through pop art created spirited discussion between my son and I. I told him about Marcel Duchamp and the dada-ist movement, his famous urinal sculpture and found art in general. Then a thought occurred to me that was new to me. Art causes us to slow down.
Day in and day out we walk past vacuum cleaners tucked in our closets. They are common place. Koons takes them, puts them in a plexiglass box and lights them with fluorecents and suddenly I’m staring at vacuum cleaners. Combing my eyes over the lines and colors. Perhaps trying to devine why he put them there. What did he see in them? What was he trying to say to me? Or did was he just marveling at the artfulness of their design. Was he giggling to himself somewhere that an museum patron (like myself) was going to stand and stare at vacuum cleaners for an inordinate amount of time just because he anointed them as art? Whatever the reason he caused me to slow down. The same way that Warhol had me staring at a Campbell’s label. It was the art of intention, the art of slowing. It’s fascinating. The artist didn’t create the object, they just put it in a different context forcing us to tilt our heads and examine it, slower.
So the art, and perhaps all art, really only exists in the mind of the artist. What makes us fascinated by these artists is marveling at (scoffing at, being bewildered by) is the original thought. My son made the joke that we could put a frame around a light switch and call it art. I said absolutely. At first he thought it was cheap and easy. He’s right. I then informed it that it wasn’t cheap and easy when Duchamp did it back in 1916, it was subversive and ironic. Then it lead to discussions about intention and why. That I couldn’t tell him.
Level with me Glenn, does this relationship stand a chance? You don’t respect my job. So what! Someone has to bind 3 chlorine atoms to sucrose to create sucralose, commonly known to consumers as Splenda. Just because the actual sucrose disappears in the process doesn’t make our claim that “It tastes like sugar cause it’s made from sugar” false advertising and it’s certainly no reason to cancel our trip. My parents were anxious to meet you. Your job is nothing to get all high and mighty about. “Pantry Organizer” is a fine job but you brag about. Incessantly. Last week at Judy and Dave’s Shove Party, I was in the middle of a halfway decent two handed shove with Gina’s cousin and you poke your head in to talk about the best way to shelve cereal is tall to short. That’s just rude. Maybe we just need time away. I’m going on the trip alone. There’s popscilces in the freezer. I love you.
Darlene
MARGINALLY
by
Todd Stashwick
No one has clocked the exacted moment when your past becomes just a story you share over drinks. When the things, people and events that shaped you into your current form become just a postcard you use to keep your page in your book .
This was becoming increasingly the case for Martin. He apparently nodded off at the train station of his former self and awoke about an hour after departure.
Martin white was the quintessential man on the verge. Spending the better part of his twenties and thirties about to be. About be promoted about to be married about to be a father none of which ever came to pass, the first she fired him, the next was retrofitted as a lesbian a week before the wedding and the last lied long enough to get her through her lack of rent money. No, women were not something he had any grasp of, an attempt to wrap your fingers around smoke. Not his fault really, his own mother did her best through her fog of mood enhancers but never the same person on any given day. She did raise him, packed his lunch made his Halloween costumes. There were some doozies depending on the prescription that year. Martin the kitchen table centerpiece, Martin the insurance adjuster, Martin the parking violation.
Martin White, according to his drivers license, is six foot two inches tall, brown hair, brown eyes, 200 lbs. Martin white just turned 36. Martin White is, for the first time in his life, going to say exactly what he means…but he must first spit out the finger of the security guard that he has just bitten off.
Let’s go back, back before he even had to consider how much force it would take to separate a man’s ring finger from his hand with his teeth. Back before the nonsense on the subway and just before meeting Tera, the destructive wonderful bitch goddess. Let’s go all the way back to the chevette. The beige chevette. That won’t start. The smell of almost frozen vinyl seat covers, the cursing at the steering column until it finally turns over. This is winter in the Midwest suburbs of Chicago. The car has started. The radio team pats themselves on the back for their latest reenactment of a bodily function and Martin is on his way to work. He is the assistant manager of Don Guano’s Mexi-buffet in Woodfield mall, the jewel of Schaumburg. This is the job equivalent of algae forming in stagnant water. Martin has a name tag. At 35 Martin has a name tag. A name tag that draws blood every third time he puts it on. He occasionally has to look down when he forgets his name.
Park car. Walk in through the Penny’s entrance, past the Cinnabon. Stomp off the slush. Open gate. Walk to the back. Hang up coat, Unlock office. Check messages. “Hi, I was in there 2 nights ago with my family and both of my children now have a rather severe case of impetigo, ‘whom would I speak to about finding out if you can offer me some medical compensati- beep -Yeah Martin this is Kirk I’m sick dude. I’m not gonna make it in. I called Kelly to cover my shift but she’s not answering anyway sorry dude-beep-Hey Martin it’s Kelly I’m not feeling good (shut up… laughter…don’t be an ass).sorry uh I’m not going to make it in, 24 hour thing I guess I’ll be there tomorrow totally sorry (kirk you are such an assho-) beep- Yes this Jack Donner from the Schaumburg department of health I need to speak with Martin Whi-click. Enough.
Martin gets up, heads into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. We steal moments. We are moment thieves. Coffee, smoke, shit. Punctuation in the restaurant industry. We monkey swing from coffee smoke and shit. We pull a first class curtain around us, we are on a European vacation. We inhale Paris in five minutes. We shit out Barcelona for 3 minutes.. Currently Martin is heading to 10 minutes of caffeinated Prague before the waiters arrive.
Rueben is in the kitchen prepping the tomatos, avacadoes, lettuce, beans, cheese, sour cream and onions that will be reconfigured into visual variations of the same entrée for the hungry holiday shoppers. They don’t make eye contact.
Rips open the foil wrapper. Coffee smell, pours it into the filter. Pushes the red button to start making an obscene amount of coffee in an obscenely large coffee maker. He dispenses one cup into a white ceramic cup. He reaches for a saucer. Drops it. It shatters in slow motion. Rueben looks up and judges him in Spanish with a rural Central American-mountain dialect. Martin says shit. Grabs a broom. Sweeps the pieces up off the industrial terra cotta floor. Dumps the shards. Beneath Rueben’s glare he makes a note of it on the breakage clip-board hanging from a nail by the swinging doors to the dining room.
Martin takes his coffee into the dining room and sits at the bar. He places the cup onto a coaster featuring a cartoon Don Guano with his feet up in a hammock strung between two palm trees bending inward due to the weight of his comical full belly, there is a parrot as well. He grabs the remote from the corner of the bar and clicks on the TV above the bottles. He turns to the 24 hour news channel. A woman, featuring her cleavage and an “I’m serious” expression talks about the latest attack of insurgents in the war for freedom. Something about it. There was a score card of bodies. We are winning. Freedom marches on. She dials up an “in lighter news” expression as she informs about a certain pop tartlets impending motherhood and how it may bring an end to her wilder days, she chuckles. Back to serious. Record flu season. Sports score. Political foible, forest fire, dog with three legs, celebrity divorce, new planet discovered, rebels kill two hundred, Parliament votes against things, Controversial video from white rapper, artificial heart valve, weapon found on high schooler, sugar, good for you? A decrease in the tree frog population, Storm hits the Carolinas 13 dead, a hip hop Santa, an underwater wedding, orange juice leading cause of obesity in children, cell phones are even smaller, emergency surgery for ex-president, largest pie in Maryland and back to the insurgent body count freedom marches on. Each dutifully accompanied by the appropriate expression. Martin pictures her eating her own hand, the coffee kicks in and insists on a trip to Barcelona.
Pushes open the door marked “Hombres”. Shakes his head at the toilet seat covers. He thinks about the pitch meeting for that product as he sits down. Men in suits with straight faces earnestly discussing the need for a paper “o” shaped barrier between ass cheek and toilet seat. The mock ups, the pristine graphics. The spitballing around the room for product names. One is selected all the men earnestly congratulate the man whose name was selected, possible promotion in his future. Then a Thousand year old old tree is felled. An ancient warrior that witnessed mastadons. Whose spires majestically held up the sky. Ground, pulped, processed, flattened, dried, dyed, packaged, euphimized, sat o, shit through and flushed out to sea. His mind thumbs through other potential products that might prevent our immune system from doing it’s job. Other barriers to put between us and the ugly truth that we shit and piss and cough and snot and sneeze and ejaculate and menstruate. The most clever thing he could come up with was some product called “Dic-wypes” never quite got to it’s function before he noticed the droplets of blood in the toilet water. Bright red blood so no cause for alarm. A tear, a hemorrhoid, an anal fissure. Discomfort not debilitating. He’d almost be worried if it wasn’t there. One smasll part of himwishes it were worse. A story. Did y64 hear martin is sick? He has rotten bowels. We should visit him, he doesn’t have long. He flushes.
He looks a the “Employees must wash hands sign” laughs again making his daily joke “Why can’t I wash them myself?” The smell of the bathroom is soap and a sickening cotton candy urinal cake smell. He can barely even smell his own previous shit. The smell of ones own shit is comforting. He will have no such comfort here. There are deodorizing molecules attatching to his own methane molecules weighing them down and making them unsmellable…almost. The restaurant music kicks on, The end of “always something there to remind me” the Naked eyes rendition. All Eighties Satellite radio. Stacey must be here. She hates silence and turns on the radio first thing when she comes in.
Stacey Brink, 19, dirty blonde in a pony tail with a suburban hair claw. Midwest thick middle puffy. Cute . Slightly overstuffed. Eyes lined. Winter pale. Still carrying the purfume of Marlborough lights from her walk from car to mall. “jesus Martin you look dead.” Martin catches his reflection in the mirror above the bar, dead was overstating a bit. Stacey overstates. Still his eyes drooped. His skin whiter than usual. His haircut unfortunate. Not dead. Sadly. Lately he thought of his own reflection as a poor choice of portraiture every time his face found a mirror. In the eyes of 19 year old Stacey Brink he must look like the younger brother of a friend of her Dad’s.
Stacey is way into palmistry right now and she will totally tell you what’s up with you when she get’s a look at your hand. To support her “Dead” comment she grabs Martins right hand and turns it over. Chomping on her gum she makes small nods as she scans it’s surface. “Well your not dead yet” she’s proud of her quip. “See this” tracing a deep crease in martins palm with her silver nail polish chipped forefinger, “This is your fate line” Martin’s not sure there even is such a thing in palmistry but he avoids the argument. “…and your’s, dude, is split” she moves the gum to the other side of her mouth with her tongue as she talks. Martin remarks to himself that she has pretty teeth. “…it’s like you have two lives…oh my god I read this thing that said that we all are living every one of our potential choices at the same time, in infinite dimensions like if like one time you were gonna go down some street some time but you took a different street one of the ,you’s, went down that street and maybe got hit by a car or something” Lucky him.” And another you like got a promotion or something and is a millionaire” Lucky him. “Isn’t that cool?”
Martin looks up from his hand “Pretty cool Stac. Oh Kirk and Kelly won’t be in, their sick” “yeah right” She snorts “Their totally fucking.” Martin tries to picture how one ‘totally fucks’ is it different? Do you use more parts than partial fucking? “None of my business but you have to do their side work until Rasheed gets in.” She lets out the classic chick “uh” followed by the equally classic “That’s bullshit. I should have stayed home too. And called in masturbating.” Ones again she’s proud of her wit. “I’ll help you.” The song is now “Come on Eillene” by Dexy’s Midnight runners.
Stacey let’s go of Martin’s hand. He’s struck by how heavy his hand now feels, he’s struck by the fact that it was actually very nice to have Stacey Brink hold his hand. He slowly turns his hand back over, palm side down. Stacey is already in the back putting her stuff away. He looks past his hand and at his shoes that he bought at P:ayless shoe source. He decides to go for a walk in the Mall. He decides against telling Stacey he’s going. This decision bounces back in his mind ”She won’t care…. I don’t care…what is my job…I unlock gates…I fold my arms and lean against the cash register…I order Dic wypes…I made those up…I knit my brow at people who are late…who cares…I ask people if they are enjoying their meal…I get two forms of I.D. from new employees…I make sure that Giovanni restocks the sour crème on the Buffet…who cares…I like this song…” The Mall has Christmas music piped in, “We should play Christmas music” Johnny Mathis doing a pale imitation of Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” as written by Mel Torme. Martin stops in front of Spencer Gifts. There are wall decorations with a lit up picture of a waterfall. There is a device in the picture that creates the illusion of moving water. A man made this. There is a place where a man wakes up, goes to work and makes this. ”I’m in the fake lit up waterfall illusion picture manufacturing business, it feeds my family.” Another man buys this. Takes it home. Rifles through their junk drawer, finds a nail, go down into the rec-room , drive the nail into the paneling, hang the art, switch on the water illusion, step back, adjust the corner, step back, give the procedure a nod of finality and invite someone who was in the other room sorting laundry to come in and see. Spencer gifts also sells beer hats.
Martin turns away from Spencer gifts and leans on the railing overlooking the lower level of the Mall. He sees Matt Metoyer, they graduated together, Schaumburg high school, class of 1986. Matt’s brother Roy Metoyer died during their sophomore year. Shot himself in the chest. Suicide is already a statement. Shooting yourself in the chest is yelling that statement in someone’s ear. That was almost twenty years ago. Matt manages the Sharper Image. They sell massage chairs and full Suits of Armor. They catch each others eye and give the sharp upward movement of the chin to let the other know that they’ve seen each other, sometimes combined with a barely audible “Hey” or “T’sup?”. Men do this to one another. They are two people who know each other. They share common education. Martins older sister did not shoot herself in the chest.
Martin walks to the center of the Mall where he can see the gold ribboned giant Christmas tree. At the base of the tree lies the fiber-glass Santa’s workshop. There is a girl on College break dressed as an Elf, she has not yet attatched her ears, she is setting up the velvet ropes to control the lines. She’s Santa’s Bouncer. Martin looks at her remarkably fit legs in the candy striped hose. Santa’s late. The hot Elf blows the air out her cheeks as she scans the area for the tardy Santa. Martin heads back to the restaurant and gets a half erection thinking about the candy cane calves. He’s annoyed with the fact that he can’t fully enjoy his erection because part of his brain is still picturing Roy Metoyer with smoke and blood pouring from his chest. It’s confusing.
Martin passes the Hickory farms. Salmiis and other assorted sausages hang in the display window. One after the other, dried stuffed tubes of processed meat, a bizarre pipe organ of slaughter. Keys of string cheese. Ready to bellow the sacred hymn of the greater Woodfield mall. Each note forged by the lip or asshole of a pig. The exploited animal halleiluja chorus filling the greasy ears of the holiday patrons. Inside hickory farms is an elderly couple smelling the meats. Behind the counter is a young girl of East Indian heritage with candy cane earings. Somewhere Vishnu cocks his head. The young clerk is smiling and asking if the elderly couple need help. Martin hears this and wonders who would need help smelling meats. Should she hold the meats while they smell it? Should she waft? Perhaps push their white heads closer. They decline her help with a “we’re just looking” Looking is not what they were doing. The young clerk shifts her weight back, and returns her face to a generic gaze. The couple continues their nasal tour.
Martin, erection now completely gone, puts his hands in his pockets and turns to head back to the restaurant. His hand rests on his keys. He thumbs the panic button on his car opener. A smile creeps across his face at the many places he’d like to press it. When your girlfriend tells you her period hasn’t arrived, push the button. When your mother tells you she’s met your new father, push the button. When your Pastor asks you to share a few words about your love for the baby Jesus, push the button, push the button, push the button.
The seniors that were in the shop had broken from the pack of the morning mall walkers. The mall sponsors a daily ritual dedicated to keeping the aging population of the greater Schaumburg area fit as a fiddle. A dead senior can’t shop. Every morning a hundred seniors, dressed in running suits of every shade Sears can test market, pour into the mall to take a few laps. Fingers pressesd to wrinkled throats, measuring geriatric diastolic. They migrate past cinnabon, their orthotic stuffed trainers keep in perfect rhythm to Barbra Striesand belting out Jingle bells from the mall P.A.. Occasional rogues will splinter to smell meats. That’s when Nancy Harrigan, Mall Walker Captain will be sent on reccon to gather the strays and return them to the flock. Nancy has her work cut out for her. Peeling Ed Hornsby out of a massage chair. No Orange Julius for you Donald Farmer. Walk! Walk! Elenor Buckleton! Walk! Walk! Step away from the hot pretzel, Vern Katalsky, shame on you and your sodium levels. They all clomp past Martin, staving off the grim reaper, the squeak of their sneakers on the buffed tile, HELL NO THEY WON’T GO, A noxious cloud of rose water, aquanet and assorted medicinal rubs. Ghosts of Christmas passed.
Good pun,
Martin thinks so too.
Where to put his endless cleverness? It sits in his mind like a great ape in captivity, hands ready made for swinging on vines, teeth sharp for separating bamboo, chest ripe for the pounding. Instead, dead eyed, half assedly giving a tire swing a shove (knowing full well that a Winston steel belted radial does not occur in nature). What should be on a thick green mountain top, standing, arms locked like pillars, knuckles denting the misty morning mud, surveying all of his kingdom, establishing dominance, batting at biplanes is instead bleached by fluorescents, gaining weight, sitting in vitamin enriched fruit slop. Kelly the Primate keeper, blonde pony tail, khaki shorts, who absolutely believes there is absolute good at keeping this Silverback behind plexiglass in the middle of Martins head. Kelly is as real as every teacher that told Martin “trees don’t have purple bark”, as real as him eventually believing them.
