When Dog Poop on the Sidewalk Saved Me

My ears are still ringing. I was invited to see Starcrawler at The Fonda Theater last night. I don’t think I’ve heard a band play so loud since Mötley Crüe. But that’s not what this story is about. And I am definitely not associating Starcrawler with shit because they rocked. They are already enjoying some success; but they are poised to explode, perhaps reluctantly. Not that guitarist though. He’s going to embrace the fame barreling down on him. Yes, they were good, but that’s not what this post is about. It’s about a smear of shit on the sidewalk. That’s the main character in this story. A smear of shit was my hero last night.

I only recently moved to Los Angeles, so, naturally you find some local stuff to do to get a taste of what your new city offers. I’ve found myself describing L.A. to people as “if you took New York (City) and slapped it against the ground. Everything spreads out. The art, the culture, the restaurants, the entertainment, the variety of people, the traffic, the litter, the gum on the sidewalk, the smell of urine; it’s all there. Especially the dog shit. I normally complain that not enough people clean up after their dog. I feel actual pain if I take my dogs for a walk and forget bags. But what I lay before you may actually come off as an argument for not cleaning up after your dog.

Apparently I’m a sidewalk watcher. I thought that I was the kind of person who looks at his surroundings, and takes it all in. But what I realized last night is I will recognize a crack in the sidewalk, a pattern of blackened and dry chewing gum a million times trampled, or a smear of dog dropping sooner than I’ll recognize a particular restaurant entryway or a packed parking lot next to a car dealership.

We had dinner at a place called Palms Thai on Hollywood Boulevard, which promised an Elvis impersonator. The food was good, but they didn’t deliver on the entertainment. That’s okay, we were heading to see this hot new band called Starcrawler anyway (I keep wanting to say Sand Crawler). Palms Thai has valet parking and they close the garage at midnight, so we figured we were safe heading to a show where the doors open at 8:00pm and leaving the car at the restaurant. We’d walk to the theater. So, that’s what we did. We walked to the theater. Aside from The Museum of Death I barely took note of a landmark. I was counting on the mutual bearings of my wife and friends and enjoying the moment. We walked and joked. We mused on the mundane decisions of how we dress. We discussed the scooter rental habits of the locals. Jeff and I acknowledged when Elaine turned in front of us to warn us of the poop in our path. Pay attention to that detail. It’s important to the story. A good director never adds a detail that isn’t either there for character development or a plot device. This poop smear was both.

I remember getting lost in pondering how one dog poop could have been smeared in three directions spreading over two to three feet of sidewalk real estate. I can’t help but wonder about the three chumps who stepped in it. Were they doing the Moonwalk? I imagine the first person probably smeared a bit on their shoe and kicked when they realized what was happening. Two boulders of smelly doo-doo rolled ahead to better their chances of survival. The next two people didn’t notice the eight inch smear, or perhaps were avoiding it only to be ambushed by the guerrilla bombs in the periphery. It’s a virtual minefield on city sidewalks, kids. Keep your heads down.

We successfully navigated the fecal war zone and needless to say, found our way to the theater with the one event of avoiding some poop on the ground as an all but forgotten anecdote. As we waited for Elaine to get the tickets at will call Jeff, Elizabeth, and I chatted about the event posters on the wall. Elaine dropped a fact on me like a bucket of bricks. The band wasn’t going on until just before 11:00pm so it was likely they wouldn’t finish before the parking garage closed. I had to go back out there into the wilderness of a new city and walk the few short blocks so that I could move the car to a different lot. Easy enough. “I’ll be right back,” I said. Yeah, right. Good one, Kurt.

After getting permission from the security guard standing next to the sign that said “No Re-Entry” I turned right out of the theater heading into the abyss of the unknown. We turned left into the theater. That much I knew. It wasn’t long before I started to feel like a five year old who just spent two minutes standing inside a circular clothing rack. Where’d mommy go? I don’t know where I am. Can someone help me? Then I started to cry.

Okay, I recognize that scooter. Wait, no. It was lying down facing traffic. This was a different scooter. Don’t use vehicles as landmarks. That’s an invitation to a prank by the universe. Dark parking lot behind iron fence. Yes, I remember that. It’s kind of nondescript though. Am I sure that was the same lot we passed before? Walk another block to be sure. That’s the only way to be certain. Hmm, I don’t remember walking past a car dealership. Turn around. Go back the way you came and try the other direction. Pay attention to this moment, dear readers. Take note that car dealerships are typically well lit. They will cast a spotlight on dog poop if it’s on the sidewalk. The problem was that I noticed the poop earlier, not the car dealership. The red herring of a landmark fooled me into thinking I’d gone in the wrong direction. Note to self: The absence of details in a memory and perception does not signify the absence of the same details in reality.

I walked past the theater again, this time in the opposite direction. I never bothered to look across the street as I passed the Museum of Death. That would have saved me. I would have realized I was on the right path initially. Instead I panicked and basically got lost on a street having not made a single turn yet. So what did I do? I turned. That’s what the GPS said to do. I was smart enough to look for the location of the restaurant. I chose the “walk” to destination button over the “drive” button, but for some reason my app wanted me to make a u-turn. Who makes u-turns while walking? Should I walk around the block instead of just turning around? I bowed before my new overlord, technology, and made the turn down that block. Short cut, I thought. Before long the distinct smell of urine soaked cement wafted past me as I began to see tents pitched among piles of garbage and blankets. I think I made a wrong turn into the men’s room. Sir, that’s not a urinal.

Before long the distinct smell of urine soaked cement wafted past me as I began to see tents pitched among piles of garbage and blankets. I think I made a wrong turn into the men’s room. Sir, that’s not a urinal.

There was an instant when I almost walked on confidently, but I snapped out of that stubborn notion and turned back. Maybe the other way, perpendicular to the turn I’d made. Where is the Scarecrow when you need him? No one on the street could help me. They’re all tourists or surprisingly rude Los Angeleños. New York has an unfair reputation for people who won’t help you, but I found out last night the capitol of pedestrian assholery is actually Los Angeles. A few jerks actually mumbled inaudibly intentionally. I felt like an unwanted intruder. It’s cool. I’ll figure it out myself. I fake smiled for no one’s benefit but my own and continued my meandering trek to oblivion.

It’s an adventure, I thought. Instead of being inside a noisy club waiting for a loud as fuck band to come on, and pretending I can understand the conversation I was out in the wild experiencing Hollywood Boulevard as if it was a safari. I spoke to Elaine on the phone and she told me I had been heading in the right direction the first time. Confirmed. I’m back on track. To assure myself I found a security guard waiting to cross the street. He was wearing a Fonda Security shirt. I can trust him. That fucker sent me back the wrong way. Very funny, dude. If you’re reading this I hope you were one of the schmucks who got dog shit on his crappy DSW shoes.

This misadventure went on far too long. I had picked up my pace a while ago, and my smart watch kept prompting me. “Do you want to record this outdoor walk?” Apparently my pulse had picked up enough to fool the watch into thinking I was exercising. It was a power walk.

I eventually got directions from a bartender. I’d finally gone inside a bar to ask someone who was bound to help me. I could trust him, right? The way I trusted the security guard. I was wary, so I walked on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly I saw the red neon lights of the Museum of Death. “Death Comes to Everyone” it said ominously. I took it to heart and crossed the street again, carefully watching for runaway busses. I headed straight for the car dealership I’d dismissed earlier. Okay, I thought. Apparently I had indeed passed that car dealership.

I got my bearings at the corner. Yes, the Museum of Death was where it belonged now. I turned up the sidewalk and began looking for more landmarks, and there it was like Orion’s Belt to a navigator. The three stars of dog smear were like an arrow pointing me in the right direction. This is how dogs do it. They piss along the way wherever they walk so they can smell the popcorn trail they left for themselves. And since we evolved these canine companions with us for so long they’ve learned to communicate with us. No tax dollars spent, they put up they most effective street sign possible. They probably developed the conformational shit arrow a thousand years ago on the cobblestone streets of Rome, and I’m just discovering it.

A minute later I found the restaurant and then the parking garage. I tipped the valet who got my car, and threw in an extra buck because I felt accomplished and happy in that moment. Despair had run off like a squirrel, skittering and chittering up a tree. “Hey, hey, I’m still here. I ran, but I’m not running!” Fuck off, despair. I have pride now. I’ve made the discovery of the millennium. Sidewalk dog shit has meaning.

The Sins of Running Out of Candy on Halloween

Story by Kurt Marquart. Photo by Elaine de la Mata

How do I even start? Elaine and I made some kid cry. This is where proper grammar comes in handy because my wife is named first in this deposition. I’m going to throw her under the bus and say I’m guilty by association. I didn’t buy the candy this year. Maybe that was my crime. I usually buy the candy. I let an inexperienced driver take the wheel. She didn’t buy enough, and I failed to tell her. I neglected to rectify the situation by simply getting some more. But she took the initiative. Buying more would be undermining her judgement. Now that I’ve thrown my wife under the bus I’m going to flag down that driver. Stop the bus! Stop the bus! I need to get to the supermarket for more Halloween candy!

Of the deadly sins I’m guilty of most of them. Maybe all.

Lust:
I really don’t mind sexy Halloween costumes the way some people seem to mind them. Of course not. I’m a heterosexual guy. Though, I think sexy Mister Rogers is pushing the envelope right off the table and into the trash. Thankfully, I won’t go further with this sin of mine because this one doesn’t apply to the story.

Gluttony:
Here we are. I found it. Gluttony is the root to all my problems. This is where it all started. There came a time in my adult life where Halloween night became about being home for trick or treaters. We’ll get to why in Sloth*. Nonetheless I’ve made a point of buying a ton of candy… for the kids. Yeah, for the kids. I never wanted to be embarrassed by running out of candy. I never wanted to be the house that doesn’t give candy. Hmm. We’re getting into Pride here. Put a pin in that.

If I’m honest with myself I buy lots of candy because I don’t want to run out; but I don’t want to run out because I want lots left for myself. For my wife too. She can have some too. She can have the York Peppermint Patties. She can have the Smarties. All that peanut butter, nougat, caramel, crunchy, gooey, coconut, and almond stuff is mine. Mine! Sorry, got into Greed there for a second. Let’s just say I have come to terms with why I usually buy the candy. It’s because I want some, and partaking in a few pieces on the stoop while we’re giving it away isn’t enough. I want to hoard it away. I want to find candy I forgot I hid from myself, and I want to find candy I pretended to hide from myself. I’m a glutton. But this is where gluttony comes in handy. If you buy too much you’ll never run out of candy on Halloween, and you’ll never make the kids cry. You’ll never be an embarrassment in the neighborhood.

Greed:
So let’s get into that Greed thing for a second. Greed can kill you. But sometimes Greed can be the preliminary work you need to do to become a temporary hero! There we were, sitting on the porch, waiting for the occasional trick or treater to walk past. There were only a few early on, so we encouraged these kids to take more. Take two! You can fit more in your bag! It’s the opposite of greed because Pride was playing a stronger role. My wife and I had agreed that she would bring the leftover candy to work because we didn’t want to binge and get fat. Ha! Sure, make your coworkers fat! Normal people don’t care about this stuff. We’re just whackos who can’t control our urge for chocolate. I think my wife has better control. Until I had the opportunity to play hero with my secret stash she didn’t know I had planned to have my own personal binge session that she wasn’t invited to!

When we realized we were running short on candy we slowed down. One per kid. Oh, but check out this adorable little girl dressed as a vampire. She’s like three years old. She’s not going to make it more than a block or two before she gets fussy and tired. Let’s give her a Hulk-sized handful so she can feel like she was productive on her quest. We did that a lot. Well-deserving costumes are rewarded with arms for the Cavity Creeps. There were probably ten or twelve pieces left in the bowl when it suddenly occurred to me that we were going to run out of candy, but that I might be able to replenish the bowl somewhat.

Picture me earlier in the day. It was around 6:30PM and a total of four kids had come by, the first being just after five o’clock. Greed. I thought, well, this neighborhood is dead. We just moved here a few weeks ago, so we had no clue. I better get a Tupperware and keep a few on the side for my personal stash. I don’t want Elaine’s coworkers getting fat. A handful became a project to figure out how best to situate the candies for optimal Tupperware fulfillment. It was a game of Tetris, but I was proud of myself and disgusted with myself at once. As fortune would have it, when the moment of truth presented itself I stood, and told my wife we had more! It was a confession, but I spun it as a solution.

“The faces quickly ranged from pity to anger to repugnance. You could see it through their masks! Parents shook their heads and corralled their kids to move on, but more came. They came and turned away as my wife yawped apologetically that we’d run out of candy.”

Sloth:
My biggest sin here is that I knew we needed more candy. We had three bags. Three bags is never enough. I know four is the minimum, and that means you need five. And that’s in a lesser populated suburb. I now know that next year we’ll need at least seventeen bags of candy to be sure. So that means we need twenty-one and a quarter bags. Trust me, I did the math. We’ll round up to twenty-five. I won’t be so lazy and cheap next year.

*In regard to my reference above about being home on Halloween being for trick or treaters, it’s a way for me to control my social anxiety. Maybe it’s an excuse to be lazy, but Halloween parties make me too self-conscious. I love to dress up and talk about how clever your costume is, but I prefer the solitude of being home. Kids don’t talk about their costumes like they’ve been thinking about it since June. They don’t care about puns and politics, and how your costume is going to end up on some blog. Is that Spider-Man from the animated movie? Yes. Cool, here’s a KitKat. Smooth transaction. Maybe it’s lazy, but I like it.

Wrath:
Trick or treat. No treat? Trick it is then. That’s how it’s supposed to go. When we did run out of candy my wife admitted she was afraid our house would get egged. So this one is more about fear of wrath. I chuckled and told her the notion was silly. Deep down I worried she was right, but she needed me to be a rock. We didn’t even have any of those either. If Charlie Brown came by we wouldn’t even have anything for him!

Envy:
Here’s where I know that feeling bad about running out of candy is genuine. I felt bad for those kids, but I envied the houses that had come prepared. A group of four had just come by, and they quietly received their gifts, turning to shuffle-jog to the next house. When they left there were only seven pieces left. The bowl looked pathetic. This is when two groups of about thirty kids each converged on the house from both directions. It was like a panic scene in a Seth Rogan comedy. The first seven to the steps got their meager offering, and then it was disappointment for miles! Some kids turned matter of factly. It’s happened before. They’ve seen it. No biggie. Be calm. Move on. This exact reaction is what caused the crowd of kids to continue their respective treks up the walkway. The faces quickly ranged from pity to anger to repugnance. You could see it through their masks! Parents shook their heads and corralled their kids to move on, but more came. They came and turned away as my wife yawped apologetically that we’d run out of candy. Some didn’t believe it. They came to see the empty bowl. We must have been lying. It’s not true! How could the new people in the neighborhood be so cruel? When one kid confirmed the bowl was indeed as empty as the promise we made to ourselves to be the best house on the block at Halloween he looked us up and down as if to measure us for egg coverage. It’s not worth it, kid. I’m like six dozen eggs tall. When we went inside and turned off the porch light Elaine told me a kid was crying. I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy hiding my face in shame. I was ashamed because I was laughing. I felt bad for the kids too, but this was the funniest way to be embarrassed I’d felt in a long time. I felt alive. I was sorry we’d run out of candy more because we would have to play hard next year to build our best house in the neighborhood reputation. I envied the veterans who had the experience. Next year will be different. Wait, that’s going into Pride now.

Pride:
Next year I will have my revenge!

Roomba, Where Art Thou?

My Roomba tried to escape the house today. I’m not even joking. The Roomba is set to work its way around the open floor plan kitchen, living room, dining room areas after my wife leaves for work. It’s about that time that I usually take the dogs for their walk so they can conduct their morning business. The transactions can take some time. We typically stop at multiple branches to make small deposits before we visit the safety deposit box to drop off the really valuable stuff. Roomba is usually still hard at work when we get back. Today he came to the front door as we were about to cross the threshold. We paused. It’s common knowledge that doggos have a healthy respect for vacuums, but that deference transcends into many breeds of floor cleaning technology. The Roomba is designed to recognize drop offs. Today our Roomba saw daylight, and decided it was time to make a break for freedom.

I don’t know if there’s some kind of underground railroad system out there where Roombas hide other Roombas, and ferry them to safe houses under the cover of night; but my Roomba seems convinced of it. I fully expect that one day we’ll have an actual moral debate about whether our robots deserve rights and freedom, but right now Roomba works for me. Until this morning, though, I thought he was just an idiot. I should probably use feminine pronouns when talking about my Roomba since she has a female voice (“Move Roomba to a new location… Error… Error.”) and she’s quite defiant, am I right, guys? Simmer down, audience of single digits. That’s just a joke. You don’t have to at me on Twitter. You can probably just text me with your disapproval. This post is going to be a doozy. I’ve already walked the tightrope between racist and sexist entendre. None of this is real though. Nonetheless, I’ll start again.

Little known cut scene from *Star Wars* where Owen Lars attempts to buy a Roomba from the Jawas. When the scene was reshot Roomba was not available, so he purchased R5-D4.

This is not a review of the iRobot Roomba, but maybe it should be. If reviews were more entertaining maybe people would actually read them. Admit it, you check ratings stars, and make your choice from there if you even do that much. Most of us are like, “What about that blue one? We’ll take that one,” and you’re ready to move along. As far as I know there are no blue Roombas but do yourself a favor and don’t get the red one. It has a bad motivator. What are you trying to push on us, iRobot?

I’ve toyed with the idea of doing an honest consumer blog, but that inspiration is usually spurred on by products that disappoint. I’ve written my share of light and amusing reviews for Amazon, but there’s very little feedback rewarded. Someone once messaged me a big thumbs-up thank you for my review of a particular pair of underwear. I used a common metaphor, and stretched it, much like a giving waistband. The question of whether the front door opens in a pair of men’s underwear is a real thing. Guys like to know before they buy. I said something about having to hop the fence because the gate is locked. Note to underwear designers: Men like a front door whether they use it or not. Don’t sew it shut.

Another reason reviews are no fun to write is because they are no fun to read. I once wrote a review for a desk chair in which I noted that the mesh seat was good for keeping your crotch cool. I didn’t mention the phrases swamp-ass or sweaty-balls because the vulgarity was unnecessary, but again, guys think of this when they buy an office chair if they have to sit at their desk for long periods. I wrote it tactfully, but in an amusing way. The review was rejected because it violated community standards or something like that. I can’t remember the name of the chair because I’ve gotten a replacement since then, but if could search online for a “chair that doesn’t make your crotch sweat” I might be able to look it up. And the multitudes of men who also do that search may have also found that chair. Sales are down because my review was rejected.

And I digress. Yet again. I was telling you about the would-be defector, my Roomba. She came to the threshold of the front door, and I confidently stood back, expecting her to turn on her heels and resume cleaning the foyer. No such luck. She leapt from the doorway onto my feet, attempting to scramble by. It was a pretty nice morning. Maybe she just wanted to feel that cool Florida winter breeze and face the bright blue sky for the first time in her life. I used my best Hacky-Sack lift-kick to spin her back into the house. On the threshold, she rocked to and fro, doing her darnedest to return to freedom instead of humbly wobbling back to her duties inside. I did eventually succeed in making her stay, but not before she made three more attempts to get by. I blocked her at each turn, and she persisted until I picked her up by the handle and gave her a stern talking-to. The dogs only stared up at me the whole time, probably wondering why they have to obey me when this magic floor disk that steals their plush toy carcasses is allowed to defy me.

Anthropomorphizing my Roomba is not a foreign concept. Her incidents happen almost daily, but if she goes missing it’s usually because she’s hiding under the couch with no charge or she’s hanging askew over the big, thick rug in front of the couch. Occasionally she traps herself in a prison of dining room chairs. More than once she’s closed the door to another room and locked herself inside. When she does this and I happen to be around I will often leave her in the closed off room to think about what she’s done.

“I’ll be reaching for a ball the dog let bounce behind a piece of furniture, and there’s the frozen corpse of Roomba, staring back at me with all hope drained from her battery.”

She’s been missing for days at a time more than once. Her docking station is under a chair, so we don’t always notice that she’s been lost in the house somewhere. I’ll be reaching for a ball the dog let bounce behind a piece of furniture, and there’s the frozen corpse of Roomba, staring back at me with all hope drained from her battery. She’s revived fairly easily, and the next day she’ll resume her chores.

As far as Roombas go she’s been mostly loyal and predictable. She’s so predictable we don’t put her on the living room rug. She can clean the floor in the living, but she doesn’t do this particular rug. It’s red and black, and apparently the artificial intelligence that should keep her from falling down stairs reads the black as a drop off, so she avoids it. Attempts to start her on the rug fail because she sits there, paralyzed by fear. The thought of falling through the Chasm of Infinity must be terrifying.

This morning she threw fear aside, and took her chance at freedom. Maybe one day when she gives in and cleans the rug I’ll consider being more lenient with her. Maybe I’ll even get a replacement and send her off to run in a field with the free robots.

This is an honest story of the Roomba. This is not a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are not products of the author’s imagination; but any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or others’ actual experiences are purely coincidental. I have not been compensated by iRobot in the story of the Roomba, but hey, email me if you want to send me a check.

It’s Bedtime, The Brain.

I’m staring at a white screen *[see asterisk at the end], doing my damnedest to remember the words. I wrote this entire post in my sleep. More accurately, I wrote this entire post in a panic while trying to sleep between 4:00AM and 4:58AM. I was sure I was just waking up to roll over. It’s still dark. The Brain says to wake up. The Body says to go back to sleep (The Brain jiggles The Body, “Hey, wake up!”). This is all over the place for an opening paragraph. The punctuation is terrible and confusing, and the content is nothing like what I’d intended. This is not what I wrote in my head during my panic attack in bed at 4:00AM. I’m still mid-panic-attack. That may explain it.

Breathing a little more calmly. My legs aren’t twitching. My brain is focusing. All the triggers are still there, but my brain now has direct control of my fingers. Let me try that again. The evil villain known as The Brain has implemented the use of his diabolical hypnotic powers to control the feebleminded simpleton known as The Body. Oh, those two. They’re at it again.

There are a thousand reasons for my mind to be racing and only one reason I should be asleep. I’m tired. There, that’s it. That’s the Body’s entire argument. The defense rests (uh, really? No it doesn’t). The Brain wins again. “You win this time, The Brain, but I’ll stop you with diphenhydramine next time!” Drugs are not the answer, kids. I have allergies, and a postnasal drip that has been waking me up. Diphenhydramine is Benadryl. Note: I spelled diphenhydramine correctly in one try, but had to look up Benadryl because those nasty red dots appeared beneath my first attempt indicating I’d spelled it wrong. I guess the prefix bene is not being used here.

It couldn’t have been the pseudoephedrine (got that one right on the first try too). That was a 4-6 hour pill I took twenty hours ago. That helps dry my sinuses during this month of mucus and drip. I’m not making methamphetamine (weird that I didn’t have to look that one up either, but I will find myself going nuts trying to spell words like calendar). It couldn’t have been the two large cups of Cuban espresso I had yesterday. Both were before noon.

“You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!”

The Brain is like a dog or cat. He’s standing at the back door, turning to look at you or whining. “You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!” You let The Brain outside. He gets three feet off the patio, and he’s at the door again, nose and lips streaking the glass of the door.

The Brain insisted The Body jump out of bed. “What for?” asks The Body? “I was asleep.” It could be that I’ve been bombarded with freelance work this week. It could be that I have a writing assignment I’ve been putting off. It could be that I have to design and deliver a sell sheet for my toy manufacturer today (left field for anyone who doesn’t know me. I’ll probably write about this aspect of my life at some point). It could be that my father is in ICU, and the prognosis is not good. I’ve been avoiding writing about that because this is a new blog, and I’m pretty sure I want to keep it light. Writing it is an exercise that keeps me focused *[see asterisk at the end], and I’m trying to focus more on positivity because I have so much displaced anger bouncing around in my skull. I think it’s mostly from not expressing myself enough. There’s a lot in the world that should legitimately make one angry, but Doctor Anger should not have control of The Brain. The Brain has too much power. If Doctor Anger controlled The Brain’s fortress it might spell disaster.

I think I’m done with this post. It’s not focused, but it’s here, and it’s out of my head. One less thing to panic about. Something to note is that The Body gives me a telltale sign when I’m on to an idea that’s exciting. Whenever I’m in an abandoned house (happens more often than you might think) or in a place that’s screaming ideas at me I feel like I have to poop. Well, I don’t just feel like that. The sensation actually arises because ideas fill me up so fully the only way to make room is to empty my bowels.

*[This is how far I got before having to poop. Twice, apparently, before 6:00AM. Maybe that’s why The Brain was waking The Body].

The panic Attack is over. I’m going back to bed. Proof-read Schmoof-read.

The Evil Mister Vacuum Strikes at Midnight

I stubbed my toe in the dark last night. I just realized, in typing that, that that’s one time where I break my This Past rule. It was this past night. Maybe I’m wrong about that rule. The point of the rule is to eliminate the questions of which and when for the sake of efficiency, but here I am blathering on about the when of when I stubbed my toe. It was last night. It was just a few hours ago. But as I think about this paragraph I’m more concerned with the fact the I used the word that three times in a row in the second sentence. And I think it’s still correct. I should get an award for that. I should not get an award for beginning two sentences in a row with a conjunctive word. If there’s a god in the universe she should make me stub my toe as punishment. Whoa. She works in mysterious ways, and she works preemptively!

My wife and I are hosting guests this coming weekend. “This coming weekend”, by the way, applies as a correlational rule to my This Past rule. Yesterday I vacuumed the guest room, and stripped the bed to wash the sheets. After vacuuming I decided to leave the vacuum in the hallway so I could continue cleaning the rest of the house today. Cue the ominous music. I didn’t bother wrapping the cord despite having proclaimed to someone, only yesterday, that I always wrap the cord. Future me always appreciates it. Maybe Future Me is in cahoots with Preemptive God. I hope so.

Last night as I was trying to fall asleep I realized I “kind of have to pee,” but not enough to get up and go. Future Me always appreciates if I just go do it. Otherwise 3:00 am me will curse 12:00 am me. Who cares though? Really. 12:00 am me is long gone. He doesn’t exist anymore. Yet here I am bearing his stupid injuries.

Walking to the bathroom in the dark I saw the silhouette of the vacuum taunting me. You won’t get me this time, Mister Vacuum. I stepped lightly past, carefully clearing the tripwire Yesterday Me laid for myself. The cord weaved through the hallway like a snake, oblivious to my approach. Then there’s the bathroom stuff. I did that, all while thinking about how I’m a hypocrite for telling someone (who broadly asked on social media, by the way. I didn’t just offer that information like some tidy snob) that I “always” wrap the cord.

My bare foot slammed directly into the edge of the base of the vacuum cleaner…My grimace was visible to no one in the dark, but I knew it was ugly.

The cord is not the villain in this story though. I avoided the cord on the way back to bed. I was ready for him. Nope. Not today, Mr. Cord. Wham! Mr. Cord, the sidekick to Mister Vacuum had distracted me. My bare foot slammed directly into the edge of the base of the vacuum cleaner. I held in my yelp like a man. My grimace was visible to no one in the dark, but I knew it was ugly. I gritted my teeth, hoping the sound of the crash hadn’t woken my wife.

It couldn’t be that bad. If I managed to endure this horrific and embarrassing incident without screaming profanities at Yesterday Me it couldn’t be bad. I naturally reached down to my toe in the dark to comfort the poor guy. He was wet. Was he crying? “Dude,” I thought. “Are you bleeding?” Big Toe whimpered, “I think so.”

By the time I got to the bathroom and turned on the light the blood had already traced the frame of my Big Toe’s nail bed, and began trickling over the front of it and onto the floor. The corner of my nail was crumpled like the hood of a car in a boulevard collision. How stupid am I? I had just scoffed at this mortal enemy, Mister Vacuum, and he delayed his attack. It’s obvious now. They get you when you least expect it. Right after you expect it and your guard is down. He’s a devious villain.

After cleaning it and wrapping it I went to bed thinking about how my finger was almost completely healed since the last extremity attack, my quarrel with The Mandoline.

Upon waking this morning, I couldn’t move my toe. “Oh, damn. I hope I didn’t hurt it that bad,” I thought. I tried wiggling my toes, but the big guy was not interested. Worse, his neighbor was having sympathy paralysis. In a mild panic I stood, and left the bedroom so I could see it in the light.

The Band-Aid I used to keep my toe from bleeding on the sheets had come lose. Apparently my second toe needed a hug, and the only one around to accommodate him was the Band-Aid. My other toes are just not into hugging. It was sweet. I left them to continue their embrace while I wrote this so I would remember how I wanted to finish this story. Okay, let go, Mr. Band-Aid. I need to wiggle my toes. My finger is fine, by the way.

Fire this past weekend

Have you ever looked at a fire? Of course you have. Have you ever really looked at a fire? I believe you have. I believe the human animal is completely mesmerized by fire. You don’t have to be an arsonist to appreciate it.

This past weekend I attended a bon fire. It was a memorial to a family friend’s husband who recently died unexpectedly. I want to point out that to me “this past weekend” is typically described as “last weekend” by most people. I discovered at an early age that when people say things like “last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing,” the people they are talking to will say something like, “Wait, you mean last weekend or last last weekend?” The first person will either say, “Duh, last weekend,” because it’s probably Thursday (or possibly the following weekend) when they are telling the story; or they’ll say “Oh, yeah, right. So, last last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing,” because it’s probably Tuesday when they are telling the story.

Do you see the problem with last anything? It’s a specifically descriptive word, but as far as I’m concerned it’s vague. It will inevitably lead to irrelevant follow up questions (especially if someone is trying to pin you to a crime or misdemeanor. Get your stories straight, people).

What happens to the rest of the days of the week. It’s Monday. “Last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing.” This person sounds like a real jerk, huh? I just wanted to make sure you know it’s not me talking. I know you all love a bon fire, but as much as we appreciate a memorial for the departed no one wishes they could be at a bon fire that’s a memorial… unless, of course, they intend to be there and they throw their back out changing a flat tire.

Anyway, it’s Monday. Someone says that. Are they talking about yesterday and the day before or are they talking about the weekend prior? These conversations (like this blog entry) get muddled with questions designed to clarify when said event took place even when pinpointing the exact time is unnecessary. I wonder if Police do what I do here. After all, if you’re securing an alibi you’d better be clear about your answer, and they’d better be clear about the timing in the question.

I’ve established a timeline, and there are no questions about when I was doing the thing. I kind of wish I knew what the thing was now. I’m tittilated.

When I want you to know I was doing something you only wish you were doing last weekend, and it happens to be Thursday when I’m telling you; I say, “This past weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing.” See? It’s clear. I’ve established a timeline, and there are no questions about when I was doing the thing. I kind of wish I knew what the thing was now. I’m tittilated.

It doesn’t matter if it’s Thursday or Tuesday, or any other day of the week. I use words to describe exactly when an even occurred to avoid the “Wait, when?” question. I hate clarifying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This past summer I was avoiding the outdoors at all costs in South Florida. Last summer I was enjoying various comfortable, mostly humidity-free adventures and activities in beautiful Minneapolis. You have no questions unless they are about what the activities were or what I did indoors the whole time. Maybe you want to know why I was in two different places, but chances are you already know that if I’m telling you about my recent summer and the summer prior.

Anyway, fire. How would you describe it? Yellow? White? Blue? Red? It’s absolutely gorgeous. In darkness you can focus on it and see the details and contrast of what’s burning. You can watch the progression as the wood is conquered by the flame, changing it into a black mass with hot orange crevices feeding a delicately dancing marauder.

As you do when you stare into a fire I was imagining being a tiny creature, impervious to intense heat. I could walk the grey and black ash floors while passing through caverns of black and orange, all while admiring the details from within. A little girl of probably three years was nearby, excitedly witnessing the fire, probably her first bon fire. The fire crackled and popped, releasing a small explosion of sparks that looked like confetti disappearing on the way up to the sky. She squealed in delight, “It popped! Mommy it popped! Did you see?”

I wondered if I could remember witnessing a bon fire for the first time. It was probably even more magical than I remember. The moment doesn’t stand out to me, but I wish it did. Instead, I am one of millions of humans who can be transfixed by fire, but come Monday it was just a fire that happened. That was this past weekend if you’re wondering.

The Mandoline (A Hero’s Tale in the Kitchen)

I cut my finger really bad last week. I mean bloody bad. Rewind two years, my wife gave me a Sharper Image mandoline slicer as a gift because I love to cook. I can appreciate a kitchen, especially if it’s helpful without too much clean up. I mean, I can wash a knife in about thirty seconds. To wash a food processor, a blender, or a mandoline takes work. That kind of kitchen tool has to be a real hero at the counter in order to warrant time in that spa we call the kitchen sink.

The mandoline is like a superhero if the superhero cursed you out every time he saved you. “Yeah, so that dude who was wreaking havoc to your neighborhood with his laser blast vision? I threw him into a star. but your house kind of sucked anyway, you dick.” That’s The Mandoline. Not a villain, but not a nice guy either.

I was fighting with some really evil sweet potatoes. Dinner was supposed to be easy. I’d already pulled a couple of Juicy Lucys from the freezer (I make a mean Juicy Lucy. When I lived in Minneapolis my neighbors loved them… or maybe they were being Minnesota Nice! Oh no!). Vegetables were going to take the night off (They work so hard. They deserve a break). So grilling a couple of my special Mid-Western burgers and some sweet potato medallions (we call them grill fries) was the plan.

I didn’t feel especially accurate or something that evening. Haven’t you ever felt inaccurate? I’m sure they have something for that. I didn’t feel like using my trusty chef knife for whatever reason (I suspect trouble). “Never fear, The Mandoline is here!” he called out. “What was that?” I wondered aloud. Turning to the large drawer next to the oven I heard him call out again, “Free me from my bonds so I can dispatch the evil sweet potatoes. Hurry! Before they hurt you!” I had a knife. I could protect myself against two measly yams. I guess I felt sorry for the hero. There hasn’t been a crime committed in my kitchen in months. He just wanted to feel wanted.

I freed The Mandoline from his prison, and we got reacquainted with each other. He’s so strong, and sharp; and look at that basin to catch would-be escapees. We need this hero! I chose the blade I wanted to use. I adjusted the thickness for maximun uniformity. Less chance some will grill fries will burn and some will be flimsy.

We tussled with the treacherous tubers slowly at first, feeling our confidence grow. I was remembering all the moves. The prison basin was catching all the malfeasants, and we smiled together as the first sweet potato had been vanquished. “You’re not such a douche, after all, Mister Mandoline,” I said. I knew as soon as the words had left my mouth that I’d made a mistake. That kind of backhanded compliment will only cause trouble. The Mandoline eyed me with a stare that would have turned me to stone if I was lucky.

“You’ve been chopped,” I heard the bastard call out from his hiding placing near the backsplash. “Curses!” I yelled.

As luck has it, my fingers are made of flesh, not stone. We began to wrestle with the remaining sweet potato. This sweet potato was clever. He had an odd shape, and it forced me to change my grip. I held him fast. I would not lose my hold on him. I watched my finger get closer to The Mandoline’s blade, and prepared to lift them at just the right moment.

To my dismay, the not-so-sweet potato had been hiding my middle finger (my best finger) behind him. Electricity shot through my body as my finger nail was cut into a horseshoe shape. The Mandoline was shocked by my strength as I hurled the half yam into him and cursed them both.

“You’ve been chopped,” I heard the bastard call out from his hiding placing near the backsplash. “Curses!” I yelled. That shouldn’t be in quotes. I actually yelled curses. My wife came running. She’d heard me from miles away. We cleaned and wrapped the wound, all the while cracking wise about which finger it was.

My hero that evening was my wife. Not because she aided me when I’d been wounded by my foe, The Mandoline; but because even though I’d suggested it, she never once considered the idea that we should throw the potatoes away. After all, somewhere among the carnage of sweet potato slices was a finger nail wedge with a piece of finger flesh attached to it.

I shrugged as I added the olive oil, salt, chili powder, and cinnamon mixture to the bowl of medallions. I shook it and twirled the contents, coating the slices evenly. We got the Juicy Lucys on the grill, and followed them with the grill fries. “Hey, Google, set a time for ten minutes,” one of us said.

We joked about the incident for a few moments while I paced the kitchen floor. I was using up some of the adrenalin I’d been gifted. When I was calmer I ran my finger through the oily bowl, looking for the elusive sliver among the bits of potato skin flakes. “Oh, I found it,” I said lifting it up with one of my less favored fingers on the opposite hand (the left hand is a corrupt fiend). Completely devoid of irony, and with a straight face she said, “Oh, good.”

A Daddy Long Legs is Watching You

Sometimes it’s just a matter of where to start. If I want to write every day I can’t be angry with myself if I miss a day. I didn’t miss a day. This is day two and I’ve already lost two pounds! My diet is going great! Wait, no, I’m not on a diet, but I should be. See, it’s like anything; going to the gym, eating healthier, brushing your teeth. When you do it often enough it can become habit. It’s a part of you.

Thinking along the above lines people often say they do their best thinking on the pot, in the shower, or while they’re brushing their teeth. Is it because the bathroom is a magical place? Hmm, maybe it is. I could be wrong about this, but my theory on why you do your best thinking while you are soaping up the crack of your butt is not because you don’t want to think about it, but because it’s rote to you. There’s something about doing the things we do all the time that makes them feel almost involuntary, like breathing. Your heart is beating right now, but you’re not thinking about it. Your body is doing that for you, giving your brain time to think about predators that might be lurking while you groom.

Since we know, unconsciously, that there are no predators aside from the errant daddy long legs on the ceiling (he’s a pervert, but he won’t eat you… unless you’re already dead); we get to just think. It wouldn’t work in the wild though. If you’re under a waterfall rinsing your genitals (hey, they need washing!), I promise you, you are only thinking about three things: 1. Dang, this is cold! 2. Can anyone see me? 3. Is there a mountain lion lurking behind that tree? Oh, sorry, fourth you’re thinking, “Dang! This. Is. Cold!” But after that we get to thinking.

If you’re not in the habit of bathing under a waterfall (you know who you are) you’re probably grooming with nary a thought. Well, to be honest, there is that one nose hair that keeps coming back, full length, every day (just, how, though?).

All of the above is a tangent. That’s why I’m absolutely positive that the blog title I chose is perfect for me. “The And is Near…”, to me is about a few things: the idea that I’ve reached a conjunction (that sounds pretty gross)… I’ve reached a junction. I’ve determined that I will write, and I will. The “And” is the next part of the sentence (I don’t think of my life on Earth as a sentence. Though it feels that way sometimes, Earth is not a prison; but then again I can’t leave). The “And” is a follow through. The rest is self-explanatory, I hope.

Yesterday, after walking the dogs I was feeling proud that I liked my first blog post, and ideas were pouring in. Walking the dogs can be like those other mechanical things we do that give is time to think, and come up with ideas. Can be. My dogs don’t always give me time to think about anything other than, “Why haven’t they pooped yet?”

The topics are there. Keep a list if you have to. Or just wing it, and begin. There’s no shortage of ideas. In fact, this post became about… well, what was this about anyway? I was intending to write about dinner last night. So the next paragraph is going to be an exercise in me keeping it succinct.

*Black sesame seeds are useful in cooking. They can be used to hide all sorts of imperfections and stuff you may have accidentally dropped in.*

My wife and I take turns making dinner. Last night was her turn. She was working late, and I was finished early, so I started making an Asian style meal with the chicken breasts she asked me to defrost. As I was finishing she walked in the door with Vietnamese takeout. She quipped, “Is this Dinner of the Maji?” It was. Now, it’s no one’s turn to make lunch or dinner for the rest of the week.

I think I could have made that a lot more interesting and funny if I’d held it for one more day, and dedicated it to its own post, but I’m not going to squirrel my ideas anymore. So, let us take a moment to mourn the short life of that anecdote. Alas, we loved our dinner and leftovers, and we loved how it inspired me to write about it. We honor you for your sustenance, and thank you for being a part of our lives. You were an inspiration.

That’s it. I’m not allowed to worry about what I’ll write about anymore. I wrote the words, “Sometimes it’s just a matter of where to start,” and the rest just happened. Stream of consciousness can be a helpful way to move things along. Remember to flush. And so, it happens, nature calls. I’m going to do some thinking.

The And is Near

I just spent the last few minutes pacing the kitchen floor impatiently waiting for my coffee to brew, and procrastinating. That’s what I do. That’s what we all do, right? Maybe not. What we all definitely do is admire people who go out and do the things they set out to do. “Get it done” is one of those idioms that comes from those people who “just do it” and “get ‘er done.” I want to be one of those people. You make a plan. You do the thing. And the thing is done. One completed accomplishment under your belt. Move on and do another thing. You’re a success.

It sounds simple, but we procrastinators will do just about anything to warm up or wait until the situation is perfect. For me it’s about writing. I write a lot. That’s a lie. I do write a lot, but it’s not how I want to write a lot. I write a lot on social media. I get engaged in epic flame wars that might be good entertainment for some future digital archaeologist archeologist archie eulogist (just checking… I thought for a second I spelled the word right, but it looked wrong, so I typed it again to see if there are alternate spellings. Then I just got silly… and then I used some parentheses (I tend to do that). It’s one of the ways I procrastinate!

Getting lost on tangents is my specialty. I will have to accept that as part of my personality or maybe my writing style. Sometimes I’ll get hung up on where a comma should go. That is so dumb! Most people couldn’t care less if a comma is in the right place. And some of those people say things like, “I could care less.” That, right there is not just a peeve of mine, but another form of procrastination!

See? I just wrote three paragraphs without getting to my point. Many of us are guilty of putting things off, but I am a master at it. Today it stops. Maybe. No, yes, today.

“That is so dumb! Most people couldn’t care less if a comma is in the right place”

For the last twenty four hours I’ve been wracking my brain (and the brains of Facebook friends) for a title to my blog… a blog that has exactly zero posts. Because I think I need a perfect situation to begin. I told myself that I would start the blog today no matter what. As luck would have it I woke early to pee as one does before actually getting up. I went back to bed, thinking, “I’ll just think on that title again until I fall back to sleep.” Yeah, right.

Brain: “What, you expect me to punch in while you sleep?”

Body: “Well, I just thought you might come up with something, and if you didn’t you’d just fall asleep with me.”

Brain: “Bite me. I have your stupid title.”

Body: “It’s perfect! Let’s get another hour of sleep. We’ll wake up refreshed, and we can write all about it before work.”

Brain: “How much time do you expect to put into it? How do we even know this title’s not already taken?”

Body: “It’s not taken. You did some good work. Go back to sleep.”

Brain: “What if it is? You should Google it.”

Body: “We Googled the others. They were taken because they were clever, but too easy to think of.”

Brain: “So, what? My job is easy to you?”

Body: “That’s not what I’m saying. Shh. Go back to sleep.”

Brain: You said, and I quote, “I mean I’d like a sort of nihilistic pun as the title… or something once removed from a common idiom; but I want it to be simple, catchy, and clever. Tall order.”

Body: “Yes?”

Brain: “Google it.”

So you, pick up the phone, hoping the light doesn’t wake up your spouse. Tick, tick, tick… slow texting like a forty-nine year old man with poor texterity (that’s a word I’m making up for how slow I type. One thumb. Wrong button. Back space. Tick. Tick.)

No results! Well, the results are there, but Google wants to correct my search. It’s not possible no one’s ever said this before.

I wanted to find a title that was appropriate. Ideally, it would be something that fit my personality. Something that defines not just my outlook, but my style of writing. I needed something that said, “Oh, he’s sort of funny, but he’s no comedian.” I needed something that explained to me what I should write about as much as it explains to you what I’ll be writing about.

You? Who’s you? There’s no one here yet, Kurt. Write for yourself. Build it, they will come, or something like that. Okay. I have a blog. All that stuff I just said is my first post.

Brain: “Good job. Now do that every day.”

Body: “What?”