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April 27, 2006

Sports Teams

We will know that we've won the War on Terror once we've begun naming sports teams after terrorists groups.

etc.

Posted by mslaybau at 01:31 AM | Comments (0)

April 23, 2006

Conversations with My Mailman II

As I was exiting the liquor store around the corner, I nearly walked into my mailman, who was getting some lunch. He seemed to be walking a little stiffly and I asked him if he were alright.

He turned to the cashier to conduct his business and, talking over his shoulder, mentioned how the warmer weather means more sweat, especially where the strap from his bag rubs his chest and back, and more especially in his crotch. He said the other day he put a thermometer down his pants and after a minute he pulled it out and it read 126°.

The real problem is the choice of underpants; this girl he knows prefers he wear boxers, but those chafe his scrotum and upper thighs when he's working. He has some briefs, but they're so stretched out that they don't provide comfort either.

We left together and I was going to ask why he couldn't get some more. I don't want to force a consumer-mindset on anyone, but a fresh pair of underpants every now and then is quite affordable, and really brightens one's day.

However, once we were outside, he confided the most significant reason for his diminished state of perambulation:

"A couple days ago I finished the shift, and, being Monday, stopped at the bar - the Orbit bar. Now, I was chewing gum to get that cigarette taste off my breath, and I see the new bartender, cute girl, young. I didn't want to look like a cow chewing my cud, and I didn't want to look like no camel either, spitting my gum somewhere - so I swallowed it. No big deal, I've swallowed gum before."

"Anyway, this bartender, she's friends with someone I know, and cousins with someone else I know, and I know they're both going to tell her to watch out for me, that I'm no good, and so on and so forth, so I wouldn't put money on anything going anywhere."

"But whatever, you know? So, the next morning, I'm having my morning shit, with a cup of coffee, a Winston, and the paper. I finish up and go to wipe, and it's like tar down there - like half of La Brea coming out my butt; I use up nearly a whole roll just trying to scoop it all out."

"It's time for a shower anyway, so I try to finish the job in there, and get it pretty clean, except for one really sticky bit caught in the hair. I tug and yank but just can't get it out."

"I smell my fingers, and... they're minty fresh! It's the gum! I have a gum dingleberry that refuses to vacate my asshole!"

"If I had just rinsed it in the first place, it probably would have been fine, but all the wiping ended up just getting this gum-ball all tangled up in the hair. So, what can I do? I try pulling it out until tears come to my eyes. I could shave it, but it's too close to the skin to get a razor in there. I could use a knife or scissors, but I can't see what I'm doing, and I don't want to slip, you know? Slicing up your own anus first thing in the morning is no way to start your day."

"I get out of the shower, water running, and get a pen, go back in the shower, and holding the gumbleberry in my left hand behind my back, I use the pen to isolate each hair holding it in place and rip them out one by one. I tell you, I was crying like a baby in church"

"I finally finish and my knees are wobbling, and my ass feels like it's on fire. I look at the gum, and it's green, which is weird because I only chew white gum."

"So, from now on, listen to me, I'm going to spit my gum in the street like everyone else."

Posted by mslaybau at 06:37 PM | Comments (0)

April 04, 2006

Harlem Hybrids

Ever since I moved to the magical Kingdom of Harlem (one 'a') I've noticed a number of things they do differently here. One example is the preponderance of plantains in the grocery stores. You can't buy cream cheese or bagels, but they have lots of vegetables that I have never heard of, most of which look like hybrids between coconuts and potatoes - furry, lumpy, brown things.

Another difference is how Harlemites (Harlemers) seem to love hybrids of another kind: Electronics. In this age of miniaturization, many seek the ultimate electronic doodad: the phone/pda/mp3 player/email thing/browser/game console. But up here, people have been combining semi-related objects for years. One guy bolted a toaster to a microwave oven, and has enjoyed a single 'breakfast utility' for many months now.

But the most awesome hybrid is at Banco Popular, where they had the ingenious idea of combining arcade games with ATMs. So whenever you withdraw your weekly cash you get the option to spend an extra buck and play three rounds of Dig-Dug or Galaga or that one that's a cross between Asteroids and Breakout. The guy behind me gets mad because I'm so good at Galaga and all he wants is to deposit a check.

Posted by mslaybau at 01:50 AM | Comments (0)

April 03, 2006

Epic Story - Chapter 34

The Seer of Island #10 had said that he had never intended to provide answers to anyone, but that did not stop his reputation from growing.
From what his sister described, he had arrived on the island by makeshift raft, like many before him, seeking some of the ordnance rumored to have been stored there, but found the island deserted.
Unlike the others, however, he didn't leave.
Instead, he dragged his raft and supplies to the center of the island, put up a crude lean-to, lighted a fire and fell into deep contemplation, staring into the flames, wondering what he could possibly do next.

The troubles had continued long after anyone had predicted; long after the ones who had started it had been killed.
Those who remained struggled each day to find food and protection from the destruction that moved like fire from town to town.
The seer had come looking for weapons, in the last place he knew to search, but found nothing, and at this moment he gave up - resigning himself to whatever circumstance he might encounter.
He still had his rifle, but no bullets. Still, he held it in his arm in the way one might hold a stuffed bear, watching the flames until even the embers turned black.

It was after nightfall on that first day when he heard a boat land on the east shore, and two pairs of feet approached.
Two men began rummaging through the remains of the weapons shed that had long since crumbled, and the seer listened.
Finally he announced, "You'll find nothing there."
The two men jumped, and looked around for the source of the voice, eventually making out the figure of the old man in the moonlight, holding his rifle.
They each took a step back and raised their hands. "We're sorry. We thought this island was abandoned."
The seer smiled wanly and placed his rifle on the dirt beside him. "You're safe here."

The men looked at each other. The seer was not so very old, but he did have a white beard, and he was the oldest man the two men had ever seen.
After months of paranoid flight from one place to the next, sanctuary was the last thing they expected to find.
Finally, they lowered their hands and walked toward the old man, who gestured toward his dead campfire. "The fire burned bright, for longer than I had thought, then there were only cinders. But tomorrow I'll make it right again."

The two strangers sat down, staring at the old man. One of them stuttered, "What happens tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is a new day. When the skies are dark, I can't see where I'm going, but in the morning everything will be clear."

The men smiled and relaxed. They didn't know it, but they had needed hope more than they needed ammunition, and they both knew that the war was over.
They timidly asked a few more questions, and received either silence or vague and ambiguous replies. However, they were so desperate for answers that they assumed they were simply not asking clear enough questions, or not wise enough to understand the answers.
One of them said as much, and the old man replied, "If you do not understand the answer, you might try asking a different question."
They talked all night and when the sunlight broke over the horizon the seer looked up, stood, and said, "Ah, now we can begin."
He stood, doing nothing, looking at the two men just long enough for them to understand that it was time to go.
They stood, and he reached down into his sack, pulling out a handful of dried beans. "I'm almost out."
The two men bowed and left for their raft.

That day, the seer spent the morning gathering wood for a fire, and pulled a few bits of trash from the water onto the shore.
In the afternoon, a young woman punted a raft over to the island. The man watched her approach, smiling.
When she got to his lean-to, she placed a sheet of paper on the dirt and spilled a handful of beans onto it.
"You have given us hope."
The she sat and asked questions.

The next day four people came, and the next day eleven.

The man said, I think I have enough beans.
They asked, "What do you want?"
"Some fruit would be nice."

The next day, 24 people came, bearing raisins, apples, and cherries for the man.
"Oh, this is too much. Please, help yourselves."

One day, a man stayed behind and helped the man organize that day's gifts.
"You need a better house."
And the next day people brought stones. Together they built stone walls, forming the foundation for a house.
Within a week it was 10 feet tall.
That night, as the seer slept next to the building in his lean-to, it collapsed.
"To be strong, a foundation needs mortar."
The next day, people brought sacks of concrete.
One guest brought a friend, who did not believe in the seer, but did know about masonry, and he directed the group into building a tower.
"It's not tall enough!" Some said, and they built a second wall around the first, with archways and a second story.
...
Finally the tower stood taller than the trees and talelr than any building for miles around.
The old man looked up and smiled. "You are all capable of so much, when you work together."

Then, fewer people began coming to the island. A vibrant town had re-emerged on either side of the river, and a woman began collecting gifts for the man on her porch, which faced the tower.
Each day, she would take a few items for herself and send her son with the rest to the old man.

Now, few people from town ever visit the island, or leave gifts, but visitors from other towns have heard of the rumors of an old man in a tower on an island who can answer questions.
And they come, sometimes two in a week, sometimes ten in a day. And they all bring gifts.

Posted by mslaybau at 02:01 AM | Comments (0)

April 02, 2006

Epic Story - Chapter 45

Jim awoke on his back, looking up at the stars.
He blinked a few times before realizing how cold he was.
His clothes were damp, but he knew it hadn't rained because the sky was clear.
The dampness must have been from dew settling on him, which meant he had lain there for a few hours at least.
He stood slowly, and halfway up his head began to throb and he suddenly felt very thirsty.
He touched the side of his head and the bone felt soft. When he looked at his fingers they were dark with what must have been his blood.

He stood in a grassy area with trees on one side and a dirt road on the other, with more trees beyond that.
The moon shone half-full, casting just enough light for Jim to walk without tripping.
Looking up, he knew that the outer curve of the Moon always faces the Sun, and that a half-moon always leads or trails the Sun by 6 hours.
It was pointing toward Jim's right as he faced the road, which meant that either the Sun had just set and that way was west, or the Sun would rise soon and that way was east.
Not having even a rough idea of the time, he looked up for the Big Dipper, then found the Little Dipper, the handle of which he knew always pointed north, and traced it to Polaris, the North Star behind him, which meant that the Moon pointed west, meaning it must have been about 10 in the evening.
So he hadn't been out cold for more than three hours.

Jim thought he saw some kind of structure east of where he was, and began walking.
It turned out to be a rusting water pump, fixed into a concrete slab by the road.
There looked to be the remains of the foundation of a house a little further along the road, and the pump seemed to be all that was left.

He pumped the handle a few times before icy cold water began splashing on the ground.
He knealt, cupping his hands and gulping quickly until his stomach felt bloated.
He stood and wiped his mouth with the back of sleeve, only then noticing odd grooves in the concrete.
Jim knelt again and ran his fingertips across it and saw that the concrete was not nearly as old as the pump, in fact it looked as though it couldn't have been poured more than a few weeks before, as it still had the peaks and other markings of the trowel used to spread it, which had not yet been weathered.

And that made the grooves he saw even more odd.
They were about half an inch wide, but very shallow; it was only the angle of the shadow cast by the Moon that allowed him to see them at all.
They must have been created by someone writing with his finger in the cement several hours after the cement had been poured, just as it was beginning to harden permanently.

Jim thought the grooves formed letters but couldn't be sure. Then he had an idea.
He began pumping the water pump again, splashing the water with his other hand over to where the grooves were, then kicked the excess water away with his foot.
Then standing up and turning around he saw the words clearly, etched in the cement: "Talos 20m" and an arrow pointing up the road, past the foundation of the house.

So the message must have been meant for him; few others knew what Talos was.
Jim's memory of the previous day began returning to him.
After the fight, some of Jones's men must have driven him and Paul out to this place, and while Jim was unconscious, Paul must have found the still-soft cement and etched the message.
And then they must have left, leaving Jim for dead.

He began feeling sick to his stomach, but hungry at the same time; he hadn't eaten in about 36 hours.
Feeling weak, Jim sat on the slab and considered his options.
He had to follow the trail, but had to eat something before making the 20-mile hike.
However, there was nothing else to do but begin walking, and hope to find food of some kind soon.

After a few deep breaths, he stood and began walking up the road.
He glanced at the old foundation as he passed it, wondering if there was any chance of finding anything worth salvaging, when he thought he saw a sliver of light among the stones.
Then, the faint sound of voices reached him.
He ran to the nearest thicket of trees as a trap door opened in what must have once been the floor of the now-absent house.
A man crawled out, silhouetted in the light from below, talking to someone inside, "I don't know. Yeah, tomorrow, I guess."
He picked up a bucket from near the door, then paused to turn on a flashlight, and walked over to the water pump.

Jim realized the meaning of the message; Talos wasn't 20 miles away, but only 20 meters!
Jones's men must be inside, although there were no horses in sight, so at least one of them must have driven them away somewhere.
Jim's fear now was that the man with the bucket would notice the message etched in the cement.
But the man didn't seem to. He filled the bucket and headed back to the trap door when a voice called out, "Check on that other guy."
The man grunted and turned to walk to the place where Jim had woken up.
When he saw that Jim wasn't there, he looked back at the door and yelled, "Hey! He's gone!"

A second man poked his head through the door, shouting, "What?!" and climbed out.
The two ran to the place where Jim had lain unconscious and one of them bent down to feel the grass with his hand.
"It's dry, and warm. He can't have gone far."
The first man shone his flashlight all around him, but the beam was too weak to reach where Jim was hiding.
The second man stared at the grass where Jim had been tracing out the footprints Jim had left in the damp grass.
"Looks like he stood up and walked over there." He said, pointing at the water pump.
The two followed the footprints to the cement slab.
"Let's see. You must have made those... and then this set goes to... the road."
They walked to the edge of the dirt road and the second man crouched down again.
"The mud's packed down too tight. I can't see the tracks."
"What do we do?"
"If we had the dogs we could send them out."
"They're back in Antioch."
"Yeah. We shouldn't have had Ethan take the horses. Well, we know he probably went west that way, toward town. If we try to track him he'll hear us a mile away. Better just let the guys in town know that he's heading their way."
"Bremmer'll be mad."
"Meh. That guy can't have seen anything. He was out cold before we brought him here. Oh well, better get on the radio."
The two men walked back to the trap door and climbed inside.
Just before shutting the door, the first man shone his flashlight one last time over the water pump, the road, and the trees where Jim was hiding, and then he stopped.
Jim held his breath and realized that the back of his blue jacket must be sticking out from behind the tree.

The second man yelled up from inside, "Come on, already! You're letting all the cold air in!"
"Just a second."
The first man slowly closed the trap door, keeping his eyes and flashlight on the tree behind which Jim stood, not moving.
The man walked slowly and silently toward the tree.
He reached out his other hand, and just as he was about to take hold of the jacket, Jim jumped out, grabbed the flashlight, and ran like Hell.

Posted by mslaybau at 02:02 AM | Comments (0)