January 8: This Time

Letter: C

CD Number: 9

Track Number: 26

Song: “This Time” by Colton, Graham off the album Graham Colton

Listen to it here

A man and woman sit together at a high, small circular table in the back corner of the bar. For the sake of argument, let’s call the woman Rebecca, Bec to her friends, and the man Nick. They are huddled close together so they can hear one another speak, although the need for that passed an hour or so ago when the Happy Hour crowd cleared out. The bar itself is busy, but not overly so and certainly no one is stuck standing or having to perform feats of strength to get the bartender’s attention. The man is nervously swirling a watered down brown liquid in his glass without looking at it. The woman, is excited and animated as she tells a story, a glass of clear…something sitting precariously close to the table’s edge, sweating from inattention. The two are not a couple and likely never to be, but there is a sort of energy between them that one might mistake for sexually flirtatious. Really, they are just both chasing the heady lack of perspective that comes from telling overblown stories of your life to almost strangers.

REBECCA

The thing about Robert and Cheryl was that they were THE couple. The one we only kind of looked to. It didn’t matter your class year, your extracurriculars, or your social caste; if you attended our school those years, Cheryl and Robert were your ideal. You didn’t necessarily want either of them, but you definitely wanted their relationship. You know the kind?

NICK

Yeah, yeah…of course. For us in Secaucus, it was Jill and Carlton, if you can believe that. And it was always Carlton, never Carl.

REBECCA

Right. So you know what I am talking about. I mean, personally, no offense or anything, but personally, I bet Rob and Cheryl would wipe the floor with your power couple. Not your fault or anything. Nothing you should feel bad about…I am sure Jill and Carlton made out in the halls to raucous applause and rave reviews. It’s just…well, that’d be amateur hour in comparison to Rob and Cheryl. Amateur. Hour.

NICK (incredulous, faking being taken aback)

Oh you think?

REBECCA

Nick, let’s not waste time on this. I am content in my assertion of my couple’s superiority and you are free to imagine whatever you wish about yours. The larger point is that Cheryl and Robert were our gold standard, just like Carlton and Jill were for the good teens of Secaucus. Agreed?

NICK

Let there be peace in our times.

REBECCA

As it is said, let it be so. Anyway, they had the relationship we all wanted. Legend has it they had hooked up during some youth leader dinner thing the summer before our freshman year, but the details on that were always kind of, I don’t know, foggy I guess. I think we were all too excited about them to really spend much time fact checking their beginnings. In any case, by the time we got our room assignments, they were already a couple, a unit. They existed as separate people, physically, of course, but…spiritually, I guess? That whole one soul two body thing for sure.

NICK

That’s very poetic, Bec. Very poetic.

REBECCA

Hey! Nostalgia brings out my romantic side. As in the movement, not the flowers and candy thing, you understand? Anyway, am I telling this story or are you?

NICK (a backing off gesture)

By all means…

REBECCA

So they’ve got this…relationship going on. And it’s fascinating! We are young and this is the first one any of us have ever seen that was not a parent or an older sibling, you know? It was like we left the grade before and kissing someone might get you labeled a slut. And the next morning we woke up and if we weren’t grinding on somebody, we were prudes. It was bizarre. And confusing. So, we looked to Cheryl and Robert because they seemed to be playing by the rules and making it work.

Pauses and takes a long sip of her drink

I mean, it was clear that they were doing it. Or if not doing it, coming damn close. But no one ever called Cheryl a slut. And no one ever heard Rob brag about what he was getting. So they were getting it all without consequences. Or that’s what we thought anyway.

NICK (skepticism in his voice)

And she got pregnant, the end, right?

REBECCA

No. No! I wouldn’t waste all this time on just another teen pregnancy story. Give me some credit here. No, the real hook here is that we loved them, we wanted what we thought they had, but, for them, “they” were hell.

NICK

The pressure of being young, popular, and in love?

REBECCA (shrugging)

Maybe that was part of it. But it was considerably more screwed up than that.

The thing was, unbeknownst to us, they were both kind of crazy. Robert was kind of passive about it. Like he would sit and stare at his wall for an hour. For no reason. He wasn’t centering himself. He wasn’t communing with other worlds. He just…forgot, I guess, to move. So he was like that; spacey you could say. So maybe “crazy” is too harsh. Odd, though, certainly. But odd in a largely harmless but still mildly disconcerting way.

NICK

Like Chapman? On the third floor?

REBECCA

Actually, yeah! A lot like Chapman. That same indescribable air of something just not lining up quite the way it does for most of the rest of us. Although I’m pretty sure Robert was never as big a fan of photoshopping his head onto animals’ bodies as Chapman is.

NICK

Have you seen his work, though? He’s got a real talent for it.

REBECCA

He really does. Like the hawk picture?

NICK

Oh, his masterpiece. No doubt about it.

REBECCA

Anyway, that would be fine. It would be the sort of thing that, normally, the girl would break up with the guy and tell her friends that he was distant or weird or whatever. Or she would keep dating him because she liked quirky. But the thing was, Cheryl did not take it like that. She took it personally. She got jealous. Really jealous. She’d drive by his house at all hours. She would wait in the driveway until he got home and demand where he was. The more… “him” he got, the more she lost it.

This one time, she snuck into his house and hid in his bed, naked, waiting for him. His sister ended up going into the room to borrow a CD and Cheryl just…flipped. She had Rob’s sister, Ally, like a dozen times, but suddenly she could not recognize her. She started screaming at Ally, demanding to know how long she had been screwing her “man.” Ally’s like twelve and this…person is shouting at her, in her own house. And, of course, Cheryl is naked the whole time. Ally eventually gets out of the house and runs to the neighbor’s and calls Rob. Rob eventually calms Cheryl down, brings her home, and promises he’ll call her tomorrow. And he does…for break up number one.

NICK

Number one?

REBECCA

Oh yeah, this goes on for some time.

NICK

Was she that attractive?

REBECCA

Seriously? That’s where you go with it?

NICK

Well…look. If a woman broke into my house and snuck into my room only to eventually accost my sister, in the nude, she would have to be pretty damn hot for me to ignore that kind of….boundary violating?

REBECCA

What if you were in love with her?

NICK

Alright…fine…fair. But then I’d be checking her into a hospital for evaluation, not participating in a cycle of date/break-up/date, et cetera.

REBECCA

As a teen?

NICK

Oh…oh. Yeah, nevermind then. As a teen, I probably would have loved it! It would be like starring in my own movie!

REBECCA

I’m pretty sure that’s not what it was about for Rob. I think, for him, he really loved her and he did not know what else to do besides break-up with her and then trust her when she told him she was better.

NICK

So how many times did this happen?

REBECCA

The naked thing? That was just once. But they probably broke up like…a dozen times? Once it was because Cheryl didn’t trust Rob with his lab partner so she dumped him until he apologized. Once he caught her breaking into his locker and he dumped her. A few times it was just because of some stupid fight that didn’t stop…you know, normal teen stuff.

Oh, and once, he forgot her birthday. Which, in fairness to Cheryl, is pretty galling. In any case, they were just lousy for each other. He couldn’t stop acting in ways that activated her deep seated fears and she couldn’t explain herself in a way he could grasp and neither one of them really wanted to live without the other.

We really all thought one or both of them would end up dead for it really to be over.

NICK

Oh god…that’s not what happened, right?

REBECCA

Oh no. Definitely not. Like I said, we were teens. Everything was big and whirling, you know? It is hard to see straight through the fog of high school.  No, what happened was graduation. And college. And, theoretically anyway, maturity.

Their parents forced them to go to different schools and while they were away, Robert opened up a little, I guess. The staring thing, the distance…it was social phobia. He was trying to calm himself down when he did that because he was way overstimulated in groups. Once he got that and worked on it, Cheryl didn’t seem as central to him.

And Cheryl realized that she could not see him every day, not talk to him every day, not constantly monitor him, and be okay. Plus, I guess her parents were WAY controlling, which none of us knew, so she thought that was just how you loved other people. Someone at college called her nuts to her face for the first time and it woke her up. They came back on break and dumped each other.

NICK

And that was it?

REBECCA

Nah. They ended up getting back together two years later. Got married. Had a kid. Moved back to our hometown. Exactly what they thought they wanted at 14.

NICK

A modern fairy tale.

REBECCA

Well, sort of. Rob got sick last year. An organ was not working or something. His blood was poisonous to him because of it and the doctors…couldn’t figure it out, I guess. He died in a month.

NICK

…damn…that’s…

REBECCA

Yeah. I was kind of pissed for Cheryl, you know? You get your head together, you make your way back to this guy you love, your soulmate if ever such a thing existed, and he dies three years later. It seemed…fucked up, you know?

We went out for a few drinks afterwards, her, I, and some of the other high school pals and in an ill advised moment of sincerity I told her that. And she nodded politely and let me speak and when I was done she looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I know. But imagine if I did all that and he died before we had Sheila. Or got married. Or, hell, ever got back together at all.’ Which…you know, makes sense. Never would have thought of it. But it really could have been worse.

NICK

Huh. Didn’t expect that.

REBECCA

Oh?

NICK

Yeah…you…you taught me a little lesson there. It was like Aesop’s Fables in here for a second there.

REBECCA

I do what I can.

NICK

Any other wisdom you wish to impart?

REBECCA (shaking her glass)

Only that this is empty and I deserve a refill for carrying the conversation this long.

January 7: The Thong Song

READER’S CHOICE

Suggested by: RedRocketDawg (Who, apparently, wishes to remain pseudonystic)

Song: “The Thong Song” by Sisqo

Listen to it here (as performed by Tracy Bonham)

The time: January 6, 2000

The place: A downtown hot spot

The event: A smooth pickup artist brought low

The drink dripped down his face, the slight burn of alcohol tickling his upper lip. He could hardly understand it. Things seemed to be going so well. She was just his type, giggly and short with bouncing dark hair. And he had worn his lucky shirt, which she specifically complimented. And there was flirtation. Oh goodness, was there flirtation! And then things got a little sexy. Not like desperate, don’t care who I go home with tonight sexy, but like maybe new relationship sexy.

So he used the line. He knew the song would be huge, but for now no one knew it. If she still remembered the line by the time the single hit, it would be like a little joke between them and if she didn’t, eh, who cares. It was a no-harm situation. It didn’t work though. The line, which should have been killer, just pissed her off. Hence the drink throwing. Which truth be told, struck him a bit melodramatic. This was not some hacky sitcom after all. So perhaps he was better off without a lady who would treat real life in such a way.

Still, it bothered him. After all, if Sisqo thought, “Dumps like a truck” was a compliment, it damn sure was a compliment.

“Aww, well,” he thought with a shrug, mopping his brow, “Unleash the Dragon is a better song anyway.” And certainly that was not a pickup line that could go awry.

And that is how do the Reader's Choice selections. Now that you see it in action, get in on it. Send me your suggestions for inspiration. Please?

So, what do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs (Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut shortly although information may be available before then here). If not it was not so enjoyable for you, feel free to tell me that too. And still check me out at all those things above. One of them you are bound to like more.


Feedback or questions? Offer them up here or drop me a note at the aforementioned Twitter account, tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or Facebook.

January 6: Fall on Me

Letter: R

CD Number: 5

Track Number 15

Song: “Fall on Me” by R.E.M. from Life’s Rich Pageant

Listen to it here

I still don’t know what I did wrong that day.

It was just how I was raised. “If you see something, say something.” It was everywhere. On posters. On billboards. People I respected speak the slogan over meals. So I did. I did as I was raised.

Because I had done a lot more than seen something. I had felt something! And not just some little something either. It was a big honking bit of…something! It hit me right on the head. Bam! And on the scale of reasons to say something, it is my opinion that feeling something, and by feeling I mean physically not just “divining”, is considerably higher than seeing something. If seeing is the yellow, than feeling has to be at least orange. Maybe vermilion? Anyway, it was a big deal and I did what I was supposed to.

I said something. I told someone. I told everyone! I was calm and reasonable, but serious so everyone knew how important the situation. I was no tourist here, I took this responsibility very much to heart. And by midday, everyone knew. So, I guess you could say I was efficient on top of everything. I followed the rules, I did so in a way that took the duty seriously, and I did so in a rapid, effective way. That sounds to me like someone who deserves to be honored. Not key to the city honored, although I would certainly accept, but restaurant gift card and pat of the back honored. That does not seem out of bounds at all.

Yes, I was wrong. I get that. I do. But I’m not a scientist! It was not my job to investigate or verify or whatever the hell else that jerk said I failed to do. I was just supposed to tell people, and I did. I can’t be blamed because everyone else freaked out. Not my fault. Not at all. It is time everyone else take some responsibility for how they acted. Never once did I say, “We really must loot now!” Nor did I recommend, “Everyone, this is the moment to confess your secret fantasies, lies, and affairs. You may not get another chance.” That was all of them. I just delivered the message. What they chose to do with it, well that’s their damn problem.

Unfortunately, the elders seem to feel differently. They say I was “foolish” and I “ginned up a panic” without “a shred of evidence.” And thus, I must wear the stone of shame.

I say fine to that. FINE! I know I did right. I am not the first to be cast out for doing what was asked because of others’ shame and sadly, I will not be the last. But I will not sacrifice my dignity to make them all feel better. Feel superior. Little was, is, and will be a proud name and no silly overreaction on the part of everyone else will change that.

And the next time the sky falls? Well, I guess someone else will have to let them know.

So, what do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs (Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut shortly although information may be available before then here). If not it was not so enjoyable for you, feel free to tell me that too. And still check me out at all those things above. One of them you are bound to like more.


Feedback or questions? Offer them up here or drop me a note at the aforementioned Twitter account, tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or Facebook. I am especially looking for messages with song suggestions for the four "fan guided" posts.

January 5: You Don't Know Me

Letter: Mix

CD Number: 23

Track Number 15

Song: “You Don’t Know Me” by Ben Folds ft. Regina Spektor found on my self-made mix Dual Speed Mixer

Listen to it here

This was a disaster. A disaster unparalleled in her lifetime. At least, that is how Hannah felt.

Yes, of course, there was 9/11 and Katrina and some other things, too. She got that. But in terms of her life? This was the worst thing ever. Even worse than that time she threw up on Jimmy Wells’ shoes because she got too drunk at that high school graduation party. If she hadn’t done that, they totally would have made out. And probably got married, thus, sparing her this indignity. Okay, that one was worse then, because it led to this one. But otherwise…just wretched.

She and Larry were married eight months ago and while on their honeymoon, some guy, a producer, apparently, approached them and asked them if they wanted to be on a game show. It was some “Newlyweds” clone called “Just Tied the Knot” or “The Better Halves” or something. Honestly, the name had changed to at least five things before the taping and in her current condition, she could hardly be expected to remember which one they ended up going with. Oh! Maybe it was “Spouse Joust?” Except she hoped not because that was a monumentally stupid name.

But not nearly as stupid as it turned out Larry was. What kind of university would give that man a doctorate in chemical engineering, she did not know. Clearly, MIT was just coasting on reputations these days.

Anyway, this producer person asked and they had said yes. “Sure, why not?” they proclaimed, giggling like the kid who keeps eating paste without anyone noticing. Oh very naïve they were, Hannah reflected bitterly.

It had started out just fine. “What’s your spouse’s favorite room in the house,” the charisma black hole of a host with the heavily shellacked hair had asked. Easy, Hannah thought and wrote “The Kitchen” without a second’s hesitation. Of course it was the kitchen. It is where they chatted every morning before work. Where she caught him up on her day when he got home. How could it not be the kitchen?

Well, apparently, Larry is a pervert because he said the bedroom. And kind of guffawed when he did it. He was less a man and more a 12-year-old whose teacher had just said “duty.” Still it was nice to have her work acknowledged. She always did do her best to leave an impression. Besides, she knew they were not going to get every answer right. They were not perfect. The couple to their left, the husband with straight, gleaming teeth and a tight t-shirt and the wife with a beautiful lilting speaking voice and perfectly perky, pneumatic breasts? They might be perfect. But she and Larry, she thought, were good enough. One to two questions wrong good enough.

And perhaps that would have been good enough. Alas, she would never know because they quickly proved to be not one to two questions wrong good enough. Larry got that her favorite color was mauve and she guessed that his childhood idol had been Tom Cruise—so dreamy—so it seemed like they were on a roll. But then the bottom dropped one. He didn’t remember that the first time they met actually was not at mutual friend’s beach house, but rather a year early at a corporate retreat. She thought his number pet peeve related to her was the way she chewed gum. He said it was how she never hung her coat up when she got home from work.

They disagreed on where on where the strangest place they had ever made “whoopee” was. He said a moving car, but she was fairly sure that just oral sex was not what they were looking for so she guessed a Burger King bathroom. And yes, the Humpty Dance was the first single she ever bought. Also, do they still really need to say “whoopee?” She understood that they probably could not say “banging” or “boning” and certainly not the “f” word. And yes, “making the beast with two backs” would probably be a bit too literary for the kind of audience watching this kind of game show at two o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, but “whoopee?” Would “sex” be too shocking? Had “making love” fallen out of favor and no one told her. Larry and her might be the world’s worst couple, but boy, this game show did have some lousy questions.

After the whoopee question, it was like they were in freefall. Hannah was convinced that Larry was just throwing the game to be a jerk now, to pay her back for all those times she had not hung up her coat. By the way, what a stupid pet peeve! Anyway…how else to explain him giving 15 as the number of previous partners she had when he knew damn well it was 14! Or insisting that Wedding Crashers was his favorite romantic comedy when he had clearly laughed harder at My Best Friend’s Wedding and it had more heart and Julia Roberts was so pretty and Wedding Crashers wasn’t really a romantic comedy anyway. No matter what Perky and Tight T-Shirt had to say about it!

But the worst moment was when Larry, all swelled up with unearned pride said that Hannah did not have an imaginary friend when she was growing up. She could have killed him in that moment. She most certainly did have one! Her name was Penelope and save for the time that Penelope had decided that Tiffany was a better singer than Debbie Gibson, they were the closest of friends! How could Larry not know that?!?! Hannah was sure she had mentioned Penelope to him as recently as last year when they went to the planetarium, since, as all imaginary friends do, Penelope had always been a HUGE planetarium fan. His mumbled excuse that he had just assumed Penelope was someone she knew from grade school just pissed her off more.

But she supposed, she did not marry Larry because of his brains or his memory. She didn’t marry him because he’d recognize that “whoopee” referred to the act of intercourse not oral. Hell, it was a dumb word anyway. She married how because he was funny, he smelled good always, even just after working on the lawn, and he knew when she needed to talk and when she needed him to maybe go out for a few hours. So, worst couple or not, she’d keep him.

As long as he agreed not to complain about her coat ever again.

So, what do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs (Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut shortly although information may be available before then here). If not it was not so enjoyable for you, feel free to tell me that too. And still check me out at all those things above. One of them you are bound to like more.

Feedback or questions? Offer them up here or drop me a note at the aforementioned Twitter account, tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or Facebook. I am especially looking for messages with song suggestions for the four "fan guided" posts.

January 3: Freedom

Letter: G

CD Number: 11

Track Number: 28

Song: “Freedom” by David Gray off the album A New Day at Midnight

Hear it here

1.)

A man in a bar.

Speaks of a regret-free life,

but can only cry

Living without strings

is fine sometimes, but others?

A hug would be nice.

2.)

“Freedom is not free,”

He proclaimed to the rapt crowd.

“So, please, write me checks.”

“Because I’ve earned

the right to live off you as

I was born so rich.”

3.)

The house was empty.

The boy, alone, with Carrie.

His folks? Out ‘til one.

The perfect setup

for “romance” and fun: being

sixteen and in love

4.)

The tent was setup.

The fire lit, crackling red.

True camping, no kids.

Just stars…and bugs and

an unseasonable chill.

Stay positive, dear

5.)

Walking up the ramp.

Fleeing the plane, legs groaning.

Exit row, must have.

Too tall for coach, too

poor for business class. Perhaps,

a train not so bad.

6.)

The taste of ice cream,

feeling wind, making choices,

dancing without fear.

Clichés all, still true.

And, on that note, it is time

To bid this adieu.

So, your survived my attempt at the double Haiku (which, of course, isn't really a thing). What do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs (Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut shortly although information may be available before then here). If not it was not so enjoyable for you, feel free to tell me that too. And still check me out at all those things above. One of them you are bound to like more.

Feedback or questions? Offer them up here or drop me a note at the aforementioned Twitter account, tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or Facebook. I am especially looking for messages with song suggestions for the four "fan guided" posts.

January 2: Resistance

Letter: M

CD Number: 15

Track Number 13

Song: “Resistance” by Muse off the album Resistance
Hear it here

DAUGHTER

And that’s why I can’t clean it.

DAD

I am not sure I understand…

DAUGHTER (rolling her eyes)

Fine! I’ll try again. Listen this time, ok, Dad? You know Jeremy, right?

DAD

Sure. The short kid.

DAUGHTER

He’s not short!

DAD

Honey, he’s 4 feet tall, maybe.

DAUGHTER

He’s…average. Or almost average. Just…just don’t call him short.

DAD

Bu—alright. The…kid from school that was here last week to borrow your book?

DAUGHTER

Right. So, you know that I love him.

DAD

Do I?

DAUGHTER

I so told you that!

DAD

You did?

DAUGHTER

Yes! He was here and after he left I told you I thought he was cute. Remember?

DAD

The short one?

DAUGHTER

Dad!

DAD

Right. Sorry. Not short. Almost average. And you love him now?

DAUGHTER

Very much. Just…so much! He’s like Sterling Knight and Jaden Smith. Combined! But funny.

DAD

I don’t know what most of those words mean.

DAUGHTER

Oh, Dad…that’s just sad.

DAD

Is it?

DAUGHTER

I think so.

DAD

Where are we going with this again?

DAUGHTER

I love him.

DAD

Are you sure?

DAUGHTER

Yes!

DAD

Even though you are 15?

DAUGHTER

You and Mom went to elementary school together.

DAD

Sure. But I slep— I mean, yes, that’s true. But that was a long time ago.

DAUGHTER

And?

DAD (stalling)

We didn’t have the internet yet?

DAUGHTER

Dad, what does—

DAD (backpedaling)

Nevermind. Not important.

DAUGHTER (excited)

Oh. And Romeo and Juliet!

DAD (confused)

I’m sorry?

DAUGHTER

They were in love and teenagers. I think Juliet was 13!

DAD

You know that play ends with them killing themselves, right?

DAUGHTER

Well, sure, but I wouldn’t do that part of it!

DAD

A relief. So, you love Jerry?

DAUGHTER

Jeremy.

DAD

Sure. Let’s say you are in love with him—

DAUGHTER

Because I am.

DAD

—what does that have to do with the kitchen floor?

DAUGHTER

I don’t have time to do the floor.

DAD

Because you are in love with Jeremey?

DAUGHTER (relieved)

Yes, exactly!

DAD

I’m still not sure I understand.

DAUGHTER (exasperated)

So, I love J—

DAD

This part I remember. You love Jeremy.

DAUGHTER

It is what I do.

DAD

And you can’t do it while washing the floor?

DAUGHTER

I need complete concentration.

DAD

Maybe you could call and ask him if it was alright if you took a half hour off from loving him to do some chores?

DAUGHTER (perplexed)

And tell him I love him? That would be so embarrassing!

DAD

So he doesn’t even know?

DAUGHTER

Not yet. I am waiting for him to ask me out first.

DAD

Which he’ll do?

DAUGHTER

Soon.

DAD

And you know this?

DAUGHTER

Dad, I occupy the top 5 percentile, in terms of attractiveness in our class. It is inevitable. It’s basically math.

DAD

But, until then, you can’t wash the floor?

DAUGHTER

Definitely not.

DAD

And you feel pretty firmly about this?

DAUGHTER

Uh-huh.

DAD (walking away)

Well, if you feel strongly about it.

DAD (popping his head in a moment later)

I just remembered something.

DAUGHTER

Good?

DAD

Great actually. See I remembered, I’m your father.

DAUGHTER

Right.

DAD

And you are my daughter.

DAUGHTER

So you and Mom tell me.

DAD

And that means I get to tell you what to do. And I get to ground you if you don’t do it?

DAUGHTER

No, Dad, you aren’t serious, are you?

DAD

Just as serious as you could imagine.

DAUGHTER

So I have to do the floor still?

DAD

Oh yeah.

DAUGHTER (getting off her bed, heading towards the cleaning closet)

I was never really in this one, was I?

DAD

Not for a second kiddo. I think it is just great you are in love though.

DAUGHTER (heavily sighing)

Thanks, Dad.

DAD (speaking over his shoulder as he walks away)

It does not make me feel old at all. Not a bit.

DAUGHTER (giggling a bit)

Happy to help!

So, what do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs (Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut shortly although information may be available before then here).

Feedback or questions? Offer them up here or drop me a note at the aforementioned Twitter account, tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or Facebook. I am especially looking for messages with song suggestions for the four "fan guided" posts.

January 1: No Sleep Till Brooklyn

Letter: B

CD Number: 6

Track Number: 4

Song: “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” by Beastie Boys off the album Solid Gold Hits
Hear it here

It had been this way since Eric moved in. No matter how he fiddled with the thermostat, his apartment always sat at a heavy 85 degrees during the winter. He complained to the super, Mr. Rob, a short, slight man with an accent of unknown origin, several times that first year. Finally, in mid- January, Mr. Rob came by, flopped on the couch and explained, in one long sigh, “If I make it cooler up here, the first floor will freeze. And they have children. So, you know, bad business. Anyway, the heat’s not broken, but I can’t help you.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Eric asked, his voice tinged with the kind of unearned indignation that comes from a life of relative ease.

Mr. Rob shrugged, “Open the windows. Buy more shorts. You are a smart boy, you’ll figure something out.”

In reality, it all suited Eric just fine. He had grown up in Gilbert, Arizona so the heat was actually a welcome connection to home. He had only really complained because he was worried that if he did not, the super might try to screw him in any other of numerous ways. After all, that’s what everyone back home had warned him about renting apartments in this part of the country.

Plus, it gave him something to moan about at work. That had endeared him to his co-workers who found Eric’s excitement about moving to the city and working with them all a bit suspect. Ineffective handwringing about what were largely minor inconveniences seemed to be a favorite office pastime and Eric had no interest in being left out.

But at home, by himself, he could admit that he really quite enjoyed being able to wander around his hot apartment, rendered almost arid but a wildly productive dehumidifier, in little more than a pair of boxer briefs. The only time it stopped being fun was when he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the four mirrors that we sprinkled throughout the loft. His skin in the heat took a kind of pinkish hue that he found distasteful. Add to that a new exercise regime that, while others assured him made him quite sexy, he felt rendered him a bit freakish looking and Eric was left looking at a body that he found unfamiliar and vaguely nauseating. Determined to not rain on his own parade, he resorted to throwing towels over each mirror, moving them only to inspect himself before work, church, and nights on the town. The result was that apartment looked like the most colorful shiva sitting ever with blue and green terrycloth dominating the landscape.

Today, however, Eric was layering up in long underwear, sweats, and a parka that was made by a company with the unlikely name of Tundra X_TREME! He might have loved the heat of his sixth floor dwelling, but there was something he gained an appreciation for in his move northeast. Simply put, he was silly in love with snow.

He clomped awkwardly down the front steps, still not entirely used to walking around in cumbersome snow boots, before launching himself into the most immediate snowdrift. He lay there a moment, letting tiny flakes drift into his eyes. Then, he spun himself back to his feet and stumbled/charged across the landscape.

He read enough to know that people who loved snow tended to praise it for the silence it promoted; “soft and silent” this, “quiet blanket” that. And quite honestly, he thought them idiots for it. Snow was not quiet and, if it was, it would hardly be a reason to recommend it. For Eric, snow was loud, a swiftly melt amplifier that picked up on his every step, slide, and whoop. He had grown up in a fairly large suburb with several siblings and moved to an even bigger city that seemed to rumble every moment of every day. Eric had never felt loud once in his life. But then it snowed, and the city scurried inside to watch from their windows. And Eric could hear himself. And yes, occasionally a cluster of kids or the horn of a paralyzed motorist or a distant siren bleat. But mostly just himself. And more of himself than ever. Yes, there were deserts back home and he supposed that he would have heard himself there, but…well, they were deserts. Eric was sure someone could find beauty in them and that was grand for them. He, however, was not one of those people. He preferred the snow.

It was not just that it promoted his noise either. He liked that it was never the same. Desert sand, generally speaking, is largely unchanged one day to the next. Snow, though…snow varied with each storm.  Sometimes, it could be as inconsequential as the instant potato flakes Eric had lived off of in college. At others, it was like a wet tarp, thick and heavy, damn near water and yet, not.

The best thing about it though? It went away. Snow was like that ridiculous sitcom character that would stay around just long enough to pass from fun to awful. Then, there would be a heatwave, as much as one can call a few days of 50 degrees a heatwave, or the seasons would change and there the snow would go. By the time it rolled around again, you would be thrilled to see it, giggling and clapping right along with that live studio audience.

Anyways, that’s how Eric saw it on a snowy February day at 12:18 in the morning. Soon he’d be back in his scorching apartment, stretching out in front of an ancient humming box fan to get to sleep and all these attempts at profundity would be gone, not to come around until the next batch of fresh snow. Soon. For now though, there was stomping and tossing and rolling to be done. Oh, and noise. Mustn’t forget the noise.

A Sample Post to Explain Them All

As mentioned last week, I was so efficient that I did not need 4 posts in December to explain everything about the January Project. Two seemed to do it. However, I have had some questions and I thought doing a sample entry would make things a little clearer than me just explaining things again.

So, with that in mind, what follows is a good indication of how this process will work. The entry was written last night which is a tradition I will hopefully be able to maintain—so the January 1st entry will be done on December 31st, January 2nd on the 1st and so on. So as not to steal any possible songs from the project, I utilized my Christmas song from last night’s #Xmasmusicalcountdown selection (as seen on my Twitter feed @UnGajje ). You’ll also note a picture below. Since, in general, there will be lots of text on this site, I will try to pair a picture will each entry. No guarantees on that, but that’s my intent.

And, on that note, I give you my December sample of what to expect from the January Project!

Song: Christmas at Ground Zero by “Weird” Al Yankovich

It’s been years, but I still remember what my brother and I have come to refer to as “The Last McAllister Christmas.”

I was 16. My brother was 14. While I am not sure who was struck by inspiration first—probably me, given that I was the older one and, as a girl, vastly more mature—we both decided that it was to be the Christmas of Reconciliation; a Return to Family Christmas, if you will. We were going to save Christmas by saving our parents’ marriage. In retrospect, perhaps not the best of times to launch such an ambitious plans, but what can you do. We were young, we were optimistic, and we were feeling more than a little guilty.

You see, the thing parents never seem to get is that when their marriages are rocky, their kids are not blaming themselves. No child, on his or her own, wonders, “Did Daddy start hugging his secretary like that because I only got a ‘Satisfactory’ in Math?” But parents seem to think they do so they always rush to reassure, “I know things are tough right now, but I promise it is not your fault” or “Yes, your mom and I have been fighting a lot lately, but we want you to know that that is between us and not your fault at all.” Someone tells you something isn’t your fault enough when you never thought it was and, well, it is like telling someone not to think of the color blue. It plants idea. What was meant as reassurance curdles into self doubt and worry. Instead of, “Phew, I thought I was the root of all my parents’ marital discontent,” you got kids saying, “Mom is telling me it is not I should not blame myself an awful lot…I wonder what I did wrong.”

And so it was in our household. As my parents began to like each other less and less in a more and more public way, they began to really step up Mission: Tell the Kids They Are Not Responsible. In turn, my brother and I became more and more convinced that we were the cause of their woes. Who was to say that my inability to make Homecoming Court in the fall or my brother’s preference for costume design over football was not exactly what was bringing ruin to the Mom and Dad’s blessed union? We also secretly thought Marcie, the oldest, might have been responsible, what with spending her junior year abroad in Russia and all, but at 20 she still frightened us quite a bit so we let that theory drop.

In any case, whether it be love or guilt that spurred us into action, my brother and I went about lobbying our parents for a big, BIG Christmas with family only. Double emphasis. No dad’s buddy from work or my boyfriend or my brother’s Jewish friend Jeff from down the street who really liked Christmas. Just the family like it had been when we still believed in Santa and, as far as we knew, my parents were the happiest couple in the world.

It was a fatally flawed plan. I know that now.

So, with my brother working on my mom, me convincing dad and Marcie opting to come home after Christmas to “save the family some money during these hard times”—she later admitted to me that there was a really cute guy in her program that was also staying behind a few days and she thought she might actually talk to him if she followed suit; instead she got the flu and he made out with the oldest daughter of her host family—we got our wish. Blueberry pancakes and presents opened while we were still in our pajamas, showers, stockings emptied and pawed through, cooperative dinner preparation, dinner, cooperative dish washing, a showing of A Christmas Story, dessert, and carol singing before we headed off to bed, no doubt to crack the spine on one of the books we had gotten for gifts. We were going all out. It was, in our minds, the greatest Christmas since the birth of the Christ child. And for six to six and a half hours, it looked like we had achieved a Christmas miracle.

Then, the phone rang for Dad; a call from work. Like that, the Christmas to Heal All Wounds was derailed and things, to use the modern parlance, were about to get real.

“Sorry, guys,” he shrugged, returning to the table. “I asked Eric to swing by and start that big job and he forgot the alarm code.”

“Oh,” came my mom’s response. Or, at least, that is how it sounded to my brother and I. To my father, it must have sounded very different indeed because he straightened up as though his chair had suddenly become electrified.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he spat back.

“Nothing,” my Mom coolly replied.

“Nothing?” Dad asked, looking around the table at my brother and I, as if to say, “Can you believe her?”

Suddenly, my brother and I became very interested in our respective piles of peas.

“Yes, Randy. Nothing. I just said, ‘oh.’”

“I know what you said, Cheryl!”

“Then it is settled.”

While the room’s temperature had dropped a good 15 degrees during the exchange, I held out hope that this moment of negativity had passed. Or at the least, there would be no shouting match. For 30 seconds, my hopes were realized. But Dad never could let things go.

“I’m not the one who slept with someone else,” he stage whispered hoarsely, his gaze fixed on a point just to the left of Mom’s head.

“You…” Mom stuttered, “I cannot believe you would bring that up today. In front of the children!”

“And I can’t believe you would cheat on me with Larry,” my father said, crossing his arms smugly. Larry was a member of our church, a short man with dark circles under his eyes who favored v-neck sweaters. I am ashamed to admit my first thought upon hearing this revelation was, “Oh, Mom, you can do so much better than that.”

With that, all bets are off. The room became a fog of recriminations and snarled, spiteful observations. I caught a “Maybe if you didn’t drink so much,” or a “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” here or there, but mostly it was just a wall of ugly, chaotic noise, a yawning chasm of destructive criticism. Before I knew it, my parents had stalked off to neutral corners, my father on the porch, announcing, “I don’t have to listen to this,” while mom jumped behind the wheel of her car, mumbling something about needing some air before rolling down the street and out of sight.

My brother and I finished our food and cleared the table. We were careful to cover Dad and Mom’s remaining food in plastic wrap, gingerly unrolling the tube, sealing it tight and placing it in the fridge, front and center so they could find it right away.

Afterwards, my brother looked at me and said, exhausted, “Dad then?”

“I guess,” I responded and we headed towards the porch.

Our trio sat in silence, Dad hugging us both to him and mussing our hair.

I don’t know if we asked something or Dad just decided to talk, but he began, “It’s true. Your Mom did hav—did sleep with Larry. It was a year or so ago and only twice, but it did happen.”

“And you?” My brother asked.

“I do drink some…” Dad paused a beat, then corrected himself, “…more than I should. Or I did anyway. It was bad for awhile. Your Mom was right about that.”

“Okay,” my brother whispered in response, stood up, and walked away. I wordlessly followed a moment later.

We both went into the basement where it was always a little chilly, a little musty, and a little scary. It was also were my brother had his video game machine set up on an eleven inch television. I hated to play video games and my brother hated to play with me, but it just felt like the thing to do then. We nestled ourselves into a burnt orange couch Mom had secured at our neighbor, Mr. Fester’s yard sale and fired it up. The couch, even two years later, still smelt of Mr. Fester’s cigars, a burnt, almost chocolately odor that I could never seem to get used to. The game was some kind of football game, but with skeletons and monsters as players. Occasionally, one of them would explode for some reason. I’m not sure if it was a good game or if I played it well. I just know it felt like a hot shower after shoveling: it enveloped me, made my mind feel fuzzy, and let me just…fade from the house.

Above us, the cellar door creaked open and Mom descended the stairs. She wore an awkward grin. It was too perfect somehow, and I knew right off she had been crying.

“So kids,” she started and then just seemed to run out of steam. After a few moments, she simply nodded and sat down between us.

“What now?” I queried. I had no expectations of what her response might be. I don’t know that I could have even ventured a guess.

“Hmm…”she hummed and fell silent again for a moment. “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” she continued, before stopping once again.

Marcie called a little while later and we passed the phone around, sharing what we got and gave, what we had to eat, and finding out how miserable her flu was making it. We did not speak of bitter arguments or sobbing on the porch or orange couches that smelled of cigars. It was Christmas again, not the Christmas my brother and I had hoped for, of course, but Christmas still. Then, we all said good bye. Marcie went back to shivering and sweaty in a stranger’s house in Russia while her crush loudly, sloppily made out with the host family’s daughter. We picked up the wrapping paper, washed the dishes, watered the tree, and went to bed early.

It was the last Christmas that my parents were married. A year later, my brother, Marcie, and I spent Christmas Eve with Mom at the house and Christmas Day across town with my Dad, his new girlfriend, and her four year old child in a small brick condo. It was different, it was awkward, but it was better, too. We never had a “McAllister Christmas” again and that was okay. In fact, in time, it was kind of great.
_____________________________________________________

So, what do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs ( Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut in January although information may be available before then here).

Feedback or questions? Offer them up here or drop me a note at the aforementioned Twitter account, tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or Facebook.

I Am Something of a Failure

So…

Umm…

Ok, funny thing about this whole one post a week leading into January. It turns out I more or less covered everything I needed to in my first two posts. Which is great! I love efficiency! But when you have three more posts to fill? Less stellar.

I was just going to make up some stuff to tell you that you don’t really care about, but…well that seemed kind of a waste. So instead, here’s an excellent video mashing up nearly all the movies from this past year.

Enjoy and I’ll do better next week.





Just a reminder: For four times in the month, I will be taking your suggestions, one a week from January 2nd- January 29th. So leave your suggestions in the comments below, tweet them to me @UnGajje, or email them to me at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com. Wait until January or start today to get a jump on things…the choice is yours!

And, of course, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs ( Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut in January although information may be available before then here).

And Now, Process Questions

Or, rather, answers.

As mentioned in the last post, the man behind Phonic Phebruary utilized his Ipod to guide his one-a-day journey. I’m more a fan of the physical medium when it comes to music (you know, CDs and such) so my selection process will be a little different. For most of the month, I will utilize a card system. First, I will draw a card labeled “Number,” “Mix,” “Soundtrack,” or a letter of the alphabet. Then, comes the card with numbers one through 30 on them. Then, whatever card is draw is reinserted into the pile, the number card pile is reshuffled, and another number drawn.

The first card tells me where to go in my (and my wife, the Thunder’s) collection. It runs alphabetically by artist from Numbers (your 50 Cents and 10,000 Maniacs, if you will) to Z—in case you did not know how the alphabet went. Then we have soundtracks (alphabetical by film, if you must know) and mixes (chronologically). For the sake of me, holiday mixes are exempt from this process.

The next card is how many I count off in the category to get to the correct CD to use. The last card gives me the track number to use as inspiration.

The collection in question

Thus, if I got “F”, “6”, and “8”, I would have to write something inspired by Fountains of Wayne’s “I Got a Flair,” which can be found on their self titled debut album.

For most letters and categories, I do not have thirty CDs. For instance, I only own about a dozen by artists whose names start with “K.” In those cases, I just count to the end, rotate back to the front, and continue until I hit my magic number. Say I did get “K” and “15,” I’d actually end up with my 3rd “K” artist because I’d hit twelve then start back at 1 (13), 2 (14), and end on 3 (15). Same process for tracks as there is almost never 30 tracks on an album—maybe They Might be Giants has done it, but even that I doubt.

As I said, that is for most of the month. For four other times in the month, I will be taking your suggestions, one a week from January 2nd- January 29th. So leave your suggestions in the comments below, tweet them to me @UnGajje, or email them to me at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com. Wait until January or start today to get a jump on things…the choice is yours!

And now, since this post is a bit dry, a joke (courtesy of Eli Matthew Aroesty-Cohen).

A man is walking around New York City one day and, out of nowhere, encounters a penguin waddling down the sidewalk. No one seems to be paying the penguin any mind, but the man cannot ignore it so he scoops up the arctic bird and brings him over to the first cop he can find.

“I found this penguin just now,” the man says, “What should I do with it?”

The cop, too busy directing traffic to be anything but abrupt waves the man off saying, “Take him to the zoo.”

“Great idea!” the man exclaims and is off without another word.

Hours later, the city has grown dark and the traffic cop is leaving the station, finally done with his shift. As he heads towards the stairs to the subway he sees the man from the afternoon, walking hand in flipper with the penguin down the street.

He jogs over to them and asks, confused, “I thought I told you to bring this fella to the zoo?”

“Oh you did and it was a great idea,” the man responds appreciatively. “But the zoo closed, so now I’m taking him to a movie.”

While Sir Waddlesworth enjoyed the romance of Love and Other Drugs, he really would have preferred to have seen the adrenaline pumping Unstoppable, given a choice.

And Now, A Grand(ish) Reveal

Hey! Welcome back. It’s December 1st and, as promised, I am here with an update about the ultra-secret January Project that has set the internet ablaze. Or at least, that’s what my Grandmother says. It is, apparently, all she and her bridge playing friends are talking about.

(Just to let you know how far I went for that joke, I have three grandmothers and I still created a fourth who enjoys the internet and playing bridge. To my knowledge, this would describe none of them. This, however, is the lengths I am willing to go to provide you with a tired, hackneyed joke. Please, no need to thank me.)

In any case, the January Project, despite the somewhat grandiose ring to its title, is actually just a writing exercise. Well, “just” might be a bit of an understatement. It is a writing exercise that challenges me to write a new piece—be it prose, dialogue, monologue, or poem (probably not poem though)—every day for the entirety of January.

The inspiration for this was born of a little think called National Novel Writing Month. For those not familiar with it, here’s the website. And here’s a brief description: write a novel over the course of November. Being a grad student pursuing his Psy D, having to go a practicum on top of course work, and having some other freelance writing work, I did not think that was much in the realm of possibility to me. Nonetheless, I wanted to challenge myself, writing wise, in a similar way. Thus, the idea of doing a different piece every day for a month kind of wormed its way into my head.

(Aside: as you can see this is the January Project, not the November Project. The reason is achingly simple...it was meant to be done in November as well, but a.) I was gone several weekends in October and never got the website built and b.) it turns out November’s a busy month in the life of a grad student.)

In and of itself, however, this was not much of a hook (to keep me interested) or a challenge (to, you know, challenge me beyond my comfort zone). Around the same time, however, I discovered this website, Phonic Phebruary. Here, an artist challenged himself to create a piece a day— often drawing, but he utilized some mixed media as well—for the entire month as inspired by a song that, I believe, was chosen by doing shuffle on his Ipod. And there was my hook! Eureka, I might have said if I had the forethought to add an emotional outburst to the moment. Instead, I probably just nodded in my understated way.

And thus, the January Project!

Except, I can’t draw worth a damn, so writing it is.

While the Project itself starts in January, I will be updating this over the course of December with descriptions of how it will work, pictures of the tools being brought to bear, and other random tidbits of possible interest. I’d say checking back about once a week will keep you fairly in the loop. Or you could, if you’d like, follow me on Twitter ( @UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs ( Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut in January although information may be available before then here).

Watch This Space

As you can see, we've only just begun. I think the description above offers a nice little tease for what's coming, but look back on December 1st for a more descriptive post that makes clear exactly what the January Project is and what you can expect.

But because you took the time to come here and I respect and appreciate that, here's a picture of a couple of puppies.

Hope you enjoyed it. See you soon!