November 29, 2009


Nearly a half year ago, I remarked on the notion that I would be able to make it to four hundred posts by the end of this calendar year. And as I've just last checked, that's almost a reality. With irregular posting since that post, I have brought myself into the threshold of reality. I am a mere ten posts away. So readers, keep me motivated. Then again, I do believe I have only one or two of you left. I think I may have scared you off with my emotion, bad poetry that utilized the word refrigerator constantly.

So here's a new short story, and on the home mile stretch, look forward to another installment of the moped diaries as well as no more terrible haikus and lonely, depressing poetry. I intend, to make these next ten posts, the most upbeat, and wonderful things you'll have ever read. Apart from Peter Cottontail.

So, here, is a short story, entitled simply as, Tenner.

What is life? Do things have life and do each and every little thing you interact with, do they think about you? I wondered that, my entire lifespan of several months to be exact. Who am I you may ask, well. I'll tell you simply. I come from Washington D.C. I'm flat, and covered in ink, and i'm worth exactly ten dollars. But you find me here right now, torn into little bits, on the sidewalk in the slush of winter, in the middle of Seattle, Washington.

My story begins at the mint. I dont remember which one, but It was warm, and I was surrounded by older and younger siblings. We all grew up on the same sheet of cotton paper, until we were separated by machine cutters and a bunch of my siblings and I, well, we found ourselves wrapped in paper, then bundled and then put into a bag. It was dark, but I was on top of the bunch and managed to peek through a small hole in the bag. I didn't see much else, other than other canvas bags. Some were marked "nickels $200" and "dimes $500". I didn't think much of it, no one else did. Maybe I am the only thing to have a mind of its own.

Finally, after several hours, we found ourselves opened and placed on a steel table, surrounded by rows upon rows of little drawer cabinets. Weird huh? What sort of place needs so many drawers? Suddenly, a well dressed man appeared and grabbed me and the rest of my bunch. We found ourselves broken apart, seperated into smaller stacks and I saw we entered some sort of banking hall. Now it made sense. We were in the safe deposits room and now, we're going on our own adventures! My brothers and I were eagerly slipped into a slot and then, the light of the world closed on us. But that was soon over. The drawer slipped open again and I was picked! Placed with a fifty and two twenties, I figured we were to make up one hundred dollars in cash. I glanced to my new owner. A little old lady with wizened features. Her little face held lines which could trace themselves far back in time, and her bony little hands shoveled us up carefully and placed us inside her purse. It smelled of hard candy.

It would be another while before I would see the light of day again. I and another twenty, were placed carefully on the old fashioned tabletop, then attached to a letter of sorts. Folded then shoved inside an envelope. Lady! You cant send money! Let us out! Ohhh, it's too late. I could, the entire time feel myself being mishandeled, roughly the entire. Light flashed before my eyes again and this time, a face that was not as creased with experience greeted me. A pair of sparkling blue eyes and golden locks of long blond hair bounced. This might be better than I thought. It spoke. "To Chelsea, be good, study hard and love yourself. Love, grandma. P.S. Fight on trojans!" It stared at me and the twenty with me. She plucked us out and we were shoved into a crowded wallet. Never have I felt so cramped being squashed between little squares of plastic and pictures of high school loves.

For the most of the time during this part of my life, I spent sitting in the wallet. The twenty who accompanied me was long spent on a double whip latte frappacino with soy cream and shots of torani. I did on occasions see her face again, but every time, it seemed to grow more fake, and covered in make up. The little squares of plastic certainly got good use, but not me. It seemed like there would be nothing in this world that seemed to cost less than ten dollars. Until one day...

Her usual routine of tossing her entire whore sack onto the bed after class, this time, the wallet scattered out. by now, I had made friends with the others. The visa, the mastercard, the chase card, the platinum card. We all stared in silence as to this "crude" so to say, throwing of us. Usually, we could tell she slung the bag over a bed post or something. A knock a the door. It was three silent rapts and one loud kick at the base. She answered it. Some large looking Hollister model, meat head wandered in. He planted himself in her office chair and she walked up to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and proceeded to kiss. She said something in his ear, and she walked out. He looked as she walked out, and looked in our direction. He grabbed the wallet! That bastard! Not being able to take a card, he grabbed me, and I found myself wedged into his side pocket with... dear lord, a condom and a small pen knife.

At some point, the condom disappeared, but the pen knife had a fairly bad attitude to me. I could feel he was putting on the pants again, but now, I was separated from my sweet master. A couple other things would join the pen knife and I. A small little baggie of weed, more condoms and receipts. But suddenly, I heard a loud, thumping sound, and the most astringent smell ever. He must have entered, because the smell was everywhere and the sound was deafening. I found myself pulled out, and placed on the counter. To the next of me, a woven sweater, above me, a gigantic moose head. At least, I think that is what it was in the dim light. I looked about, everywhere, there were large posters of naked young people. Where was I? Suddenly, the sweater was put into a bag and I knew, I was somewhere called, Abercrombie and Fitch. Then th darkness happened again as I was swept and put into a drawer again. But like my bank story, I would be pulled out as change.

The next person who'd get me was another girl, she was blond, but nothing like that last girl. She was smiling, her hair in a bun and her eyes framed behind glasses. She had bought a little camisole and it seemed her boyfriend was with her. Promptly, I was shoved into a wallet and I could just make out a blue leather purse. Chic.

Drifting about, I'm spent at the Ice Hockey rink in Anaheim. It must be, there's a blurry of black and orange before my eyes. Lo and behold, I dont sit for long, being tendered as change for a tshirt. But I hardly leave the stadium again, when I'm used for sodas! It goes on for hours, passing about in the hands of vendors and customers. I think they won that game too. They beat the blue jackets. A teenager got ahold of me. His blue jackets cap suggested I might be going back to the east coast. Ohio!

Story endeth there, I've lost the will to write this one.

I'm going to push:

Like an advert from the fifties, I'm going to push for all of you, if and when you get a chance, to read one of my good friend's, as well as brother's blog of his escapades as he tears up the English countryside, (just as there's an englishman in Sigma Phi tearing up the American landscape).

Read it, I heartily recommend doing so in a large wood paneled library, with leather seats, and a glass of sherry. In fact, the Thorsen house is perfect for that.

November 26, 2009

Gryphon's End

Like a corpse rising from a copse, the matted Matt ran runningly along the wide walk.

November 18, 2009

My dumb friends

For several years, Billy, Kerry, Jimmy, Willy, and I used to meet up together and drink, play cards and laugh about things we did on a daily basis. We'd sit on a homemade bench which was made of several planks of two by fours on upturned buckets. We had one of those large manilla rope reels for a card table and an old bullhead lamp that we stole from one of the southern pacific owl cars. The ocean used to lap against a seawall that once stood here, the end of the road terminated in a half loop that would send cars around us. We never stayed out too late, the police tended to wander our direction late into the evening and depending on who was walking the beat, they would either join in on a beer and a hand of cards or we would have long disappeared.
By 1924, all five of us owned a house on the street that we lived in with our marital spouses. But although we didn't take dinner with each other anymore, we still met up afterwards to play cards, joke around and be jovial and drunk. Although prohibition changed the way we would supply the nightly supply of beer, the police still came to drink with us. When that law came around, the officers who used to crack down on us for public drinking softened up and even joined our little club. Within a few years, The membership went from five to twelve. Us, the originals, two of our neighbors who usually supplied better beers, and five police officers. We carried on in this way until the end of prohibition, when we no longer had to smuggle in our alcohol. But night after night, we sat on our rude benches watching the boats pass along in the evening tide.
In 1939, we celebrated Billy's 40th birthday, him being the youngest of our club. But within a few weeks, he caught a cold and died. This was a shock to us. He had long been a pillar of our club. In his memory, we erected a concrete chair. A simple one with low, sloped arms and his name and date of death inscribed in the front of the seat. We decided to elect a president and at our meetings, he would sit in the Billy chair. After the second world war, rationing had taken its toll when two of the officers had died as well as the two old neighbors who had died. So it was four out of the original five left and three of the old beat cops. In their memories, we extended the billy chair with similar looking chairs attached to the sides, but two wide, and a gentle arc of a semi-circle.
The fifties had proved fruitful with many G.I.s coming home, our club found three new members. PFC Egmont, Sgt. Willis and Captain Seneca. But we were oldies and less frequented the club, turning out only once a week and soon, we found ourselves in the funeral garb more than once before the end of 1954. Willy, Kerry and Jimmy passed away that year, the three cops and the three new members moved to Los Angeles. I was the only one left. Investments in IBM proved good and with a little bit of extra cash, I had a new bench built in memory of everyone. But I was 60, I couldn't even remember all their names being struck down with Alzheimers. The mason looked at me and asked. "Do you want me to put their names down? What should I put?" I only looked at him, and smiled and said: "My Dumb Friends"

My own story in dedication to the "My Dumb Friends" bench in Alameda.

November 04, 2009


How many times have I
finished my short haikus with

November 03, 2009