As Bob Barker says, “Let’s make a deal.”

Another day, another dollar. Another day of waking up and walking aimlessly into the shower, turning the faucet to the same dial, brushing your teeth. Sliding into a pair of pants as if one was a puppet held up by strings.

We get into the car and we sit in traffic. We get to work, we have some coffee.
We talk about the weekend. And, everyone says, “Fuck, I hate Mondays.” Me, well I don’t mind them.

The computer goes on, the web browser goes on, emails sent and read. Next thing you know, it’s lunch time. By the time you realize, the day has slipped away and you’re stuck in traffic glaring at the red lights in front of you, commuting the 23.5 miles, listening to the radio or the gentle hum of your car. Looking left and right at the various people, hoping to get a glimpse of something you like.

Me, I play the drums in the car, keeping rhythm on the steering wheel. The guy next to me has his hands down his pants and the girl in front of me is sipping her coffee and singing some song I’m indifferent about.

You look at the clock, and wonder where the day went.
You look at the clock and realize that you haven’t accomplished anything that you wanted. You take your keys and step out of the car. Enter. Sit down. Pour yourself some scotch.

As Bob Barker says, “Let’s make a deal.”

Or maybe it was the devil.

Well said.

Not much more can be added to this. One can only wonder, if they actually went through with it, would anyone care?

Either way, you should have called.

It has to be this way

This is not a love story by any means. Stop right now if you are expecting one. The term, 'happy ending,' does not apply.

Danica, she says, "I do." She stands at the alter in a leather mini.

Her mother, she's holding a knife, and she says, "Get a job."

It might seem like one, but trust me… it's not. If anything, it's more like a tragedy revolving around two people who never should have been together in the first place.

Her mother, pointing the knife at her other son, she says, "Go back to school, you fuckin' bum."

A true love story has two ingredients. Neither is present here. The first is an obstacle that must be overcome. In a tragedy, they fail, completing the expectations of the audience. The audience goes home with a smile on their face, because their life just got a little better.

Theresa sits down, holding a gun to her head. Pressed hard against her temple.

Her hand shakes.

Danica, she looks at the Groom, scared to close her eyes. The Groom, he says, "I can't. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I can't."

This is where Theresa comes to play. This is why the gun is pressed to her head. This is why the barrel left a mark on her temple.

Does this sound like love?

The second element, is their happiness being together. That look that swells on their face, their smile screaming out loud. The improbability of separation.

That look that makes you sick to your stomach. The very same one that makes you hate because you are jealous of what they have. You will do anything to destroy them.

Enter tragedy, you become the obstacle that must be overcome. You become the object of their hate, their fear and their eventual downfall. Enter Theresa.

Theresa, the gun inching away from her temple, she says, "I never did anything wrong." She says, "It's not my fault."

She moves the gun to her mouth. Her mother, she says, "I love you, Sweetie. You are my everything."

Danica's jaw unhinges and falls. She tries to talk, she panics and looks back at the Priest. The Priest, he says, "By the power vested in me…"

"…by the state of California."

The Groom let goes of her hand tracing her fingers as he pulls away. Theresa fires the gun. Her blood paints the ceiling and sprays the light bulb that's dangling in the air. The blood bubbles on the hot glass.

Her mother, she asks, "What have you done? You're a dirty girl, you filthy and naughty girl."

In love, there is no winner, just the illusion of such.

In love, you come off as being happy. Presentation is everything. The Groom lets go off Danica's hand. He takes off the ring he was given by her, representation of their undying love.

He puts it in her left palm.

Until that changed. Theresa's blood drips off the ceiling onto her sheets. Her eyes look around the room, frantic.

She's still alive. She puts the gun in front of her face, and looks at it not sure if it worked.

The Groom asks for his ring back. His three months salary.

It's back at her temple. Every movie she has seen, this was how it was done. Every story she read, this was how it was done. A gun under the throat, a gun to the temple.

This is her last chance.

This is not a movie of the week.

This is not a love story. This is a tragedy. Their tragedy. Their undying love left at bay.

He was always scared she would cheat on him.

Theresa, she tells him, "You're so deep in me. Do I feel good on you?" She's glazed over in sweat.

"…I now pronounce you, husband… wait… did you just?"

Like I told you, this is not a happy situation. This is not something I wanted to be a part of. I had no choice. You do.

Stop right where you are, do not read another word. The purpose of tragedies is to create some sort of appreciation in the audience's life. This, will fail. This, will cause distaste.

My father, he loads his gun. He loads his gun and points it at the back of my head. He tells me I broke my mother's heart once to many times.

My father, he says, "Sorry it has to be like this."

I tell him it's ok. I tell him I'm glad. The priest sets down his bible and thanks the few people who came.

The reception has been paid for, so please, help yourself. And Danica, she's just thinking about how they met.

That outfit she wore, the way he smiled at her, the way he asked her to go to dinner.

And, the way she said no. The way he begged her over and over. Called, asked, and the way he broke her.

The way she said yes, and now, she says, "I need a drink."

"Make it a double." The priest is at the bar, and Theresa stands up, gun pressed to her temple. She's shaking. She, like me, is hoping that there is at least one more bullet.

Theresa says she's sorry. She never wanted it to be this way. She just couldn't help it. In love, there is no winner. Just second place. No gold medal, just a handshake for trying.

Click.

Click.

Click. The pain just set in. Her eyes still searching. She looks at the ceiling because she can smell her blood cooking.

She looks at the lamp because she can hear the blood sizzle. The filament heats up to 900 degrees.

Click.

Click. That's her blood. That's her brain scrambled. The groom apologizes. The priest takes off his collar. He's wondering if he's still getting paid the full amount. He's wondering what the current price of gas is.

Me, I'm stuck inside of a dictionary. I'm looking up off the wall terms, such as 'love' and 'tragedy.' Stopping to peruse words that catch my eye. But everything is the way I said it.

This is a story of hate. A story of failed happy endings despite promising starts. If only there was another way.

If only. Click. I can't help but thinking about the time we met. I'm drawing a blank.

Theresa is smiling, Click. This time, A concentrated explosion. What was left in her head is now a fresh coat of paint above her bed.

If she wanted to make an impressions, she should have done this at the wedding.

If she wanted this to be a cry for help, she should have shot herself in the neck. Worst case scenario, paralysis.

Danica grabs a bottle of bourbon. She takes a seat on the couch. The groom joins her, he asks if they can still be friends.

Danica, she says, "this is about her."

"No. This is about something else."

Me, I want to trade places with Theresa. I want to trade places with anyone but me. Because what had happened, happened. My father told me I don't always have to be brave. But he also scolded me when I cried.

He pointed and laughed, and then he abandoned me.

Now, he expects me to raise a family. And about Theresa, I loved her.

Yes, I am the groom. Yes, this is my story.

Yes, it's not a happy one. This is not a movie of the week revolving around some twelve year old girl, with more money then she will ever know what to do.

This one ends in horror.

This one ends with a priest. Thought it's not a joke. No cheesy punch lines, no ambiguous teasers.

My mother, she says, "Do something with your life."

I reply, "I'm happy being nothing."

To which my girlfriend replies, "I've had boyfriends who flew me to exotic places."

To which my girlfriend says, "I like you liking me."

I told her friends I that I love her.

Danica said she loves him. He said he loves her. She said he said, what does it matter, her brains are scattered, yet she breathes.

Click. Two bullets. Jesus saves.

In case you didn't know, this is a true story. In case you didn't know, this is my story.

Verbose. An adjective. Believe me, I'm trying not to be.

Aborning, I wish I wasn't.

One time, she said, "Harder." I said, "Let me get a condom."

Perfect smiles, perfect people, somehow, someway, I don't think I fit in. I'm jealous of what Theresa did. I'm jealous of her ambition. I'm jealous of her courage.

The worst part is, I thought she was perfect. I thought she was what I needed.

Perfect hair and perfect wrinkles. Perfect lives and perfect jobs. Perfect smiles and everything I don't have.

This is my tragedy. This is their tragedy. This is our life.

My girlfriend, she says, "We should get a dog. One day. When we are madly in love."

The Priest, he says, "I always wanted to have my own band."

The Groom, he says, "I wish I cut deeper."

His mother, she holds a knife and says, "Get a job." There was more, but he rather not share. There are things you just don't want to talk about.

You just write them down and pull the trigger. You hope that someone out there will share your pain. You just hope that someone, somewhere out there, will read it and say, 'I understand.'

In that moment you are happy.

In that moment you understand everything. Forget what you know and wear someone else's shoes.

You hope that one day, you will only have to work one job.

One day, you hope you get that letter in the mail; a paycheck. Yes, I play the lottery, we all do.

You wake up.

You go to work.

You kick a tennis ball. Next thing you know, you're in the hospital. You hope she's thinking about you when you're not with her.

Bar Fight Chapter 1: Sensory Deprivation

An excerpt from Bar Fight, the first chapter.



It all began with a bar fight.

Everything that happened to me, unfortunate and horrific, began with a bar fight. It’s that simple. It all began with a fucking bar fight. That’s it, that’s all that there’s to it.

Nothing more.

Now, here I am in a dark room, tied up and waiting to be killed. My hands are wrapped behind my back, and my smokes are in my pocket. With my luck they’re probably crushed by now.

Or, I don’t have a lighter with me.

I hope I’m wrong about the death part. I really am. The only thing I’m completely sure about is the bar fight. I know that happened because I started it.

I know that happened because I was there. I was involved. I started it.

I know because I was the one who broke his jaw.

Well, I have no reason to doubt that their intention is to kill me. All sources point to that. All clues lead to yes. I’m tied on the ground; the guy I fought threw me in here.

I know because I broke his jaw. It’s because of me that it’s wired shut.

And I wonder; I wonder how they will do it? I keep thinking, if only to keep myself busy, if only to satiate my that desire to think, is exactly how they are going to slaughter me.

Will they just leave me here to die? To starve? To sit wallowing in my own misery?

Take me out into the cold and shoot me? Etch a cross into the bullet head so that it tears my insides to small insignificant shreds? It would probably be easier if they just shot me, but I’m hoping for something a lot bigger and better—a glorious and elaborate death. A bigger bang for my buck, so to speak.

I want special effects and everything associated with it.

I don’t want a limited budget.

Perhaps try and scheme something out of a James Bond movie, where a villain sets up an elaborate killing machine that will give me just enough time to escape and save the day.

But this isn’t the movies.

No. Not by any chance.

Unlike the movies I will fail here—this is inevitable. I will fail miserably and disappoint the audience who paid to see it. They will see me unavoidable down fall.

I know this because I started this.

This and only this, do I hold to be the truth. I know because I broke his jaw.

I cling to this fact if only to pass the time between now and the point where they kill me. Be it a few hours, a few moments. Whatever.

And I want my death to be costly:

Two engineers.

Six designers on a six figure salary working six days a week.

A multimillion dollar prototype.

Then add two more engineers just to improve it, making escape virtually impossible. They need to work harder and make it foolproof in its entirety. There will be no chance of escape, not this time.

And add a few test subjects. Give it a test run, just to work out any bugs.

Some final modifications. A tweak here and a tweak there, just to be sure. Why concern yourself with a mistake.

A test on a monkey to get PETA involved.

And after all that, I want to be placed in it for the maiden voyage.

The truth is that I just don’t want to be shot in the back of the head. I don’t want an ordinary death. I would take a firing squad over the lethal injection. Instead of the five grams of sodium thiopental, I want a brick thrown at the back side of my head.

I want to be stoned, just like in the old days. Bury me in sand and pass out bricks, would that disappoint?

No need for a 10 mg dose of pancuronium bromide. I would prefer 10,000 volts of electricity from a chair. Put that shit in my vein. I want to hear myself getting cooked. I want to feel it.

Potassium chloride is for not meant for me, I was meant for something greater. Give me a nuclear device. I’ll even pull the trigger. Fireworks with a countdown.

Boom. This is me getting disintegrated.

Boom. This is me falling apart.

I want lasers and flashing lights, thousands of buttons and plasma screens. Even some of the optional accessories. Passenger side airbags and sunroof. Leather seats for the operator and patient, me. GPS and a DVD player.

These are my demands. This is what I want.

It has to be shiny. Glittering silver and chrome. Add a diamond shifter. Or even better: a hand made, silver skull with ruby eyes—the final touch.

This is what I want. I deserve it. I went through enough shit as it was. Give me this just to make it seem worthwhile.

Follow up: Add a few more test subjects. Some final tweaking. Just to make sure. It has to be perfect.

That way there is no excuse.

All they would need then is a little time to manufacture it. I could even stay in this room; no need for a hotel. I really think it would be worth it. Just to see the final product. All I would need is a water dish and some bread every once in a while. I could shit in the corner. This is what I want, these are my demands. I will not settle for anything else.

But let’s be honest, it’s easier to choke me.

It’s easier to bleed me.

It’s easier to burn me.

I’m going to be shot, I just know I am. This is my fate. Proven over the course of time, proven over millions of test subjects. The research has been done.

Boom. Just like that.

It’s bizarre what you think about when you know that you are going to die. As your life flashes before your eyes, you realize that you are average: O taught me this. He explained it to me on a train, where everyone was listening with their ‘got to get to work’ attitudes. Through their morning daze, that brief moment right before the coffee took effect, everyone somehow became offended. Somehow they managed to muster up the energy to get pissed off.

The truth is that nobody wants to be average; nobody even dares to think that they are in fact average, until you die that is. Then, the last thing you cling on to is how you are going to die—an average death. Let’s face it, this is reality.

A heart attack: quiet and quick.

Car accident: too common.

A plane crashes on your house: that’s a start.

A plane that you are flying on crashes into your own house: ironic but definitely different. But that’s not going to happen.

As much as you want it to, it won’t. And, death by a multimillion invention created just for one reason and that is to kill you?

This is for me. This is what I want. I can see it here in the darkness that’s around me. I can see it and I can feel it because when your body stops working, you make things up. Entertainment brought on by boredom.

The marvel of sensory deprivation.

I guess it’s the little things in life you have no control over that make you want the best for yourself. The things we fear the most make us want the most for ourselves. O explained that people strive for successful careers because the fear of failure is such powerful motivation. The fear of failure is why you wake up to go to work every morning. We both lacked that fear.

I guess it applies to this as well. Things we have no control over are the things that control us.

Like a cigarette. I could really go for a fucking smoke. If I wasn’t tied with my hands behind my back, I might be able to reach my pack in my pocket. If I could reach that pack I could smoke. If I could smoke, I wouldn’t be thinking about ways I could be dying. What we have here is called a beautiful chain reaction one created by me for me. Instead, I could be soothing my train-wreck nerves. Put them back on the rail just in time for another collision.

Shit, did things ever take a turn for the worst when I came out to Chicago. I never expected anything like this to happen.

Not entirely. That’s a lie. Actually, I expected to die but not quite yet. Somewhere down the road, but not for a few more years at the bare minimum. I was thinking that I would have a family of my own standing, over my casket as they lowered me into the dirt. A cigarette would be nice.

The weird thing is that it started out ok. Things were going very well. In fact, picture perfect. Before this fight, you could put my life on a postcard and mail it to your friends. Had money, had her, had a car and a great friend. Nice place, the best designer clothes, and all the dope I could smoke. And for the first time in my life, I was buying cigarettes by the carton. No loose packs, just full cartons.

I was saving money.

Now that I am about to die, another thing manages to come to mind: Fate, dearest and most unfortunate Fate, fuck you. That’s right. Everything is predetermined and I hope Fate getting fucked is not an exception to this rule, but a very realistic possibility. Fate, fuck you with a big rubber dick.

I keep thinking I hear footsteps; gentle steps creeping up on me.

Maybe I want to hear footsteps. Maybe I want to have them walk in. Maybe I want to be shot already, taken out, disposed of in the Chicago River. Maybe this whole sensory depravation thing is telling me to hear steps. It’s telling me that I am now ready to be dealt with.

I am ready for Fate.

When there are no steps out there in the light, I am a heavily disappointed.

But oh man, wouldn’t that crazy laser, shit contraption be awesome. The only thing I could think would be better then the laser machine would be if I stayed put in Iowa. That would be something else.

At least, I’d still have a fighting chance, I’d have a possibility of success, or a slight hint of good fortune, instead of this darkness around me.

A breath of fresh air

Today’s top news stories:

Afghan bomb strikes India embassy.

Kate Gosselin’s Pap Smear.

Hang in there, Cincinnati.

gain confidence, infiltrate and prevent

Trade something with someone you know. Try to ignore the fact that it doesn't belong to you. Try to ignore the fact that what you’ve just traded you will never see again. Now, take a moment to convince the other person to do the same. Before that, think about what you expect to receive. Go a step further: trade something with a stranger—a complete unknown that you happen to see on the street. This next part is important, trade for something that you truly need.

Now, what do you expect to get? Think for a moment--something that you truly need. Find something that you’ve been thinking about longingly for the last few days, weeks, months, whatever.

Now, think about what you would be willing to give.

Do you believe in fair?

Start small; something common like a pen. Now, you need a pen, so you trade a pencil. Fair, expected; probably seen as nothing out of the ordinary.

Now blow it up to a larger proportion. Say, you need drinking water.

Say you need food...

Say you need both—what can you offer? What are you willing to sacrifice? Well, you get the idea. This horse has been beaten. I’ve always had an affinity for the 70s.

Earlier this week, I was talking with a friend of mine, one who I haven't spoken to in quite some time. I got a late night phone call from him Monday night. The call started as one would expect; the sharing of some good memories, the mentioning of some tough times that we had gone through, questions of mediocrity to rekindle a fire and to replace the certain moments of awkwardness that just happen to form on their own.

Then, the question, "I don't mean to ask, but... err... you know... let me just throw this out there. I need..." it trails off from there. About thirty seconds of rambling, followed by what I knew was coming about half way into the phone call.

There is a reason he mentioned that one time he helped me. There is a reason he asked how I have been—just waiting for me to ask him how he's doing, to see if I cared enough to ask.

Hook. His mind subconsciously driving this conversation into a certain direction, creating a window of opportunity at just the right moment, creating the right ambiance before asking.

What he asked he definitely didn't need. I said ‘No can do.’ It was a terrible investment. I’ve known him for quite some time.

I doubt I will hear from him anytime soon. Line and sinker.

Found, scribbled on a napkin

in time, a place, a word expelled
where in the dark a light remains
where nothing silent said as much

in time that place once hands were held
where silence held with heavy chains
and nothing bound to break as such

my time in peace will now be quelled
breath alone gone from my veins
hiding, hidden now my touch
holding time, a thing--a crutch

The Brass Ring

(this part is lost) insignificant details perspiring throughout, but I would like to mention one thing; there's always a window. No matter what I’m doing, no matter where I am, to my right there is a small, sacrosanct window. And, every night, no matter who is next to me, no matter who’s in my head, I can hear the rustle of palm trees brushing against the room. I can hear the gentle hush of a crying ocean; the echo of a faint melody calling directly at me in some efficacious method. Through the pale curtains, interwoven with the early light of a rising sun, a shadow looms: filling in a farrago of color combating the color of the room. I'm tempted to look but there's always something pulling me out.

Something hesitates.

Something burns and I can't help but wonder why I know her name is Maria.

I don’t know, I suppose that if I had my guitar, I would play a D minor chord. That followed by an A minor and wonder why she would continue to equivocate, night after night. Maybe I’ve done something wrong?

Anything more puissant then that and there would be a concern, from my point of view at the least. It's fair if you think about it; she has nothing to do with this. In all fairness, I’m not one to have dreams with repetitive motifs, in fact, quite the opposite; typically my night would involve hours of endless tosses and turns, followed by a crippling stare at a blank TV.

I can't help but wonder if somewhere there is a woman wondering, 'Who is Vincent?' One wonders if it would come to light if I found the courage to look out that window. One wonders why is it that I know nothing more of her then her name. Perhaps attach a face to this melody? And I sit here, wondering why I didn’t look out that window?

Maybe tomorrow will ring that bell.

It's good enough in the end, if you think hard enough. With that theory, everything should be good enough.

Everything is all right, one day.

What a difference the ocean makes

Come on.  Take a minute to sit back and relax, kick your shoes off under the comfort of your desk, bend your toes--curl and release.

That's it.

Feel's nice, doesn't it. That right there, that is the difference that the ocean makes. That right the is the nadir of civilized life. Think about it, it's really quite simple and disolved in a subsaturated solution of sorts.

I dunno, I never did. But, one thing is certain: There is a difference.

Amidst the arrows people have been throwing, disolved in the copper that was stolen; somwhere, there is a needle in a haystack. Somewhere, someone right now is thinking and that thought will eventually carry over. Not even a complicated one.

You know, simplicity is keen.