January 28, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 28: Both Sides of the Story

Letter: C

CD Number: 10

Track Number: 26

Song: “Both Sides of the Story” by Collins, Phil off the greatest hits collection

…Hits

Listen to it here

This is a companion piece to this one.

I noticed him the moment he walked in. We get his type at least once a shift. They are by far my least favorite customers. I call them the “Who, me’s?” As in “Who, me, in a strip club? Certainly that must be some sort of mistake!” They make awkward eye contact, inspect the architecture of the room, crack unfunny jokes about drink prices…basically do everything to pretend they aren’t looking at us.

I want to shake them and say, “Come on! It’s fine. I know you are here to see my breasts.” No one has ever stumbled into the Hot House on a hunt for the best cuisine in the city. Just as none of us applied for jobs here thinking, “This looks like a classy establishment. I wonder if they have dental.” We have no delusions about why we are here, guys like him shouldn’t waste our time pretending that they are stunned, simply stunned, to find naked women in this establishment.

And we do have dental, by the way. Actually, the health plan overall is pretty good. Probably better than that jerk’s.

It is guys like him that make us strippers feel gross or slutty or whatever. Like I said, I know what I do. I know it is not, well, “respectable.” But most of the time, I don’t have to feel bad about. Yeah, the drunk frat boys can be a bit handsy, but they are also wildly appreciative of seeing us naked. They hoot and holler and, hey, although I’d never admit it to my friends in Women’s Studies, it feels kind of good to have someone like your body that much. And on slow nights, when all we have is a few quiet types, dancing is almost like running track was for me in high school. I can just do it and everything else kind of grays out. The music becomes muted. I can still feel the beat in my heart, but otherwise, it’s like it is not even there. Everyone else sort of fades out. It is just me exercising. It used to be running the hurdles, now it is dancing.

But The Who Me’s? shatter that. They stand around leering, but not, ogling, but pretending otherwise and suddenly they are all I can see. And I remember, I’m not just dancing, I’m stripping. And as much as I tell myself I’m okay with that, I still remember what we used to say when the bus took us past this club on the way to school. On what the boys used to shout. And while the women I work with are nothing like I thought they were back then…I still have those ideas in my head.

You know what I mean: sexually abused, drugged out or high achieving med school student who needs the money, just for now, so she can become a heart surgeon. Or the stripper who says she’s the latter, but is really the former. I am sure some of my co-workers were abused. Statistically speaking, it is a definite possibility. And yes, I think three of them either drink or use too much. Also, I do think Candy (real name, no kidding) is studying for her law degree. But me, and most of the rest, are achingly…average. I go to community college. I live at home with my parents who raised me just fine, not too restrictive or hands-off, and I think I’ve been drunk 3 times in my life and smoked pot once. This was just a quick way to make money, you know? But the Who, Me’s? make me feel like I’m…the cliché. The stereotype. And I’m a stripper. So, you know, works tough enough already, thanks.

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 27, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 27: Hands

Letter: Mix

CD Number: 25

Track Number: 1

Song: “Hands” by The Ting Tings off the homemade mix Time to Mix and Mingle

Listen to it here

ZELDA sits opposite her BOSS and HR REP at a large conference table. They seem rigid and serious. She seems…disinterested.

HR REP

…do you think?

ZELDA (clearly coming back from being zoned out)

Sorry?

BOSS (put off)

For God’s sake…he’s asking what we should do with you?

ZELDA (spinning in her chair)

Ooo…that’s a tough one. Obviously, a raise is in order. But with the economy the way it is, I would waive that. Not looking to see anyone get eliminated just because I deserve a bit more, you know?

HR REP

This will go much ea—

BOSS (angry)

A raise? You must be out of your min—

HR REP (gently interrupting)

As I was saying, this will go much easier if we all take it seriously and speak to one another in respectful tones. Agreed?

Boss crosses his arms and pushes away from the table a bit without saying anything, face still hot with anger. Zelda remains nonplussed.

ZELDA (saluting)

Right-o.

HR REP

Again, what do you think would be an appropriate way to handle this situation?

ZELDA

Perhaps a gift card of some kind. I am positively bonkers for Starbucks, you know? Not so much their coffee. That’s a’ight, I suppose, but what I really enjoy are those cookies. The chocolate-chocolate ones. I could eat my weight in those, I assure you.

HR REP (a slight sigh escaping from him)

You think we should reward you for this?

ZELDA

And why not? We put a hella o’ show on and I dare say people responded to it. I’m no Elkie Brooks, I’ll grant you that, but I believe the others found my pipes to be pleasing. I’m sure they didn’t mind the view either, come down to it.

BOSS (to HR Rep)

Why are we wasting our time with this?

HR REP

You honestly don’t think you did anything wrong here?

ZELDA

Hmm…I guess you could say a came out a bit flat, at first. Besides that though, I was on.

BOSS

You ground production to a halt! You led the entire floor in some sort of… clap-a-thon! You insulted this company!

ZELDA

Hey now! I won’t sit here and be shouted out. The fella

Gestures to the HR Rep

said this was to be…civil and such.

HR REP (trying to get things back on track

I did say that. But feelings are running high right now. And you are not helping it by not acknowledging your part in all this. Did you really think it was appropriate to instruct your co-works to clap their hands if they felt they were being abused by the company.

ZELDA

Well, they all clapped now didn’t they? So I suppose I’d say that company was probably the inappropriate ones on this one, wouldn’t you?

HR REPS

Regardless of how people feel, that was hardly the time or place for—

ZELDA

And where wouldn’t been? Should we take it to you? Or Bossman over there? Again? So you can pat our heads and tell us you’ll bring it up? Forgive me, but that seems a bit daft, don’t you think?

BOSS

I think you’re a bit daft!

ZELDA (bored, seemingly inspecting nails)

Very smart response, sir. Positively cutting.

HR REP

Regardless of your opinions of our jobs, there is still an appropriate way to bring forth grievances and you not only failed to do so, but cost the company time by distracting your co-workers.

ZELDA

Right, right. Well, agree to disagree on that, I guess. Different opinions, good for growth and all. Thanks for coming.

HR REP (confused)

This…this is my conference room.

ZELDA (looks up as though she did not know where she was)

Wha—ahh, so it is. Terribly sorry. I’ll be out your hair and on my way then. Thanks for seeing me.

BOSS

Now wait just a sec—

ZELDA

I’d love to, I would, but it is four after five and we’ve been repeatedly spoken to about overtime, so I’d prefer not to get in trouble.

HR REP

Zelda, there is stil—

ZELDA

Oh, you are both such dears. No need to break rules on my account though. I won’t keep you a moment more.

Walks out of the room while the two stay behind, stunned.

HR REP

That…could have gone better.

BOSS

You were awful.

HR REP

Yes. You, on the other hand, were the portrait of excellent employee management. “I think you’re a bit daft!” Powerful stuff…well played, sir.

BOSS

You are lucky you are corporate.

HR REP

And you are lucky I don’t cut you.

BOSS

Did you just threate—

HR REP

Yes.

The room lapses into silence.

BOSS

Still… a pretty catchy too, huh?

HR REP

Definitely.

TOGETHER (while dancing in chairs bit)

Clap your hands if you working too—

Janitor walks in, both freeze

JANITOR

I’m just here to em—

BOSS

You’re fired.

Janitor looks to HR Rep, obviously stunned.

HR REP (shruggin)

I’m sorry. You’ve seen too much.

Janitor walks back out of the room, head hanging.

BOSS (looks at HR Rep)

Was that hasty.

HR REP

Nah…had to be done.

Both pause a moment, then go right back into the song.

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 26, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 26: Superstar

Letter: L

CD Number: 6

Track Number: 5

Song: “Superstar” by Lupe Fiasco from the album Lupe Fiasco’s The Cool

Listen to it here

You walk up the stairs, heart racing, head light. Your palms alternate between sweaty and hot and sweaty and cold. This is everything and nothing like you expected it would be. This is the moment you have been preparing for.

You see others running this way and that. They create pockets of chaos that seem burst just where you plan to move next. You ignore them, focus on your breathing, push past. Panic is for people who are not you. Bedlam is for the unprepared.

The air smells of heat, dry ice, and the destiny. The scent of wood soap and saw dust emanates from the floor and mingles with the rest of it in the atmosphere. You take it in but let it pass through you. Sound, odor, sight, all of it. You notice it but do not focus on any of it. There is only the task at hand. Only you, the mic, the crowd, the music. Now, there is nothing else. Perhaps there never was.

Your thoughts stray, briefly, to the future and it gleams. You allow yourself a moment’s indulgence. Then it is back to the here and now. The mic feels heavy. Heavier than you expected. But comforting to. Like a knight must feel with sword in hand about to enter battle. You are ready. You know this.

In front of you, velvet curtains pull closed with a snap. Faintly, like ringing from distant island, you hear applause. You see someone rush past, face dewy and twisted with disappointment. No matter. He is not you. You are prepared.

There is silence. It is but a moment but it seems to stretch out before you, enveloping you, erasing the world around you. Then a crackle. A nasal voice.

“And now, to close the Greewick Seventh Grade Talent Show, Isabelle Smith with her rendition of Kay Perry’s ‘Firework’.”

Showtime.

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 25, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 25: Joe Rey

Letter: F

CD Number: 20

Track Number: 15

Song: “Joe Rey” by Fountains of Wayne from the album Fountains of Wayne

Listen to it here

I don’t think Chris likes me very much. Which sucks. Because he seems pretty cool. Way cooler than me, in any case.

He just has it all together, you know. He’s got friends and you can tell they are all comfortable around each other the way they hang outside the north entrance before classes every day. Some days they are laughing and pushing each other. Some days, they are just kind of sitting around. Sometimes some of them smoke, sometimes not. You can just tell that Chris is…comfortable. And not worried about what anyone else thinks. God, I wish I could be like that.

I know that I’m new here and Christ grew up in this town and that’s part of it. I get it. But still…it gets tiring, you know? Being fascinating as the new guy, but no one knows you enough to invite you out? That’s where I am.

I complained about it once to Dad and he suggested maybe it’s ‘cause they think I’m a foreigner. I hope not. I don’t speak with an accent or anything. I was born in Spain, yeah, but only because my Dad was part of the diplomat corps there, not because I’m Spanish. I speak it, but I’m an American citizen.

He might be right though. A lot of the girls here seem to only want to talk about the fact that I lived in Spain. Ugh…I hope not.

Oh, and if it’s not the Spain thing, it’s the snow thing. I don’t even know where this thing got started. First of all, the whole “many words for snow” is kind of racist, right? It seems that way to mean, anyway. Like Intuits only have one thing to talk about, cold weather, so they have so many words for it? That doesn’t feel right to me.

Either way, though, I’m not Intuit. I’m less Intuit than I am Spanish. Even if there were 17 different words for snow, I don’t know them. I know like four. Snow, flurries, blizzard…maybe that’s it. So three. Or like six if you count foreign languages. Diane and I tried to make a joke out of it, but that just seemed to make people more convinced that I knew the words. I wonder if, when they ask me, they think I am being a snob or mysterious or a fraud or what?

New schools are friggin’ hard.

I come in on Mondays and everybody’s talking about this party or that movie or whatever and I’ve got nothing. Sometimes I go into the City and everyone seems really excited about that. Well, everybody buy Chris who just rolls his eyes at me when I mention it. But no one asks if they can come, too. Or asks me to go to one of those movies or parties or whatevers. I only go to the City because I don’t want to stay here by myself and feel like a loser. All I do there is get a bagel, maybe see a movie, go to a comic book store…nothing that interesting. Stuff I could do in this town, you know. If anybody thought of me once school was over on Friday.

But Chris…Chris has it made. It must be so easy to be him. Damn…I’d stop being Joe Rey from Spain who knows about snow and goes into the City in a heartbeat if I got to be as comfortable as Chris. In a heartbeat.

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 24, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 24: There's A Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven't Thought Of It Yet

Letter: P

CD Number: 1

Track Number: 24

Song: “There's A Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven't Thought Of It Yet” by Panic! At the Disco (without the “!” what’s the point?) off the album A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out

Listen to it here

Deep inside their secret mountain layer, the members of the super villain team The Zodiac Squad mill out, donning their costumes for their next great heist. Newest member, CANCER, is strapping on his gear while speaking to SAGITTARIUS.

CANCER

... you think that means we’ll introduce an Ophiuchus to the team?

SAGITTARIUS

You understand that we are not actually representing the Zodiac in these costumes, right? We are a criminal syndicate with a theme loosely arranged around the names of the signs of the Zodiac, but we really have no fidelity to it?

CANCER (a bit embarrassed)

Well…yeah…I mean, sure, of course I knew that. I was just thinking another member is useful and, like, an Ophiuchus is a snake, right?

SAGITTARIUS (just audible grunting)

Mmmhmm.

CANCER (feeling a bit better)

Snakes are pretty bad ass. People are scared of them, usually. Even little ones. So a dude…or lady, I guess…in a snake costume would be scary. And scary’s good in this business

SAGITTARIUS (thinking about it a moment, before nodding)

I see your point. Snake’s certainly scarier than scal—

LIBRA (at another locker, no visible. Shouts to be heard)

I can hear you!

SAGITTARIUS

Oh, man, don’t get me wrong, you totally make it work, Libra. But on the surface, scales just doesn’t sound that cool.

Long pause.

LIBRA (snorts, sort of mumbles his response)

Whatever...I think my costume’s awesome.

Cancer and Sagittarius visibly restrain their giggling for a moment, before returning to being composed.

SAGITTARIUS

So, yeah, anyway…Taurus, Aries, and Capricorn are our three most senior members so they are our leadership council. Run it by them. You explain it to them like you did me, I bet they’ll dig it. And you’ll get yourself noticed, too. Might got some good solo or partner heists out of it.

CANCER

Oh, great. Thanks…so much. I wasn’t sure if I was going to fit in here. Honestly, my last gig, with the Limeys—

SAGITTARIUS (interrupting)

That the gang that always dresses up like Revolutionary War era British sailors.

CANCER

Yeah, that’s them. Anyways, I didn’t really get on very well with any of them.

SAGITTARIUS (waving a “don’t worry” hand)

What American could? I’m sure you do a fine British accent, but, in the end, they really prefer to hire from within the UK, you know? Import their talent.

CANCER (shrugging)

Well, I know that now, but—

SAGITTARIUS

Don’t give it another thought. We aren’t a stodgy group like those guys.

CANCER

I’m getting that. So, you know, thanks.

Costumed now fully on, Cancer turns to leave the locker room and walks right into Virgo.

VIRGO

Watch where you are going!

CANCER (again embarrassed)

Oh, jeez. So sorry. My peripheral…well, I’m still getting used to it in this helmet, you know?

VIRGO (coolly)

Not really, no.

For a moment both stand awkwardly. Then Cancer thrusts out his hand and Virgo looks at it with mild revulsion. Cancer pulls it back in and instead opts to just introduce himself without shaking Virgo’s hand.

CANCER

So, I’m Robbie. It’s great to meet another teammate.

VIRGO

Who are you?

CANCER (adding confused to his current embarrassed, uncomfortable look)

Well, like I said, I’m Robbie. I’m the ne—

VIRGO (cutting Cancer off, rolling his eyes dramatically)

I mean, which sign are you?

CANCER

Oh, right. I figured you knew. I’m the new guy. I’m the new Cancer. Replacing Greg now that he’s decided to start himself a family and get out of the business.

VIRGO (looking ill)

Costume looks different.

CANCER

Yeah, they said I could alter it a bit when I came on. So I changed the color scheme and added some addit—

VIRGO (walking away, speaking a bit theatrically)

Liked the old costume. A lot better. But I’m sure the council knows what they are doing.

Cancer stares after the departing Virgo awkwardly for a moment before turning back to Sagittarius.

CANCER (gesturing toward where Virgo was)

Dude hates me!

SAGITTARIUS

The “dude” hates most of us. Especially these days.

CANCER (starting to be annoyed)

What the hell’s his problem?

SAGITTARIUS

Well, for one thing, he really wanted to be Cancer and he just realized he obviously did not get the job. For another, he’s The Virgin on a super villain team. So, that’s probably not easy. Especially as a guy. Super villains can be kind of cruel to others in the field and being a guy labeled as “The Virgin” makes you a pretty easy target.

CANCER

Oh…

SAGITTARIUS

I mean, it’s not Libr—

LIBRA (still out of view)

I’m still here!

SAGITTARIUS

‘Course you are buddy. Just having a laugh, is all.

Lowers voice to a whisper

SAGITTARIUS

Like I was saying, it’s not the worst identity on the team, but it has a lousy ring to it. And Libra’s right…his costume is pretty tough, especially considering he’s The Scales.

Plus, he’d never admit it, but he’s a bit of a sexist and it bugs him that “hard” signs like The Ram, The Lion, and… The Goat (?) are taken by women instead of men. Or, rather, instead of him.

CANCER

So, why doesn’t he get a different sign? Why didn’t he get this one?

SAGITTARIUS

For one, his attitude sucks. For another, you can’t get very far being anti-woman on a team with the leadership council is two-thirds women. And, lastly, though I loathe to say it, he’s good at The Virgin. He plays innocent great, so he’s a talented con artist. Very talented. Even if he was the nicest guy in the world, it would still make the most sense to keep him as Virgo. Which he doesn’t like to acknowledge, of course, but it’s true.

VIRGO (at the end of the locker room, speaking to no one in particular)

And I say, “No, no, no. The Horoscope Group is not a good name. It sounds like one of those boring evil think tanks that are all the rage. Not a classy, old school robbin’ ring like we are.” And they nod and ask, “But do you have a better idea?” And I’m like, “Of course I do. How about the Zodiac Squad.” And they love. They fuckin’ love it. But does anyone give a damn? Nah. No lover for Mitchell. He can be the Virgin forever! And. That’s Just. Grand.

Virgo punches a locker and storms out the back door.

CANCER (shoulders slumping a bit)

So, he’s just gonna hate me forever now, huh?

SAGITTARIUS (pats him on the back as he walks past)

Yup. Pretty much. But like I said, he hates everyone, so…

CANCER

I guess…

SAGITTARIUS

Come on. Let’s go rob that bank. That’ll make you feel better.

Cancer follows behind Sagittarius. They talk as they walk out of view

CANCER

You think we’ll encounter any costumed do-gooder types there?

SAGITTARIUS

Slow down there. We walk before we run in this outfit. This isn’t the Doom Bringers you know.

CANCER

That makes sense. Still can’t wait for that.

SAGITTARIUS

Who can?

CANCER

How about ice cream after?

SAGITTARIUS

Oh, we will definitely get ice cream after. Me, I’m going to get a malt. Chocolate. I know that sounds old fashioned, but I tell you what, if people are honest with…

Sagittarius continues to extol the virtues of the malt as they walk off and out of earshot.

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 23, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 23: We Don't Care

Letter: W

CD Number: 22

Track Number: 2

Song: “We Don’t Care” by West, Kanye off the album The College Dropout

Listen to it here

LOCAL NEWS

Eastham

Several Young Adults Found Dead

Eastham Police, responding to an anonymous tip, found several local young adults dead in a foreclosed home early Tuesday morning. The officers are not yet revealing the names of the deceased until all their families can be contacted. However, the department would confirm that they were all from the local Cape Cod community and ranging in age from 22-24.

In a prepared statement Lt. Al Reins asserted, “This is a terrible tragedy for any community and will be felt even stronger in a place as small as ours. The fact that these bright young men and women did not even make it to 25 is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life.”

Cause of death has not yet been confirmed but a source in the coroner’s office offered that it appeared to be some kind of poisoning.

LOCAL NEWS

Eastham

Bodies Disappear, Police Baffled

In a macabre twist that only deepens Tuesday’s tragedy, the bodies of the six young men and women found dead in an Eastham foreclosed home have been lost. It is unclear when or how this would have occurred, but it was discovered late Wednesday evening as the morgue prepared to perform autopsies on the bodies.

Anyone will information on this situation is urged to contact the police and report it. An unnamed reward is being offered.

The community is planning to go forward with the memorial service regardless of whether or not the bodies are discovered in time.

LOCAL NEWS

Eastham

Tragedy Turns Out to Be Hoax

The tragic death of six local young men and women has turned out to be nothing more than a hoax gone awry.

During today’s memorial service, the six revealed themselves to be alive, shouting, “Okay, jokes over! Here we are!”

They were taken into custody immediately, but Todd French, the alleged planner of this hoax, had a pre-prepared statement released by his attorney. In it, he explains that it was intended as a joke on their friend, Eric Walts, a recent hire at the morgue. However, “The substance we utilized to simulate our deaths worked far too well and instead of awakening an hour or so after discovery, it took more than 24.” The statement goes on to apologize for the grief caused to the community and to stress that it was never intended to gain the six any sort of attention, only to scare their friend.

The police department is not commenting at this time what, if any, charges will be filed against the group.

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 22, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 22- Not As We

READER’S CHOICE

Suggested by: Scott Wool, Local Comic Shop Impresario

Song: “Not As We” by Alanis Morissette from her album Flavors of Entanglement

Listen to it here

Post Break-Up Day 1 Itinerary

6 A- Awake with alarm

6:15 A-6:45 A- Lie in bed fantasizing, fruitlessly, about ways to get P. back. Mess up fantasies by repeatedly going over them and trying to make them “realistic.”

6:45 A- 6:50 A- Realize there is no way to make work on time, call in with a broken leg

6:50 A- 7 A- Panic about what work is going to think when the leg is not broken when Monday rolls around

7 A- 7:30 A- Grow to accept that losing job is just another loss and really, in the grand scheme of things, not that big a deal.

7:30 A- 8:30 A- Eat breakfast. Read paper. Weep briefly over the wedding and new baby announcements.

8:30 A- 9 A- Comfort self by viciously tearing down the happy soon-to-be-weds and soon-to-be-parents. Focus on physical shortcomings first, then imagine their, no doubt, legion emotional and personality deficiencies. Briefly feel better.

9 A- 9:15 A- Slowly grow to realize that regardless of monstrous those people are, they are still happier. Break something.

9: 15 A- 9:20 A- Realize broken item was not P.’s. Curse self.

9:20 A- 10 A- Get back in bed, consider shower, decide “What’s the point.”

10 A- 1 P- Nap fitfully

1 P- 2 P- Move to computer to distract self with pictures and videos of sexually attractive people engaged in various sexy poses and acts of coitus

2 P- 3 P- Inevitably move on to personal photos and P.’s Facebook page. Weep. Bargain with God about ways to improve self to get P. back.

3 P- 3:30 P- Thunderstorm begins outside. Evidently, God not so interested in helping you on this one. Weeping is interrupted by phone call from friends who insist they are coming over and EVERYBODY is going out. Lose battle to persuade them that going out is a truly terrible idea.

3:30 P- 4:30 P- Shower. Shave various body parts. Reason that looking good is important because going out could lead to rebound sex with a stranger. Sad, desperate, soul crushing rebound sex with an awful stranger who is not P and will never be as good as P. Weep in the shower while realizing this.

4:30 P- 5 P- Reject 5 outfits because P. bought some portion of them, settle on shirt that P always hated. Feel kind of good about that.

5:00 P- 7 P- Swordfish is showing on basic cable. Damn that’s a good movie!

7 P- 7:30 P- Friends arrive and reject further arguments about not leaving the house and attempts to entice them to engage in “Game Night.”

7:30 P- 8:30 P- Dinner. Food tastes like cardboard, but it is fuel…acceptable. Friends awkwardly dance around the break up.

8:30 P- 10 P- Bar. Introduce alcohol to the evening and things get so much better. Friends are right. Screw P. So much better off now. Maybe some post-break-up hate sex with P would be fun, but otherwise, so done with that relationship. Yay!

10 P- 11 P- Things get weird. Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea.

11 P- 11:30 P- Just start crying without reason. Go to bathroom without being seen, but this probably is not a good thing.

11:30 P- 12 A- Make out with stranger that tastes of cigarettes and bad tequila. Feel queasy.

12 A- 12:30 A- Take cab home. Ask cabbie if he thinks P will take me back. Cabbie shakes head sadly, takes money, drives away. What a perfect metaphor.

12:30 A- 1 A- Look at P’s Facebook page again. Feel good that status reads, “Kind of a rough day.” Take that, cabbie. P will take me back!

1 A- Fall asleep secure in this delusion.

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 21, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 21: Halloween

Letter: D

CD Number: 3

Track Number: 28

Song: “Halloween” by Dave Matthews Band off the album Before These Crowded Streets

Listen to it here

Dear Diary,

It happened again today. It was a normal night. Actually, it was better than normal. I was making good time, enjoying the work. Like it used to be. I was feeling good…like I was doing the work I was put on this earth to do. To be perfectly honest, I was feeling in the Zone. I know I mock it when Runder says it, but I’m just being real here. There is a Zone. I had located it. I was dwelling in it.

So I was feeling confident and I figured, “why not.” This was it. This was the night. I was going to close on the Britney Kellerman deal. She made a fool out of me a few times, I’ll admit it. When I run into some of the guys, they love to hear those stories. They get such a kick out of it. They’re like me, before...everything. I mean, I’ll admit, I though she’d be an easy completion. She was so tiny and girly. Those big eyes, the pigtails…I figured there was no way. I could roll three of her in a night.

But I was wrong and so are they. Britney is no pushover, no easy mark. She’s tough as nails! Mean spirited as anyone I’ve ever encountered. She didn’t just shut me out, she toyed with me. Tortured me, frankly. Every time I thought I was sealing the deal, she was just letting me believe it so it would be more fun for her to make me take it on the chin again.

But tonight…I knew I had this. Or I thought I did. I was too full of confidence, too convinced of my abilities. I was probably missing easy signs warning me, all over the place. I wasn’t only thinking with my wounded ego though. I was completely ignoring my head, my heart, or my guts. I am sure one of them would have let me know I was stepping into another disaster.

When I get there, she was already asleep. That was the perfect time to just walk away. I had had a good night. It’s not like I needed another conquest on my list. I could live off my scores from this night for months, truth be told. That’s how much I was cleaning up earlier.

Of course I didn’t just stop though. This was night, after all. I was I the Zone! Britney was about to recognized my dominance, to accept my will.

Actually, I was just stupid. So very stupid.

I set about to make some noise in the room to awaken her. You know the approach. A rustle here, a scraping there. She did not stir, so I drew closer and repeated. Still nothing. And suddenly, I became aware that I could not hear her breathe. I became worried so I rushed to her bed. It could not end like this. But I had been duped!

On her bed, gathered underneath the sheet, was not Britney, but a doll. Panic poured into my veins and I could feel my heart beating between my ears. It was a setup!

I was not done yet, though, I tried to tell myself. Just find an exit route. Under the bed. But, no, she had one of those beds with shelves underneath. No escape there.

The window, then. Pedestrian, sure. Hardly worthy of someone in my craft. But I was desperate and anything would do in a pinch. But it was locked and with adrenaline and, yes, I’ll admit, fears controlling my every move, my claws were simply shaking too much to get the latch.

The closet was my last shot. I turned towards it, convinced that sweet freedom was mere moments away. But then, I heard it. The single most terrifying sound I know. Britney’s giggle. It seemed to come from everywhere. It was as though the walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all laughing. I froze. God help me, I froze. Then the closet doors burst open and she strolled in, smirk on her face. A small galling smirk. For a moment, I entertained the notion that I could still win. This was not lost. But I was being fanciful. She had me beat the moment I even thought of stopping by again.

She opened up on me with everything at once. Rainbows and unicorns and princesses. Pirates and soccer balls and dinosaurs. She even threw in a little music for good measure. I was on my knees in no time, head filled with marshmallow. So hard to think, could barely see. If I could’ve processed anything, I’m certain I would have felt that this was the moment of my death.

But she was not done. Oh no. Cruel opponent that she was, she saved her worst for last. She allowed me a moment to catch my breath. My mind began to clear. I started to feel my legs again. Then, she giggled once more and clapped her hands. BLAM! The lights in her room exploded to life around me. Never has a ceiling fan been so bright.

I screamed. I’m certain I did. I retched…I know that for sure. All was pain. And behind it all, that signature giggle. So quiet. So sinister.

Somehow I stumbled into the closet and back into my world. To here. To you, my journal, the only thing I can tell this to. Tell of yet another defeat at the hands of Britney Kellerman. The fiercest eight year old I have ever known. Britney Kellerman, the destroyer of monsters.

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 20, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 20: Pieces of the Night

Letter: G

CD Number: 23

Track Number: 11

Song: “Pieces of the Night” by Gin Blossoms off the album New Miserable Experience

Listen to it here

ZEUS, HERA, HEPHAESTUS, APHRODITE, ARTEMIS, ATHENA, POSEIDON, HERMES, HADES, APOLLO, DEMETER, and HESTIA are willing around inside a lavish estate. Their names are no coincidence; these are the Greek deities of the Classical age, cast down to Earth in favor of monotheism. Most are dressed in “going out gear” and doing some last second primping. Of those that aren’t Poseidon is walking about in a wetsuit that is only half on, leaving his chest exposed, Hades is in an old t-shirt and workout pants, and Demeter and Hestia are busy in the kitchen.

HERMES (pacing throughout, shouts)

Are we doing this or what?

HERA (reaches out to slow him down, giving up)

Of course we will, Honey. Just give everyone a second to finish up.

HERMES (annoyed, still pacing)

I gave them a second. I gave them several seconds. I’ve been ready to go out forevvvvvvvvvvvvvver.

Artemis walks through, brushing her hair.

ARTEMIS (haughty)

Some of us realize that speed is only virtue. To hun—err—to be successful on the bar scene, one requires all their talents and preparations.

HERMES

Oh please. Like you aren’t going to freak everyone out, again, with your “I am the huntress” routine at the cl—.

Hermes stops abruptly as Hades walks in the room.

HADES (confused, hurt)

You guys going somewhere?

POSEIDON

Don’t worry, it’s not the place with the shark tank. Apparently that place was “beat.” I thought it was awesome, but what do I know?

HADES (either ignoring it or not really hearing it)

Again, guys? Again?! I love going out. You know this! Why are you always trying to ditch me?

ATHENA

Oh, don’t get upset, Uncie. You know we don’t mean anything by it. I mean…Demeter and Hestia aren’t going either.

HADES (to them)

They didn’t invite you either?

DEMETER

Oh no, they did. I just got made this wheat flour from our crops today though.

HESTIA (giggling)

And we just had to make some bread with it. You know how we love to cook.

HADES (exasperated)

Well…well…how about Dionysus and Eros? Did you leave them out too?

HERMES (without thinking)

They’re already there man. Which is where I should be!

Stops himself, looks sheepish.

HERMES (embarrassed, quiet)

And, umm, you too, obviously. We both should be. I totally told everyone it was uncool that we did—

HADES (interrupting Hermes, disinterested in his backpedalling)

Unbelievable! I bet you’d invite Ares, that warmonger, if he was here rather than being embroiled in whatever stupid conflict--

ALL AT ONCE

Which, while we disagree with, we greatly respect him for serving in.

APOLLO (strolling into the room, nose literally high in the air. Speaks in a confident, affected voice)

The truth is you are weird, Hades. You make the people we run into uncomfortable. All that death talk is…unnerving, you know? We won’t the mortals to be…effervescent. Not contemplating their mortality.

HADES (incensed)

There’s nothing weird or creepy about death. It is a part of life, just as beauti—

ARTEMIS (cutting him off)

No, no he’s right. You totally spook the pre—err—people.

Hades storms out of the room, shouting over his shoulder

HADES

Screw you guys! I’m going upstairs and changing and I am most certainly coming with you!

HADES (continuing out of sight)

And death is not creepy. Twins are creepy!

Artemis closes her hands into fists at her sides while Hera restrains her with a hand on her shoulder. Apollo merely looks away, bored.

ZEUS (wandering in, heavily sighing)

Moving amongst the mortals were so much easier when we weren’t…Earthbound.

HERA (wrapping her arms around him, taking a cheerful tone)

I don’t know…I’ve rather grown to like it.

He says nothing, only harrumphing in response.

HERA

Plus, you’ve been so much more…monogamous since the transition.

ZEUS (mumbling to himself)

Yes…I have so enjoyed that, too.

HERA

Did you say something dear?

ZEUS (acting innocent)

Hmm? No, not really. I merely agreed.

HERA (a quick wrap on the back of his head)

Good. That is what I thought you were saying.

Angry arguing can be heard coming down the hall. Aphrodite bursts into the room with Hephaestus wheeling close behind.

APHRODITE (whirling back to him)

..and all I am saying is I will dance with whomever I damn well please, whenever I damn well please it!

HEPH (trying to keep an even voice)

Dancing is fine, you know that. It’s the…what do you call it…grinding? That’s what I object to.

APHRODITE (rolling her eyes)

Oh, whatever. If you would dance with me, I wouldn’t have to dance with anyone else.

HEPH (stunned)

I’m paralyzed!

APHRODITE

Heal yourself!

HEPH

Don’t you think I would if I could?

APHRODITE

You’re a god!

HEPH

I’m not saying it makes sense, I’m just saying that that’s the way it is.

APHRODITE (turning away, annoyance in her voice)

I’m going to go wait in the car.

HERMES (excited)

Ooo, ooo, me too!

HEPH (shrugging at the group)

You know how she can be…she just gets nervous sometimes, I think.

Everyone politely looks away without commenting, Heph sighs heavily, drooping his shoulders. Athena looks back after a moment.

ATHENA

If you think about, it makes sense you guys would have these problems. She’s a very sexual creature and she needs to express that. It’s just logical, you know.

HEPH

Thanks, Ath…very helpful.

ATHENA

Sorry. Just the way it is.

The room lapses into awkward silence until Poseidon returns, holding a large fish.

POSEIDON (excited)

Check it out, guys! It’s a blue! Biggest one I’ve seen in sometime. AND I’M THE GOD OF THE SEA!

No one reacts.

I’m putting it in the pool. He’s our new pet…you will refer to him as Sir Chester Winsworth. I, on the other hand, will call him Win! Perhaps, in time, he will allow others to as well, but from what I have seen here so far, that day is a long time from now. Huzzah!

Runs into Hades as he leaves the room, clutches the fish to himself protectively.

HADES

I see you’ve got a fish there.

POSEIDON (scurrying from the room, speaking rapidly)

Yes his names is Chester Winsworth please don’t kill him.

HADES (shouting after him, annoyed)

That’s not how it works. You know that!

Turns back to the group

It’s not!

ZEUS (looking awkward)

So…I guess we should go then…

He gets up from the couch and leaves. The others quickly fall into line behind him.

HADES (mumbling to himself as he walks behind everyone else)

I’m not creepy. I’m not. I like dancing. And coffee. And music. And that movie with the toys that come to life. I am very likeable. People should know that about me…

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 19, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 19: Sophomore Slump Or Comeback Of The Year

Letter: F

CD Number: 2

Track Number: 26

Song: “Sophomore Slump Or Comeback Of The Year” by Fall Out Boy from the album Under the Cork Tree

Listen to it here

He sat in the twilight, measuring out the fluid precisely into each of the drums. As he went about his task, he hummed tunelessly, entirely unaware he was making any noise at all. In his mind, he only had two focuses: the correct ratio of chemicals for maximum heat and her.

She was, after all, the reason for all of this. Fire was not his preferred medium. No, that would be poisons. Exotic concoctions that made it clear a person had been killed without making it clear who or what had done the killing. But for her, he would forgo that.

Instead, he chose fire. As a way to honor her. The first thing that caught his eye was her hair, dyed a shocking shade of red with blonde roots showing through. It was just like a flame, tendrils tipped with red, wrapped around yellow centers, flicking this way and that. Messy, yet impeccably patterned.

Also, it was simply a better way to accomplish what he was setting out to do. A bold declaration of his infatuation for her. How better to let her know that he was utterly dedicated to her, overwhelming smitten then by protecting those that were or would take advantage of her. The landlord who didn’t seem to understand how hard it was to make it as a recent college graduate in this economy. The ex who wanted to use her for his own satisfaction but ignored her emotional needs. The boss who demanded more and more without paying more and more. All of them! The careless, the heartless, the crude, and the cruel. But they were so spread out, across the city. If he did things the usual way, the artful way, it would take forever. And it would be sloppy. At some point, someone would notice that common element was her and he had no desire to see her harassed or arrested for his compositions.

So he needed something fast, lethal, and indiscriminant to consume them. Yes, there would be others who would be hurt and killed. He resigned himself to this. If he could’ve avoided it, he would’ve. But alas, there was nothing to be done for it. Additionally, he told himself, the city was filled with would-be victimizers so many of those unconnected but consumed could’ve been future destroyers of her soul. He was simply being proactive on her behalf.

And when the fire was done and he released her from the protective space he made sure she would be secured in, she would see all he had done for her, for them, and understand. And love him as he loved her. Of this he was sure.

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 18, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 18: Hide Away

Letter: J

CD Number: 15

Track Number: 17

Song: “Hide Away” by Jagger, Mick off the album Goddess In the Doorway

Listen to it here

A podium sits, alone, on a large empty plot of land. In front of it, facing it, is one TV camera. There appears to be no one around it, until a man in a brightly colored costume and cape strides in from the left. This is Dynamic Energy, Earth’s protector and role model. He is upright, but he looks more tired than usual. His gait is a bit smaller and is that..nah…you know, it actually might be, a small tremor in his hands. He steps to the podium, pauses for a moment to rub his eyes and pinch the top of his nose as though he has a massive headache. Then, he looks directly into the camera

DYNAMIC ENERGY (to camera)

Thank you all for watching this announcement. As I told all the major news networks, this is an item of immense importance.

He pauses to take a deep breath and visibly collect himself. It seems as though he might be whispering to himself although no one can hear what. Another pause and then he begins again.

I’m done. I’m just…done. For years, I have been proud to hear myself called “hero” or “guardian” or “fine ass catch,” but there comes a time to end every run and this is mine now. I thank you for allowing me to serve you all these years.

Turns as though to walk away, then stops and returns to the mic.

Actually, if you would indulge me, I have a bit more to say. From the outset, I want to stress that the things I am about to say do not apply to many of you. In fact, I’d say it won’t apply to most of you. I think those of who are responsible will quickly realize that it doesn’t mean you. Those who can’t reach that conclusion. Well…I think you know what that means.

Leans on to the podium.

Let’s start with all the people who have sued me after I’ve saved them because they broke a collar bone (instead of dying) or lost their car (instead of dying) or experienced some sort of emotional shock (instead of dying). First, that’s a dick move. Second, it’s really stupid. I am a super hero! That’s all I do. I have no monetary assets, I have no property, I have nothing for you to go after. And what jury is ever going to say, “Yes, let’s turn on the most powerful person on the entire planet.”? If you are thinking, “None,” congrats, you are a lot smarter already than the idiots I was just talking about.

He becomes more comfortable on the podium and we begin to see hand motions and more animated expressions from him.

Speaking of dicks, how about those people who complain I don’t do enough? They’re a piece of work, aren’t they? Last week, I stopped a plane crash, helped bring in a serial killer, comforted a woman whose husband just died of cancer, and attended a charity ball to raise money for orphans. You know what the op-ed piece in the Washington Post said about me the next day? “Where was Dynamic Energy when Frederic Herberger chose to murder his wife and children?” Really?

The best part? The comments section was filled with people pointing out all the things I hadn’t stopped or people I hadn’t saved. The fact that I was stopping and saving in other places during those tragedies? They forgot to mention that.

Breathes out heavily before continuing again.

Let’s review my powers, okay? I’m fast. I’m strong. I’m nearly invulnerable. I fly. I sing beautifully. I make love in a way that leaves my partners fully satiated, every time. What I’m not is psychic or able to be in more than one place at a time. So random murders are kind of hard for me to shop for. And sometimes, I have to make the call between attending your kids Cub Scout Jamboree and saving an entire country from a tsunami. Welcome to the real world.

Checks his watch.

I could do this all day. And maybe, occasionally, I’ll come back just to mention some other stupid thing you people do. But, for now, I’m out of here. Don’t bother looking for me. I’m smarter than you. You’ll never find me unless I want to be found and even then no one else will believe you did it, so why bother, you know?

Pauses on that for a moment

And we do so in a very reverent manner because woman are deserving of respect and kindness and we would never wish to besmirch their legacies by speaking crudely of our intimate times with them.

Crouches as if to leap, stops for a moment.

Oh, leaders of the world? I slept with your significant others. All of them. They said I was better. Just so you know.

Flies off.

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 17, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 17: I Can Do It Without You

Letter: K

CD Number: 30

Track Number: 20

Song: “I Can Do It Without You” by Kaiser Chiefs off the album Yours Truly, Angry Mob

Listen to it here

My son sat on the floor, numerous plastic parts spread in front of him. It rather looked as though he were a giant inspecting the remnants of a plane crash.

I had bought him the model airplane set a few months ago, anticipating it was an activity he and I could do together. Time slipped by and before we could get to work on it, he entered a mid-childhood independence seeking stage. It had begun slowly. A request to pack his own lunch here, a protest against being tucked in there. Thus, it had snuck up on me until today when I found him pulling the box down off the shelf.

“You want to work on that today?” I asked, already anticipating a day of making my too large fingers awkwardly force together tiny brightly colored plane bits.

“Yes. Alone.” He responded politely, but firmly. I made him do it in the living room with newspaper spread out over all the carpet, but otherwise, I told him that was fine.

However, I could not help but check-in. Every ten minutes or so, I would swing through on some imaginary task and ask, “Need anything, kiddo?”

He would shoo me away without looking up, “I’m a big boy, Dad. I can do this.” I would nod, flipping him the diagramed directions, the glue, or a random piece of fuselage, wing or landing gear.

So it went through the day, with me trying to get involved and him remaining steadfastly opposed to it. My fingers were thrilled, but, I admit, I was a little sad. I tell myself I am ready for the fight for independence come the teen years, but at seven? It caught me to unaware to steel my emotions.

In the end, he did it. I never once applied glue, stickers, or paint, but there sat a completed bi-plane on our living room floor. Perhaps a bit off here or there, especially when it came to the application of the stickers, but complete nonetheless.

“Welcome to obsolescence,” I thought, as I peered into the room from the foyer.

He glimpsed me and came running, dragging me to the carpet to show off his work. “Dad, dad, what do you think?” he queried rapidly, voice quivering with excitement.

“Looks great,” I said, proud despite feeling a bit useless. “You did a really great job.”

“Thanks Dad! And thanks for all the help.”

“I didn’t help at all, kiddo, you did it all yourself.”

“Nah,” his spoke absentmindedly as he “flew” the plane in the air. “You bought it for me and you kept giving me hints whenever I was stuck. I probably could’ve done it alone, but I was glad you were here. You made it easier… and a lot more fun.”

With that, he was making propeller noises and charging from the room, plane as high above his head as his arms could reach, leaving me to ponder the many ways, good and bad, your children can absolutely break your heart.

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 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 16, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 16: Good

READER’S CHOICE

Suggested by: Ron Chance (calling for “Anything by Better Than Ezra”)

Song: “Good” by Better Than Ezra on their album Deluxe

Listen to it here

Dear E.,

As you may have noticed, I moved out while you were a work today. I paid the landlord two months of extra rent and that carries us to the end of the lease. It also gives you time to find a new roommate if you wish to re-up and can convince the landlord that she should let you. Given what she said to me when I handed her the check, that might be a lot more difficult than you were expecting. Just so you are aware.

I am sorry I had to do this so abruptly, but you know how these things go. Just think of it like that time you went off to the LARP event in St. Louis without telling me and I had to watch your snake despite having no knowledge of what exactly one does to “watch a snake.” I have to say, though, if you hadn’t have done that, I never would have realized that snakes are pretty okay. I do think he and I came to an understanding that weekend. I mean, he even curled up in my lap last week. Sure, it was because I was the only heat source because you “forgot” to pay the oil bill 6 months in a row, but more than that, I think we reached an understanding.

There was also the time you decided to stay an extra night at some conference you were attending even though you knew your parents were coming to visit. Lovely people, your parents, by the way. Mom was a little handsy. Dad, too, actually, if you come right down to it. But lovely…truly. Anyway, either way you want to think of my not being here anymore is pretty okay with me.

I do hope there will be no hard feelings as living with you truly has been an experience I am likely to remember and speak of for years and years to come. And boy, did we have our moments. For instance, I’ll never forget the time I burst into your room because I thought someone was killing you to find you engaged in autoerotic asphyxiation. My goodness, didn’t we laugh and laugh after that one. There was also the time you tried to seduce my boyfriend despite the fact that I was in the room and you were always telling me how unattractive he was and how I could do better. You truly our a loveable scamp when you put your mind to a good prank, you know?

So, again, thanks. This has been lovely. But before I go, as a friend, can I make some recommendations to you? For the future, you know, to make getting a roommate easier.

1.) Get a new name for your snake. He’s a majestic beast. I don’t think it is right you insist his name is “Smaller Than My Unit.”

2.) The autoerotic thing. I get, I do. It’s important to push the boundaries of sexuality and explore what really works for us. But maybe there is a safer way to do it? Like with a partner? I don’t know. Just a thought.

3.) Explore topics of conversation beyond LARP, zombies, “boning chicks,” and “boning chicks made up like zombies at LARP.”

4.) It’s cool you identify as straight. It’d be cool if you identified as gay or bi, too. But regardless, maybe wait to hit on people’s significant others until a.) they break up or, at least, b.) the roommate is not sitting next to you at the time.

5.) I know you find it upsetting you can’t use certain words and others can. Sometimes, it is okay to let social convention triumph over your individual freedom to say whatever occurs to you at any given moment. You don’t want people thinking you hate anyone different from you, right?

6.) Having phone sex in front of others who have not consented to be involved is not cool. Doing so on the house phone everyone shares the bill for is even less cool.

7.) You have your own underwear. There is no need to wear your roommates.

8.) Do that dance thing you do more. Straight up, that’s hilarious.

Okay…I think that’s all. Thanks again. This has been a blast.

Please don’t try and contact me,

January 15, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 15: I Met a Girl

Letter: Mix

CD Number: 11

Track Number: 20

Song: “I Met a Girl” by Wheat off the homemade mix Plan: DIEGO

Listen to it here

Photo found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/27331138@N00/3097521819

Rick is coming down the stairs of an old, but update three story brownstone. As he hits the final step he begins to speak.

RICK (Monologue directly to the audience, gesturing to the apartment behind him)

My buddy Derrick lives in there. Second floor. Nice place.

Pauses. Grimaces as he shouts/grunts.

Arrgh!

Collects himself.

Between you and me…I’m pretty pissed at him. Don’t be telling him that though. It’ll pass by tomorrow I’m sure and there’s no need for him to know I was angry with him for some 6 hours one random Friday night. Okay?

Begins to walk down the sidewalk, with eyes on audience.

We were out tonight. I give Derrick hell all the time for not coming out because I’m single, he’s not, and it is the job of single people to make their coupled friends feel like being in a couple has made them either—

He pauses and ticks them off on his fingers.

A.) Not cool anymore. This one’s easy: “Man, remember that time we closed down the Peg Board every night for a week. That was awesome! I think the last time we did anything like that was before Jillian was on the scene, right? Damn, you were fun back then. I mean, you are fun now, too. Just…different fun.

B.) Selfish. “Dude, I know you’ve got a woman and that’s great because all of us love her, but I’m single and so are a lot of the other guys and we miss you man! We’ve just got our friends, you know…I got that having sex with a woman you love is magical and special and stuff, but come on. We’re still your buds and you’ve been totally ignoring us just to satisfy your conjugal needs, man.”

C.) Whipped. This one’s ugly and plays upon stereotyped gender roles, but what do you want? Being single means lots of playing by stereotyped gender roles to get what you want or need. “No, I get it man. It’s cool. I don’t blame you at all. I know she’s in charge. I get that.”

I’m not proud that I do these things. I’m just aware and honest. That doesn’t make me a hero, but, you know, maybe it should.

Stars to walk again, in the opposite direction, still talking. After a few step, realizes his error and turns around walks the way he was initially going, without comment.

In any case, my passive aggressive moves eventually got to Derrick and he told his lady he was going out tonight. So away we went to this dive down the street, The Plank. I think it used to have a pirate theme when it first opened, but the sole traces of that are two wooden parrots that sit on either side of the bar and a sign in the men’s room that reads, “Shiver me timbers.” Which, admittedly even when the bar still had its theme intact, was kind of an odd signage quote and location choice.

Rick pauses to contemplate this, shrugs, and moves on.

So, we are out and we are having a good time. We talk about the old days, we talk about our exes and our sex lives with them.

Pauses on that for a moment

And we do so in a very reverent manner because woman are deserving of respect and kindness and we would never wish to besmirch their legacies by speaking crudely of our intimate times with them.

Pauses again, turn directly to audience and shrugs a bit.

Right then…good, good. That’s out of the way then. Back to the bar.

Begins to walk once more.

We are in a groove and it just like old times. This is fun. Real fun. More fun than I’ve gotten to have with Derrick in awhile. And then it happens. Over Derrick’s shoulder, I see…her.

Rick mock faints before popping back up to his knees.

“Here” is this beautiful girl. Just absolutely beautiful. She has like…like perfect cheekbones. And her hair is this striking auburn shade. I am guessing it’s not her real color, but who cares? I pluck my eyebrows, you know. We all have are ways of trying to alter evolution or genetics or destiny or whatever to stick out. Heck, when you come right down to it, diet and exercise are acts of body modification. So let’s not be holier than thou, alright?

Completes getting back to his feet.

Anyway, the big deal with the hair wasn’t even the color. It was the style. Her hair was in ringlets. RINGLETS! Does anyone even do that anymore? I don’t know, I’m no expert. But it kills me. Just slays me. So sexy…don’t know why, it just is.

So Derrick’s talking, right? And I think he’s moved on to talking about his current lady. It’s like 12:15 and we are both 4 or 5 drinks in, so the timing makes sense. And normally, I would want to hear this. I know that’s weird, but there it is. I have always been intrigued by the way my friend’s girlfriends and wives—yes, I have to say wives now…so very old—are in the sack. I have no interest in finding out first hand...that would be wrong. But there is something undeniably interesting about it.

But I can’t concentrate on what he has to say because I am just following this woman around the bar. And it is making me even more infatuated with her. She’s s bouncy.

Stops, looks directly at the audience, shakes his head.

Not like that. You’re better than that, people. I mean, personality-wise. At one point, a friend of her’s made a joke and this gorgeous lady blushed. Just. Perfectly.

I’m not usually one who just sees a girl at a bar and is like, “Hot.” Honest…that’s not me. I’ve never been good at the bar scene and I rarely get drawn in without some sort of conversation, but this woman…I was just sideswiped.

Long pause.

But Derrick was there, you know? Derrick who I’d harassed for at least three weeks to get him out and drinking by himself. Derrick who was currently using his hands to demonstrate a sexual position that I was very unfamiliar but certainly seemed to be something worth practicing going forward.

Another pause. Claps hands together.

So...I didn’t go over to her. I let her be. I stayed with Derrick because…I don’t know…loyalty? Derailing future guilt? Doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I sat with him and I still had fun. I did. But forty minutes later, I looked up just in time to see her slipping into her jacket and walking out of the bar.

And that’s why I’m mad at Derrick. Which is dumb. And which is why I know I’ll be over it tomorrow.

In a week, her face will get little fuzzy in my mind, I won’t remember what color her shirt was—magenta—or what I believe was the smell of her perfume when she leaned over the bar some 10 feet away to order a drink. In a month…she’ll probably just be a hairstyle. In a year, she’ll just be another woman at a bar one night who I can remember I thought was attractive but couldn’t tell you why. Just another “almost.”

Long pause, rocks on his heels. Turns away from audience and begins to walk off. Stops. Shakes head

I tell you though. That blush. Those ringlets. Damn…just damn.

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 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 14, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 14: Dead Man's Party

Letter: O

CD Number: 4

Track Number: 1

Song: “Dead Man’s Party” by Oingo Boing off the double album Boingo Alive (Disc 1)

Listen to it here

They all shuffled, single file, into Mr. Wilton’s massive study. It smelled of leather, fireplace ash, and linseed oil. Massive built-in bookcases towered from floor to ceiling in the front of the room, filled with multiple copies of every Tom Clancy book ever written. Suffice to say, Mr. Wilton was a fan. Amongst the Clancy one could find volumes by anyone from the likes of Milton to McInerney to Meltzer. Mr. Wilton was no snob. He just preferred Clancy’s work above anyone else’s. The walls were mostly bare and what little art there was was mostly made up of random pieces by local artists that Wilton had come across at art fairs and street carnivals and the like. He knew nothing of art and cared even less. But he liked how excited people got when he bought a piece from them.

Mere hours before, this loose assembly of people had been at the man’s wake and now they were here for the reading of his will. And what an odd assortment they were. A wife, two ex-wives, three sons, 4 daughters, a niece, two nephews, and three sisters represented his family. Then there was the current business partner, the former business partner that broken ties with Wilton to go his own, the former business partner who Wilton had broken ties with out of jealous, and Wilton’s administrative assistant Alexander.

There was his childhood best friend Stanley who Wilton had once hit so hard he broke Stanley’s nose, effectively ending their friendship. Behind him came Helen. She was orphaned at the age of six due to a car accident. Mr. Wilton read an article about her in the local newspaper three years later and had effectively became her patron, moving him into her home, paying for school, and clothes, and vacations, and whatever else one could imagine. Then, when she turned 20, he set up a bank account with six million dollars and ordered her to go find her way in the world. They still talked on the phone weekly until the day he died, but she never saw him face-to-face again.

And there were still more, friends, competitors, local vendors he had taken a shining to. In a life as big as Wilton’s you made many connections, positive and negative. He had only lived 53 years, but it was more than enough time to earn a fortune several times over, to fall in love, to break hearts, to make lifelong friends, and his damnedest to destroy them. Everyone who meant anything to him, be it fair or foul, was in that room.

They took their seats and shifted quietly, but uncomfortably in them. Despite the austerity of the room, the chairs were simple, metal, and folding. No one complained, of course. That would have been rude. But many burned with annoyance at him for what they perceived as yet another slight.

Moments later, Wilton’s diminutive lawyer Raskin sauntered into the room carrying a single sheet of paper under his arm. Following behind him was a young lawyer from the same firm, someone none of them recognized. She had a large box rest awkwardly in her outstretched arms. Raskin noisily folded open the sheet of paper as his young co-worker began to move about the room, passing out eight and a half by 11 manila envelopes and making it clear they were not to be opened yet.

As soon as everyone received their envelopes, Raskin cleared his throat with a long, raspy gargle and began to read:

“To all of you gathered today, I thank you for being here. None of you here have always seen eye to eye with me and some, in fact, never did. But, illness teaches one a thing or two, or at least it did for me. I know that without each and every one of you in my life, I could not have accomplished, saw, or experienced all that I did. And thus, I thank you. Not just in word, but also in gifts from my life.

“However, certain revelations that came to me as I neared death caused me to reconsider my generosity. Many, if not all of you are people with secrets. Ugly secrets. Hateful secrets. Things that, if exposed, would forever derail your lives. So I have brought you here to expose those secrets. To make you clean before I give you my gifts. I know that I cannot expect anyone of you to simply come clean so I have placed in your envelopes certain hints and clues that will guide you to the secrets of others. For those who are most effective in exposing the hidden lives of those around you, there will be additional monetary rewards to receive.”

Raskin paused here. A drama kid growing up, he never really gave up on his love of being the center of attention. He never tried to be an actor because he knew he was, ultimately, no good, but he also knew he could dramatic pause with the best of them. And at the moment he sensed some people starting to slip away, he began again.

“So now, from beyond the grave, I command you to open your envelopes and begin the search for truth. Remember that you will lose much, but gain arguably more.”

The guests sat, stunned. Minds whirred to what secrets the letter could be referring to. Some reached conclusions quicker than others. Some merely had a hard time figuring out how many of their secrets Wilton might have learned. Wilton’s younger brother tore up his envelope first and everyone followed suit, filling the chamber with a cacophony of ripping paper.

Each individual unfolded their papers, hands shaking, to find a single message:

“Nah. I’m just messing you. Can you imagine? Anyway, I brought you all here for a final party. Think of it as the first in a series of thank yous. Raskin will do the real will thing tomorrow, but it is all pretty standard. Some money here, a possession or two there, etc, etc. No one will get slighted, I promise. Now throw this paper in the fireplace and get on the boogie shoes. And be sure to try a margarita. The bartender makes them just perfect.”

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 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.

January 13, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 13: Gasoline

Letter: A

CD Number: 18

Track Number: 3

Song: “Gasoline” by Airborne Toxic Event off the album Airborne Toxic Event

Listen to it here

Her heart thumped in four-three time, pumping terror and exhilaration through her body in steady bursts. That invitation was either the best decision she had ever made or the worst. She prayed he wouldn’t come, that he had developed stronger smarts in the years since they last saw one another. Then, she wouldn’t have to decide whether to follow through with it. Because she knew she would go.

What the Hell had she been thinking?! Paul was exactly the type of guy to go in for this sort of thing. She knew it. And, if she was honest, that’s exactly why she proposed it in the first place. She knew that she had someone and that he did, too. She knew it and she felt bad for it. And yet, she still did it.

So now she sat in the window well of her parents’ house and stared out onto the dark street past the “Sold” sign, waiting for his car to arrive. She wondered if he still drove that mint green Duster. God…how did they manage to fit into that backseat to make out? She was pretty sure that she could not manage that sort of thing these days.

The sign swung back and forth in the night breeze, clanking like some demented church bell. In a week, this wouldn’t be her home anymore. It would not be her parents’ house either. A nice family with two elementary school aged boys was moving in. The Granges? Maybe. Something like that in any case. And that was the problem! It was her parents’ fault, when you got right down to it. If they just held onto their house like her other college friends’ folks did, she would not have had this burst of nostalgia. She wouldn’t have just rang up Paul’s cell phone to see if the number was the same. They would not have reminisced til one in the morning, three days in a row. And certainly she never would have said, “Come over tonight. Let’s just get out of here.”

But they did sell the house. So here she was. Knowing that she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life if those headlights lanced up the street and across the driveway. It was a mistake she kind of wanted to make. Really wanted to make. A mistake still, though. One that would surely ruin her life. And yet…here she was.

In the middle of the night, the house felt the same as it had those few years ago. It creaked the same, it smelled the same. She could sense her history in it. If she let herself, she was back there. Her brother was still at home, not yet married, not yet living in Wisconsin. Her parents were in the ugly pre-therapy stage of their marriage, a time when divorce seemed to be one ill-timed remark or callous gesture away.

She and Paul would wait for the house to go to sleep and drive around town. Or just stay in, making out and awkwardly rubbing on each other on the floor, because the couch made too much noise and her bedroom was far too bold a move. She knew those times were gone, but, tonight, she was reclaiming them. Family, significant others, school, whatever else, be damned! Paul would pull up, she’d be out the door, and then they’d be off. She wondered if they would be able to keep their hands off each long enough to even get to the highway. She hoped not.

It was resolved then, she told herself. This is what she really wanted. It didn’t have to be a mistake. Not everything impetuous was. So she would do it. Without hesitation. Without guilt. Without regret. It would be Paul and Cary part 2 and it would be glorious.

Her heart still thudded, but she felt a sereneness settle in her skin. Her anxiety bled out into the blanket wrapped around her, the pillows beneath her. She leaned her head back, breathed deeply, and closed her eyes, just for a moment. The headlights would flood the room. Or Paul would knock on the window. She wouldn’t miss it.

Her eyes popped up with a jolt. Dawn sunlight was pushing above the houses across the street. The clock on the TV read “5:26.” She felt queasy. Paul wouldn’t have just come and left would he have? She pawed through the blankets pooled around her until her fingers brushed against her cell. Shakily, she pulled it out of the mass of wool and flipped it open. One text.

It read: “I’m sorry. I can’t do this to you. I love you.”

Paul had gotten some sense after all. Which was good, for the best for both of them. She knew Paul would never mention her lapse to another soul, so it was over. Her boyfriend would never know. His girlfriend would not either. They had their time and now it was gone. As it should be. As life goes.

She would have liked to have seen if he had the Duster still though. She would have liked to see if she could make those backseats work for her. She would have loved to see him, look at him as he drive them wherever, pointing to the radio and explaining things about each song as pumped out of the speakers. She would have liked to feel that freedom one more time. She would have…she would have. That was the part that was not gone, that was not over. That was the part that made this hurt so damn bad.

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.

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 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.

January 12, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 12: Daisychain

Letter: B

CD Number: 24

Track Number: 8

Song: “Daisychain” by Buckner, Richard off the album Bloomed

Listen to a snippet of it here

All I had was the photo. I mean this nearly literally. I woke up naked in a room I had never been before. I think I’d never been there before. Hard to say, since I didn’t really remember anything. On the door hung a suit. Tailored. Black. Expensive looking. A hat dangled on the hook next to it. Was I a hat man, I wondered.

On a chair across the room were a robin’s egg blue shirt, a deep red tie, a pair of captoe shoes, socks, and a pair of silk underwear. The room looked like something that would give me Legionnaires if I stayed too long, so I embraced the strange. I slipped into the clothes.

They felt good. Warm (I didn’t realize how cold I was) but too much. They had a comforting heaviness to them without being constrictive. I still didn’t know who I was. Or what I was doing in this place that seemed like it had been pulled from a classic noir film frame, dropped into the real world, and been left untouched since. But I was starting to feel better.

A cursory exploration of my pockets came back with an old money clip thick with pictures of dead presidents, a blue pen from the Brunti Banquet Hall, a tooth pick, and the photo. It captured a woman, late 20’s, early 30’s maybe—although I sensed that I was a lousy judge of age. Didn’t know my name, but I seemed to know that. Useful.

In any case, it was taken fairly close, her face filling the frame, rendering it impossible to tell where she was. She was smiling. It was bright smile. Almost believable. But something about it…she was faking that smile. I could tell. On the back of the photo, underlined three times, it read “HER” in block letters. I wrote “her” again, directly below it and it was close enough that I am relatively assured that it was done by my hand. So, no name, still, but I knew I was lousy at guessing ages and what penmanship looked like.

A check with the front desk got me nowhere. They said I checked in by myself under the name Max Coleridge. That wasn’t me…it was a comic book character, a good guy pretending to be a bad guy. Called himself The Shroud when he was good deedin’ around. I briefly entertained the idea that there some insight to be gained by my choice of pseudonym. I worried I was giving myself a bit too much credit.

So in a cab I went and off to the Brunti. Maybe someone there would recognize me.

And that’s how I ended up here. In a loud crowded hazy ballroom looking out over a sea of unrecognized faces…and hers. Her gaze settles on mine and she looks…is that queasy? It is only a tick and then it boils away under the light of her smile. The big, broad, bright smile from the photo. Utterly false. I felt queasy myself. Whoever she was, I got the feeling she was far more than I could handle. But she was moving towards me. No place to go.

I gripped my glass tightly and screwed my Adam’s apple back down my throat. She placed her and on my arm, just above the elbow. It was not gentle brushing. It was a grip.

“Well then, Sam, you really are a bit of trouble aren’t you?”

At least I’ve got a name now.

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 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 11, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 11: Get Over You

Letter: Soundtrack

CD Number:

Track Number: 18

Song: “(I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever) Get Over You” by Colin Hay off the Garden State soundtrack

Listen to it here

Inside a coffee shop a man and woman are conversing over hot beverages. Their body language conveys the fact that while they know each other, they are not exactly comfortable with one another. The man is more aggressive, leaning into the table, while the woman is pushed back a bit from the table, arms crossed.

CALVIN

—and that’s how my cousin got his nickname.

IONE (a slight, small laugh)

Cute.

A long pause.

CALVIN

Hey, remember when we used to go out every year on the anniversary of our break-up.

IONE (rolls her eyes)

Ugh. Yes. It was only twice before I wised up though. That was awful of you.

CALVIN

I suppose. Anyway, I was re-reading my journals from my college years.

IONE (amused)

I never knew you kept a journal.

CALVIN (to himself)

Perhaps that lack of interest was part of the problem with our relationship.

IONE (straining to hear)

I’m sorry? What was that?

CALVIN

Hm? Oh, nothing. Nevermind. Anyway, I was re-reading them and you know what I had plum forgot?

IONE (something clicking for her, smirking at a memory)

That we hooked up a few times after we broke up?

CALVIN (excited)

That we hooked up a few times after we broke up!

IONE (laughs)

I had forgotten about that too until just now. That’s so funny.

CALVIN

Yes, yes it. And you know what else is funny?

IONE

No, what’s that?

CALVIN

The last time we hooked up—

IONE (the weirdness dawning on her)

Oh…no. Not this ag—

CALVIN

—was March. Today, actually, as it turns out.

IONE

Oh, Calvin, please tell me you just brought me here to buy insurance.

CALVIN (now he’s the confused one)

Insurance?

IONE (a touch of exasperation creeping into her voice)

Yes. I know you got the new job and that you had pitched Stan. So I thought I was helping you out. Plus, with the twins, having more life insurance probably is not a bad idea. Was I wrong about this?

CALVIN

Not at all. It is always a good idea to get life insurance when you start having children.

IONE

I meant about why you wanted to meet.

CALVIN

Weeeeeeeeeeeeellllll….yes and no. Insurance is about planning for your future and planning for our future is why I invited you here.

IONE

Did you say “our” future?

CALVIN

Yes. Yes I did. Because I know you made a mistake back then and I know you regret it. You just were not as mature as me. But you are now and I know you get it.

IONE (exasperated)

We have not dated in eight years. And I didn’t breakup with you because I was immature. We dated for six years. Six! That’s pretty damn mature for someone who was 14 when the relationship started. I dumped you because…because it was time.

CALVIN

And yet, you still came. So strong was the draw of our love?

IONE (fully exasperated now)

Because we’re friends! Or friends of friends anyway. We see each other a few times a year! When a friend invites you out for coffee you don’t expect to be ambushed.

CALVIN

I think you wanted to be ambushed. I think you needed to be ambushed. Lonely. Twenty-eight. Not sure where to go or to go there with--

IONE (interrupting)

I’m married. I have twin boys who are three years old. I have a life I’m happy with.

CALVIN

Kids, huh? You’d never guess that with how great your body looks. I don’t know how, but I would swear your breasts are perkier.

IONE (a bit knocked off her game by that)

Thank you.

Pause

But so not the point! And you know I have kids. You’ve met them!

CALVIN

Did I? Huh…I feel like I’d remember that. Anyway, you can leave them with your ex-husband. We’ll want to start our own family, I assure you.

IONE

No, we will not. I am not getting a divorce. I am not leaving my kids. I can’t believe you would do this to… to… whatshername, Claire? Carol? The woman you have been dating for three years!

CALVIN

Crystal?

IONE

Her!

CALVIN

She was but a trifle. Someone to…hone my sexual abilities on to be a better lover for you. But, rest assured, you never left my mind. I might have been making love to her, but it was all for you.

IONE

That’s…unbelievable.

CALVIN

Believe it, baby! Every time I kissed her, I imagined it was your lips. Every time she touched me, it was your hands. I used to call your name out in bed at…climax.

IONE

You…did not. She never would have stayed with you!

CALVIN

I never mentioned you to her and I told her I had a huge crush on Ione Skye. She thought we were role playing.

IONE

That’s awful, Calvin.

CALVIN

I know, I know. But that’s what you do to me. I am so in love with you.

IONE (standing up, disgusted)

I’m leaving!

She storms out of the café as Calvin lingers, sipping on his coffee.

CALVIN (shrugs)

Well, there’s always next year.

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 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 10, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 10: Let Go

Letter: Mix

CD Number: 3

Track Number: 13

Song: “Let Go” by Frou Frou off the homemade mix (given to my wife, The Thunder, as a gift back in the day) Ms. Sagness Goes to Washington (Again)

Listen to it here

The usual was exaggerated body language and

the occasional fake accent.

But today was different. Quiet, sad,

With all focus on her right hand.

“Nothing was wrong,” she

insisted. Life as usual.

Everything was just fine

and why wouldn’t it be?

The doctor prodded and pressed.

Respectful, to be sure, but not accepting

the pat answer. The doctor pushed harder than usual

as she could tell her client was more than just stressed.

The session wore on and the client seemed dug in.

Questions were answered rapidly.

Feelings spoken of superficially.

She appeared to have decided this was a challenge to win.

Then, without provocation or intention,

the doctor asked about family,

something that, heretofore,

had never been made mention.

The initial response was swift

and quite angry.

The client’s face screwed up in an expression

that made clear she was quite miffed.

But a beat more passed.

Things began to tumble forth.

Her voice cracked with tragedy,

her heart choked by the past.

There were sniffles and snorts

Gasps and groans.

Tears coursed forth

Erasing all those original planned retorts.

And here, sobbing and shaking,

feeling pulled apart and oh-so barren.

Here is where the healing began.

This was the start of the re-making.

You survived the second poetry entry. Bravo! I hope it wasn't too bad for you. Please, 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). And tell me if you liked it or not. And, if you didn't, you are still bound to like one of those things above 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 09, 2011 By: Tim Stevens Comment

January 9: But It's Better If You Do

Letter: P

CD Number: 10

Track Number: 22

Song: “But It’s Better If You Do” by Panic! At the Disco (The “!” is essential) off the album A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out

Listen to it here

The place was dark, which, I assumed, was actually something of a blessing. Dark is preferable to dingy. The lack of light did detract from the abandoned bomb shelter aesthetic the building had going on, but that was really better appreciated from the outside anyway. I knew I should be ashamed to be in such a place but did it really have to look so distinctly ashamed of itself, too?

Although no one had smoked in the club in years, the smell of ash and old tobacco still hung everywhere. It was as if the permeated the cell structure of the place; as if it had collected so much smoke when cigarettes did not have to be hidden from the light of day for fear of offending someone that the walls themselves were still breathing it. What didn’t smell like smoke smelt, well, flat, I suppose. Not bad per se. But certainly not a smell one would seek out. The music was heavy, thumping, and just loud enough to make talking and hearing more trouble than they were worth.

I was 35. And I really shouldn’t have been there. But I was.

My friend was getting married for the second time. Having gone the clean, respectful bachelor party the first time out and still found himself getting divorced seven years later, he decided that he needed to shake things up. Thus our visit to The Hot House, a strip club, I was assured, that was both classy and sexy. And boasted a fabulous buffet. Oddly enough, I found myself unmoved by this expert testimony. Only the constant hectoring to “be a good groomsmen” got me in the door.

Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t have a moral objection to the Gentlemen’s Club field of entertainment. Or maybe I do. If I do, it is not a big one, not a wedge issue, if you will. Strip clubs strike me as sad places where everyone is exploiting everyone, but the same can be said of Wal-Mart. You just happen to get a blue vest at Wal-Mart.

But, at 35, it was my first time ever in such a place and I was not equal to the task. The idea of looking at naked women while surrounded by friends and strangers was a difficult idea to embrace for me. Sex, in general, was something I had been raised to have a healthy disgust of. I had come around a bit on that, but not enough that exploring a new aspect of desire was something I wanted to do alongside several other men.

And if I’m honest about the moral objection thing, what I said before is true…in my head. In my guts, if you will, it is a little more complicated. Yes it is exploitation all around, but us men just get exploited for our cash. It’s important, but ultimately, it’s just paper. The girls and women are being exploited for their bodies and that makes me squirmy. On the other hand, they made a choice and from what I’ve heard, some of them enjoy dancing and appreciate the money and would prefer do-gooders like myself just shot our mouths and stop treating them children in capable of making informed choices.

With this debate swirling around my head, I tried to strike the right look that told everyone there, “I’m only here because my buddy wanted to be, but I can appreciate that you are all attractive women. Also, I think it is wrong a business that treats you like objects exists unless you feel, in a post-feminist kind of way, that you have all the power in which case I applaud it.” I suspect it translated more into a look of “I’ve eaten something bad recently.”

As I adjusted, I have to confess I did begin to look around and, well, ogle the women there. I found myself a bit disappointed to find them to be neither the improbable sex goddesses of many television shows and movies nor the burnt out husks of other television shows, movies, and comedy routines. They were normal, really. Glitter encrusted, tassel displaying, certainly, but normal. Some fell higher on the pretty continuum than others, but none of them were models and none of them were sporting bullet holes and stretch marks. Provided they wore different outfits at the grocery store, you probably not have paused to think, “Stripper” if you saw them out and about.

The buffet also proved to be a non-starter. Perhaps I just have a hard time getting an appetite up in such a setting though. I do not mean to disparage the efforts of the chefs at The Hot House. I understand they are just trying to earn a living like everybody else.

The most surprising thing about the club was though, the thing I was not the least bit prepared for, was how boring they were. With the volume making conversation impossible and, while I am not saying I wanted one, not nearly enough staff to give every patron a lap dance or private show at the same time, there was a lot of sitting in silence, making overly enthusiastic “damn, you see that” facing, and nursing 10 dollar bottles of water. Maybe there are gentlemen’s clubs out there where everyone sips brandy in leather back chairs while women writhe in sexy, but not overly intrusive manners around them while political and business deals are brought to conclusion. Or strip clubs were raucous groups of attractive men have the time of their life, but this certainly was not either of those.

I think some part of me, maybe most of me, wanted to be scandalized or horrified or titillated by the scene, but, instead, I was just…there. They were not places worth avoiding with as much vigor as many do, but they were not places to make much of an effort to go to either. It reminded me of the first time I snuck out after curfew. The excitement, the fear, the anxiety, the fun…all of that was in the act. Once I was out of the house, it was dark, kind of chilly, and there really was not anything to do.

I don’t expect I’ll ever go back to one. But if I do, I’ll definitely try the buffet this time. It was really rude of me not to.