The Original Satirrorist

My stupid 32" Samsung

2009-10-19T12:55:00.000-07:00

Soon

2009-02-24T09:57:00.001-08:00

She’s two months old. My baby is two months old. Soon, she'll sleep through the night. Soon, she'll be able to sit up straight, and laugh. She already knows to smile, and to stick her tongue out when I stick mine. Soon, she'll learn how to crawl and soon afterwards, she'll take her first step, speak her first words.

Soon, she'll be walking and will refuse to hold her mother's hand when we are out shopping. I will scoop her up with one had, and hoist her on my shoulder, her preferred method of transportation. Her mother will tell me that she never refuses to hold her hand when I am not there; that I am being manipulated into carrying her on my shoulders. But I won't mind. I will carry her on my shoulders anyway.

And soon, she’ll start talking. She'll talk and talk and talk. And when people say, "oh she's so adorable", I’ll know that what they really mean is, "does she ever shut up?" But I won't care. "Thank you," I will say. "You know what she said the other day. It was the cutest thing ever..."

Soon, it will be her first day of school, and she will cry when we start to drive away and she realizes that we are truly leaving her behind. Her mother will tell me to turn back, to go get her and she could go to school the next day and I will say, no. I will tell her that being overly protective is just as bad for her development as not being protective at all. I will tell her that I don't want her to grow up as a spoiled brat. I will tell her that she'll be okay, that she's probably already stopped crying. I will drop her back at home, and tell her that I need to go to work. I will drive away, stern look on my face, but then secretly pass by the school, to make sure that my little baby is okay.

Soon she'll run and jump and play and tousle with other kids. And soon she'll come to me with a scraped knee, her face red and her eyes full of tears. She'll tell me between short breaths how she fell and I will hug her tight. I will dry her tears with the sleeve of my shirt and tell her that she'll be okay. I will wash it, bandage it, and kiss it to make it better and she will stop crying, even though it still burns her a little.

Soon, she'll go to college and her mother will cry. And soon afterwards she'll graduate college and her mother will cry again. And I will make fun of her mother being so emotional, while discreetly wiping the tears from my eyes.

Soon she'll get a job. I will be old by then, and she won't be able to come see me all the time. Her mother will be upset, but I will tell her that it’s okay. I will tell her that she needs to pay attention to her future, all the while wishing she never left my side. And soon she'll meet someone and fall in love, and she'll come to me and say that there is someone she'd like me to meet. And I'll know. Her mother said those exact words to her father about me. And I will hug her to hide the tears that are welling up in my eyes.

And soon she'll get married and have a baby girl of her own. And when I hold her new baby in my arms, I'll remember. I'll remember her when she was young. The baby will look at me unblinkingly, not seeing me but staring me in the eyes just the same, just like my daughter did when I first held her. I will remember and I hold the new baby tight, tighter than I have ever held my daughter, as if to freeze the moment, but the moment will pass, just like it passed with my baby. I will remember and wish that I had spent more time with her growing up. I will remember and wish that she hadn't grown up so damn fast. I will remember and wish that she didn't live so far away from me, that she came by to visit more often, that she was still a little baby, so I can do it over and take my time doing it.

And I will remember today. This day. The day when I was hoping that she would sleep through the night. The day when she was only two months old.

—Chicago 2009

Fear and Loathing in San Rafael

2008-07-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

The thoughts come and go; some are pleasant, but most are pathetic. Someone in the room mentioned Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow, and I started thinking of Las Vegas. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That was a good movie. Momentarily inspired, I scrap what I was writing and title a new piece.

I start writing, but I'm interrupted by a call, then another, as if someone or something is trying to prevent this from happening.

Well, in my case, something always is.

I continue, trying to pick up the thread, but it eludes me. I keep thinking of other things, like the ocean.

I drift into half sleep. I flirt with the waves of unconsciousness. My eyelids grow heavy with sleep, and I start swimming in the ocean...

I am wrenched back into reality. The voice of a man. Another call. How I hate these interruptions; how I would love to just hang up and leave. Just leave. But I don't, I move on.

My mind starts drifting again. I dream of things to come. I dream of paper, red paper. Sheets of magenta. Where is this going, I think to myself, but I don't have an answer. Oh this can't be good.

I ease myself out of my slouch. I smell my own breath, I grimace with disgust. It smells of failure. I swallow, stale cigarette smoke laced in my saliva, the bitterness of inadequacy...

Another call.

I take a swig of water, as if to wash down the vile taste. It doesn't, but I knew it wouldn't.

The boredom is excruciating. So my mind wanders some more, only to be interrupted again, and again, and again.

I stop writing, close my eyes and dream.

I dream of a girl, with long black hair. She doesn't look at me. I don't see her face, yet I know her. She starts to grow. She suddenly points at the wall and I look. She's pointing at a mirror and in it, I see her face, pale, young. I, then, see myself in the same mirror. I'm driving a luxury convertible.

I think of a wheelchair.

The ocean again. I'm swimming underwater, through a tunnel, trying to get to the other side. The other side of what I'm not quite sure, but I am swimming, and swiftly, until I reach a metal gate. Fear starts to root itself in my heart, but I pass through the metal bars easily.

***

Bursts of white light are flashing behind a red curtain. I open my eyes to see it better but it's gone. I close my eyes again and just for a brief moment, I can see them and then reality reasserts itself in my mind, and they're gone for good.

In a distance, someone is smoking a cigarette. The smell of the burning tobacco takes me places I've never imagined. The flood of thought comes crashing in, too fast to be recorded.

I give up; I go back to work.

3, 2, 3, 1, yes, yes.

No, Not applicable, 3, 1, 2...

Data entry is not what it used to be.

—San Rafael CA, August 2004

Hack

2008-07-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

It was not until I was 35 that I realized that I was not a good writer, not a writer at all, actually. You see, I had been deluding myself for years. You have the gift, I told myself, the genius, the talent. But then late one night, a dark and stormy night in Chicago, it finally dawned on me: I was a hack.

—Chicago, 2008