Oct 23rd, Hangover Breakfast Place

So much for my attempt at being a vegetarian.

Last time I was here I didn't have any bacon, but this morning I need the comfort. It's not the first time I've cheated and it won't be the last.

Yesterday's indiscretions don't seem so bad.

I mean, I warned her. I put all my crazy on the table, a straight-flush of insanity and melodrama, and it only made her more persistent.

I don't know how vegetarians can manage it, with sinful temptation everywhere they turn.

Sept 3rd

He spun aimlessly up the curving boulevard. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but knew he'd recognize it when he saw it. He did. Shading an area larger than his new apartment, its branches weaving their way to a hundred possibilities, sat a gnarled oak.
He'd never been in this park before; he’d never been in this city. And still he pointed his bars towards an old friend and nestled against its trunk. The folds of the rough bark jabbed his ribs, but he didn’t mind.

He started to write. He wrote about nothing in particular, simply watched as the ink bleed into the crisp paper. He smiled. The evening breeze rustled his hair as he peered up into the tangle of branches. His smile widened at the thought of introducing this old friend to the many new ones he’d strive to make over the coming year.
A few hundred words ticked passed. Finally, with the oak prodding him into motion, he scribbled a few final sentences and stood, leaving the last line unwritten, to be finished later…

...and he had really nice ankles too

I had the strangest dream last night. I was looking after my friend's pet polar bear. This polar bear was the most calm, friendly, dog-like polar bear ever. He really loved people. At one point in the dream we went to check out a winter parade, and somewhere in the confusion the polar bear got away from me and got lost. I ran around frantically trying to find him. Eventually, I came across a group of cops who told me they'd had to put the polar bear down, and that it was my fault because I'd let him get away. Then they tried to arrest me. I lost it, and started fighting with the cops, but eventually just broke down and began to cry.

This is when I woke up, and spent the next half an hour trying to convince myself that I was not actually responsible for a polar bear being killed.

It was a very odd dream. I'm sure a psychoanalyst would have a field day with it, but what struck me was that I've spent a lot of time this summer talking about dogs with people. I spent the summer housesitting, looking after a friend's aging black lab. Two of my other friends have new puppies. A third friend's family dog just passed away. Whenever we start talking about dogs, I always find myself bringing Jean-Guy into the discussion. Jean-Guy was a Great Pyrenees who belonged to one of my oldest friends, Keith. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Keith was largely responsible for feeding him, but in the truest respect of the word Jean-Guy belonged to us, to everyone from the community I grew up in. He was never a major player in any of the events of my childhood. Instead, in a lot of ways, he was my childhood. He was always there, in the background, like a big, white, security blanket that never forces his presence on you yet is always near. Whenever I start talking dogs with my friends, I tell of this character from my past and this image I have in my head of a giant, slobbering, hulking bear of a dog that would let a small and over-active Jesse climb all over him without muttering even the slightest protest. As the evenings of my childhood grew late and my parents, all of them, retired to half-empty glasses and old stories, I’d curl up next to this polar bear and sleep.

We’ve all got moments from our childhoods where we can, looking back, see the cracks begin to form in the rose coloured glasses. The day Jean-Guy was hit by a careless driver was the first of those moments for me. His was my first experience with death, and it hinted at the importance and fragility of life. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and two final dog biscuits for the journey to Valhalla.

I have no idea why my subconscious decided to bring him up right now, but after so many years I suddenly realized how much I miss that dog, and in a way, everything about my childhood that he stood for. When my life is finally stable enough to afford me a dog, I’ll make sure he’s got a great pair of knees.

Who is he? Dusty-footed trooper home from the front? His capable shoulders imply it, but if so then Army boys are getting prettier, more well kept. The girl on his arm looks too happy to be the a soldier's girl. The confident way she trails his arm, too sure of his permanence. Tattoos of a grenade and Lady Justice glare at each other across his chest, her scales just slightly askew; his pin already pulled.
Reserves, that must be it. Hasn't been out into the world yet, still full of bombast and the promise of glory. Yes, his girl has none of that tight weariness that so marks the faces of the girls who wait at the airport, palms sweating. She's too happy, but it won't last.

Daisy Duke's Bikini, and other equally useless shit.

The store is calm. The books crowd protectively around me as the echo of my editor's hot wind beats itself to pieces on their shelves, his condescension trickling down their spines, forgotten. Tropical airs from Layo's flower shop float over the smooth expanse of sidewalk, past Kerouac's moorings and Melville's lifeboats, easing my bar-brawling mind. What a place to put to sea.

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"Dude, she's a girl version of YOU! She's perfect."

This one is. More than that she's the female version of who I used to be.
CD's...that was my thing.
Head first, all pistons firing, all options open.
Hopeless romantic.
That was my thing.
Hopeless.
What this one just said, the promise and adventure implied...that would have set my brain on fire, used to. Is that gone?
Did she, the other one, did she take it away? Did she kill it?
Stimulus-response, ring the bell enough and the dog will learn.
Roll the paper and he'll run.

Is it better to tilt knowingly at windmills than to lay down the lance all together?
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More spenders wander in, a family. Mom's 300 lb body wades past the door, riddled with chinese characters who's meanings I doubt she knows. Dad's NasCar had stays outside, threatened by my skinny jeans. I can feel the sights of her 12yr old's M16 on me. The hat tree provides perfect cover as he pats the pockets of his flak jacket, searching for spare grenades. Finding none, he charges out, gun a-blazing.
"Ma-a-a-a-a-aam, I want some ice cream!"
"Where's the candy store." It's an accusation, her words tearing into the air around me.
I cast about nervously before answering, but Elvis stares just stares back from within cellophane prison. The radio tells me Daisy Duke's bikini's on top. Of what? I'm unsure.
"Down the street on the left. Have a nice day."
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Life's fucking complicated. Spend time worrying about shit. Shit sorts itself out. Invent more shit and continue to worry. Worry about the right shit, the wrong shit? Worry about how to get her, how to catch her eye. Get her. Worry about what that means, why she's not what Santa Monica Blvd promised. She's better, more real, has a taste for good music. Worry about that, she's too perfect, this is too easy. Is it? Isn't this what you've always wanted?
Zach Braff tells you it is.
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Michael Buble is a tool. That is all.
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Part Four

Motion; he was being dragged. His head bounced over the clumps of grass in the ditch. The vehicle lay on its side lay on its side, smashed. He opened his eyes and light stabbed them. The smoke from the wreck was strong in his nostrils. He tried to shake himself free, but his captor was strong, firm.
“Sssshh”, they whispered urgently. Whoever it was said more, but the meaning of the words was lost on him. He struggled again, and they stopped briefly. A face appeared before him. Friendly, confident eyes met his as a finger waved in his face and then towards the wreckage. They eyes, set in the dark face, seemed so sure. His own eyes rolled drunkenly as he looked around, trying to get his bearings. He took in this person, noted the strong, weathered hands and strange dark clothing that ruffled and luffed in the wind. His gaze settled again on the eyes, wise and nurturing, flanked by crows feet and laugh lines. Recognition a moment of recognition flashed across both their faces, and exhaustion and pain washed over him again.

He awoke to the smell of antiseptic, blinking in the emergency room’s fluorescent glare. Cheap pop music drifted to him from the hospital lobby .He winced, feeling the sand in his eyes. Indeed, it was everywhere, in his teeth, and mixed with the blood that now congealed in his hair. He tried to sit up, but a nurse pushed him back down, muttering something under her breath as she hacked at his pants with a pair of surgical scissors. Again he tried to rise, and again she pushed him back down, this time more firmly, saying “Wait, the doctor still needs to check you out.” She went back to cutting, exposing the ugly fracture in his leg. His head was throbbing, his eyes unfocused when the doctor entered the room.
“How’d I get here?” he asked.
The doctor simply pointed towards the waiting room. A TV hung on the wall near the door. Outside, an elderly Aboriginal man was being pushed into a police cruiser, his dark clothing flying like a flag of resistance in the prairie wind. The TV flashed images of a bombed out Afghan village burning in the setting desert sun. A black burka fluttered across the screen, blown by the hot desert wind.

Part Three

Willie Nelson claimed his hero’s had always been cowboys, as the boy sat staring at his plate. His eggs were cold. His orange juice tasted like it had been watered down. He chased the few remaining bits of bacon around his plate with his fork, disinterested. He looked at his father, his eyes questioning. His father met the boy’s eyes briefly for a moment before turning to the waitress to ask for more coffee.
“Y’all done here, honey?” she asked, smiling. The boy just shrugged.
“I’ll just box it up for you then, dear” she said and turned away, her ponytail bouncing.
“What’s the matter?” asked his father as he gathered his jacket and hat. The boy struggled for words, unsure. His father just motored on.
“Come on, lets get that feed back to the cows. I’m sure you ma’s gettin’ worried.” They stood to leave. As they cleared the diner door, the boy glanced around quickly, but the old man was gone. The boy was ashamed to feel relief. He was stepping down off the curb, following his father, when he heard laughter drift across the dusty street.
“Better get that kid back to the ranch, ‘else he’s gonna forget what a hard day’s work feels like.”
His father said nothing, but his face spoke volumes as he hauled himself into the pick-up’s cab. The boy climbed in beside him and they were off. As they rolled out of town the boy looked at his father and drew a breath to speak. Before he could, his father punched a tape into the deck and turned up the volume, Hank Williams making conversation impossible. The boy sighed and settled his head against the window to sleep.

The scream of the old Ford’s bad breaks jolted him awake in time to see the herd of elk scatter ahead of them. He felt the hit first, and then watched as a huge animal bounced over the hood, filling his vision and shattering the glass. The truck lurched to the left, his father frantically trying to regain control. The elk, well dead and spewing its greenish stomach contents everywhere, slid off to the right. His father wrenched the wheel hard, too hard, and the truck bucked back across the road. The tires bit into the gravel shoulder and everything slowed. In an instant of clarity the boy saw the torn flesh clinging to the remnants of the windshield, smelt the mix of shit and his father’s acrid breath as the vehicle heeled over like a wind-tossed ship. Sunlight refracted off the broken glass in the boy’s lap as the old Ford hung for a moment before collapsing into the ditch. Stars enveloped him briefly, and then the boy’s world went black.

He felt it before he saw it, like the full body punch of the baseline at a metal concert, crushing the air from his lungs. The shockwave knocked his helmet and coms off his head, the hot wind tearing at his face. The LAV screeched to a halt just inches short of the leading transport, now nothing but a fiery heap of tangled steel and bodies. Frantically, he wrenched back the hammer of his machine gun, trying to center it on his designated arc. He looked around wildly. At first, nothing, everything was still. He could see bits of offal littering the road, smelt the acrid smoke left by the burnt cordite of the IED. The first bullet passed near to his right, the wind of its passage slapping his cheek.
“Contact Right!” he shouted, at first not realizing that his headset was gone.
“What?” yelled his sergeant from below.
“CONTACT RIGHT!” he bent and bellowed directly into the cab before he opened fire. More bullets sang past his ears, others clanging into the LAV’s armored sides. He answered in anger and in fright, spraying fire all over his arc, still unsure of the enemy’s position. Shots materialized out of the billowing black. Somewhere in the smoke and sand someone was trying to kill him, and he worked his weapon madly. He watched as his bullets struck up showers of desert gravel and tore threw the low shrubs searching for a target. Suddenly his fire ripped a trough directly beneath him as the LAV bucked and lurched under his feet. His sergeant gunned the engine and roared across the road, away from their assailants. The others in the vehicle were firing from their seats, blindly. A sickening, wet smack announced the arrival of a new threat on the left, as the squad’s navigator slumped in his seat. He whirled his turret to face this new foe, and his heart stopped. Nestled in a depression not one hundred yards distant were three men, one shouldering an ugly black tube. An RPG crew. As he realized this he panicked. His vision narrowed to follow the stream of 7.62mm rounds picking their way across the dunes towards the crew. Too slow. He watched, helpless, as a flash hid the crew from view. He had no time to shout a warning. He wished he still had his helmet.