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Remnants

- posted by seanmh @ 12:35 PM

 
Recreational Panic

I thought about ignoring the whole thing, believe me. Weeks could go by without mentioning anything and eventually it would be forgotten and my ignoring of it would put the seeds into your mind that maybe I had actually called it that way, not seeing any need to talk more about it.

But I cant do that. It doesn’t make sense. What makes sense is that I was wrong. Well, I was right about the Illinois-Louisville game, wasn’t I? Right down to the way the game played out. But State lost to UNC and then those fucking Tar Heels got the last laugh at the edge of the briar patch and good ol Roy Williams finally took home his career vindication. I’d be more mad about it I think if, if I allow myself to admit it, I realize that Jim Boeheim went through a similar thing, and the fact is, I do see that as an honest success. So I guess I have to see Williams’s victory as an honest success as well.

All right, this is getting way too melodramatic. Roy Williams got lucky, and that’s a fact. Illinois played the whole game like theyd never been there before. That they had never been there before didn’t give it any more meaning. They should have been up for that game. All UNC had, after all, was mystique. Theyd never been there before either, man to man. But the history of the school, the history that none of them nor Roy Williams had anything to do with, led them down the thorny road and, while they didn’t play exceedingly well, they played well enough to hold off a meager, tired and chaotic attempt by Illinois.

It’s also perfectly possible that Roy simply paid off the officials. They called a good, careful game. Just enough to eject the MVP of the Big 10 conference tournament with over 6 or was it 7 minutes left in the game for fouling people away from the ball all night. Or, as I saw it, for playing hoops under the net. Meanwhile, the Fighting Illini were flailing around on the floor with elbow dents and there was nary a whistle to be heard.

But no one likes to blame the officials, isnt that right? Players can be flawed. In fact, we don’t know what else to say besides that there are exactly that after every game always played. Coaches can be flawed. Often several times throughout a game, in every sport, on every day.

From there it goes on. Nobody is safe. The media – forget it. They’re wrong more than theyre right. Parents, friends, politicians, oh mercy. The list goes on and on. Everyone is flawed. Give me an interpersonal situation, I’ll show you someone who fucked up. No one is safe.

No one is safe except the officials. We debate for hours, days, years, about whether the field goal kicker or the cornerback is more guilty for the loss, but the men who can negate entire plays, singlehandedly reverse a momentum, and install their objective split-second declarations throughout every aspect of every game are immune to even thinking about.

So let’s not think about it, then. Let’s ignore it. Illinois lost and lost hard. They ran their Indy car into the cement wall just before the end of it. It was a good run while it lasted, and everybody cheered.

So exciting basketball is over and I’m grateful for the time we had. Now it’s baseball and the beginning of the long lingering boredom until September comes. But to hold us over we have the NFL draft coming up. And we have the imminent baseball players being outed by steroid testing to keep us going.

The first baseball player to launch legal action against the newspaper accusing him of steroid use, and probably the last, was a football player. All hail Bo Jackson the behemoth wonder of the Oakland Raiders (or was it Los Angeles?) who shortened his career due to injury. Yeah, he played baseball too. He was at the top of his class in both sports. And he got very angry at the first accusation of steroid use. That’s what we like to here, Bo. I would say that Mark McGwire could use a few lessons from Bo. But the fact is, the only lessons that would have been worthwhile to the Big Whopper would have been way back when. The lesson would have been: don’t shoot that shit, Mark, you’re gonna pay.

Bo didn’t always seem the brightest bulb, but he knew when to play and when to work, and if he used anything that mommy wouldn’t approve of, it was only for fun. That’s the way to do it. Don’t operate heavy machinery and don’t use the shit on a union job. Otherwise, go nuts. See? We all learned something today. Speaking of all this, I’m glad it’s the weekend. I’m not watching any television – nothing on. I’ll have to find something better to do.

- posted by seanmh @ 9:28 AM

 
Anger on the Front Lines

The bitches at the payday loan place fucked me good this time. They cashed my check a day earlier than I thought my cash to them was due. This is the place where they give you a check and then you pay them back in cash. For collatoral you write them a check dated for the day of the loan instead of for the day it's due.

They overdrew my account, which I realized when I went to my bank and tried to take out enough cash to cover the loan, most of which was already in my wallet and therefore obviously not in my bank. I raced to the payday loan place to yell at them, did so, and then spun gravel away from my tires onto their front window.

Unfortunately, I only have a half a Soma left. God knows where the rest of it went. I could send mad emails to my girl, but I'm sure she didn't empty me of my stash and it's just that I forgot how many I have left. Or maybe it's because this is an old bottle I'm looking at. Either way, I only have a half a Soma running through my system.

Theyre painting the walls in my office today. Theyre doing it as I sit here, griping and hollering at people as they filter in with questions, complaints or unfocused muttering. Green paint is dripping everywhere and it's clogging up my keyboard.

The elevator factory next door is banging around. The furniture movers are here, shuffling enormous bulks of wood and steel past my door. It's a miracle we were even able to order furniture. We had to pay off our Italian facilities manager up in Hoboken with 20 pounds of prime proscuitto, and even then it was a struggle. He called up our furniture rep and called her an ugly whore for selecting extra-wide bookcases. They werent her idea, either. But that didn't matter to him. It was a profoundly sorrowful scene that followed. Lots of phone calls and accusations. I met with the corporate VP and tried to get him fired, but it wasn't of any use. The kickbacks coming from the facilities manager carry a lot of weight. Anyone operating within a corrupt business has to deal with these things.

The unusual downside of this situation however is that I don't get to kill anyone for crossing me. Measured extreme personnel removal would be a bonus that few middle managers can capitalize on. Unfortunately I get all the problems stemming from dealing with mobsters and wholly unethical greedmongers without any of the benefits.

So I'm left with aging painters spilling slime on me and people lining up at my door to complain about the movers blocking the hall. At least they don't seem to mind my cigar smoke.

- posted by seanmh @ 12:20 PM

 
Eternity Now

(Blogger dot com is still a piece of shit. Sorry for the delay.)

It was a three-act play. Sara was done this time. No one showed up to the opener. No one showed up to the Saturday matinee, and no one showed up to the last night. It was a three-act play and for four consecutive shows, they performed for an empty room.

Steadily on they went. After the first show, Sara and the rest of the actors stayed backstage, superstitiously not wanting to secure the same fate as on Friday night. After Saturday afternoon’s performance, they stayed backstage because they were afraid of the sure truth that no one was coming in. On Sunday they were hiding from the people who werent there, embarrassed and sad.

But steadily on they went. They remembered their lines. It’s possible they got better at each successive performance, although their readings became slightly more rushed, and definitively more loud.

The stage manager remained upbeat. On Saturday night before they started he galloped into the dressing room, clapping his hands and shouting. Sara tripped him on his way in, intentionally. Either he didn’t realize it was intentional or he was too embarrassed at the logic of it to say anything, but he didn’t say anything, just got up, clapped his hands a couple of times, and said, “Let’s get ready and go nail it, everyone!” and left.

The premise of the play wasn’t bad. Carl, the writer, had been working on it for months. At his worthless temp job in midtown he spent hours each day writing, rewriting, examining plot, digging into characters, and finding theme. He used the office printer to make copies for everyone – 53 in all. They fired him for it, but at the time he didn’t mind, because he was finally a playwright and was on his way to off-Broadway infamy.

After Sunday’s final show, no one ever saw Carl again.

But Sara couldn’t give that easily. Quickly, yes, but not so easily. She had to give it a lot of thought first – complex, firm and drunken thought, which she gave on Sunday night through Monday morning, at her apartment on the lower East Side with her co-star Kevin.

By 3 a.m. things werent looking good. They had figured that Carl had surely committed suicide, tempered the sadness with more alcohol, and started really getting angry.

“It’s his fault anyway,” said Kevin. “This thing is horrible. There isnt a good line to be found, no plot, nothing.”

“It has nothing to do with Carl,” said Sara. “it wasn’t because of bad reviews. No one ever came at all. No one knows if it’s good or bad. I feel terrible for Carl. I also feel terrible for you and mostly for me, because I cant take this anymore.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m done with this business. I’m not an actress working as a waitress until my ship comes in, I’m a waitress working as an actress until I get my head out my ass, and now my head is out of my ass.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Or the truest.”

Sara took another drink and fell asleep.

A week later she was on her way to another audition. She passed a torn flyer for Carl’s play stapled onto a plastic newspaper box. Her heart filled with a coldness and her pace slowed. She did nothing but think about the last weekend until she got to the small theater where the auditions were being held. She labored up the narrow staircase and waited.

When she was called, her tears had dried and she had composed herself. She walked into the tiny room proud and determined.

“What was your last work?” the director asked her.

“A play called ‘Eternity Now.’ No one came.”

The director looked her over and nodded. “Well, let’s start with scene 2.”

- posted by seanmh @ 3:04 PM

 
Martin Part III

(delayed posting today due to the fact that Blogger.com is a slow-moving bitch-ass slag.)

Sisters of Mercy Hospital still operated on Main Street in Buffalo. Its low sprawl loomed gray across from the huge cemetary as Martin sped his way closer to the ER entrance. His brakelights had been flashing since Niagara Square, and a half mile later, a screeching cartoon-like voice kicked in. “Alcohol Abuser! Alcohol Abuser!” Kenny only stirred slightly at this point, but he didn’t need to ask his father what was going on. Jon’s breathing had grown shallow and dry. He was barely conscious. Martin only pressed faster.

By the time they pulled up, the lights of the car were in a circus rage, the screaming voice had increased in volume by ten times, and each bit of increased pressure on the accelerator and the brake resulted in a piercing squeal. Nurses and attendents had come out to the ambulance bay to find out what was happening, but all they noticed was this rusty green hatchback swerving around the corner towards them.

Martin hit the brakes at the last moment, letting out an excruciating howl. Not a single cop had followed him or even seemed to notice him. The whole thing was a smoke screen. He should have realized that the half-dozen or so officers actually on a normal shift these days actually did have better things to do. He wasn’t as smart as he had hoped, just lucky. That was all he needed, after all.

He pulled Jon out of his seat. If anything, his fever had risen. But he was mostly still now, just panting lightly. The nurses were eager saints and swarmed to him. Martin watched them take him away, paused to breathe, and turned his attention to his oldest son, crying in the other side of the car.

“Hey, come on, son,” said Martin. “He’s going to be okay.” He walked quickly around the back of the car and opened the door to let Kenny out.

“He’s going to be fine, we made it here quick, all right? He’s going to be fine. Come on, guy.” Kenny held his dad’s waist, didn’t stop crying. Martin became truly afraid for the first time in a long while, since his first months in prison. He bent over and picked up his boy. He held him close and tight, and started crying with him.

That’s not to say that since his first months in prison Martin had never been afraid. Days in prison, even after the harsh adjustment period, were never easy. There were moments when he feared everything he knew would change and he’d somehow end up forever in custody. When he was finally released, his thoughts turned to his children. He felt panic as he was looking through the airnet trying to find his children. His train ride to Buffalo was a frightful event. He didn’t know what he would find when he got to the house where his children now lived, under another man’s name. He didn’t know what would be involved in trying to see them, as most newly single fathers since the beginning of the twentieth century didn’t. Uncertain, insecure fear is a pinching thing.

There were also times when he was engaged in the legal procedures to gain partial custody of his boys when he was afraid. Each of these times were not easy to handle, they had tested Martin dearly, and he paid for them in his heart and in his mind, ramifications that would take years to show themselves, but would show themselves clearly when they came. All for now was the graying hair around his temples and in his beard.

Each of these periods of great fear came at a price, and were not at all mild events. But they were nothing like the fear that Martin felt when he realized that the son whose diapers he had changed was so dreadfully familiar with loss.

Martin killed the engine. The lights kept blinking, the thing kept yelling. He had had enough of that car. He left it where it was and brought his son slowly into the building.

The police were waiting for him inside. They didn’t approach him but he saw the two state troopers standing at the still swinging doors to the behind the scenes emergency action. Of course – they were following him at a distance, probably waiting for a crash. Kenny didn’t look up, still clinging to his father’s waist. Martin pulled him towards two near waiting room chairs and they sat down.

“Kenny, Kenny boy, listen, it’s going to be okay, all right?”

“They’re going to take you away again, Daddy. And Jonny’s gonna die.”

“Jonny’s not going to die.”

Kenny rested his head on his father’s knee, sobbing.

“Wait here, okay?”

Martin stood up and fished in his pockets, found a fifty, and walked quick and smooth to the officers. As he approached, they gathered themselves together, standing straight, tapping around their belts, making sure they had whatever they might need. They glared at him from under their cocked-forward hats.

Martin handed the bill directly to one of the officers. “Listen, that’s all I have. By the time I get back in that car, I’ll have been here for hours, the one shot I drank in front of the football game will have completely dissolved, and I may or may not be leaving here with both the children I came with, one of whom is sitting over there crying his eyes out over all this. If either of you are fathers, you understand. And, please, understand.”

The cop took the bill and put it into his pocket. “Call their mother,” he said. “As soon as your son is stable, you’re coming with us.”

- posted by seanmh @ 3:22 PM

 
And From the Fruit Bowl Ye Shall Rise

He couldn’t rent a car because of his drug conviction, so he bought a cheap seat on the earliest train to Buffalo. Vanessa answered the phone call from the train; she didn’t say much but she said it was okay to visit, as long as it was after 6, when Anthony would be home.

He waited at the train station downtown until it was time to call a cab and get out to Williamsville.

Jon and Kenny were waiting in the front yard. The cab came to a stop by the curb and Martin got out and stood there, watching his children look at him and smile. After a moment of reflection, the three ran to a hug and started laughing.

It took months for Martin to be allowed to spend time with his children. Not much had changed since he was a boy and his parents had divorced. It was still impossible for a father to be considered a parent in the full sense of the word. But the timeframe for these proceedings had been cut down significantly. In short, the pretenses of justice were gone. No more were there drawn-out conferences, negotiations or hearings. Dads who requested time with their children received 30% of the kids’ time. If there were any criminal convictions in their past, they received 15%. Martin got 15%. One night a week, his kids slept over at his house, a run-down duplex in the old Fruit Belt of South Buffalo.

Martin sat down in front of the television and turned on the football game. The only thing he still had from before he went into prison, the one unchanged luxury, was Monday Night Football. The boys were tucked in their beds, he had his milk and his pretzels, and the one new luxury he afforded himself, a single shot of Maker’s Mark.

An hour later and the Packers were up by 10. Martin finally took the last sip of his shot, and he closed his eyes to rest during halftime. That’s when he heard the crying that changed his life again. It was Jon; Martin recognized him right away. He ran upstairs and into the boys’ room.

Jon was curled up, laying on his side, arms folded tight over his belly, crying. Kenny was just waking up from the noise and rubbed his eyes, craning around at his little brother. Martin picked up Jon, who felt on fire.

The only requirement for success in this country, outside of sheer luck, is that one’s penchant and ability to be dishonest must not exceed his intelligence. The first is crucial but must be properly managed if one does not wish to end up beaten, in jail, destitute, or all three in rapid succession.

These thoughts ran through Martin’s mind as he held his burning and shivering child in his arms and tried to plot a way to get him to the hospital as fast as possible – faster than it would take for an ambulance to even arrive at his house, if one would come at all.

Because the police and the government were pretty smart. They hadnt disabled his vehicle, exactly. Because that would prevent them from locking up someone with the intent to commit a crime. Instead they outfitted his 2025 GMI with an elaborate alert system designed to do just what it was doing now – tempt him into breaking the law even though he was sure to get caught.

Instead of shutting off at the first indication, through skin contact with any part of the console or steering wheel, of drugs or alcohol in his system, the car would start normally and then proceed through a sesries of increasingly humiliating and dangerous events.

Martin realized this, and saw that the only chance his son had was for Martin to be smarter than his enemies – the ones out to get him and restore him to his prison cell, even though it was already occupied, with a line of criminals already waiting in line for it. This inherent and obvious clue that they werent reallyl that smart gave Martin all the false confidence he needed.

He quickly told Kenny to get dressed. He threw a change of clothes into a small bag along with some bottled water, and brought his sons out to the car. He wore gloves, knowing this would delay the car’s intoxicant receptors. He was fully clear-headed; nothing kills a buzz like your son feeling like he’s dying. Martin also knew that, anyway, he was physically fine – one shot of alcohol in his body plays like a meager heckler to his liver. Dismissed immediately as a fraud, a gnat. But to the car, a drink was a drink was a line was an overdose. It was all the same to the car.

He buckled in his sons, Jon whimpering in his car seat, a wet washcloth resting heavy and limp on his forehead. Martin started the car, said a prayer, and gunned it down Apple Avenue.

- posted by seanmh @ 11:28 AM

 
There are many things to care about, but Tina Brown is not one of them

Oh the fucking humanity of it all. Tina Brown is going to start blogging and, to paraphrase some shit article linked from CNN.com, save the blogosphere from its own banality and amateur hack status.

Hey Tina, fuck off. You’re a corporate stooge and the absence of corporate stooges is what has made the world of blog reading worthwhile. You want to come and crash the party? Good luck. You’ll be eaten alive.

Just like what’s going to happen to the University of North Carolina on Saturday. Michigan State is hot, determined and confident, and they have plenty of tape from last weekend that shows how to beat the Tar Heels. The more interesting game is Illinois-Louisville. But this isnt Rick Pitino’s year. Not yet. This is Bruce Weber’s year. Make no mistake. It’s going to be a close game, and Louisville probably won’t be completely out of it until the last two minutes, but it’s Illinois’ game, and they’ll be cutting down the nets Monday night.

There are two people in my office pool who are even still alive. One wins if Illinois wins and the other wins in all other scenarios. It took a lot of begging and I was still only able to get about a half dozen people to play the brackets. No one is a fan here. I live in a void of normal behavior. You’d think this would suit me, but there are many times when I need to be surrounded by something that grounds me and the madness I see wherever I go. Here, the madness is countered by nothing. The newspapers are mad. The radio stations are mad. The television channels and grocery stores are mad. People drive their cars, fueled by ignorant insanity. They converse in restaurants and pray at churches energized by their insanity.

If I were to go to a bar on Monday evening, it would be tuned to cable reruns or a NASCAR news show. Hell, even Indianapolis will be fixed to CBS come Monday night, rooting for their own state pastime and cheering on their Big 10 heroes. And Indianapolis is also the heart of fast cars. But it’s normal to watch the NCAA tournament for a reason, and not because it’s an average thing to do. Lots of people watch it because it’s exciting, emotional and heart-wrenching fun.

And I know heart-wrenching. I’m a Buffalo Bills fan. I have a vague optimism about this upcoming season for the Bills only because I have a precise fear and pessimism about it, and I am rarely right about these things. For instance, last year I knew they were going to go to the playoffs and make an honest run at the Super Bowl. They had a new coach, a decent quarterback, and two of the best running backs in the game. They still failed miserably. Now Bledsoe is gone, they have a QB who’s barely played a down of regular season ball, and the fans are another year closer to Ralph Wilson leaving the team to his heartless daughter, who will move it to the midwest or sell it to an evil cable company, who will run the team into the ground. They don’t have much time left, and this is not the time to go on a rebuilding effort. They need to start winning and do it fast, or else the local professional football team for the good citizens of Buffalo will be the Toronto Argonauts.

And football in Canada is definitely not normal. They should be playing hockey, but it looks like that’s never going to happen again. Sport in America is in bad shape. We need to do something fast. Before we know it, we’ll be in another war and we’ll need something to lift our spirits again. The signs are all around. Poor Terri Shiavo finally died. The Pope is going (as of Thursday afternoon). Robert Creeley died yesterday. Another edgy comic bit the dust in a hotel room in New Jersey last night, a day before he was scheduled to perform at the Improv in Baltimore. And He’s taking the bad ones, too. Jerry Falwell is on death’s door and the guy who freed O.J. Simpson from certain hell kicked the bucket earlier this week. We cant pin our hopes for redemption on childish cheaters like Barry Bonds. There has to be something more than that. And the only thing that can try to hold me over until men start pounding one another for a victory on the dirty grass of NFL stadiums all over the country is watching the Final Four this weekend. There’s more riding on these games than the fickle bets of stupid college kids. Our very national livelihood depends on them.

So pick a team, find a friend, drive far from central Pennsylvania, and enjoy it, my friends. I’ll be with you in spirit.

- posted by seanmh @ 9:09 AM