Viviana sat on the rocking chair in the living room, holding a Vogue from 1978, Farrah Fawcett beaming aggressively angelical blondness from the cover. That had been the year of Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy and the Vampire of Sacramento, but also there had been “Dallas” and “Grease” and “The Love Boat,” so Viviana though of 1978 fondly. Later, she planned to think of 1985 fondly, and 1982 and 1973 and 1996. There were lots and lots of Vogues blossoming around the rocking chair, a whole garden of Vogues.
But then there were a series of loud knocks at the door so Viviana leapt out of the chair excitedly and dropped the Vogue to the floor. She had some idea who it would be. He’d been gone so long, she could hardly wait for him to come back.
Continue reading “THE GOOD NEWS”
Love is a crazy naked little guy with a bow and arrow. Let me tell you about this date I just had. Her name was Silvia: Syllables worthy of a Muse! A proper woman in a world of petulant bimbos! Although we had previously collided socially, (her, benevolent and friendly; me, smitten but hesitant) it wasn’t until tonight that we met at a restaurant to decide whether romance or friendship or a civil parting handshake awaited us.
Half an hour before the date and there I was at the bathroom mirror with the nervous anticipation of a kid first discovering Drakkar Noir. “You’re rusty! Buck up!” I admonished my shaking reflection. “You can do this! Just let her know that the tender bloom of adoration is upon your heart, and she’ll be all yours!”
Continue reading “JAKE COSANAVO’S PANTY-MELTING TIPS FOR A BANGIN’ FIRST DATE”
We’re all still at the party dancing toward midnight. We think of champagne, how it feels the need to explode in bubbles. We don’t like champagne. What a show off.
We think of our resolutions. More time at the gym. Giving that yoga class another chance. Looking up a soup kitchen in town. No more drinking or, realistically, less drinking. It’s only alcoholics who don’t drink. We’re just going to take it slow. After tonight, of course. Tonight is New Year’s Eve and Gerald is the host. He slides those thin champagne flutes into our hands and says:
“T-minus 5! Everyone! Everyone! Find someone to kiss!”
Continue reading “Eternity Square”
The room was hers and no one else’s, an easily owned room. She could understand its quartet of blue walls, and the blister of a light bulb dangling from the ceiling, and the rainbow-aping clothes prettily scattered all over the floor. The room was comprehensive, and comprehensible.
The window was a whole other animal, (like a small glass cat that had curled up on the far wall, circular and contented.) It had appeared out of nowhere; an ambiguous, unconquerable geometrical territory between the given and the uncertain, between the certain and the endlessly questionable, between
THE IN (she was fine with THE IN)
Continue reading “WINDOW DRESSING”
Badboy Badger caressed his martial black coat with some satisfaction, as he surveyed the fauna gathered below him in the greenly grassed hillside. “My dear colleagues!” He boomed. “My fellow Recoverers! Word has come down from Headquarters about a new, most important, most thrilling mission, so I need critters three, to brave death with me! Be bold and be free: I need critters three!”
Rat and hare and bat and hen, goose and hedgehog shouted then:
“Me! Me! Me! I’ll Recover!”
But Lousey Mousey and Wacko Mole and Nobull Frog had already scampered and tunneled and hopped up the hill. Badboy Badger greeted the volunteers, and the rest of the Army of Recoverers knew to retreat back to warrens and burrows, to dens and to ponds. As they departed, Badboy Badger fare-welled them:
“You’ll be called upon too! Wait your turn. The sun waits its turn, and so does the moon; if your chance won’t come now, then it’s going to come soon. For the world always needs something Rescued, something Borrowed, or something Saved.”
Continue reading “THE RECOVERERS in: THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNREQUITED LOVER”
“Morning, class. Welcome to Culinary Education. Coach Wicker was supposed to go over this orientation, but the Bulldogs are getting ready for the Championship. How about them Bulldogs, huh? Anyway! Ok! I’m Coach Dobbett. Ok. I know the Fillmore High quilting club had a lot of yarns to spin about Ms. Grazinski and why she was let go but let’s put a lid on that bubbling cauldron, shall we?
“Heads butted over a budgetary matter. Simple. The ball of bull rolled down from the County and landed on your Culinary Education class… Ah, you kids don’t care. Anyway, Ms. Grazinski? Her little experiment with Eat Ed went kaplooey when she started planning some free-for-all end-of-semester potluck party. IN-appropriate! IN-and-OUT-appropriate!
“Oh, I know some of you were all googly about Ms. Grazinski. I never met her, but I know those pervy types. Did she swish around chirping: ‘Ooh, let’s give in to the joy of food! Yummy yummy nom nom! Oooh, let’s learn exotic dishes from other cultures! I’ll introduce you to obscure butter churning practices! Let’s SPICE things up with Panang curry! Have any of you tried tempura mint ice cream?! Isn’t being a foodie FUN?’
“Sure, sure. It can be. IF YOU’RE TWELVE AND LIKE TO PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD! Culinary Education is serious business. Ok, pass the permission slips to the front. This is going to get controversial. Weissenberg, we WILL get around to the whole Kosher thing, so keep your undies on. Oh, geez. Where to start.
Continue reading “EAT ED.”
He was another writer.
At the age of six he was spinning yarns to an imaginary audience, (wondrous tales of hyper-cosmic rocket-ships commandeered by samurais, of cunning foxes ruling rabbit kingdoms, of clockwork hearts sitting square in the metal chests of sentimental robots.)
The writer’s mother said: “With a mind like that, he’s going to write books.”
The writer’s father said: “We’ll see, we’ll see.”
Continue reading “THE WRITER (Revised)”