Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Appearing in Portland June 15th-July 8th
Hi People, we're coming to Portland for Fathers' Day and my dad's retirement, and staying for camp and Rachel's wedding. I hope that we'll get to see a lot of you, but we have a schedule, and so does Tank, so call and book us. If you don't have our numbers, try emailing me at pdxtrip@email.com, --yes, I did get an email address just for the trip, but I don't know how often I'll get to check it-- and leave your number and stuff.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Fiction
heart racing in his ears, breath coming in ragged gasps: he has to hold back. If he doesn't stop soon, he knows that his addiction will devour him. That little voice is there, that voice he hates --that voice he loves. It tells him that he's weak. "Resist if you can," the voice whispers, "but you know that you can't."
The voice is right, he is weak. He is always weak. He never had a chance. "The counseling doesn't work." His heart is now beating in time to the voice of his little satan. "Pain didn't work," the hours of self flagellation, the looks he gets from his peers, from his family, from his heroes, they never did more than drive him underground, and then only for a few weeks at a time -- and afterward the craving got worse, the self-indulgence more ostentatious, the demands of his desires more bizarre. "Nothing works" -- something in him chafes at that idea, but he ignores the momentary lapse, "this is what I want anyway."
He sneezes into an overworked tissue and hands the teenager behind the counter his credit card and his identification. In return, he gets the substance of his dreams.
He bursts through the door of his apartment, looking for his scissors. "How'd your shopping trip go," Janie asks, through a mouthful of stale Cheetos.
"It was perfect," he strains to say, as he pries off the packaging and guides into the place of honor, using a cookie tin to raise it above its inferiors. "I found the perfect treasure, an Official African Elephant," he makes a final inspection, removes the "Made in China" sticker, and steps back to admire his new love. He knows that the tchochkes, trinkets, and memorabilia will eventually consume him, but he is helpless to resist their charm, "after all," he thinks, "I am weak, I can't resist them when they call to me . . . and it only cost two dollars and thirty-five cents."
The voice is right, he is weak. He is always weak. He never had a chance. "The counseling doesn't work." His heart is now beating in time to the voice of his little satan. "Pain didn't work," the hours of self flagellation, the looks he gets from his peers, from his family, from his heroes, they never did more than drive him underground, and then only for a few weeks at a time -- and afterward the craving got worse, the self-indulgence more ostentatious, the demands of his desires more bizarre. "Nothing works" -- something in him chafes at that idea, but he ignores the momentary lapse, "this is what I want anyway."
He sneezes into an overworked tissue and hands the teenager behind the counter his credit card and his identification. In return, he gets the substance of his dreams.
He bursts through the door of his apartment, looking for his scissors. "How'd your shopping trip go," Janie asks, through a mouthful of stale Cheetos.
"It was perfect," he strains to say, as he pries off the packaging and guides into the place of honor, using a cookie tin to raise it above its inferiors. "I found the perfect treasure, an Official African Elephant," he makes a final inspection, removes the "Made in China" sticker, and steps back to admire his new love. He knows that the tchochkes, trinkets, and memorabilia will eventually consume him, but he is helpless to resist their charm, "after all," he thinks, "I am weak, I can't resist them when they call to me . . . and it only cost two dollars and thirty-five cents."
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