OOGIE BOOGIE CENTRAL - Featuring Steve's Vent

Since THEY come here every day –twice a day- I thought I’d give THEM something to make their visits worthwhile. There are many pharmaceutical solutions for paranoia and martyr complexes. These new wonder drugs can allow those with afflictions such as yours to live nearly normal lives (or what would pass for normal in your world). There can be some risk of sexual side effects, but really, that’s not much of a concern, is it? For the rest of you, keep on keeping on. But Then Again, You’ll Have This . . .

I didn’t do anything yesterday. After crawling out of bed, I alternated between sitting in the recliner and lying on the couch, surfing the web and staring at the television. I hugged my daughter. I ate dinner. I smoked. I watched the clock, and remembered. I remembered the room. I remembered the people. I remembered leaving the hospital and sitting in the car, frozen in time and space between the man I had been when I arrived and the man I’d be once I left. I considered the mistakes I made in the aftermath and wondered how things might have turned out if I was as smart as I pretend to be. And I watched the clock. Eventually 10:39 PM came. I marked the occasion in silence. The minute seemed to last forever, a lifetime compressed into sixty seconds. The irony didn’t escape my notice. I remember, even if I remember alone. My arms were the only ones to cradle him. My lips were the only ones to kiss him. Is it any wonder then that I mourn in solitude? I used to call her every ...

Happy Birthday Alexander. Daddy loves you.

This morning it occurred to me (in the bathroom, the birthplace of many important realizations) that I should clarify the origin of the post immediately below. The following is fiction. It does not reflect actual events or portray any persons living or dead. Carry on . . .

On my way to the car this morning, I found a ratty old notebook lying in the alley. There was no name on the cover, and nothing on the pages to indicate ownership. There were small indentations all over the cover, as if someone had chewed on it. The whole thing was bent –almost twisted. I could almost imagine a demented soul wringing their hands while holding it. What was more interesting was what I found inside. Scrawled across the pages (in Hillary Pink Crayola) were copious notes, scribbled in venomous fury. Most of the entries were unintelligible, but I could make some of them out. 6:00 PM – They’re laughing. Laughing! What’s so funny? Who are they laughing at now? Is it me? I bet it’s me. 6:23 PM – I heard a pot clink against a skillet. Cooking again. That’s so like them. “We’re too good for drive-thru and pizza delivery.” HAH! 7:01 PM – Dick Cheney is kind of sexy. 7:45 PM – They’re using the steps again. What’s so important up there? 8:22 PM – I’m trying to match the sound o...