Never Sell

I’ve been showing my paintings for eight years now. In that time, I’ve done about 34 shows. Everybody loves my work. Other artists, gallery owners, the art-viewing public, critics, schizophrenics, drunks, and the homeless all think I’m great. Nobody ever buys my work, though. Nobody wants it in their living room above the couch. I drop it off at the gallery, or ship it to the gallery, and hang out at the opening. I socialize and answer everybody’s questions. I don’t say anything insane, offensive or frightening, which takes some restraint. The show stays up for its predetermined length of time, and at its end, I always have to orchestrate my work’s return. Pick it up or ship it back, apologize to the gallery owner for not making a penny for them the whole time my work was up, and store it away in the garage. My work keeps getting stronger. There can be no doubt that I do it because I love it. It’s for goddamned sure not for the money.

The Lizzie Border B&B

Both my wife and I are atheists. Neither one of us believes in the existence of any gods, an afterlife, reincarnation, ghosts, or the paranormal. We thought we’d test our skepticism by staying at one of the most allegedly haunted attractions in North America. So we stayed a night in the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast in Fall River, Massachusetts. It was the last stop on our Massachusetts exploration, which also included Boston and Salem. Skeptical as we are, we still harbored a strong degree of optimism for the night. I would have loved it if something had happened that I couldn’t explain. I would have loved to have been scared out of my wits. We arrived at around 4pm. We got checked in and took a look around. It was an old Victorian home. There’s nothing too remarkable about that. There were bad acrylic paintings of the victims, dated 1995, hung in antique frames on the walls. There were inkjet prints of photos of the crime scene everywhere, and pictures of Lizzie (looking insane) all over the house. We stayed in the master bedroom, which was of course the bedroom of Andrew and Abby, the two victims. It’s supposed to be one of the most haunted rooms in the house. The evening tour always starts at 8pm, so we had time to burn. We went out for dinner, returning at 8pm for the tour. The tour was well executed. Eleanor, the woman giving the tour, was obviously a pro. She told interesting stories and knew all sorts of obscure details about the house. Other people had apparently died there since the murders. There were also séances scheduled for later that night, for an extra $10. We had never attended a séance before, so we signed up. The medium was supposed to be very good, so we were excited. There were two sessions, 10pm and 11pm. We were in the first session. We spoke with a few people who were going to be attending the first session. They were all skeptics. I was excited, and wondered if that would affect the tone of it. The medium was no older than 21, kind of chubby, and very soft-spoken. She wore a flowing white dress, and had about a mile of cleavage exposed. When we sat down at the table in the dining room, my disappointment began to mount. The table was visibly on wheels. It was an old table, and at the slightest touch, it creaked loudly. To start we all were asked to put a finger on top of an upside down coffee cup, which moved all about the table when the medium asked questions. This wasn’t very compelling. The cup moved towards certain people at the table, and the medium talked about the spirits having particular interest in those people. It was corny, but kind of fun. The next portion of the séance involved everybody putting their hands on the table, and the medium again asked questions of the spirits, and they would respond by moving the table. This was so utterly fake that it was actually upsetting. The table actually wiggled around a bit, creaked and squeaked. The medium’s cleavage heaved. If you happened to be looking at her hands, instead of her heaving bosom, you could see the tendons in the backs of them standing up. You could also see the tension in her forearms as she struggled to make the table move. When she paused to fix her hair, the movement of the table mysteriously stopped. It was obvious and bad. It seemed like she was having trouble getting the spirits to respond, so she asked us if any of us wanted to ask the spirits anything. I volunteered, and suggested provoking them. She agreed. I asked out loud if the spirit of Andrew Borden liked to molest little boys. She assured me that that was a bad move and that he was getting mad, though nothing seemed to happen. I asked if it was okay that I called him “Andy.” She said that I should be careful. A whole lot of nothing happened, and eventually my wife asked if he could interact with anything else in the room. She asked “Andy” if he could blow out one of the candles, or knock on something other than the table. Nothing happened at all, after a total of 40 minutes. The séance was over, and we had to go sit out in the parlor. We all went out there and laughed cacophonously. It was, in fact, hilarious. We talked and laughed for quite a while. The second séance, for the group comprised as entirely of believers as our group had been of skeptics, lasted about 70 minutes. We could hear them through the walls. Apparently, there was a lot going on. The spirits were much more riled up for the second group than they had been for us. Around 1:30am, we all went to our various rooms to go to bed. The sheets and mattresses were new, but the bed frame was supposedly the one owned by “Andy.” The walls of the house are all very thin, and you can easily hear what’s happening in other rooms. Given this, we decided that it was out of the question to fuck before going to sleep. I was disappointed. It’s not that I was feeling especially amorous. A good round of screwing was really just my last hope of upsetting the spirits and getting something to happen. So before falling asleep, I jacked off. I figured that might still sufficiently upset “Andy.” It didn’t. Nothing happened. I gave up and went to sleep. In the morning, breakfast was very good. Once again, all of the believers sat at one table and the skeptics at another. None of the skeptics had any experiences of the preceding night to discuss. The other table had apparently experienced a paranormal orgy all night. Not a wink of sleep. One woman claimed to have levitated off her bed. Another heard footsteps up in the attic. Before leaving, we bought a $5 cookie cutter shaped like a hatchet.

Brewery Tour

We like to take brewery tours when we travel. We hit two in Boston. At the first tour, after the tour was finished, we were brought into a sampling room with long, slender tables. It was very crowded. We got seats, but not everybody did. Across the table from us sat an elderly couple. They were nice people, very friendly and conversational. I was wearing my CRAMPS t-shirt. The woman said, “Who are the Cramps? Is that a band?” I said, “Yeah,” and proceeded to explain a bit about the band, to provide context. She started at me intently, though I could tell that nothing I was saying meant anything to her. I might as well have been speaking Greek. She said, “My daughter has a Cramps t-shirt. She lives up here now. We’re visiting her. We’re from Indiana.” I explained that my wife and I were from Pittsburgh. Their other daughter currently lives in Texas. They asked if they could take our picture, to show their daughter. We said, “Sure.” I didn’t do anything obscene in the picture. I put my arm around my wife, and smiled like I was posing for a picture being taken by my own mother. I felt badly that both of their daughters had moved so far away from them and that they had to travel to see them. They must have done something right, though, if their daughters weren’t afraid to strike off in their own directions. I’m sure their daughters are pretty cool people. I still live half an hour away from where I was born and raised. People from western Pennsylvania tend not to leave. At that moment I felt a little ashamed of myself, and still do. I feel like I’ve failed at life by living so close to where I’m from, but I don’t have the heart to leave.

Schizophrenic Cadillac Donuts

We were looking for a particular pastry shop in Boston. We got there and it was closed. After failing to find something else suitable in the immediate vicinity, we wandered around and squandered the morning, lost in search of breakfast. Disgusted, we gave up and went to a Dunkin' Donuts. I got in line behind an old guy who was apparently ordering. He looked a little unusual, kind of like a black Hunter S. Thompson, with a suitcase, brightly colored shirt, wide-brimmed pink stoner hat, and red cane…but I thought nothing of it. I dig insane-looking people. I stood behind him in line, paying no attention to anything that he was saying. The girl working the register shouted over his head to me, “Can I help you?” Initially I thought that I had done something rude. I paused, confused. She repeated herself. At this moment I could see the old man gesturing wildly, and talking off in a different direction. Still unsure why she wanted me to displace this man, and order ahead of him, I timidly approached the counter. I ordered a cream-filled key lime pie donut and a small coffee. My wife ordered a blueberry donut. The man wandered off to the side, and started talking again. I began to understand what was going on. He proceeded to let loose with one of the most awesome monologues I’ve ever heard. It was actually a dialogue, but only one side of it. He was having a conversation with somebody who wasn’t there. He would speak, and they would respond, though only to him. This person had just bought a brand new Cadillac.

“Bright red. Shinin.’ With a tape player in the dash. You could ride around in it all day. Up and down the block. Have your girl in there beside you, and ride. You know…”

The old man was sincerely happy for his invisible partner. It was touching and beautiful. He was engaged in something much cooler than I was. I was engaged in a donut that looked so brightly green that I thought it was radioactive.

The Red Sea

We ate dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant in Boston on the Harvard Campus. It was incredible. Beautiful, long, slender black women with heavy accents waited the tables. There was excellent service, ambiance, and food. Perfect. I had never eaten Ethiopian food before, and had no idea what to expect. The experience was great, except for the sniveling pussy at the table sitting next to us. He was the sort of guy who gives guys with ponytails a bad name. I primarily resented him on that account. I have a nearly identical ponytail. He was underweight and slightly hunched. He had a weak voice with a condescending tone. He was wearing a polo shirt and ancient running shoes. I hated him. He and his girlfriend sat down just moments before my wife and I arrived. He spent about ten minutes educating his girlfriend on the menu, taking great care to pronounce everything correctly and explain its cultural significance to the good people of Ethiopia. When he ordered, he took great care to pronounce everything correctly once again. I wonder if he thought there was some prize to be had for being the most cultured and tolerant white guy in the house. I thought he was about to apologize for slavery, apartheid, and Vanilla Ice. After ordering, he proceeded to gripe about a funeral that he had recently attended, and followed that up with a lecture on the moral etiquette of grieving. Apparently somebody in attendance at the aforementioned funeral was expressing a disproportionate amount of grief to their relationship with the deceased, and it bothered him. Then he talked about mountain biking, and how advanced the courses he rides are, and that he would love to take his girlfriend mountain biking, but wouldn’t dare subject her to the rigors of the difficult courses that he rides. He pissed and moaned about what must have been a dozen other petty, irrelevant things. Eventually he started taking shots at people from West Virginia. I’m not from West Virginia, but it’s less than half an hour’s drive from where I live. I’ve been there, and West Virginia isn’t that much different than western Pennsylvania. I wondered what qualified Mr. Harvard to trash on people from a state he’d likely never seen. I wondered why it’s okay for educated, privileged pseudo-intellectuals to trash on poor, white people from the middle of nowhere, though they’d never dream of uttering a critical word about any other race. Right when I was thinking about tackling him, putting him in a headlock, and shaving his head with a butter knife, my phone rang. My phone never rings, so I generally don’t bother turning the ringer off when I’m in restaurants, though I know it’s a common courtesy. This particular event was actually the first time that it had ever rung while in a restaurant. My phone plays Slayer when it rings, quite loudly. You can hear it clear as a bell. Initially, I didn’t even realize that it was my phone. I saw an Asian guy beside me start frantically reaching into one of his pockets, and I assumed it was his. I laughed and smiled at him knowingly, thinking that I had just made a new friend. We were united in Slayer! Clearly he was a scholar and a gentleman, with impeccable taste in music. Maybe he would help me pummel the sniveling pussy with the ponytail sitting next to me? Then I looked over at my wife, who was redder than a stop sign. “Turn off your phone!” she urgently whispered at me across the table, through clenched teeth. I said, “Easy baby, it’s not mine,” and smiled, trying to assuage her misdirected reaction. Once we determined that it was, in fact, mine, I took my time turning it off. The sniveling pussy at the table next to us looked appalled. I checked it later to see who had called. It was my friend Dave. It was further proof that he’s an excellent and helpful guy.