Mother’s Day at the Deli Counter

The grocery store closes at 8pm on Sundays. It is 6pm as I walk up to the deli counter while my wife gets the produce. There are two people in front of me being served. There’s an adolescent boy getting bologna, and a middle-aged man getting half a pound of everything. It’s Mother’s Day. There are two women working the counter, both middle-aged and motherly-looking. One of them turns off all the lights behind the counter as she prepares more meat and cheese for this bastard of a man. A smiling manager approaches and asks her something. She replies, “I’ve been here since 6am. I’m done now.” He smiles and nods. She smiles with beautiful indolence and defiance, and continues preparing meat and cheese for the raging asshole of a customer. He orders what easily must be another half pound of everything. I begin to contemplate what sort of man is so inconsiderate to keep this poor woman working like that. When he is finally done, I order half a pound of turkey breast and a quarter pound of sandwich pepperoni.

The Sound of the Ocean

Sometimes you’ve got to blow off work. Sometimes a subtle reason is all you need to stay home. Like bad allergies, or a cold, or no reason at all. Some days were just not meant for writing code in an office without windows. My house is about a quarter-mile away from a back road that gets substantial morning traffic. It’s never congested, but there are frequently cars zipping along, on their way to work. Through the bedroom window, if you’re sleeping in on a weekday, they sound kind of like the ocean as they pass, just not as rhythmic and even. It’s kind of like cheap, miniature vacation ambiance. My allergies are acting up today. Frail, feeble, and failing, I’m in the rare mood to listen to bright smiling music to clear my head and make the most of my stolen day. Misery and commiseration are for work, not for home. As I comb through my CD collection, looking for optimistic music, I become acutely aware of what a depressing person I must be. I guess I need to work on that, not that I have any idea how you “work on” something like that. Oh well, fuck me. I settle on Iggy Pop, The Minutemen, Le Tigre, Jane’s Addiction, and Fugazi. Load up the CD carousel, put it on shuffle, and sit down on the couch with my laptop. The dog is sitting on the kitchen floor, in a bright square of sunshine. It’s her favorite thing to do. She loves to bask like an alligator on a hot rock. The warm sun helps her digest her breakfast, and she loves to nap in it. Today will be a good day despite my allergies, goddammit. Crumpled tissues pile up, all pregnant with snot, and I type and read and sketch, a narcotic joy overtaking me that I never want to end.

Bad Ideas

Bad ideas come into the world on their own. They don’t need anybody’s help. My dog climbs up onto the end tables and chews up things she shouldn’t. She loves it. I’ve never wondered for a moment if she saw another dog do that on TV and got inspired, or if she heard a band sing a song about climbing on tables on the radio, or if one of her friends put the idea in her head while she was out playing. I’m pretty sure she hatched that one all on her own.

Chalupa

The wife and I just got a dog, a Chihuahua. I just wanted a dog. I didn’t care what kind. It didn’t matter to me. She agreed to get a small dog. So we got the smallest kind on god’s green Earth. We got a four pound Chihuahua puppy. It’s fucking adorable, and it needs to wear those goofy little clothes that people like to put on small dogs. Apparently Chihuahuas are so small and have such little body mass that if the temperature drops below 70 degrees Fahrenheit, they’re cold. So they need to wear those embarrassing little dog coats, unless you live on the equator. Pittsburgh isn’t on the equator. Their teeth are also very small and delicate. So they have to eat little dishes of soft processed meat. Somewhere Charles Darwin is rolling over in his grave, spinning like a lathe.

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.