Hello gentle readers. Have you ever had dream that felt so real, you thought you were awake? Suppose you just had two extremely vivid nightmares: one where a giant T-Rex is chasing you through your house, and the other where Hofstra put ugly blue signs in front of every building. You wake up and wander around campus, and suddenly you don’t know what to believe.

If you think about it, there are plenty of things at Hofstra that are so bizarre they seem like they’re straight out of some whacked out dream, and mind you, I’ve had some pretty strange dreams. Recently I had one where I was flying after a train full of poisonous jellyfish on a cutting board. Hofstra consistently operates on that same level of absurdity.

Think about all the Twilight Zone stuff that goes on here. You know how it goes. You get to class in the morning two minutes late, and already the classroom is full. Your professor is one of two kinds of people; either they completely ignore you, or they cough loudly, stamp their foot, and tells everyone but you that three lates equal an absence. Your professor goes on to talk about their overall satisfaction with the class, their overall satisfaction with the University, and maybe even their overall satisfaction their personal life.

Ultimately this lapse in attention will cost you on the test. You’ll be sitting there, pencil in hand, frantically thinking back on everything your professor said in a desperate attempt to remember something that will help on the brutal multiple choice question you’re faced with. Yet try as you might, you just can’t remember who your professor’s last lover was, and why they broke up.

In your next class you are unfortunate enough to get stuck sitting right next to That Kid. You all know who I’m talking about, and if you don’t, you are That Kid. He always has a completely unrelated comment about everything that utterly misses the point of the topic. For instance, if your professor asks what Plato’s allegory of the cave means, a typical That Kid response would be, “Well, maybe the people didn’t want to leave the cave because they hit their head on a stalactite. I mean, I was in a cave once, and I hit my head; maybe that happened to Plato.” If that wasn’t annoying enough, his voice sounds like he has a kazoo stuck up his nose, kind of like a cross between Rick Moranis and a foghorn. Plus the bastard always has a cold.

After what seems like three snot filled hours (But was really only two snot filled hours), you’re finally done with class. However it’s midterm season, so you head to the library to study. Unfortunately, the library has been replaced with the bridge of a 1950s rocket ship. Now, there are only two logical explanations for this. One, that there was a sale on old Star Trek sets and Rabinowitz couldn’t resist, or two, that not only do aliens exist, but they’re also Hofstra’s architects. Suspecting the latter, you quietly draw your laser gun. Senses tingling, you creep deeper into the bridge, clinging to the shadows. This stealthy infiltration is flawless, except that actually finding shadows to hide in on the bridge proves highly difficult. All of them seem to have been exterminated by the large florescent lights giving you a tan. Well, and alien tan.

So you decide to play it cool. Walking with a healthy Han Solo swagger, you approach the main desk and suavely ask the librarian for a book’s location. She smiles warmly, giving you clear and detailed instructions, mentioning that if you need any more help to feel free to ask. Realizing that she must be an alien, you quickly shoot her. Any human librarian employed at Hofstra would still be working on the concept that they were being spoken to.

After the shot, hostilities break out immediately. You run staggering from the bridge, hot laser beams streaking through the billowing smoke; you hadn’t bargained on so many Hofstra employees being aliens. You head for safety across the Unispan only to find that the student center has transformed into a xenophile launch pad! Also, for some reason there is a tarp covered station with big green surfboards tacked to it. Maybe the aliens have a sense of humor? Or maybe Hofstra finally got wise about global warming and the surfboards are their emergency Tsunami escape system. Whatever the case may be, you are now surrounded by pissed off aliens with lasers and spiky things. As your doom slowly closes around you, you think back on the good times. There is a searing hot pain, and you wake up.

It was all a dream: just a terrible, terrible dream. You eat breakfast, take a shower, and pick up the Chronicle: another ordinary day. You scan the front page, and your eyes go wide. Your hand shakes, your lip trembles. The headline reads, “President Rabinowitz A Big Alien And Proud Of It!”

“Noooo!” You scream into the sky as Axin and The NAB blast into space.

Is this how it ends? Do the credits roll on a sad note? Is this a story of one helpless person in a sea of horror, doubt, and aliens?

No, I say! The human race will not go quietly into the night, nay, we will fight back with everything we have! Extraterrestrials will not run this University!

That is why I hereby challenge President Stuart Rabinowitz to a duel of honor in the quad on Monday October 22nd at 1:00pm sharp. The rules will be simple: no lasers, no cheating, and no wimping out. If Rabinowitz wins, I will expose my identity to the world and I’ll allow him to call me a stink pants. However, if I win he will be forced to withdraw his alien forces immediately from Hofstra, or at the very least, remove that rampaging T-Rex that always makes me late for class. I think the terms are fair.

I’ll see you on the 22nd Rabinowitz, and may the best species win!

Want to ask me a question, tell me I suck, or warn me that Rabinowitz has a gun? Email your letters to Silence Doless (Duel This) to bronzehedwick@gmail.com

The columns are getting weirder, and leaning more heavily into my then obsession with fantasy versus reality. I was also very angry in college, and that shows here. I lightly edited this one to remove some unnecessary and I think problematic language that I now regret, and will probably do that from now on when applicable. That challenge really was printed in the paper.

The wind whipped my hair, slathering it around my skull. I was standing alone outside my family’s church, looking up the hill to the grotto where the Mother Mary statue stood. We went to a Protestant community church, even though my parents were raised Catholic, and they raised me hair-shirt New Age. My pants rippled against the wind.

The “church” was a rec hall the congregation rented from a convent. We hired a visiting priest every week to give the sermon, and took turns bringing wine and bread for the sacrament. The convent was perched on the New Jersey cliffs overlooking New York City. For a while, Gwyneth Paltrow’s aunt went there.

It was after Service as I stared up the hill. Maybe I was eleven. Wind, dark clouds, the manicured humble grandeur of the grotto and its winding approach; it dripped dramatics.

I lived in my head, a verified space cadet, as my aunt put it. I’d wander around, head down, too scared to look the world in the eye, lost in stories I told myself of saving the day from incursions of Saturday morning cartoon villains invading the real world. I didn’t identify with kids who saw fantasy as an escape. It was fun! Just an interesting place. Why imagine what you already see when you could imagine anything? Why then, did I always imagine a fight?

I was a good boy. Very dutiful. Unwavering dogma at home; things would have to work out if I did everything I was told. “This is my son, of whom I am well pleased,” my mother would coo, reciting the Bible, God speaking of Jesus. Escape was for lesser minds. I was too mature, too knowing, too far down the rabbit hole.

Everything I did and thought and felt needed a definitive ending. A purpose. An answer. Leaving questions open felt like a cop out. No, a betrayal. I had divine expectations to live up to. It was my destiny, an inalienable fact. And yet, I could still fail at it. I was failing. The gap from what I was, to what I must be, was immense. Of course it was. How can that gap ever be closed?

Yet that day, it all fell into place. I had claimed my birthright. There was no one else around to tell me otherwise. I lifted my head, eyes raised, invigorated, a hero. I saw my path—mine! It was snaking up the hill, to the grotto. I knew every curve. I knew it. I would meet The Devil at the top. There would be a fight, of course, and I would win.

I’ve known Byrd and Valentina for over a decade. Byrd and I met doing improv in New York, before we both burnt out. I ended up returning several years later, but Byrd decided he’d had enough of that shit, and became a school teacher. Byrd was always an encyclopedia, and emotionally intelligent, so I can only imagine he’s an excellent teacher. He loves Long Island pop punk, goofy, well crafted jokes, The Knicks, and golf.

Valentina and I met when she and Byrd got together. She’s warm and bubbly, with strong opinions and a stronger belly laugh. She has a background in illustration, and now works trying to make people’s lives better as a UX designer. She loves cute things, tea, books, and silliness.

Byrd and Valentina are lovely people. They converted their second bedroom to an office and exercise room, where they also have a guest bed. I was got to take advantage of that bed several times.

They live in Astoria, the same neighborhood where Laurie and I used to live. We were there for seven years, before Laurie’s art school ambitions and COVID moved us out. We would see them a lot, and I needed to see them again in this new reality, to keep seeing them, to develop a new relationship with the place.

I’d wander the streets, seeing familiar shops, restaurants, street corners, parks, all soaked with my past life, someone else’s life. Putting into context all the memories. So much time. Was it always good? Always bad? Always both? Why didn’t I leave, even as the whole thing crashed. Just trying, trying, trying to pull the vengeance out of the ghosts around town.

There are three cats—Peter, Bernie, and Chantelle.

Peter is the oldest, a grumpy tabby. He is a dick. He howls and tries to fight the other cats, and slops around because, as Valentina sarcastically whines in his pretend voice, “my life is so haaaaaard”. He likes to be pet with wet hands.

Bernie is a large, sweet, shy black cat, who mostly spends his time hiding. He’s very affectionate when he feels safe, which, in my experience, ends up being about six minutes a day.

Chantelle is the youngest, the only girl, lithe, with an orange coat, and a born hunter. She has her own time zone, mostly ignoring the boys, and is not very bright. She has a blithe swagger that demands attention without seeking it. She’ll often be in the closet, not so much hiding, but lying in wait.

There’s a big cat puzzle in the middle of the living room. It’s this big, plastic spiral, with clear tubes wrapping around it. Treats are put in the top, and the cats have to bat them around the twisting tubes through periodic slots to get them down to the bottom and out through a dispenser.

Chantelle was very good at this game. Peter was okay. Bernie would watch from under something.

While Byrd and Valentina were on vacation, I played the first few dungeons of The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening for the Nintendo Switch. The game’s art direction is gorgeous, recalling shiny plastic toys come to life, but with a human, lived-in warmth. The whole time I played, I felt a blanketing sense of childhood, in small part from the narrative tinged with innocence, longing, and impermanence, but mostly because it’s a remake of a game that came out when I was a child. Guiding the hero Link through the dungeons felt safe, and I relished the indulgence of the escape.

How long could I allow myself to stay in the fantasy, the enforced hallucination, the tunnel vision of solving imaginary problems, secure in the non-reality, yet aware of the indulgence, aware of the pushing away of the hard table in front of me, the unread emails? I craved the escape, and allowed it—we all need a break, right?—but not for long. It couldn’t be the last thing I did before bed. I couldn’t play in the morning before work, or during a lunch break. There had to be rules. I couldn’t afford to get lost.

I set out with purpose. I could see Satan’s face in the clouds, really see it, just about! I could hear his laugh, right there at the edge of my hearing. The wind grew as I crested the hill, painting my clothes against my body. Destiny, doom, extravagance, purpose. Fear scattered like insects brought to light. I glowered, coiled. My inevitability laid before me. The grotto, the statue of Mother Mary, the view of New York City. Giddy, I slashed the air with my fists. Again. Again. Again.

I was breathing hard. Satan stayed in my mind.

Coward.

The days were short, the nights were long.

I’d wrap myself in the thick comforter of the guest bed, pulling the covers up over my head to block out the first rays of the morning sun. While I slept, Chantelle chewed off one of my watch straps. Turns out, the watch didn’t need it, so I guess I didn’t either.

The strap is looser, but here I am, still in time.

Yo yo yo! So I was at a party the other day, (Well, night really. I was at a party the other night, specifically the last one that happened. Yeah, last night. It was last night that the rest of this sentence, the subject of which you have by now no doubt forgotten, happened) and it had eighteen wheels! (Just kidding about the eighteen wheels bit, I was just testing you to see if you remembered the subject of the sentence, which was that I went to a party. I am well aware that the sentence, “I went to a party and it had eighteen wheels” makes no logical sense whatsoever, so please if you’re a Reason Nazi and reading this (as opposed to injecting this), hold your angry letters. I am also aware that injecting a printed humor column, as opposed to reading one like a normal laws-of-physics abiding person, is totally absurd. I added it for comedic value only, as it pointed out an exploitable redundancy in my own writing. As Newton himself once famously said, “There is no earthly power that can in any way transform the knowledge of a printed humor column into an inject-able substance…except on Sundays”)

Right, so I was…I was…what was happening to me again? Damn it, I completely lost my train of thought. I’ve made so many implausible detours of logic it makes Boston driving seem humanly possible. Okay, I’m going to start over. Here we go.

Last night I went to a party. Now this particular party was a pajama party, meaning that everyone had to be wearing sleepwear (Yes, even you Larry). However, I didn’t have any sleepwear aside from a pair of green Fubu pants that were in the laundry. I thought about showing up wearing only my boxers, because that’s what I usually sleep in, (If you thought THAT was too much information, just wait until I say scrotum!) however I deemed it too risky as none of them had a button in front. Why is it that boxers are manufactured without that button? Is it some shrewd money saving scheme, or do underwear companies legitimately want their customers flopping out every time they make sudden movements? In my opinion, this is solid evidence to support the Gay Mafia’s existence. Anyway, I decided against wearing boxers for the above wang related reason, and instead arrived dressed for sleep in jeans and a T-shirt. Obviously this did not go over well, and I was quickly whisked away to be properly pajama-ed. Moments later I rejoined the party wearing a skin-tight lacy black see-through top with pink polka dot shorts that barely covered my upper thighs.

Now, this brings me to the topic, (Finally, right? I mean, who introduces the topic more than halfway through their column? You must be thinking, “Jesus, I start reading this column, and it’s nothing but huge parentheticals which are barely related to the topic, which he JUST introduced! And when I say huge parentheticals, I mean HUGE parentheticals. The digressions go on for ages! I wouldn’t be surprised if he started writing about gerbils reciting Hamlet in space. Imagine that! How could you even describe something so absurd? Pop? What a prick this Silence Doless is!) and a lemon in a freezer. (Just kidding. This week’s topic is not “and a lemon in a freezer.” Hey, it was just a joke. A joke I tell you! Put me down you crazy Nazis! Ok, Ok, I’m starting over.)

This week’s topic is being comfortable in one’s own masculinity. I sure am, are you? If you’re not sure, take this handy quiz. NOTE: Results may vary if you are female.

• Do you have a penis?
• Do you think about your penis?
• Have you ever thought about someone else’s penis?
• Do you watch Scrubs?

If you answered No to any of the above questions, you are clearly not comfortable with your own masculinity. If you answered No to all, you could be in the closet. If this is the case, please, for your own sake, stop grunting, spitting, swearing, having sex with women, etc. and come out already! It’s okay to be gay, whatever the pope may say. Be proud of who you are. If the whole world ever seems like it is about to crush you under it’s intolerant heel, just take this humor column and inject it into the world’s toe. Whether it laughs or cries, or just gets pissed off, that fact that it has a giant syringe sticking out of its foot should buy you enough time to get away. Besides, if you stay locked in that closet forever, bad things will start to happen. Sure, you’ll be locked in there with Tom Cruise, but he’s clinically insane these days anyway. However the real danger comes from within. Well, within the family, really. As soon as the Gay Mafia hears about your denial, they’ll smack you so hard on the exposed wang you’ll wish you didn’t have one (refer back to quiz question A). So please folks, let’s strive to make a better world, and stand up for who we are, whoever we are (Oh, and by the way, scrotum).

Well, there I was, being a doofus in 2007. This piece isn’t great overall, but the ending where I give advice to gay men makes my skin crawl. The whole thing feels like a mess. Anyway, apologies regarding the past from the future.

I was in NYC just a couple of days ago, wandering around midtown with two friends. To protect their identities, these two friends shale be here forth referred to as “Cheryl” and “Steve”. So we were hanging out and heading into Toys ‘R Us, when a man handed us a pamphlet for the church of Scientology. The text was as follows:

ORIENTATION, a Scientology® information film. Written by L. Ron Hubbard.

Find out for yourself, see the film. Come Today! Free admittance with this ticket.

We all liked movies, and things that are free, so we decided to go. Soon we found ourselves at 227 West 46th street, staring at a stylish brownstone with gold lettering proclaiming it’s nature; The church of Scientology. We milled around outside a little, debating whether or not to actually go in, but we somehow decided that it was, and we went through the revolving doors.

My first thought upon entering this holy site was, “Ah, air conditioning.”

The interior was tasteful, with something to the effect of marble floors and polished gold banisters. Also, on the walls in large letters were excerpts of their scripture. I didn’t read any of it.

A woman motioned us down a short flight of wide, tasteful steps upon seeing our “orientation tickets”. Once we had descended, we were again standing in front of a desk. A tastefully dressed woman greeted us in a tastefully sweet voice. She took us down a well lit passage, making small talk tastefully. It wasn’t much small talk, however, since the passage was short. She peaked in a door, then turned to us and apologized. The movie was playing in all their theaters, we would have to wait about fifteen minutes for the next showing. Apparently the fliers were working. Fifteen minutes, not a long time, but I was still waiting that period to see a Scientology movie. I needed things to do with my time. Either that, or I could call it an “experience” and write about it later.

Anyway, the woman told us to watch a flat panel on the wall, and left to perform her specific breed of science. The flat panels on the wall were really nice, the kind the museum of natural history uses to show pretty computer graphics of how dinosaurs evolved. Maybe Scientology would give us the same treatment? No, the screen pictured a young Indian girl running through an unnaturally bright field. The narrator asked if we had questions, then stated that we do.

“You are desperately searching for answers. Scientology has those answers.”

The narrator went on to talk about some shape (triangle?) associated with states of being, or walks of life, or sections of existence. Then he started talking about how emotional states of people can be directly represented by a number from one to four. For instance, “anger” might be a 2.3, but a “happy” might be a 3.5. We compared our GPA’s to the chart. Now I realize why parents really push their kids to get good grades; with a GPA of .005 not only are you expelled, you also experience “Body Death”, which is a fate worse than “regular” death for college kids.

In the interest of investigative journalism, I took this test. This consisted of following prompts on a video screen, and holding metal rods for half a minute. It felt just like those “shocking” carnival games, where they vibrate the handles you hold faster and faster until you can’t take it, and then it gives you a score. Only here, the rods didn’t vibrate. My score was just above “Soul Death”.

After the fifteen minutes where up, the woman behind the second desk told us the movie was ready, and motioned us back up the stairs, where the woman behind the first desk took over and brought us to the theater. The movie was still playing, however. She said it was almost done though. She waited with us.

“This is a great film. Written by L. Ron Hubbard himself. It changed my life for the better, a lot of better changes. I can still remember the first time I saw the movie many, many years ago. Many, many years ago.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh wow…” She thinks, mumbling softly, counting back.

“Three years” she said.

“Ah.”

The movie was ready. We walked in with an older man who didn’t talk and sat in the back. The movie started. The picture quality sucked, but there was surround sound.

The first shot, we are in space. Space rocks whiz past us with a roar. After a minute of this, we break free of the rocks and earth centers in our view. Triumphant music blares as the word “Orientation” materializes roughly around the equator. Apparently, this will be a very thorough orientation, starting with familiarizing the viewer with which planet they live on.

A man walks out of an archway of light and starts talking about Scientology, let’s call him, “The Man”, repeating how it has the answers to life’s persisting questions. Realizing we are all new to this Scientology thing, and figuring we would probably like to jump right into the meat of the faith, The Man narrates a series of pictures depicting the many Scientology headquarters.

“This is our building in LA. And the one in Oakland. Here’s our location in Vegas. This is our building in the deep south. This is our main building (ooh! Ahh!), and this is our cruise ship retreat, because L. Ron Hubbard sailed.”

After that, The Man told us we probably were asking ourselves if Scientology was a bona fide religion.

“Let me assure you, that Scientology is extremely bona fide, in fact it is more bona fide than any other religion.”

Different voice actors then proceeded to read various court rulings deciding that Scientology was a religion over an image of a waving American flag. The segment went on for at least five minutes. I seem to recall there was a shot of a gavel as well.

After the segment was over, The Man said, “A ton of courts said Scientology is a religion, including the supreme court. No other religion has won so many court cases, all of them in fact. So now that you’re convinced, let’s move on.”

He conveniently forgot to mention that no other religion had ever been called into question that many times, but let’s not hold that against him; as if I needed to remind you, the place had AC.

The Man takes us on a tour of different branches of the Scientology organization. First stop, an explanation of L. Ron Hubbard’s life. His first great accomplishment? He wrote dime novels in the thirties.

The Man proudly describes all the genres that Hubbard wrote in, ending with, “even romance,” chuckling falsely. Also, he sailed and wrote tons of Scientology books.

Then they mentioned Dianetics. Apparently, this practice frees your mind. It was also very threatening to the government. The government knew Dianetics worked, and they knew it would also counter their famous brainwashing program.

After this, The Man leads us to the L. Ron Hubbard book store. A perky woman is having an unheard conversation with a customer. The Man walks in and says “hi” to her. Immediately she turns, ignoring her previous customer, and addresses The Man.

“Hello!” She says with pep. “Tell me about all these books”

The Man motions to the vast library.

“All these where written by L. Ron Hubbard”

“All of them?”

“Yes, he did write a lot of books!”

Her laugh would give Gandhi diabetes. They jabber for a while.

Then, The Man says, “All this might seem a little daunting, so would you tell these good people,” he motions towards us, “which books to start with?”

“Of course!” She smiles like she’s selling toothpaste, and lists about ten book.

“These are good to start with, but you can also buy whatever you want, because eventually you’ll want to own them all”

There are over 200 books in total.

The Man went on to talk about some reincarnation stuff, maybe a hint of ancient aliens, and our obligations to the universe. The film was wrapping up. The Man made his final pitch.

You are at the threshold of your next trillion years. You will live it in shivering, agonizing darkness or you will live it triumphantly in the light. The choice is yours. If you wish to leave the room after seeing this film, walk out and never mention Scientology again, you are free to do so. It would be stupid, but you are free to do it. You can also dive off a bridge, or blow your brains out; that is your choice. It is your future.

As we were let out of the theater, I considered my options. My next trillion years sounded cold, what with all that shivering. Right now, however, the outside was sweltering.

I felt the cool AC on the back of my neck.

Sleep. Everybody needs it, but these days, who has the time? I certainly don’t, what with class, homework, a social life, and writing this column every week. I routinely find myself tired and sleepy from too many nights spent away from my pillow, the effects of which almost always crop up at the least opportune moments. Take for example, right now. While writing these very words I dozed off twice, bringing my writing speed up to a blistering three words a minute. See? I’m so tired I can’t even make a decent joke out of that.

You all know how it goes. You spring out of bed early Monday morning, brush your teeth, comb your hair, throw on a mask and cape, dash out the door and into class just in time to wrestle your philosophy professor because you disagree with his interpretation of Hobbes.

Then you wake up.

Groggily you check the time, firmly decide, “No way.” and promptly fall back asleep. Several hours later you wake up again and move blearily throughout the rest of the day. You promise yourself an early night, but somehow something incredibly interesting is always going on. Whether that interesting thing is IMDBing that entire cast of Family Matters or sitting in a lounge and counting how many people use the word “like” in a sentence, is not the point. The point is that now it’s 2am and you have to wake up early the next morning.

This process repeats until Thursday, when you realize you’ve been far too busy not sleeping to do any of your homework. Terrified, you throw your tired bones at your work. Only you’re still extremely tired and your homework starts getting jumbled together with all the other things you haven’t been doing. Next thing you know you’re quoting Steve Urkle for a paper on the French and Indian War (Did I do that?), citing that the brain functions on a network of bad valley girl grammar for psyche, and vehemently stating that the only sensibly counter argument to Hobbes is a headlock. Ultimately, this does not garner good grades, even among professors who like Family Matters and or Calvin.

Still tired and newly despondent about red marks accompanied by strange looks and warnings about the dangers of LSD, you hit the weekend ready to let loose and enjoy yourself. Obviously you get no sleep. By Sunday you shake off a hang over and to scramble to write your humor column, but halfway through you realize you don’t write the humor column. Now you don’t even get the satisfaction of publication.

Crumpling up your column, you vow to get even with that snot faced, dirty trick pulling Silence Doless if it’s the last thing you do. Unfortunately, Silence Doless does not appear on Facebook, nor is sdoles1@pride.hofstra.edu a valid email address, yet you swear to track him down regardless, even if it means resorting to the use of the extremely realistic drawing included in this column. But am I really to blame? The easy answer is yes, but the complex, subtle answer is no, which is my personal favorite.

That answer has a lot to do with being an overworked American, resorting priorities away from blind capitalism, and living better, more productive, and ultimately happier lives based around generous amounts of sleep for all.

I would explain all of that, but I’m way too tired.

The content isn’t too cringy on this one, so that’s good. There’s some structure and callbacks, so that’s nice. I never watched Family Matters, so I must have been latching on to that as a cultural reference everyone else would know. Is it funny? I certainly can’t say, which probably points to “no”.

Hello and welcome to this week’s column, the topic of which is grass. No, I don’t mean marijuana, but regular garden-variety grass (I still don’t mean marijuana). It’s the stuff we sit on, run on, and swim on (I’m looking at you land shark). It gives your dad something to care about besides football. It’s the perfect place to spread blankets for a picnic with the whole family, or spread legs for a picnic preferably without the whole family (this preference varies depending upon which side of the mason Dixon line you’re on). It provides vast open spaces of soft lush greenery, which we are told to keep off of by little yellow signs. It gives us a place to ponder the meaning of golf: top Freudian psychologists agree that it is the result of pent-up masochistic sexual tension, which manifests itself in extreme phallic aggression towards the testicles. It is pure unadulterated life rooted to the soil, selflessly preventing erosion. If humanity made first contact with life from another planet, doubtless our first question would be,

“Do you have grass where you come from?”

After a bit of somatic confusion about marijuana they would doubtlessly reply,

“Yes we do, and we love it!”

You could say that grass binds the galaxy together.

Why all the fuss over grass? Why bother talking about it if it will always be with us, right? Wrong. A worldwide crisis in grass in happening even as I write these words, a crisis so large that it can no longer be ignored. I am of course referring to the fact that much of the world’s grass is turning brown.

“Oh silly Stupid Guy,” you may say. “Grass always turns brown.”

Wrong again. Usually in Hempstead at this time of year the grass has been so frostbitten that it couldn’t even think about turning brown. Or perhaps I’m thinking of Siberia at any time of year. Regardless, big changes are happening to grass, which means they are happening to you too. The root reason (pun definitely intended) of these changes is global warming, the hit movie phenomena that has both viewers and critics raving (mad). True Fact: Roger Ebert now gives thumbs ups from the cockpit of a hypersonic rocket ship. He has it pointed at what he hopes is a distant grassy planet, but it’s probably just his wife.

Global warming is a serious issue as it is literally toasting our grass. If global warming continues at its current rate, we could well lose grass entirely, the universe’s most precious commodity. If our grass dies, what will hold our world together? Not only will countless millions of acres of land wash into the sea, but also your dad, stripped of his front lawn (no grass) and his football (no grass) may just have break down and start caring about your mom.

Now I’m not an investigative journalist or an environmental scientist, but I can only assume that Hofstra is directly responsible for global warming. I don’t see any solar panels on our acres of roof space, and certainly no grass planting program, just another Unispan that no one uses. From this shocking evidence alone I believe a prosecutor could easily convict Hofstra’s administration of heat crimes.

So what can you as a concerned citizen and student do in the face of such a disaster? Well for starters you could sprinkle grass seeds in President Rabinowitz’s underwear and stop paying tuition, and then go from there. Let us band together as one campus, one nation, one people, and save our grass. If we don’t do it, who will? Aliens? Yeah right, I hear they have a huge land shark problem.

I remember my roommates really loving this one, so I put it up as a good one in my memory, but man is this all over the place. Social commentary from a nineteen year old? Check. Cringy sex jokes? Check. Really long sentences? My God check. And who couldn’t get excited for the thirty year old at the time Land Shark reference? Indelible.

Over the long weekend I had the pleasure of visiting Sarah Lawrence College, an all around better school than Hofstra. Why, you may foolishly ask? Because they offer a seminar called “Lube It Up”, that’s why. Who doesn’t want to be a part of that? The only thing at Hofstra that comes close to being that slick is your local Dude-Guy’s hair, which is decidedly less appealing, especially in the current context.

However, this week’s column is not about Sarah Lawrence. Sure they have a beautiful campus, progressive classes, and a six-dollar buffet with everything from waffles you make yourself to real eggs, but what I really want to talk about is how I got there. Yes folks, I’m talking about the Long Island Railroad.

Everyone who goes to Hofstra has been on it, and if you haven’t there is a good chance you don’t go to New York City often, in which case you should stop being such a huge townie. But I digress. I don’t care what you do; your experience on the LIRR is always going to involve adventure. And by adventure I mean black holes of logic. Here’s how a typical LIRR riding day goes.

You’re all set to go, but for some reason you don’t have a ride (i.e. your car is in the shop, your roommate is away, and the cab is fifty dollars), so you take the blue beetle. After the pain in your ass subsides from being bounced two and a half feet in the air after every bump for twenty minutes, you quickly realize that you have to pee for much the same reason. So you waddle to the bathroom only to find that it’s closed after 1pm. Also, the train you were trying to catch departed five minutes ago, meaning you’ll have to wait almost an hour for the next one. For some reason, Hofstra decided it was in the best interest of their students to time the buses so that you always miss the train. So, squeezing your thighs and feeling like the victim of some elaborate Rabinowitzian conspiracy, you sit down to wait.

What happens in the time between when you sit down and when you get on the train largely depends on whether you’re in Minneola or Hempstead station. In these modern days, Hofstra is nice enough to send the blue beetle to Minneola. Nobody knows when, but if you’re lucky enough to stumble upon that magical time frame, you will doubtless spend your waiting period admiring the day, the people, and the surprising lack of chewing gum on the floor. If, however, you end up at Hempstead, not only will you wonder at the surprising amount of chewing gum on the floor, you will also see something weird. My first time at Hempstead station, I watched a full-grown man floss his teeth with his ticket for well over five minutes.

Finally you get on the train, and by this time you really have to pee. You sniff yourself after you sit at the window of a three-seater and no one sits next to you, then proceed to fall asleep. Later, you are invariably woken up by the automated stop announcer screaming, “Holis!” The auto announcer hates Holis, and every time he has to say it the fact just makes him angry. You can hear it in his voice. Holis must have done something awful to the auto announcer. I’d do an investigative report, but it’s probably some dirty Long Island Railroad secret and I’d end up getting whacked by the mob…come on pseudonym, protect me!

So anyway, you finally get off the train and rush to the public restroom in Penn Station. The stench is so overwhelming that it seems that of the thousands of people who use it daily, none of them hit the toilet, and so ends your odyssey. That is, until you have to come back.

Yet the Long Island Railroad needs our love, just like anything else. We need to care for it, nourish it, and push it on its way. Just a little something extra to make those wheels turn, to loosen those pumps, and to maybe make the auto announcer say a nice word or two about Holis. When you come right down to it, all the LIRR needs is a little lube.

Woof, I really loved run on sentences. Sounds like I was really stretching to find something to be pissed about. I had plenty of things, but I wasn’t touching the real stuff. “Rabinowitzian” is a reference to then Hofstra president Stuart Rabinowitz. The execution needs work, but I still like the concept of the “Holis” joke. The dude really does yell that stop and no others.

Well, Hofstra is upon us once again, and as everyone starts settling back into classes, dorms, and binge drinking (or starts for the first time, for all you wild and crazy freshmen), I thought it prudent to take pause and reflect upon the hard work of our dedicated professors who each and every day educate the next generation. And by this I mean make fun of them. For grade related reasons, I won’t target any one person or persons, but rather focus on general trends.

Have you ever had an English professor? Good, then you’ll know what I’m talking about. To them, over analyzing a book comes as naturally as it doesn’t to anyone else. What, may I ask is the point of a story that requires a PhD to fully understand? A statistically elitist point, that’s what.

Recently I was asked to read The Sound And The Fury, by William Faulkner. There seems to be a law of physics stating that all college English professors love assigning incredibly dense and confusing books in which all the characters think extremely deep thoughts such as “my life sucks”, “everybody’s life sucks” and “you suck”. The Sound and the Fury was particularly confusing: half narrative, half stream of conscious, and no way to tell the difference between the two. Luckily chapters had handy dates, which firmly grounded the reader in a specific time. However inside the chapters there would be random time jumps in the middle of sentences. Thankfully these were indicated by italics…but not always. Sometimes, you just had to guess.

Yet all the mind-bending motifs, metaphors, stylistic choices, etc. paid off in the end, as Faulkner had succeeded in conveying the deep message underpinning the entire book, a message that resonates deep in the core of all who read it. If you lean your ear close to the page, you can almost hear Faulkner saying, “I’m better than you.” So to entertain myself while reading, I routinely wouldn’t.

Another quirk of some English professors is that they assign students their own book (You all know who you are, and with any luck, you don’t know who I am…or perhaps you think my name is Silence Doless). More than being simply unethical, it’s downright awkward. Picture this: you’re sitting in class and out of nowhere your professor starts illustrating a point with something he or she wrote. What if you don’t think the professor’s stuff is any good? You obviously can’t just say that (unless you happen to be writing this column…professor blank, I don’t like your work). Now you’re screwed into two options the rest of the semester. You could,

1. Not talk and lower your participation grade, or
2. Lie and say the professor’s book is so good that one day it will replace the Bible in popularity.

There is also a third option involving air freshener, thumbtacks, and a live cougar, but few among us posses the iron will necessary to carry it through. And so I say we fight back. Long enough have students suffered under the pretentious weight of college English professors. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time we took a stand! As for me, I’ll be finishing The Sound And The Fury.

1. The Kraken was a giant squid

The legend of the Kraken is one of a huge sea monster with big tentacles that can crack ships in half, and has cropped up in Greek and Norse mythology. This fits the profile of the giant squid, albeit exaggerated.

Although no one has ever seen a giant squid alive in its natural habitat until now, humans have been clued into its existence for centuries, perhaps even longer. Giant squid carcasses will occasionally wash ashore, and there have been sightings of giant squid at the ocean’s surface. The ancient Greeks may have first described the creature in the fourth century B.C. In the first century B.C., Pliny the Elder wrote of an enormous squid in his Natural History. The animal he described had 30-foot-long arms, weighed 700 pounds and had a head “as big as a cask.”
— blogs.discovery.com/show-news…

2. Griffins came from dinosaur bones

Griffins are a mythological creature with a lion’s body, and an eagle’s head and wings. It is thought to have originated from gold minors in the Gobi desert who dug up Protoceratops bones, a predecessor to the triceratops.

Protoceratops was a creature six or seven feet long, with four legs, claws, and a scary beak that looked like a huge lobster claw. Mayor speculates that ancient people may have dug up skeletons of the Protoceratops, a probable theory considering that American tourists who visited the Gobi Desert in 1992 uncovered a complete, standing dinosaur skeleton trapped in the sand. It would only take a small imaginative step for ancient prospectors, making similar finds, to think that living griffins existed and guarded their nests like protective mother birds in the same standing position.
— www2.gi.alaska.edu/ScienceFo…

3. The Roc was a now extinct bird

The Roc is a giant bird from legend, that was said to dine on elephants, and was first recorded by a Westerner by Marco Polo. This bird was likely an exaggeration of Aepyornis maximus, or the Elephant Bird, which is now extinct.

The Elephant Bird (Aepyornis maximus) inhabited the island of Madagascar, off the eastern coast of Africa. Madagascar was settled around 2000 years ago by African and Indonesian peoples. Legends of the giant roc (rukh) in Arab folklore were probably based on the elephant bird. During the 9th century, Saracen and Indian traders visited Madagascar and other parts of the African coast and would have encountered these birds. In 1298, while imprisoned in Genoa, Marco Polo wrote his memoirs, covering 26 years of travel. In chapter 33, “Concerning the Island of Madagascar” he wrote that the Great Khan had sent him to investigate curious reports of giant birds.
— messybeast.com/extinct/m…

4. Werewolves were serial killers

The legend of the Werewolf dates back to 1 A.D., and there are many theories on how the myth sprung up, such as an explanation of rabies, and someone to blame for dead livestock. However, a string of “werewolf” trials in medieval Europe, which all convicted cannibalistic serial killers, points at the myth being used to make sense out of disturbing human characteristics.

In 1521, a Pierre Burgot and Michel Verdun were executed as werewolves. Historical records indicate that they were a serial killer team. In 1573, again in France, another “werewolf” was executed. His name was Gilles Garnier, otherwise known as the “Werewolf of Dole.” He was a confessed serial killer.
— www.historicmysteries.com/history-o…

5. Dragons were our collective fear of snakes

Dragon’s are an almost universal myth. It is so common, in fact, that respected scientists of the day still contented they must have been real, as late as the 17th century. So what could have created this universal myth? Maybe, it’s just our collective biological fears of snakes.

In ‘‘An Instinct for Dragons’’ (Routledge, 2000), Dr. David E. Jones, a professor of anthropology at the University of Central Florida in Orlando, posits a biological explanation that jibes with the Jungian notion of unconscious collective fears. He argues that the dragon image, fermented in the primal soup of man’s first nightmares, is a composite of the carnivores who fed on human ancestors when they were tree-dwelling monkeys: the pythons, the big cats and the raptors.
— www.nytimes.com/2003/04/2…

6. Mermaids were straight up manatees

What we know

Ah mermaids, the half fish, half women whom, according to Disney, are little. Most of us know mermaids from a Jamaican crab extolling the virtues of being underwater via song, or maybe by the original happiness annihilating tale by Hans Christian Anderson.

However, all fiction aside, mermaids were described as fact by sailors for centuries.

What could possibly make different sailors across the years report the same creature? If you guess manatees, or read the title and then knew it was manatees, you are correct.

What they were

…in a world saturated with mermaid mythology, people sometimes think they see them in real life. When Christopher Columbus set out to sea in 1492, he had a mermaid sighting of his own; little did he know that this encounter was actually the first written record of manatees in North America.
— ocean.si.edu/ocean-new…

Have you ever seen a manatee? Have you ever seen woman? Assuming the answer was ‘yes’ to both, we think you’ll readily agree that confusing one for the other is a bit of a stretch.

Yet, sailing the seven seas, for sometimes years at a time, without seeing land for months, and with only the company of other, grizzled seamen, is a lonely business for your genitals. Even if you were into men, you’d also have to be into scurvy, missing limbs, and getting pooped on by rats to get your freak on in an old time-y sailing ship, we surmise.

Combine all that with a little rum, and that giant, gray, distinctly non-human creature flaunting her stuff in the waves starts to look downright sexy.

Or maybe the myth started when a sailor decided his sexual history would sound more impressive if he’d done it with a ‘mermaid’ rather than a ‘sea cow’.

Melvin Kretchum sat behind an enormous stack of books, their thick spines filled with knowledge and decay. Two misshapen candles formed a wax puddle, emitting a flickering orange glow that barely dispelled the pressing shadows surrounding the crumbling texts. Melvin ran his finger down page after page written in language after language and muttered, occasionally scratching notes in tiny, precise script. The studied tomes were all on the subject of bestial biology, each chronicling intricacies of such horrors as the Spine Ripper, the Excruciator, and Gristle and Flay. However, these books contained no precise definitions, as much as Melvin dreamed they would. Instead, what was not speculation or rumor was contained in journal entries of eyewitnesses. Yet the terrifying nature of the beasts described left many would-be-journalists without the requisite sanity for a coherent account. It was Melvin’s task to sort fact from fiction.

The process was agonizingly slow, and Melvin had been working for five and a half hours. He knew this, because he owned a pocket watch. It had been extraordinarily expensive, costing nearly two hundred crowns, but it was more than worth it. With this new device, he was able to keep exact appointments, and to follow more precisely his daily schedule. He had bought the watch as a congratulatory present for himself after securing a position as the aid for legendary monster scholar Victor Pendrake. Professor Pendrake had been a leader in the field ever since his revolutionary breakthrough on Trolls, which conclusively proved that their severed appendages did indeed grow into more Trolls. It was an honor for Melvin to work with a man of such prestige.

Melvin checked the time; it was five past eight. In fifteen minutes he needed to be at Professor Pendrake’s office to make his first report on the Moonwing, a creature that resembled a one-foot long yellow and purple moth, the dust from its wings having the unusual effect of highly increased drowsiness in the subject. Melvin had been researching Moonwings for two weeks, and had even dissected a specimen. Hurriedly packing his notes – Professor Pendrake’s office was on the other side of the building and he did not want to be late – Melvin snuffed the candles and left the room.

It was eight thirty; Melvin had been waiting in front of Professor Pendrake’s office for five minutes. He flipped through his notes, tapped his foot, and checked his watch for the third time since he had arrived.

“Some people just refuse to function by the clock.” He muttered.

Melvin checked his watch again – he had to be finished by nine thirty because he was going to propose to his girlfriend Rosie at midnight. Melvin had been courting Rosie for eleven months and three days, and once they had even kissed. He had told her to meet him at the public gardens at eleven forty-five; Rosie did not live by the clock either, with a propensity for lateness, and he could not risk the success of his carefully planned romantics on the punctuality of his girlfriend. On the same coin, neither could he risk his plans on the punctuality of his professor. However, as his personal aid, he was forced to stay.

Melvin had met Victor Pendrake once, and only briefly. The aging but spry professor had welcomed him with a sharp handshake, explained that he wanted some research done on Moonwings, and excused himself, saying he was that minute going on an expedition to the Widowers Wood to clear up some controversy over swamp squids. He had told Melvin to have his Moonwing report ready in about two weeks, and when Melvin pressed for a more specific time, Pendrake had only shrugged. After a few terse minutes of conversation while the professor put on his coat and hat, Melvin had finally convinced Pendrake to meet him outside his office at eight twenty in exactly two weeks.

“Where is he?” The schedule was in jeopardy.

At eight forty-three Professor Pendrake arrived. He was wearing a thick, animal hide great coat adorned with various pockets, small tools and other presumably useful field accoutrements. It was the same outfit he had been wearing two weeks prior, yet now his boots were caked with a sludgy brown and green muck, and the rest of his clothing was smattered with greasy-looking black splotches. Flecks of the stuff were even noticeable on his half-moon spectacles. His hat was gone, exposing short-cropped steel gray hair made darker by a layer of grime. Strapped to his side were a battered long sword, a dagger, a pistol, a net, and what looked like a tentacle.

And he reeked.

Melvin made an effort to relax his crinkled features to their accustomed stoicism, and began breathing through his mouth.

“Uh, hello sir.”

“They walk!” Cried the professor, smiling wide.

“I..I’m sorry? What are-”, stammered Melvin, but Pendrake cut him off.

“The swamp squids. They can walk!” He crowed.

“That is-”

“Pretty creepy,” finished Pendrake, happily.

Pendrake walked brusquely to his office door and began rummaging through his pockets. There was a feverish gleam in the man’s eyes that made Melvin feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Retrieving his keys from a cleverly concealed pocket in his armpit, Professor Pendrake unlocked his office door.

“Come in, come in.”

Melvin entered hesitantly. The office was crammed to capacity with books, papers, and preserved monster bits. Melvin fought back a wave of nausea as the professor slapped what was indeed a tentacle into a liquid-filled glass jar and began searching through his office, forehead wrinkled.

“Sir, I have that Moonwing report you asked for.”

From under a desk, Professor Pendrake’s muffled voice replied, “Hmm? Oh, that won’t be necessary Marvin.”

“But…but Sir!” Melvin’s voice came out shriller than he intended, “You told me to report on Moonwings. Two weeks ago you told me to give you my report today at exactly eight twenty. And my name is Melvin, sir.”

“Turns out I won’t be needing it. Bigger fish you know?”

Melvin didn’t.

“Now I just need some bait…something magical I can afford to lose…Ah ha!” Professor Pendrake emerged from behind a large stack of books holding a smoking feather, which occasionally coughed. Pendrake rolled his eyes.

“I certainly don’t need this anymore.” Hurt, the feather replied that it hardly needed the professor. Pendrake stuffed the feather into an inside pocket. It complained of claustrophobia.

“Come, we’re going to the sewers.”

“What?” Melvin squeaked, “The sewers? Are you joking?” Professor Pendrake had grabbed a lantern and was pushing Melvin out the door.

“I just received some information that I think will be quite illuminating when we get there. Come on, time is against us, I can’t say how long the Thelg will stay put.”

“The what?”

“The Thelg”

“I’ve never heard of anything by that name.”

“Makes it all the more exiting, doesn’t it?” The professor’s eyes gleamed.

“But I have to–” Professor Pendrake was already walking down the hall.

“You’re my aid. Aid me.”

This was not Melvin’s line of work. This was not why Melvin was here. Melvin worked to dispel the chaos and uncertainty surrounding monsters by solidifying clear, definitive facts: this had nothing to do with sewers. Lip trembling, Melvin checked his watch, and ran to catch up.

It was a quarter to ten as Melvin and Professor Pendrake stepped out of a carriage on the other side of the city by the wharfs. The sun had set, the only light coming from professor Pendrake’s flickering lantern and the moon’s reflection off the water. The sound of water slapping the sides of the dock meshed with the creaks and groans from the anchored ships; far away a dog barked, sand Melvin thought he heard the faint scrape of metal on cobblestone. Dark buildings rose from the thick gloom – stern sentinels lining the waterfront. Torchlight spilled into the street a few blocks down, raucous laughter echoing off the pier. Melvin shivered; he needed to get back to his apartment to change, pick up the ring, and arrive at the gardens before the minstrels to set up the fireworks.

He had bought the fireworks from an alchemist at the quad three days ago, and even though he did not normally buy magical items – or associate with their proprietors – the vendor had demonstrated that the fireworks exploded into red flaming hearts, and offered a reasonable price. He had bought a dozen.

During the ride, Melvin had explained his situation to the professor; going into detail about how long each of the processes leading up to his proposal would take. Professor Pendrake had seemed to understand, despite looking distracted, but had made no mention of how Melvin, now behind schedule, was to get to the public gardens in time. Uneasy and fidgety, Melvin followed the professor along the wharfs.

After nine minutes of fast walking, Professor Pendrake stopped. They were standing near an ally between two buildings, a cracked sewer grate at their feet.

“Hold this.”

Handing Melvin the lantern, Pendrake began pulling at the grate.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m pulling a grate.” Professor Pendrake grunted, the bars lifted, and he set them aside, leaving a gaping black hole and the stink of raw sewage. “Alright, down you go lad.”

“What?”

“Come on, before we attract unwanted attention.”

“Unwanted attention? You want me to go down into a sewer!”

“Yes. Go.”

“This is not the job. The job is research, study, intellectual things; not jumping down sewers!”

Pendrake glared at Melvin. “This is research. Now get moving, I haven’t got all night.”

Melvin had picked tonight to propose to Rosie because the moon was full. All the arrangements were made; re-planning all the intricacies of the event would take another month at least. Lip vibrating, Melvin crawled into the sewer.

After less than a minute of crawling on his hands and knees through a pipe little wider than his shoulders, Melvin fell into a murky pool. The lantern went out. Gasping and spluttering, Melvin thrashed until he felt a gnarled but strong hand pull him to his feet. The water only came to his thighs.

“Get up, come on. Use your eyes, lad. I can’t have you bumbling around like that. Where’s the lantern?”

Melvin silently handed Pendrake the lantern and felt his clothes; he had never felt so dirty in his life. Something slid across Melvin’s foot. He screamed.

“Quiet you imbecile!”

Melvin kept screaming. After fumbling in the dark for a few moments, Professor Pendrake grabbed Melvin and clamped a hand over his mouth. The hand dripped sewer water, and Melvin gagged as the liquid touched his throat. Hacking, Melvin struggled against Pendrake, but the older man’s grip held.

“Be quiet I say, the Thelg will hear you!”

A loud splash echoed from down the passage. Both Melvin and Pendrake stood still, breathing heavily. After a moment, Professor Pendrake relit the lantern. They were standing in a domed passage made of worked stone. Slime clung to the walls and dripped from ragged curtains of moss hanging from the ceiling. The passageway faded away past the lantern’s illumination. Pendrake looked at Melvin.

“Follow me and stay calm, and keep your wits about you. Once we find the Thelg I will need you to help me hold the net. Here, take the lantern.” Melvin was not listening; he had to recalculate. It was ten twenty. If he left within forty minutes he was close enough to his apartment that if he didn’t change, he could still pick up the fireworks and the ring with just enough time to do a quick set-up. It wouldn’t be perfect, but at least he would be on time. Legs shaking, he pictured the look on Rosie’s face as he followed the professor deeper into the sewer.

Pendrake stopped; the passage had come to a tee. The new passage was wider than the first, a gushing torrent of water sweeping debris towards the sounds of a waterfall. Twelve minutes had passed. Professor Pendrake remained motionless while Melvin set deadlines. Pendrake sniffed the air, slowly reaching inside his coat. Extracting the smoking feather, which loudly made clear its opinion of the smell, the professor lashed it to an iron bar with a strip of leather. As the feather proclaimed that mere physical bonds could not hold it, a streak of blurred movement erupted from the rushing water towards the scholars, the professor throwing the terrified feather towards it.

The Thelg landed less than four arm lengths from the scholars. It stood over eight feet tall, a hulking mass of reptilian muscle and teeth. Its slightly hunched back gave way to bulky shoulders, greenish-gray sandpaper skin pulled over the sinew, exposing large, spidery veins. Its webbed, oversized hands and feet ended in spiked claws, a long, alligator-like tail thrashing the water into a white froth. Its head was oblong and flat, ridges running the length of its forehead, its eyes inky black slits, mouth a ring of pointed, yellow teeth dripping a thick, gloppy saliva. Protruding from either side of its mouth were two tentacles, which flexed and waved as if testing the air. There was a puff of smoke as one of the tentacles snatched the screaming feather.

As soon as the tentacle wrapped around the feather, the Thelg stopped, its attention immediately focused on it. What had moments before been an unstoppable force of forward momentum now curled protectively around the feather, the tentacles holding the feather almost gingerly; it’s suckers gently pulsating. The feather’s screams slowly faded, the smoke dissipating.

“Now’s our chance, lad.” Whispered Pendrake hoarsely. “Grab the other end of the net.”

Melvin’s vision was blurred; he could not seem to focus, or control his shaking. He thought about the number three.

“Hurry lad, the net!”

Melvin liked three. It would be his favorite, if he had to pick one. Seven was nice too, but…the Thelg dropped the feather. Inky eyes focused on Pendrake.

Pendrake had been waving the net in front of Melvin, and was caught blindsided, plunging into the water with one hand yanking on his sword, the other scratching at the monster’s hide. A small geyser signaled the beast and professor’s departure as they were swept away with the current, blood billowing from the chaos.

“Help Marvin!”

Melvin did not hear. He thought about numbers and schedules and details and books. He checked his watch – it was five after eleven. Time to leave.

Melvin arrived at the public gardens two minutes after midnight. He had rushed to his apartment, collected the ring and fireworks, and while he did not have time to change his clothes or bathe, he had liberally applied his most expensive perfume. Rosie had not yet arrived. The minstrels were tuning up, and after telling them to conceal themselves behind a large statue, Melvin scurried to the gazebo he had selected and began stabbing fireworks into the nearby shrubs.

At twelve twenty-three, Rosie appeared out of the mist, a light breeze off the canal lifting her curls. She was wearing a clean white dress without much lace, and when she saw Melvin, she ducked slightly, picked up her skirts and trotted towards him, glancing around as she went.

“Melvin, there you are,” she said upon reaching him, “What is it? What will father do if he finds out I have been at the public gardens so late?” Her brow was furrowed, a state Melvin couldn’t help but notice mimicked in her nose.

“Yes,” he intoned, “Isn’t it romantic?”

Rosie blinked, and said nothing. Melvin cleared his throat and sank to one knee. Rosie glanced around.

“Rosie, I…”

“There’s a man in the canal.”

“I just wanted to say, well…”

“There’s a man in the canal.”

“No, that’s not it. What I want to say to you…” Rosie jerked Melvin’s head to the side.

“Melvin, there is a man in the canal.” This was not how his proposal was supposed to go. He had imagined this moment over three thousand times, and Rosie had never jerked his head. Losing patience, Melvin turned to rebuke her when he noticed legendary monster scholar Victor Pendrake floating down the canal. Melvin quickly looked away, trying to forget what he saw. The aging professor paddled to the bank and hauled himself ashore. His clothes were torn, his skin marred with large gashes and bruises, and he leaned heavily on a piece of driftwood. All his weapons were missing.

“I thought I’d find you here Marvin. Now, I can’t do everything myself. That’s why I have an aid.”

“Who is that?” Rosie clutched Melvin’s arm, but he said nothing and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Come here lad, you are going to help me with this net. I can’t let such an incredible specimen slip away.” Pendrake’s eyes began to gleam. “Why, I thought I was pretty clever to distract it with the feather, but I completely forgot I had this trinket on me.” Professor Pendrake chuckled and pulled out a pendant from inside his shirt. “Always expect the unexpected, as I always say.” He shook his head and chuckled again, as if recalling a fond memory of youthful debauchery. “Well it worked out.”

Blood ran in rivulets from his wounds.

“The Thelg will be here any second for this.” He shook the pendant.

“What? What will be here?” Rosie turned to Melvin looking confused and afraid.

“Nothing. Nothing is coming.”

“Oh yes there is lad.” Pendrake wagged the pendant almost gleefully.

Melvin fumbled for his watch; it was twelve thirty-six. He looked at Rosie.

“Rosie, will you marry me?”

“Come over here and help me with this net.”

“Oh my, Melvin I…”

The Thelg leapt from the canal at Pendrake.

“Gadzooks!” the professor cried, chucking the amulet into the shrubs near the gazebo. The beast slammed in front of Pendrake, emitting a guttural croak before diving after the pendant. The Thelg’s momentum sent it crashing into the side of the gazebo, saw dust cascading from the ceiling. Rosie shrieked and ran, stepping on the hem of her dress, the sound of shredding cloth accompanying the wet thump of skull on cobblestones. Melvin scooped her up, staggered several feet, and with a screech of pain and frustration, collapsed. Rosie mumbled incoherently. Straining against her weight, a thick tear slid down Melvin’s quivering features. Nothing had gone as planned, and it was Pendrake’s fault.

“You,” he whispered through his teeth. “You ruined everything.” Melvin focused on reality, sorting out the inconsistent, the impossible, and the inconceivable. He focused on Pendrake. Net in hand, the professor was approaching the bushes, emphatically motioning Melvin to follow.

“You bastard!” Melvin yelled, charging at Pendrake, who emphatically motioned him not to. “I should have been proposing to Rosie!” The minstrels mistook this for their cue. Having heard a cacophony of cries, croaks, crashes, shrieks, shreds, thumps, screeches, yells, and screams, they emerged from behind the statue ready for a tough crowd.

“Love, love, my love for you floats like a…”

A girl lay unconscious, a young man was running and screaming, an older man was feverishly flapping his arms, and a monster loomed over some bushes. As they ran, each musician silently vowed to never play engagement parties again.

A firework in its mouth, the Thelg whirled to face the aggressive noises. It’s tail slammed into Melvin’s stomach, catapulting him back into the dirt beside Rosie. There was a searing pain in Melvin’s ribs, and blood dribbled from his mouth. His vision fogged.

“Do I have to do everything myself? Get up and help me with this net, lad!”

Melvin could faintly make out Professor Pendrake sitting on the Thelg’s back, bludgeoning it over the head with his driftwood. The monster bucked, clawing at the professor, who narrowly dodged the blows.

“Marvin, help!”

Nothing had gone as planned. He didn’t get to change, he had arrived late, he didn’t get an answer from Rosie, and there had been no fireworks.

“I can’t hold much longer lad!”

“Wait,” Melvin thought. “Of course. Fireworks. There can still be fireworks.”

“Aieeeee!”

Pendrake sailed through the air, crashing into the roof of the gazebo. The Thelg began gorging itself on the fireworks.

Melvin whispered the command word.

“Yes.”

There was a loud, squishy bang. Flaming hearts and monster bits filled the garden as the Thelg’s mangled carcass toppled.

Pendrake groaned, turned over, and looked down at the scene.

“Damn it! I really wanted a look at the internal organs.”

Once upon a time, a man jumped off a cliff and landed in a bar. Shaking his head, he grabbed a drink and headed for the Barren Wastes of Inevitable Death. An acrid wind blew hot, biting sand in his face, and he spat and coughed and raspberried with his lips.

“Damn sand.” He crunched.

Wandering for days, the man sipped at the last drops of water from his canteen, which, to keep cool, he had hid behind his conspiracy machine.

“Damn water.” he rasped, and noticed death stalking him.

He fixed his jaw and glanced quickly at the shade.

“What a bastard.” He muttered.

“Hey, I heard that!”

“So?”

“So I’m death, and I heard you. I’ve got sweet hearing, especially since rock n’ roll died. God, that music was loud.”

“What do you know about God, or rock n’ roll? Long live the both of them, you Phil Specter!”

“Ha! ‘live’ isn’t in my vocabulary, you Frankenstein-looking dick chisel! You need to moisturize.”

“It’s a ‘dick rasp’, thank you very much, and what’s more Frankenstein was a great song…fart breath.”

“Alright, that does it; you’re going to die and I’m putting you in hell with Sodom and Gomorrah!”

“Oh yeah? Well try this on for size, you tattered old sheet!” The man whipped out his conspiracy machine. “What do you think this is?”

“Sabotage? A mutiny? Completely irrelevant?”

“Nope, it’s a plot device!”

Death fell down a hole and then off a cliff, and the man lived happily ever after.

There was something heavy in the air. It crashed through a second floor window, landing in a pile of broken glass and furniture. It was a cow.

The three strangers in the room stared in comfortable shock while they waited for their brains to catch up.

The cow had crushed Phineus Ned.

Distinguished among London high society, Phineus always appeared in authentic Victorian-era clothing, (down to the underwear, it was whispered) and spent a small fortune on articles from the era.

If you were just rich, you were boring; just weird, and you were crazy. Both, and you were an influencer. That was Phineus Ned, who lay flattened under a cow.

Their shock had thawed enough that the strangers began to talk. They came to an agreement: yes, they all saw the cow, and no, they didn’t think it was part of Phineus’s dinner arrangements.

Questions arose. Where did the cow come from? How did it get here? Was it hurled, or did it come on its own? Also, was Phineus still alive? This last question seemed easy to answer. Jeffrey Palmer, a chiropractor and coward, checked both pulses and determined that cow and man were dead.

“I’m not surprised,” he said, with relief, as he had just had the biggest surprise of his life.

Relaxing into the comfort of the familiar, he pointed out the sound of crunching bone on impact, and likened the noise to the sounds of his profession.

“Like this,” he said, and demonstrated on his neck.

Ms Darla Winters puked salmon steak. The young oil baroness was sensitive to sound, and was not prepared for an audio re-enactment of a dismembering. Unfortunately, the sound she was most sensitive to was vomiting. It was a long time before she recovered.

The men moved to the window, looking for a cow launcher, or something. Everything looked ordinary.

“Well, I think it was murder,” said Roger Lindhorn, an investment banker and heroin addict.

He pulled the shades over the shattered window frame, muttered something about the unwashed masses, and stood by the fireplace to light his cigarette. Roger was in his early forties, and while still handsome, his face was deeply lined, as if it had been pressed with a waffle iron. But the lines weren’t from a waffle iron, they were from all the heroin.

“It was definitely murder,” Roger repeated, who thought about vengeance to relax.

“It’s too precise; this window, of this house, at this exact spot. There’s no way it could be an accident. It was murder.”

“Poppy caaa…caa—uhhhgh…cock,” Darla’s gagging was subsiding. “Who would murder with a caa…caa…livestock?”

“Feeling better?” Jeffrey asked, handing her a handkerchief.

“Yes, thank you.”

“So sorry about…”

“No no,” she interrupted, “No need to remind me.”

“Well, if it wasn’t murder, what was it?” Said Roger defensively; it had to be murder one of these times.

“This is clearly an act of God.” Stated Darla matter-of-factly. Invoking God was an easy way around many problems; it was her life hack, Darla thought with pride.

“Oh, come off it,” Roger snorted, “Whenever there’s something that defies immediate explanation, the true believers are quick to point to a man in the clouds. I don’t buy it.”

“God’s acts are not predicated on belief in them, Mr Lindhorn. What other entity would either have a motive, or have the means, to careen a two ton animal through a window? It’s a sign. A sign and a warning, to all of us.”

“What would God be warning us of, I wonder?” Jeffrey asked.

Darla spoke with rigor and authority.

“Biblically, cow’s are a symbol of wealth and prosperity. Phineus represented foolish opulence.”

Roger squinted at Darla.

“Where does the Bible say that cows are a symbol of wealth?”

“Cain and Abel. Look it up,” she said definitively, hoping he wouldn’t.

“Oh, I will,” Roger lied.

Jeffry piped up. “Regardless, don’t you think we should call the police?”

“No!” Yelled both Roger and Darla.

“But, well, a man’s dead, you know, and there’s blood on the walls, and bits of brain on the floor.” Stammered Jeffry, prodding viscera with his foot. It squished.

Darla threw up in her mouth.

“Absolutely out of the question,” said Roger, while Darla spat fish scales into a period-authentic orchid pot.

Roger had used all his favors with the police, and didn’t want to risk being caught with the five hundred milligrams of black tar heroin he had on him.

“The police will only muddle things up. We were all witnesses, we all saw what happened, but the police don’t rely very much on eye-witness testimony anymore. We could be implicated in the murder, or for some other crime we didn’t commit.”

“Finally, we agree,” Remarked Darla, as she wiped her mouth. She had been embezzling heavily from her oil empire.

“Ah, OK, no police. Probably for the best. So, maybe I should just…go then?”

“Out of the question,” said Roger, “We all need to stay here until we figure out what happened.”

“It was God.”

“No it wasn’t. We still haven’t determined that anyone here isn’t guilty of the crime.”

“What would be any of our motive? None of us knew him particularly well, so emotional ties are minimal. Money isn’t it, since we’re all independently wealthy, except for Jeffry, who’s wealthy but still has to work. Why would any of us do it?”

“Maybe Jeffry did it, then,” said Roger, disgustedly, throwing up his hands.

“I didn’t,” said Jeffry, looking hurt.

The whole affair was making Roger itchy. Probably best to get rid of the evidence, just to be on the safe side.

“Please, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

Darla and Jeffry watched him go. Flies had started to buzz around the cow’s glazed eyes and lolling tongue, the jammy smush of the late Phineus Ned seeping into the 17th century carpeting.

Jeffry pulled out his phone, saying he’d check the news.

Darla stared right at the purpling pile; fortunately, she had a strong stomach for sights.

“Nothing,” said Jeffry, pocketing his phone.

He had also looked up cow symbolism in the Bible, and found nothing, but was too non-confrontational to mention anything. He paid his brother a salary for the same reason.

A maid came in carrying a tea tray.

Her scream echoed throughout the flying buttresses of the mansion. The tea tray crashed to the floor, and she bolted from the room.

“Stop her!” Darla yelled at Jeffry, “She’ll call the police!”

“Oh, good,” said Jeffry. The path of least resistance was starting to pay off.

Darla grunted in anger, picking up her skirts and running after the woman. Kicking off her heels, she skidded on stockinged feet into the hallway. It was long, dimly lit, with polished oak floors. The screaming had stopped. The maid was at the other end of the hallway, weeping into a phone.

Darla began running down the hall. Where the hell was Roger? She could have used some help.

“…Yes, three guests in the room. Mr Palmer, Mr Lindhorn, and Ms Winters,” The maid noticed Darla, her explanation changing to a shriek.

Darla frantically made a shushing motion, and tried to stop running. Polished oak and stockings heavily favor perpetual motion, however, and Darla kept sliding, fast, her shushing only serving to throw off her own balance.

“She’s attacking me!” Was the last thing the maid said before Darla crashed into her.

Sergeant Bertram Huxtable entered the crime scene with two officers, and surveyed the scene.

A large cow, covered in broken class, lay in the middle of the room on top of a man dressed in Victorian clothes and copious amounts of blood. Both looked deceased. Behind that, a broken window, the curtains drawn and fluttering from the outside breeze. A man standing in the corner, his face transitioning from relief to distress at regular intervals. Suspicious. Keep an eye on him. And a woman, an ice pack on her head, leaning against a mahogany table leg, being glowered at by a tearful maid. Not sure what to make of that, yet.

“Alright, what the hell happened here?”

Jeffry, relief on his face, said, “We had just met with Mr Ned, when a cow crashed through the window and crushed him,” He switched to distressed. “I’m a chiropractor.”

“Is that it? That’s all you’ve got?” Huxtable looked at Darla, “What about you?”

“It was a sign from God.”

“She attacked me!”

“I said I was sorry!”

“OK, both of you stop, you’re giving me a headache. Everyone be quiet.”

Huxtable was going to ask for a raise after this.

Roger woke up in the bathtub. He had slept through the commotion earlier thanks to all the heroin he had injected. Now he was awake thanks to a hallucination of a commotion.

He stormed into the room, applying pressure to his left forearm.

“What’s going on here!” He yelled, too high to know the danger he was in. “And you,” He said, poking Huxtable in the chest, “You’re the murderer! I can feel it!”

“Get you’re hands off me!” Huxtable yelled, pushing Roger away, “And who said anything about a murder? Are you trying to do my job, or was that a slip of the tongue?”

“I’ve never done heroin!” Roger screamed.

Huxtable blinked. What the hell was going on? He motioned the two officers, who’s faces were wide with confusion.

“McEvens, Peterson, let me talk to you for a minute.”

The three men huddled together, speaking in hushed tones for exactly one minute, before the wall ripped apart and another cow cannonballed into the trio, spraying the room with gore.

“Ah ha!” Yelled Roger, as if he had solved the case, then chewed his nails.

The maid tried to scream, but only a faint, cracking whisper came out.

Jeffry stood very still, and waited for good things to happen.

“God always strikes twice, when he is not understood, Jeramia 2:16!” Darla quoted incorrectly, to no one in particular. “It’s all clear! I can see the meaning of it! For when…”

Darla was cut off by Jeffry wetly blowing his nose. She heaved another chunk of salmon at a priceless candelabra from Queen Elizabeth’s kitchens.

Misses Marble Crumble sat looking at her fingers, wondering which one would betray her next. They held still.

A young man with long hair passed, sat down behind her, headphones covering his ears. Her fingers trembled just a bit, but no one more than another. She sighed, and broke her concentration. Stared out the window. It had been a week since she had full spasms, and she desperately wanted to get in front of it, when it inevitably happened again.

Familiar streets passed by, the ghost-image of her worried face over top of them. She shook her head, opened her nylon and gold-painted bag, retrieving her lip gloss.

Re-applying was such an ingrained behavior, the act of doing it calmed her. The familiarity helped. She held her hand mirror in her left, drawing a meticulous, sparkling line with her right.

Right twitched.

Just a bit, not like before, not like the worst of it, but the sparkling line rose up in a jagged little arc above the corner of her lip. She replaced the lip gloss applier, screwing it shut shakily into the bottle, putting it back in her bag with a clatter; it seemed to hit everything else in there. She fumbled for a tissue, then paused, not knowing where to use it first.

Blood spurted from my ring finger.

A chunk of flesh was missing, scooped clean off by a shard of glass. I had been washing the inside of a single serving French press, my hand twisting inside the glass with a sponge, when the top of the glass broke, taking a piece of my finger with it.

I was alone in the apartment. My hosts, Paula and Jack, were staying in their second home upstate, while I looked after the place in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

Technicolor red blobs freckled the sink, the floor, my clothes. I rinsed my finger out, then wrapped it in paper towel. The blood immediately soaked through. I ran to the bathroom to get bandages, still leaving flecks of my morbid breadcrumb trail. I used my left hand to rummage through the medicine cabinet, while my right, deprived of pressure, sullenly drained onto the toilet seat.

I didn’t find any gauze, but I did find some medical tape, so I wrapped my finger in fresh paper towel, and wrapped that with some tape. That was enough pressure to staunch the bleeding. Mostly.

Then, I joined a work call.

I go back with Paula and Jack to when I was a teenager. I was friends with their son, Zach. They had him very young, and they were always hip, so they seemed more like a peer than a parent.

Both are artists; Paula a sculptor and painter, Jack a writer and musician. They’re both old-school punks, coming up in early eighties runaway stumble-street survival, now presenting as gentle, eccentric intellectuals.

When Zach was studying abroad in college, and I was taking my first improv class at UCB after graduating, I would stay with them a couple nights a week instead of making the trek from my parents place in New Jersey. They joked that I was their replacement son, which I leaned into. I don’t think Zach loved that.

I was staying at their apartment in this fashion when I got the call that would result in my cancer diagnosis.

Much later, I happened to have a dinner date with them the night after I learned Laurie wanted a divorce. That’s how my itinerant year started; before I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment for some time, when I just didn’t want to live in the same space as my ex, Paula and Jack offered to let me stay for a while until I got back on my feet.

That while turned into various stays over the year, some with them there, some cat sitting Ashley, their gray kitty who mostly keeps to herself, and sometimes just by my lonesome. As long as there wasn’t family staying or other complicating factors, they graciously offered me a room.

We talked a lot about the particulars of the divorce process, the ups and largely downs there, of art, music, books, the internet. We joked around. We eat sushi at Industry City. Jack had come to many of my improv shows the previous year, so we caught up on how that was going, and what the other people in the scene he knew were doing. Paula would cook savory oat meal, with pine nuts and Umeboshi plums for breakfast, or rice, steamed vegetables, and pan-fried sardines for dinner. It was stable, intellectually stimulating, and safe amidst the chaos.

Staying with Paula and Jack, I felt I could glean meaning from my experience, some deeper insight about myself specifically and life in general, if I just paid enough attention. I kept my eyes wide open and my mind loose and available.

The apartment is well kept, warm, and old. Curios, conceptual art, and books line the walls. The furniture is odd, wooden, and cozy. The shower hangs over an ornate tub, in the middle of it’s length, instead of at the head. The shower curtain drapes around the shower head in a circle, so you stand in the middle of the tub with water coming directly down on your head, ringed by a plastic sheet. This takes some getting used to.

One time, we took the Q train to Coney Island to see a collection of live performance art curated by some of Paula’s friends. Coney Island in the off season is interesting; there’s still people around, and some of the rides were running, but it gives off a haunted quality, even more than normal.

The performance took place where they do the freak show during the on season. We were lead past the warped paintings and strange baubles in the lobby/bar into a black box theater with wooden tiered benches for seats. I am well known as having a bony ass, so I was not optimistic about my butt comfort.

Each performer did some form of abstract dance, largely with a weird aquatic theme, on brand for Coney Island. There was some interesting, gooey sets in one, some more narrative character pieces, some Butoh. The main unifying theme seemed to be that everyone performed in writhing anguish.

The final act was a queer, Satanic dance off. My interpretation is that it was a sort of taking back the demonization of LGBTQ+ peoples, but also just a simple provocation. The costumes were elaborate, with Satan sitting on a fancy demon throne wearing a goat horn headdress. Satan was surrounded by their courtiers, frozen in place, each in various states of ornate, burlesque undress. There was a bearded lady, a trans man, and all sorts of others, who would individually peel off and do their dance, usually shedding some clothing in the process.

As a provocation it wasn’t that effective, given that it was well trod territory being performed to a friendly audience, but as spectacle it was pretty good. It ended with a big fire show thing, but the (probably) unintended peak was the blood dance.

I didn’t know how severe the bleeding was; sometimes you get a real gusher up top that clots pretty quickly. With all the running around and wrapping and washing, I hadn’t really clocked how much of my finger was gone. I figured if the thing was still bleeding by the time I was done with the call in an hour or so, I should seek medical attention.

And wouldn’t you know it, after that hour my finger was still squirting blood at the same rate as before? I had to take it slow and drink some water, because it turns out losing that amount of blood is woozy business. I walked myself the fifteen minutes down the street to the nearest urgent care. I’ve had cancer, and am very calm in emergencies. This sometimes plays to my disadvantage.

“Hello, I cut my finger, and I’m looking to see the doctor,” I said to the receptionist.

She nodded, placid. “Sure thing. And were you looking to see the doctor today?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, great. Um, how long ago did the cut occur?”

“Uhh, about…an hour and a half, two hours ago?”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Is…is it still bleeding?”

“Oh, yeah,” and here I held up my makeshift bandaged finger, shot through with eye popping red.

“Oh. Okay, yeah, go right in. We’ll get your insurance on the way out.”

Turns out, enough of my finger was missing, that they had to glue it back together.

“We’ll have to glue it,” the doctor said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, there’s not enough there to stitch, so we need something to bridge the gap in your skin and prevent infection while the skin regrows.”

“No, but what does that mean?” I asked, searching.

It turns out, it meant that they took a chunk of medical glue that looked like a brown sugar cube, they strapped it to my finger and applied pressure for fifteen minutes, and it melted into my hand. After two weeks, it naturally dissolved, and the thing was completely healed. Now, I have trouble remembering which finger it was. I think it was the ring finger.

Every queer Satanic dancer up until that point had been fairly nude; topless, skimpy underwear, tassels, and the like. The woman who now moved out from behind the shadow of the throne was totally and completely naked.

If the other dancers had writhed in anguish, she spasmed and cried and twisted and convulsed and thrashed in horrible agony. At the peak, she violently rubbed her vulva, and after a moment, an enormous gush of blood cascaded from her vagina, streaking bright and angry down her legs and splattering the flood. I was shocked, even after logic kicked in and I figured out that the rubbing had been to break a blood pouch hidden inside her. After the deluge, she dripped for a quite while.

At the end of the performance, everyone smiled with unreserved elation—we did it!—enthusiastically greeting their friends in their thrown–on robes. Human, grounded, now devoid of pretense and art. Pedestrian, even.

I kept my eyes wide open and my mind loose and available.

My ass was numb.

It was time to move to Queens.

After the fallout from my divorce, I was not able to afford an apartment for almost the entirety of 2023. Instead, I spent nine months couch surfing, living entirely out of a small, overstuffed backpack and shoulder bag; I am grateful beyond words to all my friends who were kind enough to let me stay with them. That time was such a wonderful way to get to know friends more deeply, or see folks I hadn’t seen in a while, or meet new people entirely. I felt such a expansive feeling of possibility and connection. It was also exhausting, a constant drum beat of figuring out where I could stay next, usually at fairly short notice.

Combined with a divorce process that was (and in some ways, still is) stressful and dehumanizing, I was ready for my itinerant lifestyle to end, far before it did. Yet end it has. I lucked into a room in Astoria, New York City, that I could afford, with wonderful roommates. I’m still settling in, and it doesn’t quite feel real yet, but the relief is real.

Now that I have a little space from it, I wanted to write about my nomadic experiences, specifically about all the people I’ve had the privilege of staying with. My stays were not a vacation for either me or them—we both continued to work—so I integrated myself into their lives as best I could. Most of the places I stayed were around New York to save on travel costs, but I also spent time in Massachusetts and Texas, and now Los Angeles.

This is the introduction to a series, each a recollection organized by people and places I stayed (not in chronological order).

Some things I’ve learned that was true of everyone I stayed with.

1. Everyone is concerned about their home’s cleanliness/messiness. Folks have wildly different standards here, but universally they feel they are not meeting them.
2. Most of the friends I stayed with have pets. They’re almost all cats.
3. People have different assumptions about what time to go to bed, what constitutes a normal breakfast, what topics to talk about, and what soaps are in the shower. If you relax into it, you forget life was ever any different.
4. Everyone was unaccountably kind to me. I try not to be a dick, but folks were over the top hospitable. I feel very lucky. It was, and remains, overwhelming.

I also (re-)learned that to integrate with folks as seamlessly as possible, you have to be a chameleon. I certainly have plenty of training on that from childhood, and while it’s an incredible asset, I have to be real careful not to lose myself down a pit of someone else’s point of view.

This is really an “issue zero” post, kind of rambling expository introductions, including this sentence itself. Tune in next time for something more exciting, starting with my time in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

I’ve been excavating old writings. This is the oldest one I’m willing to share at this point. Flash fiction that made it into my college literary journal Font circa 2006. Confirms my fascination with ignored spaces.

Every day after school, Danny Fitzwilliam would ride his bike home. He could have taken the bus, but he liked riding his bike because it made him feel connected to the journey. No grimy, impersonal windows to get between him and the outdoors; just the pure pleasure of being part of the world. Danny liked to watch the muggy suburban landscape pass him by. He liked to watch the different objects that made up suburbia, noticing the intricacies of each one; hedges, telephone poles, pinwheels, evenly spaced trees, sparkling clean sedans, flowerbeds, and mailboxes. Danny didn’t like mailboxes, and every time he saw one he would say, “Check,” to keep it at bay. Mailboxes could be vicious creatures, and you could never be too careful around them.

Danny liked to play ball, but he had no one to play with. One day after school, as Danny was walking down Oak Street, bouncing his big red ball in front of him, he happened upon a scrawny tabby cat, which meowed piteously. Grateful for a playmate, Danny threw the ball at the cat. The cat scampered away with a yowl.

The previous day, while Danny was riding his bike, he forgot to say, “check” to a mailbox, and it went postal and killed him. Afterwards, the previous paragraph never happened.

I’ve decided to publish my old fiction on my blog. Here is one of them.

I saw a man walking towards a pond the other day, swinging a headscarf, balancing on a tent pole. He was broad, lean, and full of beans. As he walked to and fro, pacing the water, he would call out to the fishes.

“Here fish! I’ve got a surprise for you!”

The fish were skeptical. All the surprises in the past had been fish hooks, or spears, or nets. Once or twice, it had been bits of bread, but the stilt man didn’t seem to have any.

The fish narrowed their eyes, and kept sucking plankton.

“Here fishes!” cried the man again, winking at the water, which was lost, since all the fish could see of the man through the aqua distortion was a wavy stained-glass image. “Here fishes! Come get your surprise!”

“Don’t bite, Phil,” A red fish said to an orange one, “It’s a trap, I can feel it.”

“Maybe this time it’s different. He seems nice enough.”

“Don’t do it. Just swim here and suck your plankton.”

“Aww, come on, aren’t you curious about what the surprise is?”

“I know what the surprise is, Phil. It’s not going to be good.”

“Yeah. Usually, yeah, but I think this time is different.”

“Phil, you’re talking crazy talk. He doesn’t have any bread, Phil. What’s he going to do if he doesn’t have bread? Eat you, that’s what.”

“But he’s on stilts, Murray! How could he catch me on stilts? Besides, it’s a surprise, part of the fun is not knowing.”

“This isn’t a game, Phil. This is life and death. Down here? Where it’s wet and there’s food? That’s life. And standing up there? Wobbling around? That’s death.”

“Oh, lighten up, Murray. I’m going!”

Phil, the orange fish, swamp up towards the surface, breaching the water in a mighty leap, tail still swimming through the sky.

He held his breath.

“There you are!” Screamed the man, teetering dangerously, then, in one swift motion, swept his hand towards the mid-air fish. Fingers brushed Phil’s face, then pulled away.

“Got your nose!” The man yelled, as Phil dropped back into the water.

“Phil, are you alright?” Said Murray, spitting plankton.

“He got my nose, Murray! You were right!”

“Phil, what are you talking about? We don’t have noses.”

But Phil was too busy mourning over his loss.

I entered a erotica fiction contest for the popular comedy podcast Double Threat, and I was lucky enough to have my submission given a superlative on the show. What follows is that submission. Content warning: lots of double threat in-jokes, and very rated X.

“It’s still not right!” Brett yelled, spitting his chilli, then spilling the Tupperware on his lap in a blind anger. Immediately embarrassed, he looked around the podcast convention floor to see if anyone had noticed. Kevin Bartelt had. He was pointing and laughing.

“You look Photoshopped!” Kevin cackled, high-fiving Sean and Hayes, who, for that one moment, dropped the act.

“Shut up, Bartelt,” Brett yelled, “You couldn’t produce mucus, let alone a podcast!”

“You know what, Brett? Why don’t you go fuck yourself!”

“I would if I could!” Shouted Brett, and ran out of the room.

Hot tears ran down his cheeks. He was stressed out from running a podcast network, nobody had paid attention during his symposium on the art of transitions, and now this. To top it all off, he hadn’t been with his wife in weeks.

In a humiliated fog, Brett found himself in an empty studio the convention organizers set up to record away ad-reads.

“I just can’t take this tension!” He wailed.

“Maybe I can help,” said a deep, sultry voice behind him. Brett quickly turned, wiping at his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was here,” he managed, trying to make out who the tall, muscular man standing in the doorway was through the dim lighting.

“I knew you’d come here,” said the man, moving closer, gently closing the door behind him.

Brett felt like he should be scared, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the man. Honestly, Brett was horny, and this guy’s cut figure was doing it for him.

“Who are you?” Brett asked, his pulse quickening.

The stranger stepped into the light, and Brett gasped.

“I’m Brett,” said the man, smiling softly.

Brett was staring at a perfect replica of himself. Confused but still turned on, Brett tripped over his words.

“What? How?”

“The Crypt Keeper grants a wish to one pervert every year. This year, he chose yours.”

“I don’t understand,” said Brett, although he was starting to.

The other Brett cocked a luxurious eyebrow.

“You said you would fuck yourself if you could. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Yes, honestly that was what Brett had wanted, but it was different now that it was real. Brett had watched some porn, so he was familiar with masturbation, but could he literally fuck himself?

In that moment, Brett realized that, yes, he absolutely could. Brett nodded at his double, and the other Brett smiled seductively.

“It looks like you’re dirty. Let me clean you up.”

The other Brett knelt, licking the chilli off Brett’s crotch, then unzipping his pants with his teeth. Before anything more happened, Brett suddenly turned away, panting heavily.

“What is it?” Asked the other Brett, genuinely concerned, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Brett, “It’s never been more right, but it’s still just so…weird.”

The other Brett nodded, understanding perfectly. He leaned his chest against Brett’s back, pressing his gentiles against Brett’s butt cheeks.

“Would it help if I wore the Captain Crook costume?” Whispered the other Brett, knowing full well the answer.

Brett nodded.

“Yes, but just the head, and nothing else.”

The other Brett happily obliged; pirate on top, chiseled man-beast all the way down.

“It’s perfect,” Brett breathed. “All it’s missing, is a little magic. For my first trick, I’ll make your cock disappear,” said Brett, confirming his whiteness, and took the Captain’s full nine inches in his mouth, making satisfied slurping noises.

“You’re sound is off,” said the other Brett, “Here, let me adjust your mic.”

The other Brett rolled a condom over a Shure SM7B microphone.

“Be gentle,” Brett said, offering himself up. He made a surprised but satisfied squeak as the microphone popped inside him. Bracing against the console, Brett accidentally turned on the sound system, which was cued to Julie’s playlist.

“Diiiaaaaaaaarrrreeeeeeaaaaaaa!” Howled Frank Zappa from the speakers.

“I’ll turn that off,” said the other Brett.

“No,” commanded Brett, “Leave it on.”

Every noodling guitar run sent tingles all over his body, and in that moment, Brett had an epiphany.

“I know what’s missing from my chilli!” He cried.

Both Brett’s knew the answer, but Brett desperately wanted, no, needed, the other Brett to say it. Instinctively knowing this, the other Brett whispered the answer in the Captain Crook pirate accent.

“Fish.”

Brett rubbed and glazed so hard, he felt like he was spilling an entire pot of chilli.

The other Brett instantly reverted to his true form, John Kassir.

“The curse is lifted! I’ve never felt this good with another man before, but if you think I’ll be on your show, you’re batty!” He squawked, and vanished.

Another piece I wrote in collaboration with an A.I., this time, trying to create the most stereotypical Hallmark movie plot possible. I failed.

Too much A.I. generated story based on characters from Paper Computer Games: pcg.wikia.com.

Generated via AI Dungeon.

More A.I. generated story based on characters from Paper Computer Games: pcg.wikia.com.

Generated via AI Dungeon.

A.I. generated story based on characters from Paper Computer Games: pcg.wikia.com.

Generated via AI Dungeon.