Carsick

Inevitably, the conversation went on like it had countless times before, in some variation or another, inside every city car or taxi coming from the airport that sped past the village by the highway on its way to the beach.
"How can they stand the heat? Even in the shade it must be around 40 degrees..."
"They're used to it," someone would surely reply, eventually, perhaps after a discussion went on at some length about the conditions of the poor indigenous sitting outside in shacks of broken wood, or who stood by the road hawking aguas frias or coconuts to the tourists.
They're used to it. They get used to it. They've lived just this way all their lives, they don't know any different. They like hot weather, even! They can't stand the slightest whiff of cold air. They love it.
Ed Sortoson stared out the window as his wife's shrill voice filled the compartment of the small taxi. Ed wondered for a moment over the taxi driver's level of English, and then put it out of his mind forever. He was suddenly overwhelmingly carsick.

Halloween

We are invited to this big Halloween party where if you don't arrive in a costume you get thrown into the pool. I'm probably going as a volcano. Here is my costume design. CC doesn't know what he's going to be yet.

Ed Sortoson

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Ed Sortoson was fat. Too fat, with cheeks that bulged as though filled with handfuls of caramel popping corn and a belly that quivered viciously as he walked briskly about the grounds of the offices where he worked, at a pace too fast for his build and his face in a scowl that prompted his employees to laugh behind cupped hands and to whisper fat jokes quietly through their straight white teeth into paper cups over thin bent frames at the water cooler- the boss, and though they respected him enough to his face they snickered at him behind his broad, cushioned back, to which he pretended not to see or to hear but which he saw and he heard as plain and as clear as the nose buried into his puffy face, which is why he scowled so, and he muttered under his breath important dates of meetings and deadlines and accounts for the people in Japan or in Argentina, who trusted him fat or not to deliver their goods and make their promises no matter how he looked or how fast his heart pumped as he hurried across the office building´s courtyard with its cool fountains and palm trees and snack machines that vended him full of hydrogenated vegetable oils and sucroses and fructoses several times a day, everyday.

Fiction

His hands are thin, dry- the palms are narrow with transparent callouses on the bottoms. He rubs them nervously together when he's standing or against the sides of his pants when he sits, all day long. All year long.
"But how did you feel when she left?"
"I didn't know she was gone," he said.

*********************************

His hands are large and warm, the fingers short and stubby. The tips are yellowed from holding hundreds of cigarettes. His arms wave around making constant assertions; his hands chop the air, slap the desk, hold his head in frustration as he predicates the whole point, the whole truth. That being abroad is like being in a mirror: everything inconsequential about you, inside out.
"Then, were you able to forget?"
He smiles. "I think, I was not."

Conversations with Elle

Me: I tried to post a comment on a youtube video once, but my comment wouldn't load. The little whirly thing just kept spinning and spinning and it never stopped.
Elle Aiessae: Okaaaaaaay.... what did you want to say?
Me: .................
Elle: "I really liked this video"?
Me: ................
Elle: "Cool!"?
Me: ROFLOL I DONT REMEMBER ROFLOL
Elle: You are so retarded

In Memory of Suki, the "Queensland Heeler"

Suki

1992- February 2nd, 2010

What can you say when a dog you've had for over seventeen years passes away? I have so many wonderful memories of Suki- she was the only dog besides Coko that learned to sit, shake, and speak, or that could jump onto the trampoline with a grand running start (and so was able to get extra special "alone" time with us). She also used to sit on top of her house like Snoopy. Once she climbed up a pile of firewood and onto the top of the fence, and then proceeded to walk the length of the fence like a tightrope to the neighbor's house. Elle and I happened to look out the window sometime after and we saw her standing up there looking into the neighbor's windows and we ran outside to get her down. She also liked to swim and eat persimmons and cherries.

Suki was a wonderful dog and we will never, ever forget her.


Thanks Suki, for all the amazing memories. We love you so much.

Fiction

The following is an excerpt from the novel tenatively titled Poker Face, by Judy Gaga

Listen carefully. There are nine people sitting at this table and one of us is going to win a lot of money tonight. There's also a dealer, who is not supposed to talk aside from calling out the stakes. But he's only human, so sometimes he does. He really doesn't say much, but it's very important that you pay attention to every detail possible.

The game is starting. The dealer deals and I get a 5 of clubs and a 2 of spades, so I fold and this gives me time to look around and evaluate my competition. You've got to be very careful when you do this because snap judgments could lead to some pretty terrible mistakes later on. Especially with women. I have a hard time reading women. I've got five sisters and a mother, each one worlds different from the others, and I tend to classify women into types based on the six examples I grew up with. I do it subconsciously. In the real world I've never met anyone as crazy as any of the women in my family are but I also know better than to think that there are only six types of crazy. There are as many types of crazy as there are women. And that's why I'll never get married, ha.

There's only one woman here at this table tonight and she's sitting directly across from me. And trust me it's not the worst view a guy could have, ha ha. She's small and thin with an olive complexion and she's deciding whether or not to fold. She does this shifty, side to side thing with her exotic looking green eyes as she flips her long dark hair and I think she looks sharp. Smart. She seems like the quiet type and if I were ever to get married she's the kind of woman I would want to do it with. She calls and I knew she would. Or else I think I knew she would. You see? Snap judgments can kill you off early, they really can. The hair flipping is something to watch out for. But I'm glad she's sitting across from me and not the fat slob to my left who looks like he split half his lunch between himself and his shirt.