Win, Win? or Why Must There Be A Loser? (47 of 50)

I had a floor mate freshman year who crowed obnoxiously about a number he’d gotten from a girl he’d met. Too cool his jets, I disconnected the microphone of his phone, turning his calls into a fiasco—she got calls with no voice on the line, he called and kept getting hung up on.
He decided to get revenge by filling a large envelope with shaving cream, sliding the open end under my door and stomping on it. It failed. I pretended it hadn’t, dabbing shaving cream on my wall, my desk, my hair. He was delighted. We were even.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (46 of 50)

The back seat of the ancient cab that wound through the Poconos was enormous. I spread the contents of my wallet onto my lap and reckoned my options. I was headed to the train station two towns away and I figured I had a couple of hours to decide whether I was going to run from my trouble or towards it.
I’m not sure why I wasted time deliberating on that decision because trouble was having an increasingly easier time of finding me.
The driver pulled off the main road and took a dirt road into a dark, wooded area.

Post #45 In Which I Show One of the Many Faces of My Patriotism (45 of 50)

Game 5 of the 1968 World Series. At the request of Tigers announcer Ernie Harwell, Jose Feliciano became the first singer to “interpret” the Star Spangled Banner. Feliciano was vilified, booed as he left the field.
I saw this on an MLB network program and the announcer pronounced his amazement at the reaction Feliciano received. Not me. I have no sympathy. I can now give a face to the pain I’ve had to endure during countless tortured ‘it’s about me’ renditions. How many hours of my life would I get back if singers had just held “gleaming” to two syllables?

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (44 of 50)

Big boy stared at me as I cautiously got to my feet. “Look fella, as far as I can see, our problem just went out the window.” His paws closed and open slightly. I would have bet he was thinking.
He was surprisingly fast, so fast he was past me and out the door before my flight response could evacuate my bowels. My luck was turning.
Of course, most luck comes down to the decisions we make; at my feet lay two decisions made of metal. I snatched up the key and gun and followed big boy out the door.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (43 of 50)

As we neared the window, I realized how large it was. Man-sized. I grasped blindly for anything to grab and caught Lambda Polk’s arm with a slap. She made an inhuman sound as I pulled her with everything I had towards the window. The big boy dropped me. When I regained my senses there were just two of us in the room.
I was finally able to fully appreciate the splendor of my adversary. He stood over 7 feet tall and weighed about 350 lbs, formidably proportioned. I found his expression inscrutable, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t happy.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (42 of 50)

It’s a sobering experience to be held upside down and shaken. Shakes your confidence in your adulthood. The contents of my pockets rained down around me, among them the key which I had lifted from the table of that New York office.
“Ah-Dino, how much simpler would it have been to just ah-give me the key? It would have saved you so much ah-humiliation.”
I was, for once, speechless. I was more concerned about how the big boy that held me intended on lowering me than my dignity. I became more uncomfortable as he moved towards the now open window.

Repetition Is All That Matters (41 of 50)

Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.
Repetition is all that matters.

Charles (40 of 50)

Charles was on today. He was up. Really up. Usually deliberate in thought and hesitant in speech, he popped into the office and told us how great he felt and hoped that we did, or soon could, feel so great. Later, I made a round of the building wishing everyone Merry Christmas and found Charles in the break room. “Now don’t get any happier or life might become too wonderful for you.” Charles followed me out of the break room, “I took someone’s recommendation to become more spiritual --I’ve stayed at it for a while. It’s finally working.”

New World (39 of 50)

As I filled the paperwork for the rifle we were buying, Susie engaged the clerk. In his early twenties, he wore a stubbly little beard and straight Adam Rich hair. He was pleasant as the discussion turned to hunting. He’d never hunted, but agreed with Susie that the only reason to hunt was to eat. “That’s going to be a useful skill pretty soon. I tell my parents that we’re lucky because their property had rabbits and the swimming pool would hold about 25, 000 gallons of drinking water.” I looked up from what I was writing and regarded him.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (38 of 50)

"That General Beauregard's gun, Miss Polk?"
"Ah-no, Dino. Mine."
I edged a little to the right twisting my body sideways. The gun tracked me and raised its aim to my head.
"The ah-key Dino, s’il vous plait.”
“It should still be on the table in the foyer.”
“Coyness is unbecoming in a man, ah-Dino.”
I was silent.
“The key you took from ah-Brother Andrew’s office is on your person, ah-Dino. Your hotel room was searched by the time you arrived at my door.”
As I opened my mouth to protest, two huge and powerful hands gripped my shoulders from behind.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (37 of 50)

The entire room was papered in old currency, which, upon closer inspection, proved to be Confederate; as in ‘of the Confederate States of America’.
“This was General ah-Beauregard’s room.” She went to the window and opened it. “It smells a bit stale, but he always told me how ah-cheerful it was. Do you find it cheerful, ah-Dino?” She pretended not to know exactly where I was standing.
“You bet.” It cheered me up, I must admit. Or maybe it relieved a little of the tension. That is until I noticed she had a Colt 45 aimed straight at my chest.

Post # 36, Wherein I Fail To Make A Meaningful Sentence From Four Random Words

‘Give me a word.’ “Fuckhead.” ‘C’mon.’ “A serious word? Okay, snowflake.” “ Snowflake? Can I go back to fuckhead?”
‘All right give me another word. ‘
A word. Any word? Or a person or place? Just a word?”
‘Yes just a word.’ “Okay, um, pajamas. Okay, no.”

‘We’re almost half way done now, in fact we just passed halfway. So give me a third word.’
“Egret. “ ‘Okay, tell me why you picked egret?’ “Cause they’re white, like a snowflake.”

Fuckhead. Snowflake. Pajamas. Egret.

Fuck. Head. Snow. Flake. Pajamas. Egret.
Pajamas Head. Snow Fuck. Egret. Flake.

Looks like you stumped me, Susie.

I Listened To Captain Fantastic And The Brown Dirt Cowboy On My Way To Work Tonight (36 of 50)

Well I’m almost three quarters of the way through this self-challenge of fifty 100 word posts in fifty days and it’s been kind of tough. Sometimes I’ve been so beat after coming home from work, I have literally (certainly not literarily) typed with my head tilted back and my eyes closed. See if you can guess which posts those were.
Anyway, I like it. I hate that it almost always takes discipline, commitment and hard work to get rewards, but that’s how it is. Of course, it takes something else to be really good at something. Wonder what that is.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (35 of 50)

“Key? ” I wasn’t volunteering a thing. I waited as she looked first above my head, then over my shoulder and then directly at my face. Her expression was absolutely inscrutable.
After a half-minute she smiled. “The key to your ah-room, of course. It’s in a dish on the small round table in the foyer. Come, I will ah-show you the room.”
“Sure. Why not?”
She led me down a narrow hallway, her palms sliding across both walls. She reached the end of the hall, turned an old brass knob, threw back the door and revealed a most unexpected sight.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (34 of 50)

Lambda Polk was in her late 50’s or early 80’s. The third eye painted in the middle of her forehead was impressive because she clearly could not see with the other two. She motioned in my general direction, then towards a leather chair, opposite a day bed.
Recumbent on the daybead, she was most disturbing. “Mr. Ah-Demetrius,” she began, then paused. “May I call you, ah-Dino?” Don’t know how she came up with the name, but it saved me the trouble. “Dino’s fine.” “Ah-Dino,” she began again. “Before we-ah discuss living arrangements, may I ask... have you-ah brought the ah-key?”

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (33 of 50)

It was getting hot underneath the monument to Pennsylvania’s only President. Wouldn’t come down on either side on slavery. Bachelor President. Well I had to make a decision. I decided to have a drink. After my third I made my way to the bathroom of the provincial little restaurant. Between the Gents and Ladies was half a wall of brochures, which is where I got my knowledge of James Buchanan. Above that was a bulletin board. I tore off one of the notes and the next morning I sat in the parlor of Mrs. Lambda Polk inquiring about a room.

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (32 of 50)

The key had been heavier than I expected and it almost slipped from my hand as I palmed it off the polished red table. Now I held it between two fingers and a thumb. The brass flickered in the light as we crossed the bridge.
They must know by now. Might even guess I’m headed south. It doesn’t matter. I’m already a needle in a haystack.
The key looked pretty old fashioned; hooped in an oval at the top, the teeth were dramatically large and angular. I wonder what it’s for, I asked myself as we reached the other shore.

Eras (31 of 50)

To be quite honest, I wouldn't recognize an era if it started underneath my feet. I’m usually only aware of an era when it ends and, even then, only when someone points it out to me. What surprises me about eras is they don’t have to be huge, but can be somewhat parochial. For instance, apparently the Alan Colmes era on Fox ended last year when Sean Hannity decided his voice was not being heard enough. I prefer my eras bigger. Like the era of Prohibition. Or sporty, like the Dead Ball Era. That’s when an era had some grandiosity….

From "The Adventures of Orson Orsen Chandler" (30 of 50)

My heartbeat felt out of control. My ears burned white. I leaned forward on the table. “No,” I said. I met as many eyes as I could as I left the room.
In a moment I was watching the elevator doors close me in and the light weave its way down the numbers on the panel.
My car pulled up. I got in, settled in, and looked out the window at the buildings pulling away.
It wasn’t until we crossed the river that I unclenched my hand and looked down at the golden key that rested cooly in my palm.

Big Man (29 of 50)

When I have nothing to say, I say it anyway since each paragraph I speak makes me a centimeter bigger. It is a burden to be so very weighty. I have gained as much as 3 pounds on a single bon mot. You’d think the wisdom I dispense would diminish me, but it only makes me grow.
It seems like you said something. Fortunately, I didn’t hear a word. I’m not reducing.
As with any great venture, repetition is paramount. Only by working the same idea over and over can it grow. You should see the size of my idea.

Automatic Writing In The Hour Before Midnight Continued (28 of 50)

There is a constant retroactive pull. Constantinople for the rich at heart. Stream of curiousness is the price one pays for paying prices. Let us now praise famous men, as if they needed it. For the skin of our teeth, we sacrifice the cloven embarrassments that cause convictions to slam against the floor. If I speak suddenly, it is for effect. If I speak deliberately, it is for affect. I choose not to choose and that is why I cause these fires. When I wiggle my toe, something unseen on the table rattles and that is as it should be.

Google Doesn't Have All The Answers (27 of 50)

How does…
One quarter of the population of Ohio get a handicapped mirror hanger?
A bagel with lox and onion make me happy?
Joy Division become New Order?
Gillette decide, “Let’s add another blade?”
Someone have the guts to create the Tur-duc-hen?
Someone decide they will put a 10 foot inflatable football player in his front yard to support a college that he could never get into?
My wife still love me?
A cat decide “I will sleep here”?
Anyone eat scrapple?
Someone wear Crocs?
Someone have the guts to create Snuggies?
Keith Richards live?
The sunshine make me happy?

And of course the martians' imminent arrival.

Pets (26 of 50)

On a rebroadcast of MTV’s 120 Minutes, I came across an old song I had forgotten but am now playing daily: Pets by Porno for Pyros. “We’ll make great pets,” according to Perry Farrell when we lose our dominance of the earth. I’m not sure I agree. We’re too damn dangerous to be kept in the house. Likely we’d just be big game for the next lords of the planet. The next video was Nirvana doing The Man Who Sold The World on MTV unplugged. I guess Kurt Cobain’s made a pretty good pet for many thousands of teenage girls.

Mediterranean-American (25 of 50)

When people ask about my ethnicity they usually guess Italian. I correct them, “I’m Greek, but we prefer the term ‘Mediterranean -American’. When I was growing up in Wichita, ‘Greek’ had a very negative connotation.” Which is not true about Wichita, or if it is I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been within 300 miles of Wichita. Then again, I should be careful--I wouldn’t be too happy if ‘Mediterranean-American’ caught on. ‘Med-American’ might be okay ,but I believe it would very soon go from feeling klunky to pretty damn annoying. I think I’d just end up going with ‘Olive’.

John Bolton, Thanks For Doing God's Work (24 of 50)

How one could believe the U.N. could get it together enough to control the world after the rapture is beyond me, but after a Thanksgiving Day conversation I had with my Aunt, a Greek Orthodox, I understand how widespread this suspicion has become. No longer just a fringe Protestant paranoia, fear of the One World Government has set down deep roots. Below is a clip from the 1972 feature, Thief In The Night, made in 1972, which shows how far back this specific manifestation of fear-based philosophy goes. God forbid world peace would come in the form of world unity.

Unite

Behold, My Mystical Opulence Is Undermined (23 of 50)

It always begins with the sky and its color. Then, a traveling from place to place. Gravity and physics are defied. It ends with an oblique twist. The other is implied because without the other there would be no point.
I sat in the car that was the uppermost of a pile of six. The thought of climbing down annoyed me, so I flew instead. The difference this time was that I knew I was flying and shouldn’t be. My flight was unsuccessful. “You”, I said, and you put my leg in a splint. It hurt like hell. Go figure.

Who Am I? (22 of 50)

My arching eyebrows and slick, black-haired widow’s peak make me look sinister right out of bed. I’d have been the top unwholesome male low-budget star of the early 70’s were it not for the cursed John Saxon. I had a one man show, “It’s All Done With Mirrors”, based on the poems of E. E. Cummings of which Rita Dove wrote, “…should be required viewing for students of LIFE—ages 9 to 99.” Harry-O called me Lieutenant Trench. I am currently touring the country with Roscoe Lee Browne. Did I mention my arching eyebrows? That’s right I am Anthony Zerbe.

Zerbe

4000 (21 or 50)

I was browsing on The Internet Archive this evening when I discovered that one of my podcasts had been downloaded over 4,000 times. It made me feel very uncomfortable. The thought of all those people listening to Susie and me chatting kind of intimately about death and homosexuality. Now I’m not sure how many of those 4,000 listened to the podcast, or even if it was just involved in some minor Russian hacker skirmish—a virus which forces you to download and listen to OOC4. When I think of it in that context, it makes me feel a lot better.

Music and Lyrics Media Three-Pack

Music and Lyrics (20 of 50)

While listening to a 100th birthday tribute to Johnny Mercer it struck me that lyrics aren’t very important to me nowadays. My mp3 player is now heavily populated by instrumental (sometimes referred to by the annoying term “post rock” ) and international music. The only rap/hip-hop I can listen to is non/unAmerican. I’m listening to Selena as type this. As a rabid young music fan, lyrics dominated my sensibility, from the elliptical Public Image Ltd. to the clever turn of phrase from Elvis Costello and the erratically lyric Patti Smith. Maybe I already have enough words in my head now.

Message In A Bottle (19 of 50)

I’m not the kind of person who would put a message in a bottle, seal it with wax and set it afloat in the ocean. It’s just not me and I’m okay with that. I’m not that much of an optimist and definitely not a socially oriented optimist. But, I know if I found a message in a bottle, I would be a little delighted and a lot fascinated. It does bother me that I’m the kind of person who would never put a message in a bottle, but who would love to find one. Probably not a writerly combination

You Know What, Just Do What You Want (18 of 50)

I believe that every human action, no matter how altruistic it may seem, is motivated by selfish reasons. I’m sure there’s a philosophy that covers that—capitalism? Anyway, every time I do something remotely altruistic, I feel rewarded, and though I’m not Anglo-Saxon, that doesn’t seem right. Would it better if I were programmed to feel bad about doing good? That’s just a different side of the same coin. Can the answer be to be beyond caring? Can the only way to really do something good be not to care? Of course, if you are indifferent, then good is meaningless.