Swell Done!

The Most Recent Days of Rocco Bossy

Sloan — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 04:19:00 +0000

Yesterday

Rocco Bossy sits down next to Thomas at a small booth in the back of the restaurant where they both work. It’s their lunch break, even though it’s technically dinner. Rocco doesn’t really like Thomas, so he just says something about Burning Man.

-There’s this thing called Burning Man.
-Everyone knows what Burning Man is.
-I don’t think that’s true.
-It is. And everyone also knows that last year, The Man was accidentally burned early.
-Early Man.
-That’s right.

Thomas goes to Burning Man every year, but Rocco’s never gone. He’s kind of repulsed by it.

-Does everyone there call him “The Man?”
-Yes, most people do.
-So does that make it an anti-establishment thing? Burning “the man?”
-No, it’s just a nickname.
-They should consider a different nickname. I’m pretty sure “The Man” is taken.
-It’s contextual.
-So's everything.
-You should come with me next year. I can ask Flame Lizard if you can join our community.
-No thanks.
-We’re going to have a great concept next year.
-No thanks.
-You don’t know what you’re missing.
-No thanks.

The Day Before Yesterday

There’s a guy in Rocco’s living room who looks familiar. He’s probably a friend of Rocco’s roommate Steve. He’s holding a yellow flyer when Rocco walks into the room.

-There’s a place downtown that’s giving three dollar haircuts to people over 70. Regular price is six dollars.
-I would pay six dollars for a haircut.

Rocco really would, because he usually pays ten. This guy has a coupon though that changes the regular price from six dollars to five dollars.

-I have a coupon though that changes the regular price from six dollars to five dollars.
-I would rather pay the six dollars than use a coupon for a haircut. Six dollars isn’t much money.
-I’m going to use the coupon.
-I’ll be embarrassed for you.
-I need to cut the coupon out, though.
-I’m sure you can just show the flyer to the barber.
-Do you guys have some scissors?

And Three Days Ago

Rocco is at Carla’s place, they’re on the sofa, legs intertwined, enjoying some cable. Rocco’s got Carla’s compact mirror and he’s looking at his teeth.

-How about this flossing?
-You mean flossing teeth?
-Yeah. It’s great.
-Let’s call for pizza.

This thing with Carla could end at any moment, it feels tenuous, not dangerous, temporary, not difficult. They’re in bed after pizza when Rocco delivers the bad news.

-I’m working a double tomorrow.
-Again?
-This is a real problam.
-Did you just say “problam?”
-So what, that’s how I pronounce it. Problam.
-Since when?
-Since forevoo.

Twins In Utero Episode Three: Season Finale

Sloan — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 03:19:00 +0000

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch Changes

Sloan — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 16:59:00 +0000

I'm sitting on a dog bed in a corner of Amy's empty apartment, stealing WiFi from a neighbor to tell you this: We are leaving Portland tomorrow morning for a year of overseas travel. Those of you in Portland and nearby, I will miss you terribly and think of you constantly. Those of you not in Portland, you will probably not notice much of a difference, except that this web site will not be updated much. It will be back, but in the meantime, there is a new web page called Reason to Wander.

This is how we'll communicate stories from our trip, in lieu of email diaries and overnight voicemail messages. It's rough now, but it'll get better. Send your address if you want a shot at postcards. Send Marlboros and blue jeans if you want us to barter you a funny hat. Good luck with everything, we'll see you soon.

She Crossed Her Fingers And Walked Right Through Me

Sloan — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 15:52:00 +0000

We're floating dreamily in that creaky, weathered hammock from the Army Navy surplus store when she looks at me and says, “I want to have your baby.” I laugh uncomfortably and pretend to have a burning itch on my face so I can relax my smile a little. I linger on it too long and she knows she's making me nervous. She always knows how to make me nervous, even though we barely know each other, barely remember the names of each other’s siblings, best friends and childhood pets. Staring, grinning, she lets me squirm for a full minute more before she continues, “I want to have your fatbaby.”

“You want to have a child with me and make it heavy?” I ask.

“No. I want to get fat with you,” she says. “You and I are going to get fat together and then we’ll both have fatbabies on us, jiggly little people around our waists. Twenty pounds should be enough,” and she pokes me a little too hard in the ribs. “What are you going to name yours?”

“I don’t want a fatbaby,” I say. “I’m not financially stable enough and my school district sucks. Some ten year old got stabbed last week at Ockley Green and I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of world I want my fatbaby living in.”

“I’m naming mine Riley,” she says flatly.

“Ok, then mine will be called Lyle.”

The hammock stops rocking, so I reach out for a chute from the bamboo that’s been slowly devouring the back of my yard for the last year. I reach across her to grab that chute and she bites my arm without hesitation. I’ve already learned not to react when she does this, because it makes her bite harder and longer, even though I like the way she giggles when she eventually lets go. I grab the chute and it breaks off in my hand, sending me abruptly back onto my side of the hammock. She laughs and says, “Do you think fatbabies are covered by healthcare?”

“Not at first,” I say. “They’re not going to cover the birth, so we’re going to have to buy our own milkshakes and tacos.”

“What about when they get sick?” she asks.

“That’s the beauty of the system," I say. "They’ll give us anything we need once we’re sick, so you can forget about preventative care.”

“Well I still want to get Shirley her Diptets,” she pouts in a mock Southern accent. “Just to be safe.”

I reach across her once more and hook another bamboo chute between my fingers, guiding it into my palm. She bites my arm again and I whimper a little, blaming it on the razor edge of the bamboo leaves. She laughs because she knows better and she spares me the deeper bite, this irresistible little Attila. I pull and let go the bamboo and we're suddenly tangled together and swinging again, imagining ourselves the cause of the wind sighing steadily in the fir tree that towers above our hazy, breathless anticipation.

At The End of August

Sloan — Wed, 13 Sep 2006 22:06:00 +0000

I told my boss I was leaving my job, I was quitting. Maybe it was actually a “resignation,” which is the better term for leaving under dubious or special circumstances. My circumstances aren’t really dubious, but they are special. Special awesome.

When she and I bought that shiny-laminated geopolitical map of the world and hung it on the wall at the foot of her bed, the trip was still fantasy. Buying a map isn't commitment. Sticking pushpins in the places you’d like to visit isn’t a commitment. Winding elastic string between the pins to show a twelve-month itinerary isn’t a commitment. Quitting your job and getting rabies shots, that’s a commitment. Recently, the pain of inoculation searing my left arm was a sort of monument to the paranoia of Western Medicine.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she says to me. We are bathed in the midnight yellow phosphors of the street lamps outside.

“My arm has polio. And the encephalitis.”

“I got those shots too but I’m sleeping, babe.”

“Well then, I guess you’re not a coward.”

The thing they didn’t tell me about the rabies shots is that they don’t actually do anything to prevent rabies. Only good decision-making can do that. Did you know this? You get three shots before you leave the country and then, when you are bitten by rabid, untethered bazaar monkeys, you need only get two shots from dirty third world needles, rather than five. Me, I’m not getting any more shots. A slow descent into the madness of rabid paralysis will greatly improve the selling power of my memoirs.

Months before that, however, I’m trying to cope with four months of retirement. I am a tottering 75 year-old who is inventing cute little jobs for himself. Between planning for the trip, which begins officially in January, I handwrite correspondence and then walk it to the post office, where I make pleasant midday conversation with other retirees. I ride my bike, on the sidewalk, to Goodwill, Walgreen’s and Rite Aid for some frugal shopping. I stand on my front lawn with my hands on my hips to deter littering middle school students between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. My car has never been cleaner, my lawn never shorter, and my clothes never more pressed, all to mask the anxiety and temper the excitement of this next thing.

It’s also early afternoon on a Wednesday, which means I’ve just finished watching the movie “Cocoon” on cable television. It’s a charming 1985 movie about old retirees in Florida who encounter a group of friendly scuba diving aliens with the ability to heal the sick and grant immortality. Steve Guttenberg is also involved. The old retirees are energized by bathing in the aliens’ magic swimming pool and begin learn valuable things about themselves; they openly acknowledge their fears of death, they make peace with regrets for things left undone and they remember that they’re pretty good at fun things, like driving fast, bowling and sex in the shower. Some of them learn simply to appreciate what they have left in life and some of them decide to take the biggest risk imaginable – they decide to drop everything and leave earth with the aliens. They're the real heroes here. But what about Steve Guttenberg, you say? Unfortunately he doesn’t learn anything, but he does manage to “do it” with one of the lady aliens. Guttenberg! Will he ever learn? Anyway: Recommended.

Doomed Relationships: Good-Bye, Enjoy

Sloan — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 22:49:00 +0000

{Found on the corner of N Greeley and Ainsworth in Portland. This one makes me wonder why I'm fated to discover so many artifacts relating to this specific aspect of the human condition. My new favorite of the Doomed Relationship variety, it's more raw and urgent than any other note I've found. It's also the saddest, for the physical violence it implies, and the most hopeful, for the implications of escape and independence.}

Something Else About Garbage

Sloan — Tue, 08 Aug 2006 15:31:00 +0000

The temperature was approaching one hundred degrees when that crazy hobo stumbled in front of my house and threw his jacket on the ground. He was swearing about a Japanese Invasion when he stopped, put his hands on his knees and bent over to catch his pickled breath. He’s not made many good decisions in his life, but he made one that day. He stood up straight and shouted, “fuck you Tokeeeeeeyooooo!” to no one in particular, just before letting his puffy, filthy, sweat soaked ski jacket to fall to the scorched earth of my front yard. I’m not sure where he went after that but I'm certain he was more comfortable without his ski jacket.

I stepped off the bus home from work, hours later, and rounded the corner of my block at the hottest part of the day. I cooed at my house. Hello beautifu—and the jacket leapt out rudely in the manner of a graphic billboard advertising something rude, like human butts. “HERE ARE SOME HUMAN BUTTS. JUST LOOK AT THESE BUTTS.” I squinted at the lumpy mass of 80s-cool ski jacket, certain it was a shadow, because your mind tells lies when reality hiccups. A friend once told a story about living through the San Francisco earthquake of 1989, when at 5:04 pm local time on October 17, the San Andreas Fault shook sixty three people to death. He was in his bedroom when the city trembled around him and he was convinced that his older brother was somehow shaking the roof, just to fuck with him. He shouted, “Ted! Quit it! You’re really freaking me out!” as a freeway on the other side of town was collapsing. Me, I live alone, so I whispered, “that’s a shadow” when I saw the jacket, because I definitely didn’t leave a brightly colored dead animal on my front lawn that morning.

Moments later I saw it was a jacket and then I was standing over it, the odors of a thousand miles washing over me. I pinched a very small, unstained corner and lifted the jacket with my outstretched arm. I said “WOO” in a way that would signal to prying neighbors that this thing, this ripe hoboskin, was definitely not mine. I was disgusted. Shocked. Worried about dropping property values, worried about disease. Did this jacket have the bird flu? I was parading it towards the garbage can, visualizing opening the lid, when I noticed that the pockets of this jacket were bulging. And one of those pockets was unzipped.

Now I’m not going to say that I love interesting garbage, but I will say that I heart it. I heart interesting garbage. And that’s why, just steps from making the good decision to drop this jacket into Thursday’s garbage, I instead turned it upside down and shook it like Ted shook the Oakland Bay Bridge. Following is an ordered list of what fell out:

Deodorant
Small bag of snack mix
Four rubber bands
Bottle cap
An entire European porn magazine, ripped into several thousand small pieces

On cue, a strong northeastern breeze swept my driveway to scatter ripped up hobo porn across my property, confetti from a Porntown Founder’s Day ticker tape parade. I dropped the jacket and grabbed frantically at the printed sex that was skittering in the general direction of a nearby elementary school. I got a handful of threesome in the first grab and was shuffling after a blowjob when I heard my girlfriend’s voice in my head. I can’t believe you touched some ripped up hobo porn with your bare hands. This garbage obsession is going to get you killed. You’re going to see a doctor tomorrow. A specialist. I shivered, and the chill of imagined herpes relaxed my forearm muscles enough to drop the porn. I ran inside for some serious hand washing.

This whole episode ended rather quietly, after fashioning a crude litter poker from tape and a broomstick and picking up every last piece of that porn. I also deposited it, along with the jacket, in my curbside garbage bin. Good decisions. I haven’t seen a specialist yet, but I did see something else when I took my kitchen garbage out to the can last night. Do you know what it was? It was the second bulging pocket, the one that’s still zipped up. I bet it’s full of treasure. It’s definitely full of treasure. Cotton balls, some hay, a tiny plaque that says “Bless This Mess,” a chicken bone, Polaroid of an estranged daughter. Magnificent. Risk reward. I could wear gloves.

I have some rubber gloves.

Hang on a second.

Doomed Relationships: Torn

Sloan — Thu, 06 Jul 2006 18:59:00 +0000

{Only the first page, found ripped in half in Portland's Old Town/Chinatown area.}

Twins In Utero Episode Two: Siss Boom Blah

Sloan — Tue, 20 Jun 2006 17:43:00 +0000

Eddie and Ramone Will Freak Your Shit Out

Sloan — Sun, 18 Jun 2006 23:56:00 +0000

Have you seen these two? Eddie and Ramone are jive walkers and they will freak your shit out! Do you know about jive walking, have you seen it? Someone listens to music in headphones, walks on a crowded street or in a shopping mall, and dances like they're alone in the dark or maybe stranded alone on a super high-tech island that was built for hosting illegal dance parties in international waters. They jive walk like they invented dancing itself and no one can judge their abilities because how can you judge the very people who created all forms of movement to music? You'll die trying, I promise you. Better people have tried to judge these jive walkers and the same thing always happens. Prison.

Eddie and Ramone are no different, they cannot be judged. They are gorgeous. They have matching pants with many useless zippers, black pants and red tank tops. Muscles, oh god yes. Very tan skin. Both of them are gifts to us, gifts from the god Apollo, helping us understand how miserable and sad we are. We are zombies to them! And together, a duo, they are more powerful than any other single jive walker will ever be. Did I mention that they are virtually identical in appearance? The only way you can tell them apart is by noticing that Eddie always wears aviator-style sunglasses. Please friend, don't mess with Eddie's sunglasses. He'll bite you! I'm not kidding.

Eddie and Ramone can see perfectly up to a half mile away, they always know when it's about to rain and they're explosive when they jive walk. They have matching music devices that I think are MP3 players. I haven't really ever been close enough to see. They synchronize these matching music devices at the beginning of each jive walking session, so they're always on the same beat. They prefer to jive walk to "The Grunt" by the JBs and sometimes to "Honky Tonk Popcorn" by Bill Dogget because they have very similar funky drum breaks. It might sound boring, but trust me, it's easier if they use the same song again and again. This one time, Ramone started to jive walk to "The Grunt" when he was supposed to start to "Honky Tonk Popcorn" and Eddie went fucking crazy, bit Ramone's shoulder - I'm serious! I don't care what anyone on the sidewalk said that day, you don't bite your jive walking partner's shoulder. That's messed up. You will agree with me, however, that it does demonstrate a certain level of passion and commitment, even to the casual observer.

I've seen them perform dozens of times and sometimes I follow them for miles, wishing they would notice me. But how could they? I am a zombie to them, just like you. They only notice each other, these two, and they will live and die within seconds of each other for every remaining moment.

Their moves are incredible.

They've been described in the papers as a cross between pop music's Tom Jones and television's Fred "Rerun" Berry, God rest his soul, but I don't see the Tom Jones, personally. I would have said Easy Rock, the famous breakdancer, based solely on the strength of Ramone's headspins and Eddie's atomic hollowback. I promise you will spit out your beverage when you see them and I still haven't told you the most remarkable thing about Eddie and Ramone.

Eddie and Ramone are monks.

Monks is a slang term that I use for monkeys. Eddie and Ramone are actually three year old howler monkeys. You should see them with their headphones on and those little red tank tops! You'll lose your mind, man.

When I see them though, I like to think about the man who trained them, Dr. Eddie Phelps. I marvel at the dedication and vision this human Eddie has and how much he's given to me, to all of us on streets and in shopping malls. Whenever and wherever I see his monkeys jive walking, Eddie Phelps is always close by. He's usually in white pants, a Hawaiian shirt and aviator-style sunglasses. I haven't ever approached him though, I'm far too shy and he's far too serious. I know, you'd think that a man who spent three years raising and training two howler monkeys to synchronize-jive-walk in an urban environment would be fun to talk to and maybe even dance with. But you'd be wrong. Dr. Eddie Phelps doesn't ever dance.

Not any more.

Daniel Went Down to The Waterfront to Pick Up Some Navy Sailors, Even Though He’s Not Gay

Sloan — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 04:49:00 +0000

He’s not even bi-curious, but he is a joiner and everyone was talking about the sailors so, you know. He couldn’t help himself.

“There’s like a million of them, all pressed and clean, with big bulging muscles and they’re just here for a few days,” this woman in his office had told him. “They walk right off the Navy boats and BAM! They’re everywhere. They dock here for the Rose Festival.” Daniel was new in town but he knew what she was talking about. The Rose Festival was a very popular thing with parades, rickety fun-rides, some kind of Local Princess contest, and lots and lots of rain. Sometimes it rained really hard, so hard that it overwhelmed the city’s sewer system and caused raw sewage to overflow into the river. That’s the river that the sailors float in on.

“And women go down there to look at them or something?”

“They do more than look at them, if you know what I mean,” and then she blushed, so he did know what she meant. He only worked in the mailroom but that didn’t mean he couldn’t understand when someone was insinuating the availability of free, easy sex. Granted, he didn’t really think through the whole not-gay thing, but still. Easy sex.

The next day was Friday, the first day of the sailor invasion, and Daniel came to work prepared. Ten minutes before his lunch break, he put on his most patriotic accessory - a Davy Crockett coonskin cap he bought at the Alamo - and started practicing his pickup lines. At exactly noon, he walked outside and made a line for the first nineteen year-old he saw in poofy pants. That kid turned out to be a hippie trying to get some hacky sack going, so Daniel walked a little further and found an actual sailor sitting on a street bench. He was reading Maxim Magazine.

“Hey guy, come here often?”

“Not really,” the sailor mumbled without looking away from Jessica Alba’s chachabingos. This was going to be tricky.

Daniel crossed the street and walked into a corner grocery with a few sailors milling around inside. He strolled around nonchalantly until one of them stopped near him, a short pimply kid with a tattoo of the Georgia state flag on his forearm.

“Sailor, you look like you cou-“

“Hey, do ya’ll got any Yoo-hoo chocolate drinks?”

And before Daniel could respond, another sailor rounded the corner and launched a pack of frosted Donettes at the kid from Georgia. The package broke open and tiny donuts were everywhere, dusting the raccoon tail of Daniel’s hat with a fine coat of powdered sugar. The kid from Georgia was in full pursuit of his attacker and Daniel decided to head back outside. He walked three blocks and found two older, dark haired sailors waiting to cross the street. They looked like they might be officers.

“Hey fellas, looking for a good time?”

“Yeah, where are all the goddamn women in this town?” one of them said while the other laughed and punched him in the shoulder. Daniel laughed too and wondered if maybe they were together. The light turned green and as they started to walk away, Daniel could hear them saying something about his coonskin cap. Progress.

Sneezing, Itchy Eyes, Headaches and Invisible Bugs Crawling All Over Your Arms

Sloan — Mon, 05 Jun 2006 13:50:00 +0000

On Portland's MAX train:

GIRL 1
Ahhhh! My allergies are so fucking bad this year!

GIRL 2
I'm so lucky I'm not allergic to anything.

GIRL 1
Ugh. I hate you.

GIRL 2
Actually, no. Heroin. I'm allergic to heroin.

GIRL 1
How did you find that out?

GIRL 2
Remember Shawn?

GIRL 1
You did heroin with Shawn?

GIRL 2
He shot me up when I was asleep and I went to the hospital.

GIRL1
That's wrong! I'm glad he's dead.

Things Got Complicated When Phil Attended That Group Session For People With Anxiety

Sloan — Wed, 31 May 2006 15:00:00 +0000

Three weeks earlier, on the telephone with his HMO's "triage counselor," Phil Copeland tried to make an appointment to see a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist. Whichever one can write the prescriptions. Prescriptions for Less Crazy.

"I have an open appointment in three weeks that's a group session or an appointment in four weeks that's a solo session," she said.

"These are desperate times," he said.

"We'll see you in three weeks, Mr. Copeland" and she ended the call.

"That was terrible decision-making," he said to an empty room.

Three weeks later, the group session for people with anxiety was a total disaster. How could it not be? Ten of the twelve patients immediately admitted to experiencing intense anxiety in groups of ten or more people. They were terrified little animals, alternately fidgety, defensive and calculating the approximate damage that they'd suffer after leaping from the room's one operable window. It was only the first floor, but those were very scratchy looking bushes.

During the session, each of them was supposed to tell a story illustrating how their anxiety affected daily life. One woman, Sharon, told the other participants that she hadn't been on a date in three years because she always cancelled them at the last minute. Hers was a fear of meeting new people, a fear of intimacy and ultimately, a fear of rejection. She had no trouble making dates, she was very attractive, but she couldn't ever bring herself to sit face to face with a strange new man and ask him about hope and hobbies. She glanced Phil's way as she was finishing her story and he nodded thoughtfully at her, wrinkled his forehead to say yes Sharon, I understand your pain and wrote "Ask Sharon out, several times" in his notebook.

A thin, nervous man named Steve explained that he wakes up in the middle of the night, panicked, screaming and swinging his arms wildly, punching at any unfortunate body or furniture within his reach. He once lacerated his hand on a night-stand, he's put his fist through the wall twice in as many weeks and he gave his last girlfriend a black eye. She refused to sleep over anymore, creating a distance between them that would never be shortened.

Another man named Harry refused to share any story or anecdote, saying only "Pass - I'll pass" and then again "Ok thank you, I'll pass" after the long uncomfortable silence and stares that followed. He stood up, put on his sunglasses and walked out of the room a few moments later. None of them expected to ever see him again though all of them wanted to call shotgun in his horrible little LeBaron.

Harry's egress was followed by an exhausted librarian named Michelle, who told the group that she'd become suddenly and inexplicably terrified of the Dewey Decimal system after her mother died. She'd been misfiling books for months, her poor job performance compounding her anxiety and, ironically, making it impossible for her to find several self-help books that she desperately wanted to read.

Several more people told stories about how they were tense and anxious over simple, everyday decisions that are usually taken for granted. Answer the telephone or not answer the telephone. Tip the barista or don't tip the barista. White shirt or blue shirt. Chicken or tofu, rice or noodles. Even though these things weren't the cause of their anxiety, they teetered them near the edge of helplessness every day, guaranteeing that they'd never again sleepwalk through the banalities of this modern life.

And then it was Phil's turn.

In his head, he told them about his trip to the dry cleaner last Friday. He stood there at the counter in front of Cheryl, the same rosey-cheeked woman that took and returned his clothes every week. She asked him, as she always did, if he still wanted light starch for his shirts. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out of it was a hissing sound from the back of his throat that sounded exactly like the suction device that dentists use. Phil suddenly had no idea if he wanted light starch for his shirts.

This question, so benign, had short circuited his mind and left him paralyzed, no longer present with Cheryl or the two people in line behind him. He was told later by one of the paramedics that he stood in front of the counter, awake and perfectly still, for nearly twenty minutes. No one knew what to do with him, he didn't respond to talking, yelling, light slaps to the face. A small crowd gathered after the ambulance arrived and Phil didn't notice them until well after he'd regained his composure and said "Yes, I think light starch as usual" to a Cheryl that was now terrified, on the verge of tears. He left the dry cleaner, still dazed and clutching his soiled clothing, resolved to get help.

In his head, this is the story Phil told to the group session for people with anxiety and he smiled inside as everyone burst into thunderous applause. Steve gave him a high five. Harry drove by on the street outside, pumping his fist and honking his horn. Michelle gave him a thumbs up as she mouthed the words "Thank you, Phil" and Sharon, she fainted into his tan, muscular arms.

In his head, Phil turned a corner that day, unaware that in reality he was actually sitting frozen and vacant in front of eleven mortified strangers with anxiety disorders. They were invisible to him in a room that that was so silent, you could clearly hear the slow tick of the clock on the wall and a faint hissing noise that would sound familiar to several of them, though none could quite figure out why.

Making Peace With Contemporary Art: A Conversation With The Jasper Johns Painting, Flag

Sloan — Fri, 26 May 2006 00:01:00 +0000

ME
Hey.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
Hello.

ME
So what's the deal, you're an American flag?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
Yes.

ME
But not the abstract representation of something in the form of a flag?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
No. I'm made of paint, newspaper and plywood.

ME
Ah, so the newspaper must be articles about war or corruption, something important.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
No, it's mostly classified ads and the Living section.

ME
And the plywood?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
It was free.

ME
I'm really struggling with this.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
I sold for twenty million dollars in 1998.

ME
That seems unnecessary.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
I'm inclined to agree, actually.

ME
Well ok then.

Ruin Your Morning: A Primer(autobiographical)

Sloan — Tue, 23 May 2006 21:11:00 +0000

1) Bike two miles to work in hard, driving rain while wearing 100% cotton clothing. A substantial portion of your ride should take place in a narrow lane, trapped behind a large "beach cruiser" style bicycle throwing off a six-foot high rooster-tail of dirty rain water.

2) Drip-walk through the lobby of your office when at least five dry, caffeinated co-workers are waiting for the elevator. Have the on-duty security guard call attention to you with "Whoa wow!" comment followed immediately by building maintenance staff "drowned rat!" comment. Fumble around pathetically in wet pants for key card while co-workers giggle.

3) Walk into building locker room, occupied by naked co-worker wearing only shower shoes. Shiver from cold and impending sense of doom. Confirm doom when Shower Shoes says to you, "What the fuck are you doing down here? Did you fall asleep in a gutter last night?"

4) Avert your eyes.

5) Realize you have no belt.

6) Realize you have no dry underwear.

7) It's 8:20.

8) Let's do this thing.

The Mosquitoes Are Back

Sloan — Thu, 11 May 2006 04:26:00 +0000

I came home from work the other day and one of them was in my bed. He was wearing my pajamas and reading my book. It was actually less a book and more a magazine, one of those newsatainment magazines. Time. It still pissed me off, because I hate it when people read my magazines before I do.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m only alive for ten days, twenty tops. I’m making the most of it.”

“Fuck you, get out of my bed. Insects don’t belong in houses.”

“My name is Steve, actually, and I’m not going anywhere.”

I don’t keep weapons in my house, although in retrospect I could have just swung a shoe at him. I’m kind of a pacifist and pleasant weather makes me indecisive, so I just shrugged my shoulders and left the room. In that way, I guess I decided to let him stay. We compromised on the living arrangements and I blew up an air mattress for him, set him up real nice in the extra room. He asked if he could have a hobby corner in his room to work on some little projects that he enjoys. Whatever Steve, it’s your room now. You signed a lease.

We have the weirdest conversations. He’s all action and go-man-go in the mornings and early evenings but you can’t get that lazy motherfucker to say “boo” when the earth’s sun is shining strong. He just sort of stumbles around the house and jokes about what he bit that morning or what he’s going to try and bite later that night. He doesn’t actually need blood because he’s a male mosquito, but that doesn’t stop him from talking about it constantly.

“I don’t feel like I can fully appreciate what you’re telling me, Steve.”

“Doesn’t it make sense to you that your blood would taste differently than, say, a squirrel’s?”

“Have you been tasting my blood?”

“What? No, no, I told you. I don’t swing that way man.”

He met a female mosquito named Celia last week and brought her home to meet me. He never has anyone over, especially not girls, so I made dinner for the three of us. Celia was very sweet but a little homely so when she left, I told Steve he could probably do better. I didn't mean it in a bad way, but he got pretty mad at me. I guess he really loves her.

“Hey, I’m sorry man. She seemed really sweet, I think you two are going to be great together.”

“I’ll probably be dead in a few days, you know.”

“I know Steve. I know.”

In fact he looked pretty bad this morning. He’s usually up before me, bouncing off the walls, already covered in flower nectar or some kind of decaying organic matter. Steve loves that stuff. Anyway he wasn’t up this morning so I opened the door to his bedroom and yelled at him to get out of bed. He rolled over and pulled the blanket over his tiny head parts and huge compound eyes. I turned the light on and yelled at him again, told him he was making a mistake. It’s a beautiful day outside, you need to get out there, I said, but I didn’t say why because we both knew. I stood still in the doorway and focused on Steve until I could see the blanket move up and down under the draw of each small breath. I turned the light off and gently pulled the door closed, feeling a little better about these recent predictions of a dry summer.

Adult Education

Sloan — Mon, 01 May 2006 02:01:00 +0000

I met Daryl Hall and John Oates in a dream last night and they spoke to me in a magic language that only the three of us could understand. It was the magic language of white-man soul. Mustache soul. It was a real thrill to finally meet them both, feathered, pink-cheeked and pushing up one shirtsleeve to show a tastefully sized tattoo of a little something Celtic. They looked exactly like I know them from the cover of Hall and Oates, Hall and Oates, except that one of them took the form of a well-dressed lizard. It was Oates. With a graceful flick of his slender tongue and words so sweet they could caramelize a felon, he confirmed something I’ve always known: I was born too late to enjoy the 1970s.

I emerged from my mom's privates in 1975 and by all accounts, I fit right in. I recently asked my grandmother what I was like back then and she said, in her melodic Savannah drawl, that I appeared “as comf’table and destined for greatness as Jimmy Carter on his inauguration day.” By the time I was walking and talking and really starting to enjoy the precious gift of white suburban life, the 1970s were gone. It was 1980 when Mt. St. Helens erupted, John Lennon was murdered and the entire civilized world watched the season finale of Dallas. Holy shit.

I withdrew into my own Second Cold War against growing up, my finger on the button for the righteousness of innocence and cartoons. I threatened to run away from home in the face of every new responsibility. I continued to let my mom choose all of my clothing, including comfortable pants with a drawstring waist, well into my adolescence. I was less easy with my own friends than with my much younger brother’s tribe of 1985 babies. Brandon, Kyle, Cody, Jordan and Shane. I stayed up late worrying about acne, not because it would hinder my social life but because it would signal my advanced age to attendants of carnival kiddy rides. Eventually, I joined the marching band.

I also married too young and gained sixty pounds, because the best way to ignore the tumult of your twenties is to skip them all together. Boring. Divorced and slim by the age of twenty eight, I experienced a kind of rebirth, like those old people in Cocoon but without the erectile dysfunction. Now I'm drawn to the Me Decade like it's a religion, the only religion that makes any sense. I wear the clothes, I listen to the music, I sit in the suede floral easy chair. Good news: The culture and fashion of the 1970s is readily and cheaply available in thrift stores and yard sales all over the country. Bad news: They’re also selling it at Target. My closet is bursting with wide collars, but it might be too late.

There’s a delightful man in my office that just turned forty-nine years old and he looks no more than a straight-laced, clean living thirty. His doctors say he’ll probably live to be two thousand years old, so before I die, I should ask him if he feels like he was born too late to enjoy the 1950s. When did he realize? Did he hide away in France, living and playing as a small boy in the gently rolling apple orchards of an adopted mère et père for the last 40 years? Hopefully. He may have also just lived with his mother for a very long time, I guess I'm afraid of knowing.

“You can doo, doo, do it all now baby, just like you wanted to then,” lizard John Oates sang to me.

“I feel like Tom Selleck when I wear aviator sunglasses and dolphin short shorts,” I said.

“Magnum P.I. was actually broad, broad, broadcast in the 1980s, baby, but the pilot was filmed in 1979,” and then he trilled like the most exotic bird in the Amazon.

“I love you lizard John Oates.”

“I love you back, Magnum P.I.”

A "Baloo" Is A "Bear"

Sloan — Fri, 28 Apr 2006 17:48:00 +0000

{Found in Portland's Pearl District. Best explanation wins a prize!}

Twins In Utero Episode One: Something To Look Forward To

Sloan — Fri, 21 Apr 2006 20:11:00 +0000

{First attempt at a comic strip.}

Your Newest Painting May Actually Be Crap

Sloan — Mon, 17 Apr 2006 22:19:00 +0000

A man wearing a fanny pack and sandals has described it as "fresh" or "daring"

Your audience is no longer required to imagine Mariah Carey without clothing

It makes more sense when viewed in the presence of a live drum circle

You are attempting to redefine one or more of the following genres:
Bridges, Gazebos, Seascapes, Holidays, Inspirational, Lighthouses or "Memories"

You respond to the question, "What is it supposed to be?" by
saying either, "What do you think it is?" or "a terribly sad clown"

You had a really tough time getting that glow-in-the-dark macaroni glued on

It is a graphic depiction of your mother's vagina

Great Moments In Mentoring: Revisionist Compromise

Sloan — Wed, 12 Apr 2006 03:18:00 +0000

I don’t often have an opportunity to help the kid I mentor with his school projects, mostly because his Mom really runs a tight ship. He’s usually long finished homework when I show up to whisk him off to go-carts and Denny’s. Recently though, she mentions something about a diorama project due in a couple of days, recreating some scene from the Second World War. She says, “he’s already made a rough draft” and she rolls her eyes as he bolts out of the room and brings back a rumpled, stained and elaborately folded sheet of paper. I tuck it in my jacket and we hop in the car, because the graphic depiction of war inside of a shoebox is a topic best discussed at a BBQ restaurant.

KID
(unfolds sketch of proposed diorama)
Basically it’s a standard battle scene and these bad guys are guarding this house right here, even though most of them are already dead in this ditch.

ME
Who are the bad guys?

KID
The Germans.

ME
You know I’m German.

KID
No you’re not, you’re from Florida.

ME
Fair enough. This looks perfect, except for one detail.

KID
What?

ME
There weren’t any dinosaurs in WWII.

KID
Prove it.

ME
You can’t put dinosaurs in this diorama, not even for laughs.
What you can put in it is Godzilla.

KID
Explain.

ME
We weren’t just fighting Germany in WWII, we were also fighting Japan. Godzilla is Japan.

KID
This is gonna be so awesome. I'm making him fight Mothra!

ME
That might be a stretch. Instead, let’s set him up against one of those wind-up nuns that shoots sparks out of the mouth. Nunzilla. She can represent Italy.

KID
I don’t get it.

ME
I know. Let’s go to the mall and get that cookie that’s as big as your head.

Sprung

Sloan — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 03:10:00 +0000

I’m walking down a neighborhood sidewalk today and it is the most beautiful day of the year, mostly because there are hummingbirds. Spring. I’m still comatose when I wake up at New 7am, but this extra hour of night light will save my life. It’s nearly 8:00 at night now and the streets are still clogged with children, launching themselves and every available wheeley cart off ramps made of plywood and cinder blocks. They’re hitting each other with sticks, stealing each other’s batman mobile and dropping snacks all over the lawn. Their screams and taunts are the most wonderful thing I have heard since The Arcade Fire marched off stage and played two songs at midnight while standing in city traffic. That was last Fall. Canadians.

April Fools Day came and went without incident, which was pretty disappointing considering I regularly keep the company of drunks and children, though never at once. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m not holding it inside though because there’s too much to live for right now and I’m not just talking about those pot brownies you’re going to make for the Zoo Concert Series. There’s going to be more than that, swimming, street fairs and the backyard barbecues of near strangers. Cut grass. Uh oh, don’t forget the body odor.

I forgot about it, before I decided that today was the most beautiful day of the year. I exploded out of my office at 5:02 and danced on the curb until the next bus came. The doors swung open and a haggard looking man stumbled down the stairs towards me while the bus driver finished his sentence, “oh wow, ok pal!” I started up past him and the first odor wave from his rumpled body struck me lightly, like brushing by your handsome friend when he’s just finished soccer. Easy. I stepped into the aisle of the bus and was instantly suffocated by the second wave of the same haggard man, a smell that I can only describe as terribly old cheese in a hospital. It was remarkable.

He was blocks away by now but his smell lingered with us. No, not so much lingered as reclined and took a nap. Old women were gasping and clutching at their chests. They shouted “hoo hoo!” and “woo!” and one woman even said “hoo hoo woo!” A kid stuck most of his torso out of an open window and the bus driver said nothing because he wanted the same. A man with glasses and a fleece vest made a gagging face followed by a barfing face and the woman across from him coughed. I could only begin to comprehend what these people had just been through together, but it was clear that they had well earned this most beautiful day of the year. I would too, with the first heavy hobo sweat of 2006. Winter has a way of dampening those smells, or at least containing them under layers of old coats and Hefty bags, but that’s all it’s helpful for really. Especially since I got bored with skiing.

Comments Spoken or Overheard at Cirque Du Soleil: Varekai

Sloan — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 18:56:00 +0000

ME
That's supposed to be Icarus. What happened is that he-
FRIEND
Flew too close to the sun and melted the wax, yeah I know the story motherfucker.

"I'm so glad we got stoned in the car."

"I've never peed next to a man before. I can see your feet under the stall and they're pointed the wrong way."

"Is that guy really hurt? I think that's part of the show. No he looks hurt, he's holding his back. That must be part of the show. Oh god, that's not part of the show!"

"This is my 8th Cirque. Their butts get smaller every year."

"Oh my god that's hot. I wanna see those two guys do it."

"I bet if there was an M&M in there, you'd see it."

"It's just like the regular circus is for kids, except nothing like it because it's not sad and gross."

She Has A Tattoo On The Inside Of Her Wrist

Sloan — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 04:02:00 +0000

In plain block letters it says, “never give up," but she gives up all the time. She started jogging once and quit after about seven minutes. She tried to eat better for a while, more leafy greens and shit, but there she was in a shopping mall food court eating sweet and sour pork at Wok N’ Roll. She gave up on therapy. She gave up on saving money. She gave up on saying “please.” She gave up on radio, the institution of marriage and deodorant, after all that stuff about aluminum and Alzheimer’s. She gave up on the Olympics for obvious reasons. She’s never given up smoking, but that probably doesn’t count.

She’s given up on working. She can’t keep a job for more than a couple months, mostly because she hates customers. She doesn’t think she has the credentials necessary for a job without customers. She gave up on relatives and friends when they stopped calling to check on her. She gave up on strangers after she was robbed in a convenience store. You could say she's given up on people. She’s definitely given up on people.

She gave up her son once.

Or maybe it was her daughter. Possibly neither, because those times back east were a blur. She barely remembers being pregnant, let alone giving birth, but it comes back to her in dreams, through a lens smeared with Vaseline. She can see the hospital room and hear the voices but she doesn’t recognize anyone and can’t understand the words because they're Deutsch. Sie ist sehr jung, sehr jung. She made some calls back there two years ago, after the dreams started happening, but of course no one was left. They evaporated like contrails. She used to know everything about them but now she doesn’t even remember how she met them or why she went there in the first place. Was that where she gave up on love? Where she gave up on playing the guitar? Was that where she got this stupid fucking tattoo, the one on the inside of her wrist? She can't remember, so she looked into getting it removed, found out how much it would cost. It's really pretty reasonable these days.

What's On My Bus Seat?

Sloan — Wed, 22 Mar 2006 04:52:00 +0000

Gaudy fabric
A little bit of my neighbor's leg
A couple Chicklets
Something about Jehovah
Trace amounts of feces