HURRICANE GLASSES

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“The best part of waking up…is being someone else.”



EPISODE VI: hurricane glasses (or, “Some Awkward Epilogue…At Last.”)


The air is thick with apprehension…it’s a sickly air that reeks of White Castles, beer, and doom. Abandon all hope, ye who enter. And bring a can of Lysol, if you can. Today I feasted on the flesh of Mongols. I am 1500 miles from home, or anyone who’d miss my corpse. I’m throwing up, I’m falling down…I’m breathing bourbon, and still rank with the odor of this town. I’m in the zone, but zoned out, and zoned commercial through the week. I’m three sheets to the wind, that cursed wind—and even it won’t blow me, not tonight. There’s a tropical depression all around.

I’m still stranded in the Midwest, at the behest and by the middling jest of fate. It’s like a bumfight from beyond, or better yet, the Book of Job. Remember Job? He was among God’s faithful, whose life became the subject of a great trans-cosmic bet.
Satan—hanging out in Heaven, loitering amongst angels unaware—is chatting it up with the might Hebrew God. God says, “Look at that one—my elect! Ain’t he a gem?” The Devil snorts, “He’ll curse you for a nickel.” The Good Lord says, “You’re on!”
Yahweh lets the Devil kill Job’s family, bankrupt his business, and ravage his body with sores. Each calamity grows greater than the last. Each time, Job sits stone-faced, sour but devout. The Great I AM is smug about it; the Devil ups the bet. “Let me do this…” “Let me do that…” “I’ll bet he’ll curse You if You put a squirming nest of eels in his rectum for a month!’’ Each time, the Rock of Ages says, “Let’s go.”

The moral of this story is (allegedly) that faith is often tested, and that God rewards the faithful in the end. I never got that from this tale. To me, the lesson learnt was this: That our lives are subject to the amusements of Powers beyond our skies, who can (and often might) unfurl entire lives at the whim of a cosmic wager; and also this: that if God allows such evils to befall his loving faithful, imagine what He’d do to a damned scum-hearted slacker such as I. The mind recoils in terror, even still.
And even still, indeed…even still, I say: I’ll take the low road, and you take the high road; for I know where the booby traps are placed.

So where am I at? I’m here. You should always be where you are. But never stay. Reality is an interesting place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to stay there; if you’re there more than the moment, then it turns into the past. Trust me, that’s an awful place to live…almost as bad as Arkansas, but the jury is still out on that, I think.

I eat when I have to. I sleep when I can. I survive off Diet Coke. It’s a cool black sludge that curdles my blood and cuddles my intestines, heaving greasy cola stains across my very soul. I subsist on it alone, as well as coffee, chocolate, and cigars. I’m contented for the moment, but the moment passes past me by the time I’ve typed it out. Moments are tricky like that, you know.

“Happy” is a relative concept. It’s a state more difficult to achieve some times than others, for instance, when one is laying on the bed alone, while roommates are screwing vigorously not fifteen feet from you. Those aren’t terribly “happy” nights. But you deal; you deal like Richard Simmons deals a meal.

I’m staying with a friend—at least for now. I have some entertaining stories, that I’ll share another time. I’ll throw one out, though, so you all don’t feel ripped off.

I was trying to transcribe a post one night, when I became acutely aware of an odor in the air—much in the same way that one might become acutely aware of a small mollusk clamped around one’s scrotum; Lord knows how long it might have been there, but it certainly nipped me in the membranes when I noticed it.
I dug through all my filthy, filthy linens. I took the basket down to wash. And still, the smell remained. I changed the sheets, and took the trash out. I disposed of any beer bottles—empty or “recycled”—that might have escaped detection early on. And still…nothing; nothing could coax this odor to depart. I even Frebrezed the seat in which I sat.

Now, my roommate has no sense of smell; in this sense, I’m largely blessed (being the hairy sack of meat I am). But it also means that there truly was no telling how long something might ferment in his room. Still clearing the counter, I kicked open the tiny metal trash can by the desk. In a haze, I was assaulted with The Source. It was the Domus Mundi of purest stench. It was concentrated Suck, sweat off Satan’s taint after a centuries-long shit.

It was teeming with both the rancid broth of life and certain death…catchcloths, catch-22’s, used condoms, moldy beer bottles, and much that dwelled beyond the grace of God.

Within the trash of horrors, I pictured rank darkness—the nameless, ancient evil of Those Who Came Before—held deep within. It reeked of vile, postmortem gas from the ruptured bowels of Tiamat beyond time. Wait…(sniff, sniff)…yeah, that’s it; I’d know that anywhere, for sure. This Can Of Man, it writhed and swarmed with That Which Should Not Be…

These husks of Musk and Men That Might Have Been, they will evolve within this goo one day, and rise against us all—little tear-shaped jellyfish of pain. Their black, lidless eyes see only death and wounded love—abandonment by the hand(s) of their cruel master, father, lord. They have gum-like rims for lips, and tiny, spikey teeth to nibble through the walls—uterine or otherwise. The air around them stirs a vaguely oceanic smell, strangely just like hobo feet, the crusts of filmy tissues, rancid Amber Bock, and broken dreams. They curdle in the cradle of the can. They simmer in the pot of our neglect, and await sweet, sweet revenge, and purest doom.

Sometimes, late at night, I think I hear them speak. They cry out, “Blood for blood!” in mongrel tongues. I hear them whisper in the wind, that cursed wind…cursed, fetid wind. It bustled like a mugger in the hedgerow. It’s voice rides on the air like so much sickness, plague, and blessed death. It gathers in the air like vultures, demons—the dust of our demise like flecks of viral poo from Satan’s hellbound puckered ring.
I pictured countless corpse stuffed within this Can of Woe…the half-eaten, decomposing Grouch-corpses—beheaded, strewn about in plastic bags.
Alas, poor Oscar; I knew him well.

I tried dumping the can outside, but it was all to no avail. It smelled too bad, and wilted half the yard. I’ve been around “dead things” before, and this was worse—far worse—that mere decay. This was the rancid, rotten snot of a thousand parties. So I picked up that metal knee-high can, like an R2D2 of purest shame, and pitched it the backyard can.

About that time, a friend came home. He caught the reek immediately. It was just too close for comfort where it was; so we carried it to the curb, and hosed out any spot the thing had touched. We then spent the remainder of the evening thinking of ways to tell our roomate what occurred, or deciding whether to mention it at all. Some things are best not spoken of; some things are far too evil for a name.

I suppose you want a resolution, or a revelation—something of import that I’ve learned through all this mess. I promise to relay one when it hits. But all in all, there’s this:

Home is where the heart is; I think mine’s in an awful neighborhood. And there’s no use mortgaging the thing; it’s worth different things to different folk, and to some, it’s not worth anything at all. It’s just well… Property is property; it’s really all the same—whether Marvin Gardens or Baltic Avenue: either way, it’s just another tiny piece, in a game that everyone plays, that the dog will swallow, or your children will lose…and everybody cheats. It’s less engaging living for tomorrow, or today, or really anything at all—or anywhere. Truly, it’s more compelling just to live.
The meaning of life is largely unimportant; a better query concerns the meaning of meaning itself. And really, I suspect the answer lay squarely in the question.

I spent a good part of the night trying to find a deeper take. What have I learned? Where was I “at,” for real? I don't know; I just write stuff down now and again.


“Meatcork,” I feverishly typed. “I’ve always liked that one…but how about—oh yes, I know!—how about ‘spermherder’? Yes indeed…I think that one will work, that sounds pretty sick...”

“Cockboogers? Nah, wait—that one is silly. I got it—‘muttonthumper!’ ‘Bunghammer?’ ‘Womb bazooka!’ Yeah…now we’re rockin’. How about…’creaseteaser’ or ‘Assflange’? Nah...still not naughty enough. Hmm… ’Ballcobbler’…or ‘ballgobbler’? Or maybe…”

“Oysterditch! Porkbunker! Meatsocket!”

“Organlocker! Veinpipe!”

“Filthmitten!”

And so on, ever on, into the lonely night…


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