Category: My stories

It’s not racist to use math.
It’s not racist to be on time.
It’s not racist to follow driving rules.
It’s not racist to use proper spelling. Or grammar.
It’s not racist to read and get good grades, and to graduate.
It’s not racist to eat healthy meals.
It’s not racist to go to the doctor. And dentist.
To pay your bills on time, to save money.
To say thank you, and say you’re welcome.
To listen to classical music.
To go outside to talk on the phone.
And it’s not racist to smile and be grateful to be alive.

The ambulance rolled the stretcher in, but the patient was already gone.
An attendant wrapped a barcoded band on the guy’s wrist, and a doctor tapped NEW PATIENT on his pad before tapping the red icon.
Ten hours later, the pathologist looked over the body.
NO PENICILLIN was tattooed on the guy’s ass.
He looked over the chart. Nothing about penicillin. Or anything.
No next of kin. Just his workplace listed as an emergency contact.
“Natural causes” he wrote on the form, and he cut open the chest cavity, weighed some organs, made some other measurements, and closed it up.

I’m not impressed with a lot of forms of pride.
Especially when it’s pride in an attribute and not an accomplishment.
In the end, most “pride” is about genital attributes.
Their color, their size.
Where your ancestors’ genitals came from.
Or if you’ve had them surgically altered for whatever reason, including an edict from God.
Unless you did it yourself. Then, okay… that’s impressive.
Pride in who or what you like to stick your genitals in or in your genitals is your business, really.
Done it with a few thousand people?
Then you should get checked for herpes right now.

The cyclone hit around midnight.
Winds. Lightning. Tornadoes.
Floods and fires.
A storm surge rolled across the city, smashing buildings and dragging debris out to sea.
Thousands died, thousands more missing and presumed dead.
Hospitals filled up, the bloody and broken spilled out in parking lots.
Bodies laid out in plastic, survivors walking along the rows to identify the dead.
Two couples, arguing over the smashed-up body of a child.
Both claiming it as their own. Shouting and screaming.
A nearby crewman with a chainsaw, clearing debris and fallen trees, chops it in half and orders them all to leave.

They say that Edwin Block didn’t write any of his stories, and that’s true, to a degree.
Edwin would sit at the bar and ramble for hours about things, and Martin the Barkeep wrote everything down he heard.
He couldn’t keep up, so he got a tape recorder, handing the tapes to his wife to transcribe.
Martin got the stories published, and kept the money.
“Edwin only drinks the good stuff, and that’s not cheap.”
After Edwin died, Martin tried to groom other drunks to take his place, but it wasn’t the same.
At least they drank the cheap stuff.

There are ten villages in the Storytellers’ Circuit, one Storyteller for each.
At the end of the year, they load up their wagons and head to the next village.
That way, their stories don’t become old, and they learn new tales from each village they visit.
Usually, the Storytellers arrive within a few days.
But if the Storyteller never arrives, or one dies during his residency, a contest is held in that village.
And a new Storyteller is appointed.
Their forehead branded with The Mark.
And they tell their stories.
Until the year is up, and they begin their journey.

Lonnie wrote books, and they were a modest success.
The movies adapted from them were a bigger success than his books.
Box office, awards…
They paid well, but it bothered Lonnie that people preferred to watch others interpretations of his stories than his actual stories.
So, he hired the writer who adapted his books for movies to polish up his next book.
It sold well, as well as the others, but the movie ruled the box office for months, swept the Golden Globes and Oscars.
Lonnie bought a bookstore and retired, signing books for fans, refusing to sign movie posters.

Gymnastics is a nasty, ugly sport.
So many injuries, so many child molesters among the trainers and coaches.
And yet, mothers allow their daughters to participate in this body and psyche wrecking sport.
All for what? Trophies? Medals? Ribbons?
A documentary or two, a book?
I know Mary Lou Retton had a television show. For PBS.
The black chick who quit at the Olympics scored a DoorDash commercial.
And another girl is in a GEICO commercial.
She jumps on the roof and grabs a frisbee for some dumbass stoners.
Forget gymnastics. Spend those free hours studying math, science, and engineering.

I’m not close to my family.
I don’t even think of them as my family or family anymore.
They’re just people.
So, every now and then, I get word somehow that something happens.
A wedding. A baby. A hospital stay. A funeral.
And then they ask “How are you?” out of habit.
I just say “Fine.”
Nothing about the job or cats or my health or my writing.
Sometimes, I’ll get a Kickstarter invite to fundraise funeral expenses or something.
‘Why should I pay for a show I won’t get to see?” I write back.
And close the browser tab.

It has been a long time since I last made a snowman.
Of course, people in tropics and deserts who have never made a snowman.
Or seen snow.
In Dubai, they’re so rich, there’s a park with snow machines and a ski slope.
People pay to build snowmen and have snowball fights.
One kid said that his snowman was the Prophet Mohammed.
The crowd tore him apart for the blasphemy.
The park was closed for an hour as a foreign labor crew gathered up the carnage and bloody snow.
Then, the winter wonderland was open for business again.
Such fun!