The Chipmunk's Story

I am a chipmunk. I live at the zoo, yo. I don't live IN the zoo... shit... that life's for suckas. I just live AT the zoo. I take what I want. I feel sorry for them animals all cooped up in their shitty cages, but hey, they got caught, and I'm free. Should have tried harder, suckas.

When I say I take what I want, I mean it. I don't need a soft life of waiting for each meal and eating from the hand of some bigass human-fuckin-being. Hell no! I make my own plans for dinner! That's real talk!

If I want to fall back on that ass with a bonafide gangsta lean, like just cold chill in my crib, then I make preparations so as I don't have to go out. I survey my hood (the Australian Outback or some shitty rendition of it) and I scurry across the stones till I smell a plate full of food. Mmmm, mmm, that shit gets my tail perky, know I'm sayin'?

Like the other day I went out to fill my cheeks and I could smell a plate of food somewhere near the bat exhibit. When I investigate, what should I find but that the fools enjoying that plate are a couple dumbass birds. Faggots, too, by the looks of that rainbow plumage.

Well they're on the inside and I'm on the outside. It's not only in the fuckin zoo where jailbirds are given better meals than free men. You gotta get used to that shit, though, that's life.

Getting to the cage is quite a scramble. Keeping out of sight from those loudmouth brats holding Dairy Queen cones is tough work, for sure. If I hear another snot-nosed punk call out "Hey mama, look at the cute little squirrel" I'm gonna go apeshit on his ass. Squirrel? Fuck those big-tailed monkey-ass niggas! Last thing in the world I'm gonna put up with is shortie belittling me with that kind of shit talking.

Anyway, I creep up on the cage outside the bat exhibit and start digging. Nothing comes easy. I hit a rock and I've gotta quit and find a better spot. So I creep over to the door, these are always a little loose, no barriers underground. I get underneath and then I realize I've gotta get under another door. They put two doors into these bird cages so that the zookeepers can always keep one closed, keep the birdbrains inside. Well, no amount of doors can keep me out. I smell that birdseed and those exotic nuts and grapes and... well you know, right? I gots to be about my food storing.

When I'm on the other side I stay under cover of the planted foliage, bushes and shit, till I'm under the plate. I'm about to make a go up the branch when I spot this damn guy.

He looks like a fag to me. Grey striped hoodie, short fucking shorts, tight t-shirt, half-assed beard, and blue mouth from a slushie he's holding. But even though he's watching, he's not making a show of it. This punk may look like a softie, but he's no squealer. He's not going to walk over to the zoo folks and tell em whats up in Gay Bird Cell #69. He'll keep it to himself. And that's all I need to know.

Go ahead and watch, punk. You might learn something.

Up the shrub I go, and the birds scatter. I doesn't matter how big they are, how sharp their claws, how long their beaks. Soft-ass animals know hard-ass animals when they see them, and I fit in the latter category. Best recognize.

That punk stares as I cram it in. I start with the seed first, pocket it in every crevice of my jaw that's too small to put the real goods. Then I start in on a nut, rolling it perfectly in my hands and nibbling away till it fits with the seeds. Then a grape, letting the juices soak what I've already got and making it easier to mash down for efficiency. After that I move to breadcrumbs, then back to seeds... the cycle continues.

Then I'm interrupted. No, not the punk. Some shortie standing next to the punk. He sees me too, and he's getting ready to tell somebody about it. That shit will not stand.

I'm out.

Back to the ground, under the brush. Have to make it to the gate before the kid sees me.

Too late.

I tried to make a break but I can hear this fucking kid's mom now. "That's right sweetie, that chipmunk is stealing all their food."

Yeah, and I'll take your eyes if you don't shut the fuck up, bitch. I've gotta blow. I'm under the first door, making it towards the second. The punk in the grey hoodie is just watching me with understanding. I'd almost let him help me out here, but trusting is for suckas.

I'm under the second door. The brat that tattled is making like he's going to try and get to me now that I'm on the outside of the cage. He might get too close before I make it to a bush.

The punk steps out in front of him, says, "Don't worry about it," and the brat is stopped in his tracks.

I'm under a bush.

"Hey! Where'd he go?" the kid is loud as a fucking bullhorn.

The punk repeats, "Don't worry about it."

What a fucking hero. Not like I need that shit, but still, every little bit helps. When the kid gives up trying to spot me in my hiding space, I creep out to the punk's foot and look up, trying to show him some appreciation, just a look of recognition. I think he sees it.

The moment stops when I catch a whiff of stale popcorn and decide that I could probably use it to top off my load.

That's what it's all about. Get what you can, take what you can get, and don't regret your take.

Anna Vogelzang and Tiger Saw Review

Dylan assumed the space at the front of the Dragon's Keep with a quiet but confident demeanor. He rang the bell hanging from the headstock of his ancient and beaten guitar, calling attention to the presentation we had in store. Anna Vogelzang called an "A-huh-heh-hem" and captured the moment. Dylan spelled out his full name, (which I misunderstood,) and assured us that he and Anna would make up the Tiger Saw lineup for the evening.

He began with a stomp of his black shoe and a strum of the guitar, Anna's harmonies meshing with the first melody of the night. He held his head high, and marched through the song with steady resolve while she held a coffee cup in two hands and climbed vocal steps to meet the song's wistfully beautiful mood.

After the opener he asked if anybody had any questions. I asked from midway back if his name was Dillinger abbreviated Dillin, only to receive the reply that it was in fact Dylan Jeremiah. My mistake. As further reply the Tiger Saw came closer to my section of the room to stand before the coffee bar and present to us in a more personal space. Much appreciated.

Short explanations, such as the feeling of being beside somebody and finding your emotions too complex to express, or anecdotes of seeing fully dressed prostitutes in the red-light district of Hamburg (what queer advertising.) A few songs featured Anna adding solo melodies with accompaniment by Dylan. Each song stuck pretty close to the formula, (a working formula,) but one standout included statements about certain ghosts always being near to our hearts. That particular cut also featured travel buddy Joe Arnold adding pizzicato string accompaniment and short bowing on the violin.

Dylan finished with thanks and recollections of friends in Massachusetts. He then launched into a final melody which faded into accappella choruses imploring listeners to keep a song with them to remind of home. A chime of the bell ended the set.

Anna Vogelzang took our attention next, with little announcement save for a request that steamed and blended drinks be saved for after the set. God, that really bothers me. The drinks I mean. Oh well.

Percussive blasts from the guitar were the true heralding of Anna's first "up, up and away-hey-eh" joint, complimented by climbing violin strains from Joe. Rapid lyricism cascaded finally into a fading chorus and formal introduction. Various and sundry names for the tour were thrown about as jokes before the next song was introduced as being penned for Paris Hilton during her "tough" stay behind bars. Indeed, "we love to watch you suffer" rings true, at least for me, not so much the "I love your hair" echoed into infinity towards the end, but the bright charisma carried me to the climax nevertheless.

The following ballad, a finger-picker, was a definite example of Joe's flourishing violin skills. Swirling trills at the refrain gave the old slow-burner the added heat to convince of us of the intended warmth spoken of in the lyrics. However it was "Philly", Anna's recollections of her one time of home in Philadelphia that rang out more magnificently still, bursting forth through crisp falsetto resolving to diminished chords and an instrumental bridge showcasing a charming solo ending in a quiet verse of burning memories.

A rousing rendition of The Beatles' "Your Mother Should Know" came next, with violin harmonizing vocals on the spiraling "sing it again" pre-choruses. An anecdote about actually stopping in Cleveland for the previous night's show preceded "Family Band," a song that begins with the line "how about we move to Cleveland." For the record, apparently Anna would never want to actually move there.

A little cowboy ditty completed the set, a self-proclaimed "quiet version of an already quiet song" that was enhanced by the pleasantly surprised smiles exchanged between the players as correct notes blended together in this new rendition. Dylan stepped up to join Anna on a duet where they played mock lovers. Joe spotlighted once more with quiet plucks of the guts at the start of the evening's closer, "Hymn for a Parents." What a hero, that Joe.

The Truth About Christmas

The truth about Christmas was a secret I discovered very early in life. I was approximately three and a half years old. As I sat in the back seat of the car waiting for my dad to come out of Target I looked at the front seat and asked my mother point blank, "Is there really a Santa Claus?" I don't remember her answer exactly, but I know it was some parental bullshit. Which is okay. Who wants their kid to figure out this universal lie so early?

Anyway, I sniffed my way through. "Yeah, but how does Santa Claus get all the way around the world and..." I explored the obvious fallacies in the St. Nick myth aloud and I could see my mother growing visibly agitated. She asked me, "Do you want to know the truth?" Um, yeah? So she told me the truth: mom and dad, grandma and grandma, etc. buy the gifts and stay up later on Christmas to put the gifts under the tree and then they write Santa Claus in the 'From:' portion of the gift tag.

This did not bother me. It did bother my parents when I peeked into the trunk, knowing that my dad had no doubt purchased Santa's share in the toy aisles of Target (still my favorite department store.) It bothered them when I tried to peek under my dad's desk to find out what kind of wrapping paper I could find my loot in on xmas morning.

Now I am 21, and I wish I only had Santa to blame.

Poor John Mobius

John is driving on the highway to meet his wife at work

He sees a spot of road construction ahead of him

He shifts lanes to avoid construction

He ends up behind a dump truck carrying gravel

Pieces of gravel fall off the top of the truck

The gravel bounces fast and high off of the road

A piece falls on John’s windshield

It splinters, cracks, shatters

John loses control and consciousness

He wakes up in the hospital

His wife is sitting beside him

She says that when he lost control the car drove off of a bridge

In the ensuing destruction, traffic below destroyed the bridge supports

It was a miracle John survived

He was almost entirely unharmed physically

The city has been rebuilding the bridge since the accident

It is almost repaired

Because of his accident John is extremely skittish

He is unable to hold a job

His wife must work to support them both

She takes a job farther north that pays better

The job is far more stressful than her last

She resents him for not working

John feels badly for being unable to work

He decides to surprise his wife for lunch

He knows he shouldn’t drive but gets in his old car anyhow

John is driving on the highway to meet his wife at work

He sees a spot of road construction ahead of him

He shifts lanes to avoid construction

He ends up behind a dump truck carrying gravel

Pieces of gravel fall off the top of the truck

The gravel bounces fast and high off of the road

A piece falls on John’s windshield

It splinters, cracks, shatters

John loses control and consciousness

He wakes up in the hospital

His wife is sitting beside him

She says that when he lost control the car drove off of a bridge

In the ensuing destruction, traffic below destroyed the bridge supports

It was a miracle John survived

He was almost entirely unharmed physically

The city has been rebuilding the bridge since the accident

It is almost repaired

Because of his accident John is extremely skittish

He is unable to hold a job

His wife must work to support them both

She takes a job farther north that pays better

The job is far more stressful than her last

She resents him for not working

John feels badly for being unable to work

He decides to surprise his wife for lunch

He knows he shouldn’t drive but gets in his old car anyhow

John is driving on the highway to meet his wife at work

He sees a spot of road construction ahead of him

He shifts lanes to avoid construction

He ends up behind a dump truck carrying gravel

Pieces of gravel fall off the top of the truck

The gravel bounces fast and high off of the road

A piece falls on John’s windshield

It splinters, cracks, shatters

John loses control and consciousness

He wakes up in the hospital

His wife is sitting beside him

She says that when he lost control the car drove off of a bridge

In the ensuing destruction, traffic below destroyed the bridge supports

It was a miracle John survived

He was almost entirely unharmed physically

The city has been rebuilding the bridge since the accident

It is almost repaired

Because of his accident John is extremely skittish

He is unable to hold a job

His wife must work to support them both

She takes a job farther north that pays better

The job is far more stressful than her last

She resents him for not working

John feels badly for being unable to work

He decides to surprise his wife for lunch

He knows he shouldn’t drive but gets in his old car anyhow

Bus Wreck

At first I was thrown too far off-balance to wonder what had happened. The noise was the only sensation invading my mind as I tried to scurry off of the hard, wet floor under my hands and knees. Children were yelling and screaming and even crying already. The bus driver was on the intercom immediately; she was shouting sedative phrases at a volume that pierced the commotion it was trying to control.

“Everybody calm down! Quiet! Everyone sit down! Be quiet and sit down!”

Most of the kids ignored the request. I listened. I sat down on the seat I had been kneeling on a few moments earlier. I always sat in the back so I could see everyone in front of me. Right now that was too much to see, so I hunkered down and allowed my brain to review the sensations it had just experienced.

There had been a loud noise. Swerving. Disorientation due to the sharp reduction of momentum and the side to side swaying of the school bus. That’s when I must have hit the floor.

The inside of the bus was now erupting with children’s voices. I chanced a look out the window.

Grey sky. That’s wasn’t right. It should be the trees that line the established suburban roads that sliced up the neighborhoods surrounding our school.

Ignoring the deafening roar around me I crept across the vinyl seat and onto my knees to peer out the window. Before I could see outside I looked down and noticed Tommy Harrison sitting calmly on the seat in front of me with his knees drawn up to his chest. His back was to the window. I suddenly remembered him standing up with his head against the glass before it all happened. Now he looked up at me and shook his head. His eyes clearly said “don’t look.”

But I looked.

The bus was sort of sideways across an intersection where two neighborhood entrances faced each another. We had been on the main street between the two and somebody had tried to cross over. That explained the loud noise. A red sedan was setting up against the outside of the bus with its belly up. The wheels of its left side were reaching toward the sky.

People were getting out of stopped cars on the other side of the bus. I saw them scurry around the damaged vehicle, a few stopped to kneel down and see the person inside. A larger group ran around the front of the bus to check on us. From where I sat we, those of us in the bus, looked fine. I focused on the outside again.

A man in a black baseball cap got on his belly to see under the sedan which was lying against the bus. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse through the front windshield. From my raised position above him I could’ve spit on his back with no trouble. He suddenly got up quickly and made a pained expression of recognition. He took off his hat and slapped his mostly bald head with his empty palm. After this gesture of exasperation he ran around to the front of the bus. My eyes followed him until he disappeared around the corner.

I heard the bus door open and he leapt up the steps and leaned toward the bus driver. Her arm dropped as the man spoke, still holding the intercom transmitter. Her face squinted up before going deadly serious. She looked back at the first few rows of panicked children, scanning the faces for one in particular. Upon finding it she looked away quickly, dropped the intercom, and dropped her head in her arms on the steering wheel.

The man with the black hat also dropped his head. Then he placed his hat back on top and took a deep breath. In an attempt to balance out the pandemonium around me I looked down again at Tommy. He was still shaking his head. A tear was on his face. He had seen it all.

The man with the black hat walked back to the third row and looked down at a girl named Melissa. She had blonde hair that was almost white. She looked scared. She was younger than me. The man knelt down beside her and explained something terrible. I can only guess what words he used to communicate the sudden misery Melissa was about to experience. I was distracted by the sound of sirens.

The next few minutes passed quickly. A police officer was on board in a flash, organizing children into a steady exit stream. I was blinded by the reflection of ambulance red on the pale bus windows. A fireman made a great deal of commotion just behind me. Apparently the emergency door was stuck, so I would have to wait my turn. As my classmates disappeared down the big black steps at the front of the bus I turned to sneak a last look at the wreckage below me. A stretcher was rolling towards the car. Police officers were keeping traffic at bay. A fireman had wrenched the upside-down passenger door open and was reaching with the help of another to remove the men inside.

I recognized Melissa’s older brother, Jason. He was a fifth grader when I was a first grader. He had been a hall monitor. All the other girls thought he was the cutest in the Christmas program so some of them had tried to get bathroom passes when he was working. I never had a crush on Jason. I thought Terry Jackson was the cutest in the program. He was only in third grade at the time and I thought maybe when we grew up I would have a chance.

Jason didn’t have a chance. Neither did the driver. I didn’t know him for sure, but his bloodstained mustache and balding head made me guess it was Melissa’s dad.

One of the “rescue” workers tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come this way please.”

That’s when I decided that nobody on the scene needed rescuing. It was too late for Melissa’s brother and her dad. It was too early for the rest of us.