Grub Street Gutter

Cindy Anna Jones and the Holiday Mixer of Doom

2011-09-25T20:47:00.000-07:00

My entry for the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction competition. It placed third out of 25.

Genre: Open
Location: 13th floor of an office building
Object: A toy soldier

///

Cindy Jones snapped together her leather bag, threw it over her shoulder and stared at the flashing buttons on the elevator panel as they counted off toward 13. "In then out," she said to herself. "Just get in, grab the damn thing and get out of there."

The elevator heaved to a stop. With an ominous ding the doors split, imparting upon Cindy all the familiar horrors of the annual JERCO Janitorial, Paper and Lighting Supply holiday mixer. There was absolutely no force on the planet, she had told herself in the preceding months, which could force her to go to this work party. Yet here she was -- tired, hungry and disheveled, all thanks to one wretched little toy.

And so with a deep breath, Cindy cracked her knuckles and stepped into the abyss.
When soothsayers of days gone by spoke of creatures lurking between the gateways of this world and the hereafter, of demons and foul beasts without equal in our mortal world, they had not yet conceived of such evils as the infamous JERCO holiday mixer.

Trash strewn about, Cindy discovered her workplace had transformed itself into a house of booze and sinful clumsiness.

Bolting in front of her was a flash of pale skin and ruddy cheeks, a streak of bad bourbon-fueled depravity on the bare ass of that guy Dave, the one with the dandruff who's always scratching himself in meetings. As he passed a rush of ghastly fumes assaulted her senses. Cheap cologne, sweat and printer ink. Hairspray, gin, sex and ... fruit juice? Cindy gasped. Yes, and it was from concentrate.

Ducking her head, she weaved through the aisles. Martini glasses and G-strings whizzed by her like darts as she side-stepped vignettes of debauchery. On her right a group of men were gradually disrobing while comparing each other's stomach-shaving routines. On her left a pot-bellied account manager, one suspender dangling over his wine-stained undershirt, pretended not to be fondling his fawning, tightly sweatered assistant.

Cindy burped in her mouth a little. Almost there, she thought. I just need the toy and then I can get out of here before anyone notices and Jonathon will have his little Napoleon and he'll finally go to sleep and maybe possibly I might even get some peace and ...

"Hey, Mindy," a sky-high whine rang out over the music, a mix of the best from the '80s, '90s and today.

Cindy turned. Daftne, the office's resident coquette with an attention span almost as short as her skirt, was straddling their latest all-in-one copier/printer/fax/mechanical bull while a dozen or so drooling interns chanted "scan your documents!"

“I thought you weren't going to make it," the cowgirl said. "I thought you had to like do something with your kids or something."

Cindy, realizing she had been hunched over like a wild animal, stood up straight and smoothed out her night shirt. "I'm just stopping by to grab something and then I have to head right back out," she said. "Don't let me interrupt."

Daftne pouted her lips and wiggled her fingers goodbye. "Now, mush!" she yelled. A cheer went up from the crowd as someone pressed the color option and the electronic rodeo continued.

Resuming her raccoon position, Cindy tiptoed around the corral and straight for her desk. She could see the glint of little Napoleon, his brass beads shining and his bayonet sharpened, no doubt ready for a ride home. Smiling, Cindy placed him in her pocket. She turned around and stood face-to-face with Daryl Dinklehorn.

"Well well. If it isn't the gorgeous Cindy Anna Jones," he muttered. "I've been waiting for you all night, you know."

Wooden-faced as a cigarette shop Indian and swaying like a moose, Daryl had seen better days. Not much better, but better. Pants unbuckled, no shoes on and a row of hash marks on his cheek, he looked as if he had just passed out on a waffle griddle. Above him twinkled a shiny, plastic sprig of mistletoe.

Dear god, Cindy thought. How can his breath smell like vomit and bleach at the same time? And his face ... was he sleeping under my desk?

Desperate, she looked on the floor hoping to find something with which to ward him off. Her hands grasped a long, thin, shrink-wrapped package.

"Um, is that a Slim Jim?" Daryl asked, his eyes wide and tongue darting out like a lizard.

"It sure is," she said. "And I don't think I can even eat the whole thing. You wouldn't want it, would you?

Daryl lurched forward. "Uh, yeah," he said, grabbing at the petrified sausage. "Don't worry though, you still get to make out with me when I'm done."

Shuddering, Cindy snatched the tethered key card at her hip and flung it to the rafters. With impossible accuracy she lassoed a beam and vaulted herself across the office. Her feet skipped above the heads of randy page boys, stumbling secretaries and leathery executives snapping at her heels.

Up ahead she could see the elevator doors were closing fast. Cindy swung down, rolled on the ground and leaped to her feet. A co-worker stepped in front of her mumbling something about her cat's bizarre eating habits, but Cindy spun around her and sprinted forward. Just a slim opening remained between the elevator doors.

Diving, she flung her body through and crashed into the back of the lift. Cindy sat up and the joy of a clean escape hit her. She had made it. Finally she could go back home, give Jon his toy and have a quiet evening.

She reached into her pocket ... and caught her breath. All the color vanished from her face as she beat her fist on the floor. Pulling her hand out, she came away with no miniature French general, but a long, slimy, broken piece of meat.

Key card in hand, Cindy punched the number 13. Again.

///

Marine Fights off Lion with Chainsaw

2009-07-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

When Dustin Britton found himself face-to-face with a man-eating mountain lion, he did what any self-respecting man would do in this situation: he tried to kill it with a chainsaw.

While camping in Montana with his wife and two young children, Britton was chopping wood when he spotted a starving mountain lion eyeing him from the brush. So when the lion pounced, he revved his saw and struck it in the shoulder. Still, it didn't have the impact he hoped.

"You would think if you hit an animal with a chain saw it would dig right in," he said between cigar puffs, chuckling in his wife-beater. "I might as well have hit it with a hockey stick."

That's right. This man is so manly that the only way he knows how to describe a lion attack is to compare it with sports.

Tatiana: Empress of Disaster

2009-04-26T09:56:00.000-07:00

Here's a little tribute vid I've made to one of the most destructive forces mankind has ever known. Hopefully this offering goes a little way to appeasing the beast.

Amadou et Mariam

2009-04-16T01:31:00.000-07:00

There's something to be said for comfort zones. We fall in them like large animals fall into tar: slowly at first, as if nothing's wrong, but by the time it hits our breathing holes we're too far gone to ever pull ourselves out of it. Well, fuck that I say. Try something different before you suffocate.

Here's two blind singers from Mali.

1998 Elke Pinot Noir (My Fair Lady)

2008-12-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

Let me wine and dine thine inner twine,
Like a blind mime that's short on time.

But a better sketch of the line
Between what's yours and mine,
Is this kind of limp lime rhyme
That brews in foul brine crime.

Entr'acte

Holiday Playlist

2008-12-03T10:42:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas ya'll. Here are some melodies I put together that evoke the merciless, unforgiving spirit of the holidays. Enjoy.

holiday playlist

These shoes were made for walking...

2008-11-07T19:41:00.000-08:00

In case you hadn't heard, Mr. Barack Obama is going to be our next president. On the night of the election one of his staff took a bunch of candid, behind-the-scenes pictures. I think this is the best one:

Momma always said you could tell a lot about a person by the shoes they're wearing. In that case, Obama seems to have a lot more experience than people give him credit for.

The scary thing is, this guy is probably voting.

2008-10-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

This was just too good to pass up:

see more pwn and owned pictures

I always hated Daylight Savings. Now that it's been proven to be mankind's potential downfall, I have a real reason.

A cautionary tale

2008-10-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

"Dr. Troy Franklin, OBJECTIVE occult expert, has brought to our attention a disturbing new danger to weak-spirited Christians and unsaved persons that we feel needs to be reported.

As he tells it, while out at a local supermarket shopping for food for his cat, Dr. Franklin noticed one of those small tents advertising "Free Rock Chip Repair" that have been springing up in our nation's parking lots. Curious, he went to enquire about getting a ding in his windshield sealed, only to learn that the person manning the tent had other intentions, namely to try and recruit Dr. Franklin into a cult!

Fortunately, the good doctor has become quite immune to cultic recruiting ploys from his years studying their tactics, and thus he was able to extricate himself from the situation with his soul unharmed. However, those less skilled in their Faith -- and especially those of false faiths or no faith at all -- would have soon found themselves back at the cult headquarters doing all manner of unspeakable rites and blasphemies... or maybe even brainwashed into manning a tent of their own.

For the safety of your soul, do not be tempted by the lure of impulse rock chip repair from strangers in parking lots. It may say free, but it could cost you your soul! If you need your windshield fixed, go to a qualified Christian repair shop."

Hay dios mio. I haven't snickered this hard in a long time.

They just don't die like they die in Wyoming

2008-09-24T20:21:00.000-07:00

A true man's man was lost this past week. His obituary ran in the Casper Star-Tribune on Monday:

A celebration of life for James William "Jim" Adams, 53, will be held at a later date.

He died Tuesday, Sept. 9, 2008 at Memorial Hospital of Converse County in Douglas.

Jim, who had tired of reading obituaries noting other's courageous battles with this or that disease, wanted it known that he lost his battle. It was primarily as a result of being stubborn and not following doctor's orders or maybe for just living life a little too hard for better than five decades.

He was born June 8, 1955 in Garrison, N.D. the son of James William and Ruby Helen (Clark) Adams.

He was sadly deprived of his final wish, which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a date. True to his personal style, he spent his final hours joking with medical personnel, cussing and begging for narcotics and bargaining with God to look over his loving dog, Biscuit, and his family.

He would like to thank all "his ladies" for putting up with him the last 30 years.

During his life, he excelled at anything he put his mind to. He loved to hear and tell jokes and spin tales of grand adventures he may or may not have had.

He is survived by five sons, Jeremiah Adams and his wife, Nicole, Mica Olivas, Wade Olivas, Brice Simpson and Cole Adams; sister, Jerri Giegerich; two ex-wives, Vickie Harrison and Marilyn Williams; four grandchildren; two nieces; and two great-nieces.

He was preceded in death by his parents and a brother-in-law.

In lieu of flowers, he asks that you make a sizeable purchase at your favorite watering hole, get rip roaring drunk and tell the stories he no longer can.

RIP Jim, RIP.

Brained.

2008-09-21T00:12:00.000-07:00

Random musings
spiced with late-night boozings,
fuckle, 'tis barely midnight,
any other excuse sound right?

In a sense, innocense ends the cents.
Some earn sun burns, cuz their frost bite don't cost right.
But with proper diction we choose our own affliction, an arbitrary crucifixion,
And this broken reflection will only yield a token hoboken dissection.

So ask yourself: tethered charm, or a severed arm?

John McCain's got nothing on Alistair Urquhart

2008-09-19T18:58:00.000-07:00

On wednesday there was an amazing story in the SF Chronicle about a WW2 survivor. Let me summarize:

Alistair Urquhart is the kind of dude that makes the rest of us look like pansies. Born and raised in Scotland, he was drafted into the British army in 1939, when he was 19, as a part of the badass Gordon Highlanders. Shipped to Singapore, he was there when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and attacked the Malay Peninsula. There he surrendered, along with 100,000 other British, Australian and Indian soldiers and was taken to Burma to build a railroad to Thailand. For TWO YEARS he worked 18 hours a day, toiling in the jungle and watching his friends die of malaria and dysentery.

Finally, when it was finished, he was put on board a cargo ship, part of a convoy destined for Japan. This convoy was then tracked by an American submarine, the Pampanito. Unbeknownst to the Americans however was the fact that the Japanese ship was carrying around 900 prisoners of war, many of whom had suffered with Urquhart in the jungle.

Upon intercepting the ship, the Pampanito fired multiple torpedoes, effectively crippling Urquhart's prison. The Japanese soldiers onboard scrambled to the lifeboats, while an officer went around shooting the wounded in the head in order to save space. Meanwhile, the cargo hold's hatches were opened and every man went overboard, splashing around for something to float on. Many were rescued by the Americans, including 73 by the Pampanito. But not Alistair.

For 5 days he drifted in the South China Sea, amid wreckage and half-dead comrades, the water covered in oil from sunken ships. He sang to keep himself alive. Then one morning he woke to find he had floated away from the other men, and was soon picked up by a Japanese sailing vessel. With a few other survivors he was then taken to the island of Hainan and marched naked through the streets while the villagers spit on him. Then to Japan, where he worked in a coal mine near... (wait for it)... NAGASAKI. Yes, as in the same Nagasaki that was completely obliterated by an atomic bomb and 70,000 people died.

But still, Alistair Urquhart survived.

Rescued in September of 1945, he recovered in a hospital in San Francisco before returning home to Scotland. There he was greeted by no parade, no hero's welcome; only a paper that said he would never talk about what happened. "Politics," he says. And that's exactly what happened for 50 years. He got married and had kids, but never told them the details of what he had gone through, until his wife died in 1993. Then he began to rethink his ordeal, finally writing his memoirs and even visiting the Pampanito, the submarine with which he had had such a strange relationship.

Turns out my summary is almost as long as the article itself, but here it is if you wanna read it.

So the guy kept all of this bottled up for HALF A CENTURY.

Do me a favor: imagine almost dying. Yes, 'twould suck, any way you cut it. Now imagine not being able to tell anybody about it, about why you are so goddamned glad to be alive... for 50 years. You know what he said after being asked how he managed to survive? Growing up playing rugby, and his mom's cooking. This is what makes a hero, I believe. It is not only courageousness in the face of tyranny and horror, but the plain humility expressed afterwords. The sense that he just did what he had to.

Let's Get Physic-al

2008-09-11T22:16:00.000-07:00

So I went to a lecture tonight at Kepler's given by Brian Greene, the world-famous physicist from the NOVA series The Elegant Universe. The guy is like the rock star of neutron-nerds, the King quark dork.

Seriously. For example, his "Erdos-Bacon" number is only 5. Fucking 5, people! That's lower than Carl Sagan!

Anyways, I was really impressed at how well-spoken and genuinely interesting he made the science, which means a lot considering I know relatively nothing about it. Actually, I would say it was the most interesting physics presentation I've ever seen. He uses a lot of demonstration and analogy, interspersing data and theory with relatable stories, and the inventive animation clips are really high quality. He has a new book out:

Icarus at the Edge of Time

Its almost a children's board-book (I read it in literally ten minutes) with a twisted version of the Classic myth of Icarus. Here, however, he is on a space flight that requires lifetimes of travel: his grandfather and his father were born, grew up, and died entirely on board. Hijinks occur when the young, brash Icarus decides to venture too close to a black hole, tempting the laws of the cosmos (gods).

At first I was put off a little at how childish and contrived the story was. I've read a little of The Elegant Universe (you should check it out if you haven't) and was disappointed that there wasn't more to Icarus at the Edge of Time. Once he explained his purpose however I was more understanding and enjoyed it in retrospect. As he says, science as we know it has lost much of its ability to capture our attentions and hold us in rapture. Through the medium of storytelling we can get past the purely cognitive and spark the imagination, thus creating a motive for learning other than just memorization and fact-retainment.

In other words, he was really good. He also talked a bit about Einstein, gravity and black holes, but mostly kept it pretty simple. The talk was short though, as he had to teach a class at Columbia in the morning...

Here's a shabby video I took where he's discussing the formation of black holes:

LUNCH

2008-09-10T11:45:00.000-07:00

French fries with an inordinate amount of pepper, a spicy veggie chik'n patty in a bath of Tapatio, and all of it topped with a thick dollop of homework.

An Ode to Words

2008-08-21T15:45:00.000-07:00

I had a professor tell me once that if you ever want to be taken seriously as a writer, never write in pencil. That said, I'm not sure he even considers blogging communication at all.

Obviously the man took his job way too seriously. But I don't blame him. To reach tenure he probably had to develop some hard-ass persona that don't take no shit. Even so, one would think the only thing that matters are the words themselves, not the way they are put down on the page. An artist is rarely criticized for HOW he creates his painting. And does it really change the work of art when you find out later he just took a dump on a canvass and smeared it around to make it look like a still-life?

Maybe that's a strange example, but you see what I'm getting at. A bowl of fruit made from feces can still be a beautiful bowl of fruit, I think. What I'm saying is the method and materials shouldn't dictate the significance of the final product. I suppose the man's reasoning has to do with the fact that pencil, like internet writing, allows you to be a bit more schizophrenic with your word choice. Something doesn't sound right, just erase and replace. Or if you end up offending someone, like, perhaps, people who paint with shit, then you can go back and either delete the passage or put it in bold. Whatever your MO tells you.

Ink doesn't afford this liberty. You have to have a plan, fore-thought. You have to know exactly who your intended offendees are and exactly what to say to stick it to 'em. A penned word can't be undone without blotting and making a scar of the entire page. This is probably why ol' hoary haired Prof had such an inking inclination. He thinks it shows an intellect capable of cohesiveness, able to sustain a coherent theme without getting distracted by boredom or indecision. I think he's a cranky old bastard that refuses to find a happy medium.

So I say let pen and pencil copulate in an equilibrium of visual communication. Let musty Ph.Ds join hands with boob bloggers, and let them maintain a healthy balance of the written and typed word. Our world, indeed our very salvation depends upon their reconciliation.

Godspeed, shit-eaters.

Job Hunting

2008-08-08T12:06:00.000-07:00

What kind of Bacardi girl doesn't know what 151 is?

In downtown San Jose the night before last, at the Britannia Arms on Santa Clara St, I was confronted with a very tired, very bored looking booze-peddler. By that I mean she was one of those hopeless little girls who, perhaps gaining experience for a burgeoning career in stripperdom, is picked up by a label and forced to hock only the worst kind of liquor. When she handed me a $2 coupon I asked if it was good for 151. Her puzzled look sat well on her face, as if it held a comfortable, well-maintained seat between the lines of caked foundation. She had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. It was like I had just blurted out a random number and it was up to her to make sense of it. One would think that at least a cursory knowledge of the various alcohols made by one's employer would be helpful, especially when trying to SELL that particular drink, but no. Apparently all you need to sell booze are moderately-sized breasts and a functioning mouth. Shit, I have moderately-sized boobs and a functioning mouth.

This being my first ever blog post, there are probably those wondering why I chose to relate such an inane story. The truth is, I don't really know. All I know is that this poor girl had a job. Who knows, she may still have it. But how is it that someone can have a job like this, any job, and still not know what the fuck they are doing? Shouldn't there have been someone standing near that would, after hearing such ineptitude, strip her of her beads and drink coupons just for making the company look stupid? Personally, I think rum in any form is disgusting, but now it's hit a whole new low.

The one thing I cannot tolerate is an uninformed drunk. So, I ask you, please join me in boycotting Bacardi Rum until they manage to hire better informed representatives, ones who know a bit more about their product and, consequently, don't make the fact that I still don't have a job look that much more pathetic.