It's Back!

You think you're alive? You're wrong!

This Saturday.

9:00 p.m.

13th and P Streets.

XXXXtreme Urban Street Tag Rides Again.

Be there, be whole.

call 402-677-5266 for more information.

But what is the significance of tag? Special guest writer Josh Beran can explain it.

The Social Signficance of Tag:

"Survival of the Fittest" is routinely and wrongly attributed to Charles Darwin. The phrase, in fact, comes from social theorists who were perhaps a bit overzealous, and certainly far too direct, in pursuing the interests of the better half.

A central tenent of Darwinism is, in fact, randomness. There is no "deserve" in nature. Right and wrong, punishment and reward, justice and injustice, nothing but illusions. The lion does not catch the gazelle because it works harder or has a better grasp of the concept of victory. The lion catches the gazelle because it has the dumb luck of being born a lion.

This is why tag is essential. Those of us who bear the burden of the truth know that our weekly ritual is an act of defiance against the moral anarchy of the bitch-goddess we call nature,a primal scream against the mortal shells with which we have been cursed. But what do the commoners see?

They see rules, "winners", "losers",and most importantly, they see order. Simply put, we of the tag are order, we are society. The veneer of reason we create prevents the peasantry from abandoning their work in dispair; or destroying themselves in hopeless rebellion against forces beyond their understanding.

Thanks to tag, the unwashed accept our arbritary rule as "natural" and turn their dimly realized frustrations upon each other. True, this does create some ugliness from time to time, but this can logically be justified as population control, and at any rate, society is surely more efficiant and productive than it otherwise would be.

If tag did not exist it would be necessary to invent it.

Last Section

this is the last piece of new material related to my novel for the rest of the semester. From this point forward it is going to be revisions of the first thirty pages.

The drive from downtown to the apartment fifty-seven blocks away didn’t Kopelson. He liked having the freedom of being in a vehicle that was semi-moving. When he normally left at five it was a nightmare. As far as he was concerned the benefit of working later than everyone is nearly free-reign of Twenty-Seventh Street on his ride home.
MedSupply was done. Its last day was tomorrow. He still had time to buy some of the remaining inventory but it hadn’t changed at all since the phone call. He didn’t get a hold of any new suppliers and he was worried about having to impose a shut down.
His best bet was his old friend Chris Burner. His main buyer kept mishandling the product, leaving it out too long, or selling it for way below market price. Burner planned to find someone new, perhaps Kopelson, but the contract expired next month so he needed a supplement for the next three weeks.
His cigarette smoke flew out the cracked window as he rolled home. He stared at the road and tried to focus but his thoughts kept cycling back to his impending problem. Whenever he tried to think of something else the thought would end and the same one would come up again.
He pulled into his apartment-garage and shut the door. He punched in his code so hard his index finger throbbed when he got to his room.
He sat down in his leather chair and opened his briefcase. He pulled out the donor profiles hoping that some miracle had rejuvenated the stiffs to a usable condition so he could get enough supply to tide the company over until the next month. He shuffled through them again.
Still disappointed, he put the manila envelopes on his desk and picked up an ashtray. When he sat down he looked at the top profile. Baldwin. She was the youngest and least fucked up of the group, which was saying a lot since she died of a heroin overdose. He opened up the file and noticed the name of the funereal home.

“How old is your son?”
“My wife is three months pregnant.”
“So why is it ‘Menke and Son?”
“It sounds more professional.”
Kopelson taped a cigarette filter on the bar and offered one to Menke. Menke turned it down but that didn’t defer Kopelson at all.
Kopelson loved these conventions. Large gatherings of people whose jobs were stigmatized by society we always a good time. He always met some of the most interesting characters at bars in hotels and convention centers.
“Kind of limiting his career options, aren’t you?”
They laughed and ordered more beer.
“You know, Harvey, I’m thinking of expanding my business to include more donations to you supply boys. I think we could work something out.”
“I’m not in the market right now, Tom. MedSupply is being good to me. They keep getting more stock points and I don’t think they’ll ever go out of business at this rate.”
“Did you hear about the guys selling transplants in Dallas?” Kopelson said.
“Yeah, it’s a shame.”
“Like our pariah status wasn’t bad enough.”
“I meant that they got caught, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
They laughed, but something about the way Menke said it was off. It seemed like he was baiting him, testing to see if Kopelson would respond favorably. He shrugged it off and the two kept on drinking.

Since that time the two had kept in moderate touch. Though far from friends they usually saw each other at conventions and shared a drink or six. It hadn’t been bad except Menke always brought up the supply thing.

His cell phone rang. He flipped it open and checked to see the caller. It was Matt.
“Matt, how’s it going?”
“I’ve been better.”
“What’s wrong? Is everything at Wyuka okay?”
“Yeah, its fine, but one of the local mortuaries sold a plot here and didn’t tell the family they could have the same things done here but save the driving time.”
“That’s not right. I hate that. The family shouldn’t have to pay for escorts if they know they don’t have to.”
“I know, so I’m going to have to file a civil suit.”
“Who did it?”
“Menke and Son.”

The phone call ended and Kopelson went to his computer. He clicked the ‘Local’ folder and found Tom’s site. He went to the contact section and found the number for the home. He programmed it into his phone. The clock said one-thirty so he decided to go to bed. He could give Tom a call in the morning.

The phone rang and Gibson answered.
“Hello?”
“Is Mr. Menke available?”
“One moment, please.”
He put the caller on hold and strolled down to Menke’s office. He knocked and after about thirty seconds was cleared for entrance.
“Are you jerking off in here?”
“Yeah, it’s the thought of you and all that corpse love. It gets me so hot. What stiffer, your dick or your partner.
“Call on line two,” he began walking, “you jackass.”
“Hello?”
“Tom, its Harvey Kopelson.”
“What’s going on?”
“Not too much. I realized I haven’t seen you in a while. We should go have a drink and catch up. What works for you?”
Menke looked at his over-sized desk calendar. He ran his finger along the current week.
“It looks like I’m free uh…tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
“Sounds good. Zen’s at seven?”
“You’re on.”






Chapter Five
What better night to get fucked up than Tuesday? Menke asked himself as he finished off another Newcastle that caused the familiar buzz to grab hold and drag him down. Kopelson sat across from him in the dimly lit martini bar. They had much to discuss as they downed expensive drinks. Each time they bought a drink they left a tip for the bartender with large breasts.
“I heard MedSupply went under,” Menke said.
“Yeah, Donovan’s such a cheese-dick.”
“I don’t know. I worked with him a few times. He’s efficient.”
“He’s a jackass. He dropped out because ‘he felt like it’ and left me with my dick in my hand.”
Menke went up to get another drink, which meant another dollar for the bartender. Kopelson stood up but Menke offered to buy this round.
“How’s that one guy you work with?”
“Gibson?”
“I don’t know, sure.”
“He’s good, I guess. I think he’s been down. The other day I heard him listening to some old punk band or something. He usually does that when he’s pissed.”
“Do you know what’s wrong?”
“No,” Menke said, “and I don’t really care. Some customers almost walked in. I unplugged the CD player and told him he couldn’t listen to it anymore.”
He was lying, but so what? Kopelson wouldn’t know.
A few dollars and drinks later things became a little more interesting for both men in the dimly-lit bar.
“I heard Wyuka is suing you,” Kopelson said.
“Who told you that?”
“I know Hefelbower. He helped me out big time in winning supplier of the year back in ninety-eight.”
“Does he know you know me?”
“No, why would he?”
Another drink downed by both men.
“I can’t have this lawsuit, Harvey.”
“Why?”
“It’ll ruin me. I’m sure if I could come up with more money I could get him to, you know, settle out of court. That’s the best-case scenario, but I don’t have the money.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I might have to give pay cuts, maybe even fire Gibson and hire some kid fresh out of college who will work for less. That would suck. Gibson is good.”
They drank some more and then the whore bartender with large breasts cut them off. She ordered a cab and forced them to drink water until it arrived.

Kopelson offered Menke a cigarette. He declined. His wife would be pissed. He would get yelled at. It would be easier not to, although he did miss the feeling of alcohol and nicotine.

A skinny kid pulled up in a station wagon that was capped with a glowing half circle on top that said cab. He got out and went into the bar. He looked at the ticket. He went to the bartender and forced himself not to look down.
“I’m here for; let me see here, Menke and Kopelson?”
The too drunk men came up to him. They asked the skinny kid with the too tight shirt and too baggy pants if he was there cabby. He said he was.
“How old are you?” Menke asked.
“Twenty-one,” the kid responded.
“Jesus, I’ve got herpes scars older than you,” Kopelson said.
The two men and the one kid laughed.
“Where to, gentlemen?”
“The Hi-way Diner?” Kopelson asked Menke.
“Yeah, I’m starving.”

The skinny kid in the punk-band shirt had a sense of humor, but no sense of direction. He might have been new to the job, but Kopelson didn’t care. It took him almost thirty minutes to get them there. They paid the fare, but the tip stayed in Kopelson’s pocket.
The Hi-way Diner was practically a legend in Lincoln. It was located on a former artery of the Midwest, it was a place where college students went to study and drink cheap coffee and drunks and stoners went to get greasy food.
It was a truck-stop without the trucks. It didn’t just sell greasy food; it sold random crap from all over the neighborhood. When Kopelson and Menke fell in they saw a washing machine, six bags of assorted rags and copy of the original SimCity.
It was also famous for its bus. The owner purchased an old city bus from the local busing company and gutted it. He put in restraint style seats, lights and heaters. Patrons could go on the bus anytime they wanted and smoke. It was a middle finger to the local ban. Normally it was crowded with high school students drinking but tonight it was empty.
“Tom, we both have a problem. I think I can help you.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“You have to promise you won’t tell anybody,” Kopelson’s hands began to sweat as he lowered his voice to match his stomach.
They were alone on the bus but he kept it down anyways. There were still some people inside and he didn’t want anybody to randomly walk in and surprise them.
Menke leaned in closer; his eyes became slightly more alert. He saw some activity behind the glaze.
“I was thinking about that convention where you told me about those guys in Dallas.”
Menke thought as hard as he could.
“I remember vaguely. They sold transplants or something.
“They sold transplants in a completely safe fashion; the only problem was the families didn’t exactly know.”
“You’re not suggesting…” Menke’s voice came to life as he stood up.
“Shhh. I’m not suggesting anything right now, I’m just brainstorming. Hear me out, okay?”
Menke sat back down and leaned forward even closer.
“The reason they got caught was they got too greedy. They were making millions and the government got wise. All I’m saying it do it for a month. Keep me supplied until Burner hooks me up. Then we get out and never mention it again. We’ll make a couple thousand dollars, split it fifty-fifty. You can get some hush money for Hefelbower, I don’t have to shut down and everyone wins.”
“Harvey, those are people’s loved ones we’d have to tamper with,” he said, a lot less harshly than his previous outburst.
“I’m not saying we take the entire body, just some tissue and ligaments. It won’t do anybody any good rotting in the ground. This way people’s lives are saved, selfish non-donors do some good with the bodies they’re throwing away and we cure our headaches.”
There was a pause while Kopelson lit a cigarette.
“Besides, nobody would ever know, it’d only be a month.”
“How do we even get the parts to you? There are all kinds of rules and regulations.”
“All you have to do is get me the part with a signed death certificate. That’s it. It’s maybe a half-hour of work. I’ll test is and ship it. I’ll take all the expense so technically you’d make more money and do less work.
Menke looked out the window.
“Only a month?”
“That’s all I need. Just to tide me over until the contract.
“Well. No, no this is crazy. I can’t do this.”
“Don’t decide tonight. I’ll give you a few days. I have four until I have to shut down. That’s plenty of time to make a well informed decision.”
“Give me a cigarette.”

Around two in the morning Menke got home. He had a vague idea where his car was and a buzz giving way to a headache.
The first thing he saw when he came in was his wife looking pissed off. In her hand she held an unopened letter from the Justice Department. Her normally warm gaze was ice. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the tears coming down her face froze into icicles.
“What’s this?” she her icy voice demanded.
“It’s nothing. Give it to me.”
“Have you been drinking?” she said, “and smoking?”
“Absolutely not. Give me that letter.”
“Don’t lie to me. I could smell you coming up the walk.”
“Okay, I drank.”
“Who with?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Who with.”
“Give me that letter.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“Harvey Kopelson, he’s a guy from work.”
He snatched the letter from her.
“You said you’d quit. You swore it. If you’re not going to think about me, could you please think about your son, think of the example you’re setting.”
“Why are you drinking on a Tuesday? Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
“You’re just hysterical because of your pregnancy.”
He immediately regretted those words.
She stood up and walked upstairs. It was like he ceased to exist. He heard her footsteps knocking as she went up and the door slamming shook the entire house. The lock on their room slid shut and he knew it would be couch time for him.
He opened the letter and his eyes bulged. He reached into his pocket and looked up Kopelson’s number.”
“Hello?” a groggy voice on the other end croaked.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”

Erotic Stories

So I went to the raunchy porn store with JJ and John. I bought a three pack of porn short stories for the hell of it.

Needless to say they suck a lot.

So what else could I do?

I picked ten quotes from them and posted them here.

Enjoy.

10:
"what would you like to eat?" (guess where this is going.)
"You."

9:
"As I sucked on her right hand, Amanda placed a finger from her left hand in her pussy and braught it up to her own nose."
(HOT!)

8:
"I could here her cunt squelching from the front seat."
(How does a vagina squelch?)

7:
"After one little lover quarrel she brings out the strap-on cock."
(Healthy relationships are great.)

6:
"Every woman is made of a deliciosly different pattern--like snowflakes--no two are alike."
(Keen, not-redunadant observation.)

5:
"Creamy passion."
(Like cheese, or beer foam.)

4:
"As she impaled herself on David's monster cock..."
(What a great way to kill yourself, I mean describe sex.)

3:
"First I would like to thank you for a great publication."
(Yup, haven't agreed with anything this whole-heatedly since the invention of hamburger-earmuffs.)

2:
"...her nipples pointed at me like guns blazing."
(The simile I have always wanted to hear!)

1:
"My sister was so happy about me getting her pregnant that my cock stiffened and I filled her with cum again."
(If you have a weak stomach then don't read that.)

Well, what have we learned today? Porn is gross. Especially when it involves family members. I have decided to start my own porn short story magazine, its called "Limbless."

It's for all the dozens of people in the world who are attracted to amputee sex.

God bless America.

Chapter Two

I'm just Nine pages short of my goal.

Dan Feuerbach
English 352
03/22/2006
Chapter Three

The alarm clock called and Tom Menke responded. Out of bed and into the shower he moved as quietly and quickly as he could.
He was soaped, shampooed and out before the shower could fully adjust to being turned on.
Four bodies in the dungeon, three appointments and God knows how many orders for flowers, coffins, graves and vaults he would have to make before the day was over, he thought.
Into his suit, he buttoned as fast as he could, he zipped as quick as he could and he combed his black hair, parted on the left, and was ready to make his exit. He almost grabbed his keys off the oak dresser and paused to look at her.
Jenny was asleep and Menke was relieved. Curled into her comforter he smiled. Then he picked up his keys and went out the door.

Gibson was waiting when Menke arrived.
“Menke, you need to move closer. I beat you here every time.”
“You’re a whore.”
Into the door and over to the alarm system. He turned it off and turned around, Gibson was right behind him.
“What’s the plan today?”
“Well, we need to get at least three of the four as close to done as possible. I have to meet with some families, the usual shit but in higher quantities.”
Gibson went downstairs, Menke went to his office. Fifteen more minutes before the first family came in. He couldn’t remember who it was. He opened his appointment book.
“Jenny Baldwin,” he whispered to himself, “intravenous drug user, overdosed on heroin.”
This was a rarity, he thought, usually he dealt with nattys (people who died of natural causes) and people who got in accidents. He saw a few suicides and even fewer OD’s. Usually it was meth, but variety is the spice of life, he thought, and death.
Even with the door shut he could hear Gibson’s music. He listened closely, he wasn’t quite sure what song it was.
You’ll work harder with a gun in your back
for a bowl of rice a day…
The family would be there any minute. He jogged over to the stairway that led to the Dungeon.
“Gibson! Turn that shit down,” he said, hoping the family wouldn’t walk in.
“What?” he responded from down the stairs.
He went double-time down the stairs to find Gibson leaning over a corpse, getting ready to reconstruct the face of the Chinese man who burned to death in his house in “T-town,” Gibson referred to the man as a “rice crispy.”
“Gibson turn that down, there’s a family coming any minute.”
“What you don’t like D.K.?”
Menke unplugged the CD player.
“Turn it down or off,” he said as went back up the stairs.

Just as he got to the top the front door opened and in stepped two haggard individuals. A woman and a man, she had the darkest bags under her eyes he had ever seen in his ten years in the industry. She was wearing a tan pantsuit, it looked old but it was still in style. There was some fraying around the edges but it still looked good on her. The man was wearing a black suit, like they all did, and he tightened his lips in an attempt to look strong.
“Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin?”
She didn’t say anything; he had to take the initiative.
“Yes, we had an appointment,” he said. His voice sounded like it had been hit by a semi. No doubt a result of finding out that not only was his daughter dead but a hardcore drug had killed her.
He put on his condoling face; dignified and strong, like he could lead them through the whole process. He’d done it so many times before. He stood straight and talked gently.
“We here at Menke and Son offer are deepest condolences and hope we can guide you through this difficult time in your life,” he said, “please step into my office and we can begin planning your daughter’s memorial.”
His son was too young to be in the industry, but “Menke and Son” sounded more professional. None of the customers had ever called him on it and the people who did, Jenny and Gibson, asked out of idle curiosity more than discomfort.

The woman in the pantsuit was holding back tears. Her lips would quiver occasionally and she’d shut her eyes had hard as she could. The tight-lipped man acted as professionally as he could.
“There are a variety of internment options for your daughter,” he said, “is there any religious affiliation that you would like me to keep in mind before I show you your options?”
“We’re Catholic,” the tight-lipped man said, “we were thinking about Wyuka.”
Wyuka was the massive cemetery in the middle of town. Charles Starkweather, the famous Nebraska serial killer, was buried there.
“Wyuka is an excellent choice. It is an extremely peaceful location to lay your daughter to rest.”

Almost two hours later they were done. It hadn’t been too difficult. They selected lilacs because their daughter loved them, they were going to have her buried in the northeast section of Wyuka and they picked the most expensive coffin and vault available.
“Just one more issue,” he said, “embalming. Do you wish to have your daughter embalmed for the visitation? If not we will have to go to immediate burial.”
“Of course we would,” the tight-lipped man said.
Menke opened the upper right-hand drawer and removed the necessary forms.
“If you could just sign this we can get to work immediately.”

“Gibson, that addict, get her rolling,” he said.
Gibson moaned.
“I know, I know, but the shit goes down in four days.”
If only Jenny Baldwin knew how difficult she made things for them. Intravenous drug users are an interesting problem for morticians. All the broken blood vessels and deteriorated heart tissue would require Gibson to watch the corpse the entire time it was being pumped with juice. He would have to scope out the cadaver for puncture wounds. He would have to massage those wounds so fluid didn’t build up.
The only other time they had to deal with an IV drug user, she shot up into her breasts.

They took a break around three o’ clock.
“So let me get this straight,” Gibson said, “you sold them a plot at Wyuka but they don’t know they can get the same services from them as us?”
“Yeah.”
“Hefelbower is going to be pissed.”
“Fuck him. It’s not like there’s some massive shortage of corpses.”

He was had a few minutes before the last appointment of the day. He sat at his desk, getting the last pieces of information ready for the last bit of work that day when he looked at the wedding photo on his desk.

It was her flirting brown eyes that made him fall for her; eyes that could glance at anyone or anything and give the impression that she was interested. It was those eyes that made him propose to her, to buy the two-thousand dollar ring that caused him to live on peanut butter and crackers for two months.
He would do anything for those eyes, give anything to make her gaze his. He held open doors and put his coat over puddles downtown. It was those flirty eyes that moved them to ninety-third and Old Cheney, twelve miles from his business.
It was the possibility of another pair of those eyes that brought Evan into this world.

He smelled like embalming fluid and sweat. It had been a long day. After he arranged all the funerals he had to go to the Dungeon and help Gibson out a little bit. He was tired, beat-down and ready to go to bed.
He walked in and his wife was asleep. He took off his suit and took a shower. This time he got to enjoy the warmth. When he finished brushing his teeth, he lay down beside her. She turned over to face him in slow motion.
“Hey baby, how was work?” she said with her eyes still closed.
“Busy, go back to sleep.”
She turned away from him and he pressed the front of his body to thee back of hers. He put his fingers on her stomach and felt her bulging tummy.

Saturday was a much deserved day of rest for Menke. After the constant running around from the previous week he was glad to be able to putter about the house he worked so hard for.
It was noon and his wife was still asleep. The doctor recommended and he insisted that she rest as much as possible. She was so fragile that sometimes it amazed him that she got their son out without and complications.
He sent Evan over to her parents’ house. He loved going over there. He did as he pleased and every time he came back he was difficult to keep in line. They spoiled him but he had it coming.
He remembered when Jenny’s parents first found out they were engaged. They were ecstatic.
“The best part,” his father-in-law said, “is going to be the grandkids. We will spoil them rotten. Think about it as our revenge.”

The mailman came by and he walked down the small hill their house rested upon and picked up the mail.
He flipped through; bills, junk mail, and a letter from the justice department?
He opened it up and was immediately shocked.
His blood ran cold. He was about to get sued. Matt Hefelbower was pissed, like Gibson said. The bastard was going to sue him for failing to tell the Baldwin parents about the option of getting their daughter worked over at Wyuka.
This was a massive problem. He knew that a lawsuit would put him out of business. His best option, he thought, was to settle quietly out of court, quickly before the Journal Star found out. If there was a story in that rag that’d be it for his business.
He went inside to lock the letter away until he could come up with a plan. When he closed the door to his study, he heard footsteps upstairs. He began to panic. He locked the door and stopped for a second. He took a deep breath and went to his mahogany desk. He found the key and opened the drawer. The footsteps were getting closer.
“Tom? Where are you?”
He locked the letter away and came out of the room.
“Hey baby. How’d you sleep?”
“Really good, do you want breakfast?”
“I’ll cook it,” he said, “You need to take it easy.”
She smiled and they went into the kitchen.
“What a great husband,” she said.

FUCK JEFF (not Hall)

It's amazing how one asshole can ruin something for everyone.

Jeff Johnson was his name and pissing people off was his role in life.

He wasn't bad at first. He was an idiot, but hey, we need idiots so we can know who the smart people are. This guy was the eighties in a human being. His voice was the exact same as Meatloaf's. He had hair literally down to his ass crack and every day he wore Poison or White Snake era band shirt to work. He lived with his mother. He wore a biker bandanna but had never been on a bike.

He took out a massive loan to buy a pick-up truck. He parked it at the front of the garage so everyone could see. This "man" made seven dollars and fifty cents an hour and he bought a pick-up. No health insurance, no rent, no food bills, a truck. He slapped a Superman "S" on the back window in a futile attempt to be cool.

He was a tool.

My favorite moments were when he would come up to me at work and talk about Linda (the hot mom we worked with). Most of the time conversations wentlike this:
"Dude, Linda hugged me. I'm so gonna tap that."

I loved it because conversations with Linca went like this:
"He looked my address up and left me a rose. I had to have the owner tell him to stop. Dan you should hold me tonight." (I might be making that last part up but it's my blog so fuck you.)

Like I said, he was an idiot, but I let him go because he only made himself look like an idiot. He wasn't hurting anybody, for a while.

Enter Sue. When farmers are moving pigs they shout the phrase "Suey." I believe it is in her honor. Her face looked like is had been melted by a blowtorch. Her teeth were gnarled every possible angle. She had one straight tooth in front, a cruel taunt by god.

Every week she would bring a new homeless man to work and refer to him as her "boyfriend." A typical smoke break with her went something like this:

"So, Sue, how's life."
"Great. My boyfriend and I..."
"Hobo Herbie?"
"No, that was last week, this is Toothless Joe."
"Oh, sorry."
"Anyway, Joe and I hit the meth and we fucked for like two hours. Then my pussy started to bleed so he stuck it in my ass for another three."
Then I would be terrified.
"The condom broke in the first ten minutes but I didn't care."
Then I'd force the vomit back down. This took so much effort that I barely heard the last part:
"But what I can't figure out is why the state won't let me keep my three kids from my five marriages."

That was our "manager."

Back to Jeff. At the time of the incident that sent me into exhile from my kingdom, Jeff was having an affair with her. I don't know how far they went, how he could lower himself that much or if he ever felt dirty afterwords, but it was a well-known "secret" at the company that these two fooled around.

It was because of Sue that Jeff didn't get fired for the rose incident and it was because of Sue that he got a raise every three months while the rest of us got nothing. It was because of Sue that he got to play boss even though he was on the same level as the rest of us.

The last two characters in this little conspiracy: Tasha and "New Tasha" (aka Erin.) Two sweethearts. They were juniors in high school. They were the ones who died my mohawk tips green and then my whole mohawk blue. Just regular high school students. I called them the Tashas because they looked remarkably similar.

Now at the time of the incident I worked at a building across the street from Jeff, Sue and the Tashas. I parked, clocked-in and took breaks in their building so I could get the latest news on company politics and know who to avoid pissing off and who to piss off for fun.

It started off like any other day. The five of us and some random workers were sitting around my truck. Smoking and laughing. The first incident occured.

"Yeah, my S-10 takes a little more gas then I'd like. I switched octane levels to get the maximum fuel eficency out of her."
"Tashas, I think I'm going to throw a party. It's a 'John Stamos' party. You should come as your favorite style of Stamos. Mullet, post-mullet, Jake-in-progress. Anyone you want."
"Know who's hot?" Jeff said, "his wife."
"Ex-wife," Sue said. If anybody knew about ex-wives it was her.
"Yeah. Her boobs remind me of yours, Tasha."
Everyone was silent. Nobody knew what to say. I dismissed this as a moronic comment from a moronic person and kept on talking.
"You know it's no coincidence that Stamos got divorced right as the Olson twins turned eighteen."
"I need to wash my S-10, that rain made her look gross."

I cleaned the first batch of the toilets for the day. My scrubbing wand sang a song of victory and perserverance as I sprayed the filthy waters with my magic cleansor (aka bleach). The seats and tanks were monuments to my victories after I destroyed the dust, poop and piss stains that threatened all that was clean and good. This battle against filth was being won--for that day-- and all would be safe for a little while.

Before I knew it, my five-time-a-week battle would be haulted--temperarily-- while I went over to the other building for a cola, a smoke and conversation.

Normally Sue and Jeff would come outside to smoke with me. The Tashas didn't smoke but they came outside anyways to bask in the majesty that was King Dan the Magnificent, Lord High Soverign of All Janitors.

Today it was just the Tashas.

"Guess what happened while you were across the street?" Tasha said.
"What?"
"Jeff came up to Erin and said it was too bad she wasn't eighteen."
"Erin, go talk to Sue when you get back in."

I knew Sue was as smart as moss but I hoped she would do the right thing in spit of myself.

My scrubber in hand I scowered dirt, grime, grease and grit from their remaining hiding holes. I rolled over my mortal enemy like a semi on a basketball. The building was safe and America would stand at least one more day because of my efforts.

I was going to clock out and relax after a tough day of saving the world when it happened. I walked in the door and there were the Tashas.

Tasha was crying. She took off her glasses to wipe away the tears. New Tasha looked pissed. She looked like somebody who's new puppy was just ass-raped and wanted to have vengance Rolling Stones style.

"What the fuck is going on here?"
Tasha couldn't speak she was sobbing so hard. Erin was ready to explain.

While I was away, they told Sue about what Jeff said, assuming it would be held in confidence. When they were working Jeff called them to the break room and yelled at Tasha for ratting him out. He screamed at her because the owner might find out and then he might get in trouble. They were going to tell their parents. They walked out the door and I was getting ready to follow, I justl had some stuff to grab (namely free toilet paper) before I left.

My arms filled to the brim with free cornhole cleaners, I clocked out and was heading for my truck when the elevator to our basement operations room opened out out they stepped.

"We need to talk."
"Okay, Jeff, what do you want to talk about?"
Like I didn't already know where this was going.
"Did Tasha or Erin say anything to you about me sexually harrassing them?"
"Yeah. And you know what? You did."
"When? When did I harrass them?"
"Earlier today."
"What did I say?"
"Uhhh... you said her boobs looked like Stamos' wife's."
"Ex-wife."
"Stay out of this," he said.

Sue instantly retreated into herself. I wasn't even close to being shocked.

"I said no such thing."
"Yes, you did. I heard you with my own fucking ears."
"I didn't say that."
"Yes, you did. I fucking heard you."
"I never said that."
"Sue, you're the fucking manager, manage damnit."
"I'm just trying to figure out shats going on," she said.
"You were there!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

It was like argueing with full-grown children.

"We have a theory about why this is happening," Jeff said.
"Oh,this should be brilliant."
"Since Erin is about to get fired we figure Tasha started this rumor to try and get us to keep Erin around."
"Are you fucking serious?"
"So we have no choice but to terminate both of them. We just need to know if they told you anything else," Sue said.

I was livid. I couldn't yell because it wouldn't do any good. These two knew exactly what they were doing, so I only had one choice.

"Jeff. I can't believe you. I'm going home right now. Only one of us is going to be at work next week. I'll let you decide, Sue."

I walked away. They shouted after me but I just kept going. I didn't care what they said.

The weekend passed and I tryed to forget. I was possibly resigning my crown and jeapordizing the universe. The three days passed and I came to work.

When I drove into the garage, The first thing I saw was that stupid truck with the Superman "S" on the back window. I pulled into the garage, turned around and drove away.

Another Revision of my Novel

This is the final cut of the first chapter of my novel. This has been reworked from many, many pages of information.

The green-copper eyes of the sower watched over Lincoln like a stone guardian. It did this job everyday for seventy years and probably would for another seventy. The sower faced west and its green-copper eyes rested squarely on Tanker Hill.
Six miles away Everett Gibson stared right back at the flood-light lit building. He was at the highest elevated point in the area, but his mood didn’t match.
His right hand held a small tube of paper with a glowing end. He paid a lot of money just to go to a hospital later. In his left hand he held the letter. He had been clutching it and carrying it and folding it and opening it since he got it last week. Wrinkled and blurred from sweating palms, it still carried the same message.
He crushed the fifteenth glowing filter under his foot and waited. A fog rolled over a hill far to the north and was spilling over the city. Before he could finish the eighteenth tube the fog spread over everything. The capitol became a bright-dim blur in the distance and only the blinking red warning light at the base of the sower was clear.
Too bad, he thought, a plane crash would be a nice distraction.
Occasionally a wind would charge up the hill from the suburbs below. He didn’t notice; he just lit number nineteen.

The weekly ritual was about to begin.
He pushed the doors open as far as they would go. This was probably the most action they’ve seen from a non-staff member in a week, he thought.
The letter was in his coat pocket. He could feel it pressing against his heart. He was not looking forward to this conversation.
The door creaked back into place and he strolled through the common area. Everywhere between where he was and where he was going was old people. Loud, wheezing coughs pierced his ear drums and oxygen tanks hissed at him. Some people stared at the wall with the intensity of a college football fanatic watching the big game. Some lay in beds, bodies buried beneath bleached sheets. Their mouths moved but no sound came out, just a little drool. These people didn’t bother him
The people in the room that knew him or his mother knew what he did bothered him. Those people turned away, or coughed to distract themselves as soon as he walked in. Some scuttled away from him like roaches and a few squirmed uncomfortably and tried to look at anything else until he walked past.
Every time he came here this happened and he still couldn’t understand why. These people acted like he was the angel of death come to take them away. He (probably) wouldn’t kill any of them; he would just simply make their frail forms presentable—as this crowd clearly needed—for the family (if living) and the friends (if any).

The red, yellow, blue and green pinpoints of the “airport” floated not too far away. Every couple of seconds a spotlight would sweep over the area on its axis. He pulled out a new square box from his jacket, turned it upside down, smashed it against his palm a few times, took off all the wrappers and foils and pulled out a new tube. He spit toward the search light and lit up, again.
After taking a drag, his mouth was invaded with the taste of burning cotton and rancid anus.
“Fuck!” he shouted at the disinterested grass and shrouded town.
He threw the burnt filter, brown tobacco and white paper as far as he could and tried again. This time he succeeded.

He paused a second in front of the khaki door in the light-green-carpeted hallway, the letter in one pocket, a lighter in the other and a rose in his hand. He took a deep breath. He let it out and knocked on the door. This time the ritual was going to be a little different.
“Come in,” a feeble voice said on the other side.
He opened the door and saw his mother and forced himself to smile. It wasn’t a completely false smile, but the letter was good a detracting him from positive emotions.
She was sitting on her bed looking at a particular wall. On the wall were three particular pictures. There was a big picture of the farm he grew up on, the farm his parents ran for so long and the farm they had to sell when Everett came to college, Dad died, and Mom got old. He didn’t know who owned it now. He wouldn’t go there anymore. There was no reason.
On the left of this picture was his mother and father’s wedding photo and to the right was his graduation photo. This was usually how he found his mother when he came for this weekly visit.
She looked at her son and smiled back. It had been a week since he saw her last, which means it had been a week since anybody outside the home spoke to her.
“How’s work?”
“Its busy, Ma. Same old same old, though. This is for you.”
He gave her the rose.
“Thank-you. This means so much to me. I’m so glad you came. You work so hard. You’re such a good son for coming to visit your mother.”
He gave a quiet, laughing snort at himself.
“Guess who’s coming to visit me next week?”
“Who?”
“Father Devorak. He took Dad’s Rosary to the Arch-bishop in Omaha to have it blessed. It already had been, but one more won’t hurt.”
“It certainly will not. You ready for Mass?” he was in a state of grace solely because of his mother.
She was always ready to go to St. Mary’s. It was her chance to get out and see something relatively new. Everett didn’t particularly care for church, but it meant a lot to her.
He remembered the letter and felt the message growing in his chest and coming to his throat. It just needed to go six more inches and then she would know.
“Before we go, there’s something I need to tell you.”
His heart began to pound.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I have to work late next Sunday, so I’m going to have to come see you on Saturday instead, is that okay?”
Damn it! It was almost out. Oh well. No reason to spoil Mass for her, he thought. Besides, he could tell her afterwards.

The fog was pressing in more and more and it was pissing him off more and more. He could hardly see any lights anymore. The capitol’s flood lights were shut off and only the tiny red speck under the invisible sower remained.
He wished he could be anybody else in the missing city before him, anybody else with anybody else’s problems. He removed the letter from its envelope and frowned at it. The letters mocked him, even though he couldn’t see them. “Past due” it said. “One month remained” it said. Time was running out before they kicked his mom out because he didn’t have enough money to keep her where she was. She was running out of time and the worst part was she didn’t even know.
If only she could stay with him, he thought. If only he hadn’t rented the duplex with no wheelchair access. If only he could get out of his lease. He could find a place she could get in and maybe get a live-in nurse. Then she would get more human contact. Then everything would be okay.
He put his face between his hands and sighed loudly.

They drove down “O” street andchatted about what he did this week, like they did every week. How his Menke was treating him and all the other mindless things people talk about to avoid silence.
Halfway to the church, they prove past a Planned Parenthood and she lowered he head and made a sign of the cross.

He was halfway through the pack and his lungs weren’t even sore. His throat wasn’t even dry. His mood wasn’t even affected. He was putting hundreds of chemicals in his body trying to find some kind of solution or idea or courage but instead found a small pile of tan cotton filters at his feet.
He stood up and started pacing. He thought for a second about how much he smoked tonight. He realized it wasn’t helping, but it wasn’t hurting either. Well, his thought process at least.

After Mass they went to the next part of the weekly ritual, which was just a regular as the service they attended. He resolved in the car ride over that he would tell her as soon as they sat down and ordered.
He could see it now. As soon as the waitress left earshot, he would tell her. She would be upset, she’d cry and he shuddered at the thought.
By a miracle (no doubt their reward for going to church) they found a parking spot.
Old Chicago again. The waitress recognized them and instantly snapped on a smile. She seated them and took their orders; a burger for him, a small salad for her. The waitress was promising how she’d be right back and he was getting that familiar feeling again. He was nervous. He thought he was going to vomit.
The waitress left and so did his courage.
“Remember how Dad used to call biscuits and gravy ‘shit-on-a-shingle?’”
They both laughed. He could wait until after the meal, right?

He looked at his watch. It was three in the morning. He had to work tomorrow. He had to get sleep. He had to find a way to make extra money. He had to do something. He sat back down and the last scene of the day played out in his head.

Their weekly ritual always ended the same way and always cut him like a razor blade dipped in rubbing alcohol.
After losing heart every time he was about to tell her, he knew why it would be easier to try and find a quiet way of fixing the situation. After all, she was eighty three, she didn’t need anymore stress on her failing heart.
Visiting hours were almost over. He stood up from the uncomfortable maroon recliner that he sat in every week.
“Ma, I had fun today,” he looked at the white-tiled floor, then back at her, “but I have to go now.”
He couldn’t look away but he couldn’t look at her. Trapped in this middle zone, again, he put on the stone face he earned after so many repeats of this event.
Her white hair seemed whiter than the sheets the bed-ridden patients decayed in. Her face turned stop-sign red as her quiet voice got quieter and more broken. He blouse was suddenly dotted with salty raindrops from her tear ducts. The hoarse whisper sounded like she dying.
“Please. Don’t go. Stay.”
“Ma, I have to go. The nurse needs to give you your medication and I’d just get in the way,” he said this like he was taling to a child and he hated himself for it. He wished he could hold her until she felt better, until they felt better.
A new twist on this came when she grabbed his forearm and some of her tears landed on his wrist.
“Please…”
“I’ll be back Saturday, I promise. I’ll be back. I always come back. I love you, Ma.”
“Please…”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I swear. I love you, Mom. Good-bye.”
He kissed her on the enflamed cheek and turned around.
“I love you.”
He could feel her eyes watching him as he turned around and walked away. He could feel her eyes as he walked past his future paychecks. He could feel her eyes when he got in his car and drove away.

And he could feel her eyes on top of the hill when he smoked his last cigarette and looked at the letter.
Paper shouldn’t control lives like this, he thought.
He flicked his last cigarette into the darkness and left for his car.

The Truth

The only thing that kicks more ass than this snow day is the friends I spent it with.

Dan in the army?

I've been thinking about joining up recently. I can see a lot of pluses and minuses to it. I need to think deep about this issue for a lot of reasons. The biggest one is I might be losing track of whats important. I have been in college for a long time and it become boring and annoying. The second is it would be four years of my life dedicated to this orginization. The third is I'd miss my friends and family a lot.
I was thinking something in the lines of Army Journalist or Army photographer, but leaning towards photographer. I would be doing reserve, not full-time.
I have compiled a list of reasons for and a list of reasons against signing up in no particular order. Anybody who knows me should get a hold of me and give me their input.
For:
1- Resume builder. My resume is pretty weak and being in the army would definitely increase my hirability factor.
2- Health. I'd get in shape and probably quit smoking.
3- See cool shit. I have been in Lincoln for so long and I keep seeing the same shit over and over.
4- I love to travel. The army would send me to a lot of different places.
5- Tradition. (This is a lame Dan thing, but important to me. It sucks being a romantic.) I would be part of one of the longest standing ocupations in the world.

Against:
1- Boot Camp. I could do it, but it would really suck.
2- As a journalist or photographer I'd probably just be writing/photographing annoying "official" army stuff.
3- I'd smoke more.
4- In the end I'd be in Lincoln anyway.
5- Losing my personaliy. To be fair, if my personality couldn't stand up to the rigors of the military it probably wasn't much of a personality to begin with.

This is a partial list, and this whole situation might be an identity crisis, but if my friends would come speak to me about this I'd appreciate it.

Then He Made Pizza Dough

Lanky Billy stumbled down the stairs
and sniffed the air like a dog searching
for meat.
Crimson-clear liquid came from his nose
and he blew
into a paper towl.
He rolled up the brown paper
with the red skidmark
and threw in the trash
by his life.

D.C. Nights

Night time on the subway here has proven to be one of the most interesting aspects of this city.

The monuments are great and speak of a majesty so grand it's hard to believe human beings actually accomplished this, but it isn't until you get into the subways that the city shows its true colors.

Here they are. All of them. Every single walk of life. In this artificial cave of steel and concrete. Somewhere between work and home, home and work or nothing better to do and boredom, they come here.

One woman looks like a young grandmother. Her tied black eyes cry out for rest. She leans her head against the glass and is met with equal pressure from her twin in the window. Head-to-head they try and grab a few minutes of sleep as they speed forward in hollow darkness.

Down the train from them, a young, devlopmentally disabled man signs to his friend or guardian. She signs back, saying the words along with each gesture. I can't tell if she's relatively new to sign language or if she just got in the habit.

He asks me for a cigarette. I ask how he knew. It was the jacket, he says. A jacket like that can only belong to a man who smokes cigarettes, and probably other things, he says. You got me there, I say, and hand him one of the little paper tubes.

And on and on and on and on through the darkness we go. Past Glenmount, Vienna, Union Station, Shady Grove and Metro Center. Whirling around in a late-night tornado of cream-and-orange seats on rusty-red carpet. Stuck in a car from the seventies until one by one, we disappaite.

They get off at the Smithsonian exit. I hope they aren't going to the museums. If they are, there's going to be a severe disappointment.

She signs at him to stand up, they get off at Metro Station. A group home, a long nights sleep, a mugging or any combination of the three could await those two as they leave the car and head towards the surface. Out of our subterranean bonds and into the cold of a city that won't remember any of our names.

He's tapping the cigarette against his teeth. It must have been a while since he smoked last. The cotton must be getting moist as he tap-tap-taps the brown and white tubes on his front teeth. Then the train stops and he departs. I hope he enjoys that.

And I get off at long last. I must have walked ten miles today. Whatever happens tomorrow is eclipsed right now for my need to sleep, which is eclipsed right now by my need to blog. I saw something beautiful tonight, I can only hope these meger sounds can make others understand.

A Little Fun

I was going through my old stuff a few days ago and I found my old journals (or diaries, if you will). I wrote these when I started getting interested in writing.

For those of you who knew me in high school, I probably gave off the impression that I was a good writer. I was not, as opposed to now, where I probably give off the impression that I am a good writer. (I am not.)

So for the sake of my own amusement/torturing my readers, I decided to post some of my old-school poems on here.

I call this coma-inducing piece

"Numbers"
Trig class is boring
and it makes no sense
its stupid and frustrating
it makes my chest tense

Damn you Cushing
your numbers suck
We never had control
I don't give a fuck

Poor grades don't reflect
my struggle with the numbers
They twist in my head
I start swinging lumber

Machine gun pencil
jots down the wrong
will never end
it's taking too long!

Now the bell's ringing
sweet liberation
now I'm one period closer
to my daily salvation.

I'm particularly fond of the rhyming scheme. It has the classic effect of nails on a chalkboard.
My favorite thing is how it captures, just so perfectly, the daily classroom activity of swinging lumber.

Oh, here's a stinker. I was in my Lord of the Rings phase and decided to apply it to the four people that I would go to the park and smoke with.

"Lord of the Camels"

Manderin mint for Jenson, underneath his hair
Twists for the Moore, in his halls of fat
Stingers for Sieker, doomed to be thin
Crema's for the Dark Dan in his dark mind
In the land of Omaha, where the shadows lie.
One flavor to rule them all
One flavor to fight them
One flavor to bring them all
and in the darkness light them
In the land of Omaha
where the shadows lie.

What could be more epic then a bunch of high school students leaning on a wall smoking?

Here is my insitful commentary on the nature of reality.

"Evil"

What is evil?
Is it difference
is it opinions
is it fee will?

What is evil?
is it malice
deciete
betrayal?

What is evil?
Is it me
you
us?

Who decides evil?
Is it God
Government
Chruch?

Does evil exist?
Is it just a lie
fantasy
fancy?

Or is evil all things that exist
or no things that exist?
Does it begin in the heart
or with life?

And if there is no evil
is there no God?

Brilliant! I managed to find as many ways I could think of to say the same thing then cram it into on poem AND tack a moralistic rant on there just in case you didn't get it.

Okay, last one I swear, this is really fun for me.

"Teen Angst"

Leave me alone
okay look at me now
I'm negative goodness
A fattened sow.

I'm all I need
but you're all I want
approval and hate
give it up now.

Humiliating destruction
all for you!
You stupid bastard
it's never through.

I break and I scream
and for a while you care
then time goes by
and I'm alone in despair.

Best time in my life?
Youth is my hell.
Frustration and ignorance,
but it's just as well

Everything repeats
I'm trapped in this maze,
black and decaying
always in a daze.

Tears of irritation
now, please go,
I'm a sensitive bastard
but you'll never know

Teenagers trapped? Wow! That's as fresh and new as the hamburger I just crapped out. The only word in this poem that works is ignorance. The only way this could be more unappealing is if I took a shit on it. No, wait, that's a little too appropriate.

Never Again

So last night I thought I would try something a little different: speed.

Before I go into this, remember I took one single pill of Adderol. It messed with me, but in a more subtle way.

I've been laying in bed for the past six hours and I haven't been able to close my eyes beyond a rapid blink.

I'm in control of my actions. I'm not foaming at the mouth or fighting anybody.

Whoever reads this that knows me personally, I give you permission (and encourage) you to hit me if I ever do this again or consider doing it again.

Reflection on a Masterpiece

"Tonight, a lot of people are still up watching the nighthawks hunt through the streetlights. The white bars on their wings flash, as they dip through the lights, then glide off against the dark trees that line the street. The trees seem more like shadows, except where the inverted cones of light catch their leaves and heighten their green. And despite all the people still awake, unable to let go of the evening, leaning from windows, smoking on steps or rocking on front porches, it's quiet--no small talk, or gossip, no stories, or lullabies--only the whir of insects and the stabbing cries of birds, as if we all know we should be sleeping now, leaving the nighthawks to describe the night."

I wrote this quote because I wanted to write something great.

I wish I could say this was mine, but it's not. This is from a story that many people have heard me talk about in the two years since I first read it. The story is called "Nighthawks" and it's by Stuart Dybeck.

I am not exageratting or lying in anyway, shape or form when I say this next statment: I had goose-bumps the entire time I wrote that quote above.

I love this story. I love this quote. The purest love a person can have for art is what I feel towards this story. I have often, as is my nature, asked myself why I have such passion for these thirty-fivepages, tonight I figured out what it is.

This story is me. If somebody would like to understand who I am, read this story. I didn't think I could be so attached to words on a piece of paper, but everytime I read it I have to fight back tears.

The story expresses in words what I could never hope to. It details the connections and lives we live at night. How we are more open and honest with each other at night. How somehow, through some almost mystical means, we can drop our gaurds and for one, breif, shimmering instant see ourselves for who we truely are.

The story is every night's end for me. Every night (provided I'm not completely and totally spent) I sit in my room and try to come up with excuses to stay awake longer in the pristine peace of night. Wraped in my blanket of night I rest in my chair with my feet craddled on the window sill like an old cowboy andnone of the roles and statuses that society has given me or I have chosen matter.

It's me, just me, and only me in my purest form.

Saturday Night

Self-server uploaded
into a shoot-'em-up world
of ogres, escaped demons,
missed class this month...
for the third time

sixteen, twenty-six, thirty-six hour
dance passed,
wordless, in the blink
of a square-eyed bitch-box

maggots writhed
in garbage by the bed
and became the flies
around his head,
the scale tilted, lowered

eyes fried like motherboards
during the all-night gigabyte
lock-in, locked-up self-server
paused long enough to notice
the fast-food-wrapper carpet

and bite into the apple
of codependant roller coasters,
unzipping to the message
of teenage beauty
or middle-age lies.

Author's Note: I started this poem in December. It's done now.