2013: A Space Odyssey

Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. And then all of them had a bizarre foursome using candlesticks and eggnog in ways that were never intended by Hallmark and Bordon's. And that is why they will never air Ebeneezer Spooge, a perverted Christmas tale ever ever ever. But that's the thing around the holidays. Old stories, "fresh" takes. And I suppose that's what this is. So gather round all ye children and listen to my "all in one giant friggen paragraph" version of A Christmas Carol. On the eve of Christmas, after consuming some 2 pounds of turkey sausage and peach salsa, spirits visited me as many times as I visited the bathroom. Four to be exact. The twists and turns in my stomach felt like a complete season of NASCAR only not as painful. I can only assume that the visions I had were due to the fevers and chills that washed over me all night, but they were all too real. On my first trip from the toilet back to the bed, I saw an eerie green light and a tendril of smoke coming from the living room. As I cautiously made my way to see what it was, I was overwhelmed by the smell of marijuana. And good shit too. My shit. There on the couch was Bob Marley. He looked just like I remembered someone who I have never met would look. Tie dye shirt, long dreads, cut off jean shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. He told me I would be visited by three spirits, did not laugh when I asked if one would be Bacardi, ate the entire thing of Godiva peppermint bark I had bought for my girlfriend, and vanished into heavily smokey air. "Poppy cock" I said out loud temporarily being possessed by Frank Capra. And back to bed I went. The bell for round two clanged in my stomach and off to the bathroom I went. Upon my return I realized I was not alone. And not in the , we are all connected Cloud Atlas group hug way, but in the, there is someone on my bed who wasn't there when I left to empty my insides way. "I am the ghost of Christmas past", she spoke in a thick Russian accent. "I also hope you validate parking". She must have been 20 feet tall if she was a foot, and her hair was made entirely of smoke. She wore a gown that was form fitting. Unfortunately her form was that of an elephant orgy, with lumps and bumps that made no sense. "I know the drill"< I said. "You are to whisk me away to some Christmas past far removed from here spirit, so I can learn a valuable lesson or some such". "Um. No,. Everything's done on Youtube these days", she said taking out a new Samsung Note 10.1 tablet, the finest tablet available in the world. (Looking for sponsorship here) As she pressed play I was whisked back to 1983. A young 11 year old Rory is sitting around a Christmas tree in his Transformers pajamas,eating a bowl of C3PO's, watching A Christmas Story for the first time before TNT gave it it's own network and Broadway somehow raped it into a musical. "Spirit, I remember this Christmas. Because I was there. This is absolutely pointless," I told her. "Wait for it dahlink" she said. And I did. And then it happened. A giant whirling gear hovered over the entire living room, spinning, spiraling and eventually freezing, only to start spinning again. "Sorry," the spirit said, "buffering". Eventually the scene started again but it had skipped a great deal. The tree had been burned to the ground, the television melted, and little 11 year old Rory was now wearing a 1930's flapper outfit and was on top of a poker table surrounded by the cast of the Deer Hunter. Then we were back. I was in my bathroom hunched over dry heaving and the Russian spirit was gone. As I dragged myself back to my bed to hopefully collapse and sleep until the new season of Community started, the second spirit arrived. There was a knock at the door. I forced myself to answer it and slowly opened it. There was a small gnomish man, barely a foot tall holding a giant mirror. "Look inside", he squeaked. I did as he asked. " I see nothing but myself looking back at me spirit," I said. "No shit, it's a mirror," he yelled back. And then he smashed it on the ground, said what the fuck did I expect from the ghost of Christmas present, and ran away. Shaken and confused like a baby that doesn't listen, i went to the bathroom for what was hopefully the final time. But, the room was hot and steamy. Someone was in the shower. I crept ever closer to the curtain, trembling, unsure of what I would find if I dare pull it back. With one hand on the curtain, and one wrapped around a toilet brush, I did just that. A shriek like a dolphin being bludgeoned to death with a clown horn rang out in the apartment. Under the cascading water was death itself. A skeleton with black piercing holes in it's skull where its eyes once were glared back at me clutching a bottle of shampoo. "It says will maintain a full healthy body! Here's hoping!" it exclaimed dumping the entire bottle over itself. "Are you here to show me my future?" I asked timidly. "Sure am. Let me towel off, exfoliate, and we can get going," he said. After what seemed like an eternity, the ghost of Christmas future grabbed my hand and we lept out of the window flying high over the city of New York, past the Empire State Building, past Bryant Park, past Washington Square, past the Empire State Building...again. " Are we lost spirit?", I asked. "No, I ...uh, I thought I saw someone I knew back there. Ah here we are" We landed in Brooklyn at the Greenwood Cemetery. A shallow grave was slowly being filled by two men. The snow was coming down in a flurry of white. "Spirit. Please tell me. Who is in that grave?", I pleaded. But the spirit said nothing. He merely pointed to the stone at the front of the grave. "This one shan't be missed too right too right I am", said the first grave digger. " Why the fuck are you talking like that, you're from Hackensack?" the second man said. "Spirit please, who is in this grave?" I begged again. And then, the two men got up, unblocking my view. And there, on the gravestone read a name. Here lies Mario Lopez. "Spirit, I don't understand." "Well I thought you'd get a kick out of it. His work is terrible", death said. As we returned home I couldn't sleep. It was now 7 in the morning. I ran to my window and threw it open, breaking the glass in the process as I live on the tenth floor and the windows aren't supposed to open. "You there pigeon," I yelled...at a pigeon. "What day is it?" The pigeon did not reply. "Then I haven't missed it! I haven't missed Christmas!" I screamed! I ran to my fridge, opened a beer, smoked a bowl and went back to sleep for 7 hours until the Knicks game was on. I watched it on my new Samsung 62 inch Smart TV. Now that's a damn fine picture. Happy New year! Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account. ~Oscar Wilde "Fuck Ryan Seacrest"---Dick Clark

We Shall Overcome, Since We Under Prepared

(This link won't work but what the hell...you have Google) Suggested music: Eddie Vedder's Long Nights

...Like a Cantonese woman selling bootleg DVD's enters a bar, hurricane Sandy blew through New York. Loud, abrasive, carrying terror, horror, and sometimes a Pixar movie. It touched as many of us as it could, and left leaving us to wonder why. Why were we not more prepared? Who is to blame? I understand people wanting the marathon canceled. Even though I wont be able to sell my women's underwear for racers line, Marathongs, the generators can go to better use helping people like Big Ang in Staten Island. Don't know Big Ang? Shame on you. I understand people wanting the marathon to go on. For the city's morale. For the charity money raised. For the chance to see someone vomit on live TV. I understand people being mad at The Red Cross. They haven't acted swiftly enough. The bottled waters not getting to the right people. Their Capellini D'Angelo is under cooked. I understand people being happy with the Red Cross. The amount of food and clothing they collect in such a short time is amazing. They have very patient volunteers. Their Linguine Pescatore is flawless. I understand why some people are mad at other people on Facebook for posting about their every day lives instead of praying or trying to help. They feel trapped and helpless too. They are closer to it than some and see whats happening on the news all the time, all day instead of briefly. They could care less about the perfect waffle picture you took at brunch. I understand why people are mad at people for yelling at them to do more on Facebook. Tragedy happens all the time and you can't help everyone. Why do they only want to volunteer in the wake of disasters, where are they the rest of the time? They only friended you cause you both went to high school together and you requested it on your phone at the reunion and what were they going to say, no? I understand you being mad this blog wont let me do paragraph breaks. Me too. I was lucky during this time. Oh true if I actually had a job, I wouldn't be able to make it, but I had water, power, blankets and my girlfriend. And I posted that people could come over and help themselves to all of it...except the girlfriend. This ain't Hunger Games. ( Does that reference make sense, cause I didn't see the movie) And I was going to try to be clever write some bullshit insight on turning 40. About how things change, and ha ha I lived longer than you thought I would mom, high school friends, and bartenders at Chuy's Tex Mex in Dallas. But not much really changes. We pop out of somewhere that if we really thought about where that is, would make us hide in a giant pot and cover ourselves in carrots like Bugs Bunny in that one episode. Then we learn, we grow, we forget things, we relearn things, we die. It's a Benjamin Buttons world, we just refuse to watch it. I'm still Peter Pan sometimes, but other times you need your shadow to remind you you have one, and everything is real. At forty I'm worried about looking old,(not in appearance but walking into an Apple store and wanting to cry) not ever really knowing where i'll be in the future, hoping people I love stick around a long time and those I do not are always stuck in the longest slowest lines everywhere and maybe get shingles at least once in their life. Getting older means, to me, walking that line about being pushy with your beliefs and thoughts and being pushed over. Appreciating things people do for you and what you have instead of what you're missing. Not bitching about who is driving you to what park at Disney world as you're clutching your free pass. ( I swear, I'm not being paid by Disney...much) New York will overcome. They (or if its alright,I'm going to say we...as I've lived here for ten years now and I'm not going anywhere) have before...WE overcome a lot just to live in here. But we are also rewarded. Do you know how many frozen yogurt places now have salted caramel flavors? But we don't know what lies ahead. Living in the moment is hard, and if we really treated every day like it was our last, no one would go to work, pay bills, or get me my pumpkin latte. A friend of mine passed away last month. He was a sweet funny, hilarious, talented person and it was way too soon. His memorial is the same day as a friends wedding. I'm hoping the day will be spent celebrating life, rather than lamenting the loss of one. I'm talking about the groom (Hi-oh!) That's going to be a long thought heavy day filled with emotions, memories and poorly catered food. We live, we die, and in between we survive things like hurricanes, broken hearts,disasters, Kardashians...nothing changes too much.

>Society, you're a crazy breed I hope you're not lonely without me ------- Eddie Vedder

“If there was a terrible storm outside, but somehow this dog lived through the storm, and he showed up at your door when the storm was finally over, I think a good name for him would be Carl.”----Jack Handy

My Dearest Gym,

I know. I know. It's been a while. But, let me start by saying, it's not like I'm seeing another gym. Or working out with free weights or getting off at an earlier stop at the subway and walking home. If I work out, I work out in you...ok. I need you to know that. I had great intentions. I was going to run 6 miles a day, maybe take a spin class, concentrate on a particular muscle group each day and really blast some...quads or...stems or something. But I have shitty great excuses every time. And here they are, in one giant paragraph...you can listen to the same song Im listening to as I write this. Sun Kil Moon's Sunshine in Chicago. Id give you the link but this blogspot has shut down everything except splchek. Oh, no there goes that too. I will wait...I promise. I had the tv on as I changed into my gym clothes and was watching what I thought was a long commercial for some drug that allows you to run on the beach while maintaining an erection, but it turned out to be a Burn Notice marathon, and I got sucked in. Nobody won that day Gym. Nobody. On my way out the door I saw a program on my desk from an improv show I did in Fallon Nevada, and started vomiting in my mouth remembering the good times we had there. It was no Vegas, and it sure was no Reno, and actually, it was barely a town, but they paid our management with a check, or sexual favors, or jewelry they made out of baby teeth, or feathers, or secrets or whatever they use for currency, so the show must go on. They put us up in what was less a hotel and more of a holding facility for mismatched smells and furniture. There was a nickel slots arcade attached to the Feuxtell we were staying at. I opened the door for an 80 year old woman with one foot ( I assume the other foot was in the grave) sitting in a homemade wheelchair holding a 7'11 cup of nickels, and as she passed by she said "I feel lucky!" How? Lucky in the way you only have to pay half price for shoes from now on? I was just thinking about a job I had selling knives door to door in Dallas Texas. I had that job for a week. I sold vacuum cleaners with a friend for about 3 days, and was a mover for one day and was fired for locking a family in a storage facility accidentally for 2 hours....ok, not the unit, ( ha...unit) but I locked the gate to the whole place and they were trapped. I hopped over the gate and walked to Taco Bell and waited for my boss. I was not going to stay in there with them, they were pissed. I wrote down "3D Life Experience" on a napkin and have been wracking my brain trying to figure out what I meant by that. ( Have you googled the Sun Kil Moon song yet? You should. Please do. Anyway) It's as nerve wracking as the time I found a matchbook cover with the words "Cheese Machine" scribbled on it in my hand writing. It's like the movie Memento...or Pimento in this case. If you have made it this far, turn to page 45 to meet the professor in the sand-crab cave. My lady and I sublet a place from a French artist in Queens for a month this summer. There was a scary fucking homeless gentleman we called Change, as all he said in a voice as smooth as aquarium gravel was change. Since then, we both lost jobs, I moved, got another new job, moved again, got sick, got better, gained weight, lost weight and watched the first episode of Mob Doctor and hated myself after. When we returned to that neighborhood in Queens, Change was still there. Doing the same thing. So the only thing that stays the same is change. Pretty deep from a guy who stands in a moat of his own saliva. "You cant put a limit on anything" -- Michael Phelps "Its puff puff pass bro" -- Michael Phelps

Death Be Not Death

We used to play a game called Heroes, or Champions or something like that in high school. It was a role playing game, and I don't mean someones the chamber maid and someones the tired pilot coming home early and for some reason there's a monkey who is also a lube salesman and it all takes place in a locker room at Penn State in 1998. It was a bunch of "Theater" geeks pretending to save the world by creating characters they wish they were while being nerds they wish they weren't. My superhero was a guy called Voicebox who could mimic any noise and throw his voice anywhere, Useful if a vaudeville show broke out, but not so much when downtown Capital City was being over run with Death Robots from the planet DeathRobotia, ( we tried) SHOULD BE A PARAGRAPH BREAK HERE< BUT THERE WONT BE FOR SOME REASON< SO EVERY TIME I WANT A NEW PARAGRAPH I WILL PUT THE NAME OF A CANDY BAR...KIT KAT There have been so many shootings lately its been overwhelming. I know, people get shot every day (half of them are ex NY Giants players) and so much happens that we only see a small fraction of the shit that goes down. But its like my old exterminator friend used to say who never really existed "If you see one cockroach in your house, that means there's hundreds more hiding in the walls." We had flying cockroaches in Texas growing up, and they looked like the regular ones, until you tried to kill it with a boot and it sprouted wings and flew straight at you, sometimes grazing your face and that was it. You were ruined for the rest of the day. Creepy. We also had scorpions who could jump straight up the length of a house, and once, a Jehovah witness. SNICKERS. Texas had guns. Lots of them. On gun racks in the back of trucks, behind the bars of the Steak N Ales ( a great place to eat steak and also ale, but is no longer around. They introduced escargots to the public and that was its downfall. Not because Dallas wouldn't eat snails, but because fuck the French, am I right?) and at every bar that stayed open past 8pm. I remember on my 21st birthday party we celebrated at a pub and an older lady not with our party grabbed me and asked me to dance by showing me her piece clipped to her belt buckle. Who was I to say no, and also who was I not to get shot? I live in NYC now. More specifically, New York City, and yes, there are shootings. But lately, it seems to be getting closer. And not just shooting. Death. In General. A shooting in a theater in Colorado, to a shooting at the Empire State Building, to a death of a comic I used to play with here in New York. Then there was a shooting in New Jersey recently, so I'm hoping what usually happens happens and all the bad shit stays in Jersey. WHATCHAMACALLIT Oh, my point.No point. Like everything, just no...point. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not one of these guys in Williamsburg Brooklyn brooding about the world situation by eating only what he can find in his couch, and writing songs that rhyme oppression with depression, and defiant with Kobe Bryant all the while working my temp job as a receptionist for an ad agency using the computer to find cheap love seats and old cameras on Craigslist cause I have so much to say about everything and this world just doesn't know...it's just damn, there seems to be more reminders that we're all gonna die than ever before. Is it because I'm not only knocking on 40's door, but because in a mere 2 months I will be answering that door in a coffee stained robe missing the belt, and mad because whoever knocked interrupted my stories? 40's not old, but its a hell of a lot closer to 60 then 21 was. THREE MUSKETEERS. That's an odd name for candy bar by the way. Is the candy packed with French history, or swords? Why isn't there a Joan of Arc Bar that you use to make S'mores? Anywho...death be not proud...that's cool death...just don't be so humble you don't take credit for your work. Make it decided. A German teenager with a T shirt that read "Life Is Beautiful and I No Longer Am Afraid Of Death" stopped to ask me directions to Ground Zero. He was unaware that construction had begun, and in fact, is ready to open soon. He pointed to the skyline at Liberty and Church where we happened to be and asked if this was the place where the buildings were...how you say...fucked? Yes. Yes this is where they were fucked. But, this is also where we are unfucking them. Death be be not proud...death be not ignored or interrupted I'm hoping the afterlife is like your favorite Youtube clips. If they involve Russell Brand though, you go straight to hell...MILKY WAY Death will be a great relief. No more interviews. KATHARINE HEPBURN

Celebrating Chinese New Year with My Adopted Daughter

I googled my first name and the word Days to find my blog as I never remember how to get to it without doing that, and I was surprised that I wasn't the first entry. It was an article entitled Celebrating Chinese New Year with my Adopted Daughter. So, that's the name of my post and story this time. In the real story, Rory is a tiny Asian girl. Much like me, she also enjoys making dumplings, dressing in silk, and drinking sake till shes blind drunk. I know sake's Japanese, but I'm sure they drink it in China too. So, here's my version of the story. A lot of people don't give an assistant manager of a Blimpies with a shady past a break, let alone Asian twins in need of a stable home. But that's just what happened to me OK, I think that's enough to confuse search engines. This blogspot thing isn't recognizing paragraphs, so I have to ramble in one big thing. Seriously. I am spacing each of these words out on their own line and the preview shows one huge glob of words. Recently, I met up with my good friend Doug. Now, a good friendship is like a fine wine. It gets better and stronger with age. Its value increases. Sometimes it has nice legs. A friendship with Doug (last name withheld, although I could add his address, birthday, and work history and if he read this he still wouldn't know it was about him.)however, is like drinking an old zookeepers boot full of kiwi flavored Mad Dog 20/20 and getting punched in the stomach by a paint churner. He is as with it as the last Post It that doesn't realize what has come before it, and as sharp as a GI JOE action figure knife that was dipped in the chocolate river of Wonka: He has longhair like a bass player for 38 Special, missing at least 2 teeth, and you wouldn't feel weird asking him for directions to the Boat Show in ANY CITY...even Phoenix...and now, in short story form, My Adventure Near Death Experience at the Airport From outside of the Delta terminal, Gate E7, I called Doug. He was nice enough to take time out from his daily routines of laughing at cats, and adding Certs to vodka and calling it a Mojito to pick me up form the airport. "Its 6:40 Doug, I'm outside Gate E7," I said. "Ill be there in 30 buddy," came the drawl from the other end. "Thirty minutes?", I said? Alright there must have been traffic. Thirty minutes come and go. My cell phone goes off. "Hey man, what gate? Have you ever driven around this airport?" I had. And so had he for over 22 years. "Gate E7. Delta," I said again. Twenty minutes later I called Doug. He told me he got lost in the airport driving around for the past hour and he ran out of gas. "Remember when you said this airport was like the Death Star?", said Doug. "Yup. Come get me," I said. Twenty minutes later, I call again and get his voicemail. Ten minutes later he calls me to ask what gate and wants to know if Ive tried to drive around this airport. This happen a few more times. I contemplate suicide taking the bus. At 8:40 Sir Doug of Dallas pulls up...at Gate 22. "Im here," he says on the phone. As I guide him into the proper gate, I see a sun burnt face with his tongue out greet me as I throw my suitcase in the back. An overwhelming scent hits me as I slump into the passenger seat. CK1? Drake Noir? Canoe? Some outdated high school cologne Doug seems to be bathing in. "Damn dude, you smell like an 80's prom," I told him. "Of course I do, I'm drunk," he laughed and pulled away. Doug proved his point that it is very difficult navigating thru an airport drinking Jack Daniels out of a Burger King to go cup. After pulling into several parking lots, long term parking lots, employee only parking lots, and once back to gate E7, we arrived at the exit. Doug did not keep his ticket, so its perfectly understandable for him to make a comment about our Indian gate keepers involvement in 9/11 and speed thru the gate without paying yelling I got away with it, I got away with it. The picture of his license plate they took I'm sure was not on his mind at all. Going 90 mph down the highways in all the lanes, I should have jumped. I should have not gotten in the car with him to begin with, but now I was trapped like James Bond, only there was nothing to outsmart here. "You're coming home to meet my cat," Doug exclaimed. Nope,I'm running late and he was taking me to my theater. He insisted I meet his two cats and his dog. Why anyone lets him take care of anything is a mystery. Sarah McLaughlin is going to come to his apartment and take those animals. We sped past a cop who had pulled another car over. I told Doug to look out and he told me a little known Dallas law I wasn't familiar with: Those motherfuckers cant do two stops at the same time. Doug knew physics! Ah, but they can call another cop down the highway and tell them to look out for you I told him. "Let em try, I got this," he yelled reaching under my seat and pulling out a 35. After much screaming and another dose of CK1, I finally convinced Doug to drop me off at the theater. I gave him $20 thru the window and told him to go fuck himself and went to a bar nearby. He texted me 10 minutes later saying he was tired and was staying in. I wondered if he even remembered picking me up, and then I thought he was a phantom, who died long ago and is the stuff of local legend. Should I even mention that I saw him. or would i be branded crazy? Either way, the shepherds pie at this pub was amazing. "Have you ever driven around this airport?" -- Doug Richardson