Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Low Magic

We have an occasional roommate. You knew that. She lived with us the majority of one summer and the minority of this summer. Now she's trying to get tangled up in the Los Angeles mess. Television and movie production. Back of the house stuff. The fingerprints you're not taught to recognize as fingerprints. Anyway, she's gone now. The tea kettle won't get used until she returns, whenever she returns. It sits on the back burner collecting splatters of oil from all the spices I fry.

There's a homemade meal almost every night. When there's not, Josh gets antsy. Don't read too much into it. We favor a routine. When our roommate's here, the routine becomes even more solid. We mimic a family. Special considerations. Our roommate is the only person I know who dislikes basil. I've told you. Even though it's summer, our roommate never found basil on her plate.

One night at dinner we talked about the big trial news of our childhood, OJ Simpson, and how our teachers either did or didn't allow us to watch the verdict in class. Our roommate learned the verdict in the hallway when a boy yelled, "THE JUICE IS LOOSE!"

I don't think we said a word about the Zimmerman verdict. I still don't know what to say. I continue to read. Read and read and read.

The sun is out, but I hear thunder.

The UPS guy just came up on the porch and shouted that he was the UPS guy. A woman was with him, training him in the proper UPS ways. She said he was doing a good job. Then, "Well, your parking could be better." He had stopped the truck in the middle of the street.

I had pork for lunch with a friend who refuses pork. It's the sacrifice he makes to pay for other sins. We talked about dabbling. I told him how several years ago I hollowed out an egg and stuffed it with herbs and desperate pleas for money. The plan was to bury the egg in the yard and see if money manifested. I never buried the egg. It sits on a shelf in a decorative bell jar. My friend said the desire for stuff like that was like the desire for pork. That it wasn't kosher. Neither of us said the word "sorcery." Not out loud. But I repeated it over and over in my head until it sounded like the stupidest word in the world.

You want to know what I'm doing with my time. I'm working on a novel. I'm working on some stories. I'm half-assing my tumblr called GUYS + PIES. If you ever wanted to see me in my underwear, now's your chance. It's summer. It's tumblr. I'm wearing a mohawk and not much else.


  1. 1. oh crap, i just like, stared at your nuts for 12 seconds. felt incesty.

    2. what's the magic for getting the perfect job? tell me the secret.

  2. no, YOU'RE the better writer.

    jk it's a tie. I love you, though. this post is particularly great.

  3. xTx, I'm sorry my junk looks like a mess of mashed potatoes. Actually, I'm not sorry. And I'm the wrong man to ask about the magic for getting the perfect job. Maybe the first step is to not expect any job to be perfect, and then you won't suffer disappointment. Soon, though, you won't have to worry. Your novel. Your novel. Your novel.

    Molly, we will toss this ball back and forth until we die. You are the better writer, but a small, ugly part of me is glad no one knows it yet. When they figure out what I've figured out they'll drop me like a hot potato. Confession: I have never held a hot potato. My kitchen is outfitted for the space age. I use chrome tongs.


From the mouths of beasts.