She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
McBride fell twelve stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7 p.m. instead of 7:30.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie, this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
But my thoughts had no Cling Free, either. I wasn’t able to write the novelette.
I adjusted my thinking. I would write a book of short stories. I had collected a series of headlines that have appeared in respectable newspapers. I would write a story with each headline as the title. “Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers” could be an interesting story. That was in the Los Angeles Times. I also thought “Lung Cancer in Women Mushrooms” might make a good Calvino. “Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft” had infinite possibilities.
I never got past “Include Your Children When Baking Cookies.” It was a fun story, but didn’t lead anywhere.
I wanted to write a book of strange prose, but life beat me to it.
…
Verdi’s Requiem overpowers the room. Pavarotti and Ramey are having a testosterone duel. My dick is bigger than yours. No, my dick is bigger. Jesus, Jesus, you’re number one.
The lights are dim. A cool summer night in San Francisco. A light breeze flows through the windows. Trumpets blow through my soul. It’s a full moon. Pavarotti wins. Ramey has a deeper voice, bigger balls. Pavarotti is more confident, bigger dick.
I have a thing for church music. I wonder why. Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis is the most beautiful music I have ever heard. Rossini’s Petite Messe Solennelle is divine. My favorite masses are not usually considered the spiritual ones. Still, they do talk to the divine. Maybe I yearn for something. The mezzo-soprano sings. Beautiful voice.
The day of wrath, that day
will dissolve the world in ashes,
so say David and Sibyl.
What am I to say, wretch that I am?
Whom shall I ask to intercede for me,
when scarcely the righteous may be secure?
I wonder why. Not for long, though. I get another attack of diarrhea and run to the bathroom.
Remember, Merciful Jesus,
I am the cause for Thy journey:
do not abandon me on that day.
Seeking me, Thou didst sit down weary,
Thou didst redeem me, having endured the Cross:
let not such great suffering have been in vain.
…
Time. What time is it? Butter crumpets and tea. That’s what I want. Bring me some butter crumpets and tea, Maria. It’s probably late. I don’ t hear anybody moving. I would settle for scones and clotted cream with my tea. Something English. That’s what I want. I am too tired of America and Americans. Still they are better than the French. I hate the French, probably more than I hate Americans. Such arrogant bastards. I once walked into Carvil on Pierre Charron and the salesman took one look at me and said, “Nous n’avons pas votre pointure, monsieur.” That fucker. A fucking shoe salesman and he’s arrogant. I just walked out the door and didn’ t make a scene for once. We don’t have your shoe size. I should have bought the store just to fire him, but that happens only in the movies. I saw Delta Force, a terrible movie. The movie is about a hijacking. A group of Arabs hijack a plane and fly it to Beirut. The Delta Force, an American antiterrorist group, comes to Beirut, kills all the bad guys, and saves all the hostages. The hijackers are all unkempt and dirty looking. They look like me on a good day. They are all evil. The Christians and Jews are all wonderful. All the Lebanese, even those not involved in the hijacking, are evil. Anyway, why is it pointure? Why not taille? Why do the French have a different word for shoe size and clothes size? Because they are arrogant, that’s why. Okay, I grant you, they have a right to be arrogant. Any culture that can produce Mallarmé has something to be proud of. But why do shoe salesmen have to be so arrogant? But they are better than the Lebanese. The Lebanese are just arrogant. I fucking hate the Lebanese. I hate them. They are so fucked up. They think they are so great, and for what reason? Has there been a single artist of note? A scientist, an athlete? They are so proud of Gibran. Probably the most overrated writer in history. I don’t think any Lebanese has ever read him. If they had, they would keep their mouth fucking shut. At least the French are talented. I was riding the Metro in Paris once and this fourteen-year-old kid came on. He was wearing a black Guns & Roses T-shirt and carrying an accordion. I thought that was such a dichotomy. Fingers proceeded to dance on the instrument. He played “Sous le Ciel de Paris,” and I have never heard it played like that. Fingers moved so elegantly. French jazz. He came around collecting money and I gave him a five-hundred-franc note. His eyes got so wide. He looked so cute. I got out at my stop. Would the Lebanese ever produce anybody of that talent? Hardly. Those fuckers are too busy judging everybody else’s life to live their own. The happiest day in my life was when I got my American citizenship and was able to tear up my Lebanese passport. That was great. Then I got to hate Americans. And I really do. They are dumb. That’s my problem with Americans. They are naïve and dumb. And I hate that. Some movie. Forget the fact some Shiites kidnapped Americans and kept them hostage for years, and Delta Force couldn’t do shit. Forget the fact that in one scene they have to cross a cotton field in Beirut. A cotton field in Beirut? At least they do not put a scene in a desert with camels. America is the birthplace of Wheel of Fortune and I will never forgive it for that. I’m getting tired. What time is it? I want tea. I want something. The Lebanese would never ride the Paris Metro. The best public transportation in the world. The Lebanese brag that they gave the world the alphabet. I tried so hard to rid myself of anything Lebanese. I hate everything Lebanese. But I never could. It seeps through my entire being. The harder I tried, the more it showed up in the unlikeliest of places. But I never gave up. I do not want to be considered a Lebanese. But that is not up to me. Would people think of me as a painter or a Lebanese painter? That is not up to me.
Nothing in my life is up to me.
One of the hijackers in the movie tells the hostages that the New Jersey bombed Lebanon. The priest, one of the hostages, denies it. He says Americans never bombed Beirut. There is no rebuttal. When the hijacked plane lands in Beirut, one of the passengers said this used to be a wonderful city. You could do whatever you want.
I couldn’t believe what he said next. Beirut used to be the Las Vegas of the Middle East.
Now that’s fucking insulting.
…
Death comes in many shapes and sizes, but it always comes. No one escapes the little tag on the big toe.
The four horsemen approach.
The rider on the red horse says, “This good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth war.”
The rider on the black horse says, “This good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth plague.”
The rider on the pale horse says, “This good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth death.”
The rider on the white horse says, “I love you, Mohammad.”
The propitious rider on the white horse leads us away.
I die.
Koolaids Page 20