Maybe of the Century

I am in the tub, splashing about in the misery, having the time of my life, toaster held aloft, and my wife comes in and ruins the best pity party of the year.

Bus Life

MONDAY The C2 toward Soho. The woman across from me is holding her broken heel. She is putting it in place, willing it to affix itself. She takes out her phone from her bag. Peeking from the zipper mouth is a pregnancy testing kit.

TUESDAY The C2 toward Kentish Town. The bus in front of us clips a pedestrian. He’s down. He isn’t moving. I don’t see blood. Ambulances are already screaming their approach. A businesswoman beside me is in a huff, because the bus driver won’t open the doors to let us out. He does 30 seconds later.

You know that guy dancing with the pigeons at Trafalgar? We need to be more like him.

Crowds depress me. They demonstrate how uninterestingly same people are. It's sad that only the insane stand out from the mass. Surely there is a better way to be an individual?

What to Do with Your Dead Mom

Since childhood a common discussion with my mother has been her funeral and what to do with her remains. She's firmly in the burn-me-up camp. She has nightmares of being buried alive. Burned alive doesn't seem to concern her as much.


Since I seem determined (her words, not mine) to disappoint her grandchildren ambitions, I have since suggested an alternative. As she'll be long gone (again, her words) by the time I get around to making dribbling crying copies of myself, I've told her that my plan differs from her own. She'll be stuffed in a Bela Lugosi pose.

Of course, her eyes will be replaced with flashing red LEDs as is tradition.

The idea being is that even in death she can participate in the rearing of her descendants, as a disciplinary measure. If you don’t clean your room, you're going into the closet with grandmother.

I think ole' Momo is coming around to the idea.