Linda always got the aisle seat. She liked having easy access to the bathroom and to the flight attendants.
Frank always took the window seat. He liked not talking to anyone and watching the world go on below as if he weren’t a part of it.
Art: Hippo Eye by Jim Zola
I’m at my counselor’s office. He’s in the same practice as my wife’s counselor, so she’s in there with her counselor as well. This is our first joint counseling session. It’s about three weeks since I was found out, what those in recovery call “discovery.” My counselor wants to share with my wife’s counselor where we are in the counseling process. He told me that they want to talk about our “situation” together in front of us, to make sure we are all “on the same page.” I. Am. Petrified. This is a potentially dangerous situation for my own well-being.
Herbert and Marilyn walked into the newest diner in town, The Brown Bag. A yellow GRAND OPENING banner hung the length of the wall behind the hostess stand and a greasy smell of overdone French fries lingered in the air. Herbert trudged to the front and put his name on the list. The hostess said it would be a few minutes. He headed back to the door and plopped down on a bench next to Marilyn.
Pop Quiz. Answer the following question: “BREAKING NEWS is to CNN what a shiny new red Corvette is to . . .” (fill in the blank).
Back to that later.
Upstairs in late afternoon, in the advancing dark of November, Clora resets the timer on her desk lamp. It should click on at five, switch off at one until the setting begins to drift again like other things she once supposed exact. She wonders how soon it will start to wander, if she’ll still be waiting for light at six or surprised by it at three. Will she be turning a page when it shuts off? She shrugs, but that question is relevant.
Light drips on the handle of our cups.
Mine is dark blue, hand
Crafted by a lady I met
Once, in Kentucky. It’s filled
With Camomile tea. No sugar.
"If this country gave a shit about empowering future generations, education wouldn't be a for-profit enterprise."
Art: "Bubble" by Jim Zola
You sometimes wonder about
Pangea, the supercontinent
that existed 300 million years
ago.
At 18,000 miles, when my hair was still blondish, Dad flung me the keys to the ’53 DeSoto Powermaster. It was a voluptuous sedan, with a heavy chrome grille, painted in a deep red color that Dad called “Sophia Loren’s lipstick.” I was fifteen. It was a Sunday, and we were still wearing our suits from church. I didn’t know why he’d done it since the car was only a few years old, but it was my first ride, and I worked that beast all over Peoria—up and down the same streets—counting how many green lights I could rush through without finding a red one.
I miss driving with you at
night, sometime past safe,
our lips still wet with
whiskey.
It was snowing out that night. The wind whipped through the crisp air, stirring the movements of the car. He drove at speeds over seventy miles per hour. He didn't care. He had been crying. He was working on his book again for the first time in months. The one about her. He kept erasing lines and starting over, never understanding why he chose to suffer.
PODCASTDrunk Monkeys RadioFilmcastIt Comes at Night
The Filmcast crew returns for their first foray into horror with the ultra-slow burn of It Comes at Night. Also, Matt gives Hail, Caesar a second chance and the guys discuss post-apocalyptic movies.
Films discussed: The Stanford Prison Experiment (2015); Planet Outlaws (1953); Hail, Caesar (2016); It Comes at Night (2017); The Quiet Earth (1985); The Rover (2014); Last Night (1998)
PODCASTDrunk Monkeys RadioFilmcastWonder Woman
How does Wonder Woman fare in her first solo outing? Why does Matt hate Apocalypse Now? Who is the best Batman? All this and much more on the latest episode of the Drunk Monkeys Radio Filmcast!
When he had finished writing, and crossing out
and standing and rewriting, and looking
out his window, and feeling the sun
Gabriel: Now, when we had to leave last time, you were telling me about a Vietnam project of some kind.
Lloyd: Yeah, through the Roan group. www.roangroup.com. It has nothing to do with Troma. It’s totally separate, and my name shouldn’t be associated with Roan.
G: Okay.
I stood and watched you sleeping, had
stood there watching for nearly five minutes in
the shadow of the
hallway for nearly five minutes of circus
time before I dropped your purse on the chair, quiet as death
Racial. Barrier. Falls.
The words like a meditative mantra for Violet, a promise renewed in each breath, deep and expanding, as strong and sure and filled with hope as the sweet smell of autumn in New York. It was November 4, 2008. The news—world-historical news—flashed across every television-computer-cell phone-smartphone-website-newsstand all over the country, all over the world, each headline a slightly varied version of the one she liked most, the one from her very own hometown paper, the good ol’ New York Times, which ran the banner: “Obama Elected President as Racial Barrier Falls.”
If I could, I’d use
my recently purchased cell phone
to call the pay phone outside
the community swimming pool
in Fairview Park, Normal, Illinois,
that summer when I was eleven,
and the country 200.