The advantage of not being licensed

Are there ethical concerns about fucking your doctor?

In Rainbows

How many other people will be listening to the new Radiohead record on the commute home today?

The hunter

Part I
I woke up Wednesday night at 4 am to the sound of wretching.

At first I was just relieved that it wasn't me. Leaning over the bed, there was my little monkey, pictured at left in a nascent stage, throwing up one of the hair binders that my lady friend can't seem to remember to put away.

After a brief scolding (Go ahead, put this in your hair. Go ahead!), I cleaned it up and went into the bathroom to wash my hands. As I stepped onto the shaggy bathmat in front of the sink, my toes squished through something wet and cold. I looked down and it was obviously cat puke, but it wasn't puked cat food.

So I cleaned more puke, washed my foot, washed my hands and went back into the bedroom.

And there it was. Three inches long, its neck terminating in a bloody stump, was a little mouse carcass. At least I knew what I stepped in. Thanks monkey, for not bringing it up on the bed.

Part II
Last night, in the middle of some of the best sleep I've had in weeks, I wake up to the monkey charging into my room and rummaging around in the closet. Even I could smell the blood. So I watched him dig around, looking under things, looking behind things, sniffing with purpose and determination.

Eventually he came out with it in his mouth, little tail hanging out. It was almost cute. I followed them out into the living room thinking, I can't just let him eat it again. But how do I kill it and take it away from him?

He puts it down, the mouse stares at him and doesn't move. The mouse makes a run for it, the monkey grabs the mouse and picks it up in his mouth and holds it for a while. He puts it down, the mouse stares at him and doesn't move. The mouse makes a run for it, the monkey grabs the mouse and picks it up in his mouth and holds it for a while. He puts it down, the mouse stares at him and doesn't move. The mouse makes a run for it, the monkey grabs the mouse and picks it up in his mouth and holds it for a while. He puts it down, the mouse stares at him and doesn't move. The mouse makes a run for it, the monkey grabs the mouse and picks it up in his mouth and holds it for a while. He puts it down, the mouse stares at him and doesn't move. The mouse makes a run for it, the monkey grabs the mouse and picks it up in his mouth and holds it for a while. And on and on. What the hell do I do?

I know! I will pick up a magazine and roll it up and hold it in my hand. The magazine will give me the power to figure out what the hell to do.

He starts to bring it in the bedroom (at least I know he likes me best) and I yell, "HEYNODONTBRINGITINTHERE!" And he doesn't.

He comes back out into the dining room and puts it down and looks at me. The mouse makes a run while he isn't looking and gets away behind the old organ. "Shit! You let him get away! You fool! Get him!!" I'm pointing, "He's over there! GET HIM!" The monkey is looking at my outstretched finger with his head cocked to the side.

I realize that I'm going to have to play an active role in the hunt so I start moving things around next to the organ. The mouse is in there and as I remove its shelter, it bolts back behind the organ. So I block one side of the organ and pull the other side away from the wall. I send the monkey in and he emerges with prey in mouth.

He beelines straight for the bedroom, only this time I can't stop him. He drops the tiny thing, wet, broken, and scared for its life, in one of my nice dress shoes, the kind with the leather soles. My first thought is, "get that out of my shoe!" but then I realize, the shoe is a scoop. So I pick up the shoe and dump the mouse into the plastic bag from the Sunday paper, tie off the bag, and take it down to the can by the garage.

It was a good team effort. Neither of us could have done it alone.

But poor Sam, he is still looking for that mouse 7 hours later. I guess in order to end the hunt and reset his instinct, he needs to kill it, eat and vomit the head.

And I guess we have mice.

...then the ride home (a call, an actual one)

On the ride home, the very same day, I'm cruising back down Marshall, between Snelling and the river, when it is all down hill and any rider can hit 25 easy.

The roads are smooth and new and the bike lane is painted in fresh white roadpaint. It is a bike commuters dream. Except for rail to trail.

Cruising past the line of stopped traffic at Fairview and Marshall, suddenly a black Civic pulls into the bike lane, turning (unsignaled) into the driveway of a church.

I think I was able to slow down to 15 before I hit the side of the car but it was simply too late to stop. Basically, I bounced off the side of her car and broke my fall on the fresh new pavement. My jersey and shorts were not ripped.

"Are you ok?" the lady inquired with a hint of concern.

"What the fuck do you think?"

I got up, picked up my bike, turned my wrists and ankles just to make sure they worked, got her name, number, and plates, and rode four more miles until my rear tire deflated.

Then I went to urgent care.

A close call (apologies to the Hyundia-set)

I was riding my bike to work on Wednesday, as I often do. I take the Greenway to Hiawatha, then 26th to W. River Road and down to the Lake Street Bridge. Over the Lk St Brdg and then Marshall all the way to the place where I work.

On my way in, 30 feet from the intersection of Marshall and Kent, this prick in a maroon Kia Rio passes me within than six inches and then cuts me off. Right at the intersection, this asshole. I pull up next to him at the stop sign where he rests, waiting for passing traffic and I spit into the drivers window onto his cheap suit and ugly face.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yells.

"I'm getting cut off by a limp dick in a cheap Korean hatchback, you fuck." And I rode off.

It was so very satisfying.

Liking the semi-colon; It is good.

It is the literary version of gasoline.
Use it too much, we'll all be riding bicycles.

And you know how that ends.

Lionel the Oaf

Lionel is an oaf. Lionel is 6'4", at least 275 lbs, and carries himself like a man who lacks the torque to carry so heavy a load. His body obstructs itself so he has to walk around himself. Truly like an oaf.

Lionel and I spend 8 hours a day separated by an inch of foam padding and a hundred-mile chasm of social grace. None of his acts are committed quietly. From the moment he stumbles in, stuffs himself into his cube coughing, wheezing, and gurgling phlegm, the day is filled with the rapturous sounds of expectoration and chewing.

There is always something entering or exiting his bloated corpus.

There is the clearing of the throat. Always with a warning wheeze, he inhales and lets out a bellow from his clotted lungs. You could mark time with it in 10-minute increments. The sound is like a sneeze, but from the throat instead of the nose.

He eats all the time. There is a box of poptarts and a case of diet coke (why bother with Diet Coke, Lionel?) at his desk. In the morning there is the rustling of cellophane and the smacking sounds of fat-man consumption. He loves his frosted, jelly-filled pastries. Before lunch there will more cellophane rustling and then the crunching of chips. He doesn't pour them out to eat them from a pile, rather, he takes them one by one with his pudgy, clumsy fingers, too big for the rustling bag. Then he savors the crunch, always broadcast through open and smacking lips.

Usually he leaves for lunch and there is a 30 minute silent reprieve where I can work without rage. But alas, There will be more chips in the afternoon. And then M&M's. The weight must be maintained.

Lionel does not wait his turn to speak. In conversation, Lionel is a bludeoning force, his pinched shrieking voice rises to a deafening crescendo. He furrows his brow, sneers, and gesticulates madly, punching his hand with his fist. Everyone hears what he has to say, especially when he's on the phone.

Lionel tries to dress well; he is vaguely aware of fashion and a classic overuser of the semi-colon. He wears the stylish clothing that comes from stores that cater to the slim. And his ill-fitting garb is always mismatched: vertically striped shirts with pinstriped pants, always contrasting stripes, both in width and in color. Sometimes he wears black pants and a navy shirt with brown shoes and a red belt. He always looks out of focus. His belt works harder than he does, stretched taut from fighting gravity.

Half the time he emerges from the men's room with his fly open and his shirt tail sticking through the hole. Then he'll prop himself with arms stretched between a door jamb for maximum fly spreading. Lionel is not good with women.

It may surprise you to know that the Oaf lacks the most rudimentary of hygiene habits. Lionel doesn't cover his mouth when he coughs, wheezes, or gurgles. On days when his allergies are bothering him (everyday), he will sit at his desk and sniffle for 8 hours, never blowing his nose.

I used to ask him, "Are you sick?" Only a sick man would make so many nauseating noises.

His answer: "No, I have allergies."

So naturally, it follows: "What are you allergic to?"

"Everything." Clearly these noises aren't going away.

In the late afternoon, half-crazy from all the mucus, I thought, "Maybe he doesn't have any tissue. So I will bring him some tissue and he will begin to blow his nose, bringing this problem to an obvious and natural conclusion." I leaned over the wall and said, "Lionel, it sounds like you need some tissue." As I dropped the pile of tissue, it fell onto a neat, folded, pile of unused tissue and next to a clean, neat, folded, unused, white hand kerchief.

Lionel said, "Was I sniffling? Thanks, but I have a hand kerchief right here that I'm already not using."

When I was a child, if I sniffled more than once an hour, my mother, father, grandmother, aunt, uncle, family friend, neighbor, or dog would bring me a tissue and say something wise and educational, such as, "You are sniffling. Blow your nose into this tissue and then you will stop sniffling."

If I emerged from the toilet with my zipper down, I would be reminded, "XYZ [examine your zipper]."

Can you imagine what it must be like to go to Lionel's house? They probably spit on the floor and walk around with their dicks hanging out, screaming at each other.

Oh yeah, and one of his two front teeth is completely black. And his breath stinks (big fucking surprise I'm sure). He has a girlfriend. She lives in England and I wonder if they've ever met.

Coffee club is for assholes

I've always seen coffee as a utility drink for the angry.

They have this “coffee club” at work where everyone shares coffee, and dances, sharing happily and drinking coffee. It goes against everything I believe coffee stands for – isolation, anger, and loneliness.

I do not participate in this “club.” Instead, I bring in my Angryman Thermos and drink at my desk in proper brooding fashion.

I went into the break room this morning to wash my mug and woman walked in behind me smiling for no reason. Pleasantly plump some might call her. I would say fat and stupid. She walked over to the coffee pot, filled her cup, deposited a quarter into the “honor-system” payment box, twirled around and walked out.

She never stopped smiling.

Condo for sale

Well, my condo is for sale. It was an investment right from the start and now we're cashing in our chips and we're gonna see what we get back. It just went on the market yesterday and tonight I had my first showing. Me and the cat packed it over to sbone's house for some 2 on 1 cat action.

When a realtor takes a client to view a property, they leave their card on the kitchen table. For some reason all these toothy mothers have their picture on their card. Like tomorrow, I'm gonna be shopping for a new mixer at Kitchen Window, and I'm gonna recognize this guy, sidle up to him, give him the twice over and say, "Hey, aren't you Eduard G. Kueler, the GE/SPOT realtor??!?!" And he's gonna throw his fingers through his double-gelled hair (or rather, over his helmet), show me his two big wrap-around pearly whites, and say, "The very same..."

And then what?

I wish you could all see this picture (I wish you were all still reading this, at any rate). I don't have a scanner, otherwise I'd put it up here for you to see. Judging from his picture, he's either 5'2" or 6'10". There's no way to tell for sure. I can see some teeth, and a mongoloid brow, and in between are two little pinholes which must be the viewfinder for his amygdala. Or for respiration.

Selling my home is going to be fun!!