Water Lilly Alley

Sometimes, Love is Like That.

From behind a shade 
of a provocative
lilac-quartz lipstick
and sporting just
the right amount of tattoos,
(nine)

the waitress smiled and asked
“What will it be?”

Looking up
I realized that love
had just arrived
and with it,
a name tag: Lana.

Before long Lana
and I were spending
afternoons together as
summer
slid into fall,
fall into winter. 

We married in January,
in June, two became three.

Before long,
three became four.
Her mother
made five.

Two kids,
a mortgage,
a car and a truck,
a boat, and a new mother.

Love slipped into the hallway… and waited.

Along with Mother,
came luggage: 62 years of ideology,
as much theology
and a make-up kit filled
with a personal willingness
to change everything
except
herself. 

Lana, picked up her art degree,
I picked up a second job.

Art led to Arnold
Arnold to the affair that brought home
arguments beginning
in why and ending in :
 “No” and “Never

The youngest found drugs,
death found the youngest.

Love slipped into the breakfast nook,
stopped and looked around.

Mother died and the oldest applied for a sex change.

Stares for breakfast.
Vicodin at the office.
Oranges chasing vodka for lunch.
Gin chasing traffic all the way home.
Wine for dinner,
what if(s) for dessert.

Another affair,
more nothings,
a second mortgage
and the question of “Who needs a boat?”
begins to make sense.

Love slips into the backyard and crouches.

Depression
and despair,
alcoholism
and aloneness,
fear and desperation
become incestuous lovers
taunting all your used to be(s)

Arthritis and assisted living
have become your best friends.

And as love looks around,
she readies to pounce into nothingness,

I  look back up at the waitress

and say…

Just Coffee.  

The Defendant

Ladies and Gentle of the jury the question before you is very simple, and I could sum it up in a few sentences. But I have a chance to talk to you now in more detail. It's important that when you decide this case, that you take the time to consider everything - not just what the prosecutor would like you to believe and as I have stated earlier, this is not whether my client is guilty of being vain, but that he has been unjustly given the perception of being vain. There is a difference, and it is up to you to decide on that difference.

First I would like to remind the jury that nothing is more basic to living together as humans, than to love. It doesn’t matter if it’s the love of one another in a sense of community or the one on one monogamous love that prevails in our society today. Also it’s just as vital to know that love arises out of a need to progress in our culture. And as many ways that there are to fall in love there are just as many ways that love can be perceived or in this case, mis-perceived and that is what this case is all about: How one perceives love and how that person deals with the outcome of said perception. We must also know by heart, that this way of thinking is not indigenous to this wonderful nation of ours but is felt throughout the world. Throughout the world Ladies and Gentlemen.

Now you must ask yourself as a good starting point: Does an accusation define a person, or does one’s actions define a person?  If the latter rings fair, then you will not have a difficult time deciding the fate of my client.

The plaintiff would like you to believe that my client, Mr. Sanderstone had nothing but his own interest in mind the entire time that Ms. Simon and he were together. And I believe that you will come to see: That is not the way it was or is. 

You heard just a few days ago Ms. Simon say in her own words in reference to a party that she had attended that when Mr. Sanderstone entered:  “ He walked into the party like he were walking onto a yacht, his hat strategically dipped below one eye, his scarf, apricot and that he had one eye in the mirror as he  watched himself gavotte.”  “That all the girls dreamed that they'd be his partner, he is so vain.”

Ladies, how many times have you walked into a party, felt a bit uneasy and found yourself side glancing into a mirror to see if your outfit was in order. And to ‘gavotte’? Does anyone here know the definition of gavotte?  I didn’t, I had to look it up. At first I thought it had something to do with pimping oneself. And I’m sure that is what Ms, Simon would like you to believe, however, it has nothing to do with such foolishness. It means to dance.  And what do we do at parties Ladies and Gentlemen, we dance. 

And I find it a very solid stretch of the imagination to think that anyone can step into another’s dream and forecast their desires.  Again, “That all the girls dreamed that they'd be his partner’ is sheer speculation on the plaintiff’s behalf.

The plaintiff also claims that Mr. Sanderstone, again, in her words: “He had me several years ago, when I was still quite naive.” “He said that we made such a pretty pair, and would never leave.” And then she goes on to say “That he gives away the things that he loves and one of them was me, I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee”

She testified as clearly as I’m standing here before you that ‘he gives away the things that he loves’ Ladies and Gentlemen, that is not by any means the actions of a man that is selfish, vain, or self centered.  HE gives away the things that he loves. Just think about that for a moment.

Perhaps being naïve is not something Ms. Simon left behind in her youth.  Especially when she goes on to claim that she had dreams and they were clouds in her coffee. 

I ask you, does that sound like the reasoning of a woman that understands the finer points of love?  A woman who bases her dreams on swirls of cream in coffee.  The next thing we will find is that Ms. Simon is a chronic tea leaf reader as well.

It was shortly after this coffee vision that Ms. Simon decided that my client was indeed, vain.

That, he was sure that everything she said, did or thought was all about him. I think she used the phrase. "You think this song is about you, don’t you, DON’T you."  Referring sporadically to herself as being a song.

Then again with the clouded coffee…

If you will recall when Ms. Simon was on the stand today, she clearly recalled a time just before their separation, of Mr. Sanderstone going up to Saratoga, where his horse had won and how he flew a Lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun. That he was where he should have been all the time and when not, he was with some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend.

Spies, horses, Lear jets, traveling, eclipsing of the sun?

It’s quite evident that the only spies involved here, were in the employ of Ms. Simon, for how else would she know of his windfall of having a horse come in, or that he spent the afternoon watching an eclipse with the wife of a close friend?  Who of us here does not have close friends? How many of those close friends have wives, or husbands that we also friend?

The overall accusations here Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, are just that, accusations. 

As I stated in the beginning of my closing argument, “Does an accusation define a person, or does one’s actions define a person?

Mr. Sanderstone, may be guilty, but not guilty of being vain, guilty of falling in love perhaps, and then giving that life sustaining love away. Yes, in that sense, he may very well be guilty.

If only we could be so generous, perhaps none of us would be sitting here today.

Thank you.  

Tales From The Heart: Pennies From Hell

Once upon a time in the far, far away in the little village of  Constantinella there lived a 5 foot, 7 inch, green eyed, pidgin-toed, tangled haired Romanian woman that everyone knew as Seraphina.

And Seraphina, like most of the villagers in the village of Constantinella was very, very poor.  In fact, if not for what little potatoes fields they were able to manage, the villagers may have starved several years back and this story would have had an entire different outcome altogether.

But the villagers did not starve, life went on and this story as most stories are prone to do; came to be told.  

Unlike most accounts from Romania and tales of near abandoned villages. Constantinella had something different, something special. Instead of a stream that fed most of the neighboring villages, Constantinella had a well. It was a deep well, so deep in fact, that if you were to peer in, you would see where the day would go to gather darkness so as to blanket the entire night. 

It was a sturdy well as wells go. People would meet there daily for drinking water, to cool off, to wash clothes and some would even fetch water to dampen the goats.

Being the grateful citizens that they were, all appreciated the well for its generosity; nearly everyone that came to the well would toss a penny in for a wish: for penny wishing was about a popular as eating and had been going on for as long as anyone in the village of Constantinella could remember.

Some would wish for fame, although being famous in Constantinella expressed a staunch lack of ambition.

Some would wish for marriage.

And some for divorce.

Some for money.

Some for beauty.

Some wished to be 18.

Some to be 21.

Some to be 30.

And even more wished to be 30 once again.

Some would wish for a leg, an eye, a smaller nose.

Some to be taller.

Some to be shorter.

Some wished for the not so nice to be nicer people.

And the not so nice would wish for the wishes of wishers not to come true.

They were the worst of all.

Then one evening Seraphina, after drawing water, tossed a penny into the village well and once again wished for love, but instead of hearing the penny’s silent nothing of dropping, she heard,

A.

CLINK!

Another penny, and again, another clink.

Walking over to the well, Seraphina looked in and right up to the brink of the well, right up to the bottom of the fetching pail, nothing but pennies. No water, no dark deepness, just pennies: Thousands and thousands of pennies, pennies destined to be wishes.

The mayor of Constantinella was ecstatic and within hours had barricaded the well and sent for guards with a declaration that all water was now to be drawn from the stream at the neighboring village.

Upon the well ban of Constantinella, Seraphina set to bucketing the pennies from the well and storing them in her private reserve. Day in and day out and most nights, she worked. Through Christmas, through Easter, through birthdays, funerals, weddings, through the winter solstice all the way into spring, never stopping, always bucketing.

After about two years of gathering, Seraphina noticed that her fingers began to turn a dirty brown and were slowly beginning to stiffen. A year later, both her arms began to mollify .  She soon found it difficult to breathe and when she went to the doctor to see what was ailing her, the doctor would ask her to breathe in as he would thump his finger on her chest to try and figure out what was going on inside and that is when he heard the first echo. And not just an ordinary echo as you might expect, but a tinny, hollow, metal echo. A far away echo...

And yet she continued to haul pennies. Her open hands became ridged scoops, her arms slowly transformed into squeaky levers, her back creaked.

Again the doctor was summoned and Seraphina was told to cease with the gathering of pennies and that not to stop, would be the death of her.

Of course the mayor would not hear of such foolishness and would have the guards carry her to the well every morning, where she would retrieve pennies late into the night.

One morning after a long night of fetching, the guards found Seraphina with one hand on the bucket, her head slightly tilted and peering into the well, her other hand on the crank, her back slightly bent and upon closer inspection…

 Frozen solid.

                                             The End.

Epilogue: Now, if you are ever traveling the nether regions of Romania and come to the little village of Constantinella you will find several wells in the village square, wells for washing, wells for drinking, and wells for cooking.  Wells for every water need possible, even a well used only for goats, to keep them happy and slightly dampened.  Yet, in the very center of the square: There still stands the original wishing well and next to the well, in all its glory: A fine brightly polished 5 foot, 7 inch, blue eyed, pidgin-toed, tangled haired  statue of a Romanian woman that everyone once knew as Seraphina.

So remember kids, for one to make wish is to look forward into a dream, for two to share a wish is heaven on earth, and to hoard a thousand wishes will turn you into an old and very cold coppery bitch.

 

Through The Looking Glass and Back

First of all I would like to preface this post with: Not all men can wear pink, those that can… Do.

Well, if you came here from reading Alice to see if what she said holds water on my recent visit through the looking glass, then you came to the right place. Truth, however, I might add, is nothing more than myth told over and over.  But now that you’re here, this is how I remember it.

Five hour flight, switched planes in Vegas, arrived in Austin, made it through security without mishap this time and came to the - Where people wait for you, because they are not allowed past certain security checkpoints - waiting area.

And there she was, standing all of 5’2” and if she were holding about three boxes of wet crackers. I would say that would leave her at about 125 pounds with auburn hair and just enough makeup to be made up and a smile that would set an ice berg on fire.

I should have left right then and there. But unlike Odysseus who had Circe to warn him of the dangers of the singing creatures who lured men to their death on the rocks around their island and that if he really felt that he must listen, he should have his men plug their ears with beeswax and tie him to the mast to keep him from escaping.

For me, no men, no beeswax, no mast to be tied to..

I said hello.

She looked into me and said: Seriously?

I replied: Seriously.

Game on.

From the airway we made it to San Marcos in heat that I suspect was a sun flare gone renegade that had decided to take up residence in Texas.

Alice has a wonderful home, the tour consisted of her standing in the living room and pointing out different rooms, and ending with a nod towards the upstairs where she said I would be staying in her son’s room. He was to be out of town for the weekend.  Very convenient, I thought.  That was the last thought I was to have for anything that may have worked for my benefit.

After not eating the night before, Saturday morning I awoke to the smell of coffee. You know, drinking breakfast is very time efficient especially if you want to get out and take care of a facet leak in the front yard before the day’s heat begins belching. And besides, I was for sure that I would be having banana pancakes Sunday morning so I didn’t give the liquid breakfast much thought.   

Now, I'm not exactly sure how the adage came about that things in Texas are big, however, I’m here to say that it is mostly talk - things are just the right size. EXCEPT for wasps: I have never in all my years, seen insects that were so big that if there were three in the immediate area you could clearly give each one of them a name.  And then later on, be able to identify them by said name.  Big.

Sunday morning, more coffee – Alice was not kidding when she says she does not eat. There were a few times I had to poke her to see if perhaps she may just be a bad dream. She wasn’t. So I thought, ok she doesn't  eat, so why not make coffee for her, what have I to lose? Banana Pancakes were not going to happen and besides she is constantly going on and on about how her kids are the best coffee makers this side of New York. Which I'm sure they are. And trust me when I say this: It takes Alice at least, at least two hours and four cups of coffee to wake up in the morning.

Not finding the can of coffee that is morning fare in wonderland, I did come across what I thought was coffee in one of the cupboards. My first clue that it wasn’t would have been the best used by date and second, the title on the bag; Moku Javo Wakeup.  I mean, who in the fuck has Moku Javo Wakeup in their cupboards if it is not to be consumed? Oh yeah, apparently people that feed imitation coffee beans to wasps to keep them mean.

So.

I make her a cup of Moku Javo Wakeup, two heaping spoons of sugar, one spoonful of creamer and I’m off to her bedroom all morning Alvin and shit… Hi hon, wake up, I have coffee for you.

Now let me tell you, if I’m lying, I’m dying.

She takes one sip and all hell breaks lose… she is so up and out of that bed and off to the kitchen that all I saw was the back of her undies and a flurry of pixie like auburn hair.  SHE was awake and only after one sip.  Heh, I would like to see her kids match that when it comes to getting her out of bed in the morning.

She immediately set to making a pot of real coffee, something she was not used to, I’m sure, and she was fuming.  I didn’t know what to expect at this juncture, but I was sure I could take her, I have a few more pounds on her and have her by at least a foot in height and reach.  But as I was summoning my Tai Chi skills she began to calm down.  Crisis averted.

Now my only saving grace, so to speak, was that her daughter arrived and once she found out that I hadn’t eaten in two days, set a plan in place to go to the hardware store, she said that actually it was ruse to get Alice out of the house and then once we were out we would go somewhere for lunch.  I suggested a wasp free establishment.  God does work in mysterious ways.  I love that girl and owe her my life.

Oh yeah, I should also mention that the first real conversation Alice and I had was about our journals, I complemented her on ten plus years of success with Assume Nothing.

She thanked me cordially and then said: You know… if one were to just read a few posts from WLA they would think you’re very misogynistic.

I assured her that she was misled on that assumption only for the fact that I equally offend everyone, including, but not limited to men, women, mothers, aunts, kids and even Jesus and The Pope. 

And then there was this little ditty; Mr. Valles was a perfect gentleman, very entertaining, a laid back go with the flow type of guy. Nothing at all like the “journal slut reputation” he was branded with…

Journal Slut: WTF is up with that?   People that know and love me will tell you that without a doubt I am not a journal slut but more of a social tramp.  THERE is a difference for cryinoutloud: A tramp wears pink.

Would I go back and spend more time with Alice if the gods warrant?  Hell yeah, but I'm taking a lunch sack.

 

Epilogue;

QUESTION: What kind of man titles his journal Water Lilly Alley?

ANSWER: A man that can.

1999

Hi kids, I thought I would give y’all a heads up on what’s going on here at WLA. First out of the gate: I’ve received a few emails on current updates:

Case in point:

Alvin, nice to see you’re updating on a somewhat of a regular basis but what’s with the stories, you never talk about yourself, your life, your interests, your daily routine what’s up with that?

Sincerely
A long time reader.

Well, doesn’t that just beat all, some people just aren’t satisfied, so here’s a little more about me.

 

OMG, I just found that there is a series of books titled The Southern Vampire Mysteries. There are eight volumes chronicling the adventures of Sookie Stackhouse. You know I’m going to be all over that ASAP. This is better than finding the original novel that the show DEADWOOD was based on.  Life is good to me at times.

OK, I can’t use OMG in a post it is just wrong, it’s like watching the cook leave the bathroom without washing his hands.  Gross!

Note to self: Lose gross as well.

Upcoming WLA Line-up.

Midweek WLA or about Thursday WLA will feature what will be the first in a series of fairy tales expounding on the nature of The Seven Deadly Sins. The first story takes us to the little village of Constinella where we discover the origin of greed.

My staff and I will also feature a great one on one interview with someone I have written about quite a bit over the last several years. And not at all in great light, mind you. You really shouldn’t miss this one. Perhaps I can quell the angst of those that felt I have wronged the interviewee in past posts. But then again, I doubt it. But what the hell, I’m not here to impress, charm or otherwise bring light to myself.

Well, ok, honestly I am a total attention slut. But that is no reason to miss the interview. Right?

RIGHT?

On and then this weekend I will be hanging out with Alice. This will be about as great, no better, than having tea and crackers with Angelica Houston: Which, by-the-way, I haven’t been able to set up yet. Angie’s people just keep ignoring my people.

Back in 1999, Alice and Sasha were the first two online journals to catch my attention and as soon as soon as I caught on to online diaries were all about I began WLA. Damn the two of you. I have been balled and chained to WLA ever since.

I’m sure it will be a great time tho, sorta if Kevin Smith were to meet Stockard Channing.

Side note: Ms. Channing’s people seem to be ignoring my people as well. Go Figure.

A Study In Form

A scientifically generated humongous 8.4 earthquake will rock a seven-story nipple tomorrow at 0900 hours to the brink of collapse.

The 70 foot nipple currently sits on the world’s largest mobile earthquake platform in the back lot of Nin Quan Nye’s Take Out and Dim Sum Kitchen on Main Street in Chinatown. The mobile earthquake platform will simulate the motions of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.

Although metal corrugated buildings are cheaper and faster to construct than those made of steel Dr. Nin Quan Nye after visiting several local beaches felt that a new Nipple Structure  System would be beneficial in several of the new mid-rise structures that are planned to be built in the region, especially in the congested areas of downtown Los Angeles.  

“Basically, what happens during an earthquake in multiple-story buildings is something called a 'soft story'," said Dr. Nin Quan Nye. "A 'soft story' lends itself to the very same shaking and jigging that falls into motion when a 30 something woman jogs on a beach path." 

After a six month in-depth study of female runners at the world famous boardwalk in Santa Monica California Dr. Nin Quan Nye came to the conclusion that if the human nipple can take such a savage belting day in and day out and still hold true to form then it just may be possible to build new town homes and small six to five story business units in the form of a nipple.

 Dr. Nin Quan Nye  went on to say that from his study that he found the nipple itself to be just a bit more stiff  than the surrounding formation of its makeup. This holds true especially in colder climates and most of our earthquakes have taken place in early or later parts of the year. 

Dr. Nin Quan Nye elaborated further with "What we need is a building with stiffness built closer to the top of the structure along with the base and surrounding areas a bit more “soft” from the rest of the unit. This will allow for the entire structure to move or shake violently and then return to its original form without collapsing."

Dr. Nin Quan Nye feels that with this new structure in place there should be less worry of collapse and urban destruction during a major earthquake. These new structures are expected to hold their shape and resiliency for at least 60 years. 

Mrs. Nin Quan Nye of  Nin Quan Nye’s Take Out and Dim Sum Kitchen could not be reached for comment.

 

When God Laughs.

One can’t become a good Christian by going to church any more than one can become a good mechanic by walking into garage.

One can’t become a good Buddhist by thinking that enlightenment is attained by eliminating all desire any more than if Buddha were here today, that he would or could turn down a double-double with cheese.

Or that a Taoist can become so, just by reading the Tao-te-Ching.

When it comes to faith, I lend myself to the latter of the three. For me this works, it makes sense that it doesn’t have to make sense.

So when talking of nuns and God most of my conversations simmer into the basic principles of Taoism, although some may call it Mother Nature, some Planet Earth it all boils down to the same thing: Is.

Case in point: Taoism states that words are just a sign to point to the non-conceptual ultimate reality. It is of value to not obsess over the conceptual pointer but to see the ultimate reality clearly. Simple really, however, and you knew this was coming; the following tale will elaborate my point.

Paco and Man.
                                                 

Señor, we have nice guavas today, fresh pineapple, perhaps you like melons?

Actually, I was looking for a few ‘my turns’.

Oh no, Señor, we have no ‘my turn(s)’ today. We have a few ‘doubt(s)’  I think three, maybe four, but we no longer have the I(s) or it(s) to go along with them.  Mothers pick the sets up early. Maybe you would like a doubt?

No, I don’t want a doubt, I want a ‘my turn’, just one, no more, no less.  Look down there in the back, next to the ‘I will(s)’ and see if you don’t have just one.

Oh no, I’m sure we don’t, but wait Señor, I have seven I see(s).  I see(s) are very good for the afternoon. After a long day, Señor, what could be more relaxing than to sit on the front porch and pop open an ‘I see’ as the breeze slips through the yard and the afternoon sun yawns into the evening? ‘I See(s) are very truthful my friend.

Paco, I don’t want an ‘I see, I will, or I can’t’, and surely I have no room in my life for a ‘doubt’. I need, or let me put it this way Senor! I want a fucking ‘turn’!  I want ‘My Turn’! Do you not understand?

Oh yes, Señor, but you must be patient, ‘my turn(s)’ go very fast this time of year.  Perhaps you come back in the morning. Some people don’t like what they find with ‘my turns’ and bring them back for a return. And the law says that we cannot give returns for my turns. Maybe you can buy a used turn, the ‘retrun(s)’ come here early, they may sell to you, but I cannot guarantee anything Señor.

Paco, I don’t want a used turn, I want a… New. Shiny. Cordial. ‘My Turn’. Get it? ‘My Turn.’

Paco, yesterday I applied for the job of my dreams, in walks a kid with a fresh new ‘my turn’ and I’m shit out of luck. Last month I meet the love of my life, and who shows up? A 27 year-old blond, a dozen ‘my turn(s)’ in her purse and off they go, the love of my life and her new lover, the two of them never to be seen again: I’m fucking sure about that.

Last weekend I went down to the rescue mission to see if I could pick up a free ‘Turn’. It didn’t even matter if it was a ‘my turn’ or not, I just wanted a ‘turn’.  I waited for six hours and then when I got to the head of the line, a man sitting at the table asked me if it was my ‘turn’, I said yes. So he asked to see my ‘turn’. I told him that I was there to pick one up, then the man sitting at the table said "If you don’t have a turn, then no turn."

So you see it’s very important Paco that I have a turn. You must have a 'turn' for me. I need a turn my friend. Please! Oh God, please.

Señor, I feel that the Saints are joyous today for you, even the Mother of Guadalupe must be smiling on your life: I will give you my ‘Turn.’

Thank you Paco, thank you so much and I thank all and all that came before you, you are blessed a thousand times in the eyes of Angels.

Ok, Señor, it’s your turn, what would you like?

A dozen mangoes please.

 

Princess Nalovia and The Cannon

As told by Mr. WLA

Once upon a time in the far away about eighty years ago there lived a magic cannon princess and what made her different from other princesses was that she collected cannons from all over the world. Her name was Princess Nolovia and she owned many, many cannons, big cannons, small cannons, cannons that shook the ground when they went off and cannons that would no more belch as they sent their cargo skyward.  She owned red cannons, blue cannons, yellow cannons and cannons with exotic flowers painted on the side and cannons embedded with rhinestones and glitter and others with elaborate scenes of marching tin soldiers inlaid on the cannon’s wheels forever marching into tomorrow.

Princess Nolovia was just a young girl of 19 when she began collecting cannons and at 24 she ran away the Zarcatti Brothers’ Circus and toured with them as the first woman cannonball and was the envy of many of the great circus acts of her time. Princess Nolovia held the record for the longest distance launched from a cannon for decades, until she beat her own record by having herself launched into the middle of next Tuesday. She held this record until her retirement at the age of 79.

Although Princess Nolovia retired she never lost the wanting of bright lights, cotton candy, hotdogs, candied apples the smell of fresh popped kettle corn. Even the bark of midway carnies had become music to her ears.

So as not to be deprived in her later years she bought up the biggest parcel of land that was available on the outskirts of town. And once a year, mid-year, she would have her people set up the most colorful of tents. Three.

Once the flag from above the largest tent was unfurled Princess Nolovia would send out fliers far and wide asking for clowns, happy cows and a high flying trapeze team. Also included in the request: Two elephants, an old tiger, an aging bear, out of work carnies and one giant Ferris wheel.

And so every year, mid-year the entire town looked forward to Princess Nolovia's Circus of Many Wonders.

The day before the grand opening Princess Nolovia’s team would roll her grandest of all cannons out onto the midway. All polished and shimmering the cannon whispered grand.

And every year, mid-year the entire town’s anticipation would grow as the postman would deliver 25 invitations to 25 selected children.

The invitation:

Child of the heart, in this day and age when magic and wonder seem to be disappearing in leaps and bounds, it's refreshing to encounter people such as you. After hours and hours of review of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice, you have been selected to partake in a group human cannon ball flight into a 40 foot mountain of freshly spun cotton candy.  On behalf of all that is magical throughout this wonderful land I do hope you will extend yourself to experience softness beyond your wildest dreams.

Sincerely Princess Nolovia.

On opening night, after the clowns clowned, The Flying Merry-Weathers flew, and all the animals did what old animals do, all lights across the midway dimmed as two clowns propped a candy stripped ladder against the cannon’s inviting O.

One by one, the 25 children, some laughing and some just giggling climbed the ladder and one by one they slid slowly down O’s tunnel until they came to the little handholds just above little pillowed seats, they settled in. Excited, they talked of all the softness they had known up until now and how wonderful it would be to mix soft with flying. It was almost too much to think about

As the band played on Princess Nolovia ordered her cannon bearer to slowly crank the cannon into position, slowly upward and with each tick of the crank the crowd cheered,  the cannon's mouth arched 20 degrees above the candied mountain, the crowd cheered even louder than before, 40 degrees, now the cheering slipped into yelling: Higher! Higher!  60 degrees above the mountain of dreams…

The crowd was going crazy. “All the way, all the way” they screamed.

Inside O, one by one, the children slid from their pillows, one by one each lost hold of the handholds and one by one they inched to the back of O as she lifter her heavy neck skyward. Soon, against their best efforts they began to wiggled into a cannon ball. Terrified they heard the crowd counting.

10-9-8-7-

 The cannon rose higher.

6-5-4-

And one by one, each child saw the moon take place of the candied mountain.

3-2-

The crowd looked toward The Magic Cannon Princess.

1

Princess Nolovia bowed to the crowd as the loudest boom of the year spoke belligerently. 

O bellowed and 25 children, one by one led a whoosh and a snazle-fizzle as they trailed into the summer night sky, and one by one, going separate ways they burst into the greatest light shower ever witnessed with bright reds, blues, sunburnt orange, violet and lilac. Some became teal before green. And others before going out, burst again with bright shades of silver, enticing the crowd to reach a frenzy of delight with ahhhh and oooooohhhhs.

The End.

The moral of this tale boys and girls is that just because you receive a request from a princess; never assume that when she says naughty and nice, that you have been the nice one.

More on what happens to children who find it necessary to play with matches time and time again after being told not to do so, can be found at your local library.

Tito, Get Me A Defibrillator.

First of all I would like to quell the rumors of Michael Jackson’s doctor requesting that the paramedics transport Michael to the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital.  This is absolutely not true.  Really. 

This Jackson thing sure caught me off guard. Upside though is that he’s in a better place now and with Farrah and Bubbles to boot.  His much overrated passing has been flooding the local radio stations, newspapers, and yes, silkscreened tees. I kid you not, the memorial T-shirts have hit the streets. Can it be that there are people pushing portable silkscreen carts up and down the back streets of Hollywood looking for celebs to go tit’s up so that they can have the tees ready for the first news van?

And then there is the tremendous TV coverage.  It’s so out of control.  There wasn’t half this much hullabaloo when my childhood kung fu hero David Caradine died a few weeks ago: Just a few shots of him hanging in the closet with his jammie exposed.  Now, if you ask me, that’s just wrong.  But, I took it in stride, I didn’t rush out and purchase every copy of Kill Bill that I could find.  And yet the number one seller on iTunes today was everything Michael.  Music stores have sold out and book stores are Michael-less at this very moment in the City of Angels.  Who would’a thought. 

So…

Instead of talking about death and mayhem today I thought we would pursue a timeless query. Something that you have always wondered about, something mysterious, something one could even call delectable in its own right.

 Yes, I’m talking about…

 What came first, the egg or the chicken?

And let me tell you… you can’t just Google this shit and come out with anything solid.  I tried and what I have found isn’t very convincing. In fact, it’s nothing but a big guessing game. However I had a few hours to spare this morning so I thought I would look into this dilemma. Here are the top three speculations.  

First up: The Chickie-baby zygote theory.

In nature, living things evolve though changes in their DNA. In an animal like a chicken, DNA from a male sperm cell and a female ovum meet and combine to form a zygote -- the first cell of a new baby chicken. Chickens evolved from non-chickens through small changes caused by the mixing of male and female DNA or by mutations to the DNA that produced the zygote. These changes and mutations only have an effect at the point where a new zygote is created. That is, two non-chickens mated and the DNA in their new zygote contained the mutation(s) that produced the first true chicken. That one zygote cell divided to produce the first true chicken.

So far sounds like sheer babbling bullshit to me. Then they go on to say;

Prior to that first true chicken zygote, there were only non-chickens. The zygote cell is the only place where DNA mutations could produce a new animal, and the zygote cell is housed in the chicken's egg. So, the egg must have come first.

 

Non-chickens?  WTF? Before the first true chicken there were NO chickens. How can non-chickens get busy and come up with a chicken egg?  That would be like two consenting adults mating and coming up with a gulfalos. Therefore if that were the case, would we then be non-gulfalos? I think not. We are human beings, and as Billy Preston once said. “Nothing from nothing is nothing.”  In other words, if non-chickens had anything they would have a non-chicken and that pretty much takes us back to square one.

Then there is this little ditty. I call it the evolution of math.

 Chickens hatch from eggs, but eggs are laid by chickens, Cultural references to the chicken and egg intend to point out the futility of identifying the first case of a circular cause and consequence. A literal answer is somewhat obvious, as opposed to the logical fallacy of the metaphorical view, which sets a metaphysical ground on the dilemma. So, to understand its metaphorical meaning better, it could be reformulated as follows: "Which came first, X that can't come without Y, or Y that can't come without X?"

That just gave me a freaking headache with all that crap about circular cause and consequence and X needing Y and whatnot.

Again, square one

And last, from the UK,

A team made up of a geneticist, philosopher and chicken farmer claim to have found an answer. It was the egg.

Ok we’re off to a good start here, some trio eh? And then they go on to say:

Put simply, the reason is down to the fact that genetic material does not change during an animal's life.

Therefore the first bird that evolved into what we would call a chicken, probably in prehistoric times, must have first existed as an embryo inside an egg.

(We’re slipping back to square one kids but hang in there, I’m going somewhere with all this)

Professor John Brookfield, a specialist in evolutionary genetics at the University of Nottingham, told the UK Press Association the pecking order was clear. The living organism inside the eggshell would have had the same DNA as the chicken it would develop into, he said.

"Therefore, the first living thing which we could say unequivocally was a member of the species would be this first egg," he added. "So, I would conclude that the egg came first. "The same conclusion was reached by his fellow "eggsperts" Professor David Papineau, of King's College London, and poultry farmer Charles Bourns.

Mr Papineau, an expert in the philosophy of science, agreed that the first chicken came from an egg and that proves there were chicken eggs before chickens.

(But where did they come from? Now we’re getting into some serious spin.)

He told PA people were mistaken if they argued that the mutant egg belonged to the "non-chicken" bird parents.

"I would argue it is a chicken egg if it has a chicken in it," he said.

"If a kangaroo laid an egg from which an ostrich hatched, that would surely be an ostrich egg, not a kangaroo egg."

(Thus giving credence to my Non-gulfalos theory)

Bourns, chairman of trade body Great British Chicken, said he was also firmly in the pro-egg camp.

He said: "Eggs were around long before the first chicken arrived. Of course, they may not have been chicken eggs as we see them today, but they were eggs."

                                                 ---------------------------------------

So my question at this point would be: Where in the hell did the first eggs come from?

Well after pondering this for most of the morning, I played out my thoughts and  took a nap and lo and behold the answer came to me in a dream.

The very first eggs came from the fucking Easter Bunny.

Tales From Within A New York Minute #1

“I have to have it now, not in five minutes, not in two. Now.” 

‘Now’ seems to have become the new ‘in a minute’ or at least, that is what Google is betting on with their new Google Wave open source program that will allow you to play games, place photos, maps, share real time documents and instant message right in the comfort of your very own email message. With a tap of a key you will be able to instantly place a conversation that you are having right into your very own blog, as you type, as in right now. As if, someone were out there sitting patiently staring at your blog waiting for an update.

I thought that is what Twitter was for: Short nothings in real time. 

“I’m heading out the door; need to pick up the kids”

“I just picked up the kids”

God, don’t get me started on and about Twitter.  I don’t twit.

However, I do, do short stories, more on that in a bit.

If you made it this far and you have an hour, twenty minutes and twelve seconds you can preview the Google Wave here.

One hour, twenty minutes, twelve second on how to do sometime right now. How’s that for irony?

Are we really that far gone that email is not quick enough for us to get by in a 24 hour day? Instant messaging, don’t we have something like that already; can anyone say Yahoo Instant Message, Microsoft Messenger?

As my imaginary father used to tell me in times of indecisiveness, “If you can’t beat’em, then join’em” and I think he may have been right. So with the attention span of the world going south, I think I will jump on the - can you spare a minute program – and get my due with the one minute short story. Yes, you read that right: A one minute story.

As you know, as good story has a beginning, middle, an ending, and somewhere within that algorithm there should be a dilemma, a love interest, perhaps a bad guy or some profound message. Nowhere in the story writing academy does it state that a story need weigh in about a pound or take up to a week to read.

So with that said my friends, pencil me in for a minute of your much valued time because there will be a new feature on this blog; complete stories in 150 words or less.

How cool is that?

So without much more ado kids, I present the first installment of:

Tales From Within a New York Minute.   

Today’s story boys and girls centers around a love gone wrong as two lives merge into a lane of misery and finality.

Just In Time For Murder.
                                        By Alvin Valles

 Carla knew that tonight, tomorrow night and for all the nights that were to follow: nothing would ever change. Like clockwork, Justin would stumble in around 4am, reeking of low-rent women, gin and stale cigarette smoke. Finding her awake, the name calling and humiliation would fall from the top of the hour and roll into dawn, and more times than not; she would come to terms with a backhand or two.

Life again would be in session.

As Carla stood waiting in the dark, fingers clinching and unfurling around the handle of his drop point hunting knife, she heard him lock the front door behind himself, heard the sound of keys sprinkle across the kitchen counter, a grunt, a sigh. 

Under control and in check, back pressed against the cold wall Carla waited as Justin made his way down the hallway and into the bedroom.

Justin heard nothing.