PHOENIX, AZ-

My house reeks like a hippie.

And I don’t mean the eco-friendly, Phish-loving, Prius-driving, rock climbing pseudo poseur hippie of today. (more…)

LOS ANGELES, CA-

When I was in high school, I did a lot of stupid shit.

Behaving in ways contrary to the survival instinct was my specialty, mostly because I practiced said behavior with gusto. There was a specific moment when I began to wise up, and that was the last time I took acid.

I always, always got my acid from the same person, a person I trusted.

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PARIS-

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to like Audrey Tautou.

She’s just so undeniably sweet. (more…)

PUGET SOUND, WA-

There’s a certain way you talk to Georgie if you want results, and by results, I mean cooperation, I mean if you want to avoid a black eye, or if you don’t want him fleeing out the basement window when your back is turned, or biting your thumb off at the knuckle, or throwing one of his celebrated fits in the pizza aisle of QFC, or pushing you through a sliding glass door.

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SONOMA, CA-

“This wine tastes like hobo balls,” I said, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew that it was a horrible, horrible mistake. It’s not the sort of observation that a civilized person should make, and certainly not while partaking in a posh wine tasting. The other party guests just stared at me, too stunned to respond. I smiled and tried to laugh it off, saying something like, “Whoops, wrong crowd.” I hoped that my unfortunate remark would eventually be forgotten, but the damage had already been done. I’d crossed a line and there was no turning back. I had just demonstrated, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was a man unable to hold his liquor.

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SACRAMENTO, CA-

My inner struggle is not between a good conscience and bad conscience.

There is no angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.

Instead the fight is between Ms. Rational and Ms. Irrationality, two women occupying different levels of my mind.

The first, Ms. Irrationality, is on the floor kicking off her shoes in rage, screaming at the walls, and throwing anything she can get her hands on. She wants everything her way and she’s unwilling to compromise. She expects everyone around her to bend to her needs and desires, not the other way around. She tends to enjoy the phrase “I do what I want.”

The second is Ms. Rational, who is often picking up the pieces. (more…)

WASHINGTON, D.C.-

I’ve never had writer’s block. I can’t always write a strong enough piece for a website or anthology when I’m occassionally asked, but I never end up with a blank page (knock on wood). My writing problem is more that I have a difficult time writing something other than that specialized form of prose that so easily flies from my fingers, the literary genre known as “mortifying dreck.”

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CHARLOTTE, NC-

Of Shovel and Shit

My first paying job was given to me by my father when I was in 7th grade. At the time my family had three dogs. A labrador retriever, a pit bull, and a horny-ass chihuahua that would screw them both by nipping at their hind legs and then grinding on them.

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SAN FRANCISCO, CA-

I have a thing for photo albums. Not just my own, or the neat rows and rows of them at my grandmother’s house, but anyone’s. At thrift stores and friends’ apartments, I risk getting absorbed for hours in other people’s memories.

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BIRMINGHAM, AL-

A bunch of, like three, four, dudes just swept through
the office with a giant cart.

“Computers!” they shouted. “Shut ‘em down!”

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SAN FRANCISCO, CA-

(Most place names have been withheld, bastardized or totally made up to protect the innocent, the addicted, the ashamed, and mostly me.)

Many writers are married to the landscapes of their youths. You can’t take the humid, race-embattled south out of many a Southerner’s writing, for instance. Writers like J.M. Coetzee and Lynn Freed’s books are set in their childhood homes of South Africa, full of jacaranda flowers, humid air and the tinge of apartheid. Even Stephen King reinvents his lush and creepy Maine, revealing how deeply infused the state is in his bones. I, however, never really thought about “my” place much, until it was time to leave it (which I did NOT do at the appropriate “leaving for college” stage).

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NEW YORK CITY-

From now on, the public will know Virginia Tech as the setting of an inexplicable murder spree, the worst shooting incident in America’s history. I graduated from Virginia Tech in 1992, and despite the media’s best efforts, I refuse to think of it as the new Columbine.   

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LOS ANGELES, CA-

Hello.

My name is Zoe Brock and I am a MySpace addict.

Wow. That’s embarrassing.

If you’d like to run me over with a train right now I’d be more than happy to lay down and oblige.

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LOS ANGELES, CA-

In Part I of this piece:

My best friend in high school, Mike, confessed that he needed help getting laid. It just so happened that I had a friend, Kathi–a real sex-bomb cherry–who I figured to be just the girl to top off his virgin sundae…

Part II: The Hook-Up

After explaining my hook-up idea to Mike, I contacted Kathi.

It didn’t take a lot of convincing to get her on board.

That Kathi: Back in high school she was a tried and true all-American party girl.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

My Grandmom is waiting for me in the guestroom of the assisted living home, in an auxiliary room just off the main hallway that affords us privacy from her roommate, whom for the past hour has been making strange, guttural noises.

At 88, my Grandmom is lucid. And surprisingly spry. A fact that has earned her the nickname, Hell on Wheels…

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SANDY, UT-

As a rule, I’m a little slow on the uptake when it comes to technology.

                  Eek! A Mouse.

I’ve never had a cell phone, to name just one example.

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GRAND BLANC, MI-

New York has never been kind to me. Like a Yankee, it hits me out of the park. I love New York, but it doesn’t love me.  I suppose we can be long-distance friends.

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SANDY, UT-

As documented previously here at TNB, a couple of months ago I switched jobs.

There were a lot of factors that led me to select the job I did. One of them was the commute.

Certainly the commute to my old office had become less convenient, as illustrated in this road map by my former coworker Nick.

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SANTA CRUZ, CA-

A friend of mine recently suggested that I write a blog about this phenomenon:

Truck Balls. Truck Nuts. Truck Testicles.

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Don’t bother to turn the water into wine.

Not again.

Please.

I’ve seen that trick before.

I crave subtlety, a lighter touch.

I’ll look elsewhere.

I’ve had success elsewhere.

I find redemption in odd places.

I used to think redemption would always pass me by, hide from me, or be like the beautiful stranger who’s just out of focus, out of reach.

I’ve learned redemption is not this spiteful or particularly elusive.

It does sneak up on me.

It can be quiet.

For some reason, I thought redemption would have loud footsteps, as if a massive, lumbering Almighty with a majestic, white beard were chasing me for not having a hall pass.

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