Return from Mars

I have not literally returned from Mars. I haven't been to Mars. Nobody has. Things have, cameras, other electric do-dads, but no, not humans and certainly not me. I have remained here.

But what I've experienced is the passing of time. Nobody's immune. It just happens. I have, however, been away. The start of my time away was one morning on the packing floor at the pickle factory. I had gotten up, showered, eaten breakfast, like any other day. I drove to the pickle plant and began my shift. All seemed routine and ordinary.

But as I worked, something ticked at the core of my brain. Not loudly, not regularly like a clock, but often enough, growing more rapidly. It was subtle at first, but right around the time of my morning break, it was noticeable. Tick. Tick. Tick. I tried not to listen, to ignore it. I closed my eyes, shook my head, but it persisted. It grew louder.

I headed for the break room when my time came, dropped into a chair and tried to read a newspaper while I sipped on a Coke. But the ticking got louder. The tempo increased, but still, not regular enough to create a beat that one could nod one's head to. I looked around the break room but nobody seemed to notice that I was behaving oddly. I'm not even sure I was behaving oddly, but surely I must have been.

Because after I blinked, I realized I was strapped down to a gurney, in the back of an ambulance, a siren blaring outside, bouncing down an uneven road. Penlights shone in my eyes, and serious-looking men spoke to one another in words I could not understand.

It would be tempting to say I next woke in a white room, with white furniture, dominated by a black obelisk, my face old and creased. But that didn't happen. Instead, when I woke I was in a sloppy looking living room. I was seated on a sofa. I was wearing gray sweatpants and an Atlanta Braves t-shirt. There was pornography on the television, and in a chair near the sofa, a sweaty fat man was eating chicken.

When I said, "what," which was all that came to mind, I startled him, and he choked a little. His eyes wide, he just stared at me for the longest time, not moving, trying to comprehend that I was staring back at him. On screen, a man inseminated a woman's artificially ample breasts.

This was last week.

The pickle factory, sad to say, is shuttered. The day I disappeared there was a chemical leak of some kind, and I was among those who survived. I have no idea what sort of chemicals a pickle factory would use that would do this, although someone tried to explain it to me. My family had gotten some sort of settlement for my ongoing care, and some of it wasn't spent on cars, beer and fancy underpants, so they had no choice but to fork over the meager remainder when I unexpectedly came back. They were kind of mad. I'm trying not to take that personally.

I've gotten out since my return from Mars, looked around town and I still recognize most things. I'm pretty sure I'm capable of holding down a job, so I'll be looking pretty soon. I was so comfortable at the pickle factory, but it's just not coming back. But there is a beet factory here and I understand they're looking for people from time to time, so we'll see.

Dick and Dirk

Dick Carlton looked over at his best friend and drew a heavy breath. "I'm sorry it had to come to this," he said softly, not sure whether his words were understood. Probably not, he thought, but they had to be said, if only to make himself feel better. He thought for a moment about how things had been only five days earlier, how different the world seemed at that moment, how much better it was compared to now. It was a strange feeling, the difference between then and now.

Dick Carlton's best friend, an odd-looking spaniel-dachshund mix, didn't seem to care much about anything right at the moment. Dirk seemed to be off in his own space, not looking at Dick Carlton, not ackowledging the sentiment that Dick Carlton felt better about expressing. The chain around his neck chafed, so he tried not to move, tried to lie still to minimize the pain. The chain, not made for its purpose, had been around Dirk's neck for four days now, ever since he'd had his last meal. He was starving now because Dick Carlton hadn't fed him since the misunderstanding.

It was also hard for him to move with the pig iron clipped to the end of the chain. It was a short chain, giving him very little freedom from its weight.

Dick Carlton was hungry too. Like Dirk, he also hadn't eaten in four days. So Dirk was looking better and better with each passing day. It was his only option, he figured. His only option if he wanted to stay alive long enough for someone to find him alive. But he knew his odds weren't good. The turkey vultures that hovered overhead in growing numbers seemed to be telling him that even if he had some food now, he might not make it until his next meal, and might indeed become the next meal for the black birds above.

Dick Carlton cursed himself. If anyone was to blame for his predicament, it was his own dumb self. It seemed like a fine idea to hike into the wilds of Utah with his best friend. It seemed like a great idea, possibly even a funny idea, to wiggle his feet around in that random tub of pork grease that happened to be near his campsite four days ago. It was funny until he woke up the next morning and found Dirk eagerly polishing off the last bit of his left foot. Oh yes, the right foot was already gone. Pig grease, in the middle of nowhere. How stupid was it now to sashay about in it? Never did he imagine that Dirk would find his feet more tasty than the contents of the vat itself. Oh, but did he feel stupid now.

Still, he felt really bad when he raised his .38 caliber revolver and plugged Dirk in the brain with its last bullet. He cried a little. Then he cried even more when he realized he didn't have any feet to go over and claim his dead-dog meal. Or to get to his backpack where he had his Buck knife. Now he was really feeling alone. And hungry. And hopeless. But the vultures were not about to leave him feeling lonely. Not today.

Disgustipation

I'm not an old lady, but I can bitch about my health like the best of them. So dig this. I have this cold for about a month, then pick up stomach pains. Doc thinks the pains are caused by mucous from my cold. Gives me an antibiotic to treat whatever sinus or lung infection I've been having and sends me on my way. Meantime, my stomach still feels like crap and pretty soon I've come down with painful, cramping diarrhea. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.

Unfortunately, this is what life has come down to for the past few weeks: Kvetching about my aches and pains. Naturally, they didn't want to hear about it at the pickle factory -- you know working around food and all. So I've been home, not writing, not spending time in productive pursuits. No, just doing what I can't do at work during the day -- looking at porn, chatting, watching random webcams from Japan.

So I'm watching this one, a very mild scene taking place in an annonymous office in what must be about the middle of the night somewhere in Japan. I used the controls on my screen to move the camera around. I'm kind of pestering this guy as he's sitting there trying to read something to keep from falling asleep, but I can tell it's very, very hard for him. Hard would be the word of change here. Suddenly he shows me his dick. Just a three second flash. No smile or anything. Odd look on his face, really.

Was this little flash meant for me? How would he know or I know or anyone know? I'm talking back to the screen, I'm telling him, "Oh no you didn't," but I don't have a camera or a mic or anything set up so there's not even the remotist possibility that he heard me.

Before long a couple of guys walk into the scene, start hassling the flasher-dude, then bodily haul him out of the room. One of them gave the camera a wave. I waved back but I'm sure he didn't see.

Fun day at work. Glurp.

So there I was, minding my own business at the pickle factory the other day, when I began to become obsessed with world affairs. You know, who is Paris Hilton fucking, what's going on with Jessica's hair now that her marriage has fallen apart...that sort of thing. When suddenly, I realize that pickles aren't plopping out of the pickle plopper and into the jars. Something's gummed up the works.

So I get down off of my high chair, strip off my plastic gown and head into the machine room to see what's the matter. Yes, you guessed it. The pickle feed is clogged. So I climb up onto the pickle storage bin, open the hatch at the top and climb down inside. I'm walking on top of the pickles when -- Goddamn! -- I start to sink into them. Deep! Before I can say cucumber I'm up to my neck in pickles.

Good thing for me that my ever-present boot-licker Maxine has followed me into the bin. She gets on her cell phone, calls her mom, then calls her sister, and then calls the control room to have them shut off the bypass pickle feed, which has been causing me to get sucked down. So I'm stuck in there, soaked to the bone in pickle juice, while Maxine makes a few more personal calls (on company time!) before dialing 911. And just in time. The fire department shows up after awhile, and why not take your time because what fire department knows anything about pickles, you know?

Eventually, they haul me out of there, berate me for doing something so stupid and then take me out for beers. I had a few and got lucky with the waitress.

And that, dear children, was how I met your alcoholic mother!

Dreams are not enough

Last night I dreamed that I was walking through the streets of Florence. It was dark and the medievel buildings felt close around me, but I felt content. I was back, nearly two years after I had last been there. I'm not sure what it was that took me back. True, I've been obsessed with Italy in general and Tuscany in particular since trips took me there in recent years. It could have been the Italian wine guide given to me for Christmas that fed my unconscious mind. It could also have been that I fell asleep reading Brunelleschi's Dome, about the architect who, in the early 1400s, figured out how to put the huge dome on the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the Duomo, in Florence.

In any case, it could be that I would rather be anywhere but here. Could my interest in the pickle factory be waning? Is that possible? I'm starting to wonder whether the old song may have a point. You know, the one that says How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm (Once They've Seen Paree).

Okay, different city, but Europe all the same. Until I was 40 years old, I'd never been off of the North American continent. The travel bug has truly bit me now, and much harder than my budget allows. I'm also still getting through Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad, a wonderful and detailed account of his travels to Europe and the Middle East in 1867. And I also took a break from that to read The Colosseum, a somewhat scholarly dissertation on the myths and truths about the venerable Flavian Amphitheatre in Rome. Yes, I also dream about Rome, particularly about the Pantheon and the food. The Pantheon was a building I learned about in detail during a Roman archaeology course in college. To finally stand in the building itself, preserved for nearly 2,000 years, was a moment beyond words.

But enough. For now I have to think more about pickles.

But is it all worth it?

It's a free day here at Domus Aluminus. With a day off from the pickle factory, I hit Mallville for some last-minute shopping opportunities. Awful traffic. Awful people. I did what I had to do, and then I got out. Back to the mansion to finish chipping ice from my driveway on this unexpectedly warm and sunny day.

Tonight, it's a party at the home of the brine supervisor. With a designated driver to safely convey me home, it would be very tempting to overindulge in keeping with the excess of the holiday period. But instead, I'm working the Bob Cratchit shift at the pickle plant on Saturday so I'll have to keep intake to a more moderate level. Not that I've ever been a particularly good boozer, anyway. I think it would be impossible for me to become an alcoholic because of the awful way I usually feel the next day even after moderate alcohol poisoning. So no big loss.

Tomorrow, it's likely dinner with the heiress after work, followed by the presentation and opening of extravagent gifts. It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Giving a listen to one of my all-time favorite CDs.

Today I Bathed in the Fountain of Eternal Euthanasia

As is frightfully obvious, this is the first post to this web diary. And as usual, I find myself with nothing to say, nothing, at least, that anyone would want to hear. I swear that someday, I will fall, crack my head open, and a deafening rush of words will spew forth from the chasm, flattening entire city blocks with their wit and rage. Images so sharp and clear that they shatter the eyes of unfortunate onlookers will appear around my poor shattered head. Those words and pictures will suddenly inhabit the very souls of those who did not have the sense to turn away and cover their eyes and ears, and their faces will melt away, leaving bare skulls to roll from their helpless and utterly insufficient spines.

But until then, my friend, pull up a chair and have a beer.