Firsts

// Crazytown – Population 23,654

By Charles Hodges .
02.14.10 // Firsts

This week was the first week that I found out about a little something called Chat Roulette.  If you have never been there, it is fucking unbelievable.  If you have been there, you already know that.  The concept is extremely simple.  You go to this site, enable your webcam and then you get connected to someone else who has enabled their webcam.  If you don’t like who you are talking to, you can simply next them.  It is completely anonymous.  And people act that way.  Some dude will just stare at you and then give you the middle finger.  You click next and there is a naked dude sitting on a workout ball.  You click next and it’s three girls from Belgium.  Then, more naked dudes.  Next.  High schoolers looking for naked women.  Next.  Nude dude.  Next.  Nice girl looking at the camera.  But then she nexts you. Then, some guy in a costume.  Then, some naked dude.  Then, some dudes in a college dorm.   Then, a party looking at you, judging you for being on there.  Then, a naked dude.

There is no cost to use Chat Roulette, but I’d say, if it were marketplace, the currency would be your threshold of being able to look at naked dudes.  If you are willing to put up with a few, then you might be able to have a nice conversation with someone.

It is a nice little experiment of what peope would act like if there were no consequences for their actions and their name couldn’t be attached to anything.  (Apparently a lot of people would show you their genitals and/or wear a mask.)

So all of that being said, the site is insanely creepy and best enjoyed with the company of others because then it’s funny.  I could extrapolate it out into what it means about society and a thousand other layers of bullshit, but, in the end, the only comparison I can make is this:  It’s like paella – it has lot’s of weird ingredients and you just have to try it for yourself.

Don’t be scared. Other people aren’t.  When I saw it a week ago, it had 15,000 people on it.  Now, it’s pushing 24,000.  Don’t know if that’s good or bad.

chatroulette.com   -    Say goodbye to the next hour (day) of your life.

View Comments / Feb 14.10 / Firsts / by Charles Hodges

// Unbreakable

By Charles Hodges .
02.01.10 // Passwords

In today’s online world, you simply cannot be too safe about protecting your identity.  Hackers, pedophiles and insurance salesman will go to great lengths to obtain you or your family’s personal information.  With this information they will siphon personal wealth from your bank account, stalk your daughter on facebook or call you to see if you own a boat, motorcycle or are thinking about an adding a pool, respectively.

While keeping a safe password for your digital identity isn’t the only thing you should do to protect yourself, it’s a great way to start.  It’s an area that people simply overlook.  You must abandon sealing your identity’s fate with the name of your pet, your birthday or your college mascot followed by your social security number.

You must get weirder.  Like really weird.  Like so weird that there is no way from piecing together elements of your life anyone will ever be able to guess your password.  That being said, I’ve got good news.

I can help.

Here are some formulas to create passwords that no one will be able to predict, guess or even come close to being able to fathom.

Multiply the numbers in the year of your birth and subtract that number of years of your age.  Find the antagonist of your favorite movie from when you were seven years old.  Know the name of your favorite salad dressing.

Following this formula, my password would be:  MarvAndHarryVinaigrette263

I was born in 1984.  I am 25.  When I was seven, my favorite movie was Home Alone.  I like vinaigrette.  Boom!  Try guessing that you Russian pieces of cyber shit.

Watch television until the time on your cable box has all the same numbers (you know like 5:55 or something like that).  Name your password after the product for whatever commercial is on television or comes on next.  Guess what would be the favorite sexual position of the first boss you ever had.  Then count the number of condiments in your refrigerator.

Mine would be: FreeCreditReport.ComReverseCowgirl11

My first job was at a tattoo parlor.  I have a lot of salsa.

Passwords are best when they are completely random.  Keeping with this theme, go to a coffee shop and listen to a stranger’s conversation.  Write down the first sentence that you hear that you think they wouldn’t want you to hear.  Then name your password after the first letter of every word in this sentence.  I actually did this.

This is what mine would have been: DATYTMFWAL?

I overheard a guy say, “Did Allison tell you that my frog was a lesbian?”  It was nice that it was an interrogative as the question mark gives added security.

If all of those fail to give you a password you like, you can always combine the three following things:  Your least favorite beverage.  Your biggest fear.  Your favorite athlete’s number.

Mine would be:  CitraPrison23
I hope this helps you.  I really do.  Because, in this world of faceless interactions, there is nothing worse than someone ruining your financial life or, even worse, someone changing your Facebook status to say that you have diarrhea.

God, protect us from each other.

View Comments / Feb 01.10 / Passwords / by Charles Hodges

// Msagro

By Charles Hodges .
01.26.10 // Orgasms

Msagro.  It’s the opposite of an orgasm – whatever that means to you.

It’s the polar side of the best thing in the world.  It’s the antithesis of mindful mindlessness.  If if you were Mormon and this was opposite day, this would be the reason you got married.

It’s a Msagro.  And they happen to all of us.  Sort of.

Here are some examples:

You are wrangling polydactl cats in a velcro lined moonwalk, when you realize you have to go the bathroom.  Your ex-wife’s mother calls and says she is about to kill herself if you don’t find a computer to skype with her and play the harp.  You don’t know how to play the harp.  You don’t know how to skype.  Cats climb on you while you shit your pants and become responsible for the death of someone everyone knows you hate.  You go to jail for some new statute under the digital negligent manslaughter act that you help get passed through congress.  You go to prison.  Your cellmate’s name is Rondo.  He is strong.  He calls you Tina.  Gro Factor: 7.8

You are about to renew your vows to your spouse of forty years during a skydiving free fall in the sprawling plains of Spartanburg, South Carolina.  Right before you jump out, you check your stocks and see that they are all way up.  At the same time, you get a text message from your best friend who says that, due to incorrect signatures from you because of the over-trust you placed in your secretary, your broker has taken all of your assets and fled the country.  This includes the insurance policies that you bought for your entire offspring.  The jump leader pushes you out of the plane.  In free fall, your wife tells you that she has been having an affair with your broker for that past thirty years.  You say that you will kill her but your parachute doesn’t open and you realize that your wife will join the man who betrayed you while your offspring work at Taco Bell and turn your name into something that maybe, one day, at best, will dominate a plaque that says employee of the week.  You land in bowling alley during senior hour.  Your wife tells your kids that you said you wanted to kill her and no one comes to your funeral.  Because you were a well intentioned atheist, you watch the entire ceremony from Bob Evan’s in Purgatory.  Gro Factor: 8.1

You go to your best friend’s birthday party expecting strippers, nachos and beer.  When you get there, he announces that he is a scientologist.  You are the only friend he didn’t uninvite upon his conversion.  Everybody else there is a scientologist.  They strap you down and make you talk about your entire childhood.  When they can’t find any pain, they force feed you astronaut ice cream and make you watch that scene from Jerry Maguire where he says “you complete me” on repeat while they paper cut the soles of your feet and then tickle them with feathers covered in red pepper. Gro Factor: 6.9

You are a lock of Sheryl Crow’s back hair and you get waxed off in a routine cleanse before the Grammy’s.  You think everything is cool.  You’ll just get thrown in the trash and tossed out with the rest of Antonio Banderas’s taint.  Not so lucky.  Cheryl, the salon technician who has referenced Sheryl Crow in her name’s pronunciation since the 1993 debut of “All I Wanna Do,” sells you on ebay to a guy named Jupiter who lives in rural Rhode Island.  He has collected you, along with a Sally Struthers toast portrait and fourteen vintage circus inspired koo-koo clocks that have not been set and go off every ten minutes.  You try to escape, but the realize that you can’t because you are a piece of hair.  Gro Factor: indeterminable

You spend your entire life studying James Joyce. Gro Factor: 9.99

I could go on for longer, but I am tired and you are scared.  I need energy for tomorrow and you need to stop reading this, even if it is tomorrow.  Farewell.  I wish no Msagros, of any sort, upon you. Ever.

View Comments / Jan 26.10 / Orgasms / by Charles Hodges

// The Grammatical Princess of Poughkeepsie

By Charles Hodges .
01.20.10 // Onomatopoeia

You know what onomatopoeia is?  A hypocrite.  Do you know why?  Because onomatopoeia isn’t an example of onomatopoeia.

“But it’s Greek for ‘name I make,’” says the 46-year-old Greek teacher who hasn’t bought a new car since the Carter administration.

No one cares what it stands for, dude.  It’s a hypocrite.  Would I listen to an overweight fitness instructor?  What about a tax lawyer that hates to play monopoly?  A exterminator that keeps rats as pets?  No, no, no.  I don’t think so.  So why would I pay attention to a word that doesn’t even follow its own meaning?  The answer is that I wouldn’t.  And I don’t.

At it’s best, onomatopoeia is spineless nomenclature.  At its worst, it is the cause of the George Lopez show.

I know what you’re thinking.  “This topic is fucking stupid.”  Guess what?  You’re right.  But it’s double fucking stupid because it’s stupid in the real world as well.

Onomatopoeia is the dad that shows up to the soccer game in tight sweatpants that no word wants to call a father, no letter wants to call a home.  It is a “uncountable noun”, which means it shares grammatical real estate with blood, graffiti and luggage.

Nice company, onomatopoeia.

Now, again, I know what you’re thinking.  “Well then what would you call onomatopoeia so that it wasn’t a hypocrite?”  The answer? I’d call it Snooki.  Why?  Because it’s stupid, most people don’t know what it means, and they would be far better off never encountering it.

View Comments / Jan 20.10 / Onomatopoeia / by Charles Hodges

// We all know a me

By Charles Hodges .
01.14.10 // Sloppy Drunk

Sloppy drunk.  I’ve been there.  A lot.  You’ve probably been there.  A lot.  It’s not pretty.  It’s barely fun.  It rarely brings you anything good.  When you wake up the next day you do one of two things: 1) act like you weren’t that drunk and then go to brunch and drink more alcohol, thus postponing what will inevitably become an apocalyptic hangover that will require three hours of HBO, Chinese food and human touch (could be a platonic hug while tears fall in the kitchen) or 2) you wake up, look at your clock, realize you have a few hours of daylight left, realize you are wearing pants from last night, see the McDonald’s on the floor, see the McDonald’s barbecue sauce on your computer, feel your heart, feel the small ball that is a growing panic attack next to your heart, feel the bruise on your thigh, try to crane your neck to look at your bedside table, realize you lost your phone, wonder who you owe apologies.

I’m not going to sit here and try to figure out why we do this.  My guess is as good as yours: boredom, peer pressure, heinous social alcoholism a.k.a. childhood guilt from unintentional murder of pet hamster.

But it does, however, yield some interesting things.  Allow myself to use myself as an example.  When I get sloppy drunk, I go one of two ways:

1) Category Five Hurricane (see image above)

No one likes this guy.  He screams at people, sings on tables, dances with mothers, uses tablecloths as capes, ruins surprise birthday parties, ruins birthday parties, ruins parties, picks up midgets and cradles them, microwaves metal utensils, haggles over the price of Christmas trees, screams, screams, screams into the night.

and then there is…

2) Slurring Thinks-He-Is-Wise Hermit

People don’t really like this guy, but he thinks he knows what’s best for you.  In my history of being Slurring Thinks-He-Is-Wise Hermit, I have doled out the following advice:

yyyou should be a veterinarian.

“Why? Because you love animals.  Why do you love animals? Because you love animals.  See.  That’s what I’m talking bout.”

You should read more.

“Because if you actually take time to read then you’ll be reading more, which means you will have rrrrrread more.  It’s just really important.  Can I have a cigarette?”

You should go vegan.

“I mean I don’t know, but it sounds like it might work for you.  You know like yoga or some shit.”

You should hang with your sibling more.

“Because I like your brother.  You should like him too.  You just don’t know him as well as I do. He’s sooo cool once you get to know him.”

You need to start eating breakfast.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I’m sssirrrius.  Like eggs and stuff like that.  It’s brain food.  It’s SAT shit, man.  It’s like being ready to take the SATs everyday of your life. That’s pretty awesome. You know what I’m talking about?”

Let’s call your parents.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, it’s me.  No, Charles, calling from his phone.  We just wanted to make sure you were okay.  No, no, no, no, go back to sleep. I love you.”

You need to sell your car.

“I’m just telling you what I read.  If you sell it and invest that shit in google, in like three years, you’ll be able to get such a better car.  Like a fucking awesome car, dude.  Because of google. But don’t tell anyone I told you that.”

You should open your own bakery.

“Because that’s your passion. Not baking, but making people happy. And that’s a way tudu that. With pies and stuff.”

I want to go to the the moon.

“No, really.  I want to go to the moon.  And you should too.  Can I have a cigarette?”

You should move to Alaska.

“I mean, I don’t know you that well, but you’ve always been outdoorsy and shit.  It just seems like it would be such a good fit.  Get out of here and go to a place like that?  I’d do it if I could.  But I can’t.  I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t.  But you should. Yeah, you definitely should.”

You really need to see No Country For Old Men.

“I can’t believe you haven’t seen it.  It’s sooo good.  Did you know they didn’t have a soundtrack?  No mmmussicc.  Just sssiilence.  I figured the whole thing out by myself.  Well I mean someone told me, but then I was like, I knew that!  So I pretty much figured it out by myself.”

View Comments / Jan 14.10 / Sloppy Drunk / by Charles Hodges

// Randy and Everything After

By Charles Hodges .
01.09.10 // Resolutions

Resolutions.  They are all the same.  And they should be.  Because most of us don’t do the things we need to.  But why can’t we right our wrongs?  Why can’t we break the shackles that bind us?  This is usually where I would insert an answer. But I don’t have one.  I’m just as bad as you. No, not you, Baptist preacher/fitness instructor who speaks Portuguese.  We all know you are perfect.  Have fun conversing with the Brazilian cashier at the Gold’s Gym in Forth Worth, Texas.  Actually, Baptist preacher/fitness instructor who speaks Portuguese, we need to borrow your for a second.  Is that okay? Can you spare a moment before your pectoral sermon?  What’s that? Your name is Randy? Okay, Randy. Randy here is an example of what happens if you follow through with your resolutions.  What’s that you say Randy? In the late winter of 2003, you were a porn addicted atheist who was morbidly obese?  You talked shit to 8-year-olds while playing Halo, hated people with different accents and spent Sunday mornings at Golden Corral?  Interesting, Randy.

I sat down with Randy to talk to him about his metamorphosis.  I wanted to know how to break the shackles, how to change the unchangeable, how the caterpillar becomes a butterfly.  I wanted to see if Randy could teach me how to be a better person.  But he couldn’t.  Because here is the secret about people that come through with their resolutions: they don’t want other people to reach theirs.  It’s sad, but it’s true – like all of the sisters that are in the weight loss challenge, until one of them achieves their goal.

“Go ahead, Samantha, take a frozen snickers bar.  You look great.  You really do.  Have I told you about the new dog Albert and I saved from the pound?”

Not reaching our resolutions makes the world go round.

Think about it.  If everyone was able to stick to a budget, lose weight, speak Spanish, not watch porn and go to church, there would be very little for people to do.  If everyone made good on their January 1 promises, life would be pretty boring.  But fear not, for this is natural.  Mother Nature knows it.  That’s why we have things like Hurricanes, Tornadoes and the Jersey Shore.  Things can’t just maintain a sense of balance.  There must be an instigator.  The gym needs Ben and Jerry’s.  The government needs terrorists.  God needs Satan (because love without choice is not love at all).

And that’s what resolutions come down to: choices.  We make promises that we are going to change the things we choose.  What we buy.  What we watch.  Where we sleep.  So maybe, in the end, resolutions, broken or fulfilled, are just constant reminders of our own humanity.  Constant reminders that we have agency over our souls.  That, unlike the beasts, we have reason over instinct.  That, when we forgive ourselves for breaking our resolutions, we show we champion mercy as the ultimate display of power.  And, in the rare case that we fulfill them, we show that, yes, we choose hope over fear.

So, go on, promise yourself everything.  There is only one day of your life where you don’t have a tomorrow.

View Comments / Jan 09.10 / Resolutions / by Charles Hodges

// Twas a Good Year

By Charles Hodges .
01.02.10 // Highlight Films

2009 saw some momentus changes in my life.  There were highlights, lowlights and headlights going down the wrong way of a one-way street.  I have scanned the caverns of my psyche for what I thought were the turning points in the year for me.  I want to share them with you.  Because I love you.  Even though I don’t even know you.  Unless I do, in which case, you already knew that.  So, here it is: my highlights from 2009.

Saw Cat Dancers
I started the year off by watching the HBO documentary Cat Dancers.  It taught me three things: 1) you really can be whatever you want to be, 2) you can make a documentary about anything and 3) don’t keep tigers as pets because eventually they will rip the air pipe off from your wife’s neck and then maul the man-boy servant that you and your wife both had a relationship with.

Went to Canada
The land of long Os was the perfect place to take a family vacation.  We went hiking, rode in a sea plane and ate overpriced bison meat.  Everyone was really nice.  Like really nice.  Like too nice.

Won an Auction on eBay
My girlfriend’s father played basketball at the University of North Carolina.  I found his card on ebay.  I bid on it.  Well, actually I utilized the “buy it now” feature, but I am still counting it as a win.  I’m going to get him to autograph it then give it to him as a present.

Came to terms with my love for both Leona Lewis and Taylor Swift
I like to listen to weird bands that most people haven’t heard of because I am intellectually insecure.  I like to drop names like Cass McCombs and Deertick to show how I am really in tune with what is actually on going on, and, as a result, on a higher plane of intelligence than you.  That being said, I can think of no more cathartic moment than driving down the road screaming “Bleeding Love”, “Better in Time”, “White Horse” or “Fifteen”.  It’s the truth; I’m a huge fan of Leona Lewis and Taylor Swift.  Okay, enough of that – are you going to the Cotton Jones concert?  You really should.  They’re great.  I’ll burn you a cd because you have probably never heard of them, and I really care about YOUR music development.

Got a masters degree and became gainfully employed
After a quarter century of education, I finally weened myself off the proverbial teet of my father and got a big boy job.  This is good because I like independence and because my father’s proverbial teet had the paradoxical taste of cholesteral lowering medication and bacon.  Hey, Dad.

Moved to New York City
And grossly underestimated how expensive the damn place is.  At night, when I am asleep, with the animalistic sirens of the NYPD rushing past my window on 7th Avenue, my money crawls out of my wallet, jumps through the air conditioning unit and into the street.  Then, it blows west towards the Hudson river where it disappears forever.  Honestly, I have fallen in love with the place and am trying my best not to turn into a massive douche who lives in New York City.  It is difficult.  Being from the south, I have noticed that my gerunds are starting to grow their g’s.  Runnin’ is becoming running.  Doin’ is becoming doing.  Lastly, and most sad of all, “y’all” is becoming “you guys”.  It makes me sick, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.  The whole place is one pulsating heart of the world.  It has the best and worst of everything, and is a constant reminder of just how sharp the double edge sword of our culture is becoming.  Everything is cash only, the ATM fees suck, but damn the food is good.

Cried my fucking eyes out
On a friend’s reccommendation, my girlfriend and I watched the documentary Dear Zachary: A Letter to a son about his father.  I am not going to tell you what happens.  I am just going to tell you this.  It is, hands down, the saddest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.  I don’t remember the last time I cried (Cardinals over the Panthers in the NFC Championship), but this made me completely lose control.  If you watch it and are not moved you are either desensitized beyond all repair, or you never had a soul in the first place.  Watch it.  During the day.  With someone you’re not embarrassed bawling in front of.

Didn’t start flossing regualrly
A few years ago my dentist told me that people that floss live an average of five years longer than those that don’t.  It had something to do with bacteria in the bloodstream and heart disease and Cydni Lauper or something like that.  As a result, since that conversation, regular flossing has been one of my New Year’s resulotions for the past couple of years.  Well, I am here today to tell you that it didn’t happen in 2009.  Why do I count this as a highlight?  Because I am scared of being alone.  The regular flossers of the world are the ones who populate the far end of the actuary tables and, as a result, the extremely dependent care facitlities of our country.  They outlive their money, their minds and their friends.  So, consider this my own little plan for the future to allow nature to runs its course.

Went to Happy Hour at Sonic
I have been wanting to do this for years.  $1.06 for a huge lime slushie.  Awesome.  Some people’s bucket list require them to go sky diving in Switzerland.  Luckily, mine requires me to just stop at exit 212A on interstate 85.  Don’t bring that weak tot action!

In closing, you should know that I know that there is nothing more self-indulgent than assuming strangers are interested in your life or, even worse, the way you see things.  The Holocaust and the Jeff Dunham show are two examples that support this hypothesis.  Either way, I thank you for allowing me to break this rule.  As Walt Whitman said, “Very well then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.”  I thank you for reading these multitudes.  I wish you and that hooker in your trunk a safe and felony free 2010.  Godspeed, reader.  Godspeed.

View Comments / Jan 02.10 / Highlight Films / by Charles Hodges

// Jackel’s Difference

By Charles Hodges .
12.26.09 // Bosses

When Allibaster woke up, he reached over and grabbed a a few packages of moist towelettes from the box next to the bed.  Every month he took a box of the towelettes from Jackel’s, the barbecue joint where he worked the register and cleaned.  He couldn’t always depend on the cabin having running water, so stealing the towelettes was more of a necessity than a luxury.

After cleaning his face, he got up and walked over to the kitchen area. He looked at the picture of his parents, the only one he was able to salvage from the fire, while pouring a glass of generic label cranberry juice.  He fed his hamster, Marny, some fiber pills.  He saw the blinking 12:00. “Fuck,” he said, realizing he was late.  He got dressed, locked the door, ran the half mile up to the main house and said good morning to Mrs. Greely.

“Nice to see you, Allibaster,” she said as she directed the landscapers in the side garden.
“Think I can get a ride into town?”
“Can’t do it today.  Have to wait on the painters.”
“Oh, no problem.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”

Most days he didn’t mind walking, but today he needed the ride.  His boss, Jessica, told him that one more time of being late and he would be fired.  He walked far enough down the driveway so that Mrs. Greely wouldn’t be offended, then he took off on a sprint.

Two miles later, as he came running into the gravel parking lot, Jessica stood outside.  Jessica Umphry had always been a big girl, but when she took over Jackal’s from her father, she really let herself go.  First, it was grazing on the riblets.  Next, it was the baked beans (doctor’s orders she said).  Then, it was the pulled pork breakfasts.  In years prior, she had had many chins, but now it was as if they had gotten tired of being independent states and formed one solid union.  As a result, she had a single gobbler that mirrored the movements of her mouth – all movements that is except for frowning, which, lucky for her, was what she did most of the time anyway.  She was kind to customers because it was good business, but those that worked for her weren’t so lucky.

“Allibaster, what’d I say about being late?” she said picking fat from a pork breakfast out of her teeth with a blue toothpick.
“That it better not happen again.”
“Then why are you late?”
“My alarm clock – power went off in the middle of the night.”
“I didn’t hear no rain last night,” she said slowly chewing the toothpick and looking at the sky.
“Well it did at the Greely’s.  You can ask Jeff if he comes in later.  The power that is, not the rain. I know it didn’t rain.”
“I don’t need to ask Jeff nothing. Just you know that I can have someone else behind that register faster than you can say salmon cream cheese, so you better watch out.”
“Yes, Jessica.”
“Alright then, but this is the last time. Now get inside and help Moses set the tables up. High today is thirty-five.  You know how the bankers come here when it’s cold.”

Allibaster went in the side door and put on his apron.  He flicked on the ancient bulbs in the dining area and the light fell on the white and red checkered cloths that covered the picnic tables.  There, in the corner booth, sat Moses, old, blind, folding silverware into napkins.

“Morning, Allibaster,” Moses said over the hum of the lights that had broken the silence he had been enjoying.
“Hey, Moses.”
“You lose power last night?” Moses asked.
“Yeah, my alarm clock went out – reason I’m late.”
“That’s what’s wrong with you, boy,” Moses said continuing to fold the napkins, “you rely too much on technology. All of you do.  Gonna be the death of you.”
Allibaster walked over and started to straighten chairs.
“So I guess I’m supposed to just wake up with the sun?”
“That’s what I do.”
“How? You’re blind.”
“I still feel it on my eyes, boy.  Just like deaf people can see the piano keys.”
“Is that a tease?” Allibaster said knocking over some salt.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I guess you’re right. Did you lose power last night?” he said wiping the salt on the ground.
“Yeah, but the only casualty was milk.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, I reckon.”

–

Allibaster brought the day’s take back to the office and set it down in front of Jessica.

“That’s quite a day, Allibaster,” she said thumbing through the fives.
“Yep, sure is. Those bankers, you should see the tip jar.”
Jessica put the fives down, sat back in her chair and blew smoke through her nose.
“You know what’s different about Jackel’s, different from any other barbecue place?”
“The sauce?” Allibaster said staring at a picture of Jessica and her father fishing at the Greely’s pond, the one right beside his cabin.
“The sauce, Allibaster. That’s right, the sauce. We don’t use no tomato based shit do we?”
“No.”
“And what do we use?”
“Vinegar.”
“Vinegar, Allibaster. That’s right, vinegar.”
Jessica stood up and grabbed a gallon of vinegar on the stock shelf. She started shaking it around. Her cigarette was dangling from her lip.
“Vinegar, vinegar, vinegar,” she said through her cigarette, her chin waggling with each syllable.
Allibaster stood in the doorway and didn’t know what to make of the spectacle. Jessica saw his face and stopped chanting. She put the jar down and got real close to Allibaster’s face, so close he could smell the bourbon on her breath.
“And do you know what makes me different, Allibaster?”
“No, what?”
She closed her eyes and got almost close enough to kiss him.
“Patience,” she said with the p popping a waft of bourbon into Allibaster’s nose, “I have ppppatience.”
“That’s nice,” he said, stepping back.
“And no one else does! Look around you,” she said as she opened her eyes and spun around, “the whole world gone to hell in a handbasket because they can’t wait for a damn thing. Now! Now! Now is when everybody wants it. Now!” she said slamming her fist down on the desk and looking up at Allibaster.
“Well that’s,” he said before she interrupted.
“Well that’s what, Allibaster? The way things are? The way it has to be?”
“No, but -”
“But what Allibaster?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s right, you don’t know, because no one knows. No one knows what it takes to wait, because they never wait for shit,” she said panting and taking a sip of her coffee and bourbon.  She sat back down, lit another cigarette and rephrased her question.
“You know what’s different about Jackel’s, different from the barbecue anyone else could make?”
“The sauce?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing, except we are willing to wait for it. We’re willing to wait for it to cook. If they had the time, they could do it. But they don’t. They don’t have the time. So we do it. And they buy it.”
“Oh, well I guess that makes sense.”
“Do you know what my psychic told me?”
“What?”
“That I have a strong life line. That I’m going to live to be one-hundred and six.”
“Well that’s good, Jessica.”
“No, it’s not. That’s a lot of years.”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way.”
“I’ll take that into consideration, Allibaster,” she said as she put her feet up on the desk and put her hands behind her head.  Then she closed her eyes with her cigarette in her mouth.

–

When he came home, he looked into Marny’s cage to see if she was able to make a bowel movement yet. Nothing. She was growing by the day. This had been going on for two weeks. It was as if she was saving all of the food he had fed her.  He stared at the pond outside, long shadows fell through the one-room cabin and he wondered if she knew something that he did not.

View Comments / Dec 26.09 / Bosses / by Charles Hodges

// Everywhere and Always – There is No Escape

By Charles Hodges .
12.14.09 // The Man

I see him everyday.  He built the roads, with dreams of toll booths dancing in his head.  At the dentist’s office, he silently demands my copay.  He wants me to get a swine flu shot, wants me to believe that I might not make it past the winter.  But I might not.  Will I?  What if he is right?  After all, he has been around longer.  He does know more than me.  He’s simply asking for a small exchange for my well being for his own advancement.  Do I trust his intentions?  I have no choice.  There’s an abundance of choice.  Whatever, wherever I choose, he is there.  He sells both the leather and leopard iPhone covers.  He sells the leather leopard iPhone cover.  He sells the iPhone.  He sells me cheeseburgers and cholesterol medicine.  As the weather gets colder, he wants to me travel to Jamaica, buy insurance for the trip, buy new luggage on the way, upgrade my room and buy gifts while I am there, bring him one back.  He loves gifts.  He loves when I go to Jamaica.  He wants me to spend.  He wants me to save.  He wants me to save so that others can spend, in some long formula that no one truly understands.  He understands.  I see him when I pay my bills.  I hear him when the sirens wail.  Maybe he is saving someone, so they can continue paying real estate taxes, not death taxes – whatever is more.  He is always someone else to everyone. Like hell, each vision is customized with its dead-aunt rooms, the yellow bird wallpaper peeling away to show the previous owner’s decorative intentions, and on and on and on.  And still, no matter how many times the wallpaper changes, and no matter how many times you pass it down to your children, in the end, he owns the house.

View Comments / Dec 14.09 / The Man / by Charles Hodges

// The Miracle of Manchester

By Charles Hodges .
12.02.09 // Tripping

I went to the very first Bonnaroo the summer after my junior year of high school.  My best friend and I were huge Widespread Panic fans, and we had just found out that the lead singer was going to die of pancreatic cancer (R.I.P., Mikey).  Pancreatic cancer aside, it was an unbelievable lineup for my high school headiness: Phil Lesh, Gov’t Mule, Bela Fleck, Keller Williams, moe, String Cheese Incident, Trey Anastasio, Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe, Galactic, Ween, and, of course, Widespread Panic – just to name a few.

Our mothers had no idea that we were headed to what was being lauded as the modern day Woodstock.  I think they thought it was going to be more like one big camping trip, which in some ways it was.  They didn’t know what the hell we were about to get into.

But neither did we.

Throughout the nine hour journey from Charlotte, North Carolina to Manchester, Tennessee, we were extremely nervous because we were underage and had hidden four cases of Bud Light in our car.  Little did we know that we would be the least of the problems for Manchester’s Finest.

When we arrived and got in the three hour waiting line, we found out that they were checking for two things in your car: people that didn’t have a ticket and tanks of nitrous oxide.  When they searched our car, they found the beer.  We were flushed with anxiety.  We were going to spend the entire weekend in jail with three wookies who would be in there for selling nitrous.

The cop grabbed the beer, moved it to the side, lifted up the spare wheel, checked underneath it, then waved us through.

“Be safe,” the cops on horseback said.
“Thank you officer, you too,” I said back.

We pulled into our spot and found that we were parked next to a guy named Dan.  Dan was a twenty-three year old who was trying to grow a beard.  He installed cabinets in New Jersey.  When I asked him how his job was he said, “fun”.  He brought a guitar, although he told us he didn’t play it.  He had a lot of Jack Daniels.  He had come by himself.  He whistled himself to sleep.  He never took off his shoes.  Thoughts of being murdered crossed my mind.  I now know what it was like to sleep on a train during the dust bowl.

After we got settled, we decided to go check out the scene.

“Have you been to Shakedown?” a dude asked us.
“No, where is it?”
“That’s why I was asking you, bro!” the guys said before hacky sacking his way down the line of port-o-johns.

For those of you who haven’t been to numerous jam band concerts, “Shakedown” is short for “Shakedown Street”, the name of a famous Grateful Dead song.  In the parking of any of any of these concerts, Shakedown Street is usually the equivalent of a hippie farmers market.  However, Shakedown Street at the first Bonnaroo was more like a hippie Costco.  There were bongs the size of tricycles.  There were kids on tricycles holding bongs the size of tricycles.  There were blacklight posters of Jerry.  There were wood carvings of Jerry.  There were wooden bongs that looked like Jerry that glowed under black light.  One vendor was selling the three following items: bongs, dildos and pizza.  I didn’t see any sanitation grades.

But what about the drugs?  Well, they were actually kind of hard to find.  If you were Helen Keller.

Stalks of marijuana were sold by topless women who looked like poorly imitated Janis Joplins.  Mushrooms were sold as if someone was making a salad for a soup kitchen after a hurricane.  And acid doses were sold on sheets of paper, the dealer ripping them off like he was an acupuncturist giving away his business card at the worlds largest yoga class.  And we were worried about four cases of beer.

Now, we had been to numerous concerts in our day.  We had seen numerous lot scenes, “Shakedowns”, veggie burritos and ganja goo balls (don’t ask).  But we had never seen like this.  And the music hadn’t even started.

The first night we went to see String Cheese Incident play with Keller Williams.  Heady, no doubt.  We heard “Freaker By the Speaker” standing right next to the speaker.  Everything was cool, everyone grooving under the “harvest moon” of Tennessee.  Then, directly beside us, a guy just keeled over.  He started shaking and spitting up blood.  We were freaking out.  Then, like a wooked out Quail Man, his friend appeared.

“Dude!  Holy shit!  Oh man. It’s that acid.  It’s that acid.  It’s that acid.”

He was freaking out.  He was rubbing his forehead, while trying to make his friend sit up.  Then he said one of the most amazing things I have ever heard in my entire life.

“Dude, you need a cigarette.”

He proceeded to pull a pack of Marlboro Reds out and put one in his half-conscious friend’s mouth, and light it for him.  The amazing part?  It worked.  The dude walked back to his tent, or wherever he was going, under his own power.  It was a miracle.

After the show, we went back to our car.  Dan was there, holding his guitar, not playing it and generally just freaking out anyone who was sober enough to pay attention.

“How was the show?” Dan said.
“It was cool.  Saw some dude throw up blood,” I said.
“Oh, man, that’s crazy,” Dan said.
“Yeah, what’d you do?  Which concerts did you see?”
“Concerts?  Oh, I didn’t go see any concerts.”

We locked the doors of our car and went to sleep, because we had two more nights with all 100,000 of these people.

View Comments / Dec 02.09 / Tripping / by Charles Hodges

// Beautiful Carl

By Charles Hodges .
11.26.09 // Prodigy

The three men hung out at the bar, sipping their drinks, talking about their sons.

“I don’t know where Toby got it from to be honest.  I mean we knew he liked math, but the piano?  Fuck.  He sure can play.  And he’s only three.  His teacher said he’s playing showpan or some shit like that, except it’s spelled like choppin’.  I don’t know.  I just hope he gets a scholarship from tickling those ivories.  I could spend those savings on a boat.  What about you Dave?  How’s little David’s tennis game coming along?”
“He beat me last week – a four year old with a top spin serve.  It’s like he learned it in his sleep.”
“I mean, Dave, you do push the boy,” Ronnie said.
“Well sure.  I mean I want him to be the best for him.  Scholarship or not, I’ll love him.”

Steve sat there in silence, and all the men took sips of their beer.

“Hey, Steve, what about your boy, Carl?” Ronnie asked.
“Yeah, Steve how’s little Carl doing?” Dave followed up.
“Fine,” Steve said, “just fine.”
“Any talents risen to the surface?” Ronnie asked.
“Nothing of consequence yet. Although, the teachers do say he is a good listener.”
“Well that’s nice.”
“Yeah, that’s nice.”

The men sat there staring at the mirror on the other side of the bar.  Steve stared at himself in the eyes.  He thought to himself, how did Ronnie and Dave end up with two genius sons?  Ronnie and Dave weren’t special, yet they were given these two lottery ticket children.  They weren’t different, but their sons sure were.  Anomalies of nature, he thought.  Was anomaly the right word in that context?  He didn’t know.

He left the bar and went home.  Brenda had left some meatloaf out.  He made a sandwich, ate it and chugged down two Advil with a glass of whole milk.  Then he went up to Carl’s room.  He opened the door and the light from the hallway spilled into the room, falling on his son’s face.  That’s my boy, he thought to himself.

He was about to close the door when a waft of something awful rose up into his nose.  He followed the smell to Carl’s bed.  He lifted up his son’s comforter.  It smelled like hot death.  Carl had shit his bed.

He went into his bedroom to wake Brenda up.

“Hey, B, wake up.  Carl shit his bed.”
“What?” she said rubbing her eyes.
“I said Carl shit his bed.”
“Are you drunk?  Did you see the meatloaf?”
“I’m not drunk.  I saw the meatloaf, but that’s now what I’m talking about.  Carl shit his bed.”
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him in the shower.  I’ll start the wash and set up a sleeping bag.”

- Thirty years later -

Ronnie, Dave and Steve sat at the bar, sipping their drinks.

“How’s Toby doing, Ronnie?  Has he performed any concerts lately?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, he had a recital last week.  It was nice.  It was in our basement.  Only good family friends, mainly.  Toby doesn’t like playing for strangers anymore.”
“Oh, that nice,” Dave said.
“I mean, it’s kinda nice.  I still think he should move out and try to find a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a doll or whatever.  All he does is play that fucking piano.”
“I know what you mean.  It’s like they don’t have anything else.  It’s been fifteen years since David’s collapse at the junior national tournament. I just wish he’d get over it and go do something else.  I know we home schooled him, but hell, get out there, go meet some people.  Tennis was your life. Was.  You’re not good at it anymore.  Move on,” Dave said.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Steve said.
“Oh, sure, Steve. Sorry our sons didn’t turn out to be beautiful Carls, with a nice house and a nice family and a normal, well-paying job.” Ronnie said.
“That’s not what I was saying.”
“Well then, what are you saying?”
“I’m just saying they’ll be fine.  If you wait long enough, things change.”

View Comments / Nov 26.09 / Prodigy / by Charles Hodges

// Coffee: a visual interpretation of my innards

By Charles Hodges .
11.20.09 // Coffee

View Comments / Nov 20.09 / Coffee / by Charles Hodges

// Out of Nowhere

By Charles Hodges .
11.14.09 // Thank You

I count to seven, and then I see her standing there.  She is not a genie.  She is a paramedic.  Why seven brought her to me, I do not know.  I have no idea how many times I counted, but, for some reason, eight wouldn’t do.  Maybe seven was the number of telephone poles that I counted in sequence on the bus on the way to school.  Maybe seven was the number of kids in my class when we played duck-duck goose.  It is my own personal, unexplainable one-two-three.  It is odd.  It is prime.  I hate math.

She inserts a tube into my throat.  I feel it go down into my esophagus.  Red liquid fills the tube flowing out of me and goes up the tube.  It is either blood or dark cherry kool-aid. I haven’t had kool-aid in years.

I am strapped down to the board.  Against the dark clouds above me, I see swirling lights.  I hear sirens.  I hear many things that I do not pay attention to; however, my ear does isolate one thing.  It is a cricket.  In all this, whatever this is, I hear a cricket.  Only at this moment, it is not his silent orchestra to lead.  This is not the quiet backyard of suburbia that he usually claims as his sovereign territory.  Nevertheless, he is there.

“Hello cricket,” I say, but no one hears me.

There is so much commotion, yet all I can concentrate on is how dirty my socks feel.  They feel sticky.  I should do more laundry, I think to myself.

They lift me up into the ambulance.  When they do, I see the two parts of my car.  I see the miles of traffic on both sides.  I see the school bus.  Blue and red and white and yellow lights – they all flood my vision.  People talk on radios, yet I still hear the cricket.

Driving now, I count the lights on the road.  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.  Still, she sits by my side, this beautiful stranger with dual-colored bangs.  This is my tax money hard at work.

They roll me into the hospital.  Doctors gather around my face and scream my name.  They shine flashlights.  They are like the lights from the road, except not in as many different colors and not as predictable.  Human versus machine, I think to myself about the difference between the lights.  Takes one to fix one, but I don’t know which one is which.  Maybe both are both.  The doctors speak words and I lose all consciousness.

I wake up in the bed.  I feel much better.  I am handcuffed to the bed.  I look at the clock.  It is 4:38 in the morning – a dark time for anyone.  My mother is asleep in the chair next to me.  In the hall, I see a police officer walk back and forth.

I listen to my vitals monitor beep.  I count the blips out in sevens and stare at the ceiling.  This time, she does not appear over my face.  I close my eyes.

“Thank you,” I say to her, but no one hears me.

Outside, a car’s lights come through the window.  I must be on the ground floor.  The car’s ignition shuts off.  I hear a door slam and footsteps go away.  Then, I hear him – the cricket.  His chirps are in a different cadence than my vitals monitor, than my heart.

I close my eyes and think of the school bus.  Physically, emotionally, I feel as if I am crying, but no tears roll down my cheeks.  Whatever comes next, I think to myself, I deserve.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

View Comments / Nov 14.09 / Thank You / by Charles Hodges

// Afternoon Delight

By Charles Hodges .
11.08.09 // Awkward Silences

They went outside to the hot tub immediately after her parents left for the play.

When they raided the liquor cabinet, they took the banana schnapps because they didn’t know any better.  Clothes were off in seconds.  They turned the bubbles on because they didn’t really know each that well.

Minutes passed.  They shared their hatred for their history teacher, and then threw caution to the wind.

Then it happened.  An apparition appeared in the sliding glass door.  At first, he thought it was the tree’s reflection.  Then, he saw her father’s face.  The old man stared at his daughter’s nude back.  Then he made eyed contact with the boy.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said.
“I think your dad left the tickets.”

View Comments / Nov 08.09 / Awkward Silences / by Charles Hodges

// Alright Then, By All Means

By Charles Hodges .
10.20.09 // Do-It-Yourself

Do it yourself.  Go ahead.  Do it.  After all, isn’t that the point?  To do it yourself?  Paint the shed without any help.  Build the swing-set in silence so no one doubts your prowess.  Set the squirrel traps in the attic by your lonesome.

But where did you buy that do-it-yourself kit?  From someone else?  Did someone else put together a kit so that you can paint the shed? Build the swing-set? Set the squirrel traps?

Oh, they didn’t you say?  So you invented them yourself?

You made the paint out of lead and pigment wrenched from grass?  You made the brush? Did you kill the boar and chop the tree?  Fashion the handle and set the bristles did you?  You wrapped it all in plastic and set it in a store so that you could be surprised to find out that today, and not tomorrow or any other day, was the day that you would paint the shed?  Even though no one even knows you have a shed?  Or that the back doesn’t have paint?  Where you keep the logs?  But it’s important right?  Yes, the back of the shed is important.  Yes, after all, we have neighbors.  Do you?  Do you have neighbors?  Yes.

But what about that swing-set?

Important? Yes?

Of course.

Yes, you don’t need to hire anyone for the swing set.  It’s just some logs and ropes after all. Nothing a little elbow grease couldn’t take care of.  It’s not like there will be a birthday years from now where someone will get hurt.  “We should have hired a professional,” she will say.  “I knew what I was doing,” you will say back.  But it will be too late.  Your pride, years earlier, will have caused a death.  No, no, no – you couldn’t have known.  You were just trying to be admirable – yes – by building the swing-set.  It was your duty.  You would never have looked as foolish as to ask the neighbor for a hand with the monkey bars.  There is no way you could have known that the screw hadn’t caught.  You did it yourself.  Sure, you didn’t actually make the monkey bars yourself, and it wasn’t your fault they snapped, but you tried.

No one knew the child would fall on a bottle.

But what about those squirrel traps?  You, by yourself, right?  That’s what we thought – what they thought, what you thought.  They’d been getting in that attic for months now.  Winter’s cold doesn’t let them stay in the trees.  You painted over their hole with Tabasco.  Didn’t work.  Now, they need to die.  It’s the only way you’ll be able to sleep.

You did it yourself.

And didn’t it feel good?  Sure, it didn’t smell great, but, come on, seventeen dead squirrels sitting in your attic.

My God, you said to yourself, what a peaceful February.

And, with all those dead squirrels, you thought: back in the old days it used to be a whole lot easier to get away.  All you had to do was get in your car.  No GPS.  No texting.  No internet, cell phones or google tricycles.

Just a car and a place and whatever you were doing.

Eating pistachios?

Sounds good.

Cheating on the wife?

It’s your choice.

Yeah, it used to be a whole lot harder to hide secrets back then.  Secrets need a lack of proof, or at least a lack of questions from the other side anyway.  Now, you can’t hide a secret anymore, but it sure is a whole lot easier to lie.

Now, there’s a do-it-yourself project.

Beats the shit out of painting a shed, or building a swing-set or even setting vengeance upon vermin.

At least that’s what I think, what I heard, what they said, what you saw.

But who knows if anyone is telling the truth?

Especially, especially, especially when they are doing so many things themselves.

View Comments / Oct 20.09 / Do-It-Yourself / by Charles Hodges

// The United States of America

By Charles Hodges .
10.14.09 // Coaches

The trainer stood over the quarterback trying to get him to open his eyes.  It was the biggest bowl game in school history.  It was the third quarter.  If it was a concussion, it was the quarterback’s third of the year.

“Can you hear me?” said the trainer.
“Can he hear you?” said the coach.
“I don’t know.  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

The quarterback opened his eyes.

“What happened?” the quarterback said.
“Nothing.  You just got your bell rung.  You’re gonna be fine,” said the coach.
“What’s today’s date?” the trainer said.
“Anjelica Huston,” said the quarterback.
“Well, he sounds pretty good to me,” said the coach, “now let’s go win this thing.”

View Comments / Oct 14.09 / Coaches / by Charles Hodges

// I Found It!

By Charles Hodges .
10.07.09 // Fitness

From the vaults comes this one-of-a-kind commercial that McDonald’s made years ago. It didn’t test well, so, like a good company that cares about its customers, they didn’t run it. Something about “ethics” and “consumer truths”.

Whatever.

View Comments / Oct 07.09 / Fitness / by Charles Hodges

// Cannibals: A Love Story

By Charles Hodges .
10.02.09 // Menus

Since she didn’t have a car, and because the date had been set up via the internet, she had a friend drop her off at the restaurant.  She walked in and saw him sitting there.  He was much more attractive than his profile picture.

As she approached, she noticed that the tablecloth was unusually taut.  When he stood up, his hands released it and a steak knife went flying into the air and onto the ground.

“Oh, excuse me, I’ll get that,” he said, bending down and grabbing the knife as if he had never handled a blade before.

They sat down.  The candles were perfectly lit.  And they should have been.  After pouring over the cannibal restaurant guide for hours, he had finally decided on this particular one because of its ambiance.

“I really like your dress.”
“Thank you, I got it for my birthday,” she said blushing.
“Oh, when was your birthday?”
“August.”
“August what?”
“Fourteenth.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“Oh, no reason, just interested.”

He stared at the menu.

He thought to himself, what the hell do I get?  If I go with nose or ears for appetizers, she’ll totally think I’m cheap.  But if I go with throat or forehead, she’ll think I’m pretentious.  Maybe I should just get some elbow meat – yeah – just start it off nice with a couple slices of elbow meat.  She looks like the elbow type.

The waiter interrupted.

“Ahem, yes, can I get you two lovely friends a drink?”
“Umm, yeah, that’d be great,” he said.

Please order blood, please order blood, he thought to himself.  I am so tired of going out with girls that don’t order blood.

“For the lady?” the waiter said.
“I’d like a pint of blood,” she responded.
“Do you do pitchers?” he asked.
“No sir, only pints.”
“That’s fine, I’ll have a pint of type B.”
“Oh, excuse me, madam.  Did you have a type preference?”
“B’s fine.”
“Very well then.”
He was so excited she had ordered blood.  Oh, he really had a catch now.  For some reason, however, he couldn’t progress past small talk.  Thinking about what to say next made him lock up even more.

Then, there was silence.

Minutes later, the waiter came back with the drinks.  She was feverishly playing with her cell phone, and he was nervously biting off and swallowing his cuticles.

“Ahem, excuse me, would you like me to tell you about tonight’s specials?” he said placing the drinks on the table.
“Oh, yes please,” she said.
“Yes, that’d be great,” he said.
“Very well. To start, we have a grilled kneecap skin.  That’s going to come with an earwax compote and a side of braised hair celery.  That goes for $22.00. Personally, by the looks of you two, I believe you could split it.  Next, we have a lung and fingernail salad served over a bed of fresh foot lettuce.  It’s not my favorite, but customers have been raving about it, so what do I know? It’s served with the house dressing and is $14.00.  Finally, for our main course, we have a seared baby heart.  It’s going to be served rare on a grilled russell hasbrown with type A au jus on the side.  And that goes for $38.50.  Any questions?”

“Is the braised hair celery already in the dish, or can they leave that out?” she asked.
“They can leave it out, madame.  It should be no problem.”
“Okay, thanks.”

There was an awkward silence.  The waiter looked at both of them, his glasses sitting on the end of his long nose.

“So I’ll be back in a little bit to take your orders?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Thanks,” she said.

He shifted his feet underneath the table, and she held her purse in front of her stomach.

“So what looks good?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, everything!”

She looked up and smiled at him.  She hoped he would see how excited she was.  He looked up from the menu; they locked eyes and, for the first time since his mother’s death, he actually felt something.

“Yes, it does all look pretty good,” he said.
“What do you think you are going to get?”
“I don’t know, I was thinking maybe we could start of by sharing that kneecap, without the braised hair celery of course.”
“Yeah, that sounds fantastic,” she said, grinning like she was staring into the sun, loving his attention to detail.

–

As they were finishing up the kneecap, the waiter brought dinner to the table.  Despite his unbelievable salesmanship, they both had decided to get two handburgers.  There was something about their mutual decision that was more than an order.  The waiter asked if they needed anything else.

“Hot sauce,” they both said at the same time.

They looked at each other.

“Very well then, some hot sauce, for the lovely couple,” the waiter said, smiling and bowing away with a towel on his arm.

–

Outside of her apartment, he let the car idle.  The exhaust mixed with the cold air, making billows of smoke that enveloped the entire automobile.  They were alone.

“Do you want to come in?”
“I don’t think I should, I mean, it’s late.”
“My roommate was making toe cakes earlier.  I’m sure we have some left.”

He thought back to when he was a child.  Every birthday: toe cakes.  Every winter solstice: toe cakes. Every time he was home sick from school: toe cakes.  He looked at her face, her body sitting next to him. He felt like what he was thinking was leaking out of his ear and filling the car.  He felt like she knew things about him that he didn’t even know.  If he went in for toe cakes, what would happen next?  Marriage? Kids?  Retirement? Death? From then on out, he thought, every choice you made limited the number of choices you had left.  He had plans.  He had dreams.  He was going to be famous.  He was going to be rich.  He was going to self-actualize.  After all that, there would be time for the rest.  There would time to make the important decisions.

He adjusted his rear-view mirror even though the back was full of fog.

“Toe cakes, huh?  Your roommate knows how to make those?”
“Yeah. They are amazing – better than Fred’s downtown.”
“Well, I guess I could come in, give them a try.”

View Comments / Oct 02.09 / Menus / by Charles Hodges

// Scratch My Back (What Divides Us?)

By Charles Hodges .
09.26.09 // Scratch My Back

View Comments / Sep 26.09 / Scratch My Back / by Charles Hodges

// Versus

By Charles Hodges .
09.21.09 // Sketchy

View Comments / Sep 21.09 / Sketchy / by Charles Hodges

// Over the Hill

By Charles Hodges .
09.07.09 // Retirement

For most of humanity, retirement is the goal of a working life. It is the light at the end of the tunnel – our reward for a life of slamming away from 9 to 5. However, some people don’t buy into it. Even though their financial future is well taken care of, they keep working well past their prime. In a world where man is thought to be his own master, this should be fine. But not for everybody. Because of our mass media culture we are forced to encounter and endure these professional declines. Whatever the case, they need to retire. If you are on this list, and you read this, I am sorry. It’s nothing personal. I like you. I just don’t like the way you do your job anymore. Please, please, retire.

Tyra Banks
Loved you in Sports Illustrated 1995 swimsuit issue, but now, with your talk show, you redefine the lows of human thought.

Lou Holtz
Coach, I applaud your awesome knowledge of the game of football, but, unfortunately, I cannot spend my Saturday mornings listening to ludicrous predictions that involve non sequitur anecdotes about celery.

George Lopez
George Lopez gets paid to be funny. George Lopez isn’t funny. George Lopez needs to stop being paid.

Andy Rooney
“Have you ever seen a lightening bug in a jar? I haven’t eaten outside in a long time. No one reads books anymore. I used to read books. I like books. Tuesdays are a waste of time. Bowtie pasta.”

Carlos Mencia
See description for George Lopez. (No, I do not have anything against hispanic comics.  These guys just both really suck.)

Kim Jong Il
He just really needs to relax. He’s freaking a lot of people out.

Michael McDonald
I know that rednecks who win the lottery need music to play on their yacht, but I just wish their speakers weren’t so fucking loud.

Maury Povich
The world has real problems. Exposing a fast food manager’s love triangle on national television doesn’t help solve them. Maury is married to Connie Chung. He should follow her footsteps.

Let’s continue the conversation. Who do you think should retire and why? Respond below.

View Comments / Sep 07.09 / Retirement / by Charles Hodges

// Etymology?

By Charles Hodges .
09.01.09 // Backwards

Backwards comes from the term “baquarddes”, which is Latin for the phrase “midnight snack”.

The term originated because, during Roman times, random passerby would sneak into strangers’ houses to steal leftover grapes and handmade arts and crafts in the middle of the night.

Quick sidestory: many of these passerby would be picked up by the authorities.  At the time, they allowed them to retain perishables when they went into jail.  Since most of them stole grapes, this gave way to the first large batches of prison wine and started the entire home brewing craze that would sweep throughout the region in early 213 AD.

Back to the real story: if you know anything about the Romans, you know that the eating areas were the closest to the entrance.  After looting what they could, as they left, these intruders would walk in reverse out of the area because they wanted to make sure none of the residents were following them.

Quick sidestory: Michael Jackson took his inspiration for the nomenclature of “the moonwalk” from this scenario.

Back to the real story: Over the centuries, the term “baquarddes” traveled throughout the continent.  In Russia, it was translated into “boshwerks”, which, in Russian, means “third nipple”.  In Germany, it was translated into “backvarkks”, which, in German, means “sure, why not”.

Quick sidestory: The original lyrics for Pasty Cline’s “Walking After Midnight” were written by Homer.

Finally, back to the real story: “Baquarddes” made it’s way through the anglo-saxon peasantry, where, finally, in 1648, James Jameson III brought into the the 3rd Earl of Dorchester’s court with his play Fourteen Jesters and the Real Cancun (it was scene involving an ottoman, two goldfish and a pear).

Quick sidestory: Breakfast for dinner was invented by the Incas.

View Comments / Sep 01.09 / Backwards / by Charles Hodges

// And there will be no place to hide

By Charles Hodges .
08.25.09 // Classics

A classic can’t be enjoyed by the current generation or the generation after that.  It is contextually referential, which is a complicated way of saying that it can’t be a classic unless your great grandmother was alive when it was invented.  And that is a complicated way of saying old things that last become classics.  And that is a complicated way of saying some things are good and some things aren’t.  And that is a complicated way of saying my kids won’t remember Lindsay Lohan.  And that’s a complicated way of saying that I will keep some things from my kids.  And that’s a complicated way of saying that my kids will never know that I was fan of the Charlotte Hornets.  And that’s a complicated way of telling the truth, which, in the end, isn’t usually that complicated, but rather just a more difficult thing to say.

But I’ll say it because the internet will be around when I have kids and they will be able to see what their dad used to say back in the day (we never had this luxury, folks).  But their pops would do it.  He would proclaim himself a Charlotte Hornets fan.  He would say he missed them (the Charlotte Hornets that is) because they represented his own youth.  And his kids (my kids) will use this article as ammunition against me when I don’t/didn’t see them on their birthdays.  But of course none of that has happened.  And I’ve still got plenty of time to mess things up.  And the Charlotte Hornets won’t be there.  But that won’t matter.  Because I will tell them all about them.  About Kurt Rambis in the expansion draft.  About the nachos. About my Starter jacket.  And they’ll say, “but we know about that, we read your articles.”  And I’ll say, “those old things?” And they’ll say, “yeah.” And I’ll say, “those weren’t articles – more like experiments.” And they’ll say, “fuck and shit.” And I’ll say, “where did you learn those words?” And they’ll say, “on the internet.  From you.”  And I’ll say, “where is your mother?”  And they’ll leave the playroom and I’ll stare at the faded Mugsy Bogues poster on the wall above my son’s expensive robot toys.  The piano coda of Layla will come on.  And I’ll sit back and think to myself, “what else do they know?”

View Comments / Aug 25.09 / Classics / by Charles Hodges

// It is what it is

By Charles Hodges .
08.20.09 // This Photograph

This photograph doesn’t have any higher meaning.  It’s not a microcosm of my personality, or America, or global culture.  It doesn’t relate back to an essay by Montaigne, or highlight platonic ideals in a capitalist society.  It’s just a picture.  Of me.  On a Tuesday morning.  In the bedroom.  Of my girlfriend’s parents.

View Comments / Aug 20.09 / This Photograph / by Charles Hodges

// Poor Judy

By Charles Hodges .
08.16.09 // Fruits and Vegetables

I am riding in the elevator with this big time movie executive.  He has his sleeves rolled up like he is ready to fight.  He smells like tuna fish and Vaseline (anyone’s guess).  I am scared.  But I know it’s my chance.  Because I have this idea.  Because it’s always been there.  Because we were all born to die, or something philosophical like that.  So I tell him:

“Hey, I know you’re famous but you have to hear me out.”
“What?”
“Just listen.  I have this idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it’s an idea for a movie.”
“And?”
“And in the movie there is this one girl who is allergic to fruits and vegetables.”
“And?”
“And she can’t follow any kind of healthy diet and has to live on candy.”
“And?”
“And, in the beginning of her life, all of the kids at school are jealous and tease her.  She always cries on the way home from school, but then one day she realizes she can give some of her candy away to make friends – standard supply and demand.  So she buys friends with sour brite crawlers and other kinds of consumables made out of high fructose corn syrup.  She deals them on playground, in the woods, away from teachers sight.  She gets invited to birthday parties.  She gets invited on other people’s family trips.  She loves this because she never gets to do any of these things because her parents operate a go-cart track on the outskirts of town.  Did I mention that?  About her parents?”
“No.”
“Well, yeah, so she’s like poor, but out of her keen dealing ways she wiggles through the social strata by dealing candy to her friends because she is allergic to fruits and vegetables. So, very early in her life, she forms extremely tight bonds with another social class.  While, in the beginning, these relationships are based on a material source, the other girls come around and realize that Judy, that’s the girls name, has real, human qualities to offer and that she isn’t some genetic freak who gets to eat all of the candy in the world because of a doctors note.”
“That sounds kind of interesting.”
“That’s what I’m saying, so, anyway, after the fifth grade graduation, we flash forward to one of the other girl’s weddings.  Judy is a bridesmaid.  We don’t know much about what has happened in the time since fifth grade, only that Judy is now successful, attractive and blind.  So, at the reception, Judy asks one of her friends to get her a plate of food.  Her friend comes back and gives her the plate.  Her friend, Samantha, has always subconsciously hated Judy because of her ability to overcome obstacles (this is implied by music).  We zoom in closely on the plate.  It’s a piece of quiche.  On the side, there are beets.  She is a little tipsy from all the champagne, and she mistakes the beets for chocolate wafers.  All the girls go to do the electric slide and, in the fourth stanza, Judy has an allergic reaction and dies on the dance floor.  Everyone is freaking out except for Samantha who is eating the rest of Judy’s beets.  She is dressed in red.  This shows us some element Samantha’s culpability.”
“What?”
“Just wait for it, dude.  So, we have a slow zoom out from the viewpoint of the chandelier above the dance floor.  We see Judy on the floor with her sunglasses on – remember she is blind.  We close with her father admitting kids for a birthday party at the go kart track.  Remember that go cart track?  So, basically, it’s a story about opportunity in adversity, jealously, regret, the inability to change, the ability to adapt, the chains of freedom, the pickaxe of paradox, the wisdom of not knowing, the murmurs of our beating hearts.”
“That is the worst thing I have ever heard in my entire life.”
“Fuck you.”

I push the emergency stop button.  I take his iPhone.  I punch him in his black turtleneck.  He arrives on the top floor, late to a meeting.  It’s a production company pitching their services.  They provide lunch.  Lamb.  Organic salad.  With beets.

View Comments / Aug 16.09 / Fruits and Vegetables / by Charles Hodges