WHARVED

Empire

Well, as far as that’s concerned, Charlene kicked the bucket about eight years ago, givin’ birth to our youngest of seven young’uns. I named him Squiggy; that’s probably what she would have named him. She created a fashion empire, one clothing line for every chillun we sired; left behind quite a fortune with the Brandon, Stephen, Kalen, Armbruster, Eddie and Sherry labels. Squiggy’s just starting to realize that he has no clothes named after him, so he’s started making a point of wearing burlap sacks every day. He just wants to piss off his fashionista siblings. They don’t much like it, but they’re a bunch of snobs now anyway, with that fancy Hollywood upbringing. I never much cared for that methodology, and my ditch-digging career is just about all that keeps me sane these days.

I figure nothing’s bringing Charlene back, and she’d still be here spoiling them kids–if it weren’t for Squiggy’s breach birth. I loved her to death, never gonna remarry. I figure I’ll just get a few more dogs and move on with my life. So far I have Scruffy, Tipper, George and Sheila. They aren’t allowed to come into the house because of those damn kids. My best friends and I spend most of our time out there digging ditches. Squiggy’s going to take up the family profession soon, just like his ol’ dad, dad’s dad, dad’s dad’s dad, etc. If I were a literate man, I’d come up with some clever autobiography–“Life’s a Ditch” or some sort.

Celebricheese®

Hey! You there! Come on down to our brand new wax museum of cheese celebrities, Celebricheese®! For a nominal (suggested) $15 fee (non-refundable), we offer you the full experience of observing your favorite celebrities in cheese form, made with realistic wax that will preserve the likenesses for much longer than statues made of pure cheese. We know what you’re thinking: why have a museum dedicated to cheese that doesn’t actually have any cheese in it?! Well, you’re a shrewd interpreter of the creative process, my friend. At the core of each celebrity resides a canister of the (freeze-dried) cheese represented by his/her/its likeness, where the dry ice is replaced every day. Our celebricheese® include, but are not limited to:

Monterey Romano, Fontina Turner, Blue Cheese Man Group, John Cheese, Eddie Muenster, Pepper Jack Black, String Cheese Incident, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozzart, Al Roquefort, Brie Larson, John Goudaman, Parmesean Penn, Alan Brickman, The Provolone Ranger, Fondoogie Howser, Danny Velveeta, Taylor Swiss, Colby Bryant, and Edam and Eve.

Come on down, we’d love to see you here! We’re located on the same lot that once held that abandoned eyesore of a cracker factory in historic Old Shireberg! Admission is on a first-come basis, so beat the traffic and you’ll receive one of 1,000 commemorative holographic Elvis Pretzel-y refrigerator magnets! Everyone knows cheese and pretzels go together like gloves and mittens! Come on down!

Stumble

Indelible delicacies span the desert, as odd as it may seem to the never-ending line of gawkers establishing covenants left and right of that played-out Manson-Nixon phenomenon all you kids seem to take for granted these days. But never you mind such a clustered old sight, it won’t tuck you in at night even if you begged for a thousand years. But why would you insist on that kind of security? What are you, seven years old? The desert holds not much more than the limited flora and fauna you’ve come to admire (once the childish fantasies of fecund fields have worn off), unless you’re keen on uncovering the mystical rarities romanticized by travelers who’ve uncovered a sacred place amongst the oblivion any sensible person would surely avoid–if given the chance. That’s why I always say: drop those thoughtful suckers in the middle of the Mojave and watch them stumble upon God.

Inherent Value

Poet: I got a steal of a deal on turkey today! I’m unreasonably happy right now.

Accountant: So… why’s that? It’s just turkey.

P: Well, someone dropped one of those shrink-wrapped breasts on the floor, and it had already been opened, so their policy was that they had to toss it.

A: Let me guess, you–

P: Yup, got it for free! Gino was working behind the counter today and came out back on his break to “dispose of it,” i.e. let his buddy have an ample supply of salty fowl meat.”

A: Gross.

P: I didn’t see it fall, but Gino said it got picked up in about a second, and the floor was pretty clean at the time.

A: Pretty clean?

P: Come on dude, I get floor food all the time and yet never get sick. Coincidence? I think not.

A: Well… you might be onto something there, but you’ll have to walk that tightrope without me.

P: How very cryptic, yet obvious. Did you think I was going to try to share this miraculous bird boob with you? Fat chance, señorita.

A: Señorita?

P: Yeah, I’ve been starting to call white cisgender males señorita lately, to get them to question their binary perception of sexual and social roles (unless they already think about these things, in which case they’re cool with it anyway).

A: Good to know.

P: Back to the point at hand: you were insinuating that it’s only a matter of time before I ingest a floorbound grape and contract some horrific illness. Sometimes I wonder why it is that you actively root for my destruction.

A: Geez! Where did you get all that from?

P: Tonality, body language, eye movement, the usual.

A: Well it’s not true, dude! You really take things too far sometimes.

P: Yeah, whatever. That’s what they all say. All those… “people.”

A: People, sheeple, I know where this rant is going.

P: Fine, then let me localize my argument to this room and the mind straddling the body in my vicinity at the moment. I have been observing for some time that you repress your instinctual side, and the passive-aggressive comments you make on a fairly regular basis are vessels for your packing-up of creative frustration. You lob them–like grapefruits–right down the pipe and I hit tape-measure blasts from time to time, depending on my energy level at the particular moment of said pitch. My diagnosis: Boredom-itis. Prescription: Weed and painting classes.

A: Ooh, ow. Oh yeah, you really pegged me, you bedraggled son of a gun, you.

P: Glad you at least acknowledged it this time.

Sticklers

Sticklers twist stomachs with unbending adherence to arbitrary rules. Most common among those: never eat cheese on a Wednesday morning, always bring a spare umbrella during a hailstorm, only taste cake frosting with the pinky finger of your dominant hand, and if you’re ambidextrous, pick the hand that has more positive connotations in your life. The further down the list you go, the more detailed the rules get. Sticklers especially appreciate the needlessly-complicated ones, as they get a chance to memorize line after line of text from the Tome of Troublesome Tricks that Tame the Tummy.

Passing the Time

Ignoring me is always a sound strategy, I’ve found–if you’re an adult chimpanzee, that is. The less taken with me you happen to be, the more likely I won’t be mauled to death. If I end up not being extinguished by senseless violence, I can only imagine the possibilities for passing the time until a natural expiration occurs. I could hang glide over the Grand Canyon, climb George Washington’s nose, swim to the Statue of Liberty or really just do anything I want, whether or not it involves an American landmark. Many people would refer to such a string of accomplishments as a bucket list; I prefer to think of it as a superfluous sequence of events that denotes my extreme privilege in this world.

On the Hill

Kippers make Kipling seem somewhat soft, though I rarely worry about such judgments in the wake of our darling petri dish disposal repairman’s birthday. It just wouldn’t seem fair to rob our poor dentist’s cousin of his day in the spotlight; his daughter just graduated from college last week and he needs to figure out how she’s supposed to make a living in this city. From observing her through the years, it’s clear that she won’t be following him into the family business–and he’s just fine with that. He’s also fine with keeping a roof over her head, but hopes she has plans of leaving the nest. His inner philosopher has been craving some peace of mind and thinking space for years as he couldn’t help but notice her stumbles and bumbles through school.

Our beloved petri dish disposal repairman will be quite surprised–even baffled–next Tuesday after work; his spousetess with the mousetest, herself a successful clinical psychologist’s psychologist, has put together a shindig with a guest list of the most prominent thinkers in a four-neighborhood radius, in hopes of inspiring questions that will invigorate the remainder of his life. If he’s wise, he’ll cooperate with her plan–she always makes the best plans.