The Finest Monster

If I were a monster my mouth would be square.

My fangs would ooze, and my claws would shimmer.

One look from my eyes would make the Sasquatch shiver.

My tongue would splinter and spew darts at invaders.

My four arms would stretch and tear through crusaders.

My belly would swell to engulf tasty morsels.

And by that I mean all of you delicious mortals.

If I were a monster my skin would be fuchsia.

Because when I finish my work, gorging on flesh, I consider myself an artiste, with a taste for the finer.

The First Day of the Rest of My Life and I'm Drinking Bitter Coffee

The alarm sounded. I slothfully rolled over my wife and flopped a finger on the clock. The snooze button is fat. Statistics say I'll hit it.

I put my head on the pillow and closed my eyes. I'm not sure they were ever open.

The alarm again. 8 p.m. Is it that late? Heaving my sleep-heavy self across the bed, under a thick comforter, takes more effort. Flailing, my fingers smack the ridges on that oval button. Snoozing again.

When I finally went to the shower the clouds outside were already leaking. But I didn't know this. The shades, the kind that roll up and down, were blocking my view.

Coffee for breakfast. An apple in my pocket for later. Time for work. What a lousy Saturday.

During the 20-minute commute I pass the billboard for the adult superstore, the Intimate Treasures shop, the Naughty Girls night club and the car dealership with a bright yellow smart car. It's sad if I let myself think about it.

I covered a holiday parade. 'Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the town, the people were hustling, while rain, and not yet snow, fell down.

An hour and a half later, when Santa Claus had passed, heading southbound on Main Street, and the crowds dissipated leaving a spread of candy on the gutters, I strolled back to the office with damp feet and a soggy note pad.

But I left my key to the building at home. And my cell phone. Poop.

The distribution shed was open. Piles of newspaper. Dim lights. Puddles in the nearly vacant parking lot where my car sleeps with a leaf or two stuck in the windshield wipers.

Thankfully someone can let me into the Northwestern where I drink more coffee and upload a photo gallery to the Web with a Macintosh computer that runs a little too slow.

2:30 p.m. - I go home. The landlord is raking wet leaves in his front lawn. He wears a tight black hat folded above his ears and a black shirt so he resembles a bank robber. I hesitate on the doorstep to wave should he turns toward me. But he doesn't, so I go inside and take my soaked shoes off next to the couch.

Now I'm back at the office five hours later listening to chatter over the police scanner about an unconscious person at the bar, his head on the counter, and another officer pursuing a welfare check on a possible drunk man sauntering in the 600 block of West Fourth Street.

And I am drinking bitter coffee thinned with non-dairy creamer.

The elected

It's been a long time since I've caressed my blog with my brain power. Now, at 9:30 p.m. on a Friday night, as I listen to a spastic police scanner from the Northwestern's newsroom, sounds as a good a time as any.

My caffeinated reflections tonight hover around our new president elect, with no particular order discernible.

My managing editor announced today a dire ailment in our spell checking software: the computer tries to correct Obama as "Osama."

A high school social studies teacher told me from his desk chair by a curtainless window that historically, voter turnout is highest when people are unhappy. The turnout out set records this year.

What does this newspaper's front page say about the industry I work in? What does it say about our country? ....

An article posted today by the Associated Press on Obama's first press conference since the election said: "Obama also left the door open to the possibility economic conditions might prompt him to change his tax plan that would give a break to most families but raise taxes on those making more than $250,000 annually."

The article also said Obama's "family is looking for a dog that will not trigger his daughter Malia’s allergies. Ideally, he said it would come from an animal rescue shelter, but 'obviously, a lot of shelter dogs are mutts like me.'"

On election night, I watched a pastor drink Coor's Light at a political rally, listened to a man in his 50's solicit money for Damion Maynard (who is walking across the country in honor of U.S. soldiars) and looked at pictures of Obama supporters cry, hug and party.

And, after all was said and done, I figured out how to turn down the volume on my blue tooth ear piece.