The full story of Dan up to this point.
Dan buys a dog from an unexpected source
Dan struggles with a midlife crisis at 28
Dan goes on a blind date part 1
Dan goes on a blind date part 2
Dan tells the story of Whistling Pete part 1
Dan tells the story of Whistling Pete part 2
Dan’s thoughts on his way to work: March 17th
Paranoia wears a suit of crimson.
He walks down the hallway of my brain,
Shoes of steal clicking against my skull.
He takes pictures of my past, present, and future;
Warps them with shadows, all nothingness in the end
But somethingness for the time being.
I tried paying off Paranoia with peace but
He wanted compassion and love as well, but
I don’t negotiate with terrorists of the soul. So,
I left peace on the bargaining table,
Smoothed my palms acrossed the slick surface.
Paranoia has yet to reply to my offer.
I noticed that I had to move my belt out one notch today. I noticed, too, the bill for Gold’s Gym that lie screaming on my kitchen table. I noticed in my pantry I have more snickers than necessary to crave temporary hunger. Tomorrow’s my 28th birthday and I am already going through a midlife crisis…Shit!
I haven’t achieved a house with 2 kids and a wife and a white picket fence. All I have is a dog I bought from a homeless man, a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best, and a set of tax form paper cuts littered like mosquito bites on my hands. I must also have a Coor’s Lite baby gestating in my belly from all that venting Plutoed and I have done lately. I wonder who will pay child support on the Beer baby? Me or coors? I have to carry the burden around. I should bill them for my gym membership, send an invoice straight to their headquarters in Colorado. I will show them how to taste the fucking Rockies with an aftertaste of bitterness from the check they have to write me every month to support my Coors baby.
Too bad I won’t be able to claim my Coors baby on my taxes. Maybe I will see if there is a loophole where I can get a tax deduction for making a donation to the Sammy Wismon Foundation for Drug Deprived Bums. Always worth a shot. Right Plutoed?
Damn straight, Dan. Go get you some more money so you can keep buying me this quality Iams with carrots and beef and shit.
You’re good company, Plutoed. You know that right? Real snobbish good for nothing company.
Better company than those late nights you spend with Craigslist blowing money on anything from car covers to authentic Irish bag pipes. You fill your life with worthless QVC shit.
I thought I was going to make it to the gym tonight to combat against my spawning waist. I thought I was going to be excited for turning 28 tomorrow. Dave set me up with some chick for a date. I almost forgot. Shit. What’s that girls name again? Beth. No. Brianne. No. Shit. Why can’t I remember that shit that actually matters? Why haven’t I been working on my chiseled physique? Probably because I don’t have one. I better wow her with my personality and interesting work and social life. That will for sure do the trick as she falls on top of me, arms flailing in infatuation.
Better go to bed to get my beastly rest.
Good night, Plutoed.
Good night, Dan. Don’t dream too hard. Real life isn’t all that bad. You got me after all.
I decided to name the dog Plutoed. You may think: did you mean Pluto? I most certainly did not. As many of you know, in 2007, the planet Pluto got demoted from Planet status, sent to the realm of Planetoids. In the same year, the word Plutoed got coined, meaning to be demoted. I thought this to be a fitting name for a dog who once belonged to rich family and had fallen into the hands of a homeless man.
Over the past week, I have connected with Plutoed, his talking presence keeping me company. He internalizes his emotions and walks most of the time with his tail motionless like a white tick on his butt. Dan why you keep looking at my butt dude? You gay or something? Did I mention that he also delivers lines with a brute brashness? He has “opened up” to me. I listen to his thoughts, grappling and molding them like clay in my hands. I’ve learned that his mother grew up in a barn in Missouri and that his father grew up a prized show dog in New York. Plutoed’s enjoys a meal of fillet steak bathed in original A1 sauce. He prefers to stick with the classics like Cool Hand Luke and Rebel Without a Cause. Dan, the brilliance of Paul Newman’s performance stuns me everytime. I appreciate the Christian allegorical elements of the plot and story. With James Dean, he defines an era that intrigues me, an era of brut honesty and stark, simple sex appeal.
What a wealth of intellignce for 5 dollars. A mercurial efficiency of the mind. Dan, can we chase squirrels in the park today? With an edge of playfullness not found in most men. Plutoed, we can run after squirrels, bears, lions, even Venus in the sky. We can chase whatever you want to chase until our feet burn with the embers of the earth.
Some days you wonder why the wind blows and the skies cry? but not me, I know it all has its reasons for presenting disorder and creating motion.
I met a guy today with the last name O. How sweet is that, his last name was a letter.
March 6th marks my 22nd Birthday.
Dan goes on a blind date Part 1
“Hello, Britney?” The words travel through the rain, muddling their volume. “Britney. I’m Dave’s…erm..Friend, Dan.” Her body moves like a jaguar beneath her clothes. The black dress moving in sync with each of her body’s movements. “Nice to meet you Dan. This weather is absolutely awful. I hate the rain.” “Well then let’s get out of this crap and go inside.” Her eyes meet mine, seeming as if she appreciates my bluntness. Britney’s hair falls onto her shoulder like twists of rusty ribbons. How did Dave work this out? He must have paid her or bribed her, maybe blackmailed her. I can’t really guess. What the hell though, she is here with me right now and she hasn’t run away yet.
I would hold the door open, but it’s one of the turn style ones. I awkwardly wait for her to approach the entrance to the restaurant, waiting my turn to push through to the other side.
The lack of lighting creates a mood of sophistication, not exactly romance. A picture of pink martinis hangs above the bar, the olives dancing above the rims of the glasses. The leopard print carpet’s a sad attempt at exoticism. With Britney at my side, I approach the hostess table with a new found ease.
“Reservation for dos…Dan Stillman.”
“We don’t have a reservation by anyone under that name, sir.”
I look straight at the ceiling covered in faux copper tiles. The world seems to melt on top of me, copper rain drops falling from the sky.
“Well Fuck that. So much for making a reservation last week…Hey, Britney, want to hit up my place for frozen pizza and a bottle of cheap chiraz?”
“Throw in The Goonies and that is my idea of a perfect date.”
I push of the copper rain drops from my jacket and embrace for the storm outside. We push through the side door that reads “Use revolving door please” and dart out into the night, Britney’s red heels mocking the oil colored black top, my tie blowing over my right shoulder, the rain drops kissing every inch of our bodies.
Should I have drank that Baileys with my coffee this morning? Should I have followed that up with three Guinness and a pint of Beamish?
I really shouldn’t have had that corned beef for breakfast with the cabbage. I hope I don’t rip ass in that meeting later with my client for Kellogs.
Did that girl look at me? I looked at her. No, she didn’t look at me. Maybe her friend looked at me?
I like Crocs. Why do they always get such a bad rap? They are A)Cheap at $30 a pop B) Made out of material that you could eat and C) Multifunctional…one second they are a slipper…nope now they are a summer sandal.
Why did St. Patrick wear that ridiculous hat?
Why can’t I find a freakin’ four leaf clover? Luck of the Irish my ass.
The security guard always has a smirk on his face like he forgot something and can never quite remember what it is.
Cindy, looking good today with that pencil skirt and red high heels. You make coming to work worth it some days.
Hello desk. Hello papers. Hello friends. Hello day filled with ink smudged hands, glances out the window at the identical building across the street, daydreaming about nothing at all. By the end of the day, all I will want in my hand will be an Irish Carbomb and maybe some of my dignity.
St. Francis talking to a bird in Boston, Mass.
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