Time: 6:07

Current Popular Vote:

     Kerry: 0%

     Bush:   0%

     Nader: 0%

Current Electoral Vote:

    Kerry:  0

     Bush:  0

    Nader: 0

Nader is tied for the lead!

It happened again, and again, and again.

Pay a quarter, throw a ball, miss a clown.  Pay a quarter, throw a ball, miss a clown.

“Julian, we’ve been here all night!” said the woman with the lop-sided coaster on her head, “You’re never going to knock those things over.”

“Don’t be so dramatic Angela; it’s only been fifteen minutes,” replied the young man with the corduroy coat, “and besides, I’m bound to hit one sooner or later; it’s probability.”

            The man without a cardigan, who was, nonetheless, able to pull off his mustache in a most spectacular, if non-literal, way, had been watching this spectacle.  He approached the booth.  His name was James.  James always got the girl.

            “Mind if I have the next play?” asked James, who, despite his lack of cardigan, looked stunning, as usual.

            “Go ahead, the machine is rigged anyway,” replied Julian.

            “It isn’t even a machine,” Angela sighed, adjusting her coaster to frame her sloping brow (James noticed), “God, no wonder you always lose.”  Angela was a member of high society.  She wore coasters.  She knew fashion.

            “And,” continued Julian, ignoring Angela, “the Irishman running the booth smells like cottage cheese.”  Julian and Angela were siblings.  He hated the Irish.  He was lactose intolerant.

... I wrote this, but its missing key things like plot, structure, and coherence.  Does that mean I'm on drugs?  Not the Zoloft or the Cialis either; I'm thinking the Peyote.  I can't even remember why I wrote it, how it ends, or what I had breakfast.

I should be completing my Junior Survey right now, but in fairness, I never had a Junior College Conference and am not, therefore, going to college.  Perhaps I will join the circus and become a tumbler.

"I Love the 80's Strikes Back!" told me that in 1985 or 86, Ringling Brothers took goats, fused their horns together, called them unicorns and marketed them to the public.  The only thing I could think was, "How cruel to those poor goats, where can I buy me some sweet, sweet goat-unicorn milk."

Boy howdy, Bio class sure was boring today!  Wait a minute, I don't even take Bio.  Where the hell am I?  Shit, this third period Bio with Gonte...Gunterric...Gontaminic...that really boring lady?  Wow, I really don't want to be here.  Oh, I see.  No, I wasn't aware that you were that boring lady who teaches Bio, Ma'am.  Would I like to come in after school and learn how to spell your name?  Not especially, no.  I'm supposed to have a club meeting after school.  How's Thursday for you?  It's terrible for me; I'm having a skin cancer removed.  Actually, I'm not even coming to school for the next few months, so next week really won't work.  Why?  Oh, I guess you didn't hear, I'm starring in my own UPN TV series.  I play a spunky renegade from a straight-laced family.  It's written by Bill Cosby, and he does a couple of cameos, mostly to whip me with his belt and pull my pants up.

What a worthless update.  Maybe I need a guest-writer.  That would certainly spice things up.

He walked into the room, figure silhouetted against the pale backdrop of the computer screen, and moved towards me slowly.

He’s here most nights.  He sits at the foot of my bed, unless he gets really into something.  Then he starts moving, pacing my rug, too much nervous energy.  I think he's frustrated that all he has are words.  I'm never sure what to say when he gets here, so mostly I just listen.  He tells me a lot of things: who he was, what he liked, where he went for vacations, when he first knew.  He doesn't tell me why, though.  Mostly he just talks about her.

"She was beautiful to me," he says, "and to a lot of other people too, I guess.  I told her that once, and she just said 'thanks', like she couldn't think of anything else to say.  She always had a hard time believing it, I guess."

"Believing what?" I ask.

"That someone could love her."

I always expect him to be sorry for himself.  Love hurts, so people cry about it.  They talk to their best friends, their good friends, their pets, anyone who will listen.  They whine, complain and moan until even they're sick of hearing about it.  Then they feel embarrassed about the whole affair, so they go out and find a new love, and the cycle repeats until you get married or die.  He doesn't agree with me though.

"She never made me cry," he told me, "she just made me sad.  It was more bittersweet, like those Sour Patch Kids you get at the movies.  They're wonderful at first, deliciously sour, and you think 'this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.'  So you want more, you keep cramming them in.  Before you know it, you've had so many that your tongue feels blistered and burned.  The pain sets in, and you realize that all your candy is gone and you've gone numb.  But you can still feel that taste.  And you want it again."

"So you go get more candy," I say.  "Where's the problem?"

"Same thing just happens again."

"So what’s the point in love at all?"

"The problem is, Sour Patch Kids can't ever love you back.  With girls, there's always a chance."

He was on his way to see her when I hit him.  "Going for another pack of Sour Patch Kids" he called it.  We don't talk about it much; it always makes me cry.  I tell him I'm sorry, that I wish it had never happened, that it'd been me instead of him.  I tell him I'll go talk to her, tell her how he felt, what he wanted to tell her.

He just smiles and shakes his head, his eyes off somewhere else.  "S'all right," he says, "It was never meant to be."