Weaving Through the Hair on a Polar Bear’s Backside


I throw on my sunglasses, walking beside Hank, Will and Simon as they carry on a conversation about Moby Dick. Why they would be talking about Moby-Dick at eight-thirty-in-the -morning God only knows. Then again, none of us believe in God, so I suppose no one will ever know.

There is a cafe with outdoor tables on the sidewalk of the main road and we all sit.

“Cafe con Leche”

“Cafe con Leche”

He gets to me.

“Una Cerveza y Agua”

then Hank

“Cafe con Jameson.”

The waiter stops writing and looks at Hank .


Hank holds up both hands, one holding an imaginary coffee cup, one a bottle.

“Cafe” He shakes the hand holding the cup.


“Jam-e-son.” He pours the imaginary whiskey into the imaginary cup and takes a sip. The waiter walks away.

Will has stopped paying attention and is writing something on a napkin.

“What are you writing?”

He looks up at me. Hesitates.

“A–uh a love letter.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you writing a love letter.”

“Because I’m in love.”

“Oh Christ, just elaborate.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I want to know.”


The waiter interrupts us with a tray of clinking cups. He places my beer on the table and hands around the coffee, one con Jameson. I turn back to Will–


“Fine. It’s a girl I met through the internet. We have been writing back and forth to each other for two years now. The day before I left to come to Spain she visited me and we walked along the train tracks and spent the whole day together. It was the best day of– What?– God what?” I feel my face giving a sarcastic expression and immediately correct it.

“Nothing, keep going.”

“That’s it, we had that one day and now I am waiting for her.”

“So… what you’re saying is you have been loyal to this girl for two years and you’ve met her once.”


The sarcastic expression is back.

“Will– I don’t believe in you.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me! I–”

“NO– Will, I don’t believe in you. I do not believe you exist. I’m serious Will, you are not a real person.”

“Oh? everyone is unique and different, not everyone has to be like you.”

“Wrong! people are not different. Mankind is just a six billion piece puzzle of a polar bears ass scattered over uneven ground. We might be shaped a bit different but essentially we have all the same qualities that mold us.”

“And what are those?”

“The need to eat then poop, sex if you’re lucky, the need for tribal validation, self-loathing, and hypocrisy! You don’t exhibit any of those things. I have yet to see proof you even shit! For all I know you walk around with a belly full of pearls and piss sunshine. It’s annoying.”

“I’m sorry my perfection annoys you.”

Hank is looking at me, confused. Will is back writing his love letter and Simon is looking into his coffee, ruminating.

“What Hank ?” I ask.

“Have you ever seen a Polar Bear’s ass?”

“No Hank . I assume it is all white, that was the point I was making.”

“But, wait, no, there is a giant asshole right in the middle of it.”

“The tail covers the asshole.”

Simon looks up.

“Actually no it doesn’t, they have bunny tails.”

I sigh. “Well, shit, then.”

Hank holds up a hand. “No, no, it still kind of fits.”

“How does it fit Hank? My whole metaphor is lost– and it wasn’t even a good one to begin with.”

“Well I think this is a better metaphor. The vast majority of people lay in the hairy white rump of the ass, but based on how moral or immoral a person is, they get closer and closer to the thicket surrounding the asshole. It is like the circles of hell. And right at the precipice of the anal cavity are people like Hitler and Stalin, and at the outer rim of the ass are people like Will.”

“I am the sunshine peaking over the edge of the ass,” Will says, without looking up.

I light a cigarette and finish my beer. Consider a rebut and instead look at Hank .

“That actually makes a good amount of sense.”

Will puts his pen down and looks up at me.

“You JUST said that people are like blank puzzle pieces and now you’re saying they are  different parts of a polar bear’s asshole.”



“Will what was the last thing I said makes up a person?”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“HYPOCRISY! We need our convictions to really learn anything and our hypocrisy to grow. See? I am growing.”

“You’re insane.”

“And you, are a hypocrite and I’ll prove it!”

“How are you planning to do that?”

I point my cigarette at him.

“I don’t fucking know.”

The waiter circles close, turns, and walks back into the cafe.


The Meaning of Life on the Inside of a Dark Chocolate Wrapper



**A friend asked me if I ever write erotica. I said no, but decided to give it my best shot anyways…

Samantha sat over a cup of soft coffee, pondering the meaning of life; there were charts, tables, graphs, quotes, poems, and even the wrapper for a bar of dark chocolate.

Samantha sighed. She turned. A man stood in her door. Half of her breath took a walk.

He was big in every way you want a man to be big, and not in any way you don’t. His name was Steve, because sometimes big guys are named Steve.

“I’m Steve,” Steve said, his voice sounding and resounding as the Liberty Bell might have.

“…” Samantha said.

Steve smiled; it was the first and last smile ever created by God–the rest were made in China. Steve stepped forward, he wore only pants and oil. Samantha could feel his heat before he was half-way to her.

“Wha–” she began. But Steve’s smile ate the rest of her words. He bent down and picked her up in one arm. Samantha pressed a hand into his chest; it reminded her of the first time she touched a horse. His heart beat–hers ran.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Steve kissed her neck.

“For what,” he whispered to every cell in her body. Samantha took a breath. “I need to know the meaning of life first,” she managed. Steve understood, because just as some men named Steve are big, some big men are understanding.

Steve placed Samantha down.

They both turned to the charts, tables, poems and quotes. Steve reached out and ran his finger over the wrapper of dark chocolate. Then, from somewhere Samantha would find out about later, Steve pulled a pair of glasses.

As it turned out, Steve was a genius, because just as some men are understanding, some understanding men are also geniuses.

Within ten-minutes Samantha and Steve discovered the meaning of life. Then, without waiting to say it aloud, Samantha took off Steve’s pants. When she did, she was startled by a childhood memory; her and her friend Helen had found a thick log by the river. They had dragged it out into the current and laid on it, drifting along with the sun; it was big enough to keep them both afloat.

Samantha smiled, it was a good memory.

Then, with one small finger, two teeth and a tongue, Steve removed Samantha’s clothes. He held her close.

“Put your sexy mouth on my mouth,” he cooed–the most manly of coos.

And, of course, Samantha did.


What Jerry Had to Say About the Meaning of Life


My boss walks into the teacher’s room.

“Essay day!” she calls. All the teachers, myself included, groan. She puts a fat stack of hot paper on the communal desk. My first class is a pile of pimples, pit-hair and angst.

Middle school is the worst, I think, taking a mirror from the girl in the front row as I walk in. I pull out the attendance sheet, I look up. The same girl has a new mirror out, bigger, white. I stare at her, mouth open. She rolls her eyes and stuffs it in her bag.

I look around at the sleepy mess of stressed out, pale teenagers. There are no windows.

“Essay day!” I cry, holding up a stack of papers. All the students groan. I look down at the header of the essay. I sigh.

“What gives your life meaning?” I whisper it to myself, groan, and repeat it to the class. They don’t respond, so, I hand the stack to a boy in the front row. He hands them out.

For the next ten minutes I stand at the front of the class, watching, sweating, occasionally itching. Finally, I can’t take it, I walk around.

Each paper I pass I see the same things:

Family, friends, my phone, family, friends, my phone…

One of the students actually managed to misspell phone. I stop and point at it. He looks up at me.

“Ph-oh-ne,” I mouth. He frowns. I shake my head and move on. In the back, I see Jerry. He is smaller than the rest. No hair above his lip, no pimples. He has big old glasses and a blank stare. His pencil is down. I cross my arms.

“Finished, Jerry?”

I can feel the other students turn, eager to watch me reprimand Jerry. Jerry just nods. He turns the paper. I pick it up. There is one sentence written. His handwriting is awful. I look closer.

“Life is meaningless because you can’t fold a piece of paper more than eighth times.”

I read it again. I look back at the class. They quickly turn back to their work. I place Jerry’s essay back on his desk. I take out my pen. He watches me, emotionless. At the top of the page I write–big and red.


He frowns at it. He looks up at me. I shrug.

“Eight, not eighth,” I remind him.

A Giant Floating Ball of Dicks


It’s late. I watch my friends argue. It is a cool night, a bit wet; windows wide. I consider killing myself in the morning.

“He’s a Dick,” L insists, lighting a joint.

B shrugs, “Everyone is a dick in one way or another”

L nods taking a long hit. He looks up at the ceiling, blows. The smoke pools, listens a moment, rolls it’s eyes and leaves.

L watches it go. He frowns. “Do you think that means if Buddhism is right and we are all god that god is just a giant floating ball of dicks?” He passes me the joint, aggressively.

B is glaring at L. “Where the hell did you learn about Buddhism?” he cries.

“In philosophy class,” L shrugs.

I take a hit of the joint. I cough and gag.

“Oh! philosophy is bullshit,” B snaps.

L hits his hand on the table. “Philosophy is the study of life!” he proclaims.

“That’s damn absurd, absurd, absurd,” B insists.

I watch L settle his hand on the table. He taps with two fingers, calming himself. “Life is absurd,” he decides, looking a bit sad.

“No, life has meaning,” B points out, finding his way back to the joint.

L frowns, “being absurd doesn’t mean something is meaningless, just silly.”

“Right,” B nods, “philosophy is silly, life is silly, it’s all silly. A giant floating ball of dicks.”

That settles it; they are silent. B closes his eyes, bobbing his head to the smell of tires tearing through wet asphalt outside.

L is nodding, “a giant floating ball of dicks,” he whispers, then smiles, knowingly.

I look from B, to L. They are perfectly at peace. I look to the joint burning a hole in the placemat. I pick it up, take a hit.

I cough and gag.

“I’m going to bed.”