Points in Case

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Passages from My Nine-Year-Old’s Journal That Prove He’s Possessed by Walt Whitman’s Ghost Posted: 31 May 2021 05:00 AM PDT With my underwear engirthing my head and sunshine on my naked bum, I speak my truth to the ladies gathered for Mother's Rotary Club, as I always do. Again I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake. "Please do not parade through my meetings naked again," my mother reproaches me. It's almost as if she forgets that I stand up for the unbridled and native! O' empty day in the bore of my classroom. Today Miss Woolley asked me to remove my hat, and I reminded her that I will wear it as I please. I resume my usual position in the time-out chair. The blueberry muffin in my hand, possessing of sweet fruit. There will never be any more perfection than this, or more lusty an eater than I. My mother says I eat like an animal. For my turn, I think I could live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. Today Mrs. Wooley asked why I was drawing animals on my worksheets again. The question, O me! so sad, recurring. I let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, the book unopened, and watch Mrs. Wooley's face shrivel like a wilted plum. If I gaze long enough she resembles a hedgehog, and I like her more. Mum says I must cease disrupting her Rotary Club meetings with my soliloquies in third person. What am I, after all, but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own name? Repeating it over and over; I stand apart to hear—it never tires me. Today Mrs. Wooley asked me to solve for the number of autumnal apples. The fruit is not ripe and red from the orchard, but waxed and laced with chemical. She insults my soul. I recall that unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved, none ever after-ward resumes its liberty. So to my teacher I replied: "Resist much, obey little!" Now I'm forbidden to play with the hypnotic rectangle that commands my thoughts. Today I kept my face towards the sunshine, habited myself to the dirt, and bequeathed myself to the grass I love. My pants are soiled and my face surrender'd to the mud. Mother thinks I'm asleep now, ha! How can I sleep when I sing the body electric? I will slumber no more, but arise the oceans within me. My teacher is a sordid, pugnacious toe. When Mrs. Wooley summoned us to put on outdoor gear and resume our place in line, I announced "Let the school stand! Mind not the cry of the teacher!" Then I let loose the eddy of warm, pungent wind from between my legs. Everyone laughed, and now I must scrub all the lavatory commodes until the end of the year. I despise her very marrow. I loafe in my classroom, witness and wait for the detonation of the whoopee cushion I have hidden in my teacher's chair. Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, I wait both in and out of the game, watching and wondering at it. Soon from under Mrs. Wooley's derriere, it sighs and groans, a pale echo of nature's trumpet. My mother was not happy to learn I was suspended from school for the entire year. Maybe I'll cheer her with some performance art and sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. My poor, plodding mother, she has so little appreciation for whimsy. However, it gave the neighboring children great joy to watch my wolf-devouring-hare impersonation from the top of my house. Next perhaps I shall be a rabid raccoon. I too am not a bit tamed.

A One-Sided Conversation at a Grill That You Didn’t Start and Can’t Get Out Of Posted: 30 May 2021 08:00 AM PDT Hey bud. What is that, a Weber? Duraflame? Eveready? Smokey Mountain? Coleman? Broil King? Char-Griller? Char-Broil? BroilMate? Big Green Egg? Oh, it's a Cleveland Browns-brand grill. Cool, cool. That's… Mind if I hang out? Great. Nothing like a warm day of grilling. That's what I always say. What are we eating today? Chicken, you have to be careful with chicken. Gas grill? The charcoal taste makes all the difference. If you ask me. I'm going to take a beer. Man. Beeeeautiful. Nothing like a nice day– Flip that. That's done. It's burnt. What's that? Really, it's a charcoal grill? Shit, no. Can't believe I didn't notice it. Must be because your coals are dying. They're all grayed-out. Cool, man. I'm glad for you. Flip that. You know it's not technically barbecue if you don't smoke it low and slow in the sub-250 degree range. You're technically grilling right now. Yeah, sure, I'll watch everything for you. … I squeezed down all your burgers because they were looking pretty thick. I squeezed all the juices into the patty. They should be nice and charred. See those? Perfect. Did you clean the grates? Because I think everything's sticking. Well, who knows then. I think the goal is to have the meat cooked on the outside but not raw on the inside. The USDA—Flip that—recommends I think an internal temperature of 213 Fahrenheit. That's one above boiling, so that means it must be OK. Where's your meat thermometer? Shit, I should've brought mine. It's a Thermapen Waterproof Instant-Read. It's $90. Not sure you want to serve any of this if you can't be sure there's no salmonella. There's kids here, man. No that's actually a myth. You can get lighter fluid on salmon. You can still eat it. Woah! Hold on there! You can't just throw charcoal onto the other charcoals! No, no, no. Let me. First you put the coals in the freezer. Frozen things heat up faster. Then you light them with a match lit by the sun. Then, once they're lit, bro, you put them on the other charcoal. You've got to put like charcoals with like charcoals. Mind if I smoke a cigar? This is a fuckin' bitchin' 3rd birthday party for Eric. HAPPY BIRTHDAY ERIC! Flip that. Sorry, my hands are full. Oh, oh, do you have a knife? Cut into that hamburger bun to check it. I think it's done. I think that can get to 225. Wait a sec. You can pop that bad boy right onto my plate. There you go. Thank you sir. Yeah, it's dry. That's okay, I'll give it to the dog. If you want me to just take over, I don't mind. What do you do? Oh man, egghead. Me? I'm working on a biography of renowned Irish translator and poet Seamus Heaney. You probably never heard of him. That guy was a BAMF. I'll just stand back and be your Mr. Miyagi. Flip that. It's ruined. Don't open the lid so much. Your grill's cold, man. Close the lid. Crank open those vents. There you go. I should go mingle, but I won't. Uh oh. See that would've worked on my grill. No, no. Leave the hot dog on. That's gotta get to 451 Fahrenheit I think I remember. Because the nitrates have to cook out into antioxidants. Oh, good question. Mine's a George Foreman. Yeah, but like a big one.

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