Vera Post

 

Vera, rockin' the Club Downunder. 

(http://www.myspace.com/wearevera)

And, yes, I am pimping my son's band. Deal with it. 

In fact, here's another picture of the awesome drummer:

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Friday Feature

Daily Detritus ended up being offered only once this week so I may have to start calling it (Not Quite) Daily Detritus from now on. It shall return! I don't want all those fans to have yet another disappointing week (at least because of me!). Stay tuned...

For today, I direct you to a strip from Christian Man & Dogma. Enjoy this and leave a comment if it hits home...

Click HERE.

Daily Detritus: Day Thirteen

The huddle of humans gathered near the large oak tree, located on the east side of the building. Their smoke break was allowed but regimented, exactly fifteen minutes, so the conversation was minimal between puffs and drags. Joey mindlessly toed a pile of leaves near the base of the tree, hoping to get two cigarettes in before having to head back to his cubicle. His boot nudged something hard and he pushed away the leaves to discover the rear of a small, blue, toy car sticking out of the dirt. He leaned down, grabbed it and pushed it side to side until it was free.

He held it up, brushed off the excess dirt and flipped open the driver’s side door with his thumb.

“A Gran Torino.”

Joey looked over at Peggy, surprised at her knowledge. “How do you know that?”

“I used to own one, back in the day.” She chuckled and held her hand out, wordlessly asking to get a closer look at the car. Joey gave it to her and asked, “How long did you have it?”

“A couple of years.” She held the toy with two fingers and turned it, inspecting all sides as she pulled a draw on her cigarette. “I wrecked it.”

Joey waited a few seconds for an explanation but grew impatient. “So what happened?”

Peggy rubbed her cigarette into the sand in the large concrete ash tray, looked at Joey and said, “Now that’s a funny story...”

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Daily Detritus: Day Twelve

Sal was late. Very late. And he could not have picked a worse morning to be late, even if he had sat down and given deep thought to options for a worst morning to be late. “This is bad, so bad.”

He was race walking, dodging others on the sidewalk, pirouetting, wishing for teleportation powers, cursing all of humanity that stood between him and the interview. “Excuse me.... sorry... excuse me...” So many people, all of them obstacles. This city had way too many occupants. “Excuse me..”

“Three more blocks, three more blocks...” Counting down the distance did not help, at least that he could tell—his mind didn’t really need something else to dwell on—but he kept repeating his progress, unable to stop. The apologies to his fellow citizens were rolling out unconsciously with no meaning attached. “Sorry... pardon me...”

“Two more blocks, two more blocks, two more blocks...” He was not sure how he was going to explain his tardiness but he had a few things going for him in the interview. He knew someone in the firm and they had provided a generous reference to Human Resources. That had helped him get the coveted face-to-face with the managing partner. The other chit in his favor was he looked good. His suit was impeccable, his shoes shined and his hair had come together that morning as never before. The cool morning was working in his favor, keeping the sweat to a minimum and his do in place.

“One block to go, one block to go...” And he was there, standing at the front door, taking a moment to gather himself mentally and check his reflection in the mirrored door before stepping into the lobby. “You can do this,” he informed himself. “Deep breath. Clear head.”

It was a little sound, a short “pop” that normally would not have penetrated his conscious, but for some reason it did. He turned, a confused look on his face, trying to figure out why he had gotten distracted. There was no one behind him, at least no one standing still, and there was nothing out of the ordinary that should have caused the interference in his psyche. As he turned to enter the building he glanced down. And he stopped. And he almost cried.

A jagged line of red goo was splashed across his left pants leg. He quickly looked back and saw the ketchup packet on the sidewalk, empty, dirty and mocking. “You’re late,” it said. “One door to go, one door to go...”

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Daily Detritus: Day Eleven

“—and then we will talk to a woman who takes care of over 70 cats—”

“—just try and use your old paper towels to clean up this mess—”

“—Williams for the three... and it’s good and that gives the—”

Tweeeeeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jillian turned up the volume on the television to try and drown out the whistle sounds coming from upstairs.

“—and see this right here? This is a load bearing wall and it is improperly—”

Tweeeeeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet.

“That old bat is going to drive me nuts with that stupid whistle! Whose idea was that anyway?” Jillian knew the answer. She was the one who came up with the clever plan to give her grandmother the whistle so she could signal her when she needed something. What Jillian never imagined was that her grandmother would need something every five minutes and that the house would end up sounding like a basketball game.

She sat for a few minutes, hoping that her grandmother would give up but she knew that was not going to transpire. It never did.

Tweeeeeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet.

Jillian shut off the television and hoisted herself up from her chair. “How much longer is she going to hang on?” she wondered. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

As she walked up the stairs an idea began forming. With each step it gained clarity and made more sense. When she arrived at the top landing she knew it could work. But did she have the guts to follow through?

Tweeeeeeeeeet.

“I’m coming, Gran.” Yes, she did.


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Daily Detritus: Day Ten

Monica closed her bedroom door and slowly, quietly, slid the lock in place. She turned, leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. It had been an awful day and she needed a few minutes to collect herself before dinner. She inhaled a lung filling amount of air, held it for the count of twenty and then slowly let it escape her pursed lips. The tears followed.

She wiped her eyes and walked to her bed, sat down and opened the drawer of her night stand. Monica cherished the small book. It was the one place she could be honest and unashamed with no fear of reprisal. She fumbled with the tiny lock, using a finger nail to spin the three numbers to their proper places. With pen in hand she opened the cover and stopped at a flash of pink on the front page. It was a small note stuck in the middle of the inside front cover and her breathing went shallow knowing she had not left it there.

The note was written hastily, but legible, and it stated, “You should be ashamed of yourself. And you will be. Go to www.monicasdiary.com to see what everyone else is reading.”

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Daily Detritus: Day Nine

Pam’s mother walked to the pantry and, after a few seconds of rummaging around, pulled together a startling potpourri of snacks. Most were bags of chips, crackers and nuts with very little content, just enough to keep them around.

“Mom, do you ever throw anything away?”

“Sure I do, when the bags get empty.” She deposited the pile on the kitchen counter and began sorting. “Why would I do it any sooner? That would be wasteful.”

Pam could only shake her head in recognition. She was so much like her mom that the answer to her previous question was actually redundant. She sat quietly as her mom unclipped bags and emptied their contents on a platter, creating a dry, dusty, stale appetizer assortment, supposedly for her to enjoy.

“Come sit at the table with me. Those chairs at the bar are too uncomfortable.” Her mom placed the platter between them, sat and lifted her wine glass in a toast. “To survival. To family. To friends.”

She took a small sip, set the glass down and looked Pam in the eyes and asked, “Now, what’s up?”

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Daily Detritus: Day Eight

“Good grief it's loud in here.” Cliff looked around, the club swimming with folks trying to engage by talking, yelling, over the sound system. “No way you can hook up with this noise.”

He turned back to the bar, grateful he had secured a stool but also despondent by the knowledge he had been hanging out at the bar since it opened. He took a pull on his beer and set the bottle down, careful to place it directly on the water ring it had formed.

“Hey.” He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned slowly, not wanting to seem eager to fight or converse, whichever was next. His eyes met the soft stare of Nicole Blanton, former friend, former human.

“Nicole?”

She leaned in so he could her her say, “Yep.” She just smiled, her face or voice offering nothing else.

“But, you died!” Cliff was trying to process through the beer haze but his mind was not currently a well oiled machine.

“Did I?” And she laughed.

“Well, yeah... I mean, I went to your funeral!”

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