Well, I just got back from my 20-year high-school reunion. Let me tell you, it was not at all what I had expected.

To begin with, nobody was how I remembered them. It was as if someone had taken each person’s skin and slid it over an entirely different body — a much larger body. But that’s OK. We all change. Our metabolism catches up with us. It’s really unavoidable. But that wasn’t the oddest part of the day.

The event coordinator thought it might be fun if we all took part in some of the old activities. So they stuffed us into several school busses and drove us down to our old high school. Of course, I ended up having to sit with my feet on the wheel well, right next to the guy who still picks his nose.

When we finally arrived at the school, I couldn’t believe how much it had changed. A 30-foot electrified fence surrounded the perimeter. Armed guards pointed their rifles down at us as we passed by. And to get in, we had to first walk through a metal detector then get frisked from head to toe by one of the security officers. Unfortunately, I had a ballpoint pen in my right front pocket. When they found it, I was tackled to the ground and dragged into a room where I was beaten with wooden rulers and interrogated for over an hour. Apparently, ballpoint pens are verboten.

About two hours later, I was able to join my former classmates at the football field. The jocks were dressed in their extra-large uniforms and were in the process of going through a few of the old plays for our amusement. On the sidelines, the cheerleaders were doing their best to perform their old cheers. And they were doing pretty well. That is, until it came time for the human pyramid. The last girl was supposed to jump off of the trampoline, do a somersault and land on top of the pyramid, feet first. Instead, she ended up crashing into the entire mass of girls and taking them all down. Still, we all applauded, and the cheerleaders who were still able to stand, got up and took a bow.

After the “football game,” we all took the long walk back to the busses. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I just walked ahead of everyone. Then I heard one of the jocks yell, “Get ‘im!” And the next thing I knew, I was running for my life.

Of course, I was just as out of shape as I was back in my youth, so it didn’t take long for everyone to catch up. After tripping me and knocking me to the ground, all the guys took turns giving me charlie horses and Indian burns. The ladies even had some fun beating me with their high-heel shoes.

After the guy who still picks his nose finished spitting on me, I wiped away the tears (and spit) and made my way back to the bus. Of course, nobody would let me sit next to them, so I ended up having to stand next to the driver.

And as I stood there watching my former classmates take turns giving me the finger, I realized just how much I missed them all. It was going to be hard not having them around to knock my hat off, to punch me in the stomach, to call me names that slightly rhymed with my real name, to throw objects at my head just to see what kind of sounds they would make, to dunk my head into the toilet until I screamed “uncle,” or to just look at me with either pity or disgust. But I’d get over it. Besides, from what I hear, they’re already planning our 25-year reunion party. Just enough time for me to heal.

My Dearest,

When I think of you, I hear music. It starts off with a soft cello, then slowly builds up to an entire symphony. Then, for some reason, there’s an electric guitar. And it’s not like I have anything against electric guitar, but it just doesn’t work with the symphony. I mean, it’s like Mr. Holland’s Opus. It was a pretty decent movie, but what the fuck was up with that electric guitar during the opus? It sounded like shit. I mean, if you’re gonna have a movie named after an opus, the opus should be fucking amazing, no? In any case, I just don’t think this is going to work out. It’s not you. It’s that goddamn electric guitar.

Fondly,

Smivey

Thought you might like to know why I haven’t written in a while. Well, I haven’t been feeling too creative these past couple weeks. That, and my life is boring.

You know what I did today? I went to the bank, got some groceries and did the laundry. Thrilling, isn’t it? After that, I spent the rest of my afternoon watching DVDs and surfing the Web. Exciting, I know.

Then, as usual, my neighbor Greta paid me a visit. She likes to drop in every week or so for tea. Greta is 98. Oh, and she often forgets to dress herself before she goes out.

Actually, I’m not sure if Greta really forgets to put clothes on every day or if she just doesn’t care anymore. Maybe she gets up in the morning and says Fuck it, I’m 98. I’m going naked. All I know is, it’s very disturbing and I really can’t take much more of it. Besides, I’m having a hard time making up excuses for why she can’t sit on my couch.

But that’s not the worst of my problems. I think some of the neighbors are starting to gossip. I mean, when a naked 98-year-old woman walks out of your door and thanks you for a lovely time, people are gonna talk. But hey, what am i supposed to do, not answer my door?

I think I’m going to have to confront her and get this all out in the open. After all, we’re both mature adults (quite an understatement for her). Maybe we can come up with some kind of compromise. For instance, she could start wearing one of those hospital gowns. Technically, it’s still clothing, but it’s open in the back, so she’d still feel that cool breeze on her rear. Honestly, I’d be happy if she just started wearing underwear.

But enough about my problems. I shouldn’t bore you with my mundane life. Then again, I can’t always be about the funny. Sometimes I just need to get some things off my chest. Kind of like my neighbor Greta, only in a less literal sense.

Anyone who’s seen me in real life can attest to the fact that I am not a conservative person. In addition to my all-black wardrobe, I’ve become quite well known for my unusual body piercings. Granted, there are plenty of people with rings in their noses like mine. That’s why I decided I needed to be different. My solution? A ten-foot pole pierced through my left shoulder.

Why a ten-foot pole? I like a challenge. I mean, when you’ve got a ten-foot pole pierced through your left shoulder, you’ve got to make a lot of adjustments. All of my shirts had to be modified. And getting into my car was quite a pain. LIterally. All I can say is, I’m glad I have a sunroof.

Most adults seem put off by the look of it. However, children like to jump up and try to hit it with their hands. One kid actually managed to get a hold of it and hung on until I passed out from the pain. When I came to, I discovered that someone had stuffed some garbage into the end of my pole. Of course, I couldn’t reach the end to pull it out. I walked around with it in there for most of the day, which really upset me. I mean, it was an eyesore. One guy said he’d help me, but then he just shoved the garbage in deeper and ran away laughing. Finally, I came across a nice young lady who had twenty-five industrial-size staples pierced through her face. She tried to reach in to pull the garbage out for me, but it was stuffed too deep inside. Then she came up with a brilliant idea: she went around behind me and blew as hard as she could on my pole. Ten minutes later, we were engaged.

In any case, I’ve gotten pretty used to having a ten-foot pole pierced through my left shoulder. Dusk, my wife, really loves it. Still, when I think about it, I don’t think it was the smartest thing I ever did. Obviously, the right shoulder would have been a better choice. That, and a longer pole.

Needless to say, the case of the Long-Distance Jumper didn’t go so well. About twenty minutes into my investigation that night, a real detective showed up and confiscated all of the cool things I had managed to put into little plastic bags. He then proceeded to lecture me on the consequences of destroying evidence and blah blah blah. Whatever. I decided to walk back to my office to have a scotch and soda.

After finishing my scotch, I cracked open a soda and took a swig. Bleh. It was root beer—not a good combination. I took a seat in my bitchin’ retro office chair and propped my feet up on the desk. The neon light from the strip joint across the street bathed the room in a soft pink hue. I kind of liked the effect, and for a moment, this made me wonder if I was gay.

That’s when she walked into the room. She was wearing a short, black raincoat and black heels that required a lot of balance to walk in.

“Mr. Keen?” she inquired.

“Who’s asking?” I grumbled.

“I’m Lorena Michaels. I require your services.”

“Have a seat, doll face.”

Lorena looked around the room. There were no seats to be found. Fuck. I blew that one. I quickly got up and offered her my seat. Lorena sashayed over and parked her caboose on my bitchin’ chair.

I started to pace around the room, because that’s what I figured I should be doing. “So what brings you here, Mrs. Michaels?”

“Ms.,” she replied, but she pronounced it as if it had nineteen Zs attached to the end of it.

“I see. So what brings you here, Mizzzzzzzzz Michaels?”

“I require your services.”

“Ah, that’s right. We’ve already established that. Well, let me explain my rates. I get $200 per hour. I play my own stuff. No Top 40 shit. If you want to hear Top 40, you need to find yourself another DJ.”

“DJ? I thought you were a private investigator.”

“Oh, well, that’s just a hobby.”

“I see,” She took out a cigarette and slid it into her perfect lips, letting it dangle just slightly from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m sorry. There’s no smoking in this building.”

“Uh huh.” She pulled out a silver lighter from her coat pocket and brought it to life with one sexy flick of her thumb.

“No, seriously, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?”

I looked at her and she looked at me and I knew I was powerless to stop her. Not because she had weakened me with her seductive stare. No, she just looked like she could kick my ass.

The flame licked at the tip of her cigarette until the end began to smolder. She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, creating an ironic halo effect over her head.

EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE! The smoke alarm shrieked, echoing off the walls.

“CAN’T YOU TURN THAT THING OFF?” she screamed.

“NO. IT’S HARD WIRED TO THE BUILDING!”

“FUCK! WELL, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”

“WHAT??”

“I SAID, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”

“YEAH, I HEARD THAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO FIND?”

“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”

“YOUR BLACK WHAT-Y WHAT-WHAT?”

“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”

“WHAT ABOUT SINBAD?”

“NO!!”

“I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU VERY WELL.” Actually, I could hear her just fine. I was only fucking with her head.

“NEVER MIND!” She stormed out of the room and slammed the door, leaving only me to listen to the wailing siren.

I reached into my drawer and pulled out my trusty sledgehammer (Not that the drawer was that deep. It had no bottom. See, I thought it would look funny if I opened this tiny drawer and pulled out a giant sledgehammer. Unfortunately, nobody was ever around when I wanted to do it. So, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have cut the bottom of the drawer out, since I had no place to put my pens and paper clips) and then I proceeded to beat the living shit out of the smoke alarm, taking out a good chunk of the wall in the process.

By the time I was done, I could see into the office next door. Those fuckers had G5s! And flatscreen monitors! Bastards. I decided to torch the entire building and go out for a Cherry Slurpee. Of course, in the process, I destroyed all of the evidence I had gathered as well as that really cool retro office chair I found at the flea market. But it didn’t matter. After all, I’m a fucking DJ. The private investigator thing? It’s just a hobby.

A lot of you have been writing to me and asking about who I am and why I started blogging. Well, rather than spend all the time replying to every email, I thought I’d address you all at once:

Fuck off. Why are you so goddamn interested in who I am and what I do? Don’t you have your own life? I mean, come on. Can’t you just enjoy the stuff I write?

Ahhhh that was a load off my chest. I feel so much better now. Anyhow, here’s my life story, in four paragraphs:

I grew up as a moderately poor child. I mean, we weren’t totally poor. Sure, we ate cat food for breakfast, cat food for lunch and cat food for dinner. But it was Fancy Feast, not that Nine Lives crap. Of course, there were other kids in our neighborhood who weren’t as poor as us. They got to eat Sheba, the cat food favored by Pharaohs.

As you know, the ancient Egyptians used to consider cats sacred. This might have had something to do with the feline’s mysterious nature, or perhaps it was because the ancient Egyptians had brains the size of unripe tangerines. Does this count as one of the four paragraphs? I sure as fuck hope not.

Anyhow, my father would occasionally save up enough money to pay the water bill and then mom would whip up a batch of Kool-Aid, creating a slightly more flavorful water with vitamins and minerals, kind of like your modern-day Vitamin Water.

Then my Uncle Romona died (used to be Uncle Roland until a horrible chainsaw accident) and we suddenly become filthy rich. And I mean that literally. We lived in a big fancy mansion in the Hollywood HIlls, but we hardly ever bathed. Why? I’m not sure. But I was just glad to be living in a place with four walls and roof. Our previous home only had three walls. Dad was always saving up for the fourth.

Speaking of fourth, this would be the fourth paragraph, unless of course you consider that stupid paragraph about cats and Pharaohs to count as one of the paragraphs. Then this would have to be the fifth paragraph and I would be a liar. In any case, assuming this is the fourth paragraph, I should use it to wrap up my life as best as I can. In all honesty, it’s really quite boring. Our neighbors burned our house down, a “computer glitch” made all our money disappear and then I got a job in advertising. The end.

I found her corpse sprawled out on the sidewalk: a jumper, they said. Of course, I didn’t believe them. Sure, all the signs were there: the position of the body, the giant pool of blood, the shattered bones. But still, something wasn’t right.

Me? My name is Richard Keen, Private Investigator/Disc Jockey Extraordinaire, available for weddings, bar-mitzvahs and homicidal investigations. If you require my services, you’ll find me at The Badlands, spinning the latest Drum ‘n’ Bass grooves and chuckling to myself while I watch the crowd trying to figure out how to dance to the extremely erratic beats. The Private Investigator thing? It’s just a hobby.

You’d probably think it would be difficult to get past the official yellow police tape without flashing a badge and a mustache. But actually, there’s nothing to it. The key is to look like you’re supposed to be there. Nod at one of the officers as if you know him. Then pull out your notebook and say something like, “What’ve we got here, fellas?” Next thing you know, you’re smack dab in the middle of the crime scene, picking up objects with a ballpoint pen and putting them in little plastic baggies as if you had a lab to bring them to.

So what of that corpse? Like I said, something wasn’t right. One officer believed she fell ten stories and died immediately upon impact. Another suggested she might’ve been pushed. They were both full of shit. That woman wasn’t pushed. She didn’t even jump — not from this building, at least. After all, the closest structure was a one-story house and it was positioned at least 12 yards away.

I don’t know how anyone could leap nine stories up from a one-story house and land twelve yards away. Maybe if they were fired from a cannon? I glanced up at the roof: no cannon. I walked to the backyard to investigate another theory. There was no catapult either. Death by cannon and catapult could be ruled out. There was only one explanation. Unfortunately, I had no idea what that explanation was. I’m just a fucking DJ, for godsakes. The Private Investigator thing is just a hobby.

Since y’all liked my last bedtime story so much, I thought I’d go on ahead ‘n share with ya a new’un. This’n was done told to me by my ma, back when we was livin’ up in the Ozarks and I was, I reckon, no more than a pea. Hope y’all like it. It go somethin’ like this:

Unce a time, thare was these four bears. Ya got yer ma bear, yer pa bear and one of them thare baby bears. The fourth bear don’t matter none. Anyhoo, they all lived in one of them thare houses out in the woods. And then they all be eatin’ their porridges and such. And then it’s just too darn hot fer all them, so the ma bear, she say, “we gots to get.” Then the pa bear, he say, “Yeah, we better get.” And baby bear, he just sit thare and shit his pants.

So ma bear he done changin’ the diaper and then they all gets to steppin’. Then this here cutie pie by the name o’ Gold Locks, she goes a knockin’ on the door, but thare ain’t no answer, on the account of them three bears be out gathering fire wood or somethin’. The fourth bear don’t matter none. So Goldie, she done smash the winduh and start ransackin’ the place. She start rifling through da drawers and lookin’ fer some tobaccy fer her pipe. But thare ain’t none, on the account a pa bear be smokin’ it.

So then Goldie, she sees them thare porridges sittin’ out on that thare table. And she goes to chowing down. She eats the first porridges and near clean burnt her mouth off. She eats the second porridges, but it’s a bit too lumpy. She eats the third porridges and it too salty. The fourth porridge don’t matter none. The problem be that ma bear can’t cook worth a darn. After Goldie eats all the porridges, she has the shits something awful and end up passing out in them thare baby bear’s bed.

So the three bears get back to them thare house, and go to eat them thare porridges. But thare ain’t no porridges. Goldie done ate ‘em all. Pa bear figures it be some kind of varmit, so he go fetch him his shot gun. Ma bear fetch her her shot gun, too. And baby bear, he done dirty his diaper ‘gain. The fourth bear don’t matter none.

So pa bear he done got his shotgun and he’s a walkin’ on through the house, lookin fer them varmits. And ma bear, she’s right thare behind him, waiting fer any critters to peak their little heads out. So baby bear, he done go to his room to take a nap, on the account he was all tired from walkin’ and shiitin’ himself. So ‘course, he find Goldie Lock all in his bed and she wake up with a start and scream. And baby bear scream and go and dirty himself up again. And ma and pa came a runnin’. And Goldie, done flew out that the door. Pa didn’t think none. He just fired away and done blow Goldie’s head clear off. Ma fired a round into her, too, accidentally killing the fourth bear. But that’s OK, ’cause he don’t matter none.

That’d be that thare end of the story. Now ya get yerself some shut-eye.

I found her, in all places, at the library. I was looking for a hard-to-find novel by my favourite author, Danielle Steel. And she, she was busy working.

Yes, she was a librarian, but a sexy one, dressed conservatively, with a long flannel skirt and sensible shoes. And her blouse — whiter than the teeth of Britney Spears — was neatly pressed and seemed to be buttoned up past the collar.

When I caught her eye, I smiled at her. And to my surprise, she did not turn away. Her eyes narrowed behind her thick, horn-rimmed glasses. And her brow furrowed to the point where an ass crack appeared at the center of her forehead. Needless to say, I was entranced. Even if I wanted to look away, I could not. I found myself moving towards her. Perhaps I was walking, but I could not feel the ground beneath my feet. “No riding the carts!” she squawked, and I quickly dismounted the rolling book cart, but never stopped my journey towards my destiny.

As I got closer to my librarian love, the left side of her upper lip seemed to raise just a bit more, until it finally developed into the snarl of all snarls, and soon I was face to face with the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes upon. Not beautiful in the traditional sense of the word, or even in the nontraditional sense. No, she had a beauty all her own. The way her snow-white hair was pulled back so tightly that it made the corners of her eyes match her eyeglass frames. The way her scowling lip quivered. And that voice:

“What do you want?” It sounded like a woman’s voice, only huskier and with phlegm.

“I think I’ve found the only thing I need,” I replied.

For a moment, I could swear the right side of her mouth raised up, almost to the point were there was a hint of a smile. I was getting to her. Either that or she had indigestion.

She belched. Apparently, it was indigestion. “If you’re not here for a book, please leave the library.” I loved the way her mouth tightened up when she spoke: puckering lips, begging to be caressed by mine.

“The only thing I’ve come to check out is you.” It was a stupid pick-up line, but I couldn’t think of anything else at the moment.

“Very funny. I’m a busy woman, and –”

“And maybe you could get busy with me.” Again, I had no idea where that came from.

She picked up the phone and informed someone on the other end that there was a problem at her desk. “Send Tony and Michael over right away,” she said. I gathered this had to do with the children who had managed to sneak their way into the Adult Fiction section, perhaps hoping to get their hands on a novel by Ann Rice writing as AN Roquelaure.

“O’ what I wouldn’t do to be that phone.” At this point, I was even starting to creep myself out.

She hung up and her lips tightened yet again. Any tighter, and I was certain she would crack her dentures. “I am asking you one last time. Please leaveeee”

“Your lips say ‘please leave,’ but your eyes say ‘file me under H for Horny Librarian.” My material was getting worse.

Moments later, two large but very dorky looking men — both wearing wireframe eye glasses — approached me from either side. The geekier of the two spoke, “Is there a problem, Bernice?”

Bernice: that must’ve been her name. When I heard it for the first time, it was as if angels had come down from the heavens, smoked two packs of Luckys, shared a box or red wine and then belched out a raspy “Bernice.” The most beautiful belch in the world. It only made me want to be closer to her. And yet, I felt myself being drawn away. Well, dragged was more like it. Dork and Dorkier had me by both arms and were quickly “escorting” me to the door.

“Bernice, wait!” I shouted to her, and was quickly shushed by everyone in the library. “I love you!” I screamed in defiance, followed by an even louder, “SHHHHHH!”

How does everyone know exactly when to SHHH at the same time? Is it just an innate sense? And if so, why? What good does this do? Would it be the end of the world if people SHHH’d out of sync? I thought about this as I was brutally pushed out the doors into the warm, unconditioned air. Tony and Michael stood there stoically, arms crossed, daring me to try again.

So this was it? This was what getting thrown out of an establishment was like? I expected something more dramatic, involving broken bones and bruises that wouldn’t heal for months. I wanted to get flung through a window. Or literally picked up by the seat of my pants and tossed to the curb.

I took another look at the two dweebs standing guard and decided Bernice just wasn’t worth it. So I gave a nod to my four-eyed foes and took a step backward to signify my surrender. Alas, I had forgotten about the stairs behind me.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself tumbling my way down the concrete steps. Head over heels. Then head over broken heels. Then bloody head over dangling limbs. With every new step, I felt another new pain. Until, finally, I was given sweet relief when my head bounced off the metal railing and I blacked out.

When I came to, I found myself in an ambulance with an oxygen mask strapped to my mangled face. The sirens blared faintly outside and the van made several aggressive maneuvers. There was an IV taped to my arm and it hurt to blink. But I knew that once my wounds had healed, I would return once again to that magnificent library. If not for Bernice, for Danielle Steel.

It seemed like it was months since they last made love. True, passionate love. The kind of love that would cause a person to walk funny for the next few days. But tonight was the night. All those bottled up emotions were released in every powerful thrust. The box springs squeaked with unbridled fury. The headboard pounded against the wall. They were no longer civilized human beings. They were animals, wild animals. They had lost the ability to speak. All they could do was express their love through various grunts and moans. And I, I was there beneath them, lying in my own bed, a book in my hands and my eyes on the words before me. But I found my mind wandering, fantasizing, dreaming of being in that room above me, with only one objective on my mind: I would run up to that bed, raise my trusty bullhorn to my lips and shout, “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to read! Jeeze, have some fucking goddamn courtesy!” And then, of course, I would run like hell.