The Year That Everyone Died - Part 5 - I Had A Dream

Follow the adventures of Steve Wilson in WWD's new series The Year That Everyone Died

And all of this may be funny. but maybe now its not. Maybe now, you’ll be stricken by the power of ringing truth.

she spoke to me.

It wasn't long after I got back from the MacDonalds on 1st and crawled back onto my cot that I fell deeply asleep as Uncle Donald played Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors on a turntable upstairs.

I had eaten the nuggets of course but it was the extra McRib and small fries that really did me in. For some things napping is the only cure. I would poop when I woke, all would be well.

We were on a beach and I couldn't tell you why. I never liked the beach - all that sand, and sand bugs, and dirt and shit-get all up in your toes and hair- yek - but she walked from a really long way away. It seemed like it took forever and I kept trying to scribble the best idea in the world on a piece of paper but i couldn't read it. And the harder I tried the worse it got.

(by the way if my shrink couldn't figure out that symbolism I’d ask for my nickel back)

Anyway she gets up to me and stands there for a long time. And I want to tell her I’ve been seeing her, that I know she’s been following me around town but i figure I had better not. Let her speak first, be gentlemanly.

And she has something simple to say. “Go to Ashland and find Lester Puloski. Ask him where my body is?” and she turned and walked away. I wanted to follow but my legs were heavy and I was yelling all sorts of things like “Why me?” and other boring questions that she wouldn't answer.

She was still pretty. That was for sure. She stopped and turned and i faintly heard her voice over the rushing wind. I woke but could still hear it. “Christmas is a time for giving up” she said.

Which would be a fancy clue if i hadnt used that phrase a million times. I’m a joke recycler.

Do you know the difference between Jelly and Jam

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The Year That Everyone Died - Part 4 - Oh Fuck, Christmas!

Follow the adventures of Steve Wilson in WWD's new series The Year That Everyone Died

So i woke up this morning and uncle Donald was standing over the cot smiling. Which is weird for a number of reasons.

“What?” i asked. My mouth tasted like a butthole.

“For you.” Uncle Donald said and motioned to a box on the floor.

I reached over and opened the box.

“Awesome. a slow cooker.”

“For making pot roast and stews and such.” He said.

“Not like there needs to be a reason, but why the present uncle Don?”

“Merry Christmas!” He said.

“Oh fuck! It’s Christmas?”

-

I got dressed and out to the bus stop as fast as i could. I stopped at the McDonald’s around the corner and got a McChicken and a large sprite.

I’ve been eating there a lot, maybe I’m depressed. I’ve been taking my meds. And doing a decent amount of coke. Maybe that has something to do with it.

Some guy just won a million dollars pulling one of those tabs off a Big Mac. Fuck him. Fucking cocksucker. Fuck him.

-

I can’t believe i forgot Christmas. Its one of the few times a year I have to actually do something and I blew it. Now i’ll be late to visit my widowed-sad bastard dad. We’ll drink some MGD’s and watch some fucking Tom Selleck show. He usually has some green bean casserole and ham and shit that his neighbor brings over. She’s a widow too and definitely wants to bone.

I should get him something. I really should. I remember him telling me on the phone a few weeks ago to not worry about bringing anything. Like that would be some sort of relief. Of course it just made me feel more like a pathetic fucking loser.

So I vowed not to forget and get him that Tony Dungy autobiography from the discount book store. but i forgot. because I’m a retard.

-

The bus was taking too long so i went into the gas station to buy some cigarettes.

Now I usually don’t buy lotto tickets, but that day I decided I would, and give it to my dad. It would be a funny gimmick. We could laugh at how lotto tickets are a tax for stupid people. But the bus still wasn't coming and i was bored so i scratched it.

And you wouldn’t believe it but I won eighty dollars. Seriously, I can’t believe that i don’t do this more often. Thank god.

I can buy something for my dad and its only 3 pm. I can take the bus downtown and then get to his place by 4:30.

8:24 PM -

Me and my dad are eating even though I’m not hungry. And It’s A Wonderful Life is on the TV in the other room. It’s not, by the way.

“So, how is your girlfriend? You guys getting along?” He asked. He didn’t look up.

He has a mustache like my uncle. They don’t really talk though. My dad keeps to himself now. Him and my uncle talk on the phone but thats about it. I wish I had a sibling sometimes. Usually not though.

“She threw me out of the apartment.” I said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He screamed. “What happened?”

Now he didn't say anything about the fact that i obviously forgot Christmas in some fashion or that I was obviously on drugs or the fact that I didn't come over until 7:45 with no excuse to where I was. He was mad about this.

“Well I told her that I cheated on her.” I said. I gritted my teeth.

“Why? Why would you ever tell her something like that?”

“I wanted to be honest.”

“Fuck honesty. Ugh. Un-be-lievable. The one thing, the one thing that made me think you had a chance and you blew it. Look at you. Un-be-lievable.”

I shrugged and didn't say anything. There was a long silence. “Honestly, I wasnt going to but my friends said it would be good. it would make us both feel better in the end.”

“Friends.” my dad grumbled, almost spit in disgust. “Friendship is just a long line of people giving bad advice.”

And we ate the rest of our food and I gave him a present. He opened it.

“A slow cooker.” He said. “Thank you.”

“For stews and pot roasts and such.” I said.

“Thank you. I gave one to your uncle a few years ago. Very handy.

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NEW TRAILER !!! Don't mind the old people still living in it...

New Heavy Hands Trailer !!!

Lots of hard work. Lots more to go.

Happy holidays

Solomon Grundy

Here are two versions of the same story:
(from the Roud Folk Song Index)

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

This is the end

Of Solomon Grundy.

or

(from Wikipedia)

In the late 19th century, a wealthy merchant named Cyrus Gold is murdered and his body disposed of in Slaughter Swamp, near Gotham City. Fifty years later, the corpse is reanimated as a huge shambling figure (composed partly of the swampmatter that has accumulated around the body over the decades) with almost no memory of its past life. Gold murders two escaped criminals who are hiding out in the marsh and steals their clothes. He shows up in a hobo camp and, when asked about his name, one of the few things he can recall is that he was "born on a Monday". One of the men at the camp mentions the nursery rhyme character Solomon Grundy (who was born on a Monday), and Gold adopts the moniker.

Strong, vicious, and nearly mindless, Solomon Grundy falls into a life of crime—or, perhaps returns to one as his scattered residual memories may indicate—attracting the attention of the Green Lantern, Alan Scott. Grundy proves to be a difficult opponent, unkillable (since he is already dead) and with an inherent resistance to Scott's powers (which cannot affect wood, a substance of which Grundy's reassembled body is now largely composed). Their first fight ends when Grundy is hurled under a train.

Grundy is revived when a criminal scientist known as the Professor injects Grundy with concentrated chlorophyll. After this second encounter Grundy is trapped in a green plasma bubble for a time, until a freak weather occurrence releases him from his prison. His third appearance involves Green Lantern and his fellow members of the Justice Society of America tracking him across the country, depositing Grundy on the moon once he is defeated.

A subsequent battle commences when Grundy's body gravitates towards young astronomer Dick Cashmere, resulting in his assuming Cashmere's identity for a time. In this incarnation he gains intelligence he subsequently loses when Green Lantern defeats and buries Grundy in 1947.

At this point, he is pulled back to 1941 by the time-traveling criminal Per Degaton, who has enlisted the aid of several supervillains to capture the Justice Society of America on December 7, 1941 (the day of the attack on Pearl Harbor). The All-Star Squadron comes to their rescue, and Grundy is then thrust back to the moon where he remains for over two decades.

Grundy eventually masters the use of stored up emerald energy he has absorbed over the years from his several battles with his arch-foe, and returns to Earth to battle Green Lantern, Hourman, and Doctor Fate. At this point, he has temporary mastery over all wooden objects. He subsequently loses this power over time.

He was once pulled to Earth-1 and substituted for the superstrong Blockbuster. During this event he had asorbed some of Dr Fate's magic. He hates Green Lantern so much he thinks everyone he sees is Green Lantern. He has the hate knocked out of him briefly after a fight with Blockbuster.

He is briefly a member of the Injustice Society of the World. In the interim, he battles the combined might of both the Justice Society, and later their counterparts theJustice League, nearly to a standstill, when he develops an affection for a lost alien child. Soon after, Grundy crosses over from his Slaughter Swamp prison on Earth-2to Earth-1 where he encounters that Earth's Superman.

Grundy goes on to afflict Green Lantern and his teammates, including the Huntress who is the first female for whom he develops an affection. After Solomon Grundy is rescued from a glacier by Alan Scott's daughter, Jade, Grundy becomes loyal to her and, for a while, is an ally of Infinity, Inc. Eventually, this affectionate relationship turns tragic as the villainous Marcie Cooper, a.k.a. Harlequin of the Dummy's Injustice Unlimited, uses her illusion powers to disguise herself as Jade. Harlequin manipulates Grundy to attack the members of Infinity Inc., one by one. She convinces him to press the unconscious Mister Bones' bare hand against Skyman; since Bones's skin constantly exudes a cyanide-based compound, this quickly leads to Skyman's death. Once Grundy found out that Marcie had duped him, he savagely beat her within an inch of her life. This is the beginning of the end for Infinity Inc., and for Grundy's quasi-heroic career.

Merry Christmas and a Happy 300th Blog Entry for World Wide Dirt!!

Bonus 300 Celebrational Poem:

trapdoors cut with jigsaws on every story of the house

the latches never rust and they're covered with thick mossy rugs

The Year That Everyone Died - Part 3 - Don't Leave Me Hangin On

Follow the adventures of Steve Wilson in WWD's new series The Year That Everyone Died

People are wary of grown men that sleep on cots. Mines a good cot. its sufficient and when you sleep alone, what’s the difference?

I once had a friend who had an African King Sized. the bed covered the whole room and i wondered how he got it through the front door...or the kitchen...or the bedroom door...no matter.

I wake. I have a hard time remembering my dreams.

I’ve heard that smoking weed would do that. There are lots of names for strains of marijuana. Cali Cush, Kreeper, African Tutti Frutti 5 Some are real and some are fake. They should call the strains what they really are, ambitionless-alicious, spent-the-rent-cush, dream murderer... The terror, the absolute bong rips.

I sit up on the cot in uncle Donald’s basement. I’ve put up a couple posters on the wall since I’ve moved in.

One is from Randy Moss’s rookie year. It shows him long and stringy flying down the left sideline against the Packers. Man, i remember how they killed the Packers that year on Monday night. 1998 was a heartbreaker.

The other is a Ronald Reagan/George Bush Sr campaign lawn flier from 84’. I got it from my friends grandmother. We used to sell schwag out of the attic of her house and she gave it to me one day as I left the house red eyed. I don’t know much about Reagan, I don’t think I’d like him if I did. I know he was an actor and a politician. Evidence enough that he was a heartless robot.

“Steve!” Uncle Donald yells from upstairs.

“Yeah!?”

“Your friend is on the phone.”

“What does he want?” I ask dick-headed-ly.

He says something I can’t understand so i yell for him to repeat himself. He says it again but I still can’t understand. I decide to go upstairs though I didn't plan on leaving the room tonight.

-

Uncle Donald is waxing a saddle in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m waxing a western style saddle.”

“Uh, ok. What were you saying before?”

“I was saying ‘that last time I checked I wasn't your secretary’” He said.

I’m pretty sure Uncle Donald dies his hair. His mustache too. it seems unmanly, cowardly. But sleeping on a cot and playing Galaga for hours on end seems a little ‘something’ too.

“I apologize. I know your not my secretary. I would never hire you as a secretary.”

“Oh, your out hiring people. Good, your poetry blog must be going really well.”

“Ha.” I say, not laugh, just say, like “Ha.” with a period afterwards.

I watch him wax the saddle for a while. I remember now that he’s into horses and shit. I know he he doesn't own his own horse. He can’t, his house is ranch styled.

I open the fridge and grab a string cheese. There’s milk and I know there is cereal. there is salami but I don’t know if there is bread. I do this at the fridge. I always open it to eat something but with that comes a decision. How much work am I willing to do?

If there was a sandwich I’d just eat it, a steak I’d fry it, some salsa - I’d dip in it (though I do prefer Tostidos cheese dip). But if a meal or a snack needs to be chopped, washed or (god forbid) thawed I might as well take a nap.

“Arent you going to answer your phone call?” Uncle Donald asks.

Shit I forgot. “Shit I forgot.” I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Steve, Its Parker.” he said very officially.

“Oh hey budday. Hey I got a joke for you...Whats the differnece between Jelly and Jam?”

“I don’t know” Parker said.

“I can’t jelly my dick up your ass all night.”

“Wow.” The other end was silent for a while. "What you up to today?"

"McDonald's put the four piece McNugget back on the dollar menu...I was gonna check that out." I said and got excited thinking about it.

And another long silence...

“So whats up?” I said.

“My dad told me something incredible today. What happened was...”

And Parker bored the shit out of me with a story.

Not sure what's going on? Click here for pilot episode of The Year That Everyone Died

The Year That Everyone Died - Part 2 - Fathers and Drunks

Follow the adventures of Steve Wilson in WWD's new series The Year That Everyone Died

On saturdays i have to meet with father Boyden. I got an OWI five years ago and i had never had enough money or been sober enough to go to the counseling to get my license back.

I figured a while back that a twenty five year old man should have drivers license. Most sixteen year olds do, and Im at least at that level of maturity...eh, maybe. I graduated high school at least...barely.

Anyway. I have to meet with the father twice a week for two months. Today was my last meeting.

“You need to understand Mr. Wilson. You have a privileged life. You have every advantage. From a decent family, above average intelligence, white male. You are throwing what god has given you back in his face. You have been given every opportunity to serve his will.”

and I’m out. first staring at the wrinkles under his eyes and the dandruff in his silver hair - then on the the way the fat builds up around his collar. The way his glasses ballon his eyes and dwarf his pear shaped head. He smokes a cigarette and it curls in wisps around his head.

I think about two weeks ago when he said that the first thing to go when drinking takes over is your ability to make good decisions. “Sure, he said. You can plan not to drink and drive. but then the drink takes over and suddenly you believe that you can make it tonight. Just one more drink, just one more shot of booze. What is your drink of cohoice again?”

“Whiskey.” I say. It’s a simple answer.

but out again.

I look out the third floor window of Saint Lukes and snow starts to flutter slowly from the heavens. And the memory and the present flutter down with them. I day dream of walking to the bus stop on Winnebego just past the old brewery. I search for a lighter or matches in the trash that has built on the fence around the footbridge. I go home and make a Hot Pocket and drink a Pepsi, then a Mountain Dew then a larger bag of Cheetos. I go upstairs and eat and watch Mad Men reruns on Mega Video and then I sleep and Carter coils up around my feet. And I dream.

Boyden snaps in my face. “I don’t have to sign your sheet, you know?”

Boyden ... red faced, fat necked fuck. “I understand. I drifted off.”

“And you may or may not remember your childhood but i bet as you sat with your friends at the lunch table talking about the party on saturday, or the movie on friday or sunday brunch and football games. I bet there was a friend that was staring into his soup not saying a word. Do you know why?”

I shake my head.

“Because he spent his weekend alone in his room, pretending to read but actually listening to his drunk father call his mother a stupid whore.”

We stare at each other and he puts out his cigarette. I know then, for sure, that he’s right. I am privileged and no matter how poor I get, or how strung out, or how alone - I’ll never be as sad as him. I’ll never put myself in his hopeless position, speaking to walls and praying for nothing.

He signs my paper and I’ll have my license forever now, or until I get arrested again... which is more likely.

I walk to the bus stop and can’t find a lighter in the trash heaps along the footbridge. It's December now and it only takes a few seconds for my fingers to go numb.

I see her again though, her summer dress blowing in the wind. Its yellow and blue and her black hair swirls around her olive face.

I walk towards her but she disappears. I take the bus home, eat a bologna Lunchable and a cup of Trix yogurt. I nap.

Not sure what's going on? Click here for pilot episode of The Year That Everyone Died

The Year That Everyone Died - Part 1 - Rich and Free

WWD's new series:
The Year That Everyone Died

In a perfect world I wouldn’t be here.

I’d wake up at noon...make that one.

I’d shower and my hangover would be manageable.

Me and Carter (the dog) would eat together.

For breakfast I would have a number 8 on French from Jimmy Johns and Carter would eat a steak – one good enough for a businessman in town from Toledo or Bowling Green or whatever.

Rus (my driver) would pick us up and run on over to Wendy’s for a couple things off the dollar menu, nothing too crazy…a double stack and a Jr. Bacon never hurt anyone.

Rus would drop me off at Marietta’s and take Carter to the dog park. Carter loves the dog park. I don’t. Dog owners weird me out.

Me and Marietta would eat homemade guacamole and chips and watch the How I met Your Mother from a couple weeks ago. There’s a manatee and a mermaid. Maybe we’d fuck, no biggie.

I’d call Rus from the yellow rotary phone in Marietta’s bathroom.

(who keeps a phone in the bathroom?)

And have him pick me up some mozzarella sticks from that joint on the corner of 56^th and swing back to get me.

Around three me and Carter take a nap. I’d dream that I was in a gallery of antique stringed instruments. In the dream I was the last one to ever see it…go figure.

I’d have a second lunch with Dizzy and Darlene(they’re sisters) at Ma Fischers.

We’d share some chicken wings and I’d think about ordering the clam chowder. I wouldn’t once I find out they serve it with crackers and not bread. No butter - no business, I always say.

I would drink two glasses of water and a coke…then a diet coke.

We’d go to the bowling alley and I’d watch them throw because I don’t play games.

Rus would pick me up and take me to the movies. Carter gets a milk bone because they’re good for his teeth.

I get too high in the theater parking lot and forget what the movie is about half way through. I’m laughing and crying and I don’t know why.

I’d go home and watch Nash Bridges on Netflix and eat Cheetos in bed, first the originals, then the BBQ ones which are new, and in my opinion, slightly worse.

Carter would lay with me but I wouldn't give him any Cheetos. Cheetos are terrible for dogs, fatal I’ve heard. I’d consider stopping eating Cheetos all together….consider. I love Cheetos.

I’d have Rus fetch me a Mountain Dew from the fridge and wait for Nancy to come over.

She’d come over and maybe we’d fuck but probably not. Most likely I’d fall asleep half way through Caddy Shack and when I woke, she’d be gone.

I’d order a Canadian bacon pizza, eat it, and go back to sleep.

I’d dream. I’d wake.

Nobody would ask me for anything. Everyone would love me. I’d be rich and free. I’d have 4-5 girlfriends that loved fast food.

-

Of course its not like that. The world isn’t perfect and I’m a joke.

I can barely afford a Hot-n-Ready and a two-liter of Fanta.

I have debt up to my eyeballs, a bum knee and a drug problem.

My ex, Rita, threw me out. I still owe her 1,300 dollars. I told her I cheated on her because well…I don’t know why. In retrospect that was a poor decision.

I live in my uncle Donald's basement and write stories that most of my friends won’t even read because they don’t really like me. I’ve gotten old to them.

My own father only pretends to be supportive. My mother is dead.

I have Carter the dog, so that’s something.

I resent my friends.

I resent bus drivers, waitresses, city workers, bums, rich women, rich dudes, families, spinsters, cab drivers, landlords, roofers, construction dudes, people that sit at coffee shops, college students, college professors, high school students, high school teachers house painters and dog walkers.

And most anything with a human face.

Especially myself.

Lately, I’ve been seeing the ghost of a girl I went to college with for a while. I didn’t know her that well. It could be the depression medication or weird fumes in Donald’s basement. She’s there alright. Plain as day sometimes.

I’m pretty sure she’s trying to tell me something. No matter.

I get up in the morning because I have to. I have no choice.

If I was going to kill myself I should have done it a long time ago. I can’t anymore.

I’m too far along now.

A Night Out

A long, wiry silhouette hunches over the table. His frame strong,
not skinny but lean. He sits there basking in a comfortable glow
familiar to dominant midwestern types that immediately identify this
particularly intelligent look. In his eyes the deep reflection of
endless prairie land he hails from. He is saturated with an air of
noble arrogance, cool nonchalance intended for some kind of midwestern
prince. Royalty made from generations of hoeing farmland on horizon
less, lanky stretches of seemingly endless virgin prairie. His physical
manifestation is a projection of these farmlands, lean and hungry from
hard work. Wiry muscles in his hands writhe around his Miller High
Life. His gaze shifting up and down the 20 something’s flocking the
bar. My gaze meets his, we find ourselves smiling. It’s an unspoken,
ancient language. It’s basic. While the wheels are churning endlessly
inside our labyrinthine minds, the wet and muddy parts in the back of
or animal brain give us space, space to just sit and not have to think
about things to understand them. It’s our midwestern wonderland, our
playground. Our playground’s ratio seems unfair, in favor of girls and
women. They relish in this fact. Cocky little things. Running around in
their vintage summer dresses all night, tattoos and bangs, awkward
knees, pigeon toed dandies. Skinny little things, not sure of
themselves or their power over the girlish boys buzzing around them
waiting to kiss their pretty little asses. We watch patiently, drinking
carefully. One of the girls is drunk. Her dress too small for her heavy
bones, heels sky-high, big dark rimmed glasses. She shakes around, her
steps clumsy even though she’s striking voguish, glamorous poses. It’s
like I’m watching a baby elephant on ketamine. I turn my head and lean
back arms at my side, exhaling silently, letting my shoulders drop back
until I feel the muscles around my collarbones stretch comfortably.
Another girl bumps into my shoulder. A young strung out looking
brunette that reminds me of what Courtney Love must have looked like
when she was younger. She’s got full lips that are always kind of half
opened; this dopey expression ruins an otherwise agreeable face.
Symmetrical, with dark eye shadow accenting blue green jolly rancher
eyes.

Beautiful ones surround themselves with weak looking boys.

These boys never talk much, and I don’t mean in the
playerish sense that they just don’t have to because they’re confident,

rather because they seem to have nothing to say. When they do, they’re
gesticulating like the girls they are talking to. It’s like I’m
watching girls talking to boys who are secretly girls also. Gossip. I
see their mouths move in synchronicity. A platonic girlfriend explained
to me once her definition of love, after meeting a Chicago guy she came
really close to dating. “It’s like we finished each others sentences
midway through the conversation and sat there all starry eyed and
just…I don’t know, just having been through the same kind of stuff and
It felt so right!” and so on. It makes perfect evolutionary sense for
our genders to fuse into androgyny so that we start fucking ourselves
to birth our own children. And we’ll talk about it, finishing each
other’s sentences and find ourselves with the same frame of reference,
and we’ll all be in love. We’ll all be Chicago guys, androgynous,
fashionable post-industrial wankers clad in neutral colors

By Michael William Brown

Dome Gives Way

and from there, it is not hard to see the reason.
Old man Favre can't save you.
making the news won't save you.
But Los Angeles might save you,
which would be a first

In His Father's Backyard, Near the Stream

He woke in the early chill hours of a spring morning, mist filling the yard as if it were some chugging, over-worked humidifier whose vapors had begun to mingle with smoke.  Peter’s eyes were closed, their lids so swollen they could not part more than a hair’s width.  His first waking awareness, actually a thought in the middle-ground between the velvety suffocation of his dream and his waking, was of his breathing.  He felt inside him a great system, like an abandoned sewer made home by a league of trolls.  Fire-breathing furnaces amassed clouds of smoke which wafted down and around the tunnels like some ever migrating clog of hair.

purty skurty

do you feel an anxious twitch,

rolling up in you,

and jammin hard,

low-so,

don't even have the five dollars,

to see Harry Potter...

but then?

get ready and face the truth.

you're all alone in this.

No Signal

And i broke my back to get here,
like the guy from Supergrass
and now my best friend is in Chicago,
and i have to wonder how many hotdogs he'll eat