I Want To Raise "Boo"

I watched Monsters, Inc. tonight by myself, because, you know, I'm a grown man and such. And I have some serious questions about the character of Boo (super adorable kid pictured above). For starters, where the fuck were the parents in all of this? Their kid disappears into the closet like that freaky blonde girl in Poltergeist and the parents don't worry themselves sick? Have they even seen this child? Have they ever really paid attention to the flawless adorability that is Boo? Hmmm? Come on, she's goddamn perfect. Oh, maybe they did know and were concerned and were out looking? Fine, sure, but they'd have to spend a moment or two being heartbroken in her room too, just crying and wandering aimlessly as they pet her toys. It's like Boo's parents never even read The Lovely Bones. Fuck them. Fuck Boo's parents.

So, anyway, this got me a-thinking new questions, specifically: Why can't I raise Boo myself?

I mean, right? I'd be crazy not to want to raise this child!

This stuck with me.

I want to raise this fake child. I want to fake adopt her and fake treat her like a fake princess. I'd fake seriously be the best fake dad ever.

For a long while now, I've thought about how I can barely dress myself in the morning, so a kid would die within my booze-soaked, cigarette-ashed, cut-up twentysomething hands. But Boo's changed me. She makes me want a fake child. Now. And not just any child. Her. I want to raise Boo.

I honestly think my new fascination with raising this cartoon kid has surpassed my previous fascination with bopping cartoon women. Well, not women, I guess. I suppose it's really just Jessica Rabbit.

Also, just so we're clear, I wouldn't raise Boo with Jessica Rabbit. I'd kick that redheaded tramp to the street if it meant I could raise Boo in a good home. My home. I want to raise this fake girl and I want to raise her right! I don't know what female cartoon character would be a good mother, but...actually, you know what? Fuck it. I'm raising this kid myself. Look at me. So brave. A fake single dad. And I want to be goddamn incredible about it. In fact, starting right now, I'm gonna research raising cartoon children and quit my bad habits. I'm going to better myself for the inane, stupidly unreasonable challenge of raising a cartoon kid (and maybe possibly time-traveling).

Ok, again, I just want to clear up things further: Jessica Rabbit wouldn't be around to help raise Boo, but I would still do everything in my power to bop that sultry bitch when Boo had a babysitter that I have interviewed and trusted. Boo would be fine at home and I'd sure miss her, but, man, the fake acts I'd pull with Jessica Rabbit...damn. So, once more, to reiterate, I would never bring Jessica Rabbit home. That's my home with the precious Boo. I would take Jessica Rabbit out drinking, maybe to a sleazy motel, I don't know, I haven't figured the whole thing out yet. Maybe I'd let Jessica Rabbit meet Boo...? But they wouldn't really hang out. I feel like Jessica Rabbit would accidentally have cocaine on her fingers or something. I'd have to hose Jessica Rabbit down before she could even talk to Boo.

Whoa...hosing down Jessica Rabbit...maybe at a mansion...disguises...shine shoes...yeah. So...anyway...I want a raise a ghost or something.

Hey, I recorded four songs! You wanna hear 'em?

I recorded an EP.

Wanna hear it? Give me your address and I'll send you a copy in the mail.

Maybe I should explain.

Sure, I can't really sing all that well and I can't really play guitar all that well either, but I thought it'd be something fun to try and do. So, through trial and error (and special effects), I figured out a few things on guitar and wrote four songs. They were actually recorded a year ago, but after a summer lull and a cold season's return to yuppiedom, I started burning copies for friends.

So, anyway, I kinda-sorta played guitar and I kinda-sorta sang and I'm kinda-sorta stoked on how it turned out. The CD is called Great Western Skies and I made it into a funny little album complete with cover and lyrics (as I'm fairly certain this is as far as I will ever go musically). So, if you'd like a copy, give me your address and I'll mail you one (I don't care how far away you live). Or just mention it the next time I see you.

GREAT WESTERN SKIES by Jake Kilroy:
1. A New Landfill
2. The Shakes
3. Pretty Stand-Up Guy
4. San Francisco (Older & Darker)

The Noema: Conversation #2 ("The Riddle Of Prayer")

The little boy tickled the soft sand underneath the water with his toes. They fluttered like butterflies, kicking up the sand that turned into dark colors, only to disassemble itself and sparkle the water once again after settling back into the underwater earth. He watched the shore change around his feet and he smiled.

"But when will you return, if you don't believe in dark days?" asked the eyeball.

The little boy looked up.

"I said I do believe in last days, said the boy softly. "But everyone believes in dark days."

"Even you?" asked the man in the top hat, somewhat astonished.

"I know them to exist, but I don't really partake," the little boy said with a giggle that broke his dimples.

"You're too much," said the eyeball, maybe just to himself, appearing nostalgic for a moment that was currently happening.

The eyeball remained on the shore, close to the water, but his blue legs dry. The man in the top hat stood on the wet sand, partially in the initial inch of ocean with one leg and another resting firmly on the shore. The little boy was still standing in the water.

In between the three was a vessel. Some of it looked like a rowboat and some of it looked like an upside down umbrella. Maybe how it appeared depended on where one was standing. Even the most stationary things are largely interpretation and perspective.

"And you're going to sail in that?" asked the eyeball, unimpressed though curious, giving away no hints to what he saw bobbing in the shallow water.

"Will you make it?" asked the man in the top hat, also hiding what he believed was in front of him.

"You always make it until you don't," said the little boy with a beam.

The eyeball rolled himself.

"Come on," laughed the eyeball finally.

"You don't believe that?" asked the little boy, a meandering song found in his voice.

"No," replied the eyeball assuredly, "I say you don't make it until you do."

"Ah," said the little boy, nodding, as if expecting this, and said, "Maybe that's why interpretation and perspective are so important. The world is a think tank."

"What would you know about the world?" asked the eyeball, somewhat haughtily.

"I know enough to know that I know very little," said the boy, his chin up, now turning to the man in the top hat. "And what is your mantra?"

"Well, I think we'd all like to make it," said the man in the top hat, unsure of his own answer.

"Then, perhaps it is confidence that should be the traveler's companion and not prayer," said the little boy.

"Wait, wait, wait," said the eyeball, closing himself and waving his blue arms, "let me get this straight...you don't believe in prayer?"

"Do you?" asked the little boy, his eyebrows swaying like the trees behind the eyeball.

"No, of course not, but I'm not supposed to," said the eyeball. "But shouldn't you believe in the power of prayer?"

"I know only what I can see, but I believe in many things I can't see," said the little boy. "Knowing and believing are two stars near the same moon."

"It's a riddle!" said the man in the top hat excitedly.

"It's not a riddle," said the eyeball definitely.

There swung a low silence.

"Most mantras are riddles," said the little boy with a grand smile.

The Noema: Conversation #1 ("Beyond")

The Noema
[a story in endless acts of]
the little boy, the man in the top hat and the eyeball.
by jake kilroy.

"I don't get it. Where are you going?" asked the eyeball.

"Beyond," replied the little boy.

"Beyond what?" said the eyeball.

"Exactly," added the man in the top hat, as he understood perfectly.

The three of them stood close together, but in three variations of depth. The eyeball stood on the dry sand, the man in the top hat stood on the wet sand and the little boy stood in the shallow water.

There was a drab green ceiling seemingly miles above them, looming. The eyeball thought they should install a chandelier or something. The man in the top hat thought they should've built a skyline somewhere. And the little boy thought everything was fine just the way it was.

On several/some/many occasions, the eyeball and the man in the top hat agreed and swapped opinions. They bartered a few like medieval road peddlers. But the little boy always saw things in brighter colors and cooler air, and his demeanor often brought sunshine with it, which is traditionally unagreeable.

"You know, you don't have to be so empty," announced the eyeball, turning towards the man in the top hat.

"Me?" the man in the top hat said sharply, surprised and indignant. "Have you seen yourself?"

"Wow," cracked the eyeball, rolling himself. "The irony in that is thicker than your skull."

The little boy watched the other two quietly.

"When I go, there will be no friendship," the little boy said finally.

"Ok, ok, ok," started the eyeball, "we'll be better. But where are you going?"

"I told you," said the little boy.

"Truly, though, we understand that you mean to sail beyond, but...what is beyond?" cooed the man in the top hat.

"There is only the beyond once you have reached beyond," said the little boy, his eyes dancing a gleam, kicking it around like a soccer ball.

"Listen, there's nothing new beyond," reasoned the eyeball. "There's only this. There is only these drab colors, this black blue, this brown green, this tan yellow. The land is rotting. Don't you see? This entire world is in flames without the magnificence of fire. If you sail, you will only reach darker colors. This eternity is closing in without movement. I don't see why you can't spend your last days with us."

"Because I don't believe in last days and I will be seeing you soon," said the little boy.

Mozart Makes Me Feel Like Crap

Have you seen Amadeus? Seriously, that movie got me so pumped up. And then it made me feel like crap. I will never be as talented as Mozart or as insane as Salieri.

If I Wrote Old Movies: Volume I

"Boxers"
by Jake Kilroy

"Hey, Charlie!"

"Oh, hiya, Gary. You're looking swell!"

"I'm trying! But I've got a long way to go until I'm as strong as you though. Say, where you been? We ain't seen you around here much these days."

"Oh, don't I know it. You know Mary, she's not exactly the going-out type. And she's been pretty busy, what with the baby and all."

"Say! That's right! How is that baby of yours?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Going to be a boxer some day. I was holding it last night and the little bugger got me right in the nose."

"Ah gee, that's swell, Charlie. You're a family man now!"

"Yes, yes, but don't think I've lost steam! No, sir! I'm as serious as...as...say, what do you call those things when your heart seizes up?"

"A heart attack?"

"Yeah, yeah, there you go. I'm as serious as a heart attack."

"No kidding! I'd never put you up against my old man."

"Well, what about you? Say! Now, that's an idea! Why don't you and I box?"

"Oh, I don't know, Charlie...my wrist has been acting awfully funny lately."

"Nonsense! Besides, I've already got a few grams of cocaine in me and I had a few cocktails this morning, so it won't really matter how hard you try."

"Charlie! It's not even noon!"

"Don't talk to me like that, Gary. Mary used that tone with me this morning and she's taking a nap on the floor right now, if you know what I mean."

"Jesus, Charlie!"

"I'm going to beat your brains in, you doe-eyed fuck."

"Charlie..."

"Let's box, motherfucker!"

Growing Older Stereotypes

I am slowly realizing that most stereotypes about growing older are true. They are stereotypes for a reason, I suppose. But a good portion of me feels like it all could've been avoided. It seems like everyone in their younger years spent so much time and energy disbelieving and arguing the actual stereotypes that none of us spent our time and energy actually doing something to prove them wrong.

Hot Hotels

Articles like 2010's Hot Hotels make me rethink being a poor writer and reconsider being anything else with money.

Nothin'

I have no poems for the poets,
because they'd rip 'em apart.
I have no gods for the religious,
because they'd build 'em too big.

Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues

This was a part of Zuhair's "The Lie And How We Told It" series (friends writing stories 800 words or less). But I figured I should publish it in full on this blog too.

"Blue Sunday Bookstore Blues"
by Jake Kilroy

I was moving through the used bookstore as if I were fondling the art of a museum.

The light at the end of the aisle jangled a terrible hum. But, as I swayed towards the end of the aisle, there came the rickety music box voice of a teenage boy. It was a wobbly sound, the forlorn melody of a boy trying to impress a girl. It’s a song that nobody likes to hear, but it’ll be dazzling nobody until the end of mankind.

There, sitting next to a girl, was a boy with an optimistic look that only belongs to somebody without a tender understanding of humiliation.

“I don’t like writing. I like having written,” the boy said.

“Yeah,” drawled the girl sitting next to him, reading a red book.

I faced the walls of books, keeping my eyes away but my ears around.

“I think I just like watching the page numbers go up,” he said.

The girl nodded.

“That's probably what Tolstoy thought,” said the boy, his own throat rattling like a jail key in a jar, “you know, because War And Peace was so long.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever read War And Peace?”

“No.”

“Me neither."

The girl’s phone rang. She answered it and headed outside. I noticed what book the girl had been reading and I felt close to homesick. The boy fiddled with random books, which, for whatever reason, confirmed to me that he was inexperienced with women.

“Kid, either your head or your heart is going to explode if you keep up with that storm you call affection,” I said, my eyes still roving the books.

“I‘m sorry?”

“I dated that girl years ago. Not her, obviously, but somebody close. And I’ve gathered you’re in love with her.”

“Well, I don't know if it's love.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost 16.”

“It will be.”

“What will be?”

“I don’t know. You tell me,” I said, finally turning to look at him.

He stared emptily at me, which is quite a feat for teenagers, as their heads, if I remember it correctly, are like roomfuls of typewriters.

“I think I’m going to go see if everything’s alright,” he said, moving past me towards the exit.

“She's already found out about Vonnegut, hasn’t she?”

The boy stopped and came back. “Yeah. How did you know that? She's been reading him a lot lately.”

“And what do you read?”

“Whatever my teachers tell me to.”

I shook my head. “That’s not good enough, kid. Pretty soon, that girl’s going to be finishing A Clockwork Orange while you're just starting The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. If you want the intellectual, you can’t be young. You have to be smarter than age.”

“How do I do that?” the boy said asked sincerely.

“You make youth last.”

“I thought you said I can’t be young.”

“You’re only young until you’re old. If you make youth last, there’s no such thing as older.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you don’t, but I’m a lot older than you.”

“I thought you said there was no such thing as older.”

“That’s only if you make youth last.”

“You didn’t?”

“No,” I said definitely.

“What happened?”

“Like I told you before, I loved the same girl when I was your age.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t love her right.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong?”

“You don’t get to know.”

“Oh, sorry for prying.”

“Prying? Kid, I've been breaking and entering into your life for the last few minutes. No, I mean you don’t get to know because it'll ruin your chances with that girl outside. All I’m saying is you better tell her how you feel before she discovers Bukowski.”

“Why?”

“Because then it means she’s already read between the lines of Hemingway.”

The girl reappeared and I glided away like a specter, down the aisle, rummaging through the books until I found it. I opened up the copy of A Farewell To Arms I had seen so many times on my night table, on her night table and in the bookstore these last few years.

In an instant, I was sick.

My hands became oil-starved machines, creaking as they moved the pages with something that should’ve resembled grace. I read her name and my name on the title page and what I had written in between. Squeezing my eyes for a moment, I moved with an anguished fury to the counter and finally bought the goddamn thing. The cashier asked me if I was ok. I nodded and stalked back to the teenage boy as if the book was a gun. I shoved it into him and said, “Always believe there’s a future in the present, not a past.”

Mockery, Beatings & Pie: The Ideal Relationship

I think my ideal relationship is a girl constantly making fun of me for almost everything until I beat her bloody and we laugh about it while eating pie.