The Fifth Time Manny Furious saw Lemon Crush….

Image result for lemon crush

It was a late night at work. They all were at that point. It was 8:30 now. Most of the therapists who worked at Rio Frio Medical Center were gone now. At home, watching Netflix, writing political posts on Facebook, eating Popeye’s. Living The Life, essentially.

Golly, how did he end up here, Manny Furious wondered. He spent the first 30 years of his life doing everything in his power to avoid working a “9-5” gig, including (but not limited to) becoming an alcoholic and trying to become a professional writer. And, yet, here he was, longing for a 9-5 job. As it stood now, he was working an 8:00am-9:00pm job, and as he wandered the dimly-lit, spooky-silent hallways of the Rio Frio Medical Center, he was lost in his own memory, trying to find some sort of pathway that helped him understand how he had gotten himself into such a revolting situation.

He had always found work in general distasteful. He never understood the concept of the “dignity” of work politicians were always blathering on about. Sure, some jobs were respectable. Some jobs were dignified. He sometimes liked to watch Japanese sushi chefs or soba chefs ply their crafts on youtube videos. He was mesmerized by how “in the moment” they were when they did their work. Furious had read about the psychological concept of “flow,” wherein one basically becomes one with the Dao, like in all those silly stories in the Zhuangzi. That what chefs were doing, very obviously–they were so attuned with their craft, that The Cosmos were able to do whatever the hell it wanted through them. And for some reason, The Cosmos wanted to make sushi and soba noodles of extremely delicate and pervasive flavor.

But there was also purpose, and technique, and a tangible product to give to someone when it was all over. The results of their effort was clear and inarguable. They either were successful conduits of The Cosmos’s need to produce delightful culinary concoctions, or they weren’t. The customer would be the final arbirter, and even if was only in the mind of the customer, there was no real question about the results.

Furious often thought perhaps he should’ve been a chef, or a blacksmith, or even a newspaper reporter, day-in and day-out exploring the finer intricacies and nuances of the inverted pyramid. He wanted to be a craftsman. He wanted an opportunity to perfect something, and to master something, and to…just… kind of know what he was doing.

But never a carpenter. No. That was the exception. There was something about woodwork that always made Furious feel nauseous with tedium. He wasn’t quite sure where it came from or why, but it was there, nonetheless.

Regardless, he was none of those things. He was a “Family Networks Education Recovery Deliminator” which is as vague of a job title as one can have, basically, which, in Furious’s mind, said a lot. There seemed to be a direct correlation between the clarity of a job title and the amount of craftsmanship associated with the duties of that title. Sushi chef–you chef sushi. Soba chef–you chef soba. Carpenter–you carpen. Assistant Director of Special Projects and Development–you perform and generate tasks that are just as confused and jumbled as your job title. And, as a Family Networks Education Recovery Deliminator all Furious really knew was he met with a certain number of families from time to time, tried to help them get along better, tried to be likable to the families and generally just tried to do enough work to not get fired. There was no clear-cut delineation of duties or responsibilities. As part of his education in college, he took a semester of “Professional Ethics” and the only clear-cut responsibilities he even had, ethically, was not to fuck his clients, not to kill his clients and not to encourage them to kill themselves or anyone else. That was basically it. That, and to call the cops if a client was threatening to kill themselves and/or others. Beyond that, he remembers the professor shrugging a lot and making a weird honking noise when asked about literally any of the other ethical scenarios that arose in the class.

Still, ethics aren’t “craft.” They’re just things you do or don’t do. And not fucking his clients was easy enough. He wasn’t attracted to kids and he wasn’t attracted to men. He worked with unhappy families, which meant that he got to see all the mothers and grandmothers and step-mothers, and foster-mothers he worked with at their emotion nadirs. And when he saw a woman in the midst of an emotional and existential breakdown because she discovered her 16-year-old step-son had been smoking pot, it put something of a damper on any sexual charge that might have been possible in those moments. On top of that, he was privy to what medications they were on, and why they were on them, and knowing such things would give him vertigo and a migraine just thinking about having even the remotest bit of an unprofessional relationship with any of them.

Where was the craft, he wondered. Why can’t I get lost in the process? What even is the process of what he does? Be charming, help people use more neutral language when describing what’s upsetting them, and suggest basically common-sense changes in behaviors for when they get home?

That was it.

It wasn’t like making sushi.

Anyhow, this is what he was thinking about. He could feel that his eyes were bloodshot. There was present that prickly little heaviness one feels when one just needs to sleep. And his shoulders were heavy, and his lower back ached.

For awhile he felt being a worker drone was at least better than being an alcoholic, but now, tonight, he wasn’t so sure.

It was all so grim.

And then it wasn’t.

For, as he was walking back to his office, to type up the last of his notes, he suddenly found, ahead of him in the hallway by about ten feet or so, a shapely, seemingly-young women in shiny, cheetah-print pants. Her booty was perky, and it wiggled with a feminine rhythm.

Suddenly he wasn’t walking anymore. He felt himself floating. Flowing even. This is what the legendary Daoist master, Liezi, famous for being able to walk on the wind, must’ve felt like. It was almost as if he were being dragged or swept ahead by a current or a magnetic energy of some kind. And he could feel it–a subtle tingle in the air that somehow made the atmosphere in the hallway a little lighter, and less crowded. And just before he caught up to the woman she turned around to see who was behind her–

It was Lemon Crush. She smiled softly and chuckled slightly (possibly because she noticed Furious was floating in mid-air) and turned her head back around.

And usually this would be the part where Furious’s brain would short itself and lose all power and functioning… but this time it didn’t happen. This time it seemed to find another level of operation, and almost as though The Cosmos themselves were acting through Furious, he opened his mouth, and spoke. And actual words came out. And they made sense. And they seemed to make Lemon happy.

“I’m not following you, I swear,” he had said. And when she turned to look back at him, he continued: “I’m not trying to be a creeper or anything. At least I won’t be for much longer.”

Lemon chuckled a bit less softly. “So you’re admitting you’re a creeper,” she said.

“Not a big one. Not a scary one. Just don’t let anyone else know. Then I won’t be able to sneak up on any of them anymore.”



Obviously he (or The Cosmos) wasn’t (weren’t) particularly adept at this small-talk-with-painfully-beautiful-women thing, but it was working.

She laughed again. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. But only if you promise you’ll let me be a creeper with you next time.”

“You want to creep with me?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“I don’t know about that. It’s an exclusive club.”

“Being a creeper is an exclusive club.”

“Being a non-creepy creeper is an exclusive club. I don’t know if you would be able to handle it.”

“Being a non-creepy creeper?”


“Why not?”

“Because you’re too normal. Gotta be a little weird to pull it off.”

Lemon gasped, and her jaw dropped enough that even in the dark hallway, Furious could see her tongue. “That’s the rudest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time, Manny Furious.”

“That you’re not weird?”

“That I’m normal. I have dark side. I’m not basic. I’m weirder than you think.”

“You’re probably right. I should’ve been able to tell by those pants you’re wearing.”

She gasped again.

Furious continued, “I mean, those are really nice pants. I like them. But, like, look at them. They light up the entire hallway.”

She laughed again.

“I was scared when I first started creeping on you. I thought you were a real cheetah at first. But then I remembered real cheetahs don’t glow in the dark.”

Lemon sucked her teeth and gave Furious a soft jab on the shoulder. “That’s not nice.”

Furious shrugged.

Lemon then asked why he was working this late, and Furious stated that he pretty much always works this late. Then he asked why she was working this late, and she said that because it’s a new policy in her department that every Behavioral Analytics Systems Intervention Information Coordinator has to work one late night per week, so that they could meet with clients after the clients get off of work.

Then they nodded awkwardly at each other, and stood outside Furious’s door awkwardly for a few moments, said goodnight and went their separate ways.

Furious went into his office. He didn’t turn on the light. There was a window in his office that looked out below to the staff parking lot behind the medical center. He didn’t know what he was doing. He was just standing there, looking out the window. He was three floors up, and it was high enough for him gaze out on Rio Frio for several blocks. The town was glowing in the darkness–the emetic, oozing yellow of the street lamps, the weird excitement of the whites and blues of some of the businesses in town, the warmth of the porch lights on the houses. It was mid-winter, and the trees were dead, but there was enough light to see their dark skeletons. It was a calm night, a gentle night. He stared out into the clear, windless night for an indeterminable moment of time. Time ceased to exist suddenly. All there was was the vortex of the void.

He didn’t know what had just happened, but as he looked out that window, there was a serenity he hadn’t felt in some time. He was as calm and rooted as the dead trees, and, in an inarticulate way, just as dark and shadowy. But suddenly things seemed possible. He wasn’t sure what seemed possible. Maybe nothing, but possibility itself was possible. But he didn’t feel trapped and anxious, the world, for that momentless moment seemed to stop squeezing him for life.

But, still, all he could think to do was take a deep breath to breath in all that possibility, sigh to let as little of it out as he could, return to Time itself, and get his notes done.


Fat Milo’s apocalyptic moonbeam was almost complete. There was some fine-tuning left to finish, sure. Some bolts to tighten, some knobs to loosen, a nozzle or two to adjust. But the thing that worried him most– and the thing that had motivated him to take to the moonbeam’s construction with a half-dedicated procrastination– was the Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux. It was the part of the moonbeam that made the moonbeam a moonbeam. It was a palm-sized piece of glass that was responsible for conjuring up the antimatter. This made it extremely dangerous, particularly in the hands of someone like Fat Milo, whose attention was so easily diverted at the exact wrong moments because he preferred to think about things as opposed to, you know, doing them. And if the Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux was stimulated to life at just the wrong moment, all that would happen is that a small nuclear explosion would take place, instantaneously vaporizing Fat Milo and any piece of matter within a 16 mile radius.

Well…perhaps “vaporize” is not the proper term, here. The matter wouldn’t so much as vaporize as just simply cease to exist. Once the antimatter collided with the matter, it would all just transform instantaneously into the utter and profound Nothingness that all of Somethingness springs from.

Anyhow, now was the time. The rest of the laser gun was complete. All that was left was to place the Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux in it’s proper assemblage, aim the barrel toward the giant-ass target that was the moon, turn on the moonbeam and simply sit back and witness the end of the world.

But to what purpose? What was the point of this selfish self-destruction? To what ends was Fat Milo directing his actions?

Well, essentially, he was tired of going to work every day.

Fat Milo had seen a show on the Science Channel one evening, discussing how the Earth would be affected if someone had decided to blow up the moon. It would be bedlam. Molten hot moonpieces would fall to the earth, destroying cities and leading to a mass destruction of life. Plus, he figured, the sheer monumental eventfulness of the moon being decimated would certainly warrant a day or two off from work.

This might seem like an obscenely excessive and brazen escalation of effort on Fat Milo’s part. However, you need to remember that this was the guy who, as a high school kid, was so desperate to get out of wrestling practice that he once spent two weeks tunneling through the subterranean landscape of Rio Frio High School in order to sneak into the wrestling room early one winter morning, before classes started (before the buses had even left the garage) and carve up all the wrestling mats with an ex-acto knife, thereby rendering them wholly useless as apparati.

We can ignore the fact that the wrestling coach simply adjusted by having the wrestling team wrestle outside, in the cold, on top of a frozen football field, which Fat Milo found even more distasteful. The point is that instead of simply quitting the team and moving on with life, Fat Milo thought it reasonable to enact a–essentially–overly-convoluted villainous action movie B-plot so that he could go home and eat cereal and watch reruns on Nickelodeon after school.

And now, instead of simply quitting his job and finding something that was more agreeable with his skills, motivation and temperament, he was going to mount a cataclysmic scheme that would impact every resident of the planet Earth (much like–it should be noted–that his plan to avoid wrestling practice would’ve and should’ve affected every member of the team who actually wanted to be at practice, as well as all the prospective opponents of the wrestling team, who would be competing against a compromised shell of a wrestling team who had to practice in the outdoors, on frozen grass).

This was Fat Milo’s M.O. His aunt, El Chupacabra the Apathetic, used to tell Fat Milo, “I think you’re overthinking things,” such as when Fat Milo posed the theory that the entire history of Zen Buddhism had been a lie, and that the entire purpose had been to send an endless procession of schmucks, such as himself, into a state of nihilistic confusion.

“Either meditate or don’t meditate,” El Chupacabra had stated. “But get out of your own head a bit. The point of Zen is simply to act and not think so much about stupid shit. Save your masturbation tactics for the shower.”

When the moonbeam was complete, Fat Milo took a deep breath. It was a cool summer night somewhere in the backwoods of Crestone, Colorado. These were the same woods where some yokels named El Crow, Pedolo and Lone Wolf had sworn under oath that they had stumbled upon a satanic cult in the midst of a terrible blood-ritual while they were searching for the ever-elusive chupacabra–the beast, not the sham philosopher. The trio had described at first seeing a large bonfire in the distance, as the woods and hills gave way to flat desert land in the Valley. And then, drunk off their own curiosity, they followed the flames to a repugnant ceremony of animal slaughter and spirit-conjuring by a rather disturbingly large group of people draped in capes and sporting what seemed to be spooky Chinese opera masks.

Fat Milo frowned upon such people as El Crow, Pedolo and Lone Wolf. He felt them stupid. They didn’t think about things enough. Always acting on scant information and gut feelings. Always accepting their mistaken and illusory perceptions of things. Always reacting to their emotions and feeble desires. “Not me,” he said to himself. “I am above that.” He did, after all, read profound, meaningful, world-saving books by such luminaries as Eckhart Tolle, Deepak Chopra and Artemis Magnussen.

And when he finished jerking his psyche off to such pornographic ideas of himself, he flipped the switch that would forever alter the nature of an entire planet all so he could garner a couple of days off of work without dipping into his sick leave.

…But it didn’t work.

He flipped the switch again.


He flipped it several times quickly, the clicking of the switch sounding something like the flapping of a dragonfly’s wings.

Still nothing.

He kicked the moonbeam over with a front snap kick. The weapon hit the ground and separated into several dozen useless pieces. The Inverted Particle Capacitator Flux didn’t even create a small quasi-anti-thermonuclear explosion when it collided with the ground, as his calculations suggested it probably would. It simply broke in half and sizzled a small stream of smoke which smelled like concentrated ozone and burnt popcorn.

“ARGHHH,” he growled. “What the fuck?!”

He began his dejected hike back down from the woods into civilization when, upon passing by a lone tree near the bottom of the hills, he felt a warm drop of something fall upon his forehead.

Then another.

And another.

He pulled out his cell-phone to use a flashlight app to shine a light upon the tips of his fingers, which he had used to wipe whatever it was that had fallen upon his brow.

The liquid was dark purple, almost black. And behind him, somebody stated, suddenly:

“We have no idea who you are, but we’ve been waiting for you.”

She was wearing a spooky purple Chinese opera mask, except, for all his self-perceived swells of knowledge, Fat Milo did not know what kind of mask it was, simply that it was spooky.

And off in the distance, down in the Valley, he could see a rather large bonfire which shone like a small city in the wilderness.

A bit of a weirdo, but not hazardous by any means….

Last evening, during a walk, it struck me how beautiful the dead trees throughout the neighborhood looked against the evening sky. So I took out my phone and started taking pictures.

Don’t do this.

I was taking pictures of a tree outside a house and the owner walked out and was like, “What are you doing here, bro?”

And I was like, “Taking picture of this tree.”

And he was like, “Why? Huh?”

And I said, “Because it looks pretty against the sky.”

At this point he must’ve assumed I was just high, or otherwise cognitively compromised, and he seemed to calm down, but just to assuage his fears a little more, I said, “My name is Manny, man. I live just down the street at 139. I know it looks weird, and I am a bit of a weirdo, but I’m not hazardous by any means.”

He turned out to be a pretty cool dude.

Anyway, I think, “A bit of a weirdo, but not hazardous by any means,” should go on my tombstone.

Dead, black tree branches

silhouetted against an

electric blue sky

–A real, true-blue hydra

except I am no Hercules

 She’s mad at me too–

a squirrel across the street

gives me the stink eye

 Whoa! Watch my step please–

I almost didn’t see you

Brown caterpillar

Walking through the streets–

I dodge some angry vatos

and mounds of dog shit

Random Manny Furious Journal Entry: Really good tortillas and posted-up cholos….

I’ve lived in Pueblo, Colorado for a little more than a year-and-a-half now. It’s an interesting place. Lots of vagabonds and hoodlums, and the locals are all overweight and smoke. Drug use runs rampant, and it’s one of those small towns you see on the evening news every so often for having an obscene murder rate. In fact, we made the national news the past couple of months, once for the arrest of a white supremacist who was planning to blow up a synagogue here, and more recently for a murderous rampage some dude went on with a literal axe.

Denver Broncos paraphernalia abound, with flags hanging out of every other home on Sundays, and mailboxes and automobiles all decked out in a blue and orange ugly, pissed-off horse. All of the milquetoast east coast and midwest transplants to Colorado avoid this place almost as much as they avoid having personalities.

All of which is to say, I enjoy Pueblo immensely on most days. But one disappointing aspect has been the dearth of worthwhile Mexican restaurants. This problem isn’t unique to Pueblo, by any means. 20 years ago, Colorado was rife with delicious Mexican-American food. You could get distracted and somehow end up in a shithole restaurant with a hot, delicious plate of chile rellenos and beans sitting in front of you, unsure of how it happened. But in the interim, something has happened and now you can’t find a decent Mexican restaurant even with the help of word of mouth and a GPS. Colorado Springs is, unsurprisingly, more moribund than Pueblo on such matters. But the real disappointment is Denver. Denver is of course large enough to have, by sheer probability, a handful of decent Mexican restaurants, but it’s pathetic how few and far in between they are.

You settle for “okay” or “fine” Mexican-American offerings, but The Soul Remembers. The Soul Remembers that there used to be something called, “Decent Mexican food that wasn’t made at home” and it remembers that you used to eat it, and it remembers that it felt good. And so it’s never quite satisfied when you pay actual money for “fine” or “okay.” It knows something is missing, and it wanders the spiritual realm without you, scouring and hoping for any semblance of what it Remembers.

These enchiladas–

I keep chewing and chewing

but all the flavor

stays trapped inside somewhere

my teeth can’t seem to get to

Anyhow, there is a “decent” taqueria in town. Adolfo’s has a northside location and southside location. They’re, in a philosophical sense, the same restaurant, but the southside location tends to be “pretty good” while the northside location is just “pretty decent.” They both have really good tortillas, though. My issue with the southside location is that everything time I go there, there’s some creepy-looking cholo posted up outside of the restaurant, I’m assuming trying to look hazardous. It’s not the same guy every time. It’s always a different dude. But it’s the same vibe. Usually he’s wearing a big, puffy coat, smoking and trying to evoke an air of toughness. He wants to be intimidating because he is better at violence than you are. He may be selling drugs, but mostly these guys just stare at you and make you want to go home and take a shower and check the sex offender registry. You walk past them when you go in, and you walk past them on your way out, and they don’t say anything or do anything. they just stand there and be fucking weird.

And there’s more than one of them.

I have no point. Just that, it’s hard to get to get some quick, easy Mexican food, and in order to do so you have to deal with these weirdos.

Anyway, the best Mexican place I’ve been to in Pueblo is Garlic and Onions. But I haven’t been to all of them yet.

Cloudy Pueblo day–

Some geese fly overhead and

sing traveler’s songs….

Pizza in his mouth

–a neighborhood squirrel

runs across my fence.

Lazy Sunday morn–

All I want to do is watch

porn and write poems. 

Cognitive Restructuring….

Today was one of those stone-cold bummer days at work. Everything was wrong. Everything went wrong. Everybody hated me and everything I stood for. Nobody hesitated to let me know about it.

None of it was personal, of course. It’s always business, never personal. That’s the truth. Life isn’t personal, it just feels like it is sometimes. But being middle-management means I have to enforce the stupid rules that I have in no way influenced, and I have to get yelled out by the people below me who have to adhere to those rules.

My job is I’m a counselor who supervises other counselors at a community mental health agency. This means the vast majority of our clients are impoverished. This means that counseling is not really going to fix most of these people’s problems. No amount of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy is going to help someone pay their rent. No amount of Cognitive Restructuring is going to make sure their next door neighbors aren’t gang-bangers and drug dealers.

Stuff like that.

Lazy day at work

I look outside my window

Watching the Snowfall

Drive outside of town

To watch some porn on my phone

During my lunchtime

Anyway, I had to work late. It was a typical early December evening. It was pitch black when I left the office at 7:00pm. There was leftover snow throughout the parking lot and on the tree skeletons that lined and dotted the parking lot at weird and only semi-coherent intervals. It’s a huge parking lot. Three times, at least, the size of the actual building I work in. And the building I work in is fairly large. It houses the department where I work and the 30 employees therein, a computer lab, a pharmacy, four medical clinics, the entire billing, business information and quality improvement staffs, and a 60-day inpatient substance abuse program.

Anyhow, I was about halfway through the parking lot when I realized I had been running late earlier, and had parked much closer to the building than I typically do, and I shifted directions to make a sharp turn toward the location of my 2012 Nissan Rogue (a grandma’s car if ever there was one), I stepped absentmindedly onto one of the concrete medians separating rows of parking spaces from each other and smacked my head onto the lower branch of one of those tree skeletons.

A punch of snow fell onto my head and onto the ground. The pain was immediate and it felt as though my neck had actually taken the brunt of the impact. I became woozy and ill. It took me a moment to come back fully to life, and I once the coolness of the snow melted, I felt something warm on my skull. I placed a finger there on the warmth and when I removed it, a dab of blood ran down my finger.

I had managed to cut my head on the tree.

It was the perfect end to such an imperfect day. I got into my Rogue and completed the thirty minute ride home is as much silence as I could maintain.

Ice on the roadway

Hidden under the darkness

–I court my own death

Memo from the Empty Suit re: Wearing Superhero-themed Socks with Work Attire….

Good Morning and Happy Monday, All.

This email is to remind you that here at Rio Frio Medical Center we pride ourselves on the professionalism and high-end care we provide to our consumers. They are, and always will be, our number one priority. In fact, it is our mission to provide holistic, integrated, coordinated, evidence-based services to the people of Rio Frio County and its surrounding areas. As long as they have medicaid. Remember that, too, because some of you think we take regular insurance here, and we don’t. Only medicaid. If they don’t have medicaid, they are not a consumer and can go get care somewhere else.

With all that said, part of providing professional and skillful care to our consumers is by presenting ourselves in a professional manner. Part of being a professional is looking the part. Hence RFMC policies such as no visible tattoos, no visible piercings other than on the ear, no jeans, and no hiring of anybody too good looking because that would just be distracting. The exact policy is Addendum 7.23 in the Policies and Procedures Manual and can be found–just as a reminder–prior to Statute 6.69 where we discuss why anal sex is not allowed by any RFMC employee who is not on the executive team. All such policies were encouraged to be implemented by Haskell and Associates, the consultation firm, you might remember, we paid $120,000 last June to come and tell us how to make more money.

Of course, there are gaps in such policies, as it is difficult for even a literal empty suit like me to foresee all the unprofessional behaviors staff will try to get away with. And, as such, please be advised that the policy has been updated to include superhero-themed socks as prohibited work attire. Subsection 2.46 specifies that all of the following non-superhero-themed pop-culture intellectual properties are included in the prohibition:

Start Wars

Harry Potter

Lord of the Rings

Looney Tunes (Please note that sub-subsection 1.23 includes Merrie Melodies under this definition.)

The Simpsons

Family Guy

Breaking Bad

Japanese or any non-American animation of any kind

Bernie Sanders

Disney princesses and Game of Thrones themed apparel will be allowed on Fridays, as part of casual Fridays, because myself and the rest of administration all enjoys these properties.

Staff who fail to comply with such policies will be placed on a Professional Improvement Plan and if they continue to neglect adherence, will be staffed for termination.

Please remember that we on the executive team respect and appreciate all that you do. You, the staff, are the engine of this company. We are a team, a tribe, a family and I would like you to keep in mind your role as a family member whenever you’re asked to work more than 40 hours a week without pay.

Thank you and Merry Christmas.

–The Empty Suit, MS, MBA, PH.D.

CEO, Rio Frio Medical Center.

The Fourth Time Manny Furious saw Lemon Crush….

Rio Frio Medical Center is a designated 401c3 nonprofit, “Community Medical Center” offering “comprehensive”, “holistic”, “coordinated”, medical and mental health, and preventative care, primarily to residents of Rio Frio and its surrounding counties poor and impoverished enough to qualify for what, in the year of our lord 2016, was called “medicaid” benefits.

What all that means is that the institution received (and continues to receive)millions of government dollars in the form of “medicaid capitation” and another million or so dollars in the form of various government and private grants.

While ostensibly a noble task, in practice its a little less so. What such a set-up does is funnel all the poor and impoverished people into one place to get their healthcare needs met. And since the amount of money the institution receives in medicaid funding–its primary funding source by several million–is directly related to the percentage of people receiving medicaid benefits in the Rio Frio region who enroll for services at Rio Frio Medical Center, the real goal of the institution is to get as many poor people into the door as possible. it is a medical care factory. industrialized, efficieny, streamlined, corporatized, consumerized. Getting an industrial amount of people into and out of healre is done under the guise of “providing proper care” to “consumers.” But, its purpose is neoliberal in nature–it’s really about capitalizing on a market demand to make vast sums of money for “the system.” So, in the defense of the Empty Suit and its flunkies, they, themselves, are not raking in the millions for themselves. All that sweet, gushing government money goes back into The System, so that The Systm may perpetuate as long as medicaid dollars exist. And when that change… then–and only then–so too will The System.

The Empty Suit and its cronies are not totally blameless or innocent, however. They all make six figures for the sole purpose of keeping The System satiated and health and capable of its asexual form of reproduction, which, in the terms of the business is called “expansion” or “growth.” They are nurses, caregivers for the system. They foster it, nurture it, and keep it alive and thriving. They do this by not actually being in the office very much. Instead, they are out and about attending conferences and state senate meetings where they eat steak and rub shoulders with politicians and other legislative/philanthropic geeks, whom the Empty Suit and its groupies will attempt to seduce into loosening up their economic sphincters and shitting out even more money to feed The System.

The–the Empty Suit and his minions–even get company cars and private jets so that they can rush back from such meetings to put more pressure on the healthcare provers to somehow see more patience, document more thoroughly, bill more substantially, and pledge fealty to The System more dogmatically–all in the same amount of worktime and same pay they’ve had since the turn of the millenium when workloads were far less draconian.

All of which leads to high provider burnout and turnover. Most of the best therapists, for example, will do a two year sentence at Rio Frio Med to get the proper professional licensing credential, as well as any relevant professional training paid for, before leaving to go start a private practice (cash only) or try to work at a college somewhere. Meanwhile their positions at Rio Frio Med (RFMC) are filled by over-their-head novices and/or apathetic burnouts who lack the creativity to do something different with their lives.

Then, on top of all that, providers are limited in what kind of services they can provide to clients/patients/”consumers”, because medicaid (the government) of course doesn’t want to pay for any of this, it’s its own system, with its own survival instinct, so you can’t ever provide a service that might be helpful, if it’s not “evidence based” for a particular malady for the simple fact that medicaid won’t pay for anything medicaid doesn’t want to pay for, and RFMC doesn’t want that, obviously.

Hence: compromised and not-as-effective-as-it-should-or-could-be medical/mental health care.

So…the poor people do what the system wants them to do best–be exploited. Make money for others. Provide gristle for the mill, as it were. The system needs calories, and it will gladly take it from the marrow of the poor. And the cheaper, the better.

I bring all of this up as a rather longwinded, roundabout preamble for emphasizing just how utterly and inexcusably superfluous and gratuitous RFMC’s yearly Hard Cider Fest fundraiser is. Held every July, it is a popular social and networking event in the greater northwestern New Mexico region, bringing visitors from the nearest four counties, at least, and from as far away as Farmington and Taos.

Even so, after calculating for the literal monetary costs of putting on the event–including the costs of paying for the manpower, venue and prizes–it, on average, going on its 10th year, now, clears about $75,000 each time. That’s about 1/80 to 1/100 of the yearly operating budge of RFMC, and, roughly, would pay for the salary of one nurse, if that’s what they used the money on.

Therefore, it seems self-explanatory about what the event is really about–smug self-congratulation. And, also, I suppose, for the affected, awkward attempts of the administrative staff–the Empty Suit and its cronies, and their cronies of the cronies (pure, distilled American Mediocrity down to their khakis, pink skin, phony smiles and forced nonchalant allusions to Malcolm Gladwell dropped mid-conversation)–to act human.

Furious was a recovering alcoholic, of course. But he attended the event his first year working at the medical center out of a modest curiosity, and slightly less modest boredom.

Over 40 types of hard cider were served the year he went, from more than a dozen cider mills–pear, apple, peach, currant, plum, even pomegranate. There were ciders that supposedly paired well with brunch prime rib and lunch quiche and dinner fish–but none, Furious noted, that paired all that well with is grim hate and self-loathing.

In his drinking days, Furious didn’t drink much cider. He always enjoyed the flavor, but he was an American Male back then, even if he denied it, and thus insecure. Having a penis and testicles and the general feelings of just being male wasn’t enough. Like all American Males, he had to prove to himself he was a man. And so, something as innocuous and irrelevant as drinking alcohol that didn’t taste like something that was trying to kill you sent shivers through his delicate sense of masculinity, and he avoided mixed drinks, wine and any other alcohol–including cider–that tasted ok.

Now, back at the Cider Fest, he found himself enjoying the food–hors d’oeuvres of bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers, bacon-wrapped scallops, bacon-wrapped smoked vienna sausages, bacon-wrapped turkey bacon, etc. Robust offerings. As manly and masculine as finger foods could be.

He was standing at a table serving dessert ciders, because that particularly table was also serving bacon-wrapped yogurt pretzels.

He felt himself leaning. There was a source static electricity of sorts in the air, somewhere, and it was pulling at his arm, leg and head hairs like a charged balloon. It was subtle, but it was present.

And soon it was getting stronger. He felt as if he was going to be shocked. As if someone had just slid down a plastic slide and was hovering somewhere behind him.

Was this an anxiety attack, he wondered. A stroke? What was this feeling? This vague nervousness?

Just then, he knew it when he saw her. Lemon Crush was present and had made her way over to the dessert ciders.

“Ooooh,” she cooed. “this one’ smy favorite.” She held up a bottle of Floraison, a cherry cider that was brewed three hours north in the San Juan mountains of Colorado.

She was gorgeous, Furious thought, in that exact word–gorgeous. She was wearing a short red dress that accentuating the turns of her curves, and her hazel eyes were extra green that evening. But, again, it wasn’t just her appearance. There was a holistic gorgeousness to her, and, as far as he was concerned, it a brazen act of the Universe.

He froze looking at her. Her beauty was gorgonizing, but not from any magical serpents writhing form her skull. Her beauty wasn’t blinding, per se, but, sure, it was arresting, like a summer sunset, when the summer’s air starts to cool, and the sky seems to be infinite shades of orange and purple and pink.

It wasn’t just some physical, primal, evolutionary reaction of a sort. At least, it didn’t feel that way. There was a spooky energy between the two. Furious swore the very air around her changed hues ever so slightly when she approached, and on his end, he felt a subtle buzz throughout his body, as though he had gone swimming in a pool that had been slightly electrified by a short in one of its filtering systems.

“Hubba-da,” Furious mumbled.

He glanced a the bottle of cider Lemon held up. He was familiar with the brand and the flavor of it. if that was really her favorite, he thought her taste was too basic, too inelegant, too unrefined. It was a far too sweet of a cider. One may as well drink straight cherry juice, or a cherry soda, even, for at least the sweetness of those drinks would be sullied by the slight wince of alcohol.

But he couldn’t say that out loud, of course. Even he knew that. Don’t besmirch a beautiful woman’s choice of drink.

Or should he?

Wasn’t this what “negging” was about? Establish the high ground with her, by slightly and playfully insulting her. he had read that somewhere, some time, neither of which he could remember. And he had been repulsed by the idea, but–

“What are you drinking?” Lemon interrupted.

“I’m not drinking.”

“Yes you are,” she insisted slightly incredulously and nodding toward the drink in Furious’s hand.

“It’s just seltzer water.”

He wanted to say something smooth, clever, funny. but all he heard in his mind was a bewildering darkness. His mind was so devoid of thoughts that when he attempted to search for any, all he found was a colorless, soundless, tasteless void. In retrospect he would wonder if Lemon had accidentally put him in the mythic Buddhist state of Samadhi.

In the meantime, Lemon smushed her face together and the skin on her nose crumbled into rolls. “Why are you drinking seltzer water?”

“It’s a long story,” said Furious.

But it wasn’t a long story at all. He had a drinking problem. He was an alcoholic. He was in “recovery.” Any which way he chose to tell the story would be quite brief.

“Well, what are you eating?” She asked. The server was filling her glass with the deep, royal, maroon dessert cider.

“Bacon-wrapped something or another.”

“Sounds yummy.”

Furious shrugged.

“Here, taste this,” Lemon offered Furious her own glass.

He looked at the glass.

He looked at Lemon.

He looked at the glass.

He looked at Lemon.

“Take it, silly,” she said. “My arm’s getting tired.”

“Also,” the server at the table added. “There’s a line of people, and you’re holding it up…sir.” He motioned to the line of about 15 people pretending to be patient, as they waited on some moron not drinking cider at the Cider Fest to take a drink of cider being offered by a beautiful woman at the Cider Fest.

Furious took the glass and took a drink.

“Tastes like cherry juice,” he said, trying to somehow make a declarative sentence into a joke.

Lemon took the glass back and said, so excitedly she almost growled, “I know! That’s why I like it.

“Tootles,” she cooed as she turned and walked away.

Furious watched her as she ambled all the way back to the table she was sitting at. She shared the table with several of the RFMC administrators, women i nevening dresses and men in slacks and ties with job titles like, “Assistant Associate Director of Supervisors of Quality Compliance,” and “Team Lead of Managers of Business Information and Analytics.”

The MBAs had long since gotten their bloody little claws on nonprofits, and here we were.

But he didn’t see Captain Colt Crush anywhere. He stared for several moments and assumed he–Captain Colt Crush–must’ve been working a shift that evening.

“Sir,” the server stated. He was wearing a maroon vest and bowtie with a white button-up and black slacks. He looked familiar, but Furious couldn’t place him.

“Yeah, I know,” Furious replied, distractedly, still attuned to the movements of Lemon. “I’m holding up the line.”

“Well, sure, but…you’re gonna fall, I think.”

Furious’s mind returned to itself, and he realized he was once again leaning toward her vicinity in that physics-defying, anti-physiologically possible manner that only Lemon could summon.

He leaned himself back into physiologically-coherent position, cleared his throat and went home.

Feats of Derring-Do….

Fat Milo was one of the greatest rap lyricists you would have ever heard. But he was a five-foot nothing, 100 pound, light-skinned/haired egghead from Rio Frio, New Mexico and all of that made for about the exact opposite of what is required for successful hip hop endeavors. Manny Furious always felt silly insisting to people that Fat Milo was one of the greatest living rappers, but it was the truth, and he meant it. Furious was the type of person who enjoyed the idea of supporting your local artists–whether painting, music, movies, whatever– until it was actually time to do so and then he realized most local artists suck. He always wanted to support local artists, he really did, but he would’ve also like them to be good. Milo was good.

Anyhow, Fat Milo tried that for several years to construct something of a career rapping, even managing to hook up with various crews and outfits from throughout the Rio Frio region, but with no success. Then he went into a downward tailspin for about two years where all he did was smoke weed and work at a gas station and have sex with the type of women who liked to drink Bud Light Lime-a-ritas and who found feminine looking men attractive. That’s also around the time when he started gaining weight.

“People call me fat,” he said, “but I only weigh 180 pounds.”

“Yeah,” Furious said. “But you’re five-feet tall and you’re almost twice the person you were. You’re kind of fat, dude.”

“What can I say, they brought a Taco Bell to town.”

Then, one day he woke up after a long night of smoking weed and watching MMA fights, and had a realization. He had seen on TV a man with a tattoo that said, “Playing it safe kills your soul.” The man was good looking, well-built, adventurous. Milo figured the man probably had little trouble getting laid so he immediately came to idolize the man. He took the message of the tattoo to heart. He immediately posted the quote on his facebook page and his twitter account.

He broke up with his girlfriend of two years, whom he had met some time when he began his spiral, and whom had been about three levels beyond his league. She was a robust vixen. Curvy in all the right places. The physical embodiment of sensual pleasure who performed feats of such sexual derring-do and sophistication that most men would’ve killed to switch places with Milo. And several did try.

“Staying with her was simply playing it safe, bro,” Milo said.

Then he dropped out of school. Always a kid of greater intelligence than most, he was prevented from fulfilling his academic potential only by his natural laziness. An attribute that was only exacerbated by the chronic, several-times-daily dalliances with Mary Jane. A habit which he claimed to have kicked in the past year.

“Staying in school was simply playing it safe, bro,” Milo said.

After he dropped out of school, he decided if he couldn’t be a rapper, he’d be a professional MMA fighter. So he joined Mario Suazo’s Taekwondo class and made El Crow and Lone Wolf tag along with him, because he was too insecure to go alone. They hadn’t hung out in several years, since before Milo got sucked into the vortex of marijuana and very unrighteous hip hop. But he had no one else to turn to.

“Not trying to be an MMA fighter is playing it safe, bro,” Milo said.

“Don’t you need to, like, be in good shape to be a professional fighter?” Furious asked.

“I’m working on it,” Fat Milo said.

Promises were made….

This year Manny Furious will turn 35 years old. I wish I could say he’s learned something meaningful over the past 3.5 decades, but he hasn’t really. Or maybe he’s learned things, but he doesn’t really integrate what he’s learned into his behaviors or thinking in any real, substantial way.

I bring this up because he’s 34 years old, suddenly and unexpectedly finds himself a single father, and he still fucking hates going to Walmart. He hates shopping in general. When he does it alone, he’s a man on a mission. He knows what he wants, he knows the general vicinity where what he want is, and he knows every official and unofficial exit available to him. Of course, this particular aversion is neither unique, nor interesting, nor warranted. One of the things I can say he’s learned over the years is that Walmart is a great place for spiritual practice. Not because it requires patience or compassion or understanding to get through a trip in one psycho-emotional piece. But because he doesn’t trust any “guru” or “spiritual” teacher who doesn’t at least, on an intellectual level, understand the miracle of the $5 DVD bin. All Walmarts are overlit with toxic artificial light. All of them are overrun with some of the most miserable, misanthropic dipshits walking the earth. All of them stink and are dirty and don’t really sell anything of value (the Stores, not the dipshits). But…BUT… at the end of the day, it took an almost infinite amount of miracles and mistakes, on a Universal scale, to make the $5 DVD bin possible. There are almost certainly–over the entire unconscionably vast geography (is that even the right word) of the known Universe–more majestic mountaintops in existence than Walmarts, and that will almost certainly stand true for all of Time.

So, yeah, go ahead, climb another mountain, but in the big picture, Manny Furious knows your shitty, neighborhood Walmart is actually the bigger miracle. Sure, nature created a rather sublime, breathtaking, unspeakable view from the top of, say, Mt. Blanca. But nature also created the guy who dropped his guts in the Walmart bathroom without flushing, and that Walmart bathroom is indeed the rarer.

And, yet, even knowing all of this–nay, even having learned all of this–he still fucking hates going to Walmart…. Triply-so when it’s cold and icy outside.

Black Ice patches on the road

Deep chill in the air

Neighborhood dogs won’t shut up.

Staring out the sliding glass door

Pepper the chihuahua

sees snow on the lawn.

–So, it only makes sense to

take a poop in Issa’s room. 

Anyhow, I only bring all that up, because Manny Furious, almost aged 35, had to go to Walmart today for their sale on Soy milk. He’s been drinking soy milk on an almost daily basis for almost three years, now. He puts it in his smoothies, his homemade iced-chai lattes, his granola–he’s a regular New Age geek, and, yet, he still hasn’t turned into a woman. He’s disappointed. Through the miracle of the Tao, and of soy-induced estrogen, Manny Furious was supposed to transform into a completely different sex. PROMISES WERE MADE. He doesn’t even have boobs. He’s not even a “soy boy.” He can still do crazy “manly” things like pushups and pull ups.


It’s almost as if insecure idiots who concern themselves with thoughts of “Alpha” and “Beta” males don’t really have any idea what they’re talking about. Who’d’a’thunk?

January evening–

For some unexplained reason

the fog is brick red

Brick red fog tonight–

Somewhere through the thick of it

the dogs keep barking

Lazy day off work–

I read too much Ovid and

watch way too much porn. 

Poetic criticisms….

Pedolo had seen and forgotten more movies in an average six month span than most of us will watch in our lifetimes—of the “adult” variety and otherwise. In fact, he wrote highbrow, slightly pretentious essays for Cinemateste ( a website that was a direct, bizarro rival of Evan Mariachi’s, Movies, Fuck Yeah ( Well, Pedolo didn’t purposely write highbrow, slightly pretentious essays for Cinemasteste. Really, he (or perhaps the Sentient Head Wound at the top of his skull) was just writing 15,000 word rants in a language he only half understood, but the overly-educated editors and readers of the website looked upon those discursive, blathering, chaotic, only semi-coherent screeds as if Pedolo were the heir apparent to such theorists as Foucault or Derrida.

Pedolo had cultivated such a following, though, that the New York Circle of Unified Intellegentisia Legions (NYCUIL) awarded him Film Critic of the Year sometime during the early 2010s.

Pedolo could not afford to travel to New York for the ceremony, as he had spent the majority of his monthly government-supplied stipend of $1012 on cases of Dr. Pepper and bags of Russet potatoes, both of which he stacked haphazardly and sloppily in his kitchen pantry. The sheer amount of Dr. Pepper and potatoes staggered the visiting nurse that checked on him twice per week to ensure he was cleaning himself and eating in such a way that didn’t aggravate his Condition.

“Jesus Christ, Pedolo,” the nurse would complain during every visit. She was sincere in her incredulity every time. She was a youngish thing, blonde, pretty in an unobtrusive, non-aggressive way. She had taken the gig thinking that going to people’s homes and telling them what to eat and how to clean was preferable to wiping shit and piss and bile from the elderly patients at the nursing home she had worked prior. She was mostly right, except the two times per week she was to waste her time trying to talk Pedolo into trying to stay alive by, at the very least, eating less potatoes. “You can’t be eating this shit. No potatoes. No soda. You don’t want to eat a salad, fine, but you keep eating this shit and you’ll open another hole in your body that’s going to sing or something next time.”

“Hey,” the Head Wound protested. “Why do you make that sound like such a bad thing?”

The fact that Pedolo couldn’t make it out to New York was probably a good thing. He didn’t own even a single piece of wardrobe that didn’t feature prominently/intrusively some combination of anime characters in the midst of a fisticuffs. Hell, he probably didn’t own a single piece of wardrobe that was less than a decade old and which had been washed within the eight months prior to the award ceremony. But who knows, perhaps he would’ve somehow fit in in his own spooky way with the bohemian hordes that malinger in New York’s cinematic social circles, and if not, perhaps they would’ve attributed such peccadilloes as the attributes and mostly harmless eccentricities of a genius. There is a “thin line” after all….

Anyhow, since he couldn’t be at the ceremony in the flesh, he scribbled down an acceptance speech and delivered it to the NYCUIL. And on the evening of the ceremony, the President of NYCUIL, one, Garcie Mainer, a graduate of NYU Film School and, at the time, social media manager for Megawatt Lassi, read the text aloud (without Pedolo’s Belarussian mew, of course).

Like all of his writings, it was overlong, over-wordy, vague, obscure and possibly accidentally brilliant. The tone, tenor, timbre and essence of the speech (and of Pedolo’s writing style) can perhaps best be summed up in its opening paragraphs, which were, as follows:

Good Evening Movie Friends and Fiends,

It is a pleasure to accept this NYCUIL award for best cinematic criticism poet. That word might not be in the title of the award, but it should be, as all critics are poets.

Critics are poets because it is the critic’s job to elevate-elucidate what is only tangentially discoursed upon or hinted at by the cinema. Such a dynamic may seem to be contra-oppositional to the poet, as poets are generally regarded as being great hinters. Poets are the hinters not the extrapolators. This is verified. However, poets are really attempting to annotate, say, the flower they are writing about. Just the same, the cinematic critic explicates a film, or group of films. Films are the flower, the critic is the poet.

So poets insinuate about flowers, and critics intimate about movies.

Intimate it is the proper word-choice there. In that witnessing a movie is an intimate act that must be intimated to be understood. It is sexual, really. The cinematic literature must thrust-penetrate the mindframe of the viewer. The art must enter the inside of the witness, and inject its ideas into the mindspace. Inside the mindspace of the viewer is an egg of philosophy. This egg holds all of the ideas and associate-images of those ideas already present in the ego-essence of the viewer. This egg is waiting for outside stimulation and ideas. It is fucking. Watching movies is a form of fucking. And when the cinema sperm of ideas enters the viewers egg of philosophy, a new child is conceived. This child is a new perspective created in the world. The ego is an illusion. There is no “I”, there is only “perspective.”

This is what art does. This is what literature does. It creates new perspectives. In cinema, it is a synthetization between the perspective of the movie with the perspective of the witness to create something new in the world. Like a baby, this baby was once absent from the world, and when the cinematic fucking happens, this perspective suddenly appears. Out of seemingly nothing. It’s crazy dude.

And on and on. I will spare you the remaining 6,000 words of the essay, but you get the gist. This kind of pontification is preposterous and nigh unintelligible nonsense, but it was reported (and confirmed) that when Ms. Mainer finished reading the speech, a large contingent of the NYCUIL audience was reduced to tears, and a room-wide toast was given in honor of this great critic-poet.