July 08, 2007

Frank

People keep telling me that I need to blog more often. They pull me aside, look at me very seriously, and say "We need to talk."

"What? What is it? Did someone die?"

"No. You need to blog more, Chris."

"Oh."

"This is serious goddammit!" they scream as they slap me.

"OK, OK, I'll blog more."

"Minimum five posts a day."

"How about you go fuck yourself."

"Fine. Whatever you're comfortable with. Just do it everyday. Do it...or we'll murder your dog."

"I don't have a dog."

"Then we'll buy you a puppy. A puggle. Know what a puggle is?"

"No."

"It's a cross between a pug and a beagle. I just happen to have a picture of one right here."

"Dear Lord."

"That's right. This little guy will show up on your doorstep one day. In a basket. Wearing a bonnet. Then we'll wait until you get attached to it. Wait until you fall in love with him. That's when we'll slit it's throat, Chris. Capice?"

"Capice."

So I'm going to start blogging more often. In an effort to get me going, I need some sort of gimmick. A theme. Just something I can fall back on when I have nothing else to write about.

Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to image Google common first names (such as Adam, Molly, James, Lisa....) and then whatever picture comes up first I'm going to write a little description about that person's life and pretend like I know them.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I am 30 years old and this is how I pass the time.

Today I'm starting with a good old fashioned hardworking American name. Frank.

Meet Frank.

Frank has no fucking clue how to play the piano. But boy does he love sitting at the piano and pretending that he does. Whenever I visit him he's always sitting at that piano, with hands poised as if he's about to break into Beethoven's 5th. But he doesn't. He just sits there with his hands lightly resting on the keys, and we talk about politics and the weather, while I do my very best to ignore the fact that the only sheet music he has open on his piano is guitar sheet music for Electric Light Orchestra's elaborate 1973 version of Chuck Berry's "Roll over Beethoven."

Frank killed a man once. Or so he says. Every now and then he gets a faraway look in his eyes as he tells me about the time he bludgeoned his best friend to death with a Kitchen Aid stand mixer.

After describing in detail what it sounded like when the mixer cracked through his friend's skull, Frank looks me in the eyes and says that he knows deep down that someday he'll kill again. If provoked.

After telling me this, Frank always asks me if I think he could be a concert pianist someday.

"Sure, Frank," I say, "You're the best."

Then Frank will tear up as he nods his head in agreement.

"Do you want something to eat?" he'll ask.

"I'm good."

"How about some licorice?"

"Well..."

Then Frank will reach into his beard and pull out a long strand of shoestring black licorice. He'll pluck it out as if it was an incredibly long black hair.

Then he'll take a bite and offer the rest to me.

And I will eat Frank's beard licorice. I will gobble it up every time. Not because I like licorice. Which I do. Or because I like candy from a man's beard. Which I don't. But because I don't want to die.

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