Last summer, President Lyndon B. “Basketballs” Johnson called me and said, “Jack, I’m gonna need you to get a hold of a gun for me.”

“But Lyndon, why?” I asked. “I don’t even know anything about guns… What do you need a gun for?”

“It’s personal, Jack. Very personal. Hurry.” I sped out with a quickness to the nearest gunnery, around the corner from the Capitol building. I chose the Dirty Harry-style Magnum revolver. It was weighty and cold in my hands. Would Lyndon be satisfied? I wondered. I brought it to him in a very fancy cigar box, so as to not ruffle the feathers of any of the monkey-suit-wearing 9-to-5-types that littered the corridors of the White House.

“Yes, this’ll do,” he grumbled. “It’ll have to do.” He hesitated before looking up from his desk and into my eyes with his baby blues. “We’ve got a job to do tonight, Kennedy. We’ve got to kill the President.”

I was in shock. Dumbfounded.

“But Lyn…Lyndon, that’s me. I am the President,” I stuttered.

He turned his gaze back to his desk. “I know, Jack…” He looked back up at me and saw that I’d gone ghost-white, that my mouth was hanging open, slack-jawed like some sort of foolish country yokel. “And that’s what makes this so hard.”

“Lyndon, I…what’ll I tell Jackie…the kids…”

“Nothing, Jack. You can’t tell them a gosh-derned thing. Not a single. Gosh. Derned. Thing. We need this right now, Johnny-Boy. The country needs this.” Lyndon was stern-faced, and he meant every word he said.

“It needs me to die?!” I blurted. “I just don’t see how that could be!” Lyndon said nothing in rebuttal. “Can I at least…can I at least have the night to think about it? We can talk it over on the ship to San Diego tomorrow morning?” I saw a powerful fire cool in his eyes. My suggestion was reasonable to him, and we agreed to talk it over on the ship to San Diego tomorrow morning. I slept soundly that night, and dreamt of a well-advertised festival of animals that nonetheless was poorly attended. Only a koala bear, a toad, and a scantily clad sloth bothered to show up.

Out on the deck of the ship to San Diego the next morning, I sipped my orange juice, lightly salted the way I like it, while Lyndon sat, quietly, staring long and hard out the window as the Mmississibbippi River guided us west through America’s great Corn Belt. “It’s truly the World’s Greatest Corn Belt, you know that Lyndon?”

“Hm. I suppose it is, Johnny-Boy. I suppose it is.” I could see that he was waiting for me to restart yesterday’s discussion. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

“Lyndon, last night I had a dream, a beautiful dream about the bountiful splendors that this fine nation provides for its peoples.”

“That sounds wonderful.” He bit into a jelly-soaked bagel, and started coughing as a bready lump of it lodged itself in his throat. I was too caught up in the throes of my patriotic speech to notice, though, as he leapt up from his chair and threw himself against a railing to perform some sort of peculiar anti-choking maneuver on himself. If I had bothered to look, I would have seen that it was quite an odd sight.

“Yes, it was,” I continued. “It really was. And it…it changed me, Lyndon. It changed the way I see things. I can make whatever sacrifice is needed of me. This country was founded on the principles that, if need be, we give up everything we have for the greater good, for the little people, for the little things, for the little moments, the moments you photograph with the family camera, and then when you develop and print that roll of film, you tuck that photograph into your pants pocket and then maybe forget about it for a while, and then you wash those pants without checking the pockets and the photograph faded a bit, but you still remember what it looked like when it was new, and you move it to a different pair of pants, maybe one that you don’t wear as often, so when you put them on and find that photograph again, you can’t help but yelp, ‘Holy Moly – I remember this photograph. Hey, everybody! Come look at this photograph I took a long time ago but left in this pair of pants for some reason! I remember this day so clearly, but having this photograph really cements the moment in time, so that’s why I kept it in my pocket, because, after all, that’s just a basic right that our forefathers fought for.’ That’s what I’m fighting for, too, Lyndon. That’s what we’re all fighting for. That simple principle. The Romans called it, Ecce Romani spiritum absoroturotatotita esritoim spuriutum. Those Romans were really on to something, Lyndon. They got it. Really, a fantastic people. And I think, if we can all remember the wild-eyed ideals that our fine nation was built around, someday – someday – we can achieve what they did. I know it, Lyndon. I just know it.”

I looked off to the east, at the steadily rising sun, hoping that I looked as heroic as I felt.

“You really look quite heroic right now, Jack.” He paused, dramatically. “Well then…let’s get down to business. Here’s the plan. First – “

Before he could begin, his cell phone rang. It produced a harsh and uninviting sound, surely the boring default tone that he was either too lazy or too inept to change. As he gestured to inform me that he needed to take this, my phone rang as well, and I hope Lyndon recognized my smooth jazz ringtone to be something infinitely more interesting than his viciously dull series of beeps and boops that had irritated me so.

“Ahoy-hoy?”

“Good morning, pumpkin.” It was Jackie. My beautiful Jacqueline. “So have you talked to him yet?” she asked. She was, understandably, quite uneasy about the entire situation.

“Yes, I have. I’m doing it, sugar. I’ve got to do it. As the Romans said, This spaghetti won’t make itself. I have to do it, dear. I have to make my spaghetti.” I could only hope that she would understand.

“I understand, cinnamon” she said. I was relieved. “I suppose I just hope it isn’t too messy, is all…”

“Now, Jackie, I know that’s not the only thing on your mind. Talk to me, honey pie.”

“Oh, sweet pea, I know you have to do your patriotic duty, I’m just so selfish – I’m just not sure I want you to die, even for this most noble cause. Am I a bad person, my dearest biscuit?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, my delicious dumpling, you most certainly are not. You’ll be taken care of, though, twinkie, you know that. And I’ll always be there, metaphorically.”

This seemed to alleviate her uncertainty on the issue. “You’re right, burrito. Of course you’re right.”

“Do you feel better, my perfect pear?” I asked.

“I do, my steamy strudel,” I replied. “I do.” The call-waiting tone buzzed in my ear.

“See you in San Diego, candy pants!” I switched over to this mysterious new caller. “Moshi moshi?”

“Jack!” It was Lyndon. “It’s Lyndon! You’re ready to continue?”

“That I am, sir.” We hung up and continued the previous conversation about the plan.

“So, Jack, the first part of the plan goes like this…” Lyndon then laid out the whole complicated, extraordinary, intriguing, wonderful, heartrending, insane, shocking, arresting, intricate plot to assassinate me, none of which would matter a few hours later when I made the executive decision not to go through with it.

I thought I was prepared, mentally, but as I ate my pre-lunch snack of a toasted jellied ham and chipped beef sandwich, I saw that I was totally chicken. I accidentally found myself thinking, If the country needs me to die, maybe it also needs me to live? It seemed so logical, in my shaken pre-death state. I couldn’t tell Lyndon, though; I just didn’t want him to be disappointed in me. After all, he practically raised me from the cradle. I couldn’t have standed to see that look of hangdog dissatisfaction in his shimmering green eyes.

So I did the next most reasonable thing: I hired a man, whose name escapes me at the moment, though I think it sounded something like Moseph Mabarthy, to have his face surgically altered to look like mine. It was a quick surgery, only some minor scarring, and I was able to get the new Me out into the parade route with enough time to hole up in a downtown hotel that would have a good view of the shooting.

Lyndon pulled the trigger from a room a few floors below, and I had a quick thought as Moseph buckled over on to the sidewalk. I dialed out to room service for a bacon-egg-and-cheeseburger, a local specialty, and then called my doctor. He picked up on the first ring, as was a recognizable trait of his that is surely worth noting. “Dr. Falafel? It’s President Jack Kennedy.”

“Ah, yes, what can I do you for, President Jack?” He was a congenial man, despite his glaringly bald head.

“If I were to die anytime soon – “

“Oh, heaven forbid,” the doctor interrupted.

“Yes, indeed, heaven forbid. Anyhow, if I were to die anytime soon, I don’t want an autopsy. Just stuff me in that pine box and lay me in the ground.”

“I hear you loud and clear, President Jack. I’ll call your lawyer and let him know.”

“You’re a good man Doc. A good man, indeed.” I hung up just as the bellhop with my food rapped on the door. I took off all my clothes and answered. “Howdy, amigo – that my meal?”

“Indeed, Mr. President. And might I add, that’s an excellent penis you’re sporting today.” He was enthusiastic, and deserved the hefty tip I laid in his gloved palm before he turned to leave. I drew a bath and readied myself to eat the burger in the tub. My eyes were bigger than my esophagus, however, and I soon found myself choking on a sizable hunk of the sandwich.

This is no good! I thought as my eyes watered, my chest constricted, and my heart pounded with fear. If only I had watched Lyndon perform that unusual maneuver on himself on the ship, I would have known the preferred way to dislodge food chunks from one’s throat. Instead, I found myself pounding my chest against a solid hotel desk chair, which resulted in several broken and bruised ribs, which ultimately was of no concern after I died due to asphyxiation, which I believe is a fancy word for “choked to death.”

crossing the bridge
blue and white monuments peek through between solid brown tenements
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad
this city’s not so bad

we never tried so it never began i
needed you to say whether or not i should have been
working harder or if you wanted me or if you did not
listen to something louder
and find tongue and hinges and peel the skin back
your muscles our muscles like toys beneath the surface
red one pumps black mass sold
everything you own but signed your name into it all
towering As and a disconnected g that doesn’t raise any questions
we all grew up loving dinosaurs
so why are we so surprised when other monsters that roamed
these streets are gone now too still with only the courtesy of fossils
to prove that they existed
to prove that there was anything before
sharp resonating notes to guide me through an idiot’s pain

a dozen or so wrinkled papers are yellowing on walls and commemorate moments long gone
to do today: find new memories, or craft them with your hands, like clay
figure shit out, maybe not once and for all, but to an extent, maybe just for today and tomorrow, and then begin to approach it with a wider concept of action
consider doing this another way and consider letting good things come and consider what you haven’t yet and consider more effective ways to combat anxiety and consider impending losses with no gains in sight and consider being present –
that felt nice didn’t it –
consider drinks
consider dinners
consider talking about the books you really do want to read
consider design and regeneration and consider ripping off your friends and heroes and hope they get a kick out of it, because otherwise you’ve been doing this all wrong
it all gets better and it all gets worse you just hope she doesn’t mind and you can’t believe that maybe she doesn’t
that is impressive
i once scribbled in the margins ‘we create place over time’ and if i was right like i hope i am what i have to do next might not be so hard

I’ve never much cared for family gatherings, in part because we have such a pitifully small family, but also because they’re usually boring as all hell. On top of that, dad’s Aunt Greta is a bad gift-giver and a worse cook, his Uncle Henry is annoying and can never refrain from telling me his weirdo Vietnam stories, and their house is always freezing. Family’s family, mom tells me every year, often with a slight hint of comic exasperation. I know, mom.

The trip was dull like all the others have been and the New Jersey and Maryland scenery was monotonous, but keeping up the “holiday cheer” act is worth it if it’ll keep everybody off my back. Mom’s easily sated by the semblance of contentedness; if everybody’s smiling then she can smile, too, and she likes that. There was a lot of smiling in that car. I kept my head down, drew for a bit, kept my music low so that I could hear if mom or dad wanted to talk to or about me, and so that I wouldn’t have to answer any questions regarding what it is about Slayer that appeals to me.

I was distressed to see Aunt Greta waiting outside on the porch, unsmiling, as we pulled into the driveway of her suburban ranch-style house. She approached the car and started talking as soon as we opened the doors. “It’s over!” she insisted. She was on the edge of hysterics and she spoke rapidly and loudly. “Henry’s cheating on me I just know it I can’t stay here NOT ANYMORE and if that son of a bitch wants some dumb little blond WHORE then he can just take her!”

Dad gestured for mom to help Aunt Greta, and said, “Sit down Greta, I’ll go talk to him.” I thought I saw him roll his eyes as he opened the front door and I wanted to grab him by the jacket and ask him, If you don’t care about dealing with this then what do you care about anymore? If this woman helped you through a rough childhood, then why wouldn’t you want to return the favor? Why are you being an asshole? He wouldn’t have any good answers, though, and if, somehow, he did, he probably wouldn’t share them because he’s never quite what you need him to be. He’s a fine enough father, sure, but he sucks at being a dad; just like he’s a capable spouse but a poor husband; just like he’s little more than an instructor, rather than a real and memorable teacher. I wanted to grab him by his fucking face and try to explain that he is inferior and that his life hasn’t quite worked out the way he wanted it to because he’s never taken the steps necessary to get it there. He stops where he’s comfortable and lets everything come to him and then acts surprised and depressed when it all falls apart.

Not ten minutes after dad walked into the house, Uncle Henry walked out, holding a suitcase in one hand and his dusty old hat in the other. He looked a little like a cliché Depression-era bum: scraggly grey-and-brown beard and tired brown eyes, jacket with patches on the elbows over a wrinkled and stain-ridden collared shirt, khaki slacks too loose on his waist still resting too far above his loafered feet. He looked as if he might head off down the street and try to find a freight train to hop, but instead he just got into his rusty blue Buick Skylark and left without saying a word. Dad stepped back on to the porch as Uncle Henry rode away.

Tension was high, but mom was the first to pipe up. “What did he say, Harrison?”

Dad had his right hand sunk deep in his pocket, and rested an old cigar box between his left hand and hip. He was looking up, watching a plane soar northward. I’d be willing to bet that he was thinking about where it took off from. “He came clean, admitted that he did sleep with another woman.” Aunt Greta lost it, completely broke down. “But…he said he didn’t mean to. ‘It was an accident,’ was how he put it.” He brought his eyes back down to the ground and sat in the seat next to his aunt. “He told me to give this to you.” He handed her the red and gold box and she set it in her lap and immediately opened the lid with her trembling fingers. For five seconds, she stared at its contents, and then she pushed it off and buried her head in her hands. I walked across the porch to where the box landed and picked it up. The lid had torn a bit at the hinge and inside was nothing more than an old Polaroid photograph of Aunt Greta standing in front of this house and waving at the photographer. In the strip underneath, somebody, presumably Uncle Henry, had written in now-faded black ink, It’s all yours.

Mom and dad helped Aunt Greta into the house so I stayed outside, staring at the picture. I didn’t quite know what to make of it. The paper was a little yellowed and the colors had paled. Aunt Greta looked young and her hair was brownish and she was grinning, showing all of her straight teeth. The front of the house, now a calming blue, was apparently a strange red-orange then. Dad walked out and stood next to me. “When did the house look like this?” I asked.

He took the box from my hands, lifted out the picture and said, “1981.” He closed the box and silently looked back up to the sky. Quietly, he told me, “That’s the year Uncle James died.”

“Who?”

“He was my mother’s and your great aunt’s brother. Died in a motorcycle accident that summer.” I was looking at him. He was still looking up. “This is from that spring. Easter weekend. The last time we were all together.” He placed the box back in my hands and walked inside and a cold wind blew into my face and I realized I was crying and I wanted to leave it all so badly and maybe meet my Great Uncle James.

don’t know why i hadn’t done it before, but this page now has all of my 35mm photographs.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/this_party_is_on_fire/

this features mostly the same photographs, but presented individually. maybe sometimes i’ll write something on there, too. maybe not, though.
http://philrudich.tumblr.com

What’s this song about, anyway?
I don’t know. It’s hard to say for sure. Probably fucking. Most songs are about fucking. This one probably isn’t any different.

I’ve got high hopes!
he said
Well cut that shit out, or you’re gonna be late for work.
she said

It was not a night for sleep. Of this much he was certain. Why else would he still be awake as the clock struck four in the morning, arguably the first hour after midnight that actually feels something like morning, even though it’s maybe the darkest, most lonely hour of the day. He tried, sure. He tossed and turned, like he supposed one is supposed to do when one’s body will not let the sleep come. Why do people do that anyway? he asked himself. Maybe to make themselves tired, I guess, he answered. Well, it doesn’t work for me, he concluded. The man was quite comfortable in just about any position he could think to lie in: on his left side, facing the blank wall beneath a few posters and tacked-up articles of ephemera that reminded him of home; on his back, staring through blackness at the white ceiling – Have I ever seen a ceiling that wasn’t white? he pondered quietly while on his back; on his right side, facing the rest of his sparsely decorated room, which he could not see, as he had turned off all the lights a few hours earlier, having assumed that he would be sleeping and not wanting to look at his possessions, which were currently arranged in a somewhat disorganized fashion throughout his bedroom; on his stomach, his face down, smothered in his pillow, which never fit quite as snugly into its blue cotton pillowcase as he would have liked; with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet at the head, hoping the change in orientation might shake him up enough to knock him right out, which he preferred to simply gaining a better view of his closet – or rather, where he knew his closet would still be if he were to sit up and turn on the light. Nothing came of any of it, though. Unsatisfied, he switched directions again, placing his head back at its titular bed position. He threw his comforter off, taking just the blue cotton bedsheet right up to his collarbone, holding it tight and holding his eyes shut even tighter. That never really works, he knew, but with his eyes closed he saw some interesting colors and patterns that made him think of a few different things, including how pleasing it would be to plug in his guitar and turn it up really loud and not have to worry about who would care, a delicious meal he had recently enjoyed with his parents, a video game he and his brother had loved when they were younger and still, in fact, held close to their hearts, despite never having the time to play it, and conversations that never happened with women he only vaguely and superficially knew, who he may never get to know any better, let alone see naked in an unprecedented instance of trust and blinding honesty. These basic things – his guitar, food, video games, youth, not having enough time, women, sex – dominated his thoughts at any given moment during his more productive, waking hours, but they seemed to echo even louder in his mind at this absurd hour. He opened his eyes, and was on his left side, was facing the wall again. He put his right hand against the wall, and it was smooth and white and chilled but not quite as cold as he had expected it to be, for some reason. Two thin bright threads of light traveled across the wall from in between the slats of the blinds that covered the window at the foot of his bed. They moved downward at a slight angle – probably about 19⁰, he estimated – and dissected his hand across the fingers, the lower beam just above his knuckles and the higher one across the fingertips. He imagined that the rays were actually red hot lasers shooting across the wall instead, imagined that the fingers of his right hand were bloodlessly separated from his body, imagined that he would be quite startled by this, and would try to pick up all the pieces of finger and put them on ice and go right to the hospital, like he’s seen on television. The imaginary laser game was one that he often played in his mind. It amused him. He wasn’t so sure why. He wanted to take a picture of his hand against the wall, the light so perfectly passing over it, but his camera was across the room, and it was far too dark for that, anyhow. Slowly, he pulled his hand from the wall, turned over on to his back, and then turned his body so that his legs hung off the bed. Sitting up and staring intently, he could faintly see the outline of his guitar leaning against the wall, next to the black milk crates that held his records. He coughed and sighed as he put his head in his lap. Using the muscles in his back, he pulled himself upright. He considered standing, but instead threw his legs back up on to the bed. He rested once more on his back, staring forward out the window, and a song drifted lightly through his mind that he would not remember when sunlight pouring in through the breaks in the shades woke him only a few hours later.

Lonely, ugly men sometimes need things specifically for themselves, and when they do, those things are often acquired with an acute awareness of their own loneliness and ugliness. Sidney Tobin was such a man. A lonely, ugly man neck-deep in despair and forever caught up in his own shortcomings, of which he had so many. He was not a fat man, necessarily, but was beleaguered by many of the features of a fat man: short, stubby fingers and arms devoid of any visible muscle tone; flabby pectoral muscles resting above a slightly protruding but very round belly; weak and stumpy-looking legs attached to small and chubby feet. His shoulders might be somewhat broad if he was not constantly hunched over, his neck crooked at a peculiar angle so that he could stare at his brown prescription shoes rather than make eye contact with anybody he might encounter on the street.

His face, which was, in his mind, his best feature, was perhaps the most unspectacular of all. It didn’t seem to fit on his stout five-foot-five-inch tall body. Compared to the rest of him, it was just a little too long and a little too wide. His ears were small and dainty, his teeth, situated in a small mouth with tight, thin lips, were mostly straight and yellowed, his nose was large but with no other defining characteristics, save for the vaguely stylish wire-frame glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were about the average size that one expects eyes to be, but they were beady and dark, startling on their own, maybe, but not so menacing when observed along with the rest of him. That fact may very well hold true for every part of Sydney’s ugly body. His hair was thinning and oily, and no woman loved him.

It was a summer afternoon late in July, and Sydney was reading the classifieds section of The Canton Cannon, his preferred local newspaper. He did this often, vainly hoping for a “SWF PREFERS SWM WITH LOVE HANDLES,” or a simple “SWF FOR SWM LOOKING FOR GOOD TIME,” or even a “SWF BORED WILL TAKE ANYTHING.” Nothing greater than that would be necessary to satisfy his weak imagination. That afternoon, however, something even more interesting caught his eye: “UGLY TIMESHARES: Six NEW no-good CONDOS in FLORIDA / CHEAP / CALL NOW to lease / LEAVE TOMORROW!!!” Stunned by the ad’s simple phrasing and blunt honesty, Sydney did just that, calling immediately, and signing the papers via fax.

He packed his tattered, old clothes into a battered leather suitcase that his father, a much more handsome man, had left him after his death, and took the first flight to Tampa the next morning. The timeshare was not in Tampa proper, so he rented a car, and drove south for about forty-five minutes to Concertina, an unattractive and sparsely populated town situated comfortably on some land near a swamp.

The condominium that Sydney would reside in for a week was indeed an ugly one. Painted orange stucco on the outside, cracked and worn pastel-colored paints covering the walls on the inside, outdated and generally broken fixtures and appliances in many of the rooms, and beat-up, stained flower-print furniture in the bedroom and living room. He walked through the house to the patio, which was decorated with nothing but a rusted railing and a filthy plastic deck chair. It overlooked an ugly wooded nothingness. Sydney felt at peace.

He spent his week doing nothing particularly special or out of the ordinary. He read the local papers. He went for short walks. He watched television when it came through on an ancient black-and-white box with an antenna. Sydney did all of the things he would usually do, but here he felt special doing them. He considered, briefly, exploring Florida in his rental car, but chose instead to just buy cheap meals at a diner nearby. One night, he thought the cute waitress, who was without a doubt trapped in the area and desperate to escape and just working non-stop to make enough money to run away to The Big City, was making eyes at him, but just as he smiled back, her eyes drifted off behind him, to a much larger and well-proportioned man who, Sydney assumed, was her boyfriend. Sydney sipped his coffee, weakened with too much sugar and milk, and tried not to stare as they kissed passionately.

When his week was up, Sydney packed and cleaned up with no complaint and made it to the airport with time to spare. Back in Ohio, his apartment looked the same, just as he’d expected it to. Bills and junk mail were piled up in his mailbox. He made a note to call the man from the ad in the morning, so as to ensure that he could return next year. When Sydney called, the timeshare man said to him, “You signed the contract, didn’t you?”