Softboiled Hard Case: The First Installment of the Scarlett Redman Series

My brief case smelled like old shoes. To be precise, my brief case smelled like old, wet shoes just pulled off of a chronic drunk who'd passed out in a drainage ditch, foot first. 

I'd discovered the smell shortly after I'd arrived to the closet I called my office. I say shortly, because first I had to check my voice mail. None. Then I had to check my email. None. Well two, but not having a penis, I regarded the promise of porn star penis enlargement to be junk mail. Finally, the post. Big fat nada. Not even a bill I could ignore. I was reduced to performing the only professional gesture I had left. I opened my brief case. 

That's when I was assaulted with the smell. The entire contents of my brief case showed a three-day old peanut butter sandwich, an 81/2x14 yellow legal pad containing only doodles, some of them not to bad, if I do say do myself, and the aforementioned old, wet shoes. It was when the smell started burning the hairs in my nose that I was jolted back in to the moment, and thus reminded of my damp socks. 

If I neglected to mention that my feet were damp--which might lead some with quicker intellects to draw certain conclusions--it was merely because I was trying to cope with the myriad of olfactory sensations with which I was being accosted. The omission has absolutely nothing to do with attempting to hide the fact that the old, wet shoes, and their lively odor which were only recently removed from the ditch, had been peeled off my own soaking feet. It had been a hard week. 

It had been a hard week, and it didn't look like it was getting any better. Those were good shoes.

I shut my brief case, to contain the smell, peeled off my socks, which had stained my wet-wrinkled feet navy blue, and headed for the bath. As previously mentioned, my office was a closet. There aren't many times when this pays off, but today, on this morning, having my office in a actual closet in my small, but perfectly adequate house, was just about the best thing in my life. With no mail, no calls, and no sign of any work, any time, I thought a bath, a handful of aspirin, and a quiet chance to ruminate on my apparent failure in Tailing a Suspect 101, were in order. 

As I stood in the increasingly steamy bathroom, my favorite room in the house, and gratefully undressed, my wallet fell out of my coat pocket and hit the tile. As I bent to pick it up, I realized it was empty of the two 20's it contained. Worse though, well, certainly more damaging to my fragile sense of self, was the glorious bandito mustache that had been drawn, in what appeared to be permanent marker, on the photo of my brand new, shiny, freshly minted private investigators license. Scarlett Redman. Private, and public, dick.  

 This private eye schtick was going to be harder than I thought. 

Do I deserve a break?

About six months ago I entered an essay contest. I had to write 500 words, no more (which, don't laugh, I found difficult. There's no shame in admitting your weaknesses. Mine is words. Too many of them, but what's that to you, hmmmm?) I had to detail why, "I deserve a break."

I won. No shit.

How to cure senility

Band marketing paraphernalia. Written and designed by the effervescent d. (which is me, for those looking perplexed).

Undeniable Laws for a Luscious Life

Law Number 1

Life is built on opposites: no up without down,
no black without white, no inside without outside,
but most importantly, no joy without pain.

To feel enormous, transcendental, spirit-soaring joy you have to risk heart-stopping soul-shattering pain. The higher you climb, the farther you have to fall….but the extraordinary view from the top will always cushion your landing. Risk it.

Law Number 2

There are only 2 things that people truly want from each other—to be loved and to be heard.

For love, see Law #1. For the other, be still. Listen to people with your ears, your eyes, and your heart.
Hear what they say with words and without. It is the one true gift you can give the people you love.

Law Number 3

They say time is money; time moves too fast;
there isn’t enough time. But you have all the time in the world. Go slow. There’s no hurry.
You’ll get there soon enough.

Law Number 4

Shakespeare said, all the worlds a stage, and we are merely players. You’ll live through your comedy and your tragedy. You’ll have your share of triumph and failure. To make it through both, with your dignity intact, learn to treat all the events that come to you, good or otherwise, as a comedy and laugh at yourself.

Law Number 5

We each have two voices: the voice of our heart and the voice of our head. Your head-voice speaks loud and clear. You have to be still to hear the soft, small voice of your heart. Find a way to hear and trust that quiet advice. It won’t steer you wrong.

Law Number 6

It’s a big world and more and more we find ourselves isolated and alone. Find a way to touch people. Hold hands, lay your hand on a shoulder, put your arms around a friend. Share yourself.

Law Number 7

They say cleanliness is next to godliness. I don’t know how godly you hope to be, but it absolutely never hurts to be clean, so don’t forget to wash up as far as possible, wash down as far as possible.
And then, wash possible!

Roll with it baby

You've got to roll with it baby. Remember childhood? When Bugs Bunny was king. When crushing small men with lisps and handlebar mustaches was just? When bike riding, skinned knees, picking your nose, and pretending to be someone, anyone actually, rather than who you were, filled your days? So I have to ask myself how I lost a grip on reality. How I found myself sitting at a small desk, feeling my ass spread, wondering how to not work and still manage to pay the bills?

Here follows the divine answer (which will give no satisfaction. If you're looking for real answers, you'd be reading the Dalai Lama's blog, not mine. Though don't let the old bugger fool you--he doesn't really have the answers either, unless you call being nice to people an answer, and really, what fun is there in that?) So again, here follows the divine answer (or, in any case, the investigation of the divine answer--quit splitting hairs!):

Things.

Things and thoughts.

Things are a prison. Everything, from my shoes, to my haircut, to my house, to my Ikea couch are a prison. Help! I'm trapped under the weight of things. But more than that, I'm smothered by the knowledge that what other people think of my things (yes, boobs included, those of you with innuendo on the brain), is crushing me. Yet I allow it. Enable it. Sometimes, secretly enjoy it. To my own ultimate destruction.

This no more than Tyler Durden has already screamed at the world. You secretly know it. The divinity comes in finding out how to get out from under. How to toss it all aside for a begging bowl and a chance to chase the Dalia Lama's orange hem.

So this is my counsel: Give it away. Turn it over. Strip bare. Quit your job. Walk away.

But before you go, could you let me know where you leave your house keys?

Consciousness through rambling

Welcome to the first post of what will be deeply moving, movingly erudite reflections on life, love, and the pursuit of a decent movement (political and spiritual, obviously. Not bowel.)

First thoughts? Coffee. Mmmmm. Liquid gold.