things i made.
'bloggy 'blog.
stuff i read.
like here, only yuppier.

or, you know, here. here is nice, too.

good god damn has moved to kenabug.blogspot.com. mainly because i was able to make it prettier and it was a good excuse to teach myself css, but also a little bit because i'm concerned that newscorp owns my writing when i publish it here, and i'm too lazy to read through all the legal crap to find out if that's true or not. so anyway, if you want me, that's where i'll be.

my cousin kelly got married this weekend. you know how i feel about weddings, of course, but as they go, this one was pretty okay. tom was performing the ceremony, and you had to wonder what kind of shit-for-brains congregation would have ever let him go. "well how exciting is this?" he welcomed those of us gathered there last saturday. it's a curious way to begin a wedding ceremony, right? it's always seemed to me there were two possible approaches to the performance of a marriage, and by extension, two kinds of ministers: there are those who acknowledge that this is a chore for everyone involved, an embarrassment to the active parties stumbling over their lines and the onlookers feeling compelled if uninspired to try to love them anyway, an elaborate archaic ordeal to be endured by everyone solely to edify nana. they trot through the proceedings, omitting the passages that have become culturally irrelevant or inappropriate, and intentionally slurring the nonsensical bits about god this and god that. the other kind, of course, is the pastor who presses on with tradition, willfully oblivious to the suffering he causes the people around him, leaving them to wilt in the midsummer sun while he blathers on about what a momentous occasion this is for all of us, because apparently blatant dishonesty is a lesser transgression than failing to do things the way they're done. but tom, it seems, is a third category of preacher man altogether; the kind who recognizes that the dearly beloved consider this spectacle an expensive and time-consuming prelude to a divorce, and is intent on demonstrating the inaccuracy of that position. it's no use my trying to recreate his argument, i'm afraid; i'd just make an uncompelling mess of the whole thing and ruin the rest of the story. you'll just have to trust me. it's been a long time since i was young and frightened enough to subscribe to this particular brand of mumbo-jumbo (which is not to suggest i've in any way lost my appetite for mumbo-jumbo in general), but when the reverend thomas h. warren tells you there's some miraculous shit going down, it's a hard point to contest. suffice to say that we were not only legion in our belief that we were about to witness the reverse meiosis of two people squishing into one people, but also in our suspicion that the event was gonna be pretty cool. "do you, douglas [something] bird take this woman to be your [blah blah blah] for as long as you both shall live?" his response wasn't the standard one, the affirmative spoken with the inflection of an "i mean, i guess so." it was bold and definite, like the speaker actually understood, for perhaps the first time in the history of marriage, to what he was agreeing. "i do," doug proclaimed. "i do!" shouted somebody nobody recognized who was later revealed to be someone's friend from the office, jumping to his feet. an awkward murmur momentarily swept through the crowd as we tried to figure out whether kelly was now married before the eyes of god to both these fellows, and if so, what exactly might be done about that, when his date, a pleasantly round little woman with big eyes jumped to her feet as well and shouted, "i do!" the newlyweds embraced and kissed rather audibly. before anyone had a chance to debate the propriety of this gesture, doug's brother and the leggy australian stood up arm in arm. "we do, too!" they announced, and also began a long and not entirely tasteful kiss. the father of the bride dragged his wife, eileen, to her feet. "we do again!" "charles!" she hissed, "you know how i hate it when you speak for me..." she looked around at the lawn full of people attending her their tiff. "although in this case he happens to be right," she assured us. "we absolutely do." she submitted to her husband's advances. "count us in!" the groom's mother chirped, rising to her toes to reach her husband's lips. "we would if we were allowed to!" chris quinn and her girlfriend cried more or less in unison. "although my colleagues in the new york city council and i have made some real progress on that front. we're still awaiting a court deci--" "anyway, we're still totally down for the making out part," her girlfriend explained, and then demonstrated. "that makes four of us!" helen shouted, dragging my sister to her own feet and her girlfriend's embrace. all of this went on for quite a while, until there were surprisingly few left eligible to catch the bouquet. eventually we processed on to the reception where just about everyone found himself being toasted while toasting someone else. there were so many who considered it their special day that no one felt particularly obligated to pay much attention to any of this, so while the speechmaking continued at one table or another through most of the evening, it never really slowed down the festivities. the band invited the bride and groom to the dance floor and found that they barely had room for the brass section, and while they forgot to ever call the other guests up to join them, the few of us who didn't qualify in either category just went over anyway, figuring who would notice us in a sea of newlyweds? "and do you," tom inquired just as i was coming out of my reverie, "kelly ann guariglia, take this [blah blah blah] shall live?" "i do," kelly whispered through tears. yeah, i thought. that's the way it should be.

michael's day off april 7 so i guess they've got something going over at gracie mansion today. the mayor never bothered to move in, understandably finding the accomadations a bit shabby by comparison to his park-side townhouse, but he does take periodic advantage of the impressive address for the purpose of seducing his colleagues into compliance. i suppose that's where he was headed, and with whom. although i'd like to think, for all his fortune and empire and his rumsfeldian standing desks, mr. bloomberg gets spring fever, too. i'd like to think that as i walked alongside city hall park at 8:15 this morning, a sore thumb in my sandals and flood-rolled jeans, michael was peering out his office window with his nose pressed up against the glass, observing the morning masses exhaled by the six train at his gate. "dan," he said, turning to face his staff, "ed. fuck this bullshit. let's go up to carl schurtz and watch the tugboats." so for the sake of argument, let's say it was on a rare gubernatorial morning off, as i was crossing to the north side of seventy-ninth street along york avenue, that a northbound black mercedes hung a determined right and very nearly broke all my toes. i looked up to scowl at the reckless lout responsible and saw, peering out the back window with his nose pressed up against the glass, eyes darting purposefully every which way so as not to be caught by my own, the mayor of my fair city. look, i don't envy the driver, having to negotiate his way up the east side of the island during rush hour, with mike and dan and ed and their incessant "are we there yet?"s every three blocks, and i don't fault him being in a hurry. but, after all, i do spend forty hours a week trying to kill his boss' stupid stadium, so i was busy crafting a relevant metaphor, something with lots of construction-related imagery about the bloomberg administartion's willingness to steamroll over petty humans in the name of efficiency, when i turned into the lobby of my father's building and a 1:2 scale toy shopping cart, manned by my beautiful baby brother, steamrolled into me. "what's this?" i roared. then i just plain roared. i lifted the little rascal off the ground and looked him in the eyes. "you'll pay for this, isaac joshua rubenstein," i thundered. and then i gobbled him up. by which i mean hugged him and smothered him in kisses. i put him down and he quickly reassumed the helm of his vessel, steering it now for marcia's feet. i think someone aught to pick mr. bloomberg up off the ground and give him a big hug. by which i mean, explain to him the difference between a city and a major media company. "you see, the thing is, mr. mayor," i would proceed, "no one lives at 1130 on the a.m. dial. but here, there's people. people like anyone else, who want a quiet park on the river where they can sit and watch the tugboats. is that so much to ask?" michael's night out may 25 jennie wrote to tell me that she'd been quite obviously and uncomfortably checked out by michael bloomberg at a benefit dinner last sunday. "up and down," she elaborated with incredulity. "the lech." she assured me, however, that my father, an imposing and formidable structure when it suits him, did not take the opportunity to beat the mayor to a pulp. "i think your father enjoyed all the attention i was getting," she explained. "i looked like a million bucks, i must say." this was undoubtedly so. but still, there's a lot of folks around here who would love an opportunity to sock "mayor mike." smokers, west siders, environmentalists, affordable housing beneficiaries, food-stamp recipients, everyone in the nonprofit sector, people who park in the street; honestly, it's hard to find someone who doesn't fall into some demographic clenching its collective fist and just waiting for that motherfucker to start something. so i was a little surprised that my old man, with a perfectly legitimate motive, passed up the opportunity. "but, dad!" yes, i considered this a totally valid reason to interrupt his little "client meeting." "he was ogling your wife!" "look, kenan." witness the patience and caution that make him such an excellent father. "jennie looked absolutely stunning. she really did. i just don't think the mayor swings that way." michael and the incredible stock stump june 3 1. 2. is anyone hiring for anything? i need to get out of politics before this kind of shit stops bothering me.

by the time i gasped into my terminal there were only a couple of seats to choose from.  i decided on the one beside the determined-looking asian woman with whom, on the check-in line upstairs, i had shared concerns about our chances of catching the flight, and with whom, at the teller window downstairs, i had exchanged irritated glances in reference to the complications of paying one's exit tax.  she might not have been the most exhilarating conversationalist, but i figured she had probably survived an afternoon much like mine, had probably received the same gringo treatment at every gate and security check, and that alone was more than i had in common with any of my other fellow travelers.

"you made it," she smiled deliberately.

"ugh," was as far as my natural eloquence got me.  "did you come from the east?  were you behind the accident, too," i assumed, recalling the highway-disabling collision around which we had, by the thousands, gathered, gossiped, caroused, urinated in the sweltering late-summer heat, the already impressive fatality figure of which i might have swelled had not my first bus broken down, had not my second bus's underpopulation lead its conductors to make frequent detours into the dusty pueblos off the paved path in search of more customers, had not all my plans gone astray.

"no," she said.  "i was staying here in the city."

"oh," i said, appropriately humbled, looking upon my companion with a respect she had not initially commanded.  because tourists don't stay in guatemala city.  this woman was clearly in the country for some greater end than sightseeing.

"how long have you been here?" i asked, trying to work my way casually toward what i really wanted to ask.

"i just got here yesterday," she said.

"yesterday?" i echoed.

"mm-hm."

"what were you doing here?" i inquired, genuinely, i'm afraid, confounded.

she looked at me like she had never before encountered such a fascinating little creature, which i imagine she hadn't.  "business," she chuckled with an implied "of course."

"of course," i said, feeling as dumb as i am.  "what do you do?"

"oh," she said, "i'm in the garment industry.  there was a problem at the factory, so i just came down to straighten things out."

"oh," i said, still struggling to catch up to her point in the conversation.  "so your company's factory is down here?" i asked, stalling while i tried to figure out what i really wanted to ask.

"well, it's not my company's factory," she explained as she would a small child or extra-terrestrial, "we contract out to it."

"right, right, of course," i said, looking down with quiet, undeserved pride at the wilting collar of my american apparel small asphalt men's leisure shirt style 2410.  "so, where is the factory exactly?"

"oh, i wouldn't know.  it's somewhere in guatemala city."

"ah," i said.

"how long have you been here?" she reciprocated, apparently hoping to gain some insight into the psyche of my strange and ignorant species.

"six weeks," i said.

"six weeks?" she saw no reason to conceal her astonishment.  "what were you doing?"

i wondered where to start.  i wondered why to start.

"visiting a friend," i said.

"ah," she said.  "must be a good friend."

we sat for a moment in what i hoped would be an enduring silence.

"your first time down here?" she continued at last.

"yup.  yours?" i asked without pretending to care.

"oh no, i have to come down here every few months, you know, check up on things.  the company actually wanted me to stay longer this time, but you know, ultimately, i make my own schedule, and i said, no thank you, one night in guatemala is more than enough for me, thank you very much."

"yeah," i concurred, "there's not much to see here."

"yeah, no kidding," she laughed.

ixobel failed to win my heart, though to be fair, she didn't bother to try.

i suppose i could have been a bit gentler; a bit more tactful upon my arrival. i suppose it was my fault we got off on the wrong foot. i'd had a long day.

i'm afraid i made it perfectly clear from the outset that i never designed to stay in her valley, but had been stranded there by a progression of mishaps and a series of unlikely encounters. i'm afraid i made it clear that but for the misguided guide and the lying man and the avatar and the giant red che and the agrarian army and the unhelpful woman and (thank god) the kind woman in the blue pickup and the greedy driver and the sketchy driver and the endless kilometers of dusty, vacant highway, i'd have been in lanquin by sundown. i'm afraid i wasn't quite the gentleman my mother raised me to be.

there were, of course, worse places to be marooned. i knew that. there would be other days for adventures, i told myself, settling onto the dock and lowering my ankles into the murky water. certainly, after the morning i'd endured, i was not ungrateful for a quiet place to write and recall and quiet myself. certainly, papayas didn't taste like this in new york, i thought, sipping, savoring.

nonetheless, ixobel was not herself a destination, but merely a convenient point between two others, and she was never under any illusion to the contrary.

two nights later i was walking back to the cabin with my newest friends, a pride of israelis who, like myself, had resolved to make the potentially unpleasant journey out of the protected region in the morning, as soon as our clothes were dry.

"which side should we hang them on?" i asked rhetorically. "where will the sun come up?"

"there," said one of the girls, pointing.

"yes," the others agreed after a moment of calculation.

"wait," i queried, "why do you all know that?"

"we have to learn to tell which way is north from looking at the stars," the pretty one explained, alluding to the years of military service the end of which had necessitated this trip for each of them.

"oh, right," i said. "of course. wait, show me how." we all looked up.

"okay, you need to find the 'w'," she explained.

"no," interrupted the boy who looked vaguely like isaac from vassar, "you look for the big bear."

"jesus fucking christ," i observed.

"what is this?" they all inquired in response to my 67% unfamiliar expletive.

"oh. it's just... there are a lot of stars."

the dim light did not conceal their looks of bewilderment.

"i mean, i knew there were lots of stars," i explained. "i've been told, i just... i've never actually seen so many stars."

"This is nothing," declared oren, the only one whose name i managed to understand. "in israel, there is much more."

"really?" i asked.

"how come you will not visit?" demanded the vaguely isaac-like boy in the traditional israeli manner of introducing a new topic of conversation.

"i'd love to visit israel," i protested.

"but you should. it's not like here. a bit more expensive, okay, but there's nice buses, and good water."

"you can feel safe there," the moody girl elaborated.

"uh-huh," i replied.

"hey," interjected the pretty one, "where is the 'w'?"

"why don't you just look for the big bear?" asked the vaguely isaac-like boy.

"because i don't know where it is," she replied.

"it's right," he started, "isn't that-- i'm pretty sure it's...."

"can you tell from the milky way?" i asked staring up at a tremendous, mesmerizing, brilliant white streak across the heavens, and understanding for the first time how it found its way into so many mythologies.

"you can," said oren, "but they teach us to look for the 'w'."

"they taught me to look for the big bear," the vaguely isaac-like boy insisted.

the sky flickered, obscuring our compass but revealing the silhouettes of the ranges that enveloped us.

"they have dry lightening here every night," i hypothesized.

"yes," they agreed, uncommonly quiet, uncharacteristically humbled by the sight.

"funny that it never rains until after we go to sleep," i said.

when the sky regained its calm, we could see that our path, indeed all paths, were marked, and travelled and traversed, by a million ephemeral lights, the burning of which could be discerned far across the broad glacial field.

"god," i said. "fireflies are so bright."

they looked at me with the endeared, condescending envy i usually reserve for my brilliant little sisters.

but i never knew these things.

on the porch, the girls checked on their tank tops and consolidated their groceries. oren took my guitar from the undeniably earnest boy who really did kinda resemble isaac and picked out a tune of his own composition which he accurately deemed more appropriate to the tenor of the evening. periodically the sky lit itself, illuminating my otherwise dim room and my overly careful, well-trained hands folding down my things.

"mm," i declared aloud. the pretty one smiled through the doorway in agreement.

i could definitely get used to this, i thought, stuffing my toothbrush into the little pocket with the zipper.

it had long stopped raining. i figured we were bringing the umbrella just in case. i was half right. "so if you DO get attacked by dogs," jed began elaborating on a subject he had not yet breached, "don't swing around wildly and show them you're scared. i did that, at first. big mistake. "um." i tried to sound unexcited. "okay." "just point the umbrella straight at them," he explained, "and hold them at bay. unless there's a whole pack of them and they surround you, in which case you can swing wildly. after you hit the first couple, the rest should run away." "right," i answered cautiously, lest i be the object of some prank. "am i really going to get attacked by dogs?" "oh, yeah. that's why we never go out at night without an umbrella." he must have noticed my concerned expression. "oh don't worry, when you move in with your family, i'll give you a stick." "oh," i thanked him, thoroughly reassured. "give me that stuff," i ordered, relieving him of his burden. "you're taking the cabbages."

"i was going to come and wait in the street," jed explained. "i was almost certain you'd be on 2:30." his confidence in my powers of self-navigation far exceed my own. "but i decided the experience of getting off a bus in a place like todos santos and not knowing anybody and having no clue where you are or where to go was one you should definitely have." in retrospect, i am grateful for his decision. i truly am. at the moment, however, i slumped my shoulders, exhausted. i had survived a steady procession of camikazee buses and fly-infested copassengers and suspicious natives and swindlers and sunday-drivers and foreign menus to get wherever it was i had gotten. where the fuck was he? a young ladino boy who appeared to be waiting at the bus stop to pick off gringoes spotted me as the crowd began to dwindle and came running up. he spoke to me in an eager, friendly spanish of which i could not help but be suspicious. "remember that women and children swell the ranks of thieves here," the lonely planet had cautioned. i smiled stupidly, hoping to conceal my inability to respond. he slowed his speech and continued his solicitations. "hispanomaya?" i asked him, hoping he only expected a tip for directing a weary traveller and was not in the employ of some greater extortionist. "ah!" he seemed delighted. wishing i had payed better attention to my latin professor, i gathered he was telling me of three schools in town at which one could learn spanish or mam, and through which one could find food and lodging. i would have been encouraged if not for the obvious pre-preparedness of his speech. "juan?" i attempted. where the fuck was he? the boy stared at me blankly for a moment. "juan!" he suddenly exclaimed, clearly feigning recognition. he darted off, beckoning me to follow. i did so reluctantly, looking back over my shoulder every ten seconds to see if jed/juan had mysteriously appeared yet. he led my away from the town center up a steeply inclined stone street and turned off into a narrow alley. i am not stupid. i did some growing up in the city, and i know a scam when i see one. there was no longer any doubt in my mind that this handsome, wide-eyed child was leading me to the lair of his woefully corrupt employer. i just followed him for lack of an alternate plan, figuring it would make a good story should i live to tell it. he brought me to the open door of a low, crooked structure and pointed inside, announcing that we had arrived at the escuela hispanomaya. i hesitated before the doorway. the boy continued to herald me in, now quite exasperated. i stepped cautiously through the threshold, and jed rose to give me the first of a number of well-earned hugs. "should i pay this kid?" i whispered over his shoulder. "no, i'll take care of it. i give him 10q for every student he brings me. gracias, wilson!" "i knew it," i thought aloud.

i have become sufficiently acclimated to this soul-devouring (soul-revealing? maybe, but let´s not think about it, okay?) city that i was half-way downtown before i noticed anything remarkable about the thin old man across the car making bird-calls. really, really good ones. it seemed to make the other passangers uncomfortable, but i couldn't blame him. surrounded as he was by so many suits and matching scowls, what else could he do? so between 42nd street and astor place, i closed my eyes in an attempt to infer something more scenic from the soundcape than rush hour on the brooklyn bridge-bound 6 train. and it worked. oh, it worked. what else could i do? i walked into the store and gave my notice, put in my ten hours, and went off to purchase my lonely planet guide. i wonder if all angels are discreetly slid away from on subway benches by their fellow commuters, or if it´s just the ones who really love their jobs?

we got caught trespassing in the abandoned carousel building. we couldn't help ourselves: it's been circumscribed with chain-link and white plastic signs bearing the name of some contractor or other. whether these omens presage its conversion into condos or a concert hall or a starbucks, even if it is to be restored and refurbished with a new merry-go-round, it is a great, great loss, one that begs with its dying breaths to be recorded and remembered. if you have seen it, you know why. the man appearing suddenly across the cavernous hall had yelled something incomprehensible to us but vaguely spanish-sounding. i was standing unfortuitously between two chicken-wire fences, each allowing no escape but through a small hole not to be brashly manuevered. turning and running was sadly not an option, or i might have a more interesting story to report. as it was, i was forced to climb back out the way i had come in, and skulk guiltily toward the only available exit, at which our captors waited. but as luck would have it, we were not discovered by those who stood to lose from the interference of meddlesome kids but merely their employees. we strolled passed them and ducked out through the little opening without a word of reprimand, and i realized that we had been the happy beneficiaries of an unspoken arrangement: "we won't tell our boss we found you if you don't tell the i.n.s. where to find us." sure, i know we were spared simply for being unworth the hassle to people attempting to maintain a low profile, and because we were not a threat that warranted trying to overcome the language barrier. but in the interest of poetry, i have chosen to believe that our friends let us be because they saw the ironic correlation between our predicament and their own; they could no more accuse us of trespassing on their construction site than we could accuse them of trespassing in our our country. call it condemnation or annexation or development or destiny; they are interchangeable words by which we proclaim ownership of uncontainable wealth. it is the childish farce of childish men at play with bricks and trucks and guns, and we have better games to play.

one "wait. you have to write how many blogs in the next twenty-four hours? "twenty-four," i reiterated. "why?" she seemed to protest. after all, we only have a couple days here, and i think she's starting to notice how long it takes me to do things. "because if i don't, the gatekeeper will banish me to the black hole." "right." she paused a moment. "so this guy just goes around myspace, bossing people around for no reason, and you all do whatever he says." "um," i stalled, looking for some better light in which paraphrase her appraisal. but of course, there was none. "yes." "that is so awesome." this, to me, is a very good sign. i hope somebody's got a copy of wretch warrior around. two my big sister is teaching me how to dive. yes, i'm twenty-three, i grew up on the shore, and i don't know how to dive. or swim. my twelve-year-old sister is teaching me that. also, i'm still really lousy at tying shoelaces. whence this arrested development, you ask? it's not my fault i was such an ugly kid. if i had ever had a girl to impress before, i think i would have gotten around to all this much sooner. three "i saw this thing," rebecca recalled. "it said that people are starting to wear red to their own weddings." "some people do that kind of thing," mary jane explained disdainfully. "not 'jane," i interjected. "her wedding is going to be absolutely traditional in every possible way." she shot me that unpleasant look which, over the last two decades, i have learned may be roughly translated: "yeah? you think you're cute?" "absolutely traditional except for one minor deviation," i amended. she turned to deliver a kiss to the bridge of helen's nose. "you're the only deviation for me, darling." four "he's in here?" the bartender shouted. "no!" the bus boy exclaimed in disbelief. "um. no, sorry," i explained sheepishly. "i was just excited about figuring out the answer. i didn't mean to be so loud." we had been playing botticelli over dinner, and jenny had us stumped. we knew it was an american born, living male musician with the initials b.r. from her mercy clues, i had even figured out that it was a hip-hop artist, and someone she and i both greatly respected. why did it take me so long to think of? i need to go back to school. my brain is turning to mush. five "hey, baby." i climbed onto the back of the jetski and wrapped my arms tight about her waist. "sweet ride." i don't know, man. girls make me totally gay. six distinct possibilities: 1) she doesn't realize that she's way too pretty for me. i mean, maybe. girls have all kinds of crazy self-image issues, right? so, it's possible. 2) she doesn't realize that i'm way too busted for her. she did say she was legally blind in one eye. maybe i'm just a pleasant olive-tinted blur. 3) i am being totally punked. seven out at sea, we came upon a pair of fellow jet skiers who very nearly resembled my father and his lovely wife. after hailing them down, we realized it was just a couple of hippies. "yes?" their raised shoulders and upturned palms seemed to imply. we just waved. they got the message. we, however, missed it. they pulled up alongside us and took off. "i think we're having a race," she said. having initiated the challenge, i could hardly back down now. i took off after them, but to no avail. they cut in front of us and hedged us off. so they won the race. but we got to ride across their wake. same as it ever, ever was: victory is in the eye of the blogger. eight marlena has appointed my visiter as her new best friend. "sorry, kenan, she can't work on your sandcastle right now, because she's helping me dig my hole." "what's the hole for, honey?" "it's going to be a really big hole." i look up and the girl is gone; marlena has dragged her off to the pool, because she knows i hate it. i can't help but be impressed with her ingenuity. what more brilliant way to keep away from your brother the thing that is keeping your brother away from you? does she realize that she still doesn't get to spend any of that time with me? did i realize any of this when i used to make mary-jane's high school sweetheart take me to the movies? or when i used to sit for hours playing guitar with my own high-school sweetheart's little brother while she waited for me to pay attention to her? and the seasons, they go 'round and 'round, and the painted ponies go up and down. nine rebecca, who is somewhat better adjusted and by extension less innovative, has a more straightforward method of dealing with her big brother's distraction. she sees me wading into the surf to join the girl beyond it, and tackles me. she will not let me go; she will not let go. after a number of failed attempts to convince her there is some more enticing object for her attention elsewhere, i resort to talking to her like an adult. "rebecca, i'm going to swim out now..." "and you want me to come with you to make sure you don't drown? oh, i'd be happy to. you're not much of a swimmer, after all." ten we came upon a slug who could easily have been mistaken for half a pickle sliced lengthwise, but for his position on the side of the lobby wall. at first it struck me as the single most useless adaptation in the history of genetic mutation, proof that evolution is not directed by natural selection but by some celestial toddler who is unceasingly delighted by his own sense of humor. upon further reflection, however, i realized that this slug, slow as cold molasses, could eat the burger right off your tray without ever being identified as a foreign body. when, i wonder, will the first pickle-hued people appear? come on, mother nature, i'm hungry. eleven then there was the traveling tile. "oh!" mary jane exclaimed, leaping back into her girlfriend's protective embrace. a tiny monster, heretofore invisible, scurried away from the terra cotta tile upon which my sister had intended to step. in the low light, his pallor was indistinguishable from that of the floor. "mary-jane." my father massaged his forehead in exasperation. "it's just a crab." "i know," she said. "it wasn't the crab; he seems quite lovely. it was the unexpectedness of the crab that frightened me." twelve "can i be between you two on the tubes?" marlena demanded as we trudged toward the little motor boat's point of departure. "marlena, you already are between us." "huh?" she offered as the pre-amble to her most utilized turn of phrase. "i don't get it." thirteen "that's it, dad," i called to him as we putted toward his bobbing head. "you're off the team." "yeah," he tentatively conceded, "helen should have a turn." "you know," he reflected once helped into the boat by our captain, "after the third time getting turned upside down and thrown from the tube and landing on my face, i was starting not to enjoy that anymore." "i know," i told him. "that's why i kicked you off the team. i was afraid you weren't going to admit that you'd had enough." "i wasn't," he said quite plainly. fourteen i tried not to look distracted during dinner. mary-jane's creature encounter had reminded me of a sin she will not let me forget; the manufacture of the magic crab. it began innocently enough: i dug a spontaneous spiral design into the sand with my pen cap, not out if industriousness but sheer boredom. m.j. saw it and never thought not to be amazed. "what is that?" she asked. "what kind of thing made that?" i had not intended the prank, but as her little brother, it was my duty to continue its execution. i dug another identical design behind her chair. "woah. look over here." this went on for some time, with new tunnels appearing suddenly despite my sister's vigilant watch. "oh my god," she wondered. "they're appearing in a geometric pattern." when she was sure there was no un-miraculous explanation for this uncanny happening, she called our father over. "come here, we're being visited by magic crabs." after a cursory examination of the crime scene, my dad shifted a pitying look between my sister and me. he was disappointed with her for being so gullible, and with me for concocting such a lame and obvious deceit. i began to laugh but quickly stopped upon seeing mary-jane's face. "oh," she said. "'jane?" i offered by way of apology. "i feel like you've just told me there's no santa clause," she said. i wonder, now that she has indeed been visited by a magic crab, if it was everything she'd hoped it would it be. fifteen "oh, kenan," my dad suddenly remembered at lunch. "i need to talk to you about something." "okay, dad." i was judging by the tone of his voice. "do you need to talk to me about it later?" "oh. um. yes. i'll talk to you later. no just come over here." i pulled my chair adjacent to his and the remainder of our party of ten looked on as we stage whispered to one another. "jennie's getting her a new prize for the scavenger hunt, so you can give her that necklace you picked out now." "are you sure?" i asked him. "there's really no need." "jennie's already gotten it," he explained. "oh, by the way," i told the girl later, "you don't have to pretend i didn't already give you your necklace anymore." sixteen of course now she wants to know what wretch warrior is. but how can i explain it to her without admitting that i'd like for her to be around long enough to warrant such an event? "i'll tell you when you know," was the best i could muster. seventeen "you know, darling, if you're badly burned, we've got some... aloe vera." all eyes were on helen, who rolled her own. "what have we got, kenan?" my sister prodded. "oh. we've got... aloe vera." "can't you at least wait until i've had a drink?" helen protested. "i'm sorry, kenan," her girlfriend continued unheeding, "did you say... aloe vera?" "'allo vera," helen submitted in a flawless cockney accent. and everybody laughed. that one never gets old. eighteen and i don't know how to whistle, either. there. are you happy? jerkface. nineteen stop me if you've heard this one: i'm lying on the bed with her head on my shoulder and her hand on my chest. a breeze carries microscopic bits of things in through the open door and deposits them restfully against my left side. i am fading fast and other things begin to become: i am on a different shore, at another time, imagining myself wholly undestracted; incredibly, i am nowhere but where i am, which is admittedly elsewhere. without further ado, my heart proceeds to break a million billion times. the hits are so strong and rapidly occurring that like 440 beats per second i perceive it almost as a single sustained pitch of unfathomable solitude. i try not shake, for i do not wish to explain the disturbance of her slumber. is this the memory of heartbreaks past or a premonition of those to come? either way, i consider it a terribly impractical vision, given the circumstances. what use is it to see the end of something that is beginning? after all, there is a reason that people are made forgetful. there is a reason, a biological reason, an evolutionary reason, why when given all the data, all the clues you could possibly need, you still can't come up with busta rhymes. because if humans could connect dots, if we could piece together all the available information and deduce the logical conclusion, who would ever have the heart to try again? we all know where this is going. twenty "hearts will never be practical," the wizard explained, "until they can be made unbreakable." when, i wonder, will the first human congenitally immune to heartbreak appear? come on, mother nature, i'm hungry. twenty-one i couldn't remember how we started spending our afternoons together. neither could she. she was pretty sure i had told her at her party that i didn't have anyone to hang out with in new york. but i'm fairly certain she told me that i didn't have anyone to hang out with in new york, and offered to help. this is not the sort of subject i would breach unprovoked. hell, i only went to that stupid party because i wanted to give darren girl practice. twenty-two it doesn't matter what you had in mind. the earth will shift beneath you like an unexpected crab. it will change your course, it will redirect you, it will propel you into whosoever's arms it deems fit. like a prank you hadn't meant to play or a race you never asked to run, love (biology? some brat with an extremely elaborate chemistry set and an affection for funny-looking vegetables?) will find you and take you and do with you as it pleases. it will use you for its own ends; it will deceive and delude you and tear you to bits, and tell you you've recieved what you solicited. and long after it has failed to deliver on its promises, you will continue to cling to it as though it were ever yours to begin with. and everybody laughs. this one never gets old. twenty-three my youngest sister, marlena, troubled and troublesome, devious beyond my comprehension, is perhaps the only honest person i know. i don't get it either, angel. no one does. we're all just walking the walk, and hoping we don't trip over our own feet and fall on our god damn faces while someone hot is watching. twenty-four "ha! i won." "what? there was a contest?" i did my best to minimize the comic effect of fishing for her hair in my mouth. "yup. i won it." "what was it?" "i'm not telling you. i want to win next time, too."

this doesn't happen. i waited for the pot-bellied dads to advance their film and lift their triumphant offspring from the courtyard. "they'll never believe we made this!" one shouted. when they had moved out of interrogation range, i brushed my finger across one of the towers to test the sand, which was much too dry to be amended further. "excuse me, could you not touch that?" shouted the frontwoman of a quartet of british teenyboppers. "it's ours." i ignored them. "get away from that, please! we made it." "um," i quickly retorted. "um. no, i don't think you did." "yes, we did. we made it. it's ours." "i'm pretty sure i made it." "oh. did it take you all day?" "yes," i said. it did. it was a day's work; an offering left for whatever divinities might be inclined to receive it. apparently, none was so inclined. "kenan!" rebecca squealed. she had come to call me to breakfast. "the ocean spared your castle! that's so awesome!" "no," i told her. "this is not good." what have i done to upset you, o great poseidon? have you tired of my repetitious gifts, or is it merely that this one failed to meet your standards? and what may i do to regain your favor? am i to fix it? i could not now touch the structure but it would crumble. am i to destroy it myself? surely i have not so displeased you that you would ask such a thing of me? that is, after all, your end of our long arrangement: i give you my castles, and in return you give me another pristine canvas of earth and another day to walk upon it. tell me how i may redeem myself. what would you have me do? "what are you doing?" the adolescent army cried in a single voice as rebecca and i darted down the beach, hand in hand, toward the south tower. "getting rid of this so we can make another one," i replied, rolling over a small city and landing beneath my sister in a small ditch. "you're making another one? can we help?" asked their spokeswoman, her compatriots endorsing her pleas with raised eyebrows and clenched knuckles. defeated, i brushed the sand from my knees. "of course," i said, knowing better than to turn away the messengers of an angry god.

"she's coming?" echoed rebecca. "is she pretty?" "who's coming?" marlena demanded. "is she good at making sand castles?" growing up in my family, you get your priorities straight at a very early age.