Pieces Of - The Daily POS

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Pieces of what?

Pieces Of features near-daily writings on all sorts of different subjects, different "pieces" of life and the world around us, all veiwed through the rosy lenses of POS. Updates typically feature a picture, and a paragraph or two giving my thoughts on it. Not only are Rick and I working on this, but also any of you are free to make submissions if you want to. Simply send it through a forum PM to Rick or I, and we'll see that it makes it up.

Current Piece

Excerpts from my Hauntings Journal:

May 4th:
So here I am, minding my own business at home last night, trying to enjoy the Conan O'Brien show (not going so well, I don't know, sometime this stuff is just too out there for an older guy like me) when a milky, otherworldly light makes it's way into my kitchen. I see it out of the corner of my eye and when the commercial break starts up I mute the old boob tube and look over there. To my great suprise it's me, six or seven years older (I'm hoping!) stealing away handfulls of baking soda and eggs from the new carton I just got that morning and who knows what else, just tucking it into the sleeves of his ghostly white robe. He's just going through it like it's his own home, which I guess it is, but the nerve. Well anyhow, I'm so bleedin' surprised all I can do is give him a stern, "Hey!"

My ghost, clearly aged into a gruff old codger, gives me a quick, "Ah, shaddup in there! You're not even going to use this stuff, I'll bet," before slamming closed the door and making his way out the kitchen window to god knows where.

Anyways, I go to the clinic today, just to get the old brain checked out for the dementia or tumors, who knows these days what seeing ghosts could be? Doc Sampson seems pretty tired, so I just give him the short version, and he fills me up a wal-mart bag full of some fancy Hollywood medicine, but hey, who am I to complain? I just want my ghost to keep his undead hands outta my groceries, especially with food prices these days. On the bus ride back to the old mansion I'm pretty sure I see the angelic bastard standing by the 27th street banker's building, just staring at the old monolith with a look of weary nostalgia on his wrinkled white face, so I grind up a few of those movie star pills with my door keys and shake up the dust in my soda water so they'll go down easier.

Tonight on the TV, that great old american movies channel, they're playing a few detective movies I thought I might have seen back when my parents would give me 10 cents and leave me at the nickel theaters for an afternoon instead of getting a babysitter, which in those days, you know, was a day's pay, so I set up the remote stand with a few things of butter for dipping and some movie style popcorn. My niece and her husband got me this crazy gizmo for the TV, which you turn on and then it records your shows that you'd want to watch onto a VCR cassette or something, I don't know, but I wrestle the thing on to the top of the old tube set and plug it in and it lights up like some Jewish Christmas tree, but once I get the remote filled up on batteries nothing happens on the screen at all. I'd have my niece's husband come over to the house and set it up, but these days he's always off on business to new york or some fancy city. Anyways, I miss the first ten minutes of the detective movie and for the rest of the show I keep trying to figure out who mickey is, turns out he get killed in the opening scene and I didn't even realize it the whole time! It was a new Letterman tonight too, I get so mad that I say a few curse words to myself and I put that damn gadget back in it's box, which I put under the sofa that I sometimes sleep on during the day, or at night if my back is acting up.

May 5th:
That son of a bitch ghost has locked himself inside of my bathroom and refuses to let me in there, which is a real blood boiler because I forgot to turn on the air conditioner last night before I went to sleep and I smell like a dead dog wrapped in socks, I swear. I keep pounding on the door and that old bastard gives me a, "Get outta here, you nearly killed me twice with all that noise, you know I'm in here Rodney!" or a, "Listen pal, you got a whole life to waste in the shitter, so just give me a moment in here will you?"

I'm half tempted to ask my neighbor for the number of that priest I had come up here and exorcise that terrible demon spider that was lording over my upstairs closet for that sleepless week in February, but as I get my jacket and keys ready to go outside that pearly white motherfucker comes bursting out of the bathroom and slowly walks back to the living room and I can hear him knocking over some picture frames or something, I don't know, it sounds like he's stomping on a bag of glass back there. I get in a fuss and stomp back there and he's sitting on my recliner with this serene-like grin painted across his tranparent face, and he says with some echoing, ethereal satisfaction, "Yeahhh, this brings me back."

So I give him a pretty backhanded, "Yeah, better live it up now, because I'm kicking you outta here, pal," but only on account of the trouble he's causing me lately, and not because I'm one of those punk desecrater of tombs or like I've seen on the news where they drove a car through a graveyard and tore up all the grass and knocked over a big ornamental gravestone that they shipped in from Italy for one of those wop immigrants who live in the south river condominiums.

He gives me this all-knowing look, like 'sit down, you're going to give yourself a fit if you get worked up like that' so I take off my jacket and take a load off on the old sofa.

I let out this long sigh, and then I ask him, "Why are you haunting me?" real honestly.

"Hah, haunting you, that's a rich one," he says.

"That's right, haunting me like a god damn poltergeist."

"I'm just back to look at a few things, you know. Memory lane."

"I don't need any damn spirits getting their death all over my things, no offense, I know you and I are the same guy and all that, but I don't like the idea of getting mixed up with all this junk."

"Yeah, yeah, Rodney, I know where you're coming from, believe me, I know, but you're just gonna have to let it go. If I remember correctly I stick around for another two weeks or so and you get used to it pretty quick."

"Give me back those eggs."

"I don't know what you're talking about. What eggs?"

"You took eggs from me, that are rightfully mine, so give them here," and I stand up with my hand out in front of his face.

"Those eggs are long gone, they're in another time now."

"You son of a bitch bastard!" I scream, and then I wrestle him out of the chair and it feels like I'm trying to lift a bag full of iced potatoes. We both tumble to floor and it nearly works last nights dinner clean out of my stomach, so I limp back to the bathroom with one hand cupped around my ass to keep things clean. My bastard time traveling ghost is laughing real loud behind me and I can feel my face getting redder than a beet stick dipped in ketchup.

<--- Parasite (R.Crazinski)