S.G. Browne

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849)

To commemorate the anniversary of the death of Edgar Allan Poe, I thought it appropriate to share the following abridged retelling of his poem, “The Raven,” which I originally penned for a friend on the occasion of his 40th birthday.

The friend, like many others at the end of their fourth decade of existence, was dreading turning the big 4-0.

It seems doubly fitting considering Poe died at the same age…

Ode to Poe: The Raven Reprised
Once upon a birthday dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary,
Over thirty nine years of curious memories I’d forgotten long before.
Feeling spent, I started napping, when there came a subtle tapping,
The sound of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
‘Tis some solicitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember how I once was young and limber,
And my hard, athletic body made women’s jaws drop to the floor.
Drowsily I wished for slumber, for an age of lesser number,
To remove, to unencumber, what the years had brought before.
To fit into the button fly blue jeans which I often wore
In mothballs now, for evermore.

Presently my sleep grew troubled, so out of bed I on-the-doubled,
And pulled a muscle in my back that I had injured years before.
With Icy Hot I started wrapping, but still there came a gentle tapping,
The sound of an insistent tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
“All right, all right,” I mumbled softly and opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.

For a moment I stood fearing, that age had finally claimed my hearing,
When in there stepped a stately raven, uninvited, through my door.
Not the least respect he paid me; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But like an old, incontinent lady, shat upon my hardwood floor —
Then perched upon a lamp from Macy’s just inside my chamber door —
Shat, and sat, and nothing more.

While this brazen bird sat mocking, I, mouth open, stood there gawking
Until I found my voice and questioned what the bird had come here for.
“With thy crest so shorn and shaven, why choose here to take up haven
Ghastly grim and ancient raven who tapped upon my chamber door?
Tell me why your black butt wandered in and shat upon my floor.”
Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

How I marveled this ungainly, ill-mannered fowl had spoken plainly
Though its answer seemed bizarre and enigmatic to its core;
Not another word he uttered; not a single feather fluttered–
So with aching back I muttered and cleaned the bird shit off the floor:
“Stupid raven, quit the stained glass lamp inside my chamber door.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Ignoring his reply so spoken, as I wiped up the bird’s fresh token
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny hardwood floor.
My waistline had become my master, and my hair was a disaster
Thinning fast and thinning faster until it covered less than more.
Till I wondered if I’d even look appealing to a whore.
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, sitting lonely on the stained glass lamp spoke only
That single word and shat again upon my pristine hardwood floor.
“Asshole,” said I, patience shrinking, back and neck tight and kinking
And I betook myself to thinking what this stupid bird of yore —
What this rude, obnoxious, one-note, defecating bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but my mind it kept digressing
To thoughts of Rogaine and Viagra, to how my youth I could restore.
This and more I sat divining, the fantasy I kept refining
Until I once more started pining for the years that came before
For the thirty-nine years of youth and vigor I had known before
Years recaptured, nevermore!

Then, it seemed, the air grew thicker, and my breath a little quicker,
As perception dawned like sunlight on a shadowed, misty shore.
“Wretch!” I cried, “Oh beast of treason, cursed bird I know the reason
Why you’ve shown up at this season — to mock the past that I adore.
Please grant respite, and diversion, from what forty has in store.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Villain!” said I, “dark intruder.” Then I called him something cruder.
“Have you no compassion for the life that I once knew before?
Youth and muscles once I flaunted, now by excess years are taunted
And my face by wrinkles haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there life past forty? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

On the lamp the bird did linger, so I, with grace, gave him the finger
And called him vulgar names that would shame my mother to the core
“Tell this soul with sex drive waning and with old age quickly gaining
Is there nothing else remaining? Is this to be the final score?
Will I have another chance to once more spread my wings and soar?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, stupid bird!” I yelled, upstarting —
“Get the hell out of my house and speak to me of this no more.
Leave no black plume as a token of the gloom thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my vanity unbroken! — quit the lamp inside my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy black butt out my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the stained glass lamp from Macy’s just inside my chamber door.
And he quotes with constant nagging to remind me how I’m flagging,
How my flabby ass is sagging almost to the hardwood floor.
To remind me how my waistline and the hair that I adore
Shall see my thirties — nevermore!

Big Mac > noun (pl. Big Macs) 1 Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun
-DERIVATIVES Mega Mac, Monster Mac, Mini Mac
-ORIGIN Latin Biggus Maccus

Okay.  I admit it.  I like McDonald’s.  Not their corporate practices or their environmental heresies, but their burgers and fries and shakes are comfort food for me.  I grew up on them in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, before the golden arches became obscenely ubiquitous.  McDonald’s was a treat for me.  A reward for good behavior.  Or, when I was sick, the treat I received for my suffering.

This became apparent to me during college.  On those rare (cough) occasions when I’d consumed too much alcohol and couldn’t fathom putting any food into my mouth that my stomach wouldn’t reject, McDonald’s was there to comfort me.  When I couldn’t manage to choke down a banana or a peanut butter sandwich or a glass of milk, a cheeseburger, small fries, and vanilla shake from McDonald’s would come to my rescue, nourish me back to health, and make me think that another night of a complete disregard for my liver was entirely possible.

Obviously, there was some kind of conditioned response to McDonald’s that allowed me to be comforted by their frozen hamburgers thrown on a grill and frozen french fries boiled in saturated fat, but you don’t question these things during college, when three meals at Jack in the Box on a Saturday wasn’t uncommon.

Now, I tend to stay away from fast food – partly because I can afford other options but mostly because I’m twenty years older than I was in college and my body tends to let me know about halfway through a QuarterPounder with Cheese that this wasn’t a good idea.

Still, when I’m driving down Highway 101 between San Francisco and Los Angeles or Interstate 5 between San Francisco and San Diego, growing hungry and wishing I’d packed aTofurkey sandwich with Parmesan cheese and fresh spinach and tomatoes on whole wheat bread, I find the siren song of McDonald’s difficult to ignore.  It’s like someone has struck a tuning fork and the frequency is resonating in my brain, invading my common sense, creating a Pavlovian response.  And I start salivating.   Well, not literally.  But it’s so much easier to pull off the road, get a fast food fix and a milkshake IV, then jump on the road again so that I can get to my destination as soon as possible.

This happened to me this last weekend on my way back from Los Angeles.  But instead of caving in to the craving, I stopped at a gas station convenience store, bought an Odwalla protein drink and a peanut butter Cliff Bar, and gave the golden arches the finger.

Now if only I could stop buying Hawaiian Kettle Cooked Maui Onion potato chips.

I ran across a random clip from War of the Gargantuas the other day, the 1966 Ishiro Honda film where the bad green Gargantua and the good brown Gargantua battle through the streets of downtown Tokyo, crashing into buildings and bringing them crumbling to the ground, generally causing mass destruction, and it got me to thinking:

Do people who live in Japan have the option of purchasing monster insurance?

After all, we have earthquake insurance in California, hurricane insurance in Florida, and tornado insurance in Oklahoma.  So I figure in Japan, they ought to have monster insurance. After all, a monster does a lot of damage to a city. Maybe not so much in Kyoto or Osaka, but definitely Tokyo. I bet the rates would be astronomical in Tokyo.

I wonder if there would be separate policies, depending on the monster. Coverage against Godzilla would probably be the most expensive policy, while Mothra, Rodan, and the Gargantuas would be less expensive monsters to insure against, since they attack the city less frequently.

I think if I was a contractor, I’d want to live in Japan. They’d always be rebuilding, so I’d never have to worry about finding work.

And then there’s the question of monster warnings. Would they be like tornado warnings, with the siren sounding throughout the city while on the news they’d say something like “Mothra sighted over Guam heading west.”

Or maybe it would be like a weather report:

“The weather today will be cloudy, with a chance of Rodan by late afternoon. The extended forecast shows a break on Tuesday and Wednesday, possible Gargantuas Thursday, with a Godzilla trend taking us through the weekend.”

Or maybe I have too much time on my hands.

Last weekend at the Horror Realm Convention in Pittsburgh, PA, I found myself watching Minority Report just before I passed out one evening and realized how much fun I have watching Tom Cruise run in his movies.

First there’s The Firm, where he runs from Wilford Brimley and that creepy albino dude.  Next up is the original Mission Impossible (which I loved), when he leaps through the window of Aqvarium and runs away from Agent Kittridge (no relation to Kit Kittridge).  But in Minority Report, he outdoes them all, running for his life through the streets of a futuristic world imagined by Philip K. Dick.

It’s not just that he runs with fervor and intensity, it’s that he looks so serious doing it.  I believe he’s in trouble, with his arms and legs pumping like pistons and the look of absolute determination on his face. And most of the time he’s not doing this in running shoes and sweats, but in a suit tie and dress shoes.  And while I’m sure he probably runs in Jerry Maguire, Collateral, Vanilla Sky, War of the Worlds, and a number of his other films, I believe his work in the first three films I mentioned should qualify Tom Cruise for the Lifetime Achievement Award for Running in Film.

I know some will cast their votes for Will Smith and offer up for consideration his work in Bad Boys, Enemy of the State, Men in Black, I Robot, etc., and that would be a legitimate argument.  Maybe even Dustin Hoffman for his work in Marathon Man.  But for me, I stand by my assertion that Tom Cruise is the best runner in the history of film.

Best driver?  That’s easy.  Steve McQueen.

They’re jackhammering again.

Across the street.  The never-ending Add-A-Garage project.  At least it’s been never-ending for the past year.  But honestly, they’ve installed the framework for the structure.  What the hell are they using a jackhammer for now?

Electric saws I can handle.  It’s white noise.  Freeway traffic.  Ocean waves rolling along the shore.

Hammers pounding?  Not a problem.  Distant tribal drums.  World music from a neighbor’s stereo.

But jackhammers are fingernails on a chalkboard connected to a Spartacus vibrator and pumped through Nigel Tufnel’s Marshall guitar amplifier.

Not exactly ideal conditions in which to write.  And since I don’t drink coffee and am easily distracted by baristas, cafes aren’t an option.  So I have to resort to drowning out the noise with my iPod.

But I can’t listen to just anything when I’m writing.  No B-52s or Squirrel Nut Zippers of Blink-182.  Nothing too distracting.  Nothing I haven’t heard a million times. And when Green Day’s “East Jesus Nowhere” from 21st Century Breakdown comes on, focusing is pointless.  I just want to hold my lighter in the air and sing along with the band.  (Yeah, I know.  Everyone holds their cell phones in the air now.  Call me old school, but holding a cell phone in the air at a concert instead of a lighter is like eating sushi at a baseball game instead of a polish sausage.)

All right, where the hell was I?  Oh yeah, playlists.  In order to drown out the vibrational dissonance of the jackhammering, I need comfort music.  It’s like comfort food, only for my ears.  Nothing heavy.  Nothing nostalgic.  No love ballads or screeching guitars or house music.  Just some of my favorite bands whose lyrics and music inspire me and that I’ve heard so many times that I can listen to the songs without getting distracted by the lyrics.

That comes to more than eight hours of Morphine, The Pixies, Sublime, The Beatles, The Doors, and, yes, some Green Day.  Just nothing from their new album.  Throw in some Booker T. & TheMG’s, some surf music, and some selections from the Fight Club and Pulp Fiction soundtracks, and I’m good to go.  Cocooned in a world of inspired familiarity.

Now if only I could do something about the fact that my cat keeps sitting in front of my monitor.