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So, then they're having this conference "Pertaining to the Extraction of Negative/Guilt via Prayer & Meditation" in the Cheney/Julali Auditorium, hoping they'll fetch a dozen or so government workers inbetween tasks and projects in order they get credit to be reimbursed for the conference's expenses...and, as usual, about half as many are in the audience, mostly just looking for somewhere to be.  At least no one's on drugs. At least no one's talking loud today. At least they've lowered the obligation on how many of these things we have to do every month.  I arrive ten minutes early. There're a couple dozen people, mostly by themselves and surrounded by empty chairs, with some in pairs, so that I won't draw attention to myself if I sit next to Charlie.  He's by himself, in the right-front section of the auditorium, where you can see the speaker's face and hear them without straining yourself.  "Funny meeting you here," I sa...

She circled the block three times  with Sebastian drawing fewer  curious glances from strangers  at each pass. She walked briskly  and the wolf didn't pull at the least  that connected them and the day  was pleasant and welcoming.  She stopped in front of the church.  There was no mass being said nor  were there any special events being observed  nor was she or the wolf a member of that faith.  She admired the large stone building and  the Saint's name it had adopted and she  took a knee to position herself before Sebastian  in order to place her end of the leash  in his healthy fangs, enjoying his breath,  before entering the church and trusting the wolf outside.  Something proud and fragile about the high ceilings,  enormous walls of that place. Something very good  at being cold. She noted the vacancy of the pews. She noted  the pristine silence of the altar and how different it was...

The old woman walks with her fear  into the apologetic landscape  born of the dead, forgotten years  that will not recall her name.  She thinks of blonde young men,  of shotguns, fast cars, the patience  to sharpen rock spears.  No other travelers in sight. No words,  no chaos, no faces save her own.  She could tell many stories of the noble dead  were there an audience other than the indifferent planets.  She walks free of loneliness.  She arrives at a beach, perhaps  minnows moving invisibly beneath the water.  The years have been visited with much generosity  nor has she grown cynical counting the days,  months, years that might remain.  The old woman walks with her fear.  Terror becomes meaningless.  **** 

 Work With What You Got  ---------------------------------  Rashad has all the warmth  of a serial-killer  presenting diamond earrings  while he talks to Megan,  at least five years younger,  about capitulating on emotions  and one's particular style.  His face and eyes are as dead as a statue  and she has this absent expression like she's  just remembered she has a dog to put to sleep.  They have a conversation like this about once per week,  and everywhere biological clocks are ticking.  ****  Cake Boss  ---------------  Andy the cook never really says much  but he takes up more space than  a three-wheeled motorcycle.  His tongue presses out of his lips  like a slug with  virtually every thought.  To call him Melzingah's resident virgin  would be unkind and entirely devoid of originality.  I'd just be antagonizing his blissful center. For all I know Andy us...