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The Interview

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s weird waking up to the realization that a whole city is going to read my name. Steel workers and teachers. Construction monkeys with blue on their collars. Empty suits shuffling meaningless paper. Coffee shop vagrants. And the matted masses collecting across the street for their yoga class. Or, as I like to call it, “Bendy Toots.” It was a strange experience being the subject of an actual interview. Usually I am the one chasing the stories. But instead, I stood awkwardly in front of a gallery wall covered with the stupid shit I drew and answered the questions of a talented reporter to the best of my socially retarded abilities. And he did a great fucking job with the story. Not only is it an …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

The Opening Part Two: The Closer

- by Typewriter Fox

Eerybody has been asking about the status of the second part of the story.  But honestly, I debated even writing it.  She did say that Part One was a lovely opening to an experience that had left her mind reeling.  As admittedly mine had been, too, ever since the taillights of her green Subaru faded south, leaving The City to feel that much more empty in her sudden absence. My weiner was starting to feel a little peculiar about it all, too.  Not sure about how hers was feeling.  Things not meant to cling were starting to get sticky.  Weird, but in a way not entirely unpleasant.  Like going to the gym drunk. But I still found myself hesitating. And it didn’t really help literary matters …

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The Opening: Part One

- by Typewriter Fox

She walked right into the story, just like she had always done before. And exactly when I fucking needed her the most—funny how we always seem to work that way.  Through a string of ridiculous occurrences, a significant collection of my doodles ended up on an actual art gallery wall. In an official show. In all their quirky, unrepentant glory. Such was my excitement at the stupid shit I drew garnering some actual attention, I broke the cardinal rule of “coolness” and showed up early for the opening celebration, rather than fashionably late. And I cannot help but blame that faux pas on the nature of my day job. Which is actually a night job. One demanding a strict adherence to time if we are going …

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40 Miles and a Lemonade

- by Typewriter Fox

She had told me about it the day before.  And it was just my kind of ridiculous.   So I had to make it happen.  There really wasn’t fuck all else to do with the morning, beyond a few errands and the lingering angst of the tin waiting to be kicked.  But that was still later’s problem when I first hit the road.  And I was determined to make the most of the day.  Because just like I tell everyone who will listen, life is much more fun when you say “yes.” It didn’t matter that I would be driving over 40 miles round trip.  Or that I planned on dropping a 3,000% markup on a single glass of lemonade.  I told her I would be there.  …

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Barking Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning again, Michigan.  This one isn’t going to be easy to write. Or much fun to read. But I am going to say it plainly anyway. No need for flowery verse. Or clever wordplay. This isn’t the time.   Because I wish that the people I care about would just quit fucking dying unexpectedly.   That would be absolutely ducky.  Another transcontinental text; another fallen friend. Another gap in the collective hive-mind of memory. Another empty seat at a table whose ranks are rapidly dwindling with each passing new year. And that widening void breaks my fucking heart. I have been writing long enough to understand that our stories are themselves living creatures. Constantly evolving. Adding pages. Taking notes. Absorbing punctuation. And occasionally, delighting in the masochist …

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Ring Around the Mitten

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning, Michigan! So there it was again, the savage joy of yet another empty mitten Saturday. A morning spent drinking familiar grounds. Absorbing similar hits. Just fucking around, waiting to find out—all words and no foreplay make the lonely fox a grouch. Summer is here in full force. The signs are unmistakable. Everything from the constriction of humidity pressing me out of The City, to the great waves of funk blanketing fields of corn growing taller than me out beyond the limits of the city. Whatever the cause of that unique odor, it certainly helps the eventual harvest. Because great surging waves of corn shimmered as it rippled in a wind I could not feel. It looked like the fields were breathing as I headed …

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The Sweetest Whiskey Sour: Part One

- by Typewriter Fox

It was not what I had expected for the night. At least not after how the weekend started. It’s always weird finding out that someone from your childhood has passed away. It’s even more weird learning the details. The instability. The abuse. The final moment when with a pull of the trigger, right in front of her, he chose to end things. A selfish action, one which left the rest of us behind, forvever wondering what the fuck? News like that is always tinged with anger. Because I wish he would have picked up the damn phone. There are places and people trained to help. Resources are in place. Options are available. But I guess there wasn’t room for more rational considerations amongst all the pain. …

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What the duck, Chuck?

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning, Michigan! If you have spent any time on these pages, you’ll know it is fair to say that a significant portion of the screen real estate has been dedicated to complaining about all things Michigan. Documenting the weirdness that is this complicated Capital City. Capturing, as best I can, its imperfections. And topping those complaints, in addition to being manipulated into any number of convenient metaphors, is the observation regarding the disastrous state of the roads. Yes, construction is everywhere. And everyone knows the joke about how orange barrels are the official State tree. So it comes as no surprise that my voice has been added to the chorus of other Mitten dwellers as we are relentlessly bounced and jolted around every time tires …

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Highway 51 Revisited

- by Typewriter Fox

I awoke in the belly of a metal beast today. Didn’t plan it that way, mind you. Wasn’t looking for a new low; I wasn’t on a quest for shame. But shame, like an old friend, always seems to stick. Even when I’m actively eluding the less dignified demons of my more unpredictable intentions. It was the kind of green dumpster you find behind every supermarket. Right there on an unnamed side road off of Highway 51. Somewhere south of Paw Paw. I awoke with my head nestled between a torn trash bag and the oxidized metallic skin; my mind echoed the groan of the city waking up. That rust belt metropolis sprawling east, still drunk on dreams of better days. A few coins jingled in …

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