What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

“No, go ahead, I’m not that hungry.”

Was I only being polite?

TBF, it was our first date. I’ve never curled up to French cuisine, so when the waiter announced frogs as today’s appetizer, I passed.

“More for me,” he said, clearly more snake than charmer.

My BFF Jäzmyna says, “Rule #1: They’re all asps.”

Shoulda known when he said, “I’m Jack.”

Jack Asp, indeed.

He had zero intention of savoring that “delicacy.” No ma’am, just unhinged his jaw and gulped that poor creature’s whole head.

Without even a hiss of grace.

Fine, I said I wasn’t hungry. But any snake worth his new skin knows between first-date polite and self-starvation.

I mean, look at me. I’m one long smooth tube of reptilian rapture, even after last week’s chipmunk.

Everybody knows I’ve been slimming since my last shed.

Jäzmyna cried last time she saw me. “I ain’t seen you looking so fine since you won Miss Slithery at The Hiss.”

And yet there he is, paying me no mind, eyes as red the blood he’s tasting. Sucking down that critter like he ain’t ate for weeks. An abomination.

And me, losing the appetite I said I didn’t have.

Last time’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

“You wanted the manager?”

His tatted chest bows up like a territorial pigeon. “Yeah, you him?”

“Just the owner. What’s up?”

“Your snotty barmaid refused my drink after asking a shit-ton of stupid questions.”

Nancy’s tended here for over a decade, scarier than twenty of these guys.

“Such as?”

“Have I suffered a recent head injury? Lost a bet? Was it a cry for help?”

Throttling a chuckle, I ask his order.

“A vegan jägermilch.” He hammers the bar. “How fucking hard is that?”

Two of my security guys, the stoutest of Little People Hell’s Angels, shuffle over.

“Language, sir.” I wipe under his fist. “Also, what the fuck’s jägermilch?”

“Jägermeister and milk, but I’m intolerant, so I need oat.”

“You truly are. A Jäger and oat milk?”

I clock three punters under the Stroh’s neon, giggling. “Your friends?”

“So?”

“Mate, that’s no drink. It’s an abomination.”

“The customer is always right!”

“Paulie,” I call to a regular, nursing his Manhattan. “What’s that thing we say?”

“He who insists he’s right should’ve left.”

“Your intolerance is yours, mate. However, this bar’s mine.”

I nod once.

Gloved biker hands grasp his elbows, gentle as tow trucks.

“We serve drinks, not dares.”

Last time’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

New year. New country. New flat — temporary, but safe.

New spicy Spaniards with vowel-laden handles filling your apps.

So clandestine. He with the restraining order remains an ocean away, completely unaware.

Jaume, your sexy landlord, left sunglasses on the nightstand. Bienvenidos, the card said. Un regalito, with a heart containing a smiley face.

Small world — restraining order guy used to doodle something similar.

You head to the terrace for sunshine and swiping. You’re here for tapas and tops, order irrelevant.

Midday sun blazing bright, you squint to make out the Sagrada Familia’s unfinished spires, then focus on tioduro_bcn’s profile through the glare — smooth, dragon-tatted chest, ripped, hung.

Hidden shallows.

You bounce inside for the shades and suncream.

Settling into the IKEA chaise, you lotion up, don the RayBans, re-click the profile.

The screen fuzzes. Tioduro isn’t tatted anymore.

Sunscreen on the lenses? You remove them, tats reappear. Wipe the glasses with your tee and put them back on.

Tio’s neither inked nor Iberian.

A message: “You know what we have in common with that church?”

You type “WTF.”

Readjusting the specs, you watch blinking dots.

Daddy’s dragon’s now your ex’s hairy chest.

“We’re not finished.”

Oh fuck.

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

Oh fuck, Daisy thought, chomping her tunafish sandwich, I forgot to tell mom it’s vegetarian week at school.

Oh fuck, Mom thought, grabbing anything for Daisy’s lunch, wondering if Missy thought she was old enough to swear, why’d couldn’t she make her own?

Oh fuck, the personal shopper thought, seeing a shelf void of StarKist canned-in-water, thus faced with deciding which foil-packed replacement to pull that wouldn’t screw up their 5-star rating.

Oh fuck, the Kroger worker thought, wondering how many pre-packed tuna flavors suburban soccer moms truly needed. In his day, it was Chicken of the Sea, like it or lump it.

Oh fuck, the pregnant fish-packer thought, choking down another bout of morning sickness while wading through tuna entrails.

Oh fuck, the fisherman thought, worried today’s haul wouldn’t be enough to feed his wife and 3 kids, and another on the way.

Oh fuck, Charley’s mate thought, that was a really bad choice, biting into this chum-laden hook.

Oh fuck, Charley the tuna thought, watching his chum get fished out of the sea.

Oh fuck, it’s fishing season, Charley’s mom thought, as her boy swam off in a school of friends.

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

Bunny sat upright, perfect posture as always, in the booth at Denny’s, a perma-grin nearly as wide as the Joker’s. The flickering fluorescents caused her bifocals to flash like lighting bugs.

“Scotty, these Skittles are so much better than my old Werthers.”

“They’re not Skittles, Grandma,” he said, stifling a laugh and taking the bag. “They’re edibles.”

“Where’s my Grand Slam Breakfast” She popped another that she’d palmed before losing the stash. “And why am I famished?”

A couple tables over, three teenagers stared. One whispered, “Isn’t that the school librarian? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s just … over-caffeinated,” Scotty said, trying to keep chill.

Bunny leaned back, giggling like she’d just heard a dirty joke. “Oh! I taught some middle schoolers how to play Pinochle today! They were so confused, bless. I told them it’s like bridge, but with more drama!” On “drama”, she waved her arm in a flourish, nearly knocking over her coffee.

“Gram, remember, the word of the day is microdosing.”

“Oh, honey, I’m flying. Let’s microwave our way to the moon!”

She pointed to the ceiling, and he realized it was going to be a long adventure, trying to steer Grandma back to Earth.

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

Frank’s on his bench, watching the rising sun turn the bay into a golden mirror, thermos at his side. His wife doesn’t understand how he can sit down there and do nothing.

“Loretta, dear. You pay how much for meditation class? The beach is free. Plus, my own coffee.”

He never mentions the thermos is half-full of Baileys.

Sitting here calms him, everyone starting their day: dogs sprinting towards the next patch of beach to dig into; kids unsuccessfully trying to skip stones across the water; gulls diving into the surf and wading across the sand, picking at anything resembling a scrap; masts bobbing up and down like kids on a trampoline, each trying to get a little higher than the other.

He misses being a dad.

He remembers when his kids had a trampoline in the back yard — almost 30 years ago. Loretta bitching the whole time that “somebody’s going to break their back on that.”

Lo and behold, she was right. Almost.

No broken backs, just a dislocated shoulder.

It was hers.

He sips his Juiced-up Joe and chuckles, remembering how he and the kids all feigned sympathy.

He thinks, “maybe with a little Kahlúa tomorrow.”

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

It’s time to disappear.

It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. It’s most definitely happening now.

There is no fixed series of events, no cosmic alignment.

Nothing’s chasing after him. There’s nothing new to run away from.

It simply is time to go.

Brighton has played itself out. There’s only so much time one can spend staring at sea foam, counting breaths on a blanket of stones, while on break from making foam art in lattes.

That familiar pit in his gut. The one his family doctors, decades ago, attributed to some kind of “nervous stomach.” The one that high-school therapists labeled a non-specific anxiety (would he like to try some Wellbutrin?). That psychic healers said was an imbalance in his third chakra (the one controlling power and self-determination) — the one called Manipura (which he often thought would be a good name for a cat).

Like anything done over and over, disappearing gets easier. He’s become an escape artist, effortlessly breaking free of chains that people imagined held him tight.

Therein lies the magic: the illusion of being attached.

If people realized how unattached he tried to remain, they might think him a Zen master.

Or a sociopath.

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

This morning I’m grateful for …

• A good night’s sleep despite Garmin’s “poor” admonishment. Again. Like my ex, it’s never satisfied.

• My Prince Charming having made a pot of coffee so it’s ready when I get up.

• Okay, my husband, who sometimes makes a pot of coffee.

• The Krups machine that will “batch brew” Chock full o’Nuts (it’s heavenly coffee).

• My hands for measuring the coffee, my feet for carrying me to the sink, my eyes for noticing the floor needs sweeping.

• A tiny green light signaling my delicious, piping hot mug of morning is on its way.

• The hammering and power tooling of next door’s builders. They’re so early that no worm stands a chance, but renovations raise property values. Capitalism beats sleep any day, right?

• My yoga instructor for teaching patience comes from focusing on the breath.

• The cough after a deep cleansing breath, meaning my lungs are healing.

• Having quit smoking 3 weeks ago. Okay, 3 weeks ago this coming Friday.

• This opportunity to count my inhalations until the coffee finishes.

• That crumpled pack of Marlboros I haven’t looked at or touched for weeks. Okay, days.

• This ice-cold Coke Zero, because Mr. Krups takes too fucking long.

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

“Today is a Wonderful Day”

Stamped into the white plastic tray that holds a 4×8 grid of pill cases, each with AM and PM on the front, and the numbers 1-31 etched on the top, plus a smiley face. Pale red, orange, yellow, lime green, something resembling teal, baby blue and Barney purple, each stuffed with a spectrum of supplements various professionals have prescribed to treat the myriad of maladies no one thought he’d live long enough to get.

“Happy + Healthy”, it says next to the sampler-worthy motto.

If he were healthy, would he need all these pills? Sure, some of them make him happy (happier), and others keep him heathy (healthier).

He’s reordering the containers to start counting down his return to Brighton, where the next round of refills await him.

“Oh sweetie,” Gran says, sneaking Jack into her joe. “Why don’t you move back?”

“Well, barring the fascism, I’d never be able to afford these,” motioning to the thousands of dollars of monthly meds which he pays a pittance for, because you know … that satanic socialism.

“I dunno,” she tuts. “I mean, if you're happy there, fine. But honestly dear, why must y’all make everything rainbow colored?”

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

How to Get Back in the Pool

1. Stroll through the indoor pool viewing area after spin class and think, you should start swimming again.

2. Do that again, a couple weeks later.

3. Breathe in the pool air, smell the chlorine, remember the time your scary swim teacher Kurt pushed your head underwater—you cried to your mom it was attempted drowning.

4. Tell yourself that’s nonsense and, besides, it happened 50 years ago.

5. Go to the next spin class and, afterwards, avoid the pool area.

6. Walk home along the beach, dip your feet in the water.

7. Jump back out because Jesus that’s fucking cold—remember you’re not meant for the Wim Hoff experience.

8. Read every “return to swimming” article Google serves, realize you’re so far down a rabbit hole you might never come up for air.

9. Weeks later, devise a plan to get in the water, even if it’s only for one length.

10. Stand at the pool’s edge, the chlorine reminding you that once upon a time you won a free-style race, hear that pesky inside-your-head voice (sounds like Kurt) say “you look like a fucking hippo” and think, maybe next week.

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

“Joy!” Some parent yelled, “don’t go too far, sweetie.”

It was amazing how quickly her squat little legs could turn over. Galloping pell mell, I couldn’t decipher if it was with abandon or a targeted purpose.

As she zoomed closer — was I that target? — I saw her gray sweat suit, and a knitted hat with the tiniest ears poking out on top. Her eyes big and black.

Adorable.

Like the baby hippos on last summer’s Kenyan safari.

I crouched down to meet the tiny hippo child, then suddenly remembered what our Massai guide had said.

“You know hippos, when they’re outside of the water, can run Usain Bolt fast?”

Nope.

“Also, fun fact: of all the animals out here, hippos are the only ones who will kill just for the sake of killing. With one chomp of those powerful jaws, you’re done and you’re not even dinner.”

Joy charging towards me. Her mouth wide open (Laughing? Screaming? Hunting?), her teeth glistening with saliva.

I lurched out of the tiny assassin’s path. Part of me knew nothing would happen, part of me grateful that I wouldn’t be headed to the emergency room, presenting a body rendered bloody by a baby hippopotamus.

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

I remember he was peddling rides.

His accent almost unnoticeable (most of these pedicabbers are Bulgarian), he pedaled me away, up and down the hills, never out of breath. Said “I’m Antonio,” asked about my visit.

“I live here.”

“Just when you think you know all the locals.”

Sun shining, yesterday’s layer of airbrushed clouds now hidden, sky as blue as I envisioned Antonio’s eyes.

Alas, I only had the rear view, a dancer’s glutes pumping away.

I remember a Connecticut-plated rental creeping downhill, keeping us from building momentum for the next incline.

The sedan slowed down, pulling to the right.

Unexpected as a skirt billowing up from a sudden pirouette, the Connecticunt, completely sans signal, lurched in front of us, turning left.

Our vehicle now a chariot, Antonio’s (my gladiator!) lightning reflexes jerking us onto a gravel driveway, skidding ahead of the car.

I don’t remember slamming into the metal carriage, leaving my elbow bleeding.

I don’t remember Antonio dismounting — he was standing beside me, saying “sit tight” (his English much better than expected), and went to the driver, calmly scolding “you did not signal.”

The driver just smiled. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t back up.

Maybe they had no English?

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

This wasn’t Jess’ first phonebank rodeo. Back in Manhattan, she’d been 1983's top Public Theater fundraiser.

Now, in a dingy Melbourne office, she asked strangers if they’d like to buy small ads in the Queensland Police Gazette. The White Pages dealt out numbers like Telecom Australia’s mission was supplying cold-call lists.

Clive, her boy-boss, adored her American accent. She adored his endless weed and bad boy Ozzie charm. Sure, red flags waved harder than a JFK tarmac crew, but she and her brother Kurt welcomed the extra cash. Cushion for the next leg of their world-wide adventure.

With Clive gone near Twelve Apostles, she found Kurt at a newsstand near Dogs Bar, their local.

“Look,” he said, holding up a paper, “the rag you’re flogging.”

“First sighting in the wild,” she replied. “Or anywhere.”

He pointed at the masthead. “The Queensland Police Force Gazette. Cool.”

“Yeah, not so sure,” Jess muttered, flagging the newsagent.

“Sorry, is there something like this, but called Queensland Police Gazette?”

“Never heard of it,” he said. “Been peddling papers for forty years.”

Jess laughed without humor. “Great.” She headed Kurt toward the Dogs.

“Methinks your sister’s a moll. We need outta Oz.”

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?

Chad, still holding his dick, was suddenly surrounded by throngs of people in a huge auditorium, all jabbering into a sea of screens reflecting vacant eyes and naked ears.

A woman chanting in Cantonese. A toddler bawling at a Teletubbies video. Tuxedoed albino shouting in … German?

English behind him.

He zipped his fly. “Hello?”

A beast in an Arsenal jersey snarled “fuck off” and carried on, even louder.

A hoodied teen, sitting cross-legged, said “contraseñas alla”, pointing to to a circular desk that was surrounded by people, 5–6 deep, waving tickets.

A sign above:

Cell Tower of Babylon

take number

Chad checked his iPhone.

24% battery. Zero bars.

Settings — wifi — choose network

• Je bent genaaid, kletskop

• Estàs fotut, bocamoll

• انته ورطت حالك، يا ثرثار

All password protected.

“Fuck.”

He slumped onto a plastic bench.

“First time?” The kid’s accent was heavy.

“Huh?”

“You’ll get used to it.” He yammered “momentito” into his Android. “How’d you get flicked?”

“Fleeked?”

“Sent here.”

Chad shrugged. “I was pissing and …”

“Before that?”

“FaceTiming.”

The kid nodded. “Me on a bus, jamming with Bad Bunny. Some abuelita yelled “Cállate” and buuff!. Aquí estoy.”

“I need outta here.”

“First, you need a password.”

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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What in the jimmy cricket is a Tuesday 200?

“I need a chainsaw.”

“For whom, Adam?” Unai chuckled. “Supposing you’d got it past TSA?”

“The dick behind us, FaceTiming some CryptoBro, sans headphones.”

Unai twisted towards him. “Abe Lincoln beard? Trenta iced coffee, nearly empty?”

“Correct.”

FaceTimeFucker looked up and Unai raised his finger, shushing him.

FTF flipped him off.

“Charming,” said Unai, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

“New manicure?”

He jazzed-hands his silvery blue, almost metallic, nails. Left pointer sporting several ovals arranged around one center dot.

“Spirograph?”

“Atom.”

“What?”

“An atom, Adam.” Tsk-tsking me, he motioned left.

FaceTimeFucker heading to the mens’ room.

“Chainsaw.” Unai rose, pulling me with him.

“We’re not … .”

“Shhhh,” as if I were common FaceTimeFelon.

Under flickering fluorescents, FRF leaned towards the urinal, right hand planted overhead.

Gently circling his index finger in, Unai raised his hand, festooned fingernail resting on his thumb.

“Bat … bi …”

He flicked his finger towards FTF. “… hiru.”

No Thanos F/X, just … nothing.

“Unai, what the fu…?”

A toilet flushed. Unai’s hand on my back, guiding me out.

“How … wh … you disappeared him?”

“Noooo,” his finger wiggling. “Merely … atomized. Transported.”

“But where?”

Unai pointed at me.

“Wanna find out?”

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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I’m normally not a fan of neck tattoos, but I wanted to know how his tasted. Peeking out of the collar of his corporate-issued black polo shirt, which he filled out remarkably well, like a guy who plays Australian Rules football, or World Cup rugby.

The kind of guy you’d want to have your back in a dark alley, and whose back you’d die to have in a dark backroom.

“Nice polish, sir,” he said, refilling my coffee.

I held up my thumb. “Cherry red.”

“Why just one?”

I brought the coffee mug up to my mouth. It smelled like jet fuel and unexpected possibilities. “All ten would be way too slutty.”

I took a sip and smiled.

“My slutty season doesn’t start till next month.”

Laughing, he leaned, in, pointed to my wedding band and said, “Pity. Got a brother?”

“Actually, I do. A twin, and he’s in town for a few weeks.”

‘Well,” he said, his tan cheeks growing rosy, “send him around tomorrow. I get off at 11.”

Watching him head to the kitchen, I thought rugby, definitely rugby.

I picked up my phone and quietly said, “Hey Siri, remind me to take off my nail polish.”

Last week’s Tuesday 200

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Jon’s at his desk, scratching out morning pages, trying to be present, to accept being alone’s only for a few weeks.

Maybe I’ll take myself dancing.

An almost kittenish meow floats up.

Hannah Meowtana’s paws on his chair, green eyes looking up, begging. He ponders painting her nails cherry red.

“Meoooww!” Whingeier now, like a stray whose been left starving.

“You just had breakfast. Lemme work, please.”

“MEEEOW.”

Freewrite thwarted, he reaches down to scritch the drama queen. She pulls her head away, lithely weaving between Jon’s legs, half purring, half chirping — the chiding they get for leaving her with the sitter for a weekend.

Nowhere near yesterday’s scolding form his cleaner for not changing the water in the I-can-buy-myself-flowers vase.

Cher forbid she suss how often he changes the Brita filters or toothbrush heads.

Jon follows Miss Meow to the kitchen to make sure she’s not actually starving. Yup. Food’s till there, pushed to the side. Plenty of dry in the other dish.

While nearby, he decides to tick the litter box.

As he reaches down to scoop it clean, he sees … no way …

What?

How’d she write her name in the sand?

Last week’s time’s Tuesday 200

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The Concept

I write a 200-word piece and publish it every Tuesday, prompted by something within the previous week’s story.

They started out as a weekly thing within my then-current blog, Bobzyeruncle (the more things change, right?). I originally said I’d do 20, and went beyond that. I even got so cocky as to create a domain for them. After a while, they (I?) lost steam and I never really went back to them. Until now¹.

The Inspiration

During one of Shaun’s classes, a lovely (and talented) woman named Lynne Rees read from Messages, a book she had co-authored with the equally lovely/talented Sarah Salway.

Messages was written as a collaborative creative writing project. As the preface states:

Using email, 300 pieces of exactly 300 words were exchanged in total, each one returned within a limit of 72 hours. Links were made creatively — words, theme, character, object, form, or even mood. The project took eighteen months to create.

The pieces she read were fascinating. Some short fictions, series of lists, as well as poems from a separate collection. There were no boundaries in the Messages project, except to make a link, any link, and get them back to each other within 3 days.

As I ast listening, I got inspired.

Why not do Tuesday 200s? A 200-word piece every Tuesday, hopefully each a self-contained contained tale — or at least a reasonable snippet. I’ll make some type of link each week from the previous week’s post. I’ll do it for at least 20 weeks (I guess 200 would be cooler, but I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to a 4-year project).

Note: I published my first T-200 on July 7, 2006 and the most recent one, T-110 on April 25, 2017. As Taylor says, “it’s been a long time coming.’’

Why I’m Bringing them Back

Writing used to be fun for me. I had a blast creating 200s as well as random blog posts.

Then I did my Masters, got all caught up in moving abroad for the second time, joined a cruise cult, went to a place somewhere between rare and well-done and was intrigued, then put off, by curations then boosts then way too much AI (my students love it and still can’t figure out how I know they never read 1984, despite their grammatically quasi-correct review) and … well, if you know, you know.

It all stopped being fun. I stopped being silly. I started worrying more about product than procces. I stopped hitting “publish.”

Anywho, I’m doing the London Writer’s Salon Summer of Creative Joy, and word on the street is “you can actually just have fun writing.”

What?

So here I am. Back to having fun. Back not caring about likes or target audiences or niches or monetization. And, this is the hard part, back to not caring if it’s just right.

Nope, for Tuesdays at least, it’s gonna be just write.

So, the first one’s gonna launch in a hot mintue. Have a read if you like. If you’re inspired, write one of your own. Or not. Whatever brings you joy.

¹ Reader, please — I started this post six months ago. FFS, Bob, just do it already.

A Military Parade Day

No Kings Day

Pride in some parts — I read Boston conflated their protests/celebrations today into “No Kings, Yaaassss Queenz” and I approve of this message.

What a perfect time to not be in the United States.

But honestly, who could feel quote unquote patriotic on a day like today?

I mean, I know who could … people who don’t read. People who lack critical thinking skills. People who believe Faux News. People who say, “Well I didn’t vote for this.”

And yet, ya did Blanche. Ya really did.

So here I sit in Barcelona, figuring out I don’t enjoy the doom scrolling as much as I used to, and figured it was time to write some words instead of reading turds.

Yes, theys and those, she’s a poet.

So regale me … what are y’all doing today?

Stay safe, stay angry, stay committed. oxox

What to Expect:

In the coming weeks, you can look forward to:

• Exclusive flash fiction stories

• Personal essays and memoirs

• Creative insights and writing tips

• Special updates and offers

Spotlight:

To kick things off, I’d love to introduce you to my latest book, 'Salute.' It’s about yoga and not about yoga. Most importantly, it’s about accepting where you are and finding peace in imperfection.

Stay tuned for our next edition, where I’ll be sharing a brand new story and diving deeper into the themes of 'Salute.'

Thank you for coming along on this adventure. Who doesn’t love an adventure, especially when you don’t have to leave the house!

I’m excited to explore, learn, and grow together.