Okay, you know when you're sitting at your desk, in a lonely office, on a Wednesday, somewhere in the middle of Arizona, and your name is Steven Thomas Delahoyde? If so, then you'll understand the need to send things to various publications, sometimes spontaneously, usually without first proof-reading the junk you wrote two years ago. If you are similar, then all is going well thus far. So here's some stuff to be read and to be shown to people who wear glasses though they really don't need glasses (those vain bastards).
I hope these are things you'll enjoy and consider putting up on your site, thus furthering my quest for mild immortality.
A Love Letter To A Yellow Spatula
Dearest Yellow Spatula,
Tonight, as I write this, bathed in the warm glow of moon-drenched candlelight and the eerie flicker of my catho-tubed computer monitor, I am thinking about you. Thinking about your color, your life-affirming yellow. A yellow so deep and so rich it reminds me of the posters I adorned my wall with as a child of Lamborghiniís and Porsches, painted in their shiny, speed-educing yellow. A yellow, so clear and so perfect, it reminds me of the juice in which pickles float, awaiting that one consumer to pick them from the group and savor their delicious sourness.
But you, my lovely spatula, you are so much more to me than lavishly expensive automobiles or the excreted juices of anthropomorphic pickles. You brighten my day with your curves, your smooth textures, your delicately yellow stalk, your ability to be easily stored in a cupboard. You make life seem worthwhile, like there is a reason and a purpose to the world around us, as confusing and as daunting as it sometimes may seem. All of my woes, my fears, my trouble understanding people with thick European accents -- they disappear when I hold you in my hand and read to you passages from last week's TV Guide.
We share so many moments such as those. Beautiful moments, unmatched in silly sentiments displayed in movies or in highly realistic videogame introduction scenes. Try as they might, the greatest of playwrights, the most talented poets, they could not begin to describe the emotions and the resounding moods that are abundantly abound when we are together. Sadly, these are my limitations as well, not being able to compose prose that adequately depicts my feelings for you and you alone. But there is beauty in this, my sweet yellow cooking utensil. A love as strong as ours cannot be measured by words or numbers or binary codings. It is a love for the ages to know only in their hearts, not in their minds.
When you have become an aged, dingy yellowish-brown and begin to bend in unusual ways, and I have grown wrinkles and have trouble understanding the music of young people, our love will still remain as strong as it is now, in our beautiful, energetic youth. We will reminisce of our early days together, when we were first experiencing true harmony, but we will not be saddened. We will be optimistic about our future, because we know how strong we both shall be. And even upon our deaths, when you are reduced to nothing more than an unpleasant goo and I am being devoured by lecherous worms, people will remember us and hold firm our legacy. "That guy," they will say, "you know, the one with the spatula? He really loved that spatula, didn't he?" "He sure did," this person's friend will say. They will think deep introspective thoughts and then return to whatever it was that they were doing, perhaps learning how to cook sushi properly.
And so, spatula of my dreams, it is my deepest of hopes that this pithy message has expressed at least some of the dedication I feel for you.
Not So Much A Poem, But An Ode
Penicillin, you're so great!
You're so great, you make me tingle like it was three days until Easter!
I've just got to tell you that you're one of the best things which can be injected into my blood stream.
How'd you get to be so really, really cool?
I'd like to read a book on how you were invented and why you were named Penicillin!
I'd like to read this book while on vacation somewhere, maybe on an island that has reasonable drink prices.
Oh God! Penicillin!
I can hardly stand thinking about you!
It's like have some sort of stomach pain that makes it hard to walk.
I don't have pains, but if thoughts about you could be understood through painful feelings, in the stomach it would be.
Holy, Holy, Holy Penicillin!
I'm about to fall over and scream!
Right now, I'm drawing a picture of what you might look like standing next to a donkey.
The donkey is wearing a sombrero and there is a caption at the bottom of the picture saying "Hello From Mexico!"
Super Duper! Yes! Penicillin!
Okay, I need to calm down a bit, or someone will ask me to leave.
I just need to quietly think about something else, get my mind on something else.
HOT DAMN! PENICILLIN!!!
I couldn't do it! I just can control myself!
I have to think about penicillin and its wonderful omnipotence!
I want to have a couple vials of penicillin in my medicine cabinet at home.
I would leave it there, so when people looked in the cabinet, there would be some penicillin in there.
They would be impressed, more impressed than they'd ever been before.
Some of them would want to shake my hand or ask to talk to me.
I would say, "I don't have the time to talk!"
I need to think about Penicillin.
A Haiku With Far Too Many Exclamation Points Addressing The Line Producer On The Hit Television Show "ER"
I will fight you now
Produce your TV show
But I don't agree!
Take your nice Grammies!
Your mink coats and shoes
And so we must fight!
If you win, glory!
I donít know how zippers work. This bothers me.
I own several sweaters and jackets with zippers and theyíve been nothing
but wonderful for keeping me warm. Itís not a problem that I donít know
how to use a zipper. Iíve got that down pat. But how do those teeth keep
it closed? Whatís in that zipper puller thing that clamps the teeth together
making it impervious to release? I feel as if Iím neglecting these warm
articles of clothing by not knowing how they do their job. They know
everything about me. When itís cold, one is always with me, sometimes two.
It knows where Iíve been, who Iíve been with, what Iíve talked about, what
I smell like, my taste in fashion, it knows everything. And when it returns
home it must tell all of the other clothes about me. So all of the clothes
know everything. But does it make my zipper clothes jealous? I know
how the simplistic button works. You just slip it through the hole in the
other side of the garment. Itís easy. Itís self-explanatory. Maybe itís
just the mystique of having a zipper and these clothes have become elitists.
There could be private parties in reserved sections of my closet where
only clothes with zippers are invited. The lesser button holders watch
from the distance as my pants, sweaters and jackets indulge in fine pastries
and expensive wine. Maybe thatís why I donít understand how zippers work;
because Iím not high class enough. People with lots of money who have swanky
cocktail parties probably discuss the workings of zippers all the time.
ďGreat thing, the zipper,Ē one attendee says to another. ďI especially
love how it works!Ē they reply. It must be great to know how a zipper works.
B R A V E S O U L S R E C E I V E
Archive of Recent Activities
Eyeshot's Shameless Moneygrub
Collect All 90 "Enduring
Picture Cards From Topps
T. Vollmann's "Letter From Afghanistan"
In The New Yorker - Spring 2000
An Interview With Vollmann
About The Taliban