Al Jagiello's Page

My attempts at obtaining a condominium and a dog are failing miserably. The orchestrated symphony firing serotonin to my cerebral sponge has left me without a home, job, or an NRA card. In place of these things, I have a headache. It's the kind of headache they don't make pills for. It's the kind that pumps raw sewage through my veins. The shell contains mere mucous where the pearl should be. My once unfounded paranoia has left me locking doors and looking through peepholes for the silent stranger in the gray jacket and striped tie. His rumbling laughter is felt within my own lungs and gut. I have become intangible and have begun living vicariously through strangers whose lives I only pretend to know. George? A neighbor with a most secret agenda to slowly destroy what's left of my life and times. I see it in him. His innocence only fools most. Fat Smoking Lady? Your incoherent yelling at the children up past ten are screams for attention that beg for the same negative reinforcement that Daddy gave you. Dan? Oh, so humble, Dan. A hard worker, you are. It is truly with great envy that I watch you play with your kids (the same ones who may be up past ten) and garner the sympathies of a single dad trying to make ends meet. You've earned your BBQ. I only wonder who you are when no one is looking. Do you put on the gray jacket and striped tie and laugh gutturally beyond my door? These are just a few suspects. More to come. Besides, I died at the Alamo. I'm a hero.
(Part 2)
Apparently, letting an American Indian move into the building is not good for property value. I saw the notes on Tonto's door. I never talked to the guy but he seemed nice enough. He used to leave early in the A.M. and return late in the evening, always with a nod of his head and a smile in my direction. Later, I watched his car sit in slot 118, never moving. It got me curious so I took some chalk and marked the ground behind his rear Firestones and waited. The glow of his television from behind his blinds always let me know that he was awake but come 11:30 (after Conan, I'm sure), the glow vanished. I'd head down the steps at 11:25 and wait, staring from the parking lot at his third floor condominium. There it was. 11:30. TV off. This was my cue. When I was sure Tonto was asleep, I'd check the chalk marks. The tires didn't move. Not an inch. I questioned why 11:30 and not 11:35 when Conan officially ended. My assumption was Tonto despised the musical acts. But Old Tonto loved himself some red-headed comedy and why not? Tonto must have laughed himself into a frenzy at masturbating bears and Conan playing a Mexican. Max Weinberg didn't bother Tonto and, besides, he seemed like a good sport when playing along with Conan's mischief. But not the musical acts. Never the musical acts. I'm way off course here. Notes and chalk marks. Notes and chalk marks. The notes were piling up and the tires never budged from the chalk lines. I would surmise that Tonto caught the disease that Sigourney Weaver had in the bad Harry Connick Jr- as- serial-killer-movie. I would be wrong. I began missing him and his nods and smiles. And the notes. These concerned me. Tonto was a renter on this American soil. He was never meant to be permanent. His belongings were strewn on the sidewalk and new renters moved in. His car was still sitting in slot 118 until last Tuesday when it was towed away. I'm pretty sure Tonto is alright. He's probably listening to music as I write you. His music. But what do I know? I died at the Alamo. I'm a hero and Tonto may have been Mexican now that I think about it.
(Part 3)
The vomit on the porch has been picked over by hungry animals seeking nourishment from yesterday's indiscretion. The hose won't reach the red hued, hardened puddle. I'll watch, wait for rain, and stay conscience of the emptied guts of someone else. I won't guess which of the suspects left me this gift but will, instead, use it as a reminder as to why stacking people into boxes doesn't work. I've always held my guts for a lawn. It always seemed more civilized. I'd imagine that future generations of grass would grow up thankful for my innards and the lifeblood it gave them. The pavement is crass even in the sound made when bile and pasta sauce hit it. Half chewed noodles, which are slick to the step on pavement, decorate a lawn. Animals feeding on lawn puddles aren't as at risk of it becoming their last supper due to the violent box of metal on rubber wheels which the pavement feeders are often prone to. Don't be fooled by suicidal birds that make the pavement tragedy look like an accidental death so that their saddened families won't ever know of their inner pain. The same method is used when they hit the glass of the patio door. I don't buy the "he never saw it coming." I'm onto you con artists but appreciate the selflessness of your final act (act being the operable word). Now I'm off track. Birds have that effect. Closing argument time. Where I vomit makes me an environmentally conscience animal rights activist nurturing the planet while preventing unaware boxhouse dwellers a pulled groin. It also show a high level of class. You can trust me. I'm a hero. I died at the Alamo.
*Note: Toilets take the glamour and circle of life quality out of vomiting but can be an ample substitute for a lawn.