Unlikely 2.0


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Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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The Fortunate Traveler
A Sardine on Vacation
Episode Twenty-One

Joe T.’s dating pattern did not change with Antigone. First, preliminary chats with the woman, followed by pestering his friends to see what we thought of her (was she good looking enough for Joe to be seen with), then falling in love and thinking of marriage, and, finally, asking for a date.

He had tickets to a hockey game. So what that she didn’t know a hockey stick from a baseball bat. Joe would tutor her the game. This would draw them together in a master-slave sort of way. That is, it would enhance his chance of sleeping with her on the first date. And the hockey team could help him tremendously by winning the game.

I bumped into Oedipus in the men’s room the other night and asked how he felt about Joe seeing his daughter.

“He’s a good boy,” said Oed, “just as long as he doesn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done.”

Guiding him to the urinal, I waited until the old Greek was finished before completing my own business. What exactly Oed meant by his statement I wasn’t sure. I had stopped at the Attic to pay my respects to the crew-- Frank Weathers was the only one present--before leaving for Europe.

“Are you going to Greece?” asked Oed.

“He shouldn’t even be leaving the country,” said Frank, happy nonetheless, for appearing in another column.

This Sardine needed a vacation from the permanent vacation and actually not do any work.

“You’d be writing the column,” said Frank.

The secret of work was to find a job that, after a time would not seem like work.

“Like your column,” said Frank.

The column has never constituted work.

“Oh.”

That’s what makes this such a glorious activity. In that way, I’m a most fortunate writer. But I’ve had many jobs that have never come close to redeeming themselves while I was working--cooking, teaching, selling religious goods.

“How’d you get into the religion racket?” Frank laughed.

I had lost control of my life for six months. I‘m not so sure how I convinced anyone to hire me to be in sales. If anything, I’m the anti-Christ of salesman. Yet, there I was selling. . . .

“Rosaries, prayer books, candles,” Oed interjected.

I turned to the solver of riddles and informed him that my company sold none of these. It was an ecclesiastical vestment shop that sold chalices, five-piece vestment sets, tabernacles, altar linens, and clergy suits.

Only later was I to retrieve a measure of catharsis (with a tip of the hat to my Greek friend a few chairs away) by using what I learned at the job and putting it into my first novel.

“I’ve had cooking jobs,” said Frank, “before I got into the insurance adjustment business. I managed several restaurants in my day. Ran a few into the ground. One actually went up in flames (arson). That’s how I got into the insurance racket.”

As a cook, I used to devise ways to get through the hot nights and, after a few years, the job grew into a leisure activity.

“Did you cook octopus and souvlaki?” asked Oed.

No. Nor stuffed grape leaves. Really, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.

“You can’t lead us on,” said Frank.

I had to catch the flight. I might send the ex-King of Thebes a postcard from the Aegean.

Frank pleaded, then got Oedipus on his side by buying him an ouzo.

Okay, okay, I guess I shouldn’t leave you hanging about what I did to make work easy on myself. Where’s the Logged-In Public? They can’t hear about this.

“They’re still lined up at the courthouse. I told them you wouldn’t be there but they didn’t believe me,” said Frank.

Good. Although I didn’t try it every night in the kitchen, I created a competition between the dinner platters. Which ones would I cook most often in that evening. The restaurant had over seventy platters on the menu. Some didn’t sell well, and a few were dominant. After a few months, I made the competitions more complicated. Round robin fields of thirty-two or sixty-four. Like a food version of college basketball’s March Madness. Best vs. worst sellers. Steaks vs.Veal Chops. Flounder vs. Shrimp. Fried vs. Broiled. Then the platters took on characteristics: fast starters who faded after eight o’clock; chokers who won big against weak opponents but lost close battles in the last minutes against comparable heavy sellers.

“I don’t get it,” Frank said.

I suppose Oedipus didn’t either but was too polite to say so.

The secret genius of this system (“secret” because I hadn’t consciously formulated it at the time) was that, as a cook, I looked forward to receiving more orders and didn’t want the night to end, especially on nights with great competitions. With my assistant, we would comment on the action as if on a sports telecast, a sort of continual parody of game broadcasts. And nobody knew what the hell we were constantly talking about, nor could they figure why we suddenly cursed and cheered.

“I’m sorry I made you stay,” said Frank. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. I would’ve fired you.”

“Is Joe back yet?” Oed asked.

“He said he wasn’t going out until eight o’clock,” said Wal-terr.


I was soon out the door, thinking I had been a fortunate worker at the restaurant. Maybe not as fortunate as finding someone to publish these things. Certainly fortunate to be able to travel when and where I wanted and have rid myself of the aforesaid jobs. Regardless of the methods used to survive them, I always looked forward to their termination. Whereas I never want these columns to end.


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The Sardine's essays, articles, and stories have appeared around the Internet in the last few years at 3 A.M., Facets, Eclectica magazine, Fiction Funhouse, The Fiction Warehouse, 5_trope, and several film journals. Who and what he is probably will be revealed at various points through the articles appearing at this site. The first fifteen installments of his saga can be viewed at the old Unlikely Stories.