Even vampires need to bathe once in blue moon

The creature's hand snakes out from beneath the cardboard. One side of the coffin proclaims Frigidaire and This Side Up. It is a perfectly ordinary hand, if not a bit on the pale side, that shivers out, tentative at first, then with increasing confidence. The seemingly flimsy lid shoots up and hangs straight into the air for the briefest of moments, like a raised proletariat fist, and a black-haired head begins to rise from the refrigerator carton.

It is Dracula of course. His canines glisten in the streetlights, arrows of light slice the wallpaper of the motel room. His black plastic cape is frayed at the bottom, with bits of lettuce and coffee grounds stuck to the hem.

He snaps his fingers. A bucket of hot water appears by his side. Snap! Another bucket. Snap! snap! and again snap! They steam and the great gobs of white mist envelope him as he upturns each bucket into the coffin.

He shakes off his compost-y cape, lays it gently on the musty motel bedspread, and undresses quickly. The steam wraps his thin body, giving it a sheen of shimmering lustre. His legs, arms, body, are white, whiter than the whitest Christmas snow.

He dips in a toe. Ooh...aah! He puffs up a plastic pillow and fastens it to one end of the makeshift tub, then gingerly climbs in.

With a sniff then a scowl at his armpits, Dracula spits his teeth out into his hand and plops them into a nearby water glass, then sinks slowly down into the warmth.

New in the brunch world

There oughta be a North American version of dim sum where the waitresses all wear pink polyester uniforms and call you "honey" as they roll their carts full of waffles, flapjacks and sausage through the throngs of late Sunday morning bingo players.

First snowstorm 2013

I love to go a wandering,
Along the park's white paths,
And as I go, I love to drink,
The beer from my knapsack.

Nigel & Madge

Every Saturday morning, Nigel and Madge walked the five minutes from their house to The Cup & Saucer for breakfast. Nigel always took his eggs poached with rye toast, baked beans, and a small glass of tomato juice, onto which he sprinkled black pepper and stirred with his fork. He took his coffee black with one sugar. Madge drank tea and moved around the menu. Waffles one week. An omelet the next. A fruit plate here, a pancake there. She teased Nigel, calling him a "breakfast snob." She thought he should be more adventurous and try new things. All he would ever say to that was, "I like the way they poach the eggs here."

Nigel and Madge had been married for 22 years. They'd started dating in high school when Nigel had romanced Madge with Twix candy bars, games of gin rummy, and Brut 33 cologne.

Neither of them had much money, so most afternoons Nigel and Madge could be found at Nigel's house, playing gin rummy and eating Twix candy bars. Nigel's mother bought them by the box. Madge would bite off a piece, separate the cookie from the layer of caramel and chocolate with her teeth and tongue,  slide the biscuit to one side of her mouth, chew and swallow it, then suck the caramel and chocolate for up to several minutes. She could make a single Twix cookie last an hour.

One Friday night in November, Nigel invited Madge to dinner, along with his friend, Eddie and Eddie's girlfriend, Marina. Nigel's mother and younger brother, Michael, had eaten earlier. Michael had then gone to a sleep over and Nigel's mother was meeting some friends and wouldn't be back till late.

On his mother's advice, Nigel had served a simple menu: salad, pasta and bread from the bakery where he worked. Ice cream for dessert. Nigel crumbled up pieces of Twix into it. The only thing was, Madge arrived but Eddie and Marina never showed.

Madge was never sure whether Nigel had actually invited Eddie and Marina at all, or if the ploy had been the necessary prelude to his "big move." He and Madge had been dating now for several months and although they'd gone at it pretty hot and heavy at times, they still hadn't gone the whole enchilada. They hadn't had much opportunity. At Nigel's house, his brother was always around, or there was always the chance that his mother would switch shifts with someone at work and suddenly arrive home at 4, instead of her usual 6. Madge had three younger siblings and a father who yelled almost constantly; the situation was far worse at her house.

They ate by candlelight in the dining room. She usually slurped up spaghetti at home, sucking in individual strands and sending tomato sauce spray everywhere, but that night, she carefully twisted the noodles onto her spoon. Nigel had bought two bottles of wine, cheap reds, which they downed like grape juice. They were both drunk by the time dinner was over.

They cleared the table together, then Nigel lit a fire and they sat together in the family room in the dark, watching the flames. Before long they were making out, first on the couch, then on the floor. Nigel was wearing cologne that night, Brut 33, Madge learned later, when she lay back in the sheets of Nigel's bed and spotted the green bottle on his dresser.  She snuggled into his armpit, poked her cold nose, like a dog, into his neck and breathed deeply. The smell of him mixed with the cologne stayed on her hands for hours.

This Saturday morning, Nigel and Madge, as they always did, walked the five-minute walk to The Cup & Saucer. On the way, Madge talked about what she felt like eating.

"I can't decide whether I'm in a waffle mood or a French toast mood."

"Have both."

"There's no option for that on the menu."

Nigel thought, That's never stopped you before.

At The Cup & Saucer Connie took Madge's order.

"Sure, hon, no problem. You want whipped cream and fruit with ‘em?"

"On the side, please." 

Nigel's right eyebrow flickered ever so slightly.

Connie turned to Nigel. "Poached with rye and beans."

She didn't wait for him to reply and was turning away from the table when Nigel said, "Actually..."

A stunned Connie left the table to get their coffee and tea and Nigel turned to face an even more stunned Madge.

"Sunny side up? With bacon?" 

Madge thought, Who is she?

An image of Norah flashed into Nigel's mind's. He made a mental note to pick up a bottle of Brut 33.

"Honey," he sighed, opening up the newspaper, "You're the one who's always telling me to be more adventurous."

Cowbees ride the range

Bumblebees ride blooms
Bright yellow chaps of pollen
Cling to furry legs.

Wreck Beach

Miranda, her salt-encrusted bare white bottom gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, hawked margaritas along the sands of Wreck Beach, while her friend, Giselle sat alone. She wore a long-sleeved white linen shirt, linen pants and a Panama hat. She longed for shade, but didn't want to venture beneath the trees at the base of the cliff where she would inevitably lose the delicious breeze coming from the Pacific.

"Aren't you hot?" a naked older man asked.

Giselle turned her head to see a flaccid, uncircumcised penis dangling a mere inch or two from the brim of her hat. Thank goodness for sunglasses, she thought, I don't know where to look.

Elvis v. Deano

The pigeons hum an Elvis tune in the rafters of the underpass. It echoes: Are you lonesome tonight? Yes, he says. They try another: Heartbreak hotel? No, he says. Stumped, they go for a third: Let me be your teddy bear? You're covered in parasites, he points out. Feathers ruffle, then settle. You're the devil in disguise? Bingo! The devil continues, off to suck a soul or two, and more feathers ruffle, then settle. Bingo wasn't an Elvis tune. The pigeons switch to Dean Martin.