Egg Shen's Revenge

More snapshots from 2010, told in Leander form as seen in John Cheever's "The Wapshot Chronicle": Missing pocket knife. Roving housecats that deserve to be put down. Baby opossums. Raccoons climbing my leg. Camping in the middle of nowhere. Atop the mountain, screaming bloody hell. Broken fingers. Healing fingers. Stiff little fingers. The end of hockey season.

Unexpected phone calls from British chaps. Too many margaritas on Cinco de Mayo. "Cinco de Minco." Hangovers. Death setting in. Resurrection. Winning a 5K. Little fanfare. Circled days. New short-story collections soon to be published. Brain contusions. Expired packaged foods. Axes. Tent stakes. Honors and privileges at such a young age. Jambalaya with meatless sausage, sans shrimp. Oil spills. Arlen Specter's fall from grace. Regina Spektor's "Far" album. Folding chairs. Somehow stopping this train. Turning sixty-eight.

"Moby-Dick." Half Dome. The Adirondacks. Bears. Timber rattlesnakes. Snapping turtles. Newts. Genetically engineered monsters vs. Nazi clones. Bikini-model photo shoots in San Francisco's McCovey Cove. "Astro Zombies." Lyrics: "Prime directive / Exterminate / The whole human race / And your face / Drops in a pile of flesh / And your heart, heart pounds till it pumps in death."

Unexpected phone calls from editors in Chicago. The Ramones. Sepultura. "Wheels" from Jamie Cullum. Threatening e-mails. Warnings. Fallout. FBI agents. Cars with tinted windows and government plates. Knocks on the front door. Computers rebelling. Finished books of New York Times crossword puzzles. Carlin from India, calling and asking me to run away. "Big Trouble in Little China." Jack Burton saying, "What the hell?" Hunter S. Thompson saying, "Buy the ticket, take the ride."

Empty bottles, empty hands, empty hearts. Playoff beards. The Montreal Canadiens' improbable run to the Eastern Conference Finals. Cigars and brandy on the second floor. Skunks. Snowfall and gunshots. My damned computer. Spotlights. Scabs. Crawling through the mud. Texts. The irony/sadness of poring through a road atlas after so many years spent in one place.