The biscuits were blooming. Yeah took a breath once and chocked on the biscuit nectar. It was the only thing he ever did with biscuits. Sometimes he thought he wasn’t sure if he was breathing. Once I thought I was a sword. Yeah took me and stabbed his brother in the eye. Yeah’s brother bled all over my mother’s sofa. She asked who bled on her sofa. I said, “It was Yeah’s brother ‘Munch Thunder Flume.’” This made my mother angry and she told me to sell my baseball cards to pay for a new sofa. A few days later Yeah came home from computer technician camp. He said, “Your shirt has a sword on it. Did you buy it from the cotton man? Why is it all bloody? I heard my brother gouged his eyeball out. I didn’t even know I had a brother, but I guess he lives behind the sofa. Who knew? Sometimes I pretend I live behind the sofa, but I don’t have the courage to actually do it.” A month later I moved into a building with a blind doorman. He sort of could see with one of his eyes, but only when he wore his monocle and he never wore his monocle. Sometimes we’d talk about my mother’s sofa. Other times I would stand next to him for hours thinking he didn’t know I was there, but every time he would always turn and poke me right on the left eyebrow and say, “Biscuits.”

Paris Hilton would not knowingly let Mark Baumer write her autobiography. Maybe when his book on gravel is published he'll have a better chance. Most likely she will probably see the book on gravel and think, ‘ew rocks gross.’ Maybe if Mark titled his book on gravel, ‘Paris Hilton is a Gravel Pebble’ she would let him write her autobiography. Shitty literary blogs would probably make blog posts about the book if he put Paris Hilton's name in the title. Publicity is pretty cool. Mark would enjoy life a little more if the internet began producing blog posts with titles like, ‘Author of gravel book puts Paris Hilton’s name in title even though book has nothing to do with Paris Hilton in hopes of increasing sales and eventually being allowed to write Paris Hilton’s autobiography’. Mark Baumer might create a pseudonym and write blog posts about his own gravel pebble book and then talk shit about the paper quality of the gravel book and get in a fight with myself and pitch a reality show to the networks starring himself, his pseudonym, and Paris Hilton.

Mark Baumer once asked his girlfriend to dress up like Joyce Carol Oates for Halloween.  His girlfriend didn't want to and dressed up like Harry Potter instead.  She recieved many compliments throughout the night.  Mark Baumer was only mildly disappointed.

During his senior year of college Mark Baumer wore a suit to class every day.  Mark has never read a book by Tom Wolfe, but his classmates and professors all thought Tom Wolfe was his favorite author.

My name is Mark Baumer. I am not Mark Fidrych. He is dead. I am not dead. People named Mark shouldn't die. I want to become a senator and pass legislation making it illegal for doctors to let people named Mark die.

When I was little I think I met Mark Fidrych. I think he was naked. I called my Dad to ask him if Mark Fidrych was naked when I met him. My father didn't answer his phone. His voicemail answered the phone, but it did not say, "When my son was ten he met a naked Mark Fidrych." Instead, my father's voicemail said, "Leave a message." I left a message. I said, "Was Mark Fidrych completely naked or was he wearing a towel?" I waited three minutes for an answer, but the voicemail didn't respond.

I think my girlfriend's sister would be mad if I became a senator because she wants to be a doctor and would not want to go to jail because someone named Mark died of a heart attack under her care. If Mark Fidrych had it to do over again he probably would have told the ten-year-old Mark Baumer not to be a senator.

If I met the naked Mark Fidrych again I would say, "Thanks for letting my dad beat you. It meant a lot to him." The naked Mark Fidrych would tell me my father's team lost. I would be confused. My dad just called back and said, "Bernie Carbo hit a homerun off us in the eighth inning." I didn't ask what the final score was. I didn't ask about the naked Mark Fidrych either. I was too embarrassed. Instead, I said, "You struck out Carlton Fisk, right?" My father said, "No, it was Ozzie Virgil." I waited until he hung up to look up Ozzie Virgil on the internet. I am doubtful I will ever know if I saw a naked Mark Fidrych or if I saw Mark Fidrych in a towel. I only know my father's beer league team lost to Mark Fidrych and a bunch of retired Red Sox players who were barnstorming around New England. I also remember a table of food in the locker room after the game. I had gone into get autographs. Mark Fidrych was eating a piece of cheese. He didn't wait for me to ask. He ate the cheese and signed my baseball.

My name is Mark Baumer. When I was twenty I thought of birds for two weeks straight and then coach said, "You're pinch-hitting for John," and I said, "I know. The birds told me." Coach pretended he didn't hear me and marked his scored card. I saw a bird on the backstop and it winked at me and said, "First pitch fastball." The game was tied. The left-hander on the mound didn't believe in the evolution of birds. The umpire pointed at me and said it was my turn. I walked up to the plate and told the umpire, "My name is Mark Baumer." He nodded. I fouled the first pitch and the bird said, "Idiot." I shrugged my shoulders and hit a home run on the next pitch. When I got back to the dugout I said, "Coach, I hit that one for the birds." That night I saw Dead Prez. They are a semi-mainstream militant rap group. My friend wanted to buy a shirt, but felt intimidated by the guy behind the merch table. I stared at the merch guy for a long time. When he finally looked at me I said, "I hit a home run today.

My name is Mark Baumer. I think I understand the internet. My dad said I used to feed ducks. I don't remember. Ducks do not usually use the internet. I've never told my dad he is a liar. Ducks have limited capabilities. Most fathers lie to their sons. I think my father wanted me to be a professional baseball player. In seventh grade I thought I was going to marry Mandy Moore. The last time I remember my father lying to me I was in fifth grade. He said, "We'll go see Jurassic Park this weekend." I have not made the major leagues yet. We didn't go see Jurassic Park. In eighth grade I thought I was going to marry Judy Blume. I went to school with a girl named Judy Blume. This may not be true. My dad probably told me I went to school with Judy Blume. She was very developed. She had sex with my cousin and then my friend Nemoy. I thought I was next in line. Nemoy was not actually my friend's name. I called Judy Blume every night and rode my bike to her house and waited for the sex, but it never happened. When the phone bill came my mother got mad because the phone company said calling Judy Blume was long distance even though we lived in the same town. I think our phone bill was $4000 which was a lot of 1996. $4000 does not seem like a realistic number.