I was about 5 or 6 years old when the "punk rock" episode of Quincy came on, and I just knew that was some action I wanted in on. However, they didn't exactly have punk rock clothes available on the blue light rolling rack at the K-Mart in Killeen, Tx, so I had to improvise. I spent the rest of the night doodling skeletons on one of my good Sunday vests, just absolutely sure I was gonna blow everyone's mind when I showed up in it.
I stroll in the next day wearing this hideous fucking thing, and of course everyone made fun of me and made me feel like a turd. At that moment, at 5 years old, that awkward little ragamuffin very likely turned into the pretentious shithead I am today.
I had myself convinced I had made something out of complete face-melting awesome, and couldn't comprehend why people weren't absolutely tripping over themselves to tell me the same. But to everyone else, I was just a snot-nosed little dumb-ass in a ruined vest still sticky from cheap fabric paint. I probably smelled funny too, because fuck it why not.
If I was still the kind of person that gets drunk, here would be the part where I would make a big retarded stink about what the fuck did those kids know because I really did turn out to be some sort of fancy-pants punk rock fringe artist. It's obviously just a coincidental twist of fate, somehow not my fault at all, that this "fringe artist" seems pretty much indistinguishable from a self-absorbed, career-impaired recovering alcoholic with a headful of useless trivia and terrible ideas and attitudes regarding how I conduct myself doing the things I love the most, just drifting between temp agency contracts and only picking up freelance work when it "inspires" me.
When it comes down to it, I'm still that stinky little dickweed in his stupid vest.
I've changed my religion and underlying philosophy more often than I change my underwear. I've experimented with black magic and viral marketing. I drank like I was entering a contest. All I've learned was that my art would have been my art anyway, and that I should have done even more of it, regardless of "inspiration".
I'm a weird guy, I like weird stuff and I make weird stuff. Over the years I've discovered more than a few people that like the weird stuff I make. That's fine and all, but it doesn't make me somehow superior than, say, the guy who draws Garfield gushing about lasagna over and over and over, steady as the drone of a Buddhist meditation bell. At least he's drawing a paycheck for his, um, drawings. All this poncing around like I'm a goddamn savant hasn't done me a damn bit of good.
Because really, it doesn't mean a rat's ass in the long run. I've been just as successful with projects I agonized over as ones I just let happen the way they were meant to. And realistically, the chance of me making a connection to the fraction of a percent of the population that even give art a second thought drops to zero when it's all trapped in my head. I have no excuse.
Time to put that fucking vest back on. Maybe I've gained a little better sense of humor since the last time.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's finally in style this year.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Unclaimed.
To the consternation of the amateur psychologists in the audience, the identities of the secondary characters in this narrative will be jumbled. Jumbled even more so than normal, this taking place within a dream.
"But you still love me, right?" she asked. It was almost accusatory.
"Of course." I replied, and realized this was all wrong. It seemed like the dialogue should be reversed, because I was the one that was caught in the act.
I should probably back up, but I won't.
To gather my bearings, I'll describe my surroundings. Even that is complicated, however, because I will have to describe both what I see and what I know. I see that I am sitting Indian style on a linoleum floor in a nice, if economical, living room with the sunlight caressing my knees and the rest of a three-bedroom house to my back. I know there is really only one room, the walls are corrugated metal, the floor is dirt and it's the middle of the night.
I don't want to go outside. I don't want to look at or think about the stones.
I see that I am tinkering with something mechanical in my lap, but I know I'm holding the tool wrong. More like the way you'd hold, say, a knife. I hope there is not blood involved.
I know behind me, in a drawer, will be found a lot of stuff that will get me in trouble. I had spent the afternoon dismantling all the recording heads in all the VCRs in the house. For the life of me I can't remember why and I know I have neither the ability to fix or the money to replace everything I broke. The more I add it up, the more I realize I ruined with my tinkering.
But yeah, the stones make me uncomfortable now. Now that I understand them better. I'd seen them before dozens of times, a whole field of them. Featureless yet intentional. Intentional was definitely the word that came to mind. It made me think of a cemetery, but without paths or flowers. Without, you know, evidence of visitors. Just a bunch of neat rows and the corrugated metal shack at the far end. I may have even thought at one point it was just a blank headstone storage for a funeral parlor. For some reason I can't even picture a gate; does the caretaker just leap the fence? That seems silly.
It was explained to me later that it was a plot where they deposited the unclaimed from the mental institution. Unclaimed. Like luggage. Abandoned. Seemed silly at first, like an urban legend, but it began to eat at me the more I thought of it.
I think that's why I was begging her to tell me whether she still loved me. I'm sure it sounded almost accusatory. I had broken something, I had fucked up bad, and I was scared of being abandoned.
Unclaimed.
"But you still love me, right?" she asked. It was almost accusatory.
"Of course." I replied, and realized this was all wrong. It seemed like the dialogue should be reversed, because I was the one that was caught in the act.
I should probably back up, but I won't.
To gather my bearings, I'll describe my surroundings. Even that is complicated, however, because I will have to describe both what I see and what I know. I see that I am sitting Indian style on a linoleum floor in a nice, if economical, living room with the sunlight caressing my knees and the rest of a three-bedroom house to my back. I know there is really only one room, the walls are corrugated metal, the floor is dirt and it's the middle of the night.
I don't want to go outside. I don't want to look at or think about the stones.
I see that I am tinkering with something mechanical in my lap, but I know I'm holding the tool wrong. More like the way you'd hold, say, a knife. I hope there is not blood involved.
I know behind me, in a drawer, will be found a lot of stuff that will get me in trouble. I had spent the afternoon dismantling all the recording heads in all the VCRs in the house. For the life of me I can't remember why and I know I have neither the ability to fix or the money to replace everything I broke. The more I add it up, the more I realize I ruined with my tinkering.
But yeah, the stones make me uncomfortable now. Now that I understand them better. I'd seen them before dozens of times, a whole field of them. Featureless yet intentional. Intentional was definitely the word that came to mind. It made me think of a cemetery, but without paths or flowers. Without, you know, evidence of visitors. Just a bunch of neat rows and the corrugated metal shack at the far end. I may have even thought at one point it was just a blank headstone storage for a funeral parlor. For some reason I can't even picture a gate; does the caretaker just leap the fence? That seems silly.
It was explained to me later that it was a plot where they deposited the unclaimed from the mental institution. Unclaimed. Like luggage. Abandoned. Seemed silly at first, like an urban legend, but it began to eat at me the more I thought of it.
I think that's why I was begging her to tell me whether she still loved me. I'm sure it sounded almost accusatory. I had broken something, I had fucked up bad, and I was scared of being abandoned.
Unclaimed.
I Really Thought An Angel Was Gonna Steal My Rent.
I'm trying to picture him now, but all I remember was his shoes.
I had picked up a money order from the convenience store and was walking home to deposit my share of the rent. He called at me from the behind-store alley where there was a notorious homeless "camp".
I told him I had no change on me. He said he didn't want money, he just wanted to ask me something. I could barely hear his question, so despite my best instincts I approached him and asked him to repeat.
"If you could ask God anything right now, what would it be?" he asked. "Now's your chance..."
I'd never seen him before. If he really was homeless, he sure had some shiny shoes on.
"C'mon man," he continued, "isn't there anything you always wanted to know?"
My head started to spin a little. I replied that any question I had would probably be very personal.
"What have you got to hide?" he said. "Just ask anything. Anything at all."
But my mind had went blank, and I became more and more conscious of the several hundred dollar unsigned money order in my pocket. I told him I had to get home.
"Suit yourself." he said, and I purposefully strode home.
I stole one last glance behind me, and there was no trace that anyone was ever there.
I had picked up a money order from the convenience store and was walking home to deposit my share of the rent. He called at me from the behind-store alley where there was a notorious homeless "camp".
I told him I had no change on me. He said he didn't want money, he just wanted to ask me something. I could barely hear his question, so despite my best instincts I approached him and asked him to repeat.
"If you could ask God anything right now, what would it be?" he asked. "Now's your chance..."
I'd never seen him before. If he really was homeless, he sure had some shiny shoes on.
"C'mon man," he continued, "isn't there anything you always wanted to know?"
My head started to spin a little. I replied that any question I had would probably be very personal.
"What have you got to hide?" he said. "Just ask anything. Anything at all."
But my mind had went blank, and I became more and more conscious of the several hundred dollar unsigned money order in my pocket. I told him I had to get home.
"Suit yourself." he said, and I purposefully strode home.
I stole one last glance behind me, and there was no trace that anyone was ever there.
IRL.
It's like I'm James fucking Bond or something.
People are scattering, screaming, pouring out of doorways into the foyer. There's a bomb in the building, I know it. I can hear the screeching klaxons of the timing mechanism. I am a buoy of calmness in a sea of feral panic. I force myself to concentrate.
Something is wrong, however. I'm tuned in, paying attention, but no matter which direction I move the sound of the bomb's alarm system don't seem to be getting any nearer or farther away. I resolve to check door to door, hoping to find the device by sight since it's masking it's proximity.
It's hopeless, I am told. A pair of cruel, decadent, piercing eyes look straight through me as the villain approaches. With a few subtle, catlike movements I am embraced, our lips meet and the building explodes.
My eyes flutter open. My alarm clock is still screaming. Of course I couldn't find the sound by listening in my dream; no matter where I went the clock was two feet from my head out here. If it was a snake it would have bit me.
I have a groggy, lurching epiphany in the shower. Something about the teeth of gears too large to see meshing, subtle turns of phrase impossibly repeated like code words of an exclusive club. I wonder how many times the answer was two feet from my head if I could just wake up and look at it. So close if it was a snake it would have bit me.
The epiphany, seeming to condense like water on the shower curtain, suddenly evaporates and is gone to wherever epiphanies always run off to when you're trying to hold on to them.
Down the drain, maybe.
People are scattering, screaming, pouring out of doorways into the foyer. There's a bomb in the building, I know it. I can hear the screeching klaxons of the timing mechanism. I am a buoy of calmness in a sea of feral panic. I force myself to concentrate.
Something is wrong, however. I'm tuned in, paying attention, but no matter which direction I move the sound of the bomb's alarm system don't seem to be getting any nearer or farther away. I resolve to check door to door, hoping to find the device by sight since it's masking it's proximity.
It's hopeless, I am told. A pair of cruel, decadent, piercing eyes look straight through me as the villain approaches. With a few subtle, catlike movements I am embraced, our lips meet and the building explodes.
My eyes flutter open. My alarm clock is still screaming. Of course I couldn't find the sound by listening in my dream; no matter where I went the clock was two feet from my head out here. If it was a snake it would have bit me.
I have a groggy, lurching epiphany in the shower. Something about the teeth of gears too large to see meshing, subtle turns of phrase impossibly repeated like code words of an exclusive club. I wonder how many times the answer was two feet from my head if I could just wake up and look at it. So close if it was a snake it would have bit me.
The epiphany, seeming to condense like water on the shower curtain, suddenly evaporates and is gone to wherever epiphanies always run off to when you're trying to hold on to them.
Down the drain, maybe.
Someone, Quick! What's The Phase Of The Moon?
You know, I'd always intrinsically believed I'd fare pretty well if suddenly caught in the middle of a riot. It was just one of those things I thought I had covered. As of last night however, the first time I ever saw (in real life) someone dent a car using another person, I've begun to have my doubts.
It wasn't a particularly bad area of town. Actually, quite the opposite. Two months ago, I would be skulking around this club all night muttering under my breath about the upscale drink prices. Scratch that - two months ago I would have made sure to polish off a 12-pack before I even showed up, which somehow wouldn't (despite my flawless planning) slow down my consumption of upscale drinks, nor the subsequent muttering about my rapidly emptying wallet afterward.
It was one of those nights where being so motherfucking sober felt like a fork and a chalkboard were sexually experimenting inside my head. I'd been having trouble sleeping, but wanted out of the house so my wild, panicked, lizard-like eyes could settle on landmarks outside my apartment and I could air out my pasty, shriveled form. I felt I needed to at least attempt a feeble pantomime of normal human interaction for the evening.
And this, of course, is the night everyone decides to act straight clownshit.
Some bitch is screaming. Screaming. Inches from my face. Okay, not really. She is halfway down the stairs which are the only exit, and apparently believes she needs to resolve all of her domestic issues with a second party that is behind me yet not visible in the screeching voice, volume, and manner of an intoxicated territorial primate. Which, technically, she is. She's not screaming in my face now, but it's coming.
Now, I can take absolutely no credit personally for the billions or so years of evolution that resulted in me currently being an upright, speaking animal with a wallet full of maxed-out debit cards. But damn if I didn't feel put upon by being forced to maneuver around this National Geographic-worthy display.
After completing the trial of the Stair Banshee, I reach the door that marks the countdown until I retreat back to my bitter little cave. I'm warmly visualizing me wrapped in my blanket; a lonely little burrito. Like a cozy middle finger pointed in the face of, well, everything.
Then I heard more screaming from outside, and a thump. A heavy, metallic one.
Calling what was going outside a fight wouldn't do it justice. Observing it objectively, it was almost like a game or a dance, or even some sort of insect swarm. There may have been a straightforward fight at some point, but it was long past. It had become some sort of event, and everyone wanted involved. There must have been two dozen people involved, tousling in the street. Punches were exchanged between people that seemed as dedicated as square-dance partners; within moments they would turn on someone else with no apparent rhyme or reason.
And inside me, I felt a pull. Secretly, I wished someone involved would call me out, would challenge me. I didn't particularly like that feeling. I wondered how many of those currently involved went in to "break it up", secretly hoping to catch an elbow or something, so they could justify going in swinging.
Then the dude bounced the other guy off the car fender, which caused some sort of fountain of douche to explode from the club next door. As the crowd expanded to a size that could justify being labeled a "riot", I realized that if I didn't go home then I was gonna get myself into trouble, sober or not.
It wasn't a particularly bad area of town. Actually, quite the opposite. Two months ago, I would be skulking around this club all night muttering under my breath about the upscale drink prices. Scratch that - two months ago I would have made sure to polish off a 12-pack before I even showed up, which somehow wouldn't (despite my flawless planning) slow down my consumption of upscale drinks, nor the subsequent muttering about my rapidly emptying wallet afterward.
It was one of those nights where being so motherfucking sober felt like a fork and a chalkboard were sexually experimenting inside my head. I'd been having trouble sleeping, but wanted out of the house so my wild, panicked, lizard-like eyes could settle on landmarks outside my apartment and I could air out my pasty, shriveled form. I felt I needed to at least attempt a feeble pantomime of normal human interaction for the evening.
And this, of course, is the night everyone decides to act straight clownshit.
Some bitch is screaming. Screaming. Inches from my face. Okay, not really. She is halfway down the stairs which are the only exit, and apparently believes she needs to resolve all of her domestic issues with a second party that is behind me yet not visible in the screeching voice, volume, and manner of an intoxicated territorial primate. Which, technically, she is. She's not screaming in my face now, but it's coming.
Now, I can take absolutely no credit personally for the billions or so years of evolution that resulted in me currently being an upright, speaking animal with a wallet full of maxed-out debit cards. But damn if I didn't feel put upon by being forced to maneuver around this National Geographic-worthy display.
After completing the trial of the Stair Banshee, I reach the door that marks the countdown until I retreat back to my bitter little cave. I'm warmly visualizing me wrapped in my blanket; a lonely little burrito. Like a cozy middle finger pointed in the face of, well, everything.
Then I heard more screaming from outside, and a thump. A heavy, metallic one.
Calling what was going outside a fight wouldn't do it justice. Observing it objectively, it was almost like a game or a dance, or even some sort of insect swarm. There may have been a straightforward fight at some point, but it was long past. It had become some sort of event, and everyone wanted involved. There must have been two dozen people involved, tousling in the street. Punches were exchanged between people that seemed as dedicated as square-dance partners; within moments they would turn on someone else with no apparent rhyme or reason.
And inside me, I felt a pull. Secretly, I wished someone involved would call me out, would challenge me. I didn't particularly like that feeling. I wondered how many of those currently involved went in to "break it up", secretly hoping to catch an elbow or something, so they could justify going in swinging.
Then the dude bounced the other guy off the car fender, which caused some sort of fountain of douche to explode from the club next door. As the crowd expanded to a size that could justify being labeled a "riot", I realized that if I didn't go home then I was gonna get myself into trouble, sober or not.
Kinda Like When, You Know, A Record Skips...
I passed her on the way to the store. She flashed me one of those cute, surly little snarls young punk rock girls always give strangers when they're walking around at night. I figured that was the beginning and end of it.
But it wasn't the beginning; I'd seen her before. While riding in my brothers' car, we both spotted her on the sidewalk, snarling at a completely different set of passersby. Dreadlocks in a ponytail, faded band t-shirt, cutoff camo pants... my brother wondered aloud if it was our friend Erica. I guess if you squinted and looked at her from an angle, or were the driver of a car moving past her, she could totally pass as a twin of our friend. Like a doppelganger or something. I figured that was the beginning and end of it then, too.
She was still at the bus stop when I was on my way home. There must have been some sort of strange delay, and I said just as much when she wondered aloud in my direction what the hell was taking the bus so damn long. She asked me if I had a cigarette, which I did not. She then volunteered that she was getting used to the bus schedule, so I asked where she was from. There is a hostel in the neighborhood, so I could expect her to be from literally anywhere in the world.
I can't recall now where she said she was from because my attention was elsewhere. I was willing myself away from staring at the cross-hatching of self-inflicted razor slashes on her inner thighs where her shorts rode up. She crossed her legs self-consciously and I was suddenly able to conversate again, like a spell was lifted. I verified that the bus should definitely show up sooner or later. The schedule runs until 11PM, I assured her, which was still an hour or so away.
I was pretty sure there was little left to discuss, so I offered my name and held out my hand to shake hers. She stood up and said "See you around. By the way, my name is Erica-
But it wasn't the beginning; I'd seen her before. While riding in my brothers' car, we both spotted her on the sidewalk, snarling at a completely different set of passersby. Dreadlocks in a ponytail, faded band t-shirt, cutoff camo pants... my brother wondered aloud if it was our friend Erica. I guess if you squinted and looked at her from an angle, or were the driver of a car moving past her, she could totally pass as a twin of our friend. Like a doppelganger or something. I figured that was the beginning and end of it then, too.
She was still at the bus stop when I was on my way home. There must have been some sort of strange delay, and I said just as much when she wondered aloud in my direction what the hell was taking the bus so damn long. She asked me if I had a cigarette, which I did not. She then volunteered that she was getting used to the bus schedule, so I asked where she was from. There is a hostel in the neighborhood, so I could expect her to be from literally anywhere in the world.
I can't recall now where she said she was from because my attention was elsewhere. I was willing myself away from staring at the cross-hatching of self-inflicted razor slashes on her inner thighs where her shorts rode up. She crossed her legs self-consciously and I was suddenly able to conversate again, like a spell was lifted. I verified that the bus should definitely show up sooner or later. The schedule runs until 11PM, I assured her, which was still an hour or so away.
I was pretty sure there was little left to discuss, so I offered my name and held out my hand to shake hers. She stood up and said "See you around. By the way, my name is Erica-
Mister Alphabet Says.
Just the first couple of lines of it, over and over. It may have even been a skipping record in my dream. I was trying to remember who's teeth you could win. It seemed really important.
Yesterday morning I awoke with a near-religious compulsion. I needed to build the storefront of a Parisian cafe out of virtual Legos. A screen capture needed to be taken of a particular table in this virtual Lego cafe, from a very precise angle. I then needed to Photoshop myself sitting at the table, and the centerpiece was to be a KFC Double Down sandwich. There was a lot of math involved, like it was the Mona fucking Lisa. I was convinced the art world would interpret the composition as a nod to Jan van Eyck for some reason.
I think my subconscious mind is broken.
Yesterday morning I awoke with a near-religious compulsion. I needed to build the storefront of a Parisian cafe out of virtual Legos. A screen capture needed to be taken of a particular table in this virtual Lego cafe, from a very precise angle. I then needed to Photoshop myself sitting at the table, and the centerpiece was to be a KFC Double Down sandwich. There was a lot of math involved, like it was the Mona fucking Lisa. I was convinced the art world would interpret the composition as a nod to Jan van Eyck for some reason.
I think my subconscious mind is broken.
Life Is So Wonderful I Could Just Curl Up In A Ball And Never Stop Crying.
I'm just standing there for a moment and appreciating it. The night air is clear, it's none of your business in the morning, and I'm about twenty minutes from anywhere. I'm looking over at the river and the moon and I feel a tingle like a breeze, but everything is still.
Maybe it's the continued novelty of late night sobriety, four weeks into the rest of my life. The expanse of clear moments and tiny sharp details previously overlooked, like a camera brought up from storage and finally adjusted into focus. Maybe it's the trouble sleeping and inhaling so much coffee it feels like my teeth are picking up radio signals. In my mind I'm suddenly hearing an acoustic guitar, I'm still feeling a breeze that isn't there.
Everything is still, but it's more than just the lack of movement. Everything is still, as in it's 'still' there, it doesn't vanish when I close my eyes. Everything is still, as in it's always been there and I've always been here. Everything is right where it's was always supposed to be; the moon, the river, the city, me standing on a bridge looking over all of it and suddenly not feeling quite so out of place.
I feel purposeful and, suddenly, a bit ridiculous. As if by the tension of a clock spring, I am suddenly drawn further along the path I have always been traveling.
Maybe it's the continued novelty of late night sobriety, four weeks into the rest of my life. The expanse of clear moments and tiny sharp details previously overlooked, like a camera brought up from storage and finally adjusted into focus. Maybe it's the trouble sleeping and inhaling so much coffee it feels like my teeth are picking up radio signals. In my mind I'm suddenly hearing an acoustic guitar, I'm still feeling a breeze that isn't there.
Everything is still, but it's more than just the lack of movement. Everything is still, as in it's 'still' there, it doesn't vanish when I close my eyes. Everything is still, as in it's always been there and I've always been here. Everything is right where it's was always supposed to be; the moon, the river, the city, me standing on a bridge looking over all of it and suddenly not feeling quite so out of place.
I feel purposeful and, suddenly, a bit ridiculous. As if by the tension of a clock spring, I am suddenly drawn further along the path I have always been traveling.
I Used To Live Right... Here.
They've finally completed the demolition of the apartment complex I previously stayed in. Not even the fence remains, just flatness and dead grass with scattered trees and concrete slabs in the shape of a place I had called home some far off time before. With a bit of guesswork, I approximate where my bed was placed, sit down roughly where the edge used to be. And think.
I used to live right... here.
In good fortune and bad; I came here to feel safe, to shelter myself from things that caused anxiety and despair. And, like so many safe places before, it is gone. Things have changed, opportunities have shifted, and there is no way to go back. No way to return to any of it. I used to derive such satisfaction from this job. I used to be able to count on and cut loose with this group of friends. I used to fit so perfectly in these arms...
I used to live right... here.
I swear I did, I think to myself. Of course, this desperate, shaky impermanence of the world around me also holds the possibility of a change of fortune so amazing I couldn't possibly predict. But right now, tonight, I just want to sit here and watch the sun set.
Alone.
I used to live right... here.
In good fortune and bad; I came here to feel safe, to shelter myself from things that caused anxiety and despair. And, like so many safe places before, it is gone. Things have changed, opportunities have shifted, and there is no way to go back. No way to return to any of it. I used to derive such satisfaction from this job. I used to be able to count on and cut loose with this group of friends. I used to fit so perfectly in these arms...
I used to live right... here.
I swear I did, I think to myself. Of course, this desperate, shaky impermanence of the world around me also holds the possibility of a change of fortune so amazing I couldn't possibly predict. But right now, tonight, I just want to sit here and watch the sun set.
Alone.
Drowning.
Animal, Mineral, And Vegetable met around a fire to discuss, oh fuck it, something. Needless to say there was much alcohol involved.
Vegetable spoke up first, being the currently most powerful of the three. Things had quickly escalated past the point where pleasantries could be exchanged. Vegetable "spoke up" by shutting the fuck up because nobody really thinks you're all that clever anyway and they just laugh at you behind your back as you stumble over words and basic concepts and struggle to make a coherent point that is at best pedantic and overtly offensive. You're a fucking clown, and you know it. Just hide back at the bar with your beer, sulk, and distract yourself with whatever is playing on the monitors in the background. These girls here are out of your league, and all the guys here are douche-bags, anyway. Nobody likes you.
Eventually Animal weighs in. Animal is full of teeth, possibly MADE of teeth, and he can scream and howl. AND HE TOTALLY WANTS EVERYONE THE FUCK TO KNOW THIS. Animal wants to hurt things. Animal will suddenly tell people "how he's always felt", even when that feeling is less than an hour old, just to hurt them. He makes you look like a douche-bag, making barely tolerable advances to any cute little thing that gives you a bit of attention, as you stink of booze and desperation. Everyone knows you're a disgusting pigshit anyway. And everyone can also just EAT A MOTHERFUCKING DICK ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU NEVER LIKED THEM ANYWAY. ANYWAY. FUCK THEM. Then again, you may get laid out of this nauseating spectacle. You disgusting pigshit.
Mineral is just there. He's always there. He watches, with you, in horror as Animal wreaks havoc. He frets, with you, about all the things unsaid and opportunities lost by Vegetable. He waits for the occasional person that can speak to him (and you) directly, unfortunately realizing that the other two will scare them off sooner or later. They always do; it's like they were programmed to do so.
Unfortunately, these days Mineral will get discouraged enough to drop out of the conversation entirely, and let the other two take over completely. It's your loss.
Vegetable spoke up first, being the currently most powerful of the three. Things had quickly escalated past the point where pleasantries could be exchanged. Vegetable "spoke up" by shutting the fuck up because nobody really thinks you're all that clever anyway and they just laugh at you behind your back as you stumble over words and basic concepts and struggle to make a coherent point that is at best pedantic and overtly offensive. You're a fucking clown, and you know it. Just hide back at the bar with your beer, sulk, and distract yourself with whatever is playing on the monitors in the background. These girls here are out of your league, and all the guys here are douche-bags, anyway. Nobody likes you.
Eventually Animal weighs in. Animal is full of teeth, possibly MADE of teeth, and he can scream and howl. AND HE TOTALLY WANTS EVERYONE THE FUCK TO KNOW THIS. Animal wants to hurt things. Animal will suddenly tell people "how he's always felt", even when that feeling is less than an hour old, just to hurt them. He makes you look like a douche-bag, making barely tolerable advances to any cute little thing that gives you a bit of attention, as you stink of booze and desperation. Everyone knows you're a disgusting pigshit anyway. And everyone can also just EAT A MOTHERFUCKING DICK ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU NEVER LIKED THEM ANYWAY. ANYWAY. FUCK THEM. Then again, you may get laid out of this nauseating spectacle. You disgusting pigshit.
Mineral is just there. He's always there. He watches, with you, in horror as Animal wreaks havoc. He frets, with you, about all the things unsaid and opportunities lost by Vegetable. He waits for the occasional person that can speak to him (and you) directly, unfortunately realizing that the other two will scare them off sooner or later. They always do; it's like they were programmed to do so.
Unfortunately, these days Mineral will get discouraged enough to drop out of the conversation entirely, and let the other two take over completely. It's your loss.
Am I Doing This Right?
November 2009.
I all of a sudden thought this was great advice... there may have been drinking involved.
"The secret is," I rambled, "to have more people laughing with you than at you. So what you gotta do to maximize that ratio is learn to laugh at yourself."
"That way," I continued, "before you know it, you will be laughing with them... at you."
I all of a sudden thought this was great advice... there may have been drinking involved.
"The secret is," I rambled, "to have more people laughing with you than at you. So what you gotta do to maximize that ratio is learn to laugh at yourself."
"That way," I continued, "before you know it, you will be laughing with them... at you."
"Blah Blah Blah Cat."
October 2009.
The little fucker hollered when I pushed open the door.
I needed some beer, and it was about 10 minutes before they stopped selling. At the corner store, the cashier had her infant son perched on the counter, scribbling on a stack of printer paper with a sharpie.
I grabbed a suitcase of beer and hauled it to the front. My financial transaction was interrupted frequently by the boy, scrawling unintelligible shapes and asking his mothers approval. At that point, I had a bit of questionable inspiration.
I just wanted the kid to draw me a little kitty cat, so I asked the cashier if he could draw me a cat.
Unfortunately, the cashier couldn't speak a word of English. I made awkward, frantic pantomimes of a person making a drawing, pointed at her son, and said the Spanish word for cat. She flashed me a very strange, bemused look and said "No Gato" while shaking her head in a way that implied I needed to leave the store immediately.
I worry now, unsure of the context of the conversation I just had.
The little fucker hollered when I pushed open the door.
I needed some beer, and it was about 10 minutes before they stopped selling. At the corner store, the cashier had her infant son perched on the counter, scribbling on a stack of printer paper with a sharpie.
I grabbed a suitcase of beer and hauled it to the front. My financial transaction was interrupted frequently by the boy, scrawling unintelligible shapes and asking his mothers approval. At that point, I had a bit of questionable inspiration.
I just wanted the kid to draw me a little kitty cat, so I asked the cashier if he could draw me a cat.
Unfortunately, the cashier couldn't speak a word of English. I made awkward, frantic pantomimes of a person making a drawing, pointed at her son, and said the Spanish word for cat. She flashed me a very strange, bemused look and said "No Gato" while shaking her head in a way that implied I needed to leave the store immediately.
I worry now, unsure of the context of the conversation I just had.
Classy, Humphrey Bogart-Style Farewell.
September 2009.
Just once I'd like to be able to pull off a Humphrey Bogart-style farewell.
I'd like to say exactly the kind of thing you'd say right before tipping your hat, turning up the collar of your coat, and slowly exiting into the pouring rain. Something perfect and poignant, maybe a little self-effacing. The kind of goodbye you can leave behind knowing there's nothing more to be said, in a good way.
The rain always arrives on cue, but then the words fail me. Figures.
Just once I'd like to be able to pull off a Humphrey Bogart-style farewell.
I'd like to say exactly the kind of thing you'd say right before tipping your hat, turning up the collar of your coat, and slowly exiting into the pouring rain. Something perfect and poignant, maybe a little self-effacing. The kind of goodbye you can leave behind knowing there's nothing more to be said, in a good way.
The rain always arrives on cue, but then the words fail me. Figures.
Bus Trip.
August 2009.
I wish I had an excuse to take a bus trip.
A really long one, hours and hours. Long enough you could conceivably almost forget that there was a world outside the bus, and the terminals where it stopped were outposts on other planets.
And the people on the bus was the serving of all the people you were allowed to interact with in your life. Within these few dozen people, one would have to be your best friend, another your true love. But which ones?
At the terminal, you stare at the menu of the concession stand or the vending machine, and wonder what choice would make you the happiest right then. Maybe a favorite snack from childhood, or something you've never dared try before. Choices, choices.
And then eventually, bleary-eyed and surprisingly worn-out, you are reunited with your luggage and greeted by your pick-up. You are almost shocked to be reminded there is a world, a life, your life going on outside the bus.
And you smile to yourself.
I wish I had an excuse to take a bus trip.
A really long one, hours and hours. Long enough you could conceivably almost forget that there was a world outside the bus, and the terminals where it stopped were outposts on other planets.
And the people on the bus was the serving of all the people you were allowed to interact with in your life. Within these few dozen people, one would have to be your best friend, another your true love. But which ones?
At the terminal, you stare at the menu of the concession stand or the vending machine, and wonder what choice would make you the happiest right then. Maybe a favorite snack from childhood, or something you've never dared try before. Choices, choices.
And then eventually, bleary-eyed and surprisingly worn-out, you are reunited with your luggage and greeted by your pick-up. You are almost shocked to be reminded there is a world, a life, your life going on outside the bus.
And you smile to yourself.
Trapped.
August 2009.
My dreams are cruel.
I don't get the power of flight, or the experience of exploring vast, uncharted worlds. No, my dreams typically just actualize those small, subtle changes in fate that make every waking experience poignant and disappointing.
Even with that realization, I would still sleep all fucking day if I could.
My dreams are cruel.
I don't get the power of flight, or the experience of exploring vast, uncharted worlds. No, my dreams typically just actualize those small, subtle changes in fate that make every waking experience poignant and disappointing.
Even with that realization, I would still sleep all fucking day if I could.
If You Want This To Be About You, It Can Be.
July 2009.
I had a late afternoon dream about you; one of those really intense, profound ones you get when you sleep on an empty stomach. So I guess I should preface this by saying I still think about you, even if we don't talk much.
We were at a big banquet or celebration of some sort; it could have been a wedding. All our friends were there, but dressed in elaborate costumes. There was an air of solemnity and pageantry around; which made me feel awkward as I stumbled about, wide eyed and more than a little confused, but fascinated with the colors and the sounds.
And there, with an almost child-like disregard for the conventions surrounding us, I found you adorably stomping around. And we were so happy to find each other.
I have a hard time recalling exactly what happens next in the dream, especially as dizzying as this one was. However, I do recall rain. We kissed in the rain. I remember us kissing in the rain, and it was wonderful. I wish I had more moments in my life that felt that good, outside of dreams.
I woke up and felt sad all over again, but that was quickly replaced with a feeling that reassured me things will work themselves out on their own time. Maybe, if you read this, I can pass along some of that reassurance to you.
I'm sorry things are so complicated right now. That'll change. Everything changes.
I had a late afternoon dream about you; one of those really intense, profound ones you get when you sleep on an empty stomach. So I guess I should preface this by saying I still think about you, even if we don't talk much.
We were at a big banquet or celebration of some sort; it could have been a wedding. All our friends were there, but dressed in elaborate costumes. There was an air of solemnity and pageantry around; which made me feel awkward as I stumbled about, wide eyed and more than a little confused, but fascinated with the colors and the sounds.
And there, with an almost child-like disregard for the conventions surrounding us, I found you adorably stomping around. And we were so happy to find each other.
I have a hard time recalling exactly what happens next in the dream, especially as dizzying as this one was. However, I do recall rain. We kissed in the rain. I remember us kissing in the rain, and it was wonderful. I wish I had more moments in my life that felt that good, outside of dreams.
I woke up and felt sad all over again, but that was quickly replaced with a feeling that reassured me things will work themselves out on their own time. Maybe, if you read this, I can pass along some of that reassurance to you.
I'm sorry things are so complicated right now. That'll change. Everything changes.
Padlocked. (Temporary Autonomy And Quantum Immortality).
July 2009.
The gates are padlocked, lights are out; someone has spray-painted "Gone To Croatan" on the fence. You briefly consider tossing a brick through the glass, settle with just flipping off the sad, dead, empty shell of the building that housed so many of your recent happy memories.
You're angry, but you're angry because you're scared. Older and older you're getting, and once again you have to start all over. You're wonder if you still even have it in you; the thought of what used to seem adventurous and exciting now makes you nauseous and exhausted.
You think these things as if you have a choice. The waveform has collapsed, and you have arrived on the other side. You can't go back.
Maybe you need to go for a walk. A long walk.
The windows are getting smaller and smaller, you wistfully realize; those moments where you feel you can express yourself and actually be understood. Whether with peers on a warm summer back porch with a cooler of beer to share, or one-on-one, lying blissfully naked, the two of you gazing dreamily at each other; these are things that are happening markedly less as time goes on. You've found yourself discouraged and bitter lately; demanding understanding you haven't properly developed from people that, in some cases, may not even be capable of it.
"Do you even want to go through this again?" you think. New places, new people; being terrified all over again about what you can reveal about yourself, how you can explain it?
You think these things as if you have a choice. You haven't found it yet. The only choice is to keep looking.
The gates are padlocked, lights are out; someone has spray-painted "Gone To Croatan" on the fence. You briefly consider tossing a brick through the glass, settle with just flipping off the sad, dead, empty shell of the building that housed so many of your recent happy memories.
You're angry, but you're angry because you're scared. Older and older you're getting, and once again you have to start all over. You're wonder if you still even have it in you; the thought of what used to seem adventurous and exciting now makes you nauseous and exhausted.
You think these things as if you have a choice. The waveform has collapsed, and you have arrived on the other side. You can't go back.
Maybe you need to go for a walk. A long walk.
The windows are getting smaller and smaller, you wistfully realize; those moments where you feel you can express yourself and actually be understood. Whether with peers on a warm summer back porch with a cooler of beer to share, or one-on-one, lying blissfully naked, the two of you gazing dreamily at each other; these are things that are happening markedly less as time goes on. You've found yourself discouraged and bitter lately; demanding understanding you haven't properly developed from people that, in some cases, may not even be capable of it.
"Do you even want to go through this again?" you think. New places, new people; being terrified all over again about what you can reveal about yourself, how you can explain it?
You think these things as if you have a choice. You haven't found it yet. The only choice is to keep looking.
Why Do I Long For My Parent's Imaginary Childhood?
April 2009.
Sometimes I look around at everything that's going on, and I feel like it's all gone wrong somehow. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only the result of my own bad decisions, but the whole path all of time and space has taken to converge on the spot I occupy. I wonder, then, where I do belong.
Lately, my fantasies have found me in some sort of variation of 1963 or so. The tv area in the living room is sunken; a faux-bamboo bar graces the downstairs den, next to the billiards table. I compulsively wear a suit in public, but when it's time to work, I don a short-sleeved dress shirt and a green tea-shade like you imagine an old accountant would wear. I draw a vaguely-liberal syndicated comic strip from my work-space and occasionally paint signs for local businesses; the wife writes trashy but clever pulp stories and catches the occasional shift from the steno pool. Our son has a pop-top collection and several lovingly-detailed "Famous Monsters" kits ordered from the back of a comic book.
Thursdays we invite the neighbors over for fondue and listen to bebop and tropical music. Every other Saturday we hire a babysitter and unwind at the tiki bar, dance almost a little too scandalously. When the routine of working at home gets tedious, we take a break and have a meal at the local diner; silvery, pod-like, almost futuristic looking.
The neighbors rib me for my politics and spotty church attendance, but they know I'm an upstanding, dues-paying Mason and give generously to charity every Christmas...
Wait.
Who is this person who's life I keep fantasizing about? How is it possible for me to be nostalgic about a time a decade and a half before I was even born?
Am I finally hearing that voice, that ghost that turns men my age conservative? That lulls them with fantasies of an imaginary past with supposedly more clearly-defined ethics, and makes them pointlessly stubborn and reactionary when having to confront changes going on globally, more and more frequently, that truly have no real precedent? That makes them relentlessly impatient, demanding impossibly simple solutions for impossibly complex problems?
Is this what it's voice sounds like to me?
Sometimes I look around at everything that's going on, and I feel like it's all gone wrong somehow. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only the result of my own bad decisions, but the whole path all of time and space has taken to converge on the spot I occupy. I wonder, then, where I do belong.
Lately, my fantasies have found me in some sort of variation of 1963 or so. The tv area in the living room is sunken; a faux-bamboo bar graces the downstairs den, next to the billiards table. I compulsively wear a suit in public, but when it's time to work, I don a short-sleeved dress shirt and a green tea-shade like you imagine an old accountant would wear. I draw a vaguely-liberal syndicated comic strip from my work-space and occasionally paint signs for local businesses; the wife writes trashy but clever pulp stories and catches the occasional shift from the steno pool. Our son has a pop-top collection and several lovingly-detailed "Famous Monsters" kits ordered from the back of a comic book.
Thursdays we invite the neighbors over for fondue and listen to bebop and tropical music. Every other Saturday we hire a babysitter and unwind at the tiki bar, dance almost a little too scandalously. When the routine of working at home gets tedious, we take a break and have a meal at the local diner; silvery, pod-like, almost futuristic looking.
The neighbors rib me for my politics and spotty church attendance, but they know I'm an upstanding, dues-paying Mason and give generously to charity every Christmas...
Wait.
Who is this person who's life I keep fantasizing about? How is it possible for me to be nostalgic about a time a decade and a half before I was even born?
Am I finally hearing that voice, that ghost that turns men my age conservative? That lulls them with fantasies of an imaginary past with supposedly more clearly-defined ethics, and makes them pointlessly stubborn and reactionary when having to confront changes going on globally, more and more frequently, that truly have no real precedent? That makes them relentlessly impatient, demanding impossibly simple solutions for impossibly complex problems?
Is this what it's voice sounds like to me?
Fetish For The Amateur.
March 2009.
"When you make a thing, a thing that is new, it is so complicated making it that it is bound to be ugly. But those that make it after you, they don't have to worry about making it. And they can make it pretty, and so everybody can like it when others make it after you." - Pablo Picasso
I'm at the thrift store, in the pants aisle, and I happen upon a pair of khakis with a series of ones and zeroes, scrawled in sharpie, spiraling from the belt loops down to the cuffs of the legs.
And I'm looking at the binary pants, wondering (and marveling more than a little) at how and why these even came into being and how they even managed to cross my path. And it seems, suddenly, like a very dramatic symbol, maybe even an indictment, of my existence.
It's not even a matter of keeping an eye out for the strange. These otherworldly, inexplicable orphans of aesthetic just seem to find me; whether it's what was obviously some parent's home-brew attempt to knock-off a popular toy for their kid, an angry, spastic cassette tape recorded in a den 20 years ago, a floppy disk of some hobbyist's fanfic dungeon crawler that never left the basement, a bizarre home-made fashion statement, or a zine found under a shelf at a bookstore. There's is not even enough information available to trace the path of this thing from it's place of origin.
I'm fascinated by the amateur. I'd even say I have a fetish for it. Happy accidents, unreproducible coincidences. Bands who were doomed from the beginning, writers and artists whose undocumented life story trailed off into god-knows-where after they had left their dreams behind. These professionally-clueless stabs at a brutal, unforgiving universe. Discovering the gems amongst these has provided many of my most rewarding and enjoyable experiences.
And I think of the things I do, my strange and arcane obsessions and influences, and the effects on my artistic output. I mean, simple logic infers that if all of your main influences have severely limited appeal, then the appeal of your output would be even smaller... the "shrugs and shaking heads", as NeonEmu used to describe her observed audience reaction to my performances. Even positive reviews of my art include the disclaimer that I need to hire someone to "explain why what I do is good", which isn't terribly reassuring on reflection.
It's not like I don't appreciate craftsmanship, and I'd hate to think that anyone would step away from something I created and not understand how much work and how much thought went into it. Just because I allow chaos a lot of breathing room in my finished products shouldn't detract from the premeditation and structure of the composition.
But any trip down the aisle of a department store or a scan of the radio dial will betray that "craftsmanship" isn't exactly what most people are seeking out, at least "craftsmanship" by any definition I recognize.
Originally, Chicken McNuggets were fried in beef fat. In later years, they switched to vegetable oil, and sales suddenly plummeted. Soon they figured out that adding artificial beef flavoring to the Chicken McNuggets brought sales back up to previous expectations. I wonder sometimes if that is the "craftsmanship" I'm expected to utilize.
You'd think at this point in my career, I'd at least be enough of a failure to be interesting.
And no, I didn't buy the stupid pants.
"When you make a thing, a thing that is new, it is so complicated making it that it is bound to be ugly. But those that make it after you, they don't have to worry about making it. And they can make it pretty, and so everybody can like it when others make it after you." - Pablo Picasso
I'm at the thrift store, in the pants aisle, and I happen upon a pair of khakis with a series of ones and zeroes, scrawled in sharpie, spiraling from the belt loops down to the cuffs of the legs.
And I'm looking at the binary pants, wondering (and marveling more than a little) at how and why these even came into being and how they even managed to cross my path. And it seems, suddenly, like a very dramatic symbol, maybe even an indictment, of my existence.
It's not even a matter of keeping an eye out for the strange. These otherworldly, inexplicable orphans of aesthetic just seem to find me; whether it's what was obviously some parent's home-brew attempt to knock-off a popular toy for their kid, an angry, spastic cassette tape recorded in a den 20 years ago, a floppy disk of some hobbyist's fanfic dungeon crawler that never left the basement, a bizarre home-made fashion statement, or a zine found under a shelf at a bookstore. There's is not even enough information available to trace the path of this thing from it's place of origin.
I'm fascinated by the amateur. I'd even say I have a fetish for it. Happy accidents, unreproducible coincidences. Bands who were doomed from the beginning, writers and artists whose undocumented life story trailed off into god-knows-where after they had left their dreams behind. These professionally-clueless stabs at a brutal, unforgiving universe. Discovering the gems amongst these has provided many of my most rewarding and enjoyable experiences.
And I think of the things I do, my strange and arcane obsessions and influences, and the effects on my artistic output. I mean, simple logic infers that if all of your main influences have severely limited appeal, then the appeal of your output would be even smaller... the "shrugs and shaking heads", as NeonEmu used to describe her observed audience reaction to my performances. Even positive reviews of my art include the disclaimer that I need to hire someone to "explain why what I do is good", which isn't terribly reassuring on reflection.
It's not like I don't appreciate craftsmanship, and I'd hate to think that anyone would step away from something I created and not understand how much work and how much thought went into it. Just because I allow chaos a lot of breathing room in my finished products shouldn't detract from the premeditation and structure of the composition.
But any trip down the aisle of a department store or a scan of the radio dial will betray that "craftsmanship" isn't exactly what most people are seeking out, at least "craftsmanship" by any definition I recognize.
Originally, Chicken McNuggets were fried in beef fat. In later years, they switched to vegetable oil, and sales suddenly plummeted. Soon they figured out that adding artificial beef flavoring to the Chicken McNuggets brought sales back up to previous expectations. I wonder sometimes if that is the "craftsmanship" I'm expected to utilize.
You'd think at this point in my career, I'd at least be enough of a failure to be interesting.
And no, I didn't buy the stupid pants.
Magenta Isn't Even A Real Fucking Color.
March 2009.
Despair is like a blanket, you suddenly find yourself thinking this cold evening - cool, dim streetlamps overhead offering nothing to shake your mood. You hunch down against the wind, staring at the sidewalk, focused only on getting back home. It's hard to look forward to anything when the weather is this bad.
And then there was this sound. You can't describe it. It's low and haunting and sets your teeth on edge.
As you continue along, you make out more sounds. A bass line, voices, a drum beat?
What's going on in the little deserted strip mall you cross in the last little sprint before you get home?
You pass dark shopfronts, behind the glass of which you see where the previous tenants had removed ventilation shafts and dug the copper wiring out of the walls. You see light behind a crude mural of green and blue houses with smiley faces.
In the office of what used to be an apartment locator, a three-piece band is practicing. You see the drum kit and the bass amp, then realize the sound you first heard was the third member, playing a tuba with a microphone shoved down the bell and run through a rack of pedals.
You see other people near the back. They're not practicing, they're performing. Here, on what you've always taken for granted as a deserted street.
"What a strange thing to discover", you think as you knock on the door. It's warm inside, so you assume one of the band member's parents must have owned the office. You realize later it had never occurred for you to ask.
You've never seen any of these people before. None of these people had existed in your universe prior to this moment. Where did they all come from?
They're all enthralled by the strange trio commandeering the front corner of the office. You're unsure if they actually had songs, per se. A heavy dirge slowly transforms into a pulse, like an insect emerging from a cocoon, then slows to a crawl.
Surprises, you think to yourself. Good or bad, whatever you perceive as the world around you, and the rules that define it thereof, can instantly be revealed as an illusion.
The band triggers a couple of stage lights to punctuate a movement. Both lights are magenta.
Exactly.
Guy De Maupassant understood this capacity for change. His subsequent distrust of all perception, based on that revelation, eventually drove him mad.
Well, that and syphilis.
But Maupassant's writings reflected a symptom of the rapid, dramatic changes that defined the turn of the 20th century. Crystallized, they echo on throughout later history. We all feel similar growing pains in these "interesting" times, to paraphrase the old Chinese curse.
As the trio plays on, you hear the echo of the no-wave and post-punk bands they probably listened to as kids. Kind of like stars; you look at the sky and see light that was transmitted from a star now long-dead.
As true as this revelation feels to you right at this moment, what is the likelihood that anyone else in this building has reached the same conclusion at this moment? Does that make this perception any less true?
The lights flicker on again, and you're reminded that magenta isn't even a real color.
Anyone that went through high school physics knows that when we perceive color, we are not experiencing the actual color of the object, but rather the color of the light-waves reflected from it.
But the spectrum of light waves is a straight-line gradient from red to purple. There is no light-wave frequency for a color halfway between red and purple.
Of course, objects can reflect light-waves of multiple frequencies. That's how the gray-scale gradient works; from white to black, objects with those colors either reflect all colors at once (white) or absorb all colors (black), and gray covers every variation in between. But usually, when we perceive something that reflects more than one color frequency, we split the difference within the color spectrum, red and yellow being perceived as orange for instance.
But halfway between red and purple is green. By all logic, based on the way the circuitry in our eyes works, when we see magenta we should be seeing green.
At least, that's the best way you can explain it to yourself. You have a hard time explaining it to others, tonight being a prime example.
Your mind a bit cluttered and foggy, after the show you return home and marvel at the ability of the universe to surprise you.
Nothing even remotely like that show happens again in the deserted strip mall ever again.
The next time you pass the storefront, it's boarded up.
Despair is like a blanket, you suddenly find yourself thinking this cold evening - cool, dim streetlamps overhead offering nothing to shake your mood. You hunch down against the wind, staring at the sidewalk, focused only on getting back home. It's hard to look forward to anything when the weather is this bad.
And then there was this sound. You can't describe it. It's low and haunting and sets your teeth on edge.
As you continue along, you make out more sounds. A bass line, voices, a drum beat?
What's going on in the little deserted strip mall you cross in the last little sprint before you get home?
You pass dark shopfronts, behind the glass of which you see where the previous tenants had removed ventilation shafts and dug the copper wiring out of the walls. You see light behind a crude mural of green and blue houses with smiley faces.
In the office of what used to be an apartment locator, a three-piece band is practicing. You see the drum kit and the bass amp, then realize the sound you first heard was the third member, playing a tuba with a microphone shoved down the bell and run through a rack of pedals.
You see other people near the back. They're not practicing, they're performing. Here, on what you've always taken for granted as a deserted street.
"What a strange thing to discover", you think as you knock on the door. It's warm inside, so you assume one of the band member's parents must have owned the office. You realize later it had never occurred for you to ask.
You've never seen any of these people before. None of these people had existed in your universe prior to this moment. Where did they all come from?
They're all enthralled by the strange trio commandeering the front corner of the office. You're unsure if they actually had songs, per se. A heavy dirge slowly transforms into a pulse, like an insect emerging from a cocoon, then slows to a crawl.
Surprises, you think to yourself. Good or bad, whatever you perceive as the world around you, and the rules that define it thereof, can instantly be revealed as an illusion.
The band triggers a couple of stage lights to punctuate a movement. Both lights are magenta.
Exactly.
Guy De Maupassant understood this capacity for change. His subsequent distrust of all perception, based on that revelation, eventually drove him mad.
Well, that and syphilis.
But Maupassant's writings reflected a symptom of the rapid, dramatic changes that defined the turn of the 20th century. Crystallized, they echo on throughout later history. We all feel similar growing pains in these "interesting" times, to paraphrase the old Chinese curse.
As the trio plays on, you hear the echo of the no-wave and post-punk bands they probably listened to as kids. Kind of like stars; you look at the sky and see light that was transmitted from a star now long-dead.
As true as this revelation feels to you right at this moment, what is the likelihood that anyone else in this building has reached the same conclusion at this moment? Does that make this perception any less true?
The lights flicker on again, and you're reminded that magenta isn't even a real color.
Anyone that went through high school physics knows that when we perceive color, we are not experiencing the actual color of the object, but rather the color of the light-waves reflected from it.
But the spectrum of light waves is a straight-line gradient from red to purple. There is no light-wave frequency for a color halfway between red and purple.
Of course, objects can reflect light-waves of multiple frequencies. That's how the gray-scale gradient works; from white to black, objects with those colors either reflect all colors at once (white) or absorb all colors (black), and gray covers every variation in between. But usually, when we perceive something that reflects more than one color frequency, we split the difference within the color spectrum, red and yellow being perceived as orange for instance.
But halfway between red and purple is green. By all logic, based on the way the circuitry in our eyes works, when we see magenta we should be seeing green.
At least, that's the best way you can explain it to yourself. You have a hard time explaining it to others, tonight being a prime example.
Your mind a bit cluttered and foggy, after the show you return home and marvel at the ability of the universe to surprise you.
Nothing even remotely like that show happens again in the deserted strip mall ever again.
The next time you pass the storefront, it's boarded up.
Bullshit.
You're in a hallway, somehow. Or a walkway. Corridors, shopfronts, apartments... all you know is your peripheral vision trails off a never ending series of doors.
Then a table happens. The room is round, but is also disquietingly angular. At the head of the table sits a man, ill defined and blurry. The room seems foggy, or it may be smoke. The man gestures for you to sit across from him.
You are invited to play a game of Bullshit. French Enlightenment Rules, the man further explains.
Two chairs to each side of you are drawn and filled as four others join the game. To your right sits a Businessman, reptilian and shrewd, and a Cop with raw animal malice evident and twitching behind his eyes and under every facial muscle. To your left sits a Senator, constantly clearing his throat, and a weaselly Bishop with big dark eyes like a small, scared animal.
Obviously the man across from you is the king, and you are the peasant. You wait for the Businessman to deal the cards.
Every move you make to discard, even when completely correct, is challenged. When you attempt to call the others bluff, however, rebuttals are quick and shrill.
Who's side are you on? retorts the Business man. Do you want to lose your livelihood?
Who's side are you on? retorts the Cop. Do you want to lose your freedom?
Who's side are you on? retorts the Senator. Do you want to lose your rights?
Who's side are you on? retorts the Bishop. Do you want to lose your soul?
The King doesn't have to state his threat. When he calls your bluff, you hear a buzzing, possibly insectile or mechanical, in the back of your head. You hear whispering voices describing terrible things. The implied threat is beyond your comprehension. You try to keep your cool.
Last hand of the game. Every player is nervous. In a last, risky move, you lay down both the cards in your hand to claim the game. You knew better than to expect no protests, however, and reluctantly turn over your cards.
A Coyote and a Rabbit. You win the game.
A shriek goes out like a saw through metal. There were not supposed to be any Jokers left in this deck! They all worked so hard...
But that's not your problem, you realize.
You realize too that your livelihood, freedom, rights, and even your soul are your own to master and utilize. You keep forgetting that.
Next thing you know, there is no table. Sunlight is happening. You are sitting on grass in a ring of stones.
Impossibly smooth stones.
Then a table happens. The room is round, but is also disquietingly angular. At the head of the table sits a man, ill defined and blurry. The room seems foggy, or it may be smoke. The man gestures for you to sit across from him.
You are invited to play a game of Bullshit. French Enlightenment Rules, the man further explains.
Two chairs to each side of you are drawn and filled as four others join the game. To your right sits a Businessman, reptilian and shrewd, and a Cop with raw animal malice evident and twitching behind his eyes and under every facial muscle. To your left sits a Senator, constantly clearing his throat, and a weaselly Bishop with big dark eyes like a small, scared animal.
Obviously the man across from you is the king, and you are the peasant. You wait for the Businessman to deal the cards.
Every move you make to discard, even when completely correct, is challenged. When you attempt to call the others bluff, however, rebuttals are quick and shrill.
Who's side are you on? retorts the Business man. Do you want to lose your livelihood?
Who's side are you on? retorts the Cop. Do you want to lose your freedom?
Who's side are you on? retorts the Senator. Do you want to lose your rights?
Who's side are you on? retorts the Bishop. Do you want to lose your soul?
The King doesn't have to state his threat. When he calls your bluff, you hear a buzzing, possibly insectile or mechanical, in the back of your head. You hear whispering voices describing terrible things. The implied threat is beyond your comprehension. You try to keep your cool.
Last hand of the game. Every player is nervous. In a last, risky move, you lay down both the cards in your hand to claim the game. You knew better than to expect no protests, however, and reluctantly turn over your cards.
A Coyote and a Rabbit. You win the game.
A shriek goes out like a saw through metal. There were not supposed to be any Jokers left in this deck! They all worked so hard...
But that's not your problem, you realize.
You realize too that your livelihood, freedom, rights, and even your soul are your own to master and utilize. You keep forgetting that.
Next thing you know, there is no table. Sunlight is happening. You are sitting on grass in a ring of stones.
Impossibly smooth stones.
The Island.
Acceleration. The fucking noise.
Bludgeoning. Forced obligations of frequently dubious relevance and importance. Absurdity ensues. And in all this process, beauty... true fleeting, fragile beauty emerges. Completely at random.
You want to cling to the beauty. To bring it close and profess your love. You suddenly have so much love to give. But your desperately grasping fingers only caress what most resembles quickly collapsing sand.
And then you have to return to your quote-unquote real life.
You can't talk to anyone at your breaks at your job. It's not a rule they devised; you are just incapable.
You find yourself, more and more, escaping to the island.
It doesn't make any sense, when you think about it. Someone, somewhere just stuck this strange median in the (what seems like) endless industrial park which contains your cube-like building, and the cube-within-a-cube-within-a-cube you shuffle into, day after day. This strange, egg shaped median with real grass and one single tree, in the center of an endless sea of asphalt.
You sit there, under that out-of-place tree, and you read. And you secretly wish you really were stranded there, not realizing you really are.
Stranded.
Bludgeoning. Forced obligations of frequently dubious relevance and importance. Absurdity ensues. And in all this process, beauty... true fleeting, fragile beauty emerges. Completely at random.
You want to cling to the beauty. To bring it close and profess your love. You suddenly have so much love to give. But your desperately grasping fingers only caress what most resembles quickly collapsing sand.
And then you have to return to your quote-unquote real life.
You can't talk to anyone at your breaks at your job. It's not a rule they devised; you are just incapable.
You find yourself, more and more, escaping to the island.
It doesn't make any sense, when you think about it. Someone, somewhere just stuck this strange median in the (what seems like) endless industrial park which contains your cube-like building, and the cube-within-a-cube-within-a-cube you shuffle into, day after day. This strange, egg shaped median with real grass and one single tree, in the center of an endless sea of asphalt.
You sit there, under that out-of-place tree, and you read. And you secretly wish you really were stranded there, not realizing you really are.
Stranded.
Shape-Shifter.
November 2008.
Dig out your favorite pic of your ex; I know you still have one. You don't have to admit it to me.
We're going to play a game called Shape-shifter.
Take a good look at your ex's face. Look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you first met and when you first started dating. The face in your mind, built from all the sneaky little glances you took when you thought they didn't know you were looking. An image you may have worked on for months or years of quiet curiosity.
Once you've got that image firmly solidified, move it temporarily out of mind. This next part of the game is much harder. Take a couple of nice deep breaths.
Go at the picture anew, look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you believed you really, finally had something special. The image you held onto throughout the rough times. Sure they had their faults, and their idiosyncrasies, and things that drove you downright crazy. But it could be worked through, because this is the one you who understands you best. And this is what they looked like to you.
Clear your mind one more time. This next part, to be honest, could be easier or harder, depending on circumstance and the kind of person you are.
Look at the picture one last time. See the person you saw when it was all over. That lying snake, that suffocating bitch, or perhaps even worse, the person you no longer love anymore. The image you hold on to as you look for a new apartment, reacquaint yourself with your friends, and probably just through the first few incredibly awkward blind dates you have with other people.
If you've been playing the game right, you should have completely lost track of the fact you've been looking at the same damn picture.
Speaking of that picture, which image do you see now? If it's been long enough ago, none of the previous images should appear. The face alters frequently, shifting shape.
If consequence brings the two of you together, the same thing occurs. You see that cute little thing they do with their lip, that clever little offside glance, then you catch that inappropriately arrogant sneer, those pissy little affectations and strange sudden broad declarations... It's hard to tell when to be on guard or feel comfortable.
You know what? We're all doing that. I'm completely confident at least one person reading this wound up playing that "Shapeshifter" game with one of my pictures. And all you have to look forward to is playing this game again.
It's not a bad argument for arranged marriages.
Dig out your favorite pic of your ex; I know you still have one. You don't have to admit it to me.
We're going to play a game called Shape-shifter.
Take a good look at your ex's face. Look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you first met and when you first started dating. The face in your mind, built from all the sneaky little glances you took when you thought they didn't know you were looking. An image you may have worked on for months or years of quiet curiosity.
Once you've got that image firmly solidified, move it temporarily out of mind. This next part of the game is much harder. Take a couple of nice deep breaths.
Go at the picture anew, look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you believed you really, finally had something special. The image you held onto throughout the rough times. Sure they had their faults, and their idiosyncrasies, and things that drove you downright crazy. But it could be worked through, because this is the one you who understands you best. And this is what they looked like to you.
Clear your mind one more time. This next part, to be honest, could be easier or harder, depending on circumstance and the kind of person you are.
Look at the picture one last time. See the person you saw when it was all over. That lying snake, that suffocating bitch, or perhaps even worse, the person you no longer love anymore. The image you hold on to as you look for a new apartment, reacquaint yourself with your friends, and probably just through the first few incredibly awkward blind dates you have with other people.
If you've been playing the game right, you should have completely lost track of the fact you've been looking at the same damn picture.
Speaking of that picture, which image do you see now? If it's been long enough ago, none of the previous images should appear. The face alters frequently, shifting shape.
If consequence brings the two of you together, the same thing occurs. You see that cute little thing they do with their lip, that clever little offside glance, then you catch that inappropriately arrogant sneer, those pissy little affectations and strange sudden broad declarations... It's hard to tell when to be on guard or feel comfortable.
You know what? We're all doing that. I'm completely confident at least one person reading this wound up playing that "Shapeshifter" game with one of my pictures. And all you have to look forward to is playing this game again.
It's not a bad argument for arranged marriages.
Tennis.
October 2008.
"You know what they call the zero score in tennis?" says Thing 1.
"I do not." says Thing 2.
"They call it "Love"... Ya know why?" says Thing 1.
"Because noone wins?" asks Thing 2, and smiles.
"Close," says Thing 1. "The inference is that you must be doing it (playing tennis) for love, because you sure must not be doing it to win."
"You know what they call the zero score in tennis?" says Thing 1.
"I do not." says Thing 2.
"They call it "Love"... Ya know why?" says Thing 1.
"Because noone wins?" asks Thing 2, and smiles.
"Close," says Thing 1. "The inference is that you must be doing it (playing tennis) for love, because you sure must not be doing it to win."
Beyond The Hedge Maze.
August 2008.
Purgatory.
You joke that the company you work for should bear that name. Or at least you'd like to joke about it.
But you don't really talk to anybody.
You stumble in, bleary-eyed, and sit amongst the squared semi-circle of computers. Your job requires, rather than a badge, for you to place your right hand into a device, arranging your five fingers to contact three posts in order to clock in and out. Yet, you sit down in front of a piece-meal computer that might have been top of the line even before the Millennial grid dropped.
One of your co-workers is dropped off by her parole officer. It is likely she will never be able to legally drive a car again. You want to ask, but dare not, about the obviously razor-inflicted scars across the upper arms of the girl two seats down from you. To your left, your older co-worker at one point described an incident where, after drinking an entire bottle of rum in his darker days, he hallucinated a rare record he was coveting on the track of a subway, and the train severed his legs shortly after he leapt down to retrieve it.
"What legs you got on tonight, honey?" asks a sassy black woman three seats down.
He rolls his pants legs up to reveal a pair of leopard-spotted prosthetic shins. Everyone chuckles in approval.
You've arrived every weekday morning at this same industrial park, same floor, same room for as long as you can remember, but you begin to realize there is another door on the other side of the building you have never passed through.
One morning, while driving in, you catch something peripherally you have never noticed. Over the dense foliage that typically frames your trip to work, you suddenly notice a tower... a tower with tubes? A water slide?
A water slide in your industrial park? What is this?
And suddenly you remember that door.
The next day at work, during your first break, you confidently exit through the other door.
Was it this bright out two hours ago? You stumble around the previously unseen anterior region of the building only to find yourself inexplicably facing...
A hedge maze.
Further confusion.
It's not a particularly difficult maze, likely recreational. You quickly reach the center, where there is indeed some sort of miniature water park. Very appealing in the middle of August.
The spire you noticed this morning is probably about 50 feet tall, with three water slides of differing complexity. Everyone is in comfortable swim attire, but are also in ceramic animal masks. You hear much laughter and you witness much embracing. It looks like so much fun.
Instantly, you are seized at the wrist by a hooded figure, also in an animal mask. You know then that you will have to go back the way you came. You do not belong here.
You're late back from break anyway. And you really do need this job. There is no use resisting.
You find no good reason to bother to relate this story to your coworkers. And eventually you drive back to your place, alone.
Purgatory.
You joke that the company you work for should bear that name. Or at least you'd like to joke about it.
But you don't really talk to anybody.
You stumble in, bleary-eyed, and sit amongst the squared semi-circle of computers. Your job requires, rather than a badge, for you to place your right hand into a device, arranging your five fingers to contact three posts in order to clock in and out. Yet, you sit down in front of a piece-meal computer that might have been top of the line even before the Millennial grid dropped.
One of your co-workers is dropped off by her parole officer. It is likely she will never be able to legally drive a car again. You want to ask, but dare not, about the obviously razor-inflicted scars across the upper arms of the girl two seats down from you. To your left, your older co-worker at one point described an incident where, after drinking an entire bottle of rum in his darker days, he hallucinated a rare record he was coveting on the track of a subway, and the train severed his legs shortly after he leapt down to retrieve it.
"What legs you got on tonight, honey?" asks a sassy black woman three seats down.
He rolls his pants legs up to reveal a pair of leopard-spotted prosthetic shins. Everyone chuckles in approval.
You've arrived every weekday morning at this same industrial park, same floor, same room for as long as you can remember, but you begin to realize there is another door on the other side of the building you have never passed through.
One morning, while driving in, you catch something peripherally you have never noticed. Over the dense foliage that typically frames your trip to work, you suddenly notice a tower... a tower with tubes? A water slide?
A water slide in your industrial park? What is this?
And suddenly you remember that door.
The next day at work, during your first break, you confidently exit through the other door.
Was it this bright out two hours ago? You stumble around the previously unseen anterior region of the building only to find yourself inexplicably facing...
A hedge maze.
Further confusion.
It's not a particularly difficult maze, likely recreational. You quickly reach the center, where there is indeed some sort of miniature water park. Very appealing in the middle of August.
The spire you noticed this morning is probably about 50 feet tall, with three water slides of differing complexity. Everyone is in comfortable swim attire, but are also in ceramic animal masks. You hear much laughter and you witness much embracing. It looks like so much fun.
Instantly, you are seized at the wrist by a hooded figure, also in an animal mask. You know then that you will have to go back the way you came. You do not belong here.
You're late back from break anyway. And you really do need this job. There is no use resisting.
You find no good reason to bother to relate this story to your coworkers. And eventually you drive back to your place, alone.
Taser-Fried Chicken.
August 2008.
So they say the average person has three multi-million dollar ideas a year. Okay, I actually read that in a book. A fiction book...
So, maybe I shouldn't be quoting that like it's a "fact".
Anyway.
While napping away a break at work, I awoke with what could have been one of my three... And it came to me in three words-
Taser. Fried. Chicken.
What I was picturing was something along the lines of a mix between Benihana and Mongolian Barbecue. You chose the individualized elements of your personal sauce (teaspoon of cayenne, 1/2 a cup of wine sauce, teaspoon of crushed garlic, etc)... the chicken meat is soaked in it and then tazered into deliciousness on your table in front of you.
Not sure about the fine details of it. The only science I can reference is the Mr. Wizard where they cooked the hot dog with the forks plugged into the light socket... We may have to develop a special "culinary taser" to do the job.
Which. Sounds. Awesome.
So if anyone has a taser and a 12-pack and wants to formulate a business model with me, you know where to find me.
So they say the average person has three multi-million dollar ideas a year. Okay, I actually read that in a book. A fiction book...
So, maybe I shouldn't be quoting that like it's a "fact".
Anyway.
While napping away a break at work, I awoke with what could have been one of my three... And it came to me in three words-
Taser. Fried. Chicken.
What I was picturing was something along the lines of a mix between Benihana and Mongolian Barbecue. You chose the individualized elements of your personal sauce (teaspoon of cayenne, 1/2 a cup of wine sauce, teaspoon of crushed garlic, etc)... the chicken meat is soaked in it and then tazered into deliciousness on your table in front of you.
Not sure about the fine details of it. The only science I can reference is the Mr. Wizard where they cooked the hot dog with the forks plugged into the light socket... We may have to develop a special "culinary taser" to do the job.
Which. Sounds. Awesome.
So if anyone has a taser and a 12-pack and wants to formulate a business model with me, you know where to find me.
T-Shirt And Jeans.
July 2008.
First of all, when you are evaluating a relationship you are currently in, your evaluation is almost entirely solipsism. That's just the way it goes. Nobody, outside of a movie, ever gets to understand another human being.
That said...
Basically, if you have to ask yourself if your relationship is over, um... it's over.
At that point, if your emotions were a hotel room, you should be packing all the nice shirts, the underwear and the socks.
Just jeans and t-shirt the rest of the relationship...
That said...
Really, it's not going to hurt any less. But at least you're already packed when you finally arrive back at the hotel alone.
First of all, when you are evaluating a relationship you are currently in, your evaluation is almost entirely solipsism. That's just the way it goes. Nobody, outside of a movie, ever gets to understand another human being.
That said...
Basically, if you have to ask yourself if your relationship is over, um... it's over.
At that point, if your emotions were a hotel room, you should be packing all the nice shirts, the underwear and the socks.
Just jeans and t-shirt the rest of the relationship...
That said...
Really, it's not going to hurt any less. But at least you're already packed when you finally arrive back at the hotel alone.
"The Globalists Are Taking Our Beer!"
July 2008.
Once upon a time, when I was very drunk, I suddenly found myself saying-
"Really? Aztecs and the end of the world? You really believe that's what Stanley Kubrick was talking about?"
I must admit I was nonplussed.
"Yeah, man... totally!" said the hippie, "There's even the shape of a Central American pyramid in the hedge maze, man! It doesn't get any more obvious than that!"
You know, he had my attention when he was talking about the repeating numbers, and the way peripheral items in the movie would change shape and color. And he was very convincing when insisting the differences between the book and movie were intentional...
But this was getting stupid really quick... How did a conversation about a guy in a dog suit giving a blow job go downhill so quickly?
And then he began talking about the globalist conspiracy...
Now I enjoy hearing a good conspiracy theory as much as the next guy, whether or not I believe in it. Unfortunately, my willingness to listen and my general politeness frequently back-fire on me, leading to unpleasant turns of conversation. Like the time I drank half a bottle of absinthe and was stuck riding in the back seat of a car for nearly an hour with a guy who apparently believed his sole purpose in life was to convince me that Carrot Top's "Chairman Of The Board" was the most under-rated politically subversive comedy ever.
This conversation wasn't quite that bad, now that I think of it.
Anyway, we all know that Doogie Howser invented blogging, and the Marquis De Sade invented tentacle porn. Throw in Al Gore, and you have the founding fathers of this lovely invention, "The Internet", we are all currently enjoying. The unfortunate side effect, however, is that most of the crazies I run into these days have been able to more-easily combine their ingredients into this sort-of "Conspiracy Pico De Gallo" of equal parts Globa-Bilder-Minati, Orwell-o-phile Fatalism, a mish-mash of every western (and occasionally Native American) religion's apocalypse, and never-shutting-up-about-that-thing-that-happened-in-New-York-with-the-buildings-and-stuff.
Fucking boring. On second thought, maybe I would rather be lectured about Carrot Top.
I swear, it's the same rant every time. Me, I think it's a cause they can adopt to seem radical while still, annoyingly, being able to hold on to their latent racism and homophobia. If I was to give my opinion based on what I know about the "Truther" movement, let's just say I'd have to call "Godwin's Law" on myself.
Enough on that though.
While my mind was wandering, the dude was talking about how the current recession is an intentional move by the globalists to sell off America or something...
"Look at what happened to Anheuser-Busch, man! Budweiser is an American symbol, and now it's been subverted to Belgian-UN bullshit! The Globalists got our beer, man!"
"What are you talking about?" I said, "Budweiser is right-wing bullshit anyway! And now that InBev bought Anheuser-Busch, Pabst is now the largest American brewer! Not only do they make PBR but they also bottle Lone Star, the only two beers I drink, as well as being the only American brewer with a consistently "blue" track record (meaning they contribute more to progressive causes, rather than Republican/conservative as recorded by buyblue.org)..."
"...as far as I'm concerned, this is a win for the good guys!"
Once upon a time, when I was very drunk, I suddenly found myself saying-
"Really? Aztecs and the end of the world? You really believe that's what Stanley Kubrick was talking about?"
I must admit I was nonplussed.
"Yeah, man... totally!" said the hippie, "There's even the shape of a Central American pyramid in the hedge maze, man! It doesn't get any more obvious than that!"
You know, he had my attention when he was talking about the repeating numbers, and the way peripheral items in the movie would change shape and color. And he was very convincing when insisting the differences between the book and movie were intentional...
But this was getting stupid really quick... How did a conversation about a guy in a dog suit giving a blow job go downhill so quickly?
And then he began talking about the globalist conspiracy...
Now I enjoy hearing a good conspiracy theory as much as the next guy, whether or not I believe in it. Unfortunately, my willingness to listen and my general politeness frequently back-fire on me, leading to unpleasant turns of conversation. Like the time I drank half a bottle of absinthe and was stuck riding in the back seat of a car for nearly an hour with a guy who apparently believed his sole purpose in life was to convince me that Carrot Top's "Chairman Of The Board" was the most under-rated politically subversive comedy ever.
This conversation wasn't quite that bad, now that I think of it.
Anyway, we all know that Doogie Howser invented blogging, and the Marquis De Sade invented tentacle porn. Throw in Al Gore, and you have the founding fathers of this lovely invention, "The Internet", we are all currently enjoying. The unfortunate side effect, however, is that most of the crazies I run into these days have been able to more-easily combine their ingredients into this sort-of "Conspiracy Pico De Gallo" of equal parts Globa-Bilder-Minati, Orwell-o-phile Fatalism, a mish-mash of every western (and occasionally Native American) religion's apocalypse, and never-shutting-up-about-that-thing-that-happened-in-New-York-with-the-buildings-and-stuff.
Fucking boring. On second thought, maybe I would rather be lectured about Carrot Top.
I swear, it's the same rant every time. Me, I think it's a cause they can adopt to seem radical while still, annoyingly, being able to hold on to their latent racism and homophobia. If I was to give my opinion based on what I know about the "Truther" movement, let's just say I'd have to call "Godwin's Law" on myself.
Enough on that though.
While my mind was wandering, the dude was talking about how the current recession is an intentional move by the globalists to sell off America or something...
"Look at what happened to Anheuser-Busch, man! Budweiser is an American symbol, and now it's been subverted to Belgian-UN bullshit! The Globalists got our beer, man!"
"What are you talking about?" I said, "Budweiser is right-wing bullshit anyway! And now that InBev bought Anheuser-Busch, Pabst is now the largest American brewer! Not only do they make PBR but they also bottle Lone Star, the only two beers I drink, as well as being the only American brewer with a consistently "blue" track record (meaning they contribute more to progressive causes, rather than Republican/conservative as recorded by buyblue.org)..."
"...as far as I'm concerned, this is a win for the good guys!"
Colloidal.
June 2008.
Life's confusing. You've been through a lot of shit...
There's not a whole lot of things you understand,
but you're fairly sure you understand Milk.
As far as you're concerned, Milk is definitely a good thing. You resolve that, next opportunity, you are going to bring Milk home.
Next thing you know, Milk is at your place. Things are great. High five.
Before you know it, though, the relationship between you and Milk begins to, shall we say, sour.
Milk seems different now.
Try as you might, you can't seem to make you and Milk return to the state that existed when you first brought Milk home. Things have gone beyond sour, they're downright bitter. It's like Milk has dissolved into separate distinct aspects, very different than the Milk you brought home.
You tell yourself that Milk has gone bad, but you know in your heart it isn't true (Milk was Pasteurized!)... Eventually, however, you give up and discard Milk.
What keeps you up late at night is that you know that Milk had not really gone bad; you discarded Milk because it displayed traits outside of your expectations and comfort level...
And you have to humble yourself and admit that you don't even understand Milk.
Life's confusing. You've been through a lot of shit...
There's not a whole lot of things you understand,
but you're fairly sure you understand Milk.
As far as you're concerned, Milk is definitely a good thing. You resolve that, next opportunity, you are going to bring Milk home.
Next thing you know, Milk is at your place. Things are great. High five.
Before you know it, though, the relationship between you and Milk begins to, shall we say, sour.
Milk seems different now.
Try as you might, you can't seem to make you and Milk return to the state that existed when you first brought Milk home. Things have gone beyond sour, they're downright bitter. It's like Milk has dissolved into separate distinct aspects, very different than the Milk you brought home.
You tell yourself that Milk has gone bad, but you know in your heart it isn't true (Milk was Pasteurized!)... Eventually, however, you give up and discard Milk.
What keeps you up late at night is that you know that Milk had not really gone bad; you discarded Milk because it displayed traits outside of your expectations and comfort level...
And you have to humble yourself and admit that you don't even understand Milk.
The People In The Tall Buildings.
May 2008.
The road is so empty this late, the air so still, you can't help but feel that every car that passes contains someone you were destined to interact and connect with...
But try as you might you can't reach them.
At least the view is nice. Passing beneath the city skyline, though, makes you wonder-
Who are all these people in the tall buildings? What are they about? Would you recognize one, if spotted at ground level? What have they got going on; behind the lit windows so far above you this late at night?
Can they see you too?
Would they make the effort?
The road is so empty this late, the air so still, you can't help but feel that every car that passes contains someone you were destined to interact and connect with...
But try as you might you can't reach them.
At least the view is nice. Passing beneath the city skyline, though, makes you wonder-
Who are all these people in the tall buildings? What are they about? Would you recognize one, if spotted at ground level? What have they got going on; behind the lit windows so far above you this late at night?
Can they see you too?
Would they make the effort?
The Day I Met Me From The Future.
April 2008.
Was it just me, or were lights flickering and dying all over the world back in December of 2000?
I had moved to Baltimore/D.C. earlier that year to get in on the political action. After months of campaigning and organizing in Virginia and Maryland, a couple of my hippie friends from Clean Water Action found me and scraped me off the the floor of the Democratic Convention Center in Delaware the morning after the big election; drunk as hell, bewildered, and disillusioned.
Shortly afterwards I moved back to Texas. I had left Austin in the middle of a tech boom that had me living pretty damn well constructing modems and motherboards, and when I returned all my school, qualifications, and training got me was a job delivering pizzas...
One day, while stopping to refuel during a delivery, I couldn't help but notice a strange yellow station wagon at the pump across from me. The side windows were solidly papered over with what appeared to be densely typeset newsprint.
As I glanced, and odd, bald, gangly character ambled from the convenience store, muttering under his breath and looking like an unnerving, hatless, tweedy Willy Wonka. When he noticed me regarding his vehicle he gave a pleasant wave...
"Allo!" he cried. "Do you consider yourself political?"
I gave a sheepish affirmative.
"And," he asked, "do you consider yourself a supporter of independent, self-published writers?"
I gave a sheepish affirmative.
"One moment, then..." he replied, leaning in and digging through the back seat of the station wagon. Then with a dramatic flourish that seemed strangely reptilian, he swished a black folder into my hand.
"I would really appreciate it if you would assist with my distribution. I don't ask for any money, but if you could just give these out to some of your close friends, who knows?"
He then gave a sly wink...
"We may just change the world!"
With the folder in my passenger's seat, I gave it little thought for the rest of the evening.
When I finally did have a chance to peruse the folder, I recoiled in horror. It was several dozen pages of densely packed, heavily Xeroxed text. Articles were laid haphazardly across each other, each rendering the other illegible. Crudely pornographic caricatures of current celebrities framed curse-filled rants. Most of the content seemed to be revolved around either his personal (or maybe just acquired) research on Gulf War Syndrome, but he seemed to also be vehemently against vending machines in schools, fluoride, and the Canadian government. It was hard to discern the exact focus, however, especially considering every other line demanded the reader "get back in the pen with the other sheep if you don't understand what's going on around you..."
Wow, I thought to myself... I just found myself in direct contact with a dangerously crazy person.
And then sometimes, the older and more hopeless I feel these days, I can't help wondering whether or not I just got a glimpse into my future... How few days are left before I completely lose the last of my hair and my sanity and travel the country in a beat-up yellow station wagon, spreading entropy.
Was it just me, or were lights flickering and dying all over the world back in December of 2000?
I had moved to Baltimore/D.C. earlier that year to get in on the political action. After months of campaigning and organizing in Virginia and Maryland, a couple of my hippie friends from Clean Water Action found me and scraped me off the the floor of the Democratic Convention Center in Delaware the morning after the big election; drunk as hell, bewildered, and disillusioned.
Shortly afterwards I moved back to Texas. I had left Austin in the middle of a tech boom that had me living pretty damn well constructing modems and motherboards, and when I returned all my school, qualifications, and training got me was a job delivering pizzas...
One day, while stopping to refuel during a delivery, I couldn't help but notice a strange yellow station wagon at the pump across from me. The side windows were solidly papered over with what appeared to be densely typeset newsprint.
As I glanced, and odd, bald, gangly character ambled from the convenience store, muttering under his breath and looking like an unnerving, hatless, tweedy Willy Wonka. When he noticed me regarding his vehicle he gave a pleasant wave...
"Allo!" he cried. "Do you consider yourself political?"
I gave a sheepish affirmative.
"And," he asked, "do you consider yourself a supporter of independent, self-published writers?"
I gave a sheepish affirmative.
"One moment, then..." he replied, leaning in and digging through the back seat of the station wagon. Then with a dramatic flourish that seemed strangely reptilian, he swished a black folder into my hand.
"I would really appreciate it if you would assist with my distribution. I don't ask for any money, but if you could just give these out to some of your close friends, who knows?"
He then gave a sly wink...
"We may just change the world!"
With the folder in my passenger's seat, I gave it little thought for the rest of the evening.
When I finally did have a chance to peruse the folder, I recoiled in horror. It was several dozen pages of densely packed, heavily Xeroxed text. Articles were laid haphazardly across each other, each rendering the other illegible. Crudely pornographic caricatures of current celebrities framed curse-filled rants. Most of the content seemed to be revolved around either his personal (or maybe just acquired) research on Gulf War Syndrome, but he seemed to also be vehemently against vending machines in schools, fluoride, and the Canadian government. It was hard to discern the exact focus, however, especially considering every other line demanded the reader "get back in the pen with the other sheep if you don't understand what's going on around you..."
Wow, I thought to myself... I just found myself in direct contact with a dangerously crazy person.
And then sometimes, the older and more hopeless I feel these days, I can't help wondering whether or not I just got a glimpse into my future... How few days are left before I completely lose the last of my hair and my sanity and travel the country in a beat-up yellow station wagon, spreading entropy.
The Motel At The End Of The World.
April 2008.
Over the years, you've found your dreams increasingly populated by strip malls and stranded, boarded up gas stations surrounded by, well, nothing.
You find yourself wondering whether your dreams are infiltrating reality or the other way around whilst wandering down a tree-lined street on the outskirts of town. Suddenly the forest yields to another, completely unexpected, sprawl of liquor-stores and outlet shops. On the corner is a cozy little bar-and grill about as big as your living room. Thirty minutes later you resolve that you'll have to stop by there again, as they make a pretty impressive Philly cheese-steak.
But no experience was as surreal as the evening, during a road trip for a previous job, when you rubbed your bleary eyes and found yourself staying the night at a motel that, based on a quick look in every possible direction, was miles away from anywhere.
Lucky for you, you've always kept a spare bottle of whiskey in your briefcase in case this ever happened.
The floor-unit air conditioner hums and the television jabbers as you stare out the window at a flat, barren horizon. You throw back some whiskey and fight the urge to write a letter to every person you've ever done wrong in your life. You want to use the phone, but you know the phone bill will be deducted from your check, so you refrain.
Eventually you stumble downstairs to the little adjacent steakhouse that shares the same roof as the motel. The menu is a bit out of your price range, but you resolve to treat yourself to the most expensive thing on there.
Because, for all you know, it's the end of the world.
Over the years, you've found your dreams increasingly populated by strip malls and stranded, boarded up gas stations surrounded by, well, nothing.
You find yourself wondering whether your dreams are infiltrating reality or the other way around whilst wandering down a tree-lined street on the outskirts of town. Suddenly the forest yields to another, completely unexpected, sprawl of liquor-stores and outlet shops. On the corner is a cozy little bar-and grill about as big as your living room. Thirty minutes later you resolve that you'll have to stop by there again, as they make a pretty impressive Philly cheese-steak.
But no experience was as surreal as the evening, during a road trip for a previous job, when you rubbed your bleary eyes and found yourself staying the night at a motel that, based on a quick look in every possible direction, was miles away from anywhere.
Lucky for you, you've always kept a spare bottle of whiskey in your briefcase in case this ever happened.
The floor-unit air conditioner hums and the television jabbers as you stare out the window at a flat, barren horizon. You throw back some whiskey and fight the urge to write a letter to every person you've ever done wrong in your life. You want to use the phone, but you know the phone bill will be deducted from your check, so you refrain.
Eventually you stumble downstairs to the little adjacent steakhouse that shares the same roof as the motel. The menu is a bit out of your price range, but you resolve to treat yourself to the most expensive thing on there.
Because, for all you know, it's the end of the world.
"You Know What This Is? It's A Piece Of Bunny Fur."
December 2007.
So one of the things I got for Christmas this year was the baby book my mom kept up with until I enrolled in kindergarten. The following is an exerpt:
Dec 26th, 1980-
...We were outside feeding the animals and you found a piece of bunny fur. It had a little spot of dried blood on it and you showed it to me. You said that you found a kitty and it has a sore on it. You wanted me to take it in the house and make it better- put some medicine on it. I tried to tell you it wasn't a kitty and that it was a bunny and that it was dead- that there was nothing we could do for it. You just kept looking at it and said- maybe we could put it in the chicken house (you meant the little pen I put the hurt chickens in) and maybe it would get better. I explained to you again that it was dead and we couldn't help it. I guess you accepted that- I put the fur over in the weeds and when your father came home you showed it to him.
You asked "Do you know what this is?- It's a piece of bunny fur..."
You were so serious- it was a precious happening to me."
So one of the things I got for Christmas this year was the baby book my mom kept up with until I enrolled in kindergarten. The following is an exerpt:
Dec 26th, 1980-
...We were outside feeding the animals and you found a piece of bunny fur. It had a little spot of dried blood on it and you showed it to me. You said that you found a kitty and it has a sore on it. You wanted me to take it in the house and make it better- put some medicine on it. I tried to tell you it wasn't a kitty and that it was a bunny and that it was dead- that there was nothing we could do for it. You just kept looking at it and said- maybe we could put it in the chicken house (you meant the little pen I put the hurt chickens in) and maybe it would get better. I explained to you again that it was dead and we couldn't help it. I guess you accepted that- I put the fur over in the weeds and when your father came home you showed it to him.
You asked "Do you know what this is?- It's a piece of bunny fur..."
You were so serious- it was a precious happening to me."
Plate Glass Window.
August 2007.
When I was young,
All I wanted to do
Was drive a motorcycle
Through a plate glass window.
Lucky for me, I grew up
In the early 1980s,
And everyone-
Don Johnson
The Fonz
Erik "Ponch" Estrada
Even Miss Piggy
Was driving motorcycles
Through plate glass windows
In those days.
So I had a pretty happy childhood,
At least in that respect.
But now that I'm older,
I don't know what I want anymore
And my interactions with others
And the world around me
Take on an air of disaster
Very similar
To driving a motorcycle
Through a plate glass window.
When I was young,
All I wanted to do
Was drive a motorcycle
Through a plate glass window.
Lucky for me, I grew up
In the early 1980s,
And everyone-
Don Johnson
The Fonz
Erik "Ponch" Estrada
Even Miss Piggy
Was driving motorcycles
Through plate glass windows
In those days.
So I had a pretty happy childhood,
At least in that respect.
But now that I'm older,
I don't know what I want anymore
And my interactions with others
And the world around me
Take on an air of disaster
Very similar
To driving a motorcycle
Through a plate glass window.
Cat Person.
June 2007.
You get to a certain age, and you start to wonder about things. You wonder how well you know other people, you wonder how well you know yourself. You wonder how to deal with a phone conversation with an old high school friend, when she mentions feeling the need to "check in on ya" and jokes that she "worries who's gonna be there for your crazy ass when your liver finally gives out..." Then you realize you had a nearly word-for-word similar discussion with your brother just two weeks before. You start to wonder who it actually is that they are talking about, as you walk downstairs to the laundry room.
You have so much on your mind at that point that you find yourself unable to wrap your mind around it when a small black and orange tabby looks up and asks "Why is a cat?".
Wait, what?
"Why is a cat?" repeats the cat.
"Why don't your lips move when you talk?" you ask.
"It's an old joke, older than people," says the cat, ignoring your question. "'Why is a cat? Because all of our paws are the same'... I know an even older, dirtier version of the joke. But you are not ready to hear it." He held up his paw, which had seven lopsided toes.
"Why do you have seven toes?" you find yourself asking.
"To remind me not to fuck my sister." said the cat. "My dad was a pristine specimen, with nothing to remind him not to fuck his sister. So I was born with seven toes. When I finally fuck a she-cat that is not my sister, it is still possible we may create a kitten with the right number of toes, who will probably run off and fuck his sister. Such is the way of cats... Take my paw."
You cup his tiny, disfigured paw in my palm for a moment.
"Good," replied the cat, "another of my kind will visit you soon. I have dinner waiting." Then the cat dashed upstairs into the waiting ajar door of an apartment at the far end of the complex, closest to the dumpster and the overgrown, near forest-like drainage ditch beyond it.
As you prepare to retrieve clothes from the laundry room dryers, there is scratching at the door. On the back porch is a small, shivering kitten. You bend over to pet him, and he climbs up your arm to perch on your shoulder, much like a parrot in the pirate movies. You name him Simon and he sleeps on your chest that night.
He begins to teach you stories. Old stories.
At first having the cat around was a hit. He was like a mascot, and with him you became more popular than ever. And on those rare occasions he wasn't allowed in, you just walked out of the place and resolved to provide more for yourself. You begin dealing in rarities and antiques, and after only a month and a half of hard work, you find yourself doing better than ever.
Then the cat got bigger.
Rather than perched, he lounges about your neck, his tiny panting mouth never far from your ear. He whispers things to you.
That there was no reason to miss people when they were not there, because you never knew them in the first place. You had simply projected my expectations on them, and whatever they provided you could find within yourself. All you really were to other people was manifestations of their expectations of you. There is no true meaning at all to the ever-shifting pool of alliances, intimacies and partnerships that made and broke marriages, killed presidents and indeed even defined history itself; both in the events themselves and the prejudices of those that recorded it.
You find less and less reason to leave the house. Your stories were catching on, and you reached a point in painting (a never ending sequence of languid female nudes with watery eyes and facial features that seemed, somehow, feline) that your work was easily selling for as much or more as any other's.
Somewhere along the line, you had accumulated MANY more cats. Dozens of them. The smell became overwhelming. Your landlord shifted you to the apartment at the farthest end of the apartment complex, closest to the dumpster, without explaining what happened to the last tenant.
Eventually, even trips to the grocery store became too much of an ordeal. It started with picking the dumpster; then it was bugs, rats and then the occasional snake from the drainage ditch. One day a drunken homeless man stumbled, much like a lost Hansel and Gretel, into the forest-like clearing behind the convenience store on the corner and fell asleep behind the dumpster. If anyone noticed that they never saw him again, they didn't say anything. You and your feline companions ate like a lion's pack. You were becoming a real family.
You began developing a cough, however, that had become progressively worse over time. Eventually you got too sick to bring in any outside food. The other cats began to regularly pace around your bed, as if waiting for something.
In a hoarse whisper you called for Simon, and ask him the question that had been bothering you for what seemed like years...
"Simon, if I really didn't need anyone but myself, what drew me to all of you?"
"Why IS a cat?" replied Simon.
The answer was so absurd, you can't help but laugh. Why do cats always show up when it seems all we know about the universe is breaking down? Why did Schrodinger pick a cat? Why did Lewis Carrol have a cat say "We're all mad here?"
You begin laughing so hard it becomes hard to breathe. You try to catch your breath, but it became impossible. The room got darker and darker.
Why is a cat?
You look around a bit and cough. Wait, you think, you don't have a cough. You had a cough when you had a name. You are now a cat with no name (which is as it should be). Cats have no names. You figure it's best to work on forgetting your previous life. Whatever you were before is gone now, and there is no name for the meat that is here that should not be wasted (you will never know this, but when they do an autopsy to identify what is not eaten, they will fish nearly fifteen pounds of cat hair from the corpse's lungs and colon).
Before you completely forget to do so, however, you rush out the ajar door just in time to catch up with a strangely familiar young person to ask the only question still on your mind.
You get to a certain age, and you start to wonder about things. You wonder how well you know other people, you wonder how well you know yourself. You wonder how to deal with a phone conversation with an old high school friend, when she mentions feeling the need to "check in on ya" and jokes that she "worries who's gonna be there for your crazy ass when your liver finally gives out..." Then you realize you had a nearly word-for-word similar discussion with your brother just two weeks before. You start to wonder who it actually is that they are talking about, as you walk downstairs to the laundry room.
You have so much on your mind at that point that you find yourself unable to wrap your mind around it when a small black and orange tabby looks up and asks "Why is a cat?".
Wait, what?
"Why is a cat?" repeats the cat.
"Why don't your lips move when you talk?" you ask.
"It's an old joke, older than people," says the cat, ignoring your question. "'Why is a cat? Because all of our paws are the same'... I know an even older, dirtier version of the joke. But you are not ready to hear it." He held up his paw, which had seven lopsided toes.
"Why do you have seven toes?" you find yourself asking.
"To remind me not to fuck my sister." said the cat. "My dad was a pristine specimen, with nothing to remind him not to fuck his sister. So I was born with seven toes. When I finally fuck a she-cat that is not my sister, it is still possible we may create a kitten with the right number of toes, who will probably run off and fuck his sister. Such is the way of cats... Take my paw."
You cup his tiny, disfigured paw in my palm for a moment.
"Good," replied the cat, "another of my kind will visit you soon. I have dinner waiting." Then the cat dashed upstairs into the waiting ajar door of an apartment at the far end of the complex, closest to the dumpster and the overgrown, near forest-like drainage ditch beyond it.
As you prepare to retrieve clothes from the laundry room dryers, there is scratching at the door. On the back porch is a small, shivering kitten. You bend over to pet him, and he climbs up your arm to perch on your shoulder, much like a parrot in the pirate movies. You name him Simon and he sleeps on your chest that night.
He begins to teach you stories. Old stories.
At first having the cat around was a hit. He was like a mascot, and with him you became more popular than ever. And on those rare occasions he wasn't allowed in, you just walked out of the place and resolved to provide more for yourself. You begin dealing in rarities and antiques, and after only a month and a half of hard work, you find yourself doing better than ever.
Then the cat got bigger.
Rather than perched, he lounges about your neck, his tiny panting mouth never far from your ear. He whispers things to you.
That there was no reason to miss people when they were not there, because you never knew them in the first place. You had simply projected my expectations on them, and whatever they provided you could find within yourself. All you really were to other people was manifestations of their expectations of you. There is no true meaning at all to the ever-shifting pool of alliances, intimacies and partnerships that made and broke marriages, killed presidents and indeed even defined history itself; both in the events themselves and the prejudices of those that recorded it.
You find less and less reason to leave the house. Your stories were catching on, and you reached a point in painting (a never ending sequence of languid female nudes with watery eyes and facial features that seemed, somehow, feline) that your work was easily selling for as much or more as any other's.
Somewhere along the line, you had accumulated MANY more cats. Dozens of them. The smell became overwhelming. Your landlord shifted you to the apartment at the farthest end of the apartment complex, closest to the dumpster, without explaining what happened to the last tenant.
Eventually, even trips to the grocery store became too much of an ordeal. It started with picking the dumpster; then it was bugs, rats and then the occasional snake from the drainage ditch. One day a drunken homeless man stumbled, much like a lost Hansel and Gretel, into the forest-like clearing behind the convenience store on the corner and fell asleep behind the dumpster. If anyone noticed that they never saw him again, they didn't say anything. You and your feline companions ate like a lion's pack. You were becoming a real family.
You began developing a cough, however, that had become progressively worse over time. Eventually you got too sick to bring in any outside food. The other cats began to regularly pace around your bed, as if waiting for something.
In a hoarse whisper you called for Simon, and ask him the question that had been bothering you for what seemed like years...
"Simon, if I really didn't need anyone but myself, what drew me to all of you?"
"Why IS a cat?" replied Simon.
The answer was so absurd, you can't help but laugh. Why do cats always show up when it seems all we know about the universe is breaking down? Why did Schrodinger pick a cat? Why did Lewis Carrol have a cat say "We're all mad here?"
You begin laughing so hard it becomes hard to breathe. You try to catch your breath, but it became impossible. The room got darker and darker.
Why is a cat?
You look around a bit and cough. Wait, you think, you don't have a cough. You had a cough when you had a name. You are now a cat with no name (which is as it should be). Cats have no names. You figure it's best to work on forgetting your previous life. Whatever you were before is gone now, and there is no name for the meat that is here that should not be wasted (you will never know this, but when they do an autopsy to identify what is not eaten, they will fish nearly fifteen pounds of cat hair from the corpse's lungs and colon).
Before you completely forget to do so, however, you rush out the ajar door just in time to catch up with a strangely familiar young person to ask the only question still on your mind.
POSESSED BY DEMONS. GET HELP.
It makes sense now.
For fucks sake, I don't expect it to make sense to you.
But it's really starting to make sense to me now....
"What are you saying now?" says a voice to the side...
And I suddenly notice that I'm duct taped to that same hospital bed again.
Was it really a week ago?
The world has gone insane...
Fuck, there was an ugly vibe going on. Another person's vomit was drying in a patch at the bottom of my shirt. People were throwing punches in the mosh pit, and when they tired, hung on the outskirts spitting back into it...
Everyone just had this look in their eyes that said they would not go home satisfied until they had hurt someone, and I just wanted to go home. I know when I'm not welcome...
Was it really a 9 years ago?
I have a hard time getting the details across... there was an ugly vibe going on. Or maybe the ugly vibe was just inside my head. I needed to sit down. Faces glared at me. I didn't mean to be in anyone's way. I know when I'm not welcome. I just needed to rest a bit. Were the faces even on people? It seemed like the faces were glaring out the walls themselves, like the walls wanted to devour me.
"Oh God I love you don't eat me!"
She bursts out the bathroom door, clutching her arm. I saw what looked like smoke but also shimmered like oil flowing out of her arm and wafting up to the warehouse ceiling. Her blood dripped on me. She was with some one (was she?) and he began to scream in my face.
"WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING? SHE'S BLEEDING TO DEATH! IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO HELP GET OUT OF MY WAY!"
He was screaming so much. It made me feel bad. I never meant to be in anyone's way. I know when I'm not wanted. I climbed inside myself, and it got darker as I burrowed backwards into the wall. Except I wasn't burrowing into the wall. I was traveling in "the direction you cannot point to". It got cramped... I was too big, and I still did not know how to make myself smaller. I couldn't breathe. Did my heart just stop?
I couldn't breathe.
I gasped.
I was in the floorboard of a moving vehicle. A cop car. They had crammed me into the floorboard and had their feet on me. I couldn't move my arms or legs, why couldn't I move? I begged them to stop stepping on me, that I couldn't breathe. They pretended I wasn't there. Was I really there? I couldn't even tell anymore.
I couldn't breathe.
I gasped.
Not much better. I was back at the party, and people were looking at me funny. I decided to go to the bathroom for some water. I know when I'm not welcome.
I looked in the mirror and I was covered in blood (or was it puke?). Was it her blood? It pooled at my feet. It stretched out in a hundred directions, it was spelling out words. Dirty words, words so dirty I can't even force myself to recall them.
And then the singing began.
I had to cover my ears. It wasn't even words, the sounds just hurt. It was horrible and frightening. The ceiling dripped her blood on me, the walls shook. The only thing that made sense was my reflection. I stared at myself, frozen, until the singing stopped, the walls again stilled... then a noise distracted me. But it wasn't a noise.
I felt the sound of a key, turning in a lock. And my arm hurt. I looked down and there was a bite mark in the center of my right arm. My blood, her blood was pooling at my feet. And it was so silent.
"Oh God I love you don't eat me!"
And there, on the bathroom wall that was suddenly immeasurably tall, shattering the skyline, words were there, so big I could not comprehend.
Spelled in blood (my blood? hers? whose?) was a simple, powerful statement:
"POSSESSED BY DEMONS. GET HELP."
I turned to my reflection for guidance. I (or my reflection) had such a disarmingly hopeless expression on his (her?) face, tears involuntarily began to roll down my cheeks... And just as suddenly, my reflection blinked out.
I was invisible, And the singing started again.
...then just as suddenly
I was reading an email from someone from my past that had just recently found me on Myspace. She reminded me who she was then remarked:
"I was looking over your profile, and you seem really interesting now. You certainly hide your demons well."
I replied back:
"Demons are just excuses for people who can't take responsibility for the darker aspects of their personality..."
"Oh come on." said the cop, "Do you believe in demons or not? You've been howling and screaming for like 4 hours, and now you expect me to trust you're better?"
I couldn't move my arms. Oh, ok. I'm at the hospital again, duct taped to the bed with the cop there. I don't like this part. I wanna be somewhere else...
"Oh, don't go comatose on me again, you little punk!" laments the cop, "I swear to God I'm putting you in a cell as soon as you get back!"
But I (and/or?) he was already gone. I(?) was in the dark place again. Not that I could count what was in the dark place as actually being me.
When I was younger, I could stare at myself in the mirror until everything else would melt, smoke drifting to the ceiling where it would condense into blood that would drip down, pool, and someplace new would arise from the pools. I would suddenly be somewhere else.
It started simply, exploring every corner of the mirror when I was little. Okay, if I turned my head this way, I can see out the door. Open the medicine cabinet door and I could see down the hall. Still the same. I would experiment with multiple mirrors, just to see if I could finally catch the point where the mirror world and the one I lived in differed.
One night I found it.
When I was a little boy, I had found some girl's clothes at the bottom of a box my dad had bought at a garage sale. I hid them at the bottom of my toy box, and in the middle of the night, I would dress myself and clumsily put on make-up. Then I would go back to my experiment. The girl that was me would scan the surface of the mirrors, looking for something different, something They on the other side had forgotten to hide. After months of this practice, they slipped up, and I saw something I wasn't supposed to see.
The next day I begged my parents to let me get baptized. I destroyed the box of girly things.
But my parent's had bigger problems. Over the summer, they both spent stints in mental hospitals, and decided to divorce.
Not to take too much credit, but I may have broken my world.
...but 7 months ago
I was looking into another mirror. The piercings were the same, the eyes were the same. Was I a girl? We were at a cliff that looked exactly like the end of the world.
"We should jump off!" said my reflection, and his/her eyes sparkled.
"What time is it, really?" I wondered.
"Oh don't go into that shit again", said the cop. "You've been asking me what time it is every 10 minutes! Wait, where you going now?"
But everything was gone again.
They say that when it happens, the demons have to devour your flesh. They eat your entire material form...
Like the scene in Jacobs Ladder, when the chiropractor says you can look at it two ways; as demons ripping your life apart, or as angels freeing you from material concerns.
When I was young, the big news item of the day was subliminal messages in rock music that turned kids towards Satan. They didn't know the half of it.
"Speaking of subliminal messages...", I think two days ago after sinking another ball at the pool table in the break room. The television has a documentary on Harry Houdini, escape artist, paranormal debunker... Interspersed alongside the plot, however, is an auction where they are selling off Houdini's prop collection: keys, handcuffs, lock picks, etc.
So as they describe his life, they are simultaneously adding up his posthumous worth. Talk about a subliminal message.
I tell this to Amy Feral, repeating it because she is now 60% deaf from a beating she received from German Police. I'm nursing what will undoubtedly be a permanent scar, and my eye is probably gonna be black for a few days. She called me from a movie theater, she was getting a beer from the concession stand during the slow part of the movie.
"I just can't concentrate on this movie," she laments. "I'm having a hard time concentrating on anything after the beating."
I grunt concurrence through a sip of beer, as I sit in the bathtub.
"No really," she said, "these guys were professionals. A 400 year police-state tradition. I feel like my insides are made of glass, yet they didn't leave a mark..."
"Well," I reply, "I can't speak for you, but this whole sudden lack of concentration is just an amplification of my normal dysphoria for the world. Commercials, television announcers, jingles, mascots, announcements. Infernal symbols, I can feel my body rejecting the noise like an infection..."
"Well", Feral says,"nothing like a good old-fashioned beat-down to turn down the volume on all the unimportant stuff..."
"Well, one thing," I chuckle, "if all else fails, at least it got me to stop thinking about..."
...then just as suddenly
I'm back at the cliff at the end of the world. Staring at my reflection. I (we) decided we didn't want to talk to anyone anymore and found a place to be alone with each other.
"Give me your hand," (s)he said.
Days before this, at Emo's (when was this?), a punk kid called out my name and insistently asked me "So what's it like in Hell, Reverend Ralf? What's it like? You know who's doing this?"
...as I type this right now (now?), I feel my spine tighten.
(S)he brought my arm up to it's mouth, and bit me.
There was a crunch, like the sound of a key in a lock.
And I(?) was bleeding. Was I the girl? Was I a girl? The eyes are the same, the piercings are in the same place. When I draw myself, that's all I see. Eyes and mouth. Just a line for the nose, ignore the size of it. This giant nose, now even larger and busted all over my face. What was happening?
"OH GOD I LOVE YOU DON'T EAT ME!!!"
"Oh, back in the real world, eh?" the cop says.
Everything has stopped. The ceiling was spinning a little however, vaguely resembling the Gustave Dore etching with the angels spiraling to infinity.
"It took Thorazine", insisted the cop, "but I finally got you to behave. I'm gonna get you loose from this bed, and we're going to your cell. Any false moves, and I shoot you dead. You have seriously freaked me out tonight."
I shook my head, got up and let the cop shackle my hands again behind my back.
For fucks sake, I don't expect it to make sense to you.
But it's really starting to make sense to me now....
"What are you saying now?" says a voice to the side...
And I suddenly notice that I'm duct taped to that same hospital bed again.
Was it really a week ago?
The world has gone insane...
Fuck, there was an ugly vibe going on. Another person's vomit was drying in a patch at the bottom of my shirt. People were throwing punches in the mosh pit, and when they tired, hung on the outskirts spitting back into it...
Everyone just had this look in their eyes that said they would not go home satisfied until they had hurt someone, and I just wanted to go home. I know when I'm not welcome...
Was it really a 9 years ago?
I have a hard time getting the details across... there was an ugly vibe going on. Or maybe the ugly vibe was just inside my head. I needed to sit down. Faces glared at me. I didn't mean to be in anyone's way. I know when I'm not welcome. I just needed to rest a bit. Were the faces even on people? It seemed like the faces were glaring out the walls themselves, like the walls wanted to devour me.
"Oh God I love you don't eat me!"
She bursts out the bathroom door, clutching her arm. I saw what looked like smoke but also shimmered like oil flowing out of her arm and wafting up to the warehouse ceiling. Her blood dripped on me. She was with some one (was she?) and he began to scream in my face.
"WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING? SHE'S BLEEDING TO DEATH! IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO HELP GET OUT OF MY WAY!"
He was screaming so much. It made me feel bad. I never meant to be in anyone's way. I know when I'm not wanted. I climbed inside myself, and it got darker as I burrowed backwards into the wall. Except I wasn't burrowing into the wall. I was traveling in "the direction you cannot point to". It got cramped... I was too big, and I still did not know how to make myself smaller. I couldn't breathe. Did my heart just stop?
I couldn't breathe.
I gasped.
I was in the floorboard of a moving vehicle. A cop car. They had crammed me into the floorboard and had their feet on me. I couldn't move my arms or legs, why couldn't I move? I begged them to stop stepping on me, that I couldn't breathe. They pretended I wasn't there. Was I really there? I couldn't even tell anymore.
I couldn't breathe.
I gasped.
Not much better. I was back at the party, and people were looking at me funny. I decided to go to the bathroom for some water. I know when I'm not welcome.
I looked in the mirror and I was covered in blood (or was it puke?). Was it her blood? It pooled at my feet. It stretched out in a hundred directions, it was spelling out words. Dirty words, words so dirty I can't even force myself to recall them.
And then the singing began.
I had to cover my ears. It wasn't even words, the sounds just hurt. It was horrible and frightening. The ceiling dripped her blood on me, the walls shook. The only thing that made sense was my reflection. I stared at myself, frozen, until the singing stopped, the walls again stilled... then a noise distracted me. But it wasn't a noise.
I felt the sound of a key, turning in a lock. And my arm hurt. I looked down and there was a bite mark in the center of my right arm. My blood, her blood was pooling at my feet. And it was so silent.
"Oh God I love you don't eat me!"
And there, on the bathroom wall that was suddenly immeasurably tall, shattering the skyline, words were there, so big I could not comprehend.
Spelled in blood (my blood? hers? whose?) was a simple, powerful statement:
"POSSESSED BY DEMONS. GET HELP."
I turned to my reflection for guidance. I (or my reflection) had such a disarmingly hopeless expression on his (her?) face, tears involuntarily began to roll down my cheeks... And just as suddenly, my reflection blinked out.
I was invisible, And the singing started again.
...then just as suddenly
I was reading an email from someone from my past that had just recently found me on Myspace. She reminded me who she was then remarked:
"I was looking over your profile, and you seem really interesting now. You certainly hide your demons well."
I replied back:
"Demons are just excuses for people who can't take responsibility for the darker aspects of their personality..."
"Oh come on." said the cop, "Do you believe in demons or not? You've been howling and screaming for like 4 hours, and now you expect me to trust you're better?"
I couldn't move my arms. Oh, ok. I'm at the hospital again, duct taped to the bed with the cop there. I don't like this part. I wanna be somewhere else...
"Oh, don't go comatose on me again, you little punk!" laments the cop, "I swear to God I'm putting you in a cell as soon as you get back!"
But I (and/or?) he was already gone. I(?) was in the dark place again. Not that I could count what was in the dark place as actually being me.
When I was younger, I could stare at myself in the mirror until everything else would melt, smoke drifting to the ceiling where it would condense into blood that would drip down, pool, and someplace new would arise from the pools. I would suddenly be somewhere else.
It started simply, exploring every corner of the mirror when I was little. Okay, if I turned my head this way, I can see out the door. Open the medicine cabinet door and I could see down the hall. Still the same. I would experiment with multiple mirrors, just to see if I could finally catch the point where the mirror world and the one I lived in differed.
One night I found it.
When I was a little boy, I had found some girl's clothes at the bottom of a box my dad had bought at a garage sale. I hid them at the bottom of my toy box, and in the middle of the night, I would dress myself and clumsily put on make-up. Then I would go back to my experiment. The girl that was me would scan the surface of the mirrors, looking for something different, something They on the other side had forgotten to hide. After months of this practice, they slipped up, and I saw something I wasn't supposed to see.
The next day I begged my parents to let me get baptized. I destroyed the box of girly things.
But my parent's had bigger problems. Over the summer, they both spent stints in mental hospitals, and decided to divorce.
Not to take too much credit, but I may have broken my world.
...but 7 months ago
I was looking into another mirror. The piercings were the same, the eyes were the same. Was I a girl? We were at a cliff that looked exactly like the end of the world.
"We should jump off!" said my reflection, and his/her eyes sparkled.
"What time is it, really?" I wondered.
"Oh don't go into that shit again", said the cop. "You've been asking me what time it is every 10 minutes! Wait, where you going now?"
But everything was gone again.
They say that when it happens, the demons have to devour your flesh. They eat your entire material form...
Like the scene in Jacobs Ladder, when the chiropractor says you can look at it two ways; as demons ripping your life apart, or as angels freeing you from material concerns.
When I was young, the big news item of the day was subliminal messages in rock music that turned kids towards Satan. They didn't know the half of it.
"Speaking of subliminal messages...", I think two days ago after sinking another ball at the pool table in the break room. The television has a documentary on Harry Houdini, escape artist, paranormal debunker... Interspersed alongside the plot, however, is an auction where they are selling off Houdini's prop collection: keys, handcuffs, lock picks, etc.
So as they describe his life, they are simultaneously adding up his posthumous worth. Talk about a subliminal message.
I tell this to Amy Feral, repeating it because she is now 60% deaf from a beating she received from German Police. I'm nursing what will undoubtedly be a permanent scar, and my eye is probably gonna be black for a few days. She called me from a movie theater, she was getting a beer from the concession stand during the slow part of the movie.
"I just can't concentrate on this movie," she laments. "I'm having a hard time concentrating on anything after the beating."
I grunt concurrence through a sip of beer, as I sit in the bathtub.
"No really," she said, "these guys were professionals. A 400 year police-state tradition. I feel like my insides are made of glass, yet they didn't leave a mark..."
"Well," I reply, "I can't speak for you, but this whole sudden lack of concentration is just an amplification of my normal dysphoria for the world. Commercials, television announcers, jingles, mascots, announcements. Infernal symbols, I can feel my body rejecting the noise like an infection..."
"Well", Feral says,"nothing like a good old-fashioned beat-down to turn down the volume on all the unimportant stuff..."
"Well, one thing," I chuckle, "if all else fails, at least it got me to stop thinking about..."
...then just as suddenly
I'm back at the cliff at the end of the world. Staring at my reflection. I (we) decided we didn't want to talk to anyone anymore and found a place to be alone with each other.
"Give me your hand," (s)he said.
Days before this, at Emo's (when was this?), a punk kid called out my name and insistently asked me "So what's it like in Hell, Reverend Ralf? What's it like? You know who's doing this?"
...as I type this right now (now?), I feel my spine tighten.
(S)he brought my arm up to it's mouth, and bit me.
There was a crunch, like the sound of a key in a lock.
And I(?) was bleeding. Was I the girl? Was I a girl? The eyes are the same, the piercings are in the same place. When I draw myself, that's all I see. Eyes and mouth. Just a line for the nose, ignore the size of it. This giant nose, now even larger and busted all over my face. What was happening?
"OH GOD I LOVE YOU DON'T EAT ME!!!"
"Oh, back in the real world, eh?" the cop says.
Everything has stopped. The ceiling was spinning a little however, vaguely resembling the Gustave Dore etching with the angels spiraling to infinity.
"It took Thorazine", insisted the cop, "but I finally got you to behave. I'm gonna get you loose from this bed, and we're going to your cell. Any false moves, and I shoot you dead. You have seriously freaked me out tonight."
I shook my head, got up and let the cop shackle my hands again behind my back.
Storming Castle Tarantino.
November 2006.
"WAIT WAIT WAIT...", Chad says.
"Nobody REALLY knows Quentin Tarantino bought that castle. That's just the rumor going around..."
"But you gotta admit," I retort -
"STORMING CASTLE TARANTINO does make a cool sounding story title."
"I definitely concur", says Chad.
"Good God October sucked." I think to myself, suddenly stranded at Jackalope.
Between funerals,
disappointing anniversaries,
hitchhiking to and from work...
it's been pretty rough.
And fuck, dude, whatever I imagined I was going to do with myself Halloween night - it sure didn't include a long-ago ex of mine going through some sort of bullshit Fourth Step Emotional Inventory for my "benefit"...
"I'm SO sorry I stole money from you,
and cheated,
and turned tricks,
and did all those drugs,
and
and
and..."
God bless Jim Beam on nights like this. I was definitely having less fun than I had last year.
Wait, was that an indulgent thing to say?
I can't even tell anymore.
Seems like everyone I know is having a meltdown.
And really,
when you wake up alone,
crying,
three days in a row,
what's left to do but commit a half dozen federal crimes in one night?
"So what's this fixation with emotional support you got these days?", says Jon, FINALLY returning from whatever had distracted him before.
"If there's one thing I learned from escaping the psych ward and hopping a cross-country bus with nothing but the clothes on my back---"
A pregnant pause.
"It's that we really don't NEED other people."
I, drinking away my hangover, suddenly find myself unable to give a cohesive rebuttal.
And speaking of emotional support,
Linda shows up,
and I suddenly worry about parts of a recent drunken phone call
during which I don't remember what I said,
except that I was crying while saying it.
I suggest 3 shots of Jim Beam.
"I'm carrying $10,000 worth of camera equipment with me" she says...
"and?", I say.
"and I guess I'm having a shot of Jim Beam." is her reply.
"...and then we're gonna break into Castle Tarantino," I suggest.
"Wait, where'd you come up with that?" asked Linda.
By the way, if anyone asks,
we were at Trophy's the whole night,
after we left Jackalope...
and this is a work of speculative fiction.
...
"So you guys going to the castle?" asks this young bearded gentleman, as we attempt as casually as possible to jump the fence.
"Well THAT was the opposite of smooth...", Linda laments.
"Nah, I don't care", says beard, "just be careful; the cops have been there every night this week."
The view from the roof of Castle Tarantino would have been worth getting arrested over. I can't possibly explain the feeling of looking over a gorgeous view of downtown Austin, so close and so large that I couldn't wrap my arms around it, in a castle covered entirely with graffiti, drinking cheap-ass beer with two of my best friends (one of which I spent the last two weeks sure I'd never see again)...
Ahem-
I mean, that's what I'd say if we were actually there.
"What a great night," says Linda, on the back patio of Trophy's, sniffing the base of my shirt she's grasping with both hands.
"We smell like booze and arson."
"That's the perfect way to smell,
the perfect way to start a new month."
Wait, what the fuck just happened?
"WAIT WAIT WAIT...", Chad says.
"Nobody REALLY knows Quentin Tarantino bought that castle. That's just the rumor going around..."
"But you gotta admit," I retort -
"STORMING CASTLE TARANTINO does make a cool sounding story title."
"I definitely concur", says Chad.
"Good God October sucked." I think to myself, suddenly stranded at Jackalope.
Between funerals,
disappointing anniversaries,
hitchhiking to and from work...
it's been pretty rough.
And fuck, dude, whatever I imagined I was going to do with myself Halloween night - it sure didn't include a long-ago ex of mine going through some sort of bullshit Fourth Step Emotional Inventory for my "benefit"...
"I'm SO sorry I stole money from you,
and cheated,
and turned tricks,
and did all those drugs,
and
and
and..."
God bless Jim Beam on nights like this. I was definitely having less fun than I had last year.
Wait, was that an indulgent thing to say?
I can't even tell anymore.
Seems like everyone I know is having a meltdown.
And really,
when you wake up alone,
crying,
three days in a row,
what's left to do but commit a half dozen federal crimes in one night?
"So what's this fixation with emotional support you got these days?", says Jon, FINALLY returning from whatever had distracted him before.
"If there's one thing I learned from escaping the psych ward and hopping a cross-country bus with nothing but the clothes on my back---"
A pregnant pause.
"It's that we really don't NEED other people."
I, drinking away my hangover, suddenly find myself unable to give a cohesive rebuttal.
And speaking of emotional support,
Linda shows up,
and I suddenly worry about parts of a recent drunken phone call
during which I don't remember what I said,
except that I was crying while saying it.
I suggest 3 shots of Jim Beam.
"I'm carrying $10,000 worth of camera equipment with me" she says...
"and?", I say.
"and I guess I'm having a shot of Jim Beam." is her reply.
"...and then we're gonna break into Castle Tarantino," I suggest.
"Wait, where'd you come up with that?" asked Linda.
By the way, if anyone asks,
we were at Trophy's the whole night,
after we left Jackalope...
and this is a work of speculative fiction.
...
"So you guys going to the castle?" asks this young bearded gentleman, as we attempt as casually as possible to jump the fence.
"Well THAT was the opposite of smooth...", Linda laments.
"Nah, I don't care", says beard, "just be careful; the cops have been there every night this week."
The view from the roof of Castle Tarantino would have been worth getting arrested over. I can't possibly explain the feeling of looking over a gorgeous view of downtown Austin, so close and so large that I couldn't wrap my arms around it, in a castle covered entirely with graffiti, drinking cheap-ass beer with two of my best friends (one of which I spent the last two weeks sure I'd never see again)...
Ahem-
I mean, that's what I'd say if we were actually there.
"What a great night," says Linda, on the back patio of Trophy's, sniffing the base of my shirt she's grasping with both hands.
"We smell like booze and arson."
"That's the perfect way to smell,
the perfect way to start a new month."
Wait, what the fuck just happened?
The Bends.
August 2006.
6 hours before I have to wake up, still not asleep.
I don't know if I might have just not
cooked dinner long enough,
or if it's the anger
of suspicions unwelcomely confirmed,
but my stomach rumbles like it does when it's raining...
Maybe it's the three days sober.
Maybe I'm getting the bends.
5 hours before I have to wake up, I get the news:
The evening clerk at the Veterinary Hospital that
faces my apartment clocked out with two stolen bottles
of euthanasia solution, then went home...
And clocked out again.
Ponder the possibility of the clinic's architecture
as some sort of empathic megaphone,
blasting his misery against my bedroom window
every night
as I sleep,
until the panes (pains?) shake.
That would explain the dreams.
Last night I dreamt my "waking world" was a drugged dream
inflicted on me by a sorceress with black hair. She kept telling me
how depressing the place I lived was.
3 hours before I have to wake up.
Instead of "falling" asleep, I feel myself being ripped
into unconsciousness by hundreds of tiny hands.
I feel myself being dragged from my bed, phosphene sparks from my body grating against the sheet.
2 hours before I have to wake up,
phone calls with no message on the voice mail.
I finally pick up the phone and noone is on the line.
They say that means a ghost has called you.
Why is my bedroom door open?
And stranger still, not a drop of rain.
6 hours before I have to wake up, still not asleep.
I don't know if I might have just not
cooked dinner long enough,
or if it's the anger
of suspicions unwelcomely confirmed,
but my stomach rumbles like it does when it's raining...
Maybe it's the three days sober.
Maybe I'm getting the bends.
5 hours before I have to wake up, I get the news:
The evening clerk at the Veterinary Hospital that
faces my apartment clocked out with two stolen bottles
of euthanasia solution, then went home...
And clocked out again.
Ponder the possibility of the clinic's architecture
as some sort of empathic megaphone,
blasting his misery against my bedroom window
every night
as I sleep,
until the panes (pains?) shake.
That would explain the dreams.
Last night I dreamt my "waking world" was a drugged dream
inflicted on me by a sorceress with black hair. She kept telling me
how depressing the place I lived was.
3 hours before I have to wake up.
Instead of "falling" asleep, I feel myself being ripped
into unconsciousness by hundreds of tiny hands.
I feel myself being dragged from my bed, phosphene sparks from my body grating against the sheet.
2 hours before I have to wake up,
phone calls with no message on the voice mail.
I finally pick up the phone and noone is on the line.
They say that means a ghost has called you.
Why is my bedroom door open?
And stranger still, not a drop of rain.
The Answer Machine.
August 2006.
So downstairs at my apartment complex, in the little kiosk where they keep the arcade games and the washing machines, there's a boxy, 70s-style dispenser machine that just says ANSWERS in this flowery font with psychedelic asterisks raining around it. Below it is the byline ("This tells you everything you want to hear"). I think, at one point, it used to dispense Beta-Max tapes but got refurbished at the factory...
As I tend to do on evenings where I have an extra hour available and nothing to wash, I pull up one of those green plastic laundromat chairs up, fish out a bunch of change and do a couple of turns on the QUESTION wheel, to see if there are any new options.
The first question (and my first quarter) bring up "WHY DOES NOONE RESPECT ME?".
With a self-satisfied "ding" a little card emerges, ZOLTAN style.
The card says "BECAUSE YOU'RE A DRUNK AND A CHUMP".
This machine must have been imported from Japan, I assume, because it also dispenses cold beer. After the the card dropped, the beer selections seemed to blink more aggressively. For 50 more cents (and two potential questions lost) I purchased a beer, popped it, and continued to search for truth.
The next question was, "REALLY? A CHUMP?".
"Ding".
The card read "JUST KIDDING, YOU'RE A GENIUS AND EVERYONE IS JEALOUS".
I flipped the lever which let the question wheel spin randomly, and the next question (my next quarter, or half my next beer) was "SHE LEFT ME"...
"Ding".
The card read "WHO NEEDS HER ANYWAY? SHE WASN'T VERY SUPPORTIVE OF YOU, AND REMEMBER ALL THE SHIT SHE TRIED TO PULL?".
This thing is good.
I let the wheel chose for me again and it read "BUT I LOVED HER..."
"Ding".
The card read "WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? YOU'RE EMOTIONALLY DISTANT AND IMMATURE. PLUS YOU'RE A DRUNK AND A CHUMP. NOONE WILL EVER REALLY LOVE YOU."
Funny thing is, somehow both these answers were what I wanted to hear. This called for a second beer.
That beer left me with one quarter, so I had to be picky about this last question... I finally selected "WILL ANYTHING MAKE SENSE?"
Whirr. Click. "Ding".
The card read "ASK ME TOMORROW. In the meantime, how about a nice mail-order Degree? Thousands like you find the career of their dreams..."
And as I tend to do evenings like this, I returned to my apartment no wiser than I left.
At least I got a couple of beers out of it.
So downstairs at my apartment complex, in the little kiosk where they keep the arcade games and the washing machines, there's a boxy, 70s-style dispenser machine that just says ANSWERS in this flowery font with psychedelic asterisks raining around it. Below it is the byline ("This tells you everything you want to hear"). I think, at one point, it used to dispense Beta-Max tapes but got refurbished at the factory...
As I tend to do on evenings where I have an extra hour available and nothing to wash, I pull up one of those green plastic laundromat chairs up, fish out a bunch of change and do a couple of turns on the QUESTION wheel, to see if there are any new options.
The first question (and my first quarter) bring up "WHY DOES NOONE RESPECT ME?".
With a self-satisfied "ding" a little card emerges, ZOLTAN style.
The card says "BECAUSE YOU'RE A DRUNK AND A CHUMP".
This machine must have been imported from Japan, I assume, because it also dispenses cold beer. After the the card dropped, the beer selections seemed to blink more aggressively. For 50 more cents (and two potential questions lost) I purchased a beer, popped it, and continued to search for truth.
The next question was, "REALLY? A CHUMP?".
"Ding".
The card read "JUST KIDDING, YOU'RE A GENIUS AND EVERYONE IS JEALOUS".
I flipped the lever which let the question wheel spin randomly, and the next question (my next quarter, or half my next beer) was "SHE LEFT ME"...
"Ding".
The card read "WHO NEEDS HER ANYWAY? SHE WASN'T VERY SUPPORTIVE OF YOU, AND REMEMBER ALL THE SHIT SHE TRIED TO PULL?".
This thing is good.
I let the wheel chose for me again and it read "BUT I LOVED HER..."
"Ding".
The card read "WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? YOU'RE EMOTIONALLY DISTANT AND IMMATURE. PLUS YOU'RE A DRUNK AND A CHUMP. NOONE WILL EVER REALLY LOVE YOU."
Funny thing is, somehow both these answers were what I wanted to hear. This called for a second beer.
That beer left me with one quarter, so I had to be picky about this last question... I finally selected "WILL ANYTHING MAKE SENSE?"
Whirr. Click. "Ding".
The card read "ASK ME TOMORROW. In the meantime, how about a nice mail-order Degree? Thousands like you find the career of their dreams..."
And as I tend to do evenings like this, I returned to my apartment no wiser than I left.
At least I got a couple of beers out of it.
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