"Hey Jonas Brothers, stop playing with yourself and get me a refill."
"Sorry. Bourbon and soda, right?"
"Ginger, you twat! Ginger! Christ, an untrained monkey could do your job."
"Lois," Madge said. "You're up. That's 20 to call."
Lois looked at her cards. "Fuck it, I'm out. Never mind, Timberlake. I'll get it myself. Wouldn't want you to chip a nail or anything."
She wheeled herself over to the makeshift bar and pushed Christopher the bartender out of her way. And he didn't move just to be polite. For a 79-year-old, she still had a lot of power.
"Screw her, Christopher," said Madge. "Get me one instead."
"That was vodka cran--"
"Just make it strong, pretty boy."
Christopher kept his distance from Lois, careful not to touch her as he reached across to get the magnum of Smirnoff. Madge and the other two women still at the table, Jude and Carmella continued their game.
Jude spoke up. "Madge, that's you. You in?"
Madge looked over at Jude. "Yeah, fuck it. I'll bark."
"Carm?"
Carmella chewed on her cigar and then took a pull of bourbon. "You bitches ain't got shit." She threw in her money.
"OK, I'm in," said Jude. "Drop your pants, ladies. Show us what you got."
Madge flipped her cards. "Pair of jacks."
Carm had a straight. "Let's go, Jude. We ain't getting any younger."
Jude flipped her cards. "Full house, ladies."
"You fucking whore," said Lois as she wheeled back up to the table.
Jude swept the chips into her pile. "Nice doing business with you ladies."
"Hey! Ricky Martin! How's that drink coming along?" Having lost, Madge's tone had shifted quickly from kind to cranky.
Christopher looked flustered. "Do you have any more limes?"
"For fuck's sake, Chrissy. Just give me the Goddamned drink. For your boyfriend's sake, I hope you suck cock better than you tend bar. Christ, my husband could've served me by now. And he died six years ago."
"Here you are," he said, handing it to her.
"Thank you, sweet pea. Now, we gonna get those sandwiches tonight or should I just give up hope on that?"
"And I wouldn't say no to another whiskey sour, but I'm afraid to ask," said Jude. "I'd say you mix drinks like old people fuck, but I don't want to offend the old people at this table."
"And I'm still waiting on my gin and tonic," said Carmella. "Tell you what. If I take out my teeth and suck your cock, would you, maybe, you know, give it to me while I'm still among the Goddamned living?" She reached into her purse, got a packet of chewing tobacco, and tucked a wad in her cheek.
He went to work on Carmella's drink, astonished at how fast four old women could burn through the booze. When he'd gotten the assignment, he figured it would be a breeze. He was wrong.
Working the Old Maid Poker Night was a rite of passage for guys looking to break into the Narducci family business. Do a good job there and eventually you might be trusted to work one of the guys' games. Do a good job at one of the guys' games and you might move on to other jobs. And then from there, it was up to you.
But Old Maid was the starting point, and it was a hell of a lot harder than anyone who worked it thought it would be. You had to be able to show that you could keep your composure while getting your balls handed to you by old ladies three, four, five times your age.
You had to be able to keep the peace once the old ladies got good and lit, which they always did.
And you had to figure out how to balance maintaining your dignity while staying in the good graces of the old ladies (and by extension, their sons and husbands who used Old Maid as an audition).
A lot of guys couldn't do it. They'd snap at the old ladies. Or they'd settle into a subordinate eunuch-type role, taking everything the old ladies dished out completely freed from the burden of having a set of balls.
Christopher was quickly falling into category two. He took it all, almost apologetically. The reports on him wouldn't be good: Pussy. Pretty boy. No pride.
Tony, they liked. He'd worked the game last Saturday. He had personality. Knew how to tease the old ladies but in a respectful way. He nudged the line playfully but never crossed it.
But Christopher? He was gutless milquetoast. He would never make it in the Narducci's line of work. They might use him to park their cars someday, but anything beyond that? Nah.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
October 31 - The Haunted Strip Mall
Every year around Halloween we would always hear all about people putting on a Haunted House, or a Haunted Barn, or The Haunted Woods, or a Haunted School or Haunted What Have You, and we were always thinking, why not us? We oughtta get off our asses, put some scary ass shit together, and grab our piece of the Haunted Pie. Know what I'm saying?
Well it took several years of thinking that but doing jack shit before we finally stopped fucking around and actually did something.
And by the way, no, Lee: Your Haunted Garage does not count. Not one person set foot in that stupid thing, Lee. Not one--unless you count your parents and their friends, which, I'm sorry, but I don't. I still remember Mark being all, "It's just a marketing problem." And I'm like, yeah, Mark. You think? A cardboard box propped up against your mailbox with "Haunted Garage" written on it with an arrow pointing at your house? That shit ain't marketing. And neither is pulling the parents of trick or treaters aside and offering them two for the price of one entry for the Haunted Garage. Besides, there's a difference between scary and creepy. And a dude in his mid-30s trying to rope kiddies into a dark garage is the latter. Not one taker, man. Not a one.
And yet, I let him rope me in for our next venture, the Haunted Strip Mall. Seriously, that's what it was called. The Haunted Cocksucking Strip Mall. I guess all the good ideas had been taken already, Lee. But it's all good. After all, who would want to go to a Haunted Mental Asylum when you could go to a Haunted Strip Mall instead?
Who? Pretty much everybody, that's who.
Beyond the ridiculousness of the name, part of why it flopped was it didn't look any different from any of the other empty strip malls out there. Lee was like, it'll be so much scarier if we leave the lights off, and then people will pull in and start poking around inside and them BAM!, we'll scare the fuck out of them.
Really, Lee? That's your plan? Hey, ass-face, when it's just some dark strip mall in the middle of 82nd Avenue, with a dive hotel on one side and a boarded up thrift store on the other, who the hell's gonna say, "Hey, see that? I know it looks like every other piece of shit failed business around here, but it might be a Haunted Strip Mall. I believe I'll check it out, just in case."
Lee didn't want to have ANY sort of sign or anything out there. He figured enough people would have seen the website (more on that later) that they would know the place on sight and we wouldn't need to have any sort of sign. Fucking moron.
Anyway, the compromise we came up with was a sign propped up against the old bail bonds place. What'd it say? "Who dares to disturb the spirits of the Haunted Strip Mall?"
And that was it. No other signs. No lights. Lee even made us park around back to save the parking lot up front for the nonexistent customers, so it 100% looked like nothing was going on.
But Lee kept on insisting that the website would have taken care of building buzz and getting people to show up. Oh yeah, the website: hauntedstripmall@blogspot.com, which was "launched" back in August with the message, "Check back soon for updates on the Haunted Strip Mall." It was just that and some shitty Halloween clip art photoshopped over a picture of the strip mall and our address. That was it. And there were never any "updates." There was no explanation of what it was, when it was, or anything. Lee was like, "Less is more." Whatever, dick face.
In fairness, it might have been cool if we'd had more time to work on it. I'm talking about the Haunted Strip Mall, by the way. Not the website. But yeah, we had a bunch of mannequin parts strewn all around the old pawn shop with fake blood on them, a bunch of candles and satanic shit in the Radio Shack, and Mark dressed up like Leatherface and hiding in kitchen of the pizza place. I mean, it wasn't a ton of shit, but if people'd come it might have worked.
But nobody came. And when I say nobody, that includes the cops, too, so maybe the no lights, no signs, no cars out front wasn't such a bad idea after all, because as it turns out, Lee didn't have any sort of permit to do anything there. Surprise, surprise.
Anyway, when I was telling people at work about it, a bunch of them misheard me and thought I said Haunted Strip Club. And I'm like, a Haunted Strip Club might actually work. Titties and ghosts? Fuck and Yes, mi compadre. Fuck and yes.
I wonder if I should tell Lee.
Well it took several years of thinking that but doing jack shit before we finally stopped fucking around and actually did something.
And by the way, no, Lee: Your Haunted Garage does not count. Not one person set foot in that stupid thing, Lee. Not one--unless you count your parents and their friends, which, I'm sorry, but I don't. I still remember Mark being all, "It's just a marketing problem." And I'm like, yeah, Mark. You think? A cardboard box propped up against your mailbox with "Haunted Garage" written on it with an arrow pointing at your house? That shit ain't marketing. And neither is pulling the parents of trick or treaters aside and offering them two for the price of one entry for the Haunted Garage. Besides, there's a difference between scary and creepy. And a dude in his mid-30s trying to rope kiddies into a dark garage is the latter. Not one taker, man. Not a one.
And yet, I let him rope me in for our next venture, the Haunted Strip Mall. Seriously, that's what it was called. The Haunted Cocksucking Strip Mall. I guess all the good ideas had been taken already, Lee. But it's all good. After all, who would want to go to a Haunted Mental Asylum when you could go to a Haunted Strip Mall instead?
Who? Pretty much everybody, that's who.
Beyond the ridiculousness of the name, part of why it flopped was it didn't look any different from any of the other empty strip malls out there. Lee was like, it'll be so much scarier if we leave the lights off, and then people will pull in and start poking around inside and them BAM!, we'll scare the fuck out of them.
Really, Lee? That's your plan? Hey, ass-face, when it's just some dark strip mall in the middle of 82nd Avenue, with a dive hotel on one side and a boarded up thrift store on the other, who the hell's gonna say, "Hey, see that? I know it looks like every other piece of shit failed business around here, but it might be a Haunted Strip Mall. I believe I'll check it out, just in case."
Lee didn't want to have ANY sort of sign or anything out there. He figured enough people would have seen the website (more on that later) that they would know the place on sight and we wouldn't need to have any sort of sign. Fucking moron.
Anyway, the compromise we came up with was a sign propped up against the old bail bonds place. What'd it say? "Who dares to disturb the spirits of the Haunted Strip Mall?"
And that was it. No other signs. No lights. Lee even made us park around back to save the parking lot up front for the nonexistent customers, so it 100% looked like nothing was going on.
But Lee kept on insisting that the website would have taken care of building buzz and getting people to show up. Oh yeah, the website: hauntedstripmall@blogspot.com, which was "launched" back in August with the message, "Check back soon for updates on the Haunted Strip Mall." It was just that and some shitty Halloween clip art photoshopped over a picture of the strip mall and our address. That was it. And there were never any "updates." There was no explanation of what it was, when it was, or anything. Lee was like, "Less is more." Whatever, dick face.
In fairness, it might have been cool if we'd had more time to work on it. I'm talking about the Haunted Strip Mall, by the way. Not the website. But yeah, we had a bunch of mannequin parts strewn all around the old pawn shop with fake blood on them, a bunch of candles and satanic shit in the Radio Shack, and Mark dressed up like Leatherface and hiding in kitchen of the pizza place. I mean, it wasn't a ton of shit, but if people'd come it might have worked.
But nobody came. And when I say nobody, that includes the cops, too, so maybe the no lights, no signs, no cars out front wasn't such a bad idea after all, because as it turns out, Lee didn't have any sort of permit to do anything there. Surprise, surprise.
Anyway, when I was telling people at work about it, a bunch of them misheard me and thought I said Haunted Strip Club. And I'm like, a Haunted Strip Club might actually work. Titties and ghosts? Fuck and Yes, mi compadre. Fuck and yes.
I wonder if I should tell Lee.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
October 30 - The Sultan
A pale sliver of a moon hung over the desert of central Turkey as the Bedouin tour operators stirred the campfire and the tourists showed each other pictures on their digital cameras.
Jake and Barbara borrowed a headlamp from one of the other couples and went to the bathroom--a scrub brush about 150 feet away from the camp.
The night was still, the silence absolute. The sky was an infinite black dome, with the desert air cool, bordering on cold.
Barbara squatted behind the brush and Jake stood guard. When she was finished, he gave her the headlamp and they switched roles.
Before going back to the camp, they stopped for a moment to take in the endless black silence.
Just as they were heading back to the camp, the ground near the brush moved. They stopped and listened.
Then it moved again.
They turned around to look at where the sound was coming from, and the light from the headlamp caught something emerging from the sand and silt. It was a swirl of dust, a small but growing tornado of sand and dirt. Jake and Barbara's knees locked in place and they couldn't move. The twister grew in size until it was 10 feet tall, and then it made its way over to Barbara and Jake. For a few moments, it whirred silently in front of them, as if it were sizing them up.
And then it spoke. It sounded like Arabic being spoken in a raspy female voice.
If Barbara had been thinking rationally, she would have thought the idea of replying to a talking tornado was patently absurd, but in her shock she simply responded to it (her?) as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
"Sorry, we didn't catch that. Could you say it again?"
The tornado spoke again, more urgently, but Barbara and Jake looked at each other and shrugged. They couldn't understand a word of what she had said.
"Sorry, but do you speak English?"
The tornado shifted slightly, as if in thought.
"Who does want to knowing?" The words were booming but hesitant.
Barbara and Jake looked at each other. Jake nodded at her to go ahead.
"I'm Barbara. This is my boyfriend, Jake."
The whirling column of sand and dirt grew slightly in stature and spoke again in a louder, more assured voice.
"I am name is Sultan Jeren Abdulrahman of the Turkey."
They waited for her to continue, but she just continued to whir in front of them silently.
Barbara and Jake shared a bewildered glance and a small shrug.
"Sorry, but what are you? Are you some kind of--"she searched for the right word, not wanting to offend her, "--ghost?"
"You are do not knowing my name?"
Oh, shit. "No, it's not that. It's--"
"I am not a ghost."
"Of course not. We didn't mean to imply--"
"I am a witch."
"A wi--"
"I am name is Sultan Jeren Abdulrahman of Turkey. Do you really not knowing me?"
She was clearly becoming agitated.
"I'm sorry. I--we--"
"I am the Great Turkey Sand Witch!"
At this, the tension broke. Barbara and Jake couldn't help themselves. They burst into laughter. The Great Turkey Sand Witch waited, not impatiently, for them to stop laughing.
"Why does your kind always laughing at the moment I speak this?"
And then Barbara explained to her that what she called herself sounded exactly like turkey sandwich. And when she still didn't get it, Barbara explained what a sandwich was.
"I see," she said. "Like a doner kebab?"
"Kind of, yeah."
She thanked Barbara and Jake for their help, and then she unceremoniously ate them both.
And in her last conscious thought on the planet, Barbara, whose favorite meal in the world was leftover sandwiches the day after Thanksgiving, thought about how ironic it was to have met her demise by being eaten by a Turkey Sand Witch
Jake and Barbara borrowed a headlamp from one of the other couples and went to the bathroom--a scrub brush about 150 feet away from the camp.
The night was still, the silence absolute. The sky was an infinite black dome, with the desert air cool, bordering on cold.
Barbara squatted behind the brush and Jake stood guard. When she was finished, he gave her the headlamp and they switched roles.
Before going back to the camp, they stopped for a moment to take in the endless black silence.
Just as they were heading back to the camp, the ground near the brush moved. They stopped and listened.
Then it moved again.
They turned around to look at where the sound was coming from, and the light from the headlamp caught something emerging from the sand and silt. It was a swirl of dust, a small but growing tornado of sand and dirt. Jake and Barbara's knees locked in place and they couldn't move. The twister grew in size until it was 10 feet tall, and then it made its way over to Barbara and Jake. For a few moments, it whirred silently in front of them, as if it were sizing them up.
And then it spoke. It sounded like Arabic being spoken in a raspy female voice.
If Barbara had been thinking rationally, she would have thought the idea of replying to a talking tornado was patently absurd, but in her shock she simply responded to it (her?) as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
"Sorry, we didn't catch that. Could you say it again?"
The tornado spoke again, more urgently, but Barbara and Jake looked at each other and shrugged. They couldn't understand a word of what she had said.
"Sorry, but do you speak English?"
The tornado shifted slightly, as if in thought.
"Who does want to knowing?" The words were booming but hesitant.
Barbara and Jake looked at each other. Jake nodded at her to go ahead.
"I'm Barbara. This is my boyfriend, Jake."
The whirling column of sand and dirt grew slightly in stature and spoke again in a louder, more assured voice.
"I am name is Sultan Jeren Abdulrahman of the Turkey."
They waited for her to continue, but she just continued to whir in front of them silently.
Barbara and Jake shared a bewildered glance and a small shrug.
"Sorry, but what are you? Are you some kind of--"she searched for the right word, not wanting to offend her, "--ghost?"
"You are do not knowing my name?"
Oh, shit. "No, it's not that. It's--"
"I am not a ghost."
"Of course not. We didn't mean to imply--"
"I am a witch."
"A wi--"
"I am name is Sultan Jeren Abdulrahman of Turkey. Do you really not knowing me?"
She was clearly becoming agitated.
"I'm sorry. I--we--"
"I am the Great Turkey Sand Witch!"
At this, the tension broke. Barbara and Jake couldn't help themselves. They burst into laughter. The Great Turkey Sand Witch waited, not impatiently, for them to stop laughing.
"Why does your kind always laughing at the moment I speak this?"
And then Barbara explained to her that what she called herself sounded exactly like turkey sandwich. And when she still didn't get it, Barbara explained what a sandwich was.
"I see," she said. "Like a doner kebab?"
"Kind of, yeah."
She thanked Barbara and Jake for their help, and then she unceremoniously ate them both.
And in her last conscious thought on the planet, Barbara, whose favorite meal in the world was leftover sandwiches the day after Thanksgiving, thought about how ironic it was to have met her demise by being eaten by a Turkey Sand Witch
Friday, October 29, 2010
October 29 - Two More Days Until the Greatest Fucking Day on the Planet, Bra!
I fucking LOVE Halloween, man. Live for that shit. As far as I'm concerned, it's 364 days of anticipation and one day of Hold on to Your Titties, Motherfucker, Because the Time Has Come to Scare the Zagnuts Off Some Kiddies.
It's fucking sweet, man: Get a bunch of kids scooting around the hood, getting their trick or treat on, amassing a decent stash, and feeling pretty good about the costume they ended up with.
And then they come to my door.
All the lights are off, the main door is open, and the screen door is closed. Except for a trail of votive candles leading from the driveway to the door, shit is completely dark.
They all dare each other to ring the bell, and then the instant one of them does I've got it rigged so that ALL the lights go on brighter than shit along with Angel of Death at concert volume. At that exact moment, I pop up so I'm right up on their shit in my Creature from the Black Lagoon mask screaming my ass off and brandishing a spear gun with a dead rat dangling from it. Not a real rat, mind you, but it definitely looks the part--Not like the kids are exactly going to be scrutinizing it or anything. They'll be far too busy shitting themselves. The lights, the music, the insane fucker with the mask and the spear gun, and--oh yeah, I almost forgot--the sudden and completely disorienting appearance of four bleating sheep is guaranteed to throw every kid completely off his game.
Dude, I don't even bother buying candy. No kids ever stick around long enough to get it, so I just spend my candy budget on the applejack brandy that I sip furtively while sitting on my rocking chair in the dark, waiting for the next kids to come.
By 8pm I'm usually good and loaded, and as the evening goes on, off come the clothes, see, because I like to immerse myself in my character.
If I'm still conscious by 9pm, I'm generally naked except for the mask. And by then if any stragglers come by, it's pretty much open season on the unfortunate bastards. By then, I've (wisely) gotten rid of the spear gun. Instead I just go sprinting out the door at anybody who comes near my property. I don't even wait for them to ring the bell. Of course by now I'm drunker than hell, and the vision in the mask is really restricted, plus there's almost always some evening dew on the grass, so I always end up falling at least a couple of times. And then the sheep come running out to mess with me, and by that point Slayer's not playing anymore. It's usually Mack the Knife by then, which isn't nearly as jarring and scary, but by then, given everything else that's going on, it still works, it does the trick with those trick or treaters just fine. Them fuckers are gone and believe me, they ain't coming back.
Halloween, man. Fucking Halloween!!
Just two more days!
It's fucking sweet, man: Get a bunch of kids scooting around the hood, getting their trick or treat on, amassing a decent stash, and feeling pretty good about the costume they ended up with.
And then they come to my door.
All the lights are off, the main door is open, and the screen door is closed. Except for a trail of votive candles leading from the driveway to the door, shit is completely dark.
They all dare each other to ring the bell, and then the instant one of them does I've got it rigged so that ALL the lights go on brighter than shit along with Angel of Death at concert volume. At that exact moment, I pop up so I'm right up on their shit in my Creature from the Black Lagoon mask screaming my ass off and brandishing a spear gun with a dead rat dangling from it. Not a real rat, mind you, but it definitely looks the part--Not like the kids are exactly going to be scrutinizing it or anything. They'll be far too busy shitting themselves. The lights, the music, the insane fucker with the mask and the spear gun, and--oh yeah, I almost forgot--the sudden and completely disorienting appearance of four bleating sheep is guaranteed to throw every kid completely off his game.
Dude, I don't even bother buying candy. No kids ever stick around long enough to get it, so I just spend my candy budget on the applejack brandy that I sip furtively while sitting on my rocking chair in the dark, waiting for the next kids to come.
By 8pm I'm usually good and loaded, and as the evening goes on, off come the clothes, see, because I like to immerse myself in my character.
If I'm still conscious by 9pm, I'm generally naked except for the mask. And by then if any stragglers come by, it's pretty much open season on the unfortunate bastards. By then, I've (wisely) gotten rid of the spear gun. Instead I just go sprinting out the door at anybody who comes near my property. I don't even wait for them to ring the bell. Of course by now I'm drunker than hell, and the vision in the mask is really restricted, plus there's almost always some evening dew on the grass, so I always end up falling at least a couple of times. And then the sheep come running out to mess with me, and by that point Slayer's not playing anymore. It's usually Mack the Knife by then, which isn't nearly as jarring and scary, but by then, given everything else that's going on, it still works, it does the trick with those trick or treaters just fine. Them fuckers are gone and believe me, they ain't coming back.
Halloween, man. Fucking Halloween!!
Just two more days!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
October 27 - Random Thoughts and Questions Regarding the Personal Habits of Jason from Friday the 13th
So, like, Jason. Does he poop? And if so, does he wipe his butt? And if so, what does he use? Leaves? I can't imagine him using toilet paper, so it must be leaves.
But if he poops, then obviously he eats, right? What does he eat? Does he have any favorite foods? Does he cook? Where does he get his food from? Does he have a garden? I can't imagine him weeding, but obviously he doesn't go to the grocery store because he would just kill everybody. So, what then? He must be a live off the land kind of guy, a hunter/gatherer type. I can picture him killing small furry animals and eating them. But how, raw? Probably. But does he skin them first or does he just go for it? I honestly can't decide which would impress me more.
What about at night? I mean, like, what about on nights when there aren't any killable teenagers nearby? Does he sleep? He must sleep, right? But does he have a bed? Pillows? A blanket? Does widdle Jasey-wasey have a widdle blankie poo? If he gets cold, does he close the windows? When he gets up in the morning is he ever like, Is it morning again already? Dude, I JUST put my head down to go to sleep. And now it's morning? The hell happened? Maybe that's why he's so cranky. Just not a morning person, LOL!
Clothes-wise: Well, he wears them, but I'm guessing he just keeps the same set on most of the time. What about his shoes? Does he tie them? Probably, right? Otherwise, he might trip and fall. So then yeah, he ties them. But he probably does it on the sly because if people caught him tying his shoes he wouldn't seem so scary because it's next to impossible to look scary when you're tying your shoes. It's like, that, and drinking from a straw: simply not scary.
Of course it's a different story altogether when he gets up again!! ROTFL!
Bathing? No way. Same goes for brushing his teeth, washing his clothes, etc. Cleaning his pad? Freaking forget about it. Not like he's going to be doing much entertaining.
But getting back to my original question, does he poop? Yeah, I say he does. And then he doesn't wipe.
EWW!!!!!!
Can you imagine? If he came near me with his unwiped butt, I'd be all, Gross, dude! Just kill me now, and put me out of my misery!
LOL!!!!
But if he poops, then obviously he eats, right? What does he eat? Does he have any favorite foods? Does he cook? Where does he get his food from? Does he have a garden? I can't imagine him weeding, but obviously he doesn't go to the grocery store because he would just kill everybody. So, what then? He must be a live off the land kind of guy, a hunter/gatherer type. I can picture him killing small furry animals and eating them. But how, raw? Probably. But does he skin them first or does he just go for it? I honestly can't decide which would impress me more.
What about at night? I mean, like, what about on nights when there aren't any killable teenagers nearby? Does he sleep? He must sleep, right? But does he have a bed? Pillows? A blanket? Does widdle Jasey-wasey have a widdle blankie poo? If he gets cold, does he close the windows? When he gets up in the morning is he ever like, Is it morning again already? Dude, I JUST put my head down to go to sleep. And now it's morning? The hell happened? Maybe that's why he's so cranky. Just not a morning person, LOL!
Clothes-wise: Well, he wears them, but I'm guessing he just keeps the same set on most of the time. What about his shoes? Does he tie them? Probably, right? Otherwise, he might trip and fall. So then yeah, he ties them. But he probably does it on the sly because if people caught him tying his shoes he wouldn't seem so scary because it's next to impossible to look scary when you're tying your shoes. It's like, that, and drinking from a straw: simply not scary.
Of course it's a different story altogether when he gets up again!! ROTFL!
Bathing? No way. Same goes for brushing his teeth, washing his clothes, etc. Cleaning his pad? Freaking forget about it. Not like he's going to be doing much entertaining.
But getting back to my original question, does he poop? Yeah, I say he does. And then he doesn't wipe.
EWW!!!!!!
Can you imagine? If he came near me with his unwiped butt, I'd be all, Gross, dude! Just kill me now, and put me out of my misery!
LOL!!!!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
October 26 - The Train
When the train came, you ran.
That was the first thing you learned. If they got you on that train, that was it. Nobody ever saw you again.
You never knew when it was going to come, it didn't follow any sort of schedule. And you couldn't go too far from the tracks because that's where they dropped off the supplies: food, mostly. If you could call it that. Subsistence rations. Just enough to keep you alive.
Booze, too. Bathtub vodka in recycled Coke bottles. Tasted like rubbing alcohol, but people drank it anyway, at least the men did.
In the winter they dropped off canvas tarps and musty wool blankets. Not that the weather was any different in winter. It was like late November throughout the year: Rainy. Cold. Occasional snow.
All the trees were bare and slick with rain. Muddy gravel and gravelly mud everywhere. No grass, no colors. Everything was grey.
Nothing grew. That's why you had to depend on the trains. In other prison situations--and this was a prison situation even if that's not what it was called--underground economies grew. People used what they had to get more.
Not here.
The means weren't there. There was no way to get a leg up on anybody. It was day to day survival and that was it. Stay away from the tracks but don't go too far.
Not that you could. Sure, there was freedom of movement. The area stretched for miles in every direction: Miles and miles of rain soaked numbing cold, mud, and dead trees. And then somewhere at the end of it, miles away, a high stone wall.
And the train tracks.
But nobody ventured out. They stayed in shanties and lean-tos. Rotted plywood walls and corrugated tin roofs. A pallet floor if you were lucky. Little kids ran around with no pants. Nobody talked much.
You tried to stay warm. You waited for the train. And when it came you ran and hid and watched as the big men, strong from three meals a day, and warm and dry in all-weather uniforms, jumped off to grab people and put them back on the train. It was the old and sick that got caught first. Them and the careless ones who'd let themselves get too close to the tracks so they would be in the best position to get the supplies they threw off as they left. The men would get four, five people, load them in a boxcar and shut the door. Then they would say something into their walkie-talkies, get back on the train, and leave.
They were always taken alive. The men from the trains all had guns but they hardly ever shot anybody.
"We're all vampire food, man."
That's what the talkative one said, always whispering through his teeth even though nobody was around.
"Think about it, man. They need us alive. That's why they give us just enough to keep us alive for when they load us on that train. Tell me I'm crazy. You've heard the stories, man."
You have. The stories about a colony of well-connected vampires holed up in a compound 100 miles from the middle of nowhere, and an off the books agreement with the government: stay put and we'll keep you fed.
And so, this place. This refugee camp. It made sense. So many different languages. So many powerless people. New people just showed up, no memory of how they'd gotten there. No communication with the outside world. No way out.
A box full of mice to feed to the snakes.
Other theories: human guinea pigs for medical experiments.
Genetic research.
Reality TV.
A farm for aristocratic cannibals.
There was no shortage of theories, but nobody really knew. All you knew for sure was when the train came you ran.
That was the first thing you learned. If they got you on that train, that was it. Nobody ever saw you again.
You never knew when it was going to come, it didn't follow any sort of schedule. And you couldn't go too far from the tracks because that's where they dropped off the supplies: food, mostly. If you could call it that. Subsistence rations. Just enough to keep you alive.
Booze, too. Bathtub vodka in recycled Coke bottles. Tasted like rubbing alcohol, but people drank it anyway, at least the men did.
In the winter they dropped off canvas tarps and musty wool blankets. Not that the weather was any different in winter. It was like late November throughout the year: Rainy. Cold. Occasional snow.
All the trees were bare and slick with rain. Muddy gravel and gravelly mud everywhere. No grass, no colors. Everything was grey.
Nothing grew. That's why you had to depend on the trains. In other prison situations--and this was a prison situation even if that's not what it was called--underground economies grew. People used what they had to get more.
Not here.
The means weren't there. There was no way to get a leg up on anybody. It was day to day survival and that was it. Stay away from the tracks but don't go too far.
Not that you could. Sure, there was freedom of movement. The area stretched for miles in every direction: Miles and miles of rain soaked numbing cold, mud, and dead trees. And then somewhere at the end of it, miles away, a high stone wall.
And the train tracks.
But nobody ventured out. They stayed in shanties and lean-tos. Rotted plywood walls and corrugated tin roofs. A pallet floor if you were lucky. Little kids ran around with no pants. Nobody talked much.
You tried to stay warm. You waited for the train. And when it came you ran and hid and watched as the big men, strong from three meals a day, and warm and dry in all-weather uniforms, jumped off to grab people and put them back on the train. It was the old and sick that got caught first. Them and the careless ones who'd let themselves get too close to the tracks so they would be in the best position to get the supplies they threw off as they left. The men would get four, five people, load them in a boxcar and shut the door. Then they would say something into their walkie-talkies, get back on the train, and leave.
They were always taken alive. The men from the trains all had guns but they hardly ever shot anybody.
"We're all vampire food, man."
That's what the talkative one said, always whispering through his teeth even though nobody was around.
"Think about it, man. They need us alive. That's why they give us just enough to keep us alive for when they load us on that train. Tell me I'm crazy. You've heard the stories, man."
You have. The stories about a colony of well-connected vampires holed up in a compound 100 miles from the middle of nowhere, and an off the books agreement with the government: stay put and we'll keep you fed.
And so, this place. This refugee camp. It made sense. So many different languages. So many powerless people. New people just showed up, no memory of how they'd gotten there. No communication with the outside world. No way out.
A box full of mice to feed to the snakes.
Other theories: human guinea pigs for medical experiments.
Genetic research.
Reality TV.
A farm for aristocratic cannibals.
There was no shortage of theories, but nobody really knew. All you knew for sure was when the train came you ran.
Monday, October 25, 2010
October 25 - Severance
Glenn was there.
So were Bill, Rush, Sean, and Ann.
Michael, too.
And Keith, Rachel, and others.
All of them were gathered around a mammoth dining room table where they had just devoured a lavish feast. The food was almost impossibly delicious, and the conversation was certainly impossibly uncivil.
Collectively, they were the most self-righteous, opinionated, arrogant blowhards the mainstream media was capable of producing. Divisive, self-serving, polarizing, and hypocritical to a truly unbelievable degree. Taken individually, they were insufferable. But put them in a room together, and it was living hell: bickering, pontificating, preaching, tuning out everything else, willfully turning a blind eye to anything that didn't gibe with their obscenely skewed, biased, and never-in-doubt conclusions and ready to pounce at a moment's notice on anyone who dared to see any issue at all in a different light. They argued and berated each other like verbal pit bulls on PCP. It had been going on for hours.
Their host loved it.
At last he, their host, stood up and tapped his fork against his wine glass, and the room fell silent. As soon as he had their full attention, he began to speak.
"First off, I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight. I can't tell you how great it is to finally have all of you together in one room. It's amazing that everyone's busy schedules allowed for this evening. Ever since I started dabbling in media all those years ago, I've dreamt of a moment like this when I would have so much raw talent together in one place. It's really amazing."
He began walking around the table.
"Now, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here tonight. Sorry, I've always wanted to say that."
Everyone laughed warmly if not mechanically.
"No, but seriously, I called you here tonight for two reasons. The first of which is that I wanted to extend my most sincere and heartfelt thanks and gratitude for all the work you have done through the years both individually and collectively. Because of your tireless efforts, the level of political discourse in the United States is at an all-time low. You've taken all the context, nuance, and texture out of every issue and replaced it with simple 'us versus them' dichotomies and fear mongering of the most egregious magnitude. You've oversimplified everything to such a degree that wide, wide, wide swaths of the population have replaced actually taking the time to think about things themselves with belching out whatever spurious conclusions you've come up with to support your raging anti-(fill in the blank) bias. People are no longer waiting until all the facts are in before carefully considering different angles of issues. Instead, they're reacting! They're overreacting! They're leaping to judgement at a moment's notice. They're embracing their differences and denying their similarities, and it's all thanks to you. Because of you, every issue has been reduced to populist slogans, petty and insubstantial accusations, gross manipulations of information to fit a particular agenda, crass scapegoating, undisguised hypocrisy, and utter pigheadedness. Ladies and gentlemen, I couldn't be happier with what you have accomplished."
Everyone at the table looked around, pleased with themselves.
Their host's tone shifted a bit as he continued.
"And that brings me to my second reason for calling you here tonight, which is to tell you that, well, frankly, I've grown bored of it all."
Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"And so, effective immediately, I'm nullifying all your contracts."
The table exploded in outrage, and the host waved them off.
"I know, I know. You're going to sue, you're going to get on your phones right this moment with your agents, your lawyers, and blah, blah, blah."
The room calmed down.
"You're not going to do any such thing. And even if you were, you wouldn't get anywhere. You can't even begin to imagine the legal team I have at my disposal."
They slumped in their chairs in resignation, and their host continued.
"However, I am nothing if not sporting, and so I've decided to put together a little contest, the winner of which gets to keep his or her contract."
His guests leaned forward, waiting for him to go on.
"It's pretty simple, really: Battle Royale. Anything goes. No holds barred. The last person standing gets to keep his/her contract. Everybody else? I'll be seeing you again, well, soon enough"
He looked over the faces at the table.
"We understand each other?"
Keith and Bill indicated that they did by stabbing each other in the throat, and everybody else immediately followed suit. Ann and Rachel pounced on each other like rabid hyenas. Glenn, tears of rage in his eyes, attacked everything in his vicinity. Rush and Michael grappled with each other, but neither of them could get any traction because of their collective size. Sean jumped on top of the table and started throwing plates and cutlery at everyone in sight.
The chaotic melee stretched past the five minute mark.
Little by little, people were eliminated. Ann and Rachel crashed through the plate glass window and plummeted to the ground several stories below. Glenn and Sean skewered each other with shish kebabs.
Finally, only Rush and Michael remained, and it looked like Michael had the upper hand, gripping Rush in a stranglehold. But Rush squirmed out of it, grabbed an American flag from the corner, and impaled him with the flagpole, punctuating it with a breathless, "Die, you traitorous sicko!"
He had done it. Rush was the last man standing. He stood smiling, red faced, drenched with sweat, ready to do whatever his host asked.
His host dispensed with him with an index finger pointed at his heart, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
The host then told the help to tidy up the mess, grabbed an unfinished bottle of red, and started thinking about what he would do next to mess with humankind.
So were Bill, Rush, Sean, and Ann.
Michael, too.
And Keith, Rachel, and others.
All of them were gathered around a mammoth dining room table where they had just devoured a lavish feast. The food was almost impossibly delicious, and the conversation was certainly impossibly uncivil.
Collectively, they were the most self-righteous, opinionated, arrogant blowhards the mainstream media was capable of producing. Divisive, self-serving, polarizing, and hypocritical to a truly unbelievable degree. Taken individually, they were insufferable. But put them in a room together, and it was living hell: bickering, pontificating, preaching, tuning out everything else, willfully turning a blind eye to anything that didn't gibe with their obscenely skewed, biased, and never-in-doubt conclusions and ready to pounce at a moment's notice on anyone who dared to see any issue at all in a different light. They argued and berated each other like verbal pit bulls on PCP. It had been going on for hours.
Their host loved it.
At last he, their host, stood up and tapped his fork against his wine glass, and the room fell silent. As soon as he had their full attention, he began to speak.
"First off, I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight. I can't tell you how great it is to finally have all of you together in one room. It's amazing that everyone's busy schedules allowed for this evening. Ever since I started dabbling in media all those years ago, I've dreamt of a moment like this when I would have so much raw talent together in one place. It's really amazing."
He began walking around the table.
"Now, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here tonight. Sorry, I've always wanted to say that."
Everyone laughed warmly if not mechanically.
"No, but seriously, I called you here tonight for two reasons. The first of which is that I wanted to extend my most sincere and heartfelt thanks and gratitude for all the work you have done through the years both individually and collectively. Because of your tireless efforts, the level of political discourse in the United States is at an all-time low. You've taken all the context, nuance, and texture out of every issue and replaced it with simple 'us versus them' dichotomies and fear mongering of the most egregious magnitude. You've oversimplified everything to such a degree that wide, wide, wide swaths of the population have replaced actually taking the time to think about things themselves with belching out whatever spurious conclusions you've come up with to support your raging anti-(fill in the blank) bias. People are no longer waiting until all the facts are in before carefully considering different angles of issues. Instead, they're reacting! They're overreacting! They're leaping to judgement at a moment's notice. They're embracing their differences and denying their similarities, and it's all thanks to you. Because of you, every issue has been reduced to populist slogans, petty and insubstantial accusations, gross manipulations of information to fit a particular agenda, crass scapegoating, undisguised hypocrisy, and utter pigheadedness. Ladies and gentlemen, I couldn't be happier with what you have accomplished."
Everyone at the table looked around, pleased with themselves.
Their host's tone shifted a bit as he continued.
"And that brings me to my second reason for calling you here tonight, which is to tell you that, well, frankly, I've grown bored of it all."
Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"And so, effective immediately, I'm nullifying all your contracts."
The table exploded in outrage, and the host waved them off.
"I know, I know. You're going to sue, you're going to get on your phones right this moment with your agents, your lawyers, and blah, blah, blah."
The room calmed down.
"You're not going to do any such thing. And even if you were, you wouldn't get anywhere. You can't even begin to imagine the legal team I have at my disposal."
They slumped in their chairs in resignation, and their host continued.
"However, I am nothing if not sporting, and so I've decided to put together a little contest, the winner of which gets to keep his or her contract."
His guests leaned forward, waiting for him to go on.
"It's pretty simple, really: Battle Royale. Anything goes. No holds barred. The last person standing gets to keep his/her contract. Everybody else? I'll be seeing you again, well, soon enough"
He looked over the faces at the table.
"We understand each other?"
Keith and Bill indicated that they did by stabbing each other in the throat, and everybody else immediately followed suit. Ann and Rachel pounced on each other like rabid hyenas. Glenn, tears of rage in his eyes, attacked everything in his vicinity. Rush and Michael grappled with each other, but neither of them could get any traction because of their collective size. Sean jumped on top of the table and started throwing plates and cutlery at everyone in sight.
The chaotic melee stretched past the five minute mark.
Little by little, people were eliminated. Ann and Rachel crashed through the plate glass window and plummeted to the ground several stories below. Glenn and Sean skewered each other with shish kebabs.
Finally, only Rush and Michael remained, and it looked like Michael had the upper hand, gripping Rush in a stranglehold. But Rush squirmed out of it, grabbed an American flag from the corner, and impaled him with the flagpole, punctuating it with a breathless, "Die, you traitorous sicko!"
He had done it. Rush was the last man standing. He stood smiling, red faced, drenched with sweat, ready to do whatever his host asked.
His host dispensed with him with an index finger pointed at his heart, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
The host then told the help to tidy up the mess, grabbed an unfinished bottle of red, and started thinking about what he would do next to mess with humankind.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
October 24 - The Night Stalker
The Borjigin tribe of Mongolia were animists. They believed every living thing--plants, animals, rocks, soil--had a spirit. And so their daily lives were filled with miniature rituals and ceremonies intended to maintain harmony with the spirits that surrounded them.
For instance, each fall when the Borjigin harvested their crops, they believed that the severed stalks of the crops still had a life of their own. And as Borjigin legend had it, if they were not calmed, the stalks--angry at having been hacked down in the harvest--would join together and form themselves into a creature called the Night Stalker: a twisting, rustling, amorphous creature bent on taking revenge on the Borjigin tribe for having ripped it out of the earth.
And so every midnight during harvest season the male head of the Tomorbaatar family, the most revered family in the tribe, left his yurt, walked alone to the fields, and sang the Harvest Lullaby to lull the field to sleep. The deep, guttural Tuvan throat singing of the Tomorbaatar was jarring, otherworldly, and haunting.
And soothing to the stalks. It always pacified the field and kept it from awakening and forming itself into the Night Stalker.
It had been that way for generations with the eldest Tomorbaatar male passing the tradition on to his son--until one late spring when Gansukh, the son of Chulunbold Tomorbaatar, died of what probably would have been diagnosed as pneumonia had the people of the Borjigin tribe known what that was. Instead, they knew only that the man who was set to take over the singing of the Harvest Lullaby had died.
By that time in his life, Chulunbold himself was too old to sing the Lullaby; his voice lacked the power. Moreover, he had no brothers, nephews, or grandsons. He was the last surviving male of the Tomorbaatar family.
But he did have a daughter, Altan, and she was engaged to marry a young farmer named Munookhoi Negui.
That summer was marked by arguments, often contentious, about who would take over the singing of the Harvest Lullaby. The tribe's elders were conflicted. It had always been a Tomorbaatar male who did the singing, but for the coming harvest, that wasn't an option. Some felt Altan should carry on the Tomorbaatar tradition. Others felt her fiance should have the job. Still others thought the responsibility should be passed on to another family.
Ultimately, Chulunbold exerted his will on the council and got them to accept his daughter for the role. Some within the council felt it was hubris on Chulunbold's part, but he truly believed his daughter was up to the task. They spent the rest of the summer and early fall trying to get her voice into shape.
It wasn't easy. Her voice was simply too high. They encouraged her to smoke a pipe, drink the urine of male yaks, and gargle with moonshine. They coached her, tutored her, trained her night and day. All of which helped, but they feared that it might not be enough. Munookhoi begged Altan to let him sing the Lullaby instead, but she insisted that she be the singer. It was her duty.
And so the first night of the harvest came. Altan left the family yurt at midnight and walked to the fields alone. The night was still and moonless. Although she couldn't see them, she could feel the presence of the tribe's yaks sleeping nearby.
Everyone else was safe inside their yurts. There was no light coming from any of them, but she knew everyone was awake, ready for anything.
She arrived at the fields, and cleared her throat. Then she swallowed dryly and began singing.
It wasn't nearly deep enough.
Instead of pacifying the bare stalks in the field, it awakened them.
Hearing movement in the fields, she sang harder, more urgently hoping it might calm them, but it had the opposite effect. The stalks stirred and began twisting together into limbs. Then the limbs began twisting together into bigger limbs, and the limbs began forming into a torso that connected them all, and the giant spider-like creature began moving toward Altan.
Terrified, Altan faltered for a moment, and then collected her nerve and continued, as she felt the Night Stalker creeping toward her.
She told herself she wouldn't run. The tribe had trusted her. Her father had spoken up for her. She would die before she let them down. She struggled to sing deeper, but her voice was as low as it could get.
At last the Night Stalker was in front of her. She closed her eyes and continued to sing, wincing, expecting to get torn down at any moment. She heard rustling, sensed movement.
This was it.
But nothing happened.
She finished the song and opened her eyes, and the Night Stalker was gone. In its place was a small pile of wheat.
The next morning, most of the tribe didn't believe her account of what had happened, even when she showed them the wheat that the Night Stalker had left at her feet. Munookhoi in particular kept asking her to describe the Night Stalker: How big was it? What did it look like? How fast was it? In the entire history of the Borjigin tribe, no one had ever actually seen the Night Stalker, and he--like the others--was curious.
She answered his questions as best as she could, but it was difficult. She had been so scared that she had kept her eyes closed throughout most of the episode.
Despite her fear, that night she went out again at midnight. And she sang the Harvest Lullaby again, just as she had the night before, and the results were the same: The Night Stalker materialized, approached her, left a slightly larger pile of wheat at her feet, and then disappeared into the night.
And so it went every night for the rest of the week, with the mass of wheat growing each night.
Nobody knew what to make of it. Was the wheat an offering? A warning? What did it mean?
On the final night of the harvest, Munookhoi snuck out of his family's yurt and trailed her furtively to the fields.
The night started out the same as all the others had before it. Altan began singing, and the Night Stalker slowly formed itself and approached her.
Munookhoi watched from behind as it left its biggest pile of wheat yet in front of Altan. He trembled as he saw it standing mere feet from his fiance.
When it turned around and began returning to the field, Munookhoi ran at it with his scythe and hacked it pieces.
It was all over before Altan had a chance to say or do anything.
Afterwards, they both stood staring wordlessly at the pile of stalks, stems, and vegetation. Despite the coldness of the night, Munookhoi's face dripped with sweat. At last, they returned to their respective yurts and pretended to sleep.
The next morning they didn't tell anyone about what Munookhoi had done, and the tribe began focusing on making preparations for winter. The Night Stalker was all but forgotten and everyone went about their lives.
The following spring, the fields were barren. Almost nothing grew. Come fall, there was nothing to harvest.
It was worse the following year.
And worse yet the year after that.
By then, most of the Borjigin clan had abandoned the village and the surrounding fields, leaving most of their possessions behind and carrying only what they needed.
The next year, when the now married Altan and Munookhoi felt their son was old enough to keep up, they too left the village and joined the rest of the now nomadic Borjigin clan as they wandered Mongolia tending their yaks. Although they were never anywhere long enough to raise and harvest crops, they still trained their son as a throat singer. The Night Stalker might have been gone, but they felt the tradition needed to survive.
For instance, each fall when the Borjigin harvested their crops, they believed that the severed stalks of the crops still had a life of their own. And as Borjigin legend had it, if they were not calmed, the stalks--angry at having been hacked down in the harvest--would join together and form themselves into a creature called the Night Stalker: a twisting, rustling, amorphous creature bent on taking revenge on the Borjigin tribe for having ripped it out of the earth.
And so every midnight during harvest season the male head of the Tomorbaatar family, the most revered family in the tribe, left his yurt, walked alone to the fields, and sang the Harvest Lullaby to lull the field to sleep. The deep, guttural Tuvan throat singing of the Tomorbaatar was jarring, otherworldly, and haunting.
And soothing to the stalks. It always pacified the field and kept it from awakening and forming itself into the Night Stalker.
It had been that way for generations with the eldest Tomorbaatar male passing the tradition on to his son--until one late spring when Gansukh, the son of Chulunbold Tomorbaatar, died of what probably would have been diagnosed as pneumonia had the people of the Borjigin tribe known what that was. Instead, they knew only that the man who was set to take over the singing of the Harvest Lullaby had died.
By that time in his life, Chulunbold himself was too old to sing the Lullaby; his voice lacked the power. Moreover, he had no brothers, nephews, or grandsons. He was the last surviving male of the Tomorbaatar family.
But he did have a daughter, Altan, and she was engaged to marry a young farmer named Munookhoi Negui.
That summer was marked by arguments, often contentious, about who would take over the singing of the Harvest Lullaby. The tribe's elders were conflicted. It had always been a Tomorbaatar male who did the singing, but for the coming harvest, that wasn't an option. Some felt Altan should carry on the Tomorbaatar tradition. Others felt her fiance should have the job. Still others thought the responsibility should be passed on to another family.
Ultimately, Chulunbold exerted his will on the council and got them to accept his daughter for the role. Some within the council felt it was hubris on Chulunbold's part, but he truly believed his daughter was up to the task. They spent the rest of the summer and early fall trying to get her voice into shape.
It wasn't easy. Her voice was simply too high. They encouraged her to smoke a pipe, drink the urine of male yaks, and gargle with moonshine. They coached her, tutored her, trained her night and day. All of which helped, but they feared that it might not be enough. Munookhoi begged Altan to let him sing the Lullaby instead, but she insisted that she be the singer. It was her duty.
And so the first night of the harvest came. Altan left the family yurt at midnight and walked to the fields alone. The night was still and moonless. Although she couldn't see them, she could feel the presence of the tribe's yaks sleeping nearby.
Everyone else was safe inside their yurts. There was no light coming from any of them, but she knew everyone was awake, ready for anything.
She arrived at the fields, and cleared her throat. Then she swallowed dryly and began singing.
It wasn't nearly deep enough.
Instead of pacifying the bare stalks in the field, it awakened them.
Hearing movement in the fields, she sang harder, more urgently hoping it might calm them, but it had the opposite effect. The stalks stirred and began twisting together into limbs. Then the limbs began twisting together into bigger limbs, and the limbs began forming into a torso that connected them all, and the giant spider-like creature began moving toward Altan.
Terrified, Altan faltered for a moment, and then collected her nerve and continued, as she felt the Night Stalker creeping toward her.
She told herself she wouldn't run. The tribe had trusted her. Her father had spoken up for her. She would die before she let them down. She struggled to sing deeper, but her voice was as low as it could get.
At last the Night Stalker was in front of her. She closed her eyes and continued to sing, wincing, expecting to get torn down at any moment. She heard rustling, sensed movement.
This was it.
But nothing happened.
She finished the song and opened her eyes, and the Night Stalker was gone. In its place was a small pile of wheat.
The next morning, most of the tribe didn't believe her account of what had happened, even when she showed them the wheat that the Night Stalker had left at her feet. Munookhoi in particular kept asking her to describe the Night Stalker: How big was it? What did it look like? How fast was it? In the entire history of the Borjigin tribe, no one had ever actually seen the Night Stalker, and he--like the others--was curious.
She answered his questions as best as she could, but it was difficult. She had been so scared that she had kept her eyes closed throughout most of the episode.
Despite her fear, that night she went out again at midnight. And she sang the Harvest Lullaby again, just as she had the night before, and the results were the same: The Night Stalker materialized, approached her, left a slightly larger pile of wheat at her feet, and then disappeared into the night.
And so it went every night for the rest of the week, with the mass of wheat growing each night.
Nobody knew what to make of it. Was the wheat an offering? A warning? What did it mean?
On the final night of the harvest, Munookhoi snuck out of his family's yurt and trailed her furtively to the fields.
The night started out the same as all the others had before it. Altan began singing, and the Night Stalker slowly formed itself and approached her.
Munookhoi watched from behind as it left its biggest pile of wheat yet in front of Altan. He trembled as he saw it standing mere feet from his fiance.
When it turned around and began returning to the field, Munookhoi ran at it with his scythe and hacked it pieces.
It was all over before Altan had a chance to say or do anything.
Afterwards, they both stood staring wordlessly at the pile of stalks, stems, and vegetation. Despite the coldness of the night, Munookhoi's face dripped with sweat. At last, they returned to their respective yurts and pretended to sleep.
The next morning they didn't tell anyone about what Munookhoi had done, and the tribe began focusing on making preparations for winter. The Night Stalker was all but forgotten and everyone went about their lives.
The following spring, the fields were barren. Almost nothing grew. Come fall, there was nothing to harvest.
It was worse the following year.
And worse yet the year after that.
By then, most of the Borjigin clan had abandoned the village and the surrounding fields, leaving most of their possessions behind and carrying only what they needed.
The next year, when the now married Altan and Munookhoi felt their son was old enough to keep up, they too left the village and joined the rest of the now nomadic Borjigin clan as they wandered Mongolia tending their yaks. Although they were never anywhere long enough to raise and harvest crops, they still trained their son as a throat singer. The Night Stalker might have been gone, but they felt the tradition needed to survive.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
October 23 - Untouchable
Ganesh Jayaraman grew up in the village of Gopalakar in southern India. As members of the lowest level of castes, the untouchables, Ganesh and his mother eked out a meager subsistence scrubbing the floors of the Shenvi Kothari, a wealthy Brahmin family.
One day when Ganesh was 10 years old, he was scrubbing the living room floor where Casablanca had been left playing in the VCR. Having never seen a movie in English, Ganesh stared at the screen, transfixed. It was the scene where Rick and Laszlo had the argument about the visas and then Laszlo ordered the band to play La Marseillaise, which they did, drowning out the sound of the singing Nazis. Moments later, when Major Strasser ordered Renault to close the club, Ganesh was broken out of his spell and he quickly returned to work, grateful he hadn't been caught watching TV while he was supposed to be working.
All told, he had only watched about ten minutes' worth of the movie, but everything about the scene had burrowed itself deeply into his imagination. It was such an exotic language they had spoken, everyone had worn such cool clothes, the music was so passionate, it was such a different world. He was captivated and he wanted more--more of the music, the exoticism, and especially the language. He wanted to talk like they talked.
However, as an untouchable, he had no access to school and no other means to learn the language. English remained an unattainable dream for him.
He grew into adolescence, working every day and singing quietly to himself whenever no one else was around. As he was busy working every waking hour, there was never any time for him to study, and even if the time was there he had no books.
And so went his childhood.
When he turned 17, the modernization of India started trickling into Gopolakar in limited but noticeable ways. There were more and more cars, imported goods in the marketplace, and a proliferation of cell phones. The local video store caught on, too. DVD players were the new big thing; VCRs were out. As a result, they were getting rid of the VHS movies that nobody was interested in renting anymore.
Ganesh stopped by the store and poked around in one of the 25 rupee bins outside the front of the store. He picked a movie out at random and looked it over. He couldn't read any of the words on the box, but he liked the handsome suits of the men in the pictures; they reminded him of the characters from the scene of Casablanca that he had seen all those years ago. Even though 25 rupees was a lot of money to spend, he plunked the money down and walked away with the movie, giddy with excitement.
The movie was The Untouchables.
For the next few years, whenever he had the chance, Ganesh watched the movie on the VCR that the Shenvi Kotharis had given Ganesh and his mother rather than throwing out. Although Ganesh could understand next to none of the dialogue, he memorized it phonetically and, from the action in the movie and the characters' emotions, guessed at what the words meant.
Ganesh's mother passed away when he was 23, and the Shenvi Katharis told Ganesh they would no longer be needing his services.
Uninterested in staying in Gopolakar for the rest of his life, he set out for the United States, hoping to come in touch with the world he had seen in Casablanca and The Untouchables.
He worked and hustled his way across India, sneaking onto freight trains, finding work where he could, and learning about the world as everyday tasks like eating and finding a place to sleep became epic adventures.
Almost exactly one year after his mother died, Ganesh stowed away on a freight ship bound for the United States. The only thing he brought with him was his VHS copy of The Untouchables. Every day on the ship, he worked and sang and practiced his English.
He ended up in Chicago where he worked in various menial labor jobs while trying to expand his English. He did this by seeking out similar situations to those he had seen in The Untouchables. Then, using the dialogue he'd memorized from the movie, he would engage people in conversation and try to remember as much as he could from their responses.
For instance, he would go into cathedrals and kneel next to anyone who was praying by him or herself and give them a nod. Then he would deliver Sean Connery's 'What are you prepared to do?' monologue, thinking it would give the person strength and resolve like it had in the movie: "You want to know how to get Capone? They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. THAT'S the Chicago way. And that's how you get Capone. Now, do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that?"
It was a challenging and thankless way to improve his language. Most people just looked at him strangely, got up, and left.
Even still, he didn't give up. His days were divided among work, singing, and seeking out situations where he could use dialogue from The Untouchables. It was a pretty fulfilling existence.
And little by little, he developed a bit of local celebrity. Somebody even recorded his morgue/hospital monologue and it found its way to the Chicago Bears, who considered using it in a promotional video to hype the upcoming season. In the end, they decided it was a bit too inflammatory to use (even though everyone in the organization loved it).
However, a YouTube version of it found its way to the eyes of the Masala Mob, an Indian American (as opposed to American Indian) rap trio, and Uncle Pradish, an Indian food restaurateur whose father had emigrated to the United States from the same region that Ganesh had grown up in.
Uncle Pradish and the Masala Mob were business partners who were creating a fledgling Indian fast food chain that would add an urban/hip hop edge to the Indian dining experience. Calling their venture Straight Outta Dehli, it was rap meets curry (as Uncle Pradish told everyone he talked to about it), equal parts subcontinental spice and hip-hop attitude.
Uncle Pradish was bankrolling a series of Masala Mob hip-hop videos that would hype their curry houses. And upon hearing Ganesh's Untouchables monologue, they felt like they'd stumbled upon the missing ingredient (so to speak) of their rap/curry combo.
They brought him to their studios, rerecorded his speech, sampled it, and enlisted him to provide background vocals to their album.
The album was a hit and Straight Outta Delhi launched successfully in Chicago. Within a year, four more branches were opened.
Meanwhile, Ganesh's English continued to improve. He still peppered a lot of his conversations with bits from The Untouchables, but by then it was by choice rather than by necessity. As he joked to his ever growing circle of friends, you could remove the boy from the untouchables, but you couldn't remove The Untouchables from the boy.
Ganesh soon became an official member of the Masala Mob, and they toured the region, with Uncle Pradesh providing a tour support vehicle that hauled their equipment as well as a mobile kitchen that his twin nieces used to cook Straight Outta Delhi food to sell at the shows.
By the end of the decade, Straight Outta Delhi had become one of the biggest Indian American success stories in years.
A Bollywood-style movie about their story is currently in production with Ganesh Jayaraman playing himself.
One day when Ganesh was 10 years old, he was scrubbing the living room floor where Casablanca had been left playing in the VCR. Having never seen a movie in English, Ganesh stared at the screen, transfixed. It was the scene where Rick and Laszlo had the argument about the visas and then Laszlo ordered the band to play La Marseillaise, which they did, drowning out the sound of the singing Nazis. Moments later, when Major Strasser ordered Renault to close the club, Ganesh was broken out of his spell and he quickly returned to work, grateful he hadn't been caught watching TV while he was supposed to be working.
All told, he had only watched about ten minutes' worth of the movie, but everything about the scene had burrowed itself deeply into his imagination. It was such an exotic language they had spoken, everyone had worn such cool clothes, the music was so passionate, it was such a different world. He was captivated and he wanted more--more of the music, the exoticism, and especially the language. He wanted to talk like they talked.
However, as an untouchable, he had no access to school and no other means to learn the language. English remained an unattainable dream for him.
He grew into adolescence, working every day and singing quietly to himself whenever no one else was around. As he was busy working every waking hour, there was never any time for him to study, and even if the time was there he had no books.
And so went his childhood.
When he turned 17, the modernization of India started trickling into Gopolakar in limited but noticeable ways. There were more and more cars, imported goods in the marketplace, and a proliferation of cell phones. The local video store caught on, too. DVD players were the new big thing; VCRs were out. As a result, they were getting rid of the VHS movies that nobody was interested in renting anymore.
Ganesh stopped by the store and poked around in one of the 25 rupee bins outside the front of the store. He picked a movie out at random and looked it over. He couldn't read any of the words on the box, but he liked the handsome suits of the men in the pictures; they reminded him of the characters from the scene of Casablanca that he had seen all those years ago. Even though 25 rupees was a lot of money to spend, he plunked the money down and walked away with the movie, giddy with excitement.
The movie was The Untouchables.
For the next few years, whenever he had the chance, Ganesh watched the movie on the VCR that the Shenvi Kotharis had given Ganesh and his mother rather than throwing out. Although Ganesh could understand next to none of the dialogue, he memorized it phonetically and, from the action in the movie and the characters' emotions, guessed at what the words meant.
Ganesh's mother passed away when he was 23, and the Shenvi Katharis told Ganesh they would no longer be needing his services.
Uninterested in staying in Gopolakar for the rest of his life, he set out for the United States, hoping to come in touch with the world he had seen in Casablanca and The Untouchables.
He worked and hustled his way across India, sneaking onto freight trains, finding work where he could, and learning about the world as everyday tasks like eating and finding a place to sleep became epic adventures.
Almost exactly one year after his mother died, Ganesh stowed away on a freight ship bound for the United States. The only thing he brought with him was his VHS copy of The Untouchables. Every day on the ship, he worked and sang and practiced his English.
He ended up in Chicago where he worked in various menial labor jobs while trying to expand his English. He did this by seeking out similar situations to those he had seen in The Untouchables. Then, using the dialogue he'd memorized from the movie, he would engage people in conversation and try to remember as much as he could from their responses.
For instance, he would go into cathedrals and kneel next to anyone who was praying by him or herself and give them a nod. Then he would deliver Sean Connery's 'What are you prepared to do?' monologue, thinking it would give the person strength and resolve like it had in the movie: "You want to know how to get Capone? They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. THAT'S the Chicago way. And that's how you get Capone. Now, do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that?"
It was a challenging and thankless way to improve his language. Most people just looked at him strangely, got up, and left.
Even still, he didn't give up. His days were divided among work, singing, and seeking out situations where he could use dialogue from The Untouchables. It was a pretty fulfilling existence.
And little by little, he developed a bit of local celebrity. Somebody even recorded his morgue/hospital monologue and it found its way to the Chicago Bears, who considered using it in a promotional video to hype the upcoming season. In the end, they decided it was a bit too inflammatory to use (even though everyone in the organization loved it).
However, a YouTube version of it found its way to the eyes of the Masala Mob, an Indian American (as opposed to American Indian) rap trio, and Uncle Pradish, an Indian food restaurateur whose father had emigrated to the United States from the same region that Ganesh had grown up in.
Uncle Pradish and the Masala Mob were business partners who were creating a fledgling Indian fast food chain that would add an urban/hip hop edge to the Indian dining experience. Calling their venture Straight Outta Dehli, it was rap meets curry (as Uncle Pradish told everyone he talked to about it), equal parts subcontinental spice and hip-hop attitude.
Uncle Pradish was bankrolling a series of Masala Mob hip-hop videos that would hype their curry houses. And upon hearing Ganesh's Untouchables monologue, they felt like they'd stumbled upon the missing ingredient (so to speak) of their rap/curry combo.
They brought him to their studios, rerecorded his speech, sampled it, and enlisted him to provide background vocals to their album.
The album was a hit and Straight Outta Delhi launched successfully in Chicago. Within a year, four more branches were opened.
Meanwhile, Ganesh's English continued to improve. He still peppered a lot of his conversations with bits from The Untouchables, but by then it was by choice rather than by necessity. As he joked to his ever growing circle of friends, you could remove the boy from the untouchables, but you couldn't remove The Untouchables from the boy.
Ganesh soon became an official member of the Masala Mob, and they toured the region, with Uncle Pradesh providing a tour support vehicle that hauled their equipment as well as a mobile kitchen that his twin nieces used to cook Straight Outta Delhi food to sell at the shows.
By the end of the decade, Straight Outta Delhi had become one of the biggest Indian American success stories in years.
A Bollywood-style movie about their story is currently in production with Ganesh Jayaraman playing himself.
Friday, October 22, 2010
October 22 - No Neck Jimmy
Everybody called him No Neck Jimmy because he literally had no neck. His round, bald head sat directly on his shoulders, but he never let that stop him from being a total fucking dick.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
October 21 - When I Think About You
So I was just in my car and you know what song came on?
I Touch Myself.
Remember that one? You know you do. Big hit about 20 years ago? Has it really been 20 years? Wow, man. Time flies.
Anyway, hearing it again after all those years reminded me of this (kind of awesome) thing that happened to me back in college: The phone rang, I picked it up and said hello, and instead of saying hi, the person on the other end played a snippet from that song: I want you. I don't want nobody else. When I think about you, I touch myself. Ooh. Ooh. Aah, etc.
(You remember that part of the song, right? It's toward the end after the solo. She's not really singing it, she's more speaking it in this really breathy, sultry, come hither Penthouse Forum voice.)
Anyway, after that they hung up.
This was before caller ID, back when the phone rang, you picked it up, and then you found out who was calling, only in this case I never did. Like I said, they didn't say anything. It must have been before star 69 too because I didn't do that either.
So I hung up too and then the next few days--oh, who am I kidding, weeks--became a sort of one man parlor game trying to figure out who it was that had sent me that message. It was equal parts awesome and maddening to think about: Some chick was out there touching herself? To me?
Wow.
Just . . . wow.
And so everybody became a suspect.
Maybe it was Rachel from down the street. She always presented herself as really sweet, but you could tell there was more going on under the surface.
Maybe it was the other Rachel, the one I always ended up talking to at Champions on Thursdays. I'd gotten vibes from her before. I definitely wouldn't rule her out.
Maybe it was that (sexily) bookish girl from my bio lab.
Maybe it was somebody from high school.
Christ, who knows? It could have been anybody.
The thing is I never did find out. And whoever it was never called back. Just one call and that was it. No other clues. No one giving me any kind of look when that song came on. Nothing.
When you think about it, it's weird how nobody ever came clean about it.
It's also weird how I don't remember anyone else's theories about it.
Did I even tell my friends about it? That doesn't seem like the kind of thing I would have kept to myself. And yet, I really have no memory about talking about it with any of them, which--who am I kidding--I totally would have. I mean, right?
And yet the more I think about it, the more sure I am that I didn't.
Why wouldn't I have shared that with anybody?
That's messed up.
Huh.
Weird.
Actually, you know what? I may have remembered that whole episode all wrong. This is more than a little bit embarrassing, but the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that I was the one who sent the message.
To a few people.
Maybe more than a few.
Huh.
I was the one claiming to touch myself.
Wow, that's kind of embarrassing.
Yeah . . . he he.
Anyway, how was your day?
I Touch Myself.
Remember that one? You know you do. Big hit about 20 years ago? Has it really been 20 years? Wow, man. Time flies.
Anyway, hearing it again after all those years reminded me of this (kind of awesome) thing that happened to me back in college: The phone rang, I picked it up and said hello, and instead of saying hi, the person on the other end played a snippet from that song: I want you. I don't want nobody else. When I think about you, I touch myself. Ooh. Ooh. Aah, etc.
(You remember that part of the song, right? It's toward the end after the solo. She's not really singing it, she's more speaking it in this really breathy, sultry, come hither Penthouse Forum voice.)
Anyway, after that they hung up.
This was before caller ID, back when the phone rang, you picked it up, and then you found out who was calling, only in this case I never did. Like I said, they didn't say anything. It must have been before star 69 too because I didn't do that either.
So I hung up too and then the next few days--oh, who am I kidding, weeks--became a sort of one man parlor game trying to figure out who it was that had sent me that message. It was equal parts awesome and maddening to think about: Some chick was out there touching herself? To me?
Wow.
Just . . . wow.
And so everybody became a suspect.
Maybe it was Rachel from down the street. She always presented herself as really sweet, but you could tell there was more going on under the surface.
Maybe it was the other Rachel, the one I always ended up talking to at Champions on Thursdays. I'd gotten vibes from her before. I definitely wouldn't rule her out.
Maybe it was that (sexily) bookish girl from my bio lab.
Maybe it was somebody from high school.
Christ, who knows? It could have been anybody.
The thing is I never did find out. And whoever it was never called back. Just one call and that was it. No other clues. No one giving me any kind of look when that song came on. Nothing.
When you think about it, it's weird how nobody ever came clean about it.
It's also weird how I don't remember anyone else's theories about it.
Did I even tell my friends about it? That doesn't seem like the kind of thing I would have kept to myself. And yet, I really have no memory about talking about it with any of them, which--who am I kidding--I totally would have. I mean, right?
And yet the more I think about it, the more sure I am that I didn't.
Why wouldn't I have shared that with anybody?
That's messed up.
Huh.
Weird.
Actually, you know what? I may have remembered that whole episode all wrong. This is more than a little bit embarrassing, but the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that I was the one who sent the message.
To a few people.
Maybe more than a few.
Huh.
I was the one claiming to touch myself.
Wow, that's kind of embarrassing.
Yeah . . . he he.
Anyway, how was your day?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
October 20 - Man in Uniform
One of my favorite things to do is wear uniforms in places where I don't work, and then when people come up to me and ask for help, I'm always like, "I don't work here."
Sometimes I apologize, but usually not.
Other times I'll ask a customer for help doing what they probably assume is my job. Wearing a Fred Meyer uniform and standing on a ladder: "Hey, could you pass me that box? Careful, it's heavy."
Almost everybody helps, at least for a little while.
Fast food uniforms are great because turnover is so high in those places. The manager or whoever is never 100% sure who all works there, so it's totally easy to just stroll into the kitchen like you just got back from a bathroom break or whatever. Get on the line. Maybe apologize for being late. Toss a few pickle chips at whoever looks the newest, and if he or she looks at you funny you can just be all, "Don't eyeball me, fresh meat. I've been flipping burgers since you were sucking your dad's tits. Know your place." And then just walk out double fisting Quarter Pounders with Cheese.
It's also great to wear a KFC uniform (or Taco Bell or whatever) and stroll into a McDonald's and start talking shit, or better yet run through the kitchen yelling, "Panty raid! Panty raid!"
It's always hilarious because, you know, what panties?
I can't even begin to tell you how many free pies I've gotten from Domino's. I just roll in there all a hurry, say "Sup" or "Driver in!" to the frazzled bastards working the phones, grab a couple of pies, and walk back out the door.
I've "worked" at least a little bit in every major restaurant franchise. Nobody says shit. They just assumes you're new.
Sometimes I whisper to the young ones that I'm from corporate ("Shh. Don't tell anyone.").
Sometimes I mack on whatever fast food hotties are working there (You'd be surprised.).
I never steal money, but I never don't steal food.
Building maintenance guy is another good one. Just put on a boiler suit, grab some tools and an extension cord, and you can go anywhere in any building. Malls and office buildings shared by different businesses are the easiest.
Understand that I don't do anything. I just like going places I'm not really supposed to be. The only real risk you run is somebody might ask you to give them a hand with something, but whatever. I don't mind helping out.
But I'll tell you this much: A security guard uniform is surprisingly ineffective. Nobody pays any attention to those guys.
But a helmet, windbreaker, walkie-talkie, and clipboard? Instant authority, man. Nobody even knows what you're supposed to be, but you look official so they stay out of your way. It's like you're dressed up like a giant garlic crucifix walking through a room full of vampires. Just bulletproof.
Want to get backstage at a concert? Jeans, t-shirt, a bunch of electrical cords, and a faded red or blue sticker about the size of a playing card with magic marker writing on it (aka 'backstage pass') stuck on your jeans. By the way, it's always good to have a few of different colors with you depending on which one they're using. It doesn't have to be perfect, just close. As long as you don't hesitate, as long as you look like you know where you're going, nobody's going to mess with you.
Sometimes I apologize, but usually not.
Other times I'll ask a customer for help doing what they probably assume is my job. Wearing a Fred Meyer uniform and standing on a ladder: "Hey, could you pass me that box? Careful, it's heavy."
Almost everybody helps, at least for a little while.
Fast food uniforms are great because turnover is so high in those places. The manager or whoever is never 100% sure who all works there, so it's totally easy to just stroll into the kitchen like you just got back from a bathroom break or whatever. Get on the line. Maybe apologize for being late. Toss a few pickle chips at whoever looks the newest, and if he or she looks at you funny you can just be all, "Don't eyeball me, fresh meat. I've been flipping burgers since you were sucking your dad's tits. Know your place." And then just walk out double fisting Quarter Pounders with Cheese.
It's also great to wear a KFC uniform (or Taco Bell or whatever) and stroll into a McDonald's and start talking shit, or better yet run through the kitchen yelling, "Panty raid! Panty raid!"
It's always hilarious because, you know, what panties?
I can't even begin to tell you how many free pies I've gotten from Domino's. I just roll in there all a hurry, say "Sup" or "Driver in!" to the frazzled bastards working the phones, grab a couple of pies, and walk back out the door.
I've "worked" at least a little bit in every major restaurant franchise. Nobody says shit. They just assumes you're new.
Sometimes I whisper to the young ones that I'm from corporate ("Shh. Don't tell anyone.").
Sometimes I mack on whatever fast food hotties are working there (You'd be surprised.).
I never steal money, but I never don't steal food.
Building maintenance guy is another good one. Just put on a boiler suit, grab some tools and an extension cord, and you can go anywhere in any building. Malls and office buildings shared by different businesses are the easiest.
Understand that I don't do anything. I just like going places I'm not really supposed to be. The only real risk you run is somebody might ask you to give them a hand with something, but whatever. I don't mind helping out.
But I'll tell you this much: A security guard uniform is surprisingly ineffective. Nobody pays any attention to those guys.
But a helmet, windbreaker, walkie-talkie, and clipboard? Instant authority, man. Nobody even knows what you're supposed to be, but you look official so they stay out of your way. It's like you're dressed up like a giant garlic crucifix walking through a room full of vampires. Just bulletproof.
Want to get backstage at a concert? Jeans, t-shirt, a bunch of electrical cords, and a faded red or blue sticker about the size of a playing card with magic marker writing on it (aka 'backstage pass') stuck on your jeans. By the way, it's always good to have a few of different colors with you depending on which one they're using. It doesn't have to be perfect, just close. As long as you don't hesitate, as long as you look like you know where you're going, nobody's going to mess with you.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
October 19 - Good Night
Hey, did you hear M. Night Shyamalan is coming out with a new movie this fall? Yeah, and it's actually supposed to be really good.
That's the twist.
That's the twist.
Monday, October 18, 2010
October 18 - Bark at the Moon
I will never forget the first heavy metal concert I went to. It was Ozzy Osbourne. Do you know him? Although many people consider he is to be past one's prime, but he is my favorite singer because he is so crazy. Many heavy metal singers pretend crazy, but I think he is maybe don't pretend. It is said that he once bit the head from a bat. And of course he took many drugs and alcohol over the years, so now he is not control his faculties.
But I still like him so much because his music is so powerful. Especially I love Black Sabbath. Paranoid is so cool! Most of the other girls in my school listen to Arashi or Exile. In fact, most of my classmates don't know Ozzy or his music but I don't care. He is my favorite. So when my older sister Ayako told me she can maybe get tickets to see him if I want to, of course I said: "Yes!!!"
The concert was held at Tokyo Dome, which is more than two hours by train from my hometown. Unfortunately, if my parents know we are going to a heavy metal concert, they will absolutely not allow that. Therefore, my older sister told them she will go to Tokyo to take the test to study for a year in an America university and she will take me to go shopping with her after that. She could even get ticket money from our parents because she told them that the test is so expensive. What I mean to say is that our parents paid for the tickets even though they don't intend.
We went to there with my sister's co-worker Rick who is from America. At that time, I don't understand their relationship. Maybe they are friends. Maybe it is more than that. I don't know. She was laughing at his jokes and they often touched one another's arms, but she never talked about him before so who knows. To be honest, I think he was not so interesting. Especially he didn't seem to know Ozzy very much. Although Ayako was laughing at all his jokes, but I don't respond to them. Probably he thought I don't speak English but in fact my English is better than my sister's.
At any rate, we arrived at Tokyo Dome and it was so exciting for me. EVERYBODY was wearing the black heavy metal t-shirts: Slayer, Cannibal Corpse, Megadeth, and so on. And of course Ozzy and Black Sabbath. Unfortunately, I had only a Linkin Park t-shirt. I used to like them before I knew about Ozzy so I bought their t-shirt. Now everybody in my high school loves Linkin Park, but I think they are boring. They are like children, but Ozzy is like their father. What I mean to say is if there is no Ozzy there is no . . . anybody, but absolutely no Linkin Park.
After arrival, we walked around the concourse and ate some fried chicken. And Rick and Ayako drank beer. I was very surprising about that because I never saw Ayako drink beer. Rick asked me how old are you and I told him 16 and he looked at Ayako and they both raised their shoulders like "I don't know." At last, Ayako offered me some of her beer and I drank a little bit but I didn't like it so much so I got a Coca Cola instead.
Rick and Ayako talked more and I walked ahead of them and looked at all the people. It was so exciting! Everybody is a metal head like me! In my school everybody enjoys J-pop or maybe Linkin Park. But here, it was all metal. So awesome! It was like I was in heaven.
Later on, Ayako went to the toilet and told me wait with Rick. At that moment, I could know he is uncomfortable because he was just looking the floor. At last he asked me why is my hair so short. He said it makes me look like a boy, and if I have longer hair like my sister I will be pretty. I pretended not understanding him and he repeated and I continued pretending not understanding him and at last he gave up. After my sister returned from the toilet I told her his saying (in Japanese, of course) and she to roll one's eyes and said she was not surprising at that. Then she encouraged me don't worry about that because we are here to see Ozzy.
Of course, Ozzy! Although I have seen his concert DVDs, but this was the first time in person. So I was very excited about that but pretending don't care. Actually, Rick was very chatty with Ayako before the show and I was very nervous about that. Will he keep talking once the show has started? I wish he doesn't because in Japan is considered bad form to talk during the perform. (Yes, even at the heavy metal concert. Ha ha.) I also wish he doesn't talk because he is so annoying. But maybe Ayako likes him, so I don't say something.
Fortunately, he stopped talking after the lights turned off. Suddenly everything was black and everybody was so exciting. Ozzy began screaming before he entered the stage and the atmosphere was very high. At last he ran onto the stage and let everyone go crazy with excitement. At that time I decided pretending I don't care is stupid and I screamed with all my might.
Of course that is my best live show ever. Although Ozzy only played his best hits (no minor songs), but I don't mind because it let the audience be so high. He played Bark at the Moon, Suicide Solution, Crazy Train, and so on. And he also played many Sabbath, such as Iron Man, Paranoid, War Pigs, and Fairies Wear Boots.
Ayako and Rick stood in the back, but I squeezed to the front near the stage. Everybody was crashing into each other and throwing the devil's horns. And it was so hot and sweat but I love it. Sometimes, Ozzy would pick up buckets of water and throw the water out of the bucket to the audience. We became so wet. One time he looked at me and made a crazy, scary face and I threw the devil's horns at him and I think he approved. I don't ever forget that time.
After the concert is finished, I was absolutely wet with sweat and the next week I had bruises on my arms and legs. But they are like trophies and they let me remember the concert.
On that night, Ayako told Rick we must catch the train in a hurry so they say goodbye so fast.
And on the way home, Ayako told me two happy news: One is that she does not like Rick so much. I felt relief because I think he is not so interesting. Other news is that Rick paid for her ticket. Therefore, we had many extra money so we can go eat anything we want. So we went to Coco's restaurant after return to hometown and ordered a lot of food and talked about the concert. It was so fun way to end the night.
The next week in school I told my classmates about Ozzy. I think maybe some of my friends are jealous and maybe many of them to be indifferent, but I don't care. The important thing is I enjoyed an incredible time.
I want to do it again soon.
OZZY LIVES!
But I still like him so much because his music is so powerful. Especially I love Black Sabbath. Paranoid is so cool! Most of the other girls in my school listen to Arashi or Exile. In fact, most of my classmates don't know Ozzy or his music but I don't care. He is my favorite. So when my older sister Ayako told me she can maybe get tickets to see him if I want to, of course I said: "Yes!!!"
The concert was held at Tokyo Dome, which is more than two hours by train from my hometown. Unfortunately, if my parents know we are going to a heavy metal concert, they will absolutely not allow that. Therefore, my older sister told them she will go to Tokyo to take the test to study for a year in an America university and she will take me to go shopping with her after that. She could even get ticket money from our parents because she told them that the test is so expensive. What I mean to say is that our parents paid for the tickets even though they don't intend.
We went to there with my sister's co-worker Rick who is from America. At that time, I don't understand their relationship. Maybe they are friends. Maybe it is more than that. I don't know. She was laughing at his jokes and they often touched one another's arms, but she never talked about him before so who knows. To be honest, I think he was not so interesting. Especially he didn't seem to know Ozzy very much. Although Ayako was laughing at all his jokes, but I don't respond to them. Probably he thought I don't speak English but in fact my English is better than my sister's.
At any rate, we arrived at Tokyo Dome and it was so exciting for me. EVERYBODY was wearing the black heavy metal t-shirts: Slayer, Cannibal Corpse, Megadeth, and so on. And of course Ozzy and Black Sabbath. Unfortunately, I had only a Linkin Park t-shirt. I used to like them before I knew about Ozzy so I bought their t-shirt. Now everybody in my high school loves Linkin Park, but I think they are boring. They are like children, but Ozzy is like their father. What I mean to say is if there is no Ozzy there is no . . . anybody, but absolutely no Linkin Park.
After arrival, we walked around the concourse and ate some fried chicken. And Rick and Ayako drank beer. I was very surprising about that because I never saw Ayako drink beer. Rick asked me how old are you and I told him 16 and he looked at Ayako and they both raised their shoulders like "I don't know." At last, Ayako offered me some of her beer and I drank a little bit but I didn't like it so much so I got a Coca Cola instead.
Rick and Ayako talked more and I walked ahead of them and looked at all the people. It was so exciting! Everybody is a metal head like me! In my school everybody enjoys J-pop or maybe Linkin Park. But here, it was all metal. So awesome! It was like I was in heaven.
Later on, Ayako went to the toilet and told me wait with Rick. At that moment, I could know he is uncomfortable because he was just looking the floor. At last he asked me why is my hair so short. He said it makes me look like a boy, and if I have longer hair like my sister I will be pretty. I pretended not understanding him and he repeated and I continued pretending not understanding him and at last he gave up. After my sister returned from the toilet I told her his saying (in Japanese, of course) and she to roll one's eyes and said she was not surprising at that. Then she encouraged me don't worry about that because we are here to see Ozzy.
Of course, Ozzy! Although I have seen his concert DVDs, but this was the first time in person. So I was very excited about that but pretending don't care. Actually, Rick was very chatty with Ayako before the show and I was very nervous about that. Will he keep talking once the show has started? I wish he doesn't because in Japan is considered bad form to talk during the perform. (Yes, even at the heavy metal concert. Ha ha.) I also wish he doesn't talk because he is so annoying. But maybe Ayako likes him, so I don't say something.
Fortunately, he stopped talking after the lights turned off. Suddenly everything was black and everybody was so exciting. Ozzy began screaming before he entered the stage and the atmosphere was very high. At last he ran onto the stage and let everyone go crazy with excitement. At that time I decided pretending I don't care is stupid and I screamed with all my might.
Of course that is my best live show ever. Although Ozzy only played his best hits (no minor songs), but I don't mind because it let the audience be so high. He played Bark at the Moon, Suicide Solution, Crazy Train, and so on. And he also played many Sabbath, such as Iron Man, Paranoid, War Pigs, and Fairies Wear Boots.
Ayako and Rick stood in the back, but I squeezed to the front near the stage. Everybody was crashing into each other and throwing the devil's horns. And it was so hot and sweat but I love it. Sometimes, Ozzy would pick up buckets of water and throw the water out of the bucket to the audience. We became so wet. One time he looked at me and made a crazy, scary face and I threw the devil's horns at him and I think he approved. I don't ever forget that time.
After the concert is finished, I was absolutely wet with sweat and the next week I had bruises on my arms and legs. But they are like trophies and they let me remember the concert.
On that night, Ayako told Rick we must catch the train in a hurry so they say goodbye so fast.
And on the way home, Ayako told me two happy news: One is that she does not like Rick so much. I felt relief because I think he is not so interesting. Other news is that Rick paid for her ticket. Therefore, we had many extra money so we can go eat anything we want. So we went to Coco's restaurant after return to hometown and ordered a lot of food and talked about the concert. It was so fun way to end the night.
The next week in school I told my classmates about Ozzy. I think maybe some of my friends are jealous and maybe many of them to be indifferent, but I don't care. The important thing is I enjoyed an incredible time.
I want to do it again soon.
OZZY LIVES!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
October 17 - The Make-up Artist
Judy was a make-up artist, which was more than a little ironic since she was indirectly (and not so indirectly) responsible for so many break-ups.
She was a gossip hound, an incomparable flirt, an instigator and an agitator. She was meddlesome, prying, and without peer when it came to collecting and disseminating misinformation and giving out bad advice:
I don't wanna go getting anybody in trouble, but girl, you shoulda seen the way Rachel's husband was looking at the check-out girl at the Wal-Marts the other week. I swear he was looking at her the way Sprinkles looks at my pot roast.
Girl, I got this halter top that would look--Mmmm!--good on you. What are you, size 11?
You ever go with a fireman? Girl, you don't know what you're missing. Them boys is hot! They got this new guy downtown? Shit, all I'm trying to say is his hose could get me wet any day of the week. You say Gary's going out of town this weekend? Say no more, girlfriend. Say no more.
Don't even try to tell me you ain't noticed Becca's been getting a bit big lately. I know it ain't none of my business, but everybody knows Steve got a vasectomy. Everybody also knows she got a new manager at work and she's been working an awful lot of late nights. And that's all I'm gonna say on that matter.
You still with Ricky? That's too bad because my friend Suzie's brother and you would really hit it off. He's a roadie with the Ozzfest right now, but they'll be back in a couple of weeks. You all should come over to my place for appletinis sometime and we'll get you set right up.
Girl, all I'm saying is you cannot be held responsible for anything you say or do after your fourth mudslide. Mitch does not have to know a thing about tonight. This here ladies night! Now go talk to that man before I do!
Think of the chattiest, nosiest, most meddlesome person you know. The biggest devil-on-your-shoulder doling out bad advice. Judy had him/her beat, and everybody knew it.
However/Therefore, she always had people coming to her shop, Judy's Beauty. If their relationship was in a rut, if they wanted a spark of excitement, or if they were just after a change of some sort, they just found themselves drawn to Judy's Beauty for a make-up session.
She was the anti-match maker, the match breaker, a break-up artist of the highest caliber, always full of advice that almost always resulted in the severing of ties.
Her customers must have known it too because they were always quick to denounce her behind her back.
One time, a secretary named Carol said that a visit to Judy's was like malt liquor and corn dogs: tempting once every couple of months, but never as good as you think it's going to be and always leaving you feeling ashamed of yourself.
And yet she always went back.
They all did.
People were funny that way.
She was a gossip hound, an incomparable flirt, an instigator and an agitator. She was meddlesome, prying, and without peer when it came to collecting and disseminating misinformation and giving out bad advice:
I don't wanna go getting anybody in trouble, but girl, you shoulda seen the way Rachel's husband was looking at the check-out girl at the Wal-Marts the other week. I swear he was looking at her the way Sprinkles looks at my pot roast.
Girl, I got this halter top that would look--Mmmm!--good on you. What are you, size 11?
You ever go with a fireman? Girl, you don't know what you're missing. Them boys is hot! They got this new guy downtown? Shit, all I'm trying to say is his hose could get me wet any day of the week. You say Gary's going out of town this weekend? Say no more, girlfriend. Say no more.
Don't even try to tell me you ain't noticed Becca's been getting a bit big lately. I know it ain't none of my business, but everybody knows Steve got a vasectomy. Everybody also knows she got a new manager at work and she's been working an awful lot of late nights. And that's all I'm gonna say on that matter.
You still with Ricky? That's too bad because my friend Suzie's brother and you would really hit it off. He's a roadie with the Ozzfest right now, but they'll be back in a couple of weeks. You all should come over to my place for appletinis sometime and we'll get you set right up.
Girl, all I'm saying is you cannot be held responsible for anything you say or do after your fourth mudslide. Mitch does not have to know a thing about tonight. This here ladies night! Now go talk to that man before I do!
Think of the chattiest, nosiest, most meddlesome person you know. The biggest devil-on-your-shoulder doling out bad advice. Judy had him/her beat, and everybody knew it.
However/Therefore, she always had people coming to her shop, Judy's Beauty. If their relationship was in a rut, if they wanted a spark of excitement, or if they were just after a change of some sort, they just found themselves drawn to Judy's Beauty for a make-up session.
She was the anti-match maker, the match breaker, a break-up artist of the highest caliber, always full of advice that almost always resulted in the severing of ties.
Her customers must have known it too because they were always quick to denounce her behind her back.
One time, a secretary named Carol said that a visit to Judy's was like malt liquor and corn dogs: tempting once every couple of months, but never as good as you think it's going to be and always leaving you feeling ashamed of yourself.
And yet she always went back.
They all did.
People were funny that way.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
October 16 - Damn Right I Am Somebody
Goddammit, I'm a real person! With a real name! And I'm sick and tired of fucking spellcheck always telling me my name is a misspelled word, thought Teh.
Friday, October 15, 2010
October 15 - The Red Headed Stranger
As more and more animals join the list of the world's endangered species, and as more and more of the world's endangered species go extinct, it was a shock when a team of zoologists discovered a new species of bear in in the foothills of Montana.
The bears were the size of grizzlies, with coats of an amber so bright it was hard not to call them red heads.
A male of the species was transported to the Zoology Department at University of Montana to be studied. Dr. Kenneth Urbana, the researcher who was heading the study, nicknamed the bear Willie Nelson both because he was a huge fan and also because the bear was a living, breathing embodiment of his favorite Willie Nelson album, The Red Headed Stranger.
Unfortunately, Willie Nelson didn't always share Dr. Urbana's love of his namesake's music, not even the album that was serving as the ad hoc name for Willie Nelson's species until they came up with something better. In the first few days of the study, every time Dr. Urbana played The Red Headed Stranger in the lab, Willie Nelson would growl angrily, throw a fit, or sit disconsolately in the corner. Most other bears that Dr. Urbana studied were calmed by music of almost any kind. Not Willie Nelson. He often seemed agitated by music, and not just Willie Nelson's.
But he wasn't always this way. A few hours after almost every period of melancholy or rancor, Willie Nelson's mood would brighten considerably when Dr. Urbana played Shotgun Willie or Teatro instead. This prompted Dr. Urbana to think that it was the music that was impacting Willie Nelson's mood; however, further study indicated that that wasn't necessarily the case. In fact, it was impossible for Dr. Urbana to put a finger on exactly what triggered Willie Nelson's dramatic changes in temperament.
The only thing he knew for sure was that ups and downs were the norm for Willie Nelson. Every day was filled with unpredictable changes in his emotional state. This gave Dr. Urbana and his team plenty to keep them busy, and it ultimately helped them come up with a name for Willie Nelson's species. Because all the other red headed bears that were being studied in different labs around the region exhibited the same erratic mood swings as Willie Nelson did, it was the consensus within the scientific community that they should be called bipolar bears.
The bears were the size of grizzlies, with coats of an amber so bright it was hard not to call them red heads.
A male of the species was transported to the Zoology Department at University of Montana to be studied. Dr. Kenneth Urbana, the researcher who was heading the study, nicknamed the bear Willie Nelson both because he was a huge fan and also because the bear was a living, breathing embodiment of his favorite Willie Nelson album, The Red Headed Stranger.
Unfortunately, Willie Nelson didn't always share Dr. Urbana's love of his namesake's music, not even the album that was serving as the ad hoc name for Willie Nelson's species until they came up with something better. In the first few days of the study, every time Dr. Urbana played The Red Headed Stranger in the lab, Willie Nelson would growl angrily, throw a fit, or sit disconsolately in the corner. Most other bears that Dr. Urbana studied were calmed by music of almost any kind. Not Willie Nelson. He often seemed agitated by music, and not just Willie Nelson's.
But he wasn't always this way. A few hours after almost every period of melancholy or rancor, Willie Nelson's mood would brighten considerably when Dr. Urbana played Shotgun Willie or Teatro instead. This prompted Dr. Urbana to think that it was the music that was impacting Willie Nelson's mood; however, further study indicated that that wasn't necessarily the case. In fact, it was impossible for Dr. Urbana to put a finger on exactly what triggered Willie Nelson's dramatic changes in temperament.
The only thing he knew for sure was that ups and downs were the norm for Willie Nelson. Every day was filled with unpredictable changes in his emotional state. This gave Dr. Urbana and his team plenty to keep them busy, and it ultimately helped them come up with a name for Willie Nelson's species. Because all the other red headed bears that were being studied in different labs around the region exhibited the same erratic mood swings as Willie Nelson did, it was the consensus within the scientific community that they should be called bipolar bears.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
October 14 - Rap Holy War
They called it the Rap Holy War and it was the biggest rap feud since Tupac and Biggie. Instead of East Coast/West Coast, it was East Jerusalem and the West Bank, with Hasidic Jewish rapper Hershel "H-Bomb" Horowicz and Muslim rapper Ahmet "MC Jihad" Abdullah hurling lyrical bombs at each other on YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and onstage. Neither of them had a record deal, at least not at first. But they had an audience because theirs was one of the most over the top, incendiary, hateful musical wars ever waged. And as the egregiousness of their taunts escalated, so too did their numbers of Facebook friends, Twitter followers, and views on their increasingly polished YouTube clips.
Every clip H-Bomb and MC Jihad did went viral. Everything they put out from their home studios got remixed, parodied, and exhaustively pored over by pundits of all viewpoints. It was massive.
And it was all a hoax.
Yes, Ahmet was Muslim and yes, Hershel was Jewish, but both were secular. Moreover, they were good friends who'd met in film school (in their native New York City) and hatched the idea of a large scale performance art project in the vein of Andy Kaufman. Thus, the Rap Holy War. They were compiling everything they did for an eventual documentary.
At first they were thrilled by the level of attention they were getting, but they sensed that it was becoming too big (and too serious) too soon, so they tried to make their videos so outrageous that everybody would know it wasn't for real and then they could take off their masks and let the world in on the joke.
Only problem was that the more outlandish their act got, the larger their following became. To Ahmet and Hershel, their rap feud was so obviously satirical, and yet people took everything they did completely seriously. Their personas were fake, but their fans were real.
On some level, Ahmet and Hershel had both hoped their histrionics might cause people to cast a more critical eye toward their stances on the Israel/Palestine issue, but playing the world's biggest media prank was their bigger aim.
And it was working--a little too well. Yes, they were huge Internet sensations, but they were also the targets of protests, hate mail, and death threats both ridiculous and credible. A public appearance in London was marred by violence. Windows were broken, several people were arrested, and eight people were taken to the hospital.
At that point, Ahmet and Hershel pulled the plug. They came clean on YouTube, their websites, and whatever media outlets would interview them. They told the whole story of what they were doing, and they thought that would be the end of it.
But it wasn't.
A large sector of the population had been galvanized by the mythology of H-Bomb and MC Jihad, and once it had been set in motion the movement couldn't be stopped. Abdullah's Army and the H-Bomb Squad, as their (numerous and growing) respective fan bases called themselves, grew in strength and boldness. Ahmet and Hershel urged calm and restraint. When that didn't work--when their followers didn't listen--and they begged them to stop for the love of God, Abdullah's Army and the H-Bomb Squad turned on them too.
By then both groups had begun producing their own talent that was very much in the mold of the original H-Bomb and MC Jihad, only far more extreme and 100% serious. The potential had always been there. It just needed a catalyst.
Violence escalated, the movements grew and spider webbed. Militant groups on both sides co opted the music and turned it into pro-us, anti-them anthems. Everything became radicalized. Lines were drawn. It was impossible to stay neutral. Nobody listened to reason. Everyone was forced to choose a side. Everyone went all in.
For Ahmet and Hershel it was all a mixed blessing. They were shocked and sickened that their performance art experiment had taken on such an ugly life of its own, but at the same time it was all amazing documentary material.
The death threats against Hershel and Abdul grew in credibility. First they stopped going out in character. Then they went into hiding. Then they came out of hiding with a new roughed up look, claiming to be the "real" H-Bomb and MC Jihad and calling for a de-escalation of tensions, which nobody paid any mind to. They either didn't believe them or they were unable/unwilling to hear reason. An unholy rap doomsday machine had been set in motion, and it wouldn't stop until it had destroyed them all.
A rap battle was set for Jerusalem. The pundits called it Rappageddon. Abdullah's Army convened at the Dome of the Rock, and the H-Bomb Squad at the Wailing Wall. Both groups arrived en masse and ready for anything.
It was a riot.
By the time it was over, the two sides had completely destroyed each other. All the emergency rooms in Jerusalem were packed. Scores were arrested. Three people were killed. Of all who were involved the Rap Holy War, only Hershel and Ahmet, the two pranksters who had set it all in motion in the first place, emerged unscathed. They had been hiding out in Queens when it all went down.
In the wake of the Rap Holy War, Ahmet and Hershel were investigated and interrogated extensively by numerous law enforcement agencies, and the public and the media denounced them as recklessly irresponsible, but ultimately no punishment was sought. They had been stupid and crass, but they had also genuinely tried to defuse the situation. No formal charges were filed.
After a few months had passed, they quietly put their documentary together and released it to mostly positive reviews. It made the rounds on the festival circuit, but never caught on in a huge way. By the time it came out, the world had moved on to the next thing and the Rap Holy War had mostly been forgotten.
Every clip H-Bomb and MC Jihad did went viral. Everything they put out from their home studios got remixed, parodied, and exhaustively pored over by pundits of all viewpoints. It was massive.
And it was all a hoax.
Yes, Ahmet was Muslim and yes, Hershel was Jewish, but both were secular. Moreover, they were good friends who'd met in film school (in their native New York City) and hatched the idea of a large scale performance art project in the vein of Andy Kaufman. Thus, the Rap Holy War. They were compiling everything they did for an eventual documentary.
At first they were thrilled by the level of attention they were getting, but they sensed that it was becoming too big (and too serious) too soon, so they tried to make their videos so outrageous that everybody would know it wasn't for real and then they could take off their masks and let the world in on the joke.
Only problem was that the more outlandish their act got, the larger their following became. To Ahmet and Hershel, their rap feud was so obviously satirical, and yet people took everything they did completely seriously. Their personas were fake, but their fans were real.
On some level, Ahmet and Hershel had both hoped their histrionics might cause people to cast a more critical eye toward their stances on the Israel/Palestine issue, but playing the world's biggest media prank was their bigger aim.
And it was working--a little too well. Yes, they were huge Internet sensations, but they were also the targets of protests, hate mail, and death threats both ridiculous and credible. A public appearance in London was marred by violence. Windows were broken, several people were arrested, and eight people were taken to the hospital.
At that point, Ahmet and Hershel pulled the plug. They came clean on YouTube, their websites, and whatever media outlets would interview them. They told the whole story of what they were doing, and they thought that would be the end of it.
But it wasn't.
A large sector of the population had been galvanized by the mythology of H-Bomb and MC Jihad, and once it had been set in motion the movement couldn't be stopped. Abdullah's Army and the H-Bomb Squad, as their (numerous and growing) respective fan bases called themselves, grew in strength and boldness. Ahmet and Hershel urged calm and restraint. When that didn't work--when their followers didn't listen--and they begged them to stop for the love of God, Abdullah's Army and the H-Bomb Squad turned on them too.
By then both groups had begun producing their own talent that was very much in the mold of the original H-Bomb and MC Jihad, only far more extreme and 100% serious. The potential had always been there. It just needed a catalyst.
Violence escalated, the movements grew and spider webbed. Militant groups on both sides co opted the music and turned it into pro-us, anti-them anthems. Everything became radicalized. Lines were drawn. It was impossible to stay neutral. Nobody listened to reason. Everyone was forced to choose a side. Everyone went all in.
For Ahmet and Hershel it was all a mixed blessing. They were shocked and sickened that their performance art experiment had taken on such an ugly life of its own, but at the same time it was all amazing documentary material.
The death threats against Hershel and Abdul grew in credibility. First they stopped going out in character. Then they went into hiding. Then they came out of hiding with a new roughed up look, claiming to be the "real" H-Bomb and MC Jihad and calling for a de-escalation of tensions, which nobody paid any mind to. They either didn't believe them or they were unable/unwilling to hear reason. An unholy rap doomsday machine had been set in motion, and it wouldn't stop until it had destroyed them all.
A rap battle was set for Jerusalem. The pundits called it Rappageddon. Abdullah's Army convened at the Dome of the Rock, and the H-Bomb Squad at the Wailing Wall. Both groups arrived en masse and ready for anything.
It was a riot.
By the time it was over, the two sides had completely destroyed each other. All the emergency rooms in Jerusalem were packed. Scores were arrested. Three people were killed. Of all who were involved the Rap Holy War, only Hershel and Ahmet, the two pranksters who had set it all in motion in the first place, emerged unscathed. They had been hiding out in Queens when it all went down.
In the wake of the Rap Holy War, Ahmet and Hershel were investigated and interrogated extensively by numerous law enforcement agencies, and the public and the media denounced them as recklessly irresponsible, but ultimately no punishment was sought. They had been stupid and crass, but they had also genuinely tried to defuse the situation. No formal charges were filed.
After a few months had passed, they quietly put their documentary together and released it to mostly positive reviews. It made the rounds on the festival circuit, but never caught on in a huge way. By the time it came out, the world had moved on to the next thing and the Rap Holy War had mostly been forgotten.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
October 13 - Uncle Ralph, part II
I still remember the time our dog Bagel was scratching himself behind his ear and then he turned around and scratched behind his other ear, and my Uncle Ralph was like, "That's it in a nutshell, man. Finish itching one spot and then another one needs scratching."
I remember thinking that was a pretty deep thing to say.
But Uncle Ralph didn't have much to say a few minutes later when Bagel's little pink crayon was out and he was giving it to my little sister's teddy bear.
Ain't a lot that trumps that, eh Uncle Ralph?
I remember thinking that was a pretty deep thing to say.
But Uncle Ralph didn't have much to say a few minutes later when Bagel's little pink crayon was out and he was giving it to my little sister's teddy bear.
Ain't a lot that trumps that, eh Uncle Ralph?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
October 12 - The Mouse Ballet
As far as ballet troupes went, they weren't very good, but there were two things you had to remember:
1) Their only audience was an infant girl named Maya who had no frame of reference when it came to ballet, and was thus in no position to say how good or bad they were.
2) They were mice.
They were almost certainly the world's only mouse ballet company and as such they were also the best. Including dancers, technicians, and musicians, there were 33 mice in the troupe, and they performed The Nutcracker for Maya on a nightly basis.
When they trotted out onto the hardwood floor of Maya's bedroom in the middle of the night to set up their makeshift stage (the cardboard box Maya's big brother's rain boots had come in, propped up on its side), Maya would stir from her sleep and then stand up in her crib to watch, her little hands gripping the bars. Sometimes laughing, sometimes mesmerized, Maya watched them for as long as they performed. And when they were finished, they were what she dreamt about.
The next morning, she always breathlessly gave her parents a full report of what she'd seen, and they nodded and agreed with her, encouraging her to talk more and more, which she did, telling them all about the spotlight they used (a penlight), their miniature snow drifts (cotton balls) their costumes (tutus made out of rubber bands and tissue paper), and their music (a falsetto choir of baby mice).
When she grew out of infancy and started walking more and more, the mouse ballet moved on to another house. And by the time she learned to talk, she had all but forgotten about them, even though she still dreamt about them sometimes.
1) Their only audience was an infant girl named Maya who had no frame of reference when it came to ballet, and was thus in no position to say how good or bad they were.
2) They were mice.
They were almost certainly the world's only mouse ballet company and as such they were also the best. Including dancers, technicians, and musicians, there were 33 mice in the troupe, and they performed The Nutcracker for Maya on a nightly basis.
When they trotted out onto the hardwood floor of Maya's bedroom in the middle of the night to set up their makeshift stage (the cardboard box Maya's big brother's rain boots had come in, propped up on its side), Maya would stir from her sleep and then stand up in her crib to watch, her little hands gripping the bars. Sometimes laughing, sometimes mesmerized, Maya watched them for as long as they performed. And when they were finished, they were what she dreamt about.
The next morning, she always breathlessly gave her parents a full report of what she'd seen, and they nodded and agreed with her, encouraging her to talk more and more, which she did, telling them all about the spotlight they used (a penlight), their miniature snow drifts (cotton balls) their costumes (tutus made out of rubber bands and tissue paper), and their music (a falsetto choir of baby mice).
When she grew out of infancy and started walking more and more, the mouse ballet moved on to another house. And by the time she learned to talk, she had all but forgotten about them, even though she still dreamt about them sometimes.
Monday, October 11, 2010
October 11 - Orientation to the Afterlife
So what happens here? You told me before, but tell me again.
You basically get a complete validation of your most heartfelt belief. The one thing you truly believed in the most in the world, even if everybody else thought you were wrong? In this place, you find out that you were right all along.
And it's like that for everybody who comes here?
Yeah.
And everybody comes here.
Yeah.
But how is that possible? Shouldn't some people's beliefs contradict each other at some point?
Yeah, they do. But for recent arrivals, it can be a stressful time and we need to put their souls at ease. Knowing you were right--especially about something you really care about--is the best way we've found to bring that about. Anyway, after they've had a chance to wrap their heads around that we move to Stage 2.
What happens then?
That's the lengthy part of the process. Group therapy, I guess you could call it. In it we help small groups of newcomers with conflicting, mutually exclusive beliefs see that different truths, different realities can coexist.
Not sure I get it.
You probably don't.
Like everybody's right, even though . . . I don't know how to finish my sentence.
I know how you feel. I was there once, too.
So then, like, what is this place anyway? Heaven? Paradise? Nirvana?
All of the above. And then some.
Oh. Ok.
It's a big place.
I guess so.
Not what you expected?
Not really. But at the same time, yes. Like, I actually kind of pictured it as a waiting room like this.
A lot of people do. Those people start out here.
Where do the other people go?
To the place that's like they imagined the beginning of the Afterlife would be like.
For example?
A lot of people start out near waterfalls. Some people start out in the woods. A lot of literalists opt for the pearly gates. One of my recent favorites was a biker bar in the middle of the desert.
And I started out in a waiting room. Even in the Afterlife, I'm an unimaginative loser.
Ha ha. Don't be hard on yourself. True, a waiting room as the entrance to the Afterlife isn't all that unusual of an image, but it is quirky. Gotta give yourself that.
I guess so.
Anyway, this is only the beginning. There's a lot more after this.
Like what?
A lot. But we'll have plenty of time to get into that later. For now, we need to get you fitted for your wings.
Seriously?
No.
Funny.
Sorry. I couldn't resist. Anyway, come on. There are lots of people who've been looking forward to seeing you again. I'll start filling you in on the details on the way.
You basically get a complete validation of your most heartfelt belief. The one thing you truly believed in the most in the world, even if everybody else thought you were wrong? In this place, you find out that you were right all along.
And it's like that for everybody who comes here?
Yeah.
And everybody comes here.
Yeah.
But how is that possible? Shouldn't some people's beliefs contradict each other at some point?
Yeah, they do. But for recent arrivals, it can be a stressful time and we need to put their souls at ease. Knowing you were right--especially about something you really care about--is the best way we've found to bring that about. Anyway, after they've had a chance to wrap their heads around that we move to Stage 2.
What happens then?
That's the lengthy part of the process. Group therapy, I guess you could call it. In it we help small groups of newcomers with conflicting, mutually exclusive beliefs see that different truths, different realities can coexist.
Not sure I get it.
You probably don't.
Like everybody's right, even though . . . I don't know how to finish my sentence.
I know how you feel. I was there once, too.
So then, like, what is this place anyway? Heaven? Paradise? Nirvana?
All of the above. And then some.
Oh. Ok.
It's a big place.
I guess so.
Not what you expected?
Not really. But at the same time, yes. Like, I actually kind of pictured it as a waiting room like this.
A lot of people do. Those people start out here.
Where do the other people go?
To the place that's like they imagined the beginning of the Afterlife would be like.
For example?
A lot of people start out near waterfalls. Some people start out in the woods. A lot of literalists opt for the pearly gates. One of my recent favorites was a biker bar in the middle of the desert.
And I started out in a waiting room. Even in the Afterlife, I'm an unimaginative loser.
Ha ha. Don't be hard on yourself. True, a waiting room as the entrance to the Afterlife isn't all that unusual of an image, but it is quirky. Gotta give yourself that.
I guess so.
Anyway, this is only the beginning. There's a lot more after this.
Like what?
A lot. But we'll have plenty of time to get into that later. For now, we need to get you fitted for your wings.
Seriously?
No.
Funny.
Sorry. I couldn't resist. Anyway, come on. There are lots of people who've been looking forward to seeing you again. I'll start filling you in on the details on the way.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
October 10 - The Slide
He was well into his PowerPoint presentation when the panic hit him: The slide he'd put in as a joke to himself--he hadn't taken it out.
Had he?
He didn't have a specific memory of hitting 'delete slide.'
Crap.
It was still in there, he was sure of it: An outlandishly inappropriate slide of a morbidly obese woman, nude, beckoning to the viewer with the caption 'Lick my butt!!!', along with a sound effect of a really juicy fart. He'd been bored the night before. He'd put it in because it cracked him up. Of course he was going to take it out.
Only he didn't.
Now, not only was it in his presentation; he wasn't sure where in his presentation it was. Every click of the mouse was like Russian Roulette in front of an audience of the nation's top pediatricians.
But he was such a seasoned and experienced public speaker that he could project confidence and competence, even while he was practically throwing up in his mouth from anxiety every time he advanced to the next slide.
But other than his queasy awareness of the fragmentation mine that was hidden somewhere in his PowerPoint, his talk was going well. Exceedingly well. He'd given enough presentations in his day to know when he really had the audience, and on that day he did. There was that almost tangible charge in the air. The laughs were coming easily. He felt loose, at home. He was even getting vibes from the attractive woman in the front row whom he told himself was Argentinian.
And yet there was that slide, the one that could pop up at any time and derail his whole talk and send him--
BRAPP!
He clicked to the next slide and Lick my butt!!! was gone just as quickly as it had come. Less than half a second of screen time. If it hadn't been for the sound effect, most of the attendees probably wouldn't have noticed it at all.
He didn't skip a beat, didn't acknowledge it in any way. Just continued on through the sentence he'd started on the slide before it and if anybody had heard something, it must have been their imagination.
A few people shifted in their seats, but that was it. He got through the rest of the presentation and the Q & A that followed without incident, and the applause was enthusiastic.
Afterwards, as most of the room broke for lunch, he waded through the self-indulgent follow-up questions of a smattering of overweight male pediatricians from Iowa. It was a chore made both more tolerable and more aggravating by the fact that he could see the (Argentinian?) woman from the front row waiting to ask him questions as well.
The guys from Iowa finally thanked him and left, and then there she was.
Introductions, compliments, cut to the chase: She (Dr. Silva (Brazilian as it turned out)) was very interested in his talk and could she have a copy of his PowerPoint?
Sure, just give me your email address. I'd be happy to send it to you.
Actually, I have my USB drive on me right now.
Oh.
Great.
And then seconds later it was on her drive.
As soon as he removed her drive from his laptop, all the excuses he should have used hit him: Hold on, my phone's ringing; Oh, somebody left their wallet--wait here!; Actually, I need to tweak it a bit first, but I'd be happy to send it to you later; I just remembered I'm meeting a colleague for lunch; Fire!
But no. Just Oh. Great. Here you go. Enjoy!
Dr. Silva getting to see the slide was out of the question. He had to get it back from her.
But how?
He would have to seduce her, of course. Invite her to dinner, charm the hell out of her, get an invite back to her room, make sweet, exhausting love to her, lull her to sleep, sneak the USB drive out of her bag while she slept, take it back to his room, delete the slide, re save the SFW version, and slip it back into her bag before she woke up. No problem. He'd done that kind of thing before, he could do it again.
And yet, no. She was returning to Brazil that day. In fact, she was leaving for the airport right then.
Funny you should mention Brazil. I'm on my way to Rio today too. Isn't that something?
Actually, I'm going to Sao Paulo.
What'd I say, Rio? I meant Sao Paulo. Of course.
His plan was to lift it out of her bag at some point between the conference center and the check in gate, but he couldn't get her separated from her bag. She even took it with her to the bathroom, and then through passport control and then through security, with him following her every step of the way. By then, the mission to get the USB drive back had become exactly that, a mission. And he was going to see it through to the end.
And so he would go to Brazil. He could swing it. He was a doctor. Being rich enough to take trips to the Southern Hemisphere at the drop of a hat was why he'd become a doctor in the first place. Well, that and the opportunity to help people.
Arrival in Sao Paulo. A faked phone call to the hotel. Bad news. They lost my reservations. Can you believe that?
An offer to stay at hers. Sex, showers, sleep--in that order and then once more but not in that order. And yet he never managed to get the USB drive.
He was forced to to join her on a trip out to the Amazon Rainforest to administer smallpox vaccinations to a group of indigenous tribes people who had been displaced by logging concerns. What the hell. He'd always wanted to see the rainforest.
And so finally, a week into the vaccination gig, he did it. He got his PowerPoint presentation off of her drive and replaced it with a clean version.
The task completed, he told her he had to get back to the States earlier than expected. Something had suddenly come up at his clinic. He apologized and promised to call. Yeah right, she said.
No, really, he said, mostly meaning it.
And then he left.
And after a two-day trek through the Amazon Rainforest followed by a 24-hour trip back to his native Denver, he arrived at his home office, deleted the slide from his own hard drive, promised himself he would never put another joke slide into a PowerPoint presentation like that again, and collapsed into his bed.
Moments before he fell asleep, he was seized with panic: He had replaced the original PowerPoint on Dr. Silva's USB drive with the clean version, right?
Yes. Of course he had.
Right?
Had he?
He didn't have a specific memory of hitting 'delete slide.'
Crap.
It was still in there, he was sure of it: An outlandishly inappropriate slide of a morbidly obese woman, nude, beckoning to the viewer with the caption 'Lick my butt!!!', along with a sound effect of a really juicy fart. He'd been bored the night before. He'd put it in because it cracked him up. Of course he was going to take it out.
Only he didn't.
Now, not only was it in his presentation; he wasn't sure where in his presentation it was. Every click of the mouse was like Russian Roulette in front of an audience of the nation's top pediatricians.
But he was such a seasoned and experienced public speaker that he could project confidence and competence, even while he was practically throwing up in his mouth from anxiety every time he advanced to the next slide.
But other than his queasy awareness of the fragmentation mine that was hidden somewhere in his PowerPoint, his talk was going well. Exceedingly well. He'd given enough presentations in his day to know when he really had the audience, and on that day he did. There was that almost tangible charge in the air. The laughs were coming easily. He felt loose, at home. He was even getting vibes from the attractive woman in the front row whom he told himself was Argentinian.
And yet there was that slide, the one that could pop up at any time and derail his whole talk and send him--
BRAPP!
He clicked to the next slide and Lick my butt!!! was gone just as quickly as it had come. Less than half a second of screen time. If it hadn't been for the sound effect, most of the attendees probably wouldn't have noticed it at all.
He didn't skip a beat, didn't acknowledge it in any way. Just continued on through the sentence he'd started on the slide before it and if anybody had heard something, it must have been their imagination.
A few people shifted in their seats, but that was it. He got through the rest of the presentation and the Q & A that followed without incident, and the applause was enthusiastic.
Afterwards, as most of the room broke for lunch, he waded through the self-indulgent follow-up questions of a smattering of overweight male pediatricians from Iowa. It was a chore made both more tolerable and more aggravating by the fact that he could see the (Argentinian?) woman from the front row waiting to ask him questions as well.
The guys from Iowa finally thanked him and left, and then there she was.
Introductions, compliments, cut to the chase: She (Dr. Silva (Brazilian as it turned out)) was very interested in his talk and could she have a copy of his PowerPoint?
Sure, just give me your email address. I'd be happy to send it to you.
Actually, I have my USB drive on me right now.
Oh.
Great.
And then seconds later it was on her drive.
As soon as he removed her drive from his laptop, all the excuses he should have used hit him: Hold on, my phone's ringing; Oh, somebody left their wallet--wait here!; Actually, I need to tweak it a bit first, but I'd be happy to send it to you later; I just remembered I'm meeting a colleague for lunch; Fire!
But no. Just Oh. Great. Here you go. Enjoy!
Dr. Silva getting to see the slide was out of the question. He had to get it back from her.
But how?
He would have to seduce her, of course. Invite her to dinner, charm the hell out of her, get an invite back to her room, make sweet, exhausting love to her, lull her to sleep, sneak the USB drive out of her bag while she slept, take it back to his room, delete the slide, re save the SFW version, and slip it back into her bag before she woke up. No problem. He'd done that kind of thing before, he could do it again.
And yet, no. She was returning to Brazil that day. In fact, she was leaving for the airport right then.
Funny you should mention Brazil. I'm on my way to Rio today too. Isn't that something?
Actually, I'm going to Sao Paulo.
What'd I say, Rio? I meant Sao Paulo. Of course.
His plan was to lift it out of her bag at some point between the conference center and the check in gate, but he couldn't get her separated from her bag. She even took it with her to the bathroom, and then through passport control and then through security, with him following her every step of the way. By then, the mission to get the USB drive back had become exactly that, a mission. And he was going to see it through to the end.
And so he would go to Brazil. He could swing it. He was a doctor. Being rich enough to take trips to the Southern Hemisphere at the drop of a hat was why he'd become a doctor in the first place. Well, that and the opportunity to help people.
Arrival in Sao Paulo. A faked phone call to the hotel. Bad news. They lost my reservations. Can you believe that?
An offer to stay at hers. Sex, showers, sleep--in that order and then once more but not in that order. And yet he never managed to get the USB drive.
He was forced to to join her on a trip out to the Amazon Rainforest to administer smallpox vaccinations to a group of indigenous tribes people who had been displaced by logging concerns. What the hell. He'd always wanted to see the rainforest.
And so finally, a week into the vaccination gig, he did it. He got his PowerPoint presentation off of her drive and replaced it with a clean version.
The task completed, he told her he had to get back to the States earlier than expected. Something had suddenly come up at his clinic. He apologized and promised to call. Yeah right, she said.
No, really, he said, mostly meaning it.
And then he left.
And after a two-day trek through the Amazon Rainforest followed by a 24-hour trip back to his native Denver, he arrived at his home office, deleted the slide from his own hard drive, promised himself he would never put another joke slide into a PowerPoint presentation like that again, and collapsed into his bed.
Moments before he fell asleep, he was seized with panic: He had replaced the original PowerPoint on Dr. Silva's USB drive with the clean version, right?
Yes. Of course he had.
Right?
Saturday, October 9, 2010
October 9 - Badass
Call me crazy, but you know what I think would be a pretty cool experience to have under your belt? Having someone point a gun at you.
Wait, hear me out.
I don't have a death wish or anything. And I don't necessarily want to be shot (more on that later). I just think it would be totally badass to have "had a gun pointed at me" under my belt. It's like the ultimate trump card to put any sucker MC in his place: "No kidding? And he just stepped in front of you in line? Yeah, that totally sucks. Wow . . . (shaking my head) I'm just glad he didn't pull a gun on you . . . What? I never told you that story? Yeah, this one time . . . "
There's not much out there that wouldn't get knocked down a peg or two by a story about having a gun pointed at you. Maybe surviving a shark attack. Oh God, that would be fucking bad ass: "And this one (showing off a scar)? This one I got when I was surfing off the Gold Coast of Australia and from out of nowhere came this real dick of a Great White. And suffice it to say he wasn't quite as impressed with my moves as yo mama was, ha ha! Anyway, we tussled, and he helped himself to a little souvenir here . . . Oh hell yeah, it hurt. But you should have seen that Great White when I got through with him."
But I digress. Like I was saying, having someone point a gun at you? The ultimate opportunity to forever cement your credentials as a badass. I like to think I would be the kind of guy that if someone was pointing a gun at me I would say something cold, like, "You gonna shoot that thing? Well, go ahead, bitch. I ain't got all day." or "Yeah, go ahead and pull that trigger. But your momma gonna miss me when I'm gone." or you know, something. That way if he (or she--it could be a woman, why not?) shoots you, you can go out with the satisfaction that everybody will know you went out hard. And if he doesn't shoot you, or if he shoots you and you live? Ass soup, my friend. For the rest of your life.
My only real fear would be if I panicked and started crying and/or begging and pleading for my life. I like to think that I wouldn't go out like that, but you never know, right? I can imagine my heart beating really fast and tears coming to my eyes and then I start saying any and every thing I can that I think will make this person not pull the trigger. "What do you want? I'll give you anything. Take my money, take my credit cards. Please just don't shoot me!" And I'd be hyperventilating the whole time. Probably crying, too. "Please. I'll do anything! I'll suck your dick!" And then he'd be like, What? And knowing my luck he'd probably be a total homophobe, but I wouldn't know if that was the case or if he just didn't hear me. And so there I'd be. Not only would I have a gun pointed at me, but I'd be in a really socially awkward situation. What do I say now? I'm not gay and I don't think I'm homophobic. And I didn't necessarily mean to imply that the person pointing a gun at me would be up for that sort of thing anyway. I just panicked. Should I say that to him now? Would it make any difference? Oh God, why did I have to go and offer a blow job again?
Yeah, that would be the one downside of having someone point a gun at you. Well, that and the possibility of getting shot. But again, if you survived the gunshot with no permanent damage, and if you had a cool scar someplace on your torso, so you could lift your shirt at the bar and show everybody and tell them the story? Dude, seriously. Good luck going home alone.
Wait, hear me out.
I don't have a death wish or anything. And I don't necessarily want to be shot (more on that later). I just think it would be totally badass to have "had a gun pointed at me" under my belt. It's like the ultimate trump card to put any sucker MC in his place: "No kidding? And he just stepped in front of you in line? Yeah, that totally sucks. Wow . . . (shaking my head) I'm just glad he didn't pull a gun on you . . . What? I never told you that story? Yeah, this one time . . . "
There's not much out there that wouldn't get knocked down a peg or two by a story about having a gun pointed at you. Maybe surviving a shark attack. Oh God, that would be fucking bad ass: "And this one (showing off a scar)? This one I got when I was surfing off the Gold Coast of Australia and from out of nowhere came this real dick of a Great White. And suffice it to say he wasn't quite as impressed with my moves as yo mama was, ha ha! Anyway, we tussled, and he helped himself to a little souvenir here . . . Oh hell yeah, it hurt. But you should have seen that Great White when I got through with him."
But I digress. Like I was saying, having someone point a gun at you? The ultimate opportunity to forever cement your credentials as a badass. I like to think I would be the kind of guy that if someone was pointing a gun at me I would say something cold, like, "You gonna shoot that thing? Well, go ahead, bitch. I ain't got all day." or "Yeah, go ahead and pull that trigger. But your momma gonna miss me when I'm gone." or you know, something. That way if he (or she--it could be a woman, why not?) shoots you, you can go out with the satisfaction that everybody will know you went out hard. And if he doesn't shoot you, or if he shoots you and you live? Ass soup, my friend. For the rest of your life.
My only real fear would be if I panicked and started crying and/or begging and pleading for my life. I like to think that I wouldn't go out like that, but you never know, right? I can imagine my heart beating really fast and tears coming to my eyes and then I start saying any and every thing I can that I think will make this person not pull the trigger. "What do you want? I'll give you anything. Take my money, take my credit cards. Please just don't shoot me!" And I'd be hyperventilating the whole time. Probably crying, too. "Please. I'll do anything! I'll suck your dick!" And then he'd be like, What? And knowing my luck he'd probably be a total homophobe, but I wouldn't know if that was the case or if he just didn't hear me. And so there I'd be. Not only would I have a gun pointed at me, but I'd be in a really socially awkward situation. What do I say now? I'm not gay and I don't think I'm homophobic. And I didn't necessarily mean to imply that the person pointing a gun at me would be up for that sort of thing anyway. I just panicked. Should I say that to him now? Would it make any difference? Oh God, why did I have to go and offer a blow job again?
Yeah, that would be the one downside of having someone point a gun at you. Well, that and the possibility of getting shot. But again, if you survived the gunshot with no permanent damage, and if you had a cool scar someplace on your torso, so you could lift your shirt at the bar and show everybody and tell them the story? Dude, seriously. Good luck going home alone.
Friday, October 8, 2010
October 8 - Hide the Sausage
When Ingrid and Greta asked me if I wanted to play hide the sausage, I really felt like my experience as an exchange student was about to take a turn for the hell yeah. Check two or three fantasies off my bucket list (Sisters? Europeans? (Nazis?)) and have the cultural exchange story to trump all others? I would love to.
Unfortunately, it turns out hide the sausage is really the name of a game they play in Germany. It's pretty straightforward: One person hides a sausage; everyone else tries to find it. And it's actually kind of fun once you get over the disappointment of realizing that your two impossibly stacked German host sisters aren't asking you if you want to do it with them.
It, however, was a completely different story with my host father Jacob when he came home one night stinking of schnapps and inviting me into his basement rec room for 'un round of hide der sausage.'
Sure, I told him. But it won't be fun if it's just you and me. Let me go see if Ingrid and Greta want to play, too.
Well, the conversation got really awkward at that point. He got all flustered and all of a sudden I couldn't understand his German and he couldn't my English and eventually he was just like never mind, and then the next morning it was like he'd forgotten about it.
Or not. Because then a bunch of times over the next few months he made a really obvious point of getting everyone together to play hide the sausage and went on and on about how it's a great game for the whole family and all that, and it's like, whatever. So you wanted to get with the young American exchange student. You ain't the first.
Well, actually he was the first, but still.
Anyway, the rest of my time there was a nonstop loop of forced male bonding every time I ran into Jacob in the hallway (Vat did you think of last night's Bayern Munich match?) and finding a hidden sexual component to everything that came out of Ingrid and Greta's mouths (You vant to put the icing on our cherry strudel?).
Yeah, that year abroad was definitely filled with lots of botched communications and misunderstandings. And I feel like their tendency to be unclear kind of rubbed off on me.
Which brings me to my point, Madame Secretary, which is that when I asked you if you wanted to play hide the sausage last night, I was referring to the old German game.
Unfortunately, it turns out hide the sausage is really the name of a game they play in Germany. It's pretty straightforward: One person hides a sausage; everyone else tries to find it. And it's actually kind of fun once you get over the disappointment of realizing that your two impossibly stacked German host sisters aren't asking you if you want to do it with them.
It, however, was a completely different story with my host father Jacob when he came home one night stinking of schnapps and inviting me into his basement rec room for 'un round of hide der sausage.'
Sure, I told him. But it won't be fun if it's just you and me. Let me go see if Ingrid and Greta want to play, too.
Well, the conversation got really awkward at that point. He got all flustered and all of a sudden I couldn't understand his German and he couldn't my English and eventually he was just like never mind, and then the next morning it was like he'd forgotten about it.
Or not. Because then a bunch of times over the next few months he made a really obvious point of getting everyone together to play hide the sausage and went on and on about how it's a great game for the whole family and all that, and it's like, whatever. So you wanted to get with the young American exchange student. You ain't the first.
Well, actually he was the first, but still.
Anyway, the rest of my time there was a nonstop loop of forced male bonding every time I ran into Jacob in the hallway (Vat did you think of last night's Bayern Munich match?) and finding a hidden sexual component to everything that came out of Ingrid and Greta's mouths (You vant to put the icing on our cherry strudel?).
Yeah, that year abroad was definitely filled with lots of botched communications and misunderstandings. And I feel like their tendency to be unclear kind of rubbed off on me.
Which brings me to my point, Madame Secretary, which is that when I asked you if you wanted to play hide the sausage last night, I was referring to the old German game.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
October 7 - Captain, No!
"What would you say is your favorite appetizer?" Pappenfus asked.
The captain thought about it a moment. "Pigs in a blanket. No, wait. Chicken fingers."
Pappenfus's assistant piped in. "What's the deal with that name anyway? Chicken fingers. I don't know about you guys, but I don't think I've ever seen a chicken that had fingers! Am I right or what?"
"Not now, Jensen."
"Sorry, sir."
"Anyway, appetizers. You--"
"I'm a big fan of potato skins too," added the captain.
"Very good, sir. As I was saying, appetizers. Sure, you may not order them every time you go to a restaurant, but have you ever actually said no to an appetizer? Think about it. In your entire life, when have these words ever come out of your mouth: No, I do not want a bite of that appetizer. Never, right?"
The officers who were there with the captain shrugged their agreement.
"I also like spinach artichoke dip."
"Of course you do, captain. Who doesn't? Which is exactly why we at Pappenfus Industries believe that appetizers are the perfect device for stopping and immobilizing perpetrators."
Sensing that Pappenfus was getting to the meat of the matter, the officers leaned in.
Pappenfus pulled the cloth off of a tray full of fried mozzarella sticks, egg rolls, and popcorn shrimp.
"Everybody knows these delicious snacks as appetizers. Some clever eateries also call them appeteasers. Gentlemen, I give you the next generation of suspect suppression technology. The appetaser."
Pappenfus paused a beat to let the men soak it in.
"When someone is causing a disorder, threatening violence, about to trigger an ugly incident, all you have to do is get his attention long enough to offer him an appetaser."
He motioned to the tray.
"Sure they may look like regular appetizers, but they work just like a taser. Each one of these appetasers delivers a debilitating electrical charge straight to the perp's cortex that will leave him incapacitated for 10 minutes without causing any permanent damage. Plenty of time to detain him, remove him from the equation, and prevent a nasty incident."
"Appetasers--arrestingly delicious."
"Jensen, please."
"Sorry, sir."
"Yes, sergeant. You have a question?"
"The whole idea of a taser is to immobilize a troublemaker. If we can get an agitator's attention long enough to get him to eat one of your . . . "
"Appetasers."
"Whatever. Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of having the things in the first place?"
"No at all," Pappenfus said. "You see--Captain, no!"
It was too late. The captain had bitten into one of the mozzarella sticks and was thrown out of his chair.
"He'll be fine," Pappenfus said. "Just give him some time."
When he came to 10 minutes later, Pappenfus was telling the other officers about some of his company's other products including the bathroom sanitaser, lawn fertiltaser, and bite sized taser tots, which looked delicious. Before anyone could stop him, the captain had reached up, grabbed one, and put it in his mouth.
"Captain, no!"
The captain thought about it a moment. "Pigs in a blanket. No, wait. Chicken fingers."
Pappenfus's assistant piped in. "What's the deal with that name anyway? Chicken fingers. I don't know about you guys, but I don't think I've ever seen a chicken that had fingers! Am I right or what?"
"Not now, Jensen."
"Sorry, sir."
"Anyway, appetizers. You--"
"I'm a big fan of potato skins too," added the captain.
"Very good, sir. As I was saying, appetizers. Sure, you may not order them every time you go to a restaurant, but have you ever actually said no to an appetizer? Think about it. In your entire life, when have these words ever come out of your mouth: No, I do not want a bite of that appetizer. Never, right?"
The officers who were there with the captain shrugged their agreement.
"I also like spinach artichoke dip."
"Of course you do, captain. Who doesn't? Which is exactly why we at Pappenfus Industries believe that appetizers are the perfect device for stopping and immobilizing perpetrators."
Sensing that Pappenfus was getting to the meat of the matter, the officers leaned in.
Pappenfus pulled the cloth off of a tray full of fried mozzarella sticks, egg rolls, and popcorn shrimp.
"Everybody knows these delicious snacks as appetizers. Some clever eateries also call them appeteasers. Gentlemen, I give you the next generation of suspect suppression technology. The appetaser."
Pappenfus paused a beat to let the men soak it in.
"When someone is causing a disorder, threatening violence, about to trigger an ugly incident, all you have to do is get his attention long enough to offer him an appetaser."
He motioned to the tray.
"Sure they may look like regular appetizers, but they work just like a taser. Each one of these appetasers delivers a debilitating electrical charge straight to the perp's cortex that will leave him incapacitated for 10 minutes without causing any permanent damage. Plenty of time to detain him, remove him from the equation, and prevent a nasty incident."
"Appetasers--arrestingly delicious."
"Jensen, please."
"Sorry, sir."
"Yes, sergeant. You have a question?"
"The whole idea of a taser is to immobilize a troublemaker. If we can get an agitator's attention long enough to get him to eat one of your . . . "
"Appetasers."
"Whatever. Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of having the things in the first place?"
"No at all," Pappenfus said. "You see--Captain, no!"
It was too late. The captain had bitten into one of the mozzarella sticks and was thrown out of his chair.
"He'll be fine," Pappenfus said. "Just give him some time."
When he came to 10 minutes later, Pappenfus was telling the other officers about some of his company's other products including the bathroom sanitaser, lawn fertiltaser, and bite sized taser tots, which looked delicious. Before anyone could stop him, the captain had reached up, grabbed one, and put it in his mouth.
"Captain, no!"
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
October 6 - Ed Robertson and the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop
Whenever politicians and nostalgists idealize small towns, Watahatcha is probably what they have in mind: Fourth of July parades with combines and guys from the local VFW, high school football, 4H booths at the county fair, church on Sunday, picnics. That's Watahatcha, the quintessential American small town.
And make no mistake, it was small. So small that it only had one gas station, one supermarket, and one high school. There were no strip malls--no shopping centers of any kind. And except for a Tastee Freeze, no fast food restaurants.
There was, however, the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop, the only shop of its kind in the Greater Watahatcha area.
Among their merchandise: Watahatcha t-shirts, mugs, hats, and spoons. Watahatcha baby bibs, salt and pepper shakers, and snow globes.
There was a book on the history of Watahatcha, the unimaginatively titled The Story of Watahatcha.
There were 8 1/2 by 11 black and white prints of important people and moments from Watahatcha history--the arrival of the railroad in 1892; a parade for the town's veterans after they had returned from WWII; a portrait of the 1962 Watahatcha Braves High School State Champion basketball squad; the time when then president Jimmy Carter visited the town; a shot of Watahatcha native Jim Navine, who flew a mission with Space Shuttle Atlantis; the time when Steven Spielberg shot a couple of scenes from Always in Watahatcha; Hands Across America.
There were calendars, recipe books, refrigerator magnets, maps, license plate frames. All kinds of stuff.
But after the new interstate highway was built well away from Watahatcha, the one thing the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop didn't have was customers. Some days--and sometimes for days on end--the shop didn't have one visitor.
But that didn't stop owner and sole employee Ed Robertson from opening for business at 8 am every day of the year (except Christmas) and keeping it open until 8 pm.
His routine was always the same: arrive at the shop, get the register ready, sweep the sidewalk, put up the American flag, brew a pot of coffee for visitors to help themselves to, and open the doors at exactly 8 am. Even on days the shop didn't get customers, people from town would stop by and say hi.
Ed was more reliable than the US Postal Service. Even during the Great Blizzard of 1983 when everything was closed for more than a week, Ed Robertson trekked into town to open the shop just like he did every other day. He joked to his wife Connie that you never knew if somebody might need a Watahatcha snow globe--even in a blizzard. Incredibly, he got a customer on one of the days, a claims adjuster who'd gotten lost and was grateful that any place was open. After Ed gave him directions back to the interstate, the guy bought a Watahatcha hat and went on his way.
The shop didn't make a ton of money, especially after the new interstate opened. But it was enough for Ed and Connie to raise two sons and send them to college.
Ed worked at the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop until the day he died of a heart attack shortly after taking down the flag and locking the doors at the end of the day. That was exactly one year ago today.
After he died, the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop was demolished and a 7-11 was put in its place. No Watahatcha snow globes, but the coffee isn't bad.
And make no mistake, it was small. So small that it only had one gas station, one supermarket, and one high school. There were no strip malls--no shopping centers of any kind. And except for a Tastee Freeze, no fast food restaurants.
There was, however, the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop, the only shop of its kind in the Greater Watahatcha area.
Among their merchandise: Watahatcha t-shirts, mugs, hats, and spoons. Watahatcha baby bibs, salt and pepper shakers, and snow globes.
There was a book on the history of Watahatcha, the unimaginatively titled The Story of Watahatcha.
There were 8 1/2 by 11 black and white prints of important people and moments from Watahatcha history--the arrival of the railroad in 1892; a parade for the town's veterans after they had returned from WWII; a portrait of the 1962 Watahatcha Braves High School State Champion basketball squad; the time when then president Jimmy Carter visited the town; a shot of Watahatcha native Jim Navine, who flew a mission with Space Shuttle Atlantis; the time when Steven Spielberg shot a couple of scenes from Always in Watahatcha; Hands Across America.
There were calendars, recipe books, refrigerator magnets, maps, license plate frames. All kinds of stuff.
But after the new interstate highway was built well away from Watahatcha, the one thing the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop didn't have was customers. Some days--and sometimes for days on end--the shop didn't have one visitor.
But that didn't stop owner and sole employee Ed Robertson from opening for business at 8 am every day of the year (except Christmas) and keeping it open until 8 pm.
His routine was always the same: arrive at the shop, get the register ready, sweep the sidewalk, put up the American flag, brew a pot of coffee for visitors to help themselves to, and open the doors at exactly 8 am. Even on days the shop didn't get customers, people from town would stop by and say hi.
Ed was more reliable than the US Postal Service. Even during the Great Blizzard of 1983 when everything was closed for more than a week, Ed Robertson trekked into town to open the shop just like he did every other day. He joked to his wife Connie that you never knew if somebody might need a Watahatcha snow globe--even in a blizzard. Incredibly, he got a customer on one of the days, a claims adjuster who'd gotten lost and was grateful that any place was open. After Ed gave him directions back to the interstate, the guy bought a Watahatcha hat and went on his way.
The shop didn't make a ton of money, especially after the new interstate opened. But it was enough for Ed and Connie to raise two sons and send them to college.
Ed worked at the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop until the day he died of a heart attack shortly after taking down the flag and locking the doors at the end of the day. That was exactly one year ago today.
After he died, the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop was demolished and a 7-11 was put in its place. No Watahatcha snow globes, but the coffee isn't bad.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
October 5 - Random Thoughts of a Person Trapped Under a Dr. Pepper Machine and Watching Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas DVD on Repeat
8:02 pm The good news: I don't think anything is broken. The bad news: I can't move. I'm trapped under this damned vending machine. More bad news: I'm pretty sure nobody's coming here until tomorrow morning. The other bad news: For some reason, somebody left Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas in the DVD player.
This is not good.
This could be a long night.
8:03 pm Celine Dion all night long? It could be worse.
8:04 pm Couldn't it?
8:17 pm You know how many albums Celine Dion has sold? Neither do I, but her initials are CD. That can't be a coincidence.
8:19 pm What amazes me about this is how many of her songs I actually recognize on this DVD. Shit, I know her back catalog better than that of groups I actually like. Jesus.
8:37 pm She's now surrounded by topless white dudes and a black guy in a not at all racist/dehumanizing bellhop uniform. Who the hell does she think she is, Madonna?
9:14 pm I came so freaking close to taking a piss before I came in here. How much you want to bet I'm going to regret that one before the night's through?
9:21 pm Really, Celine? Air guitar?
9:44 pm OK, I have officially seen Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas. Silly me. I kind of thought I would make it through today without being able to say that.
9:47 pm By the time someone comes in here again and starts getting me out from underneath this damned Dr. Pepper machine, I will have seen this concert at least six or seven times.
9:48 pm Why the hell did I think that shaking this machine would cause it to give me my money back? What the hell was I thinking?
10:42 pm I could eat.
10:43 pm And pee.
10:44 pm There's no way in hell Celine Dion craps. She's too . . . perfect. No freaking way she pulls down her pants parks her ass on a toilet and goes for it. No way. No, what happens is angels descend from the heavens and make it disappear while she sleeps. Celine Dion defecating? Yeah, right.
11:18 pm That is without a doubt the biggest stage I've ever seen in my life. You could play baseball on that thing. And so many dancers. The dancers could play baseball on the stadium. And the rest of them could be the fans and ball boys and what not.
11:19 pm He he. Ball boys.
11:20 pm Wait a minute. What the fuck do you need so many fucking dancers for?! Tell one of them to stop prancing around and call the police and get me out of here!
11:52 pm Maybe the power will magically cut off at midnight.
12:00 am Nope.
12:34 am Hey, look at the time! It's 12:34 and 56 seconds!
12:35 am I'm so freaking tired. And yet, who could sleep when Celine is butchering Cyndi Lauper?
1:34 am Look at her on that big screen basking in the applause, addressing her minions. She is otherworldly. She is the next step in evolution. She could control the galaxy if she put her mind to it. She should just retire from singing and begin a new career as an omnipotent deity of some sort.
2:12 am Well, I just peed my pants for the first time since I was a toddler.
2:13 am OK, since I was a college student.
3:02 am Holy fucking Canadian bacon, Batman! How many dancers does a fucking diva need? How can she afford to pay them all? This is starting to stress me out.
3:14 am Hey son, how did your audition go for being a dancer with the Celine Dion show? On second thought, I don't care. You're a disappointment either way.
3:34 am I hate her.
3:35 am I hate her fans, too. Look at all those dickless boyfriends in the audience pretending to enjoy themselves. It won't matter! You'll never get laid! Never!
3:36 am Oh yeah, take off that jacket, Celine. Slower, slower.
3:37 am In fairness, she does have a pretty decent figure. But maybe that's just the trapped-under-a-Dr.-Pepper-machine-for-the-last-eight-hours talking. Shit, trap a guy under a Dr. Pepper machine long enough and he'll find any woman attractive.
3:38 am Call me crazy, but I wouldn't turn down Penny Marshall at this point.
4:13 am Every time a fan sheds a tear at this concert, Iggy Pop ages one day.
4:42 am SHUT UP!! For the love of God and all that is holy, shut up so I can sleep!
4:56 am Hey, look at me! I'm bilingual! I can suck in English and French!
5:14 am OK, so this song is, like, gospel or something. And it kind of doesn't suck. I really don't want to like this, but I do. I like a Celine Dion song. What the hell does that mean? I haven't felt this conflicted since that time I was checking out that chick's ass and then she turned around and it was a dude.
5:23 am I wonder what she's really like. Maybe she's actually nice. I mean, do you ever hear diva stories about her? I don't think you do. In fact, the only anecdote I can really think of about her as a person was that she was really nice and gracious to Elliott Smith when they were both performing Best Original Song nominations at the Oscars. And she didn't have to do that. Maybe I've been too hard on her all these years.
5:26 am Am I starting to like Celine Dion?
5:57 am The morning shift should be here any minute.
5:58 am Oh please, don't let them come in now. Not until after she nails the big note on My Heart Will Go On.
5:59 am If I hate that song so much, why has it choked me up every time I've heard it tonight?
6:00 am Oh thank God, there's the door. Thank God, they're here. God I wish I could move my arms so I could wipe away these tears.
This is not good.
This could be a long night.
8:03 pm Celine Dion all night long? It could be worse.
8:04 pm Couldn't it?
8:17 pm You know how many albums Celine Dion has sold? Neither do I, but her initials are CD. That can't be a coincidence.
8:19 pm What amazes me about this is how many of her songs I actually recognize on this DVD. Shit, I know her back catalog better than that of groups I actually like. Jesus.
8:37 pm She's now surrounded by topless white dudes and a black guy in a not at all racist/dehumanizing bellhop uniform. Who the hell does she think she is, Madonna?
9:14 pm I came so freaking close to taking a piss before I came in here. How much you want to bet I'm going to regret that one before the night's through?
9:21 pm Really, Celine? Air guitar?
9:44 pm OK, I have officially seen Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas. Silly me. I kind of thought I would make it through today without being able to say that.
9:47 pm By the time someone comes in here again and starts getting me out from underneath this damned Dr. Pepper machine, I will have seen this concert at least six or seven times.
9:48 pm Why the hell did I think that shaking this machine would cause it to give me my money back? What the hell was I thinking?
10:42 pm I could eat.
10:43 pm And pee.
10:44 pm There's no way in hell Celine Dion craps. She's too . . . perfect. No freaking way she pulls down her pants parks her ass on a toilet and goes for it. No way. No, what happens is angels descend from the heavens and make it disappear while she sleeps. Celine Dion defecating? Yeah, right.
11:18 pm That is without a doubt the biggest stage I've ever seen in my life. You could play baseball on that thing. And so many dancers. The dancers could play baseball on the stadium. And the rest of them could be the fans and ball boys and what not.
11:19 pm He he. Ball boys.
11:20 pm Wait a minute. What the fuck do you need so many fucking dancers for?! Tell one of them to stop prancing around and call the police and get me out of here!
11:52 pm Maybe the power will magically cut off at midnight.
12:00 am Nope.
12:34 am Hey, look at the time! It's 12:34 and 56 seconds!
12:35 am I'm so freaking tired. And yet, who could sleep when Celine is butchering Cyndi Lauper?
1:34 am Look at her on that big screen basking in the applause, addressing her minions. She is otherworldly. She is the next step in evolution. She could control the galaxy if she put her mind to it. She should just retire from singing and begin a new career as an omnipotent deity of some sort.
2:12 am Well, I just peed my pants for the first time since I was a toddler.
2:13 am OK, since I was a college student.
3:02 am Holy fucking Canadian bacon, Batman! How many dancers does a fucking diva need? How can she afford to pay them all? This is starting to stress me out.
3:14 am Hey son, how did your audition go for being a dancer with the Celine Dion show? On second thought, I don't care. You're a disappointment either way.
3:34 am I hate her.
3:35 am I hate her fans, too. Look at all those dickless boyfriends in the audience pretending to enjoy themselves. It won't matter! You'll never get laid! Never!
3:36 am Oh yeah, take off that jacket, Celine. Slower, slower.
3:37 am In fairness, she does have a pretty decent figure. But maybe that's just the trapped-under-a-Dr.-Pepper-machine-for-the-last-eight-hours talking. Shit, trap a guy under a Dr. Pepper machine long enough and he'll find any woman attractive.
3:38 am Call me crazy, but I wouldn't turn down Penny Marshall at this point.
4:13 am Every time a fan sheds a tear at this concert, Iggy Pop ages one day.
4:42 am SHUT UP!! For the love of God and all that is holy, shut up so I can sleep!
4:56 am Hey, look at me! I'm bilingual! I can suck in English and French!
5:14 am OK, so this song is, like, gospel or something. And it kind of doesn't suck. I really don't want to like this, but I do. I like a Celine Dion song. What the hell does that mean? I haven't felt this conflicted since that time I was checking out that chick's ass and then she turned around and it was a dude.
5:23 am I wonder what she's really like. Maybe she's actually nice. I mean, do you ever hear diva stories about her? I don't think you do. In fact, the only anecdote I can really think of about her as a person was that she was really nice and gracious to Elliott Smith when they were both performing Best Original Song nominations at the Oscars. And she didn't have to do that. Maybe I've been too hard on her all these years.
5:26 am Am I starting to like Celine Dion?
5:57 am The morning shift should be here any minute.
5:58 am Oh please, don't let them come in now. Not until after she nails the big note on My Heart Will Go On.
5:59 am If I hate that song so much, why has it choked me up every time I've heard it tonight?
6:00 am Oh thank God, there's the door. Thank God, they're here. God I wish I could move my arms so I could wipe away these tears.
Monday, October 4, 2010
October 4 - Out of Love
I ever tell you about the time I was in a rock video?
No?
Check it out.
You know the video for Fell in Love With a Girl?
That's me.
Here's the short version. One day I was just sitting in some kid's closet where I'd been for like a hundred years.
(Oh, and by the way, I don't mean that in some bullshit Toy Story make you cry kind of way. Screw it. I'm a box of Legos. Would I be happier if some kids were playing with me? On some level, yeah, probably. Fuck it, I'm a toy. Play with my ass.
But on another level, no, not really. For reasons nobody's ever been able to explain to me, kids bite fucking Legos. And since I'm not some perv like your mom, I don't exactly get off on being bitten, so if avoiding the bites means staying inside my box, so be it. Toss my ass in the closet and leave me be.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the short version.
So yeah, there I am sitting in my box in some closet and next thing I know some Hollywood guys have me in some studio somewhere with shit loads of lights and cameras and low level ass kissers trying to make a name for themselves by playing with me for days and days on end.
And I do mean days.
Holy ass bleeding hell, man. Have you ever been on any sort of animation shoot? Fuck my bricky little ass, it's tedious. In order for them to make it look like I'm moving, they have to reassemble me into something slightly different for every single frame of that video. Damn thing's not even two minutes long, but man it took for freaking ever to shoot.
Have you seen it? If not, go YouTube that shit. I don't mind telling you it sucked plenty of ass to make, but I gotta admit it's a pretty kick ass video. And you may not believe it to look at me now, but I look pretty freaking good in it. There I am playing the guitar, beating the drums, walking upstairs, swimming, and I don't even know what else.
Seriously, YouTube that shit. I'll wait. Not like I have anything else to do.
Speaking of which, when they were (finally) done filming that cocksucker, back into the box I went and that was it for me. Not that I was expecting some huge career out of it or anything, but I thought maybe something might happen. Maybe I'd get put in a commercial or have some rock geek want to own the original Lego set used in Fell in Love With a Girl so he could show it off to all his dork ass not getting laid friends, or something, but no. Nothing.
Back into the closet. We're done with you.
And the thing is, most of me is like whatever. Forget my ass. Like I care.
But the rest of me is like screw you. Build me up, make me famous, and then drop me like I'm some object?
Fuck you.
Hey, I think I just came up with the plot for Toy Story 4. Not that they would ever give a story credit to a box of Legos, but whatever.
No?
Check it out.
You know the video for Fell in Love With a Girl?
That's me.
Here's the short version. One day I was just sitting in some kid's closet where I'd been for like a hundred years.
(Oh, and by the way, I don't mean that in some bullshit Toy Story make you cry kind of way. Screw it. I'm a box of Legos. Would I be happier if some kids were playing with me? On some level, yeah, probably. Fuck it, I'm a toy. Play with my ass.
But on another level, no, not really. For reasons nobody's ever been able to explain to me, kids bite fucking Legos. And since I'm not some perv like your mom, I don't exactly get off on being bitten, so if avoiding the bites means staying inside my box, so be it. Toss my ass in the closet and leave me be.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the short version.
So yeah, there I am sitting in my box in some closet and next thing I know some Hollywood guys have me in some studio somewhere with shit loads of lights and cameras and low level ass kissers trying to make a name for themselves by playing with me for days and days on end.
And I do mean days.
Holy ass bleeding hell, man. Have you ever been on any sort of animation shoot? Fuck my bricky little ass, it's tedious. In order for them to make it look like I'm moving, they have to reassemble me into something slightly different for every single frame of that video. Damn thing's not even two minutes long, but man it took for freaking ever to shoot.
Have you seen it? If not, go YouTube that shit. I don't mind telling you it sucked plenty of ass to make, but I gotta admit it's a pretty kick ass video. And you may not believe it to look at me now, but I look pretty freaking good in it. There I am playing the guitar, beating the drums, walking upstairs, swimming, and I don't even know what else.
Seriously, YouTube that shit. I'll wait. Not like I have anything else to do.
Speaking of which, when they were (finally) done filming that cocksucker, back into the box I went and that was it for me. Not that I was expecting some huge career out of it or anything, but I thought maybe something might happen. Maybe I'd get put in a commercial or have some rock geek want to own the original Lego set used in Fell in Love With a Girl so he could show it off to all his dork ass not getting laid friends, or something, but no. Nothing.
Back into the closet. We're done with you.
And the thing is, most of me is like whatever. Forget my ass. Like I care.
But the rest of me is like screw you. Build me up, make me famous, and then drop me like I'm some object?
Fuck you.
Hey, I think I just came up with the plot for Toy Story 4. Not that they would ever give a story credit to a box of Legos, but whatever.
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