(CONTINUED FROM PART 1 and PART 2, PART 3 )

You can always feel it coming. The curdling air before an acquaintance decides to let their necessary fiction slip. Before they tell you about their scab collection, their grabby uncle, the dog they fucked in grade school. Some unwanted crush you tried to ignore. You can feel the back pressure build, then release, in one awkward, stammering, burst. Sustained Anonymity is a much underrated personality trait.

Tom stared with sick fascination.

“Are you a zombie?” Tom asked.

I tried to meet Tom’s stare. But one eye kept drifting left and down.

“Hard to say. I don’t know the criteria” I said.

Tom nodded along with my non-answer, as if it confirmed some previous suspicion.

“Are you hungry for brains?” Tom asked.

I didn’t know what that would feel like. I’d never been a craving guy. I was, upon reflection, actually pretty full, though… almost uncomfortably so. My gut bulged like a sun starved famine victim, round and pale.

“No. Not especially.”

Tom paced excitedly across the room. On his second pass through he turned and punched me hard in the face. The cartilage in my nose fanned alarmingly to the left; a slow ooze of blood sagged down my cheek. I should have been upset. Tom smeared two fingers through the thickest of the crimson.

“It’s fucking cold!” Tom said. Delighted, rubbing the muck greedily between fingers and thumb.

“This is fucked. You’re dead! How are you standing here?”

I was actually sitting. Normally I’d let that slide, but I felt a little attacked. Demeaned, somehow. It seemed obvious and cruel to harp on my condition.

“I’m sitting” I said.

Tom ignored the correction. His pacing gathered steam until he was doing wind sprints (nearly) from the kitchen to the front door, and back. Occasionally he’d take a lap around the couch for variety. Now and again he would freeze, then glitch across the room like bad stop motion. I couldn’t remember how fast things went.

Tom stopped. Legitimately; I think.

“Are you a cultist? Tom said.

“No. I don’t even have a library card” I said.

I began fumbling at my wallet to prove the absence. My hands twitched in token accord, mashing gracelessly against the leather; the nails had grown tremendously. The wallet wouldn’t open.

Tom flopped onto the couch beside me; eyes racing along my seams and growing imperfections. He grinned.

“We need to get some girls over” Tom said.

I lieu of a proper intro I present you the best thing ever: The secret life of Julia Childs

That’s right, the 6′2 queen of French Cuisine was a WWII spy and saboteur, for the precursor of the CIA. It’s enough to make me dig up her husky bones and dance a waltz beneath the moonlight. Ah, granddame, your kind will not be seen again. Let’s get down to business.

*********

Are you this random a fucker in real life?

Dave

Yep. A brief sampling

-I told my girlfriend the Stinkenheim[1] museum had been broken into last night, and some kids had vandalized her exhibit. This information had been relayed to me via a telephone I keep hidden from her at all times. When she questioned the legitimacy (and fairness) of this phone call, I suggested her doubt was politically motivated, and an attempt to undermine my bid for a curator position.

-I generally download two torrents at once, in the hope their inherent competitiveness make both go faster. When it doesn’t work I engage in grizzly boxing trainer type trash talk to whichever one is lagging (ala “you’re a bum, Rock”).

-When people resist my charm I take it as direct challenge to my worth as a person. I spent three weeks half courting a cashier at my grocery store, because she didn’t react to an off hand glib comment I made while purchasing lunch meat. I suspect she’s now planning to ask me out, so I’ve taken to shopping at night to avoid the awkward exchange I clearly precipitated.

******

Any life lesson gained from your search for employment?

Duisel,

Oxnard, CA

The big one: baby, the road to purgatory is paved with non-decisions, and it’s a long walk back. I’m not big on borrowing others words, but this is best expressed in song.

Check it: Brian Wilson

It turns out when you coast; you drift, so now I’m in process of acquiring direction…shaking down my Bohemian tendancies to sort out bad habits and old excuses. It’s humbling, but progress is being made.

******

Poppa AJ, I cannot sleep. Please provide some bedtime storyage.

Serena Bambino

The other side of town

Ok.

So there’s this Bear in the woods. Real mean fucker, with one leg twice as long as the others. I don’t know if the one leg was real long, or the other three real short ( I never met the guy), but there was a distinct lack of symmetry. Anyways, this bear (name of Tree Stump Charlie) goes around all-day just choking the hell out of whatever he can get his mismatched legs around. Fucking Owls, goats, campers, didn’t matter: if he could catch it, he’d choke it…and he’d be crying the whole time, like he had no choice in the matter. Just the ugliest thing you ever saw.

This bear, he was real depressed right, so he decides to invest all his money in these high yield savings bonds, so he can retire in a few years, and spend his time talking to school kids about the cost of bullying. Only, it turns out, those high yield savings bonds were actually a rotted old log full of bees, which stung that bear to death!

Sleep well, Serena.

*****

[1] She actually smells quite pleasant. I just have a very juvenile sense of humor

The back wall of my apartment is predominantly window, about waist high from the parking lot outside. There is physical security, but only token separation from the world. Curtains exist, but are rarely in place, and the foot traffic is steady and curious. When I sleep, with windows open, passerby’s could spit on me, were they to choose so.

This should trouble me, yet there is a strange appeal to residing in a bachelor terrarium. The loss of anonymity is bracing. It’s like some bastard cousin to my writerly instinct delights in living life in clear view; forcing my personal minutia into a public context. A sort of Proustian, performance art, blogging.

There is an implied challenge to not deviate my behavior in the face of discovery. I spent 20 minutes yesterday adding jug solos to my favorite bluegrass tracks. I sat there in plain sight, underwear clad, blowing enthusiastically into an oversized wine bottle…badly out of time with the accompanying music. There were at least three witnesses to the display. I have no illusions to the quality of response it provoked, but the notion of my identity geminating in a strangers mind is gratifying: the myth of naked jug band guy filtering its way through the city. I need to hit the gym.

(Continued from :How do I make the ladies love me, part 1)

Step 4: Make a move

If you want proceed past the tingly acquaintance phase you need to make a move at some point. Cringing hopefully in the corner of a lady friend’s life won’t get you laid, and it won’t get you loved… it will give you a front row seat to emotional masochist theatre. I cannot emphasis this enough: don’t be that creepy friend, with a poorly concealed crush, who spends his days bad mouthing boyfriends and making angsty mixed tapes. Being an ultra supportive (duplicitous) friend doesn’t entitle you to love you wouldn’t risk the hit for. Devotion without disclosure is obsession. It’s is not romantic… it is a selfish, unhappy, deception.

What you should do:

Read the signs. People are self defeating assholes, that engage in retarded, defective, random behavior (to feed the thousand tiny mouths of conflicting desire). As such it can be difficult to properly suss out the intentional landscape of a prospective lady friend. Still, you can avoid an emotional paddling or two if you apply a little deductive due diligence.

Clear Signs she’s not interested (probably)

- Doesn’t flirt, and seems uncomfortable when you do

- Talks about other crushes around you

- Talks about her boyfriend

- Won’t touch you

- Avoid your calls/emails

Clear Signs she’s interested (probably):

- Get catty when you are around other women

- Wants to drink wine and watch movies at your apartments

- Does the old linger and trail after hugs

- Constantly talks about sex, and how good you’d likely be at it

Lay the groundwork. No matter its deliciousness, if you cram a sandwich down someone’s throat, they will not enjoy it. You need to seed a gradual awareness of your romantic interest; give them time to absorb and react to it in degrees. Tease it out; keep it uncertain enough there are little bursts of discovery and intrigue.

If you just drop the whole thing on their lap, and ask them to deal with it, it becomes an obligation…and that is not sexy. The move should be a culmination of your efforts and play, not the first step.

Don’t Flinch. Here’s the thing, kids, no matter how cool you’ve been, how clear you’ve seen, and how sweet you laid it down, six times out ten it is going to go badly. For all you try and pay it with flowers, gifts, and praise, the currency of love is pride…and there is no guarantee of service. That’s the deal: try and bruise, or hide and rot. There is no way around it. Someone is either worth the pain of exposure, or they are not.

After my first real taste of romantic woe I made an angsty claim:

I’m giving up love for basket weaving; less hurt, more baskets.

Pithy, perhaps, but a surrender to the smallest parts of my self. Fortunately my poor fine motor skills, and stubborn romantic spark, forced me from those wicker shores and back into the mix. I eventually took the hit, got the girl, and realized the ache of giving in far outstrips the pain of failure.

****

Continued in part 3: Closing the Deal, riding the wave, and Getting out of dodge.

(Note: Reposted as Part 2 will be coming out today-ish)

Last night a magic Elf came to me in my dreams; the Elf he said “AJ, People don’t know shit ‘bout nothing. You gotta help ‘em out.” And I was all like “Yeah all right, Elf.” When A.J. Valliant makes a promise, he keeps a promise, so I’m obligated to lay some solid knowledge on you, my children’s.

Since I only know like eights things, I figure I’ll start at the top of the pile and help you folks with the old biological imperative:

How do I make the ladies love me?

( I want to stress from the outset this isn’t a list of misogynistic tricks to persuade guileless females to fall into your clutches. People, in general, have trouble relating and managing interpersonal contact, so these are some approaches to try and bridge the social divide . Almost all of the advice is gender neutral, but since I have only ever experienced being a man trying to romantically engage a women, I’m going to hit it from that perspective. )

Let me preface this guide with the following caveat: Historically I appeal most strongly to three specific subgroups of Femanity:

Superficial ditzy chicks with daddy complexes

Rather clever, quirky, strong willed ladies that are mildly antisocial

Cool chicks that just want to get their rocks off

*note: there is significant overlap between the last two

As the vast majority of my romantic congress has occurred within these three groups, I cannot speak to the broader efficacy of the information I am about present: I figure it’s decent in most cases though. The one big exception is group D) Shallow, status conscious, high maintenance woman. Lets just say there is a mutual We are not each others cup of tea understanding in place, and leave it at that. Let’s get down to business.

Step 1: Know thy self

The first step in any sort of interpersonal congress is gaining meaningful and critical understanding of who you are, coming to peace with it, and learning to effectively project it. Confidence and style comes from awareness and acceptance. There are few things more compelling than someone who is distinctly of themselves, and makes no apology for it.

The thing to remember: this is an honest…critical…assessment. That means not just accepting your strengths and quirks, but acknowledging the flaws you hate, the decisions you are ashamed of, and the weaknesses that have fucked with you every day of your life.

For instance: I get to honestly put forth that I’m an engaging, immensely decent, clever mother fucker; but I also have to make peace with the fact I’m a petty, manipulative, egotistical prick that hides behind a martyr complex when things get tough. To deny any part of who you are means that anything you put forth is going to ring false, undermining meaningful connection.

Step 2: Have some respect

If you don’t have some respect for the person you’re engaging, you are not only hurting your chances of success, you are diminishing both of you regardless of the outcome. Respect covers a lot of ground, so for the purposes of this discussion it means:

Acknowledge the girl as an equal partner in whatever goal you have. One sided wooing is creepy, unappealing, and way more work than is necessary. When you respect that the other person has equal agency in the process it means they get to do half the work. You are not trying to win a prize, you are entering into a negotiation. Respect that they have their own desires and motivations that can play in concert with your own. Respect yourself enough to realize you are bringing equal value to the table, so you don’t need to be all guarded and conniving.

Even from a purely physical stand point, women still don’t need to be tricked into having sex. If you want to get laid, find a women within your league, who enjoys and wants to have sex, then tastefully put the notion forth. If you are patient and realistic about your appeal you will eventually find a willing partner. Be honest beforehand, attentive during, and discrete afterwards, and things will be a lot easier in the future.

Step 3: Be cool, brother

Here’s the thing: no matter how straight forward your intentions and affect are, there is still a degree of social manipulation and gamesmanship necessary in romantic engagement. As enlightened as we pretended to be, we are still products of the pack/herd, and certain behavioral responses are largely hardwired and culturally engineered into our development. The end result: that which is pursued retreats; anything readily attainable is devalued.

I’m not talking about jerking people around, or trying to undermine their self esteem. You are not out to break their will, you just want to pace things a little. Maintain an air mystique and challenge about you. In its ideal form that early vying for interest, and unveiling of identity, is fun and engaging for both people. It also gives you time to figure out just how interested you are in the other, without either party suffocating the life out of things. The specific points of interest break down like so:

Be polite, friendly, and engaged, while maintaining a degree of subtle aloofness. Make a real attempt to get a sense of them, but don’t gush or provide excessive uncritical praise. You are not trying to win them over, you are honestly trying to get to know them. Having genuine insight and awareness of a person is far more attractive than pronouncements of how awesome they are.

Just relax. You are not trying to sell anything, you are spending some time with a cool person. Chemistry will be there, or it won’t; you not going to talk someone into being attracted to you…but you can sure talk them out it. If you are too invested in any particular outcome it destroys that natural flow of interaction, and prevents any sort of connection from forming.

Have an edge. This one is a killer, since not that many people can pull it off. Ideally you are trying to show that you not an overly nice, ineffectual, best friend forever type…without coming across as insecure overcompensating asshole. Figure out how much of an alpha male you legitimately are, then express that within the parameters of your natural behavior. This is much easier if you have an inherent growl and swagger about you, but even a relative pansy can put forth the stronger parts of his core.

Continued in part 2:

A week’s wandered by since my sudden change in employment status. Strange days my friends: strange days that glom and stretch together in an unpredictable fashion. I haven’t had a week off in five years. My brain doesn’t know how to process this much unbroken time. I feel like some hard case corporate recidivist given parole: after eight years of sharpening spoons and fighting off boardroom buggery I don’t know how to live on the outside. I keep trying to exchange cigarettes for extra prescription benefits.

That may have been an overstatement. Or a lie. The absence of structure, however, has been troubling. My brain doesn’t naturally apportion time well, and my attention expands to fill the allowable space…becoming dissolute in the process. While I’ve carefully managed my internal world, the outer shape of my life has always been defined by obligations I’ve been under. Without that external pressure things have become a little formless.

To cope I drink a lot of tea. Like, crackhead amounts of tea. The agitation fills me with a jittery sort of purpose…a sense of forward momentum. Drink enough tea and you can watch CNN for hours without remorse. I’ve half convinced myself I’m in the late stages of interviewing for a gig as Obama’s speech writer. I mouth inspirational words at the T.V. and feel triumphant when he echoes my talking points. While unquestionably deranged, it’s more prestigious than my former pretend job as a Liberty City bounty hunter [1]. I need to get out of the house.

Tomorrow I acquire my severance riches, and try and track down my Psych degree. I suspect this will move things in a more productive direction. I’ll keep you posted.

[1] Mostly I just went around murdering cab drivers…which is really more vigilantism, than bounty hunting proper. Though, I still consider it a public service. Time to give the Jewish lass my X-Box for a while.

It’s been a long week. No intro today. Lets get down to business.

*****

What would the moral implications of eating a “My Little Pony” be? Assuming they were real. Is it worse than eating a Dolphin? Than punching a Unicorn in the face? Making love to a Teddy Ruxpin doll you’d implanted with a recording begging you to stop?

Davos in Chicago

That’s a tough question, Davos. It asks what obligation do we have to other species? How much weight, if any, sentience/intelligence plays in that obligation? And why Teddy would dress like that if he didn’t want us to take a voyage on his magical airship?

I’m going to need to bust out a mini assessment scale to provide some clarity on this issue.

Beats Entropy, Mythical discourtesy scale:

1. Rogering Teddy. Despite his protests.

2. Making a Lemur wear a chinchilla coat to a weasel convention

3. Informing a Barba-Poppa it looks like a nutsack

4. Punching a Unicorn in the face

5. Placing used chewing gum in Jehovas beard

6. Eating a My Little Pony (likely Sundance) [1]

7. Setting fire to Oscar the Grouch’s trashcan, without first removing Slimey.

8. Using Pippi Longstocking’s invisible bike in a drive-by-shooting.

9. Whoring a Who down in Whoville.

10. Filling Thomas the Tank Engine with Sarin nerve gas during the lunch hour rush.

(1): Extra points if you eat Meghan as well.

*********

I have incurable bone cancer. It would comfort me greatly to know what the next world holds for me. I realize religious guidance is not your providence, but you’re only person I trust to give me a straight answer.

Zephyr Grimm.

Zeph, I don’t even know what this world holds…for me…today. And I’m cool with that. Foreknowledge, for the most part, is worthless: it does nothing but build anxiety, and bleed down experience. If I had to guess (what comes next) I’d say dissolution and ease over comes us. That we soften into the background, and very broad answers are remembered. The only comfort, I imagine, is that which we release. It’s not the worst deal.

*********

How come you don’t put poetry up on the site anymore?

Jessica Lang

Well, Jessica, there are a couple reasons:

1) It feels hypocritical. While I enjoy writing it, I’ve joined passing pro life mobs to avoid reading other peoples compositions. I respect the medium in an abstract sense, but the end product tend to be so insular, and self indulgent/referential, that it feels more like bland voyeurism than real artistic engagement. (With the odd rare exception) it’s on par with browsing through someone else’s scrapbook, or blog[1].<— And that’s the competent poetry: an incredibly rare subspecies in the poetry phylum.

Bad poetry. Man, I’d rather be double teamed by leprous armadillos than slog my way through other people’s bad poetry. It’s like trying to kiss an ugly baby: you just want to smother and shake it, put it out of its misery, but you can’t…since everyone is watching.

2) I only write poetry when I’m wooing or freshly broken up. Strip me of my libido, I’d be writing model airplane instructions, and stern letters to city councilmen. Yet, once those pheromones hit, the metre starts to flow, and simple statements fold into artful convolutions. It’s a disease really: some flaw in the Celtic genome taking the place of proper judgment.

The breakup stuff, while even more unbearable, is about providing context and closure. Pulling unwieldy feelings into an arena that offers apparent resolution.

[1] And yes, this is clearly hypocritical as well.

Like all break ups, I expected it…but I was off on the timing. My surreally brief decade [1 ] of corporate employment ended in quiet conversation, Tuesday morning. It was a cool, form letter, discussion on their part. A bemused and grinning one on mine. They weren’t allowed to discuss their motivation, beyond informing me, repeatedly, it was a “business decision”. That’s akin to answering “Why are you hitting me?” with “My arms make the bat go down”: accurate, but willfully obtuse.

To their credit they gave me a big thing of riches, and let me gather my posessions without taunts or tasering. They even laughed when I had to retrieve my shoes and sock from under the desk (yes I was laid off barefoot). Security seemed thrown by how relaxed and upbeat I was. Also: I kept assuring them “I’m not reaching for my gun” whenever I rifled through a desk drawer. They asked me if I actually had a gun….I replied “what caliber counts as a gun?”. They were less amused by this. I said my goodbyes, stole my lucky mug, and left the only real job I’ve ever had.

I should be concerned. I have no proper skills. I was only qualified for my old job by default, and I have no intention of returning to that world. Yet, I am not. I feel released. I’ve been freed from excuses and obligations and intend to make the most it. More to come on this late breaking story as information comes in.

[1] It was actually around eights years…but that reads a little sloppy.

(CONTINUED FROM PART 1 and PART 2 ;Continued in PART 4)

There are three kinds of friends: false, true, and products of circumstance. I’ve only ever had the patience for the third; easy, extinguishable, bonds of mild consideration. This is no slight on my friends (though they are, by and large, terrible people), just a hitch in my perception: I don’t see the point. Situations are fluid, and I… am a man of questionable buoyancy. I’ve contested that notion in the past. Unsuccessfully.

Tom found me on the steps. I‘d been there a time. He was as drunk as he thought I. Still, he hauled me into the living room of our shared apartment with comedic efficiency. He then made an egg (left in the pan), drank a gallon of water, and came to rest in approximately the same heap I occupied. He slept; my mind wandered in slow convolutions.

“Dave. Dave. Dave.”

A hard flick between my eyes accompanied each Dave.

“Dave.”

Flick.

I opened my eyes. Tom flicked me again on general principle.

“Are you all right? You don’t have a pulse” said Tom.

Tom lacked a certain ironic capacity.

“I don’t see how I could be” I said. My voice clanged like an ugly tape recording.

Tom sat, absorbing the information. Several minutes passed. He began poking my chest with a ladle he’d found on the floor.

“You’re not breathing” said Tom.

He had a point. I wasn’t.

“I think I’m dead” I offered.

———————————-

Tom considered this for a very long time.

“Should I call someone” said Tom.

It was tempting, but I needed to think this through.

“No real point, I suppose” I said.

Tom put down the phone, relieved. Reams of hypothetical paperwork fluttered from his shoulders; tedious doves taking flight. Should I have seen that? Tom lit a tightly rolled joint; he claimed it helped him think. There was limited evidence to support that conclusion. He did, however, possess the coping skills of a defeatist Buddha…so there was something to the practice.

“Does it hurt” asked Tom.

“Not really” I said.

It didn’t. Not exactly.

“What does it feel like” asked Tom.

I’d been trying to put a taste to it all night. It was a hard thing to contextualize: this blurry absence of sensation…like Winter asked me to hold its coat, punched me in the stomach, then ditched me at an bad acid party thrown by Charlie browns teacher.”

“Its cold and I’m tired” I said.

Something in my throat tore mid description, giving the last few words a guttural warble. Tom stared with sick fascination.

***

Continued in PART 4

 The prestige of having been employed in the same entry level job for seven years (without promotion) has lead many of our readers to seek my advice in career matters[1]. Traditionally, I answer via private correspondence (mostly with biting personal commentary and ugly sexual innuendo), but a recent wave of joblessness among my cohort has convinced to disseminate my wisdom in a more public fashion.

  As my expertise is largely rooted in matters rhetorical, I will approach the topic as such. My time in the business world has taught me exactly one thing: context in more important than content. Being able to frame information in a self-constructive fashion is the entirety of the battle; master the spin, and you win.

      Thus I give you Ask BE: What should I say in a job interview

null

***

The Statement: I’m not afraid to cut a nigga if he gets too close!

  While this assertion could potentially establish your stret cred, your interviewer is unlikely to draw any positive inference from it. Additionally: if the interviewer does haphazardly wander too close…you will need to cut him, or risk losing any previously accrued street credentials[2].

 How you should couch it: I have a strong commitment to personal space, and am a highly motivated self starter (with a strong appreciation for the importance of reputation).

 ***

 Educational Wherewithal: I am wholly illiterate. This is a conscious choice, that I have made at great personal cost. 

 The reading world is unkind to the brave, mi compadre. Incomprehensible forms are presented, signatures demanded, and pictographic resumes rejected out of hand. Fortunately, the higher up you go in the corporate world, the more literacy becomes a liability: Complete sentences, proper syntax, and using one metaphor at a time are the province of lesser men…forced into coherence by their low station in life.  

 A proper obfuscation: I’m a big idea guy…a do’er who doesn’t waste his time on navel gazing. I delegate effectively to remained focused on high concept execution.

  ***

The admission: I got fired from my last job for sexually assailing, like…three coworkers. But at least two of them clearly wanted it.

  A hard pill to swallow, indeed. This is a classic case of providing too much information, and applying value judgements where none are needed. Let the courts decide who was in the wrong: your job is to sell your product. You.

 A more refined sentiment:  In my last position I took on additional unpaid management duties, that created some friction amongst my co-workers. In hindsight more effective communication skills would have smoothed the transition.

 ***

 Matters of Health: I got hit with the Dim Mak touch a couple years back…so I’ll likely be taking a lot of sick leave.

 Health issues can raise all sorts of red flags in a prospective employer. Try and downplay the debilitative impact of your condition, while emphasising the benefits.

 How to Frame it: Instead of mentioning your lack of positive Ki, emphasis your abundance of negative Ki. Explain how you may die and become a Revenant…perhaps one driven to work extremely hard, for a limited wage.

 ***

 The freestyle portion of the interview:

 My rage is ringing like a phone, bitch you better answer

My life is full of pain, like your wife is full of cancer

 A little hostile, but you’re on the right track. Rapping, along with collating and synergizing, form the core triumvirate of effective office management.

 An Alternate flow:

 I am assertive and capable, in a straight forth manner

I always meet my deadlines, as I am a effective planner

I’m sorry to hear about your wife

 ***

 The Situation: The King of all Centaurs is my sworn enemy. There will be attacks; some to kill, some to capture. Mostly during office hours. The dead will be the fortunate ones.

 While it is not uncommon to have unresolved obligations from past employment, it is important to inform potential employers of any pre-existing scheduling conflicts. You are not well served, however, disclosing past acrimony that might cast you in a negative light.

  A more optimistic interpretation:

   Past cultural exchanges have allowed me to form strong, if complex, relationships with non traditional markets. This will almost certainly facilitate a variety of networking opportunities, for myself, and my coworkers…possibly leading to extended placement in outside positions.

 ********

 [1] Our readers are as lacking in judgement, as they are to soon be gainful employment.

 [2]: And who knows, he may be quick with a blade himself. What a terrible outcome it would be to lose a potential employment opportunity and the better part of your spleen.

 I moved again. This will be my 14th home in the past ten years. There are murderous drifters that maintain a more static address. Mind, every house has been within an eight block radius: more pacing, I suppose, than wandering proper. I’m not sure if it’s boredom with status quo that drives me, or just a delayed awareness of a poor initial choice…repeatedly. 

 I left my couch, entertainment unit, and air conditioner behind. There was no specific grudge[1]: they had just outlived there usefulness. I also discarded a poorly funded library’s worth of books, three quarters of my dishes, and the clothes of a smaller man of questionable taste. It took 40 minutes to pack the truck, and 20 to unload it. My life takes an hour to transport. I am unsure how to feel about that. The movers charged me an extra hour for the time it may have taken them to get to my house. This seems unfair, but my friends assure that sort of hypothetical billing is the norm.

 After the fact I realized I had failed to transport my cat. The Jewish lass lent a cat carrier that was laughably undervolumed for the task. Felica’s girth required it be disassembled, then reassembled around her… the sort of accommodation normally reserved for vast tunnel borers, or the relocation of antique houses. The walk home tested the limits of my will, and the ligaments in my shoulders. She seemed to be pulling nutrients directly from the air; spitefully increasing her mass with every step. It was a long walk.

  Halfway home the ache and empty streets left me feeling inexplicably like the Incredible Hulk.   

 The new place is cool. High ceilings, big square rooms, no Chud cave. A pianist lives in the apartment above me: I feel like I need to start doing classier things so I can better suit my soundtrack. My bathroom is gleaming and tiled, with the acoustics of a room five times it’s size. I am beginning to suspect this apartment was intended for someone with a deeper appreciation of community theatre.

   Unpacking will come in it’s own time.

 ****

[1] This is untrue in the couches case. It was a incremental betrayer of the highest order, failing to fulfill the most basic tenants of couchdom.

While talking to my associates over tacos, I accidentally mixed my metaphors[1] and declared “I feel as unwanted as a Black Step Child”. While funny, the hostile glares it garnered from our fellow dinners suggested it may have been a tad inappropriate. The next day at work, while reading this article, about a 7′3 sex offender, I commented “wow, I bet that guy could molest 3 kids at once”. I was not endorsing the morality of his vile deed, I was merely marvelling over the efficiency with which he could execute them[2]. My boss suggested this was less than appropriate workplace commentary.

In both cases my intentions were pure, but my judgement was flawed. If only there had been some means of weighing the potential negative impact of a given statement; some standards to measure against. Then I thought “hey… I have supercomputer capable of ranking subjective things in a absolute manner[3], why don’t I lay it down for my childrens”.

So here ya go: The Beats Entropy: Inappropriate Comment scale.

Keep in mind these statements are not intentionally malicious, rather they are progressively ill considered.

—————————————————————–

0: “I would enjoy a delicious piece of toast”

1: “I used to pet my cat until she rang like a telephone”

2: “I keep wearing holes in all my pants pockets”

3: ” You smell just like my ex girlfriend”

4: “I feel like dirty ol’ Christopher Robin when I wear rubber boots”

5: “Do you think it’s harder to pick cotton or Rice?”

6: “”When life gives you lemons… cut yourself a little.”

7: “I’m just saying, given the constant temptation, Donnie Osmond is a better man than I.”

8: “that baby has huge hands, I bet they’re as strong as a small boys.”

9: ‘If you turned those swings sideways your kids would get a lot more fresh air.”

10: “For a women of your accomplishment looking haggard is a badge of honor”

11: “I’ve licked sexier things off my beard.”

12: “There is a lot more afterbirth than I thought. Have you been eating cranberries or something?”

13: “I’m not saying slavery was right…but a savvy businessman uses the resources at hand.”

14: ” Amber is my least favourite kind of alert”

15: “Egg salad sandwiches remind me of my gynaecologist”

16: “I’m not saying you have wide hips…It’s just that my hands are small enough there would be no tearing”

17: “if your tits were a little bouncier you’d look just like my mother”

18: “”Little boy or not, you’re only a hero if you survive the cancer!”

19: “This U.S. economy has been hit harder than a World Trade center sidewalk”

20: “Mmmmmm…Mmmmm, delicious: if this sandwich were a woman I’d drag it behind a dumpster and rape it.”

*****************

[1] Redheaded stepchild and Black sheep of the family.

[2] The choices, not the children. As I understand it they all survived.

[3] The Aribitron 3500

 Not before the eyes of an unknowable god; we have an understanding.  Rather, Ottawa Hydro shut off my electricity. There were vauge claims made towards unpaid bills, hurtful words were exchanged, night descended. The nonpayment was the result of my limited conception of time, and lacking a key to my mailbox, as opposed to some financial insolvency.

  My usual reminder to pay the bill comes in form of red pamphlet, hammered into my door with a railroad spike, to the effect of: “Pay yo’ bill cracka…we will cut you”. I then pay my bill. On this particular occasion they cut straight to the end game and stoneaged me without warning…a direct violation of our unspoken covenant. In protest I ate cereal, alone, in the dark…then lay down on what I hope was my bed.

  Initially I was set on defiance. Man lived without power for thousands of years, I could brave it the two weeks I had left before the move. Then I saw my grossly obese cat, sweat sheathed and ungainly, pedaling the tiny bicycle she had hooked up to her heart and lung machine. I relented and paid my bill. This proved insufficient.

 It turns out mere monetary compensation wasn’t enough…I needed to be humbled before the punitive might of hydro. Not only did I need to pay my bill, plus a reconnection fee, plus a 200$ unreliable jackass surtax…I also needed to wait in my apartment until a technician came, my bank receipt in my hand like a paupers writ.

  Their technicians, it was explained to me, are a nomadic lot than can’t possibly estimate when they might be in my part of town. I was given (without exaggeration) a four day window of time that I was to remain in my apartment… bereft of unspoiled food, power, and the basic decency accorded timely bill payers. Eventually a friendly, if recently incarcerated, gentleman arrived. Lacking the necessary keys he jimmed his way into my apartment power room with a butter knife, pulled a switch, and laughed about how our shoddy wiring ensured a fire any day now.

  I can’t help but feel partly responsible for how things went down.    

I know been gone baby, but I’ve been in your hearts (and in some cases homes) all the while. I Ain’t got time for excuses, and I’m running low on ink, so let’s get down to business.

************ 

  Where the hell have you been? What are you doing? Why haven’t you posted? Do you not feel some responsibility to your readers?

 About a half dozen people

The Internets

 In Order: Round about’s, not a whole lot, creative back pressure, a little.

 ***********

 I am an aspiring writer. How do you keep your edge?

Justin Martin

 You break off little pieces down the line until the sides are almost touching.

 *********

Are you a fun drunk?

SAS

Ottawa, Ontario

Matter of perspective, I suppose. I’m certainly an animated one. If you can catch me in that sweet spot, where I’m mostly coherent and largely uninhibited, it can be a bit of a trip. There is a rhetorical sociopathy that kicks in after eights gins; this erosion of courtesy that broadcasts some of the baser commentary my manners usually filter out. Picture a wry, prickish, jackass with a knack for effective phrasing. Also: I climb things and tend to remove my clothing. Good times all around.

  ********

You must be pretty hyped now that Hillary is out of the race for president.

 Doug Gottlieb,

Winston, SC

 You know, I really thought I would be, but it hasn’t played out that way. Partly it’s due to Obama being too cagey to really grind the victory in. I would have given riches upon riches to hear him deliver a petty, spiteful, oratorical beatdown after the fact.

  Something along the lines of :

  ” I ‘d like to thank my esteemed opponent for being such a shrieking, unlikeable, womb withered harpy, that her closest  supporters turned on her like she was loose change at a bus stop. Were she a man I’d slap the sharpei smugness from her grinning, dead eyed, face. I hope all the illiterate crackers, and embittered housewives, that voted for her rot a little inside each day for the next eight years of my presidency.”

  Then he’d throw down the mic and walk off the stage to raucous applause. Had that occurred I would be much more satisfied. Even then, though, it would still be somewhat of a stillwater triumph.

 It turns out I actually enjoy cheering against someone, far more than I enjoy cheering for someone. Hillary was a near ideal villain, and I had been teasing out the thrill of her eventually defeat for months. Now, after a brief spurting moment of triumph, I’m left without an adversary. I could just go back to hating cab drivers, but it lacks the necessary stakes to really rev my engine. Oh well, it was good run while it lasted.     

CONTINUED FROM PART 1 and  CONTINUED IN PART 3

There were three killers in my freshman class: two soldiers, and a hobbyist. The hobbyist hung himself in jail; the soldiers died in non consecutive incidents of friendly fire. I can’t help but think the hobbyist had the more successful life; if nothing else he had control and purpose. The soldiers just were until they weren’t. This makes me feel unpatriotic. As does my lack of patriotism. There should be a word for wanting to have pride in something: maybe wan…tide. Wantide: that works, like a tide too weak to reach the shore. I’ve been walking for hours, why can’t I find my house?

When you can’t feel your feet you have to listen for when to take the next step. I learned the proper slap…step…march through trial and error. Initially it was more of a crash…fuck…stand. But I adapted.

Four hundred steps, and fewer crashes, carried me forward. My knees were worn through. It occurred to me nothing was familiar. Had I belonged I would have been lost. As it stood, I was not where I wanted to be. A cab slowed to a stop beside me. I don’t think I hailed it; I was glad to get in. It made things seem real. He said “where to”: I handed him my wallet and asked he take me home. He seemed sad.

My bleeding knees were an embarrassment. The tan slacks now matched the burgundy pull over: I was unsettled by the salesgirls prescience. For all their callous disposal of my corpse, you had to respect their commitment to fashion. I pushed away that line of thought, I hadn’t the bearing for those airs. Small talk bubbled up, then fractured into a pounding, bus stop-guy, poetry. I pulled it back; filled the silence by humming along to news talk radio. There was a war on and it had a beat you could dance to.

The cabbie stopped the car and tossed me my wallet. I fumbled my way to the ground, crawling. Wheel flung rocks sprayed my cheek: mean pitted little things, that had clearly yearned to take flight. This must have been my house; the numbers swam, but the door looked familiar. I sat on the porch and waited. For something.

(CONTINUED IN PART 2)

I don’t know if it was the smoking, or the nagging, that finally killed me. I’d like to think it was the smoking: there had been a slow burn suicide pact between us, and it’d be nice to have held up my end of the bargain. Either way my body quit, ran down like a rotted clock in the rain, leaving me little in the way of prospects.

The first difficulty, in situations such as mine, is what to do with the body. A corpse, unlike a person, always belongs to someone; it cannot be ignored. Discovery alone suffices investment, creating negative ownership pressure that must be addressed. With this in mind I awaited some resolution.

I should mention I died at the mall. I was hoping to buy shoes. I don’t know that this is a specifically shameful admission, but it’s an underwhelming one. I’d always hoped for a more spectacular demise: cut down by a hail of gunfire, spewing blood and curses, body borne to the ground by acres of hot lead. Instead I passed on a bench across from an Orange Julius stand, internally debating whether paying for a juice with a 20$ was worth the extra change it would incur. From a physical standpoint it was painless.

The better part of my view was a The Gap. Three full windows of immaculately dressed ivory figures faced me. There was a smugness to their implausibly slim hips and vacant eyes, an assurance that allowed them to be exploitive despite their display: like a grad student stripping her way through a sociology degree. They were intolerable. I became acutely aware of the hole in my shoe, and how that might reflect upon me. Had I told anyone, specifically, that I was going to buy shoes…would they come to my defence? Fucking mannequins.

Eventually the manger found me. He was so alike the mannequins, in dress and manner, he seemed some flush and ambulatory evolutionary offshoot, hidden in the world of men. I was having trouble making sense of things.

The manager took my pulse, blanched, then returned to the store to consult with his sales team. Their voices were muted, like bees in a bathtub, but I could tell they’d reached a consensus.

Rough hands overtook me. A young women wept and dressed me in tan slacks and a burgundy pull over. I can only assume she was in shock. They ditched my body in a Sears dumpster, taking special care to remove the magnetic tags from my garments. I was grateful I wouldn’t go to my grave a thief.

I spent a night in the cardboard leavings of a dying commercial enterprise. I wondered at the quality of corpses in a Walmart dumpster: were they larger and better arranged? Or recycled into greeter positions? Either way I feared I would suffer by comparison. Spurred by the creeping banality of my plight I spilled out the side of the dumpster, and moved towards my home. A curious omission pulled backwards at my thoughts.

CONTINUED IN PART 2

BLIND PARENTS DEMAND BLIND CHILDREN

Note the Video above. A congenitally deaf couple has decided that they want to produce a child through invitrofertilization. They are planning on sorting through all of the potential embryos, and selecting the one which will be guaranteed to produce a deaf person…like them, and their other daughter. Allow me to restate that for clarity: they are using genetic screening to insure a pre crippled child that properly matches their special little family.

They, of course, bristle at the notion that deafness is detrimental in anyway, and see a law being passed to prevent deliberate selection of defective embryos, as discrimination against the deaf. They assert that, were they to not choose a little deaf baby, it would be tantamount to admitting they are handicapped in someway…as opposed to belonging to the exclusive, and oh so trendy, deaf subculture.

I will go a long way to prove a point…and I can respect trying to make the best of a rough deal…but eventually you move past a maintaining a brave front, and into delusional bravado. I’m going to make a controversial statement here: given the choice, it is better to not be Deaf or Blind, than it is being deaf or blind. The Garfield’s would disagree with me on that…but the Garfield’s, are fucking retarded. Perhaps[1] not retarded in the classic developmental sense, but possessing a lack of perspective so glaring it vastly overshadows their auditory deficiencies.

They argue that their handicap is just a mild perceptual hurdle; something more akin to a language difference, than a congenital defect: when they are scrapping their kid’s big wheel off a bus grill, because the little tyke didn’t hear the horn blaring, they can comfort themselves with the semantic victory they’ve achieved. Hey, I don’t want to think of myself as a murderer…but that won’t bring all those drifters back to life; you are what you are, regardless of how that reality makes you feel.

I am sure there is some deaf, blind, insensate goon, hanging in a sack on his parents den wall, that would happily assert [2] there is nothing wrong with his lot in life…since he doesn’t know any better…as he lives in a sack on a wall, and lacks perspective.

Likewise: If you’ve been deaf since birth, you aren’t really qualified to judge the relative merits of the world o’ sound… so maybe ask a hearing friend if there are any hidden benefits: like Music, fire alarms, and talking in the dark, before you damn your children to eternal silence.

Just because you can’t hear, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen. [3]

But perhaps I’m being too autocratic in my judgements. Perhaps each of us is entitled to inflict whatever crippling infirmity we want on our unborn childen. For that that matter: Why stop at merely selecting a defective embryo? If, by chance, the Garfield’s child acquires the curse of hearing, they should be allowed to deafen it with hat pins and scarlet fever…maybe ugly[4] up it’s faces with bricks a little so it matches it’s jug eared C.H.U.D ugly parents. Additionally: the children of paraplegics should have their limbs bound until they are useless; the children of the blind lasered into darkness at first blink; and the (adopted) children of the French, chemically instilled with a deep, and shameful, cowardice.

After all, isn’t the mark of a truly devoted parent the desire for our children to suffer the same misery and disadvantage as the generation before… so as to keep them humble and bound to us?

********

I can’t help but picture the C.H.U.Dleys staring up at this big McDonalds style menu in the geneticist office.

Dr. Swank: What can I get for you sir?

Mr Chuddley (signing): We’d like to add another broodling to our happy family. Nothing fancy though.

Dr. Swank: Of course. The basic model comes with ten fingers, five senses, and a three year limited warrantee.

Mr Chuddley: Oooooooohhhh…five senses…seems a little flashy, don’t you think?

Dr. Swank: No, not really. To be honest that is the absolute bare minimum we can offer by law.

Mr Chuddley: Yeaaah….thing is, my wife and I are deaf, so it’s probably in the Childs best interest that it’s deaf as well…for symmetries sake.

Dr. Swank: Are you sure…we offer hearing at no extra cost…actually we’d have to charge extra to make sure the child is deaf.

Mr Chuddley: I don’t mind paying top dollar for quality.

Dr. Swank: That’s deplorable. Are there any other crippling physical deficiencies you’d like us add? Maybe have the hands fuses together in club like structures.

Mr Chuddley: Tempting…but again…symmetry.

Also: my wife and I are incredibly selfish and spiteful…Is there anyway that you can work that in there too?

Dr. Swank: I’m sure that will work its self out in the natural course of things.

***************

[1] Lets apply the exhaustive Three point Beats Entropy Retardation Matrix:

a- Dressing in matching jeans and black sweaters, when there is already a disturbingly strong brother/sister resemblance

b- Unable to identify a Starling by call alone

c- Sees no downside in child lacking a major sense

It’s not looking good for the Chuddleys.

[2] Were he able to communicate in any way.

[3] And this isn’t some covert pro-life agenda: If thought it would give me powers I’d spend my lunch hours snatching newborns from unwed mothers…that I might harvest their delicious stem cells.

[4] If fairness, their ugliness likely has more to do with them being British, than is does them being deaf, or bad parents.

“I fear for my moral well being. Could you please rate the fruits and vegetables in terms of their inherent decency

 Lucas Darden”

  You set difficult task, Lucas. I’m not really a proponent of objective morality to begin with, and my dietary choices offers limited opportunity for vegetable dalliance, but a question is a question….so I’ll give it a shot.

   (Ranked in descending order from Most to Least Decent. The Majority fruits and vegetables are fairly neutral, so I will  emphasis the less reliable of their ilk.)

Vegetables/Fruits/Tubers ranked in order of their moral forthrightness

********

Potato

1. I would rank toast here, but several exchanges with agriculture Canada made it clear that it is neither fruit, nor vegetable[1]. I must, therefore, surrender up Toast’s usual place of primacy to it’s starchy brethren: Potato.

  The dowdy, if loyal, housewife of the vegetable world, Potato’s are blameless in deed and thought[2]. Though we mash and French them into in myriad forms, there dignity is immutable.

Decency: 10    Licentiousness: 0

 ——————–

2.Raisins.

Ascetic grapes that have chosen to walk the purifying path of the sun; they surrender up their sinful juices that my oatmeal might be delicious, and righteous. Wizened and wise, their chewy husk a martyrs bounty, natures candy deserves our respect.

 Decency: 9  Licentiousness: 3

 ————————————

3. Lemons

Harder to love than most, Lemons[3] are tasty on their own terms. Initially cultivated as punishment for unruly Roman slaves, lemons whispered secret words of justice and comfort…salving their wounds, and puckering their mouths. Eventually the Roman empire collapsed; Lemons persevered.

  Yes, Lemons are tad bitter and sour…but who the hell are you to judge? Have you lived their life? Did you and all you fine social graces stop by to bring me groceries when I broke my leg? No…cause Lemons did. That’s right, judge them now….you pimps….you whores!

Decency 9 Licentiousness 0 Bitterness 4

 ————————————————-

4. Celery

 A dietary non entity, celery is composed of: water, string, and a few splashes of chlorophyll. It aspires to nothing, and achieves it. It cannot be reviled, anymore than it can be trusted.

  I wrote a poem to better encapsulate my distrust of their vegapurgatory  :

Would you watch me die, Celery… unmoved by my passing.

Drinking up my blood, with your capillary action.  

Decency: 0   Licentiousness: 0

 —————————————-

5.Figs

 False Raisins made from shrunken flower plums, Figs are liars and defamers; their huge size necessary to hold the weight of their betrayal. Lacking in prunes somber dignity, Figs promise sweetness they cannot deliver, and provide comfort to terrorists’ worldwide. Were it not for there joyous Newton incarnation, they would much lower on this list.    

Decency: -3   Licentiousness: 5

  ————————————————

6.Kiwifruit

Moderately delicious, if loathsomely hairy, the Kiwifruit is undermined by it’s own low self esteem: any fruit that feels the need to have “fruit” as part of it’s name…to remove any doubt to it’s  fruitness, is either a) trying way too hard, or, b) has something to hide. If my parents named me AJclearlyahumanboy you would almost have to assume I was a robot, or time traveling alien bent on subversion of the human race. Wouldn’t you? Fruit of character stands on it’s own merits, without the need for redundant nomenclature.

Also: they look a little too much like the Eye of Sauron when cut open. Makes you wonder.

 Compare and Contrast

  Decency: -5   Licentiousness 3  

 —————————————————-

 7.Apples.

Wholesome. Dentally efficacious…and by many accounts: in league with the Devil. Sorry apples…we don’t truck with Satanist around here.

Decency: 8   Licentiousness: 5  Consorting with  primeval Chthonic forces: 9  

 ———————————————- 

8.Parsnips

 In olden days Parsnips cavorted in the near ground with their Carrot brethren, brighter hued…but dark of spirit. Eventually Parsnips wicked perversion ignited a war between them, and the more noble root vegetables, forcing them deep into the Kobold caves. Deprived of the near sun, Parsnips were bleached by darkness and bitter woe, until they took on the awful pallid hue they posses to this day.

  Bloodless as an old mans caress, Parsnips are the reaching pedophile of the plant kingdom. Avoid them at all costs.

  Decency: -10   Licentiousness 7

 ——————————————– 

9. Bananas

Oh dear, sweet, dirty bananas. As delicious as you are licentious. Nutrifying as you are scandalizing. Undermining the self esteem of many a man, with your yellow phallic majesty.

  When I was eight my grandmother sat and watched me eat a bushel, her unblinking eyes fixed upon me. A decade later I still coul