When I am here in my bed, propped up against the wall, lights out, eyes unfocused, I can feel every shadow. I can feel every shadow that probes the darkness, every shadow that surfaces into perception from inky depths. I can feel the abyss creep up my bed, over my sheets, held at bay by the light of my computer screen, a non-dark island, a sanctuary. Or maybe I don’t want sanctuary. Maybe the island is a hindrance. Maybe I am stranded. Maybe I want to escape, jettison myself into the abyss and let the dark wash over me and surround me and cover my body and fill my ears and mouth.
The standard conception of death is a tunnel of light. I see a hand of darkness. A hand that rises up from underneath my bed, like a shark surfacing underneath a boat. The hand approaches the surface, breaks it’s plain, makes a fist around my bed. The fingers rise like bedposts, close like tree branches. The fist pulls my bed down, down into the absolute darkness that you can defeat if your eyes are closed tight enough. Tight enough that bubbles of colored light bounce and pop under your eyelids. Reds, purples, low intensity wavelengths. Death is water. Death is drowning. Death is depth and the resulting pressure. The goal, then, is that moment when you cannot hold your breath any longer, that moment where the part of your brain still wired for primal survival takes over and forces your mouth open, forces your muscles to contract and fill your lungs with water. Only instead of water your lungs fill with oxygen and you open your eyes and the bubbles are gone and you are no longer at the bottom of a dark ocean but rather on your bed, where you were in the first place, propped against the wall, lights out, eyes unfocused. But they are focused now. They are focused on the one point of light on the wall ahead, the one point of light broadcast from a needlepoint hole in the curtain. And this one point of light becomes a tunnel, a tunnel of light that leads to heaven or Eden or maybe just a library of memories of life up to this point. The goal now is to remember birth. Remember the transition from warm dark to bright cold. Remember placental fluid sucked from unused lungs, the first particles of real oxygen and how they stung fresh tissue. Death is drowning and life is that first breath after.
12.25.2008
12.18.2008
Random Generator
1:36 in the morning and I’m eating fistfuls of raisins, smashing them into my mouth, agape receiving raisin nutrition at a small but massive pace. Trying to equalize the pressure in my nostrils, to find an even ration of pressure. My eyes are tired, their surface, marbled slightly , encrusted with various proteins or whatever it is that forms over old eyes--like soft glass, still clear but with an adhesive quality to the clearness. Fast violins in a hallway full of soaring cellos [nafgigating] cloudform sunrise. [qhwn m] more raisin food energy will sustain further developments of upstairs [drui,ciorl;es]. Think I am beyond the point of coherentness, the yellow cigarette fog descends on the room, leaving everyone vacant [wywa xloaw rhwy rKW QIRH RHWM RHW BllNXW ns feCIRT RHW AXEWWN EOCISWA. NOQ MT QOELS AHkwa NS REWBLWA] that should have been a disaster but it should be fun to decipher. Ready to jump off a roof or lie completely still before I leap off the building into the night. Turn away from the globes [gloves] of light before they are attracted to your eyes. Replacement and replication are two undesired outcomes of the current situation. Beat concentric watercircles [watersuckes] until [tghe caroet fkiirm oretebd ut us a kaje] if shaggy fibers shake [sjjake] the world [wirld] until balance is negated entirely, strings thin as spiders web [we]. From the electric light abyss word projections spew out of the screen, cascade onto the keyboard like rainbow waterfalls, the yellow cigarette fog descends on the room and leaves everyone vacant beyond the point of coherence co hairance cohairlance parliament druggadelic. Best [fuistemate ate guess riddleface lclain twi opriwlcats lurk in stomach ulcers. Lungs dried sponge or cinged catgair, land avasting catfood tail lock zixxle ie bnabdjdwikghg7asdluihgfskiswjuefnjds] This is how my mind became a random generator.
12.16.2008
Episodes of Sunshine
Remember her clothes on the floor,
the taste of her tongue that circled around mine.
She is on her side and the sheets rest
at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of
latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography.
In the midnight snow night is day, orange and yellow
under lamplight sun. Each bulb its own globe, interlocked like
a three dimensional Venn diagram.
See the end of a train slip through the snow like a shadow,
a spectral snake veiled in night.
Remember how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how
her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off
like turning a page in a book.
But she is the train, her eyes pulled through the dark
by mysterious engines, only glimpsed and long since gone.
This be a new one, fresh off the press or something like that. Obviously it shares the title with my 'novel,' but since that project has been abandoned I figured I shouldn't let a good title go to waste.
the taste of her tongue that circled around mine.
She is on her side and the sheets rest
at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of
latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography.
In the midnight snow night is day, orange and yellow
under lamplight sun. Each bulb its own globe, interlocked like
a three dimensional Venn diagram.
See the end of a train slip through the snow like a shadow,
a spectral snake veiled in night.
Remember how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how
her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off
like turning a page in a book.
But she is the train, her eyes pulled through the dark
by mysterious engines, only glimpsed and long since gone.
This be a new one, fresh off the press or something like that. Obviously it shares the title with my 'novel,' but since that project has been abandoned I figured I shouldn't let a good title go to waste.
Eight Minutes at the Bottom of the Ocean
Bubbles caress my face,
weave their way through my hair and wobble
towards cerulean surface, but I listen to blackbirds
on a cobalt autumn day. I
sit on the front lawn and savor the smell of gasoline
and cut grass.
I see myself walking out the door on the first day of fourth grade.
I walk across the street and turn back, to look at the house I
grew up in. I see my father, and his father,
and his father’s father on the front porch, smiles and
waves call for me to come back. I try to run to them but they
sink
farther and farther away.
They wave to me before vanishing
into some unseen precipice.
I am the house, the tan siding my father installed
one hot summer. The cornflower curtain over the window
in my bedroom and the sound of a lone sprinkler,
running all night long.
Maybe I never posted the original version of this? Odd...
weave their way through my hair and wobble
towards cerulean surface, but I listen to blackbirds
on a cobalt autumn day. I
sit on the front lawn and savor the smell of gasoline
and cut grass.
I see myself walking out the door on the first day of fourth grade.
I walk across the street and turn back, to look at the house I
grew up in. I see my father, and his father,
and his father’s father on the front porch, smiles and
waves call for me to come back. I try to run to them but they
sink
farther and farther away.
They wave to me before vanishing
into some unseen precipice.
I am the house, the tan siding my father installed
one hot summer. The cornflower curtain over the window
in my bedroom and the sound of a lone sprinkler,
running all night long.
Maybe I never posted the original version of this? Odd...
Low Earth Orbit
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.
I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.
I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.
Blood
Accidental teeth tear into lenient flesh,
the electric jolt, the diffuse pain, the entire body aware
and focused.
With my tongue I prod the wound, separate its folds,
let the taste of blood tickle my throat, like syrup or
melted wax.
Veins dilated, blood like fire burnt through open passages.
Eyes unblinked, head down, feel my heart race then stop, still,
the last drops of blood drained like bathwater.
the electric jolt, the diffuse pain, the entire body aware
and focused.
With my tongue I prod the wound, separate its folds,
let the taste of blood tickle my throat, like syrup or
melted wax.
Veins dilated, blood like fire burnt through open passages.
Eyes unblinked, head down, feel my heart race then stop, still,
the last drops of blood drained like bathwater.
Bones
Clothes and skin in excited heaps on the floor,
her naked skeleton on my bed.
A slender hand drawn across my back, needple-point fingertips
etch shallow canals on calm surface skin. She
pulls me close, to whisper in my ear, but all I hear
are the movements of her jaw, cool bones that click
and clack indecipherable dialogue, cold to the touch but
fevered with desire.
her naked skeleton on my bed.
A slender hand drawn across my back, needple-point fingertips
etch shallow canals on calm surface skin. She
pulls me close, to whisper in my ear, but all I hear
are the movements of her jaw, cool bones that click
and clack indecipherable dialogue, cold to the touch but
fevered with desire.
The End, though not quite the way the end is typically thought to be, while still being an end of some sorts.
'Tis the end of the semester and I have of course been frantically trying to finish projects and papers at the absolute last second. It has been quite a lot of work, but the good thing is that I've had to revise all my poems, which means I can re-post them here and get two posts for the price of one poem. So, then, in the next few posts are the select few that aren't crap, in their new and (hopefully) superior states. This post is completely worthless, no?
12.06.2008
Things Smelled Different When We Were Young
We orbit on polar opposites, our gravities in unison oscillate Earth to oblivion. Emptiness releases us and from the stars we can see remnants of the world we destroyed, little pieces of planet drift in all directions on exploratory missions of vacant space.
Now we glue Earth back together, only it’s not so much Earth anymore as much as it is Glue Earth. We struggle to simulate ecosystems; so caught up in replication that unnoticed Oceans of Elmer’s slosh and spill onto solidified continental plates, opaque and elastic. When the seas calm and the mountains settle we leave Glue Earth to rotate and collect momentum: a sibylline facsimile of life as we knew it.
Now we glue Earth back together, only it’s not so much Earth anymore as much as it is Glue Earth. We struggle to simulate ecosystems; so caught up in replication that unnoticed Oceans of Elmer’s slosh and spill onto solidified continental plates, opaque and elastic. When the seas calm and the mountains settle we leave Glue Earth to rotate and collect momentum: a sibylline facsimile of life as we knew it.
Victory!
The Island / Ghost Coffee is being published by UCB’s Walkabout Literay Journal this spring. I am very pleased with the story and glad others like it too. So far I’m 1/1 in the submission-publishing department. Shikidang.
12.02.2008
Danzig/Epic Fail
The great purge of the archives continues. This is a completely failed attempt to write a 10+ page story in under 24 hours. As one might expect, it is full of grammatical and typographical erros that I never bothered to fix. Not really proud of this one at all, yet here it is, so I must like it a little. Maybe just the line about filthy flesh sacks. Or the bit about 'the ratio.' Hope you are well versed in late 70s/early 80s rock icons. See if you can count the blatant ripoffs...
“I don’t think it’s supposed to bend like that.”
“Yes, I know, I’m just trying to fix this paper jam.” Peter Quistgard didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that the aloof, nasal voice belonged to his obnoxious coworker Donald Mason.
“Well, you’re never going to fix it that way. I don’t even think it is a paper jam, Peter. It says here on the display ‘PC LOAD LETTER’.”
“Yeah I don’t know what the hell that means, Donny. I can see the jam right--” Just then the plastic spoon Peter had taken from the office’s mini-kitchen snapped in two, leaving one half in his hand and the other lodged deep in the printers gears.
“I told you it’s not supposed to bend like that.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! I’m down here on my knees trying to fix this paper jam that Kelly caused because she can’t fucking lay off the goddamn ‘print screen’ button and you just stand there giving me shit. Why don’t you do something useful for a change and get down here and help me fix this worthless piece of shit?”
“You’re language is atrocious, and juvenile Peter. You should do yourself a favor and grow up. And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Donald.” With that Donald Mason turned and walked back to his cubicle.
Just as he was sitting down Peter muttered “I’d appreciate it if you’d go straight to hell.” loud enough that Donald could just barely hear it.
“What was that Peter?”
“I said ‘I’ll just stick with it since it’s going so well,’ that’s all.”
“Whatever.”
Peter returned to the paper jam. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow and reached into the bowels of the machine, desperately attempting to wrangle the broken spoon free from its metal bindings. “C’mon you dirty bastard, come to daddy.” He grasped the jagged end of the spoon between his thumb and index finger and gave it a hefty tug. Nothing. He put his free hand up against the outside frame of the printer and twisted his body, using his shoulders for added pulling power. Still nothing. In a final act of desperation Peter sat down, placed both feet against the printer and gave the spoon a vicious pull. The spoon exploded from the depths of the printer without warning and the excess momentum deposited Peter flat on his back. The printer immediately began spitting out page after page with a heavy mechanical rhythm. Peter got to his feet and looked at the papers flying out the mouth of the machine and into the collection tray. One of them caught his eye. He grabbed a handful of the finished still-warm papers from the tray and thumbed through them quickly. Soon he found what he was looking for; a single paper that lacked the black-and-white spreadsheet present on all the others. In it’s place were two words, printed dead center on the page in twelve point Times New Roman.
HELP ME
Peter tossed the rest of the pages back in the collection bin and walked over to Kelly Preston’s cubicle with the anomalous page clutched in his right hand.
“Kelly, I fixed your paper jam, again. And by the way, what the hell is this?”
“What the hell is what?”
“This!” Peter held the paper out in front of Kelly’s face.
“A piece of paper with words on it. I’m really busy, Peter.”
“This came out in the middle of your print job, is it some kind of joke? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t know, Peter! I didn’t fuckin’ do it, all right? Now could you please leave me alone, I am really busy.”
“You’re such a bitch, Kelly.”
“Go fuck yourself ,Peter.”
Peter walked away from her cubicle, paper in hand, cursing under his breath. He made his way though the office maze to his own cubicle and sat down at his desk. He opened a random document on his computer and told it to print twenty-seven copies. He could hear the printer coughing out the pages as he walked across the office. By the time he made it to the printer it had finished its task and twenty-seven freshly inked spreadsheets were lying in the collection bin. He picked them up and sorted through them page by page. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way to the bottom of the pile was another anomaly.
HELP ME, PETER
Peter let out a sigh of frustration and stood up on the table the printer was on so that everyone in the whole office could see him.
“all right, which one of you fuckers is playing with the printer?” No one so much as looked up at him so he stepped up on top of the printer itself and shouted a little louder.
“I said which one of you stupid bastards is playing with the fucking printer!” As with his first outburst, no one in the office reacted. Except for Donald.
“Peter, is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes Donny, there is. I want to know who had been screwing around with this printer and I want to know right now.”
“It’s Donald, and I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! These papers, why are they coming out with every print job? Who is doing this?”
“Why don’t you come down from there and we can talk about it.”
“Yeah, why don’t I come down and talk about it.” Peter took one step off the printer, misplaced his foot and fell off the table. He slipped through the air awkwardly, couldn’t get an arm out to brace for the impact and crashed onto the thinly carpeted floor head first. Though his motionless body was sprawled out on the ground, in his head Peter was still f
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he abruptly came to a stop. Peter looked around but it was like staring directly into the sun
or a fluorescent light bulb--he couldn’t see a thing.
He tried to move but none of his limbs would cooperate.
“Who said that? Who’s there?”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“What the fuck? Glenn Danzig?”
“But you look like my neighbor’s yard gnome.”
“Portal?”
“What’s the message 1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“Oh, sure. What is the message 1988 Danzig?”
“Right, sorry.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? What the hell is that supposed
to mean? Who is transforming? I don’t get
it.”
“Who the fuck is David?”
“Sorry. Who the crap is David?”
“Who?”
“But who am I saving him from?”
“Tell me about it. Can you do one thing
for me 1988 Danzig?”
“Sing ‘Mother’ for me.”
“Please? I will only defend David
if you sing me ‘Mother’.”
“Mother.”
“Mother!”
“Christ, Peter, you scared me half to death!”
“What?”
“We were just about to call an ambulance!”
Peter blinked several times in quick succession and let the soft light of the office illuminate his surroundings. He was half-sitting on the floor near the printer, his coworkers gathered around him in a semicircle. Donald Mason was sitting next to him.
“Whoa. What happened?”
“You fell down and hit your head. You must have been unconscious for, I don’t know, ten minutes.”
“Uhhh, that would explain the headache and 1988 Glenn Danzig.”
“1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“Yeah, I must have had this crazy dream while I was out. Glenn Danzig came to me only--”
Donald cut him off. “Then you must know by now.”
“What?”
Donald stood up and motioned for the other employees to stand back. “I’m sorry that you had to find out, but you must know it is necessary.” He walked over to the printer and placed both hand on top of it. “We cannot have them here, it is not their place.”
“Shut the fuck up, Donny.” Peter was on his feet now, his left hand gripped tightly around a silver letter opener.
“Peter? Don’t you understand? The ratio must be preserved!”
“I said shut the fuck up, Donny.” With that he leapt at Donald and the two crashed around the office struggling to gain control of the letter opener. Peter had little problem gaining the upper hand and he was able to pin Donald up against the printer. He held Donald down with one arm and brought the letter opener over his head with the other.
Donald cried out in desperation. “Peter, think about what you are doing!” But it was no use. Peter brought the opener down on Donald's head with all his might. The blade penetrated his skull easily, so much so that Peter was startled. He stumbled back from Donald, who seemed to be suprisingly not dead. In fact he was getting bigger, inflating like a balloon. He let out a low howl as his bloated body kept stretching until it burst like a water balloon full of blood and entrails. The concussion of the explosion knocked the printer to the ground, where it sparked ferociously until it too exploded in a tremendous cloud of smoke and lightning. As the smoke cleared Peter could see the shape of a man walking towards him. Peter peered through the haze and could just barely make out the frilly spandex leotard the figure wore.
“Holy shit! David Lee Roth! No way!”
“Thank you Pete, I owe you one. And please, it’s 1979 Diamond Dave.”
Peter stood completely still, speechless. The shuffle of feet behind him broke his trance and he spun on his heel only to find the rest of the office employees moving towards him. He looked back at David Lee Roth.
“It’s not over yet, 1979 Diamond Dave. You with me?”
“Fuckin’ A right, Pete.”
“It’s Peter. Now let’s do this.” Peter faced the approaching horde, fists clenched for battle. “All right you dirty flesh sacks, who’s next?”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to bend like that.”
“Yes, I know, I’m just trying to fix this paper jam.” Peter Quistgard didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that the aloof, nasal voice belonged to his obnoxious coworker Donald Mason.
“Well, you’re never going to fix it that way. I don’t even think it is a paper jam, Peter. It says here on the display ‘PC LOAD LETTER’.”
“Yeah I don’t know what the hell that means, Donny. I can see the jam right--” Just then the plastic spoon Peter had taken from the office’s mini-kitchen snapped in two, leaving one half in his hand and the other lodged deep in the printers gears.
“I told you it’s not supposed to bend like that.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! I’m down here on my knees trying to fix this paper jam that Kelly caused because she can’t fucking lay off the goddamn ‘print screen’ button and you just stand there giving me shit. Why don’t you do something useful for a change and get down here and help me fix this worthless piece of shit?”
“You’re language is atrocious, and juvenile Peter. You should do yourself a favor and grow up. And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Donald.” With that Donald Mason turned and walked back to his cubicle.
Just as he was sitting down Peter muttered “I’d appreciate it if you’d go straight to hell.” loud enough that Donald could just barely hear it.
“What was that Peter?”
“I said ‘I’ll just stick with it since it’s going so well,’ that’s all.”
“Whatever.”
Peter returned to the paper jam. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow and reached into the bowels of the machine, desperately attempting to wrangle the broken spoon free from its metal bindings. “C’mon you dirty bastard, come to daddy.” He grasped the jagged end of the spoon between his thumb and index finger and gave it a hefty tug. Nothing. He put his free hand up against the outside frame of the printer and twisted his body, using his shoulders for added pulling power. Still nothing. In a final act of desperation Peter sat down, placed both feet against the printer and gave the spoon a vicious pull. The spoon exploded from the depths of the printer without warning and the excess momentum deposited Peter flat on his back. The printer immediately began spitting out page after page with a heavy mechanical rhythm. Peter got to his feet and looked at the papers flying out the mouth of the machine and into the collection tray. One of them caught his eye. He grabbed a handful of the finished still-warm papers from the tray and thumbed through them quickly. Soon he found what he was looking for; a single paper that lacked the black-and-white spreadsheet present on all the others. In it’s place were two words, printed dead center on the page in twelve point Times New Roman.
HELP ME
Peter tossed the rest of the pages back in the collection bin and walked over to Kelly Preston’s cubicle with the anomalous page clutched in his right hand.
“Kelly, I fixed your paper jam, again. And by the way, what the hell is this?”
“What the hell is what?”
“This!” Peter held the paper out in front of Kelly’s face.
“A piece of paper with words on it. I’m really busy, Peter.”
“This came out in the middle of your print job, is it some kind of joke? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t know, Peter! I didn’t fuckin’ do it, all right? Now could you please leave me alone, I am really busy.”
“You’re such a bitch, Kelly.”
“Go fuck yourself ,Peter.”
Peter walked away from her cubicle, paper in hand, cursing under his breath. He made his way though the office maze to his own cubicle and sat down at his desk. He opened a random document on his computer and told it to print twenty-seven copies. He could hear the printer coughing out the pages as he walked across the office. By the time he made it to the printer it had finished its task and twenty-seven freshly inked spreadsheets were lying in the collection bin. He picked them up and sorted through them page by page. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way to the bottom of the pile was another anomaly.
HELP ME, PETER
Peter let out a sigh of frustration and stood up on the table the printer was on so that everyone in the whole office could see him.
“all right, which one of you fuckers is playing with the printer?” No one so much as looked up at him so he stepped up on top of the printer itself and shouted a little louder.
“I said which one of you stupid bastards is playing with the fucking printer!” As with his first outburst, no one in the office reacted. Except for Donald.
“Peter, is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes Donny, there is. I want to know who had been screwing around with this printer and I want to know right now.”
“It’s Donald, and I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Shut the fuck up Donny! These papers, why are they coming out with every print job? Who is doing this?”
“Why don’t you come down from there and we can talk about it.”
“Yeah, why don’t I come down and talk about it.” Peter took one step off the printer, misplaced his foot and fell off the table. He slipped through the air awkwardly, couldn’t get an arm out to brace for the impact and crashed onto the thinly carpeted floor head first. Though his motionless body was sprawled out on the ground, in his head Peter was still f
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he abruptly came to a stop. Peter looked around but it was like staring directly into the sun
or a fluorescent light bulb--he couldn’t see a thing.
He tried to move but none of his limbs would cooperate.
“Hello, Peter Quistgard. It is good
to finally meet you in person.”
to finally meet you in person.”
“Who said that? Who’s there?”
Peter tried to again to look around, but he could still not see. He could not get
a feel for the space he was in, but the strange voice he heard sounded like it was
coming from his right.
a feel for the space he was in, but the strange voice he heard sounded like it was
coming from his right.
“I have been watching you for some time now.
It is good that you have come, we must begin soon.”
It is good that you have come, we must begin soon.”
Out of the corner of his eye Peter caught a faint speck of red
moving toward him out of the distance.
moving toward him out of the distance.
“Who are you? What are you?”
The speck got bigger and bigger as it approached until Peter could
see it clearly amidst the fluorescent whitewash. Before him stood
a three foot tall, manlike creature clad in a tall pointed hat, long
red coat and shiney black boots. A brilliant white beard adorned
the creature’s face and blended in with the background.
see it clearly amidst the fluorescent whitewash. Before him stood
a three foot tall, manlike creature clad in a tall pointed hat, long
red coat and shiney black boots. A brilliant white beard adorned
the creature’s face and blended in with the background.
“I am 1988 Glenn Danzig, I have come
with a message.”
with a message.”
“What the fuck? Glenn Danzig?”
“1988 Glenn Danzig.”
“But you look like my neighbor’s yard gnome.”
“To your eyes perhaps, but this is really
one of the spacial representations of the standard
uniform we must wear in order to successfully
step through the portal.”
one of the spacial representations of the standard
uniform we must wear in order to successfully
step through the portal.”
“Portal?”
“Look, this is no time to play Twenty Questions,
all you need to know is that I have come from 1988
with a message, an important message.”
all you need to know is that I have come from 1988
with a message, an important message.”
“What’s the message 1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“You can call me 1988 Danzig.”
“Oh, sure. What is the message 1988 Danzig?”
“I was going to get to that.”
“Right, sorry.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, the message. I have come from
1988 to give this message to you. It is very important
that you listen carefully.”
1988 to give this message to you. It is very important
that you listen carefully.”
“Okay.”
“Right. The message is this: I need your help Peter,
I can no longer maintain this disguise. Soon they will
know my true identity and after that it won’t be long
before they destroy me. You must defend me, Peter Quistgard,
until I am able to make my full transformation.”
I can no longer maintain this disguise. Soon they will
know my true identity and after that it won’t be long
before they destroy me. You must defend me, Peter Quistgard,
until I am able to make my full transformation.”
“That’s it? What the hell is that supposed
to mean? Who is transforming? I don’t get
it.”
“David. You are supposed to defend David.”
“Who the fuck is David?”
“Language, Peter.”
“Sorry. Who the crap is David?”
“Sebastian the Great Diamond King.”
“Who?”
“Your printer. David is your office printer. Or at least
that is the form he took on when he came through the portal.
Either way, there is no time for this! You must go back now
and save the Diamond King from certain demise!”
that is the form he took on when he came through the portal.
Either way, there is no time for this! You must go back now
and save the Diamond King from certain demise!”
“But who am I saving him from?”
“Everyone. You will see. I’d start with
that chump Donald. What a douche.”
that chump Donald. What a douche.”
“Tell me about it. Can you do one thing
for me 1988 Danzig?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Sing ‘Mother’ for me.”
“No.”
“Please? I will only defend David
if you sing me ‘Mother’.”
“How about ‘She Rides’?”
“Mother.”
“Oh all right. But you better do a brilliant
fucking job protecting David.”
fucking job protecting David.”
Mother. Tell your children not to walk my way. Tell your children not to hear my words, what they mean, what they say, Mother. Mother!
“Mother!”
“Christ, Peter, you scared me half to death!”
“What?”
“We were just about to call an ambulance!”
Peter blinked several times in quick succession and let the soft light of the office illuminate his surroundings. He was half-sitting on the floor near the printer, his coworkers gathered around him in a semicircle. Donald Mason was sitting next to him.
“Whoa. What happened?”
“You fell down and hit your head. You must have been unconscious for, I don’t know, ten minutes.”
“Uhhh, that would explain the headache and 1988 Glenn Danzig.”
“1988 Glenn Danzig?”
“Yeah, I must have had this crazy dream while I was out. Glenn Danzig came to me only--”
Donald cut him off. “Then you must know by now.”
“What?”
Donald stood up and motioned for the other employees to stand back. “I’m sorry that you had to find out, but you must know it is necessary.” He walked over to the printer and placed both hand on top of it. “We cannot have them here, it is not their place.”
“Shut the fuck up, Donny.” Peter was on his feet now, his left hand gripped tightly around a silver letter opener.
“Peter? Don’t you understand? The ratio must be preserved!”
“I said shut the fuck up, Donny.” With that he leapt at Donald and the two crashed around the office struggling to gain control of the letter opener. Peter had little problem gaining the upper hand and he was able to pin Donald up against the printer. He held Donald down with one arm and brought the letter opener over his head with the other.
Donald cried out in desperation. “Peter, think about what you are doing!” But it was no use. Peter brought the opener down on Donald's head with all his might. The blade penetrated his skull easily, so much so that Peter was startled. He stumbled back from Donald, who seemed to be suprisingly not dead. In fact he was getting bigger, inflating like a balloon. He let out a low howl as his bloated body kept stretching until it burst like a water balloon full of blood and entrails. The concussion of the explosion knocked the printer to the ground, where it sparked ferociously until it too exploded in a tremendous cloud of smoke and lightning. As the smoke cleared Peter could see the shape of a man walking towards him. Peter peered through the haze and could just barely make out the frilly spandex leotard the figure wore.
“Holy shit! David Lee Roth! No way!”
“Thank you Pete, I owe you one. And please, it’s 1979 Diamond Dave.”
Peter stood completely still, speechless. The shuffle of feet behind him broke his trance and he spun on his heel only to find the rest of the office employees moving towards him. He looked back at David Lee Roth.
“It’s not over yet, 1979 Diamond Dave. You with me?”
“Fuckin’ A right, Pete.”
“It’s Peter. Now let’s do this.” Peter faced the approaching horde, fists clenched for battle. “All right you dirty flesh sacks, who’s next?”
The Humanity (2)
Right Now
“Did you just compare my novel to my breakup tactics? Oh, hey, it is snowing.”
“Don’t you ever check the weather, Paul? The news called for a light dusting. Do you try to avoid putting footprints in fresh snow, or do you make as many as you can?”
“I like to enjoy the pureness of fresh snow for a moment then trample it to hell. Why?
“I always get sad when people walk all over a clean sheet of snow.”
“Yeah, whatever. Dan, there is something I need to tell you. It’s kind of a serious matter. It’s about Thompson.”
“Okay? I’m not sure if I like the way this conversation is going, but by all means, continue.”
“Well, I don’t know how to phrase it gently, so I will just throw it out there. Thompson is a dinosaur from the future. Or the past, by way of the future, or something confusing like that.”
“Paul, you are so retarded. This is why you had me meet you here? To tell me your friend is a dinosaur from the future? This has now become the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me. I don’t understand how this is supposed to be funny.”
“Dan, I am dead serious. He came to me three years ago and told me this story and I didn’t want to believe it but he was a talking dinosaur, so I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Have a choice in what?”
“Joining his revolutionary army.”
“Are you high?”
“No, and I wasn’t when I met him, either.”
“You’re so high right now.”
“No, I swear I’m not. This is really important, Dan. Please listen to me!”
“Dude, this is the lamest joke you have ever come up with. It’s not even a joke!”
“Please, just hear me out.”
“All right, fine. I’ll play along, for your sake. Lay it on me.”
“Ok, so I met Thompson three years ago tonight. I was taking the trash out to the dumpster when I heard a voice in my head telling me to turn around, so I did and holy shit! There was a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex in my backyard! I start to freak out but the voice is telling me ‘be cool’ and long story short he tells me this: his name is Thompson. He is a T.rex from the past who was sent to the future in a time machine built by this guy Emmett and in this future other dinosaurs, who were also sent to the future, function as slaves for humanity. So Thompson gets pissed and starts an underground revolution and steals the time machine with a plan to go back in time and stomp on this guy Emmett before he can invent the time machine in the first place, only Thompson can’t operate the machine properly with his tiny T.rex arms and essentially crash lands in my backyard. He then tells me that before he left the future he instructed his lieutenant in the underground dino resistance to send all of their forces back in time to stomp mankind out of existence if he is unsuccessful. Which brings us to tonight. Thompson made it to the right time, but the machine crashed in the wrong place, and he has been unable to either locate this guy Emmett or return to the future, and as a result the dino-contingency-plan-future-force has arrived, tonight, to begin the worldwide elimination of the human race tomorrow.”
“Ok then, I have just a few questions. First, how did Thompson learn to communicate telepathically? I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you meant, right?”
“Yeah. Turns out that is how all dinosaurs communicated back in the day.”
“Ok. Second, why don’t the dinosaurs stage their revolution in the future?”
“Because by that time humans have weapons powerful enough to keep them in check.”
“And they don’t have weapons powerful enough to do that now? What about tanks and fighter planes and shit?”
“I guess not. Have you ever seen a dinosaur in person? They are damn imposing.”
“Ok. Third, how did all these dinosaurs get to the future?”
“After the success with Thompson, time machines become widespread and are used to harvest dinosaurs from the past.”
“You are so high.”
“God damn it, Dan, were you even listening?”
“Yes, Paul, I was. You were talking about dinosaurs from the future for a solid two minutes. Everybody in this whole place was looking at you like you were coked out of your skull.”
“Well they can all go straight to hell, and probably will tomorrow. Most of them, anyway.”
“You can stop now, man. The joke is over, you just sound crazy.”
“Very well. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s your prerogative. But do me just one favor, before you leave and dismiss this whole conversation.”
“Ok, what is it?”
“Turn around, Dan, look out the window and down the alley and tell me what you see.”
“Whatever. I see snow falling and a dumpster and some sort of pipe with steam coming out of it. You happy now?”
“Look again.”
“Jesus, Paul. I really don’t know why I put up with you some--oh shit...”
Tomorrow
“What’s wrong with JT? Are you saying you don’t like JT? How could you not like JT?”
“He’s not that great, really. What is so hard to understand about that?”
“Dude, he’s fucking bringing sexy back!”
“That doesn’t make any sense! Where did sexy go? What makes him so special that he has to be the one to bring it back? Was there something on the last ballot that I missed? No one elected him to bring back sexy.”
“Yeah, that’s right. No one elected him because he took charge of the situation! You didn’t even know sexy was gone, but JT did, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t go out there and make shit happen to bring it back.”
“He didn’t, though. Listen to the lyrics man, he’s saying ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ not ‘I’ve brought sexy back.’ He probably hasn’t even found it yet! ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ my ass, it’s more like ‘I am going to go look for sexy and though I haven’t quite found it yet when I do I will be sure to bring it back for all of you, if I can.’ If it were me I’d wait until I had sexy before announcing I was bringing it back and even then I’d say ‘I brought sexy back, bitches’ or something like that.”
“Oh, he found sexy, Dan. He found sexy. See, the song is merely the vehicle he is bringing ‘the sexy’ back in. The lyrics are more like an announcement, like ‘hey kids I’ve traveled far and wide and behold: I have found sexy and will henceforth be bringing it back for you all to enjoy in this awesome song.’ Perhaps it would help if there was a colon, ‘I’m bringing sexy back:’ and then the music completes the sentence.”
“But all the music was done by Timbaland.”
“Well, maybe Timbaland was the pilot of JT’s sexy-seeking spaceship. JT was the commander who gave instructions and shit and all Timbaland did was steer the ship in the right direction.”
“Like Darth Vader does in Empire when they are chasing the Falcon through the asteroid belt and all the captains don’t want to follow but Vader steps in and sets them straight.”
“Yes! Apology accepted, Captain Needa. Damn, Dan, you are finally starting to come around.”
“You know who should bring sexy back? Darth Vader. Darth Vader should bring sexy back. He gets my vote.”
“Luke, I am bringing sexy back. Search your feelings, you know it is true.”
“Your Vader impersonation needs some work, Paul.”
“Whatever.”
“Seriously though, it doesn’t bother you that we are about to ride down into the city and start the end of mankind?”
“Nah. I doubt they’ll actually exterminate every human, just enough to get their point across. And I imagine that will happen pretty quickly. Why, does it bother you?”
“A little, maybe. Shit, I don’t know, I guess it’s better being up here than down there, on the other end of it.”
Dan squinted his brown eyes as the sun crept over the horizon, its orange light spreading over the frosted buildings of downtown Buffalo, NY at a soothing pace. Early risers were out scraping windshields and bringing in the morning paper while coffee was being brewed inside. Steam rose from the exhaust pipes of the countless cars fighting traffic on the freeway. As the sunlight crept up to the crest of the tallest hill in City Park a lone figure stood at the apex of the hill and let out a tremendous roar. On its back rode two humans.
One of them spoke through a loudspeaker: “ONWARD BROTHERS AND SISTERS, TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST OPPRESSION! TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST SLAVERY! TODAY WE MARCH FOR FREEDOM! ONWARD BROTHERS! ONWARD SISTERS! ONWARD REVOLUTIONARY DINOSAUR ARMY! ONWARD TO VICTORY! HURRAH! HURRAH! THE TIME IS NOW! HURRAH! HURRAH! ONWARD TO GLORY!” From behind the hill came a deafening rumble as a host of dinosaurs, big and small, stormed up and over the crest and down towards the city.
Ms. Wallace’s third grade class had been planning to go to the natural history museum since the beginning of the school year, and the excitement could bee seen on her students’ faces. One of them in particular, a young boy named Zach, had been looking forward to the prehistoric insect exhibit. No sooner than they had entered the main doors, Zach broke free from the single file line and ran up to the giant statue that greets visitors in the atrium.
“Whoa, lookit this guy, Ms. Wallace! A stegosaurus! Lookit! He looks mean but he only eats vegetab--” Before the word could leave his mouth the seemingly inanimate stegosaurus roared to life, leaping off of the display and sweeping her spiked tail in a violent arch. The tail struck Zach midway through its trajectory and the little boy made a quick shriek as one of the spikes was driven through his torso. Terror filled the air and mingled with the screams of museum goers as the stegosaur turned around and charged into the panicked group of third graders. Those who were not stomped or crushed under the dinosaur's massive feet were sent flying through Plexiglas windows and into the gift shop when the beast spun around to swing its deadly tail again. Satisfied with the havoc she had wrought, the stegosaurus charged out the front entrance of the museum, rejoining her comrades on the street. Back inside, Ms. Wallace had managed to survive the initial onslaught by cowering under the ticket counter and was frantically trying to locate her students. She crawled out from underneath the ticket counter and tried to stand up. Her left knee made a wet pop and she fell to the ground, the pain surging through her leg a brutal reminder of her days as a downhill skier and the surgically repaired ACL that never quite healed right. She crawled on her hands and good knee across the room, paddling her way through the broken glass that covered the floor. Several feet away she saw a red tennis shoe poking out from behind an overturned garbage can.
“Jenny!” she cried out, recognizing the shoe usually worn by little Jennifer McCloud. With renewed energy Ms. Wallace crawled towards the shoe, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in her hands. “Jenny, hold on!”
Ms. Wallace pushed the garbage can to the side and felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. There, drowning in a pool of blood, was little Jenny McCloud’s red tennis shoe, and most of her left leg up to the knee.
Back on top of the hill where it all started, the two humans were still on the back of the colossal tyrannosaurus.
“I should probably go get Mia.”
“Yes Paul, you should. You should probably go pretty soon, too. Like, right now.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“I never broke up with her, you know. I mean a second time. I couldn’t do it. I guess it was her and not the scrambled eggs I wanted.”
“I know. Now c’mon buddy, let’s do this.”
“I’m glad you came around, Dan. It is good to have you with us.”
“Really, what was I going to do? Turn down the opportunity to ride into battle on the back of a T.rex? Come on, this is some total Kevin Costner Braveheart shit!”
--Braveheart was Mel Gibson, genius.--
“Dammit, Thompson, why do you have to be like that?”
“Did you just compare my novel to my breakup tactics? Oh, hey, it is snowing.”
“Don’t you ever check the weather, Paul? The news called for a light dusting. Do you try to avoid putting footprints in fresh snow, or do you make as many as you can?”
“I like to enjoy the pureness of fresh snow for a moment then trample it to hell. Why?
“I always get sad when people walk all over a clean sheet of snow.”
“Yeah, whatever. Dan, there is something I need to tell you. It’s kind of a serious matter. It’s about Thompson.”
“Okay? I’m not sure if I like the way this conversation is going, but by all means, continue.”
“Well, I don’t know how to phrase it gently, so I will just throw it out there. Thompson is a dinosaur from the future. Or the past, by way of the future, or something confusing like that.”
“Paul, you are so retarded. This is why you had me meet you here? To tell me your friend is a dinosaur from the future? This has now become the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me. I don’t understand how this is supposed to be funny.”
“Dan, I am dead serious. He came to me three years ago and told me this story and I didn’t want to believe it but he was a talking dinosaur, so I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Have a choice in what?”
“Joining his revolutionary army.”
“Are you high?”
“No, and I wasn’t when I met him, either.”
“You’re so high right now.”
“No, I swear I’m not. This is really important, Dan. Please listen to me!”
“Dude, this is the lamest joke you have ever come up with. It’s not even a joke!”
“Please, just hear me out.”
“All right, fine. I’ll play along, for your sake. Lay it on me.”
“Ok, so I met Thompson three years ago tonight. I was taking the trash out to the dumpster when I heard a voice in my head telling me to turn around, so I did and holy shit! There was a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex in my backyard! I start to freak out but the voice is telling me ‘be cool’ and long story short he tells me this: his name is Thompson. He is a T.rex from the past who was sent to the future in a time machine built by this guy Emmett and in this future other dinosaurs, who were also sent to the future, function as slaves for humanity. So Thompson gets pissed and starts an underground revolution and steals the time machine with a plan to go back in time and stomp on this guy Emmett before he can invent the time machine in the first place, only Thompson can’t operate the machine properly with his tiny T.rex arms and essentially crash lands in my backyard. He then tells me that before he left the future he instructed his lieutenant in the underground dino resistance to send all of their forces back in time to stomp mankind out of existence if he is unsuccessful. Which brings us to tonight. Thompson made it to the right time, but the machine crashed in the wrong place, and he has been unable to either locate this guy Emmett or return to the future, and as a result the dino-contingency-plan-future-force has arrived, tonight, to begin the worldwide elimination of the human race tomorrow.”
“Ok then, I have just a few questions. First, how did Thompson learn to communicate telepathically? I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you meant, right?”
“Yeah. Turns out that is how all dinosaurs communicated back in the day.”
“Ok. Second, why don’t the dinosaurs stage their revolution in the future?”
“Because by that time humans have weapons powerful enough to keep them in check.”
“And they don’t have weapons powerful enough to do that now? What about tanks and fighter planes and shit?”
“I guess not. Have you ever seen a dinosaur in person? They are damn imposing.”
“Ok. Third, how did all these dinosaurs get to the future?”
“After the success with Thompson, time machines become widespread and are used to harvest dinosaurs from the past.”
“You are so high.”
“God damn it, Dan, were you even listening?”
“Yes, Paul, I was. You were talking about dinosaurs from the future for a solid two minutes. Everybody in this whole place was looking at you like you were coked out of your skull.”
“Well they can all go straight to hell, and probably will tomorrow. Most of them, anyway.”
“You can stop now, man. The joke is over, you just sound crazy.”
“Very well. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s your prerogative. But do me just one favor, before you leave and dismiss this whole conversation.”
“Ok, what is it?”
“Turn around, Dan, look out the window and down the alley and tell me what you see.”
“Whatever. I see snow falling and a dumpster and some sort of pipe with steam coming out of it. You happy now?”
“Look again.”
“Jesus, Paul. I really don’t know why I put up with you some--oh shit...”
Tomorrow
“What’s wrong with JT? Are you saying you don’t like JT? How could you not like JT?”
“He’s not that great, really. What is so hard to understand about that?”
“Dude, he’s fucking bringing sexy back!”
“That doesn’t make any sense! Where did sexy go? What makes him so special that he has to be the one to bring it back? Was there something on the last ballot that I missed? No one elected him to bring back sexy.”
“Yeah, that’s right. No one elected him because he took charge of the situation! You didn’t even know sexy was gone, but JT did, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t go out there and make shit happen to bring it back.”
“He didn’t, though. Listen to the lyrics man, he’s saying ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ not ‘I’ve brought sexy back.’ He probably hasn’t even found it yet! ‘I’m bringing sexy back’ my ass, it’s more like ‘I am going to go look for sexy and though I haven’t quite found it yet when I do I will be sure to bring it back for all of you, if I can.’ If it were me I’d wait until I had sexy before announcing I was bringing it back and even then I’d say ‘I brought sexy back, bitches’ or something like that.”
“Oh, he found sexy, Dan. He found sexy. See, the song is merely the vehicle he is bringing ‘the sexy’ back in. The lyrics are more like an announcement, like ‘hey kids I’ve traveled far and wide and behold: I have found sexy and will henceforth be bringing it back for you all to enjoy in this awesome song.’ Perhaps it would help if there was a colon, ‘I’m bringing sexy back:’ and then the music completes the sentence.”
“But all the music was done by Timbaland.”
“Well, maybe Timbaland was the pilot of JT’s sexy-seeking spaceship. JT was the commander who gave instructions and shit and all Timbaland did was steer the ship in the right direction.”
“Like Darth Vader does in Empire when they are chasing the Falcon through the asteroid belt and all the captains don’t want to follow but Vader steps in and sets them straight.”
“Yes! Apology accepted, Captain Needa. Damn, Dan, you are finally starting to come around.”
“You know who should bring sexy back? Darth Vader. Darth Vader should bring sexy back. He gets my vote.”
“Luke, I am bringing sexy back. Search your feelings, you know it is true.”
“Your Vader impersonation needs some work, Paul.”
“Whatever.”
“Seriously though, it doesn’t bother you that we are about to ride down into the city and start the end of mankind?”
“Nah. I doubt they’ll actually exterminate every human, just enough to get their point across. And I imagine that will happen pretty quickly. Why, does it bother you?”
“A little, maybe. Shit, I don’t know, I guess it’s better being up here than down there, on the other end of it.”
Dan squinted his brown eyes as the sun crept over the horizon, its orange light spreading over the frosted buildings of downtown Buffalo, NY at a soothing pace. Early risers were out scraping windshields and bringing in the morning paper while coffee was being brewed inside. Steam rose from the exhaust pipes of the countless cars fighting traffic on the freeway. As the sunlight crept up to the crest of the tallest hill in City Park a lone figure stood at the apex of the hill and let out a tremendous roar. On its back rode two humans.
One of them spoke through a loudspeaker: “ONWARD BROTHERS AND SISTERS, TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST OPPRESSION! TODAY WE MARCH AGAINST SLAVERY! TODAY WE MARCH FOR FREEDOM! ONWARD BROTHERS! ONWARD SISTERS! ONWARD REVOLUTIONARY DINOSAUR ARMY! ONWARD TO VICTORY! HURRAH! HURRAH! THE TIME IS NOW! HURRAH! HURRAH! ONWARD TO GLORY!” From behind the hill came a deafening rumble as a host of dinosaurs, big and small, stormed up and over the crest and down towards the city.
Ms. Wallace’s third grade class had been planning to go to the natural history museum since the beginning of the school year, and the excitement could bee seen on her students’ faces. One of them in particular, a young boy named Zach, had been looking forward to the prehistoric insect exhibit. No sooner than they had entered the main doors, Zach broke free from the single file line and ran up to the giant statue that greets visitors in the atrium.
“Whoa, lookit this guy, Ms. Wallace! A stegosaurus! Lookit! He looks mean but he only eats vegetab--” Before the word could leave his mouth the seemingly inanimate stegosaurus roared to life, leaping off of the display and sweeping her spiked tail in a violent arch. The tail struck Zach midway through its trajectory and the little boy made a quick shriek as one of the spikes was driven through his torso. Terror filled the air and mingled with the screams of museum goers as the stegosaur turned around and charged into the panicked group of third graders. Those who were not stomped or crushed under the dinosaur's massive feet were sent flying through Plexiglas windows and into the gift shop when the beast spun around to swing its deadly tail again. Satisfied with the havoc she had wrought, the stegosaurus charged out the front entrance of the museum, rejoining her comrades on the street. Back inside, Ms. Wallace had managed to survive the initial onslaught by cowering under the ticket counter and was frantically trying to locate her students. She crawled out from underneath the ticket counter and tried to stand up. Her left knee made a wet pop and she fell to the ground, the pain surging through her leg a brutal reminder of her days as a downhill skier and the surgically repaired ACL that never quite healed right. She crawled on her hands and good knee across the room, paddling her way through the broken glass that covered the floor. Several feet away she saw a red tennis shoe poking out from behind an overturned garbage can.
“Jenny!” she cried out, recognizing the shoe usually worn by little Jennifer McCloud. With renewed energy Ms. Wallace crawled towards the shoe, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in her hands. “Jenny, hold on!”
Ms. Wallace pushed the garbage can to the side and felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. There, drowning in a pool of blood, was little Jenny McCloud’s red tennis shoe, and most of her left leg up to the knee.
Back on top of the hill where it all started, the two humans were still on the back of the colossal tyrannosaurus.
“I should probably go get Mia.”
“Yes Paul, you should. You should probably go pretty soon, too. Like, right now.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“I never broke up with her, you know. I mean a second time. I couldn’t do it. I guess it was her and not the scrambled eggs I wanted.”
“I know. Now c’mon buddy, let’s do this.”
“I’m glad you came around, Dan. It is good to have you with us.”
“Really, what was I going to do? Turn down the opportunity to ride into battle on the back of a T.rex? Come on, this is some total Kevin Costner Braveheart shit!”
--Braveheart was Mel Gibson, genius.--
“Dammit, Thompson, why do you have to be like that?”
The Humanity (1)
Can't believe I haven't posted this yet. Spent a good part of 2007 working on it. Interesting to see how the things I used to be psyched on have fallen to the side. I think it is important to note that all the characters (especially the school children) are from my elementary school days.
Two Days Ago
“A fox hat?”
“Yeah, a fox hat.”
“Like, a ‘coon skin hat? Like Davey Crockett and shit?”
“No, Dan, a fox hat, like a hat, that is a fox.”
“Oh, of course. Why should I put a dead fox on my head?”
“No, not dead, the fox has to be alive.”
“What? Paul, how the fuck would that work?”
“Don’t get angry, Dan.”
“I’m not angry, Paul.”
“If you’re not angry why, then, did you raise your voice?”
“I didn’t raise my voice in anger. I was just emphasizing my curiosity.”
“Why did you curse, then?”
“Paul, the hat.”
“Right. It’s a fox hat.”
“Yes I know, but how are you going to make a live fox into a hat?”
“Well, you put the fox on your head, and there is a chin strap, yeah, and maybe the chin strap is extendable so you can use it as a leash to keep the little guy from running away when you take the hat off or go inside and have to leave him tied to a bike rack.”
“Yeah, but then you’d have a live, angry fox strapped to your head. What’s to keep--”
“He wouldn’t be angry.”
“Why not? I’d be pretty angry if I were strapped to your head. What’s stopping me, or the fox, from scratching your eyes out?”
“Dan, if you were strapped to my head I wouldn't be able to stand up or do much of anything. That’s pretty dumb. How would I wear you, anyway? Folded over at the waist? Or would I sort of drape you around my shoulders, like a scarf.”
“Dude. The fox. The fox would scratch and bite you to shit, man.”
“No, the fox would be trained.”
“Right. You’d train the fox. Is this before or after you attached the chin strap?”
“Before. But the fox wouldn’t be angry. He’d be happy.”
“I am a fox. I am on your head. I am not happy.”
“Sure you are. That heat escaping my body through my head is keeping your belly warm. I’ve never been unhappy when my belly was warm. Plus, I’d be carrying you around to all these cool places, like coffee shops and pedestrian malls.”
“I imagine you would not be happy, despite your belly being warm, when you are stuck on some guy’s melon.”
“Unlikely.”
“All right, Paul, fox happiness aside, what keeps the fox from freaking out when you eat? I mean, say you go out to dinner and it’s a nice night so you decide to sit on the patio, but the air is a little crisp so you keep your fox hat on. Your meal comes and every time you go to take a bite of your lasagna the fox scratches you in the mouth and knocks your fork to the ground. What then?”
“Well, I think you are ignoring a critical issue here: the bond between fox and man. There is a symbiotic relationship here! Can’t you see? Jesus man, you must respect the fox! After all, he is the one allowing you to wear him as though he were a hat, is he not? Your scenario is deeply flawed. Observe: since I see my fox as an equal, I would kindly remove him from my head and attach his leash to my chair before eating my meal. “
“But it’s cold out, remember? You can’t take him off.”
“Dan, I’d just give him a few bites of my lasagna then.”
“Okay, but you say that you respect the fox and share a symbiotic relationship with it, even though parasitic is a much more appropriate term, but why is it that the fox is the one strapped to your head? Why is it that it is the fox that you leash to your chair? If you truly respected the fox, why would you condemn it to a life of domestication? Why would you confine its world to wherever you took it on your head? Even if it is a pedestrian mall!”
Ten Minutes Ago
“Dude, where were you last night? Mia’s party was really cool. She was wondering why you didn’t go.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I was hanging out with Thompson. We went to one of those arty theaters where they play classic movies on the weekends. Saw Army of Darkness and Aliens back to back. It was sick. Was she pissed?”
“Yeah, Paul, she was pissed. You know, you rally need to do something about this situation. You could have--how long have you been here?”
“About half an hour, why?”
“How many cups of coffee have you had?”
“Five. Six. No, five.”
“Shit, Paul, being around you and coffee is like being super-glued to a five-year-old.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you remember that goddamned fox hat conversation? That was the most retarded thing I have ever been a part of.”
“What was wrong with the fox hat, Dan? Where did all this animosity come from? Oh, I get it, you are just jealous you didn’t come up with it first.”
“I swear I will leave. I will get up and walk out of here so fast.”
“Okay, okay, relax. Do you want to order something?”
“No, I’m fine. Anyway, you really have to work things out with Mia, she’s getting on my nerves about you getting on hers.”
“I’m gonna get a piece of pie. Where the hell is the waitress?”
“Could you please talk to her?”
“I still don’t understand what she’s so upset about. Dammit, I want some cherry pie, where is the waitress?”
One Week Ago
“If you want out, why don’t you just tell her?”
“I tried.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, Dan, it was like watching the Hindenburg go down. Everything started off so well, then KA-BLAM, the tears started and a voice was screaming ‘OH, THE HUMANITY!’ in my head.”
“Yeah, then what?”
“She cried enough that her tears could have probably put the Hindenburg fire out, and I kinda backed off the topic and apologized.”
“You aren’t scared of her, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Well, maybe, just a little bit.”
“That’s just great, Paul. You realize that you’ve just dug your hole about a hundred times deeper, right?”
“I know, I know. It’s just, she’s a great girl. I mean, she made me breakfast and brought it to me in bed this morning. Toast, orange juice, bacon, eggs. Eggs man, she scrambled eggs for me. I love scrambled eggs.”
“So do you love her, or do you love scrambled eggs?”
“I love her, bringing me scrambled eggs.”
“Jesus, Paul. You know--shit. Pretend that other women would be willing to bring you eggs. Now ask yourself: is it her bringing your eggs, or just any girl bringing your lazy ass eggs?”
“You’re right, Dan, I know, but what am I supposed to do, apologize for apologizing for pretending to break up with her in the first place, then really break up with her.”
“Uhh, I’m not sure what all of that meant, but I think it meant ‘I’m going to tell her, again, and this time I am going to be serious,’ though I could be mistaken. ”
“Yeah, something like that. Ok, I’ll do it.”
“Good. What are you going to tell her?”
“Huh?”
“What are you going to say? Like, how are you going to break the news? You have to have a plan, otherwise you’ll break down as soon as the first tear is shed, again.”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell her anything.”
“What?”
“No man, I was just going to make her break up with me.”
“And how were you planning on doing that?”
“You know, I was just going to be so emotionally unavailable and cruel that she will be driven away and will eventually come to the conclusion that I am no longer the man for her and will then break up with me.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Shit, I’ll just tell her that I made a mistake the first time, and that this time is for real.”
“You’ve got to come up with something better than that, Paul. I’ll kick your ass myself if that’s what you tell her”
“Come on, Dan, I need some support. This is kind of a big issue, is it not? I was talking to Thompson about it last night and he said--”
“I don’t give a shit what Thompson said! I don’t even know Thompson! But I do know you, man, and I know Mia, and you owe her some respect.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“Can we talk about something else now? People are looking at us like we should be at a knitting circle or something.”
“Paul, I have no idea what that means.”
Five Minutes Ago
“Thanks. Oh, and can I get another cup of coffee? Excellent. All right, so I probably haven’t handled this so well, but what do you expect? I’m not in some Hugh Grant movie, man.”
“What the hell does that mean? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Hugh Grant movie.”
“Yeah, you have, Dan. You remember the really shitty Batman movie? The one where the Batsuit had nipples? That was him.”
“That was George Clooney, you ass. And the Batsuit had nipples when Val Kilmer was Batman too, and that movie didn’t completely suck. Your suit-nipple suck-factor hypothesis is fundamentally flawed.”
“The Batsuit is not the issue here, dude. Can we please stay on topic?”
“I’m sorry, have we somehow stumbled into an alternate universe where my mind is in your body and your mind is in mine or something? Did you just ask if we could keep this conversation on topic?”
“I have no idea what you just said. Look, the point is this: I messed up. I should have held my ground and ended it then, but I didn’t I’ve already had this talk with Thompson and he thinks that ”
“Well, good for Thompson. I’m glad to know that he is replacing me as your best friend. Why don’t you just hang out here with him all the time?”
“Thompson doesn’t like going out.”
“Ok then. At any rate, you are just making things worse. Now you have to break up with her again, and she is probably going to hate you forever, instead of hating you for most of your life.”
“Okay, Dan. I’ll admit it, I made a very poor decision. Top five for sure.”
“Right behind the novel.”
Three Years Ago
“Your novel is really bad, Paul.”
“What? My novel is really awesome, Dan. What didn’t you like about it?”
“What is there to like? There’s no setting, no character development, no conflict, no resolution, there isn’t even a plot. It’s just two guys talking to each other.”
“Yeah?”
“There is nothing to it. Why should I bother to read it if I get nothing out of it?”
“It was funny, was it not?”
“There were moments, Paul, there were moments.”
“Damn right there were moments. My friend Thompson thinks it is awesome. He said he’d buy the movie rights, if he had the chance.”
“Who is Thompson?”
“Oh, he’s, uhh, this guy I met a few weeks ago. He’s pretty cool. He’s from out of town.”
“Really? Where is out of town for him?”
“Um, I dunno. Far away, I’m guessing.”
“Well, wherever he is from, he has a horrible taste in literature.”
Two Days Ago
“A fox hat?”
“Yeah, a fox hat.”
“Like, a ‘coon skin hat? Like Davey Crockett and shit?”
“No, Dan, a fox hat, like a hat, that is a fox.”
“Oh, of course. Why should I put a dead fox on my head?”
“No, not dead, the fox has to be alive.”
“What? Paul, how the fuck would that work?”
“Don’t get angry, Dan.”
“I’m not angry, Paul.”
“If you’re not angry why, then, did you raise your voice?”
“I didn’t raise my voice in anger. I was just emphasizing my curiosity.”
“Why did you curse, then?”
“Paul, the hat.”
“Right. It’s a fox hat.”
“Yes I know, but how are you going to make a live fox into a hat?”
“Well, you put the fox on your head, and there is a chin strap, yeah, and maybe the chin strap is extendable so you can use it as a leash to keep the little guy from running away when you take the hat off or go inside and have to leave him tied to a bike rack.”
“Yeah, but then you’d have a live, angry fox strapped to your head. What’s to keep--”
“He wouldn’t be angry.”
“Why not? I’d be pretty angry if I were strapped to your head. What’s stopping me, or the fox, from scratching your eyes out?”
“Dan, if you were strapped to my head I wouldn't be able to stand up or do much of anything. That’s pretty dumb. How would I wear you, anyway? Folded over at the waist? Or would I sort of drape you around my shoulders, like a scarf.”
“Dude. The fox. The fox would scratch and bite you to shit, man.”
“No, the fox would be trained.”
“Right. You’d train the fox. Is this before or after you attached the chin strap?”
“Before. But the fox wouldn’t be angry. He’d be happy.”
“I am a fox. I am on your head. I am not happy.”
“Sure you are. That heat escaping my body through my head is keeping your belly warm. I’ve never been unhappy when my belly was warm. Plus, I’d be carrying you around to all these cool places, like coffee shops and pedestrian malls.”
“I imagine you would not be happy, despite your belly being warm, when you are stuck on some guy’s melon.”
“Unlikely.”
“All right, Paul, fox happiness aside, what keeps the fox from freaking out when you eat? I mean, say you go out to dinner and it’s a nice night so you decide to sit on the patio, but the air is a little crisp so you keep your fox hat on. Your meal comes and every time you go to take a bite of your lasagna the fox scratches you in the mouth and knocks your fork to the ground. What then?”
“Well, I think you are ignoring a critical issue here: the bond between fox and man. There is a symbiotic relationship here! Can’t you see? Jesus man, you must respect the fox! After all, he is the one allowing you to wear him as though he were a hat, is he not? Your scenario is deeply flawed. Observe: since I see my fox as an equal, I would kindly remove him from my head and attach his leash to my chair before eating my meal. “
“But it’s cold out, remember? You can’t take him off.”
“Dan, I’d just give him a few bites of my lasagna then.”
“Okay, but you say that you respect the fox and share a symbiotic relationship with it, even though parasitic is a much more appropriate term, but why is it that the fox is the one strapped to your head? Why is it that it is the fox that you leash to your chair? If you truly respected the fox, why would you condemn it to a life of domestication? Why would you confine its world to wherever you took it on your head? Even if it is a pedestrian mall!”
Ten Minutes Ago
“Dude, where were you last night? Mia’s party was really cool. She was wondering why you didn’t go.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I was hanging out with Thompson. We went to one of those arty theaters where they play classic movies on the weekends. Saw Army of Darkness and Aliens back to back. It was sick. Was she pissed?”
“Yeah, Paul, she was pissed. You know, you rally need to do something about this situation. You could have--how long have you been here?”
“About half an hour, why?”
“How many cups of coffee have you had?”
“Five. Six. No, five.”
“Shit, Paul, being around you and coffee is like being super-glued to a five-year-old.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you remember that goddamned fox hat conversation? That was the most retarded thing I have ever been a part of.”
“What was wrong with the fox hat, Dan? Where did all this animosity come from? Oh, I get it, you are just jealous you didn’t come up with it first.”
“I swear I will leave. I will get up and walk out of here so fast.”
“Okay, okay, relax. Do you want to order something?”
“No, I’m fine. Anyway, you really have to work things out with Mia, she’s getting on my nerves about you getting on hers.”
“I’m gonna get a piece of pie. Where the hell is the waitress?”
“Could you please talk to her?”
“I still don’t understand what she’s so upset about. Dammit, I want some cherry pie, where is the waitress?”
One Week Ago
“If you want out, why don’t you just tell her?”
“I tried.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, Dan, it was like watching the Hindenburg go down. Everything started off so well, then KA-BLAM, the tears started and a voice was screaming ‘OH, THE HUMANITY!’ in my head.”
“Yeah, then what?”
“She cried enough that her tears could have probably put the Hindenburg fire out, and I kinda backed off the topic and apologized.”
“You aren’t scared of her, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Well, maybe, just a little bit.”
“That’s just great, Paul. You realize that you’ve just dug your hole about a hundred times deeper, right?”
“I know, I know. It’s just, she’s a great girl. I mean, she made me breakfast and brought it to me in bed this morning. Toast, orange juice, bacon, eggs. Eggs man, she scrambled eggs for me. I love scrambled eggs.”
“So do you love her, or do you love scrambled eggs?”
“I love her, bringing me scrambled eggs.”
“Jesus, Paul. You know--shit. Pretend that other women would be willing to bring you eggs. Now ask yourself: is it her bringing your eggs, or just any girl bringing your lazy ass eggs?”
“You’re right, Dan, I know, but what am I supposed to do, apologize for apologizing for pretending to break up with her in the first place, then really break up with her.”
“Uhh, I’m not sure what all of that meant, but I think it meant ‘I’m going to tell her, again, and this time I am going to be serious,’ though I could be mistaken. ”
“Yeah, something like that. Ok, I’ll do it.”
“Good. What are you going to tell her?”
“Huh?”
“What are you going to say? Like, how are you going to break the news? You have to have a plan, otherwise you’ll break down as soon as the first tear is shed, again.”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell her anything.”
“What?”
“No man, I was just going to make her break up with me.”
“And how were you planning on doing that?”
“You know, I was just going to be so emotionally unavailable and cruel that she will be driven away and will eventually come to the conclusion that I am no longer the man for her and will then break up with me.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Shit, I’ll just tell her that I made a mistake the first time, and that this time is for real.”
“You’ve got to come up with something better than that, Paul. I’ll kick your ass myself if that’s what you tell her”
“Come on, Dan, I need some support. This is kind of a big issue, is it not? I was talking to Thompson about it last night and he said--”
“I don’t give a shit what Thompson said! I don’t even know Thompson! But I do know you, man, and I know Mia, and you owe her some respect.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn right I’m right.”
“Can we talk about something else now? People are looking at us like we should be at a knitting circle or something.”
“Paul, I have no idea what that means.”
Five Minutes Ago
“Thanks. Oh, and can I get another cup of coffee? Excellent. All right, so I probably haven’t handled this so well, but what do you expect? I’m not in some Hugh Grant movie, man.”
“What the hell does that mean? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Hugh Grant movie.”
“Yeah, you have, Dan. You remember the really shitty Batman movie? The one where the Batsuit had nipples? That was him.”
“That was George Clooney, you ass. And the Batsuit had nipples when Val Kilmer was Batman too, and that movie didn’t completely suck. Your suit-nipple suck-factor hypothesis is fundamentally flawed.”
“The Batsuit is not the issue here, dude. Can we please stay on topic?”
“I’m sorry, have we somehow stumbled into an alternate universe where my mind is in your body and your mind is in mine or something? Did you just ask if we could keep this conversation on topic?”
“I have no idea what you just said. Look, the point is this: I messed up. I should have held my ground and ended it then, but I didn’t I’ve already had this talk with Thompson and he thinks that ”
“Well, good for Thompson. I’m glad to know that he is replacing me as your best friend. Why don’t you just hang out here with him all the time?”
“Thompson doesn’t like going out.”
“Ok then. At any rate, you are just making things worse. Now you have to break up with her again, and she is probably going to hate you forever, instead of hating you for most of your life.”
“Okay, Dan. I’ll admit it, I made a very poor decision. Top five for sure.”
“Right behind the novel.”
Three Years Ago
“Your novel is really bad, Paul.”
“What? My novel is really awesome, Dan. What didn’t you like about it?”
“What is there to like? There’s no setting, no character development, no conflict, no resolution, there isn’t even a plot. It’s just two guys talking to each other.”
“Yeah?”
“There is nothing to it. Why should I bother to read it if I get nothing out of it?”
“It was funny, was it not?”
“There were moments, Paul, there were moments.”
“Damn right there were moments. My friend Thompson thinks it is awesome. He said he’d buy the movie rights, if he had the chance.”
“Who is Thompson?”
“Oh, he’s, uhh, this guy I met a few weeks ago. He’s pretty cool. He’s from out of town.”
“Really? Where is out of town for him?”
“Um, I dunno. Far away, I’m guessing.”
“Well, wherever he is from, he has a horrible taste in literature.”
12.01.2008
And now for something completely different
While avoiding several large essay assignments I stumbled upon this relic: a short film* I made for an english project way back in high school. No further comments could ever clarify the madness you are about to witness, so I'll just dim the lights and start the projector. obviousjesus, this is for you.
*please note that the term 'film' is used very, very loosely.
*please note that the term 'film' is used very, very loosely.
Memory. . .
. . . has always fascinated me. The way something will suddenly emerge from the inky depths of your mind with the clarity of a thousand suns is amazing. Of course, that clarity exists only for a brief moment (and is hardly clear, but that is another topic that I don’t feel like embracing at this point) before those thousand suns swell and fade and die and the tiny fragment of the past is lost to the depths again. I feel like I owe it to my future self to document every bit of memory I can conjure, so that I can have a detailed map of my history. I want to remember everything. I want to turn up the intensity of the searchlight until every last corner of memory is exposed and burned into the permanent record.
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