Right now it's just a pile of cromoly steel and rubber. It sits under a flight of stairs in this apartment complex, providing a new home for wandering insects and rust.
When I see it as I walk past, say, in the mornings on my way to my car to go to work, I don't think much of it. It's just a boy's bicycle. Or at least, it was.
Right?
...well, yea. Right. It was just that. And if you've ever seen an old, ruined and rusty childrens bicycle folded up in some out-of-the-way corner somewhere you know the kind of mess I'm talking about. It's not pretty; it's had its day and someone really needs to just throw it out.
You might think that there's absolutely nothing compelling to say or observe about a used and worthless bicycle with training wheels on it. You couldn't even toss it on Craigslist in hopes for a quick $10. It's that bad.
But just consider something.
The kid who rode this bike will never, ever ride another bicycle again. This isn't out of choice but necessity. The 'kid' is 16 now and smoking pot with his friends under the bleachers during lunch. He's onto bigger and more dangerous vehicles, too, those with internal combustion engines and lethal capabilities.
Rarely if ever do people kill others via bicycle collision.
His family kept the bike around for far too long and now it's been relegated to sit under that damned staircase, becoming an eyesore for every neighbor here. But I see more than that. I see a teenager who is so blinded by the novelty of pussy, fireworks, cool sunglasses and Abercrombie and Fitch that the glory and freedom offered by his bicycle is less than even a fading memory.
He doesn't even bother himself to think back to the times when he was riding that bike with his sister in tow, each holding in their small hands a popsicle gotten from one of those Mexican street vendor dudes. He forgets completely the feeling of the wind pouring through his toes and hair, cleaning his soul of any worry. Any worry that a 5 year old could have.
Long forgotten are those days. He's on to other things: STD's, trip-hop, jacking off and algebra.
But I see that bike for what it was.
I see the bolts, seat collars and cantilevers as components not just of the bike, but of that boy's youth.
A youth that is now a victim of neglect and rust, dying softly with no ones notice but my own.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Spinning and Whirring, Whirring and Spinning
... inside a tiny yet massive existential container.
Infinity can be contained and even represented if we just stop thinking about 'things'. Assigning labels like 'it' or 'that' or 'something' or even 'nothing' creates false thought boundaries.
Surely, words are needed to communicate. But let's be real: infinity doesn't exist in communication because communication is only a transfer of labels of finite things ('that', 'something', 'you', 'life', 'yesterday', 'sex', etc).
It's been often said by many a philosopher that no one idea can be purely represented such that the exact same idea is created in the mind of the person to whom the idea is being explained.
Succinctly, language is dead. However, it always has been and it always will be a necessity of human existence. Linguicists and English professors alike will lament the inherent fallibility of human communication 'till their death (see Noam Chomsky) but they'll also concede to the fact that regardless of how inaccurate our speech is, it's required to progress at all, anywhere, doing anything.
This is of course unless you live in your own universe, like I do.
See, I've decided to create my own language, for use in my own universe, in conversations between my own sentient beings, using not words but mental vibrations that are 100% spot-on representations of the things they 'label'.
Think of it this way: in *my* world, I wouldn't say to you "I have a blue car". No. In *my* world, I would simply SEND you a mental vibration exactly representing the exact car, that is blue, and that I own, hence eliminating the need for any clarification (what shade of blue? how large? 2 door or 4 door? tinted windows?).
See, I've got this "reality" shit figured out.
You people think I don't, but really I do.
A Toast
Here's to coffee that tastes kind of like turkey but not enough to warrant a complaint to whoever made it. Here's to single mothers with joint custody and 50 hour work weeks still making payments on the credit cards they abused in college. Here's to the rise above racism and bigotry even though recently it seems like they're en vogue, like it's fashionable to hate for the sake of hating.
Here's to joining the fucking Marines out of sheer boredom of a world of cubicles, fluorescent lighting and conference calls.
Here's to never quite getting the revenge you wanted and to having to die defeated. Here's to living the next life with infinitely more purpose and clarity because of prior adversities.
Here's to the hope that somewhere along the line the injustices of this world will be realized for what they are - devoid of reason and chock full of pointlessness. Here's to finally realizing that no matter how powerful, rich or famous you become, you'll never ever be more than mortal and there will always be someone out there who can bring you down with one phone call.
Here's to living for 2 weeks off a handful of quarters. Here's to appreciating the roles that pain and discomfort play in our lives as indicators of anomalies and injury.
... to hearing your stomach grumble in request for anything other than another saltine cracker.
... to bashing your head against the wall until either your blood blinds you or you become unconscious, whichever comes first.
... to defying common understanding of why we're here at all so that others might see the error in their beliefs.
... to finally being at peace with the emptiness shared by all living things - the detachment from concrete knowledge of the nature of existence and our true progenitor.
Jack and Jill
"Heya, mister. Whatcha readin'?" 7 year-old Jill asked the grayed, leathery old man.
The man looked up from his book and made eye contact with the little girl through the tops of his reading glasses. A smile quickly came.
"Voltaire. Have you ever ready any Voltaire?" he asked.
"Who? No, but I've read some Dr. Seuss!" she replied, and with this began swinging her legs back and forth excitedly from her seat in the booth.
The old man marked his page with a fold and put his book down before folding his hands, sitting back and thinking about his own experiences reading as a child. For him there was no Dr. Seuss – the closest thing he had to that was the pamphlet they handed out for all the kids at the Ringling Brothers Circus performances.
"Do you like reading, miss … what's your name?" he asked.
"Jill," she said, "Jill Werther. That's my mom over there."
The little girl motioned to a heavyset woman helping herself to the collard greens at the buffet bar.
"I love to read! I can read anything" she continued.
"Anything?" the man challenged.
"Anything!" she said.
"Well I bet your mother is proud of you. You seem like a very smart little girl." The man said.
Jill didn't know how to respond to compliments at that age so in lieu of a 'thank you' or even a silent blushing, she resorted to playing with her napkin and looking quizzically at the scar across the old man's right hand.
"Hey mister what happened to your hand?" she asked.
"Call me Jack. I hurt it defending this country, you know. A long, long time ago." He said.
The truth is he nearly lost that hand. One of the first on the ground on D-day, Jack spilled more blood from his wounds than even some of the dead did during their exit from life. The shrapnel he took in his left hand and just below his neck left him with permanent reminders of the value of his, and for that matter Jill's, freedom.
"Ooo so you were in the Army?" Jill asked.
"No, not the Army. The Marines. Say, can you spell Marines?" Jack said in an attempt to change the subject.
"M … A … R … " Jill paused then looked up and to the right for a moment, as if the next letter was floating around the ceiling fan above her.
"E?" she said with obvious reservation.
Jack laughed heartily and finished the spelling for her. His past with the corps left him with vivid memories of times well spent with his brothers-in-arms both during and after World War II, and it was in this little diner and because of Jill that he began reminiscing.
"Your country is the greatest one in the world, Jill. You be sure to remember that. Many, many good men and women have died so that you can be free." Jack reassured.
"Excuse me, but I'd appreciate if you wouldn't say those things to my child," came a voice from their left. It was Jill's mother returning with a plate full of everything from cornbread muffins to glazed ham.
"We don't believe in war. Nothing good has ever come from it. You might do well to keep your thoughts to yourself; not everyone thinks killing is the answer to everything," the woman finished.
She left her plate full of food on the table, scooped up Jill and her belongings and headed for the door. After paying for her food she looked over her shoulder back at Jack and scowled.
Jack watched them as they walked across the parking lot and out of sight. He then pulled up his right shirt sleeve to just below his elbow, revealing the USMC insignia he had tattooed on his forearm many decades ago.
"Semper Fi," Jack said under his breath.
A lump grew in his throat. He swallowed hard, pulled his sleeve back down and picked his book back up.
He located the page he was on and continued reading.
GMTO Memo
MEMO - October 8th, 2090
Attn: All Galactic Message Transfer Organization Employees
Re: This is a Message Authenticity Breach Alert
The following message was intercepted on October 2nd, 2090. It was being sent from Earth to an unknown destination in an outer-lying galaxy of the Colandron System.
It's been determined that this is a scam and we need to be on watch for more of these. If you identify any similar transmissions in your assigned communicational territories, please notify your supervisor immediately.
Onwards,
Management
Enclosure: 1
==========(Enclosure)==========
Tribunal,
In 2088 a 'Congressional Overhaul' took place in Washington, D.C., United States, Earth.
68 politicians were left dead and another 40 or so were kept hostage for 2 days before finally being released when terms were reached. Among the 68 dead was the US President at the time, Hugh Hampton Bassett. The group responsible for the massacre calls themselves the VNR.
Victory's New Recruits.
VNR had been organizing what they called the 'overhaul' for 30 or so years, going to such lengths as raising children in such a way as to prime them for perfect roles in the master plan to reformat the White House. I was one of those children.
My name is Ansen Jerg. I'm 36 years old, a father of two, a successful businessman and now, a contracted killer. My loyalty to the VNR has been steadfast until now and as 2091 reaches us in less than 3 months, I'm finalizing my plans to secede from VNR and make a new life for myself. I know this won't be easy, but I'm prepared to sacrifice a life of senseless murder to the possibility of one with some semblance of peace of mind.
See, it's not easy being sent to eliminate political or economical figureheads every other weekend or so, and the excitement of killing, after a while, shrinks to a mere fear of being exposed. Don't get me wrong. I do my job and do it well.
I just hate doing it.
Sure there's the 6 figure payout for each hit and sure my family enjoys the lifestyle I've provided for them, but this can't go on. It just can't. I've had enough.
I'm sitting here now in the 2nd basement of our house in on Enerven Island. Oh, that's right ... you wouldn't know this, would you: Enerven Island is a man-made island about 200 miles off the coast of Canada (Vancouver, British Columbia). It was engineered and constructed all in less than 10 years largely with funding from sources directly related to the VNR. This is a place where we can act near independently from the umbrella of surveillance and control of mainland United States. Further, the island is portable and can travel up to half a mile in a 24-hour period.
Anyway, what you need to know about my situation is that I need your help. I understand that your people have teleportational technology that can send me and whomever I choose to wherever we ask. I also understand that your planet is, while barely inhabitable by humans, in dire need of certain resources only available here, on Earth.
I'd like for you to consider the following offer -
1. Take me and my family from Enerven Island and provide for me solace from my life of delegated murder.
2. Provide for me a life of comfort on your planet, with means with which to survive on my/our own.
In turn, I will provide you with -
1. Access to interstellar trade line information and lesser-known bartering routes. This data alone could be the breath of fresh air your kind needs.
2. Blueprints and supplies for construction of UEE units. Unlimited Energy Emination units as you probably know are self-replicable means of self-contained energy; you can divide a UEE unit in two and still have the same free energy in each unit as you did with the original. Basically what I'm offering you is free energy for your entire populace to use.
Don't ask me how I know these things or from where they will come. I have lived the past 8 years of my life in complete secrecy and I must retain some part of that for my own security. I hope you understand.
I'll be relaying a follow-up message in a few days after you and your Tribunal review my proposal.
Thank you, and here's to a fruitful 2091.
Yours,
Ansen Jerg
It’s 4am and I am a Ninja
*eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek*
*...*
*eek eek eek*
Yup. The folks upstairs are fucking again. It's 3:30 in the morning for Christ's sake and instead of resting their eyelids they're making babies. I'd like to hear of a WD-40 salesman going door-to-door around here so that perhaps my 'fucking' neighbors would get some of the stuff to silence that obnoxious bed.
*eek eek eek eek eek eek eek*
I rub my eyes. 3:31.
*eek ... eek*
GODDAMNIT!!!
I throw the covers away from my body in a slighted fit of disgust. I've had it. The night is cool and damp outside and there are certainly other places I could be than inside this apartment enduring the sounds of zealous lovemaking NOT being had by me.
*eek eek eek*
My dog's ears perk up before she takes time for a quick stretch.
'What the hell are we doing up so early?' she seems to say to me.
"We're going for a walk. Come on." I say.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a longsleeve shirt in anticipation of the frigid November air. The high today is supposed to be around 40. I grab Loki's leash and collar and dress her up. Let's go.
*eek eek eek eek eek eek eek*
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" I belt out, before stepping outside. Fat chance of them hearing me though, through all the grunting and slapping noises.
I am rarely ever up before 7am and being alone in the cold morning darkness is very much a change of pace. I take stock of what's around me: 3 rows of packed parking lot spaces all filled with SUV's, sedans and the occasional Jeep; a long, thin puddle of rainwater saddling the roadway; a few dimly lit streetlights and not a soul to be seen.
And wow ... the quiet. The quiet is nice.
I take a few steps from my doorstep and welcome the few drops of moisture that land on my face. Loki certainly doesn't mind this jaunt - she's already found a nice patch of sod to violate.
"Good girl" I say.
It's at this point when it hits me. I'm alone. No, like, REALLY alone. There is not one single person out here nor is anyone even within earshot (that I can see). I could do ANYTHING I wanted to, here in the parking lot of my apartment complex.
I could run around naked swinging nunchucks.
I could roll around in a huge pile of my pressed work clothes.
I could dropkick a midget and laugh at his demise (if such a midget could be found here).
It's 3:58 now, and I'm slowly losing any inhibitions I had when I woke up. I am the epitome of stealth; no one even knows I'm out here. I could go key one of those nice SUV's out of spite for the fuel and money they waste.
I am in-fucking-vincible and probably will be for the next hour or so.
What's this? There's a long stick sitting over there by that tree. I believe I will take that stick, and it will become my samurai sword. AHA!! And what's this I see? Someone has haphazardly left a few D batteries here on the sidewalk. How wasteful!! Everyone knows D batteries double as throwing stars.
This is excellent. I am equipping myself with everything I need to usurp those in power here at the complex.
OMG LOOK!! There!! Some fool has left the rag they were using to check their oil RIGHT there next to that car!
Hellooooooo martial arts headband. Sweet.
Loki looks at me quizzically. I nod as if to grant her the status of assailant's assistant.
I look at my watch.
It's 4:00am, and I'm a ninja.
Inappropriate Worldview
I want to open a time window to around 1200 A.D. and witness what life was like without aspirin, internal combustion, cold-rolled steel or nice watches.
I want to see all the drug czars who have ever lived hung by the roofs of their mouths from a zip line spanning the Gulf of Mexico.
I want Jesus Christ to take a nice, long walk down any road in East St. Louis and I want him to take in the putrid, pungent smell of spent prophylactics and alcohol, fermenting in the gutters.
I want to see a gun built that fires planets. That's right, planets. I want two of these guns to be cocked and loaded at opposite ends of the solar system, aiming directly at eachother. Then, I want my hand on the button that pulls both the triggers.
I want to see a resurgence of the pet rock fad. Except this time, I want it to be a pet cotton ball fad.
I want a mosquito-specific disease to infiltrate and then eradicate the entire existence of this most wretched of insects. No one needs mosquitos and I want them all to choke on their own regurgitated blood.
Heh. Mosquito asphyxiation. That's pretty inappropriate, but kind of ironic for some reason. Why?
I want, just for one day ... one sweet fucking day ... for 2+2 to equal 1.618. I want this so badly it actually hurts. Then, I want to see all the mathematicians in the world gathered, perplexed and perhaps even gleeful, around a huge table at the Pentagon.
These mathematicians' heads - I want them all to explode in unison. Wait, no. Make that one by one. And make it happen not because *I* want it to, but because of the sheer cerebral pressure involved in mentally digesting the fact that yes, 2+2 does now equal 1.618.
This all I want because I ...
... have an inappropriate worldview.
Reluctantly Crouched at the Starting Line
I ride mountain bikes. It's kinda my thing. If you find this sport at all boring, please move along ...
======================================================
There comes a time in every novice rider's life when he questions his aptitude, really, on a mountain bike.
For someone who is really curious about where they stand in the whole scheme of the sport, the race looms. It's like a huge hammer of justice, just waiting to either humble you to your knees, or glorify your efforts as a cyclist. For me the former took place, and this is my account of it.
A stuffy, humid day in Athens, Georgia…nothing to look forward waking up to unless, of course, you had a race that morning. I did what I could the night before to prepare my bike for the certain beating that was going to take place at 12:35pm the next day. Applying plenty of chain lube, front to back cable adjustments and even the slightest brake pad tweaks; I was stoked to the point of meticulously worshipping the functioning capacity of my bike. A healthy breakfast was had, as was a stretching workout that even a contortionist could appreciate. I wanted to DOMINATE. In fact, it was the only thing on my mind that morning as I drove to the race, with the joyous sounds of punk rock permeating my brain. I reached the site:
It was immediate intimidation...
- $4,000 bikes
- Huge, shaved legs rippling with endurance-proven striations
- Pro-class riders zooming by, their tires spitting gravel as if it were water
- Laughter and conversations being had by whole teams of pro riders
There was a LOT to be afraid of. VERY afraid of.
But I did not let any of this get to me, too much. I got out of my car, swapped my cut-off khakis for lycra and stussy hat for helmet and proceeded to the starting line. What I then took in really got my heart racing. I decided to race sport class, thinking that surely I was no pro, but that beginner-level races were, how should we say, below me. Those around me were emotionless, their faces taught with intent. These men were teeming with aggression as they jockeyed for the ideal start position.
A shot was heard, followed by the sound of 35 rear tires spinning on loose gravel, and we were off. It had begun…
I launched myself from stationary with an explosion of power on my left foot. I soon found myself coasting down the first descent amidst 5 or 6 of the most tuned riders I have ever seen. I remember thinking to myself, I am of the best…look at me! Racing with these guys! This thought changed as soon as the first climb came.
I was swallowed by a 5-wide pack of riders careening by me, left and right, faster than I had ever thought possible on a climb like this one. Someone said, "You're an hour late! The beginner race ended 20 minutes ago! HAHAHAHA!!"
I was enraged.
3 miles later, I felt my heart tugging at it's abilities. Sweat began to pool under my eyes and my sight became blurred by huge clouds of dust enveloping me as I drifted slowly back to accompany the slower riders. This was all too much. I hadn't given ANY thought to the possibility that I should be pacing myself.
5 miles later, I began to cramp. My hydrapack was exhausted; coincidentally so was I. With every crank I felt a knot swell near my knees. The cramps were irreconcilable. The moment I would try to stand and stretch one calve, the other would cry in pain as it underwent yet another torturing cramp. There was NO escape. Thoughts of my dominating this race quickly turned to thoughts of my merely finishing this race. I pressed on, knowing that the next day would bring certain agony accompanied by muscle recovery. I didn't care. It became to me a game of survival. Either I played my cards right in the field of energy conservation, or I lost the hand to others with even more determination than I.
Countless miles later, the finish line was in sight. By this time, I was bleeding at both knees, my head had become a swollen grenade of aching, pulsating annoyance, and my forearms were wrought with lactic distress. I crossed the finish line placing 32nd of 35 riders, beating only those 3 participants who, for one reason or another, simply dropped out of the race. It was humiliating.
The next day I spent all morning in bed, unable to stand. The usual hangover remedies (hot coffee, aspirin, and a nice cold shower) seemed to only insult my condition. I felt like a hospice patient…and I didn't care. I raced my heart out and won the game of survival. At the same time, I learned an awfully valuable lesson: Sometimes bridling your ego can prove to be the best move you can make in an effort to better yourself.
NO race would ever be as beneficial to me as that first race was. I still have my number sheet…#2501, Sport Class, placing: DEAD LAST.
A Beautiful Mistake Downstairs
"There's something I think you should see" I told him.
He had barely walked in the door and was making his way to the coat rack when I said this.
"It's just ... well, Frank just go look. Please?" I continued.
If it weren't for the sincere look on my face he would have thought this was a joke, and as much as Frank enjoys a good joke this would turn out to be quite the opposite.
"It's downstairs. I have no idea how it got here or what it is exactly but you need to do something about it." I finished.
"Whatever 'it' is, honey, I'm sure we'll all be just fine." he said as he made his way through the foyer and into the hall. He opened the door to the basement and flipped on the light.
No dice.
"Bulb must be out. Honey could you get me a new one?" he asked, continuing down the stairs.
"Sure thing, hon. Just a sec" I replied, then offered, "It's just to your right. Do you see it yet?"
"No, Martha, I can't see shit. Grab me that flashlight in the pantry, would you?" he said.
I walked into the pantry as instructed and fished the 2 foot-long Mag lite from the utility drawer. I flipped it on and then off again to ensure that it worked before making my way down to where Frank was.
When I approached him with the flashlight he was standing with his back to me and mumbling something unintelligable.
I grinned slightly.
For a 38 year-old woman I swung that flashlight with amazing force. It made contact right where I had intended, across Frank's right temple. I thought I might have to swing again but soon realized that one hit was all that was needed. He immediately fell to the floor and remained motionless.
It all took place beautifully; Frank was out cold and appropriately so, considering where his home for the next few days would be.
His dead weight was a lot to work with but I did what I could to stuff him into the meat freezer we used to keep our venison fresh. I'd worry about his disposal later.
I remember there being no blood. I remember the adrenalin causing involuntary shaking of my hands and knees.
I also remember looking down to the floor at my weapon, thinking:
Wow.
These Mag lite things are very well made.
Untitled
Hi there.
Lately you haven't been yourself and you've been coming across a bit jaded and sort of...you know...down. Am I right? Hmm? Am I?
I am, aren't I?
Of course I am. Nothing seems to be going right - your job is wearing you down, you don't feel like you're making the headway you expected by this point in your life and you just don't believe things are panning out according to how you planned them. I mean, when you look around you and size up others who are in situations similar to yours, you immediately discover that you're very certainly on the 'far left' of the bell curve of success.
Everyone else is making more money, having more sex, getting better benefits, driving nicer cars, buying bigger homes, taking more luxurious vacations and simply leading better lives. You're stuck behind a phone or keyboard for 9 hours a day only to come home to a pathetic excuse of an apartment where you'll hide from the day by escaping into some off-brand sci-fi novel or the latest issue of Harper's Magazine.
But maybe that's only to convince yourself that you're SO intellectual and above all the Rolling Stone-esque politico-socio-Americo-bullshit that sells like hotcakes out there for some reason. Oh and forget about getting laid. You have the confidence level of an earthworm and the only women who'd be stupid enough to fuck you would have to be expecting some sort of monetary compensation in return.
BUT YOU WANT TO KNOW SOMETHING?? YOU ARE THE ONE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS. YOUR EARTHWORMNESS IS ONLY A RESULT OF YOUR OWN SELF-SUSTAINING AUTODEPRICATION.
HERE'S HOW TO STOP THIS:
Step 1 - Stop giving a fuck about whether or not you become anything or anyone, go anywhere, live to be any age, fuck any woman, drive any car, own any home, wear any brand of suit, shoe or cologne, take any trip to anywhere, have any kind of relationships with anyone or basically be alive for any reason other than to just be alive at all. The purpose of life is to live it and not to ornament it with superficial trinkets and worthless, corporeal pleasures that will all be for naught the day you die.
Step 2 - Start giving a fuck about the plight of others around you and the immeasurable shit that so many others have gone through that you will most likely not go through. Start being thankful that you don't have pancreatic cancer or scabies. Start taking notice of paraplegics, psychotics, those on death row (even wrongly so), infants hooked on crack and farmers who go to bed with aching, bloody hands just so they have a roof over their heads.
Step 3 - Laugh. Often. Not at anything in particular. Now that you don't give a fuck, just about EVERYTHING will seem funny or at least, funnier.
Step 4 - Understand that you can't change the general direction in which the world is going. There are things you can control and there are things you cannot. Know that things like escalating intra-national strife are going to happen or not, independent of what you do or how much or little you care about it.
Finally - Step 5.
Know that when you die nothing will matter for you going forward, even if you did have 10 million dollars to leave your 4 kids.
You won't be around to see them spend it. When you're gone, you're gone and nothing you've 'acquired' will amount to a hill of beans.
What WILL matter will reside only in your soul.
It's there where you'll draw on things like metaphysical knowledge, human empathy, understanding and life experience.
Don't be so ignorant as to think that you'll be sharing a cloud with your ancestors, eating ambrosia and viewing those you left behind from afar.
Your soul is yours. Not your wife's, not your father's, not your boss's and certainly not your children's.
Start living as if you believed in even 50% of what is written here and I assure you that you will grow into a happier person in a matter of days.
Life Lessons Learned in a Death Metal Mosh Pit
Thankfully I never needed any bone marrow.
Aaaaand I never knew anyone named Rett, either.
I have however been on the receiving end of a drop kick executed by a shirtless 6'4" neo-nazi skinhead.
-------------------------------------------------------
The lineup included a few lesser-known metal bands like 69 Eyes, God Forbid and Burn Season but everyone was there to see Napalm Death. The venue: The Roxy in Atlanta, Georgia. Stardate - May, 2004.
I had always been a huge fan of hard rock. I thought I was especially cool when I could spout off a dozen or so names of underground grindcore or 'brutal' death metal groups (yes, there is a 'brutal' subgenre). I usually did so with my typical air of confidence and signature holier-than-thou tone of voice.
That night however my perceptions of just how hardcore I was would be checked. I don't mean checked as in how one might check his or her bank account balance or check on their kids. I mean checked as in how a hockey player might check. A hockey player on meth. And PCP. And steroids (hold your tongue, Method).
Yea, Burn Season got a rise from the crowd and sure, 69 Eyes dealt the pain but nothing would prepare me for what ridiculous level of chaos Napalm Death would bring to the table. If you've ever been to The Roxy you know that it's a smaller venue ... standing room for only about 200 or so people. That night I'd say about 250-300 showed up and that's probably a conservative figure.
The first song Napalm Death played was pretty true to their style; it was more than enough to cause that necessary stir in the crowd precipitating the quintessential, amorphous mosh pit. Shortly after the first song was over I heard a bottle break just to my left. This was something I should have paid far closer attention to.
The second song started and almost immediately the mosh pit began. Like most pits that form at rock shows it grew from the inside out, and before long the better half of everyone there was, willingly or not, a part of it. The smoke from lit cigarettes and joints floated above the sea of flailing arms and before long I realized that I had a fight or flight decision to make.
I took to fighting. Hard.
It kind of becomes a game of survival when you're in one of these. There is surely no mercy as everyone is too doped up on anger and rage to give a fuck if you suffer a fractured femur. At first I found myself faring pretty well - I had delivered a pretty well-placed elbow to the temple of someone obviously too emo to even be there and soon I realized that I was definitely among those better equipped to fend for themselves amidst the cacophony and blind brutality. Soon I upped the ante and started swinging closed fists. Wow ... this felt pretty good.
It was like getting revenge on every schoolyard bully who ever raped me for my lunch money (what, that never happened to you?).
By the 4th song I was pleased with my progress. I had effectively eluded the 'linchpins' of the pit, those few people who you just knew to stay away from. Why? Well for me the warning sign on one of them was the swastika tattoo placed just below his right ear. While he may well have been an ignorant supremacist asshole he probably had enough refined hatred for everything to send me to a whole other plane of anguish.
But about halfway through the headliner's set, things got terribly out of hand. This happened as the most tumultuous section of the pit migrated my way and enveloped me in knees, belts wrapped around fists and faces red with adrenalin.
Out of nowhere he came flying right at me. That guy with the swastika.
Perhaps it was the 'give peace a chance' shirt I was wearing or the gay pride-themed face paint I had on.
No really, whatever it was that spurred him, I was dropkicked squarely in the chest by a man out for nothing less than the procurement of my very soul. The soles of his boots bashed me so hard I was launched to the inside part of the human ring surrounding the pit. A few onlookers were quick to try to pick me up, but it was no use. I was unconscious.
Being unconscious on the floor in a death metal mosh pit is no fun, I assure you. Not for you, not for your nervous system, not for anyone but those who would take immediate advantage of your prone position. And that's just what happened.
I won't get into the exact details about what happened next because frankly, I don't remember. What I do remember is coming to next to a wall, surrounded by people standing around me with eerily curious looks on their faces.
"Dude, you ok?" one of them asked me.
I didn't respond. I tried to stand up but couldn't due to the shooting pain running down my right leg. I kind of had to situate myself on my side and then use the wall to assist me to a standing position. After looking around and locating the exit I made my way outside and into the night air.
2 blocks down was my car. I hobbled to it and got inside.
I angled my rear view mirror so I could see myself. I immediately panicked. My right eye was swollen to the point of being comical and I was bleeding from the left side of my mouth. The bridge of my nose led me to think it was broken. Thankfully it wasn't.
Sitting in the driver's seat made me very aware of a sharp pain in my backside. I reached back and down to just above my butt to find a shard of glass no less than 3 inches long, lodged into my skin. I got out of the car, removed the shard and waited for the pain to subside.
After asking myself over and over why the fuck I went to the show to begin with I drove myself home and got a few hours of much needed rest.
... so what life lesson did I learn in all this?
The Aryan Nation is still alive and well and will skullfuck you if you don't watch your faggot ass.
Mr. Toll Operator, I Loathe You
The following events took place between 8:00 AM and 9:00 AM on Tuesday, February 6th, 2007.
----------------
"No she didn't" I said to myself under my breath as I felt my pulse rate quicken.
That goddamned tramp in her white Mercedes had cut me off twice in 10 seconds.
I've killed the hopes and dreams of small children for less than that.
I was working on the second half of my coffee when the rage I felt towards this disrespectful whore overcame my very being and sent me into a fit of bloodthirsty insanity. You might not think humans are capable of sprouting massive canines akin to that of a walrus but I swear to god, when the right combination of self-rightous real estate agent and 80 miles per hour meets just the right mixture of Tuesday commute and a partial hangover, it's possible.
My trapezius muscles grew to the size of regulation footballs. She was now weaving through the 4 or 5 cars ahead of me with the same kind of blatant disregard I would expect from a 2 year old pissing in the kiddie pool. Except in this case the 2 year old was behind the wheel of a $90,000 luxury sedan while yapping away to the client who's been waiting on her for 35 minutes.
My fingers grew by at least 50%. Maybe 55%, I don't recall exactly. My field of view became tinted with red - I was going to fucking eat this woman's pancreas right from out of her cracked-open ribcage in front of anyone unfortunate enough to slow down and view the roadside spectacle when it happened.
Fuck.
Toll booth.
My thighs exploded in size and threw the driver side door right off it's hinges. I needed the breeze, too. This beast-like state I was entering was causing some unwanted heat. Soon the wind was coarsing through my thick, bear-like body hair and I began my approach to the line of cars all waiting to pay their $.50 at the toll booth. Mrs. Mercedes was only 6 cars ahead of me.
Thank god I wasn't wearing my seatbelt for surely by then I would have choked on it. My chest must have grown 40-50 inches and it was then that I became too big for my car. It's a good thing the cars were moving slowly at that point, because seeing the car in front of you pop it's fucking top like a can of sardines can raise some eyebrows.
After bursting through the roof of my car I ripped the curling steel from around my body and took survey of my beeline to that mindless hag just waiting for me to bring sweet death to her not 40 yards away. Someone honked their horn and I sent my foot through their windshield, promptly ending the existence of the annoying distraction.
I leapt straight over the first 2 cars in one bound. As I came crashing down onto the back end of the SUV in my flight path I caught sight of a serious problem.
I was at the toll booth. Up ahead was the toll operator. You can't get past the toll operator without paying your $.50.
I didn't have the $.50 required to pass so I couldn't reach where the white Mercedes had made it.
*sigh*
----------------
"No she didn't" I said to myself under my breath as I felt my pulse rate quicken.
That goddamned tramp in her white Mercedes had cut me off twice in 10 seconds.
I've killed the hopes and dreams of small children for less than that.
I was working on the second half of my coffee when the rage I felt towards this disrespectful whore overcame my very being and sent me into a fit of bloodthirsty insanity. You might not think humans are capable of sprouting massive canines akin to that of a walrus but I swear to god, when the right combination of self-rightous real estate agent and 80 miles per hour meets just the right mixture of Tuesday commute and a partial hangover, it's possible.
My trapezius muscles grew to the size of regulation footballs. She was now weaving through the 4 or 5 cars ahead of me with the same kind of blatant disregard I would expect from a 2 year old pissing in the kiddie pool. Except in this case the 2 year old was behind the wheel of a $90,000 luxury sedan while yapping away to the client who's been waiting on her for 35 minutes.
My fingers grew by at least 50%. Maybe 55%, I don't recall exactly. My field of view became tinted with red - I was going to fucking eat this woman's pancreas right from out of her cracked-open ribcage in front of anyone unfortunate enough to slow down and view the roadside spectacle when it happened.
Fuck.
Toll booth.
My thighs exploded in size and threw the driver side door right off it's hinges. I needed the breeze, too. This beast-like state I was entering was causing some unwanted heat. Soon the wind was coarsing through my thick, bear-like body hair and I began my approach to the line of cars all waiting to pay their $.50 at the toll booth. Mrs. Mercedes was only 6 cars ahead of me.
Thank god I wasn't wearing my seatbelt for surely by then I would have choked on it. My chest must have grown 40-50 inches and it was then that I became too big for my car. It's a good thing the cars were moving slowly at that point, because seeing the car in front of you pop it's fucking top like a can of sardines can raise some eyebrows.
After bursting through the roof of my car I ripped the curling steel from around my body and took survey of my beeline to that mindless hag just waiting for me to bring sweet death to her not 40 yards away. Someone honked their horn and I sent my foot through their windshield, promptly ending the existence of the annoying distraction.
I leapt straight over the first 2 cars in one bound. As I came crashing down onto the back end of the SUV in my flight path I caught sight of a serious problem.
I was at the toll booth. Up ahead was the toll operator. You can't get past the toll operator without paying your $.50.
I didn't have the $.50 required to pass so I couldn't reach where the white Mercedes had made it.
*sigh*
Saturday, July 14, 2007
50 Things to Appreciate
1. Hard Work
2. Sex
3. Hard Rock
4. Chili Dogs
5. Dogs
6. Strong Coffee
7. Adrenalin
8. The Ocean
9. The Sand
10. Learning from Mistakes
11. Accidentally Getting It Right
12. Good Health
13. The Wisdom of Others
14. Intellect
15. Medium-Rare Filet Mignon Basted in Butter
16. Clouds
17. Poetry
18. Ubersite
19. Neodynium Speakers
20. Gravity
21. Love
22. Forests
23. Endorphins
24. Having the Unique Opportunity to Help Someone
25. Vitamin D Milk
26. Linux
27. Serendipity
28. Mathematics
29. The Redeeming Quality of Pain
30. Snow
31. Orgasms
32. RPG's, Writing, House, CSI: Miami and Anything Else that Provides Escapism
33. Options
34. Employment
35. Youth
36. Chinese Food
37. Snapdragons
39. Led Zeppelin
40. Bamboo
41. Strength
42. Humanity
43. Comfy flip-flops
44. A Nice, Long Fart
45. Walkabouts
46. Thinking Back on Past Relationships and Knowing That However Trying the Times Were, You Are a Stronger and More Developed Person for Having Had the Experience
47. The Smell of Freshly Cut Grass
48. Literature
49. Perserverance
50. Faith
2. Sex
3. Hard Rock
4. Chili Dogs
5. Dogs
6. Strong Coffee
7. Adrenalin
8. The Ocean
9. The Sand
10. Learning from Mistakes
11. Accidentally Getting It Right
12. Good Health
13. The Wisdom of Others
14. Intellect
15. Medium-Rare Filet Mignon Basted in Butter
16. Clouds
17. Poetry
18. Ubersite
19. Neodynium Speakers
20. Gravity
21. Love
22. Forests
23. Endorphins
24. Having the Unique Opportunity to Help Someone
25. Vitamin D Milk
26. Linux
27. Serendipity
28. Mathematics
29. The Redeeming Quality of Pain
30. Snow
31. Orgasms
32. RPG's, Writing, House, CSI: Miami and Anything Else that Provides Escapism
33. Options
34. Employment
35. Youth
36. Chinese Food
37. Snapdragons
39. Led Zeppelin
40. Bamboo
41. Strength
42. Humanity
43. Comfy flip-flops
44. A Nice, Long Fart
45. Walkabouts
46. Thinking Back on Past Relationships and Knowing That However Trying the Times Were, You Are a Stronger and More Developed Person for Having Had the Experience
47. The Smell of Freshly Cut Grass
48. Literature
49. Perserverance
50. Faith
Sidewalk Reminiscence
Sunday, April 16, 2006
----------------------
I hate how life is sometimes just like a country song - a long, slow, sad one that stays in your head for days.
As I sit here typing this I do believe that I'm as sad as I've been in months. Just yesterday I was riding my bike innocently enough down the street when there just ahead of me was walking a couple of young people.
A man and a woman strided carelessly down the sidewalk, hands held, both with beaming smiles on their faces taking in the midday sun. On the right was Tara, my ex-girlfriend. On the left was a tall, broad, handsome man of probably 30 years or so.
Tara and I were together for about a year. I will say that the year we spent as a pair was one of the most blissful and memorable years of my life. I remember making love to her with the french doors open ... watching her sleep early in the morning well before either of us had to get up for work. I remember how her dog had an insatiable appetite for belly rubs.
I really don't think there is an evil or ill-willed bone in Tara's body. She always was ultimately compassionate and respectful with only the highest regard for matters of the spirit. Though deaf in her left ear, Tara could pick up on any vibe, anywhere.
She was amazing.
She broke up with me for the last time by sending me a package of all the personal effects I had left at her house the last time I stayed with her. A belt, some shirts, my old Specialized biking hat ... all carefully folded and shipped with care along with a 5-page letter explaining her decision.
Tara was 38. I was 26. This 'relationship' didn't stand a chance and we both knew it. It was she however who had the wherewithal and courage to up and sever ties with both our interests in mind.
But none of this makes it any easier today.
As Tara and her beau passed me on the street I tried to get a solid look at her. I couldn't, because the glasses she was wearing were very mirrored. What I could determine though was that she was very, very happy. Walking hand-in-hand with a healthy, smart (I'm sure) and kind man who I hope takes excellent care of her, she was smiling broadly right at him, looking up with an expression of care and perhaps even love on her face.
I had to stop pedalling about 30 yards after I passed them. I put both feet down on the concrete, straddling my bike, and silently wept for a few seconds. Though she may be off to a new relationship with someone fantastic, she's still inadvertently yanking the strings sewn into my heart.
But as much as it hurts to miss her, I know there's no sense in stewing. Nor is there any sense in hoping for a rekindling of any sort as I'm sure she's learned better than to date men so much younger than herself.
I think I've only felt this low about a relationship-gone-sour when my heart was first broken about 10 years ago. I wish it got easier to stomach with age. Unfortunately it doesn't.
Through my few tears I made it the rest of the way home and parked my bike against the wall of my apartment. I took my helmet off and pet my dog Loki, who was, as ever, happy to see me. I shook off my gloves and plopped on the couch, sighing heavily.
There I sat feeling sad and rejected, thinking to myself:
"Well, at least she's happy."
And I guess I can be glad about that.
----------------------
I hate how life is sometimes just like a country song - a long, slow, sad one that stays in your head for days.
As I sit here typing this I do believe that I'm as sad as I've been in months. Just yesterday I was riding my bike innocently enough down the street when there just ahead of me was walking a couple of young people.
A man and a woman strided carelessly down the sidewalk, hands held, both with beaming smiles on their faces taking in the midday sun. On the right was Tara, my ex-girlfriend. On the left was a tall, broad, handsome man of probably 30 years or so.
Tara and I were together for about a year. I will say that the year we spent as a pair was one of the most blissful and memorable years of my life. I remember making love to her with the french doors open ... watching her sleep early in the morning well before either of us had to get up for work. I remember how her dog had an insatiable appetite for belly rubs.
I really don't think there is an evil or ill-willed bone in Tara's body. She always was ultimately compassionate and respectful with only the highest regard for matters of the spirit. Though deaf in her left ear, Tara could pick up on any vibe, anywhere.
She was amazing.
She broke up with me for the last time by sending me a package of all the personal effects I had left at her house the last time I stayed with her. A belt, some shirts, my old Specialized biking hat ... all carefully folded and shipped with care along with a 5-page letter explaining her decision.
Tara was 38. I was 26. This 'relationship' didn't stand a chance and we both knew it. It was she however who had the wherewithal and courage to up and sever ties with both our interests in mind.
But none of this makes it any easier today.
As Tara and her beau passed me on the street I tried to get a solid look at her. I couldn't, because the glasses she was wearing were very mirrored. What I could determine though was that she was very, very happy. Walking hand-in-hand with a healthy, smart (I'm sure) and kind man who I hope takes excellent care of her, she was smiling broadly right at him, looking up with an expression of care and perhaps even love on her face.
I had to stop pedalling about 30 yards after I passed them. I put both feet down on the concrete, straddling my bike, and silently wept for a few seconds. Though she may be off to a new relationship with someone fantastic, she's still inadvertently yanking the strings sewn into my heart.
But as much as it hurts to miss her, I know there's no sense in stewing. Nor is there any sense in hoping for a rekindling of any sort as I'm sure she's learned better than to date men so much younger than herself.
I think I've only felt this low about a relationship-gone-sour when my heart was first broken about 10 years ago. I wish it got easier to stomach with age. Unfortunately it doesn't.
Through my few tears I made it the rest of the way home and parked my bike against the wall of my apartment. I took my helmet off and pet my dog Loki, who was, as ever, happy to see me. I shook off my gloves and plopped on the couch, sighing heavily.
There I sat feeling sad and rejected, thinking to myself:
"Well, at least she's happy."
And I guess I can be glad about that.
Stress Relief (another short story)
We all love feeling like we're in shape and healthy.
Sometimes the desire to please ourselves with a toned body crosses over into the desire to please others with it.
And of course in some cases, we simply exercise to reduce stress.
***
Bruce threw his single bag of groceries into the passenger seat and plopped into the driver's in the same motion. An overzealous yank on the car door produced a loud WHAM as it closed, drawing the annoyed eye of another shopper in the supermarket parking lot.
"Fucking BULLSHIT", Bruce yelled to himself, now alone in his car.
Today hadn't been good to Bruce. Work sucks, ex-wife's attorney won't stop calling, dog shits everywhere ... perhaps 'fucking bullshit' described it all pretty well.
He threw the car into gear and sped away from Cub Foods, en route back home with one fist clenched in his lap and the other wrapped around the steering wheel. Bruce lived alone in a 2-story condo on the southwest side of Marietta, Georgia and was he ever ready for a session of heavy lifting in his home gym.
A massive man, Bruce stood 6'5" with a broad, sculpted back that resembled an upside-down triangle. No one fucked with Bruce and he liked it that way; religiously spending 2 hours at least 4 times a week lifting weights had a lot to do with it.
Bruce turned into his driveway, got out of his car wielding his purchases and made his way inside, first through the small foyer and then directly into the kitchen. After almost throwing the milk and mustard into the refrigerator door Bruce headed downstairs to his gym, bypassing his dog Zoink who seemed quite insulted.
He slammed his closed hand against the bottom wall as he rounded the corner into his weight room.
Today was in fact, 'back' day. First exercise: shrugs.
Bruce's adrenalin surged while cinching on his lifting straps. The shrug machine he sat down to required the user to load the appropriate amount of weight and then unlock the lifting bar, bringing all the loaded weight into motion.
Because of his brazen nature, Bruce had removed the safety feature added by the machine's manufacturer to prevent overextension and injury. Who the fuck needed that anyway?
His last use of this machine saw a final lift of about 750 pounds. After this last workout, he hadn't bothered to remove any of that weight.
"Screw it! FUCKING SCREW IT!" Bruce yelled.
He grabbed the handles and brought his lifting straps securely around the bar, creating an almost locked grip on the long, cold piece of iron. Bruce closed his eyes and threw his shoulders up in a monstrous burst of energy, unlocking the weight catch and putting 750 pounds into his two, white-knuckled hands.
This was too much weight to be starting with. He knew it. He just didn't care.
He squeezed his shoulder blades together and performed his first repetition. The second came shortly thereafter, with a little less effort than the first. Reps 3 and 4 were slowly executed with surprisingly good range.
Seething with hatred for the causes of the day's stress, Bruce bellowed out a painful roar as he brought the weight up ... again ... and held it with animal-like effort. It was enough to momentarily blur his vision.
Suddenly Bruce's left trapezius muscle ripped at its connection with his vertebrae.
The pain was excruciating and sent the weight he was holding straight down. This force was distributed equally in two places: directly on each of Bruce's wrists. The thick, leather lifting straps immediately dug deep into Bruce's skin and produced a slow flow of well-oxygenated blood; it began dripping from his knuckles.
Instinctively Bruce loosened his grip but to no avail. The 750 pounds of iron combined with a noose-like attachment of him to his weight machine rendered him completely incapacitated. He was trapped.
He began screaming, at first from the pain and then from the fear. Unfortunately no one but Zoink was within earshot. The lactic acid and blood seeping into his system from his torn muscle began pooling in his shoulder. The ache was unbearable and was being multiplied by the immovable weight holding him in place.
Then, the numbness came.
Bruce soon realized that he couldn't feel his hands. A quick look down revealed a serious problem: his hands had turned blue and were slowly being pulled further down by the force of the loaded weight.
Panic set in and Bruce began to wail like a baby. His hands were being ripped from his arms. Had the safety catch of his shrugging machine not been removed, it was at about this point in the movement where he'd have been relieved of the 750 pounds.
He knew what had to happen. Bruce clenched his teeth as hard as he could and with all his might moved his torso forward from the weight machine. The move was enough to send an obscene amount of pain through his body as his wrists were ripped in half at the carpals, releasing him from the machine's hold.
Blood covered the area and Bruce's hands lay near-white and detached from his body, gushing, on the hard surface. Each one was still wrapped tight as could be with the leather straps.
Crying and disoriented, Bruce brought his bloody stumps to his chest and ran back upstairs. He bolted outside and to the house of The Sundenbergs, his neighbors, who thankfully were home.
Back inside the house, Zoink had made his way downstairs. Blood ... the familiar smell of the sticky red substance greeted the dog's nostrils.
Sometimes the desire to please ourselves with a toned body crosses over into the desire to please others with it.
And of course in some cases, we simply exercise to reduce stress.
***
Bruce threw his single bag of groceries into the passenger seat and plopped into the driver's in the same motion. An overzealous yank on the car door produced a loud WHAM as it closed, drawing the annoyed eye of another shopper in the supermarket parking lot.
"Fucking BULLSHIT", Bruce yelled to himself, now alone in his car.
Today hadn't been good to Bruce. Work sucks, ex-wife's attorney won't stop calling, dog shits everywhere ... perhaps 'fucking bullshit' described it all pretty well.
He threw the car into gear and sped away from Cub Foods, en route back home with one fist clenched in his lap and the other wrapped around the steering wheel. Bruce lived alone in a 2-story condo on the southwest side of Marietta, Georgia and was he ever ready for a session of heavy lifting in his home gym.
A massive man, Bruce stood 6'5" with a broad, sculpted back that resembled an upside-down triangle. No one fucked with Bruce and he liked it that way; religiously spending 2 hours at least 4 times a week lifting weights had a lot to do with it.
Bruce turned into his driveway, got out of his car wielding his purchases and made his way inside, first through the small foyer and then directly into the kitchen. After almost throwing the milk and mustard into the refrigerator door Bruce headed downstairs to his gym, bypassing his dog Zoink who seemed quite insulted.
He slammed his closed hand against the bottom wall as he rounded the corner into his weight room.
Today was in fact, 'back' day. First exercise: shrugs.
Bruce's adrenalin surged while cinching on his lifting straps. The shrug machine he sat down to required the user to load the appropriate amount of weight and then unlock the lifting bar, bringing all the loaded weight into motion.
Because of his brazen nature, Bruce had removed the safety feature added by the machine's manufacturer to prevent overextension and injury. Who the fuck needed that anyway?
His last use of this machine saw a final lift of about 750 pounds. After this last workout, he hadn't bothered to remove any of that weight.
"Screw it! FUCKING SCREW IT!" Bruce yelled.
He grabbed the handles and brought his lifting straps securely around the bar, creating an almost locked grip on the long, cold piece of iron. Bruce closed his eyes and threw his shoulders up in a monstrous burst of energy, unlocking the weight catch and putting 750 pounds into his two, white-knuckled hands.
This was too much weight to be starting with. He knew it. He just didn't care.
He squeezed his shoulder blades together and performed his first repetition. The second came shortly thereafter, with a little less effort than the first. Reps 3 and 4 were slowly executed with surprisingly good range.
Seething with hatred for the causes of the day's stress, Bruce bellowed out a painful roar as he brought the weight up ... again ... and held it with animal-like effort. It was enough to momentarily blur his vision.
Suddenly Bruce's left trapezius muscle ripped at its connection with his vertebrae.
The pain was excruciating and sent the weight he was holding straight down. This force was distributed equally in two places: directly on each of Bruce's wrists. The thick, leather lifting straps immediately dug deep into Bruce's skin and produced a slow flow of well-oxygenated blood; it began dripping from his knuckles.
Instinctively Bruce loosened his grip but to no avail. The 750 pounds of iron combined with a noose-like attachment of him to his weight machine rendered him completely incapacitated. He was trapped.
He began screaming, at first from the pain and then from the fear. Unfortunately no one but Zoink was within earshot. The lactic acid and blood seeping into his system from his torn muscle began pooling in his shoulder. The ache was unbearable and was being multiplied by the immovable weight holding him in place.
Then, the numbness came.
Bruce soon realized that he couldn't feel his hands. A quick look down revealed a serious problem: his hands had turned blue and were slowly being pulled further down by the force of the loaded weight.
Panic set in and Bruce began to wail like a baby. His hands were being ripped from his arms. Had the safety catch of his shrugging machine not been removed, it was at about this point in the movement where he'd have been relieved of the 750 pounds.
He knew what had to happen. Bruce clenched his teeth as hard as he could and with all his might moved his torso forward from the weight machine. The move was enough to send an obscene amount of pain through his body as his wrists were ripped in half at the carpals, releasing him from the machine's hold.
Blood covered the area and Bruce's hands lay near-white and detached from his body, gushing, on the hard surface. Each one was still wrapped tight as could be with the leather straps.
Crying and disoriented, Bruce brought his bloody stumps to his chest and ran back upstairs. He bolted outside and to the house of The Sundenbergs, his neighbors, who thankfully were home.
Back inside the house, Zoink had made his way downstairs. Blood ... the familiar smell of the sticky red substance greeted the dog's nostrils.
Autoasphyxiational Substation 7
Hired with no rank to cast lots of lines of clean, disgruntled obscurity. Check out these soccer moms' delayed gratification hurrying.
Slow. Down. Now.
Avon lady won't come around.
Dice pirhanas smacked twice cross the curb; stop FUCKING worrying because it's indistinct.
Oh, yea. I saw the same movie. Pretty in Pink.
Redhead chicks are ugly. Molly Ringwald however sure she could compost treason antfarm fuck me.
You gust lazily drowning yesterday in yarn. AMASS FORTUNES BY SETTING OFF FALSE ALARMS.
FUCK YOU.
Heh.
You hear that?
... didn't think so ...
HOLY SHIT DID YOU HEAR THAT?
... who let the frogs out ...
GET ME OUT OF BEER!!!!!!!!
... less thrilling ...
I'd like to fade to the minute hand if you'll let me. I once read a story of how boring reading can get then times times times times times semit semit semit semit semit got hard and, well ...
We Had To Laugh At The Nazis.
The details remain tucked away in my electric blanket of sorts. You won't find pastels in finer grades than the ones crinkled deep in this planet's bones. Christ I thought you knew all that already.
Christ I'm tackling you.
Christ you're going to fall.
Christ is going to fuck Satan with his +43 Holy Fleshrod of Eternal Petrification and Then You'll Know Who Stole Your Pony, BITCH.
The word of the year is:
dog
Slow. Down. Now.
Avon lady won't come around.
Dice pirhanas smacked twice cross the curb; stop FUCKING worrying because it's indistinct.
Oh, yea. I saw the same movie. Pretty in Pink.
Redhead chicks are ugly. Molly Ringwald however sure she could compost treason antfarm fuck me.
You gust lazily drowning yesterday in yarn. AMASS FORTUNES BY SETTING OFF FALSE ALARMS.
FUCK YOU.
Heh.
You hear that?
... didn't think so ...
HOLY SHIT DID YOU HEAR THAT?
... who let the frogs out ...
GET ME OUT OF BEER!!!!!!!!
... less thrilling ...
I'd like to fade to the minute hand if you'll let me. I once read a story of how boring reading can get then times times times times times semit semit semit semit semit got hard and, well ...
We Had To Laugh At The Nazis.
The details remain tucked away in my electric blanket of sorts. You won't find pastels in finer grades than the ones crinkled deep in this planet's bones. Christ I thought you knew all that already.
Christ I'm tackling you.
Christ you're going to fall.
Christ is going to fuck Satan with his +43 Holy Fleshrod of Eternal Petrification and Then You'll Know Who Stole Your Pony, BITCH.
The word of the year is:
dog
Breathless
Now easing out of my mid-twenties I'm beginning to appreciate good, old-fashioned cynicism moreso than I ever have. As I walk down the dingy, cracked streets of this putrid city and take note of the signs of dilapidation everywhere, clarity comes easy.
Life is long, agonizing and uncomfortable ... but at the end of it and when all is said and done, dying is like removing a shoe tied too tightly.
Pull the strings, welcome sweet relief and take in the entire experience of life's end. Sorry it's been such a long and arduous haul, but it's over now and you can rest.
The blood you spilled both yours and others ...
The headaches and long nights spent at the office and those spent arguing with your 'bitch' ...
The times your Dad blamed himself for your financial ineptitude ...
The taste of bad Mexican food ...
The sensation of running over a squirrel for the first time (thump, thump) ...
The strange color on your tongue resulting from a feast of Mike-and-Ike's and other fun-sized candy on Halloween ...
The last breath you take hoping that in some way your life was worth living ...
The decision to take the road less travelled (and henceforth to grimace at any reference anyone ever makes to a Robert Frost poem) ...
The 6:00am smell of ass, Mr. Boston's vodka, bad pot and B.O., all at once ...
The paradigm-shifting account of a crimson sunset over the front range of the Colorado Rockies ...
Make no bones about it:
Life leaves you breathless.
Life is long, agonizing and uncomfortable ... but at the end of it and when all is said and done, dying is like removing a shoe tied too tightly.
Pull the strings, welcome sweet relief and take in the entire experience of life's end. Sorry it's been such a long and arduous haul, but it's over now and you can rest.
The blood you spilled both yours and others ...
The headaches and long nights spent at the office and those spent arguing with your 'bitch' ...
The times your Dad blamed himself for your financial ineptitude ...
The taste of bad Mexican food ...
The sensation of running over a squirrel for the first time (thump, thump) ...
The strange color on your tongue resulting from a feast of Mike-and-Ike's and other fun-sized candy on Halloween ...
The last breath you take hoping that in some way your life was worth living ...
The decision to take the road less travelled (and henceforth to grimace at any reference anyone ever makes to a Robert Frost poem) ...
The 6:00am smell of ass, Mr. Boston's vodka, bad pot and B.O., all at once ...
The paradigm-shifting account of a crimson sunset over the front range of the Colorado Rockies ...
Make no bones about it:
Life leaves you breathless.
Simple Vindication Part 2
But all the events leading up to this moment weren't worth pondering. Keith had 3 tasks ahead of him: get out of the U.S., find Johan Fendler, and kill him. Nothing else mattered.
---
Driving south through Illinois was probably the most uneventful and boring stretch Keith would encounter on his jaunt to Mexico. This gave him the opportunity to gather his thoughts and put a plan of action together about just how he was going to carry out the execution of Rita's co-conspirator, Johan. Furthermore, locating someone in southern Italy when all you have to go by is a first and last name would surely prove to be a daunting task.
The wind whistled annoyingly near Keith's left ear. Apparently some worn weatherstripping around the door frame was to blame. A quarter turn clockwise on the radio knob allowed the music to drown the wind.
That's when, to use Keith's words, the shit hit the fan.
"WKLN radio brings you this developing news bulletin: police in Minocqua, Wisconsin have issued an APB for 38 year-old Keith Ibbotson, currently wanted for questioning in a newly-opened murder case ..."
Keith's eyes narrowed as he listened intently.
"Keith Ibbotson is assumed to be driving a black, older model Corvette with license plate 8586AME. Keith is thought to be armed and dangerous. Anyone with any information as to the whereabouts of Keith Ibbotson should contact their local authorities immediately."
The urge to piss his pants was an unrelenting one but Keith maintained his composure. He knew that panicking or over-thinking his situation couldn't help so he drew in a few deep breaths and let this new information sink in. Keith was now a wanted man and the clock was ticking.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck ... " he said softly. His fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel.
Just ahead was exit 211 to Springfield. Keith flipped up his turn indicator. After making his way from the off-ramp Keith headed east on a small, 2-lane road.
"6 AM and there isn't a damn place open for breakfast. Great." Keith observed. About a quarter-mile down the road a flickering neon sign caught his eye.
"Lynn's Diner - Open 24 hours"
The 'r' in 'hours' had burned out.
"Just as good as any", he thought.
Under the cover of early morning the black 2-door Corvette Keith was driving pulled slowly into the parking lot of Lynn's Diner and parked 4 spaces away from a large, older Chevy pick-up truck being exited by a short, staunch man wearing construction boots and a raincoat.
Keith waited a few seconds, got out, locked his car and then drew back and heaved his car keys far off into the distance. He looked at his baby Corvette, the machine he'd put so many hours of loving labor into ... and grimaced.
He followed the driver of the pick-up into the diner and had a seat at the bar.
"Coffee?" Keith asked.
"On the way, hun. Take sugar?" the waitress asked. She was 30-ish, a bit pasty but not altogether unattractive.
"Sure" came Keith's response. He got a solid look at her ass as she spun around to fill his order.
"Seen better ... ", he thought.
Keith's focus turned to the man he had followed into the diner. The man had taken his seat about 7 feet from Keith and had put his Harley Davidson wallet and car keys next to the newspaper he brought with him.
"Hey, you gonna read the sports section, pal?" Keith asked.
"What? Oh, yea. Probably. But here, it's yours for now."
With that, the man removed the sports section from his paper and plopped it down on the counter half-way between him and Keith before returning his attention to the conversation he had started with the fellow next to him.
"Too easy" Keith remarked under his breath.
"Here's your coffee, darlin'. 'Thin else?" the waitress asked, popping her chewing gum in wait for Keith's answer.
"Nah, that'll do it. Thanks." He said.
"Eighty cents."
Keith reached in his pocket and pulled his roll of twenties from its keep. He peeled off a bill and handed it over.
The waitress didn't say anything about the blood she saw on his hand. After all, she saw a lot of rough characters come through these doors. Whatever. Was it 9 yet? She had a screaming 10-month old waiting for her back home.
The waitress handed Keith his change, of which he left a buck for her on the counter. He then casually reached over and grabbed the sports section along with the keys, and Harley-Davidson wallet, of Hank Darby, farmer and buck hunter extraordinaire.
Keith then stood up, walked outside, jumped into Hank's truck, took one last look at his Corvette and peeled off into the now-rising sun.
"FUCK yea!!" Keith exclaimed. "Jesus, thank you. Payback is hell. I'm gonna off this sonuvabitch like nobody's business."
Adrenalin was pumping madly through his veins. Keith Ibbotson had just added GTA to his rap sheet.
"You've got to be KIDDING me!! Oh, god yes. This is perfect. Perrrrrrrfect ..." Keith expressed, upon finding a loaded 20-gauge shotgun nestled neatly behind the driver's seat.
"Gotta be a hunter. No other explanation" he thought aloud.
The gas tank read full. Things just kept on getting better. Mexico would be here in no time.
---
Driving south through Illinois was probably the most uneventful and boring stretch Keith would encounter on his jaunt to Mexico. This gave him the opportunity to gather his thoughts and put a plan of action together about just how he was going to carry out the execution of Rita's co-conspirator, Johan. Furthermore, locating someone in southern Italy when all you have to go by is a first and last name would surely prove to be a daunting task.
The wind whistled annoyingly near Keith's left ear. Apparently some worn weatherstripping around the door frame was to blame. A quarter turn clockwise on the radio knob allowed the music to drown the wind.
That's when, to use Keith's words, the shit hit the fan.
"WKLN radio brings you this developing news bulletin: police in Minocqua, Wisconsin have issued an APB for 38 year-old Keith Ibbotson, currently wanted for questioning in a newly-opened murder case ..."
Keith's eyes narrowed as he listened intently.
"Keith Ibbotson is assumed to be driving a black, older model Corvette with license plate 8586AME. Keith is thought to be armed and dangerous. Anyone with any information as to the whereabouts of Keith Ibbotson should contact their local authorities immediately."
The urge to piss his pants was an unrelenting one but Keith maintained his composure. He knew that panicking or over-thinking his situation couldn't help so he drew in a few deep breaths and let this new information sink in. Keith was now a wanted man and the clock was ticking.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck ... " he said softly. His fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel.
Just ahead was exit 211 to Springfield. Keith flipped up his turn indicator. After making his way from the off-ramp Keith headed east on a small, 2-lane road.
"6 AM and there isn't a damn place open for breakfast. Great." Keith observed. About a quarter-mile down the road a flickering neon sign caught his eye.
"Lynn's Diner - Open 24 hours"
The 'r' in 'hours' had burned out.
"Just as good as any", he thought.
Under the cover of early morning the black 2-door Corvette Keith was driving pulled slowly into the parking lot of Lynn's Diner and parked 4 spaces away from a large, older Chevy pick-up truck being exited by a short, staunch man wearing construction boots and a raincoat.
Keith waited a few seconds, got out, locked his car and then drew back and heaved his car keys far off into the distance. He looked at his baby Corvette, the machine he'd put so many hours of loving labor into ... and grimaced.
He followed the driver of the pick-up into the diner and had a seat at the bar.
"Coffee?" Keith asked.
"On the way, hun. Take sugar?" the waitress asked. She was 30-ish, a bit pasty but not altogether unattractive.
"Sure" came Keith's response. He got a solid look at her ass as she spun around to fill his order.
"Seen better ... ", he thought.
Keith's focus turned to the man he had followed into the diner. The man had taken his seat about 7 feet from Keith and had put his Harley Davidson wallet and car keys next to the newspaper he brought with him.
"Hey, you gonna read the sports section, pal?" Keith asked.
"What? Oh, yea. Probably. But here, it's yours for now."
With that, the man removed the sports section from his paper and plopped it down on the counter half-way between him and Keith before returning his attention to the conversation he had started with the fellow next to him.
"Too easy" Keith remarked under his breath.
"Here's your coffee, darlin'. 'Thin else?" the waitress asked, popping her chewing gum in wait for Keith's answer.
"Nah, that'll do it. Thanks." He said.
"Eighty cents."
Keith reached in his pocket and pulled his roll of twenties from its keep. He peeled off a bill and handed it over.
The waitress didn't say anything about the blood she saw on his hand. After all, she saw a lot of rough characters come through these doors. Whatever. Was it 9 yet? She had a screaming 10-month old waiting for her back home.
The waitress handed Keith his change, of which he left a buck for her on the counter. He then casually reached over and grabbed the sports section along with the keys, and Harley-Davidson wallet, of Hank Darby, farmer and buck hunter extraordinaire.
Keith then stood up, walked outside, jumped into Hank's truck, took one last look at his Corvette and peeled off into the now-rising sun.
"FUCK yea!!" Keith exclaimed. "Jesus, thank you. Payback is hell. I'm gonna off this sonuvabitch like nobody's business."
Adrenalin was pumping madly through his veins. Keith Ibbotson had just added GTA to his rap sheet.
"You've got to be KIDDING me!! Oh, god yes. This is perfect. Perrrrrrrfect ..." Keith expressed, upon finding a loaded 20-gauge shotgun nestled neatly behind the driver's seat.
"Gotta be a hunter. No other explanation" he thought aloud.
The gas tank read full. Things just kept on getting better. Mexico would be here in no time.
Simple Vindiation Part 1
Lumped in a bloody mass in the corner of their living room, Rita looked up through her cracked reading glasses.
"Keith ..." She attempted.
But that would be the last word she would ever utter. Keiths axe came down with force practically splitting her shoulder in two, creating a wound as deep as the head of the axe itself.
Keith had to plant his foot against Ritas stomach just to remove his weapon. It left her limp body creating a sucking noise that brought a strange smile to Keith's face. For a moment he stood there, breathing heavily, watching the last semblance of life leave Rita's body.
After 12 long years, it was finally over.
Keith reached forward and gently removed Rita's glasses. For a moment he felt a sliver of remorse, but it was short lived. After what she had done to him and his life, her demise was a fitting end to a life lived, it seemed to Keith, only to bring him pain. With a slow, concentrated squeeze Keith crushed Rita's glasses and winced softly when the shards of glass dug into his callous hand.
"You will never wrong me again." He whispered.
And with that, Keith left the house he and Rita spent over a decade occupying. With him he took only a briefcase of clothes and personal effects, what seemed like a lifetime of memories, and a wedding ring now demoted to a mere key chain, dangling from a ring holding the key to his '87 Corvette Stingray.
"The guys at the office are not going to believe this one." He muttered to himself, chortling heartily.
The air was thick with rain. A swift, cold breeze kissed his cheeks as Keith rounded the front of his car. He didnt have time to appreciate the night, however. There was much to do. He located his car key and unlocked the door. After heaving his luggage into the passenger seat, Keith started the car and backed out of the driveway.
He would never see 1664 Carlington Way ever again.
"God! Why is there never anything good on the radio?" Keith said in an attempt to shift gears from murderer to level-headed driver.
He continued to peruse the few stations that came through to where he was, deep in the woods of northern Wisconsin. Finally George Thorogood's voice leapt out from the speakers.
"One whiskey, one shot, and one beer ... "
"Thats what the fuck I'm talking about!" Keith reveled. The sound of good, classic rock 'n' roll seemed to sedate him from the pain that was creeping up his left arm. He picked what he hoped was the last piece of glass from his palm.
"Bitch." He said. A drop of spittle made its way from his mouth to the dashboard.
Although he hadn't really thought about what he would do if he ever got the balls to kill Rita, his plan was coming together quite nicely. First he would have to leave the country. He estimated a full days worth of driving before he could make it to Mexico.
"Shit ..." Keith said as he looked at the fuel indicator. Half a tank of gas with only a credit card in his possession to use to buy more.
Although he wasn't the head of his class at West Point, Keith wasn't stupid. He knew that from this moment forward he had to leave as little a trace as possible if he wanted to get out of the U.S. undetected. A quick dive into the glove box revealed a cache of bills he and Rita kept for emergencies.
"Emergencies just like this one" he said to himself, chuckling.
$180 would take him pretty far. He hoped far enough.
---
Just 6 months ago, Keith would tell you he had it all. A paid-for house, a loving wife, a great job and a lot to show for a life lived well for a 38 year-old homebuilder. He was young, strong, established and without a worry in the world. Rita would probably agree with him.
One thing Rita wouldnt tell you however, is that every month for the prior 10 years, $2,000 was being pulled from Keith and Ritas joint savings account and placed into an Italy-based trust fund being managed by a man named Johan Fendler. A quarter-million dollars that should belong in Keith's pocket was being used to fabricate a life Rita planned on living once she found a way to get away from him. Since he found out about this, the question haunting Keith has been how she planned on severing ties with him and starting anew, with Johan presumably, in some coastal cottage in Venice or something, for all he knew.
But all the events leading up to this moment werent worth pondering. Keith had 3 tasks ahead of him: get out of the U.S., find Johan Fendler, and kill him. Nothing else mattered.
"Keith ..." She attempted.
But that would be the last word she would ever utter. Keiths axe came down with force practically splitting her shoulder in two, creating a wound as deep as the head of the axe itself.
Keith had to plant his foot against Ritas stomach just to remove his weapon. It left her limp body creating a sucking noise that brought a strange smile to Keith's face. For a moment he stood there, breathing heavily, watching the last semblance of life leave Rita's body.
After 12 long years, it was finally over.
Keith reached forward and gently removed Rita's glasses. For a moment he felt a sliver of remorse, but it was short lived. After what she had done to him and his life, her demise was a fitting end to a life lived, it seemed to Keith, only to bring him pain. With a slow, concentrated squeeze Keith crushed Rita's glasses and winced softly when the shards of glass dug into his callous hand.
"You will never wrong me again." He whispered.
And with that, Keith left the house he and Rita spent over a decade occupying. With him he took only a briefcase of clothes and personal effects, what seemed like a lifetime of memories, and a wedding ring now demoted to a mere key chain, dangling from a ring holding the key to his '87 Corvette Stingray.
"The guys at the office are not going to believe this one." He muttered to himself, chortling heartily.
The air was thick with rain. A swift, cold breeze kissed his cheeks as Keith rounded the front of his car. He didnt have time to appreciate the night, however. There was much to do. He located his car key and unlocked the door. After heaving his luggage into the passenger seat, Keith started the car and backed out of the driveway.
He would never see 1664 Carlington Way ever again.
"God! Why is there never anything good on the radio?" Keith said in an attempt to shift gears from murderer to level-headed driver.
He continued to peruse the few stations that came through to where he was, deep in the woods of northern Wisconsin. Finally George Thorogood's voice leapt out from the speakers.
"One whiskey, one shot, and one beer ... "
"Thats what the fuck I'm talking about!" Keith reveled. The sound of good, classic rock 'n' roll seemed to sedate him from the pain that was creeping up his left arm. He picked what he hoped was the last piece of glass from his palm.
"Bitch." He said. A drop of spittle made its way from his mouth to the dashboard.
Although he hadn't really thought about what he would do if he ever got the balls to kill Rita, his plan was coming together quite nicely. First he would have to leave the country. He estimated a full days worth of driving before he could make it to Mexico.
"Shit ..." Keith said as he looked at the fuel indicator. Half a tank of gas with only a credit card in his possession to use to buy more.
Although he wasn't the head of his class at West Point, Keith wasn't stupid. He knew that from this moment forward he had to leave as little a trace as possible if he wanted to get out of the U.S. undetected. A quick dive into the glove box revealed a cache of bills he and Rita kept for emergencies.
"Emergencies just like this one" he said to himself, chuckling.
$180 would take him pretty far. He hoped far enough.
---
Just 6 months ago, Keith would tell you he had it all. A paid-for house, a loving wife, a great job and a lot to show for a life lived well for a 38 year-old homebuilder. He was young, strong, established and without a worry in the world. Rita would probably agree with him.
One thing Rita wouldnt tell you however, is that every month for the prior 10 years, $2,000 was being pulled from Keith and Ritas joint savings account and placed into an Italy-based trust fund being managed by a man named Johan Fendler. A quarter-million dollars that should belong in Keith's pocket was being used to fabricate a life Rita planned on living once she found a way to get away from him. Since he found out about this, the question haunting Keith has been how she planned on severing ties with him and starting anew, with Johan presumably, in some coastal cottage in Venice or something, for all he knew.
But all the events leading up to this moment werent worth pondering. Keith had 3 tasks ahead of him: get out of the U.S., find Johan Fendler, and kill him. Nothing else mattered.
A Tale of Dental Destruction
When I was a kid I had an accident that involved my mouth, my teeth and a snapping turtle.
You do know what a snapping turtle is, don't you? Otherwise known as an Alligator Snapping Turtle, they have beaks on them that are capable of snapping little boys' fingers in half.
Anyway, I was fishing at the lake with my brothers when one of them announced that an afore-described turtle was sitting near the base of the concrete causeway we were sitting atop. I think I was 10 or 11 at the time and my fascination with anything dangerous was a pretty potent one. I took this announcement as truth and decided to go investigate.
I left my roost at the top of the causeway and proceeded down to where the concrete slab met the waters edge. As you probably know, when lake or river water runs over anything for some time, moss forms and makes for a pretty slippery surface. The particular concrete slab in question was angled at about 45 degrees, I'd say.
Upon reaching the base of the causeway I was disappointed to find that my brother had in fact been lying and that there was no snapping turtle to be found. I had pulled off my shoes and had hiked my pant legs to up around my knees for nothing and I grew quite pissed about all of it. So, I balled my fists and began walking back up the slippery slope with the intention of pommelling a sibling or two upon my return.
About half way through my walk back up the slab, I lost my footing and came crashing down to earth. The first part of my body to hit the mossy concrete was my chin.
A few things happened here that are worth noting:
1. I sheared 6 of my molars. 3 in half, 3 only partially.
2. I bit off 1/3 of the tip of my tongue. I imagine the piece I spit out made for a good meal for one of the fish we were trying to catch. Irony, anyone?
3. A massive gash was created just under my chin, such that a clear view of my jawbone was immediately available for anyone who could get me to look up.
4. Tucked into the newly created laceration were pockets of gravel and moss that were not going to just come out with some vigorous head shaking. 5. Of the teeth that were cracked or broken, one was a baby tooth that had no permanent tooth underneath it. This tooth would require extraction later in life.
The moment I stood up and started spitting out tongue and tooth fragments, my brothers were on their feet. The weren't running, they weren't calling for help and they certainly weren't rushing down to assist me.
They just stood there. Eyes like saucers. Jaws dropped (pun intended).
Eventually my brother Jared flagged down a passing car and enlisted the help of a total stranger. I was escorted to a hospital where I promptly received 29 stitches and later, over $2,000 worth of dental work (I know that figure because it was reminded to me by my father over the next few years).
I tell you this story people because today I have a dentist appointment. In fact, I have this appointment in 1 hour. In fact, it's been over 2 years since I've seen a dentist because of the sheer complication involved in 'just getting a cleaning'.
It's always a huge fucking discussion about the state of my enamel's affairs and how long each flawed tooth is going to last before bridgework or implant surgery will have to be considered. It's never fun and I NEVER GET THE FUCKING BALLOONS OR FAKE RINGS THAT I DID WHEN I WAS A KID.
You do know what a snapping turtle is, don't you? Otherwise known as an Alligator Snapping Turtle, they have beaks on them that are capable of snapping little boys' fingers in half.
Anyway, I was fishing at the lake with my brothers when one of them announced that an afore-described turtle was sitting near the base of the concrete causeway we were sitting atop. I think I was 10 or 11 at the time and my fascination with anything dangerous was a pretty potent one. I took this announcement as truth and decided to go investigate.
I left my roost at the top of the causeway and proceeded down to where the concrete slab met the waters edge. As you probably know, when lake or river water runs over anything for some time, moss forms and makes for a pretty slippery surface. The particular concrete slab in question was angled at about 45 degrees, I'd say.
Upon reaching the base of the causeway I was disappointed to find that my brother had in fact been lying and that there was no snapping turtle to be found. I had pulled off my shoes and had hiked my pant legs to up around my knees for nothing and I grew quite pissed about all of it. So, I balled my fists and began walking back up the slippery slope with the intention of pommelling a sibling or two upon my return.
About half way through my walk back up the slab, I lost my footing and came crashing down to earth. The first part of my body to hit the mossy concrete was my chin.
A few things happened here that are worth noting:
1. I sheared 6 of my molars. 3 in half, 3 only partially.
2. I bit off 1/3 of the tip of my tongue. I imagine the piece I spit out made for a good meal for one of the fish we were trying to catch. Irony, anyone?
3. A massive gash was created just under my chin, such that a clear view of my jawbone was immediately available for anyone who could get me to look up.
4. Tucked into the newly created laceration were pockets of gravel and moss that were not going to just come out with some vigorous head shaking. 5. Of the teeth that were cracked or broken, one was a baby tooth that had no permanent tooth underneath it. This tooth would require extraction later in life.
The moment I stood up and started spitting out tongue and tooth fragments, my brothers were on their feet. The weren't running, they weren't calling for help and they certainly weren't rushing down to assist me.
They just stood there. Eyes like saucers. Jaws dropped (pun intended).
Eventually my brother Jared flagged down a passing car and enlisted the help of a total stranger. I was escorted to a hospital where I promptly received 29 stitches and later, over $2,000 worth of dental work (I know that figure because it was reminded to me by my father over the next few years).
I tell you this story people because today I have a dentist appointment. In fact, I have this appointment in 1 hour. In fact, it's been over 2 years since I've seen a dentist because of the sheer complication involved in 'just getting a cleaning'.
It's always a huge fucking discussion about the state of my enamel's affairs and how long each flawed tooth is going to last before bridgework or implant surgery will have to be considered. It's never fun and I NEVER GET THE FUCKING BALLOONS OR FAKE RINGS THAT I DID WHEN I WAS A KID.
A Piece of my own Heaven
I find myself in the middle of a step forward.
I don't think about how I got here because it feels too good, and I don't want to wake up from this if it's a dream. All I see around me is sand. Although the sun is bearing down hard and everything should be scorching hot, nothing is. My bare feet move forward with ease and I feel the sand comfortably squirt through my toes as I walk. There is a slight breeze and my linen pants play with it.
I don't know if I'm wearing a shirt or not. I don't care.
Aside from the yellow-white of the sand there are dashes of green nearby, where lush shrubs with flowers are growing. The smell is oddly pleasing and reminds me of release.
I'd say I'm about 22 years of age. My hair is dirty blonde, I have a few days worth of beard growth on my face and for whatever reason, I am alone here in this beautiful, ethereal desert. Judging from the position of the sun I'd guess that it's about 2pm.
I look to my right and a long, thin pool of crystal clear water is stretched out before me. The surface of the water barely pulses with the passing winds and I make my way to the shore. The sand feels moist as I approach this oasis. The quiet is so calming that I barely notice the soothing greeting my feet get from the waiting water.
I kneel.
My hands meet each other just beneath the waters surface and I make a cup with them. I bring my hands up and douse my warm, tanned face, letting each vein of water trickle wherever it may along my neck and shoulders. With my eyes closed, I lean my head back and offer my face to the sun. I take the time to appreciate the coolness of my newly wet hair.
There are no sounds but those being made by the last few drops of water as they fall back down to earth. I stand up and survey this landscape once again.
Where am I?
It doesn't bother me, strangely, that I am lost. I am not thirsty and I do not hunger for anything, food or otherwise. I am not sweating and my body is fit and limber. All I can think about is the unending glory of this awesome surrounding. I also notice that time isn't progressing as normal. My movements are slowed and it's as if I am being given even more opportunity to truly enjoy every passing moment.
I long for nothing and feel relieved of all pain. I am not worried by work, women, death, responsibility, self, or anything else. It's like I don't have the faculty to worry.
A compelling urge to sit down moves over me. I crouch to my haunches and lay back, and a perfectly formed cradle of dry, grainy earth welcomes me. I relax completely and let the sand blow freely over my exposed skin. My feet sway left to right in the standing water and I recline into a perfect position.
I smile.
I am where I've always dreamed I'd be and I will be here forever, happily.
I don't think about how I got here because it feels too good, and I don't want to wake up from this if it's a dream. All I see around me is sand. Although the sun is bearing down hard and everything should be scorching hot, nothing is. My bare feet move forward with ease and I feel the sand comfortably squirt through my toes as I walk. There is a slight breeze and my linen pants play with it.
I don't know if I'm wearing a shirt or not. I don't care.
Aside from the yellow-white of the sand there are dashes of green nearby, where lush shrubs with flowers are growing. The smell is oddly pleasing and reminds me of release.
I'd say I'm about 22 years of age. My hair is dirty blonde, I have a few days worth of beard growth on my face and for whatever reason, I am alone here in this beautiful, ethereal desert. Judging from the position of the sun I'd guess that it's about 2pm.
I look to my right and a long, thin pool of crystal clear water is stretched out before me. The surface of the water barely pulses with the passing winds and I make my way to the shore. The sand feels moist as I approach this oasis. The quiet is so calming that I barely notice the soothing greeting my feet get from the waiting water.
I kneel.
My hands meet each other just beneath the waters surface and I make a cup with them. I bring my hands up and douse my warm, tanned face, letting each vein of water trickle wherever it may along my neck and shoulders. With my eyes closed, I lean my head back and offer my face to the sun. I take the time to appreciate the coolness of my newly wet hair.
There are no sounds but those being made by the last few drops of water as they fall back down to earth. I stand up and survey this landscape once again.
Where am I?
It doesn't bother me, strangely, that I am lost. I am not thirsty and I do not hunger for anything, food or otherwise. I am not sweating and my body is fit and limber. All I can think about is the unending glory of this awesome surrounding. I also notice that time isn't progressing as normal. My movements are slowed and it's as if I am being given even more opportunity to truly enjoy every passing moment.
I long for nothing and feel relieved of all pain. I am not worried by work, women, death, responsibility, self, or anything else. It's like I don't have the faculty to worry.
A compelling urge to sit down moves over me. I crouch to my haunches and lay back, and a perfectly formed cradle of dry, grainy earth welcomes me. I relax completely and let the sand blow freely over my exposed skin. My feet sway left to right in the standing water and I recline into a perfect position.
I smile.
I am where I've always dreamed I'd be and I will be here forever, happily.
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