More (Distracted)

Can you buy contentment in a store? Can you order it off the internet? I think not. One of my all-time favorite shots in a film comes at the end of Citizen Kane. The camera pans overhead from a bird's-eye perspective across this enormous warehouse-type room where the deceased main character (one of the world's wealthiest men) had collected an immense fortune's worth of statues and treasures and toys. Most of them were never even opened, still hidden away in a big wooden box. It's a pretty haunting shot, and beautiful because it evokes such a profound and ironic sense of emptiness.

Sometimes I feel so infected with this desire to have more. I'm not obsessive or unrealistic. I really don't actually buy a lot of things, but I spend a fair amount of time on the internet looking at stuff that I wish I had. There's the things I have already that I'm not using (and that's complicated). And I'm already so sick of living in a messy house and a cluttered bedroom.

Why is my life so distracted when I live at my parents' house? Why do I put up with the TV being on so much around here when I feel that I should detest it? What happens to my brain and my soul that I end up feeling like a zombie sometimes? Every thought that I end up thinking about this culture is a disturbing one. It's overwhelming. But I feel like I can't do anything about it.

I've spent a lot of the past few days playing this old RPG on the Playstation. To me, I treat a videogame like a story and an experience. Which means that I become a little obsessed with finishing games that I've started. I have to finish a game, even if I get sick of how much time it takes, simply because it's an incomplete experience if I don't. I'll get in these phases all the time, where I spend all this time contemplating a certain series of games. I read about them online and look at pictures. I think about how much I want to play the ones that I haven't yet played, and probably never will play. I have these strange fond memories of video games from growing up. They have always filled my mind with wonder and amazement. But nowadays I play video games for a long period of time and end up feeling kind of wasted and ridiculous.

I always want to watch more movies and read more books and play more video games. I guess I'm addicted to stories. It could be worse. Perhaps. I've seen people who are preoccupied with obtaining more strictly material things. Last Friday I went to the mall in a very rich and classy neighborhood called Bellvue. More than you could possibly want. From a myopic perspective, wow, I see things I wish I had. Shiny matching shoes. Pick the color that best matches your season. Shiny iPods and iPod accessories galore. Spend a little extra and get the coveted 40 gig player! But there's already this sense that I am secretly suffocating. This whole building, this whole commercial district is clutter! If I were Citizen Kane and I decided to up and purchase the entire contents of the Bellvue mall, wouldn't I look silly in about ten years, maybe less than that. Style always has to change. Technology creates new technology and sneers at its outdated ancestor.

I think what I'm getting at is that I have too much of this on my mind. I can look around my own bedroom and just think about how ridiculous it is to have all this stuff. I see a box full of the books that I had to read in college. I'm pretty sure I read most of them. And I get such an inward pleasure in knowing that I have experienced all those stories and lessons. BUT THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! I want to read them again! And in my mind I become this pathetic whiny thing, crying over what I can't have. I can't have enough time to indulge in all of the things that I want to experience. It saddens me that I'll probably never have the time to re-read that Victorian novel or replay that Zelda game again. Because I'll always want to play the next Zelda game and read another Victorian novel. I've also got a box full of DVDs over there. There's some I still haven't watched yet. And I'm already thinking about getting my hands on more.

I know that there is something I'm getting at beyond this cluttered warehouse. There's a REAL outside world that I haven't even touched on yet. This is like the tip of the iceburg. To every rich and shiny metropolis, there is a polluted and decaying slum (and I sometimes have this twisted feeling that more of America, more of the whole world for that matter, is going to be more and more of a slum, but that's another rant altogether). I just can't figure out what happened to my mind and my soul. This isn't me! I'm being held hostage somewhere else! But I can't get out of this predicament. I don't feel like I'm loving very much. Everything is a distraction to loving. Everything I describe is too vast and towering to do justice. If only there were a way to leave it all behind. And DON'T LOOK BACK! Sometimes that's what really kills.

Perhaps there is a desert wilderness called eastern Washington where I can soon go and spend more time actually THINKING instead of OBSESSING. Maybe everything is better over there. Maybe it's good to spend most of your time out in the middle of nowhere.

It's about 8 minutes from my 23rd birthday. Make that 7 minutes. I was blogging at this time last year. Funny how I find comfort in that. I was writing on this computer onto this blog a year ago today, contemplating the swicth from 21 to 22, writing a poem. This silly little piece of ground out in cyberspace is more of a haven than most real places I can think of sometimes. I'm already thinking about what will happen when I leave this work station. What will I do? How will I not end up wasting my time? Will I worry about my job interview this Thursday morning?

I am 3 minutes away from being legally 23 years of age. I remember in 1st grade when the 6th graders on the bus looked like grown-ups. I'm moving away. My being is altering. 1 minute away. I'm nervous. I have to look at the second hand clock! 20 seconds!

It's happened. It is accompished.

This has helped something. But I need a dose of something stronger yet. Something potent and cathartic. I think we've all unconciously attempted suicide by swallowing bottles and bottles of drugs. Their not so bad when we have a little bit, but we've gotten addicted to them to the point that we are sometimes closer to dying than to really living. Feeding ourselves so much bull. I want it out of my system. I want Jesus to wring me like a sponge and to fill me with Holy Water, water that won't eventually leave me poisoned and bloated or all dried up.

To the people that I love who are reading this, I can't believe that you are reading this. But I guess it's public and I guess you're all welcome. And I love you all. I hope that I'm not the only person that feels this way. If I am, then I guess I've got some issues to work out. Peace.

One more thing. I think I put up with the TV because it blocks me from having to deal with other stuff around me.

Cats

There are two orange cats in our household. They are brothers and they look very similar to each other. Sometimes it is difficult to tell them apart, like they're twins. They come in and out of the house all the time. Apache, the more agile and athletic of the two, can open our heavy wooden front door from both the inside and the outside. It's somewhat incredible. The problem is he doesn't have the consideration for the rest of us to ever even think of closing the door behind him.

The other one has softer fur and somewhat of a baby face. His entire demeanor exudes a sense of innocence. When he comes into the house he likes to start following you around and rub up against your leg. The other cat does that too, but this one will stand up on his hind legs to rub his head on your hand if you hold it over him.

I have to live with the fact that these cats would kill me if they could. If I were the size of a cat to them, and they were then the size of a human, they would hunt me down and kill me for pleasure's sake. Thank God that He made us bigger than them. Have you ever seen one of these things jump? They literally jump up to places that are maybe five or six times their hieght! I'm sure you've heard of the phrase, "having reflexes like a cat." I've witnessed these cats in their hunting and playing. It's absolutely sinister. I once saw one of them dash up a pole to strike at a bird that was sitting up top. It was an instantaneous act of violence. The bird fell to the ground, unable to do anything but twitch its maimed and useless body. The cat looked at it and wandered off as if nothing had happened. Animal instincts are baffling, especially when the motive to kill overrides even the motive to eat. My dad at least put the bird out of its misery by clubing it with a plank of firewood.

Yes, our cats are inconsiderate bastards. They maim you for no reason and walk away. They come and go throughout your house, leaving doors open during the coldest of the cold season, tracking their muddy paws on your carpet, bedsheets and clothes. Even on a workday, they will do nothing but lounge around for hours on your sofa or your rocking chair, and if you disturb them in the slightest they can give you the most disgusted glare. Disregarding that they themselves have plenty of food in their dishes, they will not cease to annoy you when you are eating your own meal, climbing into your lap and sniffing at your food no matter how many times you have to pause your intake and drop them back on the floor. They drag their wounded into the house and leave you to be startled later on when you unexpectedly encounter them either lying helplessly in blood or running around, frantically looking for shelter or a way outside. And let's not forget their whining "meows" when they can't do something for themselves and feel compelled to get your attention, be you sleeping or awake!

Yet we love these things. We choose to have them around to keep us company. We forge relationships with these creatures that have no rational minds, feeling loved when they come to sleep on our laps and betrayed when they turn and scratch us. Perhaps, to live with a cat, the remorseless killer and most selfish of selfish creatures, is to foster the trait of human compassion. If nothing else, our cats teach me that I must allay my personal grudges and love them unconditionally.

The Verdict

I'm sitting at a computer casually listening to a live news webcast of Michael Jackson's trial verdict that is about to be given. The cheering fans surrounding the courthouse are shouting and screaming their support. Millions across the country are waiting expentantly for the verdict. How did this happen?

I've seen videos of Michael Jackson documenting his superstar career. Little more than a decade ago, the guy was a living legend! He was more mythic than a religious leader, what with his costumes, his dancing, his technologically amazing music videos. I remember watching his performance at the Superbowl in 1993 when I was 11 years old. I would never have been allowed to listen to his music at the time, and we didn't have MTV. So this was a unique opportunity to see what this guy was all about. I remember being enthralled by his special effects entrance. He appeared on a video display billboard. There was a flash of smoke and he was gone! Only to pop out of the ground across the stadium. And then I think he vanished once again to suddenly appear on stage at the center of the football field. It was like sheer magic, and I couldn't believe it.

He is still known worldwide. He used his unequaled fame and popularity to speak in favor of world peace. Stepping out of his limo, the cameras went before him, and he marched with confiedence and with gratitude toward the onlookers who loved him. Everywhere he went there were crowds of hypnotized followers on his right and left, people in tears, unable to believe they were laying their eyes on the real Michael Jackson. People must have stretched their arms across the security barriers, just hoping for the slightest touch at the hem of his garment.

The funny thing is that the world is still watching Michael Jackson. Worshippers continue to surround him every moment that he enters a public space. But he does not represent the same mythic figure. He is still a mystery, but no longer a world ambassador, no longer a musical messiah. His face is commonly hidden and perpetually changing, distorted to the point that he now only resembles a regular human being with understandable human behavior and human motivations. Today, looking back over the years, from his childhood onward, the mystery is like a gothic tale. What happened?

"NOT GUILTY"

Not guilty on all charges. I just saw it all reported on the television. It was something of a spectacle outside. People shouting and rejoicing at each and every hearing of the words "not guilty." People hugging and crying, individuals who probably have no real or tangible relationship to Michael Jackson, but people that he has obviously touched nevertheless. There was one woman dressed in pink who released a caged dove at the "not guilty" verdict of each charge. What a symbol of...of insanity! There is something disturbing in it all. Simple pop culture turned into something too sensational and serious. This is justice, one of the supposed core values of this nation, intertwined with the realm of the provocative, which I suppose, in the end, is nothing new to human history. Regardless of what has really happened in these court cases, something about this whole journey is disturbing. Somewhere along the way, Michael Jackson must have lost touch with reality. But we have joined in and participated. Maybe he was never really given a chance to understand life like an ordinary person. I don't know. I never will. It's really none of my business.

I have participated in the madness myself. I wanted to know if this astounding individual would really be convicted of molesting children, if this man who once stood on top of the world would be confined to a state penitentiary like a common criminal. And the answer is no.

My Sprite Can

I was sitting out on a dock on a small lake today with my special ladyfriend. I had recently finished a can of Sprite and set it down beside me. It had fallen over a few times, so we rested it sideways between two planks of the dock. After we messed around splashing each other for a few minutes a breeze dislodged the Sprite can from its place of rest and it started blowing down the dock. I hesitated for a fleeting moment before I got up and chased after the can, but I was too late. The can rolled off the dock and into the lake. As it floated away from us I had a glimmering hope that it might eventually drift close to an area of the shore where I could reclaim the can and preserve my integrity as an eco-friendly individual. It became clear, however, that the can was not going to float anywhere near where I could grab it.

I had become the very thing I hate. Even though it was an accident, I was disappointed with myself. That is another piece of synthetic human garbage that has marred the face of nature. We see this kind of pollution all the time: fast food bags sitting on the side of the road, beer bottles lying under a few centimeters of muddy water near the bank of a creek, etc. If you're at all like me, you sometimes involuntarily conjecture about the type of people who pollute in this manner, out of sheer laziness and disregard for others. I don't think I've been hanging out with this person. It's one of those common instances where we can spot the crime all the time but never the culprit. Take urinals at public restrooms, for example, the ones that still have unflushed pee in them. Usually, men will flush their urinal when other men are present. But when nobody is looking, why bother touching that contaminated piece of metal if you don't have to? Besides, the chances are probably about 33% that you had to flush somebody else's urine before you could go yourself.

The sad problem is that my Sprite can is probably never going to be picked up and deposited in a proper receptacle. There's a good chance that it will wash ashore or get trapped in some pocket of water and sit there for years fading. Of the few chance people that might wander off the beaten path and end up near the place where my can ends up, maybe one or two people will actually spot it. And if they are at all like me, they probably won't think to pick it up but leave it to lie where it lays. People don't like to pick up other people's garbage, and that's understandable. Why should we assume other people's responsibility? The years will go by. A new president will come into office. A couple of decades might pass. Flying cars will be zooming over the lake that might by then be drained to feed some fountain for some luxury casino resort and the can will still be there, buried underneath a shallow layer of sediment deposit. Centuries will pass by as if nothing to the abandoned Sprite can, all because I could not catch it before it fell off the dock.

Think about that factory where the Sprite can was manufactured and shipped out for distribution. Just that factory alone. Single out that one day when that Sprite can left the factory. Of all of the cans that left the factory that day, where are they all going to end up? How far might one of those cans eventually travel away from it's place of factory origin? How deep will the deepest buried can reach into the earth before it decomposes? How many years will will pass until they vanish into a completed form of decay? Their lives as Sprite cans will be short. They will quickly be consumed as refreshments at a party or at work or at picnics by the lake. But that stage is fleeting. The vending machines and the store shelves will be restocked in a week. What happens after all that? What happens when they become stagnant garbage? What happens for the next 500 years?

Secret Identity Revealed

The identity of "Deep Throat" has been revealed. In the same tradition, it is time for the secret identity of "F'er" to be laid bare as well. But first, please read this F.A.Q.

1. Why did you hold on to your secret for so long?

Well, it is a dangerous thing to reveal your true identity when you write such scathing criticisms concerning powerful institutions and mafia families. If I had come out with the truth earlier, I might not have been an effective agent of social and political change for very long. By ending my anonymity, I am putting my life in danger.

2. So why now?

First of all, my friends and family have been encouraging me to do this for a long time. Secondly, I have recently installed a state of the art security system and will be concealing myself in an underground and renovated nuclear-proof bunker that I purchased from the government after the collapse of the Berlin Wall. I call it the "Mother Nest" (I painted the name in appropriate locations. Plus, there's a neat little banner that tells you you are entering the "Mother Nest" when you step out of the elevator. Hopefully I'll have an official sign erected soon :).

3. What's next?

I post an official challenge to any self-proclaimed "hero" that would wish to launch an assault upon my armed and armored underground battlestation. For the first challenger to successfully penetrate my defense grid and capture my physical person inside of the transfer chamber, the coveted title of "Champion of the Milky Way galaxy" and a $50 gift certificate to The GAP will be duly awarded.

4. Ok...but what's the catch?

No catch. But come swiftly, because if you are too late, I will have already transferred my physical person into the information network and been broadcast into the lives of every internet user in the Milky Way galaxy.

5. Were you involved in that presidential scandal about money and greed and power?

Yep, that was me, F'er. Or shall I say...Eggbert Bombay Richarchardson IV?

To be continued

Just around the corner. Just around the riverbend. Before you even know it. Just when you thought it would never arrive. Faster than you can say...

The unknown is ever before us. One hill ascended reveals another. We walk toward the unknown and give it names. Truth. Death. The Celestial City.

The unknown is a place of ultimate rest. Ultimate knowledge.

"Follow the yellow brick road."
-the munchkins

"Follow the money."
-Deepthroat

"Let your soul be your pilot. Let your soul guide you."
-Sting

The yellow brick road led Dorothy and her friends to a bumbling fool who had nothing to offer.

When I graduate from college, I will not be any greater of a person. Jesus tells us to come to him as little children.

I like Cookie Monster!

About Climbing (Or not)

My life is a succession of failures. Each new failure is a failure built upon previous failures. Before long, past failures advance in time to become future failures, so I become trapped in a room of failure-patterned wallpaper, failure textured carpet and a big sky above me. But to get out of the room would require that I scale the walls, the heights of which seem tantalizingly within my reach. If I get a running start and jump up just right, putting a lot of force into it, then I just might grab hold to the top of the wall. And if I have the strength or the dexterity to pull myself up from there, then I’ll be able to pull myself out and see what is outside of my cell of failure.

But I could fall and hurt myself. Or I could try and make a go of it only to end up frantically dangling my useless legs while the cell operator pushes the button that plays the laugh track sound through the loudspeakers. So I’ll sit on my failure-stained mattress and look up out of the corner of my eye and pretend not to watch as I notice people all around me climbing sheer-faced skyscrapers, thousands of feet above me. I’ll sit here and pretend not to hear the loud mass of screaming cheers that come from the outside, the voices that shout praise and exclamations of amazement to the fearless and powerful climbers. They are not meant for me. Nobody cheers for a person sitting down and watching other climbers. That would be either a mockery or the biggest waste of breath.

The worst fear is a fear of failure. And the worst failure is the failure of not trying.

"And the winner is...someone else...again."

Fifth nomination for directing. Fifth disappointment.

Martin Scorsese: one of the greatest American directors of all time. Zero Academy Awards. Beaten by the likes of—most recently—Clint Eastwood, Roman Polanski and…Kevin Costner?!

Why do you think I wanted to watch the Academy Awards this year? It was for Marty. I wanted to be there in front of the television screen when his name would be called. When he would go up to accept the recognition for which he has so long been overdue. The word injustice comes to mind. And I’ve only been a fan for like two years! He’s been making incredible movies since the early 70’s.

Now the question comes to mind: Would it just be better to continue losing the Best Director Oscar, having already lost the chance of winning it for his best films, in hopes of earning the Lifetime Achievement Oscar that would recognize the genius of his entire career? I don't know. I shouldn't have to ask such a silly question.

I’m sorry, Marty. If it were my vote—which it surely is not—I would have already given you at least five of them. Keep making unforgettable films like you always have. It's like making a sandwich for you. A really expensive sandwich, perhaps, but a sandwich nonetheless.

This week F'er recommends:
The Aviator (2004)
Gangs of New York (2002)
Casino (1995)
Goodfellas (1990)
Raging Bull (1980)
Taxi Driver (1976)
Mean Streets (1973)

Red Road

Features of a
Landscape like Hell:
Leathery gnarled limbs and
Harsh-postured shrubbery
Crying mercy to
Silent waves of heat
Like spirit-blooded fingers
That tempt you hither
Across the plane of
Fiendish vegetation.

Cracked and parched
Places of ground.
It’s a choked and dried throat,
Disdainful of water;
A ground that is
Wickedly pious in its thirst.

Most notable feature of a
Landscape like Hell:
Red graveled roadway
Cutting through
Long and straight,
A red slit across the orange valley.

Traveling down this road,
Rubbery burning soles
Bring unrest to
Then settled now trampled dust;
Clouds of red confusion swirl.

No peace in such environs.
Gray boulders waste to
Piles of orange rubble to
Wind-fettered specks of red;
Red specks that bounce
Throughout the burning valley,
Till perhaps a flooding rain
Pleasantly rushes to drown,
To carry trapped substances to
An imagined bed of peace
At the bottom of an imagined sea.

Weary and feverish you
Trudge halfway upon your hazy way
And pause in the depression of
A natural sluice to
Gaze wistfully sideways.
The teasing, waving air
Watches and yet beckons.
A fancied watery wall
Approaches with intentions of
Smothering as you smile and stand.

Now crawling low,
Red road presents
Magnified features:
Sundry scraps of metallic relic machinery,
Rusty razors embedded in Red Roadway;
Fitting implements.

Dead wooden sign
Suspended from a
knotted Joshua tree
(the tree itself recalling
a shrub-assuming
shade of Dante’s seventh circle),
crudely contrived and engineered,
the crooked hanging of the block of wood
more noticeable than its words:
“Beware flash floods.”

This is a place of spillage,
Red rusty water or
Red ripe blood
Makes no matter.

Failure

Ease up
Side by
Side. Yes (actually
I have no
Idea).

Too far ahead of car
Next to me.
But perhaps
Not. Okay,
Back it up, nice and slow.

Turn, she
Tells me.
Yeah (somebody else
Is controlling this).

Turn-
Ing. Turning.
Curb, that’s
Definitely the curb
Behind my back wheel.

No problem. Push forward
And turn. Spin that wheel, she says
(where are the pats on the back?)
(or the horse whip?).

I know! Now back and
Spin!
No progress

Three
More
Tries

Same result

I
Can’t
Parallel
Park

Period

Sea Wind

A wind blown from the east
Delectable new feast
Mixed well with tastes of wine
And dark and ruddy brine

The sea we love to hate
Our ship's bedfollow mate
With drunken spirits donned
We pace the decks prolonged

The sail a learned muse
Collecting silent clues
Her drapery takes form
New mysteries forlorn

Soft ballads from long past
Drift swiftly by the mast
The lookout man asleep
New dreams now plummet deep

And all the crew astray
In lands of grass and hay
They graze the brightened fields
Old bitterness to yield

Are these the ancient times
The winds that strike in rhymes
The rhythm of the past
Old mariners surpassed

But never drowned or stilled
These visions heavy filled
With flavored tastes of wine
Sprung up from out the brine

F'er + 1

Today is an anniversary. An anniversary to myself. It has no formal name. But it has what an anniversary must never lack.

Henceforth from this day, I shall always endeavor to walk boldly and unfailingly in the ways of my Lord. I shall ever strive to seek after that which will bring glory unto his name.

Yeah. Today is an anniversary, but it will never be celebrated like today. It will never have much remembered significance after today. F’er is a mask, a man behind the curtain. And a man behind a mask is allowed to present an oath in the genre of ceremonial address. A person is free to describe any new kind of genre.

But I just told you that F’er is a mask. The man behind the mask does take pride in this day which to him is an anniversary. A year ago today marked a turning point. The closing of a prolonged ceremony. A decision to attend church. That was a small part of the decision. The church service is of little significance. It was the decision, which prompted further decisions. Shalom. The People’s Republic of China. New friendships and fellowship. New purpose. An amazing relationship. To be followed by even greater events and further decisions in a great chain of unfolding.

I shall call it, “F’er + 1.” And there will be much napping. It should be a day of rest and thanksgiving.

Humble Beginnings

F'er has no plans of abandoning JiVE. Many pliable individuals have joined the blogging bandwagon only to become disillusioned by their sense of isolation. With no one to read the fruit of their literary labors, they become something worse than starving writers. Quitters. Poor pathetic quitters, selling out for the duties of the so called "real world."

F'er is no quitter. These ramblings are his humble beginnings. He is learning his craft. He is amusing himself. His audience is minimal. His brain configuration nominal. Always alliterating and fastidiously forming rightly timed rhymed phrases. Carrying heavy symbolisms through word-walled mazes. Symbolisms symbolizing literary masterpieces. F'er constructs timeless symbolisms.

Stick around.

Investigation at 42nd Street

So there I was, sitting behind my desk, working my way through the 300th page of Moby-Dick (the great American novel, so they'd told me, even though I'd been at it for about two weeks, and far as I could tell it was just some whaler's handbook with a cute story about a white fish and a crazy sea-captain, not a detective or a crime mystery to be spoken of). I hear a timid little knock at my office door. "Come in," I call out, expecting that it's just the landlord coming in to shyly inform me I've got four more days to come up with the rent. Yeah, business was slow. Seemed like all of a sudden people started to have moral scruples against my line of work.

Someone asks you, "So what do you do for a living?"

You tell them, "Freelance investigation." Watch them turn their nose up at you. You can read the assumptions all across their face.

Most people think I just spy in jealous lovers' bedrooms taking pictures from the closet. First of all, I'm a delicate person. People have even called me sensitive. I don't go digging for dirt where it aint there. I don't go running to the newspapers. I don't dial up the mayor calling shenanigans. I don't judge. I get paid to gather the facts that people probably already know about but are too proud to rightly admit. At least they tell me that they can't afford to get their hands dirty, whatever that means. Way I see it, they'd rather live a lie than muster the guts to confront the truth. Pay someone else to that. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I'm a dick! Only my middle name aint Richard . . . It's Henry.

Anyway, back to my story. The door slowly opens, and in steps some broad in a black dress. Sheesh! It's 12:00 and I'm hungry. Who is it this time? A senator's wife? She's young. Blonde hair. Not gonna take it very easily. I say, "Look, mam, you suspect you're husband is cheating on you and you're probably right. But maybe you should save yourself the grief, huh? Use your money and take a vacation." My stomach was growling, what can I say? I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't seen it happen a thousand times before.

"I'm afraid you've judged me wrong, Mr. . . "

"Just call me Henry."

"Mr. Henry."

"My apologies. So what CAN I do for you, Mrs. . . "

"It's Miss."

"Excuse me."

"Miss Trinket."

"Miss Trinket. What can I do for you?"

I look at the clock. 12:02. I know right about now the line down at Joe's Sub Shop has probably strecthed out to a 15 minute wait already. No use squirming outta this one now. You gotta understand. It's never easy working for women. I mean, there's gotta be some level of trust between you and your client, and with the bad reputation I already get for being a member of my (honest) line of work . . . well, trust is something that I've found takes time when you're talking about a man and a woman.

"I work at the orphanage on 11th Avenue. Well, last night someone broke into the kitchen pantry and stole all of the milk and cookies. I wouldn't be so concerned except for the fact that this is the second night in a row that this has happened."

"So you came to me."

"Well, I didn't want to bother the police. But also . . . "

"But what?"

"Well . . . "

"Well what, Mrs. Trinket? Anything you might be thinking makes my job easier, makes your case potentially quicker and cheaper to solve."

"I believe that it's Santa Claus!"

I drop my head. As does my stomach. It was a Friday. Fridays are always bad luck, especially on a Christmas Eve. You think you're about to kick back for a nice relaxing weekend.

She goes on, "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have come here. I . . . "

"No! Look, I'll help you out. I just need you to sign this contract, it contains all of the information regarding my fees and your rights . . . "

Truth was, I'd dealt with this guy before. Mr. Santa Claus. It was about three years earlier. Toy shop manager comes into my office telling me there's this guy been coming around the store lately. Big fat man in a red puffy outfit. Apparently he'd started coming in every day, wistfully admiring the model trains and racks of stuffed animals. When the cash box started turning up less money than what was supposed to be in there, that's when this manager starts to get some suspicious ideas about the manic depressive fat man. Turns out it was the manager's son had been felching extra cash from his daddy's business. The guy was raising a spoiled brat for a son, but he was too busy with his own affairs to even notice that his kid had been going about causing trouble, getting his name pretty high up on the naughty list.

Well, I'd followed this fat red guy anyway. I was curious. He looked familiar. When he finally stopped for the night in a back alley on 42nd Street, I tripped over a garbage can. Blew my cover.

"Who's there?" the guy calls out. I can hear the fear in his voice. I don't blame him. It can be a rough city at night.

"Not to worry, sir," I tell him. "I just feel like I know you from somewhere, but maybe I was wrong. The name's . . . "

"Henry. I know, son."

I stagger backwards.

He says, "Kris Kringle." And he holds out his hand. I start to walk with him to some shantytown on the East Side. He tells me it's warm there, a place with burn barrels and more or less friendly company. We're talking on the way, and I finally convince him to let me buy him a cup of coffee and a piece of pie at this nice little diner I know uptown. Turns out he only wanted some milk. They didn't have any cookies but he settled for a muffin.

Long story short, turns out the jolly fellow had gotten a bit disillusioned over the past few years about his job. Seems that Christmas had become too much of a commercial gimmick. People didn't want Christmas for what it was, a time to be with their families, eat delicious cooked meals, wake up with bright cheerful faces to see what new toys Santa had left them under the tree (all out of the goodness of his heart, mind you). Kids were greedy these days. They didn't want trains. They wanted violent video games. They wanted money! First of all, that wasn't easy for Santa and his helpers (as he called them) to meet the demand of. That required a lot more complex machinery and manpower. Worst of all, he'd begun to read columns about himself in the newspaper. Some parents had been claiming that they were unsure about the moral character of a man who snuck into people's homes in the middle of the night, much less certain children's bedrooms where the young ones had left thank you letters addressed to him. I gotta say, I kinda knew where the old guy was coming from.

Well, after a few hours and a few funny stories later, we got up to go.

"Listen," I say to him, "I'm sorry people misunderstand you, Mr. Claus, but I don't think you realize how special you were to me when I was a little kid."

I told him about the time that I got the poster of Micky Mantle that I'd really wanted, how I still mounted that one on my bedroom wall. I think I actually convinced him to go back home and keep working. I mean, that next Christmas morning I walk down to my living room to find a tubed package sitting next to the record player. I didn't bother to get myself a tree that year, I still feel bad about it. I open it up and it's a poster of Babe Ruth.

It looked like Kris Kringle was down in the dumps again. How could I blame him? Maybe he was expecting me to come after him. I figured he'd been hanging around the orphanage because he cared about the poor kids there. In any case, it looked as if I would have to go talk some of the jolly happiness back into the red suited fellow once again. Hey, it was my pleasure, especially if it paid the rent. I picked up my overcoat and headed out the door. I paused to think, but just for a second. Then I made my way down to 42nd Street.

F'er talks and eventually recommends a film

I couldn't let myself pass by a whole month with only two measly blog entries. So let me share something interesting that I was thinking about today. I learned that Sir Isaac Newton was wrong. Masses do not attract each other. A black hole sucks in light, but light has no mass. It is pure energy. The sun will also bend light that shines from stars billions of miles away. Once again, light has no mass.

Here's the deal. We now believe in Einstein's theory of relativity. And we all know that E=mc^2. Well, this is what mass does. It bends space.

Now, in a black hole, space is warped so much that it pulls everything into another dimension that does not exist in our universe. What?! I know, but apparently it's true. Apparently, astronomers have reason to suspect that there are 10 dimensions. Now, is that just dimensions of space? Because time is also a dimension, and, yes, black holes also bend time. I don't know.

All I'm thinking is this. I feel like that is an important thing to know. At the same time, that is nothing I would ever need to know. Is it wrong that I am 22 years old and have never until today learned about the true nature of the force of gravity (even though I still do not understand it by any means)? How are we so smart? Nobody has ever seen a black hole. How do we know they're out there? This world has got some geniuses. I wonder, however, if anyone really understands it all. Everyone great is standing on the shoulders of the great discoverers before them. It is a great chain of invention and discovery, and does anyone truly comprehend the genealogy if its linkage? It's a web. An enormous web of information and knowledge. We don't necessarily need to know step A to have a grasp of step K or step L. We might even be able to be the bridge to step M.

Also. I lied. I am thinking about one more thing. There is, in fact, a film entitled The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension. The film starts out with our hero Buckaroo Banzai going through a mountain, through the eighth dimension, in a super fast prototype car, out in the desert. And if I remember correctly, he was not the first. Another guy went through years before but got temporarily stuck and went crazy, possessed by a creature of the eighth dimension.

I'd like to think that Buckaroo Banzai is real. That he is out there protecting us. Using his knowledge not merely for money or his own personal fancy, but using it to protect us from those evil minions of the eighth dimension, who have been invading our universe, posing as humans, for decades now.

Sitting Still

The TV signal is like granola tonight. And I'm aching. The painter usually comes on around now. I would know for sure if I had a clock, but I'm through with that. Who wants to get trapped like that? TV is bad enough, but at least I've been freed tonight. Now if I could only find something to eat. The shelves have just about run empty. The microwave keeps running when I pull the door open. I don't want to get some kind of cancer. I'll steer clear of that. Machines. They're probably killing us. Like this TV. It's just showing the stuff that's moving all around us all the time. Radio waves. It's energy. Energy that we're bombarded with every second of our lives. That has to do something. Light. I should turn off the light. Light is stronger than radio. It's better to stay healthy. These crazy nutjobs. Killing themselves slowly, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. They even left their lights on when they went to sleep. Have some respect for yourself! Their blankets smell of spices. It's all over me. I can't get away from it. I'll bet that even if there was running water to take a shower it would still be on me when I got out. Why haven't I turned off the TV?

I can't see. But if I sit here and look around long enough, my eyes will adjust. I remember reading about these people that lived underground for generations. They turned into blind monsters. But their sense of hearing and smell became so honed in the process. They lurked around the nearby villages and stole children from their homes at night. I don't remember where I read that anymore. I suppose it probably wasn't true. You can't trust people! People will let you say anything these days and get away with it. There's no restraint. And we call that freedom! We're just trapping ourselves in with a big wall of lies. It would take millions of years of evolution to create a species of blind human beings. There's no possible way that there will be civilization in another million years. Probably not even the next hundred years.

I wonder if that static...

How would I know if it had all ended? Nuclear explosions obliterate New York City. How long before the effects of that reach here? There's just this granola on the TV screen for maybe 25 minutes and then there's no more feeling. No more time. Because there's no such thing as time really, just another stupid invention like the TV or the microwave. It's a dimension. And we don't understand it. It's not cyclical. And we can't live in a cyclical mindset. Otherwise, all of the pain that we escape from will catch right back up with us again. And I can't accept that. I have to believe that this is random.

I better just check...

Still the granola. Still no food. And I'm suddenly glad that their blankets smell of spices. I think it's covering up the stench. I better not think of that. It will just get worse. But it's not that simple. I can't just tell myself something and make it be true. If there is a stench then there is a stench.

How long has it been since I've moved from this position? I think the cold has frozen my joints. I need to pour hot water on myself like my mom used to do to the car in the morning before driving me to school when the doors were frozen shut. That always looked so nice. The warmth. The awakening feeling. It must be so wonderful to be warmed like that. To be brought back to life.

I have to urinate. I could go in my clothes. That would be so warm. But then it would become uncomfortable. And if I'm gonna be stuck here I shouldn't make myself uncomfortable.

What time is...

No! I can't get away from it. I'm tired. So what? That doesn't mean that it matters what "time" it is! How did we let them do this to us? Wasn't there someone who spoke up when they began to trap us? Nobody listens to us. We have the answers. Not to everything, of course, but it doesn't matter because nobody listens to us. They didn't listen to me. So I had to save them myself. Why don't I turn the TV off?

Gastronomic Dispute

My stomach has experienced better days. All of this panicked tightening, coupled with the intake of volatile acids that react harshly with unsettled stomach acids. I'm sorry, stomach. I've overlooked your feelings. But you've made your point, and you've made it clear as day. And really, it's just gotten to the point where I'm gonna have to tell you to just knock it off. You're starting to interfere with my responsibilities. When I'm put in strange, unfamiliar circumstances I tend to act impulsively. You know this. It's nothing personal. Yet. I mean, keep it up and we'll make it personal. I'll put an ulcer on you. What? You don't believe me? Try me.

Look. Forget that. I don't want to fight. I know this guy. He's a peer listener. He volunteers at his high school. I think he'd be willing to sit down with us and help us work all this stuff out. I don't want to keep fighting like this. I need you to digest my food. And you need my body to put yourself into. The last thing I want to do is remove you. I mean, I could try and find another stomach, but we both know how hard it is to find a good fit. So whaddya say?

Awesome. give me a hug. Just gimme a hug, for crying out loud! It doesn't mean we're gay! Geez. Now what do you want for breakfast?

On Spills

Run and you take the risk of spilling yourself on the concrete. That's what happened to me. A big mess of F'er, sprawled over pavement. I should be a skater. Then there would be a method to the madness. I would have tripped on that curb, but it would have been in an attempt to grind it. And that would be admirable.

Will I run again? It will never be without a remembrance of today's infamy. It will never be the same. The laughter will have lost its original meaning. Perhaps that is why comedians use new material. One night they screw up, forget the precise delivery of a joke and change the meaning. That's why Radiohead refuses to play "Creep" live anymore. Not because they're any more mature of a band. They messed it up a few years ago in concert. Thom Yorke forgot the words. The drummer dropped his sticks. It was embarrasing. They could never play it without conjuring up that moment of failure.

Okay. This has gone on long enough.

25th Post Celebration

Time to celebrate! This marks the 25th post of JiVE! And everyone knows that celebration must ensue on the 25th of anything. Well, okay, this isn't an anniversary. And even television shows don't usually celebrate a benchmark until they get to something like 100 or even 500 airings. So this is a modest, but nevertheless appropriate celebration, because I don't really have anything more significant to discuss. I say we take a look back and revisit some of our more notorious posts of yesteryear (or yestermonth...or yesterweek)...

Tuesday, June 22, 2004:

Man, this was a big day. 3 posts! Something that has not been repeated to this day! And what an ecclectic group of posts it was. I wonder what was going through my mind. Here is a quote from each of the three posts...

from "About my Blog":

"Our journey towards an understanding of the universe will be travelled upon different roads, even if we accept the same religious truths."

Wow...I was probably being a little too deep for my own good.

from "The Official 22 things that I Want to do Before I am 22 Years of Age":

"What was I thinking?"

That sounds a little more like me.

from "In a word...'exceptional'":

"And the word was 'exceptional.'"

Once again profound...but this time, I believe, more focused. I must have certainly come full circle on June 22nd. Deep ambitious thoughts, followed by doubtful catastrophe, but restored with epiphanous clarity. Isn't that life? Isn't that the epitome of the human condition? We are all of the time caught up in a cacophanous funnel cloud of abrasive, half-formed ideas, broken in their embriotic development by the very tulmultuousness of our ever-changing horizons. Even solar systems are unstable, unpredicatble entities. What?! Am I completely moronic? Why do I even bother with this blog nonsense? I don't even feel like I'm in a whirlwind, so why did I even say that? I should have seen this coming. Wait! I think I understand. The only certainty in this life is uncertainty! That's it! I've done it again!

Well, I don't think I have enough energy to sort through any other posts for the time being. That was too taxing. But they are all archived for your and my perusal. So thanks to all of you who have been faithful and supportive to JiVE over the past few months. The uncertainty. The renewal. The laughs. The thoughtfulness. The hiatus to China. The comeback. The new challenges. The new experiences. And once again...the uncertainty of the future. What will become of F'er 25 posts from now? Will there even be 25 more posts? I can only hope. But who knows really? And more importantly...oh yes...who bloody even cares?

Drift

I remember that day you tripped on shrooms. That was weird. I didn't know it at the time. I just thought you were high. All those old feelings and thoughts cramped into your halluco-world in that kitchen where we had the munchies one night and Charlie went the way of the buffalo. How did it look in comparison? A part of you was about to drift away like a floating chunk of glacier melt off. Were you able to keep your bearings? I only ask because I have no clue. I'm pretty grounded.

I'm really not giving a hard time. I miss the stuff I can't get back. For a time, it was good. It was what I needed. And now everything seems to be drifting away from my center. It has been. I have to travel too far to get to where everyone has gone. I'm just an island anymore. Used to feel like one, but I wasn't, not then.

I had an old life. I have a new one. Like you. You had an old life. You have a new one. For a while we seemed to intersect. We ran a similar curve. "Actually, that's not true."

So I wonder what it feels like to know what you know. I wonder if I could have followed you to that halluco-world. What would I have seen when the walls of 21 years of construction were made to bend and shift? I bet it would be more than a feeling, sea-bottom walking. My revelations have come from a different source. It's harder to believe in them. Sometimes you gotta force yourself. And then it pays off. I like where I am. But the continents have drifted. The globe is unfamiliar, and I no longer recognize it.