A Day

From the Abigail DuPont historical archives.  I asked her the simple question, "What's your story?"  This is the reply I received.  This was a long time ago.  Just short of forever.  Substantially more than a while ago.  Do you remember those days?

You were still fucking that one chick.  That first chick in the series of unsuitable companions you sought out.  Or, to be gender neutral - that one guy.  That first guy in the series of losers who took advantage of you and used you as a sex object.

The second person form of writing is under-rated.  It's the only way I know of to heap abuse and scorn on my readers.

From: Abigail DuPont
To: Stephen Thornhill
Subject: What's my story 

The waning of moods is a strange thing. To start a day in serenity, quickly diminishing to a livid disposition of utter abhorrence for my own species, to then dive into an abyss of melancholy for the continuing daylight hours, only to find myself lying on the lawn beneath the stars, laughing as cars passes by. 

A day. 

I wake into a blissful half sleep, my attentions yet unwavering from the soft images persisting from my dreams - and for a short point in the day, I exist in ideal serenity. Beside me my allegiant companion, a cat. He is still sleeping, where he remains until I begin the ritual of leaving - where upon he sits on the sink and watches me brush me teeth. 

I look over the rooftops from the bath window, observe squirrels balancing along the power-lines and bantam clouds resting on the skyline. 

A day, comprised of invasive interactions and compulsory admonitions of human invalidity. Closing the window, I position my intangible bequest of splendor within a quieter part of my mind, descend the stairs, and make for the door. 

An articulation of a day, the waning of moods - more plentiful in the dead of winter, as the cold alone exposes any misconstrued ideologies associated with its striking and exquisite landscape, upon stepping out the door. And retrospect sets in. 

Fall exposes the individual as well, but in a rather ruthless manner. The fall assaults the senses with an isolating cold akin to winter, then pulls you out to be revealed beneath her lavish colors, for the sake of seizing a transitory warm day. We are forced to see the peak of fruition before death, and to appreciate an intensity that exists on the brink of a gray and lifeless obscurity. 

The conscious or unconscious understanding of this apogee drives me out of doors, if for nothing more than to stare at a damn tree, to watch a handful of leaves fall. I know the leaves will continue to fall in my sleep, and when I wake, my handful of leaves is buried beneath the multitude lane to rest by a brisk gloaming breeze. No sooner will I step outside to see the naked limbs, stark against gray for what seems an unbounded and sleepy winter. 

-a

Never Forget

As this weekend grinds to a close, your national media has already told me a thousand times that we must “never forget.” As if. Can't you do better America? Your marketing skills are world class and “never forget” is the best you can do?

“Dude, do you remember what happened on September 11th?”
“Wasn't it something about some planes? I was high all summer.”
“Wikipedia, man.”

In all the “never forgetting” that we're supposed to be doing there's one thing we aren't supposed to be remembering so well. We're supposed to remember it in an abstract sort of way. I'm talking about the group of 200 or so that leapt out of the WTC and landed on the plaza a thousand feet below, or in a pile on the roof of the Marriott, or wherever gravity sought to deposit them.

They've been written out of the screenplay. They've been left out of the final-cut due to America's avoidance of reality, and an already too-long running-time due to the epic nature of the story. Besides, we don't want to remember them too well. Suicides aren't talked about in polite company or the next thing you know, everybody will start doing it – like smoking – and we've made such progress over last couple decades. Incidentally, it's not very well known that the Marlboro man died from gun-in-mouth disease after learning from his doctor that he had terminal lung cancer. Anyway, it's best that we leave the suicide topic to the dark corners of the web, or the peep shows on Youtube.

These people didn't kill themselves, after all, the terrorists murdered them. It's not like they planned to kill themselves that day, we presume. Why such semantics? Is it because suicide is considered an offense to God? A loving God would give them a pass, right? Given all that had transpired that day, he surely wouldn't send them to Hell on a technicality?

What if they pushed each other out of the building? Then, only the last one would have the suicide stain on their resume. Whoops, then each one but the first in line could be classified as a murderer. But that can be forgiven too since they immediately paid for the crime with their lives. As Jesus mumbled to his biographer, while waving one hand dismissively and tossing grapes into his mouth with the other, “An eye for an eye and shit like that.” I can go on heretical, morbid flights of fancy until your vertical scrollbar is a tiny sliver of pixels, but it serves no purpose.

So, I suppose then, that they should have waited for fate to kill them? That's silly too. Given the exigent circumstances of that day, we've collectively decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, at least on paper, that they really had no other choice but to jump, and we've blessed their decision. In this rare example of understanding, we've decided to use ridiculous theological word-play, in the hopes that in an equally ridiculous court date with God, they'll be found not guilty.

What we can be certain of is that we'll never know what horrors they faced and what it was like to walk in their shoes. As suicides go then, that part is fairly standard. But outside of this rare example, we refer to suicides as cowards, or say, “they took the easy way out.” I have an challenge for you:

Let's get ourselves a gun, maybe a Glock or a Ruger, we'll chamber a round, do whatever cocking may be necessary, and flick the safety off. You have to Linda Lovelace the barrel, and hold your finger, or both your thumbs, on the hair trigger for thirty seconds while you evaluate your viewpoint. If you can keep the gun in your pie hole for the entire half minute then I'll write you a check for $500. Or, if you don't like guns, stand on a ledge fifty stories up, look down for that same thirty seconds, and evaluate your viewpoint that way instead. Admittedly, I don't know you very well, but I don't think you'd make it to thirty seconds.

Coward.

I remember September 11th not because I've been told to do so, but because it was the backdrop to an otherwise ordinary night of getting wasted. My girlfriend, Abigail, was at the end of the process of becoming my ex-girlfriend, and most of her stuff was packed away in boxes, ready to be moved out of my house. I ventured out and discovered that all the gas stations were plugged up with fearful idiots, apparently hoping to save ten cents a gallon before the next day's inevitable price hike. I was discouraged to see this, as my tank was all but empty, so I bought a liter of quality vodka and some orange juice. There was no run on liquor stores. Once again, America had it's priorities all fucked up.

We got very drunk that night. I threw up some of my screwdrivers at the foot of an Oak tree in the backyard. Abigail was laying on a hammock on the back porch a few feet away, laughing hysterically as I puked my guts out under that tree. I felt better after puking, went inside, and mixed myself another screwdriver. We talked about the jumpers. We both agreed that there was something beautiful and romantic about the couples that held hands and jumped into the void together.

Abigail died of a self-inflicted gunshot a few years later.

Hire me!

I answered an ad for a job.  They're looking for a 'Rockstar Web Developer.'  So, I replied as such.

I'm not really a rockstar.  Are you really looking for the qualities of arrogance, histrionics, and drug abuse in an employee?  I'm willing to learn.  I believe I could perform those duties as well as programming, but I'll need a fat expense account for the drugs - the cost of those can really add up, especially in the late stages of addiction.  And I'll need to come in late (my clocks are set to PST) on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday mornings.  I won't be in at all on Mondays.  I live less than two miles away.  Therefore, I won't need a car and can take a short bus ride to the office.  This will help me stay loaded all day.  One more requirement (I'm sure you've planned for this) is that I'll need your company to pay for my rehab at a prominent facility in a warm climate on or near the beach. This is negotiable, of course.  I don't care exactly which Pacific coast beach the rehab center is located - that's for Blue Cross to figure out.  Admittedly, after I'm released from rehab the quality of my art will suffer as I desperately try to reclaim my former popularity.  By then my work will be just beneath okay but still solidly mediocre.  That won't happen for a couple years, though.

Justice for Slytherin

It's finally over.  I'm not a Harry Potter hater, because I only saw the first movie, and while I won't go so far to say that it sucked, it was pretty stupid.  The film contained at least two elements that almost ruined it and one which actually did ruin it at the end.

1)  Magic wands.  They are essentially small sticks or twigs - hardly something to be feared.  I've seen cigars that were bigger.  Why not a baseball bat?   I'd run like hell if somebody pointed a baseball bat (especially aluminum) at me.  A chick must have written this book. 

2)  That stupid game.  The game towards the beginning of the flick.  It was basically airborne polo with brooms instead of horses.  Okay, it was stupid enough but it didn't leave me in a rage until they introduced the dumb fucking ball.  Catch the DFB and your team wins no matter what.  The rest of the game is henceforth pointless.  Why not send the entire team out for the DFB?  A chick must have written this book.

3)  Politics.  Slytherin clearly was best-in-breed (in addition to having the best characters) and racked up an impressive points lead by the end of the film.  Then, in a blatant display of cronyism, Dumblecock, Dumbledouche, Dickensdorf, or whatever the fuck his name was, starts handing out points willy-nilly, in flagrant disregard of the rules and the points system.  The reason everybody was gathered in the big hall in the first place was a ceremonial presentation of the trophy.  All of us knew who won.

It's as though the Yankees outscored the Cubs 5-2 in the final game of the World Series, and major league commissioner Jeff Gordon, unilaterally decides that it's "about time" Chicago won one and gives them a free grand slam for, "courage and perseverance," or some abstract thing.

Why there weren't riots in movie theaters across the globe is beyond my ability to understand.

Bieber-Palin Super Collider

I have a new science project idea.  As a country we've decided that it's perfectly okay to spend billions on things like particle accelerators, which are really nothing more than circular tunnels.  But they provide jobs to people who are good at digging circular tunnels, so I guess it benefits the overall economy.  I need to learn how to dig circular tunnels.  People have always said to me, "Everybody is good at something."  Maybe digging circular tunnels is my one shot to fully realize my potential?  I thought it was drinking.  I quit drinking so now I'm left with digging circular tunnels.  I'll keep you informed on the progress of my new career path.

Anyway, I think America would be just as curious to know what happens when Justin Bieber is accelerated near the speed of light and collides with Sarah Palin.  I'm sure scientists can sort through the blood and gut pile and figure out what happened to all the protons, electrons, and quarks.  How hard can it be?

Now that the space shuttle is over and done with, we need a new, national science project to excite little school children's imaginations.  Sarah Palin is a name school children may be unfamiliar with, so we can substitute the Jonas brothers.

Writing Lesson 1

I've written some examples of point of view (POV) so you can learn by example and become a better writer. Then you'll be fit to have a conversation with me. This lesson examines the use of the first, second, and third person POV.  Each one uses present tense.

3rd person

Stephen pulls the left-hand knob of his medicine cabinet. It's an ornate accessory and is gold-plated. He feels no expense should be spared when it comes to accessorizing his home. His bathmat is made from 10 Mink furs. The Mink were fed a diet of milk, fish, small mammals, and rare, exotic birds captured in the Amazon rain forest. After the Mink became good and fat – they were slaughtered and turned into a silky, soft bathmat. Stephen could not justify the expense of the bathmat he really wanted and is embarrassed to admit this one is a step down for him.

He has a terrible headache. A business deal has gone awry and caused him much consternation. Fortunately, Tylenol has always worked well for him. He turns the bottle end-over-end and two pills tumble out.

2^nd person

You pull the left-hand knob of your medicine cabinet. It's a crap accessory you bought at the discount hardware store. You're cheap as fuck when it comes to furnishing your home. You've got a good job that pays you well, but you spend all your extra money on stupid shit.  Hobos and the homeless wouldn't waste their time or the effort necessary to light every last bit of your shit on fire. You have no taste or class.

You have a sexually transmitted disease. You're reaching for the medication your doctor prescribed. He says it will clear up the embarrassing problem you have. You turn the bottle end-over-end and no pills tumble out because you've used up your prescription. Your embarrassment continues.

1^st person

I open my medicine cabinet by grasping the edge of the mirrored panel and pulling hard - because the hinge is stuck. I pawned the expensive door knobs for the intrinsic value of the gold. They helped pay the mortgage this month. I had a good job that payed well, but I spent all the extra money on obscure financial derivatives. I was unfairly persecuted and fired from that job because my ex-boss is an insecure, cock boy who is a borderline sociopath. He treats objects like women.

I have a terrible headache. Since I can't afford Tylenol I take two sugar cubes. I've read that placebos are often as effective as the real thing.

Totally amazing predictions!

This has been circulating amongst my four friends:

Then one of these friends axed what I thought.  She axed me, "What does your big, fantastic, super-sexy, super-hot, totally amazing intellect think about all this?"  I blushed for a bit and then wrote some crap.  I've noticed that my writing voice is just as self-important in private emails as it is in public posts.

I don't know.  The fact is there's no more money.  If the Dems were running things then we'd just have a different set of conspiracies.  What put GM into bankruptcy is going to take down just about every local and state government soon.  That is - most government budgets go to pay for pensions and health care for old people - the most fantastic ponzi scheme ever conceived.  And we're at the bottom of the investment pool, my dear.  Current government workers don't get the gold-encrusted benefits your parents and mostly your grandparents get so they're not totally to blame.  But we can blame everybody for feeling *entitled* to receive free government money and services.

I'm taking unemployment so I'm a hypocrite.

Oh, and the baby boom fuckers start retiring in mass quantities this year.  And, as you know from personal experience, people are living way too long.  Diseases that normally thin the herd at old age aren't working anymore so we've got incurable, expensive shit like dementia to contend with.  My dad is a prime example.  He's 87 and has seen an extra ten years that he would have missed otherwise.  The last few years have been very expensive for taxpayers.  I don't know exactly how much and why would I?  I'm not paying for it!  Then there's the overall bad health of the average fat-ass American.

So, maybe turning over insolvent municipalities to corporations wouldn't be so bad.  At least they know how to read a fucking balance sheet and have an intrinsic motivation to get it into equilibrium.  I'm sure most of these cities and states are in even worse shape than we can imagine.  Fifty years worth of elected fools in and out every two years, running up the collective credit card.  Municipal bond debt is legion, but you didn't axe me about that.  And the most guilty of them all is the federal government.  There's approximately $50-100 trillion in open-ended entitlement commitments out there.  That's off-balance sheet stuff and doesn't include the $14 trillion debt.  Then there's the $1 trillion structural deficit they've been running since '09.

This should be a blog post instead of a message.  But you axed.  The good news is that humans finally act when things reach a nightmare, crisis level.   We're almost there.  We've still got a ways to go because we still think that if we ignore things hard enough they will go away.

It will sort itself out and make for good TV.

Challenge Part 2

A friend of mine is taking a writing course and I thought it might do me some good to play along.  He sent me the syllabus.  Part one was to do some reading.  It was a story about this kids yard.  It was based in a rural, farmland setting so I had no reference point.  But I read it.  Part two is to write some thoughts on it.  Part three is to write 400 words about my childhood home or yard.  Follows.

My childhood yard was okay. The backyard wasn't particularly big, but it was a solidly, middle middle-class size nonetheless. It was the sort of backyard you'd pick up at Sears. It was a good value for my parents, who had to save up to get it. Some wealthy people get big backyards from their mother, like the Kardashian sisters. Their mother married a rich lawyer. He defended celebrities against the sort of legal trouble they get into, like driving while drunk, drug use, and murdering their ex-wives.

Anyway, I used to have to mow the lawn. I didn't mind doing that chore because I liked to make the lines in the grass line up. Our grass wasn't the best but our lines were. It looked like the infield of a major league baseball diamond. It was easiest to go east-west but I'd change it every week or so and go north-south or southeast-northwest. Later on my parents put a gazebo in the center of the backyard and that made getting the lines lined up quite a bit harder, but that just made it more of a challenge. They got the gazebo because my mother liked to imagine herself sitting in it and my father liked the thought of taking pictures of people standing in front of it. By that time I was a teenager and didn't use the backyard much myself since it didn't contain anything I wanted to smoke.

Before the gazebo arrived and my older brother departed for California, I'd play generalized sports with him. My Dad never did anything with me - like he was supposed to. So, my brother filled in. He is eight years older than me so he was always better at everything which used to make me real mad. We'd play catch with a frisbee and I got pretty good. If you threw it a certain way it would fly in parabolas, or if you held it level upon release, it would fly as straight as Tom Cruise. If it was windy the wind would catch it at the last second, the frisbee would rise a few inches, and hit you in the face. Sometimes I would miss a catch or didn't want to catch it in the first place because my brother threw it too fucking hard, and then it would crash into the aluminum siding on the back of the garage.

The neighbors must have hated that sound.

My Dad must have hated all those dents in the siding.

He never said a word about them.

Challenge

As a purported writer, I've decided that I should challenge myself with daily writing goals.  This will help keep my skills sharp.  That's why I used the word purported.  So, I'm challenging myself to write one post per day for the next day.  Here goes:

The weather isn't horrific.

Now I can get back to The Sopranos marathon on A&E.