(Okay, before you read this, please understand that I am not endorsing suicide. Normally I wouldn't say anything, but the last thing I need hanging over my head is the knowledge that I gave someone the inspiration to do something drastic and regrettable. So, don't kill yourself, even though I am about to trivialize it and extoll its virtues.)
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Why are all the bad words so cool? I have certainly not thought much about this, well, unless you consider 10 minutes to be much, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this is true across the board in all instances. Looking at it from a purely linguistic perspective, the bad words have much more intrigue and appeal than good ones.
If there was some kind of store where you went to buy words, and I went to that store, and I saw “dismember” next to “pious,” the choice would be a no-brainer. “Satanic” has a nice ring to it, although that could be influenced by the simplistically brilliant logo and the enduring appeal of all Satan stands for. And come to think of it, why should I be practicing “responsibility” or “exploring” “creative outlets” when I can be “hallucinating” in a “drug-induced” “delirium” or engaging in “clandestine behaviors”?
All this brings me to the point of this ill-considered rant: Of all the cool words to ascribe to bad things, why did they give “suicide” to suicide?
Okay. For just a second forget about what suicide really means and the people you inevitably know or know of who have committed it, and look at the word itself: suicide. Close your eyes and let it wash over you: suicide. It sneaks out of the mouth in such a deliciously forbidden way that, upon hearing it, one can’t help but consider it, if only out of deference to the burst of genius that first uttered the deadly word. Suicide. Like a razor. Like a vial.
Now, I hope we can all see that I am not endorsing suicide. I am merely saying it is a wonderful word.
In any case, there is no need to be concerned for my personal safety as I really have nothing to commit suicide over. Every once in a while when I’m particularly frustrated or late for work, I try to come up with some sort of reason that would justify such extreme behavior, but I can never think it up on the spot. Especially because if you are going to do some sort of impulsive, on-the-go suicide then your options are limited to traffic or subway, and neither of those strike me as something I would jive with. Because with the subway, maybe you get bisected and trapped between the train and platform and then not only do you have to explain yourself as you feel yourself bleeding to death, but you would also inevitably end up regretting it. Not to mention, my luck, I would somehow only get injured, and then oh, the concern and obligatory therapy that would ensue! “Ohhhhh!” They would all cry. “You have so much to live for! I wish I was as gifted as you!”
“You’ve just given me two more reasons.”
I mean, sure, I have a little debt and an ex-girlfriend, but one, credit is not actually real, it is just a few numbers in a text field somewhere that gives birth to many generations of angry letters only to remain, in my case, forever unopened, and two, killing yourself over a failed relationship is tacky. I’m sorry, feel what you may when you’re actually doing the suiciding, in the end, you’re only going to look tragically stupid. Besides, relationship pain is best alleviated through subtle revenge. If you really want to get him or her back, it is a much better idea to put ants in their house or mail them rotten eggs. Oh, and while you’re at it, it would also be a good idea to stand in her new boyfriend’s front lawn and shoot a laser pointer as passing airplanes.
“Hope you enjoyed those civil liberties, new guy. Shame about that laser pointer they found in the bushes.”
I like to think that if I did, however, commit suicide, (entrancing, intoxicating, suicide), that it would at least come off as a mature. On the outside, at least, I would want it to seem like the logical conclusion I came to at the end of a logical day. Maybe I would even incinerate myself out of consideration for the clean-up crew. Not a bad idea. And I would also avoid doing it in the apartments or houses of the people I care about, on the off-chance that there is some sort of mandatory haunting clause in the rules and bylaws of the constitution of the afterlife. I am nothing if not thoughtful!
My note would graciously downplay the whole event. After all, I didn’t do this for the fame or the street cred. I did it because it was just the conclusion I came to after much weighing of the pros and cons. My note might look something like this:
Dear family, friends, other loved ones, and Avril Lavigne:
Okay, first of all, chill out. What’s done is done and there is no use searching for reasons. Even if you did know the reasons, they would not make the sense to you that they make to me, by virtue of the fact that since you have never committed suicide, you can’t possibly look at my reasons (since I have committed suicide) with objectivity. Although I am aware of the chronological inconsistencies in my flawed argument, I am entirely confident that you will not see my reasons from an unbiased perspective. You should therefore surrender their mysteries to the universe as best you are able, and when you find yourselves overcome with disbelief and unanswered questions, know that the answer is “because.”
Additionally, rest assured that not only am I leaving with a very warm feeling when I think of all of you, I also wish to say that I’m With You is unbelievably cute if misguided, I appreciate all the kindnesses you have all extended to me throughout the years, and I apologize that I will not be able to repay them (although I did not leave a mess, so maybe that’s something!).
Take care,
And I give my most formal signature.
Here’s the trick about my suicide letter, though, and it will become apparent to the astute observer after two or more reads: embedded in my very rhetoric will be a secret code, complex yet decipherable, that leads them to the location where I’ve secretly buried the real suicide letter. There they will find a 50-page instruction manual of despair written in conspicuous brown-red ink that lays emphatic blame on Sallie Mae, my ex-girlfriend, and St. Clare’s hospital for performing that unnecessary and expensive surgery. Not only that, but I will have set a timer connected to a complex mechanism which will be triggered by the removal of the letter, affording me the privilege of dramatically unveiling my real body, and the only thing that will eclipse the horror of the mess of gunk and stink I’ve left behind is the realization that the charred body they found, while not being mine, was in fact someone.
How about that? At first it seemed like a “mature” suicide, one of the most aesthetically blasé of all the good words, and a real linguistic let-down, only to be revealed for what it truly was:
Duplicitous.
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Why are all the bad words so cool? I have certainly not thought much about this, well, unless you consider 10 minutes to be much, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this is true across the board in all instances. Looking at it from a purely linguistic perspective, the bad words have much more intrigue and appeal than good ones.
If there was some kind of store where you went to buy words, and I went to that store, and I saw “dismember” next to “pious,” the choice would be a no-brainer. “Satanic” has a nice ring to it, although that could be influenced by the simplistically brilliant logo and the enduring appeal of all Satan stands for. And come to think of it, why should I be practicing “responsibility” or “exploring” “creative outlets” when I can be “hallucinating” in a “drug-induced” “delirium” or engaging in “clandestine behaviors”?
All this brings me to the point of this ill-considered rant: Of all the cool words to ascribe to bad things, why did they give “suicide” to suicide?
Okay. For just a second forget about what suicide really means and the people you inevitably know or know of who have committed it, and look at the word itself: suicide. Close your eyes and let it wash over you: suicide. It sneaks out of the mouth in such a deliciously forbidden way that, upon hearing it, one can’t help but consider it, if only out of deference to the burst of genius that first uttered the deadly word. Suicide. Like a razor. Like a vial.
Now, I hope we can all see that I am not endorsing suicide. I am merely saying it is a wonderful word.
In any case, there is no need to be concerned for my personal safety as I really have nothing to commit suicide over. Every once in a while when I’m particularly frustrated or late for work, I try to come up with some sort of reason that would justify such extreme behavior, but I can never think it up on the spot. Especially because if you are going to do some sort of impulsive, on-the-go suicide then your options are limited to traffic or subway, and neither of those strike me as something I would jive with. Because with the subway, maybe you get bisected and trapped between the train and platform and then not only do you have to explain yourself as you feel yourself bleeding to death, but you would also inevitably end up regretting it. Not to mention, my luck, I would somehow only get injured, and then oh, the concern and obligatory therapy that would ensue! “Ohhhhh!” They would all cry. “You have so much to live for! I wish I was as gifted as you!”
“You’ve just given me two more reasons.”
I mean, sure, I have a little debt and an ex-girlfriend, but one, credit is not actually real, it is just a few numbers in a text field somewhere that gives birth to many generations of angry letters only to remain, in my case, forever unopened, and two, killing yourself over a failed relationship is tacky. I’m sorry, feel what you may when you’re actually doing the suiciding, in the end, you’re only going to look tragically stupid. Besides, relationship pain is best alleviated through subtle revenge. If you really want to get him or her back, it is a much better idea to put ants in their house or mail them rotten eggs. Oh, and while you’re at it, it would also be a good idea to stand in her new boyfriend’s front lawn and shoot a laser pointer as passing airplanes.
“Hope you enjoyed those civil liberties, new guy. Shame about that laser pointer they found in the bushes.”
I like to think that if I did, however, commit suicide, (entrancing, intoxicating, suicide), that it would at least come off as a mature. On the outside, at least, I would want it to seem like the logical conclusion I came to at the end of a logical day. Maybe I would even incinerate myself out of consideration for the clean-up crew. Not a bad idea. And I would also avoid doing it in the apartments or houses of the people I care about, on the off-chance that there is some sort of mandatory haunting clause in the rules and bylaws of the constitution of the afterlife. I am nothing if not thoughtful!
My note would graciously downplay the whole event. After all, I didn’t do this for the fame or the street cred. I did it because it was just the conclusion I came to after much weighing of the pros and cons. My note might look something like this:
Dear family, friends, other loved ones, and Avril Lavigne:
Okay, first of all, chill out. What’s done is done and there is no use searching for reasons. Even if you did know the reasons, they would not make the sense to you that they make to me, by virtue of the fact that since you have never committed suicide, you can’t possibly look at my reasons (since I have committed suicide) with objectivity. Although I am aware of the chronological inconsistencies in my flawed argument, I am entirely confident that you will not see my reasons from an unbiased perspective. You should therefore surrender their mysteries to the universe as best you are able, and when you find yourselves overcome with disbelief and unanswered questions, know that the answer is “because.”
Additionally, rest assured that not only am I leaving with a very warm feeling when I think of all of you, I also wish to say that I’m With You is unbelievably cute if misguided, I appreciate all the kindnesses you have all extended to me throughout the years, and I apologize that I will not be able to repay them (although I did not leave a mess, so maybe that’s something!).
Take care,
And I give my most formal signature.
Here’s the trick about my suicide letter, though, and it will become apparent to the astute observer after two or more reads: embedded in my very rhetoric will be a secret code, complex yet decipherable, that leads them to the location where I’ve secretly buried the real suicide letter. There they will find a 50-page instruction manual of despair written in conspicuous brown-red ink that lays emphatic blame on Sallie Mae, my ex-girlfriend, and St. Clare’s hospital for performing that unnecessary and expensive surgery. Not only that, but I will have set a timer connected to a complex mechanism which will be triggered by the removal of the letter, affording me the privilege of dramatically unveiling my real body, and the only thing that will eclipse the horror of the mess of gunk and stink I’ve left behind is the realization that the charred body they found, while not being mine, was in fact someone.
How about that? At first it seemed like a “mature” suicide, one of the most aesthetically blasé of all the good words, and a real linguistic let-down, only to be revealed for what it truly was:
Duplicitous.
I was watching The Simpsons recently and Milhouse’s dad really got me thinking. He is a divorcee who lives in an apartment complex full of divorcees. There is a high suicide rate and other residents can be heard sobbing through the walls at night. Additionally, Milhouse’s dad can’t seem to get a leg up – all of his endeavors are uninspired false starts – in this particular episode, his job was to hold a sign on the street pointing the way to the business. I forget what it was called.
Now, most people see that character and they laugh and they don’t give it any extra thought beyond fleeting appreciation of a familiar joke – the divorcee down on his luck. Now, I’m sure there are a number of divorcees who see a character like that and they laugh, but with a little less freedom – they laugh a laughter reigned in by a tether connected directly to their internal realization that they are laughing at themselves. In the most ridiculous behaviors of satirical characters there is a truth – and it is not a truth like “Satire is a reflection of the truth,” it is a truth like when you see that ridiculous behavior, when you hear the men in the walls sobbing and the next-door neighbor canceling his plans for the evening because his new plan for the evening is suicide, that that is actually the unexaggerated behavior of countless individuals, funny to you and me but someone else somewhere is adjusting their collar – what a funny joke, is it hot in here?
Of course, when I say it is funny to you and me, what I really mean is funny to you, and when I refer to someone else, I really mean me.
She’s gone, she’s gone, and what am I to do? My baby has up and left me for another man. Blindsided, one day we were discussing our long future and the next she was confessing it all, the whole ugly sordid truth as I sat stunned from the effort of comprehension. I loved her deeply, it was a love unlike any other, I gave her my all, as Ben Folds says, I poured my heart out – it evaporated.
No, that’s not true at all but that’s what it feels like. Okay, no it doesn’t even feel like that, but that is how I would want it to be – that, at least would justify my behavior since then. And yes we loved each other, but no, there was no surprise in the end, it had been winding down for a long time, a walkman playing slow and deep as the last of its battery quits. Cheated on me? I guess she did, but I cheated on her too. I guess I’d like to punch him in the face, but I have come to understand that I’m cuter, so I think that’s face-punch enough. It would be nice to be able to stand next to him, though, so all of Amy's friends could look at the two of us side by side and ask each other, “Wait, which one is she with now? Really. I would have picked the cute one.” No, on second thought, I would like to punch him. Enough of this! I’m getting extremely irritable!
How long has it been? I don’t know. Long. Upwards of a year, okay? Jeez. Yeah, I know it has been too long. But what do you do?
There are those people who will lie in bed claiming they simply can’t get up. There are also those people who hear an explanation like that and think that it is the worst kind of nonsense, that sure, sometimes you’re tired and sad but what you do is get up, you go to work, you get out of the house, but stay in bed because you can’t get up? Of course you can get up, these people think. Say to them, “Why should I get up? If nothing means anything, and nothing means anything, then get up or stay in bed, it’s all the same! The world is dark to me today, and while I know that the world is actually just rock and water and life, and that it is not inherently light or dark, good or evil, it is a testament to the power of the human mind that I can see it as a dank and gloomy prison, so I’m not getting up!” and they just wont see where you’re coming from.
Nobody compares, nobody is the same, why try to meet someone else when they’re not going to be Amy? I know what I’ll do. Instead of trying to meet new people, I’ll just stay at home and be sober, get a lot of work done, so that even in a worst-case (but imagined-case) scenario, I will die alone, yet I will leave behind me a library of work, as detailed an account as anyone could possibly hope for of what a moron I am and the stupid things I think about. I will save a great deal of money if I remain constantly sober, I will lead an intense existence of the utmost clarity. Cold, monotonous clarity. And really, whether or not I want to be alone, there is no one for me anyway, I can’t seem to connect with anyone. This must mean that I am just a little too complex for the world. Yeah. I am an anomaly. And that’s just too bad for the world if they miss out on that.
These are the things I find myself thinking about on an all-too-regular basis, and it occurs to me, these are the thoughts of Milhouse’s dad. Now depending on my frame of mind at the time I think of this, it can strike me as funny or awful. And it can really be either thing. To laugh at it is to marginalize it, appreciate it, love it in a tired way. But ultimately, appreciating the humor of it keeps it at a distance. Laughing at it sets me on a peak looking down at it, and I realize that I am me, not a cartoon character, and it’s funny that we have similarities.
When I dread the association, however, when it crosses the line of seriousness without my knowing, I set it up as a great fear, an impending doom, and although all the associations are negative (and actually probably because they are) I set it up as a goal, a terrible goal that I know I will achieve because I know I can achieve it, and while I really don’t want to achieve it, I also sort of do. I mean, come on. Healthy goals are so damned frustrating. It smacks of grade school academia – set goals for yourself and achieve them. Ugh. The very phrase makes me puke. On that note, the word “excellence” as in “striving for” or “achieving” makes me crap my pants.
But negative goals are so alluring because they are so easy to achieve. Nobody wants to have a coke problem, but once you start doing coke and realize that you love it (although you hate it) the idea of having a “coke problem” all of a sudden becomes an alluring aspect of what you believe to be your edgy mystique. People aren’t so keen on your coke problem? Man, that’s because they just don’t know. Sure I have a problem. It’s just one of the things I have to deal with as I get on in the world.
But that’s not all. Feel tired? Lack of motivation? That’s because life is about living, not about work, and plus, the higher up you get, the more unnecessary people and situations you have to deal with. Best bet is to just not do anything. Because obviously if you wanted to be doing anything, you would be, so just listen to yourself, already! Stop trying so hard!
There you can see that without even the slightest effort you have achieved two negative goals. There are many to choose from, not the least of which is the aforementioned goal of living a life of regrettable solitude.
I have found that it is difficult to communicate with people when you’re constantly comparing them to all the admirable qualities of your ex. Wait a minute. You eat meat? You don’t know about fair-trade coffee? Was that a joke about homeless people? Well you just lost out on a great person. Who? Me. I am a great person and if the world doesn’t get it, well then maybe the world just doesn’t get me, which brings me back to the idea that I am an anomaly, and since I’ve thought about this twice on two separate tangents, then it must be true, right?
Meaning. Lately I have been preoccupied with the question of whether or not anything means anything. Not in the religious sense, my thoughts about religion are so piled up and crisscrossy that I just don’t think about it at all. I just say “I believe” try to be a good person and forget about it. But meaning is an elusive trick. I talk to people about the idea of nihilism, and nobody seems to have positive thoughts about it. That a pointless universe where all is accident and nothing means anything is a cold and sorrowful place to live, and our actions, our works, our achievements and our loves are nothing more than one hand clapping. But is there not rather a different side to nihilism that people refuse to see? The idea that nothing means anything has the effect of challenging all of our actions and thoughts – we can easily see much of our behavior as ugly in light of a meaningless universe – that all of the passions and squabbles, the stresses we bear and the inconveniences we lament are nothing more than nothing, and look how long we have been worrying it. Look at the opportunities lost and the bridges burned. Look at the love we have let slip, for what? For nothing.
What if it’s all true, that nothing means anything? Can it not be a reason to rejoice? Because sure, nothing means anything outside of the value we ascribe to any given scenario, but that value takes on a very real quality, imbues an event with such personal importance that it assumes meaning in the face of the infinite. Events may mean nothing, but human perception asserts itself. We are capable of creating a vibrant universe whose patterns translate into meaning and importance, while the universe outside the intelligent mind is nothing more than what it is. Space, rock, water, fire, and very, very cold.
What if Milhouse’s dad came to the realization that nothing means anything? That everything he invested into his life and his marriage is nothing beyond what he insists it is? That whether or not he changed and moved on, the universe wouldn’t care? Maybe in such a universe the negative goal of failure wouldn’t assume such an allure. Maybe in light of a meaningless universe he would begin to soften his reaction to having his hopes and plans dashed to pieces. Maybe he would actually strive to create new circumstances that place him in a meaningful world once again. Maybe it would be the happiest realization of his life.
Now, most people see that character and they laugh and they don’t give it any extra thought beyond fleeting appreciation of a familiar joke – the divorcee down on his luck. Now, I’m sure there are a number of divorcees who see a character like that and they laugh, but with a little less freedom – they laugh a laughter reigned in by a tether connected directly to their internal realization that they are laughing at themselves. In the most ridiculous behaviors of satirical characters there is a truth – and it is not a truth like “Satire is a reflection of the truth,” it is a truth like when you see that ridiculous behavior, when you hear the men in the walls sobbing and the next-door neighbor canceling his plans for the evening because his new plan for the evening is suicide, that that is actually the unexaggerated behavior of countless individuals, funny to you and me but someone else somewhere is adjusting their collar – what a funny joke, is it hot in here?
Of course, when I say it is funny to you and me, what I really mean is funny to you, and when I refer to someone else, I really mean me.
She’s gone, she’s gone, and what am I to do? My baby has up and left me for another man. Blindsided, one day we were discussing our long future and the next she was confessing it all, the whole ugly sordid truth as I sat stunned from the effort of comprehension. I loved her deeply, it was a love unlike any other, I gave her my all, as Ben Folds says, I poured my heart out – it evaporated.
No, that’s not true at all but that’s what it feels like. Okay, no it doesn’t even feel like that, but that is how I would want it to be – that, at least would justify my behavior since then. And yes we loved each other, but no, there was no surprise in the end, it had been winding down for a long time, a walkman playing slow and deep as the last of its battery quits. Cheated on me? I guess she did, but I cheated on her too. I guess I’d like to punch him in the face, but I have come to understand that I’m cuter, so I think that’s face-punch enough. It would be nice to be able to stand next to him, though, so all of Amy's friends could look at the two of us side by side and ask each other, “Wait, which one is she with now? Really. I would have picked the cute one.” No, on second thought, I would like to punch him. Enough of this! I’m getting extremely irritable!
How long has it been? I don’t know. Long. Upwards of a year, okay? Jeez. Yeah, I know it has been too long. But what do you do?
There are those people who will lie in bed claiming they simply can’t get up. There are also those people who hear an explanation like that and think that it is the worst kind of nonsense, that sure, sometimes you’re tired and sad but what you do is get up, you go to work, you get out of the house, but stay in bed because you can’t get up? Of course you can get up, these people think. Say to them, “Why should I get up? If nothing means anything, and nothing means anything, then get up or stay in bed, it’s all the same! The world is dark to me today, and while I know that the world is actually just rock and water and life, and that it is not inherently light or dark, good or evil, it is a testament to the power of the human mind that I can see it as a dank and gloomy prison, so I’m not getting up!” and they just wont see where you’re coming from.
Nobody compares, nobody is the same, why try to meet someone else when they’re not going to be Amy? I know what I’ll do. Instead of trying to meet new people, I’ll just stay at home and be sober, get a lot of work done, so that even in a worst-case (but imagined-case) scenario, I will die alone, yet I will leave behind me a library of work, as detailed an account as anyone could possibly hope for of what a moron I am and the stupid things I think about. I will save a great deal of money if I remain constantly sober, I will lead an intense existence of the utmost clarity. Cold, monotonous clarity. And really, whether or not I want to be alone, there is no one for me anyway, I can’t seem to connect with anyone. This must mean that I am just a little too complex for the world. Yeah. I am an anomaly. And that’s just too bad for the world if they miss out on that.
These are the things I find myself thinking about on an all-too-regular basis, and it occurs to me, these are the thoughts of Milhouse’s dad. Now depending on my frame of mind at the time I think of this, it can strike me as funny or awful. And it can really be either thing. To laugh at it is to marginalize it, appreciate it, love it in a tired way. But ultimately, appreciating the humor of it keeps it at a distance. Laughing at it sets me on a peak looking down at it, and I realize that I am me, not a cartoon character, and it’s funny that we have similarities.
When I dread the association, however, when it crosses the line of seriousness without my knowing, I set it up as a great fear, an impending doom, and although all the associations are negative (and actually probably because they are) I set it up as a goal, a terrible goal that I know I will achieve because I know I can achieve it, and while I really don’t want to achieve it, I also sort of do. I mean, come on. Healthy goals are so damned frustrating. It smacks of grade school academia – set goals for yourself and achieve them. Ugh. The very phrase makes me puke. On that note, the word “excellence” as in “striving for” or “achieving” makes me crap my pants.
But negative goals are so alluring because they are so easy to achieve. Nobody wants to have a coke problem, but once you start doing coke and realize that you love it (although you hate it) the idea of having a “coke problem” all of a sudden becomes an alluring aspect of what you believe to be your edgy mystique. People aren’t so keen on your coke problem? Man, that’s because they just don’t know. Sure I have a problem. It’s just one of the things I have to deal with as I get on in the world.
But that’s not all. Feel tired? Lack of motivation? That’s because life is about living, not about work, and plus, the higher up you get, the more unnecessary people and situations you have to deal with. Best bet is to just not do anything. Because obviously if you wanted to be doing anything, you would be, so just listen to yourself, already! Stop trying so hard!
There you can see that without even the slightest effort you have achieved two negative goals. There are many to choose from, not the least of which is the aforementioned goal of living a life of regrettable solitude.
I have found that it is difficult to communicate with people when you’re constantly comparing them to all the admirable qualities of your ex. Wait a minute. You eat meat? You don’t know about fair-trade coffee? Was that a joke about homeless people? Well you just lost out on a great person. Who? Me. I am a great person and if the world doesn’t get it, well then maybe the world just doesn’t get me, which brings me back to the idea that I am an anomaly, and since I’ve thought about this twice on two separate tangents, then it must be true, right?
Meaning. Lately I have been preoccupied with the question of whether or not anything means anything. Not in the religious sense, my thoughts about religion are so piled up and crisscrossy that I just don’t think about it at all. I just say “I believe” try to be a good person and forget about it. But meaning is an elusive trick. I talk to people about the idea of nihilism, and nobody seems to have positive thoughts about it. That a pointless universe where all is accident and nothing means anything is a cold and sorrowful place to live, and our actions, our works, our achievements and our loves are nothing more than one hand clapping. But is there not rather a different side to nihilism that people refuse to see? The idea that nothing means anything has the effect of challenging all of our actions and thoughts – we can easily see much of our behavior as ugly in light of a meaningless universe – that all of the passions and squabbles, the stresses we bear and the inconveniences we lament are nothing more than nothing, and look how long we have been worrying it. Look at the opportunities lost and the bridges burned. Look at the love we have let slip, for what? For nothing.
What if it’s all true, that nothing means anything? Can it not be a reason to rejoice? Because sure, nothing means anything outside of the value we ascribe to any given scenario, but that value takes on a very real quality, imbues an event with such personal importance that it assumes meaning in the face of the infinite. Events may mean nothing, but human perception asserts itself. We are capable of creating a vibrant universe whose patterns translate into meaning and importance, while the universe outside the intelligent mind is nothing more than what it is. Space, rock, water, fire, and very, very cold.
What if Milhouse’s dad came to the realization that nothing means anything? That everything he invested into his life and his marriage is nothing beyond what he insists it is? That whether or not he changed and moved on, the universe wouldn’t care? Maybe in such a universe the negative goal of failure wouldn’t assume such an allure. Maybe in light of a meaningless universe he would begin to soften his reaction to having his hopes and plans dashed to pieces. Maybe he would actually strive to create new circumstances that place him in a meaningful world once again. Maybe it would be the happiest realization of his life.
People have been looking at me strangely lately when I tell them I put butter in my pockets. Ha ha, I know. What a quirk. But really, if you are in a situation where you are getting a roll with your meal and you have a little bit of transit ahead of you, say, from the counter to your seat, you can just stick the butter in your pocket and by the time you sit down, it will be soft and ready to spread. You’ll thank yourself, trust me.
Because butter can be a really difficult thing to spread. All hard and cold, you try to spread it and it just chews up the bread and wraps itself up in it so that you’re just spreading around a bread coated butter ball in your chewed up ruined bread. And oh, what an infuriating thing for it to do!
But if you have a pat of butter wrapped in foil you can stick it in your pocket and after just a few seconds, it will be soft like butter silk, your knife will glide across your roll, and the bread will drink deeply of the butter! It’s so easy you will laugh to yourself out of sheer merriment, for who knew it could be such a pleasure to butter one’s bread?
Of course you have to use a butter that is wrapped pretty well in foil. Do not under any circumstances use the kind that is just cardboard then butter then a sheet of butter-sized wax paper. But you would have to have pretty bad judgement to stick something like that in your pocket. Also, you shouldn’t just throw it in with your keys and chapstick or whatever. Your butter pocket should be loose fitting and empty of all other items. You want the butter to melt from the warmth of your body heat, but you also want to have a cushion of air around it, because it is, after all, butter, and the pocket is not its natural habitat.
Which brings me to the one drawback of putting butter in your pocket: forgetting you have butter in your pocket.
Take me at three o’clock today, for instance. I had eaten lunch one hour earlier, and I was chatting it up with a coworker. “So and so blah-blah-blah,” I said. I don’t actually know what I said. I have a problem paying attention to things that happen at work. “Jib-jib-jam, blah blah blah!”
And that’s when I put my hand in my pocket and felt something warm and smooth. My first thought was that it was my lip stuff…and in that instant I realized that that is not the pocket I use for lip stuff, in fact, I used that pocket for something else –
!
“Oh shit. The butter,” I said.
“What?”
“Aw, man. I…I can’t believe this happened again.”
And then I had to go wash my pocket out. I had my keys in the pocket, too. I know, not putting your keys in your pocket is basically the only rule, but I was too lazy to move my keys. So I had to wash those too, and keys are surprisingly dirty. It’s something you never think of, because who washes their keys? Luckily it didn’t bleed through to the pants. I have to say, pockets can hold butter surprisingly well.
“What’s wrong with you?” They shouted. “Why do you keep putting butter in your pockets?”
“I told you, it spreads better that way!” This was a lighthearted conversation, but did I detect a note of irritability, or – what was it – jealousy, in their tone? Perhaps they’re a little annoyed that I have the foresight to think ahead to the buttering while they are stuck in the now, unable to think beyond the cash register to consider what they can do to make their post cash-register existence just a little brighter.
Perhaps not. Maybe they’re just mad that I had to wash butter out of my pockets. People love to get mad at qualities in others that don’t affect them personally but irritate them nonetheless. I know I do. My roommate does things like he’ll pour hot wax down the toilet, thinking it would remain liquefied in the cold water, all because he needed to get rid of the hot wax and it didn’t occur to him to pour it in the garbage. And then I happen upon him in the hall when he’s all wet and has a load of wax debris in his hands.
I bet you’re wondering if I will stop now that my pocket has been buttered again. No. Spreading warm butter is way too convenient to just stop doing it because I got a little butter in my pocket. I have a better plan. I just won’t forget I have butter in my pocket and I will accomplish that by remembering not to forget every time I see butter. Foolproof!
Come to think of it, my keys do look really nice now that they are washed. Maybe I’ll start washing my keys once a week or so. Keep ‘em nice and shiny.
Because butter can be a really difficult thing to spread. All hard and cold, you try to spread it and it just chews up the bread and wraps itself up in it so that you’re just spreading around a bread coated butter ball in your chewed up ruined bread. And oh, what an infuriating thing for it to do!
But if you have a pat of butter wrapped in foil you can stick it in your pocket and after just a few seconds, it will be soft like butter silk, your knife will glide across your roll, and the bread will drink deeply of the butter! It’s so easy you will laugh to yourself out of sheer merriment, for who knew it could be such a pleasure to butter one’s bread?
Of course you have to use a butter that is wrapped pretty well in foil. Do not under any circumstances use the kind that is just cardboard then butter then a sheet of butter-sized wax paper. But you would have to have pretty bad judgement to stick something like that in your pocket. Also, you shouldn’t just throw it in with your keys and chapstick or whatever. Your butter pocket should be loose fitting and empty of all other items. You want the butter to melt from the warmth of your body heat, but you also want to have a cushion of air around it, because it is, after all, butter, and the pocket is not its natural habitat.
Which brings me to the one drawback of putting butter in your pocket: forgetting you have butter in your pocket.
Take me at three o’clock today, for instance. I had eaten lunch one hour earlier, and I was chatting it up with a coworker. “So and so blah-blah-blah,” I said. I don’t actually know what I said. I have a problem paying attention to things that happen at work. “Jib-jib-jam, blah blah blah!”
And that’s when I put my hand in my pocket and felt something warm and smooth. My first thought was that it was my lip stuff…and in that instant I realized that that is not the pocket I use for lip stuff, in fact, I used that pocket for something else –
!
“Oh shit. The butter,” I said.
“What?”
“Aw, man. I…I can’t believe this happened again.”
And then I had to go wash my pocket out. I had my keys in the pocket, too. I know, not putting your keys in your pocket is basically the only rule, but I was too lazy to move my keys. So I had to wash those too, and keys are surprisingly dirty. It’s something you never think of, because who washes their keys? Luckily it didn’t bleed through to the pants. I have to say, pockets can hold butter surprisingly well.
“What’s wrong with you?” They shouted. “Why do you keep putting butter in your pockets?”
“I told you, it spreads better that way!” This was a lighthearted conversation, but did I detect a note of irritability, or – what was it – jealousy, in their tone? Perhaps they’re a little annoyed that I have the foresight to think ahead to the buttering while they are stuck in the now, unable to think beyond the cash register to consider what they can do to make their post cash-register existence just a little brighter.
Perhaps not. Maybe they’re just mad that I had to wash butter out of my pockets. People love to get mad at qualities in others that don’t affect them personally but irritate them nonetheless. I know I do. My roommate does things like he’ll pour hot wax down the toilet, thinking it would remain liquefied in the cold water, all because he needed to get rid of the hot wax and it didn’t occur to him to pour it in the garbage. And then I happen upon him in the hall when he’s all wet and has a load of wax debris in his hands.
I bet you’re wondering if I will stop now that my pocket has been buttered again. No. Spreading warm butter is way too convenient to just stop doing it because I got a little butter in my pocket. I have a better plan. I just won’t forget I have butter in my pocket and I will accomplish that by remembering not to forget every time I see butter. Foolproof!
Come to think of it, my keys do look really nice now that they are washed. Maybe I’ll start washing my keys once a week or so. Keep ‘em nice and shiny.
It’s my new invention! You know how we have mirrors, right? Well, doesn’t it seem like mirrors are just a little old-fashioned? I mean, come on – humankind has been looking into shiny things and seeing their reflection since basically the beginning of time. Or the beginning of vanity, at least. Probably when the first dainty boy or pouty girl discovered the first reflective pool. (On a side note, I have never seen such a thing as a “reflective pool”, and it has long infuriated me as I scout out pond after pond, one disappointment after the next, until the point where I seriously begin to wonder whether all this pond-lore isn’t just some cosmic attempt at sending me on an eternal snipe hunt. Probably. The cosmos is always trying to fuck with my head.)
In any case, I think it’s high time we improved upon it. Don’t tell me we can’t! We have technology!
Here is what I propose: Instead of an analogue surface that reflects passively, iMirror V.1 is a combination of digital video camera and plasma display. You see, when you walk up to iMirror, the camera films you and renders your image in real-time on the plasma display! So it has the same look and feel of a mirror, but the quality is compromised and digitized, giving you the sense that you are a citizen of the future. Oh, and like what you see? iMirror can email you the video file, so you always have a record of how good you looked!
Why would I need a video of myself in the mirror? you might ask. Well, to start out with, you are totally narcissistic. Secondly, maybe an acquaintance is having a party. You get dressed, log the video file and you go. 2 months later the same person is having another get together. Well, because you never see this person, you have a tendency to wear your flashiest get-up and you’re worried you might wear the same thing over since you don’t actually have money, you just have 3 outfits that make it seem that way. Well, worry no more! Upon review you will see exactly what you wore to the first party, and you will be thankful you didn’t wear that pork pie hat twice.
“Oh, there’s Matt in that pork pie hat again, with the camo long-sleeves under that black t-shirt,” people won’t say. “Looks like someone doesn’t have iMirror.”
And that’s just the beginning! Soon you will be able to view the back of your head as well as the front. And because iMirror is always geared toward ease-of use, you can display the back of your head in full screen or as a panel within iMirror.
Also you will be able to check your email and view stock quotes while looking into iMirror! Plus it will have intelligent software that will recognize your image and immediately log you in to your My iMirror account that will unlock a virtual universe of email checking and stock quotes!
Too busy to look in the mirror, but still want to reap the immeasurable benefits of constant access to email and stock quotes? Stay tuned for iPillow – it will be the first and last thing you see every day!
In any case, I think it’s high time we improved upon it. Don’t tell me we can’t! We have technology!
Here is what I propose: Instead of an analogue surface that reflects passively, iMirror V.1 is a combination of digital video camera and plasma display. You see, when you walk up to iMirror, the camera films you and renders your image in real-time on the plasma display! So it has the same look and feel of a mirror, but the quality is compromised and digitized, giving you the sense that you are a citizen of the future. Oh, and like what you see? iMirror can email you the video file, so you always have a record of how good you looked!
Why would I need a video of myself in the mirror? you might ask. Well, to start out with, you are totally narcissistic. Secondly, maybe an acquaintance is having a party. You get dressed, log the video file and you go. 2 months later the same person is having another get together. Well, because you never see this person, you have a tendency to wear your flashiest get-up and you’re worried you might wear the same thing over since you don’t actually have money, you just have 3 outfits that make it seem that way. Well, worry no more! Upon review you will see exactly what you wore to the first party, and you will be thankful you didn’t wear that pork pie hat twice.
“Oh, there’s Matt in that pork pie hat again, with the camo long-sleeves under that black t-shirt,” people won’t say. “Looks like someone doesn’t have iMirror.”
And that’s just the beginning! Soon you will be able to view the back of your head as well as the front. And because iMirror is always geared toward ease-of use, you can display the back of your head in full screen or as a panel within iMirror.
Also you will be able to check your email and view stock quotes while looking into iMirror! Plus it will have intelligent software that will recognize your image and immediately log you in to your My iMirror account that will unlock a virtual universe of email checking and stock quotes!
Too busy to look in the mirror, but still want to reap the immeasurable benefits of constant access to email and stock quotes? Stay tuned for iPillow – it will be the first and last thing you see every day!
I always imagine getting knifed in the back. Like if I’m outside, I don’t know why, crossing the street, I will get a sudden flash of someone sticking a knife in my back. And the first image of it is a little vague, a little imprecise, so then what happens is something in me wants to challenge itself, to see how far I can take the sensation of imagining getting knifed in the back and so I picture it over and over again, each time more and more vivdly, I try to really feel the blade slip through my skin, the cold blade on the warmth of my skin and the release of blood, and picture what might happen to the organs in the way, and really see if I can imagine what those organs might feel like, separating and releasing their mysterious organic cargo.
“No!” I shout to myself and the street as my body tenses up from the shock of the blade I have all but imagined into existence. It is almost totally real and I am rattled and surprised and totally satisfied.
One time my mom told me that she’d heard or read somewhere (the source on this is admittedly suspect but the truth of the situation does not factor) that your brain can manufacture any sensation in dreams as though it were really happening. Except pain, I think. Or maybe pain. Anyway, the point is, from that point on I have set out to train my waking brain to recreate vivid and oftentimes horrific physical experiences – so I can feel it without actually having to endure the agony, the physical agony.
The homeless man with a crowbar is one of my favorites.
I am crossing an avenue under completely ordinary circumstances. The last thing on my mind is the possibility that something bad might happen. As I look down at my feet which I tend to do when I’m walking, I notice a shadow encroach upon mine. I glance up and turn my head.
This is when things transpire in a very rapid fashion.
Image 1: daylight, city.
Image 2: blurry human form in the background.
Image 3: brown metal in the foreground, polygonal circumference, so close I instantaneously feel the whiff of displaced air.
And before my head is even turned completely, it is there, and it’s WHAP as the force of the crowbar shatters my mouth, demolishing any structure that would impede its trajectory.
Okay for an initial impression, but it really didn’t elicit any kind of flinch or vocal outburst. Let’s do it again.
And before my head is even turned completely I feel a blow of cold as my forward-most teeth buckle inward in a searing collapse. The pain is intense and then blinded by its very intensity, and I can taste the rust in my mouth, and feel the bar up to the very hinges of my jaw which have come undone from the force. As a reflex, I bite back down on the bar only there is no form to grip, and my jaw falls helpless from the obstruction within.
“Phew,” I say. That had some nice imagery, but it just didn’t take me over completely. One more time.
And before my head is even turned completely, there is an explosion of cold metal upon my mouth and teeth, and the taste is rust, the scrape of tooth upon the metal is unbearable, a deafening screech of pain as my teeth grind, if they were stones sparks would fly, my lips give easily to teeth that sink as the very structure of my mouth crumbles under the force, and a warm flow begins to flood the debris, and all is salt and heat and metal and collapse. I choke, and I spit blood and other solid matter into the white sky of the afternoon sun.
“AH!” I shout, oblivious to the world around me. “Wow! Holy shit.” I shake my head, amazed at the physiological reaction my imagination has evoked. For a second I almost thought it was real. My hair stands on end, my body tingles, and I am jazzed, so jazzed I do a shimmy and have a skip.
“Good one!”
“No!” I shout to myself and the street as my body tenses up from the shock of the blade I have all but imagined into existence. It is almost totally real and I am rattled and surprised and totally satisfied.
One time my mom told me that she’d heard or read somewhere (the source on this is admittedly suspect but the truth of the situation does not factor) that your brain can manufacture any sensation in dreams as though it were really happening. Except pain, I think. Or maybe pain. Anyway, the point is, from that point on I have set out to train my waking brain to recreate vivid and oftentimes horrific physical experiences – so I can feel it without actually having to endure the agony, the physical agony.
The homeless man with a crowbar is one of my favorites.
I am crossing an avenue under completely ordinary circumstances. The last thing on my mind is the possibility that something bad might happen. As I look down at my feet which I tend to do when I’m walking, I notice a shadow encroach upon mine. I glance up and turn my head.
This is when things transpire in a very rapid fashion.
Image 1: daylight, city.
Image 2: blurry human form in the background.
Image 3: brown metal in the foreground, polygonal circumference, so close I instantaneously feel the whiff of displaced air.
And before my head is even turned completely, it is there, and it’s WHAP as the force of the crowbar shatters my mouth, demolishing any structure that would impede its trajectory.
Okay for an initial impression, but it really didn’t elicit any kind of flinch or vocal outburst. Let’s do it again.
And before my head is even turned completely I feel a blow of cold as my forward-most teeth buckle inward in a searing collapse. The pain is intense and then blinded by its very intensity, and I can taste the rust in my mouth, and feel the bar up to the very hinges of my jaw which have come undone from the force. As a reflex, I bite back down on the bar only there is no form to grip, and my jaw falls helpless from the obstruction within.
“Phew,” I say. That had some nice imagery, but it just didn’t take me over completely. One more time.
And before my head is even turned completely, there is an explosion of cold metal upon my mouth and teeth, and the taste is rust, the scrape of tooth upon the metal is unbearable, a deafening screech of pain as my teeth grind, if they were stones sparks would fly, my lips give easily to teeth that sink as the very structure of my mouth crumbles under the force, and a warm flow begins to flood the debris, and all is salt and heat and metal and collapse. I choke, and I spit blood and other solid matter into the white sky of the afternoon sun.
“AH!” I shout, oblivious to the world around me. “Wow! Holy shit.” I shake my head, amazed at the physiological reaction my imagination has evoked. For a second I almost thought it was real. My hair stands on end, my body tingles, and I am jazzed, so jazzed I do a shimmy and have a skip.
“Good one!”
“Hey. I can’t make it tonight.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Um…I’m just not going to be able to make it.”
“That’s a lousy excuse. I want to know why.”
“Look, I’m calling to send my regrets, I didn’t think I would have to explain myself. That’s not how sending regrets works. It’s one step removed.”
“I’m not some colleague of yours.”
“That may be true, but you have invited my colleagues to your party, so, for this event, that makes you a colleague by proxy.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Listen, I regret to have to send my regrets in regards to not attending your function-”
“Come or I will show that video of you walking through the sliding glass door last New Year.”
“You can show that. It’s hilarious. People will love me.”
“I mean I’ll show the video of you later when you’re crying because your New Year’s date stood you up.”
“I thought you were going to delete that.”
“There was a time when I was considering doing that very thing.”
“Come on. You’re not going to show that.”
“Really, if you’re ditching for some idiotic reason, yes I will. And furthermore, I will tell them who you’re crying over.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m in the hospital.”
“You are not.”
“Yes I am. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Why are you in the hospital?”
“It’s silly.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Good. Tell me.”
“Why, are you tape recording it?”
“Yes. Why are you in the hospital?”
“I accidentally got a poisonous spider in my mouth and I bit it and now I’m in the hospital.”
“That’s idiotic.”
“I know. That’s why it’s true.”
“How did the spider get in your mouth?”
“It was on a web. I walked into the web mouth first.”
“Mouth first.”
“Yeah, and for some reason, my first instinct was to bite.”
“You know, I would let you off the hook, but because you didn’t have the presence of mind to say something believable like ‘the spider bit me’ instead of ‘I bit the spider,’ now you have to come.”
“It’s true!”
“You’re not in the hospital.”
“No, but I did eat a spider.”
“Get here.”
“It was a daddy longlegs. I thought it was a dusty red-hot.”
“Wait, you ate a daddy longlegs?”
“Yeah, I’m a sucker for redhots.”
“No, that’s not what I mean-”
“I know, I know. It’s not a spider, it’s an insect. Semantics.”
“When did you eat this?”
“Just now. While we were talking.”
“You don’t understand, those are very poisonous.”
“Ha ha.”
“You need to get to a hospital!”
“Fine, I’m coming over now, okay? And I want that file!”
“Really, call 911!”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Hello? Hello?”
I check my fly no less than 100 times a day, probably closer to 500. I try to be subtle about it, but you can only be so subtle when you’re sticking your finger into the flap of your crotch. It’s hard not to feel a little suspicious.
And, for some reason, I have a tendency to nod in the affirmative after I determine that my zipper is up, as a way of acknowledging to anyone who may be watching that “yep. It’s up.” I have noticed that this nodding action achieves the effect of drawing more attention to my fly-check, but like I said, it’s pretty obvious to begin with. This way, when people see me touch my crotch and then see me nod, they think ‘that guy must be acknowledging that, although he thought his fly might be down, that it is, in fact, up. I wonder if mine is?’ instead of ‘That guy likes to touch his crotch. Don’t shake his hand if he offers.’
I also have the same public-recognition instinct on the rare occasion that my fly is actually down, which, of course, only happens when I tell myself I check my fly too much and force myself not to. That’s when it is down basically 100% of the time. And when I finally do check it, stuffing what feels like my entire hand in there after the unexpected lack of resistance, I look around and smile, just to show the world that “I know, my fly is down, but I am a good-humored fellow who is not afraid to laugh at himself.” Sometimes I laugh good-naturedly.
I bet no one ever has any clue as to what I’m doing. In fact, they probably don’t notice anything until I draw attention to it (but if I don’t draw attention to it, you can be sure everyone will secretly notice, and then what will they think when I make no reaction to the fact that my fly is down? They will think I am real tense and mortified, which I’m not!)
Or, if they do notice, they probably just see me touch my crotch and smile. “That man is touching himself and smiling about it,” passersby probably whisper to one another.
“Ha ha ha ha!” I laugh, hand pressed firmly to my pubis. “Not what I was expecting to find!”
And, for some reason, I have a tendency to nod in the affirmative after I determine that my zipper is up, as a way of acknowledging to anyone who may be watching that “yep. It’s up.” I have noticed that this nodding action achieves the effect of drawing more attention to my fly-check, but like I said, it’s pretty obvious to begin with. This way, when people see me touch my crotch and then see me nod, they think ‘that guy must be acknowledging that, although he thought his fly might be down, that it is, in fact, up. I wonder if mine is?’ instead of ‘That guy likes to touch his crotch. Don’t shake his hand if he offers.’
I also have the same public-recognition instinct on the rare occasion that my fly is actually down, which, of course, only happens when I tell myself I check my fly too much and force myself not to. That’s when it is down basically 100% of the time. And when I finally do check it, stuffing what feels like my entire hand in there after the unexpected lack of resistance, I look around and smile, just to show the world that “I know, my fly is down, but I am a good-humored fellow who is not afraid to laugh at himself.” Sometimes I laugh good-naturedly.
I bet no one ever has any clue as to what I’m doing. In fact, they probably don’t notice anything until I draw attention to it (but if I don’t draw attention to it, you can be sure everyone will secretly notice, and then what will they think when I make no reaction to the fact that my fly is down? They will think I am real tense and mortified, which I’m not!)
Or, if they do notice, they probably just see me touch my crotch and smile. “That man is touching himself and smiling about it,” passersby probably whisper to one another.
“Ha ha ha ha!” I laugh, hand pressed firmly to my pubis. “Not what I was expecting to find!”
I really hope I live to see the apocalypse. Although fraught with peril, I think it would be a very rewarding experience. For one thing, there would be a lot of historical firsts to witness. Especially if it is a man-made apocalypse, whish promises a lot of explosions and fire and the sky will be shrouded in thick black clouds (not even the sun shines through to the poisoned earth). There will also be robots, and they will be an army of robots. That’s right, baby. An army of robots. I honestly can’t wait.
It’s all well and good to picture all this, to really envision the fiery landscape, but what about physically participating in it? I mean, think of everything you’ve lived through and it’s all ok, but, at least in my experience, nothing quite has that flair that the apocalypse does. But when I think of the apocalypse and all that it promises, it makes me want to get right up and get things done. There is an army of robots who are trying to destroy us and we have to stop them! You see, the apocalypse would be great because we would all be put to the test and we would have absolutely no choice about it, so there would be no self pity, except for rare moments of fleeting safety. And even those moments would have to be spent keeping one ear to the outside, just in case some trickster robot oiled himself up real good to catch you. You would just have to adapt and battle the robots.
You would find the strength and resolve somewhere. You would have to! Outside this bunker is fire and metal and we are humanity’s last stand.
Think about that. Humanity’s last stand.
Not that everyone would live, because most wouldn’t. That’s where it’s up to you. The apocalypse is not a world for the weak. It is a world for the resourceful. And like I said, it wouldn’t be a weepy thing because there would be no time for weeping. Robots!
As far as the catalyst is concerned, I think I would prefer nuclear to disease. Both would decimate the population and at least with nuclear you have some real picturesque cityscapes. Disease is all silence and undisturbed territory. To see it you would wonder why it was so quiet around here and, come to think of it, where is everyone? Nuclear really lets you know something happened here.
Also, with nuclear you also have the added benefit of mutants. And with mutants, you can really let the imagination run wild in speculation. Who knows what kind there would be? They might just look like melting people who happen to be green. On the other hand, they could also be 20-foot beetles. That actually kind of makes me nervous. I would like to try my hand against some robots, but a 20-foot beetle would be a different thing altogether. I mean, their pincers alone – you would have to maintain a distance of about 50 feet at all times or they will get you. Seriously, I bet those beetles are fast. And sure, you would probably have some kind of photon cannon that would just blow them away, but I think it’s just fantasy to think there will only be one beetle. There will be many more. It’s like cockroaches – every one you see means there are 300 more in the walls. The difference is with the big beetles, there are 300 more, not in the walls, but just everywhere. Running up and down the scorched hills, nesting up in the shells of hollowed skyscrapers, defiling the landscape.
But that's the thing about the apocalypse. It's not all fun and games.
One positive here is you would probably have help from the robots in battling the big beetles. I mean, I just don’t think the beetles will be self aware – certainly not enough to choose between good (people) and evil (robots). The beetles will just try to kill everything, and so people and robots will have to join forces reluctantly for one great battle. Geez, those beetles make me want to puke.
I can’t understand how people don’t want to see this. At least just see it.
And sure, although most of your life would be spent running and fighting, there would have to be moments of respite from the robots. Maybe you just survived an onslaught and most of the soldiers in your platoon met a grisly demise. You’re probably holed up in a bunker or some sort of abandoned building and for just a few moments the world is silent and you are taken back to the days before the Great Destruction (or whatever they name it, I don’t know what they will call it, that’s just a wild guess!). That’s when I imagine you would give yourself permission to maybe sob a little. Ideally, you would be hiding out with a particularly striking member of the attractive sex, and you would turn to them for comfort, even though they are a bit at a loss, as comfort isn’t really something you tend to come by anymore. Not in these parts, at least. But the two of you manage as best you can and when your sobbing is through, you feel a little better, seeing a glimpse of hope and the promise of a new world in your sultry companion’s bedroom eyes. Could it be? It has been so long since you even considered intimacy, but now that the two of you are alone and it is so romantically still…yes…you lean in…
SMASH! You turn to see a robot has just blasted through the wall, its purpose grim, its determination unwavering (for this is the robot you just managed to escape from back at the battle only to discover it has followed you the whole way!) Its unblinking red eye sets on you, but before it can level its weapon, your photon cannon discharges with a roar. Within the same second, you and your companion are up again, on the move, because where is one robot, there will be many more. You were quicker than that one, but next time you might not be so lucky. Next time they might be traveling with IL-X Eliminators.
You must head North. To the South is Robots, West is a beetle hive, East is radioactive. There was once a human stronghold somewhere on the coast of what was Maine. It might be your best shot, although if you get there only to discover ruination, you’re pretty well cornered. You might try your luck in Old Canada, although the climate will not be your ally and your gear is not appropriate. Specific garments are required for certain regions. You can’t let that snow touch your skin.
North it is. And hopefully there will be some calm along the way. Because it’s just you and your partner now. Your hot twentysomething partner. And both of you long for an intimacy you have not known in a long, cold age.
It’s all well and good to picture all this, to really envision the fiery landscape, but what about physically participating in it? I mean, think of everything you’ve lived through and it’s all ok, but, at least in my experience, nothing quite has that flair that the apocalypse does. But when I think of the apocalypse and all that it promises, it makes me want to get right up and get things done. There is an army of robots who are trying to destroy us and we have to stop them! You see, the apocalypse would be great because we would all be put to the test and we would have absolutely no choice about it, so there would be no self pity, except for rare moments of fleeting safety. And even those moments would have to be spent keeping one ear to the outside, just in case some trickster robot oiled himself up real good to catch you. You would just have to adapt and battle the robots.
You would find the strength and resolve somewhere. You would have to! Outside this bunker is fire and metal and we are humanity’s last stand.
Think about that. Humanity’s last stand.
Not that everyone would live, because most wouldn’t. That’s where it’s up to you. The apocalypse is not a world for the weak. It is a world for the resourceful. And like I said, it wouldn’t be a weepy thing because there would be no time for weeping. Robots!
As far as the catalyst is concerned, I think I would prefer nuclear to disease. Both would decimate the population and at least with nuclear you have some real picturesque cityscapes. Disease is all silence and undisturbed territory. To see it you would wonder why it was so quiet around here and, come to think of it, where is everyone? Nuclear really lets you know something happened here.
Also, with nuclear you also have the added benefit of mutants. And with mutants, you can really let the imagination run wild in speculation. Who knows what kind there would be? They might just look like melting people who happen to be green. On the other hand, they could also be 20-foot beetles. That actually kind of makes me nervous. I would like to try my hand against some robots, but a 20-foot beetle would be a different thing altogether. I mean, their pincers alone – you would have to maintain a distance of about 50 feet at all times or they will get you. Seriously, I bet those beetles are fast. And sure, you would probably have some kind of photon cannon that would just blow them away, but I think it’s just fantasy to think there will only be one beetle. There will be many more. It’s like cockroaches – every one you see means there are 300 more in the walls. The difference is with the big beetles, there are 300 more, not in the walls, but just everywhere. Running up and down the scorched hills, nesting up in the shells of hollowed skyscrapers, defiling the landscape.
But that's the thing about the apocalypse. It's not all fun and games.
One positive here is you would probably have help from the robots in battling the big beetles. I mean, I just don’t think the beetles will be self aware – certainly not enough to choose between good (people) and evil (robots). The beetles will just try to kill everything, and so people and robots will have to join forces reluctantly for one great battle. Geez, those beetles make me want to puke.
I can’t understand how people don’t want to see this. At least just see it.
And sure, although most of your life would be spent running and fighting, there would have to be moments of respite from the robots. Maybe you just survived an onslaught and most of the soldiers in your platoon met a grisly demise. You’re probably holed up in a bunker or some sort of abandoned building and for just a few moments the world is silent and you are taken back to the days before the Great Destruction (or whatever they name it, I don’t know what they will call it, that’s just a wild guess!). That’s when I imagine you would give yourself permission to maybe sob a little. Ideally, you would be hiding out with a particularly striking member of the attractive sex, and you would turn to them for comfort, even though they are a bit at a loss, as comfort isn’t really something you tend to come by anymore. Not in these parts, at least. But the two of you manage as best you can and when your sobbing is through, you feel a little better, seeing a glimpse of hope and the promise of a new world in your sultry companion’s bedroom eyes. Could it be? It has been so long since you even considered intimacy, but now that the two of you are alone and it is so romantically still…yes…you lean in…
SMASH! You turn to see a robot has just blasted through the wall, its purpose grim, its determination unwavering (for this is the robot you just managed to escape from back at the battle only to discover it has followed you the whole way!) Its unblinking red eye sets on you, but before it can level its weapon, your photon cannon discharges with a roar. Within the same second, you and your companion are up again, on the move, because where is one robot, there will be many more. You were quicker than that one, but next time you might not be so lucky. Next time they might be traveling with IL-X Eliminators.
You must head North. To the South is Robots, West is a beetle hive, East is radioactive. There was once a human stronghold somewhere on the coast of what was Maine. It might be your best shot, although if you get there only to discover ruination, you’re pretty well cornered. You might try your luck in Old Canada, although the climate will not be your ally and your gear is not appropriate. Specific garments are required for certain regions. You can’t let that snow touch your skin.
North it is. And hopefully there will be some calm along the way. Because it’s just you and your partner now. Your hot twentysomething partner. And both of you long for an intimacy you have not known in a long, cold age.
People on the whole don’t seem to enjoy speculating on the origins of words. Either that, or they just don’t seem to appreciate the manner in which I break down words and insist that mine is the one and only obvious and true assumption. Now, I have never taken Latin or done any of the simple research to determine the etymology of any words, but with some words you can just tell.
Take the word “embarrassed” for instance. I think it’s clear that the word was stitched together from em-bare-assed, in the sense that when you’re embarrassed, it is because you have been figuratively em-bare-assed. In fact, it may have originated when someone lost their pants at an inopportune yet historically significant moment, and what was the emotion he or she felt? “Why I believe we have no word for it!” the people exclaimed. “Let’s just call it what it is! Bareassification!” (Which, over the centuries, evolved from feeling “bareassified” to “embarrassed.”)
Impossibly, no one ever cares when I start talking about this. I can’t tell if they disagree or they just don’t think exploring it is worth the expended breath and vocal strain. For my part, I was pretty excited about my idea. Because if I’m right, then “embarrassed” is a very funny word indeed – and it’s even funnier to think that we all say it – we say the words em-bare-assed, yet we never even spare so much as a passing thought to what we are saying. Isn’t that funny? I guess not. It simply doesn’t shake people up the way it does me.
“Think about it. It comes from em-bare-assed. How could it not?” I say.
“Well, I’m sure the word has some etymology.” They reply, completely disregarding that my idea is, without a doubt, spot-on.
“Some? I just told you what it is. Em-bare-assed.”
“Be interesting to find out where it comes from.”
“Em-bare-assed. I just told you. Aren’t you listening?!”
“It’s probably Latin.”
Remarkable is another curious word, but this conversation actually tends to get on people’s nerves. As far as I’m concerned, the word “remarkable” means exactly what it says: Remark-able. Worthy of remark. And really, what isn’t?
“The lid on the Dunkin Donuts coffee is remarkable,” I will proclaim – admittedly throwing some bait out there to see if said person has an accurate understanding of what the word means or not.
“What? What’s so remarkable about it?”
“It’s different from most other coffee lids.”
“That doesn’t make it remarkable.”
“Sure it does. Remarkable. Worthy of remark.”
Hear them draw in a breath that suggests their patience was not equipped for this. “That’s not what remarkable means.”
“Oh yeah? Funny that that is literally how the word is spelled.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the connotation.” A little more fed-up now.
“Well maybe it’s time to change that.” I offer, trying to bridge the misunderstanding in a proactive way.
And that’s when they really get mad. Maybe it’s because they feel immediately self-conscious about the fact that they never noticed something so obvious before, and their reaction is an instinctual combative one that most of us experience when we see the error of our ways and it irritates us to no end. Or maybe it’s that they get nervous when I suggest that we should change the way people use the word “remarkable” – like I am talking some kind of dangerous revolutionary madness. But who’s to say we can’t do it? Sure, there is utterly no point, but nothing has any point when you look at it the right way. Everything is worthy of remark in some way, or almost everything at least. I say it’s time we gave remarkable back to everything, and saved “brilliant” for what we previously regarded as “remarkable.”
And when I do it, when I achieve my stupid goal, it will be a truly “remarkable” thing (as will basically everything in the world) and all the people who doubted me, who got so fed up with my nonsense will find themselves with an ass as bare as the first person to lose their pants so long ago.
They will be bareassified indeed.
Take the word “embarrassed” for instance. I think it’s clear that the word was stitched together from em-bare-assed, in the sense that when you’re embarrassed, it is because you have been figuratively em-bare-assed. In fact, it may have originated when someone lost their pants at an inopportune yet historically significant moment, and what was the emotion he or she felt? “Why I believe we have no word for it!” the people exclaimed. “Let’s just call it what it is! Bareassification!” (Which, over the centuries, evolved from feeling “bareassified” to “embarrassed.”)
Impossibly, no one ever cares when I start talking about this. I can’t tell if they disagree or they just don’t think exploring it is worth the expended breath and vocal strain. For my part, I was pretty excited about my idea. Because if I’m right, then “embarrassed” is a very funny word indeed – and it’s even funnier to think that we all say it – we say the words em-bare-assed, yet we never even spare so much as a passing thought to what we are saying. Isn’t that funny? I guess not. It simply doesn’t shake people up the way it does me.
“Think about it. It comes from em-bare-assed. How could it not?” I say.
“Well, I’m sure the word has some etymology.” They reply, completely disregarding that my idea is, without a doubt, spot-on.
“Some? I just told you what it is. Em-bare-assed.”
“Be interesting to find out where it comes from.”
“Em-bare-assed. I just told you. Aren’t you listening?!”
“It’s probably Latin.”
Remarkable is another curious word, but this conversation actually tends to get on people’s nerves. As far as I’m concerned, the word “remarkable” means exactly what it says: Remark-able. Worthy of remark. And really, what isn’t?
“The lid on the Dunkin Donuts coffee is remarkable,” I will proclaim – admittedly throwing some bait out there to see if said person has an accurate understanding of what the word means or not.
“What? What’s so remarkable about it?”
“It’s different from most other coffee lids.”
“That doesn’t make it remarkable.”
“Sure it does. Remarkable. Worthy of remark.”
Hear them draw in a breath that suggests their patience was not equipped for this. “That’s not what remarkable means.”
“Oh yeah? Funny that that is literally how the word is spelled.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the connotation.” A little more fed-up now.
“Well maybe it’s time to change that.” I offer, trying to bridge the misunderstanding in a proactive way.
And that’s when they really get mad. Maybe it’s because they feel immediately self-conscious about the fact that they never noticed something so obvious before, and their reaction is an instinctual combative one that most of us experience when we see the error of our ways and it irritates us to no end. Or maybe it’s that they get nervous when I suggest that we should change the way people use the word “remarkable” – like I am talking some kind of dangerous revolutionary madness. But who’s to say we can’t do it? Sure, there is utterly no point, but nothing has any point when you look at it the right way. Everything is worthy of remark in some way, or almost everything at least. I say it’s time we gave remarkable back to everything, and saved “brilliant” for what we previously regarded as “remarkable.”
And when I do it, when I achieve my stupid goal, it will be a truly “remarkable” thing (as will basically everything in the world) and all the people who doubted me, who got so fed up with my nonsense will find themselves with an ass as bare as the first person to lose their pants so long ago.
They will be bareassified indeed.
The gap of time between when the floss and Listerine run out and when I get around to buying more is a glorious reprieve, a forbidden indulgence, a patch of calm sailing in a violent and stormy sea.
Of course everyone can relate to what I’m saying here. Who doesn’t spend their days dreading the time it takes to brush, floss, Listerine and wash their face before they go to bed? I know I do!
Because to think about it – brushing and flossing and Listerining and face-washing shouldn’t actually take up all that much time. In fact, that is what I tell myself before bed every night. “It’s just a few tasks. There is no reason it should take a half an hour to do all these things, even though it has consistently for your entire life. Break the habit. Just focus on what you have to do and get out of the damn bathroom.”
But no sooner to I make that pact than I catch myself gazing blankly into the mirror, realizing suddenly I have been gazing blankly like this for the better part of five minutes. What am I thinking? Who knows! It’s more of a trance than anything else.
“Brush your goddamned teeth! Come on! Let’s keep on schedule!”
But even once the tasks begin, it’s no clear sailing. I mean, I wash my hands and dry them off an average of ten times in any teeth-brushing session. Maybe I go to the bathroom. Surely I’m not going to go touch my toothbrush. Not after I’ve touched the toilet seat. So that accounts for one hand washing. I’m not sure where the other 9 times come in, but trust me, I find reasons.
And may I depart for a moment and say that the toilet seat is not a chair, it is not a table surface that one should be putting clothing and toiletries on. The toilet should be treated as what it is: A receptacle for feces and urine. And yet so many people love to throw their clothes on it – oftentimes clothes like sweatshirts that you know they are going to wear again.
Because heads up world – that area where the bowl meets the back of the toilet – that thin porcelain strip after the toilet seat ends – that is spattered with particles of insidious grime. The kind that will cling to your carelessly discarded sweatshirt and make their way to your fingers, mouths, and eyeballs. I know, I know, our immune systems are probably pretty well equipped to handle such intrusions, but think for a moment about piss and shit in your eyes and mouth and maybe that will stay your hand the next time you go to throw something wearable on the crapper.
I mean, if you are cool with that idea then hey, I think that is pretty horrifying but you’ll do as you do, I guess. Who am I to tell you excrement is gross, right?
In any case, it’s thoughts like these that keep me returning to the sink basically any time I touch anything. Add that time to the time spent staring blankly to the time spent worrying about particles to the time spent doing the actual hygiene procedures, and you have a good 30 minutes of fevered concentration during which so much nothing gets done so slowly and meticulously that it is enough to make me pause a few times each day, think about what I’m going to have to do before bed, and bemoan my lot in life.
Weird that God would require that people perform such strange and illogical repetitive habitual actions, but one thing is certain – God does require it, and to deviate from the routine is to tempt bad fortune, and the payment for such unruly behavior is punishment, failure, and unhappiness. But God works in mysterious ways, you know?
Running out of the necessary implements, on the other hand, is a different thing altogether. It is not a direct act of disobedience to run out of Listerine and floss and forget to buy more. How can God fault me for that?
So what if I am secretly happy that I can’t floss and that I can’t use Listerine? I am still technically in the clear. It’s like a loophole in the laws of the universe.
But man, to lose those two things is to eliminate the most difficult and time-consuming part of the whole ritual process. What once took 30 minutes now only takes a jaunty 10. You may wonder why it takes 20 minutes to floss and rinse, but that’s when I refer you back to the staring and particles.
Like last night, for instance. I went in there, head hung low, preparing to surrender to the weary process of getting ready for bed when I discovered that, not only was my Listerine gone, but that I had run out of floss the night before. And boy was it a great feeling. Really. It was like the boss came in at noon and told me to take the rest of the day off. I literally skipped to bed and laughed myself to sleep.
The fun and games will all be over soon enough, though. The dream will die and I will force myself to go to the store and get more floss and Listerine. Because at first I am more than okay with forgetting to go to the store. It’s just such a great feeling to realize that it’s bedtime and I’m out of luck – I can’t be expected to go to the store now, right? It’s bedtime, not store-time (you can’t combine the two). But as the days progress and I continue to forget, I know that I’m not really forgetting, that I’m just reveling in my gray area, gorging myself on my breezy bedtime ritual, and that I better go to the store before God gets wise, or there will be hell to pay.
Of course everyone can relate to what I’m saying here. Who doesn’t spend their days dreading the time it takes to brush, floss, Listerine and wash their face before they go to bed? I know I do!
Because to think about it – brushing and flossing and Listerining and face-washing shouldn’t actually take up all that much time. In fact, that is what I tell myself before bed every night. “It’s just a few tasks. There is no reason it should take a half an hour to do all these things, even though it has consistently for your entire life. Break the habit. Just focus on what you have to do and get out of the damn bathroom.”
But no sooner to I make that pact than I catch myself gazing blankly into the mirror, realizing suddenly I have been gazing blankly like this for the better part of five minutes. What am I thinking? Who knows! It’s more of a trance than anything else.
“Brush your goddamned teeth! Come on! Let’s keep on schedule!”
But even once the tasks begin, it’s no clear sailing. I mean, I wash my hands and dry them off an average of ten times in any teeth-brushing session. Maybe I go to the bathroom. Surely I’m not going to go touch my toothbrush. Not after I’ve touched the toilet seat. So that accounts for one hand washing. I’m not sure where the other 9 times come in, but trust me, I find reasons.
And may I depart for a moment and say that the toilet seat is not a chair, it is not a table surface that one should be putting clothing and toiletries on. The toilet should be treated as what it is: A receptacle for feces and urine. And yet so many people love to throw their clothes on it – oftentimes clothes like sweatshirts that you know they are going to wear again.
Because heads up world – that area where the bowl meets the back of the toilet – that thin porcelain strip after the toilet seat ends – that is spattered with particles of insidious grime. The kind that will cling to your carelessly discarded sweatshirt and make their way to your fingers, mouths, and eyeballs. I know, I know, our immune systems are probably pretty well equipped to handle such intrusions, but think for a moment about piss and shit in your eyes and mouth and maybe that will stay your hand the next time you go to throw something wearable on the crapper.
I mean, if you are cool with that idea then hey, I think that is pretty horrifying but you’ll do as you do, I guess. Who am I to tell you excrement is gross, right?
In any case, it’s thoughts like these that keep me returning to the sink basically any time I touch anything. Add that time to the time spent staring blankly to the time spent worrying about particles to the time spent doing the actual hygiene procedures, and you have a good 30 minutes of fevered concentration during which so much nothing gets done so slowly and meticulously that it is enough to make me pause a few times each day, think about what I’m going to have to do before bed, and bemoan my lot in life.
Weird that God would require that people perform such strange and illogical repetitive habitual actions, but one thing is certain – God does require it, and to deviate from the routine is to tempt bad fortune, and the payment for such unruly behavior is punishment, failure, and unhappiness. But God works in mysterious ways, you know?
Running out of the necessary implements, on the other hand, is a different thing altogether. It is not a direct act of disobedience to run out of Listerine and floss and forget to buy more. How can God fault me for that?
So what if I am secretly happy that I can’t floss and that I can’t use Listerine? I am still technically in the clear. It’s like a loophole in the laws of the universe.
But man, to lose those two things is to eliminate the most difficult and time-consuming part of the whole ritual process. What once took 30 minutes now only takes a jaunty 10. You may wonder why it takes 20 minutes to floss and rinse, but that’s when I refer you back to the staring and particles.
Like last night, for instance. I went in there, head hung low, preparing to surrender to the weary process of getting ready for bed when I discovered that, not only was my Listerine gone, but that I had run out of floss the night before. And boy was it a great feeling. Really. It was like the boss came in at noon and told me to take the rest of the day off. I literally skipped to bed and laughed myself to sleep.
The fun and games will all be over soon enough, though. The dream will die and I will force myself to go to the store and get more floss and Listerine. Because at first I am more than okay with forgetting to go to the store. It’s just such a great feeling to realize that it’s bedtime and I’m out of luck – I can’t be expected to go to the store now, right? It’s bedtime, not store-time (you can’t combine the two). But as the days progress and I continue to forget, I know that I’m not really forgetting, that I’m just reveling in my gray area, gorging myself on my breezy bedtime ritual, and that I better go to the store before God gets wise, or there will be hell to pay.
“Of course the fish are depressed. The water is filthy and they got no decorations.”
“Do we have any fishtank decorations?”
“Yeah, let me see. There’s gotta be something we can throw in there. You know. Spruce it up a little.”
“How about this oven rack?”
“Oven rack, huh?”
“Yeah. We got some extras. It might give the fishtank an industrial feel. You know, like it’s one a them boutique fishtanks.”
“Like one a them Soho fishtanks.”
“Or a Meat-Packing fishtank.”
“Put it in there…Yeah. Oh, yeah, I like the looka that.”
“Sophisticated.”
“Yeah, real sophisticated.”
“I like the way the fish can’t move now.”
“Yeah, and it’ll probably make the customers nice and claustrophobic to look at those big fish trapped like that."
“Looka that one, boss. He got in there and he don’t know how to back out!”
“Oh, that’s rich!”
“Sorta looks like they’re in prison, what with those metal bars and all.”
“I didn’t never like the looks of that fish anyhow. He’s got the criminal look.”
“He belongs behind bars.”
“Lookit how the thug life pays off now, fish.”
“Should I change the water so’s it ain’t so yellow no more?”
“Nah. Clean water is for law abidin’ fish.”
“Lousy crook fish.”
I should steal people’s laundry and go door to door and see if anyone wants to buy it.
I know, what an out-there quirky thing to say, I must be so pleased with myself, but really, I think it is one of the best schemes I have come up with all week, and possibly even longer. This could be the scheme of the month.
It all seems so simple. You mosey on in to a laundrymat, throw some dummy rags in a machine and wait until someone, preferably someone stylish, leaves, whether to take a phone call or get a quick bite at the Deli. Who knows/cares what they are doing - that is not your concern; there is precious little time and you must move quickly and confidently. Smile at your fellow patrons in the time preceding your moment of truth, so as to establish your credibility. Don’t smile too much, though. As in the days of the traveling salesman, you have to know your territory.
And what am I other than a traveling salesman? I would have to maintain a thorough understanding of the various laundrymats in the different areas of the city. Sure you might say that there are just too many laundrymats to get to know them all, but that’s where I point out the difference between doing something for fun and doing it for real. Are you going to write in your diary or compose an epic novel? The fool who strikes every laundrymat he comes across is only in it for chump change: I intend to create a complex and fulfilling career for myself. And at the end, when it is time to retire, I will know every laundrymat like the back of my hand. There I am, an old man, looking into an old favorite on 46th & 10th Ave.
“Oh, she’s a good ‘un. ‘Lotta hist’ry there.” I say to my grandkids. “Almost got caught here in aught nine. I was preoccupied with a sweet young thing foldin’ her unmentionables, and there I am holdin’ some fellas ‘Crombies when he says to me “whatcha doin’ there?” and I says, “Oh, I um, well, that is, sir, I needs this here dryer…”
It’s not like I would be living the easy life. I would be trying to create a niche for myself in the arena of makeshift careers. There’s me up there with the likes of the technology buyer who has a 500 DVD changer/player simply because he got it from his job, and those poor stupid actors getting yanked around by prissy little dogs all over the Upper East Side.
“Well I walk dogs during the day and at night I’m in my tux doin’ the catering gig, but I still manage to make that dance call at 8:00 AM sharp. This is the life, I mean, am I right?!”
“Wrong. You should be stealing clothes and selling them. Then you wouldn’t seem so desperate.”
But all this tangential speculation has distracted me from the brass tacks of this endeavor. How to make it fly.
One obvious problem is that I don’t really have the look of a criminal entrepreneur. Put me in a van barking of high quality stereos to passersby on West 35th and I am like a very obvious Where’s Waldo. I just don’t project the rough life. And the only friend I can think of who might be able to help me is Walter, who grew up in Bensonhurst, where they presumably did things like this for arcade money. And I would definitely bring Walter into the game, but I’m not sure there are going to be ample profits. Plus, Walter is an honest guy. Or, maybe not honest, but probably averse to stealing people’s clothes.
On the other hand, my soft edge could be just the thing that ensures my success, as long as I approach it right. People selling hot products always seem so shady, but what of the nice young man with the bundle of clothes in his arms? He doesn’t look criminal. And he only wants 10 dollars for these jeans? They’re a little wet around the fly and pockets, but other than that they are very warm!
I would get the clothes and immediately travel across town, where I would approach attractive young people on the street. And I could subtly acknowledge my game as long as I am confident enough. Look them right in the eye, crooked little smile on and say with 100% friendly eye contact, “I have some clothes for sale and they are very nice and inexpensive. Perhaps you would like to see what I have?”
“No thanks.”
“No, really. This is one of those things you’ll tell your friends and they will not believe how lucky you were.”
“I said no.”
“This is all Banana and Guess, this season, right out of the dryer.”
“Well, maybe just a look…”
Surely there has to be something alluring about the charming innocent fellow who is selling very obviously stolen clothes. It would be a forbidden fruit of sorts for the nervous whitebred yuppie. Yes, support the criminal who looks like you, then maybe more of them will look like you.
“You’re a lot less…ethnic than most of your kind.”
“Shucks, ma’am.”
And think of the possibilities for erotic encounters! Say I’m selling men’s clothes that day, I got a nice pair of Express Men’s flare jeans, tight and western but not flamboyant, and after overcoming a few objections, I suggest that this entrancing young woman might consider buying them as a gift for her boyfriend.
“Boyfriend? Not these days.”
And then I will definitely score because not only have I warmed her up with conversation, but I’m obviously up to something clandestine.
I know, what an out-there quirky thing to say, I must be so pleased with myself, but really, I think it is one of the best schemes I have come up with all week, and possibly even longer. This could be the scheme of the month.
It all seems so simple. You mosey on in to a laundrymat, throw some dummy rags in a machine and wait until someone, preferably someone stylish, leaves, whether to take a phone call or get a quick bite at the Deli. Who knows/cares what they are doing - that is not your concern; there is precious little time and you must move quickly and confidently. Smile at your fellow patrons in the time preceding your moment of truth, so as to establish your credibility. Don’t smile too much, though. As in the days of the traveling salesman, you have to know your territory.
And what am I other than a traveling salesman? I would have to maintain a thorough understanding of the various laundrymats in the different areas of the city. Sure you might say that there are just too many laundrymats to get to know them all, but that’s where I point out the difference between doing something for fun and doing it for real. Are you going to write in your diary or compose an epic novel? The fool who strikes every laundrymat he comes across is only in it for chump change: I intend to create a complex and fulfilling career for myself. And at the end, when it is time to retire, I will know every laundrymat like the back of my hand. There I am, an old man, looking into an old favorite on 46th & 10th Ave.
“Oh, she’s a good ‘un. ‘Lotta hist’ry there.” I say to my grandkids. “Almost got caught here in aught nine. I was preoccupied with a sweet young thing foldin’ her unmentionables, and there I am holdin’ some fellas ‘Crombies when he says to me “whatcha doin’ there?” and I says, “Oh, I um, well, that is, sir, I needs this here dryer…”
It’s not like I would be living the easy life. I would be trying to create a niche for myself in the arena of makeshift careers. There’s me up there with the likes of the technology buyer who has a 500 DVD changer/player simply because he got it from his job, and those poor stupid actors getting yanked around by prissy little dogs all over the Upper East Side.
“Well I walk dogs during the day and at night I’m in my tux doin’ the catering gig, but I still manage to make that dance call at 8:00 AM sharp. This is the life, I mean, am I right?!”
“Wrong. You should be stealing clothes and selling them. Then you wouldn’t seem so desperate.”
But all this tangential speculation has distracted me from the brass tacks of this endeavor. How to make it fly.
One obvious problem is that I don’t really have the look of a criminal entrepreneur. Put me in a van barking of high quality stereos to passersby on West 35th and I am like a very obvious Where’s Waldo. I just don’t project the rough life. And the only friend I can think of who might be able to help me is Walter, who grew up in Bensonhurst, where they presumably did things like this for arcade money. And I would definitely bring Walter into the game, but I’m not sure there are going to be ample profits. Plus, Walter is an honest guy. Or, maybe not honest, but probably averse to stealing people’s clothes.
On the other hand, my soft edge could be just the thing that ensures my success, as long as I approach it right. People selling hot products always seem so shady, but what of the nice young man with the bundle of clothes in his arms? He doesn’t look criminal. And he only wants 10 dollars for these jeans? They’re a little wet around the fly and pockets, but other than that they are very warm!
I would get the clothes and immediately travel across town, where I would approach attractive young people on the street. And I could subtly acknowledge my game as long as I am confident enough. Look them right in the eye, crooked little smile on and say with 100% friendly eye contact, “I have some clothes for sale and they are very nice and inexpensive. Perhaps you would like to see what I have?”
“No thanks.”
“No, really. This is one of those things you’ll tell your friends and they will not believe how lucky you were.”
“I said no.”
“This is all Banana and Guess, this season, right out of the dryer.”
“Well, maybe just a look…”
Surely there has to be something alluring about the charming innocent fellow who is selling very obviously stolen clothes. It would be a forbidden fruit of sorts for the nervous whitebred yuppie. Yes, support the criminal who looks like you, then maybe more of them will look like you.
“You’re a lot less…ethnic than most of your kind.”
“Shucks, ma’am.”
And think of the possibilities for erotic encounters! Say I’m selling men’s clothes that day, I got a nice pair of Express Men’s flare jeans, tight and western but not flamboyant, and after overcoming a few objections, I suggest that this entrancing young woman might consider buying them as a gift for her boyfriend.
“Boyfriend? Not these days.”
And then I will definitely score because not only have I warmed her up with conversation, but I’m obviously up to something clandestine.
