Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in ZILLNO's LiveJournal:

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Saturday, August 30th, 2003
11:36 pm	The Bowtie I’ve spent this Sunday wandering around Greenwich Village in search of a bowtie. I need it for a costume I’m putting together for a play. This play is the creation of Katarina (Kicki) Hjortmarker, a Swedish émigré who has lived in Manhattan for nearly two years. Her flexible work schedule allows her to pursue her passion of the theatre. Katarina is quite serious in her study of acting. As part of the Master of Fine Arts program offered by the New York City based New Actor’s Workshop, Kicki has undertaken to write an original stage play, oversee the recruitment of a cast and a crew, then finally produce the play itself. This thesis project is a prerequisite to her degree. There is a further requirement that she herself star in the production. The play is meant as a vehicle to showcase a matrix of Kicki’s talents: Writing, acting, singing and dance. She is quite fond of Anton Chekhov. She decided that an appropriate subject for her play would be a satirical investigation of one of Chekhov’s plays, The Seagull. In Chekhov’s work, an aging actress (Arkadina) struggles with her passion for a younger writer (Trigorin). Arkadina is an unhappy woman who mistreats her son (Treplev) and who allows petty jealousies of a younger actress (Nina) to cloud her judgment. A pivotal scene in this play involves an emotionally charged conversation between Arkadina and Trigorin. She skillfully manipulates him into traveling with her. In this way, Arkadina both asserts her will over Trigorin while simultaneously maneuvering him away from Nina. Kicki’s script would be written from the perspective of Arkadina’s subconscious mind as defined by Sigmund Freud. The first act of Kicki’s play would involve a straight retelling of Chekhov’s scene. In Freudian terms, Arkadina’s Ego, her conscious mind, would control her actions. Kicki foresaw no changes to Chekhov’s dialogue. The second act would be written from the perspective of Arkadina’s Super Ego, that part of her subconscious mind that serves to inhibit her biological, instinctive desires. In this act, each time Arkadina expresses a wish, she would be forcibly halted by her Super Ego, which would reprimand her severely. The third act would focus on the instincts that the Super Ego struggles to repress, and would be written from the perspective of Arkadina’s Id. Freud saw the Id as a ravenous engine of murderous desire and sexual appetites. The Id represents our basest, most repellent inclinations. In Kicki’s scene, Arkadina would stalk across the stage as a savage beast. She would circle Trigorin menacingly while he – oblivious to her change – would calmly speak his lines. Arkadina’s Id would declare her passions and jealousies with guttural growls and profane exclamations. It was an interesting idea with a lot of potential. In early 2003, Kicki wrote a 40 page original script, and entitled it Arkadina Under the Skin. Her next goal was to find a cast and crew. She posted audition notices in her school and on the Web. I auditioned with her three months ago in spite of the fact that I have no formal training as an actor whatsoever. The totality of my acting credits include a 15 line part in a small San Francisco play. I was cast as a straight, white male frustrated by an ex-girlfriend turned lesbian. My part was to wheedle the ex-girlfriend character into making out with me, then retreat in humiliation when she forcibly rejected me. I hesitate to call my participation in that play acting given my personal history. In fact, while it is customary for casting calls to be made twice – actors who show some promise are asked to return for a second reading before a final decision is made – the director gave me the part after hearing me read through it once. He insisted I was born for the part. This made me sad, but also happy that I could at last and at least find some use for the manifold rejection I’ve received from women. Lemonade from lemons. I also felt somewhat guilty comparing my own efforts to the amount of work the other actors, all professionals, invested in their respective roles. I just showed up on time, spoke naturally, suffered crushing rejection, then left. Jeeze, I thought. Acting is a lot easier than I had thought. It's just like real life. I had found a new hobby: The theatre. A half year later, in my struggle to make some sense out of the chaos of moving from San Francisco to New York City, I decided to pursue this fancy. What better way to become entrenched in the vibrant culture of New York? I imagined I would go on a series of auditions, not get any part, then finally give up and move on to another hobby. Despite the fruitless effort, it would be a terribly interesting experience. It is better to have tried acting in New York City and have failed than not to try at all. When I saw Kicki’s casting call, I immediately responded. Kicki’s play is narrated by a hypothetical literature professor, aided by an eager, albeit bumbling, assistant. Professor Taganrov is a major part with well over 150 lines of dialogue. The role involves a lot of acting and a small bit of singing. The part of the assistant, Hans Moller Klang, is minor, with perhaps 12 lines. This is the role that I wanted and for which I auditioned. I didn’t get it. I was instead cast in the role of the Professor. The professor’s assistant was given to a 23 year old man named Carlos who is a Manhattan native. He lives with his mother and works as a waiter. He is so earnest about acting that he often undermines his abilities. Carlos has the disconcerting conversational habit of saying “What did you say again?” after one has spoken for some minutes on an important topic. The part of Trigorin has been assumed by a fellow in his thirties, Albert, who has a degree in theatre. Despite this credential, he has spent most of his professional life working as an administrator for a university in upstate New York. He left the security of academia, moved to New York City, and now pursues a full time acting career. He works as a waiter as well. It was a courageous thing he did to abandon his past life in search for a more fulfilling one. Of the three actors in the play, he is, in my opinion, the most able. Our director is a 25 year old transplant from Texas, Jason. He has a passion for show business that he says stretches back to his early childhood. He calls his first viewing of Jesus Christ, Superstar a defining moment in his life. The first time I met Jason, he had thick blonde hair. The second time I met him, he had dyed it a bright red. He works as an office temp. His directing style is to overwhelm his actors will detailed instructions, so much information that one cannot possibly hope to retain it, including Jason himself. Entire sections of the script have been rewritten, scrapped, revived, then rewritten again. Kicki plays Arkadina. She is a good actress and has a engaging presence onstage. Her Swedish accent – which she can bend slightly to sound more Russian - lends some authority to her interpretation of the character. She follows Jason’s directions faithfully. She is so busy with her job, her other studies, and with various aspects of the play that she is happy to relinquish the burden of directing to someone. As a result, it seems to me that she is sometimes too amenable to his changes. With regard to Processor Taganrov, I had envisioned him as an incisive, well-oiled narrator who would simply keep the play coherent. He would prompt Chekhov’s characters when necessary, occasionally offering some elucidating comments to the audience about their motivations. There would be a handful of mildly comic moments between the Professor and his assistant, a welcome contrast to Arkadina’s plaintive expressions of fear, resentment and self loathing. The director, Jason, had another interpretation of my character. He saw a frustrated and sexually deprived academian whose entire career rested on the successful demonstration of years of laborious research into the tortured mind of Chekhov’s character. Taganrov’s frenetic energy is made manifest in the director’s version by an extremely vocal orgasm that mortally offends the assistant and that publicly embarrasses the Professor. Next week, I will be called upon to mimic sexual ecstasy in front of complete strangers. The experience will be repeated once a show for five nights in a row. If I could travel back in time some 25 years and visit myself as a child and explain to my younger self what I could expect from my adult life, I doubt that I would start with this specific experience. An additional layer of spectacle comes from Kicki’s script itself. English is not her primary language, and although she is fluent when speaking, her written word often contains very curious combinations of phrases. Combinations that seem unrelated yet that do manage to convey ideas. The effect is mildly unsettling. For example, during Arkadina’s Id scene, the part where she expresses her base desires loudly, she refers to Trigorin as a rump-fed, rabbit-sucker. I’ve turned this particular phrase over on my tongue several times, and am surprised at how pleasing it feels. In English, this is certainly a pointed accusation. It says: You, sir, subsist on the hind quarters of living things. In addition to this horrible crime, you are also prone to the unfortunate habit of sucking rabbits. I am curious about its Swedish roots. Perhaps this phrase, rump-fed rabbit-sucker, is but a single word. This would mean that at some point in the evolution of the Swedish language, people who subsisted on rumps and who made a habit of sucking rabbits were in such ample supply that a single word was needed to more efficiently berate them. At this late date, I haven’t the heart to inform Kicki that her expression You are like a hen without head! is more properly conveyed in English as You are like a chicken with its head cut off! Surely if it were important, one of the other cast members would have told her. After all, they’re the ones with the theatre degrees. We’ve rehearsed now for about three months, two to three times a week. Each rehearsal lasts for at least three hours. Even with this rehearsal schedule, I feel that we are, as an ensemble unit, ill prepared. Peoples’ conflicting schedules (I am the only one with a full time job.) require us to rehearse the play in jigsaw parts, when various combinations of the cast were available. We have yet to act the play from start to finish. It opens next week. At some crucial point in the past few weeks, I think Jason gave up on trying to direct a good play, and decided instead to direct the most awful train wreck that he could possibly imagine. I have a feeling that, at its best, this play will be entertaining simply because of the visual spectacle of four people shouting at each other on stage. At its worst, I believe this play might be classified as a hate crime. I fear for Kicki, that she will not only be refused her MFA degree, but further be reduced in educational rank several levels below college freshman by outraged faculty members. The success or failure of this play certainly won’t hinge on the bowtie which I’ve successfully located. I’ve decided to buy it myself rather than request that it be provided, as Kicki has already spent a great deal of her own money on props, costumes, and advertisements for the play. I’d also like to retain it as a keepsake, though I don’t know if it will be a happy reminder of thrilling endeavor, or a bitter memento of a week long journey into agony and despair. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 15th, 2003
10:06 pm	Hate mail I don't receive hate mail. This is quite troubling to me. I deserve hate mail. I am certain of this. While those who read this online journal may not know me personally, I can assure each and every one of them that I am an evil man, devoid of any redeeming quality. If ever there was a worthy target of ones written ire, I am that target. Hate mail is, in fact, the reason for this online journal. I wanted some hate mail. I receive copious amounts of other types of mail - junk mail, spam e-mail, letters from creditors, notices of parking violations, restraining orders. But no hate mail. I had thought that by posting the most inane, offensive and nonsensical drivel here, some hapless person would randomly browse to my diary, read it, be offended, send me hate mail, then tell a friend. That person would read, be offended, send me hate mail, then tell another friend. And so forth. That didn't happen. I posted things here that I know are completely corrupt, yet no hate mail arrived. I even went so far as to send myself hate mail, thinking that would embolden others to do the same. That didn't work either. This, then, is my open call and invitation to others to send me hate mail. You needn't read my diary in its entirety. Please accept my strident assurances that the information presented on this web log is a virtual crime against humanity. I am barely worth the cost of the mineral content in my body. I’m being overly generous to myself because I’m in a good mood: I was recently at a café where I set the left brake of this handicapped kid’s motorized wheelchair. When he tried to take off, he just spun around and around in crazy circles, knocking over displays and causing his mother to burst into tears and wish that she had remained childless. Were I in a more foul mood, I doubt I would weigh my value as much more than a rusty bucket filled with room-temperature wombat spittle. Regardless of my mood, I realize that in a more sane society, I would be hunted down and stoned, then photos of my death aired on news outlets to fortify others who desire a better, safer, softer world. Some may feel moved to write me hate mail, but hesitate because they aren't certain what to say. Others may feel that, while I am deserving of hate mail, they don't want to send any because the indignant accusations they would write couldn't possibly do justice to my infamy. Let me take this opportunity to offer some hate mail templates that a reader may customize according to his or her tastes. Please regard the below examples as a starting point. Don’t let the confines of the written words below limit your expressions of outrage. Example 1: Straight and to the point Dear Zillno: I have had the misfortune of reading your online diary, and have concluded that you are a small pustule of a man. Diseased. Deformed. Imprisonment is not an appropriate solution to your problem, for you would simply use the time to write (or imagine) other essayesque entries that would further demean others. For this reason, I have asked my congressman to find you, and kill you. Good day, [insert your name here] Example 2: Descriptive Dear Zillno: Please allow me to introduce myself as someone who hates you. I know, you probably get this all the time. But let me just state for the record that I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone, and I’ve worked with convicted felons. While others may claim the title of “Person who most hates Zillno”, I will go them one better as I claim the title of “Person who most hates Zillno and who will perform nightly rituals of the occult to summon forth hell-spawned demons to destroy Zillno, even at the cost of my very soul.” I gladly sacrifice my soul to destroy you as it will most likely save countless others. Best regards, [insert your name here] Example 3: Brief Dear Zillno: There isn’t much time, so I’ll be brief: Please die. Thanks, [insert your name here] Example 4: Oblique Dear Zillno: The name of evil is manifold across global culture. Satan, Kali, Seth, Tlacolotl, etcetc Until now, the face of evil has not been known. Look into the mirror, and you will know, deep down, what I mean. Reflectively yours, [insert your name here] It’s important that those who read this online diary take a stand and put an end to it. No good comes from this relentless litany of offensive spew. I can say with some confidence that, until I am forcibly removed from internet connectivity, it will continue for some time to come, at the detriment of all that is decent. I thank you. Zillno (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, August 9th, 2003
8:59 pm	A Collision of Forces I was delighted to see an open call to fellow New Yorker's to participate in the 2003 "Step Out for Tourette" walk-a-thon. A flyer advertised the event as a way for concerned citizens to raise funds for the Tourette Syndrome Association. The march was to start in a month, and there was little time to waste. I created a second flyer, much akin to the original in details (dates and times) but with an opposing and intersecting route. I changed the title of this new event to something more suitable for my purposes. I made several hundred copies, then methodically posted them in cafes, taped them to lamp-posts, and scattered them as best I could over the five boroughs of New York. I posted a rendered form of my doctored flyer on every Internet venue I could find blanketing electronic bulletin boards. The demographic I had targeted with my campaign was not that of fellow sufferers of Tourettes, but rather another group of long suffering people. I knew that a concentration of Tourette’s Syndrome survivors was like a latently volatile chemical. If one could add another, also latently volatile chemical, the mixture would most likely and spontaneously combust. It was for this reason that I had carefully mulled over other potential groups for my invented march. I finally decided on battered women. I had stationed myself at an outside cafe on a street corner I had concluded would be the terminus of both marches. An hour after the starting time of the walk-a-thons, I saw to my left a growing straggle of men turn a corner. Each wore a white t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase "Listen between the lines!" As they drew near, I heard from them haphazard verbal outbursts. To my right, an orderly march of proud and defiant women approached. Some of them chanted "I'm out the door, victim no more." Both groups carried placards sporting slogans of their respective movements. The spearheads of the two throngs approached each other with a slackening pace. There was clearly some confusion in the air as the gesticulating and shouting men intermingled with the increasingly alarmed women. A growing knot of people formed in the intersection, faithfully fed by unwitting members of the rearguards who steadily marched inward. Amidst a growing murmur, I could hear an occasional epithet or profane word, first unwillingly from the Tourette's survivors, then in angry, willful response from the domestic violence victims. While I could see an isolated incident of pushing and scuffling, it was clear that the sputtering flames of this potential conflagration needed fuel. I had prepared for this. I leaned forward from my open newspaper and screamed "FIX MY DINNER, BITCH!!!" To my mind, the words seemed to cast forward in a parabolic arc, then land directly in the center of the mass of people, causing it to explode. Despite my calculations, even I was surprised at the sharp violence that followed. The anxious din rose to a high fever of angry screams. Fists flew. Placards swung down in arcs like heavy axes. People fell to the ground. Car alarms started to blare. Others who had been seated at tables around me stood in ineffectual horror. A child struggled against its mother. A well-dressed middle-aged man at an adjacent table to my own demanded that someone call the police. He stepped away from his table. I was pleased with this, for I had tasted the alluring aroma of his expensive and visually delectable brunch. While his attentions were drawn elsewhere, I stole a few forkfuls from his plate. A retail sales clerk from a vintage clothing store a few doors down ventured into the riot, trying in vain to calm those around him. He pointed at a small Asian woman who was repeatedly kicking a fallen man in the groin and demanded that she stop. This clerk was immediately felled by a Coke bottle that exploded on his forehead. It was an amazing thing to see, yet at the same time, beautiful. It was as though the container sublimated into an aerosol form on the man's face, blooming forth in a fountain of glittering glass. I never beheld the arm that hurled it, and have even attempted to replicate the result myself by throwing empty bottles at brick walls. They either crack or break in two. This particular container was launched with a force greater than my own human arm can muster. While it is possible that it was fired from some sort of mechanical device, perhaps utilizing powerful magnets or an explosive charge, I have discounted this as unlikely. It could be that the bone in the clerk’s head was unnaturally dense. This seems possible, given the doomed nature of his intentions. Perhaps it was a combination of both. But I digress. The pandemonium spread to nearby pedestrians. I noticed people both running away from and into the heaviest fighting. A heavy set man, one of the Tourette's march judging by his now tattered t-shirt, stumbled into the café where I sat sipping tea. Three women hung from him and clawed at his face while he spewed forth a set of obscenities in a language I could not identify. He shook one of the women off him, casting her aside like a puppet. Then, like a great beast finally overwhelmed with exhaustion at the end of a long hunt, he collapsed onto one of the tables, splitting it in two. I noticed a teenaged girl who sat near me and saw that she wept openly. I helpfully offered her a glass of water and patted her on the arm. The enormous window of a department store across the street seemed to shimmer for an instant, then collapse like a sheet of water heretofore held by an unseen force that was abruptly removed. Fights broke out inside nearby shops. One bedeviled man from the Tourette's side had the unfortunate tic of swinging his left arm around him with his fist clenched. This caused a thin, gaunt woman in front of him to kneel and whimper. One of her neighbors saw this, and enraged from a memory brought to life before her, she hurled herself at him. Her mouth seemed to engulf his face. Her teeth bit into his forehead. It seemed to me that she had every intention of actually eating his face. I lost sight of them. I could now hear the oncoming approach of sirens. After a few moments, I saw a police car turn a corner. As it a approached, a garbage can, the contents of which had been set on fire, flew into my field of vision and collapsed on the hood of the patrol car in a flower of flaming debris. The driver lost control and the car swerved into the curb. The vehicle hit a fire hydrant, hewing it off cleanly. A plume of water rose quickly into the air. The hapless car and driver smashed into a vintage record store, sending goateed and be-sandaled shoppers running for cover. Then I felt a sharp thud. All was blackness. My part as instigator and spectator was at an end. I'm not sure what hit me. In the moments before I lost consciousness, the air above was filled with flying matter of every sort - a shoe here, a hubcap there. At one point, I thought I saw a large dog arc over the crowd, it’s apex a full fifteen feet in the air, but I still have trouble accepting this mental image fully. Perhaps it was a stuffed animal, or a hefty toddler dressed as an Ewok. It is impossible to say. When I came to, an ambulance attendant crouched over me, wiping blood from my forehead. With his assistance, I staggered to my feet. Once I had assured him that I was okay, he took flight to attend the other, more grievously injured. He promised to come back for me when he could, though I never saw him again. I stepped into the street, gingerly navigating over broken tables and the occasional supine or mewing wounded. I nearly tripped on a broken brick, but righted myself by catching hold of a dog's leash that hung uselessly and curiously from a street lamp. Police had barricaded the area. Some were loading handcuffed men and women into separate vans. A large crowd of onlookers stood outside the barricades and whispered amongst themselves. Many people were seated around ambulances sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, while attendants took their blood pressure. The blades of a helicopter beat the air overhead. Several TV news reporters were speaking into microphones and looking into cameras. The shops across the street were in ruins, and I imagined the same to be true of those on my side. Several parked cars were in flames, and firemen were just then putting out the blazes, one by one. Some of them were warning people away from one vehicle in particular that was smoking ominously. Their caveats were ill timed, for the flames finally reached the car’s gas tank. It exploded, sending a base surge that rocked the entire street. A fireball curled up and over it’s hood. A piece of flaming debris swept by a well coiffed TV news reporter. I suspect that his chosen brand of hair gel was made of some petroleum product, because his head burst into flames. He ran wildly about screaming, beating his head with both hands, one of which still gripped his microphone. Its foam tip caught fire, yet he still maintained his hold on it. In the grayish smoke and greenish haze, it appeared as though the Statue of Liberty had been brought to life and shrunk to man-size, and was there on a New York street, casting vengeful fireballs at its sinful citizens. His cameraman maintained an admirable hold in his lens of the poor fellow until two firemen appeared. They emptied the contents of their fire extinguishers on the man’s upper body. His brief torment and charade were brought to an end. I wondered briefly if his news station would edit this part of his coverage out of the final copy that would undoubtedly air on the evening’s news. I turned my back on that place, and limped away slowly. My work was, for the moment, done. (Comment on this)
Friday, August 1st, 2003
11:13 pm	Getting even If you survive your first few months in New York City, if you find a job and a place to live, if you associate with a group of friends who don't (appear) to hate you, then congratulations. You've made the first hurdle. You've made your way in this difficult city, and now you can take a moment to reflect on what you'd like next. Most likely, you will want revenge. The most satisfying way to do this is to kill some fellow New Yorkers. On the other hand, you don't want to go to jail. You've labored to live and work productively in the city. You still have a long road ahead of you, and you musn't endanger the few successes you've managed by skill, talent, luck, or wretched deceit to pry forth from the city. You could abandon these fleeting and wrathful desires, and continue on your long and daily tasks of etching out a successful life. Or, you could figure out some ways to knock off a few New Yorkers without getting caught. Here are some ideas to get you started. 1) Always carry a lighter and a pack of cigarettes with you, even if you don't smoke. The streets of New York are so densely packed with pedestrians that you can invariably drop a lit cigarette into someone's pocket or backpack. With some practice, you'll learn which types of clothing are the most flammable. (Cotton burns slowly. Rayon goes up like straw.) Also, be aware that hairspray is highly flammable. 2) The subway stops in New York are often crammed with people, jostling with each other to get onto and off of the trains. There's enough confusion so that, at times of particularly high traffic, you can - in the instant before the doors to the train shut - manage to wedge someone's purse or hanging backpack strap in the door just as the train is leaving the station. 3) Street corners on busy thoroughfares are often jammed with hundreds of people at a time waiting for the "walk" signal. Most of them are busy talking in to cell phones, fixing their makeup, or reading a paper. Edge your way up to the curb. While the pedestrian signal is still flashing red, do a half-step forward as though the light has actually changed, fooling others who are not paying attention into thinking the way is clear. It's frustrating, living in New York. The city is expensive, and often entertainment is prohibitively priced. Still, that doesn't have to keep you from enjoying yourself from time to time, and perhaps thinning the herd by two or three people a month. (Comment on this)
Friday, July 25th, 2003
8:55 pm	Office Banter (A. sits at his desk. D. stands, leaning on a wall, drinking a cup of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. D. has just finished relating a story to A. about a fight between two dogs that he witnessed in Brooklyn.) D. I was livid. The woman had let her dog off its leash. Of course it was going to attack the other dog. A. What did the owner do? D. Of the dog that was attacked? A. Yeah. D. He held his dog back, and his friend wrestled with the other dog to keep it away. A. They were wrestling? D. Yeah, it was wrestling. Then the guy pulled his fist back and let go with a haymaker that knocked the dog out cold. A. He punched the dog? D. Right in the snout. Knocked it out. A. You're lying to me. That is what you're doing right now. D. I'm not lying. It's the truth. I was there. I saw it. A. You're lying to me and then you're going to go home and tell your wife that you totally pulled one over on the new guy at work. D. I swear to God, this guy punched the dog's lights out. A. That's ridiculous. D. Well, it happened. A. I like dogs. D. Me, too. I have two. A. Really? You keep them in that tiny apartment? D. They're small dogs. They're both tiny, mean and ornery. My wife says that they're my mascots. A. You know, that's what this office needs. A mascot. D. Why would we want a mascot? A. Oh, I dunno... mascots are pretty useless overall, I guess. D. It would be cool if we had a mascot that could do stuff around the office. A. Like a monkey. D. Yeah, a monkey would work. A. A gibbon. D. We could teach it to make copies and to run errands, like getting coffee. A. Yes, a monkey would be good at dull, repetitive tasks. D. What if we set it on fire? A. (pause) On fire, you say. D. Yeah, what if we set it on fire? A. I suppose it would be rather uncomfortable for the monkey. D. For a while. A. And there would be all kinds of fire codes in the building that would be broken. I doubt B- (B- is their supervisor.) would appreciate that at all. D. It would undermine the usefulness of the monkey. Flaming monkeys are quite erratic in their behavior. A. I can appreciate that. (pause) I was on fire once. I suppose you could call my behavior immediately subsequent to catching fire erratic. D. How was it that you came to be on fire? A. Well, I was attacked by a flaming rhesus monkey. D. This was a one time incident, or has it happened on occasion? A. Just once. D. What happened? A. It was when I was 12 years old. I was in our garage, building a model airplane. I was painting it. D. A flaming monkey attacked you in your garage? A. Yes, that's pretty much what happened. D. How did this monkey happen to catch fire? A. You know, I've always asked myself that. How did that monkey catch fire? D. Were you hurt? A. It bit my face, then set my shirt on fire. D. That must have been a scarring experience. A. For me, emotionally. For the monkey, the scarring was a bit more corporeal. D. Did it die? A. Yes, the flames finally got it. D. What were you thinking when it was happening? A. Well, I was on fire. I find that being on fire tends to narrow ones mental focus. Things like "How can I get these flames out?" or "Where can I get water to douse these flames?" D. Yes, I do suppose being on fire does tend to lend one to very clear and definable goals. A. But, enough about that. D. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. A. It's okay. That was a long time ago. D. Say, would you like something from Starbucks? A. I would, yes. Just a large house coffee, is fine. D. Well, I'm off, then. The End (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 29th, 2003
5:58 pm	The Doom Glove, redux He first got the idea for the Doom Glove in the dead of winter when he couldn't find a matching glove. This was a source of some consternation to him as it was very cold outside, and he needed every scrap of warm clothing that he could wear. The matching gloves were well worn and comfortable, and he liked them very much. He cursed himself silently for losing one of them. He held the one remaining glove. It was thick and brown, with a soft inner lining designed for warmth. Altogether, it was an inviting thing. Without its twin, however, it was a mocking thing. Dejected, he sat at his cluttered desk and looked out the single, small window of his one room apartment at the nighttime vista of the city. The streetlamps on his street were all either broken or burnt out, but a thick blanket of snow absorbed and then re-emitted trace amounts of ambient light. This afforded the broken skyline outside his window an ethereal and somewhat pleasant glow. It quieted him, and seemed to have the same effect on his neighbors, for the usual din of television/screaming children/heated arguments was absent. He sighed. "What do I do with just a single glove?" He put it on and examined, first the palm, then then back of his hand. A lamp in his room threw crazy shadows about, and he noticed his own silhouette on the wall. He held his arm out before him, orthogonal to the cone of light playing out from the shadeless lamp. He could see the distinct outline of his thin, outstretched arm and the open fingers of his hand, which he wiggled vigorously. Bemused, he tried to make a shadow puppet, failed, then clenched his fist tightly. He saw, in his mind's eye, the shadow of the glove expand and morph. He saw dark images of razor sharp talons extend from the knuckles. He eased back into his chair and arched a brow in surprise. He saw the image of the Doom Glove. His eyes narrowed as surprise gave way to epiphany. He rummaged through the debris in his room until he found four long, sharp and rusty nails. He took the glove and carefully punched holes in each of the knuckles using one of the nails and a hammer. Then he ran each the nails through the holes. Finally, he stitched a hard piece of cardboard behind the heads of the nails to provide a sturdy base and to keep the spikes erect. He stood and put on the glove. He made a tight fist. The nails poked out dangerously. He held up his clenched fist before him, and once again saw his outline cast upon the wall. He held his arm out so that the Doom Glove was distinct. The image was arresting: Judging from the shadow on the wall, he knew that with the Doom Glove held at the ready position, he conveyed a manner and bearing of mystery, of menace, of brooding hunger, and of tragic nobility. Above all else, though, he imagined himself to be an image of cold, blind, raw justice. He thought about his other garments. Should he modify them as well? Razor blades in the toes of his boots, perhaps? A big spike pointing out of his hat? No. he thought. It is not necessary, and would be too much. The Doom Glove. It is enough. The Doom Glove was enough to transform him into a dark angel of retribution. He removed the glove and set it gingerly on the corner of this desk. His transformation back to his normal self was instantaneous, and he remembered every detail of the metamorphosis. He looked on the deadly instrument with a mixture of awe and muted horror. When he had put on the Doom Glove, he had ceased to exist, and a vessel of truth and redemption had taken his place. He had retained his former shell but it was just that, a hollow shell and it was filled with a gnawing hunger for retribution against those who embodied evil. Thieves, murderers, pedophiles, rapists, corporate raiders, lawyers... none would escape his wrath. No... no... he corrected himself. None would escape the wrath of the Doom Glove. He was merely its agent. He walked to the window, to gaze once again out at the city. As he approached, he could see his darkly lit reflection in the broken glass, half his face shrouded in blackness. The image was quite reminiscent of a disembodied skull. He refocussed his gaze outward at the skyline. In his more contemplative moments, he often thought of the city as a cold mistress with marble lips and an embalming touch. The kiss of those lips could drain ones very life essence away and with it, ones hopes and aspirations. Those dregs of society, those pieces of human debris who had come to this great city with romantic notions of success and fortune, they would now be accountable to the Doom Glove. Those who surveyed the night alleys and who stalked the darkened parks for human morsels on which to feed, those lost and abandoned souls who were left to scrape an existence and a sustenance from the concrete canyons of the city, they would pay for their transgressions. It did not matter if they were victims of the kiss. “The people like that. These people will be judged.” he whispered. He was breathing heavily. His eyes flashed with righteous indignation. ”People like me. Before the Doom Glove.” The city had kissed him once, long ago. Now he was going to kiss it back. Sharply. Why the Doom Glove had chosen him for this holy path was beyond his ken, and he suspected some far off and enigmatic force at work, weaving threads of his fate in ways that he could not possibly hope to fathom. He knew it was folly to rebel against it. He had been chosen. He had no choice now but to act out his part as best he could. He imagined that when he would walk about on his nightly errands, he would wear the Doom Glove almost nonchalantly, as though it were just a part of him that he took for granted. This cavalier attitude would convey an even greater sense of danger to others. Anyone who saw him would know that this tool, this weapon of war, was as much a part of him as his hat or his coat. It was just a thing he wore. There was an implied violence that he would acknowledge but accept in the same way that he accepted the utilitarian nature of his other garments. "This scarf is warm." for example. Or "These shoes protect my feet." It was simply a given. "This glove radiates Doom." People will see me, he thought, and they will see the Doom Glove, and if they are evil, they will think 'Would you look at that glove? Would you just look at all the Doom packed into that one glove? I've never seen so much Doom in one place. I must stay away, because all that Doom in one place, it frightens me. I can't handle all the Doom. They would scatter before him like vermin frightened by the piercing beam of a searchlight. If they were good people - old people or policemen or children - they would think That glove both frightens me and makes me feel secure at the same time. I don't understand it, but I know that if I am ever in trouble, it will protect me.... but at what price to the man who bears it? I would approach him and extend a caring hand, but he is too aloof and tragically noble. Plus, I might get cut by the Doom Glove. It is enough that he know that I understand his calling, and approve. He turned from the window and cast his gaze once again upon the Glove, his new mistress. He reached for it. He had accepted this burden and this honor. He must don the Doom Glove once again, though perhaps for the final time. (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 15th, 2003
12:48 am	While Under the Influence of Alcohol, redux Moving to New York City in the dead of winter, 2002, was – in retrospect – a really bad idea. That winter was one of the coldest on record and I was caught completely unprepared. Moving to New York City without a job and without any advance research about the city was an even worse idea. Love makes fools of us all, and that is why I moved from Oakland, California to New York, New York: The love of a woman. I would move to New York and live with my girlfriend in her small but upscale apartment, and we would be happy. I was in love, and I was a fool. This is the best and only defense I can offer. I can take some dubious solace in that, if I had to fail, at least I did it in a spectacular manner. And I did fail. I did so in as spectacular a manner as is humanly possible. Despite this, I find myself now strangely hopeful that this streak of bad luck will run its course. New York can do that to you. It can raze you to the ground, but the promise it holds is such that there is never a moment of true despair. Even now, months later, with the winter a dim memory and the hot, muggy and soggy summer a fresh experience, I believe I can turn these past few months into something positive and enriching. I realize that I’m being foolish. I have no job, and I‘m homeless. My clothes are filthy, and I’m hungry. I reek of urine, but all of New York reeks of urine, so no one notices. Worst of all, though, I’ve become an alcoholic. I don’t know where I am half the time, and those moments of clarity when I am self-aware, the horror of it all is almost overwhelming. A year ago I was a young urban professional, working in the financial district of San Francisco. My job paid well. My peers liked and respected me. Now I am human debris. I can’t blame myself for this. That may sound like cowardice, but I’ve thought this through, and I’m really not to blame. Nor is my ex-girlfriend. She is a good and fine woman, and I still love her. Perhaps, if she were to recognize me underneath this filthy clothing, she might still harbor some feelings for me. It’s best that I never see her again, and I never find out. The culprit here for my misfortune is a faceless thing called ignorance. To be specific, the villain of my sad tale is an ignorance of geography. Simply put: New York is an enormous city, too big for one newcomer to fully comprehend in any reasonable amount of time. Geography was my enemy, and I was bested by it. There are maps, certainly. There are resources upon which one can draw to successfully navigate the five boroughs. There are even affordable and convenient modes of mass transportation in the forms of busses, trains and subways. The veins of New York are its roads and railways. This is a city built on moving people and it does so admirably well. The problem here is that in order to get to where you want to go, you have to know where it is. This is an emotional and an intellectual knowledge. It isn’t enough to know the street address of your destination. It isn’t even enough to have your course mapped out. To get from point A to point B in New York safely, you have to have already made the trek at least once. Otherwise, the slightest miscalculation can see you on an express train speeding out for parts unknown. On more than one occasion, I cheerily left our apartment in the early morning with the simple purpose of attending a job interview, only to limp back in the evening, tired and frustrated from wandering around aimlessly in New York’s inscrutable concrete canyons, the job interview irrevocably lost because I was a no show. I had no friends or family here, so it was my girlfriend’s duty to show me around. She was always ready and eager to take me to a new place in her beloved city, but the list of must-see attractions in New York is lengthy. We inevitably went to places like Central Park or Times Square. These jaunts were certainly edifying to me as a person, but I needed to know how to get to places in Brooklyn. I needed to know how best to get to the Upper West Side. Knowing which trains on which to transfer in order to get to central Queens was far more valuable to me than knowing that Grand Central Terminal is at 42nd & 5th. The lexicon of the average New Yorker is devoid of avenue numbers and cross streets. They prefer to refer to their neighborhoods by names that hold no meaning whatsoever to the New York neophyte. Where is Astoria? How does one get to Chelsea? What does Tribeca mean? Murray Hill is in New York? Where, precisely? There’s actually a place called Dumbo? I’m certain that if she had had the time, my girlfriend would have gladly taken me to each of these places, and would have patiently explained to me the routes we used to get there. The economic reality, though, is that she had to work for a living, a grueling job at a law firm, and she was just too tired at the end of the day to be a truly dedicated tour guide. After some weeks of this confusion and frustration, I saw an ad in an independent newspaper from a local towing company. This was in early December. The company offered to give free rides to anyone who, owing to holiday festivities, had ingested too much alcohol to drive or otherwise get home safely. Basically, if you got too drunk to stand, you could call the company, and they would dispatch a car to give you a ride to wherever it was you needed to go. This service, clearly a public relations ploy, nevertheless suited my purposes perfectly. It was true that the service would only be available during the holiday season, but if I could get a job in that time, I could figure out where to go and how to get there. I would utilize the towing company’s gracious offer of a free ride only long enough to become gainfully employed. After that, I would find a way to express to them my gratitude – perhaps a sincere thank-you card or a gratuity of some kind. There was a catch, though, and it was a treacherous one: In order to take advantage of the free rides, I had to be drunk. At that time, I rarely drank. I didn’t then and still don’t like the taste of alcohol, and regard it as a poison. I wasn’t sure if I could do it, that is, drink enough to convince the chauffer that I was really in need of transportation. Still, what other choice was there? I hoped my liver would eventually forgive me. The first time I used the towing company's service, I decided to surprise my girlfriend by purchasing for her a piece of jewelry she had ogled at a midtown Manhattan department store. It was a Monday, and she would be at work. I had no job interviews lined up that day. After I kissed her goodbye in the morning, I rummaged through the cabinets in the kitchen of our apartment and found some rum. By 11:00 am, I was completely drunk. There was no question that I was not fit to operate any sort of vehicle. In fact, I was in no state to operate any type of machinery, and that included a telephone. I had miscalculated and had gotten so drunk that I had trouble dialing the number to the towing company. The following month’s phone bill had several entries that I was at a loss to explain. I don’t remember doing it, but I apparently placed a phone call to North Korea and I apparently spoke to someone there for well over an hour. When I finally got through to an operator, she couldn't understand anything I said and promptly hung up. I passed out. My girlfriend found me that evening sprawled in a pool of vomit on our living room floor. She was worried about me, and I knew that she suspected that the stress of moving to New York and trying to find a job in an ailing economy was taking its toll on my ability to cope. I let her think that rather than explain to her my plan involving the towing service. If I exercised more judgment, she would never find me in this state again, and we could let the matter drop. I tried again the following week. We were low on groceries, so I decided to make a quick trip to a supermarket. I didn’t know where I could find one in New York City, but it didn’t matter – I would let the driver figure it out. I was more careful to only drink to some mild excess. This was much better. I was tipsy, but not stone cold drunk. I successfully made the phone call to the towing service's courtesy hotline, and a half hour later, a company car arrived at our apartment. I was dutifully carried to a grocery store, despite the quizzical looks from my driver. It was, after all, 9:30 in the morning. I bought groceries and started drinking again because I had to use the service to get back home. I had planned for this while I was shopping and had purchased a lot of alcohol. The only problem was that it is illegal in New York to drink in public. And, I had a shopping cart filled with bags of groceries. I couldn’t just sit in a corner in the supermarket and get liquored up. The store manager would surely call a security guard to escort me from the store. The solution proved to be deceptively simple. I walked the cart around the block several times, taking snorts directly out of a liquor bottle that I had put in a brown paper bag. Observers just assumed that I was a homeless person, and this false impression suited my purposes. To add to the subterfuge, I would stop periodically and scream obscenities at my fist. At one point – and this was a fortunate accident because it made my charade absolutely convincing – I spilled some of my drink onto my pants. It created a wide, dark stain on my crotch, and it appeared as though I had wet myself. A half hour or so later, I was legitimately drunk, and called the service. I was lucky that there was a different driver this time, though I could sense that she, too, regarded me with curiosity. The second time I used the service, it was for a job interview. It was scheduled for 9:00 am, and factoring in the time it would take for me to get dressed, get drunk and for the car itself to arrive, I realized that I had to start drinking as early as 7:00 am. The trick was to be drunk enough to call the service, but not so drunk that I couldn't sober up for the interview. As I mentioned, I don't drink otherwise, and I don't know a lot about the various effects and brands of alcohol. This time when I rummaged through my girlfriend's kitchen cabinets I found what I thought would be a serviceable liquor: Tequila. I took several shots, but nothing seemed to happen. I assumed that it was, perhaps, a liquor that didn't have a lot of alcoholic content. By 7:45 am, I started to worry. I had to call the service by 8:00 am in order to make it to the interview on time and I had to legitimately be drunk when I called them. To expedite matters, I started drinking beer. When the car arrived, I had what I thought was a pleasant buzz. I now know that tequila is not the best alcoholic beverage for this type of endeavor. I know I didn't get the job because they never called me back. They chose instead to send a certified letter demanding that I never set foot in any of their corporate offices ever again. The letter contained a handwritten note from my interviewer in which he said that my actions during the interview had so disgusted him that he was forced to take two weeks of sick leave, and that he wasn’t sure if he would ever truly recover. He made reference to a photograph of his 17 year old son that I had apparently defaced in some way, and he insisted that I not return it to him. He signed off by writing that he hated me. There was a post script in a different style of hand writing that expressed a fervent desire that I either be forcibly castrated or put to death. This was followed by a post-post script, in yet another style of hand writing, that expressed the desire that I both be forcibly castrated and put to death. That was disturbing, but what troubles me more is that I don't remember going to the job interview at all. I did, however, receive a job offer from a company in Mexico that manufactures devices for farmers that facilitates the gathering of bull semen. The job offer came in the form of a hand written letter and was addressed to "Sugar Britches." I don't remember going to Mexico, and I have no idea who this "Sugar Britches" might be, The third and final time I used the service, it was to meet my girlfriend and two of her friends, a married couple, for dinner. This couple, Mark and Tracy, have a seven year old boy, Joey, who had the fortune of playing the Lead Tomato in a school play that same evening. The original plan was for us to meet at a local restaurant after the play was over, but my girlfriend was running late, and I agreed to make my way to the boy's elementary school where I would meet Mark and Tracy, watch the play, and go with them to the restaurant. It was snowing that night, and the school was far enough away that I decided to use the towing service's courtesy car instead of a taxi. This time I had plenty of alcohol to choose from as we had had a New Year’s Eve party a few nights earlier, and there was a great deal of liquor left over. I had an empty stomach, and because I detest the taste of alcohol, I decided to flavor my drinks by using it to spike some leftover punch. What I didn't know, though, was that the punch had already been spiked. I was, in effect, double loading it. I stumbled into the school auditorium while the children's play was in progress, stinking of gin. I was wearing several pair of my girlfriend’s undergarments and a bulletproof vest that I can only assume I stole from a police cruiser. I had found her makeup drawer as well, because I am told that I had lipstick smeared across my face and that I had used it to accentuate the color of my nipples. There was a moment of silence when the audience members swiveled around to look at me in shock and horror. I remember that part clearly. I then declared loudly that I had a yeast infection and demanded that a gallon of Clorox be brought to me immediately by Morgan Fairchild. I'm not sure why I said that. Nor am I certain what possessed me to decide that I was the Lead Tomato and to claim my right as liege, I had to expel the contents of my bowels onto the stage. In my inebriated state, it made perfect sense to me that this ritual involved chanting obscenities and pointing at various women in the room while demanding that they "Put the lotion in the basket." The rest of the evening is murky to me. I have short, fragmented memories of shattered glass and of the stage curtain catching fire. I am told that I somehow managed to convince one child’s eighty year old grandmother to strip naked and join me in a medley of show tunes. When the police arrived, they found Mrs. Miller screaming an off-key rendition of How do you solve a problem like Maria from the film The Sound of Music. I was apparently slapping her breasts with a banana peel and exclaiming “flibbertigibbet!” By court order, I am not allowed to go within 1,000 feet of Mark's wife, Tracy, owing to a comment I made to her that involved her genitals and a soldering iron. This was the final straw for my girlfriend, and she refused to even post my bail. I was given a short sentence that was commuted to community service, and was released after 96 hours. When I got to our apartment, I found all of my personal items packed in boxes and sitting on the sidewalk. I never saw nor spoke to her again. I sat on the curb in the freezing cold. It started to snow. I was homeless, alone, and desperately wanted a drink. I ran through the rest of my money quickly, and started selling my belongings until there was nothing left save for the one pair of clothing I was wearing. I’m still wearing them. It’s impossible for me to try to get a job now in this state. I sleep in cardboard boxes during the day, and try to keep moving at night. I’ve lost fifty pounds. In those winter months, I’m lucky that I didn’t die of hypothermia. I try to keep upbeat about what’s in store for me, but it’s difficult to make strategic plans about your future when your tactical goals are to simply find something to eat. On a more positive note, this nomadic lifestyle means that I now know the layout of New York City intimately. I don’t believe that there’s a city block in all of New York that I haven’t haunted at some point, and that includes the outer boroughs. I’ve even spent some time in New Jersey. When I finally get on my feet again and get a job and a place to live, I’ll definitely have better luck getting around. Sometimes and in a flight of fancy, I daydream about actually owning a car again. I’ve seen billboards and advertisements on TVs in stores in which automobile dealerships promise they will sell a car to a prospective buyer regardless of credit history, and I'm hoping that extends to a criminal history as well. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 8th, 2003
8:50 pm	Ode to a Fat Kid on the Metro Transit Authority I saw a man, an Asian man, struggle to put his baggage in the overhead, and thought nothing of it. You saw something else, something wondrous, that caused you to stare, wide eyed and open mouthed. What did you see? I looked at the man more closely. He was of average height and build. There were no distinguishing characteristics about him. What did you see? You stared in mute amazement, your jaw slack and your face filled with what was clearly awe. I bring to this experience many memories of people struggling to put their luggage into overhead bins. On a subway in Chicago. On a plane from San Francisco. Even on a warship about to set sail for the first Persian Gulf War. And now, on a train from New York to Connecticut. You must be no more than thirteen years old, and you bring to this experience a blank slate of memories of people who struggle with their luggage. Your wonder belies a lack of experience, true, but more importantly, a lack of cynicism. I watch and think Guy can't lift his luggage. You watch and think... something about which I can't possibly even hope to guess. I look at you and think What's the deal with the fat kid? You glance at me, but you actually look through me, as though I were not there. The clumsy Asian man is far more interesting to you. What did you see? I will never know. At least I'm not fat. (Comment on this)
Friday, June 6th, 2003
11:26 pm	Riding Shotgun - redux Marc Blumenthal of Brooklyn, New York was a high-school drop out and petty criminal with a police record that listed, among other things, possession and intent to sell narcotics, grand theft auto, and assault. Blumenthal was the stereotypical "small time hood" brought to life. He was also - and curiously - an avid inline skate enthusiast. This appears to be the one activity that Blumenthal pursued that did not involve some sort of illegal intent. It is likely, though, that his pair of roller-blades was stolen. Late in the morning on May 24, 1995, Blumenthal strapped on his skates, donned a ski mask, and skated down to the branch of a local bank with the goal to commit armed robbery. He managed to wheel in through the lobby, fired a single shot into the air with a stolen .38 snub nosed revolver, and demanded that everyone get on the floor. He singled out a teller, thrust a canvas bag at her, and demanded that she give him money. The teller complied, and within minutes, Blumenthal skated out the bank's front door, and was racing through the streets of Brooklyn. The bank had a silent alarm that immediately notified local police that a robbery was in progress. Despite Blumenthal's rapid exit from the bank, he was soon identified and several police cars fell into close pursuit. The chase lasted for nearly a half hour, with Blumenthal jumping curbs, weaving in and out of traffic, and leaping over any obstacle that got in his way. An 80 year old man who stumbled into Blumenthal's path suffered a heart attack as the bank robber bore down on him at speeds in excess of 25 miles an hour. Blumenthal apparently hopped up onto the railing of a steel fence, and rode the steel pipe a full twenty feet before hopping off again onto the sidewalk. He had managed to avoid the old man entirely, but the fright was too much and the man was pronounced dead on the scene when paramedics arrived. During the chase, Blumenthal managed to get off four shots at his pursuers. He wounded one officer, and a stray bullet smashed the windshield of a private vehicle, causing it to careen out of control into oncoming traffic. The spectacular chase ended abruptly when Blumenthal took a wrong turn down a one-way street and skated directly into the front grill of an oncoming bus. Thus ended one of the most outrageous criminal acts in New York history. Local newspapers dubbed Blumenthal "The Skater Bandit" and video of the chase was aired on every major news outlet in the New York metropolitan area. The effect was to elevate Blumenthal, posthumously, to a near legendary status. This story was peripherally carried by national news outlets, and Blumenthal was left to become a purely local hero, with stories of his afternoon exploit rippling throughout all strata of New York society. For a brief time in New York, it seemed as though the name Blumenthal was on everyone’s lips. Outside of New York, the name held no meaning. This fantastic story does not end there. Records indicate that in the weeks and months following the botched robbery, sales of inline skates at New York sporting goods stores skyrocketed. Records also indicate a commensurate increase in the sale of small arms. Blumenthal's thrilling failure caught the attention of other would-be "Skater Bandits." The summer of 1995 saw a spate of copycat armed robberies, though few were actually successful. Most of the copycats lacked Blumenthal's athletic prowess. Police and bank guards developed a tactic of sneaking up behind robbers during a holdup and simply pushing them to the floor. One man became entangled in a bank's revolving door and was forced to skate in circles for over fifteen minutes when bank officials set the door's variable rate of speed to 35 revolutions per minute, the highest setting. When officers arrived on the scene, the man was exhausted and begged to be taken to jail. Another man was knocked unconscious when he lost control and skated head-first into a marble column. For those rollerblading criminals who actually possessed some facility with the sport, police found that the most effective weapon during the chases was the brutal discharge of a shotgun. No skater, however agile, could escape a widening volley of buckshot. By the end of September, 1995, criminals had reverted to more traditional methods of robbery, and the inline skating crime spree ended. Blumenthal's legacy, however, lives on. A small and zealous group of recreational inline skaters adopted the police's weapon of choice, the shotgun, and the most extreme sport of all extreme sports, Riding Shotgun, was born. Riding Shotgun refers to the discharge of a firearm - most often a shotgun - while performing acrobatic feats of skill on rollerblades. While some Riders are content to simply sharpen their target shooting skills while skating, many Riders are known to hunt small game in the parks and recreational areas of New York. Just how many people in New York have taken to Riding Shotgun is difficult to say, owing to the extreme illegality of the hobby. Hard core Riders form a deeply underground community. Groups of fellow skaters are small and secretive. A recent expose by New York Times writer Craig Blair estimates that between two and five thousand New Yorkers are active in the sport, with two to three thousand others claiming to be infrequent Riders. The average rider is male, an inner city dweller, and under the age of 25. Local law enforcement officials believe that the young age of riders is due to the brevity of their life span. These are people who live life on the edge, and who go out, literally, with guns blazing. The dangerous effects Riding Shotgun are made manifest by the tell-tale spray of bullet holes that pepper New York sidewalks and billboards. Hospitals and community clinics struggle to deal with the inevitable health hazards of the sport. Charumathi Gupta, a resident at the NYU School of Medicine, summed up the embattled atmosphere: "We see it all the time. A kid comes in a little dehydrated, scrapes on his elbows, and an exit wound in the lower part of his abdomen, and we know the guy was probably Riding Shotgun. We don't ask any questions, we just patch them up and send them on their way. You just know that as soon as the bandages come off the kid'll be back at it. It's more than we can handle, sometimes. These kids are crazy." New York law enforcement officials struggle to find a way to deal with the problem, with limited success. Critics charge the city with sending mixed messages. A vigorous outreach program, utilizing public service announcements on local radio and television and dubbed the "Shooters are Losers Campaign", seeks to educate young people about the dangers of the sport with slogans like “If you pack, then you’re wheely dumb” and “Reload your brain, stop Riding”. At the same time, armed roving patrols of skating police officers, the visibility of which may assuage the fears of the average pedestrian, is thought by some to glamorize the activity. New York City recently passed "Tracy's Law", named after a teenaged victim of a drive by rollerblading shooting, which mandates a ten year prison sentence for anyone caught skating in a forbidden area while discharging a firearm within city limits. While this sport has remained a New York oddity for nearly ten years, Riding Shotgun is catching on in other urban areas, and is even practiced in other parts of the world. A cursory search of the internet using the terms “inline skates” and “shotgun” yields a handful of fan web sites, whereas the phenomenon was virtually undocumented just two years ago. For example, Rider Gilyan Merry (Rider code name appelle) wrote on her web site of a visit of a fellow Rider from New York, Joey Comeau (Rider code name untoward) to her home city of Halifax, Canada. This entry in her web diary is dated August 12, 2000. Just got back from the hunting trip untoward and I have been planning and discussing here for the last few weeks, and man, did it deliver. untoward’s flight got in around 3pm on the 15th. untoward and I both wanted to get started right away, but we agreed that a night hunt should be saved for when we were both a little more familiar with each others styles. He took me to a local pub, Sticky McGee's, and we settled in for a long night of Guinness and war stories. Joey has never posted his most amazing rs exploits... he's way too modest. Ask him about that time with the children's birthday party and the marching band if you have a few hours to kill and an open mind. We bunked down at my house, and set the alarm for five, an early start. Now, we had discussed previously our intentions. What game were we after? Did we want to try out a range? Any regular Rider is going to know the answers we came to before reading them. We're both far too dedicated to the true thrill of the sport to stick to paved parking lots with lame cardboard chickens. We head for the downtown. Now, for those of you who aren't familiar with Halifax, it is a city made first and foremost of hills. It's pretty impressive, even if it is smaller than my backyard. It definitely offers a challenge for any rs'er who decides to brave it's streets. It's not San Francisco, but it's not Edmonton, either. We suited up on North street, with J. warning me about the steep slopes we would be facing. He’s ridden here before, and since he’s been doing it longer than me, he knew more about my own town that I did! He should have known better than to warm me, though. That just made me more eager. Joe has this great gear that I'm sure he's described to some of you. Winchester Supreme Field and those tricked Roces m-twelve aside, he's got this rig made out of several pairs of velcro play handcuffs knotted together, sewn into three or four suede wine pouches. I know it sounds odd but it makes for incredibly secure carrying and pulling. He was twice as fast as me every time, and eventually he promised to make me one of my own. It was really quiet out, a warm summer morning in the making. The first hill we came to was a doozy, and Joey just had to show off. He pulled up beside me and pointed up, where I'd heard a sparrow at the top of the hill. He rolls backwards towards the hill and in one fluid motion, pulls his gun and pulls a misty. I was horrified, cause man, as good and as confident as we both were, the air he got with that hill below him was ridiculous. I expected a face plant and a broken piece. But in that split second where he hit the apex of his jump, I heard the shot come off, and boom, he was racing face forward down the hill and I was looking at the remains of at least three sparrows. Lemme tell you, when they call untoward the father of rs'ing, they are not shitting you. The rest of the day was almost anti-climactic after that first proof, but we got some good ones in, and it was a party. Bagged a few cats, raccoons, too many sparrows to count, and possibly one parrot. I did every trick I knew and some I'd forgotten. It was a day full of what the sport is all about - adventure, danger, precision, and fun. I'll post you guys the rest of the story once I deal with the court order. Joey wants to put in his two cents worth, so here he is: Listen. I don't know about the rest of you, but I would never try to wallride a bus while lining up a shot. App has crazy fucking skills, and she's not afraid to use them when it comes down to the wire on "Seven minutes of Squirrels" – J. ----~~~==== appelle ====~~~---- ----~~~==== when you ride shotgun, you take your life in your hands ====~~~---- ----~~~==== when i ride shotgun, i take whatever i want ====~~~---- This brief diary entry highlights the basic and most disturbing attitudes of people who Ride Shotgun: A flagrant disregard for life and safety, and an almost perverse pride in the reckless danger in which they willingly engage. It should be noted that Gilyan Merry’s web diary ends abruptly on June 16, 2001. The site has not been updated in any way since that date, and one can only assume that the young woman met a possibly violent end while pursuing her hobby. This same Joey Comeau is one of the few who ride shotgun that is actually vocal about his chosen sport. A little research yielded his own web site, devoted to the dissemination of information about Riding Shotgun to would-be Riders. While a native of New York, Comeau’s whereabouts are currently unknown, and there are several outstanding warrants for his arrest. His site features a FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) that lists several relevant points about Riding Shotgun. The FAQ is listed below in its entirety: Index: I: What do you mean "Riding Shotgun"? II: Is Riding Shotgun dangerous? III: Do you need a liscence to Ride Shotgun? IV: Where can I find a gun club with paved facilities? V: Is Riding Shotgun illegal? VI: Are there any web resources that can tell me about Riding Shotgun? VII: Is it safe to drink while riding Shotgun? VIII: How do you Ride Shotgun in the woods? IX: What's the point of all this? I: What do you mean "Riding Shotgun"? A: Riding Shotgun generally means hunting while on Rollerblades, but it can, and often is used to describe all manners of shotgun use while on rollerblades. In rare cases it has also been applied to the use of a shotgun with rollerskates or skateboards. Scooters require the use of hands, and are therefore completely inappropriate for Riding Shotgun. ------------------------> II: Is Riding Shotgun dangerous? A: Yes, of course. It is the combination of the two most dangerous sports in America. ------------------------> III: Do you need a liscence to Ride Shotgun? A: Currently there are no liscences that specifically grant permission to operate a shotgun while on rollerblades. However, as of May 29, 2002, there are no laws on the books that prevent a person with a gun liscence to take to wheels. However, this does not mean that discharging a firearm while skating is a legal activity. See V. below. [EDITORS NOTE: Comeau’s FAQ was written before the New York enforcement of Tracy’s Law, enacted and enforced in February, 2003. ------------------------> IV: Where can I find a gun club with paved facilities? A: You can’t. And the reason for this brings up the next point: ------------------------> V: Is Riding Shotgun illegal? A. Extremely. If you are caught Riding Shotgun, you can expect to prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Skating in most public areas is prohibited by law anyway, but will only get you a ticket. If you fire a gun while skating, though, expect a felony offense. ------------------------> VI: Are there any web resources that can tell me more about Riding Shotgun? A: The lack of information on the internet is the main impetus for this FAQ, but you may be able to contact other enthusiasts on the message boards of sporting goods stores, or on several newsgroups I have started. rec.games.guns.rollerblades, rec.games.riding.shotgun, and rec.games.rollerblades.organization Obviously, as the sport gains media attention, and corporate sponsorship, I will be adding web pages to this section. For now we appear to be an underground community. ------------------------> VIII: Is it safe to drink while Riding Shotgun? A: Alcohol interferes with your motor skills. While a gun is a relatively simple device, and can be operated while drunk, it is inadvisable to operate a pair of rollerblades while under the influence of alcohol. For your own safety, as well as the safety of your family. ------------------------> VIII: How do you Ride Shotgun in the woods? A: Rollerblades are much less effective on moss and dirt, and most people who ride shotgun tend to stick to large urban centers. This makes it rare that they get to hunt traditional game, but improvisation is a large part of riding shotgun. ------------------------> IX: What's the point of all this? A: That's a fair question. To a rollerblader who is unfamiliar with the thrill of hunting, or a hunter who's never pulled off a mute grab, Riding Shotgun's appeal might not be immediately apparent. It's a beautiful marriage of two of America's most dangerous, and popular recreations. Some might go so far as to call it the ultimate extreme sport, but extreme sports bring to mind huge arenas, and thousands of screaming fans. In comparison, Riding shotgun is a relatively solitary pursuit. It is about the hunter, the hunted, and the art of the silent t-stop. There is something for everyone in Riding Shotgun. Just as the rest of America seems to be in lock step with the mores and cultural evolution of New York City, so the rest of the world is heavily influenced by American culture. Reports of Riding Shotgun clubs in other countries are becoming more and more numerous. And just as New York City has struggled to find a way to deal with this dangerous phenomenon, so have other countries been faced with the impossible task of pacifying a youth culture that, while once nihilistic, is becoming nihilistic, extremely mobile and armed. At times, the reaction is as brutal as the sport itself, as with the mandatory death penalty that faces any rider unfortunate enough to be caught by the local polizia in Italy. Riders caught in Saudi Arabia suffer what they must believe to be an even crueler fate than death with the amputation of both legs below the knee. There are even unsubstantiated rumors that in the halls of the United Nations, diplomats speak of enacting a global wide declaration that would require member states to treat people caught Riding Shotgun as war criminals. The lone exception in this atmosphere of alarm and punishment is the country of Chechnya, which adopted Riding Shotgun as its national sport in November, 2002. Where all this will lead is impossible to say. It is likely that Riding Shotgun will continue to be regarded by social and political establishments as a danger and a menace. It is also true that the adrenalin rush of the sport will continue to attract followers in densely packed urban areas. The struggle between outside and insider, between authoritarian and rebel, strikes to the very core of the tension that exists between a growing and restless youth culture with society at large. The effect is not dissimilar from the controversial aspects of urban hip-hop and rap movements. While it is impossible to predict the final fate of Riding Shotgun, it is possible to pinpoint with absolute accuracy the genesis of this most extreme of all extreme sports – a spring morning in 1995 when a misguided felon with a love of skating and a need for fast cash loaded his handgun, strapped on a pair of skates, and glided into a New York bank. Marc Blumenthal could not have known how his actions that morning would affect global culture, just as he could not have known that, just a short time later, he would he would lie, broken, bleeding and dying, under the wheels of a twelve thousand pound bus. His story is perhaps a template for the movement as a whole, and should act as a warning to both thrill seeking Rider and incredulous policy-makers alike. (With many thanks to Gilyan Merry and Joey Mitchell Comeau.) (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 11th, 2003
8:57 pm	The Essence of Zen Your expectations for survival in New York City increase dramatically in proportion to your understanding of your surrounding environment. Expect your initial impressions of New York to be fatally flawed, and you should welcome the ensuing and daily evolution of your perceptions. Every day will be a learning experience. Some days you will find these trials to be pleasant. Other days, you may experience some mild discomfort. And occasionally, you will experience extreme discomfort, followed by a blunt trauma and a sudden loss of personal identification and funds. Every day will bring you closer to a personal resonance with the vast metropolis. You must ultimately abandon your expectations of the city, for New York is so enormous and diverse a place as to defy classification. Because an encompassing understanding of the city is impossible, it is by extension impossible to know what to expect. You must remove your attachments to your previous expectations. New York City will force upon you a Zen-like philosophy, regardless of your other and more basic religious convictions. Longtime residents of New York City are readily identified by their seeming inability to be impressed by anyone and anything. This is often misinterpreted as apathy, but is really a manifestation of the native New Yorker’s detachment from desire and expectation. New Yorkers are instinctively disinterested people. As a result, do not be offended by the often lukewarm reception you may receive from your fellow citizens. In fact, you should regard any reception, pleasant or hostile, from other New Yorkers as significant because it indicates that you have graduated from background detritus to living creature in their eyes. Be wary of the consequences, however. There is a little told and beautiful parable from Buddhist philosophy in which the original Buddha despoiled several years of quiet contemplation to inform a disciple that he, the Buddha, would very much like it if he, the disciple, would shut the fuck up. The student rejoiced, for this exchange represented a palpable recognition, and expressed this happiness vocally to his brothers seated around the bodhi tree. The Buddha immediately responded by willing the student from existence, erasing any vestigial reference of the unfortunate disciple from the memory of man. Map the lesson of this story to your own experiences carefully when you interact with other New Yorkers. On a less personal scale, one is left to generalizations of New York City, and of those, the following is perhaps the most useful: The city is a series of overlapping zones of entropy levels in a state of constant flux. The yin and the yang of New York City take the alias of order and chaos. Couple this with the previously mentioned detachment of expectation, and you will, as a New Yorker, be equally at home in a quiet café, a violent riot, or an unwelcome and spontaneous editorial board meeting of the Utne Reader. Anything can happen in New York, and you must be prepared. Always remember that there is a nonzero probability that you might, at one instant, be engaged in a stimulating conversation with an attractive member of the opposite sex, then suddenly find yourself pinned to the floor by a fat person while an anonymous stranger applies a cattle-prod to your genitals. In a city of twelve million people, something like this has happened and it will happen again. Such a random act of extreme poignancy might be welcome, though, depending on your perspective. You may, for whatever reason, decide that you no longer require the use of your genitals, and would prefer that they be separated from your body, an extreme interpretation of the maxim of detachment described above. An anonymous stranger brandishing a cattle-prod at your pelvis might therefore be a welcome sight. The unpredictable nature of New York can sometimes work to your advantage. Entropy is the essence of New York City, and it is important to understand what that term means. Approximately: It is a measure of the disorder or randomness in a closed system. The study of entropy is fundamentally a statistical science. It is impossible to measure a specific event with any narrowly defined precision, but it is possible to measure a general event with a broad or aggregate certainty. This is how the newcomer to New York City should regard his or her environment. The newcomer is somewhat safe in the assumption that the city will continue to hum with activity in the days and months ahead. The subways will continue to run and the lights in Times Square will continue to be garish. You enter dangerous territory, however, with the assumption that a passing pedestrian will not beat you savagely with a tire iron. You can’t expect such a thing – you can’t expect anything from New York – but you must not discount the possibility. The city is so dynamic, and each shifting zone of entropy so haphazard, that movement is key to survival in New York City. Your immediate vicinity may be tranquil, but it will end at some point, and you will be forced to relocate. A basic rule of thumb for the New York pedestrian: The space you currently occupy will be a crime scene at some undetermined point in the future. It is best not to be there when it does. Keep moving. You will find that if you remain stationary for too long in New York City, others will regard you with derision or suspicion. The city will prod you after a time to keep you moving by a variety of methods, such as flying manhole covers or tattooed people who helpfully offer to hold your watch. Perhaps even a defenestrated clown exploding on the sidewalk in front of you. You will know the signs when they appear, but it is best to avoid even these prompting events. Keep moving. Should you survive the transformation from wide-eyed tourist to veteran New Yorker, you will become more resourceful, more alert, and ultimately, more adaptable to changing conditions. These are desirable qualities, and in theory are traits that have contributed to the vitality of entire species that have successfully navigated the dangerous waters of natural selection. The newcomer will never be able to pinpoint the moment – the exact instant – when he or she became a true New Yorker but the realization will be there nonetheless: The fact that the newcomer is not extinct is proof in and of itself. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, April 5th, 2003
7:49 pm	Projectiles The characteristics that uniquely identify New York City when compared to other major metropolitan areas in the United States are, of course, manifold. The number of instantly identifiable major and historical landmarks in New York City, for example, demarks it from cities such as Los Angeles or Chicago. The primary difference that will be of primary interest to a newcomer to New York is the projectile activity in the airspace in and around New York. The skies are abuzz with angry swarms of missiles, many of which will be aimed at your head. You may take comfort in that some of these will not be lethal. Nevertheless, it is important to a newcomer’s continued good health that he or she be cognizant of the danger. It is interesting to note that the danger is impersonal, simply a natural byproduct of the structure and character of New York. The city is filled with people and tall buildings, and it is inevitable that things will fly. Horizontally. Between four to six feet off the ground. At your head. New York City will most certainly try to intentionally kill you in a variety of ways, and it may even try to do so by firing something at your vital organs, but for the most part, you can regard incoming projectiles as simply a coincidence. Even so, when you walk around New York City, you must be on the constant alert for this danger. Some of the projectiles that will be fired, hurled, or dropped at you will be seasonal. In the winter, be wary of falling spikes of ice. In the spring and summer, be aware that the city is filled with pigeons. Year round and regardless of the season, be advised that one or more of the following will be discharged at you with great force and velocity (some simultaneously): Rocks, garbage, abandoned cars, vomit, apathy, office supplies, night sticks, the presiding Secretary General of the United Nations (be alert for incoming staff members as well), old books, irritation, tear gas, bullets, homeless people, disdain, bricks, and fully fueled Boeing 767s. It’s a harrowing experience walking around New York City and its five boroughs. How you react to this danger is extremely important. Assuming you survive, you must repress the obvious inclination to throw something back. This may be the accepted reaction in the place you came from, but is not the correct response in New York City. New York wants you to react this way, because this will give it the justification it needs to finally put you down like the mad dog it thinks you are. The proper reaction is to ignore the thing that fired the projectile at you entirely, or to hurl profanities at it in conjunction with an obscene hand gesture. If the thing that hurled the projectile at you is an inanimate object, you can react in the latter manner without much fear of retaliation. Judge and measure your surroundings, and react accordingly. If you do respond with profanities and obscene hand gestures, be certain the people around you are aware that you are doing this in response to a projectile being fired at your person. If no projectile were fired, or if witnesses aren’t aware that one was fired, they will interpret your behavior as a request that they call police officers to come and deprive you of your civil rights for a brief time before taking you to a detoxification chamber. This is a request to which a native New Yorker will always comply, even if you are a family member. (Be aware that your relations who are native to the city are New Yorkers first and related to you second.) Because walking around New York City is such a harrowing experience, you will want to catalog safe areas in New York, places where you can take some respite from the missile activity. An example of such a place is the cathedral-like and aptly named Grand Central Terminal. It is a relative oasis of tranquility in an otherwise chaotic world of honking cars and garish lights. The enormous vaulted ceiling, painted powder blue and embellished with dotted lights that are arranged in the forms of various constellations combine with enormous arched windows along the east and west walls to lend the structure a kind of sanctified - albeit concretely secular – ambience. The effect is not lost on the thousands of people who constantly stream into and out of the station. It is a quiet place, overall, and because the size and demeanor of the building are mildly inspiring, pedestrians are somewhat subdued. Projectile activity here is minimal, though the restrooms in Grand Central Terminal should be approached with caution. You will no doubt discover other safe havens in the city, and this is part of the joy of being a newcomer to New York. With the information presented here, you will be able to keep your head about you as you brave the city, and more importantly, you will be able to keep your head. (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 30th, 2003
6:47 pm	A Newcomer’s Guide to New York City The first thing you must remember as a new comer to New York City, that great and dynamic hub of economic and cultural activity – the most important thing that must always be first and foremost on your mind and that must form a backdrop against everything you say and do while in the city – is that it hates you. A lot. New York City and its incorporated areas, all five boroughs – Manhattan, Staten Island, the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn - hates you on general principle. You should not take this personally. New York City hates everyone, not just you, and really, it would arrogant of you to think that the city just hates you and you alone. The city’s feelings are not so narrowly focused. New York City hates you, your loved ones, your friends, your acquaintances, people you know only nominally, and anyone you’ve met in passing. It’s not just you, though. New York City hates everyone around you, too. And their friends and family. In this way, it is very, very easy for you – a stranger – to know where you fit in relative to everyone else in New York. And it is very easy to see how others fit in relative to each other. Everyone hates everybody. As your relationships with others evolve over time, it is inevitable that your relations are bound to improve. Hence this interconnected and pervasive hatred is an absolutely necessary reference point. It’s a different kind of hate than most of us might recognize. It’s not the kind of hate you might feel for a school bully, an offensive co-worker, or an ex girl/boyfriend. With that kind of hatred, it is necessary for a person to do or say something that causes others to grow to resent them. But with New York, you don’t have to do or say anything, and it will hate you. New York hates you because you’re there. New York hates the high and the low, the mighty and the downtrodden. Everyone in New York is a passing nuisance, and New York takes solace in that each person in New York, every last man, woman and child, will someday go away or die. When you deal with people in New York, it is important to remember the concept of a “necessary evil” because that is what you are. When you order food in a restaurant, for example, the waiter is nice to you because he has to be, and he recognizes that without you, a paying customer, he would not have a job. Everyone is a necessary evil to everyone else, the only difference is the scale. Remember this when you go on job interviews. The other thing about which you, as a prospective immigrant to New York, must know – and something that no one will tell you – is that the entire city, from the Upper West Side in Manhattan to Staten Island smells like urine. It’s incredible but true. Every cubic foot of New York City, throughout the metropolitan area to some undetermined height above the city, reeks of urine. Somehow, someone has managed to urinate on every single thing in New York. It is in this way that New Yorkers know if they should hate you just because you’re a fellow resident and therefore taking up resources they could have, or if they should hate you because you are visiting and therefore getting in the way: Residents smell like urine, and visitors don’t. It is also for this reason that the bathrooms on commuter trains coming into New York are such awful, smelly places: the MTA (Metro Transit Authority) is trying to tag you, with the tacit submission and approval of commuters. Most of the people who use these trains work in New York, and they don’t want to be confused with out-of-towners. There are other things to know and remember, of course, like where all the clean bathrooms are, and how to avoid being sodomized with a nightstick by a Port Authority Officer. Armed with the knowledge, though, that everyone hates you and that everything reeks of urine, you can start your new life in New York City a little wiser and ahead of the game. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, February 17th, 2003
2:02 pm	----------------------------- From: xxxx@aol.com To: Zillno@xxxx.xom Subject: Your diary My daughter came across your online diary at random. I don't know how she found it, but she did. She's eight years old. She showed it to me, and then asked me what it meant "to ejaculate." She read your ejaculation diary and wanted to know what it was about. Because of you, I had to have a conversation with my eight year old daughter about semen. A child of this age should not be exposed to such ideas and images. She wanted to see what it looked like. She asked if I could show her. Because of you, my eight year old daughter asked me to ejaculate in front of her. I can monitor her TV viewing, and I can try to limit what web sites she can see, but there's no way I could have prevented her from finding your disgusting diary, much less have guessed that such a filthy collection of ramblings would even exist on the internet. If I could, I would bodily throw you from this country, right across the border or into the sea. It turns my stomach to think that someone like you should exist. What's worse, you're walking around free. I think you are a felony just waiting to happen. I hate you. Robert Miller -------------------------- Dear Mr. Miller: I read your letter with great interest. The feedback of my readers is always welcome. In fact, your letter reminded me of a dream I had some months ago. It was quite a sexual dream. In it, I engaged in sexual congress with a woman I think was Kate Moss. At least, she had the same body type - waifishly thin. In the dream, once I had come to a sexual climax, I pulled the Kate Moss woman off me only to find that her pelvis had shattered during our intercourse, and she had died. She had, in fact, died during my climax. I awoke with a start. Once I had become oriented again, I realized that I had discovered a new fetish. Of course, I could not act on this fetish, though I was able to find a veritable cornucopia of information on necrophilia on the internet. Technology is a miracle, isn't it? Then, a couple of weeks ago, I witnessed a terrible automobile accident on a deserted road near my house. The poor driver of the vehicle had lost control and smashed into a tree. I rushed to the scene only to find that the driver and the passenger about to expire. I called emergency services immediately using my cell phone. I knew it would take them some minutes to arrive. This gave me just enough time to sate my desires, clean up, and straighten my clothing. Now that the winter weather is worsening, one can expect for there to be a rise in automobile accidents. At least, that is my hope. Best regards, Zillno (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, February 13th, 2003
1:37 pm	NASA Denies Any Knowledge of Columbia Accident Declarations cause confusion, outrage. Amalgamted Press - Washington, DC - NASA officials stunned observers during a press conference Tuesday by flatly denying any knowledge of a space shuttle program. The declaration came during a series of questions in which reporters asked officials about ongoing efforts by local law enforcement authorities to collect debris from the fallen spaceship Columbia. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about." declared Chris Stewart, deputy director of NASA's General Accounting Office. "There was a crash? A space plane of some sort crashed? When was this?" Other officials at the press conference expressed equal surprise. As the shuttle Columbia streaked across the sky February 1 toward its landing site in Florida, controllers at Johnson Space Center in Houston remarked that sensors inside the wheel well showed higher temperature readings. Other sensors were shutting down, one by one. Minutes later, the shuttle broke up, killing all seven crew members. The spectacular disaster has drawn global attention, and has sparked a storm of controversy among Washington insiders and NASA bureaucrats about how best to proceed with America's space program. Yet despite video footage of the accident, eye witness testimony, radio transmissions, photographic evidence, and over the outrage of survivors of the seven astronauts, NASA now denies any knowledge of the Columbia accident or a national space shuttle program. "I really think I would know about it if we had a fleet of these so-called 'space shuttles'," Stewart went on derisively. "And if there had been an accident like you describe, then why do none of the panelists here know about it?" Stewart then asked the other officials one by one if they knew about the accident or the space shuttle program. Each one indicated that he or she did not. In response to a reporter's outraged and incredulous statement that the NASA officials were conducting some sort of tasteless practical joke, Dr. Lee Kaufmann, a senior engineer, stood up and glared at the press corps. "I have a Ph.D. from Cal Tech, people." he said angrily. "What do you have? A BA in some liberal arts program from a state college? How many of you went into the news business because your art history degrees were worthless, huh?" Dr. Kaufmann had to be restrained by his colleagues. Dr. Alex Gerstner, another senior NASA engineer, took the microphone and attempted to calm both the panelists and the press corps. "Look , we don't know how to argue with you about this, because we have no idea what you're talking about." he said while the other panelists expressed their agreement. "I mean, these space planes you're talking about, they're fantastic. I don't think that... I just don't think that we have that kind of technology. Not even the military. And you say we're supposed to have an entire fleet of them? Where? Where would we put them?" Dr. Gerstner returned the microphone to Chris Stewart, who attempted to steer the press conference back to what he said was the original topic: The possibility of a manned space mission to the moon. Using a series of charts, graphs and black and white artist renditions of a proposed spacecraft, Mr. Stewart made an argument in support of a lunar mission, and declared triumphantly that NASA would put a man on the moon by the year 2030. Puzzled reporters observed during a question and answer session that NASA had already placed several men on the moon in a series of successful space flights that occurred in the late 1960s and early 1970s. "That's it. You people are out of control." Stewart declared. "This press conference is over." He proceeded to gather his presentation materials while the other panelists angrily walked out of the room. "I don't know what's gotten in to you people." Stewart said just before he left. "Maybe when you've had a chance to calm down and behave like professionals, we can try this again. I can't believe that... it's incredible to me that I have to tell seasoned journalists that they need a time-out. What the devil do you have to gain by these crazy and ridiculous stories? Are you terrorists? Is that it? Are you in league with Al Qaida?" Mr. Stewart left the room without further comment. NASA issued a written statement shortly after the press conference in which it suggested that the media was using a conspiracy theory about a clandestine space program to generate news on an otherwise slow news day. Attempts to reach officials at the NASA Public Affairs Office have been unsuccessful. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 12th, 2003
5:12 pm	Black Boxes for Dummies A Reference for the Rest of Us! By Mike Vorelson Professional box trainer and author of Thinking Outside the Box: A Guide for the New Black Box Owner Using Papers versus Going Outside pp. 115 - 116 You may decide that you are going to paper-train your black box to a spot inside your home instead of teaching your black box to go outside. That's fine, but you have to get into the mindset of using either one or the other. Doing both or paper training in one season only to switch your priorities to outside will only confuse your black box. Paper-training is a good option if you have a small black box, you live in an apartment, you're physically challenged, or you are just not the outdoor sort. It also has several similarities to outdoor training (See "Getting into a Housebreaking Routine," earlier in this chapter). The following are steps you should following while paper training your black box. - Be alert to your black box and when it wants to potty. Tell tale signs include a series of mysterious and otherwise inexplicable flashing symbols on one or more of its six faces coupled with a low humming noise. - Consistently use the same bathroom spot. - Use a word or phrase - like "Papers!" or "Time to go!" - when you lead your black box to the designated area. - After you bring your black box to the designated area, ignore it until it eliminates. - As your black box is eliminating, use a word or phrase like "Good box!" - Do NOT use the designated area as a place for play or other interaction with your pet box. - Do NOT interrupt your box as it is eliminating. While younger black boxes are incapable of full thermonuclear detonation, they are capable of small, localized and conventional explosions. Paper training does have some differences from outdoor training, however, namely that the papers are within the home. If you are paper-training, keep the papers away from your black box's food, water bowl and sleeping areas. Place the papers in a discrete location, like a corner of the kitchen or bathroom, and make sure they're easily accessible to your black box, even when you're not home. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 11th, 2003
11:07 am	Diary of Ejaculation Day 3 I have ejaculated continuously for a little over three days now. In fact, I am ejaculating as I write this. In the narrative that follows, I will attempt to be as precise and as concise as possible, but this task is made more difficult by the simple fact that I am in a constant state of orgasm. It is somewhat distracting. I must confess that the experience is both pleasurable and alarming. While I certainly have no desire to have a continuous orgasm for any significant duration of time - say weeks or months - I would not be adverse to a few more days of this condition. What is alarming is that I have no idea when it will end. It is for that reason that I have taken pen to paper to record my thoughts and to log the condition as it progresses. The best case scenario is that my orgasms cease after a few more days, and I have this diary as a reminder of a very happy period of my life. The worst case scenario is that this condition is chronic, and any attending physician may find my detailed notes valuable in a diagnosis. Aside from some mild disorientation, I experience no discernable and physical reaction to this constant ejaculation. The state of my sheets after a night's rest, however, is a nuisance. I have consulted with my family, and we have agreed that if my condition worsens or if it continues for several more days, I will consult with a physician. How did this happen? The basic physical mechanism of how I, a fully grown adult male, can manage to ejaculate continuously and without interruption for over three days eludes me. I have not the knowledge of basic human anatomy. I do, however, believe I know what caused it: A can of Coke, a mouthful of the candy Pop-Rocks, and a Viagra pill. Upon consuming a mixture of these three ingredients, my penis achieved full erection and felt as though it would explode. I lost consciousness. I awoke a half hour later in a pool of my own spittle and semen. I was lucky that I did not drown. I must conclude this, my initial entry in my diary of ejaculation, so that I may bathe and clean my immediate surroundings as best I can. Day 6 My condition continues. There has been no indication that the experience will lessen and the sensation fade. I am now alarmed. While it is true that I have enjoyed this state of constant orgasm in the first few days of its onset, it is now affecting the quality of my life. I cannot go to work in this condition. I cannot, for that matter, be seen in public at all. My emissions are too copious to hide, and my periodic gyrations and tendency to flail my arms and moan loudly too outlandish to explain away to a curious onlooker. And there is the matter basic decorum. I do not feel comfortable interacting with others while ejaculating. After some discussion with my family and for the reasons stated above, it was decided that I would not attend church services this morning, the first break in my attendance in over seven years. My absence was explained away as a passing illness, the details of which were left unspecified. I do take some solace in that the members of my church have scheduled a prayer service in my honor. Their outpouring of support is quite moving, and I feel some minor guilt for withholding the exact nature of my condition from them. We believe it is time to consult a medical doctor. Day 7 Still ejaculating. Unfortunate incident involving visiting relative and her pet mini-daschund. I, too, am concerned for the animal's health and safety, though I am quite certain that after a lengthy bath, it will be okay. Day 8 Initial examination by family physician. Dr. O'Keefe is an older man with a shock of white hair and a kind demeanor. He has an almost "country doctor" charm about him. He is a friend of the family and has tended to us for years. He was kind enough to come here, to our house, to examine me as I find it difficult to walk for any length of time. His diagnosis is inconclusive and it is likely - almost certain, really - that he will refer me to a specialist. Dr. O'Keefe expressed a keen interest in the origin and motive cause of my condition, having me detail precisely the manner and method whereby I created the Coke/Viagra/Pop-Rocks cocktail that I believe precipitated this situation. He took copious notes. He confirmed my initial suspicions that my condition is unique. Day 11 Several days have passed since I met with Dr. O'Keefe, and we have received no direct word from him. He was apparently called away on some unexpected family matter, and will not return for some time. Before he left, however, he had his assistant phone us with the name and contact information of another medical doctor, an expert with the Harvard School of Medicine. I hope to see him sometime in the very near future. My condition continues without interruption. I have abandoned any thought of wearing clothing, and spend the bulk of my day watching television and wiping up. I am considering the possibility of sleeping in my bathtub from now on. Day 13 Dr. Vijay Amin, the specialist referred to us by Dr. O'Keefe, came to see me this morning. It was clear that he was both shocked and amazed at my condition. He could give no initial explanation after a cursory examination, and was quite frank with me that he has never seen or heard of anyone ejaculating continuously for as long as I have. He expressed a keen professional interest in my case, and has promised to return in a few days with a fully equipped medical team. To my considerable relief, he insisted that the unique nature of my condition will assure me the best medical care. He left after about two hours, taking with him a half gallon sample. We offered him more, but he felt that a half gallon was enough. Day 14 Our pastor made an unexpected visit, curious as to my continuing absence from church functions. We finally told him the truth about my condition after an embarrassing incident involving a used towel and an ill advised handshake. Clearly shaken, he promised not to reveal details to my fellow parishioners. Before leaving, he led us in a brief prayer, though I was, of course, unable to kneel. He is a good man. Day 17 Dr. Amin and a team of researchers spent the entire day examining me and my surroundings, conducting tests, and interviewing me and my family. Of my family, I fear that the strain of this experience is almost more than my beloved mother can bear. She appeared to be holding up well, but suffered a breakdown just after a five gallon bucket filled with my ejaculant fell from a shelf, spilling its creamy contents all over her. My father immediately attempted to calm her, and took her from the room. She seemed to steady after a long and hot shower and a lengthy rest. It is clear, though, that she is under a lot of strain. We all are. Against this drama, the research team seems almost giddy with excitement over their investigation. One of Dr. Amin's graduate students, an attractive female in her early twenties, told me that my condition is the most amazing thing that she and the rest of the team had ever seen. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Too infectious, I'm afraid. I regret that when she leaned over the bed to talk to me, I caught a glimpse of her cleavage and my condition immediately worsened. The amount of ejaculant draining out of my erect penis increased ten fold so that it was a steady, pressurized stream. The poor woman was forced to retreat from the room for her own hygiene and safety. Day 23 I believe that someone on Dr. Amin's research team has contacted the media about me and my condition. I was rudely awakened two mornings ago by a dozen or so members of the press camped out on the front lawn. At least, I think it was someone on Dr. Amin's team. The only other people who are aware of my condition are our trusted pastor and our distant relation with the unfortunate daschund. The media, it seems, is having a field day with this. It's best described as a circus. I have been dubbed "The Filthy Fountain" by the New York Post. I've thus far received numerous requests for interviews, invitations to appear on a variety of talk shows, a series of marriage proposals, invitations for product endorsements, and an invitation to the Vatican to meet the Pope. Apparently, the Roman Catholic Church believes I may have some bizarre form of stigmata. This attention is both distracting and annoying. I've tried to remain calm and strong throughout this ordeal, but it's becoming more and more difficult. For lack of a better way to put it: I'm simply sick and tired of ejaculating. I wish it would stop. There is semen everywhere. My life has ground to a halt. I'm regarded as a freak by the public. Day 30 I haven't written in my diary in about a week because I've been too depressed. Were it not for the prospect of a cure from Dr. Amin's research team, I think I would simply give up and suffer a complete nervous breakdown. This morning while getting into the shower, my attention lapsed and I wasn't careful about where I stepped. I slipped and fell on my own semen. I lay there, dazed, in an ever deepening pool of ejaculant that coagulated around me. I became disoriented and confused, and mistook my bathroom, its mirrors and tiles covered in dripping semen, for a 7-11. How long this hallucination went on, I do not know. I finally realized that my medicine cabinet was, in fact, just a medicine cabinet, and not a Slushy machine. Oh dear God in Heaven, I hope those people at Harvard can cure me. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Day 32 I am to be airlifted to the hospital soon under Dr. Amin's personal supervision. I'm to be fitted with a special device that attaches to my waist and that drains excess sperm into a portable holding tank. The media will be on hand during the transfer, though Dr. Amin has promised me that he will try to keep them at bay. How I loathe them. Dr. Amin seems stressed. He has taken my case on as an almost personal crusade and for that, I am grateful. Day 35 All settled in at the hospital. The nurses and attending physicians are all quite pleasant and kind. I'm afraid I am given to an unexplained paranoia, though, because I have this constant suspicion that beneath their polished veneer, they secretly mock me. Why should they believe any different from the general public that I am a complete freak of nature? Of course, they are professionals. Treating abnormalities is their trade. Surely they must view me as just another sick patient. Or perhaps they stand outside my door and snicker and laugh to each other about me. Perhaps they go home at night to their wives and husbands and talk about the freak show in room 112C with the erect penis and the buckets of semen that have to be carried out each day. I believe I am slowly going mad. Day 37 My condition worsens. When I was first brought here, five days ago, my emissions filled 9 bedpans in a 24 hour period. Today, I've already had the orderlies empty seventeen bedpans, and it is just now 6:30 pm. I am frightened. Day 41 I don't believe that Dr. Amin is sleeping properly. He's irritable all the time, and not really all that accessible to me anymore. I think he's become obsessed with my case, and is struggling with his inability to find a treatment or a cure. He, too, is under a lot of scrutiny by the media, so I'm not surprised that he may feel that he is at the end of his rope. His professional reputation is at stake. He frightens me. He is my last and only hope. If he cannot cure me, or at least devise some sort of treatment so that I can lead something akin to a normal life again, then I do not believe that anyone can. If he cannot cure me, then I do not want to go on living. There, it's out in the open now. I pray to God that this living Hell ends soon, be it by a cure or by my death. Day 43 One of the orderlies, Gus, takes time out to talk to me. He's a nice person and I like him. He's taken a genuine interest in my welfare, and he senses that my sanity is stretched to capacity. He's told me that he's going to do something that is strictly forbidden, and smuggle in some alcohol to me. He thinks that if I get roaring drunk, I'll feel better. I don't drink all that much, but what can it hurt? He offered to bring a couple of females by, women that he described as "ready to party for the right price" but sexual stimulation is not something I want or need right now. Getting drunk, that sounds attractive. Maybe it will dull the pain of my existence. Maybe it will be good for me to cut loose a little. Day 45 gus bringged drink & i hadve too much gus gone now spill tequila i want my liffe back bowlof kum bowll of kum Day 46 Devastating hangover. I think Gus got fired and I feel bad for that. No change in condition. Contemplating suicide again. Day 50 Dr. Amin cannot help me. He means well, but he and his team of researchers have failed in their quest to end my constant ejaculation. He keeps telling me that I just need to hold on a little longer, that they're on the verge of a breakthrough, and I think he believes that but I think he is mistaken. I have given up on him. Given enough time, I am certain that he could, indeed, cure me, but time is something that I do not have. The pastor comes to see me twice a week. He is a good and kind man, but he is a fool. What god would allow this abomination to happen to me? How can a supreme being be merciful and sit idly by while I suffer in this way? No just god would. There is no god. I am god. The pastor is god. We are all god, and we are all consigned to a brief span of life before we return to oblivion. Day 55 I can endure this no longer. Nearly two months of constant ejaculation. It's too much. I'm wasting away. A stronger person would draw inspiration from this adversity and use it to become a better human. I am not strong. I have come to a decision. I would rather die than continue like this. I have told no one, for I am certain that they would restrain me if they were aware of my suicidal thoughts. I have one last and desperate hope for a cure in the form of a fantastic scheme concocted by Dr. Amin. It involves a doctored photograph of Janet Reno used in conjunction with a jar that contains a mixture of Gary Coleman's afterbirth and armpit hair collected from a variety of sources. It is Dr. Amin's belief that exposure to these items will completely destroy all traces of my sex drive and I will stop ejaculating completely. I think he is quite mad, but I am willing to try. In the event that his cure fails, I have made other "arrangements." This living hell will end one way or another. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, February 6th, 2003
5:25 pm	The Battle of the Network Stars It was his habit to rummage through the bargain bins at second hand clothing stores. His entire wardrobe was obtained in this way. He was very pleased with his newest addition of a size 42-R standard Navy issue wool pea-coat. It was old and worn, but so was everything else that he owned. He didn't care. A few days later, he found a yellowed scrap of newspaper in one of the pockets. It appeared to be a fragment of a cover to a supermarket tabloid. A piece of the main headline was still visible. It's letters were big and colorful. It ran "Next Battle of the Network Stars Heats Up". He was thunderstruck. Speechless. He stood in his dimly lit room and stared at the scrap of newspaper, mouth agape. His mind struggled to envelop the concept. There had been a battle. It was one in a series of battles - the headline clearly stated that there would be a NEXT Battle of the Network Stars. In these battles, network celebrities had met and clashed. Blood had been spilled. People had been wounded, maimed and killed. Famous people. Rich people. Celebrities. What was even more incredible to him was that the network stars had fought each other. This was not a matter of a common mobilization against an external enemy, but a civil war. Hollywood stars had stepped forth from their marble lined and palatial mansions, taken up arms, and marched off to battle. There had been a second Civil War. Why had he not heard of this? Clearly, history had been rewritten by the victor. The masses - he himself included - had been brain-washed. Trained to forget. Their memories - his memories - had been washed away. Surely others knew. At the very least, the people who perpetuated this enormous crime knew. They would have families and facilities and support staff. Those people, too, would have to know some or all of this true history. Despite their wealth and power, how could they have possibly rewritten history in such a complete and thorough way? It staggered his imagination. Over the course of the next few days, he spent his time rummaging through the pockets of other articles of clothing at the second hand stores that he frequented. More traditional methods of fact finding were useless to him. This much was obvious. No book at the library would contain the truth. They had all been rewritten. He couldn't ask anyone, for they would all have been brainwashed like himself. His only hope of finding more information was a forgotten piece of paper from a magazine or newspaper, much like the one he had already found, left in an abandoned garment. He was largely frustrated in these efforts, though he did manage to find the cover of an old TV Guide that made a tantalizing reference to a "Ratings War". So. That was it. He realized what had happened. The broadcast networks, powerful, influential and flush with money, had taken the degree of their competition with each other to a new and blood-thirsty level. Open hostilities had been declared. Television stars, representative of their networks, had heeded the call to war. Who had won, and why had they rewritten history? He was determined to find out. For the first time in over a month, he turned on his tiny black and white television. If there were clues to be found, the logical place to start was with television itself. This was a task that he found to be quite distasteful. He generally had no use for television other than a nostalgia for his childhood triggered by reruns of Gilligan's Island. Other times, he used it as a means of gathering information on the latest Space Shuttle tragedy. But now he watched everything. He watched television every hour of every day. He stopped watching only long enough to forage for food or to bathe himself periodically. He hated it and himself for doing it, but he had to know the truth and this was, as far as he could tell, the only way. At first he found nothing. There were no clues to be had that he could see. He flipped from one channel to the next, watching for just a few seconds here or for a couple of minutes there, depending on his level of interest. It was overwhelming, and he struggled to make sense of the endless stream of images and data that poured into his brain. He thought his head would explode. After a time, he began to notice patterns in the programming between and among the broadcast networks. There was a set schedule, with only some small deviation. The mornings, for example, were filled with news programs that seemed to focus on traffic, weather, and colorful individuals and/or their pets. These were followed by programs in which contestants either answered questions or debased themselves physically in return for the opportunity to be given money or appliances. The late morning and early afternoon hours featured moving dramatic plays in which many people suffered from amnesia, only to have their memories return during crucial moments. Often they would confess that they had sired children that the other characters did not know about. Occasionally, one had an evil twin who was thwarted just prior to the completion of some grand and nefarious scheme. He was often moved to tears by these maudlin stories of love, revenge and betrayal. This further contributed to his growing sense of self loathing, yet still he pressed on. Cartoons and children's shows came next, in the late afternoon. They were followed by basic and ineffectual news programs that featured capsule summaries of local and global events. Then came a series of half hour comedic pieces or hour long dramas. There seemed to be no specific pattern here about the order in which they would appear, but they were certain to air in the early to mid evenings. The comedies seemed to focus primarily on crises that, while apparently hopeless, were nonetheless concluded with a happy result in approximately 22 minutes. Often these programs featured men and women who shared common living arrangements, but who were otherwise platonic in their friendship. The dramas either featured young, wealthy and attractive physicians or young, wealthy and attractive lawyers. Regardless of the profession, the characters ministered to the poor or struggled with bizarre sexual medical conditions. In the late evenings, prior to midnight, there were hour long programs that he thought were shows in which people were interviewed, but which he finally came to understand were commercial advertisements for recently released films or recently published novels. To complete the cycle, the early morning hours featured religious programs or lengthy paid advertisements for health care products or car repair kits. Both programs beseeched the viewer to mail the producers money and both purported to offer a means by which viewers could become happier, healthier people. Eventually, he came to group both types of programs in the same category. Whoever had won the Ratings War had subsumed the vanquished and broken enemy networks and had turned them in to cookie-cutter versions of each other. Why was he just now noticing this? Perhaps it was because he had previously watched television very little. Of course, he had been brainwashed somehow to forget an entire section of history, so it was apparent to him that the dark lords of the victorious network could perform outrageous and seemingly impossible deeds. Seemingly impossible. Outside the realm of the physical. Over and above the natural. Metaphysical and supernatural were not incorrect terms to describe their powers. Given what they had done, evil was an appropriate term as well. And then he knew the truth: Television was a tool of Satan. He was not a religious man, but this conclusion was inescapable. He had immersed himself in television, and in so doing, had effectively welcomed the Prince of Lies into his home and into his head. There was still time for him to be saved, for he could recognize what was happening and could still feel alarm. But it was almost too late - he felt a powerful urge to turn on the television at that moment, knowing the conclusion of a two part crime-drama was just about to air. He thought he had deduced the identity of the murderer, but he wasn't certain. The only way to know was to get up, walk to the tv, and turn it on. Naked and trembling, he grabbed his little television, and hurled it out his window into a dumpster that lay beneath his room three stories below. He collapsed with exhaustion. The world was lost, he thought, but he could remain immune if he were vigilant and pure. He slept soundly that night for the first time in months. (Comment on this)
7:56 am	Things Not to Say During a Job Interview - It's important that you understand that I killed those children and animals in self defense. - Why are the women and minorities here speaking to me directly? - Before we continue this conversation, you should obtain a napkin or a handkerchief, because you're probably going to need it. - I hate my penis a lot more than you hate my penis. - This picture of your wife, it's coming with me. - Yes, that is my name, but henceforth, you are to refer to me as LORD ZOLTAR. You may perform a dance or circulate a memo to this effect, or whatever it is that you drones do to communicate with each other. - Look, I wore these clothes here because it's cold and I couldn't get on the bus otherwise, but don't expect for me to keep them on for the duration of this interview. - Is it you or me who smells like urine? - Is that your face or did a cannibal throw up on your neck? BLAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, man. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I guess I'm still drunk from last night. (Comment on this)
Sunday, January 19th, 2003
8:59 pm	Carebears You Will Never See 1. SIDS Bear 2. Lynching Bear 3. Thalidomide Bear 4. Statutory Rape Bear 5. Land Mine Bear 6. Sodomy Bear 7. Halitosis Bear 8. Illiterate Bear 9. Persian Gulf War Syndrome Bear 10. Suicide Bomber Bear (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, January 13th, 2003
4:25 pm	While Under the Influence of Alchohol The paper in the small town of Stratford, Connecticut ran a public service announcement from a local towing company over the Christmas holidays. This towing company offered to give free rides to anyone who, owing to holiday festivities, had ingested too much alcohol to drive safely. Basically, if you got too drunk to drive, you could call these guys, and they would dispatch a car and give you a ride to wherever it was you needed to go. I moved to Stratford from the West Coast. When I lived in Oakland, California, I didn't need a car - everything I needed was within walking distance, including the subway - so when I was in an accident in which my car was completely destroyed, I simply collected the insurance money and put it in the bank. It made no sense to buy a new one. Not owning a car was actually quite liberating: No insurance, no maintenance, no parking tickets. All that changed. Where once I lived in an apartment building surrounded by commercial establishments, I now live in a suburb surrounded by other houses. The nearest store is a small convenience shop about a quarter mile away. The nearest bus stop is a half mile away. The nearest rail station is five miles away. I would gladly walk or ride my bike to these destinations, but for the terrible winter weather. Snow is a common occurrence. I had no choice but to buy a car. To complicate matters, I didn't have a job and was living on my savings. In order to buy a car, I needed a job. In order to get a job, I needed a car. A vicious cycle. I could not depend on my girlfriend for rides everywhere. I could not afford to take taxis. Public transportation was too far away. The weather was too inhospitable for me to walk or bike. It dawned on me that I had to rely on the services of the towing company, even if those services were only offered during the holiday season. Unfortunately, this meant that I had to get liquored up first, before I called them, and I rarely drink. I'm definitely a light-weight. Getting around town was no longer something I could take for granted. It would take planning and forethought, and a stronger liver than I had. Still, what other choice was there? The first time I used the towing company's service, I decided to surprise my girlfriend by making a grocery store run while she was at work. I rummaged through the cabinets and found some rum. By 11:00 am, I was completely drunk, and there was no question that I was not fit to operate any sort of vehicle, and that included a telephone. I had miscalculated and had gotten so drunk that I had trouble dialing the phone. When I did finally get through to an operator, she couldn't understand anything I was saying. I vomitted, and then passed out. I tried again the next day, and was more careful to only drink to some mild excess. This was much better. I was tipsy, but not stone cold drunk. I successfully made the phone call to the towing service's courtesy hotline, and a half hour later, a company car arrived at my home. I was dutifully carried to the grocery store, despite the quizzical looks from my driver. I bought groceries and then started drinking again because I had to use the service to get back home. I had planned for this while I was shopping for groceries and had purchased a lot of alcohol. The only problem was that it is illegal in Stratford, Connecticut to drink in public. And, I had a shopping cart filled with bags of groceries. So I walked the cart around the block several times, taking snorts directly out of a liquor bottle that I had put in a brown paper bag. Observers just assumed that I was a homeless person, and this false impression suited my purposes. A half hour or so later, I was legitimately drunk, and called the service. I was lucky that there was a different driver this time, though I could sense that she, too, regarded me with curiousity. The second time I used the service, it was for a job interview. It was scheduled for 9:00 am, and factoring in the time it would take for me to get dressed, get drunk and for the car itself to arrive, I realized that I had to start drinking as early as 7:00 am. The trick was to be drunk enough to call the service, but not so drunk that I couldn't sober up for the interview. As I mentioned, I don't drink otherwise, and I don't know a lot about alcohol. This time when I rummaged through my girlfriend's kitchen cabinets I found what I thought would be a serviceable liquor: Tequila. I took several shots, but nothing seemed to happen. I assumed that it was, perhaps, an liquor that simply didn't have a lot of alcoholic content. To expedite matters, I started drinking beer. When the car arrived, I had what I thought was a pleasant buzz. I now know that tequila is not the best alcoholic beverage for this type of endeavor. I know I didn't get the job because they never called me back, but what troubles me more is that I don't remember going to the job interview at all. I did, however, receive a job offer from a company in Mexico that manufactures devices for farmers that faciliate the gathering of bull semen. The job offer came in the form of a hand written letter and was addressed to "Sugar Britches." The third and final time I used the service, it was to meet my girlfriend and two of her friends, a married couple, for dinner. This couple, Mark and Tracy, have a seven year old boy, Joey, who had the fortune of playing the Lead Tomato in a school play the same night we were to have dinner. The original plan was for us to meet at a local restaurant after the play was over, but my girlfriend was running late, and I agreed to make my way to the boy's elementary school where I would meet Mark and Tracy, watch the play, and ride with them to the restaurant. It was snowing that night, and the school was far enough away that I decided to use the towing service's courtesy car instead of a taxi. This time I had plenty of alcohol to choose from as we had had a party a few nights earlier, and there had been liquor left over. I don't care for the taste of alcohol, so I decided to flavor my drinks by spiking some leftover punch. What I didn't know, though, was that the punch had already been spiked, and so I was, in effect, double loading it. I stumbled into the school auditorium while the children's play was in progress, stinking of gin, and declaring loudly that I had a yeast infection. I'm not sure why I said that, precisely. Nor am I certian of what possessed me to decide that I was Lead Tomato and to claim my right as liege, I had to take a dump on the stage while chanting obsenities and pointing at various women in the room and demanding that they "Put the lotion in the basket." By the time the police had arrived, I was completely naked and debauched. By court order, I am not allowed to go within 1,000 feet of Mark's wife, Tracy, owing to a comment I made to her that involved her genitals and a soldering iron. I finally decided that the whole towing service courtesy service thing just wasn't working out, and that I would have to purchase a vehicle. I'm still shopping around. Many automobile dealerships in the area promise they will sell a car to a prospective buyer regardless of credit history, and I'm hoping that extends to a criminal history as well. (1 Comment |Comment on this)