I guess it's time for my monthly liberal rant. Even though my country disgusts me on a daily basis, I've tried to limit my number of outbursts. Usually when someone confronts me with the latest news of our government's despicable actions I just nod and say something to the effect of "It'll all be over soon...extinction should be right around the corner, God willing." I try to be a good American and accept the world's tragedies, either wrought by us our visited upon us, by hiding my head in the sand now.
But this week we have witnessed a tragedy of epic proportions. The tsunami that hit Asia. The rising death toll, currently at 80,000, is nothing compared to the 5 million people that have been left homeless. Disease is a looming threat with all the dead bodies tainting the drinking water. Each day the tale gets darker and darker.
But never fear... America will soon be here!
Yes, the world's wealthiest nation has gracefully pledged $35 million in relief funds. What a generous offer, thank you so so much for being so altruistic, you are certainly going to heav---wait a second---did you just say $35 MILLION?
That's right campers. 35 million smackeroos. In fact, if you play your cards right, we'll even throw in a wet-vac and an econo-pack of sponges!
Woo! I must say I've never been prouder of my American citizenship than I am now. What a charitable country we are. Why would so many people around the world dislike us? We just pledged what Julia Roberts would make on two films.
"Oh, but Dave," you say. "This isn't a numbers game. It's the thought that counts." Exactly. And this is how much we think of the rest of the world. We will gladly spend $820 million on two Mars Exploration Rovers to take pictures of dirt on another planet, but helping out our fellow human beings doesn't seem to rank that high up there.
Our government will spend $5 million MORE on GW Bush's inauguration than it will on disaster relief. (Chicago Tribune 12/28) "Wait Dave, you're talking out of your ass," you say. "That money was raised by independent donors, not the people of the United States." OK, I'll give you that one. With such a bleak future on the horizon and death in the air, I guess a nice $40 million party is in order.
We have spent close to $150 billion dollars to kill people in Iraq. I was never good at math but I think that is somewhere around 5,000x more than we're offering in disaster relief.
After Hurricane Charley last summer, Congress approved $13 billion dollars in aid.
The tsunami relief funds have currently gathered $350 million from around the world. The 9/11 relief funds brought in $2.9 BILLION. They've lost 80,000 people, we lost 3,000. Hmmm. Perhaps the tsunami victims should exploit their disaster like we did. Will we see "12/26. We Will Never Forget" bumper stickers on rickshaws some day?
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Kidnapping 101
It’s been awhile since there was a good kidnapping with a ridiculous ransom demand to hold the American public spellbound. Alas, the newspapers are void of such events these days, overloaded as they are with gritty stories from the frontlines of the Iraq war, the daily bumbling of our egregious political system, and the scandal-ready antics of Paris Hilton. While the ordeal of Elizabeth Smart a few years back kept us partially satiated, it lacked the drama of an exorbitant ransom. Some of you may be asking, “Who will be our generation’s Lindbergh baby? Our Patty Hearst?”
Well friends, the answer to that question could be you. That’s right! You can shanghai yourself for fun and profit without ever leaving your own home! O.K. that last part is completely false, but never you mind. By following a few simple steps you can be on your way to a profitable venture into the exciting, high-stakes world of kidnapping!
A common misconception among would-be kidnapper/victims is that they must be well liked to garner any media attention or reward. This is not the case. While a winning personality will most certainly work to your advantage as a kidnapping victim/media darling (and possibly push your expected ransom up a few decimal points) the role of victim does not have to be played by the “loved and adored” alone. Many of those who count themselves among the “merely-tolerated” have pulled in sizable ransoms as well. Alas, the “unpopular and disliked” have been known to go missing for decades and sometimes wind up homeless or dead. A few have reportedly turned themselves in for free, their spirits crushed, their bodies flea-and-lice-ridden, their stories not fit even for a Commercial-Of-The-Week.
It certainly helps if you come from a wealthy family, as this will make the gathering of the ransom money more feasible. Asking a capitalist swine industrialist to turn over a few million clams seems more appropriate than asking a city garbage disposal employee. If you come from a less economically advantaged background your best bet is to play on the sympathy of others. Maybe your father is a police officer or firefighter. This is a great area to exploit in these post-9/11 times! We are predisposed to feeling sorry for these families, and you might even get small children from around the country to forgo lunch a few times a week and trips to Disneyland to put money aside for your safe return. Play the heartstrings!
THE RANSOM NOTE
The first step once you’ve decided to kidnap yourself is to write a ransom note. These days, with the significant advances made in forensic science, it is much harder to write an untraceable ransom note. Every detail of the note will be poured over by the proper authorities (provided someone actually wants to see you returned to them), and you can’t allow any clues to get out which might reveal your identity. This automatically scratches the idea of a handwritten note. Graphologists will be able to figure out you wrote it, no matter how disguised and child-like you make your scrawl. Even notes written on a computer can be traced, by studying the minute flaws in various printers. Your best bet is to cut out letters from a newspaper and paste them together on a separate piece of paper. This is not only a tried and true method of writing ransom notes, it’s also punk rock and DIY! (In fact in Idaho in 1986, Jorge Stinkshit, a dominant figure in the Pocatello punk rock scene and lead singer of The One-Armed Wankers, was picked up for kidnapping an Elk City woman’s daschund, because the kidnapper’s note bore a striking resemblance to the singer’s hand-made flyers to promote his band.)
Be sure to use harsh language and a threatening tone in your note. Throw in declarations of certain death should your demands not be met. This helps get the public and proper authorities whipped into a frenzy. Everyone loves a good suspense tale, so keep them on the edge of their seats! Don’t be afraid to plagiarize well-written ransom notes from the past. No one is going to criticize your note for its “lack of originality”. Toss in liberal use of the phrase “Or Else!” You don’t even need to tell them or else what, they’ll know you mean business if you’ve interested them this far. (This is also a good phrase to end the note on. It leaves a sense of foreboding.)
*One more thing: An important, yet oft overlooked part of ransom note etiquette is leaving the note in an easy-to-find spot. All this would be for naught if no one finds your note and everyone assumes you just went out for coffee.
THE ACTUAL KIDNAPPING
Now we get to the fun part! Abducting yourself is a great way to spend an afternoon, provided you’ve made the necessary preparations.
The element of surprise is your best ally. Where are you at your least suspecting and most vulnerable? While you are sleeping? While watching the game on TV? Perhaps while you are cooking dinner? The proper time to spirit away yourself is entirely up to you. But be smooth about it, so you don’t wake the neighbors and bungle the whole operation. Sneak up on yourself quietly. Wear a ski mask so you won’t be able to identify yourself. When you’ve gotten within a few feet and haven’t alerted yourself to your presence, make your move! There may be a struggle. In fact you may have to knock yourself unconscious. This will certainly slow up the process but once you regain consciousness (provided you weren’t too rough on yourself) you’ll know better than to put up a fight. This time you’ll be cooperative as you tie yourself up. If you do get lippy now and then, simply grab yourself by the front of your shirt and say, “Why I oughta...” This will remind you that you mean business, and the memory of that earlier beating will hopefully come back and prevent further disobedience.
Don’t forget the blindfold! After you’ve tied yourself up good and tight (a little practice in tying knots may be necessary. Go to the local Army & Navy store and pick up a Boy Scout Merit badge book on knot-tying to learn the most useful knots) put on the blindfold so you won’t be able to lead the cops back to the hideout once you’ve been safely returned to them.
Driving to the designated hideout may be a tad difficult with the blindfold on, so you will want to drive carefully. There is no need to rush to the hideout. Drive the speed limit and use your turn signals. You don’t want to arouse suspicion. Remember: Slow and steady wins the race!
AT THE HIDEOUT
Once you’ve transported yourself to the hideout, you’ll want to tie yourself to a chair in the middle of the room. Lead yourself to the chair and say, “Sit down you!” then forcible make yourself sit. If you start to struggle as you are tying yourself to the chair, a swift backhand to the face or a strong “I’ll bloody your lip again you!” will do the trick. Make sure the knots are strong, since this will be the longest part of the kidnapping, and you don’t want to wriggle out and give yourself the slip while your back is turned playing cards.
Now the only thing left to do is wait.
And wait.
Keep a phone close by in case the police call to make arrangements for a pickup, or if you get hungry and want to order a pizza.
Well friends, the answer to that question could be you. That’s right! You can shanghai yourself for fun and profit without ever leaving your own home! O.K. that last part is completely false, but never you mind. By following a few simple steps you can be on your way to a profitable venture into the exciting, high-stakes world of kidnapping!
A common misconception among would-be kidnapper/victims is that they must be well liked to garner any media attention or reward. This is not the case. While a winning personality will most certainly work to your advantage as a kidnapping victim/media darling (and possibly push your expected ransom up a few decimal points) the role of victim does not have to be played by the “loved and adored” alone. Many of those who count themselves among the “merely-tolerated” have pulled in sizable ransoms as well. Alas, the “unpopular and disliked” have been known to go missing for decades and sometimes wind up homeless or dead. A few have reportedly turned themselves in for free, their spirits crushed, their bodies flea-and-lice-ridden, their stories not fit even for a Commercial-Of-The-Week.
It certainly helps if you come from a wealthy family, as this will make the gathering of the ransom money more feasible. Asking a capitalist swine industrialist to turn over a few million clams seems more appropriate than asking a city garbage disposal employee. If you come from a less economically advantaged background your best bet is to play on the sympathy of others. Maybe your father is a police officer or firefighter. This is a great area to exploit in these post-9/11 times! We are predisposed to feeling sorry for these families, and you might even get small children from around the country to forgo lunch a few times a week and trips to Disneyland to put money aside for your safe return. Play the heartstrings!
THE RANSOM NOTE
The first step once you’ve decided to kidnap yourself is to write a ransom note. These days, with the significant advances made in forensic science, it is much harder to write an untraceable ransom note. Every detail of the note will be poured over by the proper authorities (provided someone actually wants to see you returned to them), and you can’t allow any clues to get out which might reveal your identity. This automatically scratches the idea of a handwritten note. Graphologists will be able to figure out you wrote it, no matter how disguised and child-like you make your scrawl. Even notes written on a computer can be traced, by studying the minute flaws in various printers. Your best bet is to cut out letters from a newspaper and paste them together on a separate piece of paper. This is not only a tried and true method of writing ransom notes, it’s also punk rock and DIY! (In fact in Idaho in 1986, Jorge Stinkshit, a dominant figure in the Pocatello punk rock scene and lead singer of The One-Armed Wankers, was picked up for kidnapping an Elk City woman’s daschund, because the kidnapper’s note bore a striking resemblance to the singer’s hand-made flyers to promote his band.)
Be sure to use harsh language and a threatening tone in your note. Throw in declarations of certain death should your demands not be met. This helps get the public and proper authorities whipped into a frenzy. Everyone loves a good suspense tale, so keep them on the edge of their seats! Don’t be afraid to plagiarize well-written ransom notes from the past. No one is going to criticize your note for its “lack of originality”. Toss in liberal use of the phrase “Or Else!” You don’t even need to tell them or else what, they’ll know you mean business if you’ve interested them this far. (This is also a good phrase to end the note on. It leaves a sense of foreboding.)
*One more thing: An important, yet oft overlooked part of ransom note etiquette is leaving the note in an easy-to-find spot. All this would be for naught if no one finds your note and everyone assumes you just went out for coffee.
THE ACTUAL KIDNAPPING
Now we get to the fun part! Abducting yourself is a great way to spend an afternoon, provided you’ve made the necessary preparations.
The element of surprise is your best ally. Where are you at your least suspecting and most vulnerable? While you are sleeping? While watching the game on TV? Perhaps while you are cooking dinner? The proper time to spirit away yourself is entirely up to you. But be smooth about it, so you don’t wake the neighbors and bungle the whole operation. Sneak up on yourself quietly. Wear a ski mask so you won’t be able to identify yourself. When you’ve gotten within a few feet and haven’t alerted yourself to your presence, make your move! There may be a struggle. In fact you may have to knock yourself unconscious. This will certainly slow up the process but once you regain consciousness (provided you weren’t too rough on yourself) you’ll know better than to put up a fight. This time you’ll be cooperative as you tie yourself up. If you do get lippy now and then, simply grab yourself by the front of your shirt and say, “Why I oughta...” This will remind you that you mean business, and the memory of that earlier beating will hopefully come back and prevent further disobedience.
Don’t forget the blindfold! After you’ve tied yourself up good and tight (a little practice in tying knots may be necessary. Go to the local Army & Navy store and pick up a Boy Scout Merit badge book on knot-tying to learn the most useful knots) put on the blindfold so you won’t be able to lead the cops back to the hideout once you’ve been safely returned to them.
Driving to the designated hideout may be a tad difficult with the blindfold on, so you will want to drive carefully. There is no need to rush to the hideout. Drive the speed limit and use your turn signals. You don’t want to arouse suspicion. Remember: Slow and steady wins the race!
AT THE HIDEOUT
Once you’ve transported yourself to the hideout, you’ll want to tie yourself to a chair in the middle of the room. Lead yourself to the chair and say, “Sit down you!” then forcible make yourself sit. If you start to struggle as you are tying yourself to the chair, a swift backhand to the face or a strong “I’ll bloody your lip again you!” will do the trick. Make sure the knots are strong, since this will be the longest part of the kidnapping, and you don’t want to wriggle out and give yourself the slip while your back is turned playing cards.
Now the only thing left to do is wait.
And wait.
Keep a phone close by in case the police call to make arrangements for a pickup, or if you get hungry and want to order a pizza.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Cabin Fever Pt. 2
Deborah instructed me to lie down on the cushioned table and remove my shirt. As I did so, she started mixing some sort of massage oils in a bronze bowl. She began rubbing the mixture on my chest and started to massage the aforementioned pressure points. I assume. I’m not too familiar with “pressure points”. I know that they are the various spots on your body where it hurts when you apply pressure and are very useful in immobilizing an opponent in any sort of hand-to-hand combat.
She began kneading the muscles around my stomach and groin. I briefly worried about getting a boner and whether that would negate my sincerity in this regression session. I imagined Christine yelling at me: “You always think about sex! Sex! Sex! Sex! Can’t you get your chakras massaged without getting a hard-on?! Men!” I also wondered what my groin area had to do with my past lives.
“Ouch!” I cried.
“Does that hurt?” Deborah asked.
“A little.” She was pressing down above my stomach and it felt like she had just stabbed me.
“Hmmm,” she sighed.
“What?” I said. My mind raced. I wondered what was wrong with me. She was not a doctor, but knew more about chakras and pressure points than me, so maybe she found something troubling with my aura?
“It burns, yes?” she asked.
“Slightly,” I said.
“Hmmm.”
She began rubbing the area around my stomach more forcefully now. Every time she pressed under my right ribcage I winced.
“Yep,” she said.
“What is it?” I was genuinely interested. Perhaps we had found the key to my acid reflux. And perhaps she could exorcise whatever was causing it.
“It’s your liver,” she said.
Great. My liver was rotting away. I knew those years of beer bongs and Flaming Dr. Peppers would catch up with me!
“Your liver is where you store your anger,” Deborah continued, as she applied more oil to the region below my ribcage.
What fucking anger?!
Had Christine talked to her about the gypsy’s prognosis and her own ideas about the origin of my dyspepsia? This anger bullshit was getting out of hand!
“Really?” I said.
“This is good,” Deborah said. “We should be able to take care of this through the regression. Now lie back, relax and close your eyes.”
With my eyes closed, the tinny finger-cymbal music that had been playing in the background the whole time became more prevalent. The smoke from the incense filled my nostrils. I felt myself fade into the table.
I wanted a joint. I knew Deborah was carrying. I’d smoked a jay with her when I first checked out the cabin and she discovered my “beautiful soul”. I found the address from an ad in the classifieds while looking for a place to rent. Christine was at her arts and crafts school and I was using her car to find us an apartment. When I pulled up to the cabin, Deborah was outside pulling some weeds from the base of the cabin’s porch. We greeted each other, talked for a few minutes about ourselves and then she showed me about the cabin. After a cursory tour of the place we stood on the porch trying to figure out if this was the right arrangement for both parties. Deborah pulled a small joint from her flannel shirt’s breast pocket and looked at me inquisitively to see if I would care to partake.
I did. And we spent a good half hour getting high and talking about life. I was glad to have found this place and couldn’t think of a cooler landlord to have for six months. The drive back to the motel I was staying in was a little hairy, trying to maneuver the car along the twisting mountain roads while my head was spinning from the weed, but it all worked out. I made no mention of the pot to Christine when I told her about the cabin, lest she think my decision to plop down $800 for the first and last month’s rent before she’d even seen the little cottage was influenced by that.
“I want you to let your mind drift back,” Deborah said, as she rubbed the muscles of my neck.
My brain was having trouble relaxing now that it had been told to. It was like trying to force yourself to dream or fall asleep, you become conscious of all the work your brain must do in order to shut down for the night. And it doesn’t want to let you in on its secrets.
“Try to picture yourself,” she said.
That helped. Of course, I wasn’t completely honest in my imagining of myself. My inner me was a helluva lot better looking than the actual me, a vague cross between Johnny Depp and Kevin Spacey. My inner me stood against a black background and waved at me. My actual hand involuntarily waved back.
“Now go back in time with yourself. Can you see events from your life?”
“Yes,” I said.
And I could. There was my inner me, SpaceyDepp, at my friend’s wedding a few months ago. He looked dashing in his tuxedo and I wondered why he didn’t get laid that night. I could see my inner me cracking wise about something at a party in college, trying too hard to be the center of attention but only making it to the outer edges of attention. And there’s my inner me getting out of the car he just wrapped around a telephone pole, shaking beads of windshield glass from his long hair. This was kinda fun.
“Go further back, as your inner child gets younger...”
I watched as my inner me got his books dumped down the stairwell in junior high school, as he got hit in the head by a fly ball in little league, as my neighbor’s mother yelled at the “third grade me” for letting her son read a short play I’d written that contained the words “shit” and “fuck” in the dialogue. They were all none-too-pleasant but my inner me handled it all rather well.
I could feel my fists and toes clench into fists the further back I went. Was this a real reaction or had it been planted? Whatever the case, I couldn’t control it and I began to curl my body up as well, lying on my left side as I did.
“Can you see your inner child?”
“I guess,” I said.
There was some fetal organism before me in the black ness. It squirted some sort of pus or fluid. It quickly burst with light and became a little child, a mini-me, I suppose.
“Yes,” I said. “I see it now.”
The small infant looked at me and waited for something. He smiled.
“What’s up?” I said out loud.
“I want you to talk to it and tell it whatever you want to tell it. Whatever you feel it should know,” Deborah said, assuming I’d been talking to her.
Looking at this wide-eyed infant version of myself standing there in a sea of black before me I wondered what I should say to him. What information could I impart to make his life easier so he didn’t develop latent anger issues and acid reflux? What had I never been told that knocked me off my life’s path? I began to well with tears and breathed in heavily.
“It’s o.k. to cry,” said Deborah in a comforting voice. “Let it all out. Speak to your child.”
I was a blubbering mess now that I’d been given the o.k. to break down. The tears poured down my face. I would’ve tried to brush them away had my hands not been balled up into fetal fists. My inner child smiled at me benevolently. He was so pure and untainted by the tragedies of life. I wanted to keep him safe from all the misery the world would throw his way. He was a strong little guy, I could see that, but I feared (or rather knew) that life’s occasional sucker punches just might knock him adrift in the world. I couldn’t let that happen.
“I just want you to know,” I sobbed. “That no matter what happens...don’t let...I mean, everyone is gonna be real supportive...encouragement...always there...”
I was having trouble making sense and I tried to gather myself.
“You will have lots of people who encourage you in life...they’ll tell you that you can do anything...and you can, if you try...it’s just...no one will ever tell you that...well, that life is shit.
“So many, sooo many things will happen that are just horrible...terrible...people will abandon you throughout your life, steal from you, lead you astray, break your heart, beat you senseless physically...it’s just a really shitty world...
“And you should know this...cuz your friends and family will be so supportive and helpful...but they’ll hide the shittiness of life from you...and you should know that it all sucks...so it doesn’t, like, throw you off...”
Deborah slapped her hands together and I opened my tear-filled eyes. My inner child disappeared from my mind.
“O.K. that’s not working,” she said. “Maybe we should try something else.”
I thought I was doing a good job. He needed to know! If I’m angry about anything it’s that I wasn’t properly prepared to live in a world that continually pulls the rug out from under you like a villain in a Mack Sennett comedy. Oh well.
Deborah blew out the candle on one of the conga drums and told me that we’d try this again at a later date.
“Maybe we can try contacting an older dead relative, who can help you with what you’re going through,” she said.
“Sure.”
I laid on the table waiting for my hands and feet to uncurl and return to normal. I didn’t think I would be returning for another session. I’d just have to stick to ingesting handfuls of Tums before I went to bed each night. I’m glad I got to meet my inner child though. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I hoped what I said didn’t mess him up or anything and he was able to take it with a grain of salt. I didn’t want him to be completely scared of the world and never come out again. Maybe I’ll check in on him in a few years to see how he’s doing. Let him know that even though life might be shit, it’s a helluva good fertilizer and some pretty nice flowers and mushrooms grow on shit.
She began kneading the muscles around my stomach and groin. I briefly worried about getting a boner and whether that would negate my sincerity in this regression session. I imagined Christine yelling at me: “You always think about sex! Sex! Sex! Sex! Can’t you get your chakras massaged without getting a hard-on?! Men!” I also wondered what my groin area had to do with my past lives.
“Ouch!” I cried.
“Does that hurt?” Deborah asked.
“A little.” She was pressing down above my stomach and it felt like she had just stabbed me.
“Hmmm,” she sighed.
“What?” I said. My mind raced. I wondered what was wrong with me. She was not a doctor, but knew more about chakras and pressure points than me, so maybe she found something troubling with my aura?
“It burns, yes?” she asked.
“Slightly,” I said.
“Hmmm.”
She began rubbing the area around my stomach more forcefully now. Every time she pressed under my right ribcage I winced.
“Yep,” she said.
“What is it?” I was genuinely interested. Perhaps we had found the key to my acid reflux. And perhaps she could exorcise whatever was causing it.
“It’s your liver,” she said.
Great. My liver was rotting away. I knew those years of beer bongs and Flaming Dr. Peppers would catch up with me!
“Your liver is where you store your anger,” Deborah continued, as she applied more oil to the region below my ribcage.
What fucking anger?!
Had Christine talked to her about the gypsy’s prognosis and her own ideas about the origin of my dyspepsia? This anger bullshit was getting out of hand!
“Really?” I said.
“This is good,” Deborah said. “We should be able to take care of this through the regression. Now lie back, relax and close your eyes.”
With my eyes closed, the tinny finger-cymbal music that had been playing in the background the whole time became more prevalent. The smoke from the incense filled my nostrils. I felt myself fade into the table.
I wanted a joint. I knew Deborah was carrying. I’d smoked a jay with her when I first checked out the cabin and she discovered my “beautiful soul”. I found the address from an ad in the classifieds while looking for a place to rent. Christine was at her arts and crafts school and I was using her car to find us an apartment. When I pulled up to the cabin, Deborah was outside pulling some weeds from the base of the cabin’s porch. We greeted each other, talked for a few minutes about ourselves and then she showed me about the cabin. After a cursory tour of the place we stood on the porch trying to figure out if this was the right arrangement for both parties. Deborah pulled a small joint from her flannel shirt’s breast pocket and looked at me inquisitively to see if I would care to partake.
I did. And we spent a good half hour getting high and talking about life. I was glad to have found this place and couldn’t think of a cooler landlord to have for six months. The drive back to the motel I was staying in was a little hairy, trying to maneuver the car along the twisting mountain roads while my head was spinning from the weed, but it all worked out. I made no mention of the pot to Christine when I told her about the cabin, lest she think my decision to plop down $800 for the first and last month’s rent before she’d even seen the little cottage was influenced by that.
“I want you to let your mind drift back,” Deborah said, as she rubbed the muscles of my neck.
My brain was having trouble relaxing now that it had been told to. It was like trying to force yourself to dream or fall asleep, you become conscious of all the work your brain must do in order to shut down for the night. And it doesn’t want to let you in on its secrets.
“Try to picture yourself,” she said.
That helped. Of course, I wasn’t completely honest in my imagining of myself. My inner me was a helluva lot better looking than the actual me, a vague cross between Johnny Depp and Kevin Spacey. My inner me stood against a black background and waved at me. My actual hand involuntarily waved back.
“Now go back in time with yourself. Can you see events from your life?”
“Yes,” I said.
And I could. There was my inner me, SpaceyDepp, at my friend’s wedding a few months ago. He looked dashing in his tuxedo and I wondered why he didn’t get laid that night. I could see my inner me cracking wise about something at a party in college, trying too hard to be the center of attention but only making it to the outer edges of attention. And there’s my inner me getting out of the car he just wrapped around a telephone pole, shaking beads of windshield glass from his long hair. This was kinda fun.
“Go further back, as your inner child gets younger...”
I watched as my inner me got his books dumped down the stairwell in junior high school, as he got hit in the head by a fly ball in little league, as my neighbor’s mother yelled at the “third grade me” for letting her son read a short play I’d written that contained the words “shit” and “fuck” in the dialogue. They were all none-too-pleasant but my inner me handled it all rather well.
I could feel my fists and toes clench into fists the further back I went. Was this a real reaction or had it been planted? Whatever the case, I couldn’t control it and I began to curl my body up as well, lying on my left side as I did.
“Can you see your inner child?”
“I guess,” I said.
There was some fetal organism before me in the black ness. It squirted some sort of pus or fluid. It quickly burst with light and became a little child, a mini-me, I suppose.
“Yes,” I said. “I see it now.”
The small infant looked at me and waited for something. He smiled.
“What’s up?” I said out loud.
“I want you to talk to it and tell it whatever you want to tell it. Whatever you feel it should know,” Deborah said, assuming I’d been talking to her.
Looking at this wide-eyed infant version of myself standing there in a sea of black before me I wondered what I should say to him. What information could I impart to make his life easier so he didn’t develop latent anger issues and acid reflux? What had I never been told that knocked me off my life’s path? I began to well with tears and breathed in heavily.
“It’s o.k. to cry,” said Deborah in a comforting voice. “Let it all out. Speak to your child.”
I was a blubbering mess now that I’d been given the o.k. to break down. The tears poured down my face. I would’ve tried to brush them away had my hands not been balled up into fetal fists. My inner child smiled at me benevolently. He was so pure and untainted by the tragedies of life. I wanted to keep him safe from all the misery the world would throw his way. He was a strong little guy, I could see that, but I feared (or rather knew) that life’s occasional sucker punches just might knock him adrift in the world. I couldn’t let that happen.
“I just want you to know,” I sobbed. “That no matter what happens...don’t let...I mean, everyone is gonna be real supportive...encouragement...always there...”
I was having trouble making sense and I tried to gather myself.
“You will have lots of people who encourage you in life...they’ll tell you that you can do anything...and you can, if you try...it’s just...no one will ever tell you that...well, that life is shit.
“So many, sooo many things will happen that are just horrible...terrible...people will abandon you throughout your life, steal from you, lead you astray, break your heart, beat you senseless physically...it’s just a really shitty world...
“And you should know this...cuz your friends and family will be so supportive and helpful...but they’ll hide the shittiness of life from you...and you should know that it all sucks...so it doesn’t, like, throw you off...”
Deborah slapped her hands together and I opened my tear-filled eyes. My inner child disappeared from my mind.
“O.K. that’s not working,” she said. “Maybe we should try something else.”
I thought I was doing a good job. He needed to know! If I’m angry about anything it’s that I wasn’t properly prepared to live in a world that continually pulls the rug out from under you like a villain in a Mack Sennett comedy. Oh well.
Deborah blew out the candle on one of the conga drums and told me that we’d try this again at a later date.
“Maybe we can try contacting an older dead relative, who can help you with what you’re going through,” she said.
“Sure.”
I laid on the table waiting for my hands and feet to uncurl and return to normal. I didn’t think I would be returning for another session. I’d just have to stick to ingesting handfuls of Tums before I went to bed each night. I’m glad I got to meet my inner child though. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I hoped what I said didn’t mess him up or anything and he was able to take it with a grain of salt. I didn’t want him to be completely scared of the world and never come out again. Maybe I’ll check in on him in a few years to see how he’s doing. Let him know that even though life might be shit, it’s a helluva good fertilizer and some pretty nice flowers and mushrooms grow on shit.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Non sequiturs
Yet another addition to the carpal-tunnel-go-round
It's like snorkeling for shekels on a Thursday night.
I suppose you butter your coat with both fingers
Flipping saltpeter in a bees nest
Like a cancerous tooth on Columbus Day.
Too many jockeys ruin the whipple.
Do you shave your armpits one pant-leg at a time?
It's like snorkeling for shekels on a Thursday night.
I suppose you butter your coat with both fingers
Flipping saltpeter in a bees nest
Like a cancerous tooth on Columbus Day.
Too many jockeys ruin the whipple.
Do you shave your armpits one pant-leg at a time?
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
current top 5 cds:
Pinback "Summer in Abaddon"
Brother JT "Off Blue"
Soundtrack "The Life Aquatic"
Elliott Smith "From a Basement on the Hill"
Greg Ashley "Medicine Fuck Dream"
Brother JT "Off Blue"
Soundtrack "The Life Aquatic"
Elliott Smith "From a Basement on the Hill"
Greg Ashley "Medicine Fuck Dream"
choose your own adventure
You are seated in the office of Dr. Levine, smoking an unfiltered Camel cigarette. There is no one but you in the office and you take a moment to orient yourself, walking about, studying the doctor's various diplomas and commendations. He is a very well-educated man, you think, eyeing his doctorate degree from the University of Cantoon. You don't remember where Cantoon is, but you're pretty sure it is off the coast of Iowa. You regret never having gone to college, but you also regret never having finished kindergarten.
School was always a hassle, what, with your father being an adventurer-hero as he was. He was always taking you on "diplomatic missions" to kill various heads of state. While the other kids were learning their ABCs, you were learning to field-strip an M16, which, in retrospect, has helped you more than a college degree would in your current career as a hired killer. But you can't help but pine for those lost days of youth.
"Hello Agent Phosphorous," Dr. Levine says as he enters his office. You are startled and quickly put down the rack of lamb you found in the bottom drawer of his desk.
"Dr. Levine I presume?" you say suavely.
"Yes," the doctor answers. "Hope you weren't lost. They still haven't changed the name on the door."
Before he shuts it you notice the plaque on the door that reads: Dr. Pinkerstein, M.D. You are confused. You could've sworn it read: Dr. Hardy, D.D.S. when you first entered. No matter, you've found your man.
"Now then Agent Phosphorous," the doctor says, "let's get down to brass tacks."
"Have you lost them?"
"Quite the contrary," he says and turns his back to you.
You notice several brass tacks embedded in his ass. He hands you a pair of pliers and you go to work. In a matter of seconds, you have removed the doctor's tacks and put them in your pocket for safe keeping. The doctor sits at his desk and you pull up a small end-table to sit on. You have forgotten about the chair you were seated in earlier. When the doctor points it out to you, you say "thank you" and begin to wrestle it.
"It has been brought to my attention," the doctor proceeds, "that you've been suffering from some minor gastrointestinal pains."
"No, the pains are in my stomach," you say.
"What kinds of foods have you been eating lately?"
"Well, I've been on a very strict diet," you say. "I'm trying to avoid foods with the letter E in them."
The doctor ponders this for two minutes. He doesn't say anything but quietly hums the refrain to "Yes, We Have No Bananas". After this short musical interlude, he tells you to remove your pants. You tell him that you've already been to the dentist and have no time for his shenanigans.
"Alright Agent Phosphorous," the doctor tells you. "Since you seem to be healthy otherwise, I'm going to prescribe this rather useless and unpleasant-tasting placebo. I'm only going to recommend a month's worth, but if your stomach problems persist, please call my nurse and ask her to recite 'The Gettysburg Address' backwards."
Dr. Levine scribbles the prescription on a McDonald's napkin and hands it to you.
If you take the prescription and leave, turn to page 6
If you ask for a second opinion, turn to page 32
If you decide he needs to die, turn to page 4
School was always a hassle, what, with your father being an adventurer-hero as he was. He was always taking you on "diplomatic missions" to kill various heads of state. While the other kids were learning their ABCs, you were learning to field-strip an M16, which, in retrospect, has helped you more than a college degree would in your current career as a hired killer. But you can't help but pine for those lost days of youth.
"Hello Agent Phosphorous," Dr. Levine says as he enters his office. You are startled and quickly put down the rack of lamb you found in the bottom drawer of his desk.
"Dr. Levine I presume?" you say suavely.
"Yes," the doctor answers. "Hope you weren't lost. They still haven't changed the name on the door."
Before he shuts it you notice the plaque on the door that reads: Dr. Pinkerstein, M.D. You are confused. You could've sworn it read: Dr. Hardy, D.D.S. when you first entered. No matter, you've found your man.
"Now then Agent Phosphorous," the doctor says, "let's get down to brass tacks."
"Have you lost them?"
"Quite the contrary," he says and turns his back to you.
You notice several brass tacks embedded in his ass. He hands you a pair of pliers and you go to work. In a matter of seconds, you have removed the doctor's tacks and put them in your pocket for safe keeping. The doctor sits at his desk and you pull up a small end-table to sit on. You have forgotten about the chair you were seated in earlier. When the doctor points it out to you, you say "thank you" and begin to wrestle it.
"It has been brought to my attention," the doctor proceeds, "that you've been suffering from some minor gastrointestinal pains."
"No, the pains are in my stomach," you say.
"What kinds of foods have you been eating lately?"
"Well, I've been on a very strict diet," you say. "I'm trying to avoid foods with the letter E in them."
The doctor ponders this for two minutes. He doesn't say anything but quietly hums the refrain to "Yes, We Have No Bananas". After this short musical interlude, he tells you to remove your pants. You tell him that you've already been to the dentist and have no time for his shenanigans.
"Alright Agent Phosphorous," the doctor tells you. "Since you seem to be healthy otherwise, I'm going to prescribe this rather useless and unpleasant-tasting placebo. I'm only going to recommend a month's worth, but if your stomach problems persist, please call my nurse and ask her to recite 'The Gettysburg Address' backwards."
Dr. Levine scribbles the prescription on a McDonald's napkin and hands it to you.
If you take the prescription and leave, turn to page 6
If you ask for a second opinion, turn to page 32
If you decide he needs to die, turn to page 4
Monday, December 13, 2004
Cabin Fever Pt. 1
I had agreed upon undergoing some "regression therapy". My insides were knotted and rebelling against me. Constant, and uncontrollable acid reflux kept me awake most nights, which wasn't entirely bad since I was unemployed and didn't need to be up during the day. I could catch a few Zzz's here and there throughout the day (whenever my indigestion would allow). My girlfriend Christine had convinced me that these esophageal disorders were a result of pent up frustrations and a long suppressed anger with my father. She was steeped in these psychological diagnoses, as she was under-going her own therapeutic treatment for her feelings of abandonment from a father who had died a few months earlier. It seems whenever a person begins undergoing therapy and discovering themselves, they feel an evangelical need to convert everyone around them to the joys of psychoanalysis. This often includes amateur pro-bono work analyzing the maladies afflicting their closest friends. It was this unsolicited psychiatric evaluation that led me to the downtown office of my landlady, a sweet-natured, ex-hippy, folk-singer lesbian moonlighting as a spiritual healer.
Perhaps some background information is necessary here:
I had been living with a woman for seven months. She was an art school graduate who was currently enmeshed in the "arts and crafts" world, her medium being weaving. I quite often found myself deflecting wisecracks from friends asking, "Is she a basket-weaver?" With the clarity of hindsight, I realize that they were dropping subtle hints that she was a complete nutter, but for a man in the throes of "True Love" I saw their comments as little chainsaws trying to sever the bonds between us. So in an effort to get away from the nay-sayers and to get closer to the heart of our ineffable union as struggling artists, we packed our things and moved from the spiritually soiled streets of Philadelphia to the consecrated grounds of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.
As we first drove into the city limits of Asheville, we both looked at each other and commented on the sudden "lightness of being" that seemed to come upon us. This was our new home and it was Good and Holy. We found a renovated 17th century log cabin on the outskirts of Asheville, deep in the woods, that we were able to rent for $400 a month. As I was collecting a monthly unemployment check of $600 and my girlfriend had recently received a sizable inheritance check, this seemed to be well within our budget.
Our landladies were an older lesbian couple (in their 40s and 50s). They lived "across the way", our respective cabins separated by a small stream and a field, where a bonfire pit had been erected in the middle and several Buddhist sculptures were placed randomly about as "prayer centers". Deborah, the older of the two, had decided to let us rent from them after meeting me and sensing that I had a "beautiful soul". Her partner, Mary, told us this one evening while we were having dinner with them at their place. My girlfriend snorted her disagreement involuntarily upon hearing this, then carefully covered up by pretending to sneeze. "My," she said, "it's really dusty in here."
As the months dragged on, my girlfriend and I grew to dislike one another more and more. It was a classic example of cabin fever, and I often felt like Jack Torrance from Stephen King's book The Shining. It was only a matter of time before I hacked her to pieces with an ax. I assume she felt the same.
One evening we drove into downtown Asheville to do some grocery shopping and came across a fortune-teller on the street. She had her Tarot cards laid out on a wooden crate, draped with a purple piece of fabric. She also read palms and my girlfriend suggested we have our palms read "just for fun". What the hell, right?
She went first and got a pretty thorough reading that eerily touched on many things she was going through at the time. I never thought she was a gullible girl but she began to weep at the end of her reading and gave the woman an extra five dollar tip. I gave her a perplexed and angry look and sat down to begin my turn. Even though we weren't completely broke yet, neither of us was employed and we certainly shouldn't be handing out five dollar tips to anyone.
The faux-gypsy took my hand and began to trace the lines on my palm with her forefinger. She told me what each line represented. This was my life line, this was my love line, this was my money line, this was my tan line. I tried not to look like a smug bastard, fighting back the urge to smile. Then she mentioned that my life line had a very "weird shape" to it. It broke apart in sections as if I "lived several different lives". It was also very jagged, which meant I was full of anger.
What the fuck?! I'm not angry, I thought. I've tried my best to be an agreeable person and to be accepting of the world around me. I've lived a rather idyllic life, in the sense that I wasn't abused as a child, I don't feel like I've been treated unfairly because of my skin color, I don't hate anyone or have a need to avenge being wronged, and I've never been imprisoned for a crime I didn't commit. Oh sure, there are the daily grievances that everyone has to put up with, and my ship has certainly not come in (in fact it most probably sailed without me while I was drunk somewhere). The point is I didn't feel angry, and I didn't know what I really had to be angry about.
That, however, was the only word Christine needed to hear. The whole ride home she discussed my anger issues. I tried to ignore her babbling as best as I could.
That night my acid reflux, which had been a persistent problem for a good portion of my life at that point, took on a life of its own, rendering sleep completely impossible. I gagged and tossed about all night.
The next morning Christine suggested that the problems with my digestive track might be the result of a "conversion neurosis", and that my anger issues had manifested themselves as physical ailments.
"What anger?" I snapped. "I don't feel angry."
She gave me a dismissive look. Of course I knew what she was thinking. My father was to blame for my transpicuous anger. As her father had fucked her up, so must have mine. I'm not gonna lie and say that my father and I had a peachy keen relationship. It suffered from the all-too-common father/son battles. And as the eldest son who had taken the creative route through life and still found himself borrowing money and had nothing substantial to show for himself at the age of 28, our rows could get pretty heated. But, in the old man's defense, I can be a frustrating, combative son-of-a-bitch when my lazy, good-for-nothing ways are threatened. I really do need the occasional kick-in-the-ass. And he was always there to provide it.
So now I had developed, according to my girlfriend, a litany of health problems, not the least of which was the very possible ULCER that was eating me away from the inside. In her amateur medical opinion, my acid reflux was an offshoot of the growing ulcer that had developed in my stomach as a result of not dealing with my latent hatred of my father. I had a bottle of Tums the size of a quarter keg in the bathroom that was concrete evidence of my need to get help. And so, when we discovered that our landlady, in addition to recording several Cds of folk music and Tibetan chants, worked part time as a naturopathic therapist, we eagerly enlisted her help in curing my debilitating affliction.
When I entered Deborah's office I noticed the decor was almost identical to the cabin we were renting from her. Hand-carved wooden stools and tables, indigenously produced woven rag rugs, Native American-themed wall hangings. The only difference was the large cushioned table in the middle of the room. In the corner by the window, on top of a scarf-draped Deadhead conga, she had lit some incense.
"Please. Have a seat," she told me.
I sat on the table and she briefed me on the whole procedure.
"First, I'd just like you to tell me whatever is on your mind. Get everything you're thinking about off your chest before we start. You can tell me you think this is all a bunch of crap or whatever. It doesn't matter. It's just to clear your head. Then I'm going to massage certain targeted pressure points, see if we can't release some of the tension. And then we'll get right into it."
"What exactly is 'it' like?" I asked.
"Well, it's a little like hypnosis, only you are completely conscious throughout. You just get yourself into such a relaxed state that you begin to mentally see yourself returning to the womb. Not everyone goes that far back, though. But I'll be honest, I've had some people who actually physically curled into a fetal position. It took some twenty minutes for their muscles to return to the way they were."
"What do you mean?"
"Well their fingers were curled into fists. A fetus doesn't have much control over her own muscles ya know."
"Sure."
This would be interesting. While I'm skeptical of just about everything I haven't experienced first-hand, there is definitely a part of me that wants desperately to believe in everything. Ghosts, angels, astrology, politicians and corporations who DON'T want to fuck us over, I want them to be real and often give them the benefit of the doubt. I'm only an agnostic because I'm extremely non-committal. I can't say for certain that these supernatural things don't exist because I have no proof that they do or do not exist. But I don't want to be that guy who swore up and down about something only to be proved wrong. Let's face facts, I'm a spineless pussy.
To Be Continued...
Perhaps some background information is necessary here:
I had been living with a woman for seven months. She was an art school graduate who was currently enmeshed in the "arts and crafts" world, her medium being weaving. I quite often found myself deflecting wisecracks from friends asking, "Is she a basket-weaver?" With the clarity of hindsight, I realize that they were dropping subtle hints that she was a complete nutter, but for a man in the throes of "True Love" I saw their comments as little chainsaws trying to sever the bonds between us. So in an effort to get away from the nay-sayers and to get closer to the heart of our ineffable union as struggling artists, we packed our things and moved from the spiritually soiled streets of Philadelphia to the consecrated grounds of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.
As we first drove into the city limits of Asheville, we both looked at each other and commented on the sudden "lightness of being" that seemed to come upon us. This was our new home and it was Good and Holy. We found a renovated 17th century log cabin on the outskirts of Asheville, deep in the woods, that we were able to rent for $400 a month. As I was collecting a monthly unemployment check of $600 and my girlfriend had recently received a sizable inheritance check, this seemed to be well within our budget.
Our landladies were an older lesbian couple (in their 40s and 50s). They lived "across the way", our respective cabins separated by a small stream and a field, where a bonfire pit had been erected in the middle and several Buddhist sculptures were placed randomly about as "prayer centers". Deborah, the older of the two, had decided to let us rent from them after meeting me and sensing that I had a "beautiful soul". Her partner, Mary, told us this one evening while we were having dinner with them at their place. My girlfriend snorted her disagreement involuntarily upon hearing this, then carefully covered up by pretending to sneeze. "My," she said, "it's really dusty in here."
As the months dragged on, my girlfriend and I grew to dislike one another more and more. It was a classic example of cabin fever, and I often felt like Jack Torrance from Stephen King's book The Shining. It was only a matter of time before I hacked her to pieces with an ax. I assume she felt the same.
One evening we drove into downtown Asheville to do some grocery shopping and came across a fortune-teller on the street. She had her Tarot cards laid out on a wooden crate, draped with a purple piece of fabric. She also read palms and my girlfriend suggested we have our palms read "just for fun". What the hell, right?
She went first and got a pretty thorough reading that eerily touched on many things she was going through at the time. I never thought she was a gullible girl but she began to weep at the end of her reading and gave the woman an extra five dollar tip. I gave her a perplexed and angry look and sat down to begin my turn. Even though we weren't completely broke yet, neither of us was employed and we certainly shouldn't be handing out five dollar tips to anyone.
The faux-gypsy took my hand and began to trace the lines on my palm with her forefinger. She told me what each line represented. This was my life line, this was my love line, this was my money line, this was my tan line. I tried not to look like a smug bastard, fighting back the urge to smile. Then she mentioned that my life line had a very "weird shape" to it. It broke apart in sections as if I "lived several different lives". It was also very jagged, which meant I was full of anger.
What the fuck?! I'm not angry, I thought. I've tried my best to be an agreeable person and to be accepting of the world around me. I've lived a rather idyllic life, in the sense that I wasn't abused as a child, I don't feel like I've been treated unfairly because of my skin color, I don't hate anyone or have a need to avenge being wronged, and I've never been imprisoned for a crime I didn't commit. Oh sure, there are the daily grievances that everyone has to put up with, and my ship has certainly not come in (in fact it most probably sailed without me while I was drunk somewhere). The point is I didn't feel angry, and I didn't know what I really had to be angry about.
That, however, was the only word Christine needed to hear. The whole ride home she discussed my anger issues. I tried to ignore her babbling as best as I could.
That night my acid reflux, which had been a persistent problem for a good portion of my life at that point, took on a life of its own, rendering sleep completely impossible. I gagged and tossed about all night.
The next morning Christine suggested that the problems with my digestive track might be the result of a "conversion neurosis", and that my anger issues had manifested themselves as physical ailments.
"What anger?" I snapped. "I don't feel angry."
She gave me a dismissive look. Of course I knew what she was thinking. My father was to blame for my transpicuous anger. As her father had fucked her up, so must have mine. I'm not gonna lie and say that my father and I had a peachy keen relationship. It suffered from the all-too-common father/son battles. And as the eldest son who had taken the creative route through life and still found himself borrowing money and had nothing substantial to show for himself at the age of 28, our rows could get pretty heated. But, in the old man's defense, I can be a frustrating, combative son-of-a-bitch when my lazy, good-for-nothing ways are threatened. I really do need the occasional kick-in-the-ass. And he was always there to provide it.
So now I had developed, according to my girlfriend, a litany of health problems, not the least of which was the very possible ULCER that was eating me away from the inside. In her amateur medical opinion, my acid reflux was an offshoot of the growing ulcer that had developed in my stomach as a result of not dealing with my latent hatred of my father. I had a bottle of Tums the size of a quarter keg in the bathroom that was concrete evidence of my need to get help. And so, when we discovered that our landlady, in addition to recording several Cds of folk music and Tibetan chants, worked part time as a naturopathic therapist, we eagerly enlisted her help in curing my debilitating affliction.
When I entered Deborah's office I noticed the decor was almost identical to the cabin we were renting from her. Hand-carved wooden stools and tables, indigenously produced woven rag rugs, Native American-themed wall hangings. The only difference was the large cushioned table in the middle of the room. In the corner by the window, on top of a scarf-draped Deadhead conga, she had lit some incense.
"Please. Have a seat," she told me.
I sat on the table and she briefed me on the whole procedure.
"First, I'd just like you to tell me whatever is on your mind. Get everything you're thinking about off your chest before we start. You can tell me you think this is all a bunch of crap or whatever. It doesn't matter. It's just to clear your head. Then I'm going to massage certain targeted pressure points, see if we can't release some of the tension. And then we'll get right into it."
"What exactly is 'it' like?" I asked.
"Well, it's a little like hypnosis, only you are completely conscious throughout. You just get yourself into such a relaxed state that you begin to mentally see yourself returning to the womb. Not everyone goes that far back, though. But I'll be honest, I've had some people who actually physically curled into a fetal position. It took some twenty minutes for their muscles to return to the way they were."
"What do you mean?"
"Well their fingers were curled into fists. A fetus doesn't have much control over her own muscles ya know."
"Sure."
This would be interesting. While I'm skeptical of just about everything I haven't experienced first-hand, there is definitely a part of me that wants desperately to believe in everything. Ghosts, angels, astrology, politicians and corporations who DON'T want to fuck us over, I want them to be real and often give them the benefit of the doubt. I'm only an agnostic because I'm extremely non-committal. I can't say for certain that these supernatural things don't exist because I have no proof that they do or do not exist. But I don't want to be that guy who swore up and down about something only to be proved wrong. Let's face facts, I'm a spineless pussy.
To Be Continued...
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