American Fusilli with Spinach, Kitten, and Asiago Cheese

American Fusilli with Spinach, Kitten, and Asiago Cheese

 

     Hello America! This is an old family recipe that became a staple in my childhood and helped our family get through the lean times on the mean streets of New Canaan, Connecticut. We had two black kids in our high school, but we did what we could and I believe ultimately grew closer as a family. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Ingredients

1 pound American fusilli pasta
1/4 cup olive oil
4 to 6 kittens (depending on size)

1 garlic clove, minced
1 (9-ounce) bag fresh spinach, roughly chopped
8 ounces (1/2 pint) cherry tomatoes, halved
1 cup (about 3 1/2-ounces) grated Asiago
1/2 cup grated Parmesan
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Preparation

    First a couple of words about American fusilli: It is not Italian.

    Now, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil over high heat keeping in mind the fact that although Preparation rhymes with Reparation this should not be a source of anxiety for you. Add the pasta and cook until tender but still firm to the bite, stirring occasionally, about 8 to 10 minutes. Special note: remove 1/4 of the pasta at three minutes for presentation purposes that I will go into later. Drain pasta reserving 1/2 cup of the cooking liquid.

 
    Skin and cut the kittens into four inch strips. Save the heads. Meanwhile, warm olive oil in a large, heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and kitten strips and cook until fragrant, about six minutes. 

     

 

  
      A note on procuring the kittens: It is always best if you can find kittens that have recently been adopted by a poorer family. This gives them time to marinate in the misguided love that caused them to be adopted in the first place. Also, the shock of being clubbed and torn from the hands of some shrieking child will set the marbling in the kitten meat in a way I have never been able to duplicate using other methods.

    

     Add the spinach and tomatoes and cook until the spinach wilts, and by wilts I mean surrenders completely to the pressures of what is good and right; about 2 more minutes. Add the cooked pasta and toss. Add the cheeses, salt, pepper, and the pasta cooking liquid and stir to combine.

Presentation 

     As I mentioned earlier, this is where the under-cooked American fusilli that was set aside comes into play. American fusilli has a firmer character than the Italian variety, for obvious reasons, and is more amenable to decorative manipulation. Take the severed kitten heads (one per serving) and place them on a marble cutting board. With the firm but pliable American fusilli begin making a corkscrewing motion through the right eye of one of the kittens and, using the back of the kitten's skull as a guiding ballast, continue until it emerges from the left eye. There should be enough American fusilli protruding from each of the kitten's eyes for a cherry tomato to be decoratively screwed onto each end. Place one decorated kitten's head onto each dish.

    Watch your guest's mouth's water ravenously as you have your maid (who you should have a talk to after the meal; you know she has been stealing; when will these people learn; right?!) cart this fantastic dish out to your Ethan Allen large rustic dining table. 

    You will be the talk of the town, and that is all that really matters.

     

    

 

Christmas Eve: 2012

7:45 a.m.- My Volvo is Emma Thompson from the movie Wit; confident, invulnerable, and then something else. At one time she rested less than 25 feet from my bedroom window like a dark blue lioness, indifferently perusing the local environment with all of the certainty that the top of the food chain is accorded. Like Emma, there was no part of her that I would not happily lick. But now she is excreting various rainbow inducing fluids, dry-heaving sluggish billows of blotchy smoke, and seeming to be looking to me for answers; answers that we are both certain do not exist.

8:05 a.m.-  I vaguely feel as though I am embarking upon a tremendous adventure, carefully tying the shoes that I almost never wear and meticulously arranging, the way a Spec Op surely would, the necessary tools- iPod/headphones/wallet/do I need the Leatherman?- but catch myself and immediately feel ridiculous. I head out wondering if there might be some chemical explanation for all of this.

9:15 a.m.- Walking sucks. I feel as though I should somehow be above this. When we are young we are often puzzled by the fact that each person we admire seems to have a different version of what life ought to be, what a good man is, how to live, and so on. The two drunken teenagers who seem to have established permanent residence somewhere within my consciousness and who have clearly been designated to debate 'important matters' are going at each other over whether or not I should have chosen The Denial of Death as my early morning walking soundtrack. Both of them are wrong.

10:23 a.m.- Is it possible that someone has poisoned my feet? Can you do that? I feel as though I am walking upon Belladonna infused pillows of calculated revenge. Who have I wronged to such an extent? Clearly a frustrated botanist of some sort; someone with access to my teas.

10:37 a.m.- I pretend to not heavingly lunge into the Convention Center light rail station, at once overjoyed by the fact that I will soon be off of my poisoned feet but dismayed by the fact that I will still have a 30 minute walk, after the final stop, to my trumpet lesson. Non ridere, non lugere, neque detestari, sed intelligere.

11:13 a.m.-  I smugly walk through the doors of Music-Go-Round, a local music store, fairly certain that I have accomplished something remarkable. No one seems to notice and I am too much of a gentleman to bring it up. 

11:45 a.m.- I have a great lesson with an awesome nine year old who is going to be far better at the trumpet than I ever was.

12:47 p.m.- The fact that I am nearly out of cigarettes makes me want one in an almost sexual fashion. There is a liquor store down the street from the music store. I decide to switch to music for the walk home. Hey, I guess you're lonely, when I gave, you only took. So then it's stranger than its ever been. I guess it's what you wanted. If it was cloudier I would be happy. Still, I am something close to happy.

1:05 p.m.- For a guy who is legitimately misanthropic I have a great rapport with local shop owners. The guys who run the 7-11 by my house are virtually kin, and the dude at this place smiles at me as though he has been waiting months for the opportunity. It is the summer of my smiles - flee from me Keepers of the Gloom. I grab a bottle of grapefruit juice, a pack of American Spirit Menthol (for no sociological reason whatsoever, although I sometimes feel as though it may help) and a small bottle of Vikingfjord Vodka, which I would never have bought if not for Joe Rizzi; fucking marketing.

1:25 p.m.- It's not easy to fill a bottle of grapefruit juice on a busy public road in the middle of the day without drawing attention. Yeah, in tight bursts is the lyric I use to muster the courage. Once again the teenagers in my brain are restless. 

1:45 p.m.- Stalactites, stalagmites, shut me in, lock me tight... it seems early, but it's on. Oh yeah, I forgot to eat. Something about the blood barrier in the stomach. My feet no longer hurt. Neither do my perennially chaffing thighs. Damn good thighs. If my Volvo was my thighs then this story would not exist. No knock on you, Emma.

1:58 p.m.-  Last week fucked around and got a triple double. This lyric has suddenly made me acutely aware of the discrepancy between how I am viewing myself  (prowling the streets with an intentionally reserved bad ass menace) and how I am viewed by others  (he doesn't appear to be homeless, but something's up.)

2:15 p.m.- When you make a mistake walking it takes much more time than could be usefully utilized in a blog piece. Mine involved a psuedo-court and several diligent locals. They were pleasant, but I was nearly in tears when I realized the amount of backtracking that would be involved. I did have a plan. I was going to go to the bowling alley near Union Ave. There I would order a double vodka grapefruit and casually ask for a pen, as though I didn't have a care in the world, and sign my lesson check so that I could take it to the bank in the complex. I don't feel the way I ever felt: well, not quite true, but the song kills and made my questions seem irrelevant. 

2:20 p.m.- I wrote my bro and Palladino what I thought was a penetratingly meaningful text regarding the futility of existence. It wasn't.

2:37 p.m.- Honestly. I'm not sure the bus is even coming. Do they run on Christmas Eve at this time? What the fuck are these people... oh, here it is. She seems uncertain. I don't know how long she has been a bus driver, but she clearly lacks the wound. Give it up to me, give it up to me, do you want to be my angel? I don't let her know. 

3:12 p.m.- She turned out to be very helpful. Now I am waiting for the #60 bus, that she recommended, to take off. The new driver is clearly horrible. I ask him when we will leave. He says four minutes. I tell him I'm going to take a quick smoke. He says that's OK, just as long as you don"t exhale near his bus. Dick! He looks like Pruitt Taylor Vince's stunt double. I get back on the bus and sulk into a far away seat. Turns out he is an awesome dude. Lots of cool info about unions- paranoia, paranoia, everybody's coming to get me- and the general obligations of a VTA bus driver. I am in fine form. Am I? I could be worse.

3:45 p.m.- Home. Every part of me hurts. The interior of my right elbow; many unfortunate things taking place on a cellular level; my xiphoid process, disastrously. But it is obvious that I have won. Irony leaves no residue. I lurch down the hallway in mock celebration clutching at framed photos of people who are not my family: And I'll find strength in pain, and I will change my ways, I'll know my name as it's called again.

4:45 p.m.- Christmas(ish.)

The Power Pose

From the $3200 ostrich-lined mesh unitards to the boyish good looks of Kate Moss, the world of high fashion has always been an impenetrable enigma. It is a world populated by exotically mute Vikingettes who distantly tower over you from every magazine cover and who seem, somehow, to lack bodily fluids of any kind. They exude a mixture of allure and decay that can only be explained by years of dietary heroin suppositories and three day weekends with 'funny uncles.' And they cast no shadows; they are the perfect Tabula Rasa. Advertising executives bank on the fact that we will project our many unreachable masturbatory fantasies onto these glossy black-and-whites as we deliberate the relative merits of Old Navy and The Gap.

This, of course, is precisely what we do. But why? If a nation as intelligent, sophisticated, self-aware, grounded, subtle, profound, disciplined, keenly observant, and self-actualized as ours can be so easily manipulated, then surely a force with uncanny power must be at work. Fashion Moguls and Demiurges are notoriously reluctant to discuss such things. But in an effort to find answers, I came across a genuine rarity. A model, an insider, who was willing, and had the capacity, to speak.

Sitting across the table from me, at Sunnyvale's impossibly posh Fibbar MaGees, he looked almost normal. You would never have guessed that he was modeling's "Next Big Thing." He was clearly nervous, as evidenced by the fact that he had barely touched his free-range salmon cubes that were marinated in mango chutney and placed atop a bed of pine-nut infused mixed greens, candied olives and pan-seared marshmallows and that had a cloud of whipped cream, raisins, and corn floating a full three inches above it, (which reminds me of another article I'll have to write for this fucking thing.) He had also insisted on taking a seat that faced the entrance and I knew I would have to be extremely gentle with him.

"It's the hands."

His voice was barely audible and had a furtive, resigned quality. For reasons that should be obvious I will not use his real name. "Mark Schnittker" was introduced into modeling, through the Boy Scouts, at the relatively advanced age of thirty-seven. But his lack of experience was easily overcome by a kind of vulnerable innocence and a tremendous shock of thick red hair. He quickly moved from Sears catalogs to the cover of Seventeen and this is when he had his first encounter with the Fashion Cabal.

While on location in the Cayman Islands, "Mark" was asked to strike a pose that suggested power and confidence. He opted for the traditional arms crossed over the chest, feet slightly apart, method. An ominous hush fell over the set and children could be heard crying in the distance. He realized that something had gone horribly wrong but was unable to place it. It was then that several helicopters swooped down onto the beach. From one of them, a small old man, dressed in black and covered in blankets, was wheeled through the set by a gigantic Filipino woman and placed directly at "Mark's" back.

At first, he could hear a single voice speaking angrily in a language he couldn't understand. This was followed by a deeper resonant voice and a hand that came to rest upon his shoulder. "You have made a grave error. This shoot is finished." Startled, "Mark" moved to turn around, but the hand on his shoulder tightened its grip and he collapsed to the ground in pain and lost consciousness.

He came to, several hours later, and found himself alone on the deserted beach. Struggling to regain his bearings, he noticed what appeared to be writing in the sand near the water. He moved over to take a look and was barely able to read it before a rogue wave crashed onto the shore and obliterated every word.

Most of the crowd had left Fibbars and "Mark" was visibly shaken by the re-telling of this terrible story. His famous red hair was matted against the sweat on his forehead. He reached out and downed his pomegranate martini in one desperate gulp. Looking again at the clock, he said, "It was a rookie mistake; one that I'll never be able to get over."

He looked me in the eyes for the first time that night. He was nearly weeping. "When I struck that pose, I had covered my hands with my arms. You must show your hands." Abruptly, and without warning, he shot up from the table and ran from the bar, shrieking, "You couldn't see them! YOU COULDN'T SEE THEM!"

I have since done a great deal of research. The world of fashion is as tight-lipped as Scientology, and precisely as meaningful, but, through the Freedom of Information Act, and a couple of well placed indulgences, I was able to get my hands on their charter.

It is an ugly and severe document of more than 2000 pages and is not fit reading for any person who hopes to retain even a modest portion of their humanity. I made it one third of the way through the introduction before buying an incinerator, assembling it, and then throwing the damned thing into it. But it was too late. Right there, on page four, was this:

Sec. 2-973.134
Regarding the assumption of, or request thereof, a physical gesture indicating power, confidence, or any related sub-virtue (cf. pp138), the subject must, in lieu of contradicting features, attendant to, but not limited by, said gesture, will, in accordance with addendum 9 to sec 3J-209.3, and in good faith, make visible, and in reasonable (as defined by subjugate protocol) time, said subject's posterior ancillary extremities, or "hands", the withholding of which will result in the de facto forfeiture of said subject's elan or vital fluids.

It is a sad and beautiful world. I have been unalterably changed. How does one maintain hope in the face of such obvious malevolence? As my philosophy professor, Joe Steinke, once said: Knowledge makes a bloody entrance. And it is easy, now, to understand why I have a closet full of Prada bags and Vera Wang shoes.

Cinco: The Human Condition

Jet Magazine; Issue 376; December 2012.


Early Thanksgiving morning I received a call from Jet magazine's long time entertainment editor, Dastephen "Drizz" Broadus, who was nearly in tears as he described an album he had come across and the immediate effect it had upon him. The album that produced such a reaction was 'Cinco' from a San Jose band by the name of Corduroy Jim. 'Drizz' wanted me to not just review the album, but to find out how such a work could possibly have human origins. I was solemnly informed that I would receive an unlimited budget and unprecedented access, and that the future of Jet magazine, and perhaps that of music, was now in my hands. 



   Raymond St. Martin had a vision; a serenely tactile sensation that started at the base of his spine and moved up, in soft metallic tendrils, through his heart and lungs where it gathered momentum, spiraling through his neck and finally exploding with inhuman light into his brain: "Cinco."

   I first met Raymond on a rainy Tuesday morning as he was kneeling on a handwoven mat in front of his teepee, deep in the Santa Cruz mountains. He looked up at me with large knowing eyes and motioned for me to sit beside him. I had spoken with him earlier, over the phone, at great length about his process and the genesis of 'Cinco' and I was eager to hear more.

   I had listened to the album several times on the drive up and was struck by the variety of euphoric sensations that it produced in me. From the sylvan rumble of  "Home" to the plaintive lament of "Little Child" to the effervescence of "Purple Light" I found myself navigating unfamiliar waters of emotion and sound that were at once frightening and alluring.

   "I was not always a child of this Earth," Raymond breathlessly said, describing his first conception of the album. The rain had stopped and two more of the band members, Richard "Richie" Thomas and Martin Rodriguez, had arrived with a twelve pack of Sierra Nevada IPA and what appeared to be a crystal goblet filled with verdant foliage.

   Richie, who is apparently Australian, wrote the song "Little Child," which one reviewer described as '... an anthem, in 3/3, that is littered with 'prog-rock'." It starts off with Raymond's trademark Juno stylings and quickly moves into a syncopated Bacchanal, thrusting and churning with dark insinuation as a cloud of ethereal synth-nuances floats over a sophisticated, but not pretentious, guitar ostinato. Richie sings this tune with a worldly voice, as though acknowledging the inherent limitations of human striving while, at the same time, extolling the virtues of responsible parenting.

   Raymond went on about his efforts to get his message out to the world through music, saying more than once and with great emphasis that he was much more than a "luxury" for this band, when a figure clad entirely in white emerged from the woods and silently sat down beside us.

   Michael Palladino has been Corduroy Jim's drummer for twenty-three years and is universally considered the spiritual center of the band. I was informed that Michael had taken a vow of silence while he was continuing his studies at the Unitarian seminary. Looking over the group he lightly tapped his fingers over his freshly pressed white tunic and the rest of the guys laughed at what was clearly some kind of inside-joke.

   "Home" is a Martin Rodriguez composition that clearly reflects his Appalachian roots. It is clean, forthright, and of the soil. Home is not a concept Martin takes lightly, and you can hear it in his subtle approach to the acoustic guitar. "I don't play the guitar," he has often said. "I let the guitar play me." And play him it does! This tune has been seen on the iPods of such luminaries as Griffen Dunne and Doris Kearns Goodwin, and now, thankfully, this very author's as well.

   "Thief-The Ballad of Johnny Cat" is a Martin Rodriguez composition that clearly reflects his metropolitan roots. It is powerful, moving, and of the street. The song, as such, is clearly an interior journey through the vibrating unconscious self, speaking to you in the galvanizing tones of an, as yet, unwritten language as it guides you to an understanding that exceeds the human capacity for wonder. It also has a guitar solo.

   Nick "Mooshie" Chargin drove up in a sort of orange-ish boxy thing and parked next to one of the many outdoor kilns. He is the band's long time keyboardist and vocalist and he looks as though he could be Paul Newman's less glamorous but equally charming second cousin. He is also responsible for the tune "Purple Light."

   As a Dungeons and Dragons aficionado myself, I immediately recognized that the tune was about the Arch-Palladin Quentinal's treacherous odyssey into the underworld to retrieve the Violet Crystal of Wandering from the mad half-orc, Phino, who had stolen it from its rightful heir, the Prophet Esmerelda. Mooshie subtly references the ritual mythology of the Valyrician Society with the line, "Dancing in the purple light," and it is so refreshing to see this topic finally represented, in a serious work of art, the way it was meant to be. Bravo, Mr. Chargin!

   The sun was beginning to disappear behind the redwood canopy and I knew this would be my last opportunity to find out what I could about this band's monumental achievement. As if anticipating my question Michael began to hover, ever so slightly, off of the ground and Raymond leaned in to whisper: The total is greater than the sum of its parts. A wolf bayed in the distance and the smell of vegan flat bread began to emanate from the warmly glowing teepee. I made my way to my car and was about to get in when I remembered something.

   "Oh yeah, don't you guys have a bass player."

   "Yeah, he's in my car over there," Nick said, pointing to the orange-ish boxy thing. "He hates this kind of shit."

   "Didn't he write one of the songs?" I asked. "I haven't gotten to it yet."

   "Eeets cowled beelowe," Richie said.

   "Below?"

   "Aye."

   "What's it about?"

   "I think it's about boating," Marty said. "Or maybe some kind of fishing, like net-fishing or something."

   "I'm pretty sure it is about fly-fishing," said Raymond as he swung his arms in a mock fisherman's style.

   "He likes fishing, a lot," said Nick.

   And with that I left them to the night.

   Back at my house I listened to the album again a couple of times. Not bad. Four and a half stars out of five and two thirds.


                                       Mort S.Veets
                                       Oroville, Ca.
                                       12-1-2012

    

Celebrity Profile: Nancy Grace

In an effort at journalistic integrity I should disclose at the outset that Nancy Grace and I have a personal history. We lived together for several months in a small apartment on the outskirts of Atlanta. This was after her two run ins with the Supreme Court of Georgia and prior to the terrible business with CNN. Of this time I can only say she still owes me $645 in unpaid phone bills to various psychic hot lines, and that she once, after a night of box wine and miserable sex, tried to cut off my left ear with a butterfly knife.

In her more sober moments, Nancy often described her childhood as a whirlwind of Lil' Miss Beauty Pageants, Junior Klan bake sales, and awkward Girl Scout outings (many a night ended with her crying herself to sleep, unable to explain exactly what transpired in those lonely humid Quonset huts.) But it was bible camp that gave her the greatest joy. I can still see the little flecks of foam that would form at the sides of her mouth as she regaled me with tales of "outing" sinful classmates and protesting evolution.

"We almost got the entire high school Biology department shut down my junior year but some pinko freak made a stink and it didn't happen. I'll tell you, though, I made darn well sure I didn't learn a thing in that class."

Nancy grew up and went to college where she was going to study Shakespearean Literature, "or something like that", but her fiance was tragically murdered and she found herself compelled to study law. Her time at Mercer University was not filled with drunken revelry or sorority parties or late night pow-wows or quick lunches with her roomie or the occasional movie or friendships of any kind, but was instead devoted to the grim business of getting a degree.

After that it was a string of near successes that propelled Nancy into the American consciousness. She became a prosecuting attorney who won all of her cases. Some of these were later overturned on appeal for reasons as varied as lying on subpoenas, illegal searches, and a generic air of evil. Even the pointlessly conservative Supreme Court of Georgia has said of her: "...the conduct of the prosecuting attorney in this case demonstrated her disregard of the notions of due process and fairness, and was inexcusable."

After a brief stint on Court TV, she made her way to CNN and The Nancy Grace Program. It is one of those talking head programs where an articulate, gloomy moron spouts platitudes and shrieks at her guests. This is a job that attracts a certain type of humorless Troglodyte who has designs on getting back at the world; and Nancy's shrill, unknowing voice would be the perfect tool.

Yes, she had finally made it. Among her notable successes was her vilification of the Duke lacrosse team. Without bothering herself with the tedious work of investigating the actual case, Nancy proclaimed them guilty and had many shows devoted to her wisdom on the matter. The day after they were acquitted, Nancy, in a genuinely classy move, had a substitute reporter announce the removal of the charges. And she never brought it up again.

Of course there is more. Berating a distraught woman to the point of suicide. Assigning guilt, in the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping ordeal, to a man who was later found to be entirely innocent. Her well known passion for, and advocacy of, cock fighting. Her willful ignorance of the details of the FLDS raid; accusing them of child molestation even after they found out that the thirteen year old pregnant girl was really a twenty-two year old pregnant woman. If H.L. Mencken were alive today he would gouge her eye out with a fork.

You see, I know her. I know her type. Her eyes are small and hard. She is quick to judgment, inaccurate, and ultimately unrepentant. She is the journalistic equivalent of a psychic in that she makes all sorts of grand pronouncements and counts on the fact that the people will forget the misses and revel in the hits. She is, in all fairness, a loud mouthed hillbilly cunt who somehow found herself on TV and who will do anything to stay there. She reeks of malice and frigidity and countless generations of inbreeding. And I want my fucking money, bitch!

Still, when I reflect upon our time together, the cute way she used to blush when she talked about the purity of the race; her gritty determination to never make love with the lights on; the way she would hide ice cream cartons in the clothes hamper, carton after carton, just to keep me from worrying about her gargantuan ass; I have to say they weren't all bad times. She smelled weird but the woman could really cook a steak.

Car Go Fast

I am pleased to inform you that yet another blow has been struck against terrorism and godlessness and that it is, once again, NASCAR that is leading the way. Next year there will be mandatory drug testing of all drivers and pit crews, and I, for one, say it's about time. This most emblematic of American sports has lain in tatters for far too long. With the help of our Savior and by "working the steps" we can right this ship, and once again hold our heads high.

Because these are a proud people, these devotees of the stock car, with their gargantuan sticker-laden RV's, their American flags saturated with Budweiser and countless patriotic tears, and their courageous attempts to bring the philosophy and techniques of horse breeding into the human realm. So you can imagine how these Daughters/Sisters/Daughters of the American Revolution felt when they found out that their beloved NASCAR had turned into a breeding ground for ketamine freaks, meth-heads, pillbillys, go-go boys, blacks, and communists; God, Home, and Country indeed.

A little background might be useful here. Dr. Winston Sinclair III ("Please, call me Cooter") is the dean of History at Duke University, and the foremost authority on NASCAR's murky beginnings. Cooter's den is a veritable shrine to all things stock car, from the Dale Earnhardt memorial plates to the gentle hum of the copper whiskey still; and it is whiskey that played the predominant role in NASCAR's early stages, much the same way it did for organized crime.

To hear Cooter's heroic tales of bootlegging (high-speed drunken car chases through residential neighborhoods) which eventually worked its way from the backstreets of South Carolina to the magnificent stadiums of North Carolina, was nothing short of inspiring.

"Well, in the beginning, there was Billy-Ray (Billiam) Dixon, and he drove a Ford. And there was William (Billy) R. Horton, and he also drove a Ford. And, of course, Willy (Big Willy) Williams, who was cousin to Billiam, and he drove a Ford as well. But it was the Kennedy's who came and fouled things all up. They drove Packards."

With this historical perspective firmly in place I thought it best to check out a NASCAR show myself. I contacted Del Minkin, of the Atlanta branch of the John Birch Society, and set up a meet. Much to my delight he chose the Mecca of stock car racing, the Daytona Speedway; an improbably massive metallic mosque of a stadium that practically shrieks: "Submit to the will of NASCAR."

Del met me in the parking lot with his daughter May. She was fifteen; had, at least, thirty-eight double D's; and her cut-off jeans shorts were so tight that I could just make out her fallopian tubes. Del shook my hand, tossed May onto his shoulders, and led us into to the stadium.

"I knew there was a problem back in the sixties when some of the drivers stopped getting drunk and started getting high."

Del stared off into the distance as he said this, clearly moved by the tragic state of affairs. We had worked our way to the inner area and were now completely surrounded by the track. May jumped off her dad and onto the shoulders of a passing stranger and disappeared into the crowd. I handed Del a Bud-Light and asked him to continue.

"Well, it was that damn LSD. It made it god awful difficult to drive those cars at such high speeds," Del said, as he continued to tell me stories of those dark days. Stories like the one where A.J Foyt was found on his knees, naked and crying, in front of a Woolworth's store, in Lexington, Kentucky, at three in the afternoon. It took several doctors, a priest, and a frantic call to Ken Kesey, to get A.J. back into his truck. "We finally got him home, but all the whiskey in the world couldn't bring him back down that night."

And so you might wonder why it has taken NASCAR so long to deal with this problem. From the sixties through the nineties there had been 135 official complaints; most of them from local churches, all of them drug related, all of them terrible. Tony Stewart's obvious track marks and Jeff Gordon's public dalliance with PCP are just the most well known instances. But the nightmare is over.

As Del went off in search of his daughter, I took a last good look around. A permanent haze of gray exhaust hung over a sea of shirtless fans, lumbering clods of flesh grown pink with alcohol and indifference to the sun, as engines, pushed to the high pitched point of collapse, whirled around and around to the thunderstruck awe of everyone involved.

"Yes," I thought. "This is worth saving."

So These are the Days my Friends and These are the Days my Friends

About three minutes before it happens I am standing there, waiting for the light to change, and this young Mexican dude wanders out into the street and nearly gets hit by a truck. His gray Giants jersey flutters in the passing wind as he wheels around and looks directly into my eyes. A woman's voice is flatly reciting a passage about water and boats over droning pedal tones from a church organ as a choir repeatedly sings out the numbers one, two, three, four... and I think: This is a dangerous place.

Walking through the streets of San Francisco with Phillip Glass blaring through my headphones and a three beer buzz can be a transporting experience. People flow by me with an exaggerated sense of purpose that is brought about by the intense, repetitive nature of the music. Glass is a kind of one trick pony, but it is a hell of a trick and when it works, there is nothing like it. A theme is stated, usually in a single voice, usually a weirdly pretty little melody, that begins to morph through various shifts in meter until it becomes clear that the melody is subservient to the time. The most easily apprehended part of the song fades and is replaced by the asymmetrical glass legos that form its structure. He also uses a lot of spoken word, often more than two distinct passages at a time, that seems to stand beside the music rather than within it. The effect is disjointing in that alien postmodern way that seems to be the native currency of so many recent artists. The speaker breaks off her repeated lines with an audible stutter and joins the chorus, which has been singing nonsense syllables or numeric variations, and is subsumed. It all seems ridiculous and pretentious until it works.

I have some of the loose paranoia that often accompanies a genuine hangover but I have learned over the years how to manage it and the cool climate is helping. Still, the faces of the homeless seem especially angry today and I can feel them coming up behind me even when they are not there. I shove the Bose earbuds deeper into my ears and move across the busy street. I have no place I need to be. My brother has a nice room at the Hilton and I don't want to get too far from it. My calves are burning from all of yesterday's walking. I barely register the movement out of the corner of my eye.

King Of Thai Noodle House & Sports Bar has $2 beers and $5 Thai dishes. I can't imagine how they stay in business. The dishes include a variety of curries, Tom Kha Gai soup, which is the only evidence I have for the existence of God, and some quality hot wings. The food tastes very good. The choice of beers in the two dollar range is great. Sierra Nevada, Stella Artois, Anchor Steam, and, of course, Coors Light, for when your breasts begin to feel tender. My brother and I spend a good two hours talking to a tennis pro from the UK about the subtleties of Premier League Football (soccer) as our beautiful bartendress, Grace, whips up a near endless supply of Lychee Mojitos. Grace may end up being my latest Facebook friend, if I can find her. Various sports are on various HDTV's and it is difficult not to think that this is a good night at a good place.

Everything seems out of context. Two bellboys run past me waving their arms. I can hear a woman screaming over the music in my headphones. I look at her and she turns away. Other people begin to move tentatively around me as I take off my headphones. I look down the alley. It is difficult to process. Some part of my mind tells me that there isn't enough blood. This is before the rest of my mind realizes that there is a dead body in the street. Someone shouts "He jumped," as I move to the body. Too many ideas appear in my mind, fully formed and seemingly out of nowhere. Should I try to help the person? Would that go against their wishes? Am I simply gawking? Why isn't there more blood? Yes. The body is surrounded by fluid, but it isn't blood. I have to get the fuck out of here. I push my earbuds back in and walk away. I get around the corner, turn around, and go back. More concerned faces flash by me. I take another look. It is out of context. It is like a dining room table in the middle of a football field. A siren goes off in the distance. I have to get the fuck out of here.

Nietzsche said that the thought of suicide got him through many a rainy night. I couldn't agree more. It is one area where we can exercise control. It is an option, and I suspect that part of the reason that I have never taken it is similar to what keeps me at the poker table for just one more hand. Past the joy, or usefulness, or potential, or even awareness, I just have to play one more hand. Of all of the methods of suicide, I would have to put jumping from a building near the bottom. It seems too public. Also, there is the possibility that you will live on for a couple of minutes, in delirious agony, as your body comes to terms with your decision. I have read that a disproportionate number of jumpers are failed actors, musicians, etc. attempting to claim some of the recognition they couldn't get any other way. This is too direct. Humans tend to want direct, easy answers to what are invariably complex processes. But these interpretations don't usually hold water, even in less complicated arenas. And sometimes people just jump.

I am on a train. I am fighting the urge to throw up. I am also fighting the urge to get off of the train before my stop. I need a cigarette. The attendant tells me to get my feet off of the seat. I can't find anything about the suicide online. I am honestly unsure if it happened. I wonder if I should have not posted it on Facebook. It seemed like it was too much for me to keep to myself. I get off the train and walk home. Cigarette after cigarette. I rush into my room and look again online. Part of this seems silly. Why am I so upset. It is indulgent. People seem to empathize. I can't find anything online or in the news. I feel bad about how I might be perceived if this turns out not to have happened. I feel bad about feeling bad. There wasn't enough blood. I am weak. I go to sleep and dream of more water than I can manage. I wake up and go to my computer. Still there is nothing. I try different methods. Finally, there it is. Everything is out of context. I feel better. I feel bad about feeling better.

Just Tuesday

 And when you're looking for your freedom
 (Nobody seems to care) 
And you can't find the door
 (Can't find it anywhere) 
When there's nothing to believe in 
Still you're coming back, you're running back 
You're coming back for more

    Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness as you walk through the door and ease into the familiar haze of native mildews and humid colognes. As you move to the bar you loudly crash into an unfortunately placed table and reflexively acknowledge that your body is already betraying you. The bartendress half remembers you from your last visit, also on a Tuesday (over six months ago) and also around three in the afternoon, and takes a friendly stab at what you might want.

   "Midori Sour, right?"

   The ride to the bar was punctuated by self-assured interior conversations featuring you as the hip voice of relaxed ingenuity, but with one unintentionally ferocious question you have been reduced to dust. Nervously wondering what could possibly have given her that impression you stare, with exaggerated incredulity, at the genetically homophobic bar back as he thrusts his wash towel into the ice and violently crosses his arms.

Where you goin' what you lookin' for
You know those boys 
Don't want to play no more with you 
It's true

    In your deepest possible voice you tell her a Maker's Mark would be fine and lower yourself onto the bar stool in, what you are hoping is, a fashion that does not in any way betray the epileptic wolverine that is suddenly attempting to escape through your chest. "And how about a Sierra Nevada?" you say, trying to make it sound like an afterthought rather than a necessary component for choking down the bourbon.

    A thin layer of sweat shimmers conspicuously on your forehead as you make small talk about oil filters and mixed martial arts and self consciously stare at the ceiling full of hectically decorated dollar bills; thumbtacked constellations of impossibly good times that radiate an astrology of other people's happiness down upon you. You wonder if you drank too quickly as you order another Sierra.

I don't care what you say
I never did believe you much anyway.

   The bourbon starts its predictable trek through your system, reenforcing temporarily unstable psychic structures and loosening stratified language potentials as the bar back leans forward to hungrily give you his facebook info. But it is too soon. You brush him off with another order, this time a shot and a beer, and without shame, a tumbler of Jägermeister. The sun will soon be down and families will be microwaving macaroni and you will not be among them.

    And then she walks in.

    You realize your editing device has been disabled four seconds after you blurt out: "So, what brings a fine young thing like you into a bar like this on a fine day like today?" You're fairly certain that she can read the words "Oh fuck" in bright, rashy letters on your cheeks as she moves into the seat next to you and plops her purse onto the bar. Her skin reminds you, on a deeply emotional level, of some kind of cinnamon frosting. Light gathers around her and-"Oh, uh yes, please. Thank you. And another shot of bourbon, too. Thanks,"- seems to coalesce into wings behind her in an entirely natural fashion. You are absolutely certain that her vagina smells like health.

Sometimes I get overcharged
That's when you see sparks
You ask me where the hell
I'm going At a thousand feet per second

   So much disinformation is coursing through your brain that you start to mumble with a Filipino accent as you simultaneously try to move toward and away from her, clutching at her shoulder and your wallet, as you pretend to intentionally stumble toward the jukebox. Play it off. There is something clearly wrong with the floor design. The air is too heavy. The machine makes indecipherable digital demands that you can't hope to satisfy. Time bends in upon itself. How about Cake?

 We are widening the corridors
And adding more lanes

    "Sarah, really? That is a biblical name." You are not sure that it is. If you were at home you could look it up on line and maintain the illusion. She seems unfazed. She also seems to be sending you messages. Body language messages that you can only interpret as meaningful and positive. What if she is in to you? Or the bible? Think of a joke.

   "My friend has a good pirate joke."

   "Really?"

   "Yeah, he's a good dude."

    You are not sure that she got it. Then you are not sure that you even said it. Then, there it is, she is blurry and you blew the joke.

    The bartendress has changed into a bartender and is bringing you drinks that you may not have ordered. You tell yourself to play it off for the fortieth time that night. It tastes like a Creme de Menthe with an oyster in it. Play it off.

Left my nigga's house paid (what) 
Picked up a girl been tryin to fuck since the 12th grade 
It's ironic, I had the brew she had the chronic 
The Lakers beat the Supersonics

    You are still thinking about sex, just less so. It now seems improbable and there is that thing going on behind your eyes. Then, she flashes into your field of vision and says: "What if it all actually is information, ya know? The universe as a digital computer with reality as a holographic image that embraces reality in a two dimensional sphere that is the best our brains can apprehend?"

     "Yeah, that."

     She seems upset and shrieks, "Listen! The Anthropic Principle, Unconscious Mind, Phenomonology, Historical Contingency,..."

If only I wasn't travellin down this road by my lonely
No one who knew me like you will ever know me
I don't think you understand how much you meant to me 

     "... Information Theory, Yeah, and Goldilocks, Yeah, and..."

     "Sarah, you don't know..."

     "My name is Sandra!"

     "Oh. Solid."

Yet Another Day

Anthony is a typical nine year old. He has a deep fascination with Star Wars, bodily functions, and Bakugan. He talks to himself out loud as he plays with his Legos; he blushes and stammers when you mention his crush on Valeria; he can make a sword out of anything; and he is late for the bus.

Anthony likes the bus, even when he doesn't get to sit next to Noah, and it's even better when he gets a window seat. The fifteen minute ride is a giddy mix of laughter, name calling, Pokemon card exchange, profanity (both real and imagined), Velcro rips, and coughing; but, as the bus pulls into the parking lot, the mood changes dramatically.

Principal X is already outside, with his bullhorn, shouting suggestions to the children on how they might more efficiently move from the bus to their classrooms. Anthony ignores these useful suggestions (walk, don't talk, let's go, right to class) and heads straight for the bathroom. He doesn't have to go, but the boys can usually squeeze in a pretty good water fight before class. The door is locked. It turns out that the custodian is absent again and the bathroom doors will remain closed for a while. Now Anthony has to go.

First thing you notice about room 16 is that every square inch of wall is covered. There are number lines, class rules, punctuation cartoons, poems about responsibility and squirrels, target words, the Denelian alphabet, and countless references to state standards; large, incomprehensible, and showing a lack of imagination that would make Soviet Russia blush.

Anthony is barely in his seat when Principal X's voice comes over the loud speaker. He is reminding teachers that it is no longer enough that the child is in the classroom when the bell rings but that they must be seated. Any child not seated should be marked tardy and sent to the office. This is a relatively new rule and, when combined with the wrought iron gate that surrounds the perimeter of the school, gives the place a warm, prisony feel.

Anthony's school takes the 'Vitamin C' approach to teaching. You see, at some point in our history a group of aging hippies decided that it was a good idea to inundate their bodies with massive doses of vitamin c; the premise being that there couldn't possibly be too much of this particular good thing. Shortly thereafter some actual scientists took a look at this idea and found that the body can, in reality, only absorb so much and then quite reasonably discards what it can't use in the form of waste.

The corollary is that every minute of every school day is accounted for, apportioned, and meticulously filled. The white boards of all the teachers have the day mapped out, in that unnervingly precise script that they all seem to possess, according to the chunks of time that are to be devoted to each activity. This is the type of approach that appeals to frustrated, half-bright adults who have long since forgotten what it was like to be a child. The fact that this accumulation of activities, and whatever knowledge they are designed to impart, far exceeds the saturation point of any child is utterly lost on these bureaucratically conditioned go-getters. They are also oblivious to the form of waste that this tact will ultimately produce, while the children seem to have some fairly clear ideas.

Miss D spends three minutes going over the difference between right and left, and adjusting the children's hands, before launching into the Pledge of Allegiance. Anthony was going to sneak the word 'poop' in, but Cassie was watching and she always tattles. Miss D is in a foul mood because they just added a mandatory meeting after school and this, combined with her two other scheduled meetings, will put her squarely in the jaws of rush hour traffic. She is very worried about having a job next year.

Anthony stares at a large, orange reading book entitled: Delights. He is supposed to read a story about a sad dog that doesn't appreciate a healthy diet. In the end the dog is rehabilitated, with the help of some of some wise gophers, and all is well. Anthony thinks he liked it, but trying to translate it into a "story hill" makes his neck hurt. And why wouldn't it? A story hill is just the latest in a long line of well intentioned gimmicks that seem designed to be as unengaging as humanly possible. They are also noticeably ephemeral. Three years ago classrooms were filled with chatter about "text to self" and "text to text" references and three years from now there will probably be multi-colored orangutans spouting various phonemes to the tune of Who let the Dogs Out? in high-def; and, still, no one will know what the hell is going on.

The principal's voice comes over the loud speakers again. He lets everyone know that, although it has been raining a little, they will still have outdoor recess. The children cheer and don't seem to hear as the principal goes on. "So, be careful out there. It is wet and I don't want to see anybody running or jumping or playing on the grass or any of the play structures or with a ball or rope of any kind. Have fun."

For the last three days Elijah has brought a dirty plastic Safeway bag filled with Cheetos and red licorice that his step-father, who clearly hadn't read the story about the sad dog and wise gophers, had prepared for him. He and Anthony quickly gorge until they become dizzy and short of breath and take on the appearance of prom-bound oompa loompas. Then the bell rings and they line up.

In elementary school, no ritual is as reverently observed as that of the class line. The process of getting children into, and then maintaining, a line has taken on all the earmarks of a cargo cult fetish replete with solemn incantation (Is this a line? This is not a line. Is this a line?) and human sacrifice (OK Brenda, go to the office. You will not destroy my line.) And so the children are marched off to Excel.

Excel is one of the many acronym laden programs that teachers are supposed to use in place of actual teaching. They are ubiquitous. They are adored. They are also big business and have mission statements like:


C1. Students will access, use and communicate information from a variety of technologies.
Division 1 1.1 access and retrieve appropriate information from electronic sources for a specific inquiry
1.2 process information from more than one source to retell what has been discovered
Division 2 2.2 organize information gathered from the Internet, or an electronic source, by selecting and recording the data in logical files or categories; and by communicating effectively, through appropriate forms, such as speeches, reports and multimedia presentations, applying information technologies that serve particular audiences and purposes.

Much money changes hands and the perpetually bewildered feel productive, but, functionally, these programs are to teaching what a suit of armor is to bowling; painful and irrelevant.

Mrs. G is the mean teacher and when she hears any noise above a whisper she makes an explosive noise that sounds very much like a chicken swallowing a cat. Anthony is terrified of her and, consequently, of math. She also has a gift for making the merely dull seem overwhelmingly complicated. At the end of Excel, her white board is a confusion of arrows, double arrows, sweeping X and O covered arcs, and incomprehensible symbols that have been semi-erased and smeared across basic addition problems. Anthony breathes easier as he leaves her room.

Lunch. For those of you who are old enough, who may remember drive-in movie theaters and the heat-lamped delicacies that awaited you during intermission; you have some idea. For those of you who have had the good fortune to stay at one of our many correctional facilities; you have an exact idea. To spend any more time making fun of the food would be like beating Rush Limbaugh to death with a chainsaw; temporarily fun, but a little too easy and ultimately unnecessary. Suffice it to say that Anthony picked at his half frozen taco pocket for a couple of minutes and then downed a pint of chocolate milk and bolted out for recess.

One nice touch is that teachers have taken to posting standardized test results on the wall. The students are divided into five categories: far below basic, below basic, basic, proficient, and advanced. The student numbers are placed into the column that reflects their testing proficiency. There is one chart for math and one for language arts. Orwell would appreciate the 'language arts' touch; Anthony does not. His number is below basic on math and basic on the other. Even though it is just his number, he knows that every body else knows whose number is whose. If asked, he would tell you he feels defeated.

Miss D is in a much better mood. Her late meeting was rescheduled and the girl's decided it would be a good day for happy hour at Aqui's. She is now in the process of trying to describe the Civil War but becomes flustered when she can't remember whether the North was in favor of or against slavery. Last week she said that the San Francisco Bay was no deeper than five feet at any point. Anthony looks over at Mr. S, the guy who works with the wheel chair kids, and tries to make something of his cringing, angry body language.


The rest of the school day is a blur of not doing art, or music, or having time to digest what one is supposed to have learned. He vaguely remembers attending an assembly, something on the dangers of dodgeball, that was presented by a colorful group of smiling neuters, but can't remember if it happened on that day or another. After school, there is the indignity of homework club and the forced frivolity of KidPlay, and then the late bell rings, adrenaline courses through his veins, and he is back on the bus.

Anthony gets home around 4:00 pm. A thing called a lunchable is on the kitchen counter. It consists of three circular pads of half baked dough that can be covered with ketchup, cheese, and raw pepperoni, to simulate pizza. It also comes with a raisin box sized container of juice, a bag of skittles, and a coupon for Flintstones chewable vitamins.

Anthony puts a disc into his Xbox 360, sits down in front of the TV, and earnestly sets about killing everything that comes across his path.

Three Short Poems About Blenders

The window is shut but you keep talking,
your tongue folded into origami nonsense,
and I will never love you.

could you sense not hearing me walk in,
metal fingers clutching at the insolent ice,
brush your hair back,
strays,
rush your black robe,
meant to take care of that insolent glass,
could you not sense hearing him walk out?

The open box leans waiting in the corner,
purged of its moment and contents,
and I will always leave you.









i mean to touch her
to take from her what is mine,
hours of ours in the soft scream,
until she knows i am a serious man
and gray clouds clutter her eyes and release her consent

i mean to place her
in her immaculate shrine,
piece by piece of her cool gleam,
until she glows within that vermilion lamp
and red seas stagger her lies and reveal her intent










She looked away when
I brought it home.
Barely able to balance her checkbook
She had something like a fine heart.

Please do not think this is your fault

She filled the room,
I pulled away then.
Barely able to maintain our balance
She had nothing like a delicate metre.

I cannot see to see

She stopped herself,
abrupt, mid-sentence,
and dissolved our selves like sand.

She leaked out through
My finest mind.
Openly braced against her outlook
She had fallen into herself.

I was never meant to be a part of this

She created things,
I could not see.
Openly unable to sustain her valence
She held nothing more than her and me.

Please do not think this is your fault

She stopped herself,
abrupt, mid-sentence,
and dissolved our lives like sand.

Love's Executioner

What do you want?

Whatever it is, it has been collected, collated, and circulated for you through the delicate sensibilities of the nearly ubiquitous Craigslist. A broken microwave oven with a dolphin painted on it? Hot_Pocket69@gmail.com in Atlanta has two. You can get both, plus shipping, for under a hundred dollars. He seems reasonable. Calves hurt? MrBigTime@hotmail.com in Cairo has a paste that his grandmother makes out of parsnips, mustard seed, rendered cat, and mercury. He is willing to trade a 6 oz. jar for a Walkman, but I already sold my Walkman last year for eleven dollars. I needed stamps. Besides, my calves are actually more stiff than painful. And, anyway, I am looking for something else. I want love.

Craigslist provides an impressive array of options: women seeking men, men seeking women, each seeking their own, platonic, casual, the mysteriously titled misc romance, and missed connections. Since each journey begins with a single step, regardless of whether or not one is being carried by our Lord and Savior (Jesus Christ), I clicked my first ad.


Women Seeking Men


Ummm - 40 - (hayward / castro valley)


Unicorn you are
In my hotel, four star,
Where sheets of clouds trammel
Your heart, so ample,

So amply I ride
Through your eyes, I sighed,
Where Love cannot see
Past your heart, I say,

I am Me.


You: Sensitive, shy, literate, financially stable, 40 something man with piercing eyes and angular features. People say you look like Charles Brolin. You love the outdoors but can snuggle in front of the TV when necessary. You love the arts but are not pretentious. Macrame? You are open to all that life has to offer from science, like astrology and homeopathic medicine, to spirituality and all that The Great Earth Goddess has placed before us. Do you exist?!

Me: BBW, 40 something photographer who isn't very photogenic; I know, it's ironic :) I have seven wonderful cats and three children. People say I look like Meg Ryan. I have long black hair and large mahogany eyes and lustrous olive skin. I like to read and write poetry (Dickons, Nabakoff) but I can also find time for giggling and jumping. White wine is my passion. I get frisky after my fifth glass... so WATCH OUT!!! I am also a subject of the prophet Esmerelda.

Us: I hope! :)


OK. 0 for 1. Maybe a younger girl is in order.


indie? tattoos? - 20 (aptos)


heyy. i am looking for a guy. she didn't want to post up on here caause it'd be "stupid". we'll see about that when i show up with you by my side! haha. okaaaay.
lol 420 friendly.......
20yrs old, 5'2, average body, snake bites, nose ring
i like latinos and mixed guys.
idk im super open minded super down for any type of fun
im not a slut nor a skank i think sexual talk is a turn off
comin off too strong just makes me sick
welp yeah i wanna be spoilded and i wanna spoil whom ever i end up with
shit atleast my my fone bill thats all lol
i am a Pisces so if that scares you don't reply.
hmmmmm ps i lik pics tooooo.


OK. 0 for 2. Maybe two women are in order.


Women Seeking Women


[Editor's note: I am a much beloved figure in the lesbian community; similar to Larry David. From the butch to the bois to the studs to the softbutch to the bi to the bi-curious, I am here for them. They know that and accept me as one of their own. Consequently, finding a pleasant lesbian couple with which to connect is not as preposterous as it may, at first, appear. Of course I will have to help get them together first, but this is the type of work I was born to do.]


Cute queer for flirty dates... - 28 - (San Francisco)

Curvy activist, new to the area, looking for like-minded serious long term relationship. No bi curious, no men...


femme loves femmes - 40 - (san rafael)

I would love to meet a friendly, intelligent women. Someone I could share my life with; my pleasures, my pain, my activism. Honesty, warmth, compassion, spiritual depth. I know you are out there. No bi curious, no men...


OK. This next one looks promising.



Sexy Sexy Bifemale Seeking Lipstick Lesbian Girlfriend - 22 - (downtown / civic / van ness) pic

Hi This is Butterfly... I'm a pretty bifem activist who is into friends, love, whatever. I have a big heart and am pretty much open to anything. No bi curious, no men...


Yikes! What a politicized community. OK. 0 for 3, 0 for 4, 0 for 5. Maybe a man is in order.


Men Seeking Men


looking for asian with smooth ass and small dick - 33 - (sf)

asian home alone looking for top guy will host - 35 - (south san francisco)

Wanna get naked together? - (petaluma)

Horny Hot Bi Bottom+++ - 28 - (haight ashbury) pic

Short (or skinny) guy, big package? - (Sonoma County)

Suck pig/cock nurse - 40 - (cole valley / ashbury hts)

OK. The above is a more or less random sample of the first part of the first page I came across. There is a definite change in tone here. I am not a Sociologist, but I can observe and report.


First, there appears to be an animal-related lexicography, present in most ads, that would make even George Orwell go running for his Big Book of Gay Idioms. Bears, pigs, snakes, and mythical beasts of every variety lunge out at you from virtually every post.


" ... stocky, bearish, daddy, growling, untamed, chubby, husky, etc... big bellies and fur a +."

"... Soul, pig, animal, romantic, oink, 7.5cut, 5'6. Hosting SF. . Will respond to pics and corn."

" From the caverns of the Isle of Mann I hear the Dragon's song and Excalibur becomes unsheathed. I am The Lizard King!"


Second, although there were elements of role playing in the other sections, they take on a more direct, and specific, manner here.


" I want you to come into my house and pretend that you are a burglar that I walked in on. Then I want you to tie me up, carve a Star of David on my shoulder, and cum in my hair. After that you should take off your mask and reveal that you are my uncle who has just been released from prison. Then you should take my answering machine and leave."


Third, there is a striking difference between the post-coital expectations of the male and the female ads.

" The door will be open. Come in, jack off onto my knee, and then go away. No kissing, no eye contact, no talking."

There really exists no female equivalent. The women seeking men ad that reads: " I want you to come to my house and lick my pussy and then disappear," does not exist; not even on Craigslist Las Vegas.

In all fairness there were plenty of ads that were intelligent, sometimes poignant, efforts at meeting a person for a loving relationship. Good luck to them. Bring a compass.


OK. 0 for 6 through 0 for 12. Maybe a casual meeting is in order.


Casual Encounters


After a seventy minute hot bleach shower and the removal of my eyes I am ready to move on.


OK. 0 for 12 1/2. Maybe a less specific approach is in order.


Misc Romance


OK. Not nearly as mysterious as I was hoping. Reasonably sane people who are smart enough, or experienced enough, to avoid the other sections. Sure, there was the occasional Dominican Hurdler Seeks TBoy For Unauthorized Salmon Fishing ad, but it was the anomaly. Actually, there is a forty year old lady in Foster City who likes prog rock and who is very pretty. I might hit her up once my eyes heal.


OK. 1/2 for 12 1/2. Maybe I already met my soul-mate.


Missed Connections


Chatted in line at Trader Joes - Tuesday 3/30 - 31 - (oakland rockridge / claremont)


You were buying aioli and I was wearing a shirt. You said something to the cashier, but I knew you meant it for me. Call me at sixfive3 ohseven22. I love you.


33 Bus Saturday morning around 10:00 - m4m - 25 - (castro / upper market)


We both got on at the 18th and Castro stop. You got off on Potrero near McDonalds. We smiled at each other throughout the trip. I have nice teeth. I wanted to come over and say hi but felt awkward since we were on the bus. I have dark hair I guess.


OK. 1/2 for 13 1/2 and 1/2 for 14 1/2. If she isn't in the first two, then it isn't meant to be. I may have decreased my odds by making one of them a m4m, but I have never been big on math. And so, another soul-mate free Saturday morning ends in shame. Well, not shame exactly; I just like that line. Actually, I stole it from Mystery Science Theater 3000 and paraphrased it for my own use. Any women out there like MST3K? No?

You Are McMurphy, Chief.

Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn,
Wire, briar, limber lock
Three geese in a flock
One flew East
One flew West
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest



Any book or movie starts the same way. You are thrust into some portion of a character's life. There is a conflict that is resolved or not resolved in some fashion. In this case, you are an inmate who wants out of jail and who thinks you may have found it. You get yourself categorized as psychologically unstable and, ultimately, committed. You are flawed but you have some good qualities. Your key attribute is that you think that you are outside of something that you cannot possibly be outside of. You will find out soon enough.

Ken Kesey never saw the film. They didn't maintain a surreal enough sensibility for him. The book, which is seen through the eyes of a mute Indian named Chief Bromden, was practically hallucinatory at times. The movie, which was probably already pushing it by having a primary character who was a gigantic Indian, focuses on McMurphy's perspective. It is your perspective; the conscious perspective.

This perspective involves some of the flattering aspects that we crave. The anti-authoritarian, iconoclastic, sui generis figure who moves through a thoughtless and rigid environment. He can't, in spite of what would be best for him, keep from indulging his frustration. I can't help but root for him. Calling play by play for the World Series at a blank TV screen as his fellow inmates get more and more worked up. Wisecracking with his clueless superiors. Driving a stolen bus to a soon to be stolen boat prior to what will probably be the only meaningful adventure in the other inmate's adult lives. I can't help but root for him.

The book is a murkier situation. It is, almost exclusively, seen from the perspective of a genuinely distorted Bromden. He sees the 'Combine' in every calculated gesture that nurse Ratched insinuates into the ward. He also sees many things that do not exist. Drunken college students and reactionary prudes refer to this technique as 'the unreliable narrator.' Even drunker graduate students and post-reactionaries know this as a tautology. It's what you say when you can't think of anything meaningful to say.They can't entirely be blamed; even Nabokov bristled against the wisdom of Freud. But Nabokov, this time, this one time, was wrong.

The relevance of Freud to our time is largely his insight and, to a very considerable extent, his demonstration that the ordinary person is a shrivelled, desiccated fragment of what a person can be. That is a quote from RD Laing's The Politics of Experience. I read it back when I was pretending to read so that I might impress some girls. They weren't impressed, but the quote stuck with me. Not because of my carefully developed misanthropy, but because it applies in such a precisely accurate fashion to me. And to everybody that I can imagine. But, I digress...

Randle McMurphy, in short, gets himself committed to an asylum so that he can get out of the monotonies of jail. This happens in the book and the film. After some time it is brought to his attention that his release it at the mercy of his wardens. He tries to acquiesce, but they are on to him. He does his best Cool Hand Luke, but, like Luke, he is broken, and when finally given a chance to escape he sinks back into himself and is lost. He looks around the ward through bleary eyes and forgets.

In the book, McMurphy is often referred to as the bull goose loony. He is that part of you that struggles against the trivia that comprises so much of human existence. He is also that part that gropes your best friend's wife at that Christmas party even though she was just being amiable. He lacks foresight, but he is the reason that you know that you are going to die. He will never leave the party.

The Chief is selectively mute, but he hears everything. He is also broken. Like a dream he is elusive and distorted and animates conglomerate mannequins for any and every person; seven at a time. He deforms reflections that slip through your fingers before you can grasp them. And he will kill McMurphy. And here is why...

McMurphy IS you. You come out of nothing into something for reasons that cannot be described much less assimilated. You put yourself into an inescapable situation whether you intend to or not. Nurse Ratched hovers over you and smiles. She may not even know your name but she still locks the door behind her as she leaves. And every window remains locked as you fumble at the keys. You will never rip the water fountain from its mooring, even if not for lack of effort. The house is spinning a roulette wheel with one hundred trillion zeroes and the red and black will eventually be less than a memory. And then a piece of your brain will disappear, and then nothing.

But Chief Bromden does not understand nothing. I cannot place this metaphor, it seems all too human. Still, somehow, the Chief will recognize what is going on. He will lead you by the hand to a remote part of the casino that is less well lit and that barely throbs to the canned music. He will place his hands over your nose and mouth. You will not struggle. He will call a waitress over. She will look you in the eyes and smile as she asks you what you want; and she will wait for you.

Language Fails Because Everything Fails

THE FOURTEEN TYPES OF ANIMALS



1. Those that belong to the Emperor.


Borges knew. At one time the study of language must have seemed as penetrating as physics. What could possibly bring us a deeper understanding of ourselves than the study of the very thing that most completely differentiates us from the other animals? Borges meticulously read everything he could get his hands on. He became a proponent. Words mattered. He wanted to be precise, but precision failed him. Soon enough he exchanged actual encyclopedias for imaginary encyclopedias. They weren't fantastic except for the fact of their irreality. Borges had come to the end of language.


2. Embalmed ones.


Set this house on fire. There must be a desperate yelp within some people. Such need to find a solid foothold to cling to. Do not end a sentence with a preposition. But even the most elementary questions become vague if you press them. According to some it is OK to end some, sometimes, that way; of course others think otherwise. So look to genius, that foul rag and bone shop of the heart. But it will tell you: You have to find your way; because there is no way. But then, there you are. The earth collapsing beneath your feet as you scramble for contact.


3. Those that are trained.


I am scared. No, uncomfortable. Who am I to blow against the wind? I feel this. I reach out and touch nothing. No, I have some things. They tie me to the mast and beat against the song. The rocky shoals are not a threat because there are greater threats. I didn't make me this, but my fingerprints are all over it. When told by his patient that they were dreams and how could he be responsible for his dreams, Freud replied: Who else could?



4. Suckling pigs.


Success has always been a great liar. How could Van Gogh have felt himself a success? Foul cheeses and unwashed linen. That fucking prostitute. Would it somehow be better if he were in heaven raking in his posthumous accolades as he casually exchanged witty banter with Oscar Wilde and Lenny Bruce? Forever? At what point is the game up? Twenty-seven million years into the glory wouldn't the thought cross his mind that they were masked charlatans simply postponing the inevitable? The deification of success. Infinity dissolves perspective. You may as well be everything.



5. Mermaids.


There are ten times as many bacteria on your body as there are cells in it. Mitochondria, which power our cells and make us us, are, in a very real way, not even us. Our unconscious mind determines over ninety percent of our cognitive processes. Subatomic particles, of which we are made, behave in a fashion that could generously be described as fucking insane. We weren't before we were born and we aren't after we die. Mermaids singing, each to each. We have an improbably brief window of time to react (for/against) to a stimulus in our brain before it becomes reality. That is our free will. I want to talk to you. I want to tell you something. There is so much that we are not; till human voices wake us, and we drown.


6. Fabulous ones.


Some men can only be aroused by a woman in pantyhose. Some, only by a woman in pantyhose who is smoking. Someone has to be slapped. Quinn has to be dipped in Fresca and threatened with excommunication. Denise likes it when she is called ambivalent. Doorknobs? A man who has just varnished an old, but not antique, desk is greeted at the door by a woman who stutters uncontrollably as she fingers herself with a gloved hand. Say the word pussy with a Celtic accent. Scream incisor! Growl and pay my gas bill as you rearrange my porcelain figurines. I want you. I want... something.


7. Stray dogs.


Death is cheap. On the TV show The Wire there are many well developed characters who come to a terrible and irrelevant end. Cole dies on the stairmaster. Omar, who has previously escaped many preternaturally inescapable situations, is shot in the back by a distracted twelve year old. It is what that show nails. There is no noble death. Few people die defending a noblewoman from a brutal and senseless attack. And if they do, it is very likely that the incident will be interpreted, and re-interpreted, out of existence. Right now, as you read, there may be cells in your body that are on the verge of not functioning. There may be a woman who feels under appreciated and who is swerving her way to San Thomas Liquors to re-stock her supply of Cat's Meow Box Wine; because she has a coupon and because it reminds her of high-school. But it doesn't matter. Fiery blaze or family filled hospital room; you are there. And then dust, decay, indifference, and nothing. Luis Bunuel used to put a rabid dog in his films to remind the viewers that they were one random incident away from eternity.


8. Those included in the present classification.


Godel's idea is this. Any effectively generated theory capable of expressing elementary arithmetic cannot be both consistent and complete. That means that even adding numbers is fraught with ambiguity. Adding numbers! 6+3=? This is real. I am not kidding. And so, of course, something as soft as language must be even worse. Wittgenstein, who did as much as anybody to demolish the idea of a privileged position, showed that language (i.e. the most salient feature that separates us from the rest of the animals) is, at best, a fuzzy game-like structure that we utilize to navigate the uncharted waters of existence, because we can't do any better. No word is the thing it stands for. The word 'horse' is not a horse. The word 'word' is not even a word if you think of it contextually. Pointing doesn't help much; certainly not in complex situations. So, ultimately, every human edifice evaporates. And what are we left with? The desire to make the things we feel we can grasp into something meaningful. It is literally the best we can do and it is also very close to nothing.


9. Those that tremble as if they were mad.


Look in the shadows. What do you see? Same old monkeys.


10. Innumerable ones.


There is a way to show that there are infinities that are larger than other infinities. A guy named Euler did it. No shit. Another guy, not named Euler, wrote an essay on the homoerotic tension between Huck Finn and Nigger Jim. "All right, then, I'll go to hell!" That's a quote! Aldous Huxley died in a self-induced LSD stupor and Hemingway shot himself. Dante said that the suicides resided in the seventh circle of hell. They would only talk if you tore away one of their branches. And in a hundred billion years there won't be enough evidence left for anybody to figure out how the universe began. Joyce was enamored with human waste. Sometimes I say melk instead of milk. There is such a thing as a plastic pony that you are supposed to comb the hair of. 'Jesus wept' is the shortest sentence in the Bible. I am the library at Alexandria.



11. Those drawn with a very fine camelhair brush.


Even with precise language, with the vernacular of law or medicine, there will be gaps, holes, that can only be filled with other words which, themselves, engender the need for further gap filling tactics, some of which provide an opportunity for creative expression, and some of which rely upon more sober demands, but of which all must partake in the single minded effort to help clarify that which we innately feel elicits a strong, microscopically focusing, desire for explication, ever swirling inward, like Mandelbrot's sets, until perspective becomes relative and the desire wanes.


12. Others.


My first memory is of a dream. I was looking down upon a river that felt uncomfortably small. I bent down to see it better but the sensation was unbearable. As I knelt closer the feeling grew until I had to look away, up into the sky, into an overwhelmingly large star.



13. Those that have just broken a flower vase.


keep explain. god. you astrology. i can't. create. talk to you. my mother. would it matter. cold medallion. in through the. touch. i can catch a monkey. would it matter. i feel. tarot me. read. smoke brushes leaves. breathe. the reach for can you. under decipher. they, or they. come rush me. over to the now. locust cry. no, i if. stop. would it matter.



14. Those that from a long way off look like flies.


It is no secret. A group of people come upon a meadow. It is the place where the boy who wrote all those letters finally pulled away from her. It is a field vegetated primarily by grass and other non-woody plants. It is the first draft that led to the poem about Winter. It is a blur of color, warmth, and security. It is the inability to tell his wife that he lost everything. The crime scene. The parable. The chance to get laid. The place I lost my keys. Why did I tell her that? If you would just lend me eleven thousand dollars. The last chance for the Turkana Woodthrush. More actors to swell a scene or two.