Stuff I Don't Get

Mitt

Can’t the conservatives see it: when the one person on your slate of possible presidential nominees who comes off the least batshit crazy is Mitt “I Gots My Magic Underwear” Romney, you are in serious trouble.

The Iowa Caucus

It’s a completely meaningless exercise in civic masturbation that exists for no other reason than to make Iowa think it’s a real state, and Iowans think their opinions mean diddlyshit.

Death Penalty Proponents

Don’t these atavistic mutants realize that they are the very people who, by being killed, would benefit society the most?

Drunken Facebooking

There’s a new app out there for smart phones that allows you to cut yourself off from all social media during those hours when you think you might get shitfaced and post something stupid for the world to read. Oh come on, you pussies! You wrote it, you thought it. Period. And being drunk is no excuse. Take a little responsibility for fuck’s sake.

Gay Bashing

If god really does hate homosexuals why is it that, per capita, the gayest burg in the union is Salt Lake City?

Classic Cars

How come in period movies that, with few exceptions, the cars are always clean, shiny and dent free? A shiny car looks better on film, sure, but having pretty cars all over the place lends a level of nostalgia to the picture that most of them don’t need or benefit from. Plus they make me feel like a slob…

Parking

On the subject of cars in movies, why is it that people always park like 100 yards from where they want to be, and then walk, when there is plenty of driving room still available for them to use? Unless, of course, the movie is set in New York City, in which case they miraculously find parking right out in front of their building.

Spiritual Athletes

Do people seriously think that an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent god, who is capable of monitoring, instant by instant, every particle in the universe simultaneously, really gives a shit if somebody scores a touchdown?

World’s Biggest Douchebag

Bob Marshall, this waste of mass and density from Virginia, recently said that god punishes women who have abortions by later giving them deformed children. With a mind so full of hate and stupidity how does this sick cunt even manage to button his overalls in the morning?

My New Cause

While we’re on the subject of birth defects… Conservatives and Liberals are so at odds with one another over so many different things, that it seems at times that we must be two different species of hominid. Interestingly, some neurological studies now show that we might actually be wired differently on a foundational level. So: conservatism might just be a birth defect. I’m gonna start me a telethon.

Prison Break

Another pair of inmates recently escaped from the prison near the shitty little town where I used to live. When questioned by the local paper the warden said: “Well, they were there at 8:30 when we did a head count, but they were gone when we did one at 4:30.” Dude, when you are talking to the press and the community about how your prison regularly leaks prisoners, at least try to sound like you aren’t a complete fucking Gump.

Santorum

This guy is so radioactively homophobic he simply must be gay. His dog too.

Disco Pills

Not long ago I came into possession of a handful of real-and-for-true, 1970s vintage Quaaludes. Taking them led me to wonder this: how in the hell were they the archetypal party favors of the disco era? Never in the history of drugs or music have a high and a soundtrack been more mismatched. Weird.

Shakespeare vs. God

OK, so the Bible is the written word of god, transmitted straight from his mouth to the prophets’ quills, with perfect, dare I say divine, fidelity, right? And, rumor has it, god created Shakespeare. So how can it be that Shakespeare is such a better writer?

Climate Change

I’m done trying to change anyone’s mind about the veracity of human-induced climate change. Know why? Because even of all the worst shit from The Day After Tomorrow happened, well, tomorrow, they wouldn’t learn a thing from it. They’ll just start praying, ranting about homosexuals, and looking for a way to gas up their F150s. Let em freeze.

Mass Prayer

Why do religious people gather together in huge groups to pray? Is there network latency between here and heaven? Is it so god can hear them if he’s driving under a bridge?

Beats me.

And there you have it. A bunch of stuff I don’t get.

Cheers.

Recombinant Whack-A-Mole

I am not a fighter. I’m not a lover. I guess primary skills are rising my wrist and being an impenitent smart-ass. And the two have been known to join forces, thereby ensuring my participation in situations that, while off-the-charts stupid, can occasionally be quite diverting.

Sense a tale looming on the horizon? Bully for you.

Not long ago I was goofing around with my brother, who was in town on one of his too-infrequent leaves from the military. We ate lunch at a Mexican place, a meal comprised of a burrito and six or seven beers each, then decided to swing by Best Buy on the way back to my place—me in search of a wireless mouse and my brother wanting to price 70” flatscreens.

It being a Saturday, the parking lot was crowded, and we had to navigate around a bit looking for a spot. We were approaching the front end of a lane when oncoming cars forced us to pull in behind an idling sedan of some early 90s vintage; a dirty brown turd on four treadless Goodyears hugging the side of the thoroughfare. Two passengers, or their shadowy outlines at any rate, were visible through the vehicle’s grubby windows.

We sat motionless for a tick or two before my brother—in whom the Army has instilled a certain paucity of patience—said, “What are these dipshits doing?”

“Just sittin' there,” I responded. “There’s room. Go round em.”

This my brother undertook, pulling out into the lane and easing forward. Only to come to a rocking stop about five feet into the maneuver, when the Turdillac suddenly leaped violently out into our path. My brother laid on the horn and started screaming at the other car through the windshield. For my part, I stuck my head out the window—the passenger side, I should mention, was nearest the other party—and did a little bellowing of my own. Digging deep into my reservoir of witticisms and bon mots I yelled at the driver:

“The fuck are you doing, ya fucking retard!”

To which the driver rejoined—and I swear this is true:

“Ya wanna make something of it?”

Yes, I decided, I did want to make something of it.

“OK. Pull over, fuckface.”

From there things degenerated into a short period of mutual shouting. The operative word was fuck, and it flew as fast and wild as a covey of startled quail.

As my brother drove I took off my sunglasses and removed stuff from my pockets—change, keys, wallet—just in case events actually did devolve into fisticuffs. I also remember thinking how profoundly glad I was that my brother was along. Everything I lack in fighting skill and general toughness, J.P. makes up for in spades. I’m seven years older than he is and I didn’t even beat him up when we were little kids. He’s a tough motherfucker.

“If I get my ass stomped,” I asked, “you got my back?”

“Of course,” J.P. said.

And there ensued a few minutes of Keystone Kops bustle, as my brother and the Turdillac took off in opposite directions—we hadn’t settled upon exactly where our little throwdown was to take place—and thus proceeded to circle each other about the parking lot, still hurling invective. But, finally, we arrived almost simultaneously in the lot’s south forty, on an open patch of asphalt suitable for parking and/or a street fight. We parked facing each other.

I climbed from J.P.’s pickup while the passenger across the way exited the Shitvrolet, and we got a good peep at one another. He was about 5’4”, and wiry. And he was dressed like the Caucasian reject from a housing projects pick-up game—Nylon NBA shorts that dangled down below his knees, a Miami Heat jersey over a white wife-beater, and an LA Lakers cap on his head, twisted sideways, ‘80s-style.

“Hey, Flavor-Flav,” I said. “Where’s your clock?”

My brother burst out laughing, and the kid’s face to go all twisty like one of those demon thingies in Jacob’s Ladder.

“Fuck you, you fat fuck,” he answered, giving me a serious dose of the hates, glaring, hands on his hips. “What’s yer fucking problem?”

“Hey, you pulled out in front of us, pal.”

“No we didn’t.”

“Jesus Christ. Yes you did,” my brother corrected him, matter-of-factly “Stop acting like a pussy.”

“Yeah, well, we were there first.”

“All we were doing is going around you, man,” I said. “You were clogging up the lane. What are you, fuckin stupid?”

By this point the kid had given me a good once-over. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting me, I’m a little better than 6’4” and tip (well, demolish actually) the scales at about 320. NFL size. These facts all by themselves usually serve to keep me out of most physical altercations. People have this mixed-up idea that big guys are somehow automatically meaner than normal sized folks. Might be true in some cases, but it’s not at all true in mine. I mean, I can take a punch, but where’s the fun in that? Hay bales can take punches, for fuck’s sake. In any event, I absolutely towered over this kid, a fact he was well aware of, but I could tell by the nasty little gleam in his eye that he was more than willing to come to blows, if it came to that. Shit.

“We were waiting there, and you cut us off,” the kid said, rather too petulantly. No way was he on his high-school debate team.

“You were just sitting there,” I said.

“We were waiting on our friend.”

“And he couldn’t walk an extra ten feet?”

“No.”

“But wha—” I began, then stopped, hit with a brainwave. “You guys were stealing shit weren’t you?”

“Fuck you, fat ass! We weren’t stea—”

“You were the getaway drivers, right? Ha!”

“You fat fuck! Fuck you!”

(Side Note: It was about here, though I wouldn’t learn of it until later, that the driver made to join the fun. He only got his door open a couple of inches however, before my brother blocked it, leaned down through the guy’s open window, and said, “If you get out of that car I’ll put my foot on your neck ‘til you fucking die.” The guy closed his door again. And locked it. And rolled up the window.)

“Jesus,” I chuckled, throwing my arms wide in as scenery-chewing a way as I could muster. “The whole world of smack open to you and that’s all you can come up with? I’m fat? Dude, Helen Keller knows I’m fat, and she’s blind and dead. You probably didn’t finish school, did you.”

“Go to hell.”

“And that’s why you’re out here stealing TVs.”

“We didn’t steal any TVs, motherfucker.”

“Well, not you personally, no. I get that. You’re the getaway team. Your buddy inside did the actual stealing. Am I right? Oh, please, tell me I’m right.”

I have no idea if the kid was swiping electronics from the Best Buy, and I don’t give a solitary shit, but the longer I kept hectoring him about it, the less control he seemed to maintain. That and, by this time, there were about fifteen people arrayed about the open space near by brother’s pickup, each and every one of them brandishing a camera-phone and diligently videoing the scene, probably to be immortalized (for eleven seconds) on You Tube.

“Shut the fuck up and throw a punch fat-ass,” the kid grumbled, speaking to me but not looking at me. He was looking at the gaggle of iPhoners.

When he said that I realized that there was very little chance that he was going to try to hit me, so my let’s-fuck-with-this-guy troops sallied forth ­en masse to the front lines.

“You started this stupid shit,” I responded, giggling. “Punch away.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t throw the first punch.”

“Why the fuck not?!” I was, I must confess, momentarily knocked off center by this.

He didn’t speak for a second or two, and then said, “I’m on probation.”

My giggle dialed up a notch into actual laughter. “For real? Like from jail? Were you caught stealing TVs?”

“Fuck YOU!” he screamed. “Fuck you and hit me!”

“Well, which will it be? Fuck you or hit you? Cuz from the way you’re dressed I’m worried it might be the former.”

Laughter now from the iPhoners. The kid’s face went the color of a cherry Slurpee.

“Did you experiment with man-on-man sex while you were in jail?”

He actually screamed so loudly that a great streamer of saliva shot from his mouth, and came at me like a 3D movie snake. “FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

“I recommend getting a job,” I said, calmly. “Hasn’t your parole officer explained that to you?”

“Go to hell!”

“Cuz if he’s the guy telling you to steal TVs, I think you got the shitty end of the stick, officer-wise.”

“Are you gonna throw a punch or not? Huh, you faggot?”

“Faggot? Wow, another quality zinger from the reality TV camp. No, I’m not going to throw a punch. I’m not going to waste any more time with you.” I turned to my brother. “Let’s go inside. I don’t have time for juvie offenders and their ball caps.”

“Pussy!” the guy yelled.

And I started laughing again.

“Jesus, kid. Just stop, OK? Seriously. You’re making a fool of yourself. Take your stolen TVs and go home.”

J.P. and I climbed back inside his truck. The kid, his supply of trash-talk depleted to nil, kept up a flow of “fat” and “pussy” comments. “Fat pussy.” “Pussy fat-ass.” “Fat pussy fuck.”

We drove back up the lane, found a space and parked. As we walked toward the store, an elderly woman approached. She was grinning her geriatric head off.

“You should’a kicked his skinny ass,” she said.

“Maybe,” I answered.

“Would’a been hilarious.”

“Maybe. Who knows.”

She shrugged. I shrugged. My brother bought a new TV.

Cheers.

The 10 Best & 10 Worst Movies of 2011

The 10 Best (In No Particular Order)

Paul
No one working today mixes comedy with other genres like Simon Pegg and his frequent partner, Nick Frost. Throw Kristen Wiig into the pot, and you’ve got comedy heaven. More movie references and inside jokes than one flicker-show should reasonably be allowed to hold. And I learned a little something about Seth Rogan, too: when he’s doing voice-overs he’s not half as annoying as he is the rest of the time. This is some of his best work.

Red State
This is Kevin Smith’s best movie. Hands down. It’s mature, surprising and confrontational. And here’s hoping the two public showings it received prior to its DVD release are enough to qualify it for Academy attention, because Michael Parks blew my fucking mind. There are ways to play heavies and ways not to. Parks give a clinic in the correct way to go about it.

Hanna
Absolutely superior action movie, with some real thought behind it. But as good as the writing and direction is, it wouldn’t be half the movie it is without Saoirse Ronan. She is mesmerizing as Hanna. It’s so rare in action movies to find a hero you actually give a shit about. It’s even rarer to find yourself pondering an action movie days after watching it.

We Need to Talk About Kevin
It’s the story of how a mother copes with the knowledge that her son went on a high-school killing spree. Tilda Swinton, who seems simply incapable of being anything but incredible, no matter the movie or the role, knocks this one all the way into the cheap seats. And man, it was sure nice to see John C. Reilly, one of our best character actors, do something besides that Will Ferrell, Dewey Cox, Talladega Nights shit he’s been wasting his talent on over the last few years.

Bobby Fischer Against the World
Paranoia doesn’t root itself much deeper than it did in chess prodigy Bobby Fischer, and this excellent documentary, the first to tell the Fischer story, demonstrates that in completely certain terms. Fischer was paranoid, depressive, occasionally mean-spirited and every inch a genius. The never-before-seen footage of the 1972 World Chess Championship, and the so-called “Match of the Century” between Fischer and Russian champion Boris Spassky, makes the movie worth a gander all by itself. How much did I like this movie? I fucking hate chess, and thought this movie rocked.

Bridesmaids
Written and produced by Kristen Wiig, the funniest woman on the planet, and the best thing to come out of Saturday Night Live since the original Not Ready for Prime Timers, Bridesmaids is giggle-til-ya-piddle funny, one of those movies you want to repeat lines from at work the next day. Special kudos go to Melissa McCarthy, as Megan. The Oscar people never nominate enough comedy performances. McCarthy’s is one that should not be overlooked.

Midnight in Paris
Anyone who thinks Woody Allen has lost a step is flat misguided, or way stupid, or both. This is his best movie since Mighty Aphrodite. Not only is it a magical Jazz-Age love story, set in contemporary Paris, it’s a delightful meditation on literature, art and the creative impulse. Best performances: Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein and the heavenly Marion Cotillard as Picasso’s lover Adriana. The movie is so good I was even able to enjoy Owen Wilson for a change.

Project Nim
This documentary about a chimpanzee stolen from his mother and taught to “speak” in sign language gives a laudable answer to the question “Who is more noble, humans or animals?” (hint: it ain’t us). Named Nim Chimpsky, after MIT linguist and political gadfly Noam Chompsky, he was taught to sign as a young ape, only to then be shunted from place to place, and imprisoned in an endless series of “foster” homes. It’s a rather sad movie about human desires being foisted upon one of our unsuspecting and undeserving cousins.

War Horse
When humans go to war we have, more often than not, reasons for doing so, however dimly spelled out they might be. When animals go to war, on the other hand, they have no reason for being there, other than doing as they have been trained, true examples of “just following orders.” This is Spielberg at his best—unabashedly sentimental and brimming with hope. The action sequences are spectacular, and the final shot is so beautiful it beggars the imagination.

A Dangerous Method
I thought for a while that it was my imagination, but it isn’t. David Cronenberg just keeps getting better and bolder. The movie confronts the turbulent relationship between Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and Sabina Spielrein, as Jung attempts to cure Sabina of her intense psychoses. Christopher Hampton’s screenplay (based on his play) is marvelous, as are Viggo Mortensen as Freud and Keira Knightley as Sabina. The best performance though, and the one sure to get Academy attention, is Michael Fassbender, as Jung. The movie resonates for days after viewing.


Honorable Mention

Attack the Block
Street kids vs. alien invaders. Smarts, comedy and wicked-cool monsters. Huzzah.

Super 8
It’s a delightful homage to the 1980s and a cinematic tribute to Steven Spielberg.

Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows, Part II
A nicely executed conclusion to Harry’s epic

Suckerpunch
So I’m the only person in the world who liked it. Fuck you.


And, the 10 Worst (In No Particular Order)

The Rite
What’s far scarier than this stupid-ass movie is the fact that exorcisms are on the rise world-wide. Superstitious Catholic codswollop.

Drive Angry
Just when you thought Nicholas Cage couldn’t get any more pathetic…

The Green Hornet
This travesty is high on the list of the worst movies ever made.

Red Riding Hood
It’s almost as nightmarishly bad as Green Hornet. Twilight horseshit running amok in werewolf country.

The Smurfs
I hate those little blue fuckers. I want to see the dark side of Smurf society. Where is Rapist Smurf, or Arsonist Smurf?

Arthur
My kingdom for Dudley Moore. And, Dame Helen…WTF?

Your Highness
I want Danny McBride to die. I really, really, really, really, really do.

The Beaver
Finally, Mel Gibson with a co-star that matches his intellectual and artistic agility.

Soul Surfer
Girl goes surfing. Girl gets arm eaten by shark. Girl gets all spiritual. I was pulling for the shark, all the way.

Twilight Saga: Eclipse
Heaven, I guess, for a certain sliver of the movie-going audience—like 13-year-old bulimics and 45-year-old roofie addicts.

And that's all she wrote, folks. Happy viewing.

Cheers.

The Original Freak

Where did it all begin? When was it that I first took stock of my latest interaction with someone from the Weird Side of the Street and said to myself: What am I? A freak magnet? Was it the day in 1994 that a woman with a PhD in history explained to be that there were dinosaurs on Noah’s Ark? Was it the time I went on a blind date and the lady kept blithering, in oh-so-serious tones, about how homosexuality is a birth defect? Or maybe the barber in Nebraska who listened to the Grateful Dead, drove a Volkswagen minibus, had a peace symbol above his shop mirror, and who, while cutting my hair, went on a ten minute diatribe about how the country was being ruined by the niggers and kikes? All are good candidates, but as it happens I remember distinctly the occasion whereupon I sat, shaking my head and wondering how it had happened that I am to Freaks what A-positive is to vampire bats.

I was sitting at a table in one of my usual hangouts, collecting facts for a book I’d been researching. My notebook lay open before me alongside a pint of beer and a glass of bourbon.

All at once I became aware of a hovering presence. Raising my head, I discovered a rather nondescript chick with red hair, holding a beer in both hands as if she was about to conduct some sort of religious rite. For reasons I hope become obvious here in a minute, I’ve nicknamed her Brain-Cooker.

Brain-Cooker (BC): Can I sit at your table?

It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. Not counting her, there was a grand total of three people in the place—me, a guy on a stool at the bar and the bartender. Brain-Cooker had her pick of spots upon which to store her ass. But I elected, for whatever reason, not to be rude, and gestured at a chair.

ME: Sure.

BC: Cool. Thanks.

ME: Hope you don’t mind if I keep working.

BC: I won’t bother you. Just need to sit for a few minutes.

ME: Knock yourself out.

She plopped onto a chair across from me and let out a massive sigh. Glancing up I saw she was frowning all the way to her chin dimples, while alternating between sipping at her beer and gnawing on the cuticle of her thumb. She kept tossing her hair, too. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Steady as a metronome.

Obviously she wanted me to inquire as to the source of her discomfort. I withstood the urge to comply for as long as I could, but eventually caved.

ME: Crappy day?

BC: Fuck yeah. Just broke up with my boyfriend.

ME: Just now?

BC: Yeah, like ten minutes ago.

ME: That sucks.

BC: I dunno. Fuck him.

ME: There you go. Getting better already.

I shouldn’t have added that second sentence. It came out forced; played my go-away card too soon.

BC: He don’t know what he let go.

ME: They never do.

BC: He’ll never find another me.

ME: Of course not.

BC: Never. Not the shit I can do.

ME: Nope. He probably deserves it, though, right?

BC: Fuck yeah. Never find another me.

ME: So you said.

She tipped the glass to her lips and drank off about two thirds of its contents.

BC: Cuz I’ll do anything, man. Anything.

ME: Oh, yes?

BC: Any-fucking-thing, dude. Swear to God.

ME: I’m sure.

BC: And he’s gonna miss it.

ME: Of course.

BC: Miss the shit out of it.

ME: No doubt.

BC: Cuz, dude, you want it, I’ll do it. I don’t care. I’ll swallow yer
load. You can cum on my face. Fuck me in the ass. Have yer friends
over, watch while they have a turn. Whatever. Fucking lick yer asshole,
dude. I don’t care.

And she suddenly rose to her feet, downed the last of her beer, and slammed the glass on the table, sloshing my drinks all over.

BC: Okay. I gotta go. Later.

And she scurried from the bar with the urgency of Alice’s White Rabbit.

I stared into space for a few long ticks, wondering if I’d hallucinated the scary mutant and her whole twisted rap, then realized it was just my Freak Magnet operating at peak performance. I tried to get back to work, but she’d cooked a hole in my brain that wouldn’t close. So I closed up shop, dragged my stuff over to the bar, ordered a double Maker’s, and dialed up some Ramones on the juke.

Fifteen years later and I still don’t know what to make of it all, other than this: It’s been a hoot.

Cheers, my friends.

Another Foray into the Dato-O-Sphere

After the discouraging results of my first leap into the otherworldly world of on-line dating—a land rife with English-disabled prostitutes and certifiable whack-a-doos—I took a deep breath and decided to give it another go, this time on a site recommended by several people who seem to have gotten the hang of the whole internet romance scene. The fact that it’s a free site was another point in its plus column. Not that I’m a cheapskate or anything, but why pay good money for the dubious thrill of interacting with people you’d ordinarily cross the street to avoid interacting with?

So, I posted a profile with as honest a collection of data as I felt comfortable divulging, uploaded a couple of pics, set up my match criteria, and set about alternately searching and waiting to be found. And, wouldn’t you know it, within a couple of days I was enjoying an email conversation with a lady who shared lots of my interests, was old enough not to be completely fucking stupid about the world, and, judging from her posted photos, was even pleasant to look at. Lucky me.

We decided to get together for drinks. I picked her up at her house, met her charming fourteen-year-old son, and off we went. She picked the bar, me being still unfamiliar with all the bars here in OKC. Good place, too. I drank shots of Maker’s and pints of Guinness, while she had lemon drops and Cape Cods, and we shared a plate of tasty nachos. The talking was good too, drifting freely across our mutual recent divorces, music, politics, etc. Soon we were full and happily tipsy, at which point the conversation turned to wine, all of the good things about drinking it, and how we should go buy a couple bottles and adjourn to her house to enjoy the fine weather on her back patio. And this we did.

I’ll pass over the remainder of the evening, except to say this: nocturnal erotic congress.

The next day proved to be an interesting one. She sent a text calling me a “very handsome man” (awww…shucks). I responded with one saying what a fun time I’d had, and that she has a very pretty smile. Her response to that one was, “Oh, ha ha.”

Ha ha what? I asked.

Never mind. Long story. Tell you later.

And I didn’t hear another peep for two days, and when she finally did peep, it took the form of a phone call.

“We have to talk about the ‘pretty smile’ thing.”

“OK.”

“Couldn’t you have just come right out and said you think I’m fat and ugly?”

“’Scuse me?”

“I mean, like ‘I think you’re fat and ugly, but I have to think of something nice to say, so I’ll say you have a nice smile.’”

“Uh—I said you have a nice smile because you have a nice smile, and I don’t think you are fat or ugly.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever. But I talked to all my girlfriends and they all think that was an assholish thing to say.”

“Saying you have a pretty smile makes me an asshole?”

“Why can’t you just tell the truth?”

“I am.”

“Uh-huh.”

By this point, my eyes were rolling like this was an audition for a Warner Bros. cartoon and I was clenching the phone so tightly it whimpered. Time, I thought, to chop this chat off at its ankles.

“Look,” I said. “Based upon this conversation I believe that the two of us will NEVER communicate in any sort of logical way. So, it’s been nice knowing you. Have a nice life.”

She called me a “fuckin’ jerk” and hung up.

Sitting there on my couch, mulling over what had just taken place, it hit me that I should’ve seen it coming. Not because I’m currently having a run of bad luck. And not because the words “Rich” and “Relationships” usually find themselves together in the same sentence only in the pages of psychology textbooks. No, I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known she was a freak, for one very specific reason.

You know those audio-therapy machines people have? They play soothing sounds while people sleep? She had one in her bedroom. Ordinarily you expect those things to burble whale calls, or ocean waves, or the breeze wafting across grass, and shit like that. What did hers play?

The sound of frying bacon.

So, if you have any cute, single female friends in the OKC area, please…tell them to stay the fuck away from me.

Cheers.

Love & Death

Love and death. We pursue them both. We flee from them both. In a nutshell, it is the push-pull of these two states of being that sums up human existence.

So, it’s a good thing we can laugh at them, don’t’cha think?

THe AfricaN BrIDGe

About two weeks ago, Love (yes, that’s Love, with a capital L), as it has so often done in the past, hawked a thick, wet loogie on my shoes. Chalk up another one in the Loss column. I wandered around feeling befuzzled for a few days, cogitating on how it had come to pass that, once again, I got the gooey end of the poo-stick. I mean, I realize that I’m something of an acquired taste—like retsina and bagpipes—but come on!

Then I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and take a stab at getting my ass back into the saddle. And since I am new to this city, I reasoned, and know a grand total of three people, why not do the thing up right and register my bona fides with an online dating site. Don’t they run those commercials about their members, who, with little or no effort, always find That Perfect Someone? I know they do, I’ve seen them.

Anyway, long story short and all that, I picked a site (more or less at random, I must admit) slogged through their 9,000 page questionnaire, described to them roughly what I sought in female companionship, uploaded a pic or two, and sat back to see what happened.

Which, for the first two days as a grand total of absolutely nothing. Then I got a few nibbles, from women who obviously hadn’t carefully read the info I’d posted (i.e. the rabid anti-smoking Christian who “winked” at me), and then I got someone who seemed, not only to be able to read, but also to be interested. A couple of vanilla emails lead to an e-date in the cozy environs of Yahoo messenger.

When I logged in at the appointed time, she had selected the “tumbling hearts” background for our chat window, which I thought was sort of endearing. Ten minutes later anything “endearing” about our encounter had dropped from the thing like an engine block at a demolition derby.

What follows is the more disturbing tail end of our interaction, pasted verbatim from the chat window, but with certain portions altered the protect the privacy of the crazy bitch on the other end.

HER: Have you been in the OKCity longer?

ME: Longer?

HER: Long time?

ME: No, not long. Just a few weeks.

HER: This is imPortant to me. Because.

ME: [After a pause] Bcause why?

HER: Because. wHen I am go with a man. When you are R my man (which I cincerely HOPE!!!) I must look after all of You concerns and needs.

[At this point a needle of trepidation began sliding into my brain.]

ME: OK. I’ll let you know when I have a few needs that need looking after.

HER: Because.

ME: Because?

HER: Anything you Wish to TaLK about. I am hERe. That is MY job. AnY of Your conCERNS, are now MY concerned.

[Now I was wondering if she was some species of cyber-hooker looking to get me into a naughty dialogue. Christ knows I had better things to do than that…]

ME: That’s nice of you [thinking fast, now], but I have a deadline, so we’ll have to pick this up later.

HER: Your ThouGHhts must are NOw my thoUghts.

ME: Yup. You mentioned that.

HER: Because. I can taLK about anythinG.

ME: Awesome. Like I said, I hate to cut this short, but I have some work to do. Talk to you later.

HER: WHEN? I MEAn that Rickard. WHEN?

[Well, Elvira, I’ll tell ya. Never again in a million, trillion fucking years.]

ME: Day or two. Shoot me an email.

HER: Two weeKs is PERFECT!

ME: OK.

HER: I am in Nairobi, NOw build THe AfricaN BrIDGe. In tHE Okcity in two weeks!HE

ME: Great! Email me then. By.

HER: Byeeeeeeeeeee!

And I X’d out of the chat before she could come up with anything else to say.

The next morning I removed my profile from the website. I can meet crazy people without paying a monthly fee, maybe even some crazy people who have control of their Caps LoCk key. Instead I’m just gonna start hanging around the grocery store on Saturday evenings. Might not meet anyone interesting, but I can buy some soup.

Dead Man Walking!

In only took me a day or two to discover that the apartment complex I’ve moved into doesn’t have the greatest reputation. I was chit-chatting with the liquor-store guy the day I started moving in, and when I mentioned where I was renting, he visibly started, and wanted to know if I’d lost my mind, living in a place like that. I told him the truth, which is that it didn’t seem all that bad to me and that everyone I’d met so far had been very friendly. He didn’t believe me, but so what.

That evening I discovered that my dishwasher was missing the basket thingy you put silverware in, so I wandered over to Wal-Mart, figuring is anyplace sold such an odd replacement part, they would.

I was tromping around the hardware area when the most amazing thing happened. A clerk actually came up to me and asked if I needed assistance. That’s never happened to me in Wally World before. Not once. I told hthe guy what I was after and he shook his head, saying I’d be better off at Lowe's or Home Depot. Then he asked the obvious question: why didn’t I just tell my apartment manager. (I hadn’t because I figured they would shitcan my request three second after hanging up the phone.) The clerk then asked where I lived. I told him the name of the complex.

“Jesus Christ!” he burst. “You have a gun and a flack-vest?”

I laughed good-naturedly. “The gun yes. No vest though.”

“No vest?”

“Nope.”

And this Wal-Mart clerk with food on his blue shirt threw his head back and howled: “DEAD MAN WALKIN’!” Then he giggled.

I giggled too, hewing to my good-naturedness. The clerk went off to help someone else, or whatever, and I paid for the few items I had collected and went home.

On my way up the walk I passed several of my co-residents. Smiles and “hellos” all the way around, and I entered my apartment content in the belief that opinions are, indeed, like assholes, in that everyone has one, especially the assholes.

Two days later a guy in the building next to mine shot his girlfriend six times in the chest and attempted to hide his crime by lighting her corpse on fire.

I could smell the smoke in my bedroom.

Oh well. Twelve months isn’t that long. Not really.

Cheers.

My Magnet is Alive and Kicking

I have officially (almost) relocated to my new digs, far from the Wilds of Oklahoma, and right smack into what you might call the Wilds of Urban Oklahoma. And the big news is…? My Freak Magnet is alive and kicking. Gus the Football-Playing Disney Mule didn’t kick like my little ‘ol magnet is kickin’ these days. Ready for the update? Read on, my fine friends. Read on.

A Trip to the Mall

I’d been here about a week when the urge to see a movie came upon me. Lamentably, I selected that puddle of cinematic ass juice called Transformers: Dark of the Moon, but that’s another tale for another time. The closest theater showing the thing was inside the nearby megamall. I got there too early, due to one of Fandango’s more playful attempts at providing showtimes, and, finding myself with time to kill, went on a wander about the place; three full stories of gaudy commerce.

On the second floor, I rounded a corner just as a quintet of teen- or twenty-something Okie Urban Oddities exploded from the interior of some sort of sports-wear hut. And I mean exploded. They were heading somewhere with a sense of purpose, and I’m betting it wasn’t the library. And no matter their destination, they looked silly as shit. They were all tall and gangly, like junior varsity basketball players. Each wore knee-length NBA shorts, and baggy NBA jerseys with words like Thunder and Heat and Knicks stenciled on them. White unlaced leather high-tops completed their ensembles, except for one other item. All five sported huge—huge—white straw cowboy hats, with brims so wide you could farm mushrooms under them.

And they ran into me. They ran into me, onto me, and around me, each reeking worse than the next of Axe body wash and unleavened testosterone.

They passed as quickly as they arrived, like a bony storm front, and I was willing to let their rudeness slide until the last to go turned and said, “Whoa, watch it there, big ‘un.” His tone suggested he’d routinely employed the exact same sentence at other points over his life’s short journey, most probably in a pasture.

“You ran into me,” I said, coming to a standstill and squinting at them, mostly because their outfits demanded squinting.

There passed about six seconds of guys-sizing-up-other-guys behavior, and I could see in their eyes and body language that we were sharing a similar pattern of thoughts. To wit: they wanted to kick the shit out of me, but even though there were five of them, I was bigger than any two put together, and none of them had the sack to wade into such a melee, one where the outcome was sure to be little better than ten-to-six and pick ‘em. So, after a few shared glances, they took the prudent course and made to depart. But not before one of them, I couldn’t say which, offered some humorous take on the situation, at a quiet, passive-aggressive volume, that set a couple of his pals to giggling.

Grumbling, decided to press my advantage.

“Hey!” I barked.

They stopped in an ungainly clump and turned back to look at me.

“Are you little faggots all on the same dance team or something?”

Not among my better rejoinders, I know, and not the nicest choice of words, but what made it a moment of sheer perfection was that, just as I said it, three very pretty young girls strolled by, heard me, saw them, and burst into that brand of high-pitched, mocking laughter that only teenaged girls can produce.

As one of the boys actually blushed, all five beat feet in the opposite direction, toward a place, I am sure, where they hoped to be free of cranky old fat men and mean girls with smooth, tanned legs.

And then I was punished for my happiness by The Transformers. Fuck.

Purple

I frequent pawn shops. They make me smile most largely. And it’s not all rusty power tools and golf clubs. either. You really never know what you might unearth there next. Just recently, for example, I purchased a fine family of Filipino day-laborers, for—seriously—like half the price of a Chinese set. OK, kidding aside, pawn shops are a positive trove of goodies. Wish the same could be said for some of the people who dawdle about them.

There’s a nifty little locally-owned shop a mile or so from my new digs. They had a sign in the window advertising DVDs for two bucks each. Couldn’t pass that up, so I popped in for a closer gander. After selected five or six flicker-shows for my later popcorn pleasure, I circumnavigated the store, scrutinizing the stuff that was up for grabs. And—Holy Hannah—there it was. A knock-off of da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” framed in bright yellow and pink Neon! Wicked pissah! I immediately coveted it, with a covetousness I usually reserve for ’74 Cadillacs, and girls in Catholic-school skirts.

Oh, but then…tragedy. The shop wanted $375 dollars for it! Fuck me! Bunch of greedy cocksuckers! And thus was I forced to do nothing but stare longingly at it, thinking of how my new walls might have been so honored by it’s dangling from one of them.

And then, a voice from behind me, low and elderly: “That’s blasphemy.”

He was about five feet tall, neat and tidy, and well into advanced years. He frowned with ease, like the frown had become, over the years of his intense religiosity, the default position of his facial muscles. One could imagine him wearing the same expression while he gnawed the heads off Easter chicks.

I didn’t like looking at him. First, because I was afraid he was going to keep on about “blasphemy” and all that shit, Second, because, despite his spick and span appearance, he smelled really bad, and Third, because—and this is so fucked up—his tongue was purple. I don’t mean a little bit purpleish, man. I mean PURPLE. Like a chow’s tongue. Merry-Pranksters purple. Been-goin’-down-on-Violet-Beauregarde purple.

My eyeballs leaped from my head and made like Superballs all over the tile. I guess the old guy thought I was reacting to his “blasphemy” remark, and thus somehow felt emboldened to gimme another dose of Jesus.

“What’s wrong with this country.” He poked a finger at the painting. “Disregarding the Shepherd. Making a mockery of Our Savior.”

I hate it when religious people speak in capital letters.

“He Died for Our Sins,” the old gent intoned, his B.O. clouding around us like a swarm of no-see-ums, his purple tongue dragging across his dry lips.

“Yeah?” I said, kind of loudly, too, I guess. “And then he came back to life three days later. Big fuckin’ deal.”

His eyes went all funny, like I’d maybe stuck my dick in his ear and given it a good jiggle.

“Also,” I continued, as he sort of silently worked his mouth and egregiously exhibited the freaky fucking purple thing inside it, “keep your religion to yourself.”

I started toward the counter with my movies.

“And,” I snapped, now really pissed off, for reasons I still don’t understand, “take a fucking shower. You smell like an unlaundered cunt.”

And I went home. And I popped in a DVD. I’d never seen it before. It was Tron: Legacy.

Punished again. Fuck.