Chapter One

Enjoy a sample from my Novel.



Part One

Stranger


1

You know the look the bad guy has on his face when he’s at his baddest? When he’s got his gun cocked, his situation in hand, and his ill-gotten gains in sight? When he’s harnessed all the electricity coursing from his victim’s defeated expression and the urban swamp surrounding them, a feral grin rises up his face, and he knows the world could crumble within his closing fist? He’s the villain and he’ll prevail in the moment to follow. Roy was in that moment. He had that look. His ravenous smile reflected the street-lamp ambiance and twisted a star-shaped twinkle of light at the end of his gun barrel.

Roy was the bad guy.

Roy was comfortable in his place as the adversary. An outlaw sees the wrong in his actions justified as a virtue of self-preservation. An outlaw sees his victims as guilty of poor judgment and bad luck. He rides in the night, he lives by his code, he takes no prisoners, he robs from the rich and gives to himself. He fears a fair fight, he preys on the good-natured, he disrespects life.

Roy abused life. Life would soon return the favor.

Roy’s work, or his ‘finds’ as he called them, were most fitting under the shroud of night. Under the flickering streetlights, a floodlit billboard brandishing a car he’d never own, and a haze of dank and distant screeches he felt nocturnal and placed enviably on the food chain. Immediate and infinite power over another was briefly his during his moments; a refreshing numbness from a life otherwise tinted in under-achievement. His goal wasn’t to hurt people exactly, though he did enjoy the rush of violation. That hopeless look of surrender when a victim relinquishes valuables of sometimes-immeasurable worth was an addictive feeling of supremacy for someone with little to be proud of.

Through some inherent instinct he knew the tricks that made his presence and interaction during an ‘encounter’ most effective. He knew how to present the facts to his hapless subjects. He made his intentions clear and kept their options hazy. Roy’s method had a set of rules. No theatrics, the last thing a petty thief needs is a recognizable style. No credit cards or traceable valuables, the second last thing he needs is to leave a trail. No quick movements or grabbing, this leads to panic, fear is useful, panic only slows things down. Don’t make it personal; people are more likely to fight back in the face of an insult. And finally, no standoffs, Roy knew his place was as an outlaw and not a cowboy. His rules had served him well over the tenure of his short career. At twenty-one and over seven years in the fray he had yet to be convicted on a felony charge. This badge perched itself somewhere at the top of his most cherished accomplishments, somewhere around the loss of his virginity.

Across the street and down about a block, an elderly woman hunched her way across the circles of light from the street lamps. She was walking alone, returning from getting milk she wished she didn’t have to get.

She scurried up the street toward him without getting anywhere that quickly. She would be Roy’s first lamb of the evening. Her head was positioned downward so that she could see where she was going while avoiding all eye contact. She saw Roy coming, though she didn’t want to.

“Step over there.” Roy was a master of the approach. He always did it slow, he made sure his victims saw him coming. Pouncing leads to screaming. He also was careful never to grab, but to order with his best impersonation of his authoritarian father to step aside with him, again to avoid screaming. The lady reared in shock, though she wasn’t surprised. Her eyes bulged wide as though they were gasping in her oxygen during the seizure of panic. The eyes were the first payoff of the outlaw rush.

“You see the gun. Let’s not make me have to use it.
Keep your mouth shut and you’ll live.”

Roy brought his face in close to hers, still careful not to touch. He let his stale, nicotine halitosis pour onto her face. The lady wept and whimpered an entire unintelligible monologue as she scrambled about for her meager valuables. The whimpering loss of composure was payoff number two. It can be infinitely pleasurable to hear someone babble pleas they certainly never thought they’d utter.
Roy had heard better.

The moment of truth happens the second the thief can see surrender in the eyes of his victim. The moment they decide not to take the risk, but to relinquish their earthly possessions in favor of their irreplaceable ones; the moment they reach for the goods. The deflated old lady let out a long, labored breath and opened her worn out old handbag.
Roy licked his chops.

The third payoff arrives with the ‘booty’. It’s not the goods themselves, but the anticipation, like an unopened Christmas gift, that immaculate feeling of wonder immediately before beautifully wrapped bows and ribbons are torn asunder. Roy loved wondering what was going to emerge from those purses. As he prepared his face for thankless and evil, his brain spun and scrambled as his expression contorted into disbelief.
“Who the fu…”

His new expression followed his head as he leaned back slightly, the jolt still moving through him at the sight of an unwelcome presence. Without noticing a change in the lady’s face, Roy watched an arm slowly drop between them. It was a space that had never before been invaded. The novelty of the situation stunned Roy momentarily.

Roy’s control returned as a torso soon followed the intruding arm and his eyes met the eyes that had destroyed his moment of truth. Though they weren’t captivating eyes, Roy’s anger and disbelief captivated him.

“You should leave now Ma’am,” was said to his victim, while the eyes remained attached to his. She made an attempt at gratitude with a nod and stutter. She quickly turned and scuttled away. This transgression released Roy from his captivation, and gave his immediate role a new focus.

“You just got into one large fucking problem.” To control himself and the situation, Roy had reverted to an autopilot mode, directed by everything his pop-culture sensibilities told him to be, fuelled by the intimidation he didn’t find in the eyes before him.

“You shouldn’t be doing that.” The words and the calm demeanor in which they were delivered impressed Roy even less. They did, however, define his role as the antagonist with greater detail. “I’m here to stop you.”

“Stop me from what?”

“From hurting people.”

“Oh yeah?” Roy had taken a step back as their words exchanged. The figure before him had yet to instill any level of intimidation, except the initial shock of his entrance. Nothing about the man with the bravery to stand in front of his gun was particularly impressive. His shoulders were somewhat narrow beneath his well-worn wool coat. The features Roy could make out were soft and forgettable. He was adorned with no badge and brandished no gun of his own.

This was no hero.

“What if I don’t want to be stopped? What if I take the cash from that bitch’s purse out off your ass? I’ve got the gun, so I’ll worry about who’s getting hurt tonight.” Roy’s discipline had been replaced by bravado. He had lowered his gun briefly as he stepped back from the intruder in disgust, but now the gun was back up, setting a new tone for the discussion.

It was now that Roy had found that bad guy look. This situation, this guy, his things and his life were Roy’s for the taking. The skin between his eyes and his temples wrinkled over his smile. His fangs glittered despite the lack of light. “What do you think of that, hero?” No response. Roy was breaking his rules.
With a rodent’s agility, Roy lunged at his opponent. He was slightly outsized by the stranger, but he felt inflated with his weapon in hand. He dropped a blow to the stranger’s forehead using the butt of his gun with all of his force and quickly followed with a second. Roy’s eyes widened and blazed with excitement, bloodlust and rage as his blows landed, until an icy shock burst them wider. Just as Roy envisioned his victory he felt one hand grip his coat and another wrap around his neck like cold metal.

Roy was thrown to the ground like a rambunctious child. He was thrown with a force that shocked him momentarily. He fumbled for the gun that had landed a couple of feet to his right, while the stranger still calmly stood over him. With victory soon back in his grasp, Roy let out an inaudible nasal giggle and raised his gun at his enemy. He didn’t get the pleading payoff he now sought as a different kind of outlaw. His fangs reemerged as a feral instinct born of his urban justice prepared him for his first homicidal act.

“Fuck you hero! You’re gonna die!” The stranger’s face remained still and uninspired. Roy pulled the trigger.

Shooting the stranger didn’t turn out the way Roy thought it would. Shooting a person rarely turns out the way it’s supposed to. Though a person may become accustomed to death, homicide never becomes natural to human eyes. Pulling the trigger seemed natural to Roy. The tiny explosion that preceded the bullet was part of what Roy expected, as was the forceful kick that jolted his hand. He was prepared for a moment of reciprocal emotional shock from his murderous act. But nothing seemed natural after that. Shooting the stranger didn’t go as Roy had planned. The bastard didn’t fall.

Roy’s disbelieving gasp formed into a primal scream. His scream and the explosion of his gun shattered the living darkness that covered them, as he released two more quick shots at the man before him. A fourth, fifth, and sixth soon followed with a scream that escalated from primal to panic. All he could recognize from his landing bullets were the slight twitches from the force of the bullets against the man’s torso. Roy’s eyes bulged to a new diameter as he saw the slugs from his bullets dropping to the sidewalk beneath.

The sound of Roy’s panic had reached a whistling pitch when sharply it halted as the stranger advanced on him like the creature from a classic horror movie.
Pitching the empty pistol aside, Roy scrambled and scrambled and scrambled to his unresponsive feet. Just as his foot got its first good hold of some asphalt, the vice-like metallic grip got a hold of his leather coat at the collar. Again like an unruly child, Roy was manhandled into the nearest alley.

“What the fuck are you? You ain’t got no vest on! I shot you, man, I shot you. How can you… still be standing. Those damn bullets just bounced…” The sentence trailed off as Roy was thrown into a gritty brick wall and the wind was knocked from him. One of the jagged bricks caught him above the eye. Roy could feel a single drop of warm blood rolling past his eye down the side of his face, as his mind madly tried to produce for him a bargaining chip. After a couple of squirmings, Roy knew he had no way out. His shoulders dropped as defeat overcame him.

“Okay man, what do you want?” He felt the surrender felt by his victims.

“You hurt people. You violate their security. You take their dignity.” Roy tried to look into the face of his captor. When he finally gathered the courage to look up, the faint light from the street crept up behind, a silhouette was all Roy could distinguish. “What is your name?”

“Wha…what, man?”

“Tell me your name.” It was a demand that came in a tone that was calm and loud without volume or force. Anyone breathing would have obeyed that tone.

“R-Roy… Roy Bergen.” The dark figure and his massive grip thumped Roy’s back against the wall, knocking the wind from his body for the second time.

“You’re going to stop hurting people. I could hurt you tonight but I’m not going to. I’m going to watch you instead, Roy. If you try to steal again I’ll be back. I’ll come back and I’ll make you hate everything you’ve ever taken.” The voice was still calm. The stranger managed to make his point convincingly without the slightest malice or anger. He spoke as though his threat was truth, pure and simple. Any forceful or threatening demeanor would have merely diminished the effect. It worked on Roy. His breath ran in and out as he prepared his finest repentance, willing to admit whatever would garner him freedom. Roy just wanted to go home. He had enough of being an outlaw for tonight.

“Do you understand me, Roy?”

A whimpering “yes,” barely escaped Roy’s weakened expression.

The following few seconds of Roy’s life passed like pouring molasses, dripping by with torturously hanging hesitation. He couldn’t endure the suspense. He couldn’t stand not knowing what this stranger and the darkness of this night had in store for him. He quickly reviewed his place and his life, consciously rolling recent and distant events before his eyes, in a way that he knew people in his situation were supposed to. He yearned for the chance to rewind and renew. The old Roy would have been very ashamed.

With the final drip of molasses, Roy felt the grip around his neck and chest loosen and his feet drop to the ground. “Go home, Roy.” His body twitched momentarily, uncertain that the ordeal was over. “And remember, I’ll be watching.” Roy tried to get a last look at the stranger as he left the alley, but again failed to distinguish any features in the dim, damp light. He knew in the back of his head that he wouldn’t remember the face; he’d remember the presence.

The stranger emerged from the alley to watch Roy dash down in the street and into the dark, turning back every few leaps and scuttles to ensure he was not being pursued. The figure at the mouth of the alley crouched down and picked up one of the bullet shells from the slimy pavement, examining it for a moment before dropping it into his coat pocket. His eyes were attracted up to the billboard with the bright red sports car. The gorgeous woman leaning over it looked down at him seductively. He looked back at Roy still scurrying. A smile crossed his face that was warmer than the gloating ridicule that he was entitled to. It was a warm smile amidst the bleak darkness surrounding him.

Roy would never feel the same about being an outlaw. It would be over a month before he could bring himself to confront anyone in the dark with a gun. He never again could accomplish his thievery with the same confidence and bravado. The payoffs never felt as good. The romance was gone. He looked over his shoulder. He thought twice.

Life had earned his respect.



Thanks for reading.

More Samples are available in the sidebar menu.

Follow the link to the right for ordering instructions.


Patrick

Another Me

This Essay is appearing in Issue 02 of the online magazine The Dinner Jacket.

Check it out: www.thedinnerjacket.com




I think of what that means sometimes when the eyes looking on me stop at my mask.

I've been thinking about another me. The other me, the me that I allow all of you to see. To hide in plain sight I wear a mask and present my altered self, to keep one identity secret and keep the other properly proliferated. You call me a hero because I help a person on one side of the line and punish another person on the other. You use the word hero because I exceed the average, but there's a part of me that wonders if my achievement is in my deeds or how the appearance of this ego encounters theirs. You use hero because you need to use me, as a benchmark of your fantasies. You make me wonder how much I use me, and which one is the alter and which is the ego.

Everyone hides and we all alter; everyone who has a face chooses a mask. For many of us, the mask becomes more recognized; many of the faces behind become all but lost completely or never really known at all. My mask is a hero, a literal and figurative ego. My mask is a public figure, a subject of fame. Every fame is a love that is hated in equal portion.

When I can put aside what people are thinking about the other me, under the scrutinizing, unblinking eye, I consider the actual altering. Who do I actually become? Do I become or do I merely revert?

I've done things with my face in hiding that I could never have done without my identity protected and my other identity worshiped. I've been brutal and daring; I've made decisions about others, both to hurt and to help, that were facilitated by alter identity and his altered values.

I most definitely feel an awakening within my persona, a freedom and confidence washed with inflated, fraudulent pride and shadowed modesty, to allow my ego to mingle freely with Freud's Id. I feel more like me when I'm not me. I feel a lack of consequence in my swell of confidence... Quite honestly, I feel lucky.

Isn't it just artificial? Am I a hero to myself or merely just another victim of perception? How can I be different? When does someone become different? Is it at the point of thought action or consequence? Is the strength we derive from these masks make hiding our true selves behind them a worthy transgression?

Can I take credit for acting on my own consequence or do I merely react to the call for good deeds and harrowing rescues? It is understood of this pursuit, by the criminals I encounter and the people I protect, that must also protect my vulnerable life, and that I should present an identity greater than myself. If I am to stand up for people than I must stand for something, and that something must be splendorous.

Burden is believed to come in the cost of celebrity, in the loss of anonymity. A hero carries the cost of the beholder as it lays the public eye upon him. As hero and celebrity have become interchangeable icons, I have found that those who complain most about a burden have perhaps forgotten they are wearing masks. Burden comes not with adorned perception but in the aftermath of substantial deeds. I see them when they look at me with pathos. They think I've missed their sympathy when they acknowledge they couldn't attempt what I accomplish in a glance that drifts by and apologizes for my burden.

I clearly suffer some a level of vanity, while I profit from it, to dress in this way and continually put myself in the venue to do magnificent things. But as much as I need to exhibit I need to hide, I need to protect myself as I feign protecting others. I've been called a hero many times, but I wonder sometimes if the title comes not from my actions and my deeds and my victories but my successful portrayal of an ideal. People believe my mask, that's really all the heroism that tends to be necessary.

I think about secret identities beyond my own. The common Freudian masks that alter/cover our faces and weigh on our shoulders. They offer a form of protection and an attractive deceit, but at what cost? Where would any of us be without our masks? Who among us knows how to wear a naked identity anymore?

How would we encounter one another without the comfort of a masked greeting? We use an expected alter ego to evaluate our peers and rivals in our discourse. I put on a mask the day I decided to become heroic and envied, though it certainly wasn't my first, but I've seen since how vital they are.

Sometimes a lie serves the people being lied to as much as the liar. Almost as often, a lie becomes an agreeable alternative. We accept that we aren't capable of presenting ourselves in a genuine way. We expect to see masks, that we might later see defended identities emerge from, as we earn the pleasure of meeting them. You ask me to wear a mask to represent something that's fundamental, that's more than a face. You like this mask because with it between us it doesn't get sticky and intimate. You don't have to worry about seeing me at the supermarket and saying something awkward. You need me to wear a mask when I do the things you want me to do, that you won't do, so you won't have to look me in the eyes when you say thank you.

The lie I tell everyday is the truth's alter ego, a yin behind the yin that tries still to oppose the yang. It's the truth in a mask, trying to do the right thing, but in a questionable way.

Some lies are forgivable.

We don't want to know each other.



S-P

Old and Improved

I can remember how I used to speculate about how I would encounter my future.

I was going to be big. Not the biggest, but something. We were all going to be something. I don’t think my aspirations or my optimism have changed much, but I look back on that spot I was standing proclaiming my conquest, and I realize now that the mere fact that I’m looking means something has changed. The knowledge of time passing, of a single day gone, or another step toward the abyss, that’s what aging is. They say you’re childhood is over the moment you know you’re going to die. It’s amazing how you can go on until this point, whatever this point is now, and think you’ll be the first one to live forever.

I don't feel old, but I'm starting to understand what it means to become older, to no longer be the proud owner of a reckless youth.

I can remember the pleasure of not seeing the road in front of me. Usually youthful discussions unfettered by hindsight were fun because there was so much in front of us. There's a certain comfort in the freedom of uncertainty. I could be this or I could go after that, and as far as the cloudy road would show me, that goal would be mine for the taking, not just for the talking. The method was thankfully always far enough beyond my headlights that I needn’t have worried about the madness on the road between it and me. I knew it was long and wide enough that the predictions and gambles wouldn't throw me far enough off my trail that I couldn't find my way back. Life was a platinum credit card, with an eternity until payment was due.

I’ve watched things occur among my friends and to my family that have paved the road behind me, cleared the cloudiness and sharpened my view when I turn and look backward. I’ve been to the funerals and weddings of people I think about every day, said I love you and been rejected, said I’m sorry and been accepted, I’ve joked about baldness and illness, gray hair and mortgages, and brought gifts to my friends’ children and told them how big they’re getting. I’ve marked spots in the world with my footprints where the dust will never settle the same way. I have lived well by my estimation. Some experiences make you different than the day before they occurred. You can’t be who you were the day before, so you must then be one day closer to death.

I remember an essay by Umberto Eco I read during university. It was about Superman, which is what originally caught my interest. He discussed how the comic book stories never changed the man, essentially different from most characters of his iconography, who progress through experience. He is challenged, he fights and overcomes, but concluding every adventure he stands unchanged. No one learns his identity, no one gets closer to him, he doesn't step another day toward death; he remains cursed by immortality. Superman and his story are not allowed to age, the inherent dubiousness of being an idol. Though his icon retains its impressive profile, he stands envious of the humans, because it's the experiences of success and frailty actually makes us great.

Just try explaining that to… us.

We don't like being older. We don't like the idea of another day passing us another step towards death. We don't like the idea of being on the other side of the peak of our performance. We don't like admitting that failure. We fear being perceived in comparison to the younger us, the ultimate rival.

Why isn't our pride inherent? Why can't it be ignorant of our calendar age? Why do we always have to wait for acceptance and cautiously avoid the possibility of being poorly evaluated? Why does age eventually equal castration? Why do I feel I have to write about it?

I wonder sometimes about the source of my concern. What is the actual problem with potentially having fewer days before me than behind me? Why can't I be satisfied with what I've done? Am I scared of death? Do I fear being elderly? Do I fear being an accountable adult? Is it merely that I'll slip out of the PEPSI demographic?

We are all greedy when it comes to our life story. I think we all want to be the biography of the century, to believe that we are all immortal and worthy in some way. We want to amass all the quality possible and don't relish the thought of the window of opportunity closing. Aging becomes about potential, what we think we are capable of achieving, and what we potentially stand to lose.

I've been lucky to sidestep many of the general aesthetics of aging. I haven't lost my hair, my hair hasn't lost its pigment, my physicality remains, with a scar here and there. I am older but I'm not old, it's as though a second adolescence has befallen me. I'm in between worlds.

I am the guy in the group of friends that has resisted maturity. Maturity meant something different five years ago, as did success and progression. I sought an elusive career, while they each found a mate, committed to a home and built a family. Now they have a different achievement, a purpose intertwined with those in their family portrait. These friends are not alone on their road into the uncertain future. Every choice they make considers the people who consider them. What they’ve built has built one of the lines in time that marks their path. Sharing uncertainty makes the horizon smaller, but I know they don’t lament that.

Infinity is no longer right there. I can remember feeling comforted in discussing my ravenous and boundless aspirations. With my fitful hindsight, I now see that they were built on a gamble free of consequence. No one can tell you the world is not yours when you're looking over three-quarters of your life; a forest too massive to think about the tress. As ugly cynicism slowing plods in, I now ask myself questions with less fantastical answers.

The most interesting thing about this landmark of life, this source of infinite anguish, the threat of aging, is how it's been sold to us. We’re told it’s a condition of weakness and irrelevance. The worst thing about being old is accepting the sales pitch, that you've lost something from your former youth.

Older is a seemingly unforced admission.

Older is not just about feeling limitations, it's about dwelling in consequences.

I'm lucky to stand in a moment with enough road behind me to admit mistakes with the mask of wisdom, but with enough horizon far enough ahead of me to be inspired by my persevering aspirations.

I’m glad the road is clearer, both behind and ahead of me, and for the loss of blessed uncertainty I have gained the burden of experience. I look back now at the hopeful kid and wish he could look back up at me. For the most part I’d have nice things to say, but maybe between the two of us we could grab a nugget of advice from the really old version of both of us.

I am wine. I am art. One day might float into the next with little or no distinction, leaving me looking for lost time as I look back down the road, but regardless of what convention tells me I’ve lost, I know that today I’m better than yesterday.



Grandpatrick

Hate Day

Hate Day

Welcome to my New Holiday.

Soon enough it will be appropriated by all the artificial sentiment assembly lines and Hallmark-induced quasi-event.

I hate it already.

For the moment, I’ll stomach one revulsion while I revel in many others. These are the things I hate today. Try not to take a bite out of your monitor as you’re swept up in the spirit of the occasion.

I’ll start things off with mosey, before I get into a gallop.


I hate people.

There’s an expression I use from time to time: ‘A person is intelligent but people are idiots.’ I’m not certain who said it, but it’s in this context that I hate people. I hate the way people regard other people. We have an instinct to assume the worst or the inferior quality from those around us. At some level an instinct of survival tells us not to rely on others, assuming our own superiority, instead giving us the benefit of ___doubt.

I get a crook in my eye every time I see a driver gesture something needless and offensive because someone in front of him did something to impede his egocentric progress. Every time I see someone cut in line, hypocritically pull some thoughtless insult from their holster or get away with something needlessly profitable, not because it’s mean, but because whenever we do it, and we all do it, we think we are entitled to it.

I hate it because I see the version of them and us on the other side thinking: ‘how dare they.’

People suck and get my hate because they lose objectivity. We are somehow designed to forget we are surrounded by persons, and we become driven by thoughtless emotions, not the logic we all deserve.

People loose logic, they generalize and stereotype… they can’t drive! I hate them.


I hate things.

I hate how important things, also known as stuff, have become. A great line from a great movie*: “Why do I know what a duvet is? How can this possibly help me as a person?” The characters follow with: “We are polishing the brass on the Titanic.” While problems surround us like a herd of icebergs, we concern ourselves with the ornate. I am convinced that things, the clutter rising around us, in unrequested glossies in the mailbox, in insipid jingles bashing against my face through the car stereo, and in the micro-methodically constructed market identity that has decided what I’ll drive, wear, eat, hum to, live for, and listen to, are all only getting in the way.

A better television screen should not be considered innovation.

I hate the things I want but don’t have, how I talk myself out of them and salivate for them again. I feel like we’re all dieters at a dessert buffet, some of us uncontrollable, some unconvinced, but none entirely immune.

I hate trends for the same reason I hate things. I hate the thoughts we dedicate to fashion, in all its forms, none of which contribute.


I hate __gate.

I can’t stand how every scandal since the early seventies, political or otherwise, is labeled with the snappy suffix ‘gate’. Watergate’s biggest crime is in bringing us Waiter-gate, Sewer-gate, Lewinski-gate, Governor-gate… I’m now waiting for an intense senate hearing-style fracas over someone’s offensive white picket fence.

I know what we’ll call it… wait for it… Gate-gate.

Damn you, Woodward and Bernstein.

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty pissed. I just noticed my fingertips digging into the top of my desk.


I hate hate.

Slightly contradictory perhaps, but please continue.

It could be the worst word in the English Language. It represents an evolution of our species that has never been necessary. Survival has never required hating another person or an object, or even a pop-singer. Even the use of ‘hate’ in a passing colloquial-dalliance doesn’t make sense.

You can’t actually hate cooked vegetables, you can’t hate an unfashionable trend, and you might think you hate an anti-popular Hollywood idol, but it is nearly impossible to hate the perception that represents them. You can dislike whatever you please, you are not required to like everything, in fact if we all liked the same thing I would probably hate that too, but can the negativity. Saying you hate the little things makes it slightly more okay to hate the big things. Give your over-developed hate muscle a little alone time.

Aside from the occasional appearance razor-sharp satire, why do we have hate? I hate hate.

Do as I say, not as I hate, in this case.


I hate Super-Fans.

This hate includes most deep conversations about sports. Professional athletic excellence is among the last great showcases in our society. A good game is the last bastion of true unpredictability. Some of the great examples of modern poetry and expression are drawn from the heroism of athletic achievement. Aside from the celebrity garbage that tends to follow many of its figures, which I also hate, there’s a perception many fans have of their own involvement that bothers me.

Super sports fans seem to have this feeling of entitlement over their team. Sometimes I overhear of am drawn into a discussion that involves a group of players they’ll never meet, and how ‘We’re really going to get them this year,’ or ‘We’ve really gotta get rid of this player.’ My least favorite is how they seem to attach an awareness on to the players’ personalities as though they know them. They sound like teenage boy band fanatics: ‘He’s so spoiled,’ or ‘all he cares about is the money.’ It’s often fascinating insight considering they see them only through a hockey visor.

As for the meatheads that wear only body paint to a subzero football game, I keep waiting for Darwin to come and save them.

I’m officially mad now. I really hate those guys. Just picturing the dopey bastards…


I hate Wal-Mart on a Sunday.

This is really a love-hate thing. I keep going. I tend to be confronted with the absolute worst of society in mere steps on to the ‘purchase pathway’. I can walk around for two minutes and be stocked with material, and resentment.

I hate how some parents look at their kids as a burden in department stores. I hate this mostly on Sundays, in Wal-Mart. I just want to grab their slappy, crappy parental hands off that clutch of their kids’ shoulders, take them back in time, and take all their own fuckin’ toys and burn them. I know childcare is tricky for a lot of parents, but if they’re that much trouble, if you can’t relate to how cool the toy section looks to someone who doesn’t understand the concept of money yet, one of you stay with them in the car, and stay out of my universe.


I hate pump-action toy shotguns.

Why do these exist? A handheld conveyance for spraying water or suction-cup darts or foam puff balls or light-up laser effects is different to me than a toy replicated from a firearm carried only by police, criminals, and action movie stars. It’s replicated from a device designed and perceived to harm other humans. Why do we have a version for kids to practice with?

The thought of some nasty bastard at Nerf getting some wild x-mas bonus because of his breakthrough shotgun design makes me want to punch a dog.


I hate PDAs; the public affection kind. Sorry, I just do…my essay. I hate the text message kind too. Who named them after fruit? I hate them too.


I hate that movies ran out of originality ten years ago; there must be no good books left.**


I hate the overt misuse of our great language: ‘youse’, ‘whole ‘nother’, ‘you ain’t never gonna get it’, etc. I dislike people using the letter ‘Z’ in place of ‘S’ and thinking it’s clever. English is the most nuanced and grandly verbose form of communication on the planet. Frankly, I believe it and each of us sharing it deserve the proper respect.

The next time someone uses ‘seen’ in the wrong tense… “I seen this great show today,” I’m going to punch them in their teeth.


I hate faux-hawks.

I think I just crushed my mouse.


I hate blister packs. I bought a package of ‘energy-saving’ light bulbs recently wrapped in three square meters of rigid plastic. What energy has been saved here? Everything comes in this impenetrable crap. The other night I saw a commercial for a cutter specifically designed to open this packaging. I hate commercials.

Here’s an idea: Loose the space-age polymer, Mother Earth’s been through enough agonizing irony.


I hate greeting cards. Mentioned earlier, I know. I hate that you can buy a sentiment. When I know one is required I look for the one with the least written on it, scratch that crap out, and try to say something meaningful. I mostly just get them for the envelope.

They have potential for redeeming themselves when they introduce the hate card.


I hate makeover shows. TV needs a bunch of obnoxious quasi-experts to invade unannounced and show every friggin’ channel how to find its true beauty.


I hate people who stop walking in a progression. Do you ever find yourself moving with the rhythm of the crowd, through a sports arena, to the subway, or towards the top of an escalator, and the person or couple in front of you JUST STOP? They’ve decided to take an ignorant little moment to discuss the rest of their lives, forcing you to crawl over and around them while you get people crowding your back like you’re on a bobsled team.

Be aware of your surroundings, be decisive in your progress, but above all be thankful, that I didn’t shove your tongue into the top of that escalator.


I hate chest hair sprouts. I hate them mostly because I can’t not look at the nasty bastards. Rediscover the crew neck undershirt, gentlemen. Your body hair is not my business. Sadly, the obnoxious self-righteous makeover-naughts are heading to your house next for waxtime.


I hate childishness. It’s different than playfulness. Children are egocentric and are learning to be capable of selflessness and consideration of certain consequences. No excuse from an adult.


I hate Reality TV, mostly because of the stupendous contradiction. I hate addictions, I hate attractions, I hate affectations. I hate perfume for men, SUVs with TVs in them, excessive use of the color pink, black stereotypes, gay stereotypes, lame white-guy stereotypes, the price of gas, the cost of alternatives, dog clothes, mailbox flyers, theatre lineups, politicians’ pensions, talk radio, people that don’t know how to use four-way stop signs, everything above DOUBLE, people that don’t know when to shut up, and people who don’t finish essays.

...I pretty much hate everything that has the capacity to be stupid or is the result of stupidity. So... yeah, I hate everything today.

I don’t hate you.

Keep your dukes up.


Patrick

* The movie is Fight Club

** My Novel: The Valiant Unheroic - Find it at www.chapters.ca -

Was Superman My First Religion?

I consider this the most important of the most important questions:

What inspired you when you were uncorrupted?

The roots of the identity you've chosen, the basis for the decisions you've made, the goals you've sought, the campaigns you've supported, you hairstyles you've worn, the music you couldn't stand, and things your friends did that you couldn't stand for, all grew from the first thing that inspired you.

When you were young that source of inspiration became your universe growing in front of you. You stood behind that influence, rested a structure of faith beneath it, and the person you are now and the place you now stand began from there.

Inspiration is something grander than creativity when you’re too young to be cynical. What could be more important to who you are than your first hero?

My father was my teacher, my mother was my protector; they provided the foundation of my life. I had friends I looked up to and a cool older cousin that taught me to fish, but no hero with his hand on my shoulder, no one specifically that showed me I could be, achieve or contribute something greater. I think for most kids, inspiration comes from something intangibly beyond your grasp. Heroism is inspired free will in action. Heroism is an ideal often outside the walls of your home and sometimes beyond the bounds of your realm.

For me being boundless was all about a cape and an 'S'. My hero was the hero.

I always wanted to be that kind of hero. I always wanted to play the good guy. I didn’t know how to enjoy the game from the other side. I’m certain not only that this influence was inspired from a cape and a curl of black hair, but that it formed the core of the now greyed and muddled virtues that direct me today. This seed is as clear in my memory as the tree that grew outside my first bedroom window.

What is the real purpose of religion when you’re too young to consciously choose a savior? When school is new, reading is new, and making decisions just beyond the reach of your parents is still a fresh taste in your mouth, the frame that you put around the daily experiment of learning is measured by the values inherited in your family’s collective faith, be they religious or not. In a sense your family is your religion, for lack of a better word.

As you grow into adolescence the purpose of faith becomes more philosophical; the religion of your family is intended to challenge who you are and ask where you belong, why you do what you do, and to what you should aspire toward. When you’re young religion is intended to give you a direction before you really require any answers. When you begin to ask questions, it evolves with you…

And then you reject it all.


I’ve always tried to do the right thing, which in my adolescence meant discarding and rejecting in the name of the unfocused rebellion with unflinching conformity of the almighty teenage anti-church.

I got in the long line waiting to be cool, and like everybody else, when it finally got to my turn I found myself reaching back into that basket of values and looking up that old tree in the backyard for fruit. I began to see the things on the road behind me with a new perspective, even if they were way up in the sky…



a bird…

a plane...

Superman is the creation of two young men from Cleveland. By no means are these cartoonists regarded as prophets, but within the right circles they represent the inception of something earth-changing. He is potentially the most recognizable and reproduced pulp-icon of the last century, exceeded in exposure by only actual religious figures… and perhaps Mickey Mouse. He is deserving of all conceivable manner of milestones and monuments, but should he be in any way a hero to the faithful?

There are a variety of parallels designed and drawn between saints, men of the cloth, and the Man of Steel. Unearthly origins, altruism, sacrifice, exodus, and a memorable symbol are common threads. None of these accomplishments in his case are real, but faith is never really about the tangible. Though these lines are often bridged for the purposes of selling movie tickets and novelty toothpaste, a certain context of greatness and influence is undeniable, and invincible. Through every medium, in every incarnation, the message and his mission remain constant. A kid in my old neighborhood will give you the same one word description at the sight of that ‘S’ than a kid in Japan or Russia or Mars. His iconic message is gospels of heroism, strength, guardianship and self-sacrifice. His is a story that crosses more boundaries than any doctrine is intended to traverse.

This all might seem trivial. How could a character of fiction, designed for a fantasy-seeking pre-adolescent, employed largely for the quest of advertising revenue, be pedestaled as some manner of religious mythos? Could I be more sacrilegious? This is after all a clear violation the very first commandment; but after all things, what better one to start with?

What is worship? Is it servitude? Is that really the path intended by any creator that gave out free will? Is inspiration any less valuable than worship? In my time of pure youthful discovery, my imagination was captured not by a doctrine but by a colorful adventurer that embodied a different kind of sacrifice. There is value in that, rooted in my secret-identity at the deepest level, which goes beyond what’s theologically measurable, what passes as cool in contemporary company, and seems as good in your maturity as it did when comics were cool. Identifying with this hero made sense to me when very little did and the grown up version of that little herophile, with his safety-pinned red cape and super-rubber boots, (they still fit - snuggly) relishes that memory. I might be too old to be a Super-fan, I might live in a world of sour grown-olds that need to quantify the quality that inspires them, but I think we have to hang on to that feeling.

Whether it’s Shakespeare, a nursery rhyme, an inspiring relative, Jesus Christ or an empty Kleenex box, if it stuck with you then I’m behind you. What you choose to link your faith behind is individual and all about your own experience.

My own prophecy regarding the eventual Man of Steel’s sainthood will sadly go unanswered for some time. There’s no doubt in my mind that this fictional figure will go on and keep his place as an icon, a story, a Halloween costume, a wallpaper pattern, and the Patron Saint of Pulp Immortality. I picture the archeologists of some distant future unearthing our comic book parchments and interpreting some sort of Hercules-like worship from the issue where he first encounters Kryptonite. The real question is how many generations will go by before he becomes mythology, before his place in society isn’t relegated to marketing demographics or a catch phrase. I for one think we owe our heroes more than that.

In the end, religion really isn't the right word for it. An organized system of beliefs structured around the faithfully unanswerable doesn't describe what grew around me as I poured through my comic books with a theologian’s precision.

In the bitter end it goes like this: grown-ups have religion, kids have heroes. Any bits of the perception of that kid within us that transcends into our maturity is a gift. Any chance we take to look on the whole world with brand new eyes and consider that anything is possible we are lucky and for that moment we are heroic.

Then it’s back to being Clark Kent.

Are Our Heroes Our Fault?

I wonder sometimes if it's always been this way.

It rolls back from the shore with our receding innocence; the eroding translucence of our youthful values is tragic and tragically inevitable. Our heroes are going to fail us eventually; it’s a truth we all encounter. As the younger generation matures in this environment of bombardment and sopping media saturation, I keep seeing figures ascend to the altar of modern adoration that begin the trajectory of a glorious falling star, but hit the earth like a rusty anvil.

Are these celestial belly flops and the concurrently failing faith of the generation beholding them the fault of the heroes, or is the fall and the heroes themselves the fault of those they’re supposed to be saving?

Heroes and Idols have been poured into one mold and turned out as golden calves for as long as their stories have had audiences. We have always honored champions, fed vicariously from their victories, and sought them out to fight our battles for us. Yes, we are to blame. For every golden god, every false profit, every sainted sports hero and substance-soaked rock star, and for every flash in every pan there has been a stage provided by a willing flock.

This flock will come to deny their shepherd.

My novel, 'The Valiant Unheroic', is about a young man named Eric with a heroic purpose but no conventionally admirable qualities. As the selfless feats he performs become more undeniably spectacular, the marvel they conjure fuels a growing public allure. The fascinated people call him hero, but their fixation seeks an all too mortal conclusion, and proves that even the best fame and heroism are mutually elusive.

**Note: A spoiler alert for those currently reading 'The Valiant Unheroic'. ***

As Eric's heroic impact/novelty evolves, he finds himself asking where his own contribution began and ended. His legacy looks to be comprised of dated headlines and victims he's helped that return to their predators. The tragedies of his selfless life leave him wanting for at least the semblance of accomplishment, of a purpose fulfilled.

He asks, as I ask, much of the following.


Is his heroism found in the intention to help?

They say the road to Hell is paved with these intentions, but it is right to judge a person's attempt to help with hindsight at a perfect 20/20?

During the hostage rescue that comes to define his heroic career, Eric is forced into a situation where he must make a decision about the terrorist's life versus the potential harm of numerous innocent bystanders. In spectacular fashion he saves the day for the hostages, for the headline-buying public, and the year for the tabloid media below. He makes a decision beyond his station, that costs the troubled captor his life and the insurance companies a fortune. He calls his own heroism into a perilous question of profit and loss.

Eric's intention was purely benign but the result becomes contentious. Should his act be regarded in its seed or in its blossom? As it tends to be with the line dividing hero and terror, should it merely depend on perspective?

The idea of heroic intention excludes most subjects of modern worship; mannequins, champions, and doomed poets. A recipient of glory does not ascend to the pedestal intending to be helpful. Glory is a byproduct of competition and victory. The two motivations do not stand together.

In the end, good intention is irrelevant to heroism or a heroic legacy because it is integral to our nature to honor that which honors us. We can’t identify with something that doesn’t have a result, an event or a product logo for us to stand behind.

Why must we perceive when seeing is so readily available to us?


Is heroism found in the outcome?

We tend to celebrate great outcomes not best intentions, quantity not quality, but how often is such a correlation actually accurate?

The company that released a certain performance-enabling blue pill was designing a heart medication, but how will their rise be remembered? George W. Bush was after something righteous in the Middle East, and Christopher Columbus certainly wasn’t as he headed west… The ends rarely represent means, or what was meant, whatever that means.

As Eric’s fame soars and the city discovers a forgotten species of hero, Eric is pummeled with the sudden evolution of his purpose. He quickly learns how his contribution is metered and judged, how his place in the community is as a commodity not a guide, not an example to follow or even a source of inspiration.

It’s impossible to be heroic when an expectation grows around you. Judging results in quantities or comparing them or validating them removes the spark that starts the fire in flock. Heroism entails exceeding expectations, not maintaining a quota. There’s little if any inspiration within expectation. Where’s the fun in just matching the benchmark?


Is heroism then found in the aftermath?

Every contribution, as an article of history, is only as glorious as it is made out to be by the bard who portrays it in a play, a textbook or a tell-all biography.

How many people have been helped in a posthumous manner, through teachings or by example, by Christ, Mohammed, Mozart or Edison? As their ripples circle out over the oncoming history, how much can their helpful influence be blamed for the byproducts, for the extremism, industrial dependence, and for bad muzac. So then we are forced to ask, as Eric is, how many of those ripples brought harm? Are those ripples the fault of the hero or those acting on the hero’s behalf?

Hero is the pinnacle of a free will in action, in one of two obvious incarnations: good and bad. Balance is the foundation not only of reality itself, but also perception. Without bad there is no good, without villain there is no hero, but also without hero there is no perspective. Conversely, without our perspective there are no heroes… nothing to show between plays during the Superbowl.


Our heroes are indeed our fault…

…But a trespass we should be proud of choosing. Though the quality of those we choose to pedestal might be questionable, we are lucky to have them. We are just as responsible for the villains, and just as lucky to have them too, because a coin with only one side isn’t worth anything and yin without yang is just going in circles.

Good and bad, hero and villain, heaven and hell, are all subjective elements to our individual experiences. Whether we worship our heroes in a productive, inspirational way or merely use them as an excuse to watch too much TV or join an evil book club, choosing them and their gospel-according-to-running-shoes makes us individual from every other soul to come to the fountain. Though a hip hop emperor may look out over a crowd of bemused baseball hats and baggy jeans that appear to be swaying in mindless unison and awaiting their next order, they all arrived to that altar under a different star.

Heroes tend to become symbols when they lose the initial sheen of inspiration and the shadow of expectation falls over them. Symbols can be more dangerous than any comic book archenemy or distant extremist insurgent. Symbols unite people in two-dimensional ways, under an architecture built of cards. If we could somehow recall that the relationship drawn between you and your hero, as fleeting as it may seem, is drawn from the precious individuality building your identity on what is hopefully an impenetrable foundation.

There are no easy answers for Eric. No matter how hard he and I may try there is no definition for hero. As individual as the cells and strings that make up your bones and skin and sense of humor is the combination of gesture and achievement that you will identify as heroic. Heed that sense of wonder, don’t let it wash away completely, otherwise the voting system on American Idol will become meaningless, and when it’s your turn to stand for something the rest of us can be ready with the confetti.

The existence of heroes comes down to our creativity and collective problem with accountability. When there’s been an event we can’t explain we create a god and where there grows a situation beyond our control we await a hero. While this creation creates clutter, dissention among the factions of warring icons, and a pollutant cloud of silly-ass tabloid drivel, imagine for a moment a place with no heroes.

We need heroes.

We need to fight on and feel envy, to savor victory, and to comeback swinging after defeat. Without the idols and the glitter, the crusaders and the messiahs, without Jesus and Superman, I for one would not have dreamed when I was young. Before I figured out it’s easier to be cynical, I lived in a vivid place where my hero was going to be there for me, and I could one day fight the same evil.

I still have heroes; they’re all just little more black and white.



Patrick