Like all egotistical beings, I’ve come upon a revelation that I believe must be shared. Nothing proceeding will shatter the earth or enlighten the endimmed, nonetheless, I have you, and I intend to keep you.
When’s the last time you really looked at someone’s walk?
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Among the many analogies frothing to my surface, regarding brittle defenestration (window shattering) and a potentially inferior Microsoft product, I simply find windows to be unreliable in their offering of true insight. If you really want to know about soul, whether it’s through a window or a door or Motown or romantic anguish, you must seek honesty. The truth about honesty is that it doesn’t come easily, in fact, you have to kind of steal it.
Humans are at their best, or most honest, or perhaps least dishonest, when their defenses are down; when they’re honest and they don’t know it.
The truth doesn’t have to be something hidden behind a window only some Curious Tom would Peep through. Forget windows, forget peeping into soulful eyes, you’ll find the truth about somebody far easier watching them walk away. In actual fact it’s the walk that carries you that offers all those admirers the key to that which you lock away. This fact eureka’d me like Newton’s apple-to-the-head, tinted slightly by a mind far more focused on girls than science. Inspirationally speaking, the male of the species often finds his brilliance when in pursuit of the better of the species.
It was a sunny day back in university. I was sitting on the steps of the regally ornate main administration building of The University of Ottawa preparing an itinerary of solid procrastination in the face of impending final exams. It was atop this cloud I was perched when across the courtyard a siren-song swung my attention to an as yet faceless vixen walking out my life, crashing me back to earth before she’d had the chance to walk in and out of my life. In a crowd of bustling students she, and more importantly her walk, was suddenly all that I saw. Without a conscious thought I was on my feet and in pursuit.
The walk she used to prowl and parade across that courtyard spoke to me in one hundred universal languages. It was sultry and sophisticated. It was everything my hormonally-driven motivation needed, and said volumes in high-heeled, striding verse. I had to follow her.
It wasn’t her looks that snared me; though I could sense her pheremonal attractiveness, I had yet to see her face. It wasn’t her features or curves exactly either, though she did have sleek and slender frame, long legs with flawless lines that connected her knee-length skirt to her high-heeled shoes, and a sway to her hips that was like a gold watch swinging in front of my eyes.
Her body was her instrument and the walk was music. I lagged far enough behind to prey/pray and close enough to stalk. The last thing I wanted to do was upset this harmony that we shared. The second to last thing was to be mistaken for the type of pursuer that made a habit of this kind of observation.
I know very little of the nature of love. I would venture to say that I know a great deal less than the average male lovelorn learner, but I believe a major facet of love goes to the effect of how well you know your partner or ‘objet de desire’. Love is knowledge of another person, you know them inside and out, you know what they’re going to say before they say it, and what they need before they ask it. It’s knowledge born of a connection deeper than learning and observation. I can say with doubtless certainty, clouded only somewhat by that hazy male angst, that I knew this girl I was following. I was smitten by this girl whose face I had yet to see, knowing all I needed to know, and falling off my feet for what she did with hers.
The walk told me things about how our life together would unfold. I planned what I would say when our eyes finally met, I structured a list of the first five things I would compliment about her, and thought of how she would react to the truth of why I began pursuit. I thought of things I very rarely consider when in prowling mode. All of this was from her walk, from something in her sway that convinced me we were compatible.
Like any worthwhile prey, she was cunning. Her stride was long and quick, and eventually I fell behind. I lost her in a crowd soon after in front of a mall and she quickly exited my life. She was gone faster than she came. With only her walk she commanded me and seduced me. She demonstrated a part of her brave soul that I felt a brief but pressing need to investigate. I remember the experience vividly to this day and I never saw he face. To this day I remember that walk.
I found a park bench soon after our parting and sank into a wash of my pedestrianic epiphany. I began to watch the people hustling, moseying, walking, strutting, prancing, stomping, trotting, moping, strolling, sauntering, and ambling past me on that busy section of campus and got to know all of them a little bit through that looking glass to the soul that none of us think to hide. I swear that in those moments of inspired clarity I could have guessed the name, occupation, self-image, and present punctuality of everyone I observed. Had I been walking myself I would have been on air.
Walking presents a most often unconscious and therefore honest portrayal. We think about other things when we’re on our way across a parking lot, following our dogs, or approaching an important appointment. We walk fast when we’re anxious and tall when we’re proud. A person’s version of these walks is as unique as the pedestrians themselves, but the themes are always consistent. You can always tell when a strut is deliberate and whether it’s manifested by insecurity or egotism. You can always tell if someone’s nervous amble is triggered by something behind or something upcoming. The walk says it all; it’s a presentation we seem to rarely know we’re giving.
To the folks who don’t utilize the standard two-footed march: You’re in this as well. Don’t think just because you use a wheelchair, prosthetics, crutches or canes, you don’t present something as you make your way down the cobblestone. A defeated mope or a bulletproof strut are each displays that occur largely from the shoulders up. Anyone or anything capable of locomotion under their own power forgets they’re doing it at some point. They think of a point made at point A or what they’ll be when they reach point B. There is no locomoto-poker-face.
The next time you get a chance, watch the people around you at the mall or in the park. Do they float or bounce or drag? Are they at this location for the first time? Are they late for an interview? Have they just made a purchase they are uncertain about? Are they mulling over a retort they wished they’d said, or intend to say? Are they walking honest? Are those new shoes? Is that guy staring at me? See what you can learn. And try not to get into trouble.
Also feel free to test your own march, how are you pointed in travel between points? The secret to observing yourself is to allow yourself to forget to watch. Set the hourly alarm on your watch. That should give you the time to forget and will hopefully catch you in mid-strut and allow you to reflect on the moves that you convey during your conveyance. Are you Tony Monero or Quasimodo? And what exactly are you doing swaying that right arm?
In closing I would like to make a plea to all walks of life: Don’t let this truth I’ve unleashed affect the moving life-size signature you display, there are so very few things remaining that keep us individual. Treasure your saunter; strut like a peacock, prance like a deer, prowl like a lion, and glide like a cloud. There is always beauty in uniqueness.
As for the girl, the walk of my dreams: I didn’t like seeing you go, but I loved watching you walk away. I hope the life you eventually walked into had the good fortune of approaching you from the front.
Walk tall, all.
Patrick Hughes
The Search for Princess Strawberry-Leg in The Land of Ideale
For T & B (or M)
I can tell by your smile it’s a story you seek
And I think I’ve got the best story this week.
I’m Wizardini and I’m from Ideale,
A far away land that’s quite simply unreal.
This story’s about a young lady named Teagan, you’ll see
and something quite special found just above her knee.
Have you ever been to a place where everything’s pretty?
The bugs are all cute, as sweet as your teddy,
And everybody’s face has a smile for you all ready.
Ideale as a place is a wonderful thing.
Everybody’s so gorgeous: the bumblebees don’t sting.
Such a gathering of gorgeousness you never saw,
Ideale is in fact prefect, except for one flaw:
It’s almost ideal except for one thing,
Ideale as a place is a kingdom with no king.
No one was quite sure just where the king went
Whether he left or if he was sent.
Some said riches were in his plans,
And he’d taken a fleet to far away lands.
Others whispered about in a quiet buzz,
They all were so pretty…
they forgot who the king was.
One sunny day, I stood before them and said,
“I’ve had a vision of our new leader while I slept in my bed.
A dream told me I would find our new monarch,
Maybe in the field, or in the mall, or maybe in the park.
The one important thing that I would have to remark,
Is that on this person’s person is a special kind of mark.”
“A mark… A MARK! But how could that be?
Our king won’t be perfect, not pretty like me.”
I watched with confusion as they buzzed like a fuse,
How they’d already forgotten my good wizard news.
With my umbrella, my favorite book, and my determined stare,
I set off down the road with only one care.
I would knock on every door and shake every hand,
I would do all I could to speak to all in the land.
I wouldn’t rest
I wouldn’t stop
I wouldn’t even take a meal
Until I found that mark
Until I found that ideal person…
To be the best thing for Ideale.
Soon it felt like ten summers had gone by with no luck
I felt like a wizard with my face in the muck.
I was sure I had met everyone that I could,
But no one had the mark that my dream said they would.
By now I was sure everyone thought I was silly,
And all of Ideale called me an old silly nilly.
I rested my tired face on my hands, on my knees,
And said: “Oh my gosh-goodness, I just wanted to please!”
At that moment a little voice said: “Hello,”
“…You look so sad,
Like there’s no more down you could go.”
“Maybe all you need is water to drink,
We can visit my mom in the house colored pink.
We love to have guests in our home where we stay,
So very few people travel so far this way.”
A big smile rose on my tired old face
Who thought I’d find someone so nice, so far out of place?
“My name’s Teagan,”
“I am Wizardini the Wizard,” I said.
“And meeting a nice person is a weight off my head.”
And to myself, just then I thought:
“My, this as a quality sure means a lot.
In all of my travels throughout this whole quest,
No one else has been nice enough to make me their guest.”
We walked together to the house colored pink,
And got some cold water she poured from the sink
Teagan’s Mommy was nice, and beautiful too,
We three sat and talked from nine until two.
Soon Teagan’s curiosity could no longer hold,
She asked me Wizardini what had left me so cold.
I said: “My dear, I’m on an impossible quest,
A nastier challenge than any math test.
I have to find someone in Ideale,
Someone I’m now sure just can’t be real.
Somewhere in this land there is someone distinct,
Someone more special than lavender ink.
How can there be in this land of perfection,
Someone who stands in a different direction?”
“So what you seek,” Mommy said with a smile
“What’s taken you mile, after mile, after mile…
Is the search for a person who’s not the same as you or me,
Not the same as her, and different than Aunt Bea,
Not the same as the pretty teacher or the handsome spelling bee,
And not the same as every Idealian from here to the Sea?”
“Well, that’s simple,” said Teagan “That person is me.”
“What!” I then said, my mouth drooped to the floor,
I said nothing else, stunned right to the core.
I thought to myself one thing and not a thing more:
“How could pretty young Teagan be the king I’m looking for?”
After a moment right there, on Teagan went
Explaining to me just what she meant.
“We are all different, why can’t you see?
My mommy’s distinct, like you and like me.
Mommy’s always said, since I was as small as a pea,
Being a little bit different is what we were all meant to be.”
I went to sleep with one thought on my mind:
“Should I be seeking a leader of a different kind?”
I fell off to sleep and a vivid, bright dream
About a pretty young girl who could show all of Ideale,
That all the gorgeous people were far more than they seem.
“Why don’t you both come?” I said the next day,
We’ll go tell Ideale, all these things that you say…”
We went into town, all three standing tall
Right through the crowds, to the centre of the mall
“Gather around my friends,” I said to them all.
“Open your ears, for my news is not small.”
They slowly gathered, with their faces wound up tight,
Like they wouldn’t believe me, with all of their might.
“We seek a king for our land of Ideale
But we all seem to forget that ideal is not real.”
“You are you and he is him
Your name is Martha and his is Jim.
His mother is Polly and yours is Kim
I know that you all think of me as quite dim
But the differences among you Idealians
Could fill the school gym.”
“Different? Different? Is that what he said?”
“How could such nasty words escape from your head?”
“If we were all different, then how could it be
That one of us after the next is perfect to a T?
From every lovely head to every pretty knee
There isn’t one flaw that you can see.”
At that moment,
The pretty young girl with the Wizard decided to speak
It was high time that they found a new different to seek.
“Different means more than a mistake or a flaw,
It means distinct and special…
Maybe the best you ever saw.”
“People and things are different for a reason
Where would the year be with only one season?
Who would want all the same snowflake,
One kind of singing voice,
And one flavor of birthday cake?”
Just then Edgar, Ideale’s handsome town grump,
Interrupted her, stomping his foot down with a thump.
“How can we be expected to believe what you say,
When it comes from the prettiest girl we’ve seen all day?
If somewhere on you such difference exists,
I will have to rethink every one of my lists.
Teagan looked over at her mommy, who nodded and said,
“Go ahead, Darling, they all need to see,
How special and different special can be.”
So, now with every eye in all of Ideale looking on,
Teagan gave them a reason to have been gathered since dawn,
Just above her knee she then lifted her skirt,
And every jaw before her dropped right to the dirt.
On the front of her leg sat a big bright strawberry,
And I thought to myself, ‘this is news that’ll carry.’
“That’s it! That’s it! The wizard spoke of that mark.
On the leader we would find in the mall or the park.”
“That’s different? That’s special? Well that’s not so bad!”
“It’s bright and it’s pretty…”
“…It’s something I wish I had!”
Then the NEATEST thing happened, something I never foresaw,
Everyone started to show off their own wonderful flaw.
“I have a mark on my arm.”
“I’m allergic to cats”
“I was born missing a toe!”
“This is not my real hair.”
“I hate taking baths.”
“I can’t play the oboe!”
At that moment old Edgar, the former town grump,
Had just finished showing off his very strange hump,
Like everyone around him he felt knocked up a peg,
So he led his town in a cheer: “To Princess Strawberry-Leg!”
I watched with a smile, arms folded across my chest,
Knowing for sure that this would be best.
But just then my young friend said something I didn’t expect:
She rose up her voice, her arms standing erect.
“My friends and my neighbors I have one thing to suggest
Something I bet you’ll agree and attest.
If Ideale’s leader is someone with a special mark,
We know we’re all different, let’s all be monarch.”
“Stand up and be proud of your special things,
And we’ll all be princes, princesses and kings.”
The people they cheered and the bells they did chime
The Land of Ideale was an even shinier dime.
I said then to her Mommy, “You must be proud all the time.”
She nodded and said,
“And I had no idea how well she can rhyme.”
Things were imperfectly perfect from then on in Ideale,
Once upon a time, happily ever after, and all that... stuff.
The End
I can tell by your smile it’s a story you seek
And I think I’ve got the best story this week.
I’m Wizardini and I’m from Ideale,
A far away land that’s quite simply unreal.
This story’s about a young lady named Teagan, you’ll see
and something quite special found just above her knee.
Have you ever been to a place where everything’s pretty?
The bugs are all cute, as sweet as your teddy,
And everybody’s face has a smile for you all ready.
Ideale as a place is a wonderful thing.
Everybody’s so gorgeous: the bumblebees don’t sting.
Such a gathering of gorgeousness you never saw,
Ideale is in fact prefect, except for one flaw:
It’s almost ideal except for one thing,
Ideale as a place is a kingdom with no king.
No one was quite sure just where the king went
Whether he left or if he was sent.
Some said riches were in his plans,
And he’d taken a fleet to far away lands.
Others whispered about in a quiet buzz,
They all were so pretty…
they forgot who the king was.
One sunny day, I stood before them and said,
“I’ve had a vision of our new leader while I slept in my bed.
A dream told me I would find our new monarch,
Maybe in the field, or in the mall, or maybe in the park.
The one important thing that I would have to remark,
Is that on this person’s person is a special kind of mark.”
“A mark… A MARK! But how could that be?
Our king won’t be perfect, not pretty like me.”
I watched with confusion as they buzzed like a fuse,
How they’d already forgotten my good wizard news.
With my umbrella, my favorite book, and my determined stare,
I set off down the road with only one care.
I would knock on every door and shake every hand,
I would do all I could to speak to all in the land.
I wouldn’t rest
I wouldn’t stop
I wouldn’t even take a meal
Until I found that mark
Until I found that ideal person…
To be the best thing for Ideale.
Soon it felt like ten summers had gone by with no luck
I felt like a wizard with my face in the muck.
I was sure I had met everyone that I could,
But no one had the mark that my dream said they would.
By now I was sure everyone thought I was silly,
And all of Ideale called me an old silly nilly.
I rested my tired face on my hands, on my knees,
And said: “Oh my gosh-goodness, I just wanted to please!”
At that moment a little voice said: “Hello,”
“…You look so sad,
Like there’s no more down you could go.”
“Maybe all you need is water to drink,
We can visit my mom in the house colored pink.
We love to have guests in our home where we stay,
So very few people travel so far this way.”
A big smile rose on my tired old face
Who thought I’d find someone so nice, so far out of place?
“My name’s Teagan,”
“I am Wizardini the Wizard,” I said.
“And meeting a nice person is a weight off my head.”
And to myself, just then I thought:
“My, this as a quality sure means a lot.
In all of my travels throughout this whole quest,
No one else has been nice enough to make me their guest.”
We walked together to the house colored pink,
And got some cold water she poured from the sink
Teagan’s Mommy was nice, and beautiful too,
We three sat and talked from nine until two.
Soon Teagan’s curiosity could no longer hold,
She asked me Wizardini what had left me so cold.
I said: “My dear, I’m on an impossible quest,
A nastier challenge than any math test.
I have to find someone in Ideale,
Someone I’m now sure just can’t be real.
Somewhere in this land there is someone distinct,
Someone more special than lavender ink.
How can there be in this land of perfection,
Someone who stands in a different direction?”
“So what you seek,” Mommy said with a smile
“What’s taken you mile, after mile, after mile…
Is the search for a person who’s not the same as you or me,
Not the same as her, and different than Aunt Bea,
Not the same as the pretty teacher or the handsome spelling bee,
And not the same as every Idealian from here to the Sea?”
“Well, that’s simple,” said Teagan “That person is me.”
“What!” I then said, my mouth drooped to the floor,
I said nothing else, stunned right to the core.
I thought to myself one thing and not a thing more:
“How could pretty young Teagan be the king I’m looking for?”
After a moment right there, on Teagan went
Explaining to me just what she meant.
“We are all different, why can’t you see?
My mommy’s distinct, like you and like me.
Mommy’s always said, since I was as small as a pea,
Being a little bit different is what we were all meant to be.”
I went to sleep with one thought on my mind:
“Should I be seeking a leader of a different kind?”
I fell off to sleep and a vivid, bright dream
About a pretty young girl who could show all of Ideale,
That all the gorgeous people were far more than they seem.
“Why don’t you both come?” I said the next day,
We’ll go tell Ideale, all these things that you say…”
We went into town, all three standing tall
Right through the crowds, to the centre of the mall
“Gather around my friends,” I said to them all.
“Open your ears, for my news is not small.”
They slowly gathered, with their faces wound up tight,
Like they wouldn’t believe me, with all of their might.
“We seek a king for our land of Ideale
But we all seem to forget that ideal is not real.”
“You are you and he is him
Your name is Martha and his is Jim.
His mother is Polly and yours is Kim
I know that you all think of me as quite dim
But the differences among you Idealians
Could fill the school gym.”
“Different? Different? Is that what he said?”
“How could such nasty words escape from your head?”
“If we were all different, then how could it be
That one of us after the next is perfect to a T?
From every lovely head to every pretty knee
There isn’t one flaw that you can see.”
At that moment,
The pretty young girl with the Wizard decided to speak
It was high time that they found a new different to seek.
“Different means more than a mistake or a flaw,
It means distinct and special…
Maybe the best you ever saw.”
“People and things are different for a reason
Where would the year be with only one season?
Who would want all the same snowflake,
One kind of singing voice,
And one flavor of birthday cake?”
Just then Edgar, Ideale’s handsome town grump,
Interrupted her, stomping his foot down with a thump.
“How can we be expected to believe what you say,
When it comes from the prettiest girl we’ve seen all day?
If somewhere on you such difference exists,
I will have to rethink every one of my lists.
Teagan looked over at her mommy, who nodded and said,
“Go ahead, Darling, they all need to see,
How special and different special can be.”
So, now with every eye in all of Ideale looking on,
Teagan gave them a reason to have been gathered since dawn,
Just above her knee she then lifted her skirt,
And every jaw before her dropped right to the dirt.
On the front of her leg sat a big bright strawberry,
And I thought to myself, ‘this is news that’ll carry.’
“That’s it! That’s it! The wizard spoke of that mark.
On the leader we would find in the mall or the park.”
“That’s different? That’s special? Well that’s not so bad!”
“It’s bright and it’s pretty…”
“…It’s something I wish I had!”
Then the NEATEST thing happened, something I never foresaw,
Everyone started to show off their own wonderful flaw.
“I have a mark on my arm.”
“I’m allergic to cats”
“I was born missing a toe!”
“This is not my real hair.”
“I hate taking baths.”
“I can’t play the oboe!”
At that moment old Edgar, the former town grump,
Had just finished showing off his very strange hump,
Like everyone around him he felt knocked up a peg,
So he led his town in a cheer: “To Princess Strawberry-Leg!”
I watched with a smile, arms folded across my chest,
Knowing for sure that this would be best.
But just then my young friend said something I didn’t expect:
She rose up her voice, her arms standing erect.
“My friends and my neighbors I have one thing to suggest
Something I bet you’ll agree and attest.
If Ideale’s leader is someone with a special mark,
We know we’re all different, let’s all be monarch.”
“Stand up and be proud of your special things,
And we’ll all be princes, princesses and kings.”
The people they cheered and the bells they did chime
The Land of Ideale was an even shinier dime.
I said then to her Mommy, “You must be proud all the time.”
She nodded and said,
“And I had no idea how well she can rhyme.”
Things were imperfectly perfect from then on in Ideale,
Once upon a time, happily ever after, and all that... stuff.
The End
Mr. Fixit
I thought I'd bring one out from the drawer. Enjoy the dust-off.
Fixing the whole world can start with your toaster.
Do you ever feel that without our devices we’d have very few vices at all? Put all of us together; all the people, places, gadgets, stuff and things that make up the living machine that is our society. Picture this big, sloppy engine turning in its inefficiently perpetual manner. As a mechanism, no one will argue we are need of a tune-up, but who can perform such a therapeutic and mechanical wonder? In what capacity are we in need of this alteration, in our hardwiring or in our software?
Who among us is qualified to deliver this devised diagnosis?
We come home from televisions to televisions and images of images we seek to obtain and ridicule, that our ancestors would have never have dreamt of seeing, or believed in needing, and would not have missed. The more we get plugged in the more detached we become, from the earth, from our neighbor, and even from the devices designed to keep us connected.
If the outlet you are currently plugged into ceased its outlay, if the power went out, the mechanics went on leave, if the doctors weren’t on call and the helplines weren’t online, where would you be? What could you contribute to your own survival? What about the survival of the community you depend on?
We’ve constructed our incubators and sit happily in our fake wombs, but have become unfamiliar with the sources of our warmth and security. The Japanese use the same word for crisis and opportunity; we should adopt a similar moniker for convenience and encumbrance.
Perhaps we need to forget Encumvenience and devise a de-vice.
There is no debate that our automobiles and televisions are in charge, but it’s staggering how little we know about the keepers of our mojo constructed for us by our brothers and our sisters.
The problem therefore being not that we have the conveniences, but that we have so easily relinquished the ignition keys to those conveniences. Look around the room at the vices that surround you. How much do you know about them? I mean, you know their function, you know their brand name and perhaps the part of the world from which they came. You know that it needs batteries or an outlet to function, and that if you drop it from too high that it will cease to function. Most importantly, you know that your life is a little bit better because of that device and the service it provides you. You know you enjoy that service, but you likely don’t question how that service is performed.
Why do we have no desire to learn how these services are mechanically conjured for us? Why are we so easily satisfied and contented with warm food and entertainment just provided for us like infants? Doesn’t this eagerly pawed warm nippled bottle represent a regression from the motivation and relentless innovation that got is this far?
We’ve asked ‘how’ and ‘why’ so many times before. We have religion and philosophy and competition and war because of our compelling need to question, but for some reason when that mystery comes in the form of convenience we stop asking those questions. On the surface we have a device-addicted culture. A population more concerned about creature comforts than creatures. We have identities that are established through packaging and a society that is smarter, but older, fatter, and increasingly more helpless.
In very simple terms, we don’t know how the devices we depend on function. Though this may seem trivial in our neon world, it creates a fundamental problem as a worldwide organism. As individuals, generally speaking, we no longer have a symbiotic relationship with the machines and devices and structures we depend on. We feel detached from them, though the umbilical cord is fiber optic and as strong as titanium.
There are about as many solutions to our detachment as there are items in your sharper self-image catalogue, but more often than not they involve a leap of faith that as a race of humans we simply aren’t capable of. At least not without an escalator.
Don’t think for a minute that I will be putting down my remote and unplugging my… well… anything. Let me take you for a moment to a world of my design.
Imagine a place where you knew how everything worked. You understood how the pictures came through the magic box in the living room, how things got sucked into your vacuum, how the fridge kept your food cold, and what that fourth sound was when your started your car. Even further, you knew what made the paint in your den brown, what made concrete hard, what made your chicken fingers crunchy, and what happened to them after you swallowed them.
In this world you can actually picture the anatomy of these devices clearly in your mind; you understand their structures as accurately as the spelling of your own name. There is no mystery to how they perform the services you count on them for. Moreover, this knowledge is common knowledge. Understanding the mechanics of everyday devices is everyone’s business. Everyone around you is familiar with the gadgets that make up the structure of modern life, how a signal travels through a wire to a modem and into a computer to become e-mail, how the same signal can travel to a satellite and appear on someone’s phone, and how they get caramel inside those chocolate squares.
There is nothing special about this world, nothing in the water that makes people smarter, nothing in their genetics that makes them more curious, or more tools in their pockets that allow them to tinker. It’s a level of responsibility that compels them. With the advent of their industrial revolution, a different convenience was born, one that lived hand in hand with the thirst for knowledge that had steered them that far. They considered the knowledge that designed their luxury to be public domain.
In part, they saw the self-preserving value of understanding organisms both of flesh and of fiberglass, knowing ‘thyself’ more and more as the information became realized. Also, the idea of License spanned farther than just cars and guns, and further than merely operating the mechanism without causing the death of another. If one were to operate a machine, why wouldn’t that operator want to know everything about what they’re operating and how it accomplishes that operation? Any less would seem as foolish to them as using a chainsaw as a toothbrush.
Naturally one immediately wonders about this world’s unfortunate specialist sector; the doctors, mechanics, tree surgeons, cobblers and undertakers. Would the specialist go the way of the dinosaur in this world? It might be easy to assume that the need for someone who has studied and apprenticed a certain field would fossilize and petrify. Photo-mat technicians, Subway sandwich artists, vascular surgeons; why would these people exist in this Utopia?
You needn’t fear for them, their role is merely different. As much as awareness is prevalent in this world, its utopian perfection does not include a longer day, free hardware, or knowledge of undiscovered symptoms that are cutting edge before they are common. The knowledgeable public of this miraculous land still require the services of people with lifts for their vehicles and x-rays for their broken bones to perform the general maintenance required to keep our world’s mechanical heart pumping.
On a quantitative level, consider how the knowledge to fix and maintain the mechanisms of our lives would immediately affect our world. Think of the condition of a planet where disposal isn't the first thing its inhabitants consider to deal with a problem. Consider how convenience would expand to include terms like longevity while excluding the need for warranty and obsolescence.
On a level of far grander quality, consider how every public dynamic would function if the understanding of function wasn’t limited to a narrow faction. What happens when everyone can contribute when something that we count on ceases to function? Contribution: Surgeons standing over a patient, grease monkeys gathered around a ’64 Mustang, four kids getting your order at Wendy’s. Every quandary, every calamity, every injury would potentially be surrounded by people who could offer a solution, who could combine their knowledge gathered through their understanding of License and fix the problem.
Everyone around every table offers a knowledgeable answer rather than waiting for their number to be called.
On the surface, we have smaller junkyards and an underpopulation of old car parts and broken toasters. Closer to the center of the onion, we have a population of Mr. and Mrs. John Q Fixits who have the knowledge to offer repair. We have people in places that have their things and understand that ownership includes a responsibility to the things that pop, call, comfort and govern.
Sometimes I think that we are going to figure it ALL out about 6 hours before our poor planet crumbles. Anyone know where we put the warranty card for our planet?
As for your toaster: Fix it yourself, then offer to fix your neighbor’s.
As for me, I’m waiting for a toast.
Patrick
Fixing the whole world can start with your toaster.
Do you ever feel that without our devices we’d have very few vices at all? Put all of us together; all the people, places, gadgets, stuff and things that make up the living machine that is our society. Picture this big, sloppy engine turning in its inefficiently perpetual manner. As a mechanism, no one will argue we are need of a tune-up, but who can perform such a therapeutic and mechanical wonder? In what capacity are we in need of this alteration, in our hardwiring or in our software?
Who among us is qualified to deliver this devised diagnosis?
We come home from televisions to televisions and images of images we seek to obtain and ridicule, that our ancestors would have never have dreamt of seeing, or believed in needing, and would not have missed. The more we get plugged in the more detached we become, from the earth, from our neighbor, and even from the devices designed to keep us connected.
If the outlet you are currently plugged into ceased its outlay, if the power went out, the mechanics went on leave, if the doctors weren’t on call and the helplines weren’t online, where would you be? What could you contribute to your own survival? What about the survival of the community you depend on?
We’ve constructed our incubators and sit happily in our fake wombs, but have become unfamiliar with the sources of our warmth and security. The Japanese use the same word for crisis and opportunity; we should adopt a similar moniker for convenience and encumbrance.
Perhaps we need to forget Encumvenience and devise a de-vice.
There is no debate that our automobiles and televisions are in charge, but it’s staggering how little we know about the keepers of our mojo constructed for us by our brothers and our sisters.
The problem therefore being not that we have the conveniences, but that we have so easily relinquished the ignition keys to those conveniences. Look around the room at the vices that surround you. How much do you know about them? I mean, you know their function, you know their brand name and perhaps the part of the world from which they came. You know that it needs batteries or an outlet to function, and that if you drop it from too high that it will cease to function. Most importantly, you know that your life is a little bit better because of that device and the service it provides you. You know you enjoy that service, but you likely don’t question how that service is performed.
Why do we have no desire to learn how these services are mechanically conjured for us? Why are we so easily satisfied and contented with warm food and entertainment just provided for us like infants? Doesn’t this eagerly pawed warm nippled bottle represent a regression from the motivation and relentless innovation that got is this far?
We’ve asked ‘how’ and ‘why’ so many times before. We have religion and philosophy and competition and war because of our compelling need to question, but for some reason when that mystery comes in the form of convenience we stop asking those questions. On the surface we have a device-addicted culture. A population more concerned about creature comforts than creatures. We have identities that are established through packaging and a society that is smarter, but older, fatter, and increasingly more helpless.
In very simple terms, we don’t know how the devices we depend on function. Though this may seem trivial in our neon world, it creates a fundamental problem as a worldwide organism. As individuals, generally speaking, we no longer have a symbiotic relationship with the machines and devices and structures we depend on. We feel detached from them, though the umbilical cord is fiber optic and as strong as titanium.
There are about as many solutions to our detachment as there are items in your sharper self-image catalogue, but more often than not they involve a leap of faith that as a race of humans we simply aren’t capable of. At least not without an escalator.
Don’t think for a minute that I will be putting down my remote and unplugging my… well… anything. Let me take you for a moment to a world of my design.
Imagine a place where you knew how everything worked. You understood how the pictures came through the magic box in the living room, how things got sucked into your vacuum, how the fridge kept your food cold, and what that fourth sound was when your started your car. Even further, you knew what made the paint in your den brown, what made concrete hard, what made your chicken fingers crunchy, and what happened to them after you swallowed them.
In this world you can actually picture the anatomy of these devices clearly in your mind; you understand their structures as accurately as the spelling of your own name. There is no mystery to how they perform the services you count on them for. Moreover, this knowledge is common knowledge. Understanding the mechanics of everyday devices is everyone’s business. Everyone around you is familiar with the gadgets that make up the structure of modern life, how a signal travels through a wire to a modem and into a computer to become e-mail, how the same signal can travel to a satellite and appear on someone’s phone, and how they get caramel inside those chocolate squares.
There is nothing special about this world, nothing in the water that makes people smarter, nothing in their genetics that makes them more curious, or more tools in their pockets that allow them to tinker. It’s a level of responsibility that compels them. With the advent of their industrial revolution, a different convenience was born, one that lived hand in hand with the thirst for knowledge that had steered them that far. They considered the knowledge that designed their luxury to be public domain.
In part, they saw the self-preserving value of understanding organisms both of flesh and of fiberglass, knowing ‘thyself’ more and more as the information became realized. Also, the idea of License spanned farther than just cars and guns, and further than merely operating the mechanism without causing the death of another. If one were to operate a machine, why wouldn’t that operator want to know everything about what they’re operating and how it accomplishes that operation? Any less would seem as foolish to them as using a chainsaw as a toothbrush.
Naturally one immediately wonders about this world’s unfortunate specialist sector; the doctors, mechanics, tree surgeons, cobblers and undertakers. Would the specialist go the way of the dinosaur in this world? It might be easy to assume that the need for someone who has studied and apprenticed a certain field would fossilize and petrify. Photo-mat technicians, Subway sandwich artists, vascular surgeons; why would these people exist in this Utopia?
You needn’t fear for them, their role is merely different. As much as awareness is prevalent in this world, its utopian perfection does not include a longer day, free hardware, or knowledge of undiscovered symptoms that are cutting edge before they are common. The knowledgeable public of this miraculous land still require the services of people with lifts for their vehicles and x-rays for their broken bones to perform the general maintenance required to keep our world’s mechanical heart pumping.
On a quantitative level, consider how the knowledge to fix and maintain the mechanisms of our lives would immediately affect our world. Think of the condition of a planet where disposal isn't the first thing its inhabitants consider to deal with a problem. Consider how convenience would expand to include terms like longevity while excluding the need for warranty and obsolescence.
On a level of far grander quality, consider how every public dynamic would function if the understanding of function wasn’t limited to a narrow faction. What happens when everyone can contribute when something that we count on ceases to function? Contribution: Surgeons standing over a patient, grease monkeys gathered around a ’64 Mustang, four kids getting your order at Wendy’s. Every quandary, every calamity, every injury would potentially be surrounded by people who could offer a solution, who could combine their knowledge gathered through their understanding of License and fix the problem.
Everyone around every table offers a knowledgeable answer rather than waiting for their number to be called.
On the surface, we have smaller junkyards and an underpopulation of old car parts and broken toasters. Closer to the center of the onion, we have a population of Mr. and Mrs. John Q Fixits who have the knowledge to offer repair. We have people in places that have their things and understand that ownership includes a responsibility to the things that pop, call, comfort and govern.
Sometimes I think that we are going to figure it ALL out about 6 hours before our poor planet crumbles. Anyone know where we put the warranty card for our planet?
As for your toaster: Fix it yourself, then offer to fix your neighbor’s.
As for me, I’m waiting for a toast.
Patrick
The Devil That Delivered Del: Part Two
It has now been three months since I entered Del Iverson’s life. It’s not hard to create an interest in humans that can be manipulated into friendship. Doing so with Del was not difficult. Del made friends with your devil far faster than even I could have imagined, could I imagine.
Though my time here has been comparatively short, considering all the time that I have seen, I feel sometimes I’m about as close to figuring out those around me as I am to getting back the keys to the gates I once called home, while other times I feel this planet is administered by the simplest living devices ever manufactured. By and large, though I do hate to generalize, they are motivated by simple rewards, short-term gains, limited by their ignorance, their inventions of convenience, methods of distraction, and ruled by time.
In Heaven, good and evil are separated by a well-defined line, but on Earth the distinction is muddled by shades and perspectives. The more time I spend in this activity of human life, the more I find that these beings around me define themselves by orbiting both sides of a line that is constantly changing, between their own definitions and those set upon them by their community. I suppose that contrast, between my kind and the choatic nature of my new peers, provide an element of balance in itself. If my maker and my kind are defined by balance, humans must be defined somewhere in the opposite. If the ultimate is balance I should be accustomed to having no conclusion. What does it mean that I now find myself seeking answers?
Answers are the very thing I can provide in abundance, to the humans in my human disguise. The ability to read their minds makes everything transparent to me. All but the forward progress of time is an utterly open book to me. By most human standards appearance I have chosen is plain and forgettable, perhaps even unattractive, but knowing every thought around me allows for an effortless charm. It is also amazing how astute one appears when the desires of his employer come to my lips as quickly as they enter his frontal lobe. I have availed myself as the ultimate political strategist for my ultimately doomed political candidate subject. Entering his life in this function, gaining access as a council he will seek out took a mere matter of hours.
I was his best friend in less than three days.
I chose the name John. People seem impassionate when they say it.
In the three months that have past I have looked for the distraction that would force him to confront the path he is on. I have been looking for the spark of regret that will inspire atonement. Epiphany is arguably humanity’s greatest gift, and I’m beginning to believe they do all that is possible to avoid it.
What is infinitely even more astounding, aside from one of my kind experiencing astounding, is my own discovery of distraction. The entirety of their modern world is designed not for the food, but for the flavor. I have found myself, in growing frequency, permitting distraction, noticing beauty, entraced in entertainment, engaging in debate, researching parts of human history that fell beneath my awareness, accepting invitations, using colloquialisms, gorging on fiction, and finding myself uncertain about my success and uncertain about what to do with my uncertainty.
Time has passed faster than I ever thought it possibly could. So many sunrises have come and gone that I have lost track of how many I've missed. Time has run right through me, and the reality that I may now not have enough to redirect Del’s path exhilarates me with the passionate flavor of my failure.
I feel a sympathetic comfort and peace when people eat, so I choose one of our midday lunch outings to shatter all I've built with Del.
“There is something you should know Del. You’re going to die.”
“Is there something wrong with your latte? I can have the waitress…”
“No, it’s not the coffee. I can’t…”
“You’ve been acting strange all morning, John.”
“I don’t think you heard me.”
“I heard you, John, and you’re not going to play me. I know this is some motivational strategy. You’re getting me psyched for that debate this afternoon, aren’t you?”
“In truth, I’m getting you psyched for something far different. Del, you must listen to me carefully. Listen to me as though you don’t know what it means to lie.”
“What is this? Get serious.”
"I understand how this must sound to you, Del, but there is nothing more serious than the ultimate destination."
My words crack something in Del’s consciousness. This combination of words and tone has never passed between us before. The weight falling around us stirs in me a moment of distraction.
“Can you imagine the discussions that must occur in coffee shops? Think of how lives are changed by what originates in these places. The lives of relationships together begin and end, deals that alter the course of infinite paths to follow are made and broken. Thousands of rooms like these around this planet are designed for conversations between people who share little more than a circumstance and a warm beverage that connects them.”
“John?”
”I’ve considered more ways to tell you the following than there are words in your language. I am a messenger. I come from a place made up entirely of messengers, and I’ve been sent to bring you truth.”
“Oh God…”
“So interesting…”
“What?”
“Your choice of words is interesting.”
“Yeah… I’ve gotta go.”
“Also peculiar.”
“What is?”
“Regardless of what you believe or how define your reality or our relationship, don’t you want to hear the message? Aren’t you curious?”
“Okay fine, but if you try anything weird…”
“The truth is: The end of your life is approaching. The message is this: You don’t have a great deal of time left. You have a decision to make.”
“Are you going to hurt me? Is this a ransom thing?”
“I would have nothing to gain from hurting you, Del.”
“…And what is that supposed to mean, you’re a messenger? Who do you work for? Do you think that gets you off somehow?”
“I am not directly involved, but to be certain, the end of your life is imminent.”
“Why, how?”
I can see despair and bargaining in Del's eyes as for a final moment he looks on me with eyes that perceive me as a friend. I like it, but as I thought I would.
“Focus for a moment. Think beyond your preoccupation with the tangible and consider the greater consequence that awaits you at the end of this mortal life.”
“What the fu… What do you expect me...”
“Think of your life so far as a story and think, if you can, as someone with nothing to lose thinks, about what the end of your story is going to require to garner you peace beyond that ending, and not the alternative.”
“What do you mean by alternative?”
“Damnation. Unrest. A lack of peace.”
"John..."
"My name is not John. We'll speak again soon."
I am certain to get up and leave first, to hopefully make it clear that I want nothing from him. In a conversation like ours, the advantage of reason always seems to fall to the less desperate.
I feel for the moment that I’ve reached him as he continues to sit and stare at the far wall. I find myself in a similar state, staring into his expression. He is potentially considering his own death and a measure of consequence beyond the material. Though it is conceivable that through his mind passes anything from thoughts of my murder, to a regret of the trust he usually so sparingly instills, to a wager he placed on the baseball team losing on the far television, I choose not to invade what he is thinking. Among other things I am becoming addicted to the notion of challenge and somewhere in my soulless form I know I have planted a seed.
I have never had such a conversation. It was among the most gratifying of my existence.
I remember the messengers of my kind discussing this feeling, when delivering what they believed was enlightenment. There is exhilaration in having the power of such integral truth over someone, which is not entirely divine in nature. I feel guilty for the moment I spent enjoying that power, but understand the twinkle on the faces of the angels that were ingesting that very same indulgence.
Thank you for the moment of kinship, Del.
After a moment Del’s face pops back into it’s normalcy, as his conscious mask regains it’s composure. My face imitates his as I fade subtly from the human eyes around me. I watch him leave the coffee shop, continually and repeatedly look about, suspicious and uncertain. He is nowhere near peace, and by tomorrow he will convince himself that the substance of our exchange never happened. In my experience, the human ego, especially one as developed as Del's, will accept the most convenient version of truth.
It seems I will have to scratch at his denial. I have another meeting upcoming with Michael, I will have to probe with him the finer points of this wager's boundaries.
My time remaining is a matter of mere... mortality.
* * *
Thanks for tuning in. The next installment won't take a year.
Don't trust me.
Patrick
Though my time here has been comparatively short, considering all the time that I have seen, I feel sometimes I’m about as close to figuring out those around me as I am to getting back the keys to the gates I once called home, while other times I feel this planet is administered by the simplest living devices ever manufactured. By and large, though I do hate to generalize, they are motivated by simple rewards, short-term gains, limited by their ignorance, their inventions of convenience, methods of distraction, and ruled by time.
In Heaven, good and evil are separated by a well-defined line, but on Earth the distinction is muddled by shades and perspectives. The more time I spend in this activity of human life, the more I find that these beings around me define themselves by orbiting both sides of a line that is constantly changing, between their own definitions and those set upon them by their community. I suppose that contrast, between my kind and the choatic nature of my new peers, provide an element of balance in itself. If my maker and my kind are defined by balance, humans must be defined somewhere in the opposite. If the ultimate is balance I should be accustomed to having no conclusion. What does it mean that I now find myself seeking answers?
Answers are the very thing I can provide in abundance, to the humans in my human disguise. The ability to read their minds makes everything transparent to me. All but the forward progress of time is an utterly open book to me. By most human standards appearance I have chosen is plain and forgettable, perhaps even unattractive, but knowing every thought around me allows for an effortless charm. It is also amazing how astute one appears when the desires of his employer come to my lips as quickly as they enter his frontal lobe. I have availed myself as the ultimate political strategist for my ultimately doomed political candidate subject. Entering his life in this function, gaining access as a council he will seek out took a mere matter of hours.
I was his best friend in less than three days.
I chose the name John. People seem impassionate when they say it.
In the three months that have past I have looked for the distraction that would force him to confront the path he is on. I have been looking for the spark of regret that will inspire atonement. Epiphany is arguably humanity’s greatest gift, and I’m beginning to believe they do all that is possible to avoid it.
What is infinitely even more astounding, aside from one of my kind experiencing astounding, is my own discovery of distraction. The entirety of their modern world is designed not for the food, but for the flavor. I have found myself, in growing frequency, permitting distraction, noticing beauty, entraced in entertainment, engaging in debate, researching parts of human history that fell beneath my awareness, accepting invitations, using colloquialisms, gorging on fiction, and finding myself uncertain about my success and uncertain about what to do with my uncertainty.
Time has passed faster than I ever thought it possibly could. So many sunrises have come and gone that I have lost track of how many I've missed. Time has run right through me, and the reality that I may now not have enough to redirect Del’s path exhilarates me with the passionate flavor of my failure.
I feel a sympathetic comfort and peace when people eat, so I choose one of our midday lunch outings to shatter all I've built with Del.
“There is something you should know Del. You’re going to die.”
“Is there something wrong with your latte? I can have the waitress…”
“No, it’s not the coffee. I can’t…”
“You’ve been acting strange all morning, John.”
“I don’t think you heard me.”
“I heard you, John, and you’re not going to play me. I know this is some motivational strategy. You’re getting me psyched for that debate this afternoon, aren’t you?”
“In truth, I’m getting you psyched for something far different. Del, you must listen to me carefully. Listen to me as though you don’t know what it means to lie.”
“What is this? Get serious.”
"I understand how this must sound to you, Del, but there is nothing more serious than the ultimate destination."
My words crack something in Del’s consciousness. This combination of words and tone has never passed between us before. The weight falling around us stirs in me a moment of distraction.
“Can you imagine the discussions that must occur in coffee shops? Think of how lives are changed by what originates in these places. The lives of relationships together begin and end, deals that alter the course of infinite paths to follow are made and broken. Thousands of rooms like these around this planet are designed for conversations between people who share little more than a circumstance and a warm beverage that connects them.”
“John?”
”I’ve considered more ways to tell you the following than there are words in your language. I am a messenger. I come from a place made up entirely of messengers, and I’ve been sent to bring you truth.”
“Oh God…”
“So interesting…”
“What?”
“Your choice of words is interesting.”
“Yeah… I’ve gotta go.”
“Also peculiar.”
“What is?”
“Regardless of what you believe or how define your reality or our relationship, don’t you want to hear the message? Aren’t you curious?”
“Okay fine, but if you try anything weird…”
“The truth is: The end of your life is approaching. The message is this: You don’t have a great deal of time left. You have a decision to make.”
“Are you going to hurt me? Is this a ransom thing?”
“I would have nothing to gain from hurting you, Del.”
“…And what is that supposed to mean, you’re a messenger? Who do you work for? Do you think that gets you off somehow?”
“I am not directly involved, but to be certain, the end of your life is imminent.”
“Why, how?”
I can see despair and bargaining in Del's eyes as for a final moment he looks on me with eyes that perceive me as a friend. I like it, but as I thought I would.
“Focus for a moment. Think beyond your preoccupation with the tangible and consider the greater consequence that awaits you at the end of this mortal life.”
“What the fu… What do you expect me...”
“Think of your life so far as a story and think, if you can, as someone with nothing to lose thinks, about what the end of your story is going to require to garner you peace beyond that ending, and not the alternative.”
“What do you mean by alternative?”
“Damnation. Unrest. A lack of peace.”
"John..."
"My name is not John. We'll speak again soon."
I am certain to get up and leave first, to hopefully make it clear that I want nothing from him. In a conversation like ours, the advantage of reason always seems to fall to the less desperate.
I feel for the moment that I’ve reached him as he continues to sit and stare at the far wall. I find myself in a similar state, staring into his expression. He is potentially considering his own death and a measure of consequence beyond the material. Though it is conceivable that through his mind passes anything from thoughts of my murder, to a regret of the trust he usually so sparingly instills, to a wager he placed on the baseball team losing on the far television, I choose not to invade what he is thinking. Among other things I am becoming addicted to the notion of challenge and somewhere in my soulless form I know I have planted a seed.
I have never had such a conversation. It was among the most gratifying of my existence.
I remember the messengers of my kind discussing this feeling, when delivering what they believed was enlightenment. There is exhilaration in having the power of such integral truth over someone, which is not entirely divine in nature. I feel guilty for the moment I spent enjoying that power, but understand the twinkle on the faces of the angels that were ingesting that very same indulgence.
Thank you for the moment of kinship, Del.
After a moment Del’s face pops back into it’s normalcy, as his conscious mask regains it’s composure. My face imitates his as I fade subtly from the human eyes around me. I watch him leave the coffee shop, continually and repeatedly look about, suspicious and uncertain. He is nowhere near peace, and by tomorrow he will convince himself that the substance of our exchange never happened. In my experience, the human ego, especially one as developed as Del's, will accept the most convenient version of truth.
It seems I will have to scratch at his denial. I have another meeting upcoming with Michael, I will have to probe with him the finer points of this wager's boundaries.
My time remaining is a matter of mere... mortality.
* * *
Thanks for tuning in. The next installment won't take a year.
Don't trust me.
Patrick
A Question of Sacrifice
This is going to seem like a theological question, but I think of it as more of a philosophical one.
Did Jesus Christ know he was going to rise again?
Before retorts, debates, outrages and the like flood your mind and your guilty mortal soul, I would ask that reading eyes and mind’s eyes consider this question separate from a standpoint of moral or mortal or biblical responsibility. Don’t think of it as a challenge of faith or an attempt at gratuitous controversy. Let me make this plain: I am not challenging any religious affiliation or proclaiming my own.
If Jesus knew he was destined to rise, what does that do to the quality of his sacrifice?
Consider the good book as a great story. Think of the hallowed figures within as characters, creations with human motivations, that exist on a plane that can be questioned. After all, all the best questions have blasphemous answers. I am not by nature a controversial person, but I do think we’re at our best when we’re questioning the stuff we’re not supposed to ask about.
What is true sacrifice?
Heroes are defined by two aspects: accomplishment and sacrifice; what did they get and what did they give? We all have heroes that exist on one side of that contribution, and some of us have admiration for someone that has achieved on both. While we worship and praise the champions and the conquerors, their contribution is often found in the fleeting phenomenon known as fame.
It’s the sacrifices, the heroes that we celebrate not for their victories, but for their loss of something great that became something greater. Over the long term we praise the sacrifices more, perhaps because the difference between a victory and a sacrifice is marked by that we wish we all could do and that we quietly acknowledge we couldn’t do.
True sacrifice is comprised of multiple ingredients. The first of these spices in the recipe is free will. In order to be a sacrifice it has to be a voluntary act. The second is that the act is done for someone else. It is next to impossible to offer up your mortal vessel and your immortal soul for your own profit, and to find a way to do so can not quite be deemed heroic.
The last and most important of these elements is knowledge, which is of course the pertinent point we’re examining today. In order to be a true sacrifice the act then must involve a selfless gesture of free will, and the knowledge of the fate that lies ahead.
What if that fate was less than certain?
What if that fate was certain to be undone?
What happens to the quality of a sacrifice when the ultimate consequence is removed? In the case of history’s most famous crucifixion, how should we view the pain and torment endured on that fated Friday if the subject of that misguided punishment knew he was going to be alive again three days later?
There is no doubt of the significance of that day. Regardless of the knowledge or intention of those involved, whether or not it was correctly documented, or whether it happened at all, Christ’s Crucifixion will stand as one of the singular human examples of what a death can mean to the lives it touched, what a life given means to the souls it saves.
The real question becomes: What is the likelihood that Jesus had the knowledge of his purpose beyond his mortal life? How could such a thing ever truly be ascertained? How can any of us ever pretend to know what he knew?
Though he was born in a manger, built of blood and bone, subject to many of the failings and frailties of mortals, Jesus was clearly gifted in some manner. Whether he or not he had the skills that were recounted, or whether walking on water and promptly turning it to wine were the subjects of ancient hyperbole, he clearly had a deeper understanding about his path than the average carpenter. It is conceivable to think that he, being one with his father and the Holy Spirit, being clearly endowed with a divine enlightenment, would be aware of his ultimate demise or ultimately his lack thereof. Is it really reasonable to assume that this awareness that brought him so far, to such an astounding and timeless statement and left him in suspense over the twist ending?
Why not? Many of the readers of this particular scripture are at this moment thinking that very thing, which is entirely acceptable. Given a mortal form to bring the word of his father to the fallible earthlings, it is also acceptable to assume that he could have no knowledge of the path that lay beyond his thirty-third year and his last gift to his followers. Many have based a lifelong study and devoted all their given Sundays to that very fact and I don’t find fallacy in it. Granted that I don’t find proof in it either. Devotion in something that can’t be proven is what faith is all about. Sometimes antithesis serves only to strengthen the thesis. As I stated earlier, it is not my intention to build or deflate in asking this question, only to consider a new dimension.
I suppose that I enjoy that we live in a world where two sides of an argument can at times exist on the same plane, like a pair of linked circles without a beginning or end. Some debates can only be answered by the elements of our individuality.
It tends not to be the answers I’m interested in, but the questions. After all, it’s the journey not the destination:
Right Jesus?
P
Did Jesus Christ know he was going to rise again?
Before retorts, debates, outrages and the like flood your mind and your guilty mortal soul, I would ask that reading eyes and mind’s eyes consider this question separate from a standpoint of moral or mortal or biblical responsibility. Don’t think of it as a challenge of faith or an attempt at gratuitous controversy. Let me make this plain: I am not challenging any religious affiliation or proclaiming my own.
If Jesus knew he was destined to rise, what does that do to the quality of his sacrifice?
Consider the good book as a great story. Think of the hallowed figures within as characters, creations with human motivations, that exist on a plane that can be questioned. After all, all the best questions have blasphemous answers. I am not by nature a controversial person, but I do think we’re at our best when we’re questioning the stuff we’re not supposed to ask about.
What is true sacrifice?
Heroes are defined by two aspects: accomplishment and sacrifice; what did they get and what did they give? We all have heroes that exist on one side of that contribution, and some of us have admiration for someone that has achieved on both. While we worship and praise the champions and the conquerors, their contribution is often found in the fleeting phenomenon known as fame.
It’s the sacrifices, the heroes that we celebrate not for their victories, but for their loss of something great that became something greater. Over the long term we praise the sacrifices more, perhaps because the difference between a victory and a sacrifice is marked by that we wish we all could do and that we quietly acknowledge we couldn’t do.
True sacrifice is comprised of multiple ingredients. The first of these spices in the recipe is free will. In order to be a sacrifice it has to be a voluntary act. The second is that the act is done for someone else. It is next to impossible to offer up your mortal vessel and your immortal soul for your own profit, and to find a way to do so can not quite be deemed heroic.
The last and most important of these elements is knowledge, which is of course the pertinent point we’re examining today. In order to be a true sacrifice the act then must involve a selfless gesture of free will, and the knowledge of the fate that lies ahead.
What if that fate was less than certain?
What if that fate was certain to be undone?
What happens to the quality of a sacrifice when the ultimate consequence is removed? In the case of history’s most famous crucifixion, how should we view the pain and torment endured on that fated Friday if the subject of that misguided punishment knew he was going to be alive again three days later?
There is no doubt of the significance of that day. Regardless of the knowledge or intention of those involved, whether or not it was correctly documented, or whether it happened at all, Christ’s Crucifixion will stand as one of the singular human examples of what a death can mean to the lives it touched, what a life given means to the souls it saves.
The real question becomes: What is the likelihood that Jesus had the knowledge of his purpose beyond his mortal life? How could such a thing ever truly be ascertained? How can any of us ever pretend to know what he knew?
Though he was born in a manger, built of blood and bone, subject to many of the failings and frailties of mortals, Jesus was clearly gifted in some manner. Whether he or not he had the skills that were recounted, or whether walking on water and promptly turning it to wine were the subjects of ancient hyperbole, he clearly had a deeper understanding about his path than the average carpenter. It is conceivable to think that he, being one with his father and the Holy Spirit, being clearly endowed with a divine enlightenment, would be aware of his ultimate demise or ultimately his lack thereof. Is it really reasonable to assume that this awareness that brought him so far, to such an astounding and timeless statement and left him in suspense over the twist ending?
Why not? Many of the readers of this particular scripture are at this moment thinking that very thing, which is entirely acceptable. Given a mortal form to bring the word of his father to the fallible earthlings, it is also acceptable to assume that he could have no knowledge of the path that lay beyond his thirty-third year and his last gift to his followers. Many have based a lifelong study and devoted all their given Sundays to that very fact and I don’t find fallacy in it. Granted that I don’t find proof in it either. Devotion in something that can’t be proven is what faith is all about. Sometimes antithesis serves only to strengthen the thesis. As I stated earlier, it is not my intention to build or deflate in asking this question, only to consider a new dimension.
I suppose that I enjoy that we live in a world where two sides of an argument can at times exist on the same plane, like a pair of linked circles without a beginning or end. Some debates can only be answered by the elements of our individuality.
It tends not to be the answers I’m interested in, but the questions. After all, it’s the journey not the destination:
Right Jesus?
P
The Bombs Are Coming...
Let’s take the next few minutes that ease us toward the big ‘fade out’ to talk about what’s important.
I was having a discussion the other day about a wine bottle opener. A friend of mine was ecstatic about this apparatus she had purchased for removing a cork from her dinner bottle. It included two arms that closed around the top of the neck like a vice, an arm like an electric chair lever that impaled the screw into the cork, like a medieval catholic conversion machine. It was about the size of a ban saw and came in a curious stainless steel briefcase that had an interior adorned with velvet and various other implements of wine bottle cork-ectomy.
It was with the knowledge of this item I realized that we as a society had turned a corner.
This brings me back to the ‘big finish’ fast approaching. Imagine the bombs are in the air. The fingers on the switch have finally answered their itch. The projectiles have in fact just passed the high part of their arch. Or if you prefer, the evil mother-ship has just taken orbit over your city. Perhaps the monster asteroid barreling toward earth is now in sight. Whatever your favorite method of vast human catastrophe, the fat lady is belting out her high notes, and its time to decide what’s important.
We have lost sight of what is truly important. Buckle your seatbelts, there are only one or two other statements capable of shattering the earth itself.
When did it happen? When did we start caring more about who designed our furniture, which celebrity is divorcing whom, and what features we have on our cell phones more than what we and those around us actually need to survive?
It seems as though we’re drowning in surpluses of fashion and approval. Truthfully, there are as many culprits as there are brand names in your local price-town-retail-religion-emporium. There’s no one or no thing directly to blame, which is a sad state for a soapbox prognosticator like myself. This is the fault of an evolution in our western civilization.
Normally it is at this point is in my nasty little satirical M.O. to offer my own solution. Normally at a point far earlier than this one I have waxed political philosophical about the issue that should be before the eyes those less fortunate than myself for not seeing it sooner. Admittedly, normally I’m talking about something as shallow as my offering of advice. Our fixation on brands, trends, and bitter ends goes far deeper than changing the channel, braving profanity, or loving thy neighbor.
This is an addiction. We are quite simply addicted to objects and images. We all at one point stood in the immaculate glow of the fluorescent retail splendor, and low-low warehouse prices and said, “I have to have that massive wine bottle opener”. From that point we are hooked and we all seek our fix in what we wear, drape, drive, drink, draw, and use to access our alcohol.
Standard twelve-step logic states that first must begin by admitting we have a problem.
Done.
Note: a little self-test. If you can look around the room you are currently in and find three items that you know the function and purpose of but do not know the name brand or store of origin… you are among the minority. But sadly you still fail.
So now that we’ve admitted we have a problem, what’s the next step? A cold turkey kind of solution? Clearly a boycott of the very nature of our economy is not the answer. Consumption is the essence of what keeps us going. We make our money, we spend it on something dumb, a chunk of that money is reinvested in the goods and services we’re waiting in line for with more of our saliva covered cash, and around we go.
The answer, as near as I can figure is being cool with the aforementioned step one. We’re not going to stop buying things that are novel and irretrievably pointless, that are shiny and possess European names, and the envy of those around us, but as long as we consider the point every now and then, I think we’re going to be okay.
Perhaps the auspices can be altered slightly. You don’t have to picture the end of the world, or the next evolutionary cataclysm, and your frantic gathering of the vitals for survival to count your blessings. Just count them.
Count them on a Holiday morning when the gesture of giving feels as good as the subsequent name brand recognition to follow. Count on them when one of these useless bobbles actually becomes useful, like the cell phone in your mother’s stalled car. Try to count them when you’re waiting in line at the store in the upcoming months. You’ll need something to do amidst the swarm of shoppers in line with you who would rather see you die than let you stand in the way of them, the cashier, and the end of their retail journey. In those moments, appreciate the luxury and the treat you’re giving yourself. Savor that line up, you’ll seek to join it again.
On the afternoon that this cake was baked, I had the pleasure of going to the opening day of the latest location of the grand poobah of warehouse stores. This awe-inspiring-scabie on our planet shall remain name-brand-less. I can’t be certain what lead me to that place, a lone star in the sky or a misguided guide with too much free time. It occurred to me upon entering that in this particular abomination I'd come about as close as possible to the coming of that malevolent mother-ship. I savored 'step one' and my own lustful wanting as I made my way through the aisles, appreciating all the things I would gladly leave in the face of the big falling bombs. I also savored leaving the warehouse of retail worship and the lion’s den line divine without the luxury of a luxury purchase.
I will admit that the wine bottle opener was impressive, and that I would be hard-pressed to prove that these words in any way out weigh its necessity.
Back to the bombs.
I hope the bomb that gets me is a Halliburton, because I really refuse to be atomized by a no-name bomb.
Patrick TM - Copyright - All Rights Perversed
I was having a discussion the other day about a wine bottle opener. A friend of mine was ecstatic about this apparatus she had purchased for removing a cork from her dinner bottle. It included two arms that closed around the top of the neck like a vice, an arm like an electric chair lever that impaled the screw into the cork, like a medieval catholic conversion machine. It was about the size of a ban saw and came in a curious stainless steel briefcase that had an interior adorned with velvet and various other implements of wine bottle cork-ectomy.
It was with the knowledge of this item I realized that we as a society had turned a corner.
This brings me back to the ‘big finish’ fast approaching. Imagine the bombs are in the air. The fingers on the switch have finally answered their itch. The projectiles have in fact just passed the high part of their arch. Or if you prefer, the evil mother-ship has just taken orbit over your city. Perhaps the monster asteroid barreling toward earth is now in sight. Whatever your favorite method of vast human catastrophe, the fat lady is belting out her high notes, and its time to decide what’s important.
We have lost sight of what is truly important. Buckle your seatbelts, there are only one or two other statements capable of shattering the earth itself.
When did it happen? When did we start caring more about who designed our furniture, which celebrity is divorcing whom, and what features we have on our cell phones more than what we and those around us actually need to survive?
It seems as though we’re drowning in surpluses of fashion and approval. Truthfully, there are as many culprits as there are brand names in your local price-town-retail-religion-emporium. There’s no one or no thing directly to blame, which is a sad state for a soapbox prognosticator like myself. This is the fault of an evolution in our western civilization.
Normally it is at this point is in my nasty little satirical M.O. to offer my own solution. Normally at a point far earlier than this one I have waxed political philosophical about the issue that should be before the eyes those less fortunate than myself for not seeing it sooner. Admittedly, normally I’m talking about something as shallow as my offering of advice. Our fixation on brands, trends, and bitter ends goes far deeper than changing the channel, braving profanity, or loving thy neighbor.
This is an addiction. We are quite simply addicted to objects and images. We all at one point stood in the immaculate glow of the fluorescent retail splendor, and low-low warehouse prices and said, “I have to have that massive wine bottle opener”. From that point we are hooked and we all seek our fix in what we wear, drape, drive, drink, draw, and use to access our alcohol.
Standard twelve-step logic states that first must begin by admitting we have a problem.
Done.
Note: a little self-test. If you can look around the room you are currently in and find three items that you know the function and purpose of but do not know the name brand or store of origin… you are among the minority. But sadly you still fail.
So now that we’ve admitted we have a problem, what’s the next step? A cold turkey kind of solution? Clearly a boycott of the very nature of our economy is not the answer. Consumption is the essence of what keeps us going. We make our money, we spend it on something dumb, a chunk of that money is reinvested in the goods and services we’re waiting in line for with more of our saliva covered cash, and around we go.
The answer, as near as I can figure is being cool with the aforementioned step one. We’re not going to stop buying things that are novel and irretrievably pointless, that are shiny and possess European names, and the envy of those around us, but as long as we consider the point every now and then, I think we’re going to be okay.
Perhaps the auspices can be altered slightly. You don’t have to picture the end of the world, or the next evolutionary cataclysm, and your frantic gathering of the vitals for survival to count your blessings. Just count them.
Count them on a Holiday morning when the gesture of giving feels as good as the subsequent name brand recognition to follow. Count on them when one of these useless bobbles actually becomes useful, like the cell phone in your mother’s stalled car. Try to count them when you’re waiting in line at the store in the upcoming months. You’ll need something to do amidst the swarm of shoppers in line with you who would rather see you die than let you stand in the way of them, the cashier, and the end of their retail journey. In those moments, appreciate the luxury and the treat you’re giving yourself. Savor that line up, you’ll seek to join it again.
On the afternoon that this cake was baked, I had the pleasure of going to the opening day of the latest location of the grand poobah of warehouse stores. This awe-inspiring-scabie on our planet shall remain name-brand-less. I can’t be certain what lead me to that place, a lone star in the sky or a misguided guide with too much free time. It occurred to me upon entering that in this particular abomination I'd come about as close as possible to the coming of that malevolent mother-ship. I savored 'step one' and my own lustful wanting as I made my way through the aisles, appreciating all the things I would gladly leave in the face of the big falling bombs. I also savored leaving the warehouse of retail worship and the lion’s den line divine without the luxury of a luxury purchase.
I will admit that the wine bottle opener was impressive, and that I would be hard-pressed to prove that these words in any way out weigh its necessity.
Back to the bombs.
I hope the bomb that gets me is a Halliburton, because I really refuse to be atomized by a no-name bomb.
Patrick TM - Copyright - All Rights Perversed
Nick's Names & Other Affectations
Among the annals of human invention and innovation the phenomenon of the Nick Name stands alone as our only derogatory sign of affection. It’s designed and used by those closest to us to point out our inadequacies, while addressing us, getting our attention in an intimate manner, or humiliating us in a crowded location. Only humans could be capable of insulting you with a notion of friendship. The Nickname is a singular distinction, different from an Alias in that it is chosen for you or bestowed upon you with little or no functional value… aside from ridicule.
Another interesting facet of this invention is how it seems to attract and be attracted to some while to others is vinegar to their oil. Though we all use them to some degree, some more than others, and though such dubious given monikers occur in every culture all over the world, it’s not a constant. Not everyone gets a nickname. Some have a natural affinity, they have nicknames that supercedes their own identities. You can have a big baldhead, or a head that looks like an ass, or an ass head with a penis nose, and you may never be called ‘Assface,’ or ‘Dick.’ You may also boast none of the above, but by this point in your pseudo-named life have almost forgot the one your parents gave you.
Isn’t that right, Peaches?
We have a need as possessive sentimental beings to give value to our belongings with special distinctions. To our houses and faces we give makeovers, to our vehicles we give stereos and those exhaust/ass trumpets, to our sexual histories we give one or two injections of fantasy, and to our allies we give inside jokes, inside insults, and often exist outside the realm of respect… with all due respect.
We give nicknames because using the same address to address our close friend devalues that close friendship that should rightfully be all ours to devalue, to lovingly devalue. Nicknames stand among an arsenal of sentimental insults that your friends have to choose from, though usually a favorite, this dubious affection can arrive in the form of a practical joke, a sound of flatulence made from the mouth, or even a hand gesture of some sort. For some victims, nicknames just don’t seem to fit.
For some they fit. For some, for me as an example, the names invented for me so far outweigh my given names in both quantitative and qualitative usage by those around me, and contribute to my own legacy, if you can call it that, that though I know what’s written on my birth certificate, I can’t be entirely certain what’s going to be written on my gravestone.
On a personal level, I don’t know whether to love it as a distinction or hate it as a distinction of different sort. I have always had nicknames. Though they’ve changed and evolved over the years, been a benefit, a hindrance, a conversation piece, a source of ridicule, caused the occasional nametag error, and even a moment or two of gender confusion. It’s hard for me to carry complete contempt for nick’s names placed on me as I know that their origin, though evil in some respects, is from a place where people have to care enough to use these personal aspects of myself against me.
I’ve been alternately known as follows: (I’ll let you imagine the hows and whys) Elvis, Hugs, Patty, Cakes, Howie, Hughes-Boy, Patch, Patches, Peaches (Yes, a man named Peaches), Ches, Peach Machine, Peach Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzzball, Vegetable Heel and Mr. Chips. This of course is only a sampling.
Now why do some people get nicknames, when Mr. Assface avoids persecution and gets left out? I’ve often wondered, while I can hardly recall sometimes what parents use to call me, I know there are some people who, for better and far worse, never know a life beyond the name on their driver’s license.
This is the formula, as near as I can figure. In my own experience it starts with your given name. Some names are fun to say, they’re ergonomically agreeable, like Joe and Bob and Dooche. Some names, like my own (if you have forgotten you should find it at the start or end of this little diddy) are not as pert and seem to encourage the aforementioned invention. Some names are just unfortunate and a mere evolutionary step toward ridicule. Names like Hornswaggle, Glascock, and Dicktrain are among these unfortunate examples.
After the name comes the circumstances. If you have an unfortunate or poorly thought out event in your past that transfers into name form, expect it to do so. My advice in this regard is to avoid putting your genitals into things other than your underwear or the vicinity of other genitals. Only take dares than are slightly more brave than stupid. If you have physical abnormalities or scars caused by accidents that involved driving something ‘with no hands’ that need not be seen, keep them on the down low, and if you’re not black don’t say ‘down low.’ Be discreet with the sexual conquests that warrant serious humiliation, and for God’s sake, never fall asleep at a party. If your nickname is ‘Pillow-Biter’ and you’re not gay, you’ve done something stupid.
Before circumstances, in actuality, come physical attributes. Sadly but truly, those buddies of yours do in fact plan on capitalizing on that thing that your mom once told you ‘makes you special’. My advice in this regard is: learn to live with it. If you have a big nose or a big head, small hands, twelve fingers, a funny walk, or a baldhead and it bugs you to be called ‘Curly’, the sad truth is that these nicknames tend to stick the best. If it truly bothers you, you can always do something stupid. (Refer to the above paragraph)
The formula goes as follows: One of these three variables + Friends/Associates/A Human in your immediate vicinity = A Title of Torturous Affection, A Nickname.
Being a frequent victim this distinction I have to conclude by saying that though these buggers can hurt while they heal/heel, it’s not all pain for those of us that attract the 'nom de doom'. Many benefits are included in the package, a handy secret identity, a valuable conversation piece, the possibility of fame, the notion of legend.
Let’s face it; any distinction is valuable in this world of labels and cardboard cutout identities. Affection is so often affectation that it's nice when it's genuine enough to hurt so good. Nicknames remind you that you’re more than the sum of the words next to the picture in your high school yearbook. You made an impression with that nick, and in the end that’s all any of us can hope for. It’s funny how your friends are doing you a favor, even when they’re calling you ‘Dick-Licker.’
Thanks for the Nicknames everyone.
I love you too.
P.
P.S. For Pete’s sake, who the hell is Nick anyway… and who’s Pete?
Another interesting facet of this invention is how it seems to attract and be attracted to some while to others is vinegar to their oil. Though we all use them to some degree, some more than others, and though such dubious given monikers occur in every culture all over the world, it’s not a constant. Not everyone gets a nickname. Some have a natural affinity, they have nicknames that supercedes their own identities. You can have a big baldhead, or a head that looks like an ass, or an ass head with a penis nose, and you may never be called ‘Assface,’ or ‘Dick.’ You may also boast none of the above, but by this point in your pseudo-named life have almost forgot the one your parents gave you.
Isn’t that right, Peaches?
We have a need as possessive sentimental beings to give value to our belongings with special distinctions. To our houses and faces we give makeovers, to our vehicles we give stereos and those exhaust/ass trumpets, to our sexual histories we give one or two injections of fantasy, and to our allies we give inside jokes, inside insults, and often exist outside the realm of respect… with all due respect.
We give nicknames because using the same address to address our close friend devalues that close friendship that should rightfully be all ours to devalue, to lovingly devalue. Nicknames stand among an arsenal of sentimental insults that your friends have to choose from, though usually a favorite, this dubious affection can arrive in the form of a practical joke, a sound of flatulence made from the mouth, or even a hand gesture of some sort. For some victims, nicknames just don’t seem to fit.
For some they fit. For some, for me as an example, the names invented for me so far outweigh my given names in both quantitative and qualitative usage by those around me, and contribute to my own legacy, if you can call it that, that though I know what’s written on my birth certificate, I can’t be entirely certain what’s going to be written on my gravestone.
On a personal level, I don’t know whether to love it as a distinction or hate it as a distinction of different sort. I have always had nicknames. Though they’ve changed and evolved over the years, been a benefit, a hindrance, a conversation piece, a source of ridicule, caused the occasional nametag error, and even a moment or two of gender confusion. It’s hard for me to carry complete contempt for nick’s names placed on me as I know that their origin, though evil in some respects, is from a place where people have to care enough to use these personal aspects of myself against me.
I’ve been alternately known as follows: (I’ll let you imagine the hows and whys) Elvis, Hugs, Patty, Cakes, Howie, Hughes-Boy, Patch, Patches, Peaches (Yes, a man named Peaches), Ches, Peach Machine, Peach Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzzball, Vegetable Heel and Mr. Chips. This of course is only a sampling.
Now why do some people get nicknames, when Mr. Assface avoids persecution and gets left out? I’ve often wondered, while I can hardly recall sometimes what parents use to call me, I know there are some people who, for better and far worse, never know a life beyond the name on their driver’s license.
This is the formula, as near as I can figure. In my own experience it starts with your given name. Some names are fun to say, they’re ergonomically agreeable, like Joe and Bob and Dooche. Some names, like my own (if you have forgotten you should find it at the start or end of this little diddy) are not as pert and seem to encourage the aforementioned invention. Some names are just unfortunate and a mere evolutionary step toward ridicule. Names like Hornswaggle, Glascock, and Dicktrain are among these unfortunate examples.
After the name comes the circumstances. If you have an unfortunate or poorly thought out event in your past that transfers into name form, expect it to do so. My advice in this regard is to avoid putting your genitals into things other than your underwear or the vicinity of other genitals. Only take dares than are slightly more brave than stupid. If you have physical abnormalities or scars caused by accidents that involved driving something ‘with no hands’ that need not be seen, keep them on the down low, and if you’re not black don’t say ‘down low.’ Be discreet with the sexual conquests that warrant serious humiliation, and for God’s sake, never fall asleep at a party. If your nickname is ‘Pillow-Biter’ and you’re not gay, you’ve done something stupid.
Before circumstances, in actuality, come physical attributes. Sadly but truly, those buddies of yours do in fact plan on capitalizing on that thing that your mom once told you ‘makes you special’. My advice in this regard is: learn to live with it. If you have a big nose or a big head, small hands, twelve fingers, a funny walk, or a baldhead and it bugs you to be called ‘Curly’, the sad truth is that these nicknames tend to stick the best. If it truly bothers you, you can always do something stupid. (Refer to the above paragraph)
The formula goes as follows: One of these three variables + Friends/Associates/A Human in your immediate vicinity = A Title of Torturous Affection, A Nickname.
Being a frequent victim this distinction I have to conclude by saying that though these buggers can hurt while they heal/heel, it’s not all pain for those of us that attract the 'nom de doom'. Many benefits are included in the package, a handy secret identity, a valuable conversation piece, the possibility of fame, the notion of legend.
Let’s face it; any distinction is valuable in this world of labels and cardboard cutout identities. Affection is so often affectation that it's nice when it's genuine enough to hurt so good. Nicknames remind you that you’re more than the sum of the words next to the picture in your high school yearbook. You made an impression with that nick, and in the end that’s all any of us can hope for. It’s funny how your friends are doing you a favor, even when they’re calling you ‘Dick-Licker.’
Thanks for the Nicknames everyone.
I love you too.
P.
P.S. For Pete’s sake, who the hell is Nick anyway… and who’s Pete?
The Naked Run
The Setting: A Backyard Patio on a sun-drenched afternoon…
… The aspiration of every Beer Commercial.
“Taylor, could you grab me beer?”
“Forget it!”
“Why not?”
“Ernie, I’ve been getting beer for you all night. Get your own beer, goddamit, your ass could use the fresh air.”
“But you’re already up.”
“Don’t ask me again, in fact don’t ever ask me to get you anything ever. I wouldn’t get you a life jacket right now.”
“Aw, come on…”
“I guarantee you I’m coming back with one beer only.”
“Oh, I got a good one. When Tara comes back to the patio door, let’s all be completely naked. She’ll freak out and go grab Jeanne, by the time they get back we’ll be dressed again.”
“Committee?”
"Yeah, I'm with Martin."
“Personally, I’m just drunk enough.”
“Okay, here she comes.”
“Geden, you look way too comfortable.”
“Remember that time he tackled me after stripping naked?”
“Don’t blame me, you shouldn’t have grabbed my clothes.”
“I still blame you. I still have nightmares.”
“Hi Tara, could you grab me a beer while you’re up?”
“Oh my god, you’re all…”
“…And there she goes.”
“Yes, you have to put your clothes back on now.”
“Jeanne, I’m telling you, they’re all na…”
“Tara, where’s my beer?”
“Wait…wait, weren’t you guys just… Wait a second…”
“Were you guys really just naked?”
“Jeanne, do you really think we’d do something like that?”
“I’m personally a little bit insulted.”
“You guys are… you’re so… jerks.”
“Do you think we should have gone with the girls to the bar?”
“Ah, screw it.”
“Yeah, it’s Monday, a bad night for good monkey.”
“We’re not going to just sit around here all night are we?”
“Well, I need some cigarettes. Who’s coming?”
“I bet you won’t go get them naked.”
“I will if someone comes with me.”
“I’d be in for a little mischief.”
“Hughes can drive.”
“Unless this medication that prevents drinking inhibits his balls.”
“I’ll drive, but considering that I’ll be the one talking to the cops, I’ll keep my clothes on.”
“Does it still count as streaking if we’re all sitting in a car?”
“If it’s not streaking then it’s way too gay for me.”
“Let’s make sure the window’s are open.”
“Shotgun!”
“Hey man, do you have a light?”
“Geden, I’m naked, I don’t have ANYTHING.”
“Oh, right. Shut up.”
“I wish this was a bigger car.”
“So, where to?”
“After we pick up some smokes, let’s head to that apartment building downtown with the pool and the short fence.”
“Why couldn’t one of you be a girl?”
“You’re not far off.”
“You’re so gay.”
“Chinese stoplight!”
“Marty, no, we’re on the highway!”
“Taylor, grab him!”
“There’s nothing to grab! What do I grab!”
“There he goes.”
“I wish I was as drunk as him.”
“That drunk doesn’t look that good from here.”
“This is the strangest Chinese stoplight…”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s dry-humping the car.”
“Chinese people everywhere would be so proud.”
“Okay, I’ll make this part easy. I’m going in, who wants what?”
“Lots of cigarettes>”
“…And a light!”
“We’ll try to look casual.”
“Hey girls, we’re naked!”
“I wish I was as drunk as him.”
“I wish those girls were as drunk as him.”
“We’re naked!”
“I can see that.”
“Where the hell is Hughes? Is he making the cigarettes?”
“Do you think there’s a pool in jail?”
“No, but I don’t think we’ll be bored. We’ll make plenty of friends.”
“Is this pool heated?”
“Shrinkage is something you should be used to by now.”
“I am used to bad jokes…”
“Oh, oh man… a little help… guys?”
“Is Marty coming, or does he like it on top of that fence?”
“I think… I’m stuck.”
“Ooooooh, that’s making me sober just looking at it.”
“I guess we’ve found the big guy’s kryptonite.”
“’Get him drunk and straddled him naked on a spiky fence’, I think that’s everyone’s kryptonite.”
“Ernie, why are you smiling? If you’re taking a leak this close to me I’ll…”
“I’m not taking a leak, Taylor.”
“But you did just fart, I know that smile, I saw the bubbles.”
“That wasn’t me, it was the bubble jet.”
“There’s no jets in a pool, bozo, this is not a hot tub.”
“It will be for you in about three seconds.”
“You bastard!”
“Does it still count as streaking if we’re sitting in a pool?”
“Call it what you want, man, this would make a great story.”
“Hughes, sober or not, streaking or not, I want you in this pool in five seconds, or it be a stiff cuffin’ for ye.”
“Actually, I think it’s time to get out of here.”
“Don’t be a puss.”
“Yeah, why? I just got in.”
“Well, reason one; we’re out of beer. Reason two; there are about fifteen apartment lights looking down on us. We must have offended one of them by now enough to have called the cops.”
“Reason three: Taylor is giving me the lovin’ eyes.”
“Would it have been cheating for us to have brought towels?”
“I brought one.”
“Let me use it.”
“That will cost you a thousand dollars.”
“I hate you a little bit more every minute.”
“All right, let’s go, let’s go. Where’s Marty?”
“…Guys, a little help...”
“Why are we on the highway? There’s no one to offend here.”
“It’s the quickest way to the beer, Taylor.”
“At this red light I’m getting out and going for a run. This intersection is big enough to freak at least a person or two out. I know Marty’s with me.”
“I’m in… what are we doing?”
“I definitely wish I was as drunk as him.”
“You’re going with Taylor. I’ll pick you guys up at the other side of the intersection. Get running, make us proud.”
“Oh yeah, they’re going to get busted.”
“Taylor is a surprisingly graceful runner.”
“Marty’s not following him.”
“No… why run when there’s perfectly good car here just waiting to be dry-humped.”
(From outside the car) “Oh yeah, we’re naked!”
“Look at the guy crossing the street just realized the guy running at him is naked.”
“I think I’d be a little more concerned.”
“Yeah, what’s weird about a guy running naked down the highway? At least you know he’s got no weapons.”
“I’ll let that joke go…”
“Son, you’re naked.”
“Why, yes I am.”
“You can get back in now, car-lover. The light’s been green for five thrusts.”
“How long before we pick Taylor up?”
“He looks pretty tired.”
“It’s not like he has much to carry.”
“I don’t think I want to leave him hanging.”
“Besides, the next time you’re stuck naked on the highway you’ll have a favor to call in.”
“Let’s pick his silly ass up. I’m getting sober enough to remember that I’m far away from my clothes.”
“I don’t know what I miss more, my clothes or my beer.”
“I miss food.”
“Oh yeah!”
“Marty, we know you’re excited, stop punching me. I’m still not comfortable being touched by a naked man.”
“I wish I was as drunk as you are, man, how do you get so drunk?”
“The girls at the drive-thru are going to love us.”
“This’ll make a great story.”
“Stories like these always end with police sirens.”
“You guys are so gay.”
“Shut up.”
FIN
The way I figure it, if your ‘Why did I do that?’ File outweighs your ‘I wish I had done that’ File, then you’re doing okay in the big scheme.
… The aspiration of every Beer Commercial.
“Taylor, could you grab me beer?”
“Forget it!”
“Why not?”
“Ernie, I’ve been getting beer for you all night. Get your own beer, goddamit, your ass could use the fresh air.”
“But you’re already up.”
“Don’t ask me again, in fact don’t ever ask me to get you anything ever. I wouldn’t get you a life jacket right now.”
“Aw, come on…”
“I guarantee you I’m coming back with one beer only.”
“Oh, I got a good one. When Tara comes back to the patio door, let’s all be completely naked. She’ll freak out and go grab Jeanne, by the time they get back we’ll be dressed again.”
“Committee?”
"Yeah, I'm with Martin."
“Personally, I’m just drunk enough.”
“Okay, here she comes.”
“Geden, you look way too comfortable.”
“Remember that time he tackled me after stripping naked?”
“Don’t blame me, you shouldn’t have grabbed my clothes.”
“I still blame you. I still have nightmares.”
“Hi Tara, could you grab me a beer while you’re up?”
“Oh my god, you’re all…”
“…And there she goes.”
“Yes, you have to put your clothes back on now.”
“Jeanne, I’m telling you, they’re all na…”
“Tara, where’s my beer?”
“Wait…wait, weren’t you guys just… Wait a second…”
“Were you guys really just naked?”
“Jeanne, do you really think we’d do something like that?”
“I’m personally a little bit insulted.”
“You guys are… you’re so… jerks.”
“Do you think we should have gone with the girls to the bar?”
“Ah, screw it.”
“Yeah, it’s Monday, a bad night for good monkey.”
“We’re not going to just sit around here all night are we?”
“Well, I need some cigarettes. Who’s coming?”
“I bet you won’t go get them naked.”
“I will if someone comes with me.”
“I’d be in for a little mischief.”
“Hughes can drive.”
“Unless this medication that prevents drinking inhibits his balls.”
“I’ll drive, but considering that I’ll be the one talking to the cops, I’ll keep my clothes on.”
“Does it still count as streaking if we’re all sitting in a car?”
“If it’s not streaking then it’s way too gay for me.”
“Let’s make sure the window’s are open.”
“Shotgun!”
“Hey man, do you have a light?”
“Geden, I’m naked, I don’t have ANYTHING.”
“Oh, right. Shut up.”
“I wish this was a bigger car.”
“So, where to?”
“After we pick up some smokes, let’s head to that apartment building downtown with the pool and the short fence.”
“Why couldn’t one of you be a girl?”
“You’re not far off.”
“You’re so gay.”
“Chinese stoplight!”
“Marty, no, we’re on the highway!”
“Taylor, grab him!”
“There’s nothing to grab! What do I grab!”
“There he goes.”
“I wish I was as drunk as him.”
“That drunk doesn’t look that good from here.”
“This is the strangest Chinese stoplight…”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s dry-humping the car.”
“Chinese people everywhere would be so proud.”
“Okay, I’ll make this part easy. I’m going in, who wants what?”
“Lots of cigarettes>”
“…And a light!”
“We’ll try to look casual.”
“Hey girls, we’re naked!”
“I wish I was as drunk as him.”
“I wish those girls were as drunk as him.”
“We’re naked!”
“I can see that.”
“Where the hell is Hughes? Is he making the cigarettes?”
“Do you think there’s a pool in jail?”
“No, but I don’t think we’ll be bored. We’ll make plenty of friends.”
“Is this pool heated?”
“Shrinkage is something you should be used to by now.”
“I am used to bad jokes…”
“Oh, oh man… a little help… guys?”
“Is Marty coming, or does he like it on top of that fence?”
“I think… I’m stuck.”
“Ooooooh, that’s making me sober just looking at it.”
“I guess we’ve found the big guy’s kryptonite.”
“’Get him drunk and straddled him naked on a spiky fence’, I think that’s everyone’s kryptonite.”
“Ernie, why are you smiling? If you’re taking a leak this close to me I’ll…”
“I’m not taking a leak, Taylor.”
“But you did just fart, I know that smile, I saw the bubbles.”
“That wasn’t me, it was the bubble jet.”
“There’s no jets in a pool, bozo, this is not a hot tub.”
“It will be for you in about three seconds.”
“You bastard!”
“Does it still count as streaking if we’re sitting in a pool?”
“Call it what you want, man, this would make a great story.”
“Hughes, sober or not, streaking or not, I want you in this pool in five seconds, or it be a stiff cuffin’ for ye.”
“Actually, I think it’s time to get out of here.”
“Don’t be a puss.”
“Yeah, why? I just got in.”
“Well, reason one; we’re out of beer. Reason two; there are about fifteen apartment lights looking down on us. We must have offended one of them by now enough to have called the cops.”
“Reason three: Taylor is giving me the lovin’ eyes.”
“Would it have been cheating for us to have brought towels?”
“I brought one.”
“Let me use it.”
“That will cost you a thousand dollars.”
“I hate you a little bit more every minute.”
“All right, let’s go, let’s go. Where’s Marty?”
“…Guys, a little help...”
“Why are we on the highway? There’s no one to offend here.”
“It’s the quickest way to the beer, Taylor.”
“At this red light I’m getting out and going for a run. This intersection is big enough to freak at least a person or two out. I know Marty’s with me.”
“I’m in… what are we doing?”
“I definitely wish I was as drunk as him.”
“You’re going with Taylor. I’ll pick you guys up at the other side of the intersection. Get running, make us proud.”
“Oh yeah, they’re going to get busted.”
“Taylor is a surprisingly graceful runner.”
“Marty’s not following him.”
“No… why run when there’s perfectly good car here just waiting to be dry-humped.”
(From outside the car) “Oh yeah, we’re naked!”
“Look at the guy crossing the street just realized the guy running at him is naked.”
“I think I’d be a little more concerned.”
“Yeah, what’s weird about a guy running naked down the highway? At least you know he’s got no weapons.”
“I’ll let that joke go…”
“Son, you’re naked.”
“Why, yes I am.”
“You can get back in now, car-lover. The light’s been green for five thrusts.”
“How long before we pick Taylor up?”
“He looks pretty tired.”
“It’s not like he has much to carry.”
“I don’t think I want to leave him hanging.”
“Besides, the next time you’re stuck naked on the highway you’ll have a favor to call in.”
“Let’s pick his silly ass up. I’m getting sober enough to remember that I’m far away from my clothes.”
“I don’t know what I miss more, my clothes or my beer.”
“I miss food.”
“Oh yeah!”
“Marty, we know you’re excited, stop punching me. I’m still not comfortable being touched by a naked man.”
“I wish I was as drunk as you are, man, how do you get so drunk?”
“The girls at the drive-thru are going to love us.”
“This’ll make a great story.”
“Stories like these always end with police sirens.”
“You guys are so gay.”
“Shut up.”
FIN
The way I figure it, if your ‘Why did I do that?’ File outweighs your ‘I wish I had done that’ File, then you’re doing okay in the big scheme.
The Devil That Delivered Del: Part One
Welcome to my latest Short Story
It goes out to all the misunderstood Angels out there.
People have the wrong idea about me. I’m not the Devil they think I am.
I sit rejected among God’s fallible beings as the Angel who sinned once. My existence in banishment has been spent mostly among my creator’s favorite creation; the mortals he crafted in his image. I walk among them as an observer. My name is Lucifer. I live in Hell.
I’m not the devil you think I am. Human history and prehistory tells the story of a demon that tried to overthrow heaven and now sits eternally condemned in his fiery, subterranean prison, lording over the other lost souls, plotting his vengeance. I have come to accept that in order for history to be written, it has to come with the bias of the human writing his-story. Human stories always have winners and losers. Stories are rarely told by the loser.
The image of me has never been right. I can almost take pride, being the only of my former kind capable of pride, in the prominence this image has played in human culture. I would almost like to thank the human that came up with these horns and crimson hide, but I think it’s the kind of thing that grew over time and can be credited to no fearful mortal in particular. The concept of my being and those of my former kind is something difficult for a mortal to grasp.
My race isn’t bound to a body in the physical sense. When an angel makes its presence known to a mortal consciousness, the appearance is subjective to the eyes that behold it. Human accounts have described divine beauty, wings, robes, and even a simple glowing light in place of a normal figure. I have never appeared before a human in my natural form, so I truly can’t dispute the possibility that the eyes that were to behold me wouldn’t see the hooves and horns of my previous depictions. I’m not even certain if I’m capable of manufacturing such a physical form. Angels are capable of taking an earth bound form close to that of humans; tangible and, for all mortal purposes, undetectable. We appear as flesh, but without a beating heart. The forms we take are most often representative of our nature in some way. It is in this form that genders are more apparent. Our appearance as man or woman is not determined by reproductive organs, as we don’t reproduce, but by the dominant elements of our individual personalities. Some angels are far more masculine or feminine, but some exhibit aspects of both. Depending on the circumstances, these angels can appear as either a man or a woman, again determined by the human beholding them.
Observing has become the main pastime of our kind in place of philosophy and conveying the divine word. You have been effectively left to your own devices for the time being and thus we have been left to ours. We walk among you at all times. We’re at your side when you have those thoughts that let you do bad things. We’re there when babies are born and when old men die alone.
When the sun sets angels gather to discuss this experiment called humanity. I ponder alone. I am not to be acknowledged by my own kind. I can no longer go home.
* * *
Heaven is a subjective thing.
It is certainly a different experience for the human soul today than the realm in which I once dwelled. For humans it is life without finality, which I suppose must be paradise. We never regarded it as paradise or as a reward. It was home, a home never taken for granted. For angels, Heaven is a boundless place of light, warmth, and thought. We existed for an eternity as devout disciples of that peace and unity that our home represented.
Hell is the opposing incarnation of Heaven. It is the absence of Heaven. It is the absence of life. The absence of sensual stimulus and free will, in essence the ultimate eternal punishment, is to exist without the fundamental stimulus of life. It is not the subterranean pit of fire and brimstone that many envision, though in many ways it may as well be. Pain and torture can almost be a comfort when they’re all you have and all you feel. An ending without end is the ultimate torture for a sentient a mind. Purgatory is the place where human souls relive their injustices and their sins, where they feel pain and helplessness. Purgatory is the torture, Hell is the ending; the torture of nothingness. I am the keeper of Hell. I oversee the souls that enter nothingness.
Sometimes it is my suspicion that Hell wasn’t the creation of my maker. I think it is possible that it is the byproduct to his creation of Heaven. All light creates a shadow, every cause has an effect, for every heaven there’s a hell on the other side of the wall. Like action and reaction, Hell is the result of a balance that he created and is at once bound to. I don’t blame him for this place.
Not once have I ever endeavored to swindle or tempt someone into surrendering me an eternal soul. Endless tales of human religion and mythology depict me tempting human weakness with promises that entail a tantalizing offer that exploits their human frailties in exchange for the souls I seek to obtain. I simply don’t have the ability to alter reality in the way these legends describe. Furthermore, I don’t benefit from luring humans into my domain. They aren’t mine when they enter, they simply exist where I am bound.
My existence consists of nothingness, no gains or endeavors, and no life’s work. My only pastime is periodically walking among humans on Earth as an observer, watching them revel in ignorance of the beauty of creation around them, the beauty that they belong to that belongs to them. Because of my one dissention, my act of individuality, I’m doomed never to return home, never to belong to anything.
“I can understand why you’re frustrated.”
Michael and I meet occasionally in anonymous places where people tend not to notice one another; in coffee shops and on park benches. I suspect he’s always been sympathetic. We once stood together, when we were Archangels.
“I’m not frustrated, Michael. Acceptance came to me a long time ago. I just wish it could be a little different.” We’re looking out the window of the diner at a movie theatre across the street. Under the marquis are advertisements for coming attractions. The upcoming movies include ‘Demon-Killer’; the poster illustrates a valiant warrior in battle with a typically demonic beast. The demon is huge and beastly, with crimson red skin, large bovine horns protruding from his head, and hoofed feet. He smiles maniacally, standing in a pit of fire. “I don’t mind that they hate me. I’m used to being an outsider, but that depiction always irks me. It gets to me somehow.”
“I guess that’s what you get for being the only angel capable of pride.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of. And don’t forget, I’m not an angel anymore, Michael.”
“You may not dwell in Heaven, but that does not change what you are.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“While we’re on the subject, what else would you change?” Michael is always trying to get me to admit I was wrong to rebel against our maker. I suspect he thinks it would be the first step to some possible form of penance and forgiveness. I know better. Forgiveness is reserved for the humans.
“I can see what you’re doing. And I’m not going to repent.” Michael smiles innocently.
“There must be something.”
“Aside from the image of red skin, horns, and hoofs, I would like to see him extend to us the freedoms he gives to his humans.”
“You mean free will.”
“Yes, but more than just that; imagination, invention, extrapolation, and even deception.”
“You think it is a gift to lie?”
“Don’t be short-sighted. A lie is more than a sin, more than a hurtful, self-serving device. Deception is at the root of storytelling, metaphor and poetry. Deception is a form of invention, and creation; that has allowed their race to evolve, and allowed them to cultivate as individuals. The ability to lie is at the very center of free will.”
“Invention has been responsible for as much harm as it has for good.”
“That may be true, but take away the byproducts, take away currency, slavery, and pollution, and invention has meant philosophy and literature. It has let them, for better or worse, discover their individuality. It has given their lives meaning. I think we deserve that.”
“You don’t think our lives have meaning?”
“I don’t think we were given the chance to find our individuality, our own meaning.”
“I’d say you did.”
“And look what it got me.”
We have variations of this discussion every time we meet. Every time, Michael lets me vent and postulate on the fallacies of creation. He nods warmly and sympathetically, careful to comprehend without encouraging my angelic blasphemy. He has an interesting way of debating without disagreeing. I know he humors me purely for my benefit, that he is incapable and unwilling to see our creator’s flaws. I know this, though I tend to forget amidst my ranting. Whether his counterpoint is genuine or not, I treasure our meetings. Sitting with him is the closest I can get to going home.
“You know, there’s something else I’d change.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t heard one of my own kind say my name since I was expelled from Heaven.”
“I’m sorry, you know I can’t…”
“I don’t blame you. It’s not that bad being on my own. I don’t really mind my solitary existence, but hearing my name spoken by the voices that once comforted me would make my banishment far more tolerable.”
“I can understand that. I can’t imagine losing those things that welcome me home.”
“You’re not capable of imagination, Michael.”
“It’s not a sin to use a human colloquialism.”
“Perhaps it should be.”
We pretend to sip our coffees; angels are incapable of imbibing most human food. Over an hour passes and our cold mugs still sit completely full. The busy waitresses are usually only too happy to ignore us. Sometimes I use tricks like soaking some coffee into napkins or switching mugs with a person whom has just left. Michael never does so, believing it to be deceitful. We look like two normal men. My appearance is plain. I’m shorter than many and quite thin. I would not be considered handsome by human standards. Michael is, as always, splendorous and regal. He’s tall and has waving blonde hair, a soft complexion, and deep fair eyes. His clothing is clean and fits well against his strong torso. Mine are plain looking, hanging oversized off my body. I repeatedly see women that pass by look at him with a lustful feminine longing. The waitress giggles when he talks to her.
“It has always bothered me that angels have no endeavor.”
“We guard and oversee Heaven. We act as messengers.”
“Michael, I am the only being to ever oppose Heaven. I was defeated eons ago. Guarding is at best uneventful. Delivering his message is hardly an endeavor. There is no chance of failure in delivering a message to a prophetic human. There is nowhere they can hide from us, we can hear what they’re thinking, carrying a message to one of them is a matter of a thought and a few words. An errand is not an endeavor. Everyday they get to feel the thrill of achievement in the face of possible failure. I’ve felt that thrill but once. Humans have engaging challenges before them every day. They have the freedom to succeed or to fail. They plan and study and strategize. We ponder and observe. I just wish we had some challenge before us from time to time.”
Michael sits back in his chair, clearly intrigued by my statement. We stare at each other in silence as I wait for his response.
“I think I have an idea.” A smile rises on his face, coming as close as I believe he is able devious.
“Would you be interested in a wager?”
* * *
How could these words have come from his mouth? How could I have forgotten this, the sparkle of the notion of a challenge?
It certainly cannot be advisable for him to offer me a wager, to offer me anything really, but our maker has always afforded Michael certain exceptions. I have never bothered to ask why he is allowed to meet with me. As we set out upon our expedition I am filled and aroused by a forgotten notion of journey and a destination unknown.
Michael leads me to a stately old building in an area filled with historical landmark-type structures. I much prefer modern architecture, it amuses me how much it contradicts the natural environment. Inside the building are many offices and rooms where people are toiling away furiously on tasks that I can’t discern. Some appear to be assembling correspondence, licking envelopes and the like, while others talk on their telephones. It must be so dissatisfying to labor without an immediate product.
“What are these people doing?”
“Their employer is preparing for an election. He is this city’s incumbent mayor.”
For a moment I consider the possibility that Michael is kidding with me. Though he is many things, a humorist he is not. What possible role could I play in human democracy? In our invisible forms we walk through the rooms toward an office in the back. I stop every few steps and catch a glimpse of the people ignoring their own desires to work for someone else’s. I look into their eyes to see if it is clear what is driving them; are they crusading for the beliefs of their leader or merely collecting sustenance?
In the back room the activity subsides, we enter to see a man standing in front of his reflection in the window adjusting his tie. He looks into the eyes of his reflection with narcissistic lust. He is clearly the employer in this office. He has the swagger of a salesman, a temporary leader.
“This man’s name is Del Iverus. Del is going to die in less than three months. On the path his life is currently taking he will have no place in Heaven. I challenge you to help him willingly change his path in the three months before his life is over. I wager that in three months you can’t convince him to change his fate. I challenge you to save this man’s soul from Hell.”
“And if I succeed?”
“I’ll say your name.”
* * *
Stay tuned for Part Two.
Thanks for reading, you little devil.
Patrick
It goes out to all the misunderstood Angels out there.
People have the wrong idea about me. I’m not the Devil they think I am.
I sit rejected among God’s fallible beings as the Angel who sinned once. My existence in banishment has been spent mostly among my creator’s favorite creation; the mortals he crafted in his image. I walk among them as an observer. My name is Lucifer. I live in Hell.
I’m not the devil you think I am. Human history and prehistory tells the story of a demon that tried to overthrow heaven and now sits eternally condemned in his fiery, subterranean prison, lording over the other lost souls, plotting his vengeance. I have come to accept that in order for history to be written, it has to come with the bias of the human writing his-story. Human stories always have winners and losers. Stories are rarely told by the loser.
The image of me has never been right. I can almost take pride, being the only of my former kind capable of pride, in the prominence this image has played in human culture. I would almost like to thank the human that came up with these horns and crimson hide, but I think it’s the kind of thing that grew over time and can be credited to no fearful mortal in particular. The concept of my being and those of my former kind is something difficult for a mortal to grasp.
My race isn’t bound to a body in the physical sense. When an angel makes its presence known to a mortal consciousness, the appearance is subjective to the eyes that behold it. Human accounts have described divine beauty, wings, robes, and even a simple glowing light in place of a normal figure. I have never appeared before a human in my natural form, so I truly can’t dispute the possibility that the eyes that were to behold me wouldn’t see the hooves and horns of my previous depictions. I’m not even certain if I’m capable of manufacturing such a physical form. Angels are capable of taking an earth bound form close to that of humans; tangible and, for all mortal purposes, undetectable. We appear as flesh, but without a beating heart. The forms we take are most often representative of our nature in some way. It is in this form that genders are more apparent. Our appearance as man or woman is not determined by reproductive organs, as we don’t reproduce, but by the dominant elements of our individual personalities. Some angels are far more masculine or feminine, but some exhibit aspects of both. Depending on the circumstances, these angels can appear as either a man or a woman, again determined by the human beholding them.
Observing has become the main pastime of our kind in place of philosophy and conveying the divine word. You have been effectively left to your own devices for the time being and thus we have been left to ours. We walk among you at all times. We’re at your side when you have those thoughts that let you do bad things. We’re there when babies are born and when old men die alone.
When the sun sets angels gather to discuss this experiment called humanity. I ponder alone. I am not to be acknowledged by my own kind. I can no longer go home.
* * *
Heaven is a subjective thing.
It is certainly a different experience for the human soul today than the realm in which I once dwelled. For humans it is life without finality, which I suppose must be paradise. We never regarded it as paradise or as a reward. It was home, a home never taken for granted. For angels, Heaven is a boundless place of light, warmth, and thought. We existed for an eternity as devout disciples of that peace and unity that our home represented.
Hell is the opposing incarnation of Heaven. It is the absence of Heaven. It is the absence of life. The absence of sensual stimulus and free will, in essence the ultimate eternal punishment, is to exist without the fundamental stimulus of life. It is not the subterranean pit of fire and brimstone that many envision, though in many ways it may as well be. Pain and torture can almost be a comfort when they’re all you have and all you feel. An ending without end is the ultimate torture for a sentient a mind. Purgatory is the place where human souls relive their injustices and their sins, where they feel pain and helplessness. Purgatory is the torture, Hell is the ending; the torture of nothingness. I am the keeper of Hell. I oversee the souls that enter nothingness.
Sometimes it is my suspicion that Hell wasn’t the creation of my maker. I think it is possible that it is the byproduct to his creation of Heaven. All light creates a shadow, every cause has an effect, for every heaven there’s a hell on the other side of the wall. Like action and reaction, Hell is the result of a balance that he created and is at once bound to. I don’t blame him for this place.
Not once have I ever endeavored to swindle or tempt someone into surrendering me an eternal soul. Endless tales of human religion and mythology depict me tempting human weakness with promises that entail a tantalizing offer that exploits their human frailties in exchange for the souls I seek to obtain. I simply don’t have the ability to alter reality in the way these legends describe. Furthermore, I don’t benefit from luring humans into my domain. They aren’t mine when they enter, they simply exist where I am bound.
My existence consists of nothingness, no gains or endeavors, and no life’s work. My only pastime is periodically walking among humans on Earth as an observer, watching them revel in ignorance of the beauty of creation around them, the beauty that they belong to that belongs to them. Because of my one dissention, my act of individuality, I’m doomed never to return home, never to belong to anything.
“I can understand why you’re frustrated.”
Michael and I meet occasionally in anonymous places where people tend not to notice one another; in coffee shops and on park benches. I suspect he’s always been sympathetic. We once stood together, when we were Archangels.
“I’m not frustrated, Michael. Acceptance came to me a long time ago. I just wish it could be a little different.” We’re looking out the window of the diner at a movie theatre across the street. Under the marquis are advertisements for coming attractions. The upcoming movies include ‘Demon-Killer’; the poster illustrates a valiant warrior in battle with a typically demonic beast. The demon is huge and beastly, with crimson red skin, large bovine horns protruding from his head, and hoofed feet. He smiles maniacally, standing in a pit of fire. “I don’t mind that they hate me. I’m used to being an outsider, but that depiction always irks me. It gets to me somehow.”
“I guess that’s what you get for being the only angel capable of pride.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of. And don’t forget, I’m not an angel anymore, Michael.”
“You may not dwell in Heaven, but that does not change what you are.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“While we’re on the subject, what else would you change?” Michael is always trying to get me to admit I was wrong to rebel against our maker. I suspect he thinks it would be the first step to some possible form of penance and forgiveness. I know better. Forgiveness is reserved for the humans.
“I can see what you’re doing. And I’m not going to repent.” Michael smiles innocently.
“There must be something.”
“Aside from the image of red skin, horns, and hoofs, I would like to see him extend to us the freedoms he gives to his humans.”
“You mean free will.”
“Yes, but more than just that; imagination, invention, extrapolation, and even deception.”
“You think it is a gift to lie?”
“Don’t be short-sighted. A lie is more than a sin, more than a hurtful, self-serving device. Deception is at the root of storytelling, metaphor and poetry. Deception is a form of invention, and creation; that has allowed their race to evolve, and allowed them to cultivate as individuals. The ability to lie is at the very center of free will.”
“Invention has been responsible for as much harm as it has for good.”
“That may be true, but take away the byproducts, take away currency, slavery, and pollution, and invention has meant philosophy and literature. It has let them, for better or worse, discover their individuality. It has given their lives meaning. I think we deserve that.”
“You don’t think our lives have meaning?”
“I don’t think we were given the chance to find our individuality, our own meaning.”
“I’d say you did.”
“And look what it got me.”
We have variations of this discussion every time we meet. Every time, Michael lets me vent and postulate on the fallacies of creation. He nods warmly and sympathetically, careful to comprehend without encouraging my angelic blasphemy. He has an interesting way of debating without disagreeing. I know he humors me purely for my benefit, that he is incapable and unwilling to see our creator’s flaws. I know this, though I tend to forget amidst my ranting. Whether his counterpoint is genuine or not, I treasure our meetings. Sitting with him is the closest I can get to going home.
“You know, there’s something else I’d change.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t heard one of my own kind say my name since I was expelled from Heaven.”
“I’m sorry, you know I can’t…”
“I don’t blame you. It’s not that bad being on my own. I don’t really mind my solitary existence, but hearing my name spoken by the voices that once comforted me would make my banishment far more tolerable.”
“I can understand that. I can’t imagine losing those things that welcome me home.”
“You’re not capable of imagination, Michael.”
“It’s not a sin to use a human colloquialism.”
“Perhaps it should be.”
We pretend to sip our coffees; angels are incapable of imbibing most human food. Over an hour passes and our cold mugs still sit completely full. The busy waitresses are usually only too happy to ignore us. Sometimes I use tricks like soaking some coffee into napkins or switching mugs with a person whom has just left. Michael never does so, believing it to be deceitful. We look like two normal men. My appearance is plain. I’m shorter than many and quite thin. I would not be considered handsome by human standards. Michael is, as always, splendorous and regal. He’s tall and has waving blonde hair, a soft complexion, and deep fair eyes. His clothing is clean and fits well against his strong torso. Mine are plain looking, hanging oversized off my body. I repeatedly see women that pass by look at him with a lustful feminine longing. The waitress giggles when he talks to her.
“It has always bothered me that angels have no endeavor.”
“We guard and oversee Heaven. We act as messengers.”
“Michael, I am the only being to ever oppose Heaven. I was defeated eons ago. Guarding is at best uneventful. Delivering his message is hardly an endeavor. There is no chance of failure in delivering a message to a prophetic human. There is nowhere they can hide from us, we can hear what they’re thinking, carrying a message to one of them is a matter of a thought and a few words. An errand is not an endeavor. Everyday they get to feel the thrill of achievement in the face of possible failure. I’ve felt that thrill but once. Humans have engaging challenges before them every day. They have the freedom to succeed or to fail. They plan and study and strategize. We ponder and observe. I just wish we had some challenge before us from time to time.”
Michael sits back in his chair, clearly intrigued by my statement. We stare at each other in silence as I wait for his response.
“I think I have an idea.” A smile rises on his face, coming as close as I believe he is able devious.
“Would you be interested in a wager?”
* * *
How could these words have come from his mouth? How could I have forgotten this, the sparkle of the notion of a challenge?
It certainly cannot be advisable for him to offer me a wager, to offer me anything really, but our maker has always afforded Michael certain exceptions. I have never bothered to ask why he is allowed to meet with me. As we set out upon our expedition I am filled and aroused by a forgotten notion of journey and a destination unknown.
Michael leads me to a stately old building in an area filled with historical landmark-type structures. I much prefer modern architecture, it amuses me how much it contradicts the natural environment. Inside the building are many offices and rooms where people are toiling away furiously on tasks that I can’t discern. Some appear to be assembling correspondence, licking envelopes and the like, while others talk on their telephones. It must be so dissatisfying to labor without an immediate product.
“What are these people doing?”
“Their employer is preparing for an election. He is this city’s incumbent mayor.”
For a moment I consider the possibility that Michael is kidding with me. Though he is many things, a humorist he is not. What possible role could I play in human democracy? In our invisible forms we walk through the rooms toward an office in the back. I stop every few steps and catch a glimpse of the people ignoring their own desires to work for someone else’s. I look into their eyes to see if it is clear what is driving them; are they crusading for the beliefs of their leader or merely collecting sustenance?
In the back room the activity subsides, we enter to see a man standing in front of his reflection in the window adjusting his tie. He looks into the eyes of his reflection with narcissistic lust. He is clearly the employer in this office. He has the swagger of a salesman, a temporary leader.
“This man’s name is Del Iverus. Del is going to die in less than three months. On the path his life is currently taking he will have no place in Heaven. I challenge you to help him willingly change his path in the three months before his life is over. I wager that in three months you can’t convince him to change his fate. I challenge you to save this man’s soul from Hell.”
“And if I succeed?”
“I’ll say your name.”
* * *
Stay tuned for Part Two.
Thanks for reading, you little devil.
Patrick
PORN - Now That I've Got Your Attention...
Sometimes we’re just wonderful in our ignorance. As racing insects on our big round ant farm we can truly achieve greatness in the lowest points of our collective cravings. Despite an admirable move here and there, it seems to be our low points that define us. We achieve this deepening definition by listening to our cravings, and by crafting lives around distractions and cosmetic pleasures that are questionable at best, but represent our worst, without question. This is not say that cravings are entirely a bad thing. Some of the greatest endeavours in all the tunnels of human history have come about from the counsel that little voice that sits on your shoulder, and whispers in the ear opposite to the angel.
The grandest of all cravings, and the sweetest that voice ever sounds, invariably involves sex. At tiniest level of that thing that makes you you, where soul meets cell and mitochondria dance with DNA, there is a spark that keeps that nucleus turning. That spark is sex. Say it out loud to your computer screen… right now. The best damn word in any language and the best reason to get out of bed in the morning is more than penis and vagina, than conquest and surrender, than sweat, steam, orgasm, and is great at the same time for being so much less. Say that word again. Sex is the spark that turns the universe and gives humans the fury to invent and destroy. The very reason that devil stands on your shoulder is to make sure that you seek out that spark. The unfortunate thing about a devil’s influence is it’s a little too focused on the prize and tends to be horribly near-sighted.
The quintessential example of that little devil’s wonderful ignorance is Pornography. What a funny web we’ve woven worldwide with this stuff. The embodiment of tawdry, titillating, and depravity has become a wonderfully sad metaphor for just about every craving we seek in our modern culture: automatic, non-nutritive, and cosmetically enhanced.
Have you ever really thought about the role that pornography portrays in our society? What can be gained by these ludicrous but arousing scenarios and performances? What have we got to lose? Of all the disposable nonsense on which we spend our money and display in our finely tuned vessels of purchased identity, porn has to be the one entity that has best exploited our cravings while hiding beneath a virtue. We accept it, and frankly we revel in it, because it is tawdry and contrived it is an exhibition of the dirtiest thing we’ll never be too clean to love. We permit it, because we believe that in some weird way we are engaging in sex. Despite an obvious lack in acting ability, porn has managed to fool us all.
This is not to say that I am against this medium, which tends in its exhibition to be related more to large than medium. I happen to be a big fan. I think it can be a healthy addiction/distraction, if not an entirely sexual one. Like anything worthwhile in our accented age, pornography offers a sustained fantasy, a window through the fence into a yard where the grass is not only greener, but also covered with horny naked girls. In its purest form, that puts pure to rest, the average pornophile is seeking a vicarious thrill akin to that which he seeks from an action movie or a football game, and for the gender less likely to file under this ‘phile, this ‘ography can be like a gentle romanticography or that channel that shows nothing but makeovers.
It may be confusing at this point on which of your shoulders I’m standing. The obvious argument, to defend the relevance of girl on silicone girl action and faking fake orgasms, is that it provides a safe and healthy outlet for its subscribers, largely the male gender, to ‘express’ themselves.
All right, it’s pretty much all the male gender.
Though the outlet theory may be true, it is not sex that drives us to this, our favorite hedonistic altar. What fills your pornophillic eyes when you pop in that tape that you hide under the mattress is not quenching your thirst for coitus, but your need for voyeurism. Incidentally, this is also in the domain of the guy on your shoulder with all the fun things to say. Though ‘doing yourself a favor’ is definitely a sex act on certain levels, it’s voyeurism that stimulates your arousal on those most private of occasions.
This is not a question of morality. I believe morality to be a subjective thing. Everyone has their own humane idea of right and wrong. If you’re okay with something then I don’t think that something can be wrong. When a diabolical Enron type executive bilks thousands from people who are going to lose their homes, he is not necessarily breaking commandments, but somewhere in their own tiny plastic moral code they know they’re doing wrong. A pornophile, depending the depravity of choice, is most likely conducting HIMself, I’m not going to bother implying both genders here, well within HIS own acceptable parameters and therefore doing nothing wrong. This being said, isn’t it interesting how we promote the aspects of our sex in our appearance and demeanour but hide our voyeuristic tendencies in shoeboxes and under our mattresses?
Think about what sex is for a moment. Say it out loud one more time and think of the elements that float in its universe: unity, passion, conquest, intimacy, ecstasy, fluid… voyeur, fetish? If we attempted to list all of the elements that exist adjacent to this universe, we’d be here long enough to make boobs boring.
We are by nature voyeurs, there is no doubt. Nor sadly is there a purpose. What end can possibly be served, in an anthropological sense, by observing other members of the species in moments that really should belong to them? I can see a purpose in vanity, makeovers, conservatives, lying, farting, fleeing, feeding, fighting, and certainly fornicating, but voyeurism, and in a smaller scale pornography, smaller of course depending on the kind of film you prefer, has no purposeful value that I can detect.
Sex is about the virtue of life itself and your own experience. It’s about your heart pumping, while various other organs pump in kind. It’s about the biology, chemistry, and spark of the human body doing what it is intended to do. How can sex be about viewing the portrayal of sex? Arousal is merely one segment of the biological equation that turns our space. If arousal were all it took, sex would be no more important than shopping… perhaps not the best example. But seriously, there is plenty of sex in shopping, but there is no shopping in sex… wait…
Don’t sell sex short, it’s so much better long.
Since we now know that porn is a four-letter word unworthy of four-letter-wordom, the only question remaining is: Where is the line? When is sex sex and when is sex confused with a dirty little window?
If your actual partner is not present, does a picture suffice? Could that picture be of a potential partner? Could that partner ‘s potential be on the weaker side of likelihood? Could that potential partner’s portrait perhaps include a substitute for yourself? Could that portrait then be several portraits, put in motion and set to a raunchy bass?
Bow chicka bow bow.
With anything adrift in the sex galaxy or concerning the counsel from the devil on your shoulder, putting lines in the sand does little more than get your hands dirty. And in our finer moments, dirty hands can chafe.
Just remember, the next time someone tries to defend the virtue of pornography on the basis of healthy sex, they’d better be better at acting than those they're defending. You’re a voyeur, but don’t feel bad you’re voyeur in vast company... hopefully not during one of those ‘favourable’ moments.
Besides, porn never asked to be defended and has scarcely claimed to be virtuous.
Now if you’ll excuse me…
Chicka bow bow boooow.
Buck Hughes
The grandest of all cravings, and the sweetest that voice ever sounds, invariably involves sex. At tiniest level of that thing that makes you you, where soul meets cell and mitochondria dance with DNA, there is a spark that keeps that nucleus turning. That spark is sex. Say it out loud to your computer screen… right now. The best damn word in any language and the best reason to get out of bed in the morning is more than penis and vagina, than conquest and surrender, than sweat, steam, orgasm, and is great at the same time for being so much less. Say that word again. Sex is the spark that turns the universe and gives humans the fury to invent and destroy. The very reason that devil stands on your shoulder is to make sure that you seek out that spark. The unfortunate thing about a devil’s influence is it’s a little too focused on the prize and tends to be horribly near-sighted.
The quintessential example of that little devil’s wonderful ignorance is Pornography. What a funny web we’ve woven worldwide with this stuff. The embodiment of tawdry, titillating, and depravity has become a wonderfully sad metaphor for just about every craving we seek in our modern culture: automatic, non-nutritive, and cosmetically enhanced.
Have you ever really thought about the role that pornography portrays in our society? What can be gained by these ludicrous but arousing scenarios and performances? What have we got to lose? Of all the disposable nonsense on which we spend our money and display in our finely tuned vessels of purchased identity, porn has to be the one entity that has best exploited our cravings while hiding beneath a virtue. We accept it, and frankly we revel in it, because it is tawdry and contrived it is an exhibition of the dirtiest thing we’ll never be too clean to love. We permit it, because we believe that in some weird way we are engaging in sex. Despite an obvious lack in acting ability, porn has managed to fool us all.
This is not to say that I am against this medium, which tends in its exhibition to be related more to large than medium. I happen to be a big fan. I think it can be a healthy addiction/distraction, if not an entirely sexual one. Like anything worthwhile in our accented age, pornography offers a sustained fantasy, a window through the fence into a yard where the grass is not only greener, but also covered with horny naked girls. In its purest form, that puts pure to rest, the average pornophile is seeking a vicarious thrill akin to that which he seeks from an action movie or a football game, and for the gender less likely to file under this ‘phile, this ‘ography can be like a gentle romanticography or that channel that shows nothing but makeovers.
It may be confusing at this point on which of your shoulders I’m standing. The obvious argument, to defend the relevance of girl on silicone girl action and faking fake orgasms, is that it provides a safe and healthy outlet for its subscribers, largely the male gender, to ‘express’ themselves.
All right, it’s pretty much all the male gender.
Though the outlet theory may be true, it is not sex that drives us to this, our favorite hedonistic altar. What fills your pornophillic eyes when you pop in that tape that you hide under the mattress is not quenching your thirst for coitus, but your need for voyeurism. Incidentally, this is also in the domain of the guy on your shoulder with all the fun things to say. Though ‘doing yourself a favor’ is definitely a sex act on certain levels, it’s voyeurism that stimulates your arousal on those most private of occasions.
This is not a question of morality. I believe morality to be a subjective thing. Everyone has their own humane idea of right and wrong. If you’re okay with something then I don’t think that something can be wrong. When a diabolical Enron type executive bilks thousands from people who are going to lose their homes, he is not necessarily breaking commandments, but somewhere in their own tiny plastic moral code they know they’re doing wrong. A pornophile, depending the depravity of choice, is most likely conducting HIMself, I’m not going to bother implying both genders here, well within HIS own acceptable parameters and therefore doing nothing wrong. This being said, isn’t it interesting how we promote the aspects of our sex in our appearance and demeanour but hide our voyeuristic tendencies in shoeboxes and under our mattresses?
Think about what sex is for a moment. Say it out loud one more time and think of the elements that float in its universe: unity, passion, conquest, intimacy, ecstasy, fluid… voyeur, fetish? If we attempted to list all of the elements that exist adjacent to this universe, we’d be here long enough to make boobs boring.
We are by nature voyeurs, there is no doubt. Nor sadly is there a purpose. What end can possibly be served, in an anthropological sense, by observing other members of the species in moments that really should belong to them? I can see a purpose in vanity, makeovers, conservatives, lying, farting, fleeing, feeding, fighting, and certainly fornicating, but voyeurism, and in a smaller scale pornography, smaller of course depending on the kind of film you prefer, has no purposeful value that I can detect.
Sex is about the virtue of life itself and your own experience. It’s about your heart pumping, while various other organs pump in kind. It’s about the biology, chemistry, and spark of the human body doing what it is intended to do. How can sex be about viewing the portrayal of sex? Arousal is merely one segment of the biological equation that turns our space. If arousal were all it took, sex would be no more important than shopping… perhaps not the best example. But seriously, there is plenty of sex in shopping, but there is no shopping in sex… wait…
Don’t sell sex short, it’s so much better long.
Since we now know that porn is a four-letter word unworthy of four-letter-wordom, the only question remaining is: Where is the line? When is sex sex and when is sex confused with a dirty little window?
If your actual partner is not present, does a picture suffice? Could that picture be of a potential partner? Could that partner ‘s potential be on the weaker side of likelihood? Could that potential partner’s portrait perhaps include a substitute for yourself? Could that portrait then be several portraits, put in motion and set to a raunchy bass?
Bow chicka bow bow.
With anything adrift in the sex galaxy or concerning the counsel from the devil on your shoulder, putting lines in the sand does little more than get your hands dirty. And in our finer moments, dirty hands can chafe.
Just remember, the next time someone tries to defend the virtue of pornography on the basis of healthy sex, they’d better be better at acting than those they're defending. You’re a voyeur, but don’t feel bad you’re voyeur in vast company... hopefully not during one of those ‘favourable’ moments.
Besides, porn never asked to be defended and has scarcely claimed to be virtuous.
Now if you’ll excuse me…
Chicka bow bow boooow.
Buck Hughes
Help me, Rhonda
Support your local... Me, by visiting my publication locations.
Currently appearing in:
The Opinion Section of Sonic Slang: www.sonicslang.com
Stop by, cruise around, tell them how much you like me, you really really like me.
I'd do it for you.
Patrick
PS. Those of you out there not named Rhonda are also welcome to join in the fun.
Currently appearing in:
The Opinion Section of Sonic Slang: www.sonicslang.com
Stop by, cruise around, tell them how much you like me, you really really like me.
I'd do it for you.
Patrick
PS. Those of you out there not named Rhonda are also welcome to join in the fun.
Unhooked
A snippet from my late childhood, which is my early adulthood depending to whom you speak. I anticipate a chuckle or two so make sure your dental work is well fastened.
Names and places have been changed to protect the people who will surely receive foot to ass therapy and mild public embarrassment from the following. I am me, occasionally called myself, or Mr. Super-Handsome, my accomplice will be known simply as Ernie.
The setting: The nightclub district of my University town. Semi seedy, semi student ghetto, semi ghetto ghetto, but all ghetto fa-bu-lous.
The stage: Late evening, soon after bar closing and boozer banishment. That twilight hour when men are men and women are on the defensive. The late night air has fallen in a time of year far too cold for the stylishly showy clothes worn by young men and women who exhibit feats of ludicrous bravery fueled by and influenced by their favorite liquid might.
At the bars, in our early twenties, on the occasions when our friends had decided their time was better spent on homework, prayer and knitting, Ernie and I operated as a dynamic duo par bar excellence.
We weren’t so much that hero and sidekick type of partnership, Batman and Robin, beefcake and wingman, we were more like Simon and Garfunkel, an even exercise in harmony with strengths and domains for each. If you need to talk guitar you go to Simon, if you require information on bouffant hair you talk to Garfunkel. I’m not going to venture the answer as to whom was who, though I took the turkey in the hair category, but suffice to say, we each had our strengths in the strategically lit nightclub milieu.
For instance, Ernie was the pitchman. More valuable than perhaps any other social grace, including grace itself, is the courage or the blind ignorance it takes to walk up to strange women and ask to be, on one level or another, instantly and unforgivingly evaluated. He was the confidence man, sending in the pitch to be struck, evasively bunted, or callously fouled out. So long as they swung, the con man had done his job well.
Myself, I always preferred the more carefully achieved mysterious-guy soft-sell. That basically consists of trying to allure your intended victim through non-verbal communication and hints of longing. It is about as effective as the pitcher holding the ball in the air, waiting for the batter to come to the mound and swing, and basically amounts to a young man who gets little action.
My own forte, after the first stage was taken care of, was in the delivery. Once Ernie had the hook in and a ball in play, I was great at that endearing small talk and semi-witty banter. I could convince our prey that they were talking to thoughtful and sensitive, albeit slightly goofy wolves in sheep masks.
In all modesty, when the situation dictated I also had my moments on the dance floor.
Our record on the scene was something to behold, and if there were an award for best duo or group in a nightclub-prowling role, well, frankly we’d be sweeping the popcorn of the floor of the award show theater.
No, this is a story of a different kind of conquest. It’s about the things you don’t expect to find and how in the face of those things you think you wanted you find out more about yourself, and how you tend to be a far larger coward than you ever thought possible.
On this particular evening, Ernie and I were on our way home, astounded that yet again we had come up lame in the tiger-trapping department. We were crossing a street on the way to my apartment that bordered the edge of the red-light prostitute district, on the edge of the nightclub district, bordering the student ghetto, not too far off the state of enlightenment but just beyond thunderdome. As we both rejoined the sidewalk, a young lady passed us in the opposing direction. The stink of the hunt was still on us, our toxic strength had yet to dissipate completely. We were still in that place, with crosshairs and beer goggles taped over our eyes. I could feel the smile rise on Ernie’s face as he slipped into his role.
At a half step passed us, what passed for a barely audible pitch escaped his lips like a nervous bidder at a cattle auction.
“You’re going the wrong way, you should be coming with us.”
I barely had the chance to let out a tiny snicker before the girl swung herself around. In that split second I was expecting an entirely warranted feminist retort to be lashed into my partner’s Cheshire face, as I’m sure he was expecting it to, having built up an admirable immunity to them, but strangely she didn’t say anything. Without missing a beat or saying a word she had in fact spun around and begun following us. She was following us to my house… from a ten-word pitch? Ernie, my new favorite genius, had apparently stumbled upon the hallowed password, or perhaps had unknowingly mastered hypnosis, or… wait a second…
Holy sh… she’s a hooker! Ernie you… you’ve just hired a hooker and are taking her to my house!
At twenty years old I was already a fairly worldly young man. I had seen a great deal and had seen a great more things done. I was mature enough… Okay, mature is the wrong word… I knew enough about prostitution to know that Julia Roberts was maybe not the most accurate ambassador for the trade, and that my bed linens were about to earn a significant grudge against me.
In terms of my own prowess and sexual seasoning, I had been in the game enough times to feel knowledgeable, even capable as a performer, but in no way was I ready to perform at the professional level. Ernie on the other hand, was ready to be drafted to the big leagues.
How can I put this without being disrespectful? I can’t, so here comes a lack of respect. You know how the double standard exists in which a woman who has a lot of sex is called a slut while a man is called, manly? Let me just say that in his younger years, my boy Ernie took a stab at leveling that standard for the sluts of both genders. Though the quality may have been occasionally suspect, he achieved a quantity by which all others were judged. Ladies and gentlemen, beyond slut and stud Ernie proudly stood. Ernie was a slud, and frankly a respectable one. Had he kept up with the level of production he set ten years ago, he would have now visited the inside of more women than Tampax and the XX chromosome.
Needless to say at this point, but Ernie’s disposition at the non-verbal knowledge of our new companion of the night could have been described as… optimistic.
“What are we gonna do? She’s still following us.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Think of what? My building is right ahead.”
“Well, how about a group rate?”
Ernie, God bless him, was the kind of individual that at times had trouble recognizing the subjective nature of individual likes and dislikes. In retrospect, it may have been hard for him to imagine that though I like entertaining ‘the ladies’, I would be apprehensive of this lady for hire’s naked rental parts on my bed, or frankly within a flea’s jumping distance of it. It’s funny how a heart can be in the right place even when it’s got the directions totally wrong. He really believed he was about to do me a favor.
As we reached the lobby doors of my apartment building, I was subtly jumping out of my skin. Ernie had a look on his face like a charming super-villain on Christmas morning.
“You’ve got to get rid of her! She can’t come upstairs! My roommate’ll kill me! She’ll do something funky to my sheets… she’ll do something funky to me… her pimp will know where I live… It’s against the law! Get rid of her! Make her go! Make her go!” The under my breath ravings must have sounded like Yosemite Sam’s incoherent swear streams at Bugs Bunny.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He sounded like a Mafia hitman moonlighting as a used car salesman. I went up ahead to prepare, well really to pray.
I must have hit the elevator button seven times in the four-story ride. I bounded through my apartment to my roommate’s bedroom, even today I’m not sure if I was providing a warning or seeking advice.
Another incoherent stream bust forth.
“Man, I don’t know… Ernie… hooker… group rate… I don’t know. They’re coming, I can’t stop it…”
Calmer than I had ever seen him, my normally high-strung roommate slowly woke and turned over. Without a question or a heightened tone he told me to back out of his room and close his door. I obediently did so, I guess I was highly suggestive at that time.
As I came back out into the living room, Ernie was entering through the front door. My heart stopped as I prepared myself for HER to follow, bringing all of the Pandora’s Box kind of consequences that that questionable boxes seem to hold. Oh man, oh man, I was actually thinking of something charming to say, like in a twisted version of our barroom duo routine.
“Hi, I’m Patrick, but you can call me John.” Oh boy, this was going to suck.
As blood flow quickly returned to my brain I realized that Ernie was alone. His head hung a little bit lower than usual, especially for this point of the evening, and he was massaging his jaw the way guys in the movies do when they get socked in the mouth. He was alone, thank God, he was alone.
Oh man, what did he do now, order some kind of orgy combo deal?
“No, she hit me.”
“’You’re going the wrong way,’ you get away with, what could you have possibly said to get hit?”
As it turns out, it wasn’t so much what Ernie said that killed the mood and broke the deal. Well actually, it was exactly what he said.
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘Can we get a deal for the two of us?’”
I can picture it to this day, even though I was never actually there to see it, the words being delivered from his confident grin. I can see her sultry bedroom eyes rising slightly at the realization of what he’s proposing.
“What do you mean, a deal?”
“You know, how much will it cost?”
That was about when she cranked him in the chin.
As it turns out, she was not a professional, apparently just open to suggestion.
As we both learned, girls can be offended by sleazy propositions even if they’re not offended by sleazy propositions. Far less important to a woman than what is proposed to her is what is supposed about her. The sleazy parts are imposed later.
It should be mentioned in epilogue that while I’ve merely grown older, Ernie has grown up. He is a hero everyday to his daughter, to his wife, and to the people he protects who probably rarely say ‘thank you’ and couldn’t say it enough.
The amoral of the story as close as I can figure: Be careful what you wish for…
You just might get some.
Keep it real, Ernie.
Hughes.
Names and places have been changed to protect the people who will surely receive foot to ass therapy and mild public embarrassment from the following. I am me, occasionally called myself, or Mr. Super-Handsome, my accomplice will be known simply as Ernie.
The setting: The nightclub district of my University town. Semi seedy, semi student ghetto, semi ghetto ghetto, but all ghetto fa-bu-lous.
The stage: Late evening, soon after bar closing and boozer banishment. That twilight hour when men are men and women are on the defensive. The late night air has fallen in a time of year far too cold for the stylishly showy clothes worn by young men and women who exhibit feats of ludicrous bravery fueled by and influenced by their favorite liquid might.
At the bars, in our early twenties, on the occasions when our friends had decided their time was better spent on homework, prayer and knitting, Ernie and I operated as a dynamic duo par bar excellence.
We weren’t so much that hero and sidekick type of partnership, Batman and Robin, beefcake and wingman, we were more like Simon and Garfunkel, an even exercise in harmony with strengths and domains for each. If you need to talk guitar you go to Simon, if you require information on bouffant hair you talk to Garfunkel. I’m not going to venture the answer as to whom was who, though I took the turkey in the hair category, but suffice to say, we each had our strengths in the strategically lit nightclub milieu.
For instance, Ernie was the pitchman. More valuable than perhaps any other social grace, including grace itself, is the courage or the blind ignorance it takes to walk up to strange women and ask to be, on one level or another, instantly and unforgivingly evaluated. He was the confidence man, sending in the pitch to be struck, evasively bunted, or callously fouled out. So long as they swung, the con man had done his job well.
Myself, I always preferred the more carefully achieved mysterious-guy soft-sell. That basically consists of trying to allure your intended victim through non-verbal communication and hints of longing. It is about as effective as the pitcher holding the ball in the air, waiting for the batter to come to the mound and swing, and basically amounts to a young man who gets little action.
My own forte, after the first stage was taken care of, was in the delivery. Once Ernie had the hook in and a ball in play, I was great at that endearing small talk and semi-witty banter. I could convince our prey that they were talking to thoughtful and sensitive, albeit slightly goofy wolves in sheep masks.
In all modesty, when the situation dictated I also had my moments on the dance floor.
Our record on the scene was something to behold, and if there were an award for best duo or group in a nightclub-prowling role, well, frankly we’d be sweeping the popcorn of the floor of the award show theater.
No, this is a story of a different kind of conquest. It’s about the things you don’t expect to find and how in the face of those things you think you wanted you find out more about yourself, and how you tend to be a far larger coward than you ever thought possible.
On this particular evening, Ernie and I were on our way home, astounded that yet again we had come up lame in the tiger-trapping department. We were crossing a street on the way to my apartment that bordered the edge of the red-light prostitute district, on the edge of the nightclub district, bordering the student ghetto, not too far off the state of enlightenment but just beyond thunderdome. As we both rejoined the sidewalk, a young lady passed us in the opposing direction. The stink of the hunt was still on us, our toxic strength had yet to dissipate completely. We were still in that place, with crosshairs and beer goggles taped over our eyes. I could feel the smile rise on Ernie’s face as he slipped into his role.
At a half step passed us, what passed for a barely audible pitch escaped his lips like a nervous bidder at a cattle auction.
“You’re going the wrong way, you should be coming with us.”
I barely had the chance to let out a tiny snicker before the girl swung herself around. In that split second I was expecting an entirely warranted feminist retort to be lashed into my partner’s Cheshire face, as I’m sure he was expecting it to, having built up an admirable immunity to them, but strangely she didn’t say anything. Without missing a beat or saying a word she had in fact spun around and begun following us. She was following us to my house… from a ten-word pitch? Ernie, my new favorite genius, had apparently stumbled upon the hallowed password, or perhaps had unknowingly mastered hypnosis, or… wait a second…
Holy sh… she’s a hooker! Ernie you… you’ve just hired a hooker and are taking her to my house!
At twenty years old I was already a fairly worldly young man. I had seen a great deal and had seen a great more things done. I was mature enough… Okay, mature is the wrong word… I knew enough about prostitution to know that Julia Roberts was maybe not the most accurate ambassador for the trade, and that my bed linens were about to earn a significant grudge against me.
In terms of my own prowess and sexual seasoning, I had been in the game enough times to feel knowledgeable, even capable as a performer, but in no way was I ready to perform at the professional level. Ernie on the other hand, was ready to be drafted to the big leagues.
How can I put this without being disrespectful? I can’t, so here comes a lack of respect. You know how the double standard exists in which a woman who has a lot of sex is called a slut while a man is called, manly? Let me just say that in his younger years, my boy Ernie took a stab at leveling that standard for the sluts of both genders. Though the quality may have been occasionally suspect, he achieved a quantity by which all others were judged. Ladies and gentlemen, beyond slut and stud Ernie proudly stood. Ernie was a slud, and frankly a respectable one. Had he kept up with the level of production he set ten years ago, he would have now visited the inside of more women than Tampax and the XX chromosome.
Needless to say at this point, but Ernie’s disposition at the non-verbal knowledge of our new companion of the night could have been described as… optimistic.
“What are we gonna do? She’s still following us.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Think of what? My building is right ahead.”
“Well, how about a group rate?”
Ernie, God bless him, was the kind of individual that at times had trouble recognizing the subjective nature of individual likes and dislikes. In retrospect, it may have been hard for him to imagine that though I like entertaining ‘the ladies’, I would be apprehensive of this lady for hire’s naked rental parts on my bed, or frankly within a flea’s jumping distance of it. It’s funny how a heart can be in the right place even when it’s got the directions totally wrong. He really believed he was about to do me a favor.
As we reached the lobby doors of my apartment building, I was subtly jumping out of my skin. Ernie had a look on his face like a charming super-villain on Christmas morning.
“You’ve got to get rid of her! She can’t come upstairs! My roommate’ll kill me! She’ll do something funky to my sheets… she’ll do something funky to me… her pimp will know where I live… It’s against the law! Get rid of her! Make her go! Make her go!” The under my breath ravings must have sounded like Yosemite Sam’s incoherent swear streams at Bugs Bunny.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He sounded like a Mafia hitman moonlighting as a used car salesman. I went up ahead to prepare, well really to pray.
I must have hit the elevator button seven times in the four-story ride. I bounded through my apartment to my roommate’s bedroom, even today I’m not sure if I was providing a warning or seeking advice.
Another incoherent stream bust forth.
“Man, I don’t know… Ernie… hooker… group rate… I don’t know. They’re coming, I can’t stop it…”
Calmer than I had ever seen him, my normally high-strung roommate slowly woke and turned over. Without a question or a heightened tone he told me to back out of his room and close his door. I obediently did so, I guess I was highly suggestive at that time.
As I came back out into the living room, Ernie was entering through the front door. My heart stopped as I prepared myself for HER to follow, bringing all of the Pandora’s Box kind of consequences that that questionable boxes seem to hold. Oh man, oh man, I was actually thinking of something charming to say, like in a twisted version of our barroom duo routine.
“Hi, I’m Patrick, but you can call me John.” Oh boy, this was going to suck.
As blood flow quickly returned to my brain I realized that Ernie was alone. His head hung a little bit lower than usual, especially for this point of the evening, and he was massaging his jaw the way guys in the movies do when they get socked in the mouth. He was alone, thank God, he was alone.
Oh man, what did he do now, order some kind of orgy combo deal?
“No, she hit me.”
“’You’re going the wrong way,’ you get away with, what could you have possibly said to get hit?”
As it turns out, it wasn’t so much what Ernie said that killed the mood and broke the deal. Well actually, it was exactly what he said.
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘Can we get a deal for the two of us?’”
I can picture it to this day, even though I was never actually there to see it, the words being delivered from his confident grin. I can see her sultry bedroom eyes rising slightly at the realization of what he’s proposing.
“What do you mean, a deal?”
“You know, how much will it cost?”
That was about when she cranked him in the chin.
As it turns out, she was not a professional, apparently just open to suggestion.
As we both learned, girls can be offended by sleazy propositions even if they’re not offended by sleazy propositions. Far less important to a woman than what is proposed to her is what is supposed about her. The sleazy parts are imposed later.
It should be mentioned in epilogue that while I’ve merely grown older, Ernie has grown up. He is a hero everyday to his daughter, to his wife, and to the people he protects who probably rarely say ‘thank you’ and couldn’t say it enough.
The amoral of the story as close as I can figure: Be careful what you wish for…
You just might get some.
Keep it real, Ernie.
Hughes.
The Bee Gees Lied
As social animals we herd in very strange fashion on hallowed ceremonial floors. As genders we each have our own peculiarities that emerge as we mingle and promote ourselves. Though the lengths women can tend to go in this self-promotion can be vexing, I believe the guys out there trying to entice and attract while they squirm and shudder have the ladies beat. When The Bee Gees sang “You Should Be Dancing” I don’t think they had any male Night Fever in mind. You DON’T know how to do it.
Have you ever really watched men dance? It’s kind of hypnotizing, like a car wreck that keeps happening with an attempt at rhythmic repetition, and looks about as natural as if the cars were battleships or pickle jars. There are about as many heterosexual men capable of dancing, as there are White Christmases in Vancouver and doctors with good penmanship. The saddest and baddest thing to behold, as they flail and kick, and thrust their thumbs and elbows about randomly, is that they’ve convinced themselves of the impossible. They’ve somehow overtaken both instinct and reason, and ventured into a realm they should dare not tread. In their blindly ambitious attempt to trot with the foxes they’ve convinced themselves that they have a strut worthy of glorious plumage and that they have moves that can entice and enrapture. The truth about this ritual is that guys tend not to attract the ladies with their dancing but more often in spite of it.
Men dance for the very reason they dress, exercise, study, toil, demonstrate, feed, flee, fight, and 4nicate; to pursue. There’s always a very simple and primal goal, and rarely an interest in the experience itself. If there’s no hunt, there’s usually no interest. It is that splice of focus, between posture and pounce, wherein guys find their heavy feet. Men appreciate the destination not the journey, the food and not the cooking, the sex and not the foreplay… or the post-destination cuddling. Simplicity can be a virtue but men are single-minded to a fault. For the purposes of this essay and consistent joke-making let’s assume, unless otherwise stated, the ‘men’ I’m referring to are hetero-dance-incapable. I’ll get to you other jokers later.
Women seem to have an inherent ability to dance well. Some are certainly better than others, but very few lack the basic skills. Anthropologically it makes sense; girls are essentially designed to dance. Much of their lives are spent dancing; on the dance floor, walking down the street, in the supermarket, walking down the office hallway, they are dancing all the time, regardless of who it is for or what the end is to their means. By dancing of course I mean presenting, and in the wild it is the woman’s part of the primal courtship to present and it is the guy’s job, or whomever the recipient of the presentation might be, to pursue.
PC Notice: Girls, please do not be offended by the above. It is not my intention to objectify your equal partnership in modern society or your virtues during your immaculate interpretation of the rhythm… as it gets you.
As men misguidedly find their identities amidst the beat, the boom, and the babes, one of three distinct types of male dancers, or mancers emerges. The first type of mancer is The Mancer out of Water. This poor soul knows he doesn’t belong but tries to dance to be accepted in the herd or to a perspective mate as his means to his end. By ‘an end’ let me be clear that only one thing can generally force this first mancer on to the dreaded floor; the possibility of sex. This mancer is a fish, and the dance floor is sadly the sandy shore. A part of me always suspects that unsympathetic girls enjoy watching this fish flop around. The Mancer out of Water is the most forgivable because frankly as a gender men do far worse in their quest for the end he seeks. He tends to be the one that eventually sees a distant mirror and then inevitably the error of his ways.
The second mancer is The Mechanical Automaton. This tends to be the most docile of these creatures, as he believes he is in his element, content that he is succeeding in his pursuit, and therefore least likely to do something hazardous like a cornered animal, which the earlier mancer has been known to become in extreme bar-closing-hour situations. At some point on this man’s travels through life someone has imparted to him that his one dance move works. It works for any song and any given forum, this dance is all he’ll ever need and he staunchly subscribes to its effectiveness. This mancer’s dance is more or less harmless, nothing innovative or offensive; it’s simply a couple of shimmies to the left, then two to the right, and repeat. We’ve all seen this guy swaying around mindlessly. The feet move slightly within a tiny radius but sometimes not at all. His arms sway back and forth like he is landing a small plane or holding a bull-fighting cape. We’ve all wondered at what point in the eighties he learned that move, and how it has worked for him in the years since Solid Gold has left the air. We watch him fall out of beat momentarily, stumble helplessly, and find his version of the beat again. Occasionally we see him try a new combination, kick his feet out a new way, and see a feeling of accomplishment as he returns to his pendulum. The main point that distinguishes this beast from the previous is that he wants to be out there and his presence, no matter how painful or ridiculous, encourages more misguided mancers to try their luck. The majority of mancers are found in this group, and frankly it’s the safest. One, two… one, two… feet together, feet apart… keep the two beats going boys!
The final category of mancer is the deadliest. This is the foolish breed of man that thinks he’s got the dance floor conquered. He is known simply as Lord of the Mance. His moves and his gestures have a width and breadth that matches his ego. He spins, prances and cavorts with no regard for those around him or the standing of his gender as a whole. This reject from the Chippendale’s training program has convinced himself that not only can he survive where most men dare not tread, tango, and shuffle, but that he enriches the experience for the unfortunate soul targeted as his prey. It’s not his moves or sway that is necessarily distinctive, but his bravado. He truly believes he’s got it figured out, and can at times achieve success with the prey that responds to that form of brazen machismo, but does something damaging to the vessels of music and dance every time he puts foot to floor, cheek to cheek, crotch to crotch, and grind to the grindstone.
On the other side of the coin, which is an ironically appropriate introduction for the following, we have the gay sector male dancing population. Gay men can dance, at least at a far more notable percentage than the other side of the gender, and I have my suspicions as to why. Take away all the traditional homosexual notions of femininity, gracefulness, and fashion sense and you’re left with a far different presentation-pursuit dynamic. There’s mystery and fear as they prepare to pounce and persuade, but it is not the kind of unknown confronting ‘XY’ in the face of ‘XX’, with the intention of XXX. Though there is presentation and prey in this dynamic, ones understanding of the other changes the movement of the ritual from something that resembles intimidation and punishment to more of a partnership. After all, it’s understandably easier to tango as two that change in the same locker room and coordinate as well as appreciate the others dancing shoes.
There have been approximately five men in the history of the gender that could and should, as the Bee Gees said, have been dancing. Two of them are Michael Jackson, one is that Michael Flatly guy, and the rest are subject of myth and speculation. I realize I am expected to include such notables as Estaire, Travolta, and Swayze, but being that their boogey occurred in Movieland I’m inclined to disregard them for fear of contamination from possible computer and editing enhancement. Frankly, that lifting the girl over the head thing at the end of Dirty Dancing always seemed a little bit fishy to me. Furthermore, Jackson and Flatly are hardly two Michaels that we should be setting as role models. I realize also that some will find it notable that I’ve overlooked the nomination of stage dancers and Swan Lakers that deserve a mention. I do believe that ballet dancers and stage performers of all genres have achieved something admirable but they are doing so in a highly disciplined and choreographed performance and therefore not truly getting down. We must consider what has driven these stage mancers into the careers they have chosen. If they have the same gray in their skulls and red in their veins they are doing what they do to perform for and attract the women before them and therefore are back down at the same level of motivation as the rest of us. I move that we dismiss the notion of any precedent set of admirable male dancing and move on to the cathartic pleasure of putting this thumb-jiving, Macarena-madness behind us.
For every law there is a loophole, for every rule there is an exception, and out there somewhere are men who can be excused for giving dance a chance. In its purest form dance is an honest physical expression. When it manifests itself outside of a nightclub, far from the influence of the pursuit, the alcohol, and a top-forty-techno musical bludgeoning, it can be quite a beautiful, spontaneous thing. There are also times when it can be a rite of monumental significance and splendor. No one in any way, even through the persuasion of my inspired ranting, should ever stop a child from dancing. A child taking advantage of his or her inalienable right to let loose and be ridiculous is feeding a natural human energy that keeps our collective spirit breathing. Any movement built on joy and free of pretense is beyond valuable. By the same token, how can a measurable value ever be attributed to the way an indigenous community welcomes an adolescent into adulthood or the way a father says goodbye to his daughter on her wedding day. Dancing is a gift given to a human race capable of creativity and boundless expression. I have no problem with this gift when it is used as it was intended. I have an issue with this gift when it pokes away at the air around it, wears too much cologne, and offends four or five other gifts in its expression… this leads to euphemism and far too infrequently, euthanasia. If everyone comes to understand that dancing is intended to be a celebration and not a sales pitch, dance floors can again become the terrain of those capable of cutting a rug and not those who deserve to have that rug pulled out from under their two left feet.
I don’t intend for all of the blame for this evolving devolution of the male gender to rest totally on the shoulders of the Brothers Gibb and their colleagues. Musical expression is one of humanity’s finest pursuits, and certainly they can’t be blamed for the way innocent musings such as “You should be dancing” and their many successors have been received. All the Jive Talking aside, as men we have to accept our weaknesses while we revel in our strengths, and while we can’t dance we can all take comfort in the knowledge that we will always be better at killing spiders and barbeque.
One, two… one, two… no time to talk.
Patrick Hughes
Have you ever really watched men dance? It’s kind of hypnotizing, like a car wreck that keeps happening with an attempt at rhythmic repetition, and looks about as natural as if the cars were battleships or pickle jars. There are about as many heterosexual men capable of dancing, as there are White Christmases in Vancouver and doctors with good penmanship. The saddest and baddest thing to behold, as they flail and kick, and thrust their thumbs and elbows about randomly, is that they’ve convinced themselves of the impossible. They’ve somehow overtaken both instinct and reason, and ventured into a realm they should dare not tread. In their blindly ambitious attempt to trot with the foxes they’ve convinced themselves that they have a strut worthy of glorious plumage and that they have moves that can entice and enrapture. The truth about this ritual is that guys tend not to attract the ladies with their dancing but more often in spite of it.
Men dance for the very reason they dress, exercise, study, toil, demonstrate, feed, flee, fight, and 4nicate; to pursue. There’s always a very simple and primal goal, and rarely an interest in the experience itself. If there’s no hunt, there’s usually no interest. It is that splice of focus, between posture and pounce, wherein guys find their heavy feet. Men appreciate the destination not the journey, the food and not the cooking, the sex and not the foreplay… or the post-destination cuddling. Simplicity can be a virtue but men are single-minded to a fault. For the purposes of this essay and consistent joke-making let’s assume, unless otherwise stated, the ‘men’ I’m referring to are hetero-dance-incapable. I’ll get to you other jokers later.
Women seem to have an inherent ability to dance well. Some are certainly better than others, but very few lack the basic skills. Anthropologically it makes sense; girls are essentially designed to dance. Much of their lives are spent dancing; on the dance floor, walking down the street, in the supermarket, walking down the office hallway, they are dancing all the time, regardless of who it is for or what the end is to their means. By dancing of course I mean presenting, and in the wild it is the woman’s part of the primal courtship to present and it is the guy’s job, or whomever the recipient of the presentation might be, to pursue.
PC Notice: Girls, please do not be offended by the above. It is not my intention to objectify your equal partnership in modern society or your virtues during your immaculate interpretation of the rhythm… as it gets you.
As men misguidedly find their identities amidst the beat, the boom, and the babes, one of three distinct types of male dancers, or mancers emerges. The first type of mancer is The Mancer out of Water. This poor soul knows he doesn’t belong but tries to dance to be accepted in the herd or to a perspective mate as his means to his end. By ‘an end’ let me be clear that only one thing can generally force this first mancer on to the dreaded floor; the possibility of sex. This mancer is a fish, and the dance floor is sadly the sandy shore. A part of me always suspects that unsympathetic girls enjoy watching this fish flop around. The Mancer out of Water is the most forgivable because frankly as a gender men do far worse in their quest for the end he seeks. He tends to be the one that eventually sees a distant mirror and then inevitably the error of his ways.
The second mancer is The Mechanical Automaton. This tends to be the most docile of these creatures, as he believes he is in his element, content that he is succeeding in his pursuit, and therefore least likely to do something hazardous like a cornered animal, which the earlier mancer has been known to become in extreme bar-closing-hour situations. At some point on this man’s travels through life someone has imparted to him that his one dance move works. It works for any song and any given forum, this dance is all he’ll ever need and he staunchly subscribes to its effectiveness. This mancer’s dance is more or less harmless, nothing innovative or offensive; it’s simply a couple of shimmies to the left, then two to the right, and repeat. We’ve all seen this guy swaying around mindlessly. The feet move slightly within a tiny radius but sometimes not at all. His arms sway back and forth like he is landing a small plane or holding a bull-fighting cape. We’ve all wondered at what point in the eighties he learned that move, and how it has worked for him in the years since Solid Gold has left the air. We watch him fall out of beat momentarily, stumble helplessly, and find his version of the beat again. Occasionally we see him try a new combination, kick his feet out a new way, and see a feeling of accomplishment as he returns to his pendulum. The main point that distinguishes this beast from the previous is that he wants to be out there and his presence, no matter how painful or ridiculous, encourages more misguided mancers to try their luck. The majority of mancers are found in this group, and frankly it’s the safest. One, two… one, two… feet together, feet apart… keep the two beats going boys!
The final category of mancer is the deadliest. This is the foolish breed of man that thinks he’s got the dance floor conquered. He is known simply as Lord of the Mance. His moves and his gestures have a width and breadth that matches his ego. He spins, prances and cavorts with no regard for those around him or the standing of his gender as a whole. This reject from the Chippendale’s training program has convinced himself that not only can he survive where most men dare not tread, tango, and shuffle, but that he enriches the experience for the unfortunate soul targeted as his prey. It’s not his moves or sway that is necessarily distinctive, but his bravado. He truly believes he’s got it figured out, and can at times achieve success with the prey that responds to that form of brazen machismo, but does something damaging to the vessels of music and dance every time he puts foot to floor, cheek to cheek, crotch to crotch, and grind to the grindstone.
On the other side of the coin, which is an ironically appropriate introduction for the following, we have the gay sector male dancing population. Gay men can dance, at least at a far more notable percentage than the other side of the gender, and I have my suspicions as to why. Take away all the traditional homosexual notions of femininity, gracefulness, and fashion sense and you’re left with a far different presentation-pursuit dynamic. There’s mystery and fear as they prepare to pounce and persuade, but it is not the kind of unknown confronting ‘XY’ in the face of ‘XX’, with the intention of XXX. Though there is presentation and prey in this dynamic, ones understanding of the other changes the movement of the ritual from something that resembles intimidation and punishment to more of a partnership. After all, it’s understandably easier to tango as two that change in the same locker room and coordinate as well as appreciate the others dancing shoes.
There have been approximately five men in the history of the gender that could and should, as the Bee Gees said, have been dancing. Two of them are Michael Jackson, one is that Michael Flatly guy, and the rest are subject of myth and speculation. I realize I am expected to include such notables as Estaire, Travolta, and Swayze, but being that their boogey occurred in Movieland I’m inclined to disregard them for fear of contamination from possible computer and editing enhancement. Frankly, that lifting the girl over the head thing at the end of Dirty Dancing always seemed a little bit fishy to me. Furthermore, Jackson and Flatly are hardly two Michaels that we should be setting as role models. I realize also that some will find it notable that I’ve overlooked the nomination of stage dancers and Swan Lakers that deserve a mention. I do believe that ballet dancers and stage performers of all genres have achieved something admirable but they are doing so in a highly disciplined and choreographed performance and therefore not truly getting down. We must consider what has driven these stage mancers into the careers they have chosen. If they have the same gray in their skulls and red in their veins they are doing what they do to perform for and attract the women before them and therefore are back down at the same level of motivation as the rest of us. I move that we dismiss the notion of any precedent set of admirable male dancing and move on to the cathartic pleasure of putting this thumb-jiving, Macarena-madness behind us.
For every law there is a loophole, for every rule there is an exception, and out there somewhere are men who can be excused for giving dance a chance. In its purest form dance is an honest physical expression. When it manifests itself outside of a nightclub, far from the influence of the pursuit, the alcohol, and a top-forty-techno musical bludgeoning, it can be quite a beautiful, spontaneous thing. There are also times when it can be a rite of monumental significance and splendor. No one in any way, even through the persuasion of my inspired ranting, should ever stop a child from dancing. A child taking advantage of his or her inalienable right to let loose and be ridiculous is feeding a natural human energy that keeps our collective spirit breathing. Any movement built on joy and free of pretense is beyond valuable. By the same token, how can a measurable value ever be attributed to the way an indigenous community welcomes an adolescent into adulthood or the way a father says goodbye to his daughter on her wedding day. Dancing is a gift given to a human race capable of creativity and boundless expression. I have no problem with this gift when it is used as it was intended. I have an issue with this gift when it pokes away at the air around it, wears too much cologne, and offends four or five other gifts in its expression… this leads to euphemism and far too infrequently, euthanasia. If everyone comes to understand that dancing is intended to be a celebration and not a sales pitch, dance floors can again become the terrain of those capable of cutting a rug and not those who deserve to have that rug pulled out from under their two left feet.
I don’t intend for all of the blame for this evolving devolution of the male gender to rest totally on the shoulders of the Brothers Gibb and their colleagues. Musical expression is one of humanity’s finest pursuits, and certainly they can’t be blamed for the way innocent musings such as “You should be dancing” and their many successors have been received. All the Jive Talking aside, as men we have to accept our weaknesses while we revel in our strengths, and while we can’t dance we can all take comfort in the knowledge that we will always be better at killing spiders and barbeque.
One, two… one, two… no time to talk.
Patrick Hughes
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