My name has been stolen. Or at least my sites name has. Japanese cyber squatters made off with it while I was planeward bound to the tropics. This is why I don’t leave the country. The individual pieces remain, but feel somehow disconnected and unclaimed. The memories of a man erased. On a technical level my links are busted and google has forsaken me, but more troubling is this sense of a dispersed locus of being; an idea that somewhere in the heuristic tangle of bad punctuation, prose, angst and running jokes a vestigial personhood had formed and been lost. Damn.

I translated the front page of the new Beatsentropy [1], it felt very much like google stalking an ex’s new boyfriend. It appears to be an employment scam for aspiring Japanese sex workers. Or perhaps I’m being unfair and it’s a genuine recruitment center, I’d feel better about that.

An Exceprt

“Miss sex work

Speaking of high-paid jobs, sex is the best.
However, many of the girls’ work in sex is disgusting! “I think that.
So, what’s bad manners because of work.

“Nantes sex but not a boyfriend can” “do not want to touch a stranger!” I think that many people think.

Such feelings can certainly understand that, if you’re really looking for high-income part, this is not the better part.

For example, my friend has sex with Miss Gotanda.
And $ 10,000 in revenue each month in the city of Gotanda.
In the same college may be very bright child.
Gotanda is a city child is

Though I appreciate the absurdity and beat poetry cadence of my usurper I can’t help but feel wronged by Miss Gotanda’s hunger. While arguably classier than many of our posts, it lacks the wit and profundity of our profanity. And why the hell is a Japanese company stealing such an esoteric English phrase for their name? I shudder to imagine the context that Beats Entropy has been hamfistedly translated into. Jerks. I guess I’ll have to think up a new name.

[1] I haven’t felt so bad since that time I discovered my arch rival A.J. Valliant, the albino Irish soul singer. Though, maybe, in this time of deepest woe, we can mourn together. Take it creepy AJ

That said, no matter the company, once the point has been made the conversation becomes halting. You can either retreat into silence, or, broaden the discussion. We here at Beatsentropy have decided to do the latter and then some, returning to the collective spirit that spawned it while letting the content grow up with us. The exact nature of this is still a matter of caprice and negotiation, but I dig where our heads are at.

At some point clarity lost its legitimacy to subtlety, and ironic disaffection and apathy became the cultural currency of the hip. Never having been hip, or subtle, it is hard to say when which gave way to what (which actually is hard to say), but the end result was irony becoming the key social moderator. About the same time reading became not so popular, which is a bit of problem when your locus of cool is a fairly slippery esoteric concept. What are the retro clad and bearded masses to do?

In an effort to keep the smug barista and spoken word poetry industry from grinding to a halt Beats Entropy is going to drop a little knowledge.

Let us define our terms:

Irony= when the result of an action is contrary to the desired or expected effect or contrary to some intrinsic quality (real or inferred).

Things entirely devoid of irony

It gets dark at night

Surrender is a word of French extraction.

Ugly people are often sad

Now I could get all fancy and suss out all the gradations of irony through a series of complex logical syllogisms, but we both know that sort of academic hokum proves nothing. The only legitimate method of exploring such a topic is a peer reviewed, toast backed, scale from 1-20. Let’s get down to business.

Beats Entropy Irony Scale:

0. Toast being delicious

1. A pony eating a pumpkin [1]

2. Rain on your wedding day [2]

3. Accidentally shooting your self with the shotgun you were cleaning during your daily suicide readiness check.

4. My three failed attempts at spelling wedding (weding/weeding/weedding) in a sanctimonious piece about correct language use.

5. A pedophile accidentally molesting a very small adult

6. Fire ants freezing to death

7. It is more difficult to get into an accredited Carny school that it is Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. [3]

8. Vegan fists fights [4]

9. Getting dumped by a heart surgeon/getting treated well by a proctologist

10.  A lifeguard drowning [5]

11. Every line in John Lennon’s Imagine is painfully on the nose

12.  My He-man figure Stinkor smelled quite pleasantly of new plastic and gasoline, while my Mossman smelled like a nutsack with an infected tooth. [6]

13. Getting your arm stuck in vending machine and starving to death

14. French toast somehow being more delicious than regular toast (7)

15. Mocking birds are surprisingly understanding and excellent listeners (8)

16.  Being in such a hurry to attend a pro-life rally you forget to take the coat hanger out your pants. (9)

17.  To punish us for being evil god crucifies his only begotten son.  [10]

18. Accidentally shooting yourself with the flower garlanded shotgun you were brandishing to ensure the safety of your suicide prevention parade float.

19. A very small adult molesting a pedophile

20.  A rollercoaster pinning you down and just screaming the day away

***

1.+8 if the witless half- horse has coincidentally stumbled upon a jack’o lantern with a tableau of pumpkins eating ponies carved into the front of it.

2. Moderated if one happens to be marrying a sun god (barring recent divorce from more powerful rain god).

3. It takes over 5000 tickets, two amber alerts, and one verifiable deformity to get in.

4. Part the uncharacteristic aggression the act implies, part the implausibility of two vegans having the strength to stand upright for that long.

5. +3 if the lifeguard was on dry land. +2 if they were running or engaged in horseplay.

6. I also lost all of the detachable pieces of my Modulok figure, leaving me the rough narrative task of trying to insert its limbless torso and head into villainous playtime roles. He eventually became Skeletor’s beloved disabled brother who was mangled in a head on car crash with a drunken teenage Prince Adam. Hmmm..all of that is actually more ironic than the entry to which this is a footnote…meh, I stand by it.

7. Though I suspect it is its shameful defeat at the hands of butter and eggs that facilitates this.

8. Killdeers, howerever, are implacable foes of all split hoofed mammals.

9. The gender, fecundity, and velocity with which said person might apply pants is subject to reader implication.

10- This is akin to punishing someone for stealing your wallet by kicking in your big screen TV. That’ll show him!

***

OTHER ASSESSMENT SCALES

Shame

Ignominious Death

Creepy

Disappointment

Pettiness

Inappropriate comment

Legacy

It is with this mind I present you: Logically unsupportable beliefs I have…and stand by.

Let’s get down to business.

The Claim: Coffee keeps milk from spoiling

Details: I often leave half full cups of cream laden coffee on my filing cabinet at work. For days at a time. Then I drink them. When questioned on the advisability of this, from a spoilage standpoint, I assert that once mixed with coffee milk will not spoil.

Supporting Rational: I suspect the heat and caffeine of coffee Hortonizes the milk to such an extent that any bacteria present becomes wired and agitated past the point of cooperation. Sure some of them want to hold hands and make poison but they can’t stop talking about this record store they’ve always wanted to start up downtown near the hipster district where their ex works across from the vintage clothing store that she used to buy scarves at where they always played prog rock and shit the court of the crimson king was a good song.  I’m pretty sure my immune system is up for the challenge.

Reasons it might not be true: I’ve gotten pretty sick a few times from drinking old coffee; once so bad I shat in a garbage can while throwing up in a toilet. I might have even cried a little.

Conclusion: I believe that in the few cases where I did get sick it was the cold temperature of coffee that dangerously lowered my core temperate, leaving me vulnerable to outside contagion. If anything it was the nutrition in the sanctified milk that kept me alive.

Next: The Claim: Men with weak chins are untrustable

Direction

Humility is more important than judgement. Stumble, fail with purpose, fight hopeless battles just to take the loss, but learn from it and don’t repeat the same poor choice hoping for a better outcome. If you keep doubling down on a busted hand the investment becomes so high the only out is to buy losing as winning. Be brave, be stupid, but keep moving forward.

Identity

Everyone Knows who you are but you. You have to guess. You have to lie and suggest and invent from moment to moment under constant threat of interpretation. We frame beauty, we fix it in a place and shape that makes us most significant. And kid, as beautiful as you are the world is going to break its back to make you fit into the smallest of things. Keep Guessing.

Love

Love is cruel but never mean.

It should leave big clean wounds not petty little cuts that bleed unminded. And If it often feels too big it should never leave us feeling small. We are giants trying to hold the moon, more than we can  bear, but leaving us in awe that we could have ever put our arms around it. Don’t settle.

Last night I reached and turned in a clockwise search for the borders of our bed, where soft skin and cold feet set the limit to my sprawl. But there was none, no limit and no center, so I spun and wondered at the space. The time it took to sleep and the rise of unfamiliar springs against my back; how light she must have been.

( BOOK I OF THE BRISTLES SAGA CAN BE FOUND–>HERE)

There were men more dangerous than Danny, heavy customers with flat eyes and the twitching hands of the habitually violent. One such man stood immediately behind him.

Still, there was something in the way he flinched and deferred that spoke of a brittle thing broken sharp enough to cut if mishandled. Danny stroked that edge as best he could and tried for menace.

“Could you please read this?”

Danny pushed a folded, glue stained, piece of paper towards the bank teller. The woman glanced at Danny’s note and slid it back to him.

“Sir, during peak hours this counter is strictly for deposits and withdrawals only. If you have any account inquires that require documentation to be reviewed you will have queue at the customer service window”

Danny slid the paper back towards her and tried to look hard

“Look, if you will just read the note this is essentially a withdrawal, so I’d appreciate it…”

The Teller (Ruth, if her name tag could be trusted) waived away the rest of his explanation and pushed a slotted device towards him.

“Please swipe your card, sir”

Danny reached reflexively for his bank card. Small sharp teeth tore into his stomach in disgust. Danny returned from his pocket empty handed and gasping.

“What, no. I don’t have one”

The teller managed to roll one eye and glare impatiently with the other.

“If you need your card replaced you will need to queue in the service line”

A small voice hissed from Danny’s jacket

“Quit slow dancing and drop a digit already”

Danny punched his jacket. Twice.  The teller’s rolling eye was now twitching with such contempt Danny assumed some profane semaphore was being sent in his direction. He forced bass into his voice and tried to speak slowly.

“Look, this is a robbery…attempt.”

The teller considered the threat.

“Where is your gun?”

Danny belatedly stuck his hand into his coat pocket where a wire threaded baked potato with a watch wrapped around it lay. Things were going poorly.

“Ï don’t have…I mean, fuck it’s all in the note”

Danny pushed the note back towards her and squeezed the potato to encourage compliance. The teller sighed.

“I really don’t have time for this, sir”

Danny bared his teeth and tried to say something tough.

“Look bitch, I’m hard like math and cold as the desert…at night! So read the fucking note”

The teller shook open the note and browsed the first section.

“It says here you have an Explosive bomb. May I see it?”

Danny blinked.

“Ahaaa, is that really necessary?“

“Sir, while clearly this is yours, I assure you this is not my first robbery. So provide some proof of armament or kindly be about your day.”

“This is bullshit. Don’t you guys have some sort loss prevention policy?”

“It’s under review. The weapon.”

Danny scrambled for something plausible.

“Uh, I have a knife.”

“This isn’t Westside story, Sir. Either produces a firearm or a credible explosive device or go frolic with the rest of the Jets.”

“This is fucking unprofessional…you could be costing all these peoples their lives”

Danny whipped out his potato and waved it angrily about.

“And you are costing all of them their Time, sir.”

The crowd grumbled in affirmative. The unquestionably dangerous man behind Danny leaned heavily over him. His breath smelled of motor oil and consequences.

“Pack it in, sunshine. I got business”

To buffer his point the thug pulled back his coat far enough to display an immense chrome plated revolver to all in attendance. The Teller smiled smugly at Danny and readied her large bills for a proper robbery. Danny stormed out of the bank.

***

I rarely go out. The dictates of my gym job and domestic inertia keep me in a fairly tight home-work orbit. This Halloween, however, I grew a fine old-timey moustache for my Turn of the century Irish Strike Breaker costume and felt the need to show it off in unfamiliar confines. My buddy Ben suggested crashing a stranger’s house party, I obliged.

The first half of the night was pleasantly unremarkable.

Introduction.

Keg.

Banter.

Repeat.

The conversations were light, bouncy, and forgettable. Until I met Chris(1); a young man enjoying a brief island of freedom between recent and forthcoming incarcerations.  I learned of his legal woes in a fast moving five minute chat that began as workout advice, transitioned into recounting of his troubled youth, and culminated in the revelation that he was soon to return to the joint for continued indiscretions.

A better (or less lubricated) person would have taken that moment to bid him good luck and started up a less challenging conversation with the stocky lass in a cruelly unaware Strawberry Shortcake costume. But I was drinking. And I like to give advice. So I confided in him a largely fabricated criminal past and proceeded to advise him on how to survive in prison…which in the moment I felt wholly qualified to do.

It went as such.

My five point plan for thriving in prison, which I dispensed like a father whose son was matriculating into college.

1. Find the sweet spot between enough pushups to remain imposingly buff, but not so many you will be too fatigued to defend yourself.

I even worked out a training schedule to ensure maximum progress. While complete nonsense this was the one area I have any sort legitimacy within.

2. Even if you don’t have a knife, spread a rumour that you have a knife, it will keep you safe. Because people are afraid of knives. Hmmm.

3. Become a Muslim: people think they are dangerous. That was the entirety of my advice. Even the soon to be reincarcerted young man thought this was xenophobic and without nuance.

4. Learn to sing, because there is no music in jail and they will respect you for it. This assertion remained curiously unchallenged. I assume the crowd was either cowed by my wildly implausible criminal background or had simply written me off as an amusing buffoon.

5. If you get into any serious trouble, mention my name, because I’m known on the inside. That’s right, at this point in evening I had gone from a run of the mill small town thug to a career criminal of such renown that the mere mention of my name could quell a riot or stem a rape. Probably a little irresponsible on my part.

Other random claims I made about myself over the course of the evening.

Step to me and get punched in the neck…

Which acted as something of catch phrase/personal motto throughout the conversation. A slogan I adopted after claiming I punched my old probation officer Lewis in the neck…I assume for stepping to me at some point. I repeated this often enough that by the end of the conversation I could just say the “because when you step to me” part and the rest of the kitchen would chime in “you get punched in the neck” like an inebriated Greek chorus.

I used to be 6’5 but I fell down some stairs when I was eleven.

I refused to elaborate or clarify the statement in any way, but I told four people this. Upon deconstructing the claim the next morning I realized the unspoken explanation involved damaged growth plates and a degree of time travel paradox.

I had been fired from three jobs to refusing to adhere to daylight savings time.

While a complete lie, this sort of quixotic morale stance genuinely resonates with me, and I do hate daylight savings time, so I feel that some essential truth was served by the deception.

[1] Name changed out of basic courtesy. As to the exact nature of his crimes, I‘d rather not say. Though it was a strange, drunken, ill advised confidence…it was still a confidence.  And this is a tale of my failings more than his. Let’s just call it a non-isolated incident of moderate thuggery and leave it at that.

I watched this thing on ADD. It’s long, and irrelevant for most, but it shook me.

There is this resistance to being given a determinist explanation for such an essential part of my nature; to have a material cause for being in a sustained transient state; to go from ephemerally detached to simply broken.

There is a protection in the damage that unravels as you repair it. There was this haze that left moments separate and weightless; that uncoupled failure from consequence and lent just enough buoyancy to drift. As that haze dispels a sense of weight and connection has sunk in, and I begin to realize I’ve spent my life crawling. It is, I can only assume, what responsibility feels like to other people.

Initially, when she told me she was paying an arborist 700$ to kill my baby, I said I supported her decision but that it seemed a little pricey. When she explained she was cutting down my tree I was heartbroken.  Its unkempt sprawl and towering virility were proof of my own. I made the smallest part of my case.

“Where will I hang my hammock?” I asked.

“String it up between your wasted youth and failings as a lover” she said.

And then were will your Harpy friends perch? I thought, but didn’t say.

“And what of the shade? A good three blocks know the joy of endless night thanks to our Norway Maple.“ I said.

“I have rickets, A.J….and I’m tired of you diving between my legs to avoid talking about doing your taxes. The Tree is coming down.”

And so it is: A flawed but favoured son will my die on my watch.

In memory I present this photo retrospective

Where have you been?

Who are you now?

Show me the thread hasn’t broken.

Move me.

It’s worse with time. Your voice feels borrowed. My voice feels borrowed. There is no weight to the prose, no continuity. There is this sense of standing on another’s covered ground. Of needing to apologize. Of having inches to offer some proof of self or be emptied into the margins. You can’t get ahead of that game.

The trick is to accept the loss. You can’t fill a page or find a voice.  So divest, be empty, and say anything. It’s just a conversation.

I used to be pretty good at this. Writing, that is. The ability has atrophied a little these past few months. It’s not just that I’ve barely written or read; I’ve barely thought. I have been so immersed in the physical being of others and my own, whole levels of processing have fallen into disuse. I told a dude at the mall that a calliope was a word that sounded like its meaning…which I suppose it is, but not in the definitional sense he was looking for. A subtle error, but the sort of semantic minutia I used to excel at.

I have this theory: you can only spend a certain amount of aptitude at once. It’s not so much a function of time as it is karmic allotment. You don’t get to be good at everything. There is this tacit agreement between brain and the superficial body that the interest of one will be served before the other. My brain has taken the dozen or so hours of intense working out a week as a clear sign its services are no longer needed. Sadly I now lack the wit to convince it otherwise.

In the past three months I’ve gone from moderately fit to conspicuously buff. There is this place between a six and eight pack where your physicality becomes this aberrant social marker: people assume you’ve either just finished a long bid in prison, are sublimating hidden rage, or work in the sort of job reserved for gym class standouts/high school dropouts. You become this enviable, if marginal, species that couldn’t possibly be of consequence. And dear lord is it seductive: that peculiar mix of unearned worth and low expectation. To have clearly realized some small potential; it’s the sort of thing one could happily live down to.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Long has this weighed heavy on my heart, thus I present this unlevening, this calling to account -The Beats Entropy: Great Unpunished Monsters of my Childhood.

Dr. Bunson Honeydue

The Criminal

Though eyeless, Bunson was blind only to the suffering and dignity of others; he could see but never feel. A profane amalgam of Bill Nye and Joseph Mengele, Dr. Honeydue was a vaudevillian tormentor operating under the auspice of scientific advancement.

Though a talented multidisciplinary inventor, Bunson’s true calling was that of performance sadism: a perverse mix of mechanical display, social experimentation, and open torture. His artistic milieu generally involved a public mutilation of his terrified lab assistant via some contrived, if chillingly advanced, experiment he created. These terrifying displays of profound genius put to mean purpose were deeply unsettling; like watching some B-grade Benjamin Franklin produce community snuff theatre.

The Crimes

For those who have the stomach.

There are a couple of musical interludes in there you can ignore, but the bulk of it should put weight to the enormity of the Doctor’s crimes.

The Victim

The functionally mute ward of Dr. Bunson Honeydue, Beaker St. Croix was the consummate victim. Unheralded, abused by nature and situation he was voiceless in every sense. Denied eloquence or advocate he was tortured weekly for our amusement without the means for denunciation.       

All he could say was “Meeep” but what he was trying to say was “Help Meeee…p…uhlease!”. His silence was agony, but it was ours that bore the greatest shame.

How did they get away with it?

Let us put aside for a moment the obvious lack of instructional control that comes with placing any frog in charge of a major enterprise, Kermit in particular lacked the temperament and management background to handle such a motley assemblage. I like to think that it was simply the chaos of exploding fish, cross species fornication, and abusive porcine girlfriends that allowed Honeydue’s atrocities to take place unfettered…but I suspect the revenue the dark spectacle produced for a struggling theatre may have played some role in Mr.TheFrog’s (I hope) passive enabling.

What does this teach us?

If you wish to be excused brutality make a gift of it. Damn your audience with inclusiveness; smile and forget that dark things can often bear the light. Compromise is about consensus and spin, and in the absence of empathy there is no suffering.

Next: Moose Mason: savagery in the heartland.

No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.

Mary Wollstonecraft

I recently received a submission response [1] from an established Sci-Fi/ Fantasy publisher. It was a reach, but I was hoping more for constructive feedback than I was expecting publication.

A paraphrased excerpt from said response:

The term: Hasidic shit farming Wop was used quite early in the story; this took me out of it. In total you used the word fuck, or some derivative, 51 times in 32 pages: when you factor this with the numerous other profane words and terms, some of which appear to have been created  whole cloth for the story, it stretches the boundaries of realistic speech.

I enjoyed much of the story but the profanity was so excessive and the tone so base it continually jarred me from the narrative. You need to consider your readers (and potential publishers) sensibilities when shaping the verbiage of your characters dialogue.

My initial response was mild dejection mixed with personal affront. The speech of the main characters was patterned after my own, so them reading as implausibly profane is somewhat of a knock on my own gentility. More concerning was the question of audience: is there a niche for R-rated magical realism? Is the vulgarity and absurd violence a crutch in lieu of careful plotting? Did that strand of Panda seamen really serve the story?

It bears considering.

***

[1] Other might call it a rejection letter.

I was recently the Bestman at my friends Jay and Vanessa’s wedding. In lieu of an in depth and respectful accounting  of the happiest day in a couple’s life… I give you a photo essay about myself. This wrong of me and I’ll likely die eating cold soup in an abandoned playhouse as a result. Let us begin.

The day began with the male side of bridal party milling about in mild alarm. Note my sultry lip licking and vacant expression. I was born to be a shill in some home food dehydrator infomercial. To think of the hundreds of dollars a year I throw away on store bought dried apricots!

***

Fearing I’d failed to reach to the mindless but handsome dolt demographic I adopted an air of sophisticated European bewilderment. Such boyish folly.

Note: The bride and her parents are middle right. Fine, fine, tolerant people.

***

Despite my apparent credulity I retained enough guile to sidestep my girlfriends attempt at baiting me into admission of my terrible fashion sense.

*Click here to see rare grainy video footage of the North American A.J. delighting in the simplest of ruses.

***

Then Jay and Vanessa got married. I have nothing clever to say about this one. They are dear people and I might have been weeping a little at this point.

***

I cannot explain the disparity in our expressions. Jay chose warm unaffected joy; I’m projecting a  kind of murderous bookstore owner vibe,  Kenji, a demonic uptown gigolo.

***

In retrospect it was mistake to begin  my speech with a ten minute whistling solo. In the end it was well received though.

The Speech in question

***

Having exhausted the last of my mental energies I temporally lapsed into complete mental retardation. As such I cannot explain the pink feather boa the groom is wearing.

***

This is the last clear memory I have of that night. Note how my eyes are staring in two different directions: I may have actually had a mild stroke.

***

Bonus

The owners of the B&B we were staying at had a three legged dog. While a tremendous gentleman in his own right I primarily loved him because he reminded me of my favorite ever Strongbad email.

Lil Brudder

***

Previous Happening/Ain’t Happening’s

Happening/Ain’t Happening: Back from the grave

Happening/Ain’t Happening: Artistic Differences

Happening/Ain’t Happening: Ain’t looking good

Danny was tired. This was not a condition of the moment, rather an institutional policy; a prolonged, preemptive, surrender. He began inauspiciously: his mother claiming him an accident; his father, a deliberate act of spite. He was a bruise, a bad riff, an off hand remark that lingered. He had been inflicted more than born, and found the whole thing exhausting. Until today that was the whole of his story.Today he lost his job.

Danny had been drinking since noon. He had his pride. It was the sort of uneven binge seasoned drunks avoided: all thunder out the gates, then long maudlin stumble. By the second hour he was pinned to the floor beneath his whirling ceiling, mouthing sad vowels at a radio he could no longer reach.

His phone rang.

Danny glared at the radio.

The phone rang again, clearing the radio’s name.

Danny backstroked his way towards it, careful to keep his shoulders flush against the carpet. The phone rang again. Danny kicked it off the end table and rolled his face onto the receiver.

“Ya” said Danny.

“You live at 115 Bay, right?” said the receiver.

“What?” said Danny.

“Your house asshole…where you live. What’s the number?”

“What?” said Danny.

“Go outside…look at the door…then come back and tell me the fucking number. If you can’t count that high just try and describe the shapes. Idiot”

Danny scrubbed his numb face and tried to sort through the receiver’s abuse. As a rule he did not confront. He barely engaged. Still, he was drunk enough, and had been subjected to enough open contempt he felt compelled to defend his position.

“What?“

The receiver exploded with scorn.

“Are you fucking with me? Did I just call a school for the deaf, or are you just on the first day of your remedial English calendar.”

Danny took several heavy breaths. Despite the callers bewildering anger he felt an alarming need to connect. He pressed his eyes shut with his thumbs and tried to replay the conversation in his head.

“You want to know where I live?” Danny said.

The receiver spluttered furiously.

“Fuck you, tough guy! You want to make me pound on every door on the block? Ok. See what happens. Maybe I teach you the true meaning of Fistmas… huh, I’m talking massacre on 34^th street!”

Danny absorbed a very small part of part of the tirade.

“Are you threatening me?”

The receiver’s screaming was on pitch with a deranged and boiling teapot.

“TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE!”

The question finally took root in Danny’s booze addled brain.

“85 Bay. Across from the big church.”

The receiver disconnected. Danny wondered for a bit at the oddly high pitched voice that had been speaking to him…and then passed out entirely.

*****

In Danny’s dream he had wrapped his brain in a dry-cleaning bag, and was attempting to drown it in the bathtub. The Shampoo bottle pulled at his hands, pleading with him to show mercy. The Conditioner egged him on in its maniacal silky voice.

“All the way down, Danny. Who’s the liar now?”

His brain clawed defiantly at the plastic, shrieking racial epithets that only vaguely applied. Danny slammed his brain repeatedly off the side of the tub to quiet it.

Thud.Thud.Thud.

His brains hateful snarling grew more coherent.

“I’ll burn your fucking house down, you shit farming Wop!”

Danny blinked his eyes hard, trying to bring his furious brain into focus. The pounding grew louder and surrounded him. Danny leveraged a hard blink into opening his eyes;  light slammed his brain back home hard enough he vomited. At length. Another kick rattled his door.

“Hey, Thumbulima! I know you want to look pretty in your promdress…but could you save the morning purge until after you open the fucking door. It’s cold like a bastard out here and I’m trying to keep a low profile.”

Danny froze. The voice had escaped the phone and was pounding on his door. He needed a weapon: by and large a man of peace, there were none at hand. Improvising, Danny filled a pillow case with a half dozen beer bottles and his framed highschool diploma. He gave his impromptu bludgeon sack a smash against the wall, to up the lethality, and then began whirling it menacingly above his head.

“You get out of here. I…I am a trained police officer” said Danny.

It was a weak lie, but the high velocity shards of glass flying from his pillow case made it difficult to concentrate. Before Danny could amend his claim to something more plausible the bottom of the case gave out entirely, sending a barrage of shrapnel into his kitchen nook, and him sprawling into the entryway of his tiny bachelor apartment. Nauseous and bleeding Danny lay where he fell. The door, now only inches from his head, thumped again.

“Hey fuckwit, if you’re done fighting the Faberge army could you open the fucking door. I can hear you crying…I know you’re still alive.”

Exhausted and sick Danny gave into his tormentor; he’d used up the little fight he possessed. Pushing himself up to his knees Danny unlocked and opened the door; a moderate sized hedgehog glared up at him.

“If you were going to take the time to bow, Peaches, you could’ve at least wiped the puke off your face too” said the Hedgehog, closing the door behind him.

***

Danny knelt, staring at the door, trying to make sense of the psychotic break he had clearly undergone.  He considered the appropriateness of screaming. It seemed a little forced. He was unsettled, certainly, but more deeply uncomfortable than terrified. He let out a short, experimental,

“ahhhhhhhhhhh?”

Too much time had gone by; he felt stupid enough he tried to pass it off as a yawn. His nausea bubbled up again mid way through, splattering puke against his door. The Hedgehog dove behind a ruptured throw pillow to avoid the backsplash.

“Wow…classy. I’d ask you to lock it but I don’t want you shitting your pants in front of me”.

Danny rolled over to his back and willed himself to die. Heartbeat after heartbeat resisted a barrage of discouraging thoughts. It was going poorly. A persistent rustling sound penetrated Danny’s fog of humiliation. The hedgehog was unfolding a week old newspaper and laying the sheets over piles of vomit. He stopped at the half filled cross word section.

“You just filled in cocksucker like 15 times…except for here, where you wrote coxsukr because you didn’t have enough squares. I don’t know if it’s more pathetic that you were vandalizing your own crossword puzzle or that you were too lazy to finish the job? “

In his defense Danny had actually stolen that newspaper from his neighbor, so it wasn’t technically his property. Had he been in better sorts he likely would have offered the rebuttal, as it stood he just moaned and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he could at least pretend there wasn’t a hedgehog tidying his apartment. He could still hear it, though.

“Hey shit stain, you just gonna lay on the carpet all day?”

Danny refused to talk to it. If he didn’t talk to it, it wasn’t really there.

“You got a recyling bin? Or should I just drop  this bloody glass off at the needle exchange box?”

Danny thumped his head against the floor to try and drown out the sounds of rodent industry.

” Hey…can you use toilet cleaner on wall paper? Cause I’m not going near that toilet, and we might as well use this for something”.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Why do you only have one prong on your vacuum cord? I’m going to try it anyways, but that can’t have been an accident”.

Mercifully, Danny’s brain relented and allowed itself to be pounded into unconsciousness.

***

Danny awoke restrained. His arms were tied behind his back, his ankles to separate legs of the coffee table. He was unsure where the hedgehog had gotten the twine. Metaphorical cotton filled his mouth; a numb fog filled his brain, dulling his panic to flat curiosity. The hedgehog was lounging in a hooded sweater Danny was sure he’d lost two years before. He needed answers.

“What are you” Danny asked.

“A concerned denizen” said the hedgehog.

Danny didn’t know what denizen meant.

“Is that some kind of Hedgehog” asked Danny.

The hedgehogs clicked its mouth shut, started to say something, stopped, shook its head, and then started again.

“Look…I’m here to help. I’m a helper. Just go with that”.

Danny considered the creature glaring up from his sweat shirt: while he was strangely unable to raise an acceptable level of alarm, the reality of a talking animal was beginning to wear at his edges. He figured it best to tackle it head on.

“Are you real?” asked Danny.

The hedgehog pressed at the sides of his head hard enough the temples touched.

“I just tied you to a fucking table; what do you think?”

Danny tested his bonds.

“These are pretty loose; I’m pretty sure I could just pull my hands out”

Danny pulled his hands out to prove the point. A score of tiny puncture wounds and abrasions covered both wrists.

The hedgehog bent into a sullen curl.

“Yeah, I don’t have thumbs…it’s hard to tie a good knot. Anyways, I just wanted you in one place until the Xanax kicked in. You were kind of freaking out there for a while”.

Danny noted the pill bottled on the counter with a hole chewed through the top. A large number of tablets were spilled out on the table beside it.

“Jesus, how many did you give me? I still have a ton of booze in my system. Holy shit, I need to go to the hospital!”

Danny clawed at the twine around his ankles. The hedgehog had done a better job on those knots. After a couple failed attempts Danny took the more expedient route of snapping the legs off the coffee table and clattering about the apartment with them trailing like busted snow shoes.

The hedgehog was laughing.

“Shut the fuck up!” Danny shrieked. “You poisoning son of a bitch”.

The hedgehog was now laughing so hard he’d curled involuntarily into a ball.

Danny searched frantically through his newly organized apartment for the phone: it was on the wall by the fridge. The “9” and “1” had been gnawed off, the holes filled with rubber cement. Danny glared at the Hedgehog, and then pressed “0” so he could get the operator to call an ambulance for him. There was no dial tone. Danny noted the cord had also been chewed in half.

“Why would you wreck the numbers if you were going slash the cord anyways?” Danny demanded. Furious.

The hedgehog’s laughter had progressed to inaudibility; Danny considered kicking the silently vibrating ball of quills through his front window.

“How many did you give me?” Danny shrieked.

The hedgehog uncurled enough to get an arm free, and held up two fingers. Danny collapsed into a kitchen chair, weak with relief and spent rage. The hedgehog scrambled up onto the kitchen counter to be roughly face to face with Danny.

“All right, if you’re done playing Heath Ledger sing-along can we get down to business?”

***

The Hedgehog moved about the kitchenette with a foragers efficiency: grounds and filters were pulled from the backs of cupboards and combined with a dexterity that belied his forest roots; water was added to the reservoir cup by cup. Danny sat numbly in his single chair wondering where the fuck the Hedgehog had learned to make coffee. The Hedgehog pushed two cups across the table towards him.

“You’re going to have to pour, it’s a might heavy. And give me a splash while you’re at it”.

Danny obliged, filling his own and giving the Hedgehog a half cup. They both declined sugar and milk, drinking it black in silence. Danny bounced a question around his head for three cups and a few false starts.

“Do you have a name?” asked Danny.

“No. I’m a hedgehog: we know who each other are”.

“I need to call you something” said Danny.

The Hedgehog squinted suspiciously.

“What…why? Just start talking; there are only two of us here, I’ll figure it out.”

Danny absorbed the reply but it wouldn’t settle.

“I don’t know… it seems weird; I should know who you are.” said Danny.

“What…you worried you’re going to confuse me with all of your other hedgehog friends? Don’t invent problems, chief. We’ve got enough to deal with as it is.”

The Hedgehogs rebuke brought Danny back to the beginning; what was going here?

“I don’t understand any of this.”

The Hedgehog raised a bristly eyebrow.

“How so?”

Danny gathered up all of his questions: concision wasn’t his strong point, but he suspected the hedgehog wasn’t game for a scattershot interrogation.

“What are you…what’s going on here…how, how can this be happening?”

The hedgehog took a long pull from his coffee. For several  minutes he seemed to ignore the question, then, with the magnanimity of the freshly caffeinated, he answered at length.

“Kid, you are trying to fit a round peg into a crossword puzzle: it’s a different sort of thing; the answers you want…you’ve got no place to put them. Still, you obviously need something you can wrap your head around, so I’ll give you the Lego version of the lowdown.

• I am a very special hedgehog. I can do things other hedgehogs cannot, I can’t explain it, so you are just going to have to roll with it.
• Circumstances outside my control necessitate I help you get your shit together. It’s an impulse on my part that I don’t really understand either, so take it or leave it, I don’t give a fuck.
• And this is happening because it’s fucking happening, you want me to explain the order of the universe you are shit out of luck; you want to deny it, that’s your prerogative…but it’s just going to piss me off and make your life that much more miserable.

Beyond that there is nothing more to say on the matter. So don’t ask, or I’ll start chewing bald patches into your hair while you sleep.”

Danny sat long enough the coffee went cold. The Hedgehogs answer had an intuitive rightness to it, but Danny had long lost touch with his intuition. Even still, Danny understood it was the only answer he was going to get, and if he had one talent it was enduring uncomfortable situations until he could not. He decided to roll with it.

End of chapter 1.

It was ten past midnight and Danny had been digging for hours. His hands were blistered and raw; his worm bucket full and writhing.

“Now, Curl! Now” the Hedgehog screamed.

Danny flung down his shovel and pulled himself into as tight a ball as the small trench would allow. Loam and beetles filled his nostrils. The Hedgehog marched about the edge of the trench, a shadowy mole hill in the darkness, tutting and poking at Danny’s exposed neck and stomach with a stick.

“If I were a fox you’d be dead right now. You call that a ball….it’s barely a crouch! And where are your quills?”

Danny patted at the bare patch on his shirt where the pine needles had fallen out. Not for the first time he questioned the efficacy of the Hedgehogs self improvement regime.

“There was a tick…I’m pretty sure he was burrowing for my heart. I had to scratch it out”.

The Hedgehog scrambled down into the hole and began weaving fresh needles into the fabric of the sweater.

“Your lies are burrowing into my heart! What is the worth of a single quill?”

Danny sighed into the dirt.

“The same as the one next to it” Danny replied.

The Hedgehog inspected his repair before following up.

“And if there is no quill next to it?”

Danny considered not answering, but he knew the Hedgehog would wait all night for the correct reply.

“Then I might as well be a Hamster…fit for pleasure and nothing else. But I really don’t see how that appli…ahhhh!”

The hedgehog had whipped the pliable branch hard against Danny’s exposed ear.

“Hey, Spitvalve, you agreed to do things my way for a month. Don’t question my methods; do you want to turn your life around or not?”

Danny weighed his options. He couldn’t recall exactly why he’d thought a magic hedgehog’s instructions were worth following; but it had paid his back rent. And his life was definitely improvable.

“Yeah…I guess I do”

“Allright. Now get out my flashcards: we’re going over state capitals again” said the Hedgehog.

“It’s pitch black out and I’m Canadi…aaaahhhh, what was that for?”

“Flashcards!” snapped the Hedgehog, his quivering whipping branch raised in warning.

***

Aching, Danny could barely bend low enough to remove his mud-caked shoes. Thick ropes of pain bunched his lower back and fixed his hands into useless claws. Thin red welts laced his neck and ears. Danny had lived a life of long nights and this  had been one of the longest. The Hedgehog chattered uselessly beside him.

“Don’t throw the Quill sweater away; we’re going to need it for your burrowing drills tomorrow”.

Danny tossed the sweater into the corner beside his shovel. He debated dumping the bucket full of worms into the garbage disposal, before swallowing his rebellion and placing it on the bottom shelf of the fridge. It wasn’t worth his bathroom being filled with bees again. The Hedgehog scampered up onto the counter and began washing itself in the sink. Danny shot it a long glare. The Hedgehog locked eyes with him.

“This ain’t a peepshow, Creepshow; why don’t you put your heavy breathing to good use and order us some Chinese food. And no Almond cookies, they taste like drywall”.

Danny continued to glare at the Hedgehog. The Hedgehog began exaggeratedly drying his balls with Danny’s favorite tea towel.

“You got something on your mind princess?” asked the Hedgehog.

“You’re just jerking me around; you said you’d help me and all we do is dig holes in the woods and practice crawling and balling and catching worms. This is not what was missing from my life” said Danny, furious.

The Hedgehog flossed his crotch with the tea towel one last time, and then paced about on the counter.

“See, you don’t understand process; representative struggle.”

The Hedgehog noted the rapid glazing of Danny’s eyes.

“Let me put it this way: did you ever see Karate Kid?”

Danny shook his head.

“No”.

The Hedgehog’s quills raised in outrage.

“How have you not seen that movie? It was huge when you were a kid and it’s on cable like nine times a day. There are sickening holes in your popculture awareness”.

Danny slouched defensively.

“I don’t know…I didn’t have a T.V. when I was growing up. How the fuck have you seen it…you’re a goddamn Hedgehog?”

“Yeah, I am…so I have a lot of free time on my hands” said the Hedgehog.

Danny could feel the dodge inherent in the answer; this willful evasion that was worth pursing…or that would have been had a huge Panda not pressed its nose up against his kitchen window.

“What hell is that” asked Danny.

The Hedgehog looked absently about the kitchen.

“What’s what?”

Danny placed his hand on the Hedgehog’s back and turned it towards the window.

“The huge fucking panda staring in my window”.

The Panda closed its right eye and pressed its left one flush against the window. The Hedgehog shrugged.

“Probably some escaped zoo panda. Just ignore it, it’ll go away”.

Danny stuck his head in the freezer and took several long breaths.

“So you don’t know anything about this panda that suddenly showed up at my house” said Danny.

“Nope” said the Hedgehog.

“Even though he’s holding a piece of cardboard with my address on it?”

The Panda was indeed holding a piece of tattered cardboard with Danny’s address and apartment number scrawled upon it awkwardly between his paws.

“What am I, a game warden? I can’t be held responsible for every stray fucking marsupial in the city.”

The Panda flipped over its piece of cardboard. There was a crudely drawn hedgehog on the back of it.

The Hedgehog’s pacing picked up speed, his quills flaring in time to his step.

“That doesn’t mean anything…it barely even looks like a hedgehog. He could be looking for some possum for all we know”.

The Panda’s head dipped below window level. Danny’s phone rang.

“Don’t answer that” screamed the Hedgehog. “I’m expecting a call”

Danny raced the Hedgehog across the room, barking his shins off the coffee table, but reaching the phone first.

“Hello” Danny answered.

Muffled chewing sounds emitted from the receiver. Danny played goalie in front of the phone jack, warding off the Hedgehog with well timed boots to its head, and receiving several toe punctures in return. The chewing sounds took on a more accusatory tone.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying” said Danny.

The Panda’s head reappeared in the window.  It raised one huge paw and tapped the first part of shave and a hair cut against the glass. Danny moved towards the door.

“NO! Don’t let him in…he’s crazy. I heard he killed a man in Beijing with a souvenir umbrella.”

“I thought you didn’t know him” said Danny, unlocking and opening the kitchen door.

The Hedgehog swore in vitriolic rodent; all snarl and gristle.

The Panda nodded politely, wiped each paw carefully against the mat, and then entered Danny’s kitchen and life.

***

Ripples of irritation waved through the Hedgehogs bristles; Danny’s end route with the Panda had put it at disadvantage for the first time in their relationship. He’d also been kicked in the head, repeatedly. The net effect left it off balance (figuratively and literally), watching the Panda investigate the apartment with Danny trailing dutifully behind.

“Uh…Panda, can I get you something to eat, or, something? There’s worms in the fridge” said Danny.

The Panda shot a disgusted look over its shoulder before ambling into the living room.

“He’s vegetarian, dipshit. Maybe if you got some fucking cable in here you’d know these things. And his name is Eustace, not Panda.”

Danny whirled on the mocking Hedgehog.

“You said animals didn’t have names!”

“I said Hedgehogs didn’t have names…you racist piece of shit. I didn’t say a goddamn thing about Pandas” said the Hedgehog.

“Yeah, you also said didn’t know him…so why should I believe anything that comes out of your ratty little mouth” Danny retorted.

The two held their ground, seething. The Hedgehog scrambled back up onto the counter to be nearer eye level.

“Look, I only lie to you when it’s for your own good; or I’m really tired; or I think it will be funny. But in this case….wait, what we were talking about?”.

Danny was unsure, but shouted for good measure.

“I don’t know! Probably…something about that Panda.”

The Hedgehog slumped a little, the tension having fizzed out of the room. Another player had entered the game, but he could handle this.

“Yeah, just give him some lettuce and apples or whatever. Be quick though, he’s hypoglycemic and we really don’t want his blood sugar to drop.”

Danny removed the vegetable crisper from the fridge, splashed some soysauce on the contents, and brought it into the living room. The Panda was sprawled across the entirety of his couch watching a documentary about WWII era biplanes, on public television. Danny settled into the arm chair beside it and let the surreality of the situation wash over him. The Hedgehog crouched on the arm of the sofa and began an intense whispering exchange with the Panda. Eustace nodded occasionally but never took his eyes from the television. Danny’s couch groaned under the weight.

“Can he talk” asked Danny, tired of being excluded from the conversation.

“Speak. Can he speak; And no, he cannot” said the hedgehog.

“Can he understand me?” asked Danny.

The Hedgehog shrugged.

“As much as anyone can”.

The Panda made a peculiar grunting Shuuusssshh and pointed at the T.V.

“It’s my fucking house” Danny mumbled, quietly, under his breath.

The Hedgehog froze in place, his tiny ears rotating like anti-aircraft radar.

“You expecting company, slick”

Danny sat up.

“No. Why?”

The doorbell rang twice.

“Hide motherfucker!” the Hedgehog shrieked at the alarmed Panda, who’d reared up on his hind legs and begun pawing the air like a punch drunk boxer.

Danny crawled to the door on all fours and peered through the gap at the bottom: a pair of woman’s shoes were visible. The owner of the shoes knocked three times, hard.

“Danny! Danny, it’s Beth…let me in. I can hear the television”.

The Hedgehog scurried across the room and crouched near Danny’s elbow.

“Who the fuck is Beth?” the Hedgehog whispered.

“My ex-girlfriend” Danny whispered back.

“You had a girlfriend? Like…an unpaid one? Man, I need to read your diary more carefully.” said the Hedgehog.

“Yeah…I’ve had a few. Don’t act so fucking surprised” said Danny, in a whisper loud enough it defeated the point.

“Who are you talking to” asked the owner of the shoes? “Open the door for Christ’s sakes! I need to talk to you.”

The Hedgehog waved its arms in a frantic negative, silently mouthing “No” as well as a creature without proper lips could. Danny stood up and peered through the peephole.

“Uh, hey Beth; this isn’t really a good time. I’m having some…plumbing problems.”

An exasperated sigh preceded Beth’s response.

“Can you at least open the door so I can give you your stuff? It’s freezing out here and I have plans.”

The Hedgehog planted his shoulder against the corner of door and dug his feet in. Danny shrugged and acquiesced to the owner of the shoes, opening the door halfway. A hopeful, involuntary, grin lit his face. A petite brunette handed him a milk crate full of belt buckles and stepped past him into his apartment, a small brown dog trotting behind her.

***

“How have you been, Daniel?” asked Beth, passing Danny the milk crate so she could remove her heels.

Danny held the box dumbly. He hadn’t thought about Beth in weeks. Her sudden appearance dropped his stomach and sent his mind racing in sad, familiar, obsessive, loops. It was enough to make his forget his situation.

“I…I really, uh…I don’t know” Danny answered.

Beth placed her shoes on the mat, making a little noise of surprise at the neatly organized shoe tree beside it. A rubber boot hopped covertly out from behind the door and made its way to kitchen. The small brown dog followed.

“I heard that you lost your job. I just wanted to see how you were doing”.

Beth stepped past Danny’s halfhearted attempt to corral her in the entry way, placing a warm hand on his arm and brushing through into the living room. Her attention was immediately drawn to a large, suspiciously Panda shaped arm chair that dominated the left corner.

“When did you get that? It’s hideous.”

A tiny dejected moan issued from the chair. Danny began sweating profusely.

“A couple days ago, but I’m thinking of getting rid of it”.

Beth moved up close to inspect it properly: it looked exactly like a slumped Panda holding its arms and legs outright and sucking its gut in.

“It stinks. Did this used to be a real Panda?”

“I don’t even know anymore…I’m just glad you can see it” said Danny, attempting to guide Beth back into the hallway.

Beth slapped away Danny’s hands and gave the Panda’s gut a few test pushes before lowering herself into the chair. Leaning back into the expansive gut she wiggled about to try and get comfortable.

“Is this thing heated? And I think sitting on the remote”.

Beth reached behind her to try and find the device jabbing her, the Panda closed its eyes tightly and let its head slump further back in bliss. Danny pulled her forcibly up from the chair; a thin spider strand of goo connected her to the seat, before pulling taut and breaking away. The Panda shot Danny a sleazy wink, and mimed searching for the remote in his own lap. Danny held Beth tight against his chest so she wouldn’t see the display.

“What the hell are you doing?” Beth demanded.

Danny waited until the Panda resumed his chair act proper before letting her go.

“Sorry…there is a busted spring that I didn’t want jabbing you. You could get tetanus…or rabies…or something.”

Beth brushed clothes back into place.

“God you are weird. Your place looks good though; are you dating someone?”

Danny felt a thrill at how Beth’s voice pitched upwards when she asked the question.

“I’ve got a couple things going…nothing serious.”

“I’m glad. You seem different…have you been working out?” asked Beth.

“Uh…yeah, I’ve been keeping active.”

Danny took a couple deep breaths and tried to bring the conversation back around.

“So, how about you then; you still with the bone collector?”

Beth rolled her eyes and waited for Danny to rephrase the question.

“You still with Pete” Danny corrected.

“Yes” Beth answered, smiling sympathetically.

“Rough deal” said Danny.

Beth began to retort when she noticed an absence.

“Where’s my dog?”

A horrible yelp of pain rang out from the kitchen.

***

Danny reacted to the yelp like a shot from a starter’s pistol: exploding into a full run he stiff-armed Beth into the couch and pulled down a bookcase behind him to ensure he’d reach the kitchen first. He turned the corner in time to see the Hedgehog pulling a bloody lump three times his size into the bathroom. Danny grabbed the roll of paper towels and frantically began mopping the long smear of crimson off the floor. There was a crash from the hallway

“What the fuck, Danny!” yelled Beth, disentangling herself from a newly purchased Ikea book shelf.

Danny threw the sodden towels into the trash, then smashed the kitchen light fixture with a frying pan.

“Sorry Beth…I thought I heard the phone…only it was actually a huge rat…that I just locked in the bathroom”.

Beth moved into the dim kitchen rubbing a raw spot on her elbow.

“Where’s Coco? Is he in here?”

Danny tried to hold the frying pan in a casual fashion. Flecks of glass dusted his hair.

“Not that I can tell. Maybe it chased the huge rat into the bathroom. I’ll go check. Wait here” said Danny.

Concern for her dog and fear of a rat large enough to trash a kitchen warred on Beth’s face; she stepped back into the hallway. Danny opened the bathroom door just wide enough to slip in, his frying pan raised, honestly intending to smash the first rodent he saw. He closed and locked the door behind him. The Hedgehog was standing on the edge of the tub, knife in hand: the tub contained a small brown dog with multiple stab wounds, wrapped in a blood soaked tea towel, a knife lying beside it. The Hedgehog raised its small paws defensively.

“I realize this looks bad”.

The frying pan smashed down with force directly where the nimble Hedgehog had been standing a moment before.

“You Rat motherfucker psycho piece of shit….why are you fucking with me” Danny screamed.

“Get him Danny” Beth shouted encouragingly from the hallway.

The Hedgehog took cover behind the toilet.

“What is your fucking problem? Why are doing this to me?” Danny asked.

“I swear on my quills….this is not what it looks like. The little shit pulled a knife…it was a hit, I had to no choice but to defend myself” said the Hedgehog.

Danny slumped back against the wall. He pitched his voice lower.

“Come on man, I’m not stupid. I’ve known that dog for five years, he’s not the type to pull a…I can’t believe I’m even discussing this.” Dejected, Danny let himself slip to the bathroom floor.

“What am I supposed to do here?”

The Hedgehog crawled tentatively out from behind the toilet, placing his knife on the ground in front of him and kicking it towards Danny.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what happened, and if you don’t believe me…take that knife and stab me right in the ass. I won’t even fight you. Just hear me out”.

Danny bounced his head off the tile wall a couple of times. Gore surrounded him. He dearly wished he was small enough to shimmy out the bathroom window and start a new life across town. The enormity of the situation, and the implausibility of his escape, forced him to confront matters head on. Danny pushed himself to his feet, closed his eyes, felt around the tub, and retrieved the mangled dog by the scruff of its lacerated neck.

“This dog tried to stab you?” said Danny.

He shook the canine lump in the Hedgehogs face, turning up one little paw  to highlight the lack of capable digits.

“Did  kissing that bitches ass again make you go deaf ? He…pulled a knife….on me! That is not a normal dog” said the Hedgehog.

“Yeah… now that you stabbed fourteen fucking holes into him he’s not. I’d say he’s pretty fucking exceptional!” .

Danny jabbed a finger into one of the more garish chest wounds to illustrate his point; the dog snarled, turned its head a good half circle, and tore off Danny’s right ear. Danny shrieked like a woman and threw the surprisingly lively dog into the bathtub. The Hedgehog grabbed the knife off the floor and began tossing it from paw to paw.

“Oh you fucked up now, Benji; you  pulled the gloves off a bad motherfucker …and these hand weren’t made for baking bread, baby; they were made for killing” said the Hedgehog, by whose own account was a bad motherfucker that did his baking with a blade.

The multiply punctured Yorkshire Terrier retrieved the other steak knife from the tub, hopped over the edge, and began circling opposite the Hedgehog.

“You ain’t bad, Bristles, you ain’t nothing!” said the Terrier in a low growl.

Danny stood stunned in the corner clutching his bleeding ear-hole.

“Is everything o.k. in there” called Beth, from the kitchen.

***

The Hedgehog bounced on the balls of his feet, weaving patterns of distraction along his quills. The Terrier advanced, implacable, his distended jaw pugged out like some horrid cockney boxer. Danny considered helping but he was unsure who he wanted to lose. Steak knives flashed and clattered too fast to track; wads of fur and quill and flesh spun out from the foul mouthed dervish whirling across the bathroom floor.

“I’ll tear you up like crotchless panties at a frat party, you Yorkie piece of shit”

“You’re getting gutter-fucked, Hedgehog….slow and sloppy”

The Terrier parried a low strike and pinned the blade to the floor; lunging forward he sunk his prenaturally large maw into the Hedgehogs chest, ripping out a palm sized chunk of meat. The Hedgehog crashed his shoulder into the Terriers torso, driving him back into the base of the tub, sending a cascade of hair care products down onto them. The terrier whistled a high slash just over Bristles head. The Hedgehog ducked low, then stomped hard on the shampoo bottle at his feet, launching a glob directly into the Terrier’s squinty little eyes.

The Terrier shrieked in pain.

“Ahhh…what is in that, Jojoba?”

“I have scalp dryness” Danny whispered, defensive despite his shock.

The Hedgehog seized the moment, plunging his steak knife hilt deep through the terrier’s heart.

“Danny, I hear voices. What is going on in there?” demanded Beth, who had moved to stand just outside the bathroom door.

“I’m going to need a minute here, Beth” said Danny, who was prying open the dead dogs mouth so he could retrieve his ear from its throat.

“Is Coco o.k.?” asked Beth.

“Uh…he’s been better” said Danny.

The ear was intact, if bloody and distinctly not attached to his head. Danny pressed the ragged edge against the tatters surrounding his bleeding ear hole, praying for some Mr. Potatohead-esque miracle. None was forthcoming. Understandably he failed to hear the butter knife click open the bathroom lock.

“Jesus Christ, Danny!” shrieked Beth.

Danny whirled in panic; his mangled ear wobbling out of his slack grip towards Beth’s horrified face. She slapped it from the air like a particularly loathsome June-bug and staggered backwards out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Beth…things could have gone better” said Danny.

Beth’s eyes froze on the lapdog speared to the ground by dollar-store cutlery. It occurred to Danny they couldn’t have gone much worse. The hedgehog played dead by the vanity.

“Oh my god, Coco.”

Danny stepped forward and closed the bathroom door behind him. He was at a loss for sufficient explanation. Beth stood there for a while, stunned, crying, shaking; then ran from the apartment. Danny punched a hole in bathroom door. The vague promise of breakup sex had been transmuted into impending dread of prison rape, in record time. The law was unkind to dog killers. Danny sat and collected his thoughts.

The wounded Hedgehog dragged the food processor into the bathroom from the kitchen and began feeding pieces of the dismembered dog into it. He flushed each thoroughly pulped load down the toilet.

“Get the mop, kid. We’re going to have company soon and I don’t want this place looking like a Korean BBQ joint”.

Danny got the mop. What else could he do?

End of Chapter 2

Danny stood in front of the bathroom mirror poking at the bleeding hole his ear used to cover. It had been his least favorite ear, but nostalgia had him remembering otherwise. He opened his first aid kit: it contained one band aid, three Flintstone vitamins, and a drawing of him falling the down the stairs surrounded by the prohibitive circle with a diagonal line. He retrieved a cotton ball from the bottom of the drawer, soaked it in cool-mint Listerine, and applied it to the side of his head. The pain was intense, if refreshing. Danny’s severed ear lay on kitchen counter, packed, by the Hedgehog, into a ziplock bag full of ice. The Panda had donned a stewpot helmet and was keeping watch over the backdoor.

“I think I need to go to the hospital” said Danny, directing the complaint to the Hedgehog sitting on the toilet across from him.

“Yeah, sure thing, Kid; but first lets all sit down and get our stories straight. You walk into that emergency room talking nonsense and you’ll spend the next month playing Thorazine bingo on a locked ward” said the Hedgehog.

The Hedgehog hopped to the ground and led Danny into the living room. Danny grabbed his ear bag and moved towards his favorite arm chair; the Hedgehog nodded at the Panda who raced across the room to dive into the seat just before Danny got there.

“What the hell, Panda? You took my chair” said Danny.

“Whoa, settle down Rosa Parks…there’s plenty more furniture. Eustace needs to decompress and collect his thoughts. It’s been a rough day and he comes from a very gentle people” said the Hedgehog.

The Panda nodded sadly in agreeance, stoking his eye spots sadly before falling abruptly into an exaggerated and patently false  slumber. Danny was too sore and tired to press the issue further. Careful to keep his wound clear of the ratty fabric Danny lay back on the couch, trying to fathom the surreal disintegration of his life. The Hedgehog climbed up onto the arm behind Danny, strips of clean T-shirt in hand, to better examine the wound.

“Close your eyes, Kid. I need to throw a bandage over that so it doesn’t rot through to the other side”.

Danny closed his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw against the expected pain. The Hedgehog looped the ends of the bandage around each hand, braced himself against the couch edge, and pulled the makeshift garrote tightly around Danny’s neck.

“Now Eustace” screamed the Hedgehog.

The Panda surged up from the armchair, took one great bounding step, then belly flopped hard onto Danny chest, driving the breath from his body and trapping his limbs beneath the Panda’s girth. Danny levered a knee into Eustace’s gut; the Panda retaliated with the sort of clinging blustery fart only lifelong vegetarians can produce. The Hedgehog gagged and released the bandage from Danny’s neck.

“Jesus Eustace…I said hold him, not execute the lot of us.”

The Panda shamefully, and perhaps strategically, buried his face between the couch cushions; Danny attempted to maneuver his head close enough to bite the traitorous hedgehog.

“Easy Chopper, this is necessary shit and will hurt a lot less if you quit fucking squirming”.

The Hedgehog pulled out one of his sharper quills, secured a length of thread to it, then opened the ziplock bag to retrieve Danny’s ear. As Danny watched the Hedgehogs preparations a deep disquiet grew within him.

“What the hell are you doing” said Danny.

“You can’t go to the hospital: there will be too many questions; and I already told you we got company on the way. It’s not the sort appointment you can blow off” said the Hedgehog.

“I’m not going to let some talking rat sew my fucking ear on! You don’t know what you’re doing” said Danny.

“I fixed your shirts, didn’t I…this is basically the same thing” said the Hedgehog, laughing halfway through his own comparison.

Danny struggled hard against the Panda’s weight: the Hedgehog was right, the squirming did make it hurt a lot more.

***

Danny laid out the five remaining Tylenol, placing each blue gelcap in line with an accusing tap. One by one he chased them down with a swig of water, stopping between each to glare balefully at the Hedgehog. The half melted Ziploc bag full of ice was applied to his newly reattached ear. The Panda was curled inconsolably under the kitchen table, wracked with guilt over his role in the guerilla surgery. The Hedgehog, who was pacing across the tabletop, showed considerably less remorse.

“Stop being a pussy…if you’d gone to the hospital you’d still be sitting in the waiting room next to some fossil with a busted colostomy bag. I probably saved you ten hours of checking out shit stained pictures of ugly grandkids.”

“You probably gave me fucking rabies or…. leprosy” said Danny.

“Armadillos carry leprosy, not Hedgehogs. And I’m not the one who jerked off after fishing candy out off my neighbor’s garbage…without washing my hands. If anyone was in danger of contracting a disease it was me; you pestilent motherfucker!”

“It was in the recycling, not the garbage; and it was still in the wrapper!” said Danny.

The Hedgehog flourished a mocking bow.

“Oh Pardon me, Lady Primose…so sorry to have impugned your manners”.

“Man…what is your fucking problem? You say you’re supposed to help me but all you do is jack my life up and tal…speak  to me, like I’m trash. How is that helping?” said Danny.

“Do you think I want to be here?  Do you think I spent my days lying around the hedge yearning for the chance to teach special Ed. in some douchebag’s shithole apartment?”

“Then why are you bothering? What’s so special about me that you have to ruin both our lives?” said Danny.

The Hedgehogs maw peeled back to show long rows of needle teeth, his quills seemed a length and sharpness Danny had not seen before.

“Kid, you are as far from special as this world will allow. Literally”

As before the truth of the statement resonated in some deep place; though the tone struck somewhere small and brittle; the Panda issued a hard growl of warning and rose up from under the table. The Hedgehog remembered himself and snapped his mouth shut, offering a shrug of apology to the looming Panda. Danny could feel the tension pull between them but couldn’t fully place its source. Confounded, he swallowed his last pill and stayed silent, if wounded.

The doorbell rang.

“About fucking time” muttered the Hedgehog.

***

The doorbell rang again, this time the rapid multiple buzzes of an obnoxious child or asshole boyfriend. Danny’s headache pulsed in time to the beat. The ringer added a thumping baseline by applying his steel toed boots to the doorjamb.

“Open the door you fucking freak! You put a knife in my girlfriend’s dog; I’ll put my fist upside your fucking head!”

Danny glared at the Hedgehog.

“Thanks a lot”.

The Hedgehog smirked, to the extent he could.

“He ain’t looking for me, kid. Keep your chin tucked and try not to lose that ear…I don’t warranty my work”.

The Panda rubbed Danny’s shoulders and mimed a jab-uppercut combo. Danny felt the burning doubt and indigestion of the conflict-averse. A final hard kick busted the door from its frame. Beth’s boyfriend Pete “The Bone collector” Barlow, flanked by two of his douchey friends, stepped over the fallen door into Danny’s apartment. The douchier of the two friends propped the door back up on the frame; the other provided a mission statement.

“You fucked with the wrong man’s bitch, Bitch. B.C. is going break you off!”

Pete stopped a few feet from Danny, his two friends circled to either side. Danny shook his head ruefully.

“Look, Pete, normally I’d just take the beating and get on with my day…but this not a good time”

Pete fired a hard two handed shove into Danny’s chest, knocking him back into the wall.

“What the fuck did you think was going to happen? Do you know who the fuck I am?”

Danny shrugged.

“Vaguely”.

“I’m your worst fucking nightmare” said Pete.

Danny began laughing, hard.

“Dude, you have no idea. This is like… the fifth worst thing to happen to me today”.

Pete nodded at his douchey friends; they each grabbed an arm and slammed Danny against the wall. Pete pressed his forehead against Danny, to more properly scream in his face.

“Do you know why they call me the Bone Collector?”

Danny shrugged again.

“Because you suck a lot of dick?”

Pete butted Danny hard in the face. Blood poured from a deep cut over Danny’s eye.

“What did you just say, smart guy?” demanded Pete.

“I’m Sorry…I just assumed it had something to do with your love of hard cock”

There was muted snicker from the kitchen. Pete purpled with rage.

“How’s this for hard cock!” Pete screamed.

He smashed two brutal punches into Danny’s groin. Danny slumped in the douchey friends arms; both seemed uncomfortable with the tack the conversation had taken. Pete pounded Danny’s lolling head back into the wall.

“They call me the Bone Collector because I used break bitches like you in half when I played ball. Broke their bones” said Pete, eager to drive home the correct etymology.

Danny forced his head upright.

“Why would a collector go around breaking things…that doesn’t make any sense” said Danny.

Pete pounded on Danny for a fair amount of time. Eventually he tired and searched about the room for some novel way to cause harm. He spied the pine needle covered sweater; he grabbed it and it shoved it in Danny’s face.

“What the fuck is this: some queer fucking costume from your D&D night?”

Danny mumbled through his broken mouth.

“What did you just say” asked Pete.

Danny swallowed the excess blood and repeated.

“I said, Don’t touch my fucking Quills; I’m not some sleazy trick hamster!”

“What?” said Pete.

“Now, Curl! Now!” screamed the Hedgehog from the kitchen.

Danny flung himself into a ball, his abs made steely from his nights in the forest. The two douchey friends were sent hard into the opposite wall, forming heaps far sloppier than Danny’s tight defensive mound.

“Lunge” shrieked the Hedgehog.

Danny sprang towards Pete snarling and clawing, Pete stepped smoothly aside, Danny crashed heavily into the arm chair. Pete squared up. Danny rolled to his feet, sweater in hand. Pete grabbed the bat from the corner by the door. Danny pulled on his quills in one smooth motion.

“I’m going to smash your head in, you sick fucking psycho” said Pete, brandishing the bat.

For the first time he could remember Danny felt light; Awake, alert, and very much of his life.

“Keep talking, Buddy: I got twenty holes dug in the woods with your name on them” said Danny, whose count was off but intent was clear.

Danny shook a pillow out of its case and circled towards the bookshelf. Pete, unable to fully process how the situation had changed, swung his bat back and forth menacingly. Danny swept the Hedgehog’s pewter chess set, two cast iron bookends, and his reframed high school diploma into the pillowcase, gave it a smash against the wall for old times sake, and began whirling it above his head.

“I told you this was a bad time” said Danny, grinning manically.

Pete eyed his unconscious friends, willing them to wake up. It had no effect. Danny advanced, an ominous mix of whooshing and tearing cloth noise preceding him. Pete swung for Danny’s head. Danny snapped the bursting pillow case forward abruptly, sending a barrage of broken glass and scrap iron into Pete’s face. The impact sent Pete tumbling to the floor. Danny followed him down.

***

A minute into the beating Danny switched to elbows to spare his battered hands; the bottled rage fueled blows hard enough to bust the floorboards under Pete’s head. Or what was left of it. Brawny paws pulled him off his abundantly conquered foe. Danny thrashed against the Panda’s iron hug.

“Jesus, Danny…the rest of your life is not on the other side of his head. You pound him all day…it’s still just one fight” said the Hedgehog.

Danny surveyed the carnage: the two douchey friends were still piled limply against the wall; Pete…well, Pete had seen better days and was unlikely to see worse. The Hedgehog had retrieved his rubber boot and was hopping about the splashy gore.

“We’re going to need to rent a wet-vac.”

Danny’s adrenaline shorted suddenly.

“Holy fuck…is he dead?”

The Hedgehog hopped beside the neck, looked once, and declined to take a pulse.

“I wouldn’t pencil him in for prom king.”

The Panda tippy- toed around the blood and deposited Danny in his favorite arm chair. Placing his blunt paw under Danny’s chin he tilted his head up to make better eye contact. Danny tried to look back at the entryway but the Panda kept his head locked in place. The Panda stepped away from Danny, nodded towards the pile of bodies, and then held up a huge paw in textbook high-five position. Danny numbly slapped the paw: shock or not, you don’t leave someone hanging. The Panda nodded solemnly then motioned for Danny to hit him on the flipside. Danny obliged. The Panda motioned for Danny to stay in place, removed the center cushion from the couch, and disappeared around the corner where the unconscious douchey friends lay. Danny let himself believe the Panda was making them more comfortable. He was debatably correct.

***

“Hey, Kid. Give me a hand with this.”

The Hedgehog was attempting to pull a large orange tarp from the hall closet. Danny carried it into the living room and laid it out on the floor. The Panda rolled the bodies into the center of the tarp. The Hedgehog retrieved a pencil from behind his ear and began roughing out some calculations on the coffee table. To Danny’s untrained eye the tarp looked about a corpse too small. The Hedgehogs math must have backed this up as he rounded on the Panda, snarling.

“If fatty there wasn’t such a Nancy this would be a fuck of lot easier”

The Panda peeled a leaf off the head of lettuce he was eating, pointedly looking away from the Hedgehog.

“You couldn’t eat one fucking body! Your whole race is a disgrace to Bears: you’re barely a Panda-Sloth”

The Panda angrily shook the head of lettuce in the Hedgehog’s face. Danny stepped between them: they didn’t have time for this.

“Look, just wrap up Pete and the little douche and we’ll put the other one in the front seat with me.”

Danny rolled the big douche off the tarp and muscled him onto his shoulder. The Hedgehog fished Pete’s car keys from his pocket and tossed them to Danny, who caught them. Danny levered back his busted front door and peered into the night: it was clear.

****

The first mile was the longest of Danny’s life. The way seemed entirely composed of left turns; the corpse’s clammy torso continually swayed against him; the lifeless Douche stunk intensely of voided bowels and smothering. The Hedgehog was perched on the dash giving directions. The Panda kept reaching up from the backseat to change the radio. Danny was shaking so hard with spent intensity the car  drifted erratically from lane to lane.

“Hey fuckwit, you’re driving a little casually…you want me to fire a few shots at passing cars to draw us the proper attention? Maybe have Eustace throw a couple fridges out the back?”

Something had been building in Danny’s mind since they left the house. He accelerated.

“Why is this happening” asked Danny.

The Hedgehog grabbed the hula-girl affixed to dashboard to keep his footing.

“Jesus…kid, I’ve told you a dozen times: you wouldn’t understand it and don’t want to know.”

Danny pressed the accelerator to the floor and move into the lane designated for oncoming traffic.

“Make an effort”

The Hedgehog clawed at the vinyl dashboard for traction. Headlights appeared in the distance. The Panda made a chuffing noise from the backseat. The Hedgehog exchanged a long look with him.

“Are you sure?”

The Panda nodded, folded his paws comfortably over his chest, and awaited the imminent collision. Danny steeled himself for impact or disclosure.

“You ever read any Nietzsche, kid” said the Hedgehog.

Danny shook his head.

“Probably not”

The Hedgehog was unsurprised.

“I figured as much. Look, I’m just going lay it out and if we survive this any barista with bad dreads should be able to fill in the holes for you.”

Danny shrugged without optimism.

“Whatever. Just say it”

“Very basically: you’re like the Anti-Ubermench…lets call it the Every-Mench. You’re the thread to which every other thread is tied; the stock that the whole market follows.”

An SUV appeared over the rise, noting the oncoming car it swerved into the other lane. Danny followed. The Hedgehog gnawed desperately at Danny’s ten o’clock hand. Danny ignored him and kept course his course.

“I don’t understand a word you just said”

“Yeah, well…it’s hard to find an apt fucking analogy when you’re about to be an Escalade’s hood ornament.”

Danny considered: the Hedgehogs ramblings had rung true, if nonsensical. Danny moved onto the shoulder enough the SUV could get by on his left. High speed invective poured from the passing vehicle. Danny pulled back into the appropriate lane, but continued at speed.

“Explain it simpler”

The Hedgehog sighed.

“Yeah…like I was talking to complete idiot, got ya.”

Danny either didn’t notice or accepted the barb as warranted. The Hedgehog continued.

“All right…this is mostly wrong, but will make sense.

Lets pretend that every long while the (for lack of a better word) World sees to it that someone is born who is more connected than everyone else: a sort of representative for that species; someone who just by living their life sets the tone and direction of said species. Now, in general, the gestalt, or unconscious, or whatever will put forth a strong entry: an ideal creature that can bear that sort of burden.”

The Hedgehog stopped his story and indicated for Danny to slow and turn down a familiar dirt road. Danny struggled with the weight and immediacy of what he’d been told. The obvious question thumped around Danny’s skull.

“Why would it pick me then?” Danny asked.

The Panda covered its eyes, flinching sympathetically. The Hedgehog waited until the car slowed and stopped before answering.

“If I had to guess: you’re a white flag. A statement of surrender. Humanity calling for the check an…”

“OK, I get it. Enough all ready” Danny interjected.

The answer felt true but incomplete, although the Hedgehog had warned him of as much.

“Sorry” the Hedgehog said, seemingly sincere.

“Wow…this is kind of a worst case scenario. I just figured I was a wizard or something”

The Hedgehog snorted.

“Trust me kid…worse hands have been dealt.”

Danny unbuckled the Douche and opened both front doors. The Panda squeezed himself out of the back seat and helped Danny retrieve all three bodies from the car. Panting hard Danny turned back to the Hedgehog.

“So what are you then” asked Danny.

The Hedgehogs quills twitched wryly.

“I’m a differing opinion”.

***

Danny and the Panda chose the three deepest holes he’d dug in the woods, depositing a body in each of them, before filling them back in. The Hedgehog stood proudly on a mound of freshly packed earth.  Danny looked around the woods at the half dozen unfilled holes.

“Won’t someone notice all the other holes around here?”

The Hedgehog puffed up further.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. This place is safe, and we might need the other ones down the road.”

Danny chilled at the thought. Then something occurred to him.

“So, we’re not surrendering then?”

The Hedgehog mouth split into a pointy grin.

“No, we are not. Now fix your Quills…this won’t be a popular decision.”

Danny was tired. It was, however, a condition of the moment: the hard won exhaustion of a day denied. The ache of a first step. He had begun inauspiciously; he hoped that he would end better. His story continued.

***

The End. For now.

There is a certain cat to person ratio where they cease being an adjunct to human life and begin puttying their own tiles into the domestic mosaic. And not just dictating the agenda, but shaping the culture.  My lady friend is currently on sabbatical in the wilds of Delaware, leaving our home and catfolk in my capable (?) hands. For those keeping score at home that is three and one half cats-to-one disheveled and malnourished A.J. The tide turned quickly.

It has been three days since Sally left and the language spoken in our home is no longer person. At best it’s a loose pidgin of English, Cat Chinese, Clownspeak, crazed baby talk, and various feline noises. There are daily races down the stairs, invisible moth hunts, and gang naps at questionable times of day. I find myself trapped in odd staring contests with unspecified but forbidding stakes.It’s gotten so bad I need to take three Xanax before cleaning to deal with my crippling fear of vacuum cleaners.

This morning Felica meowed and meowed until I turned the downstairs stereo to the CBC. She then sat in front of it until a story about the decline of agribusiness finished, glared at me to suggest the policies were somehow my fault, and refused to eat until I picked the baby tomatoes from our garden. Rarely have I felt so defeated.

Seven days to go and I feel madness around the edges. Pray for me.

THE ENEMY

The renowned Felicia

The Rotund Sweetie

The Elusive Scooter

Our Dear Friend Stephen

*The above picture is the aforementioned half a cat: our three toothed diabetic neighbor and dear friend, Stephen. He’s doesn’t live with us, but his frequent visits are cause for great celebration.

As the doctors tell it I have Attention Deficit Disorder. ADD. This is not a new diagnosis. I was tagged as soon as the fad hit in the late 80’s, medicated for a time, and then spent the next twenty years railing against it. I felt blaming my poor decisions on some loosely defined structural flaw was a cop out; a cowardly dodge. I still largely feel this way, but I’ve read enough literature to realize there may be some correctable flaw in my wiring.

I discussed this with my childhood doctor and he suggested a regime of exercise, quality sleep, and daily amphetamine use. The entire consultation lasted ten minutes. It amounted to “Hit this crank and call me in three months”. Curious, but not unexpected.

Now, in fairness, the kick is more a sustained first cup of coffee buzz than it is the jittery cracktessence of a recreational high, but it’s still knocking back a hit of speed with breakfast: unless you are driving big rigs or tuning band amps for a living that strikes me as fairly marginal behavior. But, you know, doctors orders.

And does it work? Well, it has only been three days, but it does seem to be doing something. It’s hard to quantify. It’s like there is this taut cable connecting me to the world that keeps me from drifting; with occasional bursts of exhausting electric focus. I have a clearer sense of the passage of time so I get bored easier and wind up doing things, often productive. My short term memory and prefrontal associates have improved, but the heuristic bounce of my long term retrieval seems to have flattened a little: the immediacy and randomness of my internal process seems more distant.

There is good, to be sure, but I still haven’t gotten a handle on the cost.

I’ll keep you posted.

A.J. Valliant

On my way home from the gym I stopped at a street light beside a father and his daughter. The father ignored me. The little girl[1], however, locked eyes with me, stared for a few seconds, then raised an accusing finger.

“You have bum-bum hair” she said.

Admittedly I had just finished at the gym so I wasn’t finely coiffed, but not to the point it should elicit cruel personal attacks from preschoolers.

“Pardon me” I asked, thinking maybe I’d misheard her.

She turned, tightened up her mean little face, and repeated.

“You have bum-bum hair”.

Then she stuck her tongue out at me like I was the one giving her the business! At this point the light was close to changing but I needed clarification: was bum-bum hair just a general indictment? Did she dislike the style? The color? The curl? Or had my pants just been riding low and she’d managed to catch a glimpse of my amply furred buttocks? Only I was pretty sure I had been walking behind them.

“Are you talking about my ass?” I said, pulling the back of my pants down a little to illustrate the hair in question.

At this point the little girl became non-communicative. Her father, who was still ignoring me, also decided suddenly he needed to walk on the other side of the street. I felt the need to make my case.

“Your kid said I have Bum-bum hair…that is rude and vague, sir!” I shouted after him.

No answer. I decide my only recourse was to respond in kind.

“Hey kid, you got crooked feet and your shoes are ugly”.

To her credit she did not respond, but I did see her try and straighten out her walk a little.

I think I’m going to get my hair cut tomorrow.

[1] I figure she was about four or five years of age.

Someone asked me this weekend

“So how is your writing?”

And I answered fine, like it was some common acquaintance . I actually may have said “fine, I suppose…”, as if we hadn’t spoken in some time and I didn’t want to presume. I didn’t think much of the exchange but over the course of the day the conversation repeated it self in different partners; old friends inquiring about my artistic pursuit. Invariably I layered some distance into my response, some subtle shifting of agency: the work was always It and my role somewhere between passive observer and disinterested pimp.

I’m sure it came off as an odd mix of pretension and false modesty, but the truth is it still feels like a presumption to say I’m aspiring to be a writer, let alone that I am one; that any admission of authorship will rob the work of it validity. The uncool parent of a popular child, trying hard not to damn them by association.

In an effort to be more productive I’ve been framing whatever I get done from 8am to 5pm as my daily legacy. My delusion has progressed to where I see these tiny, short-lived, diurnal archeologists floating in the periphery waiting to judge what I’ve wrought come the end time of dusk. While no more productive [1], this has made me vastly more paranoid and guilty. Additionally: I’ve been forced to consider the broader legacy of my life.

At 33 years old I have spent at least one third of the AJ dollars I have been karmically allotted: it is time to take stock of how well that money has been spent. As is our custom round these parts I will organize the deeds of my life into a highly scientific ascending scale of significance. The lower the number, the less impact the deed had in terms of my overall legacy. I will not assign the deeds a positive or negative score; my judgment will be the prerogative of history alone.

The Beats Entropy: AJ Valliant’s Legacy scale

• 1-Prepared a mountain of delicious toast
• 2-Once left a newspaper on the bus for the next guy to read
• 3-Was reigning King of the Hill for three straight winters recess’s, until I was brought low  by treachery and  yard duty teacher malfeasance
• 4-Never spawned an ugly brat, nor did I slap its gap-toothed face with cruel vigor.

• 5-Fell down so many flights of stairs my life could have been used as an outtake reel for the Battleship Potemkin. [2]

• 6-Failed to avenge having my marbles spilled in third grade [3]
• 7-Never once uttered “we can still be friends”; nor did I ever respond in positive fashion when the offer was made.
• 8-Popularized the slanderous nicknames: Stinkopotamus and Ho-larm clock to the point the recipients own parents began using them.
• 9-Had a mullet so awful that I subconsciously maneuvered myself into setting a field on fire, that the purifying flames might fuse it into a roll.
• 10-Kept my jaw slack and breathed through my mouth like a spaz until I was 13.
• 11-Delivered at least three profoundly righteous punches to the face.
• 12-Received one profoundly righteous kick to the head that knocked me unconscious.
• 13-Have never released a secret from the vault without permission
• 14-Never possessed a Drivers License, Passport, Credit Card, Plane Ticket, Positive Credit Rating, Crippling Bone Disease, or Handgun.
• 15-Took 11 years to graduate from a three year psych degree.
• 16-Historically treated strangers with far more decency than I do lovers
• 17-Slept walked through my 20’s in a office job I still don’t know the duties of
• 18-Somehow incited an entire subculture of strangers that swap “AJ” stories of questionable validity. [4]
• 19-Was generally a pretty solid dude.
• 20-Wrote some things I was quite proud off

[1] I actually spent the first half of yesterday pouring tiny cups of gin for the watchers, hoping to subvert the integrity of the judgment process. The second half the day was spent writing back-story for the lead archeologist. Dusk was spent mourning his death. Too soon, my brother, too soon.

[2] I actually tend to fall up the stairs, more than I do down them, but there are no iconic silent movie sequences of mother and child racing up steps for no reason, losing their footing, and crashing back halfway down.

[3] But I assure you, my friends, this debt will not go unpaid.

[4] I’ve  been at parties where people unknowingly related to me exploits from my own life. It was surprisingly alarming.

OTHER ASSESMENT SCALES

Shame

Ignominious Death

Creepy

Disappointment

Pettiness

Inappropriate comment

Thirty Three years ago I was born and almost died. I was two months and some weeks premature. I was a twin for three hours, and then I was not. At some point, when I was very young, someone showed me his tombstone: I’d not yet learned to read and remember thinking if I could just understand what was written on it I would know some part of him. But I could not, and it seemed too much to ask the grieving adults around me, so I never found out. At the time I assumed it was an explanation for why he had died, and I had not.

I learned to read soon after.

If you haven’t been reading about France this week, you’re probably not alone.  Given the political uproar in Iran, and the pending strike by employees of the LCBO (that, for our non-Ontarian readers, is the Liquor Control Board of Ontario – who are the sole legal purveyors of hard alcohols in Ontario), it would be pretty easy to miss the news pieces on French President Nicholas Sarkozy’s exciting foray into feminism this week.

At a state dinner on Monday, President Sarkozy – whose feminist credentials up to this point are pretty much limited to having sex with wife Carla Bruni – declared that the fully body coverings favoured by some conservative branches of Islam (the niqab and burka) had no place in french society, or France.  Specifically Sarkozy said:

“The burqa is not a religious sign, it’s a sign of subservience, a sign of debasement — I want to say it solemnly… …It will not be welcome on the territory of the French Republic.” (source)

The statement by President Sarkozy comes along with the commitment to have the French government consider legislation that would outlaw, ban, or otherwise render illegal the wearing of niqab or burkas.

Leaving aside the basic civil liberties argument that no government should be able to mandate something as simultaneously mundane and personal as one’s clothing, and the clearly prejudiced orientation of a decree that takes aim at Islamic attire over other potentially problematic practices, there is something even more unsettling about the French President’s comments.

Now I will be the first to admit, there is also a dangerously seductive quality to President Sarkozy’s statements.   From my own personal perspective, I am uncomfortable with the branches of Islam which necessitate the wearing of niqab or burkas.  That said, I am also uncomfortable with the branches of Judaism which condemn the touching of women (even one’s wife) during their menstrual cycle, and the branches of Christianity wherein ultra conservative nuns are forbidden to be alone with men – including their own fathers and brothers.  In short I am uncomfortable with a great deal of religious practice, and I find myself always wondering if those who grow up under such regimes really have a choice in accepting them or not – can someone brought up in such an environment choose not to believe what their entire community has taught them to believe?

Maybe yes, maybe no.

However, and this is very important, as arrogant as I am, I am not willing to suggest that I am certain that anyone who believes differently than I believe (with regards to religion or more broadly) somehow is lying to themselves, or has been brainwashed, or has internalized regimes of domination, or what have you.  This is one of the most dangerous slopes in modern thinking: an argument that comes down to the notion of false consciousness.

The argument, at least in its contemporary form, comes from Karl Marx, who (while probably one of the most interesting and factually accurate critics of modern capitalism ever) might well have invented the most terrifying idea in the modern world when he came up with the concept of false consciousness.  The argument is simple.  Some people, by virtue of their position in a group or in society at large, are unable to grasp their ‘true’ interests.  Conditioned by a ruling ideology (series of ideas presented by a dominant group meant to reinforce an existing order) the group is unable to see what is ‘really’ happening around them – and therefore may not  appear to want what is ‘actually’ in their best interest.   For Marx, this was a simple way of explaining why some of the proletariat (Marx’s name for the working class) might not grasp their situation as exploited workers they way he foretold they would.

Again part of the idea makes sense – groups can be lied to systemically and therefore not understand what is really going on.  However it is also a very dangerous idea, because it means anytime you disagree with someone, you can simply claim not that they are wrong, but their own ideas of what they like, need, or want are simply the product of a false consciousness.  They can not be trusted to know what they want or need.

Famous political theorist Isaiah Berlin also touched on this concept in some of his early writings.   He noted that some understandings of freedom and liberty were not oriented not towards conditions enabling opportunity, but instead towards more abstracted notions of ‘fulfilling potential’ or reaching ‘true’ personhood.   Those visions of freedom he warned were potentially dangerous, as they offer an opportunity to make choices for others for ‘their own good.’  As Berlin famously says:

“Once I take this view, I am in a position to ignore the actual wishes of men or societies, to bully, to oppress, torture them in the name, and on behalf of their ‘real’ selves, in the secure knowledge that whatever is the true goal of man (happiness, performance of duty, wisdom, a just society, self-fulfillment) must be identical with this freedom – the free choice of his ‘true,’ albeit often submerged and inarticulate, self. ” (Isaiah Berlin, Two Concepts of Freedom)

The point here is not whether one likes the practice of wearing niqab or burkas.  The point is not even whether one thinks that such practices are denigrating to women. The real issue here is whether one is willing to argue that women who choose to wear niqab and burkas are all suffering from some kind of delusional self-identity, that they are unable to understand what’s ‘best’ for them, and therefore one should disregard their ability to consent – effectively removing their voice from any debate or discussion.

As I said, I am a strong opinion person who is confident to the point of arrogance, but to be perfectly frank, I find the articulation of a ‘false consciousness’ argument to be nothing shy of fucking terrifying.

Because, and this is the really scary part, the only one who can ever really know if one is suffering under false consciousness or not, is the very ‘enlightened’ or otherwise ‘self-aware’ person acting to take away one’s right to make choices by virtue of that very claim.

I slept a stink so bad last night I had to take refuge on my girlfriend’s side of the bed. A stink so bad I must have died, rotted, and then been forced back to life to answer for the olfactory crimes of my passing. There is no natural explanation for the persistence and pungency of the odor: I checked the sheet  for shit stains three times, to no avail. Whatever substance I’m emitting is as colorless as it odorous: some invisible taint to my sweat or dreams.

Oddly, I smell of fresh meadows and whimsy in my daily life; or at most speed stick and quiet determination. Even my former sleep sweat has been of the regular musky gent variety. And yet, I don’t know if I’m pregnant, or host to a less native parasite, but there is something seriously off in my body chemistry. My cat Felicia, whose purest joy in life to sleep pressed against human folk, now spends her nights alternately rubbing fresh cloves into my skin and trying to find a belt strong enough to hang her self.

I am hoping this is just a response to the sudden rise in temperature, and a couple incidents of celebratory binge drinking. Should it persist I may need to start sleeping in a bathtub full of baking soda just to preserve the few sources of human contact I have left. I ask not for your pity, but your prayers.

The Mangement.

Isaac waited in the rushes, the dank smell of bog and rot and summer shortening his breath. He watched for bubbles and golden eyes above the scum. He was patient, attentive and calm; there was nothing of the frantic boy in this staid and quiet hunter.

The soft plip of one breaking the surface froze Isaac. He willed himself part of the reeds, part of the water. More surfaced; he marked each skirt of ripples, figured his reach, then struck smoothly, a series of muted splashes the only disruption.  The first few lacked the fullness Isaac preferred; their slender, crooked bodies squirming out between his fingers. He let them leap free to the water, his quick hands beneficent.  He crouched deeper, toes splayed in the silt bottom; waiting for the pond to forget him. Minutes passed, the boy’s sun heavy back pushed him closer to the surface, near inches from crayfish returning to feed. Minnows darted in the shadows of his feet. He found a guilty peace in this part of hunt, something fraternizing in the communion. Years later he’d mourn these burrs of empathy, and how they’d fueled his cruelty.

Isaac was uncompromising in his predation.  He avoided the bark and mossy cowards: their timidity and disguise marking them ill-suited for his purpose. The few he’d bothered to catch had been martyred in hot ash: the heat and soot arresting them, grey and statuary, in some fantastic torment. The Bulls he left alone. They were regal and resonate, too few, and too sure of their place in the pond, to be taken. But the leopards, fierce and lucid and numberless, were ideal participants for his game. He moved in careful increments away from the bank, seeking out telltale spots in waist deep water.

***

Isaacs’ slow progress trailed no wake; his arms held high above the water. The pond deepened in the middle, precipitously in places, so Isaac sounded the bottom with shuffling feet, avoiding the sucking mud and sink holes. Leeches gathered sporadically about his naked waist: fat black motes hanging in rough constellation along his back and hips. Isaac let them feed until they fell of their own accord; he was greater than their hunger. More connected. The pond bottom pitched downward, the reeds rose up in his periphery, edging out the tree and power lined horizon. His world securely contracted, Isaac shook the weight and distraction from his shoulders, immersed himself in the deeper waters of the hunt.

The high static buzz of crickets built around him, muting the birds and babble of the nearby stream. Isaac admired the defiance of the song, how something so vulnerable would surrender its cover to be known; to announce its place. He considered a roar of his own, but knew the voice in his chest was so much smaller than the one in his head. And besides: there was business at hand. Isaac folded away the little hurt, the angry swallow, and cast his eyes across the pond. He sighted a Leopard. A slow fury percolated up from beneath his hunters mask.

Thick and emerald grey it sat on the tallest branch of a drowned tree. The black spots on its back congealed into a Rorschach crow, or, some oddly winged bison. Isaac considered, wary there might be some message, some meaning, in the shape. He circled right in the chest high water to get a better look: the wings were vestigial, but clear; the rest of shape was illegible; something hunched and ancient; denied flight and crueler for it. The Leopard shifted under his scrutiny, turning its glyph covered back to the northern bank. There was an omen here, but he couldn’t figure it. This was a significant creature.

Isaac pushed away his misgivings: he’d take extra care to honor it once it was caught, but he couldn’t worry about its importance now. His standing in the pond was at stake. The leopard watched him approach intently.

***

Isaac circled west and towards the sunken tree; the Leopard moved higher up the branch, calling a slow “rrrrrrRRRRPpppppp” at his approach. Was there recognition in it? Reproach? The Leopard narrowed its glassy, golden, eyes into unreadable slits. Isaac hung in the water, unable to proceed, this placeless frustration tightening around him, fouling his instincts: Did it know why he was there? Would it run?

The Leopard shifted, bowing in its crooked back so its belly faced the sun. Its eyes closed in bliss and Isaac felt slighted. Diminished. Less careful now, Isaac stepped up from the earthy bottom and onto the slick tangle of the trees submerged roots, turning his body until a heavy shadow covered the basking Leopard. Algae smeared beneath his feet, snails burst in crystalline pops of onomatopoetic horror. The tree shuddered as its base loosed in the muck; the Leopards eyes flashed open. Isaac slipped backwards on the root, a low branch drawing a deep scratch across his chest. He did not cry out. He did not splash or claw for purchase. He slid quietly back into the water and waited for the Leopard to jump, the distil haze of his blood vanishing around him.

The Leopard held its ground. Imperious, it roared again “uuuuUUURRRPppppp”. A dozen lesser calls sounded in return, louder for their chorus. Isaac bobbed in the murky water, trying to mark the hidden singers: he’d have words with them when once the Leopard was caught. The next verse began, the callers arrayed in a rough circle around him. Isaac felt the water cool suddenly; sickly strands of weed coiled and clung to his legs: something had changed and he felt unwelcome. Then the Bulls joined the chorus: regal, and resonant, and terrible. Isaac settled deeper in the water, treading slowly, leaving just his face and hands and crown exposed. He knew now he’d been there too long, but the hunter’s demands were upon him. He struck his hands across the water in a loud slap, stilling the choir, and then lunged forth towards the Leopard.

***

Weeds tore away in brutish separation, Isaac’s lunge ripping them from body and root. The water seemed to recede as much as Isaac rose; the world falling out from under his leap. Alarmed, the Leopard sought the air; Isaac reached and reached, forcing the hollow of his palm into the Leopards path, his long fingers closed shut around it .The world returned with force, sending the tree stump hard into Isaac’s stretched and open ribs.  The branches pulled long strips from his side, the impact splintering his breath painfully throughout his chest. Isaac gasped and clung to the Leopard as both tumbled into the murky water.

The pond’s chorus returned; a spray of birds and grasshoppers taking flight punctuated the rising keen. Isaac was too focused on his prize to note the change in song. The alarm.

Isaac swam to the bank, sore and slowed by his clenched fist paddling. The Leopard made an indistinct gurgle in protest of its capture. Isaac loosed his grip and peered through the gap between finger and thumb; The Leopard “urrrpp’d” a final warning. Immune to appeal or epiphany, Isaac held the leopard tighter: a hunter did not give up his prize. Letting out an exultant whoop Isaac began to scale the bank.

The first rock sent the hunter spinning away. The second dug a deep groove in the side of Isaac’s head. Isaac touched the wound and couldn’t make sense of the blood. A third rock grazed his cheek.

“Fucking freak…the fuck you doing in our yard!”

A pack of older boys burst through the reeds, their long legs churning the shallow water to mud. Isaac tried to explain, to show he belonged, but they were too many and too suddenly upon him. The first punch closed his eyes and spilled the Leopard from his open palm. Nails raked his neck and back, Isaac stumbled and was forced down into the water. The muck of the pond filled his throat; the bottom refused him purchase to rise.

Slow knees thudded into his ribs and pressed him down into the mud. Even crushed into the silt he could hear their raucous laughter, their taunts, deeper for passage through the water. A sick frustration burned in Isaac’s chest. Eventually, the weight of the older boys lifted; Isaac dug his hand into the bank and fought to keep from rising, gasping in stinging lungfuls of water: let them be murderers. Isaacs’s chest burned, black spots filled his vision; panicked hands clawed him from the bottom, pulled him roughly over the bank, through the reeds, to the neatly manicured lawn beyond.

The boys gathered in a cluster around Isaacs twitching body. The oldest fought past Isaacs’s thin, flailing, limbs to pound his back. Isaac clenched his eyes against the hot tears, and his jaw against the rising gorge; another hard blow loosed them both.  Isaac gagged vomit and pond water onto the grass, his traitorous lungs spasming out the last of his surrender. His defiance. Isaac shook and wept, staring furiously at the ground, wishing he was within it.

The ring of boys fell away like like ash; stirred by the backwash of remorse that sudden cruelty brings. Isaac was left alone and defeated, the pond denied him. He lay a while, wondering at his loss, then crawled to his feet and made his way home. The Leopard was forgotten.

HEY AJ! Sorry to bother you but I need to write two poems for my college compositional class. Proper poets won’t reply to my emails, so I figured I’d ask you. Can you write me a poem about mans alienation from nature and tendency for self destruction?. If you could make it dark and moody, with a complex rhyme scheme, with a deep thematic counterpoint. I know it’s a lot ask…but what else are you doing these days?

TWO SHEET TWO DA WIND

T-Dot

I have to tell you, Sheets, you’re not much of salesmen. Still, I do have some free time on my hands, and my heart does course with molten poetry, so maybe I can help you out.

Chasing the dragon/My father lament

I put the needle in my arm; a pony bites my fathers leg

I sting and beg the needles charm; who set that goddamn pony free?

Push the plunger oh so deep; dear god he’s got a butcher knife!

The junk it tastes forever sweet; now he’s got my hat, great.

I ride the horse to brown silk heaven; the pony steals my pants and jacket too.

In burnt chrome wash my sins unleven; that better not be a long distance call!

***

Why don’t people like Peppermint? I really enjoy it, and cannot see why others would not.

Patricia,

Worster, Mass

Well, Pat, I could feed you a line about subjective experiences and taste bud allocation…but we both know that would be a lie. The truth is flavor appreciation is predicated on psychic worthiness: bad people enjoy awful flavors. Let us break things down etymologically:

Pepper= hot and spicy

Mint= newly created or of finest condition

The obvious connation: a candy that taste like fresh pepper. That is disgusting, and the kind of candy only incompetent barbers or child predators could enjoy. While I don’t have time to produce a comprehensive list, here’s a quick break down of the more notorious associations.

Terrible flavors and the terrible people who enjoy them

Licorice= Pretentious sycophants that are bad in the sack

Cherry Coke: Vapid hipster that correct the pronunciation of strangers

Black Olives: Sodomites and union agitators

Rice Crackers: Sanctimonious lefties who secretly yearn for the days of slavery

Chowder: Dudes that sing under their breath to other people’s music on the bus

***

I need a two word aphorism to put on my business card. Can you help me out?

Kyle Barstaid,

Winebago, Or

A little glib, but what the hell.

How about one of these:

Beauty consumes

Passion enables

Apathy eases

Empathy erodes

Pajamas unfurl

It really depends of the business you are in and the statement you are trying to make. If you have room you might even consider a short fable about the virtues of hard work.

I do not like the grocery store. The milling crowds and assorted humanity rile me. Yesterday I waited too long and was forced go during peak hours: a jostling, glaring, patience wearing ordeal. Still, it was largely uneventful until I attempted to pay.

In my initial line there was a 250lb old woman in a tuxedo shirt and pants, sans bra, with no visible feet. What was visible, however, through her sweat soaked formal wear, were her pendulous breasts: cavorting like deflated twin manatees wrestling for food. I tried to ignore her, and them, but they rustled and whispered against the fabric like a double endowed Kuato. I feared their secrets enough I broke my cardinal rule and switched grocery lines midstream. Karma frowned upon me.

At the front of the secondary express line was a forty something woman buying eight huge, custom decorated, cakes. Apparently she had negotiated some side deal with the baker and felt the need to relate the entirely of their conversation verbatim to the cashier…despite the fact the agreed upon price was stamped on the top of each box. I’m not sure if her goal was to impress us with her haggling savvy, or assuage her intense loneliness, but much time was consumed in the process. She then produced a wad of  confederate money, two different kinds of cheques, and an expired credit card before relenting and paying in Canadian currency.

Next in line, directly in front of me, was a palsied old man purchasing six tins of cat food. He placed each one on the conveyor with the deliberation of a chess grandmaster; occasionally stopping entirely to remember where the hell he was. He then attempted to remove the necessary change: the first attempt was so lingering, and involved so much pocket jiggling, I half suspected he was trying to barter public self release for wet cat food. The second and third attempts were even less successful. I considered reaching into his pocket to retrieve the change for him, but feared he may have cut the fabric out entirely in a cagey gambit for illicit human contact.

Eventually he paid and I was able breeze through my turn. Though I lament the trauma of that day I know it was not undeserved: never switch lines. Ever.

Did you read this: http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/05/13/genes.patent.myriad/index.html

They are patenting pure human genes, so if anyone develops medical treatments direct at them the corporation has to given their permission first (and wet their beak on any future profits). What the fuck. Where does rank on your outrage scale?

Ethan Morrow,

Former citizen of the Democratic Republic of the United States of America

***

Damn, that is a bigger slap in the face than actually being slapped in the face. The idea that the fundament of our being is property is offensive enough, but that the motivation for making it property is to ensure people can’t treat disease for free: that takes a special kind of shamelessness. It is getting to the point where they will patent the Hard-On and I’ll have to sleep with an elastic band around my junk to keep my morning wood from driving me to financial ruin.

Of course the real crime is not that some scumbag corporation attempted it, but that the government’s response was anything besides immediate trial for crimes against humanity. They have abandoned all of pretense of being an extension of the public will, and become the crooked bagmen of children-stealing ghouls.

As for where it ranks on my outrage scale, take a look-see:

Beats Entropy: Things A.J. is Outraged by Scale

0- Delicious toast being provided in a timely fashion

1- My beloved Sally’s shameful towel hoarding [1]

2- Godzilla being female and taken down with two pitiful sidewinder missiles [2]

3- Couples who hyphenated their last names instead of just picking one

4- Being “Shusssshed”

5- Special Education getting more funding than Enrichment classes

6- Vegans trying to undermine our hard won position on the food chain [3]

7- Twilight having been a best seller

8- Prefacing the explanation of a simple concept with “Basically”, or, a clearly figurative statement with “Literally”.  [4]

9- Patenting things in nature that you did not create

10- Filthy Quebecois traitors whining Bill 101 in existence

***

[1] And now I can’t use a beach towel either! This is a bigger slight than the “don’t drink out of a measuring cup” debacle of 1988.

[2] The acceptable methods for dealing with Godzilla

a) Drive him back into the sea.

b) Hope the giant moth/robot/deep sea fangly fish starts running its mouth and aggravates him.

c) Persuade elf looking alien chicks to soothe him with song…that he might return to the sea of his own accord.

[3] You think the Bears aren’t watching for signs of weakness; they are.

[4] No, you did not “literally” jump out of your skin when the dog barked…you lying son of a whore.

You know the new job I got a while back to replace the old one that I got laid of from: well I got laid off from that one too; Tough economic times and all that. My first proper job lasted eight years, my second 5 months. I don’t want to draw too strong a conclusion from such a limited sample size, but a pattern is emerging. The corporate world and I are no longer compatible. We gave it good try, the kids are grown, and the magic vanished long ago: it’s time to move on.

I should mention this happened a couple months back. I would have said something earlier, but I wanted to set some things into play before I announced my triumphant return to the shiftless underbelly of society. So, shiftless though I be, I have been setting pieces in place: to whit I am now one test away from being a qualified personal trainer. And kind of jacked, as working out is now my sole daily responsibility.

I figure this gives me enough lifestyle flexibility to write and vagabond about, while supplying enough income and social viability to keep from reacquainting my shelter friendships. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Management

A.J. Valliant

.

There was an albino in my high school: he had two holes in his heart and severe allergies to wheat and cotton. Despite that being (in my inexpert medical opinion) two holes too many, the heart thing was never an issue. The allergies, however, were a deep source of conflict between us. You see what Colin lacked in pigment, he made up for in belligerence. And I (possibly to my discredit) enjoy riling brittle people.

What you need to understand is Colin followed the immerse/then accuse school of allergy prevention: he’d seek out the section of hallway where I was eating my sandwiches, then bitch and glare at the nest of crumbs surrounding me.

“I could have an attack if I inhaled those” he said.

“Maybe you should shut your mouth and keep walking then” I said.

At the time I considered myself the model of temperance for not adding “you filthy Albino” to the end of it. Colin just stood there, bravely risking his glutinous demise, glaring at me with his weird pink eyes.

“I’m allergic to bread; I could have an attack if I breathed those crumbs” he said.

In my defense allergic=gets a little itchy to my 15 year old understanding. Anaphylactic shock was a wholly foreign concept: so my carefully sweeping the breadcrumbs into the palm of my hand, then blowing them into his face, seemed a perfectly reasonable escalation…at the time. Colin felt otherwise and tackled me.

Now I should mention that Colin, at the advice of his doctor, had been working out intensely for several years, as a means of correcting the holes in his heart, and was a couple years older to begin with, so he had a surprisingly solid 30lbs of muscle on me. To which he put into good effect by banging my head repeatedly against the floor. I scrambled out from under him, squared off, and prepared to fight a mutant with a serious medical condition.

A few punches were traded and a crowd immediately formed around us. Calls of

“A.J. is beating up the albino” rang through the school.

To be fair, I was at best holding my own against the albino; this did not stop several girls from shrieking insults and pelting me with garbage for what they perceived as my vicious bullying. The guys were more forgiving, and contented themselves by shouting hate filled encouragement and unsolicited medical diagnosis.

“Smash his face A.J.”

“Fuck the freak up”

“Dude…I think he’s a hemophiliac“

At this point I had secured a front headlock and wrestled Colin to the ground.

“Are you hemophiliac” I asked.

Colin gurgled “fuck ahhhh”.

I half applied a choke and tried to remember if hemophiliacs could die from something like that. All that came to mind were random factoids about the British monarchy. After a couple minutes of holding that position a lunch duty teacher broke things up and sent me on my way with no punishment, save the deep shame I felt for brawling with a wronged albino.

***

[1] A mutual friend of ours, Ron, later explained Colin’s medical history to me in detail. It turns out he was both allergic to wheat and a hostile asshole that picked fights on a regular basis. I felt slightly, partially, vindicated.

I was looking at the pictures section and trying to decide just how metro you are. I see a fair amount of shaved chest and pouty face, but you have these terribly bushy eyebrows and reported tufts of shoulder hair. Just how rigorous is your grooming routine?

Sarah H.

Bit of a mixed bag really, Sarah. I’m starting from an odd place esthetically: I’m both uncommonly handsome, and uncommonly hairy. While the two are not entirely at mutual opposition, if left unchecked the hairiness leaves me looking like a down on his luck chimpanzee Hugo Boss model (with oddly small teeth).So I do make an effort to tidy up a little; I’m just not very good at it. Yesterday I pulled a nose hair from so deep there were flecks of brain and bits of childhood memory dangling from the end. I would have kept going but one side of my face went numb and I developed an intense craving for pumpkin bread…seemed a bad sign.

****

What sort of hookup game do you have? Are you a real mack? What is you best pickup move?

Crazy Mitch.

Pomona, California

My best pickup moves in descending order

5. Beat the hell out of the guy she’s with. If she only has female friends I’ll make one of them feel really bad about her shoes.

4. Show her the quilt I made from scraps of former girlfriends clothes and hair.

3. Dress up like her father and then totally ignore her.

2..Dose her with  a love potion I make from cable car oil, gumption, and deadly poisonous nightshade.

1. Pull up my shirt just far enough she sees the hilt of my knife.

****

What’s wronger- Intentionally slamming a midgets head in a car door, or, Destroying a priceless work of art? I realize this is a bit of a false dilemma, but I’d appreciate an answer regardless.

Scott Salvation,

The wilderness of the mind

Tough question, Scott. You’re asking me to weigh the cultural gestalt against the singular moral imperative; the worth of pattern over process; the merit of perfected abstract over deformed concrete: this is no simple matter. I suppose it’s a matter of investment:

Do you know the midget?

Did he pass out right away, or did he wail like a stuck hobbit?

How funny was it when he fell down?

Did the art resonate with you?

Was the artist a douche?

Will you regret not being able to burn it at a later date?

There is no hard answer, but in general it is half as bad to do something to a midget (as compared to a real person), so it’s better to error in that direction. Aside from which, you can’t really replace a work of art, while all but the finest midgets can be replaced by a large headed child with a strong work ethic. I hope I was able to help you.

If you had to hire some sort of animal to run your company (you know, for tax reasons) what sort of animal would you chose? And don’t say Beaver: work ethic aside, we know the kind of havoc those filthy mudpounders bring.

Peobo,

Nowheresville

Surprisingly good question, Peobo: while I don’t currently have a company, I am in the market for a cheap bachelor intern. Someone to scrub my Kraft dinner pots, spot me on the bench, and proof read my angry letters to celebrities. These activities are not solely the province of man, but not all beasts can handle the heat. I could write a masters thesis on the relative merits of each species, but in the interest of brevity, I’ll do a light dusting in chart form.

ANIMAL		PROS			CONS
A COLONY OF ANTS		Industrious creatures used to sacrificing personal ambition for the good of the whole.			Would almost certainly unionize, forcing me to purchase thousands of tiny billy clubs to equip the strikebreaking ladybugs I would hire.
*************************************		**************			**************
GIANT SLOTH		Much bigger than regular sloth. Extreme sedentary approach to life would make me seem dynamic and zesty			- Potential mold hazard from buildup of algae. Skeevy hooked feet remind me of murderous hitchhiker from childhood tales.
***************************************		***************	*	*	****************
OCTOPUS		Great at math Can change color to match décor. Free deep tissues sucker massages.			My constant wearing of it as a novelty hat to amuse friends would poison office dynamic.
****************************************		***************	*	*	****************
A HUGE CROW		1- Would give me air of menace I’ve been lacking since my adult contemporary album came out. 2- Could get into renaissance fairs free by claiming I’m Odin.			1- Eyes as delicious as mine do not go uneaten 2. Should probably avoid additional bad omens until that gypsy in my basement stops weeping blood.

I was in a grocery store yesterday. One of those stunted downtown locations with poor selection and busted prices. I wanted five things and felt put upon by the rival customers impeding me. The meandering of purposeless shoppers grates on my teeth: they were like a flock or retarded seagulls at the dump.

I watched a man pick up three red peppers and then stare for minutes at the clear plastic bag in his left hand, wholly unable to process the relationship between the two…as if someone else had put it there to trick him. Eventually he put the peppers back and grabbed some prepackaged baby carrots, which he then placed into the clear plastic bag. I can’t explain why, but it felt like a deliberate slight against me.

I was going to confront him, when an older women of middle eastern descent gently took my arm and said

“You remind me of spring”.

She had a fairly of a thick accent, but there was no question she’d just compared me to a season without prompting. It was oddly touching. I wanted to say something substantive in reply but all I could think of was

“Thank you, that’s a good thing to be reminded of”.

She laughed a bit, squeezed my arm again, and said

“Yes.Winter is almost beat”. Like she was giving me some small part of the credit.

I told her to have a good day and continued my shopping, much lighter for the interaction. Strange, but pleasant.

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]]> http://frambojan.wordpress.com/2009/03/25/passive-depressive-176/feed/ 2 thekenji RSS http://frambojan.wordpress.com/2009/03/02/i-barebacked-the-internet-and-got-burnt/ http://frambojan.wordpress.com/2009/03/02/i-barebacked-the-internet-and-got-burnt/#comments Tue, 03 Mar 2009 01:37:15 +0000 A.J. Valliant http://beatsentropy.com/?p=1245 ]]>

I’ve historically relied more on providence than protection to safeguard my computer; trusting in the innate goodwill of Latvian movie pirates and Russian pornographers …such was the bounty they brought. There was no legitimate reason that I didn’t use some free anti-virus software, save the thrill of raw information pulsing through my computer, the filthy heat of foreign code. Also: someone likely once advised me it was foolish to do otherwise, forcing me to embrace the contrary position as a point of pride.

It is thus unsurprising that my PC is now more smallpox than blanket; a swaddling so virulent my cat has taken to donning a SARS mask before entering my office. It doesn’t just break things: there is a tangible malicious presence that divines my intent, and then thwarts it. Random program features disappear when called upon, documents writhe and shimmy when used. It creates pretend websites that it funnels me into with false Google links, when it deigns to allow internet use at all. Last night it decided that I no longer deserve sound, and deleted all of my drivers. I fear the next step is blinding me in my sleep.

My attempts to battle it have proved fruitless. System restores were brushed aside. Anti Viruses beaten and emasculated before me. My friend Jay tried to help and it slashed the tires on his car. Though I fear reprisal, tonight I try and format my harddrive. Should this fail I may need to abandon my house entirely. Think well of me.

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