“So what’s there to do here anyway?”
“Um, I don’t really know. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”
“We’ll you’re the LA native, what did you do before we met?”
‘I dunno, I mean there are a lot of freak show stores in Highland Park, I’m sure we’ll find something to do.”
“Maybe we could get our fortune told or something?”
Clara points to the sign that reads “Madame Maria’s Palm Reading and Tarot (323) 259-1012”. Paul shrugs his and takes out his cell phone.
“Well?”
“They’re busy.”
“Maybe they’re making contact with the dead.|”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s a long distance call.”
Clara and Paul continue their walk down Figueroa Boulevard the sun reflecting off of the gum pimpled asphalt. The palm trees, despite their multitude, did nothing to dampened the effects of the sun and Paul could feel the sun burn spreading on his apple cheeks. After walking by their third bargain clothing store supplying the hot fads of the Latino pop faze of the early 90’s Clara began to get frustrated by the lack of adventure in her boyfriend’s home town. This was LA- where was Lauren from The Hills? Where was the traffic? Where was the glamour? Where was Steve Aoki doing blow off of an iphone? She really ought have rented a car for this trip even if it was only for a week. How was she to guess that Paul’s parents needed the car all weekend.
“Oh, I remember this place being kind of cool, in that dusty attic kind of way.”
“What place? You mean that camera store? Well-I do have a question about my flash for my Polaroid camera.”
The outside of Frank’s Camera Store was a sad sight. The front window contained yellowing advertisement advertisements for action cams and photo albums that were covered in a film that could never be developed lied empty and spread eagle. They opened the door to the dark warehouse, the light reflecting against the glass, made their first steps into the store blind ones.
When their eyes adjusted they took in their surrounding. Display cases cut up the store so that the garbage could be separated into different piles. Old broken cameras were in one case, on top of another case a cheesy staged 80s wedding photo cut outs coming in a variety of sizes stood as small army, and in one corner a stack of leather camera bags sat like discarded husks.
Walking through the display cases, they saw that a small alcove had been made for camera repairs. Inside, an ancient man was scratching for life out of something clunky and mechanical. Sprinklings of German was in the air and guarding Frank’s work station was a colossal St. Bernard lying on its side asleep. Paul took in the dog’s presence. Seeing his gigantic chest heaving and eyes gooey with boogers gave him a quality that reminded him of a football mascot costume left out in the rain.
“CAN I HELP YOU WITH ANYTHING?” booms a craggy voice from above.
Paul and Clara’s eyes found the source: a 50 to 60 something year old woman sitting at an elevated desk containing 20 years worth of phonebooks.
“We were just looking around, I guess.” Paul muttered as he and Clara slowly approached the woman.
“What? Could you speak a little louder?!” the old lady nearly screamed.
“I was wondering if you knew how to fix a flash on a Polaroid camera?” Clara said just slightly louder than Paul. They had finally had approached close enough to see her in better detail. Her hair was wheat colored and was a managed wild. Around a couple of her teeth there was a black outline, indicating their falseness. She was wearing a red polo shirt, a bra that had seemed to forget its function and some jeans. By her beige cord phone a maroon placard simply stated “Elsa”.
“That depends on if your bulb is broken or if it is the actual camera is malfunctioning.” Elsa started, her face pulled into a myriad of expressions by strings of wrinkles.
“ You might just want to buy a new flash or camera. I don’t have one here but I can get you one buy tomorrow. I’ll need to call some people. I’ll use the yellow pages and find someone for you. I do not use the internet; I REFUSE to use it. I do not need anyone screwing around with my freedom. My daughter, she is a genius. We built my computer together. I went and bought the mother boards, the hover boards, crazy whatever boards and we built it. BUT I said I’ll NEVER have the internet. I don’t even have a cellphone- UNLESS you are hooker, drug dealer or making a thousand dollars with every call you do not need a cellphone. You are always attached if you have a cellphone. I mean why do you need to be talking to people at all hours of the day ‘ ohhh my boyfriend broke up with me,’ GOOD riddance, he was an asshole anyways- get over your shit and get a new one. I’m not saying that’s going to happen to you two lovebirds, but you know what I mean.”
Paul and Clara not quite knowing what to do, merely smiled and nodded, affirming their love. Clara was about to say something along the lines of what about all the resources on the internet when Elsa started talking once more.
“I was blessed with a wonderfully sweet grandmother who once told me ‘Be there for your friends when they need you, but don’t try to solve their problems-that’s what professionals are for’. You aren’t being paid to listen to their issues. I mean what makes you qualified to tell someone what they should be doing with their life? ACCK! I sure as shit don’t want anyone to know what I am up to!
I don’t even have an ATM card. If you are dumb enough to walk around without 20 bucks in your pocket- you deserve all that shit that comes to you. I mean come on- when that thing came out, I was like, you are something stupid if you invest in that. This was before all the identity theft mumbojumbo too. To turn your back on everyone when you take out money- how STUPID is that? I mean you are so vulnerable. I was just reading a FANTASTIC article in the paper about it too- that’s right- THE PAPER! You really need to read the paper; it is all there. You don’t need any internet, they all lie on it anyways. But this story, it was incredible, let me tell you. It was about these guys who would go down to Mexico to do bad stuff. I mean I know women could go down to do bad stuff too, but these were all business men- BIG SCANDAL. Anyways, what they would do was go down to Mexico to go and pick up hookers.
How it would work was they would go up to this place- it was like a drive-thru or an isle or something. They would drive up, the girl would walk in and they would start their business arrangement. Sure enough, these men started disappearing! You see what they were doing was, they were, these ladies of the night, were getting these men drunk.
They would give them something to drink, laughing and what-not, but there would be poison in the drink so they would pass out. THEN, their pimps would come into the car and take away these men’s wallets, their credit cards, watches and everything and drive the car out to the desert and their bodies would decompose unwitnessed.
Nobody knew how this was happening. All these business men kept disappearing and the ONLY connection was that they all were drawing from the same ATM. They would take out their money at the same place for the hookers and then go to the drive-thru thing. Still- this kept happening and these bodies were never identified because they were stripped. Then ONE time, this dumbass cop, he forgot to take off his tag. Then when they found his body dripping with fluid and whatever they were able to identify him and as it turned out- THE POLICE were in to too GO FIGURE.
“Well, they wouldn’t have been able to find the dead bodies with out the ATM link though?” Clara said attempting to challenge Elsa
“ACK!” exclaimed Elsa, disregarding Clara with a wave of her hand.
“You know technology is becoming a bad thing! My daughter is having a heck of a time with my granddaughter. I understand her having a cellphone, she is an single mother and forgets that her daughter gets outs at 12 on Wednesdays because of the budget cuts- THE BUDGET CUTS- ACK- LIKE THAT IS WHAT WE NEED! ON EDUCATION! Anyways, I pick her up, no problem. But she isn’t safe from the internet either! I know the Myspace asks you to be 14 before you get one but that didn’t stop my 12 year old granddaughter from getting one! It isn’t that hard to get one and those little shits will turn on you. But all of my friends have a cellphone, an i-pod, myspace, facebook, whatever. They are now controlled by everyone else too. I try to tell people. Older people are too worried about their real estate investments and are too tired and young people just are too brainwashed- and NOW we have the budget cuts Tee riffic. These internet places are just not safe for children. The perverts that are out and about- it would blow your mind how easy it is for them. The school that my granddaughter goes too, it is too simple to get into. I mean- I walked right in there- they assume because I have an elastic key ring and I smile I am a teacher. DON’T even ID me. Great.
Her school is in North Hollywood and one day I saw a man sitting in his car for a good half an hour before I stared him down and he got scared away. That incident made me take action in my own hands. I sat in front of the school everyday for a month- just observing what was going on. Those kids are vicious these days- but you’ll NEVER guess what the worst kid gangs are- THOSE VIETNAMESE GIRLS. They are evil man- I saw them with my own eyes. They look so pretty with their long straight hair and they looks so shy and nice but you’ll never imagine what I saw. See what they do is they surround their prey- the kid or whatever- and they’ve got these long sharp nails and they take them and dig underneath the kid’s hair line. It looked like they were scalping them. These Vietnamese girls, Oriental gangs- they are vicious. It was shocking these girls, it wasn’t white kids starting it or Mexicans or Black kids, just these evil little girls. I mean they’ve got everything under control now- but man, that was some horrifying shit. I was sure glad I was camping out in front of the school and caught on to that one.”
Right as Clara was about to tell Elsa that Oriental was not a politically correct term, the lights flicker and go out.
“I told you! I told you! You with your fancy computers! Look now! Helpless! Look- I’ve got a battery-less flashlight- what do you have an IPOD? That won’t work for shit!” The St. Bernard starts twitching on the floor chasing something that isn’t there. Elsa continually winds up a broken flashlight and Paul’s pant leg vibrates with the call from the psychic.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Albino Goldfish
I don’t know what they were expecting, you know? I mean what do you expect from fucking with science. Hadn’t they seen Frankestein for cripes sake or a frigging Nazi movie for that matter? I don’t know, I just don’t know. Huh? What? OH just ignore me- I’m just a fucking freak of nature. Don’t bother with my ramblings.
What’s my fucking deal?! What’s your fucking deal? I’m just sitting here trying to have a drink and you come up to me asking questions and prodding where you shouldn’t. Oh, your girlfriend left you? Tough break man. I know how that goes. Why’d she leave you?
Ah… people are always so concrete with their expectations. Like me for example, I was destined for glory before I was born but you know- once the cat’s out of the bag- or the bag’s out of the cat, there’s no going back.
It’s a long story, are you sure you want to hear it? Yeah, well I’ve been to my share of shrinks I really don’t know how much it’ll help. Are you sure man- it’s one hell of a distraction from a simple heart break. NO No no, I’m not saying that your break up was simple. Just that it’s a lot to take in, you know?
Well- erm, here goes nothing. I was born in that small time frame in the early 2010’s where baby customization was legal. They finally had cracked the code and figured out how to read it. However, like every new technology, it was incredibly expensive and only the most affluent people could afford it. My mother, being a single lady, knew she would have some problems getting into the program and agreed to having my life being logged and controlled for a discounted price and free lodging.
I mean, it wasn’t really her fault, you know, I mean, she was the smallest in her family and she had come from a pretty disease-addled family tree. Brain disorders, spinal problems, blood clots, you name it- my family had it. She just wanted a child of her own so badly. So she filled out this scantron and the DNA was plucked from several different carriers with strands that would prevent certain body issues. I had DNA from an Olympian, a pianist, a Nobel Prize winning mathematician and a sculptor. Unfortunately, those scientists weren’t Nobel Prize winners and just put a bunch of DNA in a blender and hoped for the best. Much like how I imagined that Strawberry Margerita of yours was conceived.
Pretty hard to believe you say? Yeah, well you’d look like shit too buddy. You don’t know what those scientists were like. My mother was a timid lady. She was ashamed of her financial standing and always super self-conscious about this lazy eye that sank to the back of her head. So she was always letting the scientists do whatever they wanted to make the “uber child”. If she ever started sticking up for me they just look her right in that toad on a log eye of hers and I’d be back in their grasp.
What was so wrong about free lodging you ask? Well, you see they had me on a fairly short leash. This is how everyday until I left went:
Every morning I’d wake up at five in the morning for my daily exercises. I did Calisthenics, weight-training, yoga, martial arts and when I got older horse back riding. Then from 8 am to 12pm I’d have the first part of my lessons. It would begin with a pop quiz from the information I learned the previous day, a small review, and then I learned everything imaginable. I studied every culture extensively, read billions of books, everything. At noon I’d have my lunch that was intensely sculpted by a bunch of nutritionalists who were up to date on the healthiest of vegetables and grains. I hadn’t tasted refined sugar till I was in my twenties. Then from 1 to 4pm I would go back to my lessons. Finally from 4 to 6 I’d have arts intervention where I’d learn how to play instruments, draw pictures and even learned jazz tap dancing. Only from 6 to 7 could I watch an educational program of my choice and then at 7 I’d have dinner and be in bed by 8:30.
I probably learned about 10 languages during that timeframe and got the equivalent of going to college three times. Guest speakers came to visit with me for one-on-one conversations on politics and the arts. I was practically a machine of absorbing information-but then puberty hit.
You see, I rarely if ever had any interaction with kids my age. Sometimes I’d see them at operas or plays dragged in by their parents, their hair stuck back and upset about going. They’d run up to me glad to see someone their age, but once they started talking to me it wasn’t long before they figured out I was just another adult. The spark of a new friend would die in their eyes and I became this disgusting thing, this man-child. I couldn’t talk to them about toys. I couldn’t talk to them about school. For chrissakes,I couldn’t even talk to them about food. I felt the same way about everything I was learning too. What was the point about reading about all these cultures and traditions when my prospective was so skewed from everything. What was the point of learning all of this information if I had no experience empathize with.
By the time I turned 13 this lifestyle had really worn me down. I started getting cocky, rebelling at any chance I could. Scientists would come and I would criticizing their hypothesizes. I became a grammar Nazi and I took out so much of it my poor mother. I’d yell at her in Latin/ Greek/ Spanish/ French / German/ Japanese and Celtic all at once- calling her simple minded and not worthy to be in presence of someone with such knowledge.
Along this time the doctors figured out that I was a not just inheriting the positives of my fathers’ DNA but all the cons as well. Sure, all of my fathers might have been physically fit and intelligent but where their sickness lied was their mind. What do I mean by mind? I don’t know if I can say much about it. I mean, I know I can’t. What I can tell you is, it’s all fine and dandy if you’ve inherited the body of an Olympian but what use is that if you’ve also inherited the alcoholism from a certain pianist. As it turned out, I was highly susceptible to addiction. I had anger issues and was incredibly bi-polar. Not only that but I was OCD and developed the strangest phobias.
It no longer mattered if I was incredibly intelligent or had a beautiful body when such a fire was brewing in my mind. I couldn’t concentrate on my homework when all I could think about was how all the fish goldfish in the tank were sparkling and gold except for that one albino one. While my instructor explained String Theory, all I could look at was that one Albino fish swimming round and round. Its pink eyes looking in all directions as if to say “I hope no one knows I don’t belong here.” Oh but I did.
When my teacher went on his smoking break I stayed in the classroom to “look over my notes”. I crushed that damned fish and I was proud of it. You see it didn’t belong. It wasn’t the right color and was flawed. Looking back on it now, I was that fish. I was the one who stuck out like a sore thumb. I was the one swimming in circles looking for meaning and finding nothing trapped in that tank, bred for amusement of others.
Yeah I know it’s fucked, but that’s when things really got bad. After I realized I killed a creature like a little harmless goldfish my freak-outs came more and more often. I’d pace around in my classes, break stuff, yell, and run away. Anything and everything. Knowing scientists they did what they do best- they gave me drugs. You see, this is when I figured out about all of my dormant addictions! They tried to balance out everything: my bi-polar condition, my OCD, my insomnia, and all the symptoms that came from taking the various medications. Some days I’d be a total zombie while others I’d be freaking the fuck out. It felt as though my soul and perception of what my identity was stripped from me. I dealt with this till I turned 18, then the scientist gave me and my mom the boot.
Getting into a college wasn’t hard I had been prepared academically for college since ten and all I had to do was keep my shit together during interviews. I was accepted for a full scholarship to Yale with an undeclared major. College was pretty easy. Most of the time I’d just pull up computer files of my old work, re-date them and turn them in. Due to academic boredom I quickly discovered the glamour of cheap liquor. Being with my classmates outside of school situations was difficult enough, especially when they talked about pop culture. I learned the effects of drinking suddenly and I didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Suddenly my Latin jokes were funny and the OCD didn’t matter. It was like my body was in cruise control. Pretty soon I met this girl.
Hey don’t scoff, I know you’ve been burnt but this girl was special. She was the one. Still is the one. Her name was Margie and she just got it, never an explanation with her. She was adopted and home schooled and she knew what it was like to feel alone. Her parents were rich yuppies who had adopted her from a foreign country during the Brangelina phase and she was constantly telling me how she too felt like she was just an object for their amusement.
We just clicked. She had this heavy calm about her that whenever I’d freak out about not having an even amount of napkins or my shampoo going out before my conditioner she’d be there and she’d soothe the problem before it started. She stripped me of my high standards and taught me how to ignore all that I had learned. Only when I turned my back on my education could I start to see myself for who I really was. I loved her so much. We were engaged to be married and everything. Even though she never speaks to me I have kept on teaching myself to unlearn things with drugs, alcohol and reality television- it’s the only joy I find without her. What went wrong? Well, one of the traits surfaced.
I don’t know if you’re ready for this one. This is something I’ve been dealing with for a long time now. The reason I drink. The reason I hate those doctors as much as I do. Considering you’ve been listening this long I might as well tell you. You remember that Noble Peace Prize mathematician? Well- he had problems that he never told the scientists about. Margie was so upset when she first found out she didn’t know what to do or say. She just stood there mouth opening and closing and eyes rapidly blinking. A twisted scream emerged from her mouth and she threw the tape at me. She started yelling things like “So, that’s why you wanted to know who the flower girl was!” and “That’s why you always insisted we walked past the school to get to the grocery school- it wasn’t your OCD you’re just a pervert you son of a bitch!”. Yea, you guessed it, kiddie porn. You see a year after he won the Nobel Peace Prize that mathematician was sent to jail for trying to pick a kid off the internet, was on To Catch a Predator and everything.
Have I ever touched a kid? Once I kissed a girl. She was about ten years old and I was babysitting to make some extra cash. I don’t know what came over me. She seemed so happy sitting there in little that green dress, drinking juice and laughing at whatever pop band/ sitcom was on. I just cupped her small face, kissed her on her mouth and went to put some microwaveable pizza snacks in. When I came back she had this dusty looking reflection in her eyes- she just blinked it out and went back to watching whatever show was on tv. It was the only time it happened but I’m constantly fighting it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me so I just avoid children like the plague and try to stay in cruise control. You’ve got that same dusty expression she had. Are you dry; want another drink? Bartender! Another drink for my friend- what did you say your name was? Nice, name you got there. Me? Oh my name’s Eugene.
What’s my fucking deal?! What’s your fucking deal? I’m just sitting here trying to have a drink and you come up to me asking questions and prodding where you shouldn’t. Oh, your girlfriend left you? Tough break man. I know how that goes. Why’d she leave you?
Ah… people are always so concrete with their expectations. Like me for example, I was destined for glory before I was born but you know- once the cat’s out of the bag- or the bag’s out of the cat, there’s no going back.
It’s a long story, are you sure you want to hear it? Yeah, well I’ve been to my share of shrinks I really don’t know how much it’ll help. Are you sure man- it’s one hell of a distraction from a simple heart break. NO No no, I’m not saying that your break up was simple. Just that it’s a lot to take in, you know?
Well- erm, here goes nothing. I was born in that small time frame in the early 2010’s where baby customization was legal. They finally had cracked the code and figured out how to read it. However, like every new technology, it was incredibly expensive and only the most affluent people could afford it. My mother, being a single lady, knew she would have some problems getting into the program and agreed to having my life being logged and controlled for a discounted price and free lodging.
I mean, it wasn’t really her fault, you know, I mean, she was the smallest in her family and she had come from a pretty disease-addled family tree. Brain disorders, spinal problems, blood clots, you name it- my family had it. She just wanted a child of her own so badly. So she filled out this scantron and the DNA was plucked from several different carriers with strands that would prevent certain body issues. I had DNA from an Olympian, a pianist, a Nobel Prize winning mathematician and a sculptor. Unfortunately, those scientists weren’t Nobel Prize winners and just put a bunch of DNA in a blender and hoped for the best. Much like how I imagined that Strawberry Margerita of yours was conceived.
Pretty hard to believe you say? Yeah, well you’d look like shit too buddy. You don’t know what those scientists were like. My mother was a timid lady. She was ashamed of her financial standing and always super self-conscious about this lazy eye that sank to the back of her head. So she was always letting the scientists do whatever they wanted to make the “uber child”. If she ever started sticking up for me they just look her right in that toad on a log eye of hers and I’d be back in their grasp.
What was so wrong about free lodging you ask? Well, you see they had me on a fairly short leash. This is how everyday until I left went:
Every morning I’d wake up at five in the morning for my daily exercises. I did Calisthenics, weight-training, yoga, martial arts and when I got older horse back riding. Then from 8 am to 12pm I’d have the first part of my lessons. It would begin with a pop quiz from the information I learned the previous day, a small review, and then I learned everything imaginable. I studied every culture extensively, read billions of books, everything. At noon I’d have my lunch that was intensely sculpted by a bunch of nutritionalists who were up to date on the healthiest of vegetables and grains. I hadn’t tasted refined sugar till I was in my twenties. Then from 1 to 4pm I would go back to my lessons. Finally from 4 to 6 I’d have arts intervention where I’d learn how to play instruments, draw pictures and even learned jazz tap dancing. Only from 6 to 7 could I watch an educational program of my choice and then at 7 I’d have dinner and be in bed by 8:30.
I probably learned about 10 languages during that timeframe and got the equivalent of going to college three times. Guest speakers came to visit with me for one-on-one conversations on politics and the arts. I was practically a machine of absorbing information-but then puberty hit.
You see, I rarely if ever had any interaction with kids my age. Sometimes I’d see them at operas or plays dragged in by their parents, their hair stuck back and upset about going. They’d run up to me glad to see someone their age, but once they started talking to me it wasn’t long before they figured out I was just another adult. The spark of a new friend would die in their eyes and I became this disgusting thing, this man-child. I couldn’t talk to them about toys. I couldn’t talk to them about school. For chrissakes,I couldn’t even talk to them about food. I felt the same way about everything I was learning too. What was the point about reading about all these cultures and traditions when my prospective was so skewed from everything. What was the point of learning all of this information if I had no experience empathize with.
By the time I turned 13 this lifestyle had really worn me down. I started getting cocky, rebelling at any chance I could. Scientists would come and I would criticizing their hypothesizes. I became a grammar Nazi and I took out so much of it my poor mother. I’d yell at her in Latin/ Greek/ Spanish/ French / German/ Japanese and Celtic all at once- calling her simple minded and not worthy to be in presence of someone with such knowledge.
Along this time the doctors figured out that I was a not just inheriting the positives of my fathers’ DNA but all the cons as well. Sure, all of my fathers might have been physically fit and intelligent but where their sickness lied was their mind. What do I mean by mind? I don’t know if I can say much about it. I mean, I know I can’t. What I can tell you is, it’s all fine and dandy if you’ve inherited the body of an Olympian but what use is that if you’ve also inherited the alcoholism from a certain pianist. As it turned out, I was highly susceptible to addiction. I had anger issues and was incredibly bi-polar. Not only that but I was OCD and developed the strangest phobias.
It no longer mattered if I was incredibly intelligent or had a beautiful body when such a fire was brewing in my mind. I couldn’t concentrate on my homework when all I could think about was how all the fish goldfish in the tank were sparkling and gold except for that one albino one. While my instructor explained String Theory, all I could look at was that one Albino fish swimming round and round. Its pink eyes looking in all directions as if to say “I hope no one knows I don’t belong here.” Oh but I did.
When my teacher went on his smoking break I stayed in the classroom to “look over my notes”. I crushed that damned fish and I was proud of it. You see it didn’t belong. It wasn’t the right color and was flawed. Looking back on it now, I was that fish. I was the one who stuck out like a sore thumb. I was the one swimming in circles looking for meaning and finding nothing trapped in that tank, bred for amusement of others.
Yeah I know it’s fucked, but that’s when things really got bad. After I realized I killed a creature like a little harmless goldfish my freak-outs came more and more often. I’d pace around in my classes, break stuff, yell, and run away. Anything and everything. Knowing scientists they did what they do best- they gave me drugs. You see, this is when I figured out about all of my dormant addictions! They tried to balance out everything: my bi-polar condition, my OCD, my insomnia, and all the symptoms that came from taking the various medications. Some days I’d be a total zombie while others I’d be freaking the fuck out. It felt as though my soul and perception of what my identity was stripped from me. I dealt with this till I turned 18, then the scientist gave me and my mom the boot.
Getting into a college wasn’t hard I had been prepared academically for college since ten and all I had to do was keep my shit together during interviews. I was accepted for a full scholarship to Yale with an undeclared major. College was pretty easy. Most of the time I’d just pull up computer files of my old work, re-date them and turn them in. Due to academic boredom I quickly discovered the glamour of cheap liquor. Being with my classmates outside of school situations was difficult enough, especially when they talked about pop culture. I learned the effects of drinking suddenly and I didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Suddenly my Latin jokes were funny and the OCD didn’t matter. It was like my body was in cruise control. Pretty soon I met this girl.
Hey don’t scoff, I know you’ve been burnt but this girl was special. She was the one. Still is the one. Her name was Margie and she just got it, never an explanation with her. She was adopted and home schooled and she knew what it was like to feel alone. Her parents were rich yuppies who had adopted her from a foreign country during the Brangelina phase and she was constantly telling me how she too felt like she was just an object for their amusement.
We just clicked. She had this heavy calm about her that whenever I’d freak out about not having an even amount of napkins or my shampoo going out before my conditioner she’d be there and she’d soothe the problem before it started. She stripped me of my high standards and taught me how to ignore all that I had learned. Only when I turned my back on my education could I start to see myself for who I really was. I loved her so much. We were engaged to be married and everything. Even though she never speaks to me I have kept on teaching myself to unlearn things with drugs, alcohol and reality television- it’s the only joy I find without her. What went wrong? Well, one of the traits surfaced.
I don’t know if you’re ready for this one. This is something I’ve been dealing with for a long time now. The reason I drink. The reason I hate those doctors as much as I do. Considering you’ve been listening this long I might as well tell you. You remember that Noble Peace Prize mathematician? Well- he had problems that he never told the scientists about. Margie was so upset when she first found out she didn’t know what to do or say. She just stood there mouth opening and closing and eyes rapidly blinking. A twisted scream emerged from her mouth and she threw the tape at me. She started yelling things like “So, that’s why you wanted to know who the flower girl was!” and “That’s why you always insisted we walked past the school to get to the grocery school- it wasn’t your OCD you’re just a pervert you son of a bitch!”. Yea, you guessed it, kiddie porn. You see a year after he won the Nobel Peace Prize that mathematician was sent to jail for trying to pick a kid off the internet, was on To Catch a Predator and everything.
Have I ever touched a kid? Once I kissed a girl. She was about ten years old and I was babysitting to make some extra cash. I don’t know what came over me. She seemed so happy sitting there in little that green dress, drinking juice and laughing at whatever pop band/ sitcom was on. I just cupped her small face, kissed her on her mouth and went to put some microwaveable pizza snacks in. When I came back she had this dusty looking reflection in her eyes- she just blinked it out and went back to watching whatever show was on tv. It was the only time it happened but I’m constantly fighting it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me so I just avoid children like the plague and try to stay in cruise control. You’ve got that same dusty expression she had. Are you dry; want another drink? Bartender! Another drink for my friend- what did you say your name was? Nice, name you got there. Me? Oh my name’s Eugene.
Bubbleboy
Bubbleboy
A couple of nights ago I had this dream. I remember it being an important dream because it was the first dream I’ve had in my new house. A new house dream. This dream smelled like empty rooms and half full boxes and crunched to pieces like packing peanuts. This dream started off normal enough. Just mundane things like walking down streets with California lighting and Chicago architecture, talking to people, riding the train and then I fell in love with John Travolta.
This wasn’t John Travolta now though; this was dreamy, wavy-haired, Boy in The Plastic Bubble era John Travolta. I only met him because my pack of douchey, tv marketable, flower children friends had dared me to go see the freak and curiosity had gotten the better of me. Little did I know that he had been watching me grow up from his upstairs window all this time. Starring down at me with those big-bright-blue eyes, his dopey smile and hairy thighs that wrestled to keep his balls in his orange track shorts.
I’d met John while he was still in the bubble, and I swear to god that thing must have been magnified because he saw right through me. At first I was met with a lot of hostility, towards what I represented- the outside; but we both knew that just was his sexual frustration speaking. We’d talk for hours, him in his plastic prison, and me in my society-made one. He was so foreign from the outside world and each observation fell out of his mouth like unmarred jewels. Every time I looked at him through that bubble I felt as though I was seeing myself clearer and that within his crystal bubble lied the answer. He’d whisper things to me through this membrane and the vibrations enhanced all of his words as they rooted themselves into my spine.
Pretty soon, we started trying to figure out ways around this bubble. However, handjobs with a big rubber glove loose their charm pretty quickly, especially with lubricant’s problems going through the immunization machine. Also, one can only make out with a piece of cellophane for so long before it starts to feel ridiculous. On the plus side, our parent’s had no issues about us hanging out for long amounts of time. My mom felt safe that I wasn’t going to catch any diseases and his parents were just happy he had any friends.
However, one day John had had enough. Seeing me having boyfriends and a life outside of his bubble was driving him crazy and he had turned to drastic action. He took a pair of kiddy scissors from his desk and slit a long hole through the plastic. He fell head first through the membrane and gasped like a fish on the floor. He had been reborn.
Here I became a little conscious of the outside world. Instead of the regular noises I had grown accustomed to, like the stomping and the clanging of pans, the shrill barking of dogs momentarily woke me up. My eyes looked through their slits for a second, catching a glimpse of piles of clothes and realizing that light coming into my room would never be this fresh again. Then I rolled over on to my stomach and me and John suddenly had started our new life. This new life meant a new Travolta- this John was a combination of Danny from Grease and Vinny from Welcome Back Kotter.
This Travolta would put his arm around my shoulders and make jokes and smack my ass at diners. There was something demeaning about the whole experience but at the same time I was glad the over-intellectualization was over and all that remained was action- even if it was dumb action. For some reason all of our dates were 50’s themed, like sock hops followed by malts and long nights at “The Point”. He was so delightfully stupid from the bubble boy who had questioned me so. Sure it was gross when he made exaggerated honking gestures about breasts and soda would shoot out of his nose every time he laughed, but there was always his voice. Everyday was like a musical with him, his pained lonely coyoyte voice narrating our lives into something exciting, something fresh. It was all pretty perfect. However, after one double-feature horror film at the drive –in the inevitable happened, and I became pregnant.
In my dream world all of the pregnancy was practically skipped until the birth. It was basically all the montages in romantic comedies to represent the baby growing: John running out to go buy things for cravings, us arguing over baby names, and who could forget that whacky morning sickness. When it was time for the birth I remember we hoped into Grease Lightening and took off for the hospital. Pretty soon I was spread eagle on the hospital table with masked doctors all around. I really didn’t understand how anyone thought it was going to be possible to give birth in a black leather onesy, but if Newton John managed a whole dance number who was I to complain?
From between my legs I could see that my sweet bubble boy had changed again. Starring back at me I saw tha his cyan eyes had grown metallic and humorless and his breathing turned mechanic and rhythmic as it passed through a filter that clipped on the sides of his nose. He had transformed into Battlefield Earth/Post-Scientology Travolta complete with the dreads, platform shoes and puffy man-head. Today when I gave birth to my child I wouldn’t have excited Look Who’s Talking Travolta picking up our child and screeching with his overly scoopy voice full of excitement of new life- no this was a completely different matter. There would be no talking pets following this birth.
As my breath changed and became quicker and the contractions more and more frequent, I noticed how sterile the hospital had become and the lights glowed with an uncomfortable hum. When the baby’s head began to push through I saw the doctor’s eyes widen. Suddenly after the skull had passed through, six claw-like members attached to the skull spread open my vagina and forced itself out of my body with one clean little scuttle as I felt a tail push the rest of it out.
When I woke up all I remembered were the decisions. I felt the mechanic warmth of my heating blanket. It’s false heat felt like John had just got up momentarily to go pee. I lay in that imagined vacancy and inhaled the spot where his head would have been. Where it would have smelled like outdated musk, plasticy new school supplies and baking bread. I expected to hear that clunk of the toilet seat being slammed down followed by the flushing echo, to hear his tall frame click down the hall adjusting from the cold tile to cold hardwood floors only to look up and see him enter the room. I expected to see him back in his orange gym shorts, leaning his weight on the doorway, with one hand on his hip, hair tossed back and grinning.
The doctors told me that I shouldn’t kill it. The doctors said that one day it would hatch into a real baby. But as I looked at it there with its shiny exctoskeleton and wriggling little pincers I knew what I had to do. This was no baby; this was a fossil. Yep unless Michael Travolta showed up, this horse shoe crab was out of luck.
A couple of nights ago I had this dream. I remember it being an important dream because it was the first dream I’ve had in my new house. A new house dream. This dream smelled like empty rooms and half full boxes and crunched to pieces like packing peanuts. This dream started off normal enough. Just mundane things like walking down streets with California lighting and Chicago architecture, talking to people, riding the train and then I fell in love with John Travolta.
This wasn’t John Travolta now though; this was dreamy, wavy-haired, Boy in The Plastic Bubble era John Travolta. I only met him because my pack of douchey, tv marketable, flower children friends had dared me to go see the freak and curiosity had gotten the better of me. Little did I know that he had been watching me grow up from his upstairs window all this time. Starring down at me with those big-bright-blue eyes, his dopey smile and hairy thighs that wrestled to keep his balls in his orange track shorts.
I’d met John while he was still in the bubble, and I swear to god that thing must have been magnified because he saw right through me. At first I was met with a lot of hostility, towards what I represented- the outside; but we both knew that just was his sexual frustration speaking. We’d talk for hours, him in his plastic prison, and me in my society-made one. He was so foreign from the outside world and each observation fell out of his mouth like unmarred jewels. Every time I looked at him through that bubble I felt as though I was seeing myself clearer and that within his crystal bubble lied the answer. He’d whisper things to me through this membrane and the vibrations enhanced all of his words as they rooted themselves into my spine.
Pretty soon, we started trying to figure out ways around this bubble. However, handjobs with a big rubber glove loose their charm pretty quickly, especially with lubricant’s problems going through the immunization machine. Also, one can only make out with a piece of cellophane for so long before it starts to feel ridiculous. On the plus side, our parent’s had no issues about us hanging out for long amounts of time. My mom felt safe that I wasn’t going to catch any diseases and his parents were just happy he had any friends.
However, one day John had had enough. Seeing me having boyfriends and a life outside of his bubble was driving him crazy and he had turned to drastic action. He took a pair of kiddy scissors from his desk and slit a long hole through the plastic. He fell head first through the membrane and gasped like a fish on the floor. He had been reborn.
Here I became a little conscious of the outside world. Instead of the regular noises I had grown accustomed to, like the stomping and the clanging of pans, the shrill barking of dogs momentarily woke me up. My eyes looked through their slits for a second, catching a glimpse of piles of clothes and realizing that light coming into my room would never be this fresh again. Then I rolled over on to my stomach and me and John suddenly had started our new life. This new life meant a new Travolta- this John was a combination of Danny from Grease and Vinny from Welcome Back Kotter.
This Travolta would put his arm around my shoulders and make jokes and smack my ass at diners. There was something demeaning about the whole experience but at the same time I was glad the over-intellectualization was over and all that remained was action- even if it was dumb action. For some reason all of our dates were 50’s themed, like sock hops followed by malts and long nights at “The Point”. He was so delightfully stupid from the bubble boy who had questioned me so. Sure it was gross when he made exaggerated honking gestures about breasts and soda would shoot out of his nose every time he laughed, but there was always his voice. Everyday was like a musical with him, his pained lonely coyoyte voice narrating our lives into something exciting, something fresh. It was all pretty perfect. However, after one double-feature horror film at the drive –in the inevitable happened, and I became pregnant.
In my dream world all of the pregnancy was practically skipped until the birth. It was basically all the montages in romantic comedies to represent the baby growing: John running out to go buy things for cravings, us arguing over baby names, and who could forget that whacky morning sickness. When it was time for the birth I remember we hoped into Grease Lightening and took off for the hospital. Pretty soon I was spread eagle on the hospital table with masked doctors all around. I really didn’t understand how anyone thought it was going to be possible to give birth in a black leather onesy, but if Newton John managed a whole dance number who was I to complain?
From between my legs I could see that my sweet bubble boy had changed again. Starring back at me I saw tha his cyan eyes had grown metallic and humorless and his breathing turned mechanic and rhythmic as it passed through a filter that clipped on the sides of his nose. He had transformed into Battlefield Earth/Post-Scientology Travolta complete with the dreads, platform shoes and puffy man-head. Today when I gave birth to my child I wouldn’t have excited Look Who’s Talking Travolta picking up our child and screeching with his overly scoopy voice full of excitement of new life- no this was a completely different matter. There would be no talking pets following this birth.
As my breath changed and became quicker and the contractions more and more frequent, I noticed how sterile the hospital had become and the lights glowed with an uncomfortable hum. When the baby’s head began to push through I saw the doctor’s eyes widen. Suddenly after the skull had passed through, six claw-like members attached to the skull spread open my vagina and forced itself out of my body with one clean little scuttle as I felt a tail push the rest of it out.
When I woke up all I remembered were the decisions. I felt the mechanic warmth of my heating blanket. It’s false heat felt like John had just got up momentarily to go pee. I lay in that imagined vacancy and inhaled the spot where his head would have been. Where it would have smelled like outdated musk, plasticy new school supplies and baking bread. I expected to hear that clunk of the toilet seat being slammed down followed by the flushing echo, to hear his tall frame click down the hall adjusting from the cold tile to cold hardwood floors only to look up and see him enter the room. I expected to see him back in his orange gym shorts, leaning his weight on the doorway, with one hand on his hip, hair tossed back and grinning.
The doctors told me that I shouldn’t kill it. The doctors said that one day it would hatch into a real baby. But as I looked at it there with its shiny exctoskeleton and wriggling little pincers I knew what I had to do. This was no baby; this was a fossil. Yep unless Michael Travolta showed up, this horse shoe crab was out of luck.
tunnel of love
I’ve been “with it” for forty years now- and I owe any serious action I’ve got on that lil’ ole tunnel over there. Shoot- I know what you’re thinking- “Tunnel of Love,” that shit’s fer homos and pimply teenagers but trust me that shit works. Ya’see the key is you just need to know when to go into the tunnel. Can’t rush that shit.
Ya’ see, you gotta think of the whole carnival as foreplay to the tunnel. It don’t take much imagination to recognize it, s’all there out for you to see. I mean, back when I was a kid we’d take our dates to the carnival for some “good ole fashion fun”- what a load of bullshit. Just one glance around and you can see everyone’s just getting’ ready to fuck.
I mean shit man- look at the midway it’s all sex. Point yer pistol at a hole, put your ring on a bottle, knock over some bottles with yer balls- ‘cept you win something fluffy and cute instead of two months of scratching your junk. Yeah man, if your girl ain’t some Possum Belly Queen, you best start her off on in the midway. Treat ‘er right and show off a little. Prove how big your dick is and do the strong man test. And if there is a pie eating contest, you take that challenge- nothing turns a girl on more than a pie eating contest. Once she can see what you can do without use of your hands she might even fuck you in the port-o-john.
After that kiddie shit - take her on some rides- that’ll prove that you’re trust worthy see? Take on some rollercoaster, get her all scared and bothered and excited,heh,heh,heh. Or even better go to the Fun House- the Hall of Mirrors is just one big ole vagina- some enclosed area you enter and never know what you’re getting into. You just see yourself expanding and contracting with your lady friend that’s all you need to know- shoot. Get her scared enough her hearts gonna be pumping- blood’s gonna be circulating through her veins. She’ll start to sweat and she’s going to want to do something with all that energy. After that I’ll tell you what you do- shove a corndog in her hole.
NO, not that hole- JesusHChrist kids today. You see this is when you make her do some of the work. See how she handles food on a stick. I mean you had the right idea- but lets keep the symbolism and the reality sep’rate fer now- thank you very much. I mean people think that the food on a stick was invented for the ability to walk around and eat- naw man that stuff’s just as sexual as anything else. I mean cotton candy’s just pubs on a stick. And man, nothing beats licking off pieces of sticky cotton candy debris off your lady friend later on heh, heh, heh.
But after you fill your lady up, that is when you go into the tunnel of love. Don’t make nothing of it neither. If you seem to eager, she just think you wanna grope her and shit. Just walk by and it and be like – “Hey-loookey that, I didn’t think they still made these things. Have you even been on one of those things? Naw you haven’t? Shoooot, well maybe we should go on? You don’t want to? Oh come on, these things might go out of existence soon and you’ll have missed your chance.” If she likes you she’ll take the bait.
Then what you do is sit back and relax, see. Just put your arm around her shoulders, loose but not floppy, you want to make her feel secure not strangled and if she’s a good thing she’ll snuggle up to you and you wont remember much of the actual ride.
Why do I think it works? ‘Cause humans love symbols as stand-ins. Your putting your “boat” down a warm, dark, tunnel of love. It’s just sex. Tunnels of Love are rarely cleaned because we want the walls to be all slimy and wet and smelling musky. If it smells too much like chlorine might as well call it the “Douche of Love”. I know its gross but shoot we’s all a little gross. We can’t communicate that shit so we do exactly what we wanna do just as “games”. Ya see games are safe- tag you’re it, hide-n-seek, jump rope no one gets hurt for real while doing this. You don’t get herpes from patty cake and you don’t have a one night stand with a swing. That’s why when you show her its hunkey dorey to go down her tunnel of love- I just hope your car’s fast enough to get you home lickty split.
Ya’ see, you gotta think of the whole carnival as foreplay to the tunnel. It don’t take much imagination to recognize it, s’all there out for you to see. I mean, back when I was a kid we’d take our dates to the carnival for some “good ole fashion fun”- what a load of bullshit. Just one glance around and you can see everyone’s just getting’ ready to fuck.
I mean shit man- look at the midway it’s all sex. Point yer pistol at a hole, put your ring on a bottle, knock over some bottles with yer balls- ‘cept you win something fluffy and cute instead of two months of scratching your junk. Yeah man, if your girl ain’t some Possum Belly Queen, you best start her off on in the midway. Treat ‘er right and show off a little. Prove how big your dick is and do the strong man test. And if there is a pie eating contest, you take that challenge- nothing turns a girl on more than a pie eating contest. Once she can see what you can do without use of your hands she might even fuck you in the port-o-john.
After that kiddie shit - take her on some rides- that’ll prove that you’re trust worthy see? Take on some rollercoaster, get her all scared and bothered and excited,heh,heh,heh. Or even better go to the Fun House- the Hall of Mirrors is just one big ole vagina- some enclosed area you enter and never know what you’re getting into. You just see yourself expanding and contracting with your lady friend that’s all you need to know- shoot. Get her scared enough her hearts gonna be pumping- blood’s gonna be circulating through her veins. She’ll start to sweat and she’s going to want to do something with all that energy. After that I’ll tell you what you do- shove a corndog in her hole.
NO, not that hole- JesusHChrist kids today. You see this is when you make her do some of the work. See how she handles food on a stick. I mean you had the right idea- but lets keep the symbolism and the reality sep’rate fer now- thank you very much. I mean people think that the food on a stick was invented for the ability to walk around and eat- naw man that stuff’s just as sexual as anything else. I mean cotton candy’s just pubs on a stick. And man, nothing beats licking off pieces of sticky cotton candy debris off your lady friend later on heh, heh, heh.
But after you fill your lady up, that is when you go into the tunnel of love. Don’t make nothing of it neither. If you seem to eager, she just think you wanna grope her and shit. Just walk by and it and be like – “Hey-loookey that, I didn’t think they still made these things. Have you even been on one of those things? Naw you haven’t? Shoooot, well maybe we should go on? You don’t want to? Oh come on, these things might go out of existence soon and you’ll have missed your chance.” If she likes you she’ll take the bait.
Then what you do is sit back and relax, see. Just put your arm around her shoulders, loose but not floppy, you want to make her feel secure not strangled and if she’s a good thing she’ll snuggle up to you and you wont remember much of the actual ride.
Why do I think it works? ‘Cause humans love symbols as stand-ins. Your putting your “boat” down a warm, dark, tunnel of love. It’s just sex. Tunnels of Love are rarely cleaned because we want the walls to be all slimy and wet and smelling musky. If it smells too much like chlorine might as well call it the “Douche of Love”. I know its gross but shoot we’s all a little gross. We can’t communicate that shit so we do exactly what we wanna do just as “games”. Ya see games are safe- tag you’re it, hide-n-seek, jump rope no one gets hurt for real while doing this. You don’t get herpes from patty cake and you don’t have a one night stand with a swing. That’s why when you show her its hunkey dorey to go down her tunnel of love- I just hope your car’s fast enough to get you home lickty split.
Wandering
Wandering
I’ve seemed to have misplaced my uterus. Have you seen it around? Last time I saw it, it was right next to my cellphone on the side table. Who knows now? I’ve been looking around for it all day. One time, I coughed it up and it nearly got ran over by a car. It didn’t seem to like that. It was lost for like a week. What a trying couple of days that was. I grew a beard and my labia descended. You’ll never guess where I found it too, my refrigerator of all places. I went to pick up some garlic I’d left in the back and pulled out my familiar gooey friend. It pretty much looked the same as it always did but tasted kind of like baking soda and freezer burn when I swallowed it down again. I hope it isn’t upset at me for using it as a change purse. I mean it really liked when I gave it that IUD. It thought it was a pogo stick just for itself. Oh well, I guess it won’t be so bad growing an ironic mustache. I can just see it now hitching a ride to Mexico, fallopian tubes in the air and little red gunnysack attached to a tampon. I just hope it knows what it’s getting into, or vice versa for that matter.
I’ve seemed to have misplaced my uterus. Have you seen it around? Last time I saw it, it was right next to my cellphone on the side table. Who knows now? I’ve been looking around for it all day. One time, I coughed it up and it nearly got ran over by a car. It didn’t seem to like that. It was lost for like a week. What a trying couple of days that was. I grew a beard and my labia descended. You’ll never guess where I found it too, my refrigerator of all places. I went to pick up some garlic I’d left in the back and pulled out my familiar gooey friend. It pretty much looked the same as it always did but tasted kind of like baking soda and freezer burn when I swallowed it down again. I hope it isn’t upset at me for using it as a change purse. I mean it really liked when I gave it that IUD. It thought it was a pogo stick just for itself. Oh well, I guess it won’t be so bad growing an ironic mustache. I can just see it now hitching a ride to Mexico, fallopian tubes in the air and little red gunnysack attached to a tampon. I just hope it knows what it’s getting into, or vice versa for that matter.
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