If you don't floss, no one will love you.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Forward!
Foreword
by Anonymous Guy
Regrettably, at the time Tyrone began writing "Myrna" -- as it was called at the time -- I was not around to stop him. I was vacationing in Detroit, one of the last great cities left in America. Being his conscience, the one who tells him how bad all of his ideas and drawings are, I would have been able to reason with him, stop him somehow, through physical force if it came to that, but by the time I caught up with him he was already 100 pages into the damn thing and there was no turning back. Unfortunate to be sure.
Luckily I was able to help him reign the thing in upon our reunion because the original draft was complete shit. Now, I don't want to give the impression that this is a good book, far from it. This is a bad book. It's the first attempt at writing a full novel by someone who possesses little to no knowledge about the art of writing and it shows. Am I glad he wrote it? No, not really, to be perfectly honest with you. I would have preferred he found some gainful employment instead of rolling his face around on the keyboard for 4-6 months. Then again, this is Tyrone we're talking about, so what could we really expect? Who knows?
If I were to compare Tyrone's writing style to any other writer I would compare him to no one because they are all most certainly more capable than he is. This is doubly true considering the ideas held within this...erm, guh...novel. It is filled with half realized ideas, underdeveloped plot points, and off the wall theories on life from a 25 year old hermit.
People have asked Tyrone what it's about and he's never really been able to give a straight answer and that's understandable because I've read it and I'm still not sure what's it about. I don't think it's about anything to tell you the truth. I'm not even sure the damn thing is finished! Well, it's about a janitor, but I can't say much beyond that. What's it about thematically? Well, we can just forget about that discussion. I've also been told it's funny. I suppose it is at parts but Tyrone tries much too hard and you'll find many dead jokes within this book. Then again, it is well known that I have never laughed.
Now, I know that I've been awfully hard on Tyrone in this short passage he begged me to write but that's only because I know how much better Tyrone could do. I'm sure the 50 or so agents who have rejected him feel the same way. Right. Well, for what it's worth I hope you enjoy the book. I'm just glad he's finally sharing it with the world, though whether that's a good or bad thing remains to be seen. At the very least I'll be able to drink some of that Oude Genever.
by Anonymous Guy
Regrettably, at the time Tyrone began writing "Myrna" -- as it was called at the time -- I was not around to stop him. I was vacationing in Detroit, one of the last great cities left in America. Being his conscience, the one who tells him how bad all of his ideas and drawings are, I would have been able to reason with him, stop him somehow, through physical force if it came to that, but by the time I caught up with him he was already 100 pages into the damn thing and there was no turning back. Unfortunate to be sure.
Luckily I was able to help him reign the thing in upon our reunion because the original draft was complete shit. Now, I don't want to give the impression that this is a good book, far from it. This is a bad book. It's the first attempt at writing a full novel by someone who possesses little to no knowledge about the art of writing and it shows. Am I glad he wrote it? No, not really, to be perfectly honest with you. I would have preferred he found some gainful employment instead of rolling his face around on the keyboard for 4-6 months. Then again, this is Tyrone we're talking about, so what could we really expect? Who knows?
If I were to compare Tyrone's writing style to any other writer I would compare him to no one because they are all most certainly more capable than he is. This is doubly true considering the ideas held within this...erm, guh...novel. It is filled with half realized ideas, underdeveloped plot points, and off the wall theories on life from a 25 year old hermit.
People have asked Tyrone what it's about and he's never really been able to give a straight answer and that's understandable because I've read it and I'm still not sure what's it about. I don't think it's about anything to tell you the truth. I'm not even sure the damn thing is finished! Well, it's about a janitor, but I can't say much beyond that. What's it about thematically? Well, we can just forget about that discussion. I've also been told it's funny. I suppose it is at parts but Tyrone tries much too hard and you'll find many dead jokes within this book. Then again, it is well known that I have never laughed.
Now, I know that I've been awfully hard on Tyrone in this short passage he begged me to write but that's only because I know how much better Tyrone could do. I'm sure the 50 or so agents who have rejected him feel the same way. Right. Well, for what it's worth I hope you enjoy the book. I'm just glad he's finally sharing it with the world, though whether that's a good or bad thing remains to be seen. At the very least I'll be able to drink some of that Oude Genever.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Garbage Day!
Paper Bag Dilemma
"Paper or plastic," she said, smiling falsely.
Yeah, she would say that. Gosh I hate people who ask me what kind of bag I want. Why don't they ever know? God damn, my life is such a mess since I turned 16. You grow up so fast and suddenly life is all wacky and people are asking about plastic bags then you don't know where the hell you are anymore.
"Young man? Would you like paper or plastic?"
"Uh, whatever, I don't care," I said. "We're all going to end up in some crumby cemetery anyway." Who cares about bags? Phony phonies, that's who. God I hate phony bags and phony bag ladies.
The bag lady shrugged, then dropped my Hungry Man TV dinners into a plastic bag. Figures she'd choose plastic. No one ever notices how bad the environment is when they're bagging phony groceries. They say they care about the environment but they're a bunch of phonies. If only everyone were as deep and thoughtful as me, then they'd know what to notice in the world, such as the disappearing duck epidemic and cuss words written on walls.
The woman had finally finished bagging my groceries. God damn she took a long time, I had to be in New York to get drunk and wander around aimlessly in less than two hours! I grabbed the bag and tore it out of her hands, then I dumped the contents out on the floor because I'm a real tough guy. I saw those synthetic TV dinners and they made me feel real crumby so I sat down right there in the middle of the checkout line and cried. I shrieked. I moaned. I squeezed my eyes shut and spilled hot tears. I made a real scene. It was all too much if you want to know the truth. All these kids falling in rye and stuff, how could I catch them? Impossible! I couldn't take this world anymore and all this growing up and shit. It was too much, all these phony bags and phony TV dinners, and phony bag ladies. Phony air, probably not even breathing real oxygen. Just put me in the loony bin, I quit.
"Paper or plastic," she said, smiling falsely.
Yeah, she would say that. Gosh I hate people who ask me what kind of bag I want. Why don't they ever know? God damn, my life is such a mess since I turned 16. You grow up so fast and suddenly life is all wacky and people are asking about plastic bags then you don't know where the hell you are anymore.
"Young man? Would you like paper or plastic?"
"Uh, whatever, I don't care," I said. "We're all going to end up in some crumby cemetery anyway." Who cares about bags? Phony phonies, that's who. God I hate phony bags and phony bag ladies.
The bag lady shrugged, then dropped my Hungry Man TV dinners into a plastic bag. Figures she'd choose plastic. No one ever notices how bad the environment is when they're bagging phony groceries. They say they care about the environment but they're a bunch of phonies. If only everyone were as deep and thoughtful as me, then they'd know what to notice in the world, such as the disappearing duck epidemic and cuss words written on walls.
The woman had finally finished bagging my groceries. God damn she took a long time, I had to be in New York to get drunk and wander around aimlessly in less than two hours! I grabbed the bag and tore it out of her hands, then I dumped the contents out on the floor because I'm a real tough guy. I saw those synthetic TV dinners and they made me feel real crumby so I sat down right there in the middle of the checkout line and cried. I shrieked. I moaned. I squeezed my eyes shut and spilled hot tears. I made a real scene. It was all too much if you want to know the truth. All these kids falling in rye and stuff, how could I catch them? Impossible! I couldn't take this world anymore and all this growing up and shit. It was too much, all these phony bags and phony TV dinners, and phony bag ladies. Phony air, probably not even breathing real oxygen. Just put me in the loony bin, I quit.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Words, words, words!!!
One Chair
She stared at the chair for a long time. She couldn't believe it, the chair only had three legs. Three! She snatched the catalog off her bed to double check, and sure enough, comparing the chair's image and the actual chair sitting before her, she saw that, in the catalog -- the ideal version, the chair had four legs, not three. Or maybe not? She looked closer at the photo. She assumed that there was a fourth leg but the photo's angle obscured the fourth leg, which apparently, as she could clearly see now, never existed at all. Wait, no, impossible! All chairs had four legs. She wondered what kind of company would sell a three legged chair anyway.
She had looked forward to getting this chair for two whole agonizing weeks. Yes, agony is what the wait was like. Everyday she drove home as fast as she could to see if her new chair had arrived. She had the lone chair for so long. This addition was key but now, after so much waiting, pining, she still only had one chair. Well, one and three-fourths chairs to be precise. This would not do. It would not do at all. She had been planning on having guests, or at least one guest, a very special guest -- the checkout girl. She would sit in the old chair and her guest, the girl with the pretty eyes from the checkout, would sit in the new chair, and she would say to her, "Do you like my new chair?"
The checkout girl would respond politely and say, "Yes, this is a good chair." Or something like that, she didn't know her all that well really. The checkout girl only ever asked her how her day was going and smiled while ringing up the groceries. She once commented on how nice her sweater was but she knew it was ridiculous to assume that it was anything more than her being a nice checkout girl.
How could she invite anyone over and expect them to sit in a three legged chair? She grabbed the phone. She needed to talk to someone. A customer service representative, that was it. After pressing the corresponding buttons to reach the correct area of support she was greeted by a soft spoken but generally helpful sounding man.
Studying the four legged chair in the catalog, trying to spot that fourth leg, she said, "Hi, hello, your chair, the one I bought out of your catalog. It only has three legs."
"Does it? Well that won't do."
"Yes, only three. I need another leg. Could you send it to me please?"
"Well, can I get your first and last name, the product code, serial number, and the date of purchase?"
Her heart sunk when she heard these words. She had already tossed the packaging into the trash incinerator down the hall. It was gone, irretrievable. "I don't have those things. I burned them."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that ma'am, but I need these items before I can send you the fourth leg."
She sat down in her old chair. It was red and dusty. It had been with her for seven years. Picking at the fraying fibers on the arm of the chair she said, "Well, can I just describe the chair to you?"
"I'm sorry, I need more information than that. You can send the chair back, well, no you can't, you burned the box."
"This chair was very important to me and you don't care."
"Oh, I'm sure it was and I do care. I have a chair of my own and I often think of it fondly."
"Are you mocking me?"
"No ma'am, my first child was born in that chair."
"Oh, that's, well, that's fine. Congratulations."
"Well, it was ten years ago, but thank you."
There was a pause as she tried to come up with a way to wrangle a fourth leg out of this conversation but she knew it was hopeless. She glanced at her new chair, where it sat lamely on the floor, unable to perform the one simple task expected of it. She thought about the checkout girl sitting in the chair, it seemed ridiculous now. How was she going to pose the question anyway? "Want to come over to my house and sit in my new chair?" Absurd! Clearly, she had not thought this through. She had not thought about it reasonably, no checkout girl ever wanted to be asked such things, to be put in such an awkward position. Thankfully, receiving this useless chair had given her reason to pause and consider her actions, sparing her the embarrassment. Despite the loss of $65.99, she recognized the blessing, and knew it was for the best. This chair was meant to have three legs, just as the checkout girl was meant to ask her how her day was, and she, at least for now, was meant to sit at home alone with her single chair.
The customer rep said, "Is there anything else?"
"Um, no, forget it." She hung up and sat, trying to decide what to do about the chair. She thought about going to the supermarket to buy some eggs, but she didn't need any more eggs. She already had five cartons. With no chair there would be no special guest. It was time to put her fantasies of checkout girls in new chairs and conversations about chairs to an end.
She stood up, grabbed the three legged chair, walked out of her apartment, down the hall, and into the trash room. The room was dimly lit and the floor was coated in a thin layer of gritty dust. The smell of uneaten pizza lingered in the air. She lifted the chair above her head and smashed it against the floor until all of the legs had broken off. Then she tossed the pieces down the chute, into the incinerator, forever ridding herself of the useless object and the notion of a visiting checkout girl with it. She went back to her apartment, sat down in her old chair, that, despite being old, was quite comfortable.
She stared at the chair for a long time. She couldn't believe it, the chair only had three legs. Three! She snatched the catalog off her bed to double check, and sure enough, comparing the chair's image and the actual chair sitting before her, she saw that, in the catalog -- the ideal version, the chair had four legs, not three. Or maybe not? She looked closer at the photo. She assumed that there was a fourth leg but the photo's angle obscured the fourth leg, which apparently, as she could clearly see now, never existed at all. Wait, no, impossible! All chairs had four legs. She wondered what kind of company would sell a three legged chair anyway.
She had looked forward to getting this chair for two whole agonizing weeks. Yes, agony is what the wait was like. Everyday she drove home as fast as she could to see if her new chair had arrived. She had the lone chair for so long. This addition was key but now, after so much waiting, pining, she still only had one chair. Well, one and three-fourths chairs to be precise. This would not do. It would not do at all. She had been planning on having guests, or at least one guest, a very special guest -- the checkout girl. She would sit in the old chair and her guest, the girl with the pretty eyes from the checkout, would sit in the new chair, and she would say to her, "Do you like my new chair?"
The checkout girl would respond politely and say, "Yes, this is a good chair." Or something like that, she didn't know her all that well really. The checkout girl only ever asked her how her day was going and smiled while ringing up the groceries. She once commented on how nice her sweater was but she knew it was ridiculous to assume that it was anything more than her being a nice checkout girl.
How could she invite anyone over and expect them to sit in a three legged chair? She grabbed the phone. She needed to talk to someone. A customer service representative, that was it. After pressing the corresponding buttons to reach the correct area of support she was greeted by a soft spoken but generally helpful sounding man.
Studying the four legged chair in the catalog, trying to spot that fourth leg, she said, "Hi, hello, your chair, the one I bought out of your catalog. It only has three legs."
"Does it? Well that won't do."
"Yes, only three. I need another leg. Could you send it to me please?"
"Well, can I get your first and last name, the product code, serial number, and the date of purchase?"
Her heart sunk when she heard these words. She had already tossed the packaging into the trash incinerator down the hall. It was gone, irretrievable. "I don't have those things. I burned them."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that ma'am, but I need these items before I can send you the fourth leg."
She sat down in her old chair. It was red and dusty. It had been with her for seven years. Picking at the fraying fibers on the arm of the chair she said, "Well, can I just describe the chair to you?"
"I'm sorry, I need more information than that. You can send the chair back, well, no you can't, you burned the box."
"This chair was very important to me and you don't care."
"Oh, I'm sure it was and I do care. I have a chair of my own and I often think of it fondly."
"Are you mocking me?"
"No ma'am, my first child was born in that chair."
"Oh, that's, well, that's fine. Congratulations."
"Well, it was ten years ago, but thank you."
There was a pause as she tried to come up with a way to wrangle a fourth leg out of this conversation but she knew it was hopeless. She glanced at her new chair, where it sat lamely on the floor, unable to perform the one simple task expected of it. She thought about the checkout girl sitting in the chair, it seemed ridiculous now. How was she going to pose the question anyway? "Want to come over to my house and sit in my new chair?" Absurd! Clearly, she had not thought this through. She had not thought about it reasonably, no checkout girl ever wanted to be asked such things, to be put in such an awkward position. Thankfully, receiving this useless chair had given her reason to pause and consider her actions, sparing her the embarrassment. Despite the loss of $65.99, she recognized the blessing, and knew it was for the best. This chair was meant to have three legs, just as the checkout girl was meant to ask her how her day was, and she, at least for now, was meant to sit at home alone with her single chair.
The customer rep said, "Is there anything else?"
"Um, no, forget it." She hung up and sat, trying to decide what to do about the chair. She thought about going to the supermarket to buy some eggs, but she didn't need any more eggs. She already had five cartons. With no chair there would be no special guest. It was time to put her fantasies of checkout girls in new chairs and conversations about chairs to an end.
She stood up, grabbed the three legged chair, walked out of her apartment, down the hall, and into the trash room. The room was dimly lit and the floor was coated in a thin layer of gritty dust. The smell of uneaten pizza lingered in the air. She lifted the chair above her head and smashed it against the floor until all of the legs had broken off. Then she tossed the pieces down the chute, into the incinerator, forever ridding herself of the useless object and the notion of a visiting checkout girl with it. She went back to her apartment, sat down in her old chair, that, despite being old, was quite comfortable.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
It's still September.
Shut Up Baby
Someone had thrown a party in their garage. The beer was terrible. Everyone was talking at once. A man had cornered a woman near the beer keg. They talked because they were at a party and the alternative of not talking was terrifying. She wanted to leave soon, and wondered where her friends were. He smelled drunk.
"Oh yeah, I read tons of books. Tons!" said the man, quite proudly.
She smiled and said, "Oh, really, do-
"No, you're smiling but you don't understand. I mean, I read -- a lot. Holy shit, so many books. I am an avid reader."
"Oh, I also like reading. I...
"Yeah? Well, I fucking love reading!"
"Um, that's cool. Have you read Saul Bellow?"
"Bellow? Of course I've read Saul Bellow. Oh yeah, definitely read his stuff. I've read that stuff he's written. I've read everything. No, literally, every book. I have read it."
She smiled, didn't believe him, and said, "Oh, that's nice. Reading is...
"Yeah, it fucking is. It's the best thing."
"What are you reading right now?"
"I doubt you've heard of it. It won the Nobel Prize. And the Pulitzer. The writer is Polish."
"Yeah?"
"Great book. Really good. The best book," he said. "Really smart, too. A smart smart book."
"Can you tell me what it's called?"
He paused to think real hard, then shook his head, and said, "I can't remember."
"Okay," she said, and drank more.
Neither spoke for a while. The woman could not see her friends anywhere. A man across the room kept looking at her. She pulled at her skirt self-consciously. She moved to leave, but was halted by the words of the self-professed world's best reader of smart books.
"If you had a book you wanted me to read I would definitely read it. You seem like someone who reads smart books."
She smiled and said, "Well, I have this book in my bag..."
"Oh, you carry books around? That's cool. Let me see it. Probably read it but whatever."
She opened her green leather bag, pulled out a large tome of a book, and handed it to him.
He looked at it dubiously and with some disdain in his voice, said, "Uh...yeah read this. Great points about life. Ending sucked but endings suck in general. Good author, he was racist but whatever. Neo-nazi. NAACP and all that." He handed it back to her. "I wrote a book you know."
She rolled her eyes, drank more beer, and said, "Did you now?"
"Yeah, it has a fucking ton of pages. Only took about three months to write it. I was drunk most of the time though. I'm not an alcoholic but you seem like one. It's okay if you are. I think you've had five beers already and it's only seven o'clock."
She set her cup down and shook her head. "No, I'm not an alcoholic." And though she knew better than to ask, said, "What's your book about?"
"It's hard to say. It's just kind of, uh, about everything. You know? I mean, life is like so huge. Just gargantuan. It's pretty much limitless, so you can't really narrow it down. I mean, like ten things happened to me today that could go into a book. I might even write this conversation into a book. Or maybe I'll post it to my blog."
"So it's about nothing?"
"Yeah, sort of. And everything. It's about everything and nothing. Kind of like our conversation."
"Oh, well, who's the main character?"
"Well there are like twelve main characters. I'm a lot like George Orwell but not really. Actually I'm like Saul Bellow or Hemingway. James Cameron. You seen Avatar?"
"No."
"Me either. I hate that movie. Who is your favorite writer?"
"I really like Jorge Luis Borges."
"Oh fuck, he's great. Yeah, my style is a lot like him. Exactly like him actually. Funny you would say that because I was just about to say that he's my favorite author."
"Well, I'm going to um, run away... I think my friend is calling to me, so... "
"Does he read? Probably not."
The woman shook her head no.
"No one does anymore. Everyone here is an illiterate ass hole. Fuck I hate people. Mother fuckers, all of them. People suck, yeah? But it's okay because I wrote a book that tells you how to feel better about people and also, um, about other stuff. Man, so much stuff. All around us, like, all the time. Information age you know. Hey you want to get coffee sometime and discuss, um, um, um, um Jorge Borges? Don't look at me like that, it's not like I'm asking you to dinner, besides I couldn't afford that shit. I really think we should hang out though. I think I'll call you, yeah? C-can I do that? Hey do you have a pen? Oh that's a really nice pen. Are you rich? Parents probably. Do you write, man I love writing. Fuck. Hey, here's my number. Don't lose it. People never call me back but that's okay because I hate them anyway. My mom doesn't even call me back but whatever."
Afraid of encouraging him, she remained quiet.
"I was reading about skinner boxes today. You know what a skinner box is? I read about it on Wikipedia. I learned so much shit on that site. I've got this awesome smart phone. Pretty cheap. It was, um, like 400 bucks. I'm not rich or anything. I mean, I donate to charity and I volunteer. Hey, we should read some Wikipedia entries. I just pulled up this page on David Foster Wallace. You read his shit?. Hey, don't go, please? Please talk to me. Okay, no I'm sorry, I'm drunk. I'm the alcoholic, not you. You go. Yes, hang out with your friends who probably don't read, they just, y'know, play video games, watch reality TV, go to Applebees, or some shit. Fuckin' proles. They look like Christians, are they Christians? It's okay if they are. Fuck man, the hell is going on with this world I mean...for fucks sakes, somethin'... like, the TAXES, fuckin' econOMY and...shit like that. It's the fuckin babies, that's the problem! So many fuckin babies, so many babies. Too many babies. Babies need to grow the fuck up and stop being babies."
Someone had thrown a party in their garage. The beer was terrible. Everyone was talking at once. A man had cornered a woman near the beer keg. They talked because they were at a party and the alternative of not talking was terrifying. She wanted to leave soon, and wondered where her friends were. He smelled drunk.
"Oh yeah, I read tons of books. Tons!" said the man, quite proudly.
She smiled and said, "Oh, really, do-
"No, you're smiling but you don't understand. I mean, I read -- a lot. Holy shit, so many books. I am an avid reader."
"Oh, I also like reading. I...
"Yeah? Well, I fucking love reading!"
"Um, that's cool. Have you read Saul Bellow?"
"Bellow? Of course I've read Saul Bellow. Oh yeah, definitely read his stuff. I've read that stuff he's written. I've read everything. No, literally, every book. I have read it."
She smiled, didn't believe him, and said, "Oh, that's nice. Reading is...
"Yeah, it fucking is. It's the best thing."
"What are you reading right now?"
"I doubt you've heard of it. It won the Nobel Prize. And the Pulitzer. The writer is Polish."
"Yeah?"
"Great book. Really good. The best book," he said. "Really smart, too. A smart smart book."
"Can you tell me what it's called?"
He paused to think real hard, then shook his head, and said, "I can't remember."
"Okay," she said, and drank more.
Neither spoke for a while. The woman could not see her friends anywhere. A man across the room kept looking at her. She pulled at her skirt self-consciously. She moved to leave, but was halted by the words of the self-professed world's best reader of smart books.
"If you had a book you wanted me to read I would definitely read it. You seem like someone who reads smart books."
She smiled and said, "Well, I have this book in my bag..."
"Oh, you carry books around? That's cool. Let me see it. Probably read it but whatever."
She opened her green leather bag, pulled out a large tome of a book, and handed it to him.
He looked at it dubiously and with some disdain in his voice, said, "Uh...yeah read this. Great points about life. Ending sucked but endings suck in general. Good author, he was racist but whatever. Neo-nazi. NAACP and all that." He handed it back to her. "I wrote a book you know."
She rolled her eyes, drank more beer, and said, "Did you now?"
"Yeah, it has a fucking ton of pages. Only took about three months to write it. I was drunk most of the time though. I'm not an alcoholic but you seem like one. It's okay if you are. I think you've had five beers already and it's only seven o'clock."
She set her cup down and shook her head. "No, I'm not an alcoholic." And though she knew better than to ask, said, "What's your book about?"
"It's hard to say. It's just kind of, uh, about everything. You know? I mean, life is like so huge. Just gargantuan. It's pretty much limitless, so you can't really narrow it down. I mean, like ten things happened to me today that could go into a book. I might even write this conversation into a book. Or maybe I'll post it to my blog."
"So it's about nothing?"
"Yeah, sort of. And everything. It's about everything and nothing. Kind of like our conversation."
"Oh, well, who's the main character?"
"Well there are like twelve main characters. I'm a lot like George Orwell but not really. Actually I'm like Saul Bellow or Hemingway. James Cameron. You seen Avatar?"
"No."
"Me either. I hate that movie. Who is your favorite writer?"
"I really like Jorge Luis Borges."
"Oh fuck, he's great. Yeah, my style is a lot like him. Exactly like him actually. Funny you would say that because I was just about to say that he's my favorite author."
"Well, I'm going to um, run away... I think my friend is calling to me, so... "
"Does he read? Probably not."
The woman shook her head no.
"No one does anymore. Everyone here is an illiterate ass hole. Fuck I hate people. Mother fuckers, all of them. People suck, yeah? But it's okay because I wrote a book that tells you how to feel better about people and also, um, about other stuff. Man, so much stuff. All around us, like, all the time. Information age you know. Hey you want to get coffee sometime and discuss, um, um, um, um Jorge Borges? Don't look at me like that, it's not like I'm asking you to dinner, besides I couldn't afford that shit. I really think we should hang out though. I think I'll call you, yeah? C-can I do that? Hey do you have a pen? Oh that's a really nice pen. Are you rich? Parents probably. Do you write, man I love writing. Fuck. Hey, here's my number. Don't lose it. People never call me back but that's okay because I hate them anyway. My mom doesn't even call me back but whatever."
Afraid of encouraging him, she remained quiet.
"I was reading about skinner boxes today. You know what a skinner box is? I read about it on Wikipedia. I learned so much shit on that site. I've got this awesome smart phone. Pretty cheap. It was, um, like 400 bucks. I'm not rich or anything. I mean, I donate to charity and I volunteer. Hey, we should read some Wikipedia entries. I just pulled up this page on David Foster Wallace. You read his shit?. Hey, don't go, please? Please talk to me. Okay, no I'm sorry, I'm drunk. I'm the alcoholic, not you. You go. Yes, hang out with your friends who probably don't read, they just, y'know, play video games, watch reality TV, go to Applebees, or some shit. Fuckin' proles. They look like Christians, are they Christians? It's okay if they are. Fuck man, the hell is going on with this world I mean...for fucks sakes, somethin'... like, the TAXES, fuckin' econOMY and...shit like that. It's the fuckin babies, that's the problem! So many fuckin babies, so many babies. Too many babies. Babies need to grow the fuck up and stop being babies."
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
It's September.
The Man who Said Nothing
He was belligerent, irrational, idiotic.
"Orwell is dead and no one cares about him!"
Everyone stopped to stare at him, not one of them said a word, not out of shock toward this statement, but out of the hope that if no one responded, this obnoxious man would, quite simply, shut the fuck up. He had been saying things like this all night and everyone was tired of it. They just wanted to have a nice peaceful, semi-intoxicated evening, perhaps play some video games. The last thing on anyone's agenda was to have a drawn out discussion on the merits of literature because really, who cares about that shit? Who!? Apparently this man did, and far too much it seemed. Sure they appreciated the discussion of literature now and then but people -- fraudulent people -- often brought up literature out of some misguided desire for acceptance or self-validation rather than the desire to discuss one of the world's finest, most honest forms of art, and this, this self serving, intellectual masturbation, this desire to discuss purely for the advancement of one's own image was painfully evident in the way this man spoke. Yeah, Saul Bellow wrote some great books and you read them, but what difference does it make to anyone other than yourself?
No one knew who he belonged to or who brought him to this party. He just seemed to have shown up on his own accord, or rather stumbled upon, considering how drunk he was. One of the women nodded slightly though she did not know why. A reflex perhaps? The woman was beautiful but she spent a lot of time worrying about her looks, perhaps a desire to be prettier? Granted her nose was a tad large but most people easily overlooked this as it was simply a character flaw, a deviation from beauty, rather than a deal breaking disfigurement.
Aside from this woman's simple gesture the group stayed quiet, hoping, praying, that this unwanted, unshaven, balding, unattractive, bad minded, generally distasteful man would walk away and bring his inane ideas with him. When he spoke he blasted you with the scent of a rotting corpse in a late summer afternoon. The scent matched his ideas in quality.
The unwanted man continued once more, "No one reads books anymore! Doesn't anyone care!?"
"Prove it!" said one young man, quite a bit better dressed than everyone else. You might even have said he was god damned gorgeous. He had no girlfriend to speak of but would likely have one before the night was through. You could tell, just by glancing at him, that he was confident, self assured, mentally stable -- at least superficially. He licked his lips because they had remnants of chocolate pudding on them. People often said he had a heart of gold, so kind he was, like a knight. The words of kindness flowed forth out of him and everyone loved him for it. In any situation, if there was a right thing to say you can be sure he said it. Perhaps, at this moment, his best feature was that he had no qualms challenging a drunken moron.
The man was slow to answer but when he finally did, he said, "Prove it? I...what? Prove it!? Well, I...I can't prove it. I just know these things. I know many things! I read them in a book!"
He was belligerent, irrational, idiotic.
"Orwell is dead and no one cares about him!"
Everyone stopped to stare at him, not one of them said a word, not out of shock toward this statement, but out of the hope that if no one responded, this obnoxious man would, quite simply, shut the fuck up. He had been saying things like this all night and everyone was tired of it. They just wanted to have a nice peaceful, semi-intoxicated evening, perhaps play some video games. The last thing on anyone's agenda was to have a drawn out discussion on the merits of literature because really, who cares about that shit? Who!? Apparently this man did, and far too much it seemed. Sure they appreciated the discussion of literature now and then but people -- fraudulent people -- often brought up literature out of some misguided desire for acceptance or self-validation rather than the desire to discuss one of the world's finest, most honest forms of art, and this, this self serving, intellectual masturbation, this desire to discuss purely for the advancement of one's own image was painfully evident in the way this man spoke. Yeah, Saul Bellow wrote some great books and you read them, but what difference does it make to anyone other than yourself?
No one knew who he belonged to or who brought him to this party. He just seemed to have shown up on his own accord, or rather stumbled upon, considering how drunk he was. One of the women nodded slightly though she did not know why. A reflex perhaps? The woman was beautiful but she spent a lot of time worrying about her looks, perhaps a desire to be prettier? Granted her nose was a tad large but most people easily overlooked this as it was simply a character flaw, a deviation from beauty, rather than a deal breaking disfigurement.
Aside from this woman's simple gesture the group stayed quiet, hoping, praying, that this unwanted, unshaven, balding, unattractive, bad minded, generally distasteful man would walk away and bring his inane ideas with him. When he spoke he blasted you with the scent of a rotting corpse in a late summer afternoon. The scent matched his ideas in quality.
The unwanted man continued once more, "No one reads books anymore! Doesn't anyone care!?"
"Prove it!" said one young man, quite a bit better dressed than everyone else. You might even have said he was god damned gorgeous. He had no girlfriend to speak of but would likely have one before the night was through. You could tell, just by glancing at him, that he was confident, self assured, mentally stable -- at least superficially. He licked his lips because they had remnants of chocolate pudding on them. People often said he had a heart of gold, so kind he was, like a knight. The words of kindness flowed forth out of him and everyone loved him for it. In any situation, if there was a right thing to say you can be sure he said it. Perhaps, at this moment, his best feature was that he had no qualms challenging a drunken moron.
The man was slow to answer but when he finally did, he said, "Prove it? I...what? Prove it!? Well, I...I can't prove it. I just know these things. I know many things! I read them in a book!"
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