"We Are In This Together"

     This week has been interesting.  Between delving into Sandel's JUSTICE, and considering the merits of of consent in terms of the social contract, I once again relized that anarchy was the only solution. 
     The Diane Reemes show was a travesty of unworthy politicians again today.  The only thing I hate more than her shrill, ponderous voice is when one of those brats makes a comment like, "We are in this together."  And then tries to give us the reason why we should either pay more taxes, or reduce government spending.  The concepts of this aside, one thing I just don't understand (its not that I don't understand it as much as I don't understand how they think someone like me doesn't notice) is how politicians can use the same cliched terminology, or mixed metaphorical phrases over and over and think that anyone is actually comprehending the true issue.  The real problem isn't that no one is listening, the real problem is that they are listening.  What they are listening to—is usless rhetoric and political propoganda. 
     I actually think it is rather funny when NPR has politicians on, because then they almost start to sound like FOX or CNN or any republican commentator of your choosing, but usually with a left leaning tilt.  Interestingly NPR cited a study done by intependent group after their CEOs debacle with a couple fake reps from ACORN, that said in the previous year NPR had far more republican politicians on their programs then democrats.  First, I thought it rather silly that NPR would spend as much time as they did trying to clear their reputation, it made them sound needy.  For almost two weeks there wasn't a day that didn't have a story about wether NPR is biased or not.  Second, this particular statistic doesn't really have any effect on whether or not individuals within NPR are biased.  When you listen to republicans on NPR they are usually being berated with the "tough questions" from whatever host and listeners, while democrats are generally being embraced or asked by Reemes, "Do you think Obama's speech went far enough?"  As if that doesn't show where her sympathy lies.
     God, look, I don't even know why I got into this today, but that had just been weighing on me so I thought I'd put it out.  That last paragraph is an example of why American's are stupid.  Anyone who believes that the Government or any politician, right or left will somehow come to the rescue of the average American is dilusional as fuck. 
     You want to hear my solution to the coming debt and budget crisis.  Simple.  We do what a lot of other nations have done when their government spent too much and gave kick backs to the rich.  We have a revolution.  You may remember Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI, and the rest of the royals obese spending habits prior to the French Revolution.  Perhaps you will notice the similarities between the France's intervention in the American revolution just years prior and the massive debt it left with to the United States' intervention in Afghanistan, Iraq, and now Libya. 
     The only way to get out of this mess is to say to the world, "Hey we are the people that live here, the politicians, the government has failed us.  They don't represent us, and guess what we are responsible for their debt."  Then we take Obama, Bush, and every current and former member of the house and senate  and send them to the International Court and have them all tried for war crimes, theft, and fraud. 
    Open shut case.  The only one who would be aquitted:  Ron Paul.

Neo Fascist Air Disaster

    I was walking around a college campus in broad daylight.  It was one of those colleges where most of the buildings were newer, not Gothic architecture, but the fascist type that seemed to dominate university construction in the 50s and 60s.  But this wasn’t those decades and it wasn’t now either.  It was depressing, despite the brightness of the day.  I walked across a large concrete quad.  It was probably one hundred yards across and dipped down in the center with stairs running along the circumference of the giant useless square.  In the center there was a monument to man.  A huge bronze atrocity. 
    I stopped to ask someone where the library was.  He pointed to the structure immediately in front of me.  A huge blank wall enlightened only with thin vertical windows that ran from the top to the ground.  When I got inside there was a large glass window taking up the entire exterior wall of the first two floors.  Suddenly it was night.  Lights behind the building made me realize that the window overlooked the ocean.  Standing near the glass I could that I was only 50 feet from the water. 
    Then a shrieking noise came from above me.  It was a wiring, drone that became louder and louder.  A plane.  When I looked up I realize the roof was made of glass as well, and I could clearly see a 757 blaze overhead.  Oddly the plane appeared to have a Southwest Airlines paint scheme, but I knew that Southwest predominately flies 737s and this plane was clearly larger.  It wasn’t more than one-hundred feet above the building now, and it appeared that the nose of the plane was on fire.  The engines were firing and idling all at once giving off an awful noise.  Perhaps the sound would be normal if the plane was taxiing a runway or landing, but the situation made the engine sound like it was screaming in peril. 
    It hit the water behind the library, but it did not break up.  The angle and trajectory of its flight did not seem to add up, but when I looked at the plane, the hero in me kicked in and I began to rush to a door near the now shattered window.  Someone behind me seemed to have the same idea, then changed his mind saying, “The thing is gonna blow.”  When I looked at the plane again I could see jet fuel spraying like a fire hose onto the beach.  I stopped dead.  I could see into the cockpit and windows and could make out the faces of the people inside.  I braced myself for an explosion at any second and a sudden shock of fear hit me because I was so close to the time bomb.  I was also hit with the overwhelming sadness that I was about to witness these people die horribly, and I could not save them. 
    I waited, watching for several moments, but the plane did not erupt.  I looked on as the door on the side of the plane shifted open.  Then two men exited the aircraft.  It was the pilots.  I could tell this because they were wearing uniforms, but they weren’t like normal commercial airline pilot uniforms.  Their shirts were black, although they were embroidered with stripes on their shoulders.  They were moving quickly toward the building, and could see me and the other students who had gathered to watched.  “Does anyone know anything about constitutional law?”  The captain shouted.  I was shocked, and relieved at the same time.  I raised my hand, “I do,”  I shouted back. 
    The two men approached me as fast as before.  The one who I assumed was the captain seemed to have a German accent as he spoke in a frantic matter, “The whole world is at war!” 
    “What?”
    “We hit a fighter jet in mid air.”
    The co-pilot was talking to someone else now and his accent seemed to be of a Scandinavian origin.  When I looked back at the plane I could still see people inside, and I wondered why the pilots would not help them.
    My feeling now shifted to anger at the obvious negligence of these European pilots.  Their caps became more evident to me and they too were black and embroidered with gold striped which I assumed symbolized some type of rank.  I sensed that authorities were arriving on the scene now, but something about the whole situation was making me extremely uneasy. 
    When I looked back at the plane it was now being pushed into the wall of the library by the high tides, and I could no longer glimpse the people inside.  I felt as thought the pilots were clearly responsible for this and they would surely be taken into custody soon.  Then I realized that the pilot had been talking to me about the legal repercussions of this incident the whole time, and I had not been listening.  He was becoming more aggressive with me because he was obviously frantic and distraught about what had just transpired. 
    A feeling of trepidation came across my entire body.  I was engrossed with the sensation that something about this was not right, besides what had already happened I got the feeling that something much more sinister was about to take place.  If the pilot was telling the truth about hitting a fighter then perhaps there really was a war going on.  If not then I didn’t have any idea what was happening, but I had no reason to talk to this man now.  In any case I began moving away from the scene.  Slowly taking a few steps back at first until finally I turned and ran quickly from the building.  I felt like I was escaping. 
    When I got back into the quad I still had no idea where I was.  I felt I must be in California somewhere, but I couldn’t be sure.  When I stopped to examine my surroundings the campus was in a state of chaos.  There were students running around near the dorm buildings on a hill to my left.  The windows had been yanked up and things were being thrown to the ground.  There seemed to be a fire in the distance because there was an orange glow on the walls and trees near the top of the hill. 
    Maybe the world was coming to an end.  I looked back at the statue now as I lit a cigarette.  It was a goliath holding a hollow outline of the globe on his shoulders.  There was a girl in one of those dorms who I had to see.

Bananarchy: Why Eductation, Sex, Drugs, and Happiness Are All Connected (Part 1)

     Society is a mess these days, and its probably not for the reasons you think.  As youths in America we know first hand the inequities that are served cold on our plates.  For the first say, twelve years of our lives we are taught that the only path for a sustainable future is to give in to the authority of our institutions.   Early on we are graciously bestowed with the knowledge that has been prescribed to keep us functioning in a system designed by others.  A system that today some believe is failing us.  A system that may have been designed to fail us.  One thing that it is hard to deny when you reach higher education is that by the time you are there you are already trapped.  There are few options left, but to accept that you either enter the system as a producer, as a spring in the mechanism, or get out and have no hope of ever living a fulfilled life.  But look at the lives that are promised.  Look at what we get if we accept this program.  We are told that if we study long enough, work hard enough, kiss enough ass, grovel at the feet of our masters long enough, that one day we can have it all.  One day you'll get that four bedroom house with the lawn and the wife, and maybe even the kids, and the dog too.  Today we see the truth.  We see that the system that promised freedom and prosperity was simply a propaganda tool to keep us quiet.  A blind over our eyes so we wouldn't question the process.  As a young person today what do we have to hope for?  What is there left that the elders of this nation haven't already swindled.  How do we take back what is rightfully ours?  Not what is owed to us by them, but what is owed to us by God.

     Most of us probably remember a time early in our eduction when one of the most important things for us to learn was how to stand correctly in line, and how to follow directions.  Sometimes the completion of a task was not even as important as if it was done using the correct process.  One thing I have considered a lot lately is how the imagination of children is so different from that of adults.   I saw a study that tested the genius of a person based on their ability to imagine innovative ways to solve problems.  The study consisted of a test in which the participants were asked how many ways a paperclip can be used.  Groups were separated by age.  Interestingly, the youngest groups always produced the highest number of "geniuses" based on the parameters of the test because children were able to imagine a paperclip in non-conventional ways.  For instance a paperclip that was 30 feet tall would certainly have a variety of uses.  However, older groups could only think about a paperclip in the way that it was designed to be used or the way they understood it to function based on what they knew or had learned.  My theory is that eduction, especially eduction in theoretical fields causes one to learn about something in a preconceived way.  This immediately introduces preconceived notions about how problems can be solved, and the process in which they must be solved in.  This brings up another problem in the eduction system.  Especially in mathematics students are generally taught only one way of solving a problem, and penalized when this process is deviated from even if the correct answer is reached.  This goes back to the problem of obeying authority.  It seems that more focus is put on following directions, obeying authority, and coming to conclusions in the prescribed manor rather than making the right conclusion itself.
     This system works for some.  It no doubt has yielded many very smart children.  But how do we measure how "smart" someone is?  In the United States we do this by a practice of standardized tests.  A process that again rewards those who are best a following instructions and are good at taking tests of this nature.  But what happens to the rest?  Are we to say that if a person can't pass a test he or she is not worthy of a higher education.  Who designed the test?  Can we conclude that everyone who fails a test is an invalid.  My belief is that we cannot.  I believe that some of the most creative, and imaginative thinkers in this country have been left behind.  People that could have brought innovative solutions to pressing problems were never given the right medium to show their true potential.  And why has this happened?  It is because the entire system of eduction in this country is flawed, at every level.  From kindergarten to college the system was created to develop a group of people who think the way they have been programed to think.

      Eduction is a government mandated and government run operation in the United States.  Everyone is forced to pay for it and everyone is forced to go.  From the very beginning we are given no options, no choice.  If you don't go your parents get fined or go to jail, if you don't pay they take your house away.  The real problem is inherit.  If you look at who is in charge then you will see the obvious complication.  You may be thinking, what benefit would the government have in influencing the way that I think.  The answer is every possible benefit.  If you think the way they want you to think then you will never disobey orders, you will never question the system, you will always pay your taxes, go to church, vote down party lines, and you will always play the game.  It isn't a conspiracy, but it is happening.

    My goal isn't to change your mind, and it isn't even to change the way things work.  I simply hope that one day people will see systems of government and society in a different light.  Not as protectors, and stabilizers, but as perpetrators of a silent tyranny.  A tyranny in which we live a life a achievable goals only to realize that the happiness that was promised by the fulfillment of those goals was an illusion.  The question you have to ask yourself is, what would truly make me happy?

Nowhere (A Stoner's Paradise)

Made this video during the week.  I've been to "Nowhere" a few times and I must say it is a pretty inspirational place even if you're not high.  Thought I would share this video interpretation of the experience with you.  The video is best watched with headphones, and perhaps a healthy dose of cannabis.
-C.T. Cilver

Bangin' Asians: Spring Break in the DPRK

One spring we decided to take a trip to the DPRK
because we heard the country was lively and gay.
We went for the women because they are loose,
but figured we’d stay for the cooked dog and goose.
We flew to Pyongyang by way of Beijing,
and had to leave behind most everything.
We bribed a guy at the Chinese consul.
For commie ass our dicks did drool.
Upon arrival there was no bright sun.
No girls in bikinis for us to hunt.
Good for us we weren’t upset.
Gook ass did await us yet.
A group of guards took us to a hotel.
No one else was there, but the digs were swell.
We tasted the food which tasted like crap,
but gave it a chance because of where we were at.
We sampled the dog and mulled over the cat,
and even tried the beer (it was a little flat).
We toured the city and went to a ship
that had been captured during a spy stint.
We went to a place called the DMZ,
and laughed at the people whom we could see.
We sang Karaoke with some ladies one night,
but getting in their pants became a big plight.
They weren’t allowed to drink with us,
and when we made our moves they put up a fuss.
We went back to our room with our drunk guards,
as they laughed at us for being such tards.
We came to the next morning and went for a drive
to a tea shop in the mountains that was kind of a dive.
The fortunate thing was that the tea girl was hot,
and in a matter of minutes we all hit it off.
We drank her tea, and chatted a bit,
I even tried to plead for a kiss.
But schedules they had (so we had to follow),
and she had no phone for us to caller her tomorrow.
We bid adieu and continued on
thinking that something was dreadfully wrong.
Where were all the girls?  The beautiful ones?
Most we had seen reminded me of nuns.
The brochure had promised a wonderful time,
but we were forced to stay in state controlled lines.
On our last night we went to a show.
Would any of us get laid, or even a blow?
The show was amazing, and there were thousands of girls
Some of them with straight hair, some of them had curls.
We sat and we watched amazed at the sight,
thinking that this would be a wonderful night.
Suddenly out of the corner of my eye
came into sight a funny little guy.
He was quite round and wore a simple grey suit.
He had funny hair, puffy lips, and glasses to boot.
He walked straight to us, and without hesitation said,
“Which one of these girls would you like to take to bed?”
We were dumbfounded, how could we choose.
There were so many we would have to do two’s.
The funny little man took us back to his house,
and we ate and drank and starred down a blouse.
We took girls back to our rooms by two and threes,
But woke up the next morning with bad cases of herpes.
The man he had screwed us, but we couldn’t complain.
The lovely girls of the north were worth all the pain.
We flew back to the states on that very day
What stories we had from the DPRK!
For the ladies of the North our hearts will ache
whenever we remember our communist spring break.

Anonymous

I love the internet and I love anonymous posting.  Last night a friend contacted me because she thought that I was responsible for a series of posts on a website called CollegeACB.  I can neither confirm nor deny these claims, however, I have begun posting on the site now under the name C.T. Cilver, and I will probably continue to do so from time to time for some quick laughs.  Today I wrote this: 

 Sunday Slampieces

Last night came back to the house after the game. Wasn't that drunk, but found some chick who def was sleeping in my bed. Tried to move her, but she was fucking dead assing me so I just ended up fucking her. Spent 10 minutes trying to bust nut, but couldn't so I kicked the bitch out and called my slampiece. She was over like twenty minutes later getting sloppy on my dick. All of a sudden my bros fucking bust in and start screaming about someones sister. Turns out the fat bitch was someones fucking sister. I'm like, "can a nigga bust a nut in this joint....fuck!" Apparently this girl was like the sister of some kid who wasn't a brother during the Bush white house, so idgaf. Anyway ended up having to just jerk it on this chicks tits and call it a night. Shit the things I do on sundays. 

Sunday Slampieces Thread on ACB

Drone: Chapter Four (prelude)

      There are places I go, places I can barely remember now, but for some moments.  Quick flashes that make me remember that they were real.  That things really happened.  A last cigarette smoked in a place that has no name except for what we called it.  The party where the deck collapsed and our lives changed, but not really.  The party where we drank to much and threw up the stale pizza we had eaten at the dinning hall.  The party where we first met where there were neon lights and ecstasy, and cocaine, and Bacardi, and a kid who was drinking from a boot.  The party we left to find another party.  The room we slept in so many nights when the nights were cold and there was no one else.
      We did everything so fast just so we could talk about it the next day.  Hungover again and afraid to mention what we knew we had said last night in the heat of the moment.  That was the life we lived and we lived it well for a while not realizing that we would only look back on it with a blurring remembrance.
      I imagine a life sometimes where I stayed there with you.  Where I published a book about it all and made money and graduated and moved to Los Angeles and you came with me.  And we lived for a while doing the same things we did in college, and we were happy.
But soon the nights merged together like they had before, like lights on that dark highway fused in the reflection of the headlights.  The life we had desired was gone just like those nights we couldn't remember. Time disappeared, and on that couch where it all started I can see myself.  Outside my body.  Maybe I'm drunk or maybe I'm dreaming, either way the only explanation is that this is just another tragedy.  Another life that could never be.  Another dream wasted on you.  And then I'm awake.  I forget that I was dreaming, and for a moment it seems real.  For a moment I am back in that bed starring at the ceiling as the blue shades of morning light stream in the window behind me.  The moment when I could still feel you next to me, breathing.  Then it is gone, and I am back in this place trying to remember how I got here.  Trying to remember what happened last night.  Trying to remember all those nights, and realizing that sleep will be the only remedy.

~

Death to all ye hipster scum!

Hipsters appear to be harmless creatures on the surface, but few know of their true origins.  Until now.  In the early 1940s during the rise of Hitler in Germany several teenaged boys in the Hitler Youth were selected for a special program that would ensure the security of Fascism as the primary ideology in the world for generations to come.  

The boys were taken to a private training facility in the Swiss alps, and systematically brainwashed using techniques that would later be tested in the little known CIA endeavor MKULTRA.  The boys were beaten, tested, beaten and the tested again.  They were systematically raped by the Fuhrer himself until they believed themselves to actually be homosexuals.  Finally, they were taught the principles of all communist revolutionaries and leaders in history, given copious amounts of marijuana, and released into the liberal arts colleges of the United States.  

Hitler believed that communism would eventually be an even bigger threat to fascism than the allied powers.  His plan we to create a generation of liberal idealists to infiltrate American society and turn the Americans against the communists and in a sense create an unlikely ally.  Unfortunately for him, the American's had other plans.  However, the hipsters were already in place, and even to this day they continue to spread their communist ideology amongst American youth.  

Today the original hipsters are gone, but what was started nearly seventy years ago continues on to this day as the rebellious nature of the hipster was specifically formulated to appeal to American youth, and continues to do so.  

Ironically the irony that hipsters so love to point out is truly the greatest irony of all since their entire lives are perhaps the most extraordinary irony since irony was invented.

Continuum

Why do we go to school?
To learn that we have to be taught to learn.
To see what others have seen.
To do what other have done.
To make what others have made.
To try what others have tried.
To fail where others have succeeded.
To fail where others have failed.
To finish what others have started.
To think what others have thought.
To be what others have been.
To live the way others have lived.
To lose your imagination,
and die where others have died.

Drone: Chapter Three

    “I think I need something to sleep.”
    “You’re having trouble sleeping?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “How long do you normally sleep?”
    “It’s hard to say. I usually get distracted by things, and end up staying awake.  Then I sleep for maybe a couple of hours.  Whenever I can really.”
    I was sitting on my psychiatrist’s leather chair.  I couldn’t help from thinking how useless these sessions had been for me.  I hadn’t actually been prescribed anything and this was my fourth visit.  It was suggested by my parents that I see someone.  Since I refused to declare my major on the grounds that I didn’t have a good grasp on who I was and therefore what I wanted to do with my life.  They thought that a professional could help me “gain direction.”
    “How long has this been going on?”
    “Three...No maybe four months.  I don’t know I guess since around the beginning of the semester.”
    “Why do you think you’re having trouble sleeping?”
    “I don’t know.  Isn’t that you’re job.  Can I smoke in here?”  I asked with the cigarette already at my lips. 
    “Sure.” The doctor said as if he didn’t really want me to.
    I lit it anyway, with my gold Zippo.  Inhaled and tried to keep myself from looking at Dr. Shultz directly.  “What were we talking about?”
    “Your sleeping habits.”
    “Right.  So what do you think?”
    “Do you honestly think you have a problem sleeping.”
    “Again doc, I don’t know.  That is your job.”
    “Okay.  Let me ask you another question.  How is your outlook.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Your current condition.  How do you feel about you’re current state.”
    “Well...I’m very pessimistic.”
    “What are you pessimistic about?”
    “Well, I’m not really doing anything with my life.  I mean, school just seems very...unfulfilling.”
    “I see.  Are you seeing anyone?”
    “Well yeah.”
    “Is it serious?”
    “Of course it’s not serious.”
    “Have you been drinking a lot lately?”  He asked me plainly.
    “Not really.  Maybe three or four nights a week.”  I exhale more smoke.
    “How much do you drink on average?”
    “Maybe fifteen a night.  I...I don’t know.” 
    “I see.”  I saw him scribbling something on his pad.
    “What about drugs?”
    “Just pot.  I don't like it that much.  I don’t use it that much.”  I said this quickly, and then thought. “And some coke.  Only natural stuff, you know?”
    “Okay.”  He again scribbled something in his notes.  “Perhaps you should consider cutting back on your drinking habits.” 
    I stamped out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray that topped a mahogany stand.  Smoke streamed from my nostrils.  There was a stale silence in the room.  It smelled like wood varnish, but it still smelled like a doctors office.  I slight hint of rubbing alcohol seemed to be present, but I might have just been projecting.  I looked at the doctor finally, “Heh, that's a good one doc.”
    He responded mildly, “Look, I think you might be depressed, but I can’t prescribe you anything.  It wouldn’t mix well with your current lifestyle.  If you want to see a change you have to make an effort to change.”
    “Christ.  This is pointless.  I’m a fucking college student.  I drink, Okay?”   My persona was still stable, but his logical analysis was  honestly pissing me off.
    “You have to see that if you are truly depressed your alcohol and drug use is probably an attempt to self medicate.”
    “I don’t think that’s what it is.  I’m not depressed.  I’m just trying to figure out what I’m looking for.”
    “Well, what do you want?”
    “I don’t know.”  I Looked down for a moment to think about it.  “I know I want more than this,” I said finally.
    He scribbled another line on the pad.  Then looking at his watch said, “Okay.  Well ponder that for next week.  Our time is up.”

Drone: Chapter Two

    I want to tell you so many things, but everything I tell is expelled only in tiny pieces.  I can never express to you the true feeling or emotions that came with the events that unfolded that winter.  There was a girl who I’d had an affair with the spring before, but she had left the city and was now involved with someone else.  I panned on seeing her if she returned for Christmas, but she never came home. 
~
    I was at some sort of post-Thanksgiving pre-Christmas party with Matt Hilderbrand.  The whole thing was quite contrived, despite the obvious effort the hostess had put into it.  I was impressed, but also very annoyed.  There wasn’t enough beer, and for some reason everyone at this party seemed to be drinking straight vodka.  Some sort of fascination with Absolute was evident, and if I do say so myself, in rather poor taste.  The only good thing I could see on the surface was the excellent selection of eighties music, and the brunette across the room.
    “We need cocaine,” Hilderbrand was holding a corona in his hand and not looking at all drunk enough. 
    “Christ, fuck that.  You’re right though,” I said, taking a sip of mine.
    “This party sucks.  The music sucks.”
    “The music is alright, but the booze situation is atrocious.”  I caught another glimpse of the brunette who shot a glance at me as she walked into the kitchen.
    “Yes.” Matt agreed with emphasis. 
    “Fucking Absolute,” I said, trying to tilt my head, and follow the path of the girl.  “I think this girl is looking at me.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know.  I’ve never seen her before.”
    “I don’t know anybody here.  I need a fucking cigarette.  Smoke?”
    “Fuck it.  Lets go.”
    The air was stiff and calm.  There was an aura of certainty in my thoughts as the slow burning paper disintegrated into ash, vapor, and smoke, as it always did.  Matt was saying something about the advertising industry, and I was agreeing with him.  His words made sense to me, but for some reason I was asking myself whether or not they made sense to him. 
    The city was lit up, but obscured because we were in a low-rise apartment building near campus.  This frustrated me.  Matt had stopped talking, and I noticed that the brunette had walked onto the balcony.
    I lifted the cigarette to my lips, staring at her.  I took a drag.  Then turning to Matt, my voice slightly deeper because of the smoke, I said, “She’s looking at me.”
    “Well you are looking at her.”
    “Yeah but...”
    “Just go fucking talk to her.  Christ, she obviously wants to jump your bone.”
    “Not an easy task,” I said sarcastically.
    “Fuck off,” Matt said now pissed because of the lack of blow and the lack of female interest, but most because of the blow.  I approached her casually.  At first I had thought that her hair was brown, but now I began to see that it was more black in this light.  It was not as if it had been dyed black, but as if it was natural despite her very light complexion.  She was wearing a strapless  cocktail dress.  It was the usual type it was cut short showing off her excellently toned legs that were accentuated by what appeared to be no less than four inch stiletto heels. 
    “Excuse me,” I said, provoking her attention.  “I noticed you looking at me.”
    “Oh you think I was looking at you,” she shot back. 
    That cut me short, but wasn’t unexpected from the type of girl that usually frequent parties like this.  “Well I saw you looking at me...” I said as she took a sip of something that looked like Champagne from what looked like a Champagne glass. 
    “I was just looking at you because you were staring at me.”  She cut me off letting the glass fall to her side. 
    “Well maybe I was staring, but I was just trying to figure out who you are.  I’ve never seen you anywhere before, and you are definitely someone I wouldn’t miss.”
    “Smooth talker are you?  I just transferred here.”  She said, finally cracking a sly grin.
    Now I was thinking, and as I looked back into the hapless party I knew what an utter waste of time this all was.  “Do you want to get out of here?”
    “Yes.”
    Then we were walking through the crowd.  We were stealing a bottle of Champagne from the kitchen.  We were stumbling down the hall.  We were climbing a staircase.  We were on the roof.  I poured another drink into her glass.  I drank from the bottle as I stood on the edge, and finally escaped the eyesores below.  Now I could see.  The city illuminated as it always was in the distance.  The only absolute.  The moon struck me that night.  Big and bold it made the tar surface we stood on now appear gray.  When I looked at her juxtaposed against it all everything appeared in black and white.  There were no words.  There were no names.  No mediocrities.  Only this.
    I grabbed her then.  “Do think there is any hope for this?” I asked her.
    “No.”  She said.
    We kissed.  Our arms and hands struggling with buttons and cloth and lace.   Then love came in the only form I knew it to take.  Our bodies moving slowly about each other.  She grasped me, and my head close to hers we moved together in step.  Friction creating some warmth on that bleak night.  Her hands moved like waves over me.  They washed away my thoughts, and when the tide came in I dissolved into the sand and disappeared into the night.
    We laid there beneath it all.  The smoke from my cigarette rising into the blank air above us, and there was nothing.  I was free. 
    “Why are you here?” She asked me later.
    “What do you mean?” She took my cigarette and took a drag before handing it back to me.
    “You don’t seem like the type to go to a party like that.”
    “Yes I do.”
    “Well maybe on appearances, but not...” She stopped.
    “Not what?”
    “You just seem different then the rest of them.”
    “Don’t get your hopes up.  I’m still a pretty big asshole.  I probably won’t call you.”
    “Who said I want you to?”  I looked at her.  She was smiling. 
    “I’m looking for something,” I paused.  She was still listening.  “I’m looking for something real.”
    “Like what?”  She asked genuinely.
    “I don’t know yet.”
    “Am I real?”
    “I hope so.” I said silently.

Melodrama

    I can still smell you.  There was a breath we shared on that last morning.  The last touch, last kiss, last look.  How could we have possibly known that our lives would be so irrevocably separated.  So destroyed by distance and time, and the moment.  It lasts with me now sometimes only in the night, only when my mind wanders, but it wanders often and I may never forget. 
    I can only remember small bits.  Lotion, smelling of synthetic flowers making your skin smooth as I run the tips of my fingers up.  And you smell like I want to hold you forever.  Your eyes looking into mine with all that wanting.  What I thought you wanted, now I only want to know what you are thinking.  You so desperate to see inside of me, and me so desperate to hide from you.  I want to give you what you wanted.  To give you everything.  To give you my heart and so much more. 
    Did you know that I love you? 

MLK: An Anarchist Perspective

    Martin Luther King Day was yesterday and as a white American you may be wondering the significance of such a day to me.  I, as I am sure many other whites do, may not immediately see the significance of a civil rights leader who fought for the rights of blacks in America.  I was about to overlook the day altogether when last night I heard an interesting piece on the Tavis Smiley show on NPR.  One of the guests was addressing the significance of President Obama in regard to King’s goals.  His commentary, however, took a turn when he said that Obama, or simply having a black President, was an aspect of King’s dream, but ultimately his dream has yet to be fulfilled. 
    I claim no authority on King’s messages, but from what I do know, he was not only concerned with the rights and liberties of blacks in America, but that of minorities and even people all across the world.  He favored nonviolence in all situations, and this was very evident in his acts of civil disobedience.  King’s goals supersede the needs of any one group, and identify the necessity all people have for freedom and justice. 
    In the United States today we have not only disregarded much of this message, but we may have actually gotten worse.  King was opposed to the Vietnam War and described this opposition in a speech called “Beyond Vietnam” in which he said that the U.S. Government is “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today.”  He called the  U.S. occupation of Vietnam an attempt at American colonization which echos today in the our current war in Iraq and Afghanistan as we continue to occupy these nations despite the futility of the cause. 
    Again we are reminded that King’s message was not just for one minority, but for all people, because it is necessary for all to people to understand that the fundamentals of peace must start with a policy of nonviolence in all situations with no aggressor. 
    Unfortunately, the United States has become the aggressor in the world today.  Ironically it was this aggression that led to the terrorist attacks of 9/11, something the intelligence community calls Blowback.  Rather than adjusting foreign policies in the world, and in the Middle East, the United States proceeded to step up its presence in the region, invaded two nation-states who governments and civilians had nothing to do with any acts of aggression toward the U.S.
    Rhetoric in the U.S. today causes anger, forms hate, and pushes nationalism.  However, this anger is often projected toward those the government wants us to hate, and not who is actually to blame, especially if the blame is to fall on the government itself. 
    Indeed you can tout about our civil rights and freedoms to the world, and promote democracy all you want, but the fact is that this county is no more free then it was.  Blacks enjoy rights they were not afforded in King’s time, but as they finally reached the level of “freemen” the nation as a whole began to take a nose dive with civil liberties for all.  The War on Communism, The War on Drugs, The War on Terrorism, all rhetorical ploys to scare the public into a certain way of thinking.  Ploys not to fight for our freedoms, but to find ways to restrict them.

Drone: Chapter One

The Profound Examination of Human Evolutionary History

You know that feeling you get, in the morning, after you’ve had a one night stand?  When the girl you fucked is still lying next to you, and you’re wondering whether or not she had a good time.  You’re wondering if she did this because she actually liked you or if she was just drunk and couldn’t tell the difference.  You’re hoping its the first one.  You’re hoping that you’re worth enough for her to give a damn, even though you couldn’t give a damn when you were getting in her pants eight hours ago.  Well now the sun is casting those blue reflections on the block wall, and you’re awake and soon she will be too, and you’re hoping that when she does she will look at you and smile.  But you know that is just wishful thinking, and, every foreseeable outcome points to the obvious answer you already have on the tip of your dry tongue.  You mean nothing.

~

Craig Crenshaw, Matt Hildebrand, Timothy Stuart, and I were sitting at a window booth at Jerry’s.  It was a decent table especially for this restaurant, but I had a hunch that our luck was based on the fact that Friday wasn’t one of Jerry’s prime nights.  

We had all pounded three or four shots each before making our way from the apartment near campus to this restaurant on Jackson Street.  We were all at least buzzed, and Matt was showing signs of mild intoxication.  

I was trying to coax the waitress over to our table to get another Don Q and to try and get her number, but she seemed to be ignoring me, although I couldn’t really tell.  Craig had begun asking us what we thought of this girl he met at a club last week.  I had seen her, and although I thought she was hot, I said, “I don’t know.  I never really got a good look at her so I couldn’t say.”  This may have all seemed very calculated, but honestly I just didn’t want to get involved.  Craig always asked everyone’s opinion on everything, and whether or not our opinions actually factored into any decision he made was yet to be determined, so again I distanced myself from such matters of friends.

Matt seemed more drunk than the rest, but he was also dressed better than the rest of us so that made up for it.  He was wearing a blazer that probably cost more than everything I was wearing.  He was agreeing with Craig, who was obviously looking for approval.  He was saying, “If you’re into her then why not?”  

Craig was nodding his head.  He seemed to be saying, “Yes.  Yes.”  But he wasn’t making any noise.  Then looking at his watch in one motion he too was trying to call the waitress.  “Where the hell is this girl?  It’s been, like, ten minutes.  Christ, I came here to drink.  Not chew...fucking...ice.”

I looked at Timothy.  He was being his usual quiet self, but tonight he seemed to have something on his mind.  I very much liked everyone at the table, but Timothy was different.  He was the type of kid who had the potential to be legendary.  He raised his glass to his lips.  Sipped.  Replaced the glass.  I knew that Craig didn’t really care about everyone else’s thoughts on this girl anyway.  He really just wanted to hear what Timothy had to say about it.  

“What do you think Timothy?”  I asked, also curious.  

Timothy was wearing pleated trousers and a cardigan sweater that was complimented by a Ralph Lauren button down.  He was wearing his Wayfarers inside, (we all were) but he lowered them, and finally removed them when he started talking.  “I already fucked her.”

“What?” Craig asked.

“I said, I already fucked her.”

“I heard what you said, but now I’m asking you what you mean?”  Craig said sharply, now lowering his sunglasses.

“I think he is trying to tell you that he porked your girl, Crenshaw,”  I chimed in sarcastically. 

“No shit?” Matt said slowly.

“Goddammit, Tim.  You fucking bastard.  When?”

“It doesn’t matter.  She was terrible.  Not worth your time, believe me.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”  Craig pulled out a cigarette. “I could have decided that,” he started to light it when the waitress finally came over.  “Oh, nice of you to join us.”

“You can’t smoke in here.”  The waitress said as he lit it anyway.  

“We’re leaving.”  Craig stood up and blew smoke in the waitress’s direction.  Matt and Tim rose to leave, and I pulled out a hundred and gave it to the waitress telling her to keep the change, and then apologizing, and then getting her number.  

~

There was a briskness in the air on the streets.  Between the skyscrapers, and condos, and restaurants and cafes that were trying to be hip, and people who were doing the same.  The problem was, this city had no real art scene.  Everyone here was either an amateur, or a low paid wannabe.  There were galleries, and festivals, and shows, but no one outside this realm really paid any notice.  Essentially these people were just imitation creatives.  There was nothing real here.  It was all constructed, all imported, all disaster.  

We were now all feeling the effects of the booze and a cloud of condensed air and cigarette smoke wafted above the four of us as we traversed the street.  Crossing back towards campus Craig said loudly, “We need beer.”

“Lets get some beer then.” I said, turning toward a convenience store on the corner.  

“What we really need is some pot,” said Timothy.

“Yes.  Best idea of the night,” said Matt.  “I know a guy.”  Matt was pulling out his cell phone.  Timothy was trying to ask him who his guy was, Craig grabbed two twenty-four packs from the freezer, and we were all buying cigarettes.  

“What are we doing tonight,” I was asking as we got back to the apartment.  

“Let’s...let’s...let’s call some girls,” Craig said enthusiastically despite his intoxication. “I need some pussy.  Do you know anybody?  Who can we call?”

“No.  No chicks,” said Timothy.  

“Fuck that.  You’re getting laid, of course you don’t care.” Craig snapped back.  “Gimme a beer.”  We sat down on our crumbling leather couches.  Craig cracked a beer, Matt lit a blunt, Timothy sat down and started drinking a beer and  never stopped, and I lit a cigarette and watched the chaos.  

Timothy put his empty beer down, and grabbed another one.  He opened it, cutting the silence in the room, and spoke.  “Do you guys know why humans evolved from hunter gatherers?”  He looked at all of us.  Presently I seemed to be the only one really paying attention.  Craig was getting very drunk now and Matt was enthralled with the art of smoking his expertly crafted blunt.  

“Does it matter?” asked Matt.

“Well, I guess nothing really matters.”  Timothy retorted quickly, his tone more serious now.  I knew something was irritating Tim, but I didn’t have any idea what he was getting at.  

“Yeah, but listen.  The reason humans evolved from hunter gatherers...you know twigs and berries type shit...to farming...is all because of beer...Have you heard this?  Turns out that those motherfuckers loved gettin’ wasted.”  He took another big gulp from his beer. “They drank so much they had to start specializing just so they could grow enough rice to make malt liquor.”

“That’s fucking great,” Matt laughed out, obviously stoned.

“Who cares,” said Craig unabashedly.  “I want to talk about this girl.”

“What girl?” I asked, knowingly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Timothy retorted, “You realize that our entire existence as workers in this capitalist system is based on the fact that a couple of fuckers wanted to get drunk.”  He took another drink.  “Our entire society, government, religion, art, war, everything...it’s all because some guy was like–we need to integrate.”

“That’s really, like, deep.”  said Matt.  

“Well, I don’t have a job,”  I said.  

Our disinterest was clearly upsetting Timothy, and he was now becoming even more evangelical.  He took the blunt from Matt and stood up on the coffee table in front of all of us.  He took a massive hit, sucking in half of what was left in one huge gasp.  When he exhaled the room was full of pungent smoke.  He was sweating mildly, and his eyes became fiery, or bloodshot, or both.    

“It’s all just bullshit.  The beer isn’t the only thing either.  Take Craig for example.  You’re a fucking slut...you’re a fucking...a fucking whore...You’re a piece of shit peder-ass.”

“She was seventeen!”

“It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t fucking matter.  That’s not the point anyway.  The point is that you’re a hypocrite.  Honestly, we all are.  I mean have you ever though about it?  I mean, why the hell do people, and by people I mean us too, have such low goddamn moral values?  Every night it’s the same goddamn bullshit man, and now we find out that our whole existence is based on fucking hops.  Its just so fucking incomprehensibly tragic, man.  Our whole existence is  based on a fucking lie, dude.”  He took another huge gulp of beer.  Now sweating quite profusely, and now visibly enflamed. His hair was combed over and slicked, but now fell into his eyes.  He slicked it back with his fingers, grabbed the roach with the tips of his thumb and pointer and took the last of it into his lungs.  

I had only taken one hit, but my world was closing in on me.  I could see everyone, but I had a strange feeling that I looked ridiculous.  My understanding of the situation was solely based on my complete trust that everything coming from Timothy’s mouth was true.  I also had a feeling that Matt and Craig were also in my situation, but I couldn’t tell if they were paying attention to Timothy.  Timothy seemed to be distracted by something, but I wanted to hear more of his sermon. 

“I totally agree, man,” I said.  

“No man.  Don’t agree with me.  That’s the whole problem.  Collectivism.  To much agreement.  There’s no innovation.  There are too many followers.” 

“You’re right.”

“Don’t agree with me, man!”

“Okay.” I said trying to show him that I understood.  He put one foot back on the table.  At that moment I knew he was completely, utterly, and totally insane.  The other two were on the verge of passing out, but he spoke to them like they were watching the birth of Christ. 

“We’ve been programmed man.  Don’t you get that?  Fucking school...it’s all just a way to make us conform...fucking history is written by the winners, man.”  He was becoming frantic.

“Yes! Yes! YES!” Matt was screaming.  

“We need to talk about the girl,” Craig mumbled.

“Fuck the girl! Society is an illusion man!”  screamed Timothy.

“You did.  You fucked her,” Craig realized.

“You’re right.” I said.

“Don’t agree with me goddammit.”  Then he suddenly forgot his words.  He grabbed another beer.  He sat down, and drank it.   I looked at Matt, who was now tipped over, unconcious.  Craig looked at me.

“You got a smoke dude?”

“Yeah.”  

He took the cigarette from my grip.  Lit it.  The apartment was quiet.  Smoke billowed.  A siren could be heard on the street below.  I got up and walked to the balcony.  The night was still cold.  The city had a look of artificiality now.  It looked like a picture of a city at night, not the real thing.  From inside I heard Timothy groan.  

“You fuck...don’t you get it?  Your life is meaningless.”

The Time Machine

My design for the classic novel's cover.

The Most Important Thing Ever Written Down: Cheating To Win

I have always admired professional con artists.  Of course many people have heard the stories of Frank Abagnale and David Hampton, or professional hoaxer Alan Abel, but I think the best con artist are the ones we don’t know about.   The more mysterious a person is, the more interesting they usually are.  Cons can be used for many things, but I am less concerned with many things and more concerned with one: getting laid.  

I have always fancied myself as a con man of sorts, but maybe I am just a good liar.  Or maybe, girls are just very gullible.  Any or all is possible, and it doesn’t really matter which.  The important thing is that at some point during high school I became fascinated with the art of lying.  I was very interested in writing, and creating short films, and of course lying is an integral part of both professions.  Creating characters is an essential step, and the best part is they can be anything you want.  

I often found myself thinking of grandiose ambitions or dangerous schemes I could attempt, but I never had the means to follow through with.  I could, however, always write about it. 

In high school I began to blur the line between my imagination and my reality.  I might start telling a true story, but I would often find myself exaggerating details or simply embellishing the entire thing. 

I was dating a girl during my senior year.  One night I had just dropped her off at her house, and she had gone inside when I realized that she had left her jacket in my car.  I called her to come back out and get it, and then I saw an opportunity.  I remembered that I had a Journey CD in the car, and so I quickly fast forwarded and pressed pause.  When I saw her coming out of the house I grabbed the jacket, hit play, and turned up the volume.  Her eyes glinted a reflection of the lights off the damp street.  It was cold.  She moved to take the jacket and I pulled her close to me.  Looking into her eyes I saw beauty.  I kissed her as Faithfully took off. It was the perfect scene.  

This was my first taste of deception.  I had created an atmosphere, a setting, that wasn’t real.  Of course, this girl was very smart (one reason I actually liked her), and she saw right through the gimmick.  But I loved the rush.  I loved the control.  I loved the power.

I began to script my life.  Plan scenes and carry them out.  When I reached college I found that meeting girls in clubs and bars was the perfect place to hone my skills.  If I was just trying to get laid then why be honest?  I could literally tell these girls whatever I wanted, and they wouldn’t know the difference.  That is exactly what I did.  I had many personas and countless professions.  

Most of the time I would say that I was a grad student.  Maybe a psychology major, or basically anything more interesting then political science.  One night I was a med student doing my residence at Tallahassee Memorial (finger banged her in the bathroom).  One night I had just passed the BAR exam and was considering putting off a position at a firm to travel(laid).  One night I was a lawyer for Raymond James Financial (make-out, blow-job).  Having an actual career instantly made me more appealing than ninety percent of the other guys at a party.  If I had a wing man then I could have him corroborate my story, but usually a little bit of information was all it would take to convince.  “Oh I work for Pierce and Pierce,” ever heard of it?”  Too easy.  

One night I went to one of those downtown clubs that try to look much more classy than they are.  It’s all very posh inside and out, but most of the people (especially the women) were college age, and trying very hard.  Tight, short dresses made me think of  smooth, soft, legs, skin, sex.  It was time.  We passed through the line at the front like we knew the fucking owner and strolled right in.  Confidence equals respect and respect gets you privileges.  

I was wearing Ralph Lauren pleated trousers and fitted shirt along with a Ralph Lauren skinny necktie.  Although it was about eleven thirty I was wearing my Ray Bans because I didn’t care.  

When we got inside we realized it was packed and the idea of pulling any good looking chicks from the crowd was intimidating,but I wasn’t too worried.  I had been in this situation before, and if there was anything I had learned it was to be patient, because anything can happen (and it often does).  Acknowledging this, I proceeded to relax and take up a position at the outside bar.  Looking good was assured, creating an aura of intrigue was necessary.  I lit a cigarette with a silver zippo and waited.  Sipping a drink as everyone else pounded them.  Phil was getting worried, and to be honest I was too.  An hour in, and there wasn’t much progress.  I was walking up some stairs with Phil when a girl I had seen earlier came down with a guy who looked as if he meant to take her home.  She made eye contact with me, and as I attempted to disregard her obviousness, her lips made the words, “help me.”  

It really wasn’t all that serious.  She just didn’t want to go home with this guy.  I took the initiative and grabbed her hand saying, “Hey, you can’t leave everyone is still inside!”  The guy she was with turned with her to look at me as I waved for Phil to cover me.  

“Oh yeah,” she said turning to the guy and kissing him on the cheek.  “I’m sorry, I can’t leave yet.”  Cock-blocked.

I took her to another area where there were less people and Phil followed probably wondering what is going on.  We began talking.  She thanked me and I realize this was an opportunity.  She kept touching my shoulders, tugging my tie, and I glared at Phil giving him the signal to start the game.

The formality of small talk makes anticipating questions and more importantly answers much easier.  I don’t like small talk in important conversations, but when crafting a well thought out lie small talk is essential. 

“Where are you from?” I asked moving closer.  

“I’m living in Ft. Myers. I go to Florida Gulf Coast,” she said.

“Really?  I’ve got some friends down there.  I like the town.  I heard the club scene is pretty good.”  

“Yeah, but I haven’t gone out much yet.  I’ve been rushing,” she said.  

“Oh yeah what sorority?”

“Tri-Delt.”

“That’s a good one,” I said.  I was looking at her now and she wasn’t a hardbody, but she wasn’t bad.  She was wearing a red mini dress, I think, and some very high heels.  She didn’t really seem like Tri-Delt material, but I imagine as far as sororities go FGCU is a 2A school.  

“Yeah I, like, really like it,” she said.  “So where do you go to school?”

“I don’t,” I said glancing at Phil to make sure he was in.  “I’m a lawyer.  I’m working in JP Morgan’s legal department,” I said without hesitation.  

She looked at me almost dumbfounded.  “Really?  You look young.”

“I’m the youngest one, I’m twenty-three.”

Then Phil chimed in to authenticate my story.  “He isn’t lying.  He really does work for JP Morgan.  This kid is the smartest guy I know.  How many years did it take you to graduate at Florida State?”

“Two and a half,” I said as if I wasn’t meaning to brag.   “It’s been a trip.  I came out because Phil told me the Sigmas were gonna be here tonight.  What are you doing in Tampa?”

“I came up to meet my friends,” she said, 

“You should introduce Phil to one of your friends,” I suggested trying to repay Phil’s favor.  There wasn’t enough time, however,  because maybe seven minutes after meeting this girl I had my tongue in her throat.  I was a beast.  

One day I’m sure karma will take me down.  If I ever actually love a girl I will probably lie about something, and then she will think she can’t trust me.   Honestly, doing what I do, I don’t see myself meeting the girl I could love anytime soon.  Hardbodies are hardbodies they come and go.  

I lie because I like the rush.  And in some dark bar, some deserted dance floor, some slow drone of bass trails off.  A black dress drenched in sweat and a necktie pulled loose hangs low from the collar.  Empty champagne bottles cover white tables with their sparkle.  Another beer, another shot, another hit, another line, another bar, another party, another club, another girl, another night, another week, another month, another year, another life.  In some dive I’ll be waiting, with my Ray Bans on.  Lurking.  Still lying.  

The Most Important Thing Ever Written Down: Choking the Bishop

I was brought up in a middle class family, with middle class friends, middle class problems, middle class lives.  Although I was Catholic, I went to a Baptist school for a long time, and was obviously heavily indoctrinated.  It wasn’t until my Confirmation, the final stage of acceptance into the Catholic Church, that I really started to question the purpose of organized religion.  

One of the requirements to be confirmed was to go to confession, a sacrament I detested and had consequently neglected for many years.  I always chose the oldest priest because I felt that he would either be too old to care about the petty sins of a minor or that he would die soon and wouldn’t hold anything against me.  That day it was Father Pat, the senile, but well meaning pastor.  An Irishman, he was a less than exciting addition to any sermon, and his deliveries were usually made with an overuse of the phrase, “But really and truly...”

The quiet church, lit only by red and brown stained glass, was not a sanctuary, but a torture chamber.  I knelt praying as I waited for my turn.  The pews had a distinct smell.  A slight hint of incense mixed with the sweat and stench of the thousands who had soaked into each cushion.  I hated the smell because it followed me every Sunday even after I was home.  Kids, some that I knew, walked in and out of the confession booth with apparent confidence—wearing their penance like a new suit.  I, however, was stricken with fear.  What were my sins?  What were my damn sins?  

Then the moment came.  I opened the door to a small dark room lit only by a single candle that illuminated the priest’s decrepit face.  I took a seat, trembling.  I quickly realized that this old man was not going to take pity on my young soul.  “Bless me father for I have sinned,” I said without hesitation.  How did I remember that?  It had been years since my last confession.

“What are your sins my son,” he replied in a solemn voice.  Then, as if guided by the Holy Spirit, I pieced together a string of sins that quickly spewed from my lips.  The typical line up for a fourteen-year-old boy.  “I’ve been mean to my little brother, disrespected my parents, made fun of others.”  I thought I had made it.  I mean I really thought it was over.  A relief passed over me.  All that was left were a few prayers, and then I’d never have to do this again, I thought. But it wasn’t over.  The priest had listened, but he wasn’t quite satisfied.   “Have you committed any mortal sins,” he asked.  I was dumbfounded.  I had no idea what mortal sins were, or if I had committed them.  Panic set in.  

I looked up at the old man.  I knew he could see the fear in my eyes, but he didn’t flinch.  He just sat there staunch in his dusty robes staring at me without a hint of compassion.  Silence.  I couldn’t ask him.  I didn’t want to look stupid.  The air stiff as if we were separated by needles all aimed at me.  I knew that I must have been told what the mortal sins were, but I hadn’t been paying attention.   Another sin.  

I finally asked him.  “What are mortal sins.”  I tried playing dumb, but he could see right through me.  The darkness of the small room seemed to make it expand, and now it was as if we were sitting in a giant dark expanse and the was no where to go, no escape.  

My only chance now was to find out what the sins were and confess, but the priest responded with an answer that made the situation infinitely worse.

“Blasphemy is a mortal sin.  As well as masturbation.  Have you done anything like that?” He asked.  

The color drained from my face.  If I wasn’t shaking before I sure as hell was then.  My face felt cold and gave way to a tingling fire, and I could not speak because the saliva in my mouth had been burned up.  

Masturbation?  I was only fourteen, but I knew what it was.  I loved to jerk off.  It had become somewhat of a pastime for me.  I knew I felt ashamed afterward because sex was always denied in my home.  Anything even remotely sexual was demonized.  I had no idea that masturbation was such a serious crime in the church.  I can remember choking-the-bishop multiple times a day back then.  In fact I probably had done it before coming to confession.  I was fourteen.  What fourteen year old boy didn’t beat off?  

I was speechless.  The question was like my mother asking me if I masturbated except worse because it was more like God asking me.  I had split seconds to answer.  If I took too long he would know I was lying, but I couldn’t lie to a priest, that would be an even more hell worthy misdeed.  I had to think quick.  If I said no I could leave with my dignity in tact, but God would surely spite me in return.  If I said yes I could leave, but I would never be able to look at Father Pat again.  I mean what kind of low life kid masturbates?  At that moment I was certain that I was the only one.  I did what I had to do.  I lied.  

“Say four Hail Mary’s and seven Our Fathers,” he said.  I walked out in disbelief.  The high number of prayers made me think that he knew, but I had nothing to compare it to.  As I knelt again on the sweat stained cushions and looked at the naked, emaciated Christ hanging above the altar, I was on the verge of tears.  I was not sad because of what I had done.  I was furious.  My head boiled, and I turned away from my friends who were leaving not wanting them to see me.  The church was hot, the church was old, it was not peaceful.

  For months I looked back on that day with dread.  God would never forgive me for this.  My confirmation went off without a hitch, but I could not consciously accept myself as a Catholic because I knew the truth.  I knew I had lied before God.

High school was a stew of ideas, cultures, identities.  Mr. Huey’s class taught me new ways to look at religion as I learned about Islam, Buddhism, etc.  Literature classes included books besides the Bible.  Compared to a Christian school, public high school was like looking at porn.  There were so many ideas that I had known about, but I had denied because I believed everything that had been preached to me.  I found myself questioning organized religion, and somewhere near the end, the ideas of Christianity, and finally God. 

I saw friends from my Christian school go in many direction when high school started.  I knew a pair of twins who became known in high school for carrying around their Bibles and preaching to any open ears.  If a girl was wearing a skirt they thought was too short you better believe she was gonna hear about it.  I saw other friends drop out of high school.  I knew a girl who had transferred twice in two years, finally dropped out, and got her GED.  She was very pretty in middle school, but when I saw her some years later she no longer had an aura of innocence as she did in middle school.  

One afternoon my junior year, I was at a park when I saw a buddy from middle school, stoned out of his mind in the parking lot.  I later learned that he did this everyday.  For the most part it seemed that the shock of freedom had caused two extremes.  The kids who became more devout in their beliefs, and the ones who rejected them.  

Ultimately that is what the church is about anyway.  People seem to have a desire to be a part of a group.  I’m sure that the kids involved in church talked shit about the kids that partied, and the kids that partied talked shit about the church kids.   But I just want to jerk off in peace.

The Most Important Thing Ever Written Down: Prologue

       There was a night in college when I took one, maybe two, maybe ten too many vodka shots, and woke up the next morning not remembering how I got back to my room or why I was covered in profanity and what one might consider to be the classical depiction of the male genitalia.  Believing that I had come close to death, I had a thought, just a fleeting one, to create a last testament of sorts.  I wanted to leave my mark on the world, an account of my numerous life endeavors and my few triumphs.  Just in case.  

No one really considers what their life might have to offer at this stage, but no teenage college student ever really considers death either.  The inherent ignorance and invincibility of youth, always living like there is no tomorrow, never considering that there might actually not be.  I, being very pretentious myself, thought that I had reached an epiphany of sorts.  By documenting my youth I was going to somehow be better than everyone else.  How typical.