Lie to me, Pinocchio

I've been listless all day. It feels as if the energy has been sucked out of me by a high-powered vacuum cleaner, probably inserted into one of my many cavities by force. Hell, thy name is Everclear, and I can't wait to sample you again.

Everclear is alcohol. That is quite different than saying Rum is alcohol. Compared to Everclear, Rum is a sugared drink that is best fed to kids while the party clown is off in the back, scoring a ticket to the Roman Catholic Clergy Club. I claim I can handle any alcohol straight, no chaser. I'm not sure I could handle Everclear, unless it was drowned in any sort of non-alcoholic mixture.

Everclear and I made our acquaintance early in the evening. I stumbled into my fraternity Christmas party, dateless, carrying a bag of Pabst and an eye for getting shit-faced. It had been a long week for me (See Bang Bang, I shot me down) and I was hell bent on making up for it by consuming copious amounts of alcohol and, perhaps, stealing someone's date and making off with her towards my very blue apartment. I was immediately met with the Bad Sweater Brigade. One of the party requirements, besides bringing a hot date, was that we were to wear "Christmas Sweaters." I wasn't exactly sure what a Christmas Sweater was, but the name was enough to bring images of Cosby or early 90s sweaters to mind. Such sweaters exist only to suck the masculinity out of their bearers, leaving estrogen-ravaged men lumbering about with glassy eyes and the occasional mutter about the office, or how pretty the decor is with all the lights and mistletoe. I must admit, though, I own one sweater. I bought it from the Gap clearance rack back when tight sweaters were popular and J. so badly wanted me to have one. I suppose it would've been fine if it weren't a turtleneck. I tried it on in front of the mirror and looked as if my torso had been squeezed too hard and its contents were ejected out of the sweater. It was quickly removed and replaced by something a bit more flattering.

It would probably not do me well to say that the sweater brigade made me nervous. Enough people question my masculinity. The knowledge that frumpy Christmas sweaters set me on edge would only add to their considerable ammunition. But, for the sake of writing, I probably should confess that old-man sweaters do cause my mind to churn uncomfortably. I have a considerable fear of anything that resembles an old WASP (White, Angelo-Saxon Protestant) community. In my nightmares, pale, pasty old white men hold generic wine while standing by their brick fireplace, which is covered in socks that bear the names John, Jason, Susie, and Jack, while talking to their blonde wives about Tupperware. I enter the room and in unison, they turn to me and smile their perfect white smiles. I am disheveled, young, poor, and ultimately Jewish. I am not used to anything that isn't dysfunctional, or disheveled in some manner and I flee the room and the din of wine glass clatterings.

Luckily, my desire for ass and booze overpowered my desire to flee the Sweater brigade. I hid my Pabst and sought out better booze. A Sweater pointed me towards the booze table. I saw several bottles of Rum and Everclear, and what I thought was potpurri. The Rum bottles were full and I didn't want to open them, so I grabbed a glass and filled half of it with Everclear. Remember, I am the Drinker(tm) and nothing fazes me. I didn't think half a glass of 190 proof drink would do much. I may be the Drinker(tm), but I don't drink my alcohol straight if I can mix it. That is not to say that I can't take it straight. I very well can. I just prefer to mix it.

It should be noted, and any one who has seen me will agree, that I have a large nose. Consequentially, smell is very important to me, although someone once tried to tell me that the two aren't related. Everything consumed must first be sniffed. The sniff tells me if I'm going to regret what I'm about to consume. So, of course, I smelled my drink. I think, one day, my nose hairs will grow back. That didn't stop me from drinking my mixture. It was quite strong, but after awhile, I became used to the taste of what probably could be used to power large Rigs on cross-country trips.

A sweater came my way and asked if I was enjoying the hot cider. I mentioned that I didn't have any hot cider. He pointed to the potpourri and told me that the cider-rum-Everclear mixture was first heated and then put into a giant drink dispenser next to the booze table, which of course, I had not noticed even though it was, in fact, next to the booze table. I smiled, told him about my mixture, watched his face, and then sauntered off, confident in my manhood and my drinking abilities.

After about three cups of the Mix, I was listing precariously to the left. I was also attempting to get pity sex by taking off my bandages and shoving, what T. called my Frankenfinger, into the faces of various women. The girls recoiled and I had no recourse but to flee to the meat table and attempt to converse with the local fraternity Santa. Santa, though, was interested in meat not greet. I shook his shoulder to get his attention. He turned around, slouched, drooled uncontrollably, and then returned to his drunken meat spiel. This particular incident left me quite traumatized. I decided to ameliorate my mood by returning to the casket and refilling my cup.

By the sixth drink, I was the wittiest man in the room. The seventh had me the best looking. The eighth had me sitting in a chair, staring in intently at a dying fire. I wanted to see if the sheer intensity of my gaze would cause the fire to rekindle. It died and I looked around to find something else that would stop the room from spinning. I really wish I had instead focused my eyes on the ample cleavage clustered on couches around the fire. But, by that point, I had given up on girls and was not that interested. Had I still been horny, I would've averted one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

In the corner of the room stood a glowing Santa. It was one of those cute, kitschy Santas that can be found at any Walmart for a couple of bucks. I'm sure you know the sort; plastic, with a cute smile and a glowing composition. One of the Sweater Brigade placed it next to the fireplace. I'm sure he found it to be very Christmas-y and stuff. I don't think he expected that its placement would merit a reflection in an opposing glass pane, which in turn would scare the bejeezus out of a very inebriated Jon.

You can't blame me for being scared. One moment I'm exercising my mental powers and the next I'm looking at a ghostly apparition of a frowning Santa floating in the window across the room. My mental process probably looked something like this:

Me: Oh shit! He really does know when I'm sleeping or when I'm awake. And, I haven't been very good.

I know that seems a bit cliché, but mind you, my mind was currently under the influence, and my liver had long fled my body. I've reports that it demolished Tokyo and is currently in the process of nibbling on Moscow. Why Moscow, I've no idea. Someone should tell my liver that Moscow tastes of borscht.

I'm a very calm freaker. I managed to grab Kapo, while in full freak-out mode, and drag him into the vicinity of ghostly Santa. He agreed with me that the whole vision was very unnerving, but because he was quite sober, he found the whole thing rather amusing. I tried to tell him that this was an extremely traumatizing moment and that I would probably, fifty years down the road, be laying in some beat up couch while paying several hundred an hour to some Jewish psychologist that my mother-in-law's best friend recommended. Kapo merely grinned at me and pointed me towards the direction of the booze table. I thanked him, for my glass was once again empty.

At some point, everyone disappeared. One of my problems with alcohol is that while under its influence, I lose all sense of time and location. If I let someone out of my vision, they might have just as well vanished. As far as I'm concerned, I sat down to talk to someone, and when I left the conversation, the Sweater Brigade dwindled to about two. They were dancing with girls. I love dancing, so I quickly found a girl in red and told her that the music wasn't loud enough for me (it wasn't) and that she would have to give me a rhythm to follow. I followed well enough, I think, but after mashing her foot into the ground several times, I pivote to her, told her that I was too fucking drunk to dance, and left her somewhere near the mistletoe.

Folks, when I can't dance, you know I've drank too much. I don't really remember what happened after that. I'm told it involved drunken IMs, and an attempted booty-call with a girl who lived over a thousand miles away. I think Everclear and I need to be on a first-name basis.

-------------


Dimebag Darrell Abbott was killed earlier this morning. He was the lead guitarist of Pantera, and a damn fine one at that. He was playing a concert with his new band, Damageplan, when some guy walked up to him and unloaded a gun. Dimebag's brother was also killed in the attack.

In true CNN.com fashion, a blurb about a whether or not Scott Peterson should be sentenced to death headlined, while a small article about the shooting deaths of one of our generation's best guitarists was hidden somewhere off to the wayside.

People, in general, sicken me. I find them to be much like a train wreck. The whole incident is horrific and sickening, yet I cannot pull myself away. It is much too fascinating. I feel as if I should get a stick and start poking.

The media is very much a creation of humanity. It should be placed in a cage, next to various exotic animals, and gawked at by a growing stream of aghast guests.


--------

It’s 4am. I don’t feel like referencing all the possible links in my blog. I’m sure you guys can deal with my laziness just his once (again).

Orthographically legal and graphophonically constant

I am at war with my bed sheets. This is a nasty war. It makes Verdun look like a dabble in the mud. Even now, the lines are drawn in my faux-shag carpet. It glares at me and occasionally, when I'm not cowering near my computer; I turn head and frown slightly at it. I don't think it's proper to be at war, or at anything, with bed sheets, and in doing so; I'm bound to lose in a very embarrassing fashion. It's not that I feel any particular hatred towards my bed sheets, which I honestly don't, but there comes a time when a man has to assert his rightful dominion over his bed. As long as the bed sheets wish to remain on my property (IE, my bed), they must comply with my wishes. My wishes are just. They are simple. They are easy to follow. I simply demand that once stretched across the mattress, the bed sheets stay the fuck put.

The bed sheets don't stay the fuck put. They come off the mattress. They curl in the center and mock me with abject and naked elastic bands. When I can't stand the constant stares emanating from their curled lips, I simply go and yank them back over the mattress. It stays, for a few minutes, then with a resounding laugh it springs back towards the center and back into my seething rage. Sometimes the bed sheets are content to hug the mattress until I lie on it and fall asleep. It then slowly springs from its resting place and wraps my limbs. I awake in a pile of green and elastic.

I've threatened it with scissors and fire. The bed sheets do not reply. I even cut a hole in it to show that I am, in fact, the boss of everything in Jon's Room. The bed sheets only sit silently. I'm pretty sure they're coherent and quite conscious of every action taken. It's the only explanation I have for why the bed sheets simply will not behave as bed sheets should.

So, I'm at war with my bed sheets, and I don't think I'm winning. It would be quite embarrassing to lose a fight to bed sheets. I don't think the world would let me live it down. I envision heading to work, only to find my motorcycle draped in bed sheets. I was born free, but I shall soon be in bed sheets if I don't watch myself. Maybe I should try nailing it to the mattress?

------

R. and I were, earlier, talking about the Mormons which haunt his apartment floor. They rise in the early din of morning, arm themselves with bibles and other dangerous devices, and attend to their mighty steed of tube frame and chain. Once properly outfitted, they mount and ride into the thick of the December snow. Occasionally they accost people and ask them if they have found proper, American Jesus. Other times they are pelted with snow inlayed with various hard and shiny objects.

Once the night has come, the Mormons return to R.'s floor and set upon hall stragglers with the vigor of people who have peddled through rejection and corked snowballs. The screams of temptation and transfiguration resonate through R.'s apartment. Apparently, the Mormons are something to fear and behold.

Another friend enjoys telling me how the Mormons are going to take over the world. They own all the important businesses, such as Jewel. I'm not quite sure how owning Jewel is making significant headway into world domination, but I suppose someone has to start somewhere. It makes me question, though, if Bill Gates is really Mormon. I always pegged him for a protestant, but possibly, deep beneath that WASP-y sweater and geeky facade, beats a very lusty Mormon heart that contains the secrets to all the blood rituals glossed over my this same friend.

In the western Deserts of Arizona, a Mormon cult wanders the sand much like my very lost ancestors. They wish to reserve the right to marry as many ugly women as they'd like. Also, virgin, teenage brides are quite prized. See, I don't understand the appeal of virgin, teenage brides. Not only haven't the women fully developed, which deprives me of my favored ass, but they don't know how to fuck. Fucking a virgin is, in my opinion, much like laying a log. They just kind of lay there and hope that, at some point, something good happens. I suppose if they want teenage poontang, that's their prerogative, but lord, must they choose such ugly people?

I don't mean to infer that Mormons are interesting people that should be gathered into small spaces and poked by small children with sticks. I do respect them. One of my best friends growing up was Mormon. A. is/was relatively normal, for someone who actually wanted to spend time with me. He didn't act any stranger than the rest of us, although I think he would argue that he was a bit more mature. I'm not quite so sure about that, but I have no evidence to propose otherwise. For time being, it would be best to accept his assertion that he was, in fact, and still is, more mature than the rest of us.

The only thing different about him was that every Sunday, his parents would hold him hostage, and with him, conduct unspeakable rituals. From what I'm told, these rituals mostly involved going to church, and then lounging around the home while reading a book or watching T.V.. I can still remember the unearthly silent pouring from his home one Sunday afternoon. I was outside riding my bicycle. I think he was inside, presumably doing something productive, like reading a book. Really, it's quite frightening what the Mormons do to their children. I bet he was reading a book on the Jewel Empire and how it's slowly taking over the world with relatively cheap foodstuff, and an abundance of kosher Passover food in Jewish areas.

That is not to say that I wasn't inquisitive. I'd ask him about his religion. Our conversations usually went like this:

Me: So, I hear that the Mormon religion says that once you die, you become the God of your own planet.
A: Jon?
Me: Yeah?
A: Shut up.
Me: Have you ever been in a blood ritual?
A: Jon?
Me: Yeah?
A: You're stupid. Shut up.

I know I'm guilty of embellishing sometimes, when I tell stories, but I believe the conversation listed above is quite spot on. I'll tell you, though, one of these days I'll get to the bottom of this Mormon thing.

Once, though, A. brought me into this Mormon enclave. We played basketball. I got beat. Badly. And, yeah, that's about it. I didn't see a bunch of ugly women herded for shipment to the western Arizona deserts, and I didn't see any brochures about the mighty Jewel Empire. One of these days, though, I'll find out the truth about the Mormons and their Jesus-fish bicycle gangs.

-----------

I am philosophically and anatomically correct.

The Day! The Day!

My stomach lolls with nausea at the thought of tonight. I have so much work to do, but no real ambition to do it. Instead of taking the time to force myself to work, I turn up the music, stare blankly at the walls, the screen, at out the window, and think of how forlorn everything looks as December creeps on. I've just turned on Linkin Park's "My December." It's an old song that occasionally rolls through my head when December heaves it's cold, ugly gut onto my own and dances merrily across my kidneys. I'm well aware that the song is about losing and wanting a girl, but the melody is dreary and wet, just like December.

I don't see the point of December. In fact, December is so bad that the religions of the western world have stuck all the cheerful holidays in it. I guess it's hard to remember peace and goodwill towards people when the slush hangs heavy on the rafters and occasionally falls ground-ward, only to land on whomever was lucky enough to be there at that particular moment. I would much rather my Christmas cheer on a warm beach, served with a margarita and a fine sight of bikinis sashaying towards the ocean. If I close my eyes and dream hard enough, I'm already on the west coast. But, then I have to open my eyes and welcome the utter depression of it all.

I really shouldn't blame the weather for my apathy, but it's hard not to, especially when there's been such a dearth of blue skies and sunshine. The constant throb in my hand doesn't add to my mood and I cradle it while cursing the work that I've allowed to pile. Tonight is paper. Tomorrow is paper. Friday is paper. Next week is paper. Then, Phoenix.

At times I dawdle in the mist and think of the summer. Today, I've been thinking of mangoes. I've been thinking of holding them in my hand and smelling the complete red-greenness of them. I've been thinking of squeezing them just enough to coax a river of sweetness from a burst pore. I've been thinking of slowly slicing off the skin and revealing the mellow orange fruit. I've been thinking of smelling it, licking it, suckling it, and finally, plunging my teeth into it. The flesh of the fruit is summer.

During one of R and mine's many sojourns in Chicago, we pulled off the blue line onto
Western, near Armitage, at the heart of the city's Cuban Neighborhood. The street was typical Chicago; grimy, dirty, worn, but bursting with the insatiable lust for moving forward. On it, children ran through cars pacing the streets, screaming Mira, Mira, Mira to whomever was strolling past. Look, we did, for the energy resonated beneath their skin and flowered in the bubbling buoyancy of youth. R. and I could only laugh and meander down the street, towards the junkyard bloomers, the rusted signs, and the street art glaring at anyone who didn't appreciate the urban-ness of it all.

At times, rusty Ford Pickup trucks rambled around the fleeing North Side Cadillac’s, wooden flatbeds overflowing with fruits, vegetables, and brown farmers with wide straw hats. Occasionally, a fat, old woman would blob down the street, holding a fist of green and shouting haughtily. The farmers would laugh, slow their truck, and begin the exchange of green for green. Nearby, men sat in front of their shops, smoking cigars and grinning at the madness of the street. The street was the world. R. and I could've sat there for the rest of our lives and never grow bored, for the street was constantly changing. The women bursting from the stores advertising two-dollar Ts looked different each time. Some had stretch pants groaning from the bulk concealed. Others had low halter-tops festooned with gold ornaments and ample cleavage. Others spoke of pure potential, but experimented with coy eye catching. Everyone screamed Mira without sound. We couldn't help but look.

The gutters weren't guttered but were covered with vendors hawking wares. Cuban music danced from worn boom boxes, next to the pirated CDs filled with colourful titles and smiling faces. Smiling old men pulled women from stores and began to dance in their old, halting manner. Their cha-chas twirled smiles and I, too, would have danced had R. not held me back. They were dancing their dance, not our dance, and for me to have jumped in would've been sacrilegious.

Summers sweet was only so because of the multiple colours of every patch of the street, but mostly because of the mango vendors that roamed Western, singing their wares deliciously. R. and I halted near one of the vendors and eagerly awaited our turn to eat summer. An Hindu man was before us, and he was quite determined to have his corn-yogurt drink. He and the old woman vendor haggled for a few minutes, then smiled and shook hands. I think he was a vendor, because the haggle wasn't really a haggle, but a flirt over the food and the heat. A short man grabbed corn and a knife and sliced the corn from the cob in a silvery arc. The corn was gathered, mixed with nearby yogurt and some red spices, and then mixed in a Styrofoam cup. It glistened white in the radiating red of the bricks behind them and us. The Hindu paid, took his cup, and went off singing towards whatever work had to be done. The woman stared after, then turned her brown eyes on me.

I smiled with my eyes and teeth, and pointed at one of the fat mangoes hanging near the metal mango-tree rack. She smiled, showed two fingers, then deftly cored and sliced my chosen mango. I pulled out money and she shooed my slices into a cup. We exchanged green for green, and I departed with R. following slowly after. The juicy smell of the sliced mangoes hung heavy on the day and our noses. But, we couldn't eat it right away. The neighborhood and the day had personified itself in a cup of sliced mangoes.

Another vendor slid by, selling frozen fruit pops, and we finally dispersed the scenery by digging in. At first, we used forks like proper citizens of America, but the mango call was harsh and we instead used fingers and let the sticky love run down our mouths and fingers. The mango was heavy on our hands, our faces, and us, and the sun bore down on the street as the Cuban village was slowly replaced by the abject wealth and nonchalance of Wicker Park.

It's funny, though, how two dollars can define a neighborhood and, inevitably, a day, a month, or a season. Wicker Park is a sensation in its own, but when I think of summer, I don't think of it. I think of eating mangoes in the Cuban district of Chicago and of ogling the sassiness of Cuban women flitting through the streets and stores.

And, now I'm hungry for Mango.

A Panty Waste

It is particularly telling that I have become accustomed and even used to wound maintenance. Each wound is special to me and must be attained to according to their particular needs. The one on my finger is no different. Each morning, it whispers to me and I set aside some moments to bathe it lovingly in Hydrogen Peroxide. It, of course, demands at least three band-aids and a blanket of the finest Polysporin. At night, I cradle it to sleep, hoping that it feels nice enough to allow me to sleep as well. I've learned to type and hold things without upsetting it. My wound has a very bad temper. If I so much as even brush it, it throbs wildly and without precedent. At times, I coo to it gently, beckoning it to heal quickly so that I can get my game on.

It's true. My game is pretty much smashed now that my finger is an ugly blob of pale flesh, scabs, and unsightly stitches. I rely on mostly three key Jonisms in order to pull a girl into my bed, or myself into hers. The first two on the list are easily interchangeable. Each girl is different, so what works for one, probably does not work for another. Usually, because of circumstances at Hicktown U., the first step in the Jon-game is dancing.

I dance. That, in itself, is an understatement. I do not pretend to be humble, nor do I enjoy being humble. I'm proud of the fact that I'm a cocky, arrogant fuck. My brags are not unwarranted. If I say that I can do something, I had damn well better be able to do it. Thus, if I say I can dance, I can dance. I'm sure most of you who read this journal have seen me dance at some time. My frat brothers would probably like me to dance a little less than I do, but they cannot deny that it is quite an effective tool in getting a girl to think about getting her mack on. The dance, after all, is a visual precursor to sexual ability. If you can contort your body in rhythmic fashion, wouldn't you naturally be able to do the same in bed? That is why I do so adore women who can actually dance. It seems, though, as if every drunken sorority girl thinks all she has to do is wear skimpy clothes and buck her hips wildly. While the visual scene is quite amusing and something pleasant to look upon, it is not real dancing and should not be seen as such. Oh, find me a girl who can move in sync with the music and in sync with my body. She's mine. Back the fuck off.

The second part, which, as mentioned before, is interchangeable with dancing is smooth-talking. Every man or woman who has game has to be a smooth talker. But, the art of talking has not been classified into singular distinct parts. Everyone has his or her own way of smooth-talking a potential in to his/her bed. I prefer the witty method. That is, I play with her words. I twist them around. I make her laugh. I make her think. I make her want me. Some girls are turned on by intelligent banter. Some girls aren't. If the girl was turned on by the dance, but turned off by the banter, it's her loss. If the girl was turned on by the banter, she'll likely be turned on by the dance, and I'll likely win for playing the game well.

The third step of the Jon-game is the most important step of all. Once I've convinced a girl to make the cold walk back to my apartment and into my bed, I've got to go full on. If a girl makes an effort to leave her friends and make the walk, she should very well be rewarded. The game is still on. She can deny whatever end I want at any time, and this has happened a few times. It's quite disconcerting to come close, only to play the gentleman at the end and offer to walk her home. The walk-of-shame has a new definition when it's performed at 4am, and the single party is quite dressed and has very few features marred by the night's hard partying. But, if executed correctly, the night becomes memorable.

The third step of the Jon-game varies per girl. Sometimes, I get her to dance with me some more. Eventually a slow dance prompts a bit of kissing. I like to think I kiss well, and no one has said otherwise. The kiss, if appreciated, usually leads to other things just as enjoyable. If the girl isn't up for a dance, I use my hands on her skin. I massage, and well. My aunt is a professional, and she once taught me some pretty nifty tricks. They've served me well. I like to do my massages slow and sensuously. Sometimes there's some good music playing. Other times, I'm talking in a soft voice, constantly reassuring the girl. The combination of candles, which I always make sure are glowing, soothing sounds, and hands that are everywhere on the skin, and where they aren't are very much indented, tends to work in my favor.

The game can backfire, though, horribly. Girls, and guys for that matter, force themselves into the game. I'm not sure about those girls. They seem almost too desperate, as if they're so focused on getting ass that they don't enjoy the steps it takes to get ass. I had a girl like that once. She just followed me home one evening and literally tried to pass out on my bed. I engaged her in conversation. She kept asking me if I wanted to do anything to her. I very much told her that if she wanted anything, she would have to take initiative because I was so turned off by the entire event that I didn't really care. Luckily, she fell asleep.

The worst game is the non-existent one, especially one trashed by a stupid fucking injury caused by a stupid fucking moment, brought on by the stupid fucking game. Sure, I can dance and smooth-talk to my hearts content, but if I can't very well make her flesh sing under my fingers, I'm fucked, and not in the way I would prefer. Then again, I suppose I could get pity sex. But, it just isn't the same. I like the feeling that I've earned my ass, even if I land it on the same night I meet its giver. I still had to work to get her in my bed, or myself in hers. Then, after all is done, I can sit back with a slight smile and think to myself, "damn!"

Two weeks without game won't hurt, right? Right?

-----------

I usually don't tack on appendums to 1000+ word blog entries, but I wanted to share two more things before I concluded this particularly shallow entry.

M. and I were sitting outside Colby. M. had just spent a few hours at my place with M2 and I, watching me dance and watching M2 slowly become too inebriated to do anything but fumble through his game. Eventually, M. decided that sleep was more important than listening to very, very good music. I can't blame her. If booty was guaranteed the next morning, I'd get up early too. M. wanted to walk home. M2 and I wouldn't let her. I borrowed M2's car and we hightailed it back to Colby and the beginning of this moment.

It was quite cold out. I'm not sure on which standards I should peg that claim, but it was cold enough that I had to scrape ice from M2's car. That was amusing. I did it left handed, as my wounded hand was cradled in my pocket, hidden from the cold. The could did not daunt two people. They weren't smoking. They were staring at each other. One was tall, gaunt, and with chin-pubes that were at least three inches long. The other was short, pale, and with brown eyes and hair that screamed normalcy.

M. and I watched them. They kissed. We looked at each other. They kissed again. Then, as if over-whelmed by the sheer majesty of their kisses, they sat down and fumbled through a cold cuddle. I turned to M. and indicated that I felt strangely uncomfortable, as if I were witnessing another holy moment not meant for my eyes. I probably was, you know. But, sometimes, holy moments exist so that we acknowledge their existence. Isn't that a contradiction in terms?

-------

I read some Snyder today. There's nothing special about that. I just wanted to share one of his poems.



After Work


The shack and a few trees
float in the blowing fog

I pull out your blouse,
warm my cold hands
on your breasts.
you laugh and shudder
peeling garlic by the
hot iron stove.
bring in the axe, the rake,
the wood

we'll lean on the wall
against each other
stew simmering on the fire
as it grows dark
drinking wine.


-

Isn't that blissful?

Chunks of Jon (Bang, Bang, I shot me down.)

A few years ago, I wrote a story for a creative writing class. I know, I'm surprised too. Who knew that creative writing classes required stories? Actually, it wasn't really a story, but a collection of moving scenes. Each scene had a bit of a dream-like quality. The writing is really early-Jon, but I was fond of it at the time and occasionally I think back on it. Isn't that odd? My writing becomes my memories, even if it was a complete event of fiction. I have memories of being chunks of Jon, even though I've never actually been chunks of Jon. The chunks came because during one of my segues, I fell off a motorcycle and plastered across the pavement. A friend liked that line so much that she used it as a title in one of her web pages. Imagine that. There apparently is a distinct quality in various chunks of Jon strewn over the length of a street.

My memories of being chunks of Jon may be there, but at no point have I ever had the inclination to actually be chunks of Jon. I'm quite fond of my whole and I would be quite upset if any part decided to part ways. I mean, the entire Jon is composed of every part that makes my whole. Were parts to part, I would be very much less of a man, and quite possibly a shadow of my former self. Hence, it is to my benefit to keep as many parts of myself attached until I finally decide to give up the ghost. Sometimes, though, you can't help but become un-attached to various body parts. Please, let me elaborate and try not to laugh too hard.

Yesterday was my fraternity Big Brother/Big Sister (BBBS) night. The basic format for BBBS night involves a lot of liquor, an entire section of a UoI bar reserved for your specific Frat/Sorority, some dances, and maybe a sloppy, drunken kiss at the end of the night. Usually, the Big Brother buys gifts for his Little Sister. We were told to get a shirt, and a bottle of Boone's Farm. Boone's Farm is a two-dollar bottle of liquid that assumes it's wine, and tries to sell you on the presumption. It's actually flavored, fermented water. I refuse to call it wine. It might even be wine spittle, but it's certainly not wine. In any case, I refused to get my little sister anything that revolting.

My uncle is a wine cousinnar. He has, of late, been teaching me about the different kinds of wines and each kind's proper pairing. I've always wanted to know how to do that. I think there's an element of smoothness in knowing wines. I mean, having an extensive knowledge of the finer arts of eating is a very nice way to impress a girl. Wine-knowledge harkens back to sophistication, or at least it does in my convoluted mind. I decided to apply my new wine knowledge in hopes of impressing my Little Sister. While every other girl was getting beer, or Boone's Farm, she was going to be getting a nice bottle of Moscato. Moscato is a white, dessert wine. It's quite sweet, and desert wines are a pretty decent way of inviting someone into the world of wines.

The evening started off pretty dull. We were told to be there at 7, however, the girls did not arrive until about 8:30. I sat around, mostly, drinking Mickey's. Mickey's is a malt liquor, or about half-a-step above Old English 800. I've been meaning to drink Mickey's ever since I saw the characters drinking it in SLC Punk. It's not a bad beer, but the taste doesn't justify $2.50 for a 40.

While drinking, I was given a sex coupon and told that my little sister would have the other half. Sound easy enough, right? It should have been, but I had sisters switched out on me. I was originally supposed to have M., but was told very clearly that my little sister was J, because someone else wanted M.. Well, my coupon matched up with M., so I had to excuse myself and run around looking for A., so that the whole mess could be cleared up. A., told me that M. was my sister, so I ran down, found M., and apologized for the entire mess. I then dragged her to where I stashed her gifts. She seemed to like the shirt, and she really liked the wine. Yeah, I rock. I know. The wine knowledge did pay off.

In spite of my scintillating brilliance, I had forgotten to bring a wine cork. So, I dragged her upstairs and started asking for a corkscrew and a knife. No one had either, but I some how managed to get the foil off without a knife. The cork, however, didn't feel like budging, even though I asked it nicely to move, please, because my little sister was thirsty.

I was suddenly beset with the idea of heading to A.'s room, because he is among the most sophisticated of my fraternity, if such a thing is possible. I reasoned that if anyone would have a corkscrew, he would. He didn't have a corkscrew, but he offered me a pair of scissors. He said that scissors, placed in the cork and spread, would catch it and yank it out. That didn't work quite as well as we'd like. Fortunately, my quick thinking mind decided to use the sharp part of the scissors to jab the cork and pry it out. That, at least, was the plan. What really happened was the scissors forced the cork into the wine bottle. I laughed and showed everyone what happened. They all seemed really concerned though, and one of the girls looked horrified. I wasn't sure what was goning on, but my hand felt wet. The horrified girl grabbed my hand and rushed me into the bathroom. I really don't remember what happened next. Things got blurry.

I remember a tall girl, decked out in a blue-green satin-ish halter-top holding my hand and asking if I felt nauseous or if I felt like I was going to pass out. I remember that she was really good looking. I also remember fraternity brothers swarming about me, asking me if I was okay, or assuring me that I was well underhand. I remember quite a bit of blood, feeling like I was going to throw up, and things becoming quite black. Actually, I felt like I had downed about 16 shots of Bacardi 151.

I was walked, or rather carried, to a waiting car. I think I asked someone to apologize to my little sister, but I'm not quite sure. Shock's a bitch, even if it comes about for something as minor as removing an entire fingerprint. Once I sat down in the car, I became coherent. The simple act of sitting was all I needed to get out of shock. Looking back, I probably should've just sat down at some point instead of trying to be all manly and fighting through the urge to pass-out.

The car ride wasn't exciting. I made fun of myself, mostly because I felt bad about imposing on a lot of people's time. I hate being useless, and I hate having people go out of their way for me. It makes me feel like an obstacle, or a hindrance. Luckily, I was able to convince K. to leave me at the emergency room. I didn't want to ruin his night, too.

I like small town emergency rooms. I don't have to wait so long for help. Once, while living in D.C., I had a severe concussion (I couldn't remember my name), and was forced to wait for about six hours before they gave me medical help. By then, I was coherent and help was not needed. My mother was livid. I could've had a subdural hemorrhage. Luckily, the wait for slicing off a fingerprint was only a half hour. They had to clear some rooms (there was a car accident earlier that night) first, but I was lying in bed, waiting for the doc faster than I thought I would be. I guess it helps a bit if you're bleeding all over the place.

My nurse was quite nice. she had a blonde perm, pink lipstick, and too much lip-liner. We discussed my philosophy major. She seemed relatively interested in it, and the fact that I was deaf compounded her confusion. At one point, she told me she wished her husband was good at reading lips. I corrected her by pointing out that if I so desired, I could ignore people just by turning away. She acknowledged the inherent drawbacks of having a deaf husband. After a few minutes of this chitchat, she rose to leave. Before she got to the curtains, which separated me from the rest of the non-wounded world, she turned, hesitated, and finally asked if I believed in G-d. I mentioned that I did, and asked the relevancy. She motioned that few philosophy majors believed in G-d. I assured her that my old major was theology, and the big G was still very active in my life. I think that pleased her. Although, I wonder what would have happened had I not believed in G-d. I bet they would've given me less potent drugs.

Ah, the drugs were so nice. The doctor-lady came in, jabbed me full of them, and slunk off. After a half-hour, there was no feeling in my finger. I asked the doctor-lady if I could buy this stuff on the black market. If I had enough of them, I'd never need alcohol again. She laughed at me. I was quite insulted. I really did want those drugs.

I watched The Green Berets while waiting for the Doc to return. I actually liked it, but then again, I didn't have to listen to the dialogue. It wasn't captioned, and the sound was off. Judging from the reviews, I'm glad I didn't have to listen to the dialogue. It was, though, my first John Wayne flick. I know, I'm sheltered and deprived. Doc-Lady came in, glanced at the screen, and shook her head. I don't think she approved of my movie choices. But, what better way is there to spend time while getting a fingerprint stitched back on than watching other people get blown to pieces?

Doc-lady was all business. She didn’t really want to chat, like the nurses. She just wanted to sew my stupid ass up and get me the hell out of there. I decided to talk to her anyway. I asked if anyone else had done anything so stupid, just to impress a girl. She acknowledged that such stupidity was, in fact, common. I was quite surprised that such things occurred in small conservative towns. Doc-lady told me, quite matter of factly, that the conservatives aren't the ones who land in the hospital. They're far to conservative to do stupid things. I guess conservatives like their two-minute hop in the sack every third week or so.

Doc-lady finished up, left, and the blonde nurse came in with instructions and a sock for my finger. I was then unceremoniously shoved out the door.

Yeah, that was my evening. Please try not to laugh too hard. I'm quite wounded.