Friday, August 31, 2007


A prostitute monkey named Sally was tired of working for chump change. She knew she had the best saucy red ass and prettiest eyes out of all her street hustling compatriots and decided there was more to life than ham and sardine sandwiches every Tuesday, even when she did splurge sporadically on an occasional chocolate malt and double bacon cheeseburger.

Sally had a sister, Eveline, who dressed as a nun on Sundays to solicit the dog walkers at the park for candy money. Eveline, a self professed sugar holic, collected at least $50 dollars a week from frisbee golfers, baby stroller rollers, and surprisingly enough, harmless voyeur pedophile parasites, who stalked, but did not touch, and their donations were always the best, tens, sometimes twenties. It seemed guilt was a great factor contributing to paranoid philanthropists, using their lunch money as a means of feeling like a better person in the eyes of God with his backbone made of comets, testicles made of Milky Way Galaxies.

One day Sally and Eveline struck paydirt when they stumbled upon a bag of magic seeds. They planted the seeds. The seeds grew into diamond trees. Ruby trees. Emerald trees. Sally could've easily, but decided not to retire from prostituting because she liked performing lewd acts with random strangers and giving them the mange. Eveline was a pathological liar, so she did not throw her nun outfit away, or stop collecting candy money from park pedestrians. Something they both DID do was buy one hundred new pairs of shoes a piece. Some were even ugly. And some...they never even wore.

The moral of the story is: monkeys like sex and sugar so have plenty of both on hand at all times in case you find one you'd like to marry.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

white ones

In all of this confusion being honest seems like the simplest solution. Honest to your intuition, and to people if it's convenient, otherwise, tell people what they want to hear for the sake of courtesy. The moral conditioning of guilt will subside eventually, if you still let that concept control you from time to time.

Whoever decided lying was a big no-no anyway? Is there a chapter on prevarications or falsifications having to do stealing sheep somewhere in the number one best selling book of all time?

"Mommy? How did Jesus know what year it was?"

"Children who ask questions like that go to hell dear, so why don't you shut that little face of yours and pray with me that daddy doesn't come home tonight smelling like booze and tulips."

When I was seven, like clockwork every night, my bedtime was at nine and the sheets were always ice cold. Leg portion by leg portion I'd deal with the shock and discomfort, as if I were absorbing the cold bit by bit until finally the bed was warm enough to roll around in comfortably. No matter what time of year it was I did this every night, lying there for hours sometimes due to my perpetual inability to sleep--a problem which still exists today.

One night, my father came to tuck me in as he sometimes would do if he was home early enough, and said he had a true story to tell me, of a girl who told lied to her father all the time. He said she lied so much that finally one day the devil himself came in through her window and took her away because of it, and she was never seen again. He said that was one of the horrible scary things in life, the fact that the devil would kidnap lying girls, and he didn't want me to be one of those children. "So don't lie to me, okay? Because the devil with crawl through your window," (as he pointed to my large window looking way too serious) "and take you to hell."

My father had never even taken me to a church. We were not Christians. But I was terrified of anything taking me away, especially a bright red man with bullhorns and goatfeet.

I was honest after that, for most of my life, and it payed off almost most of the time when I'd stumble home drunk from a party past my curfew, years later. My mother would ask if I'd been drinking or getting high and I'd tell her, "Both." I'd tell her I was fucked up and lucky to have gotten home and really wanted to go to bed. And what could she say? I was honest, so she'd say go to bed, and don't drive drunk anymore if I could help it, and I'd say okay and go to bed.

I remember when it started accumilating, the pain I was causing others by telling the truth. I would tell people if they asked, that I didn't like the food they gave me to eat, or that I just didn't feel like it, which worked and is surprisingly under used and replaced with lies/excuses.

Then one day my co-worker pharmacist buddy told me that I was too opinionated, and this would keep me from ever finding a decent husband. He said that men looked for wives who would agree with everything the husband said. This was the same guy who investigated my bathtub when he asked to use my bathroom on a night he was over. "Fucking filthy," he said. "How do you expect to find a husband with a bathtub like that?" That pharmacist ended up moving to Florida with his 'best friend,' Craig.

Craig was pretty, and very, very neat.


In the 8th circle and 10th Bolgia of Dante's Inferno, falsifiers and frauds are punished by stench, filth, madness, and loathsome diseases. These are counterfeiters, bearers of false witness, and liars, whose corrupting influence--on metals (alchemists), money (counterfeiters), identity (imposters), and truth (liars)--is reflected in the final pit in the realm of fraud.


Sunday, August 26, 2007


He called it fabricating my oil painter, when I told him how I used to late night carouse vicarious stories from lonely strangers for more fascinating memoir entries.

A healthy curiosity maybe more than that.

Even more -- a fearless approach to the unknown.

Fabricating? Not so much I think.

He must've thought what I did was dumb in a way.
Otherwise he might've called it 'experiencing.'

In a conversation on the telephone, the night before, an internet acquaintance working on a MFA in creative writing said, "Write me a 15 page essay, about the worst thing that's ever happened to you. I'll edit it and we'll see if you can get accepted into a program, here in Columbus."

My response was that I didn't even enjoy reading about other people's problems, that it wasn't really my thing, that I had plenty of my own problems, which I try not to think about.

"I know," he said. "I can tell. And this is why you can be really good with enough structure and guidance. I'll do it too. I'll help you because I'm tired of reading essays about rich debutantes getting fingered in the back seat of some luxury vehicle."

"I want mothers burning their children with cigarettes stories, with womanizing fathers who were alcoholics. I want you to tell it and tie it into what makes you the asshole you are today. Do it, and you'll be successful."

When I told my oil painter what the MFA guy said, he called him a sensationalist who's spent too much time in books and essays, and not enough time in life.

"The perfect approach for him would be to find some other writing student who's been burdened with the glorious idea of 'pain as the ultimate inspiration,' date them and then turn into a drug abusing transvestite, while she in turn, beats him daily while becoming a nymphomanaic seeking strange encounters with fat Mexican men."

[I love it when he does that. Humiliates someone without even knowing he's doing it when he's annoyed or being defensive, the target becoming the hero of some disgusting hypothetical situation. It's clever context at its finest. Rude imagery as revenge.]

"Poor uncreative artists," he said, "They're not like us. They don't understand that stories are everywhere, and that they don't necessarily rely on cynicism."

"This is why I hated most of the professors at college. Most of them. Sensationalists resenting raw talent unless rooted into some life of heroin addicted-teenage-prostitute-mother-ambiguous-father humiliation badge."

"This is why most abstract art is crap," he said, "guys like him who are so burned out by their own uninteresting lives that countless hours of reliving the horrible events of other people's lives have left them numb."

[I like it when he gets on heated tangients too.]

Sometimes people take themselves too seriously, or others, when they are not sure that they are good at things, like making art.

It's odd, since being good at things mostly takes practice unless, like in some cases, their parents are good at things like making art too, and then people dislike them for that; friends, the tired rejected, passive aggressive snakes, scholarly types, or miserables in constant turmoil over something for what seems like the sake of it alone.

They say things like, "there's no such thing as talent," or "that professor sucks and I hope he dies and maybe I'll write a story about it if he does, maybe I'll kill him myself, maybe I'll go read a story similar to something like that, and get some coffee at that place with the great Tres Leches."

It's very easy to get caught up in bullshit because its definition is ambiguous. And look how ambiguity can be interchanged with subjectivity as if they are in the same breath of certain uncertainty.

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