Friday, December 26, 2008

The Last Christmas Show

I’m usually a grouch during Christmas because I’m almost always broke and get extremely defensive when I turn up to family gatherings without gifts to offer. I also despise the commercialism behind the whole thing. Without getting too Dickens on you, I enjoy the holidays but not when it’s overshadowed with shallow obligations. This year, however, I found the most meaningful gift I’ve ever given.
As many of you know, my friend Roger reads shitty books. What you may not know is that he bitches at me like a pouty girlfriend for never reading his suggestions. I finally read The Last Picture Show when he placed his copy in my hand and sent me away with it, calling it a “unifying theory” between the books he reads and the ones I do. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Larry McMurtry is an author who is accessible to infrequent readers and critics who use a pencil for a bookmark. So, on Christmas Eve, I raced all over town to purchase copies for my mama, daddy, step-daddy, sisters, and soon-to-be brother in law. I recognize how this last-minute gift sweep might appear to be the very holiday glut I rail against, but let me explain its depth. You see, one of my fondest memories of high school was devouring book after book after book. These were terrible novels: space operas and borderline young adult works by authors like Simon R. Green and John Saul, but I was completely immersed in them, and I really enjoyed hiding somewhere and ignoring all my responsibilities. When I’d emerge from my literary binges, I usually had my friend Chad to discuss said trashy novels. When I’d vanish from social sight, he’d already be burrowed somewhere, sitting cross-legged and hunched over the exact same paperback. Together, Chad and I consumed dozens of throw-away books, and I still hold those ridiculously teenaged analyses as a peaceful and satisfying time.
No one in my family is serious reader, but The Last Picture Show is, as Roger so eloquently put it, a unifying theory, and I hope that by reading it at the same time, there can be something common among us to share and to offer a little intellectual ownership of the likes I enjoyed as a kid.
I explained all of this to my family, and their reactions were reserved and unsure, willing but not completely committed. All except my older sister. She was mesmerized by the idea, and I feel this was the first Christmas in a long time that wasn’t forced. Sigh.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Things I’ve Discovered In 2008

In no particular order or importance. And, once again, feel free to add:

1. The smile icon :) is ambiguously flirtatious and should be used sparingly between heterosexual men.
2. If you can’t moonwalk, don’t pretend to on a crowded dance floor because people will clear a path for you and expect Thriller.
3. Working in an academic environment is the most gratifying job I’ve ever had.
4. Facebook is better than Myspace.
5. Blogging is a worthless waste of time that takes away from my real writing time.
6. I only have one grandparent left.
7. Cormac McCarthy holds a bright candle to people like Hemingway and Fitzgerald.
8. Primo 360 must be a really awful place to work since they never employ the same baristas for very long. I still love their coffee though.
9. Mrs. Popper helped explain my condition: “Do you know what it means to be broken hearted? It means your heart isn’t whole, so you can’t really do anything wholeheartedly.”
10. Like living well, there’s peace of mind in the virtue of being awful.
11. I finally get General Relativity...mostly, but now gravity confuses me.
12. The world is going to end in 2012 (for sure this time).
13. I was premature in thinking that my reoccurring zombie nightmares are becoming less frightening and that I might have a handle on them.
14. I can finally admit to and laugh at the time I pissed my pants while trying to make it to the Bush Intercontinental Airport without stopping.
15. Turtles evolved in water before venturing out to land, and their shells grew out of their ribs and vertebrae. Rad!
16. Breakfast of Champions replaces Slaughterhouse 5 as my favorite Vonnegut book.
17. The poor majority, the huge masses, will finally riot when they have no food.
18. Americans have the technology to recycle and drink our own piss...in space, but there’re still water-born cholera epidemics in third worlds.
19. I would like to punch Bill O’Reilly, Keith Oberman, Lou Dobbs, and Nancy Grace on the mouth.
20. I’d like to kiss Christiane Amanpour, Candy Crowley, and David Gergen on the mouth.
21. John Stewart and Stephen Colbert are messiahs, and I will kill my mother and/or any stray animals if that is their command.
22. Obama has an amusing way of making his opponents seem desperate, and both Hillary and McCain were laughably cute, kicking and spitting from the mats.
23. I had a whole lotta fun making fun of McCain and Palin.
24. John Edwards is not just a first-class shithead, he’s another beautiful example of how “you can take the boy out the country but you can’t take the country out the boy.”
25. North Korea’s Kim Jong Il is a wannabe American. Att: Obama: just send Angelina Jolie Voight and William Bradley Pitt over there, and they’ll sort everything out for us.
26. The Russians can still be frighteningly confrontational.
27. Volleyball Olympians have the best bodies. Oh Jesus.
28. India was stampeded by their gods, twice, killing hundreds of people. Americans stampeded once this year, racing toward their gods and sacrificing the life of a 6’5” man in Wal-Mart smiley vest.
29. Gas prices can reach 4+ dollars, and Americans will only suffer silently instead of revolting with boycotts, sit-ins, protests, petitions, and marches, like we used to.
30. Blue eyes came from one person, who, about 10,000 years ago, got a lot of ‘tang. Same with green.
31. The Japanese can now sneak attack U.S. naval bases with invisibility cloaks.
32. I’m almost 30.

Monday, December 15, 2008

The Friday Martyr

Friday was a bit of a shit day for me. Allow me to explain. All week, I’d been boasting to people about how many things I’d been invited to on the 12th, so when the time came to begin my rounds, I’d firmly decided on two: Lanita’s housewarming/end-of-semester tutor get-together and Ben and Katy’s Christmas Sweater party. Since both were last minute decisions, Gilda and I dashed to Ross in fruitless search of a sweater and then to HEB for Christmas cookies before going to Lanita’s South Austin home. I was obnoxious with energy and bounced in my seat until we reached stand still traffic on I-35. After 45 minutes of stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, my excited energy converted to seething impatience. To aggravate my condition, a work truck full of pachucos, I unfortunately kept pace with, rudely stared at Gilda not just with subtle eyes, but craned necks and pursed mustached lips. When I stared like a challenging dog at the driver, he stared challengingly back, and I imagined myself choking his dirt-ringed neck. Due to my fondness for geology, I had a heavy limestone clam fossil and smooth river rock within reach, and I thought if opportunity should allow traffic to completely stop, I’d pull the emergency brake, get out of my car, and launch one at a window of their truck. Gilda, oblivious to my testosterone struggle, had recognized my psychological distress and had fallen silent from her endless chatter. I apologized, and we left the highway and into downtown to find Tesoros Trading Co. instead of the housewarming. It wasn’t where it used to be, so we walked across the Congress bridge to find the new location. It was too far, and on the way back, a homeless woman held up her middle finger at me as we passed each other over Town Lake. She was an old black lady with a leathery face, a wide frown, and a green wool cap on her head. Maybe you know 'er. Anyway, her middle finger was long and clearly directed at me. Regardless, I innocently pointed to myself. She nodded affirmatively and went on. Gilda laughed as though she’d lost her mind. I looked back at my antagonist, and she had already passed another pedestrian. I held up a baffled middle finger at him, and he nodded in the same fashion the old woman had. Gilda went into further hysterics.
We were held in northbound traffic on the way home, and eventually stopped at several more places in search of ridiculous sweaters. I hate shopping. It’s like being in traffic or Hell. We didn’t find any that weren’t 40 dollars, and I was sick of going half way to places, so we gave up and went home. Gilda fed me a bottle of beer and cooed me until my four-hour hot flash subsided, and I went to bed like an exhausted baby with nothing accomplished.
The only exceptional thing about Saturday was Milk. I highly recommend it. It was an important film of a shushed and unfinished chapter of American history. Granted, I didn’t do any research on the historical facts, but the actors were held up to the real people at the end, and they looked just like them, so I assume everything else is true.
Sunday was as Sunday always is: pious, and I worshipped myself all day. The only change was the knowledge that ACC’s out for the holidays, and I’m needing some foldin’ money.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

I eat danger for breakfast. (par. 1 amended)

The night following the insult to my honor, I did hip things and went to a few bars with Mr. J. S. Katz. He’s going through some hard times, and I’m bored a lot, so it was a mutually beneficial evening. Though I spent much more money than I had intended, I had a good time, and by the end of the night we had joined a bachelorette party. So, these mad honeys, me an’ Katz hooked up wit’ was totally off the chain, yo! They was like, “freak with me!” and another was like, “nah, freak with me!” So me an’ Katz freaked wit’ them while these crazy sharks was all swimming ‘neath the glass of this killa dance floor. Oh, snap! I was like, daaaamn, that one’s fine, and Katz was like shiiiit, check out this booty! And we was like, mmm, mmm, mmm.

Monday, December 8, 2008

I eat danger for breakfast.

The night following the insult to my honor, I did hip things and went to a few bars with Mr. J. S. Katz. He’s going through some hard times, and I’m bored a lot, so it was a mutually beneficial evening. Though I spent much more money than I had intended, I had a good time, and by the end of the night we had joined a bachelorette party. The women were tasteful and because they were mostly in their 30s and married, they lacked the wild hormonal craze I’d have normally expected and dreamed of joining. I did get ridiculed my by a waitress at Fado’s for not wanting to take a shot with the rest of the group. She asked me (rhetorically of course) if I had sand in my vagina, but I couldn’t hear her over U2 music and made her repeat herself until she dismissed me with an irritated wave, and one of the ladies in our party kindly told me the emasculating jest.
Because there isn’t really a god, my internal alarm clock woke me up, for the second morning in a row, after only four hours of sleep. I experienced a hang over of the likes I haven’t known since the projectile vomiting years of my mid teens, and I alternately read The Last Picture Show and napped until dark. After writing a wee bit at Starbucks, for their famous Christmas Blend is in style, I went to Craig’s. On our walk to the Snappy Mart, he told me that raw honey is bad for my health presumably because there’re bees in it. I told him I still prefer it to pasteurized honey, and since I put it in my oatmeal every morning, I eat danger for breakfast. For some reason, that seemed like a relevant conversation for this blog. We rented the pilot episode of Heroes and the movie White Dog even though we watched Barton Fink instead. Heroes was terrible, and I’m embarrassed to admit that we watched the whole thing. The fact that a serious chunk of American society is deeply involved with what I can only describe as shit is cynically telling. Granted, I’ve never written a hit TV show, but I would be awfully dissatisfied with myself if that cheap business was my bread and butter. Content wise, I think I belong in Europe. Not this blog, of course. This is raw American derision, and I do it for vanity’s sake alone.
Gilda flew in mid afternoon Sunday, and I spent my last few hours of freedom, writing as much as possible because she becomes both verbally and physically abusive if I don’t offer her all of my attention. Her resiliency to sleep also leaves me vulnerable to embarrassing photographs and probing fingers into my ears, nose, and mouth. No amount of my angry barking will stop her either.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Saddest Songs in the Universe

I was reading an article on yahoo that claimed the 10 saddest songs ever. Halfway through the list I realized I was reading some asshole’s favorite playlist and decided I could do better. So, here, off the top of my head and in no particular order or proper spelling, is my top 20 saddest songs ever. Feel free to add to the list:

1. “I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues” – Elton John
2. “Death Letter Blues” – Son House
3. “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” – Bob Dylan
4. “Day After Day” – Badfinger
5. “I’ve Been Loving You” – Otis Redding (agree w/ this one)
6. “The Trapeze Swinger” – Iron and Wine
7. “No Woman, No Cry” – Bob Marley and the Wailers
8. “Drive” – The Cars
9. “Devil Got My Woman” – Skip James
10. “Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground” – Willie Nelson
11. “So Much Like My Dad” – George Strait
12. “Girl From The North Country” Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash
13. “The Man Who Sold The World” – Nirvana (not Bowie)
14. “Bang Bang” – Nancy Sinatra
15. “Everything Will Be Alright” – The Killers
16. “Are You Alright?” – Lucinda Williams
17. “Fade Into You” – Mazzy Star
18. “I Believe In You” – Neil Young
19. “Black” – Pearl Jam
20. “In Dreams” – Roy Orbison

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

For Your Enjoyment, My Long Weekend Part II

Something I left out of my Friday entry, but worthy of commentary, was that I slept on Roger’s sofa that night. I awoke around 5am, still drunk and needing to urinate with an urgency I haven’t experienced since I was a 5-year-old bed wetter. Roger’s only bathroom is in his bedroom, and I was terribly concerned that I’d walk in and see him naked or doing something I’d rather not know about, so I started to consider my options: outside the apartment complex, his first-floor balcony, home, or the kitchen sink. Outside and on the balcony was cold and not private enough for my conservative senses, and I was too tired to drive home. I remembered his sink was filled with dirty dishes but had nearly convinced myself that Roger would understand the situation and even appreciate my peeing to the courteous side of them. I didn’t and when I finally woke up, I drove home and went there. Crisis averted.
I picked up my “little brother” on Saturday, and we watched Bolt in 3-D. The movie was a shrug for me and the 3-Dness lost its novelty when I became obsessively aware of the glasses on my face. My eyes were strained, and the pickle my little companion was gnawing on smelled cheap and offensive but made me strangely hungry. When I dropped him off, I stopped and ate at Maudie’s on North Lamar. I like that place, and I go there almost exclusively for the salsa. Unfortunately, the heavy quality of “Josie’s Enchiladas” usually renders me incapacitated, and I have to speed home for an emergency nap. To thwart such slothery, I picked up a six pack of Lone Star (a beer that, to my surprise, I chose over Heineken) and then went home to try my hand at open A tuning. After I popped my G string, I gave up and loaded Sid Meier’s Civilization IV. I listened to the movies Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and most of Footloose while I played into the night. I highly recommend that game. You build a civilization from hunter gatherers to space-faring people, but that’s not the fun part. What I discovered some time ago is that I can alter the terrain and technology of the game and give myself the best resources, money, and military, so when rival civilizations (whom I’ve made to be aggressive) wages war with bronze spears, I simply roll over their culture with unstoppable tanks, bombers, and nuclear weapons, forcing them to their proverbial knees and enslaving their people. That sounds like cheating, I know, but I fancy myself a jealous and wrathful God in the whole matter. There’s a psychoanalytical study in there somewhere I’m sure.
Sunday was truly a lame experience. I almost wished I was religious, so I could have gone to church and felt social with all the other absurd pagans in ties and Sunday dress. I think a small factor in my embracing atheism was the fact that I used to have to suffer Sunday mass in espanol. Church is shitty enough in English, but Jesus, in the language of the Inquisitors themselves? Christ, that sucks.

Monday, December 1, 2008

For Your Enjoyment, My Long Weekend Part I

I’ll just get right to Thanksgiving. If I’d had my druthers, I’d’ve gone to Laredo and had two proper Mexican Thanksgivings with both sides of my extended family, but my car is what it is, and I just don’t trust it on a 256-mile stretch. Sooo, I stuffed my mouthhole at my sister’s fiancé’s house. It was nice. Much fancier than the Thanksgivings I’m used to, but my father was kind enough to generate a little bubble of familiarity by doing child-like impressions of my crying over the wild animals I had captured and accidently killed while trying to care for them. It’s truly difficult to describe a 61-year-old man pretending to be a baby grackle, choking on a wadded piece of bread. He also told of my old turtle, Mr. Turtle, who was eaten alive by fire ants, “eyes and all.” I didn’t know about the eyes part. It was like 1988 all over again. His facts were all wrong. The bird choked to death on a minnow I had squished with maternal concern, and Mr. Turtle was killed by my mother. She had caged him in the backyard for exercise, and the ants got him. I buried him in a ceremonious shallow grave and later exhumed his body for the sake of science. My dad’s impression of my tears was pretty good though, but I couldn’t discredit his historical dramatization over all the guests’ laughter, so I just sagged in my chair, chewed my fried turkey, and remembered the short, sad life of Mr. Turtle.
I met Sonya, or pachuca dolce to you, at Spiderhouse on Friday because I had flaked on her birthday outing on Monday, and I hadn’t seen her in months. She had on one of those Gatsby golf hats the kids are wearing these days, and she petted her long ponytail while we talked about our mutual character flaws. Her DJ friend was “spinning” there, and he had on an interesting hat too except he wore it like Boy George. I think I’ll get a cool hat, but I’ll wear it like a man, maybe put a “press pass” card in the band so I can start saying things like “What’s the rumpus?” I went to Roger’s apartment after Spiderhouse and watched Family Guy episodes and youtube videos. Roger showed me how to tune my guitar to open A, and he let me borrow a slide so that I can sound like Robert Johnson, God rest his poisoned soul (Johnson, not Roger). I can’t do it yet, and I popped the G string on my guitar because Roger wouldn’t answer his phone on Saturday when I repeatedly called him for further tuning instructions. Bastard.

Monday, November 17, 2008

an irrelevant weekend

In my quest to find something new to blog about, I’ve decided to relate the exciting events of my weekend to you, eager reader, worshipper of this Carlos-centric place.
I work at Austin Community College, but not on Fridays. As a result, my weekend started at 1pm last Thursday. I drove to Universal Title and renewed my expired registration. Feeling motivated, I followed up with a drive to 10 Minute Inspection to get my new inspection sticker squared away. Failed. Emissions was bad, and the urethra holes at Discount Tire had cut off a bent lug and nut on my rear driver’s side tire. I stomped home, and though I passed the shop on the way there, I waited until I was in the safety of a comfortable chair to phone Discount Tire. The manager, Lucas, calmed me down and told me what I needed to do. I scratched the place off my arson list and filed Lucas’ instructions in my catalog of procrastinations.
Roger and I were supposed to meet at Primo 360 at around 5 to wax over the screenplay ideas I was going to impose on him, but he flaked on me. Instead, I took a nap until dark and went to Craig’s with a box of Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit under my arm. Craig and I walked to the Snappy Mart with free hands and came back with him packing a new box of cigarettes and me holding a six pack in each hand (Anchor Steam to start, Lone Star after taste wasn’t an issue). Five of us played Trivial Pursuit with my team, of course, the victors, and I fell asleep on Craig’s dad’s old sofa after 4am.
Much of Friday is lost. And since I’m the only person in this entire universe to remember its history, and I don’t, it’s exactly that: history. I do recall listening to Richard Pryor’s stand up and the Coen brothers’ Miller’s Crossing while alternately strumming my guitar and scowling over a 1000 piece puzzle Gilda and I had started. I was in bed before midnight.
On Saturday, I awoke at 8, phoned my mother to offer her the privilege of cutting off my pony tail and making me look like a man again. She was delighted, and I was delighted, and we had brunch afterwards at Frisco’s with my step-daddy Ronald and sister Michelle. Roger and I finally met up and put down some satisfying plot points to our narcissistic screenplay. The rest of Saturday was spent avoiding friends and listening to more Richard. Once again, in bed early.
I read a little Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West and ate breakfast tacos at Rudy’s on Sunday morning. A girl who works there noticed my haircut and said, “You cut your hair, or all of them, I guess.” I didn’t get what she meant because I’m always in tutor mode, and she was applying number to a non-count noun. She had to repeat herself twice and the lameness of her joke turned her face red. She had changed her hair too, but I didn’t say anything. I wrote for the next few hours at Primo. The baristas there are nice and don’t mind my loitering. So I do. I buy my $2.33 to go coffee and only refill it once, so I’m not a tremendous drag on the weird owner (whose bowl haircut is reminiscent of a giant child and serial rapist). I finally left when I had to pick up my “Little” from Big Brothers, Big Sisters. We watched Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa. I laughed more than he did. He hasn’t learned that shouting commentary is violently offensive to me, but he’s only 9, and with my positive influence, he will be meek. I was overjoyed to find that he remembered the names and moves of all the chess pieces I’d introduced him to last Saturday. He didn’t say anything about my hair. After I dropped him off, I went to HEB for minimal groceries. They say you’re not supposed to hit up a grocery store when you’re hungry, but if I don’t, I won’t buy anything. So I did and got some raw ingredients that will eventually rot unless Gilda gets here in time to do something with them. Finished my puzzle, picked my guitar, and put on Catch 22 until I fell asleep, and the TV timed off.
I’m working on not being alone more, but whatever.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

That's "dog" to you, Mr. Obama.

Obama said something on Friday that I hoped I wouldn’t hear from him. It wasn’t about foreign policy or the American economy; it was about race.
On Friday, a reporter asked him what kind of dog he was bringing to the White House and he lightheartedly said that all the family would find at an animal shelter would be “mutts like me.” Obama avoided almost all talk of race during his campaign, running as an American rather than the first serious black candidate and I’m disappointed that I’m hearing quips about it within days of his election.
Jokes about race are funny. I make them all the time and in the same self-deprecating way. I can name a host of general Hispanic characteristics and laugh about them, but when I laugh about them, I’m allowing others to laugh about them too. I’m validating something in my race as undesirable and simultaneously telling others that it is okay to make the same association. I’ve never liked when friends jokingly dismiss my opinions or behavior as “Mexican” (a term that can tragically inspire both pride and shame), and I’ve been the only minority in a white room where inadvertently racist comments got out of control and made me feel not so good. But I created that situation by bringing negative attention to myself. And because of this, I’ve made people feel comfortable enough to insult my culture. They don’t know that it bothers me. How could they? I’m the one that brought it up in the first place. I’m making myself different from them. I’m setting the tone. I’m perpetuating racism.
Obama should have never called himself a mutt.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Monday, November 3, 2008

Sunday, November 2, 2008

For All You Undecided Voters: my low soapbox

The presidential election is a day away, and though I’ve already voted, I’ve spent a lot of time questioning why exactly I voted for my candidate. It started when an “undecided” coworker and I were waxing politics, and I realized I was voting intuitively, rather than based on political positions. “Okay,” she’d said, “so you trust him, but what about the issues?” I didn’t have an answer. I know the arguments from both parties, and both candidates have effectively shown me how each other’s policies, from health care to warfare, can fail. But I trust one of them, and when he speaks, I listen closely to what he is saying because his intellect commands respect and because I truly feel inspired by his desire to make the United States...good again. He kept his campaign above reckless political smears, striking his opponent on issues instead of focusing on the other man’s wealth of character flaws or sensational political stunts. I trust him because he thought carefully before choosing a person whom he thought would best serve the US as Vice President. He never pounced on his opponents’ verbal slip-ups or feigned righteous outrage when the ugly reality of this country was expressed, and he never insulted my intelligence by twisting words to meet the needs of his argument. These simple things come together to demonstrate a high character and plain goodness that I’ve always looked forward to in one of the most powerful people in the world, and while I’m usually cynical and view politics as shady, self serving, and worst of all, ephemerally unimportant, I’m hopeful for the first time in a long, long time.

I haven’t mentioned the candidate I want to see as President by name, but you know who I’m talking about. The question to ask now is how. How did you know it was one and not the other?

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Why CNN Is An Evil Capitalist Network Who Wants Obama To Win The Presidency But Only After Making The Race A Dangerous Squeaker

Everyone knows CNN's been in the tank for Obama since Hillarious Clinton got her panties in a wad over media penis envy, but CNN was one of the only major networks not running the senator's 30-minute Obamamercial. I couldn't find it. Could you? Instead, they aired a shithead interview of John McCain by Larry King. The Republican candidate did well in the interview. Why? Because Larry King is a senile old man who asks idiot questions and doesn't even have idiot follow-ups. CNN knows Larry can't think anymore. The only real reasons he's even got his own show these days are his name still carrying clout and his remarkable ability to remain completely silent while his guests rabidly argue over themselves.
Why is CNN ruining my life?
Obama's so far ahead that network bigwigs are concerned that there won't be enough consumers watching on election night unless their anchor drones even out the playing field by showing McCain in a favorable way and calling Saint Obama "extravagant" and "over the top." I've never contested the claim that American media is liberally leaning/gagged, bound, bent over, and naked from the waist down, but now, I know they're only as wicked as their limitless profits.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Indian Superman

I can't stop watching this.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

McCain Ads

Damn, dirty ape.

Dear Campbell,

I saw your interview with Governor Schwarzenegger yesterday and Campbell, I’m a little shocked. I’ve never seen you so doe-eyed and smiley before. Perhaps the reason I noticed your adoration is because your “No Bias, No Bull” show is shot from an inferior angle that you look powerfully over and the interview was a superior angle that looked down on you and showed your true femininity. The painful thing is that I became more in love with you after seeing your girly smiles at Gov. Terminator 2 (I recognize the sexist deconstruction I’m opening myself up to with that statement, but whatever), and my heart aches, knowing that lovely sweetness was not meant for me.

For his part, Schwarzenegger looked like a gorilla in a business suit. Why did you seat him in such a tiny chair? His knees were practically drawn up to his prominent brow ridge, and his arms dangled like Fred Flintstone’s. I know why. You wanted to see his pants bunched up around his genitals, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?!

Jealously,

C

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Hanoi Hilton XIII

Pinko got me good last weekend. He had put one of those phony bologna scratch-off tickets on my nightstand beside my trifocal case, and when I put a nickel to it, I found that I’d hit the 25 grand jackpot! I thought Sarah had affectionately picked it up for me on her daily bike ride to the corner store for her MD 20/20 and Newports, but it was Pinko, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

He’d done it because he said he was tired of hearing me gripe about Lenny’s going back on a spit pact we’d made about public spending. When I asked him how in the world a fake lotto ticket would solve my spending limitations, he admitted that it wouldn’t but he wanted to be “like a break in the battle, was your part, in the retched life of a lonely heart.” I didn’t understand his meaning, but Sarah shouted, “that’s the Pretenders!” and punched Pinko in the stomach.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Funny stuff

Obama/McCain sound bytes for all you boredies

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Hanoi Hilton XII

Last night, I had my final talking to with Lenny, and boy am I glad that’s over with. I just can’t make that boy angry. The more I try, the madder I get for goodness’ sake. He’s like a skinny, colored Buddha. Pinko said the stage lighting was unflattering, too, and made me look like an angry, powdered whore. Friends, that truly wasn’t my fault. If he had not intentionally challenged me to a Fruit Rollup eating competition, 45 minutes before show time, I wouldn’t have had those rosy lips and crazy sex eyes. Pinko knows the Mav doesn’t back down from a challenge and he set me up. For the first half hour, the sugar in those things (my 43 to his 36) made me feel like I’d snorted an eightball of Saigon Pink, and as an unfortunate result of my come down, I was unable to “whip” Lenny like I’d said I would. Shit.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

There's gonna be a Ghostbusters 3

Things I realized while watching Ghostbusters in my underwear and doing what can only be described as yoga:

1. When someone asks you if you're a god, you say YES!
2. If I were a Ghostbuster, I would have inevitably thought of zombies and not the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man when the traveller arrived.
3. Sigourney Weaver was damn sexy.
4. Nail Sigourney Weaver even if she's possessed.
5. I miss Rick Moranis.
6. Spaceballs was about Jews.
7. Egon doesn't have a PhD.
8. Winston wasn't an equally invested Ghostbuster, as he was just some asshole off the street.
9. I finally get the "Are you, Alice, menstrating right now?" question from Pete Venkman.
10. The "I ain't 'fraid o' no ghost" song is not cool.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

As a Matter of Fact...

Dear Campbell,

Did you hear Chris called me gay for loving the husky laugh and boyish good looks of Rachel Maddow (who, as Wikipedia revealed to me, is a “girl kisser” (Elrod N.pag.))? ME! As I recall, during his last birthday binge, Chris had a wolfish lust for a perfectly proportioned, Webster-like man in the courtyard of the Red Scoot Inn. Even though the beard on this little fellow clearly qualified him as an adult, his 10-year-old physique and presumably equally hairy testicles, established Chris as both a child molester and a homosexual.

Booyakasha!

C

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Misprint Magazine


This is the most refreshing thing I've seen a long, long time. Check out page 19. I was markedly uncool giggling to myself while reading this at work.

Hanoi Hilton XI

I woke up yesterday and for the first six hours, I didn’t know that I had another rendezvous scheduled with the Harvard Negroman. When my bestest advisor came over, I thought it was to feed me my 16-jar, strawberry‘nana baby food brunch, but he left the front door open and the “Straight-Talk Express” Humvee running. Sarah was still in her underoos, eating a bowl of Lucky Charms and watching Nickelodeon with Pinko when we all realized I was in “the shit.” Debate? Christ, I’d spent all of Monday scouring Youtube for backyard Kimbo Slice fights and footage of that new “free-running” sensation the French kids are jazzing about. I didn’t even hit the hay until 8:45 in the pm!
The Negroman, whom I’ve affectionately decided to call Lenny, was mad at me most of the time and showed signs of what I can only assume is “Black Rage.” I really should have considered him to be more than just an exotically pretty face. He doesn’t shoot from his hip, Maverick-style, like me. He shoots from his mouth, and to be honest, friends, I’m not even sure he’s speaking English, especially when he talks about the economy. He’s so smart.
I understand there’s an election in November, and if Lenny keeps impressing me the way he does, I might just send my McVote his way.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

It's Love

Dear Campbell,

I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just come out with it: I'm in love with another woman. Her name is Rachel Maddow, and like you, she's a part of the liberal media circuit but at MSNBC. I think I love her for her androgyny. She has short boyish hair, minimal makeup, aggressively handsome tone, and a cutting laugh. I must admit, I didn't find her particularly attractive at first because I thought she was a lesbian, and I try to separate my love from love that can never be, but I'm starting to think she is not gay but rather a woman reared around a pack of boys. Either way, her show, "The Rachel Maddow Show," is on at 9pm, well after "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report." Those two guys are a big reason my eye has strayed in the first place. You see, your show is on the entire hour of both half-hour Comedy Central programs, and I can't watch everything unless I'm omnipresent or have a split screen TV, which I don't. Split screen. Imagine if your and Rachel's show were on at the same sexy time! I'd have to make a visit to the TV store.

Your Friend,

C

Friday, October 3, 2008

Hanoi Hilton X

Sarah finally spoke the day before yesterday, and despite her relative youth and attractiveness, she sounded like “Nova” from Planet of the Apes. Praise Allah that the perpetual quarter chub I’ve had in her presence finally shrank to a manageable noodle of impotence. I was having trouble ignoring the awkwardness it was creating during “Twister Thurday” with Lieberman and all the Republican members of the Appropriations Committee (except Kay Bailey Hutchison).
Anyway, Sarah was immediately subject to the same intrusive questions as I was with that Harvard Negroman (who, by-the-way, did not assault me). I was thrilled that her continuous response to the toughest questions was a repeating, “Oh, so horny....Ohh, so horny...Ohh, so horny. Me love you love time.” She answered exactly as we had rehearsed and even in the right Vietnamese accent and intonation, but my aide, who was sitting beside me, fainted and I swear I could hear his ulcer sizzling in his stomach, or maybe it was mine. Cindy had mixed me up a mess of broccoli and cheese before the debate. I put my hand over my belly and then over my aide’s, but I didn’t feel anything.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

You want my what?!

I must be the luckiest man alive because I get 2 or 3 of these kinds o' emails a week! I took the liberty of correcting a few grammar and format mistakes but I stopped after a while and chalked it off as cultural differences.

UNITED NATIONS ORGANIZATION AND EUROPEAN UNION ORG do hereby give this irrevocable approval ntract entitlement/award winning payment with the UNITED NATION to your nominated bank account. Now you're new Payment,United nation Approval No;UN5685P,White House Approved No:WH44CV, Reference No.-35460021, Allocation No: 674632 Password No: 339331 , Pin Code No: 55674 and your Certificate of Merit Payment No : 103 , Released Code No: 0763; Immediate Citibank Telex confirmation No:-1114433 ; Secret Code No:XXTN013, Having received these vital payment number ,therefore You are qualified now to received and confirm Your payment with the United Nation immediately within the next 72hrs.
As a matter of fact, you are required to Deal and Communicate only with MR ANDREW WOLLEY, DIRECTOR INTERNATIONAL REMMITTANCE CITIBANK OF UNITED KINGDOM,with the help and monitory team from the CITIBANK OF NEW YORK which is our official remitting bank, Committee On Foreign Payment Matters in United Nation,has look up to make sure you receive your fund valued $8.3m. So contact: MR ANDREW WOLLEY on his contact information,Direct Citibank Telephone No +44-700-5931404 , Cell/mobile CELL/MOBLIE, +44-7624-198268 FaxNumber:+44 870 288 7323,Email: andrewwolley2005@googlemail.com OR andrew.wolley2@hotmail.com
1) YOUR FULL NAME:
2) ADDRESS,CITY, STATE AND COUNTRY
3) PHONE, FAX AND MOBILE
4) COMPANY NAME (IF ANY) POSITION AND ADDRESS
5) BANK DETAILS ACCOUNT NO ROUTING NO/SWIFT CODE BANK NAME BANK ADDRESS.
6) PROFESSION, AGE AND MARITAL STATUS MARRIED
7) COPY OF YOUR INT'L PASSPORT/DRIVERS LICENSE
NOTE: YOUR PERSONAL CONTACT/COMMUNICATION CODE WITH CITIBANK IS (511), YOU ARE ARE ADVICE TO SEND YOU FULL BANKING INFORMATION TO THE CITIBANK OF LONDON INTERNATIONAL REMMITTANCE DIRECTOR HEADED BY MR ANDREW WOLLEY AND MAKE SURE YOU SPEAK WITH HIM, WITH YOUR NEW PAYMENT CODE FOR RELEASE OF YOUR PAYMENT AND SEND HIM ALL YOUR BANKING INFORMATION NOW. CONTACT CODE (511)
:MR ANDREW WOLLEY
:DIRECTOR,INTL,REMMITTANCE CITIBANK LONDON.
TELEPHONE OFFICE/BANK:+44-700-5931404
FAX:+44 870 288 7101 , CELL/MOBLE +44-7624-198268
EMAIL: andrewwolley2005@googlemail.com OR andrew.wolley2@hotmail.com

SIR FRANK PETERSON.
(CHAIRMAN COMMITTE ON FOREIGN CONTRACT/AWARD WINING PAYMENT UNITED NATION AND USA GOVERNMENT).

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Sacrificial Bash

Dear Campbell,

I tried to kill Chris last Thursday at the Dog & Duck pub. I failed, but I think my failure was in my method: mind control. It was more of a persuasion of deadness from my mind to his. I’m sorry, Campbell, but I had to stop after several attempts because my vision started dimming and my fingertips got cold. I did make him pee though, twice. I’ll keep trying.

Your Servant,

C

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Hanoi Hilton IX

Well I met with that lawyer boy as scheduled, and even though all my friends keep telling me that I did well, I can’t help but feel that it was a complete disaster. I tried backing out at the last minute because one of Pinko’s idiot colleagues had hosted a New Age Indian dinner party in Sedona, and after eating markedly un-American food, my stomach was making questionable sounds that lasted from Wednesday well into Saturday. I actually broke a sweat trying to hold back my bodily fluids. And, in addition to standing in a perpetual cloud of gastrital farts, I was forced to avoid looking at the man during our entire debate because when I first got to my podium, some prankster had printed all my prearranged notes over this image:

The man’s physical resemblance to the Muppet “Beaker” was so sudden and profound that I was afraid if I looked at him, I’d burst out laughing and simultaneously fill my pants with half-digested Indian lentils. Cindy would have killed me because all my jockeys were dirty, and I was wearing a pair of her favorite “change of life” dainties. It was a very stressful 90 minutes.
Pinko thinks I was avoiding eye contact because of the stupid yarn he’d spun about how in today’s politics, direct eye contact with a Negroman is a sign of aggression, and as reparation, I could legally be assaulted after the debate but only with a quarter foot of “black myth.” What a liar.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Campbell, I'm on bended knee.

Dear Campbell,

I’ve been thinking about the condition of our love, and since you haven’t responded to my last correspondence (is it still called correspondence when you’re not writing back?), I say congratulations to you. You’ve called my bluff and will be pleased to know that I’m taking you back sans conditions.

As a show of allegiance and for both calling you a MILF and suggesting that you thought you were too good for me, I intend on removing Chris’ head and dissolving his brain with a ceremonial Egyptian formula for mummification, known to my family since the time of the Moorish conquest of Iberia. You know what I mean, baby.
I’m sorry for threatening your kid too.

Endlessly,

C

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Hanoi Hilton VIII

Yesterday was the first day of fall, and I gotta say, it couldn't have come sooner. It's been what I call a "jungle summer" in the A.Z., and no, Alan Colmes of Fox's Hannity and Colmes, "jungle summer" has nothing to do with the negroes. At my buddy Joe's advisement, I've gone to great lengths to jettison the term "colored" from my vocab. He's a jew. It's been hard though because grandaddy McSchickelgruber used it a lot in reference to the American cultural invasion, and I can't help but enjoy a fond reminiscence when the word rolls off my tongue. "Cuh-lerd." Beautiful!
I'm going to have to explain some of the things I've been talking about to some negro lawyer this Friday. When an advisor told me that, I was like, "Lawyer?! Am I in trouble or what?" and immediately fell on my catch-all POW story. He explained to me that the colored guy, who wants my job, is a lawyer from Harvard and that he hoped I'd been reading the prep emails about the fundamentals of our economy because the man is a minority, and our women are at stake. Christ, I'm more worried now about having one of my increasingly frequent "senior moments" and calling him colored, than I am about not really knowing why I have to be there. Pinko suggests I drink a cup of regular instead of decaf coffee and skip the Viagra as I had originally planned.
I told Sarah that I think I'll do okay as long as I know she's in the audience somewhere, cheerleading for me. She was sitting Indian style on the kitchen floor, covering her left hand with an equally distributed layer of mayonnaise and didn't hear me. I said it again, but she was very focused, so I just stared at her a minute and then reminded her not to eat her hand.
Two more days until Friday.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

I Am

I suffered a horrible moment of self truth today: I am not an existentialist. I’m reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s Existentialism Is a Humanism and while so much of it affirms my terrible sense of despair and abandonment (despite Sartre’s defense that those two things are not necessarily negative perspectives (how horrible to have a life perspective called ‘despair’)), I can’t accept the fundamental doctrine of “existence preceding essence” in regards to human nature. Sartre says that if there is human nature than there is a predetermined guideline over human action and essence precedes existence in the same way the function of a kitchen knife is conceived before it is created. If the knife cuts someone, it is because a knife is sharp and used to cut. That is its nature, so to speak. But “man,” Sartre says, “first exists: he materializes in the world, encounters himself, and only afterward defines himself. If man...cannot be defined, it is because to begin with he is nothing. He will not be anything until later, and then he will be what he makes of himself. Thus, there is no human nature since there is no God to conceive of it.” While I agree that God is not the designer of humanity or its nature, I still can’t shake my understanding of biology. Genetically, if mother and father have blue eyes, baby probably will too. That is neither human nature nor essence preceding existence, but if we apply the same mechanics to genetic variation, we can assign certain behavior to specific genes and actually know what this person’s personality could potentially be like, like separated twins with the same mannerisms. Is that not predefined, at least biologically? So much of my despicable behavior, I’ve happily excused as the dominant cocktail of animalisms from my mother and father, but I’ve also held firmly to the understanding that intrinsic good or bad is my choice. In so many ways, I am man, I am beast, but in so many more, I simply am.
The more I reflect on this, counter-argue myself, and discover new questions, I can’t help but know, as I am alive, that there is no solution; I’m left alone to watch from the windows of my personal train wreck and know that I steered it there for lack of guidance and understanding of the human condition. We are alone, and humanity is doomed to always bloody its fingers, scratching at the high walls of hope.
Existentialism: “it has been blamed for encouraging people to remain in a state of quietism and despair. For if all solutions are barred, we have to regard any action in this world as futile.”
It's painful, but it embodies my quietism and despair. I guess I’m existential after all.

Existentialism Is a Humanism pp. 1-7
Jean-Paul Sartre
Existentialsim

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Goodbye To Cambell Brown

Dear Campbell,

We’re through. After finally accepting the fact that you let another man put not only his weiner but a whole baby in you, I just can’t handle it. I don’t think the kid will ever be safe around me. I’m like a gerbil. I’ll eat the pink bastard. It all started last Friday, when my friend called you a “MILF.” At the time, I thought, “Ha! She is indeed a MILF, Chris,” but then I started to consider the terms of MILFdom. You see, for me, MILF has become interchangeable with the equally sexy “Cougar,” but as you know, that is oh so wrong.

So, we're through.

I know this is difficult for you, so I’ll offer you this solution: drown your boy; forget your old life; and become subservient to me. Think of how much more rewarding a life of semi-sexual servitude/slavery will be than a career! I’ll even allow a memento of your son, a finger bone perhaps, but that is all.

I hope you’ll give my offer serious consideration.

Always,

C

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Hanoi Hilton VII

Pinko finally got is neck brace off. I honestly don’t think he needed it because Sarah had stepped mostly on his face with the pointy heel of her stiletto on his neck. He told me I didn’t know the first thing about doctorism and that I should stick to baby killing because that’s what I’m good at. I let it go. Commie. Speaking of, my Captain America shield finally arrived in the mail yesterday! It’s a hard plastic, not the adamantium-vibranium alloy I had hoped for, but at least it won’t break when I throw it at things. I wore it on my back all day yesterday, and I’ve been in the backyard for hours today, throwing it against the side of the house. Cindy forced me to come inside and eat a Cheese Whiz sandwich and glass of milk before I could go back out. I was really sweaty but I wouldn’t take off my suit and tie. “Cap’ wears a uniform,” I explained to Cindy. “So must I.” Sarah’s really good at long distance accuracy. Better than me in fact, and she and Pinko put aside their difference in a bi-partisan show of patriotism while the three of us played WWII. At one point, stupid Pinko almost lost it over the fence, but since it was Sarah’s turn to retrieve, she was already there and she stage dived off one of the desert landscape boulders that borders our fence and caught it in her “mantis mandibles” as Pinko calls them. I saw the whole thing in slow motion and what I remember most was the American flag pin on her lapel shining heroically in the sun. I think I’ll make her my Bucky.

Monday, September 15, 2008

I, Infidel

I enjoyed theses comments on atheism if you follow the link at the end, you can follow other links to the individual people. My favorite is the G.K. Chesterton one.

The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828 - 1882)

I always admired atheists. I think it takes a lot of faith.
Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure, Seoul Mates, 1991

The opposite of the religious fanatic is not the fanatical atheist but the gentle cynic who cares not whether there is a god or not.
Eric Hoffer (1902 - 1983)

I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.
Frank Lloyd Wright (1869 - 1959)

If there were no God, there would be no Atheists.
G. K. Chesterton (1874 - 1936)

I have too much respect for the idea of God to make it responsible for such an absurd world.
Georges Duhamel (1884 - 1966)

I'm a born-again atheist.
Gore Vidal (1925 - )

I once wanted to become an atheist, but I gave up - they have no holidays.
Henny Youngman (1906 - 1998)

Nobody talks so constantly about God as those who insist that there is no God.
Heywood Broun (1888 - 1939)

An atheist is a man who has no invisible means of support.
John Buchan (1875 - 1940)

I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if He didn't.
Jules Renard (1864 - 1910)

I’m the world’s least happy atheist. I miss having religious faith, but trying to have it seems like trying to be in love with someone that you’re not in love with.
Lisa Williams, Learning the Lessons of Nixon, 03-29-08

I am an atheist, myself. A simple faith, but a great comfort to me, in these last days.
Lois McMaster Bujold

I'm still an atheist, thank God.
Luis Bunuel (1900 - 1983)

It is the final proof of God's omnipotence that he need not exist in order to save us.
Peter De Vries, "The Mackerel Plaza," 1958

When I told the people of Northern Ireland that I was an atheist, a woman in the audience stood up and said, "Yes, but is it the God of the Catholics or the God of the Protestants in whom you don't believe?"
Quentin Crisp

Religion is about turning untested belief into unshakeable truth through the power of institutions and the passage of time.
Richard Dawkins (1941 - ), "The Root of All Evil", Channel 4 UK, 2006

We are all atheists about most of the gods that societies have ever believed in. Some of us just go one god further.
Richard Dawkins (1941 - ), "The Root of All Evil", UK Channel 4, 2006

You've got your phenomenon on one hand. Concrete and knowable. On the other hand you've got the incomprehensible. You call it God, but to me, God or no, it remains just that, the unknowable.
Robin Green and Mitchell Burgess, Northern Exposure, A Wing and a Prayer, 1994

Ask a deeply religious Christian if he’d rather live next to a bearded Muslim that may or may not be plotting a terror attack, or an atheist that may or may not show him how to set up a wireless network in his house. On the scale of prejudice, atheists don’t seem so bad lately.
Scott Adams (1957 - ), The Dilbert Blog: Atheists: The New Gays, 11-19-06

Shake off all the fears of servile prejudices, under which weak minds are servilely crouched. Fix reason firmly in her seat, and call on her tribunal for every fact, every opinion. Question with boldness even the existence of a God; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason than that of blindfolded fear.
Thomas Jefferson (1743 - 1826)

If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.
Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?
Woody Allen (1935 - )

If it turns out that there is a God, I don't think that he's evil. But the worst that you can say about him is that basically he's an underachiever.
Woody Allen

To you I'm an atheist; to God, I'm the Loyal Opposition.
Woody Allen

Atheisim Quotes

Friday, September 12, 2008

Hanoi Hilton VI

I was having my 3am BM last night when I heard Sarah whimpering at the door again. Thanks to a nightly spoonful of Perdiem, I’m pretty regular these days. I initially hated waking in the middle of the night because it usually takes Cindy about three to five calls to wake up and untie me, and I generally have to go pretty badly the instant I open my eyes; however, the necessity to contain my waste has been a great muscle flexer for my sphincter, and Dr. Gutt even attested during my last “Man Smear,” as I call it, (he’s qualified) that my rectum has the gripping power of a three-year-old child. The other day, I spent a private 45 minutes trying to lift a quarter off our Spanish bathroom tiles with it, but I couldn’t. In Saigon, I saw a lady of the night pick up a Thai 10 baht coin with her vagina, but she had youth on her side as she was only about 13. Big difference. I think I’d need a thumb down there or something.
Anyway, Sarah was at the door the full 38 minutes I was on the john, and no amount of shooing would allow me any privacy. But when I realized I was out of toilet paper, Sarah came to my rescue with a small stack of coffee filters that she slid under the door. Her fingers were actually within two of the cones and she repeated a “come here” gesture with them until I realized she meant for me to use their shape to scoop instead of merely wipe. She’s amazing. I don’t believe I’ll ever go back to regular TP.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Mistress Anchorlady

Dear Campbell,

I was watching your show, “Campbell Brown’s Election Center” and decided mid-way through that I wasn’t physically worthy of your graces, so I started doing pushups. Admittedly, it’s been a long while since I did anything more than swim for a few minutes at a time at Barton Springs Pool (a place I’ll take you to some time), so I had to do a series of “girl pushups” in order to warm my muscles up enough for man ones. I was still glad to be getting exercise, however small, and repeatedly looked toward the TV for inspiration. I’m sorry to say that more often than not, I was met with the porky image of Roland Martin, sandwiched in a panel between Bay Buchanan and Jeffrey Toobin, and I finally stopped. Doesn’t Roland remind you of a caterpillar? He reminds me of a caterpillar.

Affectionately,

C

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

The End is Near...

Though this has nothing to do with what I've been writing on my blog, I thought I'd share it anyway.
This is the best article I've seen on the new super collider in Switzerland. Starting tomorrow, international scientists will begin speeding subatomic particles to eventual lightspeed, smash 'em together and create a mini big bang. All this is an attempt to understand the origins of everything. It's pretty exciting, but this is also the first article I've read that plays down the fact that no one really knows what the effects will be. Many theorize the little bang will create a bunch of tiny black holes and swallow up the earth and are trying to sue CERN into stopping until more research can be done. I guess we'll see.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Hanoi Hilton V

Pinko was in my room again and I know he was going through my collector issues of Oui. I’m sure of it this time, for three reasons:
1) The footlocker with all my CCR stickers on it was unlocked and my old POW boxer trunks, the ones that still smell like Lao, looked as though they’d been moved but carefully replaced.
2) I found crumb traces of his animal crackers on my side of the bed.
3) When I turned on the television set, the station was showing a reality show on VH1. Cindy and I stopped watching VH1 when the “I Love the 80s” program slanderized the boy actor Scotty Schwartz, of The Toy, for participating in a porno movie. The Toy was a damn hard act to follow. The man tried. VH1 should have stayed out of his business.
I didn’t wait for Pinko to offer an explanation when he and Cindy returned from Pineapple Express. I just went at him with my arms out. The whole ordeal was a little humiliating at first because I couldn’t catch him, and he even ran backward, taunting me by singing the theme song to “The Munsters.” Cindy was whining at me to stop, and over all the commotion, I kept shouting, “Stay out of my stuff!” I was on the verge of frustrated tears and my left arm was starting to tingle when Sarah popped up from behind one of our Italian sofas and foot-swept Pinko onto his back. I was so surprised that I stopped shuffling toward him and just stared. Sarah had stepped on his neck and bared her teeth down at him. She looked at me and put her thumb sideways like an executioner. Cindy fainted onto the polar bear-skin rug that the Palins had given us as a gift and I raised both my thumbs as high as my arms would allow. She stepped off Pinko, straightened her pantyhose, and walked back into our pretend Oval Office. After about ten seconds I could hear my old word processor tapping away.
Pinko sat up Indian-style and held his throat with two hands. I mumbled another curse at him and nudged Cindy’s high heels until she groaned and I went in my room.

Altruism versus Competition

I was arguing with a woman at work today (for the second time) about the nature of humanity. She's Peruvian and holds a doctorate in sociology. I'm just observant.
On one side, the argument was that humans are naturally predisposed to peace, generosity and altruism. On the other side, humans, as animals, are in constant social and biological competition, a condition that lends itself to violence.
She called my opinion "very American," and I almost choked her. I thought I'd be less pissed blogging about it. I'm not.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Hanoi Hilton IV

I was swimming with Sarah at the Baltimore mansion yesterday when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Cindy had left two hours before because she had a scheduled hair tonic treatment, and even though we had a aide there mixing mojitos, at the pool bar, I could tell Cindy didn’t want to leave me alone with her. I don’t blame her. Sarah’s a proven child-bearer, a good ole “Missus,” and she’s always showing Pinko how well she handles kitchen cutlery. She’s the original homemaker. A man’s dream! She has great spontaneity too. She’s like a younger me with lady parts. A Maverickette. When she arrived at the house, she hadn’t planned on swimming and didn’t pack a swimming jumper, so she just set her Blackberry on Cindy’s lounge chair and jumped into the pool, wearing her skirt, suit jacket and high heels! She looked so happy, dog-paddling in the deep end with her shoulder pads puffing around her smile. It’s natural that Cindy’s jealous.
Anyway, what I noticed yesterday is that Sarah’s always giving me this strange insect-type look, like she's seeing into my brain. I can actually feel it on the back of my head sometimes, the way you can feel you're not the only man in dark prison hole. I'm pretty sure it’s a “jump my bones” sort of look, but she has these big dark eyes, and to be honest, it’s a little unsettling when she stares at me like that.
I confided my bug-sex-theory to Doctor Pinko, and he called her a praying mantis and said she’s more likely to gnaw on my bones than to jump them. He keeps telling me that “Sarah looks crazy” and that I’d better hire a food taster if she’s going to be around after November 4th. “You should know, Commie,” I said. Check one off for the Mav.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Oh Campbell

Dear Campbell,

I wrote a poem for you while I was at work today. Here it is:

Brown hair like baby poo,
White teeth like Elmer’s glue,
Fancy clothes and makeup too,
Oh Campbell, I love you.


It's a complex
aaaa quatrain, and I'm pretty much done with it, but I might add more and regift it to you on Valentine’s Day or your birthday or something. I still want to mention your big eyes and skin tone, and I really want to get the word “screw” in there somewhere.

Love,

C

Monday, September 1, 2008

Hanoi Hilton III

I finally picked me up a campaign broad! She’s a looker too, brown hair and black frame glasses. Cindy went apey when she found out I signed on a young brunette who can reach things for me instead of her. This gal’s 44. A good 11 years younger than the ole ball and chain. She lives in Alaska too. I love that country. “She can keep an eye on those low-down Ruskies from way up there,” I had told Cindy, but I was really watching Pinko to see if I got a rise of him. He was playing “The Number of the Beast” on Guitar Hero, and didn’t take his eyes off Cindy’s LCD, but I still think he heard me because he messed up. Thank God too. He almost beat my high score.
I don’t know what it is about this girl, Sarah, but I feel 60 years old when we’re together. Maybe it’s because she’s a little dumber than Cindy, and I don’t have to hear continuous back-talk from her. I love that. She understands me too. On the plane to Minneapolis, an aide pissed me off (for the second time) when he lectured me on my use of the word, “colored.” I was furious and would have boxed his ears if Sarah hadn’t brought me a warm bottle of Saigon Export and softly hummed my favorite Connie Francis tune, “Where the Boys Are,” until I fell asleep.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

Hanoi Hilton II

Cindy and Dr. Gutt were sun tanning themselves this afternoon when I came home from the dog fights. The water looked refreshing, and to be fair, it was a perfect day out, but I truly hate when Cindy doesn’t wear her bikini brazier in front of Pinko. I get it, I get it. The man gave you those hooters, and he’s seen them both pre- and post-op, but goddamn it, there’s nothing sacred about artificial breasts when she’s showing them to her commie surgeon all the time.
“Where’s Rage?” she had asked, and I had to tell her that he was at the kennel and might not make it. I thought she’d be mad, but she just fanned herself with an old edition of ¡Mira! and leaned back in her lounge chair.
Pinko was in an orange Speedo I hadn’t seen him in before, and I briefly noticed splotches of dark discoloration from his sweating balls before I turned away with bile in my throat. His little dainties matched his orange skin as well as Cindy’s enormous sombrero and bikini shorts and flip flops. They had probably coordinated their outfits, and I was more than pleased to see Cindy’s pink cast contrasting so brightly against all their orange. The Maverick is omnipresent, I thought privately.
Pinko told me I was looking paler than usual and recommended I take a “splash” in the pool. I pulled my shirt cuff past my Rolex and then said “Battlestar Galactica” in my best mongoloid voice. Cindy scowled at me, so I scowled back and said “It’s Friday. He knows I watch Battlestar on Friday.”

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Love To Campbell

Dear Campbell Brown,

I’
ve decided to obsess over you as a writing exercise. I hope you don’t mind. Since this is our first correspondence, I’ll ask, do you remember when our eyes first met? I do. It was during the Democratic primaries on February 21st of this year, and you were moderating a CNN debate between Barack Obama and Hillary “Second Place” Clinton here in Austin, Texas. I was nesting among my bedful of unfolded laundry, still warm from the dryer, and shoveling spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s “Chunky Monkey” into my mouth, when you entered my life. Perhaps it is because you were actually in my city that my mind was so full of questions about you. You were here, only a few short miles from my TV set, but after seeing you for the first time, I found the simple act of thought difficult and decided that driving to the University of Texas under such debilitating conditions might prove a hazard. Instead, I straightened my posture and observed your in-depth questions and physical radiance. Your eyes, your smile, your thick brown hair, and your long, long neck, quite literally stunned me. I initially misinterpreted my immediate paralysis as some kind of iced-cream induced brain freeze, but I’ve since experienced subsequent...rapture during and following your “CNN’s Election Center” program and various television appearances, and I now realize that it is an almost spiritual manifestation of love. I love you, Campbell. Campbell, I love you.

Affectionately,

C

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Hanoi Hilton

I was dreaming about him again last night, and when I awoke, I had done it again. Christ. Thank God for Cindy. She’s been so forgiving, so understanding all these years. Both my shoulder scars throbbed like rifle butts and bayonets, and she told me, when my head was clear, that I had sat on her hip and wedged my foot under her chin and pulled her arm out of its socket again. She couldn't see because she was wearing her sleep mask, the pink satin one that Laura had given her two Christmases ago. As always, she told me I was screaming in Vietnamese. She says that’s what scares her the most because my voice changes and the muscles on my face form words differently. She says I’m a different man.
Dr. Gutt aka Doctor “Pinko” agrees with her and says I take on the persona of my captors because of some homo-erotic need to dominate. I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Cindy was furious with me when I called his credentials into question. But I thought it necessary to point out to both of them that he is a plastic surgeon, her plastic surgeon, and not a psychiatrist.
When I asked him why he regarded my nightly terrors as homosexual, he admitted that Cindy had confided to him that I sometimes call her “Lao” when I have her hands riot tied behind her back and her bloomers pulled down around her thighs. I couldn’t believe she told him that. It was her idea to blindfold me for Christ’s sake. She knows how I react to sensory deprivation. I tried explaining that to Pinko, but he just said “mmm-hmmm” and swung his putter.
At least Cindy got a nice cast out of it. She has pink everything. Her shoulder was only sore this morning, but I had fractured three metacarpals in her right hand. “Handshake,” Pinko said, looking at me through a jiggling cube of green Jell-O. “Problem solved.”

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Woe

I’m officially suffering from writers’ block. I say “officially” because I’m personally defining it as what I’m experiencing, and I’m really the only one with the authority to diagnose this subjective menace. I just realized it. The symptoms are as follows:
complete lack of inspiration and...I have writer’s block.
I used to write mini poems about my pens or coffee to stimulate my mind when I thought I had writer's block. They used to work, but know now that I didn't really have any writing blocks back then.
I need to exercise. Or, I need my friends to succeed, so I can be jealous and motivated. Perhaps I'll climb a tree when I get home. I haven't done that for a long time.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Get Me The Hell Out Of Debt Fund

That's right, folks. I've added a handy Get Me The Hell Out Of College Debt "Donate" button as a desperate reflex to the financial stranglehold I'm in. Now, you too can contribute to my life's success.
I got the idea from a writer by the name of Cheeseburger Brown, a well-established online entity who gives away his writings. While I tip my proverbial hat to his strikingly modern approach to the literary world, I won't be posting my books until I'm desperate there too. I'm almost there.
So, if you're swimming in doe and wondering how to spend it, give it to the charitable cause of me!

Monday, August 25, 2008

Day 26

Day 26 of my wait for Glimmer Train to accept one of three stories I submitted to them. I'd really like them to give me money. I'll be pretty disappoined if they don't. It's like the lottery for me. I rarely waste a hard-earned dollar on the game (except when the stakes are really high and everyone is playing), but I'm always disappointed when I do play and I don't win. Realistically, the chances of publication are pretty small, and admitedly, one of the stories, in retrospect, is garbage. But the other two are pretty good if I do say so myself. Come September 1st, it's open season, and I'll be a wild man of simultaneous short story submissions.
Hi Chris.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Representative

He nudged the door open with a joint-bending index finger. The rectangular plate screwed to the door had worn through its chrome polish, straight to the cheaper brass alloy. He wondered how many millions of oily caresses the metal had endured before it lost its integrity and gave way to the lesser metal. Above the plate, more germ-conscious men had left their own dark smear on the wood of the door. The actual portal was a walnut color but the greasy impression of countless hands seeped into the even-toned wood to the shade of rot, and he avoided that spot as well. Inside the two-man restroom, there was a urinal and a toilet. The urinal held a tiny bowl of orange piss in its gullet. Yellow-tinted coffee bubbles sparkled around the smooth-cornered hole of the device, still hissing and popping from the last man’s expulsion. He walked into the toilet stall. The seat was down and spots of sprayed shit dotted the back of the seat and dried as flaky trickles on the tiled wall behind. The last occupant had apparently been a standing one and left trembling drops of well-hydrated urine on the left and right hemispheres of the horseshoe seat. Between every man’s feet, unfathomable amounts of dripped piss had swelled and distorted the grout on the tiled floor into a bulging mutant surface. While apparently passing a coiling tube of feces, a man had scrawled “Republicans fuck their sisters, bitch” to the right of the toilet paper dispenser. The message was written in black marker and was highly stylized: slanted, aggressive, angry. Someone who disagreed had hastily written in thin-lined pen, “dems f republicans sisters 2.” This response was written high and angled, as though the man was standing when inspiration guided his hand. “H.R.6566 is pussy” another vandal wrote. The middle “5” and “6” of the proclamation slimed an inky rivulet as though a reader responded with a splatter of spit. The man flipped his tie over his shoulder and urinated. He was careful not to whiz on the seat and add to the filth of the place, though he would not touch the disgusting flush handle even with the soles of his leather shoes. He jiggled his dick, carefully directing his final drops into the toilet and not the saturated floor, and tucked it back past the clean white elastic of his jockeys. He left the stall and stood in front of the sink. The entire top section of the wall mirror was broken off in a clean conchoidal wave, so his image stopped reflecting at the knot of his pink tie. He removed an alligator-skin whiskey flask from his coat and sterilized the grimy facet handle with its amber liquid. He took a long gulp from the expensive gift and stared at the dripping handle. He’d only touched the door with the gold “Gentlemen” sign and decided that his hands would only get dirtier by washing them there. He splashed whiskey over the pad of his offending index finger and massaged the alcohol between thumb and forefinger. He turned to yank a paper towel from the continuously feeding wall dispenser when he noticed a message he’d never seen scratched into the mirror: “¡D-TEX POR VIDA PUTO!” Anger heated from the man’s rising testicles to the pulsing temples on his head, and he slammed his fist into his hand. “Bitch!” he hissed. It was Sanchez. He knew it. Goddamn wetback, rubbing in his dirty ear-mark victory. Let’s see if you’re still around in six months, you smug little ese. He reached across the chipped sink, holding his tie and coat to his stomach so it wouldn’t brush against the wet countertop, and he scratched a deep gash across the insult with the diamond of his Stanford class ring. He pounded his fist again, snatched a paper towel with which to pull the door handle and dashed across Minton tiles to tell his committee what he’d seen. The brown paper towel unwrapped from the door handle and floated to the ground as the man’s tapping shoes echoed around a corner, and it settled there.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

At little more...

Going further on that "Do You Realize??" business I posted earlier, my friend Bash pointed me to an NPR segment with the Flaming Lips' lead singer, Wayne Coyne, discussing his views on life, and if you listen to the audio, it ends with part of "Do You Realize??" playing. In short, I'm a genius.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Video

Because I'm a fool and can't figure out how to post a youtube video without setting up more online accounts, here is the link to a song I've been obsessing over, thanks to Elrod. Zooey Deschanel is an actress you may recognize but she's also a muscian and part-time goddess.
She & Him - Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?
The first video from She & Him's debut record Volume One!http://www.mergerecords.com/store/store_detail.php?catalog_id=530
Credits:DIRECTOR Ace Norton
DP Michael Rizzi
EDITOR Isaac Hagy
PRODUCER Charles Spano
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER Jeff Pantaleo
PRODUCTION COMPANY Partizan Entertainment, LLC

Monday, August 18, 2008

venetian blinds

I won’t go in to extraordinary detail when describing Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy because if you’ve read it, you’ll understand my reluctance to reread it for deconstruction’s sake. If you haven’t read it, I’ll try and give you a reason to.
Jealousy, published in 1957, is defined as a “Nouveau Roman” (New Novel) or “antinovel” which is defined by my trusty Bedford Glossary of Critical and Literary Terms as “A type of contemporary fiction that attempts to present the reader with experience itself, unfiltered by metaphor or other vehicles of authorial interpretation...Confusion is an intended result of the narrative experiments [antinovelists] perform that typically involve fragmentation and dislocation.” I can’t think of any antinovelists off the top of my brain other than Robbe-Grillet, but they’re out there.
The very nature of an antinovel is pretty damn hard to achieve, and after reading Jealousy, I objected to Robbe-Grillet’s success. I take it back now because I’ve realized that completely avoiding the various elements of fiction is, frankly, impossible. An author can have a settingless story, but that leaves a lot to depend on character which can’t be even lightly developed in terms of an antinovel. Barring setting and character, featureless characters can maintain dialogue and move a story along, but dialogue will indirectly reveal characters by simply speaking. Plot can be avoided, as it is in Jealousy, but a theme cannot because inevitable symbolism may be interpreted in everything from objects to language to sentence structure and related to a point to the story. Soooo, I think Robbe-Grillet did a fine job, considering so many wicked elements working against him.
The story is set on a banana plantation and is simply the repetitive and objective telling of a woman, A, and her neighbor Franck’s interactions by a third unnamed narrator, recurrently from behind a venetian-blind vantage point.
Though many have described Jealousy as a detached description of events by an unseen third person, I feel quite comfortable calling that unseen person “the husband” and the novel an embodiment of his irrational jealousy over his wife’s ambiguous intimacy with Franck. The at times painful repetition of description is an obvious obsession and over analysis of the woman’s actions. The continuous counting of three place settings at dinner and afternoon refreshments indicates an obsession over his wife’s seemingly over-hospitability toward their always nearby neighbor Franck. The narrator is constantly thinking, thinking, thinking, counting banana trees to relieve his mind when he’s not internally measuring the distance between his seated wife’s hand and their seated neighbor’s.
If the antinovel’s repetition does not become a clear vehicle of expressive emotion, the original French title should: La Jalousie, which dually means both venetian blinds and jealousy.
Voilà.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Feel better here...or worse. It doesn't matter which.

A short, short breakdown of two things that bring me comfort, peace even: the song “Do You Realize??” by the Flaming Lips and the short novel, The Stranger, by Albert Camus.

“Do You Realize??” is what I would call an existential song. The whole album, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, is rather existential. Confronting death face first, the song asks its listener to stop fretting over the world and enjoy the fact that s/he’s alive. Reality is merely perception, and it dies with its beholder; therefore, reality as we know it will inevitably be gone, and what’s left of humanity will exist in the same perceptionless nothing, where mountains of anguish and joy are leveled and nothing matters most. This is inevitable, and I sigh with relief when I remember that “everyone you know, someday, will die.”

The Stranger is different. The Stranger has shown me that I can’t make sense of a senseless place. I used to watch syndicated news with outrage and disgust. I watch it now for the weather because, really, the heat and glare of the sun affects me more than shady politicians, who always get caught with their dicks in strange holes, and I know, as the world wobbles around, there is an angry French mob, waiting to validate me and offer a place in their pumping hearts where I can always live.

I enjoy thinking of these things when I’m overwhelmed with both failure and ambition.


Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Déjeuner du matin vs. Breakfast

Best poem on the block (scroll for English translation):

"Déjeuner du matin"
Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré.
-Jacques Prévert

I was looking over my copy of Paroles: Selected Poems by Jacques Prévert and Lawrence Ferlinghetti's translation of "Déjeuner du matin" because I've long had conflict with part of his translation. Where Prévert uses the phrases "Sans me parler/Sans me regarder," Ferlinghetti consistantly translates, "Without a word to me/Without a look at me." Since his publishing company, City Lights Books, published this bilingual edition, I supposed he could do anything he wanted and did. So in typing this poem on my blog, I exchanged all the "Without a word to me/Without a look at me" to the less literal but more representative of interpretation "Without speaking to me/Without looking at me." In English, the poem is more fluid that way, but unfortunately, its meaning changed with my meddling. I was shocked. For me, "Déjeuner du matin" is a struggle, not between two people but between people and the painful repetition in life that make us want to cry out. Ferlinghetti preserved that meaning in his translation, but mine, mine created a whole new conflict of deterioration in what is suddenly a personal relationship. I still find that to be stunningly profound, though less global, less accessible. The French language covered both meanings, and left them plainly visible for readers to ponder over. The original poem is untranslateable because the two English versions I've put forth are too polarizing to be adequate. One is general, and the other is specific, but both are incomplete. Because I like that Ferlinghetti kept my favorite interpretation in his translation, I changed my thinking and translated the poem his way, repetitiously, and crying while doing it. I did change the last sentence from "And I I" to "And me I." The extra spaces that Ferlinghetti inserted between I's are upsetting, and the the grammar's wrong anyway...I think.

"Breakfast"
He put the coffee
In the cup
He put the milk
In the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
In the cafe au lait
With the coffee spoon
He stirred
He drank the cafe au lait
And he set down the cup
Without a word to me
He lit
A cigarette
He made rings
With the smoke
He put the ashes
In the ashtray
Without a word to me
Without a look at me
He got up
He put
His hat on his head
He put
His raincoat on
Because it was raining
And he left
In the rain
Without a word
Without a look at me
And me I took
My head in my hand
And I cried.
Trans. Moi

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Day 12

So, this is the 12th day I've eagerly checked the status of the three stories I submitted to Glimmer Train to find all three "In Process" which, according to their definition, means they've received it. Does that mean they've read each story and are considering their individual magnificence? or does "In Process" mean they're simply adding it to the pile of other shit they're going to eventually read? Too late, I discovered that the two founding sisters are the only submission readers, and I wondered and still do if all three stories are too gender saturated. I can easily see how some of what I write may be perceived as sexist. They're not. Chauvinistic, yes, but sexist no. I would have submitted it to them anyway.
I chose Glimmer Train because they accept simultaneous submissions, don't charge a reading fee (if you're not entering a contest), and pay around 700 bucks for each story. https://www.glimmertrainpress.com/writer/html/index2.asp

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Inaugural Blog

Even though I believe blogs are as egocentric, as myspace and facebook (both of which I maintain), I've decided to enter the cutthroat world of literature and must also create and maintain what is called a "platform" by the sages of entertainment. This elusive platform was best described to me by fellow artist Collin Fletcher (aka "Mr. Fletch" to Kealing middle schoolers) as showing your dick to people who want to tug on it and not in a good way. To a modest person, that's rather fucking embarrassing. I'm paraphrasing, of course. I don't quite recall if he used the words "dick" or "fucking," but that's how I interpreted our conversation.
I finished what's turned out to be a 3.5-year goddamn novella. Four of seven literary agents politely shat on my query letter, and I still haven't heard from the other three. With my hands in discouraged pockets, I quickly got to work on the second part of the six parts I have swirled in my pretty head. Perhaps because the second book is completely true, I've written, in a couple of months, what has taken years to finish in my novella. I've had fun writing it too. So that's where I'm at now.
Two things now: 1) I ask, in the off chance that this is actually being read by anyone, for platform idears. I'm eternally working on a personal website, and I've submitted shorts to various lit mags, so there's that. 2) Here's a variation on the query I sent out. Email me or post what you think I can to make it more dazzling. At this time, there's nothing I can/am willing to do about the word count. It's a novella, and until I'm finished with the second book, it will stay that way.

Dear Mr. Agent,

Because I believe nonfiction can be as artful as fiction, my novel, The Stargazers: a Momentary Memoir, may be of interest to you.

Charlie’s love has died with Valérie, and her affection, which briefly gave him reason, is replaced with the empty rationality that his atheism has created. He flees the sudden meaninglessness of work and school to the adventure-road of hitchhiking, a place where he met the French-Canadian woman he once worshipped but ultimately deserted.

Along Charlie’s travels, the finality of existence is observed in American icons like Mt. Rushmore with its weathering granite and Lake Michigan in its Great complacency. Absurdity is evident in the pesky company of a tiny purple ape, Charlie’s equine backpack, Rocinante II, and the omnipresence of his lost Québécoise.

The Stargazers: a Momentary Memoir is an appeal to return to awe once the spiritual, emotional, and existential idols that balance reality are removed, and there truly is nothing. The story is a struggle between understanding and ignorance and the translation of that conflict into confused action. What is right? What is wrong? What is real? What is not? Where do philosophy, love, and gods meet? If the answers are not evident, the stars can help us all forget the questions.

The Stargazers: a Momentary Memoir is complete at around 33,000 words. It is the first of a six-part series, The Stargazers, that in its entirety should be considered narrative nonfiction or memoir; nevertheless, each intimately connected piece may also stand alone as literary fiction. The six parts will consist of several media including a graphic novel. I am well into the second novel, a memoir.

I graduated from Texas State University, where I majored in English and minored in French. This novel was written with careful consideration for various schools of literary theory such as psychoanalysis and postmodernism. I live in Austin, Texas.

My manuscript is ready to be sent at your request.

I appreciate your time and consideration and look forward to hearing from you.

Regards,
C. Andres Alderete
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