Chief_Reindeer’s blog

I love the messages I get on here! Thanks guys. But my attention-span is finite and MySpace is really the best place to catch me and read me. Heck, I spewed up 9pages of triteness last night and then bothered to post it. You don't have to read that.

Here is a blog I put up on MySp on Monday. :D Pleased to enjoy. The most fun come from the comments. So, yeah, if you're interested, skip over there.

Have a great day!!!

September 15, 2008 - Monday

Random, Useless Discourse 75:In defensive of hip-hop ‘cause it ain’t always about the club .... Category: Music Random, Useless Discourse 75:In defensive of hip-hop 'cause it ain't always about the club for me As inspired by the comments and msgs in response to my last post I came of age, not to the aggressive poetry of Joe Strummer nor the toked-insight of Garcia and not even to the sordid-wink of Buckingham, Mac, Nicks, and that other blonde chick. I grew up on MTV, and, for the purposes of this blog, the bounce of Ed Lover and Doctor Dre. "Yo MTV Raps" was a 2hr program that ran from 1988-1995. It brought Brooklyn, Chicago, and Compton, and every borough and hood in between, to the Main Streets and the cornfields of America's suburbs and small towns. It transformed views on fashion, pop-culture, and race. It more than blurred the lines between white and black music, it obliterated them, leaving behind a generation to grow-up with warm and fuzzies of Eazy-E and Slick Rick. The first cassette I ever bought was "License to Ill". Back then it wasn't about living, killing, wining, or grinding for the bill. It was about a fight for the right to be young and dance. Today we find ourselves eager to defenestrate the whole genre with disgust and remembrance of rhymes past. But sentimentality and nostalgia doesnt make a madeleine or a track fresher or better. It just makes it old, static, and staid. As I matured, so did rap. It became angry in the early-90s and increasingly political. That was okay. NWA and Public Enemy gave voice to a reality that needed it. That deserved it. It was harsh and, unlike the bass-dropping, dance-hall rhyming that first got me hooked, I couldn't find a way to relate. In truth, it was my first bout of white-girl guilt and I found my way to Cobain and the rest of the Seattle disgruntles. Somewhere along the way rap, for all intents and purposes, became hip-hop and I fell back into it. It wasn't scary. It was packaged and pitched by the Herculean abs of Eric Nies and the edge of Puffy, Biggy, and Tupac. Late 90s hip-hop gave you that feeling you get when you watch a "Die Hard" or an episode of "24". That feeling that if it came down to it, you could pull a trigger and you could save the world. It lasted for two-hours or 4minutes, but you felt close to something akin to glass breaking, only, you never had to get cut. It was glossy. It was fish-bowl lens and Indian-influence. Hip-hop became the music of the world dominating not just air play and CD sales, but the very shoes, shirts, hats, pants, and underwear we wore. It's easy to dismiss what passes for hip-hop these days. It's easy to gleam the computer produced hooks and the bend-and-present sexism and come to the conclusion that the innovative legacy of Kurtis Blow and The Sugar Hill Gang and the social-awareness of Chuck D and Dr. Dre have been bartered away for truck-loads of Cristol and pants that don't seem to stay-up. And, while it's true that Screwtape and Wormwood have certainly sealed many a deal on those terms, not all is as sold-out as it seems. "Sweetest Girl (Dollar Bill)" was released last year by Wyclef Jean, featuring Akon, Niia, and Lil' Wayne. The song tells the story, doubtless a true one for many women, of strife and working for food, for progeny, and for survival. It's well-produced. It's club-ready. But once you start listening, let alone watch the video, you realize there's more to the song than sweaty come-ons. Lines like, "Closed legs don't get fed, go out there and make my bread" could mean one thing, but it actually means the other. Something tragic. Something bruising and heartbreaking that's wrapped in cotton-candy stripper-pole swirls and silky-swish. Sometimes a song about a stripper is just a song about a stripper, from the perspective of the cock. All for the erection. All for the pleasuring. But sometimes, it's also about the stripper. It's about the person who finds herself empowered or devalued to the point where all she has is her body. There's pride in the fight to be more. There's humanity in the struggle. Jack White said that you can't be a pimp and a prostitute too. We're all either the man or working for him. We've all sold some part of ourselves to keep the lights on. We're all hos sometimes.

Note: If you linked over from MySp (because I hit the blog character limit), you can leave comment there. Otherwise you'll have to set up a Vox. So just go back to MySp, here I'll help you. Click on any of this!

8/3/08: Tweaks to posting on I-III  from July 25-26. New posting IV-VI.  ---  Remember some of this is fresh and just wrote. But a lot of you have been mentioning my teasing, so here, in the new part IV, is what the story is. Did you see that coming? Car rides are fun. --- Blogment if you want. Love ya’ll!

I.

                The tires kissed the pavement.

The road was wet and the contact was deep and quick and relentless. Kevin let himself get lost in it. He could see the movie scene. The close-up of the hubcap. The visual of the car, sleek and stealth black, cutting through the blue of the night. The raindrops pop-corning off of the hood. Off of the roof.

                She sat next to Kevin. Doogie was limp and nearly asleep on the limo’s side-seat to her left. His iPod’s metallic yell revealing what he defined as “something to unwind to”. Kevin watched as Amy turned her wrist over, discovering the dried, red flakes she had missed in her clean-up. He could feel her surprise, shock, sadness, and, finally, disregard. He still enjoyed their cycling of emotions. Like the rain bouncing outside. She gave the spots a pick with her nail, brushing them off her jeans and down to the floor. He watched them fall. Tiny, barely noticeable evidence of what had transpired. Miniature witnesses to the latest round of good versus evil. Big Bad going against Little Hope. 

                “Tell me,” she said, still studying her pale wrist, not looking up, “how it started. When it started.”

                The drive from Boston to Manhattan was usually four hours. It wasn’t the storm covering most of Connecticut that was going to make the drive seem much longer to Kevin. It was her need to hear the details. For a moment he wished he had just folded them up and avoided the drive all together. But that, right now, was a bit of a risk. A bit of a big neon “Eat At Joes” arrow over their heads. They needed some quiet time anyway.

                “You’ll have to learn,” he said gently, lovingly, trying to sell the suggestion, “to just accept things, Amy. They call it blind faith for a reason.”

                He was so very pretty. They all were. These gods-on-Earth known as Metraneres. Looking at them was like looking at the most beautiful, sweetest lie ever. He was slender and perhaps a bit lanky. He liked this form. It’s the only one she had ever seen him wear. Five-eleven. Soft features. Inviting lips. Sometimes they made her feel lesbian. If not for the cock, she might actually think them drag. Kevin had backlit caramel eyes that gave away the power beneath them and inside him.

                His head was rolled toward her. He was stretched out loose. Relaxed. Even gods could have a long day. He knew she wasn’t going to let it go. She had a drama thing. She could feel the movie starting, too. She was a princess like that.

                “I need to know, Kevin. I know the end, I kinda know the middle, so I need to know the beginning. I need to know,” she paused, giving him what he wanted, her face turned to his, “that it was worth it.”

                Her hair, long and dark ochre, was still damp and fell about her in thick, straight clumps. Her eyes were also brown, but more chestnut. Completely human. He loved her mouth. Whether she was laughing, crying, or moaning, there was always a smirk teasing from the corners. She was opening herself up to him. Trying to seduce him into telling her the back-story. At thirty she was a woman in body yet so much of her still operated on childish reactions and impish motion.

                He laughed, his body shaking, “Jesus you kill me. Fucking Mrs. Robinson indeed.”  He kicked his shoes off, careful to not hit Doogie who was, by now, completely out, and put his feet up on the seat to his right. He patted his lap. “C’mon, Daddy’ll tell you a story.”

                “Yeah, that,” Amy said, sliding over, putting her head on his thigh, “is kinda creepy. I’m not that girl.”

                Kevin rested his left hand on her, sinking even further into the seat himself, his thin, impossibly long, fingers absently tracing along her hip. “Sorry.” His voice, normally light but definitely masculine, deepened even more. He had a drama thing as well. “It all started last Saturday, in a warehouse in Brooklyn. It was 1979.”

 

II.

Kevin hated that sound. The sound of “stick”.  You can see it. It was paludal tendrils. It was reaching and clinging. The tensile strength of the threads was directly proportionate to the length of the sound. How much force was needed to escape it. The sound was a tocsin. And it lacked grace.

The warehouse floor was sticky. Even the designer three-inch mids of the Ameleries were sucked off their heels, creating a most unpleasant flopping noise as they walked. This annoyed the Ameleries, too, but only because of the unbecoming appearance it caused.  

Still, however, the situation annoyed Kevin even more than the Ameleries. It wasn’t the ruining of his own Carloni oxfords that gave him trouble. It was their incessant clomping.  The span was enormous and nearly empty. Each step echoed. There were six of them. Twelve shoes to go “stick” and “bop”. Stick and bop.

“Really, girls,” he called over his shoulder, “must you walk like elephants on parade?”

 Harold was several paces ahead of him and continued on, leaving Kevin to deal with the group. They were like kids on a field trip to the aquarium, anxious to get up close to the dolphin. They wanted to see it prance, beg, and speak. Kevin stopped and placed a cigarette between his lips. The Amelerie brigade halted as well, waiting for his next step.  As they stood, the ooze rose over their outer soles, hardening on contact. The sound of his lighter cap filled the space. He let the flame blaze large, lighting the room.

There was still half-an-inch of blood coating the floor. The bodies, hurried along by a sweltering July and a metal building, were bloated and swollen. Putrefaction had released sulfur that mixed with the industrial scent of oil and tools and sweat. The place was vile and vinegar. The scent would have been unbearable if any of the group had been human. And while they could have glided over the muck, Kevin felt it important for the Ameleries to get a tactile sense of death on this scale. He had not, however, accounted for their shoes, slaves to fashion as they were.

                Harold had no time for theatrics and only wished to get the job done. They were already behind and his mind, as it were, was somewhere else. So many things were coming together at the same time. He didn’t like that. He found coincidences suspicious. For a Metranere he was wound very, very tightly.  “Let’s keep moving. He’s up here,” Harold said, not wishing to pause and feed Kevin’s moment.

                A grin crept across Kevin as he flicked the lighter shut, and slipped it into the pant pocket of his Grissom Bros suit. Precise tailoring. Perfect fit. No one did it better. The suit was a hard navy with subtle pin stripping. The tie was bold and English with salmon coloring. Though the only light making its way in was fragmented moon, his eyes glowed.  He never understood the attraction for the bulking, manly type of form. None of them did really. Even Harold. Never over six feet. Never too much. Kevin liked the feel of his muscles as he moved. Lean. He loved how he could see them in his abdomen when he raised ever so slightly. He would watch the connection in his hands, for hours at times, as the tendons lifted each finger, the phalanges working in orchestrated perfection. The human body was one of Kevin’s favorite toys. An erector set on Christmas morning. Something to build. Something to destroy. Rinse and repeat.

                He saw Harold stop at, according to his count, the sixteenth body in. “You girls wait here,” he said, making his way to Harold. Though his own shoes smacked as well, it was immensely less bothersome to him for some reason.

                Harold stood, staring and studying a large male body, face down. The bullet holes blasted out and open like a flower searching for light. Though perhaps not as dapper as Kevin, he was finely suited himself in charcoal grey and black monochrome tie and shirt. His hair, straw colored in opposition to Kevin’s dark, was short and well trimmed. His features were feminine and his eyes were emerald. When he looked up and the shadows fell, Kevin felt his own breath catch.

                Kevin kicked the body as a test. “Yep, dead.”

                “Thanks,” Harold started, “I kinda already knew that.” He leaned back and peered down at the Ameleries standing at attention some twenty-yards away. “You thought they’d be more helpful down there?”

                “It’s their fucking shoes,” Kevin whined. “They are caught up in the crap. We waited too long. Pooling, viscous blood, I can live with. This sticky shit is just useless. Anyway,” Kevin threw them a look, “at this point, as long as they’ve been standing in it, it’s cement now. They might as well go barefoot. Yes, that’s what I want. I want them to walk in it. Really feel it on their skin.”

                “You take this teaching shit too far sometimes, you know?”  Harold sighed.

                “You have no idea,” Kevin said, offering an unnecessary grin as testimony.

                “Amelerie,” Harold called out to the group, “how many bodies do we have?” He wanted to make sure they were feeling the organics of the place. It should be natural to them.

                “Thirty-eight.”

                “Thirty-seven,” one lone voice replied in delay.

                Kevin drew hard on his cigarette, “She must be one of yours.”

                “Fuck you,” Harold said, under his breath. He turned his focus back to the body at their feet. “Amelerie,” he said without looking up, “come here, and please,” he paused, “for Kevin’s sake, take your shoes off.”

                Ameleries were given to Metraneres as assistants. In return the Metraneres were to teach them compassion and understanding for the species they watched-over. Some believed they were Metraneres in their early-stages. Cosmic larvae who had not developed their empathy yet. They intrinsically loathed those beneath them. Ameleries appeared and disappeared from service regularly. While Metraneres could call as many as they needed, most kept at least three employed. If one proved unable to develop, their energy was simply released. Recycled.

                Harold’s were almost always female-shaped. This was more for convenience than any misogynistic intent. They all played by the rules of the world and time they were in. They could move back but never skip forward. When they were among humans, female assistants were just more readily accepted. Especially hot, blonde ones like Harold’s. When they lined up, it was like a Robert Palmer video from the 80s. They were each a bit different but not so much that you’d notice.  The same with Kevin’s, though, right now, he was going through a “saucy red-head” phase complete with fuck-me smart-girl glasses and librarian-after-dark buns. And they always went by the name “Amelerie”.

                She stopped at the foot of the corpse. Her own feet were muddied red and she seemed unfazed by the blood, the bodies, or the situation. Harold gave her a quick look-over, making notes in his head. Need to work on their reaction. Need to get them into more death scenes. “I’m curious how you came up one body short,” he explained. “Do you have any thoughts on it?”

                “The children. I counted them as halves. Two children equal one adult. Is that not right?”

                Kevin choked, “Awesome”.  He patted Harold on the back in mock-congratulations. “Great job there, sensei.”

                The Amelerie was confused. “This is wrong?” she asked.

                Harold nodded, “Yes, it’s wrong.”

                “Very wrong,” Kevin tossed in.

                The Amelerie was further bewildered. “How can something be very wrong? Isn’t it either wrong or right?” She was not making a good case for herself.

                Harold squatted beside the body. He looked to be in his early forties, heavy build, with lots of muscle. His hair was ethnically dark and he sported a large mustache. None of them, even the Ameleries, needed to know what went down. Somehow the bodies and the chaos were enough for them. The glory of the bigger-picture would suffice.  Except for Kevin. Kevin loved the story. That’s what got him off. The nuances. The zig instead of the zag. This wasn’t his job, though. This wasn’t his pull but he tagged along anyway. He so thoroughly enjoyed the minutiae that others, including Harold, bore as necessary ugliness in their perfect lines.

                Harold didn’t have time to correct the Amelerie. He wouldn’t have her recycled just yet. She was trying. He always gave credit for effort. “Are you going to help me here, Kevin?”

                Kevin had brought the other Ameleries closer so they could see. All barefoot. All in tight power-suits and open blouses. He had an arm around two of his Ameleries, alternating between them with kisses on their necks. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m only here to watch, dude. It’s your show, remember?”

                Harold knew better. Kevin didn’t want to get dirty. And this, this pulling, was dirty work. Grunt work. Something to get the Metraneres in the field. To keep ‘em real, or some shit. Harold really did have better things to do. Fuck. Even Kevin had better things to do. But these were the rules. This was how the game was played.

                He looked at the Amelerie who had counted wrong. “Do you understand yet?”

                She nodded. “I believe that…yes. Yes I have. Life isn’t counted in size or experience but rather is a one-to-one ratio.”

                It wasn’t a perfect answer, but she was working on it and that, at the very least, gave him some hope for her. “Good. Good. Keep thinking on it. There’s more to it, but that’ll do for now.” Harold sat back on his legs, butt-to-heel, Japanese style, and took off his jacket. He looked around for a safe place to put it but there was only blood and shit. Reluctantly he folded it into a tight square and placed it on the backside of the body. He undid his cufflinks and rolled-up his sleeves to the elbow. “You might,” he warned the Amelerie, “want to step back. I don’t know where this is going to go.”

III.

                A pulled Mayhem regresses to its embryonic state when extracted. The mass, delicate and diaphanous, barely two-feet in length and topping-out at a pound when it hits the ground, was extremely vulnerable. It was suspended in a pellucid sac of nutrients that were quickly absorbed as it grew. The Ameleries had prepared the area around Harold as best they could, but still, like all births, there were risks and the Metraneres couldn’t interfere. They were bound by the natural order of things.

                Harold’s blonde triplets did most of the work with Kevin’s Ameleries observing and taking notes. It was a very low-tech production of blankets and friction. The sac, dried and withered, collapsed and the Ameleries responded with another layer of cover, putting their hands to task with epidermal stimulation.

                Harold straightened his tie and gave his jacket a final look. It was still resting on the dead man the Mayhem had been renting out. It was a lost cause, ruined by what was, essentially, afterbirth. He smoothed out his sleeves and slid on a new jacket and joined Kevin.

                Kevin had his head down, chin to chest, and was mock snoring.

                “Stop being such a fucking child,” Harold said. “No one made you come did they?” There was something sardonic in his question and they both knew it.

                Kevin decided to ignore it. “You know what this always reminds me of, don’t you?” he asked.

                “I don’t dare to guess,” Harold answered.

                “Dude, come on, Star Trek III? The Search for Spock ? You know where Spock goes through his whole life-cycle? How can you not get that?”

                “It can’t have always reminded you,” Harold corrected him.

                Kevin lit another cigarette. Smoking did very little for them but Kevin liked how he looked doing it. “Smartass. Okay, okay. It’s reminded me since 1984.”

                The Mayhem was expanding. Reaching adulthood. Harold was still anxious, though. The Ameleries would be able to help it a bit if need be, but they had their limits. “It’s 1979 so,” Harold, feeling very smug, dared to tease him again, “you’re a few years early anyway.”

                “Smartass gold-star for you. Second one tonight. Keep that up and we’ll let you be class-leader for the day.”

                That brought out a reluctant laugh from Harold. Fucking Kevin.

Eons? Centuries? Neither of them knew how long it had been. How long they had been here. Anywhere. There was no junior high for Metraneres. No training center or test to take. There was a before but that got faint and was forgotten like vapor. To be a Metranere was to be patrol man, judge, and executioner. They didn’t make up the rules but they ensured all played fair in the sandbox.

                There were others. Thousands spread across the cosmos keeping things churning along. Harold and Kevin had just always occupied the same space. Perhaps it was a good cop/ bad cop set-up. Kevin referred to their partnership as the Ying-and-Yang of the Northeast Corridor. Harold never felt the need to label or to question. They weren’t philosophers. They weren’t there to wonder aloud, but merely to react. This attitude often cast him as the “by-the-book” character with Kevin, dropping pop-culture references and casual speak, was his counter-part; a more laid back rule-breaker who liked to push. Like any other relationship, theirs was complicated.

                “I think you’re getting worse, Kevin, if that it is even possible.”

                “I’m not getting worse. I’m. Getting. Better.”

                Harold sighed. “Seriously? The Fly?”

                Kevin, pleased with himself, stubbed his cigarette out on his left hand. He allowed himself to feel the sear. He did so like being a real boy sometimes. Harold didn’t have the same vices as him, and that was okay. They all went dark sometimes. They had to combat the boredom somehow. Harold did it with his pets. Kevin with junking between the levels. Playing human. Harold’s hobbies were more dangerous though. Perhaps even psychotic. Where Kevin dived in, Harold dipped his toes. Dabbling but always still the superior. Kevin wanted to be tainted. He wanted to be dirtied whole. It just seemed more honest to him.

                “He’s almost ready,” Harold said.

                 “Well, have you decided if you are going to recycle him or put him up for refinement?” Kevin looked around. “It would seem he’s done a good job. What was this? His tenth recycle? Thirty-eight bodies, only two of which were directly caused by him. We have kidnapped children. Ransom. Drugs. Double-crosses. Warloads. It’s very Miami Vice in here, no? And this is just one night. In this lifetime alone, there are another twenty-eight lives ended by his hands, and at least two-hundred more negatively impacted. I would say that this Mayhem has learned the art of the light touch. The lessons of influence over doing-it-yourself. I vote refinement.”

                “Maybe,” Harold said evenly.

                “Maybe?” Kevin questioned.

                Harold knew what this was about. It was nearly impossible for either of them not to know the other. Not to know what they were thinking and feeling. The fascination with being lovers had left them long ago but the intimacy had only gotten stronger. Again, Harold just accepted this as part of the plan. Part of the evolution. “I thought you were just here to watch, Kevin. To get your kicks.”

                 “I am. I’m enjoying. I do always love watching you work, Harold. I’m just curious which way you are going to go, that’s all. So many things to consider. So many future implications.” His statements were heavy with meaning. He was poking the bear and retreating to a safe distance.

                Harold was suddenly very tired. He had a stop in the city after this and traffic was going to be a bitch. “Let’s not, okay?” He finally asked. There was a touch of pleading in his voice.

                The Mayhem was done. He stood nude and solid as the Ameleries danced around him, buffing and polishing. Having many recycles in him, he knew the human form well and was perfectly proportioned to classic Greek standards.

                “You’re going to go see her, aren’t you? On this day. In this time.” Kevin asked, still jabbing with his stick. Still trying to see what he could get out of him.

                “Jealous?” Harold shot back, a bit too quickly.

                “Yes,” Kevin laughed “but the follow-up question should be of whom.” He gave his friend a pat on the back. “It’s okay. You’ve earned a night of indulgence. And besides, what’s the team motto? What is meant to be, will be? Right?”  He pulled two cigars from his jacket, one with a blue band and the other with a pink . “C’mon. We got two births to celebrate tonight. One in here and the other over at St. Vincent’s. Smoke up. It’s good to be king, no?”

 

IV.

                Manhattan was really at its best in autumn. You boiled in summer. Even after the glory that was the Giuliani clean-up, waiting for the subway at Spring Street was worthy of a gross-out reality show dare. If the stench of piss didn’t get you, then simply suffering the body odor of your fellow man would. Summer was where you deflated and melted and the crazy creamed to the top. The only people who remained in the City on weekdends from June to September were the delusional and the poor, neither of whom could afford to escape. The hipsters would convince themselves that shelling out twenty-five hundred a month for a one-bedroom, five-floor walk-up without air conditioning was suffering made worth it by the cool-cache of living in the N-Y-C. A quintet of roommates would agree to such as they pooled their money for boxed wine that they would pour into bottles and the pre-party dirty-water-dog gorgings that would cheaply fill their bellies, leaving more on the faux artisan plates for their guests. They might be starving, pale, and thin, but they could still throw down and tweet and blog about it from their iPhones, whose purchase was only made possible by a lie to their parents about emergency root canal surgery or in exchange for a couple of months of Ramen-only meals. Even those too-cool-for-school kids, however, had to take shelter in their vegan tea shops when the sun hit high and the heat made them puke. God help the rest of the city. The indigent who had no choice and weren’t living just so they could one day look back and say, ‘Hey, remember when I had that shithole off 23^rd?  Good times’.   And winter, with its confinement and the asshole holiday shoppers pouring into Rock Center and FAO Schwartz, wasn’t much better. Spring didn’t even bother showing up most years.

                Kevin loved the early hours of September most. When the streets were quiet as sleep still claimed dominance and the vendors were just rolling out. The mornings were crisp but not cold and the sky was blue and happy. It was night, though, as he stood at the window, seventy stories up, in a non-existent building snuggled into the Time Warner Center. At least that’s where it was for now. Kevin liked being near the Park. He liked the traffic swarming through Columbus Circle and the jazz being performed below. This was acceptable, too, he thought. Not dawn, but still very nice. He was in love with the city. He knew that would probably be the eventual end of him somehow.

                His reflection was sharp before him. Left hand in pocket. Right on his cigar. He puffed rings and watched them ride the air. There were no lights on. Kevin wanted to be in the moment and let the city in. Let the illumination come from the outside. Summer was a wide-spread whore that you got tired of screwing by mid-June. September was the one you actually tried to knock-up before she realized what an asshole you were. The one that was more than you deserved.  This night was just that Septermber-sweet and he wanted to love it and not just fuck it. He extended the foreplay and made them wait. Fuck it. He was Metranere. He got to have his moments.

                The Amelerie and Mayhem were a few feet behind him, in front of his desk. Neither knew the proper protocol nor what was to be expected of them. She was one of Harold’s. She stood next to the Mayhem that only the night before, some thirty-years in the past, she had watched be pulled. She had miscounted the room that night. As part of her follow-up, she had been left with the Mayhem for five-years. To live amongst the humans in the hopes she would gain more understanding. It hadn’t been easy. The Mayhem was rude, belligerent, and disrespectful. But she had made the most of her assignment. When Harold came back for her, he was so very pleased. She almost cried even though she wasn’t even certain that was a possibility. She was now his favorite. His star. He had folded her up and moved her on.

                The Mayhem, however, had no parole. He had to live through the years, not jump time. Though he didn’t age, he could still be harmed, and his abilities were limited to strong-suggestion and minor shape changes. These were more survival skills than powers. He was in most every other way mortal. He bled and he could die. He just had to last long enough for the others to be ready. He was stronger now, though, and he was beginning to understand the reason behind his education.

 When he was inside his hosts, during the recycles, he could feel and he could experience but there was a film over it. A latex layer that kept him clean. When his host died, a Metranere came to pull him, judge him, and, if deemed necessary, reinsert him. But there was really no fear of death. That was important to his tasks of mimic and influence. One needed to be free of consequence to be truly terrifying. Once pulled he was on his own. The Amelerie provided some guidance but mostly the two of them coexisted and nothing more. She was just biding her time until her Metranere called her up. He spent his thirty years laughing and enjoying the company of man. He drank. He fucked. And he killed. He learned how to be brutal and cruel on a personal level. He learned what evil was to these creatures. What made them afraid. What brought them to God. He went by the name of Jake.

“I wonder how long you two would just stand there, in silence, waiting on me,” Kevin said. He saw them shift in the window. They said nothing in reply, though. As expected. So fucking respectful. Behold the Metranere. Yada yada yada. “Nevermind,” he sighed. They weren’t going to be any fun. He could already tell that. He turned and pulled out his chair, black leather executive style, and gestured for them to sit as well. He fine-tuned the room a bit. Bringing in the fore-walls and upping the lights. No one set a reality like Kevin. No one folded in such detail.

He had a glass of Scotch and he threw it back, letting the sting and warmth curl their way down. The presence of the Amelerie answered his question but he asked it anyway, “Harold isn’t joining us?”

She shook her head, her blonde side-swept bangs waving. “He sent me on his behalf. He said,” she hesitated, “that you would understand, Sir.”

“Don’t call me Sir. It seems too,” he searched, “well, something. Kevin. Just call me Kevin.” She nodded as if in agreement, but he knew it was useless. They were trained to be obedient and in awe of the power he held. The shine of such admiration had worn away centuries ago for him. “Anyway, ok, what brings us together this fine Sunday evening?”

They were hush. He rolled his eyes and had another glass. Jesus, it was a wonder anything ever got done. “Darling, that was rhetorical. This isn’t your first rodeo. Does Harold really make you raise your hand and be all please-Sir-may-I-have-another? C’mon, chop chop. I need you guys to speak-up. Ok? So, we are here to discuss the field trip to Boston, no?”

“Right, yes. Sir. Kevin. Sir,” she stammered. The Amelerie exhaled and tried to relax. She looked at Kevin and smiled. Metraneres were God’s second-in-command. When the Amelerie looked at them, she did not see skin over muscle over bones. They weren’t organic. They were light and the universe. They were everything and she found it distracting.

She tried again, “Boston. Yes. I’m assuming we’ll have a standard three-car caravan, with the Mayhem secure in the second. I’ve assigned two Ameleries to a car, plus three warrior-level Boradeens. You can see here,” she handed him her handheld, “I’ve mapped out the route. We’ll take the Merritt. I want to avoid 95 as much as possible. It’s nothing but traffic.”

Kevin gave the display a polite glance. “Uh huh, good idea. Hate the 95. And you both are good with this?”

The Amelerie and Mayhem nodded. “I’ve left everything up to her,” Jake said. “The quickest route is all that I’m concerned with.”

                “And Harold? He’s seen this?” Kevin questioned.

                “I briefed him. He said that you would be the best source. Have I missed something? Do you think we need more cars? Or do you think I have too many? I was afraid we’d have a flat or something, so I wanted spare transportation.”

                Fucking Harold.  He was doing this on purpose. “You can’t do it this way.” Kevin shook his head. “It’s not allowed. There has to be a fair chance that you,” he motioned to Jake, “won’t make it. That, you know, you’ll be killed. Or something. Harold didn’t give you the bullet points, huh?”

                Jake chuckled. “You’re cranking me, right?”

                “Hmm, yeah, not so much,” Kevin answered. Again, fucking Harold. “Here, let me see if I can explain.” He sighed. “Do you know why it rains?”       

                “Pardon?” The Amelerie asked.

                “Rain. That stuff that falls down and gets things wet. It’s great stuff, no? Makes the trees and flowers happy. Gives people water for the drinking and plants for the eating. But too much of it and you get flooding and destruction and death. I mean, why didn’t God just have things grow on their own? Right? ” Kevin was trying to lead them to their own conclusion. These were fundamentals.

                “I guess, so,” Jake answered. “But it’s just how things are.”

                Kevin grinned. “That’s it exactly. It’s just how things are. There has to be a balance and in that balance good and, well, not so good. There has to be the possibility that things aren’t going to go the way you want them. It’s just how the game is played, kids. And this,” he tapped the Amelerie’s Blackberry, “leaves little room for chance.”

                “Wait,” Jake chimed in, “chance for what? That I won’t make it? What? That we’ll hit a guard-rail in Connecticut? That the car will just explode? Why not just fold me up and pop me to Boston in the first place?”

                Kevin was getting into this. Strings being pulled. The truth being revealed. Maybe Harold did this as a gift instead of a punishment. “Have you ever seen Cannonball Run? That’s what this is kinda like. But with less Dom DeLouis and moustaches. No staches at all. I’m adamant about that. Basically, we can’t fold you. We can’t make it happen. We have to keep the option open that the other side can win. It’s a four-hour race to get you to a supply room in the basement of Ned Devine’s.”

                “I’m sorry?” Jake was very confused and becoming angry. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. I’ve lived the last thirty years in the filth that is humanity. I’ve studied them, mastered their pain, all the while waiting for six other Mayhems to get their shit together so we can meet up and have a mergence. Now, I was okay with not taking a plane and driving up there. It’s scenic. But what’s with this plot-device shit?”

                Kevin laughed loudly and spun in his chair like a six-year-old, getting a bit of a high from it. “You are entertaining. Surprisingly so. I like you both. I like you very much.”

                Jake jumped from his seat and was within arm’s length of Kevin when he felt himself stuck. Paralyzed. Kevin put his foot on Jake’s chest and pushed himself back, the chair rolling away. When it came to a rest he stood up, drink in hand. He really was having a most fabulous night now. He was in Jake’s face. The Scotch replaced by cigar. Jake had seven inches on him and at least sixty pounds. The Mayhem’s hair was buzzed close and, even in his tailored suit, he was more henchman than Bond. The Amelerie was standing but she held back.

                Kevin walked slowly around Jake, savoring the tension. “I want you to know I recognize your frustration. And,” he whispered softly against his ear, “I get that. But,” he said, moving toward the Amelerie, “you need to calm and be civil.” He sat down in the chair that the Mayhem had been occupying and looked up at the Amelerie. “Hey, Princess, why don’t you relax, too?”      

                She retook her seat and Kevin crossed his legs, getting comfortable. He gave the Mayhem control of his neck and head. “So tell me, Jakey, why do you love God?”

                His rage was still there but the Metranere had put him in his place rather handily. He had let his temper get in the way. Jake felt bitch-slapped and he knew he deserved it. “I don’t understand the question, sir.”

                “Well, do you love God?”

                “Yes,” Jake looked at him, “Very much.”         

                The Metranere knew it was true. “And you, babycakes? You love him, too?”

                “Yes,” she said.

                “So we all love God. We are his servants. Happy, happy. We are all part of his plan. And in his plan the rain gives and the rain takes. In his plan we have our paths. You, dear Jake, are a Mayhem. A creature of destruction and sadness. Congratulations. You are your name. This is your function. You live to cause, well, mayhem, and, hopefully, survive long enough to hook-up with six of your siblings so that you can take your mission globally. It’s how we get our genocide-on. How we move-up from evening news lead to CNN special report. We’re all good with this, no? Okay then. While we three sit here and plan out the family vacation, don’t you think there is someone on the other side trying to stop us? That maybe doesn’t want you to go all merge-y? Don’t you think some group would see that as a bad thing? A very, very bad and evil thing?”

                The Amelerie was a bit bewildered. “But we’re acting on behalf of God. You are a Metranere. Sir is a Metranere.”

                “Does he really make you call him ‘Sir’? Such a sick fuck. Anywho,” Kevin shrugged, “it’s really all a matter of opinion.” He thought the Mayhem had learned his lesson and released him. “Take my seat. It’s really very comfortable.”

                Kevin had their attention. They so wanted to know. “You see, kids, there are schisms in even the best of families. There are those who believe we are doing God’s work. We are fulfilling his plan. We often say that what is meant to be will be. Those of that particular dogma see the chaos of the universe as controlled randomness. God created us all. He is our beginning and he is our end. If the end is known, if the end is set by Him, then what happens in the middle doesn’t really matter, now does it? It’s fate. That right turn at Albuquerque was meant to be. And in this we are all cogs doing our nine-to-five to keep it going.”

                He finished his cigar and topped it off with more Scotch. He was a blackhole but he did so enjoy the motions. “Then there are those who believe God has moved on and we are maintaining an aged, worn machine that was never designed to last this long. And in that maintenance we can determine our own end.  But, these things are nothing new. The first test of a sentient being is self-awareness. The second is to ask why am I here. Philosophy is the oldest racket going.”

                “You’re keeping the kids up past their bedtime, Kevin,” Harold said, coming out of the dark. The Amelerie rose to offer her seat but there was no need. Harold went to the window, like Kevin before him, to take in the City. Moth to flame. Metranere to window. It was all the same. They needed to see. To taste. “Don’t let me stop you.”

                Kevin hadn’t expected him to show up. It was a party up in here. “No, no, old friend, you do it much better than me. You’re more solemn. More dignified. My tellings are always heavy with the sarcasm and useless referencing. I wander.”

                Harold rested his forehead, flush, eyes closed. How many decisions had he made that day? So many prayers. So many people needing and hurting. He hated to admit it, but Kevin was much better at these things than he was. He had better people skills. Harold was all big picture and the daily deeds fatigued him so. “I think you’ve said most of it anyway, but okay, fine,” he relented, not moving, “what is it we’re doing? Oh yes, I feel it now. Plot-device?”

                Kevin laughed. “Ah yes, I did like that. Jake’s a clever boy.”

                “That’s why,” Harold said pulling up to the left side of the desk, between Jake and the Amelerie, “he’s ready to meet his brothers.” He meant that a compliment. He hoped it came across as one. “And if we know you’re ready, and that the other six are ready, then you can bet the others know as well. And that they’ll come after you. After all of you.”

                “Then why don’t we just get it done and over?” The Mayhem asked, his anger being replaced with caution and anxiety. He still was missing something. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just be there already.

                Harold crossed his arms on the desktop and rested his chin on them. His charged eyes apologetic. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

                “So it really is a game? Bishop, rook, and knight. And you guys sit on the side. Refereeing. Making sure no one steps out of bounds. Right? The last thirty years I’ve spent in the shit that is the world means nothing more than being called-up to play in the Big Show. That’s what I’m starting to get here. And you call it fair.”

                Harold smiled, “Yep, we do and  that’s the gist of it.”

                “But still, Sir, he only has to make it Boston and meet with the others?” The Amelerie asked.

                “Well, you’re going, too. And,”  Harold sat up, “we’re assigning a psychic as well. You’ll need her to navigate.”

                “I hope she’s good,” Jake said. This plan was getting more and more fucked-up. There was an emotion in there too, that he wasn’t used to. He was a bit worried. Maybe even afraid.

                “Oh,” Kevin supplied, “she’s the best we got.”

V.

                This really was taking much longer than she had planned.  If only she could steal a quick little look-see at the clock-radio. She tilted slightly to the left, catching a brief flicker through the space between his propped elbows and chest. Amy noticed his head was thrown back some, sporting a stupid grin. She laughed, forcing the sound to stay confined in her throat so that it came out as a muffled hum. He moaned. She laughed again. He moaned louder.

“Stop it now, baby, you get me so close,” he whimpered. Her stomach seized. God, it was so lame, but it was what she needed to hear. His porn-scripted encouragements. Amy pushed her initial reaction aside and parted her own grin and enthusiastically dove in. His lines were motivating but for all the wrong reasons.

In the next room, Harold was pacing. “Christ, how much longer?”

Doogie sighed and threw himself back on his bed. “Dude, seriously, this is fucked up. Don’t make me. Okay? Why don’t you do your super-powerful being shit and find out yourself?”

“Because she would take that as a violation,” Harold answered.  It was Monday and both of them should have been in the office by now.

“And having her brother psychically spy on her is less of a violation?” Doogie was only twenty-two, but he had been around Metraneres for some eight years now. He knew how they operated.

“Step-brother. You aren’t even related. And really,” Harold said, sitting next to him, “let’s be honest here. It’s not like it would be the first time.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Doogie raised up defensively, “uh, mother-fuck you, dude. I was fourteen and my hot non-related sister was home from college, banging her boyfriend in her room. That’s porn-mag fodder. I can’t be held responsible. It’s not like I purposely…”

“C’mon, Doogie,” Harold interrupted, “that was just the first time. We both know there were many more incidences. And besides, really, all I need is for her to finish. Your presence will just speed things along.” He gave a look to the wall separating the two bedrooms. “She doesn’t usually take this long.” This bothered him some as he tried to not take it personally. Sex was how Amy connected to people. How she anchored herself to humanity. She had a constant fear of slipping away and becoming something else. It was rarely about pleasure. Unless she was with him.Or, he found himself saying, she said.

“Fine, but I have a condition,” Doogie said. “I want in. No side-line humping.”

Harold nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, fine. We’ll work something out. Something accommodating to you. In the meantime, I need her clean and presentable in the next hour.”

“Deal,” Doogie said, his hand out for the shake.

He waited for Harold to leave the room. To leave the building. Doogie was somewhat shy about performing with a Metranere in the place. He didn’t need that judgment or pressure. He inhaled sharply and began to relax himself. And float.

Amy lifted herself up further, resting almost entirely on the edge of the bed. Brian was on his back. One hand on her head, the other by his own. Doogie couldn't see her face as her hair, sticky from sweat and other wetness he preferred to not think about fell first around Brian's thighs and then his abdomen.

Doogie sat himself at the foot, on the floor. The bed bumped-and-ground against his back as things got more intense. The clichéd  “Oh Gods” above his head let him know it wouldn't be long now. He’d give her a few more minutes and then get her attention if things were still not, uh, completed. They had other things to do, anyway. He was annoyed with her that she had started this in the first place. She had argued that this would take less time than anything else.  The past twenty minutes were creating a pretty solid case to the contrary, however. Still, though, Doogie did not relish interrupting her. Her anger was one thing, but, admittedly, it was kind of rude. Not so rude he wouldn’t do it. He had made an agreement with Harold. And not so rude he wouldn’t stay in there and watch. You know. Just to be sure she finished up and got out the door in time. These things were just part of the job.

VI.

Though he had come into his senses late, Doogie was very eager to hone them. He had first tapped into Amy six months after her father had married his mom when he was a fourteen. She was twenty and had been away at college. He had only really seen her at the wedding and one other weekend. In a testament to what would be the usual condition of their relationship, he had noticed her fucking her boyfriend in the room next to his at 2 A.M. over Christmas break. Though, technically, one didn't have to be psychic to pick that up. She had a penchant for the moany, not so-clever-sex-talk boys.

The incident had not gone unnoticed by her either. After a restless few hours of excitement, fear, and anxiety, Doogie finally fell asleep with the sun already up. He awoke to Amy beside him on his bed. Her legs were crossed and she sat straight, waiting for him to fully wake up. She wanted him aware.

Several very silent minutes passed. Amy continued to smile and stare at him. She thought that would encourage his paranoia. She could feel it building inside him. She had to admit it was all very satisfying. She didn't get to work the intimidation often. Correction. Amy didn’t allow herself to work the intimidation often.

Doogie lay there, on his side, chestnut hair tussled against his pillow, stiff with sweat. The same perspiration coated his body, heavy under the covers and flannel pajamas. He thought of throwing back the blankets and taking off his shirt, leaving the matching red and black plaid sleeping pants on. But he dared not move. Not even close his eyes. Finally, though, he broke. He had to know. Doogie released one hand from beneath his covers and slowly reached out to Amy. Hesitantly he pinched her arm. Very gently. Just in case.

She shrugged slightly, more of a reaction to the touch than any actual pain. “I think you are supposed to pinch yourself to check to see if you are dreaming, there, buddy-boy.”

Her casualness annoyed him. He decided that he should stand his ground. Make a show. Surely she didn't know. He hadn't done anything wrong. He raised up, sitting against the headboard and gave her his toughest, most confident look. “What are you doing in my room?” he asked bluntly, as cold as he could. The sweat and heat were becoming unbearable to him now. Strangely he was craving the imagined coolness outside the prison of his bed. It was a side-conversation in his head he tried to shut down.

Amy remained stoned, even as he struggled against her weight on his sheets as he sat up, she just sat there. Watching. This was going to be defining. She had seen enough movies and television shows to know that. She had a drama thing, anyway. She liked tension. She worked the room a bit more. Or was she working him? At this stage, she still wasn't completely sure if she was manipulating the molecules in the air, the energy around them, or the person themselves. Thoughts and emotions required more effort, so she tended to side with exterior control. She had been doing this since she was six, if not younger, but still, there was no manual and Harold wasn't very crystal-ball. Every moment was empirical. In a few years she would come to the realization it was a mixture of all the elements. All the inputs. She just had to learn to control the percentages to get the desired effect.

“You were in mine first,” she said matter-of-factly. This left him little wiggle room. She was curious where he was going to go. What little corner of the trap she had constructed around him he was going to hide in.

Doogie drew all his five-foot, six-inches in (he would grow only five more) and studied her. He could see the clock, the baseball bat for the hour-hand, catcher's mitt for the minute, hanging high above his desk on the fore-wall behind her. Doogie knew it was 8:13 and that the sun should be bright and high in his east-facing room. And he also knew that that had been the case seven minutes before when he had woke up and checked the clock the first time. The room, with its obvious attempt at all-American boyhood décor, the dark walls with blue and white striped paper above the light pine chair rail, sports themed tchotckes and knick-knacks tossed around in accidental precision, had gotten dimmer. Darker. Doogie found himself imagining a small room in an old log cabin where only a single candle on his nightstand lit the room, casting looming shadows and sinister angles on each of their faces.

Nervous as he was, he was enthralled. Was she doing this? Or was he? Was it one of his out-of-control expressions? One of those moments where his mind slipped into reality and realigned it? No no. It had to be her. He would have gone with cherry sunshine and clichéd little singing bluebirds chirping out their good-mornings. But that would mean she had to know. And that she was able to do this. She was probably making it hot as well. So very hot in what was always a freezing house. Even for Connecticut, in late December, the place would make the dead search for something a bit more hospitable. Which was probably his mother’s intent anyway.

He wasn't certain, though, and decided to play it safe. Corner Number 1. Option Easy. “Nuh-uh. I haven't been in your room. I never go in your room.” He tried to sound convincing. Quickly inventorying all the items he might have carried in with him, making sure he had brought them out.

Amy knew it was a lie. And not because he was screaming out to her that he was lying. She had seen him in there. Going through her things only the day before when she and Travis had arrived. The kid was fourteen; it was okay if he found his way into her stash of adulthood. Maybe pillage a book or two. Some Philip Roth would do him good anyway. But that wasn’t the sort of invasion she was referring to.

She had wanted to crush him then. Tell him she knew. Let him know how bad he had been and that she knew it. But his eyes, those fucking brown puppy-dog eyes, had gotten her. He had gotten her. The sweat gave the impression that he was crying. Pear-shaped drops of salty guilt Niagra-falling from his brow, spilling their way across his still chubby-kid cheeks, dropping down, again, to his neck and chest. His clothes were soaked and dark. She could smell the sheets, stained.

Then she considered another option. Less likely but still possible. Maybe he wasn’t bluffing. If so then what she was about to do wasn't completely fair, now was it? Maybe he didn't know what he could do. Maybe he had never been told or never paid attention to it and had chalked up his moments of contact to luck or circumstance or even day-dreaming. Maybe he was able to shrug it off and move on like so many others. If that was the case, then well, it would fade with lack of use, and he would be able to go on and move about with the normies and not play nurse-maid to the disembodied and the energy-souled. He was a bit old to be trained. She had known nothing else. She was feeling merciful now. Or, at the very least, she was hopeful that he didn’t know and didn’t want to pursue it. She worked really hard to believe that. He was, after-all, a good kid with options. She had not right to steal those away.

Amy spread the fingers on her right hand, laying the palm flat against the air. She didn't need the motion but she did need the concentration. Controlling things was easier when she could focus on something that wasn't a part of the sum. Like a dam releasing tension, cheesey X-Men movements actually helped her. A flick of the wrist. A wave of a finger. Lame-ass, yes. But she needed them to help with the spill-over. And, again, she was a drama whore. She couldn't help herself. She needed the fucking entertainment of it all.

She exhaled, a sign she was letting up, released him, and stood. The temperature dropped some twenty-degrees. The room brightened. A blue jay landed on the tree branch outside his window. “When you're done with the books, return them to me,” she instructed, heading toward his door. “And, please,” she paused, giving him one more look-over, “don't tell your mom or my dad that you took them. They don't want you reading that stuff. They don't want you knowing those things just yet. And, obviously, never enter my room again without knocking. In any capacity I trust we understand each other?”

Doogie felt ashamed now. For faking and for taking. It wasn't just the books, but for taking from her. From going into a place he shouldn't. That he wasn't invited into. “I heard you, last night,” he blurted, unsure of the words or the intent of his confession. “I'm sorry.”

She knew it was a genuine apology. He really was sorry. And it wasn't his fault. Sex made her more open and she wasn't able to pull herself back in. Doogie had been caught up in the wake. “It's my fault, Dougie. We just got noisy. I'll control it better next time.” She started to close the door and stopped. “Wait, it’s Doogie, right? Not Dougie. Sorry.”

When Amy left, Doogie snuggled back under his blankets, the room back to its normal sixty-degrees. He turned to the window to see the blue bird he had heard. Nice touch. Though again, like an increasing number of times before, he didn't know if it was happenstance, Amy, or even him. But the bird was comforting. He was glad he had apologized to her. He hoped she didn’t get what all he meant by heard them. Sure he had heard them. But also, somehow, he had seen them. Drawn into her room as he had been, yet not physically leaving his own. But he rationalized a little bit of the truth was better than none of the truth, no? 

Doogie saw him then, leaning against the desk. He wasn't very tall, not quite six feet, shorter still by the slumping nature of his stance. He was dressed in khaki cargo-pants with a red-and-green plaid button-up over a grey CBGB tee.  His hair was blonde and a bit unkept. His eyes were stabs of Las Vegas neon green. As he focused, Doogie could see them clearly, while all else seemed fuzzy and soft around the edges.

“You're not afraid?” He asked Doogie, approaching him slowly. His voice was light but firmly male.

“No,” Doogie answered, and much to his own surprise, it was the truth.

“Good,” he said, still moving, yet, somehow, not stepping, toward him. “You shouldn't be afraid. I’m a very good friend of your sister.” He smiled wide. “My name is Harold. I thought it was time we met.”

 

This is really lame.

Oh well, I'm lame :D MySpace is up to blog #66. A little something called: Random, Useless Discourse 66: Putting the Gay in GOP -Oh how we hate ourselves. It's a few playful paragraphs about dumb criminals, dangerous self-haters, and the bruising we heap on ourselves.

Even though it's out of context (yeah, Troy who?) here is a little bit for ya:
Again, Troy isn't a criminal (he must be thankful his own laws didn't pass) in the legal sense, but Troy is criminal in another sense. And in that, he needs as much help as the "World's Greatest Dad" up there. You see, there's self-loathing. There's self-destruction. And then there's Troy. And Troy, God bless his heart, is something else. Something all together more twisted and sad and human and non-human at the same time. Troy is a Greek tragedy. He is an example of how we beat ourselves down to our raw elements. Bellowing heaps that contract and expel. We survive but we don't live. And it's very sad. Troy's crime is that he went on the counterattack. He was trying to take it out on everyone. If I can't live aloud, then no one can. Troy was strapping on the C4 and walking on a bus. It's that destructive. It's that total. The beauty of what all we can be, the buildings we construct, the art we conduct, seems to pale when compared to the glory of vengeance. Tit for tat. Mine for yours.

Danny will surely, hopefully, do some time. Our children deserve that much. But Troy committed no crimes, if the rumors are true. And even if they aren't, there are Troys out there. People so repressed that they have folded in on themselves. People so full of anger and the silence they must pretend to enjoy like a bad meal, served everyday in a most replesant setting. A spoonful of acceptance to make the pain go down. It's sad. But it's dangerous when they have some power. The sting makes you want to get even. The power lets you.

So, basically, head over to my MySp page. You'll see my new pic (summer haircut from Wednesday) and see that I've got friends and am not totally weak. Oh, and my current layout over there is a collage of images from this comic book I found based on Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment". That's just kinda way too cool :)  I do so <<heart>> Fyodor.

Only thing, just in case you are easily offended, I use adult words. But I swear I'm a sweetheart! Honest!  Damn it! ;D

 

As most of you know, that read me here on VOX, I also keep up a MySpace page. Actually, that is my main posting site. It's also where I post my fiction.

So if you are really, really bored ... jump over there and catch-up.  Really. You'll see I'm much less lame there. Well, kinda less-lame. But I do have friends. Really. I swear *lol* Dude, I'm pathetic.

Thanks! Love you muches and long time. Promise.

My MySpace page: www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer

It wasn't until I moved away from TN that I learned the following 3things: (1) most people don't use cast-iron skillets to cook everything (2) creamed potatoes is more popularly known as 'mashed' and they can come from a box and (3) religion had permeated my raising more than I had realized. The first 2 made life easier and the last made it more interesting. And I learned all these things from my NJ family, the Goldbergs.

They initially giggled when I'd say their name, dropping the 'l' like I did, drawling out, "Gow-burrgs". My Southern tends to kick-in on most any 'o + consonant' combination. I'm flawless until I hit the word 'old' and it comes out "owd". Good Lord help us both if I have to use the words 'oil' or 'boil'. It tends to result in me doing hand-gestures or on-the-spot Pictionary.

My bf  and I were together for 11yrs and I grew through my twenties there. I became something of a de facto Southern translator. I'd explain things like, "Why do you people love Bush so much?" "What is 'muddin'?" "Do you all really marry your cousins?" I wrote-up a little guide once called. When We say "Fixin' to" We Really Mean "About to".  - I should dig it up and post it. It'll be like buying the world a Coke (btw, when we say "Coke" we really mean "soda" and that can mean "Pepsi" .. yeah, you people need the guide).

My bf told me he didn't know Easter had any religious relevance until he was about 12. It was all bunnies and chocolate. When Christmas and Channukah rolled around, we made "Chrismanukah". This was years before the O.C. tried to be cool like us. I have the Chrismanukah newsletters and pictures to prove it. The family had an English professor friend who flew over for a few weeks. He'd bring crackers (tubular toys that you pull on and they'd make a popping sound and inside was a plastic toy and, most importantly, a paper crown you had to wear while opening gifts) and we created our own co-mingled traditions. I was 1,000 miles from home. Frank was an ocean away from his kids who were with his ex. But we were with family. We had love and happiness.

I've shared some of this with people before. Our neo-Jewish-Christian hybrid celebrations. Usually they got it though there were a few detractors. These people seemed offended. As if I was mocking my religion or his. As if we were watering down the traditions and their meanings by stepping outside them and having our Cadbury too.

I keep my faith on the inside. The Big JC knows my heart. No one else needs to. I don't have a bumper sticker and I don't wear a bracelet. If you do, that's cool. It's just not my style. I drop the f'bomb and write harsh, real things. I'm not perfect. I'm not the model. But somewhere in me I gotta believe that being with family, having love, sharing laughs, and celebrating each other on holidays that mean just those things, is a good thing. Is a right thing. Religion is personal and should not be dictated by a book, a pastor, or someone else's interpretation. But that's just me. I'm a former Campus Republican living in a liberal vegetarian mind. I want to hug trees and have really, really soft toilet tissue. It's complicated.

So, if you are so inclined, I do hope you had a very Happy Easter. That you kept the meaning of the day, the hope of the day, near-and-dear. If it was just another Sunday, then, you know, I hope you had the bestest day ever as well. That you had a great day. A hopeful day of your own.  - Like I said. My heart is mine. I don't need your judgment.

But I'll take your yummy chocolate eggs :D

Thank you Easter Bunny, bok-bok!!!

I'll put it out there. I want to glitter, babycakes. I want to glow. I want to be petted and stroked and told fabulous things about myself. Really. I'm no different than you. But in truth, I think I'd come out looking like an idiot. And, well, probably so would you. It's why we aren't famous just yet.

But we want it. Even if we have to pay for it. Yes, princess, if you've got the cash, you can hire your own paparazzi.

Celeb4aday will give you some pappies to follow you and your friends around town. Doing pics. Calling your name. Wooing you for something sensational while you hoof it to dinner. My favorite part is the reaction of the bystanders as they whip-out their camera phones. They don't know who you are, but damn it, you must be famous. You'll look coy. Then annoyed. You might lunge at them with your umbrella or swing your knock-off Miu Miu at them. It'll all be bubbles and giggles.

And then your 2hrs are up. And you've had your fun and you'll get your fake gossip rag cover. You'll curl-up and head back to the little place you call home. It's safer that way.

In reality, we devour our celebrities as if we're punishing them for being prettier, richer, and thinner than us. For being braver than us. The price you pay for fame and our love is you. We want your body, your secrets, and your babies. We sit on our more-cushion-for-the pushin' asses and admire the popping shoulder-blades and collar-bones on our starlets. If real women have curves and that's what men want, then somebody should really take an ad out in Variety 'cause those poor girls haven't heard about it.

They say Hollywood doesn't reflect America, but save for the occasional Drew Barrymore, where do you think those people are from? They are from small time Iowa and Minnesota. Mining communities in Virgina and Pennsylvania. Sun-baked Texas towns and Bible-buckle revival-stops in Tennessee. They are the sons and daughters of teachers, hardware salesmen, and plumbers. They're us only with the audacity to dream and the balls to try.

The dirty, scandalous truth doesn't lie in the coke-stalls of some club-of-the-week off Sunset. We use our celebrities up because we're angry and jealous tiny people. We all want to be special, but they get to be. Hollywood is Average Town, USA. The gays. The strippers. The druggies. The cheaters. We hate them because they don't let us get away with shit. They put humanity right out there with the shellac cracking. We're envious because, well, even playing a meth-addict whore, they still look better than us. We beat them down, slice them open, and dip into the warm and gooeys because we're tired of doing it to ourselves. We've lost our own contact-high.

You can buy your own paparazzi. But it doesn't mean you'll sparkle, Neely. And it doesn't mean you get to be a celebrity. You have to bleed for that. You have to starve for it. And, honestly there Roger-dodger, we're all a little too selfish for that.

Enjoy a couple of minutes and clips from  "Valley of the Dolls". That's what a cat fight and breakdown should look-like. If you want to be a star, take some notes.

J-lo wishes she was this kind of diva - 1:53
Sorry Vox ppl, it wouldn't let me embed

No need to headshave - God, I love Patty Duke - 2:33
Sorry, again, Vox

I like Joe Francis. I like smart people. I like it when people recognize the absurd and exploit it. I like it when someone serves up our own defecation and we eat it. We dig in, nails dirty, hands-deep, grin cheesed, and toes curled. Joe Francis gets it. And he's made millions from the joke.

You'll have to forgive me if I can't pony-up sympathy for the entertainers. Check your innocence at the door sisters of Alpha Chi. Unless you were a participant in Season 1, you knew what was expected of you. If you just wanted a good time, you'd have stayed home and did keg-stands and funnel-chillers with the Beta boys. No, you went to Florida, you went to Cancun, and you went to New Orleans not for the sun, the culture, nor the benets but for the chance to drink, shake, and make out with your BFF. On camera. For distribution.

So you can imagine my giddiness at this little off-shoot story in the Spitzer Scandal.

Seems that Joe, fresh out of prison, missed no beat and offered Ms. Dupre $1m to work with him and his "Girls Gone Wild" empire. Various media events. Pictorials. The works. Easy money for Ms. Dupre, no? - Then someone thought, "Hey, you know what. Ms. Dupre IS our type of girl. Wonder if we've ever filmed her before?" A quick trip to the archives revealed 7 full video-tapes worth of Ms. Dupre. In Miami. When she was 18. Nude. And with some nice girl-on-girl BFF action. Yep, Ms. Dupre is a Girl Gone Wild alumn. And as such, Joe, has no need to pay her $1m dollars. You can watch it now, with your $29.95 monthly GGW subscription. - Suh-weet.

I know it's just the cruel side of me here, but this is cracking me up. Like snorting liquid out of your nose cracking up. Like tears and nearly pissing-yourself cracking up. I don't think Ms. Dupre is going to miss the $1m. I have no doubt she'll be making plenty of green for her story.

What I'm enjoying is Joe Francis. That cheshire bastard. The brilliant jester of social commentary. You want to know what your princess is doing? You want to see just what Barbie is really like? Just sit back and see how quickly she goes down. See how she begs for the attention. Gee, Dad, you must be proud.

Tell me, Pops, where exactly did you go wrong? When this is a rite-of-passage? - Don't blame Joe. He's just putting the bright-and-shiny on the whole thing. You're the ones that raised them.

Here's 2minutes of funny to off-set the cynicism. Though, really, not so much :)
Note: Vox doesn't like to embed from hulu and NBC doesn't like Youtube. Arggs... it's very funny.
So if you care just read the MySpace Post and view it from there. I l<3 Seth and Amy. :)

 

I don't often go political on here. Mainly because I gave up that life a while ago and now I'm just a tourist so I don't feel qualified to comment loudly from the tucked-in coziness of my living room. And admittedly there are plenty of resources out there who SHOULD be doing this for us. But if you caught my blog from 3/13,  Dear NY Times, Thanks for the hand-job but... ", then you know that, IMHO, they are doing a piss-poor job of it.

In 142 days, the Olympic games will open in Beijing. I love the Olympic games. I'm a sucker for pageantry, people way-better at stuff than I am, and doves. Can't get enough. I tear-up at the national anthem. I love the montages of athletes, talented beyond all imagination, overcome injury, familial crises, disease, and heart-ache just to have this one shot to shine before all the world. The idea that for a moment we can lay down our differences and co-mingle and snack at each other's table is naïve, yes, but for a few days, it actually seems tangible. It actually seems real.

So, yeah, that's 142 days away.

Unless you happen to be Chinese or Tibetan.

According to the Christian Science Monitor, today, 3/18, "Foreign journalists have been banned from traveling to Tibet and prevented by the police from reporting on protests by Tibetans in other Chinese provinces. Domestic newspapers, TV programs, and Internet sites have carried only articles produced by the official Xinhua news agency. News reports on international TV networks such as CNN and the BBC have been blacked out by censors." - Way to go, host country! How do you say "Kumbayah" in Chinese? Kim Jong Il is super-turned on. 

Obviously the Chinese government was and probably still is hoping that these games would be their coming out party. The Global Debutante Ball where it'll glow virginally in it's white dress and gloves, corsage applied by the most eligible country (I would say the U.S. but let's face it, the dollar can't buy shit let alone a carnation set-off by baby's breath). The two will twirl in the spotlight. Smile for the pictures. And we'll believe no one is being beaten-down in the back-room and shot at the front door. - Tienanmen Square? Oh it has an Armani Exchange AND a Versace Outlet!  We now call it "Tienanmen Commons".

This isn't 1932 and it isn't Berlin, but the disillusionment seems the same. It's all propaganda. It's all show-and-tell. Seventy-six-years-ago we didn't have the world press we have now. We didn't have the eyes and the ears. The Chinese government is trying to lock the uglies and the unclean in the attic, hoping you don't hear them.

The sad truth is we'll hear the pounding and the pleading, but we probably won't pause. We like our toys cheap, our cargo-pants even cheaper. We need new markets because, well, after some time, even rape loses its high. Eventually they just cease praying for you to stop and switch to hoping you'll be quick. They've got shit to do.

I don't think there will be a Jesse Owens f-you here. One man stood-up to evil once in these games. He did it by winning with class and talent on the home-field of the bigoted and ruthless. - I just don't think we can do it this time though, kids. I don't think America, 300million strong, can harness our collective strength and power and say, "No. No you don't get to play with the words 'peace' and 'unity' by being host. You don't get to march out the pandas and fireworks to distract us with ohhs-and-ahhs from the cries and the screams. No. You don't get to fuck us this time.".

Tyrants and despots reign. And we get to be preoccupied by gas prices and a war that, five-years in, has only made oil companies richer, our international standing weaker, and death even more commonplace. Like I said, after a while, we all just roll-over and give it up. 'Cause we got other shit to do.

Maybe they are the smart ones. We do seem to be doing what they want after-all. Oh well, Kim can't really be that lonely any more. That's a good thing, right?

 

The more I think about this, the more it just annoys me. I posted a comment on Tracey’s mysp page about this. Then I went to work-out and couldn’t stop thinking about it.

There’s a bunch of commentary out there on the whole Spitzer-Client9 saga. I admit I’m loving it. The scandal, I mean. I don’t need the commentary. But what has irritated me is this piece from the NYTimes Online.

Basically this "newspaper of record", this great and grand grey lady of journalism, read Ashley Dupre’s Myspace page. Alot.

The unfortunate 22yo working girl, mother of two, who now finds herself caught up in what can only be described as THE single greatest movie-of-the-week, circle-jerk of real-life drama since Amy Fisher’s car got banged up and Joey tapped out her dents, declares that music (not being paid for for her 3.5 diamond-rated services) is her first love. Quoting the article, which is quoting her page, "On MySpace, her page says: "I am all about my music and my music is all about me. It flows from what I’ve been through, what I’ve seen and how I feel." She wants to be a singer. Not an escort. That’s sweet.

Here are some more gems. Again, quoting the Times quoting her profile: " in the interview, she referred to herself as Ashley Alexandra Dupré, which is how she is known on MySpace." and "On the Web page is a recording of what she describes as her latest track....and uses some dated slang, calling someone her "boo."" -- Time to update the vocab there Ashizzle to the D-izzle. Word.

What is pushing me here? What is it amping up my blood-pressure and spinning my pinwheel round-and-round? Impudence. The appaling, bitch-slapping impudence of the NY Times to toss me a hand-job when they know I’m wanting a full-on, head-board screw with bruising to remember it by. - Like your 5minute stroke will sate me. Like that’s what I should be happy with. Dude, I can read her MySpace page, myself. I don’t need batteries for that.

I expect you to do the real-work. I expect you to work the dirt, get grimy, come home sweaty, seething of manhood, and \take me. Throw me down with your insight. Bodice rip me with your scoop, with your quoted, anonymous, well-placed sources. Give me the real Ms. Dupre. And I want you to call her Ms. Dupre. Not Ashley nor Kristen. Ms. Dupre.That’s what unbiased journalist do.

Honestly here. You’re the NY Times. Fucking act like it.

The Mad Prophet would not settle for this (3:24)

Wikipedia, or more appropriate, the self-assured well-intentioned contributor who posted it, defines "guilty pleasure" as "something one considers pleasurable despite it being mainly received negatively or looked down on by a majority of society". You know something you do, or like, that you probably wouldn't confess except to your closest friends -those guys who already know you are a cool-less freak so no further harm is done to your character. Said contributor goes on to offer the example of a guy liking "Sex in the City". I'm going to infer that he meant "a straight" guy.

Our guilty pleasures make us giddy. They titillate the little school girls in us. They tickle the pooh bear buried in our bellies. They are what we watch and listen to when the doors are double-locked and no one has access to our hidden-in-plain-sight On-the-Go 4 iPod playlist.

Instinctively we should keep the gps on the qt. But, you see, I have a condition which requires me to share. It's a combination of attention-seeking  and cries for acceptance. Work with me, here.

So in the spirit of full exposure, here are a few of mine. I'm curious if any of ya'll will pony up and admit your share them or add some of your own. Just, you know, porn doesn't count. Really.-  These things should have little to no sense of cool (like you can't say "Princess Bride" or "Diff'nt Strokes" - they have that 80's retro cool thing going on). Guilty pleasures are things that probably don't add any prominence. No nice patina to your aging. They just highlight your geekiness. Your freak flag flying high.

My Top 5 Guilty Pleasures:
1) Train's "Drops of Jupiter" - Oh, c'mon and lie to me and tell me you don't crank that shit up when it comes on the radio and you're alone in the car. Try to convince me of that. When Pat hits his vocal-stride ( 3:00 on the vid below), how can you NOT pound the steering wheel and cry out with him, "Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?!"  This IS always on my 'Most Recently Played" and "Top 25 Played". No hiding there.

2) PerezHilton.com - I soooo want to be better than the commoner I am. But damn it, Janet, I can't resist the gossip. I can't!!! And though he can be cruel, he can also be, well, sweet. I actually think he cares for Britney. He is right-on most of the time, too. Like Simon on "American Idol". Just instead of articulated musical critique, Perez likes to draw dribbles and penises. Who doesn't?

3) "Constantine" the movie- I put this here because, well, after living with a fan-boy comic-freak for 11yrs, you learn a thing or two. Though we broke up, I took away a deep understanding of these guys. And they are harsh f'n critics. Oh they love hard. And they will take you down with their replica-sabers if you mess with them. I still can't get the voices out of my head about how "they" [Hollywood] are sooo going to mess-up "The Watchmen". So trust me on this, those that matter, are rather 'eh' about this movie. Me? I can't get enough of it. I don't know what it is. I can't turn away when it's on HBO. It's like I'm Iggy Pop and it's a big o'dish of multi-colored good-time capsules. And it isn't Keanu. I promise. There is something in this movie that makes me watch. Every. Time.

4) Dance-movies in general - i.e. "Step up and Bring It to the Server" or whatever -  I'm waaay too old to want to see these movies. I stash them in my Netflix queue. I offer to take my fourteen-year-old niece and cousin to see them. I check IMDB to make sure Channing Tatum is over 18 (he is - 28 to be exact, I mean, if you needed to know). I have issues. I know. And again, I'm not going to believe your lie that you haven't dropped it to the floor after hearing "Low". I'm calling you out, punk. Show 'em what you got. Go hard!  

5) Peanut butter from the jar - See? I'm giving ya'll the whole truth. This is a disgusting habit, but I swear I  don't double-dip. Give me a spoonful of natural Skippy (no stirring!!!) and I'm a happy-happy-happy girl. :) Work that with some apple, and dang. It's the simple things ya'll :)

Enjoy these clips!!