Dizzy Rascal and my secret crush on Clark University

I write too much.

This will be brief I assure you.

Dizzy Rascal (Not Dizzy Rascal) and I turned left on Clarkson street. We bumbled over cobblestone and picked up a pink laptop bag and listen to strikingly attractive Japanese actors spout cliche lines from old Westerns. I smoked a cantaloupe.


I made it up to Massachusetts. I was in the Bean town for a night, watched In Bruges on a huge ghost sheet while munching on klonopin and then spent an hour doodling with an omnichord. Sounded good to me, but even the deaf starved dogs outside asked me to stop.

I four wheeled with a professor of theater on the cape in East Orleans. 15 psi and tracking through murky salt marshes with Earnest Sewn Jeans rolled up just below the knees.

I then went to Clark in Worcester to meet a room full of beating warm hearts and ate a cantalope instead of smoking one. I drank 35% Panamanian firewater from Pedasi's largest supermarket. I got a soap holder there too.

I chewed my Clonezapam tablets and fell asleep to Govinda Hare and work up ate Lebanese and by four o'clock and made it to teach five minutes late and couldn't do a handstand like I did in a park named after someone named Matthew in South Norwalk.

Rain Lounge is not worth the $7 cover. Everything is what you make it. Be here now, and I certainly wasn't then.

I was stopped by police who made me perform cirque du soleil to prove I hadn't been drinking. He deemed me adequate drive. He must have been twelve.

We ended up at a diner. I ate BLUEBERRY PANCAKES, he ate GRIDDLE CAKES.

BIG BLUE WHALES

Big Blue Whales

Please Return My Whale

Bulbous Blue Whale Inspired Thousands

Big Engine Succubus Cruising To The Flank

Spear Pitched AND Red Viscosity

Even Its Cries Of Pain Make Swollen Bellies Red Gyrate By Being There

These Blisters In My Hand

The Courageous Salute Of The Ignorant

I Am The King Of Filth

Sink And Submerge

Aquamarine Floating Above My Head This Time

Stung By Life Fluid

Salty Veins Pumping To The Puncture

Sharks Did Devour

I Tilt My Head

Jugular Visshuda

Never Worth The Words Anyhow

Who Orders The Twelve Piece?

Guilt and the irreversible role of hamster and man.

I should preface this by saying sorry. Which I should do in most instances. Forgive the editing I am lazy and go back through time and make corrections when I deem it necessary to throw up by looking at my abysmal writing.

An Italian journalist pisses off George Clooney regarding Nescafe and the damage they have done to Africa. He will not answer the question. I cup my hands over my ears to hear a conversation that I do not belong in. I start crying when I think about Lt. Ellen Ripley and the symbolism in her actions through the first three Alien films. Beyond all that though, I walk to work the other day at the crack of eleven in the morning and I am confronted by a box. This little piece of cardboard is shaking to the left and to the right, a small rock a top of it. I look at it, perplexed because I usually expect that an inanimate object will not begin to move in front of my eyes and cause me displeasure on my usual walk to the L line train.

A guy, who is halfway through a cigarette looks at me and tells me it is a hamster. On par to a baby dumped into a trash can this little creature has been left outside Ridgewood New York's local pet land  to be adopted and possibly resold and be mistreated as he so clearly was by being placed in a box. I didn't do anything. I imagined myself certainly picking up the box, leaving my god awful job and devoting my life to the happiness of this creature that breathes the same air that I do. However I ignored him and with fifteen minutes to curtain call, the pet shop would take him inside and plop him in a plastic run around where maybe he would forget his abandonment or always remember it and when an unsuspecting victim purchased him he would bite so hard on the little child finger that blood would fly, but all would be in the name of justice.

What if I was in the box. What if my landlord and his motley crew of well built Italian men picked me up and threw me in a box and then put a big rock on top of it.  Considering what I have benched in the past it wouldn't have to be that big of a stone. I would wince and then when the the HUMAN store opened would they take me in, nurse me back to health and convince me that life was worth living again? I do not know. I am no oracle nor do I have the imagination to take it further than to say ,that the giant hamster that owned the store might wring my neck for my sake, or put me in the trash. I would be bruised. I would be in pain. However I would stand up and climb from the dumpster and collect myself. I would curse to myself and walk around and think of what to do next. Running from those that had hurt me, I would decide to despise everyone and not recognize why I might have been put in that box in the first place.

My feet would carry me to a train track, where I would wait for a Pacific railroad car to pass by at a sluggish rate and jump aboard like Bob Dylan may or may not have. I would just want to feel loved. I would want to be elevated feet off the ground in a soft bed and know that it wasn't going to last. I would savor the experience and appreciate the fact that I just wasn't worth it in the right time or place. I would think would the Hamster store owner feel a little bit differently if I was a cat or a little more savvy. Yet I somehow know I would end up in the Dumpster alone and tired asking anyone for pizza provided they could fulfill the need of holding me because the view out of my window just shows cars on the street and people who look tired. I go looking for matches and I find them for free yet I pay for my water. I push the top of the box and I cannot get out. I stretch out my body and still I feel ugly and I want to feel the inside of a woman and make her feel the same. To want me to be there, to stay even after it is over. But aren't I having sex my whole life when you sit in the shower in Lithuania shaving the hair from my pubes in hopes that in some effort that I will feel loved. All I saw though was a window with people outside of it in Palanga beating the every living shit out of each other. yet when I reached out to you you pulled away and that is okay. The credits start trolling and I do not bother to go to Ibiza because I have been there before. I have been to a club every single night because I live it over and over again, inside that silly little cardboard box.

I keep telling people to not let me fade away but I burnt out years ago. So who is this apparition. Who says he loves? Who gives compliments? Who tells people they are beautiful? your kiss was real and so were my lips but what about what was attached to me. Do I write this to be different or to find a place so I do not take a twine rope and strangulate myself. I watched him open a cab door on his own face and I still love him. I tell the story as if it is mine, and yet I know none of it is mine. Across the train tracks, and inside the center of Bergen or a screen with visuals it seems to exist outside of the hamsters and their cruelty but yet I cannot wrap my head around something that is so closely capped on top of me.

Truth and reconciliation through horrific dreams before being woken up by Chet Baker

Before I woke up with "The Thrill is Gone" playing by Chet Baker, I had a horrible nightmare. I will try to recount it as truthfully as a liar such as myself can.

Several people that I studied abroad with in Vietnam were in this dream. I shall leave their names out to protect their identities and their integrity as well. Since my dreams are erotic, violent, and more or less stupid.

And so it begins, we were all late trying to catch a flight to Seattle. The plane was leaving and since I am sure I know it rains a lot in Seattle, it was raining at the airport where we were meant to depart from. I sat eating something that escapes my memory and shortly after we all boarded the plane.

None of us were in the same row and I think that bothered  me. The plane took off, I wondered how the people in first class were doing and the next thing I know the plane is driving down a long road and eventually comes to a complete stop in a Cull-De-Sac of suburban homes. Turns out, one of these homes was mine but not really mine.

 

My father and mother who both resided in one of these McMansions agreed, that while the plane lay outside being fixed by Southwest airline's technicians we could all spend the night. The interior faintly resembled my actual house so when I entered I found nothing awry. What was daunting is that my  middle school crush appeared out of nowhere and informed me that we would be sharing a room together.  Since she is extremely attractive I hoped to spend the night with her in the same bed, but knowing my mother I knew she wouldn't allow it. I never asked for permission so I prepared to sleep on the floor.

Just before laying out all of the pillows to make room on the floor, with premeditated plans of getting up in the night and jumping into bed with her, my pops knocked on the door and asked me to check on my friends who were in the two upstairs rooms. Just to make sure that the group was settling in. They were.

In the first room, formerly my sister's room, My two guy friends were having at it with my female friend. One of my friends was totally in the nude and the girl of the two was wearing a white t-shirt and a kurtz hat while she moaned half enthused before my other friend went in to do a little fornicating himself.

I took a good look. A substantial look that would classify me as a pervert.  After fulfilling my desired viewpoints of the romp I turned to look in the other room where another two male friends were just lying on the bed, stomachs down. I saw no breath, nor did they make any sort of movement so being that it was a dream I did not check and went back downstairs.

My middle school crush told me that my bed was far too cold and I then prepared her for romance by saying I would get in there with her because I had excessive body heat, which could have been a turn on to her or just made her feel like my energy Chakra's were all out of kilter.

One foot was in the bed, but I was stopped as my dad once again knocked on my door and told me that something was not right upstairs. I told him sex was normal and not to worry. He said that that was not his primary concern and that it would be a good idea for me to go upstairs. As I go to the top of the doorway I found the doorknob missing. Sticky raspberry jam like blood was around a hole where the brass should have been. I just pushed the door open.

A large male was standing with a sadistic smile on his face. His forehead was larger than it should have been and he had a massive cob of corn in his hands. I selfishly did not check to see if my friends were okay and realized that I needed to get downstairs to protect my middle school crush. It was obvious that his intentions were of ill will towards all. 

I found a Louisville slugger by the bed and I told my middle school crush to stay safe. I picked up the bat. I never actually hit him. looking at his massive dome just gave me the different places where I could put enough of a dent to knock him out. My parents went to call the police. In all this danger I knew that I wasn't going to be able to save my middle school sweetheart and my friends upstairs were most likely dead. I also suspected that the Southwest Airlines technicians were not finished with their work on the plane.

No escape, this mad man with his cob of corn, and a damsel in distress. 

I woke up from this with a headache and a desire for Klonopin. I found some. I didn't take it but I took it on the subway and I have felt a little ill at ease for the whole day because of it. 

Why the corn? Why the airline inefficiency? Above all, why didn't Chet Baker pull me out of this one?

Missing kitchen accessory complaint form.

Dear Susan,

I am writing to you out of maturity and waning patience. Our break up no doubt was a difficult one. Through online meditations downloadable through real player, I have mustered the personal strength to make it through each day, minute by minute. I now have the ability to take out the trash without crying (I begrudgingly admit that I thought the sanitation engineer that passed by the house last week was you, it was not).  However, and I would think you would reflect stronger character, a precious item of mine has gone missing; the object to the right is almost a perfect copy.

Since we dated for nearly seven (unlucky number, coincidence?) months you have come to know a lot about my personal habits, this includes my diet. I am a fan of soups, chowders, and bisques and I have never pretended  otherwise. My teeth, being quite brittle from a birth defect; hot liquids have become my choice when taking a meal at home or out and about town. You found this to be quite a novelty when we started dating but later, around the fourth month or so, it began to bother you. I never took my personal frustrations out on any of your idiosyncrasies, which range beyond that of the normal human being. You made a bowel movement at least twelves times a day. You always finished the pickles three hours after being purchased, and you also made a whistling sound everytime you moved your body. When I aksed you what was wrong,  you replied that you had hollow bones like a swallow. I did not find it funny, considering that in any way you look at it, your were trying to find a way to insult my intelligence and general knowledge of ornithology. I digress, but I now bring myself back to the mission at hand, my soup ladle. I want it back. That priceless personal item was a gift to me from my Grandfather Earl, the one who lived just outside of Nashville. He too suffered from the arduous disease that I endure daily and when I graduated from St. Augustine Country Day, he gave it to me as a graduation gift. It is sterling silver and is engraved with, "Where stomach acid knows no bounds." A joke we used to share together to make our meek teeth seem like a petty issue compared to the food that is eviscerated by stomach acids the moment the "chewing" is over and the more profound act of swallowing takes place (insert "BJ" joke, I am well aware of your Beavispark and Southbutthead humor). 

I imagine you with your new roommates. Your general dissapointing apathy towards the world in general, and your sickening loyalty to your DVD collection of Sex and the City. Within this new home of yours you probably collect the things that were too painful for me to keep in the house. I have made a list:

1.) Charleston Chew

2.)Peanut Brittle 

3.) Jawbreakers

4.)Honey in general

5.) Rolos

6.)Apples

7.)Deep fried Ice-cream (not because of my teeth, my plague of obesity)

8.)Anything covered in plastic that you now bite off with your teeth (i.e. Condom wrappers)

9.)Jerky of any kind

10.)Any sort of club mouth-lighting that adds a blue ambiance to any clubs you may frequent

I could keep going, but the pain is building inside me as we speak. I am prepared to take you to court for my LADLE. I am also as we speak, multi-tasking. Since God took away my ability to chew, he gave me the gift of ambidexterity to help cope with this shithole, planet EARTH. The police report will be delivered if I am not given the LADLE in the next two days. Expect the Men in Blue at any point of your day. How embarassing it would be for you to have them show up at your salon and drag you out in cuffs. If this doesn't work, in court I will ensure that I extract enough money from you to buy an entire arsenal of LADLES and other scooping instruments that no matter how many bitch girlfriends I go through,  I will never have to deal with the agony that I am facing at this moment. Unable to LADLE my sweet potato bisque, I had to pick up in the pot that I had let simmer for several hours, adding all the ingredients to taste. When I picked up the pot, the metal seared my skin and I screamed, throwing the pot across the room. This did the following, it burned my forearms first and foremost, looking as though I have incurred the stigmata. The wasted sweet potato bisque went all over the Persian rug, which I now intend to replace by billing you, and last and certainly not least, our cat, correction, my cat, recieved the side of the pot to his right leg, which is now in a cast. If purple wasn't insecure enough with his shorter than average tail and susceptibility to open sores, this will be the icing on the cake! With all this anger, while taking out the trash, the tenants in the apartment above, two Japanese exchange students over at the Polytechnical institute happened to be playing their music a fraction too loud. Instead of being the usual nice guy, I made some rather unclever remarks which I would not like to repeat. My insulting someone based on their music taste is not something I am proud of. I simply do not hate the Boris, the punk band as much as I claimed to this afternoon, I also had in possession a mango which I was debating whether to throw out or not. And throw I did. I pitched the thing right at Haruki's head and broke his glasses. I will be sending you that bill from Lenscrafters in addition to the vet charges.

I hope this evidence is suffice to make you return my LADLE. I implore you to do so in the requested time, and to reply to your expected rebuttal, I will not buy a new one. I am a man of pride and that LADLE belongs in my hands, and submerged in the next soup I intend to make. I plan to celebrate its return with a nice Lobster Bisque, with extra cream because I deserve some sort of pat on the back for not coming to your house, punching you in the throat and acting out with vigilante justice.

Return what gives me life. If you do not, expect the true and just might of the law to come down on you like nails falling from the scaffolding of a new midtown highrise.

I still love you,.

Gareth

Ga(y)reth,

Srry it took me so long to write back to u. Didn't take ur ladle. underneath the sink. kept falling from the hook, clanging such a pain in the ass. Sorry bout the kat, have a new boyfriend now, don't come over, wouldn't want u billing moi for the l'hopital! Good luck with everything

kiss and hug,

Susan

Sent from Susan Crescendo's Blackberry AT&T

Two times in a row

It happened twice in a row, not to be redundant. This takes me back to Vietnam, the second half of my junior year abroad. I sat in the back row, nursing the battery of my Ipod, letting unruly and just plain inappropriate songs cast a soundtrack to the view. It was a combination of lush green mountains, jutting sharp limestone out of the dense jungle that clung to it. Then there were rice paddies, and swerving roads that weaved in and out, ascending and the descending elevations. We passed through rain. The driver maneuvered the bus like it was a bicycle, never moving over the line, crossing the boundaries of law of the road.

Rain came and went, but in the bursts of its lifespan, it would chuck it down. Slamming pellets of water on the bus, making it seem all to many times, that none of us, the lot of American students and three Vietnamese advisors would actually make it to our destination, a beach town hours away. 

As a teenager, I saw a woman die on a plane. I was too young to fathom her death. All I saw was an older woman stand up, walk to the bathroom and shut the door. She never came out. Eventually the young woman, who I later learned was her niece got up and knocked on the door. She became frantic when there was no answer, just the hum of the engine keeping us in the air. When several attendants came to her side, the force opened the door and out slumped her body, plopping to the ground, her head making a thump and it was the last to land on the matted carpet. Doctors were called, she was dragged into a galley away from the rest of the plane to save us the drama. All things said and done, six doctors tried to revive her, but it was no use, she had come down to Florida to die, we were all later told. Her niece sobbed, but somehow managed to recognize that she was taken at a ripe old age. The plane had landed, and so, My parents, myself and the rest of the plane were held up for thirty minutes while the paramedics removed her body. I remember the white blanket placed over her body. The authorities removing her and letting the niece follow with her. People spoke and chewed bits of pieces of what they knew. The story I had heard mulled over and over in my head, but by the baggage claim I had seemed to have forgotten everything.

Flash forward quite a few years, and here I am sitting on a bus, in the rain, in Vietnam with the battery moments away from running out, the music getting ready to leave me. Even without the soundtrack I glued my face the window, blocks of glass, the moisture of my breath slapping and sticking me, transfixed at the landscape. We turned a corner and the bus slowed down, it didn't stopped but it changed to a snail's pace. It was over on my left, a large group of people. Their were several police officers on the scene and bystanders had encircled the object of fascination in a crescent formation, leaving a whole area of viewing for those of us on the bus. The speed picked up and as we went by what everyone was staring at, we were not crawling, certainly not speeding but moving. On the ground lay a human being, a young man. His age I could not guess. His body was tan, he had a dark shirt on and what looked to be shorts. His eyes were closed and his mouth open, blood around his head. His leg was twisted almost the point were it was resting on his face, and he was clearly dead. No one touched him, and the police seemed to be surmising what could have happened to this person. I didn't know either, I was just a fool on the bus, surrounded by a lot more metal than he must have been. His moped was feet away from him, also a spectacle that was gathering onlookers. Its smashed headlight and oil also signifying that it to died along with its driver. The blood was so dark. The faces of the officers were so serious, and yet this moment seemed to just pass. On the bus their was the silences stifled by the occasional, "oh my god, that's terrible", all in all the silence seemed to be the option that most went for, including myself. I was so many seats behind everyone else, in the back of the bus, we were all resting, and a dead man had just come into our midst and escaped like that, I am sure that hours from them he was the last person I was thinking about.

Nha Trang was a beautiful place. The beaches were splendor. The water was crystal clear and the restaurants were abundant with delicious fare that all could enjoy. It was a vacation spot for the rich and the Austrailians, Swedes, and other foreigners who like to see Vietnam. We spent nights at the bars, our days on the beach and long spans of time for us to do whatever we wanted. Some of these activities included massages, all kosher I assure you. Taking a mud bath with two friends, not as nice as I thought it would be, but still a good time. The last time I had taken a mud bath was when I was close to the age of ten. 

With flimsy helmets, we rented mopeds and set off, stopping and taking pictures, eating delicious soups with hundreds of different parts of the pig shoved in them. We would look in music shops, stop at cafes, and point out things we should do later. I even remember stopping at an abandoned fort, and taking a picture, one of my close friends looking like Hunter S. Thompson. I felt like a rogue journalist, with my photographer and international wise guy. I think we were all stealing that dream from one another's heads. The truth of the matter that we were only catering ourselves to the usual tourist attractions, a mudbath, massages, and then restaurants, were we dined upon international cuisine.

However, we did make one trip out of the way. It was the side area, were much of the population of the city actually resided. It was past the old airport, and it roads became slick with mud. The houses grew closer together and people seemed a little more surprised for three Americans to be walking around in an area like this. We took a lot of pictures, smiled at alot of children. The faces of so many beautiful people hit in an SD frame, digital, or the classic snap camera, thirty two shots, one of which might look decent.

We came back out and finally hit the asphalt again. As we passed the bus station, we were stopped by a crowd. A large group of people gathering on the road can mean only one thing, an accident. As we slowly eased our moped to the scene, all that was left on the road, was a large, thick pool of bright red blood and a small rubber shoe.  A child had been hit, her body dragged over to the side of the road. It was lifeless in a blue dress. I did not see anyone crying, it was till just at the moment were people couldn't believe that someone was alive, and then the next moment that simply ceased to be. I could see that the automobile that did it, did not stay around, as the police were en route to find whoever hit the small child. We drove our mopeds away, the pool of blood lingering behind, I could only be left to wonder how long they waited until it would be cleaned up, and the population could continue with the rest of our day. 

All in all the time taken away from my life must have equalled around five minutes of delay. Yet these two people, these beings had all their time taken away. What it means to be a glimpse to someone you don't know when you are dying. If perhaps the young man was at his last breath and the bus drove by, would he have wished that he were on it, safe, or to have been in the safety of the crowd, or just dreamed that his bike was still moving, miles ahead of any bus, glass no longer shattered.

The young girl, I can't imagine what it must have been like for her parents. To be told through the grapevine, eventually reaching their home, that a large vehicle has collided with such a sweet beauty and now she was permanently asleep. If they arrived shortly after I had left to see the pool of blood, and the shoe, the only indications that she once stood, trying to cross the street. 

I am brought back to this day quite often. I went back to Nha Trang once after that, and nobody died. I do remember sitting on a large bus once again, looking at the window, and reminiscing to my friend about the horrible memory. I can imagine the other interior monologues, seeing the sweet child and the kind young man passed away, the bodies mutated by extreme physical forces, viscera that should have stayed inside. I even rode a moped past it once again, and counted my blessings as I am sure everyone else did. I wonder though, if it has been me, would my blood have formed a pool as large, would I have been dragged away, and would anyone from my group have cried? I have to make myself snap out of selfish moments like that. I was not dead, I was and am very much alive. I just try to remember them, try to see those pools and pretend that now, they see the landscape, that they are in my shoes.