All the Hate Mail!

Victor’s Secret Fashion Show

Hello, and welcome to the 2012 Victor’s Secret Fashion Show. 

Tonight we’ll be looking at some of the hottest trends in men’s erotic attire and millions of viewers around the world will gasp in amazement at these creations from top men’s bedroom accoutrement designers.

Now, quickly, look down the runway, here’s our first model:

Sam is wearing a pair of boxer briefs and a bodice made entirely out of rare roast beef and deflated NFL regulation footballs. As you can see, he has small symmetrical mustard stains right below his clavicles, nicely accentuating his neckline.

Ted is also wearing a pair of boxer briefs and is wearing something that looks like a chandelier made of deer antlers with a worn erotic magazine impaled on each point. His hairy calves and chest are no coincidence, as they are meant to imply a ruggedness and an ability to withstand heavy winds.

George is wearing taupe silk boxers and is carrying a baseball bat in each hand. Around his head is a beer-can hat, allowing him to guzzle his favorite pale ale as he simultaneously drunkenly swings at low-flying doves in an expression of his instinctual desire for peace but his inability to attain it.

Hasn’t this been a great show, folks?

Next, the local news will show you where your grandmother is really buried and reveal the fraud whose grave you have been crying at for years.

How Hipsters Talk About Music

“Hey, did you get tickets to the Scowling Lemurs concert?” asked Jed, not looking up from his cup of Intelligentsia pour-over coffee.

Richie took a long sip from his cup of Blue Bottle Ethiopian Roast and laughed to himself as he said “Of course. Second row, off-center. You know, that way you can still see the percussion, not like those bandwagon super fans who just want to stare at Tim Zorlinger.”

Tim Zorlinger was the lead singer of the Scowling Lemurs, a folk-rock super-troupe out of Seattle, Washington. Danny Nimbus of Hate Love Machine was the bassist, Johnny Trouble of Animal Husbandry did backup vocals and played guitar and the incomparable Elliot Schwartz of The Fur, and Disposable Mondays, and Melancholy School Lunch, and Radishes on Mars, and Vanilla Diapers, and Portable Bus Jesus Christ, and Catatonic Dog, and Endless Bread Crumbs, was the drummer.

“Yeah, well it was really when Elliot added a second high-hat to his set in 2009 that their music really took off. That’s what set Scowling Lemurs apart from other bands, obviously,” said Jed.

“That’s a common misconception, actually,” said Richie, “He always had the second high-hat ever since his days with Catatonic Dog in 2006, but he used it to switch hands and to be able to double up on the snare. It wasn’t the drum, but the way he used it that really gave Lemurs the sound we now know.”

“I don’t think anyone would even care about that if it wasn’t for Johnny Trouble’s backing vocals, you know? “said Jed,” in 2005, when he did the guest spot on Fritz Land’s double-EP, he really perfected his timing and synchronicity and basically since then he has been less of a backup singer and more of a living echo, a ghost, a visage, the paints the artist uses rather than the painter himself, you know???”

Richie grimaced as he came close to the bottom of the cup of coffee and he saw some overly coarse grinds. So sad, he thought. It could have been a perfectly good cup of coffee. Shame. “I don’t really think Johnny would have even been a player in this equation without the addition of Nimbus. The bass, really more than anything, is the director of this orchestra. The Lemurs are a tonal, effusive band and the bass line provides the heartbeat, sending the oxygen into the other instruments. Tim Zorlinger is a great songwriter, but without the drive of Nimbus’ four-string, he would just be Eric Clapton.”

Jed finished his pour-over and replied “Don’t underestimate Tim Zorlinger. I’ve been a fan of his since Birthday Cake, his 1993 album with Horton Weathers and the Hotness, which is where he really came into his own.”

“That was a fine album,” said Richie, “but 1992’s Zeitgeist Dependency was more pivotal in my opinion, because it was when he bridged the gap between ecclesiastic and myopic.”

Jed shook his head. “Maybe, but really it was in high school, in 1989, when Tim was forced to play viola in his high school jazz band that things really started to come together. His sense of internal rebellion and his musings on his own banal existence in 11th grade actually contributed more to his current stylings than anything else.”

“Nice try,” said Richie, “but it was really an experience towards the end of elementary school, when Tim Zorlinger was bullied by a kid named Horace that his creative destiny was formed. I’ve been a fan since then. He couldn’t complete the monkey bars as quickly as Horace and as far as I can tell that was the entire driving force behind his seminal rock anthem Dish Rag Turbulence.”

“That’s a pretty common misconception,” replied Jed, “but it was actually the first time he lied to his parents when he stole a jar of apple sauce in the second grade that informed that entire album. Dish Rage Turbulence and it’s prequel, Forgotten Marrow, were really about his fear of confrontation and his repressed guilt for his childhood malfeasance.”

“Yeah,” laughed Richie, “I know some people think that but what they are forgetting is that while Tim Zorlinger’s mother was in her second trimester she saw Don Giovanni at the New York Metropolitan Opera and some reports claim that he kicked inside her stomach along to the rhythm of the bassoons during the second act and some, myself included, would say that it was that very fear of the unknown and an unbridled respect for father figures that informed his entire career.”

“I disagree,” said Jed.

“Where are your seats?” asked Richie.

“Oh, I didn’t get any, you know, I feel like the current Lemurs set is old hat.”

“Should we get some more coffee?” asked Richied.

“Sure. Can I borrow some money? I don’t have any,” said Jed.

“Me neither. I probably need to sell my Lemurs tickets so I can pay rent this month.”

“They suck anyway,” said Jed.

“Yeah, they’re kind of played out. I kind of hate them. What kind of loser would still like them?”

Jed and Richie high-fived and felt super cool. It was a great day.

Talking to a Dog

“Who wants a treat? Who wants a treat? Oh you want a treat?”

“Yes, I’d like a treat. You’re holding a treat. I’d like the treat you’re holding please…”

“Who wants a coookiewookiewookie?”

“I’m not an expert but I’m pretty sure you’re describing a treat. I asked for one earlier. Was I not clear in my desire?”

“So you want a boogie oogie oogie?”

“Frankly,” said Jean, “I’ll basically take anything that breathes.”

“Have you seen Terminator 2: Judgment Day?

“No.”

Cool.

“Edward Furlong ended up on drugs.”

“Is that on drugs”

“I have no idea. Who are you people?”

“I’m your father, in a way.”

And then I ate a whole puppy, bones and all, and we decided to never speak about it again.

The Blackest Friday

Xaxu burst intro the control hub of the spaceship, completely out of breath.

Circling slowly 950 miles above the Earth’s surface, Liipold, the ship’s commander and Secretary of Arms of the Madrix Galaxy, and Räyg, the ship’s co-pilot and three time Purple Blørg Award Winner, had been enjoying a friendly game of chess before this hideous disturbance.

“What’s the matter, Xaxu?” said Räyg, as he took Liipold’s last Knight.

Stammering, terrified, begging for air, Xaxu began to tell his tale:

“Last year everything seemed fine. You remember? We came down as Winter began, taking shelter behind grey clouds. That game…that game you’re playing, that’s when we got that. I know I wasn’t supposed to go off course. I know I was supposed to meet with our Earthly liaison and deliver the Kūr and leave, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to get another one of those games. Another chess or checkers or something. Something to show my family where I’d been. You two have important titles and big names. Me? I am gone from my family for three, sometimes four full pūngs at a time. I wanted them to be impressed.”

Liipold had completely turned away from his game, something he was happy to do, as Räyg was beating him handily anyway. “What happened?”

Xaxu began to cry, knowing he had abandoned his mission and failed his commanders.

“Please understand. It was a mistake, I know, but there was no way I would have known what evils I would encounter.”

“Evils?”

Xaxu continued “I went back to the same store, you know, the one with the loud music and the many kinds of boxes, but something was different this day. I turned to one man and I said ‘what day is this’ and he said ‘it is the Black Friday’ and he looked at me and he noticed my grey skin and big eyes and he looked over to his son and his son’s eyes were filled with wonderment and he said ‘I’ve never seen anything like you’ and with that he put his hands on me and tried to take me to the counter where things are paid for.”

“No!” said Räyg, “He tried to buy you for slavery?”

“That is not all,” said Xaxu, “at that point another man saw me and his son began to point and cry and say that he wanted what the other child had and suddenly he had grabbed me by my webbing and then the two men were pulling me in opposite directions. And then a third man joined in and then a woman and then an older woman and suddenly I had human hands all over me and they pulled and the pulled and…I had no choice.”

Räyg dropped the pawn in his webbing to the floor and the sound could be heard throughout the ship.

“I had no choice,” said Xaxu. “I pulled out my phaser and now they are all dead. All of them. All of them in the store. But I was seen by too many. They have pictures. They have videos on their communication phones. We can’t deny being here any more.”

It was a long time before anyone said anything, but Liipold slowly turned to the chess board and laid down his king, admitting defeat.

He pushed a few buttons on his control unit and sent two giant energy bursts towards the blue planet drifting about a thousand miles below them.

The first burst eliminated all of life.

The second burst filled the toxic air with a new resilient bacteria that would replicate and grow.

“Well,” said Liipold, “I guess we will have to come back in five or six billion pūngs. Maybe next time they’ll do better.”

Räyg tapped a few buttons and the spaceship was on it’s way back to the Madrix Galaxy. Xaxu was still very sad he had no souvenirs for his family.

The Better Farm

One morning Earl woke up and he realized he was different from the other cows. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew that he felt odd.

Wiping his eyes, he walked up to his two oldest friends, Hector and Milton. All three of them were in their early teens and were proud of their Brown Swiss heritage. They had outlasted most of the cows on the farm, probably due to their high metabolisms and low percentage of body fat. They pretended to eat the corn, but when Farmer Doug wasn’t looking…they secretly ate grass.

“How’s it going, guys?” asked Earl.

“I got up earlier than usual,” said Hector, “I saw Farmer Doug pulling up the meat wagon this morning.”

Milton shook his head.

“Really?” asked Earl.

“So I just took my time,” said Hector, “I watched the sunrise and actually went to town on some corn. I figure, hey, if it’s my time I might as well go out happy.”

“We’ve been here for 10 years longer than anyone else, Hec,” said Earl, “There’s no way.”

Milton, his mouth full of cud from his third stomach, just nodded in agreement.

“I don’t know, Earl. I got a feeling,” said Hector. “A bad, bad feeling.”

Milton shook his head and wiped his nose on the grass.

Jusr moments later, Farmer Doug arrived. He had his wife, Farmer Sheila with him. This was never a good sign.

Suddenly, Earl realized what was different. He could hear Farmer Doug and Farmer Sheila’s thoughts. It was incredible! Their lips weren’t moving but he could hear all of their thoughts with total clarity.

“Guys, guys, guys…” Earl said “You’re gonna think I’m crazy but something happened… I can hear what they’re thinking.”

Milton laughed and snorted, releasing a small clot of browned grass through his right nostril.

“Alright, Kreskin, what are they thinking,” chortled Hector.

Earl closed his eyes tight and started to tell the boys what he was hearing:

“Farmer Sheila thinks your name is Brownie, Hector.”

Milton laughed. Hector shot him a glance.

“Farmer Doug suspects none of us have been eating the grain.”

“Uh-oh,” said Hector.

“Yeah, he noticed a huge pile of uneaten corn near the oak tree we use. Farmer Sheila doesn’t seem think he’s right. She thinks he’s acting crazy,” said Earl, his eyes still shutting out the light.

The beeping started and all three cows knew that the meat wagon was backing up to the fence, getting into position.

Earl continued: “Farmer Doug feels bad about fooling us with the meat wagon for so long. He thinks…” Earl trailed off and opened his eyes.

Milton finally stopped chewing.

“What? He thinks what?” asked Hector.

Earl took a deep breath. “He thinks we don’t know about the meat wagon. He thinks we believe him when he says that one of us is going to a better farm.”

“Seriously?” Hector asked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, he doesn’t think we know that he’s going to eat us with his family.”

“Wait a second. So, on top of killing us he also thinks we’re idiots?”

“Seems that way,” said Earl.

Farmer Doug walked in past the gate and all three cows kept their eyes to the ground. All were willing to go. All knew who they were to Farmer Doug, but no one really wanted to go to that better farm. Life was just fine here on this farm.

“Come along, Brownie,” said Farmer Doug, “We’re taking you to a better farm.”

Milton shook his head. Hector just smiled.

Earl closed his eyes and tried to hear what Farmer Doug was thinking. Farmer Doug was just thinking that he probably had enough gas to get to the slaughterhouse without stopping.

“Bye, guys,” said Hector.

“Hold on,” said Earl. “I want you to know what Farmer Doug is thinking.”

Hector backed up the ramp slowly into the rear of the meat wagon. “Go ahead.”

“He’s just thinking about how great a friend you’ve been all these years and how thankful he is to you. He was just thinking about how the drought has basically depleted all his food supplies and how you’re basically saving his family’s life and he is thinking about how lucky he is.”

As the back gate of the meat wagon locked into place Earl and Milton could see a wry smile on Hector’s face.

“Say goodbye to your friends for now, Brownie,” Farmer Doug yelled out as he pulled away.

Milton and Earl waved as their friend went off to the better farm.

“He’s a hero,” said Milton.

“Yep,” said Earl. “He’s a hero.”

Not far away, Farmer Sheila kept an eye on Earl and Milton. In truth, Brownie had always been her favorite and seeing him pull away, engulfed by the kicked up dust from the back tires of the meat wagon, she felt truly sad.

And Earl could hear her thoughts and it was at that moment that he realized that Brownie was loved and he felt better about his lie. But he never really felt that bad about it anyway. Hector would smile, smile, smile, all the way to the better farm and soon Earl and Milton would join him.

Why The Dinosaurs Really Went Extinct

Noah watched in horror as the voracious Tyrannosaurus Rex ate his mother and father in one terrible gulp. His parents had done nothing wrong. They were just foraging for figs and he had fallen behind. Hidden in the tall grass, he was not seen.

 

Noah was lucky to be alive, surely. But now he was very, very alone.

 

 For 35 years, every night, Noah woke up in a cold sweat. Mom? Dad? They were dead. Eaten.

 

And then when the floods came the booming voice from the sky told him to collect two of every animal. And he did, for he was good.

 

 But when the dinosaurs approached the ark Noah said “No way. Ya’ll are dicks.”

 

Why I Own a Polo Shirt

I am not going to be celebrating Thanksgiving with my family this year. As a result, we are going to have to pick another day to get drunk, become overly sentimental, talk about how much we are already sick of turkey, and then just listen to the Beatles for three hours before falling asleep on the tile floor. (Is that just me?)

This year, I am headed to the midwest to meet my girlfriend’s family. For the first time. On Thanksgiving. For five days. 

So, why do I own a Polo shirt?

If you know me, you know that I only wear one kind of shirt. I own many of them and they all look exactly the same because they are all exactly the same. I wear deep v’s. In fact, the last time I had to put on a shirt with buttons I had a massive panic attack and eventually ripped the shirt to shreds, lit the remnants on fire, and danced around it as a sacrifice to my more beloved t-shirts.

“What are you wearing to Thanksgiving?” she texted me.

“Um. Probably just what I always wear.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Is that not good?”

“I really want my parents to like you. Maybe you could wear a polo.”

“I don’t own a polo,” I said, already dripping in panic-sweats.

“We can go shopping for one.”

“I guess I still have that dress shirt from the wedding last summer,” I said/begged.

“That’s too formal, Elan. I think a polo would be perfect.”

I was too busy inhaling and exhaling into a plastic bag at this point to respond and then I got…

“Do it for me?” she texted.

Ok. So what’s more important? My sense of self? My external representation of my inner weirdo or the feelings of my girlfriend and her family?”

Well, obviously the latter. And I’m going to prove it, by golly. So, I don’t respond to her text at all. I’m not just going to say yes. I’m going to show her how willing I am to do anything to make her happy. 

So I hop in my car and I head to Macy’s and I walk proudly over to the guy standing under the illuminated alligator sign and I say “I’d like a polo shirt please.”

And he asks me what I have in mind and I say “Look I really don’t care. Please just get me a polo shirt that you think is my size in some relatively dark color that is not black and get me a sweater that goes with it please before I lose my nerve. I don’t even want to try it on so I’m really trusting you here. Please, sir.”

I ramble when I’m nervous. 

I am nervous. I am stressed. Asking me to wear a polo is like asking me to play professional basketball. I’m not going to be good at it and quite frankly, it may end in an injury…but I’m going to be brave. I know I can do this.

The clerk walks up to me holding a deep purple polo and a black sweater. I hold the polo in front of me and it seems like it will fit. I tie the sweater around my neck (because I thought maybe if I could pretend I was Alex P. Keaton I would feel better about this whole thing) and it looked “OK” so I handed the man my credit card and thanked him.

$406.58.

Are you serious? This is not what I want to spend on a polo. In fact, this is what I imagine a polo horse would cost. Fine. I grin and bear it.

So, I head home and I throw on the polo shirt and I throw on the sweater. I rip off the tags. I’m committed to this. I take a photo with my phone and look down at my text conversation.

“Do it for me?” is still the last message I got from her.

I upload the photo and send it to her. I did it, baby. I did it for you.

30 seconds later she responds:

“OMG.”

“What?” I ask.

“I was kidding.”

My stomach is in knots. I fell for it. I can’t believe it.

“Did you actually buy that?” she asked.

“Yes…I knew you were kidding,” I lied.

“Why would you buy that?”

“I thought it would be funny,” I lied.

“You really thought I wanted to wear a polo?”

“No. Hahahahahaha,” I lied.

She beat me. It cost me over $400. But I shall have the last laugh.

I’m wearing that piece of shit polo to Thanksgiving dinner and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Happy Holidays

The New Girl

He had never seen her before. In fact, he had never seen anyone like her before. Not here. Not ever.

Dressed in his customary baby blues, he glanced at her from a distance. She was all in pink. Slender, with delicate curves. Seemingly perfect.

He had been so alone. Waking up in the morning and going right to work and then finishing up a day’s work right before the light went off at night was no way to live, he knew. But he didn’t know anything else.

He could tell she would understand him. They seemed so alike. Their purposes, their backgrounds, all of it seemed to line up.

Her long slender neck, her elegant shape, her ultra fine bristles.

Her name, printed across her torso: Oral-B.

What a beautiful girl, what a beautiful name. But there she was, stranded on the other side of the sink, light years away.

The overhead lights flicked on and he knew it was time for his nightly duty. He worked diligently for his boss, and now, looking down at the sink basin he noticed that she too was hard at work for….who was that?

There must have been a shake up in the office. Another boss? Upper management?

The sound of their simultaneous scrubbing only barely drowned out the male and female giggles and barely understandable japes between the bosses and before he knew it, a full three minutes later, his job was done for the night.

Eyes closed, he was laid down to rest for the night and indulged in the minty afterglow.

“Hi,” a voice called out. It was Oral-B. “What’s your name?”

“Hi. I’m Crest Spinbrush. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m new here,” she said, “but I’m hoping to stick around for a while. How is it here?”

“Much better now,” said Crest Spinbrush.

He looked at her bristles and she looked at his. With the lights in the bathroom out they talked for the rest of the night.

Body to body, bristle to bristle, they hoped things at the company would stay the same forever.

Halloween is over, but please don’t worry because Thanksgiving is almost here and then about five hours after that we can start shopping for Christmas and then it won’t be long before it’s New Year’s Eve and then just a brief intermission before the pressures of Valetine’s Day and then before you know it it’s time to start curing your corned beef for St. Patrick’s Day and then Mother’s Day and then Father’s Day and then before you know it it’s the 4th of July and then Fall comes about and we can all have a nice Labor Day Barbeque…

And so if we call just focus really hard on this calendar we will never have to stop and consider what the people around us actually mean to us and what we mean to them and if we can improve upon those things and try to live lives that are full of meaning, endless change, and passion

Anyway, I don’t want to be a downer. Have a great week

The Introduction to a New Book that I am Writing But Will Soon Give Up On!!!

July 2, 2012 - 13:16 

“This is the longest car ride of my entire life,” they both thought, in unison. It was the first time they had agreed on anything in a long time.

No one could say what they were thinking. This was a rule in moments like these.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” they both thought.

The radio was playing a commercial about car donations. The man in the commercial had a very jovial Santa Clausian voice, the kind of of voice that commands authority, wanting you to prove that you are nice and not naughty, but also full of a promise of a better life, of more presents under the tree and a pass to heaven in your stocking. This man thinks you have a car you no longer use and he wants you to give it to someone who needs it more than you, and in exchange, you will receive a voucher for a tax write-off. He is the voice of understanding the relativity of the condition of your life. Do you think you are having a bad day? You have a car. There are other people who have bad days but they do not have cars. Ho ho ho. Oh, you need your car to get to work? Some people would love to have the problem of getting to their jobs, but they do not have jobs, and as a result they can’t afford a car and as a result of that, they can’t go out and find a job. On Dasher, on Donner, on guilt-trip and privilege. Here you are, coincidentally, listening to this commercial in your wonderful car. A car you probably don’t need. A fancy car, a fancy car with a radio in it. These people don’t even need your fancy car. They just need a car and you sit there with your air-conditioning and your radio waiting for your luxurious hip music to come through your perfectly working speakers as you cruise the highway doing God knows what, but I’ll tell you this, other people need this car more than you. Asshole, with your life so nice, please donate your car tonight.
Just when you think the commercial is going to end, it does not. Santa’s pleas for your car are echoed by another voice: the voice of a young boy, one who sounds like he has been coughing. Why is he coughing? Probably because his parents make him walk to school in the cold because they don’t have a car. How do you feel about your leather seats now as this poor sick child is walking, probably barefoot and without a proper coat in winter, miles and miles to school just for the futile hope that he will get an education and one day be able to afford a car and have a home and have a child. But none of this is going to happen for this child. This child will die or become a prostitute because this child needs your car. Your car. Right now.

The commercial ends and is immediately followed by an advertisement for two dollar jello shots as part of the bladder busters special at Texas Bronco Ranch in Montebello, California. Are you feeling bad about yourself? Here, drink this. The guy in this commercial sounds like he is having a lot of fun, but deep down you know he is not.

“How far are we?” asks Hannah, who is slowly turning down the volume control knob with her left hand, trying to not show any signs of control over anything in the car. It is not in her nature to be passive, and on the inside, she is a tremendous ball of fire hurdling towards earth anxious to eat the trees and singe the eyebrows of those she does not like.
Before Ari says anything, he taps the center console with his knuckles three times. He knows the center console is not made of wood, but it is the gesture that matters. The speedometer has been wavering between five and seven miles per hour for about 20 minutes. Saturday has her way of clogging eastbound lanes. Occasionally the speedometer says zero, but Ari does not count that. Time does not exist on a stopped freeway.

And it’s not going to get better any time soon.

Thank You

First of all, I just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the well wishes. But more importantly, I want to thank you for giving me exactly what I asked for for my birthday. 

Last night, I asked my friends here to make any donation they could make to Next Door Solutions at www.nextdoor.org and I promised to match all donations up to $2,500 so that we could give a full $5,000 to some people who need it very badly.

Well, you came out in droves, and you not only completed, but exceeded my wish.

As of right now, including my donation, WE, TOGETHER have given $5,575.00 to Next Door Solutions.

If you haven’t donated yet, but still want to, please don’t hesitate to visit the site. Anything and everything helps. Let’s change some lives.

I don’t know most of you and most of you don’t know me, and most likely, we will never get to know the people we helped today, but I’ll tell you this, WE CAME TOGETHER and did something really great.

I am thankful. I am humbled. I am blessed. I am lucky.

You are amazing.

What I Really Want For My Birthday

I think it’s fair to say that I’m a little bit of a complainer. I like to joke about the misery of life, the downfalls of my own character, and the general incompetence of those around me. But hey, that’s just me having a good time.

So, I don’t want to get all soft and fuzzy right now, but I wanted to take a second and just acknowledge how undeniably lucky I have been. I have a loving family, great friends (for the most part), wonderful colleagues, a compelling profession, and am in good health (except for my liver, and recently, my thumb.)

I’ve never been a birthday person because I feel weird having attention on me just because of something that two consenting adults did a long time ago, and I always have a hard time telling people what I want for my birthday because, frankly, I don’t need a lot.

But this year I do want something. I’d like to to something good for a world that has treated me kindly.

A charity was brought to my attention last Christmas by John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats on a place that is very near and dear to my heart: Twitter. He is my spirit animal and his album “The Sunset Tree,” has always touched me because of how deeply personal it felt.

This charity is called Next Door and their website is http://www.nextdoor.org/

They are a great organization that provides services to women and children that are victims of domestic violence, a serious problem that jus won’t seem to go away.

So, here is what I’m asking. If you have any amount of money you want to give to this cause, please go to http://www.nextdoor.org/ and donate now. Then, find me on twitter @theyearofelan and let me know how much you donated and then I will match it.

I will match all donations up until we hit $2,500.00. So, together we can raise $5,000.00 tomorrow and sponsor a family in need for an entire year worth of healthy and safety services.

I don’t know about you, but I think that’s pretty cool. And also I think it’s important.

So, please help me celebrate my birthday and do something really amazing for a family in need.

Thanks and I love you even if you don’t do anything. Thanks for taking the time to read this.

Perfectionism

Perfectionism

I’m already sorry about this first sentence. I know I could have done better. Will you still accept me as a peer, a friend, a partner?

Will you make it to the end of this or will you stop now knowing how horrible I am at this?

My fears, my follies, my foibles…

Hold onto my imperfections, I say. See them as valid mutations from the norm. View them as an evolution away from perfection. Take them in as pros, not cons.

What’s that? You’ve learned to accept me for my imperfections? Wow. That is incredible.

Clearly, there is something wrong with you. Yet I think you’re pretty great…

Oh no, there’s something else wrong with me! I’ve always thought you so smart, so thoughtful, so charming…and yet, you think I’m good when I know that I am not good. Does this mean that you’re no longer good? Is my judgment flawed? Again?

You should hate me. If you were as wonderful as I thought you were you would know how terrible I am.

I’m sorry about these last few paragraphs. I know I could have done better. I could have made better arguments. I wish you would understand how bad this is as a piece of writing.

Did you make it all the way down to here? You must like me.

What’s wrong with you?

My Bread. My Love

When John went to the new health food store that opened up in his neighborhood he had no idea what he was getting himself into…

His girlfriend had asked him to pick up some “healthy-looking” bread and some heirloom tomatoes and then she wrote down the word “acaí” on the back of his hand and told him that she was only doing that because she really didn’t want him to forget that item. The truth, of course, was that she didn’t know how to pronounce it, but that didn’t matter to John. He loved his girlfriend and he wanted her to have any and all of the stupid berries she desired, from acaí to goji to huckle to bumble.

With acaí and some particularly vibrant yellow and green heirloom tomatoes in his plastique basket that was once a few hundred corn cobs, John headed to the bread aisle and tried to pick the right one to please his lady.

9 grain. 10 grain. Whole grain. Multi grain….which one?
But then he saw one that caught his eye: “Live Grain.”
What could be better than a living grain? A living loaf of bread to nourish the nerves, to heal the heart, to trap the tofurkey.

20 minutes and 47 dollars later, John came back in through the front door. His girlfriend, Ana, was patiently waiting. She had planned on surprising him with a homemade bruschetta and now that he was back she insisted that he sit back and relax and watch whatever crappy garbage he wanted to watch while she made dinner.

John sat down on the couch after gently kissing Ana on the forehead. The open kitchen in their new apartment was great because they could talk while one was in the living room and the other was cooking. Life is really cool. Wow, you know? Wow.

“What kind of bread is this, John,” Ana asked. “I’ve never heard of this brand.”

“I’m not sure,” said John, “it looked really really healthy because it said ‘live’ so I figured what could be healthier than live?”

“I love you so much, John,” Ana said as she carefully tore open the packaging, careful not rip it in a way that would stop her from hermetically sealing it back once she had removed the slices she needed.

As the plastic parted, an audible scream filled the room. John and Ana both jumped and stared at each other. Earthquake? Hurricane? Rapture?

“Oh, thank God…. I was dyyyyyyying in there. Holy cow!” shouted an unknown voice.

John and Ana were panicked.

“Thank you guys so much. I seriously….” the voice sounded out of breath “I mean I have been completely freaking out. Wow, really, thank you guys. I’m Patrick.”

It was in that moment that John and Ana realized where the voice was coming from. It was coming from the bread. Ana backed towards the refrigerator while John slowly crept towards the motionless bag of bread.

“Hello?”

“Hey, hi, I’m sorry I’m a little bit flustered. I have been alone for a whiiiiiiile but okay, hi. Phew. Again I can’t thank you guys enough for bringing me home.”

“No problem,” said John, still flummoxed.

“So what’s up? What are you guys doing?”

“Umm…” Ana said as she’s slowly walked back up towards the counter. “I was about to make some bruschetta. It’s John’s favorite. That’s John, by the way, I’m Ana.”

“John and Ana,” said Patrick, “Ha that’s funny that’s like Joanna so it’s easy to remember. What’s bruschetta?”

Ana held up two of the heirloom tomatoes and said “Well, it’s really basically just chopped up tomatoes with some stuff in it and then you put some olive oil on the bread and then you bake the bread until its crispy—”

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” asked Patrick.

Ana and John just stared at each other.

“You WHAT the bread?” asked Patrick. “Are you joking?”

“It’s Italian food,” said John.

“It’s FOOD!?” screamed Patrick. “Are you people crazy? Where the hell am I?”

“Look, Patrick,” said John, “We don’t want any trouble. We were just getting ready for dinner.”

“Listen, sickos. I’m a live bread, do you understand that. I can talk. And you want to sit there and talk about eating me? Do have any idea what I’ve been through, you assholes? Do you know what it’s like to be sliced? Do you know what it’s like in the back of a truck for two days with the likes of sourdough and pumpernickel? Do you have any respect at all for life?”

“I thought you were just bread,” said John.

“Well I just thought you were my new friends until now, but now seriously I’m really hurt.”

Ana’s eyes began to well up as she looked back and forth between John and Patrick. She knew she had been wrong to not consider the bread. She thought about every peanut butter and jelly sandwich she had eaten growing up. She was a torturer. Every crouton? A war criminal. Every croque monsieur? A monster.

“I’m so sorry, Patrick,” Ana said as she broke into tears and fell into John’s arms.

“You can stay here with us if you want, Patrick,” said John as he lovingly looked into Ana’s eyes. She was the sweetest woman he had ever known and now, Patrick was their shared project, their passion, their son.

***********************************************

A week passed and Patrick refused to be sealed, as it made him cough. He refused to go in the refrigerator, as it made him cold. John and Ana were afraid to tell him but certain parts of him were turning blue, showing his age, showing his steady march towards death, towards expiration.

Unable to tell Patrick, John and Ana just sat on the couch with him and put on his favorite television shows and they sat and they laughed with him, relishing each laugh as they knew there would soon come a day when their family room would no longer be graced by this laughter. The chuckles of a dying child.

“John…my back slices hurt…” said Patrick.

“Oh?,” said John, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe you slept wrong.”

“Hey, look, I saved another episode of Jeopardy!,” said Ana.

“Awesome!!!” said Patrick.

Patrick stared at the screen and wondered if Alec had recently gotten a haircut and above him, over his packaging, John and Ana looked at each other and shook their heads, knowing that this would be Patrick’s last season.

******************************************************************

Another week passed and Patrick hadn’t left the counter in a few days.

“Mom,” said Patrick, looking over at Ana, “I don’t want to be here anymore. It hurts too much.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Patrick. You’re staying here with John and me. We love you and you’re not going to leave.”

“I have to go, Mom,” said Patrick, his slices blue with mold.

Ana turned away quickly and behind her she saw that John was approaching. He has something in his hand: a twist-tie.

“No, John!” Ana cried.

“I have to, Ana. It’s not fair to him. He’s in pain.”

“He’s us, John. Don’t you see that? He is us!”

“No, Ana,” said John. “He helped us be us, but we had always been an us. We should love him and let him go.”

“Please, Mama,” said Patrick, in a voice as weak as she had ever heard. “Please let me die.”

Ana turned away and stared at the television. Another episode of Jeopardy! was on. Behind her, John gently laid his hands down on Patrick’s slices and applied the twist-tie to the opening of his bag.

Patrick was gently humming “American Pie” by Don McLean and as John twisted and twisted, sending Patrick towards his maker, the humming got softer and softer until it was just white noise. And then in time, it was nothing.

Ana dropped to the ground and John stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders.

“Sometimes the best thing to do for someone you love is just to let them move on. You loved him, Ana. And that is frozen in time. That is permanent and he will live in our dreams. He will live in our pictures, in our stories, and in our hearts.”

Ana kissed John and she had never felt closer to him.

****************************************************************

Another week passed and life had began to normalize for John and Ana.

Ana was napping in the hammock in the backyard. John looked at her and knew that he wanted her to be his wife. To mother his children. Yes, he had decided. Tomorrow, he would propose. And they would be together forever.

John walked back down to the health food store, hoping to find something special for Ana, but on his way he stopped at the normal old grocery store he used to shop at. He walked in and was alarmed when an old woman asked if she could help him find anything.

“Yeah, actually.” John said. “Do you have any just plain white bread? I am fucking starving.”

*********

The First Time I Heard You On The Radio

Recently I was talking to someone about a popular band we were listening to on the radio.

I had no strong opinion about the band either way but the person I was talking to was adamant that they were brilliant.

“Why?” I asked.
“They’re amazing in concert,” she said, “they sound exactly like the album!”

So this made me think a few things about what made this band “brilliant.”
They were able to replicate their artificial (not necessarily a negative thing, but definitely accurate) studio sound. So, as musicians, they were talented enough to sound like themselves even when their sound was manipulated by a computer. This, of course has us operating under the assumption that their stage sound is the pure noise they create.

The amplifiers, the technical wizards, nothing mattered.

So, why does this matter to me?
It doesn’t really, but it makes me think about the layers we should be looking for beneath the skins we see on each other.

Sure, we all put on a good face. But then, we feel like when we “really” get to know someone, that we are getting the pure noise they create. Their soul, if you will.

And then, if we take the time we reposition this new knowledge, this new skin, over the exterior of the person we got to know to begin with and it just adds complexity and now the same person’s shallow surface is deep and endlessly interesting. The simplest things they do, now through these extra plates of glass become fascinating because we not only understand the action, but the billions of actions that led to this one.

And then you’re again looking at this person and the person that you’re seeing is no longer their interpretation, but in fact, yours and yours alone.

And then you dig deeper again and you see a new set of layers, but now you are looking through your own perception and one becomes two and two becomes three and three becomes four but every number only means something in it’s relation to the first.

If you don’t understand the concept of one you don’t understand the concept of two.

So now you’ve met this person and you’ve seen everything below the surface and dug deeper and deeper until you’ve created a whole and complete understanding…

But at the end of the day this is all a game of mirrors based on your initial perception of the person because that was your “one.”

I guess what I’m saying is we all love a good song and we all love to see a band live.

We all want to feel unique and appreciate the raw noise but sometimes I’m worried we are all just looking for something that will give us the same feeling we got when we first heard the studio version on the radio.