Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
The drive was long. Finding the place was relatively simple and consisted of big main roads, until the final few miles. The final few miles to the place were all through heavily wooded back roads. Houses were separated by no less than a mile each. We didn’t see many on our way there. It was late. There was no remaining sunlight and no streetlights. We drove through pitch-black woods until we found the place. The house looked like any other, except for the long gravel driveway filled with what must have been about a dozen and a half different vehicles of varying expense. There were a few decrepit-looking domestic compact cars, a new-looking BMW, and just about everything in between. At the entrance our IDs were checked. Our money was taken. Our shoes were removed – I’m not exactly sure why. The tour started immediately. Just around the corner of the entrance there was a hot tub. Nobody was in it, though it bubbled and looked inviting. All of the patrons whom we had seen entering thus far, as well as the couple who hosted the event, looked to be well over 40. This was a little discouraging, though we maintained hope that we’d find some people our age somewhere in the rest of the building. There was a meager bar and refrigerator in the connecting hallway. The contents of both were generously offered without reservation. Just past the bar were two large rooms that must have been living or family rooms back when the house served a more familial purpose. The one room had a giant TV with porn playing on it and a great number of people watching. We got a lot of stares as we walked through.
We were becoming more and more aware of a trend in the demographic that comprised the clientèle that filled this place. At the time, we were both 24. The next youngest patrons looked to be about 20 years older than us. Moreover, none of them appeared to be in very good physical condition. I won’t go into merciless detail, but suffice to say there weren’t any marathon runners or gymnasts in the house that evening. Compounding the discrepancy in age and physique between the other patrons and us was the discrepancy in general appearance. This is not to say that anybody had poor hygiene or was badly dressed but that the cultural divide between my wife and I and everybody else under the roof was very pronounced. Beyond this, most of the women were wearing various types of lingerie and the men were wearing robes or just boxer shorts. My wife and I were still fully clothed, though we were each wearing our nicest, most form-fitting attire. Walking through these two rooms was like walking a gauntlet. Other than the gracious hosts providing the tour, nobody said anything to us. I could see all of the women glaring angrily at my wife and all of the men looking at her like a piece of raw meat. It was very funny. I laughed silently to myself. At that moment, I knew that we wouldn’t be taking any of our clothes off at any point under that roof. I reconciled myself to that fact and simply began to view the experience as a sort of gonzo sociology adventure. At the end of the TV room, there were stairs that led up to the other rooms. Our hosts led us up and showed us each of the themed rooms. Christmas lights were strung up the stairs and down the length of every corridor. They were all basically bedrooms, with minimal decorations and a bed or beds in the center of each. There was also a “dungeon” with a sex swing in the middle of it.
Further lessons in etiquette and detailed explanations of the rooms were provided. A fully closed door was to remain undisturbed. A partially closed door was safe to peer through but not to enter. A fully open door could be entered at will. If people happened to be screwing on a bed in a room with an open door that meant that you could enter and watch the proceedings. If you wanted to participate in what was happening, you were to place a hand on the edge of the bed and wait for an invitation. If none was given, you were not to invite yourself further. Fortunately, we didn’t see any sex happening anywhere. Not so much as an errant tit. Contrary to our hopes, though in line with our suspicions, the people upstairs were no younger or fitter than the people downstairs. They were, however, much friendlier. The people upstairs seemed much more interested in keeping us around and talking. Fortunately, nobody propositioned us, though a few did corner us and talk to us for a while. They were all very nice.
After a while, we made our way back downstairs and decided to make a move for the door. When we had entered, the hosts were very emphatic about their no re-entry policy. Once you leave, you can’t come back that night. We were ready to accept those consequences. We made our way back down through the gauntlet, past the bar and the still empty hot tub to the entrance area. Once our shoes were on, we were out the door and across the parking lot to our car. When we were about halfway through the lot, I saw the male host emerge from the door. He was wearing a robe now and didn’t say anything as he watched us leave. I wondered silently to whom the BMW belonged. We drove quite quickly through woods, possessed of an irrational fear that somebody might be following us.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Fuck Cinco De Mayo. I don’t mean that to be rude or offensive. I think Mexican people are cool. I think Mexican culture is cool. I think Mexican immigrants are cool. I think Mexican food is really cool. I completely dig Cinco De Mayo, but I hate drinking holidays. More specifically, I hate amateur drinking holidays. St. Patrick’s Day can go get fucked too. It’s a day when your favorite bars will be full of asses who don’t know how to drink but want to pretend that they do. Every bar will be filled with binging middle-aged accountants and Jimmy Buffet fans wearing plastic green hats, getting drunk, telling stories and acting stupid. It will be full of frat boys wearing every stitch of green clothing that they own, establishing the foundations of the lame stories that they’ll embellish and retell later, after they've become binging middle-aged accountants and Jimmy Buffet fans wearing plastic green hats. These fratboys will be there, crowding the space and ruining the ambiance for what could have been a decent night to get buzzed.
I drink like a fish. I don’t need holidays to motivate me. It seems like drinking holidays are just excuses for affluent Caucasians to bar-hop and be obnoxious. The real face of a degenerate parasite is a blue-blooded motherfucker who gets riled up about illegal immigrants and illegal aliens, then puts on a novelty sombrero for a day, gets drunk in public, and acts like ass. OLE!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Our neighborhood sat near a very small pond, which was called Hall Lake, in the same spirit of overestimation which had led people in this area to feel worldly and relevant. It was not a lake. It was a manmade byproduct of the land movers sculpting the neighborhood. Road construction in this area was frequent. One late summer evening, these two boys decided to steal one of the construction horses from the road. It was the kind with the circular blinking lights on top. They took it, ran down to the pond, and threw it in as far as they could. It only made it about ten feet. It wasn’t a very good throw. One of the neighbors saw the whole thing and took no action. It was such a pointless, uninspiring act of rebellion. Proportionate to its small size, the pond was also very shallow. It was no more than four feet deep at its deepest point. This played a big role in the accidental brilliance of their art. Given that the pond was so shallow, and that the blinking light was waterproof and battery powered, it continued to blink underwater in the pond for about the next two weeks. It could be seen from the road at night. The near shore of the pond blinked orange, like a miniature sunrise was about to be birthed from it. It was beautiful and powerfully evocative, like performance art.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Ferns, sweat, cum, mosquitoes. Wearing sweat-soaked, grass-stained cotton clothes that would be washed by our mothers. Good kids. Good grades. Good families. She had been born with crooked legs. Bent slightly inward. As a young child the doctors had broken them and put them in braces to correct them. By the time she was a teenager, the time I met her, they were essentially straight. She was simply ever-so-slightly pigeon-toed, barely noticeable. By then, her legs were actually very muscular from running and they seemed to go on for miles. They looked especially good over her head, lying in the ferns that covered the hill just off the path through the woods. She also happened to be a hemophiliac, so she had to be on birth control pills or her periods would last forever. Thus we had no need for condoms. When we finished, my semen spilled out of her, into the leaves and soil. We walked back through all of the rusted, old, empty beer cans that littered those woods and talked about our future.
On numerous occasions, we screwed in her parents’ basement. We did this once or twice every weekend for the length of our relationship. Her parents were upstairs but generally left us alone, for whatever reason. I’m still not sure if they trusted me or just didn’t care. Regardless, on one summer day her period had just ended, and we assumed it was safe to do our thing. After we finished, I hurriedly pulled up my pants.
Later when I undressed to shower after the bike ride home, I noticed that the front of my underwear (tighty-whities) was blood-stained. Alarmed, I pulled the waistband forth to see what had happened. My dick looked like a blood sausage or a murder weapon, and I immediately started combing my memory of the day’s events, trying to determine when I had so grievously injured my dick. I inspected it thoroughly, looking for the injury that must certainly have produced all that blood. Then I realized the blood wasn’t mine. I knew where it had come from and I was relieved. At this point, though, a new problem immediately presented itself. How would I dispose of the blood-soaked underwear? I decided to just throw them in the hamper with the rest of my clothes. I’m not sure why I thought that would be a good idea, but that’s what I did. My mom must have washed them without noticing, and the blood must have come out. They found their way back into the clean laundry pile. Nothing was ever said.
Our senior year, we broke up. I believe that girl from my high school days has since finished her doctorate and is much happier and more successful than me. I recently heard from her, after a long period without contact. Apparently she lives down south somewhere. She’s an engineer of some sort doing quite well for herself.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
The backs of the elevators are glass. These elevators are very elegant, and serve to open up the architecture, unifying the space. Once inside, one is overwhelmed by the refinement and attention to detail. Everything exists in right angles. Wood-paneled walls with brushed steel trim sit adjacent to the glass back. The glass back faces brushed steel doors. Below your feet is lush green carpeting. Above your head you will find small, dim, recessed can lights - eight of them.
The floors are represented by small brushed-steel panels with raised, painted numbers. Just below them, you will find Braille labels conveying the same information. Unfortunately, the buttons themselves are circular and plastic. They each sit right beside their corresponding rectilinear steel panels. Not only is this redundancy wasteful and confusing, it is insulting to the rest of the décor and crippling to the overall effect. Even worse than this, you might occasionally find that a custodian has thoughtlessly left the phone box ajar. On these rare occasions, the elevator is like a man with his balls hanging out through the zipper of his pants.
There are seven floors in my building. I work on the fifth. While riding the elevator, the floor numbers are displayed digitally, red on black, as you ascend or descend. On each floor, the elevators empty onto an S-shaped catwalk. The doors all open in the middle of the “S.” Both ends of the catwalk deliver you to an entrance to the walkway that circumscribes the void at the center of each floor, the void through which the elevators travel. This entrance is formed by large glass doors which stand between the railings. All of the office space sits beyond the glass doors. From the walkway you can see all of the other floors. You can triangulate your position very easily. It is both reassuring and discouraging to know exactly where you stand in relation to the larger structure around you. The skylights mingle with the ventilation ducts at a suicidal, vertiginous height, far beyond anyone’s reach. Such is the nature of ideals.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
This is a brick in the foundation of the structure that supports us and our culture. Wholesome, hardworking, Protestant, American corporate culture. How’s that for impotence? How’s that for cancer? You work, and essentially live, to contribute to and benefit from this great entity. It is a collection of confused individuals with personal interests. Teams are for suckers. Upper management benefits from teams. The relationship between upper management and the teams below them is always parasitic. The teams contribute and upper management reaps. They will always extract their money from you, fake money, play money, soft money, make-believe money. It’s exponentially growing, endlessly inflating money. You will sit inside this monster and create data, information, filling up network space. All of this information will be totally non-referential, irrelevant, and without redeeming aesthetic value - servers and servers of it. All of it will be useless and irrelevant. Technology has served to facilitate the propagation and proliferation of useless, vacuous, poisonous information. All of it is crucial to the arrogant Caucasian orgy of money. American corporate culture is copious, ropey jets of financial jism, decorating the face of an underage prostitute. It is soulless work that contributes nothing to anybody but takes something from everybody. This is why I went to college?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
She had a 1995 Honda Civic, beige, with no hubcaps, lots of rust, and lots of miles. Not her miles. Somebody else put them there. They came with the car. She had big sunglasses that faded from the top down to the bottom, with rhinestones around the frames. She had a smile bigger than her tits, which were considerable. She had dirty blond hair and a tight middle - a gorgeous girl. She was 20 and taking classes at her local community college. Eventually she wanted to be a doctor. Who was I to argue? I’ve never had any interest in smashing dreams. Not my thing. She was from New York somewhere, the western part of the state, just above Pennsylvania. We rendezvoused in a mall parking lot in Erie (about geographically halfway between our residences), and followed her to the hotel. We talked and all got pretty drunk on vodka and orange juice. Nothing fancy, though it got everybody loose, and served its purpose.
Admittedly, I was a little nervous, and I sat Indian-style on the bed, sort of squeezing my toes in my hands. I’m not sure why I was doing this, just a nervous behavior. At one point, I squeezed a bit too hard and broke one of my toes. It’s a disgusting and fascinating thing to do to yourself because you can feel it two different ways. I felt both the pain of my toe breaking and the toe breaking in my hand. It was remarkable, accidental, and incredibly stupid. I don’t know why I was that nervous in the first place; probably just leftover anxiety from less than smooth past experiences. Since I’m extremely familiar with the pain of broken fingers and toes, I didn’t visibly react. Neither my wife nor this girl had any idea. When I walked, I limped a bit, but we hadn’t driven up there for walking.
After the toe break we got down to business pretty quickly. My wife excused herself to use the bathroom. The blond girl took that opportunity to pounce on me and things got started very quickly and naturally. There was a great deal of screwing and it was all incredible. She had absolutely no gag reflex at all. I was astounded. I had never been with a woman who could perform that task quite so vigorously. Apparently, though, she had never been with another woman before, and applied that same reckless fervor to my wife. It was very hot to watch, though somewhat rough for my wife’s taste. I thought it was fantastic. My wife disagreed. Her irritation was poorly hidden but this girl was so consumed with performing that she was oblivious. She really wore my wife out and it gave me opportunities to recharge and recuperate. We had a great time getting each other off well into the night. We parted friends, though we haven’t stayed in touch.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Eventually she decided to have the front four teeth removed and replaced by a bridge. A fantastic idea! Of course, this was done without announcing the plan to anyone around her beforehand. But, the efficient and effective nature of office gossip quickly circulated this information. She was absent from work for about one and a half weeks for this surgery. When she returned, her angular brown and green teeth had been replaced by big, straight, white ones. Awesome! Can you compliment somebody on that? “Hey there! Look who doesn’t have a mouth full of broken glass and dirt anymore!” But alas, it only took two weeks before they were beige from all of the coffee and lack of cleaning. I suppose you can’t change who you are.
Corpse Teeth (also known as the “Horse-Toothed-Bitch,” affectionately, of course) did have one exceptional quality. The most fascinating detail about her character was her daughter. She had an 18 or 19 year old daughter who was not to be believed. I never learned her name but her daughter was gorgeous! She had great, full breasts, a tiny waist, nice hips, delicate facial features, and long, straight, thick, red, hair. Every aspect of her appearance encouraged procreation. I’ll never understand where in the hell those genes came from. It will always be a mystery how something so gorgeous came from something so cancerous. Corpse Teeth had pictures of her all over her desk. She was proud, and rightfully so. Being newly divorced, resembling a corpse, reeking of stale cigarettes and coffee, having the personality of a badger, displaying constant embarrassing professional ineptness, and most recently, achieving toothlessness certainly aren’t personal attributes upon which you want to dwell. If a few well-placed pictures of her beautiful daughter can distract from the cumbersome weight of her own wreckage, more power to her.
One day, Corpse Teeth quit. Three months later, as we were all losing our jobs and our little company was going belly-up, it came to light that she had been not only sabotaging our success, but had also been stealing clients away from our company. She had been fucking up her own job on purpose and slandering our company so she could take the clients for her own. Remarkably, as a result of the indifference and ineptitude of our company’s owner, no lawsuits were ever filed. We were all amazed. Many of us were angry. She sank our battleship! Corpse Teeth had won. I didn’t feel that a lawsuit was necessary - it would have been redundant. The burden of her existence was sufficient punishment. Inevitably, she will fail with her new company. It was a tangled mess of semi-literate, malignant underachievers, all fighting over a failing idea. I was just fortunate enough to be there for a year to watch the collapse. Regardless, her daughter was stunning.