Try, Try Again

“Okay Gus, it’s Friday night, we got a bottle of whiskey, a Tony Montana-sized-amount of coke and a laptop. Let’s come up with some reboot ideas!”

“Beautiful Stan. What cha got?”

“Alright, hmmmm. People liked Dinosaurs, right? That was a popular show in the 90s. Let’s bring them back.”

“Umm, I’m pretty sure they all died in the last episode Stan. Killed by a sudden ice age brought about by environmental pollution or some shit.”

“Who cares G-Dawg? Easy fix. They find a time machine and travel to our present time and try to live like normal dinosaurs in the modern world, trying to go to school and hold down jobs whilst wearing shirts but no pants. They have a stone house and animal appliances. Wait, was that them or The Flintstones with animal slave labor? Who cares, we can still make it work!”

“Alright Stan, I’ll put that in the ‘maybe pile. What’s next?”

“Okay, okay. Let’s see….Ooh! How about we reboot ALF? Everybody loves that little scamp and his acerbic sense of humor!”

“Well, in the last episode, he was captured by the government and it was implied that he was going to be experimented on and dissected.”

“Really? Wow, that’s some heavy stuff for a kids’ show about a small, fuzzy, adorable alien. That was the thing that drew everybody into that show! Tell you what, let’s say the government does experiment on him, but they turn him into a full-sized adult male? That way, we bring the nostalgic fans in with what they think they want, but instead we give them what they don’t want, there by telling them what they really wanted all along!”

“That doesn’t make any sense Stan.”

“Yeah it does! And as an adult male, he works as a P.I. using his knowledge of Melmac and what cats taste like, to solve murders! We’ll call it Gordon Shumway, PI!”

“Who’s Gordon Shumway?”

“Duh G-Man, that’s ALF’s real name.”

“So why do they call him ALF?”

“Sigh, it stands for Alien Life Form. You think ET’s name was ET? Nope, his name was Barry Schwartzberg. Get with it man.”

“Anyway, enough about ALF. But you do seem to be really stuck on rebooting tv shows with puppets.”

“Puppets! Yes! Brilliant! We’ll bring back Today’s Special? But make it edgier!”

“…Stan, only you and maybe five Canadians in their late 30s remember that bullshit show.”

“Exactly. This is the 21^st Century G-Wheezy, the age of the Millennials. The more obscure and pointless shit they know, the cooler they are in the eyes of their shiftless brethren. We could make it a web-only show. All of the puppets will be addicted to opioids, (so topical! “Ripped from today’s headlines!”) the mannequin guy is a gigolo, but only for men who are into stiff pieces of wood (get it?)  and the black chick is an inept hitman. We’ll make that shit viral!”

“These ideas are insane Stan. I love them! But tell me, why are we doing reboots of previously existing properties? Are the legends true? Has the prophesy come to pass? Is Hollywood out of original, creative ideas?”

“Of course not! Why just look at Jupiter Ascending. That was very original and creat…actually, forget that one. Rebooting previous franchises means we already have a built-in audience for whatever it is. Plus, there’s always the nostalgia factor. No matter how garbagy something was when people were kids, they only remember it with fondness. That, combined with bringing in a new audience and pushing merchandise is why you’ve got Michael Bay rebooting Transformers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Oh, that seems kind of soulless and manipulative. Don’t you think? Aren’t we here to create fresh, innovate and entertaining works of art for people to enjoy? Or are we here to just make easy money and take sexual advantage of naive, innocent young women looking for their big break in ‘Tinsel town’?”

“Wait. Who hired you again?”

We Like To Party!

O brother, where art thou? Come back to us Mr. Six! Come back! We miss you ever so much. We miss your tuxedo, your fancy shoes, your suspenders, the classy red bow tie. And, of course, those ever so stylish glasses.

Your weird, creepy face though? Not so much.

The summer is nigh and this country needs the kind of solace and respite only a withered, insane old, over-dressed man can provide. Speaking of which, why are you wearing a tuxedo in the summer bruh? And even more so, why are you wearing a full tuxedo at a WATER PARK, my dude? You don’t see me wearing jams and holding a boogie board at weddings. It’s called decorum.

Anyway, I like to imagine a typical muggy D.C. area summer’s morning with people melting on the sidewalk like ice cream cones in the sun, when all of a sudden, a dated, gaudy red-and-yellow bus pulls up and a snazzily-dressed homunculus jumps out and proceeds to have a Grand Mal seizure set to bad 90s music. Who wouldn’t enjoy that? Doesn’t that just scream summer?!

This is why we need you Mr. Six! You embody summertime fun. Also, there have recently been less maimings and accidental deaths* at Six Flags’ 31 amusement parks than one would expect. Less than 50 people have been precariously trapped on roller coasters for several spine-chilling hours over the last decade. Less then two dozen children and senior citizens have been violently tossed from various rides only to land on the hard, unyielding concrete in the same time frame. Only around ten or so guests and trainers have been attacked and/or gored by tigers, elephants and other safari inhabitants.

I mean, some park workers have been killed by roller coasters, but they knew what they signed up for, so nuts to them.

Compared to that waterside in Kansas that decapitated an 11-year-old boy, (I almost included a link, but decided against it, you’re welcome) Six Flags (Motto: Would You Rather Waste Your Money At Disney?)  is doing pretty well. Who wouldn’t want to be associated with such a great safety track record?

But you don’t have to take my word for it, just listen to these true responses when I went to a local playground to ask kids if they missed Mr. Six.

“Who?”

“No, I don’t want any of your candy mister!”

“Are you supposed to be here?”

“Baba Booey.”

“Help! Police!”

Ha ha ha! Those wacky kids. Truly, children are our future. But as you can tell, not only are you missed, but there’s an entire new generation of America’s youth that needs to be introduced to your manic and off-putting physical hijinks. You need to come back to inform and entertain (yeah, entertain is a pretty strong word for what you do, but I mean it!).

So until the glorious second (third?) coming of Chri…I mean Mr. Six, I’ll maintain a heart full of hope and keep the home fires burning.

HAVE A SUMMAH!

*Or were they…purposeful murders?

Milestones

Well, it sure as hell took me long enough, but we’re finally here! My 300^th Eighty-Four Glyde entry. You’ve come a long way baby! Of course it took my lazy, thin-skinned ass 12 years what I had planned to do in six. But oh well, better late than never, right?*

Over the last twelve years that I’ve been airing my inner demons via bad jokes and pointless observations about white people. I’ve had quite the existence. I’ve been sent to Iraq twice, I’ve moved nine times, have had six or seven jobs and assassinated four heads of state. Never a dull day for me!**

I started Eighty-Four Glyde in 2006, during my second tour in Iraq. This is a matter of historical record and can be easily verified in any reputable library. (Side note: with all the biopics they’re making these days, when are we gonna get a movie about that Dewey chap and the creation of his decimal system? The world awaits eagerly.) I started writing for a few reasons. I’ve covered them in depth in previous entries, so I’ll just skim here. I was a journalist in the Army and enjoy writing. I always liked the humor columnist Dave Barry and wanted to do something similar. This year was also when MySpace was gaining in popularity (I have no MySpace jokes. I’m going to let Tom rest in peace.) and it made a great platform for people trying to write, discover their talents and spread their work to the world. Unless you were Tia Tequila who chose MySpace to publicly document her decent into madness and obscurity.

I’ve covered a lot of topics over the years, from movies to Japanese porn, all the way to movies. It was truly a comprehensive list of subjects. I tried to never get political, though this blog has existed during Republican and Democratic leaders in office. Presidents come and go.

I took a year off in 2017. My head just wasn’t in the game and couldn’t think of anything funny that didn’t also open the door to my own issues. And I wasn’t ready to be that open to a bunch of (nonexistent), faceless people online. So a break seemed in order, perhaps maybe something more permanent.

You see, there’s been a huge shift in Internet content. People used to enjoy reading stuff online. But tides have changed. Amateur videos on YouTube are all the rage right now. These days people are more into images and symbols (like Wing Dings) than words. Why write the word “penis” when you can just post an eggplant emoji? (Also who decided that shit?) they say a picture’s worth a thousand words, and much easier to read. Lazy millennial bastards!

Sorry bout that. Anyway, with the sea change taking place online, people like me have to translate their skills because blogs and their ilk are relegated to the outskirts of the web. They still exist, they just get fewer visitors these days. Like your grandfather in a nursing home. Gee, that sounded darker than it should have. Let’s brighten the mood!

Everybody raise your Zima high in the air! Let us celebrate the past 12 years and 300 entries and pray (in English) to god I get some kind of book deal soon so I don’t have to do this for another 12 years!

*Wrong.

**Still wrong.

Show Us Them Pearly Whites

I like to watch television. I’m just old fashion that way. It’s an American tradition, dating back to the first broadcast, when Thomas Edison strip-teased for Dr. John Watson, all the way to when Snookie strip-teased for an audience of absolutely zilch. I’m proud to be a part of this grand tradition.

Of course television, as the ever-evolving organism that it is, has been changing. This is only natural. As the medium grows, it’ll become bigger, its voice will deepen, it’ll have certain urges and hair will grow where there was none before. Wait, what was I talking about again?

With the invention of “Curated Television” * with devices and platforms, such as Roku, Amazon Fire, Netflix and Skynet, people can now watch the shows and movies they specifically want, thereby cutting out superfluous channels, (I’m not entirely against this, I only have sports channels in case the Testosterone Police show up to do an inspection) and commercials.

It’s the second one I draw offense at. People need commercials. They’re vital. I only watch the Super Bowl for the commercials. Hell, I’ve even previous written at least three columns about them. Now, don’t get me wrong, commercials can really suck, (I’m looking at you General Insurance Company) but they can also be very innovative and/or funny, especially ones involving Jean Claude Van Damme doing epic splits.

But there is one thing about commercials that now seems to be standard and bugs the shit out of me: people smiling like they’re deranged.

I understand that for some products, it makes sense for people to smile, like toothpaste ads, or anti-depression medication commercials. Maybe even the occasion beer or Doritos spot. But these days, marketing companies are taking it too far. I’ve recently seen commercials for cars, pillows, cell phones, underwear, the very concept of cooking and even bleach. where people grin like maniacal goons.

Why do they do this? Not everything is inherently funny, or worth smiling at. There’s even a meme called “Women Laughing Alone With Salad” where somebody googled that phrase and came up with a surprisingly large amount of stock pictures of women doing exactly that. Who came up with this concept? What are women laughing at salads supposed to convey? Why didn’t anybody stop these mad men before these generic photos were taken? We may never know. It’s baffling.

What’s even more testicle-shriveling stupid are the commercials where the people are so ecstatic about the product they’re trying to sell you that smiling isn’t enough, they must DANCE! As spastically and incongruously as possible. And for once, black people don’t get a pass for automatically being better dances. In this endeavor, all races are equally bad.

I recently saw a series of commercials for a furniture delivery company where people are so excited about their dinning room table set appearing out of thin air that they must dance their dignity away, never to be seen again. Then, they drop their magic phones on the ground as the song accompanying the visuals implores them to “drop the mic”, because leave it to a furniture company to get with the times in terms of slang, right jive turkeys?

You all may not notice this phenomenon, (you will now dammit!) But I have, because I’m just that observant. And once seen, it cannot be unseen. You can never purge yourself of what your eyes will have beheld. Just pay attention sometime and you’ll wonder to yourself “Hey, why is that lady smiling like a crazy person while looking at that Tide Detergent pod? What does she know that I don’t?”

Always wonder, my friends. Always wonder.

*The very phrase is an abomination.

Notel Motel

I’m a sucker for motels. I love ‘em! I often wish I was a white guy traveling salesman in the 50s and 60s so I could witness motels in their heyday.*

                                                                  ***

I imagine myself driving in my 1958 Chevrolet Emasculator, on Route 66, listening to Whitey McCracker & The Honkies (best music outside of Pat Boone. Much easier on the ears than those punk kids with their Rock and Roll or those damn beatniks with their bongos and jazz cigarettes!) As the sun sets in the west, I decide to pull over at a roadside diner to get a cuppa joe and eat the blue plate special (typically dry ass turkey with red-eye gravy, or warmed-over meatloaf that was conceived in Satan’s own oven many decades ago and is now old enough to vote) while looking over the day’s sports scores (go L.A. Sharks!).

After dinner, I’ll amble across the gravel parking lot to the adjoining Motor Hotel and bar. I’ll gulp three or four scotches (neat) and suck down half a pack of Pall Malls. Then, when my loins are suitably girded, I stagger over to the check-in counter and get a room key from Gus (or Mac, or Hank, something like that) and meander to my cabin, Room 5. I walk in, enjoy the splendor of the gleaming majesty that is American craftsmanship, design and execution, before peeling off my smelly 1950s loafers and falling face first on a quality bed with good, clean sheets. Dead to the world.

I wake up in the morning, make my way back over to the diner for three cups of coffee and my usual morning porterhouse steak with whiskey syrup. Then it’s back on the road on my way to Toledo. I hear only good things about that place and feel it would be a great market to sell door-to-door lock-picking kits.

                                                                  ***

Doesn’t that sound like fun?! That’s the life for me man! Long, lonely, monotonous days on the awesome highways and byways of the U S of A, and lonely, monotonous nights in tiny, horrendously maintained places where the wretched go to die. Throw in the occasional hooker (missing AT LEAST two teeth) and large quantities of gut-rotting booze and that’s living the American dream!

I know what you’re thinking, “Josh, motels are gross, you’re gross, and I think much less of you now for learning this about you, and I didn’t even think that was possible!” To which I say “Fine, then you’re not invited to my birthday party at the bowling alley this year.”

Let’s break down the attributes of your average motel. We’ll name it “The Discharge Inn”:

-It’s dirty (starting off vague and general here).
-The sheets haven’t been washed since snap bracelets were a thing.
-The walls are so thin you can hear somebody thinking in the next room.
-The pillows are oddly damp.
-That one light just won’t turn on and it makes that corner of the room exist in eternal darkness.
-What’s that sound?
-The bathroom contains its own ecosystem.
-The tap water is yellow and chunky.
-The bathtub just growled at me.
-Oh, hi Norman Bates.
-Seriously though, what is that sound?
-The carpet goes up to my ankles. Are carpets supposed to grow like hair?
-Listening to other people having violent, brutal, animalistic sex does not a good lullaby make.
-A free, secondhand high from the copious amount of weed overtly smoked everywhere.
-Plenty of free, preused condoms at your disposal.

And so on and so forth. And I have to admit, all of that is true. And worse. And that’s why I LOVE MOTELS! The more it looks like the scene of some grisly murder/suicide, or like a coven of CHUDs live there, the better.

I have been known, in the past, to just take pointless, random road trips. I hop in my car, point it in any direction and just go. My only rules are: 1. No Interstates, 2. No particular destination, 3. Motels when possible. This leads me to some very off-the-map places. At the Lakeview Motel, in Fannettsburg, PA, I met a curious collection of inhabitants. Lakeview was a cabin-style motel. The weird thing is that, of the dozen or so cabins that were there, all were occupied, yet I was the only customer. You see, everybody else just lived there. On my left side was a middle-aged woman, to my right was her daughter and granddaughter, (both grandmother and daughter worked at the honkey tonk behind the motel. I’m not entirely sure how living at a motel works. Do they have mailboxes? How does rent work? We may never know. Oh, and by the way, there was absolutely no lake to be viewed at all. Lies!

Once, a long time ago, I heard on the radio that according to the rules of salesmen on the road, that they’d buy porno mags, “use them” and then stuff them under motel mattresses for the next traveling salesman to “use.” Of course, I had to see if this was true. Six years later, after checking under mattress in dozens of motels, I finally found what I had been looking for. At some shitty motel in Battle Creek, Mich. (Sadly, I also discovered that there were three giant holes in the mattress created by a somnambulistic smoker. I was stuck in that room for a week.) Yes, I touched the magazine. No, I did not have direct physical contact with it. I went full on HAZMAT when I touched it, much like the Kardashians’ laundress does when handling their underwear. And also yes, the pages were sticky.

Anyway, that’s enough grossing you out for today. I’m on my way to my annual road trip, this time to Breezewood, PA., the “Town of Motels”.

Now where did I put my blacklight?

*And to drink at work and sexually harass and debase women AS GOD INTENDED!

We Can Rebuild Him, We Have The Technology

Congratulations ladles and jelly spoons! Eureka! We did it! You can pack up all your shit and go home now. The job is done. Science has achieved the unachievable! Obtained the unobtainable! Postered the preposterous!

Forget living on other planets! Screw aliens! Spare nary a thought on time travel, nor perpetual motion machines. The Matrix? Child’s play. And don’t even get me started on those damn hoverboards. All of those things are as a house made of sticks, to the stone house science has just created!

As I’m sure all of you knowledgeable, well-informed people have already heard, good old-fashion American SCIENCE! and KNOW-HOW! gave us the first attempted (and successful) full-on junx transplant!

Last month at Johns Hopkins Hospital (MOTTO: Forget about Ben Carson. We sure have.) An American service member underwent a 14-hour operation to replace some…body parts. It turns out that dude had his whole area blown way the hell off by a bomb in Afghanistan. This was a major deal. This explosion wasn’t like the plethora of times that Bugs Bunny has blown up Daffy Duck. This is more like…hmmm. Well, the closest thing I can compare it to is having a bomb explode your crotch into many small chunks scattered around a 25-foot radius.

Ouch.

It turns out that a majority of soldiers who are wounded in battle (or from Karaoke Night at Gus’s Saloon and Spittoon) and wake up in the hospital immediately ask if their twig and berries are still intact. Now that’s how proper priorities work!

Private Deacon: Uhh, hello?

Nurse: Sir, you’re awake!

Deacon: How long have I been out?

Nurse: Eight days. We were losing hope. The chaplain came by and spent two days praying by your side with your best friend. We flew your entire family out here in hopes that their very presence would somehow radiate hopefulness and good vibes. Bono and U2 wrote a song for…

Deacon: How’s my dick?

While there have been two previously successful johnson transplants, those were just the wangs. This soldier got a new dick AND balls. Both of dude’s legs were blown to hell right above the knees, but it was his manhood that really got him worked up.

“That injury, I felt like it banished me from a relationship,” he said in an interview last week. “Like, that’s it, you’re done, you’re by yourself for the rest of your life. I struggled with even viewing myself as a man for a long time.” * Of course this dude’s keeping his identity a secret. He probably wants to avoid the groupies and whatnot.

But the real question isn’t can we do this surgery? The question is should we do it?

The answer is a resounding: Nahhhh

Being the elite journalist that I am, I spent the day querying how people would feel if they either were given or interacted with transplanted genitalia. Naturally, this is both a delicate and serious topic. So I made sure to approach people and asked them with tact and discretion their thoughts. It went like this:

Me: Yo man, could you spend the rest of your life with somebody else’s DICk and BALLS between your legs?    

Invariably, most of the guys’ answers were quite similar. They ranged from “I can’t do it,” to “If my own shit was blown off I would have to set off another bomb for the rest of me.” Some guys simply sent me rude and offensive pictures and one gentleman even took a swing at me.

The women, on the other hand, were far more openminded about having interactions with relocated schlongs

Me: Yo, would you DO IT with a guy who had a phallus transplant?

“I probably would be ok with it as long as it works. It might be a little weird at first, but it’s not like I’m staring at it,” said one lady person.

Another responder answered “I mean, it doesn’t matter as long as he’s disease free and it’s consensual.”

So there you have it. Something happened and people think stuff about that something. They have opinions and beliefs and prejudices, and gingivitis. We have only scratched the surface of this topic here today in this column. There’s still a million questions to be resolved. Such as:

Is the dick the same color as the guy its attached to?
How do you bring a dead dick back to life?
Does it work?
Whose little soldiers are swimming around in that ball sack?
Can he get a chick pregnant?
Is it possible to get “phantom limb” syndrome with your dick?
Will the previous owner’s personality take over the new host and he’ll end up killing and/or making love to a lot of people?

All these questions and more were probably answered in the news article I just skimmed, but I’m too lazy to go back and read. So let’s just assume that science is magical and beyond our mortal comprehension. Science works in mysterious ways and we should all be humbled to be in science’s presence. **

*If he dated any of the women I‘ve dated, he’d consider himself lucky to not have to deal with relationships, amirite guys?!

**Ha! I made it through the whole thing without saying “penis” once!...Oh, wait.

The Dungeon

Most of us live relatively normal lives. We work, we play, we raise younglings, (who we must sometimes chop down with lightsabers to prove ourselves to Lord Sidious and the Dark Side). All and all, a pretty typical, monotonous existence. That’s probably why people do stuff like sky-dive or eat Tide Pods or experiment with veganism. It’s understandable.

But for some people, that’s not enough. They go where we dare not tread. They like to skulk in the shadows, the shady underbelly of society, (no, not Arby’s.) Living the deviant lives of which we can only dream. You know, like being a pizza delivery guy in a porno movie.

I speak of…The Dungeon.

A few years ago, when I wasn’t busy filming Vines and doing the Ice Bucket Challenge or whatever, I was a manager at a warehouse that assembled beauty and make up kits for ladies and bros who like to look pretty with voluminous hair*. My duties and responsibilities at the warehouse were varied and important and only slightly involved ogling women in an unprofessional fashion. But that’s a subject for another day, (and for my lawyer to deal with.)

The warehouse where I worked was part of a large complex of buildings and businesses. There was a landscaping company, a guy who would make you tee shirts and towels (or something like that, it was all pretty janky) a delicious-smelling bakery and…The Dungeon.

How do I describe this place without coming off like the naïve puritan that I so obviously am?

As far as I can tell, the Dungeon is a place where people film music videos, record songs, enjoy alcoholic beverages and engage in sexual dalliance with each other…possibly while filming videos and listening to music**. It’s kind of confusing what that place was about. Even the business’ own set of rules is vague on the concept.

I only encountered the Dungeon after it was abandoned. My boss needed more warehouse space, and since that section of the complex was recently vacated (I think it had something to do with an FBI sting, or maybe INTERPOL) he was able to get it for cheap. And when we went to explore it, it really looked like the Dungeon had been abandoned in the middle of the night, because there was an odd assortment of items scattered about. Like a sex swing, (don’t Google that one kiddies, Big Brother is watching!). I’ve never used a sex swing before, so I’m not entirely sure how they work or how people get introduced to them. Who commits financially to buying a sex swing unless they know they’ll get plenty of use out of it? And if you were dating somebody who already owned one, wouldn’t that set off some alarms in your head?

I also found this:

Yes. Latex polish. A real product being hawked by the freakiest superhero mascot with a porn-‘stache since Buttplug Man. What is latex polish? I assume it’s something one uses to polish their gimp suit. I didn’t know that was an issue people had, but then again, I don’t own any items of clothing made out of latex, I dropped the ball on that one, sorry. My favorite part of "Black Beauty" latex polish is the name of the distributing company. I think it’s quite apt.

The owners and patrons of the Dungeon weren’t just sexual heretics (great band name). They were also accomplished artists as exemplified by the bathrooms. There were surprisingly few used condoms in the trash. Although I do believe the roaches probably had herpes.

My only regret is that in the years I spent working within a stone’s throw of a sex club, I found out about the Dungeon too late. It’s like…finding out you live next to a sex club the day after it closes. 

Well, I guess the only thing I can do is create my own place for people to get down and dirty. What should I call it?

*I’ll never know the feeling of hair such as that. I weep.

**2LiveCrew always does it for me.

NO(!)stalgia

These are dark days. Murky clouds gather above us and blot out the bright light of the Esoterica. The light has been shut out to those who thrive in its radiance.

Basically, what I’m saying it’s no fun being into obscure or old stuff right now. Especially 80s stuff. That nostalgia shit is everywhere and will only get worse instead of better.

The 1980s were a decade. New decades seem to come around every ten years or so. It’s mysterious. That particular decade is similar to ones that came before and after it. People existed, they wore clothes, listened to music, had extremely specific hairstyles that were instantly outlawed by the following decade and they probably ate food.

So what makes the 80s different/special?

Well, in a way, nada. In other ways everything (I’m nothing if not specific). The 80s saw the dawning of the computer age, as exemplified in movies like Tron, War Games, D.A.R.Y.L. and Explorers. It was also the heyday of cocaine, as demonstrated by Scarface and everything that Stephen King was involved in.

But while I could easily write multiple columns about how tits the 80s were, they’d be incredibly boring to anybody who considers hip hop from 2000 to be “old school”. The question isn’t “why are the 80s so popular?” it’s “why are the 80s popular now?” Easy.

People who, as children, suckled on the teat of the 80s, (me and most likely you if you’re reading this) are the leading generation. We’re in charge now, and that means that all the garbage we grew up on is now, by law, bodacious and relevant again. No matter how obscure (or, let’s be honest, in retrospect --terrible) the pop culture of yesteryear was, it was ours goddamn it and we will drag it, kicking and screaming, into the 21^st century and shove it down everybody’s throats like a hot dog at an eating contest, (just sit there and picture that scenario for a minute.)

This isn’t fair for other generations, but too bad. I had to grow up living under the nostalgia umbrella of Generation X (motto: Our music can only be written in minor keys and all our rappers must have ‘MC’ in their names.) And they were forced to deal with their hippy drippy parents’ cultural memories. It is, as my friend Elton Jonathan once called it: “The Mobius Strip of Life”, never-ending and very unsatisfying.

The problem for people like me, those who swim in the waters of incredibly specific and pointless things from the past, is that the market has been saturated. Thanks to schlock like Ready Player One and Stranger Things, you can barely take a step without bumping into She-Ra or Hacksaw Jim Duggan.* There is no room for people like me. We used to gather in the secret places (comic book shops and bars) to discuss things like who would win in a fight between Airwolf and Blue Thunder. Because to let people know what geeky stuff we were into branded us as pariahs to our peers. But no longer. Now that which was niche is mainstream. But at what cost!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a butthurt fanboy, mad that the rest of the world is finally being introduced to stuff I’ve been into for decades. I’m all about sharing the wealth. So far, my boy Mr. Brooks is the only dude I know who can rank Duck Tales episodes with me based on how spectacular Launchpad’s crashes were. I’d love to bring more people into the fold. That way my sister won’t look at me like a crazy jerk anymore. But let’s give the 80s a break, shall we? No more reboots, remakes, re-animators or rebuttals. We don’t need any of our beloved (and objectively bad) movies turned into tv shows, or our choking-hazards masquerading as toys turned into movies with three sequels. The let past go. Or pick another decade.

I’ve heard good things from my southern friends about the 1860s.

*And I feel cheap for even making those references.

21 Things I Learned in 2014

2014 was a hell of a year. I don’t just mean culturally, because that’s a given. It was shit. A shit year. Terrible in most ways. But on a more individual level, it feels as if the weight of the entire, craptastic year was dumped right on people’s heads.

I feel that 2014 was the year where a lot of die-hard optimists removed their rose-colored glasses, looked at the cultural wasteland at their feet and took a collective dump out of fear and resentment.

A lot of people are using the birth of 2015 to look forward to new beginnings and wondrous opportunities. Maybe marriage looms for some; for others children; and for still others My Little Pony sleeve tattoos abound. It’s an exciting future. But before 2015 rears up and does its best Bill Cosby impression* all over our tender, innocent minds, I’m going to try to remember what I learned last year so I don’t make the same mistakes again.

That’s right. I’ve got a future full of new mistakes to make! But, until then I’ll remember that…

1.       Just about everything is overrated. But nothing started out that way.

2.       Stupidity and blind positivity are the new religions. They help people cope with the garbage they slog through every day.

3.       Don’t bother pointing out that stupidity of positivity in those around you. People aren’t fans of others pointing out their mistakes, weaknesses or inconsistencies. Even if you think you’re helping. It pays to be a dummy. Nobody likes a wiseguy.

4.       Having an opinion, point of view or correction to make is never as important as knowing when to express it. Which is typically never. Reality is not always well-received. See point 3.

5.       Everybody knows that the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes. They’re too lazy to point it out.

6.       You can’t change people until they are receptive to voices other than their own. If you just accept people for who they are, you’ll save yourself oodles of aggravation and flow more freely through life.

7.       People are constantly trying to change each other. Nobody is good enough as they are. Divorces, breakups and apartment building fires result.

8.       People are too busy being the loudest voice filling the void of the internet, to be bothered with things like knowledge, research or facts.

9.       The truth is a dirty slut who can bend more than the most limber of Mongolian contortionists, and is more submissive than a Japanese businessman being threatened with tentacle porn.**

10.   Raising awareness is a far more lofty and noble ambition than actually doing something. Why bother making a difference when you can always tell other people about the problem and hope they do something for the both of you.

11.   Americans also seem to equate throwing money at problems with solving said problems. There hasn’t been a problem man, nor nature, has created that can’t be solved by large quantities of green pieces of paper.

12.   Whether you’re an optimist or a pessimist, how you view life is a choice. You choose to ignore some things and focus on others. Keep that in mind when you write sarcastic blogs. Or mindless tweets.

13.   Everything is horrible and there’s nothing you can do about it.

14.   We try to teach our kids to be themselves, be unique or special. Disney has pretty much cornered the market on those morals.

15.   We teach adults to shut up, fit in and be like the rest of the cogs. To stand out is a defect, an abnormality. Peer pressure is the worst when you’re a kid, it’s vital to the functioning of society when you’re an adult.

16.   If a singer wants to sing about past relationships they win awards and get rich. If I want to just think about the past I’ve got issues and need to let go of stuff.

17.   Perception and superficiality are far more important than substance. We demand words over actions in all arenas. As long as you look like you care about something, people are satisfied. See points 10 and 11.

18.   There is no such thing as equality or fairness. Especial not fairness. Life won’t fit into the rules and laws that we arbitrarily create. Sometimes, no matter what, be it everybody’s fault or nobody’s fault, some things just end up sucking leper taints.

19.   Everybody lies all the time. To themselves most of all. People hate that they lie to themselves, but feel that it's a necessary evil. This leads to crazy brains. We all have those.

20.   Don’t believe all the bad hype about giving up. Don’t listen to all the nonsense about positive thinking.

21.   It’s easier to be part of the crowd. It’s more fulfilling to not.

* A year ago, talking about somebody doing a Bill Cosby impression would have meant a whole other thing. It was a simpler time back then. Birds used to sing, children used to play in parks. Were we ever so naïve?

**Those two random references aside, I love our neighbors to the Far East.

 

Please Inquire in Spain (or, Nobody Expects it!)

Seville, Spain, 1579

Even in the early hours of the day the people could tell that the day would bring sweltering heat, thanks to the lazy, late summer sun. The people did their best to escape the sky’s light. But deep down in the castle’s dungeon, the stone blocks that made up the slightly moist walls kept the atmosphere cool.

Two figures walked along the cramped quarters of the sepultural corridors. One was short and carried a sheath of papers. The other was tall and foreboding, dressed in red garments as deep as blood. The figure in red began to speak.

“Okay Bruce, what do we have going on today?”

“Well sir, we have the usual poor, deluded souls to force to confess…”

“Convince, Bruce. We convince. Don’t use the ‘f’ word anymore. PR was really insistent on that. Turns out we’re giving the wrong impression about what we do down here. Lord knows it matters. Haaa! *Ahem* Carry on Bruce.”

“Yes sir, besides the usual amount of…eager converts, Eduardo the Extra Holy is supposed to be stopping by to inspect the iron maidens. You know, the same old thing. Checking if the hinges are properly oiled and the blood collection trays are empty and clean.”

“Ughhh. Eduardo. I hate that guy! He acts all holier-than-thou…”

“Well sir, it is kind of in his name,” Bruce ventured.

“We all went to the same seminary and we all learned how to ‘convince’ Jews and Muslims to confess their sins the same way.” Bishop Carocchio said with a sideway glance. “I don’t get how he got a promotion nickname before I did! Alright Bruce, get the slaves, or whatever we call the minions these days, to clean everything. But not too clean, because then it’ll look like we don’t use any of the equipment, (like the annual budget isn’t small enough). Knock the dents out of the thumb screws, make sure the ropes on the racks are taut and throw a new layer of straw on the floor to soak up the excess blood.”

“Yes master.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Ummm, oh, today is Antonio’s birthday, we’re going to have fortified wine and some bread in the break chamber, and it’s also Mauricio’s last day.”

“Wow. No shit. Already? Seems like Mauricio came to us just the other month, dewy-eyed and eager to put the hurtin’ on some heathen Jews.”

“It was just the other month sir. Turns out that he stubbed his toe on one of the dissection tables and managed to get a nice workers’ comp deal.”

“I swear, these new workplace rules are killing me! I remember the days were you’d go home with an accidentally severed arm and you were grateful! These days, a novice gets a hangnail and he goes home with a fat sack of doubloons.

Alright, we’ll celebrate the birthday and the retirement at the same time. Give Mauricio the cheapest hourglass we have as a farewell gift.”

Suddenly, a man runs up to Bishop Carocchio, out of breath and panting heavily. After a few moments, he catches his breath.

“Your semi-holiness! There’s been a…”

“Ah, ah, ah. Try it again and say it correctly this time, lowly swine,” Carocchio said, rolling his eyes.

“Yes sir. Sorry. Oh Bishop Carocchio, He-Who-Has-God’s-Ear (and a God-sized dong), The Scourge of Barcelona, Monsignor of Mayhem, Mr. Brooks…”

“I’m still not entirely sold on that last one,” the Bishop said hesitantly.

“Give it time sir,” said Bruce. “You’ll warm up to it. The guys in marketing said that it’s really testing well in Toledo.”

“Toledo? What a Godforsaken shithole. I can think of no worse place to inhabit or visit in all of Spain!”   

“…may I continue sir?”

“Proceed.”

“The prisoners are attempting to revolt and escape sir! They mean to win Wimbledon!”

“Not entirely sure what that means, but this is bad timing. Besides today’s inspection, Torquemada is in town. If he hears about this, we’re all screwed! Deploy the guards! Get them some pikes and swords and shit! Stab whatever they can, then hide the bodies in one of the rear cells before the inspection! Go man! Go!”

The Bishop shakes his head as the little man runs away to follow out his orders. “These people wouldn’t know how to tighten their bodkins without me. Also, Bruce, can you check to make sure that bodkins is a chronologically correct reference?”

“I’m sure it is your holy-ish. You make nary a mistake.”

“True. True.” He said with an authoritative nod. “By the way, where are with this month’s quota of converts?”

“We have reached 84% of the expected converts and 134% of the confessors/corpses.”

“Oh dear, sounds like the ‘convincing artists’ (honestly, who in PR comes up with this stuff?) are getting a little feisty again. Go out into the back alleys and hire a few of the vagrants and wastrels to stand in as converts for the afternoon. Offer them some bread and a few alms. Then just chuck their dead bodies into the river after Eduardo leaves.”

“Of course master.”

“Alright. Looks like things are good to go out here. I’m going to retire to my chambers to fast and pray to the Lord, our God….Just kidding! I’m going to molest some young boys and make an offering to Ba’al. The floor’s all yours Bruce!”

The Reasonably Attractive Game

“Josh! Eight years of writing this blog nonsense and barely a word about soccer? But it’s your favorite sport! What’s the deal?” people constantly say to me (as far as you know.)

Favorite sport? I don’t know about that, though it certainly is in the top five, along with ping-pong, laser tag, duck, duck goose and “speed staring” (a small but fast growing sport, jump on the bandwagon now). I have been playing it since I was in first grade, (three hundred years ago) so it has always held a special place in my heart. And considering that it’s that time of year when Americans want to pretend like they care about soccer, what better moment to chime in with my two cents? (Never is also an acceptable answer).

Let me begin with that classic topic: soccer vs football. Actually, no. Let me not address at all because it’s a bullshit waste of time. Call it Ball-Kickers if you want. Hell, it makes sense and sounds more bad-ass than soccer or football. Or, let’s all just call it Greg.

“Hey, who wants to go out and play some Greg?”

“No thanks. We have too much self-respect. Time for some Mario Kart.”

Maybe that’s not such a great idea.

Anyway, I was introduced to soccer at a young age. First I tried basketball, but the concept of running around while bouncing a ball seemed odd to me. I was too distracted by how goofy that looked to be an effective player. Next I tried baseball, but instantly saw the disadvantages of standing in one place while a person you may not know or trust throws a small, heavy sphere straight at your head. Later as a kid, I was fortunate to hear what it sounds like when a bat connects with a person’s head, when swung at a high velocity. I was hundreds of feet away. It was both loud and blood-curdling.

I enjoyed playing football as well, when I was young, but didn’t feel that it required the same amount of skill. Being bigger than other kids didn’t involve special training. Soccer on the other hand needed speed, skills, strength, stamina and sexy thighs. All things I had in abundance. Well, maybe not the skill portion, but I’d like to think I made up for it with spunk. And steroids.

I’ve played on many teams in my day, including a few club teams, (like The Silver Spring Express) school teams (Blazers) and other various (The Sticky Palms*).

One of the highlights of my soccer career was back in 2003 when I was part of a group of American soldiers who played a game against a group of Iraqi soldiers. They beat the shit out of us. Half of them weren’t wearing shoes. There are never any IEDs when you need them.

The other highlight was once in high school when my friend Alex and I somehow conned our way into the announcer’s booth during a home game and went completely off script with the color commentary. We claimed one of the players on our team was Wyclef and his newest album would be dropping soon. We were quickly chased away and asked to never return to any future games. Whatever. They sucked anyway.

I was never as good of a player as I thought in my head, but I had fun. Most of the time. My favorite position was defender because I was fast and wanted to be more involved in the letting-people-come-to-me aspect of soccer, instead of the run-around-like-a-crazy-person aspect of the game. Because that shit sounded exhausting.

My fondest memory is when our team got to represent our country and the big tournament final was against Germany. Our coach, Mr. Brooks, mad us use our special play called the “triple deek” to… no, wait, that was The Mighty Ducks. Gee, maybe I don’t have any fond memories. That seems like a shame.

Oh wait. Soccer chicks. Soccer chicks are a great memory. Hooray for me. And hooray for the American team playing in the World Cup, (thought I forgot all about the World Cup, didn’t you?**)

*Contrary to how ridiculous those names are, I was not in charge of the naming process and cannot be blamed.

**I totally forgot to mention the World Cup. Maybe the topic will come around again in another eight years.

Schnietz Marphis

There it was. Right there on the curb. Who would abandon such a beautiful thing? It was all black and about six feet long. The cushions cradled your buttocks as you sank into a position of pure, unparalleled comfort and optimum television watching.

It was the couch of couches, and his name was Schnietz Marphis.

He called to me that bleak October morning. As I walked to classes (Physics of Ren & Stimpy 204) I felt a pull, a force drawing me to an alley. I didn’t know it then, but I know now. It was the presence of Schnietz, compelling me.

Thoughts of attending class immediately vanished from my mind. There was only The Couch. With infinite care, I managed to drag, pull, carry it back to my apartment. The going was easy, The Couch wanted me to take it. It needed a home, a host, a vessel. I would be the caretaker of The Couch I and I alone was worthy to own and sit in such majesty.

Once we reached my abode, I quickly pushed aside all other furniture. My old, unworthy couch was tossed out the window in haste. It landed unceremoniously on the lawn, where it disintegrated onto pieces. My apartment was on the tenth floor, it was quite a fall.

I sat down in an ordinary, nameless chair across from my new acquisition and studied it. Who knew what adventures it had encountered? What lives it had changed? What mysteries were woven within the threads of the seat cushions? I could hardly contain my excitement at the thought of what my new relationship with Schnietz.

A knock on the door drew me away from my flights of imagination. It turns out that it was my friend Frost asking where I had been for the last three days. I looked down and realized he was right. I was still wearing the same clothes I’d been wearing when I first met Schnietz Marphis.

He asked me who that was and I pointed to The Couch. Frost looked appalled. He asked me where I got it and expressed disgust at its condition.

I was shocked by his questions and observations. Who was he to cast aspersions at my dear new friend? And why did he want to know where I got it? Was he jealous? He must be! He wanted a couch for himself, to show off. No, even worse. He wanted mine! He was going to steal my beloved and keep it for himself. 

I eyed him wearily. His facial expression betrayed his intentions. I knew his schemes now, there was no hiding them. And for Frost, there could be no escape.

Wait. Who said that? Was that my idea? Frost was my friend, he had no use for a new couch. Why would I think otherwise?

Then Frost’s eyes grew wide. I followed his gaze and saw that The Couch was pulsating with a deep black glow. It was a shade of black I had never seen before. A shade I’m sure nobody had seen before. It was too black. It hurt my eyes and I began to feel nauseous looking at it. The glow bore into my skull and my brain throbbed with an incredible pain. But I was trapped, unable to look away. I doubled over and started to retch. Near to me, I could hear Frost doing the same thing. Then my legs buckled. I collapsed on the floor. Dead to the world.

I woke up sometime later, not entirely sure where I was. Then I felt the fabric beneath me and immediately knew where I was. I jumped up with a shock and fell to the floor. At Schnietz’s base. I had no idea how I had ended up on The Couch, or where Frost was.

With no warning (but to be fair, what kind of a warning can a couch give?) one of the seat cushions raised up and a limp arm partly fell out. Crawling over, I looked under the cushion and there was Frost, staring back up at me. I say at me, but it was more like through me. Lifelessly. Whereas I had been passed out, Frost had not been as lucky.

I stood up on shaky legs and leaned over to pull Frost’s body out of the couch and figure out exactly what had happened. Maybe he was still alive and I could get him to a hospital.

That’s when the cushion snapped down, severing Frost’s arm. It fell to the floor, blood lazily seeping out. A little club soda would take care of that stain, I thought. With a bit of a manic giggle. I couldn’t believe I was making jokes while my friend’s arm lay on the floor, his body lodged somewhere in the bowels of a piece of furniture.

I tried raising the cushions. They lifted easily. I was scared to look inside, but I had to see. With my eyes half-closed I warily looked in. It was empty, save for a few pennies and a cheeto (which tasted extra stale). There was no Frost.

Out of nowhere the front door burst open in a cloud of splinters. A man ran into the room yelling at me and brandishing some kind of gun in his hand. He kicked me away from The Couch and aimed his weapon at it. A flame shot out and engulfed (such an overused word when paired with fire and flames, in my opinion) Schnietz completely. Still yelling, the man dropped the weapon and began to awkwardly drag me out of the apartment. I got to my feet and ran out of the door as the fire spread around the room. Everything was burning, even my copy of Requiem for a Dream, starring Jennifer Connelly. I could swear that I could hear a high-pitched scream coming from within. With a last look, I saw The Couch shake and twist in ways that were physically impossible, almost as if it were bending in and out of this reality. And then my view was obscured by smoke and I was outside, coughing my lungs out.

I felt a sharp pain in my left arm. Looking over, I saw that the man had stabbed me with a needle. That’s when I passed out. Again.

I (again) woke up woozily. I looked around and saw that I was back in my apartment. Or at least a duplicate of it. Standing over me was the man who had randomly burned down my place. Or so I had thought at the time. He was standing over me with a smile. He identified himself simply as Chester and helped me to sit up.

My confusion over what had just happened kind of had most of my attention. I tried to ask what was going on, but my mouth was dry, full of smoke and useless. Seeing my trouble with words, Chester decided to speak. He told me that he worked for a man named Mr. Brooks. He said that they had been tracking The Couch for months in an attempt to destroy it. With a straight face, he told me that it was possessed by a being known as Roseus, who enslaved and killed men. She seemed to really have a thing against people born with penises. He also said that once The Couch has been consumed (there, that’s much better than engulfed, right?) by the fire, it was gone, along with all the damage done to my place. Unfortunately, Frost had not reappeared.

With that, Chester left and I was on my own. Everything back to the way it was, minus two couches and a best friend. Also, I had missed a week of classes as well as showers. I was failing and smelly. I sat on the floor and wondered if I’d ever see things normally again.

It’s been five months and shit is not normal. I swear that Schnietz keeps showing up in random places. And I don’t mean that I’m seeing it out of the corner of my eye (although I have), but places it shouldn’t be, like TV shows, movies, (including movies that came out decades ago) books, magazines and even blogs. I have no idea when or where I’ll see it. But the sightings are becoming more and more frequent. It’s only a matter of time. See, Schnietz Marphis is still in my head, like a comfortable seat with plush cushions. And I can just feel my mind sinking deeper and deeper. I have a new sofa. I think I’ll go take a nap now.

A Brand New Day

The first thing I was aware of was a general feeling of numbness. It was all over my body, so engulfing that it felt like I didn’t have a body at all. I wondered if I was laying down, or floating. And if I was laying down, where was I?

I opened my eyes. The only difference was that instead of everything being the usual black hues a person sees when their eyes are closed, everything was a foggy white. Am I blind, I thought? And if so, are my other senses enhanced? Because I’m all about being a superhero.

“Hello? Sir, are you awake?” said a female voice, somewhere in the haze.

I tried to answer, (assuming she was talking to me) but it seems that I’d left my mouth in my other pants (is that even a saying anymore?) and all I could get out was a string of drool and random vowels.

“Aaaaaeeeeeoo?” I responded casually.

“It’s alright if you can’t talk sir. One of the side effects of the medication is dry mouth. Here, have some water,” the voice said. “Wait a minute, let’s get your eyes clear first.”

I felt a cloth rubbed across my eyes and my vision cleared. I looked around to get my bearings. I was on a bed in a white room, surrounded by white things. White walls, white towels, white curtains and white uniforms. The only things that weren’t white were the IV bags and the tubes going into my arms. One bag-tube combination was a very bright, dark red. Blood. I was in a hospital.

I slowly turned my head to my right. There was my family. I instantly felt depressed and embarrassed.

My mother took a step forward and pushed the IV stand to the side so she could put her hand on mine. Her cheeks were wet.

“Hello son. How are you feeling?”

“Head hurtsh,” I managed to say.

“No shit,” I vaguely heard my father say. “You banged the crap out of your head on the floor. You have no idea how much blood I had to clean.”

“Hush Lloyd,” my mother turned her head to admonish my father. “He really doesn’t need to hear that right now. Go buy a soda or something from the cafeteria.” She turned back to me and gave me the saddest smile I had ever seen. It broke what was left of my heart. My father muttered under his breath as he left the room.

“So why did you do it son?” Mom asked me.

I turned away. Partly out of disgust that I had failed, partly because I didn’t know how to explain it to her. I wasn’t sure I understood it myself.

“Please son, I want to know what I can do to help you.”

Leave it to a mom. They carry you (unbidden, I’d like to point out) for nine months, in their bodies and they think they own you. They’re always proud of your accomplishments, always there to make you feel better when you’re sick, damn, stupid supportive of you in the choices you make in life. It’s enough to make you… well, not do what I did, but it sure makes you wonder if you tell her you love her enough. It’s that crazy combination of love and guilt that helps form us into whatever we are as adults. And today I felt as if I’ve failed her.

 “I dunno,” I mumbled.

“Ma’am,” the voice of the nurse on my left returned. “He’s still recovering. It may be best to let him rest a little while longer.”

My mom nodded weakly and gave me that damn pitiful smile again. Then she turned and took my little brother’s arm and began to walk out of the room. My brother broke free and ran over to my bed. Great, just what I need. What do I say to him? Not only does he look up to me, I’m not entirely sure he gets what happened.

Instead, all he does is punch me in the arm, tells me scars are cool, shows me his scar from falling off his bike last fall, and then runs out of the room. What a relief. The drugs do their work and I go back to sleep.

When I wake up again, the lights are off. It must be nighttime.

“Good evening,” says a deep, masculine voice to my right. The voice has some kind of accent, but I can’t tell what it is. It’s oddly continental, as if the voice’s owner had been everywhere and absorbed a bit of every place he’s been.

I looked to my right and saw a man, dressed in a black suit, sitting on a black couch and looking at me with curious, amused eyes. He looked as if he was ready to offer his hand to shake, but saw the tubes and decided not to. Instead, he introduced himself as Mr. Brooks and said he has an offer for me.

“I know why you’re here son,” he says, without a trace of pretentiousness. “Tell me, what’s her name?”

“Roseus,” I say weakly.

“Ahhh,” he nods in affirmation. “I thought as much. She does manage to make the rounds. Oh, no offense son.” He said with a slight chuckle.

I know I should be pissed off, but I can tell that he doesn’t mean it as an insult. Besides, I’m in no condition to do anything about it.

“Tell me, what if you could forget all about her? Erase her from your thoughts and go on to lead the rest of your life any way you see fit, with nary a passing memory of her to burden you ever again?”

I must be dreaming. Hooray for drugs!

“No, you’re not dreaming. I’m very real and I’m here with a one-time offer.”

Wait, did I say that thing about dreaming? Or think it?

“It doesn’t matter,” he offered. “So what do you think?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Brooks, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s talk hypothetically. Let’s say that there are two doors in front of you. One door leads to the rest of your current life, the eternal agony of memories of “her” and all the shame that comes when you leave the hospital. Not to mention who knows how many more…um attempts?” He waved generally over my injured body and the room I was in.

“The other door leads you to a life that is yet to be discovered. You have no idea what will or won’t happen. All you know is that you’ll never remember her or anything about her ever again. So again, hypothetically, if you could choose one door, which one would it be?”

I’m no dummy, I’m proud to say. Well, taking into account my current situation, I guess I’m a dummy twice over. Anyway, I know my Monkey’s Paw type situation when I hear it. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is a simple one. It all depends on how far you’re willing to go. You might find that you don’t want to get rid of some memories. You might find that some memories are intrinsically connected to others. It all depends on the person and the depth and length of the memories. And, it all depends on how well you choose to navigate your own mind and memories.” He stood and walked over to me. Well, I want to say walk, but as far as I can tell (maybe it’s the drugs again) it looks like he’s gliding. “It’s really a small price to pay to be rid of “her” and all memories, good or bad. No need to feel that pain again. No need to put your heart though such torment. It’s a Brand New Day for you son. What do you say?” He smiled, somewhat hypnotically.

The possibilities are more than I can imagine right now, but I know that if I could have erased my memories earlier, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t hurt so much, physically or emotionally. I wouldn’t have made my mother cry or disappointed my dad. I can think of only one question. “What is it?”

His answer is one, enigmatic word.

“Oubliette.”