Friday, July 31, 2009

Of Facebook surveys and Existence

Over a week has past since my last post, and much of that computer time has been spent tending a make-believe farm, fighting a make-believe war, and talking to make-believe people, all on Facebook. Not all the people are make-believe, but at least a couple are, and they really want me to buy a boner pill. Or something.

Most of the people on Facebook with whom I am a friend and a "friend" are flesh and blood Homo sapiens sapiens. Except for that fellow in Slovakia, who is an Australopithecus afarensis.

High school type surveys are frequently sent around, and I can't help but answer them. Time wasters. Here's a real example, which I've answered honestly:

Kissed anyone one of your facebook friends? Yes
Been arrested? Three times
Kissed someone you didn't like? No, but sex, yes.
Held a snake? Yes
Ran a red light? Yes
Been suspended from school? Yes
Totaled your car/motorbike in an accident? Big time
Kissed in the rain? Yes
Pee'd in the shower? Yes
Broken a bone? Yes
Blacked out from drinking? Yes
Felt like killing someone? Yes
Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? Yes

And there you have it. La.

These are not questions that adults really find all that interesting, though. Except for peeing in the shower and number of arrests, those I like. I'm a big fan of people telling me what they do in the bathroom and shower. It's revealing about the humans. Peeing in the shower is just normal, but shitting in the shower, that may be rarer. And on the toilet, some stand before wiping, some remain seated. And on and on.

Years ago, a man working for my father's business told me that he showers after every fart. I was 13 at the time, and found that funny as all get out. That man later put my head through a window for calling him a "Fuddy Duddy" in the presence of a woman he was hitting on. If you don't believe me, ask my brother. I stuck to my bro like glue back then, and we spent our days in Harvard Square, mostly at Million Year Picnic, a comic book store.

The question about being arrested also interests me, mainly because I've been arrested several times. One was for shoplifting. Another started as shoplifting, but my attempt to create a diversion for a getaway got me thrown in the pokey on a more serious charge. Long story better left untold. The final arrest was with a bunch of anarchists. Myself and another fellow totally destroyed an inflatable Starbuck's cup in Central Square after marching from Harvard Square. This was years ago, but I still remember him slashing the thing with a knife (he had a large one, I don't know why), while I unplugged it from the blower and crushed the prongs on the plug. It was hanging like a flaccid penis within a minute. Le sigh. Good times.

And then there are the other times that I wasn't arrested, but I was taken to a locked psychiatric ward, but not against my will.

So instead of asking people if they ever kissed a boy or farted in an elevator, I'll pick three questions that actually interest me. To answer, simply make a comment or post it on Facebook. Here goes...

1. Do you believe in an afterlife?
2. Are you generally satisfied with existence?
3. Have you ever forgiven your partner for cheating on you? Or could you?

And if you feel compelled, you can answer the bonus question. Have you ever farted during sex? C'mon, you can tell me.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Of Harpsichords and Eliza

Sadly, it appears to be another lovely day. Drenched in sunshine, nothing between the blue sky with the universe beyond and my fleshy body. Cloudless days make me feel fragile and naked, for when I look up above the horizon I see a beckoning path I cannot take. Damn gravity. Held here, and for what?

Sex, cheesecake, coffee and sex. Ok, fair enough.

Last night, as Linda and I snogged and listened to Donny play the harpsichord, a neighbor's birthday party got a bit loud and the din interrupted our happy scene. From the second floor window of my flat, we could look into the courtyard below, although it was very dark. And from the darkness screams and laughter as children chased each other with water pistols and balloons. My neighbor, T, is a friend, so we said nothing. Weekends during the summer sometimes get loud around here.

As Donny went back to his playing, and I strained to hear the music he produced, I got angry. It was getting close to midnight, and it was time they wrapped up their little shindig. "I'm sorry, T, but it's getting late," I said to myself.

With that in mind, I went to the closet to get the perfect tool for this particular dilemma; my 7.62 M24 Sniper rifle. As I gently swabbed the glass on my Leopold Mark 4 scope, Linda shook her head. "You're not going to shoot another neighbor, are you?" She was referring to a fellow, several flats down, who yelled at me for parking in "his" space. I had to shoot him, though. Had to.

"You know, my love, that raining down death from above is the best way to clear the courtyard and get some quiet for our little concert, " I replied. Linda agreed, of course, but just didn't like it. Neither did I, but that's just the way it is. Some things will never change.

The first one to go down was Mortimer Tosch, another Town Meeting Member and registered sex offender. He wasn't invited to the party T was throwing, and stood at the perimeter, in the dim ring around a streetlight. The cross-hairs settled on Mortimers head, concealed beneath a Oakland Raiders cap, and my M24 (whom I call "Eliza") registered a loud "crack!" and Morty spun around, clutching his neck. And then he fell just as his scream reached me, like a protest from a dead man.

People were scattering now, and it was impossible to see in the darkness. A couple more shots and a few minutes later and the courtyard between the two buildings was as a dark, silent void. Linda shook her head and chuckled as I slid Eliza into her Kolpin Black Rhino gun case and motioned to Donny to continue playing Scarlatti's Sonata in "D" Major.

The police, with their sirens, were harder to dispel.