White lightning (Broken sidewalk)

This will not end well

I.

So why are the bulk of serial killers white males? 

If a brown or black male kills just one person, their entire race and ethnicity is called into question. What is up with arabs, hispanics, blacks and immigrants? Ole Sameer who shot up Akiko’s last Friday on Bardstown road also torched cars back in June of last year. Are they violent as a people? Do they hate us? Is every one of them a potential killer and rapist?

The answer, if you are white, is of course they are. Goes without saying really. 

But when a straight, white, male shoots a dozen plus people, no one asks what is up with white males? What has them so lonely, violent, and bizarrely methodical?

What (Dis)connection are we missing?

II.

When you play a video game, most allow you to choose a difficulty setting prior to playing. Rookie/easy, experienced/medium and veteran/hard are three typical setting levels, right? There are more of course but these will do.

If you select easy, you can expect the game to allow for your mistakes. The games built in opponents don’t seem that organized or good at hitting you or capitalizing on your errors. At the hard setting they are all over you. The game opponent is exacting. Make a mistake and forget it. They pounce.

Being a straight white male is like having the setting put to easy at birth. It’s not a guarantee that all will be easy, only that life's built in opponents are not automatically set against you with all their abilities. You can fuck up and still reach the power ups, level ups and prizes. Shit is in plain sight for you. 

Being a black male for example is like having the setting set to difficult at birth. It’s not a guarantee that you will fail but your not getting any breaks anytime soon and if you slip up, shits coming down on you fast. Your going to have to move twice as fast to reach the same level ups as the easy setting. More is hidden. Penalties are steeper. (Credit to John Scalzi for the construct)

Don’t agree? Chances are that’s because your white, male and straight. “But, it was still hard!”, you will say. Of course it was. No one begrudges you that. Maybe you even had it on medium setting but lets not begrudge those who have the setting preset to difficult shall we? If they could choose easy, they would. 

But for the sake of a bigger argument, lets say the above is true. Or true enough. Remember the word like doesn’t mean is. Just means resembles or has the same characteristics. 

So put that AK-47 down for Christ’s sake you loony. Sit still and eat your chic-fil-a.

III.

If its so easy, why the angst and mass shootings? What has young, white, males so bent on destruction of what appears to be random victims?

Part of the answer lies in how you see media. All media. When you see shows like “24”,  and movies like “Taken” as indoctrinating/training videos, you will understand more. “Battle L.A.” was a recruiting video. What?

You heard me. Only then does the randomness fall away.  But as yet, you are not there. Its just entertainment, right?

War in Syria? Shoosh. American Idol is on.

IV.

The documentary “Confessions of a Superhero” will astound you. But you haven’t seen it because documentaries are boring and very little in them explodes with fire or orgasms. I only watched it because I had masturbated myself raw and needed a break. It follows four failed actors who have assumed their costumed heroes identity and panhandle for tips on hollywood boulevard’s sidewalks. 

   The failed- security guard- character of batman tries very hard to convince you he was once a bad man. Not to be trifled with. But as empty as that myth is and as embarrassing as it is to watch him try to convince us and himself, he can’t give it up. Its who he is now. And since he values that myth, he figures you must to. When anyone ruptures that myth, he gets angry. Really angry. And arrested.

V.

The original ending of “I am Legend” had the zombies allowing Neville (Will Smith) to live if he returned the zombie female he took- back to them. The ‘others’ weren’t mindless fiends. They had a culture. Screeners didn’t like it and it was altered for your palates. 

We want our monsters to be monsters. 

Non-straight, white, males know this all to well.

VI. 

When you have too many options and nothing to define you...You get anxiety. The fact that you DON’T have defining monsters actually makes it worse. The easy setting becomes a haunting ghoul. You don’t know who you are, what you want or what you shouldn’t be doing. Freedom suffocates you. God is dead. The training videos have you hungry but nothing you can spend your money or time on fulfills. The ads say you should be happy with hot chics fighting over who can grope your crotch first. But no one wants you. Increasingly you are portrayed as the bad guy on screen. No one misses your connection. Not even here. So, you invent one. You long to be loved like the character you love. To fill the chasm of who you are- verses who you want to be, you drink. A lot. Or worse...

VII.

The narcissist loads the clip, dons the outfit and heads for the mall unawares that others might not want to be in the next gruesome scene or two. But, someone has to be. Fate decides that, not you. Randomness is your confederate from guilt. They say that the Colorado shooter wants to know how the Dark Knight Rises movie ended. Such a question could only mean that he wants us to know he’s so much more than what we see. 

Aren’t we all. 

N.

E-harmonious (small wager)

N: So, yea, hi. I stalk you on over four different dating sites but none of them let me contact you unless I pay. I really want to meet you though. 


Vegas: Not enough to fork over the money apparently.


N: Good one. Now lets do the math since I'm not a cheapskate but if I forked over $19.95 every time I met a girl I wanted to chat with, we are talking bail out numbers.


Vegas: The idea is you pay one site, meet people and eventually it pans out. You just want to skip the important part. Seeking.


N: Clearly you don't know the work involved in stalking a female via an alias from a dating site, thru social media with a partial email and only a zip code.
If you did, you would realize I'm the seeker and your just lazily waiting for Mr. right to land in your inbox. 


Vegas: I'm lazy? I work and pay for the use of dating sites but your a hero because you bypass the rules and find me anyway? Girls don't want to be found by creeps like you.


N: You say you want a rule breaker in your bio but when one shows up, you get all capitalist uppity. Good thing dames like you are looking out for the corporate interests else, heaven forbid, what would they do? I suppose you also want a strong, silent type male but then cry to your friends that "he never talks to me"...


Vegas: You'll never know seeing as your actually none of those things. Your just a cheapskate. 
Probably wearing a stained wife beater to round out the image.


N: They are called tank tops god dammit.


Vegas: !! You are a miserable human being. I'm not even kidding. Good luck stalking your next ex, loser.


N: I take it then its a no for sending a pic or two?


Vegas: FUCK. OFF. 


N: I'm going to go ahead and send a pic of my penis anyway. That way if you change your mind or want to do some comparison shopping, you can.


Vegas: What is it with the penis photo? Seriously that is the LAST thing anyone wants to see. Guys are way obsessed with that. Its beyond explaining. 


N: So you would rather meet? Have some coffee...then see my penis??


Vegas: Oh for fucks sake. Will you just die.


N: For fucks sake is literally the point of all this...


Vegas: Logged off


N.

Sex at dawn (Bent)

Like all great stories, this one begins with me. 

I was sitting by the coffee shop window pirating music and hacking gift cards when you drove into the drive thru.

The amount of hair spray needed to keep your hairdo in place seemed to me at least, extraordinary. So dark, rich and poof-ee. The air in your car was blowing your bangs back and I was enthralled. 

You crept by the window as you fiddled to put your card back, put the receipt away and keep the kids in the back from mutiny. Then you saw me. The tingling started in my toes.

That moment when I register, that you register that I exist. It’s gut wrenchingly delightful.

Those few seconds so pregnant with possibility and potential. The multitude of universes that could suddenly now become reality. A slow motion love fest of dreams and whimsical fantasy, all rolled into the small neuron firings in the back of our mushy brain housing for the length of not even one minute. Time bends and whatever sense one has of the moment, the real, the eternal, becomes evident. 

Its as if I am able to imagine sex with you in all its intensity and in every position I think I could put you into. The looks that your face might make when you orgasm and want at that moment for me to see you, know you, be one with you without fear or rupture between us. The feel of your thighs, the crease of your body bent. The warm crevice of your vagina and the luscious taste of your lips as I suck on them.

My sweat rolls of my tattoos and down onto your belly, which in turn roll around your waist and down the plump, fatty roundness of your ass cheeks.

I imagine the numerous noises you would make, the loudness of your moans as well as the attempt to muffle your own intensity. Hold back but-you can’t. The sudden flow of your juices and their scent. Beds break, headboards snap, Tables smash. Our clothes shed like they contained an ugly insect. They are still floating down to the floor as my tongue enters you.

A lifetime of smiles, encounters, sex in dangerous places is captured in the time it takes your vehicle to roll ten meager feet. I can still see your chest lift as you breath in. All that is good and wholesome in this life seems to rest in between your breasts and starched hair. 

You check both directions. Scan me over once more. Pull down your sunglasses and roar into what might as well be lunar orbit. 

Did you envision me as I you? Where did you go? Will you return to thoughts of me later, when time permits a moment to touch yourself and visit that other dimension that might have been? Hope springs eternal.

N.

Banksy at the olympics

banksy.co.uk/outdoors/index.html


Daring them to enforce anti-graffitti laws once again...

N.

Nemesis (Pan the horizon)

Nemesis (Pan the horizon, in vain)

Wake up Neo...The greatest enemy will hide in the place you least expect.

I.

The Tarc bus shooting has no relation to the McCarthy drug ring takedown. Just look away. Don’t notice. Click something else. Miss that connection.

Described as respectful and soft-spoken, Michael A. McCarthy Jr. lived quietly with his girlfriend and children in a $353,000 home on a one-acre plot in a Spencer County subdivision.Thomas Gorman, the DEA’s assistant special agent in charge for Louisville, said McCarthy didn’t flaunt his wealth and ran a disciplined operation. - CJ’s Andrew Wolfson 

II.

Even though that storm came in May, the fallout from this has taken some time. Lets not even mention the news agencies who sat on the story at the behest of its masters. 

 Pawns only really draw attacking power from the stronger pieces behind them. Position. Power. Time.

 In Chess, time is the factor most overlooked. What? You thought the drug trade would cease now? White people are so quaint. The gods of your capitalist religion are just moving pieces. Game on.

Louisville attorney Frank Mascagni III represents the alleged ring leader and says he doesn't fit the profile of someone who is the head of a drug cartel. - again, CJ’s Andrew Wolfson

That’s because he isn’t. Check but never mate. There is always a bigger fish. Lets call him Pan. I’d wish them luck catching him but they don’t want to catch him. Attorney Frank is known as “the ego” in my circles.

III.

We all die though. Echo did. Now is not the time to fear. That comes later.

That is where you find out who you are though. In the thick of it as death looms. Against nemesis you will be brought. The outcome? Who knows. Such things are rarely if ever up to me. If you win he will only come after you again, and again and again.

   We can only do. Now. What is in front of us. Your plans, beliefs, hopes really don’t matter if you don’t act on them in the now. 

   Not sure what to believe in anymore? I know, I know, so many Netflix titles...so little time. Easier just to “like” on Facebook and give us all some profound quote. Like is now a verb. An action. 

Instead. Just once. 

Try doing the next right thing. Wether you like it or not. Then repeat. Start small. 

IV.

Your still here reading? Than it was meant for you. You have missed the connection and the matrix still has you. Oh, I’m well aware that any moment now the door will kick in and the REAL movie (with appropriate theme song) that is your life will begin in earnest. And you will show me by golly. Weeks fly by yet days take forever. 

Your greatest enemy hid very well. No, not in the TARC bus, not in the shooter, not in the bigger bloody coup of bishops and knights in the drug cartels nor their well paid lawyers. Not even in conspiracies that involve high powers and principalities. Yes god dammit there is always a bigger fish but these are pawns.

All those places one would EXPECT to find nemesis. Think harder.

V.

Except thinking is what got you here. In fact it’s your thinking that is now in doubt. Under suspicion. Are you seated? The brain’s thinking can’t-- won’t conceive of this because it is your brain. 

No con game could be this big? Could it? The last place you would ever look...

Too busy not flaunting its brainy wealth and running a disciplined operation. Nemesis is you.

VI.

...And your picking up your phone to call your attorney Frank the “ego” even now.

N.

Deep calling unto deep (Casual luxury)

We spoke intimately at the bar.


I mentioned that "it was really packed for a Monday" and you responded with, "yep."


Not sure where you went after that but I knew from that exchange that we were meant to be together.


Just let me know what type of shoe I was wearing, the size and tell me if my top shoe laces were laced out the last hole and tied or in the last hole and then tied.


I have to weed out all the stalkers and creeps who think that just because they made eye contact with me that I'm their soul mate.
Good Lord, lets get real peoples. Not everyone can share a deep and moving exchange like we did. Losers.


Anyway, No need to say where exactly as I'm positive you not only remember me but have been searching for me. How could you not.
Rest knowing I am here. Clearly your outfit was my outfits match.


I even have an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue to prove it.


N. 

The Darkest Night (Sinking)

I.

Who brings a 5 month old baby to a midnight showing of anything?

Too young for a babysitter should also include too young for exposure to 200 strangers in a dark theater full of loud explosions, screams and deafening soundtracks. But what do I know.

And I can’t be too hard on bad parents, I mean they are responsible for 90% of my dates.

Still, meeting her at the theater for our first date was probably NOT the best time to inform me she had a child. 

The breast feeding was a plus. I had not expected that development and seeing nipple that soon gave me, hope. The old guy next to us also seemed pleased.

She asked, “What kind of mind does it take to shoot people in a theater?”

“A narcissistic one, clearly” I offered. 

“Since when did narcissistic become synonymous with psychotic?

“Self absorbed, seeing everyone around him as characters in his own movie, expendable, interchangeable instead of distinct individual humans...The maintenance of such a life exacts its toll.”

“You think he’s sane?”

“I don’t know what sane is anymore. But it seems to me that four months ago he decided that this was a way, maybe the only way to keep his perception of himself as the Joker intact. He’s living that out now, still, in his cell. Probably hasn’t felt this alive in years...”

“You sound a little too awed.”

“Does it bother you he is well educated? Someone rather common? Grew up watching the same TV shows as you?”

“A little but unlike you-- I don’t think he’s one of us. He’s demented, deranged and not in touch with the same world. Just awful.”

“Awful indeed. He’s not us in the sense that he’s just more committed to his role playing.”

“He needs to be committed.” You gave me that look that said, enough, I’m out of things to say and don’t like being disagreed with.

As I made my way to the restroom during the preview of something loud and dull, I met you.

II.

You were sex walking upright in shorts. A masterpiece of toned body parts and fashion magazine ads. It’s as if you were pieced together using the hottest parts of Cosmo except you were seamless. I tried not to stare. Men all around you crashed into things, went the wrong way, became deaf to the sounds of their significant others calls and even their children’s nagging.

I followed you into the other darkened theater just to see what kind of man you did choose. And it was there I saw another joker.

He wore the cologne (a lot of it) called arrogant and crass. He had sent you to get his snacks while he texted and spoke rather loudly into his phone. He ignored you. He seemed annoyed that you even spoke and would cut you off quickly. Dismissive. He even told you not to use your phone while he was on his. And you ate it up. Couldn’t get enough of him. You buried your head into his shoulder as the lights went dim.

III.

Back at the romper room, my seat was taken by a diaper bag and the shushing sound she made was louder than the babies cries. For a moment I thought of leaving, throwing my cell into a storm drain and walking. Where?Just walking with no hope of ever returning let alone looking back. I can do it. But I sheepishly moved the diaper bag and took my seat. 

IV.

“The narcissist feels unhappy because he thinks his life isn't as it should be, or things are going wrong;  but all of those feelings find origin in frustration, a specific frustration: the inability to love the other person.

He's a man in a glass box, unable to connect.  He thinks the problem is people don't like him, or not enough, so he exerts massive energy into the creation and maintenance of an identity: if they think of me as X...

But that attempt is always futile, not because you can't trick the other person-- you can, for an entire lifetime, it's quite easy.  But even then, the man in the box is still unsatisfied, still frustrated, because no amount of identity maintenance will break that glass box.

If the other person is also in a glass box, then you have a serious problem.  If everyone is in their own glass box, well, then you have America.” -TLP

N.

Cause it feels so empty w/o me (Slim chance)

I was inserting my quarters into the Diamond pool table slots when you strolled by in the tight, mini-skirt and heels. Which, we all know, is the perfect pool playing uniform. And scene...

You noticed me looking because you said, “Ug, gross” but that was because your muscle bound man was with you. We both know the REAL deal (wink). Had you just never made eye contact with me this may have ended, differently.  

It’s possible you looked because after seductively putting chalk on my heavy pool stick I then, apparently, rubbed my face and gave myself a blue powder mustache. Lesser men might have called it a night at that point but I was just getting started.

It appears that after the third time my cue ball rolled under your table, the linebacker guy you were with became quite annoyed. What a tool. He overplayed his hand however when he tossed me clean thru the adjoining wall and onto the patio. Tsk, tsk. 

Once I drew him outside with my hard, awkward landing and effeminate shrieking, LMPD’s finest and ridiculously overweight cops nabbed him and escorted your steroid raged companion out to whatever horse trailer hauled him here. And good riddance I might add.

I brushed off the debris, wiped as much blue chalk from my face as I could and approached your now dramatic, semi-crying, yet still ordering a beer, tight frame.

“Care for a some real balls to fondle?” I held the cue ball that your Herculean, interior decorator had tried to shove into my mouth between us like a valuable and well crafted gem.

“Get the fuck away from me you creeper!”

“Shoosh now. I know it’s not easy accepting the new Alpha male. But I assure you I will make the transition...well worth your while. Shall I rack?” I let the cue ball drift gently over your bicep and down the rest of your arm. Just like I know you like it. Which, is why I was able to block the first few punches you threw. 

I felt, anticipated even, your motions. I knew watching all those Bruce Lee movies as a kid would pay off. Man, I even ordered the Nun-Chucks from the back of the Kung-fu magazines and got pretty good at them until I took out the turntable and broke my bedroom window and my mom confiscated them. I pretty sure if she would have let me be I’d be bigger than Chuck Norris by now. (insert devastating karate chop here)

   But...It was the knee to my groin however that I did not see coming and by the time I recovered from that, you had wandered off. I kept seeing you point me out to the police who seemed to gravitate to me like groupies. So, I appreciate your concern for my well being.

I showed them a few moves and left there to go sneak into the forecastle festival downtown. That post will have to wait I’m afraid.

You should know that the thought of your bare knee against my racked bean bags has fed several intense masturbation sessions. I almost broke my personal best record yesterday for tossing off at work, which is 8 times. I did work in a 9th session but I can’t count it because I was in the Kroger parking lot on my scooter.

When your ready to have my blue balls crammed into your triangle which then is pummeled by my rod, hit me up.

N.

Maiden voyage (in the garden of good and evil)

When I saw you standing in the distance, I immediately took off in a full sprint. I was running to catch you.
There was no way I was going to let you become another missed connection. Your hair was in a ponytail and I could smell the fruity conditioner even from this distance.
A perfect supporting actress to my main lead.


Besides, you were next to the Honda. My Honda. Destiny was toying with me yet again.


You saw me coming but made no sudden moves. In fact you watched, almost dazzled. Presumably in awe of my acceleration and speed.
I replayed the scene to myself in slow mo and I was spectacular.


You were writing something and didn't look up as I landed close to your personal zone. "Careful. Might fall out with heat exhaustion."


Easy does it, you harlot. Your concern for my well being is touching, but don't suffocate me. I mean, really.
Still, it convinced me of what I already knew. You were head over heels for me. How could you not be?


Your work shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal a tank top. A tank top stretching every fiber to contain the plump breasts that seemed to reach out and smack me.
A few small beads of sweat had formed in the crease of your cleavage. Your lumps gently bouncing as you shifted your stance.
The sweat beads took off into the hidden garden of your tank top and I almost followed. Not that I was staring.


I adjusted my backpack to cover my raging maximus erectus.


"When your done with my tits you may want to take your ticket. Your meter is expired."


"I was JUST getting ready to put my quarters in... the meter that is." I snatched the ticket from your hand.


"Sure you were. I was just getting ready to build the East End bridge."


I haven't paid a meter since 1994 and I wasn't about to start.


"Your pathetically behind schedule on that. And if you want me to cram my manhood in between your love melons, a ticket isn't necessary. Sweetness."


"I have a man thank you and besides that, he also...pays his fines." You looked around like someone was going to high five you. "Don't make me call for a boot."


"Pays his fines? So he's a felon. How surprising. Let me guess, he only hits you because he's stressed out from playing Mass Effect 3 all day. Clearly not his fault."


"Shit. We play Grand theft auto together. Naked."


You were slowly meandering down the sidewalk while I moved from shoulder to shoulder.


"Grand theft auto? Are you kidding me? The irony. Does his mom tattoo get you randy? I bet when he mows down the hookers in the Lincoln Navigator, you have a moment of silence."
I exaggerated my laughter.


"Your just jealous cause you drive that piece of shit Grand Am."


Stop. Grand Am? I examined the ticket for the first time. Not the Honda. Of course.
Means this must have been a rouse to get close to me. No need to set that record straight. In fact, time to jet.


"Have a nice day." You loosely voiced in my direction.


I gave you the finger without turning around, to the chagrin of a women with a small child walking past me at that moment.


I put the ticket on the proper car but in my glee forgot to get your name off it.


I'm thinking maid outfit...French this time. Quarters at the ready...


N.

Missed encounters (Amos 2:6)

“Could Those Who Make Your Shoes Afford Them?” asks Miguel De La Torre at Ethics Daily.

I get to buy hiking shoes because the poor of the earth make them for me at slave wages. My riches are directly connected to their poverty.

That will get some people’s hackles up. They’ll respond defensively, as though De La Torre is suggesting that this connection must be simple and causal — as though he is saying that their poverty must be a direct consequence of our riches.

Set that aside for the moment. Don’t worry here about cause and effect, just appreciate that the connection is undeniable. They make the shoes. We wear the shoes. From their hands to our feet.

That’s a connection. It’s almost an intimate connection.

And it means we can’t disconnect ourselves from the haunting question in the title of De La Torre’s essay: “Can those who make our shoes afford to buy them?” 

Or our jeans, our shirts, ties, socks, suits, sweaters or underwear? What about our cars? Our appliances? Our coffee?

Please don’t hear these questions as an accusation. If we think of it that way, we’ll wind up with the defensive distractions of abstractions, or with the resentment that comes from inescapable guilt.

So let’s consider this not as an accusation but as an aspiration.

Think of it this way: I want those who make my shoes to be able to afford shoes. Don’t you want that, too?

Of course, this isn’t just a selfless, warm-fuzzy bit of Kumbaya generosity or altruism. There’s self-interest here as well. 

We should want the people who make the things we buy to be able to afford those same things because if they can afford that, then they can also afford to buy the goods or services we provide. 

When the poor of the earth are only paid, as De La Torre says, “slave wages,” then we’re all missing out on people who might otherwise have been our customers.

This is part of what I imagine a better world looks like. The people who make the things I buy can afford to buy the things I make. Those who make my shoes can afford to buy them.

That’s the world I want to live in. These are the encounters and connections that I want to make.

N.

Hot, sweaty and secreting antigens (Turn left at the olfactory)

I was just powering down from an intense run. You looked me over pretty extensively and then asked if I work out this intensely all the time, especially in this heat.

I had just lifted a hefty sum from a dealer who works for a man I aim to put a hurting on. So I was winded to be sure. Also weighted down with a gym bag full of cash.

“I’ve been known to push the limits.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to order, so you can cut me in line, if you want.” Your body language was inviting even though you left little room for me to get by you. You were in decent shape and your fingers played with your mouth as you spoke. 

“Thanks.” To the girl at the counter I requested “an instant vigor smoothie... ”

As I walked past you took a deep, inhale of my scent and seemed to be cherishing it while I made my transaction.

“...with the immune enhancer please.”

Turning quickly as to startle but not scare I asked, “Ever hear of Claus Wedekind?” Smiling to show some play.

“Who? um, no!...” The smile was returned.

“Famous researcher. So in 95’ he published the results of what is now known as the “Sweaty T-shirt Experiment”. He asked women to sniff T-shirts men had been wearing for a few days, with no perfumes, soaps, or showers. He found, and subsequent research has confirmed, that most of the women were attracted to the scent of men whose major histocompatibility complex, the MHC, differed from her own.”

“Interesting. We ladies love us some MHC.” Less fingers by your mouth this time but more tongue. And a cute smirk. Your eyes never left mine.

I moved slightly closer. “True dat. Makes genetic sense because the MHC indicates the range of immunity to various pathogens. Without realizing it, you are preferring men who will be a benefit to your future offspring just by their scent.” Deep pull on the smoothie for effect.

“Moms know best.” The girl at the counter was asking for your order but you weren’t even listening.

Nor was I as a tinted 2012 Infiniti QX rolled to a stop outside. The windows of Smoothie King rattling from the bass in the audio system as it crept out of sight.

“The problem is that women taking birth control pills don’t seem to show the same responsiveness to these male scent cues. Quite random actually. And years later when they come off them to drop some kids, they no longer want the man they have. Guess you could say he don’t smell right anymore.”

“You don’t say...Guess that explains why you don’t have a ring eh Doctor...hey...Where you going?”

I wish I could of stayed. But putting you in danger I could not do. I lost someone like you once because I was reckless. Had to go though enjoyed the banter.

Still, If your reading this, we can chat...

N.

Tight genes (learning to fly)

So I carry the gene. 

If you carry it as well than like me, you are 8x more likely to commit aggravated assault, 10x more likely to commit murder and 13x more likely to commit armed robbery and 40x more likely to commit sexual assault. 

The overwhelming majority of prisoners carry this gene, as do 98.4% of those on death row. Clearly I’m strongly predisposed toward a...different type of behavior.

Deep in my molecular blueprint - a series of alien code penned in invisibly small strings of acids determined this. I never had a say.

Half came from my mother, Leiriope and the other half from her rapist. A man I only knew as Cephisus. Once a powerful river city politician but no longer.

All in all I have a 828% higher chance of committing a violent crime. Thanks sperm and egg. Well done.

Now, here I sit. Casing my next target. My journal full of what to you might be random facts. But to me is a luminously lovely micro universe of detail and connectedness. The difference could mean 8-14 months in a 5x7, so I tend to be thorough. Don’t worry, as I’m after the crime lord and mountain goat called Pan. Before I kill him, he needs to pay. So I bleed him slowly by hitting his businesses. 

I learned from the best and also the worst. Learning what not to do is as important as what to do.

All ages have informed me. Take Colton. He taught me how to blend two distinct universes into one seamless racket.  And he was 17 years old. He liked to to fly and so he used your stolen identity to buy flight DVD’s and then broke in to take them once delivered. He studied with intense focus and eventually he stole and flew (and crashed) several small aircraft as well as luxury boats in the pacific northwest. 

Really gave the police fits up there. Made national news for awhile with his antics. Still a hero of mine. The boy Colton Harris-Moore. Dillinger of the modern depression and fellow gene carrier. 

He ditched a car in Bloomington, IN and then stole a Cessna Corvallis from Monroe county airport. They finally caught him in the Bahamas and really only because he grounded his speed boat on a sand dune. Know your surroundings.

    Heard they shot up the engines real good as they feared, and rightly so his ability to evade. You may know him as the barefoot bandit.

In the end, it’s all about style. With the right genes, some style and a little luck, why theres no telling how far you can go. But without style, flair, audacity...well, its just a missed encounter.

By the way, as to the dangerous set of genes I speak of, you may have heard of them. They are the Y chromosome. About half the population has them. And they are called males.

N.

Light it up (Pole position)

Saw you in the window reflection. Did you see me? I was the guy who ran into a light pole.

Yes, as we walked passed each other on the street... I was with the soon to be ex and couldn't stare at you directly but I made you out clearly in the window reflection and couldn't take my eyes off you.
I stared at you intensely to convey the cosmic connection between us. Did you feel it too? Of course you did. You were so hot.

I mean like, sweaty hot. It's like Africa hot in case you haven't noticed but that's ok. It just means scantier clothes and more skin.
I don't recall your outfit but I know I looked good. I even winked at my own reflection.

I did get several stitches, not that you asked, so you had quite an impact on me. Really had me seeing stars.

Not sure why you didn't visit me in the ER...though I'm sure you are seeking me out.

I was going to just ditch my girl right there and say hi, exchange digits and make plans to move in but, well, the light pole and all...

N.

Livin' La Vida Loca (On the floor)

I’m almost positive that drinking before hand was bad mojo but when the ‘new’ chic in the back row passed out I knew I was meant to be here. I was made for such a time as this. I started mouth to mouth immediately.

You said that I shouldn’t be using my tongue during CPR and that my hand was on her breasts. That maybe I should back away.

Once, while in boot camp, our drill instructors thought it would be funny if they made a guy hump the full size, first aid doll. Which, he did...for an hour. I couldn’t see it but I could hear the bunk squeaking and the instructors yelling at him to “give it to her harder”.

So, yea, I know how to do CPR thank you very much.

You also questioned my credentials as a visiting instructor from Ecuador. I’m often mistaken as a latino of some variety and in this case I just failed to disabuse the person of the notion at the front door. !Me quiero a mi mismo!

But clearly you were into me as you kept digging.

“How long have you been doing Zumba?” You asked kneeling next to me.

What the fuck is Zumba? I was following the females in for the sole purpose of lifting some purses when I almost got caught reaching into one. The rest, is destino. I also couldn’t seem to stop playing with the still unconscious woman’s large breasts. So I managed to answer with: “Since the revolution, of course”.

“This is my second year and I’ve never seen you here before...And you had us dancing to death metal?!?” 

You had that uppity, white girl oppressed look on your face. Like the look they have when you tell them sorry, this gas station doesn’t carry Creme Brûlée. Difficult crossword puzzles, in-grown hairs, and declining stock portfolios — it's hard out here for skinny, blond, Caucasians. 

“South of Heaven by Slayer is a classic. A middle aged white women pretending to dance like J-Lo should remember her roots.”

“Why are you removing her bra?” 

“It’s restricting her breathing...”

“I’m calling the cops...”

I needed a distraction. 

“I noted earlier that you kept bending over directly in front of me causing a dance party in my pants. Did you want the ‘beto’ fat burner inside you as well?”

“What? Excuse me??”

“Madam, I have been...‘enhancing’ the experience of women whose husbands cannot “dance’ and need to get their wiggle on for many festival moons. Perhaps a private lesson is what you seek”. The accent was spot on, I assure you.

I used the few moments that you lost your ability to speak to write on the passed out women's boobie with a sharpie. “Narcissus. Saved your life. 555...”

I also swiped a loose 20 from your purse as you lectured me in a vocal pitch that only neutered men and small lap dogs can perceive. I began to feel a tinge of sorrow for the males under your roof but, not really. 

In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful. - CS Lewis

When your done pretending to be worthy of all the privilege you were born with, hit me up.

N.